My New Drug-Sniffing Hound
Meet my new best friend Sea Rover. I adopted him when he "fell off a boat." Now I’m teaching him how to leap over the sea lanes between our brig and the ones we’re a’plundering so he can find certain items.

Here’s a video of the training session:



P.S.: If our new high-tech video thing doesn’t fire, here’s a scrimshaw of Sea Rover:

For plenty of information on pirates and other dogs, here’s an entire book.

Tour of the Secret Pirate Isle of St. Clare
When you dock at St. Clare your attention’ll be seized by the giant wooden sign on the wharf. Hand-lettered in Olde English: “Welcome to the Isle of St. Clare, a Peaceable Society of Fundamentalist Christians.”

The sign’s bogus. It’s just there so anyone who accidentally happens in here will have no interest in staying. But St. Clare is pirate. Check out the boats bobbing in the immediate vicinity. A weather-battered tug moored by a chain so rusty it seems that a mosquito landing too hard on one of the links might set her adrift. A paddlewheel ferry missing her paddlewheel. A shrimper that, without her coating of mollusks would sink. A banana freighter whose multiple stains and bruises hearken, as it happens, a week-old banana. Inside, though, you can bet they’ve got monster engines, one that employs the latest NASA technology, literally—one loper I know kidnapped a NASA scientist recently for that reason.

Having ascended the gangway to the pier, you turn onto the gas lamp-lit Tew Street. A palm tree-lined, red coral-cobblestoned quay running perpendicular to the harbor, it’s home to about four-dozen two and three story Colonial wood and brick buildings. At the near corner is The King’s Throat, a snug, smoke-filled tavern changed little since its groundbreaking (1744, according to the worn cornerstone). Across the street is a saloon, from behind whose swinging doors you hear the rattle of dice, cards, and poker chips. Up the block: many more bars and gambling dens, as well as, like any small town’s main drag, ordinary businesses: an apothecary, a cobbler’s, licensed victuallers, even an ice cream store. Unlike ice cream stores in most towns, this one does a large side trade in ice picks.

Supplying the street with a hectic vitality is bustling traffic—modern cars and trucks, and a number of horse-drawn carriages—and hundreds of pedestrians who, by the looks of them, are not in St. Clare for any sort of spiritual reflection, meditation or prayer—except when rolling dice. A high percentage openly carry guns, swords or both. While most wear Twenty-first Century seafaring garments, many sport, not unlike the football fan who proudly wears his team’s jersey, pirate dress. Here, a man in blue jeans and a white cotton blouse with a hand-stitched anchor. There, another in broad striped breeches and a pair of cross-trainers. Some heads are handkerchiefed; many spout pony tails. A few of the women wear traditional dresses—silk, crepe and calico, tight about the waist with bright colored sashes. Most wore regular old shorts or cut-offs. Still, this crowd seems more pirate-like than the most elaborately costumed theatrical performers. It’s in the minutiae: the squints, the hats worn on the back of the head, the wide steps and rolling gaits—taken with toughened hands swung half-open, as if ready to grasp a rope.

The air is full of salty chatter, and cheers and jeers from the “gaming houses”—small, indoor, gladiatorial arenas. Particularly popular is the establishment which features single-stick, a pastime in which two men stood a few feet apart, clonking each other in the helmet with long poles. Like all of the gaming houses, it subsists on betting. In addition, side-bets in the bleachers change hands as if the five and ten philip notes have wings. Also popular on St. Clare is head-bumping, which, as it sounds, involves contestants butting against one another like rams until somebody falls. Sword fighting draws the biggest wagers and the liveliest crowds. As in fencing, scoring is based upon points, awarded by a referee. Though there’s no piratical sports page, champions receive deferential nods every way they look, and never need to pay for a gill of grog.

Adding to the racket, at podiums up and down the sidewalks, street auctioneers, known as “agents,” offer items ranging from a pair of boots to captured boats. These practiced men and women do so with such skill and tongue-wagging velocity that any could pass for a member of the Sotheby family, albeit a black sheep.

