Booty: Heroic Anniversary

February 1, 1780: David Porter is born in Boston, Massachusets. From an illustrious seafaring family - his father, also David Porter, served in the Continental Navy and famously managed to escape the hellish British prison hulk Jersey - Porter would go on to be one of the most celebrated and controversial commanders in the U.S. Navy. He is certainly at the top of my list when it comes to examples of true nautical heroes.

In his honor, here is a portion of President Madison's speech to Congress circa 1814 in which he voices his opinion of Porter's service aboard the frigate USS Essex during the War of 1812 and it's unfortunate loss to the British:

On the ocean... a second frigate has fallen into the hands of the enemy*; but the loss is hidden in the blaze of heroism with which she was defended. Captain Porter... whose previous career had been distinguished by daring enterprise, and by the fertility of genius, maintained a sanguinary contest against two ships, one of them superior to his own... until humanity tore down the colors, which valor had nailed to the mast. This officer and his comrades have added much to the rising glory of the American flag; and have merited all the effusions of gratitude, which their country is ever ready to bestow on the champions of its rights, and its safety.

* The other frigate Madison refers to was USS Chesapeake, lost in battle with HMS Shannon.

For a capable discussion of Porter's cruise aboard Essex, see this post at Historynet.

Header: David Porter USN by John Trumbull via Naval History Center

People: The Face of a Hero

I don't know many people who are involved in the business of history, if such it can be called, that are particularly interested in what the people whose era they are focusing on looked like. I have read many an unfortunately dry history book that treats the people it is allegedly informing us about like faceless automatons. It is an unfortunate problem that, I personally believe, contributes to the overt hatred of history that so many students suffer from.

For writers of historical fiction, artists and true lovers of particular historical figures, what our ancestors looked like is not only necessary to know, it can become an obsession. That's why this brief but wonderfully informative post over at Face 2 Face, the blog of the National Portrait Gallery at the Smithsonian, fascinates the heck out of me.

The tale of Commodore William Bainbridge, one of the first fighting captains in the U.S. Navy, is full of dizzying highs and claustrophobic lows. Bainbridge commanded the schooner Retaliation when she became the first ship lost to an enemy by the U.S. during the Quasi-War with France. He bore the ignominy of having to fly the Algerian flag at the masthead of the frigate George Washington while transporting the Dey of that country. Finally, back on Barbary shores once again, his ship Philadelphia grounded in Tripoli harbor and the Commodore and his men were taken prisoner and enslaved for a brief but no doubt brutal time.

After each incident, Bainbridge was exonerated by the navy board. It is a sure thing, however, that his own conscience was not so easily cleared. Finally, after a stint captaining merchant vessels, Bainbridge was given command of USS Constitution shortly after the start of the War of 1812. Taking her out of Boston, Bainbridge had the good fortune to encounter, engage and capture HMS Java off the coast of Brazil. Those who are familiar with Patrick O'Brian will remember his skillful description of the engagement - which Jack Aubrey witnesses as a passenger aboard Java - in The Fortunes of War.

This brilliant victory turned Bainbridge into a celebrity, something he honestly loved. As noted in the post, Bainbridge wrote to a friend the "the applause of my countrymen has for me greater charms than all the gold that glitters."

All that said, the most striking things about Matthew Brenckle's discussion of the Commodore are - at least for me - the startlingly immediate portrait above and this contemporary description of Bainbridge:

[He] was six feet in height, and had a finely molded and muscular frame, which enabled him to endure any amount of fatigue. His complexion was rather fair, his beard dark and strong, his eyes black, animated, and expressive. His deportment was commanding, his dress always neat; his temperament was ardent and somewhat impetuous, though he could quality it with the greatest courtesy and the most attractive amenity.

Those two put together describe a true American hero who succumbed to pneumonia at the age of 61 calling for his sword in readiness to board the enemy.

Update: for more on portraiture in the U.S. during this era, see this post over at Log Lines regarding the Nation Portrait Gallery's current exhibit "1812: A Nation Emerges."

Header: Commodore William Bainbridge by Rembrandt Peale

History: The Battle of Lake Borgne

I've written about the Battle of Lake Borgne here before. Fought entirely on water and, for the most part on December 14, 1814, the events leading up to the battle are just as interesting as those that followed. The entire dance began on December 8th, and no one - to my mind - has written about this brief but critical conflict with more enthusiasm than Dr. Jane Lucas deGrummond in her 1961 publication The Baratarians and the Battle of New Orleans. Her zest for the subject is clear in not only her descriptions but the way she addresses some of the characters as if they were not historical figures but old friends. She never calls Lieutenant Thomas ap Catesby Jones by his full name, for instance, but refers to him throughout by his familiar naval nickname: Tac Jones.

I could paraphrase until I was blue in the face but why bother? Here, for your enjoyment, is Dr. deGrummond's recitation of the Battle of Lake Borgne:

While Jackson thought all his orders were being executed, Admiral Cochrane's invasion fleet approached Chandeleur Island. On December 8, his 74's anchored off that island while the rest of the fleet took a position between Ship and Cat Islands. Only the lighter vessels could navigate from this point which was the entrance to Mississippi Sound - the shoal coastal waters between Mobile and Lake Borgne.

Cochrane had a good understanding of the area, not only from maps and books published a few years earlier by English observers in America but also from information which certain Spaniards, formerly residents of New Orleans, gave him. This was confirmed by Spanish fishermen who had a village of 20 or 30 huts about one mile from the mouth of Bayou Bienvenu which emptied into Lake Borgne.

The British could not attack New Orleans from the mouth of the Mississippi. Vessels dependent upon sails could not hope to pass Fort St. Philip and English Turn against the strong current of the river. Neither could they enter Lake Pontchartrain and attack New Orleans from the rear because Cochrane thought Fort Petites Coquilles defending the entrance to Lake Pontchartrain had 40 pieces of artillery mounted and 500 troops. These would be sufficient to annihilate any force that tried to enter the lake through Rigolets.

Cochrane decided to bypass the Rigolets and attack New Orleans from a point which he could reach by crossing Lake Borgne and ascending Bayou Bienvenu. The mouth of this bayou was 60 miles from where his ships were anchored. His plan was to land all the troops on Isle-aux-Pois which was midway between the ships and the mouth of the bayou. He had only enough small vessels to transport one-third of his troops at a time. From Isle-aux-Pois the landing craft, guided by Spanish fishermen, could transport troops in relays the 30 remaining miles to Bayou Bienvenu.

