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									Pirates? The Politics of
 Plunder, 1550–1650

         Edited by
       Claire Jowitt
Early Modern Literature in History

General Editors: Cedric C. Brown, Professor of English and Dean of the Faculty
of Arts and Humanities, University of Reading; Andrew Hadfield, Professor of
English, University of Sussex, Brighton
Advisory Board: Donna Hamilton, University of Maryland; Jean Howard,
University of Columbia; John Kerrigan, University of Cambridge; Richard
McCoy, CUNY; Sharon Achinstein, University of Oxford
Within the period 1520–1740 this series discusses many kinds of writing, both
within and outside the established canon. The volumes may employ different
theoretical perspectives, but they share an historical awareness and an interest
in seeing their texts in lively negotiation with their own and successive cultures.

Titles include:
Andrea Brady
Laws in Mourning
Jocelyn Catty
Unbridled Speech
Dermot Cavanagh
Danielle Clarke and Elizabeth Clarke (editors)
Gendered Writing in Early Modern England
James Daybell (editor)
Jerome De Groot
John Dolan
Tobias Döring
Sarah M. Dunnigan
Andrew Hadfield
William M. Hamlin
Elizabeth Heale
Chronicles of the Self
Claire Jowitt (editor)
Pauline Kiernan
Arthur F. Marotti (editor)
Jean-Christopher Mayer
History, Religion and the Stage
Jennifer Richards (editor)
Sasha Roberts
Rosalind Smith
The Politics of Absence
Mark Thornton Burnett
Authority and Obedience

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Pirates? The Politics of
Plunder, 1550–1650

Edited by
Claire Jowitt
© Editorial matter, selection and Introduction, Chapter 9 © Claire E. Jowitt 2007
All remaining chapters © respective authors 2007
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pirates? : the politics of plunder, 1550–1650 / edited by Claire Jowitt
       p. cm.
    Includes bibliographical references and index.
    ISBN 0–230–00327–3
     1. Pirates–History–16th century. 2. Pirates–History–17th century.
    3. Naval history, Modern–16th century. 4. Naval history,
    Modern–17th century. I. Jowitt, Claire.
     G535.P577 2006
     910.4′5–dc22                                                   2006046438

10     9    8    7     6     5    4     3    2     1
16    15   14   13    12    11   10    09   08    07
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham and Eastbourne
For Patrick
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List of Figures                                                  ix

Acknowledgements                                                  x

Notes on Contributors                                           xii

Part I    Piracy? Some Definitions                                1

Introduction: Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650         3
Claire Jowitt

 1 ‘Hostis Humani Generis’ – The Pirate as Outlaw in the
    Early Modern Law of the Sea                                  20
Christopher Harding

Part II    Perspectives on Piracy                               39

 2 The Problem of Piracy in Ireland, 1570–1630                   41
John C. Appleby

 3 Piracy and Captivity in the Early Modern Mediterranean:
   The Perspective from Barbary                                  56
Nabil Matar

 4 Crusading Piracy? The Curious Case of the Spanish in the
    Channel, 1590–95                                             74
Matthew Dimmock

 5 Acting Pirates: Converting A Christian Turned Turk            90
Mark Hutchings

 6 ‘We are not pirates’: Piracy and Navigation in The Lusiads   105
Bernhard Klein

 7 Virolet and Martia the Pirate’s Daughter: Gender and
    Genre in Fletcher and Massinger’s The Double Marriage       118
Lucy Munro

viii Contents

Part III    Pirate Afterlives                                135

 8 Sir Francis Drake’s Ghost: Piracy, Cultural Memory,
   and Spectral Nationhood                                   137
Mark Netzloff

 9 Scaffold Performances: The Politics of Pirate Execution   151
Claire Jowitt

10 Of Pirates, Slaves, and Diplomats: Anglo-American
    Writing about the Maghrib in the Age of Empire           169
Gerald MacLean

Notes                                                        187

Select Bibliography                                          226

Index                                                        236

List of Figures

0.1 Detail from Anon, A True Relation of the Life and Death
    of Sir Andrew Barton, a Pirate and Rover on the seas, Wood
    402 (37). Reproduced courtesy of The Bodleian Library,
    University of Oxford.                                          5

3.1 Paolo Caliari Véronèze, Les Noces de Cana, Paris, musée
    du Louvre. Reproduced with permission Photo RMN.              58

3.2 Pietro Tacca, Monument to Ferdinand I, Livorno: detail
    of the Moorish Slave. © 1990, Photo Scala, Florence.          59

3.3 The mosque by Ahmed el-Ingles in Rabat. Reproduced
    with permission from Nabil Matar.                             72

7.1 Inigo Jones, costume for Lucy, Countess of Bedford, in
    The Masque of Queens (1609), Devonshire Collection
    Chatsworth. Reproduced by permission of the Duke of
    Devonshire and the Chatsworth Settlement Trustees.
    Photograph: Photographic Survey, Courtauld Institute
    of Art.                                                      124

7.2 Portrait of Penthisilaea, Thomas Heywood’s The
    Exemplary Lives and Memorable Acts of Nine the Most
    Worthy Women of the World (1640). Published with
    permission from The Beinecke Rare Book and
    Manuscript Library.                                          125


This book has its origin in a conference on ‘Pirates! Plunderers at Sea
in the Age of Empire 1550–1650’, which was held at the Gregynog,
the conference centre of the University of Wales, in beautiful late
spring weather in May 2005. My first thanks goes then to all the
scholars, friends and colleagues who made the event such an intel-
lectually stimulating and socially convivial event, but especially Ken
Parker who not only gave a splendid plenary paper himself, but also
was also immensely thoughtful and generous in discussion and ques-
tion sessions. I would also like to thank the University of Wales
Aberystwyth, Gregynog Conference Centre, and the Society for
Renaissance Studies, who generously helped finance the event
through grants and awards. My colleagues Peter Barry, Sarah Prescott
and Diane Watt in the English Department at Aberystwyth were
tremendously supportive whilst I was planning the conference;
as was my research student Stephan Schmuck. I also gratefully ack-
nowledge the help of Julie Roberts, the Secretary of the English
Department at UWA, who dealt with the conference paperwork with
efficiency and tireless good humour; and of Christoph Lindner, who
provided me with a mine of information about conference organ-
ization at UWA. Liz Oakley-Brown of Canterbury Christ Church
University College, formerly UWA, stepped into the breach during
the conference, helping smooth over any minor hiccups, in part-
icular chasing up Birmingham airport baggage handlers’ loss of Nabil
Matar’s luggage, which appeared to have been plundered in transit
for nearly 48 hours.
   In the production of this book I have accrued other significant debts.
I am delighted that this book appears in Cedric Brown’s and Andrew
Hadfield’s Literature in History series at Palgrave, and I thank them for
their faith in the project. The Literature, Theatre and Performance
team at Palgrave has been consistently helpful and efficient at every
stage in the genesis of this book. The book’s contributors have,
uniformly, been a pleasure to work with, sticking to deadlines and
responding with alacrity to editorial comments and each others’ work,
despite other commitments. I am especially grateful to John Appleby
who read and commented on the book’s Introduction, and to Paulina
Kewes, Kevin Sharpe, David Shuttleton, and Greg Walker who provided
                                                     Acknowledgements xi

extremely helpful feedback on my chapter on pirate scaffolds. In the
final stages of the production of this book I took up an appointment at
Nottingham Trent University: I am grateful to my new colleagues to
listening to my enthusiasm on this subject with patience. A final
acknowledgement is to Gerald MacLean: it is to him that I owe a debt
for the book’s title since he suggested the change from the rather too
emphatic ‘Pirates!’ to the more inquiring ‘Pirates?’, an alteration which
much better reflects the arguments of the book.
Notes on Contributors

John C. Appleby is Senior Lecturer in History at Liverpool Hope
University College. His research interests are in early modern English
maritime and colonial history, including piracy and privateering in
England and Ireland. He is a contributor to the New Maritime History of
Devon vol. 1 (1992), and to the Oxford History of the British Empire vol. 1
(1998). He is editor of A Calendar of Material Relating to Ireland from the
High Court of Admiralty Examinations 1536–1641 (1992).

Matthew Dimmock is Lecturer in English at the University of Sussex
and member of the University’s Centre for Early Modern Studies. He is
the author of New Turkes: Dramatising Islam and the Ottomans in Early
Modern England (2005) and co-editor (with Matthew Birchwood) of
Cultural Encounters Between East and West, 1453–1699 (2005). He is
interested in early modern cultural and religious encounters.

Christopher Harding is Professor of Law at the University of Wales,
Aberystwyth. His research interests include European and International
law, crime and delinquency in the international context, and penal
theory and history. More recently his research has focused on evolving
legal structures and identities, especially in relation to the construction
and control of criminal behaviour. One major research project focused
on the criminalization of business cartels which was published (with
J. Joshua) as Regulating Cartels in Europe (2003) and as ‘Business
Collusion as a Criminological Phenomenon’, forthcoming in Critical

Mark Hutchings is a Lecturer in English at the University of Reading,
specializing in early modern theatre and drama in performance.
His edition of Three Jacobean ‘Turkish’ Plays (Revels Series) is in prepara-
tion and a co-authored book with A. A. Bromham, Middleton and his
Collaborators is forthcoming in 2006. His published and current
research focuses on the staging and reception of the Ottoman Empire
and the theatre of Thomas Middleton.

Claire Jowitt is Professor of English at the Nottingham Trent University.
She is the author of Voyage Drama and Gender Politics 1589–1642: Real
and Imagined Worlds (2003) and co-editor of The Arts of Seventeenth
Century Science: Representations of the Natural World in European and North
                                                Notes on Contributors xiii

American Culture (2002). Her research interests focus on colonialism and
empire, travel writing and piracy, and she is currently finishing a book
Alien Nation: Piracy and Empire 1580–1630.

Bernhard Klein is Reader in Literature at the University of Essex. His
publications include a monograph on Maps and the Writing of Space in
Early Modern England and Ireland (2001) and several edited collections,
among them Fictions of the Sea: Critical Perspectives on the Ocean in
British Literature and Culture (2002) and Sea Changes: Historicizing the
Ocean (2004). He is currently working on a cultural history of the
ocean in the early modern period.
Gerald MacLean is Anniversary Professor of English at the University
of York. Recent book publications include The Rise of Oriental Travel:
English Travellers to the Ottoman Empire, 1580–1720 (2004); and, as
editor Re-Orientating the Renaissance: Cultural Exchanges with the East
(2005). He is currently completing Looking East: English Writing and the
Ottoman Empire before 1800.

Nabil Matar is Professor of English and Department Head of Human-
ities and Communication at the Florida Institute of Technology.
His research focuses on the interaction between Europe, particularly
England, and the world of Islam in the sixteenth and seventeenth cen-
turies. He is the author of Islam in Britain 1558–1685 (1998); Turks,
Moors and Englishmen in the Age of Discovery (1999); In the Lands of the
Christians: Arabic Travel Writing in the Seventeenth Century (2003) and
Barbary and Britain, 1589–1689 (2005).

Lucy Munro is a Lecturer in English at Keele University. She is the
author of Children of the Queen’s Revels: A Jacobean Theatre Repertory
(2005) and has edited Edward Sharpham’s The Fleer for Globe Quartos

Mark Netzloff is Associate Professor of English at the University of
Wisconsin-Milwaukee. He is the author of England’s Internal Colonies:
Class, Capital, and the Literature of Early Modern English Colonialism
(2003). His current book project examines English travel and migration
in early modern Europe.
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Part I
Piracy? Some Definitions
This page intentionally left blank
Introduction: Pirates? The Politics
of Plunder, 1550–1650
Claire Jowitt

Pirates have long held a significant place in literature. Heliodorus’
Ethiopian Story, for instance, begins in media res on a corpse-strewn
Egyptian beach.1 It is only five books later in the romance’s account of
Theagenes’ and Cariclia’s adventures that the reader becomes fully
aware that the dead men were in fact pirates, and the events and
significance of the enigmatic opening scene is explained as characters’
reactions to the test of piracy are indicative of their moral and religious
principles. Pirates likewise make frequent appearances in Renaissance
literature. In Shakespeare’s plays pirates play small but important roles:
in Measure for Measure, Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Pericles, The Merchant of
Venice, for example, pirates intervene in the action in ways crucial to
each play’s plot development. Both the number of literary pirates, and
their ability to change the course of the story despite the size of their
role, indicate that these figures haunted the literary imagination.
Sometimes they take up roles centre stage – such as John Ward in
Robert Daborne’s A Christian Turned Turk – but more often than not,
pirates appear on the sidelines of literary texts, unruly, discontented
figures, excluded from the main story, but refusing to be wholly sup-
pressed. For example, in Measure for Measure the conveniently deceased
pirate Ragozine plays a crucial role in saving Claudio from Angelo’s
injustice, when the first substitute, the condemned Barnadine, refuses
to co-operate in providing a severed head to show Angelo.2
   If literary pirates can be seen as liminal, so too can the men (and
women) who committed violent crimes at sea in this period as they
operated on the hinterland between licit and illicit activities. Current
work on Renaissance travel writing, and the origins of empire, has not
focused on piracy in a sustained way. In recent years early modern histo-
rians have begun to address activities that tied distant regions of the
4 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

world together – such as migration, long range trade, proselytization – but
a detailed study of piracy as another mechanism that connects cultures is
yet to be undertaken. This book is an attempt in that direction. It ques-
tions how pirates should be understood in one of the most exciting
periods of maritime history: whether as political or sexual radicals, as
interceptors of and disrupters to networks of economic and cultural
exchange, or, in fact, as key, if often unrecognized, players in the creation
of cultural connections? Taken together, the essays in this collection
explore the rich variety of cultural work undertaken by ‘pirates’: as alle-
gories of religious and political issues; as actors in the theatre of empire;
in terms of gendered behaviour, national, legal or racial identities.
   I want to begin this book by showing in brief the types of cultural
work that the figure of the ‘pirate’ could perform in the years
1550–1650. In London in 1630 a one-page broadsheet was published
containing a ballad (to be sung to the tune of ‘Come follow me love’),
about the exploits of the early sixteenth-century Scottish ‘pirate’
Sir Andrew Barton, A True Relation of the Life and Death of Sir Andrew
Barton, A Pirate and Rover on the Sea.3 What concerns me here is why
was this old story about ‘the Scottish “Drake”’ was revived in 1630 (see
Figure 0.1)?4 In what ways did it speak to the interests of a new,
Caroline, readership? In the case of the anonymous 1630 ballad my
focus is on the ways ‘piracy’ figures as an allegory for a larger set of
relations between England and Scotland in the hundred years or so
between Barton’s activities and his published textual representation
and acts as, through comparison with Tudor success, a parable of
Caroline naval failure.
   Before examining Barton’s depiction in the ballad, I want to situate
this analysis by providing information about his real-life activities.
Andrew Barton and his family are important figures in Scotland’s mar-
itime history. Based in Leith, in the fifteenth century the centre of
Scotland’s seaborne activity, the three Barton brothers, Andrew, Robert
and John stood high in the favour of King James IV, receiving gifts of
money and lands at his hands, and enjoying extensive and profitable
legitimate trading interests.5 By the early sixteenth century, the Barton
family were the most important naval captains in Scotland, employed
on a variety of official and unofficial royal missions including escorting
Perkin Warbeck from Scotland in 1497 (Robert), conveying the King’s
illegitimate son Alexander Stewart to France in 1507 (John) and reveng-
ing the murder of Scottish merchant seamen by Dutch pirates in 1509
(Andrew).6 Indeed Andrew Barton carried out the King’s orders against
the Dutch pirates so completely that he cleared the Scottish coast of
their ships, and sent the King a number of barrels full of their heads.7
                                                                 Claire Jowitt 5

Figure 0.1 Detail from Anon, A True Relation of the Life and Death of Sir Andrew
Barton, a Pirate and Rover on the seas, Wood 402 (37). Reproduced courtesy of
The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford.
6 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   As well as performing these official maritime exploits, the Barton
brothers were also involved in a variety of less legitimate seaborne
activities. In 1576 Andrew, Robert and John’s father, John Barton, was
voyaging from the port of Sluis in Flanders to Leith on the Juliana,
when he was attacked by two Portuguese ships, his cargo stolen, some
of the crew killed and the rest, Barton senior included, cut adrift.8 After
the failure of repeated appeals to the King of Portugal for redress,
despite travelling to Lisbon to make the case, Barton persuaded James
III to issue him letters of marque against Portugal, which were renewed
by James IV at the beginning of his reign in 1488. These letters of
reprisal authorized the Bartons to seize Portuguese vessels and cargoes
to make good their losses to the value of 12,000 ducats, with the result
that the Bartons undertook a private war against Portuguese shipping,
especially the richly laden caravels returning from India and Africa.9
These letters were intermittently suspended, but on 20 November 1506
James renewed them, sending Rothesay Herald to the Portuguese court
to announce they were in force again in July 1507.
   The next four years were ones of extreme violence with all three of
the Barton brothers strenuously attacking Portuguese, and other, ship-
ping. These activities demonstrate something that the essays in this
collection repeatedly discuss: the permeable boundary between legit-
imate and illegitimate seaborne activities; in this case some of the
Bartons’ exploits were performed with the permission of James IV or
John of Denmark under letters of marque, and some attacks were
undertaken independently.10 For example, in March 1511 Margaret of
Savoy’s envoy, Aloysius Boniannus, complained to the Edinburgh
Council about Andrew Barton capturing a Breton ship and plundering
goods belonging to Antwerp merchants. Barton failed to answer the
charges or appear before the Scottish Lords of Council, provoking them
to declare that if Bonciannus ‘or any uther wald gar tak the said party,
that is to say Andro Bartyn, justice sald be ministrat.’11 It seems likely
that Barton had returned to Denmark, since King John had again asked
for the loan of Barton and his ships from James IV, and Barton clearly
suffered no ill consequences from these complaints since James once
more renewed the letters of marque against Portugal.12
   As a result, Barton sailed south in his ship the Lion, accompanied by
the Jenny Pirwin, according to the chronicler Edward Hall, ‘saiying that
the kyng of Scottes, had warre with the Portingales, did rob every
nacion, and so stopped the kynges stremes, that no merchauntes
almost could passe, and when he took thenglishmenes goodes he said
they wer Portyngales goodes, and thus he haunted and robbed at every
                                                            Claire Jowitt 7

havens mouthe.’13 In the wake of these attacks, the distressed
merchants complained to Henry VIII about Barton’s reign of plunder:
the English King ordered the Admiral of England, Sir Edward Howard,
and his brother, Lord Thomas Howard, to deal with the situation by
equipping two ships ‘in all hast to the sea’ in June 1511.14
   If Barton’s activities here demonstrate the permeable nature of the
boundary between legitimate and illegitimate violence at sea, so too
does Henry’s reaction to them. As R. L. Mackie summarizes: ‘[a]ccord-
ing to the Treaty of 1502, which he had confirmed in 1509, Henry
should first have asked the King of Scots for redress; then if he
obtained no satisfactory answer from James at the end of six months,
he should have issued letters of marque.’15 In other words, the English
King’s response to Barton was also, strictly speaking, ‘piratical’, since
his orders to the Howards to put to sea immediately ignore the estab-
lished conventions governing appropriate redress from a brother
monarch for the actions of one of his subjects. Indeed, Henry’s flouting
of established diplomatic practice in order to establish his sovereignty
at sea through an immediate armed response to Barton’s activities may
have been motivated by national rivalry and the strategic situation in
1511. In 1506 James IV had begun building a powerful new ship, the
Michael, and by 1511 Henry VIII was receiving reports from his ambas-
sador in Edinburgh indicating just how superior she was to any English
vessel. According to N. A. M. Rodger the Michael was ‘revolutionary in
design’, since in contrast to the English navy which acted as a carrier of
troops with small arms and light guns, the Scottish ship was ‘designed
from the first to carry a main armament of heavy artillery: twelve guns
on each side, and three bronze “basilisks”.’16 Scottish naval superiority
not only provoked English rivalry, it also was dangerous strategically
since England was contemplating an alliance with the Holy Roman
Empire against France at this time, and a Scottish counter-alliance with
France and Denmark (England’s main rival for the Baltic trade), might
prove decisive in gaining control of the seas surrounding the Atlantic
archipelago. Indeed Hall’s version of the sea battle between English
and Scottish forces emphasizes the valour displayed on both sides,
perhaps in order to demonstrate English martial prowess:

  [T]here was a sore battaill: thenglishmen wer fierce, and the Scottes
  defended them manfully, and ever Andrew blewe his whistell to
  encourage his men, yet for al that, the lord Haward and his men, by
  cleane strength entred the mayne decke: then the Englishemen
  entred on all sides, and the Scottes foughte on the hatches, but in
8 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   conclusion, Andrewe was taken, whiche was so sore wounded, that
   he died there: then all the remnaunte of the Scottes wer taken, with
   their shippe called the Lion.17

Hall also stresses Henry’s ‘merci’ in releasing his Scottish prisoners
since ‘as peace was yet between England and Scotland, that their con-
trary to that, as theves and pirates, had robbed the Kynges subjectes
within his stremes: wherefore, thei had deserved to die by the law, and
to be hanged at the low water marke.’18 Hence, James’ complaints
about Barton’s death ‘requiring restiticion, accordyng to the league and
amitie’ met a stony reply from the English King since ‘it became not
one Prince to laie a breach of a league to another Prince in doyng
Justice upon a pirate or thiefe, and that al the other Scottes that were
taken, had deserved to dye by Justice, if he had not extended his
mercie.’19 Here Henry starts to articulate a view of pirates as a kind of
special legal case, where their crime is seen as so serious that it is a
monarch’s right and duty to punish them for the offences, notwith-
standing that they are acting against previous Treaties or Leagues
between their country and that of the pirate.20
  The 1630 broadsheet is a fascinating document, provoking as many
questions as it answers concerning its textual production, its generic
conventions, and the relationship between its narrative and the June
1511 seaborne events it purports to describe. The story of Andrew
Barton has survived in other texts, most notably several inter-related
folk-ballads, variously titled Andrew Barton, Sir Andrew Barton, The
Ballad of Andrew Barton, Andrew Bartin, and Henry Martin.21 Broadly
speaking, these ballads can be divided into two groups, some – such as
Henry Martin – describe the successful piracy of three Scottish brothers
against English shipping; others – such as Sir Andrew Barton – describe
the death of the Scottish pirate at English hands. The ballads’ chrono-
logical relation to each other has not been categorically established,
though several theories have been put forward.22 What is particularly
interesting, and what I want to highlight in the following discussion, is
the way these texts contrast with each other: both depart from the his-
torical record, altering significant details and adapting them for new
sets of circumstances, but in significantly different ways. To cite just
one example at this point: the story of Henry Martin describes only half
of the one told in Sir Andrew Barton, with the result that the text cele-
brates the triumph of Scottish piracy over English shipping ‘Bad news,
bad news, my brave English boys / Bad news for fair London town /
There’s a rich merchant ship and she’s cast away / cast away, cast away
                                                           Claire Jowitt 9

/ And all of her merry men drowned’.23 Sir Andrew Barton continues the
story to show the eventual defeat of Barton at the hands of the English.
Given that Barton’s death, and Henry VIII’s failure to provide ‘rest-
iticion, accordyng to the league’, contributed to the increasing Anglo-
Scots tension at the time – which ultimately lead to the battle of
Flodden Field on 9 September 1513 and James IV’s own death – it is
easy to see how the different versions of the story express Anglo-Scots
rivalry and nationalist agendas.
   Generically the broadsheet of Sir Andrew Barton initially appears to
be indebted to the romance tradition. Similar to the way at the
beginning of Chaucer’s The Knight’s Tale Theseus is importuned by
Corinth widows who have been unable to bury their husbands slain
in war at Thebes, the opening of Sir Andrew Barton describes how
King Henry VIII, whilst on his annual progress in May, was belea-
guered by 40 distressed merchants. They complain that they are
unable to ply their legitimate trades with France since ‘Barton makes
us quaile, / and robs us of our Merchants ware’ (15–16). Akin to
Arthur’s search for a champion to defend the honour of his court
against the challenge of the Green Knight in Sir Gawain and the
Green Knight, Henry commands his Lords to ‘fetch that Traitor unto
me’ (20). Like Gawain, ‘young’ (26) Lord Charles Howard responds
to his king’s demand: ‘The Scottish Knight I vow to séeke, / in place
wheresoever that he be, / And bring on shore with all his might, / or
into Scot[…]and he shall carry me’ (29–32). The main body of the
text describes Howard’s quest to capture Barton, as he sets out
equipped with a hundred men including the realm’s best gunner,
Peter Simon, and best bowman, William Horsly. No sooner have
they set sail than they encounter ‘a Merchant os New-castle’, Henry
Hunt, who has just been robbed by Barton and he agrees to lead him
to ‘that villain’ (90). Like the Michael, whose cannon so worried
Henry VIII, the merchant also emphasizes Barton’s ship’s superior
strength and firepower:

               […]e is brasse within and steele without,
               his ship most huge and very strong:
               With eighteene pieces strong and stout,
               he carieth on each side along:
               With beames from her Top-castle,
               as also being huge and high,
               That neither English nor Portugall,
               can Sir Andrew Barton passe by, (97–104)
10 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Furthermore the merchant also warns Howard about Barton’s secret
weapon: some kind of unusual mechanical device fitted to the ship ‘Let
no man to his topcastle goe / nor strive to let his beames downe fall’
  By pretending to be a merchant ship (‘Set up withal a Willow wand, /
that Merchant like I may passe by’ (131–2)) the Howards sail close
enough to Barton to tempt him to fire at their ship, and they are then
able to return fire with the full force of their hidden guns:

                In at his Decke it came so hot,
                kill’d fifty of his men of war.
                Alas, then said the Pirate stout,
                I am in danger now I see,
                This is some Lord I greatly doubt,
                that’s now set on to conquer me. (147–52)

Barton then attempts to bring his Top-castle machine into the battle,
but when two of his men are killed attempting the climb ‘up amaine, /
did this stout Pirat climbe with speed, / For armour of proofe he had
put on, / and did not of Arrow dread’ (181–4). The English bowman,
Horsly, however ‘spied a privie place […] and smote sir Andrew to the
heart,’ (193–6). With impressive bravery, Sir Andrew rallies his troops:

               Fight on, fight on my merry men all,
               a little I am hurt yet not slaine,
               Ile but lie downe and bléed a while,
               And come and fight with […] you againe
               And do not, saith he, feare English Rogues
               and of your Foes stand in no awe,
               But stand fast by S. Andrewes crosse,
               until you heare my whistle blow, (197–204)

However, since his whistle does not blow, the English board the
Scottish ship, capturing ‘Eighteenescore Scots alive in it’ (211). Similar
to the way Barton cut of the Dutch pirates’ heads to send to James IV,
in this story the English cut off Barton’s head for Howard ‘to present
unto the King’ (220). However, on being offered this gift, there is a
brief moment of anxiety concerning the King’s reaction. Henry ‘before
he knew well what was done,’ requested ‘Where is the knight and
Pirate gay / th[…] I myselfe may be his doome’ (222–4), but the tension
dissipates when he generously rewards the men who had taken Barton,
                                                          Claire Jowitt 11

and releases the surviving Scots without punishment, with ‘12 pence a
day’ until they return to ‘my brother King his land’ (247–8).
   What is particularly significant about this document is not that,
in contrast to the story told in Henry Martin, the English triumph over
the Scots, but the manner of that success. By 1630, the rivalry between
the two nations which had culminated in the Battle of Flodden was
remote in history, and for nearly 30 years there had been dynastic
union between England and Scotland since James VI of Scotland’s
assumption of the English throne in 1603. Yet by 1630, despite the
succession of James’ Scottish-born son Charles to the twin kingdoms in
1625, and the new king’s attempts to please the interests of both
nations, Anglo-Scots relations were strained.24 Charles had still not
visited the kingdom of his birth for his Scottish coronation, he had
brought in a variety of unsettling religious and other reforms to
Scotland, and his personal tastes were for the elaborate ceremony and
ritual rather than the casual informality of Edinburgh and the kirk: he
was, as Kevin Sharpe puts it, ‘a Scottish king by title only.’25 Notwith-
standing, then, the dynastic union between the two countries, by 1630
the tension between them was such that it was thought profitable to
publish Sir Andrew Barton, a broadsheet which describes the open
expression of, admittedly historically situated, hostilities between the
two nations. The tension between the Scots and the English palpably
revealed in texts like Sir Andrew Barton, despite Henry’s financial
support of the displaced Scotsmen his men have captured in the
closing lines, shows just how little the dynastic union had done to
bring the two countries together.
   Furthermore, Sir Andrew Barton also can be read as an expression of
concern about the strength of contemporary English sea-power. Akin
to English anxieties about the state of the navy relative to the
amphibious forces of other nations which lead to Henry VIII’s ship-
building programme, in 1630 Charles I’s fleet was also in poor shape.
The years 1625–30 were dispiriting ones in terms of English perfor-
mance at sea – the fleet against Spain in 1625 floundered at Cadiz; in
1627 a disastrous expedition was launched to relieve England’s allies
in the war against France, the Huguenots of La Rochelle; and Lord
Admiral Buckingham’s policy of allowing unlimited ‘reprisals’ against
enemy shipping engendered a revival of privateering on a large
scale.26 According to Rodger ‘[a]t least 737 prizes, possibly as many
as a thousand, were taken between 1626 and 1630’ and ‘the Isle of
Wight was described as “another Argier”.’ 27 Not only were the
English active in taking prizes indiscriminately, but English shipping
12 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

suffered extensively from privateering by French and Spanish ships –
particularly the Spanish squadron at Dunkirk (the ‘Dunkirkers’) who
in five years took more than 300 ships, about one-fifth of the English
merchant fleet – and from the slave-raids of the Barbary corsairs.28 It
is not difficult, therefore, to see the sorry state of English seamanship,
and the proliferation of violence at sea perpetrated both by and
against English ships, as motivation for the revival in print of a
ballad from an earlier age which celebrated English prowess at sea.
Henry’s navy under the Howards was seen as far superior to Charles’
under Buckingham (or under the Commission which replaced him
after his assassination in 1628). The publication of a text describing
Henry’s triumph at sea in a time of spectacular failure to manage the
nation’s sea affairs was not a disinterested choice. Indeed, there is a
particularly pointed – and, I would suggest, deliberate – alteration
between the historical defeat of Barton by the Howards in 1511 and
its textual representation in 1630. In 1511 it is Thomas and Edward
Howard who defeat Barton, in Sir Andrew Barton it is Lord Charles
Howard who bests the pirate. Half-brother of Thomas and Edward,
Charles Howard was born in 1536, 25 years after the battle he is sup-
posed to have won, and was the Lord High Admiral who was com-
mander-in-chief of the English fleet against the Armada in 1588. The
defeat of the Spanish Armada by Howard and his sea captains against
all odds was, understandably, celebrated and championed as a
momentous national achievement, ‘shattering the myth of invinci-
bility which Spanish armies had built up’ and ‘emboldened [the
English] to fresh attacks.’ 29 The broadsheet’s use of Lord Charles
Howard, the man best known for the glorious defeat of the Armada
and as a saviour of his country, to rid England of the depredations of
the pirate, can thus be seen as a way of highlighting some of Charles
Stuart’s perceived problems. As Ashburnham wrote to Nicholas in
October 1627 ‘[s]uch a rotten, miserable fleet, set out to sea, no man
ever saw. Our enemies seeing it may scoff at our nation’; and after
the humiliation at Cadiz in 1625 one of the officers present, William
St Ledger, wrote to Buckingham ‘I am so much ashamed that I wish
I may never live to see my sovereign nor Your Excellency’s face
again’.30 Charles Howard’s success represented the pinnacle of
English achievement, and his anachronistic presence in a 1630 text
about 1511 events, acts as an indictment against contemporary mis-
management of the navy.
   What this analysis of this neglected ‘pirate’ text reveals, then, is the
ways an historical situation might be revived, retold and rewritten for
                                                            Claire Jowitt 13

a new set of circumstances. Pirate studies are a particularly rich literary
and cultural field because pirates hold enormous popular appeal: in
texts of all periods and all genres from the classical period onwards
(such as Daphnis and Chloë and Apollonius of Tyre) pirate characters
have their place. They have come in all shapes and sizes from the
heroic rogue Long John Silver in Treasure Island (1883), through the
dastardly and inept Captain Hook in J. M. Barrie’s play Peter Pan
(1904), the bumbling but well-meaning Captain Pugwash and his
arch-enemy Cut-throat Jake in the 1970s BBC cartoon to, most
recently, Johnny Depp’s tongue-in-cheek performance as Captain Jack
Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl and
Dead Man’s Chest (dir. Gore Verbinski, 2003; 2006). The pirates dis-
cussed in the essays in this edited collection – the ‘heroic’ Francis
Drake (Netzloff), the ‘renegade’ John Ward (Hutchings), the ‘outlaws’
Purser and Clinton (Jowitt), to name just a few – are just as fascinat-
ing, their activities just as sensational, and their cultural importance
just as compelling. As the varied nature of terms applied to these indi-
viduals shows in brief, and the collection reveals in more depth, the
boundary between licit and illicit activity at sea in this period is per-
meable: one monarch’s ‘pirate’ is, literally, another’s ‘privateer’.31
Furthermore, in these years of increasing travel by Western Europeans,
as well as by Mediterranean corsairs and the mariners of the Barbary
States, out of ‘home’ waters, confrontations at sea were inevitable.
States aggressively sought to establish their territorial claim to more
distant lands and seas, or to monopolize profitable trade routes and
commerce, often with extreme violence. At the beginning of the Age
of Empire, then, ‘piracy’ intersects with a variety of larger cultural
issues: legal; national; colonial; and those to do with race, religion and
gender. ‘Piracy’ is thus a highly flexible term, serving a variety of
polemical purposes, as well as characterizing a material practice. As
we shall see in many of the essays in this collection – especially
those by Klein, Appleby and Dimmock – charges of piracy were
frequently used as part of a polemic framework of moral and religious
   The plethora of literary pirates is matched by the variety of books on
the subject though none of reproduce either the range of geographical
material or the interdisciplinary scope of this one.32 Pirates? The Politics
of Plunder 1550–1650 explores piracy as a cultural phenomenon in rela-
tion to a variety of regions and seas including Ireland; North and South
America; the Atlantic; the Mediterranean; the Barbary States; Spain;
Portugal; the Pacific, as well as England and its ‘home’ waters.
14 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   The essays in this collection show how various, and how culturally
important, were the overlapping categories of the ‘pirate’, the ‘corsair’,
the ‘buccaneer’ and the ‘privateer’ in a variety of cultural arenas in the
years 1550–1650.33 Terminology is important here; the word ‘privateer’
was not coined until 1664, but the practice of ‘private reprisal’ was
long established, and in general terms these categories are difficult to
keep separate. As Janice Thomson comments in relation to Mediter-
ranean corsairs ‘the most complicated and persistent problem […] was
whether [they] were pirates or privateers’; and as Klein suggests in rela-
tion to seaborne violence in The Luciads ‘piracy […] is more often than
not a problem of perception: it matters who calls whom a pirate, and
why.’34 However, I want to emphasize that though England possessed
little foreign territory for much of this period (even Calais had been
humiliatingly lost during the reign of Mary Tudor, and Ireland and the
Channel Islands, England’s ‘domestic’ colonies were both problematic
and contested), nevertheless these years were crucial to English, later
British, empire formation, as this was when the nation seriously
attempted, for the first time, to express ambitions for an empire to rival
that of Spain and Portugal in the West and the Ottomans in the East.35
Though the nation’s territorial possessions in no way matched its
ambitions, colonial discourses that justified, defended and proved
England’s Protestant right to empire – against the claims of rivals such
as Catholic Spain or the Ottomon Empire – were well developed.36 The
discussions of the politics of plunder in this book by noted historians,
lawyers, and literary scholars, provide an illuminating, previously
neglected window on the cultural work involved in these processes.
Indeed, this interdisciplinary study is the first to consider how rep-
resentations of plunderers were shaped by national political issues and
the agenda of particular interest groups. Looking at a variety of well-
known and neglected figures, texts, and geographical areas it shows
how attitudes to piracy and privateering were debated, contested and
changed between 1550 and 1650. A key feature of the collection is
the way the essays cross-refer to each other, allowing the interested
reader to follow up ideas and issues in essays concerned with different
locations or contexts.
   The book is split into three sections: in the first, ‘Piracy? Some
Definitions’ Christopher Harding uncovers the legal perception of
maritime piracy during the period 1550–1650 and the extent and
manner of legal regulation of such conduct. His essay ‘“Hostis Humani
Generis” – The Pirate as Outlaw in the Early Modern Law of the Sea’,
starts with the modern legal definition of piracy as an ‘international
                                                           Claire Jowitt 15

crime’, since pirates are seen as a common enemy of mankind and of
every state, and hence can be brought to justice anywhere. Harding’s
careful examination of historical evidence, however, suggests that the
pirate did not possess this definite criminal persona during the years
1550–1650, when the maritime legal space comprised a complex
pattern of emerging jurisdictions. Pirates should, he suggests, be
viewed as commercial (and sometimes political) actors who were not
outlaws, but operating within existing legal structures in order to
justify or defend apparently piratical activity. As this essay shows, the
early modern pirate was one of a number of actors operating within
and exploiting the existing rules of an evolving maritime legal space.
   With Harding’s legal definition of piracy in mind, the second section
of the book, ‘Perspectives on Piracy: Nation, Region, Religion, Politics,
Gender’ explores the politics of plunder and the cultural work per-
formed by ‘pirates’ from a variety of important viewpoints. Starting
with an in depth analysis of the impact of piracy in one particular
region, South West Ireland, John Appleby’s essay ‘The Problem of
Piracy in Ireland during the later Sixteenth and early Seventeenth
Centuries’, explores the upsurge in piratical activity in this region in a
wider context of English maritime depredation and colonial planting
in Ireland more generally. The essay also considers the early modern
English state’s responses to the problem and the changing nature of
‘piracy’ in this period.
   From Appleby’s discussion of Irish piracy and it’s relationship to
English colonial expansion, the book moves to discuss piracy in a
different early modern regional context in Nabil Matar’s chapter ‘Piracy
and Captivity in the Early Modern Mediterranean: The Perspective from
Barbary’. Here piracy is examined from a perspective which has been
largely ignored: the Muslims captured by Christian pirates in this period,
who describe their experiences in the corpus captivitis in early modern
Arabic sources. Matar’s chapter considers how much devastation
Christian corsairs inflicted on the Muslim societies of North Africa.
Through a survey of Arabic sources from the North African triple
Maghreb – Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco – he catalogues a variety of
allusions to the violence of Christian piracy and to Muslim captivity
and enslavement. This material – from travelogues, autobiographical
accounts, and correspondence – is used to examine the range of experi-
ence of Muslims who were taken captive into Christendom in this period.
   Similar to Matar’s consideration of piracy from Muslim sources,
Matthew Dimmock’s essay also examines the practise from a new
angle. In ‘Crusading Piracy? The Curious Case of the Spanish in the
16 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Channel, 1590–1595’ Dimmock considers a number of accounts, both
English and Spanish, to explore the ways ‘piracy’ might be accommo-
dated within the rhetoric of conflict. These accounts offer a little
known narrative of post-armada war consciously conducted through
the raiding and plundering methods traditionally associated with
piracy, providing an account that engages with issues of holy war, and
national and religious identities.
   The next essay in the collection, by Mark Hutchings, continues to
show the polemical uses writers in this period made of connections
between piracy and religious concerns. In ‘Acting Pirates: Converting
A Christian Turned Turk’ Hutchings focuses on the complex ways con-
version is acted out in Daborne’s play about the notorious renegade
pirate John Ward. As its title suggests, A Christian Turned Turk is pri-
marily concerned with renegades, a category of transgressor it extends
to include both pirates and converts to Islam. Hutchings suggests even
as the play exploits fears of conversion and apostasy, conversion is its
central motif. Pirates are former soldiers, cast adrift by ‘their’ country;
captives are sold into slavery in Tunis, bodies converted into currency
in the marketplace; and Jews and Christians, enthralled by the pro-
spect of riches, convert to Islam. As Hutchings reveals, not only does
the play find itself immersed in a conversion economy, but it cannot
itself avoid ‘enacting’ conversion in its production since not only do
Christian actors play Jews and Turks, but the doubling patterns of the
play indicate that actors playing Christians double as non-Christian
others. The act of conversion – to pirate and/or to Turk – is played out
in the text’s very performance as Hutchings argues that acting the
pirate/Jew/Turk illustrates as much as condemns conversion, as iden-
tity is shown to be a convertible currency in the play’s economy of
doubling on stage.
   Hutching’s emphasis on the politics of identity in relation to piracy
is carried through into Bernhard Klein’s chapter ‘“We are not pirates”:
Piracy and Navigation in The Lusiads’. Here, Klein focuses on the
deeper meanings behind the charges and denials of piracy in the 1572
maritime epic Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads) by the Portuguese poet Luís
Vaz de Camões. As Vasco da Gama (the epic hero) sails north up the
East African coast and across to India, he is frequently suspected of
being little more than a pirate by those he encounters on the way –
just as the actual explorer was during the historic first European sea
voyage to Calicut in 1498. As Klein shows, these charges can easily be
understood within the historical context of early Portuguese voyaging
in the Indian Ocean. In the poem, however, the ambiguities surround-
                                                           Claire Jowitt 17

ing references to piracy expose significant faultlines in The Lusiads’
imperial imaginary. In these moments, Klein argues, piracy is revealed
as navigation’s ‘other’, in the sense that the virtual maritime spaces
created by celestial navigation (as described in contemporary naviga-
tion manuals) are fantasies of imperial possession that deny the ethnic
and cultural diversity the Portuguese mariners actually encountered in
the Indian Ocean.
   If Klein’s chapter reveals to us the ways piracy and discourses of
power operate in Portuguese imperial literature, then Lucy Munro’s
chapter continues this emphasis but in relation to a particularly
significant early modern power relation: gender. Her chapter ‘Virolet
and Martia the Pirate’s Daughter: Gender and Genre in Fletcher and
Massinger’s The Double Marriage’ explores the links between gender
and piracy, since this play includes the pirate characters of Martia
and her father, the renegade duke-turned-pirate, Sesse. Munro describes
how Martia is seen initially as a ‘Martiall mayd’ and an amazon,
fighting as bravely as any of the men, before turning against her
father and his world when she falls in love with one of Sesse’s
captives, Virolet. Rejected by Virolet after their marriage, she begins a
liaison with the tyrannical king Ferrand, her father’s enemy, turning
to traditionally ‘female’ crimes and working to achieve her murder-
ous revenge through sexual manipulation. Munro suggests that con-
cerns about the political and social disruption associated with piracy
are crucial to the play’s double construction as sexual tragedy and
political tragicomedy. By creating a series of disturbing parallels
between Ferrand and Sesse, Fletcher and Massinger manipulate the
common association made between piracy and tyranny; these paral-
lels are eventually displaced, however, as Sesse takes on the role of
liberator and kills the tyrant. In response, Munro argues, concerns
about piracy are embodied in the ambiguous figure of Martia, a
woman who is simultaneously pirate and amazon, and masculine
and hyper-feminine.
   The final section in the book ‘Pirate Afterlives’ focuses on piracy’s
continuing cultural work both after the death of individual pirates and
through the appropriation of Renaissance pirate tropes by later writers.
The essays by Netzloff and Jowitt both focus on the ways Elizabethan
pirates are recycled by Jacobean writers for political purposes. In
‘Sir Francis Drake’s Ghost: Piracy, Cultural Memory, and Spectral
Nationhood’ Mark Netzloff examines the numerous images of Drake
that circulated during his own lifetime along with the earliest efforts to
establish his reputation in the Jacobean period. These spectral images
18 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

of Drake were, he suggests, used for competing political ends: at times
to embody a militant, aggressively interventionist foreign policy at
odds with the positions of the state; at other moments, as a way to
harness the potentially unruly energies of populist expressions of
nationalism and channel them in support of the monarchical state.
Netzloff argues that Drake’s spectral form reflected both the emergence
of, as well as the inability to conceptualize, new models of political
community, particularly in terms of definitions of citizenship.
   Netzloff’s focus on the links between piracy and political protest is
also the subject of my essay ‘Scaffold Performances: The Politics of
Pirate Execution’. Focusing on the pirate scaffold speeches of Thomas
Walton, alias ‘Purser’ and Clinton Atkinson, or ‘Clinton’, contained in
the anonymous pamphlet Clinton, Purser and Arnold, to their countrey-
men wheresoever (1583), in Thomas Heywood’s and William Rowley’s
tragic-comedy Fortune by Land and Sea (1607–09), and the execution of
the ‘pirate’ Walter Ralegh in 1618, I read depictions of the manner of
pirates’ deaths and their scaffold behaviour in political terms. Pirates
were able, sometimes in surprising and resourceful ways, to use their
scaffolds as a pulpit from which to express their antagonism to the
state that condemns them. Using the work of Michel Foucault,
J. A. Sharpe and Peter Lake concerning the subversive politics of scaf-
fold speeches more generally, I explore the conventions specific to
pirate scaffolds in order to analyse the ways in which these representa-
tions are sympathetic to the pirates themselves and offer a critique of
contemporary institutions of statecraft.
   The last essay in the collection, by Gerald MacLean, ‘Of Pirates,
Slaves and Diplomats: Anglo-American Writing about the Maghrib in
the Age of Empire’ is the most speculative as it moves beyond the his-
torical parameters of the rest of the book, even into the twenty-first
century. It shows the way in which the literature of immediately post-
independence ‘Young America’ appropriated images associated with
Elizabethan ‘free trade’ or piracy, and attitudes to ‘Turks’, and adapted
them for a new set of circumstances, namely the United States’ foreign
policy in North Africa, specifically Algeria, in the late eighteenth
century, and beyond. This diversity of attitudes influenced, MacLean
argues, the development of several literary forms, including in
sixteenth-century, imperially ambitious England ideas of a ‘national
literature’ based on a history of native writers as described by Dryden
and his contemporaries. For United States writers, the imperative for
the new nation – or ‘Young America’ – to have a foundational myth
and national literature was in place as soon as the concept of the
                                                         Claire Jowitt 19

United States of America came into being. MacLean describes the way
that early American writers such as Colonel David Humphreys of
Connecticut and Royall Tyler of Boston were innovators and ‘Young
American literary firsts’, writing the first sonnets and epic verse, and
the earliest plays and prose fiction respectively. MacLean reveals the
ways in which early English accounts of Mediterranean piracy develop
from residual humanistic attempts to understand the nature and range
of Ottoman imperialism spurred by imperial envy. By contrast, the
earliest efforts of the first United States commentators aimed to forge a
language and literature of national identity based on, according to
Humphreys, ‘the illustrious task of rearing an empire’. MacLean con-
cludes by tracing the legacy of these patterns of behaviour into the
twenty-first century through a brief discussion of the United States’
current foreign policy in the Middle East, particularly in relation to
‘Hostis Humani Generis’ – The Pirate
as Outlaw in the Early Modern Law
of the Sea
Christopher Harding

The purpose of this discussion is to explore the legal perception of maritime
piracy, primarily with reference to English source material, during the
period 1550–1650. How was piracy characterized and defined as a matter of
legal regulation and what was the nature and extent of the enforcement of
such law dealing with piracy during that period? The starting point for this
enquiry is the conventional legal view of maritime piracy as a distinctive
form of criminal behaviour. According to this view, historically piracy has
represented an unusual case of personal and individual behaviour directly
subject to rules of international as well as national law, as a species of ‘inter-
national crime’, the pirate being the ‘enemy of all humankind’ – ‘hostis
humani generis’. In accounts of legal history and international law, this
categorization has elevated the pirate offender to a special status, as an
exceptional and serious kind of criminal, whose behaviour has been subject
to universal condemnation – almost a precursor of the archetypal interna-
tional criminal of the later twentieth century, the war criminal. First this
chapter considers the validity of this standard depiction of the pirate as an
exceptional type of criminal, before examining in more detail the early
modern legal view of piracy. My argument will seek to qualify and clarify
what is often understood by the description ‘hostis humani generis’, and
then point to the ambivalent view of piratical activity during the sixteenth
and earlier seventeenth centuries, prior to the much more definite criminal-
ization of piracy at the turn of the eighteenth century.

The pirate as ‘hostis humani generis’ and the subject of
‘universal jurisdiction’

As students of international law are frequently told, piracy is an early
example of individual conduct directly regulated by international law,
                                                     Christopher Harding 21

the rules of which stipulated a universal jurisdiction for all states over
acts of maritime piracy committed on the high seas outside national
jurisdiction. As such piracy has sometimes been characterized as an
‘international crime’. This in turn has created an impression of serious
criminality – based upon an imperative for all states to take action
against the common threat posed by such banditry beyond their terri-
torial borders. This conventional view of the pirate as common but
special enemy is encapsulated in L. Oppenheim’s classic international
law treatise:

  Before a Law of Nations in the modern sense of the term was in ex-
  istence, a pirate was already considered an outlaw, a ‘hostis humani
  generis’. According to the Law of Nations the act of piracy makes the
  pirate lose the protection of his home state, and thereby his
  national character; and his vessel, although she may formerly have
  possessed a claim to sail under a certain State’s flag, loses such claim.
  Piracy is a so-called ‘international crime’; the pirate is considered
  the enemy of every State, and can be brought to justice anywhere.1

This is a dramatic assertion of outlaw status for both pirates and their
ships. The act of piracy strips from the perpetrator the normal legal
protection of his or her home state, and thereby exposes the pirate to
the jurisdiction of all other countries, which are encouraged and even
obliged by international law to take legal action against pirates when-
ever possible.2 Moreover, the penalties following conviction for piracy
were frequently severe. Tellingly, as a matter of English law, attempt-
ing murder during an act of piracy was still on the statute books as a
capital offence until 1998, well after the abolition of capital punish-
ment for murder more generally.3 A high degree of opprobrium also
emerges from some judicial statements regarding piracy. For instance,
according to Sir William Scott, a judge in the High Court of Admiralty:

  With professed pirates there is no state of peace. They are the enemies
  of every country, and at all times, and therefore are universally
  subject to the extreme rights of war […].4

In the light of such legal presentation, it is unsurprising that there
emerged a conventional view of the pirate as a notorious and egregious
category of criminal. This perception has been reinforced by textbook
accounts which discuss piracy not only as a topic under the heading of
‘law of the sea’ but also under the heading of ‘universal jurisdiction’. In
22 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

the latter context, it has acquired bedfellows of special moral censure,
such as war crimes, crimes against humanity and torture.5
   However, it is important to understand the purpose and nature of
the ‘universal jurisdiction’ which has provided the pirate with such
special legal status. The term ‘universal jurisdiction’ in itself may reflect
rather different objectives. On the one hand, in its judgement in the
trial of the Nazi war criminal Adolph Eichmann, the District Court of
Jerusalem stated that:

   The abhorrent crimes defined in this Law are not crimes under Israel
   law alone. These crimes, which struck at the whole of mankind and
   shocked the conscience of nations, are grave offences against the
   law of nations itself (delicta iuris gentium). Therefore, so far from
   international law negating or limiting the jurisdiction of countries
   with respect to such crimes, international law is, in the absence of
   an International Court, in need of the judicial and legislative organs
   of every country to give effect to its criminal interdictions and to
   bring the criminals to trial. The jurisdiction to try crimes under
   international law is universal.6

This is a ‘universal jurisdiction’ both justified and required by the
‘abhorrent’ nature of the crimes in question, based on a moral impera-
tive. But this would appear to be something different in its conception
from the historical form of ‘universal jurisdiction’ applied to piracy. The
latter, it may be argued, has a functional rather than imperative basis. A
genuinely distinctive legal aspect of maritime piracy resides in its loca-
tion – geographically it is by legal definition carried out beyond the
limits of territorial jurisdiction. This does not result in a jurisdictional
vacuum, since it would still be possible for both the pirate’s and the
victim’s home states to exercise personal jurisdiction, but the location
of the piratical act on the high seas does in a geographical sense place it
in a ‘jurisdictionless’ zone, within which the normal conditions of juris-
diction do not apply.7 Since, by the end of the seventeenth century, it
was widely agreed among maritime powers that piracy should be con-
trolled, then discussions arose concerning how do this in areas which
were for the most part free from the exercise of national jurisdiction. A
broad agreement that all states were equally able, and equally obliged,
to exercise jurisdiction, both to apprehend pirates and bring them to
trial, appeared as a convenient strategy for trans-national regulation of
an activity that was by then a common problem. In line with this ‘revi-
sionist’ view, Antonio Cassese has argued that the universal jurisdiction
                                                    Christopher Harding 23

over piracy was motivated not so much by the protection of a com-
munity value as the need to safeguard a joint interest in fighting a
common danger, concluding:

  Probably it was simply because piracy by definition occurred outside
  any State’s territorial jurisdiction that a useful oppressive mecha-
  nism evolved of allowing all or any State to bring pirates to justice.8

In short, special jurisdiction over piracy was a matter of optimizing
law enforcement rather than a response to any special heinousness
inherent in piratical conduct.9
   Another ‘revisionist’ argument concerning the perceived seriousness
of piracy as an offence has been presented by Eugene Kontorovich,
who questions the use of jurisdiction over piracy as a model for the
‘new universal jurisdiction’ of the later twentieth century over espe-
cially heinous crimes.10 Although aiming to sound a cautionary note in
relation to the contemporary extension of universal jurisdiction, his
analysis of the historical position regarding piracy is revealing. In par-
ticular, he demonstrates that the co-existence during the early modern
period of piracy and privateering, with the latter as a lawful and state-
sponsored piratical activity, suggested a pragmatic rather than moral
basis for any condemnation of piracy at that time:

  The coexistence of piracy and privateering within one system of legal
  norms suggests that attacks on civilian shipping were not entirely
  beyond the pale within that set of norms […] Pirates were not uni-
  versally condemned because of the nature of their actions, but rather
  for their failure to comply with the formalities of licensing.11

The phenomenon of privateering is an important aspect of this dis-
cussion, since its significance during the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries necessarily colours any perspective on piracy more generally
and undoubtedly would have informed contemporary attitudes.
   My first conclusion, therefore, is that later legal arguments relating
to the idea of universal jurisdiction and the consequent association12 of
(historical) piracy with (modern) forms of international crime compris-
ing especially egregious conduct have tended to project backwards a
certain view of piratical activity as an exceptional and seriously offen-
sive kind of criminal activity. Certainly during the sixteenth and earlier
seventeenth centuries, for a number of reasons which will be explored
below, the substance of the offence of piracy was viewed with a good
24 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

deal of ambivalence, and the identity of the pirate was a matter of
some complexity.

Piracy and privateering

Privateering is a crucial element in the discussion, since it demon-
strates the fine line between descriptions of the same conduct as
legal or illegal which would have informed contemporary views of
the substantive character of piratical activity. Quite simply, priva-
teering was a form of maritime plunder carried out by private parties
but authorized and sponsored by state authority through formal doc-
umentation known as letters of marque (sometimes referred to as

   Privateering differed from piracy only in the formalities, not in the
   substantive nature of the conduct itself. Privateers committed acts
   that would constitute piracy in the absence of a letter of marque;
   plundering merchant ships on the high seas. As with pirates, this
   was usually accomplished solely by the threat of violence […]
   Privateers often behaved as badly as pirates, yet this did not throw
   off their […] cognizable status.14

This degree of equivalence between the two forms of plundering is
important in two respects: in relation to the conduct itself, and also in
relation to the identity and reputation of the actors perpetrating the

Maritime plunder: crime, commerce or warfare?
Privateering was a well-established practice within a number of coun-
tries from the medieval period through to the nineteenth century, only
being outlawed by most states in 1856 by the Declaration of Paris; even
then the United States refused to accede to that instrument and did
not legally condemn the practice until the end of that century15 (while
a ‘privateering clause’ survives still in the US Constitution16). In formal
terms, privateering was a means of engaging in warfare at a time when
most countries’ navies were not equipped for large-scale or sustained
military action. Less formally, the practice also served the economic
interests of some countries during a period of maritime economic
expansion and of colonial development.17 As a technique of warfare,
privateers attacked the economic interests of an enemy state by attack-
ing its merchant shipping and that of other states trading with that
                                                   Christopher Harding 25

enemy. Barbara Fuchs describes the matter in the context of sixteenth-
century Anglo/Spanish relations:

  Under Elizabeth, England pursued a highly aggressive para-naval
  policy towards Spain: in the 1570s and 80s, piracy became England’s
  belated answer to Spain’s imperial expansion. Long before war
  became open in 1588, the Queen was giving her not-so-tacit
  approval to privateering expeditions that ostensibly sought new
  channels for English trade but in fact consisted mainly of attacks on
  Spanish colonies in the New World.18

Even during peacetime it continued via the authority of letters of
reprisal,19 which authorized the recouping of losses due to piracy by
attacking ships bearing the same nationality as the pirates causing such
loss. Privateering was closely regulated as a joint venture between state
and private entrepreneur – a kind of privatization of state warfare. The
privateer of course entered the venture for profit, but the spoils were
carefully divided betwseen the two partners by formal legal process: the
rules relating to ‘prize’.20 This legal regulation of privateering was
achieved firstly through the terms of the letters of marque or reprisal,
and then through the system of prize law dealing with the distribution
of and rights to plunder. An important function of the letter of marque
was to define the scope of legitimate attack, in terms of nationality of
shipping, and to set down any rules of conduct relating to the attack
and seizure of ships and the treatment of captured ships and crew. The
prize proceedings (for instance, in the case of England within the juris-
diction of the Court of Admiralty) would typically confirm that the
seizure had been carried out according to the terms of the letter of
marque, and would then comprise the legal selling of the captured
property and distribution of proceeds, all of this conferring good title
to the property on the subsequent purchaser. Such prize decisions were
internationally recognized, conferring an international legitimacy on
the whole system as a routine aspect of maritime commerce as well as
warfare. In practice, letters of marque were documents of considerable
legal and economic significance. One notable feature of their legal
importance, which also confirms the fine distinction between piracy
and privateering, was the extent to which they could be used as a
defence in criminal proceedings alleging acts of piracy.21 In short, the
system of letters of marque and reprisal provided a legal mask for what
may frequently have been criminal piracy. According to Kenneth
Andrews: ‘English captains accepted dubious letters of marque from
26 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

William of Orange or Gaspard de Coligny, the Huguenot leader, and
for three or four years around 1570 a state of near-anarchy supervened
in the Channel.’22 To a large extent the Admiralty, the office of state
with the legal power to issue these commissions, promoted for its own
profit the ensuing legal ambiguity. Ship-owners, for instance, were able
to purchase letters of reprisal in advance for trading voyages, to cover
any subsequent opportunities for plunder, as ‘licences were thus made
available to all and sundry at a price’.23
   Discussions of privateering inform and colour the perspective on
piracy more generally. Most importantly, in terms of contemporary
perception during the early modern period, it serves to broaden the
context in which piracy should be viewed. Piracy, as an activity and as
a method of maritime plunder, would not have been seen simply as a
matter of crime and criminal law, but as something which was also
closely related to the conduct of both warfare and commerce. Piracy
itself as a strategy and its participants were both requisitioned in the
interests of commerce, supplying an economic mode of warfare and a
violent way of doing business. Inevitably, this would have informed
the general view of piracy as a course of conduct.

The piratical identity: maritime criminal or national hero?
There is a second complementary dimension within the early modern
perception of piracy, focusing on the role of the pirate as an actor as
distinct from the piratical activity as such. To focus on the identity of
the pirate may be instructive since contemporary perceptions may
have depended as much on who the pirates were as what they did as
pirates. From the early modern perspective – certainly at least an
English perspective – part of the answer to this question ‘Who were the
pirates?’ would have been: persons who some of the time were priva-
teers, whose main occupation might have been described as merchant-
adventurers, and some of whom were legends, perhaps not so much in
their own time but certainly afterwards. Just to mention names such as
Francis Drake and Walter Ralegh in this context makes the point con-
cisely that the pirate could be viewed as a national hero as much as a
despised criminal.
  In his recent biography of Drake Harry Kelsey describes the late
sixteenth-century pirate-merchant-adventurer’s provenance in the
following terms:

   During the sixteenth century the maritime region of south Devon
   spawned dozens of English seafarers who made a fair living from
                                                     Christopher Harding 27

   commercial voyages. For many of them this was not enough,
   and they turned to piracy for added income. The best of them
   managed to get away with it because they coordinated their depre-
   dations with English foreign policy. Francis Drake grew up around
   Plymouth, where many such men made their homes. He was
   trained by the Hawkins family, one of the leading families of

But Kelsey may be playing up the view of Drake’s delinquency and
playing down his heroic stature among his contemporaries;25 we
should not underestimate the extent of ambivalence regarding what
happened in that sixteenth-century oceanic space. Lauren Benton, for
instance, has asserted that:

   seventeenth-century piracy was not a force of anti-legality. It was
   illegal, certainly, but great ambiguity attached to its definition in
   both theory and practice.26

And Daniel Vitkus argues that Kelsey draws too rigid a dichotomy
between the elements of hero and villain in Drake’s reputation, sug-
gesting ‘Kelsey preserves the piracy-merchant opposition and by doing
so fails to acknowledge that plunder and violence were business as
usual for English merchants operating throughout the early modern
  As we shall see, it is an instructive exercise to summarize the range of
roles performed by some of the leading ‘part-time’ pirates during this
period. These roles are largely inter-related in origin and should there-
fore be discussed together, even though some of the outcomes may
appear distinct. Moreover, during the second half of the sixteenth
century there was also a common political feature associated with
these roles, especially in relation to piracy in Atlantic waters: the strong
rivalry and frequent warfare between England and Spain as European
powers. Since much of Spain’s political and economic power at this
time resided in its South American colonies, that country’s transat-
lantic activities were both a natural target for English military action
and a stimulus for rival English ambition in the same domain.28 In this
way anti-Spanish policies and sentiment harnessed piratical and priva-
teering activity to confer upon the pirate-privateer a number of nation-
ally useful roles: as agents of warfare; agents of commerce; agents of
exploration; and ultimately as elements of a newly forged national
28 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   These identities can be very clearly traced in the careers of two par-
ticular merchant-pirate-adventurers later to be celebrated as quintes-
sential English heroes – Drake and Ralegh. The ascendant Protestant
Elizabethan-Jacobean English state had limited naval resources and
naturally entered into partnership with private entrepreneurial priva-
teers in order to achieve both naval defence and economic expan-
sion. Kelsey notes the reputation that Drake achieved in this kind of

   In fact, when Drake died in 1596 his reputation at home was in
   eclipse, but Spain rejoiced at the passing of a powerful foe. The
   Spanish dramatist and cleric Lope de Vega celebrated the event in
   1598 with his epic poem La Dragontea, publicizing ever more widely
   many of the tales current in Spain about the aptly named ‘Dragon’
   who had once preyed upon Spain and the Church.29

And he further shows how Henry Holland, writing about Drake
in 1620 ‘intimated that Drake might some day rise from his
watery grave to defend the world against a resurgent Roman
  The career of Ralegh was also based on an assault on Spanish
power and his rise and fall coincided with English state policy in
that regard, eventually falling foul of James I’s more placatory
attitude towards Spain. According to Stephen Greenblatt ‘Ralegh
was not content with clever diplomacy, piracy, and the occasional
spectacular raid. He dreamed of a far grander enterprise, of a chal-
lenge to the entire Spanish empire in the new World.’ 31 Alongside
the political, defensive and commercial ends served by pirate-
privateers, there were less aggressive achievements. As leading
explorers and navigators of the newly opened oceanic space, they
inevitably contributed much to the body of knowledge and learn-
ing. Matthew Teorey, for instance, emphasizes the contribution
of this kind made by seventeenth-century pirates such as John
Esquemeling, commenting that:

   Esquemeling described the geography, peoples, raw products,
   and Spanish weaknesses throughout the region. He provides
   hand-drawn maps of islands, ports and Spanish settlements that
   no British official or scientist has ever visited. The ex-pirates pro-
   vided fairly accurate maps, which allowed English imperialists to
   dominate and master these territories.32
                                                   Christopher Harding 29

In a more general way the experience and knowledge of geography
and navigation acquired by pirates and privateers contributed to the
process of English maritime expansion. As Andrews explains:

  [T]here grew up a race of skippers who knew the ocean as their
  forefathers had known the Channel […] trained in the school of pri-
  vateering. Their contribution to the new East India trade was indis-
  pensable, since men with the relevant practical experience of ocean
  voyages, men of proved judgement and responsibility, could hardly
  have been produced overnight […] Ships and seamen were rightly
  seen by Elizabethan statesmen as the key to mercantile power,
  and the contribution of these two decades of private warfare to
  England’s maritime strength made possible her rise to commercial
  pre-eminence in the following century.33

There is no doubt concerning the nationally valuable roles performed
by pirates-privateers. Some contemporary recognition of such roles is
evident from the careers of ‘reformed’ pirates such as Sir Henry Main-
waring, who received a pardon in 1616, was knighted two years later
and entered into a distinguished naval and official career; Mainwaring
famously remarked that ‘the State may hereafter want such men
[pirates], who commonly are the most daring and serviceable in war of
all those kind of people’.34

Another class of pirate: infidel corsairs and European

Another early modern phenomenon which would have influenced
and, most likely, complicated European perceptions of piracy was the
plundering carried out by the Barbary corsairs in the Mediterranean
region.35 At the time of Shakespeare’s writing of The Merchant of Venice
there is a reference to the risks for Mediterranean trade, exemplified by
the loss of Antonio’s ships in that play. As Shylock remarks in the play:
‘But ships are but boards, / sailors but men: there be land-rats and
water-rats, / land-thieves and water-thieves, (I mean pirates), and /
then there be the peril of waters, winds, and rocks.’36
  It was also a situation which caused considerable legal argument
concerning status as pirate or privateer. The corsairs were for
the most part state-sponsored raiders, operating on behalf of the
Barbary States (Tunis, Tripoli, Algiers, Salee). These polities were
nominally part of the Ottoman Empire but for practical purposes
30 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

acted independently of Turkish authority so that their ‘interna-
tional relations’ with other states were uncertain in a formal
sense. 37 This obscured the legal picture. On the one hand Hugo
Grotius 38 argued that the Christian nations were continually at war
with these non-Christian polities so that corsair raiding was to be
regarded as warfare and thus not piratical. A different school of
thought was represented by Alberico Gentilli. 39 In his view author-
ization by a legitimate sovereign was crucial and consequently
much depended upon whether the Barbary States were so regarded
by other countries – by removing that recognition authorized
raiding became piracy.40 Matters were further complicated by treaty
practice. Some European countries entered into individual agree-
ments with individual Barbary States, under which the latter
promised to prevent attacks on the shipping of the European
country in return for protection money or the provision of mar-
itime supplies. 41 Such treaties would remove enemy status and
authority for privateering if any raiding continued. Finally, corsairs
were also based on Malta, which was a Christian polity and as such
was expected to confine attacks to Muslim shipping. But in practice
the Maltese corsairs often targeted Greek ships.42
   Overlaying these legal complexities was a further aspect of corsair
activity: it was perceived by Christians as an activity perpetrated by
infidels who also engaged in slave trading. Thousands of Christian cap-
tives were taken for slavery during this period.43 In turn this lead to the
spectre of forced conversion.44 There was thus a sense of moral outrage
regarding the fate of these Christian captives and the redemption of
such captives became an increasingly institutionalized and state-
supported mission in a number of European countries.45 According to
Nabil Matar:

   It is impossible to calculate the exact number of Britons who were
   captured by the Barbary privateers during [this] period […]. While
   there are records of thousands of captives who were ransomed,
   innumerable others simply disappeared after being sold into slavery
   in the North African and Middle Eastern hinterlands.46

The outcome was a perception of corsair raiding and Barbary piracy as
‘barbaric’ and morally offensive in so far as being directed against
Christians, yet in legal terms it was a complicated matter. The picture
was further confused by the fact that many corsairs were actually
Europeans – ‘renegadoes’ seeking their fortune under the Barbary
                                                  Christopher Harding 31

flags.47 As Peter Earle outlines, a number of former privateers turned to
corsair piracy in the earlier part of the seventeenth century:

  When such men were declared outlaws in England, it is not too sur-
  prising that many went a stage further, made Barbary their perma-
  nent base and, unlike nearly all previous English pirates, attacked
  English as well as other Christian shipping […] becoming renegades
  or ‘turning Turk’, a change of faith which enabled them to enjoy
  the full benefits of a career of plunder in the Muslim world.48

A particularly notorious convert was John Ward, who (as Mark Hutchings
describes in Chapter 5 of this volume) became the commander of a
corsair fleet manned by both Turks and Englishmen and eventually
retired to a life of affluence in Tunis.49
  On the whole, it seems likely that corsairs would have been
regarded differently from Atlantic privateer-pirates of European origin.
But in the longer term, stronger popular feeling regarding corsairs and
renegades may have contributed to a less ambivalent view of piracy
more generally, bequeathing to it a more definitely barbaric and
outlaw character.

