When three English ships sailed into the Chesapeake Bay in late April 1607, they did so amid a soundscape of groaning masts and spars, crew members heaving on the capstan and furling the sails, and the strains of song and instrumental music. This simple claim reminds us that music provided one of the most significant yet underreported dimensions among the first encounters between indigenous and invading cultures as the English established a permanent presence on the western shores of the North Atlantic Ocean. The 2010 commemoration of the 400th anniversary of the founding of Hampton, Virginia, the oldest continuous English-speaking settlement in North America, was also the 400th anniversary of the dispossession of the Kikotan people, routed in a military attack enabled by a musical ruse.

What might seem like a novel stratagem for battle was actually not unusual. Historical texts reveal that music was a vital military tool on both sides of the Atlantic, and much more: a key element of ritual; an indispensable aid to labor; a method for building and maintaining morale; and above all, an integral part of communication. The most elemental of instruments—the human body—was the most common. People clapped their hands, stamped their feet, or, especially, raised their voices. During the early-modern period in virtually all cultures around the globe, wherever instrumentation was wanted or needed, a striking variety was available, to serve a surprising number of functions and employ virtually everyone in a troop, crew, or community in some sort of music production. In a world where not everyone could read or even speak a common language, everyone could make music, and did.

It is one thing to recognize this musical world, another to explore it. Early-modern methods of recording sound—text, musical notation, and oral traditions—leave a compromised record that can only be accessed intellectually and theoretically, rather than experienced sensually through ears and eyes. Orality poses problems of its own. Even the most sophisticated mnemonic devices can be suspect, in terms of whether they tell the history of the people involved in the story, or in its re-telling. Further complicating the evidentiary problem for these earliest Anglo-Atlantic musical histories is that the surviving record was written largely by only one party involved in this cultural contact—the English. Even the historical evidence that does exist presents a great challenge to musical inquiry, perhaps because so little was said about music in primary documents of the period, leading relatively few historians to write about it as more than a garnish to the main courses of historical inquiry.

Yet even this limited historical record suggests a shared understanding and utility of music across cultures. The sources—primarily travel narratives written by English explorers—frequently reference the music, song, dance, and instrumentation used by English and Natives alike, offering tantalizing hints about the music’s reception by both parties. One of the richest sources documenting such encounters involving the English prior to 1600 isPrincipall Navigations, English cleric and geographer Richard Hakluyt’s masterwork, published in editions in 1589 and 1599-1600. The editions fulfilled what historian Peter Mancall called the author’s “promise” to promote English settlement around the world, a commitment that drove Hakluyt’s collection and publication of widely read travel narratives. No less a commentator than author and courtier Sir Philip Sidney (to whom Hakluyt dedicated his 1582 Divers Voyages) once employed a musical metaphor to praise his work: “Mr. Hakluyt hath served for a very good trumpet.” Hakluyt’s personal investment in English exploration culminated in his participation in the formation of the Virginia Company, promoter of the expedition that, in 1607, led to the first recorded Anglo-Kikotan contact.

Principall Navigations became a “bible” for transatlantic voyagers of the seventeenth century, chronicling English expeditions allegedly reaching back to the dawn of time, undertaken to every corner of the known world. Martin Frobisher, Humphrey Gilbert, and John Davis all reported on the usefulness of music as they sought to stake a claim for England in the Western Hemisphere. Hakluyt’s accounts gave copious evidence of music as a means of communication, a tool of warfare, an aid to commerce, a religious practice, a form of entertainment, and a means of building community between Europeans and Natives alike. Elements included trumpets, drums, timbrels, barrel organs, and much singing and dancing. Morris dancing, a common English village dance practice, was specifically mentioned in the provisioning of Gilbert’s 1583 final voyage, to the North American Atlantic coast, as an activity to be executed “for solace of our people, and allurement of the Savages.” Central among the instruments used on such expeditions were trumpets, useful whether to announce the beginning of a conquest—as when Gilbert sounded a trumpet to formalize English “regency” over Newfoundland—or the end, as in the case of the Roanoke colony, when, in 1589, John White returned looking for his family and friends: “we sounded a Trumpet, but no answer could we heare.”

Hakluyt even reported an example of musical subterfuge that took place during Frobisher’s first voyage, undertaken in 1576 to search for a Northwest Passage. Frobisher’s scribe, George Best, told how his captain wanted to capture a Native person to take home as a “token,” and “knowing wel how they greatly delighted in our toyes, and specially in belles, he rang a prety lowbell” to lure a potential captive to the side of the ship. Several attempts were unsuccessful until, “to make them more greedy of the matter he rang a louder bell.” The bait worked, and the captive would eventually pay for it with his life, reaching England but dying “of cold which he had taken at sea.”

That Davis considered music to be essential to his mission is clear; he allotted four of twenty-three berths on his flagship to musicians. Even John Smith of Jamestown, who rarely mentioned the ways music would have been used in the Virginia colony and did not include a single musical instrument on his list of things to take to the Americas, nevertheless documented the presence of at least one working musician: among the handful of men in the 1607 crew identified as having a specific skill is “Nic. Scot, drum.” This is not to say that Smith never mentioned music—on the contrary, several of his books demonstrated its importance to a variety of functions, particularly military uses. Smith’s True Travels, Adventures, and Observations included his description of a European coupling of the musical and martial at the battle of Rottenton, begun “with a generall shout, all their Ensignes displaying, Drummes beating, Trumpets and Howboyes [oboes] sounding.” Similarly, in A Sea Grammar, Smith described how the pursuit of an enemy ship would begin by hailing it “with a noise of trumpets,” and conclude with the “sound[ing of] Drums and Trumpets,” after which, the officers would “board [the] other ship … with the Trumpets sounding.”

Nor was all shipboard music instrumental. Smith described in the Grammar how the “Gang of men” who rowed the smaller boats would “saies Amends, one and all, Vea, vea, vea, vea, vea, that is, they pull all strongly together,” a style suggesting the familiar work song of the sea, the shanty. The Grammar also contained another example of vocal music, in which crew members would begin and end the evening watch with a psalm and a prayer.

Though Smith mentioned the presence of drums and drumming, only the trumpeting that figured so centrally in Hakluyt’s accounts also appeared in Smith’s texts with a formal role for its practitioners among a ship’s “Company,” or crew. An earlier version of the Grammar entitled An Accidence for the Sea indicated that the trumpeter was compensated at the same rate as the boatswain, marshalls, and quartermasters, and at a higher rate than the corporal, “chyrurgion” (surgeon), steward, cook, coxswain, the sailors, and the “boys.” The Grammar indicated roles for both a “Trumpeter” and a “Trump. Mate,” with the former valued at the same rate as the surgeon, gunner, boatswain, and carpenter. Smith provided this description of duties and compensation:

The Trumpeter is alwayes to attend the Captaines command, and to sound either at his going a shore, or comming aboord, at the entertainment of strangers, also when you hale a ship, when you charge, boord, or enter; and the poope is his place to stand or sit upon, if there bee a noise, they are to attend him, if there be not, every one hee doth teach to beare a part, the Captaine is to incourage him, by increasing his shares, or pay, and give the master Trumpeter a reward.

Folklorist Roger D. Abrahams has argued that English parading traditions such as those described here originally grew from medieval practices “to display and enhance the power of the nobility or the monarchy.” Abrahams cited an early example of this at Plymouth Plantation in which Miles Standish “would not leave the encampment without arraying in parade his six or seven soldiers led by a drummer and a horn-blower.” An earlier, similar example can be found in Virginia, according to an account in True Relations. During a meeting between John Smith and Wahunsonacock, the powerful chief most often referred to by Natives and English alike as “Powhatan,” trumpeting preceded the arrival of Captain Christopher Newport, producing a sound that Philip Barbour observed, in his edition of Smith’s Complete Works, would have been “surely more strident than any sound the most stout-lunged Indian warrior could make.” (Smith also identified “Powhatan” as the name of a river, a nation, a country, and at one point, a “place” with forty fighting men.) Beyond a question of volume, though, Newport’s procession would have been intended as an impressive display of personal or monarchal power, or both.

In contrast to his other books (or, for that matter, the relatively rich record of significant musical functionality aboard early-modern Atlantic expeditions reported by Hakluyt), Smith’s Generall Historie of Virginia, first published in 1624 and often relying on earlier accounts by others, revealed very little about the English use of music in the early days of encounter in the Chesapeake. But the Historie did contribute significantly to the otherwise elusive musical history of the Powhatan peoples, a deficit due to what some ethnomusicologists have referred to as a “shattering” of musical traditions among southeastern Native tribes following the first decades of contact with Europeans. In the same way he documented the names of rivers, tribes, flora, and fauna, Smith (or his scribe) faithfully recorded evidence of Native music used for communication, rituals, entertainment, warfare, and work. Just as the European musical salvos reported by Smith were designed to impress their auditors, so did Native music produce an impressive, even “fearful” sound—the “terrible howling” also remarked upon by William Strachey. Still, the Historie demonstrated an explicit understanding of the ability and intent of certain types of this “savage” music to “delight” rather than “affright” the listener.

The Historie used European terms to describe Native instrumentation. The description of an aerophone made of “a thicke Cane, on which they pipe as on a Recorder” suggests both visual and tonal similarities between the English and Native instruments named. In the case of “their chiefe instruments … Rattles made of small gourds, or Pumpeons shels,” the author assigned the voice-parts of “Base, Tenor, Countertenor, Meane, and Treble,” terminology reflecting a European understanding of the tones the rattles produced—low to high, respectively, with larger gourds producing deeper tones. This attempt to make sense of a musical relationship across cultures by imposing a European framework would have made the objects more familiar (and perhaps less “savage”) to the author and his readers alike, part of what Karen Ordahl Kupperman has described as a tendency on the part of both sides to see the other culture “in terms of traditional categories …. to fit these other people and their trappings into their own sense of the normal.”

Reading the narratives with new ears, then, shows the development of a musical dialogue evolving right from the moment that English ships arrived at the mouth of the river that Natives called “Powhatan,” and which we know today by the name imposed by the English to the river and their settlement alike: James. Three very different periods of musical encounter mirror the moments in which they took place: introduction, cooperation, and destruction.

In April 1607, as the English ships Susan Constant, Godspeed, and Discovery prepared to enter the Powhatan River, they encountered a smaller river flowing north that shared a name with its inhabitants, the Kikotans. It was “a convenient harbour for Fisher boats … that so turneth it selfe into Bayes and Creekes, it makes that place very pleasant to inhabit.” The Kikotans themselves were relative newcomers, having been sent by Powhatan to remove another Native group some fifteen years earlier. A decades-long continental demographic crisis followed the arrival of Europeans, and David S. Jones has argued this may have been due to multiple factors, including disease but also “poverty, social stress, and environmental vulnerability.” For the survivors, this was a time of consolidation and intense intertribal conflict, and Kupperman has suggested the English contingent’s potential as allies in these struggles may have been the reason Powhatan allowed the English to survive during those first fragile years of settlement.

Smith did not record how the English might have introduced themselves musically to the Kikotans, though his examples in True Travels, the Grammar, and the Accidence suggest that trumpets and drums might well have announced their arrival. But the journal of George Percy provided a much clearer picture of how the Kikotans introduced themselves.

As the youngest son of the ninth earl of Northumberland, Percy had the highest social status among the English, though as a lieutenant he was subordinate in military rank to Smith. According to Percy, the Kikotans performed music as part of a spiritual ceremony characterized by “a doleful noise,” and in rituals of hospitality inviting the English to share a meal with their hosts, amid “singing … dancing … shouting, howling, and stamping against the ground, with many antic tricks and faces.” In deconstructing English assumptions that such music was “savage,” one can perceive a musical aesthetic that was rhythmic, energetic, and participatory—characteristics also found in European music. This first encounter created for the participants an aural record of each other’s cultures and would have affected their evolving cross-cultural sensory understanding as music continued to play a role in subsequent encounters.

Given the nearness of the Kikotan village to Jamestown and its strategic location at the first inland river off the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, perhaps Smith was relieved to estimate that “besides their women & children, [they] have not past 20. fighting men.” The musical component of any potential fighting became immediately apparent when, shortly after their initial encounter, Smith returned to Kikotan with a half-dozen crew in a small vessel called a “shallop” to trade for food, only to be greeted by “scorn” and “derision.” Smith responded with gunfire. Hostilities quickly escalated, as “Sixtie or seaventie” painted “Salvages” emerged from beyond the tree line, charging while “singing and dauncing out of the woods.” Smith’s men answered by shooting the Kikotans’ religious idol, then suing for terms. The result: more singing and dancing, but this time “in signe of friendship,” as the two sides traded “Beads, Copper, and Hatchets” for “Venison, Turkies, wild foule, [and] bread.”

Several times in 1608, the Kikotans provided refuge to the English during the latter group’s explorations of the Chesapeake, encouraged by a belief that Smith and his crew had been, or would be, “at warres” with the Kikotans’ enemies to the north, the Massawomeks. On one of these occasions, they sheltered an injured Smith after he had suffered what he supposed to have been a near-deadly encounter with a hog-nosed ray at a place still known as “Stingray Point”; another time, when the wind delayed the English for “two or three dayes … the King feasted us with much mirth.” But perhaps the most poignant encounter documented during this period of relative cooperation took place the week following Christmas 1608, when one of the punishing winter storms characteristic of the region forced Smith and a contingent of men and vessels to stop at Kikotan for about a week on their way to negotiate with, and obtain corn from, Powhatan at his capital of Werowocomoco. The following passage from the Historie documents what took place:

… the extreame winde, rayne, frost and snow caused us to keepe Christmas among the Salvages, where we were never more merry, nor fed on more plentie of good Oysters, Fish, Flesh, Wild-foule, and good bread; nor never had better fires in England, then in the dry, smoaky houses of Kecoughtan

The word “merry” in the Historie is associated with leisure, money, marriage, pastime, sports, laughter, feasting, singing, and dancing—elements that were also central to Elizabethan village festive practices. François Laroque has argued that each religious celebration and season had a secular analogue; winter “revels” got an early start in November on Queen Elizabeth’s accession date, and peaked with the twelve days of Christmas, defined by its two “eves”—Christmas and New Year’s—and the Epiphany, known secularly as Twelfth Night. The fires of the Kikotan houses would have been reminiscent of solstice imagery of light amid nocturnality, and the smokiness calls to mind the centerpiece of any English Christmas celebration: the Yule log. The pagan origins of “Yule” notwithstanding, the English at Kikotan would have aware of the season’s Christian practices, including the feeding of the poor mimicked in the exchange by Mummers of song for coin and wassail, as they themselves sought succor in their time of need.

That Smith found it necessary to venture out at a time when weather and custom would have dictated otherwise showed the seriousness of their situation, and especially after having been warned by the chief of the Warraskoyack that Powhatan “hath sent for you onely to cut your throats.” But natural disasters and holidays both have a way of calling political time-outs—and, in this case, the storm and unscheduled layover could have had the effect of restoring the English to a more “holiday” attitude. A merry Christmas, as celebrated in England, would have been a time of rest, when work would have been considered a bad thing. As Laroque noted, during the Christmas season “time was not conceived as a regular continuum,” and the presence of a Lord of Misrule would have encouraged the flaunting of convention. At Kikotan, the English would have received a musical welcome as part of their hosts’ own traditions of greeting, parting, worship, mealtime, and entertainment, and on New Year’s Day—which the English spent at Kikotan—it would have been customary for presents to have been exchanged. None of this is documented in the narratives left by the participants, but an examination of contemporary English festive practices might help explain what Smith meant when he used the word “merry.”

Though various English festivals may have belonged to distinct seasons, their elements of music, dance, and themes moved fluidly across the calendar. Robin Hood may have been most closely associated with the grotesque characters of the Morris dance, and the Morris itself might have been most often associated with spring festivities, or the Mummers’ plays with Christmas or Easter, but the same instrumentation and tropes animated all—so much so that secondary commentators over the last century have struggled to explain the overlap between various forms of dance, or even the exact boundaries of dates and practices.

Laroque also identified ambiguity in “meaning and functions,” for while “the essence of these festivals lay … in the music, the dancing, the movement and colour,” they also brought “foreboding” and “boos of derision,” making festivals “essentially … two-edged affairs.” This ambiguity could have religious dimensions—”Morice dauncers” with “devellishe inventions” on St. Bartholomew’s Day “shame[d] not in ye time of divine service, to come and daunce about the Church”—but also raised the specter of violence. Laroque specifically connected “the uproar of the Morris dance” to “the description of martial music,” as in the case of a 1598 Ascension Day celebration in Oxford with “drum and shot and other weapons.” Such accounts suggest a sense that “merriment” had an inherent potential to get out of hand and become “a vehicle of discord, exclusion and chaos,” whether in the thematic oppositionality of festive symbols—snowballs at Midsummer, roses at Christmas—or the characterization of Mummers as “troupes of decked-out musicians who would suddenly invade homes,” posing as much of a threat to public order as to piety. Yet, as Christopher Marsh has pointed out, drumming that was both “festive” and “combative” could also “conceal a warning within the sounds of celebration” when deployed by town officials, who frequently hired drummers or invested in drums themselves.

How would the musicality of this merriment have translated to Christmas in the Chesapeake? Historical Anthropologist Ian Woodfield’s findings, and Hakluyt’s travel narratives specifically, suggest that many types of musical instruments could have been present at Jamestown, whether or not specific documentary evidence for their presence survives. The work of multiple disciplines has sometimes helped to bridge these evidentiary gaps, such as when archaeologists found evidence of jew’s harps at sites around Jamestown that could be connected to numerous accounts of that instrument’s use in trade with Native peoples. Absent those connections, though, there are nevertheless three types of instruments (or four, if you include the human voice and body) documented as being used by the English at this time and place: the trumpet, the drum, and the combination of tabor pipe and drum.

In the overlapping world of English festivities, no instrument was more commonly mentioned than the original one-man-band, the tabor pipe and drum. This musical contrivance allowed a single musician to play a melody on a pipe designed to be played with one hand while keeping a beat on a drum with the other. Significantly, taboring labors under the same kind of ambiguity noted for secular festival practices. Woodfield found the instrument serving the Elizabethan Navy as one of its “instruments of warlicke designes” in the “usual military band,” and at least one example of the instrument’s presence in a military setting suggests a hierarchy of use in which the lowly tabor may have been regarded as inferior. As reported in Principall Navigations, Captain Luke Ward, vice admiral to General Edward Fenton in the latter’s 1582 unsuccessful attempt to find a Northwest Passage by way of China, carried “trumpets, drum and fife, and tabor and pipe” on his “skiffe,” while his superior, “the generall in his pinnesse,” had “his musicke, & trumpets.” This musical combination serenaded the representatives of the governor of St. Vincent down the river, punctuated by an even more intimidating aural expression: a “salute” in the form of “a volley of three great pieces out of ech ship.”

