A massive explosion rocks the 16th century fort of San Juan de Ulua, sending up a vast mushroom cloud above the Mexican port of Vera Cruz on 26th November 1838. The conspicuous flag on the ship in the foreground shows the bombardment force to be French. Horace Vernet’s Le Bombardement de Saint-Jean d’Ulloa captures a key action in what came to be derisively known as ‘The Pastry War’.
In the wake of independence in 1827, a succession of weak Mexican governments had struggled to honour the country’s foreign debts, and France, which had 6,000 citizens settled in the country, was one of its chief creditors. Under pressure from this expatriate lobby, the French had made repeated attempts to have the monies repaid. After a smaller show of military strength had failed to persuade the government to cough up, the French despatched a more substantial force, including three powerful frigates. The Pastry War is said to have derived its name from an incident when a French pastry cook had had his business pillaged by drunken Mexican soldiers. More likely, the name is a corruption of ‘piastres’, the local unit of currency; to cover their losses the French government demanded an indemnity of 600,000 piastres, equivalent to 3 million francs.
The officer standing on deck of the vessel in the foreground appears to be the force’s commanding officer, but this is not the case. The expedition leader, Admiral Charles Baudin had his flag in the 60-gun frigate Nereide, which is masked in gunsmoke behind her sister-ship Gloire. In fact, the ship in the foreground, the corvette Creole, was being commanded by a mere lieutenant. That officer was Francois d’Orleans, Prince of Joinville, third son of reigning French monarch Louis Philipe I. Baudin, a man admiringly described by Joinville as ‘one-armed, tall in stature, energetic countenance’, [1] and ‘with a career of valiant deeds behind him’, had initially refused his royal subordinate’s request to join in the bombardment, on the grounds that his ship was too weakly armed. However, he later relented, and the Creole had joined the fight in the mid-afternoon, where Joinville initiated ‘a little racket of my own making’.
Joinville is shown standing fearlessly exposed on his poop in a dandyish uniform and distinctive straw hat. Shortly after taking its station the Creole was reportedly hit by a Mexican cannon ball. It is said to have penetrated the prince’s own quarters; a feat that had prompted Joinville to salute the enemy by raising his hat to them. In the painting, Joinville is shown receiving a report from his second-in-command, Lieutenant Andre Penaud. The perspective of Vernaud’s painting suggests the massive explosion that has just occurred in the fort’s cavalier, or ammunition depot, was caused by fire from the Creole’s own gunners. This notion is also entertained Joinville in his memoirs:
‘My second officer who was forward, could judge better than me. At the first shot he shouted to me “Good! in the cavalier.” The second, “In the cavalier.” The third, “In the cavalier.” The fourth— nothing was to be seen. A huge cloud of smoke white above, black below, rose from the fort, slowly to a great height above it. When it cleared a little, driven by the wind, there was no cavalier at all. The whole thing had blown up. My crew shouted with delight, and the captain of one of the guns performed a brilliant hornpipe. Was it my shells? Or did the bombs from the bombship do the job? Not one of my brave fellows on the Creole have the shadow of a doubt. Every man has a right to his own opinion.’
Other more neutral witnesses were on hand; officers of the British sloop HMS Satellite, and David Farrugut, later of US Civil War fame, aboard the American sloop Levant. These and other observers were astonished by the effectiveness of the French bombardment; the first time such a bastion had surrendered without the necessity of landing troops. This was attributed in part to a newly deployed weapon. Both Gloire and Nereide were equipped with 16cm ‘shell guns’ developed by the artillerist Henri-Joseph Paixhans. The ‘Paixhan Gun’, whose explosive-filled shells had first been tested at sea in 1824, would indeed revolutionise naval warfare. However, its effect at Vera Cruz may have been over-stated, as out of more than 8,000 cannon shots fired, fewer than 200 were of the Paixhan types. Undoubtedly most responsible for the fort’s destruction – as Joinville himself half-confessed – were two bomb vessels Vulcain and Cyclope, which were stationed away from the main battle line.
In addition to the weaponry employed, foreign navies also took notice of the French use of a pair of small steam vessels – Phaeton and Meteore – to tow the more powerful sailing ships into their positions of attack. This procedure is evinced in the painting by the fact that the frigates’ sails are reefed. This towing tactic would be employed by the British during the First Opium War a year later.
Fire from the fort was evidently accurate but ineffective; Joinville claimed the last frigate in line, Iphigenie, ‘had a hundred and eight [shot] in her hull, without counting her spars… eight in her foremasts alone.’ However, French casualties proved light with only four dead and roughly two dozen wounded. The Mexican defenders in contrast lost more than 200 men. Although the fort surrendered that evening, the incensed Mexican government declared war soon afterwards, forcing the French to commit ground troops in order to achieve their stated aims. A peace treaty acceding to French demands was signed the following year.
Lauded for his bravery, Joinville went on to have an eventful naval and political career. In 1840, he commanded the vessel that delivered Napoleon Bonaparte’s remains to France from Saint Helena. In 1844, he led a punitive bombardment of Morocco. Around the same time, he published ‘de l’etat de forces navales de la france’, pamphlet criticizing the old navy and advocating greater use of steam. Unfortunately, he was driven into permanent exile after the revolution of 1848 and overthrow of his father. Penaud, Joinville’s second officer at Vera Cruz, also went on to have a distinguished career, rising to the rank of vice-admiral in 1864.
Horace Vernet came from a line of royally-favoured artists, both his father and grandfather having been painters. Even before his ascension to the throne, Vernet had already come to the attention of Louis Philipe, who’d commissioned him to paint a number of famous battles of the Revolutionary Wars. After Philipe’s downfall, Vernet undertook similar commissions for his successor, Napoleon III. Vernet developed a reputation for realism and historical accuracy, and favoured contemporary culture over classicism. His depiction of Joinville is flattering but not Dravidian. Likewise, the French sailors are shown in an industrious rather than a heroic manner. ‘I am a painter of history, sire, and I will not violate the truth’ he is reputed to have told one of his regal employers when asked to remove a disfavored general from a scene.
Vernet’s painting illustrates that contrary to popular belief the French Navy had not died with its defeat at Trafalgar three decades earlier. In fact, it had grown substantially during the rest of the Napoleonic era, and had been employed in a number of overseas disputes in the 1820s, including interventions in Algeria, Haiti, and Brazil. The Mexican expedition was thus a continuation of belligerent French foreign policy, reliant on what remained throughout the 19th century the world’s second naval power. Indeed, the evident success of the Vera Cruz venture may have emboldened France to undertake a more complete takeover of Mexico a quarter century later. However, Napoleon III’s attempt to install a puppet ruler there ended ignominiously with the execution of Emperor Maximilian I in 1867.
[1] Baudin had lost his arm during a bloody ship-to-ship encounter with the Royal Navy during the Napoleonic era.
Bow Creek to Anatahan 