Post-classical history


Rich Caskets of Home-Spun Valour: Fighting Back Against the Pirates


Just after dawn on January 12, 1617, the morning watch aboard the Dolphin caught sight of a sail making toward them from the Sardinian shore. She was still a mile or so away, but as she came closer the sailor could see that she was a two-masted settee, the kind of ship which was often used by the Turks to transport men and supplies. That meant there were likely to be other Turks in the area.

The watch woke the master, a Mr. Nichols, who sent a man up into the maintop with a prospect glass, a new and useful device for seeing faraway things as if they were nearby. Sure enough, a line of five men-of-war in full sail was coming up on them before the wind. And they were pirates.

We know this because an unnamed member of the Dolphin’s crew wrote a narrative of the day’s events—one of a handful of extraordinary eyewitness accounts of encounters with pirates that appeared in the late 1610s and early 1620s, describing in vivid detail what it felt like to be attacked on the high seas.

The 280-ton Dolphin was on her way home to London and eleven days out from her last port of call, the Ionian island of Zante, an important center of trade in honey, oil, wine, and currants. She had left Zante on January 1, 1617, and in a little over a week “a prosperous gale” had carried her westward past Sicily, until she was within sight of the watchtowers which lined the coast of Spanish-held Sardinia.1 But contrary winds had held her there, south of Cagliari and three leagues to the east of Cape Pula on Sardinia’s southern tip. These were dangerous waters, where corsairs from Tunis and Algiers cruised with impunity.

The five pirates were “all well prepared for any desperate assault,” wrote the anonymous author of A Fight at Sea, Famously Fought by the Dolphin of London.2 The leading ship was carrying thirty-five guns. The other four had between twenty-two and twenty-five apiece. All five had crews which were 200 to 250 strong. The Dolphin was outgunned and outnumbered.

But she was not defenseless. She was armed with nineteen heavy guns, nine antipersonnel “murderers,” and an assortment of muskets, pikes, and swords; and her crew of thirty-six men and two boys included at least one master gunner, whose job it was in situations like this to turn ordinary seamen into soldiers. Since there was no chance of outrunning the pirates, and since they lay between the Dolphin and the safety of the shore, Mr. Nichols immediately decided to fight. Small arms and swords were handed out, and all the paraphernalia of violence was checked and distributed—the round-shot and hail-shot and chain-shot, the powder measures and ladles and rammers and sponges, the baskets to carry the shot to each piece, the barrels to carry the powder, the wedge-shaped quoins used to adjust the elevation of each gun barrel, and the fuses used to fire the cannon.

Then the crew assembled on deck and prayed together, before sitting down with remarkable sangfroid to an early dinner, which was followed by a rousing speech from Mr. Nichols.

A sea battle was a slow, complicated, and chaotic business, especially for merchantmen who weren’t used to fighting. In his 1626 manual on seafaring, An Accidence, or The Path-way to Experience Necessary for All Young Sea-men, Captain John Smith offered a dramatic description of an encounter with an enemy ship:

A broadside, and run ahead. Make ready to tack about. Give him your stern pieces, be yare [ready] at helm, hail him with a noise of trumpets.

We are shot through and through, and between wind and water [on that part of the ship’s side exposed by the rolling of the vessel]. Try the pump. Master, let us breath and refresh a little; sling a man overboard to stop the leak.

Done, done, is all ready again? Yea, yea: bear up close with him, with all your great and small shot charge him. Board him on his weather quarter [the stern quarter on which the wind blows]; lash fast your graplins [grappling irons] and shear off, then run stemlings [ram her] the midships. Board and board, or thwart the hawse [pull alongside, or cross her bow]. We are foul [tangled] on each other.

The ship’s on fire! Cut anything to get clear, and smother the fire with wet clothes.

We are clear, and the fire is out, God be thanked. The day is spent; let us consult. Surgeon, look to the wounded. Wind up the slain, with each a weight or bullet at his head and feet; give three pieces [fire a three-gun salute] for their funerals.

