Elizabeth I – Opening New Fronts Against Spain Part I

Abd el-Ouahed ben Messaoud was the Moorish ambassador to Elizabeth in 1600.

A life-size portrait of Sultan Murad III (1574-1595), attributed to a Spanish artist, 17th century.

Europe 1600

Elizabeth was enjoying the final few days of her summer progress at Nonsuch late in September 1598 when the news filtered down via Paris, Venice and The Hague that Philip II was dead. After more than two months of unrelieved torture from his arthritis, the seventy-one-year-old Spanish king had taken the last rites of the Catholic Church in his study-cum-bedroom at the Escorial and died with his son and heir, the future Philip III, and the Infanta at his bedside. So severely afflicted by bedsores was he in these last, lingering days that his doctors were forced to wriggle underneath his bed and cut holes in his mattress from below to drain out the pus.

The Venetian ambassador to Madrid observed that Philip’s twenty-year-old son had the same prominent Habsburg jaw as his father and grandfather before going on to praise him as a man of peace: ‘affable, grave, temperate, beloved by those who serve him’. His assessment, many times repeated, helped to foster a myth that Philip was mild-mannered and agreeable, a keen horseman who loved music and magnificence and believed that the Spanish monarchy’s dignity was best preserved by peace, pomp and parade.

In reality, the new king of Spain was nothing of the sort. He demanded that force be met with force, agreeing with Don Baltasar Álamos de Barrientos, who wrote a steely memorandum to him on his accession, advising:

It would be neither proper nor profitable to make peace with England: nor would any such peace be firm, for this Crown has been extremely offended by that woman. She is a schismatic and utterly contrary to our religion, and will consequently never trust us; peace with her will be very unsure.

Philip III needed little persuasion. His feelings for the heretic bastard queen were no warmer than his father’s; he did, however, recognize the extent of Spain’s human and material losses since the failure of the Gran Armada of 1588. After his father’s bankruptcy, nothing on such a scale could be attempted again. Instead, the Treaty of Vervins presented an opportunity for the young king to open a new, limited front in the war against Elizabeth, one where he believed he could win a lasting victory. The result was a policy in which he decided to attack Ireland, England’s soft underbelly. He believed far fewer troops would be needed, as it was said in Spain that the English defences in Ireland outside Dublin were no more than rudimentary, while the Gaelic Irish were loyal Catholics almost to a man. The Protestant Reformation had made minimal inroads into Ireland. Henry VIII had even failed to dissolve many of the more remote Irish monasteries. Still better from the Spanish viewpoint, Ireland was now in open rebellion and had been for the last four years.

The revolt had begun in 1594 as little more than a regional uprising in the northern province of Ulster led by the wily and ambitious Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone, but by the summer of 1598 much of Gaelic Ireland had been set aflame. Elizabeth’s Lord Deputy, based in Dublin, Lord Burgh, had mounted a strong offensive, building a new fort on the River Blackwater three miles north of the garrison town of Armagh to guard the main road to Dungannon. He had then fallen fatally ill on his return from revictualling it. Seeing his opportunity, Tyrone tripled the stakes, demanding liberty of conscience for all Catholic Irishmen and redress for English offences against the Irish over the past fifty years. When he was rebuffed, Tyrone laid siege to the Blackwater fort. On 14 August, after ambushing a relief force in the thick woods south of Armagh, his forces killed some two thousand English troops at the Battle of the Yellow Ford. It was the greatest victory ever achieved by Irish arms against the English and seemed to threaten the complete loss of Ireland.

And the reverberations echoed still further through the British Isles as Elizabeth increasingly suspected King James of colluding in Tyrone’s rebellion. Her quarrels with James had entered a new phase some two years into the revolt, when he had condoned a cross-border raid into England by the Laird of Buccleuch, who rescued one of the queen’s closely guarded prisoners in a midnight assault on Carlisle Castle.9 Elizabeth retaliated by slashing his pension again, and when negotiations for a new treaty for the regulation of the border did not go her way, she fumed to her ambassador in Edinburgh, ‘I wonder how base minded that king thinks me that with patience I can digest this dishonourable slur. Let him therefore know that I will have satisfaction, or else.’

In January 1598, Anglo-Scottish relations further deteriorated when Elizabeth levelled a raft of obscurely phrased but stinging accusations against James for criticizing her in the Scottish Parliament:

I do wonder what evil spirits have possessed you, to set forth so infamous devices void of any show of truth . . . I see well we two be of very different natures, for I vow to God I would not corrupt my tongue with an unknown report of the greatest foe I have, much less could I detract my best-deserving friend with a spot so foul as scarcely may ever be outraised . . . I never yet loved you so little as not to moan your infamous dealings which you are in mind. We see that myself shall possess more princes’ witness of my causeless injuries, which I could have wished had passed no seas, to testify such memorials of your wrongs. Bethink you of such dealings, and set your labour upon such mends as best may. Though not right, yet salve some piece of this overslip. And be assured that you deal with such a king as will bear no wrongs and endure no infamy.

After this, James began to ignore her, claiming, ‘It becomes me not to strive with a lady, especially in that art wherein their sex most excels’ (i.e. in trading insults).

Elizabeth’s misgivings about James’s intentions in Ireland were fuelled by his secret overtures to the European Catholic powers and by highly disturbing reports that Anne of Denmark was very close to converting to Catholicism. Up until Prince Henry’s christening, Anne had been safely Protestant, but afterwards her chief gentlewoman, the French-born Henrietta, Countess of Huntly, had slowly but surely begun to convert her. Late in 1596, a St Andrews clergyman noted for his attacks on the anti-English, pro-Spanish Earl of Huntly and his wife preached a sermon denouncing Anne as a renegade ‘papist’. ‘As to the queen,’ he declared, ‘we have no cause to pray for her. We hear no good of her. She will never do us good. It may be she [will] trouble us all shortly.’

James positively revelled in this growing appreciation of Anne’s apostasy: he found it an invaluable diplomatic tool in his quest to persuade the Catholic powers that he was the best candidate to succeed Elizabeth. Pope Clement VIII prayed for his conversion, and James went out of his way to foster this hope. Shortly before Philip II’s death, the Scottish king had sent Lord Robert Sempill to Madrid to rebuild commercial links between Scotland and Spain, armed with secret instructions to secure recognition of James’s title to the English throne. After Philip III’s coronation, Sempill’s mission encouraged the new king’s advisers to consider sending an ambassador to Edinburgh with instructions to work towards partitioning the British Isles into pro- and anti-Spanish spheres of influence. When Elizabeth learned of this, she raged against James, whom Cecil had also caught out drumming up Catholic support for his claim to the throne in Venice, Florence and Paris.

Elizabeth put two and two together and made five. Relying on warnings she had received from Tyrone’s former mentor, the Earl of Ormond, coupled with a leaked copy of a letter purportedly from James to the rebel leader, she convinced herself that James was in league with Tyrone and conspiring with Spain. She suspected him of joining clandestinely with Tyrone in a grand pan-Britannic conspiracy in which both men hoped to profit from her death. Prompted by dark hints from Cecil, she even harboured suspicions that there might be a plot, centred on James and Catholic Ireland, to force her to abdicate.

After their fatal encounter in the Privy Chamber on 30 June or 1 July 1598, when the Earl of Essex had insolently rejected her nomination of Sir William Knollys as Lord Burgh’s successor in Ireland, Elizabeth at first decided to leave him to sulk and feign illness at his country estate at Wanstead. ‘He hath played long enough upon me,’ she said. ‘I mean to play awhile upon him and to stand as much upon my greatness as he hath done upon [his] stomach.’18 But after news came in of the catastrophe at the Blackwater fort, she decided to recall Essex and make him live up to his proud boasts over so many years to be a true military leader. It was a coolly calculated gamble on her part, a toss of a coin she knew she could not lose. Heads, she would recover Ireland, and Essex his career. Tails, Essex would destroy himself, and she could distance herself from the disaster.

But before she gave Essex the command in Ireland, he would have to submit and apologize for the offence he had caused her. Until then, she refused to admit him to her presence. There seemed slender prospect of this after the Earl sent her a letter complaining of ‘the intolerable wrong you have done both me and yourself’. His friend and admirer Sir Henry Lee tactfully urged him to come to his senses:

Your honour is more dear to you than your life, but yet may it please your Lordship to consider these circumstances. She is your sovereign, whom you may not beat [treat] upon equal conditions . . . I grant your wrongs to be greater than so noble a heart can well digest, but consider my good Lord how great she is with whom you deal . . . What advantage you have in yielding when you are wronged, what disadvantage by facing her whom (though you deserve never so much) yet you must rely upon for favour.

The impasse was resolved only when Essex succumbed to a bout of genuine fever. Anxious for his welfare, Elizabeth sent one of her own physicians to treat him, and by 10 September he was sufficiently recovered to attend a Council meeting for the first time since their spectacular row. He met her privately two days later to kiss her hand. After that, it was said that, at least for the moment, he was ‘in as good terms as ever he was’. Although he lost out hands down to Cecil and his allies in the redistribution of offices after Burghley’s death, Elizabeth was still prepared to accept his service when it suited her, but strictly on her own terms.

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By 20 October, the Court gossips were confidently placing their bets on Essex going to Ireland. But while, by December, it was certain that he would be sent there, a heated debate was taking place over the conditions of his appointment, which Essex contested clause by clause. Elizabeth signed his commission on 25 March 1599, granting him wider powers than any of his predecessors. In one notable clause she authorized him either to prosecute or conclude the war at his discretion, and even to come to terms with Tyrone. After endless discussion, he had finally convinced her that his expedition aimed at nothing less than ‘the saving of one of Her Majesty’s kingdoms’ and, to do this, he needed a free hand.

Given the sweeping nature of this last clause, the Earl secured a licence from the queen permitting him temporarily to put a deputy in place so that he might return and consult her at such times as he should find cause, ‘as well to see our person as to inform us of such things as may be to our important service’. He left London on the 27th and landed in Dublin just over two weeks later, feeling distinctly queasy after an unusually stormy passage across the Irish Sea. With him sailed twenty thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry, the largest English army ever sent to Ireland.

The key to the Earl’s initial plan of campaign was to dispatch amphibious forces to Lough Foyle in the far north, well behind Tyrone’s lines, with the aim of establishing a new English garrison there. Modelled on his earlier template for Cádiz, the idea was to create a permanent military bridgehead that could readily be relieved and provisioned by sea. Before he died, Lord Burgh had intended to march to Lough Foyle to establish exactly such a garrison. The problem for Essex was that Cecil and his allies in the Privy Council had in the meantime diverted the necessary forces and supplies much further south for the defence of Dublin.

This diversion of resources was undertaken despite confidential warnings Cecil had received from his chief intelligence officer in Dublin, Sir Geoffrey Fenton, suggesting that a strong garrison at Lough Foyle would be essential for the reconquest of Ulster. Essex had pledged himself to an immediate attack on Tyrone before leaving England, but the profound lack of support he received from Cecil and his allies invites the conclusion that they were setting him up to fail.

Unable to establish the garrison, Essex dissipated the prime campaigning months of May and June in a southerly march through Leinster towards Waterford and from there into Munster, capturing the supposedly impregnable Cahir Castle, relieving a fort at Askeaton and driving the rebels into the woods and mountains. His sweep through southern Ireland was approved by the Privy Council. It safeguarded Munster from the threat of attacks from Spain and from Tyrone, but it also wasted valuable time, money and supplies. In particular, Essex was much delayed by a dire shortage of carriage horses, which had to be sent from England. Despite repeated warnings from his own officials, Cecil refused to treat this question with anything like the seriousness it deserved, stonewalling Essex by pretending that the queen ‘will not be content to be put to any new charge for that’.

Early in July, Essex returned to Dublin to file a decidedly hysterical report to the queen outlining the difficulties he had so far faced. Now in the hands of his physicians, with his body (as he claimed) ‘indisposed and distempered’ by the harsh conditions he had endured, he found his spirit crushed by the tenacity of Irish resistance. Already seething over the spiralling cost of his expedition, Elizabeth was exasperated by a series of damning reports she had received from Cecil outlining Essex’s demands for further ‘liberal supplies of men, money and victual’, the appointment of his younger protégé, the Earl of Southampton, as his General of the Horse – she flatly refused to confirm this nomination – and delays in confronting Tyrone. ‘O miserable employment and more miserable destiny of mine’, Essex wailed to the Privy Council, ‘that makes it impossible for me to please and serve Her Majesty at once.’

In a scorching diatribe she dictated on 30 July, Elizabeth instructed Essex to march north without any more excuses or delay: he was to attack Tyrone in his heartland of Ulster. But by the time her letter reached him, his forces had shrunk to fewer than six thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry. Many had slipped away home to England; others were feigning sickness; some had defected to the rebels. Essex’s thoughts quickly turned to how he might parachute himself out of Ireland and return to Court to confront not Tyrone but his enemies on the Privy Council, whom he believed to be subverting him at every turn. For a single madcap moment he even toyed with the idea of going over to Wales with two thousand or three thousand troops and marching on Whitehall to purge the evil councillors who were poisoning the queen’s mind against him.

