Toward the Setting Sun

by David Boyle

  In fact, striped ensigns were carried by ships of many nations and ports by the eighteenth century. The flags of Tunis, Wismar, and Bremen included red and white horizontal stripes. French merchant vessels flew blue and white horizontal stripes, and Portuguese ships flew green and white stripes. The East India Company originally flew their red and white stripes with a red cross in the corner, the St. George’s Cross for England—the same emblem flown by ships from Genoa. They eventually dropped the cross because it upset the Japanese. They seem to have chosen the red and white stripes to distinguish their ships from those of the Portuguese, who licensed local ships in India in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries using their green and white striped ensigns. It is possible that Vespucci’s second great voyage, along the coast of South America, flew under just such a striped Portuguese flag.

  There is some knowledge, too, about the flags used by Columbus and Cabot. Columbus carried the royal flag of Castile and flags of his own design, which had a green cross with the initials F (Ferdinand) and Y (Isabella) on either side of it, and a crown above each letter. Cabot used the royal standard of England, and the flags of Venice and the pope, when he landed in 1497. But wander through the Alcazar in Seville today, and look at the sixteenth-century paintings of ships heading to the New World, and it is immediately clear that horizontal red and white stripes were a feature of Spanish shipping all the way back to Columbus’s generation. The famous painting Virgin of the Navigators shows at least one ship flying this flag from the stern. But here the trail back into history to find the origin of these elusive red stripes goes cold.

  The flag of the British East India Company

  Was it adopted, as in India, to distinguish Spanish ships from Portuguese? Did it borrow the red and white stripes of the Austrian flag part of the legacy that the Hapsburgs brought to the Spanish coat of arms—a faint memory of the bloody surcoat of Duke Leopold of Austria fighting on the walls of Acre in 1191? Was it actually related to the red and yellow stripes of Aragon? Was it just because stripes had become a tradition for mariners at the time? Many paintings of contemporary galleys in the Mediterranean at the time have striped awnings over their quarter decks. But since the flag in Virgin of the Navigators is so definite, it is much more likely to be by deliberate design, even if it was an informal one.

  There were no set rules for flags in those days. There is even evidence that Portuguese merchant vessels were wearing red and white horizontal stripes by the eighteenth century, in which case the flag seems to have come rather informally to refer to ventures to the Indies, both Western and Eastern. But beyond mere tradition, there are some possible explanations.

  The flag of Ferdinand and Isabella

  It may have come from Ferdinand’s coat of arms, part of which included red and white horizontal stripes, borrowed from the house of Anjou, the previous rulers of Naples, when Aragon began its rule over that city in 1442. The Anjevins, in turn, added red and white stripes from the Hungarian royal coat of arms when they married into that family. It may be that, in searching for distinctive flags that demonstrated Aragonese power in the Mediterranean, red and white stripes were seen as an appropriate weapon.

  But there is another possibility. The powerful figure of Bishop Fonseca, Columbus’s implacable enemy, and the man who dominated and controlled the early shipping to the New World, was related to the Hungarian royal family. Perhaps the red and white stripes were originally his innovation—a cheeky reference to his own origins, which were defensible because of their other connotations. In which case, it was Fonseca who sent those ships so symbolically to the New World with the stripes fluttering from their masts.

  How those red and white stripes came to be adopted then by the British in India and from there by the new revolutionary states of America is unclear now, and probably always will be. But it does say something about the international nature of the story of Europe’s arrival in the New World. The end of the fifteenth century was a time when national identity was still fluid and had more to do with loyalty to rulers than to frontiers. The perilous risks of the enterprise of the Indies were taken largely by stateless mercenaries, from the city-states of Italy, acting for monarchs who were only just developing the idea of nationhood around them.