Meanwhile, Tac Jones and his five gunboats had been studying the concentration of British ships between Ship and Cat Island. The British sighted the gunboats on December 12. They would have to be captured because Cochrane's troops had to be ferried 60 miles in open boats. Jones saw that the British had discovered him and scurried before the wind, hoping to make the 50 miles to Fort Petites Coquilles on the Rigolets.

In hot pursuit was Captain Lockyer (the same Captain Lockyer who had been sent to Jean Laffite) with 45 barges, 43 cannon and 1,200 sailors and marines. The flotilla pursued the gunboats two days.

On the morning of December 14, Jones and the gunboats had bad luck. The wind died away completely at 1 A.M. The gunboats were between Malheureux Island and Point Claire on the mainland. Jones stationed the gunboats in line across the channel and waited.

About 9:30 Captain Lockyer saw Commodore Porter's old gig, the Alligator, trying to join the five gunboats. He detached four boats with nearly 200 men to capture this cockle-shell. In his report he described his splendid prize as "an armed sloop."

One hour later the enemy came within range and the gunboats deliberately opened fire. The battle lasted three hours. Ten Americans were killed and 35 wounded. All the gunboat captains except one were wounded. The British captured the gunboats at a cost of 17 men killed and 77 wounded. They returned to Cat Island with their prisoners and captured gunboats.

Jones and the other wounded were put on the Gorgon, a large storeship. There a tall and gentlemanly individual conversed freely with them "respecting his future arrangements for the discharge of his duty." He was to be the future "collector of the revenue of his Britannic Majesty in the Port of New Orleans."

Dr. deGrummond's noticeable eagerness to describe each place by name is typical of southeastern Louisianan and indeed Gulf Coast storytelling. The names fascinate us just as much as the story does. What a marvelous job of including detail the Doctor has done here. I could read it over and over and, in the end, feel sorry only for the unfortunate dead and wounded. Oh, and that poor, unnamed guy who anticipated growing very wealthy off the "revenue of his Britannic Majesty in the Port of New Orleans."

Don't count your eggs before they're in the pudding, dear sir.

Header: The Battle of Lake Borgne by Thomas L. Hornbook via Wikimedia 

Ships: Privileged to Serve

Though I know that "Privileged to Serve" is generally a motto of the U.S. Army, this wonderful article from the Boston Globe on line makes it clear that the members of the U.S. Navy who work the oldest commissioned warship afloat feel very privileged indeed.

USS Constitution - the fabled Old Ironsides - carries a crew of 60 sailors and each and every one is honored to serve aboard her.  The quotes in the article are fascinating as we learn about men and women who have seen duty in such far flung places as African, European and Asian ports of call literally "jump at the chance" for a spot aboard Constitution.

As an example, Anthony Costa, senior chief boatswain's mate and sailing master on the ship, has this to say in the article:

What better way is there to learn about our nation's naval history?  This is where it all began.  The Constitution is one of the ships that said to the world that America wasn't fooling around when it came to the Navy.  

Constitution is a working sailing ship and, though it is a rare event to find her sailing past the outer harbor in Boston, she is on the water at least six times a year.  That means that all the modern sailors assigned to her need to handle her rigging and sails just as their ancestors would have. 

To this day, Constitution even has a master at arms which was one of the original positions in the U.S. Navy.  It would probably come as a surprise to men like Stephen Decatur, James Barron and David Porter that the position is today filled by a woman, Marina Chavez.  Other things have changed too; as Chavez notes, one of the master at arm's duties originally was to assist with flogging.  "No longer part of my job description," she says.

If you'd like to know more about Constitution's participation in events celebrating the bicentennial of the War of 1812, or just find out the museum's hours, check out their official website.

Happy 4th of July to all the Brethren in the U.S. of A.  We've a proud heritage and we should never forget what our ancestors went through to ensure our freedom. As John Adams so righteously put it:

Posterity!  You will never know how much it cost the present generation to preserve your freedom!  I hope you will make good use of it.  If you do not, I shall repent in Heaven that I ever took half the pains to preserve it.

To bring that into modern terms, allow me to quote another righteous American, RuPaul:  "Don't f**k it up."

Header:  Marina Chavez, USS Constitution's Master-at-Arms via Boston.com 

History: Aboard USS Essex

May 28, 1813: At the height of the War of 1812, Captain David Porter aboard USS Essex of thirty-six guns, takes five British whalers in the South Pacific. Here is an excerpt from Porter’s report to the Naval Board of around the same time:


I have completely broken up the British navigation in the Pacific; the vessels which had not been captured by me were laid up, and dared not venture out… They have furnished me amply with sails, cordage, cables anchors, provisions, medicines, and stores of every description; and the slop-shops on board them have furnished clothing fore the seamen. We have in fact lived on the enemy since I have been in that sea, every prize having proved a well-found store-ship for me.

Take a moment, you among the U.S. Brethren, to remember the heroic spirits of our service men and women of all eras on this Memorial Day.

Header: USS Essex via Age of Sail (see sidebar)

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Seaman

This is a term seldom bestowed among seafaring men upon their associates, unless they are known to be pre-eminent in every duty of the thorough-paced tar; one who never issues a command which he is not competent to execute himself, and is deemed an authority on every matter relating to sea-craft.


Thus begins Admiral Smyth’s definition of the often improperly used word seaman in The Sailor’s Word Book. In the terms used by seasoned mariners, a seaman in a sailor’s sailor. Almost without fail he is an officer who has come up through the ranks, if not starting out there, he has at least spent time as a foremast jack where he learned to heave a lead and haul a cable like any other tar. In his capacity of command he has not lost the memory of those days and, indeed, continues to embrace the work of running a ship. He pushes on the capstan, reefs the sails and works the pumps alongside those he commands. He is sound in judgment; no flogging captain has ever been called a seaman. This type of commander runs a happy ship.

From the annals of history, the names of such captains tend to spring to mind more readily than those of a different nature. Horatio Nelson, James Cook and Thomas Cochrane are all premier examples when discussing the Royal Navy. On the other side of the Atlantic, John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur and David Porter are names that only scratch the surface of such a list. Then too, perhaps to many’s surprise, there were such men among pirates and privateers: Bartholomew Roberts, for instance, was known as an artist, the word used in his era for an expert navigator, and a sober if initially reluctant captain. Woodes Rogers was a right seaman as well, and I would be remiss as an admirer and a descendant to go without including the Baratarians Dominique Youx and Renato Beluche.

In mentioning those last two names, which I always do fondly, the perhaps unfamiliar term seaman-gunner comes to mind. This is a man who has such thorough knowledge of guns and artillery that he is well qualified to both lead a gun crew and train men to the guns. As both men proved on Rodriguez canal that fateful week in 1814-1815, they were both veteran seamen-gunners.