If there were such a hierarchy of instrumentation, it could have been purely functional; volume-wise, the tabor pipe would have been no match for the sonic capabilities of the trumpet noted by Barbour. The distinction could also be attributed to taboring’s humble pastoral associations. John Forrest has argued that its cousin, the Morris dance, passed only gradually from royal to rural use between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries, a trajectory the tabor pipe and drum traversed, too. But by the turn of the seventeenth century, the instrument’s association with rustic entertainments was reinforced by its use by professional comic actors—the “clowns” and “fools” of the early Shakespearean stage, including some of the most famous theatre celebrities of the day. The most visible examples, Richard Tarlton and Will Kemp, both famously performed the dances most closely connected to the instrument, the jig and the Morris. As noted in Shakespearean scholarship, later “fools” weren’t quite so “foolish,” and Kemp’s celebrated buffoonery may have led to both his departure from performance and partnership at the Globe Theatre as well as his subsequent (in)famous publicity stunt, a “Morrice daunce” to Norwich in 1600.

But a lower status for taboring would also be consistent with the often terrible reputation the instrument enjoyed. “Baudie Pipers and thundering Drummers” were likely “to strike up the devils daunce withall,” and even on an ordinary “Lord’s Day,” one pious commentator complained, one could neither “read a chapter,” nor “pray, or sing a psalm, or catechise, or instruct a servant, but with the noise of the pipe and tabor.” Nor was the mischief attributed to the tabor pipe and drum purely of an irreligious nature; in a double entendre seen in other commentary on musical instruments, William Fennor wrote in 1612 of a man being cuckolded by a “knave … playing frolickly upon his Tabor.”

According to many of its critics, the remedy for the evil of taboring could be found in religion. The master in Christopher Fetherston’s 1582 dialogue against dancing cautions his student “to reioyce, not in a bawdy pype or tabor, but in the Lorde.” Yet even this prescription is ambiguous, for “Tabor” was also the name of the mountain that Christianity holds to be the site of the transfiguration of Jesus. The punning connection of the holy mount to the wicked musical instrument was not lost on the early-modern audience; Henry Greenwood, writing in 1609, may have had the linkage in mind as he condemned “unrighteous” “hypocrites” who “praise the Lord in the Tabor, but not in the dance.” The author and composer John Marbeck in 1581, too, saw good in the instrument but evil in some of its users. Acknowledging that, while “The wicked runne after the Tabor and the Flute,”

… the Flute and the Tabor and such other like things are not to be condemned, simplie of their owne nature: but onelie in respect of mens abusing of them, for most commonlie they perverte the good use of them: For certainlie, the Tabor doth not sooner sound to make men merrie, but … men are so caried awaie, as they cannot sport themselves with moderate mirth, but they fling themselves into the aire, as though they would leape out of themselves. This then … [is] a cursed mirth … that God condemned.

Marbeck encouraged restraint in such pastimes, so that God in “the ende … maie blesse our mirth.”

With respect to the winter holidays, the pipe and tabor served as well at Christmas as it did on Whitsun or May Day. The specific connection of piping to the Christmas season is made in Richard Brathwaite’s 1631 satire on pipers in Whimzies:

An ill wind … begins to blow upon Christmasseeve, and so continues very lowd and blustring all the twelve dayes … then … vanisheth to the great peace of the whole family, the thirteenth day.

Though Brathwaite’s anecdote may have had some form of bagpipe in mind—his “Inventorie” of the dead piper includes “a decayed Pipe-bagge”—Laroque argues that “pipe” in this case could have referred to either form of pipe, and certainly his evidence suggests it is the taborpipe that is associated with much of the musical mayhem of the early-modern village festival. When combined with Morris dancing, Laroque found, taboring “justly deserve(d) to be called profane, riotous and disorderly”—or, worse, in the view of Puritan critic Philip Stubbes, “a form of pagan idolatry and a homage paid to Satan.”

All of these examples suggest that the musical accompaniment the English would have been able to provide during the “merry” Christmas spent at Kikotan would almost certainly have included the taboring and dancing so completely conjoined with the English village practice. If so, this would mean the Kikotans would have had ample opportunity over this period of winter sequestration to become familiar with the instrument in its most English, most intimate, most comical, and least threatening expression, without the layers of violent or warlike ambiguity attached to the instrument at home or in battle.

In the months that followed, the “merry” moment that had welcomed 1609 faded as the parties on either side of the cultural divide grew more aware of the unsuitability of the other as potential trading partners and military allies. This difficult year of intercultural tension, drought, and privation marked Smith’s departure from the colony and ushered in both the First Anglo-Powhatan War and the “Starving Time” that nearly ended the Jamestown project—though recent scholarship suggests political reasons why Percy’s and other accounts may have exaggerated some of the more dire claims, including cannibalism. In spring 1610, a new governor, Sir Thomas Gates, finally arrived in Virginia after having been shipwrecked the previous year at Somers Island (the present-day Bermuda) in a widely publicized story that may have inspired Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Gates packed up the survivors and headed back down the James with the intention of returning to England, only to be met by reinforcements led by Thomas West, Lord De La Warr. Fresh from the brutal English campaigns in Ireland, the new commander would soon set a more aggressive tone for encounters with Powhatan peoples. This growing tension provides the context for one final musical encounter between Kikotans and English, involving a military ruse, and a taborer.

By the summer of 1610, the Kikotans and English had had ample opportunity to familiarize themselves with each other’s musical presentation styles for greeting, and for war. There was room for misinterpretation, of course; one early example recounted in the Historiefrom Sir Richard Grenville’s 1585 Roanoke expedition involved “a song we thought for welcome” but which their Native ally Manteo told them meant “they came to fight.” But many more examples from encounter literature suggest that both sides knew exactly what to expect, musically, preceding a fight. The Historie’s description of Natives’ “manner of Battell” told how warriors would “[approach] in their orders … leaping and singing after their accustomed tune, which they onely use in Warres,” and how, at “the first flight of arrowes they gave such horrible shouts and screeches, as so many infernall hell-hounds could not have made them more terrible.” Smith gave no examples of the English use of music at the onset of any attack in Virginia before 1610, but given the paucity of English musical references in the Historie, this is perhaps not surprising. But elsewhere, his descriptions of the specific role of trumpeting and drumming before and after battle agree with an account that the Historie did report took place just two years later, in 1612, during an incident on the way to Pamunkey following the kidnapping of Pocahontas. Sir Thomas Dale’s forces offered a truce, but, “if they would fight with us, they should know when we would begin by our Drums and Trumpets.” The consistent English descriptions of trumpet-and-drum salvos at the beginning of battle suggest what Natives might have expected from a hostile force. What they might not have expected … was a taborer.

The ambiguity of taboring’s martial and merry utility, and,very likely, the experience of the “merry” Christmas at Kikotan, would have combined with the familiar use of music in the greeting practices of both cultures to create, on July 9, 1610, the deceptive conditions that Percy’s account made clear were the intent:

… S[i]r Tho[mas] Gates beinge desyreous for to be Revendged upon the Indyans att Kekowhatan did goe thither by water w[i]th a certeine number of men, and amongste the reste a Taborer w[i]th him. beinge Landed he cawsed the Taborer to play and dawnse thereby to allure the Indyans to come unto him the w[hi]ch prevayled. And then espyeinge a fitteinge oportunety fell in upon them ….

The attack resulted in the slaughter of several Natives and the removal of all Kikotan inhabitants of the lower Virginia peninsula, allowing the English to seize their lands and occupy their homes just in time to harvest the corn—the same homes where, less than eighteen months earlier, during Christmastide, their fellows had been given shelter from the storm, in surroundings the English had compared favorably to their own distant homes.

In an ironic postscript, Smith used a familiar contemporary analogy to the tabor to provide, in the Historie, his “opinion” on some of the skirmishes that followed a later massacre—the well-publicized 1622 “Virginia Massacre” of English by Natives that helped fuel the colony’s transition from private to royal governance. Smith advised the use of “patience and experience” in subduing the Native population, asking, “will any goe to catch a Hare with a Taber and a Pipe?” But in the case of the 1610 Kikotan massacre—a tale that Smith surely knew—that is exactly what the English did, and successfully, through subterfuge that benefited from the musical encounters of 1607-1610.

Those encounters were all but lost after the founding of Hampton, Virginia, much like the Native people who took part in them. The Kikotans who survived would assimilate into other Powhatan groups, the “small tribal islands in a sea of non-Indians” described by anthropologist Helen Rountree. A tiny fraction of their pre-contact extent, Powhatan peoples saw their culture eroded not only by time, but likely, too, by the viciousness of later ages culminating in the “Jim Crow” era, where the myth of “separate but equal” tended to further silence old practices in the face of race-based legal strictures that accompanied the designation “colored.”

Today the name Kikotan—spelled in the English way, “Kecoughtan”—is most familiar on Virginia’s lower peninsula as the name of a high school whose sports teams bear the sobriquet “Warriors;” the school is located near the headwaters of the river renamed “Hampton,” like the town, likely for Virginia Company patron Henry Wriothesley, third Earl of Southampton. If you search for “Historic Kecoughtan” online, you find not the legacy of a Native people but a “17th Century Trading Plantation” that adopted the name of the land originally named for, and subsequently wrested from, the earlier inhabitants. The name Kecoughtan remains, too, on the easternmost section of an ancient road that today takes Route 60 from near where the Kikotan village once stood past the exclusive Wythe neighborhood toward the James River and the plantations that mark English expansion into Powhatan lands to the west and north. The site of the original village became a neglected corner of an otherwise thriving early American town, occupied by freed slaves after the Civil War before being incorporated within the grounds of Hampton University (formerly Hampton Institute), which itself was founded by another culture whose labor was appropriated—like the Kikotans’ land—to enrich the English-speaking colonial project and the nation it subsequently spawned.

The music that animated the Anglo-Kikotan moment can no longer be heard. Yet in reconstructing those first, brief musical encounters of 1607-1610 from shards of evidence mined from the documentary record, we add a dimension of aurality to our understanding of a very complex period of encounter, one founded on various hopes and misunderstandings, characterized briefly by possibly pragmatic yet undeniable generosity, and ultimately undone in violence and betrayal, where two cultures collided, musically, on the banks of the Kikotan.

Further reading

The 400th anniversary of Jamestown produced considerable scholarship; here are a few representative publications.

Primary works by John Smith, including A Generall Historie of Virginia (1624) and other texts referencing music, appear in Philip Barbour’s The Complete Works of Captain John Smith, 3 vols. (Williamsburg, Va., 1986). George Percy’s account is included in its entirety in Mark Nicholls’s article, “George Percy’s ‘Trewe Relacyon:’ A Primary Source for the Jamestown Settlement,” in The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography 113:3 (2005): 212-275. Larger secondary collections of primary documents of the period include James P. P. Horn’s Captain John Smith: Writings with Other Narratives of Roanoke, Jamestown, and the First English Settlement of America (New York, 2007), and Edward Wright Haile’s Jamestown Narratives: Eyewitness Accounts of the Virginia Colony: The First Decade, 1607-1617 (Champlain, Va., 1998, 2000).

Secondary evaluations of the period include Karen Ordahl Kupperman’s Indians and English: Facing Off in Early America (Ithaca, N.Y., 2000), which examines political stressors at the time of English arrival in the Chesapeake; her follow-up, The Jamestown Project (Cambridge, Mass., 2007), puts the story in its broader early-modern and Atlantic contexts; and a forthcoming article, “The Language of Music in Early-modern Encounters,” explores the use of music as communication by many early-modern cultures that otherwise shared no language in common. Helen C. Rountree’s Pocahontas, Powhatan, Opechancanough: Three Indian Lives Changed by Jamestown (Charlottesville, Va., 2006) provides a Native perspective and applies anthropological methods to early encounters in the Chesapeake region. David S. Jones’s examination of the demographic crisis in Native populations of the Western Hemisphere following the arrival of Europeans appears in “Virgin Soils Revisited,” in The William and Mary Quarterly 60:4 (October 2003). Rachel B. Herrmann’s reconsideration of the Jamestown “Starving Time” appears in “The ‘tragicall historie’: Cannibalism and Abundance in Colonial Jamestown,” in The William and Mary Quarterly 68:1 (January 2011): 47-74. An introductory ethnomusicological overview of Native musical traditions is provided in Ellen Koskoff’s Garland Encyclopedia of World Music: The United States and Canada (New York, 2001).

Beyond the Chesapeake, the period of English forays into the “ocean sea” is explored in Peter C. Mancall’s Hakluyt’s Promise: an Elizabethan’s Obsession for an English America (New Haven, Conn., 2007). Great detail on the musical dimensions of the period is provided by Ian Woodfield’s English Musicians in the Age of Exploration: Sociology of Music No. 8 (New York, 1995). For musical festivities in the Elizabethan and Jacobean periods , see François Laroque’sShakespeare’s festive world: Elizabethan seasonal entertainment and the professional stage, trans. Janet Lloyd (Cambridge, 1991). Christopher Marsh explores the duality of drumming in “‘The Pride of Noise:’ Drums and their Repercussions in Early Modern England,” in Early Music 39:2 (May 2011): 203-216. John Forrest assesses taboring and much more as part of The History of Morris Dancing, 1438-1750: Studies in Early English Drama (Toronto, 1999), and Max Thomas discusses Kemp, Morris dancing, and taboring in “Kemps Nine Daies Wonder: Dancing Carnival into Market,” in PMLA 107:3 (May 1992): 511-523.

I would also encourage visiting the spaces on Virginia’s lower peninsula inhabited by Kikotans and English in the years 1607-1610, and the venues that preserve artifacts of the same. In addition to the familiar Jamestown Settlement and Historic Jamestowne at the southern terminus of Virginia’s Colonial Parkway, the Pamunkey Indian Tribe Museum, located on the Pamunkey Reservation created by treaty from ancestral lands in 1646, “teaches about the Pamunkey people and their way of life throughout history, from the ice age to the present.” The Hampton University Museum, on the grounds of Hampton University—site of the Kikotan village—maintains a permanent collection entitled, “Enduring Legacy: Native Peoples, Native Arts.” And the Hampton History Museum, located near the site of the original village, has a large collection of Kikotan and colonial English artifacts of the period.

Acknowledgments

The author acknowledges with deep gratitude the support of the late Dorothy Rouse-Bottom, who made possible the conference for which an earlier draft of this paper was produced, and without whose support the 400th anniversary of Hampton might have passed without a single official notice of the Kikotan massacre; also, the scholarship and inspiration of conference panel members Karen Ordahl Kupperman and Helen C. Rountree, who have offered many helpful comments to, and much encouragement during the writing of, several incarnations of this paper.

This article originally appeared in issue 13.2 (Winter, 2013).

Jeanne Eller McDougall brings a life-long love of traditional song and music to her PhD candidacy in history at the University of Southern California, and is finishing a dissertation on political song in British colonial America, 1750-1776. She was a 2011-2012 USC-Huntington Early Modern Studies Institute Fellow, and a Michael J. Connell Foundation Fellow at the Huntington Library for 2011-2012.

In the 2013-2014 academic year, over 350 historians collaborated to produce The American Yawp, a free online, collaboratively built American history textbook. This project is the first attempt by academic historians to collaborate on such a massive scale and to use open annotation tools to enable widespread public feedback. Because many historians were involved in writing each chapter, The American Yawp draws more directly on more specialists’ expertise than a textbook written by four or five historians; at the same time, the uniquely collaborative review process challenged us to confront linguistic and historiographical questions as we wove specialists’ contributions into a new synthesis. Crafting material on pre-Columbian America for our first chapter, “The New World,” illuminated the contours of current scholarship and the challenges faced by instructors. Ultimately, the collaborative writing and review process pushed us to re-envision how we teach this topic and to create a textbook chapter that explicitly engages scholarly debates about pre-Columbian America.

I began teaching the early American history survey five years ago with a narrative that hinged heavily on political events. In pacing lectures, I used major political benchmarks to ensure “coverage.” As I gained experience and confidence, I began to subsume some of these benchmarks under discussions of more nuanced social, cultural, or economic trends that had blurrier boundaries but offered more vivid depictions of how life was actually lived. In a sense, this process mirrored macro trends in the historiography of American history. A consensus narrative was complicated by voices of dissent from those outside the halls of power; high political changes were given meaning by exploring their impact on the life of all economic strata; great men and great ideas received context in larger cultural movements; and now my students begin by questioning what the word “America” means, and we foreground transnational connections throughout the survey narrative.

The American Yawp similarly began with a framework of conventional chronological boundaries and broad topics assembled by my co-editor, Joseph Locke, and me. For example, our chapter entitled “Colonial Society,” centering on events occurring 1700-1763, began with the following short list:

Growth of American slavery
Consumer Revolution
Great Awakening
Immigration and urbanization
Marriage and family life
Seven Years War
Pontiac’s War

After producing this list, I searched for content experts who possessed the historiographical command and familiarity with evidence to ensure that our text both reflected current trends in scholarship and provided details and texture to make content come alive. I scoured recent editions of The William and Mary Quarterly, Early American Studies, and other academic periodicals looking for authors of excellent articles or even insightful book reviews. I then combed through lists of recent dissertations on the eighteenth century, conference programs, and the rosters of graduate programs with a traditional strength in the era.

The raw materials of these contributions had to be assembled, and often reshaped, to build a narratively coherent synthesis.  It is here that writing history becomes more art than science; the construction of synthesis is textbook writers’ and teachers’ most challenging task.

The result was a roster of fifteen contributors pledged to produce specialized contributions for the “Colonial Society” chapter. For example, Katherine Smoak and Mary Draper drew on their dissertation research to produce 500 words on eighteenth-century currency and connections between North America and the Caribbean, respectively. We want synthesis to bubble up from research, not descend from institutional gatekeepers, so we deferred to the expertise of our contributors, asking, “what do you believe undergraduates absolutely need to know about your topic?” We encouraged our contributors to offer the kind of research specificity that only they could offer, including colorful characters and illuminating anecdotes. These details often make the most memorable and enlightening material for students, and remind us of the importance of integrating research and teaching.

