The Lost Fleet

by Barry Clifford

  Unimpressed, Charles II of Spain declared war on France, in part because of French intrusions in the Spanish Netherlands and partially for the outrage of Vera Cruz, which was carried out under French commissions issued by de Pouançay.

  Spain was in no position for a prolonged war unless she was joined by the other nations of Europe, and those nations, not having a dog in that particular fight, declined. After six months of hostilities, Charles II was forced to sign the Truce of Regensburg, ending the conflict.

  Despite being the dominant power in Europe, Louis XIV was not interested in war, at least not during the years 1683–84, and he took action to appease the Spanish. In the West Indies, Louis had always maintained an official policy of refusing commission to filibusters, while at the same time cheerfully allowing de Pouançay to issue them under the table. On one hand, he could claim that he was not sponsoring such mischief, while on the other he could use the buccaneers to keep Spain off balance and transfer Spanish wealth into the economy of France.

  After Vera Cruz, however, Louis tried to appease Spain. In the Caribbean, this meant dropping the “wink and a nod” policy toward the buccaneers and dampening de Pouançay’s cheerful issuance of commissions that rendered their attacks quasi-legal.

  De Pouançay died in 1683, making it unnecessary to recall the governor. His successor, Sieur de Franquesnay, reversed the laissez-faire approach toward the buccaneers and made a genuine effort to implement the Versailles policies aimed at suppression of piracy. It did not go over well.

  Some of the pirates simply abandoned Petit Goâve and moved operations to Jamaica, domain of the amiable Sir Thomas Lynch. Thomas Paine, tired of the filibuster’s life, had returned to Rhode Island. Many others abandoned the Caribbean completely, crossing the Isthmus of Panama and plundering the Spanish on the Pacific side, easing enforcement problems for France and doubling them for Spain.

  A potentially greater hazard for France were those buccaneers who began to look to England for the kind of unofficial sponsorship and succor they had received from France. Among them was Laurens de Graff, the most dangerous man in the Caribbean. In the fall of 1683 de Graff wrote to Thomas Lynch from the now inhospitable shores of Petit Goâve, in answer to a communiqué that has since been lost:

  I am much obliged for your civility, and thank you for the honor which you have been pleased to do without any merit of my own. I beg you to believe me the most humble of your servants, and to employ me if there be any place or occasion in which I can be of service to you. You will see how I shall try to employ myself. If by chance I should go to your coast in quest of necessities for myself or my ship, I beg that my interests may be protected and no wrong done me, as I might do so if the opportunity presented itself for doing you service. Begging you to do me this favor, I remain your most humble and affectionate servant.4

  De Graff would have the opportunity the following year to render his favor to Sir Thomas Lynch. In the interim, the restless freebooter could not stay idle. Though de Graff’s pockets were presumably still full of the booty of Vera Cruz only a few months past, the energetic pirate was soon back in business. While Sir Thomas Lynch and the Lords of Trade and Plantations were putting together an offer to entice the pirate into their camp, de Graff laid a course for Cartagena.

  THE BLOCKADE OF CARTAGENA

  Laurens de Graff was by now one of only a handful of pirates in Caribbean history who commanded not a ship but a fleet. There were seven vessels in his squadron when he sailed for present-day Colombia. In those ships were many of the men who had already spent years with Laurens, including fellow Dutchmen Yankey Willems and Michiel Andrieszoon.

  In late December 1683, the buccaneer fleet arrived off the harbor of Cartagena. Wisely, the governor of that city, Juan de Pando Estrada, decided to stop the pirates before they landed, rather than count on the city’s defenders to hold off a land assault. After all, the Spanish track record in such actions was none too encouraging.

  Estrada commandeered three private ships for the job. The largest, the San Francisco, was a ship of forty guns. The second was called Paz and mounted thirty-four great guns. The last, a somewhat smaller vessel called a galliot, mounted twenty-eight guns. Aboard these ships, the governor put eight hundred soldiers. All in all, it was a formidable force.