Seamanship is, as Admiral Smyth advises:

The noble practical art of rigging and working a ship, and performing with effect all her various evolutions at sea.

Finally, albeit reluctantly, I must mention that to this day the seaman’s disgrace is another term for that worst case scenario known as a foul – now frequently spoken as fouled – anchor. And a shame it is, too.

Happy Saturday, Brethren; may you all, in your lifetimes or only shortly after, be remembered by your peers as able seaman.

Header: Crow’s Nest by Scott Waddell via American Gallery

Booty: Bravest of the Brave

We've talked a lot about heroes lately; David Porter, Thomas Truxtun, USS Constellation; when dealing with our ancestors at sea the list is endless. Today, the story of a more modern hero whose name I cannot, unfortunately, find (please leave a comment if you know). The handsome gunner pictured above who served in the Royal Navy during World War II.


The picture was taken by Horace Bristol, a member of the RN’s photographers unit. He was in a plane rescuing Allied airman from Rabaul Bay in Papua New Guinea when he took this picture. Here is the brief description from Bristol himself:

… we got a call to pick up an airman who was down in the Bay. The Japanese were shooting at him from the island, and when they saw us they started shooting at us. The man who was shot down was temporarily blinded, so one of our crew stripped off his clothes and jumped in to bring him aboard. He couldn’t have swum very well wearing his boots and clothes. As soon as we could, we took off. We weren’t waiting around for anybody to put on formal clothes. We were being shot at and wanted to get the hell out of there. The naked man got back into his position at his gun in the blister of the plane.

When a job needs doing, a guy like this just does it regardless of the circumstances. More often than not, unnamed heroes are the best kind. 

Picture by kind courtesy of Mid-Century via Perpetual Collapse and Miss Folly; many thanks one and all

Ships: America's Flagship

NOLA Navy Week is approaching fast, and in a curious coincidence (or if I am less humble a case of great minds thinking alike), the inimitable Edward Branley came out with an excellent piece on USS Wasp yesterday. That just as I was preparing this post on another ship in the United States Navy’s early fleet: USS Constellation. Though it does not appear that Constellation will be among the 10 tall ships featured at the event beginning April 17th, she is certainly among the brightest lights in navy history.


Constellation was named not for any group of stars in the sky but for the 13 stars in the blue canton of the first U.S. flag. She was the first of the navy’s original six frigates to be launched, on March 27, 1794, and the first to be commissioned. She also was the first ship to see action in the first war participated in by the U.S. as a country, and the first to take a prize. A lot of firsts, and that said without hyperbole.

In construction and size, Constellation did not differ vastly from her five sister frigates. She was heavy hulled, made of the white oak that could only be found in North America and that so confounded the United States’ enemies at sea. Fans of the movie Master and Commander will remember the discussions about “Yankee built” Acheron, with Tom Pullings remarking “you have to wonder about her hull.” Such was the case with most of the frigates that came out of the shipyards on America’s Atlantic coast at the time.

Constellation was built in Baltimore, displaced 1,265 tons, was 41 feet at her beam and 164 feet in length. She carried a compliment of 340 men and 36 guns. She was a fast sailer too; the crew of the French ship La Vengeance, whom she defeated in a 5 hour firefight during the Quasi-War, nicknamed her “Yankee Racehorse.”

Thomas Truxtun, a leading light in the new navy, was Constellation’s first commander and he whipped her crew into shape immediately. Truxtun was a veteran of the Continental Navy and he held dear the Royal Navy traditions of honor, conduct, gunnery and – where necessary – discipline. He expected great things of himself, his crew and his ship, and all delivered.

Truxtun and Constellation won the first battle in the United States’ so called Quasi-War with France. The war began in 1798 and was almost exclusively engaged with issues of free trade on the high seas. On February 9, 1799, Constellation defeated and captured the frigate L’Insurgente, said to be the best sailer in the French navy. Coincidently, yesterday’s subject, brilliant naval leader David Porter, was aboard Constellation as a Midshipman at the time.

Constellation continued her successes, serving admirably in both Barbary Wars and the War of 1812. In 1840 she circumnavigated the globe, and became the first U.S. ship to enter ports in China. Here she helped to facilitate the tea trade that would see clipper ships following in her wake for decades to come.

Back home, time was beginning to tell. Constellation was now almost 60 years old and an overhaul was out of the question. She was broken up, but some of her timbers were used to build a sloop of war in 1854. Given the same name, this ship saw action not only in war but in humanitarian efforts as well.

In the 1859, Constellation was put on the West African station where she was tasked with intercepting slave ships, freeing the people therein and breaking up the African slave trade. The History Channel has an excellent documentary available on Constellation’s West African mission. After service as a Union vessel in the Civil War, she was sent to Ireland with humanitarian aid for those stricken by the famine. You can read more about that at the Naval History Blog.

Sloop of war Constellation was eventually used exclusively as a training ship and she is now permanently docked in Baltimore where she is a maritime museum. A subsequent aircraft carrier, port of call San Diego, was also named Constellation.

The true flag ship of the original U.S. Navy thus lives on, not only in memory but in service as well. As President Ronald Reagan told her crew in 1981: “Let friend and foe alike know that America has the muscle to back up its words, and ships like this and men like you are that muscle… you are America’s Flagship.”

Header: USS Constellation by Antoine Roux c 1805

People: Death of a Hero

March 28, 1843: David Porter, first Commodore of the New Orleans naval station, hero of the Barbary Wars and the War of 1812, pirate hunter and first Admiral of the Mexican Navy, died at Pera near Constantinople, Turkey, where he was serving as U.S. minister.  He is buried in Philadelphia.

War-doom'd the wide expanse to plow,
Of ocean with a single prow,
Midst hosts of foes with lynx's eye
And lion fang close hovering by.
You, Porter, dared the dangerous course,
Without a home, without resource.
Save that which heroes always find,
In nautical skill and power of mind;
Save where your stars in conquest shone,
And stripes made wealth of foes your own.
~ from Ode to David Porter

Header: 19th c engraving of Porter's monument via Lossing's Field Book of the War of 1812 online

Ships: A Bold and Daring Act

On October 31, 1803, the frigate Philadelphia, William Bainbridge commanding, was run aground on a sandbar at the mouth of Tripoli Harbor and captured by the Tripolitans. Her crew was a stellar cast of future naval heroes and some of the 300 who survived to live through nearly a year of torturous captivity will be more than familiar to the Brethren. Among them were Bainbridge himself, his Lieutenant David Porter and Midshipman Daniel Tod Patterson. These men and their fellows would be rescued in a daring raid by U.S. Marines led by William Eaton, the memory of which action remains in “shores of Tripoli” line from the Marine Corps anthem.


