A Special Request

We all need a little help, from the Universe, from our Saints and Spirits, or from our fellow creatures here on Earth - and sometimes from all three. So when a highly thought of member of the Brethren is in that kind of  need, I know that one and all will jump to.

That's why I'm here to ask your help on behalf of that Triple P favorite and long time supporter, Captain John Swallow. The Captain and his Quartermaster have come upon troublesome times thanks to unethical people over whom our fellow sailors have no control. The ship's at stake, and it's up to us to save her.

Please take a moment to click over to this link and read about the entire situation. Then, as the goodhearted pirates you all are, please give what you can. Your gift need not be monitary either; remember, the wayward Universe hears the prayers of privateers and pirates alike.

My thanks go out to you all. Your goodness is your reward... But then none of us would ever sail in company with a wretch who didn't know that already, would we?

Header: Three Ships via Naval Architecture

History: A Tantalizing Find

Ahoy Brethren! I hope this post finds you all in booty, wenches and grog... Or at least grog. I've missed you all and think of you often, honestly.

Today I'm sharing a recent find of shipwrecks in the Gulf of Mexico, that haven for Laffite, Beluche, Aury, Gambi, Youx and a hundred other early 19th century pirates/privateers who served the revolutionary states of Central and South America to various degrees of faithfulness.

This article from ABC online talks about a "thrilling" find of not one but three shipwrecks from around the Laffite era - circa 1810 to 1825. The ships are small, two masted, and carrying no more that eight guns. From the minimal information in the article, which as it notes raises more questions than answers, it appears that the ships may have wrecked in weather such as a gale or hurricane.

For me, a distant relative of Renato Beluche and an old archaeologist at heart and by training, this really gets the imagination running. Could one of these ships be the lost L'Intrepide, captained by Beluche before the War of 1812 and lost in a hurricane off the Louisiana coast some time in 1810 or '11? Beluche and his surviving crew were stranded for some weeks on Little Cat Island, which is now under water, and only rescued when another Laffite associate happened to sail close enough to the island to see their driftwood fires. The size and armament of the ships certainly raises the possibility.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, however. It may be too much to hope for, and perhaps just my wild, seafaring imagination taking me places that the same archaeologist in me knows I should not rightly go.

And yet, oh how exciting are all those possibilities...

Header: The Night Watch via Naval Architecture

History: Aboard The Terrible

April 15: Light Aires and Fair Weather: at 7 PM saw 2 Sails Bearing NbE: to the SoWard at 5 AM Saw a Sail on the Lee Quarter Ware and gave Chace Sett all Sailes & Chace bore away and Set all Sailes She could Perceived her to be a Brigg At 9 saw a French Man of War to Windward She hoisted her Colours We hoisted ours we in full Chace at 12 hoisted our colors and fired a Shot at the Chace at 12 she hoisted American Colors fired several shots at her at noon she fired two stern Chaces at us, continued the Chace

April 16: Still in Chace Fired several shots at her 1 Chace struck her colours and Shortened Sail, we began to take in our Sailes brought to as did the Chace Hoisted out a Boate and sent an Officer on Board She proved to be an American Privateer Brigg called the Rising States, Capt Thompson Commander Carr, 12 six pounders eight of which she had hove overboard chased and 61 men She had taken three English vessels

~ copied verbatim, including spelling and punctuation, from the log of Captain Richard Bickerton, HMS Terrible of 74 guns, in the English Channel, 1777

Header: Towing a Privateer by A. Roux c 1806 via Naval Architecture

People: The General and the Pirate

Tomorrow marks the 246th anniversary of the birth of the seventh President of the U.S.A.: Andrew Jackson. While, in our comically PC world, Jackson is now a "controversial" figure, I would happily stand by him on the floor of Congress or in battle. Much like my other favorite American leader, Theodore Roosevelt, Jackson "got shit done." It's really difficult to be PC and keep a country together.

Of course another Triple P favorite - Jean Laffite - figured into the life of then Major General Jackson when he offered his services to fight the British on Chalmette plane. Unfortunately, how and where these two fascinating characters met is lost to history. But there are still some erroneous suppositions in that regard that cling to the situation like toilet paper to a stiletto heel: if you look at them to closely, they're just embarrassing.

Take as an example the following quote from master historian H.E. Brands' biography Andrew Jackson: His Life and Times. The book is extremely well written and researched and, aside from the fatal flaw we're about to discuss, it is surely my favorite of the many modern biographies of Jackson. So it is doubly disappointing that Brands, like Winston Groom in Patriotic Fire, relies on the as yet unauthenticated "Journal of Jean Lafitte" for his discussions of the Baratarian leader.

Here is one such example, from page 271 of the first printing. The quotes are from the Journal and include a extremely self-satisfied tone on Laffite's part as well as a very specific reference to Dominique Youx being Laffite's brother:

(Laffite had a rather fanciful recollection of the events leading to Jackson's decision to accept the services of him and his men. "I could not waste any more time waiting for a chance that would put me face to face with General Jackson," he wrote many years later. "With a few officers of my staff, I came across the General at the northeast corner of Saint Philippe and Royal Streets. I explained to him that my conduct had been marked with a loyalty and a patriotism unequaled during the thirty-eight years that had passed since the declaration of American independence. I challenged the General to a duel, in reply to the unfounded and punishable insults directed upon us. In spite of the respect I had for his uniform, I must say that the general's intelligence seemed much inferior to mine. He refused to accept my challenge. I threatened to slap his face, but my eldest brother, Dominique Youx, intervened as a conciliator. Later the General received us in his office at 106 Royal Street." At this point in Laffite's story, Jackson saw the light and brought him on board.)

