The Saga of Lewis Galdy

A Draught of the Harbours of Port Royal andKingston in Jamaica with the fortifications Correctly Laid Down, also All the Keys and Shoals Adjacent by John Lodge (1796), Geography & Map Division, Library of Congress, Washington D.C., November 20, 2024, http://hdl.loc.gmd/g4964p.ar195400

Author’s note

I’m sharing the following as a “holiday” extra. You’ll see it’s a little different from my usual posts in that it’s written from the subject’s point of view, which inherently makes it more historical fiction than pure history. This is because I’m currently writing a novel about Galdy as my follow-up to Captain Hornigold and the Pirate Republic. I enjoy doing historical research and sharing the fruits of that research in my blog for other history enthusiasts to enjoy, but for a storyteller, the rigors of strictly factual reporting do become somewhat constraining. Therefore I return to historical fiction that I may take the occasional liberty with the recorded facts for the sake of a good yarn. I hope you enjoy this pared-down version of Galdy’s story.

The Saga of Louis Galdy

My name is Louis Galdy and this is my story, as strange as it may sound. Here I sit in a tavern in a land that I know not where and can only wonder how I got here and what will become of me. So let me think back and unravel what I can remember.

I was born in 1659 in Montpellier in the south of France. A long time ago, Montpellier wasn’t Montpellier but rather Maguelone, a town on the Mediterranean coast. There came a time when the constant threat of pirate raids forced the town’s people to petition their lord to move inland where they would be safer. The lord combined two hamlets, built a castle and surrounded everything with a wall and he named his town Montpellier. He became William I, the first lord of Montpellier. That was back in 986.

I was told that two centuries later, this little town became a prominent trading center with links across the Mediterranean. When Marie, the daughter of William VIII, lord of Montpellier, married King Peter II of Aragon, Peter was given the lordship of Montpellier as part of Marie’s dowry. Montpellier was now in the kingdom of Aragon.

Montpellier became a major economic center and its spice trade made both the town and the kingdom prosper.

Sadly, in 1347, a ship from Italy arrived in Marseille and brought the bubonic plague. The Black Death spread throughout southern France. By being a trading city near the Mediterranean, there was no escape. Montpellier’s population, once around 60,000, was especially hard hit.

Two years later, the lord of Montpellier sold his lordship to the king of France to raise money for his struggles with his cousin, King Peter IV of Aragon. Montpellier was now back in the kingdom of France.

At that time, Montpellier was a wonderful place to live. It had a rich mix of religions and cultures … religious tolerance created a welcoming environment for Muslims and Jews. Even the Cathars were tolerated. They rejected the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church as immoral. They even rejected most of the books of the Bible as being inspired by Satan.

Montpellier’s diversity helped it develop into an educational center, especially for the study of law and medicine.

But everything began to change in 1517. That’s when a German priest named Martin Luther posted his ninety-five theses on a church door … and so began what became known as the Protestant Reformation. With Protestantism sweeping west into France, the Catholic Church was losing its iron grip on daily life. This was especially true in the southern and western parts of France.

Another Protestant movement began in Switzerland…. Huldrych Zwingli was preaching against ecclesial corruption, fasting, the celibacy requirement for clergy, the veneration of saints, and excommunication. He set the stage for the Swiss Reformation.

In around 1530, John Calvin, a French theologian and contemporary of Zwingli, broke from the Roman Catholic Church. Calvin was forced to flee his home in France. He ultimately moved to Switzerland. Calvinism, that is Reformed Protestantism or simply Reformed, spread into western and southern France, the Netherlands, parts of Germany and central Europe. In my home country, France, the Lutherians called the Calvinists Huguenots. Calvinism and Lutheranism differ. Each has its own doctrine as to atonement, salvation, predestination, sovereignty, and grace.

Montpellier, which had been reduced to less than 30,000 by the plague, became a leading Protestant city. It was predominantly Huguenot … and my family and I proudly said we are Huguenots.

All was well at first. King Francis I tolerated Protestants but then some fanatics frightened him. Anti-Catholic posters began appearing in public places in Paris and in four major provincial cities. One night, a poster was posted on King Francis’s bedchamber door. This breach of security was the final straw and it became known as the Affair of the Placards. King Francis questioned what good were his conciliatory policies if this is what he would receive in return. So he brought an end to these policies and he began persecuting Protestants … and they were largely Huguenots. The persecution led to the religious wars…. Thousands were massacred.

By the end of the 16th century, everything changed again. Francis I was succeeded by Henry II. then another Francis, Charles IX, Henry III, and finally Henry IV. We called King Henry IV, “Good King Henry.” He had been baptized Catholic but his mother raised him in the Protestant faith. Four years after becoming king, Henry converted to Catholicism. He was, however, tolerant of all Protestants, including Huguenots. He gave us the Edict of Nantes that allowed us to worship as we pleased.

