CHAPTER V

ST. JOHN AND SOME DISCOVERIES

No one can say when the buccaneers first selected St. John as a refuge, but no doubt it was long before the Danes or the Dutch first settled there. Pirates haunted the Virgin Islands previous to 1687, and it would not be surprising if honor for the first buildings erected on St. John and for the first settlements should be accorded them. Many of its bays and coves bear names which associate them with the corsairs,—as, for instance, Rendezvouz Bay and Privateers’ Bay,—and undoubtedly these names were already in use when the first Dutch and Danes arrived on St. John. There are also ruins of forts and buildings covered with brush and jungle which unquestionably antedate the first peaceful settlement; but history took no cognizance of the freebooters, and the story of their occupancy of St. John probably will never be known. At any rate, for many a year, the Virgin Isles were notorious as a resort of buccaneers, and in Coral Bay, Privateers’ Bay, and Rendezvouz Bay they beached and careened their ships and romped and skylarked on the coral sands, while the woods and cliffs rang to the echoes of their lusty songs and shouts and the smoke of barbecue fires rose in blue wisps against the greenery, just as a column of lilac smoke from a negro hut was rising upward in the clear morning air as the Vigilant’s anchor splashed overboard and the big sails came rattling down within the sheltered bay that had harbored many a pirate craft.

We know too, from historical records, that the Danish authorities were friendly to the pirates and buccaneers before St. John was settled, for in 1682 Jean Hamlin made his headquarters in St. Thomas and was well received by the governor, who no doubt shared the corsair’s loot in return for the refuge accorded.

In the year mentioned, Hamlin made a prize of the French ship La Trompeuse and, finding her a better craft than his own, fitted her out with guns, shipped a pirate crew, and proceeded to ravage the Caribbean, making Charlotte Amalie his headquarters. Hamlin was by no means an ideal buccaneer. He attacked any merchantman he sighted, regardless of flag or nationality, and in 1683 a number of British ships fell to his cannon. Not content with the pickings to be had among the islands, he sailed for the African coast and there had a joyous and profitable time, taking seventeen Dutch and English vessels. But the fever-ridden, jungle-covered coasts of the Dark Continent did not appeal to the romantic soul of the merry sea-rover; and so, feeling he had accomplished quite enough to have earned a vacation, he hoisted sail and headed westward for St. Thomas.

Here he was warmly welcomed by his old crony the governor, who willingly gave him permission to bring the loot of the cruise ashore for safekeeping—and probably division as well—and entertained the piratical chieftain in right good style. Three days after Hamlin’s arrival, however, another ship sailed into Charlotte Amalie’s snug harbor and came to anchor before the picturesque town. And, to the discomfiture of some and the delight of others, this new arrival proved to be no other than H. M. S. Francis under command of Captain Carlile of His Britannic Majesty’s navy, who had been sent forth by Governor Stapleton of the Leeward Islands to hunt for all pirates in general and one known as Jean Hamlin in particular.

We may imagine the satisfaction with which the scarlet-faced old sea-dog noted the long-sought La Trompeuse snugly moored within easy reach. With the British seaman’s usual disregard for red tape and diplomatic correspondence, he took matters into his own hands and promptly disposed of the pirate craft by blowing her up. To be sure, the buccaneer captain and some of his crew were on board, but Hamlin was no such fool as to attempt to resist when under the broadsides of a frigate half a gunshot distant; and, after firing a few shots merely as a protest or to ease his conscience, he decided discretion to be the better part of valor, and sought the shore and his Danish friends.

No doubt, over their cups, the governor and the corsair gazed forth with mingled sorrow and resentment as the glare of the blazing ship illuminated the harbor and the red-roofed town, for La Trompeuse had proved a lucky and profitable craft. As the two discussed the matter and damned the British, the governor waxed exceeding wroth, and he forthwith penned a note to Captain Carlile, vigorously denouncing his actions in having brazenly and unwarrantedly destroyed a frigate which had been confiscated in the name of the King of Denmark. But the governor was a mortal who believed in never letting his left hand know what his right was doing, and as he scribbled his note to the Englishman he sent Hamlin and his men to a safe refuge in another part of the island and, providing the captain with a speedy sloop, wished him God-speed on his way to join the French buccaneers in Tortuga.