All the little missteps in that paragraph aside, it is truly disheartening to see a businessman as intelligent and capable as Laffite reduced to the role of megalomaniacal chihuahua yipping at the heels of a great mastiff. In fact, Jackson and Laffite were equals in their own way but Laffite had a good deal more to lose if the discussion had gone south, including potentially his freedom. Hollow words and face slapping of superiors were rarely the tack of the Laffite brothers... or Dominique Youx for that matter.

Happy Birthday, Andrew Jackson. You'll always be my favorite President just as the Laffites will always top my list of pirate. For what ever that's worth: Huzzah!

Header: Major General Andrew Jackson by Samuel L. Waldo via American Gallery

History: Instructions for Privateers

On May 2nd of 1780 the Continental Congress of the fledgling U.S.A. did something that hadn't been done by what they would have termed a "civilized nation" for close to 400 years: they issued instructions to the captains and commanders of private armed vessels carrying Continental letters of marque. This essential act of congress would be referred to in evaluating the conduct of U.S. privateers until the Civil War with only one small amendment in 1781.

The document, which you can view in high resolution at the Library of Congress website, is thoughtful and specific. There is very little "wiggle room", so to say, as there would be in a straight letter of mark - for instance this one issued during the War of 1812. The instructions include guidelines for the taking of enemy ships (only Britain is mentioned here), the treatment of persons aboard those ships, the libeling of ship and cargo and other issues of conduct.

Of particular interest here is the treatment of passengers aboard captured ships. From Article VI:

If you, or any of your officers or crew, shall, in cold blood, kill or maim, or by torture or otherwise, cruelly, inhumanly, and contrary to common usage and the practice of civilized nations in war, treat any person or persons surprized in the ship or vessel you shall take, the offender shall be severely punished.

That's a key factor that should, in theory, separate a privateer from a pirate. Aside from the proper legal libel of any captured vessel and it's cargo, the mistreatment of so called prisoners marked the rogue vs. the gentleman sailor.

The amendment of 1781 changed the following piece of Article I which excepted the capture of:

...ships or vessels, along with their cargoes, belonging to any inhabitant or inhabitants of Bermuda...

At the time the U.S. held, albeit very shakily, the capital of Bermuda, New Providence, and probably had aspirations of including the islands as a future state. Also excepted:

... such other ships or vessels bringing persons with intent to settle and reside withing the United States...

New people were a welcome commodity for the new nation. Despite this, the commanders are instructed to search these vessels and, should the man in command prove hesitant or false in his description of his ship's intent, seizure is implied to be permissible.

All in all the document, which is handsomely preserved, is a commendable attempt at keeping U.S. privateers from slipping into the habits of piracy. Over all, it seems to have had the intended effect.

Header: USS Revenge via Wikipedia ~ she is flying the famous "Don't Tread on Me" flag favored by U.S. privateers during the Revolution

Seafaring Sunday: Beginning of an Era

January 21, 1793: King Louis XVI of France is executed by guillotine. The upsurge in French nationalism via the Revolution will lead to a remarkable increase in privateering on both sides of the Atlantinc. Allons enfants de la Patrie Le jour de gloire est arrivé!

Header: Death of Louis XVI from an English engraving via Wikipedia

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Corsair

We have made it to the middle of December, Brethren, and that means that for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere our time in darkness is soon to be redeemed by light. The Solstice is only six days away. It also means that chez Pauline is celebrating the 232nd birthday of my favorite uncle: Renato Beluche, corsair-extraordinaire. So, as a bit of a birthday present, I'm changing things up for this SMS and offering the definitions and etymologies of the key words used to mean a raider on the high seas. Not all mean "pirate" and some distinctions are subtle. Points we can be a little prickly about in my family.

Buccaneer: The general understanding is that the word is an anglicized version of the French boucanier, one who cooks things on the type of barbeque known in old San Domingue as a boucan. Admiral Smyth, in The Sailor's Word Book has this to say under his buccaneer entry:

A name given to certain piratical rovers, of various European nations, who formerly infested the coasts of Spanish America. They were originally inoffensive settlers in Hispaniola, but were inhumanly driven from their habitations by the jealous policy of the Spaniards; whence originated their implacable hatred to that nation.

Corsair: Also of French origin; corsaire means privateer in French. We know from their letters that many of the Laffite brothers' men referred to themselves as "corsairs." Renato Beluche certainly did. In a letter to a Venezuelan newspaper in 1822 he wrote: "General Padilla remembers that I was a corsair. And what is the matter with that?" Where the General had implied piracy on Beluche's part, the accused took onus and reminded the readers that he sailed under Bolivar's flag as a privateer. The term was also applied to pirates from Barbary shores.

