Welcome to another deep dive. Pull up a chair
because we are just thrilled to have you here
with us today. Yeah, absolutely. You are the
crucial third mind in this room with us. And
today we've got a really fascinating stack of
notes. historical records, and a wonderfully
specific Wikipedia article to share with you.
It is remarkably specific. It really is. Our
source material today details the history of
a wildly popular ship name between the years
1760 and 1814, and that name is Poisson Volant.
Right. Which, for those of us who might be a
little rusty on our French, translates to flying
fish. It sounds quite poetic on the surface,
honestly. It kind of does. Peering into the geopolitical
landscape of this era paints a much grittier
picture. I mean, I'm currently looking at an
old naval map of the Caribbean and the English
Channel to just sort of ground us. Set the scene
for us a bit. Well, during this period, the oceans
are highly contested. You had British Royal Navy
ships constantly intercepting French vessels.
But these weren't just official naval warships
squaring off in, you know, formal coordinated
battles. Right. It wasn't just huge lines of
ships firing at each other. Exactly. The oceans
were absolutely swarming with privately funded
vessels known as privateers. And for reasons
that almost defy statistical probability, Poisson
-Vallant was an incredibly common name for these
privately funded French ships. Okay, let's unpack
this because the sheer absurdity of how often
this specific name pops up in the naval records
is just mind -boggling. It really is. It's like
looking at a modern phone book and trying to
find a John Smith, except, well... Except John
Smith is a heavily armed sailing vessel trying
to steal your cargo. Right. And you're just constantly
bumping into him in the middle of the ocean.
The records show the British capturing Poisson
Valence across completely different decades and
totally different oceans. That's wild. To give
you a sense of the frequency, we can look at
a detail from early 1797 involving the British
ship HMS Magician. Okay. On January 13th of that
year, they captured Poisson Valence. And the
logs indicate this was a formidable vessel. It
was armed with 12 guns and carrying a crew of
80 men. So a serious threat. Very serious. The
British crew secured the prize and continued
their patrol. But then, just a month later, on
February 16th. Barely four weeks later. Exactly.
That exact same British ship captured another
vessel. Let me guess the name. Its name was also
Poisson Volant. You cannot make that up. The
second vessel was slightly smaller, though. armed
with five guns and a crew of 50 men. I just try
to imagine being the British captain writing
that logbook. You really have to wonder if they
thought they were caught in some sort of maritime
time loop. What's fascinating here is a detail
from a later account regarding that second capture.
That second Poisson Volant was not even French.
Wait, really? No, it was a Dutch privateer operating
out of Curacao. Oh, wow. The British sent her
into Jamaica to be legally condemned as a prize.
But think about what that shows us regarding
the massive scale of privateering at the time.
Right. This specific name, Flying Rush. was so
overwhelmingly popular across different nations
and different island colonies that the British
were practically tripping over them in the Caribbean.
Tripping over flying fishes. Exactly. Yeah. It
had essentially become a pan -national brand
for maritime opportunists. A brand for maritime
opportunists. That is the perfect way to frame
it. And speaking of opportunists, this leads
us perfectly into what we can really only describe
as the 18th century gig economy. The side hustles
of a high seat. Exactly. I was looking through
the notes at a capture from July. Ah, yes. The
vessel commanded by Captain Letart. He was commanding
a four -gun vessel operating under letter of
marquee. That's the one. And the detail that
stands out for you listening at home is Letart's
actual business model. It's so pragmatic. He
wasn't just out there hunting ships full time.
He was sailing from Bordeaux to Guadeloupe, and
his hold was packed with a cargo of wines and
merchandise. He was a merchant first. Right.
His privateering was entirely a side hustle.
He planned to act as a standard delivery merchant,
drop off his wine cargo in the Caribbean, and
then use his empty ship to cruise the West Indies
as a privateer. Maximize the trip. He was basically
driving for an 18th century delivery app, but
with cannons in the trunk just in case he saw
a competitor on the route. A delivery app where
the driver might face a broadside from a heavily
armed frigate if they miscalculate their route.
Yeah, slightly higher stakes than missing a turn.
