Fading History

Sunken British Warship Discovered in Lake Ontario

2008-06-16T21:54:00.004-04:00

This is a cool story forwarded to me by a friend. Below is the article published in shipwreckworld.com. I'm also including some video fo the discovery from Youtube:

Rochester, New York – The HMS Ontario, a British warship built in 1780 has been discovered in deep water off the southern shore of Lake Ontario. Shipwreck enthusiasts Jim Kennard and Dan Scoville located the ship utilizing sophisticated side scanning sonar and an underwater remote operated vehicle. The HMS Ontario is the oldest confirmed shipwreck and the only fully intact British warship to have ever been found in the Great Lakes.

HMS Ontario Founders
In the early evening hours of October 31, 1780, the British sloop of war HMS Ontario sank with over 120 men, women, children and prisoners on board during a sudden and violent gale. The Ontario had departed earlier in the day from Fort Niagara, near the western end of Lake Ontario, for Oswego and then on to Fort Haldimand located on Carleton Island in the St. Lawrence River. The following day some of the Ontario’s boats, hatchway gratings, binnacle, compasses and several hats and blankets drifted ashore in the area that is known today as Golden Hill State Park, located 30 miles east of Fort Niagara in New York State. Following the reported loss of the Ontario, the British conducted a wide search of the area on land and water. A few days later only the ship’s sails were found adrift in the lake. In late July 1781, six bodies from the Ontario were found approximately 12 miles east of the Niagara River near Wilson, NY. This was the extent of the items ever found from the ship until its recent discovery.

Built as a Sloop-of-War
In October 1779, the work of building a new "brig sloop" began at the dockyard on Carleton Island. Six months later construction of this vessel was nearly completed and on May 10, 1780 it was launched and named HMS Ontario. The brig sloop was 80 feet long with a 25 foot beam and contained two masts with a length of over 80 feet. She had a "burthen weight" (tonnage capacity) of over 226 tons and carried 22 cannon on board. Throughout the summer of 1780 the Ontario transported troops, stores, and civilian merchandise around and across Lake Ontario, stopping at Niagara and Carleton Island frequently, in addition to regular visits to Oswego. During this period it never came under attack from the American forces. In late September 1780, the Ontario sailed from Carleton Island fully loaded with troops, Mohawk, Seneca, and Onondaga scouts, canoes, and supplies for Fort Niagara. The return trip back would be the last and a most fatal voyage.

Search for the HMS Ontario
The search for the Ontario began 35 years ago for Jim Kennard, however after several frustrating years of searching, he abandoned the quest for this ship. Six years ago he teamed up with Dan Scoville to search for shipwrecks off the southern shore of Lake Ontario. Since then the shipwreck explorers have been successful in locating seven ships in the lake. Obtaining good research regarding the sinking of a shipwreck is critical in determining its location. This time Kennard obtained documents from both the British and Canadian archives relating to the ship disaster before setting out with Scoville to find the HMS Ontario. Even with the best information available, it still took them 3 years and a search area that covered over 200 square miles of the lake before they found the ship.

The Discovery
The discovery of the HMS Ontario was made in early June utilizing sophisticated side scan sonar technology. The sonar imagery clearly shows a large sailing ship partially resting on one side, with two masts reaching up more than 70 feet above the lake bottom. The remains of two crow’s nests on each mast provided good confirmation that the sunken ship would be the brig-sloop Ontario. The ship was found between Niagara and Rochester, NY in an area of the lake where the depth extends to more than 500 feet. Due to the depth limitations for diving on this shipwreck, an underwater remote operated vehicle with deep dive capability, developed by Scoville, was utilized to explore and confirm the identity of the ship. Kennard and Scoville have since notified the New York State Office of Historic Preservation of their discovery of the HMS Ontario.

Exploring the Shipwreck
In the deep depth where the Ontario lies there is no visible light to illuminate the ship. A remote operated vehicle with on-board cameras and high intensity lighting was deployed to bring back images of the sunken shipwreck. The schooner was found sitting upright on the bottom leaning over to one side. The masts are still in place rising up over 70 feet from the bottom. A portion of the bowsprit remains and just below it there is a beautifully carved scroll bow stem. Two of the cannons are visible in the bow area but they have come loose from their original positions. Two of the large anchors are clearly visible. One anchor is still secure in its original position and the other has dropped off to the side of the ship. The most characteristic feature of this ship are the quarter galleries that are located on either side of the stern area of the HMS Ontario. A quarter gallery is a kind of balcony with windows that are typically placed on the sides of the stern-castle, a high, tower-like structure at the back of a ship that housed the officers’ quarters. Both quarter galleries are there with some of the window glass still in place. Under the ship’s tiller rests one of the small cannons that had been mounted on the stern deck of the ship. A few deadeyes and pulley blocks can be seen lying about in the wreckage. Many of the belaying pins that were used to secure lines are still located on the rails of the ship. All of the hatch covers and skylights are gone leaving a slight opening to the deck below, however, the ROV was not able to penetrate into the lower deck due to the silt that has been deposited over the years.

Tales of Treasure and the Holy Grail
The HMS Ontario is considered to be one of the few "Holy Grail" shipwrecks in the Great Lakes. For years many divers and shipwreck hunters have searched the lake for the HMS Ontario without success. Authors of shipwreck books speculated and then wrote tales of payroll treasure that might be on board the Ontario. This was far from the actual truth as any payroll for the troops would have been coming from Carleton Island, not from Fort Niagara. The book "Legend of the Lake" written by author Arthur Britton Smith in 1997 chronicles the history of the HMS Ontario and provides an excellent treatise of the historical conditions between the British and the Americans during this period of time.

War Grave Site
The shipwreck of the HMS Ontario is still considered to be British Admiralty property. The official record of the number of people on board the Ontario when she sank included: 74 military personnel, 9 women and children, 4 Indians, and 1 civilian. There were no prisoners-of-war officially listed by the British, however, private correspondence by an individual living at Fort Niagara indicated that there may have been a total of 120 people on board the ship including about 30 American prisoners. The shipwreck site of the Ontario is considered to be a British war grave and therefore should remain forever undisturbed.

Documenting the Shipwreck
Multiple cameras located on the underwater remote operated vehicle were utilized to document the condition of the ship providing over 80 minutes of color and black & white video imagery. There has been sufficient video documentation obtained so that it will never be necessary to return to the shipwreck site again. Kennard and Scoville plan to contact several TV production groups that may be interested in developing an historic program about the HMS Ontario. In addition, they are considering the possibility of hosting a local dinner to premiere the showing of this historic shipwreck discovery.

Shipwreck Detectives
To search for and identify a potential shipwreck, more time is actually spent on land going though old newspapers on microfilm and conferring with shipwreck historians than on the lake searching. Guy Morin assisted the in the research of the Ontario from reports that were documented in the Haldimand papers from the National Archives of Canada located in Ottawa. Ships that get caught in a storm become very broken up, the nameplate may become lost in the wreckage or the painted name on a ship can disappear over time. It is very important to do the research prior to conducting an expensive shipwreck search, especially when a ship may have actually been saved or salvaged later on. Once a ship is found, all efforts are made to confirm its name and history.

Lake Ontario Shipwrecks
There are estimated to have been over 4700 shipwrecks in the Great Lakes with approximately 500 occurring on Lake Ontario. Many of these ships were wrecked in a harbor or were driven on-shore where they were pounded to pieces. Probably fewer than 200 ships have actually been lost in the lake and there have only been a few notable shipwreck discoveries off the southern shore of Lake Ontario. Because lake depths often exceed several hundred feet just a few miles out from the southern shoreline, shipwrecks that are located in these depths are beyond the range of recreational divers and require costly search and support ship equipment to find them. For additional information, images, and to view a short video of the shipwreck of the HMS Ontario, visit our website: http://www.shipwreckworld.com/

Chapter Three of Tarpaulin Cove is Out!

2007-09-17T22:02:00.000-04:00

OK, I seem to be running about a year a chapter, which is pretty bad. Many thanks to Traveler and Admiral Benbow for motivating me. Hope it was even remotely worth the wait. Let me know what you think, if you read it.

Some Entertainment From the Dark Side of the Rainbow

2007-07-17T23:18:00.000-04:00

This may be old news to many readers, but it is just so cool. I'm referring to the apparently unplanned (which I don't believe) synchronization between Pink Floyd's seminal album Dark Side of the Moon and the classic MGM movie The Wizard of Oz. Many other internet sites will provide better details, but here is a taste. Click the YouTube link(s) below and enjoy.

It will take a minute for the sound to start, but be patient. Early on notice the musical theme of another working day, as Dorothy talks with her otherwise occupied parents the farm hands.

Next, watch for the change in the mood of both music and film when when Dorothy falls into the pigpen just as the lyrics sing "race towards an early grave...". Then you get the creepy technopsychedelic Floyd instrumental which replaces Somewhere Over the Rainbow, wrapping up just as Dorothy's singing ends and the sun's rays appear.

Now we move on to clip 2 (which we would flow naturally into if we were watching the real thing and not YouTube clips). The jarring noise of ringing alarm clocks shatters the calm and introduces the arrival of the angry bicycling neighbor, Miss Gulch, aka the Wicked Witch. The noise subsides as she gets off her bicycle and enters the gate to talk to Dorothy's parents. It is now replaced by the growing drama of dark music and a ticking clock, set against the disturbing discussion happening on the screen.

As the moment reaches its crisis and the condemned Toto is turned over to Miss Gulch, the lyrics begin with a somewhat harsh tone. But in just a few moments Toto escapes and returns to Dorothy, just as the mood of the music softens and the theme of growing up/life passing you by is echoed in the lyrics. Now, as David Gilmore is singing "No one told you when to run..." we see the inevitable shot of Dorothy and Toto running away from home together.

There is much, much more, and it is all really worth watching. Check out the whole series if you haven't done it before.

Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

2007-06-23T20:45:00.000-04:00

Context is important. The word sounds a bit academic, but the concept it represents is incredibly strong. Considering something in its proper context can dramatically affect the meaning conveyed. We may not often think of our work as taking place within a certain historical context. Perhaps we see the concept at work in other aspects of our life, oftentimes without realizing it. Nevertheless, it is there, affecting our experiences and those we pass on to others.

Consider a few examples of context: a team wins a baseball game. Your child’s team wins a little league game. He or she catches the game winning ball. Bill Buckner makes a game losing error. The Red Sox win the 2004 World Series, defeating the 86 year-long curse of the Bambino. Each variable that leads up to an event or a moment in time contributes different levels of meaning to it, some more or less than others.

We recently changed the naming convention of our conference rooms at my company. “Why Turing?” I have been asked by some. “Why did the names change at all?” “What was wrong with Michelangelo?”

The answer is historical context. Nothing was wrong with our old names, but they really didn’t contribute towards or derive from anything that we do. My company is a manufacturer of services within the technology industry. When we look at the term “technology” we probably think about what is going on today and tomorrow at the bleeding edge of internet applications, personal gadgetry and electronic entertainment. But we are less likely to look over our shoulder, at the individuals whose contributions to the fields of science, mathematics and computing led to this era of exponential growth in technological achievement.

Our choice of names for the places where ideas are exchanged derives from a desire to understand and appreciate the context within which our business exists. Before BGP, Unified Communications and Vista there were super-computers, Enigma, Turing machines and punch-card tabulators. And before that there were the revolutionary concepts of physics, mathematics, geometry and the natural sciences which paved the way for those of us who follow.

History testifies that for hundreds of years, the sciences of the western hemisphere languished in the intellectually stagnant era commonly (and aptly) called the Dark Ages. Although Arab studies of mathematics and science reached a zenith of intellectual development at this time, Europe did not participate until the 15th century, when the fall of Constantinople and the opening of new trade routes brought a flood of new ideas, new cultures and new economic opportunities into the trade cities of Italy. With this long overdue arrival of the Renaissance, a new period characterized by innovation and the growth of scientific thought began to emerge.

This is where we begin to see the individual contributions of great minds to the growth of western science. The men who stood out made great strides, often at the expense of their reputations, their freedom and at times, their lives. The best, though, challenged the process and the accepted knowledge not out of the yearning for indiscriminant rebellion, but rather out of a quest to better understand the truths behind the mysteries of the world, and a desire to do something positive with the knowledge they might gain.

As a result, we see men like Copernicus, Galileo, and DaVinci challenging the intellectual culture around them with ideas which ultimately proved to be groundbreaking in the course of human development. Moreover, they were followed by contributions from minds like Sir Isaac Newton, who is famous for the statement “if I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” Newton understood the tradition within which he operated, and the debt owed to his predecessors.

In our own century, Albert Einstein perhaps best typifies this sense of incredible talent, built upon the countless achievements of others before him and driven on by his own unique personal genius. Moreover, in our own specific industry, we must count the name of Alan Turing, the British logician, mathematician and cryptographer. Known as the father of modern computing and famed for his WWII decrypting contribution at Bletchley Park, his studies built upon both Newton and Einstein’s work in physics and mathematics, ultimately leading to the concept of theoretical machines capable of performing any given mathematical computation. Turing Machines are a central concept in modern computing theory, whose abstract properties lend many insights into both computer science and complexity theory.

