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The Jewish Pirates Who Ruled the Caribbean

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As European nations pushed westward in a mad dash for colonies from the 16th to 18th centuries, the Caribbean became a pirate’s paradise. Legendary sailors like Edward "Blackbeard" Teach and William "Captain" Kidd famously stalked the waters in search of vulnerable trading vessels. What’s less well known is that among these rogue sailors’ ranks were displaced European Jews. Pirating was one of the era’s more egalitarian professions—there’s little time for discrimination if you need to work together while running from royal fleets. This sense of relative equality could be one of the reasons that attracted a number of Jews to adventurous lives on the high seas. 

Until recently, history books rarely noted the exploits of Jewish pirates, despite their surprising prevalence and success, but historical graveyards unearthed in the Caribbean within the last decade revealed tombstones with Stars of David, Hebrew, and skull and crossbones insignia. 

Ferdinand and Isabella Make Piracy Possible 

Just like many other New World immigrants, Jews crossed the Atlantic in hopes of finding better lives and lucrative careers, increasingly difficult goals in Europe. For centuries, Jews felt the wrath of the Inquisition as it swept across the continent, and a new wave of anti-Semitism coincided almost exactly with the first voyages across the Atlantic. In the very same month that Columbus set sail in search of a new route to Asia, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella ordered the expulsion of all Jews and Muslims from Spain, and Portugal followed suit a few years later. 

Many fled to more tolerant Middle Eastern countries such as the Ottoman Empire, but a large number eventually made their way to the new colonies, where they became sugar farmers, merchants, and even politicians. In fact, so many Jews occupied Jamaican legislative seats that, in the 19th century, Jamaica’s parliament was the only one in the world to not hold session on Saturdays because of Shabbat. 

By 1720, an estimated 20 percent of Kingston’s residents were descendants of Spanish-Portuguese Jews, and a few of these Jews eventually felt the urge to seek a more adventurous life on the ocean. Captaining ships with names like the Queen Esther, the Prophet Samuel, and the Shield of Abraham, Jewish sailors began roaming the island coasts in search of riches, usually obtained under questionable legal circumstances. These Jewish pirates most frequently attacked Spanish and Portuguese ships, payback for generations of injustice. 

"The Great Jew" and the Pirate Rabbi 

Moshe Cohen Hanarkis (or Moses Cohen Henriques, depending on your translation) was one of the most famous of these revenge-seekers. In 1628, he helped the Dutch West India Company’s Admiral Piet Hein pull one of the most lucrative sea heists in pirating history, stealing enormous amounts of gold and silver from a Spanish fleet off the coast of Cuba. Today’s adjustments would put the treasure’s value at over $1 billion. Not long after, Hanarkis established his own pirate island off the coast of Brazil, and once the colony was recaptured by Portugal, he became an adviser to the infamous Captain Henry Morgan. Surprisingly, although his exact date of death is unknown, Hanarkis never faced a single trial for his crimes. 

Hanarkis wasn’t alone. A captain known only as Sinan, or "The Great Jew" by his Spanish targets, worked alongside the dreaded Hayreddin Barbarossa. Born in Turkey, this Sephardic sailor included a six-pointed star on his ship’s flag and was so good at maritime navigation that it was rumored he employed black magic to find his way. In 1538, Sinan was instrumental in defeating the Spanish-backed Genoan fleet at the Battle of Preveza, a crippling blow to Spain’s attempts to secure the Barbary Coast.

These escapades weren’t limited to Jewish laypeople, either. Rabbi Shmuel Palacci is said to have taken part in some pirate raids against Spanish and Dutch ships. As a pious rebbe, he made sure that his crew donated a tenth of their loot to charity in a Jewish custom known as ma'aser, and even kept kosher aboard his ship.

