You were likely to get knocked on the head and groped for your purse, so you had to watch out! But...
It was on June 7, 1792 in the early afternoon that a massive earthquake and resulting tidal waves destroyed that evil city, Port Royal, which was called by one preacher, - "The Sodom of the New World. (How do we know that it was early afternoon?... Because a pocket watch was found underwater in the wreckage that had stopped at just that time!) Earlier in 1692 a comet was sighted by Edward Halley and named after him; it was said to predict the coming of a great disaster; - of Port Royal? Maybe so, maybe not. In any case, that fabulous, sophisticated and very wicked Jamaican city built on a natural thirteen mile long sandbar, or sandspit, and with a wonderful deep harbor where even the deepest keeled galleon and galley could be docked, was never the same.
Today, all that is left off old Port Royal is a very tiny piece. British forts James and Carlisle were swept underwater; only Fort Charles stood on dry land, and it is still in amazingly good condition. But, under the shallow turquoise water off shore are the ruins of the great pirating city. Many fascinating artifacts have been brought up from the sea, things that, basically, where used in everyday life, --- bits of plates, pipe stems, etc. [See the documentary, below.] Divers are hoping, hoping, hoping, --- oh, HOPING to find the headstone of Captain Henry Morgan whose grave was rushed out to sea. (Now, wouldn't THAT be SOMETHING!) :D
Well, over two thousand people were killed outright by the quake and resulting tidal waves. After that many others died from the terribly unhealthy conditions in the flooded ruins, with stinking, bloated corpses floating everywhere... There was chaos and mass looting. Most of the survivors moved to the other side of the harbor and built the town of Kingston. But, some tried to rebuild Port Royal. Unfortunately, a hurricane in 1712 destroyed their efforts and another hurricane in 1722 finished them. In recent years there has been some talk of historically resurrecting Old Port Royal in view in the tourist value of it, but things in Jamaica move by "Jamaica time", and really nothing concrete has been established.
Below, is an excerpt from my novel "PIRATE HEART", --- heroine Ellie's first impressions of Port Royal in it's wild and lovely prime, in 1690, or about two years before it's destruction:
We walked past Morgan’s line, his cannons facing out to sea. I saw a crowded collection of shacks and little tumble-down wooden houses, but there were also rows of well built two story red brick buildings. It was all lighted by a silvery full moon and many torches wound with flaming rags stuck in the sand. Both tall and bushy palms, banana plants, blossoming hibiscus and other tropical foliage grew lushly here and there like vigorous weeds. Will guided me around stinking, fly ridden piles of trash. Steady on my feet, I didn’t need much support. I wisely wore an old pair of men’s broggans.
The noise was deafening, yammering in many languages, fighting, cursing, screams, yelps of laughter, breaking glass, drunken shouting and singing, fiddle and drum playing, the squeals of pigs, baaing goats, squawking chickens, barking dogs, yowling cats. There was the heavy smell of cooking in hot fat, rotting fruit, cheap perfume, stale straw, mold and mildew, sweat, piss and shite. Food eaten with the fingers was being sold in front of the dwellings and liquor in huge barrels stood in carts, ladled to anyone who had the money and many who didn’t.
Harlots strolled up and down, puffy breasts out of their bodices, shining thighs showing through skirts ripped to their waists as they teased, giggled and wailed. Their faces were all googley, the garish paint on them smeared, lips scarlet and cheeks flaming orange, eyes rimmed with messy soot, knotted hair piled high in dirty ribbons or cheap brass clips and straggling out of gaudy turbans.
One grabbed Will as we brushed by her. I could smell the warm reek of her even through her cloying perfume. “Ahoy, handsome! She offered him a piece of meat on a stick, dripping with grease. “Have a bite.” As she extended it toward him, her back arched, breasts outward. She smirked, made kissing sounds. Will smiled indulgently, untangling the whore’s fingers. We walked on.
I clung to his bicep trying not to make eye contact with any of the men. They crowded everywhere, some dressed in rags, some flamboyantly clothed, but they were all leering pirates, some with rings in their ears and gold coin necklaces, some with patches over their eyes, peg legs and crude crutches, striped stocking caps, tricorns and Cavalier’s hats with huge plumes. I would have been very afraid if Will wasn’t with me.
