Blackbeard- The Birth of America

by Samuel Marquis

  Captain Harry Beverley had only returned to Virginia two weeks earlier. After setting sail under Spotswood’s directive in early July of the year before, he and his crew had met with disaster just as his brother Robert and Spotswood had feared. The day after setting out, the Virgin was surprised by a violent hurricane that forced Beverley to sail as far east as Bermuda. On the fifth day of the rerouted voyage, a Spanish man-of-war seized the sloop as it approached the Florida wrecks, even though Spain and England were not at war. As the captain had conveyed to Spotswood in his deposition for his August 29 transmittal to the Board of Trade in London, the ship was then “rifled, and the men stripped, abused, and made prisoners.” Following his capture, Harry and his crew had been sent to St. Domingo, Hispaniola, where he had petitioned for a trial but had been refused. At that point, he had expected that he and his crew would be “sent to the mines.” Instead, they were shipped to Vera Cruz, Mexico, where conditions worsened. Their captors provided them “no subsistence” and again refused them a trial. Because of provisions in the 1713 Assiento Treaty between Britain and Spain, there were Englishmen in Vera Cruz, and they donated what food they could to the prisoners. Even so, several of Harry’s men died for lack of food and other necessities. After seven months of captivity, the captain managed to escape and make his way back to Virginia. He didn’t know what had become of his crew and he had never managed to find any pirates.

  Looking at the returned sea captain and his retired brother, Spotswood hadn’t meant to work himself once again into a frenzy over his colonial rivals, but that is precisely what he had done. Though he hated to admit it, they were truly beginning to wear him down.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Alexander. I know what a difficult bunch they can be,” said Robert Beverley, who, having served four terms in the Virginia House of Burgesses understood well what Spotswood was up against.

  The lieutenant governor shook his head in dismay. “They sent a letter to the Board of Trade in London. In it, they made accusations against me in the form of fifteen queries. I responded in detail to each allegation, but my greatest enemy is in London and I am not there to defend myself.”

  He was referring to William Byrd, who had a seat on the Governor’s Council and was reported to be jockeying for the post of the House of Burgesses’ General Assembly’s London agent on behalf of Governor George Hamilton, earl of Orkney, the British Crown’s top representative of Virginia who governed in absentia from his palatial offices in London. Byrd and Spotswood had had a troubled history. Years earlier, the lieutenant governor had, over Byrd’s opposition, reorganized the collection of quitrents in order to enlarge the royal revenue. At the time, Byrd regarded the receiver’s office as his own property and Spotswood’s actions as a personal affront and the two had clashed repeatedly. In 1715, Byrd sailed for England and since then had sought to undercut Spotswood’s agenda, lobbying to have him removed from office based on damaging information provided by disgruntled members of the House of Burgesses and powerful merchants like Micajah Perry. The colonists were opposed to Spotswood’s Tobacco Inspection Act of 1713 and Indian Trade Act of 1714, which they felt were favorable to Spotswood and the British Crown but not Virginia or its colonists. The first regulated the quality and distribution of tobacco exports, and the second established a monopoly over commerce with the natives—with Spotswood as a prime beneficiary.

  “My accusers even failed to sign their names,” he went on, his voice high-pitched and nasally. “Why they made me out to be as corrupt and dictatorial as a Roman proconsul.”

  “What did they say exactly?” asked Captain Harry Beverley.

  “They said I held no regard for the law, forcing customs officials to extort illegal fees and placing foreigners in courts of judicature. They proclaimed I was a mercenary seeking my own ends at public expense and building forts upon the frontier to further my private interests. And they said that I refused to permit the King’s subjects to take up land while accumulating great tracts for myself.”

  “Oh my,” said Robert Beverley. “I can see that our friend William Byrd has been busy.”

  “Yes, but it is Ludwell and the powerful merchants like Micajah Perry that are carrying the torch for him.”

  “What else are they saying?”

