Roots of Sustainability in the Iberian Empires: Shipbuilding and Forestry, 14th - 19th Centuries [1 ed.] 9781032313375, 9781032313382, 9781003309253

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Routledge Research in Early Modern History

ROOTS OF SUSTAINABILITY IN THE IBERIAN EMPIRES SHIPBUILDING AND FORESTRY, 14TH–19TH CENTURIES Edited by Koldo Trapaga-Monchet, Álvaro Aragón-Ruano and Cristina Joanaz de Melo

Roots of Sustainability in the Iberian Empires

This book aims to shed light on the roots of sustainability in the Iberian Peninsula that lie in the interrelations between shipbuilding and forestry from the 14th to the 19th centuries, combining various geographical scales (local, regional and national) and different timespans (short-term and longterm studies). Three main themes are discussed in depth here: firstly, the roots of current conservationism in the Iberian Peninsula; the evolution of the forest policies set in motion at the local, regional and national levels to meet the demand for wood and timber, and the long-standing impact of naval empirical forestry on the conservation and transformation of the forest landscape. Therefore, the book attempts, on the one hand, to unravel the forest policies and empirical forestry implemented in the Iberian Peninsula as the roots or origins of what we refer to nowadays as “sustainability”,  and to assess the contribution of imperial forestry to landscape planning and the conservation of forest resources, on the other, and, finally, to break away from the prevailing theological narrative that shipbuilding was the main agent of forest destruction in the Early Modern Iberian Peninsula, for which both quantitative and qualitative analyses will be conducted. This book could be of maximum interest to environmental and social historians and researchers, and anyone devoted to conducting research on  the emergence and evolution of the concept of “sustainability” with respect to the governance and the historical transformation of woodlands around the world. Koldo Trapaga-Monchet is currently an Associate Professor of Early Modern History at King Juan Carlos University. His two main research lines revolve around the politics and governance of the royal forests and woodlands in the Iberian Peninsula from the 15th to the 17th centuries, especially in regard to shipbuilding, and the study of the political performance and the royal households of Don Juan José de Austria in the Hispanic Monarchy. Álvaro Aragón-Ruano took his degree in history at the University of Deusto (1992) and later moved to the University of the Basque Country, where

he is currently acting as Aggregate Professor, obtaining his PhD by means of research into woodland in Guipúzcoa during the Early Modern era. Since then, he has spent over 20 years analysing different aspects of Basque forest history. Nowadays, he is focused on Basque-Navarrese woodlands’ historical management and sustainability during the Medieval and Early Modern eras. Cristina Joanaz de Melo is Integrated Researcher at Universidade NOVA de Lisboa (IHC-Lab:in2past) and Invited Professor at Universidade Autónoma de Lisboa, teaching a course on “Environmental History”. She is a founding member of the Portuguese Network of Environmental History (REPORTHA 2015). Her PhD, on Hydrological and Forestry Policies in Portugal (and Southern Europe), 1830s to 1880s, was taken at the European University Institute (Florence, 2010). Working and publishing on natural resources, hunting and forests since the 1990s, her current interests lie in natural resource recovery, renewal and compensation due to human agency, from the 1400s to the 1800s, across the Iberian Peninsula and naval empires.

Routledge Research in Early Modern History

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Roots of Sustainability in the Iberian Empires Shipbuilding and Forestry, 14th–19th Centuries Edited by Koldo Trapaga-Monchet, Álvaro Aragón-Ruano and Cristina Joanaz de Melo

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First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 selection and editorial matter, Koldo Trapaga Monchet, Álvaro Aragón-Ruano and Cristina Joanaz de Melo; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Koldo Trapaga Monchet, Álvaro Aragón-Ruano and Cristina Joanaz de Melo to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-032-31337-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-31338-2 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-30925-3 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253 Typeset in Sabon by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.

Contents

List of Mapsix List of Figuresx List of Tablesxi Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos: Woods play hide-and-seek in the long run through sustainable management

1

KOLDO TRAPAGA-MONCHET, ÁLVARO ARAGÓN-RUANO, AND CRISTINA JOANAZ DE MELO

1 The global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries: Interdisciplinarity, research problems and the ForSEAdiscovery project

31

ANA CRESPO SOLANA

2 Durable forests in a tensile state: Intensive and extensive approaches to naval forestry in Early Modern Spain

54

JOHN T. WING

3 Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country during the Early Modern period

75

ÁLVARO ARAGÓN-RUANO

4 The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding: A historicalarchaeological view of Biscayan shipbuilding and its forestry tradition in the 16th–17th centuries BEÑAT EGUILUZ-MIRANDA

105

viii  Contents 5 The beginnings of the preservation and development of Spanish forestry for naval construction: The legal and silvicultural enquiries conducted by the Royal Council of Castile in Guipúzcoa (1569)

130

ALFREDO JOSÉ MARTÍNEZ-GONZÁLEZ

6 “In all this kingdom there is no timber”: Wood for the king’s galleys: exploitation and conservation of the Catalan forests in the age of Lepanto

156

A. JORGE AGUILERA-LÓPEZ

7 “A destruction that preserves”: Maritime warfare, empirical forestry and sustainability in Portugal (13th–17th centuries)

183

KOLDO TRAPAGA-MONCHET

8 Sustainability assessment of forest resources in the geographical area of application of the 1546 Cork Oak Law

209

RAÚL ROMERO-CALCERRADA, AND KOLDO TRAPAGA-MONCHET

9 Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies from the Navarrese Pyrenees for the Royal Navy at the end of the 18th century

227

ÓSCAR RIEZU-ELIZALDE

10 Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s: A history of forests compensation

251

CRISTINA JOANAZ DE MELO

Index

278

Maps

3.1 Area of Cantabrian-Pyrenean forestry tradition. 5.1 Itinerary of the route followed by Hernán Suárez de Toledo in his interviews, in accordance with historical 16th-century roads in Guipúzcoa. 6.1 Map of the border between Catalonia and Valencia where Valcanera and Vallivana forests are depicted, as well as the rivers, towns and distances by Giorgio Settala (1589). 6.2 Sketch of the proposed route from Falgós to Roses by Diego de Prado y Tovar. 8.1 A 30- or 60-km (in light grey line) buffer zone stretching from the mouth of the Tagus to the city of Abrantes. Hydrographic basins (in cross contour line) of rivers. In addition, some of the main population centres of the forest districts are included under the forest legislation of the time. 8.2 Estimated limits of the 30-km (in dashed with one dot line) or 60-km (in cross contour line) buffer zone established by the 1546 Cork Oak Law. 8.3 Integrated suitability for Quercus suber (in medium (20%) grey). Estimated limits of the 30-km (in dashed with one dot line) or 60-km (in cross contour line) buffer zone established by the 1546 Cork Oak Law. 9.1 Map comparing the routes of José Eugenio Labiano and Julián Vidaror with relief.

76 138 168 169

215 216

218 230

Figures

3.1 Cover of the book written by Pedro Bernardo Villarreal de Bérriz Máquinas hidráulicas de molinos y herrerías y gobierno de los árboles y montes de Vizcaya, Madrid: 1736.89 3.2 First page of Discurso sobre la plantación del roble, 1775.93 3.3 Last page of Discurso sobre la plantación del roble, 1775.94 4.1 The Biscayan tradition in codos50 (1545–1601). Length, depth, beam, keel (max and min).112 4.2 Examples of pollarded oaks from Lierganes and La Cavada.119 4.3 “Horca y Pendón”.121 5.1 Original manuscript of the questionnaire drawn up by Hernán Suárez de Toledo.135 6.1 The Royal Shipyard of Barcelona.158 6.2 Ground plan of the Shipyard projected for Tortosa by Giovan Battista Calvi (ca. 1552–1555).160 9.1 Photograph of a dam constructed in the Urralegui gully at the beginning of the 20th century.240 9.2 Design of a lock constructed by Pedro Vicente Gambra on the River Irati.240 9.3 Plan of the lock constructed, in Lapabe by Pedro Vicente Gambra following the 1787 flood.244 9.4 Plan of the project proposed by Pedro Vicente Gambra in 1803 for the Eril forests.245

Tables

3.1 Trees planted and guided between 1575 and 160285 3.2 Number of plantings ordered by the forest superintendent in 163186 3.3 Plantings made in Oyarzun (1745–1776) and Rentería (1746–1806)87 3.4 Numbers of available trees in 1749–1750 and 178487 3.5 Forest survey of Guipúzcoa, 178488 3.6 Basque silvicultural essays during the 18th century91 3.7 Comparative lucrativeness of dense versus spaced planting in pollard oaks over a period of 180 years, according to Echeverria (1775) (in reales de vellón)95 4.1 Tonnage of the ships built in Gipuzkoa in the 16th century (after Odriozola Oyarbide)109 4.2 Tonnage and number of ships. All ships were built in Gipuzkoa in the 17th century (after Odriozola Oyarbide)109 5.1 Individual questioned137 7.1 Legislation on plantings in Portugal186 8.1 Approximate area of the buffer zone of 30 km (in dashed with one dot line in Map 8.2) and 60 km (in cross contour line in Map 8.2) of the 1546 Cork Oak Law (in hectares)217 8.2 Extension of the integrated suitability for Quercus suber (in hectares) of the geographical areas studied219 8.3 Assessing the number of trees available in Map 8.3 with a density of 25 trees/ha and cutting rotations of 100, 125 and 150 years220

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos Woods play hide-and-seek in the long run through sustainable management1 Koldo Trapaga-Monchet

King Juan Carlos University, [email protected]

Álvaro Aragón-Ruano

University of Basque Country, [email protected]

Cristina Joanaz de Melo

New University of Lisbon, [email protected] 0.1  Delving into “sustainability” The Brundtland report aims to find a balance between the “needs” of the present generation and the natural and human-induced regeneration of the environment. Therefore, it combines a threefold interconnected reality: social, economic and ecological. Human societies need to use natural resources in a sustainable way to ensure their economic growth. The term “sustainability” appeared for the first time during the 1970s, and it has since been used not only in technological texts but also in government and political documents, though it was the Brundtland report of 1987 which defined “sustainable development” as “the development that meets the needs of the present generation without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs”. 2 During the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development held in Rio de Janeiro in 1992, “sustainability” and “sustainable development” in forest management started being part of the international, global and institutional agendas. However, there is no consensus on the precise meaning of “sustainability”; actually, there is no one definition that is more logical and productive than others. Therefore, as Kidd recommended, it is always advisable to state precisely what the term means when it is employed. That is why even the use of terms such as “sustainable forest management” was controversial, both for those concerned with protecting forests and biodiversity or “conservation” and for those who stressed the enjoyment or “exploitation” of forests for economic purposes. It is true that more than to economic or DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-1

2  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo social elements, the term “sustainability” often refers to ecological viability aimed at preserving the ecological functions of forests, for economic purposes, but paying scarce attention to cultural factors. The economy cannot be understood without the cultural context.3 The human-induced ecological degradation of the past decades has given rise to studies that examine the interactions between human societies (and cultures) and the environment or nature, paving the way for “declensionist narratives” that negatively assess the human impact on the environment. The history of these interactions has therefore become a depressing narrative of the destruction wreaked by societies.4 Similarly, “degradationism” has emphasised the negative role played by humankind in spoiling the ideal “natural” state of the forest environment.5 Environmental history is a consolidated research field that sets out to shed light on the interactions between human societies and the environment where they are settled and on how these interactions have affected both.6 John R. McNeill and others have argued that political and policy-­related environmental history has addressed human efforts to “regulate the relationship between society and nature”. These policies have usually extended “back only to the late nineteenth century. Only in the era since 1880 have States and societies mounted systematic efforts to regulate interactions with the environment”.7 This misconception of history resulted from the use of nation-States as an element of analysis during the take-off of modern science. In this book, we demonstrate how Early Modern Iberian Monarchies systematically sought to regulate the uses of forest resources to ensure their conservation, and replenish forest cover that could be extracted quickly but took a long time to grow back, in what we nowadays refer to as “sustainability”. Such practices were already a reality throughout the Early Modern Age in the Iberian Peninsula regardless of intensive pressure exerted on forest resources during the same period. Both processes co-­existed: the consumption of resources and the replenishment of resources. As it will be demonstrated, forest recovery was thought over, attempted and achieved in a quite significant set of examples. Though the desire for a balanced economy and a sustained yield did not necessarily imply a concern about the degradation of the earth. Nevertheless, as Paul Warde has pointed out, although the concept of “sustainability” did not exist throughout the Early Modern Age, it is possible to uncover practices that resembled the concept.8 “Sustainability” as a political issue did not emerge until the mid-18th century.9 This book shows how, throughout the Early Modern Age, the Monarchies and societies of the Iberian Peninsula developed systematic policies for protecting and conserving the woodlands, as they were aware of the importance of conserving forest resources for the reproduction of society with a view to future generations as well. Consequently, as argued by James C. Scott, authorities and States simplified nature for the purpose of making it more legible, malleable and

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 3 controllable. That way, forests were more easily counted, manipulated, measured and assessed and forest science and geometry allowed the real, diverse and chaotic old-growth forest to be transformed into one that was new, more uniform, monochrome and monocultured. However, this also triggered many problems and conflicts with local communities and traditional practices. Forest management science, which emerged at the end of the 19th century, is presumed to be a reaction to the problems caused by widespread clear-cutting and conifer monocultures, which led to the adoption of forest management approaches based on natural regeneration. Problems caused by monoculture during the 19th and 20th centuries—that is, increasing vulnerability to forest pests, heavy winds and drought—led “sustainability” to be questioned and redefined so that the current forestry paradigm is the result of a shift from the classic conventional determinism and predictability to a more complex adaptive systems theory and nature’s ethics pattern.10 Some of the ideas of “sustainable forestry” (such as maintenance and appropriate enhancement of protective functions in forest management, along with the continuity of other socio-economic functions) thus resemble Early Modern empirical forestry. In Ancient Greek mythology, the god Demiurge shaped the physical world and organised Chaos repeatedly and endlessly over the course of time, intertwining the different material and intellectual dimensions with a common nexus. In a parallel metaphor, during the Early Modern Age, natural and anthropic factors shaped and organised the physical world in the long run, weaving together several strata of woods and woodlands in evolution and, like the Demiurge, producing different stages and layers of afforested landscapes in exactly the same spots, over and over again. Indeed, we will take the approach of the Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos to examine the evolution of different landscapes in the same spaces throughout time, aware that in the mosaic made up of so many different areas of soil occupation, some portions were intentionally left to rest and recover while others were available to supply forest resources for imperial use as well as for many other socio-economic activities.

0.2  The rise of sustainability and woodland governance This part provides a short review of the literature on the birth or origins of sustainability with respect to the formalisation of this concept in environmental disciplinary areas mainly detached from economic science.11 Briefly, with respect to the concept of “sustainability” as sustainable development in the universe of environmental disciplines, scholars have regarded two regions of Europe as the cradle of “sustainability” or “Western environmentalism”. Both laid the foundations for the implementation of conservationist practices to ensure the future availability of natural resources, mainly woodlands. The first region is the German-speaking

4  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo areas of Central Europe, with Carlowitz, and the French Monarchy, with the law of Colbert of 1669. Secondly, the Northern European Empires (especially the British and Dutch) conducted these experiments in their overseas territories. Concerning the Northern European Empires, Richard Grove has stated in various essays that the origins of Western environmentalism can be traced to the experiments that the British, Dutch and French Empires carried out in their overseas territories. The 18th century saw the emergence of a group of “conservationists” who not only aimed to halt deforestation in the tropics but were also aware of the negative impact of deforestation on different areas (climate change, diseases, rainfall, etc.) on a worldwide level. The political and economic expansion of the European powers triggered a consciousness of other environments in European attitudes.12 However, paradoxically, the author acknowledged that the Iberian Empires had developed this awareness when deforestation had occurred in Madeira and the Canary Islands.13 The main differences between the experiences of the Iberian Empires and those of other empires lay in the fact that the former did not build a coherent doctrine around the ecological impact of capitalism and imperial needs: it was not until the mid-seventeenth century that a coherent and relatively organised awareness of the ecological impact of the demands of emergent capitalism and colonial rule started to develop, to grow into a fully-fledged understanding of the limited nature of the earth’s natural resources and to stimulate a concomitant awareness of a need for conservation.14 In contrast, Gregory Barton traced the origins of Western environmentalism to the empire forestry developed by the British Empire in India, especially from 1855 onwards when some lands were reserved as a public trust.15 A few years later, Raji Ravan attempted to unravel the policies implemented by the British Empire to conserve the environment by founding scientific institutions throughout the 1800s and early 1900s. This essay focused on the forestry policies of the British Empire, not only because it created one of the most comprehensive scientific systems for managing the environment but also because it extended to Africa and Asia, leaving “a legacy of eco-development”.16 As for Central Europe, interest in the historical development of forestry, such as research into past woodlands and human—woodland interactions, began with the progression of forest science, primarily in Germany, which was referred to as the starting point of the idea of sustainable development. Forestry science was a mechanism of social and ecological control, simplifying human—nature relations through management planning and accounting schemes. To achieve that aim, a discourse on timber scarcity was developed, which claimed that Germany was undergoing a large-scale

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 5 timber shortage or an ecological bottleneck between 1750 and 1850; in fact, the wood crisis, whether or not real, is considered the necessary condition for the emergence of modern forestry, as it lent it justification and impetus.17 These discourses also considered traditional (Early Modern) forestry and agricultural practices to be inefficient and harmful and held the “perfect” forest to be one of high or timber trees, not fruit trees. That is why, according to Rackham and Saito, coppices, which were used to produce firewood in short and flexible rotation cycles and remained sustainable until the 18th century in Asia and Europe, were alleged to be “cripple stands” and turned into high forests to increase exportable timber yields and finally eradicated.18 Woodlands were converted into a space of monoculture species for the production of timber, replacing the woodlands of the Early Modern Age that were characterised as being spaces with multiple socio-economic uses. However, several authors have warned of the dangers of accepting uncritically these degradation-based interpretations deliberately created by Early Modern ruling elites in order to gain major control over resources. Those arguments should be linked to Early Modern state-building, which triggered many conflicts with local communities as it limited traditional uses of, and access to, forest resources. Paul Warde has analysed the material and immaterial roots of forestry in the Duchy of Wüttemberg by combining power, environment and economy. The author concluded that the woodlands of Württemberg were managed in a “sustainable” way during the Early Modern Age. Although the crisis of overexploitation was local rather than regional as well as temporally limited, the author reminds us of the importance of being cautious about drawing long-term conclusions without considering local and regional short- and mid-term dynamics.19 Bernd Marquardt maintained that the birth of sustainability in the field of law stems from the local legislation first issued in the Middle Ages in Central Europe in response to a wood shortage. 20 More recently, Peter Rückert stated that during the 14th and 15th centuries, the woodlands expanded in Southwest Germany due to lack of human action. The bishops of Würzburg acted upon nature to prevent forest cover from spreading, and this landscape is still predominant nowadays. 21 Abigail P. Dowling and Richard Keyser have edited a monograph in which several authors address the roots of current sustainability, paying special attention to the practices of different economic activities and concluding that conservationist policies were related to production. In the third part of the essay, scholars looked at the roots of forestry conservationism from 1100 onwards. The inhabitants of England, Central Europe and some regions of Eastern Europe were aware that their survival depended on finding a balance between forest use and conservation. These practices can be understood as the roots of what we refer to nowadays as sustainability. 22

6  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo Joachim Radkau noted in Nature and Power that in the Mediterranean region, the forest was not a foundation of power. In contrast, in Central and Western Europe, the climate and weather hazards forced local inhabitants and centralised institutions to take steps to ensure the future availability of woodlands for firewood. The local inhabitants developed empirical practices to guarantee the conservation of the woodlands. Powerful institutions and authorities, in turn, proved capable not only of implementing successful forestry policies or an “institutionalised forestry” based on legal tools and forestry bureaucracy but also of maintaining these policies in the long run and in large geographical areas. These institutions competed among each other to implement better forest conservation practices. This, in turn, triggered an environmental consciousness, which was “chiefly a product of the north”. 23 Indeed, this idea of the “uniqueness” of Central Europe and disregard for the Mediterranean basin is by no means new. In 1911, Bernard E. Fernow wrote a history of forestry in the United States and Europe. He noted that the trade facilities for importing timber and the favourable climate conditions of the Mediterranean area were two factors that explain why Spain and Portugal had no important drivers for establishing sound rational forestry policies. 24 A benign climate was, therefore, an underlying reason for the lack of institutions and relevant authorities in the Mediterranean area. In this book, we argue that the woodlands had been a foundation of power in the Early Modern Iberian Peninsula. Part of these narratives derived from the fact that the history of the woodlands has been written from the viewpoint of Northern and Central European 19th-century liberal nation-States. These authors basically claim that the existence of strong and centralised institutions (if possible, nationStates) was what permitted the conservation of woodlands. Fortunately, Karl Appuhn has contested this vision with respect to Venetian Early Modern forestry. 25 Venetian foresters managed the forests just as well as their Northern European counterparts did. The differences between Venetian forestry and the Northern European models lay in the fact that the Venetians did not regard the woodlands from a profit-driven perspective; rather, they developed a model of preserving nature for which Appuhn coined the term “managerial organicism”.26 Venetian forestry established a unique perception of nature, in which collective interests prevailed over the individual, and forest resources were perceived as crucial resources that the community protected and allocated to different uses. 27 As the idea of moral economy was ingrained in Early Modern European forestry, destruction of the woodlands incurred moral/religious punishments. 28 This model closely matches the dynamics of the Iberian Empires. As Spanish and Portuguese history do not fit the Northern European nation-State model, historical accounts of their Early Modern forestry have been biased. The Iberian Monarchies developed a similar understanding of the woodlands to the Republic of Venice. They were critical resources for

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 7 both local communities and the State, and served different and intertwined socio-economic and political purposes. Accordingly, all the powers and administrative bodies (local, regional and State) sought to regulate access to, and uses and allocation of, the woodlands. The local authorities, State foresters or a combination of both were responsible for implementing the legislation on the ground. Although Portuguese and Hispanic State forestry (Crown) banned local inhabitants’ uses (if not all, a large part of them) of woodland resources, the woodlands could not be managed without engaging local dwellers. 29 Such observations do not intend to overlook the fact that overwhelming quantities of the timber and wood produced were used for shipbuilding by Southern European naval empires. Pressure to obtain forest products was felt in royal and local forests. Whereas in Portugal, logs for shipbuilding were chiefly supplied by the royal forests, in the Spanish Monarchy, timber was mainly extracted from communal lands and “realengo” (land originally owned by the king but granted to the use of towns and communities and eventually appropriated by them), though ecclesiastical and seigniorial preserves from the 16th to the 18th centuries have yet to be studied in the same depth. Indeed, there are scant, if any, analyses of the management of religious and secular forests and even those in communal lands. Even if we assume it is possible that seigniorial forests had also been depleted, Europe did not become a desert devoid of vegetation cover or of trees across such a wide interval of centuries. Indeed, economic history has proved that taxes on production—for instance, on tree fruits— clearly show that these species of flora continued to exist throughout the Portuguese territories.30 Thus, if plant resources were available throughout the entire period, it is reasonable to acknowledge that, once destroyed, forests would have somehow recovered in the long run or simply in due course. Accordingly, much remains to be unravelled about forest recovery, compensation and management practices designed to ensure a lasting supply of trees in future decades or for centuries to come, implemented throughout the entire Early Modern Age and maybe even earlier in the medieval period. It is, therefore, possible that one of the differences between Early Modern Age and 19th-century scientific forestry lay in what a “woodland” or ­“forest” was. As Early Modern Iberian societies largely regarded woodlands as spaces with multiple uses and, therefore, multiple species, it is understandable why 19th-century Portuguese and Spanish authors viewed the Iberian Peninsula as a non-forested area: the predominant landscape was not made up of continuous patches of forest of a single tree species for the production of timber of high quality. Rather, it was a grazing-pasture landscape and forest trees were predominant. As a result, 19th-century authors did not regard forests composed of fruit trees as “forests”.31 Biased perhaps by a utilitarian vision of a forest fit for supplying resources, and nowadays by environmental problems, academics, ecologists and the environmental world have focused their attention on the results of forest

8  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo loss also in the past. So far, analyses of the other side of the problem— what happened to landscapes after the extraction of forest and other wild resources—have been lacking. Although at one point they could have been considered treeless and unfit for serving royal purposes, such specific tree species would have likely recovered in due course. If we consider the above research points, a mismatch emerges between the constant complaint of scarcity of forest resources proclaimed in royal legislation across European Monarchies and the actual non-existence or unavailability of forest resources. The resources occupying the soil were not ready to be used at the royal arsenals. It is thus plausible to think that information about forests in progress or pinewoods in the making, as they were not fit for the purpose of producing timber and wood in a period spanning two or three human generations, would have been omitted from legislation. It would not have been in Crown legislators’ interest to mention such areas in royal laws designed to strengthen control over obtainable goods, especially once the woods were recovering from such losses. Paradoxically, all the above arguments about the destruction of forests do not prove that there was a lack of trees and wilderness. As will be discussed in further depth in the chapters of this book, the economic and social agents that produced restrictive forest legislation focused primarily on identifying woodlands still capable of meeting immediate royal requirements. Those woodlands would have probably been targeted not as resourceless but as being at risk of forest offences against the Crown’s interests and, therefore, needing extra police surveillance. However plausible that reasoning might seem, such uncertainty about the absence of resources raises a wide range of historiographical problems concerning the history of the evolution and management of afforested landscapes. Although the process of forest recovery was not clearly mentioned in legislation, this does not mean to say that landscapes were not recovering and it, therefore, opens the floor for a new debate on forest compensation throughout Early Modern Europe. It may be hypothesised that this process would have occurred in parallel with the pressure exerted upon the same kind of resources. If we consider this void in information and analyses on such a matter, it becomes apparent that general conclusions on perpetual deforestation without compensation do not cover all the dimensions of forest performance in the Early Modern Age. One of the main historiographical issues we address here, then, is that, independently of the fast felling and very slow rhythm of Mediterranean forest growth, the history of forest maintenance and forest recovery from medieval times to the birth of liberalism/ capitalism in the 19th century, in Europe at least, is yet unknown. Indeed, there is a lack of analyses of the cycles of forest recovery and the geographical areas involved, whether or not they were earmarked for producing timber for shipbuilding. Adding to such a void, the main question is, regionally and locally, how did landowners perform the balancing

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 9 act between areas under exploitation and areas of forests left to rest in order to provide resources for various purposes, both Crown and social? This leads to another question about the forest management strategies that may have been pursued during such a long period of time in the Iberian Peninsula and maybe beyond the Pyrenees in royal and other seigniorial woods to permanently guarantee a supply of forest resources of some kind, although they were unfit for royal purposes. Indeed, the possibility is starting to be considered of “silent” earlier concerns about ensuring a supply of resources beyond their mere extraction—in other words, almost sustainable ways of thinking and acting upon forests to guarantee their long-term duration. In order to disentangle such problems and verify whether it is pertinent to speak of sustainability in the Iberian Peninsula back in the Early Modern Age, it is crucial to analyse in greater depth past practices with respect to vegetation compensation, both natural and human-induced: the renewal, recovery and rescuing of woods, woodlands and parks eventually through a proto-landscape design that reveals concerns quite similar to those that drive the sustainable management of forests nowadays. The results of such a study might challenge or, at the minimum, counterbalance previous analyses of the efficiency of Portuguese and Spanish forest management, at least—but not only—with respect to royal forests and their recovery from the Middle Ages onwards, even in contexts of severe pressure. However, this book marks only the first step towards such ambitious objectives by addressing the entanglements between forestry and shipbuilding. Indeed, the industry of building ships for war and maritime trade is the best focal point for analysing this topic, not because of the quantity of wood it consumed but because of the quality of the latter. It took between at least 70 and 100 years of careful management for the tree species employed to reach a state suitable for shipbuilding. Forest management therefore involved and required thinking ahead.

0.3 Arguments supporting the tale of deforestation in the Early Modern Iberian Peninsula 0.3.1  Under-development of the centralised State Scholars generally take a negative outlook when it comes to assessing the forestry policies of the Early Modern Iberian Peninsula. In 1815, the wellknown Portuguese forester José Andrada e Silva published an essay concerning the need to carry out plantings in Portugal. The author stated that deforestation reached a peak in the 18th century, despite all the legislation the Portuguese kings had issued from the times of D. Dinis I (1279–1324). The main reason for deforestation, so he claimed, was the lack of a centralised administration committed to the preservation of mines, woodlands, roads and rivers. The solution, therefore, called for a single (centralised)

10  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo and vigorous administration. Foresters needed to combine empirical forestry with new scientific breakthroughs to ensure the conservation of the woodlands.32 Consequently, the author was ingrained with the idea of a centralised forestry of the 19th nation-State as a solution to the mismanagement of the woodlands. A highly striking absence from forest depletion analyses is the context of the 18th century, a crucial turning point in the domination of the Atlantic, which, against a permanent backdrop of war, somehow led forcibly to a better management of the Iberian Royal Forests in Europe, as reflected in the Spanish Forest Regulation of 1748 and in the Portuguese regulation of 1751.33 Indeed, as will be examined in detail further on in the book, when the French and British fleets gained supremacy over the Atlantic after 1714, the legendary supply of timber from Brazil to Portugal was at considerable risk of piracy in every single Atlantic crossing, and after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake, it is surprising how Andrada e Silva omits to mention that from 1751 to 1807 the Crown invested huge sums in renewing timber production through new sowings and settlements.34 Actually, the rebuilding of Portuguese territory from Lisbon to the Algarve after 1755 did not rely on timber from Brazil. In addition, Portugal’s efforts to defend its coast from pirates and its border with Spain from the “Ghost War” of 1761 were carried out with timber and wood from the metropolis. Against a backdrop of war and the construction of housing, logistic requirements were successfully met by resources from the royal preserves and seigniorial woods of Portugal as well as the regions of Spain. 35 If timber was arriving at royal arsenals while the colonies were unaware of the devastation in the Iberian Peninsula caused by the Lisbon earthquake of 1755 that shook the ground from Morocco to the Netherlands and in the Americas, there must have been forests that catered to the endeavour of rebuilding and defending the empire.36 Therefore, the conclusion on the lack of forests and their destruction and inability to supply resources does not tally with the response of the territory in Early Modern Portugal. The above points help to question the claims made in 1843 by Francisco Silva and Caetano Batalha concerning the decline of the pinewood of Leiria, which they attributed to an interconnected threefold reason. Firstly, maritime expansion (shipbuilding) since the times of King Manuel I (1494–1521). Secondly, the availability and exploitation of Brazilian woodlands. Thirdly, reliance on a supply of accessible timbers in Brazil led to the abandonment of Leiria’s pinewoods: the availability of (legendary) Brazilian timber resources dated back, according to the authors, to the reign of Manuel I. The recovery of Leiria’s pinewoods only occurred “officially” in 1790s under the minister Martinho de Mello e Castro, who disbanded the forestry administration of the Ancien Regime. Until then, the supervisors of the pinewoods had dwelled in Leiria, too far away from the pinewoods to ensure a sound management, and the 40 foresters under their command were farmers who betrayed their duty of conserving the pinewoods, leading

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 11 to their decline.37 Therefore, in his view, the issue was clear: the under-­ development of a centralised State-run forestry. In Spain, a similar narrative prevailed among Enlightenment authors, notably the Informe sobre la ley Agraria written by Melchor Jovellanos in 1795.38 The discourse on wood shortage was often presented not so much as a problem of environmental degradation but as a brake on national economic development.39 Spanish authors did not pay attention to the effectiveness of Early Modern policies in preserving the woodlands; rather, they attacked the land-tenure system. They aimed to replace collective (of commons and Church) and Crown properties with a land-tenure regime headed by private owners: as they saw it, private property was the backbone of the recovery of forest canopy. Spanish liberal legislation aimed to bring about this land-­ tenure transformation by doing away with the communal rights granted by former administrations (those of the Early Modern Age), which were blamed for the corruption and mismanagement that had resulted in the decline of agriculture and the woodlands. In contrast, private owners and land enclosures would lay the foundations for a national economic revolution.40 It is therefore not surprising that 19th-century Spanish forestry policies blamed Early Modern policies for corruption and mismanagement. In 1861, a report came out concerning the areas dependent on the Ministerio de Fomento (Ministry of Public Works), in which the woodlands were included. According to this report, from the 15th to the mid-18th century, Spanish kings had passed several laws on new plantings and the protection of the existing woodlands due to their increasing devastation ­(devastación creciente). However, these isolated measures had failed to halt deforestation because neither the State nor scientific forestry had developed sufficiently. The woodlands had suffered degradation due to the confusing ­administrative system of Early Modern Spain, the lack of private ownership, and the absence of a scientific forestry administration headed by a strong and centralised State. The solutions were, therefore, quite simple. Firstly, the extension of private property as it was the cornerstone of national progress. Secondly, the reinforcement of a centralised State with direct management of the woodlands, free from jurisdictional interferences. Thirdly, the establishment of a scientific forestry administration replacing Early Modern empirical forestry.41 Scholars have reproduced these narratives. In a recent essay on the history of the Spanish woodlands, the authors conclude that Spanish forestry is a history of on-going deforestation and consider that until the 20th century no measures were taken to revert Early Modern deforestation.42 Such biases against Early Modern forestry are not unique to the Iberian Empires. Hamish Graham has also drawn attention to a similar parallelism between effective forest management and a strong centralised State in France,43 as Karl Appuhn did for the case of Venice. Nonetheless, we argue that the maritime needs of the Iberian Empires were an input that spurred successful policies aimed at protecting the forest canopy in equilibrium with other

12  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo socio-economic activities, rather than a driver of ecological degradation as scholars have often noted. 0.3.2  Shipbuilding and deforestation Scholarship on the Iberian Empires has blamed shipbuilding for being a, if not the main, driving force behind deforestation during the Early Modern Age. For the case of Portugal, this narrative dates back at least to 1843 when Francisco Silva and Caetano Batalha stated that the decline of the pinewoods of Leiria was chiefly due to the overseas expansion fostered by the Monarchy since the reign of Manuel I and the availability of those legendary Brazilian forests. Over the past 70 years, this argument has been reiterated constantly, becoming an endemic narrative of the Portuguese woodlands and forestry. In the 1950s, James Duffy noted that the ships constructed in India were better than their Portuguese counterparts due to the superiority of the timbers (which is partially true as teak is of higher quality than Portuguese cork oaks and pines).44 A few years later, Frederic Mauro stressed that Portugal was running out of sturdy timber for shipbuilding by the first half of the 16th century.45 Charles Boxer similarly spoke of a shortage of timber supplies for Lisbon’s shipyards by the mid-16th century.46 In the 1980s, scholarship on Portuguese forestry went one step further. From the perspective of historical geography, Nicole Devy Vareta brought out various papers based on a large array of published historical sources to unravel the advances and regressions of forest cover from the 13th century onwards.47 She claimed that the woodlands could not naturally regenerate to meet Portuguese society’s needs for wood and timber; maritime expansion exacerbated the lack of timber, and the woodlands were in a critical situation from the 15th century onwards.48 She regarded forestry legislation as evidence of the woodlands’ destruction. The 1546 law on cork oaks accordingly meant not only that a deforestation process was under way but also that the cork oak was “doomed”.49 In some essays published during 2000s, the author stressed that timber for shipbuilding was in short supply by the 16th century.50 From the fields of economic and maritime history, Leonor Costa shed light on the ocean-going route that connected Lisbon with India (Carreira da Índia). The author mentioned that by the third quarter of the 16th century, ships had a shorter lifespan due to the use of madeiras verdes (green and unseasoned woods), which was obvious proof of their scarcity. She consulted contemporary forestry legislation, which by the mid-16th century was making repeated claims of a shortage of timber for shipbuilding, though failed to question if these assumptions were based on ecological deforestation.51 Fernando Reboredo and João Pais have produced the most radical narrative on the ecological impact of shipbuilding for Early Modern Portugal.

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 13 They concluded that maritime expansion was clearly the main driver of forest destruction (not deforestation or depletion). This statement is based on the emergence of a legislation that constantly claimed there was a timber shortage.52 In subsequent studies, the authors have addressed the evolution of forest cover in Portugal from the Miocene to the present day. Regarding the Early Modern Age, they blamed shipbuilding not only for chopping down millions of Quercus trees but also for their almost entire destruction between the Douro and Tagus rivers: The maritime expansion policy between XIV century and the end of the XVI century was responsible for the destruction of almost all the oak forests between the Douro and Tejo Rivers […] Several millions of Quercus trees were felled […]. Initially, wood from Quercus suber, Quercus rotundifolia and Pinus pinea was the main raw material for shipyards, due to their particular characteristics.53 It could be argued from the point of view of methodological accuracy that palynology would be sufficient to prove such degradation and that all the arguments put forward earlier would confirm forest destruction. However, the fact that forest fruits were constantly gathered from the 16th to the 19th century from pine, cork and nut trees casts doubts—in our view— over such straightforward conclusions about forest degradation.54 Again, some arguments against the mismanagement of forests raise doubts about such ideas. Independently of palynology or other sophisticated analytical methodologies, forest depletion does not mean forest eradication. What is more, when taxes on production are reported as having been paid in kind and not in currency, a historiographical problem arises: the data provided by scholars in their calculations of the eradication of trees when Mediterranean trees were continuing to yield fruit needs to be crosschecked with other sources and methodologies to clarify these apparent contradictions. Indeed, Reboredo and Pais have overlooked three key aspects. Firstly, trees and woods are renewable resources. Secondly, their statement is based on a report that did not use historical archival sources.55 Thirdly, the historical context has also been somewhat left aside even with respect to consulting secondary sources other than ecological interpretations—for instance, syntheses of economic history that help ­ understand such a complex reality as the Ancien Regime. In this book, we also put forward the economic argument on agriculture and fruit production to demonstrate that the availability of fruits from those trees reveals the existence of the tree species that produced them. As discussed by Melo, tree fruits were recorded as taxes paid to seigniorial entities as food resources: in other words, those tree species yielded products other than those that were channelled to shipbuilding. Thus, such data—fruit-tree production—might be of some relevance to conducting a more comprehensive analysis of the location and maintenance of

14  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo woodlands that takes into account tree species not used for shipbuilding.56 The underlying implication is that such forests—being distributed across a wide range of Portuguese territory—had not been so widely destroyed in seigniorial estates. Exclusive rights over oak trees were imposed, outside the royal woods, in precise areas of seigniorial estates across only the Tagus river basin. This region does not encompass the whole of Portugal. Actually, considerable knowledge remains to be unveiled about geographical areas where such legislation was effectively implemented beyond the kings’ preserves, even in France, after the Colbert law of 1669. First of all, in Portugal and Spain, as in France or Italy during the Early Modern Age, forest laws applied first and foremost to royal preserves but also extended to seigniorial lands, claiming specific tree species as privileges of the monarch. As will be seen, in Portugal and Spain, such novel measures had also been taken for specific areas, namely pine, oak, cork oak, birch and holm oak trees earmarked for a particular industry, shipbuilding, as is known. The analytical problem is a different matter. The bottom line is that general conclusions on European forest destruction in the Early Modern Age appear to have been drawn almost always from a perspective of loss without regard for how nature evolved despite human pressure on resources and without considering the impact of the planting policies implemented by the authorities. Moreover, in another study, Reboredo and Pais attempted a numerical calculation of the environmental footprint of shipbuilding. The Portuguese Empire needed at least 2,500 vessels for its merchant and war fleets, and each of the ships required around 2,000 trees for its construction. This meant that 5 million trees were felled in three centuries, “pointing out the huge destruction of the forest cover”.57 However, this quantitative approach did not bear in mind either the natural regeneration capacity of the forests or the capacity of the territory to produce trees at a rate that kept pace with the timber requirements of the shipbuilding industry. In this regard, the contribution of RomeroCalcerrada and Trapaga-Monchet proved how the impact of shipbuilding was considerably reduced when compared to the capacity of the woodlands to produce trees suitable for shipbuilding in Lisbon’s shipyards. Indeed, as Paul Warde stated, it is very likely that shipbuilding only consumed around 0.5–1% of the amount of firewood.58 Concerning the Spanish Monarchy, in 1980, Erich Bauer published his well-known essay on the history of the Spanish woodlands from Prehistory to the present day. According to this author, during the Middle Ages shipbuilding was responsible for an enormous increase in timber demand. However, the main deforestation process occurred throughout the Early Modern Age up to the mid-19th century.59 During the Early Modern Age, forest depletion was directly related to shipbuilding and grazing lands. Shipbuilding was responsible for felling 6 million trees, which required around 120,000 hectares. This, in combination with firewood and charcoal,

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 15 as well as grazing, led to the destruction of the woodlands. Consequently, the decline in shipbuilding activities from 1630 to 1730 entailed a respite for the Spanish woodlands.60 José Luis Urteaga’s essays revolved around the ideas of conservation of nature in Spain during the 1700s. During that century, a clear process of deforestation took place in Spain, although the seriousness of forest destruction varied regionally. It was not until the Enlightenment that the twofold concern with conservation and exploitation of forest resources developed.61 More recently, Carlos Martínez Shaw has asserted that shipbuilding could have endangered the forest cover of entire provinces.62 Consequently, as was the case of Portugal, the idea of forest destruction due to shipbuilding has gone beyond the boundaries of the field of history and geography, as the study carried out by Marta Domínguez-Delmás and others in the field of dendroarchaeology proves.63

0.4 Governing the woodlands and sustainability in the Early Modern Iberian Peninsula in parallel with other realities 0.4.1  Main contributions of the book During the 1700s and 1800s, the sustainability principle was a common element of the scholarly discourse on the reform of using forests for the “common good” and the “happiness” of a nation or population in a certain territory. From the perspective of the utilitarian State, that value was present in Iberian forest legislation at least from the beginning of the 16th century, calling for the “common good-general welfare” of the local and territorial communities and even those of the kingdom. Although preindustrial forestry exhibited a tendency towards sustainability, the operative rules for sustaining resources were not ecological but rather social and economic; as Auge notes, similarly to Warde, forms of “sustainability existed as an economic principle for people in the Middle Ages and preindustrial periods without having been formulated as a theoretical concept”.64 What is more, despite the fact there was no ecological concept of nature during the Medieval and Early Modern periods, contemporary communities were aware of the need to take care of natural resources for the future generations from a utilitarian, both individual and collective, point of view, as James Mill asserted when he considered utilitarianism, “from the happiness of each to the happiness of all”. Moreover, he stated that “as between his own happiness and that of others, utilitarianism requires [anyone] to be as strictly impartial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator”. Warde asserts that the “operative rules” of agrarian life “regulated the impact of one person’s actions on others and were not concerned with ecological sustainability itself”. Consequently, the forest as a habitat disappears and is replaced by the forest as an economic resource to be managed efficiently and profitably so that fiscal and commercial logics coincide; the

16  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo utilitarian discourse thus replaced the term “nature” with the term “natural resources”, focusing on those aspects of nature that could be used by humankind. The studies of Sara Morrison for the English royal forests and Paul Bamford for French forestry show how shipbuilding (and hunting) were two factors that contributed positively to the preservation of the woodlands. This “good stewardship”, as Sara Morrison noted, vanished when the woodlands were regarded through a fiscal lens, turning into a place of economic resources.65 Therefore, the attachment to a broad discourse on responsibility for future generations, where woodland management decisions were planned ahead, was not invented by 19th-century scientific forestry. Several contributions to this book (Aguilera-López; Aragón-Ruano; Melo; TrapagaMonchet or Wing) show how, from the late Middle Ages (if not earlier) onwards, Iberian societies had a clear consciousness of the need to find a balance between the conservation and the exploitation of the woodlands.66 This idea of sustainable forestry, therefore, predates 19th-century scientific forestry, and it was not unique to the Iberian Peninsula. The development of both traditional and scientific forestry was polycentric, not only located in Northern Europe (France, England or Germany) but also in Southern Europe since medieval times. Throughout the Early Modern Age, many authors in England, France and Germany discussed how to achieve sustainable forest management. Along with John Evelyn’s Sylva or A Discourse of Forest-Trees and the Propagation of Timber, published in 1664, during the reign of Louis XIV, the Colbert Ordinance of 1669 rationalised forest management to address deforestation, establishing a forest code, unifying the law and defining the rules for forest management—introducing the notion of “proper or good use”—forestry techniques and planification. Hanns Carl von Carlowitz (1645–1714) is credited with having introduced the term “sustained use” in 1713 in the context of increasing iron and glass manufacturing and salt production. This book shows how sustainable forestry actually carried on a line of thought dating from previous centuries. In fact, the discourse developed by Evelyn, Colbert or Carlowitz, far from being considered a starting point and isolated, as Dowling and Keyser stated, “should be rather be seen as important links in a long process of development that not only continued after them, but that also reached back centuries earlier …, [building their ideas] on traditions in woodland management that reached back to the Middle Ages”.67 Warde recognises that although “sustainability” was a product of the Early Modern period, it only really appeared in its full formulation at the end of that period, though this does not mean to say that “earlier societies of Renaissance, medieval and classical Europe, who did not ­ make ­sustainability a social and political problem for public debate, were ­therefore unsustainable”.68 Furthermore, Keyser notes that a reason “for the relative neglect of 12th- and 13th-century woodland conservation is

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 17 the centrality of Germany in traditional forest history”.69 Durable or sustainable management of European forests can be considered to date back to medieval times, above all to the 1200s and 1300s. As Keyser and Dowling claim, resource-conserving and sustainability-oriented plans and practices had deeper roots and more diffuse origins than scholarship used to suggest. In fact, preindustrial management practices and polices reflected a desire to ensure the “sustainability” of natural resources, and these authors argue that modern environmental concepts, such as conservation and sustainability, could help understand the interactions between humans and nature, though their use and application in preindustrial periods requires caution. Indeed, it is advisable to use both terms with their broad contemporary meanings. Archaeology, historical ecology and paleoenvironmental history demonstrate that sources for studying the aforementioned relationship between humans and nature increased from the 11th century but significantly expanded from the 14th century onwards.70 Environmental planning and regulation had a long tradition: by late medieval times (1200 or 1300–1500), many “conservative” and “sustainable” regulations began to be adopted for more extensive territories. However, preindustrial conservation and sustainable management emerged first at the local level and later spread to the State level, where the customs and techniques applied stemmed from local knowledge, as Martínez-González and Aguilera-López confirm with their contributions. This recalls Venetian forestry practices, as the State laws resulted from the efforts of gathering local practices to turn them into State forestry.71 The Republic of Venice is an example of an effective system of rational forestry. As a result of firewood shortages, Venice was forced to pass many laws aimed at improving the conservation and management of woodlands and to seek new sources in its surroundings, resulting in its expansion to the mainland in the late 14th and early 15th centuries, from Istria to the Alps: in 1350 the Great Council of Venice issued a law regulating the sale of oak and in 1458 it established a new magistracy, comprised of forest supervisors, to regulate the firewood trade. In 1476, it passed six provisions governing the use of community forests, leading to the hierarchisation of uses of tree species imposed by the market hierarchy: arsenals’ needs came first, firewood second and high-grade timber third.72 In France, the two main underpinnings of forestry legislation were established during the 14th century, the inalienability of royal forests and the notion of long-term planned management or sustainable yields: in 1346, Philip VI ordered that wood cutting be regulated “in order to perpetually maintain trees and woodland in good condition”.73 In addition, regulations to replace felled trees were established from medieval times: in the German Palatinate in 1344, 1478, 1528, 1568 and 1608, in Venice in 1531, and, as will be discussed by Aragón-Ruano, in the Basque Country from the 14th century. Later on, when pre-Enlightenment figures like Evelyn, Colbert or

18  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo Carlowitz started discussing “sustainability”, the pressure on Asian and European forest resources was quite similar from the 17th century. As has been shown by Saito, some forms of regenerative woodland management were already practised long before 1800, for instance in Japan, where plantation forestry and afforestation were established beginning in the late 17th century.74 As stated earlier, during the 18th century, demographic, agricultural and industrial expansion caused a certain ecological bottleneck in European metropolises, forcing them to seek new timber resources in their colonies. As Jason W. Moore has posited, “degradation and relative exhaustion in one region after another were followed by recurrent waves of global expansion aimed at securing fresh supplies and land and labour, and thence to renewed and extended cycles of unsustainable development on a worldscale”. In addition, domination of the Atlantic triggered a very high demand for wood from the British, Spanish and French navies, while access to timber from the colonies was no longer as easy as before, leading governments to devise more efficient strategies of forest compensation and management at home during the 1700s and 1800s, spurring the development of scientific forestry.75 Linked to this, scholarship has claimed that shipbuilding was the principal agent of forest degradation. Actually, it might have been so revolutionary that it intentionally brought about forest replenishment. Considering the former statement, there is another issue that needs to be clearly addressed or at least pointed out: the different factors and requirements that in Portugal and Spain were involved in a precocious specialisation in the management of particular tree species for timber production and specifically for shipbuilding. Dissimilar contexts were conducive to the take-off of that kind of forest management in Portugal and Spain. This book intends to demonstrate that shipbuilding was no more destructive than other economic activities and that, by means of afforestation policies and measures along with other economic industries, in many cases, it even sought to implement a sustainable forest management in order to guarantee its survival. Indeed, according to Rackham and Williams, neither did the charcoal iron industry destroy the English woodland nor was shipbuilding a predator of old-growth stands due to the fact that its increasing demand was fulfilled by imports from the Baltic Sea and colonies.76 Therefore, the aim of this book is threefold. Firstly, it highlights the role played by the Iberian regions in the polycentric and synchronic development of empirical forestry as an antecedent of modern forest science. Secondly, it discusses the narratives of the impact of shipbuilding by combining studies on varied geographical scales (local, regional and “national”) and timespans (short and long term) in the Iberian Peninsula. We argue that the Iberian Peninsula developed sustainable and durable technics and laws from the 13th and 14th centuries onwards (if not earlier) that allowed it to continue maritime and economic expansion overseas and that shipbuilding was not an agent of permanent deforestation but one of fast consumption and

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 19 slow replenishment/regeneration in the Early Modern Iberian Peninsula. Conversely, the Iberian Empires needed a secure supply of timber to build the ships required to maintain their naval sea power and to conduct transatlantic trade on a global scale, as well as for other economic activities. This led to the establishment of forest policies and forest managements by local, regional powers and Early Modern States to ensure future easy access to forest resources from the 13th and 14th to the 19th centuries. Forest knowledge was empirical and accumulative, being handed down from generation to generation from at least the Late Middle Ages. That is why it is of paramount importance to combine short- and medium-term studies with contributions that tackle the longue-durée dynamics. Consequently, this book sets out to examine in depth the roots of sustainability in the Iberian Empires by focusing on the interactions between shipbuilding and forestry, the evolution of forest policies implemented at the local, regional and national levels to meet the demand for wood and timber, and the long-standing impact of naval empirical forestry on the preservation and transformation of the forest landscape, attempting to break away from the prevailing theological narrative that shipbuilding was the main agent of forest destruction in the Early Modern Iberian Peninsula, for which both qualitative and quantitative analyses are conducted. This essay ties in with Christof Mauch’s idea of “slow hope”: “What we need, I argue, are narratives of hope. And humanities scholars, in particular environmental historians, can create some of these narratives that will complement (and increasingly counter) the number of apocalyptic stories”.77 0.4.2  The individual contributions of this book The contribution of Ana Crespo Solana is partially a second introduction that overlaps with the introduction to this book. She presents a brief state of the art on the latest contributions made in different research fields (history, GIS, nautical archaeology and dendrochronology) involved in studying maritime and, to a lesser extent, environmental history with special attention to the ForSEAdiscovery project. This contribution demonstrates the interdependences between the Spanish Royal Navy and the woodlands during the Early Modern Age through the glasses of dendrohistory and the role of the global timber trade in connection with the wood shortages in the Iberian Peninsula, as well as the technological changes that this brought, by combining historical and archaeological frameworks. Finally, it sets the tone for future research problems, some of which are related to the scope of this book (timber management and practices in the Iberian Peninsula). According to John T. Wing, the Spanish Monarchy carried out a major control of forest timber resources from the middle of the 16th century by implementing a twofold interconnected policy: firstly, through ­legislation— mostly from the ordinances of 1748—and bureaucracy, putting all Spanish territory under an intensive State forestry regime; and secondly, by

20  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo identifying new suitable forest reconnaissance missions (extensive State forestry). These policies permitted the Crown to centralise knowledge of forest resources, to extract timber much more easily and to develop new legislative and administrative structures, to guarantee a timber supply for the Royal Navy and the durability of forest resources by preventing overexploitation and its consequences. All these efforts enabled the Spanish Crown to gain greater insights into its territory and natural resources, allowing more effective management and exploitation by the State authorities. Álvaro Aragón-Ruano discusses the contribution of the Basque Country to the development of classical forest science during the 19th century, bearing in mind that from the 13th century onwards, an advanced proto-­ silviculture successfully guaranteed forest durability and sustainability. Although during the 16th century the medieval balance between the different economic activities based around woodlands was jeopardised, a new Early Modern forestry system restored that balance. He also argues that there was a shared Cantabrian-Pyrenean forestry tradition in the Cantabrian and the Western French and Spanish Pyrenean areas, suggesting that Early Modern forestry underwent a polycentric and synchronic development in different parts of Europe. He states that rather than shipbuilding or ironmaking, which contributed to the conservation of Basque forests and encouraged exploitation and afforestation, the main socio-­ economic activities that causes major forest predation were agriculture and stockbreeding. It is important to bear in mind that throughout the 16th century, the Basque provinces (especially Guipúzcoa) were the two main shipbuilding hubs of the Spanish Monarchy. Thus, some of the studies have revolved around the short- and medium-term dynamics of Biscay and Guipúzcoa. The contribution of Beñat Eguiluz-Miranda sheds light on one of the case studies addressed by Alvaro Aragón-Ruano. The arrival of the Spanish Monarchy’s agents in Biscay during the 1560s triggered huge changes. By arguing that a shipping crisis and timber shortage existed, the Monarchy attempted to exert control over the woodlands for the purpose of ensuring a timber supply for the Spanish fleet. The author denies the Hispanic Monarchy’s claims of crisis and shortage by providing new evidence of cross-border Basque relationships and interdependence, and the resilience of ancient forestry techniques despite the changes in ship design and proportions, which were efficiently adjusted to the new demands, allowing a sustainable development of Basque woodlands, at least during the 16th and the 17th centuries. He concludes that the forests in the Basque region were not depleted during the Early Modern Age; rather, the fears of shipping crisis and timber shortage came from an expanding Spanish Atlantic Monarchy. Alfredo José Martínez-González analyses the mission performed by Hernán Suárez de Toledo, who in 1564 was commissioned by the Spanish Crown to gather information on forestry resources and practices and

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 21 legislation on the Basque coast. The Crown not only aimed to preserve the forests located near shipyards but also sought to systematise the legislative effort of the Basque provinces for the benefit of the Crown’s naval interests. Thus, Hernán Suárez de Toledo conducted inquiries about the main shipbuilding centres in these provinces. These testimonies enable us to understand not only Philip II’s timber needs and forest policy but also the value of age-old Guipuzcoan forestry customs inherent in different economic activities, which guaranteed a balanced maintenance of their forests. As a result, the province of Guipúzcoa became a model of sustainable forestry management and a forerunner of the forest conservation policies applied in other Spanish territories throughout the entire Early Modern Age, by both the Habsburg and Bourbon dynasties, up until the beginning of the 19th century. Based on the same period, when the Hispanic Monarchy began to exert greater control over the woodlands, Jorge Aguilera-López’s essay revolves around the pressure the Catalonian woodlands came under during the 16th century to supply timber for the construction of galleys, which were used by the Spanish Monarchy to defend its coast from the Muslims and in the Mediterranean Sea. Maritime warfare needs led the Crown to implement a range of strategies to ensure the present and future timber supply, which entailed the monopolisation, exploitation, regeneration and conservation of forests around Barcelona’s shipyard. These measures failed during the late 1500s and throughout the 1600s due to the constant lack of means, manpower, control and planning, causing a real and imaginary fear of wood scarcity to justify the monopoly and exclusivity over forest resources in certain areas. The immediate alternative for which the Monarchy most frequently opted was the acquisition of new forests, which were systematically depleted a generation later because of the action of other economic sectors and inconsistent planting policies. However, despite this failure, the Spanish Monarchy pioneered mechanisms to rationalise and monopolise the use of woodlands. The contribution of Koldo Trapaga-Monchet is similar to Álvaro AragónRuano’s paper. The author addresses the forestry policies implemented by the Portuguese Crown from a long-durée perspective: from the late 13th to the 17th century. The forest policies devised by the Portuguese Crown for the preservation of hunting grounds paved the way for the establishment of State forest policies for the conservation of the woodlands for maritime warfare. The Crown not only aimed to preserve the existing woodlands but also sought to extend the area of forest canopy given over to shipbuilding by creating new royal forests and conducting new plantings. This chapter sheds new light on these policies not only by addressing the forestry legislation but also by bringing to the fore new evidence gleaned from selected case studies of pinewoods to which James Scott’s “tunnel-vision” framework is applied. This tunnel-vision played a major role in conserving pinewoods that still exist to this day.

22  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo Whereas most of the contributions largely disprove the idea of forest destruction due to shipbuilding, the chapter by Raúl Romero-Calcerrada and Koldo Trapaga-Monchet seeks to go beyond qualitative discussions by presenting a quantitative approach to the capacity of the Portuguese territory to produce the cork oaks (Quercus suber) required by the shipyards of Lisbon to construct ocean-going vessels and large warships for the Royal Navy. These calculations are applied to the territory that fell under the law on cork oaks issued by the Portuguese Monarchy in 1546. The numerical calculations not only refute the claims of ecological destruction caused by shipbuilding in Early Modern Portugal but also offer a new methodology combining cartography, geography, GIS and history that can be replicated in other settings. Concluding with case studies of the Spanish Monarchy, the paper by Óscar Riezu-Elizalde offers new information on the timber transport logistics set in motion by the Spanish Monarchy in the Navarrese Pyrenees at the end of the 18th century, as well as the problems arising from transport and between the State agents and the local rural communities. The Crown used the know-how of the local elites, such as Pedro Vicente Gambra in Irati and the Roncal valley, to solve the Royal Navy’s problems deriving from the waning timber supply from the Baltic region. The timber needs of the Royal Navy not only spurred new technical improvements to make timber transport more economical and effective but also led to the ecological and environmental conservation of the woodland ecosystem and significant developments in the forestry industry and hydraulic engineering. At the same time, this “timber fever” encouraged greater concern about Spanish timber and forest heritage, which led the State to control and defend its forest investment in this border area from the French. The exploitation of the Pyrenean mountains did not involve any deforestation; instead, it resulted in the care and conservation of forests and rivers, making them ecologically, economically and socially sustainable, which in turn benefitted the local communities. Finally, Cristina Joanaz de Melo’s paper offers new insights into the topics of forest destruction and, most importantly, the forest compensation that took place in Portugal from 1750 to 1820, showing how natural disturbances and human agency were conducive to the protection of the existing woodlands and the implementation of new plantings not only for the purpose of shipbuilding. The uncertain foreign affairs of the Portuguese Monarchy coupled with natural disasters—the Lisbon earthquake of 1755 and unusual flooding in the last third of the 18th century—sparked an increase in the amount of wood and timber products needed for different socio-economic activities. The author challenges the traditional vision of forest destruction by noting how it is possible that these needs were largely met by the Portuguese woodlands. Moreover, this contribution overlaps thematically, spatially and chronologically with the contributions of Trapaga-Monchet, Romero-Calcerrada and Trapaga-Monchet, as it

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 23 provides long-term evidence by tracing forest and administrative dynamics back to the 16th and 17th centuries.

Notes 1 This publication has benefited from the research projects “Protection, production and environmental change: The roots of Modern Environmentalism in the Iberian Peninsula (XVI–XVIIIth centuries)” of Gerda Henkel Stiftüng (­referencia proyecto AZ 60/V/19), “Las raíces materiales e inmateriales del conservacionismo ambiental de la Península Ibérica (siglos XV–XIX)” (SUSTINERE) of the Autonomous Region of Madrid and King Juan Carlos University, “Madrid, Sociedad y Patrimonio: pasado y turismo cultural” (H2019/HUM-5989) of the Autonomous Region of Madrid co-funded by the European Social Fund, the Basque University System’s Research Group “The Basque Country, Europe and America: Atlantic links and relationships” (IT1241-19) and I + D project of Spanish Government’s Ministry of Science and Innovation “The Global Defense. The Mobilization of Military Resources within the Spanish Monarchy Imperial building from the 17th to the 18th centuries” (PID2021-127306NB-100).   Cristina Joanaz de Melo author in this publication is a contracted researcher at Institute for Contemporary History–IHC, Norma Transitória-DL57/2016/ CP1453/CT0048. The IHC is funded by National funds through FCT—Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia, I.P., under the projects UIDB/04209/2020, UIDP/04209/2020, and LA/P/0132/2020. 2 Secretary-General of United Nations (1987). 3 Agnoletti (2007); Barthod (2012, 551–552); Hölzl (2010, 432, 448); Kidd (1992, 2–3, 13); Warde (2018, 5). 4 McNeill (2003, 35). 5 Nocentini (2021, 164, 169); Warde (2015, 156, 2018, 9). 6 McNeill (2003, 5); McNeill and Mauldin (2012, XVI). 7 McNeill and Mauldin (2012, XVI); McNeill (2003, 8). 8 Warde (2011, 153–154). 9 Warde (2018, 3–5). 10 Scott (1998, 2, 7, 15–21). 11 Borowy, I (2017, 91–107). 12 Grove (1992, 42–47, 1995). 13 Grove (1995, 5–6). 14 Grove (1995, 6). 15 Barton (2002, 1–15). 16 Rajan (2006, 1–3). 17 For a recent discussion on it, see Foucault (2007, 351); Hölzl (2010, 434, 436–439); Muigg and Tegel (2021, 2–4); Scott (1998, 11–31); Warde (2015, 159). 18 Corvol (1994); Hölzl (2010, 437); Rackham (1990, 59–105); Radkau (2008, 212–221); Saito (2009, 394–395); Warde (2006b, 2018, 72–73, 89). 19 Warde (2006a, 281–357). 20 Radkau (2008, 212–221); Marquardt (2006, 177–79); Warde (2006b, 2018, 72–73, 89). 21 Rückert (2020, 130–132). 22 Dowling and Keyser (2020). 23 Radkau (2008, 136–151). 24 Fernow (1911, 6). 25 Appuhn (2009, 9–15). 26 Appuhn (2009, 9–15, 251–252). 27 Appuhn (2009, 251–252).

24  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo 8 Warde (2006a, 177). 2 29 There are countless examples. For the so-called State forestry and shipbuilding in the Spanish Monarchy, see Martínez-González (2015) and Wing (2015). For the region of Guipúzcoa, see Aragón-Ruano (2001) and his contribution in this essay. For the policies concerning the woodlands that supplied wood and firewood for Madrid, see Hernando Ortego (2010, 595–624). 30 Magalhães (1970, 125–148); Freire and Laíns (2017); Pinto et al. (2016, 1–21). 31 For instance, Pery (1875, 110–125). 32 Silva (1815, 17–21). 33 Martínez-González (2019, 321–342); VV. AA. (1751). Regimento para o Guarda Mor dos Pinhais de Leiria e Superintendente da Fábrica da Madeira, 18 October 1751. 34 VV. AA. (2005–2006a) and VV. AA. (2005–2006b). 35 Mendes Victor et al. (2009). 36 Mendes Victor et al. (2009). 37 Silva and Caetano (1859, 6–8). 38 Urteaga (1987, 138–142). 39 Warde (2015, 156, 2018, 9). 40 Congost (2007, 26–34, 219–223). 41 Dirección General de Agricultura, Industria y Comercio (1861, 114–115). 42 Valbuena-Carabaña (2010, 492). 43 Graham (2009, 316–322). 44 Duffy (1955, 51). 45 Mauro (1959, 200). 46 Boxer (1977, 56, 209). 47 Devy-Vareta (1985, 1986). 48 Devy-Vareta (1985, 67, 1986, 5–14, 28–34). 49 Devy-Vareta (1986, 28–30). 50 Devy-Vareta (2002, 172–173); Devy-Vareta and Alves (2007, 55–65). 51 Costa (1997, 191–192, 308–333). 52 Reboredo and Pais (2012, 31–40, 2014a, 249–256). 53 Reboredo and Pais (2014b, 12). 54 Magalhães (1970, 125–148); Kiesow and Dierssen (2017, 132–140); Pinto et al. (2016, 12, 19–21). 55 Conselho Nacional do Ambiente e do Desenvolvimento Sustentável (2001, 94–95). 56 For the Wars of Religion and Overseas Empire contexts, see Silva (2013). For economic data, Freire and Laíns (2017, 21–39, 77–90, 105–118). 57 Reboredo and Pais (2014b, 14). 58 Warde (2006b, 39–45). 59 Bauer Manderscheid (1991, 15–17). 60 Bauer Manderscheid (1991, 167–175). 61 Urteaga (1987, 117–173). 62 Martínez Shaw (2014, 41–42). 63 Domínguez-Delmás (2015). 64 Auge (2020, 283–284). 65 Bamford (1955, 97–106, 1956, 86–91); Crisp (1998, 5, 9–10, 23–28); Hölzl (2010, 436, 438–439, 454); Morrison (2007, 2014); Scott (1998, 12–13); Warde (2009, 72, 76, 88, 2018, 59). 66 In addition, Luchía (2020, 307–326, 2021, 13–18). Moreno Díaz del Campo (2020, 111–132); Trapaga-Monchet (2022). 67 Boutefeu (2005, 4–5); Hölzl (2010, 438); Keyser and Dowling (2020, 13–15); Saito (2009, 379, 381, 385); Warde (2018, 62). 68 Warde (2018, 4).

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 25 9 Keyser (2020, 219). 6 70 Rotherham (2007, 8–116); Moreno Garcia and Pimenta (2013). 71 Keyser and Dowling (2020, 1–11); Warde (2018, 4); Appuhn (2009, 4–8, 23–25, 45–53). 72 Appuhn (2000, 867–889, 2009). 73 Morin (2010, 234, 238). 74 Pomeranz (2000); Saito (2009, 382, 389); Warde (2018, 94). 75 Moore (2003, 309, 2014, 276). 76 Rackham (1990, 97; Williams (2003, 186–20, 293–301). 77 Mauch (2019, 20).

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Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 27 Hernando Ortego, J. (2010). “La política forestal en el Madrid de los Austrias. Abastecimiento de energía y regulación del monte, siglos XVI–XVII”, Anales del Instituto de Estudios Madrileños, L, 595–632. Hölzl, R. (2010). “Historicizing Sustainability: German Scientific Forestry in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries”, Science as Culture, 19, 4, 431–460. Keyser, R. (2020). “The Medieval Roots of Woodland Conservation. Northern France and Northwestern Europe, ca. 1100–1500”, in R. Keyser and A.P. Dowling (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800, New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 203–229. Keyser, R. and Dowling, A.P. (2020). “Introduction”, in A.P. Dowling and R. Keyser (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800, New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1–28. Kidd, Ch.V. (1992). “The Evolution of Sustainability”, Journal of Agricultural and Environmental Ethics, 5, 1–26. Kiesow, S. and Dierssen, C. (2017). “Vegetation Analyses as a Source of Information—The case of Madeira Island”, in C. Melo, E. Vaz and L. Pinto (eds.), Environmental History in the Making, Vol. I: Explaining, New York: Springer, 123–142. Luchía, C. (2020). “Por que los montes de esta villa se conserven, e no se disipen como al presente están: la regulación de los recursos forestales en la Corona de Castilla (siglos XIV–XVI)”, Espacio, Tiempo y Forma. Serie III Historia Medieval, 33, 303–332. (2021). “La explotación de los recursos forestales en Corona de Castilla: necesidad, valor de uso e intercambio (siglos XIV–XVI)”, Tiempos Modernos. Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 11, 42, 11–27. Magalhães, J. (1970). O Algarve Económico Durante o Século XVI, Lisbon: Edições Cosmos. Marquardt, B. (2006). “Historia de la sostenibilidad. Un concepto medioambiental en la historia de Europa Central (1000–2006)”, Historia Crítica, 32, 172–197. Martínez-González, A.J. (2015). Las Superintendencias de Montes y Plantíos (1574–1748): derecho y política forestal para las armadas en la Edad Moderna, Valencia: Tirant Lo Blanch. (2019) “Bosques guipuzcoanos para la construcción de navíos y recopilación normativa por el Real Consejo de Castilla (1569)”, Tiempos Modernos. Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 321–342. Martínez Shaw, C. (2014). “La historia marítima de los tiempos modernos. Una historia total del mar y sus orillas”, Drassana, 22, 36–64. Mauch, C. (2019). “Slow Hope: Rethinking Ecologies of Crisis and Fear”, RCC Perspectives Transformations in Environment and Society, 1, 3–41. Mauro, F. (1959). “Types de Navires et constructions navales dans l’atlantique portugais aux XVI et XVII siécles”, Revue d’Histoire Moderne et Contemporaine, 6, 3, 181–209. McNeill, J.R. (2003). “Observations on the nature and culture of environmental history”, History and Theory: Studies in the Philosophy of History, 42, 3, 3–42. McNeill, J.R. and Mauldin, E.R. (2012). “Global Environmental History: An introduction”, in J.R. McNeill and E.R. Mauldin (eds.), A Companion to Global Environmental History, Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, XVI–XXV.