Swabber, make clean the ship. Purser, record their names. Watch, be vigilant to keep your berth [position] to windward, and that we lose him not in the night. Gunners, sponge your ordnances; soldiers, scour your pieces. Carpenters, about your leaks. Boatswain and the rest, repair the sails and shrouds. Cook, see you observe your directions against the morning watch.3

There can’t have been a man aboard the Dolphin who didn’t play out a scene like this in his head as he waited for the action to begin. By the time the meal was over it was nearly eleven a.m., and the leading pirate ships were closing. In a show of defiance, Mr. Nichols stood on the poop deck in plain view of his pursuers and waved his sword at them three times, “shaking it with such dauntless courage as if he had already won the victory.” 4 His men followed suit; the ship’s trumpeters blew their trumpets; and as the first of the pirates came within range, Nichols gave the order for his gunner to take aim and fire.

It was very hard to hit another ship. William Bourne, whose 1587 manual on The Arte of Shooting in Great Ordnaunce was a standard text for gunners, devoted an entire chapter to the problem. In a pitching sea, when your ship was rocking from bow to stern, it was best to place your gun on the lowest deck and as near as possible to the mainmast, the point at which she “doth hang as though she were upon an axiltree.”5 Similiarly, if the vessel was rolling, then “the best place of the ship for to make a shot is out of the head or stern.”6 In either case, reckoned Bourne, “the principallest thing is that he that is at the helm must be sure to steer steady, and be ruled by him that giveth the level [i.e., adjusts the elevation of the gun], and he that giveth fire, must be nimble, and ready at a sudden.”7

In practice, it was usual to fire point-blank—that is, when you were so close to your adversary that your shot would travel in a virtually straight line and you didn’t have to worry about the arc of trajectory. That meant closing to within a hundred yards or so of the target, and since that involved your target’s guns coming within point-blank range of you, it required an iron nerve, especially if you weren’t particularly experienced in combat.

All of which is by way of excusing the fact that the Dolphin’s gunner missed.

The man in charge of the pirate fleet was a one-armed Londoner named Robert Walsingham, whose addiction to piracy had led to his being forced out of Ireland and then Morocco before settling on Algiers as his base of operations. He usually hunted with two other British pirates, Captains Kelly and Sampson, both of whom were with him now. Walsingham immediately returned fire, aiming to disable the Dolphin and demoralize her crew. At noon he drew alongside and his men clambered aboard, yelling and waving scimitars, hatchets, and pikes. They hacked at the planking on the raised poop deck and tried to prize open the main hatch to get at the cargo below.

Fear and intimidation were the pirates’ most potent weapons. But the Dolphin’s crewmen held their nerve and bided their time. When they were sure of their targets they opened fire with one of the antipersonnel “murderers,” which their gunner had mounted in a cabin under the poop so as to be able to rake anyone who came into view on the open deck. In a hail of dice-shot the boarders were forced back onto their own vessel, only to come under musket fire from more of the defenders, who shot from the cover of the closed-in gallery which ran round the Dolphin’s stern below the poop deck. At the same time, the Dolphin’s gunner directed his heavy ordnance at Walsingham’s ship, now so close that it was hard to miss. The pirates returned fire; but whereas the Dolphin was intent on causing them major structural damage, the pirates had no wish to sink the ship and confined themselves to aiming rounds of chain-shot at their adversary’s masts and rigging. After several hours the pirate ship had sustained enough damage for Walsingham to break off the engagement, and as he pulled ahead of the Dolphin, she gave his vessel such a broadside that it played no further part in the battle.

The Dolphin’s troubles weren’t over yet. Captain Kelly moved up on one side, and another unnamed pirate commander came up on the other, and so they sandwiched the merchantman between them. Parties from both vessels boarded the Dolphin, “entering our ship thick and threefold, with their scimitars, hatchets, half pikes and other weapons.”8 One of the Turks climbed into the rigging and up the mainmast, determined to bring down the flag, “which being spied by the steward of our ship, presently shot him with his musket that he fell headlong into the sea, leaving the flag behind him.”9 Again the pirates were forced back to their own vessels; and again they drew off to mend their leaks, “for we had grievously torn and battered them with our great ordnance.”10

The final assault came late in the afternoon. By now the Dolphin was badly damaged herself, shot through and through and leaking. Several of the crew were dead; others were hurt, including Mr. Nichols, who had been shot twice in the groin while he stood at the helm, trying to hold the ship steady for the guns. But there was still powder and shot, and the knowledge that by resisting they had forfeited any hope of mercy gave the survivors a desperate courage. They had no choice now but to fight.

