Flowing Water, Floating Knowledge, Fleeting History

Ever flowing since birth, ocean water became a vessel of information from the moment humankind entered its flux. Several waves of cultural connection trace the moments when – carrying objects, people, ideas – Austronesian, Harappan, Phoenician, Iranian, Greek, Roman, Arab, Indian, Norse, and Chinese seafarers left shore. A connectedness magnified to a planetary scale by the transoceanic voyages of the European Age of Exploration, a wave that reached the five oceans, ever since making water a carrier of ideas to other lands. By observing these historical waves, and by following the routes travelled in the Early Modern era, it seems possible to follow the path of human knowledge through the planet. Or, at least, to have a glimpse at the itinerary of certain ideas, perhaps floating adrift, wandering in the ocean of historiography.

A way to catch such a glimpse may be tracing what ideas were physically transported in these oceanic voyages, that is, what recreational printed books were carried from Europe to the New World and to the Indies. While in the Spanish case seasoned research on the libraries transported across the Atlantic Ocean to American territories has been made, in the Portuguese case there is some work to be made to understand how the history of knowledge and ideas was affected by the flux of information going on board Portuguese ships across the Atlantic and the Indian oceans. The presence of a booklet of the most famous play of Portuguese literary history –the Auto da Barca do Inferno (Act of the Boat of the Netherworld, 1517), by Gil Vicente– in the library of Inéz de la Peña (d. 1521), famous for having travelled from Castille to Santo Domingo with 224 printed objects, is paradigmatic.

The earliest artistic depiction of a round caravel, in the upper right of the oil painting “Arrival of the relics of Saint Auta at Madre de Deus Monastery”. This piece of the polyptych Saint Auta Altarpiece was made by an unknown painter at a Lisbon workshop, circa 1522, and is now displayed at the National Museum of Ancient Art.

A classical allegory of the afterlife in the river of the dead –good souls go to Glory by embarking on an angelic ship, not so-good souls go to Hell by embarking on a devilish ship–, the freshly out of print Auto da Barca do Inferno crossed the Atlantic, disseminating more than a Renaissance literary trope. Surprisingly, it transforms the Virgilian and Dantesque fluvial journey into an oceanic voyage. The traditional vessel transporting the dying souls is not only duplicated, but both Vicente’s ships are turned into square-rigged or round caravels, the late fifteenth-century invention and choice of Portuguese navigators for long-distance oceanic voyages. While the angelic ship is praised as a “saint caravel” all wish to embark, the devilish vessel is rejected by all the deceased, who deprecating it do not wish to enter “in such a caravel”, since its destination is a “lost island” in the middle of the ocean. Adding to the unpleasant idea of spending eternity to Hell, the deceased are offered a sense of lack of security in this voyage, as, while both caravels have instruments to guide them, such as the nautical compass, the devil will not make use of it to arrive to safe port. A lack of care stated by the Fool, who describes the Devil as “one who pisses on the magnetic needle”.

By following the path of this booklet in the Atlantic waters, and its literary transformations, it seems possible to grasp something fleeting in the Early Modern History of Science. A transformation in the perception about how the use of nautical instruments is entwined with the notion of a safe voyage. A transformation of the very scenery of the voyage of life –now oceanic, now magnified. A transformation of the scale of the transmission and circulating of ideas, ever flowing like blue water. [Joana Lima]

A Surprise at the Bibliothèque de l’Institut de France: Théodore de Godefroy and his Nautical Papers

Following our previous posts on documental discoveries in archives, we could not fail to report a French example. Theódore de Godefroy (1580-1649) was a famous French historian and jurist of the 17th century, with an important work and career under King Louis XIII of France (1610-1643). Coming from a Calvinist family of Professors of Law at Geneve University, Théodore came to France. In 1617, he was named historian of the King of France. He also became an advisor of the King and was named, in 1643, for the dealings of Munster and, in 1647, for the negotiations for the Treaty of Westphalia.

