The Pirate Queen (17 page)

Four days later, the fleet arrived at the port of Adeje in Tenerife, finding the
Swallow
awaiting it as Hawkins had previously ordered.
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After the mishaps in longitude calculation, John Sparke recounted their joy at reaching their first intended port of call with palpable relief. But their happiness soon faded when Hawkins saw that their “welcoming committee” was armed to the teeth and prepared for battle. Hawkins could only assume that they had been taken for corsairs, and called out to the Canarians that they weren’t pirates and that he was a good friend of Pedro de Ponte’s. Fortunately de Ponte’s son, Nicolaso, was one of the armed men, and the confrontation was brought to an end. Hawkins sprang from his landing boat and waded onto the beach to a festive welcome.
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After a week of resupplying and making repairs to the fleet—the
Jesus
had sprung its mainmast in the storms and the smaller ships needed minor repairs—Hawkins and his men headed for the Guinea coast. Just north of Cabo Blanco they were spied by several Portuguese fishing boats, which cast about to run ahead of the feared “English pirates.” The wind and current were merciless—as it frequently can be near the equatorial coast of Africa—and one of Hawkins’s pinnaces capsized. By the time the lookout on the
Jesus
had called out for help, the pinnace was a mile or so back in the admiral’s wake, with the English mariners perched unsteadily on its keel. Yet Hawkins kept cool and ordered one of the lifeboats into the sea with two dozen men at oar. Despite the lashing winds and overwhelming currents, the pinnace and her crew were rescued.
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Hawkins had risked the lives of twenty-four men to save the lives of a handful of others. There is little doubt as to why: he had sailed with few mariners in order to keep his ships “sweet smelling” and avoid pestilence and disease. Each and every soul would be precious in the gathering of his slaves.

While Hawkins was fishing his own men out of the sea, back in England, the queen penned her final reply to the Portuguese ambassador, Aires Cardosso, who had arrived from Lisbon. It mattered not if his arguments had merit, she wrote, the fleet had sailed. Besides, she could see no reason why she should prevent her good subjects from trading in lands subject to the Portuguese, since the two nations had long been allies. Notwithstanding this, she would agree to his demands on the proviso that, “as for sailing into those parts of Africa where the Portuguese king had no more than tacit dominion and where French ships seemed to navigate with impunity, her Majesty finds it not reasonable that she should prohibit her subjects to use their navigation in those parts, otherwise, than the subjects of the French king and other dominions are known yearly to use, offending thereby no dominion, nor country of any Christian prince.”
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Over the ensuing years, this would become Elizabeth’s familiar battle cry.

But Hawkins and his men were offending a Christian prince. Having previously been taken for a pirate—and not the honorable merchant he believed himself to be—the queen’s adventurer decided
to attack a group of Portuguese fishermen and their Moorish protectors in the harbor of Angela de Santa Ana, south of Cabo Blanco. If they were to treat him as a pirate, he would act like one, he reasoned. Armed only with bows and arrows, the fishermen quickly surrendered when Hawkins fired his heavy cannon. In no time at all, the English were free to take all the provisions they wanted before sailing on.
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By the end of November, Hawkins had arrived at Cape Verde and had sent his men into the dense jungle in small raiding parties to hunt for slaves. The richest pickings were at the island of Sambula, where the slaves who were captured had been enslaved by another African tribe, the Samboses, nearly three years earlier. Hawkins congratulated himself on a good beginning. So far, the “harvesting” operation had gone well.