His strong hands steered me through the crowds into a tavern called The Bucket Of Blood. We were halted every few feet as Will was greeted with cheers and affectionate insults, --- “Ho, ho, you jacknapes! Ooo-weee, ruddy cockerel! It seizes me with joy to see you, me bravo! You black-hearted ilk, where the devil you been hiding?”
At a tiny table in the back sat a small man with a dirty red kerchief around his neck. His shirt was so full o’ holes it barely covered his fuzzy gray chest. He jumped up when he saw Will. “Consarn it, Black Will Burton, I been afeared I’d be nay seeing you again this side o’ hell!”
“By fire and thunder, Barthy Bottles, you slavering old sea dog!”
Will slapped Barthy on his back, almost sending him flying. Barthy gripped the rickety little table for support. He bowed deeply to me, a strangely genteel gesture. “This be your lady, Will?”
“Aye, meet me darling Ellie, sweetest lamb on the sea.”
I smiled and said hello.
Barthy grinned back at me. “Woo, --- a raging redheid, a good-sized lass too! I hates those tiny stick females! Gimme a nice handful o’ arse and I be a happy man!”
Will laughed. “Never her arse, Barthy!"
Barty snorted. “Snails, I be fooling. Sit you down on your binnacle, Will. You and your lady have a tot o’ rum on me.”
Will pulled up a seat for me and himself. “I thanks you, Barthy. I be parched.”
Barthy poured coarse rum for us that seared my nose and mouth, then burned a path to my stomach where it sat like a glowing fire. Will patted my back absently as I coughed and cleared my throat.
Barthy leaned over the table. “Be you looking for men, Will? Me last cap’n, Dun Halley… Half the crew went down in the drink with him. God rest his fishy old soul.”
Will took off his hat, held it over his heart. “I be sorry to hear it. But, iffin you’d sign me articles I be most pleased, Barthy. I always needs experienced hands and old friends be high valued.”
Barthy snuffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “’T is mighty good o’ you, Will, seeing as I be nay as young as most.”
“Avast now, me bravo! You comes back to the Sea Wife tonight!”
“You be a brick, Will, s’ truth, a rare cove!”
With Barthy we roamed the Port Royal dens of inequity. It seemed about every fifth place was a tavern, a brothel or gaming house, some with very clever names. We stopped at The Whore’s Lantern, The Vile Virgin and The Ruddy Hog. We ended up at The Captain’s Folly, which was made of bright blue and yellow boards. It’s owner Mad Maybelle Mapes, a buxom jade wearing a stained gown, yelped with joy when she saw Will, throwing her arms in the air, jumping at him, winding her plump, black stockinged legs around his waist. Will grabbed her to keep her from falling and grinned, whispering something in her ear. She laughed hugely; putting both hands on his cheeks, she kissed him deeply and gave him a bottle of rum and glasses.
Will was making his way toward our table when he spun around as a man clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. Will’s eyes gleamed at a pale, thin man. “Ichabod Corvo, you traitorous wharf rat, still sneaking around the Caribbe...”
“I been looking for clues to Morgan’s treasure, Burton. There be a map.” Icabod Corvo’s humorless grin was like the shrinking of a corpse’s teeth from his skull. His yellow hair hung in a greasy hank over his forehead and his icy blue eyes rolled like marbles.
“About that map, Corvo… Natcherly, Lelee Sadill dinna trusted you with it seeing as you tried to kill him. You bloody crimp, you ought to be pickled in brine! I had nay love for Sadill, but traitors curdles me wame and poison be a cowardly weapon for a man! Be you a weakling or just plain dum-strum?”
Corvo pushed Will backwards, and pulling a dagger from his belt, slashed at him. Will jumped back and I knocked into Barthy Bottles. Then, Will’s rapier was out. “Taste me steel, maggot!,” he yelled.
Barthy and me pressed ourselves to the wall. Will fought with wild vigor and the feline grace that always characterized him. Another man came into it. He was much smaller than me, indeed, small enough to duck easily under Will’s arm. He wore a floppy hat jammed on his head and was dressed entirely in brown leather, even to his bucket boots. He was a marvelous swordsman. I’d never seen anybody move so fast. He gave Corvo a cut across his cheek and one on his forearm, the wounds dripping blood. My eyes were so staring that they hurt and felt dry, my heart hammering as if it would come through my chest. Will snarled and pinned Corvo, bending him over a table.
The small man grabbed a fistful of Corvo’s hair, his sword at his throat. “Yield or die!,” he growled.
Corvo’s wet mouth gaped. “I yields!"
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