28  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo Melo, C. (2020) “Floresta em Movimento: usar, regenerar, cuidar (séculos XVI–XIX)”, in C. Melo (coord.), Como a Fénix Renascida, Matas Bosques e Arvoredos (séculos XVI–XX): Representações, Gestão, Fruição, Lisbon: Ediçõs Colibri, 79–130. Melo, C.J., Arruda, G., Claire, P. (2002). “Como um olhar de Pássaro?”, HALAC Historia Ambiental Latinoamericana y Carabeña, 12, 1, 21–36. Mendes Victor, L.A., Oliveira, C., Azevedo, J. and Ribeiro, A. (2009). The 1755 Lisbon Earthquake: Revisited, New York: Springer, 2009. Mineiro, A. (2000). “A propósito das Medidas e da Opção Política de Reedificar a Cidade de Lisboa Sobre os seus escombros, Após o Sismo de 1 de Novembro de 1755: Reflexões”, in 1755: O Grande Terramoto de Lisboa, Vol. I: Descrições, Lisbon: Publico-FLAD, 189–236. Moore, J.W. (2003). “The Modern World-System as Environmental History? Ecology and the Rise of capitalism”, Theory and Society, 32, 307–377.     (2014). “The Value of Everything? Work, Capital, and Historical Nature in the Capitalist World-Ecology”, Review (Fernand Braudel Center), WorldEcological imaginations, 37, 3–4, 245–292. Moreno Garcia, M. and Pimenta, C. (2013). “Pre-Historic and Medieval Pastoral Strategies in the Mediterranean: An Archaeo-Zoological Perspective”, in C. Melo, A. Queirós, L. Silveira and I. Rotherham (eds.), Between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Responses to Climate and Weather Conditions Throughout History, Sheffield: Wildtrack Publishing, 54–60. Moreno Díaz del Campo, F.J. (2020). “La gestión de los recursos forestales en la dehesa de Zacatena durante el siglo XVII y el cruce de intereses entre la Corte y el campo”, Manuscrits. Revista d’História Moderna, 42, 111–132. Morin, G.A. (2010). “La continuité de la gestion des forêts françaises de ­l’Ancien Régime à nos jours, ou comment l’Etat a-t-il pris en compte le long terme”, Revue française d’administration publique, 134, 2, 233–248. Morrison, S. (2007). “Forests of Masts and Seas of Trees: The Restoration Navy and the English Royal Forests” in L.N. Rhoden (ed.), English Atlantics Revisited. Essays Honouring Professor Ian K. Steele, Montreal-Kingston: McGill-Queens University Press, 136–173.     (2014). “Good Stewardship and the Challenges of Managing the Stuart Royal Forests in England, 1603–1714”, Journal of Markets & Morality, 17, 2, 405–427. Muigg, B. and Tegel, W. (2021). “Forest History-New Perspectives for an Old Discipline”, Frontier in Ecology Evolution, 9, 724–775. Nocentini, S. et al. (2021). “Historical Roots and the Evolving Science of Forest Management under a Systemic Perspective”, Canadian Journal of Forest Research, 51, 163–171. Pery, G. (1875). Geographia e estatística geral de Portugal e colónias, Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional. Pinto, L., Ramisio, P., Melo, C. and Vaz, E. (2016). “A Sustainable and Symbiotic Relationship between Human Occupation and a Natural W. The Afife Case Study, from the XIIth to the XXth Century”, Working Papers, 66, Braga: Núcleo de Investigação em Microeconomia Aplicada (NIMA), Universidade do Minho. Pomeranz, K. (2000). The Great Divergence: China, Europe, and the Making of the Modern World Economy, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000.

Introduction: The Game of the Demiurge in the Garden of Chronos 29 Rackham, O. (1990). Trees and Woodland in the British Landscape: The Complete History of Britain’s Trees, Woods and Hedgerows, London: Dent. Radkau, J. (2008). Nature and Power: A Global History of the Environment, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rajan, R. (2006). Modernising Nature: Forestry and Imperial Eco-Development, 1800-1950, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Reboredo, F. and Pais, J. (2012). “A construção naval e a destruição do coberto florestal em Portugal—Do século XII ao Século XX”, Ecologia, 4, 31–42.     (2014a). “Evolution of Forest Cover in Portugal: A Review of the 12–20th Centuries”, Journal of Forestry Research, 25, 2, 249–256.     (2014b). “Evolution of Forest Cover in Portugal: From the Miocene to the Present”, in F. Reboredo (ed.), Forest Context and Policies in Portugal: Present and Future Challenges, New York: Springer, 1–39. Rotherham, I. (2007). The History, Ecology and Archaeology of Medieval Parks and Parklands, Landscape, Sheffield: Sheffield Hallam University. Rückert, P. (2020). “Disruptive Environmental Change and Resilience: The German South-West in the Later Middle Ages”, in M. Endreß, L. Clemens and B. Rampp, Strategies, Dispositions and Resources of Social Resilience. A Dialogue between Medieval Studies and Sociology, Wiesbaden: Wiesbaden Springer VS, 121–137. Saito, O. (2009). “Forest History and the Great Divergence: China, Japan, and the West Compared”, Journal of Global History, 4, 379–404. Scott, J.C. (1998). Seeing Like a State. How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Have Failed, New Haven, CT-London: Yale University Press. Secretary-General of United Nations (1987). Report of the World Commission on Environment and Development. Our Common Future. New York: United Nations. Silva, H. (2013). O clero catedralício português e os equilíbrios sociais do poder: (1654–1670), Lisbon: Universidade Católica Portuguesa-Centro de Estudos de História Religiosa. Silva, J.B. (1815). Memoria sobre a necessidade de utilidades e do plantio de novos bosques em Portugal, Lisbon: Typografia da Academia Real das Sciencias. Silva, F.M. and Caetano, C.B. (1859). Memoria sobre o Pinhal Nacional de Leiria: suas madeiras e productos rezinosos, Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional. Trapaga-Monchet, K. (2022). “Conservar para usar, usos para la conservación: una aproximación a los aprovechamientos forestales en la peninsula ibérica (siglos XV–XVII)”, in F. Fernández Izquierdo and F.J. Moreno Díaz del Campo (eds.), Montes, pastos y caza a la vera del Guadiana en Las Tablas de Daimiel. La Real Dehesa de Zacatena en la Edad Moderna, Granada: Comares, 153–182. Urteaga, L. (1987). La tierra esquilmada. Las ideas sobre la conservación de la naturaleza en la cultura española, Barcelona: SERBAL/CSIC. Valbuena-Carabaña, M. et al. (2010). “Historical and Recent Changes in the Spanish forests: A Socio-Economic Process”, Review of Palaeobotany and Palynology, 162, 492–506. VV. AA. (2005–2006a). O Grande Terremoto de Lisboa, A Protecção, vol.  II, Lisbon: FLAD/Público. Warde, P. (2006a). Ecology, Economy and State Formation in Early Modern Germany, Cambridge: University of Cambridge.     (2006b). “Fear of Wood shortage and the Reality of the Woodland in Europe, c. 1450–1850”, History Workshop Journal, 62, 28–57.

30  K. Trapaga-Monchet, Á. Aragón-Ruano and C. J. de Melo     (2009). “The Environmental History of Pre-Industrial Agriculture in Europe”, in S. Sörlin and P. Warde (eds.), Nature’s End: History and the Environment, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 70–92.     (2011). “The Inventions of Sustainability”, Modern Intellectual History, 8, 1, 153–170.     (2015). “Early Modern ‘Resource Crisis’: The Wood Shortage Debates in Europe”, in A.T. Brown, A. Burn and R. Doherty (eds.), Crises in Economic and Social History. A Comparative Perspective, Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 137–159.     (2018). The Invention of Sustainability: Nature and Destiny, c. 1500–1870, New York: Cambridge University Press. Wing, J. (2015). Roots of Empire: State Formation and the Politics of Timber Access in Early Modern Spain, 1556–1759, Leiden: Brill. Williams, M. (2003). Deforesting the Earth: From Prehistory to Global Crisis, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Woitshová, K. (2017). “Hidden Treasures: Challenging Traps of Historical Sources for Environmental History”, in C. Melo, E. Vaz and L. Pinto (eds.), Environmental History in the Making, Vol I: Explaining, New York: Springer, 109–122.

1

The global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries Interdisciplinarity, research problems and the ForSEAdiscovery project1 Ana Crespo Solana

Instituto de Historia, Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas (CSIC), [email protected] 1.1  Forests and shipbuilding in historiography Studies on the maritime activity of Spain and Portugal during the centuries of European expansion provide us with considerable data. However, limited attention is paid in these studies to the impact that this expansion had on the environment (in particular, forests and the use of timber for shipbuilding). One aspect of research that has received minimal interest (or has, at least, been less visible) is the interdisciplinary application of dendroarchaeological methods in underwater and maritime environments in particular, with a view to increasing our understanding of the provenance of the timber that was used to build ships. Analyses of dendroarchaeology and history are, however, yielding new information as well as a teleological narrative available to historians.2 In addition, the interdisciplinarity between history and dendroarchaeology makes it possible to fully identify the sources of species, especially pine and oak,3 in such a way that we could speak of dendrohistory. These studies have been applied in interesting cases in the field of underwater archaeology also in Spain, focusing on shipwrecks prior to the 15th century (Roman and Phoenician in particular). For periods after the first decades of Iberian expansion, these studies should be, without a doubt, contextualised within a new historiographical theoretical framework that should also encompass underwater archaeology. Thus, in the age of wood, dendrochronology is the method par excellence for investigating wooden ships.4 In the context of the emergence of mercantile capitalism in the Early Modern Age, the global timber trade, the control of timber resources, and technological development were inherent elements of empires’ ideological background. Two key paradigms have arisen during our research: firstly, the development of Iberian vessels, from carracks and galleons to frigates, trade ships and ships of the line, with all their variations. This is likely the DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-2

32  A. Crespo Solana most problematic and urgent aspect that requires further research owing to the difficulty of identifying the rich typology of Early Modern timber ships in underwater contexts. Secondly, as a truly multidisciplinary topic, a key aspect is how the timber trade developed and how the wood was used in the emerging naval industry. Both lines of research are, without a doubt, of paramount importance to studies on Iberian shipbuilding since these cannot be completed by simply focusing on historical data gathered from treatises on construction and from archives. Archaeological data submerged in the ocean is an important source of information. It also needs addressing as does information held in archives that, to date, has not been studied or has not been given the attention it deserves, always from an environmental and economic historical viewpoint.5 The historical study of the utilisation of forestry resources to fuel the expansionist dynamics of societies, states and empires has been undertaken through research into the trade and territorial linkages of these entities. A line of research is also currently delving into the importance that the control of forest areas and wood resources for the navy held for strengthening the national State.6 Nevertheless, historical analyses of European expansion and Atlantic trade have traditionally been approached from economic, social or political viewpoints, leaving a notorious gap with regards to the technology and the raw materials that enabled and sustained them. The construction of war and trade vessels during the more than three centuries that Iberian maritime expansion lasted cannot be understood without relating ships and wood in a multidisciplinary context. The combination of history and archaeology with a correct application of archaeological sciences, archaeometry of materials, dendroarchaeology and timber provenance tools encompasses a truly ongoing research project that will produce more studies in the near future. But what is the historiographical and theoretical context of this line of research in the framework of studies on wood as a commodity and in environmental archaeological history? Specialists have recently studied in depth the connections between environmental change and other major topics of Early Modern history such as population growth, commercialisation or imperialism. Some authors have pointed out the significant part the wood trade played in the economic growth of 16th- and 17th-century European Empires and the important role  of timber merchants in the process of turning wood from a natural resource into a commodity.7 The organisation and shaping of the empires during the Early Modern Age entailed major speculation about natural resources as, in the cases of Spain and Portugal, the ideological construction of the Dynastic Empires required the building of ocean-going ships. We currently know a lot about those legendary sea machines and the image they helped convey of these Empires from a less analysed viewpoint, at least with regard to the traditional history of the latter, which has basically been addressed from a land-based perspective. But historiography has seldom conducted specific in-depth analyses of the relationships between

Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 33 deforestation processes and the use of resources for shipbuilding. Kenneth Pomeranz states that Environmental History is an urgent intellectual project,8 although he barely looks into natural resources and their relations with the political, economic and social history of the maritime empires. Besides, it is important to see what social theoreticians say about the clash between history, culture, technology and nature, especially from an eco-­ historical point of view. Chew stated that the correlation between culture and nature has been examined in the context of competition and rivalry among empires when it came to seizing resources which were usually channelled centripetally from the periphery to the centres of power.9 Political and economic cooperation and competition between maritime States have influenced the exploitation of these resources, generally in the hands of the lobbies related to the elites of the dynastic monarchies. Most of these social agents, not only merchants and asentistas (private contractors), have barely been identified and studied. Historical sources highlighted evidence that members of all social groups and estamentos (estates), including the clergy and the nobility, had a lucrative participation in the timber trade and in the complex logistics chains involved in transporting wood. As things stand, we do not really know the impact that these processes had on the social, economic, political and ecological order of the “Ancien Regime”. Or, of course, how the manipulation of the old Iberian forests altered the nature of both resources and human beings dependent on small forest economies on account of the importance that forests, montes y plantíos (woodland and forest areas exploitable by the Crown or belonging to municipalities) came to have for the Monarchy. In fact, State control, production and commercialisation of forests could be cited as one of the factors related to the accumulation processes that gave rise to mercantile capitalism between the 16th and 19th centuries. In a work on the historical relationship between human cultures and the natural environment, Sing C. Chew underlines the relationship between deforestation, global timber trade and capital accumulation. Chew affirms that in the last 500 years, the history of civilizations, kingdoms, empires and states is also the history of crisis and ecological degradation.10 This is even more shocking due to the limits imposed by nature itself, economic relations and social and political dynamics that make it sometimes necessary to seek resources outside each country. This happened in Spain and Portugal, being necessary to develop a number of control, monopoly and trade strategies that were profitable for the social groups belonging to the hierarchy of the social system in question, who very soon managed to gain control of forest exploitation and commercialisation. The studies of social and economic changes in the long durée have almost always focused on human factors. William McNeill, for example, highlights the review of this perspective in Global History by studying the impact of networks on World History.11 Most of the studies developed recently have focused on that perspective. Michael Williams, in his book Deforesting the Earth, considers the long-term implications of the European discovery

34  A. Crespo Solana of the New World and colonial expansion as well as developments within Europe itself.12 However, Williams does not mention shipbuilding as a cause of deforestation but describes the varied ways in which over 222 ­million trees disappeared from the tropical world, particularly in southern and south-eastern Asia, from 1750 to 1920. To construct this argument, he analyses the impact of indigenous uses of forests, including shifting and permanent agriculture, grazing and burning, as well as capitalist penetration and colonial consolidation that led to the use of tick forests, railways, plantations and commercial farming. Fernand Braudel also described the processes of timber production and trading as one of the most important chapters of the integration of the northern regions of Europe into European consumption chains. Spatial networks, apart from the economic ones articulated around the provision of wood for the Mediterranean and southern Europe, led to an increase in the network movement in terms of shipping and trade. In fact, Braudel made a critique of capitalism from the perspective of what he called the “zone of the counter-market”, characterised by a lack of transparency aimed at surplus profit, which could have affected, without a doubt, the exploitation of large forest areas.13 Ecological historians have barely discussed the timber issue, except for Chase-Dun and Hall and also Barbier in his book, Scarcity and Frontier.14 From an ecological point of view, the timber trade implies manipulation; indeed, cheating and circumvention of the traditional market rules were common and concerned, in particular, the measurements made in forests during or after sales negotiations. Although Wallerstein never mentioned timber, these studies appear to be in line with his theories (1974), as he stated that the greatest transformations that took place after 1492 happened because resources were being transferred from the periphery to the centre as part of competition for access to those resources that afford power, control over trade and accumulation of capital. It might be said that timber has made possible, directly or indirectly, the processes of accumulation in world history. Therefore, the use and exploitation of forest resources throughout the Early Modern period are comparable to the use of oil since the Industrial Revolution.15 The focus on forests and wood raises a few questions for researchers regarding the historical dilemma concerning the use of timber as a raw material in shipbuilding: were Iberian forest resources able to sustain this increasing demand for timber, or was wood imported from elsewhere? Maria Bogucka, in her book Baltic Commerce and Urban Society, 1500–1700, pointed out the importance and the specific role of Baltic wood in the emerging naval industries of Western Europe; additional pioneering works are Robert G. Albion’s Forest and Sea Power and others.16 This line of research is currently being pursued by providing quantitative data on this global timber trade, as in John Wing’s research in Roots of Empire.17 However, this and other research do not relate the provision of forest resources with the breaking of ancestral regulations based on community access to forests that brought about the inexorable transformation

Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 35 of wood into a commodity, leaving behind its characteristics and uses as a raw material. From the historiographical point of view, the study of timber as a raw material or a commodity goes beyond the study of tree species and taxonomies, their corresponding treatments and industrial uses and their commercialisation and calls for a broader perspective closer to the “wisdom of trees”, as they have given us wood with which to make our tools, machines or even fuel for fire. No two trees are alike, they all tell a story. The rings of a tree tell us much more than the simple chronological age of a being that, until not long ago, rose majestically and handsomely amid a forest, field or mountain. Dendrochronology, the science or technique of dating events, environmental change and archaeological artefacts by studying the characteristic patterns of trees’ annual growth rings, is capable of tracing a tree’s history and lifetime of deficiencies and overcoming of adversities: the seasons in which there was a shortage of water, the years of snowfall, the impact of pests, fires and its use. The provenance of timber can only be ascertained by integrating the field of Dendroarchaeology, and it is, therefore, necessary to evaluate techniques for collecting wood samples for subsequent storage and analysis. The application of wood provenance and dendrological techniques in an archaeological context should address “questions of woodland management and exploitation, timber trade and supply, and the provenance of that portable antiquity par excellence, the ship”.18 In archaeological records, the wood is preserved only in conditions of extreme humidity or aridity or in anaerobic environment, but outside these environments, it disappears if it has not undergone a previous process of carbonisation. These records are useful not only for creating climatic or environmental series but also for discovering the uses and systems of human exploitation and resources. There are some successful case studies on how studying wood can help reconstruct the naval architecture of a certain ship when its remains are located and studied under the sea. The surviving wood from the remains of ships’ hulls constitutes direct evidence of the forests from which the pieces were extracted and provides information on the forest management that was experimented with for utilitarian purposes from the beginning. Studying timber supplies using dendrochronology techniques allows us to date the last ring that was formed and accordingly determine, for example, the exact year in which a tree was felled, transported and its wood processed and used in the construction of buildings or objects. Like metallurgical artefacts, wood samples provide empirical data complementary to historical documentation. But the application of dendroarchaeology must be carried out in a systematic way from sample taking during diving and according to a methodology oriented to ensuring that the tests yield data in the laboratory.19 The scarcity of wood also contributed to the technological changes that occurred in shipbuilding and the demand for timber led to sustainable changes in forestry practice in the Iberian Peninsula as well as deforestation

36  A. Crespo Solana and increasing dependence on imported material, especially from the Baltic but also from Colonial America and some Mediterranean areas. In addition, we do not currently know if the scarcity of wood and access to new forest species and their replacement by others that were more readily available influenced the evolution of naval architecture in Early Modern times, especially given the challenge of sailing the ocean. The increase in State interest in forestry practices since the end of the 15th century runs parallel to two aspects: first, a high exploitation of oak (Quercus spp.), a type of wood more appropriate for building hulls for ships and for meeting the increasing demand for barrels as new containers for transportation after the gradual disappearance of the amphora; and of pine (Pinus spp.), used for planking and for masts. Second, this period saw the emergence of a huge number of timber merchants who monopolised logging and, especially, the transport of timber from the forests to the shipyards. The phenomena of exploitation and commercialisation of forest resources must have been understood within the present-day context of a move away from high-carbon fossil-fuel-driven economies to lifestyles linked to low-carbon practices such as increased usage of sustainable forest products to meet our manufacturing and energy needs. Nevertheless, these questions still remain partially unresolved, especially regarding the areas that were main centres of the Atlantic trade, shipbuilding areas or forests that were used for the extraction of timber, maritime or fluvial routes and agents involved in the construction of Iberian ships. Studying this complex trade network involves examining socio-economic, political and environmental space to explain the movements or variations over time. However, little attention has been paid to the relationship between forest ecology and the history of maritime empires before the ForSEAdiscovery project. In fact, the environmental question in history has been studied more by biologists and ecologists than by historians and archaeologists. It can be said that until the first decade of the 21st century, we do not find works that address the adaptation of culture to the environment as one of the most interesting interdisciplinary issues in the field of Social Sciences. However, the role of wood in Global History contains a historical narrative related to forest history from an environmental perspective. Broadly speaking, since the construction of the Modern State, environmental management has been an essentially destructive process, and this especially affected the intensive deforestation of forests. 20 Most of the studies on the use of forests in the Early Modern Age refer to the demand for wood for domestic uses and the impact of agriculture and livestock. For example, in Central Europe, beginning in the Middle Ages, forest clearing, a peasant movement, altered the landscape in an aggressive way as part of the extension of agriculture leading to the spread of a new species: the birch. Widespread deforestation and consequent erosion, already noted since 1340, also occurred in the German States as a result of agriculture and the felling of trees for use in domestic fires. There are also important European antecedents, from the

Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 37 12th century onwards, with historical evidence of ecological suicide, as occurred in the Mediterranean with the shipbuilding programme implemented by the Republic of Venice. The centralisation of its arsenal, creating its Arsenal Nuovo in 1320, contributed to the ­destruction of the Adriatic forests used to build its merchant fleet. This is one of the few cases of a relationship between mercantile empire and shipbuilding that has been historically documented.21 The historiography of the timber trade states that wood supplies for the naval industry posed serious problems related to forest management, control by local authorities and the political administration, as well as supply issues derived from environmental circumstances. The main difficulties identified with the use of wood as a resource are physical availability, mitigation of resource scarcity, transportation and technological knowledge about how to use the wood. In fact, throughout much of history, a critical driving force behind global economic development has been society’s response to the scarcity of key natural resources. Increasing scarcity raises  the cost of exploiting existing natural resources and will induce incentives in all economies to innovate and conserve more of these resources. That is why, in parallel with the expansion of the idea of a maritime empire and the development of the naval industry, wood resources needed to be obtained beyond imperial, State or national borders. The timber trade was global, a fact that highlights the theory of frontier-based development: expansion and search for new land are intrinsically related. This brought together the need to create shipyards in strategic places in order to experiment and learn how to use wood for shipbuilding. The rise of Western Europe is closely related to these events: the first consequences of maritime expansion since the initial Portuguese and Spanish voyages and the demand for the construction of ocean-going ships. From the first decades of transoceanic voyages, coastal communities specialised in maritime crafts, mainly ­shipbuilding and the organisation and provisioning of resources for the shipbuilding industry. Two important issues emerged in relation to wood: on the one hand, the need for timber for shipbuilding; on the other, how trees were being managed.

1.2 The ForSEAdiscovery research project: building a DendroHistory The ForSEAdiscovery project initially arose as a compilation of different individual research efforts. The initial plan was to unite strategies in order to shape and establish a historical dendrochronology of the Iberian Peninsula. The overall aim of this plan was to identify future areas of research. It was called “filling in the blanks in European dendrochronology: building a multidisciplinary research network to assess Iberian wooden cultural heritage worldwide”. 22 In a short space of time, we saw interesting cases presented on this topic, 23 including “The Newport Ship Project”. This is

38  A. Crespo Solana a key example of how shipwrecked timber discovered in archaeological findings can be interpreted, dated and identified, thanks to dendrochronology, and represents the methodological basis for the ForSEAdiscovery project. 24 A considerable amount of research has taken place, thanks to the ForSEAdiscovery project, leading to ten doctoral theses and eight individual research projects as well as various other lines of research on which publications are still forthcoming. These studies combine the analysis of data from historical archives and literature on shipbuilding, archaeological findings from surveys, sampling from living trees and wood from historical buildings (for which we sought the necessary permission) and the study and cataloguing of these samples in the laboratory. Dendroarchaeology and other techniques for studying the provenance of timber allow us to date archaeological timber in order to identify the year in which it was felled, transported and used to build ships.25 It thus brings an added value to the historical understanding of these shipwrecks and it also allows us to validate the information gleaned from documentary sources. In three cases, we have been able to identify vessels (the galleon Ribadeo, the frigate Magdalena and the wreck of the Belinho), thanks to detailed documentary evidence and dendroarchaeology, 26 thus proving the reliability of this method. This method of analysis has also been successfully applied in other studies and in doctoral theses and major research projects.27 Of the historical and archaeological studies produced, which I shall discuss in more detail later on, three important examples are the doctoral theses of the ITN fellows Fadi Hajj, 28 Marta Domínguez-Delmás29 and Mohamed Traoré.30 Two important documents have also been published that provide key information and practical instructions on how to select, sample and cut wood from shipwrecked vessels. In order to be able to extract valid laboratory samples, dendroarchaeology must also be applied at the timber selection and cutting (or extracting) stages underwater.31 The techniques used for analysing the provenance of timber represent a significant step forward for gathering, testing and combining all information, as long as it is collected according to a specific sampling protocol, enabling useful data to be extracted. Once broken down and processed, this data then becomes an important part of historical dendrochronology as well as the project’s own database (The ForSEAdiscovery Database), which can be used to cross-reference data.32 In order for the wood samples to be used for archaeological dating, they must be taken from a tree species that produces rings every year. It also must be a sample with enough tree rings collected from a geographical context where previous dating has been taken into account to compare it with. Besides being related to history and archaeology, these techniques are linked both from a theoretical viewpoint (in the way in which the primary hypothesis for the project is proposed and its subsequent epistemology) and in the use of different complementary methodologies to respond to issues proposed at the start of the study. These disciplines are also helpful when analysing whether forest resources were

Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 39 enough to meet the increased demand between the 16th and 18th centuries or whether timber had to be imported from other parts of the world. The latter has certainly been proven by historical evidence and documents, particularly from the Armada crisis in 1580 onwards. This classical historiographical theory has conditioned maritime and Iberian naval history, as well as archaeological studies of shipwrecks.

1.3  Historical and archaeological framework: new insights During the centuries of the Early Modern Age, which are referred to as the first global age (16th–18th centuries), shipbuilding was an industry that was closely linked to the development of empires. Shipbuilding techniques evolved and were perfected in terms of technology. The ships that were to be used for sea exploration were improved, as was the design of warships and merchant vessels. The organisation of ships also underwent great improvements. This development was important for the Iberian Empires, who were pioneers in shaping the Atlantic world of political, cultural, economic and social interaction. Together with the new landscape opened up by Spain and Portugal, the socio-cultural, technological and economic interaction in which these powers engaged, particularly with the maritime powers Holland and England, means that our analysis should also be undertaken from a comparative viewpoint. We should also bear in mind the technological transfer that took place in a far more connected and “entangled” world, as previous studies have suggested. In fact, there was all the more interference and transfer of technological and economic knowledge thanks to the constant migration of manual labour specialising in tasks that were linked to trade and the naval sector. This may be clearly concluded from studies on the naval architecture of different periods and different geographical locations. The transfer of technology in the field of shipbuilding, differences between theory and practice as seen in archaeological evidence, and the notion that shipyards and arsenals were key centres for experimentation are all matters still awaiting further research, despite the studies already carried out on shipyards. It is in these valuable studies that we can really visualise the continual process of experimentation and knowledge transfer, in particular of scientific knowledge (already studied for the 18th century in particular). Key examples include the mutually influential relationship between Spain and England and the French influence seen in Cuba. Of these studies, that of Quintero González is the one that has explored in the most detail topics relating to the timber used in boats from a historical viewpoint.33 A spatial, temporal and interdisciplinary narrative is being developed on the history and evolution of naval models in the Iberian Empires, a key focus of historical and archaeological research in the context of maritime expansion, the politisation of timber resources, its causes and consequences for the environment, and the social and economic dynamics of

40  A. Crespo Solana the global timber trade in the 16th–18th centuries. Preliminary results can be extracted on the link between forest management and legislation relating to shipbuilding. We have also managed to draw conclusions about the regions from which timber was originally taken; not just the Montes de Marina34 but also some areas close to the coastline, mountains and meadows, especially in Andalusia and the Basque Country. The term Montes de Marina refers to the extensive areas of hillside and forest set aside by the Spanish Crown to supply timber and related products for shipbuilding. This complex system was governed by legislation that was continually amended throughout the 16th–18th centuries. The Montes de Marina were not necessarily close to the sea, but they were connected by transport routes that enabled timber to be ferried to shipyards and ports. Shipbuilding centres were located throughout the Iberian Peninsula. We have also analysed the different uses of timber in areas directly governed by the Crown, such as the so-called Soto de Roma (in Fuente Vaqueros, Granada) and in the regions of Asturias, Cantabria and Galicia and numerous sites in Portugal.35 The results obtained by these studies give us an indication of the pressure exerted on these Iberian forests by both the Crown and the noble elite and the local Church. From an early date, these parties attempted to reorganise forest resources in areas that were much larger than those established by subsequent (and interestingly late) regulations on the Montes de Marina and the creation of Maritime ministries between 1726 and 1748.36 In fact, control over wood and forest land and its link with the sea goes much further back than is reflected in the new collection of Spanish Laws (Novísima Recopilación de las Leyes de España) and in the newly created Superintendencia de montes y plantíos37 in 1574 and its important predecessors from 15th century onwards.38 The Superintendencia de Montes de Plantíos (lit. “Superintendency of forests and plantations”) was an institution established by the Spanish Crown to oversee the protection and exploitation of forests that had been set aside for shipbuilding. From an economic and social perspective, the European coastline saw the development of maritime societies linked to trade, finance, port activities and new jobs related to Atlantic expansion. All aspects of shipbuilding were reflected in this socio-economic development. 39 The new trade routes established, demographic growth, and migration all coincided with the development of a comprehensive industry for supplying maritime navigation: armed merchant ships, galleons, organised fleets, armadas and small boats. The ship of the first global era, with all its different variations, had cutting-edge technology for its time. It influenced not only the development of these maritime societies but also the way in which natural resources were channelled. These processes occurred in port cities that, in some way or another, began to be connected with new economic and commercial practices from the 16th century onwards. Indeed, this is the topic that historiographers have tended to focus on. As coordinator of the research project,

Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 41 I aim to focus on naval history as well as trade networks and their link with the logistics of global trade and the exploitation of natural resources.40 Both topics have already been studied from a comparative (with the creation of a database and application of Geographic Information Systems) and socio-economic perspective, paying special attention to Spanish trade routes to the Indies and their link with trade between the Caribbean and Northern Europe (Holland and the Baltics, in particular). Thanks to the information gathered in the Sound Toll Register database, we have been able to conduct research on timber imports into the Iberian peninsula. We have also managed to collate the data with other sources, in particular the Tribunal Mayor de Cuentas (Lit. “Higher Court of Auditors”) section, from the Simancas General Archive. Thanks to this data comparison, we have succeeded in reconstructing a complete series for the years 1730–1770 for the Department of Cadiz,41 leading to the publication of a study on the wreck of the 18th-century Santa María Magdalena warship. This ship was built in the Estero shipyards in Ferrol (Galicia) in 1773 and sank in 1810 in Viveiro Bay during the Peninsular War (1808–1814).42 Spain has an impressive naval and maritime history, but very few complete archaeological studies have been published on Iberian ship design between the 16th and 18th centuries. Although they cover different legislative and administrative contexts, the studies that have been published can tell us, however, that this is a general issue in countries throughout the European Union today. Vast amounts of underwater heritage that is continuously plundered by eager treasure-hunters include the Nuestra Señora de Atocha wreck, the Spanish Armada’s galeass La Girona, off the coast of Ireland, and the wrecks of Manuel de Velasco’s 1702 fleet, which sank in Vigo Bay. Especially of note is the unfortunate case of the internationally renowned shipwreck of Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes, which undoubtedly marks a before and after in Spanish underwater archaeology.43 Despite the above cases, there is a considerable contrast with the models of historical and archaeological maritime studies used in the United Kingdom, the Netherlands and Portugal. In Spain, important studies have been carried out on the galleons and vessels of Spanish fleets of the Early Modern era, which interlink underwater heritage with a beautiful narrative of the provenance of historical shipwrecks.44 Recent studies of note are those carried out on the ship El Triunfante, which sank in 1795 in the Rosas Bay and is one of the few Early Modern shipwrecks studied in Spain. It has been subjected to a detailed historical and archaeological analysis which provides us with information about its construction, the archaeology of the battles fought and the artillery.45 Authors Hormaechea, Rivera and Derqui mention a few archaeological sites that were subjected to surveys for Iberian ships in their study on Spanish galleons of the 17th century. These include the Cais de Sodre ship in Lisbon, the Basque carrack San Juan in Red Bay and the carrack Nossa Senhora dos Martires (“Pepper Wreck”), also in Lisbon.46 To these studies, we might add those published by Carlos León

42  A. Crespo Solana Amores on the 1724 Azogue fleet, those by Miguel San Claudio on the Armada’s ships that sank in Galicia, the Gerona galleon (which sank in 1654 and has been studied by Xavier Nieto) and the Deltebre wreck from a later date.47 We might also include the interesting case of the so-called Mercante San Sebastián and other wrecks from the Early Modern era that have been studied by Cadiz’s centre for underwater archaeology (known in Spanish as the Centro de arqueología subacuática de Cádiz).48 In truth, from a technological and historical perspective, no studies are more comprehensive than Hormachea’s research on 17th-century galleons or those written by specialists such as Mira Caballos, Casado Soto and Serrano Mangas, to name but a few. These studies are key works of reference for the above-mentioned archaeological research.49 They examine the ships and their progressive variations, as described in the Ordinances, from the beginning of the 1600s until later on in the century, when the extraordinary Antonio Gaztañeta appeared on the scene along with trade reforms. They also take into account the Armada itself at the start of the 18th century, as well as a new stage of experimentation in ship construction. Forest conservation policies were introduced in the 18th century when changes were made due to the importance attached to the demand from the timber trade. On several occasions, scholars have also discussed the theory of the so-called Iberian transition (the architectural transfer of new developments in ship construction from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic), but this has yet to be verified under the sea with archaeological data. This theory about Iberian design has been analysed from the viewpoint of changes and alterations in the measurements of different parts of the ships and the reasons why contractors, builders and timber suppliers may have made changes to the treatises and regulations already put in place by the Spanish Crown. In her compilation, Carla Rahn Philips notes the significant developments in Spanish naval history that have not, however, considered the importance of timber as the primary resource for the industry. Instead, timber is camouflaged in most of the studies as just another resource in the rich field of knowledge on naval battles and the struggle for maritime hegemony.50 Some extraordinary exceptions, from the 18th century in particular, have highlighted the importance of the link between shipbuilding and the timber trade from various different viewpoints.51 Research has also been carried out on the link between the importation of wood to Andalucía and its use in shipbuilding in the context of the war in the 16th and 17th centuries (for example, the 80 Years’ War which increased peninsular demand and the role of the Dutch as suppliers to the timber trade). We should mention here that it was the historian Alcalá-Zamora y Queipo de Llano who first noted the dependence that shipbuilding in shipyards and the importation of timber had on the various phases of Spanish wars in the north of Europe, in particular Flanders.52 Despite the foregoing, the role of timber has been examined from more of a forest engineering and ecology perspective, and although the issue of

Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 43 historical deforestation has been included, it tends to be linked to other financial issues such as livestock or the use of timber as a means of fuel. 53 In the 18th century, forestry guidelines were established to address two key issues: on the one hand, a coercive policy for planting to remedy the lack of resources, obliging towns to repopulate their forests; on the other hand, the regulation of demand, limiting felling, and with the State intervening and controlling production and prices. The link with naval policy is detailed in the considerable publications that have been seen the come out, written by political and economic thinkers of the time. Such works include the book entitled Theoria y práctica del comercio y marina (Theory and practice trade and the sea) by economist and politician Gerónimo de Uztáriz. In this work, the author dedicates a little-known chapter (chapter 63) to “the widespread customs that ship weaponry and trade ships must have established in Spain, such as the felling and processing of trees, cladding and other woods for masts and other objects required for ships, such as tar, pitch and rigging”.54 It is also important to understand how timber trade networks were organised starting from the production stage. Historically, studies have analysed the importance of the necessary resources for naval policy, bearing in mind the development of mercantile capitalism and the processes of centralisation and development of the State versus the dynamics of private business carried out by suppliers and constructors. 55 However, the main issue that is being tackled by ForSEAdiscovery is related to the varying provenance of the timber located in shipwrecks and the considerable amount of data available in historical databases on how timber was transported from the north and east of Europe to the Iberian Peninsula between the 16th and 18th centuries. The latter is undoubtedly related to speculation over forest resources during the period in question. In truth, forests and empire are two aspects that are reflected in the economic and environmental backdrop to this historical narrative, in addition to the phenomena of trade, the migration of labour and the transfer of technology. All of these issues are key to our understanding of the development of Iberian shipbuilding and how timber was used. Beginning in an undefined era in historical data, the so-called Borne timber arrived at Spanish ports (in Andalusia in particular) from Flanders, imported by communities from the Netherlands (Flemish and Dutch) that had settled in Seville and other maritime ports. A piece of historical information is provided by Mira Caballos in a document from 1652 on the repair of an organ in a Carmona church: Firstly, with the condition that I am to repair and make its bellows from small planks of seasoned borne wood, with folds of sheepskin [valdreses] and fitted with boxes, joined together with borne wood with the main boards of borne and those underneath of Flanders pine with their boxes the weights go in, which must be of lead.56

44  A. Crespo Solana This was the reason behind its name, “borne de Flandes”, although in truth, the name referred to trees from the Fagaceae family (oak, Quercus spp), which was common in northern and western Europe (Scandinavia, northern Germany, Holland, Russia, northern Spain). It was often used in polychromatic art, as well in the construction of buildings and ships, although there is still no detailed chronology of this. However, we do have studies on Pinus spp, which was the type of timber that was used frequently.57 Flemish trade networks based in Seville were just one example (albeit an important and very particular one) of how wood was imported for various different uses. These networks were, above all, an important reflection of the complex network of agents involved in the channelling of forest resources. During the Habsburg rule in Europe and the union of the crowns of Portugal and Castille between 1580 and 1640, timber entered into a dynamic and ever-evolving process of control, monopolisation, storage, transport and distribution by the economic elite who were closely linked to the circles of the empire. In the 16th and 17th centuries, timber resources and shipbuilding began to become politicised and were regulated as part of an environmental paradox that is best defined as “to protect is to plunder”. These policies were additional to the naval designs that were in place during the process of administrative centralisation, particularly in the Bourbon era, in a true military and naval State of affairs that has been widely studied, although without much focus on the use of wood as a resource.58 However, forest resources and maritime power became two interlinked issues that created geopolitical tension and alliances, as can be seen in some of the treatises of the time, in laws, in forestry regulations, and in the emergence of new attitudes to the management of natural resources. These last two issues can be appreciated in the development of the Superintendencia de Montes y Plantíos between 1574 and 1748.59 Attention has been paid to the organisation of pine forests in different regions and the importation of timber from the Baltic.60 Even though important research has been published, then, on the existing relationship between shipbuilding, the organisation of forest resources and the timber trade, we have yet to uncover more information about some key issues including how timber was exploited and how was it traded, especially through agents. In fact, an analysis of the network of merchants can provide us with information about the main backdrop to the timber trade and governments’ interest in gaining control of it. This is also one of the issues tackled by the research project that has given rise to various individual studies (some already published) and two PhDs, notably that conducted by Germán Jiménez Montes, José Luis Gasch-Tomas, Beñat Eguiluz Miranda, Adolfo Miguel Martíns, Nathan Gallagher and Ana Rita Trindade.61 At this point, it is fitting to mention an issue that has not really been tackled until now: in these new technological, social and economic circumstances, there was unprecedented pressure and demand on both Iberian forests and other areas of Europe to supply timber suitable for building ships. It is regional analyses that offer a wealth of information on the deforestation

Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 45 that took place due to rural issues and policies for repopulating forests that had been felled for shipbuilding, as is the case in Galicia.62 This timber was mostly oak (Quercus spp.) and pine (Pinus spp.), but the ForSEAdiscovery project has also discovered that other species from the Iberian Peninsula were relied upon for naval supplies. This demand led to pressure for the supply of these resources and the development of a new timber trade run by contacts of power centres of the empire in Europe and America. We could even go so far as to suggest that in this period, wood became as strategically important as petrol did in the 20th and 21st centuries. In this historical and methodological context, the project poses a series of questions that we aim to answer by combining an analysis of sea routes and trade networks for the global timber trade with the extraction of wood from shipwrecks and sampling from historic buildings (since there are so few trees alive in Iberian forests today) as well as a study of the provenance of the wood. These questions all examine whether Iberian forest resources would have been able to keep up with this increase in demand or whether the timber had to be imported from other areas. The Hispanic Monarchy came to coexist, for centuries, with a hybrid timber supply system characterised by the exploitation of wide geographical areas specialised in providing species of trees for the hulls of ships, preferably oak, as well as other subsidiary species. Iberian timber was complemented by the importation of high-quality pine destined mainly for masts, which came from the Scando-Baltic area. The report issued by the veedor (timber inspector) Juan de Apodaca in 1802 is illustrative of this situation that became endemic: Arsenals have been widely using soft pine wood, which can only be found in Northern countries. The quality of the pine wood from Navarra and Segura is second to none. The timber used for hinges (roldanas) and pulley wheels (pernos) all comes from America; black poplar trees from Spain are also widely used: oak can be found in Catalonia, Asturias, Biscay and Santander; pine for masts and hull comes from Burgos, Segura, Navarra and Seville, as well as holm and gall oak (quejigos) timber for ribs (cuadernas); beech wood (hayedos) comes from the Pyrenees and Asturias. Even if we regard these forests as depleted, your majesty’s vast forests in America appear endless.63 If the latter were the case, how were timber trade networks organised from the production stage onwards? Was the scarcity of raw materials responsible for encouraging the technological changes that came about in shipbuilding in the 16th century, or were these changes the result of social and technological exchange between the Mediterranean and shipbuilding traditions in the Atlantic? Did the sheer demand for timber lead to sustainable changes in timber practices in the Iberian Peninsula or to deforestation and an increased dependence upon imports?

46  A. Crespo Solana Current research is coming up with answers to these questions, but there are still enigmas to be solved in the history of forests and ships. New research projects and collaboration are also placing these questions at the centre of theoretical and technical discussion, opening up new lines of interdisciplinary research, as well as generating new data. These lines of research are thus adopting a holistic approach based on extensive historical, archaeological and wood provenance data that is still waiting to be analysed. It is my hope that work on the ForSEAdiscovery project will continue well into the future, not only amongst its members, but also involving a wide network of students, scientists and collaborators from different fields.

Notes 1 The research conducted and presented as part of this project was financed by the “People Programme (Marie Curie Actions) of the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP72007–2013) under REA grant agreement nº PITN-GA 2013-607545”. Forest Resources for Iberian Empires: Ecology and Globalization in the Age of Discovery (16th–18th centuries). Acronym: ForSEAdiscovery. Also the research have been benefited from the I-LINK Project “UnderHERITAGE”, funded by the CSIC (LINKB20042). 2 Daly et al. (2021); Wazny (2002, 313–320). 3 Daly and Tyers (2022). 4 Nayling and Crespo Solana (2022, vol. 2, 9–29). 5 Crespo Solana (2016, 52–61). 6 Torres Sánchez and Riezu-Elizalde (2021, 195–226). 7 Cross (1994, 57–64); Crespo Solana (forthcoming). 8 Pomeranz (2009). 9 Chew (2001). 10 Chew (2001). 11 McNeill and McNeill (2003). 12 Williams (2006). 13 Braudel (1979); see Hudson (1987, 146–165). 14 Chase Dun & Hall (1997); Barbier (2011). 15 McNeill (2004, 388–410). 16 Bogucka (2003); Albion (1926). 17 Wing (2015); see also Valdéz-Bubnov et al. (2021). 18 Nayling (2009, 64–71). 19 Rich et al. (2017). 20 Perlin (1989); Radkau (2012). 21 Barbier (2011). 22 Suspérregui and Jansma (2017, 126–135). The project took place between 2009 and 2011; Reference: 236-61-001. https://www.nwo.nl/onderzoek-en-resultaten/ onderzoeksprojecten/i/17/5417.html. 23 Soberón et al. (2012, 411–422); Domínguez-Delmás et al. (2012, 118–136); Domínguez-Delmás (2015, 180–196). 24 Nayling and Jones (2014, 239–278); Nayling and Suspérregui (2014, 279–291). The museum website can be viewed here: http://www.newport.gov.uk/heritage/ Newport-Ship/Newport-Ship.aspx. 25 Nayling (2008, 64–73). 26 Eguiluz-Miranda et al. (2022, vol. 2, 97–119); Trindade et al. (2022, vol. 2, 211–235). 27 Cazenave de la Roche (2020); Cazenave et al. (2022). 28 Haj (2017).

Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 47 9 2 30 31 32

Domínguez-Delmás (2015). Traoré (2018). Rich et al. (2017); Domínguez-Delmás (2018, 231–244). Crespo Solana and García Rodríguez (2022, vol. 1, 335–360). See also: Borrero et al. (2020, 11–24). 33 Quintero González (2000); Serrano Álvarez (2018). 34 Trindade (2021, 139–194). 35 Varela Gomes and Trapaga-Monchet (2017); Trapaga-Monchet and Santos (2015, 62–68). 36 Martínez-González (2014, 571–602). 37 Martínez-González (2015). 38 Novisima recopilación de las Leyes de España: divided into 12 volumes, vol. 6: 193–194. Martínez-González (2015, 43). 39 Crespo Solana (2016, 3); Crespo Solana (2017, 83–105). 40 Crespo Solana (1996, 2001, 2014). 41 Gallagher (2016, 752–773); Crespo Solana (2009, 2018, 77–94). 42 Trindade et al. (2022, vol. 2, 220). 43 Almagro Gorbea (2008, 11–47). 44 Pérez Mallaína-Bueno (2015). 45 Fuente de Pablo (2006). 46 Hormaechea et al. (2012); Castro et al. (2011, 328–334); Loewen (1998, 193–199); Castro (2005). 47 León Amores (2009, 178); San Claudio Santa Cruz et al. (2014, vol. 1, 169–178); Vivar Lombarte et al. (2014, vol. 1, 221–227). 48 García Rivera et al. (1995, 105–124); Ridella et al. (2017, 11–65). 49 Hormaechea et al. (2012; Mira Caballos (2005); Casado Soto (2003, 37–70); Serrano Mangas (1989). 50 Rahn Philips (2013, 254–269). 51 Baudot Monroy (2012, 297–328); Quintero González (2004a, c). 52 Serrano Mangas (1989, 102–107); Alcalá-Zamora y Queipo de Llano (2001). 53 Urteaga (1991, 17–43). 54 Uztáriz (1724, cap. LXIII, 162). 55 Valdéz-Bubnov (2018, 105–125); Torres Sánchez (2013, 159–199). 56 Mira Caballos (1999, 218); Domínguez-Delmás (2009, 12–18). 57 Rodríguez Trobajo (2008, 33–53). 58 Guimerá and Chaline (2018). 59 Martínez-González (2015). 60 Kumar (2018a, 246–263) also Kumar (2018b, 343–348); Reichert (2016, 29–157); López Arandia (2018, 127–168). 61 Gasch-Tomás et al. (2017, 187–192); Jiménez Montes (2016, 693–702, 2022); Martins (2020); Eguiluz-Miranda (2020); Gallagher (2016); Trindade (2017). 62 Aragón-Ruano (2001); Rey Castelao (1995). 63 Juan de Apodaca, Report. “Informe que Don Juan Ruiz d Apodaca, brigadier del Real Arsenal de La Carraca dio a la Junta del Departamento de Cádiz, como vocal de ella, sobre el surtimiento de efectos para los reales arsenales de S.M. 23 de abril de 1802”, Imprenta Real de la Marina, Isla de León, 1806. Quoted in Nayling and Crespo Solana (2022, 9).

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Global timber trade and shipbuilding in the 16th–18th centuries 53 Early Seventeenth Century”, International Journal of Maritime History, 29, 1, 187–192.     (2021). “Regional Timber Supply for Shipbuilding and Maintenance of War Fleets in Cadiz: Methods, Agents and Phases (1717–1736)”, Studia Historica. Historia Moderna, 43, 1, 139–194. Trindade, A.R., Domínguez-Delmás, M., Traoré, M., Gallagher, N., Rich, S. and Martins, A. (2022). “The Timbers of the Frigate Santa María Magdalena (Eighteenth Century): A Spanish Warship in History and Archaeology”, in A. Crespo Solana, F. Castro and N. Nayling (eds.), Heritage and the Sea: Maritime History and Archaeology of the Global Iberian World (15th–18th Centuries), Cham: Springer, Vol. 2, 211–235. Torres Sánchez, R. and Riezu-Elizalde, O. (2021). “En qué consistió el triunfo del estado forestal? Contractor State y los asentistas de madera del siglo XVIII”, Studia Histórica, Historia Moderna, 43, 1, 195–226. Urteaga, L. (1991). “La política forestal del reformismo borbónico”, in M. Lucena Giraldo (ed.), El bosque ilustrado. Estudios sobre la política forestal española en América, Madrid: Instituto Nacional para la conservación de la naturaleza, Instituto de la Ingeniería de España, 17–43. Uztáriz, G. de (1724 [1742] [1757]). Theorica y practica del comercio y marina, Madrid, 1724 (Madrid, Imprenta de Antonio Sanz, 1742; Madrid, 1757); Facsímil of the edition of 1742, introduction by Gabriel Franco, Madrid: Aguilar, 1968. Valdéz-Bubnov, I. (2018). “Shipbuilding Administration under the Spanish Habsburg and Bourbon Regimes (1590–1834): A Comparative Perspective”, Business History, 60, 1, 105–125. Valdéz-Bubnov, I., Brandon, P. and Solbes Ferri, S. (2021). “Introduction: Mobilising Resources for the Army and Navy in the Eighteenth-Century Spanish Empire: Comparative, Transnational and Imperial Dimensions”, War & Society, 40, 1, 1–8. Varela Gomes, R. and Trapaga-Monchet, K. (eds.) (2017). Árvores, barcos e homens na Península Ibérica (Séculos XVI–XVIII), Lisbon: IAP. Vivar Lombarte, G., Geli, R. and Nieto Prieto, F.X. (2014). “Deltebre I. Un barco hundido en la desembocadura del Ebro durante la guerra del francés”, in F.X. Nieto Prieto and M. Bethencourt Núñez (coord.), Arqueología subacuática. Actas del I Congreso de Arqueología Naútica y Subacuática Española, Colección Actas, Historia y Arte, Cádiz: Editorial UCA, Vol. 1, 221–227. Wazny, T. (2002). “Baltic Timber in Western Europe—An Exciting Dendrochronological Question”, Dendrochronologia, 20, 3, 313–320. Williams, M. (2006). Deforesting the Earth. From Prehistory to Global Crisis. An Abridgement, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wing, J.T. (2015). Roots of Empire: Forests and State Power in Early Modern Spain, C.1500–1750, Leiden: Brill.

2

Durable forests in a tensile state Intensive and extensive approaches to naval forestry in Early Modern Spain John T. Wing

College of Staten Island, The City University of New York (CUNY), [email protected] 2.1 Introduction As spaces of great material diversity and, relatedly, economic importance, forests were governed carefully and managed closely in many parts of Europe by the later Middle Ages. The decisions people made over forest ­exploitation—access, distribution, and use—had long been a political process that conditioned behaviour so that, in the words of a French royal forest ordinance from 1346, “the aforesaid forests may remain perpetually in good condition”.1 These were processes that, by and large, formed at the municipal level to serve the needs of people utilising the resources of fields, woods and waters. As Abigail P. Dowling and Richard Keyser recently pointed out, “preindustrial conservation and sustainable management emerged first and were most securely anchored at the local level”.2 They also observed that, over time, governments of larger regions, even entire kingdoms, adapted some local customs, regulations and practices to be applied more broadly to a wider geographical area, a process that is often overlooked when the scholarly focus is on State forestry practices in a large empire. It is worth examining, then, as this volume does, how State forestry practices emerged to serve long-term naval defence needs of the State. In Spain, legislation produced in the 13th and 14th centuries regulating economic life and municipal finances became widespread, and these help us understand what is meant by a forest being in “good condition”. Nearly all of these ordinances contained some regulations related to forests. In most cases, the right of communities to extract timber, firewood and other resources held in common lands was protected in the local laws known as cartas pueblas or fueros.3 They also existed in royal legislation like the Liber iudiciorum (649–672) of the Visigoths, the Capitulare de Villis (802) of Charlemagne and the Siete Partidas (1265) of King Alfonso X, which established severe penalties for unfair damages to woodlands and expressed the need for replanting while affirming that common lands ultimately belonged to the Crown.4 By the 15th century, the Crown had claimed its role as a settler of municipal or inter-municipal disputes over forest abuses. Into the 16th century, the Crown had no clear motivation DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-3

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to remove or overturn the diverse municipal laws that had emerged over generations to limit abuses and safeguard generally fair access and use of forests for the full range of economic actors, including the Crown itself. In fact, in 1518, the young King Charles I (1516–1556), who would soon also become Emperor Charles V, issued a decree on the “Formation of new forest plantations and ordinances to conserve old and new forests”.5 This decree confirmed the Crown’s interest in restoring and maintaining enough forest resources for the people of the realm and their livestock, as had been the case for centuries. A forest in good condition, then, was one that could reliably provide the array of necessary materials for household, local and regional economies. The Crown, or State, had the authority and responsibility to ensure the continuation of these good and fair conditions. To do so, it relied on municipal and royal legislation as well as the efforts of municipal forest guards, town councils, the courts and royal representatives to enforce the laws. The outlook and concerns of the Spanish Crown began to change significantly, however, by the 1540s, which would pose new challenges to the protection of forests as multi-use sites. By that decade, Charles V could count on annual shipments of American silver to help finance his wars against religious heretics and dynastic rivals, and shipbuilding in the maritime Basque provinces increased 500% over the previous decade.6 New World wealth also invited more interference from enemies on the high seas. The demands of war and naval defence escalated during the rest of the 16th  ­century and well into the 17th century. While the mobilisation of treasure and personnel to finance and fight Early Modern wars has received a great deal of historical attention over the years, only recently have historians paid greater attention to the ways in which the State sought to enhance its control over the exploitation of natural resources deemed vital to the war effort, including forests.7 Forests provided not only shipbuilding timber but also the materials for making ropes, tar, pitch, sails, anchors, gun carriages, cannons and other war materiel. As a result, the challenge became how the Crown could ensure that it had access to adequate quantities and qualities of forest resources for its naval defence while still fulfilling its longstanding duty to protect the forests’ good conditions for the rest of its subjects; both were considered matters that would ensure the public good, but could not coexist easily. In what follows, I examine how the Spanish Monarchy approached this challenge in the Crowns of Castile and Aragon, arguing that a combination of old and new strategies was used to pursue the expansion of royal involvement in forests to prioritise royal interests over local interests. At the same time, the Crown operated with an awareness that some regard for the long term was necessary as was the recognition of forests as essential sites for multiple uses. New legislation was important but proved inadequate without additional administrative innovations. The office of Superintendent of Forests and Plantations was established in 1574, expanded in 1598, and

56  J. T. Wing brought institutional structure to aid enforcement. Still, superintendents faced severe challenges and, at times, strong local resistance, so their activities on the ground did not always fulfil the letter of the law. The superintendents utilised a range of methods on the ground, indicating the limits of royal power and the agency of local actors. Its mission was to aid naval shipbuilding by safeguarding reliable access to high-quality timber, which included facilitating the extraction of the timber for the shipyard and overseeing forest conservation through inspections, planting quotas and fines. As a shorthand, I will refer to this conglomeration of laws, bureaucratic structure and administrative personnel as a kind of “intensive State forestry”. This intensive State forestry was initially located within the jurisdiction of the forest superintendents, which included the northern coastline from the border of Portugal to the border of France and about two leagues inland from the coast and navigable rivers. It also included accessible forests in Catalonia, which had a conservador by the 1570s, permanently established from 1606, to inspect forests suitable for Mediterranean shipyards. Over time, however, the mechanisms of intensive State forestry expanded deeper inland and to additional territories. Almost always preceding this expansion were reconnaissance missions or reports on the suitability of a region’s forests for shipbuilding. Some areas that became useful to the navy through reconnaissance eventually became territorialised into more intensive State forestry regimes, gaining new legal protections and administrative oversight. Reconnaissance and the centralisation of geographic knowledge collection was an important component of the long-term viability of naval forest resources, what I will call “extensive State forestry”. Its connection to the intensive State forestry regime was that it provided some flexibility in meeting the needs of imperial defence, an essential element of forest durability. I argue that beginning soon after the Armada failure of 1588, the Crown sought to alleviate pressure on the intensively exploited areas of the north by receiving reconnaissance reports of potentially useful forest areas that were beyond the purview of the State forestry administration. This reconnaissance work in Spain, especially in the 1730s, as well as in other parts of the global monarchy, proved essential for the Crown to extend shipbuilding to new sites and reduce the impacts of rising demand in the traditional royal shipyards of the Cantabrian coast. The terms “intensive” and “extensive” are borrowed from scientific forestry practices developed mostly in the 19th and 20th centuries that relate to economic organisation and profitability.8 When I use the terms “intensive State forestry” and “extensive State forestry”, the emphasis is on administrative organisation, and it relates to the priorities of the State in the Early Modern era. Profitability was important, but the State needed to know its forests and gain access to suitable forests at a time when it sought greater control over forest management; as a result, it set up political and legal mechanisms of ensuring this access where it made economical sense, and devised ways of preventing overexploitation in any single region.

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Effectively, then, the State aimed to conserve forests in a sustainable way. As with any issue regarding sustainability, the real question was whose interests were being sustained. The Crown prioritised its own interests to ensure that it could deliver the types of timber it needed to the shipyards, as well as other provisions crucial to naval and military defence, while secondarily restraining its extractive enterprises in forested regions to avoid undermining its ability to protect the public good. The focus here is on how the Crown developed methods to assert and protect these interests, with the main argument being that it did so with the long term in mind; ­essentially, from the middle of the 16th century, the Crown’s interests in controlling its timber supply became permanent. How that control operated evolved over time, but it always required a good deal of cooperation with nonState actors: people with specialised and localised knowledge, tools and equipment, including beasts of burden; people who could plant new trees, manage saplings and care for trees for years; people who could identify appropriate timber for the navy, from specific trees to entire regions; people who could cut, saw, refine and season the wood; transporters, shipwrights, other labourers, including slaves in the colonies—for whom such work was clearly not a matter of “cooperation”; and it often involved contracting with merchants or other businessmen, either from Spain or a foreign country, to oversee these operations. To facilitate this cooperation over the course of the Early Modern era, the State asserted its place in the forests with the rule of law, a royally appointed administration of forest superintendents with the task of overseeing behaviour and enforcing compliance, and the centralisation of knowledge-collection. This was a forestry that was beset with characteristic problems of the day: delays caused by funding shortages, conflict over jurisdiction and local resistance and challenges of distance and Spain’s geography; but it was durable enough to last and aided the durability of a Spanish Monarchy being stretched to its limits.

2.2  Intensive State forestry One of the earliest indications of a more assertive, naval-oriented State in matters related to forests came in the form of a royal decree from Charles V in 1547, “Forest Plantations in the Province of Guipúzcoa and the Señorío of Vizcaya”.9 The order States that “no one in the said provinces is allowed to cut down a tree without planting two, and those who have cut down a tree aged at least ten years are required to plant on all the land around where they have cut”. While earlier royal decrees had also insisted on replanting or the need to obtain a license before felling occurred, the 1547 decree differed in its stated purpose. It states, “due to the great number of naos built in the Province of Guipúzcoa and the Señorío of Vizcaya that serve us, and due to massive cuttings that destroy the forests, a relación was made for us regarding a remedy”. The decree explicitly linked forest conservation and shipbuilding to promote the  interests of the

58  J. T. Wing Crown, the vessels “that  serve  us”. Guipúzcoa and Vizcaya are two of Spain’s Basque provinces; they were well-forested and they were located within the Crown of Castile. The region possessed a rich maritime history and was well-known for its shipbuilding. A healthy maritime commerce and shipbuilding industry in the region served the monarchy, which would lease commercial vessels for naval service, and Charles V appreciated that many of the ships on the Indies run were built there. Oversight was given to the corregidores of the provinces, who were local representatives of the Crown, and who were also told to report abuses.10 The decree specified no plan for inspections, care, or intervention other than to report if damages continued to occur.11 In some ways, the royal decree could be seen as being in harmony with local interests. For example, the very next year in Zumaya, the Juntas Generales de Guipúzcoa met to address the problem of deforestation in the region and passed an ordinance that required 500 oak or chestnut trees to be planted each year in perpetuity. The plantations needed to be made in suitable soils and protected from strong winds. The alcaldes ordinarios oversaw the plantings, which were funded by the local council itself.12 The royal decree from 1547, however, drew direct Crown oversight into forest conservation for the purpose of protecting shipbuilding for the first time. The Crown’s requisitioning of merchant marine vessels for war worked well as long as the Cantabrian and Basque shipping industries remained robust enough to continue to produce ships suitable for naval affairs. By 1560, this arrangement was no longer reliable. As early as 1556, the new Spanish King Philip II (1556–1598) wrote to towns along the north coast to indicate that deforestation was a probable cause of the lack of ships in the region.13 Historians have good reason to argue that there were many other factors behind the shipping crisis of the mid-16th century, including disruptions to the commerce of whaling and fishing, agricultural reconfigurations, and an increase in northern European ships in Spanish ports, particularly in the south by the 1560s.14 The Spanish wool trade to the Low Countries would be hard hit as well by the outbreak of war in the region in the 1570s. Philip II’s message from 1556, however, indicated that forests were becoming more important to Spain’s foreign policy interests, even if a wood shortage did not really exist.15 Philip II began to formulate a new approach to naval strategy and shipbuilding as conflicts with the English, the Dutch, the French and the Ottoman Empire escalated, which led to a more active interest in finding remedies for the struggling shipbuilding centres of Spain. His concern over the role that deforestation played resulted in the appointment of Cristóbal de Barros y Peralta in 1562 to promote royal interests in shipbuilding and forest plantations. The king empowered Barros to inspect forests in the corregimientos of Guipúzcoa, Vizcaya, Cuatro Villas (Cantabria), Asturias and Galicia, two leagues from the sea, and to keep records of the exact quantities of oaks planted in each location. Communal as well as private

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forests were required to comply with recent orders to plant oaks, and fines would be given to those who did not. Barros was a capable royal agent, but he made clear where he faced limitations to his authority. He needed to make his case repeatedly to persuade shipbuilders to make larger vessels for the Crown. He used subsidies and other incentives, like priority in loading goods for export, to encourage shipbuilders to make ships larger so they could be heavily armed and more suitable to naval defence. Ship investors and merchants often preferred smaller vessels, which could be loaded and unloaded more quickly, carried less risk, and could navigate over sandbars to reach inland ports. Barros also reported on destructive cuttings and burnings that continued, despite making the case that municipalities could benefit by adhering to plantation quotas. In some areas, according to Barros, “there is little care, or none, in planting, and great disorder in cutting, burning, and wasting the forests”.16 Such activities, he pointed out, were causing the price of wood to rise. Philip II continued the practice of trying to improve forest conditions through royal legislation. In 1567, he acknowledged that earlier legislative efforts were not working. He wrote, “the old forests are cleared and damaged, cut and felled, and they plant few new ones … firewood and timber have become so scarce that already in many parts people are unable to live”.17 He became more interested in collecting and knowing regional forest ordinances near shipbuilding centres to help devise remedies. In the late 1560s, the king sent a member of the Council of Castile (Consejo de Castilla) to collect the forestry laws of Guipúzcoa to aid in royal ship construction.18 By 1579, he was doing the same in Galicia. That same year, he ordered new prohibitions and demanded that his officials “redouble their vigilance in the Kingdom of Galicia, Navarre, and the ports of Spain”.19 Five years earlier, he had granted Barros the title of Superintendent of Forests and Plantations, a significant institutionalisation of the monarchy’s persistent concern for naval timber. It remained apparent, though, that this office still relied on the corregidores, alcaldes mayores, justicias and town councils to improve forest conditions. As superintendent, Barros continued to encourage new plantations, conserve woods suitable for shipbuilding and oversee the extraction of timber for the shipyards. The duties of superintendents specified at the time of Barros’s appointment in 1574 would remain essentially unchanged for over a century. The office brought with it a great deal of executive authority, unprecedented in the realm of forest management. The superintendent responded directly to the monarch, while the corregidores and the justices were ordered not to interfere. He had authority over forest rangers, whom he could appoint and dismiss. He was authorised to check the account books of municipalities to see if they had the funds to support plantations and fines. 20 He supervised the work of local authorities, including town mayors, regidores, and procuradores who were responsible for the plantations and

60  J. T. Wing for punishing those who failed to comply. These local officials also were tasked with identifying land suitable for new plantings. The plantings themselves and the care required for the saplings were also spelled out in an Instrucción written by Barros in 1575. 21 Undoubtedly, the methods of planting, guarding and caring for the trees were familiar to the communities, but Barros provided detailed instructions. Guidance on choosing the proper soil, making adequate distance between the plantings, planting thorn bushes around new saplings to protect them from passing livestock, and planting at appropriate times of year were likely based on practices that had long been established in the region. The directives and the oversight, however, were now configured to promote the interests of the Crown primarily. Despite the executive authority invested in the superintendent and despite a broadly shared understanding of forest stewardship, Barros and his immediate successor, Fernando de la Riva Herrera faced significant resistance and non-compliance along the entire north coast. The reasons varied from a desire to preserve local-level decision-making to prioritising other local industries such as the Biscayan ironworks. In 1577, the king intervened directly to reprimand local officials who refused to comply and told the regent and alcaldes mayores of Galicia that they had no business involving judges or courts in matters that are strictly under Barros’s command;22 appeals could only go through the Council of War. In 1592, Barros moved to Seville to serve as purveyor. In 1593, de la Riva was appointed as Barros’s successor as forest superintendent and began his inspections in May 1594. 23 In a report from July of that year, de la Riva suspected that Barros had only paid special attention to the plantations during the first four or five years of his tenure, neglecting his duties from then on. One example he provided came from the town of Comillas, whose planting quota over the previous 19 years amounted to 4,408 oaks but could report that only 210 had actually been planted. Members of the municipal council explained that “the plantations are now forgotten, since it is so long ago that they are visited”. 24 In fact, in every council de la Riva visited, plantations fell well short of the quotas. While 36,375 trees were ordered to be planted, only 9,539 were actually put in the ground. De la Riva heard from the towns that Barros did not inspect the forests, but he also heard that making the plantations would have been impossible anyway because of a number of other reasons, including the unsuitability of the lands, the poverty of the towns, and forests that were too dense to add plantations. He discovered non-compliance everywhere he went, though, and shared what he found with the Crown. Three months later, in October 1594, Barros wrote to the Crown in order to explain his actions. 25 This document provides us with a window into Barros’s strategy and methods, and it reveals his thoughts as they relate to the key issue here—how did the Crown, through the work of its agents, balance its naval defence needs with the needs of local communities? That

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is, how did the Crown operate a durable forestry regime for the long term? Barros had been given a great deal of discretion to determine how best to carry out his duties. He opened his letter by making a clear statement on the value of forests as multi-use sites: forests were essential for shipbuilding but also for house construction, foraging animals and hunting. His job, as he saw it, was to persuade people to plant trees to meet their quota and to communicate clearly the orders of the king. He said he preferred this approach over using more forceful methods. Barros conceded that “the desire of most was not to plant to manage and clear the forests”. He also believed he was not required to visit all of the plantations within his jurisdiction or make specific visits at specific times, “as Riva Herrera supposed”. He added that “for the superintendent to visit everything, it is almost impossible”. He relied on the local justices to perform their duties responsibly, including the collection of fines. Barros wrote that he never took money from anyone and wound up spending about 3,000 ducados of his own money while superintendent. He repeated information he had written earlier on how to make proper plantations, which seemed to have been working well in those instances in which plantings did occur. De la Riva wrote in July that the plantations he saw were in good condition, and “in a few years they will be of service”.26 For Barros, it was clear, though, that his jurisdiction was just too large to do much more than he did. He recognised that Vizcaya and Cuatro Villas were of principal concern; it was here where shipbuilding and other competing interests, including charcoal- and iron-making, were placing great strains on forests. De la Riva, therefore, should spend his time there, Barros wrote, but he should not expect realistically to be able to inspect forests from Portugal to France. For the most part, then, Barros took what we might call a “soft approach” to enforcing plantation quotas. He might, therefore, have viewed the fact that those districts inspected by de la Riva in 1594 now had nearly 10,000 more trees as evidence of his success. Some towns expressed that they were persuaded by the leniency of Barros. However, the exchange of memoranda from de la Riva and Barros kept the Crown informed of State forestry operations on the north coast. King Philip II must have been convinced that inspections, enforcement and record-keeping were inadequate and incomplete, threatening the viability of his naval strategy. Over the next four years, the king appointed superintendents in separate jurisdictions including Guipúzcoa, Vizcaya, Cuatro Villas and Asturias and Galicia, effectively dividing up Barros’s position to enable more effective forest inspections and naval provisioning. Before the 1590s, then, forests, as they were managed, were unsustainable for Crown interests, and so they required an intensification of mechanisms of oversight and enforcement. Evidence suggests that this intensification proved to be successful in the sense that it aided the provisioning of the navy without major disruption to the local socioeconomic fabric and proved to be durable for the long term. Although some superintendents complained of being unable to inspect

62  J. T. Wing forests in each village once or twice a year, even in the smaller jurisdictions that were created by 1598, 27 more systematic and regular inspections took place, which led to more plantings. Recovery of timber stocks occurred in Vizcaya under the supervision of Agustín de Ojeda, who recorded 467,036  trees planted in the region between 1602 and 1615. Ojeda also spent time in Galicia, where timber stocks also increased between 1612 and 1624. In all the regions, inspections became more regular and the collection of planting testimonies became more reliable.28 The appointment letter for Domingo de Idiáquez in Guipúzcoa specified that he needed to perform inspections at least twice a year in all towns and villages two leagues from the sea or navigable river in the company of a local justice. 29 Plantation counts were witnessed and authenticated by a public notary who travelled with the superintendent. The notary compiled the reports that were sent from the north coast to Madrid.30 Throughout the 17th century, the duties of the superintendent office persisted essentially unchanged, and early on, the king decided on a policy that would make each superintendent post hereditary.31 Both of these ensured that intensive State forestry remained stable, even during difficult times of naval readjustment in the later 17th century. The Crown also refined forest legislation applicable to forests of the north, but these laws sometimes originated from the superintendents themselves and their local contexts. A real cédula drafted by de la Riva in 1597 clarified that punishment was  necessary for any damages to trees performed without license, and conflicts needed to be resolved by the Council of War, not the corregidores or local judges.32 The most substantial and significant set of forestry laws issued in Spain before 1748 were drafted by the superintendent of Cuatro Villas, Toribio Pérez de Bustamante, in 1650. Initially meant to be applied in his jurisdiction alone, King Philip IV (1621–1665) confirmed Pérez de Bustamante’s Instrucción for the entire monarchy, although it would only be practical in regions where oak trees grew best, such as Spain’s northern provinces.33 Additional legislation in 1675 and in the 1690s increased the authority of the superintendent in Galicia and the amount of information that needed to be collected from forest inspections.34 Challenges to the success of intensive State forestry in the early 17th century included local resistance, initially very strong,35 as well as the escalation of war and the depletion of funds, which added greater demand on the forests and caused disruptions to naval shipbuilding. Shipbuilding in Spain, as well as Spanish naval power more broadly, had waned in the reign of Charles II (1665–1700), but the king continued to receive forest inspection reports from the superintendents in the service of naval shipbuilding.36 A notable trend in the peninsula was an increase in foreigners overseeing the provisioning of the navy, particularly the Dutch.37 However, despite the fact that fewer ships were being built in Spain in the late 17th century, and more foreigners were supplying the navy, the Crown continued to intensify and expand its State forestry practices in the final decades under Habsburg rule.