Indeed, this worthy governor, who bore the name of Adolf Esmit, had the reputation of being an all-round bad egg. Privateering had been his former occupation, and while buccaneers and their ilk were looked upon, even by law-abiding citizens, as something of gentlemen and good fellows, and no one greatly blamed Adolf for protecting these soldiers of fortune—for a consideration, of course—still, the islanders did not like the idea of his harboring riffraff from far and near and gathering under his hospitable wing a crowd of runaway slaves and servants, deserting seamen, and debtors. Moreover, he was a usurper. He had driven away his brother Nickolas, who was the rightful governor, and then, having acquired what we should nowadays dub a case of “swelled head,” had seen fit to declare himself governor of all the Virgin Isles and snapped his fingers, figuratively if not literally, at the British claimants and the Danish authorities as well. In the meantime he piled up a goodly sum for a rainy day by outfitting pirate ships and refusing to restore to their rightful owners prizes brought to his island.

But even Adolf realized that there was a limit to effrontery, and when protests became too numerous for comfort he hinted to his associates that St. John was far more attractive than St. Thomas, that its harbors were safer and more commodious, and that, it being uninhabited, his corsair friends could be sure that no one would object to their presence there. And as the place was but three miles distant from St. Thomas, it was quite feasible for him and his cronies to spend jolly evenings together and none the wiser.

Of course, in time, tales of Esmit’s activities reached Denmark; and, whatever his private opinions may have been, the Danish sovereign was in no mind to have serious difficulties with Great Britain. Therefore he promptly despatched a new man, named Iversen, to take charge of St. Thomas’s fortunes, and, foreseeing difficulties in getting rid of Esmit, suggested that Governor Stapleton should aid the new executive with force of arms. The British, nothing loath, gladly agreed, and, reinforced with an armed sloop from the British islands, Iversen arrived at St. Thomas in October, 1684, and without resistance took possession not only of the islands but of Adolf as well.

Possibly Iversen had no ill-will against the buccaneers; or possibly he followed his orders to the letter and, not being quite certain in his mind as to whether St. John was under his jurisdiction or not, left the freebooters in the neighboring isle unmolested and diplomatically informed the British that if they wished St. John rid of pirates they could do the job themselves. Whether they attempted it or not, history fails to record, but if they did they must have been unsuccessful, for English history seldom fails to call attention to every victory, no matter how small, although British historians are often remarkably absent-minded regarding the other side of the ledger.

Moreover, as the islands then under the British flag were not above harboring well-disposed pirate craft, it is exceedingly doubtful if even peppery old Governor Stapleton bestirred himself greatly, with his meager forces, against the buccaneers. He well knew that he could not hope to destroy or capture them all and that too much hostility would merely result in reprisals on British merchant ships which the struggling English colonies could ill afford.

My quest for buccaneer relics or remains on St. John was not very successful. Sam and my St. Thomas friends had, as I have already mentioned, assured me that the place possessed many remains such as buildings and forts; that pirate cannon were scattered in the brush, and that weapons, pieces of eight, doubloons, and onzas had often been found by the natives. It was even hinted that somewhere about Rendezvouz Bay there was a vast pirate treasure hidden. But as there is no bit of land upon this planet whereon pirates actually or traditionally ever set foot that does not boast of its treasure-trove, I took the last-mentioned report for what it was worth and no more. Even on matter-of-fact St. Thomas—or, rather, on the outlying cays—there is supposed to be vast treasure concealed; and many a St. Thomian has spent much time and no little energy in industriously digging the soil in the vain hopes of unearthing this pirate gold.

However, I did place credence in the tales of pirates’ ruins and pirates’ guns, and did not think it either impossible or improbable that an occasional ancient coin had been found. Indeed, when one old man vowed that there were even pirate wrecks to be seen, coral-incrusted, upon the sandy bottom of Privateers’ Bay, I judged it within the bounds of possibility that this might be so, for buccaneers’ ships sometimes sank, like other craft, and wood—especially stout oak and teak—will endure for many centuries under salt water.

But, while I found St. John charming; although I enjoyed my tramps and rambles through its bay-filled forests and along its beautiful coast; while I found many an overgrown, deserted plantation and crumbling ruin of great house and mill bearing mute testimony to the negro uprising of two centuries ago; while I stood upon the height whereon that sturdy little company of Dutch and Danes had gathered at old Peter Duerloo’s barricaded and cannon-guarded home and driven back the savage black hordes; while near at hand I tripped over a rusty, ancient carronade which I saw fit to believe was one of the “two small guns” which according to history had hurled their death-dealing grapeshot among the blood-crazed negroes, still, of buccaneers I found no indisputable trace. There are some ancient crumbling walls near the landing-places at both Privateers’ and Rendezvous Bay,—ruins of man’s handiwork evidently antedating the oldest Danish or Dutch masonry upon St. John,—but there is nothing to prove that these were buildings erected by pirates.