As the last two pirate ships closed in, shot from the Dolphin’s guns went straight through the hull of one of them, and its pirate commander aborted the attack. The other vessel came up on the starboard quarter, and yet again Janissaries stormed aboard. They were blowing trumpets, running to and fro on the deck and “crying still in the Turkish tongue, yield your selves, yield your selves,” and throwing grenades filled with wildfire, an incendiary mixture of gunpowder, brimstone, and oil of petrol, which, “being once set on fire can hardly be quenched.”11 It must have been terrifying.

One ball of wildfire landed in the basin which the ship’s surgeon was using to tend a wounded man, and with commendable presence of mind he hurled the basin into the sea; but others landed on the deck in the midst of some bloody hand-to-hand fighting, and almost before anyone realized what was happening the Dolphin was burning.

Ironically, this potentially catastrophic fire saved both the ship and the lives of its surviving crew. As the flames took hold, the pirate captain called his men back. “Thinking that our ship would have therewith been suddenly burned to the water, they left us to our fortunes.”12 The corsair fleet fell astern, and as night came on and the crew managed to bring the fire under control, the battered Dolphin limped toward the Sardinian coast and safety. She was badly damaged in four places: between decks, in the gunroom, in Mr. Nichols’s cabin, and in the helmsman’s cabin, where the master had been standing when he was shot. Of the ship’s complement of thirty-eight, seven were killed in the battle and nine more injured. Four of these had died of their wounds by the time the ship put in at Cagliari for repairs. Mr. Nichols was one of the survivors.

There were plenty of occasions when merchant ships outran pirates, but victory in pitched battle, especially against such overwhelming odds, was a rare event. One of the survivors “that was then present and an eye witness to all the proceedings” published his narrative of the Dolphin’s encounter soon after he reached London in February 1617. He gave due thanks to God and praised “the magnanimity and worthy resolution of this our English nation.” He might also have pointed out the advantages of providing merchant ships with heavy ordnance, a decisive factor in theDolphin’s deliverance. But his real purpose was to celebrate the courage of ordinary seamen, who were often criticized at home—particularly by the merchants and shipowners who had to bear the loss—for yielding too quickly and giving up their cargo to save their own skins. The anonymous author of A Fight at Sea was at pains to emphasize that the Dolphin’s crew chose “rather to die, than to yield, as it is still the nature and condition of all Englishmen.”13

Four years after the Dolphin’s clash with Walsingham’s pirates, the affair of the Jacob offered England another opportunity to celebrate the bravery of English sailors.

Toward the end of October 1621, the 120-ton Jacob of Bristol was passing through the Straits of Gibraltar when she was attacked and captured by a squadron of Algerian corsairs. The pirates ransacked the ship, shackled most of the Englishmen belowdecks on a corsair vessel, and installed a crew to sail their prize to Algiers. Four youths—John Cooke, William Ling, David Jones, and Robert Tuckey—were kept aboard the Jacob to help sail her to Algiers.

For five days and nights the Jacob sailed east, along the coast of Morocco, past Cape Tres Forcas and tiny Spanish-held Alborán Island, all the time coming closer to a future that looked distinctly bleak for the four English boys. All they had to look forward to was “to eat the bread of affliction in the galleys all the remainder of their unfortunate lives, to have their heads shaven, to feed on coarse diet, to have hard boards for beds, and which was worst of all, never to be partakers of the heavenly word and sacraments.”14

The wind began to rise late on the fifth night. By the early hours of the following morning the Jacob was being tossed around the ocean at the mercy of one of the sudden and violent storms that afflict the Mediterranean between mid-October and mid-March. Robert Tuckey was at the helm. John Cooke, William Ling, and David Jones were together on deck, wrestling with the rigging. They struck the topsails, and then, realizing they were going to have to strike the mainsail as well, called out for help. The pirate captain, “a strong, able, stern and resolute fellow,”15 came to their aid, and as the four of them struggled to haul in the billowing canvas, Cooke and Jones seized their chance and toppled him over the side.

He came back. By a stroke of good fortune (for him, though not for the boys) the man fell into the belly of the sail, and he grabbed hold of a rope and began to haul himself back up to the deck.

But his good fortune was about to run out. Seeing what was happening, Cooke dashed to the mainmast, wrenched the wooden handle off the pump that stood there, and threw it across to Ling, yelling at him over the roar of the wind to clout the pirate with it before he could climb over the gunwale. Ling smashed the pump handle down on the man’s head and he fell back into the sea and vanished.