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The War of Spanish Succession (1701–1714) proved to be disruptive to State forestry, although it ushered in a new era under the Bourbon dynasty marked by a commitment to naval renewal and a reduction of dependency on foreign shipping. Administrators did not alter on-the-ground practices of forest inspections, plantation stewardship and naval provisioning; however, the Crown carried out major reforms to the system to meet the demands of an 18th-century naval power. From the end of the War of Succession through the 1740s, changes to Spain’s naval administration directly affected forest management. Jean Orry and other French ministers in the court of Philip V (1700–1746) had introduced the system of regional intendents and government secretariats to Spain. José Patiño became the General Intendent of the navy in 1717 and would receive numerous additional powers under the acting prime minister Giulio Alberoni, including the administration of plantations and forests. Patiño placed José Antonio de Gaztañeta in charge of reviving the Guarnizo shipyard, which was originally established by Cristóbal de Barros and would produce more ships than any other site in the peninsula between 1715 and 1759. Patiño pursued a long list of naval reforms related to naval recruitment, arsenals and primary resources, but Alberoni’s foreign policy ambitions did not allow Patiño a chance to implement them fully. Most importantly for the administration of Spain’s forests, Patiño created in 1726 three naval departments with headquarters in Cádiz, Ferrol and Cartagena.38 In the years following the War of Succession, several officials from Asturias to Guipúzcoa, including Gaztañeta, had expressed their deep concerns over the state of the forests, which recently had not been well-­ managed. They offered different ideas regarding the root causes of the problem, blaming unruly locals, poor weather and climate, an ineffective justice system and lazy or absent forest administrators.39 What these officials agreed upon in the early 1720s was that the Crown needed to do more to curtail abuses in the navy’s most valuable region of forest resources. In general, these were calls to revive the Habsburg system, not dismantle it. A treasurer named Nicolás Manrique de Lara sent an extensive treatise on naval forestry, which was mostly a reiteration and elaboration upon the instruction issued in 1650 by Toribio Pérez de Bustamante, the forest superintendent of Cuatro Villas as if to say that the Crown needed to get back to effective forest conservation and proper forest plantation methods.40 In fact, Manrique included a copy of this instruction with his report. Another indication that Manrique desired the revival of the old system was through the example of Galicia. He stated that its forests seemed to be in good shape thanks to the uninterrupted and effective administration of the veteran forest superintendent José Bermúdez de Castro. Bermúdez continued to provide exemplary service by carrying out detailed forest reports on Galicia in 1724, 1729, 1730 and 1733 before he died in 1735.41 The major forestry ordinances issued by Zenón de Somodevilla, Marqués de la Ensenada, in 1748 organised forest inspections within Patiño’s administrative structure through the three naval departments.42 They related

64  J. T. Wing directly to his mission of naval resurgence, so it has become understood to be as much a part of French Bourbon reform as the intendents, secretaries and naval departments. While it emerged from Bourbon reformism, most of the guidelines and methods, not to mention its overall purpose, retained a close connection to Habsburg precedents.43 Many of the articles in the January 1748 forest ordinance differed little from their 16th-­ century counterparts. The guidelines for inspections, plantations, fines and licenses, even the persuasive language regarding the benefits of compliance, remained rather consistent. The aspects of the ordinance that were radically different for State forestry related to the new territorial organisation based on the naval departments.44 Spain’s north coast was no longer the only region to be intensively administered. From this point, inspections and reports would be expected to be carried out in forests throughout Spain, which would become critical to support the naval revival desired by the Bourbons. Such an expansion did not occur overnight but rather directly related to what I refer to as extensive State forestry.

2.3  Extensive State forestry From the late 16th century, Spain’s commitments to war and naval defence all but assured the constant fear that rates of extraction in the key shipbuilding regions could surpass the rates of regeneration, so the Spanish Crown did not stay content with limiting its forest concerns to the northern provinces, the regions under the supervision of the forest superintendents. Philip II remained conscious of what would happen if too much demand was concentrated in a particular region. In 1588, amid the rebuilding frenzy in the wake of the Enterprise of England disaster, the king wrote approvingly to Juan de Cardona, a councillor of war charged with overseeing reconstruction efforts in Santander, “You have done well in distributing the construction of the twelve new galleons over the three shipyards you indicate, because it will then be done both quicker and with less damage to the districts. In this way not so many forests will be consumed as would be the case if it was all done in one locality. As you have appreciated, this is an important consideration”.45 The king praised Cardona for avoiding the placement of the burden on any single shipyard for supplying the timber necessary for constructing the 12 galleons at the heart of the recovery effort. This proved to be a guiding principle for Spain’s naval forestry both inside and outside the jurisdiction of the superintendents. While demands for forest resources continued to be very high, the Crown sought flexibility in sourcing its timber supply rather than imposing increasingly restrictive measures in the heartland of Spanish shipbuilding along the Cantabrian coast. The kings of Spain shared a preference for Iberian timber but also pursued direct commerce with ports on the Baltic Sea.46 Part of the motivation for seeking more supply zones could have been due to the less than impressive early results of plantation efforts during the

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era of Barros. Certainly, as the demand for naval timber escalated, so did a concern for finding more sources of suitable woods. A time when both of these concerns intersected was immediately after the armada failure of 1588. While Philip II was expressing his approval to Cardona, he was also receiving reports on the condition of woods more distant from Santander, including Ribadeo (Galicia), San Sebastián (Guipúzcoa) and Barcelona.47 The Duke of Medina Sidonia, a wealthy and powerful landholder in southern Spain, sent timber to northern shipyards in February 1589, including El Ferrol, Santander and Bilbao.48 A royal official in Gibraltar shared information about potentially suitable timber there.49 The corregidor of Antequera expressed to the king that suitable timber grew nearby and could easily be transported by road to the Mediterranean seaport of Málaga.50 When the king received notification of woodlands such as these, the Crown sometimes acted by purchasing the land. If the opportunity and the funds were available, this would alleviate the risk of infringing on local rights. However, the Crown often did not have the funds, and sometimes the land fell well short of expectations. A forest in Rosselló bought by Philip II in 1594 ran out of beech, used to make galley oars, much quicker than expected.51 For lands that already belonged to the Crown, forests could find a new purpose when they possessed the right qualities. The Soto de Roma near Granada, for example, was almost converted into pasture and nearly sold off in the 1560s until the Crown deemed the land valuable enough to keep because the black and white poplars that grew there were useful for making gun carriages.52 Another typical response was to organise sponsored inspections of the forests by experts who then reported on a number of factors that determined suitability. This included, most obviously, the quality of the wood and whether it appeared suitable for any part of a naval vessel. It also considered accessibility to roads, navigable rivers, and shipyards; the quality of the soil; property arrangements and surrounding land use; availability of labour and availability of ancillary materials, such as hemp, pitch and iron. An early example of this kind of inspection occurred in the winter of 1588–1589 in the coastal pine and oak forests of the borderlands of Valencia and Catalonia.53 When a governor of the town of Castellón de la Plana notified the Viceroy of Catalonia, the Viceroy assembled a group of experts and arranged with the Viceroy of Valencia to help organise visitations to the forests. They determined that the region produced suitable timber, but the main challenge was going to be in transporting them to a shipyard. Costly roads would need to be built to reach the coastal towns of Vinaroz or Tortosa, but even then, neither town possessed the required infrastructure and personnel for naval shipbuilding. The timber would need to be shipped to somewhere like Barcelona, but the waters around the mouth of the Ebro River were reportedly very dangerous due to the presence of hostile Islamic pirates. Eventually, though, the forests of this region proved to be valuable by the 18th century for the newly constructed arsenal in Cartagena.

66  J. T. Wing For forests to be deemed accessible, they needed to be located near the sea, a road or a navigable river. Sending logs downriver was more economical than building a road, or even most of the time, transporting them along a road already built. Many of Spain’s forests were located in the mountainous highlands and could only be exploitable for the navy if they were within a couple of leagues from a navigable river. The word monte, by the 16th century, was used to mean both forest and mountain. Unsurprisingly, then, much of the reconnaissance efforts in the Iberian Peninsula concentrated along major rivers, such as the Ebro, Turia, Júcar, Segura, Guadalquivir and Tajo. Near the sources of these waterways and their tributaries were extensive woodlands outside the jurisdiction of the forest superintendents that had not been exploited by the navy. The Ebro River basin includes the vast pine forests of Navarre and the Pyrenees. Pine trees were valued by European navies for their tensile strength and flexibility, ideal for masts. The pines of Scandinavia were exploited by all of Europe’s maritime powers, and, for a time during the administration of Count-Duke Olivares in the reign of Philip IV, Spain developed plans to carry out a blockade against the Dutch to control access to the North Sea and Baltic.54 This was never accomplished, and the Spanish remained vulnerable in times of war to being cut off from important sources of naval timber. In the century from the 1630s to the 1730s, reconnaissance missions sought an economical way of delivering pines comparable to those found in Norway down river from the Pyrenees to the Mediterranean Sea. When it was becoming clear to Olivares and others that Spain would not be able to control access to the North Sea and the Baltic, King Philip IV approved a plan made in 1637 by Pascual de Atocha, a shipbuilder who lived in San Sebastián to build a road from a pine forest to a tributary of the Ebro.55 Reducing reliance on Baltic imports required bolstering domestic supplies, but this would be costly. In addition to the road building, river obstacles would need to be removed, and the navigators who steered the rafts of bundled logs would need to be paid. Still, the king approved the plan “because this is of greater importance than anything in Spain”. 56 In 1639, Atocha sent 200 pine logs down river to be inspected by experts in Barcelona. To the disappointment of the Junta de Armadas and to the objection of Atocha, the assessment was that the pines were inferior and inadequate. Another attempt occurred in 1677, led by engineer Luis Liñán y Vera and architect Philip Busiñac y Borbón, who each gave different estimates for the costs to make the river navigable but agreed that it was unattainable. They suggested returning focus to Vinaroz, mentioned above in relation to an earlier reconnaissance mission from 1589, to make it a viable port.57 The Crown returned to the Ebro project in 1738 when conditions were quite different. King Philip V reinstituted the almirantazgo (admiralty) to help with naval affairs, especially because his leading minister José Patiño had died in 1736. The king placed his son Philip, the younger brother of the future king Charles III (1759–1788), in charge as the Infante Almirante

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General. Under the direction of the Almirante and its chief secretary, the marqués de la Ensenada, the Spanish navy pursued a systematic collection of information on the kingdom’s forests, specifically the suitability of shipbuilding timber, hemp plantations for rope- and sail-making and facilities for the production of pitch and tar, made from pine resin for caulking the seams of vessels. The Almirante and Ensenada contacted intendents in each naval province, El Ferrol, Cartagena and Cádiz beginning in February and March 1738. It was clear that the forests of the north coast, in the department of El Ferrol, were the most intensively observed by the Crown. The Almirantazgo received several detailed responses within months on forests and available timber in coastal shipyards, building on earlier reports ranging from Galicia to Guipúzcoa.58 The other departments, though, would require reconnaissance missions carried out by royally appointed naval officers and other experts to shed light on forest conditions in areas that could be opened up for future exploitation, like forests near the sources of navigable rivers. Juan Valdés y Castro, a Spanish naval commander and frigate captain, led an expedition of the Ebro river and several of its tributaries in 1738–1739. His itinerary took him from Calahorra, a town in the landlocked La Rioja region, to Tortosa and then on to Barcelona. Along the way, he inspected lands for their suitability for hemp cultivation and the navigability of the river and its tributaries. His report on this leg of the journey was favourable, as he viewed the land to be well-suited for hemp, particularly along the Cinca River. His inspection of facilities for making pitch and rigging in Tortosa and Barcelona was more disappointing, as most of them lacked proper storage or used less-than-ideal methods. He reported that he provided instructions on how to improve conditions. He wintered in Barcelona and then headed out to inspect the forests of the Pyrenees in Catalonia and Aragón in the spring. He kept a daily log of the forests he visited and recorded in detail the types of trees in each forest, their suitability for shipbuilding, requirements for improving access, and the extant property arrangements. Overall, his impressions were favourable, submitting that there would be enough wood in northwestern Catalonia to serve the armada for half a century while costing relatively little.59 Part of the mission of Valdés was to secure an asiento (contract) with someone for the provisioning of naval stores for 12 years. The Crown, in the early 18th century had started to change its approach to contracting naval supplies. It was common in the late 17th century for the Crown to sign contracts with foreign merchants, especially the Dutch, to deliver not only naval stores but also to take part in the identification and extraction of wood in Spanish forests. Geo-political changes around 1700 affected Dutch economic clout in the Baltic and turned them into enemies of the Spanish Bourbons during the War of Succession. The Bourbons also promoted mercantilist policies aimed to enhance the nationalisation of commerce and industry, so they pursued their preference to sign contracts with Spanish

68  J. T. Wing merchants rather than foreigners. Contracts before 1700 also tended to be specific and temporary and given to a large number of asentistas (contractors). The Crown, after 1700, increasingly sought contracts that would establish a monopoly on naval stores, which came with extensive privileges, such as the waiving of costly tolls when transporting the timber, and were for a lengthy period of time, from ten to 30 years. The merchants benefitted from the security of the long-term contracts and the royal protection of commercial privileges. The Crown benefitted from the greater stability that came from working with the asentistas, who were in a position to carry out this work more effectively. In other words, the contract system was not pursued because the Crown failed at its own direct administration of naval provisioning but because it was a system that benefitted both the Crown and the merchants while still enabling the Crown to pursue its forestry priorities.60 Spanish State forestry relied on non-State actors at every stage, including in the making of plantations, forest stewardship, timber extraction, sawing and transportation. As the Crown gathered information about its forests through reconnaissance missions, it enhanced its legislative and administrative authority, which had a real impact on how effectively asentistas could mobilise the work and resources of other non-State actors to deliver naval stores from the forest to the shipyard. For example, with the ­ordinances of 1748, the Crown obtained unprecedented authority to enforce the political and commercial privileges found in the asientos. In comparing two cases, the asientos with Juan de Goyeneche early in the century and the asientos with Juan de Isla at mid-century, both sets of contracts granted extensive privileges, but Isla was able to operate with the ability to override all local authorities under the 1748 ordinances while Goyeneche faced difficulties in Navarre because his contractual privileges were not viewed as above the laws of Navarre. Towns, villages and noblemen did not feel obliged to sell to Goyeneche and could find other buyers if they preferred.61 In addition to the Ebro River basin, other coastal forests and river systems in Spain followed a similar process from extensive to intensive State forestry in the 18th century. Additional Valencian forests were visited in 1738 by José Maltés after the count of Clavijo informed the intendent of Cartagena that the forests could be suitable for the navy. Maltés visited the forests of the Valley of Cofrentes and the Júcar River as well as forests of the marquesado de Moya and the Turia River. For over a month, Maltés  kept a daily log of his visits to the region, including individual households and their woodlands, and catalogued forest conditions, river conditions and accessibility. Ultimately, Maltés concluded that Cofrentes lacked suitable trees and its river contained too many rocks for it to be navigable, but Moya possessed pine trees that could supply timber for navíos of 60–70 guns, and it was accessible by road from the river, which flowed to Valencia. Its woods would supply the arsenal at Cartagena.62 In Andalucía, José Patiño established the city of Cádiz as the de facto naval headquarters in the years after the War of Succession. Nearby, across

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the bay in La Carraca, the Crown built a new arsenal, which was supplied with timber and other naval stores through various types of arrangements, including both direct administration and asientos. Timber came from Spain’s southern forests, from the regions of Seville, Granada and Jaén, but a great deal of timber also arrived from distant sources, including northern Spain, the Americas and the Baltic.63 The Department of Cádiz, formed in 1726, had jurisdiction over the forests of southern Spain. Even before the Almirante requested forest inspections from each department in 1738, Patiño had been notified of potential sources of timber in the Sierra de Segura. Sebastián Caballero, the Superintendent of Seville’s Royal Tobacco Factory, received an inspection report on the Sierra for timber to offset the cost of foreign imports during the construction of the factory’s new building in 1732, overseen by the Real Hacienda.64 The intendent of the naval department of Cádiz, Francisco de Varas y Valdés, approved a brief reconnaissance of the Sierra for the navy in 1734. A more extensive reconnaissance occurred, like many others of its kind in Spain, in 1738 at the request of the Almirante and led by Juan Valdés y Castro along the Guadalimar and Guadalquivir Rivers. Simultaneously, another inspection occurred on the other side of the Sierra along the Segura River, which flowed to the Mediterranean. Almost immediately, timber shipments began flowing from the Sierra de Segura to Seville and on to La Carraca as well as to Cartagena.65 The pines of Segura were considered well-suited for beams and planks, both on the outer hull and the interior, during repairs at La Carraca. Just as in other regions, the Crown operated through both direct administration and asientos. The ordinance of January 1748 designated the Sierra de Segura region as a “Maritime Province”, because, although it was located inland among the sierras, it became a vital source of timber for the Spanish navy. It was nearly 3,500 square miles and contained numerous territories of different types of jurisdictions in the regions of Murcia, Jaén, Granada and La Mancha, supplying both the Atlantic department capital of Cádiz and the Mediterranean department capital of Cartagena.66 The ordinances of 1748 did not spell the end of extensive State forestry, however, because the process of forest reconnaissance and source diversification continued in the colonies. The matter of State forestry in the colonies is outside the purview of this article, but it should be stated that this is an artificial separation. The Spanish Crown sought information about American and Asian forests as it did in Iberia and sponsored reconnaissance missions in places like Mexico, Ecuador and the Philippines.67 The Crown also adhered to the same general principles of diversifying timber source locations in the colonial context. For example, in the early 17th century, the Council of the Indies expressed its preference that the ships for the proposed Caribbean fleet, the Armada de Barlovento, be built in the Indies in order to reduce the demands on peninsular forests, which were considered by the council to be already seriously diminished by naval shipbuilding.68

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2.4 Conclusions The ordinances of 1748 brought Spain’s coastal and accessible forests under a single administration and legal framework for the first time. The laws allowed for some modifications in some regions, including the Basque Country and Navarre,69 but it meant that all of Spain was, from that point, under an intensive State forestry regime that aimed to supply the navy. As Spanish State forestry took shape in the middle of the 16th century, much of northern Spain came under the jurisdiction of the Superintendents of Forests and Plantations, where a combination of new legislation, new administration, and traditional forest conservation methods asserted naval pre-eminence in the heartland of Spanish shipbuilding. Just as important for the history of Spain’s forests was the parallel efforts by the Crown after about 1588 to seek diverse timber source locations beyond the jurisdiction of the forest superintendents. By doing so, the Crown aimed to avoid placing too much demand on a single region, upholding its long-established role of forest protector for its subjects. In the long run, the forest inspections helped to centralise knowledge of the Crown’s resources, facilitated extraction and delivery through contracts or direct administration and established new legislative and administrative structures. These efforts increased the Crown’s ability to make its territory “legible”, with the inventories of lands and resources playing an important role in “translating nature” to understand it in a way that would allow more effective management and exploitation by the State authorities.70 In combination, intensive and extensive State forestry sought to provide the Crown with reliably accessible resources of the forest for the long term. The monarchy, through the superintendents, worked to establish mechanisms for monitoring and regulating conditions along the northern coasts. Naval defence needs continued to escalate, and the Crown devised ways of providing timber without overexploiting the people and forests in those regions. Overturning the social order was out of the question, if only in Iberia, so the Crown sponsored efforts to supplement shipyard productivity through reconnaissance missions that aimed to assess potentially valuable forests by observing local conditions and reporting directly to the Crown.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

Hoffmann (2014, 267). Dowling and Keyser (2020, 12). Vassberg (1984); Soriano Martí (2003, 73–78). Scott (1910); Bauer Manderscheid (2003, 195–196); Burns (2001). Ley II. “Formación de nuevos plantíos de montes y arboledas, y de ordenanzas para conserver los viejos y nuevos”. Novissima recopilación, 1805, tomo III, libro VII, titulo XXIV, 510. 6 Odriozola Oyarbide (2002). 7 See, for example, these recent special journal issues: Studia Historica: Historia Moderna, 43, 1 (2021), “Un mar de bosques. comercio, suministros y

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9 10

1 1 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 0 3 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38

39

71

asentistas de productos forestales para la Corona española en los siglos XVII y XVIII”, ed. Álvaro Aragón Ruano; Obradoiro de Historia Moderna 28 (Nov. 2019), “Maderas para el rey desde Filipinas, las Indias y la Península Ibérica”; and Tiempos Modernos: Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39 (2019), “Recursos naturales en la Península Ibérica: los aprovechamientos forestales e hídricos (siglos XV–XIX)”, eds. Félix Labrador-Arroyo and Koldo Trapaga-Monchet. The guiding aims of intensive forestry, for example, include increasing profits by meeting the demands of the timber trade through optimising and maximising every available means of intensifying production, such as the cultivation of pure coniferous stands or the use of genetically superior seedlings for artificial regeneration. Extensive forestry operates with lower operating and investment costs per acre and encourages natural regeneration. See Radkau (2012, 250–252); Benson (1988, 422). Ley VIII. “Plantío de montes en la Provincia de Guipuzcoa y Señorío de Vizcaya”. Novissima recopilación, 1805, tomo III, libro VII, titulo XXIV, 514. However, the following year, an additional decree charged the local justices to inspect the actions of the corregidores, who ostensibly had failed in executing the earlier decree. Ley VI. “Cargo que ha de hacerse á Corregidores por los jueces de residencias sobre el cumplimiento de la conservación y plantío de montes”. Novissima recopilación, 1805, tomo III, libro VII, titulo XXIV, 513. Martínez González (2015, 43). Martínez González (2015, 44); Aragón Ruano (2001, 188). Phillips (1988, 297). Grafe (2011). Warde (2006, 39). Phillips (1988, 298). Muñoz Goyanes (1983, 102). Martínez González (2019). Archivo General de Simancas (AGS), Guerra y Marina (GyM), leg. 92, ff. 76–81. Martínez González (2015, 57–58). Martínez González (2015, 58). Martínez González (2015, 60). AGS, GyM, leg. 403, f. 99. Goodman (1997, 75). AGS, GyM, leg. 403, f. 102. Martínez González (2015, 78–79). Goodman (1997, 73). Goodman (1997, 104–108). Museo Naval, Colección Vargas Ponce, Tomo 31, Documento 31, ff. 170–174; Gómez Rivero (1986, 626–630). Goodman (1997, 105). Wing (2015, 130–138). Muñoz Goyanes (1983, 107). AGS, GyM, leg. 3.309, 15 February, 1650, Santander. Wing (2015, 159–163). Gómez Rivero (1986, 591–636). Phillips (2007, 19–32). Torres Sánchez and Riezu Elizalde (2021, 199–200); Crespo Solana (2002). Pérez Fernández Turégano, 2006); Didier Ozanam (1985, 489); Lynch (1989, 91). This design was based on an earlier 1713 plan by a French advisor to Bernardo Tinajero de Escalera named Jean de Monségur. See Valdez Bubnov (2011, 136). Wing (2015, 170).

72  J. T. Wing 40 AGS, Marina, leg. 552, Madrid, 27 August 1723, don Nicolás Manrique, 77 articles. Manrique also added a point about designating separate plantations to be used by the ironworks. 41 AGS, Marina, leg. 552, Graña, 6 December 1735, don Bernardo Freyre, “Que murió don Joseph Bermúdez Juez Conservador de Montes”. 42 Ley XXII. “Ordenanza para la conservación y aumento de los montes de Marina en las provincias y distritos que se expresan”. Novissima recopilación, 1805, tomo III, libro VII, titulo XXIV, 532–543. 43 Aragón Ruano, Reichert and Wing (2019, 8–9). 44 Wing (2015, 206–215). 45 Goodman (1997, 78). 46 Reichert (2016). 47 AGS, GyM, leg. 236, f. 97 (1588); leg. 242, f. 58 (1588); leg. 227, f. 148 (September–November 1588). 48 AGS, GyM, leg. 281, f. 27. 49 AGS, GyM, leg. 264, f. 184 (1589). 50 AGS, GyM, leg. 347, f. 88. 51 Goodman (1997, 97–98). 52 Labrador-Arroyo and Trapaga-Monchet (2018, 322–323). 53 AGS, GyM, leg. 246, ff. 281–283. 54 Stradling (1981, 62–64). 55 AGS, GyM, leg. 3.168, 12 August 1637. 56 Goodman (1997, 139). 57 Andrés Robres (2008, 521–522). 58 Wing (2015, 178–180). 59 AGS, Marina, leg. 553, “Diario, especulación y reconocimiento hecho por el Capitán de Fragata Juan de Baldés y Castro …”; Wing (2015, 187–193). 60 Torres Sánchez and Riezu Elizalde (2021, 195–226). 61 Torres Sánchez and Riezu Elizalde (2021, 212). 62 AGS, Marina, leg. 552, Cartagena, 10 September 1738; Wing (2015, 181–182). 63 Trindade (2021, 141). 64 López Arandia (2021, 106). 65 López Arandia (2021, 110–111). 66 López Arandia (2021, 114). 67 Reichert (2019); Clayton (1980, 32); Valdez Bubnov (2019); Archivo General de Indias, MP-Filipinas, 46. 68 Goodman (1997, 78). 69 Aragón Ruano (2019, 156). 70 Warde (2018, 184).

Bibliography (1805). Novissima recopilación de las leyes de España, Madrid: Imprenta Real. Andrés Robres, F. (2008). “El reino sin mar, el camino para llegar y el puerto que no pudo ser: Aragón, Vinaròs, Valencia, siglo XVII. Una recapitulación”, in R. Franch Benavent and R. Benítez Sánchez Blanco (eds.), Estudios de Historia Moderna en homenaje a la profesora Emilia Salvador Esteban, Valencia: Universidad de Valencia, vol. 2, 507–536. Aragón Ruano, Á. (2001). El bosque guipuzcoano en la Edad Moderna: aprovechamiento, ordenamiento legal y conflictividad, Donostia: Sociedad de Ciencias Aranzadi.

Durable forests in a tensile state

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    (2019). “Un choque de jurisdicciones. Fueros y política forestal en el Pirineo occidental durante el siglo XVIII”, Obradoiro de Historia Moderna, 28, 135–162. Aragón Ruano, Á., Reichert, R. and Wing, J.T. (2019). “Maderas para el Rey: avances, resultados, propuestas”, Obradoiro de Historia Moderna, 28, 7–26. Bauer Manderscheid, E. (2003). Los Montes de España en la Historia, Madrid: Fundación Conde de Valle de Salazar. Benson, C.A. (1988). “A Need for Extensive Forestry Management”, The Forestry Chronicle, 64, 5, 421–430. Burns, Robert I. (ed.) (2001). Las Siete Partidas, Volume 3: Medieval Law: Lawyers and Their Work, Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Clayton, L.A. (1980). Caulkers and Carpenters in a New World: The Shipyards of Colonial Guayaquil, Athens, OH: Ohio University Center for International Studies. Crespo Solana, A. (2002). “Las comunidades mercantiles y el mantenimiento de los sistemas comerciales de España, Flandes y la República holandesa1648–1750”, in M. Herrero Sánchez and A. Crespo Solana (eds.), España y las 17 provincias de los Países Bajos: una revisión historiográfica (XVI–XVIII), Córdoba: Editorial Universidad de Córdoba, vol. 2, 443–468. Dowling, A.P. and Keyser, R. (eds.) (2020). Conservation’s Roots: Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, New York: Berghahn Books. Gómez Rivero, R. (1986). “La superintendencia de construcción naval y fomento forestal en Guipúzcoa”, Anuario de historia del derecho español, 56, 591–636. Goodman, D. (1997). Spanish Naval Power, 1589–1665: Reconstruction and Defeat, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Grafe, R. (2011). “The Strange Tale of the Decline of Spanish Shipping”, in R.W. Unger (ed.), Shipping and Economic Growth, 1350–1850, Leiden: Brill, 81–116. Hoffmann, R.C. (2014). An Environmental History of Medieval Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Labrador-Arroyo, F. and Trapaga-Monchet K. (2018). “Forestry, Territorial Organization, and Military Struggle in the Early Modern Spanish Monarchy”, Environmental History, 23, 2, 318–341. López Arandia, M.A. (2021). “Los suministros forestales desde la provincia marítima de Segura de la Sierra a través del Real Negociado de Maderas, la Secretaría de Marina y los asentistas”, Studia Historica: Historia Moderna, 43, 1, 103–137. Lynch, J. (1989). Bourbon Spain, 1700–1808, Oxford: Blackwell. Martínez González, A.J. (2015). Las Superintendencias de Montes y Plantíos (1574–1748). Derecho y política forestal para las armadas en la Edad Moderna, Valencia: Tirant Lo Blanch.     (2019). “Bosques guipuzcoanos para la construcción de navíos y recopilación normativa por el Real Consejo de Castilla (1569)”, Tiempos Modernos, Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 321–342. Muñoz Goyanes, Guillermo (1983). Crónica sobre bosques y montes de la Península Hispánica, Madrid: Fundación Conde de Valle y Salazar. Odriozola Oyarbide, M.L. (2002). Construcción Naval en el País Vasco, siglos XVI–XIX: Evolución y Análisis Comparativo, Donostia: Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa.

74  J. T. Wing Ozanam, D. (1985) “La política exterior de España en tiempo de Felipe V y de Fernando VI”, in R. Menéndez Pidal (ed.), Historia de España, tomo XXIX: La época de los Borbones—La nueva monarquía y su posición en Europa (1700–1759), Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 441–699. Pérez Fernández Turégano, C. (2006). Patiño y las Reformas de la Administración en el Reinado de Felipe V, Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa. Phillips, C.R. (2007). The Treasure of the San José: Death at Sea in the War of the Spanish Succession, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Phillips, William D. Jr. (1988). “Spain’s Northern Shipping Industry in the Sixteenth Century”. Journal of European Economic History, 17, 2, 267–301. Radkau, J. (2012). Wood: A History, Cambridge: Polity Press. Reichert, R. (2016). “El comercio directo de maderas para la construcción naval española y de otros bienes provenientes del Báltico sur, 1700–1783”, Hispania, 76, 252, 129–157.     (2019). “Recursos forestales, proyectos de extracción y asientos de maderas en la Nueva España durante el siglo XVIII”, Obradoiro de Historia Moderna, 28, 55–81. Scott, S.P. (1910). The Visigothic Code (Forum Judicum), Boston, MA: Boston Book Co. Soriano Martí, J. (2003). “La documentación Medieval y la sostenibilidad de los aprovechamientos forestales mediterráneos”, Cuadernos de la Sociedad Española de Ciencias Forestales, 16, 73–78. Stradling, R.A. (1981). Europe and the Decline of Spain, London: George Allen & Unwin. Torres Sánchez, R. and Riezu Elizalde, Ó. (2021). “En qué consistió el triunfo del Estado forestal? Contractor State y los asentistas de Madera del siglo XVIII”, Studia Historica: Historia Moderna, 43, 1, 195–226. Trindade, A.R. (2021). “Regional Timber Supply for Shipbuilding and Maintenance of War Fleets in Cádiz: Methods, Agents, and Phases (1717–1736)”, Studia Historica: Historia Moderna, 43, 1, 139–194. Valdez Bubnov, I. (2011). Poder naval y modernización del Estado: política de construcción naval Española (siglos XVI–XVIII), México: UNAM.     (2019). “Las islas Filipinas y la etapa formative de la construcción naval española en Asia, 1519–1657”, Obradoiro de Historia Moderna, 28, 29–54. Vassberg, D. (1984). Land and Society in Golden Age Castile, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Warde, P. (2006). “Fear of Wood Shortage and the Reality of the Woodland in Europe, c.1450–1850”, History Workshop Journal, 62, 1, 28–57.     (2018). The Invention of Sustainability: Nature and Destiny, c.1500–1870, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wing, John T. (2015). Roots of Empire: Forests and State Power in Early Modern Spain, c.1500–1750, Leiden: Brill.

3

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country during the Early Modern period1 Álvaro Aragón-Ruano

University of the Basque Country, [email protected]

3.1 Introduction Various research has been carried out into proto-silviculture, woodland conservation and sustainability—though the latter two terms must be used cautiously when referring to the pre-industrial period—2 in Europe from medieval times to the 18th century, as antecedents of classical forest science and sustainability. The related descriptions and analyses have often been focused on Northern Europe in the search for the origins of scientific forestry, whose forerunners are considered to be Colbert’s Eaux et Fôrests— Louis de Froidour might be also included—Evelyn and Carlowitz, who “… far from being isolated geniuses that developed these ideas on their own … should rather be seen as important links in a long process of development that not only continued after them, but that also reached back centuries earlier …”, marginalising the contribution of Southern European countries.3 Recently, Viitala has claimed that The origins of classical forestry are predominantly German, but extending the relevant inquiry to cover the parallel development in the British Isles has opened new perspectives … [the period] from mid18th century until early 19th century is generally known to have given rise to “scientific forestry”—an intellectual and professional movement that promoted a more rigorous treatment of forestry, and through this activity prepared the way for the development of modern forest sciences and establishment of its institutions. During the 18th century, German academic cameralists such as Langen, Moser, Justi, Beckmann, Zincke and Zanthier emphasised national self-sufficiency, promoting an increase in population, domestic production and exploitation of domestic natural resources. Furthermore, during the 19th-century German forestry scholars such as Hossfeld, König, Faustmann and Pressler contributed to the formation of modern forestry and natural resource economics.4 However, as Auge notes, forms of sustainable thinking had been expressed prior to Carlowitz and “sustainability DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-4

76  Á. Aragón-Ruano existed as an economic principle for people in the Middle Ages and preindustrial periods without having been formulated as a theoretical concept”. 5 This author agrees with Keyser, who claims that a reason “for the relative neglect of 12th- and 13th-century woodland conservation is the centrality of Germany in traditional forest history”.6 This chapter will accordingly focus on and highlight the Mediterranean and Iberian contribution to the development of empirical silviculture as the root of sustainability, bearing in mind that the Mediterranean area was the industrial, commercial and financial hub of Europe until the end of the 16th century. Moreover, the Italian and Iberian Peninsulas were core areas of European maritime expansion, where the best and most advanced vessels were built.7 The needs of shipbuilding forced Iberian civilisations to put in place advanced silviculture systems in order to guarantee an ongoing timber supply. Focusing on the Iberian Peninsula, this essay aims to highlight the role played by the Basque Country and its forestry. In addition, this chapter argues that there was a Cantabrian-Pyrenean forestry tradition shared by the inhabitants of an area that includes modern-­ day Cantabria, northern Burgos, Álava, Biscay, Guipúzcoa, Navarre, parts of northern Aragon, Labourd, Basse-Navarre, Soule, Béarn and Bigorre (Map 3.1), given the considerable labour and workforce mobility and strong commercial ties that had existed in the region since medieval times.8 The aim of this research is to underline the contribution of the Basque Country to the development of proto-silviculture from the 13th century, when several measures began to be applied with the aim of guaranteeing forest durability and sustainability, to the 18th century, as well as to scientific forestry during that century as an essential step towards the development of classical forest science during the 19th century. It will furthermore argue that modern forestry underwent a polycentric development in different parts of Europe at the same time, not only in the North but also in the Mediterranean area, with a shared empiricism and scientific debate.9 This essay is divided into two main parts. The first discusses the development of proto- or empirical silviculture in the Basque Country as a sample of a wider Cantabrian-Pyrenean tradition within a larger European framework,

Map 3.1  Area of Cantabrian-Pyrenean forestry tradition. Source:  Made by the author.

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 77 where conservation measures were taken in parallel from the 13th and the 14th centuries onwards. The second addresses the contribution of the Basque Country and the Royal Basque Society to the emergence of modern forest resource economic thought in the 18th century. For this purpose, published and unpublished Basque medieval and Early Modern archival sources are reinterpreted from a comparative perspective, contrasting them with German, English, French, Portuguese, Spanish and Venetian cases using an extensive bibliography.

3.2  A Cantabrian-Pyrenean empirical proto-silviculture From the medieval period onwards, Basque forestry carried out three main strategies to ensure the sustainability of its forests, mainly in coastal areas. The first was the individualisation and specialisation of woodland areas to ensure supplies for the principal economic activities; in other words, some woodlands were limited to catering to the needs of the iron industry and others to shipbuilding needs, by applying different forestry techniques. The second strategy was the gradual adaptation of a new forest system between 1548 and 1700 in the Cantabrian region—though primarily in coastal areas—understood as an integrated market and territory. In Guipúzcoa, where shipbuilding had a major role, the prevalence of coppice and standard trees, which coexisted alongside pollards in the coastal areas, gave way to a predominance of pollards, to ensure that forgers’ needs were successfully met. In Biscay, where ironworking predominated, coppice was not apparently applied and shaped, and guided pollards with two main branches (horca y pendón) were more abundant, mostly along the coast, compass timber being exported to other parts of Biscay and Guipúzcoa, at least from the 1560s. In the Atlantic part of Navarre, where cattle and pig breeding played a leading role, a combined system was put in practice from 1584 to protect ironworking, stockbreeding and housebuilding needs. It was similar to the coppice with standards or coppice-under-­ standards ­system—very common in other parts of Europe, such as England and France, respectively—10 and involved keeping a standard oak every 15  metres, which was shaped when pruning, leaving two main branches (the horca and the pendón).11 The third strategy was to implement an ambitious reforestation policy based on nurseries and plantings, mainly in Guipúzcoa and Biscay and to a lesser extent in Atlantic Navarre. However, it is very likely that the planting policies proved less fruitful in Biscay than in Guipúzcoa, since Biscayan villagers abandoned their planting and tree promotion efforts when the post of forest magistrate disappeared in 1773.12 This contrasts markedly with the statement made by Szabó, who argues that traditional woodland management relied almost exclusively on the self-renewing capacity of trees after being felled and denies the existence of a forest management before the 19th century.13

78  Á. Aragón-Ruano 3.2.1 Division of woodlands: individualisation and specialisation depending on the economic activity The Basque Country as a whole—that is, both the French and the Spanish Basque Countries—succeeded in establishing a sustainable forest management system from medieval times. In Bayonne in the French Basque Country, under the control of the English Crown until 1453 as Lords of Aquitaine—Henry II (1154–1189) issued the Edict of the Forest of 1184 and Henry III (1216–1272) the Charter of the Forest of 1217, affecting English territory—many measures were taken locally from 1288 to 1345 in an attempt to protect wood and timber resources and to balance the needs of shipbuilding (in 1307, for instance, the building of vessels under 100  tonnes was banned, leading to a higher timber consumption) and cooperage. While imports and exports of timber—mostly to England— were only allowed using local vessels, timber cutting was banned without an owner’s license and unless it was for specific purposes.14 Moreover, in 1283 Per Arnaut, Lord of Urcuit, a small village close to Bayonne, sold a forest to the city, preserving local inhabitants’ rights to obtain timber for their houses from the forest and cayolars (forested areas where livestock, preferentially cattle herds, was kept and grazed).15 Some years later, the Lord and parishioners of Urcuit reached an agreement to respect the forest acquired by Bayonne, banning felling, pruning and shredding—which demonstrates the use of different treatments and techniques at that time.16 From the 13th century onwards, as also occurred in Champagne and other densely populated regions, a shift took place from “nourishing forest” (from which people obtained food for themselves and their livestock) to “commercial forest” (from which firewood and timber were obtained), where the bulk of demand, similar to in Bayonne, was for fuel, fencing, stakes, staves and raw material for tools or furniture.17 Similar measures were taken in the Spanish Basque Country around this time. In 1342, the Law Book of Juan Núnez de Lara, Lord of Biscay, referred to selective pruning, the existence of pollards (called árboles rozados) and, for the first time, nurseries. Later on, in 1379, San Sebastian and Hernani reached an agreement concerning the bordering woodlands known as the Montes Francos of Urumea, in which multiple forest uses and management are described: trees for charcoal and trees for shipbuilding timber, called árboles cruzados (crossed trees), which in a subsequent copy of the aforementioned agreement, done in 1461, were called guided or shaped trees: Also, we order that nobody in our property of Urumea shall dare to cut or fell crossed trees for masts, yards, keel, crane, knees and other crossed trees, they being components of ships, for the purpose of making charcoal, under punishment of one hundred maravedis for each tree and time.18

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 79 In addition, the book of Ordinances of the Brotherhood of Guipúzcoa 1397, the germ of the General Assembly (Junta General) of this region, mentioned nurseries and banned the cutting down of any tree, for which offenders would be sentenced to death.19 Similar measures began to be adopted in other parts of Europe in an effort to manage and conserve woodlands. Measures to replace felled trees were implemented in the German Palatine as early as 1344—and again in 1478, 1528, 1568 and 1608. 20 In Portugal, there were royal officials entrusted with the preservation of royal forests (coutadas), especially for hunting, by 1282. However, the first law against damaging cork oaks (Quercus suber) and holm oaks (Quercus ilex) in the regions of Campo do Ourique and Santiago de Cacem had already been passed by 1320. From the second half of the 14th century onwards forestry legislation hugely increased in Portugal.21 In Venice, the Senate issued an order to regulate the sale of oaks in 1350. 22 In order to guarantee the durability of their woodlands, between the late 1300s and early 1500s the municipalities of Guipúzcoa divided their forested lands into differentiated areas (called divisas, defesas, dehesas) for distinct purposes; these were also very common in other parts of Europe, where they were given different names such as “defesio”, “bedats” or “devézes”. 23 In other words, they made a true attempt at spatial planning, understood as the management of resources based on environmental, economic and social factors with the aim of sustainable development. For that purpose, in the woodlands of Guipúzcoa a distinction was drawn between communal assets, which were used freely by the local inhabitants, and heritage assets (bienes de propios), which belonged to a municipality or minor local authority and whose purpose was not to be used by the local community but instead to generate income.24 The latter were occasionally leased for a certain time through auctions to anybody, resident or otherwise, enabling municipal treasuries to meet their economic needs. Commons were in turn divided and delimited into different areas, each with a particular use and purpose: areas devoted to the production of charcoal for forges (basapartes, olapartes or divisas de las ferrerías municipales); areas for collecting firewood; and woodland areas where householders could plant chestnut trees (ondazilegis, ostabasos, castañales de maravedís, ondazilegis de castaños, ipinoguis), taking advantage of fruits, branches and leaves, though the municipality retained the ownership—this practice was also common in Biscay and the Atlantic part of Navarre. However, the freedom to engage in common uses was progressively limited. Among other strategies, beginning at the end of the 14th century, the municipal ordinances, apart from dividing the city’s woodlands into communal and heritage assets and distinguishing areas within the commons, introduced the requirement that residents apply to the municipal authorities for a licence in order to be allowed to use communal resources.

80  Á. Aragón-Ruano At the same time, as in other parts of Europe, the local ordinances started regulating the newly created post of forester and laying downing penalties and punishments for offenders in an attempt to prevent abuses and excesses, and to preserve common property. As a matter of fact, the establishment of differentiated areas, restrictions and limitations was a strategy adopted by the local oligarchies, who controlled the councils—which were gradually falling victim to the process of oligarchisation—, participated in the drafting of ordinances and had a keen interest in metalworking and shipbuilding, both to limit free uses and to control natural resources. 25 3.2.2 The emergence of a new pre-modern or Early Modern forestry pattern The aforementioned crossed or shaped and guided trees might be similar to or the same as others mentioned some years later, in 1496, by the Spanish Catholic Monarchs, who gave orders for trees to be pruned, leaving them with an horca y pendón (fork and standard), a system known in the Basque language as Ipinabarro (which literally means to “leave branches”). This was recalled by the General Assembly of Guipúzcoa in 1548, when a planting ordinance was drawn up with the aim of balancing the needs of ironworking, housebuilding and shipbuilding by banning the cutting or felling of any oak, beech or chestnut, except for shipbuilding or house repairing, as well as compelling woodcutters to leave an horca y pendón in the case of trees for firewood or charcoal, and encouraging every village to plant 500 trees every year, preferably oaks or chestnuts. Later on, in 1552, the General Assembly decreed the establishment of a coppice with standards system to address the alleged “scarcity” of timber for housebuilding and shipbuilding, and the monopoly of forges in places such as Rentería, Oyarzun, Hernani and Elgóibar. In other words, in coppice woodlands, a standard tree should be left every 22 metres, pruning most of its branches so that only the top one remained. But forgers complained about this distance and succeeded in having it changed to 30 metres to obtain higher quantities of coppice-wood for the iron forges. However, there was very little compliance with this ordinance. 26 These two measures were quite logical bearing in mind that Labourd, Biscay and Guipúzcoa were, along with Portugal or Andalusia, the most advanced shipbuilding hubs in Western Europe. Larger and larger ships were constructed in these places throughout the 15th century, such as carracks, caravels and naos, which were also sold to other parts of Europe, and where the carvel system was replacing the clinker-built system. 27 Shipbuilding therefore needed increasing quantities of timber of a specific quality and shape, for which it was in fierce competition with ironworks. From this time onwards, as a result of the “scarcity” of ship- and housebuilding timbers, the General Assemblies of Guipúzcoa and Biscay and the royal authorities implemented many measures. In 1563, Philip II decreed a

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 81 Royal Ordinance on woodlands located at a distance of two leagues from the sea, aimed at protecting shipbuilding needs and encouraging planting. Curiously enough, Biscay did not establish a similar decree until the end of 16th century, a fact which underlines the lesser importance of shipbuilding there compared to in Guipúzcoa and the predominance of the iron industry. Indeed, as Uriarte Ayo suspected, “… it seems that shipowners and merchants, probably because their weak presence in the general institutions of Biscay and, even in the councils, except in coastal villages, had not succeeded in imposing a legal framework in accordance with their interests”. In 1593, it became compulsory to plant two trees for every one that was felled, and in 1604 every Biscayan anteinglesia’s inhabitants had to plant four shoots in montes de usa (parishes or small towns’ woodlands). 28 Nonetheless, the aforementioned claims of “scarcity” put forward in the legislation were unfounded, considering that a survey carried out in 1580 by the Corregidor (Chief Magistrate) revealed that in the Guipuzcoan woodlands there was enough timber to build around 50 vessels weighing between 500 and 700 tonnes, and another conducted in 1589 estimated that there was timber for between 66 and 78 vessels weighing 500 tonnes. Even so, since the 1560s, according to the royal commissioner Suarez de Toledo and the witnesses who took part in his survey, Guipúzcoa had a “scarcity” of compass timbers and was forced to import them from nearby Biscay: from 1596 to 1597 many knee timbers, called burgatones or curbatones, were exported from the eastern part of Biscayan territory (Bermeo, Lequeitio, Ispaster, Axpe, Ibarrangelua, Cortezubi, Ereño, Frúniz, Gámiz, Ondarroa and Arteaga) to other parts of Biscay and Pasajes, where Agustín de Ojeda was building six vessels for the Crown. Later, between 1611 and 1617, the General Assembly of Guipúzcoa requested the Biscayan Assembly to license Guipuzcoan dockyards to import curvatones (curved timber) from Biscay. 29 It should be noted that the term “scarcity” was constantly used as an argument by Basque institutions. In fact, the rhetoric about the scarcity of timber and wood—which was pan-European as well as international, and intensified from the medieval to the Early Modern period, mostly during the 18th century—might stem from a psychology of fear and insecurity, in an attempt to overshadow the interest of groups and activities that exploited forests and struggled to gain control of them, or from institutions’ inefficiency in distributing resources, more than from a real discussion about the accessibility of resources.30 In the case of Guipúzcoa, archival documents refer to deforestation from an utilitarian and economic perspective, i.e., in terms of the availability of easily accessible sturdy or suitable timber and wood—as was also the case for other regions of Europe31—more than from an ecological, biological or naturalistic point of view. In fact, Basque and Guipuzcoan forests were objects of desire of the most significant economic activities, such as metalworking, shipbuilding, agriculture and stockbreeding, forcing lobbies and local and regional institutions to

82  Á. Aragón-Ruano develop a rhetoric that stressed the damage being caused to “common good”. As in other parts and States of Europe, where, from the 13th to the 16th centuries, institutions began to justify their expanded regulatory efforts with claims that they were protecting “the public interest and good”, 32 this shortage allegedly affected shipbuilding in Basque coastal towns, and forges and metalworking in inland towns, whereas the Basque regional institutions usually spoke in favour of metalworking, shipbuilding and housebuilding, as has been seen.33 But the introduction of American crops, mainly maize, disrupted the balance kept in the Basque coastal woodlands until the 17th century, since the new crops substituted not only millet fields, some apple trees and swamps but also a number of woodlands. Under pressure from demographic, agricultural and livestock expansion, in 1657 the General Assembly of Guipúzcoa, where a forgers’ lobby predominated, was forced to dictate a Decree on New Croplands limiting the excessive spread of agriculture, in an effort to protect metalworking: among other things, tree felling was banned in commons, where trees could not be cut down without a licence from the Council; and it became compulsory to keep a record of the licences granted. Moreover, one or two foresters were appointed to enforce these measures. As a result of the depletion of forested areas, but also as a consequence of the implementation of a comprehensive system among Guipuzcoan iron forges, resulting in the concentration of factories and a reduction in their number, leading to an increasing need for charcoal, from 1656 to 1690 the forestry system began to change in the main metalworking villages of Guipúzcoa, such as Oyarzun, Hernani, Cestona or Legazpia, turning coppices into guided or shaped pollards: in Oyarzun they were called suariçes (fire oaks); in the Montes Francos of Urumea ipinabarros; and in the case of Rentería, an important shipyard centre until the establishment of the Royal Dockyards in Ferrol, Cadiz and Cartagena in the 1720s, guided coppices were converted into pollards, being called guiones.34 Biscay, however, was a different case, as the production rates of local iron forges throughout the 17th century remained the same as those at the beginning of the 16th century: the 137 factories in operation in 1628 produced over 145,000 quintals of iron.35 As John Evelyn claimed in 1662, this was due to a sustainable system that guaranteed a supply to forges without diminishing the stock of timber: The King of Spain has, near Bilboa (sic), sixteen times as many acres of copse-wood as are fit to be cut for coal in one year; so that when tis ready to be fell’d, an officer first marks such as are like to prove ship-timber, which are let stand, as so many sacred, and dedicate trees; by which means the ironworks are plentifully supplied in the same place, without at all diminishing the stock of timber. Then in Biscay again, every proprietor plants three for one which he cuts down; and the law obliging them is most severely executed … There indeed are

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 83 few, or no coppices, but all are Pollards; and the very lopping (I am assured) does furnish the ironwork, with sufficient to support them.36 Contemporaneously, in 1656 Philip IV confirmed the instruction carried out in 1650 by Toribio Pérez de Bustamante in Cantabria and extended it to all the territories of the Spanish Monarchy. This instruction, which was deeply rooted in the aforementioned Cantabrian-Pyrenean forestry tradition, considering the long-term presence of Basque foresters, woodcutters and forgers in Cantabrian areas and forges, 37 highlighted not only the importance of leaving the horca y pendón when trees were pruned, but also of nurseries for reforestation, and of keeping planting records to encourage new plantings.38 On the other side of the Pyrenean mountains, Louis de Froidour, the intendant in charge of putting into practice the Eaux et Fôrets ordinance decreed by Colbert in 1669 in the French Basque Country, Béarn and Bigorre, was astonished and amazed by pollards (têtards in modern French)—which he called pommiers, maybe because they reminded him of the methods applied to apple trees, haut taillis or taillis-sur-futaies (coppices over standards), and the existence of the plant nurseries or pépinières that were very common in Low Navarre and Béarn. This means that, as scholars have stressed, the French woodlands were characterised by coppices-under-standards.39 The existence of guided pollards and nurseries did not therefore stem from a French tradition, but from Cantabrian-Pyrenean practices. In this case, the State administrative frontiers established by the Hispanic and French Monarchies did not match the reality of local customs and management of natural resources. Moreover, as the ordinance of Baigorri (Low Navarre), established in 1704—albeit codifying a medieval and pre-­modern forestry tradition—demonstrates, in local ordinances plant nurseries were one of the most important issues and many measures were taken to preserve forested areas. Among others, it is worth mentioning the planting of two oak saplings for every tree that was felled, the option for every resident to plant 100 trees around bordas (livestock shelters in the mountains, consisting of huts and stables)—according to the decree established by the States of Low Navarre in 1700—and the commitment of every householder to plant two trees, oaks or chestnuts, every year in the commons. These measures were not unique to Baigorri but were part of a trend that also extended to the surrounding areas, as identical policies were adopted in Ustaritz in 1722 and 1732.40 In 1738, the General Assembly of Guipúzcoa decreed a new Planting Ordinance to cope with the alleged timber “shortage”. However, underlying this policy were the vested interests of the Royal Company of Caracas, founded in 1728, which monopolised Guipuzcoan economy and trade—and even conditioned Biscay’s economy—throughout most of the 18th century by exporting local iron, among other things, and signed an agreement with

84  Á. Aragón-Ruano the Spanish Crown in 1735 in order to manage the Royal Arms Factory of Plasencia, where rifles and bayonets were produced. Obviously, the ordinance sought to balance and protect the wood and timber demands of the principal Guipuzcoan economic activities: oak and chestnut charcoal for forges and the Royal Arms Factory; walnut timber for rifles produced in the Royal Factory; oak timber for the construction of the hulls of vessels for the Royal Company; and walnut or poplar timber for pulleys. In addition, the ordinances underlined the importance of keeping planting records, establishing nurseries and performing annual replanting; regulated the planting method (which was different for standards and pollards) and the opening of new crop fields; and insisted on turning coppices into pollards or standards.41 Consequently, the shift from a medieval to a pre-modern forestry pattern based on pollard trees proved to be efficient and was steadily implemented from 1569 to 1756, as illustrated by two available surveys. In 1569, according to the results of Suarez de Toledo’s enquiries, the majority of Guipúzcoa’s woodlands were comprised of coppices and standard trees, accompanied by a few pollards in coastal areas for compass timber. In contrast, by 1756, according to the survey conducted by the Corregidor Pedro Cano y Mucientes, only a few coppices still survived (for fencing, basketry or barrel making) and pollards and standards predominated for the iron industry, shipbuilding and housebuilding.42 3.2.3  An ambitious and fruitful reforestation programme Guipúzcoa and Biscay eventually became pioneers too, especially the former, with respect to replanting policies, setting an example for the rest of the Spanish Monarchy. This is illustrated by the words of Jeronimo Tavern in 1788, when for the establishment of plant nurseries, he recommended hiring: a Guipuzcoan or Biscayan, or sending a skilled person to these territories to learn of everything that is practised for that purpose … the use of nurseries in Guipuzcoa and Biscay has produced the best results and promises endless woodlands of every kind of timber, while in the rest of the Spanish territories (where the use of nurseries is unknown), the method of extracting plants from forests to reforest the fenced areas (dehesas), far from being useful, is one of the most harmful methods because, after being transplanted, the plants die or grow unhealthy, and it is not profitable.43 This third strategy, based on replanting, was set in motion in 1548, when the General Assembly of Guipúzcoa encouraged villages to plant 500 trees every year, oaks or chestnuts. It is very likely that this ordinance proved effective, as after the Corregidor Juan Francisco de Tedaldi visited the

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 85 Table 3.1  Trees planted and guided between 1575 and 160244 Town

Council

Elgóibar Motrico Deva Cestona Azpeitia Guetaria Orio Aya Zarauz Asteasu San Sebastián Hernani Rentería Usúrbil Aguinaga Fuenterrabía Pasajes Lezo Zumaya TOTAL

12,000 8,000 8,000 5,500 100,000 5,500 32,000 16,000 8,000 22,000 43,720 21,400 40,000 3,100 4,472 18,000 1,800 1,200 1,000 351,692

Private

Nurseries

3,000 28,000 72,000 21,080 4,000 82,350 12,000 16,000 10,000 20,000 14,000 279,430

3,000

Total (without nurseries) 12,000 8,000 8,000 5,500 100,000 33,500 32,000 88,000 29,080 26,000 126,070 21,400 52,000 19,100 14,472 38,000 15,800 1,200 1,000 631,122

Empty

 35,000 100,000

135,000

Guipuzcoan woodlands, 631,122 trees were planted in both council and private nurseries between 1575 and 1602, though in some places, such as the Montes Francos of Urumea, there was still enough space for around 135,000 trees (Table 3.1). In 1631, when Alonso Idíaquez, forest superintendent of Guipúzcoa, laid down the number of trees to be planted annually in the Guipuzcoan villages, excluding Hernani, the figures were not far from those established in 1548 (Table 3.2). The introduction of maize and the expansion of agriculture and stockbreeding during the 17th century worsened the state of the woodlands of Guipúzcoa, forcing Guipuzcoan institutions to issue the Decree on New Croplands. This decree, though extensive in manner, concentrated on monitoring and encouraging planting through the keeping of planting records— where saplings planted in nurseries were entered—and was the last positive stimulus for changing the medieval forestry pattern based on coppice and standard trees. Along with the traditional habit of planting two trees for every one that was cut down—thereafter three trees—the decree on new croplands ordered every town to plant ten trees for each fiscal-demographic unit (fuego), six trees for each yugada (yoke of land) of ploughed land leased by the council and one tree for every 1.5 reales vellón produced by those leased lands. It also made it compulsory to reinvest one-tenth of the proceeds from the council’s forest sales in planting new trees, and to set up municipal nurseries. Certainly, in some towns of Biscay, such as

86  Á. Aragón-Ruano Table 3.2  Number of plantings ordered by the forest superintendent in 163145 Town

Trees

Town

Hernani Urnieta Andoain Astigarraga Usúrbil Aguinaga Zubieta Asteasu Cizúrquil Amasa Aya Régil Zarauz Zumaya Aizarnazabal

1,000 600 600 400 300 400 500 500 300 300 500 300 400 300 400

Oiquina Cestona Azpeitia Azcoitia Elgóibar Deva Motrico Eibar Orio Fuenterrabía Irún Lezo Pasajes Oyarzun Rentería

Trees 300 400 500 500 400 500 300 400 200 500 500 400 400 800 800

Guerricaiz, Murelaga, Murueta, Navarniz, Libano de Arrieta and Rigoitia, records were kept of plantings from an initial period that extended from the 1620s to the 1640s, and in some towns of Guipúzcoa, such as Asteasu, from the 1660s. However, these were not the first attempts in this direction. In Guipúzcoa private nurseries were common after 1548 and municipal nurseries were set up from 1575, while Chapter VIII, title XXXVIII of the Guipuzcoan law codes or Fueros, which dated back to 1670, obliged towns to establish municipal nurseries.46 Moreover, in the aforementioned municipal nurseries saplings were managed in a distinct way, depending on whether the planted trees were to be used for shipbuilding or metalworking, as exemplified by the cases of the nearby towns of Oyarzun and Rentería (Table 3.3). The former had nine forges between the 16th and 18th centuries, and the latter, which had six, had traditionally supplied the shipyards located in the port of Pasajes, where royal vessels were built, and since 1728 those of Royal Company of Caracas. It is very remarkable that in Rentería, a distinction had been drawn since 1746 between pollards—non-shaped or guided—and corvos, with horca y pendón, which were very likely the heirs of what were referred to as guiones during the second half of the 17th century, converted from coppices, and priority was given to planting standard trees, whereas in Oyarzun the proportion of pollards and standards was more balanced, though the former predominated.47 The Guipuzcoan woodlands were thus managed sustainably, especially after the Guipuzcoan institutions decreed the planting regulations of 1738 containing many chapters devoted to plantations and nurseries, which were developed intensively. This order was confirmed by the Crown in 1749 for

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 87 Table 3.3  Plantings made in Oyarzun (1745–1776) and Rentería (1746–1806)48 Town

Private

Council

Total

Standards

Pollards

“Corvos”

Oyarzun Rentería

189,707  90,974

149,054 824,684

338,761 915,658

133,529 688,687

205,232 182,839

44,132

the province of Guipuzcoa, as a result of the special chapters established in response to the Royal Ordinances of 1748. From then onwards, a reward (premio de cuartillo) would be given for plantings that exceeded the commitment of each town; and the General Assembly granted towns a quarter of real, that is, 8.5 maravedis, for each tree that exceeded the allocated number of plantings.49 According to the data provided by towns such as Alquiza, Asteasu, Ataun, Placencia de las Armas, Rentería, Elgoibar, Zarauz, Aiarnazabal, Cizúrquil and Legazpia (Table 3.4), the policies enforced throughout the 17th and the 18th centuries bore fruits, since between 1749 and 1784 woodland stocks were kept at similar rates, around 2 million trees. This clearly proves that, despite the pace of forest exploitation, the reforestation policies implemented in Guipúzcoa were successful and made the exploitation of Guipuzcoan woodlands sustainable, as forest cover was scarcely lost; indeed, by 1784 most towns had increased the number of trees that existed prior to 1749. Nevertheless, these figures must be reconsidered in the light of the survey carried out in 1784 by the General Government of Guipúzcoa (Diputación Foral) (Table 3.5). The majority of the 11 million trees that occupied the 20–25% of the surface of Guipúzcoa were young and veteran trees, and only 2 million mature trees were suitable to be used and exploited. Moreover, despite the fact that this is not expressly stated, it is suspected that most of the 11 million were pollards, though during the 18th century, the Royal Company of Caracas and the Crown extracted many standard trees and Table 3.4  Numbers of available trees in 1749–1750 and 178450 Town Ataun Alquiza Asteasu Placencia Rentería Elgóibar Zarauz Aizarnazabal Legazpia Cizúrquil TOTAL

Council

Private

Total 1749

Total 1784

64,460

1,506,762

19,635 112,641 26,582 54,000 12,156 26,085 2,960 318,519

12,190 22,635 9,163 30,820 29,064 3,464 730 1,614,828

1,571,222 10,000 72,549 31,825 135,276 35,745 84,820 41,220 29,549 3,690 2,015,896

1,065,403 112,687 73,249 28,300 219,735 109,409 47,675 129,891 64,405 94,942 1,945,696

88  Á. Aragón-Ruano Table 3.5  Forest survey of Guipúzcoa, 178452 Tree type

Young

Mature

Veteran

Total

Oak Beech Chestnut Ash Walnut TOTAL

3,185,176 2,524,236 374,263 33,019 16,038 6,132,732

1,078,752 1,475,147 212,254 14,478 4,166 2,784,797

1,146,525 812,735 292,399 16,059 2,720 2,270,438

5,410,453 4,812,118 878,916 63,556 22,924 11,187,967

shaped or guided pollards from Guipúzcoa for the Royal Dockyards and for the Royal Company’s vessels. The situation was far from being better in Biscay. According to a survey performed by Biscayan towns and parishes between 1785 and 1787, it appears that their forests were almost unable to supply trees for shipbuilding. In fact, the General Government expressed in a communication sent to the military commander in 1802: “Currently, we can say nothing but that, the common and essential purpose of Biscayan woodlands being to supply charcoal to the forges, most of them were full of pollards …”. Later on, in 1811, according to a survey ordered by Thouvenot General, the governor of Biscay during the Napoleonic occupation, only 175 trees were recorded as being suitable for the Royal Navy in the whole of Guipúzcoa, not because the woodlands were deforested, but because the rest were pollards, suitable only for the metal industry.51

3.3 The emergence of modern forest resource thought in the Basque Country All this empirical forestry or proto-silvicultural expertise of almost five centuries was enshrined in local and regional legislation, but during the 18th century it was shaped into a theoretical-silvicultural corpus. The Royal Basque Society of Friends of the Country (Real Sociedad Bascongada de Amigos del País), the essence of the Basque Enlightenment from 1764 onwards, supervised the development of that corpus, as most of the essays were either written or checked by its members. However, Pedro Bernardo Villarreal de Bérriz became a key actor in this transformation. He was a knight of the Order of Santiago, the owner of several forges, farms and lands in Guipúzcoa and Biscay, and an engineer, architect and entrepreneur, who was born in Mondragón (Guipúzcoa) and died in Lequeitio (Biscay), spending his life between Bérriz and Mondragón. Considered an empiricist (novator) or pre-Enlightenment thinker, in 1736 he published his seminal Máquinas hidráulicas de molinos y herrerías y gobierno de los árboles y montes de Vizcaya (Figure 3.1). As he acknowledged in the second chapter of the third book, entitled “Rules and observations for the management and governance of the woodlands of Biscay”, Villarreal de Bérriz had read

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 89

Figure 3.1   Cover of the book written by Pedro Bernardo Villarreal de Bérriz Máquinas hidráulicas de molinos y herrerías y gobierno de los árboles y montes de Vizcaya, Madrid: 1736. Source:  Bizkaiko Foru Liburutegia—Biblioteca Foral de Bizkaia and Bizkaiko Foru Aldundia— Diputación Foral de Bizkaia.