Filibuster: This too began as a French word: filibustier meaning freebooter. In this sense, which originally meant a soldier of fortune, it was applied by the Spanish to the original buccaneers. By the early 19th century it had taken on a new meaning in North and South America. Filibusters were the secret groups of speculators formed, particularly along the Gulf Coast and most notably in New Orleans, to supply arms to South American rebellions for cash. Again the Laffites, Dominique Youx and Beluche were involved in a post-War of 1812 group of filibusters supplying small arms and cannon to Mexico.

Pirate: The Latin word pirata may have meant sea captain but the English word pirate is essentially the seagoing version of the land-based word highwayman. A pirate is a sea robber with no connection to cause or country - other than themselves and their ships.

Privateer: Admiral Smyth says it best:

Men-of-war equipped by individuals for cruising against the enemy; their commission is given by the admiralty, and revocable by the same authority. They have no property in any prize until it is legally condemned by a competent court.

The issue of proper libel by a court is the real sticking point in the difference between pirate and privateer. Letters of marque, like any other document, can be easily forged. But courts for condemning legal prizes are not so easily come by.

Sea-dog/Sea-wolf: These terms sprang up in England during the reign of Elizabeth I who used them to describe her sea captains - her favorite being Sir Francis Drake - who raided the Spanish Main. In that sense, another euphemism for privateer.

I believe that list covers the highlights fairly well. Happy Saturday, Brethren; may your commission stay valid, and the courts of libel smile upon every prize you bring in.

And Happy Birthday, Uncle Renato, you old corsaire you.

Header: Engraving from a painting of Renato Beluche by Francisco Capuleta now in the Museo Naval de Venezuela

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Key

Keys have been and still are everywhere aboard ship. Keys to the larder and the spirit room, the weapons chest and the powder box; the list goes on. But there are other types of keys at sea besides those that turn the occasional lock. Let's have a look at some of them, shall we?

Ship building uses the term to mean a dry piece of elm or oak which is used to wedge things, such as deck planking, much as one might use a shim for setting doors or windows by land. In the same art, a key model is an elevation of a ship created with precisely cut boards to form the outlines seen on paper.

Key can be used as a replacement pronunciation for either cay or quay. The former deriving from the old Spanish word cayos, meaning rocks. According to Admiral Smyth:

The term was introduced to [English] by the buccaneers as small insular spots with a scant vegetation; without the latter they are merely termed sandbanks. Key is especially used in the West Indies...

As in, for instance, the Florida Keys.

In the case of quay, the meaning is a long wharf or levee, often running the length of a city or settlement and built of stone. The quay will have rings, cranes, warehouses and all other amenities necessary for the merchant and, incidentally or not, pirate and smuggling trade. For instance, there was once a Rue de Quay in New Orleans which ran along the main levee facing the Mississippi where all water traffic ran. It does not take much imagination to see the famous pirates, smugglers and privateers about their work up and down that stretch. Ah, family time... Quay, as it happens, comes from the French word quai: wharf.

It follows then that keyage - or quayage - was money paid for the landing of goods upon a city's wharf. In Britain, the term was wharfage.

The key of a rudder is the same as a wood-lock. These are pieces of wood put into a ship's sternpost to prevent the rudder from rising up and unshipping. In copper bottomed ships, the keys were usually coppered as well.

Finally, a keyle is a boat also referred to as a keel. These were the flat barges used specifically for carrying coal out of the Newcastle mines. The word comes from the Anglo-Saxon word ceol, a small bark, and has been used in the past to indicate a futile or unnecessary effort: a keel of coals to Newcastle is the nautical version of carrying coals to Newcastle. Why bother? That's where the coal comes from after all.

Happy Saturday, Brethren. And, since the season is upon us, Happy Holidays as well!

Header: Coming Up to the Marker by Franklin D. Briscoe via American Gallery

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Pay

The word pay, in the sense of remuneration for work accomplished or yet to come, is dear to every sailor's heart. Dearer still is pay for a prize - the only kind of pay known to pirates. But there are other uses for the word pay at sea, and some have nothing to do with coin in hand.

Pay can also mean the act of caulking a seam on deck. In particular it refers to the pouring of pitch into the seam after the caulking is done. The pitch makes the oakum that seals the seam waterproof. The word pay in this sense derives, according to Admiral Smyth in The Sailor's Word Book from the French word for pitch: poix.

A slight variation on this comes with references to paying a mast or yard or paying a ship's bottom.

In the case of the mast or yard, the wood is anointed with tar or the tallow left over from cooking often referred to as "slush" (thus the nickname for the cook: Slushy). This allows for ease in hoisting and lowering sails and yards, cutting down on the friction and thus wear-and-tear on the rigging. This is a dangerous job, however, as the sailor is dealing with slippery substances while suspended on a bosun's chair. The point was well illustrated in the "Tar Rigger" episode of Dirty Jobs where Mike Rowe was obliged to pay a mast aboard the Star of India.

To pay a vessel's bottom (also known as breaming) involves cleaning the entire hull, not by scraping as in careening but by fire. The hull is thus covered with tallow, sulphur or rosin to discourage the fire from actually burning the ship's bottom.