Creating New Narratives

The raw materials of these contributions had to be assembled, and often reshaped, to build a narratively coherent synthesis.  It is here that writing history becomes more art than science; the construction of synthesis is textbook writers’ and teachers’ most challenging task. Nora Slonimsky took on the challenge for our “Colonial Society” chapter, weaving the excerpts into a coherent narrative. Creating a synthetic narrative necessarily sacrificed some of the specificity of the original contributions, but all of our editors worked hard to mold the research-driven content into a form that would accurately reflect contemporary scholarship, yet be accessible to undergraduates.

This process repeated itself for all thirty of our chapters, and in fall of 2014, we quietly released a beta edition. The experience of constructing this beta edition, as well as the feedback we have received since its launch, yields several observations regarding the field of early American history. Perhaps our most stark realization is that an extremely small number of historians work on pre-Columbian Native America. After an initial recruitment effort turned up little interest, we attempted a wider solicitation through H-OIEAHC. Still, finding scholars of pre-Columbian Native America proved more difficult than recruiting specialists in any other chronological or topical area. Where are all the specialists in pre-Columbian history? Our mistake was to assume that these individuals would be historians. It is clear now that we will have to branch beyond our traditional disciplinary boundaries and make connections with anthropologists and archaeologists if we are going to offer our students a solid grounding in pre-Columbian history. Interdisciplinarity here is not a buzzword; it is the essential requirement for understanding the era.

Open Source History

Other insights into early American history continue to emerge as we improve our first chapter. We have solicited feedback through Comment Press, an open-source annotation platform that enables our contributors, editorial advisors, and others to give paragraph-by-paragraph comments. Over 100 historians shared their insights on our beta edition—ranging from highly specialized content corrections to suggestions that would improve our prose. It is here that the walls of specialization began to crumble, as content outsiders often gave us the kind of fresh perspective necessary to ensure that our text is accessible to students. For example, Jonathan Wilson and Michael Hattem—specialists in antebellum intellectual history and the politics of the American Revolution, respectively—both remarked that the chapter opening was abrupt and potentially intimidating for students. As a result, our new chapter includes a short introduction to the chapter, as well as an introduction to the entire text. When connecting research communities to students, it is valuable to have go-betweens to translate, and classroom teachers provide exactly this perspective.  

The American Yawp is the first textbook to employ the open collaborative potential of tools like Comment Press, balancing Wikipedia’s ability to crowd-source content production with scholarly oversight and rigor. My co-editor and I understand our role less as traditional textbook authors and more as organizers, administrators, and editors. American history is simply too big and too broad for one individual to master. Highly synthetic projects like textbooks depend on a wide base of expertise, and ongoing collaboration can ensure that material reflects the latest research innovations. New technologies should enable the networks of peer support on which our profession has always depended to find new expression. The American Yawp is an experiment in the democratization of knowledge production within a collegial community of experts.

The input we received from seventeen historians on our first chapter provides an example of the value of this kind of feedback and exposes some important challenges facing all teachers of early America. James Merrell pointed out the Eurocentric language that suffused the chapter as well as most synthetic treatments of early America. The chapter’s very title, “The New World,” implies a dismissal of millennia of Native life and ignores the fact that for some people, the continents known as North and South America were not at all “new” by 1492, or even in the tenth century when Norse explorers crossed the ocean. Even the phrase “pre-contact” or “Pre-Columbian” adopts an excessively European/Indigenous binary that obscures the extensive contact between vastly different groups in North America. We of course knew this, but failing to foreground this challenge not only opened us to misinterpretations of our content, but also overlooked a teachable moment.

Stepping outside of Eurocentrism is extremely difficult for a number of reasons, including the greater number of Eurocentric sources, the greater cultural and even epistemological similarities shared between our world and that of early modern Europe as compared to Native America, and the teleological impulse to see early America as a prehistory of the United States. Of course, even the term North America adopts the geographical signifier of settler colonialism. But these difficulties need not turn into straightjackets strangling our narratives or preventing us from challenging our students’ assumptions. In fact, explicitly acknowledging this problem in the text shows students the challenges we all face in making sense of this period. Since our chapter discusses the Asiatic migrations that led to North American settlement, the title—“The New World”—now reminds students that this land was at one point new to both Native Americans and Europeans. However, Ian Chambers suggests that ignoring the origin stories of indigenous people, especially when we discuss the religious worldviews of Europeans, is a mistake. Our second draft and new primary source reader reflect this valuable suggestion, including creation stories from the Salinan and Cherokee peoples. Neglecting archeological research on North American origins in favor of cataloging indigenous cosmology myths would be irresponsible, but ignoring these stories denies students the opportunity to better understand the peoples who first settled the continent.

Tom de Mayo, associate professor of history at J. Sargeant Reynolds Community College, pushes us on the issue of origins, arguing that we should do more to illustrate the intense scholarly debate over the origins of Native Americans. Indeed, historiographical debates such as these can show our students that our field is one of constant contestation, that history is an ever-evolving conversation, one that they would hopefully join themselves. All of these smart, substantial critiques informed our revised draft. Comments from others also enabled us to identify talented new contributors. For example, Daniel Johnson, of Bilkent University in Turkey, offered several insightful comments. As a result, we recruited him to serve as the editor of our third chapter, entitled “British North America.”

We draw inspiration for the ongoing revision of The American Yawp from the academy as new research challenges our content. For example, the latest edition of Early American Studies includes a revisionist piece by Jane Mt. Pleasant, where she powerfully critiques current depictions of pre-Columbian agriculture, including some depictions we included in the beta edition of our text. Mt. Pleasant’s argument is two-fold. First, her research indicates that intensive, permanent agriculture was in fact the norm in eastern and central North America, rather than shifting cultivation, which suffuses most existing narratives, including our beta chapter. Second, she recasts the use of hand tools as agriculturally advantageous compared to the plow. As a result, we’ve added a brief paragraph to our first chapter:

Native American agriculture varied. Some groups used shifting cultivation where farmers cut the forest, burned the undergrowth and then planted seeds in the nutrient rich ashes of what remained. When crop yields began to decline, farmers would simply move to another field and allow the land to recover and the forest to regrow before they would again cut the forest, burn the undergrowth, and restart the cycle. This technique was particularly useful in areas with difficult soil. But in the lush regions of the central and eastern United States, Native American farmers engaged in permanent, intensive agriculture, using hand tools rather than European-style plows. The lush soil and use of hand-tools enabled effective and sustainable farming. These techniques produced high yields without overburdening the soil.

At the 2015 joint conference of the Omohundro Institute for Early American History and Culture and the Society of Early Americanists, a roundtable of scholars specializing in North American indigenous history surveyed the research prospects for their field. Michael Witgen observed that depictions of territory in early America more often explain imperial ambitions than actual realities. Native peoples held territory in land claimed by Europeans for centuries, and most maps of colonial North America obscure this reality.

As we begin to launch a mapping initiative using GIS software, we look forward to the challenge of creating maps that reflect both the ambitions of colonial powers and the reality of long-enduring indigenous resistance. Scott Manning Stevens emphasized the importance of oral histories and other non-documentary sources, a theme that echoed throughout as all of the scholars mentioned their reliance on community knowledge to make sense of the sparse documentary record. Alyssa Mt. Pleasant acknowledged the important work being done by the Native and Indigenous Studies Association, but we are in many ways dependent still upon knowledge bases beyond the academy to give depth and texture to our understandings of Native American life. Digital projects like The American Yawp, through forums like our Comment Press platform, have the potential to harness the community knowledge that academics often struggle to access. With the aid of future institutional partners, we look forward to making connections with and listening closely to both scholarly and broader public communities.

After a summer applying the feedback we received, as well as integrating insights from new scholarship, we launched a new edition of the text in August. But the work continues. A new cycle of feedback and revision will start, along with new attempts to better exploit digital tools and move our text beyond words and static images. We invite you join us, participate in our new Comment Press site, and ensure that your particular expertise is made available to new generations of students. I teach my students to follow the words of our text’s patron poet, Walt Whitman, and “Re-examine all that you have been told.” We are eager to follow the lead of the profession in doing the same.

Further Reading:

Please visit americanyawp.com to view the text. We also welcome you to visit americanyawp.com/comments to offer suggestions on how we can improve our content.

For discussions of pre-Columbian America, see Susan Alt, ed., Ancient Complexities: New Perspectives in Pre-Columbian North America (Salt Lake City, 2010); Cheryl Claasen and Rosemary A. Joyce, eds., Women in Prehistory: North America and Mesoamerica (Philadelphia, 1994); Charles C. Mann, 1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus (New York, 2006); and Jane Mt. Pleasant, “A New Paradigm for Pre-Columbian Agriculture in North America,” Early American Studies, 13:2 (Spring 2015): 374-412.

For more on the open access movement see Roy Rosenzweig, “Can History be Open Source? Wikipedia and the Future of the Past,” The Journal of American History 93:1 (June, 2006): 117-46; Martin Paul Eve, Open Access and the Humanities: Contexts, Controversies, and the Future (New York, 2014); Lisa Spiro, “This Is Why We Fight: Defining the Values of the Digital Humanities,” in Matthew K. Gold, ed., Debates in the Digital (Minneapolis, 2012); and Martin Weller, The Battle for Open: How Openness Won and Why It Doesn’t Feel Like Victory (London, 2014).

For more on The American Yawp see Joseph Locke and Ben Wright, “A Free and Open Alternative to Traditional History Textbooks,” Perspectives on History, 53:3 (March 2015); Scott McLemee, “Free American History!” Inside Higher Ed, March 11, 2015; Rachel Beltzhoover and M. Omar Siddiqi, “A Conversation with Ben Wright and Joseph Locke, Editors of The American Yawp,” The American Historian.

This article originally appeared in issue 16.1 (Fall, 2015).

Ben Wright is assistant professor of historical studies at the University of Texas at Dallas. His book manuscript “Antislavery and American Salvation” is under advance contract with LSU Press. He is the co-editor of Apocalypse and the Millennium in the American Civil War Era (2013) with Zachary W. Dresser, and The American Yawp, a free and online American history textbook, with Joseph Locke.

Mariner’s Art in International Perspective

Although we think of our own age as the one of “globalization,” in fact, as historians are now demonstrating, early Americans were connected with the Atlantic world as well as with global trade and information networks in a variety of ways. The “global turn” in early American studies has worn down the barriers that formerly existed between the history of the U.S. and the rest of the world. As an interpretive model for historians and art historians, globalization remains controversial. In the case of art history, while many scholars want to recognize the international exchange of objects and aesthetic concepts in the past—themes often overlooked in the earlier literature—many also remain skeptical of the applicability of a twentieth-century notion to the understanding of works from the past.

Folk art studies have been largely impervious to the advent of the Atlantic and the global as methodological frameworks, probably because the association between folk art and American national identity has been so strong since the moment that folk art was “discovered” in the early twentieth century. Historians Eugene W. Metcalf Jr. and Claudine Weatherford have written of Holger Cahill, who promoted folk art as early as the 1920s, that “self-conscious chauvinism expressed itself boldly in […his] definition of American folk art. And there is some/much truth to this. Said by Cahill to give ‘a living quality to the story of American beginnings,’ folk art was glorified as representative of an indigenous artistic heritage of a great democratic nation.” The connections Cahill drew between folk art and national identity typified scholarship and criticism in the field from its infancy onward: The first gift in 1962 to the collection of the fledgling institution that would eventually become the American Folk Art Museum in New York City was, tellingly, a gate in the form of an American flag.

Such objects suggest the complex cultural and political identifications of folk art producers. They undoubtedly drew on local, vernacular traditions, but that did not preclude their familiarity with national imagery which would in turn imply that they possessed some sense of belonging to the nation. The affiliations of folk artists moved even further outward, however, from their local communities to the broader world in which they lived and worked. The objects they made must thus be interpreted in relation to a continuum of identifications that range from the local to the global. Seen in this light, the works themselves, as well as their makers, take on a new complexity.

Take the work of sailors, who were among the most prolific makers of folk art—from scrimshaw to decorated trunks to ditty bags. A good (but late) example of the latter is a sea bag decorated by Maine native and seaman Jack Gardner during a voyage around the world in 1920-21. Now in the collection of the Maine Maritime Museum, it depicts people, places, and monuments that Gardner encountered during his time abroad. In general, the objects sailors produced or decorated evidence the long idle hours they spent on lengthy sea voyages. At the same time, those trips took them around the world and put them in contact with the cultures of Europe and Asia, Africa and the Caribbean. Many seem to have possessed the “unsettled subjectivity” that literary critic Patricia Fumerton ascribes to early modern seafarers and other workers who lived their lives without maintaining strong ties to family and friends. Being “unsettled” meant that these folk artists were cut off from their families, friends and other associates at home during long stretches of time at sea, yet they formed bonds with shipmates, and were also introduced to people around the world whom they would otherwise never have known. Thus, even if seamen were isolated from their communities of origin, and sometimes only loosely integrated into port life, they nonetheless profited from an exposure to foreign cultures that more rooted people did not enjoy. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and even in more recent times, international trade by sea simultaneously created conditions of intense isolation and exhilarating social interaction.

The effects of this kind of global exposure on folk art becomes clear when we look at a small selection of works included in the Maine Folk Art Trail, a series of exhibitions held in ten Maine museums in 2008. Because the state was economically dependent on maritime trade both before and after its political separation in 1820 from Massachusetts (of which it had been a “District”), and because folk art associated with seafaring is prevalent as well as exemplary of global connections, the Maine-related objects provide useful examples. The objects produced by two men—the lighthouse keeper Eliphalet Grover (1778-1855) and his son Samuel Grover (1816-1898)—offer a point of departure. The Grovers are credited with having made several objects now in the collection of the Museums of Old York in York, Maine, including a violin (1821) and a wooden box (ca. 1832) by Eliphalet and a child’s violin (1834) by Samuel. Their biographies and the objects they fashioned reveal the dynamic relationship between social isolation and integration that characterized globalized seafaring life in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Although he was not a mariner himself, Eliphalet Grover’s job was a direct outgrowth of maritime commerce and it entailed some of the same hardships and frustrations seamen faced. After the American Revolution, both maritime trade and related industries like ship-building expanded in Maine, although trade disruptions were caused by the Embargo Act of 1807 and the War of 1812. During the thirteen years prior to the embargo, for instance, shipping registered in the District of Maine nearly tripled, from 50,000 tons to 148,000 tons. Coastal trade depended upon the ability of vessels to avoid the hazards of Maine’s jagged coastline. One such hazard was Boon Island, located nine miles off of York Beach in the open waters of the Gulf of Maine. At its widest it is about a third of a mile, although to call it an “island” is perhaps to overstate the case: It is a rock outcropping only fourteen feet above sea level and can support no vegetation. The wife of one twentieth-century lighthouse keeper recalled that “there was not a blade of grass or a weed on the island.” In the eighteenth century, coastal vessels had wrecked on Boon Island numerous times and the first beacon was installed there, at a time of increasing maritime activity, in 1799. It was forty feet in height and its construction was funded through the office of Benjamin Lincoln, the Boston Customs Inspector. During the first half of the nineteenth century, four different towers were swept away by the sea. On May 31, 1831, Eliphalet Grover noted the laying of the first stone for a new lighthouse on Boon Island, but despite its construction of masonry, it was carried away some time after its completion in July of the same year. The granite tower built in 1852, however, was substantial enough to withstand punishing surf and still stands. During the period that the Grover family was on Boon Island, the lighthouse was seventy feet tall and a residence was located adjacent to it, although in the latter part of his tenure they also had a house on the mainland.

Eliphalet Grover, who became the Boon Island lighthouse keeper in 1816, was born in 1778. With his wife, Susanna (1780-1858), he had three children, one of whom was Samuel, born the year his father received his appointment. Eliphalet had a long career as keeper, which lasted until 1839 when he was dismissed for somewhat mysterious reasons, probably because such positions had become by then the objects of political patronage. A variety of alleged infractions, including selling portions of the whale oil shipments that were supposed to keep the light burning, had been made against the lighthouse keeper to justify his dismissal, but he denied them. Grover soon became keeper of Whaleback Lighthouse in nearby Portsmouth, New Hampshire, which seems to suggest that his behavior on Boon Island had not been criminal. Samuel apparently moved after his father’s dismissal, if not earlier, to North Berwick and eventually married Olive Jane Grant (c. 1837-1872) of Acton, Maine.

The objects the Grovers made reflect their most immediate surroundings, the harsh, isolated island on which they spent much of their lives, as well as their identification with the nation and their connections to a global economy. The men’s offshore lives were expressed in the objects they made: small, portable pieces, fashioned from the meager materials at their disposal. Although the family went back and forth from Boon Island to the mainland, inscriptions on the objects the Grovers crafted underscored the paradoxical fact of their production on such a tiny island with so few natural resources from which to make anything. The inscription on the violin made by the elder Grover reads, “Made on Boon Island by Capt. Eliphalet Grover 1821” and the smaller violin made by his son (who likely learned instrument-making from his father) is labeled on the interior “Made by Samuel Grover Boon Island, Maine, 1834.” The extremely limited physical space the Grovers had available to them on Boon Island meant that they had to express their creativity on a very small scale. They even made use of scrap materials available on the island: Eliphalet Grover recorded in his log that in a bad storm, the wind would tear the shingles off of the buildings on Boon Island, so it is not surprising he had a good supply on hand to repair the intermittent damage. Eliphalet used split-wood roof shingles, likely from his repair supply, to make the top and back of his 1821 fiddle. The musical instrument demonstrated Grover’s skills as both a joiner and a carver, for he shaped and fitted together the shingles to make the body of the instrument, and then carved its head with a human likeness. The project was well adapted to an island since it required only minimal space and small handtools; moreover, it could be worked on over an extended period of time, taken out and put away as the daily schedule of maintaining the light permitted. The portable violin, which could be easily taken back and forth to the mainlaind, was typical of the objects the Grovers made. The box Eliphalet fashioned—primarily from locally plentiful pine wood—was well suited to his restricted surroundings. It measures just 5 ½ by 7 ⅝ by 6 ½ inches and could have been useful for transporting valuables between the island and the mainland.

