Ships: Gallant Peacock

It was on this day in 1815 that the final battle of the War of 1812 took place at sea. This seems a fitting conclusion to a war that began over the issue of fair trade and, above all, sailors’ rights. But the U.S. ship involved in that 15 minute firefight that saw her take the East Indiaman Nautilus as prize had a long and fascinating life ahead of her. Today, the story of American sloop of war Peacock.


According to the U.S. Navy archives Dictionary of American Naval Fighting Ships (find it online here), Peacock in her original form was built by Adam and Noah Brown at the New York Navy Yard beginning July 1813. She was a sloop of 509 tons, 117 feet in length and 31 and ½ feet at her beam. She had a relatively deep draft for a sloop at 16 feet, 4 inches. Her compliment of men was 140 and her compliment of guns was 24 in total. Peacock would doubtless have been a fast sailer, capable of giving chase to any vessel her own size and many larger than she, upon her launch in September of 1813.

Under Captain Lewis Warrington, Peacock carried supplies to Georgia and then cruised off the Florida coast. Here, in April of 1814, she engaged HMS Epervier who was escorting a convoy of merchants. Both ships sustained damage and casualties but, after 45 minutes, Epervier struck to Peacock. Not only did Peacock capture the British brig and her convoy, but $120,000 in cash was found aboard her.

After repairs, Peacock crossed the Atlantic to cruise the European coast. She returned to the Caribbean in October with fourteen prizes under her belt. She wintered over in New York and on January 23, 1815, she set out with Stephen Decatur’s squadron of four ships to raid British merchants in the Indian Ocean. Along with Warrington’s Peacock were Decatur’s frigate President, sloop Hornet and store ship Tom Bowline. The ships were separated off the coast of South America by a British man-of-war and Peacock proceeded alone to their destination.

The War of 1812 was officially ended via ratification of the now modified Treaty of Ghent in April of 1815, but in June of that same year Captain Warrington had no notion of it having remained at sea since his arrival in the Indian Ocean. On June 30th he engaged the British East Indiaman Nautilus, who refused to strike because the war was over. Warrington refused to believe it and opened fire. After only fifteen minutes, Nautilus surrendered but her captain continued to protest the illegality of Warrington’s actions. The following day, officials from nearby Java confirmed the peace and Peacock abandoned Nautilus to immediately sail home.

Warrington was cleared of any blame in the case by the Naval Department the following year. Peacock, meanwhile, was engaged in diplomatic missions to Belgium and France, followed by time on the Mediterranean station after the Second Barbary War. By the summer of 1821 she was back in New York and there was some talk of breaking her up.

Peacock was saved from the wrecking yard by the inimitable Commodore David Porter, who chose her as flagship for his pirate fighting squadron now famously known as the Mosquito Fleet. The Caribbean squadron was stationed at Key West, than Thompson’s Island, and Porter ran his operation largely from Peacock. She saw action against pirates at the Funda Bay in Cuba, and captured more than one pirate ship on the water. When yellow fever struck many of the sailors involved in the operation, including Commodore Porter, it was Peacock who saw them safely home to Virginia.

One last mission took Peacock around the Horn to the Hawaiian Islands, where an agreement of commerce and navigation was negotiated by U.S. officials. On the way home in 1827, Peacock was struck by a whale in the South Pacific, doing near fatal damage to her hull. Repairs were made in Callao but she was never the same. Returning home in October, Peacock was decommissioned and broken up at the New York Navy Yard.

Three more incarnations of Peacock would follow, the second launched in 1828, the third in 1918 and the fourth in 1953. The original is well worth remembering for all her adventures, and even if all she had done was fight that last battle for fair trade and sailors’ rights.

Header: An anonymous contemporary sketch of USS Peacock at sea via Wikimedia

Tools of the Trade: Hove to and Bespeak Us

I've had both a well known editor and a New York literary agent call me out on what they perceived as a believability issue in my historical fiction. To me, it is an interesting point to be grilled about being as it was such a common occurrence in the great age of sail. The fact that modern lubbers – bless you both but that’s what you are – can’t imagine it may hint more at the radical changes in society that have taken place relatively recently than anything else.