In a typically extravagant gesture, with his forces diminishing by the hour, Essex then invited Tyrone to fight him in single combat. After a game of high-stakes poker, he finally accepted the fifty-four-year-old Irishman’s offer of a parley. On 7 September, the two men came face to face on the opposite banks of a river at Ballaclinch ford near the town of Louth, between Ardee and Dundalk. With Essex’s horse at the water’s edge and Tyrone’s standing belly-deep midstream, as the river was too wide at this point to shout across, they talked alone for half an hour. Playing for time, but also genuinely torn between a new accommodation with Elizabeth and one with Spain, it would appear from what he said about it afterwards that Tyrone demanded freedom of conscience, liberation of the Irish from English domination and a full pardon as the price of a settlement. Essex refused.

At last, a rolling truce was agreed upon that was to last for six weeks at a time. Renewable until 1 May 1601, the truce was to be terminable earlier by either side at two weeks’ notice. Tyrone, who swore an oath to observe it, also offered his eldest son as a hostage as a sign of his good faith. Afterwards, the rebel leader boasted to Philip III’s agent in Ireland that he had almost persuaded Essex to turn against Elizabeth, but this was surely bluster. Like Ralegh, Essex was a genuine patriot who would never have been able to reconcile himself to colluding with Spain.

And yet, however honourably intended, the murky circumstances of the truce left Essex, who now disbanded what was left of his army, open to damaging smears. Francis Bacon later summed up the extent of his vulnerability. Just as ‘the secrecy of that parley’, as he put it, gave Essex ‘the more liberty of treason, so it may give any man the more liberty of surmise what was handled between them’. Almost certainly, Essex’s overriding aim was to protect Elizabeth from the threat of a Spanish invasion of Ireland. The danger was that his enemies would find it easy to feed a distorted account of the purpose of the truce directly into Elizabeth’s fears of a grand pan-Britannic conspiracy.

But that was still to come. On reading Essex’s first reports of the truce, Elizabeth was not unduly concerned, believing it to have been ‘seasonably made (though now it seems that in many provinces the rebels make use of it), as great good hath grown to the most of Her Majesty’s subjects by it’. But from the outset she expressed a justified anxiety over the lack of witnesses to the parley. ‘For comeliness, example and for your own discharge’, she chivvied Essex a mere ten days after his rendezvous with Tyrone, ‘we marvel you would carry it no better.’ But this was chiefly because Tyrone was as slippery as he was duplicitous. ‘To trust this traitor upon oath’, she parried, ‘is to trust a devil upon his religion.’

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The fact is that Elizabeth had far more on her mind in the summer and early autumn of 1599 than Essex’s Irish expedition. Since mid-June, rumours that Philip III was intent on sending a fourth Gran Armada had triggered a panic throughout southern England. Sixty great warships and a hundred and twenty other ships with three thousand soldiers on board were said to be victualled and ready to sail from Coruña.

In response, the queen appointed the Earl of Nottingham, who was still Lord Admiral, to be Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom with supreme command by land and sea. Working closely with Cecil, he dispatched a full complement of royal navy ships to patrol the Channel approaches and the southern coast of Ireland, while another forty or so armed merchantmen and pinnaces were requisitioned as support vessels. An improvised barrage was hastily created across the Thames, near Barking, by scuttling eighty-three small ships half laden with ballast. The coastal defences were strengthened and the county militias from Cornwall to Norfolk put on full alert. As in 1588, plans were made to assemble a field army some twenty-five-thousand-strong, drawn from the southern counties, to defend the queen and Court if the Armada landed. A serious failure of intelligence left the Privy Council entirely unaware that the Spanish fleet’s true destination was to be Ireland.

Several false alarms brought turmoil to London as heavy iron chains were once again hung across the streets and the city gates locked and bolted. In early August, a rumour spread like wildfire that Spaniards had landed at Southampton and were marching towards London. This had arisen from a mistake during the night of the 6th, when lookouts on the Isle of Wight had spotted a flotilla of ships passing eastwards along the Channel and fired the beacons. In fear of her life, Elizabeth was driven at high speed in her coach to St James’s Palace, where she took refuge, exactly as in 1588. Several days would elapse before she could be certain that these mysterious vessels in the Channel were no more than innocent merchantmen plying their trade, and she could safely emerge.

Elizabeth I – Opening New Fronts Against Spain Part II

Philip III of Spain, 1599-1601

The Somerset House Conference between English and Spanish diplomats that brought an end to the Anglo–Spanish War (1585–1604).

At the very last moment, Philip III’s ships sailed not northwards for England or Ireland, but southwards for the Azores, where a formidable fleet of Dutch warships lay in wait for the New World treasure convoys. Unaware of the change of plan, the queen resumed an intriguing diplomacy she had pursued intermittently since 1587, when, after vigorous lobbying by Walsingham and the London merchants for the best part of two years, she had appealed to Sultan Murad III of Turkey to open up a new front in the war. Her aim then was to distract the Spanish navy by inciting Murad to attack Spain on its Mediterranean flank.

Strongly encouraged by Walsingham, Elizabeth had from the very outset justified her initiative on religious as well as strategic grounds, arguing that both Protestantism and Islam were haters of idolatry. Perhaps surprisingly for a woman who, by the time of her translation of Boethius, had come to interpret contemporary events as a test of character imposed on her by God, she had no compunction about setting the Muslim ‘infidels’ against the Christians of Spain. For their part, a number of London merchants trading in Venice and Turkey had joined forces to form the Levant Company, chartered in 1592. Lobbying the queen continually to open up diplomatic and therefore improved commercial relations with the Sultan, they were able to make huge profits from exporting raw iron and munitions to the Ottoman empire, returning from Istanbul and Aleppo with spices, raw silk, cotton, indigo, carpets, apothecary wares, currants, sugar and sweet wines.

Begged by Elizabeth for support at the time of the great crisis of 1588, the Sultan had excused himself, saying that he lacked the resources to wage war simultaneously in Persia and the western Mediterranean. When, however, the Persian war ended in 1590, Burghley and the queen had tried again to unleash Ottoman forces against Spain, channelling much of their diplomacy through Dr Lopez. The most influential westerner in Istanbul, the Portuguese Jewish merchant Don Solomon Abenaes was Lopez’s kinsman. And it was largely through Don Solomon that Burghley and the queen spent much of the next three years urging Murad and his advisers to attack Spanish possessions in southern Italy. In fact, the queen’s links to Don Solomon may go some considerable way to explain her decision to stay Lopez’s execution warrant.

Unfortunately, Murad always replied that he had more pressing problems than Spain. Chief among them were the episodic upheavals in his tributary principalities beyond the Danube, either in Moldavia, the last Christian outpost in the Balkans, or in Hungary, where in 1593 the Ottomans resumed war against the Habsburgs. When, two years later, Mehmed III, Murad’s eldest son and heir by the Albanian-born Sultana Sāfiye, mounted the throne, Elizabeth wrote again (her letter is lost but its contents can be worked out from the reply). An offer of amity was swiftly returned by the Grand Vizier, Sinān Pasha, but it came with a sting in the tail. After reminding the queen that the Hungarian war was the new Sultan’s top priority, Sinān Pasha invited her to send him troops and money first. When Edward Barton, Elizabeth’s newly appointed first resident ambassador in Istanbul, provided her with a translation of this document, he tactfully omitted that last passage.

A superficially more enticing offer followed in the summer of 1596 on the back of Philip II’s second Gran Armada, which was at first thought to be directed against Calais or Marseilles. In a reassuring letter to the queen, the Sultan explained that he would not want her war effort to be compromised by a Spanish attack on Marseilles: if the town fell, he would send a fleet to relieve it and restore it to France. Once again, self-interest lay at the heart of the Turkish response, as Marseilles, along with Venice, was the chief hub for imports of Ottoman goods into western Europe.

No sooner had the ink dried on the Sultan’s letter than he left Istanbul for Hungary at the head of an army of thirty thousand, accompanied by Barton, who followed in a coach with his luggage, carried by thirty-six baggage camels provided at Mehmed’s expense. For the next three years, Anglo-Ottoman diplomacy slumbered and the Sultan’s letters to Elizabeth were restricted to reporting Turkish victories in central Europe.

Then, in 1599, at the height of the fresh crisis created by the threat of a fourth Spanish Armada, Elizabeth decided to write, woman to woman, to Mehmed’s mother, Sāfiye. Her approach made perfect sense, because the Ottoman state, during both Murad III and Mehmed III’s reigns, notoriously, was ruled mainly from the harem. Elizabeth had employed very similar tactics on Barton’s advice six years earlier in 1593, using Sāfiye as her intermediary in an attempt to influence the direction of the Hungarian war. At that time, her letter had been accompanied by a few handsome gifts, paid for by the Levant Company. These consisted of ‘a jewel of Her Majesty’s picture’ (possibly a Hilliard miniature) set with rubies and diamonds, three great gilt plates, ten garments of cloth of gold and a very fine case of glass bottles, silver and gilt.

Elizabeth’s letter of 1593 has disappeared, and Burghley, maddeningly, kept no copy, but even if this is likely to have been far from a candid personal correspondence, Sāfiye replied courteously and effusively. ‘Let there be a salutation so gracious’, she had declared in the course of a raft of diplomatic compliments, ‘that all the rose-garden’s roses are just one petal from it and a speech so sincere that the whole repertoire of a garden’s nightingales is but one stanza of it.’ Advised by Barton that ‘a suit of princely attire being after the Turkish fashion’ would be the ideal gift, Sāfiye sent the queen a fine gown of cloth of gold, together with a kirtle of cloth of silver and ‘a girdle of Turkey work, rich and fair’.

When, in 1599, acting on the advice of Barton’s replacement as ambassador, Henry Lello, Elizabeth wrote again, she sent more gifts. As before, the queen’s letter is lost, and the gifts, a richly upholstered coach for Sāfiye and a magnificent mechanical organ for her son, were to be paid for by the Levant Company. Elizabeth’s Ottoman diplomacy did not extend so far as spending her own money.

Sāfiye sent two letters in reply, each to similar effect, reassuring Elizabeth that she would not cease to intervene on her behalf with her son, not least to the benefit of mutual trade, and thanking her for the coach. The gift was presented to her on 11 September by Lello’s secretary, Paul Pindar. ‘It has arrived and has been delivered,’ reported Sāfiye. ‘It had our gracious acceptance.’

As Lello later informed the queen, Sāfiye received the gift ‘very gratefully’. She ‘made a great demonstration of joy’, handsomely rewarding the coachman. She then proceeded to ride out with her son in the coach ‘often times’. Afterwards, she ‘sent to me to send her the queen’s picture to behold, which I have here given order to make by one that came with the ship’ – by which he probably meant Rowland Buckett, the organ-painter. She also ‘did take a great liking to Mr Pindar, and afterwards she sent for him to have his private company, but their meeting was crossed [prevented]’.

The queen’s gifts had travelled on the Hector, which had sailed from Gravesend, along with the organ-maker Thomas Dallam, a coachman Edward Hale and their assistants. The coach, built in Cow Lane, near Smithfield in London, was modelled on the queen’s own. Said to be worth £600 and thus more valuable than the organ, it closely resembled another built in 1604 with ironwork by Elizabeth’s former locksmith, Thomas Larkin, and with decorations by Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger. A gift from James I to Tsar Boris Godunov of Russia, this coach is still intact and now preserved in the Armoury Museum in Moscow.

Also crated up on board the Hector during the six-month voyage was the Sultan’s organ. Dallam and his assistants toiled day and night to repair it on arrival in Istanbul, as it had been severely damaged by heat and storms during its journey. At last assembled in the Topkapi Palace, the instrument stood sixteen feet high and was adorned with ‘very curious work of gold and other rich colours’. Four or five feet above the keyboard was a twenty-four-hour striking clock, framed by the organ’s pipework, cased in Corinthian columns carved from gilded oak. Higher up was a platform with angels holding silver trumpets to their lips, and above that a cornucopia of baroque wood-carving surmounted by a holly bush on which silver thrushes and blackbirds perched.

Every hour, on the hour, once the clockwork was wound up and a pin moved, a peal of bells went off, after which the trumpeters sounded a tantarra. The organ then played a series of voluntaries, all by itself, the keys of the instrument going up and down. When the music stopped, the thrushes and blackbirds burst into song and flapped their wings.

Mechanical instruments were a particular favourite of Elizabeth’s. Before Dallam left Gravesend, she had made him set up the organ at Whitehall for a bespoke performance. And while in the Privy Chamber, he would have seen ‘a certain jewel’ specially made for her by her resident instrument-maker and tuner, Edmund Schetz: ‘a pair of virginals with three thousand rich stones’ that came complete ‘with trees, branches, herbs, flowers, weeds, birds, beasts and such like of perfect sterling silver’. When Elizabeth played the instrument, as Schetz helpfully recorded, the birds and animals moved ‘without rattling or any noise’ so that it seemed as if Orpheus by his melodies had ‘made the brute beasts to rejoice’.

So entranced was the Sultan with his gift, he asked Dallam to repeat the mechanical display and then to give a brief solo recital. The second of these requests struck terror into Dallam, since it meant turning his back on the Sultan, which he had been warned that ‘no man on pain of death might do’. Fortunately, Mehmed was sufficiently delighted by Dallam’s virtuoso performance to overlook the breach of protocol, rewarding him with forty-five pieces of gold. In fact, he was so overcome he begged Dallam to stay with him for ever, offering him two royal concubines or any two virgins he cared to select for himself as wives. Dallam managed to extricate himself only by the skin of his teeth. But before he could return home, he had to dismantle the organ and move it to Mehmed’s favourite spot, a pavilion on the shore of the Golden Horn known as the Pearl Kiosk, where he liked to relax.