Just a bit. But it's vital to understand the
economics of the era to grasp why LaTarte would
even risk this. Privateering was not aimless
piracy. That's a really important distinction.
It is. Pirates were outlaws who attacked anyone,
and they could be hanged by any nation. A letter
of marque, however, was a government license.
It authorized a private person to attack and
capture enemy vessels during wartime. So it was
legal. Entirely legal under their nation's laws.
It was a highly calculated business venture for
investors and captains alike. Letart was simply
hedging his financial bets. Dark guy. He had
guaranteed income from the wine delivery and
the potential for a massive lottery -level payout
from capturing an enemy ship. And the British
captains were fully aware of how dangerous this
hybrid model was, right? Oh, absolutely. Captain
Roberts of the Concorde actually admitted in
his official report that Letart's ship was incredibly
fast in light winds. He specifically noted that
if they had not caught him early... Which only
happened because the fog cleared at exactly the
right time. Right. Sheer luck. But Roberts noted
that if they hadn't caught him, this particular
Poisson Volant could have done considerable mischief.
And considerable mischief usually meant devastating
the local supply lines and driving up the cost
of goods for entire colonies. It's a huge economic
threat. It is. Letart was a professional with
a sizable ship, but the economic incentives of
privateering drew in a much wider demographic.
You see a lot of amateurs trying to get a piece
of the pie. Right, the gold rush mentality. Consider
the capture from just a month prior to Letart
in June 1797 by a revenue cutter named Lively.
The logs note they captured a Poisson Valant
out of Nantes, three days out of Morlaix. Okay.
This vessel was remarkably small. It was only
12 tons berthen, armed with just two swivel guns,
and carried a crew of 25 men. I have to pause
you there because we need to translate some of
this 18th century nautical terminology for everyone.
When you say 12 tons berthen, how big of a boat
are we actually talking about? Good question.
Berthen is an old measurement of cargo carrying
capacity, not the physical weight of the ship
itself. Okay. A 12 -ton berthen vessel is roughly
the size of a modern, medium -sized moving truck.
A moving truck? Yes. It's not a warship. It's
a coastal boat. And a swivel gun is essentially
a small cannon, sometimes resembling a large
shotgun, mounted on a pivot rail. So not exactly
ship -sinking artillery. No, it's designed for
anti -personnel defense, not for sinking other
ships. Put yourself in the shoes of those 25
sailors. You are crammed into a tiny boat the
size of a moving truck, with barely enough room
to breathe, let alone sleep. You have been miserable.
You are armed with what amounts to two large
shotguns, and you are sailing out into a heavily
patrolled war zone against actual warships. Desperate
people taking desperate risks. The allure of
that prize money must have been a literal maritime
gold rush. to make that risk seem worthwhile.
Well, the Customs Service official, Mr. DuBois
Smith, dutifully noted in his report that this
tiny little boat had taken zero prizes. Not entirely
surprising. The reality of the ocean quickly
caught up with their ambitions. The prize money
could set a poor sailor up for life, sure. But
the low barrier to entry meant people were heading
out to sea severely under -equipped. Here's where
it gets really interesting, because even the
well -equipped ships found themselves in situations
of absolute desperation. Oh, the Trent Chase.
Yes. The notes detail a chase on June 27, 1797
by HMS Trent. They were 10 leagues east of Yarmouth
when they spotted a French privateer lugger.
A lugger being a small, fast -sailing ship with
multiple masts and four -cornered sails. specifically
built for speed over firepower. And 10 leagues
puts them roughly 30 miles off the coast. Exactly.
The ship they spotted was brand new, only 18
days out of Hof de Gries. And its name, you guessed
it, was Poisson Volant. HMS Trent, which is a
massive British warship, gives chase. The French
crew realizes their lugger is being outpaced.
So in a sheer act of desperation to lose weight
and gain speed, the French crew physically heaves
their 14 cannons overboard into the ocean. Such
an extreme measure. I want us to think about
the physical reality of that for a second. Cannons
weigh thousands of pounds. Moving them across
a pitching wooden deck while being fired upon
by a pursuing warship is incredible. dangerous.
