People: Once More Into The Thames

We've talked about piracy on the River Thames, that great artery that made London what she was and is, before. The freebooting on the waterway was always lucrative, but it seemed to come into it's own as England did. By 1600 there was a good deal of documentation at the Admiralty Court about the river men who turned a profit by stealth and theft. Some of these people have come down to us with names at the very least and some with an anecdote or two attached. Today then, Brethren, a few river pirates from the Golden Age of Thames-side highwaymen.

First is the tale of one Garret Scottle of Limehouse in what was becoming London's East End. Scottle was involved in one of the trades that fed the great machine of seafaring, as were most of the inhabitants of his neighborhood. What he did precisely is unknown but business was bad enough that he rounded up a few men and left a punch house late on December 20th of 1607 with no good intent in his mind. The men, five in all, rowed a dinghy downstream to Deptford where they came upon a launch at anchor. They boarded her and managed to take fifty pounds before abandoning their prey and their own boat for shore. The raid was so badly bungled, probably due to the inebriation of the perpetrators, that the men were caught within 24 hours. All but one, including our man Scottle, hanged for their crime.

This act of desperation shows the lengths to which people would go to make a shilling. Many of the documented piracies seem to have been committed by amateurs. The waterways were only marginally patrolled by the navy and no police force existed on land. The poignant case of Elizabetha Patrickson and her husband William is in the same vein. The couple waded out to the boat of one Henrico Marten, a lawyer. According to the indictment against them, the Patricksons took a "turkee" (linen and silk blend) woman's gown, a dagger and a cloth doublet amounting to the ridiculously small sum of fifteen pounds. Caught virtually in the act, Elizabetha and William were tortured into confession (probably by pressing or with the ingeniously miserable iron bands known as Skeffington's grieves) and eventually hanged. Clearly the Patricksons are more to be pitied than censored.

For the knowledgeable few, however, professional river piracy was almost a sure bet. With the lack of reliable law enforcement, a ruthless, capable man or woman could spend years pillaging on the Thames and never fear the noose. One such thorn in the Admiralty's side was a man known as Black Will. Described by one victim as "... a black fellow... who said he knew he should never be taken for he had used that trade... these twenty years." There are documented cases involving Black Will from 1608 until at least 1620. In some he is an African. In others he is an Englishman wearing a black coat or with his face blacked or both. Will may have been more than one man, but he surely was never brought to justice.

A second famous river pirate of the time was Dick of Dover. Like Black Will, there are many accounts of Dick over a similar period. Some documents assert he was a sailor named Richard Catro. Catro was questioned at the Admiralty but denied he was the famous pirate. After a freebooting escapade involving 150 pounds worth of cloth taken from a French merchant near Tilbury, Catro was arrested and sentenced to death. Later mention of Dick of Dover puts his actually execution in question. Or perhaps, as with Black Will, more than one pirate sported the moniker.

Thames river pirates carried on, to some degree unchecked, throughout the 17th and into the 18th century. Better patrols, by citizen groups and the navy, slowed but did not stop the thieves as the 19th century approached. The stories that have come down to us, though, are a wonderful snapshot of the human condition in all its forms.

Some are as amusing now as they must have been frightening then. I personally love the story of the Ratcliffe brigand who boarded ships wearing a metal helm shaped like a skull. And the tale of hapless Arthur Hale, who appeared in Admiralty Court wearing a pair of silk stockings from the cargo he claimed vehemently never to have seen, much less stolen.

Books: Laffite The Prince

Two young men were among those who watched. Both were in their early twenties. One was Renato Beluche, who would soon become famous as a privateer captain on the Gulf of Mexico. He would operate in defiance of American law. Another was an individual with striking Gallic features... His name was Jean Laffite.

This is from one of the first paragraphs in Jack C. Ramsay, Jr.'s Jean Laffite, Prince of Pirates. Published in 1996 it is a slim, well-written biography that touches on all aspects of the now legendary pirate Laffite. It is heavily researched; the extensive bibliography at the end is a treasure trove of books, papers and pamphlets on privateering and politics in the early 19th century. Just reading the above certainly gives you an idea of why I love this book.