But as we all know, nothing ever remains the same. Some Catholics were incensed and considered Good King Henry a usurper. He survived at least a dozen assassination attempts. Finally, his luck ran out and he was assassinated by a Catholic zealot.

Henry was succeeded by his son, Louis XIII, who in turn was succeeded by his son, Louis XIV. When Louis XIV was in his 40s, he decided that all Protestants should convert to Catholicism. He issued the Edict of Fontainebleau. That was in 1685 and it abolished the Edict of Nantes. The Edict of Fontainebleau clearly stated that the practice of Protestantism was “high treason against God and mankind.” Therefore, those who were Protestants were heretics and deserved the appropriate punishments … torture, loss of property, public humiliation and even death. The results were quick and harsh, especially in my town of Montpellier.

. . . . .

I was home when my father was visited by Catholic missionaries who offered him money if our family would convert. Naturally, my father refused and sent them on their way in a huff. They were not happy.

When payment did not work, the king resorted to punishment. When that failed, he declared Protestantism illegal and closed our churches. Many of our beautiful churches were destroyed.

Non-Catholics sought to leave France but they found themselves trapped when the king prohibited emigration. Many Huguenots, however, found their way to flee France for England, Switzerland, Holland, Northern Europe and South Africa. A few even headed for the English colonies of New York, South Carolina and the Caribbean.

. . . . .

One afternoon, my brother, Laurent, and I were greeted by our father, who arrived home uncommonly early. An eerie quiet filled our house as mother served supper … no one spoke. After supper and the dishes were cleared, mother began to weep as my father began to speak.

“The king is sending his soldiers house to house to arrest young men your age. You need to leave tomorrow morning or you won’t be safe.”

“What will you and mother do?” I asked.

“We’ll stay behind. Someone needs to take care of our elders who can’t travel. We’ll manage.”

That evening, Laurent and I packed a few things, gathered what money we had, and early the next morning, disguised as Catholic missionaries, we made our way to the coast and booked passage on a merchant ship that was sailing to the Caribbean. Several months later, we found ourselves in Port Royal, a town on the southeastern Jamaican coast.

. . . . .

It did not take long for me to find work with one of the merchants on Thames Street and an adequate room to rent at a boarding house nearby. Laurent did likewise. That evening as I lie on my bed in my new surroundings, I couldn't help but think about mother and father and that I would never see them again.

. . . . .

Port Royal, flat and surrounded by water, was an amazing little town … a small fraction of the size of Montpellier. I was told that when the English drove the Castilians out of Jamaica in 1655, Port Royal did not exist. Rather it was only the end of a series of large rock formations that extended from the shore. Over the years, the tides and the winds deposited sand and gravel between the rocks so now everything was connected all the way to the shore. Port Royal was at the very tip of the “tongue,” not too distant from the opposite shore, and almost closed the Cagway Bay's entrance.

The English built a small fortification to guard the bay’s entrance and named it Fort Cromwell after the lord protector of England. The next year, the fortification became a round tower. Two hundred houses sprang up around the tower. When the land was fully occupied, a palisade was sunk into the shore and gravel and sand were brought in as backfill. When this new land was at capacity, another palisade was built and the process continued out into the bay.

Because Port Royal was a new town, it gave builders an opportunity to build it as an English port city.

After the death of Oliver Cromwell and the ineffective rule of his son, Richard, England returned to the monarchy and Parliament invited King Charles I’s son, who had lived in exile in France, to return. In 1660, he became King Charles II of England and Ireland. The fort on Port Royal was renamed Fort Charles after him..

. . . . .

Laurent and I spent several days exploring Port Royal. We agreed that the whole town was not much more than fifty acres. We walked around its perimeter in a couple of hours. We were told that about 6,500 people lived here, over a third were slaves. Five forts protected the town from the Castilians and the French. The town looked very prosperous and the people we met were nicely dressed and appeared happy.

An Exact Plan of the Town of Port Royal Before the Earthquake in 1692. Dotted area indicates what remained after the earthquake. Author unknown, The Great Earthquake of Port Royal, Popular Science Monthly vol.40, April 1892, Public Domain. The labels were in the original but their locations have been rearranged by this author.

We started our walk at Fort James with its thirteen guns sitting at an angle to the town so it could fire upon ships as they approach the bay from the sea. We walked down Thames Street, a street that ran the length of Port Royal with the bay and the wharfs on one side and the merchants and craftsmen’s shops that serviced the ships on the other. Several ships were tied to the wharfs either loading or unloading their cargo.The buildings were packed tightly together, many were brick and were up to three or four stories. It looked like the ground floor was for business and the upper floors were for families.

