Tools Of The Trade: Tricks Of The Eye

Being about the latitude of Barbados, we met an English frigate, or privateer, who first began to give us chase; but finding himself not to exceed us in strength, presently steered away from us. This flight gave us occasion to pursue the said frigate. As we did, shooting at him several guns of eight-pound carriage.

Thus reported Alexander Exquemelin in his Buccaneers of America, published in 1684. In the days before binoculars and sonar and the like, knowing what you were looking at out on the vast, open sea was not just handy but a matter of life and death. A ship like the American schooner Enterprise above might sail for weeks without spotting another. And since life at sea wasn't always full bellies and a good night's sleep, hungry, sleep deprived men had to be trusted to spot the enemy or - probably even more importantly - a prize.

As Exquemelin noted, the English privateer in question did not initially know what she was up against. As it turned out, the buccaneer ship was better armed and, in the end, faster than she was. Her initial impression, however, was of a fruit ripe for picking. How did freebooters in particular and any ship in general manage to avoid such situations? The answer in most cases was pure luck.

As we've seen in other posts, many navy ships and most raiders were not of local construction. A French privateer may have been built in Plymouth; an American sloop may have initially been a French privateer. The domino effect can easily be imagined. Trying to tell the nationality of your prey by build or set of sail was virtually impossible, at least until you got too close for reasonable comfort. And of course, her colors were of no use in identification.

Seeing another ship, particularly in fair weather, might be surprisingly easy if she had all her sail set. Pirates and privateers in the Northern hemisphere used the simple trick of staying to the south on a sunny day or even in a light haze. Particularly toward midday, the sun would hit the sails of the ship further north so that the glare would be unmistakable to a man in the tops on the southern ship. The opposite strategy (staying north to spy ships in the south) would work almost as well in the Southern hemisphere, with slightly different atmospheric conditions offering somewhat of a hindrance.

Giving chase could and many times would become a simple game of surprise. In the example above for instance, a well handled freebooter could stay just over the horizon for as long as he needed to, eyeing the sails of his prey while keeping his topsails reefed and his existence unknown. It's important to keep the spherical nature of our Earth in mind, something our ancestors understood far better than we give them credit for. The problem arose when the predator was the one surprised.

In inclement weather, chance meeting or complete misses were more likely. These conditions didn't help in the identification of your neighbor, either. William Dampier tells in his Voyages and Discoveries of sighting what he imagined was a convoy of Dutch merchants in a heavy mist. Upon sailing closer the mist lifted and he met, to his dismay, a flotilla of fifteen Dutch men-of-war. He beat a hasty retreat.

At night, things grew even worse from the standpoint of visibility. More than one log has noted that ships have, quite literally, passed in the night within one or two miles of each other without noticing. Ships were more likely to actually collide at night as well, one of the reasons that reducing sail in the late watches was the norm. The dark was the friend of the prey, as well. Dowsing all lights and changing course could save a ship from a larger or faster predator.

Of course that now famous Hollywood prop, the telescope, was available in some form aboard most ships. Known as a spy glass or simply a glass in English (or, in French, une lunette), this tool was more likely to be used to identify a ship once sighted than to find sail in the first place. Particularly for freebooters the instruments were fantastically expensive and dear even if taken in a raid. Dropping one from the tops would be a sin of the first order.

In the end, a ship - whether merchant, navy, privateer or pirate - would fare best with young, alert eyes in the tops. From there, more sober and experienced gazes could be consulted and the glass applied. Even then, mistakes were made. And one has to imagine that nothing stings quite like suddenly realizing you have gone from predator to prey.

Books: Cochrane And Cordingly

Finding David Cordingly's exhaustive biography of Thomas Cochrane was entirely serendipitous for me. I was wandering the stacks on a hunt for a completely different type of research material and there it was. With my penchant for all things Patrick O'Brian and the fact that my own historical novels include more than a brief brush with the Royal Navy of the era, I couldn't resist the purchase. Frankly, that's where irresistible stops on just about all levels.

Cordingly is nothing if not a consummate historian. As discussed previously, his book Under A Black Flag is considered the preeminent work on pirates of the Golden Age. Nothing is missed in that one and I would be lying through my teeth if I didn't tell you that my tattered and dog-eared copy of that book is referred to at least weekly to verify my own research.