  “That under me there is little justice in Virginia. Not only Englishmen, they claim, but Indians and slaves suffer from my tyranny.”

  “Why that is most unfair,” bristled Captain Harry. “After everything you have done for this colony.”

  “They claimed that I have aroused sedition and rebellion by fostering disregard for the existing forms of government. They said I am greedy for power, driving from office those who oppose my will and seeking to establish a military dictatorship by the creation of a standing militia.”

  “And how did you respond to these charges?” asked Robert Beverley.

  “I firmly declared most of them to be false, justifying the course I pursued, and maintained that the remainder of the accusations were too vague to warrant a formal response. To show that Virginia was not disaffected by my administration, I sent the Board of Trade a request presented to me by the grand jury at the October general court begging me to resume my place upon the general court bench.”

  Captain Harry nodded. “What do you think the outcome will be? Do you think you will be removed?”

  “I don’t know. But I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I still command the respect of God-fearing gentlemen like yourselves and have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  The two brothers nodded and the group fell into silence. But Spotswood could tell that his friend Robert Beverley still had something to say.

  “What is it, Robert?” he asked him. “You know I appreciate your wise counsel.”

  “You know that I consider myself an ‘Indian,’” said Beverley, referring to the moniker colonial Virginians liked to call themselves to demonstrate that they were first and foremost Americans and not merely pawns of Great Britain.

  “A rather quixotic term, I must say,” sniffed Spotswood. “So what is your point?”

  “That perhaps a softer touch on your part might be what is needed to salve the wounds and usher in an era of cooperation betwixt you and your detractors.”

  “Nonsense!” snapped Spotswood. “How can I submit to them when I am wholly in the right!”

  Beverley wagged a disapproving finger at him like a schoolmaster. “Now that is just the type of stubborn certitude that draws the ire of Ludwell, Byrd, Reverend Blair, and the others. These men just don’t like being told what to do by the Crown at every turn. They want to be in charge of their own destiny.”

  “But they call themselves loyal subjects of the Crown.”

  “Aye,” said Captain Harry, “but they still want their independence. That is why they resist you so.”

  Thinking for a moment, Spotswood realized they were right. His opponents considered him an obstacle in their path of gaining control of Virginia’s affairs, and they were now so emboldened that they openly challenged him in virtually all matters of state. To accomplish their agenda of maintaining colonial independence, the Ludwell-Blair faction had cleverly installed William Byrd as their London agent to have him recalled. Though Byrd had claimed his mission in England was on behalf of “private business,” Spotswood had learned from his own sources that he spent the majority of his time trying to undermine Spotswood’s influence and support. Clearly, Byrd’s long-term goal was to unseat him and win the appointment for himself as governor. Spotswood couldn’t help but feel a major showdown was coming.

  He was already facing increasingly stiff opposition in his day to day operations and ability to govern. For two straight years now, he had been at odds not only with the House of Burgesses, but his own Council and in particular Ludwell and Blair. He was currently embroiled with the deputy auditor over the collection of quitrents, and with the reverend he continued to battle over the control of assignment of clergymen to Virginia parishes. In addition, his quarrel wi
th his own Council concerning the judiciary had not abated. While his colleagues insisted that only Council members should be given authority in the new criminal courts, Spotswood still clung to his prerogative of unilaterally naming judges of his own choice.

  “We can’t allow sedition to take root in our royal colony,” he said to the two brothers to break the silence. “That would be anathema to His Majesty.”

  “We’re not saying you have to capitulate to them,” said Robert. “We’re just saying you should be more diplomatic and show a willingness to compromise.”

  “Compromise? But I am the governor!”

  “You are the lieutenant governor,” pointed out Captain Harry. “The earl of Orkney getting fat and rich in London is the official royal governor of Virginia.”

  “I’m tired of Ludwell, Byrd, and their henchmen. Why they’re as uppity as my Negro slaves.”