At one point, Laurent and I were startled by the thunder of a cannon. A passerby said a cannon was discharged to alert the townsfolk that a ship had just docked at the wharf. Now, everyone who needed to, could stop what they were doing and head to the wharfs to attend to business. Before any cargo could be unloaded, the royal tax collector would collect the royal fifth, that is 20 percent, followed by admiralty.

We passed the King’s House, then Fort Carlisle and finally came to the hexagonal Fort Rupert that formed the eastern end of the town. From there, the spit ran to the shore.

We doubled back, walking High Street. Unlike Thames Street where the buildings faced the harbor, on High Street, the houses and businesses were on both sides of the street. We passed a school then the Church Lines battery and then we turned towards the sea and passed several more batteries facing the sea: White's Lines and Morgan’s Lines. Between these two batteries were the church and the Parade. After we passed a church, synagogue, and mosque, we concluded that unlike France, freedom to worship was acceptable. At the end of Church Street we came upon Fort Charles, the original fort, then Walker’s Line, a storehouse, and then up Fisher’s Street. In the cove along Fisher Street were three open markets: one for fish, one for meat, and one for vegetables. We were told that the name of the cove by the markets was the “chocolate hole” because cocoa was one of the exports. Also the cove was shallow so small boat could dock there. After wandering through the markets, we headed back up Fisher Street to Fort James. I think we must have covered most of Port Royal.

The next day we planned to walk the interior of the town. We began at Fort James again and then rather than going down Thames Street, we walked down a short street named Queen Street. On our left were the merchant shops that we had passed the day before, on our right were the merchants who provided the needs for the residents of the town. When we came to Queen Street we headed back walking down High Street where we came to Lime Street. We turned left onto Lime and in a short distance turned on Broad Street and then back to Lime. We made our way down to Church Street and over to Fort Charles, then Walker’s Line, and after passing a Storehouse went back along the shore up Fisher’s Street and back to Fort James.

As we walked up and down the streets, we concluded that maybe there were two thousand buildings, all built in cramped rows up and down these narrow streets. Many were three or four-story brick. Others were wood frame. The streets were bustling with activity, clean and everything was well maintained. Many of the residents were fashionably dressed just like we would find in a French city at the best of times.

We soon learned that Port Royal was the financial center of the Caribbean. It was also known as the Sodom and Gomorrah of the Caribbean. Taverns and brothels were everywhere…. Along Thames Street and scattered among the businesses connected with servicing the vessels at the wharfs. Being from Montpellier, a very religious community, someone had to explain to Laurent and me what a brothel was.

. . . . .

Then one Wednesday morning in June, I think it was June 7th of 1692, I heard rumbling in the distance. I remember thinking a storm must be coming. As the rumbling grew louder, I got up from my desk and stepped out to look up … not a cloud in the sky. Strange, I thought, a storm without rain clouds. The clouds will be rolling in any minute.

I was not alone in the street. The air was still, very still. Crowds were forming, people were milling around. I could feel the tension. Something was about to happen but I didn’t know what. The horses were getting skittish and several were trying to break away. The dogs were barking. The crowd grew larger when all of a sudden I felt the earth rolling and moving beneath my feet. I never felt anything like that before. Those in the crowd were panicking. Bricks were shaking from the upper stories of buildings and raining down. People were running for cover but there was no cover to run to. Some ran towards Morgan’s line thinking that the open green would protect them. Others sought something to hang on to but when finding nothing, lost their balance and fell to the ground. Off in the distance, I could hear the church tower fall. It’s bell gave a most awful clang as it crashed to the ground. And then silence.

I put aside any thought of escaping what was about to happen! With a loud grinding of rock on rock, the earth opened under me. Down I went. I felt the walls as I fell. Then blackness and rushing water. The water was rising … up my legs … now to my waste … my chest. My feet gave way. The sand floor below me was melting and I was being sucked further down. The air was dense … I could hardly breathe. I heard the grinding noise again and I felt the walls closing on me. I said my prayers for I knew that these would be my last words. My last thought was “is this the prelude to the Battle of Armageddon”? Then all went dark…. I remember nothing else.

. . . . .

Voices, I heard voices, but at first I couldn't make out what they were saying … garbled … then I heard “over here, put ‘im over here.” Slowly I was becoming aware. I was lying down, stretched out, wet … but where … why? Slowly, I remembered my hearing was coming back. I opened my eyes. What had been the shouting of the crowd in what seemed like a few minutes ago was now an eerie quiet. A man was giving directions…. “Over here! No, not there!”

Slowly, raising up on one elbow, I looked around. I was not alone but rather lying in a row with others. They were all just lying there. Then I heard a shout. “Over there, that one’s moving. Ain’t dead.”