Cochrane: The Real Master and Commander is an entirely different kind of animal however. Full of every possible detail about the man who many firmly believe was Patrick O'Brian's inspiration for his hero Jack Aubrey, it reads more like a doctoral thesis than a lively biography. Given the vast scope of the life in question that is both understandable and disappointing. There are a lot of names, dates and places in this book but not a lot of heart or soul. You will learn everything about Cochrane - or just about. By the time you come out of the rabbit hole, however, you won't like him very much. And you'll probably need a nap.

Thomas Cochrane, 10th Earl of Dundonald was the first son of Archibald Cochrane, a down-at-hand Scottish Lard whose penchant for dabbling in scientific experiments didn't help the family fortune along. As the eldest son, young Tom was sent to sea where he could make his own fortune and bring it home to Culross Abbey House. Cochrane joined the ranks of the British Navy as a midshipman and had the good fortune to be assisted not only by his shipmates (he was old for a mid at 17 and knew virtually nothing about sailing when he showed up in his shiny uniform) but family "connexions" as well. Though Archibald angered the Admiralty with letters about promotions his son wasn't getting, Thomas made Master and Commander fairly quickly.

The now famous taking of the Spanish frigate El Gamo by Cochrane's sloop Speedy in 1801 was the turning point for his career. Though it took a few months, Cochrane was made Post and quickly got on with the business of serious heroic exploits in and around the Mediterranean. Sailors considered Cochrane lucky and fights broke out for a berth on any ship he commanded. He was well liked and capable, but his own personality, which lead him to balk at discipline from "lubbers" at the Admiralty, didn't win him any points. He got involved in politics and made enemies in Parliament. Things came to a head when he was struck from the roles of Post Captains after being convicted (though many historians, including Cordingly, say unjustly) of "jobbing" the stock exchange in 1814.

By this time, 32 year old Cochrane had married the sixteen year old orphan Katherine Corbett Barnes and as Lady Dundonald she became a regular fixture in her husband's exploits. Unlike Sophie Aubrey in the O'Brian books, Kate was not one to stay at home and wait for her man. Cochrane starts a new life at sea commanding the Chilean navy for the revolutionary leader Bernardo O'Higgins. Kate and their very young children are along for the ride. Indeed, it is in this portion of the book that Cordingly really shines, giving us some more intimate information about the Cochranes that makes even Thomas seem far more human than he has before.

But while he shows us Lady Dundonald on the gun deck - unfortunately fainting away and having to be carried below - and tells us of the death of her eleven month old from fever, Cordingly leaves a lot out. What did Kate think of one Maria Graham, for instance, who exults about the heroic Thomas in poetry and seems to follow him all over South America? Cordingly never tells us what the two's relationship really was and given the level of his abilities as a researcher, one has to wonder.

Cochrane returns to England and, something like Byron, gives his all for Greek independence later in life. The failure of the Greek revolution seems to be the last straw and, though he buys a fine home outside London and tries to make a go of parties and balls, his world is crumbling. He and Kate eventually split permanently and Cochrane is left with a small townhouse in the city where he takes the air with his housekeeper. Cordingly, in his usual crisp fashion, assures us that though Kate and the children imagined Thomas and the housekeeper were lovers, they were not. Cochrane dies in the townhouse in 1860, a well traveled if broken man and quite elderly at 85.

Given the huge mountain of information presented in this well written and impeccably researched book, I was disappointed in the end by what was left out. Maybe it's because I'm a woman but I don't think so. The private lives of our heroes are just as valid as - and sometimes more telling than - their public exploits. Unlike Stephan Talty with his salty, grumpy and all-for-success vision of Henry Morgan in Empire Of Blue Water, Cordingly offers us very little that is human in Cochrane. Lord Dundonald comes across, at least to me, not as heroic but as selfish, grasping and too ready to lay blame. And I'm not sure that was the intent.

Whatever Cochrane was, he was surely no Jack Aubrey. But then how many of us are?