90  Á. Aragón-Ruano a great deal of the principal treatises on agriculture at the time, mentioning, for instance, the doctor and botanist Georg Andreas Agricola and his Philosophical Treatise of Husbandry and Gardening: Being a New Method of Cultivating and Increasing All Sorts of Trees, Shrubs, and Flowers (1716); Fray Miguel Agustín, prior of the monastery of Temple and Saint John of Jerusalem in Perpignan and his Libro de los secretos de agricultura, casa de campo, y pastoril (1617), translated into Spanish in 1624; Pierre Le Lorrain, abbot of Benedictine abbey in Vallemont or Valmont, a physician, numismatist and writer, and his Curiosités de la nature et de l’art par la végétation, ou l’Agriculture et le jardinage dans leur perfection (1705); and the works of Athanasius Kircher or “Father Kirker” (1601–1680), a German Jesuit priest and scholar. But, at the same time, Villarreal de Bérriz praised the longstanding empirical expertise of Biscayan farmers and inhabitants that had been transmitted through generations. Curiously enough, the third chapter of the aforementioned third book was devoted to describing how to breed, plant and cultivate apple seedlings, which were what pollards reminded Louis de Froidour of when he saw them for the first time. The fourth chapter revolved around chestnut seedlings, the fifth addressed how to manage oak nurseries and plant oak seedlings, and the sixth and last presented extensive knowledge of how to manage holm oaks, beeches, walnuts, ash trees and coppices.53 During the following decades, the institutions of the Basque Provinces constantly referred to and used the third book as a model to be followed in woodland management. For instance, in 1756, when a commission drafted a Rule on forges, promotion of reforestation and conservation of the forests of Álava, it recommended distributing that specific book among the municipalities of Álava.54 This essay was a basis and reference work for almost all the subsequent forest treatises, in which authors repeatedly discussed its contents and the statements made by Villarreal de Bérriz or proposed options and methods that were new or improved on those he had devised. Two other treatises came out before the foundation of the Basque Royal Society: the Method for cultivating trees, presented in 1752 to the Council of Azcoitia by a local commissioner and the Instruction on the method for planting trees in Ydia Mountain by José de Beldarrain. The latter was a timber contractor for the Royal Spanish Navy and manager of the Idia and Andaza forests (Usúrbil), owned by the Royal Collegiate Church of Roncesvalles. In his essay, Beldarrain laid out a method for cultivating tree seedbeds and nurseries, planting intervals and the cultivation of standard trees.55 In 1766, just two years after its establishment, the Royal Basque Society published a Method for breeding nurseries and planting trees, which included plant physiological experiments aimed at boosting tree growth and analysed the creation of tree nurseries, addressing factors such as sowing periods, nursery location, transplantation from the nursery, soil quality, plantation method, transplantation period, plants’ transport, transplantation distance, pruning and thinning time.56 From then until the end of the 18th century, a further

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 91 seven treatises were published or presented with the purpose of improving forestry methods (Table 3.6). The majority of them were based on Villarreal de Bérriz and the Royal Basque Society’s Method of 1766. They shared their own and Basque farmers’ expertise, as well as European agriculture and silvicultural bibliographical production, drawing on authors such as John Evelyn or Duhamel de Monceau as references. For instance, the members of the Royal Basque Society who wrote the Method for breeding nurseries and planting trees in 1766 and the Method for planting taken from the more expert authors and translated from French to Spanish in 1789 mentioned Liger, Hall, Dupuy and Duhamel de Monceau in the first essay, and “Eveiln”, “prudent agronomists” and “an individual from Baigorri”—once again, confirming the existence of a Cantabrian-Pyrenean silviculture tradition—in the second essay. In an inspiring paper, Esa-Jussi Viitala recently distinguished Traditional Forest Practices (from medieval times to the 18th century) from Early Modern forestry (18th–19th centuries), stating that the former “… did not produce sufficiently precise information on the volume of wood nor flexible methods to predict and adjust the annual yields when the aim was Table 3.6  Basque silvicultural essays during the 18th century57 Year

Author

Title

1736 Pedro Bernardo Villarreal Máquinas hidráulicas de molinos y herrerías y de Bérriz gobierno de los árboles y montes de Vizcaya 1752 José Ignacio Albizuri, Pedro Método de cría de árboles and José Ignacio de Alberdi (Azkoitia) 1763 José de Beldarrain Instrucción sobre el modo de plantar árboles en el monte Ydia 1766 Royal Basque Society Método para criar viveros y plantar árboles 1775 Xabier Ignacio Echeverria Discurso sobre la plantación de el roble 1775 Marquis of San Millán Instrucción experimental del Marqués de San Millán 1783 José Odriozola Ciencia de Montazgos 1788 Jerónimo Tavern Método Ynstructivo formado para criar viberos, y fomentar por este medio la poblacion de Arboles en los Montes de las Provincias de España, y particularmente en los inmediatos al occeano desde los Pirineos hasta el reyno de Galicia 1789 Royal Basque Society Método para las plantaciones sacado de los autores más instruidos y traducido del francés al castellano 1790 Mountain commission of Nuevo plan del método y reglas más vtiles Tolosa para la cria de viveros, su trasplante, fomento y conservacion de montes 1796 José Odriozola Monticultura práctica

92  Á. Aragón-Ruano to produce large-sized trees …”, whereas the latter 19th-century forestry did by “developing more quantitative and systematic approaches to the measurement and regulation of forests”. Referring to Hans Dietrich von Zanthier’s (1717–1778) Introduction to Practical Forest Science, published between 1763 and 1769, Viitala considered that this essay “may have been the first time in the history of forestry when the profitability of different management regimes (and tree species) was extensively compared using interest calculation”. According to Zanthier’s calculations, a beech tree required 120 years to produce sturdy timber for shipbuilding and 40 years to yield pole wood; quizás punto? Si es así, luego cambiar la siguiente letra: Producing large-sized timber involved one thinning (at 50 years) followed by a clear-cut at 120 years, while in coppice management the stand was clear-cut every 40 years and the ensuing crops were naturally obtained from shoots. As reported by Zanthier, 200 years was the minimum age required for an oak stand to be suitable for construction timber; he therefore recommended growing spruce stands with 80-year rotations to capitalise income during that period, and oak or beech pole wood rather than large timber for construction. Eventually, systems that involved mixed species (oak, beech, elm, birch, maple and aspen) and a fairly short rotation (30 years) also proved to be highly profitable.58 Soon afterwards, in 1775, Xabier Ignacio Echeverria, an architect and writer and a member of the Royal Basque Society—as well as the author of Practical Geometry for surveyors and their assessment, according to the Province of Guipúzcoa (Geometria practica necessaria a los peritos agrimensores y su examen, según la mente de esta Muy Noble Provincia), published in 1758—presented his Instruction on the planting of oaks to the Royal Basque Society (Figure 3.2 and 3.3).59 In this essay, which was a good example of what Viitala called the Oeconomics of Foresty and focused solely on oak trees, the most profitable and well-used species in the Basque Country, Echeverria recommended dense planting in the case of standard trees, but more spaced planting for pollards, a distance of 7.8 metres being more profitable than one of 5.85 metres. Over a period of 100 years, the productivity of standards was eight times higher than that of pollards: in an area of 4,800 estados cuadrados, 1,200 standards could be planted in place of 300 pollards, producing earnings of 86,400 reales as opposed to 10,800 reales. In a longer period of 180 years—close to the 200 years calculated by Zanthier—with intervals of 10 years between prunings, pollards should be planted at a distance of 4.5 metres from each other on sloping terrains whereas on plains there were two options: 28 pies (7.8 metres) (i.e., 16 estados cuadrados) or 21 pies (5.85 metres) (i.e., 9 estados cuadrados) apart. As mentioned earlier, the former system was 5,288 reales vellón more profitable than the latter (Table 3.7).60 With these attempted calculations, Echeverria was unwittingly using a method devised almost a century later by Martin Faustmann, a young German forester: the so-called Faustmann formula for estimating the value of a forest at any moment and with different future income streams.62

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 93

Figure 3.2  First page of Discurso sobre la plantación del roble, 1775. Source:  Archivo Municipal de Errenteria (EUA-AME) C/5/V/1/51.

94  Á. Aragón-Ruano

Figure 3.3  Last page of Discurso sobre la plantación del roble, 1775. Source:  Archivo Municipal de Errenteria (EUA-AME) C/5/V/1/51.

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 95 Table 3.7  Comparative lucrativeness of dense versus spaced planting in pollard oaks over a period of 180 years, according to Echeverria (1775) (in reales de vellón)61 Trees Trunk Income Planting, for Branches Subtotal thornbushes Overall Oak each Firewood income Unit Combined income and digging income Number Carga Cargas (x 6 rv) price (rv) costs Price (rv) 300 533

3 5

1,800 1,908

10,800 11,448

36 10

10,800 5,330

21,600 16,778

−600 −1.066

21,000 15,712

3.4 Conclusions From medieval times, notably between the 13th and the 14th centuries, the Basque Country began to give shape to an advanced proto-silviculture in parallel to developments then taking place in other parts of Europe, both North and South. Many measures were adopted to protect certain wood or forest demands in an attempt to strike a balance between the different economic activities. However, this balance began to be jeopardised during the 16th century, when, as in other areas of Europe (Italy, France, England and so on), demographic growth and the subsequent expansion of agriculture and animal husbandry, together with the increasing scale of ships and ironwork production, led regional and local oligarchies and institutions to create and fuel rhetorical claims of a wood and timber shortage. As a consequence of this process, on the one hand, these lobbies secured greater control over natural resources, and free use of the woodlands was constrained by dividing council lands into communal assets and heritage assets, and both, in turn, into different and limited areas devoted to distinct purposes and activities. On the other hand, the primal medieval forestry pattern dating from the 13th century, based on coppices and standard trees, was replaced by a new Early Modern system in which pollards and standards predominated. Moreover, in the struggle between shipbuilding and metallurgy, the interests of forgers’ lobbies eventually prevailed over the Spanish Monarchy and merchants’ demands. One of the consequences of this was the unsuccessful attempt to establish the coppice with standards system from 1552, and non-compliance with the horca y pendón system of shaping and guiding oaks, as was denounced by Jeronimo Tavern in 1788 and the Spanish Royal Navy throughout the 18th century, due to the ignorance or negligence of woodcutters, who left trees full of warts and with bare tops.63 Of such strategic importance were the Basque-Navarrese forest resources and the role played by the Royal Company of Caracas to the Spanish Monarchy that the Basque and Navarrese institutions imposed their interests and control over their own forests. Accordingly, the General Assemblies of the Basque Country and Navarre refused to apply the Royal Ordinance of 1748, claiming they enjoyed institutional freedom and autonomy. Owing to the Royal Company of Caracas and the dynamism of shipbuilding,

96  Á. Aragón-Ruano Guipúzcoa compelled the Monarchy to reach an agreement and, observing the plantation decree of 1738, to establish a special regulation in 1749, which permitted Guipúzcoa to obtain privative and absolute (governmental, economic and judicial) jurisdiction over its woodlands. In contrast, in Biscay, where forges predominated and shipbuilding was not as important as in Guipúzcoa, in 1752 the provincial institutions were granted only governmental and economic jurisdiction, but not judicial, which was confirmed later on, in 1784. Navarre, of strategic significance during the 18th century thanks to its forests in the Pyrenean and Atlantic area, gained governmental and economic jurisdiction between 1757 and 1781, having the right to appoint a forest magistrate. Eventually, due to the extraction of oak timber for the Royal Dockyards, above all from the 1770s to the 1790s, the province of Álava enjoyed governmental and economic jurisdiction from 1784, which was confirmed by the Spanish Crown in 1793, when it was granted judicial jurisdiction.64 Moreover, contrary to what some scholars claim in the case of Spain,65 this chapter demonstrates—agreeing, for instance, with Rackham, Hammersley, Williams and, more recently, Saito— 66 that the major predators of forest resources were agriculture and stockbreeding, and that the shipbuilders and forgers not only largely contributed to the conservation of Basque forests, but also furthermore encouraged sustainable exploitation and afforestation. This appears only logical since they stood the most to gain from securing an endless supply of raw materials and wood for their vested interests. In addition, it should be kept in mind that shipbuilding resorted to what Moore has termed World Ecology, easing the pressure on Basque forests, and this led the Spanish Navy to seek new markets for supplying timber in the Baltic region, the American continent, the south of Iberian Peninsula, other Cantabrian territories and the Pyrenees during the 18th century.67 Consequently, from the end of the 13th to the end of the 19th century, the Basque institutions—first local and later regional, as occurred in other parts of Europe— 68 and inhabitants were able to guarantee, albeit not without conjunctural difficulties, the sustainability of their forests, as well as to cater to the wood and timber demands of the different economic activities, shifting from a medieval to an Early Modern forestry pattern. This research proposes that, conclusively, it is time to leave behind discourses that underrate the value of Iberian proto-silviculture, such as the following: Between the 15th and the mid-18th centuries, kings only managed to dictate scattered rules which, despite their number, neither prevented damages to forests nor promoted their restoration. These were times of poor scientific knowledge to give advice on what to do with the forested land and of weak governmental bodies that could not keep any control over them. With the arrival of the House of Bourbon from France, the interest for timber increased in parallel with the importance of the Spanish Navy …69

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 97 The Basque forestry tradition was part of a wider Cantabrian-Pyrenean empirical proto-silviculture that developed from the 13th to the 19th centuries at least, a period in which different techniques and empirical knowledge were shared, due to the mobility of labour throughout a vast area from Asturias to Bigorre. Perhaps the most significant achievements of this tradition were plant nurseries and pollard trees as opposed to the coppices with standards that were more usual in other parts of Europe. Nonetheless, things changed as a result of the confiscation of commons’ and church properties (1738–1855) and the advent of industrialisation to the Basque territories between the 19th and the 20th centuries (1830–1930). As a consequence of the confiscations—as in other parts of Europe, where it resulted in the alienation and exclusion of peasants—70 private property was favoured, so that commons, which accounted for around 80–90% of Biscay and Guipúzcoa, decreased to 10%. In turn, private property, which had stood at around 10% until then, increased to 80–90%.71 Industrialisation and its voracious appetite for wood and timber rendered inefficient the forestry pattern in place from the 16th to the 18th centuries, forcing the Basque institutions to again shift to a new forestry system. Accordingly, at the end of the 19th-century foreign species were introduced, such as Pinus Radiata, in an attempt to address the inconsistency between the growth rate of native trees and industry consumption rates. Therefore, from the end of the 19th century, a modern forestry pattern based on rapid growth and foreign tree species was implemented, on which modern scientific forestry methods were applied. This has guaranteed a new sustainable forestry that is still in use today.72 But until the end of 19th century, the traditional forestry pattern based on empirical proto-silviculture remained effective and able to meet the needs of different industries, since blast furnaces (as in other parts of Europe and in the USA), paper mills and other new industries continued to use charcoal—mixed with coal—or timber and wood from broadleaved tree species.73 It may, therefore, be concluded that forestry science and modern forest resource economic thought did not solely develop in Germany, Britain and France but also in the Iberian Peninsula, where there was a longstanding proto-silviculture tradition, maybe one of the oldest, dating back to the 13th and 14th centuries. Indeed, the appearance and development of proto-silviculture and scientific forestry was concurrent in many parts of Northern and Southern Europe or at the least synchronic and polycentric, as has been discussed in other chapters of this book.

Notes 1 This study is part of the Basque University System’s Research Group “The Basque Country, Europe and America: Atlantic links and relationships” (IT1241-19) and it has benefited from I + D project of Spanish Government’s Ministry of Science and Innovation “The Global Defense. The Mobilization of Military Resources

98  Á. Aragón-Ruano within the Spanish Monarchy Imperial building from the 17th to the 18th centuries” (PID2021-127306NB-100) and the research project “SUSTINERE”, funded by the Autonomous Region of Madrid and the King Juan Carlos University. 2 Keyser and Dowling (2020b, 7); Warde (2020, 327–340). 3 Keyser and Dowling (2020b, 13); Poublanc (2020, 231–232); Warde (2018, 62, 166–171, 184). 4 Viitala (2016, 1038–1040); (Warde, 2018, 177–208). 5 Auge (2020, 283–284). 6 Keyser (2020, 219). 7 Alberdi Lonbide and Etxezarraga Ortuondo (2021); Appuhn (2000, 864, 879–880, 2009, 138); De Pleijt and Van Zanden (2016); De Vries (2009); ­Eguiluz-Miranda (2019); López Losa and Piquero Zarauz (2021). 8 Aragón-Ruano (2015); Izard (2005); Verna (2005). 9 Keyser and Dowling (2020b, 5, 12). 10 Keyser (2020, 205, 216, 217); Morrison (2020, 260); Poublanc (2020, 236); Warde (2006, 36). 11 Memorial ajustado de el pleyto que en grado de suplicacion litiga el Real Monasterio de San Salvador de Urdax contra don Antonio Gaston de Yriarte, alcalde del valle y Universidad de Baztan y Juan de Gintorena, jurado del lugar de Lecaroz, sobre que a dicho monasterio se le mantenga y ampare en la possesion, vel quasi ha estado y esta de gozar en todos los terminos comunes de el valle y de cortar por medio de sus carboneros, criados y domesticos en todos los referidos montes comunes … 1729, 32–34. Biblioteca Digital de Navarra: https://binadi.navarra. es/opac/ficha.php?informatico=00008375MO&codopac=OPBIN&idpag= 1472913281&presenta=digitaly2p (22 June 2021). 12 Gogeascoechea Arrien (1993, 235–250). 13 Szabó (2020, 306). 14 Livre (1892, n. 81, 100, 124, 139, 146, 157, 161, 163, 192, 247). 15 In Spanish, they are also called bustalizas, sel or corraliza, and in Basque language korta or sarobe. 16 Livre (1892, n. 293 and 295). 17 Keyser (2020, 213–214). 18 Gogeascoechea Arrien (1996, 106–107); Herrero Liceaga and Fernández Martínez (2011, 6); Martínez Díez, González Díez and Martínez Llorente (1996, 103–106). 19 Barrena Osoro (1982). 20 Warde (2018, 94). 21 Trapaga-Monchet (2017, 8–9; 2023). 22 Appuhn (2009, 7, 19). 23 Keyser (2020, 209); Poublanc (2020, 235). 24 Lana and Iriarte-Goñi (2015, 513–516). 25 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 43–45, 61, 91–97, 131–133); Karrera Egialde (2002); Marquardt (2006, 183); Trapaga-Monchet (2017). 26 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 161, 189–191, 2013, 151–153). 27 Eguiluz-Miranda (2019); Loewen (2000); Loewen and Delhaye (2006). 28 Uriarte Ayo (1988, 104, 115–116). 29 Archivo General de Simancas (AGS), Guerra y Marina, leg. 236, f. 129. Archivo General de Gipuzkoa (AGG-GAO), JD IM 2/17/4 and CO ECI 639 (bis). Archivo Histórico Foral de Bizkaia (AHFB), Notarial, Lequeitio, Cristobal de Amézqueta, N0012/0278, N0014/0220, 0231, 0232, 0238, 0248, 0303, 0476 y 0515, N0015/0030, 0069 y 0070, N0016/0031; Lequeitio, Martín de Narea, N0310/0722; Notarial, Merindad de Busturia, Martín Ortiz de Iturrondo, N365/0428 and 0445; Martín de Aurrecoechea, N0023/0037, N0024/0048 and 0083, and N0025/0029; Notarial, Munguía, Ortuño de Llona, N0285/0470

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 99 and 0471; Judicial, Corregidor, Notarial, JCR 0198/039 and 0845/084. AragónRuano (2009a). 30 Warde (2006, 31–33, 2011, 2015, 2018, 67–77); Kander, Malamina and Warde (2013); Wolloch (2018). 31 Keyser and Dowling (2020b, 15); Auge (2020, 291). 32 Keyser (2020); Wing (2015, 19–29, 54–56). 33 Ayerbe Iríbar (2019, vol. 1, 162, 190, vol. 4, 189); Aragón-Ruano (2001, 163, 189–191). 34 Curiously enough, throughout the 17th century, a similar situation was witnessed in Japan, where orders were given for the establishment of a plantation forestry Saito (2009, 385, 391); Iwamoto (2007, 4–7) and in Schleswig-­Holstein, where authorities began mandating systematic reforestation Auge (2020, 288–289); in both cases, the change from broadleaved trees to conifers was promoted. Aragón-Ruano (2009a, 80). 35 Priotti (2012, 65–66); Uriarte Ayo (1988, 277–283). 36 Evelyn (1664, 254); Warde (2006, 32, 2018, 76). 37 For instance, during the 17th century, many Guipuzcoan smiths and forgers spent long periods of time in Galicia and Asturias working in their forges as specialised labour. Archivo Histórico de Protocolos de Gipuzkoa (AHPG-GPHA), 3/2068, ff. 98r–99r. 38 Códigos (1851, 366–368); Wing (2015, 141–145). 39 Balié (1933, 745–753); Bartoli (2011, 103–108, 2015, 55–63, 118–123); Poublanc (2015, 190, 2019, 58–61, 2020, 236–240). 40 Balié (1933, 749–751); Claverie (1927, 141–160). 41 Odriozola Oyarbide (1997, 439–445); Aragón-Ruano (2019, 138–139). 42 Aragón-Ruano (2009a, 82–88). 43 Archivo General de la Marina Álvaro de Bazán (AGMAB), Ferrol, Montes, leg. 13862. 44 AGG-GAO, JD IM 2/17/11. 45 Archivo Municipal de Irún, C, 5, I, 8. 46 Archivo Municipal de Asteasu, C, 5, 60/8. Aragón-Ruano (2001, 82, 2017b, 52–57); Gogeascoechea Arrien (1993, 235). 47 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 71–72). 48 Archivo Muncipal de Oiartzun, B, 5, 1/3 and Archivo Municipal de Rentería (AMR), C, 5, 1/6 and 7. 49 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 82–88, 2019; 141–143). 50 AGG-GAO, PT 1908, ff. 169r-176v; AGG-GAO, PT 1765, ff. 168r-v; AGGGAO, PT 1800, ff. 292 r-v; AHPG, 1/2253, ff. 121r -126r; AHPG, 2/3184, ff. 276r-277v; Ibídem, ff. 351r-352v; AHPG, 1/3873, ff. 98r-104r; AHPG, 3/2486, ff. 87r-90r; AHPG, 1/1721, ff. 54r-61v. 51 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 97–101); Uriarte Ayo (1988, 94, 96, 99). 52 Otaegui Arizmendi (1999, 481–486). 53 Villarreal de Bérriz (1736, 112–168); Ruiz de Azúa y Martínez de Ezquerecocha (1990, 196–212). 54 Aragón-Ruano (2019, 149). 55 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 115, 121). 56 Ensayo (1985, 94–122). 57 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 88–91). 58 Viitala (2016, 2016, 1004, 1047). 59 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 89). 60 One pie had 0,278635 metres and 1 estado had 7 pies, accordingly, 1.95 metres and 1 estado cuadrado 49 pies (3.8 square metres) Carrión Arregui (1996). 61 AMR, C, 5, V, 1/51. 62 Viitala (2013 and 2016, 1037).

100  Á. Aragón-Ruano 3 AGMAB, Fondo documental de Ferrol, Montes, leg. 13862. 6 64 Aragón-Ruano (2017b and 2019); Gogeascoechea Arrien (1993, 205–220); Uriarte Ayo (1988, 105–107). 65 Aranda y Antón (1990); Goodman (2001); Corbera Millán (1998, 2001 and 2003); Valbuena-Carabaña et al. (2010). 66 Rackham (1990, 97); Hammersley (1973, 606); Williams (2003, 186–201, 291–301); Saito (2009, 390). 67 Moore (2003 and 2014). 68 Keyser and Dowling (2020b, 12); Keyser (2020, 206). 69 Valbuena-Carabaña et al. (2010, 497). 70 Warde (2006, 49–51). 71 Otaegui Arizmendi (1991); Uriarte Ayo (1988, 119–123). 72 Michel Rodríguez (2006, 38–40; 2013). 73 Aragón-Ruano (2009b, 145–147).

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Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 101     (2017b). “Mar de árboles, vorágine de jurisdicciones. La complicada relación entre la Real Armada española y los bosques del Pirineo Occidental peninsular en el siglo XVIII”, in R. Varela Gomes, R. and K. Trapaga-Monchet (eds.), Árbores, barcos e homens na Península Ibérica (séculos XVI–XVIII) [ForSEADiscovery Project (PITN-GA-2013-607545)], Lisbon: Instituto de Arqueologia e Paleociências da Universidade Nova de Lisboa, 41–54.     (2019). “Un choque de jurisdicciones. Fueros y política forestal en el Pirineo occidental durante el siglo XVIII”, Obradorio de Historia Moderna, 28, 135–162. Aranda y Antón, G. (1990). Los bosques flotantes. Historia de un roble del siglo XVIII, Madrid: ICONA. Auge, O. (2020). “Sustainability Prior to Carlowitz’s Sylvicultura? A Study Based on Cases from Schlewig-Holstein”, in R. Keyser and A.P. Dowling (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800, New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 282–303. Ayerbe Iríbar, M.R. (2019). Derecho municipal guipuzcoano: ordenanzas, reglamentos y autos de buen gobierno (1310 –1950), 4 Vols., Donostia: FEHDAV. Balié, P. (1933). “Les forêts de chènes têtards du pays Basque”, Revue des Eaux et Forêts, 71, 745–753. Barrena Osoro, E. (1982). Ordenanzas de la Hermandad de Guipúzcoa (1375–1463): documentos, Donostia: Eusko Ikaskuntza. Bartoli, M. (2011). Louis de Froidour (1626?–1685). Notre héritage forestier, Paris: Office National des Forêts. Bartoli, M. and Geny, B. (2015). Histoire des forêts du Béarn jusqu’en 1789. Découverte du règlement forestier de Louis de Foidour (1673), Pau: Société des Sciences, Lettres et Arts de Pau et du Béarn. Carrión Arregui, I.M. (1996). “Los antiguos pesos y medidas guipuzcoanos”, Vasconia: Cuadernos de historia—geografía, 24, 59–79. Claverie, M. (1927). “Réglementation forestière dans le Pays Basque au XVIIIe siècle”, Société des Sciences, Lettres, Arts et d’Etudes Régionales de Bayonne, 1–2, 141–60. Corbera Millán, M. (1998). “El impacto de las ferrerías en los espacios forestales (Cantabria, 1750–1860)”, Ería, 45, 89–102.     (2001). La Siderurgia Tradicional en Cantabria, Oviedo: Septem Ediciones.     (2003). “Las fábricas de artillería de Liérganes y La Cavada (Cantabria) y los espacios forestales, 1622–1834”, in J.A. Sebastián Amarilla and R. Uriarte Ayo (eds.), Historia y economía del bosque en la Europa el Sur (siglos XVIII–XX), Zaragoza: Prensas Universitarias de Zaragoza, 371–401. De Pleijt, A.M. and Van Zanden, J.L. (2016). “Accounting for the ‘Little Divergence’: What Drove Economic Growth in Pre-Industrial Europe, 1300–1800?”, Review of Economic History, 20, 387–409. De Vries, J. (2009). “The Economic Crisis of the Seventeenth Century after Fifty Years”, Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 40, 2, 151–194. Eguiluz-Miranda, B. (2019). Beyond Iberian Bizcayan Shipbuilding: A Transnational Network in Transition, 1550–1650. Cardiff: University of Wales Trinity Saint David [PhD]. Evelyn, J. (1664) (1723). Sylva or A Discourse of Forest-Trees and the Propagation of Timber in His Majesty’s Dominions, London: Printed by John Martyn and Jacques Allestry.

102  Á. Aragón-Ruano Gogeascoechea Arrien, A. (1993). Los montes comunales en la Merindad de Busturia (Siglos XVIII–XIX), Bilbao: UPV/EHU.     (1996). “Montes y usos forestales en los fueros vizcaínos”, Vasconia: Cuadernos de historia—geografía, 24, 101–114. Goodman, D. (2001). El poderío naval español. Historia de la armada española del siglo XVII, Barcelona: Ediciones Península. Hammersley, G. (1973). “The Charcoal Iron Industry and its Fuel, 1540–1750”, Economic History Review, 26, 4, 593–613. Herrero Liceaga, V.J. and Fernández Martínez, M. (2011). Fuentes medievales del Archivo Municipal de Hernani (1379–1527), Donostia: Eusko Ikaskuntza. Iwamoto, J. (2007). “The Development of Japanese Forestry”, in J. Iway (ed.), Forestry and the Forest Industry in Japan, Vancouver-Toronto: University of British Columbia, 3–9. Izard, V. (2005). “Minerais, charbons de bois et fers dans les Pyrénées de l’Est: trafic licite et contrebande aux XIVe–XVIe siècles”, in J.M. Minovez and P. Poujade (eds.), Circulation des marchandises et réseaux commerciaux dans les Pyrénées (XIIe–XIXe siècle), Toulouse: Presses Univesitaires du Midi, 581–606. Kander, A., Malamina, P. and Warde, P. (2013). Power to the People: Energy in Europe over the Last Five Centuries, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Karrera Egialde, M.M. (2002). La propiedad separada del suelo y del vuelo: los terrenos “ondazilegi”, Donostia: Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa. Keyser, R. (2020). “The Medieval Roots of Woodland Conservation. Northern France and Northwestern Europe, ca. 1100–1500”, in R. Keyser and A.P. Dowling (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800, New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 203–229. Keyser, R. and Dowling, A.P (eds.) (2020a). Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800, New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books.     (2020b), “Introduction”, in R. Keyser and A.P. Dowling (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800, New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 1–28. Lana, J.M. and Iriarte-Goñi, I. (2015). “Commons and the Legacy of the Past. Regulation and Uses of Common Lands in Twentieth Century Spain”, International Journal of the Commons, 9, 2, 510–532. Loewen, B. (2000). “Forestry practices and hull design, ca. 1400–1700”, in F. Contente Domingues (ed.), Fernando Oliveira e o Seu Tempo. Humanismo e Arte de Navegar no Renascimento Europeu (1450–1650), Cascais: Patrimonia, 143–151. Loewen, B. and Delhaye, M. (2006). “Oak Growing, Hull Design and Framing Style. The Cavalaire-sur-Mer Wreck, c. 1479”, in L. Blue, F. Hocker and A. Englert (eds.), Connected by the Sea. Proceedings of the Tenth ISBSA, Roskilde 2003, Oxford: Oxbow, 99–104. López Losa, E. and Piquero Zarauz, S. (2021). “Spanish Subsistence Wages and the Little Divergence in Europe, 1500–1800”, European Review of Economic History, 25, 59–84. Marquardt, B. (2006). “Historia de la sostenibilidad. Un concepto medioambiental en la historia de Europa central (1000–2006)”, Historia Crítica, 32, 173–197. Martínez Díez, G., González Díez, E. and Martínez Llorente, F.J. (1996). Colección de documentos medievales de las villas guipuzcoanas (1370–1397), San Sebastián: Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa.

Empirical silviculture and sustainability in the Basque Country 103 Michel Rodríguez, M. (2006). El Pino radiata en la Historia Forestal Vasca. Análisis de un proceso de forestalismo intensivo, Donostia: Aranzadi Zientzi Elkartea.     (2013). La transformación histórica del paisaje forestal en la comunidad autónoma de Euskadi, Vitoria: Gobierno Vasco. Moore, J.W. (2003). “The Modern World-System as Environmental History? Ecology and the Rise of Capitalism”, Theory and Society, 32, 307–377.     (2014). “The Value of Everything? Work, Capital, and Historical Nature in the Capitalist World-Ecology”, REVIEW, XXXVII, 3/4, 245–292. Morrison, S. (2020). “Conserving the ‘Vert’ in Early Modern Sherwood Forest”, in R. Keyser and A.P. Dowling (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800. New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 255–281. Odriozola Oyarbide, L. (1997). La construcción naval en Gipuzkoa. Siglo XVIII, San Sebastián: Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa.     (1998). “La construcción naval en Gipuzkoa: siglos XVI–XVIII”, Itsas memoria: revista de estudios marítimos del País Vasco, 2, 93–146.     (2002). La construcción naval en el País Vasco, siglos XVI–XIX. Evolución y análisis comparativo, Donostia: Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa. Otaegui Arizmendi, A. (1991). Guerra y crisis de la hacienda local. Las ventas de bienes comunales y de propios en Guipúzcoa, 1764–1814, San Sebastián: Diputación Foral de Guipúzcoa.     (1999). “El paisaje forestal de Guipúzcoa en 1784”, in J.A. Sebastián Amarilla and R. Uriarte Ayo (eds.), Historia y economía del bosque en la Europa del Sur (siglos XVIII–XX), Zaragoza: SEHA y PUZ, 481–486. Poublanc, S. (2015). Compter les arbres. Une histoire des forêts méridionales à l’époque moderne. Toulouse: Université de Toulouse [PhD].     (2019). “Les Forêts du Midi décrites comme dévastées au XVIIe siècle sontelles une construction culturelle?”, Histoire & Sociétés Rurales, 52, 2, 39–66.     (2020). “Managing Southern French Forests under—and before—Colbert. Between Law and Custom, ca. 1500–1700”, in R. Keyser and A.P. Dowling (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800. New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 230–254. Priotti, J.P. (2012). “Maîtres du fer, seigneurs de la guerre. La formation d’un lobby militaro-politique en Espagne (1580–1630)”, RIEV, 57, 1, 62–88. Rackham, O. (1990). Trees and Woodland in the British landscape: The Complete History of Britain’s Trees, Woods and Hedgerows, London: Phoenix Giant. Ruiz de Azúa y Martínez de Ezquerecocha, E. (1990). Pedro Bernardo Villarreal de Bérriz (1669–1740). Semblanza de un vasco precursor, Madrid: Fundación Juanelo Turriano-Editorial Castalia. Saito, O. (2009). “Forest history and the Great Divergence: China, Japan, and the West compared”, Journal of Global History, 4, 3, 379–404. Szabó, P. (2020). “Traditional Woodland Management, Forest Legislation, and Modern Nature Conservation in East-Central Europe”, in R. Keyser and A.P. Dowling (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800. New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 304–326. Trapaga-Monchet, K. (2017). “El estudio de los bosques reales de Portugal a través de la legislación forestal en las dinastías Avis, Habsburgo y Braganza (c. 1435–1650)”, Philostrato. Revista de Historia y Arte, 1, 5–27.

104  Á. Aragón-Ruano     (2023). “Power, Environment and Territory: The Creation and Implementation of Royal Forestry Legislation and Bureaucracy in Portugal in a Comparative Perspective (14th–17th centuries)”, in J. E. Hortal Muñoz and M. Hurx (eds.), Building the Presence of the Prince. The Institutions Related with the Ruler’s Works as Key Element of the European Courts (XIVth-XVIIth centuries), Turnhout: Brepols. Uriarte Ayo, R. (1988). Estructura, desarrollo y crisis de la siderurgia tradicional vizcaína (1700–1840), Bilbao: UPV-EHU. Valbuena-Carabaña, M., López de Heredia, U., Fuentes Utrilla, P., González Doncel, I. and Gil, L. (2010). “Historical and recent changes in the Spanish forests: A socio-economic process”, Review of Palaeobotany and Palynology, 162, 492–506. Verna, C. (2005). “Pyrénées morcelées, traversées, contournées: la forge et la circulation des pondéreux (fin XIIIe–XVe siècles)”, in J.M. Minovez and P. Poujade, Circulation des marchandises et réseaux commerciaux dans les Pyrénées (XIIe–XIXe siècle), Toulouse: Presses Univesitaires du Midi, 607–623. Viitala, E.J. (2013). “The Discovery of the Faustmann Formula in Natural Resource Economics”, History of Political Economy, 45, 523–548.     (2016). “Timber, Science and Statecraft: The Emergence of Modern Forest Resource Economic Thought in Germany”, European Journal of Forest Research, 135, 1037–1054. Villarreal de Bérriz, P.B. (1736), Maquinas hydraulicas de molinos y herrerias, y govierno de los arboles y montes de Vizcaya, Madrid: Antonio Marín. Warde, P. (2006), “Fear of Wood Shortage and the Reality of the Woodland in Europe, c. 1450–1850”, History Workshop Journal, 62, 29–57.     (2011). “The Invention of Sustainability”, Modern Intellectual History, 8, 1, 153–70.     (2015). “Early Modern ‘Resource Crisis’: The Wood Shortage Debates in Europe”, in A.T. Brown, A. Burn, and R. Doherty (eds.), Crises in Economic and Social History. A Comparative Perspective, Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 137–159.     (2018). The Invention of Sustainability. Nature and Destiny (c. 1500–1870). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.     (2020). “Afterward”, in R. Keyser and A.P. Dowling (eds.), Conservation’s Roots. Managing for Sustainability in Preindustrial Europe, 1100–1800. New York-Oxford: Berghahn Books, 327–340. Williams, M. (2003). Deforesting the Earth: from Prehistory to Global Crisis. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wing, J. (2015). The Roots of Empire: Forests and State Power in the Early Modern Spain, c. 1500–1750. Leiden: Brill. Wolloch, N. (2018). “Before the Tragedy of Commons: Early Modern Economic Considerations of the Public Use of Natural Resources”, Theoretical Inquires in Law, 19, 2, 409–424.

4

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding A historical-archaeological view of Biscayan shipbuilding and its forestry tradition in the 16th–17th centuries Beñat Eguiluz-Miranda

University of Wales Trinity Saint David, [email protected] 4.1 Introduction Spanish and international historiography have traditionally believed in the concept of a “shipbuilding crisis” or “decline” in the late 16th and early 17th century.1 In fact, although a strong perception of a crisis, particularly in Biscayan shipbuilding, prevails in Spanish and international historiography, other historians have already questioned its existence through evidence that contradicts the so-called decline of the industry in the late 16th century. This paper argues that the idea of a crisis in Biscayan shipbuilding was in fact created by the Spanish Monarchy as an orchestrated intervention to allow it to take control of the shipbuilding timbers of Biscay that were so necessary and strategic for Spain’s maritime empire. Based on evidence, several authors, such as Odriozola Oyarbide, Alberdi Lonbide and Valdez-Bubnov, 2 have proposed that the shipbuilding sector actually expanded during the late 16th century. Others, such as Glete, mention the growth and development of the Biscayan region during the 15th and 16th centuries.3 Generally speaking, the Spanish Basque region and its entrepreneurs took advantage of the cultural similarities to expand their maritime routes into France. Engaging in activities similar to those that they carried out during the 16th century on the Spanish side—­t ransporting wool, iron and navigating in search for cod fish and whales in Newfoundland— but also constructing their vessels on the other side of the border, Basques maintained their maritime shipping power through voyages that departed from the other side of the Spanish frontier, in the French region of Labort.4

DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-5

106  B. Eguiluz-Miranda

4.2 A shift of perspective: a Basque transnational community Spanish nationalist historiography has disregarded the migration of many Basque shipbuilders and labour to the French side during the late 16th century. Basque investors from both sides of the border participated in the Newfoundland voyages during this time, as well as in other northern trading routes.5 The evidence of the continuation of north-bound Basque merchant enterprises, funded out of the combined capital of southern and northern Basque merchants, contradicts the idea of a decline in the Spanish Basque coastal regions. Basques were setting off on their journeys from different harbours by the late 16th century. Wool, originally transported chiefly from Bilbao, instead started to be shipped from Saint Jean de Luz, in Labort.6 Fishing expeditions also began to depart from the French side of the border. The supposed “decline”7 in whaling and cod fishing contrasts with the evidence of a rise in the number of Basque ships that set sail from Labort. After the 1580s, the shipbuilding industry experienced a period of readaptation which, according to the traditional historiographical view, entailed a quantitative decline in activity on the Spanish Basque side. But this was not true: if we take a broader view we see that many Basque shipbuilders were migrating to Labort to continue with their shipbuilding and shipping endeavours; in fact more than 4,000 men had crossed the border by the late 16th century, leaving behind the Gipuzkoan coast.8 From then onwards, southern and northern Basques developed a symbiosis that became essential throughout the Early Modern period, with southern Basques providing funds and men as well as ships and joining the crews of northern Basques, but also the other way around. However, the Basque whaling and cod fishing industry reached its peak during the 17th century and not during the late 16th century, as suggested by Barkham, who dates it to the 1560s–1585s.9 During the badly stigmatised 17th century, Basque whaling and cod fishing voyages in fact experienced a prosperous season.10 Studies of the 1600s made by different authors surpass the ideal numbers of 1560–1580 and the so-called golden period referred to by Barkham.11 When Cristobal de Barros, a representative of the king who assessed the shipbuilding situation in the Basque region, spoke of a shipbuilding and shipping crisis (1570s), whaling and cod fishing voyages were in fact experiencing their highest peak of the 16th century. However, this view was limited by a nationalist understanding of the Basque region as only the Spanish side of the frontier instead of the whole region. This view has often been applied to the study of the Basque shipping industry. If, instead, we adopt the transnational approach, we can see that shipping in the whaling and cod fishing industries experienced its apogee during the 17th century, between 1630 and 1713.12 By the first half of the century numbers of ships departing from Basque enterprises ranged between 20 and 30 for Labort and between 30 and 40 for Gipuzkoa, reaching the peak of that century.13

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 107 During the 17th century, considering this transnational relationship between the Basque community, expeditions departing from the French side between 1619 and 1629 rose from 16 ships annually to 34 by 1629 in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, which became an important maritime centre for Atlantic voyages and Spanish wool transported via Navarre. By 1664–1700, the numbers of ships departing from Bayonne, SaintJean-de-Luz, Ciboure and Hendaye varied from 26/20 in 1664 (the first figure refers to cod fishing vessels, whereas the second represents the number of whaling vessels) to 19/39 by 1672.14 Fishing voyages setting sail from the French side averaged 40 or more ships, which travelled to Newfoundland, Jan Mayen, Iceland, Spitzbergen in Svalbard, Greenland and Norway by the latter decades of the 17th century.15 This idea of a decline in shipbuilding needs to be viewed in a different light. It is very likely that it partly originated from the fear of losing the maritime force of the many Basque merchant ships that were leaving Spain during the 1560s to depart from many harbours in the French Labort, in a period when the Spanish Monarchy was beginning to issue forestry legislation to ensure the future availability of timber for shipbuilding. For this purpose, the Crown claimed there were fears of a wood shortage in order to legitimise the new forestry policies.16 These fears were perceived by the agents of the Hispanic monarchy, who sought to gather full information about the state of the navy. These concerns were later transmitted officially to Philip II in a report sent in 1581 by the abovementioned Cristobal de Barros, who assessed the situation of shipbuilding in the Biscayan region. He wrote an extensive report making recommendations to the king to improve the state of the shipbuilding industry and shipping in general. Barros voiced all the concerns that, in his opinion, were the reasons that were hindering shipbuilding on the Spanish Basque side. The document was titled: Speech presented to the King regarding the importance of there being warships available, trade and exchange and growth of the industry and sailors, suggesting various ways to build them in the shipyards of the Señorio de Vizcaya, province of Guipuzcoa and the Four villages of the seashore, for their preservation and promotion.17 Nevertheless, the prevalent historiographic view, both in Spanish and international scholarship, has been that a quantitative crisis occurred in Spanish shipbuilding in the late 16th century.18 This idea of a shipbuilding crisis, however, has been lately criticised by some historians. Alberdi Lonbide, for example, pointed out that the quantitative argument of the decline of shipbuilding does not correlate with the data of the time. This crisis reported by the Spanish agents, particularly Cristobal de Barros’s version, was already a preconceived part of the agenda to reorganise the whole Biscayan shipbuilding industry run by the Monarchy.19 In other words, the Crown not only planned an intrusion into the shipbuilding industry but also sought to implement a number of changes. This was in order to promote

108  B. Eguiluz-Miranda controlled shipyards and measures to adjust to the new ship designs, serving the interests of the Crown and the Sevillian elite. 20 In 1534, the whole of Biscayan fleet was recorded as totalling 15,042 tons and 80 ships. 21 These figures had only decreased to 13,704 tons and 73 ships by 1562. It is important to take into account the fact that ships were growing in size by the late 16th century, but also to point out that a reduction of seven ships and 1,338 tons was not indicative of a shipbuilding decline. 22 Basque forests provided more than 70% to 80% of the Spanish ships built in the period from 1500 to 1580. 23 This percentage drastically changed after the 1580s until 1610, when the percentage of Basque ships within the Spanish fleet fell from 80% to 50%.24 The Hispanic Monarchy was over-reliant on Basque merchant ships, and started to develop its own mechanisms to create a permanent fleet of galleons for times of war. The majority of the Spanish trading routes with America and the Spanish Armadas sourced a vast amount of their ships from the naos built in the Basque region. In fact, Pierre Chaunu notes that up to 80% of the Spanish ships that travelled to the Indies until the 1580s were Basque. From the 1580s, according to the Chaunu brothers, the Monarchy needed to find new sources of timber both at home and abroad, as the Basque supply of timber and ships seemed to have decreased on the Spanish side. 25 As the contribution of John Wing points out, the Hispanic Monarchy began to diversify the shipbuilding industry to avoid overdependence on one or a few areas, as well as to give a respite to the woodlands. New sources were required, for example, oaks from Ribadeo, Colindres and Guarnizo, as well as pine trees, such as Catalonia’s mountain pines. Ensuring a supply of ships became problematic, and new contracts were entered into with other regions of the Empire, such as Flanders, Naples and even Ragusa. Construction and timber supplies also started to be sourced in the Caribbean, for example, in Cuba, but also in Acapulco and the Philippines. Through arrangements with local people, the king’s agents developed a less costly system of shipyards that supplied the Monarchy with the construction of galleons in accordance with its interests and ­instructions. 26 However, the construction that was controlled and supervised by the king’s agents was more expensive and these shipyards had to be funded by the Monarchy. There were many in the Basque region such as Zorroza in Biscay, Pasajes in Gipuzkoa and Guarnizo and Colindres in Cantabria, but also new ones in Galicia, such as Ribadeo and Coruña, and contracts were even entered into with agents that provided ships built in Castelamare di Stabia, Vietri di Salerno in Naples, Ragusa in current Croatia and Seixal in Lisbon. 27 After the 1590s, private shipyards were abandoned and few but more intensive shipyards became the new trend on the Basque coast, instead of multiple individual shipyards, in the Oria estuary and Pasajes. In Gipuzkoa the majority of harbours had some shipbuilding activity on a minor or major scale, except Guetaria. Deva, Motrico and Zumaia became the main

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 109 Table 4.1  Tonnage of the ships built in Gipuzkoa in the 16th century (after Odriozola Oyarbide)30 Tonnage More than 1,000 tons 1,000–500 tons 500–250 tons 250–100 tons 100–50 tons Less than 50 tons Not specified

Units

Production of the specified tons (%)

Total production (%)

 6  27  54  32  9  15 143

 4.19% 18.88% 37.76% 22.37%  6.29% 10.48% —

 1.68%  7.56% 15.12%  8.96%  2.59%  4.20% 40.05%

shipbuilding centres in Gipuzkoa until the last third of the 16th century. Quantitative data on the construction of ships published by Odriozola Oyarbide proved that neither the concept of a shipbuilding decline nor a wood shortage in the Basque region existed. 28 One needs to consider the growing size of merchant and military vessels by the late 1560s onwards. Ships were being built even larger by the early 17th century, calling for an increased quantity of wood to construct a single vessel. Over the decades, the tonnage of average merchant and war naos rose (Tables 4.1 and 4.2). This meant that more and more timbers were needed to build large ocean-going ships. Once again, the idea of a shipbuilding crisis does not tally with the rising numbers of galleons being constructed by the late 16th century and the increasing dimensions of the vessels of the West Indies fleet and the Armada. 29 The following tables show the construction of vessels during the 16th and 17th centuries in Gipuzkoa: Between 1584, 1590 and the first half of the 17th century, the construction of ships in the north of Spain did not stop. After the loss of ships in the Armada’s 1588 campaign, Spain reinforced its shipbuilding activity in the 1590s to recover its defensive and offensive navy.32 Basque shipyards ­experienced some of the most intensive years in terms of number of vessels Table 4.2  Tonnage and number of ships. All ships were built in Gipuzkoa in the 17th century (after Odriozola Oyarbide)31 Tonnage More than 1,000 tons 1,000–500 tons 500–250 tons 250–100 tons 100–50 tons Less than 50 tons Not specified

Units

Production of the specified tons (%)

Total production (%)

 12  63  24  12  2  2 276

11.42% 60% 22.85% 11.42% 1.90% 1.90% —

 3.14% 16.53%  6.29%  3.14%  0.52%  0.52% 72.44%

110  B. Eguiluz-Miranda built, contradicting the commonly held idea of a shipbuilding crisis in Spain at the end of the 16th century, and particularly the “crisis” of the 17th century.33 For example, in 1588, calculations were made and written down by Andrés de Alva in a report to inform the king that a total of 24 war galleons could be built on the northern coast, in Cantabria, Biscay and Gipuzkoa.34 Considering that the whole of the Spanish Armada amounted to between 130 and 140 ships in total, 35 24 was no small number. Furthermore, Agustin de Ojeda, born in the Basque region of Gipuzkoa, was an important agent of the king in Galicia. During the period from 1593 to 1598, he built many ships in Renteria and Bilbao. Specifically, he supervised a total of 29 galleons constructed in Gipuzkoa and one in Bilbao, Biscay.36 At this point, it is possible to question if there was really a timber shortage.

4.3  A timber shortage? There have been claims that a wood shortage in the late 16th century caused a rise in the price of shipbuilding timber from the northern Iberian forests.37 This issue had become a concern for the Spanish King from the 1560s onwards. The idea of a wood shortage was a reality insofar as the existing woodlands were limited, but it stemmed more from a fear of loss of timber, obstruction of the supply of imported masts or of it going to waste, as mentioned by other authors.38 Timber was necessary to sustain the hegemonic position of the Hispanic Empire in Europe, and this situation put a huge strain on the local supplies of timber that the Basque region had. 39 In other words, the Hispanic Monarchy practically intervened and took control of the timber in the northern Spanish regions. However, the fear of no longer being able to rely on imported masts from Flanders and Scandinavia significantly increased after the outbreak of the war of Flanders in 1568. The shortage—or “fear” of a shortage—of timber supplies, particularly of masts and spars from Norway, was a factor that affected Basque shipbuilding activity within the Spanish Kingdom, as a testimony of 1581 stated: Regarding this purpose and because everyone that talks about it points out that it is necessary to address the great scarcity that these kingdoms have of masts, rigging and spars, and other things of this kind, and the excessive prices at which the few that bring them sell them, because trade with Flanders has diminished, and it appeared very relevant to consider that it would be convenient to find a remedy soon so that your majesty can instruct that Germany be contacted via its ambassador, to see to it that some ships come from ostelanda loaded with these things even if it is at the expense of your majesty because the provision of these (supplies) for galleys and armadas would prevent a large sum from being spent on buying these supplies at inacceptable prices, providing of course the ambassador with some credit to help so that this is done and carried out with greater ease.40

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 111 Generally speaking, timber costs rose in Spain, as did the prices of the materials used in the shipbuilding industries in the late 16th and early 17th ­century. One of the reasons for the drop in the number of ships in the area of northern Spain, and the subsequent migration to France of funds and many shipbuilders in search of cheaper costs, was the gradual reduction in profits and consequent overall rise in the costs of merchant activities, but also the danger of ships being confiscated for the service of the king’s Armadas of Spain. These were the reasons that led many Basque shipbuilders to migrate to France. Materials were more economic, supplies for the freights of ships were also cheaper and the same activities, such as transporting wool to Flanders or cod and whale oil to the Newfoundland fisheries, could be carried on from there.41 The pressure from the French Crown was less than that of the Spanish king. Other costs were rising too, apart from local sources of wood. In his aforementioned document (memorial), Barros noted the same problem of a lack of masts, sails, pitch and tar. He also mentioned that those materials needed to be brought from Flanders and France.42 A larger wood consumption triggered some concerns about a wood shortage, and this has been noted by other historians as well.43 Apparently, the increasing costs of ships for the Spanish Crown by the end of the 16th century was due to a shortage of timber supplies on the Gipuzkoan coast but also to rising prices of timber from the north.44 Spanish historiography, and scholars who have accepted this viewpoint and concept of a shipbuilding crisis, have only taken into account the views of the Crown agents and their sources, which were strongly driven by a shipbuilding agenda aimed at seizing control of Basque resources and shipbuilding to serve the interests of the Empire.45 Other elements caused an effect of the so-called shipping crisis on the Spanish side, such as ­competition from other countries and their cheaper shipbuilding costs. According to Grafe, a wood shortage and a gradually increasing demand for timber to construct larger galleons influenced merchants to invest less in maritime enterprises.46 The increasing size of ships by the end of the 16th and early 17th century was considered a factor behind the so-called timber shortage.47 However, there is a contradiction between the supposed timber “shortage” and shipping crisis, and the evidence of larger ships being built on the Basque coast for the Spanish Crown by the late 16th century; in addition, at the same time merchant vessels were being constructed for many different activities, for instance, whaling and trading. These ideas do not explain how forests kept providing the necessary timber, while Spain did not lose its maritime power. The techniques used to shape ship timbers became a sustainable source that guaranteed a supply of appropriate timbers for the king’s new ­galleons; they had been used over a range of more than 100 years, despite the changes in proportions that modified ship shapes. Many of the techniques employed in these forests are not fully known yet, but thanks to documents

112  B. Eguiluz-Miranda and archaeological records, we can gain a better idea of why, in times of pressure and difficulties of supplying wood for the construction of ships for Spanish maritime power, ship timber continued to be supplied mainly from Basque forests.

4.4 A transition in ship proportion and design: from Biscayan merchant naos, to war naos From the end of the 1500s to the first half of the 1600s a transition in ship design and proportions occurred. Biscayan shipbuilding of the 16th century, particularly naos crafted for the Newfoundland fisheries as well as those travelling to the North of Europe transporting wool, were built with particular attention to their height and cargo capacity, which entailed following some proportions. It was very important for ships to be of the right height due to the storms they had to face during their long voyages across the Atlantic.48 Biscayan naos had more stability sideways, due to their use, but they also had shorter keels so that they could be beached, as explained by Tome Cano.49 In Figure 4.1, datasets have been synthesised to show the examples of contemporary maximum and minimum dimensions of ships in the Basque shipbuilding tradition. In this table the tradition is represented by a range of measurements, as there was a different range of dimensions of vessels (longest in blue and shortest in green). However, proportionally speaking, despite the different dimensions of ships, the ratios of these were quite consistent within a similar range.51

Figure 4.1  T he Biscayan tradition in codos50 (1545–1601). Length, depth, beam, keel (max and min).

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 113 Overall, shipbuilding in the Basque region in the 1560s shows a clearly merchant design for cargo-carrying vessels. There were many views on how to build a good sailing ship. For example, in 1568 shipbuilder Domingo de Busturia stated that the ideal proportion for ships was three times as long as they were wide, giving the example that a nao that was 15 codos wide should be 45 long. He also mentioned that the depth had to be more than half of the breadth in order for a ship to be well-­proportioned. However, he stated that the length to breadth ratio of war naos or navíos needed to be 3.5 or more. He added that if there were any ships out of proportion, or “badly built”, it was those that were used to travel to Newfoundland; as he pointed out, they had a long journey, and making their lower part narrower would allow them to be built higher so as to be able to navigate difficult weather. In this way, he stated that a 16-codo-wide nao should be nine codos in height at the widest point, a 17-codo one, half a codo more, an 18-codo one, 10 codos in height, a 19-codo one, ten and a half, and a 20-codo wide one should be 11 codos in height. 52 It can thus be said that Basque ships were designed to cross the ocean in storms, not purposely for war. Therefore, proportions were clearly essential in shipbuilding. Some historians have been advocates of a regional proportional rule for Basque ships. Barkham described a coherent proportional sequence for Basque naos based on the old rule of one, two and three. 53 According to his research, Basque naos had lower holds than contemporary English or Venetian ships. 54 Those proportional references are obtained from the beam (1) keel (2) and overall length (3) measurements. The 1:2:3 proportional rule has been applied to the study of 16th-century Spanish shipbuilding.55 Attempts to apply general rules to the 16th century have been criticised, considering the lack of homogeneous measures in a secret craft handed down from fathers to sons, and from masters to apprentices.56 However, what is unquestionable is that these proportions were not adequate for moving fast in war. This became clear after the Armada of 1588, when merchant ships proved no longer capable of fighting against other maritime powers, such as the English men-of-war, and required drastic alterations. The Armada of 1588 consisted of merchant ships and a few military ones, so it was not a purely military fleet.57 A fifth of the Spanish Armada was formed by Basque ships, built from oaks from the northern forests.58 The majority of the ships were initially built for trading or fishing purposes, such as the urcas, naos, zabras and pataches. The failure to invade England in 1588 caused a paradigm shift in Spanish maritime warfare. Looking at the depth to beam ratio in the 1588 datasets published by Casado Soto, we see that contemporary ships, such as a Flemish urca, had the largest hold depth, compared to the breadth of the rest of the whole Armada of 1588, a depth to beam ratio of 0.81 The Spanish ships in the Armada were much slower and designed more for transporting goods, which became a problem.

114  B. Eguiluz-Miranda English ships had different depth to beam ratios compared to Basque vessels of the same decade. For example, a ship built in the Basque area had a 0.77 depth to beam ratio, whereas a contemporary English man-ofwar had a 0.49 depth to beam ratio during the 1560s. 59 The English design for  warships was sleeker and shallower; in other words, English men-ofwar had better manoeuvrability than Basque merchant vessels, even than the purposely built war naos. Constant attacks on Spain’s maritime power by English corsairs and pirates called for a northern fleet to defend the route to Flanders.60 The imposition of the Crown’s military interests clashed fiercely with the interests of merchant entrepreneurs in the Basque area.61 Brad Loewen claimed that the standardised system came to an end in the late 16th century. New proportions that altered the deck heights and shipbuilding rules in general were adopted and enforced, shifting the focus of the traditionally merchant-oriented Basque shipbuilding.62 By the late 16th century, the proportions of ships that were encouraged were significantly different to previous traditional conventions. The new proportions made ships more manoeuvrable, without diminishing their capacity for carrying cargo. Southern influences stemming from the Crown’s interests were imposed, bringing about a different 2:5:7 proportional system, as proposed by Escalante de Mendoza in his book. But also, later shipbuilding ordinances of 1607, 1613 and 1618 called for a complete change in terms of dimensions and proportions.63 New vessels were designed for different purposes, such as Indies trade, and were based on a different system compared to the old 1:2:3 proportions. In short, the new proportional system shifted from a purely mercantile design for vessels able to hold heavy loads with stability to a new design for shallower, more manoeuvrable ships capable of moving and sailing faster, as well as being able to carry gunports and defend their cargo. In the ten years from 1590 to the early 1600s, the concept of ideal size changed, and the old ideal of the bigger, the better type of 1,000-ton galleons gave way to smaller vessels but with better sailing capacity than those previous bulky ships.64 An example of this shift in shipbuilding was the 1,080-ton galleon Santiago de Galicia, which was initially built in Castelamare de Stabia in Naples in the 1590s and sank in Ribadeo, Galicia, in November 1597.65 After the galleon was lost, its captain Jacome Juan de Polo wanted to rebuild it with the same tonnage. However, after they started the construction in 1605,66 they suddenly decided to decrease its tonnage from 1,080 to 600.67 Despite the paradigm shift in the concept of warship in the early 1600s, ships were still slightly bulkier than their mid-16th century counterparts and also had different proportions. The main change in proportions was that ships were shallower compared to their beam, but they were also slightly longer. Between 1602 and 1603, a number of galleons were built in the Basque region, all of them having an average hold depth to beam ratio of between 0.42 and 0.47.68 Ships from Dunkirk influenced their tonnage, hull

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 115 depth and proportions, unlike in previous stages of Basque shipbuilding in the late 16th century. Overall, the depth to beam ratio of Basque ships decreased from the late 16th century to the 17th century.69 The continued effort to standardise shipbuilding, timber production and the use of conventional ship parts allowed the Basque region to become a sustainable and reliable source of timber, even when traditional ship forms were changing.

4.5 The same branches for different vessels: the expansion of the horca y pendón forest type Forests that produced ship timbers gradually spread in the late 16th century; however, the branches and ship pieces used to build merchant naos and ­military galleons were the same. Although the example described below was a forest located in Cantabria, and not the Basque region, the lumberjacks that cut the trees and the shipbuilders in charge of their management were from the area of Biscay. Therefore, it can be argued that the technology and technique applied to this forest in Cantabria was in fact the same ship timber tradition used in the Basque region. In 1582, Cristobal de Barros wrote to the king in a letter expressing the following details on forest management related to ship types: In the council woodlands in some of the valleys that used to be owned by the Marquis of Santillana, and in others in the surroundings of Trasmiera, I cut a huge amount of trees with four hundred officials from Vizcaya and other parts that I gathered; there are some five thousand five hundred feet [pies] of beautiful oaks that have the best, healthiest and strongest wood for the purpose it is intended to be used for. With this, the planking that will be needed and much of the twisted and straight wood, for whatever is needed, will be nearly complete, and there are such good masts in the woodlands that I feel it would be a shame to use them in such small naos, therefore I have determined to carve and build these galleons in the channel from Guarnizo.70 The historical evidence shows here that in terms of forestry there was no difference when it came to growing branches for specific different ships; whether for war or mercantile naos, with different proportions, ship parts were grown with the same forms in tree branches. This previous quote from Cristobal de Barros indeed provides a very interesting insight into Basque 16th-century forestry practices. Barros, following the king’s agenda, wanted to control the shipbuilding industry to ensure a supply of timber for warships. The iron industries in Bizcaya and Gipuzkoa created a need for charcoal and therefore for felling and managing forests as well. These two industries, shipbuilding and charcoal, had conflicting interests. But the ship industries had priority by the time Barros put into practice a number of rules. In fact, Barros specifically gave

116  B. Eguiluz-Miranda instructions to Guardar las guías y pujas que pueden hacer maderas tuertas para naos71 by which he meant that guided trees and pujas,72 which are also curved branches, were to be kept to produce curved timbers for naos. Shipbuilding parts in the Basque region seem to have been named and produced in a regular way throughout the shipbuilding transition from merchant naos to war naos. Evidence of this is found in the contracts of the time held in protocol records of local councils. In 1565,73 for example, a contract was drawn up to supply wood for a nao. Some technical ship parts appear in the document, such as barengues (floors), genolbeaçes (toed futtocks) and genol rebeses (reversed futtocks), all of which have been identified by the archaeologists of Parks Canada and cross-matched through varied documentary evidence, with a consistent repetition of the terms.74 Some piece names were written in euskera (the Basque language), such as urkulu, referring to a divided spring, which is the shape of the bow and stern Y-frames. Others such as genol burbilu (bowed futtocks) were named in Basque after a vegetable called borago officinalis or borraja in Spanish, whose leaves have an extraordinary curved shape, just like timbers for futtocks. The different parts of a ship did not have to change in size or shape, but they did in quantity, calling for more forests that produced ship timbers, rather than jarales75 or forests for charcoal production. The system of shipbuilding, of floating futtocks, used to build the new shallower war naos, however, remained the same. Proportions and measurements changed, but the branches grown in forests were the same shapes as before, producing efficient and reliable ship timbers. The Basque technique, however, did not just spread locally, as Basque master shipbuilders, such as Agustin de Ojeda, were sent to other regions of Spain to supervise the construction of galleons and apply their shipbuilding expertise to the exploitation of other forests. In 1617 King Phillip III appointed him superintendent of forest management and the shipyards of Gipuzkoa, but he had previously spent some time in Galicia supervising the new construction of galleons in Ribadeo. The following lines show the timber required to build a 500-ton galleon in the year 1603 in Ribadeo, Galicia, under Ojeda’s expert supervision. This document was part of an asiento (contract) with Isidro Sanchez de la Mota. Our interest here was to see the examples of different timber parts that went into making a galleon in 1603 and how these were pre-­manufactured before arriving at the shipyard. The wood was cut on the waning moon of October. A 500-ton galleons very likely had the same dimensions as some of the same size that were built in the Basque region in 1602 by Martin de Bertendona. Supervised by a Basque shipwright, the example of a 500-ton vessel provides information about some of the specific tree branches needed to build a ship with the following measurements, which could be found in the Basque forests: a keel of 40 codos, a beam of 17 codos, 8 codos in depth and 50 codos in length. This document is part of the evidence that

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 117 these consistent timber shapes were in use, although the meaning of some of these terms is not known: Wood for a 500-ton galleon (…) 76 codos of keel, stern knee, stern post and mast step, 30 codos of stem, 400 codos of floor timbers (orenga) and first futtocks (pie de genol), 600 codos of V-frames (pique) and breast hooks (bustardas), 2,500 codos of inwales (liernas), beam shelfs (durmientes) and waterways (trancaniles), 7,500 codos of bowed futtocks (genoles redondos) or reverse futtocks (espaldones), “toed” futtocks (revezones), pies de garita [?].76 Also dated 1606, there is a list of all types of ship timbers, and their prices. The shapes of each tree branch were designed to consistently produce a repeated curvature: “Breast hooks (bustardas) and V-frames (piques), floor timbers (orengas) and toed futtocks (pies de genol) […] bowed futtocks (genoles redondos) or reverse futtocks (espaldones), ‘toed’ futtocks (revezones), pies de garita [?]”.77 Harvesting curved futtocks and their particular curvature became a secret and an extremely efficient system that was only understood by some of the most expert shipbuilders’ eyes of the time: those of the veedor (surveyor).

4.6 The veedor: the expert’s eye in the forest Forestry practices and the modification of trees did not originate in the Early Modern period. Indeed, Renaissance shipbuilding was a craft that inherited most of its age-old techniques from the Ancient and Medieval periods. It is necessary to consider the time span during which the new techniques from the Mediterranean probably started to reach the north of Spain in the late 15th century. In the early 16th century trees that were planted for building old archaic merchant naos and their frames were not suddenly felled and replaced with others for making new warships, war naos, galleons; rather, the curvature of merchant vessels resembled that of 16th-century warships. The carvel was perhaps a more “scientific” construction compared to its predecessor, the clinker, as proven by the late 16th century, when the use of tools (joba, espalhamento, besta)78 to calculate the required curvature of the hull along the ship’s length was reported. However, this was still an illiterate craft in the Basque region. Brad Loewen suggested this hybrid between the clinker and the carvel, as seen in the Red Bay vessel, though it is still not known when moulds began to be used in the Biscayan tradition. It is no coincidence that the Basque technique resembles elements of both carvel and clinker techniques, as these vessels became the main cargo carriers that joined the Mediterranean and the northern seas at the same time. This led to the diffusion of techniques and technology from the Basque tradition towards

118  B. Eguiluz-Miranda the seas they navigated with their ships.79 This allowed a hybridization of characteristics, that ended up mixing with other contemporary traditions. Early Basque shipbuilders of the 16th century found a way of using the carvel technique and applying it to existing merchant naos, without having to discard any timber from the previous system, and then using it for war naos. Proof of this continuity was the Horca y pendón80 technique, which will be explained later, applied to pollard trees for shipbuilding. Some of the measurements that were used to produce a “good” hull in medieval times were determined by a few factors that were taken into account: symmetry, a measuring device,81 a sense of proportion, and the shipbuilder’s eye.82 The skill of these people was quite amazing, considering they did not read books, but could identify a hull that was geometrically “wrong” just by looking at it. It is no coincidence that veedor literally means “one who sees”, one who can see ship hulls in tree branches. This practice continued up to the 20th century in the Basque region, and even today the eye is a useful and precise tool for a carpenter. For the Renaissance period, it can be argued that “seeing” the ship’s curvature and its smoothness, or finding faults, was a skill mastered only by those who had inherited the shipbuilding craft, which was handed down from artisan to artisan, from father to son, and practiced it for many decades. The veedor was therefore a prominent figure in the crown’s system, similar to a quality assurance officer in a car production chain nowadays. The trouble is that back then the “veedor” had to physically go up slopes and into forests to find the right shapes for the king’s ships: for example, Basque veedor Pedro de Isunza went to Catalonia in 1586 to check the availability of timber in the forest.83 This was an extremely intuitive and skilled task and only those who had built many hulls could naturally “see”. Seeing was both a very elementary part of building the hull and of course of finding the right parts to enhance the ship’s hydrodynamics. Although proportions could increase or worsen a ship’s speed and sailing qualities, the basis of building a hull with the system of futtocks, or “floating futtocks”, was a technique that was taught by one generation to the next, by one shipbuilder to another, and the hull “shapes” that were “found” in forests were those that proved safer during voyages at sea. One of these people was San Joan de Olazábal, who, with over forty years’ experience, was veedor to the king in the Basque region.84 This practice thus preceded the times when they started to make ship design drawings and to use some moulds, which would be later incorporated.