It's frankly a miracle they didn't sink their
own ship doing it. But it also represents a catastrophic
loss of capital for the venture capitalists who
funded that privateer. Right, because someone
back in France paid for those guns. Cannons were
some of the most expensive pieces of equipment
on any vessel. Throwing them overboard is the
18th century equivalent of a modern tech startup
burning all of its servers just to outrun a competitor.
That is such a great analogy. But there is a
crucial operational fact hidden in the data of
this specific capture. When the British finally
boarded the vessel, they counted a crew of 50
men. The logs, however, indicate that 28 men
from the original crew were missing. They clearly
didn't jump overboard with the cannon, so where
did half the crew go? This illustrates the mechanical
reality of the privateering business. Those 28
men were away sailing a brig and a ship that
the Poisson Volant had already captured as prizes
off a place called Buckiness a few days earlier.
Oh, I see. When a privateer captured a merchant
ship, they couldn't just tow it behind them.
They had to divide their own crew, putting a
prize crew aboard the captured vessel to physically
navigate it back to a friendly port where it
could be legally processed and sold. So their
success actively made them weaker. Precisely.
They achieved their exact business goal, capturing
two ships. But it meant they were sailing around
an active war zone with less than half their
crew. Right. By the time HMS Trent found them,
they barely had enough men left to handle the
sails, which perfectly explains why they had
to resort to dumping their expensive cannons.
It forced a constant balancing act. If you succeeded
too much you paradoxically made yourself vulnerable
to the next British warship that sailed over
the horizon. The gig economy bites back. And
we must impartially observe the grim reality
underlying these operational mechanics. This
was a lethal geopolitical conflict. And sailors
on both sides were dying for the economic ambitions
of their respective nations. It wasn't just a
game of tag on the water. No, not at all. A clear
example is the capture in April 1801 by the hired
armed cutter stag off Beachy Head. Ah, yes. They
chased down a 14 -gun lugger, Poisson Volant,
out of Boulogne, commanded by citizen Jacques
-Antoine Head. He was only four days out of Dieppe.
And unlike the vessel that threw its guns overboard,
Captain Head's crew engaged in a firefight. They
fought back. They did. Before finally surrendering,
two of his men were killed and four were wounded.
The historical records show that on a previous
cruise, this single ship had successfully captured
six different vessels. Six vessels. That's a
hugely successful cruise. It was, though four
of those six were eventually recaptured by the
British. But the human casualties highlight the
severe stakes behind the bureaucratic veneer
of letters of mark and prize courts. It grounds
the history for us. Behind every logbook entry
about a captured ship, there were terrified sailors
fighting for their lives. Exactly. Which honestly
makes the administrative bureaucracy of this
era all the more jarring. It brings us to the
great maritime recycling bin. The life cycle
of these vessels. The life cycle is almost comical
in its efficiency. It is a remarkable economic
loop. Let's look at April 4th, 1797. HMS Tamar,
commanded by Sir Thomas Byam Martin, is escorting
a convoy from Barbados to Martinique. Standard
escort duty. They encounter a four -gun French
privateer named Poisson Voulant out of Guadeloupe.
They capture it. But Captain Martin realizes
he recognizes the ship. He does. He had actually
captured this exact same vessel earlier that
very same year. To understand how a captain captures
the exact same ship twice in a matter of months,
I want you to trace the journey of this single
hull of wood and canvas. Walk us through it.
So the British capture the ship the first time.
They don't sink it. They send her into a port
like Antigua. There, a vice admiralty court holds
a hearing. to legally condemn the ship of a legitimate
prize of war. Which is fascinating in itself.
It wasn't just finders keepers. They had a whole
judicial process to ensure the crown got its
cut and that the capture didn't violate international
treaties. Precisely. Once legally condemned,
the ship becomes British property. It is then
put up for public auction. The buyer, often a
merchant, sails it to a neutral island in the
Caribbean. Okay, so it leaves British hands.
Right. At this neutral port, a company of speculators
operates. These were essentially the venture
capitalists of the 18th century, actively looking
for cheap naval assets. Asset flippers. Exactly.
