A Brief History of the Calendar

I surprisingly often hear teenage atheists complain about what they perceive to be threats to their secular-ness, and one things I hear over and over is the ironic proposal of the argument: 'Well, Thursday is 'Thor's-day', so why don't we celebrate that?' This has lead me to believe that people are incredibly interested in the geneses and nomenclature of the current calendar. This strikes me as not only interesting, but something people may want to know, so, briefly, let's discuss that.
(the second half of this entry is a listing of name geneses, so scroll on down if you don't care about the history of the modern calendar)

The Briefest History of the Modern Calendar

The history of the calendar is very diverse, and to examine every root of the topic we would need to travel back thousands of years and to every far-flung corner of the planet. The Sumerians and Greeks both had 12-month calendars, and the Mayans and other Mesoamericans had complex, two-year calendars. Because of the etymology involved, however, I will be looking only at the Roman calendar, and this is the one that would ultimately become the one we use today, to say nothing of its own history.

According to the Romans, their calendar was founded, like everything else, by Romulus around the time of Rome's own founding, around 753 BC, the supposed date that Rome was born. This calendar consisted of ten months, the first few named after a pretty diverse collection of gods like Juno and Mars (Roman), and Aphrodite and Maia (Greek), with some Etruscan influence in the nomenclature. The last few months, Quintilus through December, translate from the Latin to mean fifth through tenth - which makes sense, I guess.

Romulus' calendar got an update around 713 BC, when a Roman King named Numa Pompilius added two months, Ianuarius and Februarius, the former named after the Roman god Janus, and the latter after the purification ceremony of Februa held in that month.

The last real update that the Romans performed came by, who else, Julius Caesar. Serving as Pontificus Maximus (high priest) in 63 BC, Caesar made a number of changes to the calendar unimportant to our purposes here, but what is more important is the final act of his reforms, carried out by his nephew and adopted heir, Augustus. Augustus renamed the first two yet-unnamed months (the seventh and eighth months, still named 'fifth' and 'sixth') after the great Caesar and himself, giving us July and August.

Pope Gregory XIII

The most important revision of the calendar was the institution of the still-used Gregorian calendar. The 325 AD Council of Nicaea (one of the most important events in Christian history, for those interested) outlined when Easter should take place. For a number of reasons, although the Council had decided Easter should be celebrated simultaneously throughout the Christian world, it was not. Additionally, because of small errors binding the lunar cycle to the Julian calendar, by the 16th century Easter was out of whack by four days.

The solution was the modern calendar involving leap years and years without leap years (every hundredth year is not a leap year, but every fourth hundredth year is a leap year, simple stuff like that), instituted in 1562 by Pope Gregory XIII, who gave the calendar its name. This included a ten-day reset for the calendar in February of that year, and now we have the entire planet on a standardized, unwavering calendar that stays true to the lunar cycles. It's cool stuff if you know what you're talking about. Or, I would assume it is.

TL;DR - The Names of the Months

January - Named for Janus, the Roman god of gates, doorways, beginnings, and endings. This is appropriate for the month containing the rebirth of the year.
 
February - From the Latin Februalia, a holiday of purification occurring during the full moon of the second month (13th-15th). The ceremony could date back to the pre-Roman Sabines, and relate to the raininess ('washing away') that comes with that part of the year in Italy.
 
March - Originally Martius after the Roman god of war, Mars. In the Mediterranean, the third month marks the spring thaw, and with it, the beginning of campaign season. In ancient times, armies marched (that's right) in seasons. When the snows came, the armies 'wintered' until the next thaw, when they could march (yes) again.
 
April - The nomenclature on this one is a little suspect, and you have to reach a bit. One option is that it comes from the Latin aperire, 'to open,' referring to the budding of trees and flowers. This works well with the Greek anoixis, which means both 'opening' and 'spring.' Given the Romans' penchant for stealing nomenclature from the Greeks, this makes the most sense, though some have also suggested it may come from the Greek goddess Aphrodite, called in Greek Aphros, referred to in Latin as 'Aphrilis' and in Etruscan as 'Apru.' Given that April was holy to the Roman goddess Venus (the equivalent to Aphrodite) and contained her festival, the Festum Veneris et Fortunae Virilis, either option seems to make sense.
 
May - From the Greek goddess of nature, Maia. For reasons similar to the reckoning of aperire. Maia was the goddess of nature and fertility, and her month marked the rebirth of nature for the coming summer.
 
June - For the Roman goddess Juno, wife of Jupiter. She was kind of famous for being married to the king of the gods, so her month was a popular one for young couples to be married.
 
July - The birth-month of Julius Caesar, Augustus picked this month to forever recall that great man.
 
August - Similarly, Augustus selected this month to bear his name. Despite many common myths stating otherwise, Augustus (according to Macrobius) chose August because many of his greatest triumphs occurred in that month, including the taking of Alexandria.
 
September, October, November, and December - All translate from the Latin meaning 'Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth.' This is en excellent lesson on the impact of Latin on Western language. If you speak French, German, Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, or Italian, you should recognize several of these terms. For instance, sept is French for 'seven', acht is German for eight, nove means 'nine' in Portuguese, and decimo means 'ten' in both Spanish and Italian.

Failure of the Century: The Spanish Armada, Part Four - The Armada Sails

I've decided that this entry will just be narrative. I may do a Part Five on why the Armada failed, but I want to finish the story first; so here's the next bit.

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Motherfuckin' Francis Drake. Just wait.

It's 28 May, 1588. After decades of being pissed off at Elizabeth and England for many reasons (being Protestant, pirating Spanish ships, towns, and colonies, killing the Catholic pretender Mary, Queen of Scots, being Protestant, backing the Protestant Dutch in the Spanish-owned Netherlands, rebuffing his marriage proposal, being Protestant), King Philip II of Spain, with the support of Pope Sixtus V had dispatched the Spanish Armada, bound for England, and glory.

Or that was the plan.

Robert Burns wrote that the best-laid plans often go awry (well, he wrote 'agley', but he was probably a little bit drunk and definitely very much Scottish), and the Spanish Armada could stand as a gleaming testament to this quote if it had been planned better. The plan was to have the Armada sail the length of the English Channel from the south and escort 30 000 Spanish veterans from where they had been fighting Protestants in the Netherlands, across the Strait of Dover, and invade the shit out of England. What you are about to read is the story of the spectacular failure in this pursuit.

The Plan: Get better at MS Paint

As the Armada made the long trek north, England was preparing for war as well. Elizabeth was like the Kremlin of 16th-century spy work, or at least Philip and his guys really sucked at it. There's some great stories behind these statements, but the point is that Spain had a major tell, and Elizabeth saw them coming a mile away (or about a thousand miles as the crow flies). England's best ships (and every other ship) had been pulled into service, her best admirals alerted, and all along the coast Englishmen waited day and night for the first sign of the Armada, cleaning their muskets, dusting off their pitchforks, drinking tea and talking about how totally sweet Protestantism is.