4.7 An archaic system of floating futtocks:85 a reconstruction of Biscayan traditional forestry practices In the 16th-century tree branches that were properly “guided” were predesigned and curved in certain shapes. These helped to prevent some wastage of wood and became an efficient way of constructing ships, but they also limited how these could be built.

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 119 We can attempt to reconstruct old timber harvesting practices based on some of the records and remains of ships, though it is difficult to know exactly what they entailed. There is a degree of uncertainty about what the regional forest management involved and to what extent ship timbers were guided. Regional practices were different in the Basque area, particularly with regard to the use of managed trees (trasmochos). However, harvesting timber, pollarding trees and seasoning as well as pruning and using similar tree species were practised in other communities outside the Basque region, as pointed out by Aragón-Ruano in this book.86 Managed trees (trasmochos/ipinabarros) were trees modified by humans by intentionally cutting them at certain times of year to guide the branches to produce timbers in particular curvatures, without knots, trimming off any sprouts on branches (Figure 4.2). Some of these discoveries of the specific characteristics of ship timbers were made thanks to the Red Bay vessel, a 16th-­century whaling ship thought to be built according to the Basque or Biscayan tradition. This technique was very likely common in the Basque shipbuilding tradition and in the north of the Iberian Peninsula for the simple reason that trimmed wood was more resistant, while branches with knots created weak points that could cause the wood to break.87 However, evidence is still too limited to support the hypothesis of a systematic tradition, and we would need further proof to be able to make more general statements about traditional Basque forestry practices.

Figure 4.2  Examples of pollarded oaks from Lierganes and La Cavada. Source:  AGS, 23 May 1773, Secretaría de Marina, 00668, Fran Antonio de la Torre.

120  B. Eguiluz-Miranda Evidence of managed trees has been previously and extensively studied by Aragón-Ruano. As he points out: ipinabarros or guided pollards and the first references to them, linked to the Deva and Urola river basins, date from the 1530s. Similar practices are also documented in Castile since the 15th century.88 These guided trees are mentioned in some regulations of the 1560s, to be used in the provinces of Biscay, Gipuzkoa, Asturias and the four Villages, as a means of obtaining straight wood for naos: they are for straight wood, do not coppice them, guide them beforehand and direct them so that they grow straight and when pollarding those that would not have this possibility deal with them with great attention to leave guided “puxas” for twisted timbers from which naos can be carved and built and nurseries should be made where there are no plantations, and the local Justices and towns should take them to where there were previously no plantations ….89 The use of guided pollard trees, although similar in technique to the practice of trasmochos, was not the same. Pollarding has been a common technique in other parts of Europe as well for centuries, such as in the Suffolk area in England, where it is still used today.90 This is well illustrated by Spanish historical sources of the time, which clearly talk about árboles bravos (these were non-guided wild trees) and trasmochos (guided pollard trees).91 Both the naos and galleons that were built for the Spanish Crown did not differ in the timbers and shapes that were harvested in the forests, as mentioned earlier. All ships were therefore sourced from these guided trees. Once they were cut, árboles bravos, which were natural trees without any pruning, were called coppiced trees and were used for firewood and many other purposes such as building roofs.92 After the 1560s, the gradual increase in ­forests to produce timbers, with the use of “trasmochos”, took over from the previous practice of forest spaces called jarales specifically used for the production of charcoal. Most pieces of timber for shipbuilding were obtained from these two forest types, identified as existing in the Basque region. Searching for futtocks, frames and knees required shipwrights to find the right timbers in trees with shapes which were ideal for the varied parts of a ship. In the 16th century pollards (trasmochos) were all oak trees, Quercus spp. These trees were said to be left with the horca y pendón, which was a straight branch parallel to the ground and a curved one for futtocks and frames (Figure 4.3). In 1743, the marquis of Rocaverde, superintendent of forests and ship construction, declared: in those planted lands [with trees] that had grown a little and straight up, clean up their lower branches, and guide them, and those that had a head like albaca(?)(basil?), leave them in what His Majesty’s Ordenanzas refer to as the horca y pendon, which is to leave a good branch growing sidewards at right angles to the trunk, and the other one straight up or in an obtuse angle so that it provides knees, futtocks, or floors for ships.93

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 121

Figure 4.3  “Horca y Pendón”. Source:  Illustration made by the author.

Different structural components required different grains growing in multiple shapes of branches. Straight grains would be used for planking and long structural parts, whereas futtocks, floors and all combed timbers were found in branchy guided pollard trees that provided many combed futtocks per oak.94 Not only was oak used; other parts were made out of pine, such as the upperworks and masts of Basque ships.95 They were mostly imported through Flanders from the Baltic as mentioned in the ordenanzas of 1607, 1613 and 1618.96 Other light wood species were also used: for example, the Red Bay vessel, built in 1563, had components made of maritime pine, spruce, larch, birch, fir and white pine.97 Fir, spruce, chestnut and beech for keels were also employed in Basque ships.98 Hull timbers were most likely of Basque origin, provided from local supplies, but were definitely made of European oak species (Quercus spp).99 However,

122  B. Eguiluz-Miranda it is not possible to distinguish from the protocols defining the timber to be used for Iberian ships whether deciduous species were employed.100 In the end, the dendroprovenance results did not match the local wood chronologies for oak in Europe in the studies of the wood used to make the Red Bay vessel.101 In the case of the masts, only some pieces for the spars were found, these being made of white oak. There is evidence that masts were brought from Flanders, although the origin of these conifers was not Flanders itself, but rather the Baltic provinces in the early 17th century. For archaeology and dendrochronology, it is important to be aware of changes in the local timber supply areas, which have been generally studied both for the local ­networks102 and transnational ones. All of these elements were intrinsically related.103 Claims of the existence of a Basque regional forestry tradition have pointed to the relationship between shipyards and forests.104

4.8 Conclusions Basque forestry techniques allowed the continued and sustainable development of the region’s woodlands, making it possible to construct different ships with varied measurements and proportions using the same system of timber production. The interdependence between Southern Basques and Northern Basques developed a solution to the maritime enterprises, ­contrary to the idea of a shipping decline. Basque fishing reached its peak during the 17th century due to a bilateral relationship between neighbours on either side of the border. The continuation of the use of shipbuilding parts from the forests in the Basque region was a reliable source for Spanish shipping during a long period of Early Modern History. Although the Hispanic Monarchy encountered a number of problems during the late 16th and early 17th centuries, Basque shipbuilders became part of a tradition of a highly technical craft that produced some of the most advanced ships in the Hispanic Monarchy. The Hispanic Monarchy did not disappear as a maritime power during the 17th century, even though it could be claimed that by the early 1640s it had abandoned any aspiration of hegemony over land or sea in Europe.105 From the mid-17th century onwards, the shipbuilding industry of the Spanish Empire continued. Despite the sturdier and more robust forms of ships that were built in the early 17th century thanks to the changes in design and proportions, old forests of ship timber remained a reliable source for the construction and supply of ships. The intervention of State agents spurred the development of a school of forest management that used a number of measures to harvest timber and find new sources of shipbuilding wood. Despite the centralised system of shipbuilding that developed through the structurisation and sophistication of the Spanish Early Modern State in the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries, the contradictions within the monarchy were still evident.

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 123 The Basque system of pollard trees for shipbuilding became an efficient and practical way of producing timber and spread to Galicia and other regions. Spanish maritime power could not have grown unless the medieval techniques used in the forests had not been in place to produce timber for its maritime empire. The contribution of these forestry practices and Basque shipbuilding continued to be influential during the Early Modern Age and gave Spain a foundation from which other countries learned but also improved what was developed. The preservation of these trasmochos, it could be said, became a key to the expansion of Spanish maritime power, and the sustained effort to produce timber, despite the sizeable consumption in the late 16th and early 17th centuries, allowed a growing Empire to develop its maritime network. Therefore, it can be concluded that the forests of the Basque region were not destroyed during the Early Modern Age, and that the concept of deforestation, together with the idea of a decline in shipbuilding, stemmed more from fears and concerns about the colonial possessions of an expanding Atlantic Monarchy than from reality. The sustainable growth of timber production in the Basque region responded adequately to a rising demand for ship timbers and adapted to the challenges of the period, even expanding during the 17th century.

Notes 1 Phillips (1986, 8); Casado Soto (1988, 110); Rivera Medina (1998, 63); Barkham (2000, 75); Azpiazu Elorza (2008, 128); Grafe (2011, 92); Valdez-Bubnov (2011, 59); Martínez-González (2015, 48–49). 2 Odriozola Oyarbide (1998, 101); Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 424); Valdez-Bubnov (2009, 76); Valdez-Bubnov (2011, 72). 3 Glete (2000, 131). 4 Eguiluz-Miranda (2019, 85). 5 Goyhenetche (2001, 165). 6 Eguiluz-Miranda (2019, 88). 7 Turgeon (2000, 166). 8 Archivo General de Simancas (AGS), Guerra y Marina (GyM), leg. 84, fol. 64 in Truchuelo García (2007, 174). 9 Barkham (2000, 62). 10 Turgeon (2000, 171). 11 Barkham (2000, 62). 12 Aragón-Ruano and Angulo (2017, 31). 13 Aragón-Ruano and Angulo (2017, 31). 14 Turgeon (2000, 173). 15 Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 122). 16 Martínez-González (2015, 43–55); Wing (2015, 65–68). 17 Casado Soto (1988, 307–314). 18 Phillips (1986, 8); Casado Soto (1988, 110); Rivera Medina (1998, 63); Barkham (2000, 75); Azpiazu Elorza (2008, 128); Grafe (2011, 92); Valdez-Bubnov (2011, 59); Martínez-González (2015, 48–49). 19 Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 424). 20 Eguiluz-Miranda (2019, 64–68).

124  B. Eguiluz-Miranda 1 2 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

Barkham (1998, 201). Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 431). Chaunu and Chaunu (1955–1960a and 1955–1960b). Casado Soto (1988, 27). Chaunu (1972, 256–257). Eguiluz-Miranda (2019, 190–191). Seixal was written as Cijal in Spanish documents. Odriozola Oyarbide (1998, 93). Casado Soto (1991, 135). Odriozola Oyarbide (2002, 202). Odriozola Oyarbide (2002, 204). Valdez-Bubnov (2009, 76, 2011, 72). Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 424). AGS, GyM, leg. 227, f. 286r. Martin and Parker (2011, 452). Odriozola Oyarbide, L. Real Academia de la historia. Biografías. http://dbe.rah. es/biografias/72037/agustin-de-ojeda. Checked on the 23 January 2021. 37 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 158); Wing (2009, 64, 2012, 125). 38 Warde (2006, 38–39). 39 Wing (2012, 117). 40 AGS, GyM, leg. 109, f. 91v. 41 Enríquez Fernández and Sesmero Cutanda (2000, 705). 42 Archivo del Museo Naval de Madrid (AMNM), MS 31, sección Navarrete, doc. 28, p. 108. 43 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 26); Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 427). 44 Aragón-Ruano (2013, 153). 45 Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 422); Wing (2012, 125). 46 Grafe (2011, 94). 47 Casado Soto (1991, 135). 48 Perona Lertxundi (2016, 254). 49 Cano (2004 [1611]). 50 One codo was 57, 47 cm. 51 Eguiluz-Miranda (2019, 276–279). 52 AGS, GyM, leg. 347, f. 23. In Perona Lertxundi (2016, 253–254). From Cruz de Apestegui. 53 Barkham (1984, 114). 54 Barkham (1984, 111). 55 Cano (2004 [1611], 14–15); Barkham (1984, 113). 56 Williams (2018, 312). 57 Thompson (1992, IX–82). 58 Álvaro Ocáriz (2016, 41). 59 Myers (1987, 109). 60 Stradling (1992, 27). 61 Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 441). 62 Loewen (1998, 199). 63 Loewen et al. (2007, vol. III, 16). 64 AGS, GyM, leg. 227, f. 286v. 65 AGS, GyM, leg. 652, f. 39. 66 Archivo General Militar de Madrid (AGMM), Tomo 19, 1602 and 1603. 67 Eguiluz-Miranda et al. (2020, 112). 68 AGMM, Tomo 19, 1602 and 1603. 69 Eguiluz-Miranda et al. (2020, 204). 70 AGS, GyM, leg. 141, f. 97, Casado Soto (1988, 366). 71 Casado Soto (1988, 307–314).

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 125 72 Puxas or Pujas: a combed branch in a pollard tree that was left for building ships, similarly to guided branches. 73 Perona Lertxundi (2016, 321). 74 Grenier et al. (2007, vol. III, 96). 75 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 40–42). 76 AGMM, Tomo 19, 102–105. 77 Varela Marcos (1988, 128). 78 Grenier et al. (2007, vol. III, 4); Castro (2008, 74). 79 Priotti (2003, 6). 80 AGS, GyM, leg. 78, f. 108. 81 Codo, which was like a stick of a particular measure, different in length in different towns in Basque shipyards from the coastal towns. 82 Varela Marcos (1988, 132). 83 Wing (2009, 66). 84 Odriozola Oyarbide (1998, 113). 85 Parks Canada named the system of floating futtocks, the way by which the 24M or the Red Bay vessel had a longitudinal assembly of vertically “floating” futtocks. Grenier et al. (2007, 318). 86 AGS, 23 May 1773, Secretaría de Marina, 00668, Fran Antonio de la Torre. 87 Grenier et al. (2007, vol. III, 98). 88 Aragón-Ruano (2013, 150). 89 AMNM, Ms. 376, Art 3, nº 184, pp. 95–98, 1564 Copy. 90 Deakin (2007, 7–8). 91 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 59). 92 Aragón-Ruano (2013, 31). 93 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 41). Pollard trees managed according to the “horca y pendón” technique had a similar shape in their crown, branches and leaves to a normal basil plant. That is why the 18th-century author uses the word “basil”, a rather obscure and unfamiliar term from a contemporary viewpoint. 94 Loewen et al. (2007, vol. III, 270–271). 95 Fernández González (1992, 11). 96 Hormaechea et al. (2012, 272, 293); Phillips (1986, 80). 97 Grenier et al. (2007, V, 73). 98 San Claudio et al. (2014, 169–178); Waddell (2007, V, 71–73). 99 Waddell (2007, V, 71–73). 100 Rich et al. (2017); Domínguez et al. (2019). 101 La Roche (2007, vol. V, 77). 102 Grenier et al. (2007, III, 267–272). 103 Loewen et al. (2006, 104). 104 Grenier et al. (1994); Loewen (1998, 197); Loewen et al. (2006, 103); Grenier et al. (2007, vol. III, 267–274). 105 Serrano Mangas (2003, 117).

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126  B. Eguiluz-Miranda     (2013). “Guided Pollards and the Basque Woodland During the Early Modern Age”, in I.D. Rotherham (ed.), Cultural Severance and the Environment. The Ending of Traditional and Customary Practice on Commons and Landscapes Managed in Common, Dordrecht: Springer, 147–160. Aragón-Ruano, A. and Angulo, A. (2017). “Basque Whale Hunting and Cod Fishery in the North Atlantic in the 16th–18th Centuries”, in X. Irujo and V. Maglio (eds.), Jon Gudmunson Laerdi’s True Account and The Massacre of Basque Whalers in Iceland in 1615, Reno: Center for Basque Studies, 21–45. Azpiazu Elorza, J.A. (2008). La empresa vasca de Terranova, entre el mito y la realidad, Tarttalo: San Sebastián. Barkham, M. (1984). “La construcción naval vasca en el siglo XVI: La nao de uso múltiple” Vasconia: Cuadernos de historia – geografía, 3, 101–126.     (1998). “Las pequeñas embarcaciones costeras vascas en el siglo XVI: notas de investigación y documentos de archivo sobre el ‘galeón’, la ‘chalupa’, y la ‘pinaza’”, Itsas Memoria: revista de estudios Marítimos del País Vasco, 2, 201–222.     (2000). “La Industria pesquera en el país vasco peninsular al principio de la Edad Moderna: ¿una edad de oro?”, Itsas Memoria: Revista de estudios Marítimos del País Vasco, 3, 29–75. Cano, T. (2004 [1611]). Arte para fabricar, fortificar y aparejar naos de guerra y merchante, Madrid: Colegio Oficial de Ingenieros Navales y Oceánicos de España-Museo Naval de Madrid. Casado Soto, J.L. (1991). “Los barcos del Atlántico Ibérico en el siglo de los descubrimientos, Aproximación a la definición de su perfil tipológico”, in B. Torres Martínez (coord.), Actas IX Jornadas de Andalucía y América, Sevilla: Diputación de Huelva, 121–155.     (1988). Los barcos españoles del siglo XVI y la Gran Armada de 1588. Madrid: Editorial San Martín. Castro, F. (2008). “In Search of unique Iberian ship design concepts”, Historical Archaeology, 42, 2, 63–87. Chaunu, H. and Chaunu, P. (1955–1960a). Séville et l'Atlantique (1504-1650). Volume I: Partie Statistique. Tome Premier. Introduction Méthodologique, Paris: Librairie Armand Colin.     (1955–1960b). Séville et l’Atlantique (1504–1650), 8th volume, Paris: Editions de l’Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales. Chaunu, P. (1972). La expansión europea ( Siglos XIII al XV ). Volume 1, Barcelona. Editorial Labor. Deakin, R. (2007). Wildwood. A Journey Through Trees, London: Penguin. Domínguez-Delmás, M. Rich, S. Haneca, K. Daly, A. and Nayling, N. (2019). “Selecting and Sampling Shipwreck Timbers for Dendrochronological Research: Practical guidance”, International Journal of Nautical Archaeology, 48, 231–244. Eguiluz-Miranda, B. (2019). Beyond Iberian Bizcayan Shipbuilding: A Transnational Network in Transition, 1550–1650, University of Wales Trinity Saint David [PhD]. Eguiluz-Miranda, B. Domínguez-Delmás, M. Trapaga-Monchet, K. San Claudio Santa Cruz, M. and Tomás-Gasch, J.L. (2020). “The Ribadeo Shipwreck (c.1600): Can We Identify the Ship through a Multidisciplinary Approach?”, in J.A. Rodrigues and A. Traviglia (eds.), IKUWA 6: Shared Heritage: Proceedings of the Sixth International Congress for Underwater Archaeology, Oxford: Oxford Archaeopress Publishing, 104–115.

The sustainability of forests for shipbuilding 127 Enríquez Fernández, J. and Sesmero Cutanda, E. (2000). “Informes de Cristóbal de Barros y Esteban de Garibay sobre la construcción naval en la cornisa cantábrica (1569)”, Itsas Memoria: revista de Estudios Marítimos del País Vasco, 3, 685–710. Fernández González, F. (1992). “Cantabria y la construcción naval del siglo XVII”, in J. M. Castanedo Galán (ed.), El Astillero de Guarnizo. Una brillante trayectoria naval, Madrid: Museo naval de Madrid, 7–11. Glete, J. (2000). Warfare at Sea, 1500–1650. Maritime Conflicts and the Transformation of Europe, London-New York: Routledge.     (2002). War and the State in Early modern Europe, Spain the Dutch Republic and Sweden as Fiscal-Military States, 1500–1600, London-New York: Routledge. Goyhenetche, M. (2001). Histoire Générale du Pays Basque. Évolution économique et sociale du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle, tome III. Donostia: Elkarlanean. Grafe, R. (2011). “The Strange Tale of the Decline of Spanish Shipping”, in R.W. Unger (ed.), Shipping and Economic Growth 1350–1850, Leiden-Boston: Brill, 81–115. Grenier, R. Bernier, M.A. and Stevens, W. (eds.) (2007). The Underwater Archaeology of Red Bay: Basque Shipbuilding and Whaling in the 16th Century, Ottawa: Parks Canada, 5 vols. Grenier, R., Loewen, B. and Proulx, J.P. (1994). “Basque Shipbuilding Technology c. 1560-1580: The Red Bay Project”, in C. Westerdahl (ed.), Crossroads in ancient Shipbuilding: Proceedings of the Sixth International Symposium on Boat and Ship Archaeology, Roskilde, 1991, ISBSA 6, Oxford: Oxbow Books, 137–142. Hormaechea, C., Rivera I. and Derrqui M. (2012). Los Galeones Españoles del siglo XVII. Tomo I-II, Barcelona: Associació d’Amics del Museu Marítim de Barcelona. La Roche, D. (2007). “A Synthesis of Dendrochronological studies”, in R. Grenier, M.A. Bernier and W. Stevens, W. (eds.), The Underwater Archaeology of Red Bay: Basque Shipbuilding and Whaling in the 16th Century, Ottawa: Parks Canada, vol. V, 75–88. Loewen, B. (1998). “The Red Bay vessel. An example of a 16th century Biscayan ship”, Itsas Memoria, Revista de Estudios Marítimos del País Vasco, 2, 193–199. Loewen, B. Delhaye, M. and Thirion, G. (2006). “Épave médievale de Cavalairesur-Mer wreck, c. 1479”, in L. Blue, F. Hocker and A. Englert (eds.), Connected by the Sea. Proceedings of the Tenth International Symposium on Boat and Ship Archaeology, Roskilde-Oxford: Oxbow Books, 99–104.     (2007). “The Red Bay Ship and the Structures of Basque Shipbuilding”, in R. Grenier, M.A. Bernier and W. Stevens (eds.), The Underwater Archaeology of Red Bay: Basque Shipbuilding and Whaling in the 16th Century, Ottawa: Parks Canada, vol. III. 253–319. Martin, C. and Parker, G. (2011). The Spanish Armada, London: Penguin. Martínez-González, A.J. (2015). Las Superintendencias de Montes y Plantíos (1574–1748). Derecho y política forestal para las armadas en la Edad Moderna, Valencia: Tirant Lo Blanc. Myers, M.D. (1987). The Evolution of Hull Design in Sixteenth-Century English Ships-of-War. Texas A&M University (PhD dissertation).

128  B. Eguiluz-Miranda Odriozola Oyarbide, L. (1998). “La construcción naval en Gipuzkoa. Siglos XVI–XVIII”, Itsas Memoria, Revista de Estudios Marítimos del País Vasco, 2, 93–146.     (2002). La construcción naval en el País Vasco, Siglos XVI–XIX. Evolución y análisis comparativo, San Sebastián: Diputación Foral de Gipuzkoa. Perona Lertxundi, J.M. (2016). Mirada a las Naos Vascas del s. XVI. Arquitectura Naval, diseño y trazas, San Sebastián: Untzi-Museoa. Phillips, C.R. (1986). Six Galleons for the King of Spain. Imperial Defence in the early Seventeenth Century, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Priotti, J.P. (2003). “Basques péninsulaires et réseaux portuaires en Méditerranée (Fin de XIIIe–milieu du XVIe siècle)”, Rives méditerranéennes, Cabotage et réseaux portuaires en Méditerranée, 13, 33–46. Rich, S.A. Nayling, N. Momber, G. and Crespo Solana, A. (2017). Shipwrecks and Provenance. In-situ Timber Sampling Protocols with a Focus on Wrecks of the Iberian Shipbuilding Tradition, Oxford: Archaeopress. Rivera Medina, A.M. (1998). “Paisaje naval, construcción y agentes sociales en Vizcaya: desde el medioevo a la modernidad”, Itsas Memoria: revista de Estudios Maritimos del País Vasco, 2, 49–92. San Claudio Santa Cruz, M. González Gallero, R. Casabán, J.L. Castro, F. and Domínguez-Delmás, M. (2014). “El pecio de Ribadeo, un excepcionalmente bien conservado pecio español del siglo XVI”, in F.X. Nieto Prieto and M. Bethencourt Núñez (coord.), Arqueología subacuática española: Actas del I Congreso de Arqueología Naútica y Subacuática Española, Cartagena, 14, 15 y 16 de marzo de 2013, Cádiz: Universidad de Cádiz. Editorial UCA, 169–178. Serrano Mangas, F. (2003). “Demanda de buques para flotas y avanzadas Hispanas en el siglo XVII”, in J.L. Casado Soto (coord.), Naves, puertos e itinerarios marítimos en la Época Moderna, Madrid: Editorial Actas, 111–126. Stradling, R.A. (1992). La Armada de Flandes. Política naval española y guerra europea, 1568-1668, Madrid: Cátedra. Thompson, I.A.A (1992). War and Society in Habsburg Spain, London: Routledge. Truchuelo García, S. (2007). “Junta de la frontera y Junta de la Tierra; Una Propuesta reformista de Guipúzcoa ante las dificultades del último cuarto del siglo XVI”, Obradoiro de Historia Moderna, 16, 161–185. Turgeon, L. (2000). “Pêches basques du Labourd en Atlantique nord (XVI–XVIII siècle): ports, routes et trafics”, Itsas Memoria: revista de Estudios Maritimos del País Vasco, 3, 163–178. Valdez-Bubnov, I. (2009). “War, Trade and Technology: The Politics of Spanish Shipbuilding Legislation, 1607–1728”, International Journal of Maritime History, XXI, 2, 75–102.     (2011). Poder naval y modernización del Estado: política de construcción naval española (siglos XVI–XVIII), México: UNAM. Varela Marcos, J. (1988). La pretendida reforma naval de Felipe III: La política de protección de bosques, saca y elaboración de maderas para la construcción naval, Coimbra: UC Biblioteca Geral. Waddell, P.J.A. (2007). “Wood Identifications of Selected 24m timbers”, in R. Grenier, M.A. Bernier and W. Stevens (eds.), The Underwater Archaeology of Red Bay: Basque Shipbuilding and Whaling in the 16th Century, Ottawa: Parks Canada. vol. V, 71–73.

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5

The beginnings of the preservation and development of Spanish forestry for naval construction The legal and silvicultural enquiries conducted by the Royal Council of Castile in Guipúzcoa (1569) Alfredo José Martínez-González

Universidad de Sevilla, [email protected] … stated that this witness has the certainty, and it is well known in this province, that the land will be destroyed the day the woodlands are lacking because they are what sustains the ships and ironworks which are all the sustenance of the land.1 This statement uttered by a resident of Guipúzcoa on the banks of the River Urola in 1569 is an illustrative reflection of the need to establish a harmonious management of natural resources. Nevertheless, bearing in mind the mentality of the period and the practical conception of land use in the Middle Ages, his opinion should not be taken as an environmental assertion but as a demand that local inhabitants’ modus vivendi should not be affected by the Spanish Monarchy’s overseas needs, as well as acceptance that forest masses could be put to the service of its most important instrument: ships. These words therefore sum up the issue around which this essay revolves, namely the enquiries carried out by a Crown commissioner in certain parts of the province of Guipúzcoa to ascertain in situ the means of striking a rational balance between the Spanish Monarchy’s international political needs and the procurement of raw materials in the areas where there was a greater density of shipyards: the eastern Cantabrian.

5.1 The Spanish Monarchy and the commission entrusted to Doctor Hernán Suárez de Toledo Against a backdrop of huge overseas hostilities, the institutional and bureaucratic machinery of Philip II’s monarchy set about boosting shipbuilding in various parts of northern Spain in an attempt to optimise natural and human resources by harnessing them through organisational and legal instruments. To achieve this aim, however, it was necessary to solve the problems of governance stemming from the enormous distance between DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-6

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 131 the Court and Cantabria, whose raw materials, ports and shipyards were best poised to address the vast shipbuilding policy called for by the conflictive international situation. All this needed to be carried out through communications that were not always easy and with a more streamlined administrative management. 2 For this reason, the Councils of State and War implemented a string of measures designed to strengthen naval power from the production stage.3 In 1569, the year on which this study focuses, this endeavour did not start from scratch: Philip II’s first delegate, Cristóbal de Barros y Peralta, had previously been commissioned to conduct initial analyses in 1562 and, together with the local authorities and neighbouring Cantabrian communities, set in motion the first measures to provide incentives for shipbuilding with sustainable forestry management. It was therefore seven years later that the Council of Castile institutionally joined in these efforts.4 The Council entrusted one of its members, Doctor Hernán Suárez de Toledo, with inspecting the Basque territories—a task that he cannot have found completely unfamiliar as he had performed similar assignments earlier.5 It should be stressed that visits of this kind were monitoring mechanisms characteristic of the ancien regime and were carried out from time to time to address likely negligence and irregularities or simply to inspect possible organisational and legal factors that required certain improvements in their functioning. Royal inspectors were vested with wide-ranging powers to conduct all kinds of enquiries and their conclusions were forwarded directly to the respective Council, where there were no possibilities of reversal. It is thanks precisely to this that all the replies given during those interviews carried out with a view to preserving the Guipuzcoan woodlands in 1569 have been kept in the same archival unit of the Archivo Histórico Nacional, Consejos, leg. 15651, exp. 1. In the case of the inspector (visitador) Suárez de Toledo, although he hailed from a judicial and legal background, he was a member of the ­gentry class (capa y espada) and there are still more question marks than certainties about him despite the fact that he enjoyed Philip II’s trust. Over the course of his lifetime he was appointed as inspector, councillor and magistrate of the royal household and court (alcalde de Casa y Corte) several times.6 Born in Talavera de la Reina, he received an intellectual grounding from the universities of Salamanca and Valladolid. He was designated as a corregidor (royal representative and chief magistrate) in Madrid in 1540 and later held the same post in Granada, where he was a judge (oidor) of the city’s high court until 3 July 1554. After that, by then fully established at the Court, he became tutor to Prince Carlos as second governor of the  Infante’s household and was reputed to be a “good courtier”.7 As a member of the Eboli faction, he was also given a seat on the Royal Council of Castile on 2 August 1564 until his death on 13 April 1570.8 In connection with the power and clientelist networks in which the subject of this essay moved it is particularly significant to note

132  A. J. Martínez-González that another post also related to Carlos, that of lord steward (mayordomo mayor) of the Prince’s household, was then held by the Prince of Éboli until 1568, the year of the v­ ictory of the Alba faction and the fall from grace of the ebolistas.9 Perhaps that is why it has been suggested that Suárez de Toledo may have been sent to Guipúzcoa as visitador to distance him from the Court.10 Lastly, although his date of birth is unknown, there is evidence that Hernán Suárez de Toledo had gained his university decree by the time of the War of the Communities of Castile and therefore by 1569, the year examined here, he must have been in the throes of old age when he was instructed to travel around Cantabria.11 More relevant to this study—his activity in the eastern Basque region— he was commissioned by Philip II by means of a royal order of 27 March 1569 to visit the university of Oñate in Guipúzcoa, accompanied by the clerk Martín de Alderete and the constable Hernando de Salas. His duties were to ascertain the reforms needed to prevent abuses by its rectors and, after inspecting the institution, he drew up new constitutions to which oaths were sworn on 23 May.12 It is likewise known that that was not the only assignment Suárez de Toledo received, as he was also entrusted with solving other problems that had put a strain on relations between the province and the captain-general, Juan de Acuña.13 Although it was also known to historians, until now no in-depth, systematic study has been carried out on the modus operandi of the survey that Philip II also entrusted him with conducting on how to optimise the development of forestry and naval construction in the province by interviewing important members of Guipuzcoan society of the time. The fact is that two days before the royal councillor was due to carry out the assignment of inspecting the university of Oñate, the king commissioned him to make all the necessary enquiries about the forestry situation of that area by means of an order stating the Crown’s intentions: [To] Doctor Suarez de Toledo of our council, health and grace, be it known that we wish to understand and be informed of what woodlands there are in the very loyal province of Guipuzcoa that are especially close to the sea and from which the timber needed to craft ships is cut and in what municipality and state they are and what provision has been made and orders given for their safekeeping and conservation and for planting anew, and on what orders and under what permission and in what ways the wood is cut and used, so as to exploit them; and if there are any ordinances issued on this by the towns or places in that province and if they are confirmed and if it is appropriate to use them or to draw up other new ones and what it is appropriate to decree and order on this for the universal benefit of the said province and its woodlands that are so necessary for the exploitation, agreements and trade of our province in peacetime and for matters of war without which there can be no comfort in such times. It having been discussed at our

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 133 council and been consulted with us, we have agreed to send a member of our council to visit the said province and, confident that you are the person who will perform and handle it with the prudence, care and thoroughness in which we have faith and with which you usually work, we wished to appoint you and do hereby appoint and order you to go to the province and to the parts of it and places you deem fit and gather information and knowledge on all of the above, and on each thing and part of it, how and in what manner it has occurred and is occurring and what has been done, practised and continued and if it is customary to do and continue it and what is convenient to decree and order in all matters with respect to the conservation, safekeeping and growth of those woodlands in the said province of ours.14 In parallel fashion, but closely tied to the mission of finding all about the status quaestionis of forestry and potential legal measures for bolstering it, the king commissioned him by means of a similar order to ascertain the situation of the ships located along the coast of Guipúzcoa; to do so he would additionally have at his disposal in situ the assistance and experience of Cristóbal de Barros, who had been engaged in those precise tasks for years.15 Nevertheless, for reasons of space, this article will deal solely with the forestry enquiries. The text describing the assignment shows that until then the Crown’s knowledge of the forestry situation applied to naval construction was precarious and that there was no reliable information on how to alleviate the huge difficulties of meeting the demand for ships. The problem was further exacerbated by the fact that timber requirements revolved around a variety of places with disparate organisational and legislative regimes designed to preserve their level of privileges and power, whose residents attempted to preserve their everyday modus vivendi, often in poverty.16 In this context, in accordance with the logic of the ius commune, the Spanish Monarchy endeavoured to act by putting in order those diverse jurisdictions and entities in its territories, whose municipal structures and regulations were rooted in the Middle Ages.17 Precisely for this reason, Philip II explicitly stated his wish that all the enquiries be carried out to achieve the “universal good and benefit of our province and its natives”.18 In this connection it should be stressed that the Crown expressed to Suárez de Toledo the need to find out not only about the existing legislation on forestry and naval matters but also different ways of improving it and even of regulating ex novo other matters considered important. This concern likewise stemmed from the prevailing 16th-century schools of legal thought and we consider it necessary to explain a number of essential points about the notion of power during the period: through the orders given to Suárez de Toledo regarding the woodlands of Guipúzcoa, the Monarchy aimed to establish equity (aequitatem statuere), in the sense of imposing or dictating regulations for the common

134  A. J. Martínez-González good of its subjects—in other words, to wield its rule-making power. This power was conceived in the sense that making laws did not amount to creating them from scratch, which is why the member of the Council of Castile was instructed to interview the people who could enlighten him on the subject: the princeps was to interpret equity in naval-forestry matters, there being two equities. The first was a fundamental equity, called aequitas rudis (natural equity in a pure form), which reflected a higher order above any human decision-making capacity. And Philip II was duty bound to employ this aequitas rudis by polishing it and shaping it into what was known as aequitas constituta (enacted equity) in the form of specific laws, in this case related to silviculture.19 Furthermore, in accordance with the ius commune, prevailing 16th-century legal opinions regarded the land as the principal asset and mainstay of the economy. Therefore, its proprietas needed to be ordered in detail, as a result of which legal doctrine had been giving shape to a system that enshrined the shared control of common property. The jurists of the Late Middle Ages and Early Modern Age legitimised the existence of two types of ownership of the same thing, establishing joint ownership, in other words divided or shared ownership. The title holder—in this case the monarch who owned the royal woodlands—had the dominium directum and the local communities possessed a certain capacity to enjoy it in the form of emphyteusis, known as dominium utile. 20 The idea that the king could regulate what he deemed appropriate in those lands was thus grounded in the law, as he enjoyed the legal ownership and this entitled him sufficiently to take an interest in potential rules that could be dictated in the future to regulate the uses of the forests of Guipúzcoa. However, these theoretical postulates were hampered by reality, as in practice there was no homogeneously regulated municipal framework and it was therefore not easy to establish uniform measures to foster silviculture and shipbuilding in the towns and cities located along the Cantabrian coastline or specifically within the province of Guipúzcoa itself, whose municipal system was certainly complex and required different solutions for the different places even though they theoretically all came under the system of Castile. 21 Both Philip II and Suárez de Toledo himself were aware of this and the latter therefore painstakingly prepared in advance all the steps to be followed in carrying out the enquiry entrusted to him. Precisely for this reason, while he was still busy inspecting the university of Oñate, he summoned the aforementioned Cristóbal de Barros, who arrived in the town on 26 April 1569 to assist him in whatever he needed on silvicultural matters. After being questioned, Barros arranged to send him all the relevant documentation he had been gathering since 1563.22 Following this initial introduction to the forestry situation in Guipúzcoa, the royal councillor used his time to complete his reforming visit to the university of Oñate, beginning his forestry and naval enquiries nearly three months later. Suárez drew up his four-point questionnaire on woodlands at Hernani on 20 June. The

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 135 following day he conducted the first of a string of interviews that are now a primary historical source of legal as well as forestry, social, economic and anthropological information (Figure 5.1).

5.2  The individual questioned We know that 26 residents of thirteen municipalities of Guipúzcoa provided their testimonies on silviculture and that the interviews lasted until 23 July and were transcribed (Table 5.1 and Map 5.1). Unfortunately, from a methodological perspective, the task of systematising Suárez de Toledo’s investigation has been hampered by the chaotic organisation of the bundle of papers containing the answers to the questions in the Archivo Histórico Nacional, which has required us to devote much of our time to sorting the documents logically, in chronological order and by subject. The testimonies allowed us to establish the following list of individuals who were questioned and the route the royal commissioner followed across the province: All the above interviews were conducted after he had “taken and received oath in due form of law” from each of the declarants, and he likewise reaffirmed their statements with the closing clause “this is a true statement made under oath and he signed it in his name”. It should be stressed that neither of these expressions are mere rhetorical formulas; rather, they are imbued with powerful legal connotations, as they expressed a legal, moral and religious commitment. 23 Failure by any of the declarants to swear an oath would have suggested a possible intention to conceal the truth. Similarly, anyone who gave untrue information under oath would be committing an offence of perjury, which was not only considered a sin against God but was also subject to very serious corporal punishments in Guipúzcoa at the time:24 since the 13th century, simple falsehood had been penalised by the royal law code (fuero real) of Alfonso X with corporal punishments consisting of the amputation of a limb or the extraction of teeth, and these punishments had eventually spread to the Basque territories due to Castilian influence. Therefore, according to the law codes (fueros) of Guipúzcoa, a declarant who lied under oath could be sentenced to having their “teeth removed, one having had five teeth taken out in a public square”. 25 Nevertheless, for utilitarian purposes, three years before Suárez de Toledo’s visit Philip II decided to commute those corporal punishments for others that were no less cruel, as a Pragmatic of 3 May 1566 established punishments of public shaming plus ten years in the galleys to help strengthen the Spanish Monarchy’s naval might. 26 However, despite the legal requirement of oathtaking, it is necessary to appropriately contextualise each of the replies, which cannot be regarded as a contribution of strictly objective data but rather as a collection of testimonies based on personal opinions stemming from the particular circumstances and living conditions of each respondent, and influenced by the

136  A. J. Martínez-González

Figure 5.1  Original manuscript of the questionnaire drawn up by Hernán Suárez de Toledo.

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 137 Table 5.1 Individual questioned Municipality

Date

Resident

Hernani Rentería Rentería Fuenterrabía Fuenterrabía

21 June 22 June 22 June 24 June 25 June

Nicolás de Ayerdi Martín de Yriçar Gaspar de Pontica Martín de Lesaca Esteban de Garibay

29 47 55 53 35

S. Sebastián

1 July

50

S. Sebastián S. Sebastián

1 July 1 July

S. Sebastián

8 July

S. Sebastián Orio

11 July 14 July

Martín Pérez de Arbelayz Juanes de Portu Sancho de [illegible] Sebastián Hernández de la Piedra Licenciado Ercilla Domingo de Oa

Orio

14 July

Zarauz

15 July

Guetaria

16 July

Guetaria

16 July

Zumaya

16 July

Cestona Azpeitia

17 July 18 July

Azpeitia

18 July

Azpeitia

18 July

Azpeitia Elgoibar

19 July 21 July

Deva

22 July

Deva

22 July

Motrico

23 July

Motrico

23 July

Source: Made by the author.

Domingo de Echaniz Andrés de Argoyen /Argoayn Licenciado Olarçaual Lope Fernández de Yçeta Nicolás Martínez de Egina Juan de Olaçaual Juan Ochoa de Uranga Licenciado Aquemendi Francisco Yñiguez de Alçaga Pedro de Goyaz Juan López de Çulueta Juan Pérez de Arriola Antonio de Amezti Domingo Ibáñez de Larranga Juan Martín de Amilivia

Age

Status

38 65

Magistrate (alcalde ordinario) Clerk (escribano fiel) Captain and resident Resident Alcalde de sacas (magistrate appointed to prevent the extraction of things prohibited by law = resident of Mondragón) Clerk (escribano público) and resident Magistrate and resident Resident

45

Resident

56 44

Resident Magistrate (alcalde ordinario) and resident Magistrate (alcalde ordinario)

50 43 58

Clerk (escribano público) and resident Physician and resident

70

Resident

59

Resident of Cestona

35 30 50

Resident Magistrate (alcalde ordinario) and resident Resident

44

Resident

36 65

Resident Clerk (escribano del número)

50

Clerk (escribano) and resident

45

Clerk (escribano fiel) and resident Town clerk (escribano de S.M. y público) Resident

65 40

138  A. J. Martínez-González

Map 5.1  Itinerary of the route followed by Hernán Suárez de Toledo in his interviews, in accordance with historical 16th-century roads in Guipúzcoa. Source:  Compiled by Raúl Romero Calcerrada.

interests of each one. It is important in this connection to note that all the respondents identified themselves as residents during the interviews as they could not be assumed to enjoy resident status simply because they lived there. Indeed, the municipal ordinances or customary practices of each place established certain channels for granting this preeminent status. 27 Judging by the descriptions the witnesses—many of them elderly and therefore presumed to possess greater life experience—gave of themselves, many of them belonged to the local political oligarchies. It was therefore not unusual for some to claim to be civil magistrates (alcaldes ordinarios); this shows that Suárez de Toledo was conscious of whom he needed to question, as for more than two decades these officials had been entrusted expressly with the task of seeing to it that trees were planted at the expense of the councils pursuant to an ordinance on plantings drawn up as a result of the general assembly (Junta General) held in Zumaya in April 1548, which received royal approval two months later at Valladolid. 28 This marked a starting point: the highest provincial institution shunned the medieval modus operandi on forest mass, which was much more backward, and became aware of the need to address the alleged deforestation, making it compulsory for each political unit to plant 500 pies of oak or chestnut trees yearly. 29 In addition, Philip II had

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 139 enacted a royal order on 6 May 1563 requiring corregidores to see to it that the local authorities of “towns and places and their jurisdictions situated two leagues from the sea or navigable rivers” gave orders for and enforced plantings. 30 The respondents also included a considerable number of escribanos, one of the most important council posts. 31 The importance they held for Suárez de Toledo lay not only in the fact that they were apprised of everyday administrative affairs in each town or city but also in one of the duties involved in their post: drawing up all kinds of documents of interest to the municipality. In addition, since 1563 they had also kept records of the plantings carried out in each population centre, as well as being in charge of compiling a yearly signed list of all the plantings conducted in the towns, which the local magistrates and judges had to forward to the corregidores. 32 In addition to those people with municipal posts, a considerable number of respondents acted as representatives at the general assemblies over the course of their lives—an indication of the socio-politically important profile of the interviewees the councillor of Castile was looking for. Among the respondents we thus find Pedro de Goyaz, a representative (procurador) at the general assemblies of Fuenterrabía held in September 1566. 33 Another testimony was provided by a jurist known as “Liçençiado Aquemendi”, who had presided over the assembly of Azpeitia in April 1564 and had taken part in the assemblies of Zarauz in November 1564 and Villafranca in May 1565. 34 The year the enquiries were carried out, the respondent Francisco Íñiguez de Alzaga acted as representative of Azpeitia at the general assemblies of San Sebastián in January and May 1569 and Hernani in November. He even continued to be a representative later on at those of Cestona in April 1572 and Villafranca from April to May 1574. 35 Another of the people questioned, Antonio de Amezti, represented San Sebastián at the general assemblies of Mondragón in November 1568. 36 In addition to these incumbents who held organisational posts in the Basque institutions, other respondents were prominent members of the local maritime economy with various responsibilities, such as the aforementioned Francisco Íñiguez de Alzaga and the clerk Antonio de Amezti.37 Further individuals who were questioned were captains, such as Gaspar de Pontica; merchants linked to the Carrera de Indias (the West Indies trade route via Seville) such as Juan Ochoa de Uranga; merchants with interests in Terranova, such as Domingo Ibáñez de Larranga and Juan Martín de Amilibia; and ship owners and shipbuilders related to various Atlantic routes, such as Juanes de Portu and Juan Pérez de Arriola. 38 As an illustration of the respondent profile Hernán Suárez de Toledo sought, it is significant that Portu was described soon afterwards as an “ordinary captain, good sailor, level-headed and honourable and wealthy. He has the largest ship on the coast”. 39 Similarly, bearing in mind that much of the questionnaire revolved around regulatory issues, jurists of acknowledged

140  A. J. Martínez-González prestige were interviewed such as the Licenciado Ercilla, who was also a supplier and paymaster of the armadas and men-of-war and works in some places in Cantabria.40 Lastly, it should be stressed that the councillor of Castile was also interested in the firsthand information provided by royal historian and chronicler Esteban de Garibay.

5.3  The replies to the questionnaires As stated earlier, Suárez de Toledo drew up four questions to put to all the interviewees and the records of their replies are all located in the same bundle of documents, referred to earlier, held in the Archivo Histórico Nacional. Most of the respondents answered all the questions in situ, though a small number preferred to send the commissioner their opinions in writing days later.41 Since the respondents each expressed their own points of view in their answers, they evidently raised many disparate issues and replied in a disorderly fashion. Therefore, in order to present the information systematically, each of the matters will be addressed according to how the questions were put to the residents, grouping together the testimonies prosopographically by theme: 1 First question: “Firstly, whether you have knowledge of the woodlands there are in this province and especially those on the coast, from which ships are customarily manufactured and crafted”: Putting this subject into context, it is no trivial matter that this question should have been formulated as a priority. The Monarchy needed firsthand knowledge of the area that was to subsequently be given over to the development of forestry to meet maritime needs, as much of the territory of Guipúzcoa was realengo (under royal jurisdiction). That is, it was royally owned and it was up to the Crown to decide for what purpose the existing woodlands should be put.42 In reply to the Monarchy’s interest, some of the witnesses claimed to be familiar with the woodlands suitable for shipbuilding along the coast of Guipúzcoa from Fuenterrabía to Motrico, pointing out that “there are many from which even large ships and of all kinds could be made”43 and even citing the specific names of certain forests, though the firsthand knowledge of a minority of the witnesses was limited to those located in their respective towns.44 It is not uncommon to find statements indicating that the woodlands situated “two leagues from the sea are those which are made use of and serve for building ships”45 and even that logs were commonly transported by being floated down rivers.46 2 Second question: “Item, whether you know, have seen or heard if those woodlands are in good condition and well populated or whether they are cut down and depleted, or in what state they are currently”. The

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 141 Monarchy’s concerns were also justified by the fact that timber was not only the chief source of income for the municipalities’ modus vivendi but also the mainstay of its naval policy. Some of the respondents stated that the woodlands in their respective areas, such as Fuenterrabía and San Sebastián, were depleted owing to abusive felling, without large timber, and could only be used for small ships “because there is no rigging of thick timber”.47 However, many maintained that they were returning to good condition, describing some as very good and useful for naval construction as a result of their owners’ awareness of the need for planting to avoid damaging their economic interests: “the felled woodlands owned by individuals are being planted appropriately, for a man who does not wish to work on his property and exploit it is done for”.48 The replies even supplied specific names of the woodlands best preserved by their owners. In Deva, for example, Antonio de Amezti stated that: There are very good woodlands such as those of Hernando de Çubelçu and that of the Vçarraga family and those of Gança and Galarreta and Elorriaga and Echabe and others he cannot remember, from which many ships could be built and some of them are growing old and they ought to be used, and there should be a shipyard to make them.49 In the same vein, Domingo Ibáñez de Larranga stated of Motrico that “he knows that there are very good privately owned woodlands from which ships could be built, such as those of Jofre Ibáñez de Ubilla and the woodlands of Juan Ramos de la Herrería and Domingo de la Plaça and a few others who have pieces of woodland”.50 Nevertheless, the respondents were more worried about the state of the communal forests. All the testimonies analysed maintain that there were serious deficiencies. In some cases they were due to involuntary incidents, such as two fires that had razed the forests of Motrico in the previous century, especially that of 1553.51 In others these shortcomings were blamed on the Council’s needs and work on the municipality’s church, as in the case of Hernani. 52 However, the respondents recognised that the depletion was largely the result of theft and felling to supply the province’s ironworks, the solutions for fostering the growth of new trees being to put into practice an appropriate policy of plantings. In this connection, Juan Pérez de Arriola of the town of Deva reported that plantings had already been carried out in its vacant lands in accordance with the ordinance of 1548, but even so, they ought to be further increased because the results would be highly positive.53 In general, the message conveyed by most respondents was one of huge concern stemming from the sensation of widespread exhaustion of forest resources as a result of abusive felling at a rate incompatible

142  A. J. Martínez-González with the natural growth rate of trees. This was expressed by the residents of Rentería San Sebastián, Zarauz, Guetaria, Zumaya, Cestona, Orio, Elgoibar, Deva and Motrico, who reported the disappearance of forests previously so dense that, for example, in San Sebastián, “in any part of the municipality where one went one could not see the sky for the thickness of large and tall trees”.54 This was accompanied by a practically unanimous petition for plantings and tree nurseries to be encouraged throughout the length of the province’s coastline. However, the policy of replanting they advocated by no means stemmed from an environmentalist goal of sustainable development, as there was no such thing as environmental awareness in the Early Modern Age. The petition for a scheme of tree nurseries and plantings to be fostered was based on a utilitarian perception of the forest environment according to which the shortage of raw materials was jeopardising the economy. That is why the respondents claimed that replanting was “a matter of life and death” or, from an even more materialistic perspective, that “their fortunes depend on it”.55 However, when Suárez de Toledo asked the respondents to give an explanation for the non-compliance with the two regulations in force on plantings—the aforementioned ordinance of Zumaya of 1548 and Philip II’s royal order issued in Madrid in 1563—many of the replies referred to shortage of funds. Such was the testimony of Lope Fernández de Iceta in Guetaria, who stated that the town’s woodlands were sorely depleted and there was an urgent need to plant trees, but that Philip II’s regulations were not being implemented owing to the poverty of the inhabitants and that were they able to comply with them they would plant thousands of trees, which would be beneficial for the town; he advised establishing measures to limit the number of trees per person it was permitted to cut down.56 In the same vein, Juan Pérez de Arriola in Deva, among others, after acknowledging that the forests had been extensively felled and were not even allowed time to grow again, stated that plantings in lands belonging to the town were carried out depending on the possibilities, which were very scant for economic reasons: He said that they plant the new trees that are coming among grown trees and also buy from individuals who have tree nurseries because this town is such debt and has such little income that it does not have the funds needed to be able to plant trees because it barely has enough to pay the contributions that the provincial assemblies require of them.57 Precisely in connection with the need to encourage tree planting, Gaspar de Pontica of Rentería stated that there was abundant straight but not twisted timber, the solution being to guide trees and monitor the growth of the specimens from planting, as not only straight timber

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 143 was useful in shipbuilding. Indeed, curved timber was more highly prized for certain pieces of vessels and was obtained by guiding the tree, and although the provincial ordinance of 1548 acknowledged the possibility of guiding trees “leaving them with [h]orca y pendón” (a straight branch parallel to the ground and a curved one), the fact is that it was not performed as often as would have been desirable.58 However, the possibility of guiding trees to produce curved timber needed to be reconciled with the existence of jarales, forests for producing charcoal for ironworks. For example, it was stated in Fuenterrabía that the forests under the town’s jurisdiction had been depleted by its daily needs, including the activities of ironworks. 59 This was no minor issue, as one-third of the forests of Guipúzcoa were under that system of exploitation in the second half of the 16th century.60 Owing perhaps to this proliferation of jarales, in San Sebastián the shipbuilder Juanes de Portu complained that timber for naval construction was nearly double the price it had cost years earlier.61 This was reflected in the situation described in Elgoibar, except for the woodland of Auncesieta, which: is greater woodland, is more grown and could supply much wood because it is large and within a few years’ time it could be used for shipbuilding, and the other woodlands of this town are jarales for producing charcoal and supplying the furnaces of the ironworks of this place.62 This brings us to the descriptions of specific woodlands found in various testimonies. In Rentería the common land of Mariola is mentioned only briefly, but in other cases the details provided in the questionnaires are much more specific.63 In Azpeitia, for instance, Pedro de Goyaz spoke of a forest that was developing very well, but needed to be preserved because the oligarchies might wish to use it for their own benefit: On the way to the sea, and partly useful, in the place they call Larrarbasoa, this town of Azpeytia has a very good woodland reserve from which many ships could be made and crafted by safeguarding it, as it is growing larger and better by the day, but this witness knows that it is necessary to safeguard it because this witness understands that those who hold power in this town have an eye on their needs to make use of the wood from this woodland, and were they to begin to do so it could be greatly harmed because others who also have buildings would then dare to.64 Lastly, it should be pointed out that among the replies to this second question there are statements of how, in keeping with the school

144  A. J. Martínez-González of legal thought of the period, the Monarchy did not seek to simply exploit woodlands for timber with no further considerations but acted in accordance with the underlying idea of a balance between local needs and the pressing requirements of foreign policy, and the respondents themselves were aware of this situation. Back in 1563 Philip II had issued orders for all forestry procedures to be performed “wishing to contribute with this as in a matter that is so important to the public good and benefit of our subjects and avoid the harm that has continued and could continue” unless all the needs were reconciled.65 In their statements the residents accordingly brought to light the problems their political communities had been enduring, with a view to preventing potential new forestry measures from being a burden on their populations as a whole. This was the case of Rentería, whose woodlands the king had exempted from exploitation as a result of two fires: And that town of Rentería has woodlands of its own reserved for times of need because they have been burned twice, for which reason His Majesty has given orders for trees not to be cut in those in which there would be sufficient quantity to build many ships, and rigging of corvotones and dedos for few ships will not be found in all of them.66 3 Third question: “Item, if you know, etcetera, what ordinances there are on the said woodlands giving instructions on how they are to be cut and when and by whom and with what permission and how they are to be planted and safeguarded; and on the other matters relating to the said woodlands, say what ordinances there are and if they have been confirmed by His Majesty and whether or not they are observed and fulfilled and if there is anything in them that is not suitable to be kept and if it is necessary to amend them or draft new ones. Say what you know”. Most of the respondents stated that there were no ad hoc council or municipal regulations on the woodlands of Hernani, Rentería, San Sebastián, Guetaria, Zumaya, Cestona, Orio, Elgoibar, Deva and Motrico, only general ordinances laying down punishments for anyone who felled trees in districts that were not their own or made charcoal in the municipality. Fuenterrabía was a different matter, as it was said to have “its ordinances confirmed by His Majesty and the gentlemen of his Council, in which woodlands are dealt with”, and the councillor asked to inspect them. He found it useful to learn that two more population centres also had ordinances on silviculture—albeit u ­ nconfirmed— which must have interested Suárez de Toledo as they generally enshrined ancient customs on tree management.67 Although regulations of this kind could be less binding in the face of potential appeals to the Council of Castile and the courts of law, the fact is that they were reported to be

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 145 obeyed by the residents of Zarauz and if they had not been subjected to confirmation it had been for economic reasons, as “this town is poor”.68 Similar statements were made at Azpeitia.69 Still in the regulatory field but on another front, the interviewer was interested in ascertaining the degree of implementation of the abovementioned royal order on plantings of 6 May 1563. The respondents of Hernani, Rentería, San Sebastián, Cestona, Azpeitia and Deva replied that they were indeed aware of its existence, though the extent to which they were familiar with it varied. In the first of these towns Nicolás de Ayerdi stated that “notification was given of the said order two years ago”, meaning that they did not know about it until 1567; Martín Pérez de Arbelaiz dated it to 1564; and Pedro de Goyaz in Azpeitia even claimed to be aware of the existence of the order for the province of Guipúzcoa, though “in this town people do not know if they have His Majesty’s order”. However, all the witnesses agreed that strict compliance with Philip’s regulations would solve the problems deriving from the depletion of the woodlands and if this had not yet been achieved they blamed it on widespread negligence on the part of the corregidores.70 This aspect would entail compensating for tree felling by putting back what had been taken, and for this purpose it was necessary to establish a network of plantings in all towns and villages close to the sea or navigable rivers. There were complaints in Rentería at how, contrary to what occurred in Guipúzcoa, a policy of nurseries was spreading in the south of France on the advice of some Biscayans: On the French coast, in the area of Labourd, which borders with Guipúzcoa and Navarre, they have again gone about planting ash trees and there they already have the mast works there used to be here. And this witness has seen it and when asked how they had gone about gaining those earnings they did not used to have, they said that they had brought men from Biscay who had taught them the skills of how they had to do it and this witness thus saw that they had created many ash nurseries. The fact that the forestry policy implemented in Biscay should have been mentioned in Rentería was not insignificant, as many of the local respondents stated that the necessary technique for creating the twisted and curved timber “they call corvotones and dedos” that was lacking in the province of Guipúzcoa had been kept alive in the lordship of Biscay.71 Nevertheless, it may be inferred from the statements made that that was not the only concern, as the abovementioned jarales required a necessarily balanced management. In this respect, at Rentería, Martín de Irízar spoke of the existence of an ordinance on the subject enacted at the assemblies of Elgoibar on 10 May 1552. It was drawn up to ensure prudential distances were established in jarales with respect to

146  A. J. Martínez-González certain oaks or chestnut trees that were to be left uncut in order to be subsequently used for ship- and housebuilding.72 However, in practice those rules were “never used or observed”, and Hernández de la Piedra pointed out from San Sebastián that nor had private owners contributed to this, as they preferred to prune their branches to supply charcoal for ironworks. 4 Fourth question: “Item, whether you know, etcetera, what other ordinances ought to be drawn up for the benefit of those woodlands and for them to be safeguarded, conserved and increased so that there is enough wood to construct and make the ships that are so necessary for the good of this province and for maintenance and defence, say what you know and understand about all this”. As stated previously, the ideological underpinning of this question lay in the role of the monarch as the guardian of his subjects who established order in society in accordance with the legal aphorisms of the ius commune. In general, the replies revolved around the same contents as the previous question, albeit providing hypothetical solutions with potential future aims.73 The aspects addressed can be summed up in the following points: •

The woodlands nearest to the coast, a certain number of leagues away, were earmarked for naval construction: since 1563 forests located within two leagues of the sea and navigable rivers had been subject to the inspection of Cristóbal de Barros.74 However, several of the people interviewed, such as Martín Pérez of Arbelaiz, were in favour of increasing the scope of action to three leagues, ­preserving woodlands of natural, uncut trees (montes bravos) in those areas to the detriment of jarales. A pre-eminent intellectual of the period, Esteban de Garibay of Guipúzcoa, even advocated extending it to four leagues with the active involvement of the municipalities located in those territories and using the coercion of punitive law. He proposed: That from now on all the towns and mayorships that are four leagues from the sea carry out at least another five hundred plantings of oaks in addition to the said five hundred, under serious enforceable penalty, and that three thousand plantings be carried out in Tolosa alone and its Jurisdiction throughout the large district.

•

Distinctive and thorough regulation of the jarales: in Hernani, Nicolás de Ayerdi underlined the need to regularise the ban on cutting non-jaral woodlands to supply ironworks, limiting their use to shipbuilding and the construction of housing “because it is with charcoal that they are destroying the woodlands of this town”.

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 147

•

Such a radical measure was not requested in Zumaya, though it was proposed that practices with respect to pollards (trasmochos) be modified, for in “the woodlands that are very naturally suited to jarales it should not be allowed at all for them to be cut at the trunk for charcoal, rather they should be maintained in accordance with the experts who understand this, pruning [for charcoal] only the trees that are necessary”.75 Lastly, at Elgoibar a problem of private law was brought to attention: the existence of “an old contract that was made between this council and the owners of the ironworks, confirmed by His Majesty at the high court of Valladolid, of which there is a letter patent” whereby most of the woodlands should continue to be jarales for the production of charcoal.76 Compliance with existing regulations: first, certain respondents asserted that municipal autonomy should be constrained by the regulations enacted at the assemblies of Zumaya of 1548. A notable opinion was that of Antonio de Amezti in Deva: This witness does not know of any order for conserving and increasing the woodlands better that the one given in the provincial ordinance, which is for all villages to plant trees in their non-arable lands and lands which are suitable, and to do so by means of plantings from nurseries because they are much more advantageous and make better trees. And with five hundred ducats this town could make nurseries and plant fifty thousand oaks which would be extremely beneficial.

•

The residents of Rentería, Fuenterrabía, San Sebastián, Zarauz, Guetaria Cestona, Orio and Elgoibar who were consulted were of the opinion that those provincial regulations ought to be complemented with the order enacted by Philip II in 1563, and that the corregidor should regularly comply with the plantings while each of the municipalities should submit the records (testimonio) of what was planted each year.77 In addition, from San Sebastián shipowner Juanes de Portu, from his constructor’s viewpoint, stressed the need to support the regulations as in that way it would be possible to “guide the trees so that they could be made use of as corvotones and dedos and all twisted wood, which is what is chiefly lacking in the whole province”. Customary practices: Nicolás Martínez de Egina offered a short but no less striking reflection on traditional forestry practices when he stated that “this witness believes that in this province the woodlands are not governed by ordinances, but rather the custom is that …”. It should be stressed in this connection that legal doctrine

148  A. J. Martínez-González

•

respected the essentially custom-based law established by the community, especially if it did not consist of practices contra legem.78 This explains why in Guetaria Lope Fernández de Iceta spontaneously claimed that “there is no other ordinance that this witness knows of in this province other than everyone cuts what is necessary in his own woodlands for his needs and does what he wishes with it and the councils do likewise with theirs”.79 Compensation for what is damaged, plantings and nurseries: once again, as in the answers to the previous question, the respondents who replied on the need to guide trees focused on managing tree growth by means of the horca y pendón system that was practised in Biscay, as well as on pursuing a policy of plantings throughout the woodlands close to the coast where what had been cut should be fully grown back, if not compensated for by planting more trees for each one that was felled.80 This must have been a fundamental aspect, as twenty-five years later Cristóbal de Barros recalled from Seville, now serving as purveyor general to the Carrera de Indias fleet and no longer involved in forestry matters, how: For twisted wood they must not be pruned or pollarded because water gets in and rots the whole tree and this is absolutely true and can be seen in Biscay where they do this to make use of the branches for charcoal and nothing is performed on oaks not suitable for shipbuilding and the land is so well suited to these trees with its great humidity that oaks thrive so much that I have measured one that is four arm lengths thick and has more than a hundred cartloads of wood.81

•

In addition, the interviews proved useful in that they provided specific information about particular reforestation efforts, such as that carried out personally in Guetaria by Lope Fernández de Iceta, who claimed to have “standing ten thousand oaks of his planted and continues planting every year”. In addition, in both Rentería and Orio respondents pointed out that greater importance should be granted to naval and housebuilding uses when prioritising needs, and that only the more inaccessible forests and branches be given over to the charcoal industry.82 They also advocated the need for a new ordinance on private woodlands compelling owners to replant everything that had been cut down, especially in accessible woodlands, allocating those located in remoter and more precipitous spots to the iron industry and specifying which forests should be used for charcoal production and which ones for ships within two leagues of the coast and navigable rivers.83 Utilitarian awareness: a large number of respondents showed their knowledge of how the depletion of forest mass had a

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 149

•

•

harmful effect on the obtention of natural resources, and it was therefore stressed at Guetaria that a policy of future standardisation was needed to “remedy all the damage that could be inflicted on this province if it did not have woodlands, because it is not possible to live without woodlands for there is no other income but from ironworks and the sea”.84 It was likewise asserted at Cestona that “it is well known in this province that the land will be destroyed the day the woodlands are lacking because they are what sustains the ships and ironworks which are all the sustenance this land has”.85 Extension of forest exploitation by modifying certain watercourses: the idea of improving the navigability of certain rivers was likewise put forward as a means of expanding the niches for forest exploitation. At Fuenterrabía, Martín de Lesaca thought it fit to seek Navarrese wood, speaking of the existence of a project of about 1540—“when the Marquis of Cañete or that of Mondéjar, he does not remember which of the two it was, was viceroy of Navarre”— aimed at making the river Bidasoa navigable in order to bring logs from there, but it was left unfinished and it would be beneficial to complete it. Similarly, Domingo de Echániz and Domingo de Oa, residents of Orio, spoke of the possibility of extending the navigability of its river inland, estimating that this could be done for “seven or eight thousand ducats”.86 Protection against the damage caused by cattle raising: animal husbandry was an integral part of daily life in the highland villages, but as these activities were uncontrolled they sometimes led to the overexploitation of forests and certain respondents also complained of this.87 For this reason, Martín Pérez de Arbelaiz called for the two activities to be reconciled, asking that “planting be carried out in order to be able to adapt it to the grazing needs of livestock”.88 In turn, from Azpeitia, Licenciado Aquemendi, Juan de Uranga and Pedro de Goyaz asked for the forest mass to be preserved from the voracious appetite of the herds of goats as they “are destroying this land”.

5.4 Conclusions Although some passages from these residents’ testimonies have previously been quoted by historians, until now they have not been analysed comprehensively or in the context of the legal-institutional approach pursued by the forestry policy for naval construction during Philip II’s reign. This is possibly due to the chaotic state of the bundle of documents held in the Archivo Histórico Nacional, where these testimonies are mixed up with other texts on matters relating neither to forestry nor to the province of Guipúzcoa, as there is also a large and disorderly assortment of records on

150  A. J. Martínez-González other matters of the Lordship of Biscay, especially institutional and jurisdictional conflicts of the village districts of Biscay that hamper forestry historians’ searches. Precisely for this reason, this study sets out to systematise the wealth of forestry information in order to be able to approach the respondents’ statements from the perspectives that must have been important to the people interviewed by the man appointed by a royal order to handle all that information, Hernán Suárez de Toledo. It likewise aims to relate the information to the schools of legal thought that had existed since the Late Middle Ages. Over time all this contributed in a sense to establishing the province of Guipúzcoa as a model of forestry management and a forerunner of the forest conservation policies applied in other Spanish territories throughout the entire Early Modern Age.89 In other words, the significance of that survey carried out in Basque territory in 1569 helped lay the foundations for the protection of Spanish forests for naval construction until the beginnings of the liberal State in the 19th century.90 Indeed, despite the interests that may have underlain the replies given to Hernán Suárez de Toledo by the rural oligarchy of Guipúzcoa, who did not want the management of the woodlands to be wrested from their sphere of influence,91 as far as the Crown was concerned all these aspects envisaged in the various interviews were aimed at establishing a sustainable forestry system. And not only this: such a system furthermore needed to harmonise the daily lives of the local communities with the Spanish Monarchy’s naval needs. The interviews marked the starting point for a profusion of regulations that eventually linked shipbuilding for centuries to certain wooded areas that were easily accessible by sea or river from the shipyards, as well as attempting to reconcile age-old silvicultural ­practices with foreign-­policy requirements. These regulations stemming from the interviews likewise entailed the compulsory establishment of a policy of plantings and nurseries to replace trees that were cut to supply the shipyards, thereby contributing to the sustainability of the Spanish ecosystems. All these issues were addressed by governmental bodies during both the Habsburg period in the 1500s and 1600s and the Bourbon dynasty from the 1700s—especially the Royal Ordinance on Woodlands and Plantings of 31 January 1748—until the early 1800s. In fact, the resulting wealth of legislation which emerged over the years largely addressed, directly or indirectly, the forestry concerns that arose during Philip II’s reign and were the subject of that survey conducted in 1569.92

Notes 1 Archivo Histórico Nacional (AHN), Consejos 15651, exp. 1. Statement of Juan de Olazabal, inhabitant of Cestona, before Hernán Suárez de Toledo, 17 July 1569. 2 Cerezo Martínez (1988, 61). 3 Gómez-Centurión Jiménez (1988, 60).