We do not operate in a vacuum, and the work we do does not end when we are gone. Though we may not ever become the topics of university lectures, which of us would ever strive for obscurity? The contributions we make will extend beyond our lives, and any greatness we achieve in our own right may enable others to reach new heights of their own. We are a business, but we are also learning organization with a remarkable desire to propel self-development, taking what is good and making it great. We should never settle for mediocrity, and we should never forget the shoulders on which we stand.

Rosslyn Chapel Stone Mystery Decoded

2007-05-04T23:00:00.000-04:00

Check out the story below and play the video. It's well worth your time if you are as hip as most readers of this blog. For the uninitiated, Rosslyn Chapel is one is one of the most unique medeival churches in the British Isles, decorated with a host of cryptic stone symbols and architectural anomolies, and which is held dear by the Knights Templar and Freemasons alike. This is an unexusable oversimplification of hte site, but I will sum it all up with the additional statement that it is held to be one of several possible resting places of the Holy Grail.

ASSOCIATED PRESS- The stone carved angel, bottom, and cubes that lead a team of code-breakers to claim to have found music hidden for 500 years in the intricate carvings, are seen at Rosslyn Chapel, in the village of Roslin, near Edinburgh, Scotland Wednesday May 2, 2007. Father and son team Thomas and Stuart Mitchell say they deciphered a musical code hewn into stone cubes on the ribs supporting the ceiling of Rosslyn Chapel. The music has been recorded, and will get its official premiere in the chapel May 18. Rosslyn Chapel is where author Dan Brown set the climax of the best-selling book 'The Da Vinci Code.' (AP Photo/Gordon Frazer)

Hanging Around?

2007-02-03T16:25:00.000-05:00

If you are hanging around with nothing better to do this weekend, check out the new chapter at A Maritime Tale. It won't let you down!

Return of the Magi

2006-12-23T23:42:00.000-05:00

Christmas is here and once again I make my annual pilgrimmage to the works of T.S. Eliot to seek out The Journey of the Magi. I notice that last year I stated that I was beginning to understand it. This year I know more, but am less certain that I have any real understanding.

A quick search of Wikipedia reveals "The poem is, instead of a celebration of the wonders of the journey, largely a complaint about a journey that was painful, tedious, and seemingly pointless...The magus seems generally unimpressed by the infant, and yet he realizes that the incarnation has changed everything...The birth of the Christ was the death of his world of magic, astrology, and paganism. The speaker, recalling his journey in old age, says that after that birth his world had died, and he had little left to do but wait for his own end...His narrator in this poem is a witness to historical change who seeks to rise above his historical moment, a man who, despite material wealth and prestige, has lost his spiritual bearings."

All perfectly reasonable, but lacking something. The great rennaissance Magi, such as Ficino, Mirandola and Agrippa, saw the biblical Magi as symbolic of a proper place for Natural magic & astrology within acceptable Christian doctrine. The three sage's wisdom brought them to seek out and pay tribute to the Christ child, thus legitimizing their practices in the proper context. Nevertheless, this was a dangerous path in the eyes of the church, and those who walked upon it often faced the perils of human judgement. One only need reference the trial and execution of Giordano Bruno to understand the stakes at hand. And yet, the tradition persisted in the esoteric underworld, through the Rosicrucian furor and beyond, through the ultimate divorce of magic and science and into the uncertain vogue of the 19th century theosophists and occultists, as well as today's new age mysticism.

If the Wiki's analysis is lacking something, it is the framing of Eliot's poem within the magical mystery tradition which he and his writing seems to explore. He was not alone in this regard. Charles Williams and his fellow Inklings & associates, each in varied but thematically connected ways, managed to reflect the possibilities of a Christian magical theology, hidden from the profane, but once known, forever changing the way one views this world. There is a hint of this in Eliot's Journey, like a watery reflection of the night sky, with one bright star in the west winking through the ripples. Intentional? I'll leave it to the reader to decide.

T. S. Eliot. The Journey of The Magi:

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is He who has been born King of the Jews? For we have seen His star in the East and have come to worship Him..." The star which they had seen in the East went before them, till it came and stood over where the young Child was.

[Matthew 2:1–10]

A Maritime Tale

2006-10-19T23:55:00.000-04:00

Just a short note- I have created another blog site to publish a new story geared towards early readers. Wait- before you criticize me for starting another story without finishing Tarpaulin Cove, let me explain: This is a charitable work I began at the request of a good friend who volunteers for the Rhode Island Adult Literacy Campaign. He had seen Tarpaulin Cove and asked if I could do a similar, shorter monthly publication for their newsletter. As a result, I have been publishing a serial pirate novel for early readers and in doing so have found that it is really fun working on a shorter work, having to pay attention to a limited word count, and carefully choosing the vocabulary level. In the newsletter we pick out vocabulary words for review, as well, but I have not included this feature on the blog. Anyway, I figured it might be fun to publish this story. Feel free to check it out here.

Possession

2006-08-02T01:16:00.000-04:00

I began this essay and am not sure that I am done with it, even with my own thoughts on its point. I'll post it anyway, though, in the hope that another's thoughts may render me more eloquent...

In 1983 Paul Hewson, better known as Bono, coined the lyric “And the battle's just begun, to claim the victory Jesus won”. It was a line intended to shame both the Protestant and Catholic sides of the religious struggle in Northern Ireland, through its simplicity and its truth. In its naked, common-sense approach, however, the line also extends past its Christian context and symbolizes the crux of so many of the world’s religious conflicts: Possession.

There is something magic about ownership. It is a primal urge, born out of the fear of loss, and ultimately of the potentially tenuous nature of survival. If we do not obtain food, clothing, or shelter we will perish. How much more pressing is the drive to hold the key to eternal life, to extend one’s existence and lessen the fear of the great unknown?

On a physical level, the things we must produce for survival in this world have been translated into the language of commerce. Money is no more than a symbol of work, or of possessions. It is the great middleman which separates our physical toil from the fruit of our labors, allowing us to instead reap whatever reward we desire. It is an enabler, a middle-man, and, like the internet today, an accelerator of anonymity. If I hold money, who is to question how I made it? Did I work hard? Do I deserve its weight in the luxuries of trade? No proper merchant would question it.

In the Western Judeo-Christian tradition, money is really the loophole to the biblical curse: to atone for his sins Adam must work the land all his days, but not if he invests well or wins the lottery. In the undercurrent of logic here we begin to comprehend how some could see the dark attraction of a life of piracy on the high seas. Without God or country, and with money in your pocket, the yoke is broken.

It is, to some extent, this logic which Voltaire put into play in his examination of English religious tolerance in the reformation. Expounding on the subject in his Philosophical letters on the English, Voltaire points out the fact that the English do not embrace each other’s differing sects, but they do have a more developed economic system which justifies tolerance. While France still tried to recover from centuries of bitter religious warfare between its own populace, the English were learning to live with one another and to accept the more liberal ideas of human rights and the freedom of ideas. The concept that ideas could not be forcefully imposed upon a people was a major step, and it was driven, according to Voltaire, by economic progress best represented by the London Stock exchange. Voltaire writes:

"Go into the Exchange in London, that place more venerable than many a court, and you will see representatives of all the nations assembled there for the profit of mankind. There the Jew, the Mahometan, and the Christian deal with one another as if they were of the same religion, and reserve the name of infidel for those who go bankrupt."

While it serves a stabilizing role on both a political and a social level, the possession of money and a reliable means of commerce is hardly a source of spiritual satisfaction to the individual. Though he has himself abandoned the church, Umberto Eco relays this point well in his essay, On God and Dan Brown, when he states:

“…if you believe in money alone, then sooner or later, you discover money's great limitation: it is unable to justify the fact that you are a mortal animal. Indeed, the more you try escape that fact, the more you are forced to realise that your possessions can't make sense of your death. It is the role of religion to provide that justification. Religions are systems of belief that enable human beings to justify their existence and which reconcile us to death.”

So man is left, ultimately, to struggle for that greatest of possessions – faith. And faith is really the ability to be confident. It is a confidence that one is right, a confidence one possesses knowledge of all the mysteries, and likewise a confidence that one must live by the tenets of that faith to be saved by it. Why is it, then, that men so often jeopardize the high ideals of faith during the pursuit of religious ends?

Inevitably, we must come to accept the fact that all human institutions are plagued by the same corruption: the human element. Our greed, pride, passion, self-absorption, lack of confidence, you name it – it will creep its way into the most noble of causes, and it has for hundreds of years. All our works are tainted. And that which fosters those flaws is so often the emotion which drove our earliest quests for survival: fear. Fear, and the instinctive reaction to conquer that fear through Possession.

Chapter Two for Tarpaulin Cove

2006-07-01T00:18:00.000-04:00

Major thanks to the immediate and perpetual nagging of Admiral Benbow & Traveler, who have motivated me to finish up Chapter Two and post it. If you read this blog please check it out, and feel free to comment in any way. I'd like to use this audience to help me edit, so any critique is not only welcome but necessary. Plus, I would have sat on it for another year had I not mentally decided to stop trying to get it right and just get it out there. So, hope its not too boring, but let me know if it is!

Oh yes, the pic at the top of the chapter is a dutch galleon, not a spanish caravel, but it captures what I was mentally picturing, so some edits may be in order. Also, the picture at the bottom of the chapter is the island of Johanna, not Ile Sainte Marie. I had wavered between the two (in the story) and may switch yet again, but the picture works either way. Also, the pic on this post is of the battle Admiral (then Captain) George Anson fought on board the Centurion to capture the Spanish Treasure Galleon Nostra Signora de Cabadonga, a rousing story in and of itself, but a story for another day...

Whydah Recovery Identifies Youngest Pirate on Record

2006-06-03T00:36:00.000-04:00

Here's a great story regarding the archaelogical work going on with the wreck of the Whydah by the Expedition Whydah crew. They have been able to positively identify the youngest pirate ever known, and eleven year-old boy who demanded that the pirates take him when his ship was captured (much to his mother's chagrin). Thanks to Admiral Benbow & PF for referring this story to me. Here's the full story, which I quote from the Boston Globe:

By Michael Levenson, Globe Staff | June 2, 2006

He was a boy, no more than 11, when pirates captured the ship he and his mother were sailing on in the Caribbean. As he watched the pirates haul off the ship's cargo of sugar and tobacco, John King made a decision: He would leave his mother and join the pirate crew, led by Captain Sam Bellamy.

Now, 290 years later, King's remains -- his fibula, silk stocking, and shoe -- have been identified among the wreck of Bellamy's ship, the Whydah, 1,500 feet off the coast of Wellfleet. While teenage pirates were common in the 18th century, King is considered to be the youngest ever identified.

Researchers excavating the Whydah used 18th century Caribbean court records and modern forensics to make the determination.

Their find opened a window onto the strange and brief life of a young boy swept up in a lost world of ocean piracy.

``It's a whole touchstone to a period in history which is often misunderstood or it's been twisted around by all these novels," said Ken Kinkor, a historian at the Expedition Whydah Sea-Lab and Learning Center in Provincetown, which made the discovery. ``Even though we find treasures, the best treasures aren't always gold or silver. It's the knowledge we get from the past."...

The boy's journey first entered the official records on Nov. 9, 1716. That is the date recorded in an Antiguan court deposition when Bellamy hoisted a black flag aboard his sloop, the Marianne, and attacked the Bonetta, the ship on which King and his mother were sailing, en route from Antigua to Jamaica.

The deposition, written by the commander of the Bonetta, tells how Bellamy plundered the boat for 15 days. The document also records a few of the 80 men on the Bonetta -- among them, a goldsmith named Paul Williams, a gunner's mate named William Osbourne, and an Indian boy and a black man, whose names were not recorded. Then the document, which Kinkor tracked down a few years ago in a London archive, tells of a boy, ``one John King," who stubbornly demanded to join Bellamy's crew.

King ``was so far from being forced or compelled" to join, the record says, ``that he declared he would kill himself if he was restrained, and even threatened his Mother, who was then on board as a passenger."

After the show of defiance, Bellamy let the boy aboard, Kinkor said. The moment has tantalized pirate enthusiasts for some time, who have struggled to understand why a pirate captain would let a boy join his crew.

``I tend to think that from what we know of Bellamy he was kind of a charismatic individual," Kinkor said. ``I think Bellamy may have admired the kid's spirit. This kid, I can almost see him begging Bellamy to let him join and Bellamy not having the heart to refuse."

Three months later, Bellamy and the boy would be dead.

From St. Croix, they sailed through the Leeward Islands, passed Venezuela, and crossed back toward America, plundering ships along the way, according to Kinkor. Between Cuba and Haiti, they attacked the Whydah, a 100-foot heavily armed slave galley, and Bellamy took the boat for his own. Up the Carolinas they sailed to Cape Cod, where a fierce storm sank the Whydah, killing roughly 140 men aboard, including Bellamy and King.