The imagery, with its repetition of human faces around the exterior, may well have reflected Eliphalet’s isolation. These images are profile silhouettes which have been cut out and then affixed to the box. This emphasis on the human face runs through the Grovers’s work: Both of their violins are distinctive for having carved and painted heads incorporated into the scrolls, perhaps reflecting a desire for human contact. The Grovers apparently longed for their time ashore, as an anecdote recounted by the poet Celia Thaxter in Among the Isles of Shoals (1873) attests. Thaxter’s father was a New Hampshire lighthouse keeper from 1838 onward, so she was well aware of what life on a small Atlantic island was like. In her book, she recounted traveling on a boat bound for Bangor, Maine, where she met an unnamed man who had grown up on Boon Island and who was likely one of Eliphalet Grover’s sons. Thaxter recalled that “He spoke with bitterness of his life in that terrible solitude, and of ‘loneliness which had pursued him ever since.’ […] He ended by anathematizing all islands, and, vanishing into the darkness, was not to be found again.”

Making and decorating objects filled some of the hours Eliphalet and Samuel Grover spent on their lonely outpost, and they surrounded themselves with likenesses. These objects would also have been useful in the context of island living. The violin, for example, could have been very useful on Boon Island, the year round. In the summer, when the surf is generally subdued, music from the violin would have melded with the sounds of swells rising against the rock outcropping. In the more severe weather typical of fall and winter, the violin would have helped drown out the relentless sound of crashing surf and filled the empty days, weeks and months when the waves made it difficult for a boat to land on Boon Island. A twentieth-century resident recalled how very nearly inescapable the sound of pounding surf could be: “One day there was a terrible storm so terrible that we went to the top of the lighthouse and sat with our heads almost in our laps so we wouldn’t hear the storm.” When the Grovers went ashore, they could have taken their musical instruments with them and joined in the social life of York and other nearby villages and cities. The musical instruments then wove together the Grovers’ solitary lives on Boon Island and their intermittent social connections with the community on the mainland. The forms, materials, and decorative aspects of the objects all attest to the dual character of these folk artists’ lives: at once circumscribed by their island home and also connected to national and even international economic and social networks.

We can see the Grovers’ identification with the nation and with nationalism on the same objects that testified to the world immediately surrounding them. The faces on Eliphalet’s box are enhanced with military uniforms and drawn swords. In the corners of the top of the box are painted eagles and shields on maple veneer. Together, the military themes and eagles and shields suggest an association with battle and ultimately with national history. These motifs reflect Grover’s interest in the iconography of the American nation, which he could have encountered through a variety of means, but most likely through popular print. Newspapers, almanacs, and cheap prints all would have served as sources of such imagery; Grover would have seen such printed materials while on shore or have obtained them from visitors to Boon Island. Indeed, the box is lined with pages from a contemporary New York newspaper. He creatively interpreted the visual aspects of the world of popular print in his own original works.

These motifs also echoed the national imagery that appeared on a variety of objects made by mariner folk artists, including what has been probably the most highly sought-after category of seamen’s art: scrimshaw. To take just two examples, in the collection of the Mystic Seaport Museum are two whale’s teeth with scrimshaw scenes (c. 1848), the Battle of Lake Erie and the Battle of Lake Champlain, attributed to Nathaniel Sylvester Finney. Simon Newman has also shown that the most personal of sailors’ works, tattoos, also employed symbols of the nation, such as eagles, alongside initials and other motifs that related both to their shipboard relationships and to their connections to loved ones on shore. In the 500 records of sailors’ tattoos found in the Seamen’s Protection Certificate Applications (1798-1816) studied by Newman, he identified seventy-one that featured either “eagles, American flags, the date 1776, [or] representations of liberty,” with eagles being the most popular. Newman connects this body of imagery to sailors’ interests in early national politics, to their patriotism, and to their advantageous positions as witnesses to the age of revolution throughout the Atlantic world. This interpretation of the tattoo imagery provides a way of understanding the eagles and armed figures that appear on Grover’s box. However obliquely, these motifs reference the international conflicts that somebody at sea would have witnessed—or learned about from mariners who had direct experience of the American, French, or Haitian revolutions and other events—in the early national period, conflicts that took their tolls on the very maritime trade that the lighthouse was supposed to facilitate. The eagle may also signal Grover’s allegiance to the patriotism of sailors who would have passed by Boon Island and occasionally landed on the rock, as well as to his interest in politics on the mainland.

Eliphalet Grover’s box decoration is not an anomaly among the motifs that appear on maritime folk art from Maine, as a ship’s figurehead of Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry makes clear. Newman points out that many seamen were staunchly anti-British and for them Perry would indeed have been the “Hero of Lake Erie.” He led the United States naval forces in a successful battle against the British navy on Lake Erie on Sept. 10, 1813, despite serious damage to his ship, the USS Lawrence, whose battle flag bore the famous slogan, “Don’t give up the ship.” Although who was responsible for the naming of the ship on which this figurehead appeared, and the selection of Commodore Perry as the motif for the figurehead, is unclear in both cases, the ship’s owners as well as its crew could have appreciated the patriotism of the gesture.

Figurehead carving was intimately tied to the shipbuilding (particularly in wood) and shipping trades. As those industries declined in Maine from the end of the nineteenth century onward, the production of figureheads, and indeed maritime carving in general, came to be thought of as a dying art and examples were sought out to document its heyday earlier in the nineteenth century. As art historian Samuel M. Green remarked, “I have seen figureheads and other carvings in deserted corners, lofts, and barns throughout the state [of Maine], all of which will inevitably disappear without a trace unless recorded, just as hundreds of their kind have disappeared before now.” In fact, the Index of American Design, a WPA project that produced some 22,000 watercolors and photographs of “various arts and crafts in the field of Design in the United States from before 1700 until about 1900,” included examples of Maine maritime carving. (The work of Edbury Hatch, “the last of the figurehead carvers in the towns of Newcastle and Damariscotta,” was especially highly valued. ) The Index of American Design positioned such carving alongside a wide variety of “folk” objects, all of which were valued for the high quality of their design and execution. Figureheads and other decorative elements from ships were also obviously associated with Maine’s earlier maritime history. At the same time, however, these artifacts were connected to a larger American cultural history, even if the first generation of folk art scholars could not have recognized the full political, social, and economic contexts of seafarers’ lives.

Nor would any early folk art critic, dealer, or collector have spoken of the works as evidence of a particularly international, or even global, mentality on the parts of the makers. But in fact some examples of folk art might be said to signify in just that way. For instance, a ship model known as “A Sailor’s Dream” in the Farnsworth Art Museum in Rockland, Maine, provides some evidence of how distant continents appeared in the American sailor’s imaginary. The museum notes that “this ship model is imbued with the romance and exoticism that was often attached to seafaring life.” It features a three-masted sailing ship at sea “on which are numerous carvings of oversized fish, birds, sea-serpents, and smaller rigged sailing and fishing vessels.” The ship sails towards a lighthouse (reminding us of how important those structures were in maritime life) and above the ship hangs a carved eagle (recalling some sailors’ favored motifs). On the portside quarterboard is inscribed the word “Japanese” and on the opposite side is written “Souvenir.” Near the port side on the bow is written “Sterndorfer” and on the stern is inscribed “Maine,” perhaps indicating both the ship’s place of origin and the model’s since it was found in a boat shed in Rockland in the 1950s.

The ship model can appropriately be considered a “dream” to the extent that it distorts the scales of various elements—the ship that dwarfs the lighthouse, for instance—and combines things (some of them fantastic) that could not ordinarily be found together, like the varieties of carved sea life and the eagle in the sky. The model may have been called a dream because it also brings together two distant lands: Maine and Japan. However, given the long history of New England’s maritime relationships with Asia, this work can also be understood as a window onto how some seamen thought of their places in the world, assuming that a mariner made, commissioned or owned the model. The dream of shipboard life was then not so much “romantic” or “exotic” as it was filled simultaneously with excitement and peril, limited and unbounded.

The many ways in which Maine’s folk art evidenced the district’s and later the state’s vigorous participation in international trade from the colonial period forward was barely acknowledged during the period when folk art was being established as a field of collecting and scholarship. True, scrimshaw, ships’ figureheads, ship models, and other objects fashioned at sea or produced in response to maritime trade were the subjects of considerable interest in the early decades of the twentieth century, but a countervailing tendency to associate them with local culture worked against their being understood in relation to global networks of trade and otherwise. The conceptual affiliation of folk art with American identity, addressed at the outset of this essay, provides part of the explanation for this failure to see folk art as part of a larger, more cosmopolitan culture. The other reason is that by the early twentieth century, when artists, curators, and collectors—particularly from New York City—began to buy and exhibit Maine folk art, the state had changed. By the twentieth century, Maine’s ports had been outstripped by others as places of economic activity, and its shipbuilding had become less important as wooden vessels were increasingly limited to pleasure boats. The urbanites who came to Maine after 1900 did so specifically because many parts of the state had become sleepy backwaters by then. They had become isolated, to some extent, as maritime travel and shipping decreased in favor of railroads, and later, highways. And so the slow pace of life in such enclaves suited the purposes of city-dwellers looking to escape frenetic urban life.

The consequence of the early collecting of Maine folk art was its conceptual disassociation from the global economic activity that originally brought it into being. As historians have raised awareness of how deeply interconnected was the Atlantic world in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it is appropriate to reinsert the “folk” objects produced during the period into that context. Doing so, we will see makers like Eliphalet and Samuel Grover less as isolated artists whose very separateness from cultural centers and urban institutions was responsible for their creativity, and more as makers whose embeddedness in international economic and cultural networks provided the time, opportunity, and aesthetic impulse to create works that provide a perspective on their own period’s “globalization.” The danger here is that just as early twentieth-century conceptions of folk art supported present-day concepts of the nation, so this repositioning of folk art in relation to a broader geographic horizon will only go to underwrite—in an uncritical way—our own notions of twenty-first century globalism. Brian Connolly has addressed the conceptual and political pitfalls entailed in rewriting early American history from a global perspective. He urges us “to consider how invocations of the Atlantic and other extra-national scales might simultaneously displace the nation and secure other relationships of power, especially those of present-day global capitalism,” and concludes that “we should feel a great deal of anxiety to be writing at the same scale and deploying the same terms as global capitalism.”

In the case of folk art studies, adopting a global perspective can be potentially as limiting as were the pioneering but nationalistic interpretations of the objects that came about in the early twentieth century. Thus we should consider, before we inscribe folk art (or at least some of it) within a global framework, the skepticism that has been expressed vis-à-vis globalization with regard to art history. Art historians, like other sorts of historians, have been leery of projecting a twenty-first century notion of globalization back onto earlier periods for fear of inadvertently legitimating contemporary economic structures and political regimes, and misrepresenting the historical situation. As a way of side-stepping these potential limitations, but at the same time recognizing the ways that art makers around the world were interconnected—however fragilely, intermittently, discontinuously—in the pre-modern period, Alessandra Russo has suggested that we “work on the tension between distance and proximity in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This tension had a crucial role in the production of objects.” Indeed, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the relationship between distance and proximity provides a valuable lens for thinking about the production and consumption of folk art. Avoiding the ideological consequences of “globalization,” by bringing these terms to the fore in our thinking about art made by non-professionals, we are able to capture, at least to some degree, the mentalities and the horizons of experience that their makers possessed.

That word—”horizon”—has particular resonance for the Grovers and for seamen who must have spent hours staring at it. On the one hand, folk artists working within the context of the maritime economy, the Grovers among them, made objects from materials that were proximate and they represented landscapes, people, and objects that were also present in their local setting. On the other hand, that did not mean that their perspectives were narrow. The unknown maker of “The Sailor’s Dream,” for instance, gave material form to his vision of the world which encompassed not only the ship to which he may have been confined for long periods of time, but also the distant lands which he may have visited but certainly had heard of from other mariners whose horizons were similarly wide. For the producers of folk art who were involved in a variety of ways with long-distance commerce by sea, lands and cultures beyond their immediate horizons may indeed have been the subjects of romantic attachment or exotic associations. But they were also distant places woven into the fabrics of their daily lives.

Further Reading:

Although the literature on folk art, its history, and issues with defining it is large, especially relevant here are: Eugene W. Metcalf, Jr. and Claudine Weatherford, “Modernism, Edith Halpert, Holger Cahill, and the Fine Art Meaning of American Folk Art,” in Jane S. Becker and Barbara Franco, Folk Roots, New Roots; Folklore in American Life (Lexington, Mass., 1988); and Kevin D. Murphy, ed., Folk Art in Maine: Uncommon Treasures, 1750-1825 (Camden, Maine, 2008). On the Atlantic world, globalization and their implications for American studies and art history, see: Rosemarie Zagarri, “The Significance of the ‘Global Turn’ for the Early American Republic: Globalization in the Age of Nation-Building,” Journal of the Early Republic 31 (Spring 2011): 1-37; Brian Connolly, “Intimate Atlantics: Toward a critical history of transnational early America,” Common-Place Vol. II, no. 2 (Jan. 2011); “Roundtable: The Global before Globalization,” October 133 (Summer, 2010): 3-19; Katherine Manthorne, “Remapping American Art,” American Art 22 (Fall 2008): 112-117; Wendy Bellion and Mónica Domíguez Torres, “Editors’ Introduction,” Winterthur Portfolio 45 (Summer/Autumn 2011): 101-106 (Special issue on “Objects in Motion”); and Felicity A. Nussbaum, ed., The Global Eighteenth Century (Baltimore, 2003). In considering the lives of mariners I have relied on Patricia Fumerton, Unsettled: The Culture of Mobility and the Working Poor in Early Modern England (Chicago, 2006) and Simon Newman, Embodied History: The Lives of the Poor in Early Philadelphia (Philadelphia, 2003).

Eliphalet Grover’s log book is in the collection of the Museums of Old York along with a typescript by Sue Tolle. Further information about the Grovers and their period in Maine history is to be found in Charles E. Clark, James S. Leamon, and Karen Bowden, eds., Maine in the Early Republic, From Revolution to Statehood (Hanover and London, 1988), Laura Fecych Sprague, ed., Agreeable Situations: Society, Commerce, and Art in Southern Maine, 1780-1830 (Kennebunk, Maine, 1987), and Steven C. Mallory, “Capt. Eliphalet Grover’s ‘Boon Island Fiddle’: The Folk Violin in New England, 1750-1850,” in New England Music: The Public Sphere, 1600-1900, The Dublin Seminar for New England Folklife Annual Proceedings, Vol. 21, 1996 (Boston, 1998).

This article originally appeared in issue 12.4 (July, 2012).

Kevin D. Murphy is professor and executive officer in the PhD program in art history at the CUNY Graduate Center in New York City. He is the author of Jonathan Fisher of Blue Hill, Maine: Commerce, Culture and Community on the Eastern Frontier (2010), and a previous contributor to Common-Place.org.

In September of 1776, the Continental Navy became the first American military branch to designate an official uniform. In March of 1777 it became the first to alter it. The change originated from John Paul Jones and a small group of naval officers dissatisfied with the mandated ensemble consisting of a red-lapelled blue coat, a gold-laced waistcoat, and blue breeches. An unofficial agreement allowed American naval men to substitute a white-lined, red-lapelled blue coat and white waistcoat for the official model, and to forego blue breeches for white. The alterations, ornamented with an epaulet inscribed with a rattlesnake and “Don’t Tread on me,” Samuel Eliot Morison observes, resulted in “a much smarter uniform than the blue and red.” Perhaps the “smartest” quality of the new uniform, however, derived from the confusion it caused during engagements with the enemy. From a distance, ships populated by officers dressed in the new uniform resembled captains of the British fleet, leading John Adams to describe the uniform as “English.” Lowering the ensign, at least temporarily, added to the deception. This masquerade, embraced by Captain Jones, created a tactical advantage while at sea: the enemy saw the unmarked ship as familiar and relaxed its defenses, only to find itself unexpectedly engaged, and quite often over-matched, by a smaller, scrappier opponent.

John Paul Jones was a figure who would have been familiar to most American readers in the first half of the nineteenth century as the greatest naval hero of the Revolutionary War. Lauded as the first officer to raise the Grand Union flag aboard an American warship (the Alfred, in 1775), the victor of ferocious sea battles against the British frigate Serapis and the man-of-war Drake, Jones is best known today as the originator of the oft-quoted American mantra “I have not yet begun to fight.” John Paul Jones enjoyed popular acclaim throughout the nineteenth century. No fewer than twenty-three biographies featured Jones as the subject; three editions of his writings and letters became available to the public; and fiction writers, poets, and dramatists on both sides of the Atlantic claimed Jones as their title character. In iconography Jones cut his most dashing figure—a figure he personally constructed and adorned with that costume he himself had carefully designed in 1776. After Charles Willson Peale painted his portrait four years later, and Jean-Antoine Houdon sculpted his bust in 1780-1, these depictions set the pattern for pictures of Jones for at least seventy years thereafter—with precisely the kind of commanding appearance he favored for himself. But the duplicity he had stitched into the navy’s uniform—what you saw was not what you actually got—became a motif that worked its way into an entire series of representations of Jones after his death in 1792.

Was the hero actually a bloodthirsty pirate? A rake and seducer of ladies? Indeed, a robber, a murderer, a political opportunist?

Of course, in patriotic histories of the Revolution Jones stood in for the courageous patriot, the tireless warrior in the battle for Independence. Still, Jones had lived a highly eventful life before (and after) joining the American cause, and his nineteenth-century commentators seized upon those adventures to depict certain unsavory aspects of the hero’s character. Although crewman Nathaniel Fanning understood Jones to be “a great lover of the ladies” for his practice of “carrying off” women, many nineteenth-century authors indicted Jones as a “libertine” and a “rapist,” even while they commended his patriotic service to their audience of young men. George Sinclair, as early as 1807, published a biography of Jones modeled after the 1803 London-based original with the omnibus title: The Interesting Life, Travels, Voyages, and Daring Engagements of the Celebrated and Justly Notorious Pirate, Paul Jones: Containing Numerous Anecdotes of Undaunted Courage, in the Prosecution of his Nefarious Undertakings. So was the hero actually a bloodthirsty pirate? A rake and seducer of ladies? Indeed, a robber, a murderer, a political opportunist?

