Living with Whales: Documents and Oral Histories of Native New England Whaling History 9781613763049

Table of contents :
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Introduction
1. A World of Whales
2. Whaling from the Shore to the Deep Sea
3. Around the World in the Nineteenth Century
4. Whaling Legacies
5. A Whaling Family in New England and New Zealand
6. Wampanoag Oral Histories
7. Shinnecock Oral Histories
Afterword: Researching Native Whaling History
Appendix: Native Whalemen’s Logbooks and Journals
Notes
Index
Back Cover

Citation preview

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A volume in the series Native Americans of the Northeast Edited by Colin Calloway Jean M. O’Brien Barry O’Connell

Documents and Oral Histories of Native New England Whaling History

Edited by

NANCY SHOEMAKER

University of Massachusetts Press Amherst and Boston

Copyright © 2014 by University of Massachusetts Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-62534-081-8 (paper); 080-1 (cloth) Designed by Sally Nichols Set in ITC New Baskerville Printed and bound by Sheridan Books, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Living with whales : documents and oral histories of Native New England whaling history / edited by Nancy Shoemaker. pages cm — (Native Americans of the Northeast) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-62534-081-8 (pbk. : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-62534-080-1 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Whaling—New England—History. 2. Whaling—Social aspects—New England—History. 3. Indians of North America­—New England—History. 4. Indians of North America—Fishing—New England. I. Shoemaker, Nancy, 1958–, editor. II. Title: Documents and oral histories of Native New England whaling history. SH383.2.L595 2014 639.2'80974--dc23 2013047802

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Contents

Introduction 1 1. A World of Whales 11 2. Whaling from the Shore to the Deep Sea 37 3. Around the World in the Nineteenth Century 65 4. Whaling Legacies 96 5. A Whaling Family in New England and New Zealand 120 6. Wampanoag Oral Histories 141 7. Shinnecock Oral Histories 169 Afterword Researching Native Whaling History 199 Appendix Native Whalemen’s Logbooks and Journals 203 Notes 205 Index 213

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Native communities and major whaling ports in southern New England in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Map by Bill Keegan, Heritage Consultants.

Introduction

M

ention Native American whaling and most people will think first of the Makah in the Pacific Northwest, who made international headlines in 1999 when they reasserted their aboriginal and treaty rights to hunt whales, or the Inuit in Alaska, who have been hunting whales for thousands of years. The coastal Algonquian peoples of southern New England have also had an enduring relationship with whales dating back thousands of years. In many ways, the impact of whales and whaling on Native New Englanders’ cultures and economies has been even more profound and complex than among the Makah or the Inuit, for New England Native whaling history is not just about indigenous claims to the sea but also about complicated labor systems that developed under colonialism. English settlers saw economic opportunity in southern New England’s abundance of whales, and as the New England whaling industry expanded to become the largest in the world, at each step of the way colonists turned to Native peoples to provide knowledge and labor. Living with Whales may seem an inappropriate or contradictory title for a book that contains many descriptions of killing whales, but it refers to the long, holistic history between whales and Native Americans in southern New England that extends even to the present day. From long before European contact to the time when Bartholomew

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Figure 1. These whale- and fish-shaped pendants were probably used as sinkers for fishing. From Charles C. Willoughby, Antiquities of the New England Indians, with Notes on the Ancient Cultures of the Adjacent Territory (Cambridge: Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University, 1935), 50.

Gosnold named Martha’s Vineyard, Dutch and English fishermen and explorers traded for furs and wampum beads off of Long Island and Cape Cod, and the so-called Pilgrims took up residence at Plymouth, the relationship between Native peoples and whales was a holistic one. They harvested marine mammals along with clams, oysters, fish, and deer for their subsistence, and whales played a part in their creation stories, spiritual beliefs, and political practices (figs. 1–3). In contrast, Native participation in the industrial whaling that began in the midseventeenth century and ended, for southern New England, in the 2X INTRODUCTION

Figure 2. (top) Bone harpoons are commonly found in archaeological sites along the coast of southern New England. At fifteen inches, this one from Truro on Cape Cod is larger than most and a substantial tool useful for catching marine mammals and large fish. In design, it is not all that different from the iron harpoons used in the European whaling industry up until the early nineteenth century. From Ross Moffett, “An Unusual Indian Harpoon from Truro,” Bulletin of the Massachusetts Archaeological Society 30, no. 3–4 (April– July 1969): 22. Figure 3. (bottom) These pendants carved out of stone look like whale flukes, or tails, and were likely worn as decorative or symbolic objects, suggesting that coastal Algonquians had an ancient fascination for this part of the whale. From William S. Fowler, “Ceremonial and Domestic Products of Aboriginal New England,” 27, no. 3–4 (April–July 1966): 40.

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1920s seems a jarring diversion toward a new kind of economy—a different way of relating to one’s environment. But even as Native New England men hunted down sperm whales off of Japan or bowhead whales in the Bering Sea during the nineteenth century, they and their families at home were still relying on whales for part of their livelihood and, at the same time, regarding them as beings of great cultural significance. Living with whales while also (sometimes) killing them is one aspect of the ambivalence about Native New England whaling history that will become evident in the historical documents and oral histories in this book. Another ambivalent aspect of this history is the connection between the local and the global. As Native peoples knew and as Europeans discovered, whales flourished in the waters off of New England. The glacial legacy of rocky outcrops, bays, islands, and undersea fishing banks, all jutting dramatically eastward toward the warm currents of the Gulf Stream, made New England waters a favored feeding ground for many whale species. This bounty of whales led eventually to a global whaling industry dominated by New Englanders. The English colonists who established towns along the coast—Plymouth in 1620, Southampton on Long Island in 1640, Nantucket in 1659—did not begin with a plan to make whaling the powerhouse industry it would become. Early colonists noticed whales drifting ashore, but not until they had grasped the Native inhabitants’ depth of understanding of whales—the various species, their physiology, and their migratory patterns—did they begin to form whaling companies, borrowing from and very often expropriating outright Native knowledge and labor to do so. Colonial investors tapped into an ever-expanding transatlantic marketplace to sell whale oil and baleen (known as whalebone) from New England’s whales. As happened with the beaver fur trade in the same period, Native American expertise and labor fed the demands of a vast network of consumers around the world whose lives were enriched by the wildlife of North America. Indians hunted the whales, which were then manufactured in port cities into desirable commodities: lighting fuel, candles, soap, and paint from the oil; riding whips, umbrella ribs, fishing rods, and corset stays from the baleen. Many who invested in this industry became wealthy. Those who labored in the New England whalefishery were lucky if they could make a living from it. As with any raw material, the supply of whales had limits. By the start of the eighteenth century, the number of right whales in the North Atlantic that could be pursued from stations along the New England 4X INTRODUCTION

shore had dwindled from overhunting, just when sperm whale oil became the consumers’ preference. So the New England whalefishery began sending larger vessels further out into the North and South Atlantic—single-masted sloops at first, then two-masted brigs and schooners equipped with whaleboats, harpoons, lances, and try-pots, to chase, kill, and boil whales into oil on the open sea. Wampanoag, Shinnecock, Montauk, Narragansett, and other Native men went along as laborers, composing a substantial proportion of the six-man whaleboat crews. In the 1790s, when American whaling expeditions rounded Cape Horn to seek their prey in the Pacific, New England’s Native whalemen went too, now on the big three-masted ships and barks that would be their homes for years at a time. And when the industry advanced onto the whaling grounds of the Arctic Ocean in the mid-nineteenth century, Native New Englanders went there as well. In the nineteenth century, not only could Native New Englanders be found cruising whale grounds throughout the Atlantic, Pacific, Arctic, and Indian oceans; they also stopped often in foreign lands, visiting such places as the Azores and Cape Verde Islands in the Atlantic, rounding Cape Horn or the Cape of Good Hope to recruit provisions on the coast of Chile or at Hobart, Australia; capturing tortoises at the Galapagos Islands to add to their food stores; eating poi or drinking kava at Hawai‘i, Tahiti, Samoa, Tonga, and Fiji; and trading for skin boots, coats, and mittens with the Inuit as they headed for a summer of bowhead whaling off the pack ice of the North Pacific. For “indigenous” people to be world travelers might seem an oxymoron. But Native New England whalemen seem never to have forgotten their place of origins. When I first began research on the history of New England Native whaling, I anticipated that it would be a story of diaspora, with Native men dispersed all over the world, but it turns out that the opposite was more often the case. While a few, such as the Pequot whaleman Elisha Apes, lived out their lives halfway around the world, in Apes’s case in New Zealand, the overwhelming majority either died at sea or returned home, many serving as respected leaders within Native communities. The knowledge gleaned from years of traveling abroad and the incorporation through marriage of people from Cape Verde, Madagascar, Surinam, Hawai‘i, and St. Helena gave these supposedly isolated and dependent Indian reservations of New England a surprising cosmopolitanism. Another aspect of Native whaling experience that might seem to suggest a contradiction or tension is the way the industrial whaling

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system enveloped Native communities in an economy that was simultaneously exploitative and rewarding. Whaling work helped Native New Englanders survive the economic and environmental hardships wrought by colonization, but it also immersed them in a prejudicial political and legal infrastructure that helped whaling investors exploit their labor, deplete the whale population through overhunting, and expand the United States into South America, the Pacific, the Arctic, and elsewhere around the world. At the same time, coastal New Englanders were facing the same challenges to their way of life, cultural integrity, and sovereignty as other colonized peoples. New England’s Natives were squeezed onto small tracts of land, subjected to state oversight as childlike dependents, missionized to accept the Christian faith, pushed to the impoverished edges of the regional economy, and described in newspapers and literature as a pathetic and degraded people. But as both they and the entrepreneurial class in the whaling industry knew, they also had unique skills and knowledge useful to the developing business of whaling. Yet for public discourse to recognize Native men’s abilities as seamen and, increasingly in the latter half of the nineteenth century, as whaleship officers, was not possible in a regional culture determined to deny Native peoples self-government on their own lands and respect for their cultures and persons. Despite the whalefishery’s dark side in its collusion with colonization, however, Native New Englanders’ stories about whales and the sea, along with the achievements of individual whalemen in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, have inspired a positive connection to place and to the past. Integrated into the global economy as individual laborers more directly than any other group of Native Americans up until the twentieth century and exposed to a vast diversity of cultures, languages, and ways of life, coastal New Englanders remarkably managed to retain a sense of themselves and their communities as Native peoples residing on ancestral homelands long after the industry itself had died out. The demanding labor and harsh physical conditions of whaling, the many years Native whalemen spent away from their families, and the devastating numbers of men lost at sea make the continuing vitality of Native communities seem even more remarkable. Their long relationship with whales contributed to their survival as Native peoples, and it also explains why their history and identity as whaling people is still so much in evidence today, especially among the Shinnecock and at Aquinnah but among other tribes, too. The 6X INTRODUCTION

Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center in southeastern Connecticut, for example, has on display a life-size replica of one tribal member, Peter George, trying out whale blubber to turn it into oil, recreating the kind of work he would have done on whaling voyages in the 1830s and 1840s. An exhibit case full of whaling artifacts greets visitors as soon as they enter the Mohegans’ Tantaquidgeon Indian Museum. On the eastern end of Long Island in New York State, the Shinnecocks, Algonquians with close cultural and historic ties to southern New England, include in their tribal nation’s cultural center and museum extensive exhibits that touch on whaling history. Murals reenacting ancient whaling ceremonies, painted by David Bunn Martine, an artist who is also the museum’s director, cover the walls, and scrimshaw, bone artifacts, and photographs and letters of nineteenth-century Shinnecock whalemen and their families fill display cases and panels. Martine also designed the tribal seal, which includes depictions of whales, demonstrating again a recognition of whales as an important aspect of Shinnecock culture. On the tribal seal of the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head (Aquinnah) on Martha’s Vineyard, the giant Moshup, standing atop the Gay Head Cliffs, holds up a sperm whale as though it were a banner or flag. The Aquinnah Cultural Center, slightly downhill from the cliffs, is housed in the recently restored home of Edwin D. Vanderhoop, a Wampanoag who built his house partly from money earned on whaling voyages in the 1870s. On the grounds toward the rear of the house, next to two dugout canoes, stands an old try-pot, in which whale blubber was boiled into oil. At the Aquinnah Cultural Center and among the gift shops at the top of the cliffs, photographs and artifacts from the early twentieth-century whaling career of Amos Smalley stand proudly on display. Many descendants of Native whalemen have retained treasures of whaling remembrance in their homes, which have passed down in families along with stories, or can speak to their own encounters with whales, here in New England or as travelers to Alaska, Hawai‘i, or other places where Native identities have closely wound together with the maritime world. Although the region’s many maritime museums understate the Native role in American whaling history, traces of Native history appear in their exhibits, too, such as in pictures of Paul Cuffe and Amos Haskins, whaling captains of Wampanoag descent, at the New Bedford Whaling Museum. Throughout coastal New England, especially in the former whaling port towns of Nantucket, New Bedford, New London, and Edgartown, and in Sag Harbor on Long Island, the

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impact of whaling on the region is acknowledged, making this a shared history. Even today, tourists armed with cameras instead of harpoons can chase whales in the deep ocean by boarding whale-watching vessels at Provincetown, Plymouth, Montauk Point, Boston, or Gloucester to head out to Stellwagen Bank to see finbacks, humpbacks, or perhaps even one of the few surviving right whales on their favorite feeding grounds. Whales that come to these waters to feed sometimes become mired on the sand alongshore. When a dead or ailing sperm whale or finback beaches on Long Island or at Nantucket, or when a pod of pilot whales is stranded in Cape Cod Bay, rescue teams, marine mammal scientists, government employees, journalists, curious onlookers, and Native people from nearby communities all have reason to reflect on their own particular history with whales and the distinct meanings this event has for them. The documents and oral histories collected in this book tell of these disparate relationships, attitudes, and emotions, drawing connections across time to tell a complex story. The historical documents gathered in chapter 1 give insight into Native New Englanders’ ideas about and uses for whales and the sea at about the time of European contact. Produced mainly by English colonists, most of these documents show the prejudices and aspirations of their writers, and Indian perspectives must be gleaned from between the lines. This chapter also includes stories told in later time periods of the renowned giant Moshup. The documents in chapter 2 also reveal the heavy hand of European colonizers. This chapter begins with the origins of the American whaling industry in the form of shore-whaling companies operating out of the towns of Southampton and East Hampton on Long Island in the mid-1600s. The business of whaling then spread to Cape Cod and Nantucket later in the century. English colonists contracted with men from nearby Native communities to hunt right whales from shore stations during the winter season. Native men probably had varying reasons to sign these contracts, sometimes doing so voluntarily but increasingly because they were pressured by debt or indenture through an elaborate web of colonial legal instruments buttressing an arbitrary and inequitable authority over the region’s Native peoples. Winter shore whaling continued into the eighteenth century but became intermixed with summer voyages to the North and South Atlantic, where Native whalemen lived intimately alongside white and black New Englanders in the cramped quarters of a sailing vessel for months at a time. The era of the whaling industry’s rapid expansion, from the 1830s 8X INTRODUCTION

to its peak in the early 1850s, at about the time Herman Melville published Moby-Dick (1851), is the subject of chapter 3. Ship owners’ reliance on foreign laborers from around the world and young American-born men from the northeastern interior put a premium on the seafaring skills of all coastal New Englanders, especially Native men, who after the 1830s commonly rose to positions of authority aboard whaleships. Very few Native whalemen attained the rank of captain, but they could expect that, if they survived a voyage and committed themselves to its success, they would be promoted on their next voyage and ultimately perhaps even become first mate. More so than for the earlier time periods, most of the documents about Native whalemen’s experiences in this chapter are in their own words, since quite a few left accounts of their voyages in the form of logbooks and private journals. (For a list of these see the appendix.) Chapter 4 deals with the memory of Native whaling as the industry began to decline in size and significance by the start of the twentieth century. Memoirs and obituaries retelling Native men’s adventures at sea or mentioning whaling careers help place Native whaling within a larger social context, providing insight into other kinds of employment these men found, their family and community connections, and the nostalgic appreciation for whaling history that had recently become so integral to regional identity. Chapter 5 takes us outside the United States to New Zealand to explore the life of one Native American from Connecticut, Elisha Apes, who settled there in 1840 and whose Maori son James, or Tiemi, carried on the family tradition of whaling during a fleeting resurgence of the southern right whale population in the 1870s. This chapter includes an abbreviated oral history from a conversation I had with Betty Apes, who is not herself a descendant of Elisha Apes but married into the Apes family. Chapters 6 and 7 present oral histories from New England descendants of Native whalemen, whose knowledge of whaling history as passed down in families cannot be found in old documents. These descendants also give their perspectives on what this long history of the sea, whales, and whaling has meant to them. The continuing attachment to life alongside the ocean and the predominance of whaling in the histories of Shinnecock and Wampanoag peoples, in particular, are reflected in these oral histories. Chapter 6, on Wampanoag history, offers abridgments of my interviews with Ramona Peters of Mashpee and Elizabeth James Perry and Jonathan Perry of the Aquinnah

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community. Chapter 7 presents three oral histories from the Shinnecock Indian Nation, those of Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile, Holly Haile Davis, and David Bunn Martine. I consider these last two chapters the most important and most interesting part of the book. Indeed, the idea for this book originated from a conversation I had several years ago with Ramona Peters, who had many great stories and objects that had passed down in her family as well as an extensive knowledge of New England Native history based on years of research. After that conversation, I could not envision a book about this history without her, and other descendants, represented in it. As someone new to oral history research, what surprised me the most was how, when I told others in academia what I was doing, so many of them immediately asked, with a touch of disbelief, “But do they know anything?” Well, they know a lot, and if I have one wish for this book, it is that it will prompt more descendants to share what they know with a wider public.

For Further Reading Calloway, Colin G., ed. After King Philip’s War: Presence and Persistence in Indian New England. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1997. Dolin, Eric Jay. Leviathan: The History of Whaling in America. New York: Norton, 2007. Ellis, Richard. Men and Whales. New York: Knopf, 1991. Mandell, Daniel R. Tribe, Race, History: Native Americans in Southern New England, 1780–1880. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008. O’Brien, Jean M. Firsting and Lasting: Writing Indians Out of Existence in New England. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010. Reid, Joshua Leonard. “ ‘The Sea Is My Country’: The Maritime World of the Makah, an Indigenous Borderlands People.” PhD diss., University of California– Davis, 2009. Silverman, David J. Faith and Boundaries: Colonists, Christianity, and Community among the Wampanoag Indians of Martha’s Vineyard, 1600–1871. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Stone, Gaynell, ed. The Shinnecock Indians: A Culture History. Suffolk County Archaeological Association Readings in Long Island Archaeology and Ethnohistory, vol. 6. Lexington, MA: Ginn Custom Publishing, 1983.

10 X INTRODUCTION

1 A World of Whales

No matter the source—historical traditions, early European accounts of exploration, early English-Algonquian dictionaries, or the legal documents generated by English encroachment—a consistent picture emerges of coastal Algonquians’ close relationship to the sea and whales in the seventeenth century. In economic terms, living on the ocean provided the people with satisfying and dependable foods and was integral to cultural understandings of how that world worked and the place of humans in it. Whales were only one aspect of this oceanic way of life but seem to have carried a special significance as symbols of mystery and power, well-being and goodwill, and bonds of family and community.

Moshup Just how far back the telling of Moshup stories among the Wampanoag goes is unknowable. One of the earliest written versions of a Moshup story, published in 1792, is especially valuable because it gives credit to a particular storyteller, Thomas Cooper, “a half blooded Indian,

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of Gay Head, aged about sixty years.” Benjamin Basset, in the neighboring town of Chilmark, recorded Cooper’s account as a contribution to the collections of the newly formed Massachusetts Historical Society.1 Moshup’s ancient activities left a distinctive environment for the Wampanoag people in a shoreline strewn with boulders, vistas of small islands, an ocean full of fish, and a bounty of whales harvested for food.

The first Indian who came to the Vineyard, was brought thither with his dog on a cake of ice. When he came to Gay Head, he found a very large man, whose name was Moshup. He had a wife and five children, four sons and one daughter; and lived in the Den. He used to catch whales, and then pluck up trees, and make a fire, and roast them. The coals of the trees, and the bones of the whales, are now to be seen. After he was tired of staying here, he told his children to go and play ball on a beach that joined Noman’s Land to Gay Head. He then made a mark with his toe across the beach at each end, and so deep, that the water followed, and cut away the beach; so that his children were in fear of drowning. They took their sister up, and held her out of the water. He told them to act as if they were going to kill whales; and they were all turned into killers, (a fish so called.) The sister was dressed in large stripes. He gave them a strict charge always to be kind to her. His wife mourned the loss of her children so exceedingly, that he threw her away. She fell upon Seconet, near the rocks, where she lived some time, exacting contribution of all who passed by water. After a while she was changed into a stone. The entire shape remained for many years. But after the English came, some of them broke off the arms, head, &c. but the most of the body remains to this day. Moshup went away nobody knows whither. He had no conversation with the Indians, but was kind to them, by sending whales, &c. ashore to them to eat. But after they grew thick around him he left them.

Later versions of Moshup stories to appear in print show his continuing relevance as a benevolent creator of the places familiar and significant to the Wampanoag, especially at Aquinnah. In a New Bedford, 12 X CHAPTER 1

Massachusetts, newspaper in 1904, Mary A. Cleggett Vanderhoop published a series of articles under the title “The Gay Head Indians: Their History and Traditions,” which includes a lengthy account of Moshup and his wife, Squant.2 Written in a highly romanticized style characteristic of the time, Mary Vanderhoop’s Moshup stories evocatively place him and his wife in a landscape Vanderhoop knew well. Although not native to Aquinnah herself—she was born in Pennsylvania and raised in Wisconsin—Mary was the wife of Edwin D. Vanderhoop, a Wampanoag who had traveled the world by serving in the Union Navy during the US Civil War, whaling in the Pacific Ocean on two voyages in the 1870s, obtaining an education degree in Washington, DC, and teaching in Arkansas for a while (see his obituary in chapter 4). For all his worldly experiences, Edwin Vanderhoop chose to settle permanently in the land of his birth, where he built a house overlooking the ocean near the famous colorful clay cliffs. The Edwin Vanderhoop home is now the site of the Aquinnah Cultural Center.

Of Cheepii not much is known. He is the all-powerful one, the evil one, the devil. The shapes he assumes are frightful, mysterious, convincing. The story of his last visit to this neighborhood will ever be listened to on wild and stormy nights by men and women and children, whose wide and wondering eyes, abated breath and trembling nerves tell without words that they are all accustomed to “seein’ things at night.” . . . Of Moshup more is known. After a long and stubborn conflict on the mainland, he was finally conquered and forced to flee for his life. Thus it is, at the height of his renown, we find him living on the extreme western point of Aquinnah, in a wonderfully sheltered, well-watered spot, now called the Den. This is a deep and roomy hollow, resembling the old cellar-holes, but on a much grander scale. More than a century ago it was described as a grassy glen whose slopes led gently down to the seashore. It is open to the southern and western breezes, and its portals and door-steps are washed by the waters of the broad Atlantic. At the entrance of the Den stand great rocks on either side; high and broad, they form an imposing doorway which is not only stately,

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but extremely convenient for fishing purposes. Here Moshup made his home, and here he brought his lovely Squant—now, but not then, “Ol’ Squant.” Moshup was big and powerful, and Squant was trusting and beautiful. Such was the beginning of Moshup’s home life in Aquinnah. Squant was broad, but finely proportioned, with coal-black hair, which she wore over her face, so as to cover it [as] with a veil. The reason for this—as given by the few who had beheld her face while the veil was lifted and as told by our forefathers in tones of awe—was that Squant’s eyes were square. They had been cut and thus shaped by an enemy who one day found her asleep on the Mash. Thus her beautiful hair was used to cover her hideous deformity. In the course of time children came to gladden the home and warm the hearts of Moshup and Squant. These children were all daughters, and there were twelve of them. Their home life was simple enough. From his great doorway, looking out upon the ocean, Moshup could see the whales as we do now when they pass. Standing on the large door-stones, he would catch a whale or some other great fish by its tail, and with one swing of his powerful arm land it into the witches’ cauldron beneath which a fire was always kept smouldering. To replenish this fire, he pulled up the largest trees within his reach. From the whales he threw out refuse enough to cover several acres, and from his vast supply frequently furnished the inhabitants with an abundance of ready cooked food. When the whales did not come within a reasonable distance of the shore, Moshup would throw great rocks and stones into the sea, and on these approach the leviathan he had selected. Sometimes Moshup cooked for himself, and at other times the industrious Squant prepared the food for her lord and his daughters. Thus they all grew and waxed strong as the years went by. This is the tale as it is blown to us upon the winds of tradition. Why the home of this great Indian god should be called the Devil’s Den, and why the rocks he cast into the sea are known as the Devil’s Bridge, we are not told, but assuredly his characteristics were not wholly evil. Moshup loved his great stone doorstep. Frequently he would stand thereon and smoke his peudelah (his pipe). Once an offering had been made to him of all the tobacco grown on Marthas Vineyard, which was then called Nope by the Indians. 14 X CHAPTER 1

With his peudelah filled with the last of this great gift, he one day stood in the sunshine and smoked while he mused of his past[,] his greater days. All unheeded his big peudelah suddenly tilted sidewise; and, as the tide was high, the falling ashes therefrom were carried out and down to the east by the swift-running tide, until at last, caught by some drift on a shoal, they became fixed, and in time Nantucket—or “The Devil’s Ash-Heap,” as it is called by the older natives—grew little by little, until she reached her present magnitude and prosperity. O wonderful ash from Moshup’s peudelah! They say that when Moshup was coming here, was on his way to this headland (which was no headland then, but a part of the mainland), the way being low and marshy, the great chief became greatly fatigued. In his weariness he dragged one foot heavily along the marshy ground, and the track thus made was filled by the ocean. At first the little st[r]eamlet seemed only a silver thread, but by force of waves and tides and winds it broadened and deepened, and in the course of time became the wide opening which now separates the Elizabeth Islands and No Man’s Land. Thus it is that these two places form monuments to the geographical change wrought by Moshup’s foot. But Moshup’s rock-bound door-step was his chief delight, and next to his wife and daughters did he worship it. Here he stood in the pleasant air and suns[h]ine—stood and looked dreamily out on the vast expanse of water, the headlands peeping up to keep him company. One day he decided to go to the island now called Cuttyhunk. ’Twas only a few steps for one like Moshup, but as he did not wish to wet his feet he filled his apron with stones and started to build a bridge as he crossed. On he went, dropping a great stone here and there to step upon. Progressing rapidly, soon his “bridge” was nearly completed. Absorbed in his work, and unmindful of things watery or otherwise, he failed to note the approach of a large and watchful sea-crab. Suddenly his big toe was caught and held fast in the sea-crab’s vicelike grip. The stepping-stones were immediately forgotten, never to be thought of again by the great one. Howling and roaring with pain, Moshup threw and kicked the remainder of the rocks in every direction, in a wild endeavor to kill the crab or compel it to release its powerful hold. After a furious assault the tenacious crab relaxed its jaws and poor Moshup limped back home with

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his wounded member. The old “bridge” is still there, a silent witness to another experience of the great Moshup, though it is now little more than a ledge of sunken rocks upon which more than one noble craft has met her doom. Another legend is to the effect that there were two factions interested in the building of the bridge to Cuttyhunk. Those on one side argued thus: “There are enough of us here now, if the bridge is built we shall be overrun by our neighbors and become too crowded. The other side said: “We must and shall have a bridge.” And so they went to one called Cheepii Unck and asked him to build the structure. Cheepi Unck, always willing to be obliging, consented immediately to do a good, substantial piece of work, and agreed to build a bridge of stone—not a weak, unstable wooden affair. The other crowd was very angry, but as Cheepii Unck was to do the work, there was apparently nothing to do but submit. Nothing to be done? Wherever there is opposition to a great degree, there also is to be found the cunning of the fox. Now, it so happened that the compact made with Cheepii Unck read after this fashion: “I, Cheepii Unck, between the hours of sunset and before cock-crow in the morning, do agree to build a bridge from Aquinnah highlands to Cuttyhunk. If I fail to finish said bridge of stone before cock-crow this compact is null and void.” However, the cunning children of discontent were watching matters closely. One dark night word was passed around that Cheepii Unck had begun his work, and true it was. The all-powerful one had commenced his task with an energy not to be gauged by any known standard. All the tremendous strength and force of his gigantic body was thrown into his work. At last the bridge was well under way. Great rock after rock and immense stone after stone was taken up, carried a greater or lesser distance, and dropped into place. If all went well, before cock-crow the bridge should be in place—there to remain in spite of a defiant opposition. Busy Cheepii Unck had neither thought to give nor time to spend in watching the cunning ones. But to one old lady-squaw, whose name has been lost in the mists of the past (it may have been Waukshus, but it certainly was not Mrs. Moshup, nee Squant), a singular fact was well known, and that was this: If a bright light is flashed suddenly before a cock’s face, no matter what the hour, he will crow. This old squaw, one of the cunning ones, lighted her torch and waved 16 X CHAPTER 1

it where the cock would catch the glare. With flapping wings and outstretched neck, the cock crowed long and loud and lustily. Cheepii Unck’s work was thereby ended, the bridge was unfinished, and the opposition was triumphant. But let us now return to Moshup and his home-life on the great headland. The family was in thriving condition, and, as in Noah’s time, Moshup begat an indefinite number of sons and daughters. What is more, they were all well trained by their doting father. The children were so numerous that when the daily board was spread all could not sit at the table at one time, so Father Moshup said the girls should come first, while the sonnup (sons or braves) were taught to wait in accord with the old principle—beauty first, strength afterward. At length there came a day when Moshup, either in vision or reality, saw that the outsiders were coming to his fishing-grounds. On one hand tradition tells us that the new-comers belonged to the pale face branch of the human family, while another legend says that a vast cake of ice, covered with Indians and dogs, lodged here. The latter would appear to be the correct view, because at that time Gay Head is said to have had a population of about twelve hundred—four hundred Indians and eight hundred dogs. However, whether the one story or the other is true, Moshup’s home-life was gone forever. Hastily calling his loved ones, his children, around him, he thus briefly addressed them: “My children, there will no longer be room for you in this peaceful home of ours; no longer may you find happiness in beautiful Aquinnah. The stranger comes, an unbidden guest, to take that which was ours. Departing, I bid you remember my teachings. Farewell, my sons and daughters, farewell.” And then and there the great Moshup, as if by magic, transformed his children into killers. Today, in old Ocean, roam these children of the chief at will. Warm-blooded are they, and they nurse their young. In appearance they resemble the whale, being fully as large. They are spotted black and white, though occasionally an all-white one is seen. The sign by which we know they are the true sons and daughters of the great Moshup is this: They eat whales. In doing this they invariably eat the tongue first, though why they should unanimously agree to partake of one particular portion before another must ever remain a mystery. For many years it has been an item of popular belief that the killers never eat a whale which

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is found dead, but always kill their own. But those who have had ample opportunity to study the peculiar habits of these denizens of the deep now insist that though the killers are true to their name and will kill and eat a whale, they have also come to that point where they will occasionally partake of one which has been found dead. As in the old days, however, the females are the first and the favored ones at such a feast, while the males await their turn in patience. And thereby do we also know that they are still the true sons and daughters of our good Moshup—still true to the teachings of the father in their new home and sphere. After the tongue is eaten, all surround the whale and ravenously bite out and devour pieces as large as one’s arms can easily encompass. So swiftly do these killers partake of their feast that even expert whalemen must move quickly if they would save the bone. Perhaps it will be of more interest, however, if we now pass on to the last scenes which surround the fading away of a chieftain’s home life. Having disposed of his family in a manner which was wholly satisfactory to himself—for there were none who dared to criticise his action—Moshup had no thought save for himself and his squaw, his faithful companion in so much joy. Here traditions become more numerous and grow less positive. One story says that Moshup completely disappeared after a violent and prolonged quarrel which ended only when Ol’ Squant wearily turned her footsteps to the highest point of the towering headland, and, poising herself for a moment while her eyes bade fond farewell to the rugged beauties of fair Aquinnah, jumped far out into the Atlantic and forever passed from sight in its bluest depths. Another says she chose the path along the beach around the cliffs and kept steadily on her stony way until she reached the south beach, where for the remainder of her life she concealed herself in one of the many existing sand hummocks. But perhaps the most fitting ending of all, and the one that ought to be true, is found in the version which says that Moshup took the lead along the path around the cliffs, while Ol’ Squant, without one solitary backward glance, followed his footsteps with all the stoicism of her kind. Thus, close to each other in the end as in the beginning, together they sought that farther beach where the sands had glittered in the sunshine and shimmered in the moonlight of a thousand years. Together they passed the towering cliffs and Molitiah’s Ledge—passed Peaked 18 X CHAPTER 1

Rock and Black Rock—passed all the old landmarks until Zace’s Cliffs were reached. Here at last, lovers still, they sought repose and disappeared together in a hummock, though a hammock would have been far more comfortable. Even at this day, when the atmosphere is clear, we may look in that direction and see the smoke which is said to arise from their abode, from fire or peudelah. Nor is it an uncommon thing at such a time to hear a native say, with all the assurance of a fixed belief: “Ol’ Squant is smoking.” There are also those who tell of a wierd [sic], strange cry that is occasionally heard on the south beach, and they always allude to it as “Ol’ Squant’s warning of another shipwreck.” Frequently at an early hour of the morning ’longshoremen will see an immense track in the wet sand where the tide has gone down. “Ol’ Squant has been along,” they say. Thus it is she ever wanders about and occasionally gives evidence of her existence to the poor pygmies who now find homes in her abiding place of old. Her shape must be simply grand, for it is said to resemble that of an immense haystack. And yet she is fashionable. At dawn, we are told, she leaps far out into the sea for her morning plunge, and at dusk she duplicates the performance in order to obtain her evening dip. Nevertheless, our poor senses are not acute enough to catch one glimpse of her as she moves about in stateliness upon our beach. We have only the airy nothingness of tradition and the smoke which arises from the distant hummock to tell us of her past greatness and her once-upon-a-time reality.

Native New England Whale Hunting before European Contact? There is little documentary or archaeological evidence to show that southern New England’s coastal Algonquian peoples hunted whales regularly, if at all, but that does not mean that they never systematically hunted whales. Although extensive Native whale hunting would have received more commentary by early European explorers and colonists, there is at least one account of it—not a very reliable account, but still one of the most important documents in Native New England whaling history. Calling himself “a Gentleman employed in the voyage,”

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James Rosier published “A True Relation” of George Weymouth’s 1605 expedition immediately upon their return to England.3 In this promotional tract, Rosier boasted of New England’s plentiful resources while keeping the geographic specifics of the voyage deliberately obscure. It is difficult, therefore, to pinpoint exactly where they were and when. Apparently, Weymouth started exploring around Nantucket Island, where they observed many whales, and then they sailed north to Monhegan Island, near what is now Boothbay Harbor, Maine. While there, Weymouth picked up, willingly or forcibly, five Maine Natives to return to England with him: Tabanedo, “a Sagamo or Commander”; three “Gentlemen,” named Amoret, Skicowares, and Maneddo; and Sassacomoit, “a servant.” Rosier probably came to write his brief account of Native whale hunting not from direct observation but from conversation with these men. Even though Rosier would not have been able to communicate easily with them, given the shortness of their acquaintance and his unfamiliarity with their language, his account makes a compelling case for New England Native whale hunting in its use of so much detail. An equally sketchy Spanish account from the sixteenth century described Native American whale hunting in the Caribbean (fig. 4) but in a manner very different from what Rosier reported.

One especiall thing is their maner of killing the Whale, which they call Powdawe; and will describe his forme; how he bloweth up the water; and that he is 12 fathoms long; and that they go in company of their king with a multitude of their boats, and strike him with a bone made in fashion of a harping iron fastened to a rope, which they make great and strong of the barke of trees, which they beare out after him: then all their boats come about him, and as he riseth above water, with their arrowes they shoot him to death: when they have killed him & dragged him to shore, they call all their chiefe lords together, & sing a song of joy: and those chiefe lords, whom they call Sagamos, divide the spoile, and give to every man a share, which pieces so distributed they hang up about their houses for provision: and when they boile them, they blow off the fat, and put to their peaze, maiz, and other pulse, which they eat. 20 X CHAPTER 1

Figure 4. Sixteenth-century engraver Theodor De Bry depicted Native American whaling in the Caribbean based on a description by the Spanish naturalist José de Acosta in Natural and Moral History of the Indies (1590). From Theodor De Bry, Americae (1602). Courtesy Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University.

Sustenance from Land and Sea The English separatists who settled Plymouth colony give a glimpse into the significance of the sea and whales for the Wampanoag peoples of Cape Cod in an account known as “Mourt’s Relation,” published in 1622, just two years after the founding of the Plymouth settlement.4 Anchoring the Mayflower first in what is now Provincetown Harbor, the colonists explored along the shoreline of Cape Cod Bay looking for the ideal location to settle permanently, at the same time observing closely how Native people made their subsistence from land and sea. The extraordinary abundance of North Atlantic right whales off of Cape Cod and the winter stranding of a small pod of pilot whales

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gave the English ideas about whaling as a commercial venture, anticipating the Cape Cod shore-whaling industry by about fifty years. . . . we put round againe for the Bay of Cape Cod: and upon the 11 of November [1620], we came to an anchor in the Bay, which is a good harbour and pleasant Bay, circled round, except in the entrance, which is about foure miles over from land to land, compassed about to the very Sea with Okes, Pines, Juniper, Sassafras, and other sweet wood; it is a harbour wherein 1000 saile of Ships may safely ride, there we relieved ourselves with wood and water, and refreshed our people, while our shallop was fitted to coast the Bay, to search for an habitation: there was the greatest store of fowle that ever we saw. And every day we saw Whales playing hard by us, of which in that place, if we had instruments & meanes to take them, we might have made a very rich returne, which to our great griefe we wanted. Our master and his mate, and others experienced in fishing, professed, we might have made three or foure thousand pounds worth of Oyle; they preferred it before Greenland Whale-fishing, & purpose the next winter to fish for Whale here; for Cod we assayed, but found none, there is good store no doubt in their season. . . . Wednesday the 15 of November, they were set a shore, and when they had ordered themselves in the order of a single File, and marched about the space of a myle, by the Sea they espyed five or sixe people, with a Dogge comming towards them, who were Savages, who when they saw them ran into the Wood and whisled the Dogge after them. . . . [The next day after camping in the area we] went on further and found new stubble, of which they had gotten Corne this yeare, and many Wallnut trees full of Nuts, and great store of Strawberries, and some Vines; passing thus a field or two, which were not great, we came to another, which had also bin new gotten, and there we found where an house had beene, and foure or five old Plankes layed together; also we found a great Ketle, which had beene some Ships kettle and brought out of Europe; there was also an heape of sand, made like the former, but it was newly done, we might see how they had padled it with their hands which we digged up, and in it we

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found a little old Basket full of faire Indian Corne, and digged further & found a fine great new Basketfull of very faire corne of this yeare, with some 36 goodly eares of corne, some yellow, and some red, and others mixt with blew, which was a very goodly sight: the Basket was round, and narrow at the top, it held about three or foure Bushels, which was as much as two of us could lift up from the ground, and was very handsomely and cunningly made; But whilst wee were busie about these things, we set our men Sentinell in a round ring, all but two or three which digged up the corne. We were in suspence, what to doe with it, and the Ketle, and at length after much consultation, we concluded to take the Ketle, and as much of the Corne as we could carry away with us; and when our Shallop came, if we could find any of the people, and come to parley with them, we would give them the Ketle againe, and satisfie them for their Corne, so wee tooke all the eares and put a good deale of the loose Corne in the Ketle for two men to bring away on a staffe; besides, they that could put any into their Pockets filled the same; the rest wee buried againe, for we were so laden with Armour that we could carry no more. Not farre from this place we found the remainder of an old Fort, or Palizado, which as we conceived had beene made by some Christians, this was also hard by that place which we thought had beene a river, unto which wee went and found it to so to be, deviding it selfe into two armes by an high banke, standing right by the cut or mouth which came from the Sea, that which was next unto us was the lesse, the other arme was more than twise as big, and not unlike to be an harbor for ships; but whether it be a fresh river, or onely an indraught of the Sea, we had no time to discover; for wee had Commandement to be out but two dayes. Here also we saw two Canoas, the one on the one side, the other on the other side, wee could not beleeve it was a Canoa, till we came neare it, so we returned leaving the further discovery hereof to our Shallop, and came that night backe againe to the fresh water pond, and there we made our Randevous that night, making a great fire, and a Baricado to windward of us, and kept good watch with three Sentinells all night, every one standing when his turne came, while five or sixe inches of Match was burning. It proved a very rainie night. In

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the morning we tooke our Ketle and sunke it in the pond, and trimmed our Muskets, for few of them would goe off because of the wett, and so coasted the wood againe to come home, in which we were shrewdly puzled, and lost our way, as we wandred we came to a tree, where a yong Spritt was bowed downe over a bow, and some Acornes strewed under neath; Stephen Hopkins sayd, it had beene to catch some Deere, so, as we were looking at it, William Bradford being in the Reare, when he came looked also upon it, and as he went about, it gave a sodaine jerk up, and he was immediately caught by the leg; It was a very pretie devise, made with a Rope of their owne making, and having a noose as artificially made, as any Roper in England can make, and as like ours as can be, which we brought away with us. . . . [Several days later] we marched to the place where we had the corne formerly, which place we called Corne-hill; and digged and found the rest, of which we were very glad: we also digged in a place a little further off, and found a Botle of oyle; wee went to another place, which we had seene before, and digged, and found more corne, viz. two or three Baskets full of Indian Wheat, and a bag of Beanes, with a good many of faire Wheat-eares; whilst some of us were digging up this, some others found another heape of Corne, which they digged up also, so as we had in all about ten Bushels, which will serve us sufficiently for seed. And fore it was Gods good providence that we found this Corne, for els wee know not how we should have done, for we knew not how we should find, or meete with any of the Indians, except it be to doe us a mischief. . . . Having thus discovered this place, it was controversall amongst us, what to doe touching our aboad and setling there; some thought it best for many reasons to abide there. As first, that there was a convenient harbour for Boates, though not for Ships. Secondly, Good Corne ground readie to our hands, as we saw by experience in the goodly corne it yielded, which would againe agree with the ground, and be naturall seed for the same. Thirdly, Cape Cod was like to be a place of good fishing, for we saw daily great Whales of the best kind for oyle and bone, come close aboord our Ship, and in fayre weather swim and play about us; there was once one when the Sun shone warme, come and lay above water, as if she had beene dead, for a good while together, within halfe a Musket shot of the Ship, at which two were prepared 24 X CHAPTER 1

to shoote, to see whether she would stir or no, he that gave fire first, his Musket flew in peeces, both stocke and barrell, yet thankes be to God, neither he nor any man els was hurt with it, though many were there about, but when the Whale saw her time [of rest sufficient] she gave a snuffe and away. Fourthly, the place was likely to be healthfull, secure, and defensible. But the last and especiall reason was, that now the heart of Winter and unseasonable weather was come upon us, so that we could not goe upon coasting and discovery, without danger of loosing men and Boat, upon which would follow the overthrow of all, especially considering what variable windes and sodaine stormes doe there arise. . . . [Some while later] we got cleare of the sandy point, and got up our sayles, and within an houre or two we got under the weather shore, and then had smoother water and better sayling, but it was very cold, for the water froze on our clothes, and made them many times like coats of Iron: wee sayled sixe or seaven leagues by the shore, but saw neither river nor creeke, at length wee mett with a tongue of Land, being flat off from the shore, with a sandy poynt, we bore up to gaine the poynt, & found there a fayre income or rode, of a Bay, being a league over at the narrowest, and some two or three in length, but wee made right over to the land before us and left the discovery of this Income till the next day: as we drew neare to the shore, wee espied some ten or twelve Indians, very busie about a blacke thing, what it was we could not tell, till afterwards they saw us, and ran to and fro, as if they had beene carrying some thing away, wee landed a league or two from them, and had much adoe to put a shore anywhere, it lay so full of flat sands, when we came to shore, we made us a Baricado, and got fire wood, and set out our Sentinells, and betooke us to our lodging, such as it was; we saw the smoke of the fire which the Savages made that night, about foure or five myles from us, in the morning we devided our company, some eight in the Shallop, and the rest on the shore went to discover this place, but we found it onely to be a Bay, without either river or creeke comming into it, yet we deemed it to be as good an harbour as Cape Cod, for they that sounded it, found a ship might ride in five fathom water, wee on the land found it to be a levill soyle, but none of the fruitfullest; wee saw two beckes of fresh water, which were the first running streames that

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we saw in the Country, but one might stride over them: we found also a great fish, called a Grampus dead on the sands, they in the Shallop found two of them also in the bottome of the bay, dead in like sort, they were cast up at high water, and could not get off for the frost and ice; they were some five or sixe paces long, and about two inches thicke of fat, and fleshed like a Swine, they would have yeelded a great deale of oyle, if there had been time and meanes to have taken it, so we finding nothing for our turne, both we and our Shallop returned. We then directed our course along the Seasands, to the place where we first saw the Indians, when we were there, we saw it was also a Grampus which they were cutting up, they cut it into long rands or peeces, about an ell long, and two handful broad, wee found here and there a peece scattered by the way, as it seemed, for hast: this place the most were minded we should call, the Grampus Bay, because we found so many of them there.

Living from the Sea Roger Williams, Protestant minister and founder of the colony of Providence, now the state of Rhode Island, published a dictionary of words, phrases, and ethnographic commentary in England in 1643, naively titling it A Key into the Language of America. Not a linguist by modern standards, Williams did not pay much attention to the distinctive (albeit related) languages spoken by the different Native people he knew and talked with, and his translations cannot be taken at face value as accurate. Two chapters are reproduced here, including his translations and various “observations” of Native customs and beliefs inspired by words on his list. Williams’s commentaries give insight into how New England Natives constructed canoes, the impact of English livestock and the market economy on Native interactions with their environment, and the special value placed on whale foods as gifts. The word lists, even though they do not make for very interesting reading, tell us much about Native relationships with the environment. The depth and variety of Williams’s word lists “Of the Sea” and “Of Fish and Fishing” reveal sophisticated Algonquian technologies for deriving a living from the diverse resources found in the ocean and alongshore.5 26 X CHAPTER 1

CHAP. XVIII. Of the Sea. echêkum The Sea. Kítthan. Paumpágussit. The Sea-God, or, that name which they give that Deitie or Godhead which they conceive to be in the Sea. Obs. Mishoòn an Indian Boat, or Canow made of a Pine or Oake, or Chesnut-tree: I have seene a Native goe into the woods with his hatchet carrying onely a Basket of Corne with him, & stones to strike fire when he had feld his tree (being a chesnut) he made him a little House or shed of the bark of it, he puts fire and followes the burning of it with fire, in the midst in many places: his corne he boyles and hath the Brook by him, and sometimes angles for a little fish: but so hee continues burning and hewing untill he hath within ten or twelve dayes (lying there at his worke alone) finished, and (getting hands,) lanched his Boate; with which afterward hee ventures out to fish in the Ocean. Mishoonémese. A little Canow. Some of them will not well carry above three or foure: but some of them twenty, thirty, forty men. Wunnauanoûnuck. A Shallop. Wunnauanounuckquèse. A Skiffe. Obs. Although themselves have neither, yet they give them such names, which in their Language signifieth carrying Vessells. Kitônuck. A Ship. Kitónuckquese. A little ship. Mishittouwand. A great Canow. Peewàíu. A little one. Paugautemissaûnd An Oake Canow. Kowawwaûnd. A pine Canow. Wompmissaûnd. A chesnut Canow. Ogwhan. A boat adrift. Wuskon-tógwhan. It will goe a drift. Cuttunnamiinnea. Help me to launch. Cuttunnummútta. Let us launch. Cuttúnnamoke. Launch. Cuttannummous. I will help you. Wútkunck. A paddle or Oare.