England knew that its ships had to beat the Armada. If they didn't, Spain would invade, and on land, wearing armor, and pointing pikes and muskets, there wasn't an army in the West that could go man-for-man with Spain's veterans in the Netherlands. The Royal Navy was the first and only line of defense for the English. Fortunately for England, it was the Royal Fucking Navy.

In charge of the English fleet was a guy named Charles Howard, a politician and cousin to the Queen with impeccable French but no real fighting ability - fans of the Duke of Medina Sidonia will recognize this character type. But, Howard and the English had an ace in the hole. Sir Francis Drake was leading a squadron of ships in the fleet. Drake was a legendary leader of men, a combat veteran, and a seafaring, swashbuckling badass for the ages. I could write about him for hours, but we're here for the Armada, and I digress. 

On 20 July, 1588, the Armada was spotted off the southern coast of England, west of Plymouth.The English, stationed at Eddystone Rocks, near Plymouth, were downwind of the Armada, giving the Spanish a sizable advantage. Many ships of this era used rowers, often prisoners, to power the ship forward, but the big gunships like the galleass and galleon did not, and relied solely on their sails for propulsion - and even the galleys, with their oars, still needed a pair of sails to reach cruising speed. As you can see, the wind was a mighty ally in this environment. It was possible to go into the wind using a process called 'tacking', which involved zig-zagging at a snail's pace (highly unfavorable for an entire fleet to do while staying organized), but sailing with the wind was several times faster than tacking, and made maneuvering much easier as well.

So, with the Spanish Armada bearing down, the wind at their backs, an unbeatable opponent, what did the English do? Come charging out of Plymouth Harbour, guns blazing and ready to defend their homeland? Nope. They waited. Cook and Howard famously played a game of bowls (kind of like curling on a lawn) as the Spanish approached. This moment may have been the turning point of the entire expedition. The Duke of Medina Sidonia wouldn't have a better opportunity. Every advantage was his: he had more ships, more men, more guns, better soldiers, and, most importantly, the wind. The Spanish were ready to sweep in and deal a fatal blow to the English while their commanders played a silly English game of lawn bowling.

But they didn't.

Medina Sidonia's lieutenants urged him to attack. They pleaded with him. They would never get a better opportunity to defeat the English. Ship-to-ship, no man believed in the English fleet's chances: the Spanish troops were just too experienced. But here in the Channel, in the open water, at distance, the English still had a puncher's chance, and the Spanish council of war, Miguel de Oquendo and the aforementioned Recalde, wanted to snuff out that threat now - why worry about the fleet at all; crush them now and be done with it.

But the Duke had strict orders. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. The ships were necessary to transport the lowland troops across at Calais, and they were not to be lost fighting naval battles. The invasion took precedent over pissing contests with Francis Drake on the high seas. So, the Armada sailed on.

The best metaphor for this I can think of is having your opponent grounded in front of you, holding a baseball bat aloft and ready to finish the fight, before suddenly helping him up, handing him the bat, and turning around and facing the other way. By sailing on past Plymouth, the Spanish now placed themselves not just downwind of the English, but facing away from them.

That night, the evening of 20 July, the English began to track the Spanish. The English had begun to enter the field of battle that day, as the Spanish sailed by, on the off-chance that Medina Sidonia changed his mind and attacked. The 50-odd ships split into two groups, one of 11 ships headed by Drake, the rest by Howard. The plan was for Howard to be ready engage while Drake tacked around to gain the weather gage (the upwind position).  Now, with the Spanish already passed and the English ships already in the Channel, the chase could begin.

The Armada had amassed themselves in a massive crescent formation, with the elite fighting groups on the tips, while the English approached from the rear in single-line fashion. The Spanish formation was supposed to help protect against broadsides, while the English were set up for speed and maneuverability. Essentially, the Spanish, with their ships brimming with experienced fighting men, wanted the English to have to get close. The English, meanwhile, with their smaller ships and smaller crews, wanted to part of the Spanish close up, and were going to try and fight from afar, using their cannon instead of their swords.

The English ships, in their two squadrons, closed on the powerful ends of the fleeing Spanish crescent, Howard toward the southern tip, Drake to the northern. They came in their single-file formation (dubbed 'line astern'.

On the morning of 21 July, the English closed the distance on the Armada. The view from the English ships must have been utterly cinematic. Ahead of them, fleeing into the rising sun, were bigger, more powerful ships than they had every encountered. A larger fleet had never been assembled in the history of Western Europe. At stake: their Queen, their country, their very religion.

The two lines of English ships managed to catch and surpass the tips of the crescent, and bombard the heavy ships of the line with cannonfire. The agility of the ships, and of the formation, worked brilliantly. The English managed to loose 2000 cannonballs without letting the Spanish return effective fire, or get a single ship close enough to grapple and board.

Unfortunately for the English, hitting a chunk of wood bouncing around in the open ocean with an unrifled shot fired from another frolicking chunk of wood at a quarter-mile distance was really goddamned hard. Of 2000 shots, not a single Spanish ship was sunk due to cannon-fire; though a shitty carrack managed to run into a galleon and become entangled, rendering both useless. After the English receded that evening, after an entire afternoon of battering the Spanish formation, Drake returned to the wrecks and pillaged them for powder and loot. I know, he would, wouldn't he.

Drake's inability to resist Spanish gold was very fortunate for him, as the ships were allegedly loaded for some reason, but proved disastrous for the rest of the English fleet. On the night of 21-22 July, Drake was supposed to lead the fleet with a lantern lit, providing a reference point for the rest of the fleet, so they could stay organized. When he went back to loot the ships, he took the fleet's positional gauge with him, and they fell into disarray. The English had to spend all day on the 22nd just reorganizing the fleet. The Armada trudged on toward Calais and the invasion force.

I don't know what this is

The English, though, had a significant speed advantage, as you've no doubt guessed at this point. The Spanish had massive ships, full of men, supplies, and cannon. They were heavyweights, built to deal out and sustain punishment. The English ships, however, were smaller, sleeker, quicker, and more maneuverable. Many were 'race-built' (cut down) galleons, frigates, merchant ships, or super-light Dutch flyboats. It took them only the night to catch the Spanish, and the two sides engaged once again near Portland on the 23rd.

English citizens gathered on the hills outside of Portland to witness a confrontation not unlike the one from two days earlier: the English peppered the Armada from a distance, but the Spanish, in their mighty formation, hardly seemed to notice. The wind changed and the Spanish, with a brief advantage, sought to close, but to no avail. The English ships were too nimble. The day was a wash - in fact, since the Spanish managed not to run into each other, this battle was even less significant than the previous one, as no damage was done on either side.

At this point, the Armada's trip seemed to be nearing its end. The English fleet had been unable to do too much more than pester them, and had certainly not displayed enough punching power to stop them. Everything was going well enough - but there was a hitch. They were less than 200 miles (about 300 km) from Calais, and the Duke of Medina Sidonia had not yet heard from the Duke of Parma, in charge of the Spanish veterans in the Netherlands. The Armada was closing on its target - but it had no idea if the army would be ready for transport.