Ramsay, although he does give excellent character sketches of men like Beluche, Dominique Youx and Pierre Laffite, focuses his work entirely on Jean. This is an unfortunate blind spot in Ramsay's book. To the point where, beneath a reproduction of a warrant for Pierre Laffite's arrest (the name is clearly printed and legible on the original and in the photo) he notes the warrant has been issued against Jean.

Much of Ramsay's theorizing is based purely on records he has uncovered and used as a jumping off point. He notes, for instance, that Jean must have spent a good portion of his youth in and around New Orleans. Otherwise, how would he know the backwaters and bayous so well? He even goes a step further, revealing documentation of a Creole named Aubry who married a widow from San Domingue in the late 1780s. She brought a child from her previous marriage to the union: "Juan Enrico, hijo legitimo de Juan Lafitte". The problems with this and other speculations in the book are many. What of Pierre, who we know was Jean's brother? (Ramsay simply tells us Pierre was raised elsewhere but gives nothing to verify the claim). What about the spelling of the last name? "Lafitte" is a common French Creole name, both in Haiti and Louisiana. "Laffite" is fairly specific to the Gironde region of France and not common in the New World at all. While the idea that the brothers didn't suddenly appear in Louisiana in 1809 makes perfect sense, the backup for this supposition falls flat.

While dates, people and places are consistently accurate in the book, Ramsay gets sidetracked frequently by engaging in an almost leering interest in Laffite's love life whenever possible. The usual suspects come into play here: Madeleine Rigaud whose relationship with Jean is unknown and Governor Claiborne's second or third wife ends up on the list too. Both stories are familiar to Laffite scholars but the one about the Governor's wife is most probably a tall tale which Ramsay has given too much credence and attention. The language of the seduction, as Ramsay writes it, is lovely. The thought is, however, laughable especially when we recall that Claiborne's third wife was Renato Beluche's first cousin which seems almost incestuous.

Finally, Ramsay embraces the death theory that has Jean Laffite succumbing to fever somewhere near Sisal in the Yucatan in the early 1820's. He is buried there to this day, we are told, though his grave is probably now under water. Pierre simply disappears into the dense fog that seems to envelope Ramsay's hero. He is not with his brother on Isla Mujeres when Jean falls rather ignominiously dead. Beluche and Youx have by now been written out of the play. There is, though, a woman: "Laffite's 'widow, a senora del Norte of Mobile.'" Left behind and in distress.

Ramsay's opus should be taken for what it is: an excellent attempt at pulling the reality of Jean Laffite's life out of the murk of legend. So much cannot be known about a man who tried in his own lifetime to remain mysterious and lied with glee about his own origins. People like Laffite are hard on historians. But Ramsay's book is full of good research and beautiful prose. He even takes up the issue of the Journal of Jean Lafitte and concludes, in the end, that it is in fact a falsehood. I cannot agree more with Ramsay on this point. He notes that, though the Journal may not have been written as a deliberate fraud and it's writer may very well have believed he was Laffite, it cannot be used for legitimate research. Well put, indeed.

Unfortunately out of print at this writing, nice copies of Jean Laffite, Prince of Pirates can be found at Amazon and in local bookstores and libraries. Keep an eye out; it is a book worth reading for pleasure or research or both.

Header: LIFE photo of Yul Brynner rehearsing the roll of Jean Laffite for the movie The Buccaneer

Seafaring Sunday: Morgan's Way

July 11, 1668: Henry Morgan leads over 500 buccaneers into the city of Portobello, Panama. They loot and pillage, coming away with one of the largest hauls in pirate history.

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Hog

The term hog in mariner's language is usually not a welcome one. It signifies either harder-than-usual work is in the offing or your ship is fit only for the wrecking yard. Neither of which makes a sailor's heart sing by any means. It is interesting, all the same. Plus, I am personally quite fond of pigs for numerous reasons. Not the least of which is they're delightful taste.

