Neptune's Daughters: History's Most Notorious Women Pirates

By Barbara Marriott

On a holiday in the Bahamas a college student buys an old sea chest filled with ancient papers. She discovers these papers are original diaries, newspaper articles, letters and even a spy dossier written by and about famous historical female pirates. These original historical documents were collect first by a 1600 pirate, Captain Johnson, then added to over the centuries by his island family. The college student protects and adds to this collection even as an adult, a college professor. As she goes through them, file by file, the life story of ten infamous female pirates unfolds starting with a vengeful 1300 French wife turned pirate and ending with a 1940 Chinese pirate and spy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780972377133

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© Barbara Marriott. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-0-97237-712-6

eBook ISBN: 978-0-97237-713-3

Catymatt Prouductions

Books by Barbara Marriott

Paint ‘n Spurs

Fleet Angels

Two Six Shooter Beat Four Aces

Take the Train to Tucson

Legendary Locals of Marana, Oro Valley and Catalina

Annie’s Guests

Canyon of Gold

Oro Valley: Images of America

Outlaw Tales of New Mexico

Banana River

In Our Own Words

Myths and Mysteries of New Mexico

Contact Creede!

This book is dedicated to two men. Mike, who while engrossed in the TV show The Black Flag tossed out the comment, You should write a book on women pirates. And Bill, who said, Women pirates! I’d read that. Here it is.

’Tis a brave lass that dances on Davy Jones’ chest.

Beware

Not all you learn of pirates are truisms, yet not all are lies. Their tales are factual grains of sand washed over by the magic of lore and polished by the tides of imagination.

Contents

PROLOGUE: The Acquisition

Chapter 1

File One. Jeanne de Clisson, a.k.a. The Lioness of Brittany, 1300–1359

Notes

Chapter 2

File Two. Sayyida al Hurra, 1490–1561

Notes

Chapter Three

File Three. Mea Vita Grainne Ni Mhaille, a.k.a. Grace O’Malley, 1530–1603

Notes

Chapter Four

File Four (Some Water Damage). Jacquotte Delahaye,

aka Back from the Dead Red, 1630–16??

Notes

Chapter Five

File Five (Some water damage). Marie Anne Dominique du Pres,

aka Anne Dieu-le-Veut, 1651-1710

Notes

Chapter Six

File Six. Anne Bonny and Mary Read, 1698–1721

Notes

Chapter Seven

File Seven. Rachel Wall 1760–1789

Notes

Chapter Eight

File Eight. The Log of Liu Fuling on Ching Shih

Notes

Chapter Nine

File Nine. Sadie Farrell, a.k.a. The Goat

Notes

Chapter Ten

File Ten (Some water damage). The Official Declassified

Spy Dossier of Lai Choi San, 1922

Chapter Eleven

The Log

Notes

EPILOGUE: A Newspaper Article

Acknowledgements

PROLOGUE: The Acquisition

2019

Dear Dr. Irene…I moved closer to the iPad screen to read the email that just came through. Must be a stranger. My friends never send emails with my title; they usually come up with some smart address like ‘to the pirate queen,’ or ‘the sea outlaw.’ I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, moving closer to computer screens, iPad screens, computer monitors, newspapers, and letters, anything that needs reading. The doctors have been after me for about a year to have cataract surgery, but at sixty I’m not big on operations, especially eye operations. However, as I looked at the blurred letters, I thought I probably should rethink my position.

I leaned forward and pushed my glasses higher onto the bridge of my nose, closer to my eyes. Scanning the email, I realized it was another pitch to sell me an "authentic diary of a pirate woman who sailed the seas in the golden pirate past." Since there was little information in the email except the statement that they were willing to negotiate price for the information on a female pirate I had never heard of and that they had inherited the diary from their old Aunt Agatha, I decided to pass and deleted the message. While the email did not stir my interest in Aunt Agatha’s diary, it did remind me of my collection. It is something that has brought me enormous pleasure and pride over the years—the many, many, years since I discovered the writings.

