Ned Low’s Near Miss
Ned Low wasn’t just a pirate—he was a living nightmare .
In three short years, from 1721 to 1724, he seized a hundred ships, burned most to the waterline, and butchered their crews without mercy. His name carried on the wind, whispered in dread from port to port.
He slit throats as easily as cutting rope. He lopped off ears as trophies. And in one gruesome act, he carved a captain’s lips from his face, cooked them, and forced the man to eat his own flesh.
Cruelty wasn’t just his weapon—it was his pleasure.
And in June of 1722, he set his sights on St. John’s, Newfoundland.
The Near Miss
Low stood at the helm of Fancy, his schooner slicing through the narrows. A light fog lay over the harbour. Ahead, a merchant ship sat heavy with cargo. Beyond it lay St. John’s, ripe for the taking.
He could almost taste the victory.
“All hands below,” he ordered. “Save six or seven—we’ll play at being fishermen.”
His men obeyed without question. Most slipped belowdecks, while a handful stayed above, lazily casting lines into the water. Low loosened his grip on the wheel, his expression unreadable. Just another fishing boat, drifting into port. Nothing to fear.
Under a false flag, Fancy glided closer.
A few more minutes, and the ship would be his.
Then—a voice in the mist broke the silence.
A small dory approached, its crew waving.
“Where do ye hail from?” one of the fishermen called.
Low barely blinked. Lies came as easily as breathing.
“Barbados,” he said smoothly. “Loaded with rum and sugar. And that ship in the harbour?”
The dory man shrugged. “That’s the Solebay.”
Low stiffened. His head snapped back toward the ship he had nearly attacked. Only now did he truly see it.
The HMS Solebay.
A warship. A convoy guard. A hunter.
Gunports lined its hull, cannons lurking behind them. Soldiers paced the deck, weapons glinting in the dim light.
Low’s stomach twisted.
He had almost sailed straight into his own execution.
“Turn about,” he snarled.
His men didn’t hesitate. Sails snapped. The wheel spun under his hands. Fancy pivoted sharply, fleeing the narrows before the warship could react.
Low exhaled through gritted teeth. He had been this close to the noose.
Most men would have felt relief. A moment of gratitude.
Not Ned Low, retreat left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Something had to burn.
And Carbonear was waiting.
The Attack on Carbonear
By nightfall, Fancy crept into Carbonear’s quiet harbour.
No Solebay here. No warship. Just a town full of men to press into service, storehouses full of supplies ripe for the taking.
The ship’s boat scraped against the shore. Low leapt out, boots sinking into loose gravel.
He didn’t wait for silence.
“Do it,” he snarled.
Like wolves, his men poured through the town. Doors splintered under booted kicks. Steel flashed in the moonlight.
The fishermen fought back—but it didn’t matter. Low took what he wanted. Ammunition. Food. Crew.
And when his greed was satisfied, he turned to something else.
Destruction.
“Burn it.”
Torches soared through shattered windows. Flames licked at rooftops, then devoured them. Smoke curled thick as storm clouds. The wind carried fire from house to house, turning the town into an inferno.
Low stood on Fancy’s deck, watching Carbonear collapse into ash.
This was what he did. This was what he was.
And as his ship slipped into the darkness, her hold full, her crew grinning, Low felt nothing but hunger.
Newfoundland had been a profitable stop.
And there was still more to take.
Ravaging the Grand Banks
On the Grand Banks, Low struck with ruthless speed.
In mere days, he seized seven or eight ships. A French banker of 400 tons surrendered without a fight. He stripped it bare, then set it ablaze, watching its masts crumble into the flames before moving on.
His exploits on the Grand Banks were over but Ned Low’s reign of terror was not.
For another year, he prowled the Atlantic, staining its waters with blood. Then — he was gone.
Some say his ship sank in a storm. Others insisted that his own crew, weary of his endless cruelty, mutinied and cast him adrift on the open sea.
His fate remains a mystery.
But one thing is certain, his reign of terror could have ended that day in St. John’s. Had it not been for a chance conversation with a fisherman, Low might have sailed straight into the waiting guns of the Solebay.
Instead, fate let him slip through the cracks, and for another year the Atlantic lived in fear of one of the most bloodthirsty pirates ever known.
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Notes
Is any of this true? Well, like most pirate tales, there’s likely a good deal of myth-making involved. However, Ned Low was indeed a real and notoriously ruthless criminal who operated in the North Atlantic. I’ve based this on a story printed in The Evening Telegram from 1924 which cites an account in the Acadian Recorder.
Sources & Further Reading
Pirate’s Visit to St. John’s, The Evening Telegram, May 12, 1924
Barrelman Radio Scripts, September, 1949
Under The Black Flag, The Evening Telegram, September 30, 1893
HMS Solebay, Wikipedia
Edward Low, Wikipedia