“Twenny philips, twenny philips, gallant shippies, fer this noble dinner jacket,” cries one. Failing to get a response, he tries, “Loper who wore it was unlucky at love in it, meanin’, o’ course, it made ’im lucky at cards.” This engenders a few snickers from passers-by, and a bid of one philip. “Goin’, goin’,” the agent says, wiping away a non-existent tear, “an’ sold fer one floggin’ phil.”

One of the more crowded spots, needless to say, is the tattoo parlor. Blood-dripping daggers, crossed harpoons and sea monsters are the bestsellers. Also fashionable are pigs and roosters (“In accordance,” an advertisement explains, “with the olde tyme belief that anyone so marked cannot drown, as them animals hate the water”).

The most congested destinations of all are the “water bewitcheries,” as the teahouses are known. Tea isn’t the draw in this besotted town, but, rather, computers with high-speed internet access. Pirates vying with one another to check their stock portfolios on-line—saving the trouble of sending a bird to their brokers’—account for far more scuffles than the bars. Fortunately, according to a posted notice, the dying scrimshandery and sealery will soon be converted into two more bewitcheries.


P.S. For more on St. Clare, including a rundown of the barrooms, brothels, and decent conchburger stands, read this. Here is a scrimshaw of a lady I saw on Tew Street. Not particularly piratic or anything, but I had Flarq scrimshaw her because she looked intelligent.

An Interview with Sir Francis Drake's Descendant
By Bilgemunky
19 MAR 05

I thought I'd try something a little different this time, so rather that blathering on by myself, I present you with the following interview of a REAL LIFE PIRATE DESCENDENT :)


Bilgemunky.com: Tonight we're speaking with Adam Drake who's agreed to be interviewed by telephone (even though he only lives three blocks from me.) Adam resides in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and is a direct decendent of Sir Francis Drake, legendary privateer to Queen Elizabeth of England during the mid-to-late 1500's. Adam, thanks for joining us.

Adam Drake: Thanks for having me.

BM: Now, you're a direct descendent of Sir Francis...

AD: Actually, no.

Adam Drake, pirate descendant, scrimshawed by Flarq

BM: No?

AD: Sir Francis Drake never had any children. I'm a direct descendent of his brother.

BM: Oh. Uhh...

AD: Sorry.

BM: No, it's fine. I, uh, I just don't have anywhere to go with this now. My whole interview was sort of premised on you being a direct descendent, is all.

AD: Well, I'm almost a direct descendent. More than most people.

BM: I guess you still share his blood - maybe some of these questions still apply.

AD: Shoot.

BM: Ok. Let's see. Ah! Do you have any fond memories of your great, great, etc, uncle?

AD: Well, no. He died a long time ago. Long before I was born.

BM: Oh, how tragic. Sorry.

AD: It's ok.

BM: Do your parents have any fond memories they might have shared with you?

AD: Not really.

BM: Moving on then. Being as you share Drake's blood, have you ever found yourself to have any special hereditary pirate powers?

AD: No.

BM: The ability to control parrots with your mind?

AD: No.

BM: A superhuman tolerance to rum?

AD: No.

BM: How about an unnatural, kryptonite-like susceptability to dysentery?

[long pause]

AD: No.

BM: Ever been to Nobre de Dios?

[another pause]

AD: Do you have any other questions?

BM: Sure. The Russian computer game developer Akella is currently producing "Swashbucklers: The Legacy of Drake," but as yet they have no plans to make you, the actual legacy of Drake, an option as a player character. How do you feel about that?

AD: What are you talking about?

BM: I'm just saying that as Drake's heir, don't you think I should be able to select you as my character when playing this game?

AD: I'd prefer you didn't.

Artist's impression of Adam Drake as a player character in "Swashbucklers: The Legacy of Drake"

BM: I see. Let's talk about the 1940 movie "The Sea Hawk", in which Errol Flynn played a character that was blatantly ripped off your great uncle. How did he feel about that?

AD: Look, I really think I should be going.

BM: Wait, I have a whole series of questions about your family's current relationship with Spain. Tell me, have there been any recent heated exchanges between yourself and King Juan Carlos?