For many readers (and publishers), it may have been so much the better that tales of John Paul Jones presented him as a ruthless pirate. In much of popular literature, the pirate was the “romantic outlier” rather than the feared terrorist plundering ships and port cities. Versions of pirates attractive to popular audiences emerged through such works as Byron’sCorsair; numerous popular ballads about Captain Kidd, notably, “The Dying Words of Captain Robert Kidd”; Alexandre Exquemelin’s popular history The History of the Bucaniers of America(first published in Dutch in 1678, this book offered influential accounts of the lives of seventeenth-century pirates); Charles Ellms’ frequently reprinted collection of pirate biographies, The Pirates Own Book (1837); and numerous popular songs about the piratical life.From a political standpoint, in some quarters piracy even became synonymous not with greedy banditry but with independence and the struggle against injustice. American pirate-types, like those characterized in The Florida Pirate (1823) and later in Herman Melville’s novella “Benito Cereno,” often flew the skull and crossbones only after being “denied the general consent of nations.” Moreover, in early nineteenth-century British and American novels, John Paul Jones (or men based upon the late captain) frequently dropped in on tales of mismatched love, maritime adventure, and epic romance. Among the best known examples are James Fenimore Cooper’s The Pilot, Walter Scott’s The Pirate, and Alexandre Dumas’s Captain Paul. For the inheritors of the Revolution, to use Joyce Appleby’s phrase, at least to the book-buying public, the static portrait of the stalwart patriot was often shelved in favor of the excitement of the rakish marauder.

When William Borradaile reissued Sinclair’s edition of Life and Remarkable Adventures … of John Paul Jones twenty years after its first publication, he included a frontispiece illustration of Jones shooting one of his officers point-blank, even as he advertised Jones as the “celebrated” hero rather than the “celebrated and justly notorious pirate” as originally promoted by Sinclair’s title. “Paul Jones Shooting Lieutenant Grub”, Borradaile’s choice for his edition’s frontispiece, echoes the spirit of the image titled “Paul Jones shooting a sailor who had attempted to strike his colors in an engagement” (1779) found in the British original and, as a result, raised old concerns over the increasingly storied figure. While “Paul Jones Shooting Lieutenant Grub” cloaks the captain in national legitimacy as Jones and his combatants announce their shared cause through their similar uniforms, the illustration exposes the captain’s barbarism in his actions. The print not only indicts Jones of summarily executing one of his crew, but the range of the shot and the bodies below it also suggest the action to be both murderous and habitual. Jones may be remembered for raising the American colors aboard the Alfred and refusing quarter with “I have not yet begun to fight”; however, the Grub image illustrates a dark side of Jones’s fiery will and the bloodshed that sometimes ensued, in the process questioning his legitimacy as a hero.

This frontispiece illustration therefore revealed the flexibility of cultural memory and encouraged some writers to try to rehabilitate Jones’s reputation by publishing official accounts of his life authorized by the Jones estate. For although The Life and Remarkable Adventures… was sold as a sensational novel, the impression of Jones as a piratical murderer made the leap from fictional illustration to widely accepted fact, according to newspaper articles and biographical accounts, and Jones’s family wanted to “correct” that image. Historian Robert Sands, armed with a more complete set of Jones’s papers and determined to “circulate an unvarnished and full account of the rear admiral’s life,” credits the ubiquity of both the Grub print and the false testimony incited by it as his motivation for publishing the corrective Life and Correspondence of John Paul Jones (1830). Sands, dissatisfied with the ever-evolving “juvenile” version of Jones’s story, producedLife and Correspondence to tidy the chronological disorder of the captain’s life found in previously circulated versions, what he calls the “inextricable confusion” created by some “capricious demon”; rectify the “fabulous” and “monstrous legends” encouraged by the popular press; and correct the biographical misrepresentation constructed by a “decidedly” British gloss.

The protagonists that emerge through the pages of antebellum fiction, however, illustrate the public’s appetite for the “active and enterprising” miscreant rather than the cleaner and perhaps more accurate version of the American hero provided by authorized biographies like Sands’. American authors working in the genre of popular romance in this period often disguised their heroes as misunderstood beggars, thieves, and pirates in order to muddle the distinction between hero and villain. Herman Melville further complicates the distinction by characterizing Jones as the “model rogue” in his novel Israel Potter, the lone “crimson thread” flitting through the “blue-jean” travails of Israel R. Potter.

Serialized in 1854-55, Israel Potter is loosely based on a pamphlet autobiography written by a Rhode Island-born veteran of the Revolutionary War who had been taken prisoner by the British and lived much of his life in exile in England. The novel appears, at first glance, to be a bad-luck story of an American boy always caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Although Israel Potter shares the field-to-battle story popularized by Israel Putnam, Potter’s Bunker Hill experience leads to capture rather than to celebrity and sends him to England in chains. Melville recounts the clumsy happenings described in the original autobiography, including Potter’s chance meetings with King George III and Benjamin Franklin (in his role as the American ambassador to France), yet the novel eventually veers away from authenticity, in both style and content, and links the fate of Potter to the various enterprises of John Paul Jones. Melville, for example, positions Israel within earshot of Jones’s famous “I have not yet begun to fight” speech, and credits him with sparking Jones’s fiery retaliation upon the port of Whitehaven, the city the captain first sailed from at age twelve. Yet Israel’s fame is short lived. His fictional service to Jones—much like his “real” life—eventually lands him aboard another British ship and keeps him on the wrong side of the Atlantic for the better part of fifty years.

Melville advertised his Revolutionary tale as an “adventure” in a letter to his editors at Putnam’s, yet the intention of the autobiographical pamphlet Life and remarkable adventures of Israel R. Potter (1824) was to secure remuneration for Potter’s military service rather than to spin a thrilling tale of intrigue. In his motley characterization, however, Melville does more than transform Potter’s story from one of hapless exile to one of unlikely celebrity as it riffs on autobiography to produce fiction. Israel Potter presents Jones, as well as the country he serves, as more rogue than Revolutionary. Melville’s Jones looks like the pirates in Exquemelin’s Bucaniers of America,dresses like the pirate suggested by the lurid frontispieces of sensational novels, and acts like the pirates cum revolutionaries of nineteenth-century American fiction, all the while advertised as the emblem of a maturing nation—as Melville writes, “America is, or may yet be, the Paul Jones of nations.” Like the confusion Jones fashioned at sea, the narrative portrait offered in Israel Potteralternates between patriot and pirate, and therefore refuses to advance a single version of the nation’s complicated history.

Of course, Melville allows neither his narrator nor Israel to actually call Jones a pirate. Israel may describe Jones’s “jaunty barbarism” and “savage” markings under his European finery, but he never truly interprets what he sees. Assumptions and hearsay, however, provoke incidental characters to associate Jones with piracy. An oddly placed maritime “quack-doctress” calls Jones a “reprobate pirate”; English sailors assume the Ranger to be “some bloodthirsty pirate” when they fail to recognize her nationality; and a British ship unknowingly solicits information from Jones about “that bloody pirate, Paul Jones.” In the last instance, Melville shows Jones, when confronted by his reputation, as a light-hearted Robin Hood rather than a despotic Captain Kidd. He encourages his enemies to arm themselves with money rather than ammunition: “So, away with ye; ye don’t want any powder and ball to give him. He wants contributions of silver, not lead. Prepare yourselves with silver, I say”—and offers a keg of pickles rather than one of powder demanded by his enemies.

Melville’s use of the term “pirate” as a charge leveled at Jones only by his enemies did revive this earlier cultural mythology of Jones in the 1850s, as most subtitles of American publications about Jones by this point had stopped using the word “pirate,” and most accounts had done away with inflammatory frontispiece illustrations. Yet not all Americans succumbed to the intoxicating memory of Paul Jones. The 1846 edition of Life and Adventures of John Paul Jones may lack a frontispiece illustration, but its preface decries the character of Jones and other revolutionary leaders even as it reprints the partially disreputable version of Jones within, announcing that “the whole race of magnificent barbarians, gorgeous tyrants, unparalleled cutthroats, and gigantic robbers … have never been able to fix our devotion.”

Melville reinforces the roguish designation of Jones as “outlaw,” as well as Israel’s initial impression of the captain, by fashioning him as more Continental aristocrat than stalwart George Washington, while at the same time marking him as recklessly uncivilized. Never does the reader of Israel Potter see the Jones of Peale’s 1781 portrait, nor do we witness the proud dignity illustrated by the many Jones prints and publications of the nineteenth century. Instead, we are given “pagan” tattoos covered by a “laced coat sleeve” and hands covered in rings and “muffled in ruffles.” The novel’s references to clothing and appearance, rather than offering a sense of period authenticity, reinforce Melville’s editorial position suggested by his tongue-in-cheek introduction, contradict the popular understanding of “homespun” through uncomplimentary characterizations of Potter and Benjamin Franklin, and certainly complicate the understanding of Jones in the nineteenth-century imagination.

Jones as the emblem of America as created though Melville’s paradoxical layering (“à-la-mode [but not] altogether civilized…”) criticizes the American practice of myth-making even as it creates a maritime frontiersman as its “Representative Man,” to use Emerson’s term. Although Melville’s Jones resembles the lonely backwoodsman of much of the frontier literature of the period, the Jones of Israel Potter appears as Indian rather than as an “Indian-fighter” like other frontiersmen. Of course, Melville’s representative American displaces Native Americans even as he assumes so-called “Indian” characteristics. By comparing Jones’s manner to “a look as of a parading Sioux demanding homage to his gewgaws” and determining the captain’s seated posture to be “like an Iroquois,” Melville prompts the reader to rely on stereotypical “stock” poses for Native Americans created by literature and then directs the reader to assign these characteristics to Paul Jones. These descriptions co-opt familiar notions of indigenous peoples to disguise the Scottish Jones in “native” legitimacy while dressed as the very English enemy he sought to destroy.

Coupled with the cultural resurrection of colonial homespun fabric, evidenced through the emergence of spinning wheels as parlor ornaments and historical decor at public events—such as Fourth of July celebrations—in the mid-nineteenth century, initiated in part by Horace Bushnell’s 1851 tribute to the “simply worthy” men and women of America’s pre-Revolutionary “Age of Homespun,” it would seem that Melville might have wanted the lasting image of Jones that readers took from his novel to emphasize Jones’s humbler attributes rather than his interest in fashionable apparel. Yet, clothing—and Jones’s interest in it—is a frequent topic of conversation. Upon their reunion aboard theRanger, Potter and Jones almost immediately digress into discussions of apparel. Paul Jones even solicits Israel’s opinion of his hat—”What do you think of my Scotch bonnet?”—overtly calling attention to Jones’s national origin, but also signaling the captain’s concern for his appearance and his alteration of the naval uniform. The sartorial packaging of Jones in Israel Potter begs the question of authorial intent. Namely, why did Melville clothe his self-professed national emblem—”the Paul Jones of nations”—in European fashion rather than joining his contemporaries and idealizing the homespun and “linsey-woolsey” of the heroes that fought the Revolution?

Melville, it would seem, uses clothing to critique the United States’ emerging national mythology through the “homespun” of Israel and the “linsey-woolsey” of Franklin, and punctuates the argument through the fashionable “savagery” of John Paul Jones. The raw portrait of the swarthy, daring Jones, therefore, becomes an ideal rather than an embarrassment for Melville’s America, a model of transparency and honesty. In Israel Potter Jones can no sooner hide his “savage” tattoos than camouflage the absence of rings from his hand. Try as he might, Melville’s Jones can never transcend his true identity by dressing in European finery. In spite of his sartorial extravagance, or rather because of it, Jones becomes the icon of America which—like Jones, Melville insists—must admit its failings despite the prevailing trends in national mythology. America in the mid-nineteenth century may have been trying to fashion an identity for itself based on the Yankee ideal popularized by Benjamin Franklin, and to identify itself as a pioneering nation rooted in characters ranging from Cooper’s frontiersman Natty Bumppo to the 1856 Whig candidate for president John C. Frémont, whose campaign identified him as “The Pathfinder.” From Melville’s more jaundiced perspective, however, such posturing in the 1850s was a ruse, and America (having just seized California and much of the Southwest from Mexico) was more a pirate than a pioneer.

John Paul Jones duped the British by disguising his identity in enemy colors. Melville’s counterfeit deceives the “skimmer of pages” who, in trusting the authenticity of the historical reprint, believes the character of Jones created in Israel Potter to be a “true blue” copy of the man lionized by American memory. It is not. The alternate “crimson thread” spun by Melville challenges the portrait of Captain Jones and, by extension, American identity. America in Israel Potter is no different from the gardener’s son who surreptitiously finds himself leading a navy. Rather than American Exceptionalism and the “city upon the hill” motif put forward by John Winthrop aboard the Arbella, Melville emphasizes the reliance upon chance for the nation’s success, and he refashions the accepted standard of the “pattern American” through his endorsement of the “unprincipled” and “reckless” John Paul Jones. Melville’s challenge to popular memory probably went unnoticed by the early readers of Israel Potter who, even when being complimentary, saw little in the text beyond a pleasurable diversion. Yet Melville’s single book-length offering of historical fiction, dedicated “TO HIS HIGHNESS THE Bunker-Hill Monument” topples gilded memorials to the past and American nostalgia with his collage of the pirate-patriot-indigenous-foppish John Paul Jones. In lieu of monuments, Melville—against the grain of most of his contemporaries—leaves a democratic marker more fitting to the ideology and cultural fabric of the antebellum United States at mid-century; a marker that prophetically foreshadows a civil war that would tear the fabric of the nation to shreds.

Further reading:

For information on John Paul Jones, see Samuel Eliot Morison’s John Paul Jones: A Sailor‘s Biography (Boston, 1959) and the more recent Evan Thomas, John Paul Jones: Sailor, Hero, and Father of the American Navy (New York, 2003). For information on American identity and national mythology, see D.H. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature (New York, 1923); Richard Slotkin, Regeneration Through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier, 1600-1860 (Middletown, Conn., 1973.) For information on homespun and its connection to the national imagination of the nineteenth century, see Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s The Age of Homespun: Objects and Stories in the Creation of an American Myth (New York, 2001).

For the primary sources quoted here, see Henry Brooke, Book of Pirates. (Philadelphia, 1841); Carrington Bowles, Paul Jones shooting a sailor who had attempted to strike his colours in an engagement (1779); Nathaniel Fanning, Narrative of the adventures of an American navy officer, who served during part of the American Revolution under the command of Com. John Paul Jones, Esq. (New-York, 1806); Florida pirate, or, An account of a cruise in the schooner Esparanza(New York, 1823); John Paul Jones, The interesting life, travels, voyages, and daring engagements, of that celebrated and justly renowned commander, Paul Jones. : Containing numerous anecdotes of undaunted courage, in the prosecution of his various enterprises. / Written by himself (Philadelphia, 1817); Life and Adventures of John Paul Jones (New York, 1846); Herman Melville, The Confidence Man: His Masquerade (1857) and Israel Potter: His Fifty Years of Exile (1855); Charles Willson Peale, John Paul Jones, oil on canvas (1781); Israel R. Potter,Life and remarkable adventures of Israel R. Potter (Providence, 1824); Robert Sands, Life and Correspondence of John Paul Jones (New York, 1830); “The Sea Captain, or Tit for Tat” (Boston, 1811).

This article originally appeared in issue 14.4 (Summer, 2014).

Anne Roth-Reinhardt is a lecturer at the University of Minnesota and a former Jay T. Last Fellow (2010) at the American Antiquarian Society.

Developing a database of mariners in the Black Atlantic

Many people assume that mariners in the age of sail were rambunctious tars. Weathered seamen are often depicted quickly spending their hard-earned pay ashore drinking and whoring. Contemporary illustrations such as the frontispiece for Nautical Songster or Seaman’s Companion helped cement this image. Movies continue to reinforce this perception of footloose sailors. Nautical adventurers, be they Russell Crowe as Captain Jack Aubrey in Master and Commander or Johnny Depp as the swashbuckling Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean, appeal to many individuals who, like the cartoon character Dilbert, find little excitement in their daily routines working in cubicles. While I admit to having watched these movies, for seven years much of my time has been spent in archival reading rooms on both sides of the Atlantic in a venture far more prosaic. Unlike Jack Aubrey, I did not chase a forty-four-gun French warship around the Cape of Horn. Instead, my task involved a more elusive goal: to find evidence of the lives of colored—that is African American, Native American, or mixed-race—mariners, individuals who rarely make it onto the big screen today and who were often depicted as servants in eighteenth-century illustrations.

Last year I completed a dissertation concerning how fugitive slaves used the maritime industries in eighteenth-century Philadelphia, New York, and Newport to achieve freedom. My research resulted in the development of a database of more than 9,100 colored mariners—the Colored Mariner Database (CMD).In an era when researchers increasingly rely upon Web-based sources, one may ask why I would choose to travel to more than thirty archives on both sides of the Atlantic and spend seven years creating the CMD to identify and trace the lives of eighteenth-century colored mariners. The answer to the question lies in the very nature of the Black Atlantic.

Moving frequently, leading short lives, and owning little property, mariners rarely left traces of their lives. Colored mariners, particularly those who sought to escape assorted forms of bondage via the sea, left only scattered remnants of their lives in the historical record. These men often carried forged passes, changed clothes, and in other creative ways concealed their identities. To find freedom, many of them traversed national, ethnic, and religious borders. In short, colored mariners’ success in obtaining freedom or remaining free depended on being elusive. So how to identify colored sailors and detail their lives? The answer to this question was not a simple one. Few blacks, mulattos, mezitos, or Native Americans in the eighteenth century were literate. North American vessels of the era were not required to maintain crew lists. And few slave runaways were so foolhardy as to leave evidence indicating their intended destination. The fluid, transitory nature of life in the Black Atlantic made my intended task seem a bit daunting.

Two groups of people deeply concerned with slaves who sought freedom at sea, slave masters and ship captains, provided me with an initial window into colored mariners’ lives. As many historians have noted, the language of fugitive slave advertisements is richly descriptive. The thousands of fugitive-slave and slave-sale advertisements published in Philadelphia, New York City, and Rhode Island newspapers contained considerable evidence of colored men working or seeking to work at sea. Scipio Congo and hundreds of other runaway slaves were described by their masters as having been “used to the sea,” “bred a sailor,” or having threatened to go to sea. In these advertisements slave masters repeatedly admonished ship captains not to “harbour or conceal” runaways. Whites’ laments over slaves who fled via the sea were widespread. Just as Samuel Johnson discovered his Negro servant wished to go to sea, slave masters from diverse social strata in North America—including Newport farmers, New York merchants, South Carolinian rice planters, Philadelphia artisans, and Maryland’s governor—suffered the indignity of bondsmen escaping to the sea. Slave owners offered rewards for the capture of maritime fugitives and hoped that “no gentleman” would stoop so low as to hire runaway slaves. Yet masters such as New York’s Donald McClean repeatedly found their slaves hired by ship captains. And at the same time that some slave masters bemoaned their slaves’ flight via the sea, others were quite willing to send their bondsmen on privateer ships hoping to enrich themselves from prize monies their slave mariners earned them.

