Home Ports: Bonjour, Anglais!

Saint-Malo is a port city in northwestern France on the English Channel. As you can tell from the picture, the town even today has a very closed in, medieval feel. The walls are sturdy and the harbor is cozy. The town is a tight knit place and, even though it can swell to well over 200,000 people during the summer, the 50,000 odd permanent residents are basically all family one way or another. They're also damn proud of their privateer ancestors.

In the 17th century, Saint-Malo became the port of choice for French privateers who preyed on English merchant vessels in the Channel. Over the course of that century, Saint-Malo grew rich with privateering profits and, like a factory town, everyone in Saint-Malo worked at the business of privateering. To the French, Saint-Malo was La Cite Corsaire. To the English, it was The Nest of Wasps. The French word for privateer - corsaire - was virtually born in Saint-Malo. The men who sailed out to plunder English shipping were said to pursue la course which meant, in this case the errand or the race. Privateering had a new name.

The corsairs of Saint-Malo were national heroes in France. They were the rock stars of the age. Girls of Brittany and beyond kept engraved cards with the visages of privateers near their bedsides. Whole families and even church officials grew rich on the profits. City streets in Saint-Malo were named after famous native sons who worked la course like Rene Duguay-Trouin, Robert Surcouf and Jean Bart. Even Jean Laffite claimed at some point or other to have been born in Saint-Malo (his family was actually from Bordeaux but whose counting?)

In 1693 the English got fed up and decided to take Saint-Malo out with what was then referred to as an "infernal machine". They packed an 85 foot long ship full of explosives, literally jamming everything from barrels of black powder to missiles and bombs into the unmanned frigate. They set their weapon of mass destruction off to blow a hole in the city's fortified wall one night but things didn't quite work out. The ship hit a rock, the all important black powder got a little more than damp and the whole thing fizzled rather than exploded. The resulting fireworks killed an unfortunate cat but did no damage what ever to the city. Impotent at best.

Saint-Malo continued her predations through the Napoleonic wars, her corsaires being some of the few French ships that could thumb their noses as the English blockades. After that, though, the time of privateering was done. Saint-Malo is still a great port, but today her snug harbor is full of luxury yachts instead of daring corsaires. Sigh.

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Thwart

Ahoy Brethren and welcome once again to Sailor Mouth Saturday. I'm at the Alaska Writers Guild workshop Saturday and Sunday, so this post comes to you kinda early for me.

Now, I'm an equal opportunity kind of privateer (on some issues anyway) and so today I'm posting a picture of C.S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower. Yep. He's no Jack Aubrey by half but that's how the cards were dealt. Besides, we're talking about his hat here, not his looks or personality. That said, let us cast off.

"Athwart" is a word that was bandied about by sailors from the 16th century on. Maybe earlier for all we know. The point is that, though it sounds strange and old-timey to us, it would have been common parlance aboard the ships of everyone from Blackbeard to Dominique Youx and beyond. Well, Youx would have said it in French but you get my drift.

The word literally means from side to side and was the opposite of fore and aft - from front to back. Anything crossing the line of a ship's direction was said to be athwart that ship. "Athwart hawse" was the term for anything - a boat, a whale, a tree trunk - accidentally drifting across the path of the ship. Ships would fire a warning shot athwart an enemy to make her heave to and surrender without damage. Firing "athwartships" was big with pirates and privateers. Just scar 'em a little and keep the prize intact. Finally, during the Napoleonic wars, old school officers like Nelson (and our buddy up there who was named after him) were said to wear their bicorn hats athwartships as opposed to the more modern fore-and-aft style.

As the term came down to us, it was shortened to thwart and took on the meaning of crossing an adversary. To stop someone from accomplishing something. To thwart them. I like athwart better myself, and I refuse to wear my bicorn fore-and-aft regardless of peer pressure. So there.

Happy Saturday, Brethren. See you in the week ahead!

Lady Pirates: And We Don't Even Know Her Name

I always get a kick out of "experts" who insist that because the pirate codes put together by the more famous Captains of the Golden Age outlined the rules pretty clearly everything ran like clockwork. Guys were marooned for looking at boys and lost hands for pilfering a few pesos. Uh-huh. Last time I checked these were pirates and let me tell you, it stands to reason that if it went on in the greatest navy the world had seen so far - the Royal Navy - it went on aboard pirates and privateers. Do not misunderstand me. I'm not saying that punishments didn't occur. They did on both sides of the coin and with the kind of ferocity that makes us modern softies wince. What I'm saying is that what was good for the goose was good for the gander. For the most part, pirates had experienced naval - or at least merchant - service, and we all know that an orca doesn't change its spots (much less its underwear).

