Her “birth” had been complicated and was for some a matter of serious foreboding. The great event had been scheduled for the morning of 20 September 1797 and was supposed to be a cause for great celebration. Dignitaries—including President John Adams and Massachusetts Governor Increase Sumner—were joined by large throngs of people to witness the launching of the great frigate at Edmund Hartt’s shipyard in the North End of Boston. Numerous receptions and celebratory meals were planned, and a play entitled “The Launch” was scheduled for debut that evening at the Haymarket Theatre.
Many more than a thousand trees had been sacrificed to conceive this 1,200-ton blend of hard labor and expert craftsmanship. Like most newborns, her beauty was really only in the eye of the beholder. Without the towering masts and webs of rigging that give tall ships their striking elegance, only the decorative figurehead and the sun glinting off her coppered bottom gave promise of the day when she would steal the breath from admiring men.
As the hour approached when the tide would be high, crowds gathered all around the harbor, many paying for the privilege to climb onto temporary viewing platforms that had been constructed by enterprising waterfront property owners. Boat owners likewise capitalized on the moment by taking paying customers out onto the water for a better view.
At 1120, Constructor George Claghorn, the man in charge of this great event, gave the order, and yard workers began knocking out the blocks holding the ship in place on the ways that sloped downward into the waiting waters of the harbor. Silence reigned as the expectant throngs waited with breaths held for the triumphant moment when the ship would begin her descent.
But soon a murmur rose from the stillness, as the massive hull remained motionless atop the ways. The chagrined Claghorn ordered massive screws to be applied to nudge her, and soon cheers began to echo around the harbor as the ship began to slide down.
The celebration was short-lived, however, when the massive hull came to a halt after a journey of just 27 feet. It was by now clear that this greatly anticipated event was not going to happen, and the disappointed crowds dissipated as workers replaced blocks and wedged shores into position.
Despite the disappointment, “The Launch” was performed that night at the Haymarket Theater and was deemed a box-office success. The next day Claghorn set about diagnosing the problem and making the necessary adjustments such that she was again ready to be launched on the day after. This time, the ship seemed content with the new arrangements and began sliding down the ways without the use of screws. But after 31 feet, she again seized up and refused the waiting embrace of the water.
Another month would pass before a third attempt was made to launch the reluctant ship. Increasingly, the dreaded word “jinx” was heard in the local taverns as superstitious old salts pointed out the age-old belief that a ship requiring more than one launch was destined for a bad life.
On 21 October, Claghorn tried again. This time the frigate did not balk and was at last committed to the waters for which she was intended.
Superstitious foreboding can be a persistent thing, but in this case the fear of a jinx would be unequivocally discredited. That frigate would overcome her initial reluctance to take to the sea, eventually winning a number of great victories and becoming one of the most famous ships in history. Today, she resides in Boston—the site of her birth—as the USS Constitution—“Old Ironsides.”
Editor’s Note: The preceding is derived largely from Tyrone Martin’s A Most Fortunate Ship (Naval Institute Press, 1997).