Seafaring Sunday: Freebooting Fate

June 6, 1719: Pirate captain Howell Davis captures an innocuous merchant ship off the west coast of Africa. Aboard her is a gifted navigator; a Welshman named Bartholomew Roberts. While Davis dismisses most of the merchant's crew, he presses young Roberts into service aboard his flagship. No one could know at the time that only a few months later Davis would be dead ashore and Roberts would be elected by the crew as their new captain. The straight laced Welshman would go on to become one of the most successful raiders from Africa to the Caribbean.

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Book

The word book, which has been around since before books were pages between covers, has some pretty specific meanings at sea. When we say we make book, cook the books, book a trip or put our name in the book, we are frequently going back to sailor speak.

A book was a merchant term for a way of packing prepared yardage, particularly muslin or cotton, for shipment. In this way it could be more easily stored in the hold of a ship. A prayer book was a small piece of stone used to scrub particularly tight corners on deck during the daily swabbing.

To be brought to book meant to be made to account for an error or wrong doing. A booking thus became a reprimand from a superior, particularly in the case of an officer.

Most ancient of all, from the standpoint of language, was the ship's books. Here the crew was noted, including name, rank, time served, previous ships served upon, bookings, floggings, etc. ad nauseum. Many even included where each individual man jack slung his hammock.

The idea of ship's books goes back to the Ancient Romans who were very good about keeping records. The habit continued among sailors around the world. Chinese junks, Barbary galleys, Gulf privateers and naval ships under every flag kept some form of books. The idea of keeping a clear trail of data has continued and invaded other areas of business aside from the sea. Next time you have to document your whereabouts for your employer or make sure all your ducks are in a row on your expense account, thank your seafaring ancestors.

So there. Short and sweet and unfortunately late. Forgive me Brethren. I'll go make a note of it...

Booty: Maritime Dads

Summer time makes me lazy. I tend not to think in terms of time or date but what needs to get done. Deadlines and dust bunnies are the only things that keep me running during the three months of Alaska's summer. So it just occurred to me (I am not kidding) that Father's Day is only two weeks from this coming Sunday. It also occurred to me to share a couple of ideas for Father's Day gifts that relate directly to the seafaring men I so frequently write about. Thus David Porter, father of at least nine children, at the header.

The now famous first Commodore of the New Orleans station and hero of the War of 1812 would have worn our first item. Surely a sophisticated, well travelled gentleman like Porter would have come into contact with the shaving accoutrement that was popular among the noblemen in Europe. Across the pond another navy hero wore it regularly, at least by land: Vice-Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson.

The Sephora website offers a range of this Italian house's scents but what is now called Colonia has been around at least since the mid-1700's. The scent is as warm and sunny as a Tuscan hillside and I'm told by the first mate that the shaving cream is some of the best available. (Don't skimp; make sure Dad has a boar bristle brush to lather up with). Very authentic.

Navy men a little to stuffy? Can't quite imagine Dad in one of those high, tight stocks; in fact, he'll barely wear a tie? Then it's time to turn to the Spanish Main and the shimmering Gulf of Mexico. It's time to splash on the aftershave of Laurens de Graff and Black Sam Bellamy. A freebooter should wear the scent that Jean Laffite would never have been caught without.

Bay Rum has always been made in the New World and was certainly a Spanish export by the 1600's. Some of the U.S. founding fathers were quite fond of it; Jefferson in particular. It was the go to splash of military men like Andrew Jackson and the world changing Liberator, Simon Bolivar. J. Peterman sells the modern Dominica brand in an updated glass bottle with an original cork stopper here. There is no fragrance in the world like it; an instant reminder of sand, sea and salt air. I'm rather partial.

And one last thought that comes on a very personal note. Mignon Faget, the premier jeweler of New Orleans, is offering her new Gulf Coast collection of tie tacks, pins, necklaces and bracelets. From the website, the jewelry is:

...worn in the tradition of mourning jewelry to raise awareness of the disaster in the Gulf of Mexico.

Each purchase benefits the Coalition to Restore Coastal Louisiana. Please consider helping to keep the unprecedented tragedy in the Gulf foremost in the minds of people all around the world. I personally am waiting for my pelican.

