Pilots Always Win: A Socio-Epistemic History of European Early Modern Navigation I

The history of navigation and nautical science in early modern Europe has been written mainly by listening to the voice of cosmographers, mathematicians, and other like-minded scholars—hereinafter I group them under the denomination of “cosmographers”. Their scientific perspective on how navigation should be performed was assumed to be “the right one”, and thus obediently followed by every worthy pilot of the time.

However, the sources reveal that most of the early modern pilots used to ignore or reject many of the proposals made by their contemporary cosmographers. There were, therefore, two clearly dissenting voices on how navigation should be practiced in the early modern period. Although nautical historians have long agreed on this, they have only taken seriously the cosmographers’ reasons for trying to impose their view on navigation on the pilots.

As far as the pilots’ view was concerned, rather than really trying to understand it, they have settled for much more simplistic interpretations from both a historical and epistemological point of view. At best, they argued that pilots perverted the cosmographers’ nautical theories by the way they put them into practice—a major oversimplification of the real issue. At worst, they simply branded the pilots as “ignorant”, “conservative” people, anchored in “scientific obscurantism”.

The narrative that has emerged from this approach is laden with presentist and deterministic overtones. In it, pilots seem to have no agency. Their role appears to be limited to the passive assimilation of scientific “discoveries” that they were desperately waiting for to improve their “rustic” nautical practices.

Now… if you are interested in the other side of this story, and in what the pilots’ practice was really about, watch out for next week’s post! [José María Moreno Madrid]

Traitor or Go-between? Jean Alphonse and his Contributions to French Overseas Projects and Knowledge

From 1531 until his death, the Portuguese pilot João Afonso became a persistent nightmare for the Portuguese Crown. Considered a traitor since 1531, Afonso’s movements, knowledge, and service to Valois France deeply worried King John III of Portugal and, over time, King Charles I of Spain as well.

Afonso was a skilled oceanic pilot who had accumulated nautical experience in West Africa, Brazil, the Strait of Magellan, and, most concerning to the Portuguese, the Indian Ocean. He was first detected in France in 1531 by the Portuguese agent Gaspar Palha at La Rochelle. Palha attempted to negotiate Afonso’s return to Portugal, as he had already done with Leone Pancaldo, one of Ferdinand Magellan’s pilots, but he failed. In 1532, another Portuguese agent, the lawyer Gaspar Vaz, also failed to convince Afonso to return. Even more significantly, the renowned Diogo Gouveia, the Elder, the famous Portuguese rector of the University of Paris, was unable to succeed. Gouveia warned King John III that Afonso would soon pilot French expeditions against Iberian overseas interests, and that Portugal would be powerless to prevent this. Alarmed by these warning and failures, King John III issued a pardon letter to Afonso in 1533, hoping he would return. Afonso never did.

On the contrary, during this period, Afonso took steps to become a naturalized French citizen under the name Jean Alphonse of Saintonge. He enlisted his sons in the French navy, where they served as pilots and captains on numerous French voyages that challenged Portuguese and Spanish interests in West Africa, the Caribbean, and Brazil. Afonso also played a pivotal role in the development of the Dieppe cartographical school shortly after his arrival in France in 1531. Collaborating closely with Jean Ango, the viscount of Dieppe and the renowned shipowner and corsair who sponsored several anti-Iberian maritime expeditions, Afonso likely provided Portuguese nautical charts and rutters that influenced subsequent French cartography produced at this school.

The pinnacle of Afonso’s career occurred in 1542 when King Francis I appointed him as royal pilot for Jean-François de Roberval’s expedition to colonize modern-day Canada. This appointment came in recognition of Afonso's cosmographical work, which synthesized his extensive maritime and overseas experiences in the service of both Iberian and French interests. His cosmographical work, authored in French and published posthumously (see illustration), underscored his enduring influence and expertise in navigation and exploration.

However, Afonso met his demise some time after returning from Roberval’s expedition, when the fleet of the Spaniard Pedro Menéndez de Avilés captured and promptly executed him, likely in 1547, citing his alleged treachery over the years. The disappearance of the Portuguese pilot who had become a naturalized Frenchman (see the illustration of his French signature) had a profound impact on France. The Pleiade poets never ceased to celebrate Afonso’s maritime and overseas exploits as emblematic of France’s own, drawing parallels between his career and those of ancient sailors. In this way, Afonso not only facilitated and inspired French overseas ventures, but also fostered the development of French maritime and overseas national pride. A traitor to the Iberians and a hero to the French, João Afonso was above all a typical 16th century go-between. [Nuno Vila-Santa]

