January, 1718, was the happy month for the Carolinas. Then it was that
Blackbeard, coming from the West Indies by way of New England and the
North Atlantic provinces, chose to make his hole at Ocracoke Inlet, on
Pamlico Sound, North Carolina.
Not that Blackbeard came with his hat-matches lit and his beard
glorious for strife, and his cutlass speaking sudden, certain death.
Oh, my, no! Far indeed would this supposition be from the fact, for
Blackbeard had come to Carolina to turn over a new leaf; to leave the
wicked practices which had made him king of the wicked Indies; to
forswear the black flag; generally to amend his way; particularly to
take the Act.
“Taking the Act” was a joke beloved by all the best pirates. It was
specially good after a profitable plunder cruise; useful, too, in a
way, for it gave one a chance to spend one’s salt-water money without
having to fight somebody every five minutes. To take the Act was the
only way a hard-working pirate could get a vacation.
The thing worked something like this: George the First, of England, at
about this time was having trouble with the Swedes, and in consequence
the British fleet was all tucked away up in the Baltic; he was
troubled, too, by the merchants of London and the colonies, who were
getting rather pert about this matter of pirate depredations.
Being completely at sea in more ways than one, the British Admiralty
fell back to the old pardon business that they had tried in Captain
Kidd’s time, and which had been so successful that less than twenty
years later the sorry scheme was dragged forth again.
Taking the technical peelings off, the meat of the matter was that
if within a year from the date of the proclamation any pirate should
surrender himself to any one of the king’s colonial governors and swear
to renounce his criminal courses, all the past should be forgiven
and forgotten. The weakness of the plan, of course, was that a man
you could not catch would not care much about your pardon. And still
another,--that the word of a pirate could poorly compare with a bond.
But the boys liked this Act of Grace as it was called, and some had
even been known to abide quite consistently with its terms. The leading
men of the business, of course, could not be expected to take it too
seriously.
Blackbeard wanted a little lay-off from years of steady grind. Then,
too, it was January, with its season of new resolutions; why not start
the year right?
They all talked it over, coming along the Virginia coast--near
where they had heard of the proclamation--and it rather appealed to
everybody. They grew solemn, serious, not a little drunk, and decided
to break up. Here was a chance to wipe the slate clean and start all
over again.
They anchored in Ocracoke Inlet and marched off to take the Act. Let us
go with them.
Lithe chaps, aren’t they? See how the muscles ripple and play under
those bright silk shirts; how column-like the brown necks groove into
the bulging shoulders; in the fine, perfect pink of condition every
one; strong, you can easily see; strong everywhere, that is, except in
the head. Weak, there, lamentably weak.
In the heart, too, for they are really bad, capable of all evil, for
which their environment and early associations can extenuate but not
exculpate them. In truth, these are the creatures of a dark age; these
men believe in witches and fear to whistle aboard ship lest they blow
up a tempest. Most of these fellows are Englishmen, with some Spaniards
and Frenchmen, all caring little for international animosities,
enfranchised in the Commonwealth of Crime. You can hear the outlandish
burring of the Yorkshiremen, the hissing z’s of the West Englander,
the pitch, too, of what is to become the Cockney whine of a little
later day, tussling with a jargon made up of many languages, founded on
English.
Notice, too, these negroes from Barbados and other islands of the
Indies, children of slaves brought but lately from Africa for the
plantations. These don’t rate as seamen on even the pirate ships,
but are menials whose big job is to keep continually at the pumps.
Still, it seems all a great lark to them; see how they laugh, joke,
leap around in unequalled vigor, till the great gold rings in their
ears, the gold chains about their necks and the heavy metal bangles
on their wrists jingle and rattle with their motions. This thing of
jewelry is affected by white and black alike; and how they like those
wide, many-hued sashes, and the silk stockings under their knee-length
breeches!
So they roll, seaman fashion, singing and romping to the small frame
house where reigns the servant of the Proprietors and the master of
the colonists, his Excellency, Governor Eden. At their head goes that
strangest of all the strange creatures of the sea, that powerful,
ape-like figure swathed hideously in hair--to-day all curled in
hundreds of ringlets smeared with pomatum--looking like a thing from a
bad dream.
They bulge unafraid into the mansion; full weaponed and together, they
fear nothing at sea or ashore. But nobody is of a mind to trifle with
them; the folk here are used to seeing everything that is grotesque
washed up by the sea; nay, these men have many acquaintances among the
inhabitants, for not a few have shipped from these parts.
Governor Eden enters, portly in a London flowered-silk waistcoat,
stylish French shoes and peruke, high-pointed and white-powdered. He
gasps a little at the gang jammed into the room and glances sharply
over at Tobias Knight, Secretary of the Province, who a moment ago was
scratching with his quill pen an encouraging story of graft to the
Proprietors at home, but who now is nervously pulling his sword more
accessibly across his round fat knees. Neither he nor the governor had
even seen anything quite like that in old Pall Mall, you know.
“Takin’ the Act, y’honor,” growled Blackbeard, leering at constituted
authority.
“Aye,” chorus, froglike, his bully boys.
The job is soon done. With upraised right hands one and all swear to
leave off piracy. They come in children of the rope; they depart free
and law-abiding men. It is very easy.
All leave, that is, save Blackbeard.
“I salvages ships, your honors,” thunders this gentleman, spreading
himself out on a chair so that his beard should flow in its glory like
a blanket over his person, while all its fancy little curly-cues,
ringlets and twists dance with every movement of his chin. “My real
trade, your honors--ship salvager. Mebbe I’ll have business here. Lost
ships is what I go for and lost ships I finds.
“No need for a good ship to be lost while Blackbeard’s around to take
’em home again. No occasion to leave a lost ship to drift around till
them dirty seadogs of pirates mauls ’em over. Law says lost ships must
be reported to the governor, and now I abide the law.”
“How d’ye mean, Captain?” says the governor. “D’ye pull ’em off the
rocks?”
The audience chamber--if it may be so called--shakes with the visitor’s
laughing.
“Ye don’t know rocks, your honor, beggin’ pardon; rocks don’t let
nothing go oncet they get aholt. Deserted ships I picks up; ships with
a little water in ’em don’t always go down as fast as the master fears.
“There’s where I comes in. I get a ship like that; I comes in to
you. Says I, ‘Your honor, I have salvaged a ship.’ Says your honor,
‘Accordin’ to law, I declares you to have salvage of her.’ I sell her
for a good price. Says I to me, ‘The governor, his honor, works hard;
he ought to have his wages.’ Says I to you, ‘Your honor will perhaps
accept a little present.’ ‘Captain Blackbeard,’ says you, ‘have a jog
of rum.’ We all stands up and drinks the king’s ’ealth.”
Governor Eden claps his hands smartly, and the black servitor jumps in.
“Boy, bring the Madeira and glasses for three.”