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On 18 October, a week before Dallam finished his second reassembly of the organ, the Hector left Istanbul and began its homeward journey. To Sāfiye’s dismay, it departed without the letters and further gifts she had prepared for Elizabeth, which included a gown of cloth of silver, a matching pair of sleeves, gold-embroidered handkerchiefs and a crown studded with pearls and rubies. Liaising with Sāfiye’s chief gentlewoman Esperanza Malchi, a Venetian Jewess, Lello arranged for Paul Pindar to travel to Greece with Dallam and his assistants on a Turkish vessel, and from there to cross to the island of Zante, where he could rejoin the Hector. Pindar’s task was to deliver Sāfiye’s messages and gifts safely to London.

Pindar finally reached Dover in mid-May 1600. When he handed over the gifts to the queen in the Privy Chamber at Greenwich Palace, she was said to be ‘very well’ and enjoying herself as if she had stripped twenty years from her true age. ‘This day she appoints to see a Frenchman do feats upon a rope . . . Tomorrow, she hath commanded the bears, the bull and the ape to be baited in the tiltyard. Upon Wednesday she will have solemn dancing.’

Whatever triggered her sunny mood, though, it was not Sāfiye’s gifts. Elizabeth barely glanced at them. With the threat from Spain’s fourth Armada finally dissipated, but with Tyrone’s revolt now commanding ever more of her time and attention, she had lost all interest in the prospect of opening up a new front in the Mediterranean. Pressure from the London merchants had also largely evaporated. For the sensational news had just arrived from Aleppo that a flotilla of Dutch merchant ships had successfully sailed to the East Indies around the Cape of Good Hope, defying Portuguese claims to exclusive rights to navigation in the region. Once the astronomical value of the cargoes they had returned with became known, the London merchants forgot about Turkey and rapidly switched their attention to Asia.

It was another nail in the coffin of the more fully joined-up ways of devising a war strategy that men like Walsingham, Ralegh and Essex had pioneered. Since the assassination of William of Orange in 1584, all three, in their radically different ways, had advocated a more aggressive, better coordinated strategy for dealing with Spain and Catholicism, one that at the same time could transform England’s economic and commercial position in the world, but always the queen had proved to be the obstacle. Now, it was to be a matter of defeating Tyrone as quickly as possible, and at almost any cost, before Philip III sent a fifth Armada to land in southern Ireland.

Ever since the Treaty of Vervins, cries for peace with Spain had steadily become more strident. Robert Cecil, with his own mercantile investments to think of, had led the peace party in the Privy Council. And, as the long anxious months went by, the queen’s resolve never to make peace with Spain in her lifetime had slowly begun to waver. In September 1599, a bare fortnight after Archduke Albert had made his triumphant entry into Brussels with his new bride, the Infanta Isabella, he had put out an olive branch, assuring Elizabeth of his desire for peace. Lying through his teeth, Albert added that he had received full authority from his new brother-in-law, the Spanish King Philip III, to discuss terms.

Elizabeth swiftly reassured Count Maurice and the States General that she would do nothing without them. She already knew their response: they adamantly opposed a settlement with Spain. Barely was his father cold in the grave than Philip had imposed a trade embargo on the Dutch, aiming to hit them where it hurt most. And she knew only too well, as they did, that Albert’s olive branch had been triggered not by goodwill but by mutinies in his armies.

On the afternoon of Sunday, 9 March 1600, Lodewijk Verreycken, the Archduke’s special envoy, requested an audience at Richmond Palace. To his dismay, Elizabeth gave him a bruising reception, fencing irritably with him. For his part, Verreycken was overconfident. Rather than preparing for the interview, he had been wined and dined by Lord Buckhurst and attended a performance of Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part I.

Deeply vexed with Verreycken for talking down to her as if a peace was a virtual certainty, Elizabeth quibbled that his letters of credence were signed only by Albert and not by Philip. She then ostentatiously changed the topic to the appalling weather, asking him how the Infanta was coping with her move from the Escorial to freezing Brussels. Afterwards, Cecil, Nottingham and Buckhurst tore his proposals to shreds. When Verreycken demanded that the queen’s remaining auxiliary troops be withdrawn from the Netherlands and that all trade between England and the Dutch should cease, he was greeted with a deafening silence. Curious to see if a deal could still be done, the privy councillors asked whether Philip would concede English merchants free passage to the trade of the East Indies, but Verreycken refused. Nor was he able to promise that no Spanish aid would be given to Tyrone’s rebels.

Verreycken was sent back to Brussels with a demand that the Archduke should fundamentally revise the peace terms and was offered a month to provide an answer. The result was a much-heralded peace conference at Boulogne in May, when Spanish, Flemish and English delegates finally sat down together. The Dutch held their breath, but the negotiations were doomed to fail. Elizabeth’s instructions to Sir Henry Neville, the new ambassador to France who led the English delegation, ran to ten closely written pages and made it clear that there was to be no compromise over the auxiliaries and no agreement to a hostile move against the Dutch States. Neville was also told to stipulate that free trade to the East Indies would be considered a litmus test of a ‘true amity’ with Spain, without which the two countries must remain at war.

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With peace once more off the agenda, Philip made fresh plans to invade Ireland, where Mountjoy was fast boxing the rebels into their Ulster homeland. Just as the Spanish delegates to the Boulogne conference were on their way to file their report in Brussels, Tyrone, who had a price of 4,000 marks (£2.6 million today) put on his head, made a loud appeal for Spanish aid. Without delay, Philip consulted the Council of State. ‘We think that to protect and help these Catholics will be an act most worthy of Your Majesty’s greatness’ was the unanimous reply. ‘Your Majesty will be able to copy what the queen does through the rebels of Holland and Zeeland, and at a very small cost.’ Juan de Idiáquez, one of the hawks who had encouraged the Portuguese double agent Manuel de Andrada to incite Dr Lopez to poison the queen, argued for a fifth Armada to be sent to southern Ireland to bring Elizabeth to her knees. His fellow councillors urged caution: Spain could barely find enough money to pay the Archduke’s troops and an expedition that went off at half-cock would jeopardize the very interests that Philip hoped to protect.

But Philip sided with de Idiáquez. On Monday, 24 August 1601, a fifth Armada set sail from the port of Lisbon, destined for Ireland. On board a fleet of thirty-three ships, nineteen of them warships and the rest armed merchantmen and transport vessels, were 4,500 soldiers under the command of Don Juan del Águila. The expedition would be jinxed from the beginning. Many of the mariners were foreign conscripts, pressed into service by a last-minute raid on foreign shipping. They could not understand their officers and had no loyalty to the king or to the cause. As one of Águila’s naval commanders complained, ‘When the action came, I had more need to protect myself from the enemy I was carrying with the Armada than from the enemy without . . . Once in Ireland, many of them left me for the enemy.’

A shortage of victuals combined with a disagreement as to the Armada’s final destination sowed further confusion. Was the fleet to undertake the slower, much riskier Atlantic route to Ulster around the west coast of Ireland or the quicker, safer one to the southern coast between Cork and Waterford? If the former, food would be short. If the latter, Águila’s troops would be left with the almost impossible task of marching across the hostile terrain to join up with the rebels.

As luck would have it, a storm decided the issue by scattering the fleet. Not until the evening of 21 September, after an atrocious journey lasting more than three times longer than anyone had predicted, would Águila make dry land, at Kinsale to the south-west of Cork. By then, he had only 1,700 men and they were on half-rations. After a week, the number rose to 3,400, as the stragglers drifted in. Sir George Carew, a fine soldier and Cecil’s key informant in Ireland, was the closest of Mountjoy’s senior officers to the invading Spaniards and he marched from Cork to assess the threat. Soon Mountjoy followed him. On the 29th, the Lord Deputy rode with a few of his men to reconnoitre the area around the town of Kinsale, which the Spaniards had fortified. It took him a month to pull together his field army but, by the end of October, he had laid siege to the hungry Spaniards with seven thousand men, who would soon be reinforced by two thousand raw conscripts and three hundred cavalry from England, with another three thousand conscripts to follow.

Tyrone would first try ravaging Leinster in an attempt to force Mountjoy to abandon the siege of Kinsale. When that failed, he continued to march southwards, elated to find a new threat ravaging the English ranks – an unidentified zoonotic disease that killed 2,500 soldiers and put 2,000 more out of action. Carew wrote to Cecil in dismay: it was beginning to look as if Mountjoy could end up trapped in a pincer movement between the Spaniards and the Ulstermen with a much-reduced fighting force.

Carew’s fears proved to be unwarranted. Although Tyrone had almost 10,000 men at his disposal, the Spaniards would dwindle to fewer than 2,500 fit for combat. With his proud soldiers soon thinking themselves lucky to be eating dogs and cats when they could find them, Águila appealed to Tyrone not to delay. And, shortly after dawn on Christmas Eve, the battle began. Caught between firm ground and a bog by an English cavalry charge that broke his lines, Tyrone would have no choice but to flee. Seeing that the rebels’ cause was in tatters, the Spaniards declined to sally forth from Kinsale, fearing a massacre. By dusk, a thousand Irish lay dead and eight hundred were wounded, as against only a handful of English.

Imperial Spain I

An elderly Karl V (also known as Don Carlos I of Spain), ruler of the Holy Roman Empire

Carlos I of Spain is better known as Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. Of the Habsburg dynasty, he was born in 1500 in Ghent, Flanders, of today’s Belgium. His advent to the Spanish throne was the unforeseen result of Ferdinand’s foreign policy. Ferdinand had disputes with France over Catalonia’s borderlands and Navarre and conflicting claims in Italy. He sought allies among France’s foes, and in the diplomacy of the times, he arranged for the marriages of their children to his. He and Isabella had five, a son and four daughters. Isabel, the eldest, married King Emmanuel the Fortunate of Portugal. In 1497, Prince Juan and the second daughter, Juana, married the daughter, Margaret, and son, Philip, of Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I. An Austrian Habsburg, Maximilian had differences with France over the Low Countries, which Philip had inherited from his mother, Mary of Burgundy. Maximilian also differed with France over interests in Italy. Yet another ally of Ferdinand was Henry VII Tudor of England, whose son Henry VIII married the youngest of Ferdinand’s daughters, Catherine of Aragon, in 1509. The next youngest, Maria, married Emmanuel of Portugal after her sister Isabel died.

Prince Juan died in 1498, only eighteen. His lovely tomb at Avila evokes thoughts of what might have been, had he lived. When his sister Isabel died in 1500, followed by her infant son, Juana became the heiress of her parents. A high-strung princess, she desperately loved Philip, known as “the Handsome.” He philandered, and she came mentally unraveled. Dutifully she bore him six children. After Queen Isabella died, Juana and Philip claimed Castile and embarked from Flanders for Spain. They left their heir Charles in Brussels with his widowed aunt Margaret. Ferdinand reluctantly vacated Castile to Juana and Philip and withdrew to Aragon. All admitted that Queen Juana seemed too unstable to rule, but the Castilian Cortes hesitated to grant regency power and the title of king to Philip, a foreigner surrounded by foreign cronies. Philip suddenly took sick and died, shattering his pregnant wife’s feeble composure. She had his coffin opened as the body was transported across Castile to be placed near Isabella’s coffin in Granada. Ferdinand hurried back to Castile, where the Cortes granted him regency power to act for his distraught daughter. He confined her to a rundown palace at Tordesillas, where she gradually lost touch with the world round her. History knows her as Juana la loco (Joan the Mad). Ferdinand, occupied by the affairs of Aragon and Italy, left Cardinal Cisneros to serve as lieutenant general of Castile.

Ferdinand did not fancy the idea that Charles, growing up in Brussels, would succeed to Aragon, Sicily, and Naples, as well as to Castile, and so he married Germaine de Foix. Despite the use of love potions, she did not produce an heir. When Ferdinand died in 1516, Queen Juana and her son Charles were accepted as heirs to Aragon.

From the Low Countries, Charles, aged sixteen, set sail for Spain with a tribe of greedy Flemish nobles, headed by the Sieur de Chievres. Cardinal Cisneros awaited Charles to give him good advice but died before they met. The Castilian Cortes acknowledged Charles as king alongside his mother but insisted that both sign all decrees and laws to make them valid. When Charles rewarded his Flemish followers with choice Spanish plums, consternation ensued. Chievres played chief minister and nominated his teenaged nephew to be archbishop of Toledo. Charles’s Dutch tutor, Adrian of Utrecht, became bishop of Tortosa, while Charles’s popular brother Ferdinand was dispatched to Austria.