[at this point our connection was unfortunately cut off. I tried to call back, but I guess he didn't hear the phone ringing]



Blog Captain’s Notes: Check out Bilgemunky.com for more fine literature such as this.
Want to get yourself or your yarn scrimshawed? Click here for our contest details
There's more scrimshaws and other useful pirate info at: PiratesOfPensacola.com.

Actual Narrative of a Bloak Imprisoned by Pirates, Part II
Here's the transcript of that hand-written memoir (posted earlier) of the prisoner held eleven months aboard Robert Culliford's brig. Minimal punctuation, words and stuff like that have been added in these things--[ ]--to keep you from getting a headache)

From Captain Willock's memoir:

They were about four dayes in robbing of this ship[.] Some was for burning of her then sayes they ["]what can [we] doo with all these Prisoners[?"] Some cryed ["] burn them in her" but at last they saw another sail soo they sent this ship away and sent all my lascars in her but mee they would not lett goo[.] next day which was about the 14th or 15th ffeb:ry they came up with this ship which was a great Moores ship called the Orangeshai from Bengall[.] they ran her aboard and fired their broadside into her, the Moores ship likewise fired 6 gunns into them which went through and through them but hurt never a man but severall were killed aboard the moors shipp amongst the rest one Dutchman[.]


This document was found by a modern-day bloak named Richard Zacks when he was writing The Pirate Hunter: The True Story of Captain Kidd, which turned out to be the best pirate book ever (in the non-fiction category). Check out The Pirate Hunter website for more information on his book and more documents to decipher. In gratitude to Mr. Zacks, here's a scrimshaw of Captain Kidd done by Flarq the harpooner. Man, as a Captain Kidd fan, I sure hope that's just a wig old Bill had to wear for portraits and stuff and not his 'do of choice.

P.S. For more scrimshaws, a crash history of pirates, way more swell piratic stuff, and details of our favorite pirate fiction book, see PiratesofPensacola.com.

P.S. Congrats to BGC for deciphering that mother. BGC, you win a Flarq. Let us know what you'd like scrimshawed.

Actual Narrative of a Bloak Imprisoned by Pirates
Below is part of the memoir of a prisoner held eleven months aboard the brig of the notorious pirate Robert Culliford. Sounds fascinating, no? Problem is it's a clerk's copy of the prisoner's narrative and his handwriting bit.

See if you can decipher it and answer who got killed. First of you to do it gets a scrimshaw by Flarq the harpooner.

Since none of you swabs will probably get this, in the next few days or so, I'll post a transcipt, plus the story of the bloak who found the thing and managed to transcribe it.

P.S. For a crash history of pirates, plus other pirate info, see PiratesofPensacola.com.

Postcard from Piratetown
I’m blogging from St. Clare, the centuries-old pirate town whose location’s secret. Is Nelson drunk, you might wonder--how could there be a centuries-old pirate town whose location’s secret?

St. Clare was discovered by early-Eighteenth Century pirates who realized that the foreboding stone spikes ringed only the perimeter of the island. Inside, they found the tranquil bay, a natural coral harbor, and several hundred acres of flat arable land. Initially, they used it as a between-raids hideout, sleeping on the beach or under shelter of tents or lean-tos. Then they discovered that guaiacum shrubs grew wildly inland. A by-product of the plants was a rare and much-prized venereal disease remedy. The pirates thus gave the island its original name, “Paradise,” and began the construction of permanent housing.

They were able to keep interlopers from their lair because of the nearby Bride’s Teeth. Legend had it that the Sea Devil, finding his wife in the embrace of a sailor, buried her alive in the muck at the ocean’s bottom there. But she was innocent—she’d been struggling to escape the man when her husband happened upon them. Hence, legend went, anytime a boat sailed above her, she wrought a vengeance upon its sailormen including a howling whirlpool and nasty, fanglike waves thirty feet high. According to a 1751 issue of Navigator & Pilot, the quarterly published jointly by the Navies of the United States, Brazil and Venezuela: “Navigation… is of the utmost danger. No vessel, even with local expertise, should attempt passage.” In truth, just north of the island, there was a set of shoals which, when the wind was against the tide, might have been called “nasty”—but only by the fainthearted. The pirates invented the legend of the Bride’s Teeth, then, with cunning that would impress Madison Avenue, spread tales of its horrors to the point that the thought of having to sail in its vicinity was responsible for business in rum shops the world over. Not least of their achievements was blackmailing the publisher of Navigator & Pilot.