If fugitive-slave and slave-sale advertisements provide a valuable starting point, they offer only a small window into colored mariners’ lives. They do not tell us which maritime fugitives successfully escaped to the sea, how many colored mariners sailed the Atlantic, or where maritime fugitives ultimately ended up. They do not tell us about the nature of their lives at sea or how most colored mariners’ lives may have compared to that of the iconic eighteenth-century colored mariner, Oladauh Equiano. Like Equiano, did they experience slavery in the West Indies, North America, and England? How many served in the Royal Navy and faced enemy guns, as did the young Oladauh? Was Equiano’s extended maritime career—during which he traveled across the globe in slave, naval, and merchant ships—unusual? And were significant numbers of these men able to obtain freedom, whether through purchasing themselves, as had Equiano, or running away? To answer those questions, I combined my review of advertisements with painstaking archival research.

Advertisements indicated colored mariners sought berths on ships sailing to ports throughout the Atlantic and that a number of maritime fugitives and slave mariners came from non-English colonies. Given the diverse backgrounds of colored mariners, it made no sense to limit my research to archives in the three study ports. At the same time, I did not wish to engage in an overly ambitious project, which might have tested the patience of my advisor and my wife. To make the project manageable, I headed to England to take full advantage of the Royal Navy’s mania for records.

As maritime historians have demonstrated, Royal Navy musters, pay books, and pension records are a treasure trove of information. Providing names, ages, positions, and places of birth for every seaman who came aboard a naval vessel, these records are a social historian’s dream. Unfortunately for my purposes the data was incomplete. My first task was to determine the race of each mariner on a warship. With the race of seamen not being noted in musters and payrolls such identification was difficult. The Admiralty’s 1764 requirement that seamen’s places of birth be entered into musters greatly assisted in identifying and tracking colored mariners. But for seamen who served prior to 1764, the lack of places of birth meant numerous colored mariners often could not be identified as surnames alone rarely revealed a sailor’s race. For example, I would have never included John Henry on HMS Brune in the CMD except that when he died the Burne‘s log referred to him as “one of our Negroes.” Thus, my identification of a mariner as colored was often predicated on the tar having a classical name, like Scipio; an African name, like Quash; or a place name, like Bristol.

Using ship pay records, I set out to answer two questions about colored mariners. First, did fugitive slaves find haven on naval ships? And second, could I trace the lives of some of the colored mariners I had identified from other sources? For the first question, I conducted a random sampling of Royal Navy ships on the North America station during my study period, 1713 to 1783. For the second I matched ship logs with fugitive advertisements to identify ships that maritime fugitives may have fled onto. Making good use of the National Archives’ friendly staff and the archives’ bulk order procedures, I set myself up in the Map Room next to a trolley stacked high with ship records. With at least one archive staff member referring to me as the “muster guy,” I spent long hours scanning musters and payrolls. On many days, I headed back to the Kew tube station with little more than blurry eyes and dirty hands: an average day’s work might yield only three or four additions to the CMD.What kept me going back after a day of limited success was the knowledge that naval records could yield details to lives for which I previously only had a line or two of information. In many ways, my days at the National Archives resembled the proverbial search for the needle in a haystack. But that work ultimately resulted in the productive melding of social and Atlantic history. Two of my discoveries illustrate this well.

A compilation of naval records had provided me with the story of four slave sailors on a ship from St. Thomas who found themselves in Portsmouth during the American Revolution due to a broken ship rudder. The seamen convinced naval officials of their rights under the English law not to be forced to continue to work as slaves on the ship. The case was particularly interesting because it involved slave sailors from throughout the Atlantic: North America, the British West Indies, Calabar, and St. Thomas. But what happened to these men once they left the ship in Portsmouth was unknown. A review of court, tax, land, and church records in the Portsmouth City Records Office provided no information on the men. However, a search of records for warships in Portsmouth at the time the men landed there yielded a significant discovery: one of the men had been subsequently impressed onto a naval ship! While we might not know the details of these men’s lives after they gained their freedom, the fate of this unfortunate sailor reminds us that in the eighteenth-century Anglo-American maritime world, freedom from enslavement did not always mean freedom from coerced labor.

The second story was even more descriptive of the limits of freedom for colored mariners and sadder for being so. When reviewing the muster for HMS Garlands, I noticed an entry indicating that twenty-eight-year-old able-bodied seaman John Incobs had been discharged on October 19, 1764, for “being a slave.” Incobs had entered the Garlands at Sheerness in May 1763 with the ship sailing to Canada. Apparently he was unaware that the warship would subsequently sail to New York where it arrived on October 3, 1764. What the muster did not indicate was that Incobs had been either a New York slave sail maker or mariner who years earlier had escaped and made his way to England. Unfortunately for Incobs, the two weeks HMS Garlands had been in New York was sufficient time for his former owner to reclaim him.

With such discoveries, I slowly, incrementally began to develop a picture of a maritime world in which colored seamen played a not insignificant role. My random review of musters demonstrated that colored mariners were on almost every naval vessel in North America. However, contrary to some historians’ view that “roughly a quarter of the Royal Navy was black,” my sampling showed that the number of identifiable colored mariners never exceeded 6 percent of the Royal Navy’s North American crews. Naval musters also reflected that opportunities for advancement were available to colored tars, as some advanced from ordinary to able-bodied seamen to boatswain. By expanding my archival explorations to include baptismal and marriage records, tax and census rolls, Vice-Admiralty and High Court of Admiralty cases, log books, ship captains’ and seamen’s journals, newspaper dispatches, Seamen Sixpence records, English merchant crew lists, naval pension records, and correspondence from Admiralty and consulting secondary sources, both the CMD and my knowledge of the Black Atlantic expanded considerably.

Who can be found in the CMD? The range of individuals is diverse, both in terms of their maritime experiences, their nationality, and their race. North American maritime fugitives, Isle of Royale Negro fishermen, South Carolina slave pilots, Bermudian blue-water sailors, Royal Navy able-bodied seamen, cooks on merchant vessels, members of privateer boarding parties, slave-ship sailors, free Spanish Negro mariners captured by American privateers and sold into slavery in North America, Kru canoe men, Native American whalers, and many other colored seamen have all made their way into the CMD.

Did these colored seamen have maritime experiences similar to those of Equiano? The CMD demonstrates that eighteenth-century colored mariners shared many of Equiano’s experiences. Almost all were young healthy men. Like Equiano, scores of colored mariners traveled across the Atlantic. And those who did not travel long distances still often worked on a variety of different vessels. However, although mobile, relatively few colored mariners appear to have had as extended a maritime career as did Equiano. Instead, most used ships not as a way to establish careers but as either short-term employment or a means to escape bondage. The most striking characteristic of these men was their continued vulnerability to re-enslavement. Equiano’s story of his fellow mariner John Annis, who was kidnapped and sold into slavery in the West Indies, was not an isolated event. Twenty-five years after the Somerset decision in 1772 prohibiting the forcible removal of bondsmen from England, Harry Harper and other colored mariners were still being shipped against their wishes from England to the West Indies. In the last quarter of the eighteenth century, colored mariners from Madeira, Newport, and other Atlantic ports found themselves kidnapped. The enslavement of colored sailors was not simply the work of a few evil-minded individuals. Throughout the eighteenth century, British ship captains enriched themselves through the sale of captured enemy mariners. French and Spanish ship captains, while many times employing larger numbers of colored mariners than their British and American counterparts, also sold captured enemy colored mariners into slavery. And during the American Revolution, while patriot ship captains often hired colored seamen, they also proved quite willing to enslave colored mariners, with American Vice-Admiralty courts approving the sale of hundreds of colored mariners captured on British vessels, regardless of their legal status. In short, colored mariners led lives in which freedom, however obtained, often proved fleeting.

The next stage in the development of the CMD will be to create a secure Website where scholars can access the database and add to it, a project for which I have just obtained seed money. Doing so will permit the CMD to serve as the foundation for other Black Atlantic projects. Although I can imagine the CMD contributing to histories of black female sailors or explorations of the cultural connections between Kru canoe men and West Indian mariners, I cannot predict what other scholars will do with it. What I can say with certainty is that the database will have benefits beyond having allowed me to obtain my doctorate. It will open up the world of colored mariners to family historians and genealogists. The CMD will also provide academic and nonacademic readers a more complete understanding of the opportunities and limits in the Black Atlantic. Most importantly, the CMD will help to recapture the details of maritime fugitives’ lives. The very elusiveness that enabled some enslaved peoples to escape via the sea has kept their lives in shadows. I hope that the combination of old-fashioned archival detective work and a modern-day Web presence can finally give these individuals’ stories the attention they so richly deserve.

Further Reading:

The best survey of black maritime life during the age of sail is W. Jeffrey Bolster’s Black Jacks: African American Seaman in the Age of Sail (Cambridge, Mass, 1997). Philip D. Morgan’s essay, “Black Experiences in Britain’s Maritime World,” in Empire, the Sea and Global History: Britain’s Maritime World, c.1763-c.1840 (New York, 2007) provides a well-balanced depiction of Anglo-American black tars’ lives. Cassandra Pybus’s works—including Black Founders: The unknown story of Australia’s first black settlers (Sydney, 2006); Epic journeys of freedom: runaway slaves of the American Revolution and their global quest for liberty (Boston, 2006); and “Billy Blue: An African American Journey through Empire in the Long Eighteenth Century,” Early American Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal 5:2 (Fall 2007): 258-287—describe in great detail the global migration of many black mariners in the revolutionary era. Michael Jarvis’s article, “Maritime Masters and Seafaring Slaves in Bermuda, 1680-1783,” William & Mary Quarterly 59:3 (July 2001): 585-622, is the best study of a single colony’s black maritime economy. My “Seeking Freedom in the Atlantic World, 1713-1783,” Early American Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal 4:1 (Spring 2006): 46-77, describes how fugitive slaves used New York City’s maritime industry to obtain freedom.

Practical research guides to learning about colored mariners in the age of sail include Vincent Carretta, “Black Sailors in the British Navy,” Journal of Maritime Research (Nov. 2003) and Bruno Pappalardo, Tracing Your Naval Ancestors (Kew, UK, 2003). Many of the colored mariners in the CMD can be found in advertisements and news dispatches accessible via the Early American Imprints, Series I, 1693-1800.

This article originally appeared in issue 9.2 (January, 2009).

Charles R. Foy, a former civil-rights and land-use attorney in New York City, is an assistant professor of early American and Atlantic history at Eastern Illinois University. His articles on freedom in the Black Atlantic have appeared or will be published shortly in Early American Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal; Gender, Race, Ethnicity and Power in Maritime America (Mystic Seaport, Mass., 2009); and New Interpretations in Naval History: Selected Papers from the 2007 Naval History Symposium (Annapolis, Md., 2009).

“Now, men, I run a man’s ship. I will run it in a manful and masculine way! I will tolerate no men under my command who act in such a way so as to discredit their manhood and manliness!” So it was that John Belushi, as “Captain Ned,” introduced his ship in a Saturday Night Live sketch from 1979. The sketch had its Dickensian protagonist, Miles Cowperthwaite (a wide-eyed Michael Palin), encounter a bawdy world of sex, homosexuality, and masochism aboard the Raging Queen, a ship so wholly linked to a gay world at sea that the writers did not bother to let us know whether it was British Navy or merchant marine. Moreover, in the cheap homophobic tradition of television writing (which was, sadly, not unique to the 1970s), they have Cowperthwaite discover that the crew dedicates so much of its time to suntanning, enforcing corporal punishments, and searching, wistfully, for pirates that they make little forward progress.

Successful the sketch was not. The over-the-top gay cracks couldn’t make up for a fizzling conclusion. Nevertheless, Miles and Captain Ned earned a fond place in the hearts of many viewers because the skit’s founding gag relies on some of the obviously gendered and highly sexualized elements of the “man’s life at sea” that have become stock conventions in representing seafaring and piracy. Whether we think of Johnny Depp’s gender-bending Jack Sparrow or the courtship antics of The Pirates of Penzance, gender and sexuality play primary roles in popular portrayals of piracy.

Ubiquitous as they are now, these conventions have a long history, one that is rooted as much in the history of the book trade as it is in the history of seafaring. Familiar representations of pirates, in particular, were born during the “golden age of piracy” (from roughly 1670 to 1730) and were reworked and codified in numerous illustrated books published in Europe and circulated throughout the Atlantic. These volumes developed, reiterated, and augmented stereotypes about pirates to attract and titillate middling to elite European and American readers who could afford illustrated books and whose lives adhered to far more staid standards of behavior than the ones exhibited by the fictional pirates. Early modern readers encountered pirates as a series of literary and pictorial conventions that emerged in the late seventeenth century—books like Alexandre Exquemelin’s Bucaniers of America (1678) and Captain Charles Johnson’s A General History of the Pyrates (1724), which earned immense popularity by combining mesmerizing narration with vivid, full-page illustrations of pirates. The pirates they depicted radiated a hyper masculinity, at once morally ambiguous and socially transgressive. Were these men admirable and manly rogues or cowardly, vicious villains? Books did not say. But whatever readers decided, their conclusions rested on texts, images, and the interplay between the two.

In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, the pirates who disrupted trade in the Caribbean, West Africa, North America, and all points in between seemed to exemplify the dynamism made possible by maritime movement across the Atlantic Ocean. These men (and, famously, some women) formed international crews so fearsome that they proved to be major impediments to orderly European economic exchange. Just as European nations sought to create reliable and predictable means of drawing goods from the New World to enrich the Old, pirate ships became more numerous and audacious in their attacks, looting twenty-five hundred merchant vessels in the ten years between 1716 and 1726 alone. In fact, it’s surprising we hear so little about their devastating effects on European trade; one eighteenth-century commentator estimated that England lost as much to pirates during the early eighteenth century as it did to Spain and France during the catastrophic War of the Spanish Succession fought between 1701 and 1714. By the 1720s Parliament began to enact harsh new laws against piracy and to conduct well-publicized criminal trials to hang pirates for their misdeeds, seeking with this display of juridical force to discourage what had clearly become a highly lucrative line of work.

As important as piracy was to European and American political, economic, and maritime history, early modern print media developed modes of describing and representing pirates that sparked readers’ imaginations and that continue to shape pirate conventions today. The urtext is Alexandre Exquemelin’s De Americaensche Zee-Rovers(translated as Bucaniers of America shortly thereafter), an octavo volume with twelve full-page copperplate illustrations, or “cuts,” which emerged from Jan ten Hoorn’s Amsterdam press in 1678. Exquemelin’s own experience as a buccaneer in the Caribbean made his breathless narrative all the more authoritative. His first-hand reports of terrifying pirate leaders and his description of their lair on the tiny island of Tortuga provided European readers with new information about criminals as well as the Caribbean. But Exquemelin also supplied a narrative of action and adventure that went far beyond the more sober descriptions of travel common in the era. Bucaniersoffered an insider’s view of dramatic sieges, torture of Spanish leaders, and freewheeling pirate life.

Sales of the initial edition were so strong that the book shortly thereafter appeared in German (Nuremberg, 1679), Spanish (two editions printed in Cologne, 1681 and 1682), English (at least eight London editions between 1682 and 1704), and French (at least six Paris and Brussels editions between 1686 and 1713), as well as a second Dutch edition in 1700; it would be revived in the 1740s for publication through the end of the eighteenth century and into the nineteenth by presses on both sides of the Atlantic. The book appeared in the libraries of Robert “King” Carter of Virginia and other wealthy American colonists as well as in the Social Library of Salem, Massachusetts, indicating that it had appeal far beyond the confines of England and northern Europe. The fact that the Dutch printer included twelve cuts in the book—four portraits, six action scenes, a map of Panama, and a fully illustrated title page—indicates his faith in the book’s success, for the cost of such work would have been considerable. Given the book’s octavo size, the engravers likely took several weeks or more to cut each plate; once completed, printing the images for a five-hundred-copy edition would have taken three laborers at least twenty-four days; altogether, each print would have cost the printer as much in labor and supplies as his own printing of twenty-four pages of text in letterpress. Clearly, the investment of time and money was rewarded: by any standard for the day, Bucaniers was a bestseller.

Printers were the first to puff the book as a novel and a thrilling read. A London printer confessed in the preface to his 1684 edition that he had never even heard the term “buccaneer” until this volume, nor had he been aware of the extent of Caribbean piracy. In recommending it, he stressed most of all that the book “informeth us (with huge novelty), of as great and bold attempts, in point of Military conduct and valour, as ever were performed by mankind; without excepting, here, either Alexander the Great, or Julius Caesar, or the rest of the Nine Worthy’s of Fame.” He went so far as to describe Exquemelin’s pirates as English national heroes because they so frequently outwitted the Spanish, who were cast as heavies in the London edition. (This was a stretch, for these men were so thoroughly non-national figures that one of them, “Rock. Brasiliano,” who apparently hailed from the Low Countries, obtained his name by means of a residence in Brazil.)

Even without the puffery, the book was an easy sell. Exquemelin used a breezy narrative style and light humor to describe his subjects. “After a fight of almost three hours, wherein they behaved themselves with desperate Courage, … they became Masters [of the city of Maracaibo, in Venezuela] having made use of no other Arms than their Swords and Pistols,” he explained of François Lolonois’s dramatic defeat of the Spanish. Invariably outmanned and outgunned, his pirates managed to take Spanish ships and entire towns; they escaped from custody no matter how tight the security. Sustained by an insatiable appetite for riches, Exquemelin’s pirates were alarmingly careless with treasure once they had gained it: they invariably gambled away vast sums or pissed it away on trifles. This occasioned no bitterness on the part of the pirates, who seemed to view such drastic reversals as incidental to their way of life. Lolonois and his men provide a case in point. After capturing Maracaibo, they stole “twenty thousand Peices of Eight, several Mules laden with Houshold-goods and Merchandize, and twenty Prisoners, between men, women, and children. Some of these Prisoners were put to the Rack, onely to make them confess where they had hidden the rest of their Goods.” Within weeks, the pirates threatened again to burn the town unless they received an additional ten thousand pieces of eight; this threat was followed up by yet another demand for thirty thousand lest the Spaniards’ homes “be entirely sack’d anew and burnt.” Yet upon their triumphal return to their home on the island of Tortuga, “they made shift to lose and spend the Riches they had gotten, in much less time than they were purchased by robbing.” How was the wealth redistributed? “The Taverns and Stews, according to the custom of Pirats, got the greatest part,” Exquemelin remarks wryly.

