The Lost Fleet

by Barry Clifford

We never found out for certain who was on that other boat. My best guess is that as we were checking them out, they were watching us. They must have figured out who we were. Long before we came up with one another, they sheered off and headed for the horizon. We never saw them again.

  Still, there were good reasons to be cautious. Along with treasure hunters, there is a real threat of piracy in the Caribbean. Not all the buccaneers died in the eighteenth century. While we were at Las Aves we got a report of a yacht found floating and vacant. There was no clue as to what had happened to the crew, but one can guess. Every now and then during our stay at Las Aves we would see a beat-up boat motor slowly by, checking us out, and we’d think, Here we go…But we were never bothered.

  Ron took the Antares carefully around the reefs and into the lagoon.

  It is beautiful. The clear water of the lagoon is aquamarine, hedged in a thick tangle of mangrove, punctured by a small black stream that flows into the heart of the island. After the anchor is set, I go to the dive platform at the stern. The air is heavy with dampness, and the smell of the swamp is thick and syrupy.

  Just a week before we had been on the Cape, bound in woolens against the cold late-autumn wind. The sun, when it appears, hangs barely above eye level. Here, the sun is directly overhead, just twelve degrees north of the equator.

  I have been traveling for seventy-two hours. I am tired, dirty, and my skin seems to crawl with imaginary insects.

  I am out of my filthy cargo pants in less than a heartbeat and stand naked on the platform for a moment. I look like one of those Bulgarian men you’ve seen in Life magazine, who bathe in the Black Sea in winter—white as a polar bear with a layer of winter fat.

  I step off the platform and let myself sink to the bottom of the lagoon. I sit on a mat of pulverized pink coral; taking a handful, I begin to scrub myself from head to toe. Looking up, the round belly of the Antares appears like a June bug floating on air…except I cannot breathe here.

  I let go of all my senses and swim for the mangroves about a hundred feet away. The tidal flow of the sea carries me into the swamp. My lungs begin to ache. I break the surface, letting my air out slowly, then ride the flow of the warm seawater toward the heart of the island. The bull shark sometimes hunts here…. I am still as death, but never have been more alive. I think we all had an unspoken sense that we had to dive into the tropical sea to wash ourselves clean of the winter cobwebs, to literally immerse ourselves in the beauty of the lagoon.

  My team was aboard the Antares, the divers and support people who had come with me, as well as Mike Rossiter and the BBC crew. Max and his friends had chartered a large sailboat—very well appointed and a bit more luxurious than the overcrowded Antares. They were anchored nearby.

  Charles had his own boat and his own team, including a film crew. His cameraman was Guillermo Cisneros, the son of industrialist Gustavo Cisneros, reportedly the wealthiest man in South America. Guillermo had chartered the boat for Charles’s team, a big power yacht with all the amenities. Still, as cushy as his boat was, Charles spent most of his time on board the Antares, the heart of the operation, central control.

  Charles had plans for his own documentary, which worried me. Afraid of conflict with the BBC/Discovery contract, I chastised myself for not having made Charles sign something before we showed up there. Mike was not concerned, however, and since Mike was the BBC producer, I tried to be unconcerned as well.

  It was early evening when we anchored in the lagoon, with the sun sinking toward the western horizon and lighting up the little hump of land that was the island of Las Aves yellow and gold. It was too late to get started; we settled for preparing for an early dive the next morning. The team checked over the gear we would need, saw that it was assembled and in working order. Todd Murphy, Charles, and I pored over the charts, ancient and modern, and discussed where best to start looking for wrecks.

  Charles and I had different ideas as to what the mission should entail. He wanted to choose just one wreck and partially excavate it. I vehemently opposed this idea as we had neither the personnel nor the time to conduct a proper excavation—much less the artifact conservation such a project would entail. Not to mention the fact that our plans and permits were predicated on filming only.