As the Armada approached the Isle of Wight, the Duke of Medina Sidonia faced an enormous decision: station here and wait for word that the army was ready, or press on and hope that it was. You see, once past the Isle, there were no natural harbors for the Armada, and they would be stuck out on the open sea. There wasn't even anywhere to drop anchor on the Spanish-controlled coastlines of Flanders. Once past the Isle of Wight, it was Calais or bust.

Medina Sidonia, showing again his aversion to any sort of risk, decided to anchor in the Solent, the body of water between the mainland and the Isle. He tried to steer Armada around the Isle to the south, then turn north into the Solent. The British were two steps ahead:

Holy shit I'm bad at this

The black shit is land, the Isle on the left and the mainland to the right. As Medina Sidonia attempted to turn the Armada into safe waters, the English fleet split into four small squads. Drake promptly split from the mass and headed South. Howard went to the north and began strafing the northern tip of the Armada with fire, while two other squadrons charged the center and began firing upon the inside of the crescent. This three-pronged attack had little effect, however. The Spanish began to enter the Solent, and safety.

But then came Drake. Charging fast from the open sea, Drake pounced ferociously on the southern tip of the Spanish crescent. Fearing that his galleons were in serious danger to the English marauder, Medina Sidonia pulled the weight of his fighting ships in the center of the line south to deal with Drake. This was a mistake. Because the Spanish were busy rearranging their formation, there was something they weren't doing - entering the Solent. Instead, they headed for peril.

You'll see on my awesome map the black lines marked 'Owers.' These are the Owers sandbanks, one of the most treacherous landmarks of the Channel. Shortly after he dispatched reinforcements to the southern tip, Medina Sidonia realized his folly - he was headed straight for the Owers. In order to avoid running aground, and to keep the Armada together, he called a full retreat back to the open sea. The Armada would not be anchoring in the Solent, and though they had once again failed to sink any Spanish ships with their guns, Howard and Drake had succeeded in preventing the Spanish from setting foot on English soil.

And so, for the Spanish, the English, the Spanish troops in Holland, and for you, the reader, it was off to Calais for the final chapter in this tale. In Part Five we will view how this all shakes out, both the final leg of the Armada's journey, and some behind-the-scenes stuff that just might explain the folly of it all.

Failure of the Century: The Spanish Armada, Part Three - Enter the Duke

Part 1
Part 2

I have to apologize. By Episode 3 we should probably be wrapping this up, but here we are, just getting started putting the Armada together. It's easy to get caught up in the details (hey, I'm a history major), but the point of this shitty blog is succinctness.

Alvaro de Bazan, the Marquis of Santa Cruz

In any case, here we are. It is the spring of 1588, and Spain is ready to go back to war with England and the Protestant Queen Elizabeth, public enemy no. 1 for the Catholics and their enforcer, King Philip II of Spain. Placed in charge of constructing this massive project is the venerable seafaring legend of Spain, the mighty Marquis of Santa Cruz, Alvaro de Bazan. Yes, names were way sweeter back then.

Now, there are many, many reasons for the (spoiler alert) ultimate failure of the armada, and we will explore these, but there is one that has historically, and for good reason, taken the proverbial cake.

In 1588 Santa Cruz was 61 years old, had fought in countless battles and led a stressful life as top admiral in the largest empire on the planet, and had spent the previous winter working his fingers to the bone preparing for his magnum opus, a massive invasion of England. Unfortunately, this proved to be too much for the old man, and he died. Some sources claim that it was the stress of this final job that finished him off, but what is not in doubt is the fact that he stopped breathing in early February, and left Philip scrambling for a replacement.

'Replacement' is not a great word. 'Shadow' is more appropriate; maybe 'facsimile.' The Marquis of Santa Cruz was not easily replaceable. He had led a reserve of Allied Christian ships at Lepanto in 1571. He served as Philip's naval ringer during the takeover of Portugal in the 1580s. You could count his naval equals, on the face of the earth at this time, on one hand.

Hey, I'm Alvaro Perez de Guzman, Duke of Medina Sidonia

The Duke of Medina Sidonia, Alonso Perez de Guzman was not a seafaring genius or brilliant leader of men.

His ancestors, however, had been. The Guzmans were likely descended from Norse raiders in the 10th century, and ruled the Spanish district of Andalusia (southern Spain). Enrique Perez de Guzman, several issues before our hero Alonso, had been a general of the Reconquista, and died during the siege of Gibraltar. He was not alone, however: it is said that the Guzmans earned their nickname, "el bueno" (The Good) through military prowess. The Guzmans had produced generals and colonial governors - in all, the family  had almost 600 years of military heritage.

And so, in February of 1588, Philip II of Spain sent a messenger to somebody who had fighting in his blood. What the Duke of Medina Sidonia didn't have was any kind of military or naval experience, or really any desire to leave home. After his father died, Medina Sidonia became the richest noble in the kingdom, and he was perfectly content hanging out at his Spanish villa all day and not organizing an invasion of England. In fact, he did his very best to get out of Philip's scheme. Here is an excerpt from a letter Medina Sidonia sent to the king following his assignment:

"But sir, I have no health for the sea, I know from the small experience I have had afloat that I am always seasick and catch cold. Besides this... my house owes 900 000 ducats, and I am therefore quite unable to accept the command, I have not a penny I can spend on the expedition. Apart from this, neither my conscience nor my duty will allow me to take this service. The fleet is so great, and the undertaking so important, that it would be wrong for a person like myself, with no experience of seafaring or warfare, to take charge of it. ... I possess neither the aptitude, ability, health, or fortune for the expedition. The lack of any of these qualities would be enough to excuse me, and much more the lack of them all, which is the case with me at present."

How much of this is true is irrelevant: either Medina Sidonia was not cut out for the job, or he wanted no part of it; either way, he was the wrong choice. According to most stories, it is the former. Medina Sidonia threw himself into the project and did everything in his power to make it work, but he simply had no business being there - we'll get back to this. 

There are two stories that continue from here: one where the secretaries of the king dared not show the letter to Philip, and responded to Medina Sidonia telling him as much, and another version where the king replied, ignored his qualms, and told him to get his ass to Lisbon.

Speaking of Lisbon, Portugal plays its own part in this tale. I'll return to Medina Sidonia in a moment, bear with me. Philip had taken control in a play for the throne of Portugal in 1581, and ruled from Madrid through his nephew, Albert. The Spanish king was not particularly popular in Portugal, but he did do his best to run the place properly. He let the country mostly run itself, left the Portuguese Inquisition to its own devices, instilled Portuguese nobles in his own court, allowed middle-class secretaries to reach positions of influence in Portugal, and constructed a special council to advise him on the matters of Portugal. By all accounts, Philip wanted to be a good king.