To pay round is to turn the ship's head in another direction. Paying off is "the movement by which the ship's head falls off from the wind, and drops to leeward" to quote the good Admiral. Pay away and paying out mean the same thing: this is the slackening of rope which allows it to run without hindrance. Paying down is the act of lowing heavy articles down into the hold or to a lower deck.

A paymaster is a 19th century naval invention. This individual did the job formerly taken by a ship's purser as part of his duties. It was up to this person to both provision and pay the crew. Paying off may also mean the final payment to officers and crew when a ship is lost or taken out of commission.

A man who speaks "gandiloquently", according to Admiral Smyth, is said to be "paying it out" among his mates; derogatorily, of course. And as all the Brethren know, the Admiral reminds that:

Pay [is] a buccaneering principle of hire, under the notion of plunder and sharing in prizes, was, no purchase no pay.

You can read the lyrics to, and hear the wonderful Corsairs sing, the shanty of the same name here.

Happy Saturday, Brethren! Fair winds, following seas and full mugs to you all.

Header: Make Sail! Photograph via the Under the Black Flag Team on Facebook

History: John Adams and the U.S. Navy

We will make peace with all our might and we will build up the military ~ President John Adams

In the popular mind, the memory of John Adams has been poisoned to a large degree by false remembrance. His support of - and even insistence on - the passing of the Alien and Sedition Acts has made him persona non grata among those who would embrace all comers as part of the U.S. melting pot. It's a slippery slope to trust that everyone - absolutely everyone - that comes to your country comes with a bag full of hope and good intentions. Adams knew that very well. Having traveled more than any of the other founding fathers by the time he was elected to the highest office, he knew how much other countries coveted all that America had.

Adams, however, was a visionary who understood long before Teddy Roosevelt that to "walk softly and carry a big stick" was the best strategy in the treacherous world of international politics. He knew England, France and Spain - all superpowers whose grip on the New World was slipping - wanted America back. He knew that the only way they could achieve that was to send men and arms here by ship. He knew that a strong, capably manned and well equipped Navy was the one sure way to stop that from happening.

I had planned to discuss John Adams' pioneering advocacy for the U.S. Navy and for privateering as well but there is no reason for me to reinvent the wheel. Click over to Naval History Blog to read historian David McCullough's brilliant lecture on just that subject. His focus on the importance of "the war that never was" - America's entirely nautical Quasi-War with France - is a fascinating evaluation of a time that Americans have largely chosen to forget but that was so very important to the shaping of the country and indeed the world that we know today.

The French foreign minister, the Comte de Vergennes, once said of John Adams that his "pedantry, stubbornness, and self-importance will give rise to a thousand vexations."

Adams, in reply, said simply: "Thanks to God that he gave me stubbornness when I know I am right." Spoken like a true Yankee.

Header: America by David Armstrong via American Gallery ~ U.S. citizens, get out and vote today; it matters!

Seafaring Sunday: Prince of Privateers

October 7, 1864: USS Wachusette captures the Confederate commerce raider CSS Florida in violation of neutrality laws off the coast of Bahia, Brazil. Florida, whose short two year career had seen her bring in 33 Union merchant ships as prizes, was known as the Prince of Privateers. While being brought in to Boston Harbor, she was "accidentally" sunk off Newport News, Virginia on November 28.

Header: CSS Florida via Valor Art & Framing

Lady Pirates: The Vengeful Privateer

It was probably fine weather on the Bay of Bicay when, some time around 1400, a merchant ship from Coventry was making her way toward Bordeaux laden with goods for trade. Her cargo may have been largely wool, but just like the weather that, at this late date day, is pure speculation. At some point close to her destination, the little cog was overrun by a band of Spanish pirates. The freebooters, who sailed from the port of Santander, were the bane of the Cinque Ports league in England. They took the merchant vessel's entire cargo, which was later valued at 800 "lambs of gold", disabled the cog and left the crew to fend for themselves.

The merchant managed to limp back to Coventry, although the seamen aboard were the worse for wear upon return. It doubtless fell to the master to explain what had happened to the owner of the ship. Once the story was out there was no question in the mind of that owner as to was she had to do.

Margery Russell was the recently widowed wife of a prominent member of the Cinque Ports league. Upon John Russell's death, Margery became the owner of a small flotilla of merchant cogs and, together with her sons, she ran the family business just as efficiently as her departed husband had. The pirates of Santander were a known risk in Margery's line of business but, judging from the small amount of information we have about her trade, it was not one that the Russells had run into before. Margery, much like her later counterpart and fellow merchant Agnes Cowtie, was not about to stand by and put up with the ransacking of her ships. So she decided to turn the tables on her enemy, and go out freebooting herself.

Margery marched into court and asked for a letter of marque and reprisal from the King. Letters of marque appear to have been first introduced in England over a century earlier by Henry III, so it is not surprising to find an English ship owner requesting one, even in 1400. The surprise, of course, lies in the gender of that owner. It probably shouldn't, however. Modern views of history, at least in the West, are unfortunately filtered through a Victorian lens. Women often worked along side their husbands, and inherited the businesses when those husbands died, to one degree or another right up until the early 19th century. Margery Russell does not appear to have been the only one among her female contemporaries to hold legitimate letters of marque.