Before that was accomplished, however, the Barbary pirates’ possession of one of the United States’ most modern engines of war – a heavy frigate – had to be addressed with all speed. While President Jefferson was ordering Eaton’s top secret mission to Tripoli, Commodore Edward Preble, commanding the Mediterranean station, was planning the best way to either reclaim or destroy the Philadelphia.

It was quickly recognized that trying to recapture the frigate in Tripoli’s heavily fortified harbor would be a disaster of epic proportions. Preble had to realize, however, that destroying the ship would mean at the very least the loss of several men but he had no other options. Unbeknownst to Preble, the Tripolitans did not have the resources to repair and then operate the heavy frigate so this fact was not a consideration in his decision making. In January of 1804, the Commodore called for volunteers to sign up on what could become a suicide mission.

The almost immediate response of Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, then in command of the schooner Enterprise, no doubt encouraged others to join the mission. Decatur already had a reputation for intrepid action and fearlessness; by February, 64 volunteers and two ships – Enterprise and Intrepid – had committed to the endeavor. The crews set out with a local pilot familiar with Tripoli Harbor on February 3rd.

Arriving in Syracuse, Decatur transferred his volunteers to the ketch Intrepid, a captured Tripolitan, and headed for Tripoli. They encountered two weeks of dirty weather, a delay for which they were in no way prepared. The ketch, generally manned by a crew of no more than twenty, was overcrowded and leaky and conditions grew worse as the days dragged on. Things did not immediately improve when Intrepid reached her destination, either; Decatur ordered the majority of his crew below and dressed those above as local merchants. On February 16th, he cruised slowly into the harbor at dusk spying Philadelphia at anchor just under the walls of the main fortress.

With his usual panache, Decatur put Intrepid along side the frigate and called over the side to request permission to tie up next to her. This was granted, but moments later an alarm bell was sounded aboard Philadelphia. Intrepid had been identified as a foreign intruder.

Decatur responded by ordering his men to board the frigate. The reaction of the crew was immediate and swift; the Barbary corsairs had no time to respond, and most barely managed to arm themselves. The majority of the men aboard Philadelphia jumped into the harbor and swam for it. Decatur’s crew set the frigate ablaze almost immediately, while the remaining pirates who stayed to fight were quickly overcome. Within twenty minutes, Decatur and his volunteers were back aboard Intrepid, rowing away in the blazing, red light from the dying USS Philadelphia. Decatur did not lose a single American in the action, and only one man was wounded.

Word of the daring raid spread throughout the Mediterranean with the same speed that fire had consumed Philadelphia to the waterline. In one of history’s true moments of well-informed hyperbole, Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson – arguably the most brilliant naval strategist of the era – commented that Decatur’s raid was “the most bold and daring act of the age.”

For an in depth analysis of Commodore Preble’s career as commander in the Mediterranean, including his reasons for ordering Decatur’s action, see today’s post over at the Naval History Blog.

Header: An early 19th c print of Decatur boarding Philadelphia via Navy History

Booty: A Hero's Cutlass

Speaking of David Porter, Thomas Cochrane and Jack Aubrey, as we were on Wednesday, I thought it only fitting to introduce you to the kind of cutlass that the former would most probably have carried. Porter’s handsome sword would, sorry to say to the British Brethren, have made the other two pea green with envy.


Pictured above is the now very rare but in its heyday surprisingly ubiquitous “Baltimore pattern” naval cutlass. This sturdy and gorgeous piece of steel was the go to sword for naval officers from 1804 on. The one shown above is in the collection of our mate Mike over at The Pirate’s Lair. According to their website, it was acquired by them from the Drechsler Collection; prior to that it was in the possession of Samuel Kaplin.

The Baltimore cutlass was developed in the fledgling U.S. from designs popular in both Britain and France, but with improvements that proved very worthwhile. One of these was the so called figure eight handle made of metal rather than wood, to better protect the user’s hand. Some grips were of turned wood, usually oak, covered with metal. These would probably have been made custom for well to do officers. Men like Porter, who had known the life of a foremast Jack, would have carried the standard issue weapon, at least early in their careers.

Another improvement was the blade. Earlier cutlasses which had one edge that was “false” while the other was sharp. In the case of the Baltimore pattern, both edges were sharp, making the cutlass twice as deadly. The point of the blade was also “clipped”. This point was sharper and less rounded, making stabbing as with an epee blade more effortless and, again, deadly.

Authentic Baltimore cutlasses are stamped, usually on the hilt, with the initials “US”. As noted over at The Pirate’s Lair, this is an indicator that the sword was indeed issued for military service. Of course, these types of cutlasses are very rare today. Most of those in private collections that are not family heirlooms turned up in or around Baltimore, thus the modern name. Baltimore was a central port for the U.S. up until the Civil War and may very well have been a common place to stage sales of surplus naval equipment from the late 18th century until the mid-19th. This may explain the concentration of surviving cutlasses in this area, but that is pure speculation on my part.

Having only ever fenced with an epee Musketeer-style myself, I would love to get my hands on one of these testosterone-fueled weapons. I can only imagine the satisfying – if gory – hacking that such a hefty, double-edged sword would afford. But, alas, my wallet is far lighter than my ambition. Should any of the Brethren have upwards of $16,000 U.S. to invest, however, Heritage Auctions has a Baltimore pattern cutlass fit for a Commodore available here.

Header: Baltimore pattern cutlass via The Pirate’s Lair website where you can find more pictures and links to more information about these swords

Books: Curious Connections

I'm not one of those people who looks for links and conspiracies in everything they see, trying desperately to connect the unconnected dots of life and research to make some sort of sense out of nonsense. That’s just silly. But when there is a legitimate connection between things and/or people I find fascinating, I get genuinely excited. Today’s post is about one of those curious connections.


On February 1, 1780 David Porter Jr. was born in Boston. Porter’s father served in the Continental Navy. Two of Porter’s sons, David Farragut and David Dixon Porter, would go on to achieve greatness in the U.S. and Union navies. Porter himself was held prisoner in Tripoli during the Barbary Wars, was the first Commodore of the New Orleans Naval Station and, as captain of USS Essex, all but wiped out the British whaling industry in the South Pacific during the War of 1812. With all that success, Porter was an outspoken leader who was not well liked by his peers or superiors; his unfortunate propensity for speaking the truth made them skittish at best. After what he felt were unjustified reprimands following his pirate hunting success commanding the Mosquito Fleet out of Key West, Porter left the U.S. and took command of the fledgling Mexican navy. This operation would find but little success and Porter eventually returned to his natal country. He died in Turkey in 1843, where he was serving as U.S. Ambassador. He is buried in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Porter’s brilliant if unstable career is oddly mirrored by a well known seaman from the other side of the pond: Thomas Cochrane. Both found success and then vilification in their countries’ navies. Both moved on to command the maritime forces of rebellious Spanish colonies. And both returned to their countries to take up positions of state rather than turn back to the sea. The two men, according to their biographers, admired and envied one another, even exchanging correspondence on more than one occasion.

