Extraordinary Life: Robert Culliford, Pirate Captain - Part 2

Yo, ho, ho my hearties! It’s back to the high seas for a bit more piracy with Robert Culliford, pirate captain extraordinary.

Last September, in the first half of my look at Robert Culliford, we ended with him leaving his life in the Americas and heading into the Indian Ocean in the 1690s.

The Indian Ocean trade routes were heavily policed by the European powers. The Dutch East India Company and the East India Company of Great Britain were in control of virtually the whole of the Asian continental coastline from the Philippines and down the east coast of Africa. These companies had their own militia and fleet and were treated as semi-independent nations in their own right. Together they provided a more diligent defence against piracy than any power controlling the Caribbean or American trade routes, where there was no unified anti-piracy strategy.

Things didn’t start well for Robert Culliford. The ship on which he was serving headed to Gujarat on the north western coast of the India. Anchoring the ship at the port of Mangrol, the crew began what can best be described as a wild rampage by drunken yobs. No doubt they were desperate to get off the ship after the long voyage from the Americas around the bottom of Africa (there was no Suez Canal until nearly 200 years later) and wanted to enjoy themselves as much as possible with lots of alcohol. The crew abused local women, attacked local men, and stole whatever they wanted.

Understandably, the locals were angry. So, one day a local boy swam out and cut the anchor free. The ship drifted ashore where the local Indians boarded easily and seized the crew. Culliford and eighteen others were on board and they were all put in shackles and taken before the local Indian authorities, who promptly locked them all up in jail.

They remained there for four years.

It was in jail that Robert Culliford met John Swann, another prisoner. Whether Swann was already a crewmember of Culliford’s, or a separate captive, I’m not sure, but the special relationship between them probably began in that Gujurati jail.

The behaviour of the prisoners must have instilled a degree of trust in the captives, because after a couple of years some of them, including Culliford, were allowed to do menial work on ships of the Indian Mughal Empire.

You don’t need to be a fortune teller to know what came next!

In 1696 Culliford and his fellow prisoners overpowered their too-trusting guards and made their escape. Rather than hijack a ship and sail off into the distance, the escapees made their way to Bombay (modern Mumbai), a distance of 600 miles (966 km). There, most of them signed on as crewmembers on board the ship “Josiah” belonging to the British East India Company.

After being cooped up in an Indian jail for four years, Robert Culliford decided it was time to get back to what he had sailed half way round the world for. So, as soon as the “Josiah” had got far enough away from Bombay and out to sea, Culliford, John Swann and their fellow ex-jailbirds hijacked the ship.

But Culliford should have thought this through. The majority of the “Joshua”s crew were the original East India Company crew. They had spent their careers fighting off pirates. They waited until the crew had put ashore on one of the Nicobar Islands just north of Sumatra to gather (or pillage for) provisions. Only two pirate crewmembers were left on board. It didn’t take long for the East India men to take ship and sail off, leaving Culliford and everyone else stranded.

A month later the marooned crew were picked up another pirate ship called the “Defence” (formerly an East India Company ship called the “Mocha”) and joined them. A few months after that, in May 1697, the “Defence” stopped off at Sumatra and a shore party went to collect fresh water. Here we encounter differing versions about the fate of the “Defence”s captain. Some documents say that he and the shore party were killed by local tribes, while others say that his own shipmates rebelled and killed him. Either way, the captain was gone and the crew elected Robert Culliford to take his place. Culliford renamed the ship “Resolution” and spent the next year sailing from one end of the Indian Ocean to the other plundering any ship that took his fancy.

In the summer of 1697 the “Resolution” encountered the East India Company ship “Dorrill” in the Straits of Malacca. This led to what was probably the biggest sea battle Culliford had ever fought. A cautious stand-off between the vessels on the first day of their encounter only built up tension and eagerness to fight among the pirates, despite Culliford’s order to wait, and it allowed the “Dorrill” to prepare to defend itself.

On day two, cannons started firing from both sides. Masts, sails and bulk heads were smashed, smoke and shouts filled the air, and there were many casualties. These included several teenage cabin boys on the “Dorrill”. One of the Master Gunner’s boys had his leg blown off and he died several days later in agony. Extensive damage to the “Resolution” forced Culliford to pull back and retreat, without capturing any prize.

By May 1698 the “Resolution” docked at the island of Sainte-Marie (now called Nosy Baraha) a couple of miles off the east coast of Madagascar. Sainte-Marie had recently become a haven for pirates and Culliford probably wanted to take stock of his vast wealth obtained from piracy. He and John Swann lived together, and this is where records of them being referred to as consorts is mentioned by contemporaries. This could mean that they were regarded as a same-sex couple, of course. But “consort” had another meaning at sea.

In sea-faring terms, a “consort” was a ship that sailed with or accompanied another. Culliford himself had used his ships as consort several times. So, you could say that John Swann was merely Culliford’s travelling companion, in naval terms. We’ll never know for sure what their relationship was, but it is generally believed that they were in some form of romantic same-sex relationship. Anyway, the couple had only just got settled on the island when a familiar face arrived – Captain Kidd.

