Blackbeard- The Birth of America

by Samuel Marquis

  “So what do you think?” asked Spotswood. “Do you think it would be a mistake if Virginia were to send down her own crew on behalf of the Crown?”

  “We’re at peace,” replied Beverley. “’Tis my belief that such an act might stir the pot with our newfound Spanish friends by violating the Treaty of Utrecht.”

  “I understand your position, Robert. And that is why I sought your counsel.”

  “Yet you’re disappointed in my answer. I can see it on your face.”

  “You are a good judge of men. I must confess that while I hold strong views against piracy and unsanctioned looting, I have been, shall we say, bitten by the treasure-hunting bug.”

  “That is understandable. It is a tantalizing prospect. But I would refrain from sending down a sloop to recover Spanish treasure until you have been authorized by the Board of Trade, or at the very least your Council.”

  “Oh, I have no intention of telling my Council.”

  “But they will no doubt find out and then where will you be?”

  Spotswood scratched his double chin, thinking. Across the road, a young woman in a linsey woolsey and shawl and a man wearing a feathered tricorn hat, waistcoat, and cravat passed by them. He didn’t recognize them and realized they must be visitors. They appeared to be heading in the direction of Market Square. He waved politely to them before resuming his conversation with the elderly Beverley, who had recently retired to his estate, Beverley Park, in King and Queen County.

  “I see your point, Robert,” he said to the patriarch. “But no matter who I tell, I will have to dress it all up as a way of protecting Spanish property. For it would no doubt be interpreted by my many detractors here in Virginia as plain looting.”

  “Which is what it would be.”

  “Yes, but I am told that Governor Hamilton of Jamaica is planning on sponsoring privateers to seize some of the treasure before the illegal salvors pick the wrecks clean. In fact, he may very well have done so already, which means that we are already late to the party.”

  “It’s a tricky business, though. If the men you commission plunder under the pretext of clearing the coasts of pirates by diving for silver and gold, you could be held accountable. In my view, what is happening down there in the Straits of Florida is about to lead to a full-scale epidemic of piracy.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “There are already more than a dozen ships fishing those wrecks. Once most of the readily recoverable treasure has been collected, those men will be out of work and have nowhere to go. Many of them will sign on as pirates.”

  “I see your point. When the wrecks no longer pay out, even the professional privateers who fought against Spain and France will turn pirate and raid ships that have already scooped up the spoils from the seabed.”

  “Indeed. My prediction is that soon, very soon, it will be out of control and even veteran merchants and gentlemen privateers from Barbados, Bermuda, and Jamaica will turn from fishing the wrecks to outright piracy. They’ll start by taking only Spanish ships and plundering the salvaged riches under guard ashore. Then when that is no longer profitable, they’ll raid all the vessels carrying away the treasure regardless of nationality.”

  “Hostis Humani Generi,” intoned Spotswood, picturing a band of foul-smelling, snarling, drunken, cutlass-wielding sea marauders.

  “Yes, that’s what the Admiralty calls them: the enemy of all mankind,” said Beverley, and a ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. “But I’m a romantic at heart, so I have to confess that if I were but twenty years younger, I would be right there alongside those lads headed for La Florida.”

  Spotswood was intrigued by his friend’s admission. “Ye would?”

  “Aye verily. The sheer thrill of being a freebooter even for just one day would be worth the risk. I have always dreamed of what it would be like to have the wind in my hair and blunderbuss in hand, like old Captain Morgan himself.”

  “Come now, Robert, you mustn’t romanticize them. They are but lowly outlaws and brigands who prey upon the high seas. They have no honor.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied the elder man. “But they still spark the imagination.”

  And with that, they continued to the British lieutenant governor’s unfinished “Palace” and ate a fine meal of roasted venison, hot breads, and savories prepared by an army of Spotswood’s slaves and indentured servants, washing it down with Irish usquebaugh and Canary wine.