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Namacóuhe cómishoon. Lend me your Boate. Paûtousnenótehunck Bring hither my paddle. Comishoónhom? Goe you by water? Chémosh-chémeck. Paddle or row. Maumínikish & Pull up, or row lustily. Maumanetepweéas. Sepákehig. A Sayle. Sepagehommaûta. Let us saile. Wunnâgehan. We have a faire wind. Obs. Their owne reason hath taught them, to pull of a Coat or two and set it up on a small pole, with which they will saile before a wind ten, or twenty mile, &c. Wauaúpunish. Hoyse up. Wuttáutnish. Pull to you. Nókanish. Take it downe. Paketenish. Let goe or let flie. Nikkoshkowwaûmen We shall be drown’d. Nquawu pshâwmen We overset. Wussaûme pechepaûsha. The Sea comes in too fast upon us. Maumaneeteántass. Be of good courage. Obs. It is wonderfull to see how they will venture in those Canoes, and how (being oft overset as I have my selfe been with them) they will swim a mile, yea two or more safe to Land: I having been necessitated to passe waters diverse times with them, it hath pleased God to make them many times the instruments of my preservation: and when sometimes in great danger I have questioned safety, they have said to me: Feare not, if we be overset I will carry you safe to Land. Paupaútuckquash. Hold water. Kínnequass. Steere. Tiáckomme kínniquass. Steere right. Kunnósnep. A Killick, or Anchor. Chowwophómmin. To cast over-board. Chouwóphash. Cast over-board. Touwopskhómmke. Cast anchor. Mishittishin. It is a storme. Awêpesha. It caulmes. Awêpu. A calme. Nanoûwashin. A great caulme. Tamóccon. Floud. 28 X CHAPTER 1

Nanashowetamóccon Halfe Floud. Keesaqúshin. High water. Taumacoks. Upon the Floud. Mishittommóckon. A great Floud. Mauˉ chetan & skàt Ebb. Mittâeskat. A low Ebb. Awânick Paûdhuck? Who comes there? Obs. I have knowne thirty or forty of their Canowes fill’d with men, and neere as many more of their enemies in a Sea-fight. Caupauˉ shess. Goe ashoare. Caupaushâuta. Let us goe ashoare. Wusséheposh Heave out the water. Asképunish. Make fast the Boat. Kípúnsh & Kípúnemoke. Tie it fast. Mauminikish. Tie it hard. NeeneCuthómwock. Now they goe off. Kekuthomwushánnick. They are gone already.

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CHAP. XIX. Of Fish and Fishing. amaùs, -suck. Fish, Fishes. Pauganaùt tamwock. Cod, Which is the first that comes a little before the Spring. Qunnamaˉug-suck. Lampries, The first that come in the Spring into the fresh Rivers. Aumsûog, & Munna A Fish somewhat like a whatteaûg. Herring. Missúckeke-kéquock. Basse. The Indians (and the English too) make a daintie dish of the Uppaquontup, or head of this Fish; and well they may, the braines and fat of it being very much and sweet as marrow. Kaúposh-shaûog. Sturgeon. Obs. Divers part of the Countrey abound with this Fish; yet the Natives for the goodnesse and greatnesse of it, much prize it and will neither furnish the English with so many, nor so cheape, that any great trade is like to be made of it, untill the English themselves are fit to follow the fishing.

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The Natives venture one or two in a Canow, and with an harping Iron, or such like Instrument sticke this fish, and so hale it into their Canow; sometimes they take them by their nets, which they make strong of Hemp. Ashóp. Their Nets, Which they will set thwart some little River or Cove wherein they kil Basse (at the fall of the water) with their arrows, or sharp sticks, especially if headed with Iron, gotten from the English, &c. Aucùp. A little Cove or Creeke. Aucppâwese. A very little one. Wawwhunnekesûog. Mackrell. Mishquammauˉquock. Red fish, Salmon. Osacontuck. A fat sweet fish, some thing like a Haddock. Mishcùp-paûog, Breame. Sequanamauquock. Obs. Of this fish there is abundance which the Natives drie in the Sunne and Smoake; and some English begin to salt, both wayes they keepe all the yeere; and it is hoped it may be as well accepted as Cod at a Market, and better, if once knowne. Taut-auˉog. Sheeps-heads. Neeshauˉog Sassammauˉquock Eeles. Nquittéconnauˉog. Tatackommmâuˉog. Porpuses. Pótop-pauˉog. Whales: Which in some places are often cast up; I have seene some of them, but not above sixtie foot long: The Natives cut them out in severall parcells, and give and send farre and neere for an acceptable present, or dish. Mitsêsu. The whole. Poquêsu. The halfe. Waskèke. The Whalebone. [baleen] Wussúckqun. A taile. Aumauˉog. They are fishing. Ntaûmen. I am fishing. Kuttauˉmen? Doe you fish? Nnattuckqunnuˉwem. I goe a fishing. Aumáchick, Fishes. Natuckqunnuwâchick. Aumaûi. He is gone to fish.

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Awácenick kukkatti- What doe you fish for? neanaûmen? Ashauˉnt-teaûg. Lobsters. Opponenauˉhock. Oysters. Sickìssuog. Clams. Obs. This is a sweet kind of shelfish, which all Indians generally over the Countrey, Winter and Summer delight in; and at low water the women dig for them: this fish, and the naturall liquor of it, they boile, and it makes their broth and their Nasau ˉ mp (which is a kind of thickned broth) and their bread seasonable and savory, instead of Salt: and for that the English Swine dig and root these Clams wheresoever they come, and watch the low water (as the Indian women do) therefore of all the English Cattell the Swine (as also because of their filthy disposition) are most hatefull to all Natives, and they call them filthy cut-throats &c. Séqunnock. A Horse-fish. Poquaûhock. Obs. This the English call Hens, a little thick shelfiish, which the Indians wade deepe and dive for, and after they have eaten the meat there (in those which are good) they breake out of the shell, about halfe an inch of a blacke part of it, of which they make their Suckaūhock, or black money, which is to them pretious. Meteaûhock The Periwinckle. Of which they make their Wompam, or white money, of halfe the value of their Suckáwhock, or blacke money, of which more in the Chapter of their Coyne. Cumménakiss, Have you taken store? Cummenakissamen Cummuchiokinneanâwmen? Numménakiss. I have taken store. Nummuchikinea- I have killed many. nâwmen. Machàge. I have caught none. Auˉmanep. A fishing-line. Aumanápeash. Lines. The Natives take exceeding great paines in their fishing, especially in watching their seasons by night; so that frequently they lay their naked bodies many a cold night on the cold shoare about a fire of two or three sticks, and oft in the night search their Nets; and sometimes goe in and stay longer in frozen water.

}

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Hoquaùn aûnash. Hooke, hookes. Peewâsicks. Little hookes. Maúmacocks. Great hookes. Nponamouôog. I set nets for them. Npunnouwaûmen. I goe to search my nets. Mihtúckquashep. An Eele-pot. Kunnagqunneúteg. A greater sort. Onawangónnakaun. A baite. Yo onawangonnatees Baite with this. Moamitteaúg. A little sort of fish, halfe as big as Sprats, plentifull in Winter. Paponaumsuˉog. A winter fish, which comes up in the brookes and rivulets; some call them Frost fish, from their comming up from the Sea into fresh Brookes, in times of frost and snow. Qunôsuog. A fresh fish; which the Indians break the Ice in fresh ponds, when they take also many other sorts: for, to my knowledge the Country yeelds many sorts of other fish, which I mention not.

Drift Whale Rights Roger Williams’s reference to sachems sending pieces of stranded whales as gifts “farre and neere” hints at political and legal practices involving whale rights evident in other kinds of documents from the seventeenth century. Sachems held sovereign rights to whales that stranded in the shallows or on shore, and this is described more fully in the next excerpt, taken from Matthew Mayhew’s history of his family’s missionary efforts on Martha’s Vineyard.6 Documents produced as part of English legal processes of deed-making and inheritance established later show a continuing recognition of this tradition, as sachems sold, bequeathed, or retained their rights to parts of a whale, often favoring the fins and tails. The fins and flukes may have been considered delicacies or, more likely, may have had symbolic and ceremonial value. Examples of two such documents from Long Island and Massachusetts follow: the sachem Wyandanch’s retention of drift whale rights in an agreement arranged with East Hampton settler Lion Gardner and a deed in which the sachem 32 X CHAPTER 1

Towantokott conveyed land and whale rights at Martha’s Vineyard to his son Sahkagteanmaw. The latter document, written primarily in the Wampanoag language, appears amid other deeds registered with the Nantucket County clerk. Ives Goddard and Kathleen J. Bragdon transcribed and translated into modern English the version reproduced here.7

Matthew Mayhew on Sachem Rights The Princes [sachems], as they had not other Revenue, than the Presents of their Subjects (which yet was counted, Due debt) Wrecks of the Sea, with the Skins of Beasts killed in their dominion, and many like things, as First Fruits, &c. so they wanted none; for in case of War, both People and Estate was wholly at their dispose; therefore none demanded nor Expected Pay. . . . As the Prince was acknowledged, Absolute Lord on the Land, so he had no less Soveraignty at Sea: for as all belonged to him, which was stranded on the Shore of his Sea-Coast, so whatever Whales or other Wreck of Value, floating on the Sea, taken up, on the Seas washing his Shores, or brought and Landed, from any part of the Sea, was no less his own. Wyandanch–Lion Gardiner Deed of 1659 (East Hampton, New York) July 28 1659  Be it known unto all men by this present writing that I Wiandance Sachem of Pawmanack or Long Island, and with my sone Weeayacomboun, have sold unto Lyon Gardiner, his heyres executors, or assigns, I say I have sold all the bodys and bones of all the whales that shall come upon the land, or come ashore, from the place called Kitchaminfchoke, unto the place called Enoughquamuck, only the fins and tayles, of all wee reserve for ourselves and Indians. I say I have sold with the consent of Wannuggeashcum and Tawbaughauz Sachems of the places aforesaid, I have sold all the whales that shall come up within the bounds aforesaid for the space of 21 yeares ensueing the date hereof. But if any whales shall bee cast up they shall bee judged by ye English and Indians whether it bee a whole whale or half or otherwise but for every whole whale that shall be cast up the aforesd Lyon Gardiner or his assigns shall pay or cause to bee

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paid unto mee Wyandance my heyres executers and assignes the sum of 5 pounds. But if it bee not a whole whale then they shall pay according to proportions and this pay shall bee paid within two years after they have cut out and carried home the whale to their houses. But in case there shall not fowre or five whales come up within the terme above said then shall the affore said Lyon Gardiner or his Assigns have the next 5 whales that shall come up after the tearme. And for the true performance of the premises wee have hereunto set our hands and seales The Sachems mark,  WEEAYACAMBOUNES  mark BENJAMIN PRICE Signed sealed & delivered in presence of us Jeremy Concolin  David Gardiner Whatsoever Wiandanch hath done or his successors may doe with and besides this act of selling whales wee own is and was his to make sayle of, and his heyres, and not ower nor our heyres. TOWBACKCOWZ  his mark WENKCEASKAUM  his mark. Witness Richard Howell John Smith. This subscription of the two Sachems under the seales was their own act voluntary without any compulsion witness Zerobabel Phillips Joseph Raynor Thomas Halsey This writeing with all the rite that is within the houle peaper Nantucket Deed Transferring Land and Whale Rights Be it knowen unto al men by these presents that nen Sateam touw anquatuk ta poque nop nanoue nutununumwopan akkuh nunaman Sakkagteanmou yunuh katummoo neatta ununumoug yunuh ahkuh 1644 yunuh unnukquen wachesah sape nae wechpookquahhassuk nee wannupag [[ak]] akahammeh & wehshek wanah u aquannug – napache meshtuk sag kuttahkeh wana newutche sape nae – maygeh punnosuh tah wa sapa atameh ne oohouay nopatunayu – wunah yu ahquannay napagche waggehsha wana nuttunumou sak kagtteanmou pashesooah pootopaah wanah pashe woshkequah wame naneteaquah at tanagquahak yu ta pooque nop pashtaen no ohatak [[an]] Engun Suteam nunaman Sakkagtteanmou al thes track of 34 X CHAPTER 1

land I the afore Said towanquetuck Sateam doo give unto the afore Said Sakkagtteanumou to have and to hold to him and his heirs for Ever In wittnes whare of I have set to my hand and Seall January 14th 1663 the mark X of | touwanquetuck | Sateam | S Wittnes hear unto Atam wasquannouwa | sooet – the mark of X Joseph papummahteohoo Touwanquatuck Sateam acknowledged the above written to be his act and deed thes January 14 1663 before me mattaahk Justis of peas Be it known unto all men by these presents that: I Touwanquatuk, sachem of half of Martha’s Vineyard, formerly freely gave land to my son Sakkagteanmou. The year when I gave him this land was 1644. This was as far as Wachesah straight to Wechpookquahhassuk where that pond at Akahammeh ends, and along this shore as far as the brook Meshtuk, and from there straight to Maygehpunnosuh, and at Sapaatameh, that section, to the southeastward, and along this shore as far as Waggehsha. I also give to Sakkagtteanmou half the whale and half the whalebone of all of anything that is driven ashore on this half of Martha’s Vineyard. pashtaen no ohatak Indian Sachem my Son Sakkagtteanmou. All this tract of land I the aforesaid Towanquetuck Sachem do give unto the aforesaid Sakkagtteanumou to have and to hold to him and his heirs forever. In witness whereof I have set to my hand and seal, January 14th, 1663. the mark (X) of | Towanquetuck | Sachem | (S). Witness hereunto Atam Wasquannouwasooet. The mark of (X) Joseph Papummahteohoo.

Sachem rights to stranded whales continued to be remembered but would have fewer opportunities to be exercised as the seventeenth century wound to a close. Colonial interest in the region’s drift whales evolved into the industrial hunting of whales from shore stations

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along the coast from Long Island to Nantucket and Cape Cod Bay. With so much competition over the whales visible from shore, strandings became rarer. If a whale did wash up on a beach, it often had a harpoon still in its backside, which allowed someone to claim it as property.

For Further Reading Bragdon, Kathleen J. Native People of Southern New England, 1500–1650. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1999. Lipman, Andrew C. “Murder on the Saltwater Frontier: The Death of John Oldham.” Early American Studies: An Interdisciplinary Journal 9, no. 2 (Spring 2011): 268–94. Little, Elizabeth. “The Writings of Nantucket Indians.” Nantucket Algonquian Studies no. 3. Nantucket: Nantucket Historical Association, 1981. Little, Elizabeth A., and J. Clinton Andrews. “Drift Whales at Nantucket: The Kindness of Moshup.” Man in the Northeast 23 (Spring 1982): 17–38. Manning, Helen, with Jo-Ann Eccher. Moshup’s Footsteps: The Wampanoag Nation Gay Head / Aquinnah: The People of First Light. Aquinnah, MA: Blue Cloud Across the Moon Publishing, 2001. Philbrick, Nathaniel. Abram’s Eyes: The Native American Legacy of Nantucket Island. Nantucket: Mill Hill Press, 1998. Shoemaker, Nancy. “Oil and Bone: Whale Consumption in the Lives of Plimoth Colonists. Common-place 8, no. 2 (January 2008), www.common-place.org/vol08/no-02/shoemaker/. Simmons, William S. Spirit of the New England Tribes: Indian History and Folklore, 1620–1984. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1986. Strong, John A. The Algonquian Peoples of Long Island from Earliest Times to 1700. Interlaken, NY: Empire State Books, 1997.

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2 Whaling from the Shore to the Deep Sea

When the New England whaling industry began in the latter half of the seventeenth century, English colonists contracted with large numbers of Native men to hunt whales from shore stations, located mainly along the beaches of eastern Long Island’s south fork, the bay side of Cape Cod, and the southern edge of Nantucket Island, which directly fronted the open ocean looking out to the Gulf Stream and whales’ migratory routes (figs. 5–6). Posting lookouts from cliff promontories or wooden towers built for the purpose, whaleboat crews stood ready near the beach to launch their boats at first sight of a whale. Both colonists and Indians manned these whaling stations, but they worked for companies organized and funded almost entirely by an emerging class of entrepreneurial Englishmen whose economic ambitions had been sparked by town-organized harvesting of stranded whales in the 1650s and 1660s, often in competition with, or through negotiations with, local Native populations. Having become familiar with the seasonality of North Atlantic right whale migration and with butchering whales, a number of Englishmen obtained charters from their towns and then sought out Native laborers to fill whaleboat crews.

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Figure 5. In the latter half of the seventeenth century, Natives and non-Natives in the Northeast whaled from shore stations located mainly along the coasts of southeastern Long Island and Nantucket and the bay side of Cape Cod. Elizabeth A. Little identified Nantucket’s key shore-whaling sites in “The Indian Contribution to Along-Shore Whaling at Nantucket,” Nantucket Algonquian Studies no. 8, 22. The precise locations of the many shore-whaling stations on Long Island and Cape Cod have yet to be fully identified, but certain English towns were clearly the most active in claiming shore-whaling rights: Southampton and East Hampton on Long Island, and Sandwich, Barnstable, Yarmouth, Wellfleet, and Eastham on Cape Cod. Map by Bill Keegan, Heritage Consultants.

Figure 6. A 1775 land deed showing survey boundaries incidentally depicted houses used for shore whaling off of Siasconset on Nantucket Island. From Nantucket Proprietors’ Records, Book 1, p. 135. Courtesy Nantucket Historical Association.

38 X CHAPTER 2

Because the English controlled the capital investment of shorewhaling operations, they clearly had the advantage. They integrated whaling with systems of credit, debt, labor contracts, and indentured servitude, backed up by English courts and justices of the peace to act as arbiters of disputes. Native whalemen knew full well that colonists used these mechanisms to gain control over their labor but had few strategies available to them for evading the accumulating power and intricacy of these economic and legal impositions. As with Native American–European relations occurring elsewhere across the continent, what started out as a mutual interest in trade devolved into more grasping appropriations of Native land and resources, with Native options increasingly constrained by the alterations European settlement made to their environment. By the mid-eighteenth century, shore whaling had declined in significance as offshore whaling in the North Atlantic and then the South Atlantic gained precedence. Native men made the transition and could be found manning shore stations in winter and joining crews of larger sailing vessels to spend a summer whaling on the deep sea, until gradually they became ocean-going only, taking longer voyages and going greater distances away from home. Such a change in labor patterns had great social implications as the system of seasonal whaling labor close to home collapsed and Native men began to spend most of the year at sea on short voyages each lasting several months. Most scholars who have dug into the records on shore whaling and early Atlantic offshore whaling have agreed with Daniel Vickers’s seminal 1983 essay, “The First Whalemen of Nantucket.” Vickers emphasized the capitalist foundations of the early whaling industry, which pitted a white merchant class against Indian laborers forced to hunt whales to pay off debts. In his extensive research into Shinnecock, Montauk, and Unkechaug history, John A. Strong found that on Long Island, debt leading to indenture had a major role in regulating Indian labor. David J. Silverman also found that indenture through debt made it possible for English employers and owners of these contracts to acquire Native labor cheaply. The only scholar to disagree with Vickers was

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Elizabeth A. Little, an archaeologist with a comprehensive knowledge of early Nantucket history and its documentary record. Little published invaluable contributions to New England Native history, many of them appearing in her series Nantucket Algonquian Studies. In the essays in that series and in other articles, Little maintained that Nantucket’s Native whalemen eagerly entered into cooperative arrangements with English colonists for the economic gain, the benefits whaling brought in status and independence, and the cultural continuities shore whaling presented as a form of hunting and a way to make a living from the sea. Although Little positioned her arguments in opposition to Vickers’s, these seemingly divergent views can be seen as equally valid interpretations, since undoubtedly there were variations in experience and perspective among the Native participants.

Whaling Contracts and Indentures Nantucket emerged as the largest offshore whaling port by the end of the eighteenth century, which probably explains why its role in the formation of the American whaling industry has received the lion’s share of popular and scholarly interest. But the American whaling industry originated on Long Island, and the historical records generated by the English towns of Southampton and East Hampton are extraordinarily rich in documenting English colonists’ dependence on Indian labor and the legal systems of contract, indenture, and debt obligations that colonists used to gain control over it. These Long Island contracts and regulations, including the ones reprinted here, resemble those instituted at Cape Cod and Nantucket a decade or two later as colonists there initiated shore whaling based on the Long Island model. Shore whaling on Long Island in the 1670s established labor practices that continued into the nineteenth century in three key ways. First, owners of whaling boats and equipment continued to rely extensively on the knowledge and ability of Native men. Second, rates of pay were in shares, or “lays,” which gave owners and workers a pre-negotiated 40 X CHAPTER 2

percentage of each whale caught. Eventually, these shares in whales would be monetized, but initially each man did indeed cart away or negotiate personally the sale of his share of the blubber and bone. And third, six-man whaleboats equipped with oars and sails, harpoons (used like spears, but with one end connected to a tubful of line), lances for piercing whales’ vitals, large try-pots for boiling blubber into oil, and barrels for storing and transporting whale oil constituted the basic equipment essential to whaling endeavors in the 1670s as much as in the 1870s. As the whaling industry evolved toward long voyages on brigs, sloops, schooners, ships, and, by the mid-nineteenth century, barks—a popular rigging for whaling, as barks were easier to handle— these various whaling vessels carried plenty of harpoons and lances, a try-pot station built on the deck, and casks for storing the oil. So how did Native men end up working for English colonists’ shore-whaling companies? Documents from the town records of Southampton and East Hampton and the colony of New York show how, in the space of just a decade, whaling contracts moved away from trade goods to money as the basis of exchange. At the same time, Indian debt became an element noted in English recordkeeping, as colonial whaling investors looked to legal and political authorities to help make Native labor conform to their needs. One can also see in these documents some of the strategies Native Americans adopted to assert independence from English control.1 One such effort appears in the third of the six chronologically organized documents in this section of the chapter: a 1676 petition by the Unkechaugs to start their own whaling company. When the Unkechaugs asked the colony of New York to back them in a Nativeowned whaling enterprise, the governor surprisingly said yes, but the larger context suggests an explanation for his favorable response. In May 1676 the region was in a critical state, with King Philip’s War still raging to the north across Long Island Sound. The war did not interrupt whaling on Long Island but instead seems to have given Native whalemen some leverage to negotiate. One of the questions Daniel Vickers raised in his essay on Indian whaling out of eighteenth-century Nantucket was what prevented

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Natives from becoming owners of whaling operations. Cultural values and customary practices no doubt informed how Natives made economic decisions, but even if they had shared in the same mentalité of the more entrepreneurial among the English, some of the fundamentals of the industry’s operations—the forging of iron harpoons and lances, for example, and the merchant middlemen who bought and sold whale oil—remained under English control. There do seem to have been some Native shore whalers on Cape Cod and Nantucket who garnered a higher share of the profits, perhaps in part because they owned or partly owned a whaleboat, so there no doubt were other Native shore whalers who, like Indians on Long Island, perceived early on that ownership might help preserve autonomy. But such endeavors necessitated capital investment in whaling equipage and engagement with capitalist networks of exchange. The surviving historical records reveal only that the Unkechaugs requested to be set up with a whaleboat and tools, with some insight into their reasoning, but it is not known how well their effort succeeded nor how long it lasted, if indeed it was even realized at all.

Whaling Contracts of Shinnecock Men (1670–1671) John Howell Joseph Raynor Richard Howell and their partners, and Paquanaug and other Indians of Shinecock make this agreement, that the Indians are to whale for the said Howell and company for 3 years, and to have the same pay as for the 3 years past, and in addition an Iron pot for each such as John Cooper gives to his Indians, Dec 11 1670. Know all men by these presents that I Towsacom & Philip Indians, doe and by these presents have bound and engaged ourselves in my own person God permitting life and health unto Josias Laughton of Southampton, and to his assigns to goe to sea for him or them for the full end & term of three compleat seasons from ye day of this date hereof to bee fully ended, at Mecox, for 42 X CHAPTER 2

ye killing and striking of whales and other great fish. And that in the said term or time wee will attend all oportunities to goe to sea for ye promoting of ye said designe, for and in consideration hereof hee the said Josias Laughton or his assigns doe engage to us the said Towsaccom & Phillip that for every season they will give unto us, three Indian coats one pair of shoes or a back neck to make them, one payre of stockings, three pounds of shot, half a pound of powder, and a bushel of Indian corne, and wee doe further engage to help to cut out and save all such fish as shall bee by the company taken. In witness whereof wee have hereunto set our hands this 15 day of November 1670 witness Christopher Leaming John Laughton

The mark of X TOWSACUM PHILIP X INDIAN his mark

Atungquion Indian agrees to go whaling for Anthony Ludlam and his company for the next season, and is to receive one coat before going to sea one when the season is halfe over, and one at the expiration of the term (or a pot instead of one coat) and a pair of shoes, and stockings, ½ lb of powder 3 lbs of shot. June 26, 1671 Akuctatuas Indian agrees to whale for Arthur Houell during the next whaling season; for 4 coats, one pair shoes & stockings, one bushel Indian corn, 1 half pound of powder & 3 lbs of shot. May 31 1671 Special Dispensation for Indian Whalemen (1672)

LIBERTY GIVEN TO M r CORNHILL & M r DOUGHTY TO SELL LIQUOrs & POWDER TO Y e INDYANS WHO ARE HELPFULL IN Y e WHALE FISHING DESIGNE Whereas Mr. Richd Cornhill one of ye Justices of Peace, & Mr. Elyas Doughty being engaged wth others in ye Whale fishing Designe, upon ye South-parts of Long Island, in the wch they are of opinion the Indyans on those parts may bee very instrumentall unto them, if they might bee permitted to furnish them with some moderate propoçon of Strong Liquors, Powder, and Lead as they shall have occasion of, ye wch many persons prsume to sell

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unto ye said Indians wthout Lycence, but the said Mr. Cornhill & Mr. Doughty Declare themselves to bee unwilling to break ye Law therein. At their request, I have thought fitt that for the space of one Whole yeare dureing ye Whale-fishing Season, or in relaçon thereunto ye said Mr. Cornhill & Mr. Doughty shall have lycence to sell or truck wth the Indyans of those parts such a moderate proporçon of Strong Liquors, Powder, or Shott as shall noe way occasion disturbance or abuse amongst ye said Indyans or Christians, & shall bee usefull for their Whaleing Designe. For ye doeing whereof This shall bee their Warrant. Given under my Hand & seale at Forte James in New Yorke this 4th day of May in ye 24th yeare of his Maties Reigne, Annoque Dui 1672. Unkechaug Indians Propose to Form a Whaling Company (1676) May 23, 1676 At a meeting of the Unchechaug Indyans of Long Island before the Go[v of New York] at the Fort. They give thanks for their peace & that they may live, eate & sleepe quiet, without feare on the Island. They give some white strung seawant [wampum]. They desire they being free borne on the sd Island that they may have leave to have a whale boat with all other materials to fish & dispose of what they shall take in & to whom they like best. They complaine that fish being driven upon their beach &c the English have come & taken them away from them by force. The Go: demands, if they made complainte to the Magistrates in the Townes who are appointed to redresse any Injuryes. They say no but another time will doe it. They desire liberty to have boats & ask materialls of their owne to goe a whaling and that they may dispose of their oyle & as they thinke good. The Gov will consider of it & give them Answer to-morrow. May 24 – 1676. The Indyans come againe to the Governor in presence of The Councell. What they desire is granted them as to their free liberty of fishing, if they be not engaged to others; They say they are not engaged. 44 X CHAPTER 2

They are to have an order to shew further priviledge At a Councell held in N.Y. the 24th day off May 1676 Upon the Request of the Indyans of Unchechaug upon Long Island that they may have liberty to whale & fish upon their owne Acct Resolved & ordered That they are at liberty & may freely whale or fish for or with Christians or by themselves & dispose of their effects as they thinke good according to law & Custom of ye Governmt of which all Magistrates officrs or others whom this may concerne are to take notice & sufer the sd Indyans so to doe without any manner of lett hindrance or Molestation they comporting themselves civilly & as they ought. By ye Ord of ye Go in Councell. Indenture to Resolve Debt (1679) Know all men by these presents that I Artor Indian belonging to Shenecock within the bounds of Southampton on Long Island, being indebted to Joseph Fordham of ye said Southampton, a considerable Sume of money upon ye [illegible] of whaleing expended by him. I not knowing how to make satisfaction for the said debt, doe volontarily of my own accord engage and promis faithfully to goe to Sea a whaling for the said Fordham, from time to time, and from yeare to yeare, attending all oportunities every whale season of goeing to Sea, for the procureing of whales or other great fish, And doe all duties else belonging to whale men tho not herein inserted, yet I doe engage my self thereto as firmily in all respects as though it were inserted herein, soe firmily and amply, untill I have fully satisfyed and paid the said debt, with whatsoever else I shall become indepted to him the said Fordham from time to time: hee allowing mee a half share: This Indenture begining from the day of the date hereof; and soe continuing firme and Substantiall against all obligations, or quiries [queries] to the Contrary, untill the Contents and debts Contracted by mee or my order with the said Fordham bee fully Satisfyed: As witnes my hand this tenth of December one thousand six hundred seventy and nine: In the presence of his witnes John Wilims Artor Indian Mary Fordham marke A true Coppy of the Originall this 11th Day of December 1679: by me Henry Peirson [town registrar]

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Unfaithful Indians (1680) Southampton, December 6th 1680. Honoured S Haveing this opportunity I thought good to acquaint your Honr that divers of my neighbours of Easthampton have beene wth mee Complaining that they are like to bee much disappointed and damnified in theire bussinesse of whaling by ye decites and unfaithfullnesse of ye Indians with whome they did contracte the last spring for their service in whaling this present season, who notwithstanding said contracts under hand and seal doe now betake themselves to ye service of other men, who doe gladly except them pretending som former ingagement by wch they intend to hold them, soe yt ye Indians haveing received goods of one man in ye spring upon ye account of whaling and now againe of another to fite [fit, meaning to outfit] them for ye sea[son] leave their masters to quarrel. Now may it please your Honr the agreeved parties desire releif and to that end a speedy heering of the matter in controversy relateing to the premises for the Court of Sessions is at such [illegible] will be neere if not [illegible] this yeare which may probably be greatly to the prejudice of ye wronged parties, Sr, my request therefore is, if it please yr Honr, and ye thinke it good, that the Constable and Overseers of said Easthampton mite be put in to posture to take Cognizance of all differences of this nature arising within the Towne and acordingly to here determine & execute when there is occation, which is all at present from your Honrs unworthy, yet very humble affectionate servant John Topping. For Sir Edmund Andros Knight Left & Govrnor-Generall &c&c r

Whaling Contract of Sasaktakon and Others (1681) This present writting Witneseth an agreement Made Betwene John Wheller of the one party and wee the subscriebed of the other party in manner and forme as followeth viz: Wee the said subscriebed Doe firmly by these presents Bind and ingeadge our selves each man for himselfe to goe to sea Duering the next whealling season insueing the date herof upon the Imply of the above said John Wheller or his orders for the killing of Whales and secureing of the same: the one halfe to our owne benifitt: and the other halfe of bone and bluber so 46 X CHAPTER 2

secureed: to the use of our above said implyers: the said implyers agreeing to Bear all charge of carting the said Bluber: that shall by us soe secureed Aither Eastward of the generall Bound stake: or Westward of the ould sloope: at napeak Whatsoever other charge shall aries upon the carting of the carting of the same: Wee doe agree to bear the one halfe and our Implyers the other: the charge of trying [the blubber into oil] to bee proportioned one the same manner: Also wee doe engeadge to continue: upon or: under the above said Imply from season to season of Whealing until such time: as wee shall satisfie all Debts Whatsoever is or shall bee any ways due from us the subscriebed unto our Imployers: and that wee will not Ingadge our selves in the Imply of any other parson one the attempt of Whealing, untill such time as all such time as all our said debts shall bee fully cleared as the above said: To the True parformance of all the above said premises Wee doe by these presents each man for himselfe firmly Binde our selves in the penall sume of tenn pounds in sterling Money, to bee paid by us the subscriebed upon Demand: unto the above said John Wheller or his orders: Hee the said John Wheller doth as firmly ingeadg to provied and Maintain sutable boat and all other furniture fitting for the above said designe of whalling to the true parformance of our part: of all: the above said premises: wee have sett to our hands and fixed our seals this twenty fourth of March 1680–81. The mark M of SASAKTAKON {LS.} the mark M AWABETOM {LS.} the mark of T UNQUONOMON {LS.} the mark X of WITTNES WILL INDAN of southacto {LS.} Signed in the presents of us witnesses ANTHONY KELLEY THOMAS CHATFIELD A True record by mee SAMUELL MULFORDE Recorder. [LS written in a circle certified a signature as legitimate when there was no accompanying seal, the usual device for certifying signatures as authentic on English legal documents.]

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An Accounting Economy A pernicious form of English encroachment on Native ways of life was bookkeeping. Native and non-Native people shopped for goods from local merchants, who maintained accounts for each individual, listing purchases on one side of the page and income (“Contra”) opposite. With their cryptic scrawls and personalized shorthands, these are frustratingly difficult sources for historians to decipher. Nevertheless, account books have served as one of the most important sources for investigating Native whaling in the eighteenth century and were crucial in the debate between Vickers and Little over the extent of coercion in the Nantucket whalefishery. Both scholars closely scrutinized two Nantucket merchants’ books—a general account book kept by Sylvanus Hussey and an “Indian Accounts” book kept by the Starbuck family. Both Vickers and Little found in these sources evidence supporting their respective arguments.2 What stands out most in the account listings is the great variation in the quantity and quality of purchases made by individual Indians and the different kinds of work Natives did to gain credit at the store; thus no one individual’s account represents the entirety of Native experience in this complex local economy. In the end, my choice of excerpts was easy, for not having the paleographic ability nor the patience of other scholars, I made legibility my priority, and have chosen to reproduce the 1730–1734 account of “Wamon Indian” and the “Contra” half of the “Aron Indian” account from Hussey’s book. The three figures in the rightmost column list pounds, shillings, and pence.3 Wamon Indian Dr [Delivered] 1730 1731 12: 4 mo 12.5 m 17.6 mo [1732?] 16-1 mo 5.2 mo

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To Sundry not allowed by Expr. Coffin 42/– 2/-2/– To thred 2/6 bisket/5 quallity/10 hankerchif 7/– –/10/9 To Callico 4/10 Shurt 22/ garlick 12/3 tape & thred/10 1/19/11 To paile 2/ nailes 10/6 worp 32/6 ditto 5/10 tobacco 1/ 2/11/10 To blanket 27/ oromburge. 6-13-0 8/–/– To Gigkot [?] 2/ ditto 2/ baiz /14 Cash 20/ garlick 6/ 2/-4/–

19-4 mo To Shalloon w/tap /10 – hankerchif 7/6 Cash 36/– 2/-8/4 3:5 mo To almanack –/6 Gijket 4/ Cash 10/ Bartlet Coffin 55/– 3/10/6 14-6 To Cash to him 20-0-0 Jacot 27/ brickes 32/– 22/19/– 29-[7 mo?] To almanack /6 Camblet Serg Callico & triming 8-10-0 8/10/6 To Cash 10/ to Saml Gardner 38/6 blanket 24/ 3/12/6 To Nathan Starbuck 43/ Jacot 27/ laces [5?]/ 3/11/– 23-11 mo To Rugg 5-0-0 dishe & tin 8/2 toe cloath 10/8 5/13/10 1733 21.1 mo To trowsor 12/ powder 4/8 Ribon 3/6 1/–/2 7-2 mo To Callovance 9/6 bisket 2/ Grikot /6 –/12/– 16: 3mo To Dorcas Mica 5/ to Joseph Gardnor 42/ 2/-7/– 6 mo To Manuel 8/ Wm Swaine 60/ 3/-8/– 1734 To [illegible] £75/-1/4 Ballanced £17/15/10 £82/17/2 CONTRA 1731 5-4mo By Cash 25/ 2 mo 1732 By 6 barrells oyle at – 5-10-0 Clear By 72[?] bond at 8/10 Clear By Tom Faris ?/? spining 3/? 3 mo 1733 By 11[?] Short bone at 7/10 Clear By 2 bbl oyle in Company James Esoap. 4-15-0 29 [6?] mo 1734 By Wm Swaine for John Silus Co/



1/-5/– 33 31/16/– –[faded] 4/-6/2 9/10/– 3—

82/17/2

The “bond” in Wamon’s Contra column implies that some sort of indenture was the main contribution to his income. That column also indicates that Wamon received payments for whale oil and baleen (“Short bone”) in April and May, the second and third months in Hussey’s Quaker-style system of recording the date (under the pre-1753 Julian calendar, which began each year in March rather than January). Other Indian accounts in Hussey’s book show how whaling had diversified at Nantucket by the 1730s. Indians earned income from the sea by shore whaling, offshore whaling in the deep sea, and ocean fishing. Like Wamon, Aron bought mainly items of cloth manufacture

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along with food and tobacco but generated a lot more of his income from whaling in what appear to be, except perhaps for the reference to Able Short, English-owned ventures. We do not know where the Mayflower (a namesake of the vessel that brought the first permanent English settlers to New England) and the sloop Phenix went, but the Newfoundland voyages brought Aron more credit at Hussey’s store than his other activities. He did end this series of accounts in debt by eight pounds.4

CONTRA 11 mo 1728 By fathers 17/6 [Hussey’s father?] By 2 ½ Short bone at 1729 By whaileing In Sloop Phenix By Newfound Land voige By 1-0-22 al 12/ By 1 to fathers 1730 By whailing In Mayflower By fish put In to J’n Macy 2-3-12 fish By fishing Jn Hunter 10-1-11 1731 By Able Short 20-9 mo By fish with John Macy 2-0-12 By Newfound Land Voige 1732 By his voyage in ye Mayflower 9 mo By fathers 12 at [?] 1732 By Newfound Land In Phenix

–/17/6 –/12/– 07/16/– 14/-6/6 –/15/– –/2/– 17/-6/2 2/-3/– 7/14/– 5/–/– –/17/– 22/-4/– 12/0/0 1/4/ 10/–/–

Reconed ye 6th 12 mo 1732/3 And is Due In the above Carried Down £58-12-8 1733



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By going with obed for wood in 1731 By whailing with PS By ditto with NC 80/

1/5/– 2/19/– 4/

Carried to New Book

£8/4/–

How Whaling Worked J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, a Frenchman who lived in and traveled extensively throughout the colonies in the 1760s, wrote what is perhaps the most accurate, descriptive account of how one went about chasing whales to their death on the deep seas of the North and South Atlantic Ocean in the eighteenth century.5 While visiting Martha’s Vineyard, he must have heard many stories about whaling voyages out of Nantucket, for he captured so well an experience in which he himself appears not to have participated. The whalemen he spoke to recounted methods of lowering whaleboats of six men—a boatheader, harpooner, and four oarsmen—to chase, harpoon, lance, tow, cut in, and boil certain whale species. Not until the late nineteenth century would mechanization in the form of steam whalers, harpoon guns, and bomb lances begin to replace a system of whale-hunting that had been in existence long before Crèvecoeur described it. This lively telling of how whaleboat crews coordinated their efforts to gather blubber and baleen from the deep and his understanding of how the industry was organized could in most of its details apply as easily to the nineteenth century as the eighteenth.

The posterity of the ancient aborigines remain here [on Martha’s Vineyard] to this day, on lands which their forefathers reserved for themselves, and which are religiously kept from any incroachments. The New England people are remarkable for the honesty with which they have fulfilled, all over that province, those ancient covenants which in many others have been disregarded, to the scandal of those governments. The Indians there appeared, by the decency of their manners, their industry, and neatness, to be wholly Europeans, and nowise inferior to many of the inhabitants. Like them they are sober, laborious, and religious, which are the principal characteristics of the four New England provinces. They often go, like the young men of the Vineyard, to Nantucket, and hire themselves for whalemen or fishermen; and indeed their skill and dexterity in all sea affairs is nothing inferior to that of the whites. . . .

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The vessels most proper for whale fishing, are brigs of about 150 tons burden, particularly when they are intended for distant latitudes; they always man them with thirteen hands, in order that they may row two whale boats; the crews of which must necessarily consist of six, four at the oars, one standing on the bows with the harpoon, and the other at the helm. It is also necessary that there should be two of these boats, that if one should be destroyed in attacking the whale, the other, which is never engaged at the same time, may be ready to save the hands. Five of the thirteen are always Indians; the last of the complement remains on board to steer the vessel during the action. They have no wages; each draws a certain established share in partnership with the proprietor of the vessel; by which economy they are all proportionably concerned in the success of the enterprise, and all equally alert and vigilant. None of these whale-men ever exceed the age of forty: they look on those who are past that period, not to be possessed of all that vigour and agility which so adventurous a business requires. Indeed if you attentively consider the immense disproportion between the object assailed and the assailants—if you think on the diminutive size, and weakness of their frail vehicle—if you recollect the treachery of the element on which this scene is transacted—the sudden and unforeseen accidents of winds, &c. you will readily acknowledge, that it must require the most consummate exertion of all the strength, agility, and judgment, of which the bodies and the minds of men are capable, to undertake these adventurous encounters. As soon as they arrive in those latitudes where they expect to meet with whales, a man is sent up to the mast head; if he sees one, he immediately cries out, AWAITE PAWANA, here is a whale; they all remain still and silent, until he repeats PAWANA, a whale, when, in less than six minutes the two boats are launched, filled with every implement necessary for the attack. They row toward the whale with astonishing velocity; and as the Indians early became their fellow labourers in this new warfare, you can easily conceive, how the Nattick [language] expressions became familiar on board the whale-boats. Formerly it often happened that whale vessels were manned with none but Indians and the master; recollect also that the Nantucket people understand the Nattick, and that there are always five of these people on board. 52 X CHAPTER 2

There are various ways of approaching the whale, according to their peculiar species; and this previous knowledge is of the utmost consequence. When these boats are arrived at a reasonable distance, one of them rests on its oars, and stands off, as a witness of the approaching engagement; near the bows of the other the harpooner stands up, and on him principally depends the success of the enterprise. He wears a jacket closely buttoned, and round his head a handkerchief tightly bound: in his hands he holds the dreadful weapon, made of the best steel, marked sometimes with the name of their town, and sometimes with that of their vessel; to the shaft of which the end of a cord of due strength, coiled up with the utmost care in the middle of the boat, is firmly tied; the other end is fastened to the bottom of the boat. Thus prepared, they row in profound silence, leaving the whole conduct of the enterprise to the harpooner and to the steersman, attentively following their directions. When the former judges himself to be near enough to the whale, that is, at the distance of about fifteen feet, he bids them stop; perhaps she has a calf, whose safety attracts all the attention of the dam, which is a favourable circumstance; perhaps she is of a dangerous species, and it is safest to retire, though their ardour will seldom permit them; perhaps she is asleep; in that case he balances high the harpoon, trying in this important moment to collect all the energy of which he is capable. He launches it forth—she is struck: from her first movement, they judge of her temper, as well as of their future success. Sometimes, in the immediate impulse of rage, she will attack the boat, and demolish it with one stroke of her tail; in an instant the frail vehicle disappears, and the assailants are immersed in the dreadful element. Were the whale armed with the jaws of the shark, and as voracious, they never would return home to amuse their listening wives with the interesting tale of the adventure. At other times she will dive and disappear from human sight; and every thing must then give way to her velocity; or else all is lost. Sometimes she will swim away, [as] if untouched, and draw the cord with such swiftness, that it will set the edge of the boat on fire by the friction. If she rises, before she has run out the whole length, she is looked upon as a sure prey. The blood she has lost in her flight, weakens her so much, that if she sinks again, it is but for a short time; the boat follows her course, with an almost equal speed. She soon

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re-appears; tired at last with convulsing the element, which she tinges with her blood, she dies, and floats on the surface. At other times it may happen, that she is not dangerously wounded, though she carries the harpoon fast in her body; when she will alternately dive and rise, and swim on with unabated vigour. She then soon reaches beyond the length of the cord, and carries the boat along with amazing velocity; this sudden impediment sometimes will retard her speed, at other times it only serves to rouse her anger, and to accelerate her progress. The harpooner, with the axe in his hands, stands ready. When he observes that the bows of the boat are greatly pulled down by the diving whale, and that it begins to sink deep, and to take much water, he brings the axe almost in contact with the cord; he pauses, still flattering himself that she will relax; but the moment grows critical, unavoidable danger approaches: sometimes men more intent on gain, than on the preservation of their lives, will run great risks; and it is wonderful how far these people have carried their daring courage at this awful moment! But it is in vain to hope; their lives must be saved; the cord is cut; the boat rises again. If, after thus getting loose, she re-appears, they will attack and wound her a second time. She soon dies, and when dead she is towed along-side of their vessel, where she is fastened. The next operation is to cut with axes and spades, every part of her body which yields oil; the kettles are set a boiling; they fill their barrels as fast as it is made; but as this operation is much slower than that of cutting up, they fill the hold of their ship with those fragments, least a storm should arise and oblige them to abandon their prize. It is astonishing what a quantity of oil some of these fish will yield, and what profit it affords to those who are fortunate enough to overtake them. The river St. Laurence whale, which is the only one I am well acquainted with, is seventy-five feet long, sixteen deep, twelve in the length of its bone, (which commonly weighs 3000 lb.) twenty in the breadth of its tail, and produces 180 barrels of oil: I once saw 16 boiled out of the tongue only. After having once vanquished this leviathan, there are two enemies to be dreaded beside the wind; the first of which is the shark: that fierce voracious fish, to which nature has given such dreadful offensive weapons, often comes along-side, and in spite of the people’s endeavours will share with them in their prey; at night particularly, they are very mischievous. But the second 54 X CHAPTER 2

enemy is much more terrible and irresistible; it is the killer, sometimes called the thrasher, a species of whales about thirty feet long. They are possessed of such a degree of agility and fierceness, as often to attack the largest spermaceti whales, and not seldom to rob the fishermen of their prey; nor is there any means of defence against so potent an adversary. When all their barrels are full, (for every thing is done at sea,) or when their limited time is expired and their stores almost expended, they return home, freighted with their valuable cargo; unless they have put it on board a vessel for the European market. Such are, as briefly as I can relate them, the different branches of the œconomy practised by these bold navigators, and the method with which they go such distances from their island to catch this huge game.