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 151 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 6 1 17 18 19 20 21 22 3 2 24 25 6 2 27 28 29 30 1 3 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 9 3 40 41 2 4 43 44 45

Martínez-González (2015a, 46–55). Marichalar (1944, 26). Marichalar (1944, 10–11, 25). Marichalar (1944, 21). Martínez Millán (1992, 175); Ezquerra Revilla (2000, 88). Lucía Megías (2016, 35). González-Albo, Real Academia de la Historia website. Marichalar (1944, 19). Ayerbe Iríbar (2007, 108). Truchuelo García (2004, 103–110). AHN, Consejos 15651, exp. 1. Commission of Philip II to Doctor Suárez de Toledo concerning the protection and conservation of the woodlands of Guipuzcoa, 15 March 1569. See also Martínez-González (2017, 21). AHN, Consejos 15651, exp. 1. Commission of Philip II to Doctor Suárez de Toledo concerning ships in the province of Guipúzcoa. Martínez-González (2018, 88). Mannori and Sordi (2004, 69). AHN, Consejos 15651, exp. 1. Vallejo Fernández de la Reguera (2012, 153–154). Aragón-Ruano (2008, 254); Munier (1962, 472). Díez de Salazar (1984, 106); Baró Pazos (1994, 9); Martínez-González (2018, 68). AHN, Consejos 15651, exp. 1. Inquiry of Hernán Suárez de Toledo to Cristóbal de Barros on woodlands, Oñate, 26 April 1569. Castañón Jiménez (2017, 29, 32–33). Alejandre García (1976, 97). Enrique IV in Ávila 23 March 1397; Juan II in Arévalo 23 April 1453 and Cuaderno de Ordenanzas, law 53; see also Soraluce (1866). Alejandre García (1976, 114–115). Díez de Salazar (1984, 85). Aragón-Ruano (1998, 114). Aragón-Ruano (1998, 112, 126, 2001, 188); Martínez-González (2013, 205). Archivo General de Simancas, Guerra Antigua, leg. 347–19. Royal order concerning plantings delivered to local authorities. Madrid, 6 May 1563, Martínez-­ González (2016, 758–759). Orella Unzué (1985, 370). Calvar Gross, vol. II, 258–260; Martínez-González (2015a, 52, 439–440). Díez de Salazar (1990, 158). Orella Unzué (1991); Ayerbe Iríbar (2007, 24–27). Díez de Salazar (1990, 158–159). Díez de Salazar (1990, 159). Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 452). Azpiazu Elorza (2003, 219); Alberdi Lonbide (2012, 438, 439, 572, 601, 1217, 1374); Calvar Gross, vol. II, 260, vol. III/II, 519. Calvar Gross, vol. I, 83. Isasti (1850, 644). AHN, Consejos 15651, exp. 1. Answers written by Martín de Irizar, Gaspar de Pontica, Esteban de Garibay, Juan Ochoa de Uranga, the Licenciado Aquemendi, Francisco Íñiguez de Alzaga. Aragón-Ruano (2008, 252–253); Muñoz de Bustillo (1995, 146). Juan Pérez de Arriola, AHN, Consejos 15651, exp. 1. Nicolás de Ayerdi, Martín de Lesaca, Pedro de Goyaz, Juan López de Zulueta, Domingo Ibáñez de Larranga. Martín Pérez de Arbelaiz, Gaspar de Pontica, Joanes de Portu.

152  A. J. Martínez-González 6 Nicolás de Ayerdi. 4 47 Martín de Lesaca. 48 Juan Pérez de Arriola, Nicolás de Ayerdi. 49 Antonio de Amezti. 50 Domingo Ibáñez de Larranga. 51 Ibidem. 52 Nicolás de Ayerdi. 53 Juan Pérez de Arriola. 54 Sancho de [illegible]. Aragón-Ruano (2001, 98). 55 Andrés de Argoyen and Juan Pérez de Arriola. 56 Lope Fernández de Iceta. 57 Juan Pérez de Arriola. 58 Aragón-Ruano (2009, 77, 80). 59 Martín de Lesaca. 60 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 40). 61 Juanes de Portu. 62 Juan López de Zulueta. 63 Nicolás de Ayerdi. 64 Pedro de Goyaz. 65 Martínez-González (2016, 758). 66 Gaspar de Pontica. 67 Soria Sesé (2005, 94). 68 Andrés de Argoyen. 69 Pedro de Goyaz. 70 Martín Pérez de Arbelaiz. 71 Martín de Irízar. 72 Aragón-Ruano (1998, 119, 2001, 161, 2009, 81); Martínez-González (2015a, 44). 73 Martínez-González (2019, 321–342). 74 Martínez-González (2015a, 49–50). 75 Nicolás Martínez de Egina. 76 Juan López de Zulueta. 77 Martín de Irízar. 78 Soria Sesé (2005, 93). 79 Lope Fernández de Iceta. 80 Martín Pérez de Arbelaiz, Juanes de Portu, Sebastián Hernández de la Piedra, Sancho de [illegible], Andrés de Argoyen, Licenciado Olazabal, Juan de Olazabal, Domingo de Oa, Domingo de Echániz, and Juan Pérez de Amilibia. 81 Martínez-González (2016, 782). 82 Martín de Irízar, Domingo de Oa, Domingo de Echaniz. 83 Martín de Irízar. 84 Licenciado Olarzabal. 85 Juan de Olazabal, Juan Martín de Amilibia. 86 Domingo de Oa. 87 Martínez-González (2015b, 3); Domínguez Ortiz (1973, 161). 88 Martín Pérez de Arbelaiz. 89 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 89). 90 Juridically the system of Montes de Marina was not disbanded until the Royal Decree of 14 January 1812 (Cortes of Cádiz). 91 It should be remembered that this is what Pedro de Goyaz stated in Azpeitia on 19 June 1569. 92 The list of many of these regulations in force at the start of the 19th century is known because it is held in the Archivo General de la Marina Álvaro de Bazán (AGMAB), Montes, 4222. Title of the document: Índice que contiene un

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 153 extracto de todas las reales órdenes adiciones a la ordenanza de montes del año de 1748 hasta 1 de mayo de 1802 que se remiten a la Dirección General de la Armada consecuente la orden de 13 de febrero último (1805).

Bibliography Alberdi Lonbide, X. (2012). Conflictos de intereses en la economía marítima guipuzcoana. Siglos XVI–XVIII, Bilbao: UPV/EHU. Alejandre García, J.A. (1976). “El delito de falsedad testimonial en el Derecho histórico español”, Historia, Instituciones, Documentos, 3, 3–140. Aragón-Ruano, Á. (1998). “Labores forestales en Gipuzkoa durante los siglos XVI–XVIII”, Zainak, 17, 111–126.     (2001). El bosque guipuzcoano en la Edad Moderna: aprovechamiento, ordenamiento legal y conflictividad, San Sebastián: Sociedad de Ciencias Aranzadi.     (2008). “Las comunidades de Montes en Guipúzcoa en el tránsito del medievo a la Edad Moderna”, Revista de Historia Moderna. Anales de la Universidad de Alicante, 26, 249–273.     (2009). “Una longeva técnica forestal: los trasmochos o desmochos guiados en Guipúzcoa durante la Edad Moderna”, Espacio, Tiempo y Forma, Serie IV. Historia moderna, 22, 73–105. Ayerbe Iríbar, M.R. (2007). “Universidad de Sancti Spiritus de Oñate. Fuentes y líneas de investigación”, in L.E. Rodríguez San Pedro Bezares and J.L. Polo Rodríguez (eds.), Universidades Hispánicas. Modelos territoriales en la Edad Moderna: Valencia, Valladolid, Oñate, Oviedo y Granada, Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, vol. 2, 97–161.     (2014). “Introducción”, in El proceso recopilador del derecho guipuzcoano, y la Recopilación de 1696, Colección de Textos jurídicos de Vasconia, 3, Donostia: Iura Vasconiae, 9–132. Azpiazu Elorza, J.A. (2016). Hielos y oceános. Vascos por el mundo, Tafalla: Ttarttalo.     (2003). “Los guipuzcoanos y Sevilla en la Alta Edad Moderna”, Itsas memoria: revista de estudios marítimos del País Vasco, 4, 207–225. Baró Pazos, J. (1994). Instituciones Históricas de Cantabria, Santander: Universidad de Cantabria-Asamblea Regional de Cantabria. Calvar Gross, J. et al. (1988–1993). La Batalla del Mar Océano (Vols. I, II and III), Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa-Ediciones Turner. Castañón Jiménez, C. (2017). Régimen jurídico y práctica del juramento en España, Madrid: Centro de Estudios Políticos y Constitucionales. Cerezo Martínez, R. (1988). Las Armadas de Felipe II, Madrid: Editorial San Martín. Cortes de Cádiz (1813). Colección de los decretos y ordenes que han expedido las Cortes Generales y Extraordinarias desde 24 de septiembre de 1811 hasta 24 de mayo de 1812 (Tomo II), Cádiz: Imprenta Nacional. Díez de Salazar, L.M. (1984). “Régimen municipal en Guipuzcoa (s. XV.–XVI)”, Azpilcueta: Cuadernos de Derecho, 1, 76–129.     (1990). “La Diputación de las Juntas generales de Guipúzcoa: sus primeros 25 años de historia (1550–1575)”, in A. Iglesia Ferreirós and S. Sánchez-Lauro (coord.), Centralismo y autonomismo en los siglos XVI–XVII. Homenaje al profesor Jesús Lalinde Abadía, Barcelona: Universidad de Barcelona, 131–160.

154  A. J. Martínez-González Domínguez Ortiz, A. (1973). El Antiguo Régimen, Madrid: Alianza. Ezquerra Revilla, I. (2000). El Consejo Real de Castilla bajo Felipe II. Grupos de poder y luchas faccionales, Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V. Garibay y Zamalloa, E. (1854). “Memorias de Garibay”, Memorial Histórico Español: Colección de documentos, opúsculos y antigüedades, que publica la Real Academia de la Historia (Tomo VII), Madrid: Imprenta de José Rodríguez. Gómez-Centurión Jiménez, C. (1988). Felipe II, la empresa de Inglaterra y el comercio septentrional (1566–1609), Madrid: Editorial Naval. González-Albo y Manglano, P. Biografía de Hernán Suárez de Toledo y Pedraza, Real Academia de la Historia (R.A.H.). https://dbe.rah.es/biografias/30263/ hernan-suarez-de-toledo-y-pedraza. Isasti, L. de (1850). Compendio historial de la M. N. y M. L. provincia de Guipúzcoa, Bilbao: Librería Anticuaria Astarloa. Lucía Megías, J.M. (2016). La madurez de Cervantes: una vida en la Corte, Madrid: Edaf. Mannori, L. and Sordi, B. (2004). “Justicia y Administración”, in M. Fioravanti (coord.), El Estado Moderno en Europa: Instituciones y Derecho, Madrid: Trotta, 123–142. Marichalar, A. (1944). “Tres figuras del XVI: Hernán Suárez de Toledo, Felipe de Borgoña y Briviesca Muñatones”, Escorial. Revista de Cultura y Letras, XVII, 9–67. Martínez Millán, J. (1992). “Grupos de poder en la Corte durante el reinado de Felipe II: la facción ebolista, 1554–1573”, in J. Martínez Millán (coord.), Instituciones y élites de poder en la monarquía hispana durante el siglo XVI, Madrid: Universidad Autónoma de Madrid, 137–198. Martínez-González, A.J. (2013). “Gestión forestal, necesidad naval y conflictividad jurídico-institucional: la Monarquía Hispánica y las instituciones vascas durante los Austrias”, Estudios de Deusto, 61, 201–259.     (2015a). Las Superintendencias de Montes y Plantíos (1574–1748): Derecho y política forestal para las Armadas en la Edad Moderna, Valencia: Tirant lo Blanch.     (2015b). “Masas forestales para las Armadas: las áreas jurisdiccionales de montes y plantíos (siglos XVI–XVIII)”, Naveg@mérica. Revista electrónica editada por la Asociación Española de Americanistas, 14, 1–36.     (2016). “Fomento naval y gestión forestal en la segunda mitad del siglo XVI: documentos para una historia jurídica, institucional y social en el arco cantábrico”, Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español, LXXXVI, 749–783.     (2017). “Régimen polisinodial y clientelismo en la génesis de la política forestal y naval de Felipe II”, in R. Varela Gomes, R. and K. Trapaga-Monchet (eds.), Árbores, barcos e homens na Península Ibérica (séculos XVI–XVIII) [ForSEADiscovery Project (PITN-GA-2013-607545)], Lisbon: Instituto de Arqueologia e Paleociências da Universidade Nova de Lisboa, 13–24.     (2018). “Algunas consideraciones sobre el régimen local cantábrico frente al fomento naval y forestal en la Corona de Castilla (c. 1560–1570)”, in L. Beck Varela and M. Julia Solla Sastre (coord.), Estudios Luso-Hispanos de Historia del Derecho, Madrid: Dykinson, 63–91.     (2019). “Bosques guipuzcoanos para la construcción de navíos y recopilación normativa por el Real Consejo de Castilla (1569)”, Tiempos Modernos, Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 321–342.

The beginnings of preservation and development of Spanish forestry 155 Muñoz de Bustillo, C. (1995). “Encuentros y desencuentros en la Historia: los territorios del Norte Peninsular en la coyuntura del Setecientos”, Revista del Departamento de Historia Contemporánea de la Universidad del País Vasco, 12, 135–174. Munier, Ch. (1962). “El concepto de dominium y propietas en los canonistas y moralistas desde el siglo XVI al XIX”, Ius Canonicum, 2, 4, 469–479. Orella Unzué, J.L. (1985). “Las Ordenanzas Municipales de Orduña del siglo XVI”, En la España medieval, 6, 337–378.     (1991). Libro Viejo de Guipúzcoa, del bachiller Juan Martínez de Zaldivia. Fuentes documentales medievales del País Vasco, San Sebastián: Eusko Ikaskuntza-Sociedad de Estudios Vascos. Soraluce, N. (1866). Fueros de Guipúzcoa, Madrid: Imprenta del Banco Industrial y Mercantil. Soria Sesé, L. (2005). “Entre Derecho Tradicional y Derecho recibido: Las repúblicas municipales de Vasconia durante la Edad Moderna”, Iura Vasconiae, 2, 85–112. Tellechea Idígoras, J.I. (1981). El Almirante D. Antonio de Oquendo, San Sebastián: Sociedad Guipuzcoana de Ediciones y Publicaciones. Truchuelo García, S. (2004). Gipuzkoa y el poder real en la Alta Edad Moderna, San Sebastián: Diputación Foral de Guipúzcoa. Vallejo Fernández de la Reguera, J. (2012). “El príncipe ante el derecho en la cultura del Ius Commune”, in M.M. Lorente Sariñena and J. Vallejo Fernández de la Reguera (coord.), Manual de Historia del Derecho, Valencia: Tirant lo Blanch, 141–178.

6

“In all this kingdom there is no timber”1 Wood for the king’s galleys: exploitation and conservation of the Catalan forests in the age of Lepanto A. Jorge Aguilera-López

University of Helsinki, [email protected] 6.1 A decisive century: Catalonia and Mediterranean warfare In the construction of ships and galleys, Catalonia exceeds and has an advantage over any of the other kingdoms or provinces of Spain, with the exception of Portugal and Biscay (…). And when it comes to galleys, it surpasses Portugal and Biscay: because many more galleys are made in Barcelona than in Portugal, or Biscay, or any kingdom or province in all of Universal Spain, or in all of the East or West Indies. Jesuit Pere Gil was this categorical regarding the naval power of Catalonia when he wrote about its recent history around the year 1600. 2 This situation contrasted enormously with the 15th century and the so-called late-medieval Catalan crisis, one of the most important causes of which, according to some scholars, was the decline of the navy during that time.3 Despite its many challenges, the 16th century was a period full of opportunities and growth for Catalonia when the foundations for the economic and social vitality of the prosperous 18th century were laid. There was significant population growth, largely due to French immigration, accompanied by economic and territorial reorganisation, recovery of the countryside and agrarian expansion. Furthermore, the reinvigorated and enlarged merchant navy—no longer solely centred on Barcelona but distributed along the coast—employed larger ships and undertook longer voyages, establishing and consolidating new trade routes beyond the Mediterranean Sea. It is not surprising, therefore, that some scholars have classified this period as “a decisive century”.4 Meanwhile, the Mediterranean became the permanent battlefield of a conflict—with signs of a Holy War—between two expansive and opposing DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-7

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 157 powers, the Habsburg Monarchy and the Ottoman Empire.5 Both sought to seize control of the old Mare Nostrum using huge galley armadas. The galley was the undoubted protagonist of this confrontation: a ship of antique origin, mainly propelled by oarsmen but capable of quickly being adapted to the needs of Early Modern warfare by modifying its design and thus incorporating the novel artillery.6 The occasional outbreaks of frontal war between those two empires and other powers and rivals like Venice or France coexisted alongside a permanent war of attrition that was much more effective and damaging. This small-scale parallel war was waged by pirates and corsairs, both Muslim and Christian, who attacked coasts and trade routes.7 Therefore, galleys and everything related to them acquired a high priority level and significance for the Mediterranean States.8 The arsenals and shipyards located on different seashores maximised their role as strategic places, absorbing not only their own resources but also those of larger hinterlands and beyond.9 In this great naval arms race, the forests turned out to be the most indispensable resource. Forest products were crucial for human activities, from rural residents to merchants, for urban industries and, last but by no means least, for the State.10 Forests, and more specifically trees, were essential. All the components of the tree were usable: the trunk and branches as fuel or raw material for manufacturing and construction; the leaves as compost or feed for livestock; the fruits as animal and human food; and the bark for the manufacture of colourants and various utensils.11 Although shipbuilding has often been thought to have wreaked havoc on the woodlands, the most predatory of all the above activities were those that involved hardwood for charcoal production and firewood.12 Charcoal—for fuel—and construction timber were vital to almost every Early Modern industry and many domestic activities. The State too required all kinds of timber to fuel its military needs and endeavours both on land and at sea. Moreover, urban growth called for massive amounts of construction-grade timber, and expanding agriculture entailed clearing woodlands, while demand for forest products was also on the rise. As Appuhn pointed out: “the forest was a nexus of interests that involved nearly every member of the community and every social and political level of the state”.13 The Crown was one of the main promoters of the naval industry in Catalonia—the military branch, at least. Emperor Charles V faced an urgent need to increase his Mediterranean naval forces to address different threats. The major coup was to snatch the loyalty of Andrea Doria and his galleys from rival France in 1528, thus incorporating into his sphere of influence the strategic Republic of Genoa.14 That same year, Charles V ordered the construction of 50 new galleys in Barcelona. That new commission far exceeded the number of galleys that had been built in the city during the previous years.15 The Spanish Monarchy had four main galley-producing hubs: Barcelona, Naples, Messina and Genoa. The Royal Shipyard of Barcelona was the

158  A. J. Aguilera-López foremost of these.16 However, the question still remains: why did the Crown decide to focus its Mediterranean naval effort on Catalonia? The Principality was neither the wealthiest nor the most populated territory, and royal power was stronger elsewhere. This chapter will shed light on these reasons.

6.2 Wood for the king’s galleys: exploitation of the Catalan forests Catalonia was a territory with a triple border: Islam to the east by sea, France—and later heresy as well—to the north by land, and inland, dissent and bandits.17 In addition, due to Catalonia’s strategic location between Castile and Italy, the Crown wanted to reinforce its control over the province in order to strengthen its role in the periphery of the Empire.18 Catalonia’s long maritime tradition had a major part in this decision. The Principality had infrastructures such as the Royal Shipyard of Barcelona (see Figure 6.1)—a late medieval galley factory—as well as expert workers and other skilled professionals. However, the decisive factor was the availability of abundant sturdy timber. The availability of easily accessible woodlands played a more critical role concerning the location of the shipyards than other materials, such as sails, cordage or iron elements that could be transported more easily.19 The “great abundance” of wood was such that, according to Pere Gil in the early 17th century, “Catalonia is obliged to be very grateful to the Lord”. 20 Wood was not only abundant but of excellent quality. Juan de Mal Lara, who was entrusted with decorating the Real, the galley used by Don John of Austria in Lepanto, wrote in this regard: “in Barcelona, [the King] had this galley built of the best wood found in these parts,

Figure 6.1  The Royal Shipyard of Barcelona. Source: Detail of the panoramic view of Barcelona by Anton van den Wyngaerde (1563). Wikipedia commons.

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 159 the pine of Catalonia being the best timber that outside the East Indies is found in Asia, Africa and Europe, both because it is lighter than oak and because it is stronger than ordinary pine”.21 From the 1530s onwards, naval forces progressively increased following the escalation of tensions in the Mediterranean. Despite the acclaimed and publicised victory of Charles V in Tunis (1535), the truth was that the Ottoman Empire was gaining the upper hand in the confrontation. They not only had a larger armada capable of defeating a Christian coalition at Preveza (1538), but they had also secured a strong foothold in the Western Mediterranean by subjecting most Barbary pirates to their rule.22 France allowed Ottoman galleys to use its ports, which permitted the Ottoman armada to attack the Spanish Monarchy more easily. 23 Prince Philip, who acted as governor of Spain in the absence of the emperor, urged his father to “become Lord of the Sea and to have always ready and supplied (…) a good number of galleys to use when necessary, as the Turk does”.24 More galleys were immediately needed. In 1551, 24 galleys were being built in Barcelona, and a further 12, together with 28 other vessels of different sizes, had been commissioned for when free space became available. In 1554, 30 more galleys and one bastard galley were under construction. 25 The flurry of shipbuilding exceeded the industrial capacity of the Royal Shipyard of Barcelona. As a result, the Crown issued orders for galleys to be constructed in the nearby city of Tortosa, creating an entirely new administrative apparatus and erecting some temporary buildings for this purpose. 26 Tortosa had a long and ancient maritime tradition stemming from its important role as a naval base during Muslim rule. The city was located on the banks of the Ebro—the second-longest river on the Iberian Peninsula—and near its mouth in the Mediterranean. The Ebro Basin connected the Mediterranean with north-western Spain, which allowed access to the Pyrenean forests and other wooded regions, and Tortosa itself was an area with abundant forests. 27 It is not surprising that the Crown and the Council of War (Consejo de Guerra) considered building a shipyard in Tortosa. The military engineer Giovan Battista Calvi sketched a simple but functional shipyard (see Figure 6.2). 28 The design consisted of a very large walled enclosure, with rooms and warehouses on the sides, as well as plenty of free space to work with up to 13 covered naves at the same time, amounting to around 20,000 square metres.29 It has been estimated that during this same period, the Royal Shipyard of Barcelona spanned just about 12,000 square metres.30 The new project sparked fierce opposition from some sectors of Barcelona, especially from the Superintendent of the shipyard Francesc Setantí.31 In the end, Philip II decided to strengthen and centralise Barcelona’s naval industry by remodelling and expanding the Royal Shipyard of Barcelona. These works would be slowly carried out in stages over the 16th and 17th centuries.32

160  A. J. Aguilera-López

Figure 6.2  Ground plan of the Shipyard projected for Tortosa by Giovan Battista Calvi (ca. 1552–1555). Source: España. Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte. Archivo General de Simancas, Mapas, Planos y Dibujos, 20, 64.

The quality of the wood and its properties were one of the arguments for finally discarding the construction of a permanent shipyard in Tortosa. Although wood abounded, it was too dense to build galleys, and captains preferred those constructed in Barcelona. This property caused the already finished Tortosa-built galleys to deteriorate in the water, and additional sums of money, labour, and timber had to be invested in maintaining and repairing them.33 A few years later, the king’s officials turned to the forests of Tortosa and “it was seen how worthless the aforementioned forests were for making galleys, as was clearly seen in the four that were built in 1560 in

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 161 the city of Tortosa. As the timber was so thin and spongy, they swelled with water and were of no service, and it was necessary to sell them because they were useless”.34 It was less problematic and more economical to transport the desired wood from Tortosa to Barcelona than to build, maintain and supply a second shipyard in Tortosa, 35 which shut down around 1558.36 The failed Tortosa alternative was an attempt at solving a problem that was becoming increasingly visible for the Crown in the 1550s: wood shortage.37 In the words of the emperor: “the land [is] so chopped down that we will have to look for trees much further afield”.38 Superintendent Setantí was more precise and warned that in the immediate area around Barcelona, there was an increasing shortage of timber for galleys and that if this was not remedied, “in a few years’ time, it will not be possible to build even a fusta in Barcelona”.39 For this reason, he urged that the cutting of wood “to take it out of the kingdom (sic) and for other things” be banned.40 Basically, he encouraged the exclusion of all other activities not related to the construction of the royal armadas from the permitted uses of those forests around Barcelona. In Tortosa some measures had been taken to prevent the claimed timber shortage, such as reserving part of the forest for the construction of galleys, leaving the rest “for the service of the city and in this way, Your Highness will be served, while the people will have no reason to be aggrieved”.41 Regarding the ban on exporting timber, the different Cortes—such as those of 1547 or 1564—had extended existing legislation on that matter.42 In addition, Superintendent Setantí’s proposal to plant trees was heeded. Orders came from the Court stating that “they [must] be planted in the most convenient areas and places, and orders must be given that the existing ones meant to serve the said purpose [for shipbuilding] be conserved”. Setantí assured that “if this [plan] is implemented neither at present nor in the future can there be a lack of wood for a large number of galleys”.43 Consequently, it was essential to entrust the protection of the woodlands to an official under the direct command of the viceroy.44 He pressed for the position of Commissioner of Plantings and Conservator of Forests (Comisario de Plantíos y Conservador de Bosques) to be set up, or as it was called in Castile, Superintendent of Forests and Plantings (Superintendente de Montes y Plantíos). Setantí was almost two decades ahead of the official creation of the position, which historians have associated with the figure of Cristóbal de Barros, who would be appointed Superintendent for the Cantabrian coast in 1574.45 Cristóbal de Barros, who had played a prominent role in shipbuilding in northern Castile since the 1560s, would acquire greater significance once he was in charge of the plantings and the conservation of the forests in that area.46 During the next two decades, he generated a large range of documentation, becoming an essential figure in studies that address forest conservation and shipbuilding in Northern Spain and serving as a paradigm when studying these topics in the whole Spanish context. Although

162  A. J. Aguilera-López Catalan forestry was similar in some aspects, it also had its own peculiarities. Therefore, it is worth examining in depth, especially with respect to the 16th century. The period of greatest activity in the shipyard is also the period to which scholars have paid the least attention.47 Returning to Setantí, while plantings were being carried out near Barcelona, he proposed exploiting the Montseny forests “which are very close to this city” and where there “is a great abundance of masts for galleys48 and any other ships”.49 34 years later, Superintendent Alzate wrote concerning the forests of Montseny: “Given the depletion of masts [árboles de galera] in Montseny, which is a forest in Catalonia four leagues from Blanes, where the galleys were supplied during those years (…), His Majesty gave orders (…) for trees to be sought in all the forests of Catalonia”.50 How did this happen in barely three decades? The answer is simple: the forests had been overexploited, but the same effort had not been made to conserve them, as reported by Purveyor Muñoz de Salazar: “here, as we do not plant anew and cut down every day, logically, they will run out”.51 Although it might seem that the Crown did not care about its forests, the reality was different. Indeed, it was regarded as a matter of State security, as Early Modern European governments linked “the durability of local wood supplies with the fortunes of the state itself”. 52 There was no environmental concern; rather, this proto-silviculture sought to rationalise its forest resources out of purely economic, political and military needs.53 They desired to remain self-sufficient in terms of military supplies, especially for the navy.54 Therefore, all European powers were aware of the importance of conserving the woodlands.55 The Duke of Alba stated that the victory at Lepanto in 1571 did not entail the defeat of the Ottoman Empire.56 The Sultan had enough resources to overcome and rebuild his armada.57 Instead, the defeat—and collapse—of the Sublime Porte hinged on the destruction of its forests: I very much wish, sire, that Your Majesty would order Lord Don John that by the best means he could consider, he could try to burn down the forests where the Turk obtains the wood to build galleys. Which, in my opinion, is one of the greatest damages that could be done to him since it would prevent him from being able to arm [galleys] for very long years. Especially if, by doing so, we could manage to confront him with external enemies, who [in turn] would raise the spirits of the natives and allies to free themselves from their oppression and such a heavy yoke. After all, sire, there is no monarchy so powerful that it can be saved and defended from many united powers.58 In that sense, to guarantee the survival of the Monarchy, forests had to be preserved. Tree plantings were one of the most efficient and convenient ways to do so. However, newly planted trees required decades of growth before being suitable for shipbuilding due to the biological

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 163 properties—slow growth—of tree species. Plantings were not, thus, a top priority: “regarding the conservation of the trees of this land, I [Purveyor Muñoz de Salazar] request the viceroy for something feasible, but so far, nothing has been done”. 59 As there were many other urgent needs, trees could always be planted later. The pressing needs and limited resources— money, time, manpower—constantly forced the administration to make choices between cutting or planting, with the former repeatedly being preferred. This, in turn, heightened the fear of scarcity.60 The Crown pressed for the implementation of its instructions—whether or not there were sufficient resources—and the viceroys and royal officials strove to enforce them on the ground, triggering conflicts and outbursts with local and regional bodies.61 Large-scale war in the Mediterranean was highly expensive, especially when the investment was compared with the low gains to be had.62 However, the survival of the Spanish Monarchy was at stake, as Philip II confessed to one of his closest ministers, for a hypothetical defeat could have disastrous consequences.63 The war against the Ottomans was therefore costly, risky, unprofitable and unaffordable with regard to woodlands reserves—especially if very ambitious shipbuilding programs were to be implemented, such as building a permanent navy by 300–350 galleys as Don John of Austria advocated.64 The Spanish Monarchy required peace in the Mediterranean Sea to focus its attention on the North Atlantic, especially the Netherlands. The Spanish and Ottoman Empires sought to agree to a temporary ceasefire through a series of truces that ended up establishing de facto lasting peace from 1581.65 The shift to the Atlantic Ocean led to a drop in naval activity in Barcelona, giving a brief respite to the woodlands. The truces with the Sultan prevented a new war, but galleys were still essential to protect the coasts and communications of the Monarchy.66 Therefore, galley construction needed to keep going, at least to replace the old ones.67 In addition, following the incorporation of the Portuguese Empire into the Habsburg possessions (1580), galleys were used more assiduously beyond the Strait of Gibraltar.68 Such maritime warfare required forest conservation policies.

6.3  Conserving forests: the royal pragmatic of 1574 In 1574, during the viceroyalty of Hernando de Toledo (1571–1580), a forest pragmatic (royal edict, charter) was issued. In this law, which was very rich in content and discourse, the prosperity of the province was equated to the abundance of its woods. Timber made it possible to have both a huge merchant navy and a powerful military fleet, which brought wealth and security. However, according to the royal edict, in recent years, “due to carelessness and negligence of the land (…) trees had been lacking in such a way (…), notably in the coastal parts”. This had led to a clear setback in trading and defence of the Principality, as few ships were constructed, and

164  A. J. Aguilera-López “with excessive and unbearable expenditure”. All trades linked to the sea suffered as “sailors, officers, soldiers and other people have been lacking”, but skilled labour was significantly affected. Whereas a few years earlier, there had been more than 1,500, currently “there are not 200 shipwrights and caulkers in Catalonia and due to the lack of said wood, carpenters have to leave their jobs in coastal places and especially in the city of Barcelona”.69 While it was true that there was a labour shortage at Barcelona’s shipyards, this was not entirely due to the lack of wood. Many Catalan shipwrights were reluctant to leave their homes to work in faraway Barcelona, a city where the cost of living was much higher. In addition, the king paid little and late, making it more profitable to work for private individuals.70 To alleviate this shortage, the king forced-hired many shipbuilders, triggering social unrest,71 and employed a large amount of skilled labour from abroad, especially from the Basque provinces, Genoa and Valencia.72 The Crown actively sought this skilled workforce for the naval arms race, especially if, at the same time, it was possible to deprive and obtain secrets from rivals and enemies. Secret recruitments were made in Italy, France, Algiers, Venice and Greece. In addition, some galley captains did not appreciate the ships built by Catalan masters, which led the Crown to opt for building Genoese-style galleys. Conflicts arose between galleybuilders of both nationalities. Added to this range of circumstances was the danger of living on the coast. Frequent raids posed a risk of ending up being captured by pirates and sold as a slave. Among others, this happened to the shipwrights’ foreman Pedro Catalán (1588–1594), who had previously spent 25 years in captivity in Algiers, forced to build ships for the pirates.73 The pragmatic of 1574 sought to put an end to the abuse that the commissioners and those in charge of felling the trees committed against the locals and tree-owners74 either by forcing them to work—cutting or transporting timber—and then not paying them, or by giving them a receipt requiring them to travel to Barcelona to receive the money. The risks of going to Barcelona outweighed the economic gain. Henceforth, royal officials were obliged to write down all the activity and to pay locals on the spot. Fees were regulated, and additionally, locals were rewarded with the remaining wood from felled trees.75 Forced forest labour and timber transport from the forests and mountains to the rivers, to the seashore or directly to the shipyard triggered unrest among villagers, as well as frequent political disputes between the viceroy (Crown) and the local authorities.76 The habitual lack of funds, poor logistical organisation, and the discomfort of the residents often led to cut wood being left to rot in the forests,77 and their refusal to cooperate with the Crown.78 By solving grievances, ensuring good treatment and granting fair rewards, the edict sought to encourage the planting, growth and protection of the tree species suitable for shipbuilding. The safety and prosperity of the land “would be very difficult and almost impossible if we

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 165 were to confide in the trees that grow naturally and without culture [knowledge] and if many of the species explained above were not planted and sown”. Those species—such as oak (Quercus), pine (Pinus sylvestris), ash (Fraxinus), white poplar (Populus alba) and elm (Ulmus)—were specifically assigned a price per tree when they reached adequate minimum measurements. The larger the size, quality and measurements of the tree, the more it fetched. The price varied depending on the species. White poplar and oak, being trees “that take time to develop”, would be paid at “six reales each if they were three Barcelonan canas high,79 measuring from the ground to where the branches begin”, while pines and elms of equal size would be paid at four reales. Huge penalties were also established for those who cut down or damaged trees.80

6.4 Failure of a good idea: the commissioner of plantings and conservator of forests Whereas since 1574, the Cantabrian Sea had had the active—and permanent—figure of Cristóbal de Barros, there was no such post in Catalonia. That same year the aforementioned charter was issued. It authorised the viceroy to appoint one person (or more) as comisario de plantíos y conservador de bosques to travel to the coast and “up to four leagues inland”81 to inspect the different places and decide, with the assistance of the local authorities and experts, “which trees could be planted and sown according to the nature and properties of the land”. The conservator was duty-bound to handle all matters and problems related to plantings.82 The viceroy appointed Joan de Comallonga to the position.83 He was the son of a notary of the same name who had become secretary to Charles V and been ennobled by the emperor for his services. We do not have any more information about him, except that through marriage, he was related to the Marimón family, who would play an outstanding role in the management of the Barcelonan shipyard throughout the 17th century.84 Conservator Comallonga, as he himself would explain years later to the Council of War, effectively held the position only during the last two years of Toledo’s viceroyalty (1579–1580),85 when many plantings were made: “and from then [to] now [1587], everything concerning this has been stopped without having continued, the said planting being of such importance”.86 No further progress was made in the following years due to the string of weak viceroys who served for short terms and the ongoing lack of funds. In fact, even in 1587, Comallonga was still owed part of his wages from those two years.87 In 1585, after a few years of low activity, the Crown decided to resume the regular construction of galleys in Barcelona, entrusting the task to Viceroy Manrique de Lara (1586–1590). This assignment was tricky due to the political and social tension in Catalonia, the recent years of neglect of the shipyard—half-complete remodelling work, a workforce that was both insufficient and confrontational—and above all, a shortage of

166  A. J. Aguilera-López funds. Shipbuilding had become enormously expensive: wood was pricier and scarce, and it had to be harvested and fetched from remote forests or imported from other regions. This, therefore, increased the expenditure, time and required planning. The same was true for labour and most other resources. No wonder the viceroy wrote: “I am scandalised that in Catalonia, which, I have understood all my life, is where galleys are most comfortably built, Your Majesty pays so much [money] for every ship”. 88 The viceroy promised to reverse the inactivity in the plantings as the king had ordered. 89 However, hardly anything was done.90 The king issued orders but did not provide the economic means. The viceroy claimed: “although I am doing my best as Your Majesty may believe in trying to benefit Your royal finances, only God worked the miracle of maintaining a legion of people with five loaves and two fish, and I cannot do what Your Majesty orders me because more than 20,000 ducats are already owed”.91 Technically Comallonga—who had also been appointed veguer of Barcelona (district official)92 —was in charge of the plantings, which had not been carried out for years. In 1594, Comallonga asked not to be held responsible since it was not his intention to go against the king’s wishes, and he insisted that he had not had the necessary funds and that the various viceroys “occupied me with other things in the service of His Majesty”.93 The plantings required money, planning and above all time, which in the words of Superintendent Alzate “cannot be bought for any price”.94 Consequently, the Crown turned its attention to new forests. As we have already mentioned, the forests located in Montseny and nearby towns such as Viladrau, Arbúcies, Blanes, Tordera, Sant Feliu de Guíxols, Hostalric and Santa Coloma were exploited.95 Roads were built to extract the wood, forcing residents to carry out annual maintenance on them.96 Timber reached Barcelona by sea as well via the Tordera river. In just a few decades, those forests showed signs of severe depletion.

6.5 Fearing wood shortage: forest exploration and strategies to combat scarcity The years of highest manufacturing activity in the shipyard coincided with the peak activity in the Montseny forests. There were huge commissions for new galleys as a result of the disaster of Djerba (1560), the massive shipwreck of La Herradura (1562), the Great Siege of Malta (1565) and the Battle of Lepanto (1571). To give an idea, we will cite the testimony of the former foreman of the shipwrights of the Royal Shipyard of Barcelona, the Genoese Bartolomé Jordán, who, during his 22 years of service to the king, “helped Bautista Jordán, his father, to build 70 and more galleys until he died [1582] (…), and then, he took over his position [as foreman] (…) and in that time he has built 20 galleys”.97

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 167 They searched for other forests, and “after having seen many, they found in the viscounty of Castellbò a forest that is called Sant Joan de l’Erm, the property of which belongs to His Majesty, where they said that there were so many trees and spars that in 200 years they would not be finished even if they were taken out every year for many galleys”.98 A similar testimony had been given a few decades earlier about Montseny and yet, when Alzate wrote concerning the new forest he also stated that “in Montseny there is notable lack of such pieces”.99 This Pyrenean wood was drifted downriver to Tortosa, to be subsequently towed by galleys to Barcelona.100 A few years earlier, in 1574, the Tortosan poet and humanist Marc Antoni d’Aldana had witnessed something similar and wrote to the viceroy of Valencia: Five days ago, four timbers—a mast and three fir yards for galleys— arrived at this city by a very strange route, with excessive work and expense. Because they have been cut in the Pyrenees Mountains and in there, brought and thrown into a small river, the Noguera Pallaresa, and through the Segre River that passes through Lleida and then into the Ebro River and through it to the sea, where they are to embark for Barcelona. And according to what the person who was in charge of them told me, on these four timbers alone, more than 700 ducats have been spent, and it was only to test if they would arrive because there are more than 50 cut pieces from which I deduce that His Majesty must have great need and lack of these, because with so much work and expense he sends them to search in the Pyrenees Mountains.101 Aldana reported that in the Valcanera (located in Tortosa) and nearby forests, there were coppices with high-quality wood. Those forests were near the coast and well connected by road, which made transport quick and economical. He simply wished to serve the king by informing him about that much more desirable alternative. Despite his good intentions, the Crown was already aware of those particular forests. They had originally been discarded in the 1550s, but out of necessity—during the viceroyalty of García de Toledo (1558–1564)—they had been reexplored, retested and dismissed. Once again, in 1589, Superintendent Antonio de Alzate, accompanied by the Milanese military engineer Giorgio Settala (Jorge Setara) and the Ragusan galley-builder Juan de Nicola, reexplored the same woodlands (see Map 6.1).102 According to their inspection, in the Valcanera forest, “there is a large number of pine trees of three kinds, which are usually called gentiles, melosos and bordes pines, and those of the first genus, when they are of the appropriate size and proportions, are the only ones that are adequate and good for galley building”. However, not a hundred of these specimens were found. The cause was that “having grown on rocks so rough that they have almost no land to extend their roots, the colour of the wood, for

168  A. J. Aguilera-López

Map 6.1  Map of the border between Catalonia and Valencia where Valcanera and Vallivana forests are depicted, as well as the rivers, towns and distances by Giorgio Settala (1589). Source: España. Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte. Archivo General de Simancas, Mapas, Planos y Dibujos, 5, 79.

the most part, is white, with little sap, spongy (…), more appropriate for making houses and boats of small size than for building galleys”. Alzate stated of the forest of Vallivana (in Valencia) that “it is abundant in holm oaks (Quercus ilex) and Aleppo pines (Pinus halepensis) (…) which are of all the greatness that can be desired for galleon-like vessels”. However, they “would not be adequate [for galleys] (…) because their wood is so heavy and glassy”.103 Another forest survey we have good information is about the one carried out in 1593 in Roussillon (see Map 6.2). Responding to the warning “from a good old farmer”, Viceroy Maqueda (1593–1597) sent galley-builder Francisco Gandolfo and oarmaker Juan Pérez Calamón to inspect those forests and their roads.104 The aim was to find a cheaper alternative way to supply masts and yards that lately came from Castellbò, and oars that came from Naples and Navarre.105 Falgós, Cabrenç and Carbó were the forests explored.106 Regarding the latter, they reported that up to a hundred firs (Abies) for masts were counted, the quality of the trees was tested, and they were “straight without any kinks or knots, which is what is best”. However, they warned that for that year, no

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 169

Map 6.2  Sketch of the proposed route from Falgós to Roses by Diego de Prado y Tovar. Source: España. Ministerio de Cultura y Deporte. Archivo General de Simancas, Mapas, Planos y Dibujos, 12, 163.

170  A. J. Aguilera-López more than 20 galleys could be supplied, although “in ten years from now, they think there will be a large number of trees”. According to the shipwrights, it was very likely the trees in those forests were better than the ones from Castellbò, Montseny and Salvanera,107 since these “are in the sun almost all day long, from which the perfection of said trees can be inferred”. Beech trees (Fagus) were found for up to 2,000 oars suitable for royal and captain-size galleys. The forests had “a great number of oak trees for everything necessary for the construction of galleys, and particularly for keels (carenas), carlings (cordas), knees (rodas) and other long pieces”.108 Captain Diego de Prado y Tovar was also entrusted with visiting those forests.109 His mission was to examine the most optimal extraction routes, as well as to assess the existing roads and bridges and to decide whether it was necessary to build new ones. The objective was to transport the timber as fast as possible to the port of Roses. Although the distance was not long, the route was tricky due to the very mountainous terrain; according to Prado: “from the forest to Roses there are around seven leagues110 measured by the Devil himself because it took us two days to walk them and from these, roads will have to be built in over three and a third leagues”. He considered that the cartloads of wood would take seven days to reach the port. Building roads would amount to around 1,500 ducats while building a warehouse to stock the timber in Roses would cost another 500 ducats. Prado claimed that the route he proposed was the cheapest and simplest, and although it would be possible to look for other alternatives, the investment in infrastructure would not fall below 15,000 ducats. He exaggeratedly concluded that those forests contained wood for oars “for a hundred years and keels for galley hulls for 6,000”. At the same time, he encouraged planting since “the amount that is necessary” for Barcelona’s shipyard would not grow naturally.111 The king gave orders for these abundant forests to be acquired and for the roads to be built.112 However, by 1627, they would already be depleted due to the coal industry.113 The galley-builders had already warned about this: “[it should be] ordered that no one may touch the said forests to make firewood and charcoal for the smithies as has been done up to now”. Likewise, Prado recommended “protecting the forest, because if now that it is closed, the coalmen and coopers are ruining it, what will they do when it is open”.114 It is very likely that the different chapters of the Cortes and the Pragmatic of 1574 had not been implemented. In 1578, Viceroy Hernando de Toledo requested the monarch to issue another edict whereby “no one can cut trees in those forests, which, if not implemented, will destroy the best of them”. Necessity and benefits outweighed commoners’ fear of justice: “in my absence, the neighbours and residents of that land have cut [a large] quantity of [wood] to make barrels as well as using it for other needs”.115 Criminal activities also harmed the forests. Bandits—linked to and protected by the lower nobility—116 endangered the roads and threatened not

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 171 only domestic trade but also the Catalan part of the silver route that connected Seville with Genoa. The Crown took drastic measures such as ordering that “all forests be cut down and burned (…) within 50 steps on both sides of the royal road”.117 Agriculture also needed new land at the expense of woodlands. The people in charge of supplying wood—via the Ebro River from the neighbouring kingdom of Aragon—warned of the damage that peasants were causing to the forests: Just to make one piece of arable land [artiga] where you can harvest six or seven wheat roots, they will burn 10 or 15,000 timbers, the least of which is worth more than all the wheat. And the worst thing is that these lands are useless for sowing for more than a year. And it is known that in all of Spain, the forests are coming to an end, that they are no longer found even for regular use. It would be beneficial to order that [forests] not be exploited superfluously so that the shipyards can be supplied.118 As we can see, not only incessant pressure from the growing machinery of the fiscal-military State but also other economic activities and ­industries—both legal and illegal—urban and rural, gave the forests no respite. In 16th-century Catalonia, the main countermeasure adopted to compensate for forest predation was the establishment of the office of the conservator, which proved to be a failure. Comallonga, the only person appointed to hold the position, only served for two years. As the Council of War warned in 1587: “because there is no person to assist in the conservation [of woodlands], not only are they not replanted but forests that were already in such a condition that in a few years they will no longer be of use are still being cut down and depleted”.119 Even though it is true that some plantings were made, they were insufficient because they lacked continuity.120 The Crown accordingly took other steps to reverse the situation, and a broad range of proposals was put forward to maximise reserves and yields of cut timber. We will mention some of them. Stating that “the cost of the wood to build Your Majesty’s galleys is usually infinite”, an Italian official urged the king to imitate the Ottoman model and to employ slaves to work in the forests and at the shipyards to reduce costs.121 In the instructions given to his brother when he appointed him Captain-General, Philip II specified that the chusma (galley-slaves and convicts) should be treated well, and except for rowing, they were not be employed in any other task “as it could be at the shipyards and wood cutting”. They had to be in the best possible shape to row for the galleys to be operational.122 In 1576, the Crown revoked the old privilege that shipyard workers enjoyed regarding wood chips. Galley-builders were allowed to take the chips produced after carving the timber in the arsenal, which they sold or

172  A. J. Aguilera-López used at home. Wood chips were employed for many purposes, especially as fuel for the city’s ovens. Apothecaries appreciated high-quality wood chips for their remedies and medicines as well. To compensate for their backlog and low wages, shipyard workers engaged in fraudulent practices: “workers spent most of the day shredding timber without any respect concerning the duty they had for working for Your Majesty (…), and in doing so, they were destroying a lot of good wood”.123 The irregularity in the remittances sent by the Crown usually led to wood being left to rot in the forests, as there was insufficient money to pay for transportation. The Crown sought to privatise the harvesting of timber. An asiento (contract) was entered into with Jerónimo Urpín for the cutting and transport of wood. The experiment failed. Urpín breached his part of the contract, and money had to be invested in bringing the timber very late and in poor condition.124 Concerning forest labour, galley-builder Mestre proposed creating the position of “foreman of the woodcutters” to ensure expertise and knowledge when proceeding with forest labour to avoid cutting down unsuitable trees and doing unnecessary damage to the forests.125 An attempt was also made to regulate activity in private forests.126

6.6  Conclusion: a task for the next generations The Monarchy deployed a broad range of strategies to rationalise exploitation, regeneration, and forest conservation for shipbuilding in Catalonia. However, most failed because they were not executed properly or continued for long enough. The constant lack of financial means, manpower, control and planning limited any positive impact that different forestry strategies might have had on Catalonia throughout the reign of King Philip II. These words attributed to him are not surprising: “One thing I wish to see done is the conservation of the forests and their increase, which is much needed (…); I fear that those who come after us will have much to complain of because we leave them depleted; and please God that we do not see it in our time”.127 The problem and fear of deforestation and the increased cost of shipbuilding in Catalonia was part of the legacy handed down by the king to his successors. In 1599, Philip III tried to put some order in the Royal Shipyard by paying its many debts, restructuring its administration, and reorganising its operation.128 The new king appointed a new foreman of the shipwrights (vacant since 1594) and transferred most of the oarmakers and many foreign shipbuilders to the shipyard of Naples. With a renewed interest in the Mediterranean front, Philip III ordered the construction of many new galleys in Barcelona. However, he was advised against by the royal officials, who claimed that “the forests of this Principality are too depleted to extract more wood for new commissions (…), and this must be redressed without delay; otherwise no galley could be built soon”.129 It would not be until 1606 that a new commissioner of plantings and conservator of the forest was appointed. Pere de Montagut i Vallgornera, a

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 173 military man working (entretenido) in the shipyard, was chosen to replace Comallonga. Since “the farmers (…) neglect to plant the trees to which they are obliged”, Montagut was assigned the task “twice a year (…), during December, January, July and August, of visiting the forests and plantings” and supervising, recording and encouraging planting, with powers to “admonish and persuade on our behalf”. Montagut would receive 35 escudos a month and would finance the plantings with funds from Castile or out of the budget allocated to the arsenal.130 Philip III ordered that the revenues from the Three Graces131 in Catalonia should be used to finance the galley factory, “and for no cause or necessity howsoever grave and urgent” could they be used for other purposes.132 Despite the monarch’s interest in amending the matter by re-incentivising and financing the plantings, the situation did not seem to improve. In 1609, the Council of War reported with alarm that “[trees] are being destroyed by their owners’ own will, and it is known that they are taking measures to render useless trees that could be used for the said factory, by boring and twisting them when small so that they can only be worthy for firewood”, from which they made more profit. This was mainly because the administration had “paid so poorly for the timber taken from them in the past and they were still owed a great deal of money”.133 The situation remained unresolved throughout the 17th century.134 Nevertheless, at least from a military naval point of view, the pressure on the Catalan forests was massively reduced due to the progressive decrease in the demand for galleys built in Barcelona. Although throughout the 1500s, commissions for 40 and 50 galleys to be constructed in one or two years were not rare, in the 1600s, the Crown barely reached that figure in the entire century.135 Galleys continued to operate with proven effectiveness in the Mediterranean throughout the 17th century. Yet, they gradually lost their once indisputable strategic and military value giving way to other vessels, so demand slowly declined.136 In addition, the political and social instability that Catalonia experienced, as well as the difficulties in the provision and cost of both materials and labour, caused the Royal Shipyard of Barcelona to lose that role as an important naval base that it enjoyed during the age of Lepanto. Fear of wood scarcity has tended to be seen in two opposite ways: as “imagined”, simply as the projection of fears of the demands of social antagonists, and as a “real” danger, universal and catastrophic in nature.137 In the specific case of 16th-century Catalonia, there is a combination of both tendencies. Fear was real and imaginary. Uncontrolled overexploitation of some forests greatly increased the cost and logistical difficulty of galley construction. The Monarchy used that genuine fear of running out of naval timber to imagine a catastrophic scenario, thus creating political and social alarm to justify its monopoly and exclusive rights over forest resources in certain areas.

174  A. J. Aguilera-López Scarcity, increasing costs and fear prompted the Crown to try to rationalise and hog the exploitation of forest resources—resources demanded by all sectors of an expanding society. The scope and effectiveness of these measures were limited by the constant lack of financial means and insufficient royal power to ensure the continuity of the different strategies conceived. Some of their policies had the opposite outcome to that desired. Even when it was not in a financial position to do so, the imperious need to build new galleys meant that precious timber was frequently wasted, and abuses were committed against population and tree owners. Villagers forced to work in exchange for little or no compensation were not only uncooperative but also sabotaged or used the wood for more lucrative purposes. The exploration and acquisition of new forests were the immediate, but by no means definitive, alternatives for which the Monarchy most frequently opted. Nevertheless, documentary evidence reveals that those abundant new forests showed severe signs of depletion just one generation later.138 Monarchs and ministers knew securing suitable wood for shipbuilding required time and care. Nature continued to offer wood but neither enough nor the most suitable kind for shipbuilding. Sturdy trees appropriate for shipbuilding were also used or destroyed by other economic sectors. Forestry legislation and regulation were good but insufficient tools for reversing the situation. Massive plantings were the most effective course of action to satisfy the demand for naval timber. As planting policies were inconsistent, it is not surprising that alarmism and fear that wood would run out were constant among shipwrights, royal officials, viceroys, ministers and kings. Although the Crown and the military shipbuilding industry did not have the desired success in executing their silvicultural plans in the Catalan forests, they were pioneers in trying to create mechanisms for rationalising and monopolising the use of these resources that were abundant in those lands, but by no means infinite.

Notes 1 Archivo de la Corona de Aragón (ACA), Generalitat (G), Correspondencia del virrey Conde de Santa Coloma (CCSC), n. 4,020. Research for this chapter was made possible by the trust and funds provided by the Finnish Cultural Foundation and its Harry Hendusen Grant and by the Eino Jutikkala Fund of the Finnish Academy of Science and Letters. I am grateful to my colleagues at the Research Seminar at the University of Helsinki and the volume’s editors for their comments and feedback on this chapter. 2 Iglésies (2002, 231). 3 Feliu (2004). 4 García Espuche (1998). Through extensive research, the author, in his Un siglo decisivo. Barcelona y Cataluña, 1550–1640, questions the decadent scenario that an influential part of historiography has traditionally portrayed for 16thand 17th-century Catalonia, a period that has repeatedly been described as “the

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 175 dark centuries”. For that reason, the author—in clear opposition to this “dark” vision—refers to the period as “decisive”. On this subject, see the book’s first chapter, 13–24. On the decentralisation of seamanship, 89–107. 5 Braudel (1995); Williams (2014); Tabakoğlu (2019). 6 Parker (1996); Olesa Muñido (1971); Guilmartin (2003); Casado Soto (2012); Eliav (2013); Fondevila Silva (2018); Cossart (2021). 7 Hess (1978); Davis (2003); Bunes Ibarra (2011); Hershenzon (2018); Velasco Hernández (2019). 8 Thompson (1976); Glete (1993). 9 Lane (1973); Goodman (1988); Appuhn (2009); Imber (2010, 1–101); Lazzarini (2021). 10 Appuhn (2000, 864). 11 Aragón Ruano (2001, 63). 12 Warde (2006b, 39–41). 13 Appuhn (2000, 864–865). 14 Kirk (2005). 15 Casals (2000, 144, 162–164, 168). 16 Aguilera-López and Chamorro Esteban (2022). 17 Reglà (1969). 18 Maréchaux (2017); Casals (2000, 290). 19 Odriozola Oyarbide (1998, 137–138). 20 Iglésies (2002, 229). 21 Mal Lara (1876, 15). 22 Bunes Ibarra (2004). 23 Isom-Verhaaren (2011). 24 Corpus Documental de Carlos V (CDCV), vol. 3, 385. 25 Archivo General de Simancas (AGS), Guerra y Marina (GyM), leg. 47, f. 124; AGS, GyM, leg. 52, f. 139 and 143; AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 76; AGS, Estado (EST), leg. 332, f. 189; AGS, Contaduría Mayor de Cuentas (CMC), Primera Época (1EP), leg. 1375, s. f. 26 CDCV, vol. 3447; AGS, GyM, leg. 53, f. 108; AGS, CMC, 1EP, leg. 1.375, s. f. 27 AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 49. 28 Although the ground plan does not appear signed or dated, the calligraphy and other sources allow us to attribute the authorship of the design to Calvi without almost any doubt and date to it around 1552 and 1555. The same conclusion was reached by Martínez Latorre (2006, 214–215). 29 Martínez Latorre (2006, 212–219). 30 Moreno Expósito and Pujol i Hamelink (2015, 182). 31 AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 79. 32 Moreno Expósito and Pujol i Hamelink (2015, 181–198). 33 “A possible solution for this is to order that no galley could be handed over from Barcelona to any captain until the six of Tortosa had been given”. AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 77. 34 AGS, GyM, leg. 246, f. 281. 35 AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 182. 36 AGS, CMC, 1EP, leg. 1375. 37 Warde (2006a). 38 CDCV, vol. 3, 318. 39 Mainly the Vallès region and the mountain chains of Collserola, Marina, Corredor and Montnegre. 40 AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 77. 41 AGS, GyM, leg. 47, f. 38. 42 “Under penalty of 1,000 ducats and loss of the ship and the timber”. AGS, GyM, leg. 953, s. f.

176  A. J. Aguilera-López 43 44 45 46 47

AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 115. AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 115. Goodman (1997, 70). Martínez-González (2015, 37–77). Goodman (1997); Gil Sánchez et al. (2005); Martínez-González (2015); Wing (2015); Ruiz García (2018); Chamorro Esteban (2019). 48 Árboles de galera referring to galley masts. It is also common árboles y entenas and juegos de árboles de galera, referring to masts, yards and spars. 49 AGS, GyM, leg. 59, f. 115. 50 AGS, GyM, leg. 249, f. 241. 51 AGS, GyM, leg. 47, f. 38. 52 Warde (2011, 159). 53 Warde (2006b, 2018). 54 Warde (2006b, 43). 55 Goodman (1988, 1997); Aragón Ruano (2001, 2015); Warde (2006a); Dursun (2007); Appuhn (2009); Martínez-González (2015); Wing (2015); Falkowski (2017); Trapaga-Monchet (2017); Labrador-Arroyo & Trapaga-Monchet (2018). 56 Barbero (2010). 57 Imber (2010, 85–101). 58 Colección de documentos inéditos para la historia de España (CODOIN), vol. 3, 286. 59 AGS, GyM, leg. 47, f. 38. 60 “[Woodlands] come to be greatly diminished and destroyed and inevitably over time and if the construction of galleys continues as it does, there will be no (…) wood to use, in such remarkable damage and torment of all these kingdoms of Spain”, AGS, GyM, leg. 1.088, s. f. 61 Doing things on time “will prevent harm to Your Majesty’s vassals”, AGS, GyM, leg. 354, f. 27. 62 García Hernán and García Hernán (1999); Thompson (2020b). 63 CODOIN, vol. 29, 311–312. 64 AGS, EST, leg. 449, s. f. Also, in Thompson (2020b, 126). 65 Rodríguez Salgado (2004). 66 Maréchaux (2020). 67 AGS, GyM, leg. 190, f. 510. 68 Fonseca (2013); Díaz Blanco (2014); Thompson (2020a). 69 AGS, GyM, leg. 339, f. 79. Also, in Martínez-González (2015, 123–124). 70 AGS, GyM, leg. 166, f. 5. 71 ACA, Cancillería (C), reg. 4,217, f. 105v. 72 Aguilera-López (2021). 73 Aguilera-López (2021). 74 “All [forest tasks] could be performed in these six months, without the peasants complaining or grumbling about not being allowed to do the chores of their lands before, by making them busy at this time Your Majesty will do them a lot of good and [no] bad”, AGS, GyM, leg. 195, f. 136. 75 AGS, GyM, leg. 339, f. 79. 76 Dietari de la Generalitat de Catalunya (DGC), vol. 3, 171. 77 AGS, GyM, leg. 190, f. 510. 78 AGS, GyM, leg. 202, f. 27. 79 One cana is equivalent to 1,555 metres. 80 AGS, GyM, leg. 339, f. 79. 81 It is not specified which league is used: one Catalan league is equivalent to 6,717.6 metres; one Castilian league is equivalent to 4,190 metres; while one common league is equivalent to 5,572.7 metres.

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 177 82 AGS, GyM, leg. 339, f. 79. 83 AGS, GyM, leg. 81, f. 315. 84 Chamorro Esteban (2018). 85 AGS, GyM, leg. 213, f. 376. 86 AGS, GyM, leg. 208, f. 251. 87 AGS, GyM, leg. 213, f. 375. 88 AGS, GyM, leg. 202, f. 27. 89 AGS, GyM, leg. 220, f. 211. 90 AGS, GyM, leg. 419, f. 416. 91 AGS, GyM, leg. 220, f. 212. 92 Dietari de l’Antich Consell Barceloní (DACB), vol. 5, 477–478. 93 AGS, GyM, leg. 399, f. 78. 94 AGS, GyM, leg. 264, f. 230. 95 AGS, GyM, leg. 227, f. 148. 96 ACA, Real Patrimonio (RP), Bailía General de Cataluña (BGC), Procesos, 1563–1564, n. 2, S. 97 AGS, GyM, leg. 344, f. 259. 98 AGS, GyM, leg. 249, f. 241. 99 AGS, GyM, leg. 220, f. 209. 100 AGS, GyM, leg. 249, f. 241. 101 AGS, GyM, leg. 78, f. 40. 102 AGS, GyM, leg. 246, f. 281. The map is used by Goodman (1988, 94–95); Wing (2015, 79–82). 103 AGS, GyM, leg. 246, f. 281. 104 AGS, GyM, leg. 373, f. 125. 105 AGS, GyM, leg. 220, ff. 106, 107, 126, 209. 106 Authors who have examined this exact topic, such as Goodman, Gil Sánchez and Martínez-González, have to a greater or lesser extent, confused or mixed Falgós and Cabrenç with the relatively close locations and certainly similar Falgons and Cabrenys. This error is induced by how Diego de Prado himself, a native of Leon, spelled the name of forests and places he visited. 107 Salvanera Forest—in La Garrotxa—was bought in the time of Hernando de Toledo for 3,000 ducats. AGS, GyM, leg. 81, f. 246. 108 AGS, GyM, leg. 373, f. 126. 109 Artilleryman, cartographer, sailor and playwright, who between 1605 and 1607 participated in an expedition through the Pacific Ocean and is considered the first European to sight Australia—north coast of the Cape York peninsula— although without stepping on land. Stevens and Barwick (1930). 110 See note 81. 111 AGS, GyM, leg. 388, f. 173. Also—as well as the map—in Goodman (1997, 98–99); Gil Sánchez et al. (2005, 137); Martínez-González (2015, 132). 112 AGS, GyM, leg. 3,146, s. f. 113 Goodman (1997, 97–103). 114 AGS, GyM, leg. 373, f. 126; AGS, GyM, leg. 388, f. 173. 115 AGS, GyM, leg. 88, f. 56. 116 Torres (1993). 117 Reglà (2000, 150–151). 118 Biblioteca Nacional de España (BNE), Ms. 784, ff. 216r–217v, 223r. 119 AGS, GyM, leg. 209, f. 125. 120 “We have arranged a planting of white poplars, elms, ash and black poplars (Populus nigra) [on the] bank of the Llobregat River, which is a league and less from Barcelona, where 40 or 50,000 of them can be placed. And this year, 4,000 have been planted”. “Please issue orders for money to be

178  A. J. Aguilera-López ­ rovided so that this September, we can plant a good amount of them so p that within eight or ten years, they will be ready to use”. AGS, GyM, leg. 425, f. 124. 121 AGS, EST, leg. 445, f. 69. 122 CODOIN, vol. 3, 315. 123 AGS, GyM, leg. 182, f. 33. 124 Justice seized Urpín’s properties to compensate the king for the loss. AGS, GyM, leg. 252, f. 211; AGS, GyM, leg. 290, f. 235; AGS, GyM, leg. 322, f. 157. 125 AGS, GyM, leg. 538, f. 45. 126 ACA, Consejo de Aragón (CA), leg. 270, n. 63. 127 Valladares de Sotomayor (1790, 7). 128 AGS, GyM, leg. 564, f. 121. 129 Bunes Ibarra (2021); AGS, GyM, leg. 564, f. 118. 130 AGS, GyM, leg. 1,088, s. f. Also, in Martínez-González (2015, 136–138). 131 They were ecclesiastical taxes called Crusade, Subsidy and Excused, jointly known as Three Graces. They were a concession made by the popes to the Spanish kings to finance their wars against infidels and heretics. Thompson (1976, 80–93). 132 AGS, GyM, leg. 579, f. 487. 133 AGS, GyM, leg. 3,146, s. f. Also, in Goodman (1997, 100); Martínez-González (2015, 139). 134 Goodman (1997, 100–108); Martínez-González (2015, 140–163); Wing (2015, 120–164); Chamorro Esteban (2019, 381–390). 135 Chamorro Esteban (2018). 136 Goodman (1997); Thompson (2020b, 140–146). 137 Warde (2006b, 31–32). 138 AGS, GyM, leg. 953, s. f.

Bibliography Aguilera-López, A.J. (2021). “Riberas enfrentadas: catalanes y genoveses, maestros mayores de las Atarazanas Reales de Barcelona (1558–1599)”, in C. Borreguero Beltrán et al. (eds.), A la sombra de las Catedrales: Cultura, Poder y Guerra en la Edad Moderna, Burgos: Universidad de Burgos, 1821–1840. Aguilera-López, A.J. and Chamorro Esteban, A. (2022). Las Reales Atarazanas de Barcelona en la Edad Moderna: La gran fábrica de galeras de la Monarquía hispánica (siglos XVI–XVIII), Barcelona: Museu Marítim de Barcelona. Appuhn, K. (2000). “Inventing Nature: Forests, Forestry, and State Power in Renaissance Venice”, The Journal of Modern History, 72, 861–889. (2009). A Forest on the Sea: Environmental Expertise in Renaissance Venice, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Aragón Ruano, A. (2001). El bosque guipuzcoano en la Edad Moderna: aprovechamiento, ordenamiento legal y conflictividad, Aranzadi Zientzi Elkartea: Donostia-San Sebastián. (2015). “Comercio, transporte y conflictividad en la frontera entre Guipúzcoa y Navarra durante la primera mitad del siglo XVI”, Boletín de estudios históricos sobre San Sebastián, 48, 19–55. Barbero, A. (2010). Lepanto. La battaglia dei tre imperi, Bari: Editore Laterza. Braudel, F. (1995). The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, 2 vols., Berkeley, CA-Los Angeles, CA-London: University of California Press.

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 179 Bunes Ibarra, M.Á. de (2004). Los Barbarroja: corsarios del Mediterráneo, Madrid: Aldebarán. (2011). “Bases y logística del corso berberisco”, in La expulsión de los moriscos y la actividad de los corsarios norteafricanos. Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa, 83–102. https://armada.defensa.gob.es/archivo/mardigitalrevistas/ cuadernosihcn/61cuaderno/CM61.pdf (2021). Políticas de Felipe III en el Mediterráneo, 1598–1621, Madrid: Polifemo. Casado Soto, J.L. (2012). “Política naval y tecnología en el mundo mediterráneo”, in H. O’Donnell y Duque de Estrada (ed.), Edad Moderna, vol. I. Ultramar y la Marina, Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa, 283–313. Casals, À. (2000). L’Emperador i els catalanas. Catalunya a l’Imperi de Carles V (1516–1543), Granollers: Editorial Granollers. Chamorro Esteban, A. (2018). “Las atarazanas de Barcelona: fábrica de galeras de la Monarquía (1599–1748)”, Pedralbes, 38, 87–113. (2019). “Bosques y galeras: la explotación maderera para la construcción naval en las Atarazanas de Barcelona (1573–1746)”, Tiempos Modernos, Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9/39, 374–395. Cossart, B. (2021). Les Artilleurs et la Monarchie hispanique (1560–1610). Guerre, savoirs techniques, État, Paris: Classiques Garnier. Davis, R.C. (2003). Christian Slaves, Muslim Masters: White Slavery in the Mediterranean, the Barbary Coast and Italy, 1500–1800, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Díaz Blanco, J.M. (2014). “Una armada de galeras para la Carrera de Indias: el Mediterráneo y el comercio colonial en tiempos de Felipe II”, Revista de Indias, 262, 661–692. Dursun, S. (2007). “Forest and the State:  History of Forestry and Forest Administration in the Ottoman Empire”. PhD diss., Sabancı University. Eliav, J. (2013). “Tactics of Sixteenth-century Galley Artillery”, The Mariner’s Mirror, 99/4, 398–409. Falkowski, M. (2017). “Fear and Abundance: Reshaping of Royal Forests in Sixteenth-Century Poland and Lithuania”, Environmental History, 22/4, 618–642. Feliu, G. (2004). “La crisis catalana de la Baja Edad Media: Estado de la cuestión”, Hispania, 217, 435–466. Fondevila Silva, P. (2018). “Evolución y análisis de las galeras de los reinos peninsulares (Siglos XII–XVIII). Construcción, dotación, armamento, aparejos y táctica”. PhD diss., Universidad de Murcia. Fonseca, L. (2013). “Guerra e navegação a remos no mar oceano: as galés na política naval hispânica (1550–1604)”. PhD diss., Universidade de Lisboa. García Espuche, A. (1998). Un siglo decisivo. Barcelona y Cataluña, 1550–1640, Madrid: Alianza. García Hernán, D. and García Hernán, E. (1999). Lepanto, el día después, Madrid: Actas. Gil Sánchez, L., Casals Costa, V., Pardo Navarro, F., Xalabarder Arlet, M. and Postigo Mijarra, J.M. (2005). La transformación histórica del paisaje forestal en Cataluña, Madrid: Ministerio de Medio Ambiente. Glete, J. (1993). Navies and Nations: Warships, Navies and State Building in Europe and America, 1500–1860, Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell International.