Thoreau reflected on the famous shipwreck in his book, ``Cape Cod".

``A storm coming on, their whole fleet was wrecked, and more than a hundred dead bodies lay along the shore," he wrote, referring to Marconi Beach in Wellfleet.

Six who survived were hung for piracy in Boston; two were acquitted with the help of Cotton Mather. An Indian survivor was sold into slavery, Kinkor said.

The boat, broken to bits, lay on the sea floor until 1984, when Barry Clifford, a Cape Cod native captivated by the tale as a boy, located the wreck using sonar. Clifford hauled up some 200,000 artifacts -- pistols, coins, and cannons -- and helped create the Whydah Center to display them. He hardly paid attention to King's fibula, stocking and shoe, found preserved in a lump of minerals in 1989 and put away in storage for years.

Clifford said he thought they belonged to a very small sailor, until Kinkor persuaded him recently to have them tested. ``I had been looking at this shoe and thinking, 'My God, these people were small back then," Clifford said.

Last month, John de Bry, director of the Center for Historical Archaeology in Florida, and David R. Hunt, an anthropologist at the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C., analyzed photographs of the 11-inch bone and determined that it belonged not to a small man, but to a boy between 8 and 11 years old. Because King was the only boy recorded aboard the Whydah, Kinkor said he feels certain that the fibula is King's.

Although the English Navy used boys as ``powder monkeys" to haul gunpowder from the magazine to the cannons, Kinkor said he did not know of any records of a pirate so young as King.

The Whydah Center, which has the bone, stocking and shoe on display in Provincetown, plans to put them on a cross-country tour with National Geographic later this year, Clifford said.

Treasure Madness

2006-05-21T23:45:00.000-04:00

I went treasure hunting last weekend with a good friend of mine. It was a great trip. We had beautiful weather, a relaxing journey over miles of ocean and land, and plenty of hard work once we got to the site we were investigating. Treasure hunting should be hard work: wouldn't it be a bit anti-climactic to reach the location and see a big X on the ground, pick up a diamond and go home? OK, it sounds good, but really, isn't it the experience we seek, not the treasure. I don't think of myself as a treasure-hunter but rather an adventurer. What I really want is to solve the mystery, figure out the riddle, pass the test. If it's too easy, where's the glory?

Anyway, I was happy to have the company. For all my talk about hard work, I would have turned back early if I hadn't had such a willing conspirator eager to forge ahead. We came in search of one rock and found hundreds. We scoured the shoreline and bushwacked our way through thorns and undergrowth to find hidden meadows only deer and rabbit frequent now. We discussed the possibilities of erosion and the fickle decisions a pirate may have made with the landscape three hundred years ago. When all was said and done, and most of the potential spots had been investigated, there was one big rock that had attracted us from the beginning. We pulled out the compass and marched off the paces. Lo and behold, at the proper count the needle on the detector buried itself to the right.

Was it gold? No, it was part of a boiler, maybe. We found one more rock that looked like a suspect. Once again we counted out seven paces. Bam! the detector went crazy again. Was it gold? No, just some lead bars that looked suspiciously like finger ingots. Now, I may be insane, but what are the chances that a treasure map would lead me to a beach where every rock had metal objects buried exactly seven paces to the northwest? Madness.

Nevertheless, I was happy to make the trip. I spent some great time with an old friend, and I felt that rush of adrenaline each time the detector went off. Alive is the best way to describe it. My neighbors and workplace associates think I am crazy, but I truly think they are the ones lacking clear judgement. We are grown-ups, and which of us didn't dream of being old enough to strike out on a real treasure hunt when we were young? As we grew up our childish dreams may have faded, but it doesn't have to be that way. Life is a series of decisions, and though they may seem laid out for us ahead of time, each moment is in our control, whether we recognize it or not. Live, and do what you wish you could. Life is gold.

The One Ring

2006-04-28T23:04:00.000-04:00

Some say the One Ring was lost when it fell into the Anduin.

I think Hugo would have liked to know. When the Duke of Egypt came into the square, the madness of the revolution had truly taken hold. Envision that scythe arching throught he crowd, cutting the legs out from under the horses of the king. Did they know what they were unleashing, could they have predicted Thermidor? And Esmerelda, whisked away, only to be lost forever?

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you

The Marriage of Quasimodo, and fear, in a handful of dust.

Frodo, nursing a hangover, stared at the envelope on the mantle, musing on the departure of his uncle. Did he fear what he did not understand? Did he wonder at footsteps and yearn for the return of another old friend? Did he watch for the door to open, or did he turn the handle himself?

What moss covered stone is this? Come in under the shelter of this red rock. We can dive for fish in the river. Or sit and weep by the banks.

Meanwhile, in the library, the careworn old man looked at all those books on the shelves. No one would read them. How many rooms full of how many books just gathering dust and crumbling into it? If you had a limited budget would you buy more books or an electronic service? He bent over the scrolls. In time he found it, that one parchment which explained it all. It was a scrap, really, waiting all its life to be read by this man, then fated to fall into obscurity. Now, he made for his horse as the kids surfed at the kiosk. He was so far from Bag End. He must make haste.

Kevin and the company of dwarves stood before the labyrinth and saw the host beckon them onward: on towards the most fabulous object. It was not what they sought that was of value, that empty sign which all filled with their hopes and dreams. It was what they had which was the prize, and a dangerous one at that. They saw not the trap, rushing for the goal: "Mom, Dad, don't touch it! It's evil"

Ahh yes, something about free will.

Anthony, Paul, Prester John, Benedict & Bonaventure. Newton, Dee, Bonny Prince Charlie, or maybe the Dutch, or Lorraine? Every one of Eco's Henchmen, Waite, Boehme, Eckhart, all the usual suspects lined up on the wall: who dropped the ball? Who swam across, betrayed by the moonlight?

Anyway, they all quit hiring painters and started consulting mediums, so its clear only the dead knew the secret. It died with someone. Yes, Hugo wished he knew. Belbo wished he knew. Bilbo held the knowledge in his hand, but never really understood.

Isildur, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.

And Frodo stood by the dying embers of the fire, felt autumn coming on. He saw the grey leaves dying, twisting in the wind. He felt the cold air seeping in from the edges, and he wondered about all he knew. He gazed at the golden circle and pondered it, for good or ill. Miles away the shadow grew, and Gandalf raced towards the Shire. The rosy fingered dawn crept across the globe, outpacing any horse, and sought out its places: the craggy keyholes, the windows of the cathedrals, the chamber of Mazarbul.

Somewhere in the Shire a fish jumped and then settled back into his eddy. The brown waters circled under the stones by the river's edge. The sheep were coming down from the pasture to drink. The shepherdess was quiet. The One Ring lay heavy in the silt.

Something Lite:

2006-04-16T22:42:00.000-04:00

My last post alluded to Keats' famous Ode to a Nightingale (what with all the winking going on at the brim). It made me think of another of my favorite Keats Odes: Ode on a Grecian Urn. Years ago I wrote a spoof of it from the perspective of the man on the urn. A re-read of Keats masterpiece may put the reader in a better frame of mind to receive it. Nevertheless, it is all in jest, and poorly written, but here it is:

"Man on Urn. To Keats."

You English know not these climes, Understand? You never could.
Would that, unearthed, I was trod under foot
My clay crushed into brittle bits and ground,
This cistern, into dust. Perhaps the sound
Of those incessant timbrels would desist;
It must, or I go mad. Did you not see?
She runs! My love lives only in rebuff.
Is it enough I cannot hide my shame,
Or turn to face another more disposed
To my embrace? If dust, perhaps the gods
Would send a southern breeze, life-like, mingling
Mine with hers, and love but moments single
Pass between before we scattered into sod.
Gold, that moment's joy, before parting ways
Grant each one rest from endless, loveless days.

Should the ghost of Keats haunt these blogs, I hope he shall forgive my use of his name in such a sophomoric work. And should any English take offense to the slight, I hope they'll have another pint and accept my apologies. Besides, I'm of Yorkshire blood myself, and it's all in fun. Cheers!

Mixing Memory & Desire: An Arundel Tomb

2006-03-20T14:41:00.000-05:00

We distort history everyday in our own lives, let alone in our distant comprehension of the lives of others. Memory, imagination, desire, fear and other emotions each taint the reality of the past, reforming it in our image.

Modern grail theory references occult knowledge which is based in hidden lore of mystery schools, passed down over hundreds of years through oral tradition. I am reminded of the children's game where we all stand in a line and repeat a whispered message, finding it drastically altered when it reaches the far end. I am also reminded of this poem by Philip Larkin, An Arundel Tomb:

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor’s sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

— Philip Larkin (1922 - 85)

It is a marvelous examination of the idea that we often impress our own emotions onto our interpretation of history. When the facts are washed away by the years, we interpret what remains as we would like to see it. The great thing here is that Larkin's poem is itself tainted by the very point he makes. While it is true that the couple may not have been in love and the beauty that remains may be no more than the beauty imbued upon the pair through art, it may also be true that the love portrayed on the tomb was real, and Larkin has projected his own romantic pessimism onto it in his poem.

Perhaps the same may be said for the grail: many wish to claim possession of its mysteries. But whom of us know the truth, beyond the shadow left us by history? And if we convince ourselves that we do know, what have we known besides ourselves and our desires. They are projected out, only to be reflected back to us dimly, shadows rippling in the wine, winking at the brim of the chalice.

Blackbeard on the Discovery Channel

2006-03-08T22:33:00.000-05:00

Thanks to BG & CP for tuning me in to the National Geographic special on Blackbeard which will be airing this Sunday at 9:00. Not sure if Sunday is the most appropriate day for the likes of Edward Teach to be chronicled, but I'm sure he would have been amused. Anyway, he's a fascinating character: dreadful, colorful, bold, seemingly unstoppable, both rebellious and unrepentant. There is also a great story in the man who chased him down and killed him, Lieutenant Robert Maynard. It will be interesting to see the whole portrayal.

I just checked out the website and it is really worth the trip. Let me know if you catch the special and what you think.

Also, http://www.qaronline.org/ is a different website which is not geared towards the special, but is focused on the archaeological expeditions to salvage what is thought to be the sunken remains of Blackbeard's flagship, the Queen Anne's Revenge. It's got pictures of the recovered artifacts and other cool things, too.

Suburban Alchemy

2006-03-06T22:24:00.000-05:00

It's hard not to dream of the transformation of lead to gold. Last night I had occassion to melt some lead, or more appropriately, the need to. I dreamt I was some aged, wrinkled and brown skinned hermit shuffling off to my workshop. Here was the furnace, the crucibles and tongs, the cryptic inscriptions on the very beams of my house and scrawled across all of my manuscripts and grimoires. My mind was clear and focused, my consciousness raised.

It occurred to me, though, that I had no lead.

It took some scrambling, but I found some egg sinkers in a fishing box. But I had no crucible either, so I had to cut an aluminum Coke can in half. The furnace was a modern, forced hot air unit, and not really condusive to metalsmithing. I tried a candle, holding the can above with pliers. It was ridiculous. Thank goodness my wife wasn't watching. I shaved down the sinkers, but even the flakes were resilient. I thought the universe was predisposed towards evolution? Nevertheless, I must persist.

I was becoming frustrated when I suddenly realized that I had the most incredible furnace known to modern man resting on my back porch. Bare foot in the cold, I cranked open the propane tank and set both burners to "clean". The blue flames roared to life, and I set the half can of fishing apparatus on the lowest rack of the grill. I shut the lid.

Several minutes later I peeked in, only to find no change to my solids. What had I done wrong? Could it be that modern man had tainted pure lead in the quest for a greener, more environmentally safe form of fishing weight? Damn druids! But I had a secret stash of ancient lead which was pure. I found my Dad's old fishing box, closed these 20 years. I blew the dust off the lid and pushed the creaky hinges open. The square, steel box rested on the cellar floor and I withdrew the finest lead man has ever set eyes upon. In my palm I felt its gravity. With a pair of pliers I cavalierly pinched off a small hunk of the metal. This was the virgin element, untainted by mankind.

Back at the grill the other sinkers were flattening into bulbous blobs, but they were not running freely across the bottom of the can. I set in the virgin lead and it soon melted, running smoothly around the other forms. It rippled with the colors of the rainbow. I shut the lid and let it all melt together for a bit.

Inside, the kids were playing and asking questions about life and wanting to build their pinewood derby cars. Supper needed to be cleaned up. It wasn't long, but when I went back out to the grill something was wrong. As I lifted the lid of the grill flames roared out at me. The whole mass of burners and drippings and fat encrusted grating was one living, breathing fiery monster. A thick, black smoke was billowing up. A noxious odor, smelling of molten lead and burnt burgers was permeating the air. I shut down the gas and went inside. Yes, the house was filled with the smell, too, and my wife might come downstairs any minute, revealing my foolishness. I opened windows, shut them again, and then opened different windows on the side of the house which wasn't clouded with smoke.

I turned on ceiling fans and waited. The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes licked its tongue into the corners of the evening. It lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, and seeing that it was a soft March night, curled once about the house, and fell asleep. OK, Eliot wrote that, but it seemed to fit.