As related in part one, there was an unpleasant rivalry between these two captains. This was heightened by the fact that that Captain Kidd was no longer a pirate. The king of England had recruited Kidd as a pirate-hunter, and Culliford knew this. Cautious courtesies were exchanged between Culliford and Kidd, but Kidd was not ready to capture Culliford, because he thought Culliford had a full crew and not just 20 men under his command. Kidd, however, had 150, but he waited until more ships had arrived from England, but this was a mistake.

The wait was to contribute to Kidd’s eventual downfall. On Sainte-Marie he set about sharing out the loot he captured from an Arabian vessel as few weeks earlier. Kidd’s crew looked at Culliford’s wealth and thought piracy was a better option, and for a second time most of Kidd’s crew, 97 men in all, abandoned him to join Culliford.

By September, “Resolution” sailed towards the Arabian Peninsula. It encountered an Arabian merchant ship heading for China called “Great Mahomet”. There was another great sea battle. Some reports say that 300 crew and passengers on “Great Mahomet” lost their lives, and Culliford’s crew was down to just 20 men. The reward for the pirates, however, was £800-worth from the defeated ship’s cargo – that’s around £150,000 in today’s money! Each!

In the meantime, Captain Kidd was having difficulty recruiting crewmembers on Sainte-Marie, and most of the remaining 40 crewmembers and some other pirates wanted to go back to the Americas. So Kidd limped off in a leaky ship and headed for New York. On arrival he was arrested – his attack on the Arabian ship was not authorised and he was declared a pirate once more.

In 1699 more visitors arrived at Sainte-Marie, four British man-of-war ships. The pirates expected the worst, but were surprised when they were offered a Royal Pardon to all British-born pirates if they returned home with them. They were probably offered death if they refused. Two dozen pirates accepted the offer, including Robert Culliford. It is unclear if John Swann was still on the island. He may have been one of the men who went with Captain Kidd to America. There’s no record of him after the references to him being Culliford’s consort.

Culliford’s return to England turned into a nightmare. There was indeed an Act of Parliament offering Royal Pardons to pirates, but there was a time limit. By the time Culliford and his comrades arrived back in England the time limit had expired, so as soon as they set foot on British soil they were all arrested for piracy and put on trial. All of them were hanged, as was Captain Kidd – except one. Culliford agreed to turn King’s Evidence against another pirate who had carried out a particularly nasty attack on a friendly ship, and in return Culliford’s Royal Pardon was reinstated. He was one of the few lucky ones, one of the traitors against the pirate community, depending on whose side you were on.

Like his partner Swann, Robert Culliford disappears from the records. Whether he settled down in England or went back to sea is unknown. It is unlikely that he was allowed to keep the massive fortune he made from piracy. We don’t even know if he was reunited with John Swann, or decided to settle down and get married and have children.

Believe it or not, all this is just the edited highlights. It amazes me that no-one has turned the life of Robert Culliford into an action film, or even a factual documentary. It would make “Pirates of the Caribbean” look as action-packed as the Teletubbies. There’s even very little on YouTube, except for the one video above (others are not particularly well made or detailed). So, until someone decides to make a full-length film or documentary, I hope you enjoyed my little look at the Extraordinary Life of Pirate Captain Robert Culliford.

Extraordinary Life: Robert Culliford, Pirate Captain

Shiver mi timbers! It’s Talk Like a Pirate Day!

A couple of years ago I wrote about the special relationships pirates had which could have been made between either gay or straight same-sex couples. The relationship was called a matiloge.

One couple I mentioned was Robert Culliford and John Swann. I thought Culliford in particular deserved further note. So, here is the first part of the Xtraordinary Life of Pirate Captain Robert Culliford.

But first, what’s the difference between a pirate and a privateer? Well, nothing really, except that a privateer has license (called a letter of marque) from a government to attack ships and ports of nations who were their enemies at the time, and hand over to that government most of the plundered booty. Pirates generally attacked any ship which they thought would have a lot of treasure, and share it out amongst their crew. They had no government backing and were, therefore, breaking maritime law. Putting it like that makes it sounds like there was a lot of difference, but if you happened to be on the receiving end of an attack by either pirate or privateer, you wouldn’t know the difference.

Robert Culliford was born in or around the year 1666 in southwest England, a region renowned for its seafaring heritage. Some of the greatest English sailors of the 16th century came from here – Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Francis Drake. It was also where the Mayflower Pilgrims set sail for New England in 1620, and there’s still a large Royal Navy presence there.

Culliford may have been born in Devon (NOT Devonshire – that’s the title of a duke, not an English county) where there was prominent family of that name. His early life was so uneventful that there’s no record of it until he was about 23 years old. That was when we first have record of him going to sea.