  The ensuing battle was a terrible, bloody farce, made worse, no doubt, by the fact that the Spanish squadron was under the command of twenty-six-year-old Andrés de Pez y Malzárraga, who had only been promoted to captain the previous summer.

  The three large Spanish ships, clumsy to begin with and most likely hampered by the great crowds of men on deck, were completely overrun by the smaller, more nimble pirate vessels.

  The San Francisco soon ran aground, rendering her defenseless against ships that could lie in a place where her guns would not bear and pound her to kindling.

  The Paz fought for four hours—a noble effort, when one considers that many of the greatest ship-to-ship actions were over in less than thirty minutes—but at last she too struck. Yankey Willems took the galliot. The Spanish lost ninety men killed, the pirates twenty.

  De Graff refloated the San Francisco and gleefully took her over as his new flagship, renaming her Fortune, which was later changed to Neptune. Michiel Andrieszoon was given command of the Paz, which he renamed Mutine. Willems took command of de Graff’s former flagship, the former Princesa. With the addition of three powerful vessels, the pirate fleet was now ten ships strong.

  On Christmas Day 1683, de Graff set Captain Pez y Malzárraga and the other Spanish prisoners ashore. They carried with them a note from de Graff to the governor, thanking Estrada for the Christmas gifts.

  Rather than attack the city de Graff decided to blockade the port, hoping to snatch up a valuable prize trying to get in or out. He probably realized that with the element of surprise entirely lost, the people of Cartagena would have long since carried themselves and their valuables far inland, leaving little behind worth taking. Reinforcements would also be on their way to augment the large contingent of soldiers already there.

  In mid-January 1684, a small convoy did arrive at Cartagena. It was an English convoy, however, a small fleet of slavers escorted by the man-of-war HMS Ruby. England and Spain were at peace, as were England and France. For that matter, France (for whom de Graff ostensibly fought) and Spain were still at peace, as far as de Graff knew. News of Spain’s latest declaration of war with France had not reached the filibuster.

  Even if England and France had not been at peace, de Graff, as we have seen, was not interested in attacking English shipping. He was only interested in plundering Spain, the country he loathed, and war or peace made little difference to him.

  De Graff did not meddle with the English convoy, except to have the officers aboard his ship as dinner guests. As it happened, among the visitors was a trader carrying a letter to de Graff from his wife, Petronila, in the Canary Islands. Through his wife, the Spanish authorities, eager as the English and French to obtain the loyal service of the great buccaneer, offered him a pardon for all his piracies if he joined the forces of the king of Spain. A former captive of Spain, public enemy number one, he was now being offered not only a pardon but, in effect, a commission as an officer in the Spanish navy.

  De Graff had not seen his wife for many years. No matter how much he loved her, he must have realized that he would never see her again, not as long as she was in Spanish territory where he was a wanted man. Now there was a chance to see her again, to free himself from the threat of Spanish reprisal and Spain’s relentless pursuit of him. In the end, however, de Graff simply did not trust Spanish promises. He made no response to the offer. He perhaps was wise.

  Soon after, the pirates gave up the blockade and headed north. While under way, de Graff came upon two vessels, which he followed from a distance until nightfall. Under cover of dark, he fell on one of the ships, boarded her, and took her with only two shots fired. She turned out to be a Spanish vessel of fourteen guns
, carrying quinine and nearly fifty pounds of gold. Laurens de Graff was back in business.

  The next morning de Graff took the second ship. This one turned out to be English, laden with sugar, which the Spanish ship had illegally captured and was escorting to Cuba. De Graff had his opportunity to render the English a service, and this he did, by releasing the former crew from their captivity and setting them and his prize free.

  The gesture did not go unnoticed. Lynch had already reported the blockage of Cartagena to the Lords of Trade and Plantations and speculated that the buccaneers might use their now expanded fleet to raid Vera Cruz again.5 His letter reflects thinly disguised animosity toward the Spanish, and an ambiguous sense of duty.

  30

  The Wooing of Laurens de Graff

  But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be;

  So the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we.