With the yellow fog thus disposed of, my wife came down and wondered what was burning. I told her lead and she didn't seem phased. Must be getting used to me after all these years.

I went out to examine my work. There it was, solid already. Molten slag with five odd bubbles of less molten slag plopped in the middle of it. Useless. I picked up the can in the tongs, heard its tin cracking noises in the cold, and went back downstairs.

I was stuck, and I wasn't sure where to go from here. Were Abraham here himself, would he have known the answer? Then I saw it, shining at me from the utility shelf: Elmers wood glue. Hurriedly I searched for quarters. It would work, it had to!

In the underside of the pinewood block I had drilled a hole just behind the front axle of the car, as the Master had told me. It was an oral tradition, it could not be written down, but I knew I had remembered the craft he had passed on to me. But instead of my lonely, failed attempt with the lead I now worked with my son to fill the well with glue and quarters. He squeezed the bottle and pushed in the coins, counting out just the right number and placing them just so. Together we ensured that the car would be weighted and balanced just right, and the race could be ours. He knew he had done a great job, and the time together was far more valuable than the time I spent choking in the smoke on the porch. Lead would have filled that well, er... well. But good old glue and quarters, that was how my ancestors did it, and it was how we would, too. We sanded a bit and planned how we would put on the wheels the next day. We were transformed: the smile on his face was gold.

Update on the Shepherd's Monument Solution

2006-02-03T23:58:00.000-05:00

I heard back from the panel at Bletchley Park this week. It was a bit like when you are waiting for a thesis to be graded. In this case I was told that it was very good, but that four points needed to be addressed before the theory could be considered strong enough to be proven. I was encouraged to pursue those items, and was also informed that the panel has taken some measures to help in researching among certain restricted archives.

I do feel a bit uneasy relating candid info in this format, and it is certainly rude to be secretive to the reading audience. For that I do apologize, but I expect to be publishing more info within the next months. Until I have more to say, I'll try to stick to more interesting posts!

Exciting True Stories

2006-01-09T23:00:00.000-05:00

Exciting True Stories is a new blog by Traveller, a great friend of mine who is, in my opinion, one of the two best writers I know. He has led a life of both adventure and introspection, and these are the tales from it. You can't read them and not be entertained. What's more, I challenge you not to see a bit of yourself in them, as well.

Tarpaulin Cove

2006-01-03T17:11:00.000-05:00

For anyone sick of the Grail and longing for the old days of piracy on the high seas, I have posted a newly revised version of Chapter 1 over at Tarpaulin Cove. Chapter 2 has begun progressing and will be posted soon, as well. Best wishes for the New Year to all!

Journey of the Magi

2005-12-22T13:30:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas to all. This is a poem by T. S. Eliot which I have read for years, each time Christmas rolls around. I have begun to form thoughts on its significance, but I will not taint the reader with them. Enjoy the holidays.

T. S. Eliot's "Journey of The Magi"

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

Now after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, saying, "Where is He who has been born King of the Jews? For we have seen His star in the East and have come to worship Him..." The star which they had seen in the East went before them, till it came and stood over where the young Child was.

[Matthew 2:1–10]

Encouraging News from Bletchley Park

2005-12-05T17:21:00.000-05:00

A quick note: I heard back from Bletchley Park today. The panel has decided to put several months of additional "intensive research" into the Shepherd's Monument solution which I have proposed, and provide a detailed report in late January. Moreover, my contact added the tantalizing statement that this is the only one of this year's submissions that the panel have decided on further research. It is certainly encouraging!

Sanctuary

2005-11-21T00:47:00.000-05:00

Before getting into the body of this story, it may be wise to preface it with a few notes on my latest research. I have found a certain spiritual satisfaction in my own personal grail quest, however bizarre it may seem. In studying the reconciling of the real and the ideal, one is exposed to a broad variety of literature and culture. People are strange. When we get old enough to look good and hard into the mirror we begin to recognize our own eccentricities more clearly. Perhaps that makes it easier to try a little harder to understand those around us.

There is a great deal of literature and art which echoes the themes of the grail and Arthurian legend. There are those which openly declare themselves to be such subject matter, such as Morte D'Arthur or Tristan and Isolde. There are other works whose connection is more subtle, often hidden. I decided some time ago to search out these latter works in an effort to understand the hidden stream of reference to the grail more clearly. It struck me that the hidden knowledge appears to portray a divided underground world. There are many niches of esoteric, theological, philosophical and political thought. Some appear to compliment each other, and most bear similarities. Some appear to be of noble intentions, others quite sinister. But there does appear to be a divide, a splitting of the elms, so to speak. I thought it wise to study the divide and try to learn the players and their motivations.

As a result, I have spent much time hunting through books like a paranoid, somewhat schizophrenic detective. Willing to follow all trails, I know most will not bear fruit. Nevertheless, there are times when I smile in reassurance as a path pays off and I see the familiar signs of the grail. It was in such study that I found the hidden references which led me to this tale. They are, perhaps, coincidence. I leave it to the reader to decide.

There are several books full of codes and riddles which also bear a strong connection to the esoteric traditions that characterize grail study. In one such book I was decoding riddles when I discovered a veiled reference to a "sanctuary" that would be associated with a concealed name. Upon further study I was able to
decode the name itself. What I found was an American historical figure, and it did not immediately lead to a sanctuary. For months I studied the topic, looking for connections. I finally determined that the grave or the church most associated with the individual might be the place. I was searching for simple driving directions when I unexpectedly discovered a family connection which led somewhere else: there was a castle!

What's more, it was nearby. I knew that in literature the place of the grail's keeping is often either a castle or a chapel. In this unique instance the real castle was also a church, and a church which appeared to combine a traditional organization with some rather liberal ideas. It incorporated a sense of spiritual mysticism into it's studies as well as the layout and history of its grounds. As I read further, I learned that the ancient builder of this castle believed that a druid had come to him in a dream and ordered him to build it. Many felt he was a bit insane, but he went ahead and built it, complete with a stone tower that climbed more than a hundred feet into the air. As stories go, the place housed many strange and very wealthy folk over the years. These were the ultra rich of a young America. They were wealthy and connected enough to attend the funerals of English Royalty, rub elbows with Vanderbilts and treat their various "conditions" in Europe with a young Carl Jung.

As I reviewed the scheduled events now hosted by the church that occupied the estate, I noticed that many fell on traditional pagan holidays. Of course, there were many events, and there were many pagan holidays, so there was bound to be some overlap. I looked at a calendar. It was three days away from Halloween, and sure enough a retreat was scheduled for the Samhain weekend. Moreover, the topic of the retreat bore the same title as the most cryptic chapter of the book that led me to it. There had to be a connection. I envisioned the elite secret societies of the world gathering with the grail just miles away from me and the thought was too much to resist.

I climbed in my car, whose squealing brakes advertised my arrival wherever I went, and drove myself to the place. I found the grounds, complete with a labyrinth. On the premise of viewing the maze I snuck onto the property long enough to get a good glimpse of the castle and to see the several Mercedes parked nearby. Clearly Swiss bankers. Well, the one woman who gazed at my squealing minivan slowly traversing the dirt road didn't look like a Swiss banker, but I could feel it: the oaks and holly and the ancient stones, something was here or would be soon.

I wish I could say that I crept onto the grounds on All Hallows Eve and witnessed some secret ritual known only to a few, but I'm not a young and unencumbered man anymore. My story grows somewhat less exciting at this point, yet interesting nonetheless. What I did do was turn to research. I found the papers of the man who built the place, catalogued away in a local historical society. He used local Indian masons to construct the castle. In three big boxes of manuscripts I read all about his somewhat insane fascination with spirits, druidry and an entity who lived in his pocketwatch and spoke to him regularly. Moreover, I was surprised to find, in the second box of the collection, a curious description of his grave. As I read, it appeared to describe the creation of a modern Stonehenge; a small druid's ring of stone. Eight granite pillars surrounding a central pillar, lined up with another monument and a natural formation referred to as the Druid's Chair. He even gave measurements to the location from the castle.

Later, I found the place. Years had gone by and the great estate had been divided into lots, but there it was, posing as little more than a historical cemetery. Eight stones in a ring, with wells carved into four of them. In the center what was once a central pillar, but it was gone now. Yards away was that seat of stone, the Druid's Chair. Here at last was the sanctuary? I'm not so sure. It's actually in a wealthy residential area now, with plenty of signs up to keep the Goth kids out at night. As I pulled up and got out, a neighbor across the street heard my squeaky car and eyed me suspiciously from behind a fir tree. It was a crisp autumn day, and sunny, too. I would have liked to poke around a bit but I felt unwelcome by the neighbor, and a bit put off by the silent ring of stone and whatever significance it brought to this place. I wondered if the neighbor knew anything about the history, of what this place was intended to be. History fades. I wondered about the man who built it, and it struck me that all of this was no more than one mortal man's dream. I climbed in my minivan, gave the neighbor time to take down my plate and squeaked away.

So what was the significance? Probably none, and I am willing to consider the fact that I could use a few sessions with Mr. Jung myself, were he here. It was fun, though, to find meaning associated with a place that is mostly forgotten now. As we pass on, the monumental undertakings which consumed our lives slowly fade. The perception of others colors and defines our memory. We become, in hindsight, more or less of what we once were. Let's hope that we are not defined by memory alone when we leave this place.

Murlyn and the Stone

2005-11-02T22:23:00.000-05:00

Excerpts from Chapter V of Sir Thomas Mallory's Morte D'Arthur-

"THEN stood the realm in great jeopardy long while, for every lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and many weened to have been king. Then Merlin went to the Archbishop of Canterbury, and counselled him for to send for all the lords of the realm, and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London come by Christmas, upon pain of cursing; and for this cause, that Jesus, that was born on that night, that he would of his great mercy show some miracle, as he was come to be king of mankind, for to show some miracle who should be rightwise king of this realm. So
the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, sent for all the lords and gentlemen of arms that they should come by Christmas even unto London.

...And when matins and the first mass was done, there was seen in the churchyard, against the high altar, a great stone four square, like unto a marble stone; and
in midst thereof was like an anvil of steel a foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword naked by the point, and letters there were written in gold about the sword that said thus:--Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all England.

...So as they rode to the jousts-ward, Sir Kay lost his sword, for he had left it at his father's lodging, and so he prayed young Arthur for to ride for his sword. I will well, said Arthur, and rode fast after the sword, and when he came home, the lady and all were out to see the jousting. Then was Arthur wroth, and said to himself, I will ride to the churchyard, and take the sword with me that sticketh in the stone, for my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this day. So when he came to the churchyard, Sir Arthur alighted and tied his horse to the stile, and so he went to the tent, and found no knights there, for they were at the jousting. And so he handled the sword by the handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and rode his way until he came to his brother Sir Kay, and delivered him the sword."

Exchanged emails with Murlyn last week. His council has been delayed again, but he expects them to evaluate the Shepherd's Monument solution over the next few weeks. In the meantime, interesting progress locally, better told in a separate entry.

Myth & The Grail

2005-10-25T23:17:00.000-04:00

The legend of the Holy Grail has preoccupied Artists, Historians, Philosophers, Politicians & Religious figures since the middle ages. Grail symbolism has found it's way into works of art so pervasively that, once one is aware of the signs, it is hard to swing a dead cat without knocking a Poussin, DaVinci, Teniers or DelaCroix over onto a stack of Hugo, Yeats, Eliot, Tolkien and Lewis texts. Or you could just hit one of Eco's works and somehow manage to nail them all. And while you swing, Jung sits there analyzing the whole scene, finding some way to cast the cat as Bast and tracing the archetypal act of flailing him about into a rite of Templar goddess worship. Throw in Nick Flamel and the Alchemists (sounds like an early 60's band)and there is quite a crowd dodging that cat. No wonder the Python troupe jumped into the mix.

Whatever your stance on the latest novels, or however familiar you are with the the lauding, debunking and revitalized popularity of the works of the eighties, there is nevertheless an incredible body of significant work that alludes to the Grail myth. Certainly there are many reasons. Anything with a draw that powerful usually has multiple means of attraction.

While researching the Inklings I came across the following quote taken from a conversation between Tolkien and Lewis regarding myth and religion. It provides an interesting perspective on the role of myth in the development of human consciousness and religious tradition. I found it quite applicable to the analysis of Grail mythology and the undeniable presence of both pagan and Christian symbolism within it. This selection is taken from C.S. Lewis and the Catholic Church, by Joseph Pearce:

"This meeting, which was to have such a revolutionary impact on Lewis's life, took place on 19 September 1931 after Lewis had invited Tolkien and Dyson to dine at his rooms in Magdalen College. After dinner the three men went for a walk beside the river and discussed the nature and purpose of myth. Lewis explained that he felt the power of myths, but that they were ultimately untrue. As he expressed it to Tolkien, myths were 'lies, even though lies breathed through silver.'

'No,' Tolkien replied emphatically. 'They are not.'