Native Voices While the occasional Native-authored will, account book, diary, or marginalia in printed texts can be found in archives throughout the New England region, few of these surviving documents touch on the subject of whaling more than obliquely or in passing. The documents most likely to refer to whaling tend to be appeals to the colonial or state authorities to resolve various issues whaling presented. A 1733 memorial, or memorandum, that Joshua Ralph Sr. submitted to the colony of Massachusetts addressed a problem endemic in seafaring communities the world over.6 Besides being active in the whaling industry, the Ralph family produced several generations of respected religious and political leaders for the small Cape Cod tribe known as the Potanomicut Indians. Whaling comes up in petitions as well, such as in the second document, submitted to the Massachusetts legislature by members of the Christiantown community on Martha’s Vineyard. The Massachusetts legislature responded to their grievances by giving authority for approving all Indian contracts, leases, and debts worth more than four dollars to “two good and discreet men as guardians, to have the care and oversight of said Indians and of their property.”7

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Ralph Memorial To His Excellency Jonathan Belcher Esqr Captain General and Governour in Chief in and over His Majesty’s Province of the Massachusets Bay in New England and to the Honoble His Majesties Council for the sd Province & Honoble House of Representatives in General Court Assembled at Boston Augt 1733 The Memorial of Joshua Ralph of Eastham in the County of Barnstable Esqr Indian Justice in behalf of his son Joshua Ralph Junr of Eastham aforsd Whalefisherman Humbly Sheweth That about two years agoue one Francis Francis Junr an Indian sailed out of Eastham on a Whaling voyage with Mr Ebenezer Pain then master of a sloop but a violent storm soon after happened which drove ashore several vessels on the back side of Cape Codd, and in all probability the sd Francis with the rest of the Company perished at sea for the vessel noe more were ever heard of afterwards; But there being no direct or possitive undeniable proof of the death of the sd Francis, no minister or single justice thinks it safe to joyn his supposed widow Rachel Francis in marriage to your memorialist’s son Joshua Ralph Junr altho he hath eernestly desired it— And forasmuch as there is no Reason to think that the sd Francis Francis Junr is alive—your memorialist in behalf of my son Joshua Ralph Junr humbly prays your Excellency & Honours will be pleased by an act or order of this Court to Give Lycense to the sd Joshua Ralph Junr to be married to the said Rachel Francis— And your meml is in duty bound shall ever pray &c Joshua Ralph Christiantown Petition To the Honourable the senate & the Honourable House of Representatives of the General Court of the Common Wealth of Massachusetts - - - - Humbly sheweth the subscribers, Indian Inhabitants of that part of the town of Tisbury Known by the Name of Christian Town in Dukes County That without the aid of your Honours they in the present mode of the Incrachments made on their 56 X CHAPTER 2



Lands by White People & Black persons who Come from Other parts & bring their wives & Chilldren and Leave them Amongst the Origional Inhabitants, the men are sent Long voiages to sea by those who practice in a more soft manner that of Kidnaping who when they Return with ever so great success they are still In debt & have nothing to Receive and their wives & chilldren are in a great part supported by those of the town who are Left behind. We would further Inform your Honours some Considerable time since previous to the american revolution One David Capey an Indian who was an Inhabitant in said town whose practice was to Inclose any Spot of ground Left by any one Deceast who ever held in Common & thereby amassed a verry considerable spot & at his Discease Left a will to a number of Chilldren amongst them was one Dafter [daughter] who maried one John Accuoche of the Gayhead All his sons are dead & Left no heirs the Dafter is dead & there is but one of her posterity Living who Lives on the Gayhead & by the Influence of some white men she hires it out for a Trifle & thereby the Indians have no proffit besides the destruction of their young wood which is verry Valuable for Inclosing the Ground we therefore pray that Justice may be Done us & persons who are strangers & have no Right be prevented from Coming amongst us to reside and We as in Duty bound Ever pray That a simillar Law may be passed to that for the settlement of the Indians Lands on the Island of Chabaquidick Solomon Weeks Jude garshom her mark Solomon Jaffery Love Jeffery George Peters Anna Peters happy amos X hosea francis his mark X Sarah frances her mark joseph taknish Anna Lot We the Subscribers Selectmen of the Town of Tisbury do hereby certify that the within Petition is just and in our oppinions ought to be granted attest Ezekiel Luce Thomas Dunham

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Room for Negotiation The English travel writer Edward Augustus Kendall visited several Native communities on his excursion through the northeastern United States during 1807 and 1808. As he made his way from southern Connecticut to Cape Cod and on to Martha’s Vineyard, he commented often on the impact of whaling on both Native and non-Native residents of coastal New England. Of the Mohegans he observed, “The sixty-nine souls remaining comprehend, for the most part, very aged persons, widows and fatherless children. The young men go to sea, and die.” At Truro on the Cape, he described the white fishermen and whalemen of the town as “frequently squalid; their hair hangs often in dirt over their eyes; and their dress is marked by poverty.” Not only Indians faced forced labor through debt, apparently, for Kendall “was assured by practical men, by dealers or merchants, and by farmers who have spent many years of their lives in these voyages, that it does not happen, oftener than once in ten years, that the shares amount to enough to relieve a whaler from his debts . . . [and] the close of every voyage leaves him on the books of the ship-owner, whose summons for the next voyage he must obey, or answer for the debt in gaol.” The selection included here is from Kendall’s account of Gay Head, where he spent most of his time admiring the clay cliffs. The stories he retells probably originated with the lighthouse keeper, with whom Kendall boarded.8

The Indians, like those of Marshpee, are a mixed race, and two hundred and forty in number, in which the women and children make more than the due proportion. On the soil, there were not at this time more than fifteen or sixteen men and boys, the rest being at sea, in the fisheries. This is a favourite employ, to which they give themselves, and to which they are anxiously solicited. Ship-owners come to their cottages, making them offers, and persuading them to accept them; and so rarely is Gay Head visited for any other purpose, that this was supposed, at the light-house, 58 X CHAPTER 2

to be my errand. This business of inviting the Indians is a sort of crimping, in which liquor, goods and fair words are plied, till the Indian gets into debt, and gives his consent. Taking the history from the mouths of the white people only, it appears that there is often much to be complained of, in the business of the voyage, both in the Indian and in those with whom he connects himself. On the one hand, great advantages are taken of his folly, his credulity, and his ignorance; on the other, he torments the ship or share-owner with his indecision and demands, till the moment of the sailing of the ship. First, he agrees to go, and accordingly receives some stipulated part of his outfit; then he “thinks he won’t go;” and then he is to be coaxed, and made drunk. Again, he “thinks he won’t go,” unless such and such articles are supplied; and these articles he often names at random, and for the sake of inducing a refusal. One Indian was mentioned to me, that thought he would not go, unless five pounds of soap were given him; and another, that thought the same, unless he received seven hats. Now, the shareholder makes a general calculation. He has no objection to gratify any folly, to the extent of a certain advance, by which, especially if he is himself the seller of the goods, he is every way a gainer; but, further than this, he refuses, of course, to go. I say, the share-holder; because an individual, taking a certain number of shares, undertakes to find whalemen upon shares, and to them he is responsible. But, if the whaleman dies, and no share falls to his estate, then the share-holder suffers a loss, to the amount of all that he has advanced. The Indians find in their fishing-voyages as little for their ultimate benefit, as they are found by those that I have lately mentioned; and their obstinate addiction to spiritous liquors makes their case still worse: hence, an Indian, that goes to sea, is ruined, and his family is ruined with him. It is less with the Indians of Gay Head, than with those on the western parts of the island, and elsewhere, that the shareholders, otherwise called fitters-out, are induced to resort rather to fraud than force; for these Indians [at Gay Head] are neither under the control nor the protection of guardians, and they are answerable for the debts that they contract. In Tisbury [Christiantown], the Indians cannot be sued for any debt exceeding twenty-four shillings currency; and in Edgartown [Chappaquiddick Indian community] the sum is limited to twenty shillings. But, this restraint, though eminently proper for

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the defence of the Indians against the rapacity and arts of those around them, is regarded by the Indians with no inexplicable disgust; for, as they cannot be sued, so they will not be trusted. Hence, the Indians of Gay Head are in continual fear that they shall be placed under guardians, or that some law will be established, to abridge their liberty. My visit followed shortly upon one made by the Reverend Mr. Freeman, of Boston, who had then lately made a tour of the islands and neighbouring coast, on a benevolent commission to ascertain the spots proper for placing huts and other accommodations for shipwrecked mariners; but, the Indians, as I was informed at the light-house, had been much alarmed by his coming among them; had shut themselves up in their houses; and had received his visits with suspicion. They were fearful that he was engaged in some project for giving them guardians; and I was told that my own journey would add to their uneasiness.

Whaling Contracts in the Early Days of Pacific Sperm Whaling In the early nineteenth century, debt was still a common incentive for Native men to ship aboard whalers. In 1820, with the consent of his mother and the state-appointed guardians of the Mashpee Indians, seventeen-year-old Aaron Keeter’s mother sold shares in his voyage to Freeman Percival for a hundred-dollar advance and payment of all his debts. Percival placed Keeter on the Dauphin of Nantucket for a three-year voyage to the Pacific Ocean, where, as luck would have it, he and others of the crew happened upon a set of starving creatures turned cannibals, pathetic survivors of the Nantucket whaleship Essex, which had been rammed and sunk by a sperm whale three months earlier.9 The horrific sight of whaling hardship at its most extreme reminded all of the great risks incurred by whaling. The third mate on the Dauphin wrote an epic poem of this particular voyage in which Keeter and several other Mashpee Wampanoag men were among the crew. An 60 X CHAPTER 2

excerpt gives a sense of what the crew of the Dauphin witnessed a year after leaving Nantucket while whaling off the coast of Chile.10 The second month, quite early on The three-and-twentieth day, From our mast-head we did espy A boat to leeward lay. Hard up the helm, and down we went To see who it might be. The Essex boat we found it was, Been ninety days at sea. No victuals were there in the boat, Of any sort or kind, And two survivors, who did expect A watery grave to find. The rest belonging to the boat Ah! shocking to relate, For want of food and nourishment, Met an unhappy fate. We rounded to, and hove aback; A boat was quickly lowered; We took the two survivors out, And carried them on board.

Despite such horrific experiences at sea, men continued to leave New England to hunt down sperm whales in the Pacific and other oceans, while at the same time the industry developed elaborate business practices to spread risk, with ship owners preserving for themselves the greatest potential for profit. The contract below, signed by Keeter’s mother because he was a minor, then by multiple investors who wanted a piece of his earnings (the “fitters-out,” or outfitters, mentioned by Kendall), and finally by one of the Indian guardians for Mashpee, shows some of the legal maneuvers by which investors tried to maximize profit by minimizing labor costs and their own risk, while seeming to promise protection to those deemed incapable of giving

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their voluntary consent to labor: minors and Indians. Keeter’s share of the risk was high and his potential earnings low compared to the men who bought shares in his voyage. Such documents do not always refer to the race of the whaleman selling his shares, but it does seem from those that I have come across in the archives that Native and African American whalemen frequently and disproportionately compared to white whalemen sold shares of their voyages in advance in the first few decades of the nineteenth century.

March 18th 1820 This certifies that I approve of the contract of Freeman Percival and my son Aaron to perform a whale voyage to Cape horn for the considereation certified in the within obligation for him the said Percival Lydia porknet [Pocknett] 1820 march 20th We approve of the within N Marston }[for the] Overseers of } Marshpee March 25th 1820 I endorse over this obligation to John Swift in consequence of his paying me thirty dollars by endorsing of it upon my note holden by Shuble Lawrence and giving me a note for thirty four dollars and sixty three cents more to be paid at the termination of Aaron Keters first voyage to sea in proportion as his voyage will pay his hirers debts against him Aaron Keters Freeman Percival obligation _ _ _ _ _ 1820 March 25 We approve of the within endorsement Gideon Hawley } Overseers } of Nymphas Marston } Marshpee _ _ _ _ _

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Know all men by these presents that I Aaron Keter one of the inhabitants of Marshpee in the County of Barnstable in the common wealth of Massachusetts have this day agreed with Freeman Percival of Sandwich in the County and State aforesaid to perform a whale voyage around Cape Horn and else where for the consideration of one hundred dollars for one half of my chance or voyage and I promise to hold myself in readiness to go the said voyage whenever said Percival shall want or call for me in any Ship or craft that said Percival shall want me to go in if I fail of performing the said voyage for said Percival whenever he shall want or call for me I will forfeit the sum of five hundred dollars and sd Percival is to draw the whole voyage that I shall or may obtain and account for half the said and the captain or owners are hereby directed to pay the whole voyage that I shall or may obtain to sd Percival in witness of which I have hereunto set my hand and seal this fourteenth day of March one thousand eight hundred and twenty Signed in the presence of his Moses Alley Aaron X Keter Lucy Alley mark

As Elizabeth Little’s work reminds us, outright coercion was not necessarily the rule for all Native whalemen all the time. But the documentary record for the seventeenth through early nineteenth centuries clearly shows the heavy hand of state-appointed Indian guardians, justices of the peace, county sheriffs, and state legislatures in shaping the conditions under which Native men worked in the whaling industry. Among the first generation of Native American whalemen to round Cape Horn to chase sperm whales in the Pacific Ocean, Keeter was also one of the last to enter into a contract in which his status as an Indian determined the conditions of his labor.

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For Further Reading Braginton-Smith, John, and Duncan Oliver. Cape Cod Shore Whaling: America’s First Whalemen. Yarmouth Port, MA: Historical Society of Old Yarmouth, 2004. Breen, T. H. Imagining the Past: East Hampton Histories. Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley, 1989. Little, Elizabeth A. “The Indian Contribution to Along-Shore Whaling at Nantucket.” Nantucket Algonquian Studies no. 8. Nantucket: Nantucket Historical Association, 1981. ———. “Nantucket Whaling in the Early 18th Century.” In Papers of the Nineteenth Algonquian Conference, ed. William Cowan, 111–31. Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1988. Nicholas, Mark A. “Mashpee Wampanoags of Cape Cod, the Whalefishery, and Seafaring’s Impact on Community Development.” American Indian Quarterly 26, no. 2 (Spring 2002): 165–97. Silverman, David. “The Impact of Indentured Servitude on the Society and Culture of Southern New England Indians, 1680–1810.” New England Quarterly 74, no. 4 (December 2001): 622–66. Stone, Gaynell, ed. The Shinnecock Indians: A Culture History. Suffolk County Archaeological Association Readings in Long Island Archaeology and Ethnohistory, vol. 6. Lexington, MA: Ginn Custom Publishing, 1983. Strong, John A. The Algonquian Peoples of Long Island from Earliest Times to 1700. Interlaken, NY: Empire State Books, 1997. ———. “The Pigskin Book: Records of Native American Whalemen.” Long Island Historical Journal 3, no. 1 (Fall 1990): 17–29. ———. “Shinnecock and Montauk Whalemen.” Long Island Historical Journal 2, no. 1 (Fall 1989): 29–40. ———. The Unkechaug Indians of Eastern Long Island: A History. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2011. Vickers, Daniel. “The First Whalemen of Nantucket.” William and Mary Quarterly, 3rd ser., 40, no. 4 (October 1983): 560–83. ———. “Nantucket Whalemen in the Deep-Sea Fishery: The Changing Anatomy of an Early American Labor Force.” Journal of American History 72, no. 2 (September 1985): 277–96.

64 X CHAPTER 2

3 Around the World in the Nineteenth Century

In the period from the 1830s through the 1850s, American whaling mushroomed into a huge industry that reaped enormous wealth for a merchant class resident in Nantucket, New Bedford, New London, Sag Harbor, and Edgartown. This is also the period most people think of first whenever whaling comes up in conversation, with Herman Melville’s story of the hunt for the great white sperm whale, Moby-Dick (1851), the touchstone for calling up images and lore of American whaling in its heyday. Some readers see in his novel a celebration of multiculturalism, as men from around the world came together in unity aboard the Pequod and even as bedfellows in the case of Ishmael and the Pacific cannibal Queequeg. But Melville’s token New England Indian, a Gay Head “harpooneer” named Tashtego, is as simply drawn as James Fenimore Cooper’s “Last of the Mohicans” and does little to capture the actual experiences of New England Native whalemen in the decades following the sperm whaling boom of the 1830s. Most notable of the ways Melville got it wrong is the change in role for Native men aboard whaleships, from indentured laborers and renowned harpooners to officers. As the whaling industry rose and fell over the course of the nineteenth century, the divide between officers

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and seamen deepened. Whaling agents sought out the cheapest labor for the forecastle, and any young man who looked hardy enough to pull an oar was hirable. Most knew nothing of sailing nor of whales. Many found their way to a whaleship through a New York or Philadelphia recruiter or were foreign laborers picked up in the Azores, the Cape Verde Islands, or around the Pacific. To compensate for the woefully unprepared and perpetually dissatisfied foremast hands, the demand for capable and committed officers also rose. Along with the whaling captain, or “master,” the chief mate and other officers began carrying more responsibility for a voyage’s success and consequently also greater rewards in the form of larger shares in voyage profits along with certain shipboard privileges in comfort and status. Native men from New England responded to the rising demand for labor by nearly all engaging as whalemen, usually beginning at around ages fourteen to sixteen. Their knowledge, skills (not just at seafaring but also with the English language, writing, and arithmetic), tolerance for whaling’s harsh working conditions, and American nativity typically brought them into the upper ranks within two or three voyages. Well into the early twentieth century, even while the industry shrank in size, Native New Englanders commonly ended their whaling years as third, second, or first mates. The career histories of two Wampanoag men from Martha’s Vineyard, who appear in a photograph (fig. 7) probably taken in the early 1870s, more accurately reveal how Native whalemen fared in the industry than Melville’s depiction of the “wild Indian” Tashtego. Francis F. Peters and Alonzo Belain went to sea at the age of seventeen as greenhands on the Sunbeam in 1868. Since the two men look to be older than seventeen in the photograph, perhaps they sat for their picture when the Sunbeam returned to New Bedford three years later. With them on the Sunbeam were two other men from Gay Head, William P. Johnson, also a greenhand, and Edwin D. Vanderhoop. Then on his second whaling voyage, Vanderhoop held the rank of boatsteerer, which meant he harpooned whales from one of the whaleboats, lived in steerage near the captain’s cabin and officers’ staterooms, and headed watches when the vessel cruised on whaling grounds.1 66 X CHAPTER 3

Figure 7. Frank Peters and Alonzo Belain, Wampanoag whalemen from Martha’s Vineyard, ca. 1871–1876. Reproduced by permission from the collections of the Martha’s Vineyard Museum.

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When the Sunbeam docked at New Bedford in 1871, Peters and Belain went their separate ways. Belain signed up immediately for another voyage, now in the capacity of boatsteerer, on the Kathleen. Peters took a few months off from whaling, but in 1872 shipped again, also as a boatsteerer, leaving New Bedford on the Atlantic in company with four other men from Gay Head, including Edwin D. Vanderhoop, now third mate. Both Peters and Belain embarked on New Bedford whalers for a third voyage in 1876. Third mate on the Triton and just twenty-six years old, Alonzo Belain died at sea, near Australia, from consumption (tuberculosis) in 1877. Frank Peters, third mate on the Atlantic, was presumed drowned in 1878 when the vessel lost sight of two whaleboat crews. As romantic as whaling might seem in hindsight, it was a brutal, danger-ridden world. Peters and Belain were just two among the many who did not survive it.2

Crew Lists For the social history of maritime America, the various listings of each voyage’s crew members generated by the US Customs Bureau, the New Bedford Port Society, the trade newspaper The Whalemen’s Shipping List and Merchants’ Transcript, ship owners, and whaling outfitters are particularly valuable sources. Of these, the Customs documents officially called “crew lists” are the most informative. Shortly after the nation’s founding, the United States required that, before departing, the captain or “master” of overseas vessels submit a detailed list of his crew and upon return testify as to the fate of any men no longer aboard. The personal information for each seaman—birthplace, residence, “of what country citizens or subjects,” age, height, complexion, and hair color—came from individual certificates of protection, which American seamen acquired before going to sea and which, like a passport, distinguished certain individuals as US nationals, promising them protection if they were impressed into a foreign navy, taken captive by pirates on the Barbary Coast or elsewhere, or abandoned by a ship’s captain in a foreign land. The earliest US crew lists included columns for rank and lay, but a more elaborate, separate contract 68 X CHAPTER 3

emerged within a few decades, called whalemen’s shipping papers or shipping articles, a negotiated document with men’s signatures or X’s as marks of consent.3 Figure 8 shows an example of a return crew list from the New Bedford Port Records at the National Archives at Boston. Return crew lists such as this often have the port inspector’s marks alongside each man’s name as he worked down the list seeing who remained aboard from the original crew. The ship Adeline of New Bedford, on its 1843–1846 voyage, had a particularly large contingent of Wampanoag men from Gay Head aboard: George Belain, who on the shipping articles is listed as first mate, along with Jonathan Cuff, William Weeks, Zaccheus Cooper, Thomas Jeffers, Joel G. Jared, and George’s brother, William Belain. Also aboard was Lewis Daily of Woodstock, Connecticut (probably connected to the Daleys listed as Dudley Indians, or Nipmuc, in John Milton Earle’s 1861 report of Massachusetts Indians), and Christopher Danzell of Newport, Rhode Island (probably related to the younger Christopher Danzell identified as Narragansett but married into the Herring Pond Native community on Cape Cod in Earle’s report). Not visible on the crew list but appearing on shipping articles signed in Honolulu, Gideon Ammons, a Narragansett, shipped as third mate for the passage home. Not many voyages had so many men from a single Native community aboard nor so many men of color, but the patterns hinted at by this crew list—the tendency for men to sign up for voyages with friends and relatives, evidence that whaling both drew upon and assisted in creating networks that crossed tribal, racial, and national boundaries—can be found in other whaling documents, too.4 More than just useful documents for tracking individual men’s lives at sea, crew lists are also intriguing artifacts that provide insight into the social world of nineteenth-century America. They have especially fascinated scholars interested in the history of racial thinking because of the quirks found in the complexion category. Crew list complexions—“light,” “dark,” “fair,” “freckled,” “yellow,” “copper,” “Indian,” “black,” “swarthy,” “black,” “mulatto,” even “blue” in a few instances— seem related to ideas about race but not equivalent to the racial categories in common usage at the time. Moreover, the complexion category

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Figure 8. Return crew list for the ship Adeline of New Bedford, on a whaling voyage from 1843 to 1846. Seven of the thirty men aboard were Wampanoag residents of Gay Head (Aquinnah): George Belain, Jonathan Cuff, William Weeks, Zaccheus Cooper, Thomas Jeffers, Joel G. Jared, and William Belain. They made up nearly one-fourth of the total ship’s company. Captain Charles H. Cole testified at the end of the voyage that six men did not return to New Bedford: three deserted, one was discharged, and William Weeks and Jonathan Cuff “died at sea” in 1845, the precise cause not stated. National Archives at Boston, Waltham, MA.

functioned illogically, varying for the same man from voyage to voyage, seemingly a consequence of happenstance: when a sailor applied for a seaman’s protection certificate, he probably had little say in the determination of his complexion. The variety of complexion terms for the 70 X CHAPTER 3

seven Wampanoag men on this voyage exhibits that erratic quality, and some of these men appear on other crew lists with their complexions described by some other word, such as “mulatto” or “black.”5

Whaling Economy Just as in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, nineteenth-century Native communities’ relationships with and attitudes toward whaling as an economic system are open to debate and various enough to forestall easy generalization. One conclusion is certain, however: whaling brought more income to Native families than any other resource or occupation available, whether renting out land, farming, or laboring in the construction trades of stonemasonry or carpentry. Of course, at the same time, whaling carried the weight of enormous risks: death, disability, shipwreck, or simply an unprofitable voyage. One particularly handy series of documents for grasping the economics of whaling within Native communities is the annual Indian Guardian Accounts for Christiantown and Chappaquiddick, both on Martha’s Vineyard. A Massachusetts law that applied only to these two reservation communities required that guardians oversee Indian finances and collect and disburse earnings. Whaling agents’ settlement accounts give the same information about the final payment for each crew member, after deductions for advances and purchases of clothing and tobacco from the ship’s slop chest during the voyage. But the guardian accounts are more helpful in putting whaling earnings in context with other forms of income. The paltry sums earned by Isaiah Belain, Samuel Mingo, and George Peters for repairing fences, building walls, and boarding the community’s sick and elderly pale before the whaling windfalls their brothers or sons brought home after a few years at sea. Of the Native people mentioned in these accounts, the Belains, Goulds, Webquishes, Curdoodys, Carters, Cooks, Johnsons, and Summonses all lived at Chappaquiddick, and the Peters, DeGrass, and Mingo families belonged to Christiantown.6

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The undersigned Guardian of the Indians and People of colour resident at Chappaquiddic and Christiantown herein exhibits for the inspection of His Excellency the Governeur of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, an accurate account of Receipts and Disbursements by said Guardian on account of said Indians and people of colour from the Twenty-Second day of December, A.D. 1836, to the Twenty Second day of December, A.D. 1837, in conformity to an act passed March 10, 1828, Sec. 4, Art. 7.

Receipts 1837 Jan. 30. May. 30. June. 9. Oct. 14. “

“

Nov. 11. “ 24. Dec. 9.

Received of Isaiah Belain for Rent of Public Land on Chappaquiddic Do. [Ditto] Agent of Barque Pioneer of New Bedford the amount due James W. Degrass Recd of Agent of Ship Almira of Edgartown the amount due Jared Summons Recd of Agent of Ship Champion of Edgartown, the amount due Joseph Peters Recd of Agent of Ship Champion of Edgartown, the amount due Richard Gould Recd of Agent of Ship Delphos of Holmes Hole, the amount due Charles Peters Recd of Gamaliel Fisher for a Cow sold for Olive Cooke, Recd of Agent of Ship Sarah of Nantucket, the amount due Frederick Webquish. [TOTAL]

Dec. 22. …

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Balance brot from Guardian’s last acct. Dec. 22, 1837

$3.06 246.45 274.05 289.10 264.60 158.54 18.00 564.04 $1817.84 68.48 $1886.32

Disbursements 1836 Dec. 27. 1837 Jan. 5. March. 20. April. 3. “ 4.

Paid Valentine Pease for Poles and stakes for public land on Chappaquiddic, Paid Saml Huxford do.

Dec. 22.

Paid E.P. Smith for Wood for Betsey Carter, Paid Samuel Mingo for laying Wall on public land at Christiantown, Paid Isaiah Belain for repairing fence on public land at Chappaquiddic Paid Andrew Gibbs for clothing for Joseph Curdoody Paid James W. DeGrass the amount recd from Agent of Barque Pioneer, of New Bedford, Paid Jared Summon, the amt recd from Agent of Ship Almira of Edgartown, Paid Caroline Baylies for teaching School, at Chappaquiddic, Paid Joseph Peters the amt recd from Agent of Ship Champion of Edgartown, Paid Richard Gould do. “ “ “ “ “ “ Paid Charles Peters the amt recd from Agent of Ship Delphos of Holmes Hole, Paid Olive Cooke the amt recd of Gamaliel Fisher for a Cow, Paid Geo. Peters for repairing wall on public land at Christiantown. Paid Isaiah Belain for [boarding charity case] William Johnson Paid Fred. Webquish the amt recd of Agent, Ship Sarah of Nantucket Paid L.H. Lucas for medical attendance on Joseph Curdoody [TOTAL] Balance brot from Guardian’s last acct. Dec. 22, 1837

Dec. 22.

Balance in Guardian’s hands at this date.

“ “ June. 2. “

20.

July. 25. Oct. 17. “ “ Nov. 18. “ 24. “ “ “ “ Dec. 12. “ 19

$3.37 2.26 4.00 10.00 1.00 5.00 246.45 274.05 5.00 289.10 264.60 158.54 18.00 1.33 4.87 564.04 8.00 $1859.61 68.48 $1886.32 26.71 $1886.32

Errours Excepted.

The foregoing is the account of monies received and paid out by Guardian aforesaid, on account of said Indians and People of Colour from the Twenty Second day of Dec, A.D. 1836 to the Twenty Second day of December, A.D. 1837. Leavitt Thaxter, Guardian as aforesaid

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Journals and Logbooks The need to earn a living is what drew Native men into whaling, but they simultaneously recognized that whaling brought them authority and respect not easily achieved in a society that allowed Indians few employment options. Even though whaling was notorious for its tedium and privations, most Native whalemen met the industry’s demands with a serious work ethic and commitment to proficiency. Their professionalism is evident in the several dozen surviving logbooks and journals written by Native whalemen (see appendix). Their often mundane daily entries of a life at sea demonstrate a deep understanding of ship technology, ocean currents and winds, and whale behavior. as well as attention to the dynamics of the small, diverse, and yet steeply hierarchical social community aboard a whaleship. Native men’s logbooks and journals resemble those kept by non-Native men and are identifiable in archives only if one recognizes the name of the writer. These documents do contain many spelling errors, but having read several hundred logbooks kept by all sorts of people aboard whaleships, I would judge Native whalemen’s literary skills as at least average, if not better than, what was typical for the genre. Maintaining the daily logbook usually counted among the duties of first mates, and several of the Native-authored whaling texts listed in the appendix fit this category. Jesse Webquish Jr. of Mashpee, Milton Lee, a Shinnecock, and Joseph G. Belain of Gay Head, as well as others who served as first mates, handed their logbooks over to the whaling agent at the end of the voyage. In the twentieth century, these found their way to archives along with various account books and loose receipts generated by the business of whaling. Many private journals kept by Native whalemen also wound up in archives. These journals are nearly indistinguishable from official logbooks in style but have family members’ names, songs, personal accounts, or other miscellanea that mark the volume as privately kept. Mimicking the logbook, daily entries begin at noon on the previous day and end at noon on the date of the entry, usually concluding with the phrase “So ends” or “So ends the day,” perhaps followed by the 74 X CHAPTER 3

Figure 9. The four voyages of Joseph Ammons as documented in his journals. He left the James Maury in Hawai‘i in 1854 and must have made passage home on another vessel. Map by Bill Keegan, Heritage Consultants.

last activity of the day and the current longitude and latitude. They typically describe the weather, whales seen or captured, sail handling, crew activities, ships spoken to, and location of the vessel, whether anchored in a port or by latitude and longitude on the open sea.7 Although far from self-reflective, the standardized daily entries still allow for distinct personalities to peek through. For this chapter, I have excerpted some of the more interesting entries from three private journals that reveal different aspects of the whaling experience. Joseph Ammons, a Narragansett, kept a journal in the style of a logbook from 1843 to 1853, while serving as third and second mate on four consecutive voyages out of New Bedford (fig. 9). The entries I selected from his journals focus on two issues: the whale chase and encounters with Pacific and Arctic peoples. I have not included entries that represent another distinctive feature of Ammons’s journals: the first two voyages in this four-voyage series took place on a Bethel ship, meaning that it carried out the voyage in the spirit of a Christian mission. Nearly every Sunday at 4:00 p.m.

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(reported in Monday’s entries), Ammons attended a “gloryous meeting” in the cabin of the Roman.8 The second journal excerpted here, kept by Joel G. Jared of Gay Head, gives a sampling of his daily entries—those for his birthday while boatsteerer on the Amethyst, 1846–1850, and then when he served as third mate on the Samuel & Thomas, 1850–1852.9 Jared appears to have taken this volume with him on subsequent voyages as well, but without sufficient space left in it to keep writing summaries of the day’s activities. Jared’s journal is characterized by a panoply of stamps showing large and small sperm whales captured, right whales, large and small whale flukes indicating that they saw whales but did not catch any, pilot whales (called “blackfish” in the nineteenth century), and even a porpoise (fig. 10). The extraneous content of Jared’s journals reveals much about him as a person but is unfortunately too cumbersome to reproduce. But sprinkled throughout are the names of his mother, aunts, and brothers, words to songs, records of debts to shipmates, drawings of ships, calculations of longitude, and an intriguing scrap of barely legible sentences in Spanish with “querida” discernible and the name José Diaguez, perhaps a love letter Jared was helping Diaguez write or a letter Diaguez was helping Jared write to someone he had met in a Chilean port. The youngest of the whalemen with a surviving journal, Jared was only nineteen when he penned his opening lines; his entries matured over time, but the doodles show continuity in how his private thoughts kept him emotionally connected to his family and Gay Head no matter where he was in the world. The third selection of entries comes from the journal of William A. Vanderhoop, Edwin D. Vanderhoop’s brother, whose two surviving journals wound up in different archives: a partial record of the Awashonks’ 1862–1865 voyage, while he was a boatsteerer, resides in the Martha’s Vineyard Museum, and a more complete account of his 1866–1870 voyage as fourth mate on the Abraham Barker belongs now to the Nicholson Whaling Collection at the Providence Public Library.10 The name of the Abraham Barker originated in a whaleship owner, whereas the Awashonks was named after a seventeenth-century 76 X CHAPTER 3

figure 10. Joel G. Jared probably carved these whale stamps out of wood or bone. The original manuscript is colorful, with blue ink for the ocean and red for the whale’s blood. Jared used additional standard notational practices to keep track of productivity, constituting a graphic language other whalemen would have understood. top left: A whaleman would say Mr. Taber “raised” (saw) sperm whales. The “Mr.” before Taber means he was an officer. “SB,” the starboard boat, killed the whale. The whale is spouting blood as whales did in their death throes. The whale made 45 barrels of oil. May 28, 1847. top right: Jared raised sperm whales. They did not catch any. September 15, 1847. middle left: Killed by the larboard boat, this right whale made 87 barrels of oil. May 9, 1848. middle right: This old and sick right whale, killed by the starboard boat, made only 20 barrels of oil. May 23, 1848. lower left: Caught a pilot whale(“black fish”). November 5, 1850. lower right: Caught a porpoise. July 29, 1851. Journal of the ship Amethyst of New Bedford, 1846–1850, and the bark Samuel & Thomas of Mattapoisett, 1850–1852, log 633, courtesy New Bedford Whaling Museum, New Bedford, MA.

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Figure 11. Awashonks figurehead. Courtesy New Bedford Whaling Museum.

Wampanoag woman sachem, an important player in the fatal diplomacy of King Philip’s War. Unfortunately, Vanderhoop did not comment on the name of the ship or the figurehead that graced its bow (fig. 11). Both of Vanderhoop’s journals represent whaling recordkeeping at its best, with precise attention to all ships spoken to and tallies of whales seen and caught. The crew list Vanderhoop maintained for the 78 X CHAPTER 3

Awashonks voyage illustrates his attention to detail but also the extraordinary diversity and turnover typical of an American whaleship at midcentury. Apparent in his crew list is how the industry had come to rely on vast numbers of Portuguese from the Azores and Cape Verde Islands and Hawaiians and other Pacific Islanders, known to American whalemen as “kanakas,” a term that derived from the word for “man” in the Hawaiian language. Included here also are the few passages in Vanderhoop’s journal that mention these crew members and entries that give insight into what his duties as boatsteerer entailed. The emotionless cadence typical of whaling logbooks and many whaling journals makes it difficult to break through the veil of anonymity and standardization surrounding the newly recruited foreigners, but these sparse entries are about all that is available for piecing together the relationships across culture, race, and nationality on whaleships with Native men aboard. Although Vanderhoop mentioned shipmates only rarely, a hint of how he valued amicable relations aboard ship appears in the first entry of his other journal after the Abraham Barker’s departure from New Bedford on June 19, 1866: “Every thing this far seems to be quite pleasant  Shipmates agreeable and all bids Fair for a prosperous and pleasant voyage.”

“Charles Town Nareganst Joseph Ammons” Aboard the ship Roman of New Bedford

April 25, 1844 – Northwest Coast Commences with strong Breezes from the .N.W. at ½ Past .12. wore ship heading .W.S.W. more moderait  set the jibb and & spanker at .2.P.M. mending A boat at 3.P.M. fogey at 6.P.M. shook the reafs out of the for and main top sails  Heading .W.S.W. at .9.P.M. the same  middle Part moderait breezes  at ½ Past five saw whales  at ½ 6 loard [lowered] & gav chase  the Bow Boat got fast & kiled A whale  the whale having wound him self all up in the line he sunk in his fury & took the remander  at ¼ before .10.A.M. came on board & took up the boats  So Ends mending A boat  Lat 36 19 N  Long  E

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May 7, 1844 – Toward Kamchatka Whaling Ground Commences with stowing down  whales in sit [sight] at 3.P.M. loard the larboard Boat got fast  the whale run so fast that no other boat cood get fast  at sunset  Cut from him 6 or 7 miles to the windward of the ship  at ½ Past 7 got A long sid [alongside] shortened sail &c  latter Part whales in sit  loared the wast Boat [the “waist” or portside whaleboat] got on and darted and mist [missed] so ends  Lat 42 50 N  Long 151 25 E May 11, 1844 – Toward Kamchatka Whaling Ground strong Breezes at .2.P.M. saw A larg whale and loard the 2 quarter boats  the larboar Boat got the chance but maid A foo Paw [faux pas] laying so broad off that Enos Pedro our best boatsteeror was not able to dart to him  Cam on board  A sail in sit  at .4.P.M. spoke the massachusetts of nantucket one whale this season  at ½ past 4 P.M. shortened sail &c &c at .7.P.M. thick and rainey  the wind from the N.E. blowing heavey  whales breeching clost to the ship  middle Part the same at day light maid sail and wore ship  at .7.P.M. wind .S.W at 8 A.M shortend sail  the wind blowing A living gail  So Ends  Lat 43 09 N  Long 150 36 E May 25, 1844 – Kamchatka Whaling Ground Boiling at.4.PM saw A larg whale & loard LB WB BB [larboard, waist, and bow whaleboats] at 10 minets Past 7 the Bow Boat struck  the whale sounded out the Bow Boats 2 lines  the L.B. bent on the one ½ of hir to lines  at last the Capt came  the whale brot to  the WB got fast him  by this time the S B got to and all boat got a lance or 2 or more  the WB set him Spouting thin blood  By this time it was dark the whale laying with his head out only it Aforded A vary slim chance, the L.B. after B.B cut off the whale still going right up and down the LB & SB & W as the whale came up clost to them made rush for him the whal settled his head under water  the boat shot over him  the whale hove his head up & stove hir  we then took the stoven boat & crew and came on board  cooled down  latter Part fogey with light air boiling so ends June 24, 1844 – Kamchatka Whaling Ground Commences fogey employed Brakeing out shooks [bundles of components for making barrels] out of the fore hatch to enlarg the Bluber room at ½ Past 1 commenced cuting in  at ½ Past 6 80 X CHAPTER 3

got him in and commenced boiling  at 7 set the watch  middle Part mestey  at ½ past 10 saw whales & loard BB & LB the Bow Boat struck hir & set hir spouting blood  after LB Beged the Privelieg of fastening being granted Pulled up 2 or 3 times & sturned off & never got got fast after all the whale began to clear hir spout & run  no railroad car ever run faster  the boat allmost filled several times  at last it was imposeble to keep wath in 50 or 60 fathoms  set the flag got in all the line we cood and cut and came on board  so Ends July 7, 1844 – Kamchatka Whaling Ground Commences with fine wether at ½ Past 3 saw whales  at ½ past 4 loard  the Larboard boat fastoned  the whale came up under hir & cracked hir a little  the wast Boat got Cracked A little  the old Bow Boat killed him  it may seem strang that the B.B. or J. Ammons killls so meney whales  it however is no more strang then true  the whale sunk at ¼ Past 5  Came on board at about ½ Past 7 PM  shortened sail & set the watch  Boiling  middle and latter Part moderat Boiling and stowing down 3 ships in sit  latte part strong breezes  so Ends October 7, 1844 – Off Tongareva (Penrhyn, Cook Islands) Commences with fine wether steering .S.1/2.E at .1.P.M. land in sit right Ahead  at.4.P.M had meeting  at 5. P.M 3 or fore Canoes came within Hail  1 of them with 30 or more men in it  the others from .7. to.15 Each  the People ware vary larg and muskuler long bodeyed & strait  the most Part of them tall men not Copulent  the larg Cano had females in it how meney is not none [known] Whyenes [wahines, the Anglicized plural of the Hawaiian word for woman] ware seen in Each of the Canoes  thay gabered [jabbered] much  the 2 sandwich Islanders [Hawaiians in the ship’s crew] cood not understand one word  the Canaccoas [kanakas] ware stark necked and from Every appearenc ware saveag  When thay cam in Pistol shot of the ship thay wait one for Another as if sum signal had Ben Agreed on to Board all at once  Capt Shockle[y] had the muskits loaded & got the Cuting Spads &c. &c for cattoos [countless] meney more Canoes ware not far off when Capt Shockley ceather [said?]  Poor buisness when thare onley barter was thare wiming  he filled A way the main yard  the Canackcoes dropt thar Paddles as if Angery  Capt shockley Put A Pound of tobackco into shew

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box & threw it over board  When the canoes cam to the box 1 of them took it in  thay sum 5 or 6 dov overboard As if A Presous tresure had been lost  thay gave up chais  From that time till dust grat numbers of Canos ware seen  with A strong breeze steering S.by.E soon lost sight Penrhyne Isle  Lat 9 12 S  Long [blank] W  Middle and latter part A fine breeze from the E steering .S.S.E. mending the main topsail  so Ends Lat 11 16  S  Long    W February 12, 1846 – Pitcairn Island (home of Bounty mutineer descendants) Commences with fine wether and light wind laying off and on Pitcans isle  at 5 PM got Along sid with 3 or 4 bl of sweet Potatoes  Capt Shockley stops all nite on shore &c Accompanied by others at .9.A.M. the bots went in  at 11 AM the the Capt came on board with About 3 bl off potatoes  got up the boats  sent the pilot off & stood out in Co with Cutusoff [in company with Kutusoff, another whaler] left thare the ships ontareo sag harbor [Captain] green 6 monts out 3 whales  bark Culumbus do  sh hanerble [Hannibal] New london do and others  so Ends from Pitcarons isle  Lat 25 30 S  Long 130 17 W July 29, 1846 – Kodiak Whaling Ground Commences with thick wether with fog  at 3 PM saw whales and loard 3 Boats LB WB BB  SB on the crains  first Chaised one whale and then Chased 2 more and then c[h]ased 2 or 3 more  took up the LB & saw the other whales.  the Bow Boat went on Steered by John Johnson or Eyley  fastoned with 2 irons  the whale stove the Boat and ½ capsized hir which threw the steersman & hademan [headman, meaning the boatheader or officer, which was Ammons himself] out with sum of the men  the whale car[ri]ed the Boat out the Eeest of J Ammons & J Johnson when the other Boat got thare J A was in the state of drounding  J [Johnson] sunk for the last time to rise no more  when the whale stove the boate John W Smith got hit by sum fragment of the boat which cut his write Ear nearly off so it only held by A little peic of skin wich was thought best to take it off all to gether  the whale went off all to gether with whole line and t[w]o irons  got the stoven Boat A long sid  took hir up  latter part Boiling and stowing down  so Ends with fog  No Observasion

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January 18, 1847 – Rapa Nui (Easter Island) Commences with fine wether & calm had A Rost pig for diner & at 7 PM set the 3 wa[t]ches  M  J  first & latter part calm  loard 12 miles from the isle at .6.A.M. & pulled in to traid with the nativs for vegettubbles  the natives came of with 10 or 12 Canoes and A number of men and wiming swam of  got About 14 bl of potatoes with shuger cane bananers yams tara &c for blackfish scraps A few stavs, iron hooks &c with A few fish hooks &c So ends 3 Boats traiding SB. LB. B.B. Ship within 14 miles W side Isle Aboard the ship James Maury of New Bedford July 28, 1852 – St. Lawrence Island, Bering Sea Commences with thick fog  at 4 PM the fog lighted up at 7 PM Came to anchor in St lorence Bay  middle and latter part traiding with the Esqemox indeon with fog and rain &c July 29, 1852 – St. Lawrence Island, Bering Sea in St lorences Bay  Captin whelding went with the Chief of the Bay to the indean setelment &c  middle and latter part fogey with rain  So Ends at anchor July 31, 1852 – St. Lawrence Island, Bering Sea Commences with rain and fog at .2.P.M the boat came on board with the Cptin with the Cheif with 3 rain Deer ready dressed at .7.P.M. the Cheif went Away with 7 Boxes of tobackco & the rain and fog continues with the wind .E. middle and latter part the same mending the W Boat & So Ends in St lorence Bay August 1, 1852 – St. Lawrence Island, Bering Sea Commences with fog the Captin and mate guning [probably for ducks]  latter part more clear traiding with the indons & So Ends August 2, 1852 – St. Lawrence Island, Bering Sea laying at anchor and traiding with Pittarah and others soalde 2 cags of tobacco and A rifle &c for ivery and Bone &c at 5 AM hove Ahead and lower out in A calm  came in A french ship and the washington of New Bedford to get water So Ends working out in A calm

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“Joel G. Jared born Gayhead Chillmark” Boatsteerers when the Amethyst left New Bedford in 1846, Joel G. Jared, nineteen, and William S. James, sixteen, of Christiantown would have shared quarters in steerage, where they must have collaborated on matching up men they knew with their female acquaintances. This sketch of names appears on the second page of Jared’s journal. Most of those listed are identifiable as Jared’s and James’s peers at Gay Head or Christiantown.

Joel G. Jared William S. James Samel Haskins George E. James Abraham Jared Zachues Cooper William Belain Thomas Jeffers Johannas Salsbury George W. Degrass Alfred Peters John Tomson

Cannot Findanny “ “ Druzilla Salsbury Mary H. Simmon Almira Johnson Sophia Peters Mary A. Chamblin Hannah Cuff Alace Jeffers Emily Salsbury Lucretia Belain Winford S. Howwaswee

Sometime in the 1850s, Jared married Rosanna Gershom of Gay Head, and her name appears later in the volume, as does “Dear” and “Dearest Wife.”