As an additional safeguard, the pirates chose to rename the island something religious, so that it would be off-putting to any seafarers who might hear of it. St. Clare had been a Thirteenth Century Italian noblewoman who founded an order of nuns. The name satisfied the pirates’ criteria. Also, in paintings, St. Clare had a great body.

By the late-Eighteenth Century, the island of St. Clare had grown into the largest pirate haven ever, exceeding even St. Sugstin’s in Madagascar. And so it’s remained, largely in tact (save a brawl culminating in an explosion now and again) for more than two centuries.

After all this typing, I need a drink. If I survive the King’s Throat Tavern, I’ll tell you about it, and Tew Street, St. Clare’s main drag, next time I fire up the computer. Sorry, no scrimshaw today as this place is secret and if I posted so much as one of Flarq’s sketches, the lopers here would use my hide as a jib.


P.S. One thing that’s worth noting: Even though it’s not due out for another three weeks, my book (written under an alias) is somehow now for sale online. In several e-mails, among the hundreds I receive from ladies who want to date me, there were reports of the thing arriving in the mail already. I looked into this, and indeed the book’s on Amazon. How, you ask, could this be? Probably because the publisher was stoked by the decent advance reviews and stepped up the printing schedule to get books to more reviewers. Don’t believe any stories that I went to the printers’ and waved my sword around and threatened them, just as I'd done last month at the advance reviewers’ houses.

For more info on this book, click here. To those of you who already bought it: I owe you a tipple. If want your copy signed, find out how by clicking what you’re reading now.

More of THE DEVIL WORE PURPLE PLUNDER-PANTS
Today, our second excerpt from The Devil Wore Purple Plunder-Pants,, an upcoming romance novel from Bilgemunky Press. {Read the first excerpt first.} Thanks to the author, Bilgemunky.


note: The following story and characters are works of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, and especially any resemblance to Keira Knightly, super sexy star of Pirates of the Caribbean, is entirely coincidental.


Chapter 5 - Inside the Contessa's Chamber


Bam! Crash! Strangle! Boom!

The Contessa de Salma tightly clenched a stiletto to her silky bosom as she stared at her bedchamber door with an intensity that would surely whither the spine of even the most courageous of men. Unfortunately for her, it was no mere man that currently decimated her soldiers in the hallway - it was a demon of the sea, a mad beast driven by love and rage - love for his beloved Keira Knightly, who had looked really hot in that red dress in Pirates of the Caribbean, and rage at having had her torn from his mighty arms by the dastardly Don Squishy, scourge of four out of five Great Lakes.

Another crash, and the hallway fell silent. Contessa de Salma nervously held her breath as she listened for some clue of what was to come. One heartbeat was followed by the next, but the third was interrupted by an enormous impact that nearly shook her chamber door from its hinges. The Contessa quickly removed her hand from her bosom and instead concealled the stiletto behind the shapely small of her back, noting that it suddenly felt very tiny and inadequate (the stilleto, not the shapely small of her back, which was sized just right.) Her assailant's second effort sent the door into shatters, letting in a cloud of battle-dust and smoke. The debris wreaked of blood and gunpowder, but it quickly settled and the Contessa could at last fix her icy gaze on the figure that entered her sacred bedchamber. She clenched her weapon and prepared to lunge -- but what was this? Entering her feminine abode was, not the raging fiend she had expected, but something quite different. His once fine clothing was tattered and battle-worn, revealing a savoury view of the body beneath - a bruised and bloody, yet sensitive and masculine body that had been pushed to the limits of endurance, and found worthy in every respect. Yet despite the combat he'd endured, the endless heartache and pain, his face showed only crystal resolve. The Contessa de Salma immediately felt a weakness scurry into her knees like rats into a pantry, but in a sexy way. She knew at once, for she had of course heard the tales - and besides, the purple fur was a dead giveaway - this could only be Bilgemunky.