Tolkien resumes, arguing that myths, far from being lies, were the best way of conveying truths which would otherwise be inexpressible. 'We have come from God [continued Tolkien], and inevitably the myths woven by us, though they contain error, will also reflect a splintered fragment of true light, the eternal truth that is with God.' Since we are made in the image of God, and since God is the Creator, part of the imageness of God in us is the gift of creativity. The creation -- or, more correctly, the sub-creation -- of stories or myths is merely a reflection of the image of the Creator in us. As such, although 'myths may be misguided, . . . they steer however shakily towards the true harbour,' whereas materialistic 'progress' leads only to the abyss and to the power of evil."

Lewis is ultimately won over to Tolkien's stance on myths not as untruth with gleams of brilliance but rather as truth somewhat abstractly portrayed. In his theological work Miracles, Lewis states:

"Now as myth transcends thought, Incarnation transcends myth. The heart of Christianity is a myth which is also a fact. The old myth of the Dying God, without ceasing to be myth, comes down from the heaven of legend and imagination to the earth of history. It happens -- at a particular date, in a particular place, followed by definable historical consequences. We pass from a Balder or an Osiris, dying nobody knows when or where, to a historical Person crucified (it is all in order) under Pontius Pilate. By becoming fact it does not cease to be myth: that is the miracle. I suspect that men have sometimes derived more spiritual sustenance from myths they did not believe than from the religion they professed. To be truly Christian we must both assent to the historical fact and also receive the myth (fact though it has become) with the same imaginative embrace which we accord to all myths. The one is hardly more necessary than the other. A man who disbelieved the Christian story as fact but continually fed on it as myth would, perhaps, be more spiritually alive than one who assented and did not think much about it . . . "

So in the treasure hunt, the Grail quest, the ceaseless search for Flamel's Great Work, the transmutation of matter and soul, and the Bloodline of Christ, are we growing closer to recognizing truth in myth instead of distancing ourselves from it? Is western civilization's collective consciousness progressing from its early perception of myth as divine truth, past the age of reason's cold, academic dissection of myth, on to find divine truth once again? You tell me, it is late and I'm tired.

Illuminated Manuscripts

2005-10-14T22:47:00.000-04:00

I have been researching a number of medieval texts recently, only to discover the forgotten beauty of illuminated manuscripts. In these days of Word and Photoshop, it's hard to imagine the medeival scribe slowly creating the text on every page of a book by hand, let alone engaging in the artwork that decorated the manuscripts.

The image on the right is Augustinus. La Cité de Dieu. Paris, early fifteenth century. It consists of a miniature with God on his heavenly throne, surrounded by cherubs; in the four corners the four church fathers. In the lower margin the weapon and emblem of Philips van Kleef (1456-1528), who owned the manuscript before it came into possession of the library of Oranje-Nassau, the later library of the stadholder.

Libraries throughout history have done their best to preserve this artwork. In recent years they have begun to publish many of the images on the internet thus opening up their accessability considerably. These images are from the National Library of the Netherlands, or Koninklijkeurg Bibliotheek.

On the left is Nederlandse Historiebijbel. Utrecht, 1443. , The text was copied by Gherard Wessels van Deventer. It depicts the beginning of the text of the 150 Psalms with a miniature: David severs the giant Goliath's head; and an initial: David playing harp. In the margin a Morish dance is pictured, the so called Moriskendance.

Finally, this last image is from a Psalter ca. 1470. This particular page depicts Psalm 52, illuminated with an initial with praying David. There are many more like these to be found out on the internet. I expect to post again on one in particular: the enigmatic Voynich Manuscript now kept at Yale University. Until then, cheers!

A Quick Note

2005-10-05T00:02:00.000-04:00

Just wanted to update anyone who is following this that I have exchanged word with Murlyn and the Bletchley panel has been delayed on meeting until sometime in October. WIll post more news as I hear it.

In the meantime, feel free to try your codebreaking skill at this link: Atrion Trivia Challenge

Talk Like a Pirate Day

2005-09-19T09:33:00.000-04:00

Just a quick note to remind everyone that today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Here is a link for more info. Everybody say Aaaaaarghhh Matey!

Shugborough Hall, Bletchley Park & the Pervading Vanity of Blogs

2005-09-06T20:17:00.000-04:00

First, I must apologize to the occasional reader of this blog for the ever-wandering subject matter. There is a certain vanity to blogging and a balance to be maintained between the interest of the writer and a commitment to provide a stable sense of topic. The discipline of staying on topic may be said to measure one's loyalty to the reader. On the other side of the contest, the ability to write about whatever one fancies both humors the writer and may help keep him writing. It might even improve the product. In any case, I have wandered considerably from what started out as a place to discuss pirate history. We have journeyed into undersea exploration, colonial indian history, treasure hunting (OK, we were deep into treasure hunting right from the start) and now the quest for the holy grail. Nevertheless, this is all pretty neat stuff, so on we go to a Shugborough Hall update.

Here is the latest: The solution to the inscription on the Shepherd's Monument at Shugborough Hall has been sent to Bletchley Park for confirmation. Bletchley Park, famous for its contribution to the English war effort during the Battle of Britain and the Second World War in general, has now become a museum which still engages it's former staff of codebreakers to tackle mysteries of the cryptographic kind. The teams working the Shugborough Hall mystery will be meeting in three weeks to review all proposed solutions, and I am hopeful that they will determine that I have gotten it right. Actually I am more than hopeful, but fearing the perils of vanity I do acknowledge that there is room for error - I just haven't determined what it could be, yet. In any case, the solution is off and in their hands. We will all see the results at the end of the month. In the meantime, check out the Bletchley Park website for the history of the men and women who cracked the German Enigma code and leant so much to the British war effort. Cheers.

The Shepherd's Monument at Shugborough Hall

2005-08-12T21:53:00.000-04:00

I haven't posted in a few weeks because I have been very busy working on a solution to the mystery of the Shepherd's Monument at Shugborough Hall in Staffordshire, England. For those unfamiliar with the mystery, click on the title of this post for a link to the website for the facility, which is run by the British government. The estate is enormous and has many ties to the mysterious esoteric societies that are connected to the legend of the holy grail. Various members of the wealthy Anson family built the estate in the 18th century and commissioned the intriguing architecture and artwork that adorns its vales.

I have been focused on the most famous piece on the grounds, which is a marble monument which depicts an altered version of a painting by the french artist Nicholas Poussin. The Poussin work, "Les Bergers D'Arcadie", is tied closely to modern grail scholarship and specifically to the mystery of Rennes-le-Chateaux. The version which appears at Shugborough Hall also contains a ten letter coded inscription which has baffled the inquisitive for over 250 years. Men including Darwin, Wedgewood and ex-WWII codebreakers from Bletchley Park have all been unable to ascertain its meaning.

Several theories are published today on the website for Shugborough Hall. The estate even sponsored a contest last year to draw attention to the place, and has published the best theories on its website. The theories are incorrect, but are all interesting insights into the possibilities that are out there. Check out their website, if you get a chance, it's pretty interesting.

Admiral George Anson, too, is a very interesting figure. His brother Thomas seems to have planned & commissioned most of the art, but it is George who funded the work. He circumnavigated the globe in what became a truly epic adventure. He was also involved in several major naval battles and ultimately became one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom because of the huge bounties he collected. There were even parades through the streets of London lauding Anson and displaying all the gold & loot he captured. In any case, it is an interesting tale, and the monument is an interesting puzzle. I have been in contact with Shugborough Hall with my solution, and expect to provide more information in a future post.

Ballard's Lost City Project

2005-07-27T22:23:00.000-04:00

Here's a REALLY neat series of links. My company recently assisted in the data communications work for the Ballard Lost City Project at the University of Rhode Island. Dr. Robert D. Ballard is Director of the Institute for Archaeological Oceanography at URI's Graduate School of Oceanography, and is the man who discovered the Titanic.
This summer he is running a project in the middle of the Atlantic to study thermal vents at the ocean's floor. Live video is being sent back for the project's duration, which runs from July 24 to Aug 2nd. Follow any of these links to see some really incredible footage, sent live from the bottom of the Atlantic into space and then across the internet to you:

http://lostcity.jason.org/

http://www.immersionpresents.org/

Here is a description of the project from the Jason website:

The scientists and researchers will study the Lost City hydrothermal field (LCHF) and surrounding region using the NOAA ship Ronald H. Brown and the Institute for Exploration’s remotely operated vehicles (ROVs) Argus and Hercules. This program brings together the excitement of investigating a submarine hot spring system like no other yet seen within the world’s oceans, and new technology that allows shore-based scientists nearly 5,000 miles away to conduct “seagoing” research in real-time via the underwater robotic systems and satellite transmissions. The ROVs are supported by a state-of-the-art shipboard control system and ship-to-shore satellite telecommunication system that will send live video, audio, and scientific data to shore-based command centers that will be used by geologists, chemists and biologists associated with the expedition. Through live transmission, this expedition will bring never-before-seen views of this remarkable submarine ecosystem to researchers, educators, and the public.

A Cotuit Treasure Hunt

2005-07-25T22:24:00.000-04:00

I went kayaking this weekend for the first time this season. Some friends invited me out to Sampson's Island, also known as Dead Neck, in Cotuit. I took two of my sons and we met up with our guides in the small but affluent cape village. It was a very beautiful day, aside from a fairly strong wind coming in from the north. I was intrigued by the island, which is a long, sandbar-like mass which shelters Oyster Harbor from Vineyard Sound. Today the island is a bird sanctuary, and at times it has areas roped off to protect the piping plovers who nest there. The island was inhabited at one point in its colonial history by Hannah Screecham, an old woman said to be a witch. Hannah purportedly consorted with pirates who would visit the place, and is rumored to have hidden treasure for William Kidd and Blackbeard. One Kidd legend says that she was killed and buried with the treasure and today haunts those who come looking for it.

We came looking with a JW Fishers Pulse 8x metal detector, but it didn't take old Hannah to convince us that hunting for fiddler crabs (which infest the place) and horseshoe crabs would be more fruitful- and fun. In our exploration we met up with a local artist who knew one of our guides. In the ensuing conversation it turns out that the artist went to school with Barry Clifford, the treasure hunter who discovered the sunken pirate wreck Whydah off of Wellfleet. We got the inside scoop on Clifford's youthful days. It sounded like he may have a bit of pirate blood in him, as well.

With no treasure to show we turned around and headed back. The wind had picked up considerably and I struggled to keep on course. Midway back I realized that I would have to steer nearly head-on into the wind. By keeping the bow angled just slightly to the northwest I was able to let the combination of the wind and tide ferry us west, across to the public access beach where we put in. The water was warm and it was refreshing to get out and pull my two passengers across one stubborn sandbar. I hated to get back in and go back to paddling against the wind, but my crew was getting anxious and there really was no choice. We made it back safe and sound, a little wiser about the ways of fiddler crabs and a little sore in the shoulder. It was a great little adventure, though, and I look forward to going back sometime.

The Hannah Screecham legend sounds interesting, and worthy of more study. The Kidd connection is certainly incorrect, even without the fantastic ghost story. Most old tales do have a grain of truth in them, however, and I'm eager to learn more. There is a short publication on Hannah at the Cotuit Library, which I may try to get a hold of. If I do, I'll publish more details regarding the witch of Dead Neck and the tales of pirate treasure that surround her. In the meantime, if anyone out there knows more about the story I would love to hear from you.

Iootash!

2005-07-16T22:54:00.000-04:00

I went to the library today to pick up a book on the Corte-Real's and their early exploration of North America, when I discovered that the library was closed on Saturdays. I had three of the kids with me, and they wanted to do something special, so we took a drive to the Royal Wampanoag Cemetery. I had driven past it before, but never stopped to visit.

We stopped the car and got out. It's a nice area, with a lakeside view. I knew that some of the headstones would bear no engravings, but did not realize that none of them had any markings. In fact, most of them were just stones, anywhere from six inches around to the size of a basketball. A few were more european, upright headstones, but still there was no mark upon them.

You might not realize that it was a cemetery at all, save for the sign by the roadside and the signs that others came here to keep the place sacred. Around each marker, whatever the size, were placed small white stones, pinecones, handmade items of a significance that was lost on me, and feathers. My children are part Wampanoag, or so the family history goes, so I explained the meaning of the place and they decided to pay their respects with pinecones. It made them happy, and it made me happy, and we were respectful of the place.

I try to keep them aware of their tie to the Wampanoag culture. Last Thanksgiving we went to Plymouth in the morning to find something to do before dinner. It was raining off and on, but when we got there the weather wasn't too bad. The Wampanoags had a tent setup to celebrate the signing of the first peace treaty (as opposed to celebrating Thanksgiving, a dubious holiday at best, in their eyes) with the Europeans. It was also meant to educate people as to their culture and their stance on Thanksgiving. We walked over and were welcomed warmly. As we walked through the tent some of the kids told me they were thirsty, and a squaw overheard and invited us all to have cranberry juice together. It was very kind, and the kids really enjoyed the whole experience.

