By Laura Williams, Visitor Services Coordinator

It was a sad day for treasure hunters across the U.S.  when on 6 June 2020, millionaire art dealer Forrest Fenn’s legendary treasure was reported as found. Hidden in the Rocky Mountains for 10 years, the only clues to find the chest filled with gold coins and nuggets were a map and a poem. Like most mysteries, this treasure hunt did not come without a fair share of darkness as it is believed that 4 people died on the quest. [1]  As I learned more about this present day treasure hunt, I could not help but think back on other tales of hidden riches that have puzzled treasure seekers and historians alike. From the pirate Blackbeard to the Aztec Emperor Montezuma II, legends of hidden treasures are as old as time. In fact, one such treasure that is still missing is the rumored bounty of the pirate ship the Whydah which sank just off the coast of Cape Cod, Mass..

The Whydah had a dark past before it was captured by pirates, as it was originally a merchant slaver used within the Triangular Trade and the Middle Passage. It was boarded by pirates as it left Jamaica en route to London in late February/early March 1717. The pirate crew was led by Samuel Bellamy, or Black Bellamy, and the ship was soon loaded up with plunder as they made their way across the seas. In addition to weaponry and other valuables, the most intriguing facet aboard was the rumored 20,000 pounds of gold and silver.  Captain Bellamy’s command of the ship was short lived, however, as it sank on 26 April 1717 after storm winds pushed it onto the shoals of Cape Cod. Only a handful of survivors were left and they were taken ashore to face trial in Boston.

Immediately following the wreck, it is known that Cape Cod locals plundered the ship’s valuables. Cyprian Southack, a cartographer, was also hired to note the location of the shipwreck and gather treasures for the crown. More about his voyages and time serving the Mass Bay Colony can be found in the MHS’s Cyprian Southack letters collection. In fact, much of what we now know about the pirates comes from the priest Cotton Mather’s papers and his account of visits with the men in jail to provide them salvation. However, it was never confirmed whether or not the large bounty of treasure that the pirates gloated about truly existed.

Once six out of the seven surviving pirates were sentenced to death and executed in Boston, the Whydah remained buried under 30 feet of water for over 250 years. That is until 1984 when underwater explorer and Massachusetts native, Barry Clifford, found the ship’s remains and the Whydah became the first authenticated pirate ship wreck in North America. The thousands of artifacts discovered in the wreck can be seen at the Whydah Pirate Museum in Cape Cod, and Clifford has continued his search for the legendary treasure. In 2016, Clifford and his team stated that they discovered a large metallic mass off the coast of Wellfleet, MA that may contain most or all of the alleged 400,000 coins hidden below sea. [2]  Further deconstruction of the mass will be needed to verify this claim.

As modern day treasure hunters continue their quests for riches, the journey will always begin with history and the clues that have been left behind. To learn more about the Whydah pirates, notorious Captain Kidd or Boston’s history as the “Port Where Pirates Hang,” take a look at our previous Beehive posts: The End of Piracy: Pirates hanged in Boston 300 years ago | Beehive & Piracy and Repentance | Beehive.

[1] Chappell, Bill. “Hidden Treasure Chest Filled With Gold And Gems Is Found In Rocky Mountains.” NPR.org, accessed on June 10, 2020. https://www.npr.org/2020/06/08/872186575/hidden-million-dollar-treasure-has-been-found-in-rocky-mountains-art-dealer-says

[2] Marcelo, Philip. “Explorer Barry Clifford claims he’s located famous pirate ship Whydah’s treasure.” patriotledger.com, accessed on June 19, 2020. https://www.patriotledger.com/news/20161007/explorer-barry-clifford-claims-hes-located-famous-pirate-ship-whydahs-treasure

By Dr. Talya Housman, Threadable Books

In 1722, Reverend William Douglass attacked the smallpox inoculation efforts of Cotton Mather and Zabdiel Boylston, dismissing inoculation as based on “a silly Story or familiar Interview and Conversation between two black (Negroe) Gentlemen,” and promoted by “an Army of half a Dozen or half a Score Africans, by others call‟d Negroe Slaves, who tell us now (tho‟ never before) that it is practiced in their own Countery.”[1]

Inoculation had been used in Africa prior to its use in Boston and Mather had heard of the process from Onesimus, who was his slave. Mather defended his and Boylston’s experiments noting that inoculation had worked “upon both Male and Female, both old and young, both Strong and Weak, both White and Black.”[2]

The 1721 controversy over inoculation was not exclusively about race. There were myriad issues mixed up in the debate including medical certification and religion. However, as was the case in much of the eighteenth century American history of infectious disease, race played an important and often times unsavory role.