The pirate as legal defendant

In discussing the criminal prosecution of pirates during the seven-
teenth century, Benton has argued: ‘[e]ven the most apparently rebel-
lious and openly criminal pirates were acutely aware of the nuances of
their legal standing’.50 This statement refers to another significant
aspect of the legal position of pirates during the early modern period:
their situation was not, in legal terms, so far beyond the pale as to
make defensive legal argument a waste of time. There are two main
issues to explore in relation to the pirate as legal defendant: defence
arguments when actually brought to trial, and jurisdictional issues and
problems of enforcement.

Defence strategies
The co-existence of pirating and privateering during this period and
the fact, as noted, that the same mariners might switch from one to
the other activity, presented considerable opportunity for those
charged with piracy to defend themselves by arguing that the act in
question was authorized privateering. Since the distinction between
piracy and privateering was technical rather than substantive, there
32 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

was a ready technical defence, based upon finding documentary
authority to cover the act of piracy. Legal arguments revolved around
not only documentary evidence, comprising the interpretation and
validity of particular letters of marque or reprisal, but also issues of
time and geographical delimitation. The validity of letters of marque
depended in part on the exact timing of relations of war and peace
between particular countries, and mariners could exploit the argument
that, in distant oceanic locations, news of a change of status travelled
slowly. Moreover, the rules relating to hostile relations did not apply
beyond certain geographical limits. In this period the principle of ‘no
peace beyond the line’ had some currency, but ‘the line’ could be
variously interpreted as the equator, the Tropic of Cancer, or even to
include North America.51 As Benton has shown, a number of seven-
teenth-century pirates were astute in their use of legalistic argument to
justify dubious acts as privateering.52
   Adjudicating on the legality of conduct at the borderline between
piracy and privateering was further complicated by the background
presence of significant vested interests in such ventures. During the
reign of Elizabeth there were frequent legal claims relating to the attack
and seizure of neutral vessels and goods, as well as the seizure of
neutral goods on enemy vessels, which were frustrated by the interven-
tion of the powerful backers of the piratical-privateering raids. The liti-
gation brought by the Italian merchant Filippo Corsini in the 1590s
provides a good example of the difficulties of legal process.53 Corsini
represented the claims of a number of merchants, with strong support
from the governments of Florence and Venice, in relation to valuable
cargoes seized in 1590. Although he obtained a court order for the
arrest of the goods, he discovered that some of the cargo had quickly
(within 11 days of its arrival in England) been adjudicated good prize
and distributed. Despite eventually obtaining a favourable judgement
from an ad hoc tribunal established by the Privy Council, those who
had obtained possession of the goods succeeded in obstructing enforce-
ment so that, by 1593, Corsini complained that he was being
‘led about in a ring without end.’54 Part of the explanation of what was
happening lay in the identity of parties interested in this captured
cargo: powerful and influential men such as Walter Ralegh, George
Carey, Henry Seckford, Thomas Myddleton and Lord Howard of
Effingham, the Lord High Admiral.55
   The important point, more generally, is that the legal process and its
exploitation were well appreciated both within the pirating commu-
nity and its shadowy hinterland of promoters and investors. Benton
                                                   Christopher Harding 33

summarizes the matter as comprising ‘understandings of the maritime
legal order’ and, in relation to pirates themselves, comments that:

  No matter how remote, the possibility of prosecution caused priva-
  teers-turned-pirate to anticipate defence arguments they might use
  at trial and to make efforts to preserve the pretence of legality, even
  while openly conducting unsanctioned raids and seizures […] Trial
  records reveal defendants presenting rehearsed excuses for their
  actions and pleading for mercy, sometimes with success.56

The other main category of defence employed by both crew and captain
alike, was mutiny and coercion. It seems clear from some records that
crew members could be in genuine ignorance of the real destination of
ships or unwilling participants as a privateering expedition turned to
piracy.57 This argument was used in Ralegh’s final arraignment, since
his ill-fated expedition to Guiana in 1617–18 involved both allegedly
illegal attacks against the Spanish at San Thomé58 and an attempt by
Ralegh’s crew to turn to piracy on the return voyage. Ralegh’s defence
was that he was in ignorance of the attack on San Thomé59 and that he
had also striven to deflect the crew from their piratical intentions.60
Again, the more general point is that the fine line between privateering
or other forms of authorized venture and piracy, and the temptation for
privateers and their crews to turn pirate, especially when anticipated
profits had not materialized, would have rendered some defences of
ignorance and coercion quite plausible.

Jurisdiction and enforcement at a distance
There seem to have been further legal and practical obstacles impeding
the prosecution of alleged piracy during this period. As a matter of
English legal jurisdiction, piracy was at this time under legislation of
1536 a matter for the Admiralty Court, but employing a special
common law procedure which included the use of juries. Strictly speak-
ing, accused persons, evidence and witnesses had therefore to be trans-
ported back to England, at the very least a costly and cumbersome
procedure in practice. Legislation clearly providing for the trial of
pirates outside England was not passed until 1700. In practical terms
the apprehension of alleged pirates and securing their presence before
the properly constituted admiralty courts was not an easy matter.
There were limited resources, in terms of both ships and manpower, for
policing and apprehension of pirates, especially in the ocean areas
beyond the British Isles.61
34 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

  It is not easy to assess the level or effectiveness of enforcement of
the criminal law against piracy, during the reign of either Elizabeth
or James, although it is clear that James I had both a strong per-
sonal dislike of pirates and an incentive in his pacific policy
towards Spain for more determined law enforcement.62 But the scale
of the task of enforcement was daunting; as Andrews notes in rela-
tion to the last decades of the sixteenth century ‘[m]any hundreds
of men in these years were convicted of piracy […] thousands more
actual pirates were never convicted, for the problem was simply
unmanageable’. 63 Even apprehension and conviction would not
necessarily result in the application of the full rigour of the law.
The 1570s case of John Challice reveals the need for compromise in
law enforcement: sentenced to death, Challice was pardoned on
condition that he served as a pirate-hunter ‘to clear the coasts of
other wicked pirates, as he knows their haunts, roads and creeks
and maintainers so well he can do more than if she [the Queen]
sent ships and spent £20,000.’64
  Furthermore, the problem of enforcement was compounded during
this period by a fair measure of support for piratical activity in colonial
territories since, according to Thomson:

   Pirates supplied goods otherwise unobtainable under the Navigation
   Acts […] at bargain prices. Trade in pirated goods helped the colonies
   maintain a balance of trade with England […] Financing pirate
   voyages provided an investment opportunity for wealthy individuals
   with excess capital.65

The outcome was a culture of mutual support between pirates and
colonists, resulting for instance in ‘escapes’ of captured pirates from colo-
nial prisons, and acquittal of those pirates tried in colonial courts by
juries reluctant to see the death penalty imposed.66 Throughout the sev-
enteenth century the economy and security of the fledgling English
colonies in the Caribbean were closely intertwined with pirating activity,
although in a complex manner.
   Finally, in considering the question of law enforcement, it should also
be noted that some aspects of pirate character, even in cases of criminal
conviction, may well have struck a sympathetic chord with certain sec-
tions of popular opinion. Christopher Hill refers to a pamphlet pub-
lished in 1639, recalling the case of two well-known Elizabethan pirates,
A True Relation of the Lives and Deaths of the Two Most Famous English
Pyrates, Purser and Clinton. Hill argues that:
                                                    Christopher Harding 35

  According to this account, they were common seamen who reflected
  ‘what baseness it was in them to be no better than servants […]
  Who had the ability to command’. Thinking it high time to become
  ‘freemen of the seas’ they drew in several discontented sailors at
  Plymouth and formed a crew, seeing themselves as ‘half lords at
  sea’. They had a brief but successful career till Queen Elizabeth
  ‘thought rather by her clemency to reclaim them’ and offered a
  pardon. But ‘they were then free commanders’, and rejected the
  offer. In consequence they were proclaimed traitors, captured and
  ultimately executed.67

Hill’s analysis suggests a view and popular tradition of the pirate not so
much as ‘common criminal’, but rather as ‘noble outlaw’, and this
view is explored more fully in Claire Jowitt’s discussion of pirate scaf-
folds in Chapter 9 of this book.68 There is evidence of some contem-
porary sympathy or even respect for piratical character. For instance,
there were reports of some reluctance on the part of juries to return
guilty verdicts.69 Elsewhere there were accounts of crowds at execution
demonstrating sympathy for pirates about to be executed, and official
fears of rescue attempts on the part of crowds.70 This is not to suggest
that convicted pirates would have been exceptional in attracting a
certain degree of popular sympathy. But it would appear to be another
facet of the contemporary perception of piratical behaviour which
should be taken into account in any attempt to reconstruct a sense of
the measure of law enforcement at this time.71

Shifting identities – just like Walter Ralegh’s blues

In pointing to the transformation of piracy from ‘honorable crime’72 to
the action of hostis humani generis, Thomson argues:

  There is simply no question that piracy was a legitimate practice in
  the early European state system. Pirates brought revenue to the sov-
  ereign, public officials and private investors. They weakened
  enemies by attacking their shipping and settlements […] The most
  successful of the British pirates were knighted […] By the early eigh-
  teenth century, however, pirates were being hanged en masse in
  public executions.73

It may be overstating the case somewhat to say that there was no ques-
tion regarding its legitimacy, and that later pirates were being executed
36 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

en masse. Certainly there was no doubt that piracy was, at least in legal
terms, a criminal offence and had been for some time. There was a
longstanding sense of piratical delinquency – after all, during the
Roman period Cicero had referred to pirata as being the hostes of all
societies74 and medieval European polities had entered into treaties
providing for the prevention and punishment of piracy.75 In English
law, the Statute of 1536 regulated piracy as a criminal offence. Yet,
although from the reign of James I there was an official determination
to prosecute pirates as criminals, it would be misleading to think of the
outcome as ‘mass’ execution. Yet the core of Thomson’s statement
does convey the ambivalence with which piracy was regarded in early
modern Europe, and the reasons for that complex perception. Pirates
were simultaneously criminals and agents of national interest, illustrat-
ing what Benton has called the ‘variegated regulatory space’76 of the
ocean world at that time.
  To appreciate the early modern perception of piracy and in what
sense the practice may have been regarded as delinquent, we need
to divest ourselves of a modern and more definitely drawn idea of
criminality and criminal law. Our contemporary sense of crime is
much more uncompromising, having become the preserve of state reg-
ulation and subject to an imperative of enforcement (indeed some
jurisdictions work from a principle of obligation rather than discretion
to prosecute). It may be that we are now less capable of, and less com-
fortable with, a subtle appreciation of mixed identity compared to
early modern observers of the piratical world. The tangled politics and
morality of pirating are perhaps well dramatized in the reaction to
Ralegh’s execution in 1618, here summarized by Raleigh Trevelyan:

   Weeks later […] the town was still talking of nothing else. The exe-
   cution had come to be regarded as a national dishonour; however
   misjudged Raleigh’s enterprises, whatever mistakes he had made, his
   visions had always been the greatness of England […] There was an
   explosion of lampoons, ballads and pamphlets against Spain […] In
   a vain attempt to justify himself, James produced the Declaration
   […] Such a document was decidedly unusual for a reigning monarch
   to have sanctioned.77

Therefore, in so far as pirates were regarded as criminals during this
period, we should be careful to temper this perception and not trans-
late it into a modern and more categorical sense of criminality. Matters
were more fluid since:
                                                     Christopher Harding 37

  Privateering not only absorbed the numerous pirates of the pre-War
  period […] but it drew upon the whole maritime population, induct-
  ing landsmen as well as seamen en masse into a kind of predatory
  voyaging which verged upon and frequently deteriorated into

The reasons for this ambivalent early modern view of the subject
appear to be tied to those for the change in perception later in the sev-
enteenth century. In this regard, I would make four particular points
by way of conclusion.
   First, national interest is a crucial consideration, and national inter-
ests, and certainly that of England, changed between the beginning
and end of the seventeenth century. In economic terms, aggressive
maritime and colonial expansion was gradually replaced by more
settled and regulated trading activity. As Hill argues: ‘[b]y the later
seventeenth century trade had become all-important to the English
economy and standard of living. Piracy was suppressed.’79 In political
terms, privateering and piracy served a useful role in the Elizabethan
period while the English navy was still small;80 later in the seven-
teenth century, naval power had expanded considerably. The official
view of piracy has to be placed in this context of consolidation of
power and authority by the sovereign state during the course of that
century, a political process which in itself implied an increasing
monopolization of force and violence by the state. In that sense, in
Thomson’s words, piracy ceased to be an exploitable resource and
became instead a practice to be eliminated.81
   The second point is related, and concerns the resort to violence,
whether as a means of policy or as a personal act. Early modern
society accepted violence and force more readily than our present
society. This is evident, for instance, in both the widespread use of
corporal punishment 82 and in the use of force in international rela-
tions. Piracy, when defined as a form of plunder, accompanied if
necessary with personal violence, should be seen in such a context.
From the Spanish colonial perspective, English and Dutch pirates
and privateers in the Caribbean were pillagers, prepared to inflict
(and receive) a large amount of carnage and destruction in order to
gain their booty. 83 Yet this violent method was tolerated as an
element of both political and economic policy. As Vitkus suggests
‘[t]he enterprises of overseas trade, freebooting, maritime warfare,
slavery and colonization were supported by a cultural outlook
that imagined and glorified a new set of heroically violent roles for
38 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

venturing English subjects’.84 This cultural outlook would moderate
over time, leading to the categorical condemnation by the second
half of the twentieth century of both personal violence, as a central
concern of criminal law, and of state sanctioned violence and the
use of force in international relations. Early modern contemporaries
would have been well aware of piratical resort to violence, yet
would have had a different perspective on the subject compared to
our present sensibilities.
  Thirdly, we need also perhaps to appreciate that the individual
victims of piracy and privateering would have been regarded as ‘fair
game’ in the geopolitical context of maritime expansion. Piracy was
almost an inevitable risk of both Atlantic and Mediterranean trade, as
the luckless Antonio is aware in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice.
Drake’s acts of piracy were acceptable in Elizabethan England
especially because they were directed at Spanish merchants and ship-
ping. But again, over time, the identity of the individual victim
would shift. By the eighteenth century, there was developing a
greater separation of identity as between the individual and his
or her nation, which would eventually lead to an articulation of
human rights and the legal protection of both combatants and civil-
ians in wartime (‘humanitarian’ law).85 What increasingly informs
later perceptions of piracy, therefore, is a diminishing acceptance of
the role of the victim as an expendable element in international com-
petition and conflict, and a growing recognition of such victims’
claims to legal protection in their own right.
  Finally – and here I return to the issue of ambivalent perceptions –
there is the identity of the pirate as such. Given what has been said
above regarding the political, economic, and cultural context of
piracy in the early modern period, we need to view the piratical
identity itself as less stable and neatly defined compared to that pre-
sented in later images. It was in that earlier period possible for the
pirate, as a particular individual, to shift in identity, both quickly
and frequently: from privateer to pirate (Drake); from merchant-
adventurer to enemy of the State (Ralegh); from failed adventurers to
national heroes (both Drake and Ralegh); from delinquent pirate to
government official (Mainwaring); from pirate to celebrated explorer
(Frobisher). Modern criminal law prefers a neater concept of crim-
inality, but we should be careful not to project backwards too readily
and easily our view of l’uomo delinquente on to the identity of the
early modern pirate.
Part II
Perspectives on Piracy
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The Problem of Piracy in Ireland,
John C. Appleby

Maritime disorder was a major problem in north west European waters
during the later sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Under the
pressure of international rivalries and conflicts, organized privateering
and piracy severely disrupted trade and shipping, inflicting widespread
damage on maritime regions, stretching from the Baltic to the Mediter-
ranean. Plunder on this scale represented a significant redistribution of
wealth both between and within the economies of England, the Low
Countries, Spain, Portugal and France. For early modern states,
engaged in an uneasy process of centralization, maritime depredation
also presented a finely balanced range of problems and opportunities.
As the case of England demonstrates, states with limited financial
resources and military power were tempted to exploit private enterprise
at sea for strategic and tactical purposes, particularly in the form of pri-
vateering, under which legally commissioned private vessels were
authorized to attack enemy shipping under the guise of legitimate
reprisals. During the long Anglo-Spanish conflict from 1585 to 1604
privateering grew into an extensive business; during the closing stages
of the war, however, it became increasingly disorderly in nature.
Indeed the increasing seizure of neutral vessels, often in violent and
dubious circumstances, led to complaints that the English were a
‘nation of pirates’.1 These conditions favoured the development of
organized English piracy after 1604, when large groups of mainly
English rovers roamed the Atlantic in search of plunder. According to
some estimates there may have been as many as 40 pirate ships,
manned by 2000 men, operating during these years, which bears com-
parison with the scale of activity in the early eighteenth century,
during the so-called golden age of piracy, when between 25 and 30
pirate ships, manned with a similar number of men, were active.2
42 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

  To some extent the problem of piracy in Ireland during the period
covered by this paper grew out of the disorderly spread of English
depredation beyond its traditional bases in south west England. While
Sir Henry Mainwaring claimed in the early seventeenth century that
Ireland was a ‘nursery and storehouse of pirates’, most pirates were
English in origin.3 But the nature and scale of such piratical activity
represented a difficult problem for the English government, during an
acutely sensitive phase of plantation development, particularly in
Munster and Ulster. Some indication of the seriousness of the problem
can be gained from the surviving letter-book of Sir Arthur Chichester,
the Lord Deputy from 1605 to 1616. Although Chichester was deter-
mined to promote the plantation of Ireland, at times he was almost
overwhelmed by the problem of piracy. In a revealing insight into the
limitations of an expanding English state, the Lord Deputy was forced
into negotiations with pirate captains, despite his own dislike for such
a policy: ‘I thought it no good husbandry nor service for the King to
make such Capitulations with Pirates, since His Majesty was driven to
make reparation of their misdeeds daily, and yet Piracy increased or
continued nevertheless’.4 Not only did such discussions rebate ‘the
Edge of His Majesty’s justice and dignity’, but also they fruitlessly
consumed his resources, ‘with no better effect then if it were Water cast
into a sive.’5 On a personal level, moreover, Chichester felt that he
was involved in parleys which engaged him in bonds of honour and
conscience with pirate leaders; but the business was ‘like the
Undertaking of an other Hydra, which yields me ten labors for every
one I intended.’6
  Of course piracy was a long-standing, if intermittent, problem in
Ireland. But two overlapping developments lent it greater significance
during the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, both of
which were related to the position of Ireland within the wider geo-
graphical and political context of the British Isles. The first concerns
the changing nature of piratical activity, and the emergence of orga-
nized, deep-sea piracy after 1604, based on a pattern of voyaging in
which Irish harbours were used as safe havens for a variety of pur-
poses. The second concerns the emergence of various plantation
schemes for English settlement in Ireland, official and unofficial,
notably in coastal regions of the south west. The coincidence between
these two developments effectively confounded earlier proposals
which envisaged the construction of garrison towns in Munster as a
means of dealing with the increasing presence of pirates in the
                                                       John C. Appleby 43

   As a result the growth of organized piracy after 1604 occurred within
a colonial context, in which official plantation was accompanied by
the spread of unofficial settlement into remote regions, where the
forces of law and order were seriously compromised by local condi-
tions. In addition it was shaped by wider opportunities in the Atlantic,
which foreshadowed the subsequent development of English piracy in
the Caribbean and North America. Within this longer perspective the
problem of English piracy in Ireland during the early seventeenth
century represented a formative stage in the growth of transatlantic
depredation.8 Against such a background this chapter seeks to explore
various aspects of the problem of piracy in Ireland, especially during
the early seventeenth century, by examining its wide ranging social
and economic dimensions and by drawing attention to the flexible
response of the English state in dealing with it.
   Despite the appeal of the popular image, piracy was a complex and
multi-layered activity. The growth of English piracy in south west
Ireland needs to be located within a context of varied forms, if not tra-
ditions, of activity. Thus a crude distinction can be drawn between the
coastal raiding and plunder that predominated in the north and west,
which was a long-standing characteristic of Gaeldom, in Ireland and
Scotland, and the venturing of pirates who haunted the harbours of
the south and east, which was increasingly linked with English and
Welsh piracy across the Irish Sea. Although there were significant dif-
ferences between these two forms of piratical enterprise, in terms of
organization and range of operations for example, they overlapped
uneasily and briefly in Ireland during the late sixteenth and early
seventeenth centuries.
   As in the Western Isles of Scotland, coastal raiding in Gaelic Ireland
was partly a means of making a living within the narrow confines of a
predominantly subsistence economy. Across the north west, ranging
from the western highlands of Scotland to the west of Mayo, sea
plunder served a range of economic and social purposes, which were
often entangled with political rivalries, as demonstrated in the activ-
ities of the O’Malleys during the 1580s and 1590s. It was conducted in
small vessels, described as galleys, which were descended from the
Viking long-boat tradition of shipbuilding, bearing a sail with oars,
with two to three men serving at each oar. According to descriptions of
the galleys used by the O’Malleys, they had 15 oars on each side and
were capable of carrying up to a hundred men.9 With a fleet of at least
six or seven such vessels the O’Malleys and their neighbours reportedly
lived by robbing fishermen and other small ships that passed along the
44 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

west coast. Large fleets of these vessels, manned with a substantial
number of men, were also involved in cross-Channel raiding. In 1585,
for example, one of the Macdonnells led an expedition of 2000 men,
in 24 long ships, from Islay to Antrim.10 Such foraging expeditions
could also range over a wider field of operations. During the reign of
Elizabeth I the ‘Galleys of Kisimul’ raided deep into the Irish Sea.11
Ruari Og McNeill of Barra was one of the leading promoters of such
raiding, which was continued by his successors in the early seven-
teenth century despite ambitious attempts by King James to impose
civility on the highlands and islands.
   More alarming to James was the growth of piracy by the Mac-
donnells, a powerful Gaelic family with extensive landed interests in
the Western Isles and Ulster, including such strategically located sites
as Dunluce Castle and Rathlin Island. Though rooted in customary
forms of seafaring, which undoubtedly reflected the ethos of a society
characterized by fighting and feasting, the upsurge in Macdonnell
piracy during the early seventeenth century can also be linked with
newer opportunities and pressures, that included the growth of over-
seas trade in Ulster as a result of plantation, and the centralizing and
civilizing ambitions of the Scottish monarchy under James VI.12 These
ambitions provoked widespread unease in the highlands and islands,
leading the Macdonnells into open rebellion during 1615. The Scottish
and Irish rovers operating at this time were thus identified by James as
rebels as much as pirates, in a similar manner as the O’Malleys were
identified as rebels by the late Tudor monarchy during the 1580s
and 1590s. The association between piracy and rebellion, moreover,
was complicated by religious differences. The Catholicism of the
Macdonnells threatened to give the activities of such Gaelic sea-raiders
a wider European significance, particularly through their links with the
Spanish Monarchy.13
   Although this outbreak of piracy was short-lived, and tended to be
limited by its very nature, such petty marauding was more than a mere
irritant. Within the British Isles it challenged the imperial pretensions
of the early Stuarts, clouding the projection of a civilizing and unifying
British monarchy. Consequently under James VI and I, the Mac-
donnells and others faced the military might of England, in the form
of naval power, and the legal jurisdiction of Scotland, as demonstrated
in the Statutes of Iona of 1609 and subsequent decrees that each
Highland chief was to be limited to one 16-oared galley.14
   The activities of these Gaelic sea-rovers, and the response they pro-
voked from the Anglo-Scottish monarchy, were overlaid by the striking
                                                        John C. Appleby 45

increase in English piracy in south west Munster after 1604. For many
years, of course, pirates of various backgrounds had visited ports and
harbours in Ireland to dispose of plundered cargoes. Henry Strange-
ways, one of the most notorious pirates operating during the 1540s
and 1550s, regularly haunted the coast of Munster, acquiring a reputa-
tion as the ‘Irish pirate’, despite his Dorset background.15 According to
a report of 1589 the province of Munster was a receptacle of pirates,
who were maintained and supported by English settlers, including Sir
Edward Denny and his wife who had extensive landed interests around
Tralee in the west.16 Sir William Herbert, one of the most active pro-
moters of plantation during these years, claimed that if piracy contin-
ued to be encouraged in this way, ‘and every port and haven in those
parts be made a receptacle for them […] we must give over our inhabi-
tation there, since we shall pass neither our commodities nor ourselves
over the seas, but at their mercy.’17 But Ireland appeared to be defence-
less against the pirate menace. In the year after the Armada campaign
the lord deputy warned that ‘Duncannon could not resist a strong
pirate’; royal ships were urgently needed to fend off pirates and defend
Ireland against the threat of Spanish attack.18
   Nonetheless the growth of pirate activity in Ireland during the early
seventeenth century was unprecedented. It was also different from the
coastal raiding that flourished in the north and west, not least because
it was the product of a commercialized economy within which unem-
ployed or underemployed seamen were recruited into occasional
robbery at sea. For much of the sixteenth century this kind of small-
scale piracy was based on short-distance voyaging into the Channel and
its approaches, including the Irish Sea. The scale of such venturing
appears to have fluctuated considerably. Increasing activity during the
1560s and 1570s, which was partly encouraged by growing hostility
with Spain, facilitated the emergence of transatlantic depredation,
as demonstrated by the raids of Francis Drake and others in the
Caribbean during the 1570s. Following the outbreak of the Anglo-
Spanish war in 1585, however, the development of Atlantic piracy was
partly diverted into privateering, which was reinforced, as a business, by
its convenient relationship with patriotism and Protestantism. Under
such conditions, indeed, plunder could easily be justified as a form of
public duty. The legacy of these years can be detected in the anti-
Spanish dimension to English piracy during the early seventeenth
century, and in the way in which some pirate captains sought to
portray themselves as patriotic warriors, who were still fighting their
own war against England’s enemy. On several occasions pirates declined
46 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

to attack English vessels, or if they did the booty was returned, though
this did not prevent others, like Peter Easton – who termed English men
Turks and Jews – from indiscriminately plundering their countrymen.19
   It has become almost commonplace to argue that the growth of
organized English piracy after 1604 was the legacy of the war with
Spain. Peace created a serious problem of unemployment among hun-
dreds, possibly thousands, of mariners, who consequently sought work
aboard pirate vessels.20 The force of this interpretation is undeniable,
though it deserves more critical analysis than it has received so far.
Nevertheless the link between maritime unemployment and piracy was
affirmed by informed commentators such as Mainwaring, Richard
Hakluyt the younger and Captain John Smith.21 At the same time the
experience of Ireland during the early seventeenth century indicates
that in the Atlantic, at least, the growth of piracy was intimately
related to the opportunities presented by loosely-controlled, unruly
English expansion. Conditions in Munster created a fertile environ-
ment for migration from England, especially in the region west of Cork
which apparently was heavily depopulated in 1603. Indeed it has been
argued that piracy was one of the reasons behind the rapid spread of
English settlements in the south west region of county Cork, though
this occurred within a context of widespread disorder on land and at
   The Council Book of Munster contains varied evidence of the deep
concern of officials in the province with disorder, and of the way in
which vagrancy and criminality, particularly piracy, were yoked
together. In 1611 the Council expressed its alarm at the number of dis-
honest and desperate men in the west, who were ready recruits for vis-
iting pirate vessels. The crews of these vessels also benefited from the
favours and services of shameless and adulterous women who haunted
a growing number of unlicensed taverns, ale houses and victualling
houses along the coast. Faced with the impossibility of preventing such
contacts, the Council came round to the view that the only solution
was ‘by unpeopling and layeing waste … Ilands’ and other parts of
what it clearly perceived to be an uncontrolled borderland.23 The fol-
lowing year the Council was faced with complaints of ‘many notorious
and unusuall Robberies’ in the province. Significantly it blamed the
increase in robbery on idle and masterless men, who were ‘induced by
the access of pirates’ to range up and down the province in search of
booty. In 1613 the provincial authorities were concerned at the large
number of idle persons in the west, most of whom, it was claimed,
were pirates or former pirates, with nothing to do but ‘mischief by sea
                                                        John C. Appleby 47

or land’. Several years later the Council was still concerned at the ‘great
multitude’ of men involved in the ‘lewde and detestable trade of
piracy’, who were supported in their ‘devilish action’ by shore-based
   Collectively the concerns of the Council with the wider social
dimensions of the problem of piracy underline its determination to
promote reformation and civility in the province. Against this back-
ground pirates, and the vagrants and other masterless men with whom
they were associated, were identified as rootless troublemakers, who
lived off the sweat of other men’s brows. They disturbed the ‘good
quiet’ of the public weal, casting a shadow over the officially articu-
lated image of plantation as a means of ‘securing and civilizing’ the
province.25 At the same time, the Council complained of wicked pirates
in the west who were accused of spreading malicious rumours that
Hugh O’Neill, second earl of Tyrone, who had fled into exile in 1607,
was planning to return to Ireland with the support of a Spanish fleet
to raise a new and general rebellion, arousing widespread alarm and
discouragement among the colonial community.26
   If piracy was a serious social problem that raised complex issues con-
cerning the structure of employment among the seafaring population,
it was also an unusual, if not unrivalled, example of large-scale orga-
nized crime, which exposed the weaknesses of the early modern
English state in dealing with criminal disorder. These weaknesses were
compounded with uncertainty at the applicability of English law in
Ireland. Consequently the Henrician statue of 1536 dealing with piracy
was rarely used in Ireland, at least until the Dublin parliament passed
similar legislation in 1614. Under these conditions pirates were able to
evade the sanction of the law by claiming benefit of clergy.27 In
January 1606 the lord deputy complained that captain Connello and
seven or eight pirates, taken near Wexford, ‘will escape with life, for
they can read well.’28 Although the judges informed Chichester that
Connello and his associates would be offered ‘their “clergy”’, he urged
that they be left to face the severity of legal procedure, not least to
challenge a widespread perception among pirates ‘that the law there
can do them no hurt.’29
   In an exposed and vulnerable frontier region, such as south west
Ireland, these problems were complicated by the difficulties of
distance and communication, and by the persistence of favourable
attitudes towards pirates, despite the consolidation of a hostile metro-
politan view, which increasingly labelled pirates as the ‘enemies of all
mankind’, or, in Sir William Monson’s more forthright description, as
48 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

the ‘very scum of a commonwealth [… who were …] to be abhorred
by all honest and laborious men.’30 Similar attitudes can be detected
among officials in Ireland. According to Chichester, pirates were the
‘common enemies of society’, while Lord Danvers, lord president of
Munster, dismissed them as sea-sharkers and caterpillars.31 In practice,
however, the way in which officials dealt with pirates continued to be
qualified by wider considerations of policy, based on a belief that
former pirates could be employed in a variety of public or private ser-
vices. Such ambivalence was acknowledged and exploited by the
pirates themselves. Prior to his capture off Wexford, captain Connello
had been imprisoned for piracy in England, but he ‘was saved by the
mediation of the Lord Admiral or Lord Chamberlain’; as a result,
he was hopeful of receiving the like favour in Ireland.32 Several years
later the Lord Deputy sought the permission of the Privy Council to
employ pirates against fugitives and rebels, following the practice of
Danvers in Munster. Apparently this was unacceptable to the king’s
councillors in London, who roundly reprimanded Danvers for
his dealings with pirates, ‘for the State should not appear to give
countenance to such wicked persons, either by employing them
against others, or merchandizing with them for redemption of their
   In their defence local and regional officials repeatedly drew attention
to the scale of the pirate threat. Although modern estimates need to be
handled cautiously, at their peak the Atlantic pirates who regularly
haunted the coast of Munster during the early seventeenth century
were made up of between 30 and 40 vessels which were manned by up
to 2000 men. According to one report of 1611 there were 40 sail of
‘such vermin’ in Mamora, their rendezvous in North Africa, from
whence they sailed north, plundering Iberian and other shipping
en route to safe bases in Munster.34 Although the companies of these
pirate vessels appear to have been made up predominantly of English
men, it is worth noting that they included recruits of various national-
ities. According to a Jesuit report of 1619 a group of 47 pirates who
were captured and put on trial in Cork included one Turk and one
Moor, who were apparently converted, by sign language, baptized and
christened with the names of Peter and John; the rest of the pirate
group were either English or Irish.35
   The size and character of pirate companies during these years con-
tributed to a feeling that they were an ‘unruly multitude’ who threat-
ened the fragile peace and stability of Ireland.36 In 1606 Chichester,
who on one occasion compared the pirate menace with the dangerous
                                                        John C. Appleby 49

activities of Catholic priests, warned that captain Connello and his
associates had ‘threatened revenge upon the parties that took them,
and all their friends and neighbours.’37 Two years later captain
Williams of the king’s navy justified his failure to attack a group of
pirates on the grounds that he was overmatched.38 The following year,
in August 1609, Sir Richard Moryson, vice-president of Munster,
reported the presence of 11 pirate ships, manned with 1000 men, off
the coast, with alarming news that ten more vessels were expected to
join them. Prudently Moryson refrained from hostile or provocative
action, ‘to engage this unruly multitude into any act either of spoiling
or burning the country that might make them despair of pardon, and
fit to be entertained by any ill-affected to the quiet of this kingdom.’39
   What made these groups of pirates appear more threatening was
their organization and range of operations which reached across the
Atlantic to include Newfoundland and the Caribbean. In 1612
the Privy Council described the pirates off Munster as a confederacy,
foreshadowing modern claims in favour of the existence of a ‘pirate
confederation’ which was held together by a remarkable degree of
harmony, underpinned by the development of a code of behaviour or
conduct.40 Undoubtedly the Atlantic pirates operated under rudimen-
tary regulations, but it is difficult to detect how they were developed or
articulated during the early seventeenth century. Purser, the pirate in
Heywood and Rowley’s play, Fortune by Land and Sea (1607–09),
emphatically asserts that ‘Tho’ outlaws, we keep laws amongst our-
selves: Else we could have no certain government’, but the evidence for
clearly defined rules aboard English pirate ships during this period is
scant.41 Contemporary observers did note that the Atlantic pirates were
organized into fleets with a hierarchical structure based on the leader-
ship of an admiral, who was elected.42 But the pirate confederacy was
made up of groups of turbulent and teeming shipboard communities
whose inherent instability created the potential for deep-seated rival-
ries and hostility, particularly among aggressive and competitive
leaders, and companies of mixed backgrounds. Of necessity these
divisions were rarely visible to outside observers in Ireland. Some indi-
cation of their significance is provided by the testimony of a former
pirate concerning the rivalry between English and Dutch pirate com-
panies at Mamora during 1609 and 1610, which reached such a pitch
that the latter seized a group of English pirates, torturing the captain
and his men.43 In revenge the English set upon the Dutch; the ensuing
conflict, during which there were several fatalities, reportedly lasted for
three days.
50 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

  In practice pirates appear to have hunted for prey in small packs
though they congregated in much larger groups in secure havens. In
August 1611 a fleet of nine pirate ships, manned with 500 men, were
together in south west Munster; on hearing reports of Dutch and royal
warships on the coast they departed, ‘divided into three factions, being
as it were in a mating among themselves.’44 Despite the potential for
discord, these congregations in Ireland were important occasions in
the life-cycle of pirates, fulfilling wide ranging social and economic
functions, including the maintenance of varied relationships ashore. In
remote parts of the south west, where, as one admiralty official noted,
there were ‘fewe inhabitants and noe manner of force to annoy them’,
pirates gathered particularly in Baltimore, Leamcon, Schull and islands
within Roaringwater Bay, although some occasionally sailed farther
west and north, along the coast of Connacht.45
  According to one report, most of the suppliers of pirates in Baltimore
were women, single, widowed or married, who attempted to conceal
their activities by claiming to supply fishermen.46 Indeed women
played a significant role in supporting English pirates in Ireland during
the early seventeenth century. Although they were often the victims of
piracy, as the wives or partners of pirates they could expect a share of
their partner’s booty, as demonstrated in the circulation of gifts and
other tokens. Some of these women lived in scattered coastal commu-
nities of south west Ireland and beyond, establishing independent life-
styles that are barely recorded in the surviving evidence. The wife of
the pirate, Tibault Suxbridge, for example, managed a lodging-house
close to Dublin with the assistance of her daughters, which appears to
have served as a hiding-place for relatives and others who were
involved in piracy. Many more women turned to prostitution, the
growth of which was encouraged by the spread of unlicensed taverns
and ale houses in south west Munster. But the relationship between
prostitution and piracy placed many women in a deeply ambivalent
position, exposing them to pirate violence and disorder, as well as to
their liberality and generosity.47
  At the height of pirate activity in south west Ireland, from 1605 to
1615, the disposal of plundered commodities became a regular trade,
through which a variety of goods were widely dispersed. Although the
evidence is often anecdotal, and impossible to quantify, it indicates
that such transactions created a varied pattern of commerce, exchange
and gift-giving. Though short-lived, the scale and nature of this illicit
commerce may have played a significant part in the economic recov-
ery of Munster from the ravages of the Nine Years’ War, and in the
                                                       John C. Appleby 51

growing commercialization of a borderland region that was being
absorbed within a wider, more far-reaching Atlantic network of com-
merce and contact. Many of these coastal settlements, it has recently
been observed, have the appearance of a ‘boom town’, which was the
result of uncontrolled expansion, or ‘spillovers of English settlement’,
into regions beyond the range of official plantation.48 In such areas, it
is evident that frontier settlement was either initiated or supported by
the pirate presence: as Lord Deputy Chichester lamented in 1612,
pirates were not only supported by the Irish, but also by ‘[m]en of our
own Nation (who) under colour of Treaty do usually and familiarly
converse and commerce with them.’49
   In these circumstances the pirates were well provided with victuals
and furnished with ‘Voluntary persons’ or recruits, from inns and guest
houses along the shore which were ‘commonly full of Idle Men.’50 In
the security of havens like Leamcon, pirates were able to trim their
vessels and make preparations for future voyages. While the pastoral
economy of west Cork was well suited to provide pirate vessels with
ready supplies of beef or mutton, the south west fishery furnished
abundant supplies of fish and potential recruits, either volunteers or
forced men. The availability of such resources helped to establish a sea-
sonal pattern of voyaging: as one observer noted in 1606, groups of
English and Flemish pirates, ‘about the fishing time of Ireland, fall
from their pickering upon the coast of Spain unto these western parts
of Ireland, on purpose to victual themselves upon the fishing fleet
bound from the south and west coasts of England.’51 Although the
fishermen regularly complained that they were robbed by pirates,
according to some officials this was a cover for a flourishing provision-
ing trade with England. Chichester claimed that the pirates’ ‘principall
relief of Victualls’ was ordinarily provided by small vessels from
England, which pretended to be engaged in fishing.52 Vessels from
south west and south coast English ports were particularly involved in
this unusual commerce, which enabled ship-masters and merchants to
acquire a range of commodities, including sugar, wines and hides, at
very favourable rates of exchange. About 1609, for example, Gideon
Johnson, master of the Dorothy of London which was involved in the
pilchard trade, purchased 600 Indian hides and a substantial quantity
of gum, at Schull haven, from the pirate, Tibault Suxbridge. Johnson
reportedly paid four shillings for each hide which were later sold in
Venice for 30 shillings each.53 Even allowing for the cost of freight and
other charges, this was a hugely impressive profit which demonstrates
the underlying economic attraction of doing business with pirates.
52 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

  In Munster, as in parts of south west England and Wales, pirates
benefited from the connivance of local officials, whose approach to
this type of maritime criminality was essentially opportunistic and
entrepreneurial. Sir William Hull, a deputy vice-admiral, who settled at
Leamcon in the early seventeenth century, after receiving a pardon for
piracy committed in the Mediterranean during the closing stages of the
Elizabethan war with Spain, was one of the leading protectors, and pos-
sibly promoters, of piracy in the province. Planters and officials like
Hull were heavily engaged in regular dealings with visiting pirates: on
one occasion, indeed, Hull was reported to have claimed that a pirate
captain ‘owed him good store of money for victualls which he had
delivered unto him at his last going to sea.’54 Hull’s neighbour, a cler-
gyman, was also reputed to be a ‘victualler of pirates.’55 Despite some
attempt at concealment, the coastal communities of south west
Munster were engaged in a flourishing commerce with pirates. In 1611
there were complaints against the large number of local boats which,
‘under colour of carrying provision to the fishermen of Crookhaven
suffer themselves to be taken by the pirates, and so are forced to do,
what they purposely intended.’56
  There is a large body of evidence among the records of the high
court of admiralty and the state papers concerning the nature and
variety of these transactions. In 1608 captain Boniton brought a prize
into Baltimore laden with 160 chests of sugar, 60 of which were report-
edly brought ashore and given away. During 1612 the John of Dover
was seized by one of the king’s ships for trading with pirates, though
the master defended himself by claiming that he had given a gratuity
to the captain of the naval vessel, to allow him to trade. During the
same year, a Dutch vessel was brought into Wexford and its cargo of
goods, valued at £2500, ‘were rifled and scattered amongst the
Inhabitants of’ the town.57 In 1613 captain William Baugh arrived at
Baltimore with plundered goods estimated to be worth £3000 or
£4000. During the course of protracted negotiations concerning his
request for a pardon, Baugh distributed gifts among members of the
local community, while allegedly giving 900 pieces of eight to a local
official, captain Henry Skipwith, to procure a protection from the lord
deputy. One of Baugh’s company, Baptist Ingle, reportedly deserted the
pirate ship with £100 ‘to make merry’ with a woman ashore.58 Another
member of the company, Henry Orenge, who had been with Baugh for
about 18 months absconded with an unspecified quantity of precious
stones. Sailing from Dublin to Chester, Orenge subsequently claimed
to a yeoman of Chester that he had various diamonds and a great
                                                        John C. Appleby 53

carbuncle ‘quilled up in the plates of his hose’, some of which he tried
to sell to Lady Cooke during the course of his passage across the Irish
   Local officials and others could be the recipients of extravagant gifts
from pirate captains. In 1611 captain Harris offered £200 to any official
who could help him to procure a pardon from the crown. Several years
later captain Lording Barry gave a servant of Humphrey Jobson, an
admiralty agent from London, various amounts of gold twist, cloth of
silver, silk and a ‘negro wenche’ all valued at £100, in an effort to gain
the favour of the lord admiral in London.60 In such circumstances,
naval captains were sometimes more concerned to do business with
pirates than to arrest them. In 1609 the Privy Council was concerned
to hear that captain Williams, who claimed to have been overmatched
by a group of pirates in Baltimore, had received 19 or 20 chests of sugar
and four chests of coral from them. If the report was true, and appar-
ently it was not denied by Williams, the Council concluded that it was
‘a token of too much familiarity, and a sign that he meant not to do
them hurt from whom he received so much good.’61
   By varied means pirate plunder was widely dispersed within an
extensive and loosely formed market. Although the economic dynam-
ics that underpinned such transactions have yet to be fully investi-
gated, it seems likely that few pirates gained much from these
exchanges, at least financially. Very few, indeed, appear to have been
able to emulate captain Richard Bishop, a former admiral of the
Atlantic pirates, who retired from the sea and built a house ‘in the
English fashion’ at Schull.62 Captain Baugh, who surrendered during
1613 with possibly as much as £4000 in plunder, died in a debtor’s jail,
complaining bitterly that much of his wealth had been embezzled by
Sir William St John, the naval captain who was involved in negotiating
his surrender.63 The record for most other pirates is obscure, but it
seems likely that their rapidly acquired wealth was just as easily dis-
persed among the coastal settlements of south west Ireland, or in
North Africa, in a ‘night of Jubilee.’64
   The government response to the problem of piracy in Ireland was
varied, and always complex in operation. The extent of the problem
provoked some radical proposals, including one by the lord admiral in
1609 that the relievers of piracy in Ireland should face the death
penalty; and another by the Council of Munster, to depopulate the
coastal region and islands of the south west.65 In spite of growing hos-
tility towards pirates who, under the early Stuarts, were increasingly
described as vermin or scum, official action continued to be influenced
54 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

by an underlying assumption that most pirates were unemployed
seamen, who were forced into the trade by poverty and despair. This
attitude, and its potential implications for government policy, were
nicely captured by Sir Ferdinando Gorges, the governor of Plymouth
fort, in a letter of 1611 to the Earl of Salisbury, one of James’ leading
ministers. According to Gorges, the growth of piracy was the direct
result of the maritime unemployment that followed the peace with
Spain in 1604. Indeed, among the ‘multitude of people that daily […]
increase […] in whom there is no feeling of honesty or Religion’ piracy
was applauded; consequently, their number was likely to increase.66
Gorges concluded by noting that in order to deal with piracy, ‘[a]ges
past hath imployed great cost in the planting of Colonies in barbarous
and uninhabited parts of the world.’67 Monson made a similar point,
from a slightly different perspective, by arguing that if vagabonds were
sent to the galleys or Virginia, ‘[i]t will take away the occasion of
pirates and piracies.’68 Indeed, overseas service might be a pathway to
redemption and reclamation. Sir Richard Moryson justified the sug-
gested employment of pirates in the defence of the infant colony of
Virginia on the grounds that they were ‘active men and good mariners,
[and] hereafter when time shall wear out their former offences, with
better desert in other countries not troubled so near at hand with their
spoiling, they may return and prove necessary instruments of His
Majesty’s service.’69
  This awareness of the social roots of piracy, in which pirates were
identified as the casualties or victims of economic change, created a
profound ambiguity in the government’s attempts to deal with the
problem. Indeed under James I government policy towards piracy was
an uneasy compound of compromise and coercion, despite some
occasional tough talk from the king or his ministers. In part this was
the result of necessity, for the coercive power of the English state, as
represented by the royal navy, was of limited utility in Ireland. For
much of James’ reign the navy found it difficult to sustain regular or
effective patrolling in Irish waters. Given the extent of maritime juris-
diction across and beyond the Irish Sea this was always going to be a
challenging task; but it was intensified by the availability of only one
or two naval vessels which, as the lord deputy repeatedly complained,
were not based continually in Ireland.70 Consequently the king’s ships
were no match for the pirate fleets which congregated in the south
west during the summer. At times, moreover, the navy suffered from
such serious problems in manning, that the crews of naval vessels
seemed to be little more than a ‘rabble of loose people’, in the words
                                                        John C. Appleby 55

of Sir John Coke.71 As Chichester ruefully recorded in August 1613,
therefore, the king’s ships appeared to patrol the coasts of Ireland
‘without apprehending or seeing any Pirate.’72
   Although Chichester insisted that pirates ‘will never abstaine from ill
doing […] but for fear of prosecution and punishment’, the experience
of the early seventeenth century indicates that the government’s
flexible use of conciliation and compromise, through pardons and
even occasional pensions, met with some success, particularly among
pirates who saw themselves as patriotically plundering Iberian trade
and shipping.73 Not only did this persuade a number of pirate captains
and their companies to surrender after 1612, but also it played on the
inherent fragility of pirate groups, exposing serious divisions that
encouraged the fragmentation of English Atlantic piracy. Yet the
decline of organized English piracy, which became increasingly evident
in Ireland after 1618, was also the result of wide ranging international
developments which were beginning to change the character of pira-
tical activity in north west European waters. In Ireland pirates con-
tinued to visit remote havens and exposed coastal regions, but many
were now in search of prey and plunder. By the 1620s diverse groups of
rovers were spoiling trade and shipping off the coasts and sea
approaches of the south and south west. In 1625 a multitude of
Turkish pirates were reported to be in the west; several years later, the
Bishop of Waterford complained that ‘at sea a merchant can not
navegat two dayes, when he is taken either by a Hollander, or a
Dunkerk(er), or a French pirate, or a hungrie Biscaner’.74 In 1631
Turkish pirates raided Baltimore, carrying off more than a hundred
prisoners into captivity. The depredations of the Turks effectively frus-
trated earlier fears that there were some in Ireland who ‘would make
this coast like Barbery, common and free for all pirates’, while demon-
strating the rapid and radical changes to piratical enterprise during
these years, which were inseparable from the changing position of
Ireland both within the British Isles and a wider Atlantic context.75
Piracy and Captivity in the Early
Modern Mediterranean: The
Perspective from Barbary
Nabil Matar

             If you had seen them as they were taken,
             you would have wept blood;
             Children were separated from their mothers,
             and husbands from their wives;
             For the loss of their loved ones,
              tears streamed down their cheeks;
             And the virgin was paraded in the open,
             after her hijab was torn away from her;
             And the enemy watched gleefully,
             as tears choked her moans.1

Those were the words of Ibn Yajjabsh al-Tazi, a poet who died in 1514.
He was describing the 28 August 1471 Portuguese attack on the
Moroccan port of Asila in which more than 5000 of the inhabitants
were carried into Christian slavery. Within a few decades, the number
of Moroccan slaves rose to such an extent that the Moor in Andrew
Boorde’s The First Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge (1548) opened
his speech by identifying Moor with slave:

           I am a blake More borne in Barbary;
           Chrysten men for money oft doth me bye.
           Yf I be vnchristend, marchauntes do not ecare,
           They by me in markets, be I neuer so bare.2

  From the last quarter of the fifteenth century on, Portuguese and
Spanish ships attacked Islamic ports in North Africa, both on the
Mediterranean and the Atlantic coasts, and established military bas-
tions: Portugal seized Ceuta in 1415, Tangier (and Asila) in 1471,
                                                          Nabil Matar 57

Azammur/al-Jadida in 1486, and Safi in 1508; Spain seized Mellila
in 1497, Marsa al-Kabir in 1505, Oran in 1509, Tunis in 1535 and
al-Araish in 1610. These occupations provided bridgeheads from which
Euro-Christian armies fanned out into the country and captured thou-
sands of Muslim men, women, and children, who were either kept
captive in the presidios, or transported to the slave markets of the
European mainland and from there to the trans-Atlantic imperial pos-
sessions, from Florida to Brazil. As Ahmad Bu Sharab has extensively
documented from the sixteenth-century Portuguese archives of the
Inquisition, Magharibi men, women and children were important
commodities sought out by the Iberian pirates and invaders for the
European slave markets:3 from 1495 until 1541, 9287 Moroccans were
taken captive by the Portuguese alone; and in the ‘black years’ of
1521–22, nearly 60,000 Moroccans were seized and deported to
Europe.4 By the end of the sixteenth century, there were so many
Muslim slaves in port cities from Genoa to Cadiz that they became a
common motif in European painting and sculpture (See Figure 3.1
Veronezi, ‘The Marriage at Canaa’ and Figure 3.2 the Moorish Slave in
   At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the Moroccan rebel Ibn
Abi Mahali lamented the seizure of his countrymen by Christian
pirates: ‘[t]he sea is full of the ships of the infidels, and the mainland
with its coasts are humiliated by the worshippers of the cross’.5 Even a
small island like Malta caused deep fear among the Magharibi: in 1611,
Ahmad bin Qasim’s informant reported that there were 5500 Muslim
captives in Malta alone, 500 of whom were Andalusian/Moriscos and
the rest were Turkish and Arab.6 In 1624, after a sea battle between
Maltese and Tunisian ships, the latter released 500 Muslims from
captivity.7 Similar fear was spread by the sailors of that other not-
as-small-an-island: England. From 1609 on, England assisted Spain in
transporting the expelled Moriscos to the Maghrib. English captains
chartered their ships to the exiles and carried them across to North
Africa8 – and robbed them on the way. By the 1620s, the English were
so active in the slave trade so much so that even the English royal dele-
gate, John Harrison, complained about their depredations and their
‘taking of a ship of Salley by one Madork, and Edward Wye, and selling
the men therein 56 into Spaine for slaves.’9
   In her celebrated Captives (2002), Linda Colley explained that the
North African captives did not leave behind them narratives about
their enslavement by Christians; the early modern voice of the ‘cap-
tives’ was exclusively that of Europeans suffering from the brutality of
Figure 3.1   Paolo Caliari Véronèze, Les Noces de Cana, Paris, musée du Louvre. Reproduced with permission Photo RMN.
                                                         Nabil Matar 59

Figure 3.2 Pietro Tacca, Monument to Ferdinand I, Livorno: detail of the
Moorish Slave. © 1990, Photo Scala, Florence.
60 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

the Barbary Corsairs.10 But some Muslim captives did leave a record of
their captivity and of the devastation of the European imperial venture
on their societies and lands. These writings are unique in providing the
only early modern response to the imperial project from the point of
view of the ‘natives’ who endured the consequences of that project.
American Indians, sub-Saharan Africans, or any other slaves in the
early modern period did not leave descriptions, in their own language
and idiom, of the European invasion as did the Magharibi. So many
Magharibi captives were taken by Euro-Christians that a corpus captivitis
emerged in late medieval and early modern Arabic about the exper-
ience of Muslims in Christian captivity. This corpus captivitis does not
belong to a distinct genre of writing with its own conventions, as in
the European tradition, nor to a body of macrohistorical documents
and treatises: rather, it appears as subtexts in other texts, intrusions
into larger polemics, hagiographies, or histories and religious exposi-
tions. But this ‘meager, scattered, and obscure documentation can be
put to good use’:11 to provide a panoramic view of the Euro-Christians
constituted from within the experience of the thousands of Magharibi
Muslims who were taken captive into Christendom at the beginning of
the age of European empire.
  The captives of the early modern Mediterranean were not just
Britons and other hapless Christians but Muslims, too, defeated by
the firepower and the naval advancement of the European empire-
builders. And so the question that this chapter will address is the fol-
lowing: who were the Muslim captives, and how has their narrative
survived in the corpus captivitis of the early modern Maghrib? How
can a counter-discourse (to that of Colley and others) about early
modern Mediterranean piracy and captivity be constructed on the
basis of Arabic sources and documents?
  Muslim captives seized by European pirate and naval fleets belonged
to various nationalities: Moroccans, Algerians, Tunisians, Turks and
Arabs from Turkey and from Ottoman-ruled Egypt, Basra, and Hormuz,
along with ‘Muslim Indians’12 – native Americans who had been
brought as slaves to Europe and had subsequently converted to Islam.13
Indeed, and despite the ban on transporting Moriscos and Marranos to
the New World, many Portuguese and Spaniards took their North
African servants, captives and slaves there.14 The Moor in Cabeza de
Vaca’s 1542 account of Amerindian captivity and escape provides one
of the earliest pieces of evidence about Moorish presence in the New
World;15 ‘to beg with Indian slaves’, Cardinal Mendoza threatened
Eleazar the Moor in Thomas Dekker’s 1599/1600 play, Lust’s Dominion,
                                                            Nabil Matar 61

‘I’le banish you’ (I.3).16 Muslim captives were part of the slave labour in
the emergent European empire.
   In particular, captives belonged to one of two groups. The first were
the ghuzat, a term that chiefly applied to Ottoman fighters and janiz-
zaries, attacking European ships or ports. In May 1577, the Ottoman
Sultan, Murad III, urged the Moroccan ruler, Abd al-Malik, to appoint
ghuzat mu’mineen (devout warriors) who would, as a later letter
explained, fight in jihad against the unbelievers.17 The ghuzat were
believers struggling to defend the lands of Islam against Euro-Christian
piracy, and in the process, gaining martyrdom, booty (ghana’im), or
falling captive to their Christian enemy. God determined the outcome.
Among this group were also the Morisco exiles in North Africa who
were zealous for revenge against those who had expelled them from
home and history: ‘Wa kan minhum min al-jihad fi al-bahr ma huwa
mash-hour’ (and there were some of them who went on the sea jihad
and acquired fame), wrote al-Maqqari in the early part of the seven-
teenth century (he died in 1631).18 These were mujahideen who left
schools and mosques, Sufi circles and professional stalls in order to
protect the coastlines against the relentless conquista of their former
compatriots – and in the process were captured and enslaved.
   The second group consists of Arabo-Berber natives in the coastal
regions of the Mediterranean and the Atlantic who were seized by
European marauders and enslaved either on their own soil, or trans-
ported to Spain and Portugal and from there, sometimes, shipped to
America. Many Muslim ports were turned into Christian presidios-
cum-penal colonies and housed the worst elements from Christendom –
and from Islamdom, too. They offered a haven for the mughattiseen/
baptizers – Christianized Bedouins/arab mutanassira, as the eighteenth-
century Algerian, Abd al-Qadir al-Mashrafi, called them (or al-maghatees,
according to al-Mazari)19 – who posed as peddlers, kidnapped Muslims,
hid them under the leather wares on their horses, and then sold them in
the slave market of the presidios. On one occasion, they had even bap-
tized and sold their own imam.20 The presidios caused as much fear of
the Euro-Christians among the Magharibi as an Algerian outpost in
Aberystwyth, for instance, would have caused among the Welsh popula-
tion, or a Saletian colony in Cadiz or in Brindisi. Abu Zaid al-Fasi
described how one day, the sixteenth-century reformer, Radwan
al-Jenawy, was in the ‘West’ of the country/Morocco when he saw the
Christians on their saddled horses, scanning the horizon from
their outpost. He wept very much and called on the ruler to save the
Maghrib, for there was no safety for Muslims even on their own soil.21
62 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

‘O Christian,’ asked Muhammad bin Muhammad al-Udwani, sometime
in the middle of the seventeenth century, of a Christian from Cartagena,
‘Your hearts still yearn to invade the land of the Islam. He answered, Yes.
We have documents assuring us that we shall return to the land of the
Arabs. And so do all other Christians’.22 The ‘siege mentality’ which
Bruce Taylor identified as the consequence of Spanish fear of Barbary
Corsairs in the early modern period,23 was also experienced by the
Magharibi: that is why envoys and emissaries did not always welcome
travel into the lands of the Christians, and the humiliation and violence
that they sometimes faced remained indelibly marked in their memo-
ries.24 One of the recurrent motifs in early modern Magharibi Arabic
biographies, jurisprudential decisions, royal letters, and others, describes
the danger of Euro-Christian invasions and the destructive impact of
captivity on Magharibi stability, both political and social.
   The earliest allusions to captivity in the Magharibi corpus captivitis
appears in religious sources: theologians invented/discovered hadiths
which they ascribed to the Prophet Muhammad stating that whoever
ransoms a captive from the hands of the infidels, God will release his
body from the fires of punishment.25 Subsequently, ransoming captives
became a religious duty, a fard, and jurists turned in their legal judge-
ments to the consequences in their communities of individual and
group captivity. They found themselves confronted by social crises as
well as theological quandaries provoked by the seizure of breadwinners
and husbands, wives and children. Ahmad bin Yahya Al-Wansharisi
(d. 1508), the foremost Moroccan jurist, included numerous cases for
examination, and his judgements/fatawa reveal the extent of the crises
caused by the captivity of his co-religionists. ‘If Muslim captives escape
from an enemy ship, they should not be returned’; it is legal to
exchange Muslim captives with Christian ones; it is not legal to kill
Christian captives because then Christians would kill their Muslim cap-
tives; it is not legal to enslave Christians without the opportunity of
ransom; it is legal to exchange captives with money especially so that
Christians know how much Muslims are willing to pay for ransoming
their co-religionists.26 Other decisions reflected the role that women
enjoyed in the Maliki school (which prevails in North Africa, west of
Egypt), where they did not hesitate to go to court to seek divorce
(they could appeal to 12 reasons where other schools of jurisprudence
appealed to three or five) or to contest inheritance – and to seek
clarification on marital status in the case of the captivity/asr of the
husband. A century later, the same issues were still being discussed.
The four chief jurists of Cairo responded to Andalusian queries about
                                                           Nabil Matar 63

captivity: was it permissible for a mudejar in the lands of the Christians
to emigrate to the lands of Islam and thus expose himself to the danger
of captivity?27 At the end of that century, Algerians near Oran ques-
tioned their jurists whether it was permissible for them to capture the
unclean boar and exchange it for their captured kinsmen?28 Starved in
their besieged presidios, Spaniards were not unwilling to exchange
Muslims for food.
  Further references to captivity appear in poems, memoirs, travel-
ogues, recollections, and official correspondence which constitute the
vast majority of the Arabic corpus captivitis, from both the Mashriq and
the Maghrib. In 1613, the court scribe of the Lebanese prince, Fakhr
al-Din, described Muslim slaves in Leghorn. There were, he wrote,
around three thousand slaves, mostly Muslim with some Christian
felons, all confined in underground ‘bagnios’ above which were the
rooms of the sentries who looked down through holes in the ceilings.
In the centre of one of the four bagnios was a pillar to which the
Muslims were tied and beaten in punishment. When ships sailed out
to pursue their corsairing (transliterating the term into Arabic, qars),
they took the able men as galley slaves.29 From the Maghrib, lists have
survived of Muslim captives, where they came from, what their profes-
sions were, and how much their ransoms were. There are also letters
and petitions that were sent by the captives as well as miracle stories
about holy men who effected their liberation; there are references to
solitary as well as to communal captivities, to brief captivities as
to extended enslavements. Some of the narratives are by captives who
had spent so much time in European countries that upon their return
to their homes, they added epithets to their names, al-Burtughali or
al-Siqqili, showing their transformed personalities and characters.
There are also letters scribbled by captives in broken Arabic, with
barely enough ink, on scraps of paper, appealing for help from their
captors or their rulers.30
  The Magharibi corpus captivitis follows a paradigm that is different
from its European counterpart. Arabic writers did not produce full-
length accounts of their or their compatriots’ captivity nor did they
offer graphic descriptions of beatings, humiliations or tortures, as in
many English or French accounts. Rather, the Arabic stories alluded to,
or briefly recounted, an episode of captivity, an encounter with cor-
sairs, and/or escape from slavery. Biographical and autobiographical
writing in classical Islamic literature, which continued well into the
period under study, followed conventions of style and presentation
that neglected personal emphases. Authors did not write about private
64 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

experiences because they believed them not important to their
readers.31 Consider the following reference to captivity in the auto-
biography of Ahmad bin Ghanim, in the early years of the seventeenth

   After I had recovered [in Tunis] we set out again in search of the
   Infidel and his wealth. While we were off the city of Malaga, which
   lies on the edge of the Bahr al-Saghir (? La Ensenada de Malaga) we
   came upon eleven galleys. It was during the second half of August
   when there is no wind and the sea is calm. A terrific battle ensued in
   which many died on both sides. We were closely pursued until only
   a handful of us remained. We were captured after I was wounded.
   But truly, that day more than six hundred of the Enemy Unbelievers
   were killed, including more than twenty of their grandees. After
   seven years God released me from captivity and I made for Tunis.32