A hog is a flat scrubbing broom with unusually tough bristles, much like those found on wild boar. It is used for scraping a ship's bottom while she is still in the water. It's long staff makes it ideal for this sort of work which is almost always done from one or more of the ship's boats. It is difficult and - if you cannot swim - dangerous work indeed.

A ship is itself hogged when her ends turn downward toward the water and her waist or mid-section rises up. This is usually due to an unfortunate combination of poor construction and imbalanced loading. The term derives, it is speculated, from a ship thus afflicted resembling the back of a hog. Although I am always brought to mind of a banana. Banana-ed, however, just sounds stupid.

The wooden ship sailor's term for an iron-clad ship is, humorously, a hog-in-armor.

Finally, hogo is a slang term once used by English speaking sailors to indicate a reeking, ill-ventilated berth corrupted by the smell of bilge and/or waste. It is probably derived from the similarly pronounce French saying haut-gout which technically means "high style" but can also colloquially mean a bad smell. This is so typically French in it's sarcasm that it is almost beyond explanation. Evidently, British sailors thought so too.

A good Saturday to you, Brethren. Fine winds and a following sea (and fresh pork on your table, if you are so inclined).

Header painting: The Southern Cross by Roy Cross.

Booty: A Toast!

To our ships, our choice and the bloody Spanish! ~ a toast attributed to Henry Morgan prior to setting out for Panama

Toasting prior to drinking in the 17th and 18th century was almost viral, particularly in the English speaking New World. French and Dutch visitors to English colonies complain incessantly about their host's habit of wishing good health to one and all. The really boorish part began when opinions were toasted and those already aglow with grog would assert the opposite until walking sticks, loggerheads or cutlasses came out and a beat down ensued. Some historians assert that liberty finally reigned in America at least in part due to this form of debate. "No taxation without representation", for instance, was a famous New England toast by the late 1760's.

Things were only different at sea in the sense that one could not get up and leave the tippling room, thus removing one's person from the argument. Your ship was your snuggery, and you were stuck with that annoying guy who insisted on toasting the Governor that hanged your uncle. Some Captains came up with parameters for toasting as early as the 1610s; no politics or religion allowed, etc. I doubt that stuck very well aboard a pirate, however.

The Royal Navy, though, was nothing if not orderly and by Nelson's time there were rules for toasting observed aboard all of His Majesty's ships and most privateers. The daily list goes like this:

Monday: our ships at sea
Tuesday: our men
Wednesday: ourselves (for who else will look after us?)
Thursday: a bloody war or a sickly season
Friday: a willing foe and sea room
Saturday: wives and sweethearts (may they never meet)
Sunday: absent friends

When the U.S. Navy got rolling in 1794 she kept that roster with only one change. Being more sanguine, the U.S. sailors toasted free trade and sailors' rights on Thursday. Huzzah!

Happy Friday, Brethren. If I may, a toast to last Wednesday and Triple P's 300th post:
I'm off to call Hell; I neglected to make a reservation!

History: Archimedes And His Death Ray

I love Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel. The only show I like more on D is Dirty Jobs. Seriously, Mike Rowe is the funniest guy this side of Eddie Izzard. But that's not what I'm here to talk about.

In this episode of Mythbusters, Jamie, Adam and a bunch of folks from MIT proved, to my satisfaction at least, that the old story of Greek philosopher/scientist Archimedes setting Roman ships on fire with a "death ray" made of parabolic mirrors just could not have happened. It became painfully obvious in the course of the show that the wall of mirrors spoken of in Medieval manuscripts would not have set fire to moving triremes; in fact it barely made a ship standing still smolder. All the same, there was no hint of what - if anything - the Greeks might have used instead. Now, Italian scientists think they know what Archimedes used to blow up the Romans during the siege of Syracuse circa 214 BCE.

