by Giles Milton
These last few captives were still being held by the sultan when Queen Anne came to the throne in 1702 and they looked set to spend the rest of their lives as slaves. But when the queen hinted that she might be interested in joining Moulay Ismail in an Anglo-Moroccan attack on the Spanish enclave of Ceuta, they were suddenly—and unexpectedly—released.
Their arrival in London was greeted with an outburst of public rejoicing, for it seemed as if the menace of the Salé corsairs had lifted at long last. The queen’s ministers, too, breathed a collective sigh of relief. For the first time in 150 years, not a single English slave was being held on Moroccan soil. But Moulay Ismail had no intention of forging a lasting peace with Queen Anne. When the queen eventually declined to provide troops for the sultan’s offensive against Ceuta, he told his Salé corsairs that British vessels were once again legitimate targets. After a truce that had lasted just three years, several trading vessels were seized and the fifty-five mariners on board found themselves incarcerated in Meknes. “Pray God incline you to pitty us,” wrote James Hill, one of the slaves. “[We are] naked and abused, in prisons, without close [clothes] or any other necessaries.”
Moulay Ismail’s formula of capture, ransom and occasional release was to set the pattern for the rest of Queen Anne’s reign. He only ever redeemed slaves if he thought he stood to profit and always used his captives as instruments of his foreign policy. In the spring of 1714, he once again released his English slaves, signing yet another treaty of peace and friendship. Under the terms of this agreement, the English promised to send Moulay Ismail a large quantity of chinaware and cloth, as well as twelve spotted deer.
When the queen died in the summer of 1714, these presents had still not been sent. To Moulay Ismail, this was a deliberate snub that needed to be punished at all costs. By the spring of the following year, he was ready to order his Salé corsairs back to sea. At the very same time, England’s West Country merchants—unaware of the sultan’s change of heart—were also preparing to set sail.
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SEIZED AT SEA
THE FRANCIS SLIPPED almost unnoticed out of Falmouth harbor. There were no crowds to see her off, no weeping wives and mothers. The farewells had been said on the previous evening. Now, in the absence of well-wishers, the crew went about their business with unusual efficiency Dripping ropes were hauled to the decks and musty canvas unfurled. A sharp gust of wind was all it took to propel the little vessel into the English Channel. Within less than an hour, the Cornish coastline lay far behind.
The departure of the Francis in the year “of our Lord Christ, 1715” was so unremarkable that it escaped the notice of all except the port’s harbormen and stevedores. The vessel was owned by a local merchant named Valentine Enys, an enterprising individual who had built up an extensive trading network that stretched as far afield as the Baltic and the Canary Islands. His fortune rested on the prosaic trade in pilchards, which abounded in the rich seas around Penryn. It was pilchards, dried and salted, that the Francis was carrying to Genoa, on the northwest coast of Italy.
The crew numbered just six men—seven including the captain—all of whom were experienced mariners. Captain John Pellow was a gruff sea-dog who had spent much of his life on the high seas. He was sufficiently educated to be able to read and write—skills that would prove invaluable in the years to come. The other six were familiar faces in the sea-swept taverns that lined Falmouth’s harbor. They came from such humble and impoverished backgrounds that virtually nothing is known of them other than their names: Lewis Davies, George Barnicoat, Thomas Goodman, Briant Clarke, John Crimes and John Dunnal.
There was also a newcomer on board the Francis for this particular voyage. Thomas Pellow, just eleven years of age, had never before been to sea. He lived with his parents and two sisters in the thriving fishing port of Penryn, “a pleasant, agreeable town,” which lay just four miles from Falmouth. According to one of its most famous inhabitants, Peter Mundy, Penryn resembled a miniature Constantinople. It was embraced by two arms of the sea, like the Ottoman capital, and the meeting point of these arms was a place of recreation in both places. “As in Constantinople, the grand seigneur’s seraglio or place of pleasure stands on the point that divides them,” wrote Mundy, “so we in like manner have a pleasant place for recreation … a fine bowling green and two brooks.”