The Jewish Pirate Who Helped Win the War of 1812 

Perhaps the most influential of all Jewish pirates was Jean Lafitte, the historical figure known for his key role in Andrew Jackson’s success at the Battle of New Orleans during the War of 1812. In the controversial Journal of Jean Lafitte—which may have been written by him, may have been written by someone else during the 19th century, or may be a modern forgery—he claims that his mother's father was a Spanish Jew. After the battle of New Orleans, Lafitte returned to pirating and eventually set up a pirate community on Galveston Island. 

Additional Sources: Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean, Ed Kritzler, 2008

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A Very Brief History of Chamber Pots

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Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla, Mental Floss. Saint Nicholas: HULTON ARCHIVE, GETTY IMAGES. Skulls, backgrounds: iStock
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Tomb Raider: The Story of Saint Nicholas's Stolen Bones
Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla, Mental Floss. Saint Nicholas: HULTON ARCHIVE, GETTY IMAGES. Skulls, backgrounds: iStock
Photo illustration by Lucy Quintanilla, Mental Floss. Saint Nicholas: HULTON ARCHIVE, GETTY IMAGES. Skulls, backgrounds: iStock

Throughout history, corpses have been bought and sold, studied, collected, stolen, and dissected. In Rest in Pieces: The Curious Fates of Famous Corpses, Mental Floss editor Bess Lovejoy looked into the afterlife of numerous famous corpses, including Saint Nicholas, one of the many canonized bodies whose parts were highly prized by churches, thieves, and the faithful.

Don't tell the kids, but Santa Claus has been dead for more than sixteen hundred years. No, his body is not at the North Pole, and he's not buried with Mrs. Claus. In fact, his remains are thousands of miles away, on Italy's sunny Adriatic coast. And while Santa might be enjoying his Mediterranean vacation, he's probably not too happy about what happened to his remains. They were stolen in the eleventh century, and people have been fighting over them ever since.

Of course, the Santa Claus of folklore doesn't have a skeleton. But his inspiration, Saint Nicholas, does. That's about all we can say for sure about Nicholas: he was a bishop who lived and died in what is now Turkey in the first half of the fourth century. Legend tells us that he was born into a rich family and delighted in giving gifts. Once, he threw three bags of gold into the window of a poor family's house, saving the three daughters who lived there from a life of prostitution. Another time, he raised three children from the dead after a butcher carved them up and stored them in a vat of brine. He also protected sailors, who were said to cry out his name in rough seas, then watch the waves mysteriously smooth.

The sailors spread Nicholas's cult around the world. Within a century of his death, the bishop was worshipped as a saint, lending his name to hundreds of ports, islands, and inlets, and thousands of baby boys. He became one of the best-loved saints in all of Christendom, adopted by both the Eastern and Western traditions. Christmas probably owes something to his December 6 feast day, while Santa Claus’s red outfit may come from his red bishop’s robes. "Santa Claus" is derived from "Sinterklaas," which was how Dutch immigrants to New Amsterdam pronounced his name.

As one of the most popular saints in the Christian world, Nicholas had a particularly powerful corpse. The bodies of saints and martyrs had been important to Christianity since its beginning: the earliest churches were built on the tombs of saints. It was thought that the bodily bits of saints functioned like spiritual walkie-talkies: you could communicate with higher powers through them, and they, in turn, could manifest holy forces on Earth. They could heal you, protect you, and even perform miracles.

Sometimes, the miracles concerned the saints' own bodies. Their corpses would refuse to decay, exude an inexplicable ooze, or start to drip blood that mysteriously solidified and then reliquefied. So it was with Nicholas: at some point after his death, his bones began to secrete a liquid called manna or myrrh, which was said to smell like roses and possess potent healing powers.

The appearance of the manna was taken as a sign that Nicholas’s corpse was especially holy, and pilgrims began flocking by the thousands to his tomb in the port city of Myra (now called Demre). By the eleventh century, other cities started getting jealous. At the time, cities and churches often competed for relics, which brought power and prestige to their hometowns the way a successful sports team might today. Originally, the relics trade had been nourished by the catacombs in Rome, but when demand outstripped supply, merchants—and even monks—weren't above sneaking down into the crypts of churches to steal some holy bones. Such thefts weren't seen as a sin; the sanctity of the remains trumped any ethical concerns. The relics were also thought to have their own personalities—if they didn't want to be stolen, they wouldn't allow it. Like King Arthur's sword in the stone, they could only be removed by the right person.