  We have lived through centuries of nationalism where this kind of confusion of national identity seemed incoherent—where every European nation needed their own conspiracy theory about how they got to America first. Now we are in an age where national boundaries are once again more fluid, and where national identity is harder to pin down. The idea that the flag of the United States has a hidden history that stretches back, via the original pioneering navigators, to medieval Naples or Hungary, might allow us to understand the polyglot history of discovery a little more clearly.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I went to school in Bristol, and spent more weekends than I care to remember on the Clifton Downs, staring into the gorge, two hundred feet below, through which Cabot set out across the Atlantic. On my very first day in the city, the steamship Great Britain returned on the last leg of its journey from the Falklands Isles. Because of that, I should have been aware of the maritime heritage around me, and of Cabot in particular, but I don’t think I was.

  It was decades later that his story caught my imagination. I have always been fascinated by powerful characters who have somehow slipped through the sieve of history, the details about them and those around them lost, leaving us to discern the truth—and imagine the color—as much from the shadows on the wall as from the facts.

  But there are still traces of Cabot in Bristol: St. Nicholas Street, where he lived, is rather disheveled, but it is there. So is the medieval St. Nicholas Market nearby, and the church where he worshipped. The dock the Matthew probably sailed from was filled in during the twentieth century to make way for a tram interchange, but you can imagine it and walk along its edges.

  In the same way, you can still see the house where Vespucci grew up in Florence, and at least the street where he died in Seville, still next to the medieval tower by the river he knew so well. Cadiz, Lisbon, Huelva, and Southampton still remain, though scarred by twentieth-century-traffic horrors like the motorway that soars above the waterfront in Genoa, where Cabot and Columbus were born. Even the tram interchange in Bristol is now a traffic island.

  But of all these sites, probably the most peculiar and atmospheric, though in an unexpected way, is Palos de la Frontera, from where Columbus sailed in 1492. The harbor has long since become silted up and is home to a series of small ramshackle market gardens. The dockside, “improved” for the 1992 celebrations, is now cracking and overgrown. Exploring Palos with my father, and discovering the Pinzón family home just up the road, and wandering around Seville where all three central characters fleetingly came together, was one of the most enjoyable periods of researching this book.

  In fact, my father’s support, translation, and widespread reading has been so enthusiastic that I suspected, by the end, he knew more about many aspects of the subject than I did, and I am enormously grateful to him—for this and for the trip—and dedicate the book to him. I couldn’t have written it without him.

  One of the peculiarities of the research for this book was that every nation involved has its own traditions, convictions, and even spellings. At the time, those involved used generic or Latin versions of their own names, or—like Columbus—changed them completely. Instead of deciding to use one language rather than another, I have tried to call all those involved by the usual styling of their name in the English-speaking world: thus it is Columbus, Cabot, and John of Portugal, but Amerigo and Bartholomé de las Casas. It may not work for the purists, to whom I apologize, but it does at least have the virtue of being simpler.

  I would also like to thank Evan Jones from Bristol University, who read most of the manuscript, and whose criticisms were incisive and invaluable, and without whose guidance this book would have been very much poorer. I didn’t always take his advice, I fear,
so any mistakes that remain are mine. Also Glyn Redworth, for his excellent historical advice, Silvia Evans for all her research in Genoa and help with Italian sources, Tatiana Villegas for her fascinating conversation and book loans, John Ormond for reading some of the chapters and helping with the background material on the Renaissance, Felipe Fernandez-Armesto for answering my out-of-the-blue peculiar queries, Alex Macgillivray for his advice and his inspirational book A Brief History of Globalization, Sandra Stokes for reading the whole manuscript as it was written, Andrew Simms for his excellent ideas, and Gill Paul for her editorial reassurance. Thanks also to Rob and Roger and the crew of the Matthew for everything I learned sailing with them up the Bristol Channel. Also, as always, my mother and stepfather for reading the early chapters and encouraging me, and for everything else.

  I could not have written the book either without the help of the staff at the London Library, the British Library, the Matthew Society, and the Naval Museum in Madrid. Or without the support and encouragement of my agent, Julian Alexander, my publisher, George Gibson, and my tireless and brilliant editor, Michele Lee Amundsen, all of whom I especially want to thank for their belief in this project from the beginning and all their efforts to make it better.