"Contessa de Salma," he spoke in a voice that, like the rest of him, was soft yet firm, "I came only to seek your wisdom, your sight. Why did you force me to sink your entire fleet? Why was it necessary for me to slaughter your armies when I've sworn time and again to forsake all violence (only to lay into it aplenty for a really good reason)? It gives me no pleasure to bring such brutal yet cinematically-pleasing destruction to your gypsy kingdom when all I ask is a simple audience."

"Bilgemunky," she replied, suddenly realizing this legendary creature was truly in her bedchamber. She at once felt vulnerable and emboldened that they were each wearing so little. "You claim you seek only an audience, but you also demand my sight - this is not so easily done. The spirits are fickle, and command a high price." She walked as she spoke, gently gliding around Bilgemunky. She called upon her gifts to peer into his soul, seeking his fears, his desires.

"I'd pay any price," he said, "any price at all to release my true love from the curse of the mystical pineneedle. To have Keira returned, I would gladly give up my possessions, my ship, my soul."

"Alas, my price is nothing so harsh," the Contessa smiled. She crouched down to pick Bilgemunky up. She wished to address him eye-to-eye, as lovers should. "You will spend this night with me," she began, "and when our passions are spent, I will tell you what you need to know."

The Contessa's request hit Bilgemunky like a carp to the gut. His mind was a flurry as he weighed his options. Bedding the Contessa would violate the very nature of his quest - but it was for Keira's own good, so surely she'd understand? And besides, it wasn't like she would actually have to know...

A carp to the gut, as scrimshawed by Flarq

Aback, foul temptress!" Bilgemunky screamed, repeatedly smacking the Contessa's forearms until she put him down. "For I love Keira, and your seductive wiles have no affect on me!" Rejected, the Contessa's face twisted into a cruel snarl. But then her eyes met with Bilgemunky's once again and she was instantly touched by such clear devotion. Her fury melted like a neglected Jamaican snow cone. For he was right, of course -- she WAS a foul temptress. Not that being a foul temptress was without its perks, but the Contessa knew that true love was something she must forever be denied.

"Very well, my purple desire," she said, "the spirits have been speaking with me, and they tell of a mighty Kraken, strong as a hundred warriors, with the temper of a thousand women scorned. I can break your lovely Keira's curse, but I will need a tooth from this Kraken, although the journey will take a year and a day, and you must find a way to reach his lair, 30,000 leagues beneath the waves..."

"The Kraken?" interrupted Bilgemunky, "Heck, I beat him ages ago. I've been using his tooth as a key fob." His face beamed as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, complete with a cruel black tooth, curved and twisted as though forged by the devil himself.

"Well... that's lucky," the Contessa uttered in disbelief. "I guess I have work to do."



P.S. Check out Bilgemunky.com for more fine literature such as this.

P.P.S. Want to get yourself or your yarn scrimshawed? Click here for our contest details

P.P.P.S. There's more scrimshaws and other useful pirate info at: PiratesOfPensacola.com.

An Excerpt from MODERN DRUNKARD Magazine
It goes without saying that Modern Drunkard is the publication pirates most like to steal. The following excerpt, from the article Yo Ho Ho an a Bottle of Rum: The Alcoholic Adventures of the Pirates of the Caribbean is printed with permission, believe it or not, of the author, Rich English. Thanks, Rich.



When all was said and done, however, the single most popular thing to plunder was liquor. It made the men happy, and had the ability, through its availability or lack thereof, to forestall or cause a mutiny. Check out the following, from the personal journal of the dreaded Edward Teach, better known as Blackbeard:

Such a day; rum all out. Our company somewhat sober; a damned confusion amongst us! Rogues a plotting. Talk of separation. So I looked sharp for a prize [and] took one with a great deal of liquor aboard. So kept the company hot, damned hot, then all things went well again.

Yep. Pirates were drinkers. Whether they bought their hooch in port, swiped it off another ship, or distilled it themselves, they loved their drink, and were some of the grandest revelers of all time. Tales of their debauches are the stuff of myth and legend.