Somehow he had made his way to Haiti in the Caribbean and joined the crew of a French privateer ship called the Sante Rose, a former Spanish frigate captured by the French. Joining Culliford on the Sante Rose was a Scotsman, William Kidd, someone who would become one of the most famous pirates in history. Also aboard were four or five other Englishmen in an otherwise all French crew.

Relations between England and France were tense at that time. In fact, it was all-out war, with the Nine Years War beginning the previous year. This pitted France against pretty much the rest of western Europe.

Culliford’s first pirate adventure seems to have been attacking a Dutch ship. The Dutch were allies of the English in the war and an enemy of France, so this might not have been comfortable for Culliford. Then a chain of events began which eventually put him in charge of his own ship.

First, there was a mutiny against the captain while the ship was in New York for a refit. Then another war broke out – King William’s War, which was between France and the English American colonists. King William was a Protestant Dutch prince invited by England to become its monarch in 1688, and take over from the Catholic king (William’s wife was next in line of succession and ruled with him, so he was an obvious choice). It was after this that Culliford and William Kidd led a mutiny against their new captain, with Kidd taking his place. They renamed the ship Blessed William. Kidd didn’t remain in charge for long, because Culliford led another mutiny and Kidd was replaced.

Back in New York, the colonial governor issued Blessed William with a letter of marque which authorised it to attack ships or ports of the nation’s enemy. In other words, France. The nearest enemy territory to New York was French Acadia (Canada), so Blessed William sailed north and plundered a couple of French settlements.

During this attack they captured a French frigate, and the captain of Blessed William gave it to Robert Culliford as his first command. He renamed his ship Horne Frigate.

Two ketches (small sailing boats common along the North American coast at the time) were given the task of transporting most of the loot from the attack back down to New York. Unfortunately, the ketches were captured by French pirates. The Horne Frigate sailed back to New York with virtually nothing. It looked like his life as a pirate captain was a failure.

Undaunted Robert Culliford decided he may have better luck on the other side of Africa. He managed to get a position as quartermaster to his old captain on a captured French ship called the Jacob and sailed all the way down the North American coast, past the Caribbean, down the Brazilian coastline, across the Atlantic to Africa, down and round the Cape of Good Hope and up again on the other side into the Indian Ocean.

The year was now 1692. The Indian Ocean had long been a denizen of pirates. Its shores were home to some of the most important trading routes and ports in the world and easy picking. Europe had used these routes for several centuries, and by the 1600s was looking to expand its control and protection of these routes, and the nations which supplied the goods it transported. Piracy was rife, whether it was by Arab, African, Indian or east Asian pirates. The Indian Ocean was an area that was probably more dangerous to shipping than the Caribbean and, consequently, more heavily policed by the European colonial powers.

This was the environment into which Robert Culliford and the Jacob was sailing. Would they have better luck in the Indian Ocean? Would Culliford ever become a captain again? If that was his hope, he was to have mixed results, including imprisonment in an Indian jail, a not-so-pleasant reunion with Captain Kidd, and a much more pleasant encounter with the man who became his life partner.

But that’s for next time. Hopefully, I can return to recount some more extraordinary events in the life of pirate captain Robert Culliford early next year.

Extraordinary Life: The Japanese da Vinci - Part 2

After a really horrible first quarter of the year in which I have been battling illness, I really must apologise and catch up on my planned schedule. Last summer I wrote about the samurai who has been called the Japanese Leonardo da Vinci, Hiraga Gennai (1728-1870). The parallels between them aren’t exact but the sheer scope of Hiraga’s activity is more than enough to justify the comparison.

In that first article we left Hiraga relinquishing his feudal duties and abandoning any responsibilities to any feudal lord. He had the independence to pursue his own interests. A chronological survey of his life would see us jumping from one discipline to another. Individual surveys of each will reveal a better picture of Hiraga’s genius.

Let’s begin with the main focus of Part 1, which was Hiraga’s use of marketing. Product promotion isn’t something that was created in recent decades. The spread of the printing press across the globe from the 14th century helped to spread advertising and promotion more widely than any previous method. In Japan the development of printing during the first part of the Edo Period (1603-1868) saw a big increase in marketing, especially after paper prices began to drop.

The three main methods of advertising were product sponsorship of events, distribution of printed leaflets, and promotion of products during seasonal festivals. In fact, this is very much what we still see today. Hiraga used all of these methods. The third method was highlighted in Part 1 with his suggestion of promoting eels during the Midsummer Day of the Ox. This influenced others to sell their products and services in similar ways.

Among the other products Hiraga had a major hand in promoting was tooth powder, but he was also instrumental in the development of regional expositions of local products. He arranged several expositions from 1757, sending out invitations to potential exhibitors, writing and printing catalogues and promotional material and publicising them across a wide area. These expos increased national awareness in natural sciences such as pharmacology, agriculture and mining.

Hiraga’s interest in mining led to the setting up of several mining projects. Even though these eventually failed they did lead to the creation of the Arakawa River which greatly helped in the shipping of coal. One alarming mining project was finding a way to turn asbestos deposits into fire-resistant cloth.