  Charles and I had not butted heads for long before I realized that I just had to focus on what I was doing and let him do what he wanted. He had an agenda, whatever it was, and I did not have the time or energy to fight with him. I was there to locate and map shipwrecks. That was all I had to worry about. I decided I would not get dragged into Charles’s game. And I did not. For the most part.

  We had only two weeks to dive on the site. The BBC and the Discovery Channel were chartering the boat, and that was the amount of time that they calculated they needed, so that was the amount of time we had. Sure, I would have loved to have had more, but those decisions were above my pay grade.

  Also, I had a bad feeling that the authorities would be showing up any day to see what we were doing. We had permits, of course, plenty of different permits from plenty of different people, but in a place like Venezuela that is not necessarily a guarantee of anything. We knew of at least one other group with their eyes on Las Aves, and God knew how many more there might be, and what governmental strings they might be attached to. It was possible that we would be shut down before we were finished.

  With that in mind, I wanted to do as much as we conceivably could as quickly as we could.

  20

  A Visit from the Navy

  OCTOBER 27, 1998

  LAS AVES

  There is a set series of steps one takes in underwater archaeology (or any kind of archaeology, for that matter). First, a great deal of research is done, in order either to find a site or, if the location is already known, to find out what happened there, to anticipate what you are likely to uncover and what you should keep your eyes open for. A historical context needs to be established.

  Along with the research, you have to prepare documentation and make a plan outlining what you hope to accomplish at the site, be it survey and mapping or recovery of artifacts. You plan as best you can, but of course you cannot cover every contingency until you find the wreck and see for certain what is possible and what is not. You may draw up a plan that involves recovering artifacts, but if you don’t find any artifacts, that’s that.

  Once you are on the site, you proceed with remote sensing, using the magnetometer, metal detectors, and other sensing tools. Remote sensing will, ideally, allow you to locate the wreck, which you then inspect visually to identify and confirm what you have found.

  On a site where you are planning excavation, the next step is to dig a test pit. Test pits can be of any size, but are usually around two to six feet square. Stakes are driven into the four corners of the pit, and excavation is done within the confines of that square. Carefully placed test pits will give you a sense of the concentration of artifacts, and from there, a full-scale excavation can be designed.

  As the artifacts are revealed, they are carefully mapped out and detailed drawings are made and notes taken of exactly where they were found, in what position, at what depth, etc. In that way, anyone studying the site later will always be able to see how the artifacts were found, in situ, before removal. A lot can be learned from that information.

  Then, with mapping and drawing done, the artifacts are carefully removed. Since most objects that have been in salt water for centuries will start to break down when they hit the air, conservation of artifacts begins immediately, right on the dive boat, even before they can be transported to the conservation laboratory where long-term conservation is undertaken.

  We knew that we would not be excavating or removing artifacts. Our permits were for filming only. With that caveat, the most useful thing we could do, from an archaeological standpoint, was to document everything, map every wreck we could find, make careful diagrams of each site, and pinpoint each site on the map. We could document the direction each ship was movin
g when it ran aground, distribution patterns of the artifacts, how much material has been shifted around over the years, and scatter patterns for various types of artifacts.

  It would not be easy, but I figured that even with only two weeks we could do that for every site on the reef, at least every shipwreck that d’Estrées had marked. We hoped that the BBC’s documentary would tell the story of d’Estrées and his buccaneer mercenaries and of the discovery and exploration of those wrecks, and illustrate how modern underwater archaeological mapping is done.

  I was eager to test the accuracy of d’Estrées’ map. I had overlaid what the French admiral had drawn with a modern aerial photograph of Las Aves to see if the wrecks really were where they should be. This was partially my curiosity but also an aid to future explorations. If you know exactly where to find a wreck, that can save a lot of time in the archaeological process.

  Lastly, there were those pirate ships, the flibustiers. Even if we weren’t excavating, I wanted to find them.