Thank you one and all. Happy Father's Day in advance and happy Friday today.

History: Saints Preserve Us

I recently had question from another writer whom I admire very much and whose blog you really should follow. CRwM asked me if there was a patron saint of pirates. I liked the question so much that I ran off and did a fair amount of digging only to find that the answer is far more complicated than no or yes or even maybe.

To begin, there was mention of the Sufi Saint Sidi Ahmed Ibin Ashir as being venerated in the pirate empire at the Moroccan port of Sale. We talked about the port and the idea of it's pirate utopia on Tuesday so I won't go into that. What I found is that the Ashir (or Achir) in question was a reclusive holy man who was sought as a teacher. He lived and is buried in Sale and you can learn more about his life here. Unfortunately, aside from the Sale connection, I can't find any specific reference to the Sallee Rovers attachment to the Saint. But I love the story.

In Europe, where Saints did a brisk trade for thousands of years, there was a saint for everything at some point. The particular favorite of Mediterranean seaman was St. Erasmus, a bishop in Formiae, Italy who was martyred in the persecutions of Roman Emperor Diocletian. The bishop's popular name is St. Elmo and, as you are probably aware, it is the source of the term St. Elmo's Fire. These rosy hued electrical discharges are seen during storms collecting around high points like church spires and, particularly, ship's masts. They are so called because mariners thought of them as a sign that St. Elmo was protecting their ship.

The other interesting point is that St. Elmo, whose martyrdom is shown at the header, is the patron of sailors specifically for the grizzly fashion in which he died. His intestines, according to tradition, were pulled from his body and wound around a windlass. A windlass is the ancestor of the ship's capstan, used to pull up anchors and kedges. But it doesn't stop there. Some historians now theorize that because St. Elmo was depicted in early churches holding a windlass, the story of his martyrdom was built around it. Either way, he is still a favorite of sailors today and was certainly called upon by pirates for help at sea.

Up north, particularly in the British Isles, Saints of the sea abound. The two that are particularly fond to seaman are both Irish. First, there is St. Brendan who, with his band of intrepid monks, sailed off to the Viking lands to get those heathens right with God. In the process Brendan saw visions of Christ and learned the details of the end of time. St. Brendan, I feel compelled to add, is the patron saint of the U.S. Navy.

Also from the land of Erin, where women at sea were not as unusual as they might have been elsewhere, comes the story of the mermaid saint, Muirgen. Originally a girl named Liban, Muirgen was swept away in a flood along with her little dog. Alone beneath the waves, she prayed to be turned into a salmon so that she might have companions. She was instead turned into a salmon-tailed woman and her dog transformed into an otter. They lived at sea for three hundred years until they were found and brought back to Ireland by a monk named Boec. Muirgen was taken to the local church and baptized before she died. Local fishermen, merchants and pirates began to call on her to ease storms and bring them luck. Her miracles caused the local Bishop, Comgall, to declare her a saint and images of the mermaid were set up in sea ports and carried aboard ship. Some stories say that she was especially dear to the Irish pirate queen, Grania ni Maille - Grace O'Malley.

And with that I will close the book on the Saints of the sea, and ask them - as I'm sure my ancestors did - to preserve us and give us safe crossing. But we're not quite done. There was a second part to the question. Next time: folk heroes and outlaws evoked and remembered by the brigands of the sea.

People: The Queen's Privateer

John Hawkins was born into a respectable merchant family some time in 1532. He was born in the port city of Plymouth in the English county of Devon. The city and county have probably given their country more able seamen than any other, and Hawkins certainly followed the mode.

As a boy he would have watched his father make repeated visits to Africa and Brazil, carrying cargo for trade. Perhaps young John was along on some of these voyages which would have been both exciting and harrowing without a doubt. He would have seen the troubles his father had with the Spanish in particular. Trade with Spain was not technically illegal, but the Spanish on the Main jealously guarded their trade rights and rarely did open business with "infidels" from Protestant countries. No doubt this was why Hawkins pere tended to head for Brazil, which was a Portuguese holding and therefor less stringent about trade and immigration.