So, later this afternoon we took another ride. This time we went over to Anawan Rock. It's on the side of Rte 44 in Rehoboth. It marks the location where Chief Anawan, the presiding Chief of the Wampanoags after Philip's death in the war of 1676, was finally captured by Benjamin Church and his men. It consists of a large, sedimentary conglomerate stone hill with a cliff on one side. Anawan had built his camp under the shelter of the cliff. Church and his men snuck up the hill and looked down the small drop on Anawan's camp and what remained of the Wampanoag warriors. The surrender was quick and sorrowful. Almost all of the tribe that were left were taken and either killed or sold into slavery, although some "praying Indians" remained in reservation areas. The war took a huge toll on the early settlers of New England, but it ultimately all but wiped out the Wampanoag tribe.

Today, legend states that visitors to the area may witness wisps of smoke rising up from the swamp, representing the long extinguished fires of Anawan's braves. Moreover, it is said that you may hear cries of "Iootash!" in the distance, which is the Wampanoag phrase for "stand and fight!". We neither saw the smoke nor heard the cries, this time, though it was not for lack of trying. If you have an interest in hearing the language, which is all but forgotten now, visit the online American Philosophical Library. There is a recording of a Wampanoag version of The Lord's Prayer, spoken by Chief Wild Horse at Betty's Neck in 1961. It is a dialect of Algonquin, and the recording is both interesting and beautiful to hear. Still, I would have rather heard an "Iootash!".

RMS Republic - Exclusive Salvage Rights!

2005-07-14T20:25:00.000-04:00

This news broke last week. The RMS Republic sunk roughly 50 miles south of Nantucket and is rumored to have been carrying a shipment of newly minted American Gold Eagle coins valued in today's market at between $400 million and $1.6 billion, as well as a $265,000 U.S. Navy payroll that was intended to be delivered to the Atlantic Fleet at Gibraltar. Exclusive salvage rights have just been granted to Martin Bearle, formerly of Martha's Vineyard, who originally found the wreck in about 250 feet of water back in 1981. For more details, read the AP article quoted below in Boston.com News:

Judge grants treasure hunter right to salvage sunken ship
By Michael Kunzelman, Associated Press Writer | July 8, 2005

BOSTON --Martin Bayerle sets sail from Long Island next week to resume his quest for sunken treasure, driven by rumors that a cache of gold coins was aboard the RMS Republic luxury liner when it sank in the North Atlantic nearly a century ago.

When he returns to the Republic's wreckage this time, Bayerle will have a court order that gives him the exclusive rights to salvage the ship through 2008.

On Friday, a federal judge in Boston issued a preliminary injunction that bars anyone from interfering with Bayerle's efforts to recover a cache of gold from the wreckage of the RMS Republic, which sank 50 miles south of Nantucket in January 1909.

Bayerle has found hundreds of artifacts in the wreckage, but he is still looking for the elusive coins. Bayerle said there are persistent rumors that the ship was carrying a five-ton shipment of gold coins that would have had a face value of $3 million in 1909.

"That has never been proven, but there is a lot of circumstantial evidence to suggest the cargo is on board the wreck," said Bayerle's attorney, Timothy Barrow.

Barrow said the coins, if they are there, could be worth at least $400 million, or more than $1.6 billion if they are in good condition.

Bayerle, formerly of Martha's Vineyard, is scheduled to leave New York on Tuesday to resume his salvage operation. However, he acknowledges it could be several years before he reaches the part of the wreck where he believes the coins are located.

"We have identified the target areas," he said. "Now we need to get to the target areas."

Best of luck to Mr. Bayerle and his crew!

The Works of Edward Rowe Snow

2005-06-27T22:24:00.000-04:00

All my life I have been interested in history, especially local history from America's colonial period. Living in Southeastern Massachusetts is probably a big reason for the development of this fascination. I remember going to the Mayflower as a kid, and taking school trips to the Constitution. Between field trips, family trips and hanging out in Charlestown with the Greene family, I was always surrounded by stories and physical reminders of New England's colonial past. Of course, besides the obvious interest of the revolutionary war, I was also intrigued by local tales of pirates and Indians. There is plenty of history in Massachusetts; some stands out clearly and some is less obvious. Some exists largely because of marketing and tourism, and other pieces of our past hang on despite our ignorance, fading slowly into obscurity. To anyone who is intrigued by history, especially that which inhabits the places we see everyday, I highly recommend the writings of Edward Rowe Snow.

Snow, a native of Winthrop, Massachusetts, is famous for his books on maritime history, lighthouses along the Atlantic coast, New England legends, treasure hunting and piracy. His historical works have a flair for the dramatic that makes them immensely readable. Their topics, from the curious to the grisly, are told in a style that invokes innocent memories of ghost stories and adventure without incorporating the mundane shock value and sensationalism that many modern writers employ. Many of his works have recently been reissued as centenary editions, put together by Jeremy D'Entremont with some additional contributing material by Snow's daughter, Dolly Bicknell.

I first came across Edward Rowe Snow when researching Massachusetts Indian lore at my local public library. Indian history had always been a big interest of mine when I was younger. I remember writing one of my first book reports in school on King Philip's War. The topic truly intrigued me and I spent many days of my youth engrossed in Wampanoag history. When I heard that a place called King Philip's cave was nearby to my childhood home I begged my aunt to take me. We parked in an idle bank parking lot and walked up a short path through the woods. The trail did not lead to the Batcave I envisioned but instead to more of a rough, rocky outcropping. It was a little disappointing. The area had become a party spot for high school and college kids and was now littered with broken fragments of glass and other sundry bits of trash. Nevertheless, the thought that Philip had hid here, consulted with other Sachems, and snuck away to avoid the approaching guns of Benjamin Church's rangers kept me rapt with attention the whole time.

Several years ago I was looking for sources of local Indian history when I discovered my first Edward Rowe Snow book. I think it was Mysteries and Adventures Along the Atlantic Coast. Snow's genuine interest in his subject, his penchant for storytelling and the rooting of his tales in local places and lore got me hooked. I soon read many more of his books and became obsessed with the vanishing art of treasurehunting. I spent many a late night reading books that hadn't been checked out of their shelves in years and visited many libraries and museums I would have otherwise had no call to see. I still recall the first day that I held a three-hundred year old treasure map in my hands, wondering about the shaky brown script and the thoughts that sparked those words, so many years ago. Perhaps the biggest debt I owe Mr. Snow, beyond the palpable joy of adventure, is the pleasure of meeting so many helpful people who, like Mr. Snow, truly enjoyed their work. From librarians to authors and arhivists, I met and corresponded with fantastic people who enjoy taking the time to help anyone with an interest in their field.

I am still hunting to this day and have never found so much as a single piece of eight, but I have learned so much about the rich history of New England that I feel truly enlightened by the experience. If you get a chance, pick up one of Snow's many books and let me know your favorite tale. In the future I will refer to a few of Snow's works that captured my interest and which hold special significance for those of us who live in Southeast Massachusetts. Perhaps we can discuss your picks as well. In the meantime, here are some photos of old jacket covers that adorned several of Snow's works. I highly recommend them for your own enjoyment and for a collection of great stories your kids can enjoy, as well.

2005-06-03T00:01:00.000-04:00

Naval Engagement in Tripoli Port

New Book by Richard Zacks

2005-06-02T23:33:00.000-04:00

Did anyone catch the Imus interview with author Richard Zacks this week? He was promoting his latest book, The Pirate Coast: Thomas Jefferson, the First Marines, and the Secret Mission of 1805. I caught the radio appearance by chance while on my way to work. It caught my attention because I had corresponded with the author briefly during some of my research and found him to be a very helpful and amiable guy. In his last communication he indicated that he had the new book coming out and would soon be out plugging it.

Zacks' last book, The Pirate Hunter: The True Story of Captain Kidd, was critically acclaimed and truly a masterful work of detailed research. The newest book is the story of the development of the US Marines and their first major covert engagement, at a time when our country was still in its fledgling stages. Here is a promotional quote from Hyperion's website:

A real-life thriller from acclaimed historian and author of The Pirate Hunter, Richard Zacks -- the true story of the unheralded American who brought the Barbary Pirates to their knees.

In an attempt to stop the legendary Barbary Pirates of North Africa from hijacking American ships, William Eaton set out in 1805 on a secret mission to overthrow the government of Tripoli. The operation was sanctioned by President Thomas Jefferson, but at the last moment he grew wary of "intermeddling" in a foreign government, and Eaton set off without proper national support.

Short on supplies, given very little money and only a few men, Eaton and his mission seemed doomed from the start. But against all odds, he improbably triumphed, recruiting a band of European mercenaries in Alexandria, along with some Arab cavalry and Bedouin fighters, and leading them on a march across the Libyan Desert. Once in Tripoli, the ragtag army defeated the local troops and successfully captured Derne, laying the groundwork for the demise of the Barbary Pirates. The success of the event is immortalized in the Marines' Hymn, but Jefferson never allowed Eaton the fame he craved. Now, Richard Zacks brings this important story from our nation's history to life.

I highly recommend The Pirate Hunter and look forward to reviewing The Pirate Coast soon. I'm sure there are some interesting comparisons to make between the international politics of Jefferson's time and those of our current period. In the meantime, let me know if aany of you have read Zacks' latest, or any of his other works.

2005-06-02T23:20:00.000-04:00

Firefly Token

Quick ATT Update

2005-06-02T23:14:00.000-04:00

Just a quick note to those interested in the A Treasure's Trove hunt. In the past week or so approximately half of the 13 hidden tokens have been discovered. The locations range from New Mexico to New York state. To those following the hunt closely this is not breaking news, but it has been a busy week between the treasures found, the releasing of a new clue (still unsolved) and the media appearance on the Today Show this morning with the author, the finder of the first token and his daughter. Figured it was worth an update since the Dragonfly post. If you are interested in more details, visit the ATT website for the latest news, general info on the book, and the ongoing discussions in the forum. For that matter, visit 12Gems and Tweleve, as well, and get a feel for what's going on out there...

And yes, I will return to more tales of Pirate lore, history and buried treasure soon. Like it or not!

2005-05-24T23:59:00.000-04:00

Dragonfly Token

A Successful Treasure Hunt - Wish it Were Mine!

2005-05-24T23:45:00.000-04:00

Well, I have been trying to locate on of the 13 treasures hidden by Michael Stadther for months now. If you are unfamiliar with the hunt, read one of my previous posts or go to the website for the book, A Treasure's Trove. In short, MS wrote a children's book with encrypted puzzles that can potentially lead you to a carefully hidden golden token. These tokens can be redeemed for one of thirteen jeweled treasures which MS had hand crafted for the book. The total value of all of the jewels is over 1 million dollars. Until now, I was certain that I had found a location in Pennsylvania. Over this past weekend the first token was found - in PA! Unfortunately it was not the same location as my proposed site, so I cannot console myself with the knowledge that I was at least correct in my musings. Nevertheless, I am very happy for the individual who discovered the first token, who goes by the online name of Elrohir. If you follow this contest you know that there were others involved who actually began to decode the clues to the location first, and shared that info online. The result was a veritable "event" this past weekend when many dedicated hunters converged on Ricketts Glen Park in PA. Here is the post by Elrohir on the www.tweleve.org forum, for those interested in the final details of a successful hunt:

Elrohir wrote:

Posted: Sun May 22, 2005 1:25 pm Post subject: Got It!!!!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello Trovers!!! With great pleasure I announce that the first token, the Dragonfly, has been found! Pics will follow as soon as I upload them!

Firstly, I must openly thank the Trovers who originally deciphered the Dragonfly code on p.44, revealing the Ricketts Glen location. I believe this includes Packimocity, Mister Whiskers, JFCooper3, and Hollidaze, in no particular order, since I really don't know who did what when. Please don't hate me for scooping your token-- and know that I have spent many months applying coordinate locations to several of the puzzles, including Dragonfly.

I was always stumped by what I perceived as ambiguities in the Dragonfly leaf veins, and a lack of definitive grid population method. But after seeing the location revealed on Tweleve, I was able to reverse engineer your method, with the assistance of the chat room crew, including the brilliant and intrepid Doc. That showed me how the ambiguities were resolved (an issue of perspective), and how your brilliant code is revealed via the simple alpha-grid.

I played around with the message a bit, and really thought I was onto a specific location and tree last night. Doc and I spoke about it, and convinced ourselves that we had no better idea than the people who had already searched, and it wasn't worth a trip. In the wee hours, I hit on something else-- a possible deciphering of an image from the remaining leaves; that is what made me take the plunge for the 4.5 hour drive.

I woke up at six this morning, and it was a beautiful spring day in Pittsburgh. I woke up my four-year-old daughter, who is well-versed in the Trove, and who helped me find all of the creatures in the book. That original hunt is what really got us going, and thank your Mr. Stadther for engineering that shared experince into this wonderful work. I told her that I thought I knew where a treasure token was, and asked her if she wanted to make the long trip with me (farther even than Nana's!). She sat right up, asked if it was the Hummingbird, then told me she would prefer to wait at home if it was only Dragonfly, and I wasn't even sure I could find it. How I wish I had made her come along!