Although Exquemelin never paused to describe his antiheroes, he liked to include extensive depictions of the grisly tortures they inflicted on unlucky victims. Physical cruelty of all kinds threads through the pages of Bucaniers of America, marking a departure from narrative conventions of the day. Exquemelin explained that when the sadistic Henry Morgan and his men refrained from putting men to the rack, they liked “to stretch their limbs with Cords, and at the same time beat them with Sticks and other Instruments. Others had burning Matches placed betwixt their fingers, which were thus burnt alive. Others had slender Cords or Matches twisted about their heads, till their eyes bursted out of the skull.” In a rare moralizing moment he added, “Thus all sort of inhumane Cruelties were executed upon those innocent people.” He described sexual viciousness like the “insolent actions of Rape and Adultery” of “very honest women” to evoke the corporal horrors of Caribbean piracy. Indeed, Exquemelin’s descriptions of somatic cruelty veered close to a certain vein of late seventeenth-century pornographic writing that emphasized the erotic nature of flogging and the brutal ravishing of women, among other perversions.

Impulsive and volatile, brave and rapacious, the pirates who came to life on the pages of Bucaniers of America served up an alternative model of manliness. Readers didn’t have to venture far into Exquemelin’s chapters to figure this out. Editors made sure to underscore the pirates’ manliness and bravery when they composed prefaces advertising the book’s pleasures. They invariably highlighted the buccaneers’ “unparallel’d, if not unimitable, adventures and Heroick exploits,” as the 1684 edition put it. By 1704, the London printer heralded the book’s “wondrous Actions, and daring Adventures,” claiming that all but “the most stupid minds” could not help but admire them. Here the editor finessed the question of the pirates’ sexual license and propensity for rape, conceding half-heartedly that these men lacked the “Justness and Regularity” that marked a Christian man and even the “tolerable morals” of more run-of-the-mill citizens. Yet even taking their moral failings into account, the editor assured readers that “a bolder Race of Men both as to personal Valour and Conduct, certainly never yet appear’d” on land or sea. London and Dublin printers reiterated these themes (and even lifted some of the same sentences) when the book reappeared in print in 1741, reminding readers again that they ought to admire and even emulate the buccaneers for their courage and daring, particularly because so many of them were English. This seemingly contradictory group of repeated themes in the prefaces of various editions—the pirates’ admirable courage and alleged Englishness, on the one hand, and their rejection of conventional morality and hierarchy on the other—combined to depict a dangerous, exciting mode of masculine action and behavior. In none of these ways did pirates conform to prescribed models of European manliness of the time (and particularly of the middling and wealthy men who likely purchased the book)—ideals of masculinity that tended to stress fiscal responsibility, sexual control, and judicious understanding of one’s social place. Buccaneers did more than merely ignore such advice: they repudiated it.

If Exquemelin took a certain glee in recounting pirate adventures, the book’s images underscored the pirates’ ferocity and masculine brazenness. The original 1678 Amsterdam edition presented dark, vivid portraits and “action” images of fights, battles, and torture. These portraits particularly established a visual repertoire that influenced all subsequent representations of pirates. The first of these provides us with a key to the images’ success. Bartholomeus de Portugees (fig. 1) is an iconoclastic figure, encompassing everything from menace to heroism. The anonymous engraver has rendered him with an immediacy that builds on but ultimately goes beyond the text’s breezy clip. He glowers at the viewer as if annoyed, distracted from his real purpose of watching his crew destroy a harbor full of Spanish ships. His drawn sword suggests his imminent participation in the attack; his dispassionate expression and the resolute set of his jaw signals an utter disdain for the panicked men glimpsed drowning in the foreground. Indeed, the image even hints at a smile on his face, although the viewer senses that one’s eyes might be fooled by the turn of his tidy mustache. His appearance is a mix of contradictions: his lack of a wig, matted hair, and crudely heavy brow assure the viewer that this is no gentleman, yet he wears a rich, billowing damask coat with a generous sleeve. His posture is reminiscent of Titian’s influential Man With a Blue Sleeve(ca. 1510), an image that had already inspired Rembrandt’s 1640 Self-Portrait at the Age of 34, among others. But Bartholomeus’s facial expression is radically different from that of either Titian’s or Rembrandt’s figures, granting new meaning to the posture. If Titian used it to convey his subject’s beguiling self-assurance and stability, Exquemelin’s anonymous engraver evoked his thoroughgoing malice and twitchy energy.

Despite the fact that most of the sheath of Bartholomeus’s drawn sword is concealed by his body, numerous details remind the viewer of its presence. All of the print’s movement directs the viewer’s gaze up the blade—beginning with the angle of the subject’s elbow and shoulders and mirrored in the shape of his nose, the shadow of his cheekbone, and the set of his jaw. Even the clouds of smoke from the burning Spanish ships in the distance become darkest and most ominous near the sword’s tip. Portugees’s exposed blade epitomizes danger, ruthlessness, prowess. Contemporary military portraiture often featured armed men but virtually never men whose swords were drawn and erect. The Dutch artist Van Dyck’s 1624 painting,Portrait of a Young General and his Portrait of a Commander in Armor, With a Red Scarf (ca. 1625)—again, images likely in circulation in Amsterdam in 1678—both evoke masculine power but not the brutal volatility of Bucaniers‘s illustrations. Each of the book’s subsequent portraits, including those of Rock. Brasiliano and François Lolonois (figs. 2 and 3), returned to similar themes: the scowl and heavy brow, the drawn sword (here the bright silver of Lolonois’s blade seems to shimmer against the image’s action), and a detached perspective on their victims’ suffering.

The images must have been potent: the same copper plates were recycled and reused for nearly thirty years after their initial use. Shortly after the book’s 1678 appearance in Amsterdam, the text was translated into German and issued by a Nuremberg press in 1679. The German printer paid to purchase the original engraved copperplates and transport them approximately 670 kilometers inland—potentially a very expensive undertaking since transportation and escort costs, tolls, and border levies increased an item’s cost considerably. Transport overland between Frankfurt and Nuremberg, for example—less than half the distance from Amsterdam—ballooned a book’s cost by an average of about 25 percent. The German printer had to worry that the plates would be damaged in transit, for even the smallest scratch in the copper would appear in subsequent prints; then he had to contract with an engraver’s workshop to find someone with the skills and equipment to print the images, as copperplates required a special press with extraordinary weight to coax the ink out of the plates’ tiny, subtle cuts. In addition, the pressure imposed by a copperplate press was so extreme that plates wore out; depending on the quality of the copper and the particular pressure of the press, this could occur as quickly as after only 125 impressions. In such cases, printers hired engravers to recut the plates by using a tool to carefully trace over and deepen the plates’ worn lines and restore their ability to produce sharp images.

The move to Nuremberg did not mark the end of the plates’ travels. By 1681, they had been sold yet again to appear in a Spanish-language edition of the text produced by Lorenzo Struikman, a Cologne printer (located some four hundred kilometers back en route to Amsterdam from Nuremberg), who sought to take advantage of eager Spanish reading audiences willing to pay for high-quality books imported from Northern Europe. Struikman had the copperplate printer rub out the original Dutch text and retool the pirates’ names below—with mixed success, for we can still see the shadow of the original writing (fig. 4). He also used the Dutch plates for his second edition, issued a year later when the first quickly sold out.

It was the popularity of the Spanish-language edition that gained the attention of London printers. When William Crooke produced his own edition (translated from one of Struikman’s Spanish copies), he too decided that the original engravings were so superior that he purchased them. Yet again, the plates traveled nearly six hundred kilometers from Cologne across the Channel to London. This time the printer did a poor job reproducing the engravings, which appear decidedly worn (fig. 5) and display the shadow of the rubbed-out Dutch caption even more clearly. But the quality of its prints did not prevent the book from selling out; within two years Crooke produced two more illustrated editions of much higher quality, indicating that he had either found someone to retool the plates or located a more experienced copperplate printer to produce the prints (or both). By 1704, the plates had changed hands twice more to appear in four more London editions. Considering that the Dutch plates were ultimately used to produce nine separate editions of a consistently popular book, we might conservatively guess that at least five thousand copies of the book appeared with these images inside—and, more liberally, perhaps as many as thirteen thousand—radically testing the ability of copper plates to produce legible images.

It was highly unusual for a single set of plates to appear in so many editions produced in so many different cities: later in the eighteenth century, printers would save themselves the costs and risks of purchasing worn plates by hiring local engravers to copy a book’s images. Why didn’t these printers do the same? I suspect the answer lay as much in the high quality of the original plates and the superior reputation of Dutch engraving as in English engravers’ poor reputations and the excessive time it took to produce a single engraving. When a different London printer, Thomas Malthus, produced his own, revisionist version of Exquemelin’s Bucaniers in 1684—a volume that described the recently knighted Henry Morgan in far more flattering terms than as the sadistic antihero of Exquemelin’s telling—he hired F. H. Van Hout (possibly a Dutch émigré) to copy the portraits. To help buttress Morgan’s reputation, Van Hout produced a heroic frontispiece portrait (fig. 6) that copied the Dutch version but eliminated the background view of a dramatic sea battle in order to festoon Morgan’s bust with elaborate curlicues and a heavy oval frame. Likewise, his version of “Bartholomew Portugues” (fig. 7) removed Portugues from the midst of battle. To be sure, such stripped-down images would have been easier and speedier for Van Hout to produce, the better to compete with the other editions of the book circulating in London. Whether Malthus’s flattering account of Henry Morgan proved unconvincing or his indifferent images simply failed to compete with the Dutch originals, his version of Exquemelin’s Bucaniers appeared in one edition alone; meanwhile, the Dutch plates continued to accompany the original text until 1704.

As Bucaniers of America circulated through Europe, one engraver after the next embroidered on the same themes of ominous danger and masculine bravado that originated with the 1678 illustrations. Take the Paris printer, Jacques Le Febvre, who produced four editions of Exquemelin between 1686 and 1705. With only three images (none of which were portraits) in the book, the French printer did not attempt to reproduce the visual richness of the original; but the images he commissioned nevertheless built on the themes laid out in the Dutch plates. His engraver, Bouttals, incorporated aspects of the original pirate portraits into a new title page. Where the Dutch title page relegated the theme of violence primarily to the tiny scenes that circle the central images (fig. 8), Bouttals opted for less peripheral detail in favor of a more focused center of action and vivid figures on either side of the calligraphed title. His buccaneers are hidden by shadows, avoiding the viewer’s gaze (fig. 9). He seems to have borrowed from earlier portraits of Portuguees and Lolonois to depict one pirate with shabby clothing signaling his subjects’ low origins (as in the images developed for the 1741 London edition [figs. 10 and 11]). In Bouttals’s interpretation, the pirates’ physical threats appear far more menacing than in the Dutch title page, with swords ready to slash throats and pierce breasts and the pirates’ visages intent on inflicting harm and less inclined to ineffective posturing. The European who looks hopelessly to the viewer for help in Bouttals’s version is about to suffer more than death, for the pirate appears prepared to level a far more serious kick to the groin than did his counterpart in the Dutch title page.

Kicking a man in the crotch while slashing his throat might seem gratuitous—adding insult to fatal injury. In fact, these kicks were emblematic of the kind of violence pirates inflicted. After all, a Lolonois or a Brasiliano challenged their victims’ manliness not merely by rendering them prostrate but by stealing their goods. Buccaneers’ rise from obscurity and the lowest social orders to possess terrific riches, their strict loyalty to one another, and the rough equality they cultivated depended on the fact that they targeted the wealthiest ships and cities for attack. These class inversions did not pose an open threat to the English social order (as paeans to the pirates’ Englishness attest). But the comparatively ragged clothing of the pirate and his conquest over the elegant European would have stood out to readers as a sign of the inverted hierarchies and alternative masculinities that could exist in the imagined locale of such exotic Caribbean islands as Jamaica and Tortuga. It signaled that not all men needed to follow the same path.

The fact that Bouttals had them lay their riches at the feet of the symbolic figure of America, the Indian princess, rendered these men even more dangerously capricious by suggesting that they robbed Europe to give to no one in particular—or worse, to savages. The image conveyed the extent to which they had stepped outside the norms of European manhood. Unlike the figure of Britannia, who represented the justice and law of England, the “naked” Indian princess evoked a cruder form of order. This image figured America as a place where riches could not be utilized in the rational fashion Europeans idealized. Exquemelin’s descriptions of pirates’ propensity to steal and then lose vast riches signaled their separation from the ideal of financial moderation as well as manly self-control.

The central motifs in the Dutch images had a staying power that extended beyond the many editions of Exquemelin’s Bucaniers. By the time Captain Charles Johnson’s immensely popular General History of the Pyrates appeared in 1724, the London engraver B. Cole drew from a ready supply of pictorial conventions, including scowls, drawn weapons, and dramatic action. Even though Johnson’s text adopted a sternly moralistic tone almost entirely lacking in Exquemelin’s account, Cole’s illustrations—particularly the one of Anne Bonny and Mary Read, the female pirates who earned such infamy during the 1720s—evoked prurient delight with pirates’ sexual and violent transgressions. The portraits highlighted the pirates’ caches of weapons, depicting Blackbeard with not just an erect, drawn sword but six holstered pistols and a second sword seen hanging in its sheath between his legs; the women pirates hold both hatchets and swords (figs. 12 and 13). In fact, when another London printer issued a cheap reprint of the book the following year, he replaced the three copperplate engravings with ten woodcuts depicting each of the pirates in successively more provocative poses displaying their manly bravado and cocky virility (fig. 14). By midcentury and later, dozens of cheap woodcut-illustrated editions almost identical to the London original emerged from presses in Glasgow, Birmingham, Worcester, and elsewhere (fig 15). Pirates had become synonymous with ferocity, weaponry, action, and, more obliquely, sexual danger.

Although erect swords and angled hatchets might appear phallic to twenty-first century viewers, not all eighteenth-century readers would have granted the images such connotations. In fact, considering the overriding subject of physical violence in Johnson’s text, we might see such images as primarily emphasizing the pirates’ capacity to torture innocent bystanders as well as armed opponents. And yet considering that the books’ illustrations were partnered with a heightened interest in the pirates’ sex lives in the text, perhaps readers would see the images as phallic after all. Johnson lavished attention on the pirates’ marriages, interracial sexual liaisons, multiple children, and most of all their perverse or barbaric sexual violence against women. He left little doubt that a good number of the pirates’ outrageous acts had been sexual in nature. Captain Edward England and his crew, for example, often combined rape with pillage: they forced women “in a barbarous manner to their lusts, and to requite them, destroyed their cocoa trees and fired several of their houses and churches,” while Edward “Blackbeard” Teach forced his “fourteenth wife” to “prostitute herself” to members of his crew as he watched. Blackbeard was not the only pirate who refused to limit himself to a single wife in Johnson’s account; nor was he the only one to mistreat his wives to confirm his power over them. Captain Henry Avery and his crew “married the most beautiful of the Negro women, not one or two, but as many as they liked” in Madagascar, “so that every one of them had as great a Seraglio as the Grand Seignior at Constantinople.” Less sedentary pirates settled for perpetual “whoring” with women throughout the Caribbean and elsewhere. If Johnson had intended to debunk romanticized pirate myths that had circulated in London during the prior decade (as he promised in the book’s early pages), he went on to establish a new mythic canon revolving around the pirates’ sexuality and malevolent fearlessness, which would remain in print for over a century.

Such representations of male pirates are particularly thrown into relief when considered alongside Johnson’s portrayals of female pirates Anne Bonny and Mary Read, depictions that placed even stronger emphasis on the women’s gendered identities and sexual lives. Johnson introduced the women dramatically: before informing his readers of the existence of female pirates, he described a scene in the Court of Admiralty that was trying and convicting a large number of men for piracy in Jamaica in 1721. Two of these were “asked if either of them had any thing to say” to mitigate the death sentences they faced. They stunned the court by revealing themselves to be women and announcing that “their bellies, being quick with child” should make them eligible for stays of execution—which they received. As it turned out, the women’s cross-dressing went beyond pirate costumes. Both had been born illegitimately and had found, throughout their lives, a degree of economic freedom in an array of male disguises. Still, Johnson focuses not on the material benefits of cross-dressing but on titillating (and almost Shakespearean) moments of sexual confusion. As a young recruit in the army, Read fell in love with one of her officers, continually risking life and limb to be near him—behavior that her peers found “mad” and perplexing. She was so distracted by her love that she neglected her duty: “it seems Mars and Venus could not be served at the same time,” Johnson comments philosophically. Read eventually contrived to let her officer “discover her sex” one night as they lay together in a tent. Even more risqué was the moment when Bonny and Read met aboard a pirate ship, each in full disguise. Taking Read “for a handsome young fellow,” Bonny took “a particular liking to her” and secretly revealed that she was a woman—presumably to solicit sex. Johnson allows the sexual confusion of the scene to play out for his readers’ enjoyment, delaying its resolution. He even indicates that Read at least considered the possibility of playing the paramour to prolong her ruse. But “knowing what she would be at” if she did not come clean “and being very sensible for her own incapacity” to play the man for Bonny’s sake, she revealed the truth to Bonny’s “great disappointment.” Eventually the two women confided in Bonny’s “gallant” Captain Jack Rackham as well, as he had threatened to “cut her new lover’s throat.” Replete with cross-dressing, sex (consummated and otherwise), and a disdain for gender propriety, these biographical vignettes emphasize exceptional choices and behavior and, in doing so, closely resemble those of male pirate characters. Narratives of both men and women cast pirates as outsiders who reject gender conventions and flout sexual propriety.