  We knew what we wanted to do, and we had the team and equipment to get it done. We went to bed that night, lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the Antares in the sheltered water of the lagoon.

  The next morning the sun rose to reveal the beautiful blue-green water, the sharp horizon where sea met cloudless sky. Margot and I got up early and went for a swim. It is something we try to do every morning when we can, especially on Cape Cod in the summer. At Las Aves it was wonderful, the water clear and milky warm. We swam up to the mangroves, reveled in the beauty of the place. Margot and I had not been together very long at that point, and it was as romantic as it was beautiful.

  That glow might have lasted all day if we had not returned to the Antares to find a Venezuelan navy ship anchored not half a mile away.

  Oh, great, I thought. We hadn’t even put on our wet suits.

  Still, there was no real reason to worry. Antonio had secured all the permits we required, and even some we probably did not need. Charles had secured even more—Mike had videotaped him doing so.

  The naval vessel was not huge, more of a gunboat, somewhere around 150 feet, but it was intimidating enough. As a boat put off from the gray ship and headed straight for the Antares, we assembled our permits, passports, and sundry paperwork.

  We welcomed the naval officers aboard with courtesy, and they returned our greetings in every way. They were pleasant, friendly, and professional in their crisp khaki uniforms. They had a job to do and they went about doing it in a businesslike manner.

  It was not a coincidence that they were there. They had come out specifically to look into what we were doing. The officer in charge knew the names of everyone aboard, even as he called to see our passports. He obviously had been given the paperwork that we had submitted to the Venezuelan government during the permit application process.

  We lined our people up with passports in hand, and one by one they were checked against the navy’s list. Everything was in order.

  Almost.

  It was sort of a tricky situation with Todd Murphy and Carl Tiska, a member of the U.S. Army Special Forces and a high-ranking U.S. Navy SEAL on the same boat. We joked that the Venezuelans might think we were planning an invasion. That was before we actually had the Venezuelan navy on board. Though both men were with us purely for archaeological work, we were concerned about how it would look, what suspicions it might arouse.

  Todd, however, does not like to advertise his presence and his military connections. He had not submitted any paperwork to the Venezuelan government that mentioned his status in the Special Forces. They never asked.

  I knew that Todd and Carl took this stuff seriously. They joked about an invasion, but they were also making preparations. Between them, from force of habit, they devised an escape route and contingency plans in case things got ugly. Being prepared for any eventuality was something their military training had ingrained in them.

  Our crew passed muster, and the navy moved on to the permits. Charles was the only member of our team who spoke fluent Spanish. He and the officer from the Venezuelan navy went round and round, while we all watched and tried to guess what was happening. It was like a wolf counting sheep.

  Finally, Charles explained what had transpired. Despite the reams of paper we showed him, the naval officer had decided that we did not have the right permits. He was shutting us down.

  I couldn’t believe it was happening.

  Hoping to console us, I suspect, the officer assured us that he was not stopping us completely. We could still dive; we just couldn’t film anything. Considering that a major reason that we were there was to shoot a documentary, that concession was as good as worthless.

  We tried to be as persuasive as we could. We had filming permits, which we showed him, and expedition permits and God knows what other kinds of permits, but he would not be swayed. We could not film until we had the proper papers, which he did not see among the many permits we showed him. We were dead in the water.

  The navy men bid us a friendly good day and returned to their ship. They did not pull up anchor and leave, as we had hoped, but remained conspicuously in place, just off the coast guard station, watching.

  21

  “A Great and Mischievous Pirate”

  1679

  THE SPANISH MAIN

  THE GREATEST OF THEM ALL

  Of all the filibusters cast up on the beach at Las Aves, the one destined for the greatest piratical career was the Dutch-born Laurens Baldran, known to the Brethren of the Coast as Laurens de Griffe, or, more commonly, de Graff.