Aboard the ship Amethyst of New Bedford March 12, 1847 – Near Massafuera Pleasant breeze from Eastward  ship heading NW by W.  Employed in seting up the main rigging  At 7 Pm luffed the ship to the wind heading to the southard And took in sail  two sail in sight  [Latitude and Longitude illegible]  J. G. Jared. 20 years ould this day of march 12th AD 1847 84 X CHAPTER 3

March 12, 1848 – Anchored at Maui [No entry] March 12, 1849 – Cruising along the Equator (“on the line”) in the Pacific First part light breeze from N N E  saw one lone finback  middle [part of the 24-hour day]  wind from E S E ship heading N N.E.  Latter  fore top studing sail and main top Galant studing sail set  Latt [illegible] North  Long 108 19 West  GJJ up and off Just like bolt Horse 22 Years March 12, 1850 – Past Cape Horn, Homeward Bound Commences with a brisk breeze from E by S and squally  ship by the wind steering N E by N with Fore topmast steering sail set & main & mizzen royal  Engaged in ratling [rattling, or fixing ratlines to the rigging so crewmen could climb it] the Fore lower riging and fore topmast rigging  Middle Part set the fore top gallent sail & Main topmast steering sail & main top gallant studing sail  wind at E S E  Latter part at 6 AM washed off the deck  i went aloft raised [saw] a sail off the weather Bow  passed about 9 Miles to windward of us  she was a bark  at 8 AM commenced ratling the fore rigging up again  i went to finish it  they finished the Starboard side  so Ends  see nothing more but porpoises  catched one of them  had Duff [a type of pudding] and salt horse [salted meat] for dinner  i Eat my dinner and turned in but could not sleep  then i turned out and got the sun [to calculate their location]  Lat = 07 = 55 South Long 30 08 Aboard the bark Samuel & Thomas of Mattapoisett March 12, 1851 – Cape Verde Islands Strong gales from E  lowered for hump backs but without success  lowered from the brig & i struck One but had to cut fowl line & lost him  Middle & Latter parts  more moderate at day light  Called all hands & took the anchor up  Strong trades  bark beating up to the watering place to the Isle of salt  at 9 AM see one sail  proved to be the brig America of mattapoisett  200 bls [barrels of oil] at 11 went a shore with the raft

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March 12, 1852 – Caribbean Comences with moderate trades  Bark at Anchor in Dominica  finished coopering the Oil &c got the Last water of[f]  all ready for sea

“William Vanderhoop Gayhead Marthas Vineyard Mass.” Fayal and Flores are islands of the Azores in the North Atlantic. St. Catherine is an island off the coast of southern Brazil. The first thirty men listed made up the original ship’s company that sailed from New Bedford. The total number of men listed is fifty-five.

Crew list of the B[ar]k Awashonks of New Bedford sailed May 28, 1862 Capt Peleg S. Wing 1  First mate Ariel Norton 2  Henry C. Hazard 3  Amos C. Baker Jr. 4  John W. Fisher   Cooper John Tripp ——————————————   Boatsteerers John B. Bulfoy  deserted at S.T. catharine June 1864 William A. Vanderhoop Charles Sharratt Thomas Pease —————————————— William Henry  Steward  died at Sea July 28th 1863 William Wood  Steerage Boy  premoted to foremast hand  July 1864 Joeking F. Plato  Cook —————————————— Now comes Foremast hands Thomas G. Wing Sylvanus L. Bartlett George F. Brightman  Premoted to boatsteerer  Nov 1864 Henry Swift

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John Brawley John mc. Donnald  Deserter at Fayal Oct 15th 1862 Edward marriott Bob kanaka John Kanaka  Discharged at Fayal  Sick  Oct 1862 Friday Kanaka Jim Kanaka  died at sea  March 22, 1863 Antone Rosa premoted to boatsteerer missed two whales & broke [demoted] him  left at S.T. Catharines &c Joseph Portugee deserted at S.T. Catharine June 1864 Horace Rickey  deserted S.T. Catharine  June 1863 Smith Bowton  deserted at Fayal  Oct 15, 1862 John Carrold  deserted Fayal  Oct 15, 1862 Harry Kanaka  died at Sea  June 22, 1862 John Portugee Shipped at floras & deserted at S.T. Catharine  June 1863 Frank Portgugee Shipped at floras & deserted at St catharine 1863 Manoel Portugee Shipped at fayal & deserted at S.T. catharine June 1863 Andrew Jackson  Portugee  Shipped at fayal Oct 1862  & deserted at S.T. catharine 1864 Samuel Portugee Shipped at fayal Oct 1862 & deserted at S.T. cat Thomas Hamilton  Shiped at S.T. catharine & deserted &c Pike Portugee Shiped at fayal  Oct 1862 & deserted at S.T. catharine  June 1863 John Kanaka Shiped at S.T. Catharine & discharged thare  June 1864 John Italian  Shiped at S.T. Catharin & discharged thare  June 1864 Frank Italian  Shiped at S.T. Catharin & discharged thare  June 1864 James Italian  Shiped at St Catharine & discharged thare  June 1864 Jaeking Portugue Shiped at St Catharine & discharged thare  June 1864 Lucas Portugue  Shiped at St Catharine & deserted thare 1865 Martin Wheeler  Steerage Boy  Shiped at St Catharine  July 1864 David Clinton  Shiped at S.T. Catharine  July 1864 Cockney Bill  Shiped at S.T. Catharine  July 1864 George Rolar  do  do Manoel Portugee  do  do Antone Portugee  do William Portugee  ”  ” Victorine  Portugee  ”  ” Daniel R. Fields came on board at S.T. Catharine May 1865 John Bennett  ”  ”  ”  ”  ”  ”  ”  ”  ” Samuel Briggs came on board as passenger home Cornelius Payne do  “  ”  ”  ”  ”  ”

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June 22, 1862 These 24 hours light airs & calms with a heavy swell & a fair rainsquall.  Trying to work to the ENE  At 12 Midnight George James a Kanaka died. commited him to the deep at 8 A.M July 23, 1862 The first part of these 24 hours pleasent & we Saw a old Reck bottom up  her bottom was painted green &  7 P.M. there was 6 Sails in Sight  Middle part pleasent & our Ship under Short Sail & about 9 o clock a large french Ship came Very near running us down  he had all Sail out Comming right head & had we thought we could not Git Clear he bein So clost but we rung the Bell & Sung out as loud as possible  he hurd us Just time enough to luff & clear us & that was after he hailed us in french & then in english What Ship is that  our captain answard awashonks of new Bedford July 31, 1862 . . . Laying off and on Floras Captain ashore and his boats crew all one day  he Shiped 2 green potgees [Portuguese] and got some potatoes and 2 goats 2 pigs then he come aboard 2 Shore boats along Side fetched the capt things and then Traiding With the crew they have hats milk and frut to Sell September 21, 1862 The first part of these 24 hours a gale  2 Sales in Sight  Middle part the Same  5 o clock we Saw a vessel to the windward with a little piece of Sale out & the Latter part wind began to Dy away So that we Lenced [?] the main topsail & clost reefed it & Sett it & the James arnol[d, another New Bedford whaler] done the Same  men duin Nothing much  I am fixing my Boat fixing A spade & leartherin [leathering, or fitting with new leather sleeves] my tub oar pin & fixin the oars the first chance that I have had Since we got the Second Whale then we Lost every thing got capsized & Lost every thing September 25, 1862 The first part of these 24 hours is Blowin Strong, Called the men down from the mastheads & I went to fixin my Boat Bucket & quirling [coiling] my Line 2 tubs  the men duin Nothing much  4 Sales in Sight Some part of the time  10 P.M reefed the four Sale & Sett it & wore Ship & now on the Larbord tack  Blowin 88 X CHAPTER 3

Strong  Nothing in Sight . . . Latter part made Sale again  Blowin Strong  Clost reef main topsail & Double reef main topsail & Saw 2 merchant Ships  men Duin Nothin much  Jagin [Jagging?] here & there  The first mate is layed up With a Boil on his hand. . . . September 29, 1862 . . . the fourth mate Sent A man up in the four topmast crostrees name[d] Coral [Carroll] in the first Watch then in the middle Watch Hour third mate name Baker Knocked down A Kanaka With a Stick & Cut his head in 2 places he then Sent me to Bath it in rum. . . . October 13, 1862 – Azores lying in fayal giveing liberty & thomas green Cooper [of Gay Head] Came aboard from the tuscarora [US sloop of war] to See me & Stoped all day October 21, 1862 –Toward South Atlantic the first part Comences pleasent  almost calm  Steerin S.E.  James Arnold Steerin the Same Some ware ahead  Middle & Latter pleasent  Latter part 5 Sales in Sight [illegible]  men Duin not much  the first mate & myself Riggin a new boat to put out on the cranes  Larbord Boat October 26, 1862 – Toward South Atlantic the first part Strong Breeze & Breaking out the Slop Cask four Some portuguers we Shiped in Fayal. . . . December 21, 1862 – In South Atlantic the first wind begining to dy away a little  But a heavy Sea  men duin nothing but the third mate & myself to work makeing jib hallyards blocks for the boats. . . . December 25, 1862 – Toward River Plate Whaling Ground First part pleasant  Signalized a brig showed the Portuguese colors showed longitudes our longitude was 49.45 W.  men imployed at ship duties  7 P.M. shortened sail double reefed the topsails  furled the mainsail & our course S.W. bound right whaling up in 45 & 46 river plate  Middle part pleasent bit Cloudy with light breeze from the N.  Ship Course S.W.  Latter part pleasent with a good breeze from the N.W.  Ship course S.W.

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& 2 Brigs in Sight off our lee quater  heading the Same as we are  men imployed at Ships duties  I have been breaking out water for a crismas Job & had Duff  for dinner at 11 A.M. Bend down the four top gallant Sail to repare March 22, 1863 – River Plate Whaling Ground . . . Latter part Strong breezes & our Ship under a close reef main topsail the first part  early in the morning one of our Ship mates died a Kanaka from hape island been Sick Some time & now is dead with the Stars & Stripes over him 6.P.M. bairied him May 20, 1863 – St. Catherine the first part pleasent & men imployed breaking out & Stowing down water & oil &c  captain & his wife went a Shore at [St. Catherine] & come aboard before Sun Sit  Middle part plesent & boatsteerer Standing the watch

The entries end here, although Vanderhoop continued on the voyage until the bark returned to New Bedford on August 2, 1865. The volume includes a few notes written later in life such as drafts of correspondence and the following receipt.

Oct 7. 1865 – Gay Head Sold this day to William A. Vanderhoop a Sorril mare for the sum of Eighty Five Dollars Received Payment Horatio F. Pease

While Whalemen Were Away For the men who left their families and friends to spend three or four years in the Indian, Pacific, and Arctic oceans, the whaling industry had developed practices that lessened the burden of separation. One such practice was to allow family members to draw income from the 90 X CHAPTER 3

agent as the voyage progressed, a courtesy more often afforded officers, whose larger lays gave some assurance that their final earnings would compensate for their advances and slop chest purchases. In one case, Abram F. Cooper of Gay Head had the whaling agent in New Bedford regularly send his sister money to pay for training at a “Telegraph Instituttion” in Lynn, Massachusetts, while he was at sea on the bark Atlantic in 1877. When the Atlantic lost its two whaleboat crews at sea, boatsteerer Cooper replaced Francis F. Peters (see fig. 7) as third mate.11 More common in the business records is evidence of men supporting their wives through periodic cash payments or store accounts. Even Amos Haskins, who rose to become captain of the whaleship Massasoit on two short, unsuccessful voyages in the early 1850s, lived hand-to-mouth, from voyage to voyage. Later in the 1850s, after he had received his discharge as first mate on the Oscar in Honolulu, his wife wrote the ship’s agent, Josiah Holmes Jr. of Mattapoisett, Massachusetts, to ask him to settle her husband’s account for the voyage. Listed in the 1860 US federal census as having $2,000 in real estate, the Haskins family was not wholly without resources but was still dependent on the vagaries of the industry and its commercial agents for their income. Holmes’s other correspondence shows that she was not the only wife contending with Holmes’s grasp on her husband’s earnings.12

July the 19th 1859 Mr Holmes i write to Let you know that i Would Like to Have it Settle with you of Mr Haskins Oil And Bone Whitch Has Come Home So What Ever theire is Coming i Would Like to Have it for i Have no money And Would Like to Have What Ever theire is do [due] now  Will you Be So Kind as to Call to the House the first time you are to Bedford Elizabeth P. Haskins new Bedford Mass

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July 27, 1859 Mr Holmes. i pened you a few Lines Last Week And not Recieving Eny Answer i had to Write Again to Know if you Would Obliged me to settle with me this week So that i Could Have the money By Friday So that i can Get things that i need Saturday For i have no money to Get Enything with E P Haskins no 109 William St new Bedford Mass

One mechanism for keeping in touch with loved ones was the miraculous development in the whaling industry of an efficient means to circulate correspondence around the globe, as letters and news traveled through merchant and missionary circuits and, more frequently, changed hands when whaleships met at sea while cruising familiar whaling grounds. Not all such letters found their recipients. A cache of dead letters that ended up in the New Bedford Whaling Museum includes one that Adoniram Wainer sent to his brother Asa from the Wainer home in Westport, Massachusetts.13 Asa had left New Bedford a few months earlier on the bark Mercator in the capacity of first mate. Though not residing on lands regarded by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts as reserved for Indians, the Wainers formed a community of Wampanoag Natives, many of whom had intermarried with Cuffes and others of African American descent. The Cuffes and Wainers were well known in the Westport–Dartmouth–New Bedford area and had long made their living from maritime endeavors. Michael Wainer, Asa’s and Adoniram’s grandfather, had been the brother-in-law, business partner, and close friend of the prosperous and respected shipbuilder and sea captain Paul Cuffe of Westport. The 1850 US census for Westport, conducted just two weeks before Adoniram sent Asa this letter, lists the two brothers as distinct families in the household of their mother, Chloe Wainer, with Adoniram’s occupation listed as “Farmer” and Asa’s as “Sailor.” The mother of five young children, Asa’s wife, Mary, may not 92 X CHAPTER 3

have had much opportunity to write, but Asa probably received many other letters from family members and friends during the two years the Mercator spent whaling in the Atlantic.14 Fortunately for us, this one letter never reached him.

mr  Asa F Wainer On bord bark Mercator of New Bedford october 25th 1850 Dear brother  I take this opportunyty to inform you that I and all the rest of us is well  hopeing these few lines will find you the same  we are verry bizy harvesting at this time potatoes about 60 bushells great and small  they rot[t]ed the worst this season than ever they did  corn about 60 or 70 bushells  good corn apples about 25 or 30 bushels got throu diging potatoes, geathered apples, got about throu with our corn.  next is the turnips  i think thare will be from 3 to 5 hundred bushels of them.  I have swapt away the old horse  he kept a failing  he got so he could not eat grass and live with out meal  I tried to sell him  the best offer I could get was 8 or 10 dollars that was in trade.  I have got a little horse  he is fat  silas has got a large horse  he will trade with me i think  we shall trade.  your sow did not have piggs  I think I shall let her com in the spring  the rest of the pigs is doing well  they will weigh 100 a piece  the fatting hogs will weigh now mine  I should think 200 yours 250 or 75  it is a hurrying time now.  rodney [Wainer] has ben at home  he has paid up his mortgage and about all his dets  he has not paid me but he says he will pay me before he leaves  he has ben more steady this time than when he was at home before  he drove it [went on a binge?] two or three weeks  then he knocked of[f]  i was thare the next day he got in and crused the town all ove[r] but could not find him  i could not find [him] till he had spent some of his voyage  then he would not pay till he had payd up isaac little  now he is going to draw on this voyag to pay me  old mike has paid him up and he has hired it to him and he gets i believe 40 dollars a year charles potter and i and daniel tripp went to [illegible] at all events but i supose old Zack and the rest

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of the devils witched his great fat head so that he could not say no to old mike  we went to get him out  i think he is a little shy of them  he did not keep house any  he came over hear and stayed a week  he would not stay no whare but here with us  he says he hopes you and he will make good voyages and get home together  he was fitting his windows and airing his cloths  says he is a going to tair down the old hous and bild a small two and half story house when he gets back.  if he dose he must be saveinger [more saving] than he ever has ben.  he was a going to sell his place but i talked him out of it  he was a going to put it at auction but he has given it up now. perchance it will be all for the best.  we have not had a chance to sell the swamp yet  old bets [illegible] haint got nothing  cannot do nothing yet  abell mans [Abel Manning of Gay Head] came home in another vessel  he is nobody and drinking  i do not see no incouragement that way yet.  but hope for the best.  i shall rite every chance  i am going to send a letter from here  you must rite every chance  i want to hear how you get along  only saw you reported in the papers the 6th of august at sea thats all.  we are getting along comefortable  mother says she sends her love to you and wants you to pray for her  no more at present this from Adoniram L Wainer

A decade later, after Asa Wainer had retired from whaling, he and others of the Wainer family and the Westport–Dartmouth Native community appealed to a New Bedford lawyer to help them pursue a land claims case. Eventually, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts determined that their suit lacked substance.15 It is, however, one of many instances in which Native men who rose to positions of authority aboard whaleships also advocated for Indian rights at home. The many ways in which Native whalemen stayed bound to their home communities, despite years spent away at sea, will become even more apparent in the next chapter.

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For Further Reading Barsh, Russel Lawrence. “ ‘Colored’ Seamen in the New England Whaling Industry: An Afro-Indian Consortium.” In Confounding the Color Line: The Indian-Black Experience in North America, ed. James F. Brooks, 76–107. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2002. Bockstoce, John R. Whales, Ice, and Men: The History of Whaling in the Western Arctic. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1986. Bolster, W. Jeffrey. Black Jacks: African American Seamen in the Age of Sail. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997. Busch, Briton Cooper. “Whaling Will Never Do for Me”: The American Whaleman in the Nineteenth Century. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1994. Creighton, Margaret S. Rites and Passages: The Experience of American Whaling, 1830–1870. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Davis, Lance E., Robert E. Gallman, and Karin Gleiter. In Pursuit of Leviathan: Technology, Institutions, Productivity, and Profits in American Whaling, 1816–1906. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Mancini, Jason R. “Beyond Reservation: Indians, Maritime Labor, and Communities of Color from Eastern Long Island Sound, 1713–1861.” In Perspectives on Gender, Race, Ethnicity and Power in Maritime America: Papers from the Conference Held at Mystic Seaport, September 2006, ed. Glenn S. Gordinier, 23–44. Mystic, CT: Mystic Seaport Museum, 2008. Mandell, Daniel R. Tribe, Race, History: Native Americans in Southern New England, 1780–1880. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2008. Norling, Lisa. Captain Ahab Had a Wife: New England Women and the Whalefishery, 1720–1870. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000. Shoemaker, Nancy. “Mr. Tashtego: Native American Whalemen in Antebellum New England.” Journal of the Early Republic 33, no. 1 (2013): 109–32. Silverman, David J. Faith and Boundaries: Colonists, Christianity, and Community among the Wampanoag Indians of Martha’s Vineyard, 1600–1871. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005.

Online Resources American Offshore Whaling Voyages, National Maritime Digital Library, www .nmdl.org/projects/index.htm. Seaman’s Protection Certificate Register Database, New London Crew Lists Index: 1803–1878, and other useful materials at G. W. Blunt White Library, Mystic Seaport Museum, http://library.mysticseaport.org/. Whaling Archives, New Bedford Free Public Library, www.newbedford-ma.gov /Library/Whaling/Whaling.html.

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4 Whaling Legacies

As the New England whaling industry began its long, slow descent into economic obsolescence, recounting the life of a whaleman became a form of nostalgic remembrance. Some of these tales of bygone days as told by Native whalemen reached published form as memoirs, put into print by an acquaintance. As early as 1839, Paul Cuffe Jr. inspired an upstate New York hotelkeeper to record and publish his seafaring adventures as the Narrative of the Life and Adventures of Paul Cuffe, a Pequot Indian; During Thirty Years Spent at Sea, and in Traveling in Foreign Lands.1 Ranald MacDonald, of Chinook descent and hailing from the Northwest Coast, collaborated on a memoir about whaling out of Sag Harbor, New York, and his subsequent adventures in Japan.2 Long after the New England whalefishery had shut down, Napoleon Bonaparte Madison of Aquinnah told fellow Vineyarder Dorothy Cottle Poole about his sole whaling voyage as a young man. She wrote an account of it that appeared in the Dukes County Intelligencer, a journal published by the Martha’s Vineyard Museum, in 1968.3 But the most famous raconteur was the Wampanoag whaleman Amos Smalley, whose memoir, as told to writer Max Eastman, is included later in this chapter. Other Native men told their stories to summer visitors as southern New England transitioned from an industrial relationship with 96 X

the ocean to an economy organized around seaside resort tourism. Indeed, except for New Bedford, nearly all the places that formerly sent their young men off to whale, fish, and trade in distant seas now generated employment for them at home by catering to a leisure class in search of nature and novelty. Native peoples from the region adapted and could be found running hotels and boarding houses and working as hunting and fishing guides. The most well-known former whaleman turned tourism entrepreneur was Solomon Attaquin of Mashpee. He whaled in his youth, operated a coastal trading vessel between Cape Cod and Nantucket in the 1830s (fig. 12), and then used that income to build the Hotel Attaquin, where he played host to Daniel Webster, Grover Cleveland, and other political dignitaries on hunting and fishing vacations.4 Still identified with whaling, even if long retired from seafaring, Native men became sought after for stories of their whaling days and upon death became celebrated in newspaper obituaries, partly for the exotica and harrowing escapades afforded by a life at sea. Even though some of these writers often patronized Native subjects or framed them within prevailing racial

Figure 12. Still visible today in the Mashpee Meetinghouse are some graffiti sketches of schooners. Whaling voyages sometimes took place on schooners, but these drawings more likely depict vessels used for coastal trading, a maritime endeavor which, like whaling, employed many men from Mashpee. The initials CAP might be those of Charles A. Peters, who was originally from Christiantown, on Martha’s Vineyard, but probably moved to Mashpee after his marriage to Cordelia Amos, Mashpee Wampanoag, on September 26, 1865, in Sandwich, Massachusetts (Massachusetts Vital Records, 1841–1910 database, New England Historic Genealogical Society). Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Historic American Buildings Survey, HABS MASS, 1-MASH, 1-10.

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stereotypes, they also seemed to regard whaling as a mark of achievement that qualified Native men as deserving of public respect.

The Lee Family of Long Island While touring Long Island in 1882, the historian and travel writer Charles Burr Todd took a day trip to the Shinnecock Reservation with a local resident from Southampton. Curious about the Shinnecocks’ involvement in whaling, Todd met and recorded a conversation with William Garrison Lee. Todd’s rendition of what Lee told him about the whaling histories of the five Lee brothers matches up well with their whaling careers as they can be reconstructed from crew lists, except that William Garrison Lee was probably not first mate on the Florida in 1870, since the trade newspaper lists him as just a boatsteerer on a voyage that departed New Bedford in 1871.5 Probably Lee went to the Arctic as first mate on a San Francisco vessel in 1879. The father of this clan of whalemen, James Lee, had moved to the Shinnecock Reservation as minister of the Second Adventist Church, an offshoot of the Millerite movement (which held that the second coming of Christ was imminent), and had then married into the Bunn family. Using the conventional stereotypes of Indians popular in his time, Todd casts the Shinnecocks as not Indian enough to count as real Indians and as lazy, an assertion skeptical readers should have wondered at given that William Garrison Lee recited a life of hard labor that began at age sixteen and, when interrupted by Todd’s questions, was hard at work behind a plow. Despite Todd’s disdain for Indians, a sense of William Garrison Lee’s reflections on his and his brothers’ whaling endeavors still comes through in this account.6

“Very few of the Indians till their lands,” remarked my companion; “they are let out by the trustees to outside parties. The government of the reservation is a little peculiar. It is vested entirely in three trustees, members of the community, who are elected annually by the tribe in the room where our town meetings are held. These men, with the consent of three of 98 X CHAPTER 4

our justices of the peace, have full power over the land on the reservation. They cannot sell it, for it is held only in fee; but they can lease it for a limited period, not exceeding three years, and then perform the ordinary duties of overseers. The land is excellent, giving good crops of wheat and corn, as good as any in this vicinity, but two thirds of it is gone to waste through the indolence of the Indians in not cultivating it. There are some twenty-five houses on the reservation, which, allowing five persons to each house, would give a total of 125 inhabitants; but probably not two thirds of the tribe remain at home, the others leading a roving existence—whaling, fishing, wrecking, and as farm laborers. They have a good school, kept by a colored master, two churches—Congregational and Millerite—but no resident pastor, the office being filled sometimes by the Presbyterian minister at Southampton, sometimes by itinerant clergy, and again by members of the Young Men’s Christian Association.” By this time we had passed several cottages, and had arrived at one which bore a neater, more inviting appearance than its neighbors. “This was the former home of Priest Lee,” remarked my friend, “father of a somewhat remarkable family, and a characteristic one. He is dead, but Mrs. Lee is living. Suppose we call.” As we drew up before the open doorway an elderly woman, tall, straight, showing strong traces of Indian blood, came and framed herself in the doorway. “We wished to ask about your husband,” said my companion. “He was a colored man, I think, a native of Maryland?” “Yes,” she replied. “And you have had five sons, every one a seaman, and several rising to be masters?” “Yes, sir.” “My friend would like to hear about the boys, some of their exploits, the ships they sailed in, and the like.” Here the old lady hesitated. Her memory was too poor, she said: “But there is Garrison in the truck patch,” she continued, brightening; “he could tell you all about it.” Garrison was the youngest son, a stalwart fellow of over six feet, showing the Indian characteristics as plainly as his mother; and leaning on his plough handles, he gave us his family annals modestly, but without hesitation.

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“There were five brothers of us,” he began—“Milton, Ferdinand, Notely, Robert, and myself, William Garrison. Milton went to sea young, followed whaling sixteen or seventeen years, and died. Ferdinand rose to be mate, and then captain of the ship Callao, and made a good voyage of four years in her to the South Pacific about 1871. Notely shipped in the Phillip the First, of Sag Harbor, and we have not heard from him in ten years. Report says that he deserted his ship, reached the Kingsmill group of islands in the Pacific, married the chief’s daughter, and is now king there. Robert followed the sea eight years, then took to wrecking, and was drowned in the Circassian disaster [salvaging a wreck off of Long Island]. As for myself, I shipped at sixteen in the Pioneer, of New London, and made my first voyage of seventeen months to Greenland, being frozen in ten months. My next voyage of eighteen months was to the Arctic, in returning from which we were captured and burned by the [Confederate] pirate Shenandoah. In 1870 I shipped as mate of the ship Florida, of San Francisco, for the Arctic, and next voyage as mate of the Abbie Bradford, of New Bedford. We left that port in 1880 for Greenland. Eight months out the captain died of consumption, and I took command of the ship, and after completing the voyage brought the vessel into port.”7 These brothers, I further learned, became accomplished navigators, with no other education than that afforded by the tribal school.

“I Killed ‘Moby Dick’ ” Tourists visiting Aquinnah today will find in the shops at the top of the Gay Head Cliffs and at the Aquinnah Cultural Center that the Native whaleman most remembered there is Amos Smalley (fig. 13). Among the last generation of Wampanoag men to experience whaling firsthand, Smalley went on several voyages in the 1890s and early 1900s as a young man. Still residing on the island much later in life, he enjoyed recounting his adventures to friends, family, and summer visitors, one of whom, the writer and former radical Max Eastman, 100 X CHAPTER 4

Figure 13. An elderly Amos Smalley re-creating what it was like to harpoon a white sperm whale in his youth. Reproduced by permission from the collections of the Martha’s Vineyard Museum.

helped Smalley record his memoirs to submit to Reader’s Digest, which published the essay in 1957.8 The magazine introduced “I Killed ‘Moby Dick’ ” as being “By Amos Smalley as told to Max Eastman.” While Eastman clearly had a role in putting Smalley’s whaling memoirs into print, Smalley had already received national recognition as a teller of sailors’ yarns and a living history reminder of New England’s whaling past when Hollywood film producers invited him to attend the opening of the recently released film Moby Dick, starring Gregory Peck.9

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Since as early as I can remember my heart was set on going whaling. I was born at Gay Head in 1877, a few years after it ceased to be an Indian reservation.10 We were only 12 miles seaward from New Bedford, Mass., the center of the whaling industry, and my father had spent years as a steward on whaling vessels. My older brother Frankie was a boat-steerer (that’s the whaler’s name for harpooner), and I wanted to be one too. We boys used to play at harpooning almost as soon as we could walk. We would cut a long pole, throw a hat on the ground and say, “Let’s see who can stick him first.” I had heard enough about whales to know they were the biggest creatures alive and among the trickiest. My brother had sailed to the arctic and told me about the bowhead that would hide under the ice when the boats came after him. Then there’s the right whale—his tail is dangerous when you get in the way of it and he whacks back. But the meanest of all is the sperm whale. He’ll fight with everything he’s got—head, tail and jaws. His jaws are as wide as a room, and when he closes them over a boat he crushes it like an eggshell. Or he may lash out at you with his tail flukes. They’re broad and flat and can sweep a man out of a boat quicker than you can see him go. That’s what happened to a harpooner we all knew. One second he was standing in the bow of the boat, and the next he was gone. All but his hat. They picked that up and brought it home to his family. The worst is a whale with white spots. There used to be all sorts of talk about that. Some said the white was scars of harpoon wounds. Others thought it was old age or the sign of a real killer. “When you see a ‘white’ one, look out!” whaling men warned. “He’s a cuss. He’s out to get you.” When I was 15 I persuaded my father to let me sign on with the Pearl Nelson, a two-masted whaling schooner out of New Bedford. I felt pretty grown up—until the first night out. I spent that whole night awake in my bunk crying, I was so homesick and seasick. Life aboard was pretty rough. There were 24 of us in the fo’c’sle, stowed in little bunks one above the other. Cockroaches were everywhere. You had to hold your teeth tight when you drank a cup of water in the dark so as not to swallow a mouthful of them. The food was nearly always the same: salt meat, 102 X CHAPTER 4

hardtack, hot coffee sweetened with molasses. Every four to six months we would touch at a port—the Barbados, St. Michael in the Azores, St. Nicholas in the Cape Verde Islands—and then for a few days we would have fresh vegetables and meat. I came home from that first voyage—it lasted three years— with $14 and the rank of steward. My “lay” (that’s what we called each crew member’s share of the earnings) was 1/75 of the profits of the voyage. Out of that I had paid about $200 for my clothes and bought tobacco and other items from the ship’s slop chest. My next voyage, I shipped on the Platina, a three-master of 360 tons. I said to the captain, Thomas McKenzie: “I want to get up a little, Captain. I don’t want to ship again as a steward. I want to steer a boat.” Captain McKenzie, a big, blond man, well along in years but still strong and tough, looked me over carefully. “Well,” he said finally, “you Gay Headers make good boatsteerers. But what we need is a steward. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll ship you as steward to ‘prevent’ a boat-steerer.” (That meant “substitute for” a boat-steerer in case one missed a whale and was broken—that is, taken out.) When we were down in the River Plate area off the southern end of South America, one of the steerers missed a right whale. The captain was in the masthead and saw it. He said to me: “Steward, the next time we raise a whale, you get in the bow of that boat.” It was a week before another whale was raised. “Now, young fellow,” Captain McKenzie boomed at me as we were about to lower the boats, “you harpoon that whale or I’m going to kick you all over this deck!” I don’t know if I was more scared of the whale or the captain’s boots. I got into the first boat behind the mate. Those whaleboats were 30 feet long, fitted out with oars, paddles, sail and all the gear needed for harpooning. Three boats were usually lowered: one to “go on” the whale; the second to come up after he was fast and help handle him; the third to pick up any men injured or thrown in the water. The captain had gone up in the masthead, where he set his flag to signal us directions. If he slacked it way off, that meant to go to leeward. When it went clear to the top, the whale was

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up spouting. My place was in the bow of our boat, rowing the “harper’s” oar; the mate steered and gave orders from the stern. That day there turned out to be two large sperm whales, abreast. This worried me. Lots of times you can slip up on a whale without him seeing you. His eyes are so far back and low down and small that he can’t see much past his enormous forehead or the bulge of his body behind. You can go on him from the front at an angle up to ten degrees and he won’t spot you; from the rear you have as much as 40 or 50 degrees. Either way was difficult with two whales so close together, for the slightest motion toward one might be seen by the other. To give me the best chance for a right-hand dart, the mate steered the boat between the whales from the rear. I was to attack the one on the left. As we drew close I stood up, braced myself with my left knee in a notch of the bow-box, and readied the harpoon to dart the instant I got the order, “Give it to him!” The whale was about ten feet from the boat—a good distance—and a little below the surface, his black body glistening greenish through the water. When the mate gave me the word, I went down into the whale with all I had. The razor-sharp iron pierced the blubber like a hot knife cutting butter. It carried a bomb with it, and seconds later I heard the muffled “pung, pung” of an explosion deep inside. I knew the harpoon had gone straight into the whale’s lungs. Meanwhile, the line running from the shaft to the boat began paying out. It was coiled in two large tubs—150 fathoms of it. This whale took some ten fathoms—and stopped. “I’m fast!” I cried, and the mate and I shifted positions. That is, I went to the stern to steer, and he came forward with his shoulder gun to finish off the whale with a couple of shots if necessary. A whale can be a long while dying, and this one gave us a rugged half hour. We expected him to sound [i.e., dive deeply], as many whales do when they’re hit. We were ready to cut loose if he went too deep, to keep from being dragged down with him. But he just stood on his tail and lashed his head back and forth, snapping his gigantic jaws. Anything that got within 20 feet on either side would have been crushed to pulp. I knew then why a harpooner is called a boat-steerer: harpooning a whale is nothing compared to steering the boat after he starts fighting. 104 X CHAPTER 4

For the rest of that voyage I was in a boat every time a whale was raised. Once I came near getting in real trouble. A big sperm whale had sounded. I was in the bow, my iron ready, when suddenly he came up right in front of me, his jaws wide open. I can tell you a sperm whale has a mouthful of teeth—some 52 of them, each a foot long and weighing two pounds or more. And there’s room in there and all the way down his throat for me and two fellows twice my size. I got to the stern of that boat in a hurry. It brought a laugh from the crew, but I didn’t care. Afterward I went back up front and got him. He had plenty of fight in him. When the harpoon struck, he set out on a “Nantucket sleigh ride” that nearly drowned us all. That’s when a whale with a good iron in him takes the whole 150 fathoms—900 feet—of line in both tubs and runs away with the boat. That whale must have towed us at 20 to 25 miles an hour. We had to bail for dear life to keep from going under. I had been home only a short while after that voyage when I learned the Platina was sailing again in July 1901. I signed on. The chief mate had first pick of the steerers, and he chose me for his boat. He was a small, humpbacked, excitable man, with a nose as red as a new brick. His name was Andrew West, and he used to call me “Old Tommyhawk.” In the summer of 1902, our second year out, we were cruising in the Western Grounds south of the Azores when, about 5 o’clock one afternoon, the man in the masthead sang out: “There she’s blowing—blo-ow—blow—blow!” Captain McKenzie was up from his supper immediately. “Where away?” he shouted. “On the port bow,” came the reply. “How fur off?” “ ’Bout a mile.” The captain climbed to the masthead. “It’s a sperm,” he said with his first glance. You can tell a sperm whale by its low, bushy, forward spout. “Get your boats ready,” he hollered down. Andrew West and I got in our boat and waited for the order to lower. You never lower while the whale is up spouting; the least slap on the water will reach him like a telephone call. He stayed up about an hour, then sounded. That gave us time to lower and get to where we thought he was likely to come up for air. We were

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not more than half a mile from the ship when its mainmast waif [flag] went clear to the top, telling us the whale was up. In a few minutes we could see his hump, still a good way ahead. “Paddle—paddle like hell!” West urged the crew. He was worried lest the whale sound again before we got to him. It would likely be dark when he came up. Suddenly, as we drew near the whale, Andrew West spoke in a voice I’ll never forget: “That fish is white! He’s white all over! He’s a son-of-a-bitch!” I looked hard. The whale was not 100 yards away, but with the twilight closing in, all I could see was the foamy crests of the waves splashing over him. West was getting more and more excited. “He’s a cuss, Smalley!” he warned. “Look out—he’s white all over!” The men were nervous now, too. Some of their faces looked almost as white as the whale. West beckoned me to stand up. I put my paddle down easy, took my place in the bow and lifted the harpoon. Then I saw him, the full bulk of him, every inch of him whiter than the spray he was kicking up. I remembered the stories I had heard as a boy. Only this wasn’t just a whale with spots. He was an all-white whale! I also remembered Captain McKenzie and his big boots and the things he said when you failed to do your job. It was my job to harpoon that whale, white or black, and I braced myself to do it. Now came what was almost a stammer from Andrew West: “Give it to him, Old Tommyhawk!” I got my iron into him all right, or thought I did. But seconds passed. I leaned forward listening for the sound of the bomb exploding. I had never missed before when I had a good dart. Finally I heard the muffled “pung, pung” far down inside. There was a quick flurry on the surface, and the water shot up like a fountain as the whale went down, straight down, taking the line fast. Everybody in the boat was tense, thinking he was going to drag us down with him. I reached for the knife in case we had to cut loose, but in the gray dusk I could hardly see the rope. Down, down he went, taking out 20 fathoms. Then he stopped, and we waited—breathless. A few days before, a whale had sounded the same way, and then had come straight up into the bottom of the boat. The boat had lifted up ten feet in the air and come down in two pieces. I 106 X CHAPTER 4

had flown out of my place in the bow and landed in the water only a few feet from where his jaws were chewing up what was left of the boat. I couldn’t swim a stroke, and can’t yet, but I got hold of an oar and floated with the others until the second boat picked us up. That’s the kind of thing we were expecting, or something worse, while this white monster, raging with pain, was sulking beneath us. He was 90 feet long, three times the length of our boat, and he was unnatural. In my mind’s eye I saw him lashing up the whole ocean with us in it, when suddenly the line sagged and West cried, “Haul in your slack!” We hauled in the line, keyed up for the battle ahead. But the whale came up slowly and quietly. He came up nib-end [i.e., snout] first, and just hung there, like a gigantic bobber. If he had done any thrashing around at that moment, like enough we’d all have been in the ocean with him. But he just bobbed. Then suddenly his whole head broke water, the line jerked so it took all of us to hold it, and the air was filled with a heavy roar as thick red blood gushed from his spout-hole. This could be the beginning of the final death struggle—but it wasn’t. In a few minutes he was lying flat out. West came forward, shoulder gun ready, and I stepped back to the stern. He gave one long look and lowered his gun. “Smalley,” he said, “you done well. You put your iron right over his heart. You killed him.” We just gazed at the huge, creamy-white creature floating in the blood-red water. “Never saw anything like that,” was about as much as was said. Quite a time passed before we felt like going to work on him like a regular whale. Then we cut a hole through his tail with a fluke-spade so we could tie him to the boat. The Platina, not more than half a mile away, headed down on us as soon as we put up the blue flag to signal that the whale was dead. Captain McKenzie stood at the rail, watching carefully. When I came aboard, he looked me straight in the eye and said nothing. That was the highest compliment I could have had. He would have said plenty if he hadn’t been pleased. We would start the cutting-in in the morning. Right now we had something more important to do. “All hands aft to splice the mainbrace,” the captain called out. He disappeared below and came up with a big pitcher, the kind

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you use on a washstand. One by one we filed past, and he poured out for each of us a good drink of raw New England rum that we downed in a gulp. When it came my turn, he paused, gave the pitcher an extra tilt, then handed me my mug with a little nod. That night, and many since, I thought about that white whale and what he might have done if I hadn’t killed him first crack. But I didn’t know there was a story about it until 35 years later when Marcus Jernegan, a professor of history and himself the son of a whaling captain, came up to my house at Gay Head and asked me about “Moby Dick.” From him I heard the story that whalers used to tell some 50 years before my time of a white sperm whale that raged around the Pacific and was more ferocious than anything ever met on land or sea. Then last summer John Huston and Gregory Peck invited me to the opening of their movie Moby Dick and introduced me as the man who killed him. I don’t know as it was Moby Dick I killed. I do know, though, that whales sometimes move from ocean to ocean. I also remember Captain McKenzie’s saying when he examined the worn-down teeth of my white whale: “He’s at least a hundred years old and maybe two.”

Death of a Whaleman Beginning in the late nineteenth century, New England newspapers began publishing lengthy obituaries of prominent Natives from the region, many of whom had at some point in their lives been to sea on whaling voyages. Although the authors of these memorializations are unfortunately unknown, these documents usefully help situate Native whalemen within a broader social context. Five obituaries are reprinted here, for Gideon Ammons (Narragansett), who died in 1899; Christiantown Natives Joseph Q. Mingo in 1913 and his son Samuel in 1935; Edwin DeVries Vanderhoop in 1923 and Joseph G. Belain in 1926, both from Gay Head (Aquinnah).11 A few of the Native men remembered in newspaper obituaries were career whalemen. That was enough to earn Joseph G. Belain a tribute in the New Bedford Evening Standard upon his death. Belain had 108 X CHAPTER 4

devoted his entire life to whaling and, like his father, George Belain, went out on many voyages as first mate. So far as I have been able to discover, however, George Belain received almost no public recognition for his whaling expertise, as his son Joseph and other men of the next generation did. In contrast to Joseph G. Belain, the obituaries of Gideon Ammons and Edwin D. Vanderhoop resulted from their having held important political positions. Ammons had served for many years on the Narragansett Council and pursued an ultimately unsuccessful tribal land claim against the State of Rhode Island. His whaling past received some mention in the Providence Journal newspaper article announcing his death, but more for its colorful appeal than for being a notable achievement in itself. As was common among non-Indian commentators on Indian whaling, the author of this article cast Ammons as a great boatsteerer (harpooner), when like most Native whalemen of his generation, Ammons rose beyond boatsteerer to end his whaling years as third mate.12 Edwin Vanderhoop’s political prominence came from his service as the town of Gay Head’s representative to the Massachusetts legislature. Vanderhoop’s wife, Mary, may have contributed material for his obituary, as it resembles in style her stories of Gay Head folklore (her Moshup stories appear in chapter 1), which were published in the New Bedford Evening Standard nearly twenty years before her husband’s death in 1923. Whoever wrote this Boston Globe article must not have known Vanderhoop well, however, since it misspelled his middle name and says that he spent four years whaling when in actuality he went on two voyages adding up to about six to seven years.13 Both Ammons’s and Vanderhoop’s obituaries evoke romantic imagery commonly found in popular literature about Indians and about whaling. With a headline making Ammons out to be the “last” Narragansett chief, his obituary contributes to the regional construction of narratives of Native extinction.14 Vanderhoop’s obituary recounts sperm whaling in the Pacific as exotic and dangerous by including an anecdote of an attack by savage cannibals. Perhaps this was a sailor’s yarn Vanderhoop had cultivated all on his own, or perhaps whoever wrote the obituary exaggerated it for its sensational aspects.15

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Joseph Q. Mingo had already received newspaper notice for his efforts to save the Christiantown meeting house, and so upon his death in 1913 he was remembered primarily for his religiosity.16 And yet his whaling years remained an important part of his life story, with his son Samuel G. Mingo also mentioned in his father’s obituary as having carried on with a successful whaling career of his own. Samuel G. Mingo’s is the final selection reprinted here and comes not from a mainstream newspaper but from a Narragansett newsletter edited by Princess Redwing and Ernest Hazard in the mid-1930s. Mingo’s family connections made his life story relevant to readers of The Narragansett Dawn, while the newsletter acknowledged the importance of his whaling achievements in his life story.

LAST OF NARRAGANSETT CHIEFS Gideon Ammons, a Famous South County Character, Is Dead. Gideon Ammons is dead. He was the last survivor of the Chiefs, or Presidents of the Council, of the once powerful tribe of Narragansett Indians. On Sunday, Nov. 5 [1899], he was missed from his home in Charlestown. A futile search was made at that time. Yesterday the body was found in the woods by hunters. In his day Ammons was a famous character. During the long period when the State was bickering with the Indians for the reservation in the South County, and in many of the attempts since that time to obtain what he considered the rights of the tribe in the “shore claim” he has been prominent. Feb. 23, 1811, is said to have been the date of his birth, for he was in his 89th year. He was as near a full-blooded Narragansett Indian as there was, although even in his case there was a considerable mixture. In 1847 he was elected a member of the council for the tribe, and was continuously in that office until 1878. He was many times President of the Council, or the first member chosen. During his life time he had seen the tribe dwindle away. From the lore handed down to him he could tell of the days when the sachem of the Narragansetts could muster 5000 braves, and 110 X CHAPTER 4

when the tribe held sway over all the surrounding Indians of Massachusetts and Connecticut, and when the tribal possession in lands had extended from the banks of the Merrimac to the Pawcatuck. Now but a few score gather yearly on the second Sunday in August, and by the act of March, 1880, the reservation, consisting of some 5000 acres, had been ceded to the State. Yet Ammons claimed that the tribe still owned lands. This was the strip of land extending back 100 rods from the shore which, the Narragansetts claim, was never purchased by the State. Ammons had figured out what the claim should bring them. The figures were $1,075,000. He repeatedly said: “It was through the kindness of the Narragansett Indians that Roger Williams was permitted to remain in Rhode Island. I believe that justice will be done to us by the State.” Of late years he had become infirm in body, owing to rheumatism, and his memory was not what it used to be. He attributed this to a bunch which had grown out on the back of his neck which “drew all the memory out of his head.” Even at this he was the patriarch of the tribe. And his memory was indeed a remarkable one. Stories of old days, legends, tales of Indian wars, of the great swamp fight, and the lore of field and flood were his. Locally he was known as “Uncle Gid.” At any time he could be induced to relate the tales of bygone days, and many a man has had from his lips the stories connected with the Royal burying ground and other Indian traditions. Gideon Ammons was by far the most famous member of the tribe. For years he was the recognized head of the Narragansett Indians, until deposed some few years ago in favor of Abram Champlin. In his younger days he was a famous boat steerer, being known as one of the best whalers that shipped out of New Bedford. Then he was big, strong, and heavy, carrying his 200 pounds easily. But in the last decade his hair had been silvered by time. His voice was a quivery treble, his form bent until in walking his body above the waist was almost at right angles to his legs. He was ever a quaint and curious character, with great native shrewdness. This enabled him to maintain his position of superiority over his tribesmen for a long period after his physical faculties had partially failed.