  But the biggest thanks must go to Sarah, Robin, and William (born during the final chapter), for their love, patience, ideas, tolerance, and fun during the writing of the book.

  NOTES

  Books that are fully cited in the bibliography are cited here by author’s name and in the case of an author having more than one book listed in the bibliography, by title, sometimes in shortened form. All other works are fully cited here.

  PROLOGUE: SETTING SAIL

  ix “One glass is gone”: The Royal Navy, famously conservative, kept time with half-hour glasses until 1839.

  1 On August 6, 1497: A replica of the Matthew was built in Bristol in 1997 and remains a seagoing vessel and open to the public. See www.matthew.co.uk/home/home.html.

  3 The last few years have: see D. Quinn, European Approaches to North America, pp. 32–33.

  1: PARADISE LOST

  5 “There will come a time”: Tiphys was the pilot of the Argonauts. Thule is generally agreed to have been the ancient name for Iceland. See also: D. Clay, “Columbus’ Senecan Prophecy,” American Journal of Philology, Vol. 113, No. 4, Winter 1992: 617–20.

  5 “The world is fair”: Walther von der Vogelweide as quoted in G. G. Coulton, p. 253.

  6 Behind them waited the great city: the classic account of the fall of Constantinople is in S. Runciman.

  7 He flung off his imperial insignia: Constantine’s death is described in S. Runciman, p. 144.

  8 One of them, Cardinal Isidore: Cardinal Isidore was one of those who played a leading role in the efforts to reunite the Catholic and Orthodox churches. His escape is described in S. Runciman, p. 141.

  9 As early as 1347: For more on John VI’s diadems see S. Runciman, p. 5.

  10 The Ottoman advance: The growth in trade is described in P. Spufford, especially pp. 385–89.

  10 This susceptibility to borrowing: Fugger used to employ a personal fortune teller to advise on investments. His silver monopoly is described L. Jardine, p. 111.

  12 “When you perceive the miserable corruption”: quoted in K. Sale, pp. 29–30.

  12 “I think I have given myself more honor”: For new attitudes to wealth see H. Baron, pp. 158–257.

  12 The inspirational preacher Thomas Couette: described in D. Hay, p. 321.

  12 The Quentin Matsys portrait: The description of the portrait of Erasmus is from L. Jardine, p. 33.

  13 “Men sooner forget the death of their father”: quoted in Machiavelli’s The Prince, Chapter 17.

  15 The way through to the Silk Road: For descriptions of Genoa in the 1450s see, particularly, S. A. Epstein.

  16 When the news: John Cabot is traditionally believed to have been born in 1449, supported by the fact that he joined the Scuole Grandi in Venice in 1470, when he was twenty-one and had children while in his early thirties, which is not unreasonable to assume. But the simple fact is that we really don’t know his date of birth. See J. A. Williamson, pp. 33f.

  17 There are even some rumors: In 1837 the English historian Rawdon Brown established that Cabot was indeed Venetian. But many years later, in his own copy of the book he wrote on the subject, he scribbled two marginal notes, which said that in 1855–56 he had found documents in the Venetian archives that proved Cabot came to Venice in 1461 and married a Venetian, but was by birth an Englishman. These documents have never come to light. See J. A. Williamson, The Cabot Voyages, p. 139.

  17 “Genoese like Columbus”: See J. A. Williamson, The Cabot Voyages, p. 228.

  17 “son of a Genoese”: See J. A. Williamson, The Cabot Voyages, p. 140.

  18 There are hints that the family: If Guilo Cabot was involved in the salt trade, it would explain why he went to Venice. The Venetians rival in salt production and export and would have welcomed his insider knowledge. See P. Macdonald.