Penryn’s prosperity was inextricably linked to the sea, but the inhabitants were also acutely conscious of the dangers that lay just beyond the horizon. Corsair vessels had frequently been sighted in the past, and it was perhaps in reference to the Barbary pirates that the townsfolk had chosen to place a Saracen’s head on the arms of their town.
Thomas Pellow was a pupil at the Latin School in Penryn. He was a bright and enterprising lad who might have improved his lot had he shown more enthusiasm for his studies. But he disliked the dawn start to each day, as well as the “most severe discipline of the school,” and decided to run away to sea—albeit with the permission of his family. He paid a visit to his uncle, Captain John Pellow, who he knew was about to sail to Genoa, and begged to be allowed to take part in what was sure to be an exciting adventure. “[I] so far insinuated myself into my uncle’s favour,” he later wrote, “as to get his promise to obtain the consent of my parents for me to go along with him.”
That consent was not readily forthcoming. Thomas’s parents wished their headstrong son to continue with his education and repeatedly pointed out the hardships, “which probably I might, in my so tender years, undergo thereby.” They also told him that school discipline was nothing when compared to the captain’s lash and warned him that once he had felt the ship’s cat-o’-nine-tails, he would soon be wishing he had never left Penryn. When Thomas persisted in his demand to be allowed to put to sea, his parents confided their “ominous fears of our falling into the hands of the Moors” who had ravished the Cornish coastline for so long..
Thomas’s obstinacy eventually paid off; his parents were no longer prepared to argue. “I obtained their consent,” he later wrote, “ … and was soon rigged in my sailor’s dress.” After a “long, long farewell” at the family home in Penryn and tearful goodbyes to his two younger sisters, Thomas walked the four miles to Falmouth and boarded the Francis. He hoped to return a sailor in six months; in fact, he was embarking on an adventure that was to last for the next twenty-three years.
Thomas’s parents were wise to fear the Moorish pirates and might have done well to remind the captain and crew of the extreme dangers of the voyage they were about to undertake. They knew that large numbers of captives had until very recently been held in Barbary—many of them from Cornwall—and had a genuine anxiety that their son would meet a similar fate. But Valentine Enys, the owner of the Francis, felt that such concerns were misplaced. He knew that the Moroccan sultan had signed a treaty of peace and commerce with the British just a year previously. He also knew that this treaty had brought to an end the Salé corsairs’ long reign of terror. They were forbidden to attack English vessels and prohibited from sailing anywhere near the English coastline. The sultan himself had warned that “he who deviates may blame none but himself, and injures no head but his own.” He had added, somewhat cryptically, that if and when the truce came to an end, any mariner caught at sea would be “deprived of our protection, shall enjoy no pact, and his hopes shall be in vain.”
Captain Pellow and his crew had no reason to suspect that the sultan was on the point of tearing up the treaty. They were unaware that the gifts promised by Queen Anne to the Moroccan sultan had never been sent. Nor did they know that Moulay Ismail was incensed at the way in which the English had reneged on their agreement to send these gifts.
Other English merchants were similarly ignorant of the sultan’s change of heart and were preparing to take advantage of this window of peace. All over southern England, harbors were busy as ships were made ready for trading voyages to Spain, Portugal and the colonies of North America. A veritable flotilla of fishermen, traders and merch
ants had already hoisted their sails and pushed their vessels into the North Atlantic. The Sarah, with her crew of fifteen, was sailing from Bristol to Barbados. The Endeavour from Topsham was heading to Newfoundland with a cargo of salt, while the David—also of Topsham—was on course for Lisbon. The Catherine of Hampton and the London-owned George were heading for Spain, while the Rebecca and Mary of Hull was bound for Leghorn with a cargo of corn.
It was not just the English who had put to sea during the lull in piracy. Merchants from colonial America, who had been the victims of previous attacks by the Salé corsairs, had also set sail with cargoes to sell in the great markets of southern Europe. One of their vessels, the Prosperous, had recently left New England with a load of salt fish. Her crew of six included a young boy of Pellow’s age named Abraham Kemach. A second New England vessel, the Princes, was also preparing to sail into the troubled waters of the North Atlantic. Her ten-strong crew, who included a fare-paying passenger, had no idea of the dangers that lay ahead.