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His first voyage as a whaler was with Capt. Anthony Gifford, in the old bark Constitution, from Westport [Newport]. He cruised two long voyages in the Roman, from New Bedford, Capt. Charles G. Smith, of Marthas Vineyard. Again he went out with Capt. Humphrey Shortley [Shockley] of Massachusetts. Thirteen times during the first voyage he went on was the boat stove in, while Ammons was after the “hump-backs.” His good luck in escaping injury was proverbial. He had repeatedly said that getting struck with a whale’s flukes was largely due to poor management. The next cruise he went on he shipped as boat steerer, and by his skill and experience verified his theory. For after he held the sweep at the stern neither he nor his boat’s crew met with any accident. On first leaving the sea, when the whale fishery failed to pay well, Ammons became a stone mason, as are many of the Indians. He was one of the journeymen who worked in building the Indian Meeting House. A large stone over the door has the date “1859” chiseled in it. Later he turned farmer on the five acres near Shannock, which were his allotment, when most of the reservation was deeded back to the Narragansett Indians by the State, as agreed upon. He varied this pursuit by acting as a book agent for a time. He was also a deacon of the Second Adventist Church, which all the tribe attends. Pride in his lineage, as a descendant of the Narragansett nation, was one of his characteristics. He was regarded as the oracle of the tribe. His son, George Ammons, is well known in the South County for his big physique. There are a number of grandchildren living. With the passing away of this old man the last link that bound the Indians of the present day to the traditions of their days of strength and power is apparently broken. The Narragansett Indian, pure and simple, has become extinct. Long since the wigwam vanished from the tribal lands, the hunter no more roamed the fields, and now the traditions of that past are snuffed out as the feeble flame of an old man’s life expired. For centuries the tribe lived and thrived. At the time of the landing of the Pilgrims it was the most powerful Indian nation east of the Hudson river. But what war and pestilence could not accomplish, the intermarriage with other races has done, and the race is no more. 112 X CHAPTER 4

Joseph Mingo Dead. [Reprinted in Vineyard Gazette] Joseph Quonewell Mingo, the oldest Indian in the state, died Wednesday at his home in Christiantown, Martha’s Vineyard. He became ill suddenly a few days ago and until then had enjoyed the best of health and was very active despite his age. Mingo was of the famous Narragansett tribe, as is his wife, who is 80 years of age. He was a member of the Baptist church of Gay Head. Joseph Mingo’s widow and his son, Samuel, are now the only Indians left in Christiantown. About half a mile from the Mingo farm, in the woods, is the historic old meeting house that was for a great many years the church of the Indians who formerly lived in Christiantown. The church was built in 1828 and braved the storms and weather without repairs until 1909. Then the meeting house seemed destined to fall apart, but through the efforts of Joseph Mingo, who was always a church worker, money was collected and the building was once more in good repair. The first of Mr. Mingo’s ancestors to become a Christian was converted by the Rev. Thomas Mayhew, who was the first missionary among the New England Indians and who did a great deal towards instilling a religious firmness that meant much for the Indian and white dwellers on Martha’s Vineyard. Joseph Mingo’s mother was a direct descendant of Joseph Amos, the famous Indian preacher. At the age of 14 Mr. Mingo went to sea for several years, whaling, and on his last voyage came home as second mate of the bark Osceola. Of late years Mr. Mingo spent most of his time caring for his farm. His son, Samuel, has followed the whaling industry for over 20 years and has spent several winters in the Arctic. SAMUEL G. MINGO, best known to older residents as “Sammie George”, died suddenly on Sunday afternoon, November 17th [1935] at the height of the storm, while at work in Oak Bluffs cemetery, of which he was the custodian. While engaged with others, in preparing a grave, Mr. Mingo collapsed and failed to regain consciousness. He was 75 years old and one of the last of the praying Indians of Christiantown. The [grand]son of Samuel

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Mingo, Mr. Mingo was born in historic Christiantown on the island and made his home there for many years. His grandfather was of [the] Narragansett tribe and came to the Vineyard as a young man, moving to Christiantown in latter life. Following in the footsteps of the Christiantown men who went before him, Mr. Mingo went to sea as a boy and became famous for his skill as a whale-man. He shipped first with Captain Stephen Flanders of Chilmark and was made a boatsteerer after 16 months at sea. During the many years that he spent whaling, he sailed on all oceans of the globe, his last voyages being in the Ar[c]tic Ocean on the ships of the San Francisco fleet. He served as a ship’s officer during the greater part of his seafaring career, his second sea experience being as mate on a fifty-three months voyage during which his ship took 5,000 barrels of oil. The decline of the whale industry caused him to retire from the sea, after 23 years of whaling, and for several years he lived on the family estate at Christiantown at the end of the Dancing Field, working for himself, and for others, as farmer, gard[e]ner, and teamster. Several years ago he moved to Oak Bluffs where he purchased a home on Pacific Avenue. He was buried at Oak Bluffs Cemetery and Rev. Willard Johnson conducted the ceremony.

MARTHAS VINEYARD PAYS FINAL HONORS TO EDWIN D. VANDERHOOP Ex-Legislator, of Indian Blood, Attacked by Cannibals – Civil War Vet – Military Funeral at Gayhead

Special Dispatch to the Globe MARTHAS VINEYARD, Jan 30 [1923] – The Vineyard this afternoon paid tribute to Edwin DeFreece Vanderhoop, ex-member of the Legislature and one of the island’s best known citizens, who was buried with military honors in the little cemetery at Gay Head. Mr Vanderhoop was one of the last of the “Thin Blue Line” on Marthas Vineyard and a large number of residents attended the funeral services. The funeral was at 2 o’clock, with services at the home, which is within a stone’s throw of the famous cliffs at Gay Head. A eulogy was given at the Gay Head church. The officiating clergyman was Rev George A. Furness. The bearers were in 114 X CHAPTER 4

uniform and military honors were given at the grave. Mr Vanderhoop was born at Gay Head, son of William A. Vanderhoop of Surinam, Dutch Guiana, and Beulah Occouch Salsbury Vanderhoop, a full-blooded Gay Head Indian. At the age of 15 Mr Vanderhoop enlisted in the Civil War, and fought on one of the first of the ironclads. At the age of 16 he saw service on the battleship Mohaska. When the war was over he spent four years at whaling, visiting ports in all parts of the world. On one occasion while bartering with cannibals for fruit he was attacked by a horde of savages and would have been captured had it not been for the threat of a French man of war to wipe out the cannibal settlement if Vanderhoop and his comrades were not permitted to go unharmed. Mr Vanderhoop gave up the sea to secure an education. He was graduated from Wayland Seminary, Washington, DC, following which he taught school in Arkansas. Returning to his native town, Mr Vanderhoop became a political leader of the Indian colony. He was elected to various town offices and later served as county commissioner of Dukes County and then in the Massachusetts General Court. He obtained National prominence, when he was named by the late President Harrison as Minister to Haiti. Mr Vanderhoop, who, on Dec 12, celebrated his 75th birthday, was married to Mary A. Claggett of Appleton, Wis, a graduate of Lawrence University, and widely known for her historical works. They had these children: Miss Pauline Vanderhoop, a teacher in the Roxbury Public School; Mrs Annetta Madison, teacher in Vineyard School; David Vanderhoop, Leonard Forest Vanderhoop, William Defreece Vanderhoop, Mrs Anna V. Hayson, wife of Lieut. Merriam C. Hayson, who fought in France in the World War.

INDIAN CHIEF’S SCION IS DEAD [1926] Joseph G. Belain, 77, Born at Gay Head, Succombs Here [New Bedford] Spent More Than Half Century Whaling, Retired Eight Years Ago

Joseph G. Belain, 77, for more than a half century engaged in whaling, died at seven this morning at the home of his niece, Mrs. Bessie James, 51 Smith street. He had been in ill health since last

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April and had been confined to his bed for the past nine weeks. A shock and hardening of the arteries caused his death. Mr. Belain was born in Gay Head, the son of George Belain, and was a lineal descendant of the Gay Head Indian Chief Mattark. When a boy of 17, he began his whaling career, sailing before the mast as a common sailor. First Mate Many Years Until eight years ago he had sailed the seas on whaling voyages, holding the position of first mate on many vessels. He was first mate on the whaling bark Navarch years ago and was on her when she was wrecked in the Arctic Ocean. At that time he led the master, Captain Joseph Whiteside, and the vessel’s crew to safety over the ice. He was also first mate on the whaler Eliza with Captain Ned Kelley when the vessel was wrecked in the Arctic Ocean. Voyages to Arctic While he sailed on whaling voyages off the Atlantic coast during his early youth, in late years he sailed to the Arctic seas many times in search of whalebone, and also engaged in whaling along the Pacific coast. Eight years ago Mr. Belain made his last whaling voyage and then came to New Bedford to spend the remaining years of his life with his niece. He is survived by a brother, John W. Belain, Gay Head; an aunt, Mrs. Anstress G. Webquish, Chappaquiddic, Mrs. James and several other nieces and nephews.

Whaling Folklore Given how important whaling work was to coastal Native communities, stories about interesting individuals, dramatic events, and mysterious happenings often revealed how entwined whaling was with everyday life. The following stories from Aquinnah appeared in a variety of publications in the early twentieth century, all of which looked back to nineteenth-century Gay Head with nostalgia as a quaint place rich 116 X CHAPTER 4

with folklore. The stories about the “Gashum girl” saying goodbye to her whaling lover and the two whalemen turned schoolteachers comes from Mary Cleggett Vanderhoop’s series of newspaper articles, published in 1904. The third story, about Jane Wamsley making a pillow for a young whaleman’s outfit, comes from Edward S. Burgess’s 1926 “The Old South Road of Gay Head, or Musings on Discontinued Byways.”17

Not a great distance below the lighthouse is another “silent city” [cemetery]. Here lies another Indian daughter—the good Gashum girl. One day, the story runs, her lover was about to leave on a long whaling voyage, and she (escorted by her father, as was the custom) accompanied him as far as New Bedford. There the father became drunk as a lord, and in that condition insisted on returning home. Every endeavor was made to restrain the girl from accompanying him on the return trip, but to all that was said to her and to every argument she dutifully replied: “I cannot leave my father.” Just off Cuttyhunk the boat was seen to capsize, and before assistance could reach them all trace of them was lost. The girl’s body was finally found on the beach and she was buried here. Then came Aaron [as teacher at the Gay Head school], the son of Cyrus Cooper. After many years spent in “furrin parts,” where he had learned to speak French and acquired much other information—where he had possessed himself of a set of navigation instruments and many books—Aaron returned home, and his learning soon secured him employment as a teacher. About this time the terms grew from a few weeks in summer to both summer and winter sessions. The young men were to be taught in the idle season; they were to learn not only reading and writing, but figures, fractions and accounts. Then Tristam Weeks, after years abroad, also returned qualified to teach. Some of the books used by him are still carefully preserved. One of them is a singing book, with wooden covers, entitled: “The Columbian Sacred Harmonist, or Collection of Grammatical Music, by O. Shaw and A. Albee and H. Mann Deahan.” It was printed and sold in Boston, and bears the date 1808. Another is “The Properties of Rocks,” bearing date 1814. Another is “A Pocket Gazetteer of

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the United States,” 1826, containing some information of Canada as well, and systems of mercantile arithmetic and bookkeeping, besides the usual information found in such works. There are one or two other works equally unsuitable for teaching. During Mr. Weeks’ tutorship the funds for carrying on the school were evidently stopped, for in compensation for his services he received “what timber was left in the old Presbyterian meeting house,” which he used in constructing his dwelling.

Children found her [Jane Wamsley] a strict disciplinarian, and her piercing glance left them little room for escape. But there was one who never forgot her real kindness, and who told me “She took quite a notion to me, when I was a boy, though I was quite as mischievous as any; but first time I went a-whaling, when I was fourteen years of age, she came to the house, and said, “He must have a feather-pillow, to take with him, and I’ve made it, and brought it.”

As husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons left to earn a living from the sea, family members and neighbors felt the impact of the whaling economy in the small acts of everyday life. Retired whalemen, those who survived the strenuous life, brought back to their home communities seamen’s yarns of adventure and danger, a confidence that came from having occupied positions of respect and authority, and a profound sense of their own competence rooted in a worldly understanding of social relations and political affairs. Because whaling touched the lives of all Native people living along the coast of southern New England, it continued to leave its imprint into the present.

For Further Reading Calloway, Colin G., ed. After King Philip’s War: Presence and Persistence in Indian New England. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1997. Dresser, Thomas. The Wampanoag Tribe of Martha’s Vineyard: Colonization to Recognition. Charleston, SC: History Press, 2011.

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Manning, Helen, with Jo-Ann Eccher. Moshup’s Footsteps: The Wampanoag Nation Gay Head / Aquinnah: The People of First Light. Aquinnah, MA: Blue Cloud Across the Moon Publishing, 2001. Stone, Gaynell, ed. The Shinnecock Indians: A Culture History. Suffolk County Archaeological Association Readings in Long Island Archaeology and Ethnohistory, vol. 6. Lexington, MA: Ginn Custom Publishing, 1983.

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5 A Whaling Family in New England and New Zealand

Most American Indian whalemen who did not die at sea retired to their home communities when they reached their thirties or forties, but a few never returned because they settled on some Pacific island or in New Zealand, often marrying into the indigenous population. Once they left their whaleships, these men are difficult to trace unless, as has happened with several Native men who settled in New Zealand, descendants have contacted potential relatives, tribal offices, or scholars in the United States seeking genealogical information and connections. One such whaleman whose life in New Zealand is now well known, largely through research initiatives of his New Zealand family, is Elisha Apes.1 Elisha Apes was born on or near the Pequot reservation in Groton, Connecticut, in 1815. His older brother (probably half-brother) by sixteen years was William Apes, or, as he preferred to spell it, Apess. A Pequot, Methodist minister, memoirist, and minor celebrity in New England in the early 1830s, William Apess preached throughout New England, not just on religion but also about the injustices European settlement had imposed on Native people and the virulent racism directed against New England’s people of color. In newspaper 120 X

headlines and before the Massachusetts legislature, William Apess acquired a reputation as a rabble-rouser in 1833 when he helped instigate what has come to be known as the Mashpee Revolt, the Mashpee Wampanoags’ protest against the resident missionary and state-appointed Indian guardianship system. Apess the writer knew nothing of whaling himself, but his three younger brothers—Elisha, Solomon, and Leonard—all went on multiple whaling voyages, no doubt simply because whaling was what most young men in southern Connecticut did in the 1830s and 1840s.2 Elisha’s life as a whaleman is especially interesting because his travels eventually took him away from Connecticut forever. At the age of seventeen, he embarked on his first known whaling voyage, then another and another. Sometime in late 1839 or early 1840, now twenty-four years old and on his fourth and final voyage, he deserted from the whaleship Ann Maria of New London in company with the ship’s carpenter. They both settled on the coast of the South Island of New Zealand and married Maori women. Over the next several decades, Elisha Apes and his Maori sons continued to identify as whalemen. In New Zealand, they whaled from the beach below the Maori village of Puketeraki, where the Waikouaiti shore-whaling station had been established shortly before Apes’s arrival. In the twentieth century, this area became the small seaside resort town of Karitane, a half-hour’s drive north of the city of Dunedin. Although the majority of Elisha Apes’s many descendants have moved to New Zealand’s cities or to places further afield, such as Australia and England, the Apes family’s connection to Puketeraki is still strongly evident. Apes Road, for example, is home to the Puketeraki marae (community house), and many in the area can identify where Elisha Apes and each of his children once lived.

Deserting the Ann Maria What little is known of how Elisha Apes came to leave the Ann Maria comes to us secondhand from an oral history account in the collections of the Akaroa Museum on the coast of the South Island, in which

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Robert Gilbert—the son of Apes’s fellow deserter, the English-born ship’s carpenter William Gilbert—told the story of how his father came to settle in New Zealand.3 In the nomenclature of nineteenth-century New Zealand, Robert Gilbert was a “half-caste,” which may explain his fascination for his father’s “North American half-caste Indian” friend, whom he calls Jimmy Apes. Not only did Robert misremember Apes’s nickname, which was not Jimmy but Billy; he also mixed up the name of the whaleship, thinking it was the Ajax. But the 1839 crew list for the Ann Maria, which names each member of the crew at the time of the vessel’s departure from New London, has both Elisha Apes and William Gilbert aboard and Nathaniel Middleton as the captain, leaving no doubt as to the name of their ship.4 Robert Gilbert attributed the cause of the desertion to an honorable act on the part of his father and Apes. Perhaps the events aboard ship that led up to the desertion played out exactly as recounted here, but it is also possible that, with his son as his audience, William Gilbert painted himself more the hero than was actually the case.

Everything went along very smoothly on board the Ajax until they got within three or four days’ sail off the New Zealand coast. A fresh breeze came on and the ship was running under double reefed topsails and the weather became bitterly cold. On deck the ship’s carpenter [William Gilbert, Robert’s father] was about to start squaring up a long spar to make a new topsail yard when all at once the captain came out of a cabin on the poop driving and scolding one of the apprentice boys, and ordering him to go up in the foretop as punishment for something that the lad had done. As he passed along the deck the carpenter said quietly to the captain, “It is not fit for a dog to be up there in such freezing weather, much less a human being,” whereupon the captain turning sharply round told the carpenter to shut up and to mind his own business or he would have him arrested and put under irons. Evidently this kind of bullying got on the carpenter’s nerves although he kept quiet, held his tongue and went on with his work trimming the spar with his broad axe. 122 X CHAPTER 5

This apprentice lad was kept up in the foretop for about an hour and a half, almost forgotten, when Captain Middleton came upon the poop and called out to the boy to come down, but sad to say he was unable to, being almost half frozen. The captain thereupon ordered one of the seamen to go up the rigging and help the boy down, and went along the deck to meet the lad who was now crying and whimpering, his teeth chattering together with the cold. He looked a sorrowful being. This was more than the carpenter could stand and it was then that he turned upon Captain Middleton, swearing and telling him that it was up there he should have been put himself, instead of that poor boy. At this stage of the altercation the Captain became greatly enraged, at once ordered the mate and the crew to seize and overpower the carpenter and put him in irons. The carpenter instantly pulled himself together, took his broad axe in hand for self protection and stuck his back up against the weather rail of the ship and said to all hands “Now you can all see the position I am placed in, I don’t wish to hurt a hair of any man’s head, much less that of my shipmates, but the first man that comes to tackle me I am sorry to say, will compel me to use my broad axe on him.” The mate obeyed the Captain’s orders and came up close towards the carpenter awaiting an opportunity to spring upon him. At this critical moment one of the seamen who was very friendly with the carpenter, a fellow named Jimmy Apes, a North American half-caste Indian, an exceptionally big and also a very powerful man, had seemingly made up his mind in a few minutes, when he realised the serious consequences that surrounded the big hearted carpenter, that he would go to his assistance, and in his movements in doing so he quickly picked up a heavy capstan bar. When he got near the carpenter turned his head quickly round to see what Apes was going to do. The mate sprang at him when he was momentarily off guard and then a struggle followed with the result that Jimmy Apes threw down the capstan bar and took the mate by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his trousers and had him up at arms length over his head. He was just about to harpoon him over the rail into the sea when the carpenter called to him saying, “Stop. Put that man down. I will never stand and see a white man being slung overboard by a coloured man so put him down.” When Apes let

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him go the mate slunk away and would have nothing more to do in the affray. As quick as thought Jimmy Apes got onto the poop and into the Captain’s cabin and took possession of the firearms. The Captain at this stage became terribly enraged at the way the disturbance had ended. The crew plainly showed that they were indifferent about carrying out his orders. The [carpenter] told him to shut up and explained that no harm would come to him or his ship but to keep quiet and to keep the Ajax on her course and to let him ashore at the first port of call. The Captain could see that under the circumstances his power was gone and had to submit to this ruling, owing to lack of discipline until the two were put ashore. As night came on the wind increased and the temperature became still colder. The two men had to pace the deck all night and keep watch and see that the ship was kept on the right course to reach the New Zealand coast. This proved to be very hard on them, in such weather and having no rest or sleep. The next day weather conditions improved although the wind was still blowing hard. However, they got a little rest through the day, as one would have a nap while the other would be on watch, and so took turn about until they eventually reached Port Chalmers. They were very fortunately indeed to have a favourable wind to bring them in. The breeze died down and the sea became calm as the ship came in shore off Port Chalmers. Jim Apes was not long in getting a boat slung out onto the davits and all their belongings stowed away aboard, firearms, tools, food and numerous other things that they would need, so that when they entered the port there would be no delay in getting off the ship. In due course, when she sailed close into what is now known as Port Chalmers she was put about and her topsails alwed [hauled] up. As soon as this was done the whale boat was lowered down into the water with everything in readiness to be taken ashore. Before leaving the ship the carpenter said to all his mates that he was very sorry in having to leave them without a carpenter to see to the welfare of the ship, but it could not be helped. It was impossible for him to remain with them because when they got home back to America the incident would be reported. He would be arrested with the certainty of being slung up, not 124 X CHAPTER 5

entirely through his own fault, as there were faults on both sides, so goodbye all. He got two of the crew to row them to the shore and after all the things were taken out of the boat the carpenter took up one of the guns and discharged it through the garboard streak [the garboard strake, one of the main planks in the boat’s hull] in the baiting well of the boat. By this means she was made unseaworthy. The men shouted out to the captain to send another boat ashore to take them back to the ship. There was little delay before the Ajax put to sea again under full sail and by night she was almost out of sight. In the meantime the tide had gone out, so that they were able to pull the whaleboat above high water mark and make it fast to some scrub that was then growing along the water’s edge and then finally set themselves to work to make things comfortable for the night as they were both worn out and in much need of rest. Next morning the weather being fine they decided to go over to the Maori Pa or Maori settlement at Puketeraki. The two sailors found the hill climbing very strenuous work as they were not used to it, especially the man Apes, being so big and heavy. Luckily when they arrived there the Maoris were friendly and made them welcome. They were somewhat curious and puzzled about this man Apes. Although a dark man they knew that he did not belong to their race or could speak the tongue. A few of the Maoris there understood a little of the English language so the carpenter explained to them as best he could that this dark man Apes was from Jamaica, another far distant land. They appeared to be much interested and were glad to meet him, he being a member of another coloured race. They stayed with the Maoris for two or three days and then returned to Port Chalmers taking with them two able bodied Maoris to help them with the heavy whaleboat when they arrived back. The first thing was to turn the boat bottom up so that the carpenter could patch up the damage that he had made. After this was done and all their belongings were again put aboard they started off on their voyage up the coast for Puketeraki. On reaching there all their belongings were once more taken out of the boat. This comprised [a] chest of tools, guns, and numerous other things of use that they had brought from the ship. They took the mainsail and rigged up a camp for themselves

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to live in during their stay there among the Maoris and so their quarters were made very comfortable. At this time Gilbert the carpenter became very popular among the Maoris making many useful things for them, tables, stools and such like. As there was an abundance of fish to be had in those days the boat came in very handy for the Maoris to go out and try their luck and sometimes they would get bit [big] hauls. Needless to say they made good use of the surplus fish. The Maoris never forgot the help and kind treatment extended to them by these two runaway sailors. The time came when romance came into the lives of two people in this primitive place. The carpenter became very fond and sweet on the Onawe Chieftainess Te Marino, one of the leading wahines of the Pa who evidently was not far behind the scenes in encouraging and returning his affections. Te Marino’s people who had for some time feared a raid by the warlike Chief Te Rauparaha from the North Island had this young chieftainess taken away south to Puketeraki for safety and left in the care and under the protection of Tuhawaiki, the great southern chief. Tuhawaiki, however, noticed the close friendship of Te Marino and the carpenter and said that he was not going to allow a Pakeha or white man to have her. She was there under his charge and care. Nevertheless the carpenter had already made up his mind that he would never leave there until he had made her his wife. Tuhawaiki was a very busy man in looking after the affairs of his people in different places. He left home for three or four days and it was then that the carpenter took the opportunity of saying to his old ship mate Jimmy, “I am going to travel North. There is not the same chance of us being caught or questioned, should we separate, than by staying here together. If you don’t mind I will take the boat. The young chieftainess is going with me, she being quite prepared to go with me wherever it may be.” In secrecy the whale boat was got into readiness. Everything was stowed aboard and under cover of the night the two set off on their long and dangerous voyage up the southern coast of the South Island of New Zealand. This goes to show the courage and endurance of some men and women to surmount and overcome the hardships and many obstacles of life’s journey. . . . Picking their way as best they could through the bush-clad hills 126 X CHAPTER 5

of Banks Peninsula, handicapped by the bag and baggage they had with them, after hard struggling they managed to reach their destination, Captain Hempleman’s whaling station, Peraki Bay. [Years later, when William Gilbert was living as a shipbuilder in Okain’s Bay], who should come to the door but his old shipmate Jimmy Apes. He had to duck his head under the frame of the door to get inside. A very big man he was. I cannot dwell too long to explain all that had been said between these two old shellbacks or old mates but there is one thing that my father had said and done that I had my doubts about and that was when he told Apes to “Put that man down.” He could never stand to see a white man being slung overboard by a coloured man after coming to his aid. When I put the question to him he said to me “Lad all that your father has told you is quite true” and so the whole story is confirmed. My father has often said to me “Robert, I profit nothing by telling you a lie.”

The Next Generation Apes lived out his life at Puketeraki (fig. 14), where he and Gilbert had first taken up residence with the Maori. He worked at the shore-whaling station downhill from the Maori pa (settlement) until it closed in the early- to mid-1840s, and like Gilbert he married a Ngai Tahu woman, with whom he had six children who lived to adulthood. In September 1938, shortly after the death of Elisha Apes’s son James, whose Maori name was Tiemi Hipi (fig. 15), a Dunedin newspaper published a lengthy obituary recounting James Apes’s achievements as a whaleman and sheep-shearer. This obituary includes an interview with another of Elisha Apes’s sons, Thomas (Tama), mistakenly referred to as “Tim” in the article. The other men mentioned here who whaled with James Apes out of Karitane, Dan Ellison and Tom Pratt, also descended from foreign whalemen who had married Ngai Tahu women of Puketeraki and settled on the South Island. This article dwells on James Apes’s great physical strength and makes no

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Figure 14. This undated photograph of Elisha Apes was probably taken later in life, several decades after he settled on the South Island of New Zealand. On the back of the picture his name appears as William Apes, which is how he identified himself in other documents toward the end of his life. His place of origin appears as “London,” but that is probably a mistake for New London, in Connecticut, the port from which the Ann Maria sailed in 1839. Courtesy Hocken Collections, Uare Taoka o Hakena, University of Otago, 510-030a.

mention of his political and civic leadership at Puketeraki and his activities in support of the Ngai Tahu land claim.5

GIANT OF THE PAST James Apes, Whaler and Shearer Descended from hardy, roving stock, his father whaling around these shores long before the settlement was first mooted, perhaps 128 X CHAPTER 5

Figure 15. James Apes (Tiemi Hipi) is the tall man leaning against the Maori Girl whaleboat on display in the Otago Settlers Museum in Dunedin. Courtesy Otago Settlers Museum, Dunedin, New Zealand, F-609.

no one in modern times has had a more arduous and more diversified life than James (Hipi) Apes, of Karitane, who died recently at the age of 84. The annals of the past, were it possible to collect all the data, would be full of such men as he. Cradled within sound of the rolling Southern Ocean, the tang of the salt spray forever in his nostrils, it was only natural that James Apes should spend a considerable period of his active life upon the sea. Not as an ordinary seaman, though, but as a whaler, such as his father had been before him. Shore whaling, as distinct from bay whaling, flourished along the southeastern coastline during the third, fourth, and fifth decades of last century. It was to this period that Apes, the original, if he may be so called, belonged. His son, James Apes, followed his father’s footsteps in an industry that took on a new lease of life in the ’70’s and ’80’s. He was one of a hardy band that is no longer to be found around our shores, with the possible exception of a few men at the Cook Strait whaling base.

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A Record Breaker One of a large family, James Apes, in his prime, was a man well over six feet tall, and weighing over 16 stone in his bare feet, he stood a solid, sinewy column of bone and muscle. None there was who could compare with this perfect physical specimen in deeds of strength and endurance. Whaling, though, occupied but a brief portion of his time during the year. Go back into the hinterland into the big [sheep-]shearing sheds where around the camp fires at night men talk of the records of those who have passed on, and you will find the name of “Hipi” Apes a byword. His passing has called to mind some of the great tallies this man put up as a record for all time. Operating with the old hand shears (for speed not to be compared with the machine handpiece of to-day), Apes held what must easily be a record for both New Zealand and Australia. Indeed, so far did his fame spread that men from the boards in the great Australian woolsheds came to this country and province to pit themselves in stamina and skill against the man from Karitane. Always he stood out as the leader of them all, his colours never once being lowered. A good-natured giant, Apes followed the run of big sheds for over 50 years—50 years actually on the boards, a record in itself that few men could equal. Writing to a friend in 1935 Apes said: “I started shearing when I was 14 years of age and was 50 odd years at it. My tallies for one day were between 210 and 240 [sheep].” Innate modesty kept him well within his tally, for upon searching up records it has been disclosed that at Rocklands Station his best tally was 248. Some of the big stations he shore [i.e., sheared] at were Shag valley, Mount Royal, Hindon, Mount Watkins, and Rocklands, besides other big stations into the Central Otago district. Stand From Under! Writing to a friend shortly after the death of Apes, Mr John Trotter tells of how he worked in the same pen with the deceased and a man named Tom Brown between 50 and 60 years ago. “We were a happy family,” he said. “Always he did not shear his best. He was always so good natured that if you wanted to beat him he would let you; but if he got wild, well, you just had to stand from under. He was very powerful, and the further he went the faster he got. He was the fastest and best shearer I knew.” 130 X CHAPTER 5

Delving into the life history of this amiable giant and learning something of his strength one cannot help smiling when reading Mr Trotter’s final words: “He (Apes) was one of the whalers at Otago Heads in his young days. They used to put an extra man on the other side of the boat to even up (two rowing against one), he was so powerful. . . .” Sitting in a sheltered corner of the yard of his home at Karitane, dreaming away the hours and possibly living in the past you may find Tim Apes, now 82, a brother of James. Did you but talk with him awhile you would learn something of the exploits of these two, the one who is departed and the other in the sunset of life. Jim was a mighty shearer, the old man Tim will tell you. No one ever beat him. The old man will tell you, too, he was no sluggard himself; that he could do his 200 a day (in fact, in one run he shore 630 in three days), but that only on one occasion did he shear with his brother Hipi in the south. That was in 1880 at Blackstone Hill Station, near Naseby. His brother’s fame had spread, the old man told the writer, and shearers came from Australia to pit their skill against him. Big Sheds—Big Tallies Those days of blade shearing and big tallies were the days of big sheds. Silence settled on the old man for a while and then, slowly lighting his pipe, in retrospective vein he again went on. “Jim and I did not go whaling together, or do much shearing, either, for that matter. In 1881 I went up to Canterbury and was shearing that season at the big Glenmark station near Amberley. There were 110 shearers, with 16 boys picking up fleeces. They were grand days . . . we were a big family . . . took some feeding. They killed 18 sheep a day to feed us, six sheep for each meal. “I decided to go on to the North Island to have a look round.” The old man paused again, his mind back in the past. “I only meant to stay three weeks and it was 33 years before I got back home—here. In the Wairarapa they thought I was a fast shearer but I told them my brother James could beat me. They would not believe me, so I sent for Jim, and he was with me one season. He was the fastest of them all!” Mr Trotter in his letter to his friend, said James Apes was whaling at Otago Heads. However, the old man at Karitane, throwing his mind back to those long past days, says his brother did all his whaling at Karitane—scene of the earlier exploits

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of their father—in the late 1830s and early ’forties, in the days when Johnny Jones’s whaling station flourished and Waikouaiti Bay became the first seat of religious teaching in the south, and the primary school of agricultural and pastoral pursuits of the European in these latitudes. Tim Apes could not recall the exact year his brother was associated with these later whaling activities, but as he went north in 1880 he was definite it was some time in the middle ’seventies of last century. Two boats were operating then, the old man said. Dan Ellison, long since gone, owned one, a seven-oared boat, and Tom Pratt was interested in the other (six oars) with some men of the district. “I remember Dan and Tom, with their crews, to one of which my brother belonged, catching two big whales right in Waikouaiti Bay,” the old man said. “They towed them to the headland over there (with a slow sweep of the arm) and rigged up the try-pots. They also rigged up a windlass on the waterfront, cut the blubber from the whales, and hoisted it by means of the windlass up to the try-pots above. They used to work day and night to get the job done. When all the fat was boiled out of the pieces these were thrown into the fire to keep it going. “How long did it take to do the job, you ask? I can’t rightly say. Sometimes it took weeks. It was all sealed in barrels and the barrels thrown into the channel out there and tied to boats. When the tide turned it was towed out to sea and hoisted on board a steamer. Yes, that was how they loaded it. ’Twas hard work.” Speaking of the vigorous strength of his brother, the old man related how, during a rowing regatta in the 1870’s, Jim competed with another in a double-oared event. His enthusiasm outran him, however, and so powerful did his stroke become that without anyone to steer the boat, he simply turned it round and round in circles. The boat in which James Apes fought the whales, the “Maori Girl,” now rests in the Otago Early Settlers Museum. In Retrospect Standing on the approximate spot where those hardy men cut up their whales, it is not a difficult task to visualize the busy scene: the mammoth creatures affixed to the rocks with chains, blubber spades busy in the hands of two or three half-naked toiling 132 X CHAPTER 5

men; ashore, the hoisting apparatus, and above, the try-pots yielding up their gallons of oil. It is not difficult either, to look across to the now barren and desolate sandspit, and to visualize that earlier period when Apes the elder worked at the original whaling base—when the spit carried a roadway, hotels, shops, merchandising warehouses, and when a buxom Maori lady bore passengers by the schooner ashore on her back, to dip them in the water if they became saucy. And up on the hill behind the little church now lies James (Hipi) Apes, side by side with many another bearing the same name, but his father rests in the older cemetery on the headland of Karitane itself, next the spot where the first missionary church stood. But if time and the ravages of storm have effaced his name in that quiet spot it still lives on in his great-grand-children and nephews who reside in and about this historic piece of coastline.

In January 2011, Betty Apes spoke with me at her home in Dunedin, New Zealand. Not a descendant of Elisha Apes herself, Betty married one of James (Tiemi) Apes’s grandsons, Erwin (Joe) Apes, in 1991. Since then, she has devoted a great deal of time to reconstructing the Apes whakapapa, a Maori word for family tree but invested with much greater historical and cultural significance than the term “family tree” has in the United States. Erwin Apes died in 2009 and is buried at Puketeraki, up the hill from the marae, in the same cemetery where are buried Elisha Apes’s wife Mata Punahere, their son James (Tiemi), and many other Apes descendants.

Betty Apes’s Oral History Joe’s father was Tame Kahupatiti Wikita Apes. Joe’s grandfather was James Tiemi Apes. He died when Joe was seven. James Tiemi Apes was a son of Elisha Apes, who adopted the name William in New Zealand. Joe’s father had written notes down in a book: family members and their dates of birth. I’d ask Joe who belonged to that one and who

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belonged to that one and gradually put it together. I spent most of my time in the Hocken Library. And we used to visit round other family members to get their family tree. It took over twenty years, and I’m still doing it. Joe’s brother-in-law worked at the Waikouaiti Museum, and he’d been reading through books and found the article where Elisha Apes mutinied off the coast of Otago. Then, another cousin had been looking into it, and he found a copy of William the writer’s first book, A Son of the Forest. He copied off a copy and sent it to us. That was when we first picked up that they were Pequot Indian, although they knew they were Native American. And that’s why we were thinking that William the writer was our William. When the Pequot came into it, it became more intriguing. That’s when I thought I’ll try and contact that Barry O’Connell [editor of William Apess’s collected works]—see if I can find something out. I think I actually wrote to the Press first, and they put me with Barry O’Connell. He sent the book out, which I was grateful for. When he said that William had died in the United States, that put the question mark all up again. Elisha Apes is buried in the Karitane Cemetery where the old church used to be [fig. 16]. The rest of them are buried up at Puketeraki Cemetery, which is above where the marae is. We always wondered why he was down there. Since I found out that he was remarried, I’ve got a feeling maybe that was why he’s down there and not up the top. When I say up the top, Puketeraki is up the hill. Whether that’s the reason, I don’t really know. But it would be an obvious reason why he’s down there, because he had two different wives after Mata. She’s up there, and the children are up there. They’re all buried up at Puketeraki. There are a lot of them that haven’t got headstones, but we know that they’re there. We know James Tiemi is just below his

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Figure 16. Betty Apes with her brother-in-law Jim Apes, grandson of James Tiemi Apes, at the Karitane Cemetery, where Elisha Apes is buried, in January 2011. Photograph by author.

mother somewhere. He was buried by the big old tree, as Jim—Joe’s older brother—remembers. But the tree’s not there anymore, and it’s very hard to remember where the tree was. Elisha had, as it states in one of the newspaper articles, a two-bedroom cottage, which was called Te Aute Cottage. Joe’s older brother Jim inherited that. The house is still

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there but has been added onto and seemingly does not look like it did, from the outside anyway. It’s on Seaforth Street in Karitane. I believe that Elisha lived up on Apes road to begin with because that’s where the Punahere land was. So they could have probably been up there when he first came here. I haven’t found any dates to say when he would have gone in Te Aute Cottage, as they called it. Joe was born in Palmerston, Otago, New Zealand. Palmerston was the closest maternity hospital. Karitane was just a little settlement. They had a reasonably big house. I think it had been two cottages put together. It had come down in his mother’s side. It was four bedrooms. The bathroom was outside, just a board with a basin on it, and a bath that they’d have to light a fire under to heat the water. He used to say about all the whalebones that used to stand upright and form an archway up the path, and also that the vertebrae from the spine, I suppose you’d call it, of the whale they used as seats outside to sit on. Party or family gatherings, I presume. Music was very much in the family. When they were little, they were all natural musicians. They would play guitars, which you’ll find most Maori families do. They’d get home from school, change their clothes and go straight to the water. They’d gather cockles, and they’d have a piece of corrugated iron that they’d set on top of a fire, build a fire on the stones and stick the cockles on it and eat them up. They just lived on the sea virtually. Joe was a fisherman. When he first started fishing, he’d go around and leave this bag of fish hanging on their gate for all the old pensioners and the old people. His brother actually brought that up at Joe’s funeral, how he used to go around and leave all the old dears a bag of fish for their dinner. He fished out at Taieri Mouth most of the time. Then his boat sank, and he gave up fishing and worked for a transport team. He seems to be the only one of the later generation that went fishing. He had a brother that was 136 X CHAPTER 1

a fisherman, too. But he drowned—he fell overboard—at the Waitaki River Mouth, 25 years old. Joe still used Hipi in his voting papers, but he used it combined with the Apes. A lot of the papers that I’ve seen on the search, the names have been Hipi Apes. Now and again you’ll find just the Hipi without the Apes, but most papers had both names. Why they brought the Hipi in, I don’t know, maybe they preferred being sheep instead of an ape. [“Hipi” means sheep in the Maori language.] Or, whether it was just because Apes was more a European name, and whether they wanted a Maori name for the kids for schooling or something, I don’t know. It was a native school they had there, but they were not allowed to talk Maori. That’s why a lot of Joe’s generation can’t speak it. Some are fluent. Both Joe’s parents spoke Maori to each other, but they never taught their children, maybe because it wasn’t allowed to be talked at school. James Tiemi was very into the Ngai Tahu land claim. He seemed to be sort of a spokesperson as well. He was a justice of the peace. In the early days at Karitane, you’d see him in the Waikouaiti council meetings coming up, asking can we make a road here or do something here, so he seemed to be quite up there in the community itself, probably a good organizer. James Tiemi seemed to like giving land away as wedding presents. In those days you could give your land away to who you liked. Today you can’t. It’s Maori land. You can will it to your blood children, or to a sibling, but you can’t will it out of the family. If you wanted to sell it, you’ve got to sell it to a family member. If there’s no family member that wants it, you must sell it to one of the owners. Karitane was formed around 1896 or 1897 and was previously known as Waikouaiti. In reference today [to] that era it is spoken of as “old Waikouaiti” as there is Waikouaiti not far up the main highway from the Karitane turnoff. Apes Road was named after the Apes family. They had

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five Apes houses down there at one time and owned a lot of land down there that had been Mata Punahere land, like her family land, first. It was built as a service road for the Karitane/Puketeraki District. It is a long, long road that runs from the main highway to Coast Road and was the original main road into the area. We think they built the present day road into Karitane around the time when the railway was built, which opened in 1879. The Kati Huirapa ki Puketeraki marae is actually at 5 Apes Road. The Hui Te Rangiora church driveway runs up the side of the marae with the urupa (cemetery) at the side and back of the church. The church is further up the hill. The five houses unfortunately are not there now because I know one of the family wanted to take their elderly mother and have a look, but there was nothing there, which is a bit sad. One of the houses was dragged down into Karitane and is still standing. A lot of the wood from the others was used to build down in the settlement. But these things happen. Also the old school known as Tipi Tipi was dragged down from Apes road and formed part of the Karitane old school. Puketeraki is up a hill, and you drive down into Karitane. From up the hill, it’s the most picturesque looking place. I love it out there, and the view from the cemetery is really gorgeous. Karitane is not a native village now. It’s more a holiday spot, I suppose you’d say. A lot of people have got homes. Other people just have holiday homes there, even people here from Dunedin who go out there weekends or holidays or whatever. Joe’s older brother Jim was still living at Karitane, but he had been away and come back. Now he’s living in Palmerston. One of Jim’s sons is in England, and so some Apes over there are related. And he’s got two daughters in Australia. Then there are the Apes in the North Island that go by the name Epps. Joe’s younger brother Tame (Tom), his son and some nephews are in Christchurch. There’s a few descendants round 138 X CHAPTER 5

Dunedin, but do not carry the Apes name owing to coming down from females. My brother-in-law, Joe’s older brother Jim, says you go to Karitane and you don’t see anybody you know now. But there is still a few. There’s still Tira Harper. She’s ninety plus and an Apes descendant from Mary Apes Harper. There are not many of the older residents left at Karitane now, which is a bit sad. The marae’s still there but has been replaced with a new building. There are still old family names there. The Apes aren’t there anymore, but we’ve got our road. It’s quite a long time ago since Meredith [Vasta] and Cedric [Woods] were here [from Connecticut]. I don’t know whether she just rung up from the hotel, and said who she was or whether Barry had said there was a couple coming over here. Of course we just said, “Come up.” So they came up. They had a feed of mutton bird. So that was quite good because it made me feel as if we, the Apes, had roots somewhere. When Meredith and Cedric were over here, they asked if we’d like to go over for [Schemitzen, the Mashantucket Pequot powwow in Connecticut], but we couldn’t really afford it. But Nicola [Walsh] said that she would love to go. So she went over, and she thoroughly enjoyed it. She said it was very much the same as the Maori hui that they have here, the big ones, where all the Ngai Tahu get together and have a powwow sort of. Unfortunately, we lost Nicola in 2009. She died very suddenly. She woke up one morning, said she felt funny, and the next thing she was gone. She was brought home to Karitane, so she’s up at Puketeraki, up at the hill. She was Joe’s sister’s daughter. She’s a direct descendant of Elisha, directly down the line, as we like to say.

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For Further Reading Hauptman, Laurence M., and James D. Wherry, eds. The Pequots in Southern New England. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1990. O’Connell, Barry, ed. On Our Own Ground: The Complete Writings of William Apess, a Pequot. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1992. Russell, Lynette. Australian Aboriginal Whalers and Sealers in the Southern Oceans, 1790–1870. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2012. Shoemaker, Nancy. “Race and Indigeneity in the Life of Elisha Apes.” Ethnohistory 60, no. 1 (Winter 2013): 27–50. Wanhalla, Angela. In/visible Sight: The Mixed-Descent Families of Southern New Zealand. Wellington, New Zealand: Bridget Williams Books, 2009.

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6 Wampanoag Oral Histories

The first oral history in this chapter comes from a conversation with Ramona Peters in her office at Mashpee on Cape Cod in May 2011. We had met the year before when we learned of our shared interest in Wampanoag whaling history, and it was her knowledge and stories that prompted me to put together this book and seek out others willing to contribute oral histories.

