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Publicity
The Newport Mercury
June 8-June 24 2008
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Searching
for Jack Sparrow
In a city with a long and colorful
pirate history,
MATT KEEFER joins a saucy crew for a
day.
So
you’ve watched the “Pirates of the Caribbean” trilogy a
dozen times; so those posters of Dustin Hoffman as Captain Hook
are still up in your room. What is it you don’t already know
about pirates from Johnny Depp? I’ve come to learn the answer to
this question from Rhode Island Pirate Players’ Casey Dorham —
I mean, Captain Atwood.
Thirty-one years of age, he offers his hand to
me, his young apprentice. “I’m the CEO, president, captain,
and head mate of the RIPP.” He takes a drag from his cigarette.
The
40-year-old bosun’s mate, Doug “Tar” Frangillo, makes his
acquaintance to me. A cutlass and pistol swing on his side;
apparently he’s here to protect the captain. I’m beginning to
think maybe I could use the protection.
But
don’t worry, unlike most pirates, these fellows aren’t
interested in stealing your ship. Or maybe I should correct
myself; they’re interested in obtaining a ship for their travels
and perhaps grogging at sea, but they’re especially interested
in performing their pirate history at libraries, parties and other
functions.
Captain
Atwood offers me a change of clothes for our tour from his bag. A
rough cotton shirt, a pair of complicated breeches and long
crimson stockings. It’s all about style.
And
he shows me some leather straps.
“What
are those for?” He points to his leg, just above the calf.
It’s wrapped around his sock rather fashionably. That is, for a
pirate.
After 10 minutes of fussing with
the breeches, we embark upon Newport. We start at the Colony
House, where Charles Harris and his 25-man crew were tried for
acts of piracy in 1723. They were hung and buried under the Hyatt
Regency Newport at Goat Island.
| “So
as a pirate, I’d generally want to stay away from here,” I
say.
But
Atwood explains that if you “found” an “abandoned
ship,” the Colony House is where you’d go to make it legal
so you could sell it. It would only cost a few bribes to the
head magistrate.
Even back in the 17th and 18th
centuries, Rhode Island had established a proud history of
bribes and corruption.
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Often
a den for pirates and privateers, or government-sanctioned
raiders, the colony almost had its charter revoked in the 1720s
because of its notoriety. Known as “Rogue’s Island” and
generally considered a den of thieves, its general anarchy and
godlessness caused the Rev. Cotton Mather to declare that the
colony would never see an Anglican minister. But for his worth,
Mather, a prolific and superstitious author, is generally
credited with inciting the Salem Witch trials.
Before
1720, Atwood explains, Rhode Island had no Admiralty Corps, which
meant there was no criminal charge for being a pirate. It changed
when John Hore retired from piracy and established the Corps in
1694. Atwood is understanding of the cutthroat. “Man did what
he had to do.”
“What’s
the general run of a pirate?” I motion a noose around my neck.
“Two
to three years.”
And
he corrects me: often disease and battles were a pirate’s
options for retirement, with hanging a distant third. Then why
all the craze over Jack Sparrow? The options for the colonials
were few, and pirating actually was among the best of them. A guy
with short hair yells out to us.
Can I join your crew? I drink
like a fish.”
Atwood responds. “We
gang-press: join us or die, can you do any less?”
Which was the main recruitment
method for pirates, much like the British Royal Navy at the time.
But unlike the Royal Navy,
pirate ships were run more-or-less democratically, with its crew
voting on important matters such as punishments. And also unlike
the Brits, a pirate captain could offer compensation for lost
parts.
Atwood tells me that a pirate
captain would determine how much for a lost eye or lost hand, “A
right hand is worth more than a left,” he explained. And if
times were bad, the ship would stay out at sea until they
collected compensation for the partial crewmember. We head over to
the White Horse Tavern, owned by famous and beloved pirate Willam
Mayes Jr. in 1702.
They offer us drinks on the
house and we sit down. We are joined by our surgeon Mr.
Hutchins, known to landlubbers as David Olszew. The 31-year old
wants to make sure Atwood went over the cure for venereal disease.
“A syringe of mercury, up the
urethra.
Pretty much mercury was a
cure-all.”
Atwood nods. He mentions
something about “young ladies of negotiable virtue” and
“two-penny uprights.”
“What’s a two-penny
upright?”
“It’s a prostitute,” he
whispers loudly.
“Oh.”
Maybe I should just stick to
pirate movies.
Matt Keefer thinks he looks
fine in that osnaburg shirt, though you can judge him at next
year’s Pirate Fest Fashion Show.
Yes, pirates have a need for fashion,
too.
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