There were still twelve pirates to contend with. Five or six were forward, busy trimming the foresail, while the rest were gathered aft. It was pitch-dark, and the noise of the wind “whizzing and hizzing in the shrouds and cordage” had drowned out the captain’s cries.16 Cooke remembered there were weapons unsecured in the master’s cabin, and, pushing past some Turks in the darkness, he burst in, grabbed two cutlasses, and handed one to Ling. The two youths laid into their captors, stabbing two of them to death and slashing so savagely at a third that he leapt overboard to escape them.

That left nine bewildered and surprised Turks, who were chased round the ship by these two cutlass-wielding boys, all the time slashing and cutting at them, until they ran belowdecks and Cooke secured the hatch.

Robert Tuckey was at the helm all this time. (There was no wheel. Until the beginning of the eighteenth century, larger sailing ships were steered with a whipstaff, a vertical wooden rod that was attached to the tiller.) Now, as Tuckey struggled to keep the Jacob steady, the whipstaff fell loose in his hand. In desperation, the pirates below had broken the link with the tiller, and the ship “lay tumbling and rolling unguided in the raging and boisterous billows of the sea.”17

The pirates must have hoped that their action would at least prompt the boys to negotiate. They reckoned without John Cooke and William Ling, whose reaction to Tuckey’s announcement that he no longer had the helm was to load a pair of muskets, go belowdecks, and threaten to shoot their erstwhile captors dead. Within minutes the Turks had reconnected the whipstaff and delivered control of the vessel back to Tuckey.

The Jacob survived the storm, and the next day the boys set a course for Spain. By keeping the nine pirates belowdecks and calling up two or three at a time to undertake “necessary and laborious employments,” they eventually reached St. Lucas, where they sold the pirates for galley slaves and, presumably, took on fresh crew before sailing the Jacob home to Bristol and fame.

On their return to England their exploits were celebrated in print; and as with the Dolphin, the anonymous author took the opportunity to emphasize that the boys were from humble backgrounds:

Had John Cooke been some colonel, captain, or commander, or Williame Ling, some navigating lord, or David Jones some gentleman of land and riches, or had Robert Tuckey been one of fortune’s minions, to have had more money than wit, or more wealth than valour, oh what a triumphing had here been then.18

But these “four rich caskets of home-spun valour and courage” were just ordinary people performing acts of extraordinary bravery. Their actions made Bristol famous and Britain glorious.

A year later, on December 26, 1622, the Jacob was again attacked by pirates near the Straits. This time she put up a fight and was sunk, with the loss of all hands except two, who were rescued by the Turks and sold as slaves in Algiers. There is no record of what happened to the four boys.

In the middle of November 1621, two small English merchantmen, the Nicholas and the George Bonaventure, were in the Straits, within sight of Gibraltar, when they were intercepted and boarded by a squadron of three pirate ships. This was only a couple of weeks after the Jacob was first attacked, and the same pirates may have been responsible in both cases. They already had two prizes and a quantity of English prisoners, so they had been on the cruise in the Straits for some time; and their tactics were similar. They put a prize crew of thirteen into the Nicholas and left four English crewmen on board to help them while keeping the rest belowdecks on one of the pirate vessels.

The master of the Nicholas was John Rawlins, an experienced West Country mariner with a disabled hand who had been sailing out of Plymouth for twenty-three years without incident. Before he saw his home again he was to become involved in one of the most audacious acts of mutiny in the history of Barbary Coast piracy.

Along with the rest of the captives, Rawlins was brought into Algiers, valued, and put up for sale in the qasbah. “Although we had heavy hearts, and looked with sad countenances,” he later recalled, “yet many came to behold us, sometimes taking us by the hand, sometime turning us round about, sometimes feeling our brawns [i.e., muscles], and naked arms, and so beholding our prices written in our breasts, they bargained for us accordingly.” 19 Because of his disability Rawlins was the last to be sold. He was bought for 150 doubles (about £7.50) by the pirate who had taken him, a renegade named Villa Raïs.

The fact that a pirate had to buy his own prisoner is a reminder of how formalized the slave trade was on the Barbary Coast: just like the captain of a Levant Company merchantman, Villa Raïs worked in partnership with financial backers who sponsored his expedition in return for a share of the profits.