It was the summer of my senior year at Yale. Fellow student and buddy John Peabody was sailing to the Bahamas with his family’s friend and asked if I wanted to join him. Only if I can take my typewriter, I replied.

The typewriter was important, for I was going to write the great American novel, and what better place to start than in the balmy breezes of the Caribbean?

I cut my shoulder-length hair to chin-length and let the riot of natural curls take over. It was not unattractive and would be easy to manage on the ship. I treated myself to a big designer pair of sunglasses to protect my blue eyes. The eyes are in sharp contrast to my Italian (with maybe some African) skin tones.

On the first day of June, I walked up the gangplank of a 60-foot yacht, struggling to balance a duffle bag on my shoulder while keeping a firm grip on my typewriter case. At the top of the gangplank stood three men, all attired in sparkling white. The one with the most gold was easily identified as the Captain, who introduced himself, welcomed me, and ordered one of the other men (obviously an underling) to take me to my stateroom. It seemed to me it was all said in one breath. Here, I thought, was a man of few words and utmost efficiency. The trip was to prove me right.

The crewman showed me to my cabin. It was a small rectangle with a bunk bed, a chair, and some shelves. My five-foot-five frame and slim figure would fit nicely into these accommodations. I did worry about space to write, but a tour of the ship revealed the Salon, a luxurious space dedicated to relaxing, writing, and cocktails.

Two weeks after we departed, we sailed into a little-known island called Eleuthera. It is a long crooked finger of land, broken in the middle but joined by a bridge—a very small bridge, as the break is less than a mile.

So far it had been an uneventful but thoroughly enjoyable vacation. The sun was hot, the water warm, and the food not bad. Best of all, I had nothing to do but enjoy it all and write when the mood struck me, which was seldom.

As we approached the island, we sailed up to the bridge, which is called The Window by natives. We were on the Caribbean side, looking under the bridge through The Window at the seas of the Atlantic, which seemed to be running a bit rough. After a good look by crew and guests, we continued our sea journey, pulled into a small, calm harbor, and anchored.

We broke out the small pontoon boat and in minutes were zipping along, making our own waves on the fairly calm sea as we headed for Governor’s Harbor, the island’s main village. A couple of thin dogs sauntered out on the beach to greet us, barely swishing their tails back and forth as a greeting as we pulled the pontoon boat onto the sand. Along the jetty, three fishermen languished. Two held poles but seemed to be more interested in watching us than their fishing gear. The third had stuck his pole in the sand and was enjoying sitting on the rocks, getting sunbaked. They lifted their hands in greeting; nothing too exuberant, just a bare wave and a huge smile.

My host had some business on the island. He later told us he met with pineapple growers and tasted some of the sweetest pineapple he had ever eaten. Unfortunately, he said, it did not travel well.

John went off to test the local watering holes, and since I felt that ten a.m. was a little early for strong drink, I headed out to explore the village. There wasn’t much to see. Along the wide dirt road were a handful of buildings, including a large concrete square with a sign advertising groceries, a one-pump gas station, a café, a souvenir shop with a front draped in tee shirts, and a small antique shop.

It was the antique shop that caught my immediate interest, for in its dusty window was a big block-letter sign that read BOOKS. I stepped into the shadowy interior and stood just inside while my eyes adjusted to the dark. The building was narrow and deep. Barely steps inside, I was surrounded by displays of dishes, glassware, teacups, and an assortment of bits and pieces in various shapes and materials that completely covered shelves and tables, and even the odd chair. They reminded me of the things my grandmother liked to display all over her house, and I thought I might find something for her among these island treasurers.

A small, thin man approached out of the darkness. His black round face was alight with two rows of shining white teeth, which he displayed in a big grin.

Welcome! Are you looking for something from our island to remember us? He said this in a soft singsong voice typical of the islands. His gentle voice and his big smile were contagious, and I found myself replying in an equally friendly voice. I told him I was drawn into his shop by the sign that said Books.

He led me in a zigzag route to the back of the shop, skirting tables loaded with bric-a-brac, chairs stacked one on the other, and a few bulky, heavily carved dressers that were popular at the turn of the century.

