ST. JOHN AND SOME DISCOVERIES
No one can say when the buccaneers first selected St. John as a refuge,
but no doubt it was long before the Danes or the Dutch first settled
there. Pirates haunted the Virgin Islands previous to 1687, and it
would not be surprising if honor for the first buildings erected on St.
John and for the first settlements should be accorded them. Many of its
bays and coves bear names which associate them with the corsairs,—as,
for instance, Rendezvouz Bay and Privateers’ Bay,—and undoubtedly these
names were already in use when the first Dutch and Danes arrived on St.
John. There are also ruins of forts and buildings covered with brush
and jungle which unquestionably antedate the first peaceful settlement;
but history took no cognizance of the freebooters, and the story of
their occupancy of St. John probably will never be known. At any rate,
for many a year, the Virgin Isles were notorious as a resort of
buccaneers, and in Coral Bay, Privateers’ Bay, and Rendezvouz Bay they
beached and careened their ships and romped and skylarked on the coral
sands, while the woods and cliffs rang to the echoes of their lusty
songs and shouts and the smoke of barbecue fires rose in blue wisps
against the greenery, just as a column of lilac smoke from a negro hut
was rising upward in the clear morning air as the Vigilant’s anchor
splashed overboard and the big sails came rattling down within the
sheltered bay that had harbored many a pirate craft.
We know too, from historical records, that the Danish authorities were
friendly to the pirates and buccaneers before St. John was settled, for
in 1682 Jean Hamlin made his headquarters in St. Thomas and was well
received by the governor, who no doubt shared the corsair’s loot in
return for the refuge accorded.
In the year mentioned, Hamlin made a prize of the French ship La
Trompeuse and, finding her a better craft than his own, fitted her out
with guns, shipped a pirate crew, and proceeded to ravage the
Caribbean, making Charlotte Amalie his headquarters. Hamlin was by no
means an ideal buccaneer. He attacked any merchantman he sighted,
regardless of flag or nationality, and in 1683 a number of British
ships fell to his cannon. Not content with the pickings to be had among
the islands, he sailed for the African coast and there had a joyous and
profitable time, taking seventeen Dutch and English vessels. But the
fever-ridden, jungle-covered coasts of the Dark Continent did not
appeal to the romantic soul of the merry sea-rover; and so, feeling he
had accomplished quite enough to have earned a vacation, he hoisted
sail and headed westward for St. Thomas.
Here he was warmly welcomed by his old crony the governor, who
willingly gave him permission to bring the loot of the cruise ashore
for safekeeping—and probably division as well—and entertained the
piratical chieftain in right good style. Three days after Hamlin’s
arrival, however, another ship sailed into Charlotte Amalie’s snug
harbor and came to anchor before the picturesque town. And, to the
discomfiture of some and the delight of others, this new arrival proved
to be no other than H. M. S. Francis under command of Captain Carlile
of His Britannic Majesty’s navy, who had been sent forth by Governor
Stapleton of the Leeward Islands to hunt for all pirates in general and
one known as Jean Hamlin in particular.
We may imagine the satisfaction with which the scarlet-faced old
sea-dog noted the long-sought La Trompeuse snugly moored within easy
reach. With the British seaman’s usual disregard for red tape and
diplomatic correspondence, he took matters into his own hands and
promptly disposed of the pirate craft by blowing her up. To be sure,
the buccaneer captain and some of his crew were on board, but Hamlin
was no such fool as to attempt to resist when under the broadsides of a
frigate half a gunshot distant; and, after firing a few shots merely as
a protest or to ease his conscience, he decided discretion to be the
better part of valor, and sought the shore and his Danish friends.
No doubt, over their cups, the governor and the corsair gazed forth
with mingled sorrow and resentment as the glare of the blazing ship
illuminated the harbor and the red-roofed town, for La Trompeuse had
proved a lucky and profitable craft. As the two discussed the matter
and damned the British, the governor waxed exceeding wroth, and he
forthwith penned a note to Captain Carlile, vigorously denouncing his
actions in having brazenly and unwarrantedly destroyed a frigate which
had been confiscated in the name of the King of Denmark. But the
governor was a mortal who believed in never letting his left hand know
what his right was doing, and as he scribbled his note to the
Englishman he sent Hamlin and his men to a safe refuge in another part
of the island and, providing the captain with a speedy sloop, wished
him God-speed on his way to join the French buccaneers in Tortuga.