The crew of the Francis had only the sky for company as they headed into the choppy Atlantic waters. The men, happy to be back at sea, were looking forward to brief dalliances with the raven-haired strumpets of Genoa. But young Thomas soon regretted his decision to set sail. His uncle proved an extremely hard taskmaster and afforded no special favors to his nephew. “I had very little or no time allowed to play,” Thomas later complained and added that if he slacked in his work, “I failed not of a most sure payment by the cat of nine tails.” To instill discipline in him, Captain Pellow ordered his nephew “to go up to the main-top mast-head, even in all weather.”
Captain Pellow may have known how to turn young lads into mariners, but he had a cavalier attitude to the safety of his vessel. He had taken no precautions against the possibility of a rupture in the recent peace and had neglected to stow aboard a single musket. If the Francis were to come under attack, she would have absolutely no means of defense.
The most dangerous part of the Francis’s voyage was the passage through the Straits of Gibraltar. This was a favorite haunt of corsairs from Salé, Algiers, Tunis and Tripoli, who lurked in concealed coves until their prey was within easy reach. On this occasion, the corsairs remained hidden from view, and Captain Pellow and his men passed through the straits without any trouble. They pushed on eastward toward Italy and arrived safely at Genoa, where the crew quickly sold their cargo of pilchards. With the money they made from this sale, they acquired goods that would fetch a good price in the West Country.
As the Francis began her return voyage to England, the crew’s thoughts turned to their homecoming. Having received no hint of the menace that was brewing in the port of Salé, they were unaware that the corsairs had spent the last few months equipping their vessels for a season of piracy on the high seas.
One of these corsairs was the fearsome Captain Ali Hakem. Like his fellow pirates, he had been forbidden to seize English vessels ever since Moulay Ismail had signed the peace treaty with Queen Anne. He and his corsairs had continued to put to sea, concentrating their efforts on capturing vessels belonging to the Spanish, Portuguese or French. All knew that it was only a matter of time before the sultan tore up his treaty with the English, and her ships would once again be a legitimate target for their piracy.
Captain Hakem probably learned of the sultan’s decision from Abderrahman el-Mediouni, the admiral of Salé, who had a nominal authority over the corsairs. The news led to feverish activity on the Salé waterfront, as the corsairs began immediate preparations to set sail. There were many practical hurdles to overcome. A crew needed to be hired, weaponry had to be cleaned and serviced, and the ship made ready for action. The Salé corsairs’ preferred vessel was the xebec, a small, lateen-rigged ship that was extremely fast in the water. Captain Hakem and his men knew that they would have to depend upon speed and surprise if they were to catch any prizes. Their ships’ hulls were greased with such care that they were said to glide through the waves like fish.
There were also religious rituals to be undertaken before a vessel could leave port. A curious mix of superstition and lore, these had been adhered to for so long that they were steeped in tradition. “The rais [captain] never fails to visit one of the more famous marabouts,” wrote Father Pierre Dan in 1637, “to ask him about his travels and to ask for his prayers.” Advice would be offered and donations given in return. The marabout would then present the captain with the gift of a sheep, which would later be sacrificed at sea.
Captain Pellow and his men were blithely unaware of the terror that was about to be unleashed on them. Their voyage had gone well—better than anyone could have expected—and they had been lulled into a false sense of security. They crossed the treacherous Bay of Biscay without any difficulties, and their spirits were raised even higher when they sighted another English vessel on the horizon. The Francis gave friendly chase, and there was a great cheer when the two vessels came alongside. The George belonged to Captain Robert Fowler of Topsham. Her five-strong crew were also looking forward to returning to their homes, having successfully acquired a large cargo of oil in Genoa. As the two ships passed the rocky headland of Finistere, their crews celebrated their trouble-free passage: “our cargoes out and in,” wrote Thomas Pellow in his account, “and by God’s providence bound home.”