Someone ran over and helped me sit up and then get to my feet. I looked around and I was living among the dead. I heard someone say I had been fished out of the bay. But why was I in the bay? I was standing on land the last I remember. “Shot out of the Earth like a cannonball riding the guiser as the earth closed.” The person helping me mumbled. “Never seen anything like it!” And shook his head in disbelief.

Although it was a hot day, I was beginning to shiver. I felt someone drape a blanket around my shoulders. The warmth was soothing and I was led away from that grim sight.

I was led to a canoe that took me to a longboat where I joined others. We were taken to a ship that was bobbing in the bay. Even on the water I could feel the aftershocks and hear that awful rumbling.

. . . . .

The next day, I felt well enough to join the others who were tending to the dead. They had to be buried as quickly as possible because they were beginning to decompose…. But where? Looking out at the harbor, I could see bodies, caskets, and debris bobbing up and down in the waves among the ships where many of the survivors had taken refuge.

The cemetery, which had been located beyond Fort Rupert at the Palisadoes, had not been spared. The sand and gravel that covered the graves had washed away along with caskets and corpses. Caskets, corpses, and debris that had once been the town bobbed together in the harbor along with the ships that would home to the survivors for awhile.

Times like this bring out the best and the worst in people. There were those who were tending to the dead, praying with the sick and injured, and christening the children … and others who were searching the bodies looking for anything of value … a ring, a watch, an article of clothing.

. . . . .

This was the first opportunity I had to look around. I could not believe what I saw. Maybe two-thirds of the town was now under water. The sand and gravel that supported the buildings had mixed with the incoming rushing water, liquified and washed out to sea. Buildings now without foundations just settled down into the harbor. I walked over to what was now the water’s edge. Looking down, I could see many of the buildings that had become familiar to me, including where I had worked. They were resting intact on the harbor floor, some ten to 20 feet while others, thirty to forty feet below the surface of the bay.

Fort James was gone. Thames Street and all the wharfs, houses and businesses along Thames Street gone…. King’s House, Fort Carlisle, Fort Rupert, the school, High Street, Church’s Lines, White’s Lines, Morgan’s Lines, Walker’s Lines and I could go on. What remained was about a third of the town including Fort Charles, the Parade, and the church. I was told that the only buildings that remained standing were those that were built near Fort Charles on the original rock. Even they had suffered damage.

As the day wore on, the screams from those who were partially buried subsided. They had either been dug out or had passed away. Few buildings, if any, were left undamaged. Those who were able systematically worked through the rubble in search of a survivor who could receive aid.

The townfolk had numbered about 6,500 before the earthquake. Some said that at least 2,000 perished in the quake. Another thousand were missing. Some may have joined the 2,000 who went across the harbor to a fishing village called Kingston. Within a few weeks, half of those would be dead from injury or illness. Maybe there would be 1,000 or so survivors who would remain to rebuild Port Royal, which had been the greatest financial center of the New World.

I spent some time searching for my brother, Laurent, but to no avail. I could only presume he perished in the quake. I was now alone in this New World.

Epilogue

Lewis Galdy survived the fire of 1703 and the hurricanes of 1712, 1722 and 1726. He was a merchant and helped the town rebuild the church. At one time, he was a member of Jamaica’s assembly. He died in 1739 at the age of 80.

When he died, the townsfolk commissioned a grave ledger to cover his grave. Some say the work was created by a famous artist, Louis-François Roubiliac. Although this French sculptor was living in England with his second wife, a Huguenot, he appeared to specialize in portrait busts although he did create several full-length portrait sculptures. His biography says nothing about grave ledgers. Ledgers had been popular in the sixteenth century so maybe Galdy’s ledger was carved in Roubiliac’s studio by an apprentice. Regardless, Lewis Galdy’s grave ledger has survived for almost 300 years.

Photograph of the grave ledger of Lewis Galdy as taken by Derek Bishton and it appeared n derekbishton.com, An Infinity of Traces, “The Rise and Fall of Port Royal ‘The Wickedest City in the World.’” By kind permission © Derek Bishton.

The funeral art depicting a naked skull and crossed bones is known as memento mori, Latin for “remember you must die.” It was common in 17th century graveyards throughout New England and the upper Mid-Atlatic. The skull and crossbones do not indicate that Lewis Galdy was a pirate. 

The inscriptions reads:

Here lies the body of Lewis Galdy who departed this life at Port Royal on December 22, 1739 aged 80. He was born at Montpelier in France but left that country for his religion and came to settle in this island where he was swallowed up in the Great Earthquake in the year 1692 and by the providence of God was by another shock thrown into the sea and miraculously saved by swimming until a boat took him up. He lived many years after in great reputation.

 And concludes:

Beloved by all and much lamented at his Death.

Martin A. Frey
December 2, 2024