After receiving a grant of money from Castile, Charles traveled to Aragon and was acclaimed king in Zaragoza. Some confusion exists about the legendary coronation oath. It was claimed that Aragonese nobles accepted their king by swearing “We, who are as good as you are, accept you, who are no better than we are, as our lawful sovereign so long as you uphold our laws, rights and privileges; and if not, not.” It took eight months’ haggling to get money. Charles headed for Barcelona to meet the Cortes (Corts) of Catalonia. Early in 1519, he learned that his grandfather Emperor Maximilian had died. Charles inherited the Habsburg Austrian lands, while Maximilian’s bribes to the seven German electors won him the imperial title. Now Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, he postponed visiting Valencia and at the beginning of 1520 hurried back to Castile to get more money. The Castilian Cortes proved reluctant so he dragged them with him to Santiago, near La Coruna, where his fleet waited. A sermon by Bishop de la Mota of Badajoz about the benefit of Charles’s imperial destiny to Castile did not impress them. By a scant majority of eight to seven, with one abstention and neither Toledo nor Salamanca represented, they voted Charles the subsidy he requested. Despite news that Toledo had revolted, Charles sailed and left Adrian of Utrecht as his regent to keep order.

Charles was acknowledged emperor at Aachen, and in April 1521, at the Diet of Worms, he held his fateful confrontation with Martin Luther. Luther stood his ground, and Charles responded that he would support the Church of Rome, even if it cost him his life’s blood. At that moment blood was spilling in Spain. The delegates to the Cortes of Santiago had returned to angry constituencies. Several were mobbed; one was lynched. Throughout Castile rebellion erupted. Instigated by urban communal governments, it is known as the Revolt of the Comuneros. The rebels formed a national junta, headed by Juan de Padilla of Toledo and Juan Bravo of Segovia. They denounced government by foreigners and a king who abandoned Spain for Germany. They urged Queen Juana to resume her throne. They only confused Juana and they alienated the nobility when their revolt spread to villages under noble jurisdiction. When Charles brought the constable and the admiral of Castile into the regency government, and decreed the twenty-five most powerful to be grandees of Spain, the nobles rallied to him. In April 1521, royalist cavalry routed the Comunero host at Villalar and had Bravo and Padilla executed. Inspired by Padilla’s widow, Maria Pacheco, Toledo held out until early 1522. Another revolt had erupted in Valencia and was put down by nobles. Soon afterward Charles returned to Spain, mastered the Spanish language, and pardoned most of the rebels. He met with the Cortes, improved the administration of government which he staffed with Spaniards, and in 1526 married a redheaded Portuguese princess, Isabel. When she gave birth in 1527 to their son, Philip, in Valladolid, Spaniards believed they again had one of their own to inherit the throne. The couple had two other children who survived, Maria and Juana.

Charles matured through the decade of the 1520s, guided by the suave Italian hand of his chancellor, Mercurino Gattinara, and came to be admired in Spain in his own right. Queen Juana was almost forgotten in her rooms at Tordesillas. The years 1522 to 1529 were the most he spent in Spain, where his ministers refined its system of government by councils. To advise him on grand policy, he had his Council of State. For administration there were the councils of Castile, the Indies, and Aragon. A Council of War managed his armed forces, and a Council of the Hacienda (Treasury) oversaw his finances. Each council had its secretaries, who formed a budding bureaucracy.

Charles had a war with France, which his generals waged in the Low Countries and Italy, where they captured King Francis I at Pavia in 1525. Shipped to Madrid to make peace, Francis went back on the terms when he reached home. The pope joined him when he renewed the war, and in 1527, Charles’s soldiers got out of hand and sacked Rome. Francis disputed Charles’s inheritance at every turn, including Castile’s claim to monopoly in the New World. “The sun shines on me as it does on your master,” he told Charles’s ambassador, “and I should like to see the clause in Adam’s will that allots him ownership of the world.” Two sensible women prevailed, Charles’s aunt Margaret, and Francis’s mother, Louise of Savoy. They hammered out “the Ladies’ Peace” of 1529. By its terms Francis married Charles’s sister Eleanor, widow of Emmanuel the Fortunate.

More ominous to Charles than war with France was the threat posed by the expansion of the Ottoman Empire under Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent. In 1520 Suleiman captured Belgrade and, in 1522, drove the Knights of St. John from the Island of Rhodes. In 1530 Charles gave the Knights the island of Malta as a new base. The great disaster came in 1526, when Charles, on his honeymoon at Granada, learned that his brother-in-law, King Louis of Hungary and Bohemia, had been killed and his army annihilated by the Turks on the distant Danube. The Holy Roman Empire lay open to attack, and in 1529, the Turks besieged Vienna. Vienna held out, but in 1530 Charles embarked for Austria, accompanied by many Spaniards. At Bologna in Italy the pope crowned him emperor. He would be the last Holy Roman Emperor to receive the crown from a pope’s hands. In Germany he temporized with the Protestants so he could assemble an army in which Spaniards marched beside Germans. In 1532 he and his brother Ferdinand paraded along the Hungarian border. Charles had conceded Austria to Ferdinand, who also became king of Bohemia and unoccupied Hungary. When Charles returned to Spain, he organized a Spanish-Italian expedition against Tunis, in order to isolate Algiers, where Suleiman’s admiral Khair-ed-Din Barbarossa had driven the Spaniards from its waterfront citadel. In 1535 Charles’s vast armada, commanded by Genoa’s Andrea Doria, landed an army that conquered Tunis. To govern Tunis, Charles selected a Muslim prince hostile to the Turks. To intimidate its Muslim population, he had his engineers build the fortress of La Goleta, which he garrisoned with Christian soldiers.

In triumph Charles returned via his kingdoms of Sicily and Naples, then proceeded to Rome. He lectured the pope and cardinals in Spanish about his services, the need for an ecumenical council to deal with Lutheranism, and the perfidy of Francis I, who allied with the Turks. A brief war erupted between Charles and Francis before Pope Paul III arranged a shaky truce and brought the two together for personal meetings.

In 1539, Charles lost his wife, Empress Isabel, but found little time for grief. In 1540 he traveled to the Low Countries to deal with troubles there. The next year he proceeded first to Germany, where again he failed to settle the Lutheran issue, then on to Genoa, to coordinate an expedition against Algiers. The army had scarcely landed in late 1541 before the weather turned foul and scattered the fleet. Over the objections of Hernan Cortes, conqueror of Mexico, the bedraggled army reembarked and a humbled Charles returned to Spain.

Francis I declared war on Charles in 1542. In 1543 Charles made his sixteen-year-old son Philip his regent in Spain, then headed for the Low Countries to coordinate the war against France. To guide Philip, Charles chose Fernando de Valdes, archbishop of Seville and Grand Inquisitor; the duke of Alba, his best general; and Francisco de los Cobos, his financial expert. Before sailing, he sent Philip a set of remarkable secret instructions about government and the people who served it. He warned Philip that nobles tended to seek gain at the crown’s expense, while bureaucrats tried to line their own pockets, and he named names. He advised Philip to guard his thoughts and to flatter people as necessary but give nothing away. He warned Philip that women might be employed to win his favor. Worried that sex might tempt the teenaged prince, Charles arranged that he marry a Portuguese princess, Maria, who was his own age. Two years later she gave birth to a son, Don Carlos, then two weeks afterward, she died. In time Don Carlos would prove a problem.

In 1545 Charles obtained a truce with France while Pope Paul assembled an ecumenical council at Trent. The council clarified the religious issues for Charles, who marched against the German Lutherans. In April 1547, his army, which included a large Spanish contingent under Alba, smashed his enemies at the Battle of Muhlberg. A great equestrian portrait by the Venetian painter Titian, now in Madrid’s Prado, commemorates the victory. Charles assembled the Germans at Augsburg in 1548 in hopes of putting the religious issue to rest and arranging the imperial succession to allow Philip to succeed his uncle Ferdinand. In neither quest did Charles succeed.

Early in 1552 a revived league of German Protestant princes struck a secret deal with Henri II, the new king of France, and chased Charles from Germany. While Ferdinand patched up a truce in Germany that led to the Religious Peace of Augsburg (1555), Charles failed against Henri II. Embittered, he withdrew to Brussels but saw a chance to get England back as an ally when his cousin, Catholic Mary Tudor, daughter of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon, succeeded Edward VI to the English throne. He arranged for her to marry Philip, though she was thirty-eight. Dutifully Philip embarked in 1554 for England and left his nineteen-year-old sister Juana as regent. Juana was the widow of Prince Joao of Portugal, whose posthumous son Dom Sebastian she had just borne.

As husband of Queen Mary, Philip became England’s titular king. With England again an ally, Charles signed a truce with the French king and took the opportunity to abdicate his inheritance to Philip. Early in 1555 Queen Juana had died, leaving Philip’s succession unimpeded. In January 1556 Philip became king of Castile and Aragon.

Leaving Philip to settle matters in the Low Countries, Charles sailed to Spain. For his retirement he selected the monastery of Yuste in the wild Sierra de Credos. He had a small dwelling built against its chapel and could hear Mass through a special door from his bedroom. There he prayed and ruminated, though he still followed the affairs of the world and showered advice on Regent Juana and Philip. In September 1558 he died.

Philip had been successful in the north. With England as an ally, his armies defeated the French at the Battle of St. Quentin in 1557, and in 1559 he made peace with Henri II at Cateau Cambresis. Queen Mary of England had died in 1558, without child, and England passed to her half sister, Elizabeth 1. Although Philip feared that Elizabeth would return England to Henry VIII’s Protestantism, he preferred her to her Catholic rival, Mary Queen of Scots, wife of the Dauphin of France. He did not trust France, but for the sake of peace, he married Henri’s daughter, Elisabeth de Valois, aged thirteen. He was ready to return to Spain, above all to repair his finances. In 1557 he had been forced to declare bankruptcy and renegotiate the huge debts he had inherited from Charles, to which the last war added more. War required, Philip admitted, “money, money, and more money.”

Philip faced not only money problems on his return to Spain. In Seville and Valladolid the Inquisition had discovered cells of people harboring Protestant ideas. When Charles learned about them from Regent Juana, he thundered back that Protestant heresies had to be uprooted at first sight, lest they disturb the community and lead to rebellion, civil war, and the loss of the kingdom. Juana and Philip agreed. She presided over a major auto defeat Valladolid in the spring of 1559, and Philip presided over a second after his return in the autumn. Others were held in Seville. Some 60 people went to the stake, and perhaps 200 were given other punishments. Having nipped Spanish Protestantism in the bud, the Inquisition stepped up its assault on the writings of the great Dutch humanist scholar Erasmus, which seemed too critical of Church institutions and traditional theology. To protect Castilian collegians from dangerous ideas, Philip forbade them to study outside the peninsula, save for the universities of Rome and Bologna in the Papal States. It mattered little, since most Spanish students were career oriented, with law school, which led to government jobs, the favorite choice. Serious, if sporadic, efforts were made to limit access to universities, and church and government posts to those of “pure” Old Christian descent. While the Inquisition worried about religious controversies and backsliding among conversos, it paid little heed to science. The idea of Copernicus, that the earth went round the sun, did not bother the Spanish inquisitors. Spanish students showed little interest in abstract science, and those pursuing medical degrees took no more than they had to.

To find money Philip first tried to make tax collection more efficient and to recover revenues from mineral rights, salt flats, and customs houses conceded to grandees during the previous century. Yet during his reign he sold land s and other jurisdictions to them and to municipalities for hard cash. He received generous grants from the Cortes of Castile, pleased to see him in Spain again, and lesser sums from the Cortes of Aragon, Catalonia, and Valencia. Steadily increasing during his reign were revenues due him from the New World.

The mines of the New World had become a significant source of income and a major prop of Spain’s power in Europe. Most lucrative were the mines of Potosi, a virtual mountain of silver discovered in 1545 in Upper Peru (today’s Bolivia) and made immensely productive by the employment of mercury brought from Spain. In its peak years, 100,000 people, white, black, and Indian, free and slave, worked Potosi. Almost from the start, pirates, and in wartime privateers, threatened the transatlantic routes that brought American gold and silver to Spain’s coffers. Spain made its merchant ships sail in convoy. In time two fleets a year sailed, one to New Spain, as Mexico was called, and the other to Tierra Firme, the Spanish Main (the coast of today’s Venezuela and Colombia). To escort the fleets and chase pirates from the Caribbean, Philip established an armada of it dozen galleons, the principal warships of the age. The stiff tax imposed on merchant ships to pay for their escort would over time contribute to the decline of Spain’s merchant marine.

Philip would have preferred to concentrate on providing good government for his subjects and took particular care in making judicial and episcopal appointments. He established separate councils for Italy and Flanders, as the Low Countries were called in Spain. However, larger problems involving the defense of his imperial interests occupied too much of his time (see Map 3). Though Philip preferred diplomacy, he became engulfed in costly wars. The religious wars against the Ottoman Turks in the Mediterranean and North Africa were popular with Spaniards, and the Cortes were willing to find money for them. Wars against Catholic France were less popular, though they had a long tradition. What posed the chief drain on Spain’s resources, the Revolt of the Netherlands, was perceived as a dynastic rather than Spanish concern, and as the original determination to combat Protestants as heretics faded, finding money to suppress the revolt became thoroughly unpopular.