  All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night;

  And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

  —“THE LAST BUCCANEER”

  Charles Kingsley

  SPRING 1684

  PETIT GOVE, HISPANIOLA

  Pirates continued to be a mixed blessing for the governor. Lynch was happy to entice French pirates like de Graff and the “honest old privateer” de Grammont, but he chafed at the activities of English pirates and the support that they received in the North American colonies.

  From Charlestown, Massachusetts, to Charleston, South Carolina, pirates were very welcome, and would continue to be. The Navigation Acts prohibited the colonists from trading with almost anyone except the mother country. The cash-and-merchandise-strapped colonists naturally welcomed pirate booty with open arms and purses. Lynch griped:

  I have formerly advised you that our laws against privateers neither discourage nor lessen them while they have such retreats as Carolina, New England and other colonies. They have permitted Jacob Hall (of the only English ship that was at Vera Cruz) to come to Carolina, where he is free, as all such are; and therefore they call it Puerto Franco. The colonists are now full of pirates’ money, and from Boston I hear that the privateers have brought in £80,000.1

  Nonetheless Lynch was still interested in recruiting de Graff. He noted with some satisfaction that “the Ruby met [de Graff] off Cartagena, and I was pleased to hear that the Spaniards noticed how respectful they were.”2 Lynch was happy to have the Spanish believe that the powerful de Graff was in his corner. Soon the governor and the pirate resumed their correspondence.

  In late April 1684, de Graff wrote to Lynch to report the incident of the English prize ship he had released:

  I present my humble respects and hope that your health is good. I have a few details to give about a small English ship, laden with sugar, which I found in the hands of a Spaniard. I took both ships in the night, kept the Spaniard and set the Englishman free. The English captain told me that the Spaniard was taking him and his ship into Havana, but I gave him the ship back without doing him any harm. I send this short note only to show you that I am far from injuring your nation, but, on the contrary, am anxious always to do it service.3

  De Graff, undoubtedly chafing at Governor Sieur de Franquesnay’s hard line on piracy, was flirting with the idea of coming over to the English side. Sir Thomas Lynch found that idea appealing. In August he wrote back to de Graff:

  I have received your letter, and thank you most particularly for letting the poor Irishman go. I shall show my gratitude to you when I have the opportunity, for any one who treats the English well lays me under obligation, and I expect no less from you who hold a patent from the most Christian King [Louis XIV]…. While you behave with such respect to the justice and friendship that exist between the French and the English crowns, I am always your friend.4

  Lynch and his superiors had already put together a package crafted to bring Laurens to their side. The agreement they had drawn up stated:

  Sir Thomas promises a pardon for all offenses and naturalization as an Englishman; but Laurens must take the oath of allegiance and buy a plantation in Jamaica [thus giving him genuine financial incentive to remain loyal to England]. Sir Thomas will also procure the necessary papers for the safe conduct of his wife from the Canaries, provided Laurens pays the fees and the expense of the passage, and he will also procure him the King of Spain’s pardon.5

  All in all, it was a good offer, but before Laurens could act on it, several events occurred that kept him firmly in the French camp.

  In April 1684, a month before the offer to Laurens was drawn up, Pierre-Paul Tarin de Cussy arrived in Petit Goâve to replace the unpopular Governor Sieur de Franquesnay. De Cussy found the buccaneers near revolt, many of them deserting Petit Goâve for such congenial locations as the Carolinas, New England, and the Pacific coast of Panama.

  The government in Versailles understood that the safety of French possessions in the West Indies depended on the loyalty of the well-armed buccaneers. That was plain reality, and in large part a result of the disaster at Las Aves.

  Just as Lynch had recognized the strategic importance of the buccaneers to Jamaica, so de Cussy realized that he could not afford to alienate this quasi militia. He began immediately to retreat from de Franquesnay’s strict enforcement of the law. Soon it was business as usual.