Ramona Peters (Nosapocket) My name’s Ramona Louise Peters. I’m also known as Nosapocket. I’m from the family of the Bear Clan in the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe here on Cape Cod. I’m the CEO of my own company called Peters Wampanoag Consulting. I’ve been doing that for approximately seventeen years. I consult with museums, archaeologists, universities. I work with a lot of students, on their theses and dissertations about Wampanoag culture, and other writers, filmmakers, that sort of thing. Presently, I am a part-time employee with the Mashpee Wampanoag Tribe as the NAGPRA director.1 I coordinate for three tribal groups: two tribes and a band of

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Wampanoag. I work with three other people. We go out in the field, and we re-inter ancestral human remains and their funerary objects. We’ve been working for fourteen years to get all the human remains out of the museums, and we still have quite a few more to go, almost 840 objects. I also make pottery. 1704 or something like that was the last record of anybody in the tribe using the ceramic cooking pots. I wanted to revive the art form because I thought it was really beautiful and interesting. I got commissioned by museums to do reproductions. In the experience of it, it just took me somewhere where now it’s a big part of my life. I make whale oil pots on occasion. I’ve put different motifs on there—sometimes the shape reminded me of the whale or the vertebrae. In the old days, before the Quakers started the whaling industry, we were whale-eating people. We harvested whales, especially the beached whales. I don’t know that we would go out in the canoe and take them. It’s possible. We just don’t know for sure. I used to work for the Aquinnah on the Vineyard. Their natural resource department was pretty active, and there was a beaching of a whale on Nantucket. The guys in the natural resource department asked me about our activity with whales, and I said, “Well, I know by law that we had sachem whale rights, and each sachem had different territories.” And I had maps of these different ones who for different periods of time would rule over or watch over all the resources in their territory. There are boundaries, distinct boundaries, on the Cape and the islands, and all through Wampanoag territory. So I said, “Yeah, we had whale rights that were respected by tribal people through the centuries and possibly even after the English arrived.” I don’t know for sure, but definitely long enough for them to be written. We became literate, able to write in Wampanoag language. So there were documents that showed that different sachems were bequeathing their drift whale rights to 142 X CHAPTER 6

someone in the tribe or family or whatever. We had these deeds, so to speak, wills. So they took samples of those wills and presented them to—I don’t remember which federal agency it was. But they got the whale. They got the skeleton. The rest of it was harvested by scientists and whatnot, but the tribe on the Vineyard got the bones, the vertebrae. I don’t know what they did with them. Here in Mashpee when there’s a drift whale or a dying whale, we go to make offerings. There’s a prayer that a few of us know. We go. I’ve been several times, down to Wellfleet, or in other towns. On that side is where they seem to beach. They don’t really beach here in Mashpee, anywhere near us. We go sometimes together or just individually, at our convenience. During that time, we spread the word and go. You can also see whales off the shore. I have a glass. It takes a lot of patience. It’s kind of thrilling because you don’t know when they’re going to come up. They stay down eighteen minutes or so. As a teenager, I used to lifeguard on the South Cape Beach here in Mashpee, and I would see whales go through Vineyard Sound. That fascinated me. It’s a timeless situation. The legends, the stories, about whales—that they were the ones that traveled the planet, the whole world. So we knew, our people knew, the world was round. They knew a lot of things about the planet. Supposedly, they got this information from the whales. I don’t know if any of our people traveled with them or anything like that, or tried to follow them. But our cosmology, I guess, the mind-set, or the framework of our people, the ancestors, was beyond just human-to-human communication. So I always believed in it, and while I was sitting there on the beach with my red suit on, watching them in the morning, no one else was around, I really felt as though I was communing with them. It wasn’t until a few years later when I found items that were related to whaling in my grandmother’s house, which

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was a mysterious little building on Route 130 in Mashpee. It was not boarded up, but it was an abandoned house that belonged to my grandmother, Lena James. I asked my mom about it, and she said, “Oh, that house is your sister’s house now. Your grandmother is still alive, but she passed it on. We don’t go there.” So I was really curious about why not. “Well, there’s a curse on the house.” Really!? That’s why no one in the tribe bothers the house. There’s something buried under the step, and there’s all these stories about it. But I was really a brazen kid, and I said, “Well, I’ll go in there.” My mother was interested, too, as to what was in there. She let me go over there. So I took the key. It was one of the old-fashioned keys with a long shaft and the flag at the end. I went in the house. There was no electricity, but the phone worked, and there were tea cups on the table. My grandmother basically up and left, just abandoned it as it was. I don’t know why she left. This was back in the ’60s that I’m talking about, that I went inside the house. There were really fascinating things there that did not come from New England at all. So I knew that someone was a traveler. There were all kinds of stories about that family. They spoke Wampanoag. They stayed to themselves pretty much. They were full-blooded. They were musicians. They had a little store. Grandmother’s mother, Namioka, sold food, like potatoes, to passers-by. My great-grandfather—who we just called Edward James, but his name was Albert Edward James (I usually just call him my grandfather)—was a whaler during the peak of the industry here in New England.2 In the house, I found some horse crops made by my grandfather out of whale bone, two of them. One had a lot of carving on it. It was pretty ornate. And the other one was just a round, straight shaft, and it had a curve to it. I could picture someone riding a horse and tapping it along. There was no sharpness to it. It just made me feel like there was consideration for the horse. Eventually, I added to it. I 144 X CHAPTER 6

grooved two grooves and did some beadwork and made it mine. I put a thong on it so I could put it across my back, leaving my hands free. Wherever I traveled in the world, I took that staff and used it sort of like an antenna for my ancestors to say “We are here.” So when I went to France to research a creation story from the Occitane People of southern France, I put it in the ground and said, “All my relations.” It’s an old Indian custom, but I intentionally used the whale staff because of their travels around the planet and in the water. Burma, Japan, other places like that, the whalebone from my great-grandfather’s house has been stuck in to the earth. I just poke it in the ground. So if you saw it today at my house, you can see that it’s dirty, just a few inches deep, but just enough to make that connection. Anyhow, once I broke the so-called curse, others went in the house, like my older sister. It was her property. There were just all sorts of wonderful and valuable things in there. I found a log. It was a whaling log, but it wasn’t written by my great-grandfather, which didn’t puzzle me at the time. In this journal, it did give a daily record of the weather conditions and some of the typical whaling jargon about all’s well, but there was also poetry and a few drawings. I found the poetry maybe a little disturbing because it was about women, and this sailor/whaler, he was Native, but he was heavily indoctrinated with early Christian belief system. He saw women as agents of the devil, as satan itself. I just laughed at it mostly. I was such a child. I was young. And I just thought, “Wow, so I guess you would have to turn yourself against women because you’re out to sea.” I saw some rationale, but in any case, I was more interested in the poetry than I was in the entries, except there was one entry that occurred all through the book: “Judson James still in irons,” “Judson James remains in irons.” I didn’t know who Judson James was. I assumed that it was a relative because of the last name, but I hadn’t heard anything about him.

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Some years later, my mom took sick. She had cancer, and she passed away. And her mom, my Grandma Lena, came to the funeral. She was living in Michigan at the time. She visited the house the day of the funeral, where I lived. I was taking care of her ex-husband, my grandfather. I mentioned to her that I had the logbook. Her reaction was really unexpected. She wanted it. There was only one other thing. She mentioned the pygmy war club that was in the house. “Do I have it? Would you go back and get it?” She described where it was hidden. We have stories of pukwudgees, which is little people. I thought she said pukwudgee war club, but she said pygmy for sure. Who traveled to Africa, I don’t know. She wanted the logbook. I brought it out. I thought she was just going to breeze through it. She took it. She looked at me, and she said, “This is mine. You have no right to have it.” I agreed. It wasn’t mine. It was abandoned. Everything was abandoned, so I had things, and my sister had sold things. She didn’t care about those things, but she did care about this book. Maybe there was something there I missed. Now, it occurs to me that maybe she didn’t want people to know Judson James was still in irons, had even been in irons—that that perhaps would have been a shameful thing, whatever he did, you know, small town, small tribe, the elders thinking it might have been like an atrocity, to have someone with a criminal record of some sort—although I know on a whaleship, you can get put in irons for all kinds of things. I found a whaleship model up in the attic when I was remodeling the family homestead [fig. 17]. I live there now. My parents built it in the 1950s. It’s a small ranch, but the attic has been used for years by family members for storage. I decided to put a sky light in the living room. So I was up there moving things around in the attic, and I came across these small boat models, so I took them down into the main part of the house, and I see that this is an amazing piece of work. I believe the ship model is 37 inches long, from bow 146 X CHAPTER 6

Figure 17. Ramona Peters with the ship model that her great-grandfather Edward James built. Photograph courtesy of Joanna Michna.

to stern. The bottom of it is a hollowed-out log, so the hull of the boat is actually one big, solid piece, and it’s finely carved and shaped, so that it moves through the water in a particular way. It looks like my grandfather Edward James designed it so that it can go backwards as well. This ship could come about either way, with ease. I know it’s an Indian-made boat because, to me, our winter homes were made dome-shaped, or elongated with rounded ends, so we are very conscious of the way the wind or the elements would impact us or anything that we have made. So there was never this flat surface that would argue with the elements. I thought it was somewhat comical but also genius to create this whaleship that had a rounded bottom. I knew a little bit about wooden boatbuilding. For two

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and a half years, I worked at a boatyard. I had previously done carpentry, building houses, but that got really boring—the flat square. Everything was square. It just didn’t really appeal to me. But there were these two young boat builders, and they were interested in the tribe, so they offered some positions to do some training. I said, “Oh, yeah, definitely. They’re making yachts. They’re making wooden boats only. They don’t do any fiberglass and all that other stuff.” So that appealed to me. I started off just doing sanding and varnishing, and making tillers for small boats and other pieces. I was beginning to learn the language, identify the different boats in the harbor. But all of the tools and all of the rigging, it’s a lot to learn, and I can’t say that I got anywhere near where I wanted to in terms of my knowledge base of it. I was making some ribs of a small beetle-cat, a little sailboat, a work boat kind of thing, on Halloween night in 1995, and accidentally cut off my thumb of my left hand. I was hospitalized for a little while, as they were trying to reattach it. And then the boatyard was uncomfortable because of the insurance company, so it got to be really complicated. We all really enjoyed each other, but I couldn’t go back to work there. So my career as a boat builder was ended abruptly, and I’ve been working with NAGPRA since then pretty much. The model had been in the attic. It had been tossed around, so all the rigging was broken off. A lot of the railings had a few things extending out to hold the halyards in place so that you could actually hoist away. There was the tryworks on deck still almost intact. I made what was missing so it could work again. It was designed so it could twirl to hoist the anchor or a whale. There were a few other parts, tiny bits of metal. I see it in archaeology—how my ancestors would pick up this metal and reshape it into something useful in their world. There were a few pieces of lead that were hammered out, for example, around the mast so that 148 X CHAPTER 6

lines could come off of it. Little pieces of wire were clipped and fastened onto that piece of lead. Copper was used very cleverly. The decking paint even had fine sand grit mixed into it. The slipperiness of a deck on a whaleboat was very dangerous. People would fly off into the ocean. We called it no-skid in the boatyard where I worked. We used that kind of paint. I don’t know how far back it dates. I know it’s a working model because at the boatyard we used working models to make ketches, very beautiful yachts. Grandpa’s model is to scale. Without a plan written out like a floor plan one would build a house from, you’d have these models. It wasn’t about the aesthetics of it at all. There are some ship models that you can find in any museum made for the glamour, for the whole aesthetic appeal. But this was a working model that was designed with enough detail for boat builders to make this ship at full size. I’ve tried to get some help to work with it because it’s complicated. Without the broken pieces, I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I have with it. I have some really great pictures of it. A German filmmaker came through Mashpee, and they took great pictures. My connection to the whaling story is probably bigger than I even know. I had this amazing dream. It starts off, I’m at my home, and a big car comes in the yard. It’s got some of the local women in it, and they say, “Come on, we’re going to go feed the guys.” They have food in there. So I get in. I’m not much of a cook, so I know I’m in a dream. I get in the car, and we go down and around, down Asher’s Path Road, and I’m thinking, “Oh, we’re going down the Mashpee River.” In this dream, the river is wider than it is today. On the other side of the river is a whaling ship being built. I was just ecstatic. I stumbled out of the car in awe looking at this vision. The ship is over there. There’s a gangplank. There’s all this material around. There’s a little tapping—mallets. I’m so excited that I just start walking

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towards it. I don’t even stop to unload the food or whatever they’re doing. I rolled my pants up a little bit and started to wade through the river. It’s deeper than in this reality. I see this fellow. He’s a tribal member. He’s also in the water. He’s looking at me really fiercely, mean, angry. I note it in my head, but I’m on my way to something. My heart is full for some reason, very thrilled about this boat, so I just ignore the guy, and I keep going. I run up the gangplank to be on the deck of this ship. I want to see everything. I get up to the top. There’s this man. He’s looking at me. He’s smiling. I know he’s from another time because of the size difference between people today and people then. He’s much fuller. And he’s happy to see me. Almost in a teasing way, he goes, “Oh, do you want to help?” His accent is also Mashpee but older. He says, “Go in to the little shack there and bring me up some rope.” So I run down there. I go down the gangplank and over to this little shack that looks like a smokehouse that we use for the fish. I open the door, and I see the rope across the building. Before I can note anything else, the door shuts behind me, and I begin to fall. I grab the rope that I see above that was stretched across. So, now I’m dangling in the dark. It’s pitch dark, and I can’t see anything. I’m holding onto the rope. I don’t know how far down if I let go. It could be a bad fall. I’m hanging there. I hear in my head or maybe it was audible, “Call Cheepi for help.” This is the nickname of the guy that I saw in the river, who was looking at me all angry. “Call Cheepi for help.” I’m dangling there in the dark, and I go “Nah.” When I say, “Nah,” I see a little pinhole of light on the other side of the room. With the rope, I go across to the pinhole. I put my foot up, and I scratch it with my shoe and reveal that it’s a pane of glass. There’s black paint on the glass. Now I see daylight. So I kick out the window, and I crawl out. I turn around and look down and see had I dropped, I would have fallen on 150 X CHAPTER 6

barrels that had harpoons sticking up. And I would have fallen to my death. I pull the rope off the wall and run back up the gangplank with the rope. This man is totally thrilled. He grabs my hands, and we start to dance. He’s got big boots on, really thick leather. They look almost greasy. He’s showing me a jig and singing a whaling song. I practically see myself out on the ocean. We’re dancing around on the deck, really happy. He feels a question cross my mind, and we stop for a few seconds. I say, “I wonder why that guy is so mad at me.” And he goes, “Oh, it’s because you’re not in love with him.” I go, “Oh.” Then we start dancing again. He’s twirling me around, and I’m learning the songs, and the steps, and chanting and laughing so loud that I woke myself up. It could be six-seven years later, I get a knock at the door at my house. My friend Tall Oak from Rhode Island is there, and he’s got these long boxes with him. He comes in my house, and he says, “You’re going to like this. I’ve been down at D.C., at the National Archives,” and he says, “I have a bunch of photos.” He starts pulling out these photos. They’re archival photos. They’re beautiful. “These are Mashpee people. You might even be related to them.” So, he pulls out a bunch of them. I start looking through them, and there’s the man that was in the dream, and it’s my grandfather, Edward James—two pictures of him, a full face and a side. I didn’t know who the man was in the dream. It was actually my grandfather. Because I had that logbook, I saw the ports where they went down along South America. That’s a dream of mine to someday travel what I call the whale trail. I have been to South America but only to Ecuador. I haven’t been to the ports where my grandfather would have gone. I have been to Hawai‘i and a couple of islands there. They did the northwest coast as well. I met Amos Smalley when I was a kid. My grandmother,

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my father’s mother, we’d go over [to Martha’s Vineyard] on the ferry, and she’d leave me there on the docks at Oak Bluffs to hang out and wait for her to come back, and then we would go back to Mashpee. She knew somebody over there that I didn’t need to meet. So she left me there at the docks. This man, Amos Smalley, he was an old guy over there entertaining people. People would pay him, like they do musicians in Harvard Square, playing music or whatever, with their guitar box open. He was telling the story about how he killed Moby Dick, showing us his harpoon style, how he flung it. I worked also as a cultural resource monitor, which is basically a Native [who] would go out and represent the tribe, a federally recognized tribe. In South Mashpee, a piece of property was going to be bulldozed. They were going to clear all the trees for a golf course, or a driving range, or something. It doesn’t really matter. They got the permit. And so the archaeology was conducted, and there was a historic cellar hole. The old maps, which we have, show where our tribal people lived down there, and it’s very few—three houses in the south of Mashpee. There are hundreds of homes down there now, and golf courses, and all kinds of things. The site was the Sophronia Young homestead. Sophronia Young was not married, but she had substantial wealth in comparison to other unwed women. She had a horse, a barn, and a pretty good-sized house. She was quite political. I saw her name on petitions and things. She was definitely an active citizen of some prominence. The archaeologists are digging and shaking their screens, coming across all sorts of pharmaceutical bottles, things that survive the time. Outside what would have been the front of the house, we found a rare seashell that was from Hawai‘i. Then things started to make sense as to where this woman was getting all this money. She had a whaling sweetheart. He put money for her in the local store in Waquoit. 152 X CHAPTER 6

He was Native, but he was not from Mashpee. He was from the Vineyard. We did a lot of research. She was being taken care of and living comfortably, but there was a house fire. She lost her house. This entire story got revealed through the archaeology. I’ve had a romantic idea of whaling, but it all went awash when I read a couple of scholarly papers. One was from [Mark] Nicholas.3 There was that pride and bravery, but the Nicholas article showed me where it was economic entrapment. We were trapped, forced into this industry. Nobody really wanted to go. There were people who eventually warmed up to it and got good at it, and they got better pay. There were middlemen involved, the overseers, where I started to see “What a rigged deal.” And how many Indians died at sea—they were dispensable. On my mother’s father’s side, the Avant-Pocknet-Attaquin side of the family, one of my grandfathers on that side actually was a ship’s captain, Benjamin Attaquin. He sailed out of Plymouth harbor instead of New Bedford. The only story I’ve heard about it is from my great-grandmother, Mabel Avant. He was her grandfather. They would get in the wagon and go to the harbor to greet the ship when it came in. She lived where the Mashpee Museum is now. That was her home. That house was originally built for Richard Bourne, who was the original missionary back in the seventeenth century. I have Apess’s book, an original copy of Apess’s book that Benjamin Attaquin had, and he gave it to my great-grandmother, and she gave it to me. I’m very fond of her. So that’s why my grandfather could build the Attaquin Hotel with his brother Solomon. It was a glorious, huge, whopping thing. It employed a lot of people and had exotic woods in it. It was a place where presidents of the United States had stayed. So these guys had money. They made off well in the whaling industry, but not my grandfather

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Edward. He had a little house over there with his wife and a couple kids. There’s one more thing that I want to talk about with the whaling. I can’t prove it, but possibly with some effort it could be proven. I know that the Native whalers assisted taking enslaved Africans back to Africa. Those ships may very well have been Captain Benjamin’s ship, because we had a lot of sympathy and empathy for enslaved people. From the beginning, when slave ships were arriving here, we witnessed these thousands of people being mistreated. We smelled the ships from far away. We knew, and to witness that inhumanity affected us deeply. It was very frightening because it could also happen to us because we were not full-blown citizens, and we were clearly not of the dominant group. So we knew what they were capable of and that it could happen to us. So the empathy and concern about what was happening on those boats lived through the generations. And when we actually had ships that could take people back, we did it. I did a walking pilgrimage with a group of people in 1998. It was sponsored, or organized, by a Japanese Buddhist group from Amherst, Massachusetts, and they have a connection with Natives, too. That’s why I was involved. Their main practice is to drum and chant at spots on the planet where some human atrocity has occurred. And so they go wherever we have as human beings mistreated others in some horrible way. They cleanse the area so it doesn’t happen again. It’s something that Native people do, too, so I have an affinity for it. I was actually one of the advisors to the group. It was a year plan, with other people like Reverend Desmond Tutu and many others, African Americans and Africans. The walk went down the east coast and then to Cuba, Belize, Trinidad, Tobago, St. Croix, wherever people were enslaved and dropped off. And then we went to Cape Town and walked from Senegal to Cape Town. It was 154 X CHAPTER 6

a core group of maybe sixty-five people, but it swelled to hundreds walking through major cities like New York. We went to places where people were sold, like Faneuil Hall in Boston, where there are still the rings there—people were chained to them, and they were marketed. We chanted there and other places all down the coast. Horrible history. So we walked the entire way. We stayed in churches, schools. We walked fifteen miles a day generally. When we got to Richmond, Virginia, we were staying there at the Arthur Ashe Center. Two of us decided to go into town. Walking down the sidewalk, there was this African American elder lady who was coming towards us with a fishing rod and a little bucket. So I said, “Oh, did you catch anything?” She said, “Nothing.” We started talking. And so she said, “What are yo’ all doing down here?” So I told her about the walking pilgrimage. And she goes, “Where are you from?” I say, “I’m from Mashpee, Massachusetts.” At that time, I had long braids. She says, “So, you’re an Indian.” And I say, “Yeah.” She says, “Well, you know the Indians used to come and save us, take us out of here.” I knew the story at my end. But here’s this little lady. She’s part of their oral tradition. She goes, “Chappaquiddick. I know the code. It was Chappaquiddick.” She actually knew the code word. “If somebody said Chappaquiddick, we knew that Indian ship was going to come right over there.” She pointed to where there’s a little strip of land with some trees growing on it. Of course centuries back, there would have been probably more. “They’d pull up there.” On the plantations they had these little songs. In the songs it would be dotted through which night tide they were going to show up at, when the boat would be there, and they’d get on board and go.

Elizabeth James Perry and I talked in January 2012 in Dartmouth, Massachusetts, one of several towns, along with Fairhaven and

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Westport, in the vicinity of New Bedford and deeply influenced by the whaling and shipbuilding boom years of the nineteenth century. I then met with her again a few months later in Providence, Rhode Island, when I also spoke with her brother Jonathan Perry, whose oral history follows hers. Elizabeth and Jonathan work in the Tribal Historic Preservation Office for the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head (Aquinnah) on Martha’s Vineyard.

Elizabeth James Perry I am an enrolled member of the Aquinnah Wampanoag tribe and come from a family that was involved in the eighteenth/nineteenth century whaling industry, as well as centuries of involvement in near-shore and offshore whaling and fishing previous to that as coastal people here in New England. I grew up listening to older family members reminiscing about whalers who would stay at their houses and share stories. The knowledge that my grandmother Mayme Ruth James had of the whaling experience here came from several Wampanoag people from her husband’s line, specifically the Jameses and the Belains, here in the New Bedford and Martha’s Vineyard–Nantucket area. She had married my Wampanoag grandfather, Henry Gray James II, who was a pharmacist at Query’s Drugstore in New Bedford from the 1920s through 1950s. He and his older brother, Alonzo B. James, were at the time living in the household on Smith Street in New Bedford with their mother, Elizabeth Cuff James—Betsy Cuff as she’s more commonly known. Mayme lived with her mother-in-law from the 1920s onward. Betsy Cuff was born in 1868, and I think she died in 1964, when my mother was in her early twenties. I came along ten years later. Betsy had been born on Martha’s Vineyard in her community of Aquinnah. Her parents moved off island into the nearby Dartmouth–New Bedford area because they were 156 X CHAPTER 6

involved in whaling and in other Cuff family endeavors. Betsy’s mother, Melissa Belain, was a seamstress. They sent some of their children back to be raised by their grandparents—Sophia Peters and George Belain in Gay Head— while Melissa and her husband, whaler Levi Cuff, worked during the later half of the nineteenth century. Then, when their daughter Betsy was about twelve and her sister Nell (Eleanor) was fourteen, the girls left the island and went to work in the textile mills in New Bedford. Betsy worked for years and became an excellent seamstress in her own right. Betsy Cuff married Henry Gray James I, a whaler who came from a family of whalers on the island from Gay Head and Christiantown [fig. 18].4 Somewhere between 1897 and 1900, Henry Gray James died at sea. My grandmother said he died of Bright’s disease; she thought it had something to do with the water quality on board the ships. So he died fairly young. My grandmother said that my great-grandmother Betsy had had a dream one night that someone came to her door, and the next day someone did come to the door and told her that her husband had died, because the news had finally reached New Bedford. And I always remembered that. You get a sense, even though it’s a really brief story, of waiting, and the person just never came back. In a typical family pattern, she brought their two young sons, Henry and Alonzo James, back to the island to be raised by their grandparents. So my grandfather grew up there. My grandmother Mayme really loved to collect family histories. She had notebooks full of things, and unfortunately during a move her notebooks, letters and some of the logbooks from Uncle Joe, Joseph Belain, went missing. When my grandmother was living in my great-grandmother’s house, she said that “some of the James and their descendants who jumped a whaling ship in New Zealand used to write to your great-grandmother. I always thought she should write back, but she never had the time to.”

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Figure 18. Elizabeth Cuff James and her husband, Henry Gray James I, who was a whaleman around the early 1890s. They were members of the Aquinnah Wampanoag community. Photograph courtesy of Elizabeth James Perry.

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My grandmother told me about some stories that Uncle Joe had shared with her at the Smith Street house. He had a lifelong career at sea. When he wasn’t whaling, he was generally to be found either on the Vineyard in the Native community or in New Bedford, in his sister Melissa Belain’s house and niece Betsy Cuff James’s house. He related a story where one of the whaleships that went up into the Arctic ended up getting locked in the ice. So they couldn’t go anywhere, and the ship was being damaged. They had to leave the ship. She said that there were two groups: that some of the folks followed Uncle Joe to safety, and some of the folks followed the captain, and they died. She said that it had happened twice, that he had saved the crew, or part of the crew, and the captain on two occasions. One was on the Navarch. She expressed that he was very competent and was an excellent navigator. One of my cousins on the island—a Widdis—recently shared that he found an article about Joseph Belain in his later years campaigning to save the passenger pigeons. So I thought that was an interesting conservation ethic: the connection to creatures that travel, that have a sense of their home and how to navigate away from their home and back safely. I had always thought Uncle Joe was able to find his way out of those situations because he always knew where his home was, and always knew where he was in relation to that home. I remember, too, my aunt Merilyn said when my Uncle Joe died, he was buried at Gay Head, and seagulls landed on his coffin. Some years later I earned a degree in marine biology and worked in commercial fisheries research. Off the coast of Maryland, I had run out of things to read in my down time and went hunting around in the cabin where I found a book by Jennifer Niven, The Ice Master. The explorer [Vilhjalmur] Stefansson got iced in on the ship in the Arctic. The people he had with him working as scientists and

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explorers weren’t hardcore outdoorsmen with experience at sea or polar experience, so there was a lot of confusion and sadness during that journey. I remember thinking, “This explorer’s name sounds so familiar.” A few years ago, in with things my grandmother had given me, on the sheet with the whaling article about uncle Joseph Belain, is a little clipping from the newspaper that reported the explorer Stefansson had gone missing. It was something to remind me about the world that my uncle was whaling in, traveling all over, going into areas where only indigenous people had the skills and the knowledge to not only survive but to live very well. So I get reminders about those family connections and history from time to time.

Jonathan Perry My name is Jonathan Michael James Perry. That’s my full name—James, of course, being the Aquinnah Wampanoag family line that I come from. I suppose the story would begin when I was growing up with a bit of the knowledge and some of the stories in the family. Being a young man, I was interested in “weapons,” I have to admit, anything sharp, anything that I could throw or fire off a bow. Where I think a lot of kids were interested just in obtaining those sorts of things, I was actually interested in learning how to flint knap and learning how to make the things that our ancestors made. I was very lucky to have the yard and the household that could support being active and also having a Native community around— artisans, people in our extended family, and community members who were either giving classes or were welcoming in teaching us. Nanepashemet, Tony Pollard, taught me how to make bowls and things of that nature, using fire, and walked me through that process when I was younger. He also taught me many songs, dances, and various other 160 X CHAPTER 6

Wampanoag traditions. Then, when I went to work for the Wampanoag Indigenous Program at Plimoth Plantation, I already had a pretty good working knowledge of the tools and techniques that were typical for a Wampanoag person or a Wampanoag family in the 1600s. Working for the Native program at Plimoth and having the ability to work on those sorts of projects on a daily basis full-time gave me an opportunity that normally wouldn’t have been there. Working on a small project over a summer on my own is quite different to working five days a week on a project like making a dugout canoe. Let’s face it, dugouts—there’s not really a market for them, or it’s a very small market, mostly museums. Even the skill of how to make a dugout canoe isn’t widely known. There’s a lot of recordings from all over, but the ones that we looked at mostly were observations from Roger Williams, talking about how a man burnt down the chestnut tree, burnt the section off, burnt the top of the log off, then centralized the fire, and burned it hollow. And he did it all in ten to twelve days by himself. But Williams doesn’t talk about the size of the boat or what its use was. Was it an ocean-going vessel, versus the smaller river/pond/lake boat? So that information is missing, unfortunately, but there are other observations around the country. Some folks talk about boats being made in as little as six days in the Great Lakes region, for instance. It’s one thing to be able to read a document about someone who observed how to make a boat by fire. It’s a whole other situation when you’re dealing with that fire and using it as a tool, and understanding all the little tricks: how you process it; what’s the right time, thickness and weight; what size tree and what to look for; what problems might arise while you’re making it. When you make those vessels, you try to burn them using the fire as your main tool, and you try to burn them so that they have a built-in ballast system,

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so they sit right in the water, but they’re thin on the sides. You don’t want them to be too heavy, but at the same time, you certainly don’t want to go too thin. You have to make sure the bottom is heavier than the sides, and it’s best if you make them and set them in the water so they absorb a little bit of water prior to making any trip because you want to limit the boat’s tendency to roll for obvious reasons. They’re typically double-ended. It’s not a bow and stern system. You have the ability to just completely reverse direction, and you’ll be as efficient going one way as you will the other. It’s useful because you don’t have to turn these vessels around. Launching from a beach is always difficult because of the cresting of the waves, so you want something that can just be put into the water. Or if you have to put in for a minute, you can get right out. You don’t have to try to turn the vessel and put yourself in a difficult position. Traditionally, we did have docks and harbors and places that were marked in known locations for people to bring their boats in. But to put in on a difficult beach—if a storm comes up and you’ve got to make a bee-line for the nearest beach, get your boat up off the shoreline and wait it out—a double-ended canoe worked best. It has no keel system, so you’re working basically off a weighted ballast system. No keel makes it maneuverable, but you also have to understand how to paddle it, control it, and steer it because of that reason. I have probably produced around twenty-six or twenty-seven dugout canoes, either in part or almost wholly myself. I worked on the two that are on the grounds of the Aquinnah Cultural Center, the finished one that’s probably around twelve to fifteen years old and one that is still in process. It’s being shaped, hollowed, and formed now. That one I’ve worked on many times as well as having brought in some of our relatives. The after-school program and the Turtle Program, the summer Native camp program for our 162 X CHAPTER 6

community, work on the boat, and I talk to them about it. They help scrape it out, and they get excited to get soot all over themselves. They’re great kids. I talk to them about whaling history and life on the sea and instill in them an idea of this long-term cultural connection and to be proud of that connection. I journeyed on the ocean in numerous dugout canoes that I worked to produce. The vessel that went to Martha’s Vineyard in 2002 was a twenty-foot boat that we made specifically for that, along with a thirty-foot boat, and I worked on making both of those vessels. It was done through funding from a private donor. That was a really interesting experience to help organize and participate in that trip. We had Pequot tribal members, Narragansett tribal members, Wampanoag from both Aquinnah and Mashpee, and Micmac. We left from Falmouth, where Green Pond feeds out to the beach. We went straight across to Tashmoo Beach on the island. So it was not an exact direct line and not the shortest distance because there are riptides and features in the water that you have to be careful of, especially when you don’t have a lot of freeboard [the part of the hull above the waterline] and you’re under hand power. It is one of the more dangerous tracks. People in kayaks have thought, “Oh, it’s not far, I can just kayak,” and they get swept out to sea and have to be rescued at times. So it was a difficult situation. Not having had experience making that trip, we didn’t know what to expect. We talked to folks who traveled back and forth in small power vessels and folks who had successfully kayaked. But you add in the weight of a dugout and the lack of sails, it added a level of difficulty. From pushing out to landing and stowing our equipment on Tashmoo Beach, it took us about one hour and forty minutes. It was assumed that it would take a longer period of time, so we surprised everyone who went on the

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ferry and met us on the other side. We actually were sitting around on the beach for quite some time before our welcoming party showed up. The plan was that folks were going to be there and sing and meet us. Well, in the time it took them to get over to the ferry and cross and drive to the beach, we were already there and relaxing. So the welcoming party was welcomed by us, which was amusing. We had ideal circumstances: it was a beautiful day. There was a riptide, and we had a small rogue wave that came out of nowhere. It had to be about four to five feet high. There’s a video on YouTube now with a really good shot of my vessel and the three of us—Darius Coombs, Jim Peters, and myself—paddling along [fig. 19].5 The wave comes. We don’t even see it. We’re looking off to the right, and it came from the left. There were short waves that we were cutting in at a 45-degree angle or so. We were tracking along quite nicely, and that wave hit us. Before we even knew what was happening, the boat allowed the wave to pass under us without any problems. We didn’t even have a drop splash in the boat. From the chase vessel that was filming us, the entire boat disappears entirely and then comes back up. We adjusted our bodies to it as you would in any kind of vessel. Being in that situation, I realized, that’s probably why we didn’t have keels traditionally because it wouldn’t have functioned in that fashion if it was fighting that water. If it was a keeled vessel, it would have immediately started to turn the boat into the waves. It just rolled right with it and sat perfectly. I think it could only be better if we were better equipped and had a greater working knowledge of how to use a dugout in the open ocean. If you’re out in the open ocean in canoes, I don’t think there is much that you couldn’t do if you had the skills. Sometimes hundreds of vessels were in bays actively involved in fishing or doing different things. We had up to sixty-, seventy-foot vessels with forty-man crews that our ancestors 164 X CHAPTER 6

Figure 19. Pictured from left to right are Darius Coombs, Jonathan Perry, and Jim Peters on their way to Martha’s Vineyard in a mishoon (dugout canoe) in 2002. Courtesy Plimoth Plantation, Plymouth, MA.

sailed. They had anchor mounts, harpoon mounts, anchors, and probably holds or some system to maintain water and resources for emergencies or long journeys. And a dugout canoe doesn’t sink. I’d be more concerned with a birchbark canoe and its ability to carry a crew than a dugout just because of the strength of the materials and the fact that even submerged it will float, and you can hold on. But also our people could swim great distances. Roger Williams says that he was in a boat miles out to sea afraid that he would end up having to tread water, and when the Native folks he was with noticed that he was nervous, he explained he couldn’t swim. They said, “Oh, well, don’t be afraid. We’ll just carry you.” So for them to realize that they’re miles out to sea and confident that they could just carry this person and themselves miles into shore, I

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don’t get the impression that folks were terribly afraid of the ocean or incapable physically. We used songs and stories that went along with our vessels. Part of navigating was the songs because it set up the paddle-speed and recorded the distance. So you had so many verses, and then it would change. You knew based upon where you were in the song where you were in your journey, and you knew what adjustments you had to make based upon what the water looked like and tides. So it was a very complex and intricate system that isn’t studied or acknowledged in any way by most historians today. Part of the story is understanding the environment and the resources that were available to us. We have beautiful lands that abutted the sea, bays, and peninsulas, and natural formations that made Wampanoag lands ideal for developing a whaling industry. We have the Cape and the long hook out into the ocean. We have the islands with great channels between them and a lot of resources because of the north and south currents colliding, so the fish populations and the natural resources are ideal for a habitat for whales. It was the Native people here—our knowledge, our harpoon designs, and our vessels themselves—that impacted how the whaling industry formed and how offshore whaling became a profitable, functional system. But in telling the story of the whaling industry, the Native side of it is just overlooked or isn’t deemed important by a lot of people who have studied it or written about it. We had a whaling system, or a maritime system in general, long before European people ever came to the shores here. And even known Native people who were very influential and very successful in the whaling industry were just completely left out of the record, or they were named but not identified as Native people. There’s a great deal of sadness connected with the whaling industry because of the impact it had on our community and how our community functioned. Some of the sadness 166 X CHAPTER 6

around whaling is the fact that our knowledge and our system participated in an industry that almost wiped out the species, and I think that must have had some serious effects on how people perceived their own activity in that industry. I can only imagine what it must have been like to be our great-grandfather or our great-great-great-grandfather— all of the various people in our family—and their success on the sea, but at the same time I’m sure every single time that people went out, every voyage, they noted that there was less and less. That couldn’t have gone unnoticed, not from people who came from a Native community who still were adhering to traditional practices, maintaining even to some degree the language, things that were under attack from the 1600s on. So you couldn’t really be that closely connected to the community and the knowledge and not acknowledge those sorts of things. Beyond that, there’s an ancient history that would have been a joy. It would have been a very important process and connection to the ocean and to powerful beings that travel great distances and do things that the human body just could never do: swimming to depths and living in the freezing waters. I think our people looked at a lot of things on this earth in a greater fashion than just to say “Oh, that’s a food resource.” Yes, we hunted whales on occasion, but we celebrated and rejoiced at their coming in the spring and their travel and migration and probably bid them farewell in the winters when they moved on and were saddened like you would be saddened with the leaving of family members. So there’s a great respect there. At Aquinnah, Dartmouth, and Westport—really important places for our family—there’s been such a change from when I was young. The fishing industry has changed, and vessel activity along the coast has changed. I think in some instances whales have become a little more comfortable in places that they once frequented. I’m on the island

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frequently and active in the community, working at the Aquinnah Cultural Center and museum and on the board of directors of the Aquinnah Cultural Center as well. Every time I go there, if I possibly can do this, I go up to the cliffs, and I just look out. Even if it’s just a few minutes, even if it’s in the dead of winter, that’s what I do. So one day I did that, my usual routine: I had a quick break, I went up, I got something to drink and something small to eat at one of the Native shops right there, and then I went up and looked out from the high point lookout area right by what used to be called Ring Rock. I looked out and down, and there’s this big silhouette in the water. It’s just moving around, and then a fin came out and slapped a little bit. It was just doing its thing, spouting a little bit. I may have seen them before and not even realized because of course the water—depending on how much wind there is, how much churn there is, and how much clay there is—it’s hard to sometimes even see in the water there. But that was the first time I’ve looked out and there was a whale—a nice, clear day, and there was a whale just playing below the cliffs. It was a powerful moment for me. It brought things into perspective with our oral traditions, the Moshup stories, even our tribe’s concept of Moshup wading from what was called Moshup’s Den at the cliffs right out into the sea. In my mind, I always envisioned Moshup going right out from the cliffs, directly straight out, going for a whale there. Every time I saw a depiction of Moshup, that’s always what I envisioned, and there, right where I would have expected Moshup to wade, is this whale. It strengthened my connection to those stories. I’ve traveled a lot and spent time with a lot of Native people on this continent, and sitting on the beach or looking out over the cliffs into the sea, I have to still say that our tribal lands are my favorite. I really can’t say that I’ve ever been any place that I thought was better than home.

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7 Shinnecock Oral Histories

I met with Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile at her home on the Shinnecock Indian Nation Reservation in July 2011, shortly after her eighty-first birthday. She has long been an active supporter of the Shinnecock Nation Cultural Center and Museum and serves as its vice president.

Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile I’m connected to this place by the fact of my ancestors having lived here for over three thousand years, long before the scientists discovered the three-thousand-year-old artifacts in Shinnecock Hills. We believe that we have lived here since the Ice Age, since time in this area supported human life. We were those humans, and we lived off whatever was here and have continued to do so. Our family members dug oysters and clams and fished the waters. At sunrise or sunset, they were out there securing seafood. That’s how I was brought up. My mom and dad lived in this house here on the Shinnecock Reservation. Before that, they lived in Southampton Township, just outside the town of Riverhead. Our family

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owned acres of property that belonged to us, and various relatives lived on pieces of it. My dad built his automobile business there, which was profitable and put us through school. My grandmother and grandfather lived on the same property. They say it is a very fortunate person who is brought up by one’s grandparents. We children spent many hours over at my grandmom’s. My grandfather and my dad worked together in the auto repair business. My father and grandfather would “surf-cast” after work from the shore at a place where a narrow stream of the Peconic Bay would funnel fish through. Our whole family would be ready at the end of the day to go to the beach while the men surf-cast for seasonal schools of fish. Great-grandfather “went to sea,” as they used to say. This was the term used to explain the years away from home spent on the ocean. The whaling days were largely over by that time, but fishing on the high seas was still done. Knowledge of metalwork and blacksmith skills were valued on the ships and fishing fleets where Shinnecock and Montauk men worked. They knew these skills, as well as finger weaving to repair fishing nets and basket weaving to create eel basket traps. Whenever I lecture to children, I take a map of Long Island so that they can see for themselves that it is shaped like a whale. I think that our people felt that this was a great whale, Paumanauk, and we all lived on it. Each of the thirteen tribal communities had access to shoreline, which was fair to all. Shinnecock territory was just west of the Montauk villages and just east of the Unkechaug villages. They were all one people, speaking the same language, which was an Algonquian language. Similar speech was known from Virginia all the way to Maine and west across Canada. They could communicate, and they knew what was going on. The best means of transportation would have been a dugout canoe, to reach everybody in a timely way. They say 170 X CHAPTER 7

that Long Island Sound was no wider than a river between Connecticut and Long Island, which would be an easy canoe ride. Now it is eleven miles across from here to there. One whale per year was enough. One or two whales, with any luck, would feed the village for the winter. Traditionally, Shinnecock people did not need more than this. They used whale oil, but not as the modern industry did. We learned the English language and adopted modern ways, and our men found employment on the whaleboats. They loved being out at sea and knew the land, the shorelines, the islands and had excellent navigational skills. Why were they there? Because Shinnecocks were the best sailors you could find. They knew their way around, in the fog, in the night, in all kinds of danger and stress. They knew the characteristics of fishing out at sea, on the high seas as well as in the streams and the bays. Some had been up and down the east coast. Whaling became one of the ways of making a living. There are houses on Shinnecock that were built with “whaling money,” about two hundred years ago. Most of them have fallen down. The house next to mine was built by Wickham Cuffee in the 1800s. Uncle Wick, himself, was born in a wigwam. Miss Edna’s house, a saltbox style, has been reinforced and is still standing [fig. 20]. Granny Beck’s house stood until last year. Edna Walker (Wakus) Eleazer lived in one of the old houses. Her father was on the Circassian when it went down. The Circassian was an English ship bringing cargo from England to New York City in 1876. It became beached at Mecox Bay, on the south side of Long Island, near Southampton. Shinnecock men were called to rescue it, but the ship was destroyed by a storm, taking ten Shinnecock men with it. The tragedy struck the families of the whalers and the entire Southampton community at that time, and effects are still felt on the families of Shinnecock today.

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Figure 20. Red Thunder Cloud probably took this photograph of “Miss Edna’s house” in 1938. He believed this house was the oldest on the reservation, built sometime around 1850. “Old Home on the Shinnecock Reservation,” courtesy East Hampton Library, Long Island Collection.

Recently, a finback whale washed up on the dunes south of the reservation. A baby humpback beached here a year ago. A group of us from the reservation went to pay our respects to the whale and to honor its life. We began to sing to it. It was not dead. I looked right at its wonderful eye. The whale lifted its head, we finished our ceremony, and then the whale rested. These stories help us retain the connection between our Shinnecock people and the whales of the ocean, a gift from the Great Spirit, to us. Shellfish still live in the Shinnecock Bay, but our modern aquaculture has provided a new economy with oysters 172 X CHAPTER 7

and clams being raised in the hatchery on the reservation. Our Shinnecock youth study marine biology and oceanography. Shinnecock Museum has revived the building of the dugout canoe. We participate in intertribal canoe journeys and look forward to many ways to continue to express this great love of the waters around us. Many years ago in Minneapolis, I heard the beautiful music of the Thunder Bird Sisters and have attended several more of their performances over the years. Then, just as I was starting on this project, I had the good fortune to meet one of the trio, Holly Haile Davis, who happened to work at the Sag Harbor Whaling Museum. I spoke with Holly and her mother, Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile, the same evening in July 2011, and so this oral history begins with Holly Haile Davis’s reflections on some of her mother’s comments recorded in the previous oral history.

Holly Haile Davis I’m Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile’s eldest daughter. I currently work at the Sag Harbor Whaling and Historical Museum in Sag Harbor, and at the same time I’m a docent at the Shinnecock Nation Cultural Center and Museum here on the reservation. At the time of his death, my grandfather, Chief Thunder Bird, my mom’s dad, I considered him my best friend. I would cook for him and take him to the grocery store. He taught me how to converse more meaningfully with elders in our culture. Elders are to be held in very high esteem, so much so that you sometimes don’t learn how to really talk to them or even ask them questions because of the regard that we have for each other. But my grandfather taught me how to talk to old people, and I was very thankful for that. I’m the only woman in my family of my age, my generation, who is not a grandmother yet. So I have a lot of stuff for the

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grandkids who are coming up, and these will be some of the things that I share with them. The Circassian is such a pivotal point in Shinnecock history. I think certainly 1640, things started going downhill. Then, 1876, Circassian changes the face of everything. The 1938 hurricane changes the face of everything, and the deaths that we remember. And then 1946, the beginning of the Powwow. I was not born for any of those, but if I can look at my personal Shinnecock timeline, those four dates stand out in Shinnecock history. And I think Circassian did eclipse any whaling focus that we may have had because so many of the men involved in that and the families involved in that, their whole world turned upside down in 1876. And so that would be a part of the whaling as much as anything else is. We don’t talk about whaling without talking about Circassian. After Circassian, it’s hard to think about what was normal for life, and what was the livelihood of these men. It led to not only their demise but a financial challenge to this community from which we have never recovered. I started making those comparisons after 9/11, thinking of the suburban cities around New York City who lost a percentage of their population on 9/11 who were breadwinners in their communities. How do they come back from that? Because it was the rescue people who became so injured in 9/11, that’s a parallel to the Circassian. It was the rescue people who ended up dying in the Circassian. The people who were originally on the boat were brought to safety, and then there was this salvage effort. But the economic impact goes on long after the event is even forgotten. I always wanted to work in the Sag Harbor Whaling and Historical Museum since I was a young adult. I would go by, and I would sometimes stop in the gift shop just to see the scrimshaw. Dave Cory, my friend—he’s gone now, but he was the president of the museum’s board for many years, and 174 X CHAPTER 7

he gave the tours. He was a man that I would see daily as I worked there over these past four years, and every time I had a discussion with Dave Cory I would learn something, usually about seafaring life but there were other connections because his father was well known in Brooklyn Mohawk communities and spoke Mohawk and did translating. He would always be someone that I would go to see at the museum. And in the winter of 2007 or ’08, I was still trying to find jobs in my own field, which of course never came to me. I was an ordained minister for twenty-five years, and now I’m retired from that field. So looking for work, I see “Clerk at the Whaling Museum.” I applied, and I was not hired. It begins in May, and a few weeks into June, I got a telephone call from my now boss, Lynette, and she said, “I’m calling from the museum, and I’m wondering, are you still interested in this job?” And I said, “Of course I am. Is it still available?” Come to find out, they had hired someone else, and this other person didn’t work out. So they were, pun intended, high and dry, and didn’t have anybody. After impressing the staff, my boss said to me, “Holly, you’re a gem,” and I said, “And you didn’t hire me.” She had the sense to laugh. But I’ve been there four years, and I just love it. I wish the people in that community, in the Sag Harbor community (the outside community, or non-Native community, is what I mean), would value their connection to this history. I think that one of the reasons that they don’t is that it’s not chi-chi, it’s not Hamptons, it’s not fashionable. Okay, but who can live on a diet of fashion? No culture can live on a diet of fashion. I know why the Shinnecock Museum can’t get on two feet financially, because we’re poor people. So I got that. But we’re in a community over there that has plenty, plenty, plenty money, and yet the appreciation of that history is not there. So why that museum is rattling around a tin cup, I don’t know. Old historical and meaningful things are left to us and are

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entrusted to us. The Sag Harbor Museum is in a house that knocks your socks off. People aren’t making 1840s houses anymore. We need to do whatever we can to preserve the ones that are there and the stories that go along with that. It helps us reach into the future from these two communities who don’t seem to have in modern fashion any relationship. The reservation is sitting over here on the side trying to be ignored, and the whites are waiting for us to disappear. And yet we have in common this history which is ours to share if we can both get to the same place and appreciate it at the same time. That’s part of why I feel drawn to that museum. These are the same people in the same story that relates to the history of my Shinnecock people. I like to tell folks who visit me in the Sag Harbor Whaling Museum, that it’s telling two sides of one story, a Native side to it and a non-Native side to it. I find whaling very typical of our current relationship, very mixed up in the economics and the power of the politics of the day: who has the means and the land and who keeps not having any means or any land or a bright future. What is left from that whaling history is not as far away from us as we might think in a modern day when you see all the Rolls Royces and Bentleys and all of this in the Hamptons. That disparity remains. The house over in Sag Harbor where the museum is housed is an 1845 opulent, gaudy, over-decorated mansion, with Minard Lafever as the architect. He put Corinthian columns in the parlor and Italian marble. The house is breathtaking today, and it’s 131 years old. Ship owners like Benjamin Huntting, who built the house the Sag Harbor Museum is in, had the biggest take out of any of these journeys that came back successful, a huge, disproportionate take. The house that I work in daily announces that over and over again. The feeling in such lavish surroundings reminds you that what’s most important to someone who would build a house like that is money. And so money then 176 X CHAPTER 7

becomes the only yardstick by which to measure anything. Mr. Huntting’s house represents exploitation: exploitation of the animal most assuredly, exploitation of the whalemen, exploitation of the men who were in charge of the whalemen, first and second mates, and of the captain, who was also being exploited because he was out there doing this dirty work while this man’s home counting his money. People will come into the museum, and they’ll say, “Was this a whaleman?” I’ll say, “His hands only got dirty from counting his money. Please, don’t think that he ever got any grease on his fingers.” There are two sides to the phrase there was a Shinnecock Indian aboard a whaling ship. We say Shinnecock, but that would include Unkechaug because of their participation in the whaling, and the Montauks as well. But by the time it got down to me being born in the 1960s, it was very romantic. Not a ship left the shore of Long Island without a Shinnecock on board to guide it. And that sounds so wind-in-your-hair, looking out to sea, but I have come to learn that there was a restriction and that the Indian crews and whalemen were not allowed to organize to themselves become a part of this business. They had to be employees or whalemen under the white companies. One of the things that remains true about life on the reservation is that you cannot obtain a mortgage. This is 2011, and I cannot obtain a mortgage. In 1840, you could not obtain a mortgage. So you would have to get what they call a sign-on bonus today. There were whalemen who would sign on to a ship and receive money. You would need a little, two dimes to rub together, to build a house all at once. Even that remains true today. So when I think about houses built with whale money, that’s a direct link to me. Miss Edna’s house, built with whale money, was a small saltbox house. The Shinnecock house next door to us, built with whale money, is smaller, just a frame house.

