XIMr. May’s premonition was justified by the event. On Wednesday, November 26, 1696, at Execution Dock—which overlooks the Thames at Blackwall, and was the usual place of punishment for Admiralty felons—he and his fellow defendants were hanged.Reading his quaint story (which in substance was his evidence at his trial) we get the idea that if he and his fellow accused were to be convicted at all it should have been for the capture of theGunswayand not for the theft of theCharles the Second. Mr. May is borne out by the record when he says that he was convicted of the latter offense by the five words of Mate Gravet: to wit, that May knew of the plot.But there was no proof to support Gravet’s statement other than the word of one Creagh, to whom, as we have seen, Mr. May rather bitterly alludes, and accuses of seeking to serve his own interest in a serious scrape in which he had become involved. Creagh would seem quite unreliable. He had been one of the men who had left theCharles the Secondat the Groyne, on Henry Avery’s invitation to all who had not spirit enough to go along with him and collecttheir back pay to depart more or less in peace. Reaching England again, he fell in with an adventurous young chap by the name of Vaughan, who was then signing men on theLoyal Clancarty, a small sloop which Vaughan planned to, and did, turn over to the service of the then exiled Stuart king, James the Second, and in which Vaughan disturbed the shipping of the government until he was run down and captured in the Channel, after a fight in which the attackers had to wade to theClancartythrough the shallows, with their weapons over their heads to keep them dry. He and his crew were taken first to Dover Castle, where the warden who registered them remarked that most of them were drunk at the time, to be removed later to Newgate, in which latter prison, by what was certainly a very odd circumstance, Creagh again met old shipmates of theCharles the Secondfrom whom he had parted at the Groyne. With the terrible charge of high treason lying upon him, Creagh saw his chance and, expecting thus to purchase clemency in his own affair, eagerly proffered his testimony against the alleged pirates, and was accepted. Thus there was a great premium upon the conviction of Mr. May and the others.His character was brought out most damagingly at his own later trial on the Vaughan business, during which his own brother was forced to take the stand and brand him a liar and a rogue; a petty, sneaking rascal, apparently, whodid not hesitate to pilfer the poor resources of his relatives.He might have been telling the truth about Mr. May, but surely not beyond a doubt.If he is eliminated, then it was only a case of Gravet’s word against Mr. May’s. There is nothing to be said against Gravet; he was under no charge, no peculiar advantage would be his for furthering a conviction, and his testimony was given in a pretty straightforward, manly sort of way. But Mr. May argues that the situation at the Groyne itself supports his own explanation of his conduct,—that the boat which Avery allowed to leave with those who were unwilling to go could not possibly hold the whole company of the brig and that he was one of those thus forced to stay behind.It must be remembered, as Mr. May points out, that he and his co-defendants had already been tried and acquitted of the piracy of theGunsway, where, although it is not reported, that trial must have been more likely, in the nature of things, to result in a conviction, for Mr. May admits that he was an accomplice in that crime, though present under a sort of duress. That the government was shocked at the verdict in that case is very plain from the words of the judges and prosecutors in the second case, where as Mr. May indicates, extraordinary pressure was brought to bear to keep the jury from straying out of the way as did the former one.Somehow, Mr. May’s account lacks an ultimate convincingness, but it may be said for him at this late day that, technically, there is a very grave doubt of his guilt. His is the story of old dog Tray: willingly or unwillingly, he was in bad company and to that unfortunate circumstance he must lay a large portion of his misfortunes.And what befell the naughty Henry Avery?Mr. May’s narrative cannot give us that information because Mr. May never saw his captain after they separated in the West Indies. At the turn of the new century, we know he was still in the black books of the British Admiralty, for an Act of Grace—that is a blanket pardon to all pirates who should give up their wicked ways by such and such a date—issued a few years after Mr. May’s demise, specifically excepts from its clement scope, “William Kidd and Henry Every, alias Bridgman.”Now, a yarn is told of the end of Henry Avery, which may be summarized for what it is worth—probably not very much—for it is outside of judicial records and consequently corrupted by legend. The effect of it is that Avery continued in the West Indies, pirating the Spanish Main, even to the Carolinas, until, satisfied that he had finally earned a competence and an honorable retirement and with something of that longing for home which is not altogether absent, apparently,from even a pirate’s tattooed bosom, he decided to turn him again home.He had an embarrassment of riches, if ever a man had. According to the story, he had bags of diamonds taken from theGunsway, of fabulous value. Mr. May’s trial suggests that the loot of that ship was money, and nobody says anything about diamonds, but the historian we are now, with a caution, quoting says it was diamonds, and diamonds it shall be.In due time, he got back to Bristol, but now found that he could not sell his diamonds without incurring suspicion as an evil-doer. He tried Ireland, as a place where folks might be less shrewdly curious, but he discovered that the Irish were as much struck as the English by the incongruity, say, of an egg-sized diamond flashing and coruscating in a scarred and pitchy palm,—a feeling not immediately dispelled by the extraordinarily sinister face above them.Back to England—truly a millionaire tramp—where he foolishly resolved to put his trust in merchants. Behind their aldermanic robes and unimpeachable integrity, he expected to be able to put his unique stock-in-trade on the market, which, indeed, he seems to have done, but when he solicited his corpulent agents for an accounting he was met by great round eyes and insulted mouths.“Diamonds? What are you talking about?Diamonds? Begone, you rogue, what do we know of diamonds.”It sounds like some aspects of human nature, but whether it is history, is not for us to vouch.So Henry stewed a trip or two in a coasting forecastle,—where, had he a mind to, he could have told the simple seamen a thrilling story of the sea,—and then curled up and died, “not worth a groat.”Morally, at any rate.
