But the Antiguans took things to extremes. As their warships logged growing numbers of captures, the lucrative flow of prize cases through the island’s maritime court tempted British merchantmen to jump to privateers. When Royal Navy sailors began deserting for the same reason, civilian shipowners were warned by Admiral James Young, commander of the Antigua-based Leeward Islands squadron, to cease their illegal enterprise.
They ignored him. “This adventure is not in opposition to the Navy but to the rebellious Americans, and to make recaptures for our very heavy losses.”
It was another dispute Young didn’t need. For more than a year, he’d been trading letters with the governor of Martinique about that island’s dealings with American rebels. To call their correspondence confounding doesn’t do justice to his utter aggravation at the governor’s blithe dismissal of countless testimonies of American ships and British prizes popping in and out of the port of Saint-Pierre under the management of “one Bingham.”
Similar activity was occurring at St. Eustatius. In the period since its fort had saluted Andrew Doria, Young had learned that island merchants were “giving all manner of assistance to the American rebels, and daily suffer privateers to be manned, armed, and fitted in their port.” Governor Johannes de Graaff refuted the charges with the same flowery circumlocution (“I flatter myself that your Excellency will see great cause to suspect many current assertions”) used by his counterpart on Martinique. Rendering it still more infuriating was Young’s certainty that de Graaff, the richest merchant on St. Eustatius, was “an avowed abettor of a scene of piracy and depredation” who not only tolerated privateers, but invested in them.
No less frustrating than the stonewalling from foreigners was the continued minimization by Young’s superiors in London of the maritime challenge he confronted. He’d long complained that his area of operations (which now included the Danish Virgin Islands, lately reported to support “illicit traffic notwithstanding the orders and directions of their governor”) far exceeded the capacity of his squadron. “I take leave to assure your Lordships,” one of his many imploring letters began, “that these seas now swarm with American privateers, several of them vessels of considerable force.” But rather than grant his request for “not less than fifteen ships,” the admiralty authorized six.
To compensate, he refitted a number of captured sloops into eight-and ten-gun warships skippered by lieutenants and sailing masters. The London Chronicle reported admiringly, “It is said these armed cruisers have within a few months taken upward of fifty sail of American vessels, some of them privateers.”
Young’s appreciation for tactical improvisation didn’t extend to Antigua’s privateers. This was surprising given the fright instilled at Martinique and St. Eustatius by the prospect of being targeted by British raiders, something the admiral might have welcomed after the smug duplicity he’d endured. When seizures of neutral shipping inevitably occurred, how could he not have relished the Dutch outcry against British “brigands” or the Martinique governor’s panicky condemnation of “the acts of violence committed against our commerce by British pirates in a manner contrary to the terms of treaties”? But Young was nothing if not a proper professional and so agreed to correct any British misdeeds, though he did offer a jab about those islands’ “clandestine disposal of the cargoes of English vessels.”
True to his word, he demanded that Antiguan merchants immediately stop their privateering activity on grounds that it was “not only illegal but highly derogatory to the King’s authority.” Refusing to risk an international incident with one of Britain’s ostensible allies “for the sake of gratifying a few individuals,” he threatened these “robbers on the high seas” with arrest and warned that his cruisers would fire on private British vessels that refused to submit to inspection.
When the island’s attorney general ruled that Young’s decree undermined the merchants’ right to seek redress for stolen property, the admiral asked his superiors for “an issuance of orders” to clarify official policy on the matter. Before any orders arrived, the merchants took matters into their own hands. In what an observer called “a bold and unprecedented affair,” they deployed “a whole herd of lawyers” to sue Admiral Young “for seizing and sending into port the armed vessels employed by them.” Then they had him thrown in jail.