CAPTAIN ALI HAΚEM had sailed from Salé in the company of Admiral el-Mediouni. The two corsair vessels had been stalking the English ships for several hours. They knew that surprise was their most devastating weapon and continued to monitor the movements of the Francis and the George for some time, safe in the knowledge that their low-sided ships were invisible to their English prey.
In the tense hours that preceded an attack, it was customary to slaughter the sheep that had been given by the marabout. This was a solemn, if bloody, affair. According to Joseph Pitts, an English captive who witnessed one of these sacrifices, the captain first chopped off the head of the sheep. Then, the crew “immediately take out the entrails and throw them and the head overboard.” After skinning the legs and belly, “they cut the body in two parts by the middle.” One part was thrown over the right side of the ship, and the other was thrown over the left. This was done, wrote Pitts, “as a kind of propitiation.”
Once the sacrifice was complete, the corsairs closed in on their prey. It had long been their custom to raise false colors in order to lure their unsuspecting victims to within striking distance. Only when the target vessel was at close quarters did the corsairs reveal their true intent by dramatically switching flags. Unfurled by the wind, these piratical banners usually depicted an arm brandishing a curved scimitar and were designed to frighten the hapless mariners into submission.
Captain Pellow and his crew were caught completely off guard by the two Salé xebecs. Young Thomas would later note that none of the crew had spied their pursuers until it was too late and they were “very unhappily surprised.” He writes little of the ensuing attack, perhaps because almost a quarter of the century would pass before he recorded the story of his capture. Other victims recalled their sheer terror at the sight of the corsairs, whose shaved heads, bare arms and flashing scimitars left them quaking with fear. To Joseph Pitts, a cabin boy like Pellow, the experience was forever seared into his memory. “The enemy seemed to me as monstrous ravenous creatures,” he wrote, “which made me cry out ‘Oh master! I am afraid they will kill us and eat us.’” The ship’s captain had replied with uncanny prescience: “‘No, my child, … they will carry us to Algier and sell us.’”
The unarmed Francis stood absolutely no chance against Captain Hakem and Admiral el-Mediouni. Nor did Captain Fowler’s boat, which was also without weaponry. But as the two English ships made “such small resistance as we could both make,” a sharp-sighted lookout caught sight of a much larger vessel heading toward them at full speed. It was the London sea-dog Captain Richard Ferris, “in a ship of much greater strength, having twenty men, eight swivel and eight carriage guns.”
Captain
Ferris’s vessel, the Southwark, was indeed a great deal larger than either the Francis or the George. This sturdy merchant ship had been carrying a cargo of wheat from Portsmouth to Leghorn. She had no fewer than eighteen men aboard, and her captain was a bullish individual who was spoiling for a fight. He had no intention of allowing the Francis and the George to be carried off to Salé and vowed to use all the firepower he could muster to rescue the crews of the two captured boats.
The Salé corsairs were unused to their victims fighting back. Their strategy was to attack with such ferocity that they overwhelmed their enemy before they had time to load their guns. Over the previous decades, only a handful of English vessels had attempted to defend themselves, even though they knew that capture would almost certainly lead to a long period of slavery. Those who did resist the corsairs found themselves facing a truly formidable foe. In 1655, the American colonist Abraham Browne had urged his men to fight back against their attackers. “I fetcht up a bottell,” he wrote, “and made every man to drinke, encoraging them in the best manner I could.” The ensuing battle had been ferocious, and Browne and his men had quickly found themselves forced from the exposed quarterdeck. “Ther muskett shott … came soe thick [that] wee could staye their noe longer.”
This was a classic tactic of the Salé corsairs that would soon be repeated on the Francis, the George and the Southwark. It had certainly cost Browne and his men their freedom, and very nearly their lives. As they recharged their muskets, the corsairs had boarded the vessel and cut down the rigging in order to disable her. Next, wielding axes, they smashed through the woodwork and doors, steadily gaining control of the ship.