In the far back corner of the shop were several shelves of books. Fortunately, the shelves were next to a back window, which let in enough light to see the titles. The top two rows were crammed with paperback books. They all showed the effects of being well read, from ripped front covers to warped bindings, to smudges of Lord only knows what. The owner left me to wander back to his position outside the front of the shop, where he placed a folding chair so he could greet friends, neighbors, and visitors as they passed by.

I spotted a copy of The Fountainhead, which was in fairly readable condition. I pulled it off the shelf. A group of hardbacks were lined up on the shelf below the paperbacks, looking something like a parade of soldiers at attention with their black and brown covers and titles stamped in gold. Here again the condition of the books ranged from poor to one or two in good shape. I gave them a quick scan, but my eyes came to a sudden stop when they read Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. I eased the book off the shelf gently just in case it was in fragile condition. I was surprised and pleased when I discovered the pages and binding to be unsoiled and firm.

You are interested in pirates? I hadn’t heard the shop owner return, and his voice startled me, causing one of the books to slip from my hand. Fortunately, it was the paperback; Treasure Island was clutched in the vice-like grip of my right hand.

I guess everyone is a dreamer and is captured by the sense of adventure, I mumbled as I scooped up The Fountainhead.

A sense of adventure, he repeated with a chuckle. Then I have something for you.

On the floor beneath the shelves was a small square chest measuring not more than fifteen inches by fifteen inches. Rusty nails held the chest together, and bits of color could be seen here and there. A wide faded red stripe ran along the edge of the slightly curved lid. A sketch of a skull with part of a bone drawn under it was on one end, and on the other was what looked like the faint outline of a cutlass done in what was once probably a dark green but was now faded to a pale hint of its true color. The dark wooden chest was much battered, slightly warped, and missing the key plate. But the hinges and latch were in place, rusted but workable.

The proprietor cleared off a space on the nearest table. Lifting the chest, he placed it on the tabletop and carefully lifted its lid. Inside were a pile of papers and several journal-like books of various sizes. A musty smell whiffed up from the contents. I could tell, without touching them, that they were in poor shape. Covers were missing on some notebooks, and there was a stack of unbound pages. I peered at the scraps of paper and couldn’t imagine what interest I could have in them.

Before you look at these, let me tell you a story about them. The shopkeeper spoke reverently. They belonged to the Johnson family. Captain Charles Johnson came here to live on the island in the 1700s. A long time ago, no? He was an old man and took a young island wife who bore him a son. Island talk said the Captain was a pirate who had retired from the sea and sought peace and freedom. Well, peace you can certainly find on Eleuthera, and its name does mean Freedom. Here he paused, and I thought that might be the end of his story, but then he went on.

"Now the Captain, he had stories ’bout the sea, and the Captain, he liked to tell the chilen here ’bout his seafaring friends, and he ’specially liked to tell them about the lady pirates he knew about. Seems his hobby was collecting the stories of these hellions. Guess he came here with some of these stories, and over the years living here on the island, he managed to find some others. After he died, his son took up the hobby, and then his son followed in the family steps, and he too collected the words about female pirates.

When I was just a small child, the great-great-grandson of the Captain would give me a nickel to mail his letters and pick up his post. Well, now, the Johnsons never had a lot of chilen, not like a real Eleutheran family, and about three years ago, the last Johnson died. I guess Mr. Johnson appreciated me mailing letters for him, and he willed me these papers.

"I tried reading them, but they didn’t make too much sense to me, and I never been interested in the doings of pirates, ’specially women pirates. Don’t seem natural.

Now you seem like a learned one. I ’spect you might like these. So now you can look at them.

I tried to keep a solemn look on my face. It was hard; I had just heard one of the greatest con stories of all time. However, to satisfy this intriguing man, I nodded my head and looking down, slowly extracted one of the small books from the pile. The word Journal was embossed on its fine, slightly cracked, hand-tooled leather cover. I opened the book very carefully, as the cover and spine were hanging by threads. The writing was faded, and it was written with a flowing hand. The pages fell open to the middle.