These facts in and of themselves stand as curious connections but, to my mind, it gets better. Enter the literary genius who was known as Patrick O’Brian.

O’Brian is often disdainful of Americans in general and the U.S. Navy in particular in his Aubrey/Maturin novels. Two of the nastier intelligencers in the series, Henry Johnson and Louisa Wogan, are from the U.S. Stephen’s beloved Diana is whisked from his grasp by the treacherous Johnson. Jack thinks so little of the U.S. Navy that he asks British women aboard HMS Java if they have been raped by the Americans after they capture the ship. These are just a few highlights. All that said, it is to David Porter – not Thomas Cochrane – that O’Brian turns for inspiration in more than one of his wonderful books.

Anthony Gary Brown addresses this point directly in The Patrick O’Brian Muster Book. Of The Far Side of the World he notes:

In this book O’Brian states his inspiration as the pursuit of USS Essex by HMS Phoebe in 1814; the American intent to disrupt the valuable British whaling trade was real enough, but O’Brian’s plot is almost entirely of his own invention (and Peter Weir’s version of it in his 2003 movie based on the book was largely that director’s own creation).

The pursuit and eventual destruction of Essex by Captain Hillyar’s Phoebe was one of the low points in Porter’s career, despite his huge success in the Great South Sea. He lost a number of officers and men in the battle at Valparaiso Harbor and only barely made it home in a leaky whaling vessel.

Brown also points out that the “battles between English and French surrogates at Moahu” in The Truelove (published as Clarissa Oakes in Britain) were most probably inspired by direct action on Porter’s part. In 1813 Porter and his crews assisted in a mêlée between Typee and Happah tribesmen on the island of Nooaheevah in the Marquesas. The hope was to secure the island itself and eventually the entire chain under U.S. protection but the bloody action eventually came to nothing. Virtually the same situations – right down to a brutal slaughter of natives with cannon and a compliant lady companion for Captain Aubrey – are detailed in The Truelove. The similarities here are even more striking than they are in The Far Side of the World. The ultimate failure of Aubrey’s bid for British control of the island mirrors Porter’s experience.

O’Brian was not only a master story teller but an excellent researcher who knew that fact was usually more interesting than fiction, if told the right way. It’s not surprising that he saw the similarities between his larger-than-life hero Aubrey and David Porter, USN. For me personally, it remains one of those delightfully curious connections that keep me excited about history and literature and writing year after year.

Header: Master and Commander desktop via dutchtilt

History: For Beluche's Birthday

Today marks the 231st birthday of one of my favorite ancestors, Renato Beluche. All the Brethren are well aware of his many claims to fame as smuggler, privateer, patriot and national hero in the United State, Venezuela, Columbia and Panama. It is unfortunate that so many people in his natal country are not aware of his contributions to their freedom and way of life. Although folks in Louisiana and particularly New Orleans continue to keep his memory alive.


With so many note-worthy actions packed into one 80 year life (and they say corsairs died young!) it is not surprising that Uncle Renato is occasionally claimed by other families in the Western Hemisphere as their own. Who wouldn’t want a golden apple among the branches of their family tree?

Perhaps the most debated, if not necessarily famous, argument for Renato Beluche quite literally being someone else comes from the family of Puerto Rican freedom fighter Mathias Brugman. As an example, some Brugman historians offer the comparison signatures of Pierre Brugman (top) and Renato Beluche (bottom) above. They note that the bold, looping Bs of both signatures seem too similar to have been written by different hands. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Mathias Brugman was born in New Orleans in 1811 where his parents, in the baptismal records of St. Louis Cathedral, are listed as Pierre (or Pedro) Brugman, born in Curacao and Isabel (or Ysabel) Duliebre, birthplace unknown. Mathias had a brother and a sister whose births are also noted in the same records. In 1816, the family permanently relocated to Puerto Rico.

The name Brugman (sometimes noted as Bruckman or Brukman) is the source of the speculation that Mathias may in fact have been the son not of Pierre Brugman, Dutch merchant, but of Renato Beluche, American privateer.

Some specific discussion on the issue appears at the Brugman Family Commentaries on the Familia website where it seems the argument is that the two men may have been one and the same. The evidence for this is slim; particularly when one looks at the commentaries themselves, but the argument seems to continue, bouncing around the web like a curious if little-known meme. Feel free to read the entire commentaries for yourself, but allow me to point out a few specific items.

The text notes that Beluche’s date of birth was December 7, 1780 and that his father’s place of birth is listed as Tours, in France. As Jane Lucas De Grummond notes in her definitive biography Renato Beluche: Smuggler, Privateer and Patriot, 1780-1860, the corsair was born on December 15 and baptized on the following 7th of January. The records list his father as Rene Beluche of New Orleans. According to the genealogical data I have been able to uncover, Rene was the son of Charles Beluche who was born in France in 1697, possibly in the village of Pigot on the Bay of Biscay. It should be noted that, in typical fashion, the baptismal record at the Cathedral is somewhat incorrect; the baby’s given name is listed as Raynado, not Renato.

The real confusion begins with a French letter of marque issued in March of 1810 for the brig L’Intrepide. The owner of the ship is listed as Joseph Sauvinet, a prominent New Orleans merchant and Laffite associate from the earliest days of Barataria. Her captain, according to Dr. De Grummond who is taking her information from legal documentation of the U.S. Navy, is named as Pierre Brugman. A description of Brugman, also in the ship’s papers, shows him to be a virtual twin of Beluche: He is thirty years old, five feet three inches tall and has brown hair. Probably the most arguable point in favor of this Captain Brugman being the revolutionary Mathais’ father is the birthplace he gives: Curacao.

From here, however, the argument begins to unravel. L’Intrepide was, in fact, captured as a pirate by Commodore David Porter in March when she came into the mouth of the Mississippi “in distress” and her captain’s name was then given as Brugman. The captain was never found aboard her, however, and Beluche – not Brugman – appeared at the French consulate a few days later seeking redress for the unlawful seizure of his ship by the U.S. Navy. The ship in question’s name is listed as L’Intrepide.

By May of 1810, L’Intrepide was back in the Gulf where a documented prize, La Ynvicta Espana, was taken by her. As De Grummond notes, this prize is listed in the Historic New Orleans Collection Catalogue No.44-2; the captain of L’Intrepide in this document is named Beluche.