Pirates drank while eating, they drank while sailing, they drank before, during, and after fighting, making them the first great multitaskers. People molested by pirates routinely complained that their oppressors smelled of two things: tar and rum. While rum was the most popular beverage, these guys weren't picky. You name it, they drank it. Mead, brandy, red wine, and a hysterically awful-sounding homemade concoction of distilled grains and fish oil that I don't even want to think about.

Since every day aboard a pirate ship was one long happy hour, music, dancing and toasting were the order of the day. Many a buccaneer kept his place in the shipboard hierarchy through his ability to play a fiddle or squeeze box. Impromptu serenades were common, with those who couldn't play instruments banging away on pots or barrels, and every man singing his throat raw, as they mangled a shanty like only a bunch of drunken sailors could. Throughout the festivities, men offered toasts to their comrades, the captain, their mothers, their captain's mother, plunder, and the devil, whose praises were hollered above all others. Pirates, perhaps it is needless to say, felt a special affinity for the devil and for deviltry in general.

Sometimes they were forced to go sober for reasons beyond their control, and those were rotten days and nights. At other times they had such a wealth of hooch that they managed to screw up their lives in rather grand fashion. Bleary-eyed pirates beached their ships on sand bars and tore their hulls out on coral reefs. Intoxicated decision-making lead to raids on uninhabited islands and set-tos with larger and better armed military vessels. One gang got loaded on purloined French wine and killed the only guy on board who knew how to use a sextant. They sailed around in circles for days. Another time, the captain of a pirate ship got too deep in his cups and slept though his ship's capture by the British Navy. He was so shitfaced, in fact, that his captors had to hoist his carcass from the hold with a block and tackle.

In the late 1800s a crew of pirates attacked and looted a ship in the Gulf of Mexico that was bound for New Orleans. As they divvied up their loot they came across a crate containing a beautiful, hand-carved marble fireplace mantel from Italy. They were about to toss it overboard when one of the men read the shipping information and stopped in his tracks. The mantel was on its way to Lynchburg, Tennessee, and the home of none other than Jack Daniel. The pirates had so much respect for Old No. 7 whiskey, that they promptly repacked the mantel and paid to ship it to its rightful owner.

For the ordinary pirate, liquor was mother and father, it gave benediction and exacted penance, it blotted out the heat of the sun and intensified the light of the moon. It sang, it danced, and it sometimes turned pirate itself and gave crappy advice. In heavy weather and mirrored calm, pirates were glorious drunkards, all the way around...




Read the rest of the article at Modern Drunkard. As thanks to the Drunkards, Flarq, our harpooner has scrimshawed a round:

THE PIRATE PARROT'S PERIL by Jack Hughett
So there's this Pirate with a parrot. And this parrot swears like a sailor, I mean he's a pistol. He can swear for five minutes straight without repeating himself. Trouble is, the pirate who owns him is a quiet, conservative type, and this bird's foul mouth is driving him crazy.

One day, it gets to be too much, so the guy grabs the bird by the throat, shakes him really hard, and yells, "QUIT IT!"

But this just makes the bird mad and he swears more than ever. Then he gets mad and says, "I've had enough of you," and locks the bird in a cabinet.

This really aggravates the bird and he claws and scratches, and when the guy finally lets him out, the bird cuts loose with a stream of invective that would make a veteran pirate blush. At that point, he is so mad that he throws the Parrot into the freezer. For the first few seconds there is a terrible ruckus. The bird kicks and claws and squawks to no avail.

Then it suddenly gets very quiet.

At first the guy just waits, but then he starts to think that the bird may be hurt. After a couple of minutes of silence, he's so worried that he opens up the freezer door. The bird calmly climbs onto the man's out-stretched arm and says, "Awfully sorry about the trouble I gave you. I'll do my best to improve my vocabulary from now on. By the way, what did the chicken do?"


Blog Captain's Notes: Got your own pirate yarn, joke, interesting fact or other? Send it the heck in and you can scrimshawed by Flarq the harpooner. Click here for details. And last but whatever the opposite of least is, thanks to Jack Hughett. For more jokes and everything you ever wanted to know about sailing except piracy info, drop anchor at his fantastic site, midatlanticsail.com. Flarq was going to scrimshaw a pirate parrot for Jack. Then we remembered there's one on the cover of our book. So a simple cut and paste later, we are hitting the tipple house early. Cheers.