In a time honored tradition, ships that met in blue water would usually pull up along side one another, reef sail and begin conversation. The ships would traditionally stand bow to stern and the crews of each would shout across the water as if they were all part of one extended family. This despite the fact that they barely knew one another, if at all, and that in many cases they spoke different languages.

Even supposed enemies might set conflict aside and bespeak each other for information about the world at large and home in particular. It was not as unusual as one might imagine for naval vessels to engage in conversation with pirates. As long as nothing was obviously amiss, and the pirate wisely made herself appear as nothing more than a common merchant or fishing vessel, the interaction could be quite amicable. It would be the seafaring equivalent of a routine traffic stop on a modern highway, but much more cordial.

It seems difficult for people in the 21st century, who have every possible bit of information about the world at their fingertips in the form of hand-held devises that they can’t be troubled to look up from for even a second, to imagine life without instant info. In the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries a ship could cruise for weeks or even months without spotting another sail or a hint of land. Time must have taken on a completely different shape, and the slightest worry about issues back home must have become unbearable at times. A letter, even one that was six months old, would have been as dear as gold to a husband concerned about a pregnant wife or a father wondering about a sick child or son at sea. Even the most critical information – such as the end of a war – could be delayed, sometimes for years. Just seeing another ship would raise the hope that some form of information would give a little solace.

As Peter H. Spectre notes in his book A Mariner’s Miscellany, by the heyday of North American whaling this tradition was known as “the gam”. Ships would not only stop to exchange information but, if time and weather permitted, put boats over the side and do a little ship’s visiting. Captains invited their colleagues to dine and a much needed break might end in music on the foc’sul as the sun went down.

My privateers engage in this tradition quite liberally, with news of home first on the list followed by word of the War of 1812, the fall of Barataria, the siege of Cartagena and so on. It was the only way to know what was going on in those heady days of fast brigs in the Gulf of Mexico. Even the occasional trip up the river to New Orleans might not bring you any better information than a little chat over the gunnels with Dominique Youx. He always had the juiciest gossip, anyway.

Header: Ships in a Calm Sea by Velde Willem van de Il

History: Blockade Runner or Racketeer?

The area around the Island of Bermuda is full of shipwrecks, many of which can be enjoyed by divers visiting the Caribbean (for a short list of same, click here). One of the most famous is the British built Mary-Celestia. MC was a two paddlewheel steamer out of Bermuda who was chartered by the Confederacy to run blockades at ports like Charleston and Savannah. The ship brought in much needed ordinance as well as food and medicines. A recent discovery aboard her, however, may point to the carrying of contraband as well – with or without the knowledge of her officers.


This article from the Bermuda Sun online tells of a small case containing five bottle of wine found wedged up near Mary-Celestia’s bowsprit. As all of her official cargo was removed from the site years ago, this find is particularly curious. What was the wine doing in the bow, away from the cargo holds and the galley?

Some theorize that a warrant man – perhaps the bosun – stashed it away for his personal use. The fact that MC wrecked in 1864 points to another possibility, however. As the article notes, at that point in the war anything but arms and munitions would have been considered frivolous cargo for a blockade runner. But the price for such niceties would have been exorbitant in the beleaguered southern states of the era. Did someone of Mary-Celestia’s crew stow the wine with the plan to sell it at their destination, thus turning a tidy personal profit? As James Delgado, the director of the Maritime Heritage Program for U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Admin points out in the article: “People have always traded illicitly when there is a profit to be made.” The Laffite brothers could not have put it more eloquently.

The next step is to bring in experts to identify the wine itself, thus determining its value. Unlike the famous French champagne found in the Baltic, however, it does not appear that anyone will be sampling the vintage any time soon. When and if they do, I’ll post an update.