Indeed, this worthy governor, who bore the name of Adolf Esmit, had the
reputation of being an all-round bad egg. Privateering had been his
former occupation, and while buccaneers and their ilk were looked upon,
even by law-abiding citizens, as something of gentlemen and good
fellows, and no one greatly blamed Adolf for protecting these soldiers
of fortune—for a consideration, of course—still, the islanders did not
like the idea of his harboring riffraff from far and near and gathering
under his hospitable wing a crowd of runaway slaves and servants,
deserting seamen, and debtors. Moreover, he was a usurper. He had
driven away his brother Nickolas, who was the rightful governor, and
then, having acquired what we should nowadays dub a case of “swelled
head,” had seen fit to declare himself governor of all the Virgin Isles
and snapped his fingers, figuratively if not literally, at the British
claimants and the Danish authorities as well. In the meantime he piled
up a goodly sum for a rainy day by outfitting pirate ships and refusing
to restore to their rightful owners prizes brought to his island.
But even Adolf realized that there was a limit to effrontery, and when
protests became too numerous for comfort he hinted to his associates
that St. John was far more attractive than St. Thomas, that its harbors
were safer and more commodious, and that, it being uninhabited, his
corsair friends could be sure that no one would object to their
presence there. And as the place was but three miles distant from St.
Thomas, it was quite feasible for him and his cronies to spend jolly
evenings together and none the wiser.
Of course, in time, tales of Esmit’s activities reached Denmark; and,
whatever his private opinions may have been, the Danish sovereign was
in no mind to have serious difficulties with Great Britain. Therefore
he promptly despatched a new man, named Iversen, to take charge of St.
Thomas’s fortunes, and, foreseeing difficulties in getting rid of
Esmit, suggested that Governor Stapleton should aid the new executive
with force of arms. The British, nothing loath, gladly agreed, and,
reinforced with an armed sloop from the British islands, Iversen
arrived at St. Thomas in October, 1684, and without resistance took
possession not only of the islands but of Adolf as well.
Possibly Iversen had no ill-will against the buccaneers; or possibly he
followed his orders to the letter and, not being quite certain in his
mind as to whether St. John was under his jurisdiction or not, left the
freebooters in the neighboring isle unmolested and diplomatically
informed the British that if they wished St. John rid of pirates they
could do the job themselves. Whether they attempted it or not, history
fails to record, but if they did they must have been unsuccessful, for
English history seldom fails to call attention to every victory, no
matter how small, although British historians are often remarkably
absent-minded regarding the other side of the ledger.
Moreover, as the islands then under the British flag were not above
harboring well-disposed pirate craft, it is exceedingly doubtful if
even peppery old Governor Stapleton bestirred himself greatly, with his
meager forces, against the buccaneers. He well knew that he could not
hope to destroy or capture them all and that too much hostility would
merely result in reprisals on British merchant ships which the
struggling English colonies could ill afford.
My quest for buccaneer relics or remains on St. John was not very
successful. Sam and my St. Thomas friends had, as I have already
mentioned, assured me that the place possessed many remains such as
buildings and forts; that pirate cannon were scattered in the brush,
and that weapons, pieces of eight, doubloons, and onzas had often been
found by the natives. It was even hinted that somewhere about
Rendezvouz Bay there was a vast pirate treasure hidden. But as there is
no bit of land upon this planet whereon pirates actually or
traditionally ever set foot that does not boast of its treasure-trove,
I took the last-mentioned report for what it was worth and no more.
Even on matter-of-fact St. Thomas—or, rather, on the outlying
cays—there is supposed to be vast treasure concealed; and many a St.
Thomian has spent much time and no little energy in industriously
digging the soil in the vain hopes of unearthing this pirate gold.
However, I did place credence in the tales of pirates’ ruins and
pirates’ guns, and did not think it either impossible or improbable
that an occasional ancient coin had been found. Indeed, when one old
man vowed that there were even pirate wrecks to be seen,
coral-incrusted, upon the sandy bottom of Privateers’ Bay, I judged it
within the bounds of possibility that this might be so, for buccaneers’
ships sometimes sank, like other craft, and wood—especially stout oak
and teak—will endure for many centuries under salt water.
But, while I found St. John charming; although I enjoyed my tramps and
rambles through its bay-filled forests and along its beautiful coast;
while I found many an overgrown, deserted plantation and crumbling ruin
of great house and mill bearing mute testimony to the negro uprising of
two centuries ago; while I stood upon the height whereon that sturdy
little company of Dutch and Danes had gathered at old Peter Duerloo’s
barricaded and cannon-guarded home and driven back the savage black
hordes; while near at hand I tripped over a rusty, ancient carronade
which I saw fit to believe was one of the “two small guns” which
according to history had hurled their death-dealing grapeshot among the
blood-crazed negroes, still, of buccaneers I found no indisputable
trace. There are some ancient crumbling walls near the landing-places
at both Privateers’ and Rendezvous Bay,—ruins of man’s handiwork
evidently antedating the oldest Danish or Dutch masonry upon St.