That brings me to the bizarre and chuckle-worthy myth that nary a damsel ever set foot aboard a pirate sloop because some pirate code said that smuggling a girl on board was a hanging offense. Honestly. Mary Reade and Anne Bonny were not the first - nor I might add the last - ladies of fortune to join a pirate crew. Being the most famous doesn't make you the best. It just means you have a fabulous publicist.

So, the lady of the day. We know her only as William Brown, her girly name being lost to the sea foam. She sailed for the Royal Navy during the Napoleonic wars and her exploits illustrate that, if you could get away with it in an outfit like Nelson's Navy, you could get away with it anywhere.

William Brown was described in the September 1815 addition of London's Annual Register as follows:

She is a smart, well-formed figure, about five feet four inches in height, possessed of considerable strength and great activity; her features are rather handsome for a black, and she appears to be about twenty-six years of age.

The entry in and of itself is telling. Brown is referred to as "she" throughout. There is no apologia for her sex whatever. In fact, the writer seems more surprised at her ability to put away the grog than he is at her gender. Interesting.

Brown must have been a hearty, capable lady because at the time of the Annual Register's blurb she was a captain of the foretop aboard the three decker, 104 gun man of war Queen Charlotte. The ship carried a compliment of 850 men so it wasn't like Brown was the only body they could find to keep the reefers in line.

By way of explanation, a captain of the foretop was in charge of the men and boys who went aloft to tend the uppermost sails on the foremast. These included topsails and topgallants ordinarily but in special circumstances royals and skysails would be added as well. The men (and women) climbed up a hundred feet or more and then worked their way out onto the crosstrees to stand barefoot on a sturdy rope and work the sheets. Think about it. Picture it in your mind, on a nice day. Now imagine a squall at night. That, my Brethren, took guts and our lady Brown did it for some twelve years.

Little is known about William Brown aside from her place aboard ship and the fact that her gender was discovered in 1815 (which led to her mention in the Register). The fact that she was a woman didn't stop her from collecting prize money owed her and returning to her ship after a disagreement with her unnamed husband. In 1816, Brown was transferred from Queen Charlotte to the frigate Bombay. The ship's only existing muster book rates her as an able seaman and lists her as 32 years old, not the 26 years mentioned in the Register. Even more impressive, if you ask me.

There is no further written record of William Brown after that simple line in a Royal Navy frigate's muster. The entry lists her as captain of the forecastle, which would have meant a promotion and less time away aloft. I like to think that the lady Brown made warrant man, perhaps as gunner's or bosun's mate. More pay and more prize money there. Who knows? It's fun to contemplate though, isn't it?

All in all the story of William Brown proves one thing to me at least: the world is more than we know. In an organized, well documented service like the Royal Navy, women like Brown not only survived but succeeded. So just imagine what went on aboard a pirate sloop and how no one will ever be the wiser.

Fair winds, Brethren. It's Friday at last.

People: Raise a Cup (Of Tea That Is)

My husband and I have this friend named Dave. We both worked with him back in the day and he came to our wedding during the late Jurassic period. My husband still works with Dave, in fact, and I always remember him as a really cool guy. He loves Warren Zevon, who was a pirate in his own right, and he used to drive this really awesome, old school orange BMW. Dave's last name is Roberts. I'm gonna go ahead and speculate that he and today's pirate are somehow related.



Bartholomew Roberts was born John Roberts in Wales around 1683. In 1719 he was sailing as Second Lieutenant aboard a merchant bound for West Africa when his ship was captured by the pirate Howell Davis. Roberts was either pressed into service with Davis or he signed on voluntarily. Either way he sailed aboard Davis' Rover for only a short time before the Captain was ambushed and shot by Portuguese officials. Roberts was swiftly elected Rover's Captain and he gathered a small fleet, returned to the port where Davis had been killed and torched the settlement in an act of angry vengeance.