Once, to be sure, I was greatly elated when a white-headed, tottering old negro with lackluster eyes and toothless mouth hobbled to our camp on the beach and, carefully unwrapping several layers of dried banana leaves, produced a corroded sword blade with the cross hilt of a design dating back to buccaneer days. He had found it, he mumbled in almost unintelligible words, while clearing away the brush preparatory to making a charcoal-pit, and I gladly paid him thrice the fifty cents he asked for it.

But my hopes were shattered and my romantic notions dispersed to the four winds when, in cleaning the dirt and rust from the blade, I uncovered the unmistakable imprint of the Broad Arrow near the hilt, with the half-obliterated arms of England near it. To be sure, that did not prove it was not a buccaneer’s sword, but it seemed far more probably a trusty blade dropped from the lifeless hand of one of those Britons who had sought to help the Danes suppress the revolting blacks. Though I preferred a pirate weapon for a souvenir, there were plenty of romantic and historical associations connected with this silent, long-lost witness of the bloody days of St. John’s past, whether wielded by sea-rover or by British soldier, and I was satisfied that I at least would not sail empty-handed from this half-deserted, drowsy little Virgin isle.

I must confess that I had grown very fond of the half-forgotten, sadly neglected place, and when at last the time came when we must up anchor and away from St. John, I felt really sorry to leave. I had seen the island thoroughly. We had cast anchor in many a lovely bay and for the last night we were moored in the snug “Hurricane Hole” in Coral Bay, perhaps the finest natural harbor in all the West Indies.

Close at hand upon the headland were the scarcely distinguishable ruins of that first fort erected by old Governor Bredal, wherein the unsuspecting garrison had been butchered by the fagot-bearing slaves. Seated under the shadow of the big mainsail as the Vigilant rode to her anchor and the soft lapping of the waves along the beach and the chirp of crickets and the grunt of land frogs were borne to me on the soft night breeze, my mind harked back to those long-past days when these isles literally were steeped in blood.

Like a ghostly silhouette upon the hilltop I could see the ruined fort about which battle red and furious had raged. Up that green-clad slope had charged the soldiers of three, or perchance four, nations, first one then another winning the day and holding, for a brief space, the hard-won battlements, until another enemy, by greater prowess or more reckless sacrifice of life, wrested it from their grasp. Perchance, in later years, the buccaneers had also hurled themselves, through mimosa scrub and aloes, upon the stout stone walls, shouting and cursing, falling and dying, but heedless of loss, still carrying on in face of blazing musket and thundering cannon.

Within those selfsame walls the frightened women and children and the white-faced, determined men from the little town and outlying estates had huddled, while, to their eyes, the pillars of smoke rising from blazing cane-fields and smoldering mansions told of the destructive savagery of revolting slaves; and from the wrecked town beside the harbor had come fiendish cries, revolting voodoo chants, and the terrifying boom of the savage tom-tom.

But now it was silent, deserted, weed-grown, and forgotten; the home of soft-winged bats, jewel-eyed lizards, and other creeping things. Gone were the ancient bronze pieces that once filled the embrasures; gone the tramping sentries; gone the staff that once upheld the flag. And I wondered if at dead of night the spirits of these long-gone and forgotten men and women, to whom the fort had meant so much, did not haunt that crumbling, picturesque old ruin. Perhaps, even now, they were looking down upon the starlit harbor, at the black tracery of the Vigilant’s rigging, and in her altered spars and renovated hull recognizing a craft which had been a familiar sight in the days when they walked the earth, and loved and fought and suffered and were gay in turn.

Then the spell of the night was broken. From forward came the half-barbaric music of a “sand-box” rattle, a squeaky fiddle, and a mouth organ, and echoing over the harbor came Sam’s full-throated voice in a weird, garbled version of “Sally Brown”:

“Oh, Sally Brown she are so pretty— Way-ee Sally, Sally Brown! Oh, Sally Brown o’ Noo York City— Way-ee ’ll spen’ mah money for Sally Brown.