The name Pedro Brugman is again connected with privateering activity in 1815. He is listed as captain of the privateer La Popa in connection with a cross complaint filed against the U.S. Navy. La Popa was owned by Renato Beluche and the complaint referred to a prize taken by her almost immediately after the Battle of New Orleans under a Cartagenan letter of marque. Given that the U.S. had not yet officially recognized Cartagena as a separate state and Beluche was awaiting official pardon from the President after serving on the line with Andrew Jackson, one can easily see why he would want to use an alias in such a case.

Perhaps the most head-scratching evidence provided by the Brugman Family Commentaries is the line “…Beluche, alias Brugman, disappeared during late March 1810 eluding charges for smuggling and did not resurface until February 1817.” Though smuggling charges were certainly brought up on more than one occasion against more than one Beluche, those would have been the least of Renato’s worries. In fact, much of his time between 1810 and 1817 was spent in well documented and above-board pursuits. His name appears on a U.S. letter of marque issued in 1812 as captain of the schooner Spy which would go on to capture the British warship Jane in December. Beluche’s name appears in court records in connection with the libel of Jane the following January. Within a few months of this filing, Beluche would be listed among the mariners holding some of the first letters of marque issued from Cartagena and his service as gun captain of a 24 pound cannon on Rodriguez Canal during the Battle of New Orleans is more than well documented.

I personally have no doubt that Beluche and Brugman were two separate men and that Mathias Brugman, the Puerto Rican revolutionary, is not the son of my ancestor. The curious point though, at least for me, is not those distinctive signatures. It is the letter of marque with Brugman’s name listed as captain of L’Intrepide and the accuracy in the documentation of his birthplace. Did Brugman in fact command the brig until her capture by Porter at the Balize? When she was released, did he turn over her command to Beluche or did Sauvinet, her rightful owner, select someone else – namely Beluche – in his stead? Or did Beluche know Brugman personally and simply choose the guise of an acquaintance when the need for discretion arose?

Finally, are the signatures shown above so very similar that they can unequivocally be said to have been consistently penned by the same hand? For that, I have an answer; no, they’re not. Beyond that, well, this is what makes history – and genealogy – so much fun.

Header: Comparison of Pierre Brugman and Renato Beluche signatures via Familia

Booty: Dressing Down Pirate Style

I know my tastes run to the esoteric. When it comes to gifts, I would rather receive a signed copy of any O’Brian book ever than another sweater but sweaters are easier to get. And no amount of awesome literature is going to keep you warm when it’s below freezing. I’m not impractical, just quirky. I imagine many of the Brethren are too.


That said, a t-shirt or hoody is something everyone needs, but there’s no reason to go for the one with the generic design when you can add a nautical flavor to that simple gift. And that is where today’s highly recommended website comes in.

PirateMod has an incredible inventory of piratical and seafaring gear to wear from head to toe. Their designs range from traditional to modern and everything in between. And they are not just about freebooting; many of their designs are so purely nautical they'd look quite fitting on David Porter.  There's even seafaring gift wrap.

Their website is easy to navigate, they carry a wide range of sizes, their shipping is reasonable and prompt and if you sign up for emails you can get in on t-shirt deals at just $4.00 with new designs each week. If you’re a sailor on a budget, that is something to smile about.

Hop over to PirateMod and peruse the offerings at your leisure. Sometimes the simplest gift is the most elegant, and the best appreciated.

Happy Friday, Brethren; I’ll spy ye on the morrow for SMS.

Header: One of my all time favorite PirateMod designs, which needs no explanation from me

Ships: The Pirate's Choice

In 1713 the shipyard of Andrew Robinson at Gloucester, Massachusetts launched a completely new type of ship. She was light, no more than 100 tons in her true form, shallow of draft at a sleek five feet, could be run by as few as 75 men and sailed briskly regardless of the direction of the wind. Robinson called her the schooner and she ushered in a new age of fast, effective sailing not dreamed of prior to her introduction.


The word schooner is a conundrum as there are similar words in most Latinate languages and German as well. John Batchelor and Christopher Chant offer that the word actually comes from the Scottish dialect of Gaelic in their The Complete Encyclopedia of Sailing Ships. According to them, schooner derives from scoon:

… a verb describing the skipping progress of a stone skimmed over the water.

No more poetic description could be used to help one imagine the quick, bouncing form of a schooner in full sail. The sails, routinely fore-and-aft, were rigged on two masts and at first included one or two square topsails on the fore. These were replaced in the late 18th century by so called jackyard topsails that were shaped very much like a jib sail (as illustrated on both fore and main mast in the painting at the header). This configuration of sail made the schooner a viable option for all types of conditions as she did not have to run before the wind to attain high speeds, as was the case with square-rigged vessels. She could sail with the wind on any quarter, turn and tack more readily and quickly, and keep to coastal waters where larger, deeper draft ships would founder.

This speed, ease of handling and ability to be run by a smaller crew, as fore-and-aft sails were more easily handled than square rigging, made the schooner the ship of choice for just about every use. By the dawn of the 19th century, she was being built in Europe as well as the U.S. and could be found in virtually any port around the world. She was used as a mail packet, a tender for ships of the line, a troop and supply transport. Most notably, she was a favorite vessel of both pirates of the Golden Age and the new breed of privateers that came after them. A stop in the Laffite brothers’ Barataria Bay circa 1810 would have revealed half a dozen schooners of various rigging at anchor at any given time. Along with the hermaphrodite brig – which itself was a variation of the schooner type – nothing was more trusted or handy in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean at the time.

Because of its popularity with the men of a piratical bent, the schooner was also the ship of choice for the best of pirate hunters. David Porter, the brilliantly successful Commodore of the Mosquito Fleet that virtually wiped out the tail end of the pirate class in the West Indies, counted on schooners to enter lagoons and bays around islands like Cuba. This allowed him and his men to ferret out the worst offenders and relieve U.S. merchants of the predations that were costing the entire country an arm and a leg.

In the 1840s, with the dawn of the California gold rush and the need for even more speed, the schooner type was modified again. Square rigging was added to her light frame, along with a third mast, and the legendary clipper ship was born. Schooners are still a favorite vessel with sailors of all types, myself included. Their ease of handling and beautiful lines are hard to resist. And what could be better than to be aboard a fast runner on a clear day? Not much at all.

Header: Early 19th century clipper ship by an unknown artist

History: The Continental Navy and Pirate Democracy

The first was named Alfred, in honor of the greatest Navy that ever existed; the second, Columbus, after the discoverer of this quarter of the globe; the third, Cortez, after the discoverer of the northern part of the continent; the fourth, Andrew Doria, in honor of the great Genoese admiral; and the fifth, Providence, the name of the town where she was purchased and the residence of Governor Hopkins and his brother Esek, whom we appointed the first captain.