  CHAPTER 4

  NASSAU, NEW PROVIDENCE ISLAND

  PROPRIETARY COLONY OF THE BAHAMAS

  DECEMBER 31, 1715

  TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THE BRISK NORTHERLY BREEZE, Edward Thache sailed his six-gun Jamaican sloop south of the outer Bahamian island of Eleuthera and several patch reefs towards Nassau on New Providence Island. When he reached the harbor entrance, a pilot guided the Margaret through the channel to the harbor along a long, narrow stretch of water. With Hog Island to the north and the Nassau waterfront to the south, he dropped anchor in three fathoms of water directly across from the island’s most prominent landmark: old British Fort Nassau. Standing next to the larboard shroud, Thache reached for his spyglass and peered south, first at the fort then at the fledging pirate enclave. The former British Navy seaman who had grown up in Jamaica, sailed up and down the Atlantic coast, and circumnavigated the Caribbean wasn’t particularly impressed with what he saw. But the outlaw town did capture his attention.

  Years earlier during the war, the Spanish had landed on New Providence, burned down the houses, and plundered the inhabitants so that they fled to the surrounding woods for shelter—and Nassau had never recovered. The fort peering out over the harbor was in ruins, with crumbling walls and half-beveled bastions. Further east, he could see a dozen or so dilapidated houses, a handful of buildings, and a derelict waterfront with a smattering of taverns and ordinaries. On the white sandy beach stretched spare masts, rigging, bowsprits, coiled rope, fishing nets, planking, and piles of conch shells along with dozens of makeshift lean-tos and canvas sail tents for the lowly wreckers, fishermen, and scroungers who couldn’t afford the luxury of even a shanty. The paths to and from the beach appeared to be overgrown with tropical undergrowth. Gazing at the little town, Thache thought to himself that this was most certainly not Philadelphia, Charles Town, or Boston. Hell, it wasn’t even Port Royal.

  But at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of fellowship and adventure finally witnessing this strange new Republic of Pirates that he had heard so much about the past six months. And he could tell at once that the new Bahamian stronghold was the perfect hideaway for those that had chosen to go on the account. In addition to lacking any enforceable government or naval policing authority, it lay tantalizingly close to the Florida wrecks as well as to the shipping lanes between the Caribbean and American colonies. The harbor was huge and could accommodate many vessels. Among those at anchor he could already count Jennings’s eight-gun Barsheba; John Wills twelve-gun Eagle; five other unfamiliar sloops, powerful-looking vessels in good order and well-armed with carriage- and swivel-guns; three good-sized periaugers; and a half dozen small canoes. And sweeping into the channel in his wake were a pair of large Bermudan sloops. All in all, the harbor looked like it could anchor a hundred vessels.

  The Bahamas had first begun to be used as a base for pirate operations shortly after the War of Spanish Succession ended. That was in 1713, though the attacks by many privateers had not ceased until 1714 when the Treaty of Utrecht was finally recognized by the majority of New World seamen. Now New Providence and the surrounding islands were gaining a reputation as a lawless refuge for the “enemies of all nations,” as the Admiralty had been fond of calling pirates since Kidd had swung from the gallows at Wapping in 1701. This growing international fraternity of sea rovers had no British government to prevent them from raiding, and Thache had heard that Benjamin Hornigold and other formerly legitimate privateers were taking advantage of the favorable situation. The Bahamas were a tenuously held depende
ncy of the Lords Proprietors of Carolina, and the proprietors had not appointed a new governor to the Bahamas since 1704.

  He focused his brass spyglass on the men onshore. The inebriated, wild-looking rabble on the docks and beaches he spied through the optical instrument didn’t look as though they would be very receptive to governmental authority. He began counting numbers. After a couple of minutes, he estimated that the current number of seamen on the island had to be at least five hundred individuals, probably double the size of the town the previous Christmas and dwarfing the civilian population inhabiting the island year-round.

  Upon setting anchor, he posted a watch and headed to shore while his crew received their shares of the Spanish spoils from Jennings’s quartermaster on the deck of the Barsheba. Thache had already received his captain’s shares, and he would soon be sailing with Jennings and his men to Jamaica to present their prizes to the Vice-Admiralty Court, which was presided over by Governor Hamilton. Once onshore, he went to the White Gull Tavern, where he spotted Charles Vane sitting at a table. He purchased a tankard of ale and bottle of rum and went over to him. Seated at the table talking to Vane was an older man with an air of command about him whom Thache had never laid eyes on before.