180  A. J. Aguilera-López Goodman, D.C. (1988). Power and Penury: Government, Technology and Science in Philip II’s Spain, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (1997). Spanish Naval Power, 1589–1665. Reconstruction and Defeat, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Guilmartin, J.F. (2003). Gunpowder and Galleys: Changing Technology and Mediterranean Warfare at the Sea in the Sixteenth Century, London: Conway Maritime Press. Hershenzon, D. (2018). The Captive Sea: Slavery, Communication, and Commerce in Early Modern Spain and the Mediterranean, Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Hess, A.C. (1978). The Forgotten Frontier. A History of the Sixteenth-Century Ibero-African Frontier, Chicago-London: The University Chicago Press. Iglésies, J. (2002). Pere Gil, S. I. (1551–1622) i la seva Geografia de Catalunya. Seguit de la transcripció del Libre primer de la historia Cathalana en los qual se tracta de historia o descripció natural, ço es de cosas naturals de Cathaluña, Barcelona: Societat Catalana de Geografia. Imber, C. (2010). Studies in Ottoman History and Law, Istanbul: Isis Press. Isom-Verhaaren, C. (2011). Allies with the Infidel: The Ottoman and French. Alliance in the Sixteenth Century, London-New York: I. B. Tauris. Kirk, T.A. (2005). Genoa and the Sea: Policy and Power in an Early Modern Maritime Republic, 1559–1684, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Labrador-Arroyo, F. and Trapaga-Monchet, K. (2018). “Forestry, Territorial Organization, and Military Struggle in the Early Modern Spanish Monarchy”, Environmental History, 23/2, 318–341. Lane, F.C. (1973). Venetian Ships and Shipbuilders of the Renaissance, Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press. Lazzarini, A. (2021). Boschi, legnami, costruzioni navali: L’Arsenale di Venezia fra XVI e XVIII secolo, Rome: Viella. Mal Lara, J. (1876). Descripción de la Galera Real del Serenísimo Señor Don Juan de Austria, vol. 1, Sevilla: Sociedad de Bibliófilos Andaluces. Maréchaux, B. (2017). “Instituciones navales y finanzas internacionales en el Mediterráneo de la época moderna: Los asentistas de galeras genoveses al servicio de la Monarquía Hispánica (1500–1650)”. PhD diss., Universidad Carlos III de Madrid. (2020). “Los asentistas de galeras genoveses y la articulación naval de un imperio policéntrico (siglos XVI–XVII)”, Hispania, 264, 47–77. Martínez Latorre, D. (2006). Giovan Battista Calvi: Ingeniero de las fortificaciones de Carlos V y Felipe II (1552–1565), Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa. Martínez-González, A.J. (2015). Las superintendencias de montes y plantíos (1574–1748): derecho y política forestal para las armadas en la Edad Moderna, Valencia: Tirant lo Blanch. Moreno Expósito, I. and Pujol i Hamelink, M. (2015). “Arqueologia a la Drassana: l’evolució de l’edifici quan s’hi construïen galeres”, in Tribuna d’Arqueologia 2012–2013, Barcelona: Generalitat de Catalunya, 181–198. http://calaix.gencat. cat/handle/10687/123243#page=1 Odriozola Oyarbide, L. (1998). “La construcción naval en Guipúzcoa. Siglos XVI–XVIII”, Itsas Memoria. Revista de Estudios Navales del País Vasco, 2, 93–146.

“In all this kingdom there is no timber” 181 Olesa Muñido, F.F. (1971). La galera en la navegación y el combate, 2 vols, Madrid: Junta Ejecutiva del IV Centenario de la Batalla de Lepanto. Parker, G. (1996). The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500–1800, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reglà, J. (1969). Bandolers, pirates i hugonots a la Catalunya del segle XVI, Barcelona: Selecta. (2000). Felipe II y Cataluña, Madrid: Sociedad Estatal para la Conmemoración de los Centenarios de Felipe II y Carlos V. Rodríguez Salgado, M.J. (2004). Felipe II, el “Paladín de la Cristiandad” y la paz con el Turco, Valladolid: Universidad de Valladolid. Ruiz García. V. (2018). “Maderas de Cataluña para la marina de la ilustración. Fuentes para el estudio de los bosques catalanes y su relación con la construcción naval en el siglo XVIII”, Brocar, 42, 97–123. Stevens, H.N. and Barwick, G.F. (1930). New Light on the Discovery of Australia as Revealed by the Journal of Captain Don Diego de Prado y Tovar, London: Stevens & Stiles. Tabakoğlu, H.S. (2019). Akdeniz’de Savaş: Osmanlı İspanya Mücadelesi, Istanbul: Kronik Kitap. Thompson, I.A.A. (1976). War and Government in Hapsburg Spain, 1560–1620, London: The Athlone Press. (2020a). “Gibraltar and the Defence of the Strait in the Early-Seventeenth Century”, in I.A.A. Thompson (ed.), The Military Revolution and the Trajectory of Spain: War, State, and Society 1500–1700. Ten Studies, London: Paragon Publishing, 147–168. (2020b). “The Galley in Sixteenth-Century Spanish Mediterranean Warfare”, in I.A.A. Thompson (ed.), The Military Revolution and the Trajectory of Spain: War, State, and Society 1500–1700. Ten Studies, London: Paragon Publishing, 113–146. Torres, X. (1993). Nyerros i cadells: bàndols i bandolerisme a la Catalunya moderna (1590–1640), Barcelona: Reial Acadèmia de Bones Lletres & Quaderns crema. Trapaga-Monchet, K. (2017). “El estudio de los bosques reales de Portugal a través de la legislación forestal en las dinastías Avis, Habsburgo y Braganza (ca. 1435–1650)”, Philostrato, 1, 5–27. Valladares de Sotomayor, A. (1790). Semanario erudito, que comprehende varias obras inéditas, criticas morales, instructivas, políticas, históricas, satíricas, y jocosas de nuestros mejores autores Antiguos y Modernos, vol. 25, Madrid: Espinosa. Velasco Hernández, F. (2019). Corsarismo, piratería y guerra costera en el Sureste español: el acoso turco berberisco a las costas de Alicante, Murcia y Almería en los siglos XVI y XVII, Murcia: Ediciones Nova Spartaria. Warde, P. (2006a). Ecology, Economy and State Formation in early Modern Germany, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (2006b). “Fear of Wood Shortage and the Reality of the Woodland in Europe, c. 1450–1850”, History Workshop Journal, 62, 28–57. (2011). “The Invention of Sustainability”, Modern Intellectual History, 8, 153–170. (2018). The Invention of Sustainability: nature and destiny, c. 1500–1870, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

182  A. J. Aguilera-López Williams, P. (2014). Empire and Holy War in the Mediterranean: The Galley and Maritime Conflict between the Habsburgs and Ottomans, London; New York: I. B. Tauris. Wing, J.T. (2015). Roots of Empire: Forests and State Power in Early Modern Spain, c.1500–1750, Leiden: Brill.

7

“A destruction that preserves” Maritime warfare, empirical forestry and sustainability in Portugal (13th–17th centuries)1 Koldo Trapaga-Monchet

Universidad Rey Juan Carlos, [email protected] 7.1 Introduction The statement “a destruction that preserves” comes from Irene Vallejo’s analysis of how the destruction of Herculaneum by a volcanic eruption has permitted the conservation of a unique library of the Roman Empire.2 A destructive action had a long-lasting preservative impact. The same principle can be applied to shipbuilding in Early Modern Portugal, contrary to what scholars have mainly argued.3 The Portuguese Crown issued and enforced forest policies to meet the demand for timber for merchant vessels and warships. These ships required very specific timbers: homegrown sturdy timber located near watercourses to ensure economical and quick transportation. In the shipyards of Lisbon Pinus pinea, Pinus pinaster and Quercus suber were mainly used.4 Pines required around 60–80 years of growth before turning into sturdy timber for shipbuilding, 5 and cork oaks even longer.6 These trees required planning ahead,7 as average life expectancy was in the region of 25–30 years. Consequently, this chapter addresses Portuguese State (Crown) policies from the 13th to the 17th century on the royal forests and on the woodlands of the kingdom. The Crown could not implement these policies without engaging the empirical forestry know-how possessed by the local inhabitants, which led to a sustainable empirical forestry. The chapter begins by looking at the origins of forest policies in the royal forests from 1280 to 1550, and then goes on to address the forest policies pursued from 1494 to 1650 to preserve the existing woodlands of Portugal, and to conduct new plantings. Although some shipbuilding policies are tackled in this section, the fourth section examines in depth the State (Crown) policies on the Portuguese woodlands from the mid-15th century to 1640. The last section of the chapter sheds new light on the forest policies adopted from 1580 to 1700 for the royal pinewoods using the analytical framework of James Scott.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-8

184  K. Trapaga-Monchet

7.2  Forest policies for the royal forest (1280–1550) The earliest references to Portuguese Crown policies date from the late 13th century. In 1280, King Dinis I (1279–1325) gave orders for the outer limits of the royal forest of Botão, located near Coimbra, to be marked out due to the conflicts that had arisen with the Monastery of Lorvão. The King enlisted the know-how of the local elders to demarcate its boundaries,8 even though the Crown had 12 foresters to protect the royal forest.9 Throughout the 14th century, the Crown continued to increase the royal forests throughout Portugal, especially to ensure hunting grounds.10 This measure was directly related to the political culture of the Late Middle Ages when the physical presence of the monarch among the vassals was regarded as good government. Hunting in the Late Middle Ages and Early Modern Portugal was a key activity that permitted policy-making, as well as the reproduction of the socio-political order.11 At the same time, throughout the 14th and 15th centuries, the mobility of the royal family as a political and cultural entity underwent significant transformations. As the royal family settled in Lisbon, this mobility was replaced by the establishment of administrative structures to maintain the Crown’s power on the ground.12 From the early 14th century onwards, the Crown made increasing attempts to regulate the uses of woodlands.13 In 1320, the Crown passed a law on the conservation of the cork oaks (Quercus suber) and holm oaks (Quercus ilex) located in Campo de Ourique and Santiago do Cacém. What was at stake here was the lordship of the woodlands, not their survival.14 In the early 1400s, legislation began to distinguish between the actions of poaching, and the use of forests for wood and firewood.15 In 1435, regulations were drafted on the monteiro-mor (head of the department of hunting of the Portuguese royal household), the officer in charge of conserving the royal forests in Portugal. The law detailed the related duties, rights and forbidden activities, paying special attention to poaching.16 Around this time, the so-called old royal forests (coutada velha) reached their largest extension, encompassing a huge range of landscapes with different land tenure systems.17 During the following decades, several laws were passed on the royal forests of Santarém, Alenquer, Óbidos and Autoguia, Muge, and Sintra. They largely addressed issues related to poaching, as well as the protection of the ecosystems of game animals, and to a lesser extent cutting down or removing bark from trees for firewood, charcoal or cork, and even fishing or contaminating watercourses.18 During Manuel I’s reign (1494–1521), royal power was strengthened, including with respect to the management of royal forests, at a time when, paradoxically, several royal forests were disbanded. In 1517 and 1521, the forest codes of the royal forests of Santarém and Óbidos were drafted.19 According to the claims stated in the preambles, the Crown aimed to unify all the legislation that had been made, as well as to improve their conservation mainly for hunting. Neither of them mentioned shortages of wood

“A destruction that preserves” 185 or the decline of hunting grounds due to overexploitation caused by charcoal, firewood, grazing or livestock. These laws largely regulated forest and woodland uses and confirmed the existence of an administrative network composed of nearly a hundred foresters and judges to enforce the legislation. 20 Under João III (1521–1557), steps were taken towards preserving the royal forests and the kingdom’s woodlands, though hardly any policies were adopted with respect to new plantings. In 1524, regulations were drafted for the main forester (guarda-mor) of the Leiria pinewoods, which will be examined in depth in due course.

7.3 Forest policies for the Portuguese woodlands (1494–1650) Concerning the kingdom’s woodlands, regulations were passed in 1494 whereby each inhabitant of Portugal was allocated a number of trees to be planted within four years. Neither the number nor the tree species in question are known because there is no surviving record of the law. Implementing these regulations raised a number of technical issues, as they did not take into account soil quality, and the given time (four years) was quite short. In January 1498, the inhabitants of Alandroal complained about its enforcement. In December 1499, the Crown extended the term for another year and relieved the inhabitants of Alandroal of the obligation to plant the tree species specified in 1494. 21 Devy Vareta has provided further insights into its inefficient enforcement, as in 1501 the inhabitants of Penamacor were forgiven for not planting the number allocated. It is very likely that the law was abolished because it was not included in subsequent legislative compilations (Ordenações). 22 It is therefore very challenging to ascertain whether the municipalities implemented the regulations of 1494, as well as if the regulations were again issued during the following years or simply abolished, as Devy Vareta thought. It is known that during the following decades, new steps were taken to boost plantings. For instance, in October 1556, Manuel Negrão was appointed forester of the plantings carried out from Muge to Escaroupim, which were very likely the origins of the current National Pinewood of Escaroupim. He was invested with authority to penalise anyone bringing cattle into the pinewoods, as occurred in the old pinewoods of Virtudes. To ensure the conservation of the pinewoods, it was his duty to enforce the 1524 regulations of the main guard of the pinewoods of Leiria. 23 In October 1565, King Sebastião I (1565–1578) passed the law on trees (lei das árvores), which resulted from claims made at the Cortes of Lisbon (1562). According to scholars, its preamble painted a fair picture of Portuguese woodlands’ decline.24 The law claimed that there was a great shortage of wood and firewood because the woodlands were being stripped, cut down, and destroyed. The dwellers of Portugal were, thus,

186  K. Trapaga-Monchet lacking in wood for building, as well for bare essentials such as farming or firewood. The shortage also affected the war and merchant fleets. 25 In legal terms, the law was a breakthrough as it promoted active planting policies in baldios (communal lands), maninhos (lands for the common use of rural populations) and private properties all over Portugal. The Corregedores das comarcas (royal magistrates) and Ouvidores dos mestrados (ecclesiastical and clerical magistrates) were made responsible for ensuring that the municipalities allocated the plantings to local inhabitants, while the municipalities oversaw enforcing the plantings. 26 Moreover, the Crown prioritised the conservation of particular tree species, establishing a hierarchy relevant to royal affairs and policies (Table 7.1). 27 The pines ranked highest and, failing that, chestnuts and oaks, or whichever tree species was suitable to grow in those lands. As Devy Vareta pointed out, it is surprising there was no reference to cork oaks, 28 as the cork oak was one of the most important tree species used in Table 7.1  Legislation on plantings in Portugal Year

Law

1494 Title is unknown 1565 Law on trees

1603 Ordenações Filipinas 1618 Plantings of pines and cork oaks

1623 Notes on how to perform plantings 1633 Notes on how to perform plantings, and their conservation

Common scope

Comments

All the laws emphasised plantings to be carried out in each municipality. The king’s officers supervise plantings, which are done by local officers and inhabitants Plantings are to be recorded in the books of the municipalities

The original law is not extant Claims of wood and timber shortages Pines are the top-priority tree species It gathered laws that had been issued It established the obligation to distinguish between the lands suitable for plantings, and agriculture Cork oaks and pines are referred to as the main priority Holistic view: plantings must be done after taking into consideration the needs of local populations and the Crown Significant improvements in technical issues It is specified when (from October to February) and where (in margins or banks of navigable watercourses) to perform the plantings The oak became the main priority

Sources: Almeida (1870, vol. 1, 110, 148); Devy-Vareta (1986, 26–32); Devy-Vareta and Alves (2007, 63–64); Oliveira (1967, 464–485); Silva, Collecção of years 1613–1619 (1854–1855, 330) and Collecção of years 1620–1627 (1854–1855, 71, 92–93).

“A destruction that preserves” 187 shipbuilding. This absence might be explained by the existence of laws that pursued exclusively the preservation of the cork oaks. As for its enforcement, the law of 1565 seems to have met a similar fate to the regulations of 1494. During the 1560s and 1570s, several municipalities protested against its implementation. The Crown not only released the municipalities from the penalties laid down in the law but also permitted them to plant other tree species more suitable than those listed in it, provided that plantings were conducted. Oliveira proved that plantings were carried out in Coimbra in the late 1560s and early 1570s. 29 In 1573, the dwellers of Almeida (Guarda) were allowed to plant vineyards, fig trees and mulberry trees instead of the pines and other species stated in the law of 1565.30 In 1576, the residents of Algoso (Miranda) were granted permission to carry out plantings only in private lands of tree species suitable for their climate.31 In the last two cases, the Crown granted permission after inquiries were conducted by the Corregedor of Guarda and the Provedor of Miranda, respectively. Therefore, the legislation of 1494 and 1565 established the general framework, and its enforcement depended on the conditions of each municipality. It is very likely that the same occurred in Castile with the forest policies from the late 15th century onwards: the Crown aimed to play the leading role but powers to enforce the policies were transferred to the municipalities.32 The arrival of the Habsburgs in Portugal brought administrative modernisation. 33 In Devy Vareta’s view, the forest legislation issued from 1580 to 1605 was the backbone of subsequent legislation until the mid18th century. The most noteworthy laws were the tombo dos pinhais (1586), the regulations on the Leiria pinewoods (1597 and 1598), those of the monteiro-mor (1605), and the two laws on trees included in the Ordenações Filipinas of 1603. 34 The first law of the Ordenações (book 1 title 58, Chapter 46) stated that the Corregedores together with the local officials were to plant fruit trees (olive trees, vineyards and mulberry trees) according to the quality of the land, and they were hold responsible to monitor the plantings of pines performed by the vereadores as specified in title 66, Chapter 26 of the Ordenações (the second law).35 The vereadores were responsible for supervising the plantings of pines in montes baldios (communal woodlands) of the municipality. If pines were not appropriate, chestnuts, oaks and other species would be planted instead. Moreover, the vereadores would force private owners to plant trees in their lands.36 There is not a single mention of the purpose pursued by these laws, and they did not entail a breakthrough as they mainly reproduced the law of 1565. In July 1618, Philip III issued a royal order concerning plantings of pines and cork oaks in Portugal.37 It mentioned the two orders of the Ordenações, but it introduced an administrative innovation. The Corregedores were now duty bound to indicate, together with the local officials, not only the

188  K. Trapaga-Monchet areas suitable for plantings but also those for agriculture.38 In November, the monteiro-mor provided further information. According to him, the law pursued the future existence of pines and cork oaks for shipbuilding, because the Crown’s woodlands had declined rapidly over the past years.39 However, he was sceptical about technical issues, as there were no men alive who could assure whether it was better to perform the plantings in terras lavradias (arable lands) or in baldios. He was against planting trees in agricultural land (perhaps close to crops?), based on the experience of the policies enforced by the Crown of disbanding the royal forests in Ribatejo, and giving them to private individuals with the obligation of planting cork oaks and pines. The timber produced from cork oaks located in agricultural lands was of worse quality. Cork oaks grew better in land given over exclusively to plantings, such as the royal forests. If protected, the royal forests of Portugal contained enough small cork oaks (machieiros) to construct 100 naus (carracks). This would be achieved by keeping the royal forests, and not by transferring them to private individuals.40 In May 1622, the Corregedores of the Provinces (Comarcas) were again entrusted with selecting and demarcating lands where plantings were to be carried out.41 In 1623, the Crown issued another set of rules governing how the Corregedores were to perform the plantings, and this marked a significant innovation with respect to former forestry policies.42 Together with local officials and elders with agricultural expertise (empirical), they were to visit all the regions of Portugal to determine which areas were unsuitable for agriculture, and appropriate for plantings. Before making a decision concerning where to perform the plantings and of which tree species, the Corregedores needed to take into consideration the socio-economic needs of the local inhabitants (pasture for livestock, wood, and firewood). It was the first time that the Crown’s forest policies had adopted such a holistic approach, viewing the woodlands as spaces with multiple socio-economic uses.43 Although the law did not mention shipbuilding as a driving force behind its drafting, from at least the law of 1565 onwards this was the interest underlying the Crown’s efforts to protect Portuguese woodlands for shipbuilding.

7.4  Crown forest policies and shipbuilding (c. 1450–1640) 7.4.1 Forest policies for shipbuilding on a kingdom-wide scale (c. 1450–1580) Devy Vareta stated that by the mid-14th century, the woodlands of Portugal were already in decline, and the wood crisis became more acute during the ensuing century due to the country’s maritime expansion.44 However, when revisiting the historical documents used by the author, new details come to light. The first document is the confirmation of a privilege granted by King

“A destruction that preserves” 189 Manuel I to Don Alvaro de Ataíde for the preserve (coutada) of Azenha (8 November 1497). This privilege reproduced two other royal privileges issued by João I (1385–1422) and Afonso V (1438–1477) to the ancestors of Don Alvaro de Ataíde whereby the monarchs established the preserve in the woodland and territory (mata e terra) of Azenha in Benavente. Here nobody was permitted to cut trees for firewood or other economic purposes. The confirmation of 1444 introduced a slight, but highly remarkable novelty. It was only permitted to cut trees if they were to be used to supply timber for the king’s galleys. This royal privilege was confirmed in 1497, thereby ensuring the Crown’s legal capacity to fell trees for shipbuilding in private preserves.45 However, this did not mean that those Portuguese woodlands were depleted; otherwise, by the same reasoning the reduction of the royal preserves decreed by King Manuel I would have to be interpreted as evidence of the opposite. The second document used by Devy Vareta was a royal order of August 1502,46 which resulted from the request submitted by several municipalities to the Cortes of Lisbon (1498) for the royal forests to be decreased. King Manuel I accepted part of the proposal, and during the following years, several royal preserves were eliminated, including the districts of Setúbal, Palmela, Ribatejo, Torres Novas, Serra de Aire, and Boquilobo. However, this did not mean that the Crown had neither legal capacity over the area nor administrative staff to enforce the regulations. It was, therefore, a confusing process that still requires further research.47 The royal order of August 1502 disbanded the royal forest of Ribatejo, which is a significant policy if it is taken into account that this area had supplied timber for shipbuilding.48 The region of Ribatejo encompassed Almada, Palmela, Coina, Aldea Galega, Alhos Velhos and Alcochete, where the Crown had owned woodlands and pinewoods since at least the mid-14th century, and by 1381 it had a permanent network of foresters for their protection.49 The document of 1502 is remarkable, firstly because the Crown claimed that the common good of Portugal depended on the existence of large pinewoods for shipbuilding.50 The control and management of forest resources increasingly became a matter of “State Security”, an element that was shared by other European, if not all, Early Modern States.51 Early Modern powers put forward new claims to justify the growing legislative drive on woodlands. This discourse usually blamed the local inhabitants and the poor people for destroying woodlands, because they were too ignorant to grasp their importance for the common good. Consequently, European powers sought to curtail the population’s use of and access to forest resources by passing restrictive legislation.52 Protecting forests became a moral issue, and the regulative drive of 16th-century forest legislation was established within the economy of morality.53 Such a narrative was also present in Portuguese forest policies. However, the law of 1502 may have constituted an exception with respect to regarding

190  K. Trapaga-Monchet the local inhabitants as agents of woodland destruction.54 According to this law, while the growth of the trees was consonant with the idea of a divine design, mankind was committed to ensuring a sound management of the pines for different purposes. The Crown acknowledged the woodlands located in Ribatejo as spaces where diverse socio-economic uses (firewood, grazing, shipbuilding) converged. In this area, all the inhabitants were permitted to cut “tojo” (Ulex europaeus), “billoto” and other underwood (matto) to make fires, or for other uses, as well as to fence off pinewoods belonging to the Crown and private individuals. These measures were regarded as strategies that not only permitted a better growth of straight and tall pines but also reduced the risk of fire. However, it was forbidden to cut branches or trees of pines, cork oaks, and any kind of “carrasqueira” (Quercus coccifera). The law stated that pines and cork oaks should be preserved as had always been done, without providing further data. The Crown relied on local dwellers’ knowledge (empirical) to ensure the correct protection and growth of the pines. It is very likely that this entailed preserving them for shipbuilding. The latter type, in contrast, was to be preserved for acorns. Such an idea of multiple-use forestry applied to woodlands designated for shipbuilding was not developed in Venice until early 18th century.55 However, in the pinewoods and lands belonging to the Crown, it was forbidden to make pascigos (areas for grazing) and areas to store water for cattle. Several exceptions were quoted afterwards.56 The underlying reason is that the Crown may have perceived cattle as a threat to the correct growth of the pines. Although the law did not mention wood or timber shortages, Devy Vareta stated that by 1514 the pinewoods of Ribatejo were in bad shape and unsuitable for shipbuilding, and that the pinewoods located in Leiria and Pederneira were in poor condition due to overcutting and fires. 57 By the mid-16th century wood or timber shortages were constantly mentioned in Portugal. 58 In the early 16th century began in Europe the first references to deforestation and wood shortages as a rhetorical argument, and this became a pattern from the mid-16th century onwards. Indeed, as the State’s power to manage central resources grew, it became necessary to raise new claims to justify the regulative drive. 59 There was not, therefore, necessarily a real ecological degradation of Portuguese woodlands and royal forests. In 1546, the Crown issued a law on cork oaks. It banned everybody from cutting cork oaks at the base, or from making charcoal or firewood from them in an area that stretched from the mouth of Tagus River to Abrantes and for 60 kilometres (10 Portuguese leagues) along both banks of the river. An exception was made for private owners, who were permitted to cut their cork oaks, except for charcoal production.60 This measure was included in all royal forest legislation during the 1560s and 1570s,61 and was also implemented in areas that were not royal forests.

“A destruction that preserves” 191 However, the law of 1546 did not include a preamble justifying the need for its approval. In April 1564, King Sebastião I issued the same regulation for the protection of the cork oaks located in Alcácer do Sal and the entire municipal area towards Setúbal and 60 kilometres along both margins of Sado River. In this case, it was claimed there was hardly any timber from cork oaks for shipbuilding, especially to construct galleys to defend the coasts of the Algarve. To ensure the future availability of suitable cork oaks for timber, the law banned people both from cutting cork oaks from the base and from cutting them to produce charcoal and ashes (carvão and cinza).62 Thus, it is very likely the law of 1546 had been issued with shipbuilding in mind. 7.4.2 Crown forestry under the Habsburg rule and its aftermath (1580–1640) In 1593, a further law on cork oaks was issued with significant modifications.63 It targeted new tree species regarded as strategic, making it forbidden to cut the “sovereiro, Carvalho, Ensinho, Macheiro” trees from the base, whereas the laws of 1546 and 1564 had only mentioned the cork oak. The macheiro was a young cork oak that had not yet reached a size suitable for shipbuilding.64 The law might refer to oak or to the so-called Portuguese oak (Quercus faginea), and it is likely that “ensinho” referred to azinho (Quercus ilex). In addition, the scope of application of the law was broadened. The law of 1546 had embraced from the mouth of the Tagus River as far as Abrantes and 60 kilometres on both banks of the river.65 In contrast, that of 1593 expanded the limits.66 The Elga River begins in the Sierra de Gata (Spain), and demarcates the border between Spain and Portugal for 50 kilometres before flowing into the Tagus River. The new boundary was established along this river, where it passes the municipality of Rosmaminhal. The Sever River is a tributary of Tagus, and starts in the Sierra of São Mamede. It currently forms the border between Spain and Portugal on the right bank of Tagus. The new law included a further 100 kilometres of hinterland but was limited to Portugal. There are several underlying reasons for such novelties. During Philip II’s reign, there were projects to make the Tagus River navigable from Madrid to Lisbon, also for timber transportation.67 At the time, large quantities of wood were transported from the mountains of Cuenca to different parts of Spain, including Madrid and Toledo.68 During the Union of Crowns, the Portuguese Crown twice explored the idea of importing trees from the mountains of Cuenca to Lisbon via the Tagus River.69 The Crown aimed to enlarge the hinterland to secure new woodland resources. In September 1630, the Corregedores were again entrusted with performing new plantings for shipbuilding in Portugal.70 This law laid down the relationship between forest policies and shipbuilding, although it had

192  K. Trapaga-Monchet been an ongoing reality in Crown forest policies since the 16th century. The connection between shipbuilding and forestry was defined in the law of 29 May 1633. Scholars (including myself) have not hitherto realised the remarkable innovations this law entailed. During the 1620s and 1630s, several people complained about shortages of timber for Lisbon’s shipyards, as well as the poor quality of pines and cork oaks in comparison with oaks. In December 1620, Vasco Fernandes Cesar, purveyor of king’s warehouses (provedor dos armazéns de Guiné e India) and with years of experience in shipbuilding, stated that oak timber was of higher quality than pine for planking and outer underwater parts of ships.71 In June 1627, Tomás de Ibio Calderón asserted that there was little timber left in Portugal because of the few plantings carried out.72 In 1628, Manuel Galego, a shipwright at Lisbon’s shipyards, claimed that cork oaks harvested for Lisbon’s shipyards were not suitable because they were too short to be fastened. Cork oaks were used to build structural elements of ships such as keels, posts and frames.73 The law of 1633 claimed that Portugal’s wellbeing depended on trade, for which ships were necessary, and this, in turn, required large quantities of timber. As previous kings had been aware of this matter, they had issued laws to plant pines, chestnuts, oaks and other trees suitable for shipbuilding throughout Portugal. Philip IV decided—the law continued—to take forest policies one step further, because the previous ones had not been enforced, and the shortage of timber had increased. The Corregedores and Provedores would supervise plantings for shipbuilding conducted by municipalities from October to February. The local inhabitants would perform the plantings near navigable watercourses. Private individuals who had not complied with the former laws on planting trees on their properties would pay for the new saplings. The law pursued the planting of oaks (carvalhos), as their wood was more suitable for shipbuilding, and paid less attention to pines and cork oaks. The law was to be implemented in Ribatejo and other parts of the kingdom, excluding areas between the Minho and Douro Rivers.74 Perhaps this exception was due to the existence of oak woodlands in that area, but the ministers did not consider that the oaks grown in the hinterland of Lisbon were suitable for shipbuilding.75 However, some ministers with expertise in maritime matters went even further. In 1634, Tomás de Ibio complained about the construction of ocean-going ships in Lisbon for two reasons. Firstly, the workforce of Lisbon’s shipyards was lazy and expensive. Secondly, it was more economical to build vessels in India due to the higher quality of timbers. In turn, he proposed sending to India one of the galleons constructed in Porto in lieu of a nau to be built in Lisbon.76 Only weeks later, the Treasury Council (Conselho da Fazenda) suggested that two ships be sent to Galicia to fetch oak timber for constructing ocean-going ships in Lisbon in 1635, because Galician oaks were of a better size (longer and thicker) for planking than the pine timber used at Lisbon.77 In 1637, Tomás de Ibio emphasised the

“A destruction that preserves” 193 convenience for His Majesty of constructing galleons in Porto instead of naus in Lisbon because of the quality of the oaks.78 He later protested about the ships constructed in Lisbon of madeiras verdes (unseasoned and young timbers), as they did not last more than two to three years. Instead, with the 122,000 cruzados that the Royal Treasury invested in the construction and repairs (mainly in caulking) of a single nau in Lisbon, the King could either construct four 1,000-tonne galleons in Biscay or Guipuzcoa made of oak, or two 1,000-tonne naus in Cantabria.79 In 1639, the Treasury Council again warned that it was far more expensive to build ships of cork oak and pine in Lisbon. It was preferable to send Manuel Fernandes, master carpenter of Lisbon’s shipyards, to Galicia to fetch oak timber.80 In August 1638, Philip IV asked the viceroy of Portugal whether the law of 1633 had been enforced. Lourenço Coelho Leitão had reported growing timber shortages, especially oak, which was “the most necessary” kind.81 At that time, Coelho supervised the construction of galleons in Porto.82 At this point in our research, it is not possible to provide further data either on the use of oak in Lisbon’s shipyards in lieu of pine and cork oak, or on whether this affected the shipbuilding industry of Lisbon. Nonetheless, the forest policies drawn up on plantings during the Habsburg rule were reproduced during the following years. Don João IV (1640–1656) passed the laws of 1623 and 1633 on the duties of the Corregedores regarding plantings of pines and oaks.83 In 1727, the law on trees giving priority to the planting of pines was issued,84 and a royal decree of 1799 gave orders for the laws of 1623 and 1633 to again be enforced.85 Although, without exploring the local archives, it is challenging to provide insights into whether the laws were actually enforced, in December 1717, the King João V granted permission to don Rodrigo de Lancastre to coppice trees and rip up “cepas” (vineyards?) in three sesmarias (pieces of uncultivated land) he owned in Coruche for a three-year period provided he planted pinhões (pine seeds) in accordance with the regulation.86 Consequently, the Habsburgs reinforced the links between shipbuilding and forestry, in the policies targeted at both the royal forests and the woodlands of the realm of Portugal.

7.5 “Tunnel-vision” on the royal pinewoods for shipbuilding (1580–1700) Turning to James Scott to address Early Modern statecraft and its impacts on landscape is by no means new.87 As Early Modern States did not have enough knowledge of either their subjects or their territory, they developed a set of instruments to make the territory legible. By gathering information, they could handle people and natural resources better. However, States were interested in only part of the reality, and paid no attention to a large set of data. This prompted a “tunnel-vision” of the landscape that left out elements not considered to be of importance. Concerning the woodlands,

194  K. Trapaga-Monchet although this simplification was aimed at facilitating their management for different purposes, States did not engage the know-how and empirical knowledge possessed by local inhabitants.88 Eventually, this led to the failure of woodland management, which, applied to the scope of this study, entailed the failure of State (Crown) policies to preserve and manage the woodlands for shipbuilding: destruction overcame both natural forest regeneration and anthropic-driven forest policies. Conversely, I argue that the tunnel-vision displayed by the Portuguese Monarchy contributed to woodland preservation and landscape planning. The Crown was incapable of managing either the woodlands or the royal forests without engaging the (empirical) knowledge of local inhabitants and relying on them as a workforce. The next section addresses forest policies adopted for shipbuilding by looking at the case study of the pinewoods of Leiria, and the creation of the royal pinewood of Cabeção. Finally, it provides an overview of other policies conducted on other royal pinewoods, and how these policies bore fruit once the pines grew. 7.5.1  The pinewoods of Leiria The origins of the Leiria pinewoods date back to the reigns of Afonso III (1248–1279) and Dinis I. This area was located near the royal palace of Monte Real, 89 and the pinewoods were used to harvest timber for shipbuilding.90 By the mid-14th century, the Crown had a network of foresters in charge of their preservation.91 During João I’s reign (1385–1433), a bailiff and 16 foresters were entrusted with creating firebreaks in the pinewoods, and keeping them clear to prevent fires spreading to the pines.92 However, the Crown did not have the capacity to effectively manage the pinewoods. This manpower shortage was more acute when it came to harvesting, sowing and transporting timber from the pinewoods to the shipyards (Pederneira, Lisbon). Thus, from the times of Fernando I (1367– 1383), the inhabitants of Leiria were granted tax exemptions if they worked on cutting, harvesting and transporting timber.93 In 1455, the city of Leiria reported to the king that local inhabitants preferred to carry out the tasks of harvesting, sowing and transporting timber to Santarém, Montemoro-Velho and other parts of Portugal rather than working as farmers in Leiria.94 Moreover, in 1497, Manuel I confirmed the royal privilege João I (1385–1433) had issued in 1385 in turn asserting the privilege granted by Dinis I and Afonso IV (1325–1357) to local dwellers of Leiria entitling them to cut pines and laurel trees in the Crown’s pinewoods for their homes and daily bare essentials.95 Besides, the royal foresters were enlisted from among local inhabitants living near pinewoods.96 As the Crown required the cooperation of local dwellers, it granted them certain benefits. It even managed to encourage inhabitants to settle in the surroundings of the pinewoods.97

“A destruction that preserves” 195 Devy Vareta stated that by 1514 the pinewoods of Ribatejo, Pederneira, and Leiria had been diminished by fires and overexploitation.98 The regulations issued in 1524 on the main guard (guarda-mor) of the Leiria pinewoods made no reference to a timber shortage. The lack of regulations governing the office of guarda-mor was cited as the reason for drafting the law, as this was the administrative mechanism devised by the Monarchy to ensure the preservation of pinewoods for shipbuilding. The guarda-mor oversaw a number of officials and 16 guards, whose main duties were to conserve the outer firebreaks to protect the pinewoods from fires, to prevent poaching—as offenders started fires—, and to regulate the system of licenses for cutting pines.99 The pinewoods continued to supply timber for the royal navy, and the main guard claimed he could not effectively conserve the pinewoods with only 16 foresters.100 In April 1567, João Rodrigues Barba was appointed main guard after marrying Helena da Costa, the daughter of Jorge da Costa, who had held the position.101 The advent of the Habsburg dynasty to Portugal strengthened the link between the Leiria pinewoods and shipbuilding. In 1596, Don Pedro de Castilho—archbishop of Leiria—proposed planting pines near the chapel of Nossa Senhora da Nazaré.102 Philip II thus extended the limits of the royal forest in order to plant pines (Pinus pinea) so as to have woodland reserves for shipbuilding.103 A few weeks later, eight new guards were appointed to protect the new pinewood (pinhal novo).104 Philip III carried on with these forest policies, as he gave orders for plantings to be conducted in the new pinewood, in Camarção, which were performed twice. They were not only fruitless but also triggered legal disputes with the Monastery of Batalha and local inhabitants over the enlargement of the royal preserve.105 In 1613, a fire destroyed a large part of the pinewoods. In 1614, the King compelled the Treasury Council to preserve them, as well as to ensure they were cleared and to boost plantings to guarantee the future availability of timber.106 In addition, judge Jerónimo de Souto was appointed to carry out an inquiry into the fire, and to establish who had been responsible. The fire was found to be due to mismanagement, and the foresters were dismissed.107 Don Jerónimo de Souto supervised the tasks of making new firebreaks and clearing those that already existed to prevent major damage from future fires. In 1615, the Crown proposed that the former guards return to their posts provided they undertook to clear the firebreaks. They agreed, as long as the Crown reinstated their privileges and appointed seven new guards, increasing the number from 33 to 40. However, by 1633 the Crown had still not appointed the seven new guards.108 In December 1640, João IV seized the Portuguese throne. The 33 guards of the Leiria pinewoods requested the implementation of the 1615 agreement. The monarch confirmed the agreement, arguing that the Royal Treasury stood to benefit greatly from the conservation of the pinewoods

196  K. Trapaga-Monchet due to the great shortage of timber in Portugal for shipbuilding.109 The Crown effectively increased the number of foresters to 40, and confirmed their privileges in December 1662.110 Consequently, from the 15th century onwards, the State policies designed to preserve the Leiria pinewoods were largely shaped by the tunnel-visioned approach of securing large reserves of straight pines to produce timber components. Moreover, during the Habsburg rule the Crown not only preserved existing pinewoods but also created new royal pinewoods for the sake of the royal fleets. 7.5.2  The creation of the royal pinewood of Cabeção From around 1612, the Crown began a policy of disbanding the royal forests that continued until 1640.111 Nonetheless, it aimed to preserve and even create royal pinewoods, as well royal forests for shipbuilding.112 These ­policies might have seemed contradictory, but they were not if James Scott’s framework of tunnel-vision is applied. The Crown was interested in having woodlands that were easily accessible for shipbuilding and accordingly took measures for this purpose. The pinewood of Cabeção is in Mora (Évora), and its origins date back to the 14th century under the management of the Avis Order.113 In 1616, the Crown turned its attention to Cabeção. Jorge de Araujo, a judge of the Avis Order, visited the pinewood of Cabeção on behalf of the Crown to inform about the quality of the lands, the title of properties, and offences committed against the pines.114 It is very likely that Jorge de Araujo carried out his assignment in accordance with the report of Afonso de Villandas, which provided guidelines for creating the royal pinewood of Cabeção. Firstly, the Crown sought to request lands’ titles, as this would decrease the price. The Crown should emphasise that it was acquiring the lands for the common good, as the pinewoods would be devoted to producing timber for shipbuilding; otherwise, the owners would be unwilling to sell their properties. Once the Crown assessed the value of the lands, it would acquire them, paying a fair price. The document went on to detail how the royal pinewood should be managed to produce timber for shipbuilding. Firstly, the Crown must demarcate the outer limits by surrounding it (en-roda) with posts and markers (balizas e confrontações) to make the boundaries of the pinewood visible. Secondly, the Crown needed to conduct planting policies as part of the attempt to double the size of the existing pinewood. Therefore, the Crown not only integrated an existing pinewood into the management of the State forestry but also aimed to double its size by planting 20 alqueires (263,22 litres)115 of Pinus pinea every year. Thirdly, it was essential to provide the wardens with regulations to preserve the royal pinewood, paying special attention to punishments and penalties. Fourthly, the Crown needed to appoint three foresters: the main forester, and two local wardens. All of them would be selected from among the inhabitants living in the pinewood’s vicinity, and

“A destruction that preserves” 197 the main forester should be someone feared by the local dwellers. Fifthly, legal responsibilities were given to the judge of Avis, who was entrusted with questioning those who cut pines illegally. He was to grant permission to cut woods after obtaining the Treasury Council’s consent.116 Sixthly, every year the local inhabitants would clear the pinewood to ensure the correct growth of the existing pine trees and the new plantings. This would also benefit them, as they could use the branches for firewood and the pine fruits for their own consumption. Therefore, the administrative staff of the pinewood would perform policing tasks, and the local inhabitants would conduct the daily management supervised by king’s officers. The royal pinewood was eventually established as an administrative unit, despite the estimated high costs of transporting the timber to Lisbon’s shipyards. While it is true that the pinewood was far away from Lisbon, the fact that the river Raia passed nearby (around 1–3 kilometres away) decreased the transportation costs. When the river Raia joins the Sor, it becomes the river Sorraia, which is the main tributary of Tagus. The Crown thus took different factors into consideration when creating the royal pinewood of Cabeção such as land tenure and soil quality, and established governance instruments (administrative staff, the regulations), cooperation of local inhabitants for daily management, as well as the subsequent tasks of harvesting and transporting wood to the river. However, it is more doubtful whether they gave a second thought to natural hazards. In 1635, Agostinho Diaz was entrusted with harvesting timber in Cabeção for planks for ocean-going ships bound for India. The judges of Cabeção, Pavia, Mora and Coruche, as well as the judge of the Order of Avis, were instructed to cooperate with him by providing all the carts needed to carry 800 stone pines and 40 dozen planks.117 At the beginning, it was not possible to transport the timber to Lisbon because the river had dried out, and in November, it rained heavily.118 In 1684, Pedro II (1683–1706) ordered the monteiro-mor of Portugal to allow stone pines and oak trees to be cut in the royal forests of Alcaçer do Sal, Coruche and Cabeção.119 In 1692, the outer limits of the pinewood were marked,120 and in 1701 the judge of the Order of Avis was appointed as the main guard in charge of preserving the pinewood with an annual income of 20,000 reis. The main guard was aided by a junior guard with a yearly income of 12,000 reis.121 Thus, during the second half of 17th century, the pinewood was preserved in order to provide wood and timber for different works, as occurred with other royal pinewoods. 7.5.3 Plantings, management and uses of other royal pinewoods (1580–1700) In 1589, Don Francisco Coloma was appointed to command the squadron of galleys based in Lisbon. One of his duties was to restore the kingdom’s naval power after the failure of the 1588 Armada, for which he proposed

198  K. Trapaga-Monchet constructing galleys in Lisbon. Here the Crown had skilled workers, and the shipwright Bartolomé Jordan, deemed to be the most skilled constructor of galleys, was based in Lisbon. Besides, Lisbon was well-connected with Biscay to import iron nails, and the monarch owned a large expanse of woodlands near Lisbon from which timber could be easily transported via the Tagus River.122 In 1598, the Crown decided to incorporate private woodlands for shipbuilding into the State forestry policies.123 From 1598 to 1603, the Crown conducted plantings in the new pinewood of Leiria, in Camarção, to guarantee the future existence of sturdy Pinus pinea for shipbuilding, for which it extended the boundaries of the royal forest.124 These measures were reinforced by the monteiro-mor’s regulations (1605). This legislation was issued on account of a timber shortage that could threaten the common good, as ships were a matter of “State security”.125 It was not only the backbone of the Crown policies concerning the royal forests until at least mid-18th century, but it also listed hundreds of royal forests and woodlands belonging to the Crown, private owners, and municipalities that contained suitable timber for shipbuilding in the present and future, providing information on pinewoods, cork oaks, and to a lesser extent, oaks (carvalhos landeiros). It also noted that the Corregedores of Leiria had planted pinewoods near Caldas da Rainha, and in Alpedriz.126 A few months later, the king compelled the monteiro-mor to plant pines all over Portugal due to the decline of Portuguese woodlands and pinewoods.127 With Philip IV (1621–1640) the Crown carried on issuing forest policies and managing the pinewoods to ensure their preservation for shipbuilding. In late 1623, the purveyor of King’s warehouses (provedor-mor dos armazéns) requested that the pinewood of Almeirim, planted during the times of Sebastião I, be coppiced. This pinewood contained large, straight pines for constructing wales (cintas in Portuguese), and there were other large pines whose branches could be transformed into rudders (mães de lemes in Portuguese) and “casoes” (sic). With this management, the pines would continue to grow and be used for shipbuilding.128 In November 1623, the couteiro (warden) of Almada (in Ribatejo) was imprisoned due to mismanagement, which had affected the state of the Medos pinewood.129 It seems that the procedure was the same as in Cabeção: someone reported the poor condition of the pinewood due to infringement of the law and mismanagement, and the Crown took steps to reinforce its control over the pinewoods. The Crown commissioned Antonio Rodrigues to investigate because someone had reported illegal cutting. He found that within the boundaries of the Medos pinewoods, there were lands without owners where pines were growing and would be suitable for shipbuilding within a decade. In addition, he provided information concerning a piece of land that the Crown had granted to António Ruiz en sesmaria (to be economically exploited) in 1592. It contained “matos maninhos” above “Val de Bom”,

“A destruction that preserves” 199 and part of them was within the bounds of the Medos pinewoods. The Treasury Council simply replied that the land should be registered in the record of Crown properties and possessions.130 Thus, the Crown sought to strengthen its control over the pinewoods of Medos to have future preserves of suitable pines for shipbuilding easily accessible via watercourses, as Medos was near the sea. In 1624, the Crown delivered from Madrid seeds of pines from the Sierra de Cuenca to be planted in Portugal. The purveyor of the king’s warehouses was made responsible for handing out the seeds to the appropriate people. By May, plantings of “pinhas” and “pinhões” had been conducted in the royal pinewoods. In Salvaterra, Antonio Diaz Montalvo, monteiro-mor of Santarém, and his officials conducted the plantings of “pinhas” together with the elders of Salvaterra. Plantings were performed from the fence of the Monastery of Jerico alongside streams as far as the nearby “Torre do Mestre”. The desembargador Agostinho da Cunha de Vilas Boas was in charge of planting “pinhas e pinhões” in the pinewoods of Azambuja and Virtudes together with the main guard and the foresters. The desembargador Jerónimo de Souto carried out the plantings of “pinhas e pinhões” in the Almeirim pinewoods. In the region of Leiria, the corregedor Sebastião Pinto de Carvalho and the judge Manoel de Brito de Meneses planted “pinhas e pinhões”. In the Sierra of Sintra, it was done by the corregedor Gaspar Cardoso and the judge Domingos Freire Gameiro.131 Thus, the Crown entrusted the plantings to its officials, who in turn enlisted the empirical know-how of local dwellers. The plantings carried on for months and years,132 and the Crown adopted measures to ensure their protection. For instance, in October 1625, the Treasury Council was compelled to deliver a report on the damages the plantings had suffered in the region of Santarém.133 In August 1626, this Council granted permission for an investigation to be started concerning illegal cutting and the entry of cattle into the Azambuja pinewoods.134 A few months later, judge Agostinho da Cunha (who had conducted the plantings in Virtudes and Azambuja) reported Don Antonio Mascarenhas and other people for damaging the Virtudes pinewoods. He requested that cattle be banned in order to protect saplings.135 Later, he informed that planting techniques from Virtudes had been implemented in Almeirim, and had proved fruitful.136 It is very likely that the pinewoods of Azambuja produced large quantities of pine seeds, as in 1626 Agostinho da Cunha handed seeds to Francisco de Barros, monteiro-mor, to plant them in Almeirim in the same way that Agostinho had done in Azambuja. In November 1627, the Treasury Council gave orders for the plantings to be continued in Almeirim, and for the saplings of Almeirim and Virtudes to be protected.137 By October 1635, the desembargador Agostinho Dias was entrusted with clearing, coppicing, and making productive the pinewoods of Virtudes and Azambuja. He requested permission to ban the grazing of goats, sheep, pigs and lambs because of the damage they caused to pines, as well as

200  K. Trapaga-Monchet to prohibit the entry of cattle for two years until the newly planted trees had grown. The shepherds were to be given a warning the first time they broke the law, and henceforth the guards should arrest them regardless of their social status. As there were plenty of pine seeds, he proposed selling those that were not needed to fund new plantings. The Treasury Council agreed with his proposal, because having future timber reserves for shipbuilding was of utmost importance.138 Early on the next year, he provided further details of his performance in Azambuja. The Crown had extended the boundaries of the Azambuja pinewoods, and he was assigned the task of conducting plantings in all the arneiros (barren/sandy lands) and the surrounding areas that were within the bounds (marcos). He had already planted pines and was to continue in Val de Lebre, and other parts that were bereft of pines.139 In early 1639, news on cuttings and fires in pine and cork oak forests in Ribatejo reached the Treasury Council. The desembargador Ignacio Ferreira was appointed to begin an investigation due to his success at coppicing the pinewoods of Almeirim. He proposed planting 60 moios of “pinhões” over a three-year period to ensure the future supply of pines for the royal fleets beside the Tagus River. The Crown would provide all the facilities and the seeds from the Virtudes pinewoods. Although there is no further information concerning these plantings, they evidence the active planting policies conducted by the Crown. By that time, the timber shortage was so acute that the Crown claimed it needed to use carts to fetch cork oaks 10 to 12 leagues (60 to 72 kilometres) away from Tagus River.140 Therefore, during the 1620s and 1630s, the Crown strengthened the management of the Azambuja and Virtudes pinewoods. The roles of Agostinho da Cunha and Agostinho Dias proved fruitful as not only were large-scale plantings conducted, but these pinewoods also became an example of good management practices that were implemented in Almeirim and other places. With the arrival of the Braganza dynasty, the Crown carried on enforcing policies and forestry management for shipbuilding. In 1654, Luis Pinto Rebelo, the main guard of Azambuja pinewoods, was instructed to coppice the pines in Almeirim. He was to cut and coppice pines to allow a better growth of other pines to produce higher quality timber for shipbuilding. He furthermore trained the guards of the Almeirim pinewood in this technique.141 In 1675, the city of Lisbon complained about the damage caused by the Tagus River in Belém, which extended to roads and buildings. All these hazards resulted from the Alges River, which needed to be channelled along its former route. The Municipality requested material and manpower from the king to undertake this work, by granting permission either to the Treasury Council to cut large amounts of wood in the Virtudes pinewoods, or to the monteiro-mor in the pinewood of Escaroupim.142 By 1678 the work was still underway, and the king gave orders for pines to be cut for

“A destruction that preserves” 201 stakes (estacaria) in the pinewoods of Leiria, instead of Escaroupim and Virtudes, because the last two contained pines suitable for shipbuilding.143 The Municipality of Lisbon protested at the decision as bringing pines from Leiria was harder and more expensive. The Municipality reckoned that 15,350 stakes from 7 to 10 palms high, 750 paus (trees), “barcaes” for “gradas” [sic] 20 palms in length and 130 paus of 14 palms for traversas (beams and crossbeams) would be needed.144 As a result, the Municipality proposed sticking to the original plan not only because it was more economical but also because the pinewoods of Escaroupim and Virtudes were composed of “pinhaes mansos” (Pinus pinea). The Municipality undertook to cut the pines of the required size without diminishing the timber stock for the royal navy.145 In 1695, the Treasury Council reported on the importance of conserving the pinewoods of Medos. A few days later, King Pedro II appointed Luís de Lemos da Costa, judge of Almada, as main guard (guarda-mor) of the pinewoods. He was to enforce the regulations of Virtudes pinewoods, as the Council of Treasury believed them to be the key to restoring the Medos pinewoods.146 Although it is challenging to interpret all these references, they could mean at least two things. Firstly, the Habsburgs’ central forestry management enforced policies for preserving the existing pinewoods and they conducted several plantings. In this matter, it is very likely that from the 1620s and 1630s the pinewoods of Virtudes and Azambuja became a cornerstone of forestry legislation, as well as of management and planting techniques. They were replicated in other pinewoods such as Almeirim. This management consisted of selecting the trees allowed to grow to produce sturdy timber for shipbuilding, which were coppiced/trimmed for this purpose. The remaining trees were used for economic activities that required timber of lesser quality. Secondly, these policies proved successful, as the pinewoods of Virtudes, Azambuja, Almeirim and Escaroupim produced wood and timber for various economic activities from the 1660s to at least the early 18th century.147 This resulted from a sustainable forestry whose roots dated back to Habsburg policies at least.

7.6 Conclusions The first State policies for the protection of royal forests dates from the late 13th century, and those for tree species to the early 14th century. By the early 15th century, if not earlier, the Crown had a permanent network of foresters in place to conserve pinewoods and woodlands for hunting and shipbuilding. By the mid-century, the Crown had introduced legal clauses on cutting pines on private lands. State forestry policies have been divided between the woodlands of Portugal and the royal forests. For both, the Crown adopted two interconnected policies. Firstly, planting measures were taken to ensure the future

202  K. Trapaga-Monchet existence of woodlands. Secondly, steps were taken to preserve particular tree species. As for countrywide policies, in 1494, the Crown issued a set of regulations whereby all the municipalities of Portugal were forced to conduct plantings. Although there are doubts as to whether this law was implemented, it contained similarities to the law of 1565. The plantings were entrusted to the King’s officials, but they were performed at a local level. Kings’ officers enlisted local authorities and local dwellers, as they possessed empirical know-how of soils. This law paved the way for subsequent legislation until the mid-18th century, although some laws (especially those of 1623 and 1633) brought significant breakthroughs. In addition, the Crown devised policies to preserve specific trees. In the late 15th century, King Manuel I began reducing the size of royal forests, issuing a law for the Ribatejo area in 1502. This law not only linked the common good of Portugal to shipbuilding, but it also acknowledged the possibility of combining diverse socio-economic uses (firewood, shipbuilding) for the pinewoods of Ribatejo. The Crown furthermore relied on local empirical forestry to ensure the protection and growth of pines for shipbuilding. The local inhabitants were not, therefore, considered to damage the woodlands. A noteworthy law was passed on the protection of the cork oaks in 1546, and similar legislation was passed in 1564 for Alcácer de Sal, and in 1593 for both margins of the Tagus River from its mouth to the Spanish border. The Habsburgs worked upon former policies and introduced few but remarkable improvements. The link between forest policies (for royal forests, and woodlands of Portugal) and shipbuilding was reinforced. The use of James Scott’s framework has made it possible to revisit these forest policies. Whereas from the early 16th century, the Crown constantly complained about timber shortages, this was in fact a rhetorical argument to justify the legislative drive. It is very likely that the Crown’s tunnel-vision contributed to reinforcing the management of the royal pinewoods of Leiria, Virtudes, Azambuja and Medos, and the creation of the royal pinewood of Cabeção. These woodlands not only provided timber and woods for different economic activities throughout the 17th century, a sign of successful conservation but also some of them (Virtudes and Azambuja) became examples of good management that were replicated in other pinewoods. In these cases, the Crown’s tunnel-vision contributed to preserving the pinewoods, for which it needed to engage local inhabitants for four reasons. Firstly, the King’s officers were responsible for the plantings, but they needed to enlist the know-how of local inhabitants to ascertain which lands and tree species were more appropriate. Secondly, the enforcement of the legislation required large and complex networks of foresters, who were recruited from among the local inhabitants. Thirdly, the forest codes did not deal with forest management. The guards were duty bound

“A destruction that preserves” 203 to enforce the laws on the ground, rather than managing the trees and woodlands. Consequently, the Crown engaged with the local inhabitants by permitting them to use the forest resources for their own sustenance. Fourthly, the Crown used local dwellers to harvest and transport timber from the woodlands to the shipyards.

Notes 1 This publication has benefited from the research projects “Protection, production and environmental change: the roots of Modern Environmentalism in the Iberian Peninsula (XVI-XVIIIth centuries)” of Gerda Henkel Stiftüng (project reference AZ 60/V/19), “Las raíces materiales e inmateriales del conservacionismo ambiental de la Península Ibérica (siglos XV-XIX)” (SUSTINERE) of the Autonomous Region of Madrid and King Juan Carlos University, and “Madrid, Sociedad y Patrimonio: pasado y turismo cultural” (H2019/HUM-5989) of the Autonomous Region of Madrid co-funded by the European Social Fund. ORCID: 0000-0003-4120-1530. 2 Vallejo (2021, 342). 3 See introduction. Against this idea, see Melo (2019, 2020). 4 Castro (2005, 105–141); Domingues (2004, 91–180). 5 Silva and Batalha (1843); Correia et al. (2007, 17–37); Costa (2007, 109–120). 6 Costa and Pereira (2007, 26). 7 Warde (2018, 59–60). 8 Neves (1980-1993, vol. 1, 29–31). 9 Neves (1965, 27–28). 10 Barros (1914–1922, vol. 3, 26–38); Devy-Vareta (1985, 60–63). 11 Among others Labrador-Arroyo (2009, 222–224). 12 Gomes (2003, 291–294). 13 Devy-Vareta (1985, 60–64). 14 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 1, 62–64). 15 Devy-Vareta and Alves (2007, 59–60). 16 Universidade de Coimbra (1786, 398–405). 17 Devy-Vareta (1985, 60–62). 18 Serra (1793, vol. 3, 486–501). 19 Biblioteca de Ajuda (BA), Ms. 44-XIII-61, ff. 123r–142r, 237r–251r. 20 Trapaga-Monchet (2017a, 9–14). 21 Oliveira (1967, 464–465); ANTT, CC, maço 2, doc. 130. 22 Devy-Vareta (1986, 26–28). 23 Neves (1980-1993, vol. 5/2, 204–205). 24 Devy-Vareta (1986, 28–30); Oliveira (1967, 469–470). 25 Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa (BNL), res-90-37-a. 26 Oliveira (1967, 467–468); Devy-Vareta (1986, 29); Devy-Vareta and Alves (2007, 63–64). 27 Appuhn (2000, 867–868). 28 Devy-Vareta (1986, 30–32). 29 Oliveira (1967, 468–469, 472–477, 480–485). 30 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 6, 80–81). 31 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 6, 95–96). 32 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 165–172); Hernando Ortego (2010, 595–623); Martínez-González (2015, 414–490). 33 Hespanha (1989, 50–66). 34 Devy-Vareta and Alves (2007, 64–65).

204  K. Trapaga-Monchet 35 Almeida (1870, vol. 1, 110). 36 Almeida (1870, vol. 1, 148). 37 Devy-Vareta and Alves (2007, 64). 38 Silva, Collecção of the years 1613-1619 (1854–1855, 330). 39 Arquivo Histórico Ultramarino (AHU), Conselho Ultramarino (CU), Reino 2/70. 40 AHU, CU, Reino 2/70. 41 Silva, Collecção of the years 1620-1627 (1854–1855, 71). 42 Silva, Collecção of the years 1620-1627 (1854–1855, 92–93). 43 Silva, Collecção of the years 1620-1627 (1854–1855, 92–93). 44 Devy-Vareta (1985, 67, 1986, 9). 45 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 4, 108–110). 46 As well Costa (1997, 314–315). 47 Devy-Vareta (1986, 19–25). 48 Costa (1997, 311–315); Neves (1980–1993, vol. 2, 18–19). 49 Barros (1914–1922, vol. 3, 26). 50 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 4, 184). 51 For Venice, Appuhn (2009, 109–111); for Spanish Monarchy, MartínezGonzález (2015, 46–55); Wing (2015, 65–68). 52 Appuhn (2009, 250). 53 Warde (2006a, 177). See Aragón-Ruano’s contribution. 54 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 4, 184–187). Following lines are based on ibídem. 55 Appuhn (2009, 181–182). 56 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 4, 185). 57 Devy-Vareta (1986, 28). 58 Devy-Vareta (1986, 9). 59 Aragón-Ruano (2001, 21–26, 59–62); Warde (2006b, 42). 60 Leis Extravagantes, 1565, P. IV, Titulo 17, Lei XI. 61 BA, Ms. 44-XIII-61, ff. 54v–55r, 87r. 62 Oliveira (1967, 466). 63 Almeida (1870, vol. 5, 1222). 64 Bluteau (1789, vol. 2, 40). 65 Leis Extravagantes, 1565, P. IV, Titulo 17, Lei XI. 66 Almeida (1870, vol. 5, 1222). 67 Among others, López Gómez (1998, 508–520). 68 Fernández Izquierdo (2019, 284–312). 69 AHU, CU, Consultas, cód. 37, ff. 50v–52v, 58v–59r. 70 Silva, Collecção of the years 1627–1633 (1854–1855, 187). 71 Archivo General de Simancas (AGS), Secretarías Provinciales (SSP), lib. 1474, 473r–474r. 72 Goodman (1997, 83). 73 Castro (2005, 105, 115, 141–142, 155). 74 Silva, Collecção of the years 1627–1633 (1854–1855, 314). 75 Domingues (2004, 91–92). 76 AHU, CU, Reino, 6/51, 38/42. 77 AHU, CU, Reino, 7/4; Biblioteca e Arquivo Histórico do Ministerio de Obras Púbricas (BAHMOP), Montaria-mor do reino (MMR), núcleo 9; Castro (2005, 105, 129–131); Domingues (2004, 92–93). 78 AHU, CU, Cod. 43, ff. 38r–39r. 79 AHU, CU, Consultas, Cod. 43, ff. 244v–248r. 80 AHU, CU, Reino, 10/1. 81 Silva, Collecção of the years 1634-1640 (1854–1855, 173). 82 AHU, CU, cod. 43, ff. 41v–44v, 76r–86r, 161r–163r, 240v–241r. 83 Ordenações (1747, vol. 1, 344–345).

“A destruction that preserves” 205 84 Pinto (1938, vol. 1, 154–155). 85 Rego (2000, 27). 86 BAHMOP, MMR, núcleo 9. 87 Among others Wing (2015). 88 Scott (1998, 1–12, 14–20). 89 Gomes (2003, 315). 90 Pinto (1938, vol. 1, 131–136). 91 Pinto (1938, vol. 1, 21–30, 112–136); Neves (1980–1993, vol. 1, 79–81). 92 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 2, 45–46). 93 Pinto (1938, vol. 1, 113). 94 Devy-Vareta (1986, 20). 95 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 4, 106–107). 96 AHU, CU, Reino 1/62; Arquivo Nacional do Torre do Tombo (ANTT), Ms. Livraria, 1113, doc. 16. 97 Pinto (1938, vol. 1, 209–211). 98 Devy-Vareta (1986, 28). 99 Biblioteca da Faculdade de Direito de Universidade de Lisboa (BFDUL), Ms. 2-12-6. 100 Costa (1997, 320–335); Pinto (1938, vol. 1, 138–145). 101 Neves (1980–1993, vol. 6, 55–56). 102 ANTT, Colecção de Cartas, Núcleo Antigo 878, doc. 1. 103 Pinto (1938, vol. 1, 159–160). 104 AHU, CU, Reino, 6/34. 105 AHU, CU, Reino, 1/62. 106 AGS, SSP, lib. 1510, 74r-v. The plantings were performed, AHU, CU, Consultas, cod. 475, 170r-v. 107 AHU, CU, Reino, 3/64. 108 AHU, CU, Reino. 6/34. 109 ANTT, Registro Geral de Mercês (RGM), Mercês da Torre do Tombo, lib. 3, 231v–232r. 110 ANTT, RGM, Mercês de D. João V, lib. 15, 245r. 111 Trapaga-Monchet and Labrador-Arroyo (2019, 143–150). 112 AHU, CU, Reino 2/70. 113 Silbert (1966, vol. 1, 406–407, 463). 114 AHU, CU, Reino, 2/16. The following lines are based on this source. 115 Oliveira (1967, 473). 116 Silva, Collecção of the years 1613-1619 (1854–1855, 241). 117 AHU, CU, Reino, 38/43. 118 AHU, CU, Reino, 7/20 and 44, 8/33. 119 BAHMOP, MMR, núcleo 9. 120 Associação Marítima e Colonial (1844, 84–85). 121 Silva, Collecção (1859, 1-2). 122 AGS, Guerra y Marina (GYM), leg. 250, doc. 167. 123 Pinto (1938, vol. 1, 159–162, 212–213). 124 AHU, CU, Reino, 1/62, Silva, Collecção of the years 1603–1612 (1854–1855, 120–121). 125 Devy-Vareta (1986, 33–36); Labrador-Arroyo (2009, 238–241); Silva, Collecção of the years 1603–1612 (1854–1855, 109–124); Trapaga-Monchet (2017b, 137–142). 126 Silva, Collecção of the years 1603–1612 (1854–1855, 119–121). 127 AGS, SSP, lib. 1492, ff. 14v, 50v. 128 AHU, CU, Consultas, cod. 35, f. 236v. 129 AHU, CU, Reino 4/63. 130 AHU, CU, Reino 4a/9.

206  K. Trapaga-Monchet 31 BA, Ms. 51-VI-28, 61r-62v. 1 132 AGS, SSP, lib. 1519, 13v-14r. 133 AGS, SSP, lib. 1519, 96v. 134 AHU, CU, Reino, 5a/28. 135 AHU, CU, Reino, 5a/28. 136 AHU, CU, Códices, 37, 111v. 137 AHU, CU, Códices, 37, 111v. 138 AHU, CU, Reino, 8/38. 139 AHU, CU, Reino, 8a/1. 140 AHU, CU, Reino, 10/41. 141 BAHMOP, MMR, núcleo 9. 142 Oliveira (1882, vol. 8/1, 139–140). 143 Oliveira (1882, vol. 8/1, 281–283). 144 Neves (1965, 38). 145 Oliveira (1882, vol. 8, 301–302). 146 ANTT, RGM, Mercês D. Pedro II, f. 25r. 147 There are plenty examples in BAHMOP, MMR, núcleo 9.

Bibliography (1747). Ordenações, e leys do reyno de Portugal, confirmadas, e estabelecidas pelo senhor rey D. João IV, novamente impressas por mandado de D. João V, Lisbon: Mosterio de S. Vicente de Fóra, vol. 1. (1862). Regulamento para a Administração Geral das Mattas do Reino aprobado por decreto de 7 de julho de 1847, Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional. Almeida, C.M. de (1870). Codigo Philippino ou Ordenações e Leis do Reino de Portugal, Rio de Janeiro: Tipografia do Instituto Filomático. Appuhn, K. (2000). “Forests, Forestry, and State Power in Renaissance Venice”, The Journal of Modern History, 72, 4, 861–889. (2009). A forest on the Sea: Environmental Expertise in Renaissance Venice, Baltimore, MD: John Hopkins University Press. Aragón-Ruano, A. (2001). El bosque guipuzcoano en la Edad Moderna: aprovechamiento, ordenamiento legal y conflictividad, Donostia: Sociedad de Ciencias Aranzadi. Associação Marítima e Colonial (1844). Annaes Maritimos e Coloniaes, Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional, série IV. Barros, H. (1914–1922). Historia da administração publica, Lisbon: Typographia Castro Irmão, vols. 3–4. Bluteau, R. (1789). Diccionario da lingua Portugueza, Lisbon: Officina de Simão Thaddeo Ferreira, 2 vols. Castro, F. (2005). The Pepper Wreck. A Portuguese Indiaman at the Mouth of the Tagus river, College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press. Correia, A., Oliveira, Â. and Fabião, A. (2007). “Biologia e ecologia do pinheirobravo”, in J. Silva (coord.), Pinhais e eucaliptais. A floresta cultivada, Lisbon: Fundação Luso-Americana, vol. 4, 17–34. Costa, L. (1997). Naus e galeões na ribeira da Lisboa. A construçao naval no século XVI para a Rota do Cabo, Cascais: Patrimònia. Costa, J.C. (2007). “Biologia e ecologia do pinheiro-manso”, in J. Silva (coord.), Pinhais e eucaliptais. A floresta cultivada, Lisbon: Fundação Luso-Americana, vol. 4, 109–120.