Sending her ships out in search of plunder rather than trade, Margery made a tidy profit taking and plundering Spanish ships from all known ports. Rumor has it that her men may have raided a French ship or two along the way, but who was counting after all? The Spanish government complained vehemently when more Cinque Ports merchants followed Margery into the privateering trade. One can only imagine that the English government, in this era before established navies, only shrugged its collective shoulders and then continued to hand out letters of marque.

It is doubtful that Margery Russell ever sailed out to capture her enemy's ships. What is not in doubt, however, is that she ruled over a small fleet of privateers just as surely as that Frenchman in America, Jean Laffite, would later do.

Header: The Moneylender and His Wife by Quentin Matsys c 15th c via Wikimedia

History: Stomp and Go

A glorious International Talk Like a Pirate day to all members of the Brethren, seafarers, freebooters, buccaneers, privateers and lubbers. This day, as the inimitable Captain Swallow pointed out this morning, is a day off for those of us who practice the way of the sea every day. That means it's up to the rest of you to hoist the sails and turn the capstan today. And to my mind, that means you'll need some chanties to help ye along.

Sea songs, often called chanties or shanties, probably originated with simple counting. Though it sounds crazy, it makes perfect sense. Those captured by the original boucaniers at sea wrote of these French corsairs pushing their windlasses or pulling on rigging with the continuous and melodic chant of "Un, Deux, TROIS". In this case, the emphasis is on the third syllable, and that is when the true exertion is expected from each man.

By the late 18th century, these chants may have been considerably influenced by African work songs and singing, rather than chanting, became the norm on the New World side of the Atlantic. In the Royal Navy, where singing was prohibited as it was considered a hindrance to the giving of orders, fiddles or fifes were played while men pushed and heaved. The sailors, always clever in circumventing orders, developed a way to continue rhythmic signalling without the use of voice. Known as a "stomp and go", the slap of bare feet on the ship's deck became a way of keeping time to the work at hand.

Here are a few links to help you not only talk like a pirate today, but sing like one. First, a very ancient work song that probably originated at sea some time in the late 15th or early 16th century. The song was used in the movie Robin Hood, with Russell Crowe, and is a simple repetition of a few rhyming lines. Though the movie probably makes this shanty older than it actually was, it still has a nice ring to it.

Next, songs from the movie The Phantom Ship. Made in the 1930s, the film features a number of late 19th century shanties that will probably be very familiar to the Brethren.

Finally, a fully realized "song" that was popular in both the Royal Navy and the American Navy by 1800. This version is one of my favorite pieces of music from the movie Master and Commander.

Enjoy, Brethren; and don't ye dare forget yer old ship mates on this ITLAPD!

Header: T-shirts for the Anchorage, Alaska Pirate Pub Crawl 2012; you can get one at the official Facebook page (I'm wearing mine right now)

People: Captain Jonnia and Lieutenant Bolivar

Today's individuals are mentioned not only by Philip Gosse in The Pirate's Who's Who but also by our old friend Charles Ellms in The Pirate's Own Book. It is probably safe to say that they were real individuals who sailed together in the vast Caribbean sea, but how much their brief life stories have been altered for the sake of entertainment is up for speculation.

Jonnia and Bolivar (or Bolidar according to Ellms) were in that last wave of piracy that sprang up out of the revolutions in Central and South America. When nations like Argentina, Chile and particularly Simon Bolivar's Grand Columbia discontinued their habit of doling out letters of marque against the Spanish, many a man turned from privateer to pirate. While that cannot be said to be the absolute case with our current subjects, their years of operation - 1821 in particular - hint at such goings on.

Gosse tells us that Jonnia, a Spaniard by birth, commanded a "fast schooner in 1821." He carried a crew of 40 men and for a small ship he appears to have been armed to the teeth. A curious aside in the short paragraph that Gosse allows for Jonnia notes that the schooner "had three Mexican negresses" aboard. Whether or not the ladies were wives or paramours of crewmen or were actually a-pirating themselves is not discussed. What a wonderful piece of historical fiction could be made of their possible adventures, however.

Jonnia's schooner took a Boston merchant, Exertion, on December 17, 1821. Gosse notes that the crew was "considerably drunk at the time" and plundered the merchant with reckless abandon:

The pirates took everything from their prisoners, even their clothes, but as a parting gift sent the captain a copy of the "Family Prayer Book" by the Rev. Mr. Brooks. The prisoners were marooned on a small mangrove quay, but they eventually escaped.

This torturous disposal of the prisoners - imagine being marooned naked on a sun baked, mosquito infested salt water quay - seems to have fallen to Lieutenant Bolivar, whom Gosse describes in particular and amusing detail as:

... a stout, well-built man of swarthy complexion and keen, ferocious eyes, huge black whiskers and beard, and a tremendously loud voice.

Jonnia and his crew took the booty they had carried away from Exertion to Principe, Cuba, doubtless to sell and/or trade. Their next cruise was not so felicitous, however, as Gosse ends the entry: "Jonnia and some of his crew were afterwards captured by an English ship and taken to Kingston, Jamaica, and there hanged." Whether or not the jovial Lieutenant Bolivar was in that batch, Gosse does not say.

