In October of 1670, a nineteen-year-old Frenchman named Germain Moüette had the misfortune to be captured by corsairs from Salé. After being taken to that city, he—like thousands of others over the years—was sold into slavery.
There is very little known of Moüette before his capture, though some versions of his life claim he was the son of a tax collector. He was, however, well enough educated to be able to write well. After spending more than a decade as a slave in Morocco, he was ransomed by the Mercedarians and returned to France—and wrote a book about his experiences: Relation de la captivité du Sr. Mouette dans les royaumes de Fez et de Maroc, où il a demeuré pendant onze ans (The Story of the Captivity of Sieur Mouette in the Kingdoms of Fez and Marocco, Where He lived for Eleven Years).
The Relation was published in 1683, when Moüette was in his early thirties. It provides a wealth of information not only about the cities/kingdoms of Fez and Marrakech (commonly referred to as “Morocco” in those days), but also about Salé, where he endured life as a slave for two years. For the next few weeks, I’ll be posting excerpts from the Salé part of the Relation.
When presenting French texts in this blog, I typically do the translation myself. There is, however, an early eighteenth century translation of the Relation, published in England in 1711. Rather than ‘reinvent the wheel’ (so to speak), I have resorted to that translation. Early eighteenth century prose is a bit clunky and rambling for modern readers, though, so I have lightly edited and abridged it to make it easier to read.
Here, then, is the first part of my tidied-up version of the eighteenth century English translation of Germain Moüette’s Relation.
I set out from Paris, on the last Day of July, 1670, with my cousin, Claude Loyer la Garde, and a friend of ours, destined for the West Indies. We arrived at Diep on the twenty-ninth of that month and embarked on the sixteenth of September (paying 56 livres each for our passage) on a small vessel of 126 tons and having 6 guns, called La Royale, commanded by Issac Beliart, of Diep. Along with us, there also embarked Madam de la Montagne, whose husband had been Commander of the inhabitants of the island of Saint Christopher. She was returning there with her son, a knight of Malta, and some men and women servants. That same day, there came aboard a gentleman of that country [Normandy], who had fled from his father, having had the misfortune to kill his elder brother, whom his father loved dearly.
The wind coming on from the east in the evening, we set sail. About midnight, however, the wind veered about to the southwest, rising every moment, and the sea ran so high that the waves often broke over our deck and began to fright us. Our sailors, used to such storms, laughed at us. However, the increasing fury of it obliged us to get under the shelter of the English coast, and we and came to an anchor near Rye.
There, we discovered two vessels that had recently sunk, the tops of their masts still to be seen rising above the water. Since the weather continued boisterous, it was thought safer to weigh our anchor and sail to the Downs, about two leagues from Dover, where we should be better sheltered from the westerly wind by the high hills on the English coast.
We dropped anchor there and stayed ashore for four days in order to refresh ourselves. This place is only remarkable for two things: the number of ships which assemble there to wait for good weather; and that it is defended by three strong castles. The ladies there are very gallant, civil, and admirably beautiful. The young Normandy gentleman of whom I have spoken [the young man who had had the misfortune to kill his elder brother], who was of a very passionate disposition, and who spoke good English, wanting to get to know them, and got involved in an amorous affair—from which he would not have escaped happily if he had not been rescued by some of our people.
On the fifth of October, a fleet of ships from the Netherlands and Hamburg, along with an English squadron, set sail bound for the Levant. We kept company with them for two days, enjoying during that time the diversion of their trumpets and the frequent firing of their guns.
Near the Isle of Wight, we parted from them and stood our course with a fair wind until the ninth, when the wind veered to the southwest, which was right ahead of us, causing the sea to run so high that we were obliged till the twelfth to leave our vessel to the mercy of the wind and the waves.
One night when we were all upon the deck, except for the master and pilot, who were in the round house, the sea broke over the vessel and half overset her and must have infallibly sunk us had not Providence so ordered that another wave raised the head of her, which was the saving of us.
At length on the thirteenth, in the morning, the storm abated, and a rainbow appeared and brought fair weather.
On the fifteenth, about evening, we met three tall Dutch ships coming from the coast of Barbary were, they told us, they had burnt some corsair ships. They asked whether we had seen a flyboat belonging to those parts which had escaped them, and they warned us to take heed, for it was not far off. Having saluted one another, we each then held to our own course.
The next morning, the sixteenth, while we were at prayers, a boy who was at the main topmast cried out that he saw two ships ahead of us, not above two leagues distant. As we were sailing towards one another, we soon came within cannon shot.
They bore Turkish colors, and we put out our own. They asked who we were and from whence we came. Being answered that we came from Diep and were bound for America, they told us that they were Algerines, at peace with us, and that therefore we need not fear, but that our captain must go aboard to show his pass, and they would then be satisfied.[1]
This was the method that the Salé pirates use to take our ships, and the same is practiced by the Algerines when they are at war, which makes them masters of their prizes with much ease.
Our commander, being either too credulous or a coward, would not take the advice of the pilot and sailors who told him that one of those vessels was the very flyboat that the Dutch had bid him beware of but the night before. They insisted that he should not believe the pirates and should, instead, defend himself and his ship. Instead, he ordered the ship’s boat to be hoisted out and, taking six of our best men with him, left us, saying that in case those were enemy ships he would throw his hat into the sea as a signal for us to stand upon our guard.
Instead of so doing, however, the villain betrayed us. Once having contracted secretly for his vessel so that he enriched himself by the loss of it, instead of performing his promise, he wrote a note to the pilot bidding him to fear nothing but to suffer the Mohammedans to come aboard, for they would only search to see whether we had any strangers concealed. The pilot obeyed this order, and as soon as the pirates came aboard, they drew weapons that they had concealed beneath their clothes and fell upon all they met.
When I perceived that they were in earnest, and that no man offered to oppose them, I dropped the musket I held, after discharging it, and scrambled down as fast as I could into one of their ship’s boats, where a devil of a black, left there to take care of it, quickly seized me by the collar and held an axe over my head to scare me. However, he made me understand by signs that I should come to no harm if I would be quiet and let him have his will. He then took all I had upon me of any value and, that done, said no more to me.
In the meanwhile, there was dreadful havoc on the deck. The pirates, meeting with no opposition, killed a young Huguenot about thirteen or fourteen years of age, shooting him in the belly. The knight of Malta, the son of Madam de la Montagne, received some wounds from a scimitar.
The infidels, now our masters, carried us over to their ships, where we were all stripped and searched narrowly to see if we were concealing any money. Then, counting forty of us, great and small, with four women, they divided us equally between their two ships, as they did the rest of their booty.
The knight of Malta and his mother were placed aboard the ship of Courtebey Reis, and my cousin and I, along with numerous others, were carried aboard the ship of Mahomet Reis, a renegade from Algiers who had joined Courtebey Reis some days earlier, after the Dutch had chased him (he got clear of them in| the night), for Courtebey Reis commanded the Flyboat that the Dutch had warned us to beware of.
For the next installments of Germain Moüette’s Relation, see the next post here in this blog.
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[1] At this time, there was a treaty in place between France and Algiers that guaranteed the inviolability of each party’s shipping. The captains of French ships were equipped with passes—official documents certifying that they and their ship were genuine French citizens/property.
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For those who may be interested, the early eighteenth century English translation of Moüette’s Relation can be found in A New Collection of Voyages and Travels into Several Parts of the World, None of Them ever before Printed in English, vol 2. London, Printed for J. Knapton, Andrew Bell, D. Midwinter, Wilk Taylor, A. Collins, and J. Baker, 1711.
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