Steam technology was yet young, but, applied to naval warfare, it provided even better evidence than the new percussion locks that the old ways were doomed. “Everything was done by them,” Farragut wrote of the steamers. “The day was calm, or nearly so, and the ships had no sails to manage. As soon as the anchor was let go, they were ready for action.” Slim, bearded, and eager to “share in the fun,” the Prince of Joinville begged Baudin permission for La Créole to join the frigates. This was a brash request, as the corvette’s guns were, in Joinville’s own words, “mere children’s toys.” Permission was denied, and he was ordered to simply observe. Still refusing to open hostilities, the Mexicans waited behind their coral walls. “At precisely 2:30pm,” Farragut wrote, “the Admiral’s ship fired the first gun, and immediately the firing became general.” Bright tongues of flame leapt from gun muzzles, and heavy smoke enveloped the ships. To his great joy, Joinville was granted permission to join the bombardment; he immediately got underway, gliding alongside the thundering frigates and taking position in a line at their head. Despite his small battery, Joinville relished being San Juan de Ulúa as it looks today. The fort was designated a National Historic Monument by the Mexican government in 1962. 28
in the thick of the action. Farragut wrote that the “Prince had the hottest berth, but stood his ground like a man, occasionally wearing ship to bring a fresh broadside to bear.” The fort’s shots were ragged, but Joinville could see the frigate Iphigénie taking hits. “Every minute or two I saw splinters of wood flying into the air, cut out by the shot striking her,” he wrote. Fortunately, Iphigénie’s damage was slight because of the Mexicans’ bad powder and small guns. By contrast, the fort suffered terribly. Farragut was astonished to see the French shells punch holes a foot deep into the coral walls and then explode, “tearing out great masses of stone, and in some instances rending the wall from base to top.”
photo by nazary diaz, cc by sa 3.0 via wikipedia.com
p.d., courtesy palace of versailles research center
Prise du fort Saint-Jean-d’Ulloa, 27 Novembre 1838 by Horace Vernet (1789–1863) depicts twenty-year-old François d’Orléans, Prince of Joinville, on the aft deck of the French corvette Créole during the action on 27 November 1838.
Inside the fort, gun carriages were upended, men were hit by humming fragments, the powder magazine exploded, and the square tower and its defenders were blasted to smithereens. According to an account later published in the New Orleans Bee, the magazine blew “with so much violence, that the decks of several of the French vessels at the distance of more than a mile, were strewed with their fragments.” It was more than soft coral, human flesh, or weak will could withstand. By sunset, the fort was a smoking ruin, and the Mexican garrison capitulated. Joinville toured the scene the next day and wrote, “A horrible smell rose from the numerous corpses buried everywhere under the rubbish.” Over 200 Mexicans were dead. The surviving members of the garrison tied weights to their deceased comrades and sank them in the harbor. Unfortunately, they did a sloppy job, and in a ghastly coda to the whole affair, Farragut wrote that the deceased “were seen floating about in all directions.” French losses were trivial by contrast. Baudin cursed “the folly” of his brave opponents’ leaders for putting them in such an impossible position. The French occupied the shattered fort and allowed the defenders to withdraw, their honor intact. The overall Mexican commander at Veracruz then decided to parlay with Baudin, hoping to avoid a bloody siege. He readily accepted conditions that included letting the French provision from the city and sending all but 1,000 of his soldiers at least ten miles out of town. Predictably, this news riled the capital. The central government under Bustamante made a formal declaration of
SEA HISTORY 174, SPRING 2021