That was how Myra lost Saint Nicholas. The culprits were a group of merchants and sailors from the town of Bari, located on the heel of Italy's boot. Like other relic thefts, this one came at a time of crisis for the town where the thieves lived, which in this case had recently been invaded by a horde of rapacious Normans. The conquerors wanted to compete with the Venetians, their trading rivals to the north, who were known for stealing the bones of Saint Mark (disguised in a basket of pork) from Alexandria in 827. And when the Normans heard that Myra had recently fallen to the Turks, leaving Nicholas’s tomb vulnerable, they decided to try stealing a saint for themselves.

According to an account written shortly after the theft by a Barian clerk, three ships sailed from Bari into Myra's harbor in the spring of 1087. Forty-seven well armed Barians disembarked and strode into the church of Saint Nicholas, where they asked to see the saint’s tomb. The monks, who weren't idiots, got suspicious and asked why they wanted to know. The Barians then dropped any pretense of politeness, tied the monks up, and smashed their way into Nicholas's sarcophagus. They found his skeleton submerged in its manna and smelled a heavenly perfume wafting up from the bones, which "licked at the venerable priests as if in insatiable embrace."

And so Nicholas of Myra became Nicholas of Bari. The relics made the town, and the men who stole them. The thieves became famous in the area, and for centuries their descendants received a percentage of the offerings given on the saint’s feast day. The townspeople built a new basilica to hold the remains, which drew thousands of pilgrims throughout the Middle Ages. Even today, Bari remains a major pilgrimage site in southern Italy, visited by both Roman Catholics and Orthodox Christians. Every May an elaborate festival, the Feast of the Translation, celebrates the arrival of Nicholas’s relics. As one of the highlights, the rector of the basilica bends over Nicholas’s sarcophagus and draws off some of the manna in a crystal vial. The fluid is mixed with holy water and poured into decorated bottles sold in Bari's shops; it is thought to be a curative drink.

But Bari is not the only place that boasts of the bones of Saint Nicholas. If you ask the Venetians, they will say their own sailors visited Myra during the First Crusade and stole Nicholas’s remains, which have been in Venice ever since. For centuries, both Bari and Venice have claimed the saint's skeleton.

In the twentieth century, scientists waded into the dispute. During renovations to the basilica of Bari in 1953, church officials allowed University of Bari anatomy professor Luigi Martino to examine the remains— the first time the tomb had been opened in more than eight hundred years. Martino found the bones wet, fragile, and fragmented, with many of them missing. He concluded that they had belonged to a man who died in his seventies, although because Martino was given only a short time with the bones, he could say little more.

Four decades later, Martino and other scientists also studied the Venetian bones. They concluded that those relics and the ones in Bari had come from the same skeleton, and theorized that the Venetian sailors had stolen what was left in Myra after the Barians had done all their smashing.

As for Demre, all they have is an empty tomb. And they want their bones back. In 2009, the Turkish government said it was considering a formal request to Rome for the return of Nicholas's remains. Though the bones have little religious significance in a nation that’s 99 percent Muslim, there’s still a sense in Turkey that the centuries-old theft was a cultural violation. Its restitution would certainly be an economic benefit: according to local officials, tourists in Demre frequently complain about the barren tomb, and they weren't satisfied by the giant plastic sculpture of Santa Claus that once stood outside Nicholas’s church. Even though Santa has become an international cultural icon, his myth is still rooted in a set of bones far from home.

From REST IN PIECES: The Curious Fates of Famous Corpses by Bess Lovejoy. Copyright © 2013 by Bess Lovejoy. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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