This is all academic, of course. Portugal matters when it comes to the Armada for two reasons:

i) The Armada was launched from Lisbon, which is one of the sweetest natural ports in the world. This provided an excellent place to gather the fleet and an excellent place from which to launch it, the nearest great port to England that the Spanish had. It was at Lisbon that the banner of the Armada was blessed on 25 April, and it was at Lisbon that the Armada set sail on 28 May.

ii) The Portuguese are historically some of the best seamen on the planet. Their navy, which was seized in Philip's annexation of Portugal, was one of the finest in the world - their ships state-of-the-art, and their sailors brilliant at their craft. The Spanish inducted 12 ships of the line and four 50-gun galleys into the Armada, forming the Portugal Squadron, the elite group of the Armada. One of the 12 galleons was the San Martin, formerly the pride of the Portuguese navy, Sao Martinho. The San Martin was brand new, had two gun decks consisting of 48 cannon, was perhaps the greatest ship afloat, and was chosen by Medina Sidonia as his flagship.

And speaking of the good Duke, it's time to return to the narrative.

So the Duke of Medina Sidonia set off for Lisbon in a hurry, and immediately upon arrival set to work. Medina Sidonia was not completely out of his element at this stage: Philip had many reasons for choosing him (lineage, wealth, trust), but Medina Sidonia was regarded as one of the best organizers and delegaters in Spain, and his fingerprints were all over the formation of the Navy, even though he only got to it in its final stages.

Coordination, logistics, planning - this the Duke could do. What he didn't know about seamanship he would fake, or try to learn as fast as possible by surrounding himself with grizzled veterans from the Spanish navy. The official admiral for the Armada was a daring, fantastic old commander named Juan Martinez de Recalde, and Medina Sidonia shadowed him from the time he met him, soaking up every ounce of information that Recalde would share.

 The Armada was not built to succeed. It was made up of 130-odd ships, and some of these were fantastic galleons like the Portuguese Squadron - but many were shitty galleys, barely maneuverable, and constructed with the Mediterranean in mind - not the open black seas of the English Channel. At least those galleys were able to hold cannon, though - many of the ships in the Armada were commandeered merchant craft that had cannons strapped to every available surface. However, in this jury-rigged environment, the Duke of Medina Sidonia set to work.

Medina Sidonia completely reorganized the fleet, consolidating it into the grand armada we know from history, giving it more punching power and less maneuverability. He convinced Philip to add galleasses from Naples and even took ten galleons and four fighting merchant ships from the Indian Guard, the squadron that guarded Spain's silver shipments. These ships of the Indian Guard became the Squadron of Castile, which was likely the most competent group in the armada, after the Squadron of Portugal.

A Spanish galleon, the most powerful fighting ship in the ocean in the 16th century

The Duke upped supplies from what was initially distributed, which included raising the allotted shot from 30 rounds per gun to 50. Medina Sidonia was preparing for war and he wasn't messing around. The Duke gave a good account of himself as an administrator in the weeks before the launch, organizing what had been a thoroughly incompetent distribution of guns and ammunition. Even though he hated sailing and had never helmed a warship, the Duke had a little experience in this field as the Captain General of the Coast of Andalusia, and had prepared the ships of his own region to join the Armada in the previous couple of years.

I can't write about the preparations of the Armada much longer. What you need to know you've read, and if you're interested, here are the final tallies of the armada:

130 ships
59 000 tons
26 000 soldiers and sailors
2500 guns

By late spring, the fleet was as ready as it was going to be, and on 28 May, 1588, the greatest seafaring endeavor since Agamemnon set sail for Troy. And next time, we'll see just how well the Armada will fare.

Failure of the Century: The Spanish Armada, Part Two - The Cogs of War

In Episode 1, we studied the background behind King Philip II of Spain, and, more importantly, Philips's ambition. As we discussed, Philip was a guy who, as far as he was concerned, had serious titles stripped from him. Sure he still had a major empire in his name, but he had at one point been King of England, and aspiring Holy Roman Emperor, before events conspired against both of those ambitions.

So, we were left, by 1558, with a man who yearned to improve his stock, despite the fact that he was one of the most powerful men in the world. There is one more important factor here, though: Philip considered himself the protector of the Catholic faith.

"Philip II generally believed that what was good for Spain was good for the Catholic Church. Philip himself was a devout Catholic and used up vast sums of money in defence of Catholicism. He looked on the pope as the spiritual head of the Catholic Church but he did not commit himself to the decisions of Rome when they conflicted with his own beliefs." (History Learning Site)

Philip battled the Ottoman Turks, he helped the infamous Inquisition grow and flourish, and he gave no quarter to the upstart Protestants, be they in his provincial Netherlands, or elsewhere. Papal Bulls (orders from the Pope) had to go through him, and Philip basically squashed Protestantism in Spain before it ever got started. His influence on Catholicism was not the most important fact, however. The important bit is that he considered himself more important than the goddamned Pope. David Howard asserts that Philip (as many monarchs did) saw himself as appointed by God, and Roger Lockyer surmises his hold on the church: "Philip, convinced of his own spiritual integrity and his innate superiority of all things Spanish, kept a firm hold on 'his' church."

Philip's Empire in 1598 (above) and his European holdings in 1580 (below)

 

So let's get this story on the road. By the 1580s, Philip was feeling slighted by the world, felt empowered as the sword of God, and, as you can see above, was incredibly powerful. He spent the 1570s and early '80s squashing Dutch Protestants and revolutionaries and annexing Portugal after a succession crisis.

So what do you do when you're an embittered, powerful man? You pick fights. And who do you pick a fight with? Let's play a game. How does this person sound for a perfect nemesis?

- This person supported the Dutch revolutionaries you have been warring with for most of your life.
- This person is a member of the faith you hate and have sworn to destroy.
- This person denied your marriage proposal.

That's right. By the mid-1580s, Philip had made up his mind -- he was going to go after Queen Elizabeth of England.

There were other prompts behind this: as early as 1583, Alvaro de Bazan, the great admiral and war hero of Spain, saw England's growing naval power as a threat to Spain's empire, and wrote to Philip, urging him to war. In the 1570s and '80s, the English dogged the Spanish with privateers (state-subsidized pirates) - in fact, one of the greatest English sailors of all-time, Sir Francis Drake, was one such hired gun. His attacks on Spanish America sparked a new war in 1585.

In 1587 Elizabeth executed Mary, Queen of Scots, a Catholic whose claim to the throne of England Catholic Europe had long supported. If that wasn't the final straw, it was certainly one of them. It was no longer a grudge, it wasn't just a war, it was a crusade.

As in, an actual crusade. Following Mary's execution, the Pope allowed Philip to conduct a crusade against the heretical English queen. This meant collecting crusade taxes, being allowed to grant indulgences to his men, and even a promise from the Pope that should the Spanish make land in England, the venture would be subsidized by the Church. This was not a stretch - Catholics hated Elizabeth. She had been excommunicated in 1570 and anybody who served her was considered treasonous to the faith, punishable by death.

And so, by the middle of 1587, the cogs of war started to turn. Every available ship was pressed into service; every available man was absolved of his sins and had a musket, sword, pike or oar shoved into his hands. Taking charge of this venture was the venerable Marquis of Santa Cruz, Alvaro de Bazan, the aforementioned seafaring legend of Spain. The plan he concocted with Philip was simple: the Spanish armada would sweep the English Channel, reach the Netherlands, and escort the 30 000 Spanish veterans stationed there across the Strait of Dover and invade the island. Simple enough.