What happened next to Rawlins also sheds light on the logistics of piracy and the economics of slavery. After being put to work repairing Villa Raïs’s ship over the winter, he was sold to an English renegade, John Goodale. Goodale’s captain, Ramadan Raïs—a candlemaker’s son from Southwark, who until his conversion to Islam had been Henry Chandler—had just bought a ship, the Exchange of Bristol, from some Turks who had captured her earlier that year. He and Goodale intended to take her out hunting as soon as possible, and since neither man was a particularly experienced mariner they were in need of a good pilot. Villa Raïs demanded 300 doubles for Rawlins—twice the price he had paid for him only a few weeks previously—and after some haggling, Goodale and two more Turks formed a consortium to buy him, putting up 100 doubles each.

The Exchange set sail from Algiers, streamers and banners flying, on January 7, 1622. She was armed with “12 good cast pieces, and all manner of munition and provision,”20 and a polyglot crew consisting of sixty-five Muslims, a number of whom were European renegades; one French slave; nine English slaves (including Rawlins and two of his men from the Nicholas); and four free Dutchmen.

From the start, Rawlins refused to accept his fate, ranting against “these cruel Mahometan dogs” and their treatment of him so violently that the other slaves begged him to be quiet or it would be the worse for all of them. He responded with a question:

The worse? What can be worse? Death is the determiner of all misery, and torture can last but a while. But to be continually a dying, and suffer all indignity and reproach, and in the end to have no welcome but into the house of slaughter or bondage, is unsufferable, and more than flesh and bloud can endure. And therefore by that salvation which Christ hath brought, I will either attempt my deliverance at one time, or another, or perish in the enterprise.21

As the Exchange cruised toward the Spanish coast and the Straits, Rawlins devised a desperate plan to take over the ship and sail it back to England. If enough of the crew could be persuaded to help, he was convinced it would be possible to jam shut or bind up all the cabin doors, gratings, and portholes when Chandler and his confederates were belowdecks. This would buy the mutineers enough time to storm the gunroom. Once in control of the ordnance, they would be in a position either to blow the pirates into the air “or kill them as they adventured to come down, one by one, if they should by any chance open their cabins.”22 With some effort, he managed to convince his fellow slaves that his plan was their only hope of freedom. Then he took a couple of English renegades into his confidence, and the four Dutch Christians, who in turn persuaded two Dutch renegades to join with them. The signal for the mutiny to begin was a cry of “For God and King James and St. George for England!”

This still left the rebels facing odds of more than three to one. But as the days went by and the Exchange headed toward the Atlantic in search of prey, the pirates unwittingly conspired to reduce them. In the middle of January they chased a little three-masted polacre aground on the Spanish coast; when the crew ran off, Captain Chandler (a.k.a. Ramadan Raïs) refloated her and put a prize crew of nine Turks and one slave aboard to sail her back to Algiers.

Then on February 6, off Cape Finisterre, the pirates captured a bark on its way home to Torbay with a cargo of Portuguese salt; Chandler brought seven of the English crew aboard the Exchange and replaced them with ten Turks (three of whom, however, were renegades who were in on Rawlins’s plan). The Torbay men agreed to join the mutiny, and that meant there were twenty-one rebels pitting themselves against a pirate force of forty-five.

When the sun rose the next day, there was no sign of the Torbay bark. (The renegades had decided to persevere with their plan: they secretly set a course for England during the night, and the first the other pirates knew of it was when they came within sight of the Cornish coast and puzzled “that that land was not like Cape Vincent.”23) Chandler was so angry at the loss of his prize that he threatened to turn the Exchange for Algiers, and although he eventually calmed down, Rawlins decided he must act quickly if they weren’t to lose their opportunity. On February 8 he took Chandler down into the hold and showed him a quantity of water that had gathered in the bow. There was nothing unusual in that, but Rawlins convinced the captain that it wasn’t coming to the pump, which was placed amidships, because the Exchange was “too far after the head”—that is, her bow was too low in the water. Chandler’s only course of action, he said, was to drag four of the heavy pieces of ordnance aft—Rawlins’s confederates lashed two of them down on the deck with their barrels pointing at the poop deck—and to order as many men as possible to gather on the poop. The weight of men and ordnance would bring the stern down, so that Rawlins and the other slaves could pump out the water from the hold.

