Captain Kidd Ship Found

Yahoo ^ | Dec. 13, 2007 | LiveScience Staff

[AnAmericanMother]

Depends on what you want.

Kenneth Roberts is more of a straightforward adventure writer. It's the byways and sidetrails and local color and dialogue that attracts me to Donn Byrne.

His account of the fox hunt in Hangman's House is absolutely dead on the money, I have met most of the characters he describes . . .

[steveyp]

I read “The Pirate Hunter: The True Story of Captain Kidd”. The same author did “The Pirate Coast”. Both books were very good.

I can’t say I particularly care about pirates nor do I look forward to talk like a pirate day. I just like the author.

[Peter Libra]

One of my favorite songs, The Highwayman, starts with Willie singing:

A fine dashing lad indeed. I was just about to go out to Albert Gore's global warming country - in fahrenheit, 13 deg, bright sunshine and wind chill worse. I find all this refreshingly on going. For the poem I remember was also the "Highwayman" by Henry Newbolt.

It told the unlikely tale of the redcoats waiting at the inn for the highwayman. They knew he had a rendezvous with a pretty maid. Unlikely, but she was bound tight and then managed to touch off a musket,when her man came riding up. She died from the discharge. He took off. He heard of what happened. Herewith from fifty year memory.

Back he spurred like a madman
Shouting a curse to the sky
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high
When they shot him down on the highway, down like a dog on the highway.
With a bunch of lace at his throat.

Oh well, back to reality (chuckle).

[Peter Libra]

Whoops, missed a line or two there, something about the moon being blood red. More haste less speed. Back at 4pm.

[AnAmericanMother]

We used to recite that -- back when schoolchildren still learned pieces for recitation --

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Alfred Noyes wrote it, btw.

[Liberty Valance]

bttt - most interesting.

[Peter Libra]

Your post #69 appreciated.

Looks like a stocky and well preserved Captain Kidd. Said to be done to deter would be criminals. Stories about about a person hanged for pick pocketing and while the poor wretch was being "topped" (old London expression) attention was riveted on that.

Then the pick pockets got to work on the onlookers.

[Peter Libra]

Your correction noted- Alfred Noyes was the poet, not Henry Newbolt

Back he spurred like a madman,shrieking a curse to the sky
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high
Blood red were his spurs i' the golden noon;wine red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down on the highway, down like a dog on the highway!
And he lay in his blood on the highway with a bunch of lace at his throat

Hopefully a little closer to my original attempt.

[AnAmericanMother]

And apropos of the pirate hanging in chains, have you read R.L. Stevenson's sequel to Kidnapped? It's called Catriona in Britain, and David Balfour in America.

Great scene where Davie meets a crazy old woman sitting under the gallows on his way into Edinburgh to give evidence in the Appin murder . . . .

Here I got a fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; and a little beyond, on the wayside, came by a gibbet and two men hanged in chains. They were dipped in tar, as the manner is; the wind span them, the chains clattered, and the birds hung about the uncanny jumping-jacks and cried. The sight coming on me suddenly, like an illustration of my fears, I could scarce be done with examining it and drinking in discomfort. And, as I thus turned and turned about the gibbet, what should I strike on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind a leg of it, and nodded, and talked aloud to herself with becks and courtesies.

“Who are these two, mother?” I asked, and pointed to the corpses.

“A blessing on your precious face!” she cried. “Twa joes o’mine: just two o’ my old joes, my hinny dear.”

“What did they suffer for?” I asked.

“Ou, just for the guid cause,” said she. “Aften I spaed to them the way that it would end. Twa shillin’ Scots: no pickle mair; and there are twa bonny callants hingin’ for ’t! They took it frae a wean belanged to Brouchton.”

“Ay!” said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, “and did they come to such a figure for so poor a business? This is to lose all indeed.”

“Gie’s your loof, hinny,” says she, “and let me spae your weird to ye.”

“No, mother,” said I, “I see far enough the way I am. It’s an unco thing to see too far in front.”

“I read it in your bree,” she said. “There’s a bonnie lassie that has bricht een, and there’s a wee man in a braw coat, and a big man in a pouthered wig, and there’s the shadow of the wuddy, joe, that lies braid across your path. Gie’s your loof, hinny, and let Auld Merren spae it to ye bonny.”

The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan and the daughter of James More struck me hard; and I fled from the eldritch creature, casting her a baubee, which she continued to sit and play with under the moving shadows of the hanged.

[AnAmericanMother]

One more (you seem to have uncorked my 'literature about the gallows' file):

On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
The sheep beside me graze;
And yon the gallows used to clank
Fast by the four cross ways.

A careless shepherd once would keep
The flocks by moonlight there,
And high amongst the glimmering sheep
The dead man stood on air.

They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:
The whistles blow forlorn,
And trains all night groan on the rail
To men that die at morn.

There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night,
Or wakes, as may betide,
A better lad, if things went right,
Than most that sleep outside.

And naked to the hangman's noose
The morning clocks will ring
A neck God made for other use
Than strangling in a string.

And sharp the link of life will snap,
And dead on air will stand
Heels that held up as straight a chap
As treads upon the land.

So here I'll watch the night and wait
To see the morning shine,
When he will hear the stroke of eight
And not the stroke of nine;

And wish my friend as sound a sleep
As lads' I did not know,
That shepherded the moonlit sheep
A hundred years ago.

A.E. Housman

[Peter Libra]

Love it.

I am going to send you a private mail on these subjects.

Before we get thrown off the site. LOL

[Dr. Scarpetta]

Thanks for telling that story about Captain Kidd hanging there for such a long time. I had never heard it before.

[AnAmericanMother]

Hey, we’re sticking to the topic here! (Simply expanding on it somewhat, but I think it’s what could be called “a fair interpolation.”)

[Peter Libra]

Mail for you. To explain.

[SunkenCiv]

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[SunkenCiv]

Thanks, I somehow missed this.