Big Chief Elizabeth: The Adventures and Fate of the First English Colonists in America by Giles Milton Page A
Authors: Giles Milton
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Ralegh’s preparations, but her attempts to monitor the assembling of his fleet had been dealt a serious blow when her ambassador, Bernadino de Mendoza, was expelled from England after being informed “that Her Majesty was much displeased with me on account of the efforts I had made to disturb her country.” He was told that “it was the queen’s will that I should leave the country without fail in fifteen days.” This was unwelcome news to the Spanish: Mendoza had built up an efficient network of spies in England—several of whom had infiltrated Ralegh’s project—and had hoped to keep a close eye on developments. Now, it seemed, his spy ring would be leaderless.
The ex-ambassador realised his predicament and gave full vent to his Castilian temper, informing the queen’s council that “I was not fond of staying in another person’s house as an unwelcome guest.” He made a secret vow to work against the queen, recording that “as I have apparently failed to please the queen as a minister of peace, she would in future force me to try to satisfy her in war.” He meant every word, and from now on he became one of Elizabeth’s bitterest enemies, directing his network of spies and informers from his new base in France.
The information he received was not always accurate, but by February he was able to scribble a coded letter to King Philip informing him that the queen had given Ralegh the Tiger “with five guns on each side of the ship and two demi-culverins in the bows.” Six weeks
later, he scored a notable success when one of his secret agents, Pedro de Cubiaur, managed to smuggle a man into Plymouth harbour and infiltrate the dock workers and suppliers. He produced a detailed report on “the number of the ships and men, and quantity of stores,” and the information he sent to Mendoza caused sufficient alarm for a Spanish frigate to be dispatched to America—the first of many—to determine whether or not an advance party had already established a base.
Mendoza overestimated the strength of Ralegh’s fleet, but almost certainly underestimated the number of men. Sir Walter probably intended the total complement to be about 600, of whom perhaps half would settle in America. But when he began recruiting in the West Country ports, he suddenly found himself up against an intractable problem that had been more than eighteen years in the making. For at the very time he was trying to persuade men to settle in America, the haggard survivors of Sir John Hawkins’s 1567 expedition—colleagues of Davy Ingrams—finally returned to England, bringing with them stories of such unspeakable brutality that even the hardiest of mariners began to think twice about setting sail for a land still claimed by Spain.
One of these survivors was Miles Philips, who had foolishly chosen to throw himself on the mercy of the Spanish rather than join Ingrams on his year-long walk across America. He soon regretted his decision, for it began a sixteen-year ordeal in which he and his companions suffered terrible atrocities. Their reception at a Spanish settlement in Mexico had been ominous enough: they were locked in “a hogstie” and given pigswill to eat. When they asked for a surgeon to dress their wounds, they were thrown in prison and told “that we should have none other surgeon but the hangman, which should sufficiently heale us of all our griefes.”
In 1571, they learned some disturbing news that was to haunt English mariners for years to come. King Philip II had become increasingly concerned that the purity of the Catholic faith was under threat in his New World empire and ordered the dreaded
henchmen of the Inquisition to begin their grisly work in the Americas, rooting out heretics and torturing them to death. “We were a very good booty and pray to the Inquisitors,” Philips later recalled, “[and were] committed to prison in sundry darke dungeons where we could not see but by candle-light.”
The unfortunate
The ex-ambassador realised his predicament and gave full vent to his Castilian temper, informing the queen’s council that “I was not fond of staying in another person’s house as an unwelcome guest.” He made a secret vow to work against the queen, recording that “as I have apparently failed to please the queen as a minister of peace, she would in future force me to try to satisfy her in war.” He meant every word, and from now on he became one of Elizabeth’s bitterest enemies, directing his network of spies and informers from his new base in France.
The information he received was not always accurate, but by February he was able to scribble a coded letter to King Philip informing him that the queen had given Ralegh the Tiger “with five guns on each side of the ship and two demi-culverins in the bows.” Six weeks
later, he scored a notable success when one of his secret agents, Pedro de Cubiaur, managed to smuggle a man into Plymouth harbour and infiltrate the dock workers and suppliers. He produced a detailed report on “the number of the ships and men, and quantity of stores,” and the information he sent to Mendoza caused sufficient alarm for a Spanish frigate to be dispatched to America—the first of many—to determine whether or not an advance party had already established a base.
Mendoza overestimated the strength of Ralegh’s fleet, but almost certainly underestimated the number of men. Sir Walter probably intended the total complement to be about 600, of whom perhaps half would settle in America. But when he began recruiting in the West Country ports, he suddenly found himself up against an intractable problem that had been more than eighteen years in the making. For at the very time he was trying to persuade men to settle in America, the haggard survivors of Sir John Hawkins’s 1567 expedition—colleagues of Davy Ingrams—finally returned to England, bringing with them stories of such unspeakable brutality that even the hardiest of mariners began to think twice about setting sail for a land still claimed by Spain.
One of these survivors was Miles Philips, who had foolishly chosen to throw himself on the mercy of the Spanish rather than join Ingrams on his year-long walk across America. He soon regretted his decision, for it began a sixteen-year ordeal in which he and his companions suffered terrible atrocities. Their reception at a Spanish settlement in Mexico had been ominous enough: they were locked in “a hogstie” and given pigswill to eat. When they asked for a surgeon to dress their wounds, they were thrown in prison and told “that we should have none other surgeon but the hangman, which should sufficiently heale us of all our griefes.”
In 1571, they learned some disturbing news that was to haunt English mariners for years to come. King Philip II had become increasingly concerned that the purity of the Catholic faith was under threat in his New World empire and ordered the dreaded
henchmen of the Inquisition to begin their grisly work in the Americas, rooting out heretics and torturing them to death. “We were a very good booty and pray to the Inquisitors,” Philips later recalled, “[and were] committed to prison in sundry darke dungeons where we could not see but by candle-light.”
The unfortunate
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