Human bondage is a critical piece of these stories. Though in this case Mather used his voice to amplify an idea he heard from Onesimus, as Mather’s “property,” Onesimus had little choice in the course of events and we have no record of his voice in the story. Unfortunately, Onesimus is hardly the most exploited enslaved person in the eighteenth century history of infectious disease. Numerous physicians in the Americas performed experiments on slaves. For these experiments, physicians would solicit consent from the owners of slaves, rather than the enslaved persons themselves. Physician John Quier, for example, experimented with innoculation on almost eight hundred slaves.[3]

The freed black community was far from unaffected by the interplay between race and infectious disease. In 1793, yellow fever broke out in Philadelphia. Benjamin Rush, signer of the Declaration of Indpendence and one of the most prominent physicians in North America, actively worked to combat the disease. After reading Dr. John Lining’s account of the 1754 yellow fever outbreak in Charleston, Rush wrote to his friend Richard Allen, a preacher and founder of the African Methodist Episcopal Church, who was one of the most influential black leaders of the time.

Yellow fever, Rush informed Allen, “infects white people of all ranks, but passes by persons of your color.” While Rush wrote that this “important exemption which God” granted to the black community from “a dangerous & fatal disorder” did not create “an obligation to offer your services to attend the sick,” Rush emphasized that tending to the sick white community would earn the black community gratefulness. (Interestingly, Rush initially wrote that nursing the sick would “render you acceptable to,” but he struck out those words and replaced them.) Allen and the black community of Philadelphia obliged, tending to the sick white community. However, as Rush himself would later discover, they were no more immune to yellow fever than the white community. [4]

In fact, Lining’s research was part of an ongoing myth that black bodies are more immune to all sorts of things than white bodies: disease, heat, pain – the list goes on.

The intersection between infectious disease and race in the eighteenth century is a reminder that infectious disease intersects with and exposes other existing problems in our society – be they racial, socio-economic, religious, or otherwise.

Dr. Housman’s first book project uses digital tools to explore sexual crime in seventeenth century England. She has written on numerous historical topics including slavery, suffrage, religious freedom, industrialization, charitable giving, and pandemics for various public history organizations. 

[1] William Douglass, Inoculation of the Small Pox as Practiced in Boston, Consider‟d in a Letter to A—S– -M.D. & F.R.S (Boston, 1722), 6-7.

[2] Minardi, Margot, “The Boston Inoculation Controversy of 1721-1722: An Incident in the History of Race,” The William and Mary Quarterly, Third Series, 61, no. 1 (2004), 58 citing Cotton Mather, The Angel of Bethesda, ed. Gordon W. Jones (Barre, Mass., 1972), 113.

[3] Londa L Schiebinger, Plants and Empire, (Harvard University Press, 2009). p. 175.

Rana A. Hogarth, Medicalizing Blackness: Making Racial Difference in the Atlantic World, 1780-1840. (University of North Carolina Press, 2017), 220, fn. 12.

[4]Ibid, 24-8.

By Angela Tillapaugh, Library Assistant

The image above shows a brown silk purse with floral embroidery owned by Sarah Leverett. Small drawstring purses, sometimes called reticules, became popular in the early 19th century. They were usually made fine materials like silk and velvet, and some decorated with elaborate embroidery or beading to make them stand out. Most were secured by a drawstring on the top and held around the wearer’s wrist. Previously, carrying small fashionable purses was not standard for early Americans.

Women used to carry their belongings in pockets, like the one above owned by Abigail Adams. Unlike menswear, pockets were separate garments that would be tied around the waist underneath an outer skirt with slits cut into it so the wearer could easily access the pouch. Unlike the delicate embroidered purses, pockets were large practical garments usually made of sturdy cotton that could fit many of the wearer’s belongings. Reticules replaced pockets around the early 19th century when full dresses with layered petticoats fell out of fashion. Dresses with high waistlines and slim fitting skirts became popular among fashionable women. Slim fitting skirts were not conducive to hiding large pockets, which were considered undergarments and inappropriate to see through a dress.[i] To account for the loss of pockets, many started carrying small purses like the one owned by Sarah Leverett. Some American women fought against the loss of the pocket, arguing that carrying a bag could never provide the same freedom having your belongings tucked away in a pocket. Other women argued that the opposite was true, the reticules gave women more freedom because they were not weighed down by heavy pockets.[ii]

Regardless, the pocket never made a significant comeback in American women’s fashion, but the purse continued to evolve. Luggage manufacturers like Louis Vuitton introduced the early modern purse by making smaller versions of their suitcases and calling them “hand-bags”.[iii] These purses were much more secure than the silk drawstring bags and allowed the owner to carry more belongings with them then the pockets of centuries prior. The purse has certainly stood the test of time, continuing to modernize and change with the times to meet the needs of the wearer.