  “Charles Vane, ye old sea dog,” he said to his newfound friend and one of Jennings’s right-hand men. “Do you mind if I pull up a chair?”

  Vane’s drunken eyes lit up. “Edward Thache,” he said in a slurred voice. “You don’t know how pleased I am to see you. You be just in time for a toast.”

  “And what might we be toasting?”

  “Why to the damnation of King George, of course!”

  “Well, holding James III the ‘Pretender’ in high regard as I do, I have to drink to that.”

  The three men clinked their pewter tankards, tossed back a hearty portion of their ales, and smacked their lips with satisfaction.

  Thache looked at Vane and grinned. “And who, Charles, might I inquire is your friend here that I be toasting with?”

  “Oh, how neglectful of me. Edward Thache meet Benjamin Hornigold, leader of the Flying Gang.”

  Hornigold held out his hand.

  So this be Ben Hornigold, thought Thache, taking measure of the Bahamian sea rover he had heard so much about as they shook hands. His face was deeply fissured from sun, rum, and age, his wide-brimmed black Spanish hat was set at a jaunty angle, and he carried a slight paunch about his midriff. He and Jennings were the two elder statesmen amongst the new interlopers that had taken over New Providence, and there was reported to be bad blood between them. The upper-middle-class, landholding Bermudan Jennings apparently viewed himself as a legitimate privateer sailing on behalf of the Crown—and Hornigold as a common robber and lowly wrecker without scruples and beneath his station. But Charles Vane didn’t seem to mind Hornigold’s company; though he sailed with Jennings, he seemed quite comfortable with the man and they appeared to be deep into their cups together.

  “The Flying Gang, you say? And who might that gang be?” asked Thache.

  “It’s all of us, lad,” replied Hornigold. “We run the Bahamas now. This pirate republic is our military base of operations, and there not be a soul in the British, French, or Spanish Navy powerful enough to dislodge us. This is our home and our time. We be the new sea dogs, ye see—the masters of the sweet trade from Newfoundland to Portobello. And we live by our own rules.”

  “And what rules would those be?”

  “We share the plunder equally amongst ourselves instead of serving under privateering contracts that give the bulk of the earnings to owners and captains.”

  “A democracy indeed.”

  “Aye and it works, my good fellow—or I be a lubberly Dutchman. Apart from a few forced men, service aboard a Flying Gang vessel is purely voluntary. A man can serve for as long as he likes as long as he but follow the code, and he can quit at any time. Furthermore, we elect our own captains, quartermasters, sailing masters, and bosuns. If we don’t approve of their performance, we can vote them out just the same.”

  “So what authority does the captain have then?”

  “In the Flying Gang, the captain has absolute authority while involved in a chase or in combat, or during a storm. All the other decisions are made equally in a council of the crew. That includes where to go, which vessels to attack, which prisoners to retain or set free, and how to mete out punishment for infractions while at sea within the companies. Like I said, it’s a code—and it works because it makes no man the servant of another.”

  Thache nodded in understanding. From his experience in the Royal Navy during the war and merchant service after the war, he knew that many pirates were mariners who had long suffered abuse and exploitation at the hands of brutal and greedy captains and ship owners, and only later turned to piracy. Obviously, Hornigold had no intention of replicating that system, but rather turning it on its head. It was a system in which everyone profited or suffered equally, and Thache understood implicitly that that’s what made it so dangerous in the eyes of the British authorities and the ruling elites that dominated maritime trade. Pirate criminality bred a sense of democracy that exposed the world’s inequality.

  “A captain and quartermaster eat the same victuals as their own men and have to share their cabins. And a captain is only paid two times more than his seaman, a quartermaster one and a half times. If the men trust their leaders and are satisfied with their performance, they’ll follow them to the bitter end. If not, they’ll depose them in the blink of an eye. Most of all, they have to show results and keep their men well fed and well stocked with rum. So, what do you say Mr. Thache?”

  “It’s Captain Thache. From Jamaica.”