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We keep propping it up about every ten years. Most of the Shinnecock houses were these small frame houses. I call it the Shinnecock shack, which is a very small building, often two stories, because that way you have your heat. We didn’t need the money as much as we needed the house. If someone has set up a new arrangement, and now I can’t just chop down my tree and build a house, I have to go to someone else who chops down trees and pay him to build my house. All right, we’re adaptable. Native people are very adaptable. I think that it has never changed our relationship with this whale. Many tribes can understand when I say the whale was our buffalo. When you had buffalo, everybody ate. When we had a whale, everybody ate. It was for everything. The fins and tails were important to us in historic times for religious practices. You only needed one whale to feed the whole community. So drift whaling, of course, was probably most of the time sufficient. That’s what gets lost in the whole circle of what we call whale industry because of course our relationship with the whale didn’t have anything to do with industry or with money prior to the whites coming here. Yes, Shinnecock men were whalers. They probably would rather have gotten one whale and fed everybody as to go away for four years to build these people their ridiculous houses. But it means that there’ll be food on the table, and we can still live on our land, which has been our greatest accomplishment as Shinnecock people. To be on the same land for three thousand years, whatever it costs to do that, we’ve decided to do. The Shinnecock men helped the white men make money. Other Native tribes and their men did not help white men make money. And so they paid with their lives for it mostly because they would remove you, or they would exterminate you or take up arms against you. But uniquely here, because these two groups of men became useful to each other in terms of economics, I call 178 X CHAPTER 7

that one of the reasons that we were allowed to live because we could be here helping them to make the money. All working-class people share this. We have helped to increase the coffers of the wealthy people, and yet we go without simple things such as being able to walk over to the ocean. I didn’t know that the ocean belonged to any one race of people. But in Southampton you find out quickly, you cannot park here unless you have a village permit or unless you have a town permit or unless you have paid somebody other than the Shinnecock Indians to stick your feet in or even glimpse the Atlantic Ocean. We’re on a peninsula currently and surrounded on three sides by water and very happy to be so. We found our sustenance from the water. When we were “relegated to the Neck” in 1859, it was to be out of sight and out of mind and hopefully to disappear. And yet we were able to grow in our beautiful soil, and we’re able to eat clams and fish from our waters. So that connection is very strong, and when we are remembering the seafaring history of our people, just because it went from a way to feed our families to a way to make money for our neighbors does not diminish that connection. When we are talking about whale conservation or songs of humpbacks or all of these things, they are very close to us because of who we have been. I’m not against the Inupiat people [of northern Alaska] eating gray whale. I am so thankful that they are still able to live in a way that their ancestors lived, and therefore be as healthy as they can in the modern world. And when the Makah people of the west coast won again the right to whale and were able to have a whale hunt before the last people who knew how to do it passed away, that’s very important. Sometimes people will come into the Sag Harbor Museum when I’m there, and after we get talking, then I’ll talk about my Shinnecock connection. They will say, “Oh,

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will the Shinnecocks ever fight for the right to whale again?” And I think that we are so far from being able to take care of ourselves in this modern world, that that is something that is not on the horizon. But I think that our connection remains and meeting people from cultures who do whale is very interesting to us. We don’t feel—speaking for myself, I guess I should say I do not feel—that we are part of a culture that exploits and decimates in order to live. Yes, we’re neighbors with that kind of culture that is going on today. We’re exploiting all over the world and decimating, for money, for nothing more meaningful than money. But I do not see a contradiction in our relationship to this whale who fed us and how we were able then to be in that industry and live peacefully with our European neighbors who were doing it solely for the money. So I don’t know how you explain that, but that’s one of the things that is not a contradiction to me. I would eat muktuk [whaleskin with blubber]. If I am ever lucky enough to go to Barrow and have muktuk, I will enjoy that, and my DNA will remember having eaten that. But I certainly wouldn’t want my neighbors to go back to whaling with the same kind of vengeance that they go after their wealth. When I spoke with David Bunn Martine in July 2011 at the Shinnecock Nation Cultural Center and Museum on the Shinnecock Reservation on Long Island, he was then director of the museum. As he mentions in his interview, much of his knowledge of Shinnecock and Montauk history he learned from his grandmother, Alice Osceola Bunn Martinez. Some of that knowledge he recorded in oral histories he conducted with her in the 1980s. He has given permission for part of that oral history to be included here, so we will start by hearing Alice Martinez’s reminiscences of her grandfather, David W. Bunn, followed by David Bunn Martine’s own oral history from 2011.

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Alice Osceola Bunn Martinez Great-grandfather was James Bunn. James Bunn married Harriet Walker. The original name was Waukus which was an old Shinnecock Indian word. We don’t know when or where it was changed to Walker. I imagine James Bunn was born here. Those people at that time didn’t go very far afield the way we do today. The furthest I guess they ever went was down to “the harbor” [Sag Harbor] where the whaling boats went out. His son was David W. Bunn, who spent most of his early life at sea. In those days there was no Panama Canal—they had to go “around the horn”—the southern point of South America. They went to the South Pacific or up in the Arctic Circle where the big whale were. Many people described what kind of person David Bunn, my grandfather, was. He was six foot four, with long auburn hair, very straight in carriage. He was very upright in character. Many people had a lot of respect for him. My father always called him “Father” with great respect and affection even at twelve years of age. He was the first mate of the Lagoda and the Northern Lights.1 They sailed from Sag Harbor and also went to New Bedford, Mass. There was no method to bring back people on shipboard who died—so they had to bury them at sea wherever they were. I had one great-uncle who was buried on the island of St. Helena where Napoleon was exiled. His name was William Cuffee. He was my grandmother’s brother. Another great-uncle, Charles Bunn, was buried in Greenland. David Bunn had a captain’s license but he never sailed as captain. He was first mate. He had to have a captain’s license so that if something happened to the captain he would be qualified to take over. Petroleum had been discovered so whale oil wasn’t as much in demand as it had been. It was so hard to get out and back again—he decided to come home and farm. He said, “His children were growing up around him.” The last was small; he wanted his children to be near him.

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My grandfather made several things: we had an ivory hand he carved in 1865 the year my father, Charles Bunn, was born as the oldest son. He knew that when he arrived home he would see his baby for the first time. It had a gold ring on the finger and was very realistically carved as the head of an ebony cane which he had gotten somewhere in the South Pacific. He brought that back to my grandmother. He also had a sword with shark’s teeth but I never saw that. My father just told us about it. In 1876 Grandfather was home and a ship called Circassian came ashore off Bridgehampton just a few miles from shore. He with ten other men went down there to get the boat off from the shore. All the men were drowned. Out of the eleven men, five were in our family. The captain did not allow the men to come ashore during a lull in the storm. One man got off the ship, but the rest stayed there a couple of weeks before the ship broke up, and they were all lost. When his wife, my grandmother, was told about it, she started to cry and whimper. She was left with six children, and Uncle Oscar was a baby of only nine months. My great-grandmother was living and she was a very stouthearted, stalwart kind of person. She knew there was a job to be done and she was ready to take her part at doing it. So she told my grandmother, “Cease your weeping, woman. There’s time enough for that. There’s work to be done.” She took over and ran things until things leveled off for them. That was Mary Ann Cuffee. They found six of the men right away. Grandfather was the first body they found. Then, they found others. The other men they didn’t find till the spring of the year after the storms had subsided. They found the other four near Montauk on Napeague Beach. They buried them later on. They are buried in a semicircle on the reservation.

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David Bunn Martine This is my tenth year as director at the Shinnecock Nation Cultural Center and Museum. I’m an artist, as well as having been a teacher. I still teach on occasion. I lead tours. I design exhibitions. I’m a painter. We do a lot of different work here at the museum. I also work at other nonprofit organizations. American Indian Artists, Incorporated, is one. AMERINDA, it’s called. My background is Shinnecock and Montauk. On my mother’s side is Native American—Shinnecock, Montauk, and the Fort Sill Chiricahua Apache Tribe, located in Oklahoma. My father is Hungarian, from Budapest. I was born and raised in Southampton, New York, and currently live on the reservation. As far as my academic background, I graduated Southampton High School, attended the University of Oklahoma, and received a Bachelors of Fine Arts degree. Then I went to the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe and studied in the museum training program and finally wound up obtaining a master’s degree in art education at Central State University in Edmond, Oklahoma, which is currently called the University of Central Oklahoma. Since that time I’ve been interpreting mostly Shinnecock and Long Island Native American history through painting, trying to depict historical scenes that are accurate but also educational and powerful in their own right, and also aesthetically good art, so to speak. I’ve always been interested in history. I was raised to a large extent by my grandmother, Alice Osceola Bunn Martinez. She was a daughter of Charles Sumner Bunn and the granddaughter of David Waukus Bunn, who was a whaler of Shinnecock and Montauk heritage. So I grew up learning a lot of stories from my grandmother. She was a very good historian. She had a long memory, and she liked to talk. The family had a gift shop, and we interacted with the

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public a lot. She liked to relate stories of her grandfather very often to anyone who was interested. So I absorbed a lot of these stories through my childhood and through most of my life, and then I tried to research more detail later. Going to college, living away from where I grew up, increased my interest in my history back here for some reason, and I started reading more books in libraries about Shinnecock and Montauk history. I found more information away from here, in the big university libraries, sometimes more interesting things that I couldn’t find locally, and I wanted to try to use that information in some of my artwork. My grandmother’s grandfather, David W. Bunn, was, I guess, born on the reservation here. We knew in the family that he sailed on a few ships, namely the Lagoda and the Northern Lights. Those are the two that my grandmother had recalled. He seemed to have sailed as first mate most of the time. I don’t think he ever sailed as captain. My grandmother specifically said she asked her father about her grandfather, about the kind of person he was, and the common idea about sailors—that they’re really rough and tough people that like to curse a lot and are not especially cultured. Her father said that his father, David W. Bunn, wasn’t like that. He was cultured, and he didn’t curse. He had the idea that a person wasn’t much of a man if he had to resort to using bad language. David W. Bunn was also an artist, a craftsman. We have a photograph of David Bunn with a sailing ship next to him [fig. 21], so maybe he made ship models. If you look at the picture, it looks a lot like the Lagoda. I don’t know if he did in fact make the ship model, but what he did make was a black ebony cane with an ivory fist at the top of it. I painted a picture of it. A fist on canes was a popular design, but his rendering of a hand with a gold ring on it was so realistic. It was the best kind of carving you could find. It had a round scalloping wrist band that was black, and then the fist itself 184 X CHAPTER 7

was ivory. The ebony cane itself was lost, but we had the head for many years. If you see any depiction of a hand in scrimshaw, they’re usually a little rough looking. They look a little distorted. But his was perfectly proportioned as a hand. So that was a wonderful piece of craftsmanship that he created. We had that in the family, but it was stolen from our gift shop. I often thought I might run across it sometime in some other shop, which I never did. We also had in our personal collection at one time several sperm whale teeth. My uncle David, my mother’s brother, was an artist, a very top artist, and he put scrimshaw on these old teeth that we had. We had three teeth as I recall, and we had a whale oil lamp that was in possession of the family at one time. It looked like a little thing about the size of the palm of your hand, a roundish kind of thing made of clay, and it had a little hole in it and a little thing for a wick. We had those teeth and that lamp on display for the public in our gift shop, but they were stolen from us years ago. We still have in the family—it’s in a case in the museum—a piece of ivory. It looks like a flat plank, about a half-inch thick, fan-shaped piece of ivory, something they would have used maybe for corset stays back in the Victorian period. It was never finished. It was never used for anything, but it’s a big, unfinished piece of white ivory. David W. Bunn’s son, Charles Sumner Bunn, was a professional guide and hunter, and also inherited the artistic flair for carving. He was one of the top shorebird, waterfowl, duck carvers in the United States. He inherited that great skill probably from his father. It was in the family, the artistic sensibility, the appreciation for education and cultural things. Many Native peoples did not have the opportunity for higher education in the 1800s, but Charles Sumner Bunn went to New Paltz Normal School, it was called, and graduated there. He got a very good education, studied the classics and enjoyed reading Shakespeare. He knew a lot of

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Figure 21. David W. Bunn with a ship model, possibly of the Lagoda. Courtesy of David Bunn Martine.

people. He worked with and worked as a guide to many wellknown people, wealthy people in the Southampton summer colony here. He also had a catboat and took people in boating parties across the bay. Not many people had boats in 186 X CHAPTER 7

those years. He knew Kermit and Quentin Roosevelt, Teddy Roosevelt’s kids (I think he taught them to sail or to hunt), Christian Herder, who was secretary of state later. Charles Sumner Bunn said he had a visitor after World War II, who had been in the South Pacific and said he’d met somebody in Penrhyn Island, Daniel David Kellis, who as a young man had come from the reservation. He knew a lot of the names here, and the man was surprised to find a Shinnecock Indian way out in middle of the South Pacific. So he never came back home. He was the magistrate of the island. He had been there for years. I guess he married into the local community, I assume maybe the indigenous community, but I don’t know. He was telling him about the tribe and about the reservation. He left as a boy or a young man. My grandmother talked a great deal more about her father, Charles Sumner Bunn, than her grandfather, David W. Bunn, because she never knew her grandfather. David Bunn wound up dying in December 1876 on the Circassian shipwreck. At that time, whaling had pretty much died out, and they had retired, but they were hired back by this company to salvage freight from this metal, iron-clad sail ship with steam capability. They were hired because historically they were very good sailors, and I guess it was good work. He was only in his forties, forty-three or forty-four. It was a very dramatic end to a very full life. My grandmother always used to say that we taught the English settlers how to whale. We met the people of Lynn, Massachusetts, when they came in 1640 and, like at Plymouth, taught them everything they needed to know to survive the first few years. We were very friendly with the first settlers. Our people had historically hunted the whale, or first it was drift whaling. The right whale evidently was so numerous around these areas that they occasionally beached themselves, and people would go out and harvest them. They were considered a spiritual gift from the

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creator. A Native person always acknowledged the spiritual essence of things. Everything was alive to them, and they thought this was a very important spiritual gift. They say in the history books that the fins and the tails were considered very important, and they would have a ceremony to give thanks for the receipt of these items. In some of the early agreements, our people supposedly retained the rights to be able to have access to beached whales or some of the remains of whales long after we had lost a lot of our lands. That’s why when the finback whale, about sixty feet long, washed ashore off Southampton a few years ago, some members of the tribe here tried to exercise their historical rights to the body of the whale. I don’t think it was acknowledged by the EPA or whatever, but some of the people who are more traditionally minded did a ceremony by the whale because that was the first time in years that a whale had washed ashore and that was very moving for us in terms of the heritage that we had with the whale. A place on Dune Road, on the east side of Shinnecock Inlet, was locally known to us as whale’s fin because that was supposedly one of the last places that they hunted the whales from or whales beached themselves at. This is, of course, before the inlet formed after the hurricane of ’38. It’s currently part of the Suffolk County Park, the eastern side. If you look diagonally northeast, you’ll see the reservation shoreline. It’s the only undeveloped shoreline on Shinnecock Bay. Every other shoreline the houses are right up to the bay. Our shoreline here is still relatively undeveloped, which is nice. But if you go on the western side of the Inlet, you can get right down to it. Because it is a park, you might need a permit, but you can see the gates, and there’ll be trailers sitting around there. All that area was a barrier beach, and they used to launch their whale canoes from there. It’s always interested me how they physically could handle whale hunting in these 188 X CHAPTER 7

little canoes, through the surf. It’s a very difficult thing to do. They’d have to be very, very tough and adventurous to do it, not only do it in the pre-contact period but also going around the world in two-three years on a ship. I always wonder about the transitional period when the Indians were first hired to go whaling with the English settlers. A lot of them didn’t know the language, and they were taken advantage of. They were forced into this new economy. It was similar to what they had done before, but they were forced to have to try to make money somehow. So they joined in these crews, but they never got paid anything. They got paid a coat and a pair of shoes for a whole year’s work. The captains and the owners and probably the non-Indian sailors made a lot more money than the Indians did. Towards the end of the whaling era, some of our people were making good money and building some of the larger and more spacious houses in the reservation community at that time. A lot of them got a good education, too. We have some letters written by the wives of whalers. There was a ship called the Amethyst, a whaling ship that got ice-bound in the Arctic. Some of the Shinnecock men never returned. They all died up in the Arctic Circle. One of the wives of one of the men that died on the boat writes this long letter—I don’t know who she was writing to, maybe to him before he died, maybe to another member of the family—but you can tell her handwriting is top handwriting, and the way she’s expressing herself, you can tell she had a very good education. This would have been the 1870–80 period. But even before European contact and after, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, our people always harvested shellfish and other kinds of fish—alewives and the quahog clamshell—utilized not only for diet but for making wampum beads. Whaling, wampum making/manufacture, and fishing techniques I’ve researched as a kind of triumvirate of importance in our history. We were really

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known nationally, or internationally, as whalers. And then we were also known as wampum makers. We were also very instrumental in teaching fishing practices to what became known as the baymen here. I understand a lot of them came from Kent, England. They learned a lot of their traditions from our ancestors: how to harvest fish offshore with pound traps and nets and various techniques like that, ice fishing and everything else. Many of the first lifesavers that used to rescue seamen off of shipwrecks came out of the baymen families. They created what were called dory rescue squads. I say, “Indians had something to do with the development of the Coast Guard.” I’ve been interested in whaling techniques, tried to find out what our people really did, what made our culture unique among many of the Algonquian peoples of the Northeast. I thought it was very important to resurrect these scenes in historical periods that had been little known or understood for the general public to learn about our people as well as our own people to regain interest and knowledge about our own culture. If you go on my website [http://davidmartine. com/], I have one painting depicting a reimagined thanksgiving ceremony after a whale hunt. I’ve combined certain elements that are known about the culture, certain dance styles, having various kinds of foods there as a feast. The fire is presided over by a medicine man. I introduce my artistic license and extrapolate from other cultures that are similar to our culture. That’s the principle I use in my own work. The main exhibition in the museum is called A Walk with the People, and I’ve patterned it after the six cultural phases of the history of Long Island from some of John Strong’s writings.2 It covers the Paleolithic, Archaic, Transitional (on Long Island they call it Orient Culture), Woodland, Contact, and Historic Periods. It’s mostly made up of murals—we’re trying to supplement all of these periods with objects. We’re trying to have workshops to make these 190 X CHAPTER 7

Figure 22. David Bunn Martine in front of the Woodland Culture Period mural he painted as part of a series of Shinnecock history scenes on exhibit at the Shinnecock Nation Cultural Center and Museum. Courtesy of David Bunn Martine.

traditional tools again. In the mural that depicts the Woodland Period, I have a whole round of activities that would have taken place over the course of a year [fig. 22]. One of those is the whaling activities, in the winter time—fall and winter. Some of the depictions are based a little bit on a couple of pictures I had from the Haida people, Northwest Coast people. I show, for example, them trying to hoist a whale on shore, with a huge crowd of people pulling ropes.

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I have some pieces of whale being roasted on big racks. I also show the dugout canoes, and in other paintings that I do to sell, I’ve shown a whale hunt in canoes going up to the whale, how a huge group of people would go out and try to surround a whale. They shot it with harpoons and bows and arrows, as well as hatchets and everything they could get, and then they had some type of flotation devices. I call mine simulations because it just gives an idea of what it could have looked like. I’ve been working on some items that I hope to add to this exhibit with the Southampton Historical Society Museum. Their exhibit is called 10,000 Years of Hunting and Fishing on Long Island, if that’s not too comprehensive. I made harpoon models and some fishing spears. When this other exhibit’s finished, I want to supplement our murals with these replicated tools. They have wooden shafts that break apart. The harpoon has a toggle head. The flexible foreshafts would have been made out of ivory, and then the remainder of the spear is wood. There’s a guy up in Canada now that makes reproductions of these things. He makes them with sealskin ropes. I wanted to buy one for the exhibit. He said, “Well, you can’t import the material.” I guess he still uses walrus or something. I think this will be really nice to have available, so that people can see how skilful people were in making this equipment. It just wasn’t a primitive kind of Stone-Age thing. Even if you go to the Smithsonian and you look at some of these whaling harpoons from Alaska or from British Columbia, they’re some of the most elegantly made things you’ll ever see, very finely crafted equipment. I made three styles of fish spears with different styles of prongs. In the projects that we do, mostly based out of the museum, we try to recreate our lifestyle, the ways our people had lived in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries mostly. Two of the things that we have recreated in the recent 192 X CHAPTER 7

past are dugout canoes and wigwams. We have a display in the front of our museum that has a wickiup, or wigwam, as well as two dugout canoes. We researched it studying with the Wampanoag people at the Wampanoag Indigenous Program at Plimoth Plantation. They do things in a very traditional manner. They have actually restored many of these traditional practices in terms of harvesting native materials, toolmaking, and reconstruction of longhouses. They call their canoes mishoons over there. Our word for canoe is similar, mishoo—mishoon without the n on it. When they gather their traditional materials, they do it at the appropriate time of the season to harvest them, but a lot of their materials are not available anymore. To replicate their programs here, we found the same problem. The materials that we want to use are not available on the island anymore because of the clear-cutting. Long Island used to be almost a temperate rain forest. There were huge, hard, old-growth forests here. One of the reasons New York City grew so quickly is because they clear-cut much of the timber and shipped it into the city, or they shipped a lot of our timber overseas. If you look at pictures of here from the ’20s and before, there’s not a tree in sight. It’s just like a flat plain. I think that’s where they got the idea of their golf course over here. It looked so much like northern Scotland. Since that time, a lot of the trees have come back again, but nothing like originally. There was a lady named Rebecca Bunn Kellis, who was ninety-nine years old. She was interviewed in the ’30s for a newspaper article, and she describes her childhood, which would have been in the 1830s or ’40s. She said that she used to go from place to place in the Shinnecock Hills area, visiting her relatives, most of whom were still living in wigwams. And she described how they thatched their wickiups, or wigwams, out of, she called it, sea grass, using a long needle, and they thatched bunches of this grass on the curved

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wooden framework. Not only did they use sea grass, but they also used meadow grass. There was a man by the name of Wickham Cuffee, who was an old man and made a model for somebody, a scale model, very detailed, that shows you exactly the technique used in thatching these wigwams. So they had these grass houses used concurrently with regular houses around the 1830–1840 period. Now we also know that they made matting, like many of the other Algonquian or New England tribes did. The exterior mats were made out of cattail reeds. Cattails have been supplanted by phragmites reeds today. This phragmites is so tough, it just took over the native spots where the cattail was, drove it right out, also the bulrush, which would have been largely used for the interior liner mats in the wigwams and longhouses. They used to create very beautiful design patterns out of bulrush. You can see a lot of these mats today in museums. They recreate these also at Wampanoag, very nicely. So we don’t have bulrush anymore, or sea grass—all been killed out. Anytime you find a massive amount of shellfish refuse, that’s a campsite or village of ours, Shinnecock-Montauk people. Shellfish contributed to the richness of our nutrition and our food. The diet that we had was really superior to the European diet. The Institute of American Indian Arts had a class on Indian herbology. They covered this idea that the nutritional value of the diet of the Northeast Indians was so good because you had game, you had the agricultural products, you had shellfish, you had all of these things, and the English people had mostly a greenbased diet, even so much so that the physical stature of the Indian people was way taller than the English settlers at the time, in the average height. Long Island had such an enormous amount of shellfish here. That’s decreasing. The brown or red tide has come into our local waterways and is also destroying much of our shellfish beds. You read 194 X CHAPTER 7

about this in recent history how a lot of the oysters, mussels, the scallop beds were decimated in the ’80s, when the first influx of these tides began, because of the overly abundant nutrients in the water. These red tides cut out the oxygen in the water. A lot of these oyster beds really decreased in the ’80s. Before that time, they had massive harvests every year, and it was no problem. Also the clams, they tell us now, are decreasing. There’s a guy, he has a company that recreates wampum beads today. He’s saying that they’re finding much less color in a lot of the quahog shells today than there used to be. You used to find a lot of beautiful purple color. It gets harder to find. The last time a whale has beached here was who knows when. It happens very rarely today. You see seals more often here than you do other things. But that’s pretty rare, too, to see a seal. Sometimes they have a disease, so they get disoriented, and they just flop around and can’t get back in the water. And sometimes they’re healthy, and they just need to be put out. In Riverhead is the Riverhead Ocean Rescue Facility by the aquarium there. That’s the only aquarium that has that animal rescue part of it in New York State. It used to be called OKENOS Rescue Foundation. It used to be based in Hampton Bays, but now they’ve moved into this big aquarium in Riverhead. And they rescue animals. In the seventies, we had a factory, the Shinnecock Oyster Project Facility, on the reservation, a concrete building. It hasn’t been in operation for quite a while. When they ran out of space in Riverhead in the aquarium, OKENOS used to bring some of their seals and tortoises and animals that they were rehabilitating, and they could use the tanks over here in the shellfish factory because they had great big wells made of concrete that were filled with water—they looked like pools—and they could rehabilitate them here on the reservation. It wasn’t a public facility but just for rehabilitation. They did that for a few years. I don’t think

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they do it anymore, though, because the building is in terrible shape. There was a period of time when there were a lot more elders here, and with the local surrounding community, things were much more informal. People didn’t ask questions. They let sleeping dogs lie. They have a town organization called the Suffolk Town Trustees, supposed to function under this Dongan Patent, they call it. It’s a European document, a deed, that supposedly gives them authority over the wetlands and the water. But for many years, they didn’t question our use of water rights. For example, they used seaweed and salt hay for insulation around some of the homes. Many of the houses were built on posts—they weren’t sitting on the ground—and they used to bank this stuff around the bottom of these houses. Our people harvested that. You read these old records—this is where it gets ridiculous to me. Way back in the colonial period, when they started telling the Indians what they could and couldn’t do, one of the things they forbid the Montauk from doing is harvesting reeds for the wigwams. They didn’t want them to cut those. Even though our people were being hired as whalers, they couldn’t come into town with harping irons. As far as using resources are concerned, the original deed gave the English people the use of a certain amount of land around what is called Old Town in Southampton Village. It’s near where the hospital is today, Southampton Hospital. It’s a little piece of property. It’s not a lot of land there. You read the history of how they started to branch out and say what you could and couldn’t do. The other thing they didn’t like was the fact that one of our food staples was groundnuts, or Jerusalem artichokes. They didn’t want people rooting around getting groundnuts because they said they would dig holes. Our people also made these cellars. They called them Indian barns, or root cellars. Many of these things have been excavated out at Montauk Reservation. Some of them were 196 X CHAPTER 7

oval. Some of them were rectangular. And they went down in the ground maybe five feet. The English people didn’t like it because the cattle would stumble and break their legs. One of the tactics they used to marginalize the tribe and to keep us pushed to this peninsula here was to let the cattle roam all over these hills here. That’s how they evolved to have East Gate and West Gate Road. There was a gate all along this area, the northern boundary of the current reservation. Our reservation went all the way to Peconic Bay. They didn’t like the fact we had it. They said we weren’t putting it to any real use, so they let their cattle roam all over it. But the salt hay business is interesting. My grandmother used to say when her father was alive, he was very friendly with many of the townspeople, but only to a point because he knew how much of the rights that we were supposed to have. The Southampton people didn’t question him. She said they respected him a lot. They didn’t want to question him, to say that he was wrong. There probably were others in addition to him at the time. She said that after he died, though, and maybe others of the same age, then they started just doing anything they wanted. He wasn’t afraid to confront them because he was educated, and he could go and speak publicly. And he could tell them what rights we were supposed to have and ones you don’t have, and the rights to harvest salt hay was one of them. I ran for Southampton town trustee myself about twenty years ago. One of the ideas I had at the time was to get an old geographical map as it was in the colonial period or after that shows the original contour of the shoreline. If you look at any of those, you can see how much land there was, how much erosion there’s been over the last three hundred years, or two hundred years even. You go to certain areas even in town. There’s a road called Gin Lane in the estate section. Gin Lane is almost right on the beach. The sand dunes are right there. There was like a quarter mile more land south

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of Gin Lane that went right out to the ocean before it began to be eroded away. And you can see that. I was interested in water issues, water rights and environmental issues, for both Shinnecock and non-Shinnecock. We just became federally recognized and continue to be involved in protecting precious environmental resources with federal agencies. All these tribes that are federal that have shore property, it’s a big deal. We’re surrounded by the most valuable land in the United States today. The only aboriginal land claim that’s supposedly still in effect is that we’re supposed to still have the rights to any whale that comes ashore, the physical rights to the whale itself. Nobody eats whale today, but it’s symbolic. It’s the principle involved. We wanted to, for example, get some of that material for the museum, get some of the bones and stuff, and they wouldn’t allow it. The EPA came in, I think, and they went ahead after a while, and they buried it under the sand there. My friend who is one of the trustees now, I believe he did get some of the pieces of the whale anyway. He found a legal strategy, found some legal material that would allow them through a complicated procedure to negotiate to get portions of the whale. But the principle is, symbolically speaking, from the colonial period, we were supposed to have the access to one whale a year, or whatever it was, and that’s part of our aboriginal right. I think he was going to try to press the issue. You know you need money to do everything today. If you don’t have the money to get the legal firepower behind it, it’s just hard to do anything. It’s a contemporary manifestation of our aboriginal rights.

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Afterword

Researching Native Whaling History

Many of the enduring Native communities in southern New England are located on or near the ocean. They have made a living from that ocean over the centuries. Beaches and bays were sites of critical political encounters and contests over territory. And ocean wonders, such as whales, have inspired spiritual comfort and understandings of human connectedness to the rest of nature and the rest of the world. There is a lot more still to know and appreciate about this aspect of Native New England history. The stories collected here are just some of the many that could be told of Native New England whaling. There are more stories out there, either hidden away in archives or cherished within families of descendants. I hope that this book will inspire a fuller acknowledgment and documentation of how Native knowledge of the maritime world has influenced New England’s history and the vital importance of Native whalemen’s labor to both the industry’s development and the survival of Native communities. For those who might take up the banner and pursue research on some aspect of Native whaling history, I have two recommendations. The first is to seek out descendants, especially those people who have particular interests in history, and listen to what they have to say. Second, researchers should pay attention to individuals rather than depending solely on generic references to “Indians” when looking for Native history in the documentary record.

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I believe that the oral histories are the most worthwhile and significant aspect of this book, but pulling that material together was not easy. For academic researchers, the process of oral history research will usually begin, as it did for me, by having to meet the requirements for Human Subjects Research established by one’s university. I had to take an extensive and detailed online training course in which I read about a century’s worth of dangerous and deceitful research practices and had to pass quizzes about drug testing, brain scans, prisoners, pregnant women, and systems for maintaining confidentiality. I then had to prepare a long and detailed proposal describing how I would manage issues of safety, ethics, and consent. Nearly all these tasks seemed frustratingly irrelevant to oral history as a method and to my own purpose. For instance, I did not want the people I interviewed to be treated with anonymity. These stories were their own to tell, and I considered those to be interviewed more as coauthors and myself as less a “principal investigator” than a facilitator, an editor, who was bringing their words into a more public medium. Despite the time and effort it took to gain the approval of my university’s Human Subjects Research Committee, the experience did sensitize me by forcing me to think through the risks and responsibilities oral history research entailed. I worried that the legalese of the multiple consent forms that my university required would drive potential interviewees away, but no one seemed to mind them. One person I interviewed even expressed appreciation for these forms as an assurance that I had made my intentions transparent. The next step was to find Native people willing to talk to me. Having studied Native American history for over two decades, I was well aware of how colonization included the appropriation of cultural and intellectual property, and aware too of the long history of the manipulation of information to produce prejudices, legal judgments, and policy initiatives. No one had any reason to trust me. I also did not want to invade people’s privacy or become a nuisance. A few of those I asked to participate declined, gently and amiably, and I probably should have approached more people than I did. But in the end, happenstance proved sufficient. Shortly after meeting with Ramona Peters and conceiving of the oral history project, I happened to meet Holly Haile Davis at a retirement party for a mutual acquaintance. Holly introduced me to her mother, Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile, who introduced me to David Martine and later forwarded an email announcing a talk by Jonathan Perry on Native whaling at the 200 X AFTERWORD

Providence Athenaeum. I met Jonathan at this talk, and he put me in touch with his sister Elizabeth James Perry. I learned much from all of these people besides what they said in the actual oral histories; each one suggested documents, images, and ideas included elsewhere in the volume. If my own training was time-consuming, so was the work put in by the people I interviewed. We met for one and a half to two hours as I asked them questions. Two or three digital recorders sat on the table in front of us. I went home and transcribed the interviews. (In retrospect, I should have looked into voice-recognition software as a time-saving option.) I then abridged and rearranged each interview to enhance readability, trying my utmost not to spoil the flow and style of the speaker. By email, mail, or in person, I then went back and forth a few times with each interviewee to finalize the version that would appear in the book. When Ramona Peters and I first met to talk about our mutual interests in Wampanoag whaling history, I was surprised to learn that the whaling ancestor she was most fascinated by was Edward James. I had compiled a huge database, which I was very proud of, yet Edward James was not in it. I had run across him in whaling records, however, and I had written a note to myself along the lines of “Is he Indian?” He had that distinctive surname—I knew of more than thirty whalemen from the Wampanoag family with the surname James—and he appeared on a crew list with several Wampanoag men. Most nineteenth-century whaling records do not identify individuals by race or ethnicity; crew lists do not have a category for race, Native authors of whaling logbooks and journals did not address racial issues or state a racial identity, and whaling account books and shipping papers usually recorded only a man’s name, rank, and share of the profits. Historians in Native American studies too often work only with records cataloged as Indian papers of one sort or another, such as government reports about conditions on Indian reservations, missionary correspondence, sachem-signed deeds and treaties, and the writings or speeches of Samson Occom, William Apess, and other Native people who explicitly addressed Native issues. This brings me to my second point: historians will miss much of Native history if they look only at documents that make an Indian presence explicit. Tracing the lives of individuals known to be Native people can open up other kinds of resources—whether oral histories or documentary records—which scholars in Native American studies rarely refer to. In conversation

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with those who contributed the oral histories, I learned much about Wampanoag and Shinnecock history generally, but their stories, because they had passed down in families, focused on particular individuals: grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts. Although individual lives from the seventeenth or eighteenth century can be difficult to reconstruct, the family stories found in the oral histories presented here reach back to the nineteenth century, giving insight into Native perspectives and experiences unobtainable in the kinds of records produced by state governments or missionaries. These family stories connect people to larger communities, both today and in the past. Finally, I am grateful to the many people who helped me along the way. I thank Linda Coombs, director of the Aquinnah Cultural Center, for her advice; John A. Strong, who shared his research on Long Island Indian history and offered suggestions of material to include in the book; and my retired colleague Bruce Stave. As I’ve mentioned, this was my first oral history project, and Bruce told me what to do and what not to do. I am also grateful for fellowship support for the larger project of which this book is a part, awarded me by the National Endowment for the Humanities, the American Antiquarian Society, and the University of Connecticut Humanities Institute. I cannot thank Betty Apes enough for so kindly welcoming me to Dunedin, arranging for me to meet some of the Apes family at Puketeraki, giving me a tour of Karitane, and so generously sharing her research notes with me. Most of all, I thank Ramona Peters, Elizabeth James Perry, Jonathan Perry, Elizabeth Thunder Bird Haile, Holly Haile Davis, and David Bunn Martine for their time and generosity, consultation on the book’s themes and content, and interest in the project. Any royalties earned by this book will be donated to cultural organizations designated by those interviewed.

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Appendix

Native Whalemen’s Logbooks and Journals Name

Voyage (* denotes incomplete coverage of the voyage)

Rank

Log (L) or Journal (J); Archive

James F. Pells (Mashpee)

Ship Barclay of Nantucket, 1835–1839*

Unknown

J; Log 890, MWA

Joseph Ammons (Narragansett)

Ship Roman of New Bedford, 1843–1845

3rd mate

J; Log 792, MSM

Ship Roman of New Bedford, 1845–1847

Unknown

J; Log 792, MSM

Ship Triton II of New Bedford, 2nd mate 1849–1851

J; Log 791, MSM

Ship James Maury (of New Bedford, 1851–1855* (overlaps with Webquish)

J; Log 791, MSM

Joel G. Jared (Gay Head)

2nd mate

Ship Amethyst of New Bedford, Boatsteerer 1846–1850

J; Log 633, NBW

Bark Samuel & Thomas of Mattapoisett, 1850–1852

3rd mate

J; Log 633, NBW

Thaddeus W. Cook (Gay Head)

Bark Joseph Butler of New Bedford, 1852–1856*

3rd mate

J; Log 226, NBW

Milton Lee (Shinnecock)

Bark Amazon of Fairhaven, 1856–1860*(Webquish kept log later in voyage)

1st mate

L; Log ODHS 337, NBW

Jesse Webquish, Jr. (Mashpee)

Ship James Maury of New Bedford, 1851–1855*

1st mate

L; 2 Log 315 on microfilm, continues in another vol. in Special Collections only, NBL

Bark Amazon of Fairhaven, 1st mate 1856–1860* (Milton Lee kept log earlier in voyage) William A. Vanderhoop, Jr. Bark Awashonks of New (Gay Head) Bedford, 1862–1865* Bark Abraham Barker of New Bedford, 1866–1870

L; Log ODHS 337, NBW

Boatsteerer

J; Log 53, MVM

4th mate

J; Log 10, PPL

(table continued on next page)

x

203

(continued from previous page) Log (L) or Journal (J); Archive

Name

Voyage (* denotes incomplete coverage of the voyage)

Rank

Ferdinand Lee (Shinnecock)

Ship Eliza Adams of New Bedford, 1867–1871

1st mate

L; Log ODHS 265, NBW

Bark Callao of New Bedford, 1871–1875*

Captain

L; Log ODHS 667, NBW

Bark Palmetto of New Bedford, 1st mate 1875–1879

L; Log ODHS 402, NBW

Schooner Arthur V.S. Woodruff 1st mate of New Bedford, 1917–1918

L; Log 521, NBW

Bark John Dawson of New Bedford, 1879–1884*

2nd mate to 1st mate

J; Log 343, NBL

Bark John Dawson of New Bedford, 1879–1884*

1st mate

L; Log 344, NBL

Ship California of New Bedford, 1881–1885

4th mate

J; Log 95, PPL

Ship California of New Bedford, 1886–1889*

2nd mate

J; Log 95, PPL

Bark Bartholomew Gosnold of New Bedford, 1881–1885*

1st mate

L; Log ODHS 1028, NBW

Bark Platina of New Bedford, 1887–1890*

1st mate

L; Log 555, PPL

Joseph G. Belain (Gay Head)

Timothy L. Belain (Chappaquiddick)

Samuel G. Mingo (Christiantown & Gay Head)

Tristram A. Weeks (Gay Head)

Abram F. Cooper (Gay Head)

Bark Swallow of New Bedford, Boatsteerer 1883–1887

J; Log 602, NBL

William W. James (Gay Head)

Ship Niger of New Bedford, 1886–1890*

1st mate

L; Log ODHS 212, NBW

William H. Morton (Gay Head)

Schooner Abbie Bradford of New Bedford, 1886–1888*

1st mate

L; Log ODHS 492, NBW

Key to archives: MSM MVM MWA NBL NBW PPL

204 X APPENDIX

G. W. Blunt White Library, Mystic Seaport Museum, Mystic, CT Martha’s Vineyard Museum, Edgartown, MA Marine and Whaling Manuscript Archives microfilm collection at NBW New Bedford Free Public Library, New Bedford, MA New Bedford Whaling Museum Research Library, New Bedford, MA Nicholson Whaling Collection, Providence Public Library, Providence, RI (also available online at www.provlib.org/exhibitions/whaling-maritime-history/ whaling-logbooks)

Notes

1. A World of Whales 1.  Benjamin Basset, “Fabulous Traditions and Customs of the Indians of Martha’s Vineyard,” Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, for the Year 1792, vol. 1 (1792; repr., Boston: Munroe & Francis, 1806), 139–40. 2.  Mary A. Cleggett Vanderhoop, “The Gay Head Indians: Their History and Traditions,” New Bedford Evening Standard, 2 July 1904. For more about her, see the promotion for her series of articles in the 18 June 1904 issue of the New Bedford Evening Standard and her obituary in Narragansett Dawn 1 (December 1935): 189. 3.  James Rosier, A True Relation of the Most Prosperous Voyage Made this Present Yeere 1605, by Captaine George Waymouth (London: Geor. Bishop, 1605), [33–34]. 4.  [Mourt’s Relation], Relation or Journall of the Beginning and Proceedings of the English Plantation Setled at Plimoth in New England, by Certaine English Adventurers Both Merchants and Others (London: John Bellamie, 1622), excerpts on 2, 4, 6–8, 10, 13, 16–17. 5.  Roger Williams, A Key into the Language of America (London: Gregory Dexter, 1643), 108–18, excluding Williams’s commentary and poem (112–13); the pages are misnumbered in the original, so this selection begins on page 108 but also ends on page 108. For Williams in a larger context, see Patricia E. Rubertone, Grave Undertakings: An Archaeology of Roger Williams and the Narragansett Indians (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution, 2001). I thank Jessie Little Doe Baird for a telephone conversation about Williams’s process of translation, on 3 July 2012. 6.  Matthew Mayhew, A Brief Narrative of the Success Which the Gospel Hath Had among the Indians, of Martha’s-Vineyard (and the Places Adjacent) in New-England (Boston: Bartholomew Green, 1694).

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7.  Wyandanch–Lion Gardiner Deed, 28 July 1659, in Henry P. Hedges, William S. Pelletreau, and Edward H. Foster, eds., The Second Book of Records of the Town of Southampton, Long Island, N.Y., with Other Ancient Documents of Historic Value (Sag Harbor: John H. Hunt, 1877), 34–35. Ives Goddard and Kathleen J. Bragdon, Native Writings in Massachusett, 2 vols. (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1988), 1:242–45, reproduced from Nantucket County Registry of Deeds (2:45). I have left out some of Goddard and Bragdon’s annotations to make the document more readable; the double square brackets are their additions for “blotted” marks in the manuscript.

2. Whaling from the Shore to the Deep Sea 1.  The first set of documents is from Henry P. Hedges, William S. Pelletreau, and Edward H. Foster, eds., The Second Book of Records of the Town of Southampton, Long Island, N.Y., with Other Ancient Documents of Historic Value (Sag Harbor: John H. Hunt, 1877), 56–57. The second, third, and fifth documents come from B. Fernow, Documents Relating to the History of the Early Colonial Settlements, Principally on Long Island, with a Map of its Western Part, Made in 1666 (Albany: Weed, Parsons, and Co., 1883), 664, 720, 756–57. The fourth document comes from a collection of photocopies and transcriptions that John A. Strong has made available in “Sharecropping the Sea: Shinnecock Whalers in the Seventeenth Century,” in The Shinnecock Indians: A Culture History, ed. Gaynell Stone, Suffolk County Archaeological Association Readings in Long Island Archaeology and Ethnohistory, vol. 6 (Lexington, MA: Ginn Custom Publishing, 1983), 231–63; also available in a notebook of Indian whaling documents in the Long Island history room of Rogers Memorial Library, Southampton, NY; Strong gives his source for this document (no. 22, p. 257) as Liber A, No. 2, p. 133, Southampton Town Records, Southampton Town Archives, Southampton, NY. The sixth document comes from Henry Hedges, ed., Records of the Town of East Hampton, vol. 2 (Sag Harbor: John H. Hunt, 1887), 98–99. In some documents, I have made slight modifications to the text to modernize print styles (“v” to “u,” for instance). 2.  Sylvanus Hussey Account Book and Mary Starbuck Account Book, Nantucket Historical Association, Nantucket, MA. 3.  Hussey Account Book, 199. 4.  Hussey Account Book, 264. 5.  J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, Letters from an American Farmer and Sketches of Eighteenth-Century America (1782), ed. Albert E. Stone (New York: Penguin Classics, 1986), 10. The excerpt here comes from J. Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, Letters from an American Farmer, Describing Certain Provincial Situations, Manners, and Customs, and Conveying Some Idea of the State of the People of North America, Written to a Friend in England (Philadelphia: Matthew Carey, 1793), 125–32. There is another good, but very short, account of early Long Island shore whaling in Charles Wooley, “A Two Years Journal in New York” (1701) in Cornell Jaray, ed., Historic Chronicles of New Amsterdam, Colonial New York and Early Long Island (Port Washington, NY: Ira J. Friedman, 1968), 38.

206 X NOTES TO PAGES 33–51

  6.  Memorial of Joshua Ralph, Sr., to the Governor and Council of Massachusetts, August 1733, Massachusetts Archives Collection, vol. 31, pp. 181–82, microfilm, Massachusetts State Archives, Boston, MA.   7.  The undated petition is in Passed Legislation Packet, Acts 1804, Chap. 84, “Act for the Protection of the Indians and their Property in that Part of Dukes County known by the Name of Christian Town,” approved 8 March 1805, Massachusetts State Archives.   8.  Edward Augustus Kendall, Travels through the Northern Parts of the United States, in the Years 1807 and 1808, 3 vols. (NY: I. Riley, 1809), 1:301; 2:164–65; 2:193–96.   9.  Nathaniel Philbrick, In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex (New York: Penguin, 2000). Philbrick misinterpreted Keeter’s scrawl on the shipping articles as Asnonkeets (188). The shipping articles and Keeter’s contract, ship Dauphin of Nantucket, 1820–1823, are in the Ships’ Papers Collection, Nantucket Historical Association. The departure crew list of the ship Good Return of New Bedford, 1825–1826, New Bedford Port Records, National Archives at Boston, Waltham, MA, and Charles Marston’s “Enumeration of the Proprietors on the Plantation of Marshpee” (1832), Indian Guardian Papers, microfilm, reel 1, Massachusetts State Archives, suggest that Keeter was born in 1803. 10.  Charles Murphey, Thrilling Whaling Voyage Journal, Containing 220 Stanzas, in Poetry, Composed by the 3d Mate on Board Ship Dauphin, of Nantucket (Mattapoisett, MA: Atlantic Publishing Co., 1877), 9–10.