Throughout his extensive career, Theódore authored significant works, the most celebrated among them being Le Cérémonial de France (1619). Furthermore, he curated an important collection pertaining to Portugal, which led him to produce De L’origine des Roys de Portugal issues en ligne masculine de la Maison de France qui regne aujourd’hui (initially published in 1612). Theódore’s writings on Portugal are intrinsically linked to his numerous endeavors aimed at persuading the French elite to provide unwavering support for the Portuguese Restoration of independence (from 1640 onwards), in opposition to Spain. The bulk of Theódore’s personal papers, as well as those of his forebears and successors, are archived at the Bibliothèque de l’Institut de France in Paris. This collection comprises almost 600 volumes, with remarkable historical materials relevant to the history of Europe as a whole.

While Theódore’s primary objective revolved around political pursuits aimed at bolstering French arguments against Spanish dominance in Europe, he also understood the significance of nautical knowledge for France during his era. Thus, nautical materials acquired their own place in Theódore’s collection. One particularly noteworthy item is a translation, from the original Portuguese into French, of the renowned nautical rutter authored by Vicente Rodrigues. This nautical guide traced the seafaring route from Lisbon to Goa, in addition to several other routes traversing the Indian and Pacific Oceans. Accompanying this work is a Spanish nautical rutter, which provides guidance on sailing from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean via the Strait of Magellan. Interestingly, this nautical rutter also furnishes information pertaining to maritime routes leading to the Spanish Caribbean and various points in South America.

Theódore also had a collection of maritime intelligence documentation, among which a 1629 Spanish address to King Philip IV of Spain (1621-1665). The unnamed author implored the Spanish monarch (as his ancestors had done) to prioritize the education and training in cosmography of oceanic navigators. The aim was to ensure that Spain continued to possess the finest navigators capable of sailing its maritime routes effectively, thus retaining a competitive edge against emerging enemies such as the French, English, and Dutch. In pursuit of this goal, Theódore also translated another document into French—an undated Spanish plan devised to obstruct the successful nautical endeavors of the Dutch in their routes to Asia.

In one of his works, Theódore confided that the most jubilant moment in his life was when he received news that the French ambassador in Rome had finally achieved precedence over his Spanish counterpart. When writing this, Theódore was acutely aware that this outcome was realized because France was emerging as a power not only within the confines of Europe but also across distant oceans. These nautical items preserved within Theódore’s collection may not represent the only ones he acquired over the course of his extensive career. However, they serve as a testament to his profound insights. If France aspired to supplant Spain’s dominion on the European stage, it had to position itself as a formidable maritime and global player. To fulfill this ambition, France needed to glean invaluable lessons from its maritime competitors on how to construct and sustain a worldwide maritime empire. Theódore recognized that at the core of this endeavor lay the relentless pursuit of nautical knowledge. Consequently, he meticulously gathered nautical knowledge and maritime intelligence from Spain, Portugal, England, and the Dutch Republic. Similar to Cardinal de Richelieu (1585-1642), Theódore understood that maritime knowledge constituted a pivotal foundation upon which France could not afford to gamble to win the strategic contest of global power against Spain. [Nuno Vila-Santa]

Observing ‘Apparent Death’ Behavior in South Atlantic?

During oceanic voyages, particularly when approaching islands and coasts, the sailors had the opportunity to observe a diverse array of birds, fish, insects, and animals. Among these observations, there are intriguing accounts of unusual phenomena, offering a unique glimpse into the natural world’s complexities. One specific account stands out – a potential early depiction of the behaviour known as “apparent death”, in which animals assume a motionless state, often triggered by a predatory attack. This behavior is illustrated by the astonishment of the pilot of the ship “Espera”, who saw a sizable white fish lying on its back. On June 2, 1537, en route from Lisbon to Diu, while navigating 400 leagues away from the Tristan da Cunha Islands, the pilot penned the following note:

Here I saw a sign unlike anything I had seen before in my life. It appeared as something as large as a loaf of bread, as white as snow, gliding over the water resembling cotton. Whenever a bird landed nearby, it would sink beneath the surface. I encountered two or three of these. They were fish-resembling rodents, and they would flip over at will, exposing their very white bellies. Upon sensing any approach, they would swiftly change the position of their belly. (Quoted from A. Fontoura da Costa, Livro de marinharia de Bernardo Fernandes, Lisboa, 1940, pp. 142-143.)