Mr. May’s premonition was justified by the event. On Wednesday, November 26, 1696, at Execution Dock—which overlooks the Thames at Blackwall, and was the usual place of punishment for Admiralty felons—he and his fellow defendants were hanged.
Reading his quaint story (which in substance was his evidence at his trial) we get the idea that if he and his fellow accused were to be convicted at all it should have been for the capture of theGunswayand not for the theft of theCharles the Second. Mr. May is borne out by the record when he says that he was convicted of the latter offense by the five words of Mate Gravet: to wit, that May knew of the plot.
But there was no proof to support Gravet’s statement other than the word of one Creagh, to whom, as we have seen, Mr. May rather bitterly alludes, and accuses of seeking to serve his own interest in a serious scrape in which he had become involved. Creagh would seem quite unreliable. He had been one of the men who had left theCharles the Secondat the Groyne, on Henry Avery’s invitation to all who had not spirit enough to go along with him and collecttheir back pay to depart more or less in peace. Reaching England again, he fell in with an adventurous young chap by the name of Vaughan, who was then signing men on theLoyal Clancarty, a small sloop which Vaughan planned to, and did, turn over to the service of the then exiled Stuart king, James the Second, and in which Vaughan disturbed the shipping of the government until he was run down and captured in the Channel, after a fight in which the attackers had to wade to theClancartythrough the shallows, with their weapons over their heads to keep them dry. He and his crew were taken first to Dover Castle, where the warden who registered them remarked that most of them were drunk at the time, to be removed later to Newgate, in which latter prison, by what was certainly a very odd circumstance, Creagh again met old shipmates of theCharles the Secondfrom whom he had parted at the Groyne. With the terrible charge of high treason lying upon him, Creagh saw his chance and, expecting thus to purchase clemency in his own affair, eagerly proffered his testimony against the alleged pirates, and was accepted. Thus there was a great premium upon the conviction of Mr. May and the others.
His character was brought out most damagingly at his own later trial on the Vaughan business, during which his own brother was forced to take the stand and brand him a liar and a rogue; a petty, sneaking rascal, apparently, whodid not hesitate to pilfer the poor resources of his relatives.
He might have been telling the truth about Mr. May, but surely not beyond a doubt.
If he is eliminated, then it was only a case of Gravet’s word against Mr. May’s. There is nothing to be said against Gravet; he was under no charge, no peculiar advantage would be his for furthering a conviction, and his testimony was given in a pretty straightforward, manly sort of way. But Mr. May argues that the situation at the Groyne itself supports his own explanation of his conduct,—that the boat which Avery allowed to leave with those who were unwilling to go could not possibly hold the whole company of the brig and that he was one of those thus forced to stay behind.
It must be remembered, as Mr. May points out, that he and his co-defendants had already been tried and acquitted of the piracy of theGunsway, where, although it is not reported, that trial must have been more likely, in the nature of things, to result in a conviction, for Mr. May admits that he was an accomplice in that crime, though present under a sort of duress. That the government was shocked at the verdict in that case is very plain from the words of the judges and prosecutors in the second case, where as Mr. May indicates, extraordinary pressure was brought to bear to keep the jury from straying out of the way as did the former one.
Somehow, Mr. May’s account lacks an ultimate convincingness, but it may be said for him at this late day that, technically, there is a very grave doubt of his guilt. His is the story of old dog Tray: willingly or unwillingly, he was in bad company and to that unfortunate circumstance he must lay a large portion of his misfortunes.
And what befell the naughty Henry Avery?
Mr. May’s narrative cannot give us that information because Mr. May never saw his captain after they separated in the West Indies. At the turn of the new century, we know he was still in the black books of the British Admiralty, for an Act of Grace—that is a blanket pardon to all pirates who should give up their wicked ways by such and such a date—issued a few years after Mr. May’s demise, specifically excepts from its clement scope, “William Kidd and Henry Every, alias Bridgman.”
Now, a yarn is told of the end of Henry Avery, which may be summarized for what it is worth—probably not very much—for it is outside of judicial records and consequently corrupted by legend. The effect of it is that Avery continued in the West Indies, pirating the Spanish Main, even to the Carolinas, until, satisfied that he had finally earned a competence and an honorable retirement and with something of that longing for home which is not altogether absent, apparently,from even a pirate’s tattooed bosom, he decided to turn him again home.
He had an embarrassment of riches, if ever a man had. According to the story, he had bags of diamonds taken from theGunsway, of fabulous value. Mr. May’s trial suggests that the loot of that ship was money, and nobody says anything about diamonds, but the historian we are now, with a caution, quoting says it was diamonds, and diamonds it shall be.
In due time, he got back to Bristol, but now found that he could not sell his diamonds without incurring suspicion as an evil-doer. He tried Ireland, as a place where folks might be less shrewdly curious, but he discovered that the Irish were as much struck as the English by the incongruity, say, of an egg-sized diamond flashing and coruscating in a scarred and pitchy palm,—a feeling not immediately dispelled by the extraordinarily sinister face above them.
Back to England—truly a millionaire tramp—where he foolishly resolved to put his trust in merchants. Behind their aldermanic robes and unimpeachable integrity, he expected to be able to put his unique stock-in-trade on the market, which, indeed, he seems to have done, but when he solicited his corpulent agents for an accounting he was met by great round eyes and insulted mouths.
“Diamonds? What are you talking about?Diamonds? Begone, you rogue, what do we know of diamonds.”
It sounds like some aspects of human nature, but whether it is history, is not for us to vouch.
So Henry stewed a trip or two in a coasting forecastle,—where, had he a mind to, he could have told the simple seamen a thrilling story of the sea,—and then curled up and died, “not worth a groat.”
Morally, at any rate.