Header: Pirates by Howard Pyle via Wikimedia

Seafaring Sunday: A Hero Remembered

September 16, 1956: A statue of John Barry, Commodore in the U.S. Navy and privateer for the Continental Navy during the Revolutionary War, is erected at Crescent Quay in County Wexford, Ireland. The plaque on the statue reads:

Presented to the people of Ireland by the United States of America, 1956, in recognition of Commodore Barry's outstanding contribution to the naval annals of his country.

He was born in county Wexford and is buried at St. Mary's Church in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Header: Statue of Commodore Barry, Wexford, Ireland via Wikipedia

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Speaking Like A Seaman

Another storm is headed our way, this one pushing up from the Pacific. The major hit will be taken by Japan and the Koreas, evidently, but if you look at a globe you can see how surprisingly close Alaska is to that area of the world. We're battening down the hatches once again, and hoping that this weather event is not as destructive as last week's was.

Given all this, I'm pulling an SMS out of the archives. Entitled "Speak Like A Seaman", this one was in honor of International Talk Like a Pirate Day, which will crashes onto our shores Wednesday, September 19th. Why not be prepared?

Avast: We've talked about this word before on a previous SMS but it always comes up when the wannabes come out in Johnny Depp drag. Avast does not mean hello, how are you, or how about a drink, wench. It means stop and a true pirate - like his or her naval or privateering counterparts - would not trouble himself with the long version. "Vast that!" would get the job done quite nicely.

Ahoy: The Pirate Guys themselves list the meaning of this word as "Hello!" in their book Well Blow Me Down. In fact ahoy derives from the Danish ho meaning stop. By the 19th century, however, it was not uncommon for English speaking sailors to greet an unknown vessel with a call of "Ahoy the ship," at sea. It was far better manners to call out the ship's name or, better still, the last name of the captain. By this time, too, vast was in almost universal use as the word for stop.

Belay: Honestly, how many words mean stop at sea? The answer is a barrel full. Belay technically means to tie off the end of a rope and make it fast, often to a belaying pin. But belay was frequently used in general parlance to mean knock it off. "Belay that yarn. You're story is getting old," or " Belay your grousing, mate."

Booty: One of my favorites simply for the difference between its imagined and its actual meanings. Pirates and privateers used the word to mean any part of a prize that could be immediately distributed out such as clothing, weapons, specie, gold dust, silver plate or jewels. Items that would need to be sold for cash were referred to as prize goods while the captured ship was itself the prize.

Crow's nest: Here's one you hear a lot from those wannabes. I once had one foul-breathed hunk of shark bait ask me if I'd "like to go up to the crows nest" with him. Get. A. Better. Line. And brush your teeth. Anyway, actual seamen aside from whalers eschewed the term "crow's nest" as they avoided speaking of the Devil. The platforms halfway up a pirate, privateer or navy ship's masts were known as tops. It was beneath these men to call their top a crow' nest. As an aside, the crow's nest originated as a high platform where live corvids were kept on Dark Age European fishing vessels. When the boat lost sight of land, a raven, crow or mockingbird would be let loose. Instinctively, the bird would fly toward shore and the boat could then follow it to safety.

Duffers: Not one you'll find in the Pirate Guys' books, which is a shame really because it's a nice, unisex insult. When a seaman spoke of a duffer or a duff he meant either a poor peddler, usually of used goods, a smuggler's harlot, or a coward.

Grog: Really, that's anything your drinking at a pirate party. Technically it's a naval ration of one part spirits to three parts water served out at dinner and supper. In the 18th century, when scurvy was once again discovered, some form of citric acid was added as well. The grog ration was officially instituted in the Royal Navy in 1740 by Admiral Vernon. As Admiral Smyth notes in The Sailor's Word Book: "The addition of sugar and lemon juice now makes grog an agreeable anti-scorbutic."

Lubber: An old, Northern English word meaning a clown or dolt. The word crept into the seaman's language and became synonymous with an unseamanlike sailor or landsman.

Mate: Your friend at sea, a member of your mess or simply a fellow crewman. The word may very well have derived from the French word for sailor matelot which was also used by the early boucaniers on Tortuga to indicate a best friend, a man with whom another shared a wife or possibly a homosexual partner.

On the account: A sailor turned pirate was said in the Golden Age to have "gone on the account." The term has to do with the old "no purchase, no pay" adage that if a prize was not caught a pirate made no money.

Scuttlebutt: A barrel with a square hole large enough for a dipper and filled with fresh water. This was left near the mainmast on most ships when water was not being rationed. Because men would gather to drink here they also exchanged gossip and the scuttlebutt. Thus the word became synonymous with rumors and suppositions passed from one person to another.

Stow: From the nautical word stowage which means placing ballast, cargo and even crew in just the right spots aboard ship to get the maximum performance in terms of sailing out of the vessel. It was an art form, really, and only men who knew their ship intimately could perform it well. The wannabes will use it for "stop" which is sad at best and frankly sacrilegious to my mind. My Dad would never have put up with that.