They buy the ship. Take her back to the French
colony of Guadeloupe, apply for a brand new letter
of marque, recommission her as a French privateer,
name her Poisson Volant, and send her back out
to sea. Where she promptly runs right back into
Captain Martin. Right into him. Who gets to capture
her, sell her, and collect the prize money all
over again. They were legally processing these
ships, flipping them for cash, and sending them
back into the war zone. It is the ultimate recycled
asset. The fluidity of maritime assets in this
period was total. A ship was just a tool. holding
no inherent national loyalty. If you captured
it, you simply put it to work against its former
owners. And sometimes that lack of loyalty got
completely lost in translation. Oh, the Bonnetta
capture. My absolute favorite detail from your
notes is from May 4th, 1796. The British ships
HMS Esperance and HMS Bonnetta are sailing when
they chase down a schooner named Poisson -Voulant,
heading from O 'Kays to New York. A classic pursuit.
The French crew tries all the desperate measures.
They throw their cannons over. board, they even
cut down their gunnels to lose weight. The gunnels
being the upper edge of the ship's side. Cutting
them away reduces weight, sure, but it drastically
reduces the structural integrity of the vessel
in rough seas. They basically destroy their own
ship trying to escape, but they get caught anyway.
And when the British board the ship, they realize
the architecture isn't French. Not French at
all. It was actually the former British ship,
HMS Flying Fish. The French had captured it a
year earlier, in June 1795, while she was on
her way to Jamaica. And instead of coming up
with a new name, the French captors literally
just translated Flying Fish into French and painted
Poisson Volant on the side. It perfectly encapsulates
the pragmatic nature of the era. The British
reclaimed their ship, bearing its newly translated
French name. The ultimate bookend to this recycling
narrative happens in mid -1803. Captain Banton's
squadron captures an American -built, 12 -gun
French privateer. Also named Poisson -Vallon.
Her name was Poisson -Vallon. But the British
decide not to auction this one off. They commission
her directly into the Royal Navy. And what do
they name her? HMS Flying Fish. HMS Flying Fish.
They just translated it back. American built,
French operated, British commissioned. A single
physical object representing three different
global powers in rapid succession. So what does
this all mean? We have this massive list of captures,
small 12 -ton boats and large 14 gun luggers,
all bouncing back and forth across the ocean,
changing flags like people change coats. If we
connect this to the bigger picture. It forces
you to completely rethink how historical conflicts
operated. History is frequently taught as a rigid
binary. Side A versus side B. Good guys and bad
guys. Right. But the reality of the 18th and
19th century maritime world was an incredibly
messy, pragmatic web. It was driven entirely
by economics. It always comes back to the money.
It does. Venture capitalists waiting at neutral
ports to flip captured assets. The constant recycling
of ships through vice admiralty courts and shifting
legal definitions created an environment where
a single piece of wood and canvas could be legally
British, then French, then American or Dutch,
all within a matter of months. I want you to
remember this the next time you feel overwhelmed
reading about the complexities of modern global
supply chains or the instability of the modern
gig economy. It's nothing new. Think about Captain
Letart trying to safely deliver his cargo of
wine while moonlighting as a heavily armed privateer.
Or think about those speculators in neutral ports
buying up captured ships to fuel the war machine
for profit. The hustle never changes. Exactly.
The hustle, the side gigs and the exploitation
of international legal loopholes are hundreds
of years old. It provides a sobering historical
perspective and leaves us with one final. perhaps
deeper concept for you to ponder as we conclude
our analysis of these records. What's that? Well,
we have talked entirely about the ships changing
hands, changing names, and changing flags. But
what about the men on board? The actual sailors?
In a world where your ship changes its nationality
every few months, what did that do to the psychological
identity and loyalty of the individual sailors?
Their very survival depended on a piece of paper,
a letter of their bark. that could instantly
turn them from a legitimate businessman into
a criminal of the sea. Just depending on whose
warship was looking through the spyglass. Entirely
depending on that. It is a profound cushion of
human identity in an intensely fluid and dangerous
world. A piece of paper that defines whether
you are a wealthy merchant or a pirate destined
for the gallows. Thank you for joining us in
the room today. We hope you enjoyed diving into
the chaotic, recycled world of the Poisson Volant
as much as we did. Keep questioning the history
you read, and we will see you next time.