Further reading on Abigail Adam’s pocket: www.masshist.org/object-of-the-month/objects/abigail-adams-pocket-2009-12-01

[i] Danford, Sara. “The History of the Handbag,” May 31, 2017. https://womensmuseum.wordpress.com/2017/05/31/the-history-of-the-handbag/.

[ii] Trufelman, Avery, host. “Pockets: Articles of Interest #3.” 99 Percent Invisible (podcast). October 2, 2018. Accessed June 04, 2020.

[iii] Danford, Sara. “The History of the Handbag,” May 31, 2017. https://womensmuseum.wordpress.com/2017/05/31/the-history-of-the-handbag/.

By Susan Martin, Processing Archivist & EAD Coordinator

This is the third part of a series about the letters to William and Caroline Eustis at the Massachusetts Historical Society. Click here to read Part I and Part II.

Among the many interesting letters to William and Caroline Eustis at the MHS is one written by Secretary of War Henry Dearborn in Washington, D.C. on 5 April 1807. I’d like to take another one of my deep dives and look at this letter in more detail. It’s a great example of what we archivists often see in historical correspondence: a relatively mundane topic juxtaposed with a very dramatic one.

Dearborn began his letter to William Eustis by informing him of the routine appointment of a man named Lemuel Trescott to be collector of customs at the port of Machias, Maine. Dearborn had asked Eustis for advice about Trescott’s character, and what he heard reassured him. He’d been particularly concerned with the question of temperance, “as so many of our old Army friends have failed on that score.”

So far, so good. But what began as a letter on straightforward official business became, on the second page, an account of the escape and recapture of Vice President Aaron Burr before his trial on charges of treason. Here’s how Dearborn described it (I’ll preserve his misspellings):

Col Burr, after forfiting his bonds to the Court at Natchez, by an escape, was taken up in a shabby disguise a few miles from the Spanish boundary on the Mobile, and in that situation conducted by a Citizan and small guard to richmond in Virginia where he has by Judge Marshal, been laid under bonds of $10,000 to abide his trial at some future day.

(An online currency converter tells me that $10,000 in 1807 is the equivalent of approximately $220,000 today.)

Aaron Burr had been Thomas Jefferson’s first vice president, serving until 1805. He had, of course, famously killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel in 1804. But this time, he was accused of something quite different: plotting to create a secessionist state in the West and raising troops to invade and annex Spanish-held land in Texas and Mexico. Or something like that. The details and purpose of his enterprise are still contested by historians.

Thomas Jefferson ordered the arrest of Burr, who surrendered to the authorities at Natchez in the Mississippi Territory. As Dearborn explained in the passage above, Burr then escaped and managed to get to within a few miles of the border of West Florida before his recapture in February 1807. West Florida was a Spanish territory consisting of a narrow strip of land along the northern coast of the Gulf of Mexico from the Florida panhandle to the Mississippi River.

Dearborn also related the story of a second escape attempt by Burr on the way to Richmond.

In passing a small village in S. Carolina where some people had assembled, he leaped from his horse, ran towards the people, announced himself, and claimed protection, but the guard cocking their pins and threatening to fire if he did not immediately return, he returned & proceeded on the journey.

I found references to this story online and confirmed that this incident took place in Chester, South Carolina. It was probably reasonable for Burr to hope for sympathy in that state, since his son-in-law was a prominent landowner there. But he’d clearly taken the people of Chester by surprise, and what might have become a dramatic rescue unceremoniously fizzled out. Interestingly, the rock on which Burr stood as he made his plea to the town is now a designated historical marker carved with the following inscription:

In 1806 [sic] Aaron Burr while passing through Chester a prisoner dismounted on this rock and appealed in vain to the citizens for help.

Burr’s trial at Richmond was a sensation and lasted for months. He was eventually acquitted due to lack of evidence of any overt act of treason. Chief Justice of the Supreme Court John Marshall presided.

Incidentally, Henry Dearborn and William Eustis had a lot in common. They were both Revolutionary War veterans. They both served as Secretaries of War, Dearborn under President Jefferson, and Eustis right after him under President Madison. And both men knew Burr personally. Eustis in particular was a good friend and frequent correspondent of the vice president, which may have been why Dearborn was keeping him in the loop.

This letter is also fairly typical for another reason: tricky handwriting. With practice, archivists get better at reading old manuscripts, but each correspondent has his or her own quirks. Dearborn’s writing is large, and the letters don’t really connect up well with each other. For example, this word is apparently “pins.”

Here is “some.”

And this one, as near as I can tell from context, is “wrong.” Or, that is, “rong” spelled wrong.

Stay tuned to the Beehive for more on the Eustis collection.