Weevil: This word for the Curculio comes down to us from the Anglo-Saxon word wefl. They start out as worm-like creatures that eat wood and bread. They then grow in to ravenous and fairly sizable beetles that were sometimes found swimming in soups thickened with ship's biscuit.

That should help you prepare for another inspiring and happy International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Sprinkle that language liberally in your speech, Brethren, and enjoy!

Header: Cup of Gold book cover by Mahlon Blaine via American Gallery

Ships: Yet More Mystery

Yesterday's post focused on a curious little ship that had been washed up on an Alabama beach. The ship, which actually has more the appearance of a ship's boat, was speculated about in the Yahoo! online article linked to.

Another supposition about the mystery boat has been put forward both by Yahoo! and by this article in The Portland Press Herald.

Evidently the wreck is well known to locals, particularly one Michael Bailey, as the schooner Rachel. Bailey, who is an historian for the Fort Morgan Society, first noticed the ship in 1979 after hurricane Frederick. From the article:

"I saw 20th century features and thought it could be from 1900s," he said. "I found an Army Corps of Engineers s shipwreck study that had a description of The Rachel and learned it was built in Mosspoint, Miss. at the De Angelo shipyard."

According to Bailey, Rachel was bound for Mobile from Cuba and she wrecked in 1923, during prohibition. He calls speculation that she might have been smuggling alcohol "not impossible" given the era and her course. If all these indications are indeed true, this would mean that the little ship that hurricane Isaac brought to light is more likely a rum runner than the Confederate ship Monticello.

The Portland Press piece also gives some hint as to why the ship has not been moved. Her location, which keeps her covered by water aside from after major storms, may be preserving her more thoroughly than any museum could. What it does not explain is why we are left with speculations over "20th century features" rather than actually dating the ship with the extensive tools available to modern archaeology.

Many thanks to eagle-eyed member of the Brethren Bob, who mentioned the second Yahoo! article in his comment yesterday.

Header: Schooner at Sunset by Charles Henry Gifford via American Gallery

Ships: A Mysterious Situation

The apparently burned-to-the-waterline hulk above is a strange artifact which hurricane Isaac brought to an Alabama beach. The mysteries surrounding this little piece of history are numerous, but one in particular seems to be the proverbial elephant in the room.

As noted in this article from Yahoo! online, the boat is thought to be the Monticello, a Confederate blockade runner that plied her trade in smuggled goods along the shores of Mobile Bay. Most probably, her demise came at the hands of Admiral David Farragut when he "damn the torpedoes!" -ed his way into the last stronghold of the Confederate Navy in 1864. The other likely end for her was being burned by her owners and abandoned in their effort to avoid prosecution by the Union invaders. A classic story that has seen many a ship or boat sacrificed to the needs of her crew.

On the other hand, as the article goes on to say, the ship may be another kind of more recent smuggler. That boat might be a rum runner from that disastrous era the U.S. now refers to as "prohibition." In this scenario the boat - nameless in this case - would have also been destroyed by those using her to smuggle hooch. Once again, to reduce their chances of being caught by the authorities.

These are the two most likely, and probably most colorful, possibilities for the origin of this relic. But, to my mind, they are not the most head-scratching. From the article:

This is actually the fourth time parts of the wreckage have become visible over the years, after it firs made an appearance following hurricane Camille in 1969. It reappeared in 2004 after hurricane Ivan and again in 2008 after hurricane Ike.

As a student of archaeology, I am hard pressed to imagine why this fascinating artifact of American history is left to quite literally rot and simply be speculated on by tourists and online journalists. Evidently, though, that is the only thing we can think of to do as far as this little time capsule is concerned. The article ends with a quote from the Meyer Vacation Rentals Facebook page:

This is the most visible it has been in recent years. Eventually the shifting sands will pull it back under the beach, where it will slumber until another storm is powerful enough to bring it back to the surface.

Brilliant!

Header: Monticello (perhaps) via Yahoo! online via Meyer Vacation Rentals on Facebook

Seafaring Sunday: A Ballad for a Highwayman and a Corsair

Today's post has no particular reason, although it has a lovely rhyme. The poem below is, allegedly, the epitaph of a notorious highwayman name Claude Duval (or DuVall). Monsieur terrorized the highways and byways of Restoration England and was the swoon-worthy object of many a ladies' story. Duval was executed January 21, 1670 and remains a legend to this day.

His epitaph reminds me of another Frenchman - a Bordeaulaise, and therefor a countryman of mine, rather than a Norman - in an Anglo country: Jean Laffite. Both Jean and his brother Pierre were vilified by the English speaking Americans, much like Duval was in England. Also much like their Franco counterpart, they were swoon-worthy objects of ladies' stories. Of course, they had the upper hand on Duval; they were, after all, corsairs.

Here lies DuVall; Reader if male thou art,
Look to thy purse; if female, to thy heart.
Much havoc has he made to both; for all
Men he made to stand, and women he made to fall.
The second Conqueror of the Norman race,
Knights to arms did yield, and ladies to his face.
Old Tyburn's Glory; England's illustrious Thief,
DuVall the ladies' joy; DuVall the ladies' grief.