But, as Philip was about to find out, launching a massive invasion wasn't as easy as that last sentence made it sound. Sports fans will know, what a team should do on paper and what happens on the field are entirely different things. Collecting All-Stars and winning games are not synonymous, and like a GM whose underachieving team is falling flat on its face, Philip is about to learn this lesson the hard way.

Failure of the Century: The Spanish Armada, Part One - Motive

I really enjoyed doing the Don Blas stuff (and I hope you did, too) for a couple of reasons.  One was that Don Blas fucking ruled and makes for an insane story, but the other was that he's not a guy that gets a lot of attention, at least not where I'm from or at my university, even though he probably deserves more.  What I'm going to do here is a little bit different. It has its similarties with the Mediohombre series: It's about age-of-sail Europe, and it's in large part about the Spanish navy. However, this differs from the last series in that most people have heard of this topic. Perhaps not in depth, but to some degree. This is the Layman's History of the Spanish Armada.

The history of the armada begins many years before 1588. In history, the roots of any issue go back essentially as far as humanity - but we like to keep the stories shorter than that. The story of the proposed invasion of England has to do with the great dynasties of renaissance Europe. England (later Britain) has a magnificent past of battling with the great houses of mainland Europe, especially two of the most powerful: the Bourbons and the Hapsburgs. Again, this tale could go deep into the annals of lineage and shield...ery. But I'm not that smart and you have better things to do. We're going to start this tale with an introduction of a man named Philip.

Philip was born in Valladolid, Spain, in May, 1527, the son of the mighty Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain and a Bunch of Other Stuff, Charles V, then-patriarch of the powerful Hapsburg dynasty. A number of factors helped shape Philip's development, and this is really the genesis of the story.

One thing that the Hapsburgs were good at was getting to be king of stuff. I joked earlier about Charles' holdings, but the joke is based on fact -- at various times Charles ruled massive chunks of Europe: Spain, Burgundy, Flanders, Austria, Germany, Italy, Naples, Sicily, you name it. Charles made the power play of a lifetime when in 1554 he wed his eldest son, Philip, to the 37-year-old Queen of England, Mary I, "Bloody Mary."

This would have been a huge opportunity for Philip. He would not really get to be king of England, just play at it. He would co-rule with Mary for the duration of the marriage, which was not necessarily 'til death, thanks to Mary's father, Henry VIII. Additionally, Philip would, presumably, get to father a child by the Queen of England, entrenching a Hapsburg on the throne of England and making the Hapsburgs the most powerful dynasty this side of the Ming China Zhus.

I mentioned multiple factors, though, and the fact that Philip got one butt cheek on the throne of England was but one of them. Another was that, from his birth, he was promised the world. It was Charles' intent to have Philip inherit his throne as Holy Roman Emperor and King of Everything when he retired, but very early on, Charles' meddling brother, Ferdinand, had other ideas. Ferdinand was very popular with the princes of Germany and Eastern Europe, the same men who got to vote for the Holy Roman Emperor. He was the son-in-law of King Vladislaus of Bohemia and Hungary and was elected king of the Croats. His influence came in handy when, in 1531, he was elected King of the Romans, which was basically the title of the Emperor-Elect or Crown Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, despite the fact that Charles had already named an heir. Charles would remain in power until his abdication in 1556, meaning that for about 25 years, dinners were very tense in the Hapsburg household.

The two Empires of Charles V, not including Spain's holdings in the New World. His possessions as Charles I of Spain are in purple, orange and red, his titles as Charles V of the HRE are in yellow and beige.

On one hand, Charles (and presumably Philip) wanted the majority of the power to pass lineally, to Philip. Ferdinand, however, was the elected protector of much of Eastern Europe, and had been elected the successor to the Empire by the German princes. Charles brokered another deal for Philip. Upon Charles' retirement, the Empire would pass to Ferdinand. The next successor to the Empire, however, was to be Philip, not Ferdinand's son, Maximilian. Upon Ferdinand's death, Philip was to take the empire, allowing Maximilian to become King of the Romans and heir apparent to the empire.

It shook down quite differently, however. As expected, in 1555, Charles left his Spanish Empire to his son, Philip, and the Holy Roman Empire passed, as agreed upon, to Ferdinand. While much more went into this discussion, the German princes worked hard to debase Philip as an Imperial claimant, and in the same year he ascended to the throne of Spain, Philip sensed the tides of change, and relinquished his claim on the Holy Roman Empire. Feeling thoroughly cheated, Philip never would get to be King of the Romans, and never tasted the throne of his father's Holy Roman Empire.

But, hey, you win some, you lose some. Losing out on the chance to be the most powerful man in the world probably didn't thrill Philip, but he was in charge of the budding Spanish Empire, and he still had that thing in England going for him.

Except he really didn't. We mentioned earlier that Philip's English kingship was dependent on Mary being around - he was king only as long as he was married to the queen. In 1558, just as everyone was sorting out their roles after the great Charles' retirement, Mary died, leaving no heirs.

Philip was so heartbroken by his wife's death that he immediately proposed to her younger sister, Elizabeth I, his only real chance to stay in London. It didn't work, and he was rebuked. On a side note, the relationship between Philip and Elizabeth is pretty fascinating. The rebuke likely hurt Philip's pride, but he continued to be amicable with Elizabeth, standing up for her to the Pope himself when the holy man wanted her excommunicated as a Protestant. However, their relationship was to prove rocky, and for largely religious reasons (the failed proposal probably didn't help), they would find themselves embittered enemies.

And so, by the mid-1550s, we have a man, Philip, who was supposed to be the most powerful man, perhaps who ever lived. The King of the World. And yet, one way or another, he had had his various titles stripped from him - or as he might very well have believed, stolen from him. His uncle and cousin conspired to snatch away the Empire, and the Protestant whore queen of England wouldn't let him rule her people, either. What we are left with is a slighted man with a very personal enemy, and the power of a world-leading nation at his disposal.

As is often the case in history, we can here ask ourselves, 'What would I do? What would you do?' The problem with asking these questions is that the issue becomes subjective, which is something we don't want. We are inclined to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt. Of course, we would take the benevolent route, the logical route. But, people are vain. People are selfish. And Philip did what many people would do - he set out to get what he believed already belonged to him.

Mediohombre: Part 3 - Cartagena

Part 1
Part 2
 
Alright, let's bring this home. At this juncture, I assume we've all done our required reading. Part 1 of this mini-series details the building of the legacy that is Don Blas de Lezo, the outstanding naval man of 18th century Spain. Part 2 is kind of a condensed course on the War of Jenkins' Ear - deteriorating international relations between Britain and Spain, culminating with a series of raids on Spanish colonies by Vice Admiral Edward Vernon, leading us to his eventual assault on Cartagena.