Imperial Spain II

Battle of Lepanto, on October 7, 1571, by Paolo Veronese

In 1555 the Turks seized two of Spain’s North African strongholds, Tripoli and Bona. In 1559, Philip permitted his viceroy of Sicily and the Knights of Malta to attempt the recovery of Tripoli. They failed and suffered heavy losses in men and shipping. In 1562 storms cost Philip a squadron of galleys and forced him to dun the Cortes for money to build more. When the Turks besieged Malta in 1565, Philip organized a powerful relief armada in time to drive them away. The next year, Suleiman the Magnificent, Charles’s implacable foe, died, and Philip had a brief respite. He needed it to deal with mounting troubles in the Netherlands and the rebellion of the Moriscos of Granada. To the Netherlands he dispatched an army under the duke of Alba to impose order. To subdue the Moriscos, who controlled a remote and rugged part of Granada known as the Alpujarras, he appointed his twenty-three-year-old half-brother, Don John of Austria, an illegitimate son of Charles V, who overrode rival local authorities and pacified the Alpujarras by the end of 1570. In the aftermath, the Moriscos of Granada were dispersed throughout Old and New Castile in an effort to assimilate them into the Old Christian majority of Spaniards.

The Morisco rebellion was still aglow when in 1570 the new Ottoman sultan, Selim II, invaded the Venetian possession of Cyprus. Turks had already seized control of Tunis, although the fortress of La Goleta held out. Venice sought allies through Pope Pius V, who turned to Spain. After contentious negotiations, Pius, Spain, and Venice formed a Holy League. Philip agreed to foot half the costs and obtained the supreme command for Don John. Through him Philip meant to direct the League’s strategy. For Cyprus it was too late, although at the Battle of Lepanto, on October 7, 1571, Don John and the League armada of over 200 galleys and six heavily gunned galleasses defeated the Turks’ near 300 lighter and less well-gunned galleys. After achieving little in 1572, mainly because Philip was distracted by developments in France and the Low Countries, the League broke up in 1573, when Venice defected. Later that year, Don John recovered Tunis, but the Turks retook it in 1574 and kept it. Don John was preoccupied with Genoa, where he assisted the government of Philip’s allies to maintain control. Genoa did Philip’s banking and was troubled by his skyrocketing debts, incurred to maintain a big army in the Low Countries and a big armada in the Mediterranean. In 1575 Philip had to declare bankruptcy and renegotiate his debts with his Genoese creditors. He summoned the Cortes of Castile and cajoled them into tripling the basic tax rates. He was fortunate to see his revenues slightly more than double. None doubted that the burden on Castile’s tax base had become dangerous, but the wars, which Philip believed justifiable in defense of religion and his patrimony, demanded it.

The revolt in the Low Countries would lead to the division of the region between the Spanish Netherlands (today’s Belgium and Luxembourg) and the Dutch Republic. For five generations of Spanish soldiers it meant “trailing a pike in Flanders.” The seeds of the revolt were many and included national differences and resistance to taxation over endless dynastic conflicts with France. However, the chief problem was religion. Before he returned to Spain, Philip learned of the spread of Calvinist Protestantism among the Low Countries’ population. To check it, he had Rome establish fourteen new bishoprics, in addition to the four long there, and assign two inquisitors to each. Traditionally the Low Countries had been relatively tolerant and held small numbers of Lutherans and Anabaptists, as well as Jewish refugees from Spain and Portugal.

Most of the Low Countries’ population opposed the new bishoprics, despite the efforts of Philip’s governor-general and half sister Margaret, an illegitimate daughter of Charles V and duchess of Parma, to establish them. The principal nobles, led by William the Silent, prince of Orange, joined the opposition and demanded an end to the inquisition and a moderation of penalties for heretics. Although Philip temporized, he did not give in. In 1566 riots erupted in most of the chief towns. Calvinist mobs looted Catholic churches and preached from their pulpits. Local authorities were slow to react, and on receiving the news, Philip was stunned. He knew that he ought to visit the Low Countries and settle matters with the States General, but he agreed to the duke of Alba’s plan that an army precede him to ensure order. He put Alba in charge of what history knows as the Army of Flanders and reluctantly prepared to follow.

His main worry was his son, Don Carlos. Now twenty-one, Don Carlos had proved to be unstable and erratic in his behavior. Most, save his indulgent father, thought him unfit for the business of kingship. In 1568, Philip learned that Don Carlos meant to flee court and confined him. He died of fevers six months later.

Alba found the situation in the seventeen provinces that comprised the Low Countries worse than he expected. Margaret resigned and left him with the government. He subdued the opposition, but it cost money; Philip told him to find the money locally. Alba browbeat the States General and tried to impose new taxes unilaterally. Rebellion revived on land and sea. Protestant Queen Elizabeth I grew nervous about Alba’s big army and Catholic talk of invading England, and aided the rebels, who were mainly Protestants. French Protestant Huguenots also aided them. Philip tried amnesty to win peace and replaced Alba, but he would not yield on the matter of keeping the Low Countries Catholic. The revolt raged on, “a voracious monster,” according to one minister, “that devours the men and treasure of Spain.” With a simultaneous war against the Turks, Philip could not pay his soldiers, who mutinied and ran amok and drove Catholics to join the rebels. Don John, the hero of Lepanto, became governor and dismissed the army. Failing to appease the rebels, he again resorted to arms. Distressed, Philip became involved in scandal when he permitted his secretary Antonio Perez to have Don John’s secretary murdered as a security risk.

But religious division also plagued the rebel ranks, and Don John’s successor, Alexander Farnese, Margaret’s son and, after 1586, duke of Parma, won the Catholics back and established an obedient “Spanish” Netherlands that consisted of the ten southern provinces. The seven northern provinces formed the Dutch Republic (which we often call Holland, from its richest province), under its States General and the House of Orange.

At first Philip had little money and few men for Parma, because the death in 1578 of King Sebastian of Portugal, on a mad crusade against Morocco, opened the succession to the Portuguese throne. Philip claimed Portugal by right of inheritance through his mother and made his claim good with an army led by the duke of Alba and an armada commanded by the marquis of Santa Cruz. In early 1581 Philip entered Portugal and summoned its Cortes to acclaim him king. Portugal retained its laws, institutions, and the administration of its empire in Asia and Brazil. When Philip left in 1583 for Madrid, he made his nephew Archduke Albert his viceroy in Lisbon. In Madrid he established a Council of Portugal to advise him on Portuguese affairs.

Once Portugal and its empire were added to his worldwide dominions, Philip regularized the pay of Parma’s Army of Flanders. While Parma recaptured Antwerp, Queen Elizabeth signed a treaty of alliance with the Dutch, which led to open war. Already some of her subjects, like Sir Francis Drake, had raided Spanish commerce in the Caribbean and the Pacific. In 1586 Drake ravaged the Caribbean and in 1587 struck Cadiz as Santa Cruz struggled to form an armada. Concerned about costs, Philip devised a complicated scheme whereby Santa Cruz would cover the passage to England of Parma and the Army of Flanders. By February 1588 Santa Cruz had assembled a vast but motley armada of Spanish, Portuguese, and Mediterranean ships, but then he died. The duke of Medina Sidonia, a naval administrator rather than a sailor, took command and with the assistance of his admirals got the armada into the English Channel. The English fleet proved more maneuverable and far better at gunnery and frustrated the armada’s attempt to “join hands” with Parma. Forced into the North Sea, Medina Sidonia returned to Spain by sailing north of Scotland and around Ireland. Storms slammed the battered armada, and nearly half its ships and more of its men were lost, the men mostly to disease.

Philip ascribed the defeat to God’s punishment of sin, then pressed on. A siege mentality grew in Madrid. The Dutch held on, Parma reconquered little more, and after his death in 1592, his successors lost a bit. France under its new king, Henri IV of the Bourbon dynasty and once a Huguenot but now a Catholic, declared war on Philip. With his people fighting in France, too, Philip rebuilt his armadas and renewed his attacks on England. His armed forces were stretched thin, his royal officials scrambled to maintain them, and to sustain Spain’s war effort, he had to enlist the cooperation of local powers whose enthusiasm would not last. To foot the bills, he summoned the Cortes and appealed to their loyalty to him and to God. They voted him money on stiff terms that allowed urban governments to dump more of the tax burden onto ordinary folk. The amounts were reckoned in millions of ducats and known as the millones. Although treasure from the Indies managed to get through English blockades, rising taxes and war costs began to impair the economy of Castile. Major epidemics in the years round 1600 added to Spain’s woes.

Yet during Philip’s reign, Spanish Golden Age culture flourished. Lope de Vega commenced writing for the Madrid stage. El Greco, born on Crete and trained in Venice, painted his masterpieces in Toledo. St. Theresa of Avila inspired religious reform and revival, while St. John of the Cross wrote perhaps the finest mystical poetry in any language.

Before Philip died in September 1598, he obtained peace with France. He tried to solve the dilemma of the Low Countries by transferring them to his daughter Isabella, sometimes called the Great Infanta, and her husband Archduke Albert. But when Albert died in 1621 they had no heir, and the Low Countries reverted to the Spanish crown. Isabella continued to govern the ten obedient provinces until her death in 1633. The Dutch Republic persisted in its independence.

Philip III (1598-1621), an indolent youth of twenty when he became king, allowed his favorite minister (valido), the duke of Lerma, to run the government. Spain made peace with England in 1604 and a Twelve Years’ Truce with the Dutch in 1609. The power of Spain still seemed awesome, and a few years of peace did the economy no harm. Yet many feared that things had gone seriously wrong, and men known as arbitristas bombarded the government with proposals of what might be done to improve matters. Little was done save to expel the Moriscos, who had not assimilated into Old Christian society. After 1609 over 200,000 Morisco men, women, and children were dumped on the beaches of North Africa.

Four years earlier in Seville a novel appeared, the first part of Don Quixote de la Mancha, by Miguel de Cervantes. The complete novel is one of those rare great books into which we can read almost anything. Cervantes fought at Lepanto, where his left hand was maimed. Later captured by Algerian corsairs, he spent five years as a slave. When ransomed and returned to Spain, he took up writing plays, with little success. He landed a government job collecting taxes for the armada. An audit of his accounts put him in jail, where he supposedly conceived Don Quixote. The gaunt old don, pursuing his chivalric dreams, seems a fit symbol for an exhausted Castile, persisting in wars it could not afford.

But Castile protested through its Cortes and, increasingly, through tax evasion and resistance to recruiting. It was the Habsburg dynasty, its dependent ministers, and a handful of loyal grandees who persisted in the struggle. The Count-Duke of Olivares, the valido of Philip IV (1621-1665) becomes the archvillain. An intelligent but overbearing man, determined that his sovereign should be the world’s greatest, Olivares took up with energy the wars that began to sputter out in Philip III’s last months. In the Holy Roman Empire, the Army of Flanders intervened in support of the Viennese Habsburgs in what would become the Thirty Years War. Then the Dutch War resumed. Olivares mobilized Spain’s resources, and in 1625 the Spaniards won a spate of victories. But the French, guided by the brilliant Cardinal Richelieu and fearful of revived Spanish power, played the role of spoiler, aiding the Habsburgs’ enemies and bringing the Swedes into the conflict. In 1628 near Havana, Cuba, the loss of a silver fleet to the Dutch proved a setback. With desperate effort Olivares gathered new forces, and in 1634, Philip IV’s younger brother, the Cardinal-Infante Don Fernando, defeated the Swedes at Nordlingen in Germany. In 1635, France entered the war openly. The array of powers against Spain became overwhelming, while in Spain opposition to Olivares mounted. Spain’s best admiral called him a fat, desk-bound bureaucrat without knowledge of war and got thrown into prison. In 1639, the Dutch virtually destroyed Spain’s last major armada in the Battle of the Downs.

Olivares had long urged that Spain’s kingdoms form a Union of Arms for common defense, but Aragon, Catalonia, and Portugal opposed him. When he lodged Castilian troops in winter quarters in Catalonia, close to southern France, the Catalans in 1640 rose in revolt. As more Castilian troops marched against Catalonia, Portugal took the opportunity to rebel and proclaim the duke of Braganza as King Joao IV. Soon after, Olivares nipped in the bud a conspiracy to make the ninth duke of Medina Sidonia king of Andalusia. The whole peninsula seethed with revolt and sedition.

Surrender of Breda. La rendición de Breda (English: The Surrender of Breda, also known as Las lanzas – The Lances) is a painting by the Spanish Golden Age painter Diego Velázquez.

In the Netherlands, in 1643 after the Cardinal-Infante died, the French at the Battle of Rocroi inflicted on the Army of Flanders its greatest defeat. When the gun smoke cleared, most of its Spaniards lay dead, still in their ranks. In Spain Philip IV dumped Olivares, who soon went mad and died in 1645. A new ministry sought peace, and to end the war with the Dutch, Philip IV acknowledged the republic’s independence in 1648. Before he died in 1665, he also acknowledged the independence of Portugal. He did recover Catalonia. His last portraits, painted by Diego de Velazquez, reveal a broken but still proud man. Velazquez is arguably Olivares’s greatest legacy to Spain. Olivares brought the promising young Sevillian painter to court in the 1620s. There Velazquez painted portraits of the king and royal family and the bombastic Olivares. He painted the remarkable Surrender of Breda, one of the Spanish triumphs of 1625. In it, the commander of the Army of Flanders, Ambrogio Spinola, a Genoese banker turned Spanish general, graciously receives the surrender of the Dutch. While the Dutch pikes droop, those of the Army of Flanders stand upright, causing Spaniards to call the painting Las lanzas (the Lances). The most charming of Velazquez’s paintings is called Las Meninas (the ladies-in-waiting). While the artist stands at his easel, painting the king and queen-whose reflections can be seen in a mirror-their daughter Margarita and her ladies-in-waiting burst into his studio. A court dwarf, her son, and a pet dog also appear in the picture. When Margarita left for Vienna to marry Emperor Leopold I, Philip had the huge canvas hung in his small office as a memento of a happy moment.