Header: Paddlewheel blockade runner Lady Davis, who was similar to Mary-Celestia

Seafaring Sunday: Old Ironsides

June 24, 1833:  USS Constitution is spared from wrecking thanks in large part to popular support stirred up by Oliver Wendall Homes poem "Old Ironsides".  For more on Constitution, and to read the classic poem, see this post at Naval History Blog.

Header: USS Constitution today via Naval History Blog

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Moor

There are a hundred different ways to moor a ship or boat, which makes this a very appropriate word for a unique occasion. More on that after we talk about moor.


Moor means, of course, to secure a ship. The etymology of the word is unclear, even to our old friend Webster who says it “probably” came from Anglo-Saxon. This may only be because the word moor meaning a boggy flatland or fen comes from the Anglo-Saxon word mor meaning a wasteland, but Webster does not elaborate on that. Suffice it to say that the word carried both meanings by the end of the Dark Ages.

In broad terms, a ship is moored when she rides with both her bower anchors in the water. This form of mooring is used in good weather and in large ports, but other conditions may require other types of moorings and the variations begin.

The above form of mooring can also be known as mooring a cable each way. More often, though, the phrase refers to the use of two anchors placed equidistant from one another when the ship rides in a tidal area. In this fashion one anchor secures the ship as the tide comes in, the other as it ebbs out. In smaller tide ways a ship may moor across, securing one anchor on the far side of the river in which she sits. A similar situation is called mooring along and a compromise between the two is known as mooring a quarter shot.

Mooring rings are the large rings, frequently made of iron, bolted securely to buoys and docks to which a ship or boat may tie up. A similar mechanism is known as a mooring bridle. Mooring chocks are peculiar to large ships such as men-of-war. These are hefty pieces of hardwood drilled with holes and secured on deck with iron through which the cables for moorings can pass. Likewise mooring posts are similar hardwood blocks driven into the shore to secure ships and boats via cable and hawser. In the past, these were often called mooring palls.

Though we now think of “moorings” as generally anything that a ship or boat can tie off to, in fact they are – or were – technically buoys used in large harbors and ports for the purpose. They were called swinging moorings if ships attached to them at the bow or all fours moorings if attached at bow and stern. Generally the buoys were held relatively in place by heavy anchors and thick cable which would need to be replaced occasionally, a dirty job if ever there was one.

To moor with a spring on the cable is an old term for warping a vessel by putting an anchor out and using the capstan to pull the ship toward it, thus moving her forward in the absence of wind.

A moor can also be a swamp or bog in a cold climate that is flat, wet, and generally desolate not to mention treacherous to cross. In Britain, particularly Wales and other “west-country” areas, moor gallop is a term for a sudden, windy storm that blows across the moors.

And what more can we say about moor? A hundred things, really, but we’ll leave it at this: the post you’re reading marks Triple P’s 100th Sailor Mouth Saturday. Huzzah!

Header: Rose in her roll as HMS Surprise moored in Mexico via Webshots.com ~ note how she is moored; three cables in all

Booty: A Little Bird Told Me

Thanks to Triple P’s particular friend and member of the Brethren Captain John Swallow, today’s post is all about birds. Well, birds perched on the barrels of the most beautiful set of pistols ever made.


Above is a picture from Christie’s Auction House Catalogue showing a pair of famous Singing Bird Pistols. Made by the watch and jewelry making house of Les Frères Rochat in 1820, these incredible pieces went up for auction in May. The pistols are the only pair of their kind. Four similar individual pistols made by the Rochat brothers are in museums around the world, making this pair the only known Singing Bird Pistols that are privately owned.

The Rochat brothers were masters of the jeweler’s and watchmaker’s art, and they put all their considerable talent into these diminutive side arms. Their workshop in Geneva was a magnet for royals, nobles, and the wealthy of the 19th century. The kind of delicate craftsmanship that they turned out has not been seen since, and will probably never be seen again.