He took it pretty well, considering. His letter to the admiralty begun on the morning of March 8, 1777, alluded in passing to the merchants’ talk of initiating “actions of trespass against me.” In a “P.S.” added that evening, he was compelled to “further acquaint your Lordships” with news that he indeed had been briefly jailed and forced to put up bail of £1,100. Any outrage he felt was conveyed in his closing request for the admiralty’s “support and protection, which may hereafter prevent any commanding officer from being publicly insulted.” Another letter followed soon after—a request for transfer home from Antigua. “Three years in this climate is full long enough,” he wrote.
Word of Young’s arrest reached America within weeks. The Pennsylvania Journal mocked the merchants for humiliating the admiral for “spoiling the sport” of their greedy ambitions. But the broader ramifications were sobering. “The people at the Grenades, Dominica, Montserrat, Nevis, St. Christopher’s, Anguilla, and Tortolla have followed the detestable example of the Antiguans. They have many pirates out, and have been very successful.”
The real eruption of British “piracy” began three weeks after the admiral’s arrest, when George III approved Parliament’s decision to commission private warships “for the seizing and taking of all vessels, goods, wares, and merchandize belonging to the inhabitants of the colonies now in rebellion.” The proclamation constituted a resounding answer to Young’s request for clarification of the government’s position on privateering. That policy was now crystal clear. America was due for payback.
Admiralty courts in Britain, Antigua, Halifax, and British-held New York were flooded with applications for privateer commissions and letters of marque. Estimates of the war’s total number range as high as 2,600, with New York’s Tories leading the way in vengeful expeditions against the patriots who’d so disrupted their lives. Though “in no way authorized to run down ships of other powers,” the abundance of armed vessels on the prowl for plunder vastly increased the likelihood, as Ambassador de Noailles fretfully put it, of “hostility toward neutral flags.”
The degree to which the Atlantic now teemed with international vessels at cross-purposes of trade and predation is evident in an amazed report from a loyalist skipper sailing in convoy from Bermuda to Barbados later that spring. Sighting more than 150 ships along the way, he found the sea “alive with privateers” trying to pick off straggling transports like wolves circling an animal herd. “One son of a bitch ran amongst us but was too small to attack our convoy.”
A British slave ship, Derby, was similarly beset as it entered West Indian waters, no sooner driving one off one marauder than finding itself targeted by another. The vessel’s hard voyage (its first mate reported leaving Nigeria “with 349 slaves, and buried ninety and ten white men on the passage”) ended with capture near Barbados by two American privateers, Fly and St. Peter.
The ship and its human cargo were sold “at Martinico” under Bingham’s direction. Island officials skimmed a few slaves for themselves in what had become a customary payoff—though the agent was said to be “dissatisfied at their taking so many,” because, he told a colleague, “he should not be paid for any of them.” After Derby’s settlement, some of St. Peter’s men used their prize money to purchase the vessel and convert it to their own privateer commissioned, of course, by Bingham.
Marquis de Lafayette, writing from shipboard en route to America in May 1777, acknowledged the heightened perils of sea travel in a letter to his wife. “At present we are in some danger because we risk being attacked by English vessels.” But once ashore, he assured her, “I shall be in perfect safety. The post of general officer has always been regar
ded as a warrant for long life. Ask any of the French generals of which there are so many.”
Meanwhile in Europe the shoe was on the other foot when it came to privateers. In 1776 the French foreign ministry had shrugged off British complaints about American “pirates” with barely concealed amusement. “Shall we say they are pirates? They do not commit any acts of piracy against us.” But by the fall of 1777, Ambassador de Noailles was regularly sending the admiralty furious accounts of British privateers harassing French transports.
The admiralty, to say the least, was not quick with sympathy. “We may venture to assure you that none of the vessels complained of are ships belonging to His Majesty. There is great reason to believe they were some of the piratical vessels fitted out by His Majesty’s rebellious subjects in America. Unless you can furnish us with names or a more minute and circumstantial description of those vessels, it will be impossible for us to cause those enquiries to be made which you have desired.”