At his death, Philip IV was hardly a happy man. He had yielded the northern Netherlands and Portugal and had seen Spain broken by war. He had given his eldest daughter, Maria Teresa, as bride to Louis XIV, king of France and arbiter of Europe. She had renounced all rights to Spain for herself and her heirs, though most legal experts thought she could not justly renounce the rights of her heirs. Philip’s only other surviving child was Prince Carlos, who succeeded to the Spanish throne in 1665, not quite aged four.

The reign of Carlos II is often considered the low point of Spain’s long history. With the death of playwright Calderon de la Barca in 1681, Spain’s cultural Golden Age ended. Yet sometime in the later 1680s the economy and population began to show faint signs of recovery. Carlos II, a product of excessive inbreeding between the Habsburgs of Madrid and Vienna, never knew good health. He had an indifferent education, and people in the streets believed that his mother, Mariana of Austria, regent during his minority, cast him under a spell: He is thus known as Carlos el hechizado (the bewitched).

His uncle, Don Juan Jose de Austria, provided some energy to government and Spain’s meager war efforts. Son of Philip IV and an actress, he was ever at odds with the queen-mother and her lowborn valido, Fernando de Valenzuela. Don Juan Jose led a faction of grandees, who again became active in government. When he finally got the upper hand in 1676, he had Valenzuela exiled and initiated a series of needed reforms. He died at age fifty in 1679 and was followed in office by a string of grandees who survived in office through intrigue and made use of government professionals. The best was the count of Oropesa, chief minister between 1685 and 1691, when he fell victim to infighting. The government’s main achievement was reform of the currency, which had become so debased as to be nearly worthless.

As the sickly Carlos grew up and in 1679 married a niece of Louis XIV, rumor grew that he was impotent. The question of the Spanish succession became the overriding issue of European diplomacy. Spain’s former enemies, England and the Dutch, did what they could to prop up sagging Spanish fortunes against the mounting power of Louis XIV. After the death of Don Juan Jose, Spain took little initiative abroad. Shipments of silver from the New World became intermittent as pirates and enemy fleets infested the Caribbean. In 1697, a French fleet in combination with a force of buccaneers sacked Cartagena de Indias, capital of the Spanish Main.

Making peace in 1697, Louis XIV and his chief foe, William III, king of England and leader of the Dutch Republic, developed a plan to partition Spain’s empire between the Bourbon and Habsburg dynasties to avoid another ruinous war. The Italian share would go to Louis’s second grandson, Philip, duke of Anjou. Spain, the Spanish Netherlands, and the overseas possessions would go to Emperor Leopold’s younger son, Archduke Charles. Leopold strenuously objected, claiming all belonged to the Habsburgs. In Madrid, Louis’s and Leopold’s ambassadors intrigued for influence with Spanish ministers of state and members of the royal household. The queen mother died in 1696, but the pro-Habsburg faction at court continued under the direction of Carlos’s second wife, Mariana of Neuberg, and her German entourage. To dominate the king, she implied that she was pregnant with the heir he so desperately wanted. But when Carlos died on November 1, 1700, and his will was read, France had won. The Spaniards around Carlos, led by Archbishop Portocarrero of Toledo, wanted their world empire to remain intact. Though humiliated on the battlefield and the high seas by the French, they preferred the Bourbon candidate to the Habsburg candidate. Louis XIV not only had Europe’s most powerful army; he also had a strong navy, which Emperor Leopold did not. The will stipulated that Philip of Anjou had to accept the entire inheritance, which meant that Louis would have to reject the partition agreements. If Philip did not, then Spain and its empire would pass to Archduke Charles. Charles hardly intended to reject the offer; if he did, the whole would pass to the duke of Savoy. A week after Carlos II died, the news of his will reached Louis XIV at Versailles. After weighing his options and giving Leopold a chance to agree to partition, Louis dispatched Philip to Spain. In February 1701, seventeen-year-old King Philip V arrived in Madrid. His House of Bourbon replaced the House of Habsburg on Spain’s throne.

From the reign of Charles V into the reign of Philip IV, the Spanish Monarchy–as contemporaries called Spain, the king’s other European dominions, and Castile’s overseas empire-had seemed the greatest power in Europe. Philip II had been the first sovereign in world history on whose dominions the sun never set. However, when he died in 1598, the structural weaknesses of a world monarchy that depended overmuch on Castile and American treasure had become apparent to many. The treasure did not cover the gap between revenues and expenditures, and the other kingdoms of the monarchy did little more than pay their own ordinary expenses. In any emergency, Castile covered the difference, to the detriment of its own fragile economy.

Outside Madrid, the chief architectural monument of the Habsburg era, the Escorial, built by Philip II, rises on the slopes of the rugged Sierra. Geometric and austere, it looks over the stark Castilian countryside rolling southward. Part palace and part monastery, it is above all a mausoleum to Spain’s kings since Charles V, and its vastness resounds with echoes of faded glories.

The Manila Galleons

The replica of the Galeon Andalucia visits the Philippines in celebration of the Dia del Galeon Festival, a commemoration of the 16th century galleon trade. Video by Yahoo! Southeast Asia sports producer Izah Morales. Photos by Voltaire Domingo/NPPA Images.

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Pacific Routes-Manila Galleons

They sighted Cape San Lucas on 2 November 1709 and took up their stations. They spread out so that between them their lookouts could spot any vessel which appeared between the coast and a point some sixty miles out to sea. The Marquiss was stationed nearest the mainland, the Dutchess in the middle and the Duke on the outside, with the bark roving to and fro to carry messages from ship to ship. Sir Thomas Cavendish had captured the Manila galleon on 4 November 1587. Cavendish had two relatively small ships, the 18-gun Desire of 120 tons and the 10-gun Content of sixty tons. The Manila galleon that year had been the Santa Anna, a much larger ship of 600 tons, but she had no carriage guns because the Spanish were not expecting a hostile attack. When Cavendish moved in to attack, her crew had to resort to hurling javelins and throwing rocks on to the heads of the English sailors. Thanks to the massive construction of the galleon her crew battled on for five hours but suffered such heavy casualties that her Spanish commander was forced to surrender. Many of his seamen were Filipinos and among his many passengers there were women and children. The total value of the galleon’s cargo was reckoned to be around two million pesos.

The annual voyage of the Manila and Acapulco galleons across the Pacific was the longest non-stop passage made by any ships in the world on a regular basis. The westbound voyage from Acapulco took between two and three months and was made easier by a call at the island of Guam towards the end of the voyage, but the eastbound voyage took a gruelling five or six months and sometimes as long as eight months. This put a considerable strain on food and water supplies and inevitably resulted in deaths from scurvy. The track of the galleons was determined by wind and weather patterns and by ocean currents. The shorter and quicker westbound voyage taken by the Acapulco galleon took advantage of the north-east trade winds and a westerly current in the region of latitude 13 degrees north, known as the North Equatorial Current. The eastbound Manila galleon had to follow a curving track some 2,000 miles to the north which took her past the islands of Japan with the help of the Kuro Siwo Current, then across the Pacific with the aid of the westerly winds and then south-east to Acapulco assisted by the California Current which flows along the coast of North America.

It took some years of trial and error before the winds and currents were worked out and the situation was complicated by the typhoons – the cyclonic storms which sweep across the Philippines with a destructive power similar to the hurricanes of the Caribbean region. To take advantage of prevailing winds and avoid the typhoons it was reckoned that the Manila galleon must set sail in May or June, which meant that she could be expected to arrive off the coast of California at any time between October and December unless delayed or blown off course by storms – and many of the galleons had to endure a succession of violent storms during the voyage. In 1600 the Santa Margarita was so disabled by months of heavy weather that she was driven south and wrecked on the Ladrones Islands (Islas Ladrones), off the coast of Panama. Only fifty of the 260 men on board survived the shipwreck and most of the survivors were then killed by the native islanders.

The annual crossings of the Pacific had begun in 1565 and over the following 250 years more than thirty galleons were lost in storms or wrecked. Since no more than one or two galleons made the crossing each year this was a heavy toll in lives, ships and treasure. ‘The voyage from the Philippine Islands to America may be called the longest and most dreadful of any in the world,’ wrote Gemelli Careri, an experienced traveller, ‘… as for the terrible tempests that happen there, one upon the back of another, and for the desperate diseases that seize people, in 7 or 8 months, lying at sea sometimes near the line, sometimes cold, sometimes temperate, and sometimes hot, which is enough to destroy a man of steel, much more flesh and blood …’

Hernán Cortés

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Conquistador and conqueror of the Aztec Empire. Born in Estramadura, Cortés studied at a fairly high level at Salamanca but, at age 19, he left for the Caribbean to try his hand as a plantation farmer in Hispaniola. He first fought in the New World with a conquistadore army that brutally occupied Cuba in 1511. There, he witnessed a mindless slaughter of Indians. A decade later he said he was determined to avoid repeating this error when he invaded Mexico. It was not moral sensibility that drove him to that conclusion: his preference was to instead exploit Indian labor within the encomienda system. He left Cuba on February 18, 1519, under orders from the governor of Cuba, Diego Velásquez, to conquer Mexico. He had just 11 ships carrying 550 men, 16 horses, some war dogs (mastiffs), and 10 brass cannon. They landed on the Tabasco coast where they allied with the Totonac people, a coastal tribe that was nominally a vassal of the Aztec. They supplied 20 young girls and women slaves to Cortés, who took “La Malinche” as his interpreter and mistress. Cortés moved up shore, then paused for four months to reconnoiter the Aztec position. Bypassing his superiors in Cuba, he sent a ship laden with gold and a secret letter written directly to Charles V, asking for the concession of the conquest of Mexico. Meanwhile, he mishandled two Aztec tax collectors, the first representatives of that empire he met. Puzzled, Emperor Moctezuma (Motechuzoma) II sent an embassy bearing gifts of gold, religious costumes, and food. Cortés thereafter received orders from Diego Velásquez, who had learned of his insubordinate correspondence with Charles V, to return to Cuba. Cortés disregarded the command and instead made his base camp at a site he named Vera Cruz (“The True Cross”). From there he gathered more intelligence from the Totonac and other tribes. He learned that many tribes and cities were fiercely opposed to the Aztecs and hated their submission to a tribute system that exploited them economically and took people from their communities for ritual sacrifice in the Great Temple in Tenochtitlán. Indian warriors willing to fight alongside Cortés were thus legion. In the Spanish telling, Cortés added thousands of Mesoamerican slingers and javelin throwers to his tiny army. From the vantage point of the Totonac and other Indians, they added small but unique Spanish military capabilities to an armed rebellion they were preparing to rid themselves of the Aztecs.

Before moving inland Cortés sank his remaining ships to show there was no going back and to leave his reluctant men no choice but to follow. On August 16, 1519, he started for Tenochtitlán 150 miles inland, across a range of volcanoes. Over the mountains, he arrived at Tlaxcalan, an independent city-state 70 miles from Tenochtitlán which the Aztecs had never been able to conquer. An army came out to crush the strangers and their Indian allies. In a sharp battle, Spanish discipline and firepower won the day: arquebuses and muskets broke up loose Tlaxcalan lines before their warriors could approach to hurl stones and javelins. The 16 Spanish lancers then further deformed the Indian ranks and picked off their leaders. Then the Spanish foot charged, shoulder-to-shoulder with swords and pikes, slashing and stabbing hundreds of warriors to death before they could swing heavy obsidian clubs in reply. Armor and steel, but even more discipline and ferocity, won over the Mesoamerican style of warfare that emphasized individual heroism in loose, lightly armed formations, and taking an enemy alive so he could be sacrificed later. This victory at Tlaxcalan was a key moment in the conquest because the Tlaxcalans immediately allied with Cortés. They, too, thought his unusual military skills could be used against the hated Aztecs. Tlaxcalan henceforth provided tens of thousands of dedicated, veteran Indian warriors. And it became the key forward base and logistical center for the Spanish for the next two years. Reinforced with 3,000 more Mesoamerican allies, Cortés reached the Aztec tributary city of Cholollan (modern Cholula). Moctezuma tried a stratagem: the Spanish were invited into the city where a trap was laid of missile troops hidden on the rooftops, with ditches filled with sharp stakes to impale riders and horses. But the trick was betrayed so that Cortés struck first, killing Cholollan troops and commanders without mercy.