John,—but there is nothing to prove that these were buildings erected
by pirates.
Once, to be sure, I was greatly elated when a white-headed, tottering
old negro with lackluster eyes and toothless mouth hobbled to our camp
on the beach and, carefully unwrapping several layers of dried banana
leaves, produced a corroded sword blade with the cross hilt of a design
dating back to buccaneer days. He had found it, he mumbled in almost
unintelligible words, while clearing away the brush preparatory to
making a charcoal-pit, and I gladly paid him thrice the fifty cents he
asked for it.
But my hopes were shattered and my romantic notions dispersed to the
four winds when, in cleaning the dirt and rust from the blade, I
uncovered the unmistakable imprint of the Broad Arrow near the hilt,
with the half-obliterated arms of England near it. To be sure, that did
not prove it was not a buccaneer’s sword, but it seemed far more
probably a trusty blade dropped from the lifeless hand of one of those
Britons who had sought to help the Danes suppress the revolting blacks.
Though I preferred a pirate weapon for a souvenir, there were plenty of
romantic and historical associations connected with this silent,
long-lost witness of the bloody days of St. John’s past, whether
wielded by sea-rover or by British soldier, and I was satisfied that I
at least would not sail empty-handed from this half-deserted, drowsy
little Virgin isle.
I must confess that I had grown very fond of the half-forgotten, sadly
neglected place, and when at last the time came when we must up anchor
and away from St. John, I felt really sorry to leave. I had seen the
island thoroughly. We had cast anchor in many a lovely bay and for the
last night we were moored in the snug “Hurricane Hole” in Coral Bay,
perhaps the finest natural harbor in all the West Indies.
Close at hand upon the headland were the scarcely distinguishable ruins
of that first fort erected by old Governor Bredal, wherein the
unsuspecting garrison had been butchered by the fagot-bearing slaves.
Seated under the shadow of the big mainsail as the Vigilant rode to her
anchor and the soft lapping of the waves along the beach and the chirp
of crickets and the grunt of land frogs were borne to me on the soft
night breeze, my mind harked back to those long-past days when these
isles literally were steeped in blood.
Like a ghostly silhouette upon the hilltop I could see the ruined fort
about which battle red and furious had raged. Up that green-clad slope
had charged the soldiers of three, or perchance four, nations, first
one then another winning the day and holding, for a brief space, the
hard-won battlements, until another enemy, by greater prowess or more
reckless sacrifice of life, wrested it from their grasp. Perchance, in
later years, the buccaneers had also hurled themselves, through mimosa
scrub and aloes, upon the stout stone walls, shouting and cursing,
falling and dying, but heedless of loss, still carrying on in face of
blazing musket and thundering cannon.
Within those selfsame walls the frightened women and children and the
white-faced, determined men from the little town and outlying estates
had huddled, while, to their eyes, the pillars of smoke rising from
blazing cane-fields and smoldering mansions told of the destructive
savagery of revolting slaves; and from the wrecked town beside the
harbor had come fiendish cries, revolting voodoo chants, and the
terrifying boom of the savage tom-tom.
But now it was silent, deserted, weed-grown, and forgotten; the home of
soft-winged bats, jewel-eyed lizards, and other creeping things. Gone
were the ancient bronze pieces that once filled the embrasures; gone
the tramping sentries; gone the staff that once upheld the flag. And I
wondered if at dead of night the spirits of these long-gone and
forgotten men and women, to whom the fort had meant so much, did not
haunt that crumbling, picturesque old ruin. Perhaps, even now, they
were looking down upon the starlit harbor, at the black tracery of the
Vigilant’s rigging, and in her altered spars and renovated hull
recognizing a craft which had been a familiar sight in the days when
they walked the earth, and loved and fought and suffered and were gay
in turn.
Then the spell of the night was broken. From forward came the
half-barbaric music of a “sand-box” rattle, a squeaky fiddle, and a
mouth organ, and echoing over the harbor came Sam’s full-throated voice
in a weird, garbled version of “Sally Brown”:
“Oh, Sally Brown she are so pretty—
Way-ee Sally, Sally Brown!
Oh, Sally Brown o’ Noo York City—
Way-ee ’ll spen’ mah money for Sally Brown.
“Oh, Sally Brown she fall ’n th’ water—
Way-ee Sally, Sally Brown!