De Noailles relayed this unhelpful response to Vergennes in Paris. The foreign minister was neither surprised nor alarmed. France’s naval buildup was almost complete. Its fleet in the West Indies had been expanded and modernized. With just a little good news from the American mainland, France would throw off the veil and enter the war. He told his ambassador not to worry. “We are going to put things aright.”
1779
NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT
Christopher Vail was seventeen when, in his eagerness to join the Continental Army, he secretly assumed the place and name (Paul Pain) of an acquaintance eager to desert it. He subsequently found himself on Long Island in 1776, cut off from retreat by William Howe’s redcoats. Ferrying Vail’s unit under fire across the Sound to Connecticut were the Essex County watermen commanded by John Glover, who a year earlier had leased Washington the ill-fated armed schooner, Hannah, and installed his friends and relatives as its officers and agents.
When Vail’s enlistment ended nine months later, he joined the crew of Mifflin, a Continental warship based in New London; and then Warren, one of Congress’s original thirteen frigates that later would be Dudley Saltonstall’s flagship in the disastrous assault on Penobscot.
In January 1779 he headed for the West Indies on the privateer Revenge. Capturing a transport bound for Halifax, he went aboard as one of its prize crew. Two days later a British privateer engaged them with the particular viciousness of combat between civilian warships. Outgunned, Vail’s vessel struck its sails in surrender. Even so, the enemy pumped several more volleys into its hull before boarding “with drawn swords in hand.” The Americans were herded to the side of their vessel and forced to leap the span of water to their captors’ ship. “I think the distance I jumped was 12 or 14 feet to avoid a cutlass.” Vail and his mates were then delivered to the Royal Navy prison at Admiral Young’s base on Antigua.
After five failed escape attempts (ignorant of Britain’s “Pirate Act,” he’d been shocked to learn “there was no exchange of prisoners”), Vail was shipped from Antigua to Britain. En route, warships under the command of Sir George Rodney pressed them into service. Vail manned a cannon on HMS Suffolk, seventy-four guns, against the French fleet off Martinique in April 1780. The initial bout was a “ship to ship slogging match” involving almost forty battleships and lasting three and a half hours. The British suffered eight hundred casualties, the French at least twice that number.
In the midst of the fighting, Vail’s ship had “an accident. A number of cartridges took fire and blew up 36 men.” The British flagship was no less hammered. “Our ship was next to Admiral Rodney in the action. I counted 24 shot holes that went through his ship between the two tiers of guns, and so many above that I could not count them.” Its decks later were washed with seawater that ran out the scuppers. “I saw plenty of blood on the Admiral’s ship’s side after the action.”
For several days the fleets maneuvered for advantage. The French were arrayed in a battle line, and Rodney decided to strike its rear section in order to cut off those vessels from the main force and destroy them piecemeal. His captains misunderstood his signals, however, and instead attacked the heart of the enemy’s strength. Vail’s ship led the way. “At 6 p.m. our ship struck the center of the French line but found it impregnable and bore away with the loss of nearly 100 men as she took the fire of four ships at once. The second came up in the same manner and was repulsed as the other.” In all, fifteen British ships in succession tried vainly to break through.
The enemy counterattacked the next day. “The French brought their whole force of 23 sail of the line to fight 16 of the English.” After another slugfest in which opposing warships mingled “all much together” as they blasted one another, each fleet withdrew, rendering the battle “inconsequential” in history’s view. “We lost a great many men and our ships very much damaged,” Vail wrote. He noted, too, that the battle considerably changed the attitude of his Royal Navy shipmates:
“The first time that we were going into action with the French, the whole crew seemed elated, being sure of success. They told me two English ships could take three Frenchmen any time. I really must acknowledge that the English fought well in the action, but came off second best. After this I heard no more said about the French not fighting.”
The next time the crew was called to quarters, Vail and the other American conscripts refused to report. The captain threatened to flog them but didn’t carry it out. Vail overheard one of the ship’s officers grudgingly commend their resistance. “Damn them, I like them better for their conduct.”