  About the same time de Cussy was remaking Petit Goâve into a welcome haven for the pirates, de Graff captured a Spanish vessel with dispatches announcing the resumption of hostilities between the French and Spanish, a war that he himself had helped to foment with his attack on Vera Cruz. De Graff left his consorts Yankey Willems and Andrieszoon to blockade Cuba while he returned to Petit Goâve to plan his next move.

  De Cussy was as eager to have de Graff on the French side as Lynch was to have him on the English. He greeted de Graff with the respect due a military hero and gave him an honorary commission, a brevet de grâce. It was a fine honor for a man known to the world as a notorious pirate. For a pirate who was also a black man, it was astounding. Best of all, it gave de Graff leave to continue to do exactly what he had been doing for the past decade.

  De Graff spent most of the summer and fall of 1684 at Petit Goâve. Meanwhile, his subordinates Willems and Andrieszoon continued blockading Cuba.

  Off Havana, they intercepted two Dutch West Indiamen, the Stad Rotterdam and the Elisabeth. Willems and Andrieszoon boarded the ships and discovered that they carried large quantities of Spanish money and several Spanish passengers, including a bishop. The Spaniards had hoped to benefit from Dutch neutrality by shipping their specie and people in vessels that were nominally off limits to privateers. It did not work. The Dutch buccaneers took half of the 200,000 pesos aboard and all of the Spanish citizens.

  From Cuba, the two Dutchmen sailed north to the English colonies in America. There they met with the kind of warm reception that was driving Thomas Lynch to distraction. The governor of New Hampshire, Edward Cranfield, wrote to London that “a French privateer of 35 guns [Andrieszoon’s ship Mutine] has arrived at Boston. I am credibly informed that they share £700 a man. The Bostoners no sooner heard of her off the coast than they dispatched a messenger and a pilot to convey her into port…”6

  Both Andrieszoon and Yankey Willems found a welcome in Boston, especially from a local merchant, Samuel Shrimpton, who was also the wealthiest man in Boston.

  The vigorous Puritan ethic in Massachusetts in general, and Boston in particular, had relaxed considerably by this time—at least insofar as business practices were concerned. Boston merchants of these decades are now remembered as pious, frugal, and industrious pillars of the community. While this image may have been true between 1630 and 1670 (and then again after the Great Revival of the 1740s), it certainly wasn’t the case during the late 1600s. This becomes evident when we look at how Bostonians were seen by outsiders—as opposed to how the Boston “Saints” saw themselves. Sailors commented about the “sly, crafty tricking designing sort of People�
�� they met in Boston. No one doubted that the city’s big merchants were the slyest and craftiest of them all.

  One 1699 observer found that “whosoever believes a New-England Saint shall be sure to be cheated; and he that knows how to deal with their Traders, may deal with the Devil himself and fear no Craft.” Another noted, “It is not by half such a flagrant sin to cheat and cozen one’s neighbour as it is to ride about for pleasure on the Sabbath Day or to neglect going to church and singing of psalms.”

  Prior to at least the time of the Great Revival, sailors considered Boston a good town for frolicking—primarily because of its “well-rigged” young women—although at least one early-eighteenth-century sea dog warned the amorous young sailor to be careful lest one of these women “give you a doase of Something to remember them by.” There were music houses with dancing and entertainment, and good times were to be found at such taverns as the Dog & Pot by Bartletts Wharf, the Widow Day’s Crown Tavern by Clarke’s Wharf, or the Sign of the Bull by modern-day South Station.

  Boston was never as wild as the hell towns of Tortuga or Port Royal. A sailor in search of “a bit of fun” had to be wary and discreet. The Bostonian was more than willing to part him from his cash, but otherwise cared little for outsiders—least of all for those without local property or local family ties.7

  Andrieszoon set about refitting his ship. It was Yankey’s intention to refit once his compatriot was done, but in the interim the king’s proclamation prohibiting the aiding and abetting of pirates reached the city. Massachusetts customs agent William Dyre seized Mutine. This was not a popular move, and under pressure from Shrimpton and Governor Simon Bradstreet he released her after a brief time.8 Nonetheless, the buccaneers felt their warm welcome turn cool and sailed for the more temperate Caribbean.