Header: Lafitte [sic] the Pirate by Paul Ashbrook c 1960 (resist that if you can, ladies)

Women at Sea: Mademoiselle de la Rocque

On the face of it, the story of Marguerite de la Rocque reads as a simple one. Good girl from up-and-coming family gets knocked up and kicked out of the house. In Marguerite’s case, the situation and consequences of her scandal were so unusual as to be extreme.

In what year and exactly where Marguerite was born remains somewhat of a mystery. We know that her influential kinsman, Jean-Francois de la Rocque de Roberval, was born around 1500 in the ancient city of Carcassonne, located in southern France. We also know that Marguerite held lands in Languedoc, also in southern France, in her own name by 1536. She also jointly owned land in Pontpoint with Roberval. Roberval would have a significant effect on Marguerite’s life but their exact relationship continues as pure speculation. Certain historians call them brother and sister or half-siblings while others say they were cousins. Either way, Marguerite seems to have been under the protection of Roberval by the time she reached maturity.

Roberval was a social climber who wormed his way into a friendship with the young Francois I of France during a brief military foray into Italy in 1524. Francois took a shine to young Jean and gifted him the estate of Roberval in northern France. There, the two buddies spent time hunting and womanizing but Roberval could not keep up with Francois’ expensive tastes. He borrowed heavily on his estates in the south and did a brief but unsuccessful stint as a French privateer when those same estates were threatened with foreclosure.

Desperate, Roberval returned to Francois and proposed that the king grant him a commission to recolonize New France. This was the area of Canada now known as Quebec and Newfoundland. Roberval had help convincing Francois from a shifty individual named Jacques Cartier. Cartier had been to New France, and he enjoyed flashing the “diamonds and gold” – which were in fact nothing more expensive than quartz crystal and pyrite – that he had found there “in great abundance.”

The king agreed and made Roberval Lieutenant General of New France in 1541. At this time, it is reasonable to assume that Marguerite was somewhere between 20 and 25 years old. And it is here that the narrative of her life’s story turns from standard to curious indeed.

For some reason that history fails to mention, Marguerite de la Rocque signed on for her kinsman’s passage to New France. Why a young, unmarried woman from a good family and with land in her own name would do such a thing is a point for discussion. Even if Roberval was her appointed guardian, one might imagine that a good marriage would be a better way to look after her than packing her off to an unknown, inhospitable colony. All the same, that is what Roberval did and Marguerite, along with her maidservant Damienne, boarded the ship Valentine bound for New France in April of 1542.

The passage was doubtless grueling, as all travel was at the time. Three ships held 200 colonists along with Roberval’s men, a few horses and the ships’ sailors. At some point during the months-long cruise, Marguerite began an affair with one of her shipmates. Who this man was remains part of the mystery surrounding her. Speculation makes him everything from a young knight to a hardened soldier. In her novella about Marguerite published in 1559, the Queen of Spain, Marguerite of Navarre, made the young man a poor carpenter.

Who he was not withstanding, Roberval found out about the man’s dalliance with his kinswoman and he did not take it lightly. In true puritanical fashion (Roberval was secretly a member of the Calvinist church in France, known as Huguenots), the new Lieutenant General marooned a probably pregnant Marguerite de la Rocque on a barren island off the coast of Quebec, along with her maid. In some accounts, the offending lover was set down on the island with them. In others, he jumped off the departing ship and swam to Marguerite’s side. Either way the three, or perhaps four, marooners were stuck on the Isle de Demons – island of Demons which is speculated to be the modern Hospital Island.

What exactly happened during the two and a half years that Marguerite was literally stranded can’t be said, but she certainly encountered one hardship after another. Local legend says that the band of three took shelter in a particular cave. It is known that they had a certain amount of provisions, including at least one gun, black powder and shot, one or more knives, a Bible and perhaps bread. In short order they had to turn to hunting and gathering. Before the birth of her baby, both Damienne the maidservant and Marguerite’s lover had died.

Marguerite managed to give birth on her own. If she was indeed pregnant when Roberval marooned her, the blessed event would have occurred in the spring. It is probably no surprise to anyone that Marguerite’s final companion, and apparently only child, died within a month of her birth.

Even in the face of so much loss, Marguerite went on. She wielded the gun with aplomb, even taking down a bear at one point. She was wrapped in its skin when Basque fishermen from Newfoundland happened by in the fall of 1544. She climbed into their boat, clutching her tattered Bible, and never looked back.

Marguerite returned to France, where legend says she opened a school for girls in Picardy. No records exist of any legal action brought against Roberval on her behalf. It seems a certainty that, after failing in New France, he returned to Paris and claimed her lands as his own. This greedy act may very well have been the motive for his brutal treatment of Marguerite from the very beginning.

But karma, then as now, is a hard mistress. Leaving a Huguenot meeting one night in Paris, Roberval and a group of companions were attacked and beaten to death by a Catholic mob. He was 59 or 60 years old.

The unfortunately little-known story of Marguerite de la Rocque, the female Robinson Crusoe who knew the isolation of a marooner years before Alexander Selkirk was even born, remains a titillating fabric whose frayed edges cry out to be sewn up.

Header: Can You Hear Me Now by Christina Ramos via American Gallery