This quote comes from John Adams in his role as a member of the Continental Congress. In it, he delineates the first five vessels of the Continental Navy. Upon those vessels, of course, discipline was not an option but Congress was keen to ensure that the potentially out of control discipline that reigned in the Royal Navy of the day did not trickle down to the newly established fleet of the United Colonies of North America. To that end, a written set of Rules and Regulations were approved and enacted on November 28, 1775.

There are 44 Articles in total dealing with everything from victualling to pay to “divine service”. Some specific points are worth noting on this 236th anniversary of their establishment, particularly those that obviously try to distinguish the new naval force from its ancient parent.

Article 1 is telling in and of itself; the first issue on hand is not day to day life aboard ship but duty, honor, and the importance of setting a good example:

The commanders of all ships and vessels belonging to the Thirteen United Colonies are strictly required to shew in themselves a good example of honor and virtue to their officers and men…

A commander may be the law at sea but he is not above it. Like a modern head coach of an NFL team, whatever happens aboard his ship is ultimately his responsibility and/or fault. Leading by example is not just a good idea, it is a given.

“Divine service,” which in general meant reading from the Bible, is expected to be performed twice a day with a sermon preached on Sunday barring “bad weather or other extraordinary accidents prevent it.” Most ships of this time, even in the Royal Navy, did not carry a chaplain, however. Sailors imagined holy men aboard as bad luck. Although Article 2 does not say so, a reading of the Articles of War – which Article 7 states must be done once a month – was an acceptable substitute.

Other Articles ban cursing and drunkenness, with the commander given specific parameters as to punishments for same. Article 4 specifically gives the most severe punishment open to a captain without recourse to consultation with a superior officer – a Commodore – or tribunal of courts martial:

No Commander shall inflict any punishment upon a seaman beyond twelve lashes upon his bare back with a cat of nine-tails…

This clearly speaks to the brutal practices of some Royal Navy captains who would order up to 500 lashes, sometimes for minor offenses.

Care is taken to see that men are paid in a timely manner and that their names are entered into ship’s books appropriately. “A convenient place” is to be set up for sick and injured men and the need for a surgeon and surgeon’s mates is also indicated. Fishing is not just encouraged but mandated when possible, so that the men and particularly the sick have fresh food. The purser is admonished to inspect stored provisions “… and if the bread proves damp to have it aired on the quarter-deck or poop…”

Unlike the Royal Navy, where sailors who died or were killed at sea might have their things sold at auction by their mates, Article 23 mandates that “… cloaths, bedding and other things of such persons…” should be returned to their families.

Article 26 specifically addresses a commander’s duty when faced with an enemy ship. This Article, wherein the captain is again expected to lead by example and “order all things in his ship in a proper posture for fight” was the one repeatedly thrown up in James Baron’s face over the Chesapeake/Leopard Affair, eventually leading to the duel that killed Stephen Decatur.

A commander is given permission to take a life in time of battle when a man deserts his “duty or station”. This occurred when David Porter’s Essex met HMS Phoebe in Valparaiso Harbor. Essex’s gunner deserted his post, saying he would not stay to be slaughtered “like a sheep”. Porter, enraged, gave his adoptive son, Midshipman David Farragut, a pistol and admonished him: “Do your duty, sir.” The gunner was not located before Essex struck to Phoebe. The only other Article that addresses immediate punishment by death addresses cases of murder.

Article 32 gives any crewman, from ship’s boy to First Lieutenant, the right of redress if he feels he has “cause for complaint”. This Article specifically states that if the petitioner does not receive a fair hearing from his direct superior, he may petition the captain.

While these Rules and Regulations for a new navy maintain the disciplines necessary for the running of a capable ship, the tone is very different from those of the Royal Navy. The new egalitarianism and the belief that every man should be heard seeped into the wood and brass of those first five ships and it carries on to this day. One might boldly say that a bit of pirate democracy stood on the decks of the Navy of the United Colonies of North America.

Header: The Continental Fleet at Sea by Newland Van Powell c 1974

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Waist

For those of us who pour over nautical fiction, words like waist and waisters come up a good deal. What they are referring to may not be so readily discernable. That said, I fully imagine that the Brethren have no trouble with them but educating a green hand is what we’re about around here, right mates?


The Sailor’s Word Book defines waist as:

That portion of the main deck of a ship of war, contained between the fore and main hatchways, or between the half-deck and galley.

While the right Honorable Admiral Smyth’s book generally deals with men-of-war, explaining the focus of that excerpt, most ships of one or more masts have what is referred to as a “waist”; that is, literally the middle of the ship or midships.

It probably goes without saying that the waist, like any other portion of a ship, comes with its own accoutrement, if you will allow. Thus there is the waist anchor, a spare stowed in the ship’s waist. Waist boards are the notches wherein a ship’s gangway can be secured. Waist cloths are the canvas that cover rolled up hammocks, particularly when preparing for battle. They are often painted to match the ship’s hull colors or chequering. The waist rail is the molding on a ship’s side. A waist tree, more commonly referred to as a rough tree, is an unfinished mast or spar stored in the waist. This is brought out, finished and set as a replacement when a mast is shattered, broken or lost.

And waisters? Well, much as their name implies, these are lubberly or elderly crewmen stationed in a ships waist where they could haul on ropes, swab decks and stay out of the way of able seamen at work. Though not as offensive as lubber, being called a waister is no compliment to a true seaman.

Happy Saturday, mates. I hoist a cup of grog to you one and all, and wish you fair winds and following seas until next we meet.

Header: An August Morning With Farragut by William Heyshand Overend c 1883 (working the great guns in the waist of future Admiral David Farragut’s flagship during his Civil War assault on Louisiana and yeah, that’s him out there on the rigging; he was his father’s son through and through)

Home Ports: The Best Bay

Pensacola, Florida, is now a booming community with a split personality. Hard working port on the one hand, it is also the playground of the idle who have time for golfing, yachting, and spring breaks on the beach. It may even be the haunt of a phantom or two. The long history of Pensacola, not surprisingly, is more about the port than the playground. And both pirates and privateers figure prominently in that mix.


The area surrounding what is now known as Pensacola Bay was populated for thousands of years by Native American groups who subsisted largely off the water, building dug out canoes and fishing in the bay. By the time the first European explorers arrived, the dominant group called themselves the Panzacola and eventually gave their name to the area.