Transferred to HMS Action, the Americans again refused to fight. It drew only scorn from the British this time. As an example to his comrades, one was selected for flogging. He was stripped and given ten lashes. The resistor, Ebenezer Williams, still wouldn’t serve. “Damn him,” Action’s captain snarled, “whip him until he will do duty.” More lashes followed. At last Williams relented “after being cut into jelly.”
First chance he got, however, the captain unloaded the stubborn captives onto a passing transport. “Our living on board this ship was horrible beyond description,” Vail wrote. Its provisions, “condemned six months before,” consisted of “black beef, yellow pork, sour oat meal, and blue butter.”
His next stop was Falmouth, England, where he snuck away and joined Amazon, a British privateer hunting French and Spanish prizes. One incident during the cruise was particularly evocative of privateering’s mortal uncertainties. Off Portugal’s Cape St. Vincent, “We chased a large ship one day, and at 8 p.m. came alongside and hailed her but received no answer.” The vessel’s sails lay slack against the mast. He and some others rowed over in a longboat. “She mounted 20 guns which was all loaded and the matches lighted and a barrel of brandy opened on the larboard side of the deck. There was not a man on board.”
At Lisbon, Vail jumped ship and made his way to Cádiz, on Spain’s southern coast. There, Richard Harrison found him a place on a French warship. Harrison had been Congress’s agent at St. Eustatius early in the war. One of William Bingham’s business partners, he’d gone there undercover as a sufferer of venereal disease seeking a tropical cure. He’d left the island after political change in Europe killed its commercial advantages.
Vail’s vessel hailed a privateer flying American colors—false colors, it turned out. He fired his gun twenty-four times at the British impostor before both ships sheared away “completely cut to pieces.” During the fight some of his shipmates had “run from their quarters. I hollered to them to stick to it like good fellows. Every time I fired I was very careful and took good aim, and when I fired the captain says, ‘Huzza for the American 12 pounder!’” Afterward the relieved French captain “gave every man a bottle of wine.”
While in Cadiz to make repairs, Vail found a Massachusetts privateer, Thomas, preparing to head home to Salem. The four-week journey was disagreeable in one serious respect. The captain was a teetotaler, denying his men “one drop of spirits of any kind to drink nor even d
id he thank us for our services.”
From Salem, Vail returned to New London in May 1781, “which makes two years, four months, and five days absence.” Two days later he hopped another privateer and took off again to sea.
Eight
It is our business to force on a war, for which purpose I see nothing so likely as fitting our privateers from the ports and islands of France. Here we are too near the sun, and the business is dangerous; with you it may be done more easily.
—William Carmichael to William Bingham, June 1777
I have by no means neglected what Mr. Carmichael so strongly recommends in regard to precipitating a war betwixt France and England. I have always been fully convinced of the policy of irritating the two nations, of affording them matter for present resentments, and of renewing in their minds the objects of their ancient animosity. The attempt has not been altogether unavailing.
—William Bingham to the Foreign Affairs Committee, October 1777
One of the excuses France offered Britain for its treaty violations was that its people were “turbulent spirits eager to run after adventures.” Since “adventure” meant both financial speculation and personal thrill-seeking, the characterization was dead on. Money above all drove Frenchmen and other Europeans to join, as crewmen or investors, still-illegal privateer expeditions. But the excitement of tweaking the British “lords of the ocean” was clearly part of the draw.
Most Americans in Europe at the time likewise operated with mixed motives, combining their patriotic endeavors with capitalist ventures in privateering and the export home of munitions and trade goods. Though Benjamin Franklin (and later John Adams, who replaced Silas Deane as a commissioner in the American mission in 1778) was an exception in his business indifference, men like Deane were typical in working for fame and fortune along with American liberty. Deane told his partner Caron de Beaumarchais that he preferred “not to live” if the Revolution failed. If that was to be his fate, however, his incessant wartime speculation shows he meant to go out rich.
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