Still pissed as all hell, Roberts led his little pirate fleet to the Bay of Bahia in Brazil where he took 42 treasure ships by surprise and managed to sail back to West Africa with goods and specie worth well over 100,000 British pounds. On top of that, Roberts took the 40 gun frigate of a Brazilian vice-admiral and a huge golden cross set with emeralds and diamonds which had been intended for the King of Portugal. The former he made his flagship and renamed Royal Fortune. The later he hung from his neck by a gold chain and there it remained for the duration of his life. Time to party, mates!



But see, here's the thing about our boy Black Bart. He was handsome, tall and always dressed in the height of fashion but he was a tea only kinda guy and the sort of Captain that maintained naval style discipline. So party meant, what? Earl Gray instead of the usual green tea and y'all can stay up till 11:30? I don't know.



Success was in the cards for Roberts. He continued to raid shipping off Africa's coast and, when that got old, he sailed back to the Caribbean and took what he wanted there. He plundered off the Carolinas, New England and even Newfoundland and he was never short of crew members. Guys waited in line to get on board with Roberts. Even a portion of his wealth was enormous to most sailors. Roberts only formidable foe at this time was the weather. He was caught in a storm in the Atlantic trying to return to Africa in 1720 and had to head back to the Caribbean. Many hands were lost to thirst when the water barrels went dry before land was sighted.



Undeterred, Roberts set up shop on the Island of St. Lucia in the Caribbean and he became such a pain in the local government's backsides that the French Governor of Martinique and the English Governor of Barbados - enemies in any other situation - agreed to combine forces to stop Roberts depredations. Unfortunately, Black Bart got wind of their little plot and he had a new Jolly Roger done up for the occasion. As shown here, the flag pictured Rogers

standing on two skulls. The letters beneath each human head stand for
"A Barbadian's Head" and "A Martiniquian's Head". Get the drift, Governors? Shortly after raising his new war cry, Roberts captured the 52 gun frigate carrying the Governor of Martinique back home from France. Oops. Bart hung the Governor, tortured the crew and took the frigate as his 2.0 version of the Royal Fortune.

By 1722, the Crowns of Europe were in a lather about Roberts and Royal Navy ships were dispatched to take care of the pirate once and for all. HMS Swallow and HMS Weymouth (sometimes the British kinda sucked at naming their ships) set out to take care of the trouble. In February, Captain Chaloner Ogle (um, the British weren't always good at naming their sons either) aboard Swallow engaged Royal Fortune's companion Great Ranger and captured her in short order. He then took off after Roberts.

At this point, Roberts' uncanny good luck finally gave out. Ogle caught Royal Fortune and swept past her, firing a hellish broadside loaded with murderous grapeshot. Men were mowed down like grass. Among them was Bartholomew Roberts. He died of injuries to his neck and chest and his remaining crew quickly tossed him overboard so that his body could not be displayed by the British. Royal Fortune's Captain was welcomed by the sea in a bright scarlet coat, still wearing his gold and diamond cross.

Roberts was arguably the most successful pirate in history. It is documented that he took some 400 ships in his short, three year career and certainly the wealth he stole was incalculable. Maybe that teetotaling does pay off... Nah. Had to be the name. You can't do better than Black Bart Roberts.

Tools of the Trade: You Gotta Support Your Team

Ahoy Brethren and I apologize for the brief neglect of my beloved Triple P. The family and I were having one last gasp of fun before school overcame us
this morning. But I'm back now and I'm here to talk to you all about pirate flags.



The origins of the pirate flag are sketchy at best. Most authorities (if there are such things as "pirate authorities") put forth that the black flags with their deliciously creepy images grew out of warning flags flown at sea from ancient times. Particularly during the years of the Black Plague in Europe, ships began to fly red or black flags if plague was aboard. This was a way to warn other ships and various ports that pestilence was among the crew and contagion was more than likely. It was not necessarily a voluntary situation, however. Sometimes a know-it-all on a fellow ship would spot one of your guys sporting a bad case of impetigo and you'd be forced at cannon point to raise the red flag. Then getting into port could be a real pain, unless you were a little underhanded and managed to lose that red flag at sea. Maybe lose the guy with the crusty scabs too. That might help.



Anyway, pirates caught on pretty early that they could use the fear factor of contagion via the red flag to their advantage and so the original pirate flags were thought to be made of red cloth with various designs. These flags were called by their French name: Jolie Rouge. Literally "Pretty Red". French is so whimsical, isn't it? From this, some say, we get the term "Jolly Roger".