“Oh, Sally Brown she fall ’n th’ water— Way-ee Sally, Sally Brown! Oh, Ah drug her out an’ had n’ oughter— Way-ee ’ll spen’ mah money for Sally Brown.

“Oh, Sally Brown she say she love me— Way-ee Sally, Sally Brown! Oh, Sally Brown to th’ sea she druv me— Way-ee ’ll spen’ mah money for Sally Brown.

“Oh, Sally Brown, would you b’lieve me— Way-ee Sally, Sally Brown! For a ’Badoes nigger she do leave me— Way-ee ’ll spen’ mah money for Sally Brown.”

And as the echoes of the applause that followed died away I wondered if the buccaneers themselves had sung this ancient chantey. To every sailorman, from time immemorial, it has been known, in one version or another. In the spicy isles of the South Seas the Kanakas chant it as they labor. Its tune and words ring through the forest-hemmed lumber-camps of the Northern woods. Many a tired, footsore, struggling musher in far-off Alaska has found new courage and inspiration in the song. In the frigid Antarctic wastes it has aroused the drowsing sea-elephants on desolate isles. And up and down the Antilles the sweating negroes work in unison to the tune as they pull their huge drougher boats or snake the great logs of hardwood timbers from the mountain jungles. Up and down and round the world it has traveled, from pole to pole, and if buccaneer and pirate did not bellow it, then they were no true sailormen.

But now another voice is singing—not Sam’s this time, but a higher if no less mellow voice which I recognize as Joe’s. And though the air is familiar, the words with which the West Indians have fitted it are astounding, for, according to my cook’s version, “John Brown’s donkey had a red Morocco tail”! With all the seriousness of a great artist Joseph sings his ridiculous ditty to the end, to be rewarded with deafening applause but no laughter, for the West Indian can see nothing comical in a red Morocco tail on John Brown’s donkey; he believes firmly that donkeys of the United States do possess such colorful caudal appendages, for does the verse not say so? To his mind, anything is possible in “New York,” as the West Indian invariably calls the States.

This belief of the West Indian negroes that New York and the United States are synonymous is very amusing. Even Joe, who was far above his fellows, in education and intelligence, seriously confided to me on one occasion that he had seen New York. Expressing surprise at this revelation, I asked for further particulars, and was told that when he was serving as cook on a schooner bound for Matamoros, Mexico, the mate had pointed out a low-lying coast-line and had told Joe it was New York. My explanations were absolutely futile. To Joe, New York embodied all of our country. With his own eyes he had gazed upon the promised land, and to his dying day—unless by some chance he visits the States—he will boast to his less fortunate fellows that he has seen New York.

Following our cook’s rendition of “John Brown” there was silence for a space and then, in place of sand-box, raucous fiddle, and discordant harmonica, the soft, liquid tinkle of a guitar rippled through the tropic night and a wonderfully rich voice began to sing:

“Vuelvo dormir, Vuelvo sonar, Y siempre estoy.”

I was all attention; surprised, curious. I was unaware that we had a Spanish West Indian in our crew, and while I knew that Sam, Joe, and one or two others spoke a smattering of Spanish and had visited Cuba, Porto Rico, Santo Domingo, or Panama, their accent was atrocious. Never, I was sure, could they have mastered a Spanish song. And now the singer had changed his tune. There was a plaintive wail in the silvery notes of his guitar that tugged at one’s heart-strings, and, filled with pathos and yearning, his voice came drifting to me, filling the night with the melody of “La Paloma.”

Scores—yes, hundreds—of times, I had listened to that dreamy, haunting air. I had heard it sung by shadowy vaqueros watching their herds on broad, black llanos under twinkling stars. I had heard it borne on the night breeze, as, resting under waving palms, I had watched a lateen-sailed craft creep across the moon’s silvery “Path to Spain.” I had heard it hummed by the carmine lips of black-eyed, full-throated señoritas leaning from the grilled railings of their windows in many a Latin-American town, and I had heard it issuing from garish dance-halls heavy with the scent of musk and the smoke from brown cigarettes. But never had I heard it sung as on that last night that the old Vigilant swung to her anchor off St. John.

Rising, I strolled forward, filled with curiosity as to the identity of the singer. As I reached the galley and from its shadows glanced at the little group about the fore hatch I could scarcely believe my eyes. Seated upon the anchor winch, across his knees a battered guitar which belonged to Joseph, the final words of “La Paloma” issuing from his huge mouth, was—Trouble!