Most of Hiraga’s accomplishments were influenced by his contact with Dutch merchants. The Dutch and Chinese were the only foreign merchants allowed into Japan and from them Hiraga learnt of the arts and sciences not known in Japan. Hiraga’s insatiable quest for knowledge drew him to the Dutch like a magnet. This made him a pioneer in Dutch studies in Japan, which is known as Rangaku.

Everything Hiraga learnt about European advances in science and technology came through observation and experimentation rather than formal tutoring. One of the devices he came across during his contact with Dutch merchants was a broken static electric generator. By disassembling it and working out how each part worked Hiraga managed to get the generator working again. It took him several years and the result caused a sensation. He gave public demonstrations of it working and gave electrotherapy to patients. Copies were made and other people began to use them in market places.

Another result of Hiraga’s contact with the Dutch was influenced by his knowledge of mineralogy and chemistry. As I mentioned above he developed mining techniques and he located a particularly good source of clay for producing high quality pottery. He persuaded the government to help him set up kilns and workshops, aimed at reducing the reliance on obtaining pottery from China or Holland. With influences from Dutch pottery Hiraga developed a new style that combined both Dutch and Japanese elements. This style became very popular and is now named after him – Gennai ware.

Hiraga’s knowledge of geology also led him to investigate the use of minerals in the production of paints and dyes. You’ll not be surprised to learn that Hiraga was an accomplished painter. Unfortunately, very little of his work survives, and there’s only one of his oil paintings known to exist today.

If you’ve read Part 1 of this Extraordinary Life you’ll probably be intrigued by a particular comment I made and are eager to know more. It was about Hiraga writing a book about farting whose title translates into English as “The Theory of Farting”. The title makes it sound like the book is a serious study of the subject, but is actually a satirical novel (Hiraga loved writing satire, which was a popular genre in his lifetime). The “Theory” is more of a discussion than a novel, not unlike ancient Greek philosophical works. The author describes his encounter with a street performer who could fart tunes and animal noises. A fellow spectator is appalled at the performance but the author goes into a speech on how farting is superior to any other art form. The performer is self taught, not a product of a school where he was taught to copy previous artists using established instruments and techniques. Hiraga is taking a dig at the artistic establishment, even though he was part of it himself. It reminds me of a performer called Methane Man who had a similar farting act and appeared on “Britain’s Got Talent”.

Hiraga was not just a satirist. He could turn his hand to other literary forms. His pioneering use of marketing was utilised in the catalogues he wrote for his many trade expositions; he write scientific books; and he write poetry. Hiraga’s homosexuality played a role in other works, such as a guide book on male prostitutes and passages on gay sex in his novels. One of his novels I am really interested to read is “Furyu shidoken”, Hiraga’s version of “Gulliver’s Travel”. The stories are not exact in content because it’s unlikely that Hiraga had actually seen a copy of “Gulliver’s Travels”. He may have heard snippets about the novel from his Dutch contacts and used these as inspiration for his own novel.

With the extraordinary variety of disciplines Hiraga Gennai took up it is highly appropriate to compare him with Leonado da Vinci. However, unlike da Vinci, Hiraga’s life ended on a down note. Several accounts of his final year vary in the detail but agree on the final outcome. In 1779 Hiraga was arrested for murder (of a carpenter or one of his disciples). Hiraga was imprisoned and died in jail at the end of the year.

Many scholarly works on Hiraga Gennai repeat the word “extraordinary” when describing his works, deeds and legacy. Like so much of east Asian history, comparatively very little is known in the west. While Hiraga may be unknown to the majority outside Japan in his native country, even in modern anime, his name is well known and familiar.

Extraordinary Life: The Japanese Da Vinci - Part 1

Today the Japanese are celebrating something other than the Olympics. Today is the Midsummer Day of the Ox. On this day the Japanese celebrate the season by eating eels. I bet you thought that as it was the Day of the Ox that they’d be eating beef, but you’d be wrong. But there’s a simple explanation as to why eels are eaten, and legend says that that it’s all due to a gay inventor, engineer, writer, artist, ceramicist, pharmacist event organiser, and marketing executive called Hiraga Gennai (1728-1780). It’s no surprise that some historians have labelled him the Japanese Leonardo da Vinci.

Hiraga Gennai’s life was so extraordinary, in some ways ahead of his time, that it needs two separate articles. Perhaps the most extraordinary fact about him is that he wrote books on farting! Today, however, I’ll concentrate on his early life, his rise to fame and his connection to the Midsummer Day of the Ox.

Let’s start, though, with the Day of the Ox itself. The day gets it name from its location in the Chinese calendar, which the Japanese used from the 6th century until 1873. Just like the Chinese New Year, the Midsummer Day of the Ox is not a fixed date and varies from year to year. The day was known to the Japanese for centuries, but how did eels become specifically associated with it?