To Write a PhD Thesis or To Be Under the Spell of the Moon

A lunar patina covers the act of writing a PhD thesis. On the one hand that writes, shines an opalescence typical of a junior researcher charmed by their historiographical ideas, potentially brand new and shiny. Like the iridescence of moonbeams glossing over the ocean at night that turn the waters white, milky in a way, such as the galaxy where this event is set, so above as below, the menace shining upon this hand mystifies one’s ideas, possibly by painting them brighter than they are. On the other hand that writes, a verdigris decomposes those ideas that may actually be fairly rusty, and better developed by other scholars, while lack of documental and material proof disintegrates previously brilliant arguments. To write a PhD thesis can feel like being under the spell of the moon, sometimes being slightly closer to the object the research gravitates around, almost pulling a good idea or evidence from its depths, as the moon tenderly pulls the ocean waters from the Earth; sometimes far away, wandering in the massive ocean of historiographical readings.

Like the moonlight penetrating the nocturnal ocean to unveil the corrosion of the objects there contained – the soft and colorless wood of sunk ships, the metallic rustiness of astrolabes, the bones of thousands of drowned people, these sediments of history –, the moment when consistent writing takes place is one of clarity, eroding initial poor or or green or overly ambitious or even lunatic choices. It is then that the great and possibly ingenuous expectations meet the historical objects, the documents and sources and the data they contain, and a moment for one to follow them deep sea. A quintessential moment for creating questions and hypotheses, redefine ideas, draw conclusions, and plunge into conceiving a historiographical narrative, in order to shine some light into the problem at hands. One may have an outstanding supervisor for the PhD thesis, or amazing colleagues, as is the case of the hand that writes this blog post. However, only the act of writing the thesis can break such a spell of such a romantic heavenly body.

Creation of the Sun and the Moon, De aetatibus mundi imagines (1545-1573), by Francisco de Holanda (1517-1584)

Writing the thesis will organize one’s thoughts coherently, since it structures one’s ideas logically, and turn abstract and vague ideas into tangible ones, while perhaps revealing connections and patterns that were not apparent when the ideas were just in one’s mind. Writing the thesis encourages deep thinking, since it requires a level of focus that encourages deeper exploration of an idea, and it allows one to examine concepts from different angles, leading to more thorough understanding of the issue, and possibly to new insights or the discovery of gaps in your thinking that need further exploration. Writing the thesis triggers new ideas or perspectives, in the process of choosing words and constructing sentences. Writing the thesis breaks down complex ideas into smaller, more manageable parts, making it easier to tackle difficult problems or to see solutions that were not obvious initially. Writing the thesis externalizes one’s thought process, allowing to review and access one’s ideas more objectively, maybe leading to more effective problem-solving and decision-making. Writing the thesis prepares the ideas there contained for oral communication with others, allowing for feedback, which can further refine and improve them by challenging one’s thinking, leading to stronger and more developed ideas. Ultimately, writing the PhD thesis will result in writing the PhD thesis. And, sometimes, it does not get any more romantic than that.

[Joana Lima]

Tom and Jerry Game? António Eanes Pinteado and the Bargaining of Nautical Expertise Between Maritime Rivals

In April 1553, António Eanes Pinteado, a skilled Portuguese oceanic pilot and captain from Oporto, signed from London a letter to King John III of Portugal, preserved today at the Portuguese National Archives of Lisbon (ANTT, Corpo Cronológico I-89-120). The missive was the pilot’s reply to the Portuguese King’s request to return to Portugal to serve him.

In the letter [see both illustrations], he explained his reasons for not coming back to Portuguese service. He argued that he had been mistreated despite having personally fought at sea, on Portuguese service, against the Scots and the French. He claimed that due to a complaint from a Spaniard, he had been jailed in Lisbon in 1547. Since his arrival to England in 1552, London merchants had been tempting him with proposals to pilot English overseas voyages, all of which he had refused because he still wished to serve his king. Thus, he replied to King John III that he would only return to Portugal if his goods were restored and he was granted a reward. The Portuguese King quickly issued a pardon letter to Pinteado and promoted him to knight with a corresponding pension.

Nevertheless, in this missive, Pinteado was misleading King John III about his true intentions. After receiving the Portuguese King’s response, he proposed to Thomas Wyndham that he could captain an English voyage to West Africa. He offered to teach Wyndham the nautical route from England to West Africa, the secrets of astronomical navigation in the Atlantic, the best places to trade, and the best methods to evade Portuguese vigilance. Pinteado also used King John III’s pardon letter and promises of a knight’s pension to bolster his reputation with Privy Council members, as Simon Renard, Charles V’s ambassador in England, quickly warned.