September 18

Jack and I had another row. He is so jealous. However, I don’t care. I find in Mary Read the friendship and compatibility that I, Anne Bonny, have ever sought in my life but never discovered. I long to tell Jack the truth but have pledged to keep Mary’s secret.

I told Jack that all we do is talk, but he refuses to believe it. He announced he will kill him if I keep seeking him out.

Anne Bonny, the famous 1720s pirate! Surely this was a joke, but what a fabulous fake. The paper was old, and the writing typical of the few manuscripts I had seen of the 1700s and 1800s. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to forge this. I pulled another small booklet out. It was in very fragile condition. The pages were falling out, and the writing was in Latin. The cover bore the crest of Granuaile O’Malley. Grace O’Malley, who was known for her troubles with the English. Grace O’Malley, the scourge of the Irish Sea, who was reputed to be a very successful Irish pirate.

I didn’t give it much thought; I just knew I had to have these scraps of paper. Would you be willing to part with your inheritance?

The shopkeeper looked down at the floor. Time ticked on. Was it a minute? Ten minutes? It seemed like hours to me, but was probably no more than several seconds. I tried not to show my excitement, although my innards were boiling up with anticipation.

He looked up. As you say, it is my inheritance, and giving a self-depreciating smile, he looked around his shop. I have very little inheritance. But what am I to do with these precious papers? I am not a learned man, just a humble shopkeeper. They should be yours. Will you give me 150 American dollars for them?

That was the sum total of my monthly allowance. However, I could always wire home for more money to be picked up at our next stop. And the excitement of owning and reading these fabulous fakes was priceless.

I cannot give you $150. Will you consider $100?

Again, my shopkeeper studied the floor, as if the true answers were to be found on the dust on the wooden boards. I will sell them to you for $100, but only if you promise to keep them and pass them on to your sons and daughters with the story of Captain Johnson.

It was the greatest bargain of my life. Little did I know at the time that these papers were to become my life-long obsession.

I still have the small chest and its precious contents, and it will go to my heirs, but meanwhile I have searched out the best translators in Old English, Greek, Latin, and Chinese—yes, Chinese, for one of the most successful pirates was Ching Shih, who worked in the trade until the mid-eighteen hundreds. Ching Shih was an illiterate Canton whore who commanded thousands of pirates and hundreds of ships.

Forensic historian experts have certified that the papers and inks used in these writings are authentic to the time of the reports. Linguistic experts translated the papers into English for me where needed. I also spent money and time with historians of Maritime, European, and Oriental history. Each of the experts independently reported that there were a considerable amount of documented and recorded facts in the papers and journals, but as to their authenticity, none could positively verify that these journals and papers were real. I can only conclude that these papers are either one of the greatest sea treasurers ever found, or the biggest maritime hoax ever perpetuated.

It seems the Johnson family was also concerned about authenticity. Their log notes that several of the pirate women’s stories that included government documents were checked out for quotes and details. Apparently, they found no discrepancies between the chest’s contents and the official documents. If they did find any inaccurate information, it was never noted on the log.

The amount of available information on these women is as varied as the women themselves. On Anne Bonny and Grace O’Malley, government documents exist that go back to their times. These documents, letters, and messages reveal that much of what has been written about them is true. There is less evidence for the other pirates, and in the case of Sadie Farrell, there is only the one source. Regardless of this paucity of creditable information, her story is so entertaining that it is one of my favorites.

There were several journals and a large stack of papers in the chest. Not all the papers were in good condition. A devastating hurricane had hit Eleuthera in the early 1900s, and some of the loose sheets had sustained minor water damage. These droplets caused some words to be smudged, but overall the papers were very readable. In a few instances, there were one or two words that could not be read. This damage was so slight that the total contents did not suffer.

Several of the journals also had pages with small watermarks, but the watermarks on the journal pages did not make any words indistinguishable. Other than this minor damage, the whole of the journals was in excellent shape,