Moctezuma was unable to muster his full army because it was harvest season. Instead, he made a fatal-and fateful-decision: he invited Cortés, the conquistadores, and 3,000 Tlaxcalan warriors into Tenochtitlán, which the expedition reached on November 8. Possibly, Moctezuma hoped to arrange a second, larger Cholollan-style trap, using urban confinement to neutralize the demonstrated superiority of the Spanish in the field. Far less likely is the widely popular legend that he lost confidence due to belief in an old prophesy that Cortés appeared to fulfill, which foretold of a feared, pale Aztec deity (Quetzalcoatl), who would return from the east to reclaim his Aztec kingdom. The allied intruders were quartered in an older palace, off the ritual square at the city center. After two weeks, Cortés feared such a trap and decided to spring his own first. He asked for an audience with Moctezuma, whom he seized and kept prisoner for six months, effectively decapitating the regime and paralyzing its response. The Aztec nobility obeyed Moctezuma’s initial command to bring the city’s gold to the conquistadores, to whom they also brought food and women. Doubt about the superiority, let alone quasidivinity, of their guests grew as they watched the Spaniards eat, rut, and defecate as did other men, and exhibit an extraordinary lust for gold. A crisis for Cortés came when he led most of his men back to the coast to fend off a rival force of 900 conquistadores from Cuba. This group knew of the planned conquest, had orders to arrest Cortés, and intended to take their share of gold. Cortés attacked by surprise, killing a few and capturing their leader (Pánfilo de Narváez). With oratory laced with Crusader ecstasy and promised plunder, he persuaded the survivors to join his little army and together they returned to Tenochtitlán. However, so cruel was the occupation of the man he left in charge in the city, Pedro de Alvarado, so insatiable was the Spanish lust for gold, and so numerous the murders of priests and Aztec nobles they committed (probably on the orders of Cortés), the Aztecs at last rebelled. But first they shrewdly let Cortés re-enter the city, which he did against the advice of his Mesoamerican allies.

On June 24, 1520, the Aztecs cut the causeways that led to the city, trapping 1,200 Spanish and about 2,000 Tlaxcalans, along with mounds of hoarded gold in the temple and palace complex. The First Siege of Tenochtitlán lasted a week. After several sorties failed, on the night of June 30, Cortés led an effort to sneak out of the city which ended in a desperate flight that left half his men dead or trapped in the temple complex, surrounded by tens of thousands of enraged Aztecs. As Cortés pulled out from Tenochtitlán he left it burning and Moctezuma dead (whether from errant Aztec missiles or Spanish strangulation is unclear). Streams of Spanish and Tlaxcalan blood literally flowed down the temple steps as men left behind or cut off were captured and ritually sacrificed for all to see. The remnant fled with Cortés down the causeway, fighting off thousands of pursing Aztec warriors en route to a dramatic stand at Otumba. The Aztecs were by now in full roar: they had killed enough Spaniards, in battle or by ritually cutting out their hearts, to know they faced not demi-gods but mere men who bled, screamed, died, or ran in fear like other men. Their horses, too, were demystified by death and dismemberment.

Cortés lost 70 percent of his horses and 65 percent of his men. The Tlaxcalans suffered as heavily, and in far greater numbers. In the Spanish accounts, it was now that Cortés proved himself an exceptional leader with qualities of strategic foresight, tactical brilliance, and above all, thorough ruthlessness and pitiless single-mindedness of purpose. He spent the rest of 1520 gathering a new anti-Aztec alliance from surrounding cities, and awaiting the successive arrival at Vera Cruz of seven squadrons of ships bringing new cannons, arquebuses, crossbows, powder, and shot. With the weapons came more conquistadores, some intent on revenge for dead brothers or fathers, others keen to crusade against the rumored pagan “empire of cannibals.” The smallpox that came with the Spanish now decimated Aztec ranks, killing Cuitláhuac as well. This reduced the numbers of warriors the Spanish faced and may have undermined Aztec morale, but it also ravaged the Tlaxcalans and other tribes allied with the Spanish. Cortés busied some men with raids against Aztec tributaries, cutting off supplies to Tenochtitlán. Others he set to building 14 brigantines, using timber and struts from the wreaks at Vera Cruz. He then had these small ships dismantled and hauled to the shores of Lake Texcoco by thousands of Mesoamerican porters. The 500 Spaniards Cortés had left after Otumba were reinforced by 400-500 fresh arrivals at Vera Cruz, who brought much-needed fresh horses and more arquebuses and cannon. This still left him mainly reliant on Tlaxcalan warriors who were determined to overthrow the Aztecs. Some Indians adapted their weapons to make them more lethal, for instance, switching to copper-tipped arrows with metal obtained from the Spanish. The second expedition-was it a Spanish assault with Indian allies or the reverse?-arrived at the foot of the causeways across Lake Texcoco on April 28, 1521. The aqueducts were quickly broken, cutting off Tenochtitlán from its supply of food and fresh water. The brigantines went into the lake to destroy the Aztec war canoes. This was quickly accomplished. The Second Siege of Tenochtitlán now began. It lasted three months. On August 13, 1521, the third and last Aztec leader to face the Spanish assault and Indian vassal rebellion, the boy-emperor Cuauhtémoc, surrendered the city.

Cortés subsequently became governor of the conquered Aztec lands and one of the richest men of the Age. He ruled cruelly, in accordance with his nature: he was an unimaginative, brutal kleptocrat with no regard for the welfare of the Indian population, except an instrumental concern with Indian welfare such that the encomienda system was sustainable. Tenochtitlán was razed so that a Christian citadel of the Spanish Empire in America, Mexico City, might be built atop its ruins. Cortés called in Franciscan priests and other religious radicals to destroy the last temples and indoctrinate Mesoamericans with the usual Catholic pieties. Those Indians who survived were weakened morally as well as physically by pandemic diseases, and were also politically weak and divided. They were effectively enslaved by Spanish settlers who hurried to Mexico following the conquest, many of whom demonstrated even less conscience than did Cortés. The native economy was destroyed, its riches plundered and exported to buy estates or pay royal taxes in Spain. Central Mexico would take centuries to recover from the decimation.

Cortés led several more expeditions to expand “Spanish America,” including to Central America in 1524 (during which he had Cuauhtémoc murdered), and later to Baja California. In 1528 he returned to Spain to regain his Mexican governorship, which had been taken from him by a royal appointee. He was unsuccessful, but received a captaincy, a noble title, and a huge land grant in Mexico along with tens of thousands of encomienda forced laborers. Ever the conquistador, he did not rest content in landed wealth. He later fought in Africa, joining the Habsburg attack on Algiers in 1541. He died of dysentery, amidst his riches, in Spain.

The siege of Ostend and the Spinola offensives 1601-8

Ostend’s military machines by Pompeo Giustiniani 1 & 3, the construction of wicker filled with stones and earth were buried in the trenches by the besiegers; they were used in the western part of the town to allow the fording of the Old Haven. 2 & 4, to the east, the deeper flowing channel Geule of the Old Haven, a dam was constructed by Count Bucquoy’s troops on which rode artillery pieces to prevent the entry of ships into the harbour during low tide; 6 Cannons mounted on parapets on top of boats that ventured close to bomb the city; this design would be a failure as it sank on its maiden voyage without even firing a shot. 8 Mobile drawbridge or Targone bridge: this too was a failure after it took a direct hit.

Maurice of Nassau’s foray along the Flemish coast brought home to the Spanish the need of doing something about the Dutch coastal enclave at Ostend, which the enemy had been diligently fortifying for some years:

Quite apart from the fact that the Archduke Albert was denied the use of such a good port, the presence of the garrison compelled him to maintain a war in his own territory, added to ‘The Eighty Years War in the Netherlands 1566-1648 85 which the land had to bear the ruinous cost of paying an extra army – Flanders in particular was the prey of the soldiers, whereas in peacetime it was reckoned to make up a fourth part of the whole Seventeen Provinces in wealth (Haestens, 1615, 98).

Albert therefore decided to reduce Ostend. His ambition resulted in a contest which lasted for three years, and bears comparison with the sieges of Vienna in 1683 and of Stalingrad in 1943 for the interest which the rest of the world attached to its outcome.

The Duke of Parma himself had never dared to tackle Ostend, which possessed free communication by sea to Zeeland and Holland, and was surrounded by water on almost every side. The sea ruled out all serious attacks against the Old Town, or northern portion of the fortress, while the landward fronts were protected by two tidal creeks: the Old Harbour on the western side, and the New Harbour or Geule (the present port of Ostend) on the eastern side.

The landward approaches represented ‘a plashy moor (Vere, 1672, 126) on all sides except the coastal dunes. These sand hills offered the only tracts of dry ground over which siege guns could be brought close to the fortress, but if they chose this path of advance the Spanish would be presented with the problem of crossing the Old Harbour and the Geule at their deepest and widest points.

The man-made defences of Ostend consisted of two perimeters. The inner enceinte owned eight earthen bastions, in front of which was a broad and deep ditch of sea water. The bottom was ‘a glutinous impermeable mud, which supported no vegetation . .. and always retained its water’ (Montpleinchamp, 1693, 152). Beyond the ditch ran a very thick counterscarp, or rather outer enceinte, which conformed approximately to the trace of the inner enceinte, and consisted of long branches which ran forward into bastion-like salients. The works as a whole were high, well-flanked and strongly palisaded, though built of a ‘sandy and mouldered earth’ (Vere, 1672, 121).

On 5 July 1601 the Spanish appeared before Ostend in the strength of about 12,000 men. Over the following months they proceeded to drive the defenders back from their positions in the marshes to the two enceintes. They simultaneously planted some heavy siege batteries in the western dunes, from where the guns kept up a heavy fire against the Sandhill Bastion, which stood at the north-west corner of the outer enceinte and overlooked the point where the Old Harbour entered the sea. The cannonade was so violent that the work

might rather have been called iron-hill than sandhill: for it was stuck so full of bullets, that many of them tumbled down into the fausse-braye, and others, striking on their own bullets, breaking into pieces flew up into the air as high as a steeple (Hexham’s account, Vere, 1672, 166).

The besiegers paid heavily for their gains. The newly-arrived troops from Spain and Italy perished miserably in the bitter weather, and they were cut down in scores by the fire from Ostend. ‘The ground was strewn everywhere with arms, legs and hands . . . surgeons came out of the town, and brought back bags full of human fat which they had stripped from the bodies’ (Haestens, 1615, 147). (This disgusting material was prized as a salve for wounds.)

Possibly as many as 2,000 men were lost on the single night of 7-8 January 1602, when the Spanish launched an assault along the beach at low water against the Sandhill Bastion. Archduke Albert had committed precisely the same mistake as Parma at Maastricht in 1579, throwing his men into the assault over open ground against prepared defences. All along the ramparts of Ostend lay the people who had paid for his error:

whole heaps of dead carcasses, forty or fifty upon a heap, stark naked, goodly young men, Spaniards and Italians: among whom, some (besides other marks to know them by) had their beards clean shaven off. There lay also upon the sand some dead horse, with baskets of hand-grenades; they left also behind them their scaling-ladders, great store of spades, and shovels, bills, hatchets, and axes and other materials (Hexham’s account, Vere, 1672, 174)

For the rest of 1602 and the best part of 1603 the siege settled into a noisy but indecisive routine. The Spanish never again essayed an assault, but contented themselves with cannonading the town from a high platform built on the western dunes.

Compared with the Spanish host, the garrison was not particularly big (in March 1602, for example, it stood at 7,000), but in compensation the defenders were continually reinforced and replenished from the sea. So sure, indeed, was the traffic that many civilian spectators, including women, made the trip to Ostend to view the siege.

This period was enlivened for the Spanish by the arrival in their camp of a present from the Pope, in the person of the engineer Pompeio Targone (1575- c. 1630). Targone had

a very ready wit, which made him apt for inventions in his calling: but having never till then passed from the theory to the practical part in military affairs, it was soon seen, that many of his imaginations did not upon trial prove such, as in appearance they promised to be (Bentivoglio, 1678, part III, book 7).

Targone bent his imagination to the task of pushing forward the approaches from the eastern dunes, but he failed dismally in everyone of the devices he contrived: first a monstrous rolling gabion, then a floating battery, and finally a dyke which broke apart in the north-western storms.

Such was the state of affairs when the Spanish officers heard that yet another Italian dilettante was coming out to Ostend, not merely to invent siege engines but to take charge of the whole army. This gentleman was one Ambrogio Spinola, a scion of a wealthy Genoese family. The signs could hardly have been worse. Spinola was known to be devoid of all military experience, and to have been brought up in comfortable, not to say sumptuous surroundings. Moreover, the family had virtually bought the command for its pampered son, by offering to put the Spinola riches and credit at the disposal of the army in the Netherlands.

In one respect the Spanish expectations were fulfilled, for as soon as Spinola reached Ostend in the late summer of 1603 he charged a large proportion of the costs of the siege to his own account. As early as 10 December Archduke Albert could write to King Philip III that since Spinola had taken charge

the siege has been progressing very quickly. With the help of the money which the said Marquis is providing … we have overcome many difficulties which hitherto impeded the course of the works. All of this gives us good cause to be optimistic (Villa, 1904, 73-4).

What was much more surprising was that Spinola proved to be that rarest of creatures, a man who had equipped himself to be a complete commander from the study of books. Not only did he show himself to be an expert engineer, but he won over the ordinary soldiers by leadership of the most direct and forceful kind. In the quiet of his library he had absorbed all the lessons which Parma and Archduke Albert had had to buy with the blood of their men.

Spinola’s main objective was to force the crossing of the Old Harbour from the west. If he could gain the counterscarp on that side, he explained to the king, ‘Your Majesty would have a guarantee that the town would be yours’ (ibid., 76).