It's fairly clear that John Hawkins saw there was money not being made and he wanted in on it. By 1562 he had assembled his own small flotilla; two ships under his command - Solomon and Swallow - left Britain for the Guinea coast that year. Along the way, Hawkins took a Portuguese merchant as a prize and promptly sold her cargo for African slaves. The ships were packed in the usual inhuman manner and they set out for the Caribbean, probably in late fall.

In January Hawkins docked off Hispaniola and got right to the business of selling the 300 souls in his ships' holds. At first the local government balked. A 120 man patrol led by Lorenzo Bernaldez was sent to dispatch the English from Spanish soil. Either through threat or bribe or both, Hawkins brought Bernaldez around to his way of thinking and sold his cargo for goods and coin. He got so cocky at this point that he sent some of his goods to Seville in a Spanish ship. They were confiscated by the Spanish government but it was literally no skin off Hawkins' nose. He returned to England in 1563 as a very wealthy man.

Word of Hawkins success reached the court of Elizabeth I and, as Hawkins began to prepare for another voyage, the powerful began to invest in his endeavors. Elizabeth took an immediate interest in the venture. She was searching for ways to break up the Spanish trade monopoly while trying to keep Philip of Spain at arm's length. Giving Hawkins money and a commission under the table suited both the Crown's needs and the freebooter's. It was win/win as long as Hawkins kept his mouth shut. He did.

In March of 1565, Hawkins put out to sea once more. This time he sailed aboard his flagship, of 30 guns and 700 tons - a gift from his Queen - Jesus of Lubeck. She was accompanied by his prior ships and Tiger, of 50 tons. Together they packed in 400 slaves and headed off to the New World. This time Hawkins chose the coast of Venezuela for his landing. He was rebuffed at the island of Margarita and sailed on to the French-run port of Barburata. Though the local government was at first disinclined to deal, after a few nice broadsides aimed at their town they changed their mind. Hawkins sold some of his slaves at Barburata and then repeated his gunboat diplomacy up the coast at Riohacha in modern Columbia. He was back in England by September and his investors were very pleased indeed.

Despite the most vehement protests from the Spanish ambassador, Elizabeth I continued to fund Hawkins' ventures. He made more slaving runs to the West Indies and his success drew sailors from all over Britain to his ships. Not the least of these was his cousin, Francis Drake, who took command of Hawkins' Judith on a voyage in late 1567.

This venture went according to plan until Hawkins flotilla, now numbering seven ships including captured merchants, was hit by a hurricane off Cuba and blown deep into the Gulf of Mexico. Most of the ships needed repair and Hawkins tried to put in at San Juan de Ulua (modern day Veracruz). He was surprised by the annual Spanish treasure fleet and, though an initial truce was called, the Spanish commenced firing in the close packed harbor.

A day long fire fight resulted in the destruction or capture of all but two of Hawkins' ships. Only Minion, with Hawkins aboard, and Judith escaped. Drake ran ahead to England in the smaller, faster Judith. Hawkins followed in Minion with two hundred of his men. Some of these deserted ashore, trusting their fate to the Spanish rather than the battered Minion. Hawkins made it home, but with no more than 20 men remaining alive.

Recovered from this experience, Hawkins seems to have turned over the helm to Drake who began his famous personal war against the Spanish. Hawkins stayed at home and was appointed treasurer of the Royal Navy in 1577. He had as much success in this post as he initially had on the Main. He was knighted in 1588 and, he would later say to his shame, given a coat-of-arms that included a bound African above the crest. He returned to sea in the same year, leading a flotilla against the Spanish Armada.

This experience seemed to reinfect him with the sailing bug and he set out against the Spanish treasure fleet in 1590. He failed on all counts. Hawkins tried again in 1595, taking up with Drake and heading out for the Main. The two disagreed on tactics and went their separate ways. At this point, Hawkins was ill and within a month he was dead aboard his flagship off the coast of San Juan, Puerto Rico at the age of 63.

Despite his late-in-life regrets over the means of his success, Sir John Hawkins certainly paved the way for the exploits of sea dogs like Francis Drake and Thomas Cavendish. He was one of the first to strike against the trading monopoly of the Spanish Empire and he was the first of Queen Elizabeth's now famous privateers.