There’s a traditional Japanese saying that says that if you eat eels on Midsummer Day of the Ox you won’t suffer from the heat, and it gets scorching hot in Japan at this time of year, as I’m sure we can tell by watching the Olympics.

The eels became important during the Edo Period (1603-1868). This is also called the Tokugawa Period because it was founded by the shoguns of the Tokugawa dynasty. This is a family that my most regular readers may remember from older articles. The fifth shogun, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi (1646-1709), was the subject of this article I wrote in 2019. I also mentioned his father here.

During the hot summers of Tokugawa Period Japan eels were not eaten very often. It wasn’t regarded as a summer food. Eel vendors were finding it difficult and unpredictable to sell all their eels, and the price varied according to demand. A couple of generations after the above-mentioned shogun there was one eel vendor who complained about not knowing from one day to the next if he’ll have to throw away most of his unsold produce.

It is fortunate that this vendor turned to Hiraga Gennai for advice. Hiraga came up with an effective marketing strategy. He told the vendor to put up a sign outside his shop saying “Midsummer Day of the Ox”. Of course, everyone knew what day it was, but Hiraga suggested to the vendor that he promote the eating of eels to keep cool during the summer heat. The idea worked, and the vendor sold all his eels. After that, all the other eel vendors followed suit, and it soon turned into an annual tradition.

That’s the legend. There’s no real evidence that it happened like that but it illustrates the influence of Hiraga Gennai in Japanese culture, particularly his reputation as a product marketer. To this day historians aren’t sure why this marketing plan worked. So, how great was Hiraga? Is his reputation as a Japanese Leonardo da Vinci justified? I’ll take a closer look at these questions next week, but for today let’s look at his early life.

Hiraga was born into a samurai family of the Yamashita clan. His father was a manager in the rice warehouse of the Takamatsu daimyo (or feudal lord) and young Hiraga showed an early interest in plants and herbs. He studied medicinal herbs at Osaka and was then employed as a sort of pharmacologist in the herb garden of his daimyo.

In 1749, at the age of 21, Hiraga succeeded his father as warehouse manager. He spent two years studying in Nagasaki, where he came into contact with European merchants, specifically the Dutch. On his return to the rice warehouse he resigned and relinquished his position of head of his household to his brother-in-law.

After travelling and studying around Japan he gained a reputation as an intelligent scholar and was called upon by his daimyo to perform several official duties. Once again, Hiraga resigned. He was no what you could call an independent spirit, a ronin, a samurai not attached to any feudal lordship. As such he was not allowed to serve any official duty. This gave him the freedom to continue studying and travelling. He gained more experience of Dutch culture and this influenced his future career which, in turn, influenced Japanese culture.

It is from this time that Hiraga Gennai turned into one of the most extraordinary men in 18th century Japan. This will be the focus of part 2 of this look at this Japanese da Vinci, which will appear sometime in March 2022.

Extraordinary Life: A Queer Action Hero - Part 2

In May I wrote about the early travels of Richard Halliburton (1900-1939), one of the forgotten adventurers of the inter-war years. I left the story with the arrival of the Great Depression. Richard’s finances took a dive as the lecture circuit and book sales began to fall away. Richard decided the only thing that could save his family from plunging into poverty was … to go on another round the world trip and write another book about it.

The new adventure was to fly around the world in a biplane. There was just one problem. Richard couldn’t fly a plane. He found a pilot in the person of Moye Stephens (1906-1995), the recently elected President of the Professional Pilots Association. After considering several planes Moye chose a Stearman C-3B open dual cockpit plane which Richard bought with money from his celebrity endorsement of a coffee brand. Richard agreed to pay all expenses on the journey but he couldn’t pay Moye a salary. The deal was settled with a handshake. Fellow pilots thought Moye was mad to accept.

The plane was checked over and named The Flying Carpet. The venture began in earnest in January 1931 after the plane had been shipped across the Atlantic. During the first flight over France Richard noticed that the aileron pushrods controlling the fins on the wings were vibrating alarmingly. Landing in Paris the adventurers had to wait three weeks for a technician to come from America to tell them that the pushrods had been put back in upside down when the plane was being checked over in America.

Front cover of the dust jacket for the first edition of “The Flying Carpet”, 1932.

There was no real itinerary, just a general west to east direction. First it was to Spain and North Africa. Richard got the urge to visit the legendary desert city of Timbuktu in present day Mali some 1,700 miles south across the Sahara. There he saw first hand the slave trade that made Timbuktu famous. Mali is one of the African nations that still practices slavery despite the attempts by French colonialists to abolish it.

It was then back to North Africa to spend time with the French Foreign Legion. Then to the Middle East. The sight of the plane in the skies caused quite a stir and several members of royal families persuaded Richard to give them a short trips.

After a few weeks the adventurers arrived in India where Richard revisited the Taj Mahal (no midnight dip in the ornamental pools this time). They then took a detour over Mount Everest. It was Richard’s 32nd birthday and he couldn’t resist standing up in the cockpit to take the first aerial photograph of Everest. He almost caused the plane to stall.