The Awesomest Pirate Ever
This great (true) story comes to us courtesy of Cindy Vallar, editor of one of my favorite magazines, Pirates and Privateers (my other favorites are Smithsonian, The Economist, and Nuns Taking Baths).


Cheng I Sao (“wife of Cheng I”)


Along the coastal waters of the South China Sea, many people lived and worked on junks rather than reside on the land. These boats were crammed with family members from the youngest infant to the oldest grandparent. The women worked alongside the men, fishing, trading, and pirating. One such woman was Cheng I Sao (also known as Ching Yih Saou, Ching Shih, and Lady Ch’ing). A former prostitute who married a sea robber, she and her husband organized a confederation of pirates that eventually numbered over 50,000. They ransomed captives and their ships while extorting payment from people who lived along the coast to not attack their villages.

When her husband died in 1807, Cheng I Sao assumed command of the pirates. She appointed Chang Pao, her husband’s adopted son, leader of the Red Fleet, the most powerful of the six fleets that made up the pirate confederation. Soon after they became lovers.

According to the code of conduct that spelled out the rules and rewards under which the Chinese sailed, each pirate received two plundered pieces for every ten captured. Since Cheng I Sao did not wish to live hand to mouth, the rest of the plunder was stored in warehouses to insure that the squadrons were always armed and ready. The code of conduct also spelled out punishments harsher than those administered to buccaneers of the previous century in the West Indies. Any who disobeyed an order or stole from the common plunder were beheaded. Deserters lost their ears. The first time pirates concealed booty they were flogged. The second time they died. If they raped a female captive, they were executed. If the woman agreed to the sex, the man was beheaded while weights were tied to the woman’s legs and she was tossed overboard.

Fleets sent by the Chinese Imperial Navy to destroy the pirates were themselves destroyed. By 1808 they had lost sixty-three vessels to the pirates. One captured officer was nailed to the ship’s deck, then beaten until he vomited blood. Later, he was taken ashore and butchered. Rather than risk capture Admiral Kwo Lang committed suicide. Coastal villages created militias to repel the raids, but the pirates exacted horrific revenge on those who defied them. In 1809 they beheaded eighty men of the Sanshan village and abducted their women and children, holding them for ransom or selling them into slavery. Seamen of captured merchant ships could join the ranks of the pirates or suffer excruciating death.

When the Imperial government solicited assistance from British and Portuguese warships, Cheng I Sao decided to retire from piracy. In April 1810, she negotiated terms of an amnesty with the Governor General of Canton. Less than 400 pirates suffered any form of punishment: 60 banished for two years, 151 exiled, and 126 executed. The remaining 17,318 pirates surrendered their weapons and 226 junks, but retained their plunder. Those who wished to join the army could, including her lover, Chang Pao, who received the rank of lieutenant and command of a private fleet of twenty junks.

Cheng I Sao and Chang Pao settled in Fukien. They eventually married and had a son. When Chang, who had been promoted to colonel, died in 1822 at the age of thirty-six, Cheng I Sao returned to Canton. A wealthy woman, she ran a gambling house and possibly a ring of smugglers, but otherwise led a quiet life until her death in 1844. She was sixty-nine years old.

While numerous written records of her exploits and battles exist, we don’t know what she looked like and have few clues as to her character. She was resourceful, powerful, and cunning. She combined strict discipline with uncommon business acumen. What cannot be denied is that she was the most notorious and feared pirate of her day.

Copyright © 2000 Cindy Vallar


Blog Captain’s Notes: First order of business, Cindy gets a scrimshaw of her choice by Flarq the harpooner. This one was tough as we had to go and get the bones for Flarq to draw.

Got your own pirate yarn, joke, interesting fact or other? Send it the heck in and you can get a scrimshaw by Flarq too. Click here for details. For more pirate history and other useful pirate info, drop anchor at PiratesOfPensacola.com.