  “Which makes them only half as intransigent as mine,” said Robert Beverley. “Now see here, Alexander. The fractious relationship that exists between yourself and the representatives of the Royal Crown, and the elected representatives of the colony’s various counties, can only end one way.” His silver eyebrows flexed upwards. “The same way it has for our King.”

  “You’re saying that Parliament controls the King?”

  “Precisely, just as the House of Burgesses and the Governor’s Council control you. Do you understand now? If you can’t learn to get along with these planters and merchants, as well as the commoners that support them, you are going to be out of a job.”

  “I shall never submit!” snorted Spotswood, his jaw set in an intractable pose.

  “You may not have a choice,” pointed out Captain Harry. “Just like me with the bloody Spanish.”

  “It was bad, wasn’t it?” said his brother sympathetically, and all of a sudden the conversation shifted to the perilous journey that had ended in disaster for Captain Harry and his crew aboard the Virgin.

  “Aye, and I still have the scars to prove it. As for my crewmen, I have no idea what’s happened to them.”

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” said Spotswood, feeling guilty for sending him on the dangerous mission in the first place. “I’m sorry for how it all turned out.”

  “I am too,” he said. “But the worst part about it is we didn’t even make it to the Florida wrecks and never even saw one damned pirate.”

  “I hear now that they have completely taken over New Providence and the other nearby islands, and that there are several black market traders that are moving their goods to Charles Town, Philadelphia, and Boston,” said his brother Robert.

  “Pirates are good for business,” affirmed Captain Harry. “That’s why the colonists protect them. They bring in cheap and abundant goods and even help offload them.”

  Spotswood was aghast. “Harry Beverley, what in the world has gotten into you? These men are villains—and those that fence their illicit goods are too!”

  “Aye, but the point is the pirates have an underground network of traders that support them. You take away that network, you take away the pirate.”

  He had not thought of that before and found that he liked it. It was the opposite of the carrot and stick approach that the British government had long attempted to thwart piracy, by simultaneously offering pardons to those who gave up the account and severely punishing those who refused to quit the game and go on to live honest, law-abiding lives. He whispered under his breath the pet theory, making a mental note of it.

  Take away the trading network, you take away the pirate.

  “Yes, but it’s easier said than done,” said Robert Beverley to his older brother.

  Spotswood was intrigued. “Why is that?”

  “People don’t want to turn them in. As Harry has pointed out, pirates are very good for American business.”

  CHAPTER 21

  NASSAU HARBOR

  SEPTEMBER 4, 1717

  STEDE BONNET smelled flame-broiled grouper and the smoky smell of charred mesquite. It came to him like a dream, but he knew he wasn’t dreaming. The smells were too real and could mean only one thing.

  He was still alive.

  It was too bad because all he wanted to do was die. Overwhelmed with depression, heavily bandaged, still clad in his flimsy dressing gown, he had been sulking in his cabin since his arrival in Nassau several hours ago. Meanwhile, all but a handful of his crewmen had deserted the Revenge for the town’s taverns and brothels. It pained him that his piratical career was over so shortly after it had begun—and yet he couldn’t return home. He was an outlaw now and could no more reunite with his family that he had abandoned than he could restore the Stuart dynasty to the throne of England. So where did that leave him? Any remaining faith and respect that his crew had held for him had been lost after the disastrous engagement with the Spanish man-of-war.

  He tried to open his eyes, but could manage only one. The world came to him in a blur, like the first streaks of predawn. Slivers of dying, late-afternoon sunlight slanted through his drawn shutters. He followed one of them with his good eye, laddering up to the little crack. The faint light bleeding through the little opening cast a bluish tint on everything around him, giving his great cabin an airy, ghostly quality. He took a sniff of air. Now he realized what he was smelling: pirates were cooking freshly caught fish over their beach fires on the shore.

  Damnit, why can’t I be dead? he lamented.