The final leg was around South East Asia. On Borneo Richard and Moye met the chief of a tribe of head-hunters. They gave his a trip in the Flying Carpet and he thanked them by presenting them with 60 kilos of shrunken heads. Not daring to cause offence the adventurers accepted the gift graciously. However, the heads soon began to stink and were thrown into the sea at the earliest opportunity.

After flying through a swarm of locusts the Flying Carpet arrived in the Philippines. There the plane was crated up and put aboard ship for the voyage home. The adventurers and the plane arrived back in San Francisco in April 1932.

Richard set to his next task of writing the book of the adventure which he titled “The Flying Carpet”. Richard moved in with Paul Mooney (1904-1939), a man he had met in San Francisco before the adventure, to write his book. It was published in November 1932. It is believed that Richard and Paul became a couple shortly afterwards.

Despite spending $64,000 on the Flying Carpet adventure and being in debt the royalties from the book earned Richard $100,000 in the first year. More lecture tours and commissions for travel articles followed, during which shorter travels abroad were undertaken. One was a recreation of Hannibal’s trek over the Alps with elephants.

With his new wealth Richard bought a cliff-top lot in Laguna Beach, California, and built a residence there in 1937. Because of its precarious position on the cliff end the house was called Hangover House. Richard and Paul moved in and Richard began writing two books for children called “Richard Halliburton’s Book of Marvels”. It is probably from the first of these that we get the false claim that the Great Wall of China can be seen from space, as he claimed. No-one knows where he got his information.

In 1939 Richard was getting itchy feet and began to plan his next adventure – to sail across the Pacific in a Chinese junk. With an eye for publicity his plan was to sail from Hong Kong to San Francisco in time for the Golden Gate International Exposition in April 1939. He would then take passengers around the bay. As usual he would be writing articles about the voyage and preparing another book. Hundreds of people contacted him hoping to be chosen as a crew member.

The Sea Dragon in Hong Kong harbour.

The diesel-engined Chinese junk was built from scratch in Hong Kong and was named Sea Dragon, but delays and a failed trial voyage meant that they wouldn’t reach America in time for the Exposition. His crew included Paul, twelve other men and was captained by John Wenlock Welch.

The voyage began well but into the third week the Sea Dragon encountered the Pacific’s notoriously strong currents and storms. On 23rd march they sent a radio message to the liner SS President Coolidge battling the storms halfway between Japan and Midway Island. The Sea Dragon was some miles south. The liner received a cheery message, then one which said (edited) “Southerly gale. Heavy rain squalls. High sea … All well. When close may we avail ourselves of your direction finder…”

That’s the last anyone heard from the Sea Dragon. SS President Coolidge went to its last reported position and found nothing and there was no reply to their radio messages. The Coast Guard on Hawaii were alerted but they thought it was a publicity stunt and didn’t rush into a search and rescue. When it seemed clear it was not a prank the US Navy undertook a massive search of the area, but to no avail.

The disappearance of Richard Halliburton and his crew shocked America. Only two years earlier the famous aviator Amelia Earhart had disappeared and is still a story that attracts attention. Despite Richard’s equal celebrity status his disappearance gradually faded from our collective memory. Perhaps it was swallowed up with the start of World War II that same summer.

The life of Richard Halliburton has received a slow revival over the past three decades or so with several new biographies. The disappearance of the Sea Dragon is brought back to life in a book published a couple of days ago by the University of Tennessee Press called “Richard Halliburton and the Voyage of the Sea Dragon” by Gerry Max. With rare photographs and recently researched documents new life has been given to the last adventure of a forgotten gay traveller and action man Richard Halliburton.

There’s a sad postscript to this story. Just a few weeks ago the Pacific claimed another life of an openly lgbt adventurer. Paralympian Angela Madsen was making a solo row across the Pacific but was overcome in the ocean storms. I’ll write a memorial article to her, and to another brave Paralympian, Marieke Vervoort, next month.

Extraordinary Life: A Queer Action Hero - Part 1

In the 1920s and 1930s names like Scott of the Antarctic, Amelia Earhart and Charles Lindbergh were familiar names because of their daring deeds and adventures. Another name which was equally well-known – Richard Halliburton (1900-1939) - but few recognise his name today.

Richard Halliburton

Two specific adventures dominate Richard Halliburton’s story. The first is his swimming the Panama Canal. The other is his mysterious disappearance along with his lover in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. So much adventure was packed into just a short life that I’ve split Richard’s story into two. Today I’ll look at his 1920s adventures. In July I’ll look at his 1930s adventures.

It was 100 years ago when Richard Halliburton got the travelling bug during a break in his studies at Princeton University. He joined a cargo freighter as a crewman which took him across to England. Richard toured around for a while before returning to Princeton.

In 1921 Richard began his life of travel in earnest. To support himself he wrote travel articles for magazines, and his father also gave him a modest monthly allowance. Quite often, though, Richard’s impulse buying made funds very low.