Ibn Ghanim was so humiliated by his captivity that he preferred to
mention it only briefly, as if he did not want to burden the reader with
his own suffering and ordeal. Muslim writers did not have, like their
Christian counterparts, the theological image (and vast iconography)
of a suffering Christ whose pain the captive was willing to emulate –
and a desire to tell others that he had emulated it. Captivity was not,
therefore, a matter in and by itself, revealing personal tribulation
leading to salvation and ‘redemption’ (an apt term used in the libera-
tion of Christian captives), but part of the larger narrative of the
Muslim in his submission to Allah: for both captivity and liberation
were in God’s hands, not the captive’s.
  An exceptional account that delineates the whole experience of cap-
tivity – from seizure to liberation, but again, with little description of
the actual captivity ordeal itself – survives about a rich government
official: evidently, both in Christendom as in Islamdom, on behalf of
the rich and powerful, rulers intervened personally to bring the cap-
tives back. And narratives were told not to dramatize the suffering of
the captive but to enlarge on the commitment and pious effort of the
ruler. Still, it took Ibn al-Qadi, the scribe of Mulay Ahmad al-Mansur, a
whole year before he was released and returned to Marrakesh. His story
shows the extent of governmental involvement in his liberation, and
the complex level of negotiation and bargaining that took place among
the Moroccans, the Maltese and the Spaniards – a negotiation that was
widely discussed, reported, and thus remembered and recorded in
Moroccan annals. As he was traveling from Tetuan to Egypt, Ahmad
                                                            Nabil Matar 65

bin Muhammad bin al-Qadi (c. 1552–1616) was captured by the
Maltese who, on Thursday 31 July 1586, took him to their island. He
was, as he wrote later in his memoir, in ‘great distress as a result of
hunger and cold, unendurable things, beatings and other indescribable
tortures – may God break them/qaharahum al-Lah.’33 Again we see the
same brevity in describing his suffering as with Ibn Ghanim. Because
of his high status, as soon as he was seized, the machinery of liberation
went into action. Abu Faris Abd al-Aziz al-Fishtali, a fellow scribe at the
Marrakesh court (c. 1549–1612), wrote about the contacts with the
Europeans and the arrangements that were made in both Morocco and
Spain for the release of Ibn al-Qadi. He reported how Mulay Ahmad
ordered the governor in Tetuan and a wealthy merchant there to do
everything possible to effect Ibn al-Qadi’s release. The pirates who had
captured him immediately became greedy and sent the Qadi family a
Christian, who was a famous weapons craftsman in Badis and a servant
of King Philip II, the ‘tyrant of Castile’. The Spaniard asked that Ibn
al-Qadi be exchanged for his son who had been captured in the battle
of Wadi al-Makhazen in 1578; he also asked for a large sum of money
which al-Mansur generously gave. The Qadi family took the Christian
captive to Fez and from there to Tetuan to meet with the father at the
appointed time for the exchange.34
   Such a narrative was told and retold: two centuries later, the histo-
rian Ahmad al-Qadiri (d. 1773) still recalled it in his chronicle of
Morocco, Nashr al-Mathani.35 Other narratives about captivity served
not to show the power and commitment of the ruler, but to promote
faith. The captive was transformed into a model of Muslim resistance
to Christian power and temptation. Every Muslim who was able to
outwit his captors or who was able to sustain his (or her) piety in the
midst of conversionist pressure became worthy of a story that travelled
beyond the immediate social and geographic borders. Just as Cervantes
and Lope de Vega created dozens of fictional Christian men and
women who resisted even unto death the pressures of Muslim captors,
figures who later appeared in French and English literature, so did the
Magharibi orally recount dozens of stories about resistance to Christian
captors – which also appeared in later religious and biographical writ-
ings. In his memoir about the unbelievers of France and Holland, Nasir
al-Din ala al-Qawm al-Kafireen, written in the early 1640s, Ahmad bin
Qasim included the story of a Muslim captive in a North African pre-
sidio who defied his captors and lived to laugh at them – and to tell his
story. The story about the captive showed defiance and piety – qualities
that no amount of enslavement or brutality could erode. The Muslim
66 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

slave was ordered by his master to go to another presidio and fetch a
statue of a saint. When he got there, he refused to seat the statue on
the donkey, thinking such a deed of venerating wood sacrilegious. So
he tied the wood to the tail of the donkey and trundled it behind.
Upon returning, the villagers were furious as they touched the saint
and wept for his condition, and took the slave to the ruler, demanding
that he be executed. The ruler refused, telling them that they could not
expect a Muslim to act in any other way regarding a statue. The story
became so popular that it was relayed to the jurist Ali Ibn Muhammad
al-Burji, who told it to his friends in Marrakesh, one of whom told it to
Qasim. The story travelled from the Atlantic seaside to the metropolis,
and from the oral narrative to the written page.36 As in the case of
Ibn al-Qadi, the captivity narrative became a national narrative of
endurance and of defiance of infidelity.
   A letter from a captive, Othman bin Qasim, to a French count,
Le Comte de Pontchartrain, in Paris, on 1 November 1707, shows the
self-constitution of a Magharibi captive. Despite having spent many
years in France, he had not been able to wean himself from the flowery
rhetoric of his Arabic culture. Many letters show how captives were
quite astute about their demands, but completely ignorant about how
to project themselves in cultures with different emotions, priorities and
codes. Qasim opened his letter with an extensive and bombastic saluta-
tion that would certainly have made his Moliere-reading addressees
laugh; he then continued with a description of his background and the
conditions of his captivity. He was, he reported, an Algerian/jazairi,
50 years of age, disabled with a lame foot, who could not ‘even haul
water and who had never rowed.’ He had been enslaved in Spain for
two years, was released, along with 1500 other captives, by Mulay
Ismail, and then as he was sailing back from Morocco to Algiers, his
‘watan’ (country), on a Saletian ship, he was captured by the French
who proceeded to enslave him, mistaking him for a Moroccan. After
years, he now had the four hundred francs needed for his ransom,
which are, he admitted, ‘more than what I am worth, for I eat and lie
inactive – as I am sure you can imagine the condition of an old and
disabled man like me.’ But he was not being released because he was
classified as a Moroccan not an Algerian.37
   The letter confirms that Europeans, in this case the (notorious)
French, did not differentiate between nationalities: all Muslims made
good captives, regardless of their national origin and the state of affairs
between the captive’s country and France. Throughout the early
modern period, French pirates, along with the Maltese and the Italians,
                                                           Nabil Matar 67

sailed under Majorcan or Portuguese flags (as Majorcans sailed under
French flags, and Britons under Spanish flags), and refused to distin-
guish between the nationalities of their North African captives: if they
were at war with Algiers, every Moor became an Algerian to justify
enslavement. It is interesting how Qasim repeatedly emphasized his
national identity: where ‘Muslim’ or ‘Arab’ might have been used in
the face of the Christian, Qasim enunciated a national identity to dis-
tinguish himself from fellow Magharibi. Captivity was teaching North
Africans about the importance of national differences and perhaps the
preference of one nationality over another – especially if it could facil-
itate liberation. Having naively told the French that he had been
orphaned since his youth, it is very likely that his captors would have
realized that none would ever claim him, and no pressure would ever
be applied for his release. He could therefore be kept, without any
intrusions from Algerian ransomers.
   There are numerous references to captivity and to the miracles/
karamat that effected liberation from European pirates. These karamat
were bestowed by God on holy men to effect the escape and victory of
captives – a phenomenon that also appears in Catholic hagiographical
and literary accounts from the other side of the Mediterranean. Sidi
Shu’ayb bin al-Hasan al-Andalusi, a jurist who had migrated from the
Andalus to Morocco, was once walking near the seashore when the
crew of a Spanish ship abducted him and chained him to other
Muslims. As soon as they did that, the ship no longer moved. The
Spaniards realized that they could not go on, so some suggested that
they release the captive because he was a qissees who was favoured by
God. But he refused to leave unless they released all the Muslim cap-
tives too – which they did.38 God had intervened through the sheikh
on the side of the captives. On another occasion, Christian ships
appeared near the Moroccan coast of Haha in order to seize slaves; but
Sidi Ahmad al-Sayeh, who had been sleeping, suddenly stood up
calling out for his sword, as a result of which the enemy fled.39 Having
alerted the city, the sheikh appeared to have miraculously driven away
the enemy. Salé, which to Europeans was the notorious centre of
piracy, housed the shrine of Sidi Abu Hassan who was invoked to ward
off European piratical attacks. So venerated was this murabit that he
became integrated into the vast religious complex around him – his
sixteenth-century gravesite was built near the medieval Grand Mosque
and the thirteenth-century Merinid medrassa (and later, the Tijani sufi
circle was established close by). The murabit who protected from Euro-
Christian depredations was central to the piety of the port city – and
68 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

has remained to this very day a site of veneration where celebrations
are held every year in the week of the Prophet’s Birthday.
   No holy man could acquire religious authority or credibility without
showing power in freeing captives. Biographies of saints/murabits
included stories about miraculous deeds in regard to helpless captives.
One such extensive biography is that of Abi al-Ghaith al-Qashash
(1551–1622), Nur al-armash fi manaqib abi al-Ghaith Muhammad
al-Qashash, which includes stories of liberation and of the Tunisian
saint’s power over captors.40 A shareef (a claimant to descent from the
Prophet) who had been taken captive in ‘the lands of the Christians’/
bilad al-Nasara was brought by his captor directly to Abi al-Ghaith in
Tunis. The latter asked the captor how much the Muslim’s ransom was.
‘Three hundred sultanic dinars’, replied the captor.41 So the sheikh told
him to wait, as he always did, in order to strengthen the captive in his
faith. The Christian captor got tired of waiting and threatened to take
the captive back to Christendom. So the sheikh asked the Christian
what he wanted. The Christian brought in a witness in order to write a
(bank)note for the ransom sum. The Christian insisted on cash, but the
sheikh insisted that they write the note, saying: ‘O ruumi, let us write it
in the name of God the merciful, the compassionate, and things will
then be finalized’. The sheikh then put his hands on the note and
started giving the Christian coins from under the carpet covering the
floor of the room, until he had paid the whole sum.42 When the
Christian saw the miracle of the sheikh, he said to the shareef, ‘Tell
this cashier (?) of yours that had I not had a wife and children in the
land of Christians, I would not have gone back but would have stayed
here to serve him’. This and other such karamat were widely dissemi-
nated in a culture that relied on orality for information and news: the
miracles transformed the miracle-doing ransomer from a local to a
regional saint, unifying societies from Tunis to Miknas and from
Algiers to Aghadir in their anti-Europeanness.43
   As in the case of men, women too were captured because the Euro-
peans wanted labour, and women provided it. Indeed, as in the attack
on Djerba at the beginning of the seventeenth century, even toddlers
were taken to be bred as future slaves.44 A list of Muslim female cap-
tives who were baptized in Rome includes captives who had been
seized by pirates from all over the North African and Mediterranean
regions: Tunisians (one of whom was a ‘puella’), Constantinopoleans,
Mauritanians, Bosnians, Dalmatians, along with girls and women from
all over the Mediterranean and Atlantic coasts – Mostar, Tripoli, Morea,
Coron, Chios, Aleppo, and Salé; their ages ranged from seven to 60.45
                                                            Nabil Matar 69

Evidently, the whole Islamic world was being viewed as a provider of
cheap labour and possible converts. Women who ended up in Spain
and Portugal were treated as life slaves with no option of manumission
and repatriation, much as in sub-Saharan enslavement. Some tried to
escape as was the case with one Moroccan who admitted upon her
capture in Portugal that she did not want to spend the rest of her life
in poverty and dire conditions.46 But those who were captured and
enslaved were sometimes the lucky ones; on many occasions, the
women and children were not deemed useful and were slaughtered:
‘We took them completely by surprise and killed about 400 persons,
most of them women and children’, wrote a Portuguese captain in July
1541.47 By the end of the sixteenth century, al-Fishtali, was lamenting
the plight of ‘the women of the Maghrib, Arab by lineage and charac-
ter’ who had been enslaved by invaders from the Canary Islands and
led away, ‘trailing their clothes behind them.’48
   This is why accounts about the return of women captives were asso-
ciated with miracles – sometimes quite curious ones. One account tells
of the captivity of a jurist, Sidi Abdallah al-Mahaji, along with his three
daughters and 50 of his followers. After a year of captivity in Oran, he
was ransomed, and then two of his daughters were ransomed by
friends, one of whom proceeded to wed her. His wife kept weeping for
the third daughter, so he left the house, abluted and prayed, calling on
God to help her: ‘[a]nd lo, she came. He told her mother, Go and see
your daughter. The latter explained that she was combing her hair
when a white bird pecked her. She followed it until she reached
home’.49 That the Christian image of the Holy Spirit, which the cap-
tives might have seen in paintings and ecclesiastical decoration during
their captivity, had been transformed into the saviour of Muslims from
Christian slavery is intriguing. The story of the miraculous liberation of
this third daughter continued to be recounted until the end of the
nineteenth century.50
   There were many Christian men and women who, after being
captured by the Muslims, ‘turned Turk’ or ‘donned the turban’ in
pursuit of advancement, employment and security. Arabic sources are
full of references to a’laj and ‘iljat – converts both masculine and femi-
nine – often in the context of describing military officers, diplomatic
and commercial agents, and female servants. As Kenneth Parker has
noted, the names of converted pirates ‘demonstrate the risks attached
to making assumptions that all so-called Barbary pirates were North
Africans by origin and Muslim by religion: from where it is but a short
step to the construction of the conventional binaries such as those of
70 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Christian versus Muslim.’51 The slippage from one religious commu-
nity to another occurred widely between the two sides of the
Mediterranean: an Englishman by the name of Martin sailed to Salé
and teamed up with a Moroccan murabit, telling him that while in
England, he had had a dream of the Prophet Muhammad who told
him: ‘Go to Africa where you will find the savior of humanity.’ The
murabit confirmed that he too had had the same dream in which the
Englishman converted to Islam and started reciting the Qur’an. Martin
converted and the two started performing miracles together, feeding
the people vast amounts of couscous.52
   What was distinct about the slippage into Islamic society were
the opportunities that captives-cum-converts found – opportunities
which Muslim converts rarely found in European Christendom. While
Muslim society accepted converts and integrated them into their com-
munal and political fabric, Euro-Christians never viewed Muslim con-
verts as part of their society. The theory of the Purity of Blood (limpieza
de sangre) prevented Muslim converts from assuming important roles
in Spanish society:53 there was fear that their skin colour would rub off
on the pure white European and result in physical contagion and
defilement – thus the reference to the ‘sooty bosom’ in Othello. There is
not a single Muslim convert to Christianity in early modern Britain or
Holland who acquired status and respectability. The first Muslim to
convert in Britain and leave an account tells of a grim and exclusionary
life at the end of the eighteenth century – despite his conversion and
marriage to an English woman.54 In France, there is only one: Jean
Armand Mustapha, author of Voyages D’Afriqve (1630). Meanwhile,
Muslims, both in the West as well as in the Levant, saw no structural
reason to prevent the Euro-Christians from becoming, if they chose,
part of the Muslim community. The racial binary that dominated
Europe and eurocentrism in the early modern and the modern periods
and that proved instrumental in conquest, expulsion and ethno-
national cleansing, is notably absent in North African writings.55 Linda
Colley described visiting Rabat in Morocco, and taking a stroll in ‘Rue
des Consuls to one of the places where white captives are known to
have been sold, the Souk el Ghezel.’ She was disappointed, she com-
mented, not to find anything ‘precious […] to see when you finally
arrive’ other than ‘a tree-shaded car park.’ But just a few minutes’ walk
away from Souk el Ghezel stands the magnificent Oudaya Mosque
which demonstrates the integration of an English captive into
Moroccan society and civilization. The mosque was rebuilt in the eigh-
teenth century by a captured architect who had converted to Islam,
                                                           Nabil Matar 71

Ahmed el Ingles/Ahmad the English who also built the treasury and
fortified the qasba: ‘He was a man who had power with the sultan.’56 It
is striking that while other mosques in Rabat had high ceilings, the
ceiling in this mosque is much lower, recalling the small parish
churches of Ahmad’s native England (see Figure 3.3). While the major-
ity of European captives were truly the ‘underbelly’ of empire and suf-
fered grievously in their slavery, as Colley correctly pointed out, there
were Britons and others who were allowed to become hybrid natives,
to use James Clifford’s term,57 English Squantos, finding in their cap-
tivity an opportunity for prosperity, self-realization and fame. The age
of empire rewarded some European captives in Islamdom – but not the
Muslim captives in Christendom.
   The corpus captivitis that emerged from the Magharibi experience
recounts the narrative of only a small number of captives; but it is an
important corpus because it constitutes the first record of the voice of
‘natives’ in their early modern encounter with empire. Neither sub-
Saharan Africans, nor South and North American Indians left written
accounts of their captivity by the European conquistadors and slave
traders as did the Magharibi. Their experience of captivity was unique
because the Magharibi had the Ottomans to fall back on as a kind of
geo-political depth (they could turn to them for help in a manner that
was not possible for the Amerindians who were there without imperial
allies); they also had both a history and a religion that tied them, lin-
guistically and theologically, to coreligionists half-way across the
world; and most significantly, they had literacy which enabled captives
to write their own letters and petitions, or compose poems and prayers
about their conditions. Even if on torn sheets of paper, they inscribed
their stories in their own hands and in their own dialects, thereby
remembering and memorializing their captivity for generations to
come. Captivity and the liberation of captives brought North Africans
into contact with Europeans, Muslims with Christians, Magharibi with
Spaniards and Frenchmen, Englishmen and Maltese. It provided the
Magharibi with the opportunity to learn about the imperial religion,
and about the society, custom, mores, and personal character of the
pirates in the lands of the Christians.
   In various voices, and to various audiences, local and foreign, at
home or abroad, captives ‘spoke’ about the Christians, the nasara,
about themselves, and about their experiences. While some of the
narratives consisted of the direct voice of the captive, others were ven-
triloquized and have only survived in French, English or Spanish trans-
lation. Still, the narratives provide descriptions of personal experiences
72 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Figure 3.3 The mosque by Ahmed el-Ingles in Rabat. Reproduced with
permission from Nabil Matar.
                                                         Nabil Matar 73

and encounters that show captives not as constituted in the European
West, but as offering their own testimony and consciousness about the
age of empire. These testimonies became loci of identity providing the
Magharibi with a shared history that was passed on from region to
region and from generation to generation. One allusion to asr/captivity
or one recollection of seizure was enough to trigger off a reaction of
emotions in family or community that had developed their own objec-
tive correlatives to suffering and humiliation. For all those who had or
might encounter the early modern European empire, and from the
coastal plains to the mountains, there were narratives and memorials
about captivity and liberation, conflict and branding58 that could never
be forgotten.
   As the nineteenth-century Tunisian diplomat/writer Ahmad bin
Abi Diyaf (1804–73) stood before a coastal ruin in his country, he
recalled the past and the terrors that the British Empire had wrought
on his forefathers: ‘In the days of Mustapha Laz [c. 1665], the ships of
the English came to Ghar al-Milh and burnt a ship and bombarded the
city towers, whose ruins can still be seen today’.59
Crusading Piracy? The Curious
Case of the Spanish in the
Channel, 1590–95
Matthew Dimmock

1590 was a year of portentous visions over the English Channel. Not
only were reports circulating in London that mariners from the Low
Countries had found the sea ‘the couler of blood’, but English sailors
on her Majesty’s ship Vangard reported how:

  in an euening about setting time of the watch, all the men in the
  ship at the rising of the Moone, did discerne in the aire ouer the
  Moone the shape of a man, with a croun on his head and the king
  of Spaines armes plainly displaide, which continued visibly to bee
  seene for some small space, and soone after it was as a thing
  ouerthrown and vanished away, and seemed to them as though it
  were falling.1

These are only two examples of ‘sundry such sights’ that have ‘lately
beene seene vpon the coast of France’, which, when soberly considered
by those ‘of good iudgement […] presageth, the ruine and confusion of
those unholy leaguers, vpholden by the Pope and the king of Spaine.’2
  The popular currency of such visions, unequivocally indicating the
inevitability of victory for England and her allies, predestined by God
and the natural world, was not simply a hangover from the similarly
characterized destruction of the 1588 Armada, but was a response to
rapidly changing events in a continuing conflict.3 From London’s
printing presses this conflict was repeatedly represented in explicitly
religious, often apocalyptic terms (as with many early modern
accounts of celestial occurrences) that attempted to indicate a unity of
purpose in a righteous cause, where the English occupied the position
of God’s elect nation and the Spanish were ‘the professed enemies of
God’s truth.’4 Furthermore, such accounts indicate the extent to which
                                                      Matthew Dimmock 75

the larger conflict between Catholic and Protestant was understood to
correspond with events prophesied in the book of Revelation, a
conflict from which the godly would emerge victorious, their enemies
damned.5 Not only was this exegetical explanation a powerful dynamic
behind the creation of a sense of national destiny, but it was driven by
a fundamentally biblical language of heresy, revelation, damnation
and the fall that created an image of Philip II of Spain as the ‘grand-
child’ of ‘the deuill’, the son of ‘Antichrist’, and of the Spanish as ‘so
much worse than the heathen Infidels.’6 This was a crusade in all but
name, and such language homogenized combatants into absolute cate-
gories, regardless of their prior status or tactics, which were often closer
to piracy than the triumphalist printed record suggests.
   Beneath these inflexible theological invocations, this conflict always
threatened to undermine or overflow the bounds of nationalist
rhetoric and royal authority. In the land-based campaigns of northern
France, a rigid hierarchy and the regimenting of large armies in the
field meant that authority could be preserved relatively easily, but in
the conditions of the Channel where individuals were encouraged on
both sides to engage in actions redolent of piracy for ‘God’s cause’, the
unstable boundaries between legality and illegality, loyal subject and
renegade, and between a righteous national cause and individual gain,
repeatedly threatened to collapse. An anxiety about maintaining these
distinctions emerges in a series of royal proclamations between 1591
and 1593 declaring that privateers engaged in this conflict who did not
officially declare prizes taken at sea, ‘shall be held, and taken as Felons
and Abbettors to Pyrats, and to be proceeded against, as in case of
Felonie is accustomed to be done by the Lawes of this Realme.’7
Furthermore such proclamations indicate the fine line between heroic
legitimate service and simple pillage, the latter a characteristic of
‘felons and Pirates’, which ‘was not lawfull to be done by the lawes of
the Realme’ or ‘the lawes of the Sea.’8 The state required its subjects’
duty, in both senses of that word.
   This chapter is thus concerned with the ways in which such precar-
ious privateering in the Channel was represented in a remarkable body
of popular literature, alongside a series of curious events that, when
connected, offer insight into the web of political, mercantile, theolog-
ical and national concerns that shaped the ways in which the English,
the Spanish and the Ottoman ‘turkes’ interacted in this arena. Of
primary importance is the way in which the post-reformation conflict
between Catholic and Protestant is rationalized and represented. By
focusing upon a relatively narrow chronological period (1590–95), and
76 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

upon a very specific geographical area, I shall argue that the accounts
by those involved in these privateering raids (either as soldiers or as
slaves – or occasionally as both) offer a sophisticated sense of strategic
alliances and of implacable enemies, and of a process of condemnation
and conflation, on a grand scale that has implications for a wide range
of textual representations. Conversely, of course, this kind of focus also
offers a valuable sense of the ways in which ideological conflicts affect
the lives and perceptions of individual protagonists on all sides.9
   1590 marks the moment at which, taking advantage of the murder
of the French King Henry III in the previous year, the Duke of Parma
invaded France from the east while Spanish forces simultaneously took
and held the Breton port of Blavet (now Port Louis), initially in order
to disrupt supplies from England reaching the Protestant claimant to
the throne, Henry of Navarre.10 This strategy finally ended a precarious
balance of power that had already been deeply disrupted by the
Spanish annexation of Portugal in 1580, and necessitated an English
response.11 Over the next five years, ‘there were constantly some
10,000 English troops serving abroad, strung out along the continental
coast of Brittany and Normandy to Holland’.12
   A Spanish foothold in Brittany was dangerously close to the English
coast, and a cause of profound anxiety in London since it was consid-
ered a potential launching point for another armada, the prelude to
which, it was widely assumed, would be the taking of the Scilly Isles.13
A vast amount of documentation exists concerning troop movements
and political developments in Brittany before 1591. The dispatch of
Sir John Norris and an English army of 3000 men in this year
prompted a considerable increase.14 William Lyly had earlier reported
on 23 January 1590, for instance, that Henry of Navarre (after 1589
referred to by the English as ‘King Henry’) ‘had been warned to take
care lest the Spaniards should seize Brittany under colour of invading
England’ and, in the following years, there were regular appeals for
men, munitions and money for the region, with a number of English
and ‘Scots’ companies sent to fight for Henry against the Catholic
League (or ‘Holy League’) who were actively supported by the
Spanish.15 However, English aid was by no means constant, nor did all
English participants concur on the aim of their policy – commanders
such as Sir Roger Williams argued that a ‘torn and divided’ France
might be to England’s advantage, were it not for Brittany, ‘for all the
best ports of France’ are ‘in that province.’16
   The danger was only heightened after 1594 when, having abjured
Protestantism, Navarre was crowned in Paris as Henry IV. The now
                                                       Matthew Dimmock 77

redundant ships and men based in Brittany were reorganized: some
were sent back to Spain, some moved elsewhere, and the rest formed
into a unit of substantial galleys whose specific purpose was, on their
own initiative, to attack and pillage the coasts of England and
Scotland.17 After a high-profile raid on Penzance, described as ‘a proud
attempt by some Spanish galleys that landed in Cornwall’ (to which I
shall return), the force was largely disbanded at the end of 1595,
though rumours abounded that further attacks were imminent.18 I am
primarily concerned, then, with the five years during which the
Spanish held possession of Blavet and used the French coast as a base
for patrolling mercantile sea routes and raiding English shipping and
ports. Not only does this Spanish presence prompt vigorous assertions
of an English Protestant identity, but it also seems – as I have suggested
– to have supported the sense that these were the final moves in an
apocalyptic endgame which would result in the inevitable victory of
God’s elect nation.
   This millenarian theme is central to an understanding of many texts
dealing with this specific conflict, most of which are anonymous, rela-
tively short in length, and feature frontispieces illustrating naval
vessels and royal arms. A typical example, The Honourable Actions of
that most Famous and Valiant Englishman, Edward Glemham Esquire,
latelie obtained against the Spaniards, and the Holy League, in Foure Sundrie
Fightes (1591) was revealingly ‘published for an Encouragement to our
English adventurers, (Gentlemen, Sailors and Soldiars) that serue
against the enemies of God and our countrey’, and offers again a sense
of the ways in which national and religious allegiances seamlessly
connect in the heroism of ‘valiant’ English ‘adventurers’, a term that
flaunts the legitimacy of their privateering tactics.19 However, the first
text I want to consider is The Taking of the Royall Galley of Naunts in
Brittaine, from the Spanyards and Leaguers, with the releasement of 153.
Galley slaues, that were in her: by Iohn Bilbrough, Prentice of London.
Published in 1591, the text refers to events that took place during
October of the previous year. Bilbrough introduces himself with the
first of a number of references to ‘renegat English’, a phrase which
often refers to those who had become ‘pyrats’ or ‘turned Turk,’ or both,
(see Mark Hutchings’ discussion of the anxieties surrounding this par-
ticular transformation in Chapter 5) but which in this context refers to
English Catholics:

   About seauen yeares since, I Iohn Bilbrough, Citizen and Marchant
   Taylor of London, toke my aduenture to the seas, where in short
78 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   space afterwards I was betrayed into the enemies hands by the
   treacherie of a renegat English, not worthy the name of my
   Countreyman; which villanie of his extended not to mee alone, but
   to seauen other of my companions: amongst whom, my selfe and a
   Skot, remaining aliue, were carried captiues.20

He describes being ‘condemned into the Galeyes in the moneth of
September, 1584. and there hauing remained the space of sixe yeares’,
where he endured ‘exceeding miserie, as hunger, colde, stripes, with
many violent torments bereft of all hope for euer to behold my
parents, friends, or natiue countrey againe.’21 These sufferings, typical
of many accounts of galley slavery, are a means of publicly asserting
his identity as an Englishman in opposition to that ‘renegat’ who was
‘not worthy the name’, and are further extended as he narrates valiant
escape attempts which, when they fail, only increase his ‘sorrowfull
  Such comments offer a common defence against any possible accusa-
tion that the narrator had been tainted by the religion of his captors,
or was simply lying, and Bilbrough goes as far as listing on the final
page of his text, ‘Witnesses of the truth of this matter’, after which is
written ‘the great seale of Rochell.’23 The incorporation of witnesses
was astute on his part, since all such narratives and their authors were
open to a degree of suspicion: a royal proclamation of 1591 asserts

   because it is certainlie knowen and proued by common experience,
   vpon the apprehension of sundry of the sayde traiterous persons
   sent into the Realme, that they doe come into the same by secret
   Creekes, and landing places, disguised, both in their names and
   persons: Some in apparell, as Souldiers, Mariners, or Merchants, pre-
   tending that they haue bene heretofore taken prisoners, and put
   into Gallies, and deliuered.24

In part it was this threat that prompted the establishment of a formu-
laic narrative in which the temptations of the enemy are emphatically
rejected, religious and national identity is maintained in suffering, and
allegiances are confirmed. In this sense, each account is a kind of auto-
hagiography, and is typical of accounts of Christian slavery in privateer
vessels from the Channel to the Mediterranean that have, as Nabil
Matar indicates in the previous chapter, clear Muslim parallels.25 Not
only do both the form of the accounts and the above proclamation
                                                    Matthew Dimmock 79

indicate a pervasive anxiety concerning the veracity of markers of iden-
tity – particularly of religious identity – but they also demonstrate a
sense of the pernicious and monstrous figure of the renegade, ‘fana-
ticall’ and ‘seditious’, ‘English men by name, but Spanyards in heart’,
which has a long lineage and may, in this form, originate in early
Christian portrayals of heresy.26
   Bilbrough’s account is thus remarkably similar to Barbary captivity
accounts such as Richard Hasleton’s Strange and Wonderful Things
Happened to Richard Hasleton … in His Ten Years’ Travails in Many
Foreign Countries (1595) and Edward Webbe’s The Rare and most wonder-
full things Edw. Webbe an Englishman borne, hath seen and passed in his
troublesome trauiles … (1590) – both of which are roughly contem-
porary.27 Each of these authors use a similarly dramatic narrative to
perform the heroic retention of their Protestant national identity in
captivity, and establish that identity in reference to the archetype of
the suffering Christ, their nationality and religion (the two of course
inextricably linked) fundamentally vindicated.
   Bilbrough is moved onto the ‘Galley Royall’ of Nantes in Brittany
following the Spanish expansion into the area in 1590, with a commis-
sion to ‘take all those […] English, Scots, Flemmings’ and ‘their owne
nation [the French] on the Kings part.’28 Like Webbe, he takes up a
position as gunner, and is granted a measure of freedom for his co-
operation. Consequently – as so often in such narratives – the captain
urges him:

  often to goe to Masse, of whom I requested pardon; protesting that
  if I might bee perswaded by sufficient reason, and proofe from the
  Word of GOD, that the Romish religion were the true doctrine of
  Christ, I would gladlie embrace it: in the mean time (seeing I was
  yet vtterlie of another opinion) I besought him to haue patience, for
  that a settled Religion, could not so slightlie bee remoued; which
  hee in hope of my conuersion (as hee termed it) in the ende

Here Protestantism and Catholicism, both claiming a true understanding
of Christ and of the word of ‘GOD’, are represented as absolutely dis-
tinct, and (similar to many Christian narratives of Barbary captivity)
conversion is represented as the aim of the captor. The terms of approba-
tion used in this, and other accounts, exclusively centre upon religion,
while neither the enemy’s legitimacy as combatant, nor the legitimacy of
their tactics are in question. The enemy are not ‘pyrats’, nor could they
80 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

be, since for such texts their value lies in their exemplification of the
‘antichristian’ Spanish cause. Unwilling to shoot at English shipping and
‘abhorring to bee made the butcher of my natiue countreymen’,
Bilbrough eventually escapes, leading his multinational fellow galley
slaves to a very bloody overthrow of the captain and away to join the
French: only, as he asserts, through ‘the help of God.’30
   While this account offers a powerful sense of the opposition between
Protestant and Catholic, it also indicates the ways such texts could
mirror accounts of more distant skirmishes, a continuity that is
confirmed in Mediterranean-based reports such as The Valiant and most
laudable fight performed in the Straights, by the Centurion of London, against
fiue Spanish Gallies (1591).31 This arena of conflict is discussed in detail
by Mark Hutchings in the following chapter. The themes and structure
of Bilbrough’s narrative are further modified and repeated in the central
text that I want to now consider, The True Report of a great Galley that was
brought vnto Rochell, vpon the sixt of Februarie last, published in London in
1592. Written in the third person, this account concerns the presence of
Spanish privateers in Brittany, and elevates the conflict into one of truly
epic proportions. The anonymous author, in the familiar apocalyptic
vein of the earlier visions, begins by asserting that:

   if we enter with deepe consideration, to censure of the late prosperi-
   tie of the Spaniards, or rather hard fortune inflicted vpon them by
   God, for their manifest opposing themselues against the truth and
   his Gospell: wee shall find that their sundrie mishaps presageth
   their fall to be neere, and that their sins being ripe, wrath cannot
   long be deferd.32

The text continues: ‘[despite] the Spaniards gilden mines, their hauty
stomackes, their honors, their worldly glories, no not the praiers of
their Cardinals, Abbots, Moonks, and friars, their Agnus dei, their holy
water, and such trash, cannot withhold the wrath of God from them.’33
Such dogmatic confidence indicates a certainty of Protestant victory
within the well-established parameters of holy war.
  Through reference to these specifically Catholic markers, the account
demonstrates a particularly Protestant destiny at work (just as in earlier
accounts of the armada of 1588), made all the more virulent by the
presumption of the Spanish to establish themselves so close to the
English coast. The author of The True Report explains:

   In Brittanie the King of Spain had two great Galeasses and foure
   Gallies, the which hee appointed to keepe the seas vpon the coast of
                                                     Matthew Dimmock 81

  Brittanie and so along from S. Malo to Rochel. Of these in November
  last [that is, of 1591] returned vnto Portingall the two Galeasses and
  one Galley of the three Gallies that remained, this that was brought
  into Rochell was the Admirall, this galley had fiue and twentie oares
  of a side, and to euerie oar was chained fiue slaues to row them, and
  was left Admirall for those which remained behind.34

Unlike Bilbrough’s account, in which he describes his fellow slaves as
‘Frenchmen, Flemings, Scots, and English’ – clear Christian allies – in
The True Report, the galley slaves are listed as ‘Turkes, Portingals, &
French men’, with particular reference made to the Spanish annexation
of Portugal (1580), which, given that there were several Portuguese sol-
diers on this galley, ‘drew these two nations to a secret tumult and
priuate mutinie.’35 The fact that the primary claimant to the Portuguese
throne, Don Antonio, was in exile in England at this point heightens
the tension, particularly as the Spanish commanders of this galley have
apparently offered him only ‘abuse’.36 The report continues by focusing
upon a Portuguese ‘ancient’, who:

  hauing thus brought the Marriners to his contented determination,
  he then broake with the Turkes, & the other slaues that were in the
  Galley, promising them their libertie if they would sticke to him,
  and follow his advice: the poore, whom seruile bondage had deeplie
  tormented, beeing in a second hell vppon earth, and glad to bee
  deliuered from his thraldome, agreed all in one simpathie of mind,
  and ioyfully praied and wished for fit and conuenient oportunitie.37

The text emphatically establishes a sense of the appalling conditions
on the galleys, guaranteeing the reader’s sympathy will lie with the
allies – the Portuguese, the French Protestants, and most interest-
ingly the ‘turkes’ – against the Spanish, whom (it has already been
established) are to be damned by God.
  Curiously, however, this alliance is not simply a religious one, despite
the fact that all concerned are described as ‘ioyfully’ praying when the
revolt is broached, and that they agree ‘in one simpathie of mind’
despite ostensibly profound theological and cultural differences.
The implication, of course, is that such differences are effaced in favour
of total opposition to Spanish tyranny – while, at the same time, the
success of such a revolt is proof of the fundamental truth of the
Protestant religion. The account continues, narrating how the Spaniards
were then, ‘set vppon by the Ancient-bearer, Portingals, Turkes, and
Frenchmen his confederates.’38 They finally ‘put all the Spaniards to the
82 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

sword, and so hoisting sales, bent their course towardes Don Anthonie
their king in England’, but ‘the winde came about and blew contrarie,
so that they were fain to put into the baye of Rochell’ where they are
‘well entertained of the French.’39 That the primary destination of this
multiethnic, multireligious alliance, led by the Portuguese, is England,
reveals again the position England had come to occupy in the wake of
the victory over the armada as a focus for opposition to Spain. Not only
was Don Antonio in England, but Elizabeth had pursued a policy of
aiding Henry of Navarre and the Protestant French. By the early 1590s
English relations with the Ottoman Empire were at their height, having
been initiated in 1580 in direct response to the Spanish annexation of
Portugal, and their acquisition of the latter’s considerable fleet as well as
overseas territories.40
  Just as Don Antonio, and Navarre (and indeed the Dutch, according
to Bilbrough’s account) had received English military aid in a bid to
halt the expansion of Spanish dominance, in 1591 rumours were circu-
lating around Christian courts that the English were similarly funding
the construction of an Ottoman fleet: the English ambassador at
Constantinople, Edward Barton, complained, ‘such an eyesore I am to
the Christians here resident and so well esteemed by the Turks that
whatsoever is done touching the [Ottoman] armada is alleged to be for
her Majesty’s sake and request.’41 So this confederation of Portuguese,
French and ‘Turkes’, coalesced by Spanish tyranny, turns to England
following the successful mutiny and reveals that it is England, and
English policy, that binds them together. Formulated in the depths of a
Spanish privateering galley, this alliance also affirms the illegitimacy of
Spanish policy and implicitly the ‘Romish religion’, as the conclusion
of the text makes clear:42

   besides it is reported, that in great brauerie the Portingall is gone to
   the French king, and all the Turkes and other slaues vncommitted
   and set at liberty, to the great ioy of all good christian hearts, that
   ioy to heare either the controuersie or confusion of the Spaniards.
   Thus you heare how God deliuered the Portingals and poore slaues
   from thraldome by a priuate mutiny, as hee ouerthrew the pride of
   Babell, whereby we receiue this comfort, that as GOD cherisheth his
   chosen people, so hee will confound the deuises of such as are
   opposed enemies to his truth and glorie.43

The Old Testament framework within which ‘Babell’ and God’s
‘chosen people’ are referenced is further confirmation of the ways in
                                                      Matthew Dimmock 83

which privateering has here been co-opted into the rhetoric of a larger
ideological conflict.
  There is a fascinating postscript to this episode. The events reported
by The True Report are dated ‘the sixt day of Februarie’, 1591. Clearly,
the implication is that many of the released slaves remained in France,
having offered ‘their seruice to the King […] graunting in forme of a
free gift their Galley, ordinance, and all other prouision’ to him.44 It is
tantalizingly possible that at least one made it to England, since the
State Papers contain a petition submitted to the Queen towards the
end of 1591, from one ‘Hamedd’, a ‘distressed turke’, which reads as

  To the Queens most excellent Matie
  In most humble manner prayeth and beseecheth yor most excellent
  Matie yor daylye orator and yor supliant Hamedd a pore miserable
  and distressed turke, who being borne in Constantinople in the cort
  of the great Turke and going into his Maties service agaynst the
  Spaniard ten yeares since was taken by them and sentt to the most
  miserable slavery of the gallyes, wher having suffred most extreame
  misery the said ten yeares, by gods favor and goodnes escaped away
  about 3 months since, and came into france wher having served the
  kyng att the winning of la fera, had licence of pasport to come into
  Ingland, hoping heer to fynd some meanes of passing into myne
  own contry, which pasports I havyng delivered vnto yor Matie
  I humbly entreat that I maye have them redelivered, wth yor Maties
  licence of pasport and yor princely benevolence towards my passing
  home to constantinople, or otherwise that it wold please yor Matie
  to send me as a soldier in yor warres agaynst ye Spaniard wher
  I vowe by the fayth of a turke to doe you most true and faythfull
  service which if yor Matie shall graciously grant I shall never cease to
  pray for yor Maties long happy and prosperous raygne.45

Most likely transcribed from Spanish, and probably successful (since he
does not appear again in the extant records), this petition affirms the
perspective of The True Report. While it is impossible to be certain
whether Hamedd was released in the mutiny of February, I wonder
whether it is fantastical to speculate whether it might be in part his
account that forms the basis for the text – after all, no Englishman is
recorded on this galley, no records exist of any other of the survivors,
and it is written in the (admittedly commonplace) third person.
Whether he was a source for the True Report or not, Hamedd’s request
84 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

for assistance home, or to fight on ‘in yor warres against ye Spaniard’ in
which he swears ‘by the fayth of a turke’ to do ‘true and faythfull
service’, reveals a great deal about the kinds of ideological alliances
that were possible towards the end of the sixteenth century.
   Not only does Hamedd represent a continuation of conflict between
the Mediterranean and the Channel, but his hope that England might
present a way back to Constantinople reflects a widespread awareness
of the strength of the Anglo-Ottoman alliance. After all, the English
had attempted to cement this alliance by, according to William
Harborne (the earlier ambassador), trying ‘to persuade the Grand
Signior that the Queen’s wars with Spain were not due to any private
quarrel’, but were instead ‘voluntarily undertaken by her upon the
establishing of her friendship with the Grand Signior and only because
Spain was the martial enemy of his empire, an empire whose ex-
pansion she desired, along with the overthrow of all idolaters.’46 The
establishment of common religious ground through an emphasis upon
a shared abhorrence of idolatry and the downplaying of potential div-
isive religious specifics would eventually result in Edward Barton taking
the deeply controversial step of accompanying the Ottoman sultan
Mehmed III on campaign in Eastern Europe in 1596, only five years
after Hamedd’s request.47
   As Nabil Matar has suggested, it was by no means unthinkable that
‘foreign combatants’ might fight alongside the English, and all of these
factors played a part in the ways in which the Anglo-Spanish conflict
was conducted. The inclusive and zealous rhetoric of the English war
effort seems in fact to have been further focused by the presence of
Spanish privateers around the English coast, regularly attacking English
and Dutch shipping.48 Yet again, however, we find no reference to
them as pirates – paradoxically, while their cause is repeatedly vilified
as theologically unlawful, they are recognized as lawful combatants.49
   In 1595 Spanish privateers were to get even closer to England. After a
reorganization of the Catholic forces in 1594 that reflected a changing
political situation in France, Spanish galleys began to raid the English
coast. Their first action was to attack, plunder, and virtually destroy the
Cornish towns of Mousehole, Penzance and Newlyn in a raid that
began on Wednesday, 23 July 1595, the details of which were meticu-
lously recorded by both the Spanish commander of the expedition,
Don Carlos de Amezola, and by Richard Carew in his Survey of Cornwall
of 1602.50 That we have accounts from both the English and Spanish
sides of this raid is illuminating and allows unprecedented access to
the pejorative strategies of both writers, as well as to a considerable
                                                    Matthew Dimmock 85

amount of detail. Although apparently a privateering raid, small in
scale, it was undertaken with up to four hundred veteran troops, as
well as sailors and galley slaves, and carried with it a Captain Richard
Burley, a Dorset recusant – or ‘English renegate’ – who acted as
an advisor and probably as a translator.51 In Amezola’s account it is
clear that the Spanish had clearly defined aims – this was not entirely
uncoordinated pillage – as their English captives confirmed:

  The intention in employing these galleys was to have gone to Scilly,
  Guernsey, and Jersey, but the wind was contrary; they would have
  stayed longer to do more spoil to this country, had they not stood
  in fear of Sir Fras. Drake’s fleet. There is a good store of treasure in
  the galleys, which was to be used for pay, and for corrupting of

It is also the case that Drake and Hawkins (both accused of piracy by
the Spanish) were fitting out a fleet for the West Indies, and the
Spaniards ‘were very anxious to learn its destination.’53 Richard Carew,
who used his account to rail against England’s poor coastal defences,
simply refers to the Spanish as ‘the enemye’ and describes how the
galleys bombarded Mousehole from the sea, before landing:

  about two hundred men, pikes and shot, who forthwith sent their
  forlorne hope, consisting of their basest people, vnto the stragled
  houses of the countrie, about halfe a mile compasse or more, by
  whom were burned, not only the houses they went by, but also the
  Parish Church of Paul, the force of the fire being such, as it vtterly
  ruined all the great stonie pillars thereof: others of them in that
  time, burned that fisher towne Mousehole.54

Amezola describes how ‘the shot struck the houses and at the sight of
this the inhabitants fled, so that our men had the opportunity to set
fire to the town, which must have more than two hundred houses.’55 It
was an action that he records being repeated in the ‘surrounding
hamlets’, confirming Carew’s details, where the Spanish commander
reports having ‘burned a mosque, with a solid tower, in which a lot of
people had taken shelter.’56
  As well as the sheltering locals, the Spanish found in the church of
St Pol de Leon at Paul what Amezola describes as ‘a horse carved in
wood and greatly embellished, serving as an idol, worshipped by the
people’, which seems likely to have been little more threatening than a
86 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

hobby-horse for use in local festivities – although the association of
Islam and idolatry was common and would be made in plays like
Robert Greene’s Alphonsus of Arragon (1590?).57 Later, when attacking
the larger town of Penzance, Amezola records that ‘the mosque, where
they gather for their conventicles’ was narrowly spared being burnt
thanks only to the pleas of Captain Burley, the English renegade, who
claimed, ‘that this mosque had first been English and that mass had
been celebrated in it previously.’58
   The Spanish marauded across the coast for a few days, driving back
the ill-equipped English militia until reinforcements arrived and forced
them out into the Channel and to Brittany, having achieved their
aims. There were some further isolated attacks, such as an attempt to
fire a castle at Arwennack and kidnap Sir John Killigrew’s wife and chil-
dren, but the force would later disband.59 Following his account of the
raid, Carew writes:

   Thus you have a summary report of the Spaniards glorious enter-
   prise, and the Cornish mens infamous cowardice, which (were there
   any cause) I could qualify by many reasons, as, the suddenesse of
   the attempt, the narrowness of the cuntry, the opennesse of the
   towne, the aduantage of the Gallies ordinance on a people unpre-
   pared against such accidents […] So might I say, that all these cir-
   cumstances meeting in any other quarter of the Realm, would
   hardly haue produced much better effects.60

Major changes resulted from this state-sponsored raid as England’s
coastal defences were entirely reorganized over the following years – a
process that was particularly urgent since many, including the Queen,
believed that this action was only a precursor to a Spanish invasion
and ‘the whole defence position of the country’ was reviewed.61 Carew,
however, continued to blame his countrymen, asserting that they
excused their failure to fight the Spanish through reference to ‘destiny’.
By this logic it was right that ‘the Cornish people should vndergoe this
misfortune’: for, ‘an ancient prophecy, in their owne language, hath
long run amongst them, how there would land vpon the rock of
Merlin, those that would burn Pauls church, Pensants, and Newlyn.
And indeed, so is the rocke called, where the enemy first stept on
shore.’62 Carew’s assertion of Cornish superstition as the cause of this
dangerous capitulation indicates a need to erase regional difference in
favour of a national identity, a process A. L. Rowse, in his Tudor
Cornwall, suggests progressed rapidly throughout this period.63 In his
                                                      Matthew Dimmock 87

focus upon ‘superstition’, Carew also offers a pejorative link with
Amezola’s remarkable account.
   The Spanish commander’s description of the English churches as
mosques – mesquita – has largely perplexed historians. On a basic
visual level it is clear, as Nabil Matar earlier asserts, that the white-
washed, austere interior of an English parish church, lacking religious
iconography but decorated with the word of God, would have
seemed closer to the mosques Amezola may have encountered in his
reading (and perhaps in person) than the Catholic churches with
which he was familiar.64 Robert Dickinson, however, suspects that
the use of this term represents a continuance of the ideology of the
reconquista, while Daniel Cruickshank argues that the term repre-
sents this conflict’s status as a ‘Holy War’, complete with ‘all the sav-
agery, bigotry, fanaticism and misunderstanding that disfigure such
enterprises.’65 These views are of course not mutually exclusive, and
the burning of churches suggests both are correct to an extent: as we
have seen from the earlier accounts, English protagonists considered
the conflict to be a holy war, and a wide range of propagandist litera-
ture suggests that it was similarly understood in Spain – as a result, it is
important to recognize that both sides knew, and were outraged, that
the other portrayed it as such.66 There are instructive parallels to be
drawn between the language of Amezola’s report of his plundering raid
upon the Cornish coast, and the iconography that surrounded and
accompanied the armada of 1588.67 Certainly the papal bull that was
carried in great quantities on the armada ships confirms a preoccupa-
tion with ideas of crusade, and was reissued later in 1588 by an English
printer who added a considerable amount of commentary, the most
significant element being the recognition that this very same ‘Lying,
Godless, and blaspheming Bull’ released by the papacy to legitimate
the armada, had already been used before – to justify a crusade against
the ‘Turke’.68 Amezola’s identification of the English churches as
mosques is an extension of this same oppositional logic: the English
are schismatics, heretics, and legitimate objects of crusade, so are the
‘Turkes’. They are thus in many ways the same – outside of the faith,
infidels whom it is meritorious to destroy or convert, by any and all
means available.
   Other textual examples from this conflict confirm this process of
conflation: the English are identified by Catholic propagandists as the
‘new turkes’ of Europe, who ‘would exchange their Geneua Bible for
the Turkish Alcoran’ had they not been ‘so far distant’, and accusations
that their ‘new confederates’ were ‘the great Turk, the kinges of Fesse,
88 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Marocco, and Algiers, or other Mahometains and Moores of Barbarie, all
professed enemies to Christ.’69 Such examples – and there are many
more – are a means of combining England’s contemporary association
with the Ottomans commercially and politically with a conception of
otherness inherited from the influential anti-Muslim polemic of the
middle ages.70 In addition, the marked similarity between the earlier
accounts of captivity on Spanish vessels and those of Barbary captivity
suggest an association between the two that further demonizes the
  Yet as the earlier texts demonstrate, Amezola’s account is one
amongst a number that are triggered by the presence of Spanish galleys
on the Brittany coast in the early 1590s. When considered together
they offer a remarkable narrative of continuing conflict which, though
often characterized in terms of an opposition that culminates in the
armada of 1588, actually continued in regular skirmishes in and
around the Channel, incorporating a diverse assortment of partic-
ipants, from French, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish, to Scots, English
and ‘Turkes’. The representation of these privateers in print –
particularly of enemy privateers – consequently places them at the
leading edge of this ‘holy war’. As the proclamations reproduced earlier
indicate, however, for the English combatants at least, official legit-
imization was necessary to avoid charges of piracy. They were not free
agents. God’s warriors were also the Queen’s warriors, and had to be
bound by the law: as a result, those that went across to the Spanish
side are simply recorded as ‘English pirates’.71
  Furthermore the language used in the accounts of these incidents
indicates an awareness that they were participating in a conflict that
went beyond any simple Anglo-Spanish divide and was spread across
the early modern world. Moreover, the galley itself is presented as a
microcosm of the wider conflict: an unstable multinational space
deeply fractured along theological and political grounds.
  Particularly in terms of the published English accounts – as with the
Barbary captivity narratives – there is a kind of circularity to such rep-
resentations: the accounts confirm a sense of the English as God’s
elect; yet they are simultaneously products of that same certainty.
Objective they are not. The polarized encounters that occur in these
skirmishes thus reveal a complex tangle of allegiances in which con-
ceptions of difference become flexible among allies and rigidly defined
between enemies, and in which one’s status as combatant was under-
stood differently by the reading public and by the state, revealing a
disparity between the rhetoric of nationalist holy war and the require-
                                                  Matthew Dimmock 89

ments of national law. Such considerations can have been little
comfort to those enslaved on the galleys, however, where, as John
Bilbrough writes, ‘euery daye’ was ‘sharper than the sharpest sting of

This essay would not have been possible without financial assistance
from the School of Humanities at the University of Sussex. My thanks
also to Lucy Grove, Claire Jowitt and Gerald MacLean.
Acting Pirates: Converting A Christian
Turned Turk
Mark Hutchings

The early modern playhouse was well suited – too well suited, in the
eyes of its detractors – to play out anxieties about identity and alle-
giance, class and gender, place and nation. The stage’s ambiguous,
liminal position in early modern London culture, at once protected
and attacked by the authorities, is a commonplace in criticism.1 While
the theatre’s ‘official’ role was the legal fiction that it practised playing
to entertain the monarch at court, it was also perceived to be a site of
danger and abuse, associated with lewd, frivolous, and immoral
behaviour.2 Philip Stubbes’ complaint in The Anatomie of Abuses
(1583) that legislation regulating types of dress such as the Act of
Apparel (1563; updated as the Sumptuary Laws in 1597; repealed in
1604) was being flouted by all classes could of course be applied
directly to the theatre too, not only because costume was a floating
signifier through which the players represented character and identity,
but in the acting conventions that made this representation of iden-
tity and self malleable, transitory, and unstable.3 If Stubbes feared that
‘such a confuse mingle and mangle of apparel in England, and such
horrible excesse thereof, as euery one is permitted to flaunt it out, in
what apparel he listeth, or can get by any meanes’ was detrimental to
order in society, the stage, ironically, was aptly placed to register such
perceptions.4 But the theatre also acknowledged deeper, more funda-
mental, forces at work. If Stubbes believed attire stabilized and regu-
lated social relations (and ambitions), the theatre regarded costume as
an exchangeable, transferable stage property: the playhouse exposed
the fallacy of Stubbes’ argument in its continual deconstruction of the
sign, emptying out costumes, like Tamburlaine distributing crowns,
divesting the prop of its intrinsic value. This fluid economy, where
exchange over-determines properties and human relations, is explored
                                                       Mark Hutchings 91

in a number of interesting ways in a play that takes as its subject two
related phenomena: English piracy and conversion to Islam in the
early seventeenth century.5
   It would be reckless to suggest that the playhouse was obsessed with
questions of identity and role-playing; nevertheless, in the light of the
current, comparatively recent interest in early modern England’s rela-
tions with and representations of the Ottoman Empire, it may be
useful to revisit some of these issues. If plays featuring ‘the other’
offered a vicarious engagement with foreign places and cultures, these
plays also sometimes represented, in their very form, some of the
issues, uncertainties, and anxieties arising from narratives of cultural
and/or religious difference. In staging this engagement with ‘other-
ness’, players rehearsed the performative transformation that was
being played out, out there. In the body/actor/character the marks of
engagement with the other are displayed, but it is, crucially, in the
transposition of identities on the early modern stage that identity is
deconstructed, and conversion itself seen to take place.
   The playhouse’s association with the destabilization of social place
and position can be seen in any number of plays even before the con-
ventions of early modern playing are considered, and one starting
point is the Tamburlaine plays (1587–88), widely recognized by critics
as registering the impact of socio-economic (among other) forces on
early modern culture.6 If Tamburlaine represents the emerging adven-
turer contemptuous of the class restraints Stubbes and others hold
dear, the immense success of the play suggests that the ethos was
influential and persuasive. Playgoers may not have embarked in
numbers on ships to Constantinople to seek their fortune, attracted as
their queen was by the possibilities offered by the opening up of trade
routes to the Ottoman Empire, but playwrights certainly were
influenced by the Marlovian model.7 The playhouse’s interest in Turks
was one of the dominant stage narratives of the entire period, and few
regular playgoers could have been unaware of the Turkish presence in
the English imagination, a presence maintained in large part by
Elizabeth’s diplomatic initiatives with successive sultans in the 1580s
and 1590s, and by the Levant Company, as well as by the playhouse
itself.8 One measure of the Levant Company’s success is the increase
in piracy in the Mediterranean during James’ reign. As Christopher
Harding’s discussion of the legal distinction between pirates and pri-
vateers in Chapter 1 makes clear, Elizabeth turned a blind eye to (and
indeed tacitly encouraged) privateers who harassed Spanish shipping,
but under her successor, who made peace with Spain in 1604, such
92 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

activities were no longer tolerated.9 Yet piracy flourished in the
Mediterranean, following in the wake of the Levant Company’s
success – an indirect consequence of Elizabeth’s Turkish initiative,
which from the outset had been both commercial and political, but
also, inevitably, raised complex ideological issues.10
   These narratives coalesce in Robert Daborne’s A Christian Turned
Turk (1610–11). When Daborne came to write his play the themes he
chose were well travelled, on the stage and elsewhere. Daborne is
best remembered today for his letters preserved in Henslowe’s
records; 11 only recently, amidst the upsurge in interest in ‘Turk’
plays, has Daborne’s venture begun to receive attention, but his is a
particularly interesting, and innovative, contribution to the genre.
Its apparent design to demonize Turks, and indeed Jews, as well as
(some) Christians, evokes an atmosphere of anxiety, and perhaps
registers a climate of fear on which it would seem indeed to depend.
Daborne’s ace (to anticipate the card game of hazard with which the
play begins) is to propose a link between two contemporary con-
cerns. In exploiting the dramatic and ideological possibilities in
linking Turks and pirates, Daborne was tapping into two issues that
engaged the popular imagination, producing a play that, perhaps
not surprisingly, has received diverse readings from critics, who have
teased out its participation in a number of narratives. 12 The present
discussion takes a slightly different tack, focusing on the theatrical
aspects of the play’s staging, and exploring whether ‘acting’ and
‘conversion’ might mutually illuminate our understanding of the
   Daborne proposes an interesting, and arguably persuasive, ana-
logy, although the play makes claims it cannot sustain – at least
insofar as its subject, John Ward, so condemned for ‘turning Turk’ in
the play, in fact prospered, living comfortably in Tunis into old age,
according to William Lithgow.13 The stark shift in official policy was
exemplified in 1609 when 19 pirates were executed at Wapping;
while pirates had been punished under Elizabeth there could be no
mistaking James’ intentions, and it has been argued that several
early Jacobean plays treat piracy nostalgically rather than simply
condemning it, harking back to the days of Elizabethan privateer-
ing. 14 And yet, associating pirates and renegades was both logical
and factually accurate: both categories were transgressive, subversive
of social and political order, and turning to a life of piracy often
resulted in close encounters with Muslims which sometimes led to
outright conversion. As Barbara Fuchs has commented, ‘if for the
                                                         Mark Hutchings 93

privateer even a personal quarrel had to be authorized by the state,
the renegado abandons that state so completely as to be branded a
traitor’; this ‘unstable continuum of privateer, pirate, and renegade’
thus threatened England’s self-identity, 15 casting off notional
moorings to the nation. Daborne’s strategy, however, in large part
depended on spectators accepting the premise that pirates were to be
condemned; even if playgoers were appalled by religious apostasy, it
is less certain they were necessarily persuaded by the newly enforced
policy on pirates. A space, literal and metaphorical, thus opens up
between the state’s position on piracy and the playhouse’s imagina-
tive, licensed artisans offering entertainment and delight. So even in
a play where the dice appear to be loaded, where, indeed, there
might seem to be a voice which speaks, as it were, as much from
the pulpit as from the stage, the performance of controversial and
contested material can by no means guarantee a particular inter-
pretative outcome.16 As Claire Jowitt remarks, Daborne’s play ‘is full
of subtle indeterminacy that makes it ambiguously available for an
oppositional reading’.17
   Similar to Thomas Middleton’s and Thomas Dekker’s The Roaring Girl
(1611), Robert Daborne was no doubt drawn to portray a notorious,
living figure in part precisely because he could play off the audience’s
knowledge and expectations; like his fellow dramatists, however, he may
have found that this opportunity was a double-edged sword. Middleton’s
preface to the reader acknowledges that each playgoer ‘brings a play in’s
head with him’ (Prologue, 4), to which the dramatization of course
might well not conform.18 Daborne’s description of his play, in the
address ‘To the Knowing Reader’, as ‘this oppressed and much martyred
tragedy’, and of the audience as ‘silken gulls and ignorant citizens’, indi-
cates it encountered difficulties when it was staged.19 What those were is
not known. Samuel Chew describes it as ‘a contemptible piece of work,
coarse and scabrous, bombastic and noisy, ill-constructed and confused
in style, thought and intention’, and a recent commentator complains
that it ‘must have been printed from papers nearly as foul as its hero’.20
Whatever its merits and problems, textual and aesthetic, A Christian
Turned Turk is packed with fascinating features; ironically, it is perhaps
its complexity that undoes, and undid, its apparent strategy, for in the
act of conflating Turks and pirates in the figure of the renegade the play
opens up, rather than closes off, opportunities for multiple and often
problematic interpretation.
   The simplicity of the design, ideologically speaking, can be seen
most clearly in a brief summary of the plot. The pirates are shown in
94 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

action at the outset, deceiving two merchants, Ferdinand and Albert,
whom they entertain at cards on their ship, off the coast of Ireland.
They then encounter another merchantman and a pirate ship, the
captain of the latter disputing with Ward the booty Ward captures
from the former. Although Ward is betrayed by his comrades, all the
survivors, pirates and merchants alike, eventually set sail for Tunis.
When they arrive at the port, with their human booty to be sold in
the slave market, the audience is introduced to the world of the
renegade, as Ward falls into temptation and ‘turns Turk’, the play
ending with his (and others’) destruction. The moral, it seems, is
clear, and the play has been likened to Doctor Faustus as an example
of ‘warning literature’.21 Certainly, Ward’s apostasy must have been
terrifying for early modern spectators, and the predicament of
Christians in human bondage is treated in a manner commensurate
with the kinds of horrors retold in captivity narratives coming into
print and circulation at this time. 22 And yet, this doubled play dra-
matizing piracy as not only a desertion of country but as conversion
to the infidel faith raises a number of interesting issues. Warning
literature cannot avoid showing that which it condemns, here re-
enacting the moment of the Fall, and enticing spectators to exper-
ience precisely Ward’s pain – and, indeed, his motive. Like Faustus,
then, Ward offers a vicarious, second-hand indulgent pleasure that
his death is designed to punish. But this staged damnation met with
awkward facts, not least that the opening up of the Mediterranean to
English subjects led to thousands of them doing precisely what the
play appears to condemn.23
   Consideration of the play’s various cross-currents draws out its
rich, complicated texture, for it is as a multi-layered palimpsest that
the play activates its concerns, not least in its use of the formal prop-
erties and conventions of early modern playmaking. Indeed, iron-
ically, it is perhaps through reading strategies such as these that
A Christian Turned Turk fully allows its central anxieties, transgression
and conversion, to take centre stage. An example of this complexity
occurs in the opening scene. When Ward’s identity is revealed to the
startled merchants, only now cognizant of their terrible predicament,
his lieutenant, Gismund exclaims:

   Do you know this honourable shape? Heroic Captain Ward, lord of
   the ocean, terror of kings, landlord to merchants, rewarder of man-
   hood, conqueror of the western world, to whose followers the lands
   and seas pay tribute[.] (1.22–5)
                                                      Mark Hutchings 95

The Chorus has promised playgoers ‘Our subject’s low, yet to your eyes
presents / Deeds high in blood, in blood of innocents’ (3–4), reminding
them that:

             The baseness of his birth, how from below
             Ambition oft takes root, makes me forsake
             The good they enjoy, yet know not. (10–12)

Gismund’s introduction of Ward may be intended to be read
ironically, but it recalls Tamburlaine – a quite extraordinary strat-
egy for Daborne to adopt if, as appears to be the case, condemna-
tion of the English pirate was intended. 24 As Richard Levin has
shown, far from condemning him early modern playgoers appear to
have marvelled at Tamburlaine. 25 Ward himself underlines this link
with Marlowe’s play when, like Tamburlaine’s refusal to ransom
Bajazeth, he scornfully refuses Ferdinand’s offer of money to free
the merchants:

              Know we have other use for you,
              Have not enticed you hither for your gold:
              It is the man we want. (1.31–3)

Marlowe’s most famous dramatic creation was of course satirized as
well as celebrated, as for example in Ancient Pistol in 2 Henry IV
(1597–98) and Henry V (1599). But here the parallel is less obviously
critical, and Ward, unlike Shakespeare’s braggart, backs up his rhetoric
with achievements; indeed, in Ward’s cruelty may be seen an echo of
Tamburlaine’s ruthlessness: fearsome and yet, in theatrical terms,
  This uncertainty of register, at the very beginning, when a
playwright intent on deploying a specific strategy might be
expected to avoid such ambiguity, is not confined to a considera-
tion of possible theatrical parallels – though there are more of these
later. The opening scenes are remarkable for their even-handed
treatment of piracy. Ferdinand, one of the captured merchants,
observes that:

       Piracy, it’s theft most hateful, swallows up
       The estates of orphans, widows, who – born free –
       Are thus made slaves, enthralled to misery
       By those that should defend them at the best. (1.58–61)
96 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

His view is borne out by the play’s events; yet this condemnation is in
response to Gismund’s explanation of why desperate men turn to

               [W]ho is’t would not smile
        To hear a soldier that hath nothing left
        But misery to speak him man, can show
        More marks than pence, upon whose back contempt
        Heaps on the weight of poverty – who would not smile
        To hear this piece of wretchedness boast his wounds?
        How far he went to purchase them? With what honour
        He put them on? And now for sustenance,
        Want of a little bread, being giving up
        His empty soul, should joy yet that his country
        Shall see him breathe his last what that air he terms his
        Ungratefully doth stifle him? (1.40–51)

Here the play follows Dekker’s The Shoemaker’s Holiday (1599) and
Middleton’s The Puritan (1608), for example, in recording the lot of
soldiers returning to England.26 This trading of insults – Ward describes
merchants as ‘cankers, eating up the soil’ (1.35) – may have encour-
aged spectators to take one side or the other, but most interestingly it
suggests similarities as well as differences and when, in the attack on
Monsieur Davy’s merchant ship, Ward finds the body of a comrade, it
is with Ferdinand by his side that he delivers an elegy that is heroic,
not demonic:

        WARD: Recall thy spirit, brave friend! A while yet stay –
            At least bear thy revenge hence with thee.
        FERDINAND: He hath lost all motion.
        WARD: Injurious heaven, that with so excellent matter
            As is our soul, didst mingle this base mould,
            So frail a substance earth, as if thou hadst framed man
            The subject of thy laughter, gav’st him a spirit
            Free, unbounded, whose fiery temper breaks
            Through all the clouds of danger, dares even heaven,
            Swells and bears high, when with one little prick
            This bubble breaks, displays a vanity –
            Ridiculous vanity – this building
            That hath been twenty and odd years a-rearing,
            One blast thus lays it flat. I could e’en tremble
                                                         Mark Hutchings 97

              To think that such a coward I bear about me
              As is this flesh that for so small a wound
              Betrays our life. (3.1–17)

As Claire Jowitt demonstrates in Chapter 9 on ‘Scaffold Performances’,
the condemned man could appropriate the scene of his execution as
an act of subversion, both in the ‘present tense’ speech or act he per-
formed, and the later, textual form it often took. Here, the stage,
whose analogous structure lends itself to a comparison with the scaf-
fold, serves to give Ward a pulpit from which to elegize his comrade –
ironically subverting the play’s apparent design.27
   This focus on the opening scenes should not avoid consideration of
the play’s concerns – indeed this incident is Ward’s epiphany: he deter-
mines that ‘[w]e have no will to act – / Or not to act’ (3.40–1), it is ‘the
will of fate’ (3.43) simply; from this point on his life will be ‘through
blood’ (3.49). What this opening sequence does is establish Ward as a
flawed though heroic figure: the play builds him up so to accentuate his
fall. But this strategy complicates the audience’s own narration of what
it sees on stage. Indeed, it becomes clear that conversion is not simply
the play’s subject but its controlling motif. When the action shifts in
Scene 5 the uncertainties of life at sea are as nothing compared to
Tunis, whose entire economy is driven by conversion, and pirates and
merchants alike, Jews, Turks, and Christians are subject to its forces and
fluctuations. This world operates on a single Mediterranean currency,
flattening out values and diluting difference – producing financial,
human, religious, and ideological conversion through the medium of
that other arena of conversion, the stage.
   In this new setting the play activates a familiar (Western) image of
the Ottoman Empire as a ‘sexual economy’, over-determined by
Seraglio intrigue.28 The marketplace that is Tunis, ostensibly the setting
for the financial and bodily exchange that takes place when pirates sell
their human cargo to Benwash, the Jewish convert to Islam who func-
tions as an agent of Ottoman commerce, is also a sex market where
women are used as lures to attract candidates for conversion.29 But this
Tunis, paradoxically, is familiar for another reason, for the play shifts
here to the world of London city comedy, a further example of the
play’s dexterity or uncertainty. This shift towards comedy anticipates a
number of theatrical moments later, such as the familiar cross-dressing
routine when Voada falls for Ward’s page Fidelio (Alizia, Lemot’s sister,
in disguise), and most spectacularly the meta-dramatic restaging of the
famous scaffold scene in The Spanish Tragedy, replayed here when
98 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Benwash kills Rabshake with ‘the play of Pedringano’ (16.154–5). The
effect of these diversions, arguably, is to disperse the narrative focus in
several different directions, detracting significantly from the clarity of
the narrative.
   The denouement, central to the play’s design, will be considered in
due course. What the Tunis scenes signal is not only a thematic and
symbolic treatment of conversion, but they also alert spectators to
the theatre’s role in staging such transformation. Clearly the specta-
cle of Ward’s conversion is deeply – and troublingly – theatrical; but
the playhouse has a more significant role to play in this respect.
Whatever the reasons for the play’s apparent lack of success, whether
‘artistic’ or ideological, one aspect of its staging in particular is worth
dwelling on. As is well known, the number of roles in early modern
plays invariably exceeded the number of actors available. This neces-
sitated the doubling and sometimes tripling of parts, a procedure
which depended of course on availability and plotting – i.e. whether
a given actor was able to play one role and switch to another (see
Lucy Munro’s Chapter 7). 30 The modern theatre has made much of
the potential doubling offers as a further layer of interpretation,
leading to interesting permutations.31 How far the early modern play-
house employed similar strategies, however, is much less certain.
Peter Thomson reasons that it was:

   unlikely that medieval or Elizabethan actors made any attempt
   to deceive the audience over doubling; on the contrary, they were
   at pains to display it as evidence of their skill and to gratify the
   audience’s delight in virtuosity.32

This may well be so; whether this produced a further frisson of
meaning is open to debate. It is also important to distinguish here
between doubling and disguising. As Peter Hyland observes, disguise
was intended to be transparent, visible to the audience but not to other
characters, and thus ‘a constant generator of dramatic irony’.33
Doubling may have worked in a similar fashion, but it was also a differ-
ent form of transformation: the actor playing a disguised character
overlays his character with a costume which conceals his identity
(except to the audience); the doubled character is, on a fundamental
level, an actor underneath, as it were. The question that arises then is
whether actors who doubled as a matter of practical necessity also con-
veyed a further level of multi-layered meaning. Since regular playgoers
who attended plays at particular playhouses must have become famil-
                                                        Mark Hutchings 99

iar with the actors in the company it is likely such identifications took
place. To what extent this was exploited by playwrights and actors –
indeed it must be doubted whether they could control the interpreta-
tive outcome of such possibilities – is very difficult to answer.34 But
doubling there certainly was, and in A Christian Turned Turk it may
have been particularly significant.
  The play has 25 named parts, in addition to speaking and non-speaking
roles alike for ‘Turks, Janissaries, Sailors, Guards, Knights, Priests of
Mahomet, Surgeon, Actors in the dumb shows, Dansiker’s wife, children,
and followers, Governor of Provence, Merchants, Chorus’35 – far too many
for a company’s resources, even when using hired hands for the mute
roles. There must therefore have been extensive doubling. David Bradley
estimates that the play required 16 or 17 actors with five boy players.36
Analysis of the play scene by scene can show the frequency of appearance
of characters, and the possible doubling patterns that may have been used.
As we will see, it is less the specific doubling that may have influenced the
reception of the play than that the play’s doubling and conversion of
actors and characters generally may suggest an ironic perspective on the
play itself.
  For a play concerned with anxieties about identity and conversion, it
begins, appropriately, with deception, the merchants deceived by
pirates they take to be fellow merchants. Indeed, since it is the
merchants who are keenest to play at cards and dice it is a blurring of
identity the audience may have shared, initially. This is, of course,
simply a dramatic device; but it is worth bearing in mind that:

  The same traders with Turkey and Venice who first developed the
  armed fleets that penetrated the Mediterranean were among the
  leaders of the privateering war against Spain during the 1580s and

The play depends on the maintenance of a distinction between pirates
and merchants, but in fact there was considerable interplay between
them: by the early seventeenth century the Levant Company was so
successful that some privateers used piracy as a cover for their illegal
trading ventures in the Mediterranean, to the point where its mono-
poly was threatened.38 Moreover, some ships were crewed by Turkish
and English sailors operating together.39 In this, the play’s first decep-
tion and conversion, here of merchants to pirates, fluidity of identity
and multiple conversion are planted in the minds of spectators as the
play’s dominant motifs.
100 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   Deception features in the play significantly, most obviously when
Alizia disguises herself as Fidelio to save her honour after Monsieur
Davy’s ship is captured – most interestingly a disguise which is donned
onstage, visually italicizing the conversion motif; and Dansiker adopts a
disguise to kill Benwash, in the final scene. Above all, Ward is tricked
into ‘turning Turk’ by Crosman, the Captain of the Janissaries, and
Voada, his role-playing sister. But the changing of attire, it becomes
clear, signifies most dramatically – and troublingly – in the formal con-
ventions of playing. An analysis of the plot suggests that the play’s
staging of the fear of conversion replicates that very conversion in its
deployment of actors: extensive doubling must have been required. It
is not intended here to speculate unnecessarily on the possible dou-
bling of roles as such, but one or two obvious points might be high-
lighted. Arguably the key moment in the play, in logistical terms, is the
shift in setting from the sea to Tunis in Scene 5, after the capture of
Monsieur Davy’s ship: Lemot, Davy, several sailors (and Ward’s slain
comrade) disappear at this point, to reappear as other characters later –
about which more in a moment. Gismund, surprisingly perhaps, given
his prominent role in the opening scenes, drops out of the play
entirely in Scene 6: the actor playing him must then pick up one of
the ‘Tunis’ roles. Perhaps he takes the part of Crosman, Captain of the
Janissaries: both he and Gismund appear in Scene 6, but since
Gismund exits at 6.207 and Crosman does not enter until 6.345 there
is ample time for a costume change. For scholars interested in the
potential for irony in doubling this suggestion is an attractive one:
Gismund is struck by Ward (4.31), later in the scene betrays him, and
it is Crosman who traps Ward into falling for his sister Voada. (In both
cases a Christian/pirate ‘turns Turk’: one in the act of doubling, the
other in conforming to the plot.) The actor playing Gismund may not
have doubled as Crosman, but he must have taken a second role: Scene
6 alone features 22 characters. The point is that the actors playing
Lemot, Davy, Gismund, Lieutenant, and Sailors most certainly doubled
to play a range of Turks once the setting moved to Tunis – the ex-
ception being the actor who, after playing one of the Christians in the
early scenes then played Dansiker the pirate (itself a significant trans-
formation, illustrating the malleability of terms and identities).
Christian characters thus metamorphosed into Turks, while the sailors
in scenes 1–4 most likely took up mostly non-speaking roles in the
two dumb shows as Turkish priests and Janissaries. In the play’s very
performance, as Christian actors represent Turks, both the malleability
of identity and conversion as costuming is signalled; but more tellingly
                                                           Mark Hutchings 101

is the shift onstage from Christian to Turk. While Ward’s is the only
conversion to Islam enacted, Gismund’s doubling (and others’) is a
subtle, almost uncanny reminder to the audience, for whom some dou-
blings may not have been immediately apparent (and thus all the more
striking and unsettling) that conversion was possible and literally irre-
sistible. In this respect Fuch’s notion of an ‘unstable continuum’ may
be adopted here, the palimpsest of play narrative overlaying (imper-
fectly) the acting out (and switching) of roles neatly suggesting that
‘turning Turk’ is the play’s structuring principle, not simply its horrific
exception in Ward, as Daborne’s account would have the audience
   If doubling in A Christian Turned Turk replicated conversion in its
very production, we might speculate about the possible effect this
may have had on playgoers. In one sense the stage simply rehearses
the social signification of dress and its function as a sign of identity:
thus the dumb show depicting the conversion of Ward, in Scene 8, is
in its very ceremony both the ‘actual’ transformation of a Christian
into a Muslim (though as the Chorus explains, ‘What we are dumb
to think, much more to show’ [8.8], the ceremony is not in fact
staged in its entirety), and the theatrical, practical, onstage change
that converts Ward, and gives him his new identity. Here, the play
deploys not only in its stark, silent horror the ‘reality’ of conversion,
but also presents an onstage doubling. In this sequence is writ large
not only the moral of the play, but also the underlying, under-
mining agent of theatre itself. The transformation may well have
troubled spectators:

  Enter two bearing half-moons, one with a Mahomet’s head following.
  After them, the Mufti, or chief priest, two meaner priests bearing his train.
  The Mufti seated, a confused noise of music, with a show. Enter two
  Turks, one bearing a turban with a half-moon in it, the other a robe, a
  sword: a third with a globe in one hand, an arrow in the other. Two
  knights follow. After them, Ward on an ass, in his Christian habit, bare-
  headed. The two knights, with low reverence, ascend, whisper the Mufti in
  the ear, draw their swords, and pull him off the ass. He [is] laid on his
  belly, the tables (by two inferior priests) offered him, he lifts his hand up,
  subscribes, is brought to his seat by the Mufti, who puts on his turban
  and robe, girds his sword, then swears him on the Mahomet’s head,
  ungirts his sword, offers him a cup of wine by the hands of a Christian.
  He spurns at him and throws away the cup, is mounted on the ass, who is
  richly clad, and with a shout, they exit.
102 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

  Acting is conversion. The play was designed to provoke anxieties –
anxieties that were well founded: thousands of Englishmen ‘turned
Turk’ in the early seventeenth century.41 But equally the play has an-
xieties of its own. The omission of the entire ceremony may be because
Ward’s action is:

   so shocking that it is unthinkable, and so horrible that it cannot be
   fully dramatized on stage. … The Chorus may be hinting that the
   surgical procedure of circumcision (considered by early modern
   Englishmen to be a bizarre rite of mutilation) is too grisly to be
   imagined, much less staged.42

But this elision may be symptomatic of a deeper anxiety about the
conversion of the body itself, on stage. This moment is of course key
to the play’s power; yet it is incomplete. It may have been sufficient
to convey the horror of Ward’s apostasy, but there is also here,
perhaps, a specific cultural resistance to going through with the act.
Indeed, in the next scene it emerges by report that Ward ‘played the
Jew with ’em, / Made ’em come to the cutting of an ape’s tale’
(9.3–4): Samuel Chew remarks dryly that ‘the Jacobean stage never
sank lower than that’,43 but this act of rebellion is, perhaps, double-
charged. As well as offering a familiar joke about circumcision,
(which was often conflated with castration 44), Ward’s resistance
figures in a much more significant way, as a meta-theatrical moment,
when the actor playing Ward distances himself from the character he
is portraying. It may or may not be true that when playing Faustus
Edward Alleyn wore a ‘surplice, / With a cross on his breast’, but
anecdotes about Marlowe’s play frightening spectators are suggestive
of the kinds of fears some plays evoked.45 A similar unease may have
surrounded the playing of conversion here, for it is a moment which
both repels and yet draws in, vicariously, the viewer, ‘whereby the
spectator participates the present body of the actor’.46 In the moment
of conversion not quite played out on the actor’s resistant body,
therefore, is nevertheless conveyed the possibility of conversion in
the (identity-less) actor - and playgoer.
   If A Christian Turned Turk cannot avoid the implications of conver-
sion even as it warns against its dangers then this severely undermines
the moralizing imperative, as playgoers witness the spectacle of Ward’s
last words and Crossman’s speech. The critic might ask how these
speeches from the stage, in all probability directed to the playhouse
audience, are received:
                                                       Mark Hutchings 103

  WARD: Lastly, O may I be the last of my country
       That trust unto your treacheries, seducing treacheries.
       All you that live by theft and piracies,
       That sell your lives and souls to purchase graves,
       That die to hell, and live far worse then slaves,
       Let dying Ward tell you that heaven is just,
       And that despair attends on blood and lust.
  ALL: Down with the villain!
  GOVERNOR: Tear the wretch piecemeal! Throw his accursed
       Into the raging bowels of the sea!
       His monument in brass we’ll thus engrave:
       ‘Ward sold his country, turned Turk, and died a slave’.

Such an orthodox ending suggests that Robert Daborne had little inter-
est in exploring the complex issues that lead men to abandon their
country and their god. Though the opening scene voiced a defence of
piracy, fashioning Ward as an apostate allows no room for manoeuvre,
and Daborne cannot offer anything other than condemnation of
Ward’s repudiation of his Creator. By the ending the play has nowhere
else to go. In this respect A Christian Turned Turk might be offered as a
defence of playing to attackers of the theatre who regarded plays as
encouraging immoral behaviour. In this contrived, stylized ending
Daborne seeks to impose a moral message, to draw out the only con-
clusion a playgoer might come to: Ward penitent, regretting his
turning pirate, and Crosman evoking the Turk as bogeyman.
  There are alternative conclusions. Far from closing off possibilities of
changing identity the play is entirely dependent on such strategies;
instead of presenting a definable ‘English’ identity to be triumphantly
reclaimed in the midst of temptation the play presents already-
compromised figures – merchants or pirates, travellers all – exposed to
the other. In the ‘Turkish’ figures deployed, the principals – Benwash,
Crossman, the Governor – and Ward himself – are themselves con-
verts: there is no yardstick for identity, English or Turkish, that can
avoid the implication that all such labels are transferable and
exchangeable in the marketplace that is Tunis. Above all, this foreign
exchange is mediated by the largest common denominator of all – the
playhouse’s protean equity underpinning this playing economy.
By acting pirates the play pirates; it plunders material, reusing costumes
and conventions,48 and revoicing, converting stage matter into a
104 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

representation which in this case counters the play’s own counter-
factual account, its fiction that the still-living Ward dies and is
damned. A Christian Turned Turk is less a dramatization of a politically-
orthodox condemnation of piracy for which it seeks converts in the
playhouse audience than a textual and performative acknowledgment
of the fluidity of social and national identity. In Ward, then ensconced
in Tunis, and through the actor playing him, the play offers a meto-
nymic figure for the thousands who, attracted by ‘the allure of an
empire that changed an Englishman’s hat into a turban’, were indeed
turning Turk in the early seventeenth century.49
‘We are not pirates’: Piracy and
Navigation in The Lusiads
Bernhard Klein

Few readers would describe the 1572 maritime epic Os Lusíadas (The
Lusiads) by Luís Vaz de Camões as centrally concerned with piracy.
Taking the form of a long and highly stylized eulogy on Vasco da
Gama’s first voyage into the Indian Ocean (lasting from 1497 to 1499),
the poem applies the epic formula of Virgil’s Aeneid to the modern
experience of deep-sea navigation, making da Gama the new Aeneas,
and Portugal the new Rome. Its crowded cast includes heroic Lusitanian
seafarers, hostile Muslim rulers, rowdy pagan deities, a whole array of
indigenous characters met en route from Lisbon to Calicut – but not a
single pirate. This is no accidental omission. Da Gama sails not only as
a self-conscious explorer but also as a Christian missionary, whose
poetic persona has fully absorbed the heroic code of honest and hon-
ourable seafaring. But while pirates are ostensibly alien to the moral
economy of The Lusiads, the poem is at the same time so deeply
immersed in contemporary maritime culture (written as it is by an ex-
perienced seafarer) that the very idea of piracy cannot be eliminated
altogether from its imaginative world.
   References to piracy in The Lusiads are inevitably indirect, defensive,
or purely allegorical, but this second-hand treatment belies their actual
importance. These references are like warning signals, alerting us to
otherwise buried meanings, as they briefly make visible a set of con-
ceptual links between piracy and navigation that the poem, for most of
its ten long cantos, is anxious to deny. And since it is precisely the
mastery of an unprecedented navigational challenge that constitutes,
for Camões, the Portuguese fleet’s greatest triumph, this close asso-
ciation between piracy and navigation makes the unconditional celeb-
ration of European seafaring in Asian waters a far thornier task than
the poem’s rhetoric of maritime heroism would imply. In this sense,
106 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

piracy has at least a double presence in The Lusiads: it functions both as
a troubling moral accusation that could at any time be brought against
the Portuguese imperial drive, and as a projection of the uncertainty
about the intellectual achievement of astronomical navigation on
which the Portuguese based their claim to colonial possession in the
Indian Ocean and beyond.

Pirates of the Indian Ocean

Piracy has a long and colourful history in the Indian Ocean. One of its
more recent and popular manifestations is the mythical pirate utopia
of Libertalia, an egalitarian, multi-ethnic, multi-national republic on
the island of Madagascar, first described in 1728 by Captain Charles
Johnson in the second volume of his General History of the Pyrates.1 The
proto-communist fantasy, a central element of the romantic icono-
graphy of pirates, deliberately inverts the realities of eighteenth-
century Western maritime capitalism,2 and thus serves as a reminder
of the European and North American origin of many post-1500 pirates
in the Indian Ocean. For Alan Villiers, these ‘imported’ pirates (as
opposed to the ‘local’ variety) are modern practitioners of ‘the oldest
profession’3 who

   flocked into the Indian Ocean before the end of the seventeenth
   century when stories of its vast wealth became known. The area and
   the trade lent themselves almost ideally to the pursuit of piracy.
   Great lumbering ships, full of the richest cargoes, came year after
   year from the Malabar Coast and from the Persian Gulf and from
   Malacca towards the Cape of Good Hope, round which lay the only
   useful route to Europe. The island of Madagascar, with its many
   creeks, lagoons and harbours, might have been designed as a pirate
   lair. All shipping had to pass it, either to the east or the west. On the
   west lay the Mozambique Channel, where at the northern end the
   Comoro Islands offered safe bases and admirable look-out points
   from which to watch for ships. […] [T]he coast of Madagascar
   abounded in natural retreats which were perfect for shipping with
   local knowledge and impregnable to others. It was a simple matter
   to move a few guns ashore and make a fortress out of a pretty bay,
   whence it would take a major assault to dislodge the defenders.4

According to Villiers, these Western imports were no glamorous swash-
bucklers or early freedom fighters but ‘real fiends’, lawless and ‘brutish’
                                                        Bernhard Klein 107

sea raiders, famous for their ‘[m]eanness, debauchery, the foulest
kind of double-dealing, sneaking treachery, stabs in the back, and
unrelieved brutality.’5 Such a bad press is clearly at odds with the
retrospective veneration of pirates in romantic adventure stories and
blockbuster Hollywood films, and also with the recent interpretation of
pirate communities as alternative societies by radical social historians,
in whose work the eighteenth-century pirate ship emerges as a dyna-
mic, anti-authoritarian, anti-hierarchical social space that incurred
the wrath of the ruling classes by openly flaunting its ‘multicultural,
multiracial, multinational’6 credentials. Villiers’ ‘imported’ Indian
Ocean pirates are clearly open to many readings: they can be seen as
either criminal outlaws, romantic heroes, or practitioners of political
   As a snapshot of early eighteenth-century piracy in the Indian
Ocean, the myth of Libertalia confirms not only the enduring attrac-
tion of viewing pirates as adventurers or social rebels, it also highlights
the problem of perspective which accompanies the history of European
‘discovery’ in this region from the start. As the differences in assess-
ment show, one man’s heroes are another man’s pirates, and if we
go back to the final year of the fifteenth century, we can find opinion
similarly divided on the first European who dropped anchor in the
Indian Ocean, Vasco da Gama: seen as little more than an unwelcome
intruder with sinister intentions by the ethnically mixed merchant
community of Calicut,7 whose trading rights in India da Gama openly
attempted to usurp, he was celebrated as a heroic explorer and shining
beacon of mankind by the citizens of Lisbon during his triumphal
entry into the town after his return to Europe in August or September
   The latter view has dominated da Gama’s reception in Europe ever
since the historic voyage. To this day, his name lives on in the cultural
memory of the West as the skilled deep-sea navigator who ‘discovered’
the sea route from Europe to India, who ‘opened up’ what had
remained a mysterious ocean to Western trade and commerce. More so
than Columbus, who five years earlier had simply sailed west on a
straight line until he sighted land, more by accident than by design, da
Gama epitomizes the image of the European navigator on the high
seas, steering his way fearlessly through ‘uncharted’ space, confident of
the superiority of the scientific knowledge that guides him on his way.
Of course the ocean he ‘opened’ was anything but mysterious or
unknown: what the Portuguese had stumbled upon, as they realized
soon after rounding the Cape, was an ancient, sophisticated, and
108 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

culturally diverse trading network that operated on the natural rhythm
of the monsoon winds, and that spanned the entire Indian Ocean from
East Africa to the South China Seas.8 In this world there was so little
occasion for further ‘discovery’ that in order to find the route to India,
it actually made a lot more sense for da Gama to rely on local know-
ledge and maritime expertise than to engage in long navigational
experiments of trial and error.9 One of his greatest concerns, as he
sailed up the East African coast, was finding experienced pilots who
would unlock for him the secret of the monsoons.
   Given da Gama’s dependence on local assistance and indigenous
maritime skills, his continued pretension to ‘discovery’ and his divisive
approach to the issue of trading rights make it hardly surprising that
an image rather different from that of the heroic navigator prevailed
on the Kerala coast. Indeed, upon arrival at Calicut – the west Indian
port city where he made landfall after crossing the Indian Ocean – da
Gama was denounced by the city’s leading Muslim merchants as an
untrustworthy pirate, who was only posing as a foreign king’s ambas-
sador.10 His paltry ceremonial gift to the local ruler,11 which brought
tears of laughter to the eyes of the Zamorin’s advisors since ‘the
poorest merchant from Mecca, or any other part of India, gave more’,12
did nothing to boost his credibility as an honest agent representing a
mighty Christian power. His actions just prior to leaving Calicut in
1498, when he refused to pay port duties and took with him five
hostages he had captured, only further fuelled the suspicion that his
intentions were anything but honourable.
   His immediate successors left little doubt that the aggression and
religiously motivated violence that characterized Portuguese attacks on
North Africa earlier in the fifteenth century (which Nabil Matar writes
about in Chapter 3) were to be continued in similar style in Asian
waters. In 1500, Pedro Álvares Cabral, believing he was witnessing a
breach of his trading privileges, attacked and seized a Muslim ship that
was heading up the Red Sea route to Europe with its spice cargo.
Shocked locals responded in kind by burning down the Portuguese
warehouse and killing the factor (who had advised Cabral to seize the
ship) together with over 50 of his men. The violence soon spiralled out
of control: Cabral next burned ten (in some accounts, 15) Arab vessels
lying in the port, killing all their crew, and then bombarded the
unfortified towns of Calicut and Pantalayini for two entire days.13 The
third Portuguese visitor to the Kerala coast, Joao de Nova, attacked and
sank between two and five (again, depending on the account) Muslim
ships in 1501, plundering their entire cargo.14 By anybody’s definition,
                                                       Bernhard Klein 109

these were aggressive acts of piracy, in which da Gama continued to
engage on his second voyage to the Indian Ocean in 1502, when he
was under explicit instructions to seize Muslim vessels on the high seas
(an order upon which he acted at least once15) and thus interrupt the
old spice route through the Red Sea, overland via Egypt, and finally by
ship across the Mediterranean to Venice.
  Before the arrival of the Portuguese and other Europeans in their
wake, the Indian Ocean was a relatively peaceful and neutral trading
territory, despite the existence of indigenous piracy. It is important to
make that distinction. In the Indian Ocean, there was no tradition of
dominating or controlling sea lanes for any other than defensive pur-
poses (in contrast to standard practice in the Mediterranean), and
except for isolated instances, there were no forms of armed trading
either. It was the Portuguese who introduced both ideas: that goods on
board had to be protected with weapons at all times, and that rights of
sovereignty could be exercised over the sea – as the Portuguese did
with their system of ‘cartazes’, or naval passes, which Indian Ocean
merchants were compelled to buy from Portuguese officials of the
Estado da India, with its main base at Goa.16 The novelty of these ideas,
and the extent to which Indian Ocean societies were unprepared for
them, goes a long way towards explaining how a small nation like
Portugal, largely marginalized in Europe, could exercise a nominal
(though to some extent no more than notional) hegemony for so long
over so vast a region as the Indian Ocean.
  Indigenous or ‘local’ piracy could take different forms. There are
some reports of large-scale, organized attacks: some time before 1324
(the year of his death), Marco Polo ran into pirate fleets of ‘a hundred
corsair vessels on cruize’ along the Malabar and Gujarati coasts, who
stayed out on the water for the whole summer with their families.17 In
the early 1340s, near Pigeon Island off Goa on the west Indian coast,
Ibn Battuta was attacked by pirates who ‘took everything everybody
had’, though they spared the lives of all on board.18 And in his
fifteenth-century navigational work Kita al-Fawa   ¯’id, or ‘Book of Useful
Things’, the renowned Arab navigator Ahmad Ibn Majid warned of one
particular pocket of piracy close to Calicut that seafarers in the Indian
Ocean should do their best to avoid.19 Forms of organized sea raiding
were thus not unknown, yet like in other parts of the world (in late
sixteenth-century and early seventeenth-century Gaelic Ireland for
example, as John Appleby demonstrates in Chapter 2) most instances
of indigenous Indian Ocean piracy had their cause less in greed than
in material need, and were often confined to periods of crisis and to
110 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

isolated locations along the shore – if they were not actually extensions
of land-based political conflicts or simply signs of a successful and
flourishing maritime trade.20
  Certainly these localized instances were not what the Portuguese and
the later imperial powers had in mind when they denounced acts of
piracy in the region, which tended to be intimately linked to the eco-
nomic changes precipitated by their arrival in Asian waters. For a later
period than this volume is concerned with, James Warren has shown
how the ethnic groups of Iranun and Balangingi in the Sulu-Mindanao
region of South East Asia were no professional pirates or slave traders
but only took up maritime raiding to meet the English demand for
tea.21 In earlier times, the many Malay and Indonesian sultans whom
the Portuguese and later the English and Dutch denounced as ‘pirate
chieftains’ were often simply local rulers unwilling to accept the terms
imposed upon them by the colonial powers. In this sense, as Anand
writes, ‘much talk by Europeans about “piracy” in the Indian Ocean
[…] was only a manipulation of the concept to suit their political

Piracy in The Lusiads

This brief historical scenario confirms for the Indian Ocean what other
essays in this collection also argue for other regions, which is that
piracy – whether in the English Channel, the west coast of Ireland, the
Caribbean, or elsewhere – is more often than not a problem of percep-
tion: it matters who calls whom a pirate, and why. The absence of
objective criteria to define piracy noticeably governs how the issue is
addressed by Luís de Camões, author of The Lusiads, who arrived in the
Indian Ocean in the mid-1550s to stay for c. 15 years, in various profes-
sional capacities (including several prison terms), travelling possibly as
far as Macao in eastern China. Piracy in The Lusiads is a bit like the
contemporary notion of atheism: imaginable only as the thought or
profession of somebody else. In this sense pirates are part of the mar-
itime backdrop of this poem, always present as a potential danger and
a serious threat – a threat especially to the safety and ‘sufficiency’ of
the ship,23 to the reputation of the mariners, and to the heroics of the
   The anxiety of being mistaken for pirates haunts the Portuguese
fleet, and when they first arrive in Mozambique they are indeed
denounced as ‘gentes roubadoras’ (1.78.3)24 – pirates; sea ‘robbers’ –
who wish to enter the harbour under pretence of peaceful trade: ‘There
                                                        Bernhard Klein 111

is hardly a sea they have not looted / Burning everything in their sight’
(1.79.3–4).25 This false claim is made by Bacchus (a companion of
Lusus, the mythical founder of Portugal), who appears here in one of
his many disguises. Bacchus belongs to the main subplot of the poem,
which is set among the gods on Olympus and is structured around a
dispute between himself and Venus: Bacchus wants the Portuguese to
fail in their imperial mission, Venus wants them to succeed; the fre-
quent interventions of the gods in the progress of the expedition tend
to neutralize each other. The success of the voyage – the principal plot
line – is finally attributed not to the gods but to the courage and
strength of the Portuguese seafarers.
   Bacchus’ denunciation of Vasco da Gama’s men is of course pre-
sented as an outrage, and leads immediately to a battle in which the
Portuguese are triumphant. It figures here as an attempt to intensify
the antagonism between Christians and Muslims: ‘[B]loodthirsty
Christians’ (1.79.2),26 Bacchus calls the Portuguese, implying that
piracy is implicit in the corrupt nature of their faith. That there is
more behind this accusation than simply the slanderous intentions
of Bacchus is made obvious by the Portuguese self-presentation in
Malindi, another East African port city, which they visit after
Mozambique and Mombasa. Here, da Gama’s unnamed envoy, who is
sent on shore to open negotiations with the Sultan, starts by explicitly
pre-empting suspicions of piracy: ‘“We are not pirates”’, he explains,
‘“who, coming upon / Undefended, unsuspecting cities, / Commit
massacre by fire and sword / To rob people of what they treasure”’
   The same pattern – the accusation of piracy necessitating an elabo-
rate rhetorical self-defence – occurs later in the poem on the other side
of the Indian Ocean. Arriving in Calicut, one of the Muslim councillors
to the Zamorin, Monsayeed (a historical figure mentioned also in the
only eyewitness account to survive from the voyage28), again intro-
duces the Portuguese as pirates. They are, he tells the Zamorin, ‘restless
people / Who, spilling from the seas of the west, / Lived lawlessly by
piracy and rapine, / Without king or country, human or divine’
(8.53.5–8).29 In the explicit conjunction of piracy and the rejection of
worldly and spiritual rule, avarice is here given a political twist, anti-
cipating twentieth-century readings of pirates as radical idealists.30
Again, Vasco da Gama struggles to defend himself against the charge,
interestingly this time by pointing out the attractions of the pirate
lifestyle: ‘“[T]o be frank,”’ he tells the Zamorin, ‘“were I a buccaneer, /
Roaming the seas in perpetual exile, / Why do you think I should
112 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

voyage so far / Seeking so unknown and remote a port?”’ (8.67.1–4),31
and again a few lines later: ‘“It would, indeed, profit me more / To
spend my days as a pirate / On the never-resting bosom of the sea /
Amassing wealth from others’ industry”’ (8.74.5–8).32 An explorer
clearly works much harder than a pirate, and has less fun.
   It is obvious, then, that even though pirates are absent from the
textual surface of The Lusiads, they loom in the background as an
element of corruption that might seriously jeopardize the ethics of
heroic ‘discovery’ by revealing it as nothing more than greed for
wealth and power. Heroism, this suggests, might be no more than a
posture, a thin veneer, always threatening to be exposed as a mask for
piracy. Considerable moral strength – such as only the Portuguese
appear to possess – is required to resist the temptation. Off the East
African coast, after another frustrating attempt to converse with mono-
lingual natives, amid ‘rancid’ provisions (5.71.1)33 and renewed fears
that they might never return home, discipline and obedience become
ever harder to maintain, as da Gama explains to the Sultan of Malindi:
the mariners have grown weary but ‘“Do you imagine if I, their
captain, / Opposed them, they would not have mutinied, / Driven to
become pirates out of sheer / Rage and desperation and hunger?”’
(5.72.1–4)34 The imminent descent into piracy was only avoided
because of the mariners’ ‘“natural qualities / Of discipline, of being
Portuguese.”’ (5.72.7–8)35
   But clearly, the danger exists, revealing how the text of The Lusiads
is haunted by piracy in the sense that under stress, all seafarers –
even the heroic Portuguese – might turn into lawless sea raiders. The
boundary between the ‘honest’ mariner and the ‘treacherous’ pirate,
between heroism and sea robbery, is a slippery one. Both define
opposite uses of the sea but, as in the rhetorical figure of paradias-
tole, they inhabit adjacent semantic fields. Mariners may turn into
pirates in the way that only a slightly exaggerated form of courage
can tip over into recklessness, thus defining not a more intense
degree of the same quality, but effectively its opposite. 36 The prox-
imity between mariners and pirates is in fact so disturbing that the
one cannot easily be evoked without explicit reference to the other.
In the scene mentioned above, when da Gama’s envoy presents the
Portuguese to the Sultan of Malindi by insisting they ‘are not
pirates’, he also explains what they are instead: honest mariners,
exceptionally skilled navigators, who have sailed from as far away as
‘proud Europe’ and crossed lands widely separated in space – ‘terras
apartadas’ (2.80.5–6).37
                                                      Bernhard Klein 113

Piracy and navigation

Piracy and navigation are not accidentally brought into proximity
here. What the explicit emphasis on navigational achievement as a
defence against the charge of piracy suggests, I now want to argue, is
that the anxiety over piracy is related to a wider anxiety over the law-
fulness of the Portuguese claim to empire. More precisely, it is the
exclusivity of ownership implied in this claim – both intellectual and
territorial ownership – that is the source of the tension which surfaces
in the pirate references.
  Some years ago, Patricia Seed suggested that the mental and material
possession of imperial knowledge was intimately related for the
Portuguese, whose ‘technological achievements granted them a kind of
intellectual property which in turn granted them right to a commercial
monopoly in regions they had uncovered’.38 Jewish astronomers in
fifteenth-century Portugal were the first to apply mathematical knowl-
edge to the practical problems of deep-sea navigation, a fusion between
theory and practice that made the ‘discovery’ of distant lands possible
in the first place. The Portuguese mathematician and royal cosmogra-
pher to King João III, Pedro Nunes, exemplified that idea in his highly
influential and pioneering navigation manual of 1537, Tratado de la
sphera – ‘the first scientific treatise on navigation … to appear in
print’39 anywhere in Europe – by claiming that the Portuguese had dis-
covered ‘new islands, new lands, new seas, new peoples; and what is
more a new sky and new stars’.40 The southern sky and especially its
stars – unreachable, remote, only just perceptible to the human eye –
are clearly of a different order from the intimate and physical
encounter with islands, seas, and people: the Portuguese claim to
exclusive ownership of these celestial ‘discoveries’ rests on what we
would now recognize as science.
  Celestial navigation has indeed some claim to being a kind of
master science in the sixteenth century. John Dee, in his customarily
convoluted syntax, wrote in 1570 that ‘the arte of navigation demon-
strateth how, by the shortest good way, by the aptest Direction, &
in the shortest time, a sufficient Ship, betwene any two places (in
passage Nauigable,) assigned: may be conducted: and in all stormes,
& naturall disturbances chauncyng, how, to vse the best possible
meanes, whereby to recouer the place first assigned’.41 Any course
across the water is thus an imagined straight line between two
equally imagined Euclidean (and hence non-dimensional) points,
which makes navigation a kind of thought experiment, a way of
114 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

overcoming the limitations of time and space, and of all obstacles
thrown in the way by tempests or violent seas. Pedro de Medina, the
mathematician and cosmographer from Seville, made a similar point
in 1545: ‘who is sufficient to speake of so great a misterie [subtileza:
ingenuity; ‘subtiltie, craft, finenes’42] that a man with a compasse,
and certaine strekes marked in a carde, doth knowe howe to goe
rounde about the world, and knoweth both by day and night
whether he shall come, and from whence he shall depart, and howe
much he shall go from one place to another, and that he goe cer-
tainly in his right way, by so long and so large a thing as the sea is
[vna cosa tan larga y espaciosa como es la mar], where is no way nor
signe therof.’43 Navigators cannot ‘see’ where they are yet ‘know’
their position at any given moment, indeed that moment in time is
part of their position in space. That scientific precision constitutes
the ‘misterie’ of navigation, which leads – from a Portuguese imperial
perspective – directly and unambiguously to the ‘mastery’ of the
   But like most rhetorical claims to exclusive ownership, this discourse
of imperial conquest based on the ‘discovery’ of a particular technol-
ogy is as much a stylish fabrication as it is a position of considerable
material consequence for the lands and peoples thus ‘discovered’. On
closer inspection, the Portuguese navigational skills were never as sen-
sational or unparalleled as Nunes and the official propagandists made
them out to be. By the time of da Gama’s arrival, the Indian Ocean was
already ancient sailing territory, having been traversed by humans in
sea-going vessels for several thousand years.44 Local navigational
knowledge was extensive and highly sophisticated, as is evident from
the writings of Ahmad Ibn Majid,45 Sidi Ali Çelebi,46 and other Arab
navigators. Evidence of cross-fertilization as Western and Arab naviga-
tional traditions came into contact in the Indian Ocean around 1498 is
speculative but suggestive. The contemporary Portuguese historian
João de Barros, for instance, reports conversations between da Gama
and the pilot from Gujarat who joined him in Malindi about their
respective navigational techniques.47 And it is just possible that the
adoption of the cross-staff, a thirteenth-century measuring instrument
used in land surveying, by European mariners in the sixteenth century
was influenced by the kamal, an ancient Arab navigational instrument
da Gama saw in use in the Indian Ocean, and which Cabral tested
on his own voyage to Calicut, via Brazil, in 1500.48 The kamal, impor-
tantly, made the fixed horizon, rather than the rolling deck of the ship,
one of the crucial variables in determining latitude by angular
                                                        Bernhard Klein 115

measurement.49 By contrast, measuring instruments used on European
ships, like the quadrant or the ancient astrolabe, were unreliable when
the ship was in motion, and when da Gama wanted to take his exact
position with his huge wooden astrolabe at St Helena’s Bay in southern
Africa, he had to do so on land.50 Direct influences apart, the similari-
ties between kamal and cross-staff certainly suggest related solutions to
the same navigational problems – including a reading of the sky and
the stars – in seas as far apart as the Mediterranean and the Indian
Ocean, a parallel that did not go unnoticed by Western seafarers and
early modern historians.
   The more general point to be made here, with regard to the wider
history of the Indian Ocean, is that this particular early modern
encounter between East and West cannot be reduced to any facile and
clear-cut binaries. The Europeans who arrived in the sixteenth century
certainly had an unsettling impact on the region, disrupting ‘ancient
economic linkages and mercantile fortunes’,51 but they also often had
no other choice than to adopt local customs and blend into existing
commercial networks. ‘[I]n essence’, McPherson concludes, the Euro-
peans’ ‘mercantile activities during the sixteenth and seventeenth cen-
turies were founded upon intimate collaboration with indigenous
merchants and seafarers.’52 On the seas, such collaboration took the
form of mutual respect and recognition between mariners – which to
some extent was a precondition of all European voyages of exploration,
not only in the Indian Ocean. As we have seen with da Gama, who
would hardly have known where to locate Calicut on the Malabar
Coast without the help of his pilot, Western mariners were crucially
dependent on local knowledge and indigenous navigational skills.
   Even in The Lusiads, Camões implicitly acknowledges that mariners
in foreign waters are never the self-sufficient masters of oceanic hori-
zons he otherwise claims them to be. The acknowledgement is indeed
never more than implicit because the poem is in an important sense
divided against itself: there is on the surface the familiar Western tale
of antagonism and struggle – the ‘other’ has to be overcome, defeated,
conquered, never accepted as equal, whether that ‘other’ is the indi-
genous ‘savage’, the sea, or Islam. But below that ideology, there is a
recognition of a maritime world of compromise and negotiation in
which there is no space for that exclusive and arrogant posturing: a
space of cultural diversity, of seafaring labour, of ‘turbulent seas, where
there are lodged / Nations and tribes with various kings and chiefs, /
Contrasting customs, various beliefs’ (10.91.5–8).53 Even the open host-
ility towards Islam – for which this poem is sadly famous54 – is shelved
116 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

the moment the Portuguese require relevant information or material
assistance in order to proceed on their journey. Indeed, Camões may
well be silently acknowledging a maritime fellowship here that had to
some extent become a pattern in the sixteenth century, as manpower
shortages made it necessary for the Portuguese to employ Muslim
mariners on their ships.55
   Of course, in the cynical version of the story the colonizers simply
put up a temporary façade of friendliness to extract local knowledge
from the natives, and once they have obtained it, use brute force to
push through their imperial agenda. But to privilege this version
means to cancel out both indigenous agency and genuine moments of
mutual respect across ethnic, cultural and religious divides. Even for
the Portuguese mariners, the real discovery of the voyage is perhaps
not a new world or trading empire but the interconnectedness of one
single world, full of ‘[c]ontrasting customs, various beliefs’.
   Piracy, I want to suggest in conclusion, belongs to this second order
of meaning in the poem; pirates are one of many reminders that there
is a real seafaring world out there which takes no heed of the controll-
ing discourses of power and the high-strung imperial rhetoric the
poem is otherwise eager to advertise. Pirates attack property in the
same way that the poem undermines (albeit unwittingly) its own case
for exclusive Portuguese ownership of the ‘new sky and new stars’ of
the southern hemisphere: the brave mariners are noble, honest and
honourable, but actually they are also pirates; copyright is claimed on
celestial navigation, but actually the Portuguese cannot find their way
across the sea without local help; sole ownership of the ocean relies on
the rhetoric of an ‘empty’ and ‘uncharted’ sea – and is even celebrated
in canto nine as a marriage ritual, in which the Portuguese are officially
‘wedded to the sea’ – but actually the ocean is revealed as a space
shared by many. Piracy is an outward manifestation of these contradic-
tions and disjunctions, it thus signifies more than an alternative mar-
itime career: pirates muddy the clean waters of the southern seas as
much as they disturb the pristine rhetoric of imperial ownership.
   It is in this sense that piracy can be seen as navigation’s ‘other’, as
quite literally polluting the pure art of navigation. This art, Richard
Eden writes in his 1561 preface to the English translation of a Spanish
navigation manual (by Martin Cortes), is reserved for ‘Pilotes (I saie)
not Pirottes, Rulers, not Rouers, but such as by their honest behauour
and conditions ioyned with arte and experience, may doe you honest
and true seruice: whiche is not to be looked for of suche as beynge des-
titute as well of the feare of God as of all moral vertues, superbounde
                                                        Bernhard Klein 117

in all notorious vyces, accoumpting desperateness for boldness, rash-
nesse for hardinesse, impudencie for stoutnesse, and crueltie for
manhod.’56 Putting navigational knowledge into circulation while
asking to keep it out of reach of pirates is wishful thinking of the pre-
Gutenberg variety, an attempt to promote proper conduct on the high
seas that ignores the economic imperative of the printing press. Eden
could have equally well stuck a label on his printed book, ‘not to be
sold to pirates’. The futility of the gesture epitomizes the role of piracy
in the Western imperial discourse of oceanic ‘discovery’: pirates are
products of the virtual maritime spaces created by celestial navigation,
not its ‘natural’ obstacle; the idea of piracy cannot be eliminated even
from an epic celebrating the heroics of exploration and deep-sea nav-
igation because the knowledge that the globe is a space shared by a
multitude of people, not by a single nation, can perhaps be denied, but
never fully eradicated from all fantasies of imperial possession.
Virolet and Martia the Pirate’s
Daughter: Gender and Genre in
Fletcher and Massinger’s The
Double Marriage
Lucy Munro

Around 1621 the King’s Men first performed a play by John Fletcher
and Philip Massinger, The Double Marriage.1 This is one of a series of
plays written by Fletcher and Massinger for the King’s Men in the last
years of the reign of James I, many of which return to the seemingly
interlinked figures of the pirate and the Amazon. They include, in
addition to The Double Marriage, Fletcher and Massinger’s The Sea
Voyage (1622), Fletcher’s The Island Princess (1619–21), Massinger’s The
Unnatural Combat (c. 1624–25) and Love’s Cure, which may date in its
extant form from around 1625.2 The Double Marriage and The Sea
Voyage in particular demonstrate a complex interaction between piracy
and political and sexual unease in the Jacobean fin de siècle, an unease
also exemplified in the Hic Mulier and Haec Vir pamphlets of 1620.3 The
Sea Voyage juxtaposes a pirate who has abducted his enemy’s sister
with a community of shipwrecked women who have set up an
Amazonian community, while The Double Marriage features not only a
pirate but also an Amazonian pirate’s daughter, involving them both
with pressing questions of political legitimacy and tyranny.
   In view of the pirate’s potency as a dramatic figure, and of early
modern drama’s investment in gender controversy, it is perhaps sur-
prising to find that plays featuring female pirates are rare. The most
intriguing of this select group are The Double Marriage and Thomas
Heywood’s The Fair Maid of the West, the two parts of which probably
date from the 1590s and 1630s respectively.4 These plays are diamet-
rically opposed in their treatment of the female pirate. While the first
part of The Fair Maid of the West focuses on the virtuous Bess Bridges’
career as a privateer,5 The Double Marriage depicts Martia, pirate daugh-
                                                          Lucy Munro 119

ter of the renegade duke-turned-pirate Sesse, as a virago, uncompro-
mising in her pursuit of love and revenge. The change in the treatment
of piracy between The Fair Maid of the West and The Double Marriage is
possibly related to changes in foreign policy; the 1604 peace treaty
with Spain had far-reaching effects on English attitudes towards piracy
and privateering. Critics such as Claire Jowitt have described a marked
variation in the representations of pirates and privateers in Elizabethan
and Jacobean drama, and in Chapter 2 of this volume John Appleby
notes the ‘growing hostility to pirates who, under the early Stuarts,
were increasingly described as vermin or scum’.6
  Critics of The Double Marriage have tended to pass over the fact that
Sesse and Martia are pirates, focusing instead on the play’s representa-
tions of tyranny and gender politics.7 I suggest, however, that The
Double Marriage merits sustained investigation from the perspective of
piracy, and that the figure of the pirate’s daughter embodies the play’s
anxieties about tyranny and female sexuality. The opening scenes of
the play focus on tyranny, as Ferrand, the Aragonese King of Naples,
revenges himself on Virolet, a Neapolitan nobleman who has con-
spired against him. Ferrand first attempts to break Virolet’s wife,
Juliana, on the rack; the tyrant then sends Virolet on what he suspects
will be a fatal mission to rescue his friend Ascanio from captivity at the
hands of the pirate Sesse. Virolet is taken prisoner and Martia enters
the narrative, falling in love with Virolet and offering to release both
him and Ascanio. The catch is that Virolet must in return pledge to
divorce Juliana and marry Martia, creating the ‘double marriage’ of the
play’s title. Virolet agrees to this scheme, but after his divorce and
remarriage he repudiates Martia, vowing never to consummate their
marriage. Enraged, Martia vows revenge and when Juliana refuses to
help her she forms a liaison with Ferrand. At this point the play’s main
preoccupations – tyranny, piracy and female sexuality – are brought
together. Sesse pursues Martia to Naples, but is distracted by his desire
for political vengeance against Ferrand; he eventually leads the people
of Naples in deposing and decapitating the tyrant. The deaths of
Virolet and Juliana (Juliana kills Virolet in error and then dies herself,
seemingly of grief) satiate Martia’s desire for revenge, and she stoically
faces her father. Sesse’s murderous vengeance is prevented, however,
by his Boatswain, who steps in and kills Martia himself, unwilling to
let Sesse act in such an unfatherly fashion. Sesse finally passes the
crown to Ascanio and returns to his life on the sea.
  As a number of critics, notably Paul Salzman, have pointed out,
doubling is crucial to The Double Marriage.8 A largely unnoticed piece of
120 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

doubling is that between the two pirates, father and daughter, who at
first are aligned but who eventually move in opposite directions.
Emerging from the homosocial male world of the pirate ship, Martia is
seen initially by the audience as a ‘martial maid’ and an ‘Amazon’,
fighting as bravely as any of the men.9 A sudden infatuation with her
father’s enemy, however, leads her to reject Sesse, and she increasingly
turns to stereotypically ‘female’ crimes, working to achieve her revenge
through sexual manipulation. While Sesse’s piratical energies are even-
tually harnessed in service of a movement from tyranny to liberation,
Martia actually forms an alliance with the tyrant. In redeeming Sesse as
a liberator, The Double Marriage locates concerns about the disruptive
energies of piracy in the ambiguous figure of a woman who is simul-
taneously masculine and hyper-feminine. The doubling of the two
pirates also emphasizes the ways in which the play’s genre is doubled:
while Sesse’s actions enable the political tragicomedy of the tyrant’s
death, Martia’s lead to sexual tragedy.10
   This essay is concerned primarily with the effects that Martia – in her
dual identities as amazon and pirate – has on the generic structures and
gendered politics of The Double Marriage. My first concern is the play’s
literary heritage, which is an important influence on its depiction of the
female pirate. While many pirate plays portray contemporary people or
situations – Daborne’s A Christian Turned Turk, for instance, or Heywood
and Rowley’s A Fortune by Land or Sea – the plot of The Double Marriage
and its theatrical embodiment of the amazon display a marked debt to
classical sources and traditions. I then examine the ways in which the
portrayal of Martia also draws on the ideas about political disruption and
insurgency associated with the pirate. The masculine woman is not
treated wholly negatively in The Double Marriage – in another piece of
doubling, Martia finds her echo in the valiant and faithful Juliana;
instead, it is Martia’s piratical inheritance which equips her to bear the
brunt of the play’s tragic conclusion.
   Although the female pirate was to become a vibrant stereotype, an
exemplary ‘phallic woman’, her depiction in the early seventeenth
century was far more uncertain.11 A few historical exemplars existed,
such as the Irish chieftain and pirate Gráinne Ní Mháille (Grace
O’Malley), who defied the English president of Connaught, Richard
Bingham, and finally found support from Elizabeth herself after
gaining a personal meeting in 1593.12 But although she left literary
traces in Spenser’s Faerie Queene, Ní Mháille does not seem to have
been well-known in the early seventeenth century and she had no par-
ticular influence on the drama. Instead of representing a specific histor-
                                                           Lucy Munro 121

ical figure, Fletcher and Massinger draw on literary and, in particular,
classical material in their portrayal of the female pirate.
   As Eugene Waith has demonstrated, the plot of The Double Marriage is
derived in the main part from two of Seneca the Elder’s Controversiae.13
The Controversiae are not plays or romances, instead they outline a situa-
tion which becomes the subject of debate between a group of students.
The first Controversia used by Fletcher and Massinger, ‘The Pirate Chief’s
Daughter’, takes the case of a man who is captured by pirates and whose
father refuses to ransom him. The pirate’s daughter promises to free the
man and desert her father if he will agree to marry her. They marry, but
the man’s father later orders his son to divorce his pirate-wife so that he
can marry an heiress; when the man refuses his father disinherits him.
The second Controversia used in The Double Marriage, ‘The Woman who
was Tortured by the Tyrant for her Husband’s Sake’, takes the case of a
woman who is tortured by a tyrant intent on discovering her husband’s
plots against him. The husband eventually kills the tyrant, but he later
divorces his wife on the grounds that she bore him no children within
five years of marriage.14
   In the original plots, both women are threatened with divorce; in
Fletcher and Massinger’s fusion of the two narratives, Martia’s marriage
to Virolet actually creates the divorce between Virolet and Juliana, the
latter’s possible sterility following her torture being merely a pretext
suggested by a corrupt lawyer.15 In Seneca’s narrative, the pirate’s
daughter is the victim; in The Double Marriage, the pirate’s daughter’s
love or, it is strongly suggested, lust for Virolet makes her the perpetra-
tor of injustice.16 This combination immediately tilts the resulting
dramatic plot towards tragedy; it also yields the tragicomic political
conclusion of the play as two seemingly peripheral characters in
the Controversiae, the tyrant and the pirate chief, are brought together.
The shift to tragedy has important effects on the representation of the
female pirate, enabling her presentation as an ambiguous virago who
becomes a fully-fledged villain.
   The orientation towards tragedy and tragicomedy is also achieved
through another literary influence on The Double Marriage: the long-
established stereotype of the amazon. Martia is presented from the first
in terms of sexual ambiguity, in an exchange between the Boatswain and
the Gunner about their master and his daughter. The Boatswain says,

        How like old Neptune have I seen our Generall
        Standing ith’ Poope, and tossing his steel Trident,
        Commanding both the Sea and Winds to serve him?
122 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

      Gunner. His daughter too, which is the honour, Boteswain,
         Of all her sex; that Martiall mayd.
      Boteswain.                      A brave wench.
      Gunner. How oftentimes, a fight being new begun,
         Has she leap’d down, and took my Linstock from me,
         And crying, now fly right, fir’d all my chasers?
         Then like the Image of the warlike Goddesse,
         Her Target brac’d upon her arme, her Sword drawn,
         And anger in her eyes, leap’d up again,
         And bravely hal’d the Barke. I have wondred Botswain,
         That in a body made so delicate,
         So soft for sweet embraces, so much fire,
         And manly soule, not starting at a danger.
      Bots. Her Noble father got her in his fury,
         And so she proves a souldier.

The terms through which Martia is introduced invoke the amazon, but
they nonetheless seem positive. She is ‘the honour […] of all her sex’
and, in the Boatswain’s less elevated terms, a ‘brave wench’; the
Gunner likens her to ‘the Image of the warlike Goddesse’, presumably
the chaste warrior Athena. The term ‘martial maid’ could also be
positive – it recalls female warriors such as Spenser’s Britomart, and the
virtuous and valiant Clara in Love’s Cure is also a ‘martial maid’.
   In other respects, however, the description of Martia is unsettling.
Like Shakespeare’s Joan of Arc in 1 Henry VI, she is associated with vio-
lence and with the appropriation of male power, taking the Gunner’s
linstock away from him in order to fire the ship’s guns for herself.
Similarly, she is not quite the chaste ‘martial maid’ of The Faerie Queene
or Love’s Cure. The Gunner is keen to frame her in sensual terms,
remarking on the paradox that a body ‘made so delicate, | So soft for
sweet embraces’ should contain ‘so much fire’ and a ‘manly soul’, and
the Boatswain traces her warlike nature to her father’s mood on the
night when she was conceived.17 Martia conveys the paradox of her
own character when she tells the ship’s Master that the wound she sus-
tained in fighting was ‘A scratch man, | My needle would ha done as
much’ (2.3.19–20). The needle becomes emblematic of a strangely
phallic femininity; in The Double Marriage femininity does not replace
masculine valour but exists alongside it.18
   Martia’s simultaneously masculine and feminine character is made
visually explicit on her first appearance, at which point we find the
                                                          Lucy Munro 123

stage direction ‘Enter Duke of Sesse above and his daughter Martia like an
Amazon’ (2.1.67SD). Unlike Clara in Love’s Cure, who assumes a male
guise to go to war, or Bess Bridges, whose clothing mirrors the leg-
endary appearance of Elizabeth I at Tilbury in 1588, Martia appears in
the theatre’s balcony dressed as a woman but, more importantly, as an
amazon. Although she is never described as an amazon in the dialogue,
Martia’s costume has crucial implications for her on-stage representa-
tion. A strong visual tradition was associated with the amazon, and it
seems likely that the King’s Men would have drawn on this tradition in
their presentation of the amazonian female pirate in The Double
Marriage and of the voyagers turned amazons in The Sea Voyage.
  Examples of this established visual tradition can be seen in two
seventeenth-century representations of Penthisilea, the queen of the
Amazons who fought at Troy and was killed by Achilles. The first is
Inigo Jones’ costume for Lucy, Countess of Bedford, in the Masque of
Queens of 1609; the second is from Thomas Heywood’s The Exemplary
Lives and Memorable Acts of Nine the Most Worthy Women of the World,
published in 1640 (see Figures 7.1 and 7.2). As a gloss on these images,
the blazon-style description of Pyrocles as Cleophila from Sidney’s
Arcadia, which highlights something of the amazon’s ambiguous
sexuality, is worth quoting at some length:

  his hair (which the young men of Greece ware very long, account-
  ing them most beautiful that had that in fairest quantity) lay upon
  the upper part of his forehead in locks, some curled and some, as
  it were, forgotten, with such a careless care, and with an art so
  hiding art, that he seemed he would lay them for a paragon
  whether nature simply, or nature helped by cunning, be the more
  excellent. The rest whereof was drawn into a coronet of gold,
  richly set with pearls, and so joined all over with gold wires, and
  covered with feathers of divers colours, that it was not unlike to a
  helmet, such a glittering show it bare, and so bravely it was held
  up from the head. Upon his body he ware a kind of doublet of
  sky-colour satin, so plated over with plates of massy gold that he
  seemed armed in it; his sleeves of the same, instead of plates, was
  covered with purled lace. And such was the nether part of his
  garment; but that made so full of stuff, and cut after such a
  fashion that, though the length fell under his ankles, yet in his
  going one might well perceive the small of the leg which, with the
  foot, was covered with a little short pair of crimson velvet buskins,
  in some places open (as the ancient manner was) to show the
124 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Figure 7.1 Inigo Jones, costume for Lucy, Countess of Bedford, in The Masque of
Queens (1609), Devonshire Collection Chatsworth. Reproduced by permission of
the Duke of Devonshire and the Chatsworth Settlement Trustees. Photograph:
Photographic Survey, Courtauld Institute of Art.
                                                            Lucy Munro 125

Figure 7.2 Portrait of Penthisilaea, Thomas Heywood’s The Exemplary Lives and
Memorable Acts of Nine the Most Worthy Women of the World (1640). Published
with permission from The Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

   fairness of the skin. Over all this he ware a certain mantle of like
   stuff, made in such manner that, coming under his right arm, and
   covering most part of that side, it couched not the left side but
   upon the top of the shoulder where the two ends met, and were
   fastened together with a very rich jewel […] Upon the same side,
   upon his thigh he ware a sword (such as we now call scimitars),
126 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   the pommel whereof was so richly set with precious stones as
   they were sufficient testimony it could be no mean personage
   that bore it.19

The effect of Pyrocles’ disguise as Cleophila is artless, but its con-
struction – within the story and in the writing of the blazon – is
highly artful. Amazonian sexuality presents itself as natural and
unmediated, but its effect is dependent on carefully careless hair and
on skirts and buskins that seem to accidentally display the wearer’s
legs. The décolletage of the Jones drawing and the engraving from
Heywood’s book stress the female identity and sexuality of the
amazon, but the weapon that she carries in both of the illustrations
and in Sidney’s description emphasizes her masculine potency.
Similarly, the masculine helmet worn by the amazon is juxtaposed
with feminine (or only ambiguously masculine) long hair. As Lisa
Jardine has noted, Pyrocles as Cleophila becomes a ‘provocative
boy/girl’; the ambiguity which is already attendant on the amazon as
a masculine woman is heightened and further sexualized.20 A similar
effect is produced in The Double Marriage, in the performance of
which a boy actor played Martia, creating an ambiguous eroticism
similar to that of Pyrocles’ female charade. The stage amazon might
not be epicene, but doubly sexual.
  As Kathryn Schwartz describes, the sexuality of the amazon is often pre-
sented in early modern literary texts as something dangerous and trans-
gressive. Schwartz summarizes a network of ideas and preconceptions as

   Amazons choose inappropriate sexual objects: men who are enemies,
   barbarians, prisoners, or physically maimed, and possibly – although
   it is a largely and strangely silent possibility – other women. Amazons
   engage in troubling sexual practices, mating anonymously in the
   dark, killing men by exhausting them sexually, refraining from mar-
   riage until they have killed a man in war […] Amazons mystify sexual
   reproduction, undoing patrilineal connections, killing, maiming, or
   abandoning male children, raising their daughters in what becomes
   in effect a female parthenogenetic society.21

Like Schwartz’s exemplary amazons, Martia chooses an inappropriate
man, one who is not only an enemy but also a prisoner; while Virolet
is not physically maimed, he refuses to perform sexually owing to his
prior attachment to Juliana. In instituting the divorce between Juliana
and Virolet, Martia disrupts conventional bonds of marriage, and
                                                            Lucy Munro 127

Virolet’s divorce actually causes his father to disinherit him and instate
Juliana as his heir.
  Fletcher and Massinger capitalize on the ambiguous allure of the
amazon in the scene in which Martia propositions Virolet. In essence,
this is a seduction scene, albeit one in which the usual imbalance of
power between man and woman is inverted; it also inverts the com-
mon narrative cliché in which female captives fall in love with their
pirate abductors.22 Martia appears before the captived Virolet and
Ascanio, her entrance heralded by ‘strange cries, horrid noyse, Trumpets’
within (2.4.82SD).23 She first triumphs over the two men, but the
exchange quickly develops into a battle of wills as she tries to force
Virolet to beg for his life. Virolet defies Martia, but the structure of
the dialogue betrays his attraction to her:

                               Y’are couzened woman,
            Your handsomnesse may do much, but not this way;
            But for your glorious hate ——
         Martia.                        Are ye so stubborn?
            Death, I will make you bow.
         Virolet.                          It must be in your bed then;
            There you may worke me to humility.
         Martia. Why, I can kill thee.
         Virolet.                          If you do it handsomely;
            It may be I can thank you, else ——
         Martia.                         So glorious?
         Asca. Her cruelty now workes.
         Martia.                        Yet woot thou?
         Virolet.                                           No.
         Martia. Wilt thou for life sake?
         Virolet.                        No, I know your subtilty.
         Martia. For honour sake?
         Virolet.                        I will not be a Pageant,
            My mind was ever firm, and so Ile lose it.
         Martia. Ile starve thee to it.
         Virolet.                        Ile starve my selfe, and crosse it.
         Martia. Ile lay thee on such miseries ——
         Virolet.                                         Ile weare ’em,
            And with that wantonnesse, you do your Bracelets.
         Martia. Ile be a moneth a killing thee.
         Virolet.                                         Poore Lady,
            Ile be a moneth a dying then:
128 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

The exchange between Martia and Virolet is structured in a similar
fashion to the well-known seduction of Lady Anne in Shakespeare’s
Richard III. Virolet, like Lady Anne, outwardly defies Martia, but his
language quickly falls into step with hers and follows its patterns.
Although Virolet is hostile to Martia, he constantly refers to her in
sexual terms: she is handsome, her hate is ‘glorious’, her bracelets are
‘wanton’. Virolet claims that his ‘mind was ever firm’, but by the end
of this dialogue his mind is no longer his own. One of the sailors
enters with ‘a rich Cap and Mantle’ (2.4.124SD), and Martia instructs
Virolet to put them on. Virolet asks, ‘To what end?’, Martia replies ‘To
my end, to my will’, and Virolet merely says ‘I will’ before putting on
the clothes (2.4.126–7). The sexual pun on ‘will’ is resonant: although
he seems to have withstood the temptation to beg for his life, Virolet
has already succumbed to the erotic temptation which, it quickly
becomes clear, is Martia’s real intent. He has accepted Martia’s ‘will’
and her gift; it is therefore no surprise that his response to her decla-
ration of love is highly ambiguous. He says: ‘I love you; | But how to
recompence your love with marriage? | Alas I have a wife’ (2.4.157–9).
Martia replies,

                                Dearer than I am?
         That will adventure so much for your safety?
         Forget her fathers wrongs, quit her own honour,
         Pull on her for a strangers sake, all curses? (2.4.159–62)

We might expect Virolet at this point to explain just how much Juliana
has ‘adventured’ for his safety, but he merely asks if Ascanio can also
be freed, ‘Else all I love is gone, all my friends perish’ (2.4.164). Like
Vitelli in Massinger’s The Renegado (licensed for Lady Elizabeth’s Men
in 1624), who is unable to resist the assertive Donusa, Virolet is unable
to offer any form of resistance to Martia.
  Ascanio urges Virolet to accept Martia’s offer, saying, ‘Be wise; if she
be true, no thred is left else, | To guide us from this laborinth of
mischiefe’ (2.4.169–70). Ascanio associates Martia with Ariadne, who
provided the thread with which Theseus found his way through the
labyrinth. But perhaps more important is the fact that if Martia is
Ariadne, Virolet is Theseus, who according to some versions of the clas-
sical legends abandoned not only Ariadne but also a host of other
women he had raped or, in some cases, married.24 Notably, of course,
his conquests also included the amazon Hippolyta. The association
between Virolet and Theseus therefore muddies further his character-
                                                           Lucy Munro 129

ization and motivation – acting like a Theseus, he is to abandon
Juliana in Martia’s favour, only to abandon Martia in turn and try to
return to Juliana. Despite Virolet, however, the theatrical interest of
the scene lies mainly with Martia, her ambiguous amazonian sexuality
represented as so nearly irresistible that it is all the more shocking
when Virolet so casually rejects her only a couple of scenes later.
   Although the figure of the amazon is used to convey fears about mas-
culine women, Martia is consistently paralleled with Virolet’s other
wife, Juliana, who is described as having a ‘Masculine spirit’ (1.1.181)
and is able to endure ‘more than a woman, beyond flesh and blood’
(1.2.128–9). In The Double Marriage the masculine woman is not, there-
fore, a wholly negative stereotype. The play instead capitalizes on the
other side of Martia’s identity; she is both amazon and pirate, the latter
role allowing her to be presented as more straightforwardly villainous.
While Martia is paralleled with Juliana, she is also paralleled with Sesse,
this identification doing much to establish her identity as a pirate. As
I noted above, she is first described in the context of a discussion of
Sesse’s background and character, and she first appears standing beside
her father in the playhouse balcony. It is telling to find that in early
editions of The Double Marriage Martia is given the speech-head
‘Daughter’ in this scene and this scene only; by the end of the scene
she has become ‘Mart.’, an appellation that she keeps until the end of
the play.25
   The connection between father and daughter is also foregrounded
through theatrical allusion. Fletcher and Massinger were evidently pre-
occupied by Shakespeare’s The Tempest in the early 1620s, since The Sea
Voyage, The Island Princess and The Unnatural Combat also incorporate
sustained references to it.26 The Double Marriage is no exception,
echoing The Tempest in the conclusion of its political plot and also in
its incorporation of a lengthy dialogue between father and daughter
in which the reasons for their exile is explained.27 Prospero and Sesse
are equally ambivalent about their daughters’ mothers; Martia’s
mother is not even mentioned in Sesse’s account. Instead, the focus
is on the relationship between father and daughter. While Miranda is
described by Prospero as ‘a cherubin […] that did preserve me’,28
Martia, ‘snatch’d’ from her nurse, is the ‘modell of [her] fathers mis-
eries’ (2.1.127–8), violently cast into the world of the Mediterranean
pirate. As this suggests, an insistent irony imbues The Double Marriage’s
allusions to The Tempest. Clarinda in The Sea Voyage is, like Miranda,
essentially virtuous despite her disruptive desire for the first man she
has ever seen, but Martia does not share their innocence. Moreover,
130 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

the original reason for Sesse’s exile was not the kind of political insur-
gency practiced by Virolet, nor was it the result of a plot to supplant
him. Instead, a quarrel over a game of chess eventually led to a duel in
which Sesse killed his opponent, after which he was forced to take to
the seas, the ‘Kings frowns following’ (2.1.122).
  Parallels between father and daughter are reinforced on a linguistic
level. After Sesse’s account of the reasons for his exile, Martia tells him:

       Had you done lesse, or lost this Noble anger,
       You had been worthy then mens empty pities,
       And not their wonders. Go on, and use your justice;
       And use it still with that fell violence
       It first appeared to you; if you go lesse,
       Or take a doting mercy to protection,
       The honour of a father I disclaim in you,
       Call back all duty, and will be prowder of
       The infamous and base name of a whore,
       Then daughter to a great Duke and a coward. (2.1.135–44)

Like Sesse, Martia inverts conventional morality: mercy is ‘doting’,
pity ‘empty’, anger ‘noble’ and justice to be exerted through ‘fell vio-
lence’. The linguistic doubling of father and daughter becomes partic-
ularly evident in Sesse’s reaction to Martia’s defection. Martia’s claim
that she will be ‘prowder of | The infamous and base name of a
whore, | Then daughter to a great Duke’ ironically fulfils itself, as
Sesse now proclaims her to be a whore. As the canons fire out at
Martia’s boat, Sesse’s curses become insistently sexual. ‘What divel’,
he asks, ‘Put this base trick into her tayle? […] rots find her, | The
leprosy of whore, stick ever to her’ (2.4.41–2, 44–5). His curses take
on an almost lyrical vibrancy:

      Rise winds, blow till you burst the aire,
      Blow till ye burst the aire, and swell the Seas,
      That they may sink the starres, O dance her, dance her;
      Shes impudently wanton, dance her, dance her,
      Mount her upon your surges, coole her, coole her
      She runs hot like a whore, coole her, coole her;
      O now a shot to sink her; come, cut Cables;
      I will away, and where she sets her foote
      Although it be in Ferrants court, ile follow her,
      And such a fathers vengeance shall she suffer – (2.4.47–56)
                                                             Lucy Munro 131

Sesse’s curses take ironic effect later in the play, when Martia deter-
minedly whores herself to Ferrand in order to facilitate her vengeance
against Virolet. This new association is underlined visually by her
appearance at Ferrand’s side in the playhouse’s balcony at the start of
the final act, just as she earlier appeared alongside Sesse.
   The union of pirate and tyrant is peculiarly appropriate. Pirate chiefs
are frequently likened to kings, ruling as they do their sea-faring worlds.
In one of Erasmus’ Apophthegms a ‘rouer on the sea’ is brought before
Alexander the Great and ‘asked vpon whose supportacion he durst be so
bolde to doo such myschief on the seaes, he aunswered at fewe woordes
as foloeth: I (saieth he) because I so dooe with no more but one sely
poore foyste, am called a pirate, and yu, wheras, thou dooest thesame
[sic] with a greate nauie, art called a kyng’.29 Other texts link the pirate’s
cruelty with political tyranny. The character sketch ‘A Pyrate’, printed
with Thomas Overbury’s poem The Wife, states that the pirate chief ‘is
very gentle to those vnder him, yet his rule is the horriblest tyranny in
the world: for hee giues licence to all rape, murder, and cruelty in his
owne example’.30 In The Double Marriage, the tyrant acts like a pirate, and
the pirate acts like a tyrant.31 Ferrand plunders his own peoples’ wealth;
his ‘rapes of Matrons, | And Virgins, are too frequent’ and he has ‘sold |
The Bishop-prick of Tarent to a Jew, | For thirteene thousand Duckets’
(1.1.96–7). Sesse, meanwhile, treats foreigners with ‘respect and cool-
nesse’ (2.1.46) but treats his fellow countrymen with indiscriminate
harshness. The Gunner comments,

                                               if he take
         His Countreyman, that should be nearest to him,
         And stand most free from danger, he sure pays for’t:
         He drownes or hangs the men, ransacks the Backe,
         Then gives her up a Bonfire to his fortune. (2.1.50–4)

Like Ferrand, Sesse violently oppresses those whom he would be expected to
protect; however, the movement of the narrative later leads Sesse away from
tyranny and into the role of liberator. Piracy and political tyranny are
instead united in the liaison between Martia and Ferrand, the King himself
quickly grasping the political importance of his sexual relationship
with Martia when he discovers her true identity. Sesse complains, ‘It is my
daughter, Ferrand; | My daughter, thou hast whor’d’, and Ferrand replies,

                                             I triumph in it:
          To know she’s thine, affords me more true pleasure,
132 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

          Then the act gave me, when even at the height,
          I crack’d her Virgin zone. (5.3.122–5)

Knowing that Martia is the daughter of his enemy increases Ferrand’s
pleasure, and the violence of the King’s intentions towards Sesse are
embodied in his grotesque claim to have ‘crack’d her Virgin zone’.
  The play’s double ending capitalizes on Martia’s doubly unsettling
identity as amazon and pirate, as the conclusion of the sexual tragedy in
her death is surrounded by the tragicomedy of Ferrand’s deposition. We
are led to believe that Sesse will be crucial to both; he enters at the begin-
ning of the final scene ‘with Ferrands head’ (5.4.0.SD) and prepares to kill
Martia. Having vowed ‘in this I liv’d | In this Ile die, your daughter’
(5.4.36–8), Martia faces Sesse stoically, saying,

             Fates you are equall. What can now fall on me,
             That I wil shrink at? now unmov’d I dare
             Look on your anger, and not bend a knee
             To aske your pardon: let your rage run higher
             Then billows rais’d up by a violent Tempest,
             And be as that is, deafe to all intreaties:
             They are dead, and I prepar’d; for in their fall
             All my desires are sum’d up. (5.4.44–51)

Martia is splendidly unrepentant: she does not regret the deaths of
Juliana and Virolet, and she refuses to beg Sesse’s pardon. Sesse tries to
kill his daughter, but is prevented by the Boatswain, who presents his
act of murder as a final act of service. Asked ‘How dar’st thou villaine, |
Snatch from my sword the honour of my justice?’, the Boatswain

          I never did you better service sir,
          Yet have been ever faithfull. I confesse
          That she deserv’d to die; but by whose hand?
          Not by a fathers. Double all her guilt,
          It could not make you innocent, had you done it.
          In me tis murder, in you twere a crime
          Heaven could not pardon. Witnesse that I love you,
          And in that love I did it. (5.4.52–61)

Sesse’s response to this declaration is to tell the Boatswain, ‘Thou art
Noble, | I thank thee for’t; the thought of her die with her’ (61–2). The
                                                         Lucy Munro 133

male homosocial world of the pirate ship reasserts itself, containing the
disruption caused by the ambiguous presence of the female pirate. In a
similar fashion, Ferrand’s depredations are to be healed by the new
ruler Ascanio; in the final words of the play, Sesse tells him:

              warn’d by the example of your Unkle,
      Learn that you are to govern men, not beasts:
      And that it is a most improvident head,
      That strives to hurt the limbs that do support it. (5.4.70–3)

At the beginning of the play, Sesse’s trade, the violent and ill-
motivated circumstances surrounding his exile and his treatment of his
own people created uneasy parallels between pirate Duke and tyrant
King. By the end of the play, however, the disruptive energies associ-
ated with the pirate have been largely absorbed by Martia, as Sesse has
taken on the role of liberator; the associations between piracy and
rebellion take on a positive cast. Sesse is denied the culmination of
his desire for revenge, and the Boatswain’s almost comic intervention
prevents him from becoming an unnatural father.
  To conclude: as we have seen, Martia is first introduced on stage
with the direction ‘like an Amazon’. In 1621 Fletcher, Massinger and
the King’s Men could not draw on a stereotype or sustained tradi-
tion of the female pirate; they could not say that Martia was ‘like a
woman pirate’. Instead, they both utilize and modify the literary
tradition of the amazon, combining the amazon’s sexual trans-
gression with the pirate’s political transgression to potent effect.
Martia’s appearance in the guise of an amazon creates a significant
moment of theatrical spectacle, attracting the audience’s attention
and establishing the character’s sexual presence; the boy actor
playing the role becomes an emblem for the gender ambiguity
critiqued in Hic Mulier and Haec Vir. Martia is simultaneously a
glamorous figure from classical and literary myth and a reminder of
contemporary anxieties about women or men who refuse to
conform to conventional gender roles. At the same time, her
appearance on the pirate ship and in the company of her father,
heralded by an enthusiastic account of her piratical activities,
emphasizes her identity as a pirate and her capacity for amoral
political disruption. As the cleric Thomas Adams told his congrega-
tion, ‘the Arch Pyrate of all is the Deuill’; in a society in which
women were regularly reminded of Eve’s illicit alliance with the
serpent, a female pirate would be doubly suspect. 32
134 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

  The combination of sexual and political disruption embodied by
Martia lends itself to the play’s fusion of generic structures, since
Fletcherian tragicomedy characteristically mingles sexual material
with the political preoccupations of tragedy.33 Jacobean pirate plays
often culminate with the death of the protagonist; in what Mark
Hutchings rightly calls in Chapter 5 of this volume a ‘contrived, styl-
ized ending’ Daborne’s A Christian Turned Turk even contravenes his-
torical fact in order to provide the pirate Ward with a fittingly
moralistic death. Twisting convention, Fletcher and Massinger allow
the male pirate to survive the tragedy unscathed, his place taken by
his disruptive daughter.

I am very grateful to Claire Jowitt for her comments on an earlier
draft of this essay, and to Stephan Schmuck and Joan Fitzpatrick for
drawing my attention to Erasmus’ Apophthegmes and Gráinne Ní
Mháille respectively.
Part III
Pirate Afterlives
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Sir Francis Drake’s Ghost: Piracy,
Cultural Memory, and Spectral
Mark Netzloff

While ‘nationalism’, as Pheng Cheah observed, ‘has almost become the
exemplary figure for death’, death itself has served as an abiding figure
for the nation.1 Embodied by such monuments as tombs and war
memorials, the foundations of national identity are often commemora-
tive, forged through a memorialization of loss and invocation of the
memory of the dead. But national identity is spectral in other ways
as well. Its protean, notoriously amorphous expressions are not only
phantasmic, the atavistic conjurations of an imputed national past, but
also fantastic, the projections of an imagined national future. As
Benedict Anderson has famously argued, nations come into being
through imagined affiliation, affective fantasies of shared identity and
history.2 Drawing on this observation, recent criticism has explored the
analogous, and at times coeval, relation between national identity and
historical memory.3
   If nationalism is a figure for death, and vice versa, it is perhaps
appropriate to begin this essay with a ghost story. At the end of World
War I, during negotiations for the surrender of the German fleet at
Scapa Flow, a mysterious drum beat was heard aboard the British ship
The Royal Oak. A lengthy search failed to locate its source, however,
and this phantom sound was said to have ceased once the surrender
was finalized and the German flag lowered. This drum beat reemerged
again at another time of crisis: during the Battle of Britain in 1940, a
sentry heard this sound while patrolling the evacuated Hampshire
coastline: as it was described at the time, ‘a distinct call […] a very
incessant beat.’4 But, as before, no drum could be found. As with so
many ghost stories, these incidents are enormously compelling, and
like other such stories they have in common not only an underlying
narrative structure but also a shared literary source: in his poem Drake’s
138 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Drum (1885), Henry Newbolt had first represented Sir Francis Drake as
a kind of guardian spirit for England, one who would be conjured by a
drum beat to reappear and protect the nation, an idea that assumed
folkloric status with its retelling in Alfred Noyes’ poem ‘The Admiral’s
Ghost’, as well as in newspaper accounts and radio broadcasts through-
out the period.5 The ubiquitous nature of this narrative reveals how it
offered English sailors and patrolmen a comforting frame of reference
at moments of crisis and danger, one that they could attempt to bring
to life through acts of imagination.
  The ghost of Sir Francis Drake, the once and future pirate, offers a
vivid example of the kind of ‘invented tradition’ that the Victorian
period was so adept at constructing.6 In fact, Drake became an icono-
graphic figure in the late nineteenth century, the subject of jingoistic
verse, light opera, children’s literature, and heroic paintings.
Seymour Lucas’ ‘The Surrender’, for example, depicts the chivalrous
Drake, in a precedent for the Scapa Flow incident, accepting the sur-
render of the Spanish fleet, while the painter’s ‘Sir Francis Drake
Bowling’ helped popularize the canonical image of Drake, having just
received news of the Armada’s approach, completing his game of
bowls before launching into action.7 Other canvases, such as Thomas
Davidson’s ‘The Burial of Sir Francis Drake’, evoke another tradition,
however, and represent Drake not in terms of his personification of
an English brand of sprezzatura, but instead as a memorialized
absence, a corpse that disappears after its sea burial. 8 In many ways,
the English mariners and guardsmen of the World Wars invoked this
image of Drake: after all, despite the mythic drum they heard to
herald Drake’s ghost, Sir Francis’ spirit itself never actually appeared
in their stories.
  Although the Victorian era’s fondness for conjuring the ghost of
Drake is in keeping with the period’s pervasive efforts to locate pre-
cedents for British imperialism, what is not at all expected is the degree
to which Drake and other Elizabethan privateers remained spectral
figures during their own lifetimes as well as in the decades immediately
following their brief careers and early deaths. As W. T. Jewkes notes in
a collection commemorating the quadricentennial of Drake’s circum-
navigation of the globe (1577–80), ‘[i]t is curious that Drake’s voyages
and exploits have made such a small impact on major English litera-
ture, particularly in his own age’.9 This is not to say that the period
completely lacked any literary images or references to Drake and his
compatriots.10 But, as attested to by the fact that Jewkes confines his
remarks to major English literature, these representations were often
                                                         Mark Netzloff 139

confined to ephemeral texts, including pamphlets written by admit-
tedly ‘minor’ writers such as Charles Fitzgeffrey, Henry Robarts, and
George Peele, as well as plays and poems by Thomas Heywood,
Michael Drayton, and William Browne, figures who have retained a
marginal position in the national literary canon.
   Drawing on Jewkes’ reference to the Elizabethan privateers’ exclu-
sion from ‘major’ English literature, this essay will explore the possi-
bility of alternative varieties of national sentiment, ‘minor’ English
nationalisms, and their figuration in ‘minor’ English literature.11 The
late Elizabethan and early Jacobean texts that invoked Sir Francis
Drake did so for national causes far different from those of the
Victorian age. In conjuring the spectral image of Drake, these texts
often disjoined national affiliation from state power, constructing a
populist affective bond with the nation that threatened to become
distinct – if not even severed – from an ‘official nationalism’ meant to
induce support for the monarchical state.12 As David Lloyd has noted,
national sentiment does not always cohere to a state entity, and it
may instead provide a communal discourse through which to critique
state authority.13 Similarly demonstrating the multidirectional and
diffuse workings of national identification in early modern England,
the efforts to revive Drake, and thereby resuscitate a model of English
adventurism, used his image for competing political ends: at times, to
embody a militant, aggressively interventionalist foreign policy at
odds with the positions of the Tudor and early Stuart state; at other
moments, as a way to harness the potentially unruly energies of
populist expressions of nationalism and channel them for the state’s
benefit.14 As Shakespeare’s Henry IV keenly observed, ‘action hence
borne out’, that is, removed to the distance of colonial settlement or
military excursions abroad, may enable the state to ‘waste the
memory of the former days’ (4.5.214–15).15
   In contrast to their frequent invocation in the Victorian age, the
body of contemporary literature treating Elizabethan adventurers
like Sir Francis Drake was relatively small. The failure to translate these
figures to poetry or the stage was also recognized at the time as a slight:
Henry Robarts, one of the few poets to celebrate Drake during the
latter’s lifetime, begins one of his panegyric poems, A most friendly
farewell (1585), written to commemorate Drake’s departure for the
West Indies, by noting that the publication of his own, admittedly
inferior text was necessitated by the silence that met this event: ‘seeing
none of the learned sort haue vndertaken to write according to
custome’.16 Robarts views the exclusion of Drake’s exploits from print
140 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

as a conscious choice on the part of a literary elite, and in his prefatory
dedication to Drake charges that such writers ‘haue sought to robbe
you of your worthines’ (sig. A2v). This accusation of theft is suitably
ironic, for the published records of Drake’s voyages often resemble a
serial log of state-licensed maritime larceny.17 These voyages’ aspira-
tions for ‘adventure’ were further undermined due to the legal fiction
through which Elizabethan privateering was legitimated. Such prac-
tices were sanctioned only if one could legally establish a seized ship as
‘lawful prize.’ In theory, this could be applied only in the context of
war, as a justification for seizing enemy ships, or in cases of ‘reprisal’,
so as to compensate the voyage’s financial backers from previous losses
suffered at the hands of ships from a given nation. Consequently, in
accounts of Drake’s voyages, his practices of piracy are cast as defensive
measures used to protect English commerce.18
   Still, far from disqualifying Drake from literary memorialization, the
piratical context of his fame and wealth would seem to make him
ideally suited for such a role, particularly in the context of a genre like
the Elizabethan adventure play. In a poem prefacing his A Farewell …
to … Sir Iohn Norris & Syr Frauncis Drake (1589), the playwright George
Peele casts Drake as a model of action surpassing that represented on
the public stage, offering to ‘Bid Theaters and proude Tragedies, / …
mightie Tamburlaine, / … Tom Stukeley and the rest / Adiewe’ and
instead embrace the embodiment of heroism presented by ‘victorious
Drake’ and his call ‘to Armes, to glorious Armes.’19 The popularity and
visibility of the dramatic characters mentioned by Peele, Marlowe’s
Tamburlaine and Thomas Stukeley from his own play The Battle of
Alcazar (1589), contrasts with Drake’s relatively inconspicuous
presence in published accounts. Peele’s comment may also attempt to
differentiate Tamburlaine’s ambition, and Stukeley’s status as a
mercenary, from Drake’s own position as a subject loyally deferential
to the crown. This issue is implicitly raised in Henry Haslop’s Newes ovt
of the Coast of Spaine (1587), which reported Drake’s recent raid on
Cadiz. By placing Drake in a tradition not only of classical heroes
(Scipio, Hannibal, Alexander) but also conquering English monarchs
(William I, Edward III, Henry V, and Henry VIII), the text exposes the
complicated position occupied by a subject like Drake.20 Although his
accomplishments are intended to mirror the greatness of England
and its Queen, Drake’s elevated status reflects uneasily on the inability
of his female monarch to occupy this martial role, a complication ex-
acerbated by Peele’s invocation of a Virgilian model of epic, of arms
and the man.
                                                          Mark Netzloff 141

   Testifying to the problems resulting from an epic account of Drake,
Peele’s text does not mention him after the opening poem, and instead
moves abruptly to the domain of romance with its ensuing poem on
the Fall of Troy. This transition from epic to romance is a strategic one.
As David Quint has argued, these genres articulate the values of com-
peting social forces, with epic aligned ‘with aristocratic, martial values’,
and romance, albeit not exclusively, serving as a generic template
through which a ‘mercantile, bourgeois’ form of adventure could be
represented.21 Despite Peele’s effort to cast Drake in an epic role,
the narratives of his voyages often resemble less an epic quest than the
kind of digressive narrative structure that Quint associates with the
romance form. And ‘the boat of romance’, with ‘no other destination
then the adventure at hand’, offers a form able to displace troubling
questions – like those regarding Drake’s deference to his monarch or
his elevated social status – that would be raised by representing his
voyages as more directed, epic quests.22 In this sense, if there are hints
that Drake’s wealth has an ignominious origin, this perception derives
not from an objection to privateering itself as theft disguised, but
rather from the association of privateering with the mercantile classes:
the view, in other words, that this form of commercial piracy was a
domain unsuitable for gentlemanly adventure. Appropriately, when
commenting on the absence of printed accounts of Drake, Robarts
remarks that ‘I did expect some Ouids pen to paint his worthy praise’
(sig. B1v), a selection of an author whose work has often been placed
in opposition to the epic tradition.23
   In addition, the publication of panegyric texts written by such
admittedly minor figures as Robarts would in itself undermine the epic
possibilities of Drake’s biography. On the title-page to his A most
friendly farewell, Robarts represents himself as ‘Henry Robarts of
London Citizin [sic]’, a nomination that foregrounds the ways that
Drake was appropriated by the urban mercantile classes as a figure
through which they could represent their own model of adventure.
Michael Nerlich has noted that the early modern period witnessed a
divergence of two models of adventure, as a ‘bourgeois glorification of
adventure’ became increasingly distinct from a ‘knightly ideology of
adventure.’24 In this former paradigm, adventure became synonymous
with ‘ventures,’ a process that divested international commerce of
its neo-feudal, aristocratic mantle. The adventurer, in this context,
became not a knight on an epic quest but an ‘order-loving entrepre-
neur.’25 In contrast to Laura Stevenson’s argument that non-aristocratic
subjects were represented (and represented themselves) predominantly
142 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

through an appropriation of aristocratic models, I wish to foreground
the ways that the image of the citizen adventurer offered an alternative
framework through which a citizen subject was conceptualized.26
Whereas earlier new historicist criticism tended to view the ‘citizen’ as
a figure anachronistic to early modern England, this essay follows
the precedent established by the very diverse recent work of Étienne
Balibar, John Michael Archer, and Julia Reinhard Lupton in arguing
that some features of citizenship emerged from within category of the
monarchical subject in this period.27
   The casting of Drake and other Elizabethan privateers as citizen
adventurers is reflected in the extent of their anonymity in narrative
accounts.28 In their Victorian incarnations, figures such as Drake and
Sir Richard Grenville are immediately recognizable in their characteris-
tic, often-unhistorical poses (Drake at bowls, Grenville manning the
helm). In contemporary texts, by contrast, especially in the documents
assembled in Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations (1598–1600), the identity
of these adventurers is subsumed within a larger corporate frame of ref-
erence. The representation of these figures as merely a component of a
bureaucratic national project is a trait that derives from the context of
an urban, citizen framework. As a result, Hakluyt does not bestow
either authorship or authority to the Elizabethan adventurers: Drake,
for instance, is not the author of any of the accounts of his voyages;
moreover, Hakluyt’s frequent juxtaposition of multiple accounts of
voyages deprives any narrative of exclusive authority, thereby emphas-
izing the underlying perspectivism of any single account. The narratives
themselves are not biographies but chronicles of voyages, and their
insistently diachronic structure, which follows a log-like progress
through the course of the voyage, displaces the subjectivity of any
figure, whether that of the account’s author (often a secretary or chap-
lain accompanying the voyage) or, especially, that of the voyages’ com-
manders. In fact, in the account of Drake and Hawkins’ last voyage
(1595–96), Drake barely figures in the narrative. Consistently referring
to him as ‘the Generall’, a highlighting of his corporate role, the text
does not introduce any personal details about Drake that could distin-
guish him from Hawkins or any other commander. In addition,
Drake’s sickness, death, and burial are allotted relatively little textual
space. Depriving him of a final heroic scene, the narrative only vaguely
refers to ‘some speeches’ Drake offers shortly before his death, and in
fact devotes more attention to the arrangement of his will.29
   By contrast, the 12-volume reprint of Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations,
published by J. M. Dent in 1904, intersperses each volume with
                                                         Mark Netzloff 143

Victorian-era portraits of Elizabethan privateers such as Hawkins,
Frobisher, and Drake. These images establish the authority of the
adventurers over the collection of narratives, a move that effectively
displaces the role of Hakluyt as editor. As Mary Fuller has shown, these
changes were part of a broader effort to transform Hakluyt’s text into
‘the prose epic of the English nation’ and thereby invent a historical
tradition that could legitimate Britain’s high imperialist practices of the
late Victorian era.30 Although Hakluyt’s text, as Richard Helgerson con-
cludes, bears witness to ‘the emergence of an anti-imperialist and even
anti-aristocratic logic of mercantile nationalism’, an ascendency, in
other words, of a ‘merchants’ Hakluyt’ over a ‘gentlemen’s Hakluyt’,31
the Dent edition revives this latter tradition, restoring foreign trade’s
correlation with a quasi-feudal, military ethos of adventure, despite the
fact that this model was already becoming anachronistic even in
Hakluyt’s own time.
  When Hakluyt does emerge from the anonymity of his role in
order to make a statement about his text, as he does in his preface to
the 1598 edition of Principal Navigations, his tone and stated inten-
tions are far more complex, ambivalent, and even haunted than has
generally been recognized. In this preface, Hakluyt offers the
purpose of his collection as an attempt to ‘gather […], and as it were
to incorporate into one body the torne and scattered limmes of our
ancient and late Navigations by Sea, our voyages by land, and
traffiques of merchandize by both.’32 Even as he celebrates the com-
pendiousness of his collection, Hakluyt represents his task as a com-
pensatory one, gathering the limbs of a political body ‘torn and
scattered’ through trade and cultural exchange. Hakluyt’s difficulty
in imagining the body politic reveals the ways that England’s com-
mercial and colonial expansion undermined any representation of
the nation’s integrity.33 Contradicting the longstanding conceptual-
ization of the nation in bodily, organismic terms, Hakluyt locates a
more appropriate metaphor for the nation – not the body politic,
but instead ‘the haunted nation’, to use Pheng Cheah’s termino-
logy. 34 Hakluyt’s English nation is haunted by spectres, including
the implicit memory of those subjects lost in overseas ventures as
well as the proto-gothic spectrality of the mangled corpse of textual
remains that he attempts to reassemble. The tone of mourning that
pervades Hakluyt’s preface is also attributable to the fact that many
of the Elizabethan voyagers celebrated in his text were already dead,
a recognition that transforms his text from encomium, as it is often
interpreted, to a kind of memorial.
144 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   I am drawing attention to the forms of nostalgia and mourning in-
herent in Hakluyt’s text in order to emphasize the ways that
Elizabethan nostalgia began to be formulated even during the late
Elizabethan period, and not only in the reign of James I.35 As D. R.
Woolf, Curtis Perry, and John Watkins have each noted, the conven-
tional approach to the topic of Elizabethan nostalgia, which emphasizes
the oppositional uses of such images in the early Stuart period, has
tended to overlook the important continuities between Tudor and
Stuart policies and self-representation.36 Moreover, in texts such as
Charles Fitzgeffrey’s Sir Francis Drake his Honorable lifes commendation,
and his Tragicall Deathes lamentation (1596) and Gervase Markham’s
Tragedy of Sir Richard Grinville (1595), the decisive break from the past
and loss of national promise occurs not with the death of Elizabeth, but
rather with the premature deaths of Drake and other adventurers such
as Hawkins and Grenville. For example, although Fitzgeffrey describes
Drake as ‘divine ELISA’s champion’ (sig. D4), Elizabeth is notably absent
throughout much of his poem, and Fitzgeffrey opts instead to deify
Drake, whose shrine, he claims with bombastic praise, ‘emtombes a
Deitie’ (sig. B3v). Yet the undramatic nature of Drake’s final illness from
dysentery deprives his tragedy of its final catastrophe; as a result,
Fitzgeffrey is forced to rationalize that at least ‘no prowd Spaniard hath
his life bereft’ (sig. G4), an effort to reconstitute Drake postmortem as a
model of English autonomy and resistance to Spanish imperialism.
Extricating Drake’s memory from the embarrassment of his ultimate
physical depletion, Fitzgeffrey instead transforms Drake’s fatal illness
into a metaphor for the sacrifice of his body for his nation: while his
raids on Spanish bullion fleets served to fill England ‘with store and
plentie’, these efforts depleted his own physical being, ‘And filling it,
himselfe was almost emptie’ (sig. F4v). As Mary Fuller notes in her
discussion of voyage narratives, these texts succeed in mythologizing
their subjects by ‘constructing a self whose authenticity was asserted
especially through defensive strategies, claims of suffering, self-denial,
wounding, and evacuation.’37
   The somatic register of these strategies also serves to resituate English
adventurers, and the ‘scattered limmes’ of their voyages, more securely
within a national body politic headed by the monarch. Nonetheless, in
the final section of his elegy, when Fitzgeffrey places Drake within a
community of lost state agents, his memorialization of English adven-
turers represents their accomplishments as bearing only a tangential
relation to Queen Elizabeth. When Fitzgeffrey contrasts the loss of
these figures with the continuity provided by surviving national
                                                        Mark Netzloff 145

leaders, the understated celebration of the monarch’s preservation –
‘ELISA lives’ (sig. G7v) – is juxtaposed with a far more thorough praise
of Essex, Cumberland, and Howard, who are depicted as the true
bearers of future national prestige (sig. G7). As a means to offset the
potential autonomy of these male state agents, figures embodying
what Claire Jowitt has productively termed ‘masculine unruliness’,
Jacobean texts tend to direct their nostalgic reverence more exclusively
toward the figure of Elizabeth.38 Nostalgia for the age of Elizabeth, in
this sense, was not only a later response to Stuart absolutism, offering a
veiled mode through which to express dissatisfaction with state policy;
this nostalgia was also provoked by tensions inherent in the late
Elizabethan period itself, anxieties deriving from the threatening
power – as well as alternative models of representation – embodied by
unruly male agents and citizen adventurers such as Drake.
   In Jacobean texts, one strategy that helped contain state agents
within a monarchically-based body politic was a masculinization of the
figure of Queen Elizabeth. As Susan Frye has noted, the canonical
image of an armoured Elizabeth rallying her troops at Tilbury was
largely an invention of the early seventeenth century.39 The Armada
scenes that conclude the Second Part of Thomas Heywood’s If You
Know Not Me, You Know Nobody (1605) contributed substantially to this
process: Elizabeth is transformed into a martial, masculine, and active
figure, with the Queen depicted as having ‘put on a Masculine spirit’
(l.2697) by appearing at Tilbury ‘Compleately arm’d’ (l.2686).40 By cen-
tring the scene’s action on Elizabeth, the anonymous and corporate
identity of her military commanders takes on a passive, deferential
form: Lord Admiral Howard, for instance, is referred to only as ‘your
Admirall’ (l.2756), and the description of the climatic sea fight enumer-
ates English ships rather than the commanders who led them
(ll.2898–904). Attesting to his increasing celebrity following his death,
however, the text singles out Drake for his heroism, and a lengthy
report of his actions is even added to the revised 1633 version of the
scenes. Upon his entrance, bearing a captured Spanish standard,
Elizabeth acknowledges that ‘well I know thy name … / Nor will I be
vnmindfull of thy worth’ (ll.2865–6). Yet the play reinforces Drake’s
secondary position by insisting on his passive obedience: his strategy
of sending fire ships into the Spanish fleet, for example, is seen as
having derived from ‘counsell’ with his monarch (l.2869).
   Although England’s overwhelming victory against the Armada would
seemingly justify a portrayal of a divinely-ordained and bloodless con-
quest, Heywood’s play insistently memorializes the anticipated loss of
146 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

England’s commanders. For example, even though Drake, Hawkins,
and Frobisher survive the battle, they are still eulogized as necessary
sacrifices for the nation. Elizabeth, in fact, repeatedly reconciles herself
to their deaths – ‘If he die, / He liues an honour to his Nation’
(ll.2585–7 [1606 ed.]); ‘If he be dead, / Our selfe will see his funerall
honoured’ (ll.2832–3). At one point, she even speculates that God
could be punishing her by allowing, or perhaps even demanding, her
commanders’ deaths (ll.2824–6). The ease with which Elizabeth adapts
to this loss – ‘His will be done’ (l.2396) – entails an acceptance of
higher authority that is correlated with the subject’s resignation to the
will of the monarch. As Ernest Renan commented in his essay ‘What is
a Nation?’, in the forging of a national history, one must not only
remember certain narratives, but also remember to forget others.41
   Despite the fact that Heywood’s play celebrates Drake to an extent
unparalleled in his lifetime, the text nonetheless participates in an
effort to contain him within the parameters of the monarchical state,
to remember him, in other words, in order to forget him, along with
those models of community with which he could potentially be asso-
ciated. These forms of absence and spectrality were a prominent
feature of late Elizabethan images of Drake and other Elizabethan
privateers. Even during Drake’s lifetime, as Henry Robarts remarks in
A most friendly farewell, Drake reflected an absence, as ‘Unthankfull
Englishmen’ allowed him ‘to rest in oblivion, and his renowned deeds
with unthankefulnesse, so soone to be forgotten’ (sig. A3).42 As in
Heywood’s Armada scenes, the privateers are rendered as spectres even
in their most characteristically active and heroic moments, let alone
in the frequently invoked scenes of their deaths, as in Fitzgeffrey’s and
Markham’s elegies of Drake and Grenville. Markham’s description of
Grenville’s final stand, for instance, concludes with a final postscript
noting the loss of the captured Revenge at sea, swept away in a storm
along with much of the victorious Spanish fleet (sig. G8v). The ulti-
mate erasure of the markers of Grenville’s heroics – his ship, as well as
his corpse itself – stands in for a more general effacement of his narra-
tive from national history. Fitzgeffrey similarly remarks on the disap-
pearance of Drake from national memory, noting how Drake and
Hawkins – like Grenville – ‘left your bodies far from home’ (sig. F2).
   In the early seventeenth century, the figure of Sir Francis Drake
assumed a different form of spectrality: although at times his image
was part of a broader cultural yearning to ‘harken back to Elizabeth’,
his memory was also invoked as a way to intimate political oppos-
itionality. The divergence of these expressions of nostalgia – for the
                                                       Mark Netzloff 147

age of Elizabeth, or for Drake and other adventurers – reflected both
the emergence of, as well as the inability to conceptualize, new
models of political community, particularly in terms of definitions of
citizenship. These nascent models of citizenship altered not only the
relation of subjects to a monarchical head, but also the very ways that
the body politic was constituted. Spectrality, a conjuring of the
nation’s ghosts, should not be equated with nostalgia, however. On
the contrary, these expressions offer a register through which to artic-
ulate what Fredric Jameson has termed a ‘more future-oriented and
active’ reimagining of the national community.43 As Derrida com-
ments in Specters of Marx, ‘the specter is … the becoming-body’, one
that refers not to the past but to the potentiality of the future.44
Although such a ghostly image would seem to present itself as a desire
to reanimate a lost past, ‘only as that which could come or come
back’, as with the recurring image of Drake revived, ‘[a]t bottom’,
Derrida notes, ‘the specter is the future, it is always to come.’45 This
future potentiality is, nonetheless, non-teleological, and Derrida
emphasizes that a spectral ‘becoming-body’, such as that of the
nation, remains beyond the limits of intelligibility at any present his-
torical moment: unable to be named, fully conceptualized, or thereby
rendered in bodily form.46 In other words, if English nationhood
assumes a spectral form in the early modern period, this is not due to
a loss of preexisting national integrity, nor does it reflect an ‘emer-
gent’ national body or ‘proto-national’ discourse that is in the process
of being realized; rather, this spectrality derives from the ontological
impossibility of the national community itself: as Claire McEachern
has cogently remarked, ‘the nation is an ideal of community that is,
by definition, either proleptic or passing, ever just beyond reach.’47
  Taken in these terms, it is understandable why Drake remained a
spectral presence in texts of the Jacobean period. Nonetheless, when he
was listed among ‘Our British brave Sea-voyagers’ in Michael Drayton’s
Poly-Olbion (1612; 1622), or featured prominently among Devon’s ‘Sea-
ruling men’ in William Browne’s Britannia’s Pastorals (1613; 1616), his
memorialization served as a mode of critique, as a way to intimate an
underlying dissatisfaction with the Jacobean state.48 Yet these texts
could offer merely a phantom critique, one that was unable to take on
anything more than a spectral form, or ‘to produce other, as yet inco-
herent nationalist narratives’, as Michelle O’Callaghan has insightfully
phrased it.49 As O’Callaghan comments in her analysis of Browne and
other Jacobean Spenserians, in language reminiscent of Fitzgeffrey’s
and Markham’s elegies of Drake and Grenville, ‘[i]t is the task of the
148 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

epic poet to commemorate the dead, but in Britannia’s Pastorals bodies
are missing or monuments are lost.’50
   Offsetting the Jacobean period’s correlation of Drake with forms of
loss and mourning, Drake’s nephew and namesake oversaw an effort to
reestablish his cultural presence in the 1620s by publishing first-hand
accounts of his uncle’s voyages: Philip Nichols’ evocatively titled
Sir Francis Drake Reuiued: Calling vpon this Dull or Effeminate Age, to
folowe his Noble Steps for Gold & Silver (1626) presented a narrative of
Drake’s Nombre de Dios voyage of 1572–73 based on the notes of
members of his crew, while The World Encompassed by Sir Francis Drake
(1628) derived from the notes of Francis Fletcher, Drake’s chaplain on
the circumnavigation of 1577–80. As the titles of these texts not so
subtly indicate, this effort to revive Drake’s reputation correlated a
resuscitation of national honour with a revival of a martial paradigm of
masculinity. This recuperation of masculine unruliness was part of an
effort to drum up support for English military intervention on the con-
tinent in the early years of Charles I’s rule, a policy the new monarch
himself briefly embraced in the wake of his embarrassment following
the thwarted Spanish Match.51
   Opposition to a marriage alliance with Spain had earlier prompted
the publication of a series of texts purporting to have been written by
dead Elizabethan adventurers. In Thomas Scott’s Robert Earle of Essex
His Ghost (1624) and Sir Walter Ravvleighs Ghost, or Englands Forewarner
(1626), as well as Thomas Reynolds’ Vox Cœli (1624), figures associated
with anti-Spanish policies, including Raleigh, Essex, Queen Elizabeth
and Prince Henry, returned from the dead to encourage their nation to
adopt a more interventionalist stance against Spain and Catholic
forces. Published illegally on the continent, and in open violation of
James’ proclamations against published discussions of state affairs,
these texts – appropriately, pirated editions smuggled into England –
also ‘pirated’ representations of English nationalism. Yet the oppos-
itional potential of their arguments could only be expressed through
the language of mourning. Their imputed places of publication
(‘Printed in Elesium [sic]’; ‘Printed in Paradise’) located political opposi-
tion in an otherwordly space, a nation nowhere. Countering critical
assessments of the rise of a ‘country opposition’ in the 1620s, these
texts reflect the relative formlessness of an oppositional discourse in
the period. As David Norbrook has observed, ‘it is misleading to speak
of a formal “opposition” based on a coherent ideology’ in this period.52
And although radical in their outspoken candour, the ghost pamphlets
also critiqued the state from a position of abiding conservatism, one
                                                        Mark Netzloff 149

whose nostalgia for lost figures like Raleigh, Drake, Essex, and Elizabeth
constructed an invented tradition of English militarism that elided the
deep political fissures separating these figures during their lifetimes.
  In harnessing Drake’s image so as to give bodily form to a part-
icularly invidious nexus of militarism, masculinity, and foreign inter-
ventionalism, these pamphlets offered an important precedent for
Victorian, high imperial appropriations of Drake’s legacy. However,
this version of Drake was not the sole or dominant form that he
assumed in the seventeenth century. In conclusion, I want to engage
in a kind of critical piracy, commandeering the figure of Drake by dis-
lodging it from these imperial moorings. Coinciding with ‘patriot’
images of the martial Drake revived, or those of the spectral Drake
memorialized, was a recurring admission of Drake’s status as a pirate.
From Camden’s Annales (1615), in which Drake is cast as a pirate
captain distributing seized treasure among his men, to William
Davenant’s ‘The History of Sir Francis Drake’, the second act of his
opera The Play-House to Be Let (1656), which features a chorus of
Drake’s men rhapsodizing on the joys of plunder, the figure of
Sir Francis Drake offered a means for imagining England’s emergence
as an imperial power.53 By revealing – if not celebrating – the piratical
foundations for England’s imperial aspirations, these texts conceded,
and with remarkable candour, the underlying forms of extraction upon
which the expansion of an English ‘trading empire’ was based.
‘Commercial capital’, as Marx notes, ‘is thus in all cases a system of
plunder.’54 Whereas the circulation of capital necessitates a disem-
bodied network of commodity and capital flows, one dependent upon
an abstraction of labour, this acknowledgment of the piratical sources
of England’s wealth offered a critique by emphasizing the material
process of capital’s formation, including the debilitating toll of its
expansion. Similarly, in Britannia’s Pastorals, William Browne juxta-
poses his praise of Drake with a lament for mariners’ high mortality
rate on East India Company voyages.55 As these examples show,
seventeenth-century nostalgia for the age of Drake entailed a yearning
for an earlier model of adventure, one that was accurately perceived
as being increasingly superceded by the monopolistic commercial
ventures of joint-stock companies.
  Thomas Fuller noted this transition in his biography of Drake that
appeared in The Holy State (1642), a text that presents one of the
period’s most remarkable accounts of this figure. In his discussion of
the causes of Drake’s death, Fuller continues the tradition inaugurated
by Robarts, Heywood, and others, and through his memorialization of
150 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Drake articulates a populist, potentially oppositional expression of
English identity. But Fuller also expanded his critique as a way to mark
the transition from privateering to the joint-stock company, from a
model of adventure to that of commercial ventures, and the resulting
containment of potentially unruly state agents within the framework
of monopolistic international commerce that such changes effected. In
Fuller’s account, what kills Drake is, ultimately, capital: the demand for
ever greater returns on investment in his voyages, ‘an interest and
return of honour and profit’ expected to exceed ‘his former achieve-
ments’, triggers the self-consuming ‘apprehensions’ that produce
Drake’s final illness.56 The profits of Drake’s voyages are, of course, leg-
endary: in addition to yielding Queen Elizabeth a return of 47 times
her investment, these profits were even seen as contributing to the
capital that enabled the founding of the East India Company in 1600,
four years after Drake’s death.57 Fuller’s account reveals how the
unprecedented riches yielded by early modern English piracy created a
cultural battle over surplus value, exacerbating social tensions that
Robert Brenner locates as a key impetus for the revolutionary conflicts
of the mid-seventeenth century.58 In contrast to the Victorian image of
Drake as a point of origin for England’s trading empire, in Fuller’s text
Drake’s spectral presence haunts aspirations for national unity and
commercial expansion. As amorphous and protean in its shape as
nationalism itself, the ghost of Sir Francis Drake provides a spectral
figuration for nascent, alternative models of community, social
relations formed – in appropriately piratical fashion – by seizing the
mechanisms of capital.
Scaffold Performances: The Politics
of Pirate Execution
Claire Jowitt

This essay explores the politics of pirate executions. Focusing on the
pirate scaffold speeches of Thomas Walton and Clinton Atkinson
contained in the anonymous pamphlet Clinton, Purser and Arnold, to
their countreymen wheresoever (1583), in Thomas Heywood’s and
William Rowley’s tragic-comedy Fortune by Land and Sea (1607–09),
and the execution of the ‘pirate’ Walter Ralegh in 1618, it seeks to
read depictions of the manner of pirates’ deaths and their scaffold
behaviour in political terms.1 The essay examines the various ways
pirates were able, sometimes in surprising and resourceful ways, to
use their scaffolds as a pulpit from which to express their antagonism
to the state that condemns them. The figures of Purser, Clinton, and
Ralegh, may not initially seem to have much in common, since
Ralegh was executed in 1618 for treason not piracy. Yet ‘piracy’
against Spanish settlements in Guiana in 1617 was also part of the
case against him. Furthermore, the pirates and Ralegh are also explic-
itly linked in terms of theatrical representation, since, as this essay
shall establish, one of the subtexts for Heywood’s and Rowley’s repre-
sentation of their play’s privateer hero, Young Forrest, (whose fate is
contrasted with that of the pirates Purser and Clinton), is the career
of Ralegh. Using the work of Michel Foucault, J. A. Sharpe and Peter
Lake concerning the subversive politics of scaffold speeches more
generally, this essay explores the conventions specific to pirate scaf-
folds. Similar to Mark Netzloff’s exploration of the ways in which
Francis Drake’s memory ‘was invoked as a way to intimate political
oppositionality’ (see Chapter 8), I shall discuss the ways in which
these representations of pirate executions are sympathetic to the
pirates themselves and offer a critique of contemporary institutions
of statecraft.
152 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Pirate executions

In Discipline and Punish Michel Foucault suggestively argued, using the
dramatic metaphor ‘the spectacle of the scaffold’, that early-modern
French systems of punishment inscribed state power upon the body of
the criminal:

   It is an element in the liturgy of punishment and meets two
   demands. It must mark the victim […] And, from the point of view
   of the law that imposes it, public torture and execution must be
   spectacular, it must be seen by all almost as its triumph.2

According to this line of thinking, the public hanging at Wapping of
the English pirates Purser and Clinton (real names Thomas Walton
(alias Purser) and Clinton Atkinson (alias Clinton or Smith)), and the
beheading of Walter Ralegh in Old Palace Yard in the Tower of
London, should be seen as the articulation of a power relation repre-
senting the ‘triumph’ of the state, and indeed of the monarch, upon
the pirates’ bodies. In a scaffold drama ‘the all-powerful sovereign
[…] displays his strength’ as punishment is inflicted upon ‘the subject
who has dared to violate the law.’ 3 However, as Foucault goes on to
argue, executions should not always be seen as a total victory for
state or monarchic authority: ‘snatching a condemned man from the
hands of the executioner, obtaining his pardon by force, possibly
pursuing and assaulting the executioners […] overturned the ritual of
the public execution.’4
  In the cases of Purser and Clinton, and Ralegh, there was no
such straightforward rejection of royal authority, no obviously anti-
establishment incident in which the crowd stampeded the scaffold
to liberate the pirates and punish the executioners. Ralegh was
beheaded on 29 October 1618, 15 years after the treason for which
he had been condemned in 1603. 5 Purser and Clinton were hanged
with seven other condemned pirates on the stretch of shoreline
between high and low tide marks at Wapping on the 30 August
1583 – the eighth condemned man, William Arnewood, a gentleman
of some position, was reprieved (not rescued through the inter-
ference of the crowd). 6 However, as both Foucault and J. A. Sharpe
make clear, there can be other, less direct, signs of challenge to state
authority in the ways that rites of execution are carried out and
reported. 7 The ceremonies that inscribe sovereign authority might
also generate and express resistance to that authority since, while
                                                          Claire Jowitt 153

executions might be intended to vindicate the justice and power of
the state, they might also serve to glorify the criminal.
  Should the representation of pirate executions be interpreted in this
way? Unlike other criminals who were gibbeted at Tyburn, those con-
demned for piracy were always hanged at Wapping. As the Elizabethan
satirist and verse pamphleteer Samuel Rowlands humorously wrote:

               For though Pyrates exempted be
               From fatall Tyburne’s withere’d tree,
               They have an Harbour to arrive
               Call’d Wapping, where as ill they thrive
               As those that ride up Holbourne Hill,
               And at the Gallows make their Will.8

The justification for giving pirates a gallows to themselves on the
mudflats at Wapping lay in the fact that the strip of land between the
high- and low-water marks was under the jurisdiction of the Lord High
Admiral not of the usual criminal courts.9 There was a fairly elaborate
set of customs surrounding pirates’ executions. Those convicted of
piracy were brought from Marshalsea Prison in Southwark via London
Bridge and the Tower of London to Execution Dock in a cart accompa-
nied by a chaplain. The procession was lead by the Admiralty Marshal
or his deputy who carried a silver oar representing the authority of the
Admiralty over crimes committed at sea. Stow, in his Survey of London
(1598), describes the Execution Dock at Wapping as ‘the usuall place of
execution for hanging of Pirats & sea Rovers’, and notes that, after
hanging the bodies were chained to a stake ‘at the low water marke,
there to remaine, till three tides had overflowed them.’10 Bodies were
then smeared with pitch (normally used as a preservative for ships) and
hanged on gibbets on the Isle of Dogs, Bugsby’s Reach, or Graves Point
and left to rot slowly in order to warn sailors on ingoing and outgoing
ships of the price of piracy.
  The 1605 edition of Stow’s The annales of England makes it clear
that Purser and Clintons’ execution was a particularly flamboyant
affair.11 For, as Purser went to the gallows he ‘rent his venetian
breeches of crimosin taffeta, and distributed the same to such his old
acquaintance as stood about him.’ This is the first recorded incident
of a pirate doling out pieces of his garments from the scaffold, and
the open distribution of the pirate’s sumptuous clothes to his sympa-
thizers and supporters – his ‘old acquaintance’ – indicates that the
pieces of taffeta are acting as a kind of memento mori and a way of
154 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

articulating a shared identity of anti-establishment beliefs. Clinton’s
apparel is also criticized by Stow since his ‘velvet doublet with great
gold buttons’ and his ‘coloured velvet Venetians laid with great gold
lace’ are described as ‘apparell too sumptuous for sea rovers.’12 Stow’s
disapproval can only be fully understood in the context of how much
money such fine clothes cost. Opulent clothes represented an
enormous financial investment in this period: according to Andrew
Gurr ‘the Earl of Leicester paid £543 for seven doublets and two
cloaks, at an average cost for each item rather higher than the price
Shakespeare paid for a house in Stratford’: the pirates were, literally,
wearing a fortune.13 Certainly this description of pirates’ finery indi-
cates that their outfits aped the dashing attire of Elizabethan
courtiers, especially that of gentlemen ‘privateers’ such as Drake or
Ralegh, who were well known for their sartorial magnificence.14
Purser and Clintons’ splendour indicates something of a mimetic
relationship to court fashion. Moreover, given that the Elizabethan
sumptuary laws of 1562 and 1574 restricted the use of such rich cloth
to the social elite, the pirates were evidently committing one last act
of defiance of the authorities which had condemned them.
   The similarity in their style of dress with Elizabeth’s most famous
and successful state-sponsored pirates – men like Hawkins, Drake,
Gilbert and Ralegh – also indicates the difficulty of clearly distin-
guishing at this time between illegal piracy and that committed
under commission by the sovereign’s granting of letters of marque
and reprisal. 15 The late 1570s and early 1580s, the years in which
Purser and Clinton were most active as pirates, were the time in
which Elizabeth’s own leading naval officers and well-placed
courtiers were involved in a proliferation of projects for trade,
plunder and colonization, most of which involved piracy in one
form or another. 16 Drake’s circumnavigation, his visit to the Spice
Island of Ternate and his return to London with a king’s ransom in
booty encouraged further commercial ambitions in the East and the
rising tension in Anglo-Spanish relations in the period led to new
strategic ideas by Gilbert for besting the Spanish at sea. Furthermore,
by 1582 at least 11 English ships – including the Prosperity under the
command of Clinton Atkinson – were at sea attacking Spanish ship-
ping issued with letters of marque by Don Antonio, the Pretender to
the Portuguese throne. 17 In other words it is not simply the clothes
of the pirates Purser and Clinton that mimic those of their social
superiors, since the pirates’ violence at sea is hardly distinguishable
from the authorized violence of the courtiers and adventurers whose
                                                       Claire Jowitt 155

achievements are celebrated as the pinnacles of dashing heroic, and
patriotic, endeavour.
   Moreover, as Foucault has suggested, the ‘gallows speech’ of the
condemned man or woman forms an important instance of one of
these carnivalesque moments which might ‘overturn’ the execution
as the triumph of the dominant order: ‘[u]nder the protection of
imminent death, the criminal could say everything and the crowd
cheered’ in ‘the luxury of […] momentary saturnalia.’ 18 Scaffold
speeches, frequently published in cheap broadsheet form in this
period and therefore widely read, were supposed to form a rite of
execution in which the condemned person acknowledged their
crimes and the justice of their sentence. Yet, as we shall see in the
cases of accounts of the deaths of Purser and Clinton, and especially
in relation to Ralegh’s execution speech, they were in fact highly
unreliable tools of the state apparatus. 19 ‘The last words of a con-
demned man’ genre was supposed to circulate by way of example
and exhortation to the reading public, but he was often ‘transformed
into a hero’ since ‘[a]gainst the law, against the rich, the powerful,
the magistrates, the constabulary […] he appeared to have waged a
struggle with which one all too easily identified.’20 Scaffold speeches
were an equivocal political form, a potential multi-vocal discourse
capable of multiple and contradictory readings. In one way they
form part of the apparatus of ideological control warning the reader
against a similar fate, but at the same time since they can lionize and
glorify the condemned as exceptional, they might be seen to serve a
subversive political agenda.21
   Foucault and Sharpe’s analysis of the ambivalent ideological effects
of the scaffold speech has been considerably refined in Peter Lake and
Michael Questiers’ work on ‘moralized’ murder pamphlets and their
‘festive’ counterparts, the versions of these stories performed on
stage.22 Thinking about this material in terms of the hermeneutic prin-
ciple of the binary opposites of order and disorder Lake suggests that
both versions blend moral and immoral elements. The ‘moralized’

  involved a straight narrative of the descent of some poor felon,
  through […] temptation, into sin and finally murder, immediately
  followed by his or her capture, condemnation, repentance and good
  death on the gallows. Here the world was turned upside down, con-
  ventional notions of order were inverted by the sin of the central
  character, only to be turned up the right way again.23
156 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Similar tropes operate in the ‘festive’ stage versions where ‘the moral-
ized version always ultimately won out’, though ‘considerable titillat-
ing detail’ might be deployed in recounting the crimes committed:
‘[t]he point was always ostensibly to reaffirm order, to restore the
integrity of the social body’.24 What Lake suggests here is that the
presence of both titillating and moralized elements was structurally
necessary, and moreover this dialogue between oppositional discourses
produced ‘strains and tensions’ because of the ‘ambivalent and con-
flicted relationship […] between what one might term the legitimating
and moralizing frame and the titillating content.’25 In the light of these
arguments about order and disorder, this article focuses on the repre-
sentations of pirates’ scaffold behaviour and the ways their antics
either support or undermine state politics.

Subversive pirates?

Soon after Purser and Clintons’ execution in 1583 a clutch of texts
designed to take advantage of the popular interest in their case were
published. Two of these ballads, Clinton’s Lamentacyon of 1583, and
The Confessions of 9 Rovers, Clinton and Purser beinge chief’ of 1586, have
not survived.26 However a third text is extant, dated 1583, and titled
Clinton, Purser and Arnold, to their countreymen wheresoever. The text’s
subtitle Wherein is described by their own hands their unfeigned penitence
for their offences past: their patience in welcoming their Death, & their duet-
iful minds towardes her most excellent Maiestie indicates its avowed inten-
tion to keep within the bounds of political orthodoxy. The pirates’
acceptance of the justice of their executions and their deference to the
author of their punishment, the Queen, has prompted Mark Netzloff to
suggest that:

   The ballads […] insist […] on the pirates’ continued obedience to
   queen and country: Purser pleads repeatedly that ‘ever wisht my
   Queene and country well’, a point reinforced by Arnold’s assurance
   that ‘lives he not that can in conscience say, / Purser or Arnold
   made one English praye’[…] The ballads enable state power to speak
   through the pirates, representing the captains as endorsing the
   position of the state that condemns them.27

But can we be certain that the pamphlet does reaffirm the moral order
so readily and completely? All three of the pirates’ speeches make clear
that there are mitigating circumstances which might perhaps under-
                                                          Claire Jowitt 157

mine the wisdom of their execution, and imply that rival European
nations have either caused, or will benefit from, the pirates’ fall from
grace. Even as he acknowledges his guilt in his scaffold lament, Purser
emphasizes that he was highly serviceable to the English state.28 He
describes the way his protection from ‘forren foes’ has been used by
those that condemn him:

        When they have crept, and croucht to us for aide,
        Like harmelesse birdes, whome falcones make afraid.29

The pirate does not specify exactly which groups of English men he
has been protecting, but it is clear that he is embittered by their
current disregard of him: ‘they forget that ere he did them good’.30
Furthermore, he anticipates that these fair weather friends may regret
their decision: predicting that the ‘faithlesse French’ will be pleased to
see his demise since this opens the way for their activities. ‘[L]ook
abroad’, he counsels, ‘have care unto your Roades, / and cleanse your
Coastes, of such unseemely Toades’.31 Without his protection, England
is under threat.
   This anxiety concerning the vulnerability of the English nation is
more interesting for what it does not say than for what it states openly.
Nowhere in Purser’s speech, or indeed in Arnold’s or Clinton’s, is Spain
named as the source of danger.32 Rather it is France that is singled out
for attention as a potential enemy. Given the rising diplomatic tension
between England and Spain in the early 1580s, the absence of refer-
ences to antagonism between the pirates and the Spanish is significant,
and may impact on the pirates’ allegiances. Had this representation
been published after May 1585 – when hostilities against Spain became
openly expressed after Philip II suddenly closed all Spanish ports to
English merchants, sequestering substantial quantities of goods and
shipping – the absence of hostile mention of Spain would undoubtedly
have been a means of identifying the pirates as unpatriotic.33 But in a
text published in 1583 – before the English translation of Bartolomé de
Las Casas’ Brevíssima relación de las destrucción de las Indias, (published
by William Brome in the same year), had begun to propagate what
became known as the Black Legend of Spanish atrocities – the absence
of the Spanish as the source of danger to England is not decisive in
signalling the patriotism of the pirates.34 In other words, the ident-
ification of ‘forren foes’ as French is ambiguous. Furthermore, ‘France’
here is also indeterminate: it might refer to the ruling Catholic Valois
family, with whom England had varying relations, or the Huguenots
158 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

with whom seafaring activities against Spain were frequently
mounted.35 Purser’s claim to patriotism is not proven either way by
this account.
   Arnold’s lament is in the same vein. It also attempts to ameliorate
the sense of the pirates’ guilt, since, though he was ‘by birth a gen-
tleman’, he was forced to seek his living through seaborne crime
because of the corrupt behaviour and accusations of an Irish, hence
Catholic, ‘spitefall Priest’. 36 Arnold is here making his religious
orthodoxy apparent since he, in contrast to an unnamed pirate
whom the Catholic James Fenn (himself executed for treason in
1584) turned to the Romanish religion on the gallows in the 1580s,
he remains Protestant. Fenn’s pirate adamantly refused the minis-
trations of Protestant ministers on the gallows and professed that
‘he died a catholic, and blessed the providence of God that had
brought him to a place where he had met with such holy company
as taught him to be a Christian’. 37 In the case of Arnold, against
this climate of neglect and Catholic hostility, only the pirate Purser
was prepared to help him by giving him a captured French ship,
and Arnold claims that he only fell foul of the piracy laws through
helping another French vessel which was in distress. 38 Similar to
Purser’s account, here Arnold’s defence of his actions is ambiguous.
England was not at war with France in this period, so Purser’s gift of
the French ship is likely to represent an illegitimate attack on
friendly shipping. Like Purser’s ambiguous allegiances, Arnold’s
patriotism is not convincingly established by these actions.
   The last lament in the broadsheet, by Clinton, similar to the others,
attempts to justify the pirate’s situation. This time, however, the pirate
concentrates on the mutability of ‘Welth, wordly wit, Ambition or
Renowne’ as ‘fickle Fortune sometime puls them down.’39 He describes
his position as arch-pirate in explicitly monarchical terms: ‘Who
raigned more then I that ruld the coast?’40 The reversal of fortune he
describes as he catalogues his changing circumstances from King of the
seas to a ‘Poore I’, acts as a warning to others of what may befall them.
Riches, position, even royalty, Clinton asserts, are no security against
changing fortunes as he finds himself betrayed and deserted: ‘The time
hath bene when they to please me prest’, and describes how those he
rescued now with their ‘double tongues […] do me wrong’.41 Clinton’s
speech here acts as a caution to the powerful of their vulnerability to
changing fortunes. Indeed, given that the Lord Admiral of England in
1583 was called Clinton, (more specifically Edward Fiennes de Clinton,
1st Earl of Lincoln) the pirate’s description of himself as a lord of the
                                                         Claire Jowitt 159

seas looks like a pointed allusion to contemporary politics. The fact
that he has lost his position thus might be seen as a dark warning to
that other, high-ranking Clinton, of the unpredictability of reversals of
fortune. The pirate powerfully describes a climate of betrayal – though
identifying no individuals apart from the generalized term of
‘Londoners’ – where no security or trust can be placed in friends
and allies. Furthermore, Clinton was one of the set of aggressive,
Protestant-minded courtiers who persistently argued for overseas
expansion at Spanish expense, and he was a well-known investor in
voyages of privateering and colonization, such as Drake’s round-
the-world voyage of 1577–80.42 The similarities between the two
Clintons appear to be more significant than just a shared name.
  This pamphlet should be seen as hesitant in its support of the state
power that condemns the pirates. There is no explicit attack on
the Queen, or her representatives, but, perhaps, implicitly the three
laments imply criticism of a regime that is incapable of accommodat-
ing such patriotic men, especially in times of national emergency
against European enemies and rivals. Purser, Arnold and Clinton
attempt to champion their piracy as an especially vivid form of patriot-
ism, asserting that without them England will be at the mercy of
foreign foes. The fact that the enemy Purser cites, the French, were not
foes at this time, however, makes the pirates an ambiguously service-
able tool for the English nation. Properly harnessed their naval skills
could be of considerable use to England, but only if they attack enemy
  The actual seaborne allegiances of the pirate Clinton Atkinson can
be seen in this way. In the 1580s Clinton and his ship the Prosperity
had an ambiguous and complex relationship with state authorities.
He was one of the men issued with a licence by Don Antonio in 1582
to attack Spanish shipping, following the annexation of Portugal by
Phillip II in 1580. In particular he took part in the scheme to oppose
Philip’s sovereignty in the Azores, which was originally intended to
be a combined operation of English, French and Don Antonio’s
forces. Leicester, Walsingham, Drake and Elizabeth had initially been
behind the scheme to garrison the island of Terceira in the Azores in
order to cut the flow of treasure to Spain from the New World, but
in the end only the French attempted the operation, unsuccessfully,
in 1582.43 Clinton’s role here, then, is a liminal one: he was acting
for a cause, Don Antonio’s attempt to gain the Portuguese throne,
with which Elizabeth had sympathy, but he was part of a group that
were notoriously lawless and which were known to be indiscriminate
160 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

in their choice of victim. The scaffold speeches of the three pirates
might explicitly support the re-inscription of the moral order as they
welcome their death, but in each case there are marked ambiguities
which undermine the legitimizing and moral framework of the text.
Furthermore, the inclusion of Arnold in the lament might also be
seen, perhaps, as an ironic gesture on the part of the author, since
Arnold was not executed with the other pirates on 30 August 1583.
The tenth pirate recommended for execution before the trial, William
Arnewood – ‘Arnold’ – was officially pardoned four months later,
despite the fact he had already resumed his piratical career. 44 The
orthodoxy of Arnold’s acceptance, even support, of his ‘execution’ in
1583 appears even more compromised by the fact that the pirate was
in fact alive and well at sea.45
  The political ambivalences in the 1583 version of the pirates’ ex-
ecutions are intensified in Heywood and Rowleys’ Jacobean depiction
in Fortune by Land and Sea (1607–09).46 The play is set in the 1580s,
the time of the real-life activities of Purser and Clinton. The text’s
hero, Young Forrest, kills his brother’s murderer in a duel at the
beginning of the play. He becomes a fugitive and, in an attempt to
secure his pardon from Queen Elizabeth for the crime, captures
Purser and Clinton at sea, and takes them to justice. The play con-
cludes with the pirates’ hanging and Young Forrest’s pardon and
marriage to a rich and virtuous widow. But the pirates’ deaths are not
necessarily cause for celebration. Heywood and Rowleys’ representa-
tion is the closest to Stow’s 1605 account of their death: the play
includes the execution procession of the Sheriffs and the ‘Silver
Oare’, the pirates’ scaffold speeches and the doling out of their
clothes to their supporters. In this scene we can see at work what
Lake has called the ‘strains and tensions’ attendant upon the
‘ambivalent and conflicted relationship […] between what one might
term the legitimating and moralising frame and the titillating
content’. Cases in point are the pirates’ execution speeches, which
Barbara Fuch’s aptly describes as ‘elegiac’. 47 The text is noticeably
ambivalent concerning whether the death of such brave men should
be welcomed or mourned; certainly, it is necessary to the plot to rein-
corporate Forrest into legitimate society, but it causes the loss to
England of ‘gallant spirits’ who have ‘made Armadoes fly before our
stream.’48 This reference to the Armada of 1588 is, of course, histor-
ically incompatible with the pirates’ 1583 execution, but it does
clearly signal that they, like Forrest, have been attacking Spanish
                                                          Claire Jowitt 161

   Furthermore, and perhaps most importantly, the ‘strains and ten-
sions’ are apparent in the way the pirates give away their clothes. They
first ask permission: ‘Mr. Sheriff, you see we wear good clothes, / They
are payd for, and our own, then give us leave / Our own amongst our
friends to distribute’.49 It is not just the pirates’ loyal supporters who
share in the ‘good clothes’ here; the hangman, who has previously
been baiting and insulting them, receives gifts as well: ‘The work man
made them / Took never measure on Hangmans back; / Wear them for
our sakes, and remember us; / There’s some content for him too’.50 In
Lake’s terms the moralizing element, embodied by the presence of the
avenging Hangman, is compromised by the sumptuous gifts he
receives from the outlaw pirates. The final words by the Hangman,
perhaps, sum up the way he has been influenced by the pirates, ‘Thank
your worships’: through taking the gifts he has agreed to remember
them since, as Jones and Stallybrass have suggested, the material ways
clothes circulated in this period mean ‘[m]emories are literally worn’.51
But more significantly, the hangman might now be seen to support
anti-establishment patterns of behaviour since ‘clothes retained or
simulated the identity of former wearers’.52 The moralized figure of the
hangman thus no longer appears to be the embodiment of punitive,
state authority as his manner alters towards the outlaws and he will,
presumably, in the future appear dressed in their clothes. Ralegh’s
dignified, even heroic, deportment at his execution in 1618, and his
45 minute execution speech, can also be seen as undermining state
authority in the same way. As Beer describes ‘[e]ven the executioner
[…] was affected by Ralegh’s performance’ since, according to one eye-
witness, ‘the fellowe was much daunted (as it seemed to me) att his res-
olution and courage, in so much that Sr Walter Raleigh clapped him
on his back divers times; and cheered him up’.53 In both cases, then,
the executioner appears compromised and effected by the pirates
to such an extent, that questions arise concerning the justice of the
sentence to be carried out.
   But, perhaps, the most compelling reason for seeing this play as crit-
icizing the regime that executes the pirates is the similarity between
the latter and the play’s hero, Young Forrest. Young Forrest’s ship is
involved in activities little different to those of Purser and Clinton. He
represents himself as though he were in possession of letters of marque
allowing him to make attacks on other shipping, and persistently
attempts to articulate a difference between his exploits and those of
Purser and Clinton, yet in the action that follows there appear to be
little to choose between them.54 Like Drake in the 1570s and 1580s, or
162 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Ralegh until his execution, Forrest and his men have been highly suc-
cessful in capturing and routing Spanish ships. One of the mariners
describes how they have prospered since taking Forrest onboard:

             When we first took you to our fellowship,
             We had a poor bark of some fifteen tun,
             And that was all our riches, but since then
             We have took many a rich prize from Spain.55

It is only once they are fortified with Spanish plunder that they turn
their attention to the pirates, though of course it should not be forgot-
ten that the inclusion of Purser and Clinton means that the action
takes place prior to the Anglo-Spanish war, intensifying the resem-
blances between the actions of Forrest and the pirates. Indeed, similar
to the scene on the pirate ship in which Purser and Clinton distributed
the loot equally between the crew, Forrest makes plain that any booty
has been shared out, ‘the riches of their ship / We ‘mongst you will
divide in equal shares’.56 This distribution runs counter to the official
Elizabethan policy of the prize being divided only on return to
England, thus ensuring that the crown was awarded a certain percent-
age of the spoils. In fact Forrest is at this point as much of an outlaw –
having killed a man – as are Purser and Clinton. Forrest might attempt
to represent himself as though he is in the service of the Elizabethan
state attacking Spain under letters of marque, but he is not. His desire
to regain ‘my peace and pardon though a man condemned’ mark him
as an outlaw pirate.57 Indeed, the confusion is made more apparent
by the pirates’ choice of flag: like Forrest they also fly ‘the Cross of
England and St. George’.58 Despite his protestations of English loyalty,
and his serviceableness to the English state in attacking Spanish ship-
ping, Forrest is just as much a pirate as Purser and Clinton. Indeed, the
subtext of this encounter is that if Forrest is attempting to secure his
pardon through capture of the outlaw pirates, by the same token so
might they legitimately seek to compound for their crimes through his
   So how should we read Heywood and Rowley’s double representa-
tion of piracy in this text? Under Elizabeth, the state had attempted to
draw a somewhat rough and ready distinction between the nation’s
commissioned and outlaw pirates, however difficult in practice those
differences were to maintain.59 Hence the resemblances between
young Forrest and Purser and Clinton are rather more significant than
their differences. James’ proclamations made no distinction at all
                                                          Claire Jowitt 163

between outlaw and commissioned piracy against Spain or any other
nation at this time: all piracy was a capital crime. In 1609 for instance,
in what John C. Appleby describes in Chapter 2 of this book as ‘tough
talk’ on the part of the government, piracies were described as being
committed by ‘lewd and ill disposed persons, accustomed and habitu-
ated to spoil and rapine, insensible and desperate of the peril they
draw upon themselves’. Indeed the King went further as he expressed
the desire to ‘hang the pirates with my own hands, and my Lord
Admiral as well’.60 In fact, although the Lord Admiral survived, more
pirates were hanged in James’ reign than in the previous hundred
years, 19 being despatched in a single day from Wapping Pier in
December 1608, though the problem of pirates remained endemic for
much of the reign.61 Hence Fortune by Land and Sea’s nostalgic rep-
resentation of the Elizabethan past where the distinction was hard to
maintain but there was at least some room for manoeuvre, implies the
harshness of James’ blanket ban. The celebration of the ‘pirate’
Forrest’s activities as furthering the national interest – evident in the
rewards bestowed on him by the Queen at the end of the text (as she
did with Drake on the The Golden Hind) in effect acts as a plea for a
less draconian and indiscriminate contemporary attitude to piracy.
   These ambivalences in the text’s representation of piracy make it less
obviously the heinous crime James described in official proclamations.
In fact, in the figure of young Forrest there are clear resemblances
to Ralegh who, detested by James, was imprisoned in the Tower for
advocating precisely the kinds of buccaneering activities that Elizabeth
rewarded. On James’ accession Ralegh wrote A Discourse touching a War
with Spain, which aggressively recommended the continuation of
hostilities. Neither the tone nor the content of this ‘martial’ paper
found favour with James, and Ralegh was subsequently charged with
conspiring with Lord Cobham and others to kill James I and place the
King’s cousin, Lady Arabella Stuart, on the throne with the financial
assistance of Spain. Cobham was interrogated and signed a sworn con-
fession (later recanted), which served as the chief evidence against
Ralegh.62 Tried and condemned, Ralegh’s sentence was commuted to
life imprisonment. Transcripts of Ralegh’s 1603 trial – at which he
eloquently defended himself – circulated so widely that the public
responses to Ralegh changed from vilification to sympathy.63 In Young
Forrest we see the expression of similar aggressive, expansionist policies
at odds with James’ pacifist beliefs.
   The text’s championing of Young Forrest through his twin rewards
of knighthood and marriage to an honourable, rich wife, for activities
164 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

that are indistinguishable from those of the executed pirates, poses
some awkward questions for both the Elizabethan past that the play
revives and the Jacobean present. In the play it is Elizabeth’s penal
system which executes the pirates and rewards Young Forrest for
largely identical actions. The execution of the pirates appears to be a
missed opportunity to harness such potentially serviceable men to the
interests of the state. Yet the Elizabethan state was able to reward and
reincorporate Young Forrest in ways that the Jacobean government
would not. Under James both the pirates and Forrest would be con-
demned since, with the nation at peace with Spain, Forrest’s bellicosity
was out of kilter with James’ pacific foreign policy. In Lake’s terms
the pirates’ execution and Young Forrest’s success reveal the ‘strains
and tensions’ in state attitudes to piracy and plunder in both the
Elizabethan and Jacobean regimes. Elizabeth was unable to utilize the
pirates for state purposes, and executed them; James saw no difference
between them and Young Forrest, so would have executed him as well.
In neither case does the outcome appear just, but the less draconian
and indiscriminate Elizabethan policy would appear preferable.
   Fortune by Land and Sea’s Elizabethanism concerning piracy is
matched by the last scaffold spectacle I wish to discuss in this chapter.
Walter Ralegh, ‘the last Elizabethan’, was finally executed in 1618 for
the treason he had been convicted of in 1603, the commuted sentence
being enforced because of the failure of his second voyage to the gold
mines of Guiana in 1617 either to bring back tangible results or to
avoid violent confrontation with Spaniards in the region.64 Ralegh’s
execution was one of the most controversial political events of the
early seventeenth century, since his punishment was widely seen as
unjust, especially as published versions of his scaffold speech, and
manuscript copies of his 1618 Apologie for his voyage to Guina (written
between 28 and 31 July) circulated widely becoming ‘part of the polit-
ical hagiography surrounding Ralegh.’65 Because Ralegh had been
‘civilly dead’ – that is dead to law and society – since 1603, no new
trial was needed to condemn him.66 However, as Beer describes, the
King and his ministers debated the best method to justify and manage
the execution, the latter recommending to James that Ralegh be called
up in front of the ‘whole body of your Council of State, and your
principal Judges […] and that some of the nobility and gentlemen of
quality be admitted to be present to hear the whole proceedings’.67
The King, anxious that Ralegh’s popularity might turn such a large
gathering against the crown’s position, eventually decided that Ralegh
should only be examined by those he had faced before, and that when
                                                          Claire Jowitt 165

the execution warrant was signed, a declaration should be published
justifying the government’s actions.68 Such was the interest that the
case generated that more than one transcription of Ralegh’s last
speech, and short account of the circumstances of its delivery, was
made by friends, officials and curious spectators.69 In all versions of
the speech Ralegh refuses to acknowledge his guilt, and at no point
does he glorify the King, both potentially seditious acts in themselves.
Dr Robert Tounson, who prepared the prisoner for execution,
observes: Ralegh ‘hoped to perswade the world that he dyed an inno-
cent man […]. Therat I told him, that he should do well to advise
what he sayd: men in these days did not dye in that sort innocent,
and his pleading innocency was an oblique taxing of the Justice of the
Realm upon him.’70 The crown was so concerned about Ralegh’s post-
execution popularity, that two works were published in an attempt to
discredit him, The Humble Petition, ascribed to Ralegh’s keeper
Sir Lewis Stukleley, but probably written by Dr Lionel Sharpe, and
A Declaration of the Demeanor and Cariage of Sir Walter Raleigh, credited
to Francis Bacon, though it is more likely that he edited a draft drawn
up by a member of his legal staff.71
  What concerns me here is the way the charge of piracy was used by
both the crown and Ralegh in their confrontation, taking on an ideo-
logical significance as it acts as shorthand for larger political stand-
points. This charge is something Ralegh is particularly concerned to
refute in his Apologie: ‘it was bruted, both before my departure out of
England and by the most men beleived, that I meant nothing lesse then
to go to Guiana: but that being once at liberty and in mine owne
power, having made my way with some Forraigne Prince I would turne
Pyratt and utterly forsake my Countrey.’72 Here ‘piracy’, like ‘Turning
Turke’, stands in for an abdication of national identity, as in the pay of
another monarch, presumably with letters of marque, it is rumoured
that Ralegh would turn against his country.73 Towards the end of the
document he returns to the issue, again discussing piracy in relation to
indiscriminate attacks on shipping in search of gold:

  I say, that, there is no reason […] to lay it to my charge, that
  I carryed them with a pretence of Gold […]: if it had bin to have
  gotten my liberty, why did I not keep my liberty when I had it, Nay
  why did I put my life in manifest peril to forgo it? if I had had a
  purpose to have turned Pyrate, why did I oppose my self against the
  greatest number of my Company, and was there by in danger to be
  slaine or cast into the Sea because I refused it?74
166 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

‘Piracy’ in this context refers to the type of buccaneering activities
favoured under Elizabeth particularly in the years of the Anglo-Spanish
war, but outlawed by James. Noticeably Ralegh represents himself as
bravely standing up against the ship’s company who, he asserts, did
wish to ‘turne Pyrate’.
   However, notwithstanding Ralegh’s protestations of his refusal to
‘turne Pyrate’, one of the state’s chief indictments against him was that
he did follow these Elizabethan patterns of behaviour:

   when the prosecution of this imaginarie Mine vanished […] Sir Walter
   Raleigh called a Councell of his Captaines […] where hee propounded
   to them, that his Intention and designe was; First, to make to the
   New-found lands, and there to revictuall and refresh his Ships; And
   thence to goe to the Westerne Islands, and there to lie in waite to
   meete with the Mexico Fleete, or to surprise some Carrackes; and so
   hauing gotten treasure, which might make him welcome into any for-
   reine Countrey, to take some newe course for his future fortunes […]
   his cogitations imbracing East and West […] And although some old
   Pirates, either by his inciting, or out of feare of their owne case, were
   fierce and violent for the Sea, and against the returne, yet the far
   greater number were for the return […] which hee perceiuing, for
   feare of further mutinie, professed in dissimulation, that hee himselfe
   was for the returne into England, and came and stood amongst them
   that had most voyces; But neuerthelesse, after that he despaired to
   draw his companie to follow him further, hee made offer of his owne
   Ship (which was of great value) to his company, if they would set him
   aboard a French Barque: The like offer he made, when hee came vpon
   the Coast of Ireland, to some of his chiefe Officers there.75

Bacon’s version of the intended piracy is in marked contrast to
Ralegh’s. Bacon here repeatedly emphasizes Ralegh’s eagerness to turn
to piracy (‘his cogitations imbracing East and West’), and his duplicity
in pretending to be against it when it appears that his favoured plan
does not find enough support to be carried, despite the wishes of ‘some
old Pirates’ amongst them. The epithet ‘some old Pirates’ also asso-
ciates these men, like Ralegh, with Elizabethanism, evoking a previous
age when privateering was a mainstay of the nation’s foreign policy,
and the niceties of distinguishing the nationality of the ship to be
attacked were often breached.
  However the actual, rather than the anticipated, crime of piracy
indicted against Ralegh by Bacon was specifically concerned with attacks
                                                            Claire Jowitt 167

on Spanish conquistadors. As is seen in his letters to his monarch, Philip
III, the Spanish Ambassador, Count Gondomar, had always seen the
mission to Guiana purely in piratical terms, advising that it offered Spain
a good opportunity to punish the piratical Ralegh because of ‘what
Ralegh had done’ and that King James had already promised to do what-
ever the Spanish suggest to ‘remedy and redress it.’76 As Bacon describes
it, Gondomar ‘tooke great alarme, and represented vnto his Maiestie by
loud and vehement assertions […] that he knew and had discouered the
intention and enterprise of Sir W. Raleigh to bee but Hostile and Piraticall,
and tending to the breach of the Peace betweene the two Crownes.’77
According to Bacon, in the light of Gondomar’s fears concerning Ralegh’s
‘piracy’, James carefully framed his commission: ‘his Maiestie himselfe
did oft peruse and reuise, as foreseeing the future euents; the tenor
whereof appeareth to be so farre from giuing Sir Walter Raleigh warrant,
or colour to inuade any of the Territories, occupate and possest by
the Spaniards, as it tended to a direction, rather of commerce, then spoile,
euen towards the Sauages themselues.’78 Bacon’s reading, and
Gondomar’s, makes no distinction between hostile encounters between
Ralegh and his men with Spanish forces or with any other foreign nation-
als: all these skirmishes are represented as crimes of piracy. Ralegh’s
Apologie, however, does not recognize his encounters with the Spanish in
Guiana as ‘piracy’. He only acknowledges the crime in relation to poten-
tial encounters with the Spanish elsewhere – that is not in the vicinity of
his Guianan mine – or with other nationals – which, as we have seen, he
denies (‘if I had had a purpose to have turned Pyrate, why did I oppose
my self against the greatest number of my Company, and was there by in
danger to be slaine or cast into the Sea because I refused it?’). Instead,
Ralegh represents the Spanish as the aggressors in Guiana, since he finds
them illegitimately occupying areas that are English:

   An unfortunate man I am, and it is to me a greater losse then all
   I have lost, that it pleaseth his Majestie to be offended for the
   burning of a Spanish towne in Guiana; of which these parts border-
   ing the River Orrenoque, and to the South as farre as the Amazones
   doth by the Law of Na[…]ions belong to the Crowne of England, as
   his Majestie was well resolved when I prepared to goe thither, other-
   wise his Majesty would not have given once leave to have landed
   there; for I set it downe under my hand that I intended that enter-
   prise and nothing else, and that I meant to enter the Country by the
   River of Orrenoque; It was not held to be a breach of peace neither by
   the State here nor the Spanish Ambassadour.79
168 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

‘Piracy’ is clearly a contested term between Ralegh’s and the crown’s
versions of the voyage. The differences between the two understand-
ings of ‘piracy’ play out the larger political differences between advent-
urer and monarch. Ralegh refuses to see himself as a ‘pirate’, instead
representing himself as preserving a robust defence against aggressive
Spanish interlopers attacking his country’s national interests. With
relentless logic, Ralegh establishes his innocence of the charge of
piracy since as England owns the Guianan mine, a fact that James
recognized through authorizing the voyage in the first place, then his
skirmishes with Spanish forces in the region are justified. Indeed
Ralegh’s scaffold performance – where he conjured up a vanished
Elizabethan age of honour and militarism (demonstrated most
potently through descriptions of his relationship with the Earl of
Essex), and failed either to confess his crimes or to offer any
glorification of the King, is of a piece with the political valencies of
‘piracy’ offered in the Apologie.80 Similar to Purser and Clintons’ scaf-
fold behaviour, Ralegh’s demeanour at execution and, more particu-
larly, his discussion of what does and what does not constitute piracy,
adds up to a powerful critique of the political inconsistencies and
arbitrary justice of the state, and monarch, who condemns him.
  The scaffold spectacles explored in this essay variously reveal, then,
the ways in which those condemned for piracy might resist submitting
to the authority that executes them through their words and actions.
In particular, the execution performances and textual representations
of their ‘piracy’ discussed here expose the disputed nature of the crime
for which they are condemned, where distinctions between outlaw and
commissioned violence at sea appear arbitrary and compromised. By
revealing the overlaps between legitimate and illegitimate violence at
sea all the texts discussed here question the justice of the legal system
that condemns the ‘pirates’, and the government and monarch in
whose name ‘justice’ is executed.
Of Pirates, Slaves, and Diplomats:
Anglo-American Writing about the
Maghrib in the Age of Empire
Gerald MacLean

I want to begin by quoting the words of George Bush regarding Islam,
the Islamic World, and how to read the prophecy of Daniel as the key
to a correct Christian interpretation of Revelations 9.1: ‘And the fifth
angel sounded, and I saw a star fall from heaven unto the earth …’
Bush writes:

  Commentators at the present day are almost universally agreed in
  regarding the fifth trumpet as symbolizing and predicting the
  appearance of the Arabian imposter, his spurious religion, and his
  Saracen followers […] As a striking coincidence with the signs here
  predicted, it is worthy of note, that a remarkable comet immediately
  preceded the birth of Mohammed; and that an eclipse of the sun, of
  extraordinary degree and duration, attended the first announcement
  of his pretended mission.1

No one, I am sure, imagines that the current President of the United
States really believes such superstitious nonsense or holds such racist
views; but it does seem that during the late eighteenth and early nine-
teenth centuries there were many residents of what I shall call ‘Young
America’ – that nation of migrants, settlers and colonialists who had
recently fought against and declared independence from Great Britain
– who did so believe. Among them was George Bush, not the Texan
President, but a possible ancestor of his, the early nineteenth-century
Presbyterian minister and orientalist of considerable standing who
taught Oriental languages at New York University, denied the resurrec-
tion of the body, supervised the American Bible Society’s version of the
King James Bible, converted to Swedenborgianism, and was the first
American to write a substantial life of Muhammad in American
170 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

English. George Bush’s The Life of Mohammed, from which I have been
quoting, first appeared in 1830 and was reprinted in 1844 and again in
  To early modern scholars of comparative religions, Bush’s reading of
Daniel and Revelations will be a familiar one. It places the rise of Islam
within a providentialist and millenarian theory of history that belongs
firmly within a Protestant tradition of anti-Islamic propaganda initi-
ated at the time of Martin Luther and Englished by George Foxe. For
many extreme Protestants, Daniel’s prophecy helped explain the emer-
gence of Islam as part of a divinely ordained apocalyptic scheme that
justified contempt for Muslims. In describing this tradition, Nabil
Matar has shown how Reformation theologians in England and
Scotland used Daniel and Revelations to cope with the twin threats of
Ottoman sea power and the Counter-Reformation while, at the same
time, explaining the failure of the Christian crusaders to recapture the
sacred lands of the Near East.2 Implicit in this scheme are emergent
ideologies of progress and of national exceptionalism by which the
story of the past merely confirmed Anglo-Protestant Young Americans
in the sense of their own godly superiority: pro-Israelite but profoundly
anti-Jewish, pro-Arab but anti-Saracen, pro-Roman (and Republican)
but stoutly anti-Catholic and hostile to papal supremacy.
  In an attempt to address, if not redress, this kind of self-serving
vilification of Islam and Muslims, I propose to explore some of the lit-
erary forms and tropes which circulated these ideas, and to trace their
roots in early writings in English about the Maghrib and the writing
of the national script – by which I mean the various processes by
which language becomes literature, something that happened to
English during the long seventeenth century.3 Elsewhere I have shown
how this scripting of the nation was fully and inextricably underway
in England by the time of the Stuart Restoration, an event that in
many ways signalled the arrival of what we continue to recognize as
‘English literature’ – the national literature first defined and described
by Dryden. More recently, I have argued that oriental travel writing
very quickly assumed a very important place in this scripting and
reveals crucial ways that, from the late sixteenth century on, English
readers were invited to think of themselves in relation to the many
places in the world to which their fellow countrymen were travelling
and the cultures they were directly encountering, often for the first
time.4 For the early modern English, the rise of oriental travel was, in
crucial ways, about the place of writing and literary culture within the
formations of the national script.
                                                      Gerald MacLean 171

   Early English writing about piracy, captivity, and diplomacy, deve-
loped a variety of rhetorical and literary conventions to represent dif-
ferent forms of contact with the Maghrib during the decades when
the English were first sailing into the Mediterranean in significant
numbers. One direction we might take in order to study the substantial
archive of contemporaneous writings that described and debated
Mediterranean piracy might be the contextualized case study, such as
Matthew Dimmock provides in Chapter 4 of this volume. A further
instance would be the continuing appearance throughout the seven-
teenth and well into the eighteenth century of popular ballads and
tracts celebrating John Ward’s exploits; such a study might lead us to
conclude that this notorious Jacobean pirate had become a hero of the
free trade movement.5 Another direction, the one on which I want to
venture here, is to turn to the earliest writings – both literary and
diplomatic – produced in Young America of earliest contact with the
Maghrib as reported by writers of an emergent nation whose new flag
provided no protection from Mediterranean predators. It may not be so
surprising, then, to discover that several Young Americans wrote about
   In what follows, I argue that before there was writing in English
about the Mediterranean, there was trade; with trade came cultural
infusion and contestation as well as piracy or ‘free trade.’ In sixteenth-
century England, a range of widely diverging attitudes regarding piracy
and the ‘Turks’ were all given voice. This diversity of attitudes
influenced the subsequent development of several literary forms. By
the end of the century, the emergence of imperial ambitions under
Queen Elizabeth was accompanied by the emergence of ideas of
‘national literature’ based on a history of native writers as described by
Dryden and his contemporaries.6
   For Young American writers, the imperative for their new nation to
establish a foundational myth and national literature was already in
place as soon as the concept of the United States of America came into
being and Young American merchants started sending ships into the
Mediterranean. Writers such as Colonel David Humphreys of Con-
necticut and Royall Tyler of Boston were innovators and Young
American literary firsts: Humphreys wrote the first sonnets and epic
verse, Tyler wrote some of the earliest plays and prose fiction. Both
writers responded in ‘new United States literary forms’ to the discovery
that the United States flag would be subject to new obligations in the
Islamic Mediterranean. In characteristic rhetoric, Humphreys’ epic
Poem On the Happiness of America (c. 1786) develops accounts of Young
172 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

America first entering into the internecine negotiations that sought to
make formal distinctions between pirate and corsair, and did so with a
view to establishing the legitimacy of a unilateral invasion of Algeria
by United States military forces that would utterly destroy Muslim
North Africa in the name of a millenarian eschatology that has regu-
larly characterized United States foreign policy ever since. While the
earliest English accounts of Mediterranean piracy develop from residual
humanistic attempts to understand the nature and range of Ottoman
imperialism spurred by imperial envy, the earliest efforts of the first
United States commentators aimed to forge a language and literature of
national identity based on – in the words of Colonel Humphreys – ‘the
illustrious task of rearing an empire.’ What we now call ‘gun-boat
diplomacy’ has, it would seem, a long and distinguished place in
United States foreign policy.

Early English writings on the Maghrib: trade, captivity and

The English had evidently been travelling to and trading in Maghribian
ports long before 1581 when formal agreements – the so-called ‘capitu-
lations’ or ahid-name – were signed between Queen Elizabeth and the
Ottoman Sultan Murad III. Indeed, English merchants had been active
in the area even before the Ottomans arrived, and a strong sense that
England was entitled to enjoy a special place in the area steadily took
shape during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The earliest writ-
ings in English concerning the Maghrib suggest how contact through
trade soon led to a broad and general interest in the land, to a fascina-
tion with its people, and to a curiosity about their cultures and lan-
guages. As early as 1547, for instance, the first book on surgery to be
published in English, Andrew Boorde’s The Breviary of Healthe, promised
to provide ‘the obscure terms of Greke, Araby, Latyn, and Barbary, in
English.’7 Boorde clearly recognized that ‘Barbary’ constituted a lan-
guage in its own right alongside Greek, Latin and Arabic, and that it
contained valuable information that was worth knowing. This willing-
ness to learn about and from Maghribian peoples, and to assimilate
useful knowledges and skills, exceeds any simple desire for North
African sugar and gold.
  The earliest recorded trading contacts between English-speaking
peoples and the Maghrib can be traced back to the early fifteenth
century.8 Writing in 1764, the economic historian Adam Anderson
noticed that ‘the first Instance … of Englishmen trading to Morocco’
                                                    Gerald MacLean 173

took place in 1413. Citing the eighth volume of Thomas Rymer’s
Foedera, Anderson writes: ‘In this Year, [1413] it seems, a Company of
London Merchants laded several Ships with much Wool and other
Merchandize, to the Value of 24,000l. towards the western Parts of
Morocco.’ The venture proved unsuccessful, however, because ‘some
Genoese Ships, emulous of this Commerce, made Prize of these London
Ships outwards-bound, and carried them into Genoa. Whereupon King
Henry IV grants the Sufferers Reprisals on the Ships and Merchandize
of the Genoese wherever they can find them.’9 These early merchants
also made their own alliances independently of the crown. Two years
later, in 1415, according to Walsingham’s Latin Chronicle, English mer-
chants gave ‘ayde and assistance … to King John the first of Portugall,
for the winning of Ceuta in Barbarie.’10 In his commentary on interna-
tional trade for the year 1492, when Granada fell, Anderson observes:

  Upon this same Year, we may farther remark, from Mr. Lewis Roberts
  his well known Map of Commerce, That it was near about this Time
  when the English Trade to Morocco first commenced, (or rather was
  of any Consequence;) for we have seen that we did carry on some
  Trade thither so early as the Year 1413. And although by the Wars
  between Morocco and Fez that Trade was smothered, (as our Author
  phrases it) yet that out of this Trade to Barbary, sprung the English
  Levant or Turkey Company, tho’ not till Queen Elizabeth’s Reign.11

Such reports of how the Levant Company sprang from early fifteenth-
century trade with Morocco have regularly been ignored by later histo-
rians who have relied instead on Richard Hakluyt’s report of two
subsequent trading ventures undertaken in 1551 and 1552.12
   However, these accounts of earliest trade between England and
Morocco reveal how three important themes that would characterize
Anglo-Maghribian relations for the next three hundred years were
already becoming evident. First, rivalry among competing Christian
nations would cause English merchants greater problems than negoti-
ating with Muslims; secondly, the English crown was ready to support
the merchants, but only when doing so – by licensing them to predate
upon other ships in the area – would cost the royal exchequer
nothing; and thirdly, strategic and often temporary alliances between
crown and merchants, like those between otherwise-competing
national interests, would set the terms for diplomacy in the area
rather than religious beliefs. As Rhoads Murphey astutely observed of
conditions in the early seventeenth century, ‘it is premature to expect
174 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

the convergence of trade and politics’ since trade was still most often
a matter of particular merchants acting in ad hoc ways rather than
hand-in-hand with state policy.13 Religious differences, meanwhile,
were seldom of great concern when there were profits to be made.
   Nonetheless, seventeenth-century English merchants were often eager
to aggrandize their activities by associating themselves with royal
authority and, in one case at least, with a radical Protestant commit-
ment to the apocalyptic unfolding of divine providence. In 1613, one
‘I. H.’ edited and published Late Newes out of Barbary. In A Letter written
of late from a Merchant there to a Gentl. not long since imployed into that
country from his Majestie. In the preface, I. H. promised that the news
contained in this letter would be of great comfort to all true English
Protestants because it confirmed that they really were living in sight of
the second coming. Evidence found in news from abroad, as so often in
the popular press of the time, provided the stuff of millenarian
prophecy about imminent last days. The letter reports the recent
appearance and growing power of a ‘new Saintish King’ in Morocco
who claimed to be a divine messenger. So sudden and furious had been
the military successes of this new king, ‘Mulley Om Hamet Abdela’, that
the Catholic nations of Spain, Italy, and France expected to be overrun
by his forces at any time. The good news, according to I. H., is that
Mulley Om Hamet ben Abdela has insisted on his friendship to the
English and has promised to allow them continued free trade; but
presumably only until time itself comes to an end.14 This frisson of
excitement as the English assume their privileged position in the region
also appeared in more mundane terms, requiring not so much an
apocalyptic leap of faith as an active literary imagination. Reporting on
his experiences as a member of Sir Robert Mansell’s expedition against
‘the Pirates of Algiers’, John Button addressed his readers directly:

   […] to make this Discourse the more pleasing to thee, such Spanish
   ships and gallyes, besides Turkish Pirates, as we encountred with at
   Sea, shall appeare sayling, in all their gallantry before thee. Imagine
   (as thou readest) that thou hearest the Canon playing, and Turkes
   by hundreds tumbling into the Seas, our owne stretching out hands
   to save a miserable number of poore Christians made slaves to the
   barbarous Turke & crafty Moore, but delivered from that servitude
   by us, God assisting our labours.15

The Algiers expedition of 1620 would be the only military campaign
undertaken by command of King James, and Mansell’s fleet was the first
                                                        Gerald MacLean 175

English naval force to enter the Mediterranean since the Crusades.16 At
the time, several well-informed commentators – including the Secretary
of State Sir John Coke, as well as Sir John Chamberlain, Sir Thomas Roe,
and Sir William Monson – considered the adventure to have been little
more than an inglorious and expensive failure, while others – such as
the dramatist Thomas Middleton – suspected it had been undertaken
simply to appease the Spanish.17 For his part, Button remained generally
non-committal on the success or failure of the campaign. Of more inter-
est here is his explicit invitation to readers to see the sights and hear the
sounds of armed conflict at sea, and to derive vicarious literary pleasure
from imagining themselves part of this great and glorious action.
Amidst the gallant spectacle and din of battle, what counts are not so
much high affairs of state but rather those images of hundreds of
‘Turkes … tumbling into the Seas’ and the hands of those imagined
English mariners reaching out ‘to save a miserable number of poore
Christians.’ From the imaginary pleasures of such sights and sounds are
national fantasies and even identities forged.
   For the English, however, the enemy were never simply barbarous
‘Turks’, renegades, or crafty Moors since the dangers the English faced
when sailing into the Mediterranean were just as likely to come from
natives of southern European countries. From the mid-sixteenth
century on, the threat of capture by Catholic Spain, or by corsairs
operating from Corsica, Sicily, and Genoa, was ever present and, for
many English mariners, of greater concern than danger from the
Ottoman regencies. Published in 1590, Edward Webbe’s account tells
of a series of captivities, each one worse than the last. First he is held
prisoner of war for five years by the ‘crymTartarians otherwise named
the new Christians’, who set him ‘to wipe the feete of the kinges
horses … to fetch water, cleave wood, and to doe such other
drudgerie.’18 After being ransomed, he has the misfortune to be cap-
tured en route to Alexandria and spends the next five years suffering
worse conditions chained to an oar in an Ottoman galley. Yet Webbe
manages never to lose his rather laconic sense of humour. He observes
‘[t]he foode which I and others did eat, was verie black, far worse then
Horse bread: and our drinke was stinking water, unlesse it be when
wee came to the places where we tooke in fresh sweet water, at which
time we supposed our diet to be verie daintie’.19 Eventually Webbe
persuades his Muslim captors that he has valuable skills as a master-
gunner, and in that capacity travels with the Ottoman army to Persia,
Damascus, Cairo, Jerusalem, Goa, Ethiopia, and along the Red Sea
coast before being returned to Istanbul where, in 1582, he organized a
176 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

fantastic firework display for the celebrations accompanying the cir-
cumcision of the future Sultan Mehmed III.20 After a total of 13 years
in captive service to the Ottomans, Webbe gained his freedom thanks
to the efforts of William Harborne, Elizabeth’s first representative at
the Ottoman Porte. While returning to England, he was briefly
arrested on suspicion of heresy in Padua, held prisoner for 19 days in
Rome where he was interrogated and tortured by ‘the English Cardinal
Doctor Allen, a notable Arch papist’, only to be released and then re-
arrested in Naples on suspicion of being a spy. Here, he reports being
thrown into a dungeon and tortured in terms that are at once clinical
and yet surprisingly free from resentment, self-pity or even anger:

   Thrice had I the strappado, hoysted up backward with my handes
   bound behind me, which stroke all the jointes in my armes out of
   joint, where a Phisition was readie to set my armes in joynt againe
   presently. I was also constrained to drink salt water and quicklyme,
   and then a fine lawne or callico thrust down my throat and pluckt
   up againe, readie to pluck my hart out of my belly, all to make me
   to confesse that I was an English spye. After this there were foure
   harde horses prepared to quarter me, and I was still threatned to
   dye, except I would confesse some thing to my harme. […] Thus
   seven monethes I endured in this misery.21

By grim contrast, his treatment at the hands of the Ottomans, who reg-
ularly beat him with ‘an Oxe pissle,’ might seem rather benign. Webbe
was by no means alone in reporting how much worse he was treated
while in captivity to Christians than when held by Muslims. One
Mr. Roberts, after more than a year’s captivity aboard corsair ships
flying Livornese, Portuguese and Venetian colours, exclaims that he
‘should prefer seven Years Slavery in Algier, as a far better Choise than
to live 16 Months in a Crusal.’22
  Such moments of ironic black humour – surely few would choose
either form of captivity – often accompany early English captivity
narratives, serving both to modulate the tone of what might otherwise
prove unremitting tales of suffering, and to distinguish English atti-
tudes towards North African Muslims from their views on other
Christian nations. For the puritan William Okeley, who was held
captive in Algiers from 1639 to 1644, the cruelty and covetousness of
his Muslim masters, terrible as they were, arose from the fact they were
followers of ‘the greatest Impostor that ever seduced the Nations, but
One.’ That ‘One’ who was an even greater ‘Imposter’ than the prophet
                                                     Gerald MacLean 177

Muhammad was, of course, the Pope, whose followers, having per-
verted the true Christian religion, deserved even greater contempt than
adherents to ‘the Mahumedan unbelief.’23 Hostility between Christian
nations, especially when compounded by commercial rivalry, regularly
proved greater than animosity toward Muslims, and several writers
insisted that ‘Commerce and Trafficke’ served to ameliorate religious and
cultural differences.24
   Writing in 1637 to mark the visit of a Moroccan ambassador to
London, an anonymous author celebrated trade because ‘it acquaints
each nation with the Language, Manners, Behaviour, Customes, and
carriage of one another; so that by these meanes men are made
capable of understanding and knowledge; and therefore preferre
knowledge before wealth and riches, for the one soone fadeth, the
other abideth for ever.’25 These are very high ideals, perhaps, but
such claims do at least suggest how English attitudes towards the
peoples and cultures of Muslim North Africa during the early modern
period were certainly more complicated, and indeed more self-
reflexive, than some twentieth-century historians would have us
believe. Peter Earle, for example, begins his much-cited Corsairs of
Malta and Barbary with a chapter entitled ‘The Holy War in the
Mediterranean’ in which he writes: ‘Unlike normal wars the war of
the corsairs had neither beginning nor end. It was an eternal war.’ 26
Leaving aside the question of what he could possibly mean by the
concept of ‘normal wars,’ Earle’s emphatic claim is simply ignorant
and represents a dangerously inept history liable to perpetuate the
errors of the past and to prolong needless conflict.
   As these few examples suggest, English representations of their ear-
liest contacts with the Maghrib and its peoples were complicated and,
in many respects, confused by the distinct and often conflicting
agendas of those who wrote them. Humanist scholars such as Boorde
were interested in what could advantageously be learned from remote
peoples; zealous puritans eagerly sought evidence from events in North
Africa to support their apocalyptic visions; former captives claimed to
prefer Muslim over Catholic masters; while advocates of trade could
find themselves defending alliances that were often at odds with crown
policy. Refracted through competition with other European nations,
especially those loyal to the Roman Catholic religion, Anglo-Protestant
attitudes toward, and understanding of, Islam and the Muslim nations
of the Maghrib remained just as unstable and contradictory through-
out the early modern period as the sense of what it meant to be
English to an Englishman or woman of the time.
178 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   In the words of W. Montgomery Watt: ‘it is clear that the influence
of Islam on western Christianity is greater than is usually realized […]
it provoked Europe into forming a new image of itself.’27 And so it was
for many English writers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries
seeking to forge a coherent sense of their own national identity.

Young American attitudes to the Maghrib: or, ‘the illustrious
task of rearing an empire’

For the earliest United States authors writing about the Maghrib,
however, such complexities and conflicting agendas had little or no
bearing amidst the nationalistic euphoria that accompanied victory
over, and independence from, Great Britain. Having triumphantly
thrown off rule by a distant parliament and absentee-king, post-
independence writers – such as the soldier-poet Colonel David
Humphreys, the Boston-born lawyer and wit Royall Tyler, and the
captives John Foss and James Riley – all saw the task of forging a ‘new
image’ of their nation to be a straightforward matter of asserting the
divinely-ordained exceptionality of the United States from every and
any nation that had ever gone before in a distinct literary language
and its suitable forms.28
  Here is an extract from the Preface to Humphreys’ lengthy verse
‘Address to the Armies of the United States of America’ (1784):

   To inspire our countrymen now in arms, or who may, hereafter, be
   called into the field, with perseverance and fortitude, through every
   species of difficulty and danger, to continue their exertions for the
   defence of their country, and the preservation of its liberties, is the
   object of this address […] For where is the man to be found, who,
   after all that has been done and suffered – after such a profusion of
   blood and treasure has been expended – and such important
   advantages have been obtained – would basely relinquish and leave
   unfinished the illustrious task of rearing an empire, which, from its
   situation and circumstances, must surpass all that have ever existed,
   in magnitude, felicity, and duration?29

Throughout his poetic efforts, Humphreys regularly adopts this sen-
tentious style in order to inspire patriotic fervour: evoking strong
feeling proves as crucial to his vision of poetry as it was to his orator-
ical presumptions. Following Nabil Matar’s argument in Chapter 3 of
this volume, for Humphreys and his readers schooled in Christian
                                                     Gerald MacLean 179

tradition, the extreme sufferings of the righteous provided material
evidence of a spiritual condition that promised eventual victory.
  In his lengthy Poem on the Happiness of America (c. 1786),
Humphreys asserts what would later be known as the manifest
destiny of the United States and he does so by means of a rhetoric of
self-righteous indignation that expresses and encourages visceral
contempt and utter disdain for every other nation that has ever
been. Following several hundred lines detailing the glorious victory
of the colonial army over the British, and foretelling the even greater
glories to be achieved in the future, the progress of the American
dream – figured at this point in the poem as the growth of United
States overseas trade – is suddenly interrupted by the Algerian
corsairs. In ‘The Argument’ prefixed to the poem, Humphreys sum-
marizes his historical topics from this point in his story and adopts
an abbreviated, fragmentary style that will usefully convey more
than a little of his purpose and perspective while summarizing his
subsequent verses:

  America called upon to employ her sons, on discoveries, in the car-
  rying trade, fishing and whaling – commerce – interrupted by the
  Algerines – sensation produced by it on the Americans – invocation
  for powers of expression to excite them to revenge – a view of the
  miseries of the prisoners – which terminates in an anathem on the
  perpetrators of such cruelties – friends of the captives and ruined
  merchants how affected – exhortation to arms unless an equitable
  peace can be obtained – apostrophe to the tributary powers – resolu-
  tion to be taken by us – our resources hinted from a glance at the
  late war – Great Britain and Algiers contrasted – prayer to the
  Supreme Being – an army raised – preparations for war – a navy
  formed – naval combat with the corsairs – their defeat – their woe –
  the utter destruction of their country – return and rejoicings of the
  victors – a prospect.30

Passionate intensity clearly counted for a great deal to Humphreys. By
recalling and evoking the ‘sensation produced’ by news that ‘Algerines’
had prevented Americans from pursuing ‘discoveries’ and ‘commerce,’
Humphreys craves ‘powers of expression’ that will ‘excite’ Young
America’s sons to seek ‘revenge.’ Since United States forces had so
recently defeated those of Great Britain, it follows that they will have
little difficulty vanquishing the Algerian corsairs, bringing them ‘woe’,
and achieving the ‘utter destruction of their country.’
180 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

   As this extract from Humphreys’ summary suggests, the narrative
logic of his poem relies heavily on rhetorical assertion and is rather
light on rational analysis or argument, and it depends on an unques-
tioning belief in revealed religion: strong and violent feelings are pos-
itive proof that God is working directly through and within his chosen
people. In the poem, Humphreys explains how the inevitable progress
of American commerce has been stalled not so much because the
Algerians were powerful, but rather more because European nations
have been despicably weak. He addresses Great Britain and the other
European nations that paid for their ships to enter and trade in the

           O ye great pow’rs, who passports basely crave,
           From Afric’s lords, to sail the midland wave –
           Great fallen pow’rs, whose gems and golden bribes
           Buy paltry passports from these savage tribes –
           And shall the weak remains of barb’rous rage,
           Insulting, triumph o’er th’enlighten’d age?31

Such being the case, it falls to Humphreys’ fellow countrymen to
further the divine plan and set the world to rights by forcefully insist-
ing on the right of United States shipping to trade freely wherever it

            Then, O my friends, by heav’n ordain’d to free,
            From tyrant rage, the long-infested sea
            Then let us firm though solitary, stand,
            The sword, and olive-branch in either hand:
            An equal peace propose with reason’s voice,
            Or rush to arms, if arms should be their choice.32

Sword or olive branch? This sounds rather more like an ultimatum
than a framework for a negotiated settlement. Any ‘equal peace’ could
only be one that is favourable to those setting the terms and defining
free trade according to their interests. Humphreys evidently imagined
that United States trade into the Mediterranean should carry on
without paying regard to local customs and duties. And in the very
next line of his poem (‘Stung by their crimes, can aught your
vengeance stay?’) however, Humphreys makes it clear that, to his
‘friends’ who were ‘by heav’n ordain’d to free’ the Mediterranean to
                                                       Gerald MacLean 181

United States shipping, there could be no question of negotiation: do
as we say, or die.
  For Humphreys, ‘th’enlighten’d age’ on behalf of which he claims
to speak, has very little to do with ‘reason’s voice,’ and rather more
to do with visceral appeals to the inner light of the Young American
patriot whose very intensity of feeling provides proof of divinely-
ordained righteousness and the godliness of the mission. Unlike the
Muslim writers discussed by Nabil Matar in Chapter 3, for whom
descriptions of sufferings at the hands of Christian captors were
designed ‘to enlarge on the commitment and pious effort of
the ruler’ to effect their rescue, Humphreys dwells upon pain
and despair in order to arouse indignation, contempt and martial

            But first with me, Americans! prepare
            To view th’abode of horror, pain, despair –
            Prepare to feel your blood with fury boil,
            Your bosoms palpitate, your steps recoil,
            In ev’ry pulse resentment beating high,
            While the red lightning flashes from your eye.33

With all the force of a motivational huckster selling some universal
remedy, Humphreys instructs and inspires his readers how to feel and
see. Inspirational rhetoric capable of arousing strong sensations and
powerful sentiments ‘prepares’ readers ‘to feel’ and replaces logic,
objective analysis, or even historical accuracy. Humphreys’ summons
to his fellow Young Americans recalls their victory over Britain (‘the
first of Nations, as the queen of isles – / Britain, whose fleets, that rul’d
the briny surge, / Made navies tremble to its very verge’) and reminds
them how their defeat of such forces as these assures them of an easy
victory in Algeria. Notice how, amidst the language of hatred,
Humphreys simplifies by claiming that he and his compatriots
automatically represent ‘the rights of man’, while the Maghribians are
necessarily to be reviled as ‘pirates.’

        But what are these whose threatnings round you burst?
        Of men the dregs, the feeblest, vilest, worst;
        These are the pirates from the Barb’ry strand,
        Audacious miscreants, fierce, yet feeble band!
        Who, impious, dare (no provocation giv’n)
        Insult the rights of man – the laws of heav’n!34
182 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

One might have hoped that Humphreys – who shortly after publishing
these lines would be appointed United States minister to Lisbon in charge
of negotiating with Algiers for the return of American captives – would
have had at least some understanding of the laws of the sea. What might
his response have been if North African merchants’ ships, aiming to
trade, had shown up in United States ports? But he seems only interested
in arousing martial fury in the breasts of his patriotic readers:

            But hark! the trumps, as if by whirlwinds blown,
            Sound from cold Lawrence to the burning zone!
            Thy cause, humanity, that swells their breath,
            Wakes in each bosom cool contempt of death.35

At this heroic moment of contempt for death, Humphreys’ poetic
vision silently shifts narrative register, and he describes the rousing of a
United States army and its mission against Algeria as if these were
events that had already taken place. Clearly, there was no doubt in this
Young American writer’s view that dying in a patriotic cause was not
simply a virtue, but a founding sentiment of a national identity that
boldly and unquestioningly branded anyone who dared challenge its
presumptive right to sail and trade wherever it wished as a ‘pirate’:

           By rumbling drums, from distant regions call’d,
           Men, scorning pirate rage start unappall’d;
           With eye-balls flaming, cheeks of crimson flush,
           From rice-green fields, and fir-clad mountains, rush
           High-mettled youth – unused to sights of slain,
           Of hostile navies, or the stormy main –
           Enrag’d, they leave unfinish’d furrows far,
           To dare the deep, and toil in fields of war.36

Untried in battle, the nation’s patriotic youth are soon joined by
‘stern-visag’d veterans’ with their ‘rattling arms,’ and they in turn are
joined by long-haired but patriotic sharp-shooting hunters from the

          From Erie’s inland vales, unnam’d in song,
          In native fierceness pour the hunter throng;
          Beneath their rapid march realms roll behind;
          Their uncomb’d locks loose floating on the wind:
          Coarse their worn garbs – they place their only pride
                                                   Gerald MacLean 183

         In the dread rifle, oft in battle tried.
         With aim unbalk’d, whose leaden vengeance sings,
         Sure as the dart the king of terror brings:
         So erst, brave Morgan, thy bold hunters sped –
         Such light-arm’d youths the gallant Fayette led,
         Ere Steuben brought the Prussian lore from far,
         Or Knox created all the stores of war.37

Evidently the fascination among American men with guns and
firearms has a long and distinguished heritage. Describing swords and
canons being cast in a foundry, Humphreys indulges in periphrasis:
‘Now preparation forms the gleaming blade: / In moulds capacious
pond’rous deaths are made.’ With the possibility of those ponderous
deaths before him, he never really believed in the olive branch or the
need to negotiate.
  Preparations over, the next hundred lines of the poem describe an
entirely fictitious battle at sea in which United States forces utterly
destroy the Algerian fleet before landing marines who set about
destroying the city and laying waste to all the surrounding country-
side. Humphreys wants us to share his delight at visualizing the total
destruction of Algerian civilization that follows the arrival of those
vengefully enraged United States forces:

         Woe to proud Algiers; to your princes woe!
         Your pride is falling with your youths laid low
         Woe to ye people, woe, distress, and fears!
         Your hour is come to drink the cup of tears:
         A ghastly paleness gathers on your cheeks,
         While mem’ry haunts your ears with captive shrieks;
         Then stifled conscience wak’ning dares to cry
         ‘Think on your crimson crimes, despair, and die.’
         Then ruin comes, with fire, and sword, and blood,
         And men shall ask, where once your cities stood?38

With a delight in destruction that would thrill Milton’s Satan,
Humphreys relishes the ruination that will follow the arrival of Young
Americans on North African soil. He describes a great cloud of black
smoke hanging over Algiers harbour:

         ’Tis done! Behold th’uncheery prospects rise;
         Unwonted glooms the silent coasts surprise:
184 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

           The heav’ns with sable clouds are overcast,
           And death-like sounds ride on the hollow blast
           The rank grass rustling to the passing gale:
           Ev’n now of men the chearful voices fail
           No busy marts appear, no crouded ports,
           No rural dances, and no splendid courts;
           In halls, so late with feasts, with music crown’d,
           No revels sport, nor mirthful cymbals sound.
           Fastidious pomp! how are thy pageants fled!
           How sleep the fallen in their lowly bed!
           Their cultur’d fields to desolation turn’d,
           The buildings levell’d, and th’enclosures burn’d.39

Lest any might question the legitimacy of rejoicing at such waste and
devastation, Humphreys immediately reassures readers that everything
he says conforms to divine plan, for these scenes of destruction are
‘The direful signs, which mark the day of doom’ when:

            The stars shall fall, the sun be turn’d to blood,
            The globe itself dissolve in fluid fire,
            Time be no more, and man’s whole race expire.40

By way of conclusion

If United States history of the twenty-first century already makes such
triumphal fantasies peculiarly alarming, it might be worth recalling
their debt to earlier English writers who evoked millenarian prophecy
to explain the worldly success of Muslim nations. Within the world of
Anglo-Protestant millenarian thinking, all that is historical or factual
melts into air. It is by no means beside the point to observe that
nothing like the events described by Humphreys ever took place.
Humphreys knew only too well that no United States forces ever
demolished the Algerian fleet or brought desolation to the land. Also
to the point, there is little reason to suppose that Humphreys’ views on
United States-Maghribian relations had very much immediate effect
upon government policy. Perhaps the point is that factual arguments
have seldom mattered either in diplomacy or in nation building. To
paraphrase Matthew Dimmock’s essay in this volume (Chapter 4),
while earliest English writings voiced a complex tangle of allegiances in
which conceptions of national and religious differences became
flexible among trading allies and rigidly defined between enemies, the
                                                    Gerald MacLean 185

earliest Young American writers swiftly celebrated an ‘apocalyptic
endgame’ that would seem to have returned to haunt United States
foreign policy in the twenty-first century.
   Between 1784 and 1786, when his epic poem was probably first pub-
lished, Humphreys had himself served in Europe as secretary of a com-
mittee to negotiate commercial treaties, working directly with Thomas
Jefferson.41 His verses ‘On the Happiness of America’ – here quoted
from the 1789 edition of his Poems – appeared at a time when the
United States was itself following the very same policy of those ‘great
fallen pow’rs’ and was indeed ‘basely’ craving immunity by the
payment of ‘golden bribes’ to the Algerian Deys. By 1791, when he was
appointed United States minister to Portugal, Humphreys’ views must
have been well known. In 1795, Humphreys was put in personal
charge of the grand sum of 800,000 dollars to pay for the costs of a
mission to obtain the release of American captives from Algiers, and to
purchase some of those ‘paltry passports’ for the seeking of which he
had earlier reviled European nations.42 Reporting to the President in
1797, a decade after Humphreys’ poetic diatribe first appeared, the
Secretary of State, Timothy Pickering, more soberly wrote of ‘a sum of
money necessary to purchase the usual peace presents.’43
   In concluding his epic on the ‘happiness’ of America, with a moti-
vational call to battle against ‘proud Algiers,’ and to imagine Young
America’s sons leaving their fields to manufacture arms and build
ships in which they could set out to seek revenge, and then describing
an imaginary battle after which American forces devastate the North
African coast, Colonel David Humphreys might claim to have been
the very first – perhaps only – representative of a United States gov-
ernment ever to have used the imaginative license of heroic poetry to
circulate disinformation as if it were historical fact, and to do so in
order to arouse his fellow countrymen in pursuit of a unilateral
military agenda that many would consider racist if not genocidal.
Inherited from the English, the providentialist and millenarian
language of first encounter, which gives this fantasy its bearings, put
United States commercial, military and imperial ambitions in the
Mediterranean firmly onto the agenda of the new nation.

With special thanks to Abdeljelil Temimi of the Fondation Temimi,
Tunisia; Abdelkader Belhorma of the Bibliotèque Centrale, Université‚
Abou Bakr Belkaid, Tlemcen, Algeria; Abdellah Abdi and Rafia Ghalmi
of the Bibliotèque de l’Université d’Alger; and especially to Professor
186 Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650

Ali Tablit of l’Université d’Alger for hospitality, intellectual stimula-
tion, and for drawing my attention to the early United States writings
on Algeria. Thanks also to the librarians of the Lilly Library, Indiana
University, Bloomington, and the Boston Public Library, for assistance
with source materials.

Introduction: Pirates? The Politics of Plunder, 1550–1650
 1 Heliodorus, Ethiopian Story, trans. Sir Walter Lamb (London: Everyman,
 2 Jaques Lezra, ‘Pirating Reading: The Appearance of History in Measure for
   Measure’, English Literary History, 56 (1989), 255–92.
 3 Anon., A True Relation of the Life and Death of Sir Andrew Barton, a Pirate and
   Rover on the seas (London: Printed for E. W., 1630). All references are to this
   edition, and are given as line numbers.
 4 John Russell, The Story of Leith (London and Edinburgh: Thomas Nelson &
   Sons, 1922), p.203.
 5 See R. L. Mackie, King James IV of Scotland: A Brief Survey of His Life and
   Times (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1958), pp.207–11.
 6 See Athol Murray, ‘Robert Barton (d. 1540)’, Oxford Dictionary of National
   Biography (OUP, 2004); http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/69898;
   Norman Macdougall, ‘Barton, Andrew (c. 1470–1511)’, Oxford Dictionary of
   National Biography; http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/1594.
 7 Russell, The Story of Leith, pp.205–6.
 8 R. L. Mackie, King James IV of Scotland, p.207; Russell, The Story of Leith, p.204.
 9 Russell, The Story of Leith, p.204. On the use and history of letters of marque
   see Janice E. Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns: State-building and
   Extraterritorial Violence in Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton
   University Press, 1994), pp.22–6.
10 R. L. Mackie, King James IV of Scotland, pp.208–10.
11 Acta Dominorum Concilii, MS, Edinburgh, General Register House,
   vol. XXII, fol.112.
12 Epistolae Jacobi Quarti, Jacobi Quinti et Maria Regum Scotorum, eorumque tutorum
   et regni gubernatorum, ad Imperatores, Reges, Pontifices, Principes, civitates et alios
   ab anno 1505 ad annum 1545 (Edinburgh, 1722), I, pp.120–1.
13 Edward Hall, Henry VIII, ed. Charles Whibley, 2 vols (London: T. C. &
   E. C. Jack, 1904), I, 37.
14 Edward Hall, Henry VIII, p.38.
15 Mackie, King James IV of Scotland, p.210.
16 N. A. M. Rodger, The Safeguard of the Sea: A Naval History of Britain 660–1649
   (New York and London: W. W. Norton & Co, 1997), pp.168–9.
17 Edward Hall, Henry VIII, p.38.
18 Edward Hall, Henry VIII, p.38.
19 Edward Hall, Henry VIII, p.39.
20 See Christopher Harding’s chapter in this volume, pp.20–38.
21 See Francis J. Child, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads (Boston: Little,
   Brown & Co, 1857–8), 8 vols; Arthur Quiller-Couch, The Oxford Book of
   Ballads (Oxford: Clarendon, 1910); Thomas Percy, Reliques of Ancient English
   Poetry 3 vols, 4th edn (London: L. A. Lewis, 1839).

188 Notes

22 Child argued that ‘[t]he ballad (Henry Martin) must have sprung from the
   ashes of Andrew Barton, of which name Henry Martyn would be no extra-
   ordinary corruption’; Cecil Sharp considered that Henry Martin was the
   older ballad, and was probably recomposed as Andrew Barton in the reign
   of James I.
23 Henry Martin, in Child, The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, IV, no. 250.
24 See Maurice Lee, The Road to Revolution: Scotland under Charles I, 1625–1637
   (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1985); Kevin Sharpe, The Personal Rule
   of Charles I (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1992),
25 Sharpe, The Personal Rule, p.775.
26 See Rodger, The Safeguard of the Sea, pp.347–63.
27 Rodger, The Safeguard of the Sea, p.361.
28 Rodger, The Safeguard of the Sea, pp.361–2.
29 Rodger, The Safeguard of the Sea, p.271.
30 J. Ashburnham to E. Nicholas, 26 October 1627; quoted by Rodger, The
   Safeguard of the Sea, p.363: Roger Lockyer, Buckingham: The Life and Political
   Career of George Villiers, First Duke of Buckingham 1592–1628 (London and
   New York: Longman, 1981), p.283.
31 See Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns, pp.21–42.
32 Philip Gosse, The History of Piracy (New York: Longmans, Green & Co.,
   1932); David Cordingly, Under the Black Flag: The Romance and the Reality of
   Life among the Pirates (London: Random House, 1995); Life Among the
   Pirates: The Romance and the Reality (London: Abacus, 2003); Peter Earle, The
   Pirate Wars (London: Methuen, 2003); Jo Stanley, Bold in Her Breeches:
   Women Pirates Across the Ages (London: Pandora,1995); Kenneth R.
   Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering. English privateering during the Spanish War,
   1585–1603 (Cambridge: CUP, 1964); Trade, Plunder and Settlement. Maritime
   enterprise and the genesis of the British Empire 1480–1630 (Cambridge: CUP,
   1991); David Delison Hebb, Piracy and the English Government 1616–1642
   (Aldershot: Scolar 1994); Janice Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns;
   Kris E. Lane, Pillaging the Empire: Piracy in the Americas 1500–1750 (London
   and New York: Armonk, 1997); Sir Godfrey Fisher, Barbary Legend: War
   Trade and Piracy in North Africa 1415–1830 (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
   1957); Jacques Heers, The Barbary Corsairs Warfare in the Mediterranean
   1480–1580 (London: Greenhill, 2003); Barbara Fuchs, Mimesis and Empire:
   The New World, Islam, and European Identities (Cambridge: CUP, 2003),
   pp.118–38; Daniel Vitkus, Turning Turk: English Theater and the Multicultural
   Mediterranean (New York and Houndmills: Palgrave, 2003), pp.207–62;
   Marcus Rediker, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: Merchant Seamen,
   Pirates, and the Anglo-American Maritime World, 1700–1750 (Cambridge:
   CUP, 1987); Villains of All Nations: Atlantic Pirates in the Golden Age (Boston:
   Beacon Press, 2004); Hans Turley, Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash: Piracy,
   Sexuality, and Masculine Identity (New York: New York University Press,
33 Thomson provides working definitions of these different categories. See
   Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns, pp.22–6, 44–6.
34 Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns, p.44; Klein, ‘“We are not
   pirates”: Piracy and Navigation in The Luciads, p.110.
                                                                       Notes 189

35 See Jerry Brotton, Trading Territories: Mapping the Early Modern World
   (London: Reaktion, 1997).
36 For discussion see Jeffrey Knapp, An Empire Nowhere: England, America and
   Literature from Utopia to the Tempest (Berkeley: University of California Press,
   1992); Richard Helgerson, Forms of Nationhood: The Elizabethan Writing of
   England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), pp.149–92; Bruce
   McLeod, The Geography of Empire in English Literature (Cambridge: CUP,
   1999), pp.11–31; Daniel Vitkus, Turning Turk, pp.1–24.

1 ‘Hostis Humani Generis’ – The Pirate as Outlaw in the
Early Modern Law of the Sea
 1 L. Oppenheim, International Law, ed. H. Lauterpacht, 2 vols, 7th edn
   (London: Longman, 1948), 1, p.559. Oppenheim further defines an interna-
   tional crime as one which ‘either every State can punish on seizure of the
   criminals, of whatever nationality they may be, or which every State has by
   the Law of Nations a duty to prevent’, p.307.
 2 The present international rules relating to maritime piracy are codified in
   Articles 100–7 of the 1982 UN Convention on the Law of the Sea. See
   Article 100 for a statement of the duty on the part of States to cooperate to
   the fullest possible extent in the suppression of piracy.
 3 The death sentence for such piratical conduct was finally removed by
   Section 36 of the Crime and Disorder Act 1998.
 4 Judgement of Sir William Scott, in the case of Le Louis, Forest in the
   High Court of Admiralty, 15 December 1817 (1817) 2 Dods. 210; quoted
   from 3 British International Law Cases 691, pp.704–5. The language
   used in the judgement presents the pirate as a wanton terrorist, while
   the slave trader appears more like an entrepreneur engaging in ‘transac-
 5 Hillier, for instance, writes that ‘a number of other offences have since
   joined piracy in being regarded as capable of subject to universal jurisdic-
   tion’, and proceeds to discuss slave trading, war crimes and crimes against
   humanity. See Tim Hillier, Sourcebook on Public International Law (London:
   Cavendish, 1998), p.281.
 6 Attorney-General of the Government of Israel v Eichmann, judgement of the
   District Court of Jerusalem, 36 International Law Reports 5 (1961), paragraph
   12. In support of its argument, the Jerusalem Court later cites the historical
   example of dealing with piracy as a precedent for such ‘universal jurisdiction’
   (paragraph 13).
 7 This follows from the definition of piracy under international law, as an
   offence committed on the high seas and thus outside national jurisdiction,
   which ended at the outer limit of the territorial sea (see Article 101 of the
   1982 Law of the Sea Convention; for a statement on the customary interna-
   tional law of piracy, see Oppenheim, International Law, note 1 above, at
   pp.746–7). It should be noted that piracy might be differently defined as a
   matter of national law: for instance, under English law piracy also included
   acts of slave trading, and piracy committed within the area of the territorial
   sea. However, taking a broad legal view there has for a long time been a
190 Notes

     core or classic understanding of piracy corresponding to the international
     legal sense, as an act perpetrated on the high seas and that is the sense of
     the term used in the discussion in this chapter.
 8   Antonio Cassese, International Criminal Law (Oxford: Oxford University
     Press, 2003), p.24. He makes the same argument in International Law
     (2nd edn: Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004) p.15. I understand
     Cassese’s term ‘community value’ to convey a sense of deep-rooted
     and widely held moral imperative as compared to the more functionally
     motivated ‘joint interest’.
 9   There are very few reported cases of criminal prosecutions of pirates in which
     courts have relied upon universal jurisdiction: see Alfred P. Rubin, The Law of
     Piracy (2nd edn, Ardsley, NY: Transnational Publishers, 1998), p.302; Eugene
     Kontorovich, ‘The Piracy Analogy: Modern Universal Jurisdiction’s Hollow
     Foundation’, Harvard International Law Journal, 45 (2004), 183–92. See also
     Lauren Benton, ‘Oceans of Law: The Legal Geography of the Seventeenth
     Century Seas’, Proceedings of the Seascapes, Littoral Cultures, and Trans-Oceanic
     Exchanges Conference, 12–15 Feb. 2003, Library of Congress, Washington
     DC, September 2005, www.historycooperative.org/proceedings/seascapes/
     benton.html, at p.11.
10   Kontorovich, ‘The Piracy Analogy’, p.183.
11   Kontorovich, ‘The Piracy Analogy’, pp.210–11.
12   See, for example, Attorney-General of the Government of Israel v Eichmann.
13   See C. Kevin Marshall, ‘Putting Privateers in Their Place: the Applicability of
     the Marque and Reprisal Clause to Undeclared Wars’, University of Chicago
     Law Review 64 (1997), 953–4; Kenneth R. Andrews: Elizabethan Privateering:
     English Privateering During the Spanish War 1585–1603 (Cambridge:
     Cambridge University Press, 1964).
14   Kontorovich, ‘The Piracy Analogy’, pp.214–15.
15   See Janice E. Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns (Princeton:
     Princeton University Press, 1994), pp.69–76.
16   US Constitution, Article 1, paragraph 8, the main point of which is to
     attribute the power to grant letters of marque and reprisal to Congress
     rather than the executive.
17   Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns, p.22.
18   Barbara Fuchs, ‘Faithless Empires: Pirates, Renegadoes, and the English
     Nation’, ELH, 67 (2000) 45.
19   Grover Clark, ‘The English Practice with Regard to Reprisals by Private
     Persons’, American Journal of International Law, 27 (1933) 694.
20   See Donald A. Petrie, The Prize Game: Lawful Looting on the High
     Seas in the Days of the Fighting Sail (Annapolis MD: Naval Institute Press,
21   On legal arguments in relation to these commissions, see Benton, ‘Oceans
     of Law’, p.7.
22   Andrews, ‘Elizabethan Privateering’, in Joyce Youings (ed.) Raleigh in Exeter
     1985: Privateering and Colonisation in the Reign of Elizabeth I (Exeter:
     University of Exeter, 1985), p.5. See also Claire Jowitt’s Chapter 9, which
     mentions the use by Clinton Atkinson of letters of marque issued by Don
     Antonio in 1582.
23   Andrews, ‘Elizabethan Privateering’, p.13.
                                                                      Notes 191

24 Harry Kelsey, Sir Francis Drake: The Queen’s Pirate (Yale: Yale University
   Press, 2000), p.392.
25 According to Kelsey historians have invested ‘these sixteenth-century
   rascals with more dignity than their contemporaries were usually willing to
   give them’, Sir Francis Drake, p.11.
26 Benton, ‘Oceans of Law’, p.30.
27 Daniel Vitkus, ‘Venturing Heroes: Narrating Violent Commerce in
   Seventeenth-Century England’, Early Modern Studies Institute (EMSI) Con-
   ference Papers, April 2004, www.usc.edu/dept/LAS/history/emsi/papers,
28 See Andrews, Trade, Plunder and Settlement: Maritime Enterprise and the
   Genesis of the British Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984);
   Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns; Vitkus, ‘Venturing Heroes’,
29 Kelsey, Sir Francis Drake, p.394. For a detailed study of the representation of
   Drake and piracy in Lope de Vega’s poem, see: Barbara Fuchs, Mimesis and
   Empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp.139–63. Mark
   Netzloff’s Chapter 8 in this volume examines further the uses to which
   Drake’s posthumous representations could be put in the service of English
   national identity (pp.137–50).
30 Kelsey, Sir Francis Drake, p.395.
31 Stephen J. Greenblatt, Sir Walter Ralegh: The Renaissance Man and His Roles
   (Yale: Yale University Press, 1973), p.6.
32 Matthew Teorey, ‘Pirates and State-Sponsored Terrorism in Eighteenth-
   Century England’, vols 1, 2 (2003) Perspectives on Evil and Human Wickedness
   53, 55.
33 Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering, pp.231–2.
34 G. E. Manwaring and W. G. Perin (eds) The Life and Works of Sir Henry
   Mainwaring, 2 vols (London: Navy Records Society, 1920–22), II, p.18.
35 See Peter Earle, Corsairs of Malta and Barbary (London: Sidgwick and
   Jackson, 1970); John B. Wolf, The Barbary Coast: Algiers Under the Turks
   1500–1830 (New York: Norton, 1979); Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and
   Sovereigns, pp.44–5, 110–13.
36 William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, ed. Richard Proudfoot et al.,
   The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works (London: Thompson, 1998) I, iii,
   31–4. Fernand Braudel refers to Mediterranean piracy during this period as a
   ‘secondary form of war’ between Christianity and Islam in The Mediter-
   ranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, 2 vols (London:
   Collins, 1973), II, p.865.
37 See Benton, ‘Oceans of Law’, p.11.
38 Hugo Grotius, De Iure Belli ac Pacis, 1625, Book III, Chapter II (New York:
   Oceana, 1964).
39 Alberico Gentili Hispanicis Advocationis, 1661, Book 1, Chapters IV and
   XXIII (New York: Oxford University Press, trans. Frank Frost Abbott, 1921).
40 Gentili’s approach thus allowed more easily the argument that Corsair
   seizures were piratical, so that title to property taken in that way could not
   be subsequently passed on by resale.
41 Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns, pp.110, 145.
42 See Earle, Corsairs of Malta and Barbary, pp.115–20.
192 Notes

43 Paul Baepler, ‘Introduction’, in Paul Baepler (ed.) White Slaves: Indian
   Masters: An Anthology of American Barbary Captivity Narratives (Chicago:
   University of Chicago Press, 1999). It is estimated for example that there
   may have been 20,000 Christian captives in Algiers in the 1620s and 1630s.
44 Nabil Matar, Turks, Moors and Englishmen in the Age of Discovery (New York:
   Columbia University Press, 1999).
45 See generally: Ellen G. Friedman, Spanish Captives in North Africa in the Early
   Modern Age (Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1983); Lauren Benton, Law
   and Colonial Cultures; Legal Regimes in World History, 1400–1900 (New York
   and Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp.31–79.
46 Nabil Matar, ‘Introduction: England and Mediterranean Captivity,
   1577–1704’, in Daniel Vitkus (ed.) Piracy, Slavery, and Redemption: Barbary
   Captivity Narratives from Early Modern England (New York: Columbia
   University Press, 2001), p.14. See also Nabil Matar’s discussion of Muslim
   captivity by Christians in Chapter 3 of this volume.
47 The term ‘renegado’ was used in this context to indicate a pirate who had
   renounced European allegiance and converted to Islam. For discussion see
   Fuchs, ‘Faithless Empires’, 50.
48 Earle, The Pirate Wars (London: Methuen, 2003), p.28.
49 Earle, The Pirate Wars, pp.28–9.
50 Benton, ‘Oceans of Law’, p.11.
51 See Ian Steele, The English Atlantic, 1675–1740: An Exploration of
   Communication and Community (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986).
52 Benton, ‘Oceans of Law’, p.3 et seq.
53 See the account provided by Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering, p.25.
54 Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering, p.25.
55 Carey was related to the Queen and to the Lord Admiral; Seckford was Groom
   of the Chamber and Keeper of the Privy Purse. For a discussion of Lord
   Howard’s role as Lord Admiral, see Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering, p.23.
56 Benton, ‘Oceans of Law’, p.6. See also Franklin Jameson (ed.) Privateering
   and Piracy in the Colonial Period, Illustrative Documents (London: Macmillan,
57 Benton, ‘Oceans of Law’, p.9.
58 One argument used by Ralegh was that Guiana was English and not
   Spanish territory, following the cession of territory to the English Crown by
   native chieftains on his previous journey there in 1595.
59 Ralegh was sick and not present at San Thomé and his own account in his
   Apologie maintains that his orders were disobeyed. See Raleigh Trevelyan,
   Sir Walter Raleigh (London: Penguin 2002), p.501.
60 See Trevelyan, Sir Walter Raleigh, pp.506–7. For the view that Ralegh was
   trapped in a ‘no-win’ situation by the terms of James’ authorization for the
   expedition, see Greenblatt, Sir Walter Ralegh, pp.161–2.
61 Earle, The Pirate Wars, p.59, where he indicates that James’ navy had
   limited resources for operating beyond the English Channel in dealing with
   pirate fleets.
62 Earle, The Pirate Wars, p.57.
63 Andrews, ‘Elizabethan Privateering’, p.3.
64 C. L’Estrange Ewen, The Golden Chalice: A Documentated Narrative of an
   Elizabethan Pirate (privately printed, 1939), p.10; Earle, The Pirate Wars,
                                                                       Notes 193

65 Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns, p.50.
66 Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns, p.50.
67 Christopher Hill, Liberty Against the Law: Some Seventeenth-Century
   Controversies (London: Penguin, 1996), p.117.
68 See the discussion in Claire Jowitt’s Chapter 9 in this volume.
69 Christopher Hill, Liberty Against the Law: Some Seventeenth-Century
   Controversies, p.115.
70 Evelyn Berckman, Victims of Piracy: the Admiralty County, 1575–1678
   (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1979), pp.11–12.
71 See Jowitt, ‘Scaffold Performances’: such execution performances and
   textual representations of piracy ‘expose the disputed nature of the crime
   for which [the pirates] are condemned, where distinctions between outlaw
   and commissioned violence at sea appear arbitrary and compromised.’
   (at p.168 of this volume).
72 See Philip Gosse, The History of Piracy (New York: Tudor, 1946), p.104.
73 Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns, pp.107–8.
74 Cicero, De Officiis, iii, 29 (ed. W. J. Woodhouse, London: Tutorial University
   Press, 1899).
75 See Georg Schwarzenberger, ‘The Problem of an International Criminal
   Law’, in Gerhard O. W. Mueller and Edward M. Wise (eds) International
   Criminal Law (New York: Fred B. Rothman, 1965).
76 Benton, ‘Oceans of Law’, p.1.
77 Trevelyan, Sir Walter Raleigh, pp.554–5.
78 Andrews, ‘Elizabethan Privateering’, p.15.
79 Hill, Liberty Against the Law, pp.121–2.
80 Fuchs argues that ‘the trajectory from privateer to pirate is somewhat of a
   state fantasy in the first place – the pirates are always already there, before
   the state uses them and also once it no longer has any use for them.’ See
   ‘Faithless Empires’, 46.
81 Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns, p.108.
82 See Richard van Dulmen, Theatre of Horror: Crime and Punishment in Early
   Modern Germany (Oxford: Polity Press, 1990).
83 See Kris E. Lane, Pillaging the Empire: Piracy in the Americas 1500–1750
   (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 1998).
84 Vitkus, ‘Venturing Heroes’, p.4.
85 See, for example, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, On The Social Contract (1762),
   trans. Roger D. Masters and Judith R. Masters (New York: St Martin’s Press,
   1978), p.50.

2   The Problem of Piracy in Ireland, 1570–1630
 1 K. R. Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering: English Privateering during the Spanish
   War 1585–1603 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1964); C. M. Senior,
   A Nation of Pirates: English Piracy in its Heyday (Newton Abbot: David &
   Charles, 1976). For a discussion of the wider legal context to English piracy
   see Chapter 1 by Christopher Harding in this volume, pp.20–38.
 2 P. Earle, The Pirate Wars (London: Methuen, 2003), pp.32–3; C. M. Senior,
   ‘The Confederation of Deep-Sea Pirates: English Pirates in the Atlantic
   1603–25’, in M. Mollat (ed.) Course et Piraterie: Etudes présentée à la
194 Notes

     Commission Internationale d’Histoire Maritime à l’occasion de son XVe colloque
     international pendant le XIVe Congrès International des Sciences historiques,
     2 vols (Paris: Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes Centre National
     de la Recherche Scientifique, 1975), I, pp.334–5; M. Rediker, Between the
     Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: Merchant Seamen, Pirates, and the Anglo-American
     Maritime World, 1700–1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987),
 3   G. E. Mainwaring and W. E. Perrin (eds) The Life and Works of Sir Henry
     Mainwaring 2 vols (Navy Records Society, 1922), II, pp.15–16.
 4   R. Dudley Edwards (ed.) ‘Letter-Book of Sir Arthur Chichester 1612–1614’,
     Analecta Hibernica, 8 (1938), 69, 112–13. See also J. McCavitt, Sir Arthur
     Chichester: Lord Deputy of Ireland 1605–1616 (Belfast: The Institute of Irish
     Studies, The Queen’s University of Belfast, 1998), pp.169–72.
 5   Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 113.
 6   Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 108.
 7   See, for example A. K. Longfield, Anglo-Irish Trade in the Sixteenth Century
     (London: Routledge, 1929), pp.43–4.
 8   See Earle, The Pirate Wars, pp.32–3; M. Rediker, Villains of All Nations:
     Atlantic Pirates in the Golden Age (London: Verso, 2004).
 9   Calendar of State Papers Ireland 1600, pp.446–7 (hereafter cited as CSPI); CSPI
     1600–1601, pp.258–9. Grannia O’Malley was one of the most celebrated
     pirate leaders of the O’Malleys during the later sixteenth century. See
     A. Chambers, Granuaile: The Life and Times of Grace O’Malley c. 1530–1603
     (Dublin: Wolfhound Press, 1979).
10   Rev. J. MacInnes, ‘West Highland Sea Power in the Middle Ages’,
     Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Inverness, 48 (1972–74), 530;
     O. Connellan (ed.) The Annals of Ireland, translated from the original Irish of
     the Four Masters (Dublin: Bryan Geraghty, 1846), p.561 for Scots activity
     along the west coast.
11   MacInnes, ‘West Highland Sea Power’, 539, 543–4; N. A. M. Rodger, The
     Safeguard of the Sea. A Naval History of Great Britain: Volume One, 660–1649
     (London: HarperCollins, 1997), p.290.
12   MacInnes, ‘West Highland Sea Power’, 548–9; CSPI 1615–25, pp.57–9,
     132–6; Acts of the Privy Council 1615–16, pp.529–30, 632; J. H. Ohlmeyer,
     ‘“Civilizinge of those Rude Partes”: Colonization within Britain and Ireland,
     1580s–1640s’ in N. Canny (ed.) The Origins of Empire: British Overseas
     Enterprise to the Close of the Seventeenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University
     Press, 1998), pp.128–30.
13   The Register of the Privy Council of Scotland 1613–1616, pp.758–60, 764–5,
     769–70 for rebellion in the Isles. On the Macdonnells see George Hill, An
     Historical Account of the Macdonnells of Antrim (Belfast: Archer & Sons, 1873),
     pp.195–229; Micheline Kerney Walsh (ed.) ‘Destruction by Peace’: Hugh
     O Neill after Kinsale (Armagh: Cumann Seanchais Ard Mhacha, 1986),
     pp.366, 375–7; J. H. Ohlmeyer, Civil War and Restoration in the Three Stuart
     Kingdoms: The Career of Randal MacDonnell, marquis of Antrim, 1609–1683
     (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp.21–6, 167–8, 194–7 for
     privateering during the 1640s.
14   M. Lynch, Scotland: A New History (London: Pimlico, 1991), pp.241–2;
     K. M. Brown, Kingdom or Province? Scotland and the Regal Union, 1603–1715
                                                                          Notes 195

     (London: Macmillan, 1992), p.92; MacInnes, ‘West Highland Sea Power’,
15   Acts of the Privy Council 1552–54, pp.222, 230, 236, 245; F. J. Levy, ‘The
     Strange Life and Death of Captain Henry Stranguishe’, Mariner’s Mirror, 48
     (1962), 133–7.
16   CSPI 1588–92, p.192; D. Mathew, The Celtic Peoples and Renaissance Europe:
     A Study of the Celtic and Spanish Influences on Elizabethan History (London
     and New York: Sheed & Ward, 1933), pp.300, 303, 305.
17   CSPI 1588–92, p.190.
18   CSPI 1588–92, p.254; CSPI 1598–99, p.471.
19   This was the source of considerable tension between the Atlantic pirates and
     those who operated in the Mediterranean. Bishop, one of the leaders of the
     former, reportedly detested John Ward, one of the leaders of the latter, for ‘his
     associating with Turks at sea, his taking of Christians and selling them, with
     divers other outrages’. CSPI 1608–10, pp.279–80. Senior, Nation of Pirates,
     p.69 for Easton. Public Record Office Kew, H.C.A. 1/47, ff. 90–3v, 310–11;
     Kerney Walsh (ed.) ‘Destruction by Peace’, pp.278–9. For a discussion of piracy
     and patriotism see Chapter 9 by Claire Jowitt in this volume, pp.151–168.
20   Senior, Nation of Pirates, pp.7–11. And see the comments of Sir Ferdinando
     Gorges below.
21   Mainwaring and Perrin (eds) Life and Works of Sir Henry Mainwaring, II,
     pp.14–15, 40–1; R. Hakluyt, Discourse of Western Planting, (eds) D. B. Quinn
     and A. M. Quinn (Hakluyt Society, Extra Series, 45, 1993), pp.28–32, 120;
     Philip L. Barbour (ed.) The Complete Works of Captain John Smith
     (1580–1631) 3 vols (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina
     Press, 1986), III, pp.238–9.
22   S. G. Ellis, Ireland in the Age of the Tudors 1447–1603: English Expansion and
     the End of Gaelic Rule (London: Longman, 1998), p.353 for depopulation;
     M. MacCarthy-Morrogh, The Munster Plantation: English Migration to
     Southern Ireland 1583–1641 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), pp.151–2.
23   British Library, Harleian MS. 697, ff.36–7, 194–4v.
24   British Library, Harleian MS. 697, ff.103–3v, 195.
25   British Library, Harleian MS. 697, f.94.
26   British Library, Harleian MS. 697, ff.188–8v. The matter was discussed on
     several occasions in Spain, but the Spanish were unwilling to break the
     peace with England. Kerney Walsh (ed.) ‘Destruction by Peace’, pp.115–17,
     129, 153, 260–1, 362.
27   Senior, Nation of Pirates, p.54. Benefit of clergy in England was removed
     under the statue of 1536. G. R. Elton (ed.) The Tudor Constitution (2nd edn,
     Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), p.159. Subsequent legisla-
     tion of the reign of Edward VI seems to have provoked doubt about its
     removal, and the issue was discussed by the common lawyers in 1605. But
     in England ‘there is no evidence … that benefit of clergy was ever actually
     allowed at Admiralty Sessions in the sixteenth-century’. M. J. Prichard and
     D. E. C. Yale (eds) Hale and Fleetwood on Admiralty Jurisdiction (London:
     Selden Society, 108, 1992), pp.ccviii–ccx.
28   CSPI 1603–1606, pp.382–3; R. Bagwell, Ireland under the Stuarts, 3 vols
     (London, 1909–16, rep. London: The Holland Press, 1963), I, p.101.
29   CSPI 1603–1606, pp.382–3.
196 Notes

30 CSPI 1608–10, pp.29, 71; Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 62, 113;
   M. Oppenheim (ed.) The Naval Tracts of Sir William Monson, 5 vols (Navy
   Records Society, 1902–14), V, 292–3.
31 CSPI 1606–1608, pp.550–1; CSPI 1608–10, p.29.
32 CSPI 1603–1606, p.383.
33 CSPI 1608–10, p.42.
34 Senior, Nation of Pirates, pp.68–70; Mainwaring and Perrin (eds) Life and
   Works of Sir Henry Mainwaring, II, pp.9–10.
35 E. Hogan, Distinguished Irishmen of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries
   (London: Burns & Oates, 1894), p.395 ff. (I am indebted to Brian Jackson
   for this reference). Senior, Nation of Pirates, pp.49–50 for cosmopolitan
36 CSPI 1608–10, p.277; Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 136.
37 CSPI 1603–1606, p.383. In July 1610 Chichester informed Salisbury of a
   warning from one pirate captain that ‘they are resolved to prey upon the
   subject as well as the strangers’, if they did not receive a pardon. CSPI
   1608–10, p.480.
38 CSPI 1608–10, p.42.
39 CSPI 1608–10, p.277.
40 CSPI 1611–14, p.302; Senior, ‘Confederation of Deep-Sea Pirates’, pp.333–5.
41 T. Heywood and W. Rowley, Fortune By Land and Sea ed. Herman Doh (New
   York: Garland, 1980), 1585–6. For a wider discussion of this play see
   Chapter 9 by Claire Jowitt in this volume, pp.151–168.
42 CSPI 1608–10, p.278; Senior, Nation of Pirates, pp.67–71.
43 Public Record Office Kew, H.C.A. 1/47, ff.177–8, examination of James Bell.
   John Smith noted intense factions among the pirates, Barbour (ed.)
   Complete Works, III, p.240.
44 CSPI 1611–14, p.99.
45 J. C. Appleby (ed.) A Calendar of Material relating to Ireland from the High
   Court of Admiralty Examinations 1536–1641 (Dublin: Irish Manuscripts
   Commission, 1992), pp.119–20, 123–5, 127–30; MacCarthy-Morrogh,
   Munster Plantation, pp.218–19; Bagwell, Ireland under the Stuarts, I, pp.101–7.
46 British Library, Cotton MS. Otho E VIII, f.368.
47 N. Canny, Making Ireland British 1580–1650 (Oxford: Oxford University
   Press, 2001), pp.150–1, 315.
48 J. C. Appleby, ‘Women and Piracy in Ireland: from Grainne O’Malley to
   Anne Bonny’, in Margaret MacCurtain and Mary O’Dowd (eds) Women in
   Early Modern Ireland (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1991),
49 Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 62.
50 British Library, Harleian MS. 697, ff.36, 103–3v, 194–5; Dudley Edwards,
   ‘Letter-Book’, 62.
51 CSPI 1603–1606, p.385.
52 Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 62; British Library, Cotton MS. Otho E VIII,
53 Appleby (ed.) Calendar, p.139.
54 Public Record Office Kew, H. C. A. 1/47, ff.79v–83, 90–3v, 246–7; H. C. A.
   13/98, ff.18v–19; MacCarthy-Morrogh, Munster Plantation, pp.155–6,
   219–21; Lambeth Palace, Carew MS. 629, ff.119, 125–6.
                                                                    Notes 197

55 J. C. Appleby, ‘Settlers and Pirates in Early Seventeenth-Century Ireland:
   A Profile of Sir William Hull’, Studia Hibernica, 25 (1989/90) 82.
56 Lambeth Palace, Carew MS., 629, ff.177–8.
57 Appleby (ed.) Calendar, pp.119–20, 124–5; Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’,
58 Appleby (ed.) Calendar, pp.130–2; Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 63–4.
59 Appleby (ed.) Calendar, p.138. During 1609 captain James Harvie sailed into
   Baltimore with 8000 crowns and a ring of gold. R. G. Marsden (ed.)
   Documents relating to the Law and Custom of the Sea, 2 vols (Navy Records
   Society, 1915–16), I, pp.382–3.
60 Public Record Office Kew, H.C.A. 1/48, ff.104–4v; Dudley Edwards,
   ‘Letter-Book’, 110; Appleby (ed.) Calendar, pp.122–3.
61 CSPI 1608–10, p.42.
62 British Library, Cotton MS. Otho E VIII, f.378.
63 Appleby (ed.) Calendar, pp.125–39.
64 Heywood and Rowley, Fortune By Land and Sea, 2185. For later behaviour
   see Rediker, Villains of All Nations, pp.71–3.
65 British Library, Harleian MS. 697, ff.36–6v; MacCarthy-Morrogh, Munster
   Plantation, pp.218–20; Public Record Office Kew, S.P. 14/48/103, Nottingham
   to Salisbury, 10 October 1609.
66 Public Record Office Kew, S.P. 14/65/16, Gorges to Salisbury, 5 July 1611.
67 Public Record Office Kew, S.P. 14/65/16, Gorges to Salisbury, 5 July 1611.
68 Oppenheim (ed.) Naval Tracts, IV, pp.107–9.
69 CSPI 1608–10, p.278.
70 Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 120–1; CSPI 1625–32, pp.46, 623–4.
71 Historical Manuscripts Commission, Twelfth Report, I, pp.99, 101, 104–5.
72 Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 120. According to one recent study, James
   was only able to send out ‘token’ missions against pirates. E. Milford, ‘The
   Navy at Peace: The Activities of the Early Jacobean Navy, 1603–1618’,
   Mariner’s Mirror, 76 (1990), 30–1.
73 Dudley Edwards, ‘Letter-Book’, 110; Senior, Nation of Pirates, pp.145–50.
74 B. Jennings (ed.) Wadding Papers 1614–38 (Dublin: Irish Manuscripts
   Commission, 1953), pp.101, 321; CSPI 1625–32, pp.576, 621–2, 645;
   J. C. Appleby, ‘The Defence of Ireland: A Naval Journal of 1627’, Analecta
   Hibernica, 37 (1998), 237–48.
75 CSPI 1608–10, p.100; Bagwell, Ireland under the Stuarts, I, pp.207–10.

3 Piracy and Captivity in the Early Modern Mediterranean:
The Perspective from Barbary
 1 Abu Bakr Albu Khasibi, Adwa’ ala Ibn Yajjabsh al-Tazi (Dar al-Bayda’:
   A. Albu Khasibi, 1972), p.146.
 2 Andrewe Boorde, The First Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge, ed.
   F. J. Furnivall (London: Early English Text Society, 1870), p.213.
 3 Ahmad Bu Sharab, ‘Mawarid al-Magharibi al-Muqimeen bi-lburtughal’,
   Majalat Kuliyat al-Adab w-al Ulum al-Insaniya, 19 (1994) 88.
 4 Bu Sharab, Maghariba fi al-Burtughal (Rabat: Kuliyat al-Adab w-al Ulum
   al-Insaniya, 1996), pp.26–7.
198 Notes

 5 Ibn abi Mahali, Isleet, National Library, Morocco, MS Kha Mim, 100, 18.
 6 See the edition of the text by Muhammad Razzuq, Nasir al-din ala al-qawm
   al-kafirin (al-Dar al-Bayda’: Kuliyat al-Adab w-al Ulum al-Insaniya, 1987),
   and the translation and edition by P. S. Van Koningsveld, Q. Al-Samarrai,
   and G. A. Wiegers, The Supporter of Religion against the Infidels (Madrid:
   al-Majlis al-a’la lil-abhath al-ilmiya, 1997), p.30.
 7 L. P. Harvey, ‘The Morisco who was Muley Zaidan’s Spanish Interpreter’,
   Miscelánea de Estudios Arabes y Hebraicos, 8 (1959) 78, from the autobiography
   of Ahmad bin Qasim.
 8 See the list of names of various ‘yngles’ ship owners, Henri Lapeyre,
   Géographie de l’Espagne Morisque (Paris: S.E.V.P.E.N., 1959), pp.234–5.
 9 SP 71/12/vol. 2/200.
10 Linda Colley, Captives (London: Jonathan Cape, 2002), p.86.
11 Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms, trans. John and Anne Tedeschi
   (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1982), xvii.
12 Bu Sharab, Wathaiq wa dirasat (Rabat: Dar al-Aman, 1997), p.147; and
   Chapter 4 in Maghariba fi al-Burtughal.
13 A Hadith was fabricated in this period stating that Muhammad had been
   sent as a prophet to all people, including those who are black and red:
   Miquel Asin Palacios, ‘La Polemica antichristiana de Mohamed el Caisi’,
   Revue Hispanique, 21 (1909) 346 in 339–51. I do not find convincing the
   argrument that the red-skinned were not American Indians but Moroccans:
   Fatima Harrak, ‘Mawaly Isma’il’s ‘Jaysh al-‘Abid: Reassessment of a Military
   Experience’, in Slave Elites in the Middle East and Africa, ed. Miura Toru and
   John Edward Philips (London and New York: Kegan Paul International,
   2000), pp.177–96.
14 Louis Cardaillac, ‘Le Probleme Morisque en Amerique’, Mélanges de la Casa
   de Velázquez, 12 (1976) 289–90.
15 Álvar Nún Cabeza de Vaca’s Relatión, trans. Martin A. Favata and José B.
   Fernández (Houston: University of Houston, 1993).
16 See also Boyer, ‘La Chiourme turque des Galeres de France de 1665–à 1687’,
   in Revue de l’Occident musulman et de la Mediterranee, 6 (1969) 72.
17 Abderrahmane El Moudden, ‘“The Sharif and the Padishah” Three letters
   from Murad III to ‘Abd al-Malik’, Hesperis Tamuda, 29 (1991) 113–25.
18 Ahmad bin Muhammad Al-Maqqari, Nafu ul-Tib, ed. Ihsan Abbas, 8 vols
   (Beirut: Dar Sadir, 1968), 6: pp.278–80.
19 Abu Ismail bin Awdah al-Mazari, Tulu’ Sa’d al-Su’d, 2 vols (Beirut: Dar al-Gharb
   al-Islami, 1990), 1: p.212.
20 Abd al-Qadir al-Mashrafi al-Jazairi, Bahjat al-Nadhir, ed. Muhammad bin
   Abd al-Karim (Beirut: Dar Maktabat al-Hayat, n.d.), pp.14–15.
21 Ibtihaj al-Qulub, Rabat, National Library, MS Kaf 363, fol.24.
22 Muhammad bin Muhammad bin Omar al-Udwani, Tarikh al-Udwani, ed.
   Abu al-Qasim Saadallah (Beirut: Dar al-Gharb al-Islami, 1996), pp.296–7.
23 Bruce Taylor, ‘The enemy within and without: an anatomy of fear on the
   Spanish Mediterranean littoral’, in William Naphy and Penny Roberts (eds)
   Fear in Early Modern Society (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
   1997), pp.78–99.
24 See for instance the cold-blooded murder of the jurist accompanying the
   Persian ambassador to Spain in 1604, Don Juan of Persia, trans. G. Le Strange
                                                                           Notes 199

     (New York and London: Harper & Brothers, 1926): ‘[…] some man of an
     insolent temper in the crowd, and lacking bowels of compassion, for there
     was no apparent provocation, struck out […] and killed him on the spot’,
25   According to the nineteenth-century historian, al-Zayyani, cited in Moulay
     Belhamissi, al-Jazair min khilal rihlat al-Maghariba (Jazair: al-Sharikah
     al-Wataninyah, 1979), p.188.
26   Ahmad ibn Yahya al-Wansharisi, Al-Mi’yar al-mu’arrab, ed. Muhammad
     Hajji, 12 vols (Beirut: Dar al-Gharb al-Islami, 1981), 2:118; 2:159; 2:198–200.
     Although he was writing about the captivity of Muslims in Spain,
     al-Wansharisi’s decisions guided Muslims in North Africa in the following
     centuries. See also al-Yusi who quoted the Malikite jurist al-Lakhmi that if a
     captive gave his word, even against his will, he should not escape, because
     such an action would negatively effect the welfare of other Muslim captives:
     Rasa’il Abi Ali al-Hasan bin Maso’ud al-Yusi, ed. Fatima Khalil al-Qibli, 2 vols
     (Dar al-Bayda’: Dar al-Thaqafa, 1981), 1: p.262.
27   P. S. Van Koningsveld and G. A. Wiegers, ‘Islam in Spain during the Early
     Sixteenth Century’, in Poetry, Politics and Polemics, ed. Otto Zwarjes et al.
     (Amsterdam: Atlanta, GA: 1996), p.147.
28   Mohamed Mezzine, ‘Les Relations entre les Places occupées et let localités
     de la région de Fès aux Xvéme Siècles, a partir de documents locaux
     inédites: Les Nawazil’, in Relaciones de la Península Ibérica con el Magreb Siglos
     XIII–XVI, ed. Mercedes García-Arenal and María J. Viguera (Madrid: Instituto
     Hispano Arabe de Cultura, 1988), p.522.
29   Lubnan fi ahd al Amir Fakhr al-Din al-Ma’ni al-Thani, ed. Asad Rustum and
     Fuad Afram al-Bustani (Beirut: Manshurat al-Jami’a al-Lubnaniya, 1969),
30   See my chapter on ‘Moors in British Captivity’, in Britain and Barbary,
     1589–1689 (Gainseville: University Press of Florida, 2005).
31   See H. A. R. Gibb, ‘Islamic Biographical Literature’, in Historians of the
     Middle East, ed. Bernard Lewis and P. M. Holt (Oxford: Oxford University
     Press, 1962).
32   Translated by David James in ‘The “Manual de Artilleria” of Ahmad
     al-Andalusi with Particular Reference to its Illustrations and their Sources’,
     in Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 41 (1978), 237–59
     (251). See also the article about the author by Muhammad ’Abdullah
     ’Annan, ‘Min turath al-adab al-andalusi al-murisqi: kitab al-’iz wal rifa’ wal
     manafi’ lil-mujahidin fi sabil Allah bil-madafi’, Revista del Instituto de
     Estudios Islámicos en Madrid, 16 (1971) 11–19. The title of the book is
     slightly different in each manuscript.
33   Ibn al-Qadi, Al-muntaqa al-maqsur, ed. Muhammad Razzuq, 2 vols (Rabat:
     Maktabat al-Masarif, 1986), 1: pp.347, 251.
34   Al-Fishtali, Manahil al-Safa, ed. Abd al-Karim Karim (Rabat: Matbat Wizarat
     al-Awqaf, 1972), pp.230–1.
35   Al-Qadiri, Nashr al-mathani, ed. Muhammad Hajji and Ahmad al-Tawfiq,
     4 vols (Rabat: Maktabat al-Talib, 1978–1986), 1: p.216.
36   Kitab Nasir al-Din, ed. Koningsveld, Samarrai, and Wiegers, p.147.
37   Jamal Vanan, Nusus wa wathaiq fi tarikh al-Jazair al-hadith 1500–1830
     (Algiers: n.p., n. d.), pp.144–5.
200 Notes

38 Abu Abdallah Muhammad bin Ayshun al-Sharat (d. 1697), Al-Rawd al-atir
   al-anfas bi-akhbar al-aalihin min ahl Fas, ed. Zahra’ al-Nazzam (Rabat:
   Kuliyat al-Adab w-al Ulum al-Insaniya, 1997), p.315.
39 Fawaid al jamma bi isnadi ‘ouloumi al-Oumma, ed. Colonel Justinard
   (Chartres: Durand, 1953), p.21.
40 See Ahmed Abdesselem, Les Historiens tunisiens (Qarhaj: Bayt al-Hikma,
   1993), pp.149–53.
41 Nur al-Aramsh fi manaqib sidi Abi al-Ghaith al-Qashash, ed. Lutfi Issa and
   Hussein Bujarra (Tunis: Al-Maktaba al-Atiqa, 1998), p.158. Contrast this
   account with the one by Ibn al-Qadi, Al-Muntaqa al-maqsur, 1: p.7.
42 Nur al-Armash, pp.152–3. It is interesting that the manuscript of this text at
   the National Library of Tunis re-arranges the chapters, and opens with the
   one about the saint’s karamat to the captives, MS 3883 Tunis, 5v–7r. The
   episode about ransoming the captive was retold by Ibn al-Qadi who raised
   the sum to 3000 ounces of gold, Durrat al-Hijal, ed. Muhammad al-Ahmadi
   Abu al-Nur (Cairo: Dar al-Turath, 1970–71), pp.261–2.
43 Nur al-Aramsh, p.156.
44 The Adventures of Captain Alonso de Contreras, trans. Philip Dallas (New York:
   Paragon House, 1989), p.24; see also Salvatore Bono, Les Corsairs en
   Méditerranée, trans. Ahmad Somaï (Rabat: Editions de Porte, 1998), the
   chapter on ‘Les corsairs privé’ for other examples.
45 Rudt de Cottenberg, ‘Le baptème des Musulmans esclaves à Rome au xvii
   et xviii siècles’, Melanges de l’Ecole Francaise de Rome, 101 (1989) 9–181.
46 Cited in Bu Sharb, ‘Mawarid al-Magharibi al-muqimeen bi-l-burtughal’,
   Majalat Kuliyat al-Adab wa-al-Ulum al-Insaninya, 19 (1994) 96.
47 Quoted in C. R. Boxer, Mary and Misogyny (London: Duckworth, 1975),
48 Al-Fishtali, Manahil al-Safa, p.197.
49 Mohammad bin Yousuf al-Zayyani, Dalil al-hayraan wa anis al-sahraan fi
   akhbar madinat Wahran, ed. Al-Mahdi Abul-’abdali (Algiers: al-Sharikah
   al-Wataniyah, 1978), pp.150–1.
50 Al-Mazari, Tulu’ Sa’d a’s-Su’u’d, XXXXX p.231. Although al-Mazari may
   have taken the story from al-Zayyani, he added extra information to it.
51 Kenneth Parker, ‘Barbary in Early Modern England, 1550–1685’, in The
   Movement of People and Ideas between Britain and the Maghreb, ed. Abdeljelil
   Temimi and Mohamed Salah Omri (Zaghouan: Fondation Temimi, 2003),
52 Jorge de Henin, Wasf al-Mamalik al-Maghribiyya, trans. Abd al-Wahid Akmir
   (Al-Dar al-Bayda: Manshurat Markaz al-Dirasat al-Arabiya al-Ifriqiya, 1997),
53 There was some exception in the case of royalty: see the example discussed
   by Jaime Oliver Asin, Vida de Don Felipe de Africa, Principe de Fez y Marruecos
   (1566–1621) (Madrid: Instituto Miguel Asin, 1955).
54 See my discussion in Turks, Moors, and Englishmen in the Age of Discovery
   (New York: Colombia University Press, 1999), pp.172–5.
55 ‘There was, however, never anything approaching segregation based on
   color’ in North Africa, Leon Carl Brown, ‘Color in Northern Africa’, in Color
   and Race, ed. John Hope Franklin (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company,
   1968), pp.88–204 (191).
                                                                            Notes 201

56 Muhammad bu Jindar, Muqadimmat al-fath min tarikh Ribat al-Fath (Rabat,
   1345 AH), p.280. The sultan was Muhammad bin Abdallah.
57 James Clifford, ‘Travelling Cultures’, in Routes: Travel and Translation in the
   Late Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1997), pp.18–19.
58 For the branding of Muslims, see Charles Andre Julien, L’Hisotire de
   L’Afrique du Nord, 2 vols (Paris: Payot, 1966), 2: p.280.
59 Ithaf ahl al-zaman, ed. Muhammad Shammam, 8 vols (Tunis: al-Dar
   al-Tunisiya lil-Nashr, 1989–90), 2: p.52.

4 Crusading Piracy? The Curious Case of the Spanish in
the Channel, 1590–95
 1 Anon., The miserable estate of the Citie of Paris at this present, with a true report
   of sundrie straunge visions, lately seene in the ayre vpon the coast of Britanie,
   both by Sea and lande (London: Thomas Nelson, 1590), p.7. The frontispiece
   of this text features two remarkable woodcuts of the celestial visions it
 2 The miserable estate, p.7.
 3 See A. L. Rowse, Tudor Cornwall [1941] (Truro: Truran Books, 2005)
 4 Simon Harward, The Solace for the Souldier and Saylour (London: Thomas
   Orwin for Thomas Wight, 1592) sig. B. 1v.
 5 On apocalyptic exegesis, see Frances Carey (ed.) The Apocalypse and the
   Shape of Things to Come (London: British Museum Press, 1999).
 6 Harward, The Solace for the Souldier and Saylour, sig. C. 4v and sig. C. 1v.
 7 ‘A Proclamation to be published in Cornewall, Deuonshire, Dorcetshire and
   Hampshire, for restitution of goods lately taken on the Seas from the
   Subiects of the king of Spayne by way of Reprisall’ (1591) in Humfrey
   Dyson (ed.) A Booke Containing All Svch Proclamations as were published
   During the Raigne of the late Queene Elizabeth (London: B. Norton and J. Bill,
   1618) f.302. It is worth noting here that the first recorded use of the term
   ‘privateer’ in the OED is not until 1664.
 8 ‘A Proclamation concerning the goods taken in the great Spanish Carraque
   brought into Dartmoth, 23. Septembris’ (1593) in Dyson, A Booke Containing
   All Svch Proclamations, f.311.
 9 See Nabil Matar, Islam in Britain 1558–1685 (Cambridge: Cambridge
   University Press, 1998).
10 See Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, pp.380–420.
11 See B. W. Dillie and G. D. Winius (eds) Foundations of the Portuguese Empire,
   1415–1580 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1977).
12 Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, p.400.
13 As a consequence, the slow fortification of Scilly began in 1593, mainly due
   to the petitions of Sir Francis Godolphin. See Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, p.402.
14 Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, p.400.
15 For Lyly’s comments see Calendar of State Papers, Foreign, no. 573 January
   23 1590, ‘W. Lyly to Walsingham’ pp.337–8; for reference to the ‘Scots’
   companies, see Calendar of State Papers, Foreign, no. 491 November 19 1589,
   ‘O. Smith to Walsingham’, p.301.
202 Notes

16 Calendar of State Papers, Foreign, no. 467 November 20 1590, ‘Sir Roger
   Williams’s Advice for France’, p.295. In a later letter, Williams points out
   that Blavet is ‘the best harbour in France for vessels of any burden’:
   Calendar of State Papers, Foreign, no. 486 January 13 1591, ‘Sir Roger
   Williams’s Opinion on Brittany’, p.304.
17 Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, pp.400–1.
18 Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, pp.406–10.
19 These illustrations appear on the frontispieces of all of the printed texts that
   appear in this discussion and should be considered part of the wider genre
   of captivity narratives that tend to feature such pictures. Anon., The
   Honourable Actions of that most Famous and Valiant Englishman, Edward
   Glemham Esquire, latelie obtained against the Spaniards, and the Holy League, in
   Foure Sundrie Fightes (London: A. J. for William Barley, 1591).
20 John Bilbrough, The Taking of the Royall Galley of Naunts in Brittaine, from the
   Spanyards and Leaguers, with the releasement of 153. Galley slaues, that were in
   her: by Iohn Bilbrough, Prentice of London (London: for Richard Oliffe, 1591),
   p.1. The phrase ‘Turning Turk’ is explored in detail in Daniel Vitkus,
   ‘Turking Turk in Othello: The Conversion and Damnation of the Moor’,
   Shakespeare Quarterly, 48 (1997) 145–76. See also Chapter 5 by Mark
   Hutchings in this volume, pp.90–104.
21 Bilbrough, The Taking of the Royall Galley, p.2.
22 Bilbrough, The Taking of the Royall Galley, p.2.
23 These ‘Witnesses of the truth of this Matter’ are: John Wilkes of London,
   John Harley, William Ward, Richard Bavance, Richard Taylor, Laurence
   Adams and George Oliver. Beneath their names is written, ‘And vnder the
   great seale of Rochell.’ Bilbrough, The Taking of the Royall Galley, p.10.
24 Anon., A Declaration of great troubles pretended against the Realme by a number
   of Seminarie Priests and Iesuits, sent, and very secretly dispersed in the same, to
   worke great Treasons vnder a false pretence of Religion, with a prouision very
   necessarie for remedie thereof (London: Christopher Barker, 1591), p.9.
25 Besides those mentioned below in n.27, see for example Bartholomej
   Georgijevic’s The ofspring of the house of Ottomanno, and officers pertaining to
   the greate Turkes Court … all Englished by Hugh Goughe (London: Thomas
   Marshe, 1569/70), also discussed in Matthew Dimmock, New Turkes:
   Dramatizing Islam and the Ottomans in Early Modern England (Aldershot:
   Ashgate, 2005), pp.81–2. See also Daniel Vitkus, Piracy, Slavery and
   Redemption: Barbary Captivity Narratives from Early Modern England (New
   York: Columbia University Press, 2001).
26 Harward, The Solace for the Souldier and Saylour, sig. B. 1r. See Debra Higgs
   Strickland, Saracens, Demons and Jews: Making Monsters in Medieval Art
   (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003).
27 Richard Hasleton, Strange and Wonderful Things Happened to Richard Hasleton
   … in His Ten Years’ Travails in Many Foreign Countries (London: A. J. for
   William Barley, 1595) and Edward Webbe, The Rare and most wonderfull
   things Edw. Webbe an Englishman borne, hath seene and passed in his trouble-
   some trauailes, in the Cities of Ierusalem, Damasko, Bethlehem and Galely: and
   in the landes of Iewrie … newly enlarged and corrected by the Author (London:
   for William Wright, 1590).
28 Bilbrough, The Taking of the Royall Galley, p.2.
                                                                         Notes 203

29 Bilbrough, The Taking of the Royall Galley, p.4.
30 Bilbrough, The Taking of the Royall Galley, p.9.
31 Anon., The Valiant and most laudable fight performed in the Straights, by the
   Centurion of London, against fiue Spanish Gallies. Who is safely returned this
   present Moneth of May (London: publisher unknown, 1591).
32 Anon., The True Report of a great Galley that was brought vnto Rochell, vpon the
   sixt of Februarie last (London: John Wolfe for William Wright, 1592)
   sig. A. 3v.
33 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 4r.
34 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 4v.
35 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 4v.
36 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 4v. See also Anon., The Explanation of
   the True and Lawfull Right and Tytle, of the Most Excellent Prince Anthonie, the
   first of that name, King of Portugall, concerning his warres, againste Phillip King
   of Castille, and againste his Subiectes and Adherentes, for the Recouerie of his
   Kingdome (Leiden: C. Plantyn, 1585).
37 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 5r.
38 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 5v.
39 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 5v.
40 See J. H. Elliot, Europe Divided, 1559–1598 (Glasgow: Fontana, 1968)
41 Calendar of State Papers, Foreign, no. 929 July 17 1591, ‘Barton to Burghley’,
42 See also Anon., A Fig for the Spaniard, or Spanish Spirits. Wherein are Liuelie
   Portraied the Damnable Deeds, Miserable Murders, and Monstrous Massacres of
   the Cursed Spaniard (London: John Wolfe, 1592) sig. B. 3r.
43 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 6r.
44 The True Report of a great Galley, sig. A. 5v.
45 SP 12/240. There is no signature and very little crossing out – this is
   undoubtedly a neat copy, intended for official consumption. There appears
   to be an imprint of a seal (perhaps a crown) on the bottom right of the
   page. In pencil has later been written ‘Eliz … Sept 1591’, but as the text
   itself is undated this seems likely to reflect the dated material on either side
   in the State Papers – the previous document is a letter from Thomas Sherley
   dated 29 September 1591.
46 Calendar of State Papers, Foreign, no. 869 April 2 1591, ‘Barton to Burghley’,
47 This campaign is wrongly dated to 1593 in Dimmock, p.167. All explicit ref-
   erence to Islam is removed from the Anglo-Ottoman Capitulations of 1580
   as reproduced by Richard Hakluyt in his Principal Navigations (London,
   1589). These omissions are also examined in Dimmock, New Turkes,
48 See Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, pp.400–20.
49 Nabil Matar, Turks, Moors and Englishmen in the Age of Discovery (New York:
   Columbia University Press, 1999) pp.20–1.
50 Amezola’s account is translated and reproduced in Robert Dickinson, ‘The
   Spanish Raid on Mount’s Bay in 1595’, Journal of the Royal Institution of
   Cornwall, vol. X, Part I (1986–7) pp.178–86 and Richard Carew’s account
   (apparently based upon the first-hand account of Sir Francis Godolphin)
204 Notes

     can be found in his The Survey of Cornwall (London: S. S. for John Jaggard,
     1602), pp.156r–8v.
51   Dickinson, ‘The Spanish Raid on Mount’s Bay in 1595’, p.181. See also
     Calendar of State Papers, Domestic, no. 33 July 25 1595, ‘Examinations of
     Englishmen, taken by the Spaniards, and landed in Mount Bay, out of the
     four galleys of Bluett, before Sir Fras. Godolphin and Thomas Saint Aubin’,
52   Calendar of State Papers, Domestic, no. 33 July 25 1595, ‘Examinations of
     Englishmen, taken by the Spaniards’, pp.78–80. The raid is also discussed in
     Dan Cruickshank, Invasion: Defending Britain from Attack (Basingstoke and
     Oxford: Boxtree, 2001), p.60.
53   Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, p.403.
54   Carew, The Survey of Cornwall, p.156r. Two of these original pillars and an
     arch remain, just behind the pulpit, one of them still blackened by the fire
     of 1595. They, along with the surviving granite tower, were incorporated
     into the rebuilding of the church.
55   Dickinson, ‘The Spanish Raid on Mount’s Bay in 1595’, p.181.
56   Dickinson, ‘The Spanish Raid on Mount’s Bay in 1595’, p.181.
57   Greene’s Alphonsus features ‘Mahomet’ as an idol, a ‘brazen head’ that
     breathes forth ‘flakes of fire’ (IV.i.29). For more on this play, see Dimmock,
     New Turkes, pp.177–80.
58   Dickinson, ‘The Spanish Raid on Mount’s Bay in 1595’, p.181.
59   See Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, p.408.
60   Carew, The Survey of Cornwall, p.158r.
61   Rowse, Tudor Cornwall, p.406.
62   Carew, The Survey of Cornwall, p.158v. The actual prophesy, as recorded by
     Carew goes as follows: ‘Ewra teyre a war mearne Merlyn/Ara Lesky Pawle,
     Pensans ha Newlyn’ (p.159r).
63   See Philip Payton’s introduction to the Cornish Classics edition: Rowse,
     Tudor Cornwall, pp.1–6.
64   See Gulru Necipoglu, The Age of Sinan: Architectural Culture in the Ottoman
     Empire (London: Reaktion, 2005); Diarmid MacCulloch, Reformation:
     Europe’s House Divided 1490–1700 (London: Allen Lane, 2003), p.559.
65   Cruickshank, Invasion, p.60.
66   See Anon., A Declaration of the True Causes of the Great Troubles, Presupposed
     to be Intended Against the Realm of England (n.p: n.pub., 1592); Anon., The
     Holy Bull, And Crusado of Rome: First published by the Holy Father Gregory the
     xiii. and afterwards renewed and ratified by Sixtus the fift (London: J. Wolfe,
67   Described in Christopher Tyerman, England and the Crusades, 1095–1588
     (London: University of Chicago Press, 1988) p.362.
68   The Holy Bull, And Crusado of Rome, p.8.
69   A Declaration of the True Causes of the Great Troubles, p.48.
70   See John Tolan, Saracens: Islam in the Medieval European Imagination (New
     York and London: Columbia University Press, 2002).
71   One example of an English ‘pirate … coming to serve the king [of Spain]’
     can be found in the Calendar of State Papers, Domestic, no. 48 May 21 1597,
     ‘Capt. Watson to the Lord Admiral and Sec. Cecil’, p.417.
72   Bilbrough, The Taking of the Royall Galley, p.2.
                                                                       Notes 205

5   Acting Pirates: Converting A Christian Turned Turk
1 See for example Steven Mullaney, The Place of the Stage: License, Play, and Power
  in Renaissance England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988); Andrew
  Gurr, The Shakespearean Stage, 1574–1642 3rd edn (Cambridge: Cambridge
  University Press, 1992); Meredith Anne Skura, Shakespeare the Actor and the
  Purposes of Playing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993); and Louis
  Adrian Montrose, The Purpose of Playing: Shakespeare and the Cultural Politics of
  the Elizabethan Theatre (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996).
2 In addition to note 1 see for example Joseph Lenz, ‘Base Trade: Theater as
  Prostitution’, English Literary History, 60 (4) (Winter 1993), 833–55. The Rose
  theatre may well have been used as a bear-baiting arena as well as for plays,
  and Philip Henslowe famously had interests in both theatre and brothels.
3 For a detailed analysis of these regulations, see Lisa Jardine, Still Harping on
  Daughters: Women and Drama in the Age of Shakespeare (Brighton: The
  Harvester Press Ltd, 1983), pp.141–68.
4 Margaret Jane Kidnie (ed.) Philip Stubbes, ‘The Anatomie of Abuses’ (Tempe,
  Arizona: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2002), p.71.
5 On the signification of costume on stage see Peter Stallybrass, ‘Worn
  Worlds: Clothes and Identity on the Renaissance Stage’, in Margreta de
  Grazia, Maureen Quilligan and Peter Stallybrass (eds) Subject and Object in
  Renaissance Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996),
  pp.289–320; and Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance
  Clothing and the Materials of Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University
  Press, 2000).
6 See for example Stephen Greenblatt, Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More
  to Shakespeare (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), pp.193–221;
  Mark Thornton Burnett, ‘Tamburlaine: An Elizabethan Vagabond’, Studies in
  Philology, 84 (1987), 308–23; Thomas Cartelli, Marlowe, Shakespeare, and the
  Economy of Theatrical Experience (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania
  Press, 1991), pp.71–88; Roger Sales, Christopher Marlowe (Basingstoke:
  Macmillan, 1991), 57–9; Emily Bartels, Spectacles of Strangeness: Imperialism,
  Alienation, and Marlowe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press,
  1993), pp.53–81; and Richard Wilson, ‘Visible Bullets: Tamburlaine the Great
  and Ivan the Terrible’, English Literary History, 62 (1995), 47–68.
7 See Peter Berek, ‘Locrine Revised, Selimus, and Early Responses to
  Tamburlaine’, Research Opportunities in Renaissance Drama, XXIII (1980),
  33–54, and ‘Tamburlaine’s Weak Sons: Imitation as Interpretation Before
  1593’, Renaissance Drama, n.s. XIII (1982), 55–82; and Maurice Charney,
  ‘The Voice of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine in Early Shakespeare’, Comparative
  Drama, XXXI (1997), 213–23.
8 The sheer scale of this ‘Turkish’ narrative is remarkable: of the 3000 plays
  written during the period 1567–1642 some 600 survive; of these more than
  one third refer to Turks or matters Ottoman.
9 See Kenneth Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering: English Privateering During the
  Spanish War, 1583–1603 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1964);
  D. B. Quinn and A. N. Ryan, England’s Sea Empire, 1550–1642 (London:
  George Allen & Unwin, 1983); David Delison Hebb, Piracy and the English
  Government, 1616–1642 (London: Scolar Press, 1994); and Janice E. Thomson,
206 Notes

     Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns: State-Building and Extraterratorial Violence in
     Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994).
10   The Levant Company’s success ensured that it had political clout, too, both
     during James’ reign and later. See Robert Brenner, Merchants and Revolution:
     Commercial Change, Political Conflict, and London’s Overseas Traders,
     1550–1650 [1993] (London: Verso, 2003), and Lee W. Eysturlid, ‘“Where
     Everything is Weighed in the Scales of Material Interest”: Anglo-Turkish
     Trade, Piracy, and Diplomacy in the Mediterranean During the Jacobean
     Period’, Journal of European Economic History, 22 (1993), 613–25.
11   See W. W. Greg (ed.) Henslowe Papers: Being Documents Supplementary to
     Henslowe’s Diary (London: A. H. Bullen, 1907), pp.66–85, and David
     Bradley, From Text to Performance in the Elizabethan Theatre: Preparing the Play
     for the Stage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp.89–90.
12   See for example Lois Potter, ‘Pirates and “turning Turk” in Renaissance
     Drama’, in Jean-Pierre Macquerlot and Michèle Willems (eds) Travel and
     Drama in Shakespeare’s Time (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996),
     pp.124–40; Nabil Matar, Islam in Britain, 1558–1685 (Cambridge University
     Press, 1998), pp.54–61, and Turks, Moors, and Englishmen in the Age of Discovery
     (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), pp.61–3; Barbara Fuchs,
     Mimesis and Empire: The New World, Islam, and European Identities (Cambridge:
     Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp.124–5; Claire Jowitt, Voyage Drama and
     Gender Politics 1589–1642: Real and Imagined Worlds (Manchester: Manchester
     University Press, 2003), pp.157–75; Daniel Vitkus, Turning Turk: English
     Theater and the Multicultural Mediterranean, 1570–1630 (Basingstoke: Palgrave
     Macmillan, 2003), pp.141–58; and Gerald MacLean, ‘On Turning Turk, or
     Trying to: National Identity in Robert Daborne’s A Christian Turn’d Turke’,
     Explorations in Renaissance Culture, 29(2) (Winter 2003), 225–52.
13   In 1615 Lithgow reported Ward to be living in a ‘faire Palace, beautified
     with rich Marble and Alabaster stones’; quoted in Jowitt, Voyage Drama and
     Gender Politics, p.175.
14   Potter, ‘Pirates and “turning Turk” in Renaissance drama’, p.127; Fuchs,
     Mimesis and Empire, p.128.
15   Fuchs, Mimesis and Empire, p.124.
16   See Nabil Matar’s suggestion that this play operates as propaganda, con-
     demning pirates and Turks, in ‘The Renegade in the English Seventeenth-
     Century Imagination’, Studies in English Literature, 1500–1900, 33 (1993),
     489–505, 492–5, and Islam in Britain, pp.54–8. In Turks, Moors and
     Englishmen in the Age of Discovery, p.61, Matar remarks that A Christian
     Turned Turk ‘specifically demonized [Captain John] Ward’. Like a fellow
     dramatist who wrote a single play on Turks, John Mason (The Turk [1607]),
     Daborne later went into the Church.
17   Jowitt, Voyage Drama and Gender Politics, p.157.
18   Paul Mulholland (ed.) The Roaring Girl (Manchester: Manchester University
     Press, 1987).
19   Daniel J. Vitkus (ed.) Three Turk Plays from Early Modern England (New York:
     Columbia University Press, 2000), p.151. All references to the play are to
     this edition.
20   Samuel Chew, The Crescent and the Rose: Islam and England During the
     Renaissance (New York: Oxford University Press, 1937), p.532; Potter,
     ‘Pirates and “turning Turk” in Renaissance drama’, p.131.
                                                                      Notes 207

21 Matar, Islam in Britain, p.57; Fuchs, Mimesis and Empire, p.125, remarks that
   ‘although he might betray England, the text suggests, he cannot be allowed
   to survive his betrayal’.
22 See G. Starr, ‘Escape from Barbary: A Seventeenth Century Genre’,
   Huntington Library Quarterly, 29 (1965–6), 35–52; Margo Todd, ‘A Captive’s
   Story: Puritans, Pirates, and the Drama of Reconciliation’, The Seventeenth
   Century, XII (1997), 37–56; Roslyn Knutson, ‘Elizabethan Documents,
   Captivity Narratives, and the Market for Foreign History Plays’, English
   Literary Renaissance, 26 (1996), 75–110; Kenneth Parker (ed.) Early Modern
   Tales of Orient: A Critical Anthology (London: Routledge, 1999); and Daniel J.
   Vitkus (ed.) Piracy, Slavery, and Redemption: Barbary Captivity Narratives from
   Early Modern England (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001).
23 On conversion to Islam among European Christians see Matar, ‘“Turning
   Turk”: Conversion to Islam in English Renaissance Thought’, Durham
   University Journal, ns LV no.1 (January 1994), 33–41, and Islam in Britain,
   pp.15–19, and especially pp.34–49.
24 Gerald MacLean, ‘On Turning Turk, or Trying to’, 233–4, reads these lines
   ironically. Daniel Vitkus suggests that the play may have failed because it
   portrays ‘Ward … as sympathetic, even heroic’; Three Turk Plays from Early
   Modern England, p.232.
25 Richard Levin, ‘The Contemporary Perception of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine’,
   Medieval and Renaissance Drama in England, I (1984), 51–70. A further measure
   of the character’s fame was the occurrence of the name in baptismal registers;
   see Rick Bowers, ‘Tamburlaine in Ludlow’, Notes and Queries, 243 (1998), 361–3.
26 See Nick de Somogyi, Shakespeare’s Theatre of War (Aldershot: Ashgate,
   1998), pp.11–53.
27 Similarly Fuchs, Mimesis and Empire, p.127, reads Purser and Clinton, two
   famous pirates ‘staged’ in Thomas Heywood and William Rowley’s Fortune
   by Land and Sea (c. 1607–09), as appropriating symbols of national author-
   ity, comparing their triumphs with the coronation of a monarch. On the
   stage appropriating state machinery of justice in another context, see Molly
   Easo Smith, ‘The Theater and the Scaffold: Death as Spectacle in The Spanish
   Tragedy’, Studies in English Literature, 1500–1900, 32 (1992), 217–32.
28 See Alain Grossrichard, The Sultan’s Court: European Fantasies of the East
   [1979] trans. Liz Heron (London: Verso, 1998).
29 See Avig der Levy (ed.) The Jews of the Ottoman Empire (Princeton: Princeton
   University Press, 1994).
30 On doubling on the early modern stage, see for example David Bevington,
   From ‘Mankind’ to Marlowe: Growth of Structure in the Popular Drama of Tudor
   England (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962), pp.104–13;
   A. C. Sprague, The Doubling of Parts in Shakespeare’s Plays (London: society
   for Theatre Research, 1966); William A. Ringler, Jr, ‘The Number of Actors
   in Shakespeare’s Early Plays’, in Gerald Eades Bentley (ed.) The Seventeenth
   Century Stage: a Collection of Critical Essays (Chicago: University of Chicago
   Press, 1968), pp.110–34; Richard Fotheringham, ‘The Doubling of Roles on
   the Jacobean Stage’, Theatre Research International, 10 (1985), 18–32;
   T. J. King, Casting Shakespeare’s Plays: London Actors and their Roles,
   1590–1642 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); and Alan C.
   Dessen, ‘Conceptual Casting in the Age of Shakespeare: Evidence from
   Mucedorus’, Shakespeare Quarterly, 43(1) (Spring 1992), 67–70.
208 Notes

31 See for example Ralph Berry, ‘Hamlet’s Doubles’, Shakespeare Quarterly, 37(2)
   (Summer 1986), 204–12, and John C. Meagher, Shakespeare’s Shakespeare:
   How the Plays Were Made (New York: Continuum, 1997).
32 Peter Thomson, On Actors and Acting (Exeter: Exeter University Press, 2000),
33 Peter Hyland, ‘The Performance of Disguise’, Early Theatre, 5.1 (2002),
   77–83; 79. Andrew Gurr kindly provided me with a copy of his unpublished
   paper, ‘Disguise and Doubling’.
34 Sprague, The Doubling of Parts in Shakespeare’s Plays, 14, distinguishes
   between ‘deficiency’ or ‘emergency’ doubling (i.e. doubling for practical
   purposes) and ‘virtuoso’ doubling, where there is a clearly designed
   interpretative rationale for a particular doubling.
35 Vitkus (ed.) Three Turk Plays from Early Modern England, p.154.
36 Bradley, From Text to Performance, p.238.
37 Brenner, Merchants and Revolution, p.48.
38 Eysturlid, ‘“Where Everything is Weighed in the Scales of Material
   Interest”’, pp.619, 621.
39 Eysturlid, ‘“Where Everything is Weighed in the Scales of Material
   Interest”’, p.620.
40 On Turkish attire and habits, and their appeal in early modern England, see
   Nabil Matar, ‘Renaissance England and the Turban’, in David Blanks (ed.)
   Images of the Other: Europe and the Muslim World before 1700 (Cairo: The
   American University in Cairo Press, 1997), pp.39–54.
41 Matar, Islam in Britain, p.15.
42 Vitkus (ed.) Three Turk Plays from Early Modern England, p.236.
43 Chew, The Crescent and the Rose, p.532.
44 See James Shapiro, Shakespeare and the Jews (New York: Columbia University
   Press, 1996), especially pp.114–21.
45 See Michael Hattaway, Elizabethan Popular Theatre: Plays in Performance
   (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1982), pp.166–9.
46 Anthony B. Dawson, ‘Performance and Participation: Desdemona, Foucault,
   and the Actor’s Body’, in James C. Bulman (ed.) Shakespeare, Theory, and
   Performance (London: Routledge, 1996), pp.29–45, 43.
47 The text is ambiguous about when Ward dies, and indeed it may not have
   been clear in performance; Vitkus inserts a stage direction ‘[Dies.]’ at line 321.
48 Jones & Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory, p.183,
   stress the use and reuse of costume in the playhouse: ‘actors again and
   again took existing clothes and “translated” them’.
49 Matar, Islam in Britain, p.15.

6 ‘We are not pirates’: Piracy and Navigation in The
 1 See A General History of the Pyrates [1724/1728], ed. Manuel Schonhorn
   (Mineola, NY: Dover Publications, 1999), pp.383–439. Following a long tra-
   dition, Schonhorn identifies the author of the General History as Daniel
   Defoe, but this attribution remains disputed. On Libertalia, see Marcus
   Rediker, ‘Libertalia: The Pirate’s Utopia’, David Cordingly (ed.) Pirates. An
                                                                       Notes 209

     Illustrated History of Privateers, Buccaneers, and Pirates from the Sixteenth
     Century to the Present (London: Salamander, 1996), pp.124–39; and Hubert
     Deschamps, Les pirates à Madagascar aux XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles (Paris:
     Editions Berger–Levrault, 1972). Rediker treats Libertalia as fiction,
     Deschamps as fact.
 2   On the maritime origins of early capitalism see Marcus Rediker, Between the
     Devil and the Deep Blue Sea: Merchant Seamen, Pirates, and the Anglo-American
     Maritime World, 1700–1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987).
 3   Alan Villiers, The Indian Ocean (London: Museum Press Limited, 1952),
 4   Villiers, The Indian Ocean, p.182.
 5   Villiers, The Indian Ocean, pp.182–3.
 6   Peter Linebaugh and Marcus Rediker, The Many-Headed Hydra. Sailors, Slaves,
     Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic (Boston:
     Beacon, 2000), p.162. See also Rediker’s more recent study, Villains of all
     Nations. Atlantic Pirates in the Golden Age (Boston: Beacon, 2004).
 7   See K. V. Krishna Ayyar, The Zamorins of Calicut (Calicut: Norman Printing
     Bureau, 1938), p.146.
 8   For surveys of the social, cultural and economic history of the Indian Ocean
     (including the early modern period), see Auguste Toussaint, History of the
     Indian Ocean [1961], trans. June Guicharnaud (London: Routledge and
     Kegan Paul, 1966); K. N. Chaudhuri, Trade and Civilisation in the Indian
     Ocean. An Economic History from the Rise of Islam to 1750 (Cambridge:
     Cambridge University Press, 1985); Kenneth McPherson, The Indian Ocean.
     A History of People and the Sea (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993); and
     most recently Michael Pearson, The Indian Ocean (London: Routledge,
     2003). See also Sanjay Subrahmanyam (ed.) Maritime India (New Delhi:
     Oxford University Press, 2004), a reprint of Holden Furber’s Rival Empires of
     Trade in the Orient, 1600–1800 (1976); Sinnapah Arasaratnam’s Maritime
     India in the Seventeenth Century (1994); and McPherson’s The Indian Ocean.
 9   Sanjay Subrahmanyam, The Career and Legend of Vasco da Gama
     (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p.112.
10   Ayyar, The Zamorins of Calicut, pp.153–7; R. P. Anand, Origin and Develop-
     ment of the Law of the Sea. History of International Law Revisited (The Hague
     et al.: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1983), p.49.
11   Offering a ceremonial gift was part of traditional Indian Ocean etiquette in
     a merchant-friendly port city such as Calicut. According to the only eye-
     witness account to survive from the voyage, da Gama’s gift fell far short of
     what would have been considered appropriate for a local potentate, con-
     taining no gold or silver but only ‘twelve pieces of lambel [striped cotton
     cloth], four scarlet hoods, six hats, four strings of coral, a case containing
     six wash-hand basins, a case of sugar, two casks of oil, and two of honey’.
     A Journal of the First Voyage of Vasco da Gama, 1497–1499, trans. and ed.
     E. G. Ravenstein (London: The Hakluyt Society, 1898), p.60.
12   Journal of the First Voyage of Vasco da Gama, p.60.
13   Anand, Origin and Development of the Law of the Sea, pp.50–1; Subrahmanyam,
     Vasco da Gama, pp.180–1.
14   O. K. Nambiar, The Kunjalis. Admirals of Calicut (London: Asia Publishing
     House, 1963), pp.33–4; Subrahmanyam, Vasco da Gama, p.183.
210 Notes

15 Anand, Origin and Development of the Law of the Sea, p.53; Subrahmanyam,
   Vasco da Gama, p.206.
16 Chaudhuri, Trade and Civilisation in the Indian Ocean, pp.14, 69;
   Subrahmanyam, Vasco da Gama, pp.109–12.
17 The Book of Ser Marco Polo, trans. and ed. Sir Henry Yule, 2 vols (London:
   John Murray, 1903), vol. 2, p.389.
18 The Travels of Ibn Battuta, A.D. 1325–1354, vol. 4, trans. C. Defrémery,
   B. R. Sanguinetti, and C. F. Beckingham (London: Hakluyt Society, 1994),
19 See G. R. Tibbetts, Arab Navigation in the Indian Ocean before the Coming of
   the Portuguese, being a translation of Kitab al-Fawa’id fi usul al-bahr wa’l-
   qawa’id of Ahmad b. Majid al-Najdi (London: The Royal Asiatic Society of
   Great Britain and Ireland, 1971), p.202.
20 See also the discussion in Pearson, The Indian Ocean, pp.105–7, 126–7.
21 See James Warren, Iranun and Balangingi: Globalization, Maritime Raiding, and
   the Birth of Ethnicity (Singapore: Singapore University Press, 2002).
22 Anand, Origin and Development of the Law of the Sea, p.115. See also the
   related discussion in Pearson, The Indian Ocean, pp.126–7.
23 On the concept of a ship’s ‘sufficiency’, see David W. Waters, The Art of
   Navigation in England in Elizabethan and Stuart Times, 3 vols (Greenwich:
   National Maritime Museum, sec. ed. 1978), vol. 1, pp.40–1.
24 All original quotes are taken from Luís de Camões, Os Lusíadas, ed., intr.
   and annot. Frank Pierce (Oxford: Clarendon, 1973). References are to canto,
   stanza and line numbers.
25 ‘Que quasi todo o mar têm destruído / Com roubos, com incêndios violen-
   tos’. All English translations of The Lusiads are taken from Luis Vaz de
   Camões, The Lusiads, trans. Landeg White (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
   1997). I quote Camões in English whenever the translation is close enough
   to the Portuguese in image and idiom. For comparison, the original lines
   are quoted in accompanying endnotes.
26 ‘cristãos sanguinolentos’.
27 ‘Não somos roubadores que, passando / Pelas fracas cidades descuidadas, / A
   ferro e a fogo as gentes vão matando, / Por roubar-lhe as fazendas cobiçadas’.
28 Available in a 1898 English translation (see note 11 above).
29 ‘gentes inquietas, / Que, os mares discorrendo ocidentais, / Vivem só de
   piráticas rapinas, / Sem Rei, nem leis humanas ou divinas.’
30 See especially the early paper by Christopher Hill, ‘Radical Pirates?’, The
   Collected Essays of Christopher Hill, vol. 3 (Brighton: Harvester, 1986),
   161–87; and the latest book by Marcus Rediker, Villains of all Nations.
31 ‘Porque, se eu de rapinas só vivesse, / Undívago ou da Patría desterrado, /
   Como crês que tão longe me viesse / Buscar assento incógnito e apartado?’
32 ‘Mas antes descansar me deixaria / No nunca descansado e fero grémio /
   Da madre Tethys, qual pirata inico / Dos trabalhos alheios feito rico.’
33 ‘Corrupto já e danado o mantimento’.
34 ‘Crês tu que já não foram lavantados / Contra o seu capitão, se os resistira, /
   Fazendo-se piratas, obrigados / De desesperação, de fome, de ira?’
35 ‘Daquela portuguesa alta excelência / De lealdade firme e obediência.’
36 The example is Aristotle’s, from The Art of Rhetoric. See the discussion of
   paradiastole by Quentin Skinner, ‘Moral Ambiguity and the Renaissance Art
   of Eloquence’, Essays in Criticism, 44, no. 4 (1994), pp.267–92.
                                                                      Notes 211

37 ‘da soberba Europe navegando, / Imos buscando as terras apartadas /
   Da Índia’.
38 Patricia Seed, Ceremonies of Possession in Europe’s Conquest of the New World
   (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), p.14.
39 Roger C. Smith, Vanguard of Empire. Ships of Exploration in the Age of
   Columbus (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), p.174.
40 ‘[N]ouas ylhas / nouas terras / nouos mares / nouos pouos: e o que mays he:
   nouo ceo: e nouas estrellas’. Pedro Nunes, Obras, vol. 1: Tratado da sphera
   [1537] (Lisbon: Fundação Calouste Gulbenkian, 2002), p.120. English trans-
   lation quoted from Seed, Ceremonies of Possession, p.100 (epigraph to
   chapter). The lines appear in the separate treatise Tratado em defensam
   da carta de marear which was included in the original edition of the Tratado
   da sphera com a Theorica do Sol e da Luna (Lisbon: Germão Galharde, 1537).
   On Nunes in general, see Pedro Nunes 1502–1578 (Lisbon: Biblioteca
   Nacional, 2002).
41 John Dee, Mathematicall Preaface to The Elements of Geometrie of the most
   auncient Philosopher Evclide of Megara (London: John Daye, 1570), sig. d.iiijv.
42 Iohn Minsheu, A Dictionarie in Spanish and English [London, 1599], facs. ed.
   (Málaga: Universidad de Málaga, 2000), entry ‘Sutiléza, or Subtiléza’.
43 Pedro de Medina, The Arte of Nauigation, trans. John Frampton (London:
   Thomas Dawson, 1581), fol.3v. My italics. Frampton’s translation follows
   the Spanish edition closely; the original version of the passage cited can be
   found in Pedro de Medina, Arte de nauegar (Valladolid: Francisco Fernandez
   de Cordova, 1545), sig. a.iii.r. On de Medina, see the introduction in A
   Navigator’s Universe: The Libro de Cosmographía of 1538 by Pedro de Medina,
   trans. and intr. Ursula Lamb (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972),
44 See Pearson, The Indian Ocean, p.3; and George F. Hourani, Arab Seafaring in
   the Indian Ocean in Ancient and Early Medieval Times [1951], rev. and exp. by
   John Carswell (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), pp.105–10. For
   an early document describing the extensive trade routes in the western
   Indian Ocean and attendant navigational practices, see the first-century
   merchants’ manual The Periplus Maris Erythraei, intr., trans., and annot.
   Lionel Casson (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989).
45 See Tibbetts, Arab Navigation in the Indian Ocean.
46 See Die topographischen Capitel des indischen Seespiegels Mohît, trans.
   Maximilian Bitter, intr. Wilhelm Tomaschek (Vienna: K. K. Geographische
   Gesellschaft, 1897).
47 See João de Barros, Décadas (1552), quoted in Francis Maddison, ‘A Con-
   sequence of Discovery: Astronomical Navigation in Fifteenth-Century
   Portugal’, T. F. Earle and Stephen Parkinson (eds) Studies in Portuguese
   Discovery I (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1992), pp.71–110: 71–2. The discus-
   sion reported by Barros is largely conjectural, but that does not mean it
   entirely misrepresents that type of encounter at sea.
48 He reported it was inferior to the quadrant but that may just as well indi-
   cate either wrong usage or that the transfer of navigational knowledge from
   one ocean to another (Cabral tested the kamal in the Atlantic) was more
   complex than contemporaries allowed.
49 See Maddison, ‘A Consequence of Discovery’, pp.73–4. For a brief and
   useful survey of sixteenth-century navigational techniques see J. H. Parry,
212 Notes

     ‘Pilotage and Navigation’, The Age of Reconnaissance. Discovery, Exploration
     and Settlement, 1450–1650 [1963] (London: Phoenix Press, 2000), pp.83–99.
     A fuller account is found in Waters, The Art of Navigation, vol. 1, Chapter 2,
     pp.39–77. Waters discusses the kamal on pp.53–4.
50   See A Journal of the First Voyage of Vasco da Gama, p.7n1. In relating this
     episode, the editor of the Journal relies on João de Barros, Décadas (1552).
51   McPherson, The Indian Ocean, p.138.
52   McPherson, The Indian Ocean, p.138.
53   ‘Verás as várias partes, que os insanos / Mares dividem, onde se apousentam /
     Várias Nações que mandam vários reis, / Vários costumes seus e várias leis.’
54   Nabil Matar calls the poem ‘one of the most anti-Muslim epics in the
     national literature of Renaissance Europe’. Matar, Turks, Moors, and
     Englishmen in the Age of Discovery (New York: Columbia University Press,
     1999), p.164.
55   McPherson, The Indian Ocean, p.189.
56   Martin Cortes, The Arte of Nauigation, trans. Richard Eden (London: Richard
     Jugge, 1561), sig. CC.i.r. My italics.

7 Virolet and Martia the Pirate’s Daughter: Gender and
Genre in Fletcher and Massinger’s The Double Marriage
 1 The Double Marriage must have been premiered before 5 July 1623, when
   one of its actors, Nicholas Tooley, was buried; most commentators agree on
   1620–1. See G. E. Bentley, The Jacobean and Caroline Stage, 7 vols (Oxford:
   Clarendon Press, 1941–68), 3: p.331; Bertha Hensman, The Shares of Fletcher,
   Field and Massinger in Twelve Plays of the Beaumont and Fletcher Canon,
   Salzburg Studies in English Literature (Salzburg: Institut für Englishe
   Sprache, 1974), pp.189–93; Cyrus Hoy (ed.) The Double Marriage, in The
   Dramatic Works in the Beaumont and Fletcher Canon, gen. ed. Fredson Bowers,
   vol. 9 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), p.97.
 2 The Sea Voyage was licensed by the Master of the Revels, Sir Henry
   Herbert, on 22 June 1622. The Island Princess was performed at court on
   26 December 1621 and it is generally thought to have been premiered
   between 1619 and 1621. See Fredson Bowers (ed.) The Sea Voyage,
   in Dramatic Works, vol. 9, p.3; Bentley, Jacobean and Caroline Stage, 3:
   pp.347–50. Most commentators agree that The Unnatural Combat dates
   from the mid-1620s. See Philip Edwards and Colin Gibson (eds) The Plays
   and Poems of Philip Massinger, 5 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1976), 3:
   pp.181–4; Claire Jowitt, ‘Piracy and Court Scandals in Massinger’s The
   Unnatural Combat’, Cahiers Elisabethains, 67 (2005), 33–41. There is some
   agreement that the extant text of Love’s Cure represents a Beaumont and
   Fletcher collaboration as it was reworked by Massinger, possibly after
   Fletcher’s death in 1625. See Bentley, Jacobean and Caroline Stage, 3:
   p.365; Cyrus Hoy, ‘The Shares of Fletcher and his Collaborators in the
   Beaumont and Fletcher Canon (VI)’, Studies in Bibliography, 14 (1961),
   46–69; George Walton Williams (ed.) Love’s Cure, in Dramatic Works in
   the Beaumont and Fletcher Canon, gen. ed. Bowers, vol. 3 (Cambridge:
   Cambridge University Press, 1976), pp.3–7.
                                                                       Notes 213

 3 See Simon Shepherd, Amazons and Warrior Women: Varieties of Feminism in
   Seventeenth Century Drama (Brighton: Harvester, 1981), pp.84–7; Sandra Clark,
   ‘Hic Mulier, Haec Vir, and the Controversy over Masculine Women’, Studies in
   Philology, 82 (1985), 157–83. On The Sea Voyage see Gordon McMullan, The
   Politics of Unease in the Plays of John Fletcher (Amherst: University of
   Massachusetts Press, 1994), pp.235–54; Michael Hattaway, ‘“Seeing Things”:
   Amazons and Cannibals’, in Travel and Drama in Shakespeare’s Time, ed.
   Jean-Pierre Maquerlot and Michèle Willems (Cambridge: Cambridge
   University Press, 1996), pp.179–92; Claire Jowitt, Voyage Drama and Gender
   Politics, 1589–1642 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003),
 4 Part One of The Fair Maid of the West seems to have been written towards
   the end of the reign of Elizabeth I, while Part Two was probably written to
   accompany the revival of Part One c. 1631. See Bentley, Jacobean and
   Caroline Stage, 4: pp.568–71; Robert K. Turner (ed.) The Fair Maid of the
   West, Parts I and II (London: Edward Arnold, 1968), xi–xiv.
 5 See Jean E. Howard, ‘An English Lass Among the Moors: Gender, Race,
   Sexuality and National Identity in Heywood’s The Fair Maid of the West’, in
   Women, ‘Race’, and Writing in the Early Modern Period (London and New York:
   Routledge, 1994), pp.101–17; Charles Crupi, ‘Subduing Bess Bridges:
   Ideological Shift in the Two Parts of The Fair Maid of the West’, Cahiers
   Elisabethains, 54 (1998), 75–87; Barbara Fuchs, ‘Faithless Empires: Pirates,
   Renegadoes, and the English Nation’, English Literary History, 67 (2000), 45–69.
 6 See Jowitt, Voyage Drama and Gender Politics, esp. pp.140–90. Fuchs notes
   that piracy was ‘a constant source of tension and embarrassment for the
   Jacobean state’ (‘Faithless Empires’, p.45).
 7 See, for instance, Shepherd, Amazons and Warrior Women, pp.179–201;
   Ira Clark, The Moral Art of Philip Massinger (London and Toronto: Associated
   University Presses, 1993), pp.191–204; Sandra Clark, The Plays of Beaumont
   and Fletcher: Sexual Themes and Dramatic Representation (London: Harvester
   Wheatsheaf, 1994), pp.74–7, 125–6.
 8 Paul Salzman, Literary Culture in Jacobean England: Reading 1621 (Houndmills:
   Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), pp.101–3.
 9 Hoy (ed.) The Double Marriage, 2.1.32, 2.1.67SD. All references are to this
10 On The Double Marriage as tragicomedy see Eugene Waith, The Pattern of
   Tragicomedy in Beaumont and Fletcher (New Haven: Yale University Press,
   1952), pp.132–4; Suzanne Gossett, The Influence of the Jacobean Masque on
   the Plays of Beaumont and Fletcher (New York: Garland, 1988), pp.256–66.
11 For an account of the development of ‘the idea of women pirates’ see
   Jo Stanley (ed.) Bold in her Breeches: Women Pirates Across the Ages (London:
   Pandora, 1995).
12 See Mary O’Dowd, ‘Gráinne O’Malley [Grace] (fl. 1577–1597)’, in The Oxford
   Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004);
   Anne Chambers, Granuaile: The Life and Times of Grace O’Malley, c.
   1530–1603, revised edn. (Dublin: Wolfhound Press, 1998).
13 Eugene Waith, ‘The Sources of The Double Marriage by Fletcher and
   Massinger’, Modern Language Notes, 64 (1949), 505–10. See also Hensman,
   Shares of Fletcher, Field and Massinger, pp.173–89.
214 Notes

14 For texts see The Elder Seneca: Declamations, trans. M. Winterbottom, Loeb
   Classical Library, 2 vols (London: William Heinemann, 1974), 1: pp.135–51
   (‘The Pirate Chief’s Daughter’); 2: pp.317–45 (‘The Woman who was
   Tortured by the Tyrant for her Husband’s Sake’).
15 See 3.3.248–55.
16 Martia’s sexual preoccupation is clear in her plea to Virolet, ‘Receive me to
   your love, sir, and instruct me; | Receive me to your bed, and marry me’
17 The phrase ‘hal’d the Barke’ may indicate that Martia hoisted the boat’s
   sails, but ‘hal’d’ may also pun on hail (to call), often used in nautical con-
   texts. If so, Fletcher and Massinger are suggesting her unruly speech: she is
   not only physically active, but also disruptively noisy.
18 A comparison can be drawn with Love’s Cure, in which the excessively fem-
   inine and housewifely Lucio is told by Bobadilla ‘you have a better needle,
   I know, and might make better work, if you had grace to use it’ (1.2.17–18).
19 The Old Arcadia, ed. Katherine Duncan Jones (Oxford: Oxford University
   Press, 1985), pp.24–5. As Lisa Jardine notes, the reworking of this passage in
   The New Arcadia is even more provocatively sexual; see Still Harping on
   Daughters: Women and Drama in the Age of Shakespeare (Hemel Hempstead:
   Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1983), p.36.
20 Jardine, Still Harping on Daughters, p.29.
21 Kathryn Schwartz, Tough Love: Amazon Encounters in the English Renaissance
   (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2000), p.5.
22 See Jacques Heers, The Barbary Corsairs: Warfare in the Mediterranean,
   1480–1580, trans. Jonathan North (London: Greenhill, 2003), 232–6.
23 This moment also strongly recalls the Jacobean masque. See Gossett,
   Influence, who notes that ‘Martia is presenting herself, and the role she has
   chosen is that of the scornful conqueress’ (p.261).
24 See D’Orsay W. Pearson, ‘“Unkinde” Theseus: A Study in Renaissance
   Mythography’, English Literary Renaissance, 4 (1974), 276–98.
25 Like most of the Fletcher/Massinger collaborations, The Double Marriage was
   first published in the ‘Beaumont and Fletcher’ folio collections of 1647 and
26 See Anthony Parr (ed.) Three Renaissance Travel Plays (Manchester:
   Manchester University Press, 1995), p.22; McMullan, Politics of Unease,
   pp.197–256. Like The Tempest, The Unnatural Combat is preoccupied with
   the problematic relationship between father and daughter, acting out The
   Tempest’s latent sexual tensions in its portrayal of Malefort’s lust for his
   daughter Theocrine, and Theocrine’s rape by a man who was once a suitor
   to her own mother.
27 On parallels between The Double Marriage and The Tempest see David
   Norbrook ‘“What cares these roarers for the name of King”: Language and
   Utopia in The Tempest’, in The Politics of Tragicomedy: Shakespeare and After,
   ed. Gordon McMullan and Jonathan Hope (London: Routledge, 1992),
   pp.21–54 (p.35); McMullan, Politics of Unease, p.183; Kevin Pask, ‘Caliban’s
   Masque’, English Literary History, 70 (2003), 739–56 (p.741).
28 Stephen Orgel (ed.) The Tempest (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987),
29 Erasmus, Apophthegmes […] Now Translated into Englyshe by Nicolas Udall
   (London: Richard Grafton, 1542), 2C1r.
                                                                      Notes 215

30 ‘A Pyrate’, in Sir Thomas Overbury his Wife […] As Also New Newes, and Divers
   More Characters (London: Edward Griffin for Laurence L’Isle, 1616), H7r.
31 In this respect, The Double Marriage can again be compared with The
   Unnatural Combat, which in its early scenes creates unnerving parallels
   between Malefort, an admiral who boasts of the spoil he has taken through
   privateering, and his pirate son, Malefort Junior, who is eventually killed by
   Malefort. See Jowitt, ‘Piracy and Court Scandal’, 33–41.
32 Thomas Adams, ‘The Spirituall Navigator, Bound for the Holy Land’, in The
   Blacke Devil or the Apostate Together with The Wolfe Worrying The Lambes and
   The Spiritual Navigator, Bound For The Holy Land (London: William Jaggard,
   1615), D2v.
33 See Verna A. Foster, ‘Sex Averted or Converted: Sexuality and Tragicomic
   Genre in the Plays of John Fletcher’, Studies in English Literature 32 (1992),

8 Sir Francis Drake’s Ghost: Piracy, Cultural Memory, and
Spectral Nationhood
 1 Cheah, Spectral Nationality: Passages of Freedom from Kant to Postcolonial
   Literatures of Liberation (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), p.1.
 2 Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of
   Nationalism (1983; London: Verso, 1991).
 3 For discussion, see my chapter ‘Forgetting the Ulster Plantation’ in England’s
   Internal Colonies: Class, Capital, and the Literature of Early Modern English
   Colonialism (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), pp.171–99, as well as
   Philip Schwyzer, Literature, Nationalism, and Memory in Early Modern England
   and Wales (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2004). On theories of memory, see
   especially Kerwin Lee Klein, ‘On the Emergence of Memory in Historical
   Discourse,’ Representations, 69 (Winter 2000) 127–50, Pierre Nora (ed.) Realms
   of Memory: Rethinking the French Past, 3 vols, trans. Arthur Goldhammer (New
   York: Columbia University Press, 1996), and Paul Ricoeur, Memory, History,
   Forgetting, trans. Kathleen Blamey and David Pellauer (Chicago and London:
   University of Chicago Press, 2004).
 4 Quoted in W. T. Jewkes, ‘Sir Francis Drake Revived: From Letters to Legend,’
   in Norman J. W. Thrower (ed.) Sir Francis Drake and the Famous Voyage,
   1577–1580: Essays Commemorating the Quadricentennial of Drake’s Circum-
   navigation of the Earth (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984),
 5 The BBC had aired a program called ‘Drake’s Drum’ in August 1940, which
   might explain the guardsmen’s subsequent collective hallucination; see
   John Sugden, Sir Francis Drake (London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1990), p.323.
 6 See Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds) The Invention of Tradition
   (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983).
 7 The story of Drake at bowls has a long history, first appearing in
   Thomas Scott’s Second Part of Vox Populi (London: William Jones, 1624); see
   Harry Kelsey, Sir Francis Drake: The Queen’s Pirate (New Haven: Yale
   University Press, 1998), p.321.
 8 On posthumous images of Drake, see Jewkes, ‘Sir Francis Drake Revived’;
   John Cummins, ‘“That Golden Knight”: Drake and his Reputation,’ History
216 Notes

     Today, 46 (January 1996) 14–21; Christopher Hodgkins, ‘Stooping to
     Conquer: Heathen Idolatry and Protestant Humility in the Imperial Legend
     of Sir Francis Drake’, Studies in Philology, 94 (1997) 428–64.
 9   Jewkes, ‘Sir Francis Drake Revived’, p.112.
10   See Benjamin P. Draper, ‘A Collection of Drake Bibliographic Items,
     1569–1659’ in Thrower, Sir Francis Drake and the Famous Voyage, pp.173–206.
11   My point is influenced by Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s discussion
     of ‘minor literature’ in Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, trans.
     Dana Polan (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), esp. 16–27.
12   On ‘official nationalism’ see Anderson, Imagined Communities, pp.83–111.
13   David Lloyd, ‘Nationalisms Against the State’, in Lisa Lowe and David Lloyd
     (eds) The Politics of Culture in the Shadow of Capital (Durham: Duke
     University Press, 1997), pp.173–97.
14   For a related discussion, see my chapter ‘A Nation of Pirates’ in England’s
     Internal Colonies, esp. pp.51–73.
15   William Shakespeare, 2 Henry IV, ed. A.R. Humphreys, Arden Shakespeare
     (London and New York: Routledge, 1989).
16   Henry Robarts, A most friendly farewell, Giuen by a welwiller to the right wor-
     shipful Sir Frauncis Drake knight (London: Walter Mantell and Thomas Lawe,
     1585), sig. A2v.
17   The Elizabethan state also had an interest in barring published accounts of
     Drake’s voyages, which Spanish merchants could use as evidence in claim-
     ing remuneration. On efforts to prevent a literal ‘accounting’ of Drake’s
     profits, see Kelsey, pp.214–17.
18   See, for example, Hakluyt, The Principal Navigations Voyages Traffiques &
     Discoveries of the English Nation (1598–1600; London: J. M. Dent, 1927),
     10 vols, pp.7:77–97.
19   Peele, A Farewell. Entituled to the famous and fortunate Generalls of our English
     forces: Sir Iohn Norris & Syr Frauncis Drake (London: I. C, 1589), sig. A3.
20   Haslop, Newes ovt of the Coast of Spaine (London: W. How, 1587),
     sigs. B2–B2v.
21   Quint, Epic and Empire: Politics and Generic Form from Virgil to Milton
     (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), p.248.
22   Quint, Epic and Empire, p.249.
23   Quint, Epic and Empire, pp.76–83, 139–47. Other texts, by contrast, placed
     Drake in the framework of epic: see, for instance, William Goodyear’s trans-
     lation of Jean de Cartigny’s The voyage of the wandering Knight (London:
     Thomas East, 1581), a text dedicated to Drake.
24   Nerlich, Ideology of Adventure: Studies in Modern Consciousness, 1100–1750,
     Volume 1, trans. Ruth Crowley (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
     1987), p.116.
25   Nerlich, Ideology of Adventure, p.112.
26   Stevenson, Praise and Paradox: Merchants and Craftsmen in Elizabethan
     Popular Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).
27   Étienne Balibar, ‘Citizen Subject’, in Who Comes After the Subject, ed.
     Eduardo Cadava et al. (New York: Routledge, 1991), pp.33–57; John Michael
     Archer, Citizen Shakespeare: Freemen and Aliens in the Language of the Plays
     (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005); Julia Reinhard Lupton, Citizen-
     Saints: Shakespeare and Political Theology (Chicago and London: University of
                                                                          Notes 217

     Chicago Press, 2005). Among earlier studies, see Patrick Collinson,
     ‘De Republica Anglorum: Or History with the Politics Put Back’ and ‘The
     Monarchical Republic of Queen Elizabeth I’, in Elizabethan Essays (London:
     Hambledon, 1994), pp.1–30, 31–57 and J. G. A. Pocock, The Machiavellian
     Moment: Florentine Political Thought and the Atlantic Republican Tradition
     (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975).
28   On a related note, Deleuze and Guattari argue that a ‘collective’ value and
     function is a key characteristic of ‘minor literature’, Kafka: Toward a Minor
     Literature, p.17.
29   Hakluyt, Principal Navigations, 8: p.194.
30   Mary Fuller, Voyages in Print: English Travel to America, 1576–1624
     (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp.141–74.
31   Richard Helgerson, Forms of Nationhood: The Elizabethan Writing of England
     (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), pp.187, 175.
32   Hakluyt, Principal Navigations, 1: p.19.
33   For an expanded discussion of this issue, see my England’s Internal Colonies,
     esp. pp.91–134.
34   Cheah, Spectral Nationality, p.12.
35   Among other sources on this topic, see Anne Barton, ‘Harking Back to
     Elizabeth: Ben Jonson and Caroline Nostalgia’, ELH, 48 (1981) 706–31.
36   D. R. Woolf, ‘Two Elizabeths? James I and the Late Queen’s Famous Memory’,
     Canadian Journal of History 20 (1985) 167–91; Curtis Perry, ‘The Citizen
     Politics of Nostalgia: Queen Elizabeth in Early Jacobean London’, Journal of
     Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 23 (1993) 89–111, republished in The
     Making of Jacobean Culture: James I and the Renegotiation of Elizabethan Literary
     Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1997), pp.153–87; John Watkins,
     Representing Elizabeth in Stuart England: Literature, History, Sovereignty
     (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002).
37   Fuller, Voyages in Print, p.15.
38   Claire Jowitt, Voyage Drama and Gender Politics 1589–1642 (Manchester:
     Manchester UP, 2003), pp.61–103, 140–90.
39   Elizabeth Frye, ‘The Myth of Elizabeth I at Tilbury’, Sixteenth Century Journal,
     23 (1992) 95–114.
40   Thomas Heywood, If You Know Not Me You Know Nobody Part II, ed.
     Madeleine Doran (Oxford: Malone Society Reprints, 1935). Unless otherwise
     noted, I have cited the expanded 1633 version of the Armada scenes
     throughout. On the differences between this edition and the 1606 quarto,
     see Doran’s introduction as well as Teresa Grant, ‘Drama Queen: Staging
     Elizabeth in If You Know Not Me You Know Nobody’, in The Myth of Elizabeth,
     ed. Susan Doran and Thomas S. Freeman (Basingstoke and New York:
     Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), pp.120–42.
41   Ernest Renan, ‘What is a Nation?’ in Homi K. Bhabha (ed.) Nation and
     Narration (London and New York: Routledge, 1990), pp.8–22. Cf. Anderson’s
     discussion of Renan in Imagined Communities, pp.199–201.
42   On the forgetting of Drake during his own lifetime, see also Haslop,
     sigs. A3–A3v.
43   Fredric Jameson, ‘Marx’s Purloined Letter’, in Michael Sprinker (ed.) Ghostly
     Demarcations: A Symposium on Jacques Derrida’s Specters of Marx (London and
     New York: Routledge, 1999), p.60.
218 Notes

44 Jaques Derrida, Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning,
   and the New International, trans. Peggy Kamuf (New York and London:
   Routledge, 1994), p.6.
45 Derrida, Specters of Marx, p.39.
46 Derrida, Specters of Marx, p.6.
47 Claire McEachern, The Poetics of English Nationhood, 1590–1612 (Cambridge:
   Cambridge University Press, 1996), p.6.
48 Among references to Drake, see Michael Drayton, Poly-Olbion, 19:308–22
   and William Browne, Britannia’s Pastorals, Book 2, Song 3, p.43; Book II,
   Song 4, p.69; Book III, Song 1, p.139; Book III, Song 1, p.152, in The Whole
   Works, ed. W. Carew Hazlitt (New York and Hildesheim: Georg Olms
   Verlag, 1970).
49 Michelle O’Callaghan, The ‘Shepheards Nation’: Jacobean Spenserians and Early
   Stuart Political Culture, 1612–1625 (Oxford: Clarendon, 2000), p.128.
50 O’Callaghan, The ‘Shepheards Nation’, p.112.
51 Thomas Cogswell, The Blessed Revolution: English Politics and the Coming of
   War, 1621–1624 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), p.97.
52 David Norbrook, Poetry and Politics in the English Renaissance (London:
   Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984), p.198.
53 William Camden, The History of the Most Renowned and Victorious Princess
   Elizabeth Late Queen of England, ed. Wallace T. MacCaffrey (Chicago:
   University of Chicago Press, 1970), p.209; William Davenant, The Dramatic
   Works of Sir William D’Avenant, vol. 4 (New York: Russell & Russell, 1964),
   pp.53, 55, 58, 65.
54 Karl Marx, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy, trans. David Fernbach
   (London: Penguin/New Left Review, 1981), p.3:448. For a relevant discus-
   sion, see Barbara Fuchs, ‘Faithless Empires: Pirates, Renagadoes, and the
   English Nation’, ELH, 67 (2000) 45–69.
55 Browne, Britannia’s Pastorals Book 2, Song 4, pp.89–90.
56 Fuller, The Holy State, p.140.
57 Joan Pong Linton, The Romance of the New World: Gender and the Literary
   Formations of English Colonialism (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1998), p.45.
   William Camden was the first to posit a connection between Drake and the
   founding of the East India Company (History, p.301).
58 Brenner, Merchants and Revolution: Commercial Change, Political Conflict, and
   London’s Overseas Traders, 1550–1653 (Princeton: Princeton University Press,

9   Scaffold Performances: The Politics of Pirate Execution
 1 Atkinson Clinton and Thomas Walton, Clinton, Purser & Arnold, to their
   countreymen wheresoever (London: John Woolfe, 1583); Thomas Heywood
   and William Rowley, Fortune by Land and Sea, ed. Herman Doh (New York:
   Garland, 1980).
 2 Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: the Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan
   Sheridan (London: Penguin, 1977), p.34.
 3 Foucault, Discipline and Punish, p.49.
 4 Foucault, Discipline and Punish, pp.59–60.
                                                                      Notes 219

 5 See Anna R. Beer, Sir Walter Ralegh and his readers in the Seventeenth Century
   (Basingstoke; Macmillan, 1997), pp.82–108.
 6 C. L’Estrange Ewen, ‘Organised Piracy round England in the Sixteenth
   Century’, The Mariner’s Mirror, 35 (1949) 29–42
 7 J. A. Sharpe, ‘“Last Dying Speeches”: Religion, ideology and public execu-
   tion in seventeenth-century England’, Past and Present, 107 (1985), 147–65.
 8 Samuel Rowlands, Epilogue. Thus Hart to Dimond yields his place, from The
   Knave of Harts. Haile Fellow, well met (London; 1613), lines 13–18.
 9 Leslie Hotson, ‘Pirates in Parchment’, The Atlantic Monthly (August 1927),
   1–11, 2.
10 John Stow, A Survey of London, ed. Charles Lethbridge Kingsford (Oxford:
   Clarendon, 1908), 2 vols, II, Chapter 59.
11 John Stow, The Annales of England (London: 1605), p.1175.
12 Venetian breeches were well fitting and finished below the knee with
   points, the material was covered with panes (diamond-shaped openings)
   which made the lining visible.
13 Andrew Gurr, The Shakespearean Stage, 1574–1642 (Cambridge: CUP, 1980),
14 See Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the
   Materials of Memory (Cambridge: CUP, 2000).
15 See C. M. Senior, A Nation of Pirates: English Piracy in its Heyday (New
   York: Crane, Russack & Co., 1976); Kenneth R. Andrews, ‘The expansion
   of English privateering and piracy in the Atlantic, c.1540–1625’, in
   Course et Piraterie, ed. Michel Mollat (Paris: Institut de Recherche et
   d’Histoire des Textes Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1975),
   2 vols, I, pp.196–230, p.200; Peter Earle, The Pirate Wars (London:
   Methuen, 2003), p.22.
16 John C. Appleby, ‘War, Politics and Colonization, 1558–1625’, in The
   Origins of Empire, ed. Nicholas Canny (Oxford: OUP, 1998), pp.60–6.
17 See Appleby, ‘War, Politics and Colonization’, p.63; see also Kenneth R.
   Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering: English Privateering during the Spanish War,
   1585–1603, (Cambridge: CUP, 1964), pp.202–3.
18 Foucault, Discipline and Punish, p.60.
19 See Anna Beer, ‘Textual Politics: The Execution of Sir Walter Ralegh’, Modern
   Philology, 94 (1996), 19–38.
20 Foucault, Discipline and Punish, p.67.
21 See Sharpe, ‘“Last dying speeches”’, 147–165; see also Tessa Watt, Cheap
   Print and Popular Piety 1550–1640 (Cambridge: CUP, 1991).
22 Peter Lake and Michael Questier, The Anti-Christ’s Lewd Hat: Protestants,
   Papists and Players in Post-Reformation England (New Haven & London: Yale
   University Press, 2002).
23 Lake, The Anti-Christ’s Lewd Hat, xxi.
24 Lake, The Anti-Christ’s Lewd Hat, xxi.
25 Lake, The Anti-Christ’s Lewd Hat, xxi.
26 Edward Arber, A Transcript of the registers of the Company of Stationers of
   London, 1554–1640 A.D. (Gloucester, Massachusetts: P. Smith, 1967),
   5 vols, II, p.197, 210b. See also Mark Netzloff, England’s Internal Colonies:
   Class, Capital, and the Literature of Early Modern English Colonialism (New
   York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), pp.51–90.
220 Notes

27   Netzloff, England’s Internal Colonies, p.66.
28   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, A2r.
29   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, A2v.
30   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, A2v.
31   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, A2v.
32   See J. H. Elliot, Imperial Spain 1469–1716 (London: Penguin, 1963). On
     English interventions in the colonial activities of other European nation
     states see K. R. Andrews et al. (eds) The Westward Enterprise: English Activities
     in Ireland, the Atlantic and America, 1480–1650 (Liverpool: Liverpool
     University Press, 1979); D. B. Quinn and A. N. Ryan, England’s Sea Empire,
     1550–1642 (Boston: Allen & Unwin, 1983); Appleby ‘War, Politics and
     Colonization, 1558–1625’, pp.55–78.
33   See Pauline Croft, ‘Trading with the Enemy 1585–1604’, The Historical
     Journal, 32 (1989), 281–302.
34   On the influence of de las Casas’ text see Thomas Scanlan, Colonial Writing
     and the New World 1583–1671 (Cambridge: CUP, 1999), pp.8–32.
35   On English seafaring alliances with the Huguenots, see N. A. M. Rodger, The
     Safeguard of the Sea: A Naval History of Britain 660–1649 (New York and
     London: Norton, 1997), pp.238–48.
36   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, A3v.
37   G. Anstruther, The Seminary Priests, 4 vols (Ware and Great Wakering,
     1968–1977), I, p.251. See Lake, The Anti-Christ’s Lewd Hat, p.219.
38   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, A4r.
39   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, Bv.
40   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, Bv.
41   Clinton, Purser & Arnold, B2r.
42   Rodger, The Safeguard of the Sea, p.244.
43   Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering, pp.202–3.
44   L’Estrange Ewen, ‘Organized Piracy’, 42.
45   See C. L’Estrange Ewen, ‘Pirates of Purbeck’, Proceedings of the Dorset Natural
     History and Archaeological Society, 71 (1949), 88–109.
46   On dating the play see Herman Doh, ‘Introduction’ in Fortune by Land and
     Sea, pp.32–7.
47   See Barbara Fuchs, ‘Faithless Empires: Pirates, Renegadoes and the English
     Nation’, English Literary History, 67 (2000), 45–69, 52.
48   Heywood and Rowley, Fortune by Land and Sea, lines 2200, 2208.
49   Heywood and Rowley, Fortune by Land and Sea, lines 2245–7.
50   Heywood and Rowley, Fortune by Land and Sea, lines 2250–3.
51   Jones and Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing, p.204.
52   Jones and Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing, p.196.
53   Anna Beer, Sir Walter Ralegh, p.88; British Library, MS Harley 6353, f.85v.
54   See Janice E. Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates and Sovereigns: State-Building and
     Extraterritorial Violence in Early Modern Europe (Princeton: Princeton
     University Press, 1996).
55   Heywood and Rowley, Fortune by Land and Sea, lines 1682–5.
56   Heywood and Rowley, Fortune by Land and Sea, lines 1850–1.
57   Heywood and Rowley, Fortune by Land and Sea, line 1698.
58   Heywood and Rowley, Fortune by Land and Sea, line 1759.
                                                                      Notes 221

59 See Andrews, Elizabethan Privateering, pp.22–31.
60 A Royal Proclamation By the King. A Proclamation against Pirates, Whitehall,
   8 January 1609, in Three Turk Plays from Early Modern England, ed. Daniel
   Vitkus (New York; Columbia University Press, 2000), p.353; David Delison
   Hebb, Piracy and the English Government, 1616–1642 (Aldershot: Scolar,
   1994), p.9.
61 Earle, The Pirate Wars, p.58; see also Chapter 2 of this volume by John C.
   Appleby, ‘The Problem of Piracy in Ireland 1570–1630’, pp.41–55.
62 See Rosalind Davies, ‘“The Great Day of Mart”: Returning to Texts at the
   Trial of Sir Walter Ralegh in 1603’, Renaissance Forum, 4 (1999), 12 pages;
63 See William Stebbing, Sir Walter Raleigh. A Biography (Oxford: Clarendon
   Press, 1891), p.230.
64 The title ‘The Last of the Elizabethans’ was coined by Edward Thompson in
   1935 and repeated by A. L. Rowse, Hugh Trevor-Roper and Stephen Coote.
   See Davies, ‘“The Great Day of Mart”’, 1.
65 On the different manuscript and printed versions of Ralegh’s speech
   see Beer, ‘Textual Politics: The Execution of Sir Walter Ralegh’, 19–38, 35.
66 Davies, ‘“The Great Day of Mart”’, 1.
67 Quoted by Beer, Sir Walter Ralegh, p.97.
68 See Beer, Sir Walter Ralegh, pp.97–104.
69 See R. H. Bowers, ‘Raleigh’s Last Speech: The “Elms” Document’, The Review
   of English Studies, 2, 7 (1951), 209–16.
70 Quoted by Beer, Textual Politics: The Execution of Sir Walter Ralegh’, 28.
71 Lewis Stukeley, To the Kings most Excellent Maiestie. The humble petition
   and information of Sir Lewis Stucley, Knight, Vice-admirall of Devon, touch-
   ing his owne behaviour in the charge committed unto him, for the bringing up
   of Sir Walter Raleigh, and the scandalous aspersions cast upon him for the
   same (London: Bonham Norton and John Bill, 1618); Francis Bacon,
   A Declaration of the Demeanor and Cariage of Sir Walter Raleigh, Knight,
   as well in his voyage, as in, and sithence his returne and of the true motiues
   and inducements which occasioned His Maiestie to proceed in doing iustice
   vpon him, as hath bene done (London: Bonham Norton and John Bill,
   1618). See Beer, Sir Walter Ralegh, pp.96–7; Bowers, ‘Raleigh’s Last
   Speech’, 15.
72 Ralegh, Sir Walter Raleigh his Apologie for his voyage to Guiana (London:
   Humphrey Moseley, 1650), p.4.
73 See Fuchs, ‘Faithless Empires’, 45–69; Daniel Vitkus, Turning Turk: English
   Theater and the Multicultural Mediterranean (London and New York: Palgrave,
74 Ralegh, Sir Walter Raleigh his Apologie, p.25.
75 Francis Bacon, A Declaration, pp.20–2.
76 See Beer, Sir Walter Ralegh, p.84.
77 Bacon, A Declaration, pp.4–5.
78 Bacon, A Declaration, p.14.
79 Ralegh, Sir Walter Raleigh his Apologie, pp.25–6.
80 For details of this ‘Elizabethan’ reading of the scaffold speech see Beer,
   ‘Textual Politics: The Execution of Sir Walter Ralegh’, 29–30.
222 Notes

10 Of Pirates, Slaves, and Diplomats: Anglo-American
Writing about the Maghrib in the Age of Empire
 1 George Bush, The Life of Mohammed (1830; rpt. San Diego, CA: Book Tree,
   2002), pp.196, 197.
 2 See Nabil Matar, Islam in Britain, 1558–1685 (Cambridge: Cambridge
   University Press, 1998), Chapter 5, ‘Eschatology and the Saracens’,
   pp.153–83. For the use of prophecy in pre-Reformation anti-Islamic propa-
   ganda, see Kenneth M. Setton, Western Hostility to Islam and Prophecies of
   Turkish Doom (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1999).
 3 I have used ‘English’ throughout when referring to writers and writings of
   the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries since a key concern
   here is with the place of these writers and their works upon the develop-
   ment of a national literature that has most commonly been referred to as
   ‘English literature’, and reserved ‘British’ for the political and military
   forces from which the late eighteenth-century New World colonialists
   sought independence.
 4 See MacLean, ‘Literature, Culture, and Society in Restoration England’, in
   Gerald MacLean (ed.) Culture and Society in the Stuart Restoration: Literature,
   Drama, History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp.3–27,
   and The Rise of Oriental Travel: English Visitors to the Ottoman Empire,
   1580–1720 (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2004).
 5 See MacLean, ‘On Turning Turk, or Trying to: National Identity in Robert
   Daborne’s “A Christian Turn’d Turke”,’ Explorations in Renaissance Culture,
   29:2 (Winter, 2003), 225–52.
 6 See MacLean, Time’s Witness: Historical Representation in English Poetry,
   1603–1660 (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1990), Chapter 2,
   ‘English Poetry and the Struggle for a National History’, pp.64–126.
 7 Andrew Boorde, The Breviary of Healthe, for all maner of sicknesses and dis-
   eases the which may be in man or woman, doth followe. Expressing the obscure
   terms of Greke, Araby, Latyn, and Barbary, in to Englishe concernyng Phisicke
   and Chierurgerie (London: William Middleton, 1547; rpt. 1548, 1552, 1556,
   1557, 1575, 1587, 1598).
 8 Citing Polidore Virgil and Froissart, R. L. Playfair dates the earliest Anglo-
   Maghribian encounter to 1390, when a combined force of English and
   French soldiers set out to assist the Genoese against attacks from ‘Barbary
   corsairs’, The Scourge of Christendom (London: Smith, Elder, 1884), p.1.
 9 Adam Anderson, An Historical and Chronological Deduction of the Origin of
   Commerce, From the Earliest Accounts to the Present time 2 vols (London:
   A. Millar et al., 1764), 1: 239.
10 Cited in Richard Hakluyt, The Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques and
   Discoveries of the English Nation 8 vols (1589; rpt. London: Dent, 1907), 4: 21.
11 Anderson, Historical and Chronological Deduction, 1: 312. For Roberts’s obser-
   vations on the origins of the Levant Company in the Barbary trade, see
   Lewes Roberts, The Merchants Map of Commerce: Wherein the Universal
   Manner and Matter of Trade is Compendiously Handled (1638; rpt. London:
   R. Horne, 1671), pp.269–70.
12 Hakluyt, Principal Navigations, 4: 32–3, 33–35. See T. S. Willan, Studies in
   Elizabethan Foreign Trade (1959; rpt. Manchester: Manchester University
                                                                           Notes 223

     Press, 1968), pp.98, 118–20, 168–71; Susan Skilliter, William Harborne and
     the Trade with Turkey 1578–1582 (London: British Academy, 1977), p.23;
     and pp.107–8, for translations of the safe-conducts.
13   Rhoads Murphey, ‘Merchants, Nations and Free Agency: An Attempt at a
     Qualitative Characterization of Trade in the Eastern Mediterranean,
     1620–1640’, in Alastair Hamilton et al. (eds) Friends and Rivals in the East:
     Studies in Anglo-Dutch Relations in the Levant from the Seventeenth to the Early
     Nineteenth Century (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp.25–58 (p.30).
14   Late Newes out of Barbary. In A Letter written of late from a Merchant there to a
     Gentl. not long since imployed into that countrie from his majestie (London:
     Arthur Jonson, 1613), preface.
15   J[ohn] B[utton], Algiers Voyage in a Journall or Briefe Reportary of all occurents
     hapning in the fleet of ships sent out by the King his most excellent Majestie, as
     well against the Pirates of Algiers, as others (London: B. Alsop, 1621), sig. A3v.
16   Playfair, Scourge, p.38.
17   See David Hebb, Piracy and the English Government, 1616–1642 (Aldershot:
     Scolar, 1994), pp.105–7, 79.
18   Edward Webbe, The Rare and most wonderfull things which Edw. Webbe an
     Englishman borne, hath seene and passed in his troublesome travailes, in the
     cities of Jerusalem, Damasko, Bethlehem and Galely: and in the landes of Jewrie,
     Egypt, Grecia, Russia, and Prester John (London: William Wright, 1590),
     sig. A4v.
19   Webbe, Rare and most wonderfull things, sig. Bv.
20   Webbe, Rare and most wonderful things, sigs. B5–C3v.
21   Webbe, Rare and most wonderful things, sig. D.
22   ‘Mr. Robert’s his Voyage to the Levant, with an Account of his sufferings
     amongst the Corsairs, their Villanous way of Living, and his Description of
     the Archipelago islands. Together with his Relation of Taking, and Retaking
     of Scio, in the year 1696’, in William Hacke (ed.) A Collection of Original
     Voyages (London: J. Knapton, 1699), p.13.
23   William Okeley, Eben-Ezer: Or, A Small Monument of Great Mercy (London:
     Nat. Ponder, 1675), Preface, sig. A8.
24   For an example of a seventeenth-century captive who assailed the Dutch,
     ‘a Low-Country people’ with ‘feign’d professions of Christianity’, rather
     than those professing ‘Mahumetisme’, see Emanuel D’Aranda, The History of
     Algiers And it’s Slavery with Many Remarkable Particularities of Africk. Written
     by Sieur Emanuel D’Aranda, Sometime a Slave there. Englished by John Davies of
     Kidwelly (London: John Starkey, 1666), sig. A2v.
25   Anon., The Arrivall and Intertainements of the Embassador, Alkaid Janrar Ben
     Abdella, with his Associate, Mr. Robert Blacke. From the High and Mighty Prince,
     Mulley Mahamed Sheque, Emperor of Morocco, King of Fesse, and Suss (London:
     J. Okes, 1637), p.3.
26   Peter Earle, Corsairs of Malta and Barbary (London: Sidgwick and Jackson,
     1970), p.1.
27   W. Montgomery Watt, The Influence of Islam on Medieval Europe (1972;
     rpt. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1987), p.84.
28   See Royall Tyler, The Algerine Captive; Or, The Life and Adventures of Doctor
     Updike Underhill: Six Years a Prisoner among the Algerines (‘Published accord-
     ing to Act of Congress. Printed at Walpole, Newhampshire, By David
224 Notes

     Carlisle, Jun. 1797’); John Foss, A Journal of the Captivity and Sufferings of
     John Foss; Several Years a Prisoner at Algiers (Second Edition ‘Published
     according to an Act of Congress. Newburyport, MA: Printed by Angier
     March’, [1798]). James Riley’s An Authentic Narrative of he loss of the
     American Brig Commerce, wrecked on the Western Coast of Africa, in the month
     of August 1815 (New York: For the Author, 1817) was reprinted twenty two
     times, making it one of Young America’s best-sellers. See Gordon Evans, ed.,
     Sufferings in Africa (New York: Potter, 1965), H. G. Barnby, The Prisoners of
     Algiers: An Account of the Forgotten American-Algerian War, 1785–1797 (New
     York: Oxford University Press, 1966), and Osman Bencherif, The Image of
     Algeria in Anglo-American Writings, 1785–1962 (Lanham, MA: University
     Press of America, 1997).
29   David Humphreys, Poems by Col. David Humphreys, Late Aid-de-Camp to His
     Excellency General Washington. Second Edition: With Several Additions
     (Philadelphia: Mathew Carey, 1789), p.iii.
30   David Humphreys, A Poem on the Happiness of America; Addressed to the
     Citizens of the United States (London: [n.pub.], 1786?]), pp.2–4.
31   Humphreys, Poem, p.44.
32   Humphreys, Poem, p.44.
33   Humphreys, Poem, p.37.
34   Humphreys, Poem, p.45.
35   Humphreys, Poem, p.45.
36   Humphreys, Poem, pp.45–6.
37   Humphreys, Poem, p.46. Daniel Morgan (1736–1802) was commissioned in
     1776 to raise a brigade of sharpshooters in Virginia, and in 1781 led the
     cavalry regiment that won a decisive victory at the battle of Cowpens: see
     Robert Don Higginbottom, Daniel Morgan: Revolutionary Rifleman (Chapel Hill,
     NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1961) and North Callahan, Daniel
     Morgan: Ranger of the Revolution (New York: Holt, 1961). Marie Joseph Paul Yves
     Roch Gilbert Du Motier, the Maquis de Lafayette (1757–1834) was a French
     statesman who traveled to the New World in 1777 to fight the British along-
     side George Washington. Much celebrated after the Revolutionary War, the
     number of towns bearing his name throughout the Mid-West may confirm
     the popular belief that he was eager to help populate the new nation. Friedrich
     Wilhelm Ludolf Gerhard Augustin, Baron von Stueben (1730–94), was a pro-
     fessional Prussian soldier who arrived in 1777 and introduced techniques of
     military training unknown to either the French or British armies at the time.
     His ‘Regulations for the Order and Discipline of the Troops of the United
     States’ formed the basis for the ‘blue book’ later adopted at the United States
     Military Academy, West Point. Henry Knox (1750–1806) was Washington’s
     Secretary of War. He proved brilliantly efficient at keeping the Revolutionary
     army supplied with artillery and other supplies, and helped found the United
     States Military Academy, West Point: see North Callahan, Henry Knox: George
     Washington’s General (New York: Rinehart, 1958). Other references can be
     found in Dumas Malone (ed.) Dictionary of American Biography (London:
     Oxford University Press and New York: Scribners, 1933).
38   Humphreys, Poem, p.49.
39   Humphreys, Poem, pp.49–50.
40   Humphreys, Poem, p.50.
                                                                        Notes 225

41 His Poem to the Armies of the United States of America was published in New
   Haven (1784) and reprinted in London and Paris (1785). The undated first
   edition of Humphrey’s Poem is assigned to 1786 in the British Library
42 A detailed chronological account, including costs, of Humphreys’ mission
   between March 1795 and July 1796, appears in Reports of the Secretary of
   State, and of the Secretary of the Treasury, Relative to the Present Situation of
   Affairs with the Dey and Regency of Algiers. Accompanying a Confidential
   Message from the President of the United States, Received the 19th of January,
   1797 ([np: np, nd]), provided courtesy of the Boston University Library.
43 Reports of the Secretary of State, p.3.
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Abd al-Karim Karim, 199n34                  Anglo-French relations, 63, 65–7, 71,77,
Abd al-Malik, Moroccan ruler, 61,               81–2, 152, 157–9, 222n8, 224n34
     198n17                                 Anglo-Irish relations, 15, 42–5, 48, 51,
Abd al-Qadir al-Mashrafi al-Jazairi, 61,         53–4, 120, 158
     198n20                                 Anglo-Ottoman relations, 29, 60–1,
Abderrahmane El Moudden, 198n17                 71, 75, 82–4, 88, 91, 97, 170, 172,
Abdesselem, Ahmed, 200n40                       175–6, 203n47
Abu Abdallah Muhammad bin                   Anglo-Spanish relations, 12, 15, 25,
     Ayshun al-Sharat, 200n38                   27–8, 37–8, 41, 44–7, 67, 71, 91,
Abu Bakr Albu Khasibi, 197n1                    116, 138, 144–8, 154–62, 166–8,
Abu Ismail bin Awdah al-Mazari,                 174–5, 192n58, 195n26, 201n8,
     198n19                                     216n17
Adams, Thomas, 215n32                         Spanish in the Channel, 1590–95,
Admiralty Court, the, 33                           74–89
Africa, 6, 15–16, 18, 48, 53, 56, 57,       Anstruther, G., 220n37
     61, 70, 108, 172, 177, 182–3           Antonio, Don, 81–82
Aghadir, 68                                 Appleby, J. C., 15, 109, 119, 163,
Ahmad bin Muhammad Al-Maqqari,                  196nn45, 48, 53, 197n55, 58–9,
     61, 198n18                                 74, 219nn16–17, 221n61
Ahmad bin Muhammad bin al-Qadi,             Arasaratnam, Sinnapah, 209n8
     65                                     Arber, Edward, 219n26
Ahmad ibn Yahya al-Wansharisi, 62,          Archer, John Michael, 142
     199n26                                 Archer, John Michael, 216n27
al-Araish, 57                               Armada, the, 12, 16, 45, 74, 76, 80, 82,
Al-Fishtali, 199n34, 200n48                     87–8, 138, 145–6, 160, 217n40
Al-Mazari, 61, 198n19, 200n50               Arnold, 156–60
al-Qadiri, Ahmad, 65, 199n35                Arwennack, 86
Al-Samarrai, Q., 198n6                      Ashburnham, J., 188n30
al-Zayyani, 199n25, 200n50                  Asin, Jaime Oliver, 200n53
Algeria, 15, 60, 67, 172, 182–3             Atkinson, C., 13, 18, 34, 151, 153–62,
Algiers, 29, 66, 68, 174, 182–3                 168, 190n22, 207n27, 218n1
Amazons, 17, 118, 120–9, 132–3, 167         Atlantic, 43, 46, 49, 55, 61
American national identity, 27, 67,         Ayyar, Krishna K. V., 209nn7, 10
     78–9, 86, 104, 137, 139, 165, 172,
     178, 182, 191n29, 213n5                Bacon, Francis, 165–7, 221nn71, 75,
Anand, R. P., 110, 209nn10, 13,                  77–8
     210nn15, 22                            Baepler, Paul, 192n43
Anderson, Adam, 172–3, 222nn9, 11           Balibar, Étienne, 142, 216n27
Anderson, Benedict, 137, 215n2              Baltimore, 50, 52
Andrews, K. R., 25, 29, 188n32,             Barbary states, 12–13, 29–31, 79, 88,
     190nn22–3, 191nn28, 33,                     172–4, 222n11
     192nn53–5, 63, 193n78, 193n1,            piracy and captivity in the early
     205n9, 219nn15, 17, 220nn32, 59               modern Mediterranean, 56–73

                                                                     Index 237

Barnby, H. G., 224n28                    Bush, G., 222n1
Barrie, J. M., 13                        Button, J., 174–5
Bartels, E., 205n6
Barton, Anne, 217n35                     Cadiz, 57, 61
Barton, Sir Andrew, 4, 7–8, 10, 12,      Calicut, 16, 105–9, 114–15
     188n22                              Callahan, North, 224n37
Battle of Flodden, 11                    Camden, William, 218nn53, 57
Beckingham, C. F., 210n18                Canny, N., 194n12, 196n47
Beer, A. R., 219nn5, 19, 220n53,         Captivity, 55, 94, 119, 171, 192n46,
     221nn65, 67–8, 70–1, 76, 80              202n19
Bencherif, O., 224n28                      Barbary captivity, 79, 88
Bentley, G. E., 212nn1–2, 213n4            of Maghribian ports, 172–8
Benton, L., 27, 31–2, 36, 190nn10,         Muslim captivity, 15, 199n26
     21, 191nn26, 37, 192nn45, 50,         and piracy, in the early modern
     52, 56–7, 193n76                           Mediterranean, 56–73
Berckman, E., 193n70                     Cardaillac, Louis, 198n14
Berek, P., 205n7                         Carew, R., 204nn54, 60, 62
Berry, R., 208n31                        Carey, F., 192n55
Bevington, D., 207n30                    Carswell, John, 211n44
Bilbrough, J., 80, 82, 202nn20–2, 28,    Cartelli, T., 205n6
     203nn29–30, 204n72                  Cassese, Antonio, 22, 190n8
bin Abi Diyaf, Ahmad, 73                 Casson, Lionel, 211n44
bin Ghanim, Ahmad, 64                    Catholicism, 14, 28, 44, 49, 67,
Biscaner, 55                                  75–80, 87, 148, 157–8, 170, 174–7
‘Black Legend’, 157                      Chambers, Anne, 213n12
Boatswain, 121                           Charles I – attitude to piracy, 11, 148
Boorde, A., 56, 197n2, 222n7             Charles I, 148
Bowers, F., 212n2                        Chaudhuri, K. N., 209n8, 210n16
Bowers, R. H., 221n69                    Cheah, Pheng, 137, 143, 215n1,
Bowers, Rick, 207n25                          217n34
Boxer, C. R., 200n47                     Chew, S., 93, 102, 206n20, 208n43
Boyer, 198n16                            Chichester, Sir Arthur, 42, 47–8, 55,
Bradley, D., 99, 206n11, 208n36               196n37
Braudel, Fernand, 191n36                 Child, F. J., 187n21, 188n22
Brazil, 57, 114                          China, 108, 110
Brenner, R., 150, 206n10, 208n37,        Circumcision, 102, 176
     218n58                              Clark, Grover, 190n19
British Isles, 33, 42, 44, 55            Clark, I., 213n7
Britishness, 14, 28, 33–5, 42, 44, 73,   Clark, S., 213n7
     137–8, 179, 222n3, 224n37,          Clifford, James, 201n57
     225n41                              Cogswell, Thomas, 218n51
Brome, William, 7                        Colley, L., 57, 198n10
Brotton, Jerry, 189n35                   Collinson, Patrick, 217n27
Brown, K. M., 194n14                     Colonisation, 34
Browne, William, 139, 149, 218nn48,      Columbus, Christopher, 107
     55                                  Constantinople, 83, 91
Bu Sharab, A., 57, 197nn3–4,             Conversion, 16, 30, 65, 70, 79, 91–4,
     198n12                                   97–102, 202n20, 207n23
Burnett, M. T., 205n6                    Cordingly, D., 188n32, 208n1
238 Index

Corsairs, 12–15, 60–3, 109, 172,         Doran, Susan, 217n40
    175–179, 191n40, 223n22              Drake, Sir Francis, 17, 38, 26–8, 45,
  infidel corsairs and European               85, 138–9, 141–2, 146, 148–51,
       renegades, 29–31                      154, 159, 161, 163, 191n29,
Cortes, Martin, 212n56                       215nn7–8, 216nn17, 23
Counter-Reformation, 170                 Draper, Benjamin P., 216n10
Criminality, 15, 20–6, 31, 34–8, 46–7,   Drayton, Claire, 218n48
    52, 107, 152–5, 189n1, 190n9         Drayton, Michael, 139, 147
Croft, P., 220n33                        Dryden, John, 18, 170–1
Cross-dressing, 97                       Dunluce Castle, 44
Cruickshank, D., 87, 204nn52, 65
Cummins, John, 215n8                     Earle, P., 31, 188n32, 191nn35, 42,
                                              192nn48–9, 61–2, 64, 193n2,
D’Aranda, E., 223n24                          194n8, 221n61, 223n26
da Gama, Vasco, 105, 108, 111–12,        East India Company, 149
     114–15, 209n11                      Eden, Richard, 116
Daborne, Robert, 3, 6, 92–3, 95, 101,    Edwards, Philip, 212n2
     103, 120, 206n12                    Edwards, R. Dudley, 196nn30, 36,
Davenant, W., 149                             49–50, 52, 197nn57–8, 60, 70, 72
Davidson, Thomas, 138                    Egypt, 60, 64, 109
Davies, Rosalind, 221nn62, 64, 66        Elizabeth I – attitude to piracy, 44,
Dawson, A. B., 208n46                         123, 144–6, 213n4, 217nn36, 40
de Amezola, Don Carlos, 203n50           Elizabeth, 91–2, 150, 159
de Barros, João, 114, 211n47             Elliot, J. H., 203n40
de Camões, Luís Vaz, 105, 110, 115–16    Ellis, S. G., 195n22
de Cartigny, Jean, 216n23                Empire, 7–19, 20–38, 41–57, 63, 65, 70
de Cottenberg, Rudt, 200n45                Anglo-American writing about the
de Grazia, Margreta, 205n5                       Maghrib in the Age of Empire,
de Henin, Jorge, 200n52                          169–86
de Medina, Pedro, 114, 211n43              British Empire, 14, 149
de Somogyi, Nick, 207n26                   European empire, 60–1, 71, 73
de Vaca, Cabeza, 60                        Holy Roman Empire, 7
de Vega, Lope, 191n29                      Ottoman Empire, 14, 29, 82, 91, 97
Dee, John, 113, 211n41                     Spanish empire, 28
Defrémery, C., 210n18                      Young American attitudes to the
Dekker, Thomas, 60, 93, 96                       Maghrib, 178–84
Deleuze, Gilles, 216n11, 217n28          England, 4, 8, 11, 13–14, 27, 33, 41,
Dent, J. M., 142                              44–5, 52, 71, 76–7, 81–3, 85, 86,
Derrida, Jaques, 147, 218nn44–6               145, 157, 168, 173
Deschamps, H., 209n1                     English Channel, 74, 110
Dessen, A. C., 207n30                    English law, 21, 36, 47, 189n7
Dickinson, R., 87, 203n50, 204nn51,      Englishness, 91, 94–5, 99, 102,
     55–6, 58                                 119–20, 138–50, 154–9, 167
Dillie, B. W., 201n11                      English writings on the Maghrib,
Dimmock, M., 15–16, 171, 184, 204n57             172–8
Diplomatic Relations, 7, 69, 91, 157,      and Moroccan society and
     171                                         civilization, 70
Doh, Herman, 220n46                        and Spanish in the Channel,
Domestic policy – English, 14                    1590–95, 74–89
                                                                        Index 239

Erasmus, 214n29                             Ghosts, 137–50
Ethiopia, 175                               Gibb, H. A. R., 199n31
Europe, 29, 87, 107–9, 175                  Gibson, Colin, 212n2
Eysturlid, L. W., 206n10, 208nn38–9         Gilbert, 154
                                            Ginzburg, Carlo, 198n11
Favata, Martin A., 198n15                   Gismund, 94–6, 100
Female captives, 68, 127                    Goa, 109, 175
Female pirates, 118, 120–3, 133             Gosse, P., 188n32, 193n72
Female sexuality, 119                       Gossett, S., 213n10, 214n23
Ferdinand, 54, 59, 94–6                     Great Britain, 178, 180
Fernández, José B., 198n15                  Greenblatt, Stephen J., 28, 191n31,
Fisher, G., 188n32                              192n60, 205n6
Fitzgeffrey, C., 139, 144, 146–7            Greene, Robert, 86, 204n57
Fletcher, F., 118, 121, 127, 129,           Greg, W. W., 206n11
     133–4, 148, 214n17                     Grenville, Sir Richard, 142, 144,
Fletcher, John, 118, 213n13                     146–7
Foreign policy – English, 18–19,            Grossrichard, Alain, 207n28
     27, 91, 119, 139, 164, 166, 172,       Grotius, Hugo, 30, 191n38
     185                                    Guattari, Félix, 216n11, 217n28
Foss, J., 224n28                            Guiana, 33, 151, 164, 168
Foster, Verna A., 215n33                    Gunner, 121, 131
Foucault, M., 18, 151–2, 155,               Gurr, A., 205n1, 219n13
     218nn2–4, 18
France, 4, 7, 11, 41, 65, 66, 70, 84, 82,   Hacke, William, 223n22
     88                                     Hakluyt, R., 142–3, 173, 195n21,
Free trade, 18, 171, 174, 180                   203n47, 216n18, 217nn29, 32,
Freeman, Thomas S., 217n40                      222nn10, 12
Friedman, Ellen G., 192n45                  Hall, E., 6–8, 187nn13–14, 17–19
Frye, Elizabeth, 217n39                     Harding, Christopher, 14–15, 91,
Frye, Susan, 145                                187n20, 193n1
Fuchs, B., 25, 92, 160, 188n32,             Harvey, L. P., 198n7
     190n18, 191n29, 192n47,                Harward, S., 201nn4, 6, 202n26
     193n80, 207n27, 220n47,                Hasleton, Richard, 79, 202n27
     221n73, 206nn12, 15                    Haslop, H., 216n20, 217n42
Fuller, Mary, 143–4, 149–50, 217n30,        Hattaway, M., 208n45
     37, 218n56                             Hawkins, 85, 154
Furber, Holden, 209n8                       Hazlitt, W. Carew, 218n48
Furnivall, F. J., 197n2                     Hebb, D. D., 188n32, 205n9, 221n60,
Gaelic Ireland, 43, 109                     Heers, J., 188n32, 214n22
Gender behaviour, 4, 11, 15, 17, 90,        Helgerson, R., 189n36, 217n31
    118–34                                  Heliodorus, 187n1
Genoa, 57, 175                              Henry III, King, 76
Genre, 13, 17, 60, 92, 118–34, 120,         Henry IV, King, 173
    140–1, 155, 202n19                      Henry VIII – attitude to piracy, 7, 9,
Gentili, Alberico, 30, 191nn39–40               11, 140
Georgijevic, Bartholomej, 202n25            Henry VIII, King, 7, 9, 11
Gesellschaft, Geographische K. K.,          Hensman, Bertha, 212n1
    211n46                                  Herbert, Sir Henry, 212n2
240 Index

Heywood, T., 18, 49, 120, 123, 126,       Jameson, Fredric, 147, 217n43
     139, 145–6, 149, 151, 196n41,        Jardine, L., 126, 205n3, 214n20
     197n64, 207n27, 217n40, 218n1,       Jennings, B., 197n74
     220nn48–50, 55–8                     Jerusalem, 22, 175
Hill, C., 34–5, 37, 193nn67, 69,          Jewkes, W. T., 138, 215n4, 215nn8–9
     210n30                               Jews, 16, 46, 92, 97
Hill, George, 193n79, 194n13              Jingoism, 138
Hillier, Tim, 189n5                       Joao de Nova, 108
Hobsbawm, Eric, 215n6                     Jones, A. R., 205n5, 208n48, 219n14,
Hogan, E., 196n35                              220nn51–2
Holland, Henry, 28                        Jones, Katherine Duncan, 214n19
Holt, P. M., 199n31                       Jonson, Arthur, 223n14
‘Holy War’, 16, 80, 87–8, 177             Jowitt, C.,17, 35, 93, 97, 119, 145,
Hostis humani generis, 14, 20–38               190n22, 193nn68, 71, 195n19,
Hotson, Leslie, 219n9                          206nn12, 17, 212n2, 217n38,
Hourani, G. F., 211n44                         213n6, 215n31
Howard, Jean E., 10, 12, 213n5            Julien, Charles Andre, 201n58
Hoy, 213n9
Humphreys, D., 19, 178–85,                Kelsey, H., 26–8, 191nn24–5, 29–30,
     224nn29–40, 42                           215n7, 216n17
Hutchings, Mark, 16, 31, 77, 80,          Kevin Marshall, C., 190n13
     202n20                               Kidnie, Margaret Jane, 205n4
Hyland, P., 98, 208n33                    King, T. J., 207n30
                                          Klein, Bernhard, 14, 16–17
Ibn abi Mahali, 57, 198n5                 Klein, Kerwin Lee, 215n3
Ibn al-Qadi, 199n33                       Knapp, J., 189n36
Ibn Ghanim, 65                            Knutson, R., 207n22
Ibn Majid, Ahmad, 114                     Kontorovich, E., 23, 190nn9, 10–11,
Imperialism, 17–19, 25, 28, 44, 57,           14
     60, 71, 110–11, 113–17, 138,
     143–4, 149, 171–2, 185               L’Estrange Ewen, C., 192n64, 219n6,
India, 6, 16, 109                             220nn44–5
Indian Ocean, 16–17, 105, 111,            Lake, P., 18, 151, 155, 219nn22–5
     114–15, 209n18, 209n11, 211n44       Lane, K. E., 188n32, 193n83
     pirates of, 106–10                   Law of Nations, 21–2, 189n1
International Law, 20–2, 189n7            Law of the sea, 20–38, 189nn2, 7
Ireland, 13, 15, 42–3, 50, 53–5           Le Strange, G., 198nn24–5
Islam, 16, 56, 60–4, 69–71, 86, 91, 97,   Lee, M., 188n24
     101, 115, 169–71, 177–8, 191n36,     Legal definitions of piracy, 14–15
     192n47, 203n47, 207n23               Lenz, J., 205n2
Islamdom, 71                              Letters of marque, 6–7, 24–5, 32, 154,
                                              161–2, 165, 187n9, 190nn16, 22
James I and VI, King, 11, 44, 54, 118     Letters of reprisal, 6, 25–6
James III, King, 6                        Levin, R., 95, 207n25
James IV, King, 4, 6, 9–10                Levy, Avig der, 207n29
James I and VI – attitude to piracy,      Levy, F. J., 195n15
   11, 34, 36, 44, 54, 118, 144, 163,     Lewis, Bernard, 199n31
   188n22, 217n36                         Lezra, Jaques, 187n2
Jameson, Franklin, 192n56                 Linebaugh, P., 209n6
                                                                   Index 241

Linton, J. P., 218n57                    Mezzine, Mohamed, 199n28
Lisbon, 105, 107                         Middleton, Thomas, 93, 96, 175
Lithgow, William, 206n13                 Millar, A., 222n9
Lloyd, David, 139, 216n13                Minsheu, Iohn, 211n42
London, 97, 153                          Mohammad bin Yousuf al-Zayyani,
Longfield, A. K., 194n7                       200n49
Lord High Admiral, 12, 32, 153           Mollat, M., 193n2
Lupton, Julia Reinhard, 142, 216n27      Montgomery Watt, W., 223n27
Lyly, W., 201n15                         Montrose, L. A., 205n1
Lynch, M., 194n14                        Morocco, 15, 56–7, 60, 64–6, 69–70,
MacCarthy-Morrogh, M., 195n22            Mozambique, 110–11
MacInnes, Rev. J., 194nn10–12            Muhammad bin Muhammad bin
Mackie, R. L., 7, 187nn5, 8, 10, 15          Omar al-Udwani, 62, 198n22
MacLean, G., 18–19, 206n12, 207n24,      Muhammad bu Jindar, 201n56
   222nn4–6                              Muhammad, Prophet, 70
Maddison, Francis, 211n49                Mulholland, Paul, 206n18
Magharibi, 71                            Mullaney, S., 205n1
Maghrib, 63, 178                         Munro, Lucy, 17, 98
Mainwaring, G. E., 42, 191n34,           Munster, 42, 45–6, 48, 50, 52
   194n3, 195n21                         Murad III, Ottoman Sultan, 61
Malabar, 109, 115                        Murphey, Rhoads, 173, 223n13
Male sexuality, 120, 122–3, 126, 133,    Murray, Athol, 187n6
   145                                   Mustapha, Jean Armand, 70
Maquerlot, Jean-Pierre, 213n3
Markham, Gervase, 144, 146–7             Nambiar, O. K., 209n14
Marlowe, Christopher, 95                 National Identity, 19, 27, 67, 78–9,
Marsden, R. G., 197n59                       86, 104, 137, 165, 172, 178, 182,
Marshalsea Prison, 153                       191n29, 206n12, 213n5
Martin, Henry, 188n23                    Nationhood, 137–50
Marx, Karl, 218n54                       Naval history, 187n16, 194n11, 220n35
Massinger, Philip, 118, 121, 127, 129,   Navigation, 16–17, 28–9, 34, 211n48,
   133–4, 213n13, 214n17                     211–12n49
Matar, N., 15, 30, 78, 84, 87, 108,        and piracy, in The Lusiads, 105–17
   170, 178, 181, 192nn44, 46,           Necipoglu, Gulru, 204n64
   201n9, 203n49, 206nn12, 16,           Nerlich, M., 141, 216nn24–5
   207nn21, 23, 208nn41, 49,             Netzloff, M., 17, 151, 156, 191n29,
   212n54, 222n2                             219nn26–7
Mathew, D., 195n16                       New World, the, 25, 28, 60, 116, 159,
McEachern, Claire, 147, 218n47               222n3, 224n37
McLeod, B., 189n36                       Nicholas, E., 188n30
McPherson, K., 115, 209n8,               Nichols, P., 148
   212nn51–2, 55                         Norbrook, David, 148, 214n27,
Mediterranean, 41, 52, 61, 92, 97,           218n52
   109, 115, 175, 180                    Noyes, Alfred, 138
Merchants, 6–12, 24, 26–9, 32, 38, 51,
   65, 78, 94–9, 103, 107–9, 115,        O’Callaghan, Michelle, 147,
   143, 157, 171–4, 182, 209n11,            218nn49–50
   211n44, 216n17                        O’Dowd, Mary, 213n12
242 Index

O’Malley, Grannia, 43–4, 194n9          Purser, 13, 18, 49, 151–62, 168,
Ohlmeyer, J. H., 194n12                     207n27
Okeley, W., 223n23
Oppenheim, L., 21, 189nn1, 7            Questier, Michael, 155, 219n22
Oppenheim, M., 197n68                   Quilligan, Maureen, 205n5
Orgel, Stephen, 214n28                  Quinn, D. B., 205n9, 220n32
Oriental travel, 170                    Quint, David, 141, 216nn21–3
Ottoman empire, the, 29, 82, 91, 97
Outlaws, 13–15, 107, 161–3, 166, 168,   Ralegh, W., 18, 32–3, 36, 38, 148–9,
    193n71                                  151–2, 154–5, 162–8, 192nn58–9,
  pirates as, in the early modern law       221nn65, 72, 79
       of the sea, 20–38                Ranger, Terence, 215n6
Overbury, Thomas, 131                   Ravenstein, E. G., 209n11
                                        Razzuq, Muhammad, 198n5
Parker, K., 69, 200n51, 207n22          Red Sea, 108–9, 175
Parr, Anthony, 214n26                   Rediker, M., 188n32, 194n8, 208n1,
Parry, J. H., 211n49                        209nn2, 6, 210n30
Payton, Philip, 204n63                  Reformation, the, 47, 75, 170, 222n2
Pearson, D’Orsay W., 214n24             Renan, Ernest, 146, 217n41
Pearson, M., 209n8, 210n20,             Renegades, 13, 16–17, 29–31, 75, 79,
     211n44                                 86, 92–4, 119, 175, 206n16
Peele, G., 139–41, 216n19               Restoration, the, 170, 222n4
Penzance, 84, 86                        Reynolds, Thomas, 148
Perin, W. G., 191n34                    Ricoeur, Paul, 215n3
Perrin, W. E., 194n3, 195n21            Riley, James, 224n28
Perry, Curtis, 144                      Ringler, W. A., Jr, 207n30
Petrie, Donald A., 190n20               Robarts, H., 139, 141, 146, 149,
Philip II, 157, 159                         216n16
Piracy – definitions of, 1–38            Robert Don Higginbottom, 223n22,
Pirates as criminals, 20–6, 31, 34–8,       224n37
     46–7, 52, 107, 152–5, 189n1,       Roberts, Lewes, 222n11
     190n9                              Rodger, N. A. M., 7, 187nn16, 26–9,
Pirates as heroic figures, 13, 27, 37,       220nn35, 42
     75, 79, 94–7, 105–12, 117, 138,    Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 193n85
     142, 146, 155, 161, 182, 185,      Rowlands, Samuel, 153, 219n8
     207n24                             Rowley, W., 18, 49, 120, 151, 196n41,
Pirates as legal defendants, 31–5           197n64, 207n27, 218n1,
Pirates – fictional, 65                      220nn48–50, 55–8
Playfair, R. L., 223n16                 Rowse, A. L., 86, 201nn3, 10, 13–14,
Pocock, J. G. A., 217n27                    202nn17–18, 203n48, 204nn53,
Polo, Marco, 109                            59, 61
Portugal, 6, 13–14, 41, 56, 56–7, 61,   Rubin, A. P., 190n9
     69, 76, 81–2, 88, 105, 107, 109,   Russell, J., 187nn4, 7, 9
     110, 113                           Ryan, A. N., 205n9, 220n32
Potter, L., 206nn12, 14                 Rymer, Thomas, 173
Privateering – definitions of, 24–9
Prize law, 25                           Sales, R., 205n6
Protestantism, 14, 28, 45, 75–81,       Salzman, P., 119, 213n8
     158–9, 170, 174, 177, 184          Sanguinetti, B. R., 210n18
                                                                       Index 243

Scaffold speeches, 18, 35, 97, 151–68,     Tamburlaine, 95
     193n71, 221n80                        Taylor, Bruce, 198n23
Scanlan, T., 220n34                        Teorey, Matthew, 28, 191n32
Schonhorn, Manuel, 208n1                   Thompson, Edward, 221n64
Schwartz, K., 126, 214n21                  Thomson, J., E., 14, 35, 37,
Schwarzenberger, Georg, 193n75                 188nn31–3, 189n34, 190nn15,
Schwyzer, Philip, 215n3                        17, 191nn35, 41, 193n65–6, 73,
Scotland, 4, 8, 11, 43–4, 77                   81, 205n9, 220n54
Scott, Sir William, 189n4                  Thomson, P., 98, 208n32
Scott, Thomas, 148, 215n7                  Thrower, N. J. W., 215n4
Seed, P., 211n38                           Tibault Suxbridge, 50
Senior, C. M., 193nn1–2, 195nn20,          Tibbetts, G. R., 210n19, 211n45
     27, 219n15                            Todd, M., 207n22
Setton, Kenneth M., 222n2                  Tolan, J., 204n70
Shakespeare, William, 3, 29, 38, 122,      Trade, 4, 9, 13, 18, 25, 29, 34, 37–8,
     128, 139, 154, 191n36, 216n15             41, 44, 47, 50–7, 71, 91, 99,
Shapiro, J., 208n44                            106–10, 133, 143, 154, 171–82,
Sharpe, Dr Lionel, 151–2, 155, 165             189n4, 211n44, 222n11, 223n13
Sharpe, J. A., 18, 219nn7, 21                captivity and diplomacy, 172–8
Sharpe, K., 11, 188n25                     Travel Writing, 3, 170
Shepherd, S., 213n3, 213n7                 Trevelyan, R., 36, 192nn59–60,
Sidi Ali Çelebi, 114                           193n77
‘Silver Oare’, 160                         Tripoli, 29, 68
Skilliter, Susan, 223n12                   Tunis, 29, 57, 68, 98, 100, 103
Skinner, Quentin, 210n36                   Tunisia, 15, 60
Skura, M. A., 205n1                        Turkey, 30, 57, 60
Slavery and slave trade, 16, 30, 37, 56,   Turley, H., 188n32
     63, 69, 71, 78, 83, 176               Turner, Robert K., 213n4
Smith, M. E., 207n27                       ‘Turning Turk’, 31, 92, 100–4, 165,
Smith, R. C., 211n39                           202n20, 206n12, 207n24
Spain, 11–14, 27, 34, 37, 41, 46–7, 52,    Tyerman, C., 205n67
     56–7, 61, 65–6, 75, 82, 84, 87–8,     Tyler, R., 19, 223n28
     91, 148, 151, 153, 159, 162–4,        Tyrants, 17, 65, 119–21, 131, 133,
     175                                       180
Sprague, A. C., 207n30, 208n35
Stallybrass, P., 205n5, 208n48,            Ulster, 42, 44
     219n14, 220nn51–2                     United States, 13, 18–19, 24, 61, 106,
Stanley, J., 188n32, 213n11                    178–85
Starr, G., 207n22                          Utopia, 106–7, 208n1, 214n27
Stebbing, William, 221n63
Steele, Ian, 192n51                        Van Koningsveld, P. S., 198n6,
Stevenson, Laura, 141, 216n26                   199n27
Stow, J., 219nn10–11                       van Dulmen, Richard, 193n82
Stubbes, Philip, 90                        Vanan, Jamal, 199n37
Stukeley, Lewis, 221n71                    Villiers, A., 106, 209nn3–5
Stukeley, Thomas, 140                      Vitkus, Daniel, J., 27, 37, 188n32,
Subrahmanyam, S., 209nn8–9, 14,                 189n36, 191n27, 193n84,
     210nn15–16                                 202n25, 206n12, 206n19,
Sugden, J., 215n5                               207n24, 208nn35, 42
244 Index

Waith, E., 121, 213nn10, 13       Wexford, 47–8, 52
Walton, T., 18, 151, 218n1        Wiegers, G. A., 198n6, 199n27, 222n12
Wapping, 152–3                    Willems, Michèle, 213n3
Ward, John, 195n19, 206n13        Williams, George Walton, 212n2
Warfare at sea, 24–6, 27–30, 37   Williams, Sir Roger, 202n16
Warren, James, 110, 210n21        Wilson, R., 205n6
Waters, David W., 210n23          Winius, G. D., 201n11
Watkins, John, 144                Winterbottom, M., 214n14
Watt, T., 219n21                  Wolf, John B., 191n35
Webbe, E., 202n27, 223nn18–21     Woolf, D. R., 144, 217n36

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