I arrived at Ricketts Glen state park around 11 AM. I found the token at 11:07. It was right by the Falls Trail sign-- in a tree's knothole, of course, just like the message. Pack and Holli and everyone, you were all within feet of it for sure, I am so sorry that you didn't find it, after deciphering the message! It was buried down in the bark and detritus inside a small knothole-- very secure, but still visible and glinting in the shadows. I reached in, sure it was a joke by one of the earlier Trovers-- but I pulled out the Dragonfly token, gold but coated with some rust from a steel ring attached through the hole. I felt like Charlie Bucket and Bilbo Baggins all at once!

While on route, my sister and brother-and-law had been coaching me in the species of tree I should be looking for based on the leaves, and I was memorizing the shape of the tree I was looking for. It turned out not to be that particular tree, but I do think the directional clues I may have deciphered pointed me directly at the token tree, which was recognizable to any Trover. And it did indeed have the leaves in the shape pictured on p.44. I'm no botanist, so feel free to correct me when I venture a guess that it was a Beech tree. So don't kick yourselves if you went to Ricketts Glen and were unable to search 100,000 trees-- I really think the final possible location-specific directional clue is what allowed me to nail it.

Wow, now we can solve the rest of these puzzles!!! This has been a great day, best of luck to all of you on the rest of the treasures! And to the crew that originally deciphered p.44, if you EVER need any help on some of the other puzzles, I would be happy to share what I have tried. Sadly, that will only reveal what DOESN'T work!!!

Pictures coming right up!

-Elrohir

Congrats again, to Elrohir, Mr. Whiskers, and all the other contributors at both the Tweleve and 12Gems forums.

2005-03-27T15:08:00.000-05:00

Buccaneers

Closer Than You Think

2005-03-24T13:12:00.000-05:00

The picture above is, in my opinion, one of the coolest pieces of piracy artwork ever created. I first saw it as a child, and was scared but fascinated by it. The artist is Frederick J. Waugh, one of the twentieth century's finest seascape painters. His works hang in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Art Institute of Chicago and the Montclair Art Museum, to name a few locations. Sometimes history seems far away, but it is often closer than you think. This painting hangs in the Brockton Public Library and is owned by Vose Galleries, of Boston. Robert Cahill, author of New England's Pirates and Lost Treasures, states that Mr. Vose, the founder of the Gallery, owns a home in Jamestown that was built in the late 1690's, and was once the home of Thomas Paine, a Rhode Island pirate who settled on the island after his youthful exploits were behind him. Paine assisted in driving away French privateers who threatened Block Island and he probably served as a private "bank" for pirates looking to temporarily store or launder ill-gotten gains. It is well documented that Captain Kidd left money with him, which was summarily collected by the authorities after Kidd's imprisonment in 1699. It is also reported that Mr. Vose discovered gold buried beneath the cellar during renovations some years ago. It is history like this that keeps reminding me that the past is always lurking just beneath the surface, whether we realize it or not.

2005-03-23T13:09:00.000-05:00

Overlook

My Latest Distraction

2005-03-16T07:17:00.000-05:00

I had been searching for one of the twelve jewels hidden by A Treasure’s Trove author Michael Stadther, when I thought I had finally put my finger on one of the locations. I will not reveal too much detail, but I had narrowed it down to a small public park which was divided into two halves, one upper and one lower. The upper half provided a stunning overlook of a large city. The lower half was less dramatic and provided a small walking area.

Being a somewhat self-conscious person, I had visited the site several times to scout it out and walk around without drawing too much attention to myself. On one such visit I spied another person who appeared to be doing the same thing, but he may have been looking for loose change for all I know. In these visits I determined that the cache, which I believed to be hidden in a knothole in one of the park’s trees, was apparently not in the upper section of the park. As I walked through the lower section, however, I spied an old tree with a large knothole in it, just a bit too high to access without something to stand on.

I moved in to examine the tree and found, to my surprise, a ceramic face implanted in a knothole on the other side of the tree. It struck me that this was a brilliant idea. I had wondered how Stadther could keep animals out of the knotholes if, indeed, that was the resting place of the tokens. In addition, the trees within his book are all covered with faces, so here was a strong (if odd) connection to the book that would be apparent to all searchers. Finally, it occurred to me that once a token was redeemed the face could still be left in place to humor the curious seekers that would still love to follow the clues to the location and satisfy their need to crack the puzzles.

With a feeling that I could not be wrong, I went home and put a small folding chair in my car for tomorrow’s trip. I returned the next day in the middle of a snowstorm, with wind whipping through the area. This was a good thing, I thought, as it would keep onlookers away, safely protecting me from my own self-conscious nervousness. Once at the park I exited my car and walked down the street to the lower section, carrying my lawn chair as if it made all the sense in the world to truck one through a snowstorm.

At the lower park I walked over to my tree, set up my chair and proceeded to examine the face. It looked far older and worn than the timetable of this quest would allow for. Within the knothole I found nothing save the remains of old nests. I knew there was a larger knothole on the other side of the tree, but I couldn’t quite reach it without shinnying up a little bit. I grabbed a taller branch and pulled myself up, legs splaying about wildly in the wind. Grabbing the trunk of the tree with my feet I was able to look inside only to find it too rotted out to provide any decent hiding place. Puffing somewhat and more than a little disheartened, I scrambled down, folded up my chair and marched back through the snow to my car.

Once I reached the car I thought about the failure and decided to walk around the overlook and try to relax. I was frustrated, but I enjoyed the walk in the park, especially given the fact that I had it all to myself. I looked out across the city and wondered if I would ever find the token, or if it made sense to give the quest a rest. As I did, I felt a strange presence over my left shoulder. I wish I could say it was a token, sparkling at me in the snow, but it was certainly just as surprising.

Somehow, in the gusts of wind that blew up over the precipice of the park, an enormous hawk had managed to land right behind me. He was the size of a large dog and his feathers were both tussled and menacing. In his talons he held a large squirrel which I initially thought was a rabbit. I think he wanted only for me to leave, but I had to stare for a few moments. He watched me, moving nothing but his head, as I circled around him, peering into a few knotholes as I went. I kept looking back at the strange sight in the snow and eventually reached my car, walking at a very slow pace.

As I left the hawk stayed on, still unmoving in the snow. It had been a very strange morning. I could not think of a moment that I had experienced in quite some time that was so far removed from the mundane. I’m not sure what to think of my treasure hunting adventure, except that it was far better to have had it that not to. It is, perhaps, true to say that the odd experiences in life – those which take us outside of our daily schedule and thoughts- are those which carry the most significance. This was hardly a significant experience, but it was odd, and in that odd way it was kind of cool. I won’t try and wrap it in some contrived sense of meaning, but it was sure better than watching TV. Good luck to all in their quests, and keep one eye over your shoulder – if not for the competition, at least for the hawks.

2005-02-26T23:13:00.000-05:00

The Hare from William's Book

Run, Rabbit, Run

2005-02-26T22:54:00.000-05:00

This blog teeters between random historical info focusing on piracy and on hunting for pirate treasure in today's world. It is not focused solely on treasure hunting, but I feel the need to digress out of the realm of piracy and into a modern, unrelated treasure hunt, if only for a moment.

In the first post to appear on this site, A Rabbit Runs Through It, I made reference to a treasure hunt of my youth that revolved around a book filled with puzzles and cryptic messages in it's text and pictures. It was a well fabricated treasure hunt, with a golden rabbit actually hidden for readers to try and find. The author was Kit Williams, and the name of the book was Masquerade. Does anyone else remember the book, or have stories from puzzling out it's pages?

Well, I was researching on line a few weeks ago and in one of my searches up came a new treasure hunt of the same kind. Michael Stadther, the author, was motivated in part by Kit Williams original book. This time, however, there are 13 treasures to find, all hidden in the continental US. The book, A Treasure's Trove, was published in Nov of 2004. Thus far none of the 13 carefully hidden jewels have been found. I was intrigued.

So, on Saturday I took the kids to Marconi Beach and scoured the beach for pirate treasure. Scoured is a strong word. We actually walked around for about 15 minutes as it was FREEZING, but it was fun looking for Harbor Seals and it certainly is a beautiful area. Once we got back into the car and warmed up we headed home, but first stopped at a bookstore to pick up A Treasure's Trove. I must say, I am enjoying it. I won't talk too much about success or failure in solving any of the mysteries, at least not yet, but I wanted to recommend the book for anyone who would love to go on a real treasure hunt and challenge their mental prowess at the same time. Check it out if you get a chance, and let me know what you think...

A Musical Interlude

2005-02-11T23:14:00.000-05:00

Years ago I enjoyed performing in traditional irish sesiuns every once in a while. I have since forgotten everything I knew about performing music, but I still enjoy listening to the songs very much. Sam Hall was a favorite, and I cannot think of the song without hearing the voice of John O'Connor singing it. As I was researching material on Captain Kidd one day, I came across the Ballad of William Kidd. You can hardly avoid coming across it, as it seems to make an appearance in just about every volume on Kidd. Anyway, as I read it I noticed that it bore a striking resemblance to Sam Hall, and can be sung to the same tune. I believe it was penned for the "event" of Kidd's execution, and broadsides of it were sold in the streets. Probably lifted off an existing folk song so it could be "sung to the tune of x...". Anyway, for anyone who knows Sam Hall, take a look at these abridged lyrics and decide for yourself if there is a connection. And if you want to hear a version that does NOT sound like Sam Hall, check out this linked version by the Jolly Rogers.

My name was William Kidd,
When I sailed, when I sailed,
My name was William Kidd,
When I sailed,
My name was William Kidd;
God's laws I did forbid,
And so wickedly I did,
When I sailed.

My parents taught me well,
When I sailed, when I sailed,
My parents taught me well,
When I sailed,
My parents taught me well,
To shun the gates of hell,
But against them I rebelled,
When I sailed.

I murdered William Moore,
As I sailed, as I sailed
I murdered William Moore,
As I sailed,
I murdered William Moore,
And laid him in his gore,
Not many leagues from shore,
As I sailed.

2005-02-09T06:06:00.000-05:00

Treasure Recovered from the Whydah

A Cape Cod Tale: "Black" Sam Bellamy & the Whydah

2005-02-08T21:56:00.000-05:00

There is a lot of history that slowly passes as the short, dramatic and easy to remember versions take hold. As a result, there is truth everywhere that is fading away. Some is lost to urban sprawl, and some to books no longer read. Some to MTV and short attention spans, other relics are washed away by years of storms, sinking back into the wet sand to rot with time.When we think of pirates we most often think of the images and environs that movies, children’s books and video games have left us. Pirates of the Caribbean: looting and pillaging in far off tropical climes, burying hordes of treasure and carousing off into the vanishing mists of legend. Many of those legends are rooted in fact, but there is more meat to the stories than the icons leave us, and so much truth around the periphery that has been lost.

New England, for example, was once a flourishing region of pirate activity. Privateers and worse sailed from ports like Salem, Boston, Newport, Providence and New York. Rhode Island was reknown for it’s rather loose rules when it came to discouraging the trade. Newport’s own Captain Thomas Tew was one of the more famous pirates of the Madagascar theatre, until his old shipmates convinced to him ship out on the account once more for old time’s sake. He lost his belly to a well placed Arab cannon shot and died on the quarterdeck, bleeding. He is said to have left treasure buried in the Narragansett Bay area, perhaps in Newport, Sakonnet Point, or out on Hope Island, but none has ever been found.

Cape Cod, too, has it’s buccaneering past. How much of it will be lost forever we will never know, but there is still evidence if you know where to look. One colorful tale associated with the cape is that of Captain Samuel Bellamy. Bellamy was born in England and came to Cape Cod in 1715. Here he fell in love with Maria Hallett, a local girl whose attraction may, in fact, have lured him to his death. He left for the Caribbean to excavate for treasure from Spanish Galleons sunk in a hurricane, but his venture was unsuccessful and he ultimately turned pirate. “Black” Sam Bellamy’s crew took over fifty ships in the course of a year. One of his greatest prizes was the capture of the Whydah, a slave ship rich in gold dust, ivory tusks and other treasure from Africa. The Whydah, a three masted galley of three hundred tons burthen, with eighteen cannon and a crew of fifty, became Captain Bellamy’s flagship.