Reviving the ferocious emulation which had existed among the Habsburg contingents in the days of Charles v, Spinola arranged his Germans, Spanish, Italians, Burgundians and Walloons in order of battle along the bank of the Old Harbour from its mouth to the marshes behind the town. The troops then threw causeways of. earth and fascines across the creek. This was a difficult and bloody business which was helped by screens of gabions, but not at all by the employment of the last of Targone’s inventions, a mobile drawbridge mounted on four ten-foot wheels. A single cannon shot shattered one of the wheels and immobilised the machine for good.

Spinola was everywhere, ‘exposing himself as much as any of the rest to all the labour and dangers, encouraging some, rewarding others’ (Bentivoglio, 1678, part III, book 7). The Walloons and Burgundians were the first across, for the water was shallowest at the head of the creek, but the other contingents were not far behind, and on 4 April 1604 the besiegers surprised and took a number of redoubts on the counterscarp opposite the Sandhill Bastion. Maurice received the news in Holland with astonishment, and began to harbour his first fears as to the fate of Ostend.

Parma now undertook a second, formal siege of the inner enceinte. In the summer the Dutch were forced to abandon the inner rampart altogether, and they retired to a large bastioned retrenchment which· they had heaped up in the north-eastern corner of the town.

In order to complete these fortifications the defenders had to dig up a number of dead bodies, and heap up the heads and bones of their late comrades like fascines. Since these works were made of dead bodies and freshly-dug earth, they could not offer adequate resistance to cannon-fire (Baudart, 1616, II, 340).

Unseasonable storms completed the Spaniards’ work for them. The Dutch supply ships found it increasingly difficult to make their way into Ostend, and on 22 August a combination of tempest and high tide swamped the grisly retrenchment and carried large sections of it away.

The States General finally authorised the last governor, Daniel d’Hertaing, to seek a capitulation on good terms. He shipped off all the gunners, engineers, Spanish deserters, heretical preachers and other folk who were calculated to awake the Spanish ire, and then opened negotiations with Spinola. On 20 September 1604 he was granted a free evacuation for the remaining 3,000 men of his garrison.

 Archduke Albert and the Infanta Isabella came from Ghent to view the conquest, but they could see

nothing but a misshapen chaos of earth, which hardly retained any show of the first Ostend. Ditches filled up, curtains beaten down, bulwarks torn in pieces, half-moons, flanks and redoubts so confused with one another, as one could not be distinguished from another; nor could it be known on which side the attack, or on which side the defence was (Bentivoglio, 1678, part III, book 7).

The scale of the struggle for Ostend resembled that of a war rather than a siege. The contest lasted three years, three months, three weeks, three days and three hours, and the losses of the Spanish from all causes are variously estimated at between 17,000 and 80,000 dead. The impartial Carnero (1625, book XV, chapter 10) puts the figure at 40,000, which seems a good average. The casualties of the Dutch are quite impossible to estimate, for their vessels made something like 3,000 round trips, bringing reinforcements to Ostend, and carrying away the sick and wounded to die or recover in their homeland.

The siege, long and costly though it was, must be accounted a major victory for the Spanish, for they had evicted the Dutch from their one remaining foothold in ‘Belgium’, and so completed the work which Parma had begun in the 1580s. The technical lessons were obvious enough: in the first place, that it was extremely difficult to take a fortress which could receive reinforcements and replenishment throughout the siege; then again, it was clear that an unprepared assault would almost certainly meet with a bloody repulse, and that it was essential to shelter the besieging troops with all the cover that earth and brushwood could provide.

Maurice and the Dutch field army had meanwhile been striving to draw the Spanish away from Ostend by reducing fortresses in other parts of the Netherlands, applying the technique of trying to break a stranglehold by stamping on the strangler’s foot. Maurice captured Rijnberk in 1601, Grave the next year, and in 1603 he essayed a determined but vain siege of s’Hertogenbosch – all without persuading the Spanish to move from Ostend. At last in the spring of 1604 the Dutch army undertook a direct offensive along the Flanders coast. Sluis and its fine harbour fell to Maurice on 19 August 1604, hardly a month before the Spanish conquered Ostend.

If the siege of Ostend had established Spinola as a master of fortress warfare, then his capacity in the open field was proved beyond doubt in the brief (but for the Dutch extremely alarming) period of fighting which preceded the Twelve Years Truce. In 1605 Spinola took a leaf out of Maurice’s book. He advanced threateningly on Sluis, then swung eastwards with 15,000 men, crossed the Rhine at Kaisersworth, and in August reduced the fortresses of Oldenzaal and Lingen. For the first time in two decades the main Spanish striking-force had been transferred to the vital pivotal area east of the Ijssel, and Maurice spoke wonderingly of the movements of this ‘flying devil’ who seemed to read his thoughts like a crystal ball.

The Eighty Years War in the Netherlands 1566-1648 89 Grol fell to Spinola on 14 August 1606, so deepening the area of his conquests in Overijssel and eastern Gelderland. Heavy rains ruled out any exploitation westwards across the Ijssel, or northeastwards towards Friesland. Spinola accordingly turned on his tracks, and strengthened his hold on the middle Rhine by taking the much-disputed fortress of Rijnberk.

Despite his recent conquests, Spinola was one of the leading advocates of a truce with the Dutch. He knew that the Spanish finances could not possibly support the strain of further campaigns. A preliminary armistice was concluded in April 1607, which led to an agreement to conclude a truce with a term of twelve years dating from 1608. The demarcation confirmed the status quo, leaving the Dutch with a narrow foothold in northern Brabant and Flanders to the south of their river line; further east, the Spanish reaped the benefit of Spinola’s recent successes, and retained Oldenzaal and Grol as tiny enclaves lodged on the borders of Germany and the Dutch provinces.

The Battle of Garigliano

Second Italian War

In the aftermath of the First Italian War, Cordoba overhauled the Spanish army. He reorganised his infantry by replacing the bulk of his swordand-buckler foot soldiers with pikemen and arquebusiers. His pike and shot troops were taught to manoeuvre over rough ground, resist cavalry attacks, and deliver shock attacks.

Charles VIII died in 1498 and was succeeded by Louis XII. Louis was keen on retaining some portion of the Kingdom of Naples and therefore proposed to Ferdinand that they divide the Kingdom of Naples between themselves. Pope Alexander, who condoned the agreement, conveniently deposed the Trastamara ruler of the kingdom. A treaty signed in 1500 gave Charles the northern part of the kingdom and Ferdinand the southern part.

Ferdinand, who became dissatisfied with the arrangement, went to war in 1502 to win control of the Kingdom of Naples for Spain. The French made the first strategic move when Louis d’Armagnac, Duke of Nemours, besieged Cordoba in the Apulian fortress of Barletta. After receiving a large body of reinforcements in early 1503, Cordoba seized the nearby French base at Cerignola.

Cordoba ordered his troops to widen a ditch at the base of the hilltop town. His men drove sharp stakes into the bottom of the ditch to prevent the enemy from crossing the ditch. The excavated dirt was then used to build a parapet behind the ditch.

As the French approached Cerignola, Cordoba deployed his 2,000 arquebusiers four ranks deep in the centre behind the parapet. To protect them, he placed 1,000 pikemen on each side of the arquebusiers. Any French troops near the ditch would be within the 40-metre range of the arquebusiers. Spanish guns on the hillside supported the troops behind the rampart.

Clash at Cerignola

Even with the field works the Spanish were in for a desperate battle. Nemours’s 9,000-strong army was nearly twice the size of Cordoba’s army; however the various arms were not well integrated. The French right division consisted of lance-wielding heavy cavalry, the centre division was composed of mercenary Swiss pikemen, and the left division was made up of French and German crossbowmen.

Nemours attacked before his artillery had a chance to deploy. Cordoba’s Spanish jinetes screened the ditch so superbly that the French had no knowledge of the existence of a ditch until their heavy cavalry reached it.

The French cavalry attack stalled at the ditch. As Nemours looked for a way through the ditch he was slain by the arquebus fire. When the surviving French gendarmes withdrew from the ditch, the Swiss pikemen attacked with all of their fury. Although they tried desperately to fight their way into the Spanish position they could not breach the field works.

As the French army began withdrawing Cordoba launched a counterattack with his pikemen. The Spanish swept the field, inflicting 5,000 casualties on the French at the loss of a few hundred Spanish troops.

Stalemate on the Garigliano

The remnant of Nemours’s army withdrew to the safety of the citadel at Gaeta to await the arrival of a new French army. King Charles XII sent 20,000 French troops overland to Naples and gave overall command of the army to Italian Condottiero Francesco II Gonzaga, Marquess of Mantua. Meanwhile Cordoba took possession of the city of Naples on 13 May 1503.

Cordoba deployed his 12,000 troops behind the Garigliano River in October to block the anticipated French advance against Spanish held Naples. As expected Mantua marched south only to find Cordoba’s army heavily entrenched on the south bank.

After his pioneers laid a pontoon bridge over the lower Garigliano, Mantua established a tete de pont on the far bank in early November, but Cordoba bottled up the forces in the bridgehead. When Mantua was stricken with a fever command devolved to Marquis Ludovico II of Saluzzo.

A six-week stalemate followed. Troops on both sides suffered acute hardship encamped on the marshy ground during the rainy season. While Cordoba remained at the battlefront with his troops throughout this time, the high-ranking French commanders billeted themselves in comfortable quarters in nearby towns. Believing the Spanish would remain on the defensive the French did not keep a close watch on the Spanish.

Flank attack

Spanish ally Condottiero Bartolomeo d’Alviano reinforced Cordoba’s army with 5,400 troops in mid-December. In preparation for a surprise attack on the French army Cordoba instructed his chief engineer, Pedro Navarro, to construct a pontoon bridge that could be deployed in a matter of hours when needed.

In a driving rain in the pre-dawn darkness of 29 December Navarro’s pioneers laid the bridge on a narrow portion of the swollen river opposite the extreme left flank of the French army.

For the surprise attack Cordoba had organised his army into three divisions. Alviano led the vanguard, Cordoba led the centre division, and Fernando Andrada commanded the rearguard. Alviano’s Italian troops streamed across the bridge at dawn while the French and Swiss foot soldiers were fast asleep in their huts. His light cavalry swept past the disorganised French infantry and turned east to secure the village of Castleforte to prevent the French from using it as a strongpoint. Believing the day was lost the troops on the French left streamed north towards Gaeta.

Cordoba then led his mounted Spanish men-at-arms and pikemen across the pontoon bridge to the north bank. He caught the French centre in the flank and dislodged it from the river line. At that point Saluzzo ordered a general retreat to Gaeta. A heroic French nobleman, Pierre Terrail, Seigneur de Bayard, began rallying the retreating French at a defile between the mountains and the sea near the village of Formia.

Meanwhile Andrade crossed the French bridge on the lower Garigliano and captured most of the French artillery since the French gendarmes had fled north to Formia.

Up to that point there had only been light fighting, but the two sides became locked in furious combat for an hour at the defile. When Andrada’s troops arrived to reinforce the Spanish forces already engaged at Formia, it proved too much for the French. Those French soldiers who had not been taken prisoner proceeded west to Gaeta.

Viceroy of Naples

On 1 January 1504 the French capitulated. Cordoba freed his French prisoners on the condition that they return home by sea. At the end of the month, Charles XII and Ferdinand of Aragon signed the Treaty of Lyon by which Charles ceded the Kingdom of Naples to Spain. In appreciation for the military achievement of defeating the French, King Ferdinand made Cordoba the Viceroy of Naples.

Isabella, who had always championed Cordoba, died in November 1504. Ferdinand who grew jealous of Cordoba’s reputation recalled him to Spain in 1507. He was called out of retirement in 1512 to command the Spanish forces in Italy after a major reverse at the hands of the French at Ravenna during the War of the League of Cambrai. Three years later, at the age of 62, he returned to Spain stricken with malaria. He died at Granada on 1 December 1515.

Cordoba’s genius lay in his ability to correct the shortcomings of his forces by adopting the best tactical concepts of his enemies. He readily embraced the greater use of firearms in the belief that they would transform infantry tactics. In this he was correct, for his initial integration of shot and pike troops laid the foundation for the Spanish tercios. From a geopolitical standpoint his decisive victories in the First and Second Italian Wars enabled Spain to control Sicily and southern Italy for two centuries.

Pierre Terrail, seigneur de Bayard (1474-1524)

Nobleman, military leader Known in legend and tradition as “chevalier sans peur et sans reproche” (fearless and blameless knight), Pierre Terrail, seigneur de Bayard, considered a model of chivalry, was born in Dauphiné, near GRENOBLE. As a young soldier, he came to the attention of CHARLES VIII, and was knighted for his bravery after the battle of Fornovo in Italy (1495). He was cited for contributing to LOUIS XII’s conquest of Milanais (1499-1500) and distinguished himself in the defense of the bridge at Garigliano (1503) against a Spanish force, and in the battle against the Venetians at Agnadel (1509). Such was Bayard’s reputation for valor that several incredible stories were told of him, including one in which he singlehandedly defended a bridge against 200 of the enemy. He was captured twice, but his chivalrous character and reputation secured his release without a ransom payment. During the war between FRANCIS I of France and Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, Bayard held the fortress town of Mezieres with only 1,000 men for six weeks, against a force of 35,000. He also played a part in the decisive victory of Marignan (1515). Bayard was mortally wounded while covering the retreat at the Sesia River in Italy.