Finally, our tales converge -- those of Admiral Blas de Lezo and aggressive British imperialist ambition in the Caribbean. On 4 March, 1741, an intimidating fleet sailed into the waters off of Cartagena under the command of Vernon and troop commander Thomas Wentworth. This fleet consisted of 29 ships of the line, 22 frigates, 135 troop transports, 15 400 sailors, and 12 000 marines and militiamen.

I haven't spoken with the man, but Vernon was surely confident of his mission. With six ships he had captured one of Spain's key cities, and he now stood on a flagship in command of over 27 000 men. Given his royal treatment in the preceding winter, he may have fancied himself a conqueror, or envisioned a place among the Pantheon of British admiralty. Howard - Blake - Vernon. In the study of history we often observe moments and wonder what people may have felt. I can only imagine the supreme self-assurance that must have been flitting across his mind as he floated in those Colombian waters that spring day.

He was not wrong to be content. Ready to repel him was Blas de Lezo, supposed to be on a relaxed retirement detail, and some 4000 military personnel, only 3000 of them actual marines and regulars. He also boasted a whopping naval component of 6 ships, and assorted gun batteries.

De Lezo was severely outgunned and outmanned, but he was as prepared as a retired middle-aged man could hope to be. Even so, Don Blas knew he could not defeat such a force with muscle or tactic, so he turned to his greatest ally. More than flesh or steel, de Lezo would use the Colombian environment. His plan was to delay the advance of the British as long as possible, until the onset of the Colombian rainy season, when further military action would be impossible. His plan, as they often did, worked brilliantly.

The only way for the British fleet to get to the Cartagenan harbor, and near to the town, or the nearby Fort San Lazaro, was through the Boca Chica Channel. Therefore, the British naval attack worked its way up this channel, facing fire from the various forts around the town, as well as de Lezo's six ships. Considering the odds, the six Spanish ships held their own quite well. De Lezo, at one point, captured two British ships and scuttled them in the channel in order to further delay Vernon's progress. At the same time, the British had to try and take each fort they came across, taking the time to soften or breach the fort with ships' guns, or, even moretime-consuming, constructing gun batteries on land. These forts were defended fiercely, and de Lezo's ships made excellent account of themselves, and not unlike the Persians at Thermopylae, the British had to fight tooth and nail for every inch of the channel.

Even so, the odds were insurmountable for the Spanish defenders, and on 16 April, more than a month after arriving at Cartagena, Vernon cleared the harbor beaches with gunshot and the British troop commander, Thomas Wentworth, put boots on the sand, a ready target already in mind. The taking of San Lazaro was crucial, as it looked down upon the city. When in Spanish hands it made assault on Cartagena nearly impossible; and if the British took it, they could bombard the city and force a prompt surrender, which at this point, fighting relentless Spaniards and every disease imaginable for the past month, must have sounded fantastic to the British attackers. Knowing this, de Lezo dug in around San Lazaro, constructing a trench and clearing firing lines around the fort.

At this point I would like to address a key difference between de Lezo and Vernon - the relationship each man had with his partner in battle. De Lezo had to work with Sebastian de Eslava, Viceroy of New Granada (modern-day Colombia). In the previous year, de Lezo had worked hard to upgrade Cartagena's defenses, and his work ethic purportedly ruined his relationship with the Viceroy, who was, technically, in charge.Don Blas, however, did not let this stop him from making the necessary improvements to the defenses and preparing for just such an attack as the pair were now facing.

Conversely, Vernon was in business with Wentworth, and their sour relationship was one of the key factors in Britain's failure. The assault on San Lazaro in April was Vernon's idea, and according to historians, Wentworth, in charge of land operations, wholly opposed him and did not cooperate or communicate as well as he should have.

Before dawn on 20 April, 1741, approximately 2000 men assaulted fort San Lazaro from various directions, the fort's guns useless in the dark. Defending the fort were 650 men stationed in the aforementioned trenches, de Lezo among them. The image of musket smoke in the softening night, and a one-legged man pacing back and forth, ducking under fire and attempting to rally what should have been a futile defense, is fantastic.

The attack was slow in starting, hampered from the beginning by poor communication, and shortly after the battle begun, the sun came up and the fort began bombarding the British troops, forcing the ladder-carriers to run for cover. At 8:00, Spanish troops charged from the city and threatened to attack the British force from the rear, forcing Wentworth to sound the retreat.

The battle was quick and dirty, and may only have proved a minor setback in a larger campaign, but Don Blas had achieved his objective. It was the end of April, and the town still stood. The rainy season had come. On 25 April, Wentworth fell back to Jamaica, and was gone by the end of May. Interestingly, on 17 May, Britain was prepared to celebrate another grand victory from Vernon, 'Scourge of Spain.' Special medals were minted but never circulated. Like a Roman general hunting a triumph, Vernon could see his legend dimming by the hour. After the fiasco at Cartagena, Britain's pride was wounded and Vernon was left scrambling to recollect his reputation.

After a brief stay in Jamaica, Vernon steered his attack now toward Cuba, but this venture would prove quite futile. Landing at Guantanamo Bay in early August, Wentworth and his 3000 troops had stalled due to disease and fatigue. They would camp for four months, attempting to regain their footing, but after more than two-thirds of his force was stricken with fever, and having suffered hundreds of casualties to Cuban guerrillas, the fleet departed for England.

Vernon's failure in Cuba can be largely attributed to de Lezo's success at Cartagena. After two months in Colombia, the assault force was nearly decimated, either by fighting or disease. Vernon arrived at Cartagena in March with 12 000 soldiers and 51 ships. He sailed into Guantanamo Bay five months later with 3000 British troops and 21 ships.

Not only was the force a fraction of its original size, but those that remained were hardly in fighting condition. Within days of landing in Cuba, they were too sick or spent to continue the 45-mile march to Havana, and their confidence was undoubtedly shaken from the awful conditions, hard fighting, and sound defeat at the hands of Blas de Lezo.

The Spanish admiral would not get the opportunity to revel in his success, however. While fighting at San Lazaro, he was shot in his one good arm and died of infection the following September, his ability to trade body parts for military victories culminating in an epic achievement at Cartagena. He managed to use his surroundings as effectively as any field general, and displayed the steadfast mindset necessary to hold out in a near-hopeless situation, checking the British assault at its beginning and potentially saving large portions of Hispanic America for Spain. The impact of Don Blas' victory is larger than a Colombian city, and extends beyond a nine-year war of vanity.



"If I had been in Puerto Belo you would not have assaulted the fortresses of my master the King with impunity, because I would have supplied the valour the defenders of the Puerto Belo lacked, and checked their cowardice."

     - Blas de Lezo in a letter to Vice Admiral Vernon, on hearing  of the assault on Portobello

Mediohombre: Part 2 - The War of Jenkins' Ear

Okay, quiz time. After reading Part 1 of the series, what two things have we learned? That's right:

a) Don Blas de Lezo is hard as fuck
b) In the early 18th century, the British and Spanish did not play well together

The latter makes sense: as two of the three main nations still trying to craft empires at this time, it was natural that the two superpowers would butt heads on occasion. But in the early 1700s, Britain (and we can call them Britain as of 1707) and Spain were like two young brothers - they simply refused to get along.