On Christmas Day, after prayers, Hawkins bought two caravel loads of slaves from another group of Portuguese traders. When their dealing was over, the Portuguese kindly suggested that the English go farther along the coast to a town called Bymba, where they could easily buy another hundred “fine specimens” as well as Ashanti gold. The English captain thanked them, and sailed on to Bymba expectantly. All seemed peaceful, so Hawkins took around forty men ashore to set his bargain. Suddenly, shots rang out and there were hails of arrows from the jungle. The English took cover, cursing themselves for having fallen so easily into an obvious trap. They escaped back to their boats, dodging poisoned arrows; when Hawkins was aboard, he was surprised to find that he had ten new slaves. Significantly, he also lamented the wounding of nearly thirty of his mariners. Seven others had been killed in the skirmish, including the captain of the
Solomon
. Worse came later in the day, when some sailors were bathing near the ships. They were attacked and mauled by sharks. Another five men were killed, and the one who survived probably wished that he hadn’t. All in all, it was a very bad day for the English.
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This incident would become infamous years after Hawkins’s return, since the Portuguese claimed through official channels that the Englishmen had stolen wax, gold, ivory, and at least sixty slaves from Sierra Leone. Others wanted restitution for their losses when Hawkins and his men had taken their ships and left their
sailors on the beaches. One merchant even swore that the English had “confiscated and extorted a ship named the
Cola
, loaded with merchandise to the value of 4,000 ducats [$90,511 or £48,925 today] in the river called Caces.”
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There was certainly some truth in the allegations, but how much was never determined, like so many of the complaints heard by the High Court of the Admiralty.

By the time the English adventurers had left the Guinea coast heading for the West Indies on January 29, 1565, they had four hundred slaves in the hold. Where storms had ravaged the fleet in Europe, they found themselves miserably becalmed mid-Atlantic for a long three weeks, suffocating in the hot, humid, still air, and nearly running out of water. But once the wind filled their sails again, their relief was reasonably short-lived. The fleet had made landfall at La Dominica—called the “Island of Cannibals” by the chronicler Sparke. The English still had three hundred seventy of the four hundred slaves living in the stinking holds of their ships, and “Almighty God” had not allowed his “elect” (meaning the English) to perish so far. But there was such a thing as tempting fate, and with the likelihood of encountering cannibals in their weakened condition, the men filled their water casks and sailed away quickly while the wind was good.

At the next island, Margarita, the inhabitants sold the English beef and mutton, but refused to trade for slaves or other wares. Philip’s prohibition to trade had reached the West Indies long before Hawkins. The islanders were relieved when Hawkins’s fleet proceeded on its way without coming to grief, but they sent word to the viceroy in Santo Domingo that the Englishmen had arrived among them at last. Before Hawkins reached his next port of call at Santa Fe, word had spread like wildfire ahead of them not to trade with the English. Hawkins, meanwhile, had no qualms about his success. He traded with the Indians for chickens, potatoes, pineapples, and maize cakes in exchange for “beads, pewter whistles, glasses, knives, and other trifles” he carried to bargain with.
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But he had yet to sell one African.

At this rate, Hawkins would be lucky to break even, much less return to England a rich man. It was time to change tactics. If the low-grade trade continued much longer, the ever-present threat of his men mutinying could become reality, for there was nothing
the mariner liked better than plunder. So, on April 3, 1565, when the fleet pulled into harbor at Borburata, and the familiar haggling with local officials began, Hawkins appealed to their better nature. He had been blown off course by contrary winds, he pretended. He sought only legal trade. When he was informed he needed a license, he cajoled the officials that they would surely trade with him while he awaited one from the governor, especially as it might save some of his “lean and sick Negroes.” In this way, he’d earn enough to purchase supplies to help the others recover their good health, he reasoned. After three days of bickering, it was agreed to allow the English to sell thirty slaves, but a fair price had not yet been determined. When the governor arrived in town ten days later, Hawkins sensed victory was at hand. He trotted out his well-rehearsed spiel in which he announced he was
el capitán admiral
of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, and that he had been on a mission to Guinea when he was unfortunately driven off course by a devastating contrary wind across the sea. All he wanted to do was sell his slaves so that he—a poor sailor—could pay for supplies and repair his ships before returning home.
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Governor Bernáldez (no relation to the officer encountered by Hawkins on his first voyage) wanted to allow Hawkins to trade, but found himself in a serious quandary. The king and the viceroy had ordered that there should be no trading with the
Luteranos
, but his people needed the slaves to keep the plantations running, since the slaves died with alarming regularity. After lengthy discussion with his men and Hawkins, the governor reluctantly agreed to allow the slave trader to proceed with his business after taking several testimonies and on the understanding that he was granting a license only insofar as he had the authority to do so. One of Bernáldez’s eyewitnesses swore that he had heard Hawkins threaten to level the entire coast if the governor denied him his trading license. In the event, while the license was issued, the two men couldn’t agree on terms, since the governor insisted on the usual royal treasury fee of thirty ducats per slave ($679 or £367 today) and Hawkins refused outright to pay anything. When the license was handed over to the queen’s slave trader, he ripped it up, disgusted with the entire proceedings. It was a livid Hawkins who ordered a hundred armed
men ashore threatening to destroy the town if Bernáldez wouldn’t agree to his terms. Without heavy artillery or guns, the governor had no choice, and he conceded to all Hawkins’s demands. Later, John Hawkins would boast that the governor was one of his best customers—so much so that he ran out of ready cash and had to issue a promissory note for six hundred pesos to Hawkins, payable later at Río de la Hacha.