The book’s images of Bonny and Read reflect engravers’ struggle to portray the mix of conflicting gender codes and disguise represented in Johnson’s volume. In the original 1724 edition they are portrayed with flowing hair crowned with feminine caps and dressed in improbable loose-fitting culottes that suggest wide hips and possibly even the “big bellies” that saved these women from the gallows (fig. 13). Of course, if they had truly worn such outfits, they would have fooled no one as to their sex; the costumes help readers imagine the women’s disguise while confirming their sex. Yet the engraver did not hesitate to represent them as prone to the same ferocious violence as their male counterparts. Armed with swords, hatchets, and pistols, and angry facial scowls, Bonny and Read bear little resemblance to the women commonly idealized in contemporary English culture and literature. Cole’s images were so evocative that they were copied in virtually every one of the dozens of English reprints of the book, even those that featured only a small number of cuts.

When the book was translated and published in Amsterdam in 1725, the new Dutch engraver borrowed from Cole’s images and improved on them. He portrayed them in breeches, heavily armed, and striking jaunty and mildly threatening poses. Most striking, he sexualized them. The women’s long tresses, open shirts, and full breasts confirm their sexual appeal and availability. They have become Venuses with muscle and an almost pugilistic readiness for action (figs. 16 and 17).

How did readers make sense of the female pirates who fought and fornicated their way across the pages of Johnson’s Pyrates? It is tempting to imagine that readers might have seen them as strong rebels and volatile romantics, prototypes of a form of active female agency in matters of economics, sex, and self-protection that would contrast sharply with the passive women of domestic fiction. From another vantage point, Read’s and Bonny’s cross-dressing may have signaled that transvestism (which appeared in many forms in early modern Europe and America) offered promises of a more inchoate and far-reaching personal transformation and liberation. Yet again, perhaps vivid illustrations of erect swords and tales of nearly egalitarian comradery produced homoerotic fantasy, at least by some.

But our interpretations change if we focus on the full range of probable readers—not only the female or same-sex oriented male readers who sought out tales of gender or sexual transgression but also the middling and elite men who used their disposable income to purchase expensive illustrated books and patronize social libraries. Men who enjoyed comfort, wealth, and position had little need for liberation per se, as they were, by any measure, already the most “free” in society. Escapism was different: reading these tales might have helped men imagine escaping from their social, economic, and sexual responsibilities to live far more freewheeling lives and express their basest instincts. Of course male readers might well have found representations of pirates appealing. But liberating? If we consider the full range of probable readers, as well as the spectrum of subjects covered in books like A General History of the Pyrates—which included female pirates and hints of homoeroticism but focused most of all on gleefully brutal depictions of men unbound by gender expectations of sexual self-control and obligations to dependents—we come closer to understanding why hyper-gendered portrayals of pirates had such lasting appeal from the eighteenth century to the present and why specific conventions for representing them have become so ubiquitous.

If Exquemelin’s Bucaniers of America had been less popular, we might be skeptical of its role in establishing lasting conventions for representing pirates. But books from Captain Charles Johnson’s General History of the Pyrates to twentieth-century films continued to build on motifs established in the late seventeenth century. The themes of manly adventure, gender transgression, erotic violence, and moral ambivalence have recurred with such regularity over these centuries by successive writers and illustrators that we can’t help but see how early modern print culture came to rely on such conventions for selling books.

A counterexample from our own era underscores this point. Perhaps the best testament to our unwillingness to break from conventional views of pirates came during the spring of 2009 when, due to a series of impressively successful attacks, the subject of piracy off the coast of Somalia moved from newspapers’ back pages to the fore. In April, we were presented with a series of photographs of improbably small motorboats filled with skinny Somali men in t-shirts with mischievous grins on their faces. But for those photographs and film footage, it might have been easy to develop news stories that conformed to long-established responses to piracy. Surely we might have admired the audacity of men who used tiny boats, limited manpower, and very big guns to capture and ransom off ships belonging to the most powerful nations in the world. The story had all the elements necessary to tie the Somali pirates to a long history of daring attacks. The fact that they hailed from one of the poorest and least powerful nations on earth might only have elicited more wonder. But the photographs displayed men whose appearance ran counter to expectations conditioned by a long tradition of images. Journalists seemed almost audibly disconcerted as they sought a gratifying narrative for the story; in the end, they merely decried the Somalis’ thievery and made weak allusions to international terrorism.

What would it have taken for us to identify with the Somali pirates, as readers of Exquemelin and Johnson identified with the pirates they described? What kind of narrative would have enabled us to incorporate the Somalis into the pirate stories we have inherited? One can’t help but lament their lack of a good publicist. We have not yet seen the author who will characterize them as would-be Robin Hoods up against intractable Western powers or perhaps play up their heroic roles against the backdrop of Somalia’s lack of social and governmental order. At the very least new narratives will require a costume change. If tricornered hats would appear over the top, we need to see them in clothing other than the t-shirts that only exaggerated the Somalis’ slight frames and third-world poverty. That new narrative may be coming. Already photographs have appeared depicting them with machine guns held erect; visual representations featuring cocky poses and dramatic clothing will not be far behind, inviting newly enticing tales to captivate readers. This pirate story isn’t over yet. We can look forward to its gradual incorporation into a tradition of representing pirates as seductive antiheroes—men and women who have evoked that powerful combination of fantasy, revulsion, and identification so successfully for three hundred years.

Further Reading:

Some illustrations and pages from the original edition of Alexandre Exquemelin’s Bucaniers of America (Amsterdam, 1678) are available online by the Library of Congress; meanwhile, Captain Charles Johnson’s General History of the Robberies & Murders of the Most Notorious Pyrates (originally published London, 1724) is still in print.

For recent histories of real-life pirates, see Marcus Rediker’s Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: Merchant Seamen, Pirates, and the Anglo-American Maritime World, 1700-1750 (Cambridge, 1987) and his Villains of All Nations: Pirates in the Golden Age (Boston, 2004), as well as Virginia Lunsford’s Piracy and Privateering in the Golden Age Netherlands (New York, 2005). To accompany his review of Peter T. Leeson’s new economic history of piracy, The Invisible Hook, in the September 7, 2009, issue of the New Yorker, Caleb Crain offers a list his sources on pirates. On gender and sexuality in seafaring, see Margaret S. Creighton and Lisa Norling, eds., Iron Men, Wooden Women: Gender and Seafaring in the Atlantic World (Baltimore, 1996) and Hans Turley, Rum, Sodomy and the Lash: Piracy, Sexuality, and Masculine Identity (New York, 1999).

On the history of books and reading, see Adrian Johns’s The Nature of the Book (Chicago, 1998). See also Roger Gaskell’s “Printing House and Engraving Shop: A Mysterious Collaboration,” in The Book Collector 53 (Summer 2004): 221-24; Sheila O’Connell’s Popular Print in England (London, 1999); and Joseph Monteyne’s The Printed Image in Early Modern London (London, 2007).

Finally, the full transcript of Saturday Night Live‘s 1979 skit, “The Adventures of Miles Cowperthwaite,” is available online.

This article originally appeared in issue 10.1 (October, 2009).

Carolyn Eastman is assistant professor of history at the University of Texas, Austin, and the author of A Nation of Speechifiers: Making an American Public after the Revolution (2009) as well as essays in the William and Mary Quarterly, Gender and History, and American Nineteenth-Century History.

One of the frustrations, but also one of the delights, of early American and Atlantic world history is that the fields are so elastically defined. When do they begin? When do they end? What regions and civilizations do they encompass? With a little imagination, all sorts of unlikely topics and peoples can be shoehorned into the rubric of early American history. In this essay, I argue that the Vikings—Scandinavian adventurers who expanded, as far east as the Ukraine and as far west as Greenland and coastal Newfoundland, between the eighth and eleventh centuries C.E.—deserve a more prominent place in early American history than they have yet garnered.

I argue this not because the story of Europe’s expansion throughout the Atlantic Ocean and into the Americas began, in any substantial and lasting way, with the Vikings. The Viking settlements in Greenland were longer lived than scholars once believed; founded around the year 1000, they lasted at least 500 years. Nor were they quite so marginal as scholars once assumed; Greenlanders kept up with European fashions until at least the early fifteenth century, and some historians, notably Kirsten Seaver, speculate that far from succumbing to environmental catastrophe, the most able-bodied Greenland settlers were lured away to work in the burgeoning cod industry or possibly even to settle somewhere on the mainland. But still, the Greenland settlements were always small, with a peak population of only 5,000 to 6,000, and geographically confined. Their impact was negligible compared to that of the massive enterprise that began in 1492.

Why introduce students of early American history to the Vikings, then? Because the Viking settlements in Greenland make an excellent case study, in miniature, of how colonization projects begin, how they keep going, and why they might fail. In my Atlantic World course, I begin with a week of lectures on late medieval and Renaissance Europe and then wrap up the preliminary unit with two “prequels” to European colonization: the Norman/English conquest of Ireland, spanning from 1169 to the seventeenth century, and the Viking colonization of Iceland and Greenland. For the first topic, I follow Nicholas Canny’s classic article “The Ideology of English Colonization: From Ireland to America,” published in The William & Mary Quarterly in 1973. The students readily grasp Canny’s argument that English colonizers’ remarks about Native Americans echoed their derogatory remarks about the Irish; if anything, this idea works even better in a course in which one is teaching Spanish as well as English colonization, because early Spanish colonizers’ estimate of Native Americans’ level of civilization so obviously mingled considerations of race, class, and religion. Yet it is always the curious, still shadowy model of Viking colonization that excites the students most.

My students marvel, simultaneously, at how much we know about the Viking settlements in Greenland and how much we don’t. Histories of Viking expansion depend heavily on historical archeology, and sometimes on analogies to what was happening among similar populations in the more remote regions of Scandinavia at the same time. Addressing the Viking settlements in Greenland at the outset of an early American history course can awaken students to the role that archeological research plays in historical scholarship. This, in turn, may make them more open to considering archeological evidence from the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries—not as a last resort but as an integral element in the historian’s toolkit. This is a useful methodological discussion to have at the beginning of a history course; I find it useful, too, to impress on students as early as possible that there are limits to our knowledge and there are some things about the history of the Atlantic world that we just don’t know.

But although the story of Viking Greenland is incompletely known to us, it is nonetheless provocative. One of the basic questions it raises for students is, why colonize at all? The Vikings were not impelled by the religious fervor and geopolitical competition that propelled later European colonizers across the Atlantic; instead, the story of the Viking expansion toward North America highlights the roles of individual enterprise, adventure seeking, and contingency in colonization. It was apparently banishment, on a murder or manslaughter charge, that propelled Erik the Red westward; what, other than a need for timber, propelled Erik’s sons to the coast of Newfoundland is even less certain. It is a little astonishing to realize that it was apparently the luxury trade in falcons, walrus ivory, and furs that kept Norse settlers in Greenland for five centuries. But this may be a useful corrective—we are so prone to focus on early modern colonization as national policy that we forget how ad hoc much of it was, especially in the first few generations, and how autonomous the leaders of early colonial ventures, in an era of tenuous communication, perforce had to be. Discussing Viking colonization as a precursor to sixteenth- and seventeenth-century colonizations opens students up to understanding the tenuousness of many of the early modern ventures.

Another basic question that studying the Viking colonization of Greenland raises for students is what the “success” or “failure” of a colonial enterprise actually means. We call the Viking settlements a failure because they eventually disappeared—but they lasted 500 years, and for much of that time the colonists enjoyed, by medieval standards, a very comfortable living. Would the colonists themselves, at any point before the fifteenth century, have deemed their settlements to be failures? What we seem to mean, when we call the Greenland settlements a failure, is that they did not become permanent—probably due to their small scale and the parent power’s waning interest in them. And that, in turn, illuminates what colonial powers had to do to ensure the survival of their overseas ventures: establishing a colony was not the same as keeping one.

Scholarship on the Viking settlements in Greenland, such as Kirsten Seaver’s The Frozen Echo: Greenland and the Exploration of North America, ca. A.D. 1000-1500 (1996), emphasizes the ways in which the Greenland settlements became to some extent the beneficiaries, but chiefly the victims, of shifting political dynamics in medieval Scandinavia. Greenland was from the outset a colony of a colony—an offshoot of the Viking settlement in Iceland, itself established only in the late ninth century. Much of Greenland’s trade was with, or at any rate through, Iceland, and most of its settlers came from there and had family ties there. Communication with the mother country, Norway, tended to be slow and faltering, and Norwegian authority was tenuous. In fact, the Greenland settlements, which started as an entrepreneurial venture, were at first essentially independent; the settlers formally accepted the overlordship of the Norwegian monarchy only in 1261. Around 1325, the Greenlanders stopped paying their taxes; once taken as evidence of poverty, this shift has now been reinterpreted as a sign that the Greenlanders did not feel they were getting value for their money from the Norwegian government. After Norway was absorbed into the Danish monarchy in 1380, Greenland seems to have been all but forgotten by its putative rulers. While there is no need to cover this material in depth, sharing the basic sequence of events with students sensitizes them to why they need, in an Atlantic world or early American history course, to pay close attention to shifting political dynamics back in Europe: a colonial power’s loss of independence—such as, for example, Portugal’s loss of independence in the Iberian Union of 1580—might spell neglect for its overseas colonies, and very weak communications links, such as those between Madrid and Lima in the sixteenth century, might foster exceptionally (from the mother country’s point of view, problematically) independent colonies.

If the Greenlanders’ story highlights the problems of weak or neglectful mother countries, it also highlights the cosmopolitan nature of many colonial enterprises and the failure, right from the beginning, of many of the restrictions on trade that mother countries tried to impose. In theory, the Norwegian monarchy had a monopoly on European trade with Greenland; in practice, the distances involved and the fragility of Norwegian authority made this hard to enforce. When Norwegian kings neglected to send ships to Greenland, Icelandic merchants sailed illegally—and Scottish and English merchants were sufficiently interested in and knowledgeable about the colony that they sometimes let their ships stray to the coast of Greenland “accidentally.” Indeed, there may have been more northern European trade with Greenland than we know of in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; unauthorized traders had good reasons for letting their voyages go undocumented. According to Seaver, Norse Greenland’s last trading partners, in the mid-fifteenth century, seem to have been British rather than Icelandic. Apparently, colonial commerce took on a life of its own, complex and secretive, long before the golden age of piracy erupted in the Caribbean.

Even as the story of the Norse colonization of Greenland raises questions about how colonization works in the abstract, it can also point students toward considering the differences between the medieval Viking colonization of Greenland and the early modern European colonial ventures in North and South America. This discussion may yield some false starts before it yields telling ones. Navigation, mapmaking, and literacy rates certainly improved between the tenth century and the end of the fifteenth, but not, perhaps, enough to make much difference, given the distances involved. Nor was the scale of the later settlements—at first—much different from that of the earlier ones; students may need to be reminded that Columbus sailed with a crew of about ninety men and Pizarro toppled the Inca Empire with a force of about 200. These expeditions were more overtly military than the Vikings’ expeditions were; still, the Vikings appear more far-sighted in bringing with them wives and children and the wherewithal to found permanent settlements.

A more significant change lay in the nature of the colonists’ home governments and in European rulers’ clearer motives for colonizing and greater commitment to being involved in the process. The Viking settlements were essentially freelance ventures; the settlers’ motives are hard to discern, and the home governments seem barely to have been aware that their nominal subjects were engaged in settling remote outposts of the known world. Most of the sixteenth- and seventeenth-century settlements were also entrepreneurial, under the aegis of individual proprietors, joint-stock companies, adelantados, or donatarios, but the home governments licensed their existence and supervised them—if remotely—with a keen eye to their future uses. It is hard to imagine an early modern European state allowing an overseas settlement as long-lived as the medieval Greenlandic settlements to fade away.

Another huge difference between the medieval Viking colonization of the north Atlantic and the European colonization of America in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is that the Vikings settled only in uninhabited places, such as Iceland, and very sparsely inhabited places, such as Greenland. Certainly, the Viking settlers had some contact with the people who already lived in Greenland and Newfoundland—some conflict, and probably some commercial contact too—but for the most part, for better or for worse, they were on their own in these new lands. They wrought no demographic catastrophe; they benefited from no indigenous labor; they conceived no hybrid race. Did this affect the viability—or at least the value—of the Viking settlements in the long run? If the Vikings had made sustained contact with a previously unknown people, would either their home government or their commercial partners have allowed the Greenland settlements to wither?

Medieval Europe was not Renaissance Europe; the Vikings were neither Puritans, buccaneers, nor conquistadores; and in the end, any comparison of this type must be somewhat impressionistic. Yet I have found it to be an enormously provocative comparison to propose at the outset of an Atlantic world history course, and well worth the investment of a teaching day or two. The Greenland settlements may have been, on some level, a failure—by virtue of their small size and slender impact, even in the centuries before they disappeared—but the Greenland settlers were also in some respects prescient. Their story suggests that the European colonization of America could very easily have happened earlier, but did not happen until an era arrived in which such colonization would be valued and sustained by societies and governments at home.

Further Reading

Kirsten Seaver’s The Frozen Echo: Greenland and the Exploration of North America, ca. A.D. 1000-1500 (Stanford, 1996) is the ideal place to begin learning about the Viking settlements in Greenland. Her briefer book The Last Vikings: The Epic Story of the Great Norse Voyages (London, 2010) updates and extends the analysis. For a concise, authoritative overview of the Vikings, see Anders Winroth, The Age of the Vikings (Princeton, 2014); for a chattier, more personal take on the subject, see archeologist Neil Oliver’s The Vikings: A New History (New York, 2014).

Viking expansion is best understood within the larger context of early medieval Europe. Happily, Dark Ages scholarship is in the midst of a Renaissance. Chris Wickham, The Inheritance of Rome: Illuminating the Dark Ages, 400-1000 (New York, 2009) offers a detailed introduction to the period. Anders Winroth, The Conversion of Scandinavia: Vikings, Merchants, and Missionaries in the Remaking of Northern Europe (New Haven, 2012), which examines the political and religious context of the Vikings’ mother countries, is a thought-provoking read for early Americanists who wish to use the Vikings as an early example of how colonization projects interacted with political, social, and religious change on the home front.

Many of the famous Norse travel sagas are available online, in English translation, in the Icelandic Saga Database, maintained by Sveinbjörn Þórðarson. The site is sufficiently easy to navigate that a student of mine was able to use it as the basis for a research paper.

This article originally appeared in issue 16.3 (Summer, 2016).

Darcy R. Fryer teaches history at the Brearley School and edits the Common School column.