  He felt dreamy and lightheaded. Nearby, he heard the sound of muffled voices—two voices he dimly realized, one deeper and richer than the other. The only other noise was the sound of the Revenge bobbing and creaking at her mooring as the tide rolled in on her Barbadian-cedar underbelly. Turning towards the sound, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his face. He recoiled, drawing his head down into his shoulders, and let out a groan.

  My face—the splinters hit my face. He remembered his men screaming and his gunners unleashing their cannons and the swarthy faces of the Spaniards and the hot, burning sensation when the splinters struck him. Or was it a volley of swan- or grape-shot? He remembered falling to the quarterdeck and then the all-consuming blackness. But that was all he remembered.

  Slowly, he brought his fingertips to his cheek, curious to know by what strange alchemy God Almighty had allowed a miserable wretch like him to live. He touched carefully, as he would caress the soft skin under the chin of his sleeping children: Edward, Stede Jr., and Mary. Instead of flesh he felt a poultice, covering his face like paste beneath a layer of heavy bandages.

  He heard something bump against the hull followed by an exchange of voices. Who is it? he wondered nervously. Was he being raided while he lay maimed and defenseless in his bed? A moment later, he heard a knock on the door to his great cabin. He wanted desperately to hide under the covers like when he was scared as a little boy, but he coaxed himself not to do so and be strong.

  “Yes, come in,” he said crisply, hoping through the loudness of his voice to come across forcefully. He sat up in his bed. As he did so, the book he had been reading slipped off his chest and onto the floor. It was a copy of Woodes Roger’s A Cruising Voyage Round the World: The Adventures of an English Privateer. One of his favorite books, it had just come out only a few years ago.

  He looked up as a towering figure filled the doorway for a moment, blotting out the sun, and then the door closed behind him.

  “Captain Bonnet? Hello, I’m Edward Thache, captain of the Margaret.”

  It was the voice of a supremely confident yet humble and polite man—and Stede Bonnet found himself wishing that he had just such a voice. Despite the burning pain he still felt on his face, he smiled cordially at his visitor. But no introductions were necessary as he was well aware of who the man was.

  He studied him in the dim light. His eyes were a piercing brown, the color of an El Greco painting. His thick, bushy beard was as black as a moonless night and braided into six plaits that were tied at the ends with ribbons. For armaments, he carried a long steel cutlass and a silken b
andolier from which were suspended three brace of pistols, no doubt loaded and primed. All in all, a formidable looking man who was clearly not someone to cross swords with. And yet, there was an intelligence, grace, culture, and gentleness about him that suggested an affluent upbringing and liberal education.

  “You’re the one they call Blackbeard,” he said. “My crew has been talking about you.”

  The man smiled with amusement. “I suppose I should be honored.”

  “It appears your reputation has preceded you. And unfortunately, so has mine. No doubt my men are drinking toasts this very minute to the bungling stupidity of the wealthy gentleman from Barbados who gave up his family to play pirate. Why I’ll bet I’m the toast of the town.”

  “Aye, their words are none too kindly. But I happen to be a man that believes in second chances.”

  He hadn’t expected that and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “So I take it this is a business proposition, not a courtesy call.”

  “Aye, I have a proposition for you. That is, once we get to know one another a bit better.” He stepped to the shutter, opened it part way so that the sun streamed into the cabin, and then strode towards the bed to pick up the book on the floor. “Old Woodes Rogers, A Cruising Voyage Round the World. A favorite of mine.”

  “It’s a first edition.”

  Thache opened it. “Indeed, it is.” He waved his big hand expansively around the room. “You have quite a library here.”

  “I had it specially built and now it’s half blown apart.” He motioned towards the east wall where cannon shot had torn through the floor-to-ceiling bookcase and knocked down the leatherbound books, leaving behind a small pile of them next to splintered wood and broken glass. “You’ve heard all about it, I’m sure. How I insisted on attacking a Spanish ship-of-force when my officers and crew were yelling at me not to do it—and how I murdered half my crew and ruined my sloop. Look at her now”—his eyes darted around the room—“and tell me I haven’t destroyed her through my bravado.”