The flags displayed images designed to intimidate and many of these were taken from graveyard imagery. Directly above is the flag of Christopher Moody which includes an hour glass with wings and a skull and crossbones. Anyone who has seen pictures or rubbings from 16th and 17th century graveyards will recognize these kind of emblems. On headstones, they were used to remind onlookers that they'd end up dead too one day. In the case of this flag, the handy addition of the burly arm with the sword simply brings on the high note of "resistance is futile; surrender or die". In a time when very few people could read, this kind of imagery was clear and readily understood by everyone who came in contact with it.

When did red fall out of favor and black come into its own? It seems like the buccaneers of Cuba and San Domingue favored the red flags but once the Golden Age of piracy washed over the Caribbean in the 1700s, black flags became the rage. Up above we have, among others, the flags of Jack Rackham, Henry Every and of course Edward Teach with the skeleton making ready to stab a heart with a spear. That gets the message across without a word over the rails and more than one merchant ship simply gave up once these Jolly Rogers were raised.

For privateers, like their naval cousins, a ruse de guerre was more to the point than any showy black flag. Simply determine what country your prize was from and then run up that flag - or one of a neutral or friendly country - until you were close enough to reveal your "true colors". This was considered a fair and gentlemanly approach and even nautical heroes such as John Paul Jones and Horatio Nelson used this tack without the least bit of guilt.

So there you are. Go find a flag you like and hang it prominently for all to see. Just be sure you know which pirate ran it up back in the day. You want to be able to say when someone asks!

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Jack

All right, let's get this out of the way straight off. I hear those of you who know me well giggling in the corners. "Nice excuse to post a picture of a half-naked Russell Crowe, Pauline!" Fine. Maybe it is. Looks better than the ridiculous picture of a jackrabbit that I found on Google Images, doesn't it, ladies? Ah hell yeah. Besides, that's not Russell Crowe, that's Captain John "Jack" Aubrey, RN. See how it all ties together?

From the 17th century on, Jack was the common term for a sailor in England and her colonies. In French, the name was Jacques. This is interesting because in English "Jack" is a diminutive of John, whereas in French - particularly the Creole French spoken in the Caribbean and Louisiana - "Jacques" is a diminutive of James. Go figure.

Anyway, the name Jack began to be applied to things that had to do with sailors and shipping. There were black jack tankards for swilling grog, jack-blocks for tying off topgallant sails, jack cross-trees made of iron to support high sails like royals, jack-in-office, a common sailors' term for a snarky officer and foremast jack, the common sailor just spoken of who worked "before the mast" rather than aft on the quarterdeck. The name Jack became so attached to Englishmen around the world that the flag of Britain, with its confluence of St. George's, St. Andrew's and after 1801 St. Patrick's crosses, became known as the Union Jack and was first flown on Royal Navy vessels. Huzzah!

Still in parlance today is the word "John" for a prostitute's customer. "Jack" was the original term used by "doxies" (girls who worked the dock) for any paying sailor. Prostitution was tacitly sanctioned by most navies and, when ships were at anchor near home, "bum boats" were rowed out with provisions and paid companions for the sailors rather than allowing shore leave. This was particularly necessary in the Royal Navy where impressed men might take the opportunity to escape.

Also, there's the word "jacket" for a short, sturdy coat. Before foremast jacks were issued uniforms these types of all purpose coats were made by the men themselves out of sail cloth or nankeen and they easily identified a man as a Jack - a sailor who was not an officer, surgeon or member of the clergy. In French a jacket is now a veste but during the Napoleonic era it was a jaquet - a nod to not only French sailors but Revolutionaries who were known as Jacques as well.

So there you go. If you run into a man named John today, Brethren, call him Jack. Or if he's James, call him Jacques. Why the hell not? Happy Saturday to you, and three cheers for Lucky Jack!

People: The Kind of Sailor a Girl Likes

I'll freely admit to being a history geek kind of the way Alton Brown on the Food Network is a food geek. I love all the aspects of particular points in history. Its not just visceral either, although that is certainly part of it. It's also trying to imagine and envision how our ancestors thought and felt and why they did what they did. That is particularly true with the guy we're going to talk about today. Put him in a cubicle and he'd probably lose it after a week. Put him knee deep in gore in the middle of a deafening sea battle (and that is not hyperbole, Brethren) and he emerged a hero. So sexy!