In the spring of 1717 Bellamy’s band of cutthroats came north, past the colonies in Bermuda, Virginia, Maryland and New York. It is not known what brought Bellamy back north from the Caribbean. He is said to have begun work on a fort at the Machias River in Maine, in an attempt to create a place for a free society of Pirates, much as the Isle Sainte Marie off of Madagascar is said to have been. Although the idea is intriguing, those with a more romantic flair lean toward the idea that it was his love for Maria Hallett that brought Bellamy north to his doom on the shores of Cape Cod. On their way to New England, the pirates continued to prey on shipping. One unfortunate but bold Boston sailor, a Captain Beer, had his sloop taken off of Block Island. He related the tale that Bellamy and his crew took all of his goods, then decided they could not risk giving him back his ship. Bellamy’s speech to the captain is chronicled in Captain Charles Johnson’s A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates, and testifies to the rebellious freedom that drew many to the life of a pirate rogue:

"I am sorry they won't let you have your sloop again, for I scorn to do any one a mischief, when it is not to my advantage; damn the sloop, we must sink her, and she might be of use to you. Though you are a sneaking puppy, and so are all those who will submit to be governed by laws which rich men have made for their own security; for the cowardly whelps have not the courage otherwise to defend what they get by knavery; but damn ye altogether: damn them for a pack of crafty rascals, and you, who serve them, for a parcel of hen-hearted numbskulls. They vilify us, the scoundrels do, when there is only this difference, they rob the poor under the cover of law, forsooth, and we plunder the rich under the protection of our own courage. Had you not better make then one of us, than sneak after these villains for employment?"
When the captain replied that his conscience would not let him break the laws of God and man, the pirate Bellamy continued:
"You are a devilish conscience rascal, I am a free prince, and I have as much authority to make war on the whole world, as he who has a hundred sail of ships at sea, and an army of 100,000 men in the field; and this my conscience me: but there is no arguing with such snivelling puppies, who allow superiors to kick them about deck at pleasure."

During the voyage north Bellamy had secured a small fleet of three ships: the Whydah, a snow under the command of pirate captain Montgomery, and a small merchant pink laden with Madeira wine. Drunk from the capture of a merchant vessel laden with wine, the crew ran into a gale as they tried to pass north from Nantucket Shoals up around the eastern arm of Cape Cod. The northeaster ultimately drove the ships onto the shoals off of the coast of Wellfleet, near what is today Marconi Beach. All save two of the souls on board the Whydah perished in the surf as the ship was broken up by the seas. One, Thomas Davis, had been forced into the crew when his ship was taken earlier that year. Much of what we now know about Bellamy we know through his accounts. The other was a Nauset Indian named John Julian, who had washed up on the beaches of his homeland. That evening, Davis and Julian sought help at the home of local Wellfleet residents, who with their neighbors scavenged up as much of the ocean’s bounty as they could. In the morning, when other local Cape Codders arrived, they found bodies and coins scattered all over the beach.

In the years that have followed many people have found the occasional artifact washed up on the shore. But, it was not until Barry Clifford, a local treasure hunter, discovered the remains of the wreck of the Whydah in 1985 that the true scope of Bellamy’s treasure was known. Clifford’s discoveries continue to this day, and can be viewed at the Expedition Whydah Museum in Provincetown, MA. This is one of only two pirate wrecks ever found in modern times, and the artifacts tell the story of what pirate life was truly like.

So, if you find yourself yearning for the sea and a bit of adventure, take a drive out on route 6 to Marconi Beach in Wellfleet. Perhaps, if a storm has just come through, you’ll find an old coin or some musket shot washed up on the beach. And, if your appetite is only slightly satisfied by the waves of the Atlantic, ceaselessly rolling over the graves of Bellamy and his men, head on north to Provincetown Wharf and the Whydah museum to get a glimpse of real history before it fades…

2005-02-08T06:07:00.000-05:00

The Ship's Bell of the Whydah

2005-01-21T22:33:00.000-05:00

Silver & Gold

2005-01-21T22:06:00.000-05:00

"Jim," he said at length, "you saw that seafaring man today?"

"Black Dog?" I asked.

"Ah! Black Dog," says he. "He'sa bad un; but there's worse that put him on. Now, if I can't get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot, mind you, it's my old sea-chest they're after... I was first mate, I was, old Flint's first mate, and I'm the on'y one as knows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as if I was to now, you see. But you won't peach unless they get the black spot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again or a seafaring man with one leg, Jim -- him above all."...

I was standing at the door for a moment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when I saw someone drawing slowly near along the road. He was plainly blind, for he tapped before him with a stick and wore a great green shade over his eyes and nose; and he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge old tattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear positively deformed. I never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure...

The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of him and left him staring sober. The expression of his face was not so much of terror as of mortal sickness. He made a movement to rise, but I do not believe he had enough force left in his body.

"Now, Bill, sit where you are," said the beggar. "If I can't see, I can hear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold out your left hand. Boy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right."

We both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass something from the hollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain's, which closed upon it instantly.

"And now that's done," said the blind man; and at the words he suddenly left hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness, skipped out of the parlour and into the road, where, as I still stood motionless, I could hear his stick go tap-tap- tapping into the distance.

It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our senses, but at length, and about at the same moment, I released his wrist, which I was still holding, and he drew in his hand and looked sharply into the palm.

"Ten o'clock!" he cried. "Six hours. We'll do them yet," and he sprang to his feet.

Even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole height face foremost to the floor.

I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was all in vain. The captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy... -Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson

What a scene at the Admiral Benbow Inn! Pirate Captain Billy Bones recognizes his imminent death and gives young Jim Hawkins knowledge of Captain Flint's secret treasure map. To be sure, the literary Bones is more guarded, merely alluding to the secret within his sea chest, but he shares that secret in confidence with Jim Hawkins. In the classic film version the act is instead the actual transfer of possession from Bones to Jim. But in either case, it is such a great moment of defamiliarization - that convergence of mystery, horror, adventure and greed, that the scene takes on an almost archetypal significance. Perhaps this observation is a bit exaggerated, but, in fact, there are echoes of this scene in many other legends and scraps of pirate lore. Why the recurrence, or the fascination that breeds it?

In one of the older Captain Kidd legends, there is a story of Kidd crewmembers captured in Albany and kept in prison there. In the tale, one crewmember is ill and a decision is made by local authorities to allow a Quaker doctor to come in and care for him. Upon realization that his fate is sealed, the condemned buccaneer scribbles out instructions on the location of a cache of gold and secretly passes it to the doctor on his last visit.

In yet another chronicle, a Pirate ship is sighted off of Montauk, NY one evening. Local Indians go out to trade with the ship and are captured and taken away as slaves or forced labor. The next morning the ship is gone, but shortly thereafter and old man arrives at the house of a local colonist. It is a lonely place and the old man is in poor health. During the evening he dies at the man's home, and in his last words utters a cryptic phrase "...I wear...a belt..." then dies before he can say more. The man is given a funeral and buried, but late that night strange lights are seen at the cemetery. Rumors of a secret exhumation are whispered in the area. Moreover, the man who heard the doomed visitor's last words is later observed to have acquired undue wealth. Jealous neighbors?

The stories of the stranger who faces death, desperately passing on secret knowledge of treasure, are curious, dramatic and perhaps not so far fetched. Certainly even the greediest of men must hate to see the fruit of their labors vanish with them into the dust. And in the Judeo-Christian tradition, which the European cutthroats were steeped in from birth, gold was merely a portable (and shiny) symbol of work. Work signified the penance of man after his fall from grace. In Genesis, God had condemned all men to death and to hard labor until the day they die. Damn apple. If gold is a tangible symbol of our work, how deviously fitting is the sinister pirate's quest to rid himself of Providence's yoke by stealing another man's labor. A life of luxury won at the expense of another man's subjugation would suit that villain well. And what of those final moments? Whether a last act of defiance, passing the get out of jail free card on to another, or some hopeful act of contrition, the moment is made all the more dramatic by the history leading up to it. And in some ways, more believable, as well.

2005-01-20T22:07:00.000-05:00

Captain Kidd Articles of Agreement

2005-01-20T21:02:00.000-05:00

Sarah Kidd's Petition

Primary Sources

2005-01-19T22:50:00.000-05:00

There is nothing quite like doing primary source research, as long as the topic is interesting. I obtained these documents from two fantastic sources, the Massachusetts State Archives and the London Public Records Office. If you like this stuff it is worth a visit to browse through the microfilm of forgotten letters and manuscripts, knowing that some have not been read in hundreds of years, nor were they ever meant to be. There is a lot of interesting historical information in these documents, snapshots of how people lived and worked and engaged in commerce. There is also an interesting look into the common thread of human emotion and experience that crosses the boundaries of the years and the cultures.

In the Sarah Kidd letter, from the Mass State Archives, Captain Kidd's wife pleads for the return of money which was taken from her when her husband was imprisoned. She was one of the wealthiest women in Manhattan and had just been transformed into a prisoner's wife and a single mother. Living off of dwindling funds and the good graces of those around her in Boston, Sarah tried in vain to secure her husband's release by various entreaties to government officials as well as discourse with ex-pirates Andrew Knott of Boston and Thomas Paine of Conanicut (Jamestown), Rhode Island. Kidd would not be released to his wife and daughter but would instead, as the victim of politics, underhanded business partners, a mutinous crew and his own poor choices, be hung in London following his trial in 1701.

In Kidd's Articles of Agreement, found in the London PRO, we see the ship's rules set forth in an agreement between crew and captain, back when Kidd was rounding up men for his government sponsored quest to hunt pirates. Note the bonuses for lost limbs and injuries, as well as the penalty for being drunk during battle. An arm or leg were worth several hundred pieces of eight, but failure to perform in an engagement meant no share. The ships manned by pirates and privateers were, in many ways, some of the first democratic institutions in the new world. Their society and it's rules were a stark contrast to the harsh and potentially tyrannical discipline maintained in the Royal Navy. Pirates shared loot relatively evenly, one share each with two or three shares going to ship's officers, surgeons & carpenters. Moreover, a key element of rule on a pirate ship was often the democratic election of the captain. As a privateer, Kidd bore more authority than an elected captain, but he still required the will of the ship's company for certain elements of discipline. In many ways Kidd was at the mercy of the majority, and it backfired on him in the end.

Joseph Palmer, whose signature is at the lower right hand corner of these articles, turned on Kidd upon his arrest and was a key witness against Kidd in his trial.

2005-01-06T07:47:00.000-05:00

A Rabbit Runs Through It

2004-12-24T01:15:00.000-05:00

I was running through the woods this summer, breathing much heavier than I did 18 years ago, when I noticed all the rabbits. It was late and the sun was starting to fade low into the canopy of oak trees overhead. I was hot, sweating, tired from a long day of driving, tired from the aforementioned running, and all-too-aware that a timebomb was ticking back at the side of the road in my mini-van. I had to head back to the van soon, but first I had to go as far down this overgrown dirt road as I could.

I kept looking for a break in the woods up ahead where the water would be. The oak trees fit my expectations very well. There were plenty of moss covered boulders. The glacial erratics were plunked in the till, large enough to stand out as a landmark and obviously never cleared for farming. I kept coming to forks in the road, which was overgrown with very long green grass, and as I consistently went the wrong direction I would come around a corner and see more rabbits. Bunnies bunnies everywhere, and no water to be seen.

When I was a young kid there was a writer who came out with a book about a rabbit. It appears that there have always been and will always be a lot of rabbit books for kids, but this was for grown-ups. There was a complicated puzzle woven into the book that would, once solved, lead the reader to a golden rabbit hidden somewhere on God's green earth. I obsessed over it and tried in vain to solve the many riddles hidden within the pages. I think some guy from England found the treasure near a memorial to one of Henry VIII's wives. It was all very clever when they publicized the solution, but I was disappointed. It had been cool, in a very geeky way, and it was over. Moreover, why was it in England? I never had a chance, did I? I mean, come on, I was 10 or something...

Anyway, I had a new riddle now, and I was running through these woods sweating and cursing and laughing at the rabbits, who politely hopped out of my way or at times just watched from the brambles. When I found the water I realized my navigational errors. I was on the eastern shore instead of the south. I was disappointed. There was no time to get over to where I needed to be. Three ferry rides and three more to go to get home, five hours of travel. At any moment I would hear the explosion back at the car. The sun was setting on me and off in the darkening woods I could swear I heard a dog. Probably a big one. I took a few snaps with my camera and soaked in the moment for memory's sake. There were a lot of emotions coursing through my body, most of which were quite good. I had not turned back. I had not read this in a book. I was here, and I understood the requirement of coming back again. With better planning and more time. And a GPS, for crying out loud.

From holding the yellowed manuscript in a forgotten library to late nights on the web, correspondence with authors, librarians and museums all over the world, to this moment in time, there had been a lot of real riddle-solving. There had been a lot of living that I would not have done sitting in front of the TV. Would I have skipped work to explore a sheltered cove in my kayak and scratch the hell out my van trying to get the craft back on the roof with exhausted arms? How about talking an old friend through trespassing on some really rich New Yorker's land at dusk just to get a few pictures of the landscape? True, it all led nowhere, or more accurately it all led here - to the wrong shore of a forgotten body of water and a really frustrated car full of wife & kids back at the highway, but when I passed the rabbits I think they were smiling.

My wife & kids were OK, although discontent was bubbling up in the back. Once we got on the narrow stretch of highway and pointed ourselves towards that first hop of the ferry rides, though, I found that things were good. I had a home to go to, a car-full of folks who loved me, and the big dog never materialized. We ate candy on the ferry and watched the lights move across the sound. The kids played and met other kids and fell asleep in their seats on the drive home.