3. Around the World in the Nineteenth Century  1. Whalemen’s Shipping List and Merchants’ Transcript (hereafter cited as WSL), 9 June 1868.   2.  Belain’s rank on his last two voyages: WSL, 24 October 1871, 5 September 1876, and his death notice, 7 August 1877. Peters’s ranks: WSL, 2 July 1872, and in his death notice, 6 August 1878, which names ten missing men, including “Frank Waters [sic], Gay Head, 3d mate,” and Frank E. Mashow, son of Dartmouth’s African American shipbuilder John Mashow and Hope Amos of Mashpee, in John Milton Earle, Report to the Governor and Council, concerning the Indians of the Commonwealth, under the Act of April 6, 1859, Massachusetts Senate Document no. 96 (Boston: William White, 1861), xxix. Since a whaleboat’s crew normally numbered six, either they were whaling short-handed or perhaps two newly recruited Pacific Islanders were also lost but not thought necessary to name because they would not have had concerned family members in New England. The departure crew list of the Atlantic in 1876 confirms that “Frank Waters” was a mistake for Francis Peters, New Bedford Port Records, National Archives at Boston.   3.  Douglas L. Stein, American Maritime Documents, 1776–1860 (Mystic, CT: Mystic Seaport Museum, 1992); Stuart C. Sherman, The Voice of the Whaleman, with an Account of the Nicholson Whaling Collection (Providence, RI: Providence Public Library, 1965), 46–71.

x

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NOTES TO PAGES 55–69

 4. Earle, Report, lvi, xxxviii. The shipping articles for this voyage of the Adeline, including consular attachments, are at the New Bedford Free Public Library, New Bedford, MA.   5.  For example, Joel G. Jared’s complexion is “mulatto” on the crew list of the bark Anaconda of New Bedford, 1856–1860; Gideon Ammons appears as “black” on the ship Roman of New Bedford, 1839–1842, but as “dark yellow” on the Roman’s next voyage, 1843–1845. See New Bedford Port Records.   6.  The accounts can be found in two collections, both on microfilm at the Massachusetts State Archives: Indian Guardian Papers, reel 2, and Dukes County Probate Records, reel 1. The law is “An Act for the better regulation, instruction and government of the Indians and People of Colour in the County of Dukes County,” Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Acts 1827, Chap. 114, approved 10 March 1828.   7.  For more on the genre of whaling logbooks and journals, see Sherman, Voice of the Whaleman, 25–45.   8.  Log no. 792 has the ship Roman of New Bedford, 1843–1845 and 1845–1847 voyages; log no. 791 has the ship Triton II of New Bedford, 1849–1851, and the first two years for the ship James Maury of New Bedford, 1851–1855; both logs are in the Manuscripts Collection, G. W. Blunt White Library, Mystic Seaport Museum, Mystic, CT. The last journal ends apparently because he ran out of pages in the volume.   9.  Log no. 633, New Bedford Whaling Museum Research Library, New Bedford, MA. 10  William A. Vanderhoop, journal, bark Awashonks of New Bedford, 1862– 1865, Martha’s Vineyard Museum, Edgartown, MA; bark Abraham Barker of New Bedford, 1866–1870, Nicholson Whaling Collection, Providence Public Library, Providence, RI, also available at www.provlib.org/exhibitions/whaling-maritime-history/whaling-logbooks. 11  Final Settlement Accounts, bark Atlantic of New Bedford, 1876–1879, J. & W. R. Wing Papers, Whaling Manuscripts, reel 86, New Bedford Free Public Library. 12.  Elizabeth P. Haskins to [Josiah Holmes, Jr.], 19 July 1859 and 27 July 1859, Records of the Holmes’ Shipyard, 1820–1886, G. W. Blunt White Library, Mystic Seaport Museum. See, in same collection, letters from Sophia L. Clarke, 4 December 1857, and Rosetta M. Camp, 12 April 1859. Amos Haskins, household no. 1581, Ward 4, 1860 US federal census, New Bedford, MA, available at www.ancestry.com. Haskins’s wife may have had some Native American ancestry, but Earle in his Report classified her as “Colored,” meaning African American (xviii). 13.  Adoniram L. Wainer to Asa F. Wainer, 25 October 1850, Cory Family Papers, New Bedford Whaling Museum Research Library. 14.  Household no. 374, Westport, MA, 1850 US federal census, available at www. ancestry.com; Vital Records of Westport, Massachusetts, to the Year 1850 (Boston: New England Historic Genealogical Society, 1918), 99. On the close ties between Cuffes and Wainers, see Lamont D. Thomas, Rise to Be a People: A Biography of Paul Cuffe (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1986); and Rosalind Cobb Wiggins, ed., Captain Paul Cuffe’s Logs and Letters, 1808–1817: A Black

208 X NOTES TO PAGES 69–93

Quaker’s “Voice from within the Veil” (Washington, DC: Howard University Press, 1996). 15.  John Milton Earle to Commonwealth of Massachusetts, 30 July 1859, and related documents, John Milton Earle Papers, American Antiquarian Society, Worcester, MA.

4. Whaling Legacies   1.  [Paul Cuffe Jr.], Narrative of the Life and Adventures of Paul Cuffe, A Pequot Indian; During Thirty Years Spent at Sea, and in Traveling in Foreign Lands (Vernon, NY: Horace N. Bill, 1839). The published version lists no author but has shifting pronouns—“his” and “my”—suggesting that Cuffe was not the author. The Connecticut Historical Society copy has at the top of the title page, in what appears to be nineteenth-century script, “written by Dr. Henry T. Sumner of Stockbridge, New York.” According to the federal census, Henry T. Sumner was a hotel keeper in Stockbridge, NY (household no. 139, 1850 US Census manuscript form, available at www.ancestry.com). Cuffe’s cousins, some of the Wainer family, lived in central New York State; see Rosalind Cobb Wiggins, ed., Captain Paul Cuffe’s Logs and Letters, 1808–1817: A Black Quaker’s “Voice from within the Veil” (Washington, DC: Howard University Press, 1996), 100–105.   2.  Ranald MacDonald, The Narrative of His Early Life on the Columbia under the Hudson’s Bay Company’s Regime, of His Experiences in the Pacific Whale fishery, and of His Great Adventure to Japan: With a Sketch of His Later Life on the Western Frontier, 1824–1894, ed. William S. Lewis and Naojiro Murakami (Portland: Oregon Historical Society Press, 1990). See also Frederik L. Schodt, Native American in the Land of the Shogun: Ranald MacDonald and the Opening of Japan (Berkeley, CA: Stone Bridge Press, 2003).   3.  Dorothy Cottle Poole, “Full Circle,” Dukes County Intelligencer 10, no. 1 (August 1968): 12–44.   4.  [Anonymous], “Reminiscences of Daniel Webster: Being an Authentic Account of His Mashpee Fishing Trips,” Cape Cod Magazine 1, no. 2 (June 1915): 21–23; Simeon L. Deyo, ed., History of Barnstable County, Massachusetts, 16201637-1686-1890 (New York: H. W. Blake, 1890), 715–16.   5.  Crew list of bark Abraham Barker of New Bedford, Whalemen’s Shipping List and Merchants’ Transcript (WSL), 23 May 1871.   6.  Charles Burr Todd, In Olde New York: Sketches of Old Times and Places in Both the State and the City (New York: Grafton Press, 1907), 219–22.   7.  Ferdinand Lee’s voyage as captain of the Callao was not successful; see David Moment, “The Business of Whaling in America in the 1850s,” Business History Review 31, no. 3 (Fall 1957): 271–73. Ferdinand went whaling again but not as captain. He was serving as second mate on the bark Amethyst of San Francisco when it was wrecked in the Arctic in 1885; see “The Lost Amethyst: Little Hope of Ever Finding Vessel or Crew,” Sag Harbor Corrector, 2 October 1886. William Garrison Lee appears to have died with him, if the report in WSL, 20 September 1887, is correct that W. G. Lee, first mate on the Rainbow, was among those rescued from the wreck of the Rainbow and taken aboard the Amethyst shortly before it disappeared.

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NOTES TO PAGES 94–100

  8.  Amos Smalley, as told to Max Eastman, “I Killed ‘Moby Dick,’ ” Reader’s Digest, June 1957, 172–80.   9.  “ ‘Moby Dick’ Premiere in New Bedford July 4,” Boston Globe, 3 March 1956. 10.  The Massachusetts Enfranchisement Act dissolved Gay Head’s tribal status in 1869, turning the former Indian lands into the town of Gay Head. In 1987, the tribe’s federal status was reinstated, with the reservation greatly reduced in size. See Ann Marie Plane and Gregory Button, “The Massachusetts Indian Enfranchisement Act: Ethnic Context in Historical Context, 1849–1869,” in After King Philip’s War: Presence and Persistence in Indian New England, ed. Colin G. Calloway (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1997), 178–206; “Aquinnah Tribe Celebrates Federal Recognition,” Cape Cod Times Online, 11 April 2012, www.capecodonline.com. 11.  “Last of Narragansett Chiefs” (obituary of Gideon Ammons), Providence Journal, 4 December 1899; “Martha’s Vineyard Pays Final Honors to Edwin D. Vanderhoop,” Boston Globe, 31 January 1923; “Indian Chief’s Scion Is Dead” (obituary of Joseph G. Belain), New Bedford Evening Standard, 20 October 1926; “Joseph Mingo Dead,” New Bedford Evening Standard, 4 April 1913, reprinted in Vineyard Gazette, 10 April 1913; “Samuel G. Mingo,” The Narragansett Dawn 1, no. 9 (January 1936): 222–23. I have italicized vessel names and newspaper titles. 12.  Gideon Ammons’s voyages from crew lists for the relevant ports, National Archives at Boston, and Shipping Articles, New Bedford Free Public Library: ship Constitution of Newport, 1833–1836; bark Constitution of Newport, 1836–1839; ship Roman of New Bedford, 1839–1842; fourth mate, ship Roman of New Bedford, 1843–1845, discharged at Maui in 1844 and returned home as third mate on ship Adeline of New Bedford, 1843–1846; third mate, ship Emma C. Jones of New Bedford, 1849–1852. Up until 1844, Gideon was on every voyage with his older brother Joseph, whose journal excerpts appear in chapter 3. On the family relationships and for Gideon’s prominence as a council member, see his extensive testimonies in State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, Report of Commission on the Affairs of the Narragansett Indians, Made to the General Assembly, at Its January Session, 1881 (Providence, RI: E. L. Freeman, 1881). 13.  Edwin D. Vanderhoop’s two whaling voyages, according to crew lists at the National Archives at Boston, were on the bark Sunbeam of New Bedford, 1868–1871, and the bark Atlantic of New Bedford, 1872–1876. His brother William’s whaling journal is excerpted in chapter 3. 14.  On narratives of Native extinction see Jean M. O’Brien, Firsting and Lasting: Writing Indians Out of Existence in New England (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010). 15.  The only incident in the logbooks and journals of Vanderhoop’s voyages that comes close to this brush with cannibals is an approach by several canoes filled with men feared to be “Malay Pirates” but who just wanted to trade. 14 October 1869 entry, Murphy McGuire journal, Sunbeam, log no. ODHS 618, New Bedford Whaling Museum Research Library. 16.  Crew lists at the National Archives at Boston also suggest that Mingo’s final voyage was on the bark Osceola of New Bedford, 1851–1853.

210 X NOTES TO PAGES 101–110

17. Mary A. Cleggett Vanderhoop told the stories of the tragically drowned “Gashum girl” and of Aaron Cooper and Tristam (usually spell Tristram) Weeks in “Gay Head Indians: Their History and Traditions,” New Bedford Evening Standard, 30 July 1904 and 6 August 1904. The story about Jane Wamsley comes from Edward S. Burgess, “The Old South Road of Gay Head, or Musings on Discontinued Byways” (1926), Dukes County Intelligencer 12, no. 1 (August 1970): 25.

5. A Whaling Family in New England and New Zealand   1.  Another Native resident of New Zealand, whose life there is fairly well known through the efforts of Maori descendants, is Marcellus Cook, from Gay Head, who deserted at eighteen years of age while on his first whaling voyage on the bark Swallow of New Bedford in 1885 at Russell, Bay of Islands, New Zealand. (A note about his desertion appears on the return crew list, National Archives at Boston.) Many genealogical websites record conversations among his Maori descendants, some of whom have made an ancestral pilgrimage to Aquinnah; see http://boards.ancestry.com (search term: Marcellus Cook).   2.  On the whaling members of the Apes family, see Nancy Shoemaker, “Race and Indigeneity in the Life of Elisha Apes,” Ethnohistory 60, no. 1 (Winter 2013): 29.   3.  Extract from Robert Gilbert’s memoir, 1939, Gilbert Family File, Akaroa Museum, Akaroa, New Zealand. I have standardized punctuation and italicized ship names.   4.  Departure crew list, ship Ann Maria of New London, 1839–1841, US National Archives, Records of the Collector of Customs for the Collection District New London, Connecticut, 1789–1938, Microcopy Collection M-1162, reel 55.   5.  “Giant of the Past: James Apes, Whaler and Shearer,” Dunedin Evening Star, 10 September 1938.

6. Wampanoag Oral Histories   1.  NAGPRA is the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (1990). For the text of the act, including recent revisions, and further information, see www.nps.gov/nagpra/.   2.  Edward James’s first whaling voyage, at age sixteen, was on the bark Atlantic of New Bedford, 1876–1879, the same voyage that lost two whaleboat crews, causing the death of Francis F. Peters (shown in fig. 7); see crew list, New Bedford Port Records, National Archives at Boston. His younger brother A. Judson James had an even longer career, which included serving as first mate on the 1906–1908 voyage of the Charles W. Morgan, the only surviving nineteenth-century wooden whaleship, now at Mystic Seaport Museum; see http://library.mysticseaport.org (search term: James, A. Judson); and “Whaleman Dies” (obituary of Adoniram James), Vineyard Gazette clipping, n.d., Indian Collection, Martha’s Vineyard Museum.

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NOTES TO PAGES 117–144

3.  Mark A. Nicholas, “Mashpee Wampanoags of Cape Cod, the Whalefishery, and Seafaring’s Impact on Community Development,” American Indian Quarterly 26, no. 2 (Spring 2002): 165–97. 4.  Henry G. James I went on the first of many whaling voyages at age fifteen on the bark Cape Horn Pigeon of Dartmouth, 1876–1880 according to the crew list at the National Archives at Boston. Levi Cuff’s life of seafaring began at least by the age of seventeen, when he appears on the crew list for the ship Java of New Bedford, 1835–1837. George Belain went on twelve or more whaling voyages; the earliest documented on a crew list is on the ship Hercules of New Bedford, 1830–1831, when he was twenty, and the last was as first mate on the bark Pioneer of New Bedford, 1854–1858, according to shipping papers, New Bedford Free Public Library. His son Joseph G. Belain, whose obituary is reprinted in chapter 4, appears from New Bedford crew lists at the National Archives at Boston to have started whaling at age seventeen on the bark Cape Horn Pigeon of Dartmouth, 1866–1869. 5.  A video of Jonathan Perry explaining mishoon construction while a log is manufactured into a dugout canoe at Plimoth Plantation and a video of the trip to Martha’s Vineyard are on YouTube (www.youtube.com): “Burning Down the Boat” and “Wampanoag Mishoon Trip to Martha’s Vineyard.”

7. Shinnecock Oral Histories 1.  David W. Bunn must have started whaling out of Sag Harbor, but he can more easily be found on three voyages he took from New Bedford. He appears on the crew list of the ship Nassau, 1860–1863, in New Bedford Port Records, National Archives at Boston. Bunn then joined the bark Lagoda as first mate in Honolulu, Hawai‘i, in 1863 for the final year of a four-year voyage; he did not sign his name to it but probably kept the logbook for that year, which is in the New Bedford Free Public Library. When the Lagoda returned to New Bedford in 1864, an unidentified whaling agent described him as a “good officer” and a “good whaleman” in his memorandum book (Misc. Vol. no. 37, G. W. Blunt White Library, Mystic Seaport Museum). The Whalemen’s Shipping List and Merchants’ Transcript crew list of 13 December 1864 has Bunn on the ship Northern Light, 1864–1867, as second mate, but as Alice Martinez remembered, it’s very likely that he became first mate sometime during this voyage. 2. See David Bunn Martine’s illustrations in John A. Strong, The Algonquian Peoples of Long Island from Earliest Times to 1700 (Interlaken, NY: Empire State Books, 1997), and his page on the Native website Amerinda, www.amerinda .org/naar/martine/painter/martinepainter.htm.

212 X NOTES TO PAGES 153–190

Index

Abbie Bradford, 100, 204 Abraham Barker, 79, 203 Acosta, José de, 21 Adeline, 69–71 African Americans, 62, 92, 99, 154–55, 207n2, 208n12 Ajax, 122, 125 Akuctatuas, 43 Alley, Lucy, 63 Alley, Moses, 63 Almira, 72–73 Amazon, 203 America, 85 AMERINDA, 183 Amethyst, 76–77, 84–85, 189, 203 Ammons, George, 112 Ammons, Gideon, 69, 108–12, 208n5, 210n12 Ammons, Joseph, 75–76, 79–83, 203, 210n12 Amoret, 20 Amos, Cordelia, 97 Amos, Happy, 57 Amos, Joseph, 115 Andros, Edmund, 46 Ann Maria, 121–24

Apache, 183 Apes, Betty, 9, 133–39 Apes, Elisha, 5, 9, 120–40 Apes, Erwin (Joe), 133–39 Apes, James (Tiemi Hipi), 9, 127–37 Apes, Jim, 135–36, 138–39 Apes, Leonard, 121 Apes, Solomon, 121 Apes, Tame Kahupatiti Wikita, 133 Apes, Thomas (Tama Hipi), 127, 131–32 Apes, Tom (Tame), 138 Apes Road, 12, 137, 139 Apess, William, 120–21, 134, 201 Aquinnah Cultural Center, 7, 13, 100, 162, 168 Aquinnah Wampanoag, 6–7, 11–19, 58–60, 65–71, 76, 84, 86, 90, 96, 101–2, 108–9, 113–18, 142, 156– 68, 211n1 (ch. 5) archaeology, 2–3, 19, 148, 152–53 Arctic, 75, 83, 100, 10, 113–14, 116, 159–60, 189, 192 Arctic peoples, 1, 5, 83, 179–80 Aron, 48–50 art, 2–3, 7, 97, 142, 160, 183–86, 190–92

x 213

Arthur V.S. Woodruff, 204 Artor, 45 Atlantic, 68, 91 Attaquin, Benjamin, 153 Attaquin, Solomon, 97, 153 Atungquion, 43 Australia, 130–31, 138 Avant, Mabel, 153 Awabetom, 47 Awashonks, 77–78 Awashonks, 76–79, 86–90, 203 Azoreans. See Portuguese Azores, 86–89, 103, 105 Baker, Amos C., Jr., 86, 89 baleen, 4, 30, 41, 49–50, 83, 116, 144–45 Barclay, 203 Barnstable, Mass., 38 Bartholomew Gosnold, 204 Bartlett, Sylvanus L., 86 baskets, 23 Basset, Benjamin, 12 Baylies, Caroline, 73 baymen, 190 Belain, Alonzo, 66–68 Belain, George, 69–70, 109, 116, 157, 212n4 Belain, Isaiah, 71–73 Belain, John W., 116 Belain, Joseph G., 74, 108–9, 115–16, 157–60, 204, 212n4 Belain, Lucretia, 84 Belain, Melissa, 157 Belain, Timothy L., 204 Belain, William, 69–70, 84 Belain family, 156. See also entries for individuals Belcher, Jonathan, 56 Bennett, John, 87 Bethel ships, 75–76 boat building, 148–50. See also canoes boatsteerers, 66, 79–80, 84, 86–87, 90, 101–7, 109, 111–12 Boston, Mass., 155 Bounty mutineer descendants, 82 Bourne, Richard, 153 Bowton, Smith, 87

214 X INDEX

Bradford, William, 24 Bragdon, Kathleen J., 33 Brawley, John, 87 Brazil, 86–90 Bridgehampton, N.Y., 182 Briggs, Samuel, 87 Brightman, George F., 86 British Columbia, 192 Brown, Tom, 130 Bulfoy, John B., 86 Bunn, Charles, 181 Bunn, Charles Sumner, 181–87, 197 Bunn, David W., 180–87 Bunn, James, 181 Bunn, Oscar, 182 Bunn family, 98, 181–82. See also entries for individuals Burma, 145 California, 204 Callao, 100, 204, 209n7 Canada, 192 cannibals, 60–61, 109, 114–15 canoes, 7, 20–21, 23, 27–30, 81–83, 142, 161–65, 170–73, 188, 192–93, 212n5 Cape Cod, 3, 21–26, 38–42, 55–56, 58, 97, 141–43. See also Mashpee Wampanoag; entries for individual towns Cape Town, South Africa, 154 Cape Verde Islands, 5, 85, 103 Cape Verdeans. See Portuguese Capey, David, 57 capitalism, 39, 41–42. See also economy; Native Americans: whaling motivations; whaling: industry captains, 7, 91, 99–100, 181, 184 Caribbean, 21, 86, 103, 154 Carrold, John, 87, 89 Carter, Betsey, 73 certificate of protection, 68–70 Champion, 72–73 Champlin, Abram, 111 Champlin, Mary A., 84 Chappaquiddick, 57, 59, 71–73, 155 Charlestown, R.I., 79, 110

Charles W. Morgan, 211n2 (ch. 6) Chatfield, Thomas, 47 Cheepii, 13, 16–17 Chilmark, Mass., 12, 84 Chinook, 96 Christiantown, 55–57, 59, 71–73, 84, 97, 108, 110, 113–14, 157 Christmas, 90 Circassian, 100, 171, 174, 182, 187 Civil War, 13, 89, 100, 115 Cleveland, Grover, 97 Clinton, David, 87 coastal trading vessels, 97 Coast Guard, 190 Cockney Bill, 87 Coffin, Bartlet, 49 Coffin, Experience, 48 colonization, 4–6, 12, 17, 20–26, 31–34, 39–40, 48–50, 167, 187–90, 196–97 Columbus, 82 Conklin, Jeremy, 34 Constitution, 112 Cook, Marcellus, 211n1 (ch. 5) Cook, Olive, 71–73 Cook, Thaddeus W., 203 Coombs, Darius, 164–65 Cooper, Aaron, 117 Cooper, Abram F., 91, 204 Cooper, Cyrus, 117 Cooper, John, 42 Cooper, Thomas, 11 Cooper, Thomas Green, 89 Cooper, Zaccheus, 69–70, 84 corn, 23–24, 27, 43 Cornhill, Richard, 43–44 correspondence, 91–94, 189 Cory, David, 174–75 Crèvecoeur, J. Hector St. John de, 51–55 crew lists, 68–71, 86–87, 98, 122, 201 Cuff, Eleanor (Nell), 157 Cuff, Hannah, 84 Cuff, Jonathan, 69–70 Cuff, Levi, 157, 212n4 Cuff / Cuffe family, 92, 157, 209n1. See also entries for individuals

Cuffe, Paul, 7, 92 Cuffe, Paul, Jr., 96, 209n1 Cuffee, Mary Ann, 182 Cuffee, Wickham, 171, 194 Curdoody, Joseph, 71–73 Cuttyhunk, 15–16, 117 Daily, Lewis, 69–70 Danzell, Christopher, 69–70 Dartmouth, Mass., 155–56, 167 Dauphin, 60–61 Davis, Holly Haile, 9, 173–80, 200 deaths at sea, 58, 68, 70, 82, 86–88, 90, 104, 107, 117, 153, 157, 171, 181–82 De Bry, Theodor, 21 debt, 39, 45–47, 50, 55–63, 76, 93 deeds, 32–35, 143, 188, 196 DeGrass, George W., 84 DeGrass, James W., 71–73 Delphos, 72–73 desertion, 86–87, 100, 122–25 Devil’s Den. See Moshup’s Den Diaguez, José, 76 discharges, 86–87 Dongan Patent, 196 Doughty, Elias, 43–44 Dunedin, New Zealand, 121, 127, 133, 138–39 Dunham, Thomas, 57 Earle, John Milton, 69 Eastham, Mass., 38, 56 East Hampton, N.Y., 32–34, 38–40, 46 Eastman, Max, 96, 100–101 economy, 2–4, 8, 26, 48, 71–73, 91–92, 177–78, 189. See also capitalism; labor education, 100, 115, 117–18, 137–38, 148, 160, 162–63, 183–85, 189, 197. See also teachers Eleazer, Edna Walker, 171–72, 177 Eliza, 116 Eliza Adams, 204 Elizabeth Islands, 15 Ellison, Daniel, 127, 132 Enos, Pedro, 80

x

215

INDEX

environment, 12–19, 22–32, 159, 166– 68, 193–98 Epps family, 138 equator, 85 Esop, James, 49 Essex, 60 Fairhaven, Mass., 156 Falmouth, Mass., 163 family, 12–18, 55–57, 76, 84, 90–94, 117, 133–39, 144–46, 151, 153, 156–57, 167, 170, 181–82, 185 Faris, Tom, 49 farming, 92–93, 98–99, 112–14, 181 federal recognition, 198, 210n10 Fields, Daniel R., 87 figurehead, 78 Findanny, Cannot, 84 Fisher, Gamaliel, 72–73 Fisher, John W., 86 fishing, 2–3, 14, 22, 26–32, 50, 58, 99, 126, 136–37, 159, 167, 170, 189–92 Flanders, Stephen, 114 Florida, 98, 100 folklore, 7, 11–19, 109 Fordham, Joseph, 45 Fordham, Mary, 45 foreshore rights, 32–35, 188, 196–98 France, 145 Francis, Francis, 56 Francis, Hosea, 57 Francis, Rachel, 56 Francis, Sarah, 57 Furness, George A., 114 Gardiner, David, 34 Gardiner, Lion, 32–34 Gardner, Joseph, 49 Gardner, Samuel, 49 Gay Head. See Aquinnah Wampanoag Gay Head Cliffs, 7, 13, 58, 100, 114, 168 Gay Head lighthouse, 58, 60, 117 George, Peter, 7 Gershom, Judith, 57 Gershom, Rosanna, 84 Gershom family, 117. See also entries for individuals

216 X INDEX

Gibbs, Andrew, 73 Gifford, Anthony, 112 Gilbert, Robert, 122–27 Gilbert, William, 122–27 Gilbert Islands (Kingsmill Group), 100 Gin Lane, 197–98 Goddard, Ives, 33 Gosnold, Bartholomew, 1–2 Gould, Richard, 71–73 Great Lakes region, 161 greenhands, 66 Greenland, 22, 100, 181 Groton, Conn., 120 guardians, 55–63, 71–73, 98–99, 121 Haida, 191 Haile, Elizabeth Thunder Bird, 9, 169–73, 200 Haiti, 115 Halsey, Thomas, 34 Hamilton, Thomas, 87 Hannibal, 82 Harper, Mary Apes, 139 Harper, Tira, 139 harpoons, 3, 20, 30, 41–42, 52–54, 101, 103–7, 151, 165–66, 192, 196 harpooners. See boatsteerers Haskins, Amos, 7, 91–92 Haskins, Elizabeth P., 91–92 Haskins, Samuel, 84 Hawai’i, 5, 69, 85, 151–52 Hawaiians. See Pacific islanders Hawley, Gideon, 62 Hayson, Anna V., 115 Hayson, Merriam C., 115 Hazard, Ernest, 110 Hazard, Henry C., 86 Henry, William, 86 Herder, Christian, 187 Herring Pond, 69 Hocken Library, 134 Holmes, Josiah Jr., 91–92 Hopkins, Stephen, 24 houses built with whaling money, 171, 177–78, 189 Howell, Arthur, 43

Howell, John, 42 Howell, Richard, 34, 42 Howwoswee, Winifred S., 84 humpback whales, 8 Hunter, John, 50 hunting, 24, 83, 185–87. See also whale hunting methods Huntting, Benjamin, 176–77 Hussey, Sylvanus, 48–50 Huston, John, 108 Huxford, Samuel, 73 indentures. See labor: contracts Indians. See Native Americans Institute of American Indian Arts, 183, 194 intermarriage, 5, 121, 126–27, 183 Italians, 87 Jackson, Andrew, 87 James, Alonzo B., 156–57 James, Bessie, 115–16 James, Edward (Albert), 144, 147, 151, 153, 201, 211n2 (ch. 6) James, Elizabeth (Betsy) Cuff, 156–59 James, George E., 84 James, Henry Gray I, 157–58, 212n4 James, Henry Gray II, 156–57 James, Judson, 145, 211n2 (ch. 6) James, Lena, 144–46 James, Mayme Ruth, 156–57 James, Namioka, 144 James, William S., 84 James, William W., 204 James family, 201. See also entries for individuals James Arnold, 88 James Maury, 75, 83, 203 Japan, 96, 145 Jared, Abraham, 84 Jared, Joel G., 69–70, 76–77, 84–86, 203, 208n5 Jeffers, Alice, 84 Jeffers, Thomas, 69–70, 84 Jeffery, Love, 57 Jeffery, Solomon, 57 Jernegan, Marcus, 108

John Dawson, 204 Johnson, Almira, 84 Johnson, John, 82 Johnson, Willard, 114 Johnson, William (of Chappaquiddick), 73 Johnson, William P. (of Aquinnah), 66 Jones, Johnny, 132 Joseph Butler, 203 journals, 9, 74–90, 145–46, 151, 203–4 Kamchatka, 80–81 Karitane, New Zealand, 121, 127, 134–39 Kathleen, 68 Keeter, Aaron, 60–63 Kelley, Anthony, 47 Kelley, Ned, 116 Kellis, Daniel David, 187 Kellis, Rebecca Bunn, 193 Kendall, Edward Augustus, 58–60 King Philip’s War, 41, 78 Kodiak whaling ground, 82 Kutusoff, 82 labor: contracts, 39–47, 55–63; crew composition, 39, 41, 51–53, 79, 86–87; grievances, 57; rates of pay, 40–47, 71–73, 90–92, 177, 189; working conditions, 102–3, 122–23, 157, 188–89. See also debt; lay system; rank Lafever, Minard, 176 Lagoda, 181, 184, 212n1 land issues, 56–57, 94, 98–99, 110–11, 137–38, 142, 177–79, 188, 196–98 language issues: Algonquian, 20, 26–32, 52, 142, 167, 170, 181, 193; French, 88, 117; Hawaiian, 79, 81; Mohawk, 175; Spanish, 76 Laughton, John, 43 Laughton, Josias, 42–43 Lawrence, Shubael, 62 Lawrence University, 115 lay system, 40–41, 52, 91, 103 Leaming, Christopher, 43 Lee, Ferdinand, 100, 204, 209n7

x

217

INDEX

Lee, James, 98–99 Lee, Milton, 74, 100, 203 Lee, Notley, 100 Lee, Robert, 100 Lee, William Garrison, 98, 100, 209n7 Lee family, 98–100. See also entries for individuals liquor, 43–44, 59, 94, 108 Little, Elizabeth A., 38–40, 48 Little, Isaac, 93 logbooks, 9, 74–75, 203–4. See also journals Long Island, 4, 7–8, 32–34, 38–47, 169–98. See also Montauk Indians; Shinnecock; Unkechaug Lot, Anna, 57 Lucas, L. H., 73 Luce, Ezekiel, 57 Ludlam, Anthony, 43 Lynn, Mass., 91, 187 MacDonald, Ranald, 96 Macy, John, 50 Madagascar, 5 Madison, Annetta, 115 Madison, Napoleon Bonaparte, 96 Maine, 20 Makah, 1, 179 Maneddo, 20 Manning, Abel, 94 Maori, 121–39 Maori Girl, 129, 132 Marriott, Edward, 87 Marston, Nymphas, 62 Martha’s Vineyard. See Aquinnah Cultural Center; Aquinnah Wampanoag; Chappaquiddick; Christiantown; Gay Head Cliffs; Gay Head lighthouse; Moshup; Oak Bluffs Martine, David Bunn, 7, 9, 180, 183– 98, 200 Martinez, Alice Osceola Bunn, 180–84, 187, 197, 212n1 Maryland, 99 Mashantucket Pequot Museum and Research Center, 7 Mashow, Frank, 207n2

218 X INDEX

Mashpee Museum, 153 Mashpee Revolt, 121 Mashpee River, 149–50 Mashpee Wampanoag, 9, 58, 60–63, 97, 121, 141–55, 163 Massachusetts, 80 Massachusetts Historical Society, 12 Massachusetts legislature, 55–57, 109, 114–15, 121 Massafuera, 84 Massasoit, 91 Mayflower, 21–22 Mayflower (of Nantucket), 50 Mayhew, Matthew, 32–33 Mayhew, Thomas, 113 McDonald, John, 87 McKenzie, Thomas, 103–8 Mecox, N.Y., 42, 171 Melville, Herman, 9, 65 memory, 7–8, 96–97, 100–18, 153, 156, 174–76 Mercator, 92–93 Micah, Dorcas, 49 Michna, Joanna, 147, 149 Micmac, 163 Middleton, Nathaniel, 122–25 Mingo, Joseph Q., 108, 110, 113 Mingo, Samuel G., 71–73, 108, 110, 113–14, 204 mishoo, mishoon. See canoes Mittark, 35, 116 Moby Dick, 9, 65, 100–101, 108, 152 Mohaska, 115 Mohegans, 58 Montauk Indians, 39, 170, 177, 183, 196 Morton, William H., 204 Moshup, 7, 11–19, 109, 168 Moshup’s Den, 12, 14, 168 “Mourt’s Relation,” 21–26 Mulford, Samuel, 47 museums. See memory; entries for individual museums music, 76, 117, 136, 144, 151–52, 155, 160, 166, 172–73, 179 mutiny, 123–25, 134 Mystic Seaport Museum, 211n2 (ch. 6)

NAGPRA (Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act), 141, 148 Nanepashemet (Tony Pollard), 160 Nantucket, 4, 15, 20, 34–35, 38–42, 48–51, 97, 142 Nantucket Algonquian Studies, 38–40 Napeague Beach, 182 Narragansett, 69, 79, 108–14, 163, 210n12 National Archives, 151 Native Americans: before European contact, 2–3, 7, 19, 166–67, 169–70, 190–94; survival, 6, 172–73, 178–79; whaling motivations, 40–47, 62–63, 71–74, 79, 94, 102, 112, 153, 178–80, 189; whaling’s impact on, 171–72, 174, 177–78; as world travelers, 5–6, 74–91, 143–46, 151, 154–55, 159–60. See also entries for individual tribes Navarch, 116 navigation, 76, 85, 100, 117, 166 New Bedford, Mass., 12–13, 91, 97, 102, 111, 115–17, 156–59, 212n1 New Bedford Port Society, 68 New Bedford Whaling Museum, 7 Newfoundland, 50 New York: city, 155; colony of, 41, 43–45 New Zealand, 120–39, 157, 211n1 (ch. 5) Ngai Tahu, 127–28, 137, 139 Nicholas, Mark, 153 Niger, 204 Nipmuc, 69 Noman’s Land, 12, 15 Northern Light, 181, 184, 212n1 Northwest Coast, 79, 191 Norton, Ariel, 86 Oak Bluffs, Mass., 113–14, 152 obituaries, 108–16, 127–33 Occom, Samson, 201 Occoush, John, 57 ocean, relationship with, 11, 26–29, 33, 96–97, 162–66, 179 O’Connell, Barry, 134

Oklahoma, 183 Ontario, 82 oral histories, 121–27, 141–98; methods, 9–10, 199–202 Oscar, 91 Osceola, 113 Otago Settlers Museum, 129, 132 overseers. See guardians Pacific islanders (“kanakas”), 79, 82– 83, 87–90, 100, 207n2 Paine, Ebenezer, 56 Palmerston, New Zealand, 136, 138 Palmetto, 204 Papummahteohoo, Joseph, 34 Paquanaug, 42 Payne, Cornelius, 87 Pearl Nelson, 102 Pease, Horatio F., 90 Pease, Thomas, 86 Pease, Valentine, 73 Peck, Gregory, 101, 108 Peconic Bay, 197 Peirson, Henry, 45 Pells, James F., 203 Penrhyn Island, 81–82, 187 Pequot, 120–21, 134, 139, 163 Peraki whaling station, 127 Percival, Freeman, 60–63 Perry, Elizabeth James, 9, 155–60, 201 Perry, Jonathan, 9, 156, 160–68, 200– 201, 212n5 Peters, Alfred, 84 Peters, Anna, 57 Peters, Charles, 71–73 Peters, Charles A., 97 Peters, Francis F. (Frank), 66–68, 91, 207n2 Peters, George, 57, 71–73 Peters, Jim, 164–65 Peters, Joseph, 71–73 Peters, Ramona, 9–10, 141–55 Peters, Sophia, 84, 157 Phenix, 50 Philip (Shinnecock), 42 Phillip the First, 100 Phillips, Zerobabel, 34 Pioneer of New Bedford, 72–73

x

219

INDEX

Pioneer of New London, 100 Pitcairn Island, 82 Pittarah, 83 Platina, 103–8, 204 Plato, Joeking F., 86 Plimoth Plantation, 161–63, 193 Plymouth, Mass., 4, 8, 21–26, 153, 187 Pocknett, Lydia, 62 political leadership, 108–12, 114–15, 128, 137, 152–53, 197–98 population, 58, 99 porpoise, 76–77, 85 Port Chalmers, New Zealand, 124–25 Portuguese, 79, 87–89 Potanomicut, 55–56 Potter, Charles, 93 Pratt, Thomas (Tame Parata), 127, 132 Price, Benjamin, 34 Providence, R.I., 26, 156 Provincetown, Mass., 8, 21–22 Puketeraki, 121, 125–28, 133–39 Punahere, Mata, 127, 133–36 Query’s Drugstore, 156 race, 57–58, 62, 69–71, 120, 122, 126, 153, 176, 178 Ralph, Joshua, 55–56 Ralph, Joshua, Jr., 56 rank, 65–68, 91, 99–100, 102–7 Rapa Nui, 83 Raynor, Joseph, 34 Redwing, Princess, 110 religion, 75–76, 98–99, 110, 112–13, 120–21, 132, 134, 145. See also spiritual beliefs Richmond, Va., 155 Rhode Island, 109–12 Rickey, Horace, 87 Riverhead Ocean Rescue Foundation, 195 River Plate Whaling Ground, 89–90, 103 Rolar, George, 87 Roman, 75–76, 79–83, 112, 203 Roosevelt, Theodore, family, 187 Rosa, Antone, 87 Rosier, James, 20

220 X INDEX

sachems, 20, 32–35, 142 Sag Harbor, N.Y., 181, 212n1 Sag Harbor Whaling and Historical Museum, 173–76 Sahkagteanmaw, 33–35 sailing, 28 Salisbury, Druzilla, 84 Salisbury, Emily, 84 Salisbury, Johannes, 84 Samuel & Thomas, 76–77, 85–86, 203 Sandwich, Mass., 63 San Francisco fleet, 114 Sarah, 72–73 Sasaktakon, 47 Sassacomoit, 20 Schemitzen, 139 scrimshaw, 7, 144–45, 182, 184–85 seals, 195 Seconet, 12 Shannock, R.I., 112 sharks, 54 Sharratt, Charles, 86 sheep shearing, 127–31 shellfish, 31, 136, 169, 172–73, 189–90, 194–95 Shenandoah, 100 Shinnecock, 6–7, 39–47, 98–100, 169–98, 201–2 Shinnecock Hills, 169, 193 Shinnecock Nation Cultural Center and Museum, 7, 169, 173, 175, 180, 183, 190–92 Shinnecock Oyster Project Facility, 195 ship models, 146–49, 184–86 ship owners, 58, 68 Shockley, Humphrey, 81–82, 112 Short, Able, 50 Siasconset, Mass., 38 Silas, John, 49 Silverman, David J., 39 Skicowares, 20 slavery, 154–55 slop chest, 71, 89, 91, 103 Smalley, Amos, 7, 96, 100–108, 151–52 Smalley, Frank, 102 Smalley, Samuel, 102 Smith, Charles P., 112 Smith, E. P., 73

Smith, John, 34 Smith, John W., 82 Smithsonian, 192 South America, 151 Southampton, N.Y., 4, 38–47, 98–99, 169, 183, 188, 196–97. See also Shinnecock Southampton Historical Society Museum, 192 Southampton Hospital, 196 spiritual beliefs, 2–4, 11–19, 27–28, 143, 145, 154–55, 172, 187–88, 190. See also religion Squant, 13–19 Starbuck account book, 48 Stefansson, Vilhjalmur, 159–60 Stellwagen Bank, 8 stereotypes, 98–99, 109, 112 St. Helena, 5, 181 St. Lawrence Island, 83 stone masonry, 112 Strong, John A., 39, 190 Suffolk County Park, 188 Summons, Jared, 71–73 Sumner, Henry T., 209n1 Sunbeam, 66–68, 210n15 Surinam, 5, 115 Swain, William, 49 Swallow, 204, 211n1 (ch. 5) Swift, Henry, 86 Swift, John, 62 Tabanedo, 20 Tacknish, Joseph, 57 Taieri, New Zealand, 136 Tall Oak, 151 Tantaquidgeon Indian Museum, 7 Tashmoo Beach, 163 Tashtego, 65–66 Tawbaughauz, 33 teachers, 13, 73, 99, 115, 117–18, 183 Te Marino, 126 Te Rauparaha, 126 textile mills, 157 Thaxter, Leavitt, 73 Thompson, John, 84 Thunder Bird, Chief, 169–70, 173 Thunder Bird Sisters, 173

Tisbury, Mass., 56–57 Todd, Charles Burr, 98–100 Topping, John, 46 Towantokott, 33–35 Towsacom, 42–43 trade, 48–50, 81–83, 88, 90, 93 tribal seals, 7 Tripp, Daniel, 93 Tripp, John, 86 Triton, 68 Triton II, 75 Trotter, John, 130–31 trustees (Shinnecock and Southampton), 197–98. See also guardians try-pots, 7, 41, 54, 132, 148 Tuhawaiki, 126 Tuscarora, 89 Tutu, Desmond, 154 Unkechaug, 39–42, 44–45, 170, 177 Unquonomon, 47 U.S. Customs Bureau, 68 U.S. Navy, 13, 89, 115 Vanderhoop, Beulah Occouch Salisbury, 115 Vanderhoop, David, 115 Vanderhoop, Edwin D., 7, 13, 66, 68, 76, 108–9, 114–15, 210n13 Vanderhoop, Edwin D., Jr., 115 Vanderhoop, Leonard Forest, 115 Vanderhoop, Mary A. Cleggett, 13, 109, 115, 117–18 Vanderhoop, Pauline, 115 Vanderhoop, William A., 115 Vanderhoop, William A., Jr., 76–79, 86–90, 203 Vasta, Meredth, 139 vessels, 5, 41, 52–53, 97, 102. See also whaleboats Vickers, Daniel, 39–42, 48 Waikouaiti, New Zealand, 121, 137; museum, 134; whaling at, 132 Wainer, Adoniram L., 92–94 Wainer, Asa, 92–94 Wainer, Chloe, 92

x

221

INDEX

Wainer, Michael, 92 Wainer, Rodney, 93 Walker, Harriet, 181 Walsh, Nicola, 139 Wamon, 48–49 Wampanoag, 7, 12, 21–26, 32–35, 92, 201–2. See also Aquinnah Wampanoag; Chappaquiddick; Christiantown; Mashpee Wampanoag wampum, 31, 44, 189–90, 195 Wamsley, Jane, 117–18 Wannuggeashcum, 33 Waquoit, 152 Washington, 83 Wasquannouwasooet, 34 Waukshus, 16 Wayland Seminary, 115 Webquish, Anstress G., 116 Webquish, Frederick, 71–73 Webquish, Jesse, Jr., 74, 203 websites, 95, 190 Webster, Daniel, 97 Weeayacombounes, 33 Weeks, Solomon, 57 Weeks, Tristram A., 117–18, 204 Wellfleet, Mass., 38, 143 Wenkceaskaum, 34 West, Andrew, 105–7 Westport, Mass., 92–94, 156, 167 Weymouth, George, 20 whaleboats, 41–42, 44, 47, 52–54, 80, 88–89, 101, 103, 124–26, 132 whalebone. See baleen whale depletion, 4–6, 166–67 whale flukes, 3, 30, 32–33, 76–77, 102, 112, 178, 188 whale hunting methods, 22, 41, 51–54, 79–82, 88, 103–8, 112; before European contact, 19–21, 142, 188–93 whalemen’s shipping articles, 68–69 Whalemen’s Shipping List and Merchants’ Transcript, 68 whale oil, 4, 7, 22, 24–26, 41–42, 44, 47, 49, 54, 80–81, 85, 132, 142, 171; lamp, 185

222 X INDEX

whales: behavior of, 81–82, 102–8; bowheads, 102; finbacks, 8, 172, 188; as food, 12, 14, 17–18, 20, 30, 142, 171, 178–80; as furniture, 136; as gifts, 30; humpbacks, 112, 172; killer whales, 12, 17–18, 55; pilot whales (grampus, blackfish), 25–26, 76–77, 83; right whales, 8–9, 21–25, 76–77, 102, 187; sperm whales, 7, 55, 60–61, 65, 76–77, 101–8, 185; stranded (also called beached and drift) whales, 8, 25–26, 30, 32–35, 142–43, 172, 178, 187–88, 195, 198 whale stamps, 76–77 whale watching, 8, 143, 168 whaling: discipline, 145–46; food, 85, 90, 102–3; as exploitation, 176–77; grounds, 4–5, 79–90; industry, evolution of, 4–5, 41, 65–66, 96, 166, 178; offshore (eighteenth century) 39, 48–55, (nineteenth century) 58–100, (early twentieth century) 100–108; outfitters, 59–62, 68; shorewhaling, 8, 37–50, 188; shorewhaling in New Zealand, 121, 127–33. See also labor Wheeler, John, 46–47 Wheeler, Martin, 87 Whelden, Alexander, 83 white whalemen, 58, 62 Whiteside, Joseph, 116 wigwams, 171, 193–99 Will (Shinnecock), 47 Williams, John, 45 Williams, Roger, 26–32, 111, 161, 165 Wing, Thomas G., 86 women, 31, 56, 78, 81, 84, 90–94, 99–100, 132, 145, 152–53, 157, 182, 189 Wood, William, 86 Woods, Cedric, 139 wrecks, 19, 60, 88, 99–100, 116–17, 189. See also Circassian Wyandanch, 32–34 Yarmouth, Mass., 38 Young, Sophronia, 152–53

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