  “Yes, I can see ye be a gentleman—and yet you don’t have airs about you. Not like Master Vane’s cohort, Mr. Jennings, captain of the Barsheba. Now there’s a pompous ass for you. He thinks that just because he received a commission from Governor Hamilton that he’s better than the rest of us.”

  “I have a commission from the governor too,” Thache reminded him. “But you won’t see me looking down my nose at anyone.”

  Vane raised his tankard. “As long as I get my fair share of the prizes we take, I don’t pick sides. I say drink up and live and let live.”

  “Good words to live by, Mr. Vane,” agreed Hornigold. “Now what say ye, Captain Thache, about what I’ve just told you?”

  “I say this is all happening awfully fast and I am struggling to catch up. Like I said, I’m but a humble privateer with an official commission from Governor Hamilton. For the time being, I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “You’ve never been a-pirating?”

  “No sir, not me. What I’ve taken has been from the Spanish and French under commission. It has been aboveboard and legal.”

  “Well, lad, I suspect that’s about to change. You see, there’s something brewing in the air.”

  “Something brewing?”

  “Yes, a big change is upon us on account of those Spanish wrecks, and I’m afraid there’s no way to put the genie back in the bottle.”

  “Aye, I must confess I feel it too, Captain Hornigold. There is indeed something going on that I am only dimly beginning to fathom.”

  “You can call me Benjamin, or Ben.”

  “Aye, and you can call me Edward.”

  “Very well, Edward it is. And I want you to know that I only plunder Spanish and French vessels. I never agreed to the terms of that damned Treaty of Utrecht, so I continue to take what is rightfully mine just as long as it be Spanish or French. Or Portuguese. I’ll rob them, too, if I have half a chance.”

  “Me, I’m not too particular about who I plunder,” said Vane. “It’s the riches I care about. Now let’s hoist our glasses, mates, and make it a double toast. To the damnation of King George and to the Flying Gang!”

  “To the damnation of King George and to the Flying Gang!” the three men roared in unison.

  A crowd of drunken seamen at three of the nearby tables
echoed the cheer and suddenly the whole tavern was up and on its feet, lively ho and drinking the same toast.

  It was then Edward Thache—still a legally-sanctioned Jamaican privateer—knew a true revolution had begun. Hornigold and his Bahamian Flying Gang were going to change everything.

  CHAPTER 5

  KINGSTON, JAMAICA

  JANUARY 30, 1716

  WHEN THACHE STEPPED OUT OF THE CARRIAGE and stared across the bay at Port Royal, he remembered back to the terrible earth tremor that had destroyed the town when he was five years old. The year was 1692. He had just returned from sailing with his father and was heading for Spanish Town when the first of three devastating cataclysms struck. More than two thousand people had died as a result of the ground shaking and subsequent giant wave of seawater and mudslides that followed. Three-thousand more would perish in the days following the catastrophe due to injuries and disease. The clergy claimed that the tremor was the result of a judgement of God upon the town, which had acquired a reputation for debauchery and wickedness as the British possession became the home port for pirates operating within the Caribbean. Even before the destruction was complete, some of the survivors began looting, breaking into homes and warehouses to plunder just like buccaneers. In a macabre display, many of the dead were robbed and stripped, and, in some cases, had fingers cut off to remove the rings they wore.

  Fortunately, Thache and his father had managed to get to high ground south of St. Jago de la Vega, and no one in his family had died that morning or in the diseased days that followed. But he still remembered the violent ground shaking, the roar of the mudslides, the devastating power of the earth’s forces at work. The next morning he watched the surviving sugar plantation slaves pulling the battered corpses from the rubble and pools of evaporating seawater. He remembered staring out at the death and devastation all around the harbor: the floating bodies fed on by sharks, the gaping fissures in the roads, the collapsed homes and shanties, the aprons of muddy debris on the hillsides, and the stench of death and rot as the stranded seawater from the tidal wave dried up. But what had terrified him most was the sight of the broken, lifeless bodies being pulled from the wreckage. He saw dozens of boys and girls scarcely older than he, and at the time, he remembered how poignantly unfair it seemed to him that children his own age should perish.