The first explorers to poke around Pensacola were all Spanish. Visits from Ponce de Leon in 1513 and Hernando de Soto about thirty years later established that the area had potential for colonization. It wasn’t until 1559 that Tristan de Luna brought a group of close to 1,500 settlers to the bay from Vera Cruz in Mexico. The pilgrims arrived in August and barely had time to set up a makeshift camp before a hurricane blew through on September 19. It is estimated that a good half of the potential colonists were killed. Some people immediately left for the Carolinas while others tried to make a go of it on the island they called Santa Elena. Lack of fresh water and simmering tropical heat took their toll. Fifty remaining colonists returned to Vera Cruz two years later to the utter dismay of Mexico’s Viceroy.

The French exploration of what would become Louisiana brought Spanish attention back to western Florida. On the hunt for La Salle’s French explorers in the Gulf of Mexico, Juan Enriquez Barroto and Antonio Romero visited Pensacola in 1686. On the expedition was Juan Jordan de Reina, an amateur naturalist and all-pro exaggerator, who described the area as a lush tropical paradise where fruit dripped from trees, game was plentiful and the bay was “… the best I have ever seen in my life.” De Reina’s assessment highly influenced the Mexican Viceroy, Don Silva y Mendoza, to fund another colonial undertaking to Pensacola.

By 1700, a new colony had been established under the governorship of Andres de Arriola. This time the bay was christened Bahia Santa Maria de Galve (after the Viceroy, who was also the Count of Galve) and the land around it began to be known as Panzacola. Much to everyone’s dismay, the soil turned out to be almost useless for growing food stuffs, the area wildlife was hostile, yellow fever and malaria hung over the place every summer and hurricanes continued to wreak havoc. The settlement persevered, however, mostly in response to the growing numbers of French colonists in Mobile, Baton Rouge and New Orleans.

The area slowly urbanized with the Spanish building forts on the mainland. Money became available and with it came smuggling. British and American colonial pirate ships began to appear in the bay, exchanging prize goods for hard Spanish gold or silver. Famous names like Edward Teach and Edward England were known on the waterfront, much to the dismay of Governor Arriola. Raiding by the British and the Creeks during Queen Anne’s War, which took up a little more than the first decade of the 18th century, broke the settlement’s infrastructure down and soon Pensacola was hanging on for dear life.

The French took the settlement from the Spanish some time in 1719, but they could not hold it capably and it returned to Spanish hands. During the French period, the incidents of pirate interaction with local smugglers increased. Only a lack of organization kept early 18th century Pensacola from mirroring the future operation of the Laffite brothers in Barataria.

The French and Indian War brought British rule in 1763 and the area began to prosper. Cotton planting was stepped up, more building took place and Britain hoped to make Pensacola a new Jamaica. Those hopes were dashed with the Revolutionary War. After losing the Battle of Pensacola in 1781, Britain returned the area to the Spanish.

Despite controlling all of Florida and the vast Louisiana territory, Spain’s colonial grip loosened as her troubles mounted in Europe.

Napoleon sold Louisiana to Jefferson; by 1812 much of what had been Spain was the U.S. Andrew Jackson harassed the Spanish with raids on Pensacola and the chaos created opportunities for a new breed of free booters: the privateers. Pierre Laffite probably began the slave trading that would serve him and his brother so well in Pensacola during the first decade of the 19th century. Louis Aury briefly used the bay as a base. Dominique Youx may have considered settling there later in life. According to William C. Davis, Renato Beluche stopped in to the bay just as Britain was amassing warships in preparation for their invasion of New Orleans in late 1814. Beluche may very well have written a letter to the Laffite brothers warning them of the coming storm.

By the 1820s, Florida was U.S. soil. Andrew Jackson briefly took up residence at Pensacola as the area’s first Territorial Governor. By the mid-20s, a Navy Yard was established. Pensacola was used as a supply port for David Porter’s pirate hunting Mosquito Fleet based on Thompson’s Island (now Key West). The worm had turned completely; the frontier town that once welcomed pirates became the urban center that supplied the machinery for their downfall. Hard work at the docks and on the plantations funded gracious living for the wealthy.

As an aside, another seafaring point of interest is the Pensacola Lighthouse. Originally built in 1826 it was first kept by Jeremiah and Micheala Ingraham. Jeremiah died under mysterious circumstances (rumor has it Micheala killed him) and his wife was appointed keeper, a job she did faithfully for fifteen years. When the lighthouse was rebuilt in 1859, a violent haunting began to manifest including objects flying across rooms and unexplained stains on floors. The lighthouse, which is still kept by the Coast Guard, is said to be inhabited by Micheala Ingraham who is angered and offended by the disturbance to her former home. The Coasties say it’s all bologna, but the tourists flock to the sunset tours nonetheless.

Doubtless Pensacola is haunted by more that just the lighthouse keeper’s wife considering all that has happened there. But the locals, and the tourists, probably don’t pay much more attention than the occasional ghost story will rouse. The best bay continues to work and play hard, just as it always has.

Header: Map of Pensacola Bay c 1763 via Wikimedia

History: Battle of Valparaiso

In the War of 1812 Captain David Porter, commanding USS Essex in the South Pacific, was engaged in the pursuit of British whalers. His success was so great that he essential shut down His Majesty’s whaling fleet, costing Britain millions in lost revenue. Captain James Hillyar, in command of HMS Phoebe, was dispatched to take, sink or burn Essex. The two ships, along with their tenders, met and engaged in Valparaiso Harbor off Chile in the spring of 1814.


Hillyar, who was an acquaintance of Porter’s, employed the brutal tactic of standing out of Essex’s range, trapping her against the shore and bombarding her with his long guns until she was literally a floating abattoir. Porter was forced to strike after losing most of his crew, including all officers but his third lieutenant, Stephen Decatur McKnight and one midshipman – Porter’s adoptive son – David Farragut. The ungentlemanly behavior of the British captain would be spoken of for years and his career after the war was certainly hindered by the infamous affair. Porter himself would write to the Secretary of the Navy, William Jones, after his parole, castigating his former friend without reserve:

I now consider my situation less unpleasant that that of Captain Hillyar who, in violation of every principle of honor and generosity, and regardless of the rights of nations, has attacked Essex in her crippled state within a pistol shot of neutral shore, when for the last six weeks I have daily offered him fair and honorable combat on terms greatly to his advantage, the blood of the slain must be on his head, and he has yet to reconcile his conduct to heaven, to his conscience, and to the world.

Porter and the surviving members of his crew were back in the United States in time to witness the end of the war with the Battle of New Orleans.

Happy Independence Day to the U.S. Brethren, and a hearty cheer for one of our finest, Commodore David Porter.

Header: Contemporary engraving of the Battle of Valparaiso

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