The first adventure was to climb the Matterhorn in Switzerland. He had never climbed before but he had a travelling companion and a local guide with him. His travels then took him to France, Spain and Gibraltar, where he was arrested for taking photographs of British installations. After using his charm on the authorities he was let off with a fine of £10, which he had to borrow. His travel articles weren’t selling so Richard probably realised that he should keep an eye on his spending.

Richard made his way via Egypt (spending a night at the top of the Great Pyramid) to India. The lure of the famous Taj Mahal was strong and after hiding in the shadows as the site was cleared of visitors for the night Richard took a midnight swim in the pools in front of the famous building.

More adventures followed as he travelled eastwards. In Macao he encountered pirates, and on his 23rd birthday he climbed Mount Fujiyama in Japan solo. He arrived back in the US in March 1923.

Despite having written dozens of articles only three had been published. However, he thought of another way to earn money by going on the lecture circuit and talking about his travels. This was a great success, so successful that he didn’t have time to turn his writings into a book as he hoped.

Even though Richard pushed his body to the limit many times he suffered from a rapid heartbeat and hyperthyroidism. He checked himself into Dr. Kellogg’s Sanatorium for a while (I hope he enjoyed his corn flakes!) and the rest gave him time to finish his first book, “The Royal Road to Romance”. Before it was published in 1925 Richard was off on his next adventure - to follow the voyages of Odysseus, the hero of the ancient Greek legend.

Richard’s Odyssey began on Mount Olympus. He reached the summit to be greeted with an almighty thunderstorm that trapped him and his two climbing companions there overnight. Perhaps Zeus himself was punishing them for ignoring their guides’ warnings not to go up until the next day. After visiting Delphi and climbing Mount Parnassus Richard headed to Athens where he sneaked into the Acropolis at night after it had closed. This was followed by running the original marathon route (the last 14 miles by taxi cab in order to get to his own birthday party at his hotel).

Crossing to the site of Troy in Turkey he continued on to the Hellespont. There Richard emulated the achievement of one of his heroes, Lord Byron, by swimming across it. After various other adventures Richard arrived at the volcanic island of Stromboli a few weeks later. He couldn’t resist clambering up to the mouth of the volcano itself. (There seems to be some recurring themes in his adventures – climbing up mountains and volcanos, sneaking into heritage sites, and diving into water!)

While retracing Ulysses’ voyages Richard inserted a detour to the top of yet another volcano, Vesuvius, before attempting to swim across the Strait of Messina. Strong currents forced him to finish it in the accompanying boat. Richard also visited Taormina in Sicily, where Robert Hawthorn Kitson had his villa. Although not mentioned by name in his book of his Odyssey, “The Glorious Adventure” (published May 1927), Richard mentions meeting “all the Englishmen”. And yes, Richard climbed to the top of Etna, where he almost succumbed to the sulphur fumes. But he needed to finish his Odyssey before the end of the year, and eventually reached Ithaca, home of Odysseus, in December 1926.

By now his first book was rapidly becoming a best-seller and this helped to make his 1927 lecture tour hugely successful – and profitable. In 1928 Richard accepted an offer from “Ladies Home Journal” to write articles on Latin America and he was off on a new set of adventures.

He began by tracing the steps of Cortes who conquered Mexico. Yet another volcano, Popocatapetl was ticked of his list of climbs and then came the ominously named Well of Death at Chichen-Itza. Richard dived down the well into the water 70 feet below. Climbing out he realised people might not believe he’d done it, so the next day he got a camera and did it again.

The most famous exploit on this adventure was his swimming the whole length of the Panama Canal. He wasn’t the first to do it, but he was the first to go through all the locks, which meant he had to pay the toll, the lowest in the canal’s history, of 36 cents.

Other exploits on this American adventure included being held prisoner on Devil’s Island, and spending two weeks living as Robinson Crusoe on Tobago. All the time he was writing his articles for “Ladies Home Journal”. They were so popular that the magazine paid him a bonus.

Back home and back on the lecture circuit Richard finished his book of his latest exploits as “New Worlds to Conquer” which was published in time for Christmas 1929.

As the 1930s began the Great Crash and Great Depression hit the family finances. A bright light for Richard was his meeting with Paul Mooney, who became his life partner.

In July I’ll continue Richard Halliburton’s story and his final mysterious adventure with his partner.

Extraordinary Lives : Swashbuckling Across France

A French print from around 1700 by an anonymous artist entitled
“Mademoiselle Maupin d’Opera” depicting Julie d’Aubigny as an opera singer.

There was quite a remarkable group of women who lived in the17th and 18th centuries who lived extraordinary lives for their times – the pirates Anne Bonny and Mary Read, and the soldier-adventurer Catalina de Erauso to name a few. At the moment I’m quite taken with the life of Julie d’Aubigny (1673-1707), whose action-packed, swash-buckling, body-snatching, opera-singing life was extraordinary for enough for her to feature as a companion to Doctor Who in a comic book adventure. In fact, there can be very few men of her time had more extraordinary lives than hers.