  De Graff was a born leader of men, fearless and at the same time reportedly refined and genteel. It was said that he “always carries violins and trumpets aboard with which to entertain himself and amuse others who derive pleasure from this. He is further distinguished amongst the filibusters by his courtesy and good taste.”1 Some of this may have been hyperbole prompted by literary conventions of the time, but the last part of this description would be borne out by de Graff’s career.

  Sir Henry Morgan’s characterization of de Graff would also prove correct, when he called him “a great and mischievous pirate,”2 which is most ironic coming from a onetime buccaneer king.

  De Graff was described by the same eighteenth-century writer as being tall, blond, mustached, and handsome. At best, that description was sheer speculation, as de Graff had been dead at least twenty years when it was penned. At worst, it was a fiction crafted to hide the truth and prevent the example of de Graff’s life from spreading. In point of fact, early Spanish sources indicate that Laurens de Graff was a runaway slave of African heritage. The nickname “de Griffe,” by which he was often called, is an old term for a mulatto of three-quarters African ancestry. That Spanish sources might be more forthright about “Lorencillo’s” background can be attributed to the fact that the French and English had far more to fear from slave revolts than did the Spanish. The last thing an eighteenth-century French writer in Haiti would want to write about was a slave who escaped and then rose to wealth and fame at the head of a band of outlaws and pirates.

  Details of his early life are sketchy. It is most likely that he was born in Holland. He was captured by the Spanish in the Low Countries and enslaved sometime during the 1660s. The Spanish had a talent for creating their own worst enemies, and de Graff was one of them. His hatred of the Spanish never wavered.

  At some point during his Spanish captivity, de Graff was brought to the Canary Islands. Spanish plantation slaves were allowed to wed, and de Graff married a woman named Petronila de Guzmn, who was possibly descended from Jewish refugees. He was soon separated from her, however, and put aboard a Spanish galley. The ship aboard which de Graff was forced to serve was part of a special naval squadron called the Armada de Barlovento, which was tasked to combat piracy in the Caribbean.

  In the early to mid 1670s, de Graff escaped the galleys, with nothing but a burning hatred for the Spanish. Like many escaped slaves or naval deserters—he was both of these—he t
urned to piracy. His career lasted for three decades. In that time, he brought down havoc on the heads of the Spanish, both as a pirate and as a commissioned officer in the service of France.

  Historians of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries never mentioned de Graff’s race, or, if they did, they blurred the facts. An uprising of black slaves was the worst nightmare of the eighteenth-century colonial elites, threatening not only their personal fortunes but also the economies of those European countries that were amassing more and more wealth from the West Indies.

  The revolt in Haiti led by Toussaint-L’Ouverture a century later proved that the slaveholders’ fears were well founded. No white men, historians included, wanted to even hint that violent resistance could garner for enslaved men the freedom, riches, and success enjoyed by Laurens de Graff. It is no accident that de Graff’s name has been eclipsed by such lesser men as Henry Morgan and William Kidd.

  Of all the buccaneers of the seventeenth century—L’Ollonais, de Grammont, Paine, Yankey, and the rest—the black pirate Laurens de Graff became the most successful. So great was his fame among his peers that a French historian later wrote, “When it is known he has arrived at some place, many come from all around to see with their own eyes whether ‘Lorenzo’ is made like other men.”3

  A PIRATE’S CAREER PATH

  Spanish historians claim that de Graff’s first action as a pirate captain came in March 1672. On the last day of that month, a band of pirates slipped ashore at the Mexican city of Campeche in the predawn dark. On a nearby beach, a guarda del costa frigate stood on the stocks, partially built, beside it a huge stockpile of lumber. This the pirates set on fire. In the light of that inferno the pirates’ ships sailed into the harbor, while the arsonists already ashore infiltrated the city.

  As had happened before, and would happen again all along the Spanish Main, the citizens of the city woke to find their town occupied by pirates. Realizing that they were under attack by filibusters, the defenders of the city acted as Spanish militia generally did—they fled in panic.