During Blas de Lezo's lifetime, the two countries went to war three times: in the war of the Spanish Succession from 1701-1714, in the minor war of 1727-1729, and the awesomely-named War of Jenkins' Ear 1739-1748. The final one is notable for a few reasons, however.

The first is that it will be the ultimate proving ground for the longtime scourge of the Royal Navy, our hero, Don Blas. Second, the Anglo-Spanish War of 1739 would mark a new low (perhaps an all-time low) in the relationship of the two great nations. In previous wars, the fighting had been over tangible things: in 1701 it was thrones. In 1727 is was Gibraltar. The War of Jenkins' Ear was fought essentially because relations had degenerated to that point. The rivalry - and the hatred  - between Britain and Spain, and between Britain and the Bourbons, was simply beginning to boil over.

Following the War of the Spanish Succession, Spain had granted England an asiento, or, the right to sell slaves to Spanish colonies. After the Anglo-Spanish War of 1727-1729, however, Spain won the right to stop and search British vessels in order to ensure that their business in Spanish waters was asiento-related. In the early 1730s, however, relations between the two navies hit rock bottom. Being stopped and boarded at random was an extreme inconvenience for British slavers, and at the same time, the Spanish navy began to grow more and more suspicious of British traders for abusing their trade agreement. Imagine that any time you drove, you were liable to be pulled over by a policeman who is certain that you are hiding narcotics in your car, which he can search without a warrant. Rising tensions seem understandable. Stories like the one of shipmaster Robert Jenkins became more and more common:

In 1731, Jenkins' Rebecca was stopped by the Spanish La Isabella, accused of piracy, and boarded. Jenkins showed the Spanish sailors his slaves, and, for good measure, insulted the Spanish commander, one Julio Leon Fandino. In return, Fandino drew his cutlass and cut off Jenkins' ear, picked it up and handed it back to him. A merchant, Jenkins couldn't do anything about it at the time, but what he could do was talk. He returned to Britain and told his story to anyone who would listen, including the King of England. In March 1738, Jenkins brought his story, and his ear, to the House of Commons.

Jenkins' story, and ones like it, led to significant pressure from the British public, and in 1739 a British squadron was sent to Gibraltar (which was by then recently under British control), as well as reinforcements to the Caribbean. Britain was preparing for war with Spain for the third time in 40 years. When Spain demanded financial compensation for threatening the Spanish population of Gibraltar, Britain asked the Spanish to renounce their 'visitation clause' to Gibraltar (it is important to remember the importance Gibraltar played in the previous two wars of the 18th century). Spanish King Phillip V said no thanks, but we will annul the asiento and seize all British ships in Spanish harbors. Britain declared war on October 23, 1739.

At this point, more than any practical offense, the boundless pride of the budding British Empire had been wounded. Future revered prime minister William Pitt couldn't resist an opportunity to insult the Spanish: "It is vain to negotiate and make treaties if there is not the Dignity and Valour to enforce the observance of them." The British, hubris stinging, decided, in the words of Lawrence James, "...that Spain had failed to uphold her obligations to Britain and therefore needed to be reminded of them in a way that would deter any future backsliding. The navy was the obvious means of bringing home to Spain the folly of meddling with British trade. The doctrine of the corrective use of seapower which later, and after many applications, would be known as gunboat diplomacy was born."

James also notes that little thought went into how the Spanish would be punished - the Commons had visions of "...the campaigns of Drake and Morgan with warships returning to British ports crammed with the silver and gold of the Spanish Indies." This is important, and it reminds me of an instance of the shoe being on the other foot: the 1588 Spanish Armada.

The Armada was launched hastily, with questionable intentions and incredibly poor planning and leadership. The result was one of the most embarrassing military failures in recorded history. The adventure on which the British were about to embark was not quite of that magnitude, but it was launched rapidly, for reasons that can be at best described as silly, and the results would reflect that. Like a slighted sibling, Britain wanted only to lash out in anger, and the War of Jankins' Ear was the result. James continues: "... a war, begun in anger, resolved itself into a series of blows delivered randomly against Spain's empire and trade."

James brings up another key point here. This was not a war fought in Barcelona, or Gibraltar. This war was fought primarily in the colonies. And, unlike the Caribbean fighting in the War of the Spanish Succession, these were not minor skirmishes or failed raids: Britain was playing for keeps. What came of the war would have a lasting impact on the Caribbean.

Shortly after Jenkins' testimony in the Commons in March, 1738, the House requested that King George II solve the issue with the Spanish. When treaty talks, the Convention of Pardo, dissolved in early 1739, George gave permission to the navy to explore means of maritime revenge on Spain on 10 July, and Vice Admiral Edward Vernon (I love old-timey navy names) and a squadron were dispatched to the West Indies ten days later, though the war was not official until mid-October.

On 22 November, Vernon and six ships of the line took the silver export town of Portobello, Panama in a 24-hour period. They remained there for three weeks until the vital structures of the town were destroyed (fortifications, docks, warehouses), then departed. As they had hoped, this assault severely damaged the town's financial and maritime capabilities.

The attack on Portobello had the English in high spirits. Vernon returned to England for the winter of 1739-40 as the toast of the empire. He spent much of 1740 as the guest of honor at elaborate parties and ceremonies. Several roads and areas in Great Britain were named for the victory, towers were erected, and Thomas Arne composed Rule Britannia ("Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves!"). The fact that Portobello was a scarcely-defended shipping town was apparently of little concern (Vernon and his Caribbean ventures would continue to be remembered differently in Britain than in the rest of the world -- interestingly, the Royal Naval Museum website describes his attack on Portobello: "Against the odds, Vernon was able to not only capture the town's fort, but also the town itself."). In 1740, British imperialism was hardly 30 years old, and its citizenry, admiralty, and government were all excited at the prospect of expanding their empire in the West Indies, which at that point consisted largely of Jamaica and some other small holdings (Barbados, Bermuda, Virgin Islands, etc).

As a result, in 1741, Vernon was dispatched to the Caribbean again, this time not to attempt to maim Spain's colonial economy, but to challenge the very presence of Spain in the Caribbean. At the time, Spain had four main bastions of power in the West Indies: Santiago de Cuba, Vera Cruz in modern Mexico, Portobello, and Cartagena in Colombia. Santiago de Cuba was important as it was a stepping stone to the port city of Havana, which was an important port for all of Spanish America. Portobello was rendered useless for years to come, so the main targets for Vernon's second expedition were Cuba, Vera Cruz, and Cartagena. He chose the latter, and the effects would be long-lasting. A legend was born, a legend was tarnished, and the fate of the Caribbean sea was decided.

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This is Part 2 of a three-part series on Don Blas de Lezo and his impact on the colonial world. Part 3 is written and should be up shortly, so be sure to check it out. Thanks for reading. 