Julie was perhaps fortunate in having the father she had, for Gaston d’Aubigny was secretary to Prince Louis de Lorraine-Guise, Count of Armagnac. Gaston was also responsible for the education and training of the pages of the royal court of King Louis XIV of France. Julius was accepted into the classes, which included horse-riding and fencing, and she got used to wearing male clothes like the young male trainees. Sensing the restrictions of female clothes at an early age Julie chose to wear men’s clothes for the majority of the rest of her life.

So far, so dull, except for learning how to fight with a sword, which other young women didn’t. Then, at the age of 14 she became the Count of Armagnac’s mistress. That would have caused as bit of a scandal, even if there were other royal mistresses around the court. But Julie was a teenager and unmarried. So the Count married her off to an aristocrat called the Sire de Maupin de Sainte-Germain-en-Laye. From then on Julie became known as the Madame de Maupin, or just La Maupin when a later career choice took off.

Now that Julie was married Armagnac packed her husband off to the south of France to be a tax collector while he had his way with her.

Then things really started to hot up. Julie spent her time in the fencing schools of Paris, challenging the tutors to matches. One of these tutors, Monsieur Sérannes, became her lover after Armagnac dropped her. But her cushy life as a privileged aristocrat ended when Sérannes killed a man in a duel. Duels were illegal at the time, so the couple fled Paris. Deprived of income they headed south earning money in the fairs and inns as a fencing-singing (not at the same time) double-act.

Julie dressed as a man the whole time but always made it clear that she was a woman (a female singing fencer was a big attraction). But one young man in one audience challenged her. He didn’t believe she was a woman. So, what did she do? She did what any other 16-year-old would do. She flashed her boobs at the crowd.

Julie also had quite a talent for singing as well. When they got to Marseille she trained as a singer under Pierre Gaultier, a friend of the composer who invented the military marching band and modern ballet, Jean-Baptiste Lully.

It wasn’t long before Julie tired of Sérannes. She had found another love, a merchant’s daughter who was even younger than she was. The girl’s parents were horrified, so they packed her daughter off to a convent. Undaunted, Julie followed, and abandoned her male attire to join the same convent. The two teenagers could be together, but life in a convent was not the best environment for a relationship so they decided to run away together.

Knowing Julie, just running away from a convent was no ordinary task. She waited until an elderly nun had died. Then, Julie dug up the body. Yes, grave-robbing was another of her skills, and put the corpse in her girlfriend’s bed. To cover up the switch Julie set fire to the convent and she and her girlfriend escaped amid the chaos.

The plan backfired, sort of. In her absence Julie was accused of kidnapping, grave-robbing and arson. She was condemned to death – as a man, because they couldn’t believe a woman could do such a thing.

On the run again Julie enjoyed three months with her young lover (whose name is not known). But boredom set in again and the girl was sent back to her parents while Julie returned to her singing-fencing career in the inns and fairs of rural France. She was talent-spotted by an alcoholic former singing star who offered to train her properly. Perhaps now, at the age of 18, Julie though about finding a more normal life.

But no. She enjoyed singing, but she enjoyed fencing just as much. On her way to Paris to start her professional singing career she encountered a young man who insulted her (in one version of the tale). Julie challenged him to a duel and succeeded in thrusting her sword straight through his shoulder. The next day the man’s servant came to apologise for his master’s insult and took Julie up to see him in his room. It was only then that Julie revealed her true gender and identity and, guess what? She and the injured man, who turned out to be Count Louis-Joseph d’Albret, became lovers. This was perhaps the only true love relationship Julie had with a man. They were only lovers for a short time but they remained close friends for the rest of their lives.

Julie continued on to Paris, picking up yet another lover, a fellow singer also heading for Paris called Gabriel-Vincent Thévenard. Don’t forget that Julie had a death sentence hanging over her in Paris, and once there her identity would be revealed and she risked arrest. Calling on her former lover, the Count of Armagnac, for help he persuaded the king to drop all charges against her.

Still only 18 years old Julie found herself performing at the Paris Opera. It wasn’t long before she realised her best singing voice was as a contralto, and this turned her into a star. There weren’t many starring roles for a contralto at that time, but Julie found composers were writing leading roles especially for her. This was the time she became known as La Maupin. She stayed at the Paris Opera for 15 years.

And if you think the first 18 years of her life were packed with enough packed and that she has decided to settle down and become a singing celebrity you’d be wrong.

The next 18 years of her life were just as extraordinary, and included a duel with three men one after the other, an affair with the ruler of Bavaria, and a disagreement with the Grand Duchess of Luxembourg all made sure her teenage reputation stayed with her. Unfortunately, we can’t. Julie d’Aubigny’s life is so extraordinary that I’ve split it into two parts. Part 2 will appear at the end of the month. And you’ll never guess what she did with a handful of radishes.