This article, featured on MSN.com's Live Science, details the work of Cesare Rossi of the University of Naples. Rossi, a mechanical engineer, has determined that steam cannons firing hollow, clay balls filled with Greek fire were the probable weapons invented by Archimedes. The cannons could easily be made of wood (another fact proven by the Mythbusters) and a small amount of water (the article notes a tenth of a cup) could produce enough steam to send the gruesome projectiles toward the Roman fleet.

Unfortunately, just what Greek fire was is beyond the comprehension of modern science, which I personally find pretty cool. All the same, it was used to great success in military operations including naval battles and, as the article points out, was a favorite weapon of the Byzantine Empire. There's no reason to imagine that someone as smart as Archimedes would have overlooked it's potential in dealing with an invading flotilla.

Rossi and two military historians with the mellifluous names Flavio and Ferruccio Russo plan to attempt a recreation of Archimedes' steam cannons in the near future. This sounds like darn good times to me. Please film the whole process, gentlemen. What fun to see ancient cannons at work; though where you all will get the Greek fire is beyond me.

Finally, as the article notes, all of Archimedes' ingenuity was for naught. The Romans took Syracuse in 212 BCE and Archimedes was himself put to the sword. Another intellect lost to war. But those cannons still sound spectacular.

Ships: Gone But Not Forgotten

Continental Congress Ship Ranger was a ship rigged, three masted sloop of war of 308 tons. She was laid down in early 1777 at the Langdon Shipyard in New Hampshire. Very similar to sister sloops of war Providence and Boston, Ranger would probably have slipped through the cracks of history had it not been for her daring and controversial first captain: John Paul Jones.

Jones signed on to the Continental Navy as a lieutenant in 1775 after escaping punishment for killing a crewman while he was a captain in the British merchant marine. He had by then changed his name, adding Jones to his natal John Paul, and his capability and experience were very much welcomed in the infant navy of the Revolution. In 1777, Jones was promoted to commander and boarded Ranger. He took her to France where he captured his first English prizes, two merchants off Nantes.

Ranger was 116 feet in length on her gun deck and 34 feet in her beam with a draft of 13 1/2 inches. She carried 18 6 pound guns and a compliment of 140 men. She was perfectly fitted to an occupation of privateering being light, speedy and easy to maneuver.

Jones continued his European cruise into 1778, taking prizes or burning British ships as he went. He tried to burn a flotilla in Whitehaven harbor but the mission failed. He then attempted to kidnap the Earl of Selkirk from his home on St. Mary's Island. The idea was to hold Selkirk and exchange him for American prisoners being held near Plymouth but the Earl was away. Jones' men did take the family silver but, after buying it from his crew, Jones returned the silver to Countess Selkirk in a famously chivalrous gesture.

Almost immediately after this incident, Ranger met and engaged HMS Drake off Belfast Lough. (The picture of that action above is taken from Ranger's website.) The two ships were well matched in size and armament but Ranger's maneuverability and Jones' handling of her won the day. After an hour long battle at close range, Drake's rigging was literally torn apart and her captain was dead. She struck to Ranger and Jones limped her into the French port of Brest where she and her crew were exchanged for the 200 Americans at Plymouth.

Jones stayed in France to become Captain of the Bonhomme Richard and Lieutenant Thomas Simpson took command of Ranger. She sailed back to America with Boston and Providence where she arrived in October of 1778. She was back at sea by February of 1779 and involved in actions that resulted in the capture of 18 enemy ships over the course of that year. Using lovely Tybee Island as a base, Ranger, Providence and Boston assisted in the defence of Charleston.

When the city fell, however, so did Ranger. On May 11, 1780 she, along with her old companions Providence and Boston, was captured by the British. She did short duty as HMS Halifax but was sold out of the service at the end of the Revolution. CS Ranger ended her days, most unfortunately, as an inglorious British merchant working the India trade.

Gone she may be but never forgotten; USS Ranger is a favorite name for line of battle ships in the U.S. Navy. We still have not yet begun to fight.