Mediohombre: Part 1 - The Life of Don Blas de Lezo

The 18th and 19th centuries were some of the most exciting times in the history of history. The world was one giant opportunity for swashbuckling adventure, and many men (and women) took advantage of it. This was a breeding ground for unquestionable badasses, but this time period was also notable for the developing power struggle between the Western European nation-states that vied for power over the rest of the world.

Today I would like to examine two of these things at once: the power struggle in a certain part of the world, and one of the greatest seafaring men ever produced. Vastly underrated and ignored in the English-speaking world, this man was not just an epic seaman and warrior, but a tough son of a bitch who managed to have a lasting effect on the way the map is drawn today. This is the story of Don Blas de Lezo y Olavarrieta.

Blas de Lezo was born in 1689 in the shipbuilding port town of Pasajes in northern Spain. This sights and sounds of his hometown likely influenced his future, and fed a young affinity for the sea. Basque historian Conde de Llobregat wrote that "This background and the fantastic tales that he must have heard from the lips of the ships' captains, most certainly friends of his father and grandfather, like them gentlemen of the sea, influenced not a little the direction of the character of Don Blas, who soon began to show his [sea] leanings."

The young man was fueled not only by his surroundings: his aforementioned father and grandfather were men of the sea, his father a captain descended from a line of nobles and sailors. His Basque heritage is not to be ignored either. The people of the Steppe are known for their relationship with the horse, but northern Spain produced some of the greatest sailing men that ever lived. The Basques had documented whaling expeditions a 1300 years ago, and were some of the earliest cod-fishers off the coast of Newfoundland in the 15th and 16th centuries. The Basques were credited with the invention of the European rudder, and were the first people to circumnavigate the globe, as part of Magellan's expedition from 1519-1522. Blas de Lezo had sailing in his blood.

Don Blas was schooled in France as a child, then joined the Spanish Navy when he came of age. Of course, 'of age' meant 13 years old (some sources say 15, but he supposedly joined in 1702. I'm a historian, not a math whiz, but I think I can handle this one). In any case, Blas de Lezo joined up and was immediately baptized in fire in the War of the Spanish Succession.

Serving as a midshipman, de Lezo wasted no time earning a reputation as a skilled an valiant seaman. Early in his career, serving aboard the flagship of fleet commander Conde de Tolosa, de Lezo lost his leg fighting a squadron of Dutch warships near Malaga. According to legend, de Lezo neither received anesthetic nor made a soudn during the amputation, and his toughness combined with his aptitude and valor under fire earned him a recommendation from de Tolosa directly to King Phillip, which resulted in de Lezo promotion to sub-lieutenant. As mentioned, the dates are a bit hazy, but we do know that these things happened before the man had turned 16.

In 1706 de Lezo was pulled into French waters He lost an eye defending the fort of Sainte Catherine at the French port of Toulon in 1707, and was promoted to lieutenant in 1708. In 1710 he was granted his own frigate, and his defeat of the heavily-armed East India privateer Stanhope was a much-celebrated (and then-unheard-of) victory. Stanhope, besides being one of the funniest comedians working today, was one of just eleven ships de Lezo captured between 1710 and the end of the war four years later.

In a startling display of ability, de Lezo outmaneuvered the much more powerful Stanhope. Here is Cortellini's rendition of his frigate, 'crossing the T' and firing broadside into the larger ship's stern.

The great man finally lost a third part of his anatomy when his right arm was mangled by grapeshot while leading a successful amphibious assault on the long-besieged Barcelona, an attack that broke the back of
the Hapsburgs and essentially closed the war. Don Blas had entered the war a boy and left it a legend, still just 25 years old. Immediately after the war, his reward for outstanding service was the high honor of escorting newly-undisputed King Phillip's new bride, Elisabeth of Parma, to Spain.

Two years after the war, in 1716, de Lezo was given command of his first ship of the line, the 60-gun Lanfranco, and promoted the the rank of captain. Our hero then spent the next 14 years running missions for Hispanic Maerica, first as a convoy guard, then opposing pirate activities in the West Indies (modern Caribbean). In 1725 he married a Peruvian woman, Josepha Pacheco of Arica, and their first child, named for his father, was baptized early in 1726. De Lezo would remain active on the seas, despite his new family: when war broke out between Britain and Spain in 1727, within the first year de Lezo had captured six British and Dutch armed merchant ships, two of which he added to his own fleet, and took three million pesos's worth of loot.

The Anglo-Spanish war wound to a close in 1729, and the following year de Lezo requested that he be moved out of the Caribbean and closer to home. Once in Spain, he was granted his first leave in nearly thirty years of fighting, and King Phillip, who had always coveted Don Blas, personally promoted him to the rank of commodore.

De Lezo's leave would prove to be short-lived, as a special job called him back to action. In 1731 he was given command of the Mediterranean squadron and instructed to play the role of collector. Don Blas was dispatched to   Genoa to extract a sum of two million pesos owed to Spain, a debt long overdue. In December he arrived at Genoa with six ships, demanded the money in full, and, feeling that Spain had been insulted, called for a city-wide salute to the Spanish flag. When the leaders of Genoa balked at this request, de Lezo motioned toward his timepiece and said that they had mere hours to comply, and if they failed, he would 'raze the city, reducing it ashes.' The Genoans opted not to call him on this threat, producing the money immediately. Unfortunately, de Lezo sailed off after receiving the payment, and whether or not the salute happened has been lost to history.

De Lezo spent the rest of the 1730s doing what any good Christian would, fighting the Ottoman Corsairs. One of the highlights was his part in the massive assault on Oran in 1732, retaking the city for the Spanish. He played a pivotal role as fleet commander in the amphibious assault that included 30 000 Spanish troops and almost 600 ships. Though the city was retaken into Spanish custody, Bey Hussan (who had taken it for the Ottomans in 1708) managed to escape the city and return to besiege to Spanish garrison. De Lezo and his fleet drove off the assault, and, more than that, pursued the Algerian flagship, hit its powder stores and blew it up. JD Harbron suggests that de Lezo's experience at Oran would prove invaluable later in his career (hint, hint).

De Lezo spent the remainder of the decade battling pirates in the Mediterranean, then retired to Cartagena in 1740. The post was largely a cushy reward for 39 years of distinguished service, a high-paying, low-profile job "guarding" the city and nearby Fort San Lazaro. One would think that after a career of daring successes on the open seas, Don Blas would find his immortal moment at some point during his illustrious career, but it was during his retirement at Cartagena that de Lezo's name would pass into legend. It is also de Lezo's actions in Colombia that make him a relevant historical figure, and not just a fierce bane of pirates and Brits. In Cartagena, Blas de Lezo would change the course of history.

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This concludes Part 1 of the three-part series on Don Blas and his impact on the Mediterranean. Part 2 should be out shortly, so tune in. Thanks for reading.

First Post

Welcome, all who are interested in the subject of world history, but especially, those of you who, like me, don't exactly get an electric charge from reading historical texts or modern-day books. This is mostly a test post that nobody will ever see, but regardless, let's see what comes of this.