While misleading King John III and his agents in England—who had previously failed to jail him—about his true intentions, Pinteado also confused ambassador Renard. Renard became uncertain whether Pinteado would join the English voyage to West Africa with Thomas Wyndham or the expedition to Russia with Richard Chancellor. Pinteado’s strategic moves between the English, the Imperial ambassador, and the Portuguese agents was highly effective. He successfully piloted Wyndham’s voyage, although he died on the return journey to England. Additionally, he provided Richard Eden with Pietro Martyr d’Anghiera’s famous chronicle on the Spanish Americas, which was soon translated into English. Upon his death, all of Pinteado’s papers, likely including Portuguese nautical charts and rutters, also came into Eden’s possession.

Therefore, the little yet cunning “Jerry” (pilot Pinteado) successfully eluded the formidable and angered “Tom” (Portugal). In doing so, Pinteado decisively influenced the English maritime and overseas resurgence in the 1550s, with significant consequences: from then onwards, Portugal was destined to fail in steering the English away from West Africa. Pinteado’s story illuminates perfectly well the mechanisms employed by early modern pilots to circulate freely between maritime rivals and shift their allegiances. Despite the numerous obstacles they faced, it was often possible to cross borders and make substantial contributions.

[Nuno Vila-Santa]

Writing the Strings of Time

Writing the strings of time, i.e., creating a narrative nexus to make sense of a given era, is always a delicate act. When this historiographical gesture is interested in understanding the imaginary of a given society, it is useful to search for artifacts that contain a certain roughness – not necessarily the erudite texts printed for the consumption of the learned people, a minority, but maybe the texts that are rough around the edges, with little inclination for being canonical, but that a big number of learned and unlearned people were familiar with.

Artifacts that provide a lens into the historical and cultural fabric of their time and are essential for understanding the broader social context and historical developments, because widely-known texts portray the cultural values, beliefs, and norms of their time; artifacts that impact the public thought and social trends of their time, while revealing how ideas, ideologies, or information were disseminated and how they shaped public opinion and behaviour; artifacts that resonate with broad audiences, thus offering insights into their sentiments and attitudes.

Artifacts such as texts from literatura de cordel (Port. and Span.), or chapbook literature (Eng.), a collection of small booklets or pamphlets, hung by a string, inexpensive and widely accessible, sold by street vendors, that contain a variety of content, including poetry, theatre plays, and folk tales. Artifacts that transmit the narratives read or listened to by illiterate or semi-literate people, apart from scholars, clergy, and the elite. Artifacts like the theatre play Auto do Nascimento, written by Baltazar Dias (16th century), a blind Portuguese poet of great success, thought to be his own publisher and bookseller at Rua Nova dos Mercadores, Lisbon, whose works travelled through all the corners of Early Modern Portugal and to the Americas and Western Africa, having a great impact in the literatures of these territories.

Rua Nova dos Mercadores, Lisbon. Anonymous autor, c. 1570-1590. London, Kelmscott Manor Collection – Society of Antiquaries of London.

When historians of science start to unravel such an historical artifact, thread by thread, reference to the Portuguese Maritime Expansion by reference, they may be surprised by an unexpected and surrealistic image about an oceanic voyage to India:

Zaú: And listen, say no more,
Because now I will win.
I saw the tower of Cascais
Sail to India by sea
And then return and anchor at the dock.

Auto do Nascimento (c. 1520-1530), Baltasar Dias

“Cascale”, Civitates Orbis Terrarum (1572), by Georg Braun (1541-1622) and Frans Hogenberg (1535-1590).

Being one of two characters who play a game of who creates the most dreamlike and unreal images and actions, Zaú wins the game with the image above, which consists of Torre de Santo António de Cascais, a fifteenth-century tower fortress near Lisbon, unexpectedly departing the Portuguese shores into the Atlantic Ocean, sailing on to India, and then returning home safe and sound. From this sequential and intriguing image – a monument on the move across the oceans –, History of Science learns that for early modern Portuguese imagination the notion of planetary distance and safety were combined. On the one hand, conceiving an oceanic route made of enormous spatial extension (Portugal-India-Portugal), the author summarizes the voyage and roundabout voyage in merely three lines, minimizing the great distances sailed, and giving this surrealistic voyage in a tower an unprecedented notion of speed, echoing the notion of the Portuguese ships being very fast that can be found in other literature of that time. On the other hand, the author conveys a notion of safety, security and success to this voyage, echoing the same notions that were then associated with real sixteenth-century Portuguese oceanic voyages in which Baltazar Dias’ readers and listeners participated at some level, either directly or indirectly. By connecting these hands and these lines of ideas, by grabbing other artifacts as this, a narrative nexus starts to appear. A string of booklets writing the strings of time – an occasion to think about how the Early Modern oceanic voyages produced new perceptions about planetary space and human movement in it.