At long last, Hawkins had struck upon a winning formula with the Spanish settlers in Borburata. When officials at his next port of call, Río de la Hacha, had evacuated the town in fear of their lives, Hawkins, after protestations of his innocence and goodwill got him nowhere, fired off his great cannons at the town. When the locals still wouldn’t trade, he landed a hundred men armed to the teeth and marched along the beach, threatening in Spanish to burn their homes. Still, the citizens of Río de la Hacha were ostensibly having none of it. Battle drums rolled behind thirty prancing Spanish horsemen carrying the King of Spain’s standard. The local inhabitants apparently wanted to join the English in battle. Without hesitation, the admiral gave the signal, and the English ships fired more heavy cannon at the town, taking care not to hit Hawkins and his mariners. Despite all their sound and fury, the Spanish immediately capitulated. The good folk of Río de la Hacha had suddenly become eager customers, purchasing the remaining slaves and anything else the English were selling. The charade was over. Their eagerness to trade even carried over to placing advance orders for Hawkins’s next voyage and providing him with a written testimonial of his fair trading practices and friendly conduct. This would later prove the Spaniards’ undoing when the matter was investigated by officials back home. They could only conclude that the whole episode was a sham and the town’s leaders were severely punished.
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A sad, and often lost, part of this story is that the Africans sold as slaves at Río de la Hacha had drawn a particularly harsh lot. They were destined to become pearl divers. And divers had to learn quickly to hold their breath for astounding lengths of time, or die. Even if they succeeded in this feat, the cold waters or the bends often claimed their lives, for they were rumored to dive to depths of twelve fathoms or more. They worked from dawn to dusk with
nets strapped to their waists or tied around their necks, breaking the water’s surface only to catch their breath and, if they were lucky, eat an odd oyster. Then there were, of course, the sharks. Native American Indians had been banned as divers since the Vera Cruz decree of 1558, when African slaves were ordered in their stead as their official replacements. Their life expectancy was measured in days or months, since they were

forced to spend their last days in agony, and the nature of the work is such that they perish in any case within a few days, for no man can spend long under water without coming up for air, and the water is so cold that it chills them to the marrow. Most choke on their own blood as the length of time they must stay under water without breathing and the attendant pressure upon their lungs makes them hemorrhage from the mouth; others are carried off by dysentery caused by the extreme cold to which they are subjected.
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Their entire human cargo thus disposed of, Hawkins’s fleet sailed directly for Curaçao, where they purchased 978 hides valued at 10 reales of silver each ($363 or £196 today). The terms delighted the seller, who had been sure that the English would simply plunder them.
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After a failed attempt to drop off a Jamaican captive named Llerena, whom Hawkins had freed in Guinea, the fleet stopped briefly for water on the westernmost point of Cuba.