Chandler followed Rawlins’s advice, and all day the slaves manned the pumps, while twenty or so pirates lounged around on the poop deck. The routine was repeated the next day, February 9, and again half the pirate crew was ordered to gather on the poop, in order to bring up the bow.

At two o’clock that afternoon one of the rebels fired off one of the guns. The report, which splintered the binnacle housing and threw the pirates into confusion, was the signal for the rebels to storm the gunroom and grab all the muskets they could find. Chandler, who had been writing in his cabin, dashed out on deck waving his cutlass, only to come face-to-face with Rawlins, at which he threw down his cutlass and begged for mercy.

The other pirates were made of sterner stuff. They set to work to tear up the planking of the deck with anything they could find—hammers, hatchets, knives, cutlasses, boathooks, and oars, even the stones and bricks from the cookhouse chimney. Their object was not only to get at the slaves, most of whom were belowdecks, but also to break through to the helm and thus take control of the Exchange. But these pirates were too late. The rebels subjected them to volley after volley of musket fire from cover, killing some and injuring more, until at last the Turks called for a truce and asked to negotiate with Rawlins. With an armed guard he went up to talk with them “and understood them by their kneeling, that they cried for mercy, and to have their lives saved, and they would come down, which he bade them do.”24

But he wasn’t interested in mercy. He was too angry, too exhilarated at the uprising’s success, and—perhaps—too well aware that he and his men were still outnumbered and that thirty-odd prisoners would pose a threat to the ship’s security. So he did something which to twenty-first-century sensibilities seems terrible. As the beaten pirates clambered down belowdecks, one by one, they were disarmed, bound—and then killed with their own cutlasses. The screams of the dying soon alerted their comrades above to the awful truth of what was happening, and a few jumped overboard in a futile attempt to escape. For the rest, Rawlins’s men moved through the ship, cutting down anyone who resisted and putting those who didn’t in manacles before tipping them into the sea to drown.

Captain Chandler begged Rawlins for his life, reminding him that if it wasn’t for him the pilot would still be working in Algiers as Villa Raïs’s slave. Rawlins lectured him as he knelt on deck, berating him with “the fearfulness of his apostasy from Christianity, the unjustifiable course of piracy, the extreme cruelty of the Turks in general, the fearful proceedings of Algiers against us in particularly, the horrible abuses of the Moors to Christians, and the execrable blasphemies they use both against God and men.”25

But he did spare Chandler’s life, along with those of his master, John Goodale, the renegade who had helped the mutineers, and four Turks “who were willing to be reconciled to their true Saviour.”26 When the killing was done and the ship had been cleared of corpses, Rawlins assembled his men together and led them in a prayer of thanksgiving. The Exchange arrived to a hero’s welcome at Plymouth four days later, on February 13, 1622.

That summer Rawlins published his own account of his adventures (with a little literary help, no doubt). He dedicated it, “an unpolished work of a poor sailor,” to the Lord High Admiral, the Marquess of Buckingham, and, like the authors of the narratives about the Dolphin and the Jacob, he used the story to remind his readers of the courage with which ordinary seamen faced the most appalling hardships. But in his preface he went further, asking Buckingham himself to show greater compassion:

For though you have greater persons, and more braving spirits to lie over our heads, and hold inferiors in subjection; yet are we the men that must pull the ropes, weigh up the anchors, toil in the night, endure the storms, sweat at the helm, watch the biticle [binnacle], attend the compass, guard the ordnance, keep the night hours, and be ready for all impositions.27

Elsewhere, Rawlins’s narrative suggests a hardening of attitudes, not so much in the brutal treatment he and his men meted out to their erstwhile masters (which the seventeenth century considered perfectly acceptable in the aftermath of any violent confrontation) as in the rage and contempt he showed toward Barbary and Islam. According to him, a European could turn Turk for one of two reasons. Either captives convinced themselves that any religion would serve, and renounced their Christian faith in the hope of obtaining wealth and liberty; or they were tortured into submission, beaten until “their tongues betray their hearts to a most fearful wickedness.” He railed against “Mahometan tyranny,” seethed at “their filthiness and impieties,” and ridiculed as superstition and witchcraft the “foolish rites” he witnessed aboard ship.28 The pirates of Algiers weren’t just pirates; they were devils.

The Other had become the Enemy.

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