[Joana Lima]

Maritime Pride and Arrogance? The French-Portuguese Clashes and the Emergence of Notions of “National” Pride

The French-Portuguese maritime and overseas rivalry experienced several significant episodes during the 16th century. Prior to the major dispute between the French and the Portuguese in Brazil, known as France Antarctique (1555-1560), an earlier episode demonstrates the emerging feelings of nationhood alongside overseas voyages. In 1528-29, the Parmentier brothers, sponsored by the French ship owner and corsair Jean Ango (1480-1551), embarked on a French expedition to Asia. Their objective was to reach the Gold Islands, believed to be located in modern Indonesia. The voyage ended in disaster, with the two brothers dying and several Frenchmen being captured and imprisoned by the Portuguese. However, the French traveller and cosmographer Pierre Crignon (?-1540) survived and returned to Dieppe, where he attempted to persuade the French Crown to continue supporting overseas voyages in opposition to the Portuguese. In 1539, Crignon wrote in his famous work the Discours de la Navigation de Jean et Raoul Parmentier [see both illustrations], later reprinted in Italian by Giovanni Baptista Ramussio’s famous account, the following statement about the Portuguese:

Even though they [the Portuguese] are the smallest people in the world, it does not seem big enough to satisfy their greed. I think they must have drunk of the dust of King Alexander’s heart to be stirred by such inordinate ambition. They believe they hold in their clenched fist what they could not embrace with both hands. And I believe that they are convinced that God made the sea and the land for them alone and that the other nations are not worthy of sailing. Certainly, if it were in their power to close the seas from Cape Finisterre to Ireland, they would have done so long ago.

Crignon viewed the traditional Portuguese Mare Clausum rhetoric—particularly evident in the speeches of Portuguese diplomats in France, Spain, England, and Rome—as necessitating a clear public rebuttal. He found it absurd that “tiny” Portugal aspired to control all the seas, given the power of “larger” and “mighty” France. In making this claim, he acknowledged that Portugal was failing in this endeavor, a statement he believed to be accurate. Nonetheless, he also recognized that the Portuguese behaved in this manner because they perceived themselves as superior to the French, relying on their “superior” nautical science to build and sustain a global maritime empire that spanned the Americas, Africa, and Asia, thus encompassing the globe. Crignon regarded this Portuguese pride as excessive and their behavior as arrogantly overbearing.

The sense of “national” pride that Crignon identified in Portuguese behavior was something he explicitly sought to challenge. By writing in this manner, Crignon aimed to contribute to the development of French maritime pride. He was not alone in this endeavor in 16th century France. Similar processes of “national identity” formation, as a reaction to maritime and overseas rivalries with the Portuguese, also unfolded in Spain, England, and the Dutch Republic during the 16th century. These examples illuminate how overseas rivalries contributed to the gradual emergence of notions of the “nation-state” throughout the early modern period. [Nuno Vila-Santa]

No Country for Mercator’s Charts

It is well known that Mercator charts took a long time to become a common instrument in the nautical panoply of Early Modern pilots. Gerard Mercator (1512-1594) published his Ad Usum Navigatium—the earliest Mercator projection chart—in 1569, and Edward Wright (1561-1615) his Certain errors in Navigation—containing the relevant mathematical tools for constructing such charts—in 1599, but it was still almost two centuries before European Early Modern pilots decided that they were worth using. Cosmographers and mathematicians of the time blamed this decision on the conservatism and scientific illiteracy of the pilots, a representative case being that of the famous Royal Astronomer Edmond Halley (1656-1742). In the preface to his Atlas Maritimus et Commercialis (1728) one can read:

It is well known that many of our sailors, and some that would be accounted artists are at this day obstinate in the use of the Plain Chart […]. And many of our masters that teach navigation teach what they call plain sailing (and many times that only) to such as are designed to take charge of ships […]. And this they do for no other reason but because they think they can measure distances thereon by a scale of equal parts, rejecting the truly Nautical Chart, commonly called Mercator, because one single scale cannot be fitted to all its parts.

Nova et Aucta Orbis Terrae Descriptio
ad Usum Navigantium Emendate Accommodata, Gerard Mercator (1569)

Historians of navigation and nautical science have echoed such view on this issue until our days. The pilots’ decisions on which charts to use, however, have nothing to do with any kind of “conservatism” or “scientific obscurantism”, but with more complex particularities of their epistemological reality. Stay tuned for more news on this subject soon! [José María Moreno Madrid]