I could describe the amazing pistols in paragraph after paragraph, but words hardly do their intricate beauty justice. Instead, click here to watch a video from Christie’s and hear the Head of their Watch Department, Aurel Bacs, give the history of these delightful firearms. As Captain Swallow pointed out to the Pyrate Union, they probably weren’t much good in battle, but their loveliness cannot be argued.

And just in case you’re wondering what something like this would set you back, the pair sold in Hong Kong for 5.8 million U.S. dollars. A vast pirate’s treasure indeed.

History: Tudor Pirates

In the popular imagination, the word pirate brings up the image of a flamboyantly dressed if scruffy brigand from the first half of the 18th century. He is generally garbed in the familiar heavy, long coat with a tremendous array of buttons and piping, breeches, stockings, boots and bandoliers stuffed with loaded pistols. Of course, he’s the requisite sword with its glimmering hilt and the tricorn hat sporting blood red ostrich feathers that shiver in the wind.


There can be no doubt that certain rovers dressed similarly while ashore – usually in purloined wardrobes – but these flashy fashions were meant to send a message: the wearer was a powerful man. And that message coming from motley sailors made rich by illegal exploits did not originate with men like Blackbeard and Bellamy. In fact it seems to have originated with a very different kind of pirate: the gentleman rovers of Elizabethan England.

There has always been piracy on the high seas but certain conditions at various times in history make freebooting more attractive than it might be otherwise. In Britain in the 1560s, the weather and the economy changed to such a degree that many people – men and women – who would not have considered piracy turned to it as a way to keep food on the table. Most of the problems were driven by climate change. Longer, colder winters meant crop failures and by the mid-1560s many of the relied upon salt water fish runs stopped all together. Devastated, people in coastal communities looked to the lumbering hulks and carracks that sailed past them full of saleable goods. They packed their little boats with what arms they had available, and went out sea raiding.

By the 1570s, a class of men had established themselves as successful pirate captains. They walked the streets in velvet doublets and satin breeches with gold inlay and jewels on their sword hilts and hats sporting ostrich feathers. They loaned money (at notoriously ruinous rates) and sold their spoils openly in town, laying them out on the docks for all to see.

Many of these captains were backed and funded by local nobility, who of course wanted a piece of the action. Nobles like John Piers, a sea captain whose mother was not only Lady Padstow but also a witch much feared in her shire, Lord John and Lady Mary Killigrew and even the Vice-Admiral of Devon who had dabbled in piracy himself and was the father of Sir Walter Raleigh. Given the donorship available, is it any wonder that the pirates were notorious for swaggering around Poole, the most popular piratical port, like gentlemen themselves?

Possibly the two most notorious of this rogues’ gallery were Captains Clynton and Purser. The former was probably originally a merchant captain named Atkins or Atkinson who had grown his business through cunning and cruelty to the point where he had literally no fear of the law. William Neville, in Sea Dogs: Privateers, Plunder and Piracy in the Elizabethan Age, notes that Clynton had no qualms about challenging the courts. Despite the fact that he was a wanted man, Clynton sued a ship owner who he claimed owed him over 100 pounds. He took his complaint all the way to the Admiralty Court in London. Though he was arrested there, a few well placed bribes saw him free and back at Poole within a week.

His partner in crime Captain Purser, who may have been one William Walton, was just as infamous as Clynton. A story circulated at the time that the two had been approached by an emissary of the Queen to discontinue their predations in exchange for a full pardon. The men pondered the offer, and then sent the emissary back with a firm no thank you. They appreciated “… so great a grace and mercy” but would rather “… hazard their fortunes…” at sea.

There is no documentation of further action against them. None, that is, until they crossed paths with a particularly determined merchant named Agnes Cowtie, wife of George Blak. The horrific circumstances that led to Goodwife Cowtie’s just revenge are best left for Horror on the High Seas Week. Until then, we will imagine Clynton and Purser in port, arrayed in their finest and blissfully unaware of their inevitable fate.

Header: The carrack Mary Rose from a contemporary manuscript