“A destruction that preserves” 207 Costa, A. and Pereira, H. (2007). “Montados e sobreirais: uma espécie, duas perspectivas”, in J. Silva (coord.), Os montados: muito para além das árvores, Lisbon: Fundação Luso-Americana para o Desenvolvimento, vol. 3, 17–37. Devy-Vareta, N. (1985). “Para uma geografia histórica da floresta portuguesa. As matas medievais e a ‘Coutada velha’ do Rei”, Revista da Faculdade de Letras— Geografia, 1, 1, 47–67. (1986). “Para uma geografia histórica da floresta portuguesa: do declínio das matas medievais à política florestal do Renascimento (séc. XV e XVI)”, Revista da Faculdade de Letras: Geografia, 1, 2, 5–37. Devy-Vareta, N. and Alves, A. (2007). “Os avanços e os recuos da floresta em Portugal—da Idade Média ao Liberalismo”, in J. Silva (coord.), Floresta e sociedade. Uma história em comum, Lisbon: Fundação Luso-Americana para o Desenvolvimento, 55–76. Domingues, F. (2004). Os navios do Mar Oceano. Teoria e empiria na teoría naval portuguesa, Lisbon: Centro de Historia da Universidade de Lisboa. Fernández Izquierdo, F. (2019). “La navegación de madera en el río Tajo con destino a los Reales Sitios”, Tiempos Modernos, Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 283–320. Gomes, R. (2003). The Making of a Court Society. Kings and Nobles in Late Medieval Portugal, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goodman, D. (1997). Spanish Naval Power, 1589–1665. Reconstruction and Defeat, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hernando Ortego, F.J. (2010). “La política forestal en el Madrid de los Austrias. Abastecimiento de energía y regulación del monte, siglos XVI–XVII”, Anales del Instituto de Estudios Madrileños, L, 595–632. Hespanha, A.M. (1989). “O Governo dos Áustria e a ‘modernização’ da constituição política portuguesa”, Penélope, 2, 50–73. Labrador-Arroyo, F. (2009). La Casa Real en Portugal (1580–1621), Madrid: Polifemo. López Gómez, A.L., et al. (1998). “Felipe II y el Tajo”, in J. Martínez Millán (coord.), Felipe II (1527–1598): Europa y la Monarquía Católica, Madrid: Parteluz, 501–525. Martínez-González, A.J. (2015). Las Superintendencias de Montes y Plantíos (1574–1748): derecho y política forestal para las armadas en la Edad Moderna, Valencia: Tirant Lo Blanch. Melo, C.J. de (2019). “Menos coutadas melhores pinhais: impériodo, inundações, fisiocracia, guerra e especialização das matas reaies em Portugal (1777–1824)”, Tiempos Modernos, Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 456–487. (2020). “Floresta em movimento: usar, regenerar, cuidar (Séculos XIV– XIX)”, in C.J. de Melo (coord.), Como Fénix renascida. Matas, bosques e arvoredos (séculos XVI–XX), Lisbon: Colibri, 79–130. Neves, C. (1965). “Dos Monteiros-mores aos Engenheiros Silvicultores”, Anais do Instituto Superior de Agronomia, 28, 19–172. (1980–1993). História Florestal, aquícola e cinegética. Colectânea de documentos existentes no Arquivo Nacional da Torre do Tombo, Lisbon: Ministerio de Agricultura e Pescas, Direcção-Geral do Ordenamento e Gestão Florestal, 6 vols. Oliveira, A. (1967). “Para a história do repovoamento florestal de Coimbra no século XVI”, Arquivo Coimbrão, XXI–XXII, 461–490.

208  K. Trapaga-Monchet Oliveira, E. (1882). Elementos para a Historia do municipio de Lisboa, Lisbon: Typographia Universal, vol. 8/1. Pinto, A. (1938). O Pinhal do Rei—Subsídios, Alcobaça: Oficina de J. de Oliveira Junior, 2 vols. Rego, F. (2000). Floresta públicas, Lisbon: Direcção Geral das Florestas. Scott, J. (1998). Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve Human Condition Have Failed, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Serra, J. (1793). Collecção de libros ineditos de Historia Portugueza, dos reinados de D. João I, D. Duarte, D. Affonso V, e D. João II, Lisbon: Oficina de la Academia Real das Ciencia, vol. 3. Silbert, A. (1966). Le Portugal méditerranéen à la fin de l’Ancien Régime, XVIIIe- debut du XIXe siècle: contribution a l’histoire agraire comparée. París: S.E.V.P.E.N, vol. 1. Silva, J.A. (1859). Collecção chronologica da legislação Portugueza (1701), Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional. Silva, J.A. (1854–1855). Collecção chronologica da legislação portugueza, Lisbon: Imprensa de J.J.A. Silva. Silva, F.M. and Batalha, C.M. (1843). Memoria sobre o Pinhal Nacional de Leiria: suas madeiras e productos rezinosos, Lisbon: Imprensa Nacional. Trapaga-Monchet, K. (2017a). “El estudio de los bosques reales a través de la legislación forestal en las dinastías Avis, Habsburgo y Braganza (c. 1435–1650)”, Philostrato, 1, 5–27. (2017b). “Who Protected Portuguese Forests? Safeguarding and Preserving Royal and Private Forests in Portugal (1605–1640)”, in R. Varela Gomes and K. Trapaga-Monchet (coords.), Árbores, barcos e homens na Península Ibérica (séculos XVI–XVIII), Lisbon-Zaragoza: IAP-Pórtico, 135–148. Trapaga-Monchet, K. and Labrador-Arroyo, F. (2019). “Políticas forestales y deforestación en Portugal, 1580–1640: realidad o mito?”, Ler Historia, 75, 133–156. Universidade de Coimbra (1786). Ordenaçoens do senhor rey d. Affonso V, Coimbra: Real Imprenta da Universidade, vol. 1. Vallejo, I. (2021). El infinito en un junco: La invención de los libros en el mundo antiguo, Madrid: Siruela. Warde, P. (2006a). Ecology, Economy and State Formation in Early Modern Germany, Cambridge: University of Cambridge. (2006b). “Fear of Wood Shortage and the Reality of the Woodland in Europe, c. 1450–1850”, History Workshop Journal, 62, 28–57. (2018). The Invention of Sustainability: Nature and Destiny, c. 1500–1870, New York: Cambridge University Press. Wing, J. (2015). Roots of Empire: State Formation and the Politics of Timber Access in Early Modern Spain, 1556–1759, Leiden, Brill.

8

Sustainability assessment of forest resources in the geographical area of application of the 1546 Cork Oak Law Raúl Romero-Calcerrada

King Juan Carlos University, [email protected]

Koldo Trapaga-Monchet

King Juan Carlos University, [email protected] 8.1 Introduction Portuguese maritime expansion during the Early Modern Age has been widely studied by scholars. In this respect, the shipyards of Lisbon (though they were not the only factor) played a significant role in the construction and repair of ocean-going ships.1 Ocean-going vessels were of great importance to the Crown because they made it possible to keep the Empire connected and secured sizeable revenues for the ever-needy Royal Treasury. Thus, from the early 16th century onwards, the Portuguese Crown began to establish forestry policies for the protection of the tree species used in shipbuilding to ensure the future availability of home-grown trees of high quality.2 Archaeological and historical records coincide in showing that the ships constructed in Lisbon were mainly made from Quercus suber (cork oak, sovreiro in Portuguese), Pinus pinaster (Pinheiro-bravo in Portuguese, maritime pine) and Pinus pinea (Pinheiro-manso, stone pine).3 The wreck of the Nossa Senhora dos Martires (an ocean-going ship that set sail from Lisbon in the early 17th century) confirmed that cork oaks were used to construct structural ship parts. The archaeological records indicate that the ship’s components crafted from cork oaks were not good enough. The related archaeological research concluded that the quality of the timber used to build the keel demonstrates that no straight and tall oaks were available when the ship was constructed.4 During the 1980s, Nicole Devy Vareta addressed the history of the Portuguese woodlands from the viewpoint of historical geography. Her essays are based on a large historical data set and have been paramount to subsequent studies. The author referred to the Cork Oak Law issued by the Portuguese Monarchy in 1546, which set out to establish a secure area DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-9

210  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet of 10 leagues (60 km) surrounding the banks of the Tagus River from its mouth to Abrantes. In this area, nobody was permitted to cut cork oaks at the base or to use their branches for carvão and cinza (charcoal and ash). The author concluded that this law provides evidence of the destruction of the woodlands, including those furthest away from the largest consumption areas. It is worth bearing in mind that cork oaks were used for other socio-economic purposes, too, such as firewood, charcoal or the production of ash.5 Several scholars have referred to a scarcity of shipbuilding timber in Portugal from the 1500s onwards.6 Consequently, the historical and archaeological data have been considered by some historians to support the idea of an issue with the woodlands, which affected shipbuilding: a scarcity of home-grown mature trees capable of producing sturdy timber. In other words, shipbuilding was viewed as the socio-economic activity that most contributed to the deforestation processes in Early Modern Portugal.7 However, other authors have argued that imperial shipbuilding was not the main agent of forest destruction in Early Modern Portugal, an idea central to this monograph.8 This contribution sets out to go beyond these qualitative discussions by addressing the following research objectives: (a) to map the boundary of the forest management and protection area encompassed by the 1546 Cork Oak Law; (b) to determine the potential availability of Quercus suber (established by calculating the Integrated Suitability for Tree Species) and (c) to give an estimate of the potential number of Quercus suber trees available in the jurisdictional territory of the 1546 Cork Oak Law, enabling us to assess the sustainability of forest resources with the potential to be used by the Crown.

8.2  Materials and methods 8.2.1  Proposal for the boundaries of the 1546 Cork Oak Law The spatial dimension is an essential element of any territorial study aimed at understanding the logic of human decisions and determining the possible impacts of human action. As a starting point, we adopted a cartographic approach to the boundaries of the 1546 Cork Oak Law based on current maps and historical sources of forest legislation.9 This law was issued by the Portuguese Monarchy to ensure the future availability of sturdy timber for shipbuilding. The present-day maps used were the Administrative Limits (DireçãoGeral do Território (Portugal), 2018) “Geographical information provided by the Direção-Geral do Território”, maps of towns, cities and villages of Portugal,10 a Digital Elevation Model (DEM),11 the watershed lines,12 and the River Network13 of Continental Portugal. These maps were merged with historical archival sources. In this regard, the legislative compilation carried out in 1584 by the judge of the royal

Sustainability assessment of forest resources 211 forests (juiz das coutadas), Heitor Botelho, during the Union of Crowns constitutes an essential documentary corpus of forestry legislation. His compilation includes legislation issued throughout the 16th century concerning: a) royal forest districts and b) ordinances that regulated the offices with jurisdiction and management over forest areas.14 The main population centres of the forest districts were mapped by consulting the cartographic records of towns, cities and villages of Portugal according to the forestry legislation issued until 1584.15 The polygonal area that includes the Limits of the 1546 Cork Oak Law is based on historical documentation, P. IV, Titulo 18, Lei XI,16 which had a significant impact on subsequent forest legislation. In 1564, the same law was approved for an area that stretched from Alcácer do Sal to Setubal encompassing ten leagues around both banks of the Sado river.17 This prohibition was furthermore included in several forestry codes published in the previously mentioned compilation of 1584, during the 16th century, as well as throughout the 17th century. This measure established a continuous space that extended from the mouth of the Tagus River to the town of Abrantes and “10 leguas derredor” (“the surrounding ten leagues”) in which it was forbidden to cut trees and make charcoal. Private owners were permitted to cut cork oaks, as long as it was not from the base, and to produce charcoal and ash.18 A Portuguese league corresponds to approximately 6 km.19 Therefore, “10 leguas derredor” would be equivalent to approximately 60 km. However, this expression lends itself to two interpretations: a more restrictive one (referred to in this article as OP_R) which considers it to stand for five leagues on each side of the Tagus (as it has been taken to mean by RomeroCalcerrada and Trapaga-Monchet, 20 and by Trapaga-Monchet and García Rodríguez)21; and another, more plausible one that takes it to mean ten leagues on each side of the Tagus (henceforth referred to as OP_I). This investigation is inductive. We collated the different possibilities or more extreme conditions to minimise the risk of erroneous conclusions or theories. Our observations are possible options or scenarios. We used these data to put together an approximate map showing the minimum or restrictive (OP_R) and maximum or ideal (OP_I) interpretations of the values detailed in the historical documents, taking into account the main hydrographic basins and watersheds as principal defining elements. In our opinion, natural or geographical features could have determined the limits established by the officials of the Portuguese Monarchy for the creation and selection of the royal forests. It is very likely that the topography and the hydrographic network facilitated the extraction and transportation of forest resources. Considered from the viewpoint of the technology, infrastructure and resources of the time, a mountain summit is a natural border that could have marked the area of influence of the forest districts. In Early Modern Europe, States sought woodlands located near waterways of sufficient size to make transportation faster and more economical. 22

212  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet To generate the maps, in addition to the population centres and the hydrographic network, we mainly used the watershed lines23 and the Digital Elevation Model (DEM) to select the hydrographic basins of rivers from the first level to the third level (in descending order of importance) according to their length and the area of watersheds. 24 Hydrographic basins whose surface overlapped by more than 80% of the buffer zone of 30 or 60 km stretching from the Tagus River to the city of Abrantes were selected. ArcGIS Desktop 10.8 and the Coordinate System: ETRS_1989_Portugal_ TM06 (EPSG: 3763) were used. Basic spatial analysis operations were carried out (selection by attributes, area of influence or spatial overlap) to create maps estimating the forest area and the number of trees available per year for the territorial scope of the 1546 Cork Oak Law. 8.2.2 Assessing the forest area and the number of trees available per year within the scope of the 1546 Cork Oak Law When conducting historical studies of Portugal, there are difficulties in finding precise numerical data on the extension (area of the species exploited) and characteristics (number of trees or volumes per species) of woodlands prior to the late 19th century. 25 In addition to the spatial dimension, determining the availability of the resource is a fundamental element in establishing the optimal load capacity or the possible overloads that human activity can exert on forest spaces. To quantify the forest area of Quercus suber, for example, for shipbuilding or other activities that require this resource, the Integrated Suitability for Quercus suber26 was determined, and this data was used to establish different scenarios and assumptions. The cartographic records generated in the previous stage made it possible to estimate the territorial scope of the 1546 Cork Oak Law. In addition, the area of Integrated Suitability for Quercus suber that exists within the proposed geographical limits of the 1546 Cork Oak Law was calculated. Our calculation assumed that only 10% of the forest area produced good-quality trees and high volumes of wood. Forest references for shipbuilding indicate the importance of using good quality trees and with m3 timbers enough. 27 For our study, we proposed productive masses with measured densities of 25 trees per hectare (trees/ha). Our research used conservative estimates to calculate the availability of forest resources in extreme or limited conditions. There are two ways of interpreting a density of 25 trees/ hectares: (a) the mass was a dehesa/montado or (b) in a dense forestry mass (e.g., 400 trees/hectares) of one hectare, only 25 cork oaks were functional/ suitable. With these highly limited assumptions, a quantitative estimate of the number of trees available each year was made considering silvicultural rotations of 100, 125 and 150 years. This restrictive criterion is close to the ideal minimum quality of the wood used for shipbuilding and the period

Sustainability assessment of forest resources 213 required to reach it, as long as 100 years for Quercus suber. The choice of 150 years was determined by using a series to carry out more moderate calculations. These criteria were used to assess the land’s capacity to produce Quercus suber of a suitable standard for building ocean-going ships.

8.3  Results and discussion The morphology of Portugal is not uniform. The northern part of Portugal is mountainous, an extension of the Galician Massif stretching as far as the southern limit of the Serra da Estrêla and the foothills of the Central System. The Douro River, embedded in the rugged relief, crosses this northern part of Portugal. Mainland Portugal is located in the Mediterranean climatic zone with Atlantic influence. Temperatures increase the further south we go, rainfall decreases to aridity and there are also periods of drought. The Tagus is the backbone of the 1546 Cork Oak Law. This river is the natural feature that marks the transition to small mountain ranges and low plateaus, mainly through plains and broad valleys that characterise the centre and south of Portugal. 8.3.1  Proposal for the boundaries of the 1546 Cork Oak Law The 1546 Cork Oak Law was intended to articulate the space given over to the management and protection of Quercus suber. Although scholars have frequently referred to the 1546 Cork Oak Law, it has not been addressed in depth from a geographical point of view that provides full knowledge of the territory. To achieve this purpose, defining the geographical space encompassed by the law is particularly relevant to quantitative analysis, but for a comprehensive analysis, it is essential to establish the geographical scope of action and the location of the resources. The law of 1546 decreed a space for safeguarding all the cork oaks earmarked for naval construction, which extended from the mouth of the Tagus to the city of Abrantes for ten leagues around both banks of the Tagus River. This distance is not only established in the 1546 and 1564 cork oak laws but is also specified in other general laws, such as in the third clause of the regulations of the office of juiz das coutadas of 156028 and in clause 25 of the new and old regulations of the Benavente coutada issued in 1572. 29 These two legal texts are included in the compilation made by Heitor Botelho in 1584. This data was used to draw up a cartographic representation (Map 8.1) that includes a 30-km (OP_R) or 60-km (OP_I) buffer zone extending from the mouth of the Tagus to the city of Abrantes in order to reproduce the geographical area. The map also incorporates the limits of the hydrographic basins of the rivers from the first level to the third level because it is very likely these waterways had a sufficient level of water to transport the timbers.

214  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet Our approach is that the law of 1546 stemmed from both natural criteria (hypsometry and morphology of the terrain, among other factors) and spatial aspects of the waterways (maximum reference distances). The observation and study of these data were the basis for estimating the limits of the 1546 Cork Oak Law. The results obtained from Map 8.1 were used to produce another cartographic representation (Map 8.2) that includes a proposal of the limits, minimum or restrictive (OP_R) and maximum or ideal (OP_I). This second map interprets the distances specified in the law and reflected in the historical documents, considering hydrographic basins (cross contour line of Map 8.1) to be a natural or geographical feature that could have determined the limits established by the officials of the Portuguese Monarchy for the area given over to the extraction of cork oaks for shipbuilding. As a criterion for deciding whether or not to include a hydrographic basin, the complete hydrographic basin was considered provided that more than 80% of it fell within the 30- or 60-km buffer zone. Human societies, with their practical outlook, would have taken advantage of the resources of nearby areas (for example, most likely, part of the Almansor River basin close to the Tagus River), though we did not include them in our proposed limits in order to avoid altering our criteria. The inclusion of sub-basins could have generated more detailed limits, but this avenue will be explored in future research. However, as this research is exploratory, it allows us to work with a range of maximums and minimums to evaluate the said law. The 1546 Cork Oak Law covers between 8.6% and 16.35% of the total area of Continental Portugal depending on whether a buffer zone of 30 or 60 km is considered. The difference between a 30- and a 60-km buffer zone is 689,372.0 hectares. The approximate area under this legislation (Table 8.1) would accordingly range from just over 750,000 ha to under 1,500,000 ha, respectively. 8.3.2 Assessing the forest area and the number of trees available per year within the scope of the 1546 Cork Oak Law Wood is a natural resource that is renewable if properly managed—for example, by the 1546 Cork Oak Law—and has provided goods (fuel, tools, construction materials, etc.) and services to human societies since the dawn of history.30 These characteristics made it a strategic resource for any country, especially in the Middle and Modern Ages.31 Its importance reached such heights that some authors have regarded the Early Modern Period as the “Wood Age”.32 The 1546 Cork Oak Law stemmed from the need to articulate and manage the territory in order to regulate and protect a valuable resource: cork oak forests. Although the underlying reason for the adoption of this law was the Crown’s interest in securing a future supply of cork oaks suitable

Sustainability assessment of forest resources 215

Map 8.1  A 30- or 60-km (in light grey line) buffer zone stretching from the mouth of the Tagus to the city of Abrantes. Hydrographic basins (in cross contour line) of rivers. In addition, some of the main population centres of the forest districts are included under the forest legislation of the time.

216  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet

Map 8.2  E stimated limits of the 30-km (in dashed with one dot line) or 60-km (in cross contour line) buffer zone established by the 1546 Cork Oak Law.

Sustainability assessment of forest resources 217 Table 8.1  Approximate area of the buffer zone of 30 km (in dashed with one dot line in Map 8.2) and 60 km (in cross contour line in Map 8.2) of the 1546 Cork Oak Law (in hectares) Geographical space Rest of Portugal 1546 Cork Oak Law

Hectares 30-km buffer zone (OP_R) 8,142,829.62 767,407.07

Hectares 60-km buffer zone (OP_I) 7,453,473.65 1,456,779.08

for shipbuilding, this wood was also used to produce charcoal for domestic and industrial purposes. Different socio-economic activities require different types and qualities of wood. One of the most demanding was shipbuilding. The quality, origin, and use of the types of wood were so relevant that they ended up being specified in shipbuilding contracts or records.33 Forest masses could be felled selectively (especially for specific pieces for shipbuilding in which quality would have prevailed), but cutting was carried out for other purposes as well. 34 As stated above, wood was multifunctional, and types unsuitable for shipbuilding were put to different uses.35 Sometimes the felling of trees was not selective and entire forest masses were cut down to obtain firewood and charcoal for domestic and industrial purposes.36 Of course, small pieces or the remains of felling shipbuilding trees were also used for firewood and charcoal. In historical Early Modern Age documentation on forestry, there are general and specific references to the location of mountains and areas of forestry activity, among other aspects. 37 Unfortunately, for the period studied here, there are no precise cartographic records for the Kingdom of Portugal of activities related to forest management. At best, there are narrative maps showing the limits of the forests or mountains that made up each of the forest districts, such as the compilation made in 1584 and the regulation of 1605.38 However, it is possible to shed new light on academic discussions by applying new approaches. In this respect, the calculation of Integrated Suitability for Tree Species, in our case Quercus suber (Map 8.3), is the result of integrating the “Soil and Morphological Suitability to Silviculture” map with that of “Bioclimatic Suitability to each of Tree Species and Pastures”. Combining them allows us to obtain a more accurate location for each tree species depending on the ecological value of the soil, the land morphology and the slope.39 These data allow us to ascertain the most suitable theoretical places to find this or other species. From these data (Map 8.3), it is possible to figure out the location and spatial dimension of the availability of Quercus suber. Although this starting point is approximate and based on scenarios, it is the first step towards evaluating the sustainability of resource management and the effects human action has on it.

218  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet

Map 8.3   I ntegrated suitability for Quercus suber (in medium (20%) grey). Estimated limits of the 30-km (in dashed with one dot line) or 60-km (in cross contour line) buffer zone established by the 1546 Cork Oak Law.

Sustainability assessment of forest resources 219 Table 8.2  Extension of the integrated suitability for Quercus suber (in hectares) of the geographical areas studied

Geographical space Rest of Portugal 1546 Cork Oak Law

Percentage Quercus suber of Quercus Quercus suber (in hectares) suber/total (in hectares) (OP_R) area (OP_R) (OP_I) 1,898,711.3 305,303.8

23.3 39.8

1,668,495.1 535,520.0

Percentage of Quercus suber/total area (OP_I) 22.4 36.8

It can be seen from the results shown in Table 8.2 that the potential area of Quercus suber as a proportion of the total area is higher in the spaces under the jurisdiction of the 1546 Cork Oak Law, as well as in the geographical area detailed in the cork law of 1564 for the Sado river. However, the archival data from the early 1500s to 1640 does not provide a single reference to harvesting cork oak timber in the Alcácer do Sal area.40 In the OP_R scenario, about 40% (37% in the case of OP_I) met the optimum conditions for this species compared to 23% for the rest of Portugal. This data indicates that the law stemmed from knowledge of the territory’s resources and, very possibly, spatially optimised its protection. Bearing in mind these figures, the option of a buffer zone of 30 km on each side of the Tagus River, stretching as far as Abrantes, seems more efficient from the perspective of Quercus suber capability potential. The cartographic representation generated (Map 8.3) allowed us to calculate the total area encompassed by the law (Table 8.2). The results are between 30,530.38 ha and 53,552 ha for a buffer zone of 30 or 60 km, respectively. Based on these data, we established that approximately 10% of the territory had available Quercus suber forested area. This scenario points to a relatively scarce availability of forest resources and is well below the minimum value of the forest area in the period 1995–2015.41 Taking the areas resulting from the different assumptions, we then estimated the number of available trees based on a density of 25 trees/ha. Once again, this density is lower than current values.42 Quercineas, such as Quercus suber, usually have a density of between 25 trees/ha and 75 trees/ ha. In addition, silvicultural rotations are generally longer, in the region of 100 or 150 years, although from 75 years upwards was possible. On the basis of the proposed assumptions, the number of available trees was found to range from 763,259.38 (25 trees/ha) in the OP_R scenario to 1,338,800.00 (25 trees/ha) in the OP_I scenario. Table 8.3 shows the potential stocks that could be found and potential resource availability estimates. Our purpose is not to provide an accurate reproduction or calculation of what existed in the period studied but to understand approximately what resources these territories could have provided during the Early Modern Age to meet shipbuilding needs. These findings can shed

220  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet Table 8.3  Assessing the number of trees available in Map 8.3 with a density of 25 trees/ha and cutting rotations of 100, 125 and 150 years

OP_R OP_I

Geographical space

100 years

125 years

150 years

Rest of Portugal 1546 Cork Oak Law Rest of Portugal 1546 Cork Oak Law

47,467.78 7,632.59 41,712.38 13,388.00

37,974.23 6,106.08 33,369.90 10,710.40

31,645.19 5,088.40 27,808.25 8,925.33

light on the supposed processes of deforestation or pressure on the natural environment that are reported in the literature in various fields of study, which have attempted to make quantitative approximations.43 The sustainable use of cork oaks in the OP_R scenario could generate approximately 7,500 trees annually for a 100-year silvicultural rotation (25 trees/ha) and about 5,000 trees for a 150-year silvicultural rotation, assuming that 10% of the whole area was harvestable. In other words, between 750,000 and 500,000 cork oaks could have been cut down in 100 years without putting pressure on the system. In the OP_I scenario, which is somewhat more optimistic, sustainable extraction of between 1,338,800 and 892,533 cork oaks could have been carried out over a 100-year period. Although it is difficult to provide accurate data on the number of large ships constructed annually in Lisbon, the scattered existing information indicates a maximum of 2.5 ships per year44 and most likely slightly below two.45 Thus, it is possible that a maximum of 6,000 or 6,500 cork oaks were requested every year from the shipyards of Lisbon. The frames of the Nossa Senhora dos Martires, made of cork oak, evidence that “these timbers were very crudely cut, and some even exhibited surfaces with preserved cork bark”.46 In other words, “it appears that the cork oaks used were relatively small considering the dimension required for the structural timbers”.47 The author concluded that there was little or no forest management for the cork oaks.48 Therefore, was there a scarcity issue with home-grown cork oaks? How was this possible? Archival data can shed new light on Lisbon shipyards’ need for cork oaks. In 1621, the Crown issued orders for 6,146 cork oaks to be cut to build two new ships and repair others that were already constructed.49 In December 1622, the purveyor of the Portuguese fleets (provedor dos armazéns) calculated that 2 three-deck ocean-going ships due to set sail for India in 1624 required 4,289 cork oaks.50 At the start of 1623, 6,050 cork oaks were deemed to be needed: 5,200 for constructing 2 three-deck galleons to sail to India and 850 for repairs. The following year, the Crown estimated that around 5,403 cork oaks were required to construct 2 threedeck ships. In 1626, the number rose to 6,480 cork oaks, 5,480 for constructing 2 ships and a thousand for repairs. The figure for 1630 was 6,590

Sustainability assessment of forest resources 221 cork oaks, of which 4,500 were earmarked to constructing a four-deck carrack and the remaining (2,090) to repairing 2 three-deck carracks. In 1631, a new ship required around 3,000 cork oaks. In November 1632, the purveyor Rui Correa Lucas submitted a report on the wood needed to build a galleon. 3,200 cork oak trees were necessary to craft different pieces.51 These figures show that there were significant variations in the number of trees required to construct a ship, depending on whether it was a galleon or carrack. They ranged from around 2,200 to 3,200 cork oaks, with the exceptional case of 1630 when 4,500 cork oaks were requested to build a single four-deck carrack. Our results show that Quercus suber trees alone covered the needs indicated by archival data and assumed by scholars.52 As can be seen, our study is based on minimum assumptions, not only with respect to the criterion of minimum stand density (trees/ha) and silvicultural rotation but also the area of Quercus suber forest stands considered. In our case, this species accounts for between 3.98% in OP_R and 3.68% in OP_I of the area considered to fall under the jurisdiction of the 1546 Cork Oak Law, well below current values or the data gathered by Devy Vareta. 53 Our results show that there was sufficient forest capability to sustain human activities. The values obtained for the Quercus suber trees available annually and every hundred years according to the indicated silvicultural rotation would have allowed both the provision of the trees necessary for maritime expansion and the sustainability of the forest and the maintenance of the forest resource in question. In addition, small pieces or remains not suitable for shipbuilding could have been used to produce charcoal for domestic and industrial use. Indeed, cork oak combustion is slow and has a high calorific value, making this species a highly valued source of energy. Forest stands are living systems. Forest cover decreases with logging but grows back and expands with astonishing rapidity once human action is relaxed.54 Drawing on this experience, Portuguese officials could reduce silvicultural rotation or modify tree density to meet specific needs for wood for shipbuilding. However, in similar environmental conditions, this would not have affected the viability of the forest masses or generated deforestation processes unless there was high pressure to take advantage of particular forest areas, a point on which new light needs to be shed. Therefore, deforestation—possibly understood in this historical context as pressure on forest masses in excess of their carrying capacity—would not have been a widespread but a localised issue confined to areas where there was a demand for resources. This data indicates that the need for wood for shipbuilding was not the leading cause of deforestation during the Early Modern Age. This experimental and quantitative approach provides a basis for questioning and interpreting territorial processes and deforestation during the Early Modern Age from a different perspective. The numerical results show that the rhetoric of deforestation was a social construct, as several

222  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet authors have pointed out. The Early Modern States used these arguments to assert their interests in, and domination over, the woodlands in order to prevail over the customs of local inhabitants. The rhetoric adopted by the Monarchy to justify such measures included fear of deforestation or the disappearance of forest masses (there is an extensive bibliography: see, for example, the case studies of Venice and Württemberg or Paul Warde’s overview of most of Europe).55 The results of our study, based on highly restrictive assumptions for the case of Portugal, point to the existence of forest resources within the scope of regulation of the 1546 Cork Oak Law. They allow us to venture to conclude that timber reserves existed and would surely have been sufficient to meet demand. There were probably local limitations or restrictions, apart from the likely numerous difficulties of accessing these reserves, which should be studied in detail in future research.56

8.4 Conclusions Consideration of hydrographic basins as the main element of the limits established in forestry legislation provides a spatial dimension compatible with the technical and accessibility limitations that existed in the Early Modern Age for the extraction of wood and the economic and logistical possibilities of the Portuguese Monarchy. The limits of the forest protection and management areas of the 1546 Cork Oak Law, based on the elements reported in historical texts, seem to correspond to geographical aspects and knowledge of the environment and the resources it provided. The results of Table 8.2 seem fairly conclusive: a larger proportion of this area—about 40% in the OP_R scenario and 37% in the case of OP_I—was suitable for Quercus suber compared to 23% for the rest of Portugal. In addition, these data appear to indicate that the expression “10 leguas derredor” corresponds more closely to OP_R, a buffer zone of 30 km on each side of the Tagus River stretching as far as Abrantes, as it is the more efficient of the two in terms of concentration of resources. To this area can be added the territory included in the 1564 Cork Oak Law relating to the Sado river. The assumption generated—3.98% for OP_R and 3.68% for OP_I of the area considered to fall under the jurisdiction of the 1546 Cork Oak Law—is well below current and historical data. Our results indicate that between 750,000 and 500,000 cork oaks could have been cut in the OP_R scenario and between 1,338,800 and 892,533 cork oaks in the OP_I scenario over a period of 100 years in a sustainable manner or without putting pressure on the system. This data shows that sufficient forest resources were available to address the need for Quercus suber wood for shipbuilding and even industrial/domestic construction, as expressed in related literature, without compromising the viability and sustainability parameters of the forest mass.

Sustainability assessment of forest resources 223

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 1 4 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

Costa (1997); Domingues (2004). For these policies, see the contribution of Trapaga-Monchet in this volume. Costa (1997); Castro (2005); Domingues (2004). Castro (2005, 105–147). Devy-Vareta (1986, 28–30). Costa (1997); see the introduction for a brief state-of-art on the matter of forest destruction due to shipbuilding. Reboredo and Pais (2012, 2014a). Trapaga-Monchet (2019a, 396–425). Romero-Calcerrada and Trapaga-Monchet (2022). Ramm (2019). European Environment Agency (2016). Silva et al. (2013a). Silva et al. (2013b). Biblioteca de Ajuda (BA), Manuscrito (Ms.), 44-XIII-61. Ramm (2019). Leão (1569). Neves (1993, vol. 6, 44–45). BA, Ms. 44-XIII -61, ff. 146v-147r. Cortesão (1993, 70–71). Romero-Calcerrada and Trapaga-Monchet (2022, 146–158). Trapaga-Monchet and García Rodríguez (2017, 73–77). Appuhn (2009); Bamford (1956); Martínez-González (2015); Wing (2015). Silva et al. (2013a). Silva et al. (2013b). Radich and Alves (2000, 11–83). Magalhães et al. (2015). Domínguez-Delmás (2015); Reboredo and Pais (2012). BA, Ms. 44-XIII-61, ff. 146v-147r. BA, Ms. 44-XIII-61, ff. 54v–55r. Slee (2007). Melero Guilló (1991). Perlin (2005); Williams (2010). Gasch-Tomás et al. (2017a, 2017b). De Aranda y Antón (1999). Labrador-Arroyo and Trapaga-Monchet (2017, 293–327). Reboredo and Pais (2014a). Devy-Vareta (1985). Trapaga-Monchet (2019a, 410–420). Magalhães et al. (2015). Biblioteca e Arquivo Histórico do Ministerio de Obras Púbricas (BAHMOP), Montaria-mor do reino (MMR), nucleo 8 and 9; Trapaga-Monchet (2019b, 119–121). Sousa Uva (2019); Sousa Uva and Pacheco Faias (2019). Sousa Uva (2019); Sousa Uva and Pacheco Faias (2019). Domínguez-Delmás (2015); Reboredo and Pais (2014b). Costa (1997, 287–288). Trapaga-Monchet (2022, 230–248). Castro (2005, 112–115). Castro (2005, 141). Castro (2005, 142). Trapaga-Monchet (2022, 240).

224  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet 0 5 51 52 53 54 55 56

BAHMOP, MMR, núcleo 9. Trapaga-Monchet (2022, 228–229). Reboredo and Pais (2014a, 2014b); Domínguez-Delmás (2015). Sousa Uva (2019); Sousa Uva and Pacheco Faias (2019); Devy-Vareta (1999). Williams (2000). Appuhn (2009); Warde (2006a, 2006b). Aragón-Ruano (2019).

Bibliography Appuhn, K. (2009). A Forest on the Sea: Environmental Expertise in Renaissance Venice, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Aragón-Ruano, Á. (2019). “‘Ríos de madera’. Recursos forestales e hídricos para la Real Armada durante el siglo XVIII en Guipúzcoa y Navarra”, Tiempos Modernos: Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 426–455. Bamford, P.W. (1956). Forests and French Sea Power 1660–1789, Toronto: Toronto University Press. Castro, F. (2005). The Pepper Wreck: A Portuguese Indiaman at the Mouth of the Tagus River, College Station, TX: Texas A & M University Press. Cortesão, J. (1993). Influência dos descobrimentos portugueses na história da civilização, Lisbon: Impr. Nacional-Casa da Moeda. Costa, L. (1997). Naus e galeões na ribeira de Lisboa: a construção naval no século XVI para a Rota do Cabo, Cascais: Patrimonia Historica. De Aranda y Antón, G. (1999). La carpintería y la industria naval en el siglo XVIII, Madrid: Instituto de Historia y Cultura Naval. Devy-Vareta, N. (1985). “Para uma geografia histórica da floresta portuguesa: as matas medievais e a ‘coutada velha’ do Rei”, Revista da Faculdade de Letras: Geografia, 1, 1, 47–73. (1986). “Para uma geografia histórica da floresta portuguesa: do declínio das matas medievais à política florestal do Renascimento (séc. XV e XVI)”, Revista da Faculdade de Letras: Geografia, 1, 2, 5–37. (1999). “Investigación sobre la Historia Forestal portuguesa en los siglos XIX y XX: Orientaciones y lagunas”, Historia Agraria, 18, 57–94. Domingues, F. (2004). Os navios do mar oceano: teoria e empiria na arquitectura naval portuguesa dos séculos XVI e XVII, Lisbon: Centro de Historia da Universidade de Lisboa. Domínguez-Delmás, M., et al. (2015). “Tree-rings, Forest History and Cultural Heritage: Current State and Future Prospects of Dendroarchaeology in the Iberian Peninsula”, Journal of Archaeological Science, 57, 180–196. European Environment Agency (EEA) (2016). European Digital Elevation Model (EU-DEM), Version 1.1. European Environment Agency (EEA) under the framework of the Copernicus programme. https://land.copernicus.eu/imagery-in-situ/ eu-dem/eu-dem-v1.1?tab=metadata Gasch-Tomás, J.L., Trapaga-Monchet, K. and Trindade, A.R. (2017a). “Erratum: Shipbuilding in Times of War: Contracts for the Construction of Ships and Provision of Supplies in the Spanish Empire in the Early Seventeenth Century”, International Journal of Maritime History, 29, 2, 476. (2017b). “Shipbuilding in Times of War: Contracts for the Construction of Ships and Provision of Supplies in the Spanish Empire in the Early Seventeenth Century”, International Journal of Maritime History, 29, 1, 187–192.

Sustainability assessment of forest resources 225 Labrador-Arroyo, F. and Trapaga-Monchet, K. (2017). “La configuración del espacio y la explotación forestal de un enclave singular: el Real Sitio del Soto de Roma durante la dinastía Habsburgo”, Studia Histórica. Historia Moderna, 39, 3, 293–327. Leão, Duarte Nunes do (1569). Leis extravagantes/Collegidas e Relatadas pelo Licenciado Duarte Nunez do Lião; per mandado do muito alto e muito poderoso rei Dom Sebastião, Nosso Senhor, Lisbon: Real Imprensa da Universidade. Magalhães, M.R., Müller, A. and Ferreira Silva, J. (2015). Aptidão Integrada ao Sobreiro (Quercus suber L.) para Portugal Continental, LEAF/ISA/ULisboa. Available at: http://epic-webgis-portugal.isa.utl.pt/ Martínez-González, A.J. (2015). Las superintendencias de montes y plantíos (1574–1748): derecho y política forestal para las armadas en la Edad Moderna, Valencia: Tirant lo Blanch. Melero Guilló, M.J. (1991). “‘A la mar madera’: La madera en la arquitectura naval española”, in B. Torres Ramírez (ed.), IX Jornadas de Andalucía y América: Andalucía, América y el mar, Huelva: Universidad de Santa María de la RábidaDiputación de Huelva, 145–157. Neves, C. (1993). História florestal, aquícola e cinegética: coletânea de documentos existentes no Arquivo Nacional da Torre do Tombo (1553-1583), Lisbon: Direcção Geral das Florestas, vol. 6. Perlin, J. (2005). A Forest Journey: The Story of Wood and Civilization, Woodstock, Vermont: Countryman Press. Radich, M.C. and Alves, A.A. (2000). Dois séculos da floresta em Portugal: séculos XIX e XX, Lisbon: Celpa–Associação da Indústria Papeleira. Ramm, F. (2019). “Portugal: OpenStreetMap Data in Layered GIS Format”, (Data/ Maps Copyright 2018 Geofabrik GmbH and OpenStreetMap Contributors. Map tiles: Creative Commons BY-SA 2.0 Data: ODbL 1.0). Reboredo, F. and Pais, J. (2012). “A construção naval e a destruição do coberto florestal em Portugal—Do Século XII ao Século XX”, Ecologi@, 4, 31–42. (2014a). “Evolution of Forest Cover in Portugal: A Review of the 12th–20th Centuries”, Journal of Forestry Research, 25, 2, 249–256. (2014b), “Evolution of Forest Cover in Portugal: From the Miocene to the Present”, in F. Reboredo (ed.), Forest Context and Policies in Portugal. Present and Future Challenges, New York: Springer International Publishing, 1–37. Romero-Calcerrada, R. and Trapaga-Monchet, K. (2022). “La ley del alcornoque de 1546 y la ordenanza del Monteiro-Mor de 1605: Cartografía y disponibilidad de recursos forestales”, in K. Trapaga-Monchet and L.A. Polo Romero (coord..), Historia, Sociedad y Medio ambiente: la sostenibilidad, Madrid: Sílex, 143–179. Silva, J.F., Magalhães, M.R. and Cunha, N.S. (2013a). Linhas de Festo de Portugal Continental. LEAF/ISA/Ulisboa. LEAF/ISA/Ulisboa. Available at: http://epicwebgis-portugal.isa.utl.pt/ (2013b). Classificação hierárquica e toponímica das Linhas de Água de Portugal Continental. LEAF/ISA/Ulisboa. LEAF/ISA/Ulisboa. Available at: http://epic-webgis-portugal.isa.utl.pt/ Slee, B. (2007). “Landscape Goods and Services Related to Forestry Land Use”, in Ü. Mander, H. Wiggering and K. Helming (eds.), Multifunctional Land Use: Meeting Future Demands for Landscape Goods and Services, Berlin-Heidelberg: Springer, 65–82. Sousa Uva, J. (coord.) (2019). 6.° Inventário Florestal Nacional (IFN6). Instituto da Conservação da Natureza e das Florestas (ICNF).

226  R. Romero-Calcerrada and K. Trapaga-Monchet Sousa Uva, J. and Pacheco Faias, S. (coord.) (2019). 6.° Inventário Florestal Nacional (IFN6). Anexo Técnico. Versão 1.0 I. Instituto da Conservação da Natureza e das Florestas (ICNF). Trapaga-Monchet, K. (2019a). “Guerra y deforestación en el reino de Portugal (siglos XVI–XVII)”, Tiempos Modernos: Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 396–425. (2019b). “No es madera para vasallos, sino del rey. Las políticas forestales de los Habsburgo en Portugal (1609–1640)”, Obradoiro de Historia Moderna, 28, 105–134. (2022). “Supplying Timber for his Majesty’s Fleets: Forest Resources and Maritime Struggle in Portugal (1621-1634)”, in A. Crespo Solana, F. Castro and N. Nayling (eds.), Heritage and the Sea. Volume I: Maritime History and Archaeology of the Global Iberian World (15th -18th centuries), Cham: Springer, 215–248. Trapaga-Monchet, K. and García Rodríguez, M.J. (2017). “Los aprovechamientos forestales de los bosques portugueses desde una perspectiva cartográfica durante la Unión Ibérica (c. 1580–1640)”, in N. Rodríguez Ortega (ed.), III Congreso Internacional Humanidades Digitales Hispánicas: Sociedades, políticas, saberes, Málaga: Humanidades Digitales Hispánicas. Sociedad Internacional/ Universidad de Málaga, 73–78. Warde, P. (2006a). Ecology, Economy and State Formation in Early Modern Germany, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. (2006b). “Fear of Wood Shortage and the Reality of the Woodland in Europe, c.1450–1850”, History Workshop Journal, 62, 1, 28–57. Williams, M. (2000). “Dark Ages and Dark Areas: Global Deforestation in the Deep Past”, Journal of Historical Geography, 26, 1, 28–46. (2010). Deforesting the Earth: From Prehistory to Global Crisis: An Abridgment, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wing, J. T. (2015). Roots of Empire. Forests and State Power in Early Modern Spain, c.1500–1750, Leiden: Brill.

9

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies from the Navarrese Pyrenees for the Royal Navy at the end of the 18th century Óscar Riezu-Elizalde

Universidad de Navarra, [email protected] 9.1 Introduction The Irati Forest is an example of forest conservation. However, the important point is that this is not an exceptional case but rather that, in any logging operation involving wood destined for the Royal Navy, the forests were scrupulously protected to avoid deforestation. The reason is as simple as that: as the Navy was the key element of 18th-century Spanish defence policy, it was necessary for Spain to have well-preserved and thriving forests to ensure the continuous regeneration, growth and conservation of the fleets that underpinned Spanish power. To achieve this, it was necessary to carry out local measures such as planting and letting trees grow, among others, but more strategic measures were required too, such as searching for new forests and woodlands that could be used as timber sources while other places “rested”. This was one of the reasons why Irati began to be exploited. The Catalan forests, from which timber had been extracted throughout the first half of the 18th century, required a respite, so forestry exploitation was shifted to other places to allow time for replanting to repopulate the forests, as we can see in these two references: Many of them have already been razed to the ground by developers who have been cutting down trees since the beginning of the century.1 Concluding by proposing that due to this exorbitant shortage and the absence of large pieces of oak in Catalonia and the need to give rise to the repopulation of the forests, a contract should be made to supply wood from Italy or elsewhere. 2 Therefore, the Eastern Pyrenean area, which had been the most heavily exploited during the first half of the 18th century due to its proximity to the Mediterranean Sea, was left to rest, and the forests of Aragón and Navarre began to be exploited more intensively. DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-10

228  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde Another important factor in the sustainability of the Spanish forestry industry, apart from the need for timber, was the coexistence and understanding with the local communities. This text addresses how the Royal Navy and local dwellers had to adapt to each other to make shipbuilding fruitful for both. The State needed the aid of the local inhabitants and therefore it was necessary for logging not to impede or disturb the local economy. To this end, it was important to continue to allow some access to forest resources, albeit with limitations, so that the best parts of the forest could be used for shipbuilding. Transporting the wood obtained was another issue on which the State and local communities were required to coincide to ensure that forest exploitation could be sustainable in time and place. Overland transport—the enormous number of oxen needed to haul the timber—triggered problems and protests from the owners of the oxen. The owners were disadvantaged by having to give up their oxen in exchange for a reward that often was less than what they got for exploiting them in farming their crops. River transport—the constructions we will go on to analyse, which were absolutely necessary for river transport to take place—affected the river bed, posing a threat to the mills in the villages through which the river flowed. Therefore, lock closure times were stipulated here, so that both industries could coexist and timber transport could be sustainable. In short, the sustainability of the forest in the 18th century not only hinged on reforestation, planting new trees, and allowing saplings to grow; these measures, which are still important, were only the tip of a much larger iceberg. The sustainability of the forest was intrinsic to any logging policy that was developed, and therefore this was the basis of timber extraction. It is important to note that this idea of sustainability was not driven by environmental awareness but by political needs. Timber was essential to preserving Spain’s international status. First of all, sustainability was pursued in conjunction with the place where the timber was harvested, taking into account the inhabitants, the rivers, the local economies, and so on. It was important to take care of not only the forest but also of the people who lived in the surrounding area. And finally, the work directly involved in caring for the forest was developed. These aspects of social and ecological sustainability were taken into account in the Irati Forest. This chapter will go on to examine what measures or environmental advances were applied in the region as a result of the establishment of the forestry industry in the Irati Mountains and surrounding areas. Furthermore, this essay sheds light on the reasons that led the Royal Navy to turn its attention to the Irati Forest as a source of supplies for the Royal Navy. It also addresses the policies adopted by the Royal Navy to extract wood from the Irati Forest, as well as highlights the issues that arose when the cutting and transportation of timber were performed.

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 229

9.2  The Irati Forest and the Navy In northeast Navarre, past the Abodi mountain, there is a large forest which extends along the valley of the Irati river, continuing through the Pyrenees to the French region of Pyrénées-Atlantiques. In the last third of the 18th century, this place, known as the Irati Forest or woodland, proved to be a key location for supplying timber to the Royal Navy. Starting in 1765, the State policy on wood supplies again became important in the Pyrenees. During the 16th and 17th centuries, these areas had provided huge quantities of timber for the Mediterranean and the Atlantic shipyards, above all for oars, mainly in the parts closest to France. With the arrival of the Bourbons in Spain in 1700 and after the reforms that took place in the Royal Navy, the Pyrenean area furthest from the main arsenals was side-lined. Only a few Catalan areas enjoyed a certain importance during the first third of the century.3 Different locations began to be used as sources of timber when the State shifted its wood policies in the Pyrenees. In 1766, Joaquín Jovellar signed a contract for the supply of Aragonese timber from the Ansó and Hecho valleys for Cartagena’s Arsenal. That same year saw the beginning of the concession granted to the Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas for the supply of Navarrese wood from the area close to the river Bidasoa to deliver to the Ferrol Arsenal.4 It was around this time that the Crown became interested in the Irati woodlands. This large forest, mainly made up of not only firs and beeches but also, to a lesser extent, pines and oaks, provided the Royal Navy with the possibility of receiving supplies of the majority of tree species in demand from the same location. This combination of tree species of interest to the Navy and the possibility of sending the wood to two arsenals led Julián de Arriaga, then Navy Secretary, to request reports on the quality of the timber produced in Irati in 1769.5 Thus, proposals from different contractors on different logging methods began to appear. One of the main advantages of logging in Irati was that its geographic situation, practically in the mid-point between two groups of rivers, made it possible to supply both Ferrol and Cartagena arsenals at the same time. Transporting timber to the Mediterranean Sea appeared to be relatively simple. The wood just had to follow the natural course of the river Irati until it reached the river Aragón, which, in turn, flowed into the river Ebro. From there, after straightforward navigation, the wood reached the Mediterranean town of Tortosa, from where it was shipped to Cartagena. In contrast, transporting wood to Ferrol Arsenal was considerably more complicated. It was clear that the wood had to be transported along a stretch of the river Irati, but then it had to be taken overland by oxen to the river Bidasoa, from where it was transported to Fuenterrabía. It was then shipped from there to Ferrol. The problem arose in relation to which land route should be followed for this journey. Juan Miguel Zatarain and

230  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde Miguel Antonio de Iriarte Belandía submitted one of the first proposals in 1769. They were in favour of transporting the timber by river to Aoiz and then by land to the Bidasoa.6 José Eugenio Labiano launched another interesting proposal in 1774, which involved using the river only as far as Orbara. From there the wood would be carted by land to the Bidasoa via the villages Burguete, Eugui and Irurita. The wood began its navigation on the Bidasoa in Irurita.7 Therefore, the overland transport was the only section that varied among the different proposals and contractors. The rivers were natural express routes, which allowed the timber to be transported much easier than by land. During the 1780s, Julián de Vidaror, a contractor who worked for the Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas,8 started to follow a new route, which eventually became the main one. It involved taking the wood down from the Irati to the village of Garralda, and through the following villages: Viscarret, Iragui, Arraiz, Elzaburu and Santesteban. The timber reached the Bidasoa at the latter.9 This route, although less direct than that proposed by José Eugenio Labiano (see Map 9.1), made it possible to circumvent the mountainous terrain of the Erro and Esteribar valleys. The most difficult stretch was crossing Mount Labiaga, located between Elzaburu and Santesteban, though it was less complicated than Labiano’s route. Even though the State, Finance and Navy Secretaries (Secretarías de Estado, Hacienda y Marina) had studied the proposals for transporting

Map 9.1  Map comparing the routes of José Eugenio Labiano and Julián Vidaror with relief.

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 231 wood from the Irati Forest and considered the logging projects to be viable, the State did not support harvesting timber in the Irati until the international situation changed.10 Traditionally, naval historiography has studied the subject of wood supplies from the point of view of different geographical areas, whose importance increased as other regions became deforested.11 There was no lack of wood in Europe in the 18th century and the European States looked after it since it was their most important raw material. However, it is important to view logging in the 18th century from a global perspective. From the end of the 1760s, Spain had implemented a policy of encouraging timber purchases from the Baltic. For this purpose, a Spanish trading company was also established in St Petersburg to closely monitor exports of Russian wood to Spain.12 This was due to clear competition with Great Britain for the control of Russian exports. In this connection, the outbreak of the war with England in 1779 dashed Spanish hopes of controlling exports from the Baltic due to the difficulty of Spanish ships accessing Baltic waters during the conflict.13 It was at this time that the Spanish Treasury, aware of the difficulty of bringing wood from the Baltic, decided to support logging in the Irati Forest. In 1777, the ship’s captain Placido Correa undertook an expedition all around the Pyrenees to discover what the situation was, who the timber merchants were in each location, which wood species could be logged in the different spots and the sites of interest for timber extraction. This inspection was carried out in the entire Pyrenean region, from Catalonia to the Irati area, and the Irati woodlands were recognised as one of the most promising places for supplying timber for the Navy. Here it was possible to find a large quantity of firs, which was the most similar wood to the Scots pine used for masts that was found in the Iberian Peninsula. Planking timber and beech trees could moreover be logged here, although the most important type of timber was long poles used for masts. Therefore, in 1779, with the war having broken out and the difficulty of accessing the Baltic, it was decided to send Placido Correa as commissioner for logging in Irati Forest in charge of felling and transporting the timber:14 In order to attend to the very important objective of ensuring that there is no shortage of construction timber, especially masting, which will be very difficult to obtain from the North in the present circumstances, the King has resolved that the ship’s captain Placido Correa should go immediately to the mountains that he has indicated to see about the provision of a large quantity of pieces of spruce pine.15 The commission was established at the intersection of the Urbelcha and Urchuria streams, where they flow into the river Irati. All the tree species of interest to the Navy could be found on the two banks of these two streams, in the foothills of the mountains, and it was therefore an ideal location. Likewise, the need for proximity with the Irati river to transport the wood

232  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde made this one of the few places from which wood could be continuously extracted without an excessively high cost. The first problem that Placido Correa had to solve was to control the river, converting it into an express route for timber delivered to the arsenals. Rafts called almadías were used to transport the wood along the river. They basically consisted of several trunks joined together to form a floating platform, which was steered with long oars located both at the front and at the rear of the platform.16 These floating vessels had been used throughout the Pyrenees, although with different names, to transport wood from the mountains to the riverside towns since at least the 13th century.17 Their main advantage was their extremely low cost and above all the fact that they allowed wood to be taken quickly along rivers with very variable volumes. The Irati, like most rivers in the area, has a nivo-pluvial regime, a period of high water from November to April due to winter rainfall and snow melting in spring. This means that from May to October its volume decreases considerably. This hinders the navigation of the river, even making it impossible. Therefore, to be able to continue navigating the river during the months with a lower water volume, it was essential to build a series of hydraulic engineering works allowing sections with greater volume to be created by means of dams and locks. It was also crucial to undertake continuous cleaning work in the river to facilitate the transportation of wood. This cleaning work consisted of cutting branches and trees, which could enter the river bed from the banks, and detonating large rocks that were encountered along the route.18 There were not, however, only natural hazards when it came to extracting wood from the Irati Forest. The Pyrenean border had always very diffuse limits, particularly since the dynastic union forged by the War of the Spanish Succession, when relations between the two States were good and intense surveillance of the border was not required. This situation of brotherhood between the two nations led to considerable French intervention in the Spanish forests close to the Pyrenean border, as shown by Pablo de la Fuente. He asserted that during these years the French harvested timber for Toulon mainly from Catalan forests, especially the Requesens woodlands. They also tried to carry out felling in the Roncal Valley, a Navarrese Valley in the Western Pyrenees. Although they were unsuccessful,19 the mere fact that they attempted to do so demonstrates that French incursions in the Pyrenees were widespread all along the border and not a purely Catalan phenomenon. These actions, which highlight the lack of control that existed in the management and government of the border forests, also posed a major environmental problem. The French cut trees without any supervision from Spanish institutions or authorities, which meant that they did not comply with any of the forestry care and conservation measures that the Pyrenean municipalities and communities applied to their forests—compulsory for any “asentista” (private contractor) wishing to cut wood in their forests.

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 233 In addition, from 1730 to 1766 the Spanish wood supply policy abandoned logging in the Pyrenean forests, as a result of which French incursions into Spanish forests close to the border in search of timber became common. Therefore, when Placido Correa carried out his inspection of all the Pyrenean forests in 1777, he reported the problem that existed with the French. In his report, after explaining who the Spanish contractors or timber merchants operating in the Spanish forests of the Pyrenees were, and from where they obtained their resources, he included a separate paragraph as follows: Already for the French, all the wood from Aran has been taken to that kingdom either via the river Gerona or by land to whose valley there are several paths from the mountains that lead to France and up to 15 mountain ranges, 6 of which are governed by the French and are used to send more than 33,000 planks to France every year by horseback. Also at the border, the mountains of Guistar, San Juan del Plan and the dry port of La Pez (where they wanted to open communication or an easy passage to Spain, with a mine or tunnel through rock, work on which was soon abandoned), Puigcerdá and the dry port of Tosa (from where they also extract a great deal of wheat and other grains) are also recognised as being devastated, Siresa and Mount Irati, enjoying in this the part of Urbelcha to the stream of Idaibea, so without reservation, that when asked, those who cut wood said they do not need a licence from Spain as it is their territory, even though the maps express the opposite and the limits would form a very vicious circle within our possessions. 20 This paragraph shows how both the Treasury and the Navy Secretary of the Spanish State completely lacked control over the precious Pyrenean forests. In addition to the massive number of planks that departed for France each year from the Arán valley alone (33,000), the impunity with which the French cut wood in the Spanish forests was striking. They went so far as to say that it was in their own area, out of ignorance, since the border was so vague. At the time, it was difficult to know whether a certain mountain belonged either to France or Spain. Therefore, when the Irati logging commission was established and the forest began to be continuously and systematically exploited, problems started to arise with the French who had exploited this forest until then. The French were logging in the area between the Idabea canal and the Urbelcha stream, that is to say very close to where the commission had been set up. There was also a series of constructions in the form of shelters erected by the French in this area to protect the felled timber from the rain, as well as a series of maize plantations. They were therefore well established and the Spanish presence gave rise to friction, since the interests of Placido Correa’s commission clashed with the interests of the French

234  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde timber merchants. In addition, these quarrels made it difficult to carry out forest conservation and reforestation measures correctly. It was therefore essential, for both the commission led by Correa and for the interests of the Navy, to establish effective control over the entire area of exploitation of the Irati Mountains. The French defence of what they considered to be their forests meant that replanting could not take place. It also meant that exploitation was more intense in certain areas and could not be distributed throughout the forest, as a result of which certain places suffered greater environmental damage, because entering the area where the French were established was regarded as an aggression and was therefore avoided—that is, until they went too far. The first issues arose in 1781 when the Spanish operators expelled from the area several French citizens who were working there and destroyed their shelters. However, the conflict did not really escalate until 1783. A clash between Spanish and French operators led the French to refuse to leave the area and threaten to burn the masting felled by the Spanish. When they attempted to set fire to it, the Spanish operators went to stop the aggressor, who pulled out a knife. The Frenchman died in the confrontation. These conflicts led the Marquis de Campenne to write to Placido Correa to request explanations for what was occurring and claim French sovereignty over the area being exploited by the French timber merchants. Placido Correa met the Marquis, and the French realised that the land they claimed was theirs was in fact Spanish: Then they showed me a geographical map saying that their court had sent it to me as fair and very exact as described by Monsiur Rousel, geographer of His Most Christian Majesty with the agreement of Archbishop Marca and our commissioners, but after I pointed out to them in it that the dividing line passed over Irabi-Soroa and the formation of the Urbelcha and Idaibea streams much more than I had imagined, their profound silence satisfied my wishes. And although, as a result of these conclusions, they went into another room, apparently resenting each other for having let me see those documents before they had been instructed in what was prejudicial to them, they did not raise any other objection, but rather we said goodbye with the most demonstrative outward expressions of friendship, mixed with my pleasure that in any representation they would take my letter into account. 21 The border problems ended after this meeting. Spanish possession of this land was acknowledged and it became possible to exploit the area without French interference. To plan suitable interventions in the forest and to ensure its sustainability, two systems were set up, one for the appropriate rehabilitation of the forest and the other for the conservation of the wood that had already been cut to prevent it from rotting. The Irati Timber Commission had to plant

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 235 the same number of trees that were cut down. These plantings ensured the future of the forest and their growth needed to be carefully monitored. When the first saplings grew, they had to be pruned and a series of guides put in place so that they developed straight and firm in order to be useful to the Navy in the future. Every year these trees had to be tended to and the smaller branches had to be pruned so that they could be pulled off by hand without using an axe. 22 This ensured that there was no massive deforestation of the forest and created an economically and ecologically sustainable system that made it possible to extract timber and conserve the forest’s richness. Moreover, the workers of the Irati timber commission, who lived with their families in the forest itself, were obliged to plant at least three trees per year next to their houses. 23 The wood itself, once cut, was stored under roofs called “tinglados”. These constructions protected the wood from the rain and snow that were so common in that part of Navarre. During these years and until 1790, work continued in a similar way under the command of Placido Correa, with a constant effort to improve the transportation and exploitation of the wood and to ensure that there were no further problems with the French. After this initial stage of logging in the Irati Forest, in 1790 José Javier Argaiz, previously minister of the Cámara de Comptos, was appointed head of the Irati timber commission. 24 His first task was to repair the dams and locks damaged by the floods of 1787, which also affected the river Irati. It was mainly the Aribe and Orbaiceta locks which needed repairing. As a result, Argaiz proposed what was his main project at the helm of the Irati Forest timber commission. At this point, Spanish mistrust of the French was growing due to the French revolution. Argaiz therefore proposed creating a village where the forest commission camp was located. They would seek settlers from the nearby provinces (Navarre, Gipuzkoa, Álava, Biscay and Aragón), who would work in the forests and would protect the location in the event of a border conflict: With only the sacrifice of the income from the capital of the works, the conservation and regeneration of the forest is assured as far as possible, a new town is formed, the profits of the commission are put to the service of this crown and more peace and tranquillity is achieved in the peaceful possession. 25 Argaiz wanted to increase the number of families residing in the location from 4 to 20. This required erecting 20 houses for the new families. These accommodations would be handed over to the families at no cost. In return, they were only required to plant and take care of a number of trees near their homes to ensure the conservation and maintenance of the forest. 26 Argaiz also wanted a church to be built, in addition to accommodation for the head of the commission and his subordinates, and four new

236  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde sheds to protect the timber from weather hazards (mainly rain and snow). The Irati Forest became a border territory more similar to a presidio on the American frontier besieged by the threat of Indians than to a traditional forest-logging site. It was necessary to colonise the Irati to be able to control it. This need became even more urgent following the French revolution of 1789. In the eyes of the Spanish, the monarchy guaranteed control over the French and it was feared that, without it, any border disputes and claims would escalate into an armed conflict. Argaiz therefore believed it was necessary not only to increase the population but also to supply weapons to the settlers in the event of a clash with the French. If they wanted to maintain control of the forest it was necessary to invest in its defence. The purpose of Argaiz in increasing the number of houses and families is based mainly on the fact that the forest cannot be relied on at present owing to the very small number of families, 4, that exist according to the plan, leaving this valuable area defenceless against the possible scheming of the frontiersmen, who, when they lived subject to the strict obedience of their sovereign, announced that they were going to burn the sawmill and all the wood they found deposited on the pretext that the land was theirs. […] The crimes triggered by this unfortunately freedom are to be feared unless they are opposed with resistance to keep them in check, and if necessary they should be taught a lesson in the part where they have always posed a menace. 27 In addition to defending the territory, Argaiz also sought to improve the transport of the timber extracted. Until then, the timber that was extracted in the upper parts of the Urbelcha and Urchuria streams was transported to the camp by dragging it. Argaiz proposed change. He wanted the wood to be transported by water from the very beginning. For this to be possible, it was necessary to make both the Urbelcha and the Urchuria streams navigable by ensuring they had sufficient volume to be able to transport the timber. In this case it was not intended to use almadías but rather loose timber. The construction of around 20 dams was planned on these two streams to be able to change the means of transporting timber to the camp, where they were attached to form almadías. 28 These large-scale projects, despite having been approved and begun to be implemented, were doomed to fail due to the war. The French incursion of 1793 in the context of the War of the Convention destroyed all plans for the Irati, in addition to all the constructions already existing in the location. An attempt was made to recover forest logging after the war. By then Argaiz had died and Simón Navarro was the new commissioner, 29 but he did not achieve the intensity of logging in the forest that existed before the war. The Peninsular War put an end to forest logging in the Irati for the Navy after around 20 years of activity of the timber industry.

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 237

9.3  Two routes, two systems of transporting wood As mentioned earlier, one of the main reasons why the Navy turned its attention to the Irati Forest was that it allowed different timber species to be extracted via two routes: one which combined river and land transport to reach the Cantabrian Sea, and another purely river route to the Mediterranean. The most frequently used land route was the one described above, created by the contractor Julián Vidaror. Transporting wood overland involved oxen and carts to avoid dragging it. Around 500 oxen had to be used for the stretch from Garralda to Santesteban. However, this huge need for oxen was mainly concentrated between Arraiz and the Labiaga mountain, where 224 oxen were required due to the difficulty of the terrain. Three methods were employed to obtain such a high number of oxen. Firstly, the contractor or the company in charge of transporting the timber provided a series of oxen from among those that they had available for transport. If these were not sufficient, they turned to the local population and requested volunteers to offer their oxen in exchange for wages. In this case, for each pair of oxen, local dwellers were paid between 11 and 13 reales plus one extra real for each return league that they travelled. When the volunteers failed to provide sufficient oxen, the contractor resorted to obliging the population to place their oxen at the service of timber transport. They were also paid wages for this, albeit a smaller sum: six reales plus one extra real for each return league.30 Of the approximately 500 oxen required for this route, 284 were forcibly recruited, 168 volunteered, and only 60 were provided by the contractor. Therefore, the burden of the effort was borne almost entirely by the local population, who had to make their resources, in this case oxen, available to the State. This vast requirement for oxen often meant that they had to abandon their usual tasks. The local economy was thus forcibly brought to a standstill to devote efforts to transporting the timber. This situation triggered protests and complaints to the local justice from the owners of the oxen.31 Once the wood reached Santesteban, it was loaded onto barges (gabarras or chalanas) and taken to Fuenterrabía.32 From here the timber could be distributed to the ports of San Sebastián and Lezo and finally shipped to Ferrol’s Arsenal.33 It was important for this arsenal to be able to receive this Pyrenean wood, since it made it less dependent on Baltic imports.34 The other destination of timber from Irati was the Cartagena Arsenal, located on the Mediterranean coast. For this the simplest route was to follow the natural courses of the rivers until they reached the Mediterranean Sea in Tortosa. Throughout Europe, the easiest way to transport timber to the sea was following the river courses that constituted natural express routes, allowing the timber to be extracted with the minimum effort possible and at the lowest possible cost. In Germany, the Rhine was used to stock timber in Hamburg.35 In France, timber reached the sea thanks to the rivers, which

238  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde led to Bordeaux.36 In Russia, wood from Kazan arrived at the Baltic Sea via the rivers that flowed into St Petersburg.37 Finally, in Transylvania, the river Mureș was used as a trading artery between Hungary and Romania for all kinds of goods.38 As for Spain, in addition to the transportation of Pyrenean wood, which will be addressed later, a notable case is timber from the Sierra del Segura. In this case, river transport was used to supply the Cádiz and Cartagena Arsenals.39 In the Pyrenees timber was transported to the south by navigating the small Pyrenean river’s courses in rafts, called almadías in Navarre, nabatas in Aragón and rai in Catalonia. These names refer to the same rudimentary vessel, which made it possible to float the timber downstream in rivers with a very low water volume. The main challenge for these vessels was the seasonal variations of the water level in the Pyrenean rivers, which meant that the season for the descent of the almadías was concentrated in a few months. The first measure that needed to be taken in the Irati was therefore to increase the number of months in which the almadías could travel downstream, making it possible to transport timber during practically the whole year. The Navy’s timber needs were continuous and required a steady supply all year long. To achieve this, it was necessary to build constructions on the river to artificially increase the water volume in certain areas when the almadías passed, allowing the vessels to reach areas where the natural volume was sufficient. Pedro Vicente Gambra was chosen by Placido Correa to perform this task and became the mastermind of the river Irati navigability project.40 Pedro Vicente Gambra was a native of the town of Roncal. He was born into a well-known family of the Roncal Valley who ran various local businesses as both arable and livestock farmers, and were even involved in the forestry trade, selling wood to individuals in the villages of the Ribera Navarra.41 When he took over the family businesses, he began to focus his efforts on forestry, especially from 1775 onwards. His uncle, Pedro Juan Sanz, who had been a corregidor in Peru and had held a series of political positions of some importance,42 and was aware of the significance of timber in Spanish politics at the time, convinced Pedro Vicente Gambra that timber was the true wealth of the area: Few know of the wealth of the forests and are content to follow the sheep, the ram and the goat, living the most miserable life known on the surface of the earth, and there is no one to steer them off this course because their fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers