Stephen Schneider - Iced: The Story of Organized Crime in Canada

BLACK BART

Without are dogs and murderers.

Book of Revelation

T he starless night was as dark as a black dog. The small fishing village of Trepassey, located on the southern tip of New-found-lands Avalon Peninsula, was tranquil in the pre-dawn hours, on the twenty-first day of June, in the yeare of grace one thousand seven hundred and twenty.

But amidst this early morning solitude, a dark cloud of treachery hung over the town and a foreboding wind of menace blustered into the harbour, fiercely pitching the sloops, schooners, and brigs out of their slumber. Before the sunne had broken over the horizon, the calm of the somnolent village was shattered by the hellish uproar of a grande ship coursing through the long slender reach of the harbour with Drums beating, Trumpets sounding, and other instruments of Musick, English Colours flying. It was the sloop Royal Rover. And as she brazenly sailed into the dusk-veiled harbour, much unease and terror was stirred amongst the newly awoken townspeople who realized immediately what violent squall had broken their calm midst.

Pyrates!

Standing on the quarter deck of the marauding vessel, below deaths flagg flying at the topmasthead, was a tall, nut-brown figure attired in the most resplendent of finery a rich crimson waistcoat and petticoat breeches, with gold braid, a red feather in a broad-brimmed hat that sat aloft his tarry locks, and a gold chaine wrapped ten times around his neck, with a diamond-encrusted cross, once destined for the King of Portugal, dangling in the middle. He laid bare a cutlash in the hollow of one hand, and at the end of a silk bandolier flung over his shoulders he carried two pistols. The sea-roving Turk at the helm of the infectious ship was none other than Black Bart, renowned navigator and true sea dog who went into the cannons mouth willingly, not for want of riches, but from a yearning for roving and adventure; for the wayward Captain was apt to say, A merry life and a short one, shall be my motto! And that destiny would grant him!

He was borne John Roberts in 1682 in the wee village of Castle Newydd Bach, a dreary blemish to be found on the southern slopes of the Preseli Hills in Wales. He would later change his name to Bartholomew, but, to his victims and enemies alike, he was known as Black Bart. Despite his errant ways later in life, he was not delivered into the vagabond class, but was sired from respectable, land-owning parents. On the cusp of his teenage years, he was, when the young, curly sable haired, John Robert, with sable eyes, went to sea as a cabin boy. He returned to the land, but conditions were poor, and this olive-skinned broad-shouldered young man, who be fortunate enough to stand more than two yards tall, possessing good natural parts and personall bravery, returned to the sea, whereby during the time of the Spanish Succession, betwixt the yeares one thousand seven hundred and two and thirteen, he served in the Royal Navy. His battle-hardened maritime expeditions granted John the skills of a highly proficient seaman, navigator, and natural leader of men. Nevertheless, at the end of the war, John Roberts, now 31, found himself without a vocation.

Dreaded flag of the pyrate ship Royal Rover

Roberts days as a sea raider began in the yeare of our lord one thousand seven hundred and nineteen, whilst serving as third mate on a slave ship captured by the tallowy pyrate Howell Davis. In the force of the moment, and with little recourse, Roberts and other crew members were press-ganged into service aboard the wicked pyrate ship. When Davis was killed whilst attacking the town of Principe off the Guinea coast, Roberts was elected captain of the buccaneer vessel, as he had none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast; but seemed like a mate of skipper, accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. For reality and in truth he loathed this wretched calling, but the extremity of want that whet his appetite for escapades and exploits overcame his trepidations, and thusly accepted the honourevidently concluding, since he had dippd his hand in muddy Water, and must be a Pyrate, it was better being a Commander than a common Man. His life was now forever cast in the free trading commerce of the sea, without the folly swaddles, just as the Angel of Death created it. His first order as captain was to raze a select few homes of Principe as an act of revenge for the killing of Howell Davis.

Unlike the typical swashbuckling corsair, Roberts hisself was a prudish, fastidious, and pious man by disposition and custom. He dressed like a proper gentleman at all times, even in battle. Neer a vice ever threatened the sanctions of his piety; instead of playing cards, rolling bones, or cavorting around the barrel getting bowsy from drinking sittyated grog, he was wont to sit in his cabin alone, sipping tea and reading his Bible. Intoxicating liquor never touched his lips. He also expected the same of his crew, whom he loomed over as strict disciplinarian, not simply to impose order on the ship, but in his preferment that they be warded from the tempests of sin and idleness. Those roundhands not on duty were made to retire at nine bells every night. Women were never permitted to board his ships and the penalty for blowing off the groundsails with the gentler sex was death by dancing the hempen jig. His collection of cloyers were strictly forbidden from gambling aboard his vessels, and a man could be flogged for uttering a swear word or a blasphemy. In religious matters, all hands were expected to gather on deck every night to say prayers and Roberts ensured the Sabbath was strictly observed as a daye of reste. Any crew member who nicked from the company would hath his nose and ears split and thenceforth would be marooned. He tolerated no fighting on board; any quarrels were to be settled ashore by duelling with drawn pistols or through the brandishing of cutlashes. Roberts personally issued a standing invitation to any disgruntled swaddler to settle their mutual disagreement in a duel. No man ever took him up on this challenge; for despite his modest countenance, the Black Pyrate was one of the most wickedness men that God ever allowed on the sea. He ordered his pyrate knots to treat their victims equally roughly in order to make them discover their Money, threatening them every Moment with Death, if they did not resign every Thing up to them. Black Bart was indeed the mildest mannerd man that ever scuttled a ship or cut a throat.