Oh, Ah drug her out an’ had n’ oughter—
Way-ee ’ll spen’ mah money for Sally Brown.
“Oh, Sally Brown she say she love me—
Way-ee Sally, Sally Brown!
Oh, Sally Brown to th’ sea she druv me—
Way-ee ’ll spen’ mah money for Sally Brown.
“Oh, Sally Brown, would you b’lieve me—
Way-ee Sally, Sally Brown!
For a ’Badoes nigger she do leave me—
Way-ee ’ll spen’ mah money for Sally Brown.”
And as the echoes of the applause that followed died away I wondered if
the buccaneers themselves had sung this ancient chantey. To every
sailorman, from time immemorial, it has been known, in one version or
another. In the spicy isles of the South Seas the Kanakas chant it as
they labor. Its tune and words ring through the forest-hemmed
lumber-camps of the Northern woods. Many a tired, footsore, struggling
musher in far-off Alaska has found new courage and inspiration in the
song. In the frigid Antarctic wastes it has aroused the drowsing
sea-elephants on desolate isles. And up and down the Antilles the
sweating negroes work in unison to the tune as they pull their huge
drougher boats or snake the great logs of hardwood timbers from the
mountain jungles. Up and down and round the world it has traveled, from
pole to pole, and if buccaneer and pirate did not bellow it, then they
were no true sailormen.
But now another voice is singing—not Sam’s this time, but a higher if
no less mellow voice which I recognize as Joe’s. And though the air is
familiar, the words with which the West Indians have fitted it are
astounding, for, according to my cook’s version, “John Brown’s donkey
had a red Morocco tail”! With all the seriousness of a great artist
Joseph sings his ridiculous ditty to the end, to be rewarded with
deafening applause but no laughter, for the West Indian can see nothing
comical in a red Morocco tail on John Brown’s donkey; he believes
firmly that donkeys of the United States do possess such colorful
caudal appendages, for does the verse not say so? To his mind, anything
is possible in “New York,” as the West Indian invariably calls the
States.
This belief of the West Indian negroes that New York and the United
States are synonymous is very amusing. Even Joe, who was far above his
fellows, in education and intelligence, seriously confided to me on one
occasion that he had seen New York. Expressing surprise at this
revelation, I asked for further particulars, and was told that when he
was serving as cook on a schooner bound for Matamoros, Mexico, the mate
had pointed out a low-lying coast-line and had told Joe it was New
York. My explanations were absolutely futile. To Joe, New York embodied
all of our country. With his own eyes he had gazed upon the promised
land, and to his dying day—unless by some chance he visits the
States—he will boast to his less fortunate fellows that he has seen New
York.
Following our cook’s rendition of “John Brown” there was silence for a
space and then, in place of sand-box, raucous fiddle, and discordant
harmonica, the soft, liquid tinkle of a guitar rippled through the
tropic night and a wonderfully rich voice began to sing:
“Vuelvo dormir,
Vuelvo sonar,
Y siempre estoy.”
I was all attention; surprised, curious. I was unaware that we had a
Spanish West Indian in our crew, and while I knew that Sam, Joe, and
one or two others spoke a smattering of Spanish and had visited Cuba,
Porto Rico, Santo Domingo, or Panama, their accent was atrocious.
Never, I was sure, could they have mastered a Spanish song. And now the
singer had changed his tune. There was a plaintive wail in the silvery
notes of his guitar that tugged at one’s heart-strings, and, filled
with pathos and yearning, his voice came drifting to me, filling the
night with the melody of “La Paloma.”
Scores—yes, hundreds—of times, I had listened to that dreamy, haunting
air. I had heard it sung by shadowy vaqueros watching their herds on
broad, black llanos under twinkling stars. I had heard it borne on the
night breeze, as, resting under waving palms, I had watched a
lateen-sailed craft creep across the moon’s silvery “Path to Spain.” I
had heard it hummed by the carmine lips of black-eyed, full-throated
señoritas leaning from the grilled railings of their windows in many a
Latin-American town, and I had heard it issuing from garish dance-halls
heavy with the scent of musk and the smoke from brown cigarettes. But
never had I heard it sung as on that last night that the old Vigilant
swung to her anchor off St. John.
Rising, I strolled forward, filled with curiosity as to the identity of
the singer. As I reached the galley and from its shadows glanced at the
little group about the fore hatch I could scarcely believe my eyes.
Seated upon the anchor winch, across his knees a battered guitar which
belonged to Joseph, the final words of “La Paloma” issuing from his
huge mouth, was—Trouble!