The able seaman pictured above is Commodore David Porter. He was born in Boston in 1780 to an already distinguished seafaring father who was a hero in the Revolutionary War. In his teens, Porter went to sea on American merchant vessels. He was impressed by the Royal Navy twice and managed to escape both times. By the age of 18 he was a midshipman aboard the U.S. Constellation and within a year he had passed for Lieutenant. In 1803, he was aboard Philadelphia when she ran aground in Tripoli harbor while battling Barbary corsairs. Taken prisoner in Algiers, Porter was subjected to some harsh treatment due to his refusal to shut up and sit down, so to say. In 1805, a daring Marine raid which inspired the "shores of Tripoli" line in the Marine anthem repatriated Porter and his fellows. He made Master and Commander and was given command of USS Enterprise - the first one.

After rising to the rank of Captain, Porter was called upon to take the post of Commodore at the newly established Naval Station in New Orleans. Here, Porter ran afoul of just about all the locals, from Territorial Governor Claiborne (actually a Virginian, but still) to the Laffite brothers and their band. Porter wanted everything done by the rules and the frequent sales of contraband that were tacitly allowed by the local government were a constant thorn in his side. He left his post when war with England broke out. After short cruises in the Caribbean, he took command of the frigate Essex, collected his US letter of marque, and headed off to the South Pacific.

Essex was incredibly successful with Porter at her helm. She effectively shut down the English whaling fleet in the South Pacific and, adding that to her over $2,500,000 in prize money, she was the most successful U.S. ship during the War of 1812. Porter and his men finally faced British wrath in February of 1814. Essex was attacked in Valparaiso Harbor off Chile. Despite the neutrality of the sight, the British frigates Phoebe and Cherub engaged Porter. The battle, which lasted over two hours, is famous for the bravery of Porter and his men and notorious for its carnage. Captain Hillyar of Phoebe (allegedly a friend of Porter's) showed his ungentlemanly side by lying out of range and bombarding the crippled Essex with his long guns. Porter finally surrendered, and the men of his crew who were still alive were paroled by Hillyar and sent back to the U.S. aboard their tender, Essex Jr. Porter and his men were lauded as heroes and he became a member of the board of navy commissioners until 1823. At this point, Porter turned from privateer to pirate hunter.

The depredations done by pirates in the Caribbean and particularly around Cuba at this time were out of control. Insurance companies had raised their rates for merchant vessels to above the maximum levels seen during the War of 1812 and America in particular was losing more revenue than she was gaining on the water. Porter was given command of the so called "Mosquito Fleet", which was based in Key West. The fleet got its name from the small sloops and schooners it used to literally fight fire with fire. These ships could cut into the small bays that the pirates called their own and take the little ships on their own terms. Once again, Porter was unusually successful. Even over the protests of the Cuban government - who didn't like the pirates turning bandit on their shores - Porter managed to take out famous pirates of the time like Cuban Diabolito and Canadian Charles Gibbs. There is some speculation that a run-in with Porter is what killed Jean Laffite in the Gulf of Honduras, but it was more likely the Spanish Navy. At any rate, Porter effectively shut down the last of the Caribbean and Gulf pirates.

Porter went on to fall out of favor with the American Navy, much like his mirror image Thomas Cochran did with the British Navy (Thomas being the historical figure O'Brian used as a model for John "Lucky Jack" Aubrey in his famous novels). He became the Commander-in-Chief of the Mexican Navy in 1826 and remained there until 1829. He did not return to service with the U.S. Navy but was appointed U.S. Consul General to the Turkish states in 1831. He remained at this post, and was remarkably capable of diplomacy in his later years, until his death in 1843. His body was returned to the U.S. and he is buried in Philadelphia, where he maintained a home for most of his adult life.

Porter is a fascinating mix of hereditary seaman, foremast jack, successful commander and cagey diplomat that we just don't see anymore. Two of his sons, the "adopted" eldest David Farragut (who may very well have been Porter's) and David Dixon Porter, both became highly distinguished officers in the U.S. Navy. Farragut, in fact, started his career aboard Essex as a midshipman under his Dad. How cool is that? Porter had seven other children with his wife Evalina (although he later accused her of adultery and swore some of them weren't his). He was respected, even by his enemies, and he ran happy ships with only the very necessary amount of severe discipline.

Would I call Porter a hero? Despite the fact that my own ancestors might disagree, I sure would. Plus, I have to add stud to the list of adjectives as well. Don't you just love that handsome man in his shiny uniform? Sorry, Uncle Renato, but that's the kind of sailor a girl could learn to like.