  20 Life in Genoa was dominated: Genoa’s political divisions are from G. Granzotto, pp. 22–23.

  21 Sometime between: Nobody has proven beyond doubt that Cabot and Columbus ever met, but the circumstances suggest they did. They were almost the same age, born in the same city, and went into the same profession. That they were both members of families affiliated with the Fregoso clan is my assumption based on the fact that the Cabots left Venice when the Fregoso cause collapsed, but if that is correct that would be more evidence. A family called Caboto had strong links to Savona when the Columbus family was there. They both also frequented the dockside at Lisbon at the same time, and—as has become clear only recently—they were both plunged into debt at the same time. It is the argument in this book that this debt was incurred in part as a consequence of an early phase of a joint enterprise involving the Indies. The respected expert on northern Atlantic exploration, Professor David Quinn, argued for a definite connection between the two men. See D. Quinn, pp. 32–33.

  22 “In the city of Genoa, I have my roots”: See, for example, S. E. Morison, Admiral of the Ocean, p. 8. But since the recent discovery of Bobadilla’s evidence shows that contemporaries were complaining that he was a weaver’s son from Genoa, the accepted story of his birth seems more secure.

  22 The tiny house has consistently disappointed visitors: H. Harrisse, Cristoforo Colombo, p. 176.

  24 The family made the difficult and risky decision: The evidence that Cabot and his family moved to Venice in 1461 comes primarily from documents that confirm John Cabot was granted full Venetian citizenship in 1476, since newcomers to the city had to wait fifteen years before they could become citizens. See J. A. Williamson, The Cabot Voyages, pp.190–91.

  25 Amerigo Vespucci was born: This date comes from Vespucci’s baptism record in F. J. Pohl, p. 14. There is a slightly different account of Vespucci’s birth in F. Fernandez Armesto, Amerigo:The Man Who Gave His Name to America, p. 18. The details of a previous deceased brother called Amerigo are in this same book, pp. 17–18.

  25 Amerigo was named after the young Leonardo da Vinci: A. V. G. Arciniegas, p. 26.

  30 “Bright shining star”: E. L. S. Horsburgh, quoted in A. V. G. Arciniegas, p. 35.

  2: MAPS

  32 “Our land is the home”: Letter from Prester John in S. Baring-Gould, pp. 38–46.

  32 “Map me no maps”: Quote from Henry Fielding’s 1730 play Rape upon Rape, Act 1, Scene 5.

  33 The legend of Prester John: See N. Jubber.

  34 One of the new printed editions: The quotations from Marco Polo are in J. S. Collis, pp. 16–21.

  35 Or the legend of St. Brendan: See G. R. Crone, pp. 15f.

  36 One by one, each voyage pressed farther south: The navigators had a rhyme about the perils of passing Cape Non, or Cape Nun, as it is now called. “When Cape Nun hoves into sight, turn me back, lad—or else goodnight!” B. Keen, p. 56.

  37 Toscanelli was the grand old man: See
F. J. Pohl, pp. 20f. It is not absolutely certain that Giorgio Vespucci introduced Toscanelli to his nephew, but it seems highly likely that he did. Vespucci’s employer, Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, also had Giorgio as a tutor, and as a result understood some cosmography (F. Fernandez-Armesto, Amerigo, p. 20), and it seems likely that this is what began Vespucci’s fascination as well.

  38 In the 1460s: See A. Vallentin, p. 22.

  38 With Toscanelli he saw: Toscanelli, who had spent time in Rome in his youth, must have known that successive medieval popes had appointed bishops to oversee the spiritual needs of Markland and Vinland. See F. J. Pohl, p. 21.

  39 “If you knew”: Quoted in J. J. Norwich, p. 103. Galeazzo Maria Sforza was assassinated in church in 1476 in Milan, and then dismembered and eaten by the hungry crowd.

  39 At first it was the salt trade: See P. Spufford. There is little evidence about Guilo Cabot’s activities, but some authorities list the salt and spice trades (see, for example, P. Macdonald). If the Cabots were involved in salt—the source of great rivalry between Genoa and Venice—it might partly explain why they were welcomed to Venice so enthusiastically.