Such a description seems to align well with the pufferfish. When frightened or irritated, the pufferfish inflates its body, like a rubber ball, and floats upside down for a while until it releases the air, allowing it to dive again. Apart from extraordinary phenomena like the one of the pufferfish, there were recurrent interactions with other various animals and species. In previous posts, we explored observations of seabirds, seaweeds, snakes, or even butterflies. A frequent encounter was with gelatinous organisms, commonly referred to in documents as “caravelas da Guiné” (or Caravels of Guinea), characterized by their vivid red or blue hues. In 1547, pilot Bernardo Fernandes recorded an abundance of small jellyfish akin to “caravelas da Guiné” near the Tristan da Cunha Islands. Notably, he even managed to capture one, confirming its blue colour. This organism likely corresponds to the “Portuguese man-of-war” (Physalia physalis), given its striking resemblance to a Portuguese caravel ship in full sail. As we can observe, while the attribution of “Portuguese” was applied at a later time, the analogy to the “caravel”, along with its connection to the Guinea coast and the India run, was already firmly established itself in the Portuguese navigators’ lexicon, as demonstrated by records of the early 16th century. [Luana Giurgevich]

The Deadliest Enemy (II)

The era of oceanic navigation was concurrent with the prevalence of scurvy, often referred to as the “plague of the sea.” Prior to the 14th-15th centuries, sailors used to navigate fairly close to the coast, and only brief periods of time were spent far from land and fresh food (and vitamin C).

Remedies to alleviate symptoms and to cure scurvy were known, but largely ignored. For instance, Chinese used to cultivate ginger in pots on their ships since the fifth century, an infusion of spruce needles provided by native populations proved able to cure French explorers in Quebec, lemon juice kept Captain Lancaster’s crew healthy, and the medicinal virtues of the Drymis winteri bark to deal with scurvy were discovered by Drake’s Vice-Admiral John Winter.

If knowledge of how to prevent and cure scurvy has been present in various historical periods and regions, why didn’t official medicine recognize it for such a long time?

Stephen Bown, the author of “Scurvy: How a surgeon, a mariner, and a gentleman solved the greatest medical mystery of the age of sail” primarily attributes this oversight to the narrow-minded stance of the scientific authorities of that era, particularly within the British context.

They relied on unfounded theories related to humoral imbalance or putrefaction, and medical philosophies looked for comprehensive explanations for bodily functions and diseases. This emphasis on unified theories may have disregarded the importance of specific nutritional factors in preventing scurvy. Additionally, the hierarchical structure of the medical profession and the reluctance to question prevailing beliefs hindered the dissemination and acceptance of alternative knowledge on scurvy prevention and treatment.

As a result, despite the existence of effective practices used by sailors and native populations, it took an extended period for official medicine to recognize and adopt these methods in the prevention and cure of scurvy.

It was only in 1747 that the first clinical trial was conducted by the Scottish naval surgeon James Lind on sailors in the Salisbury. His experiment tested the effects of various supplements on twelve members of the crew suffering from scurvy. After few days, the men supplied with orange and lemon were completely recovered. Despite this significant finding, Lind’s recommendations were largely overlooked, as they clashed with the prevailing theories of the time.

It took some decades more for the antiscorbutic properties of citrus juice to be fully recognized and for the devastating toll of the disease that characterized the Age of Discovery to come an end. [Silvana Munzi]

When the Moon Wanes, Don’t Start Anything

In this post, we delve into a specific voyage undertaken by the ship “São Pantaleão” in 1596, sailing from Kochi to Lisbon, under the skilled guidance of the pilot Gaspar Ferreira Reimão (fl. 1612). With thirty years of experience navigating the India Run and playing various roles, from second pilot to pilot-major, Reimão meticulously recorded daily life aboard his ship, including measurements, annotations about the magnetic needle’s variation, and astronomical observations. One intriguing aspect to explore is the moon’s role during this voyage.

Reimão’s logbook contains references to nearly every phase of the moon, including what is called “conjunção da lua” (conjunction of the moon) in Portuguese. This refers to the moment when sunlight hits only the part of the moon that is hidden from human view (“new moon”). However, it’s worth noting that in the 16th century mariner jargon, the term “conjunction” could refer to any moon phase. Additionally, the phases of the moon were and are perceived differently in the northern and southern hemispheres, a significant factor for a long-distance voyage.

The majority of the pilot’s textual references to the moon had negative connotations, as they often reflected adverse meteorological conditions. For instance, leaving the Maldives on the 28th of January, the weather worsened, and Reimão explicitly attributed it to the new moon’s weakness, leading to relentless heavy rainfall. The pilot used expressions like “we were rotting with water” (“andamos podres com água”), “new moon, bad moon” (“lua nova, má lua”), and “never-ending rainfall” (“tanta infinda chuva”). On February 24th, a month later, while near the Cargados Carajol Shoals (or Saint Brandon) still in the Indian Ocean, the moon’s appearence coincided again with deteriorating weather, characterized by heavy downpours and strong south winds. Near Cape Agulhas on the 20th of March, Reimão encountered what he considered the worst of all possible moon conjunctions, with waning moon, contrary winds, and frequent lightning flashes signaling severe storms (“é quarteirão de minguante… é conjunção [de lua] que eu tenho por pior que todas a que tem a lua”). In the explanation of the phenomena, he did not forget to add that these signs were exactly the same that “mathematicians declare”. Approaching Saint Helena Island in Atlantic waters on the 5th of April, Reimão called the moon “lua chorosa” (“the weeping moon”), associated with atmospheric vapor and westerly winds. The personification of the moon was the beginning of a series of references. The continuous changes in winds and rough seas caused by this moon (“trabalhosa”,“malíssima”, “Lua do Sueste” (Southeast Moon)) brought additional challenges to the navigation. The pilot complained categorically: “This moon has me tired and dead” (“traz-me cansado e morto esta lua”), indicating that the west winds had not changed for twenty-five days, and the southeast winds had not entered; instead, a marine waterspout was produced. Not by chance, the pilot made mention of the presence of wandering albatross (“mangas-de-veludo”), sea birds also known nowadays as storm petrels.

The moon’s influence on navigation compelled pilots like Reimão to wait for the right moon (“esperando a lua que será amanhã”) and favourable travel conditions to continue or begin their voyage. Gaspar Ferreira Reimão’s sailing directions, published in 1612, reveal his navigational experience, including practical reccomendations related to the better moon’s conjunction. The moon’s impact on the voyage of “São Pantaleão” provides valuable insights into oceanic practices and the challenges faced by skilled pilots like Reimão. His numerous references to the moon highlight the richness of maritime technical documents, encompassing climate, global wind patterns, ornithology, tides, astrology, and science at sea, while also resonating with a poweful proverbial cultural heritage. In fact, the timeless Portuguese proverb seems to echo: “When the Moon wanes, don’t start anything” (Quando a Lua minguar, não deves começar). [Luana Giurgevich]

Spying With Humanism? Ambassador Jean Nicot and his Nautical Goals in Portugal

Known as a father of the modern French language (owing to his Trésor de la langue française) and also as the promoter of the widespread use of the tobacco at the Valois court (named after him as Nicotiana), Jean Nicot was also the French ambassador in Portugal between 1559 and 1561. It was during his tenure in Lisbon that Nicot did more than simply sending to France several scientific specimens: he created a network, between humanism and espionage, to achieve France’s nautical goals.

Arriving in Lisbon to a much desired welcome (owing to a French-Portuguese royal marriage negotiation), Nicot engaged in contacts with important Portuguese intellectuals who held the maritime knowledge that he so desired to acquire. Such are the cases of his likely contacts with Portuguese humanists João de Barros, Damião de Góis and Fernando de Oliveira, from whom he received Portuguese knowledge related to Portuguese and European history, as well as nautical matters. All of Nicot’s acquisitions are documented by the contents of his later personal library in France, shared with La Pléiade members.

Before leaving from France, Nicot had received a particular request from Admiral Gaspard de Coligny and the Cardinal of Lorraine: to recruit two good Portuguese oceanic pilots that could guide a French expedition to Asia or the Moluccas. The request was made to Nicot in the middle of the French-Portuguese confrontation in Brazil known as France Antarctique (a project supported by King Henry II to create a permanent French colony in Brazil). Nicot replied that this was a hard objective to accomplish owing to Portuguese vigilance, but managed to send those two anonymous Portuguese pilots to France, where they later helped fulfill Coligny’s overseas ambitions.

Jean Nicot

In the meantime, Nicot took every opportunity he had, while in Lisbon, to speak with Portuguese pilots. It was likely as a consequence of those conversations that he acquired the nautical compilation of André Pires, one of the most up-to-date at the time. He also came across Pedro Nunes’s main opus: the Tratado em defensam da carta de marear (1537), which he sent to France and recommended for a full translation into French, so that French seamen could profit from it. The translation was made but the death of the printer halted the publication.

Therefore, during his tenure as ambassador in Lisbon, Nicot utilized his humanist persona to achieve maritime and nautical goals for France. His tenure as ambassador was successful in this regard, even though France Antarctique collapsed in 1560. Understanding that a French defeat in Brazil was about to come, the ambassador redoubled his efforts to acquire Portuguese maritime knowledge (pilots, nautical works and rutters) to send to France to help plan new expeditions overseas. Thus, the ambassador mixed humanism with nautical goals in those challenging days for French-Portuguese maritime relations. However, his action is not much different from other ambassadors across Europe, who were always eager to lay hands on nautical and geographical novelties and knowledge. To find out more about Nicot’s embassy and the importance of the French-Portuguese maritime rivalry and scientific interchange of nautical information, see my recently published article Diplomacy and Humanism: ambassador Jean Nicot and the French-Portuguese maritime rivalry (1559-1561). [Nuno Vila-Santa]

Squeaky Drama

It is well known that rats have always been among the most undesirable travel companions for seafarers. The consequences of allowing just a couple of them to embark could be catastrophic. I have come across some Early Modern stories lamenting such an eventuality, with the one told by the English seaman Richard Hawkins (1562-1622) being my favorite. It is narrated in his celebrated The observations of Sir Richard Hawkins, Knight, in his Voyage into the South Sea in the year 1593 (ed. 1622), which recounts the voyage he commanded from Plymouth to the Pacific, via the Strait of Magellan:

Here [at the Strait of Magellan] we made also a survey of our victuals; and opening certain barrels of oaten meal, we found a great part of some of them, as also of our pipes and vats of bread, eaten and consumed by the rats; doubtless, a fifth part of my company did not eat so much as these devoured, as we found daily in coming to spend any of our provisions. When I came to the sea, it was not suspected that I had a rat in my ship; but with the bread in cask, which we transported out of the Hawke, and going to and again of our boats unto our prise (though we had diverse cats and used other preventions), in a small time they multiplied in such a manner as is incredible. It is one of the general calamities of all long voyages; and would be carefully prevented, as much as may be. For besides that which they consume of the best victuals, they eat the sails; and neither pack nor chest is free from their surprises. I have known them to make a hole in a pipe of water, and saying the pump, have put all in fear, doubting lest some leak had been sprung upon the ship. Moreover, I have heard credible persons report, that ships have been put in danger by them to be sunk, by a hole made in the bulge. All which is easily remedied at the first, but if once they be somewhat increased, with difficulty they are to be destroyed. And although I propounded a reward for every rat which was taken and sought means by poison and other inventions to consume them, yet their increase being so ordinary and many, we were not able to clear ourselves from them [quoted in Moreno Madrid, José María & Henrique Leitão, Atravessando a Porta do Pacifico. Roteiros e relatos da Travessia do Estreito de Magalhães, 1520-1620 (Lisboa: ByTheBook), p.209].

If you are about to set sail, take a good note of Hawkins’ advice and revise carefully your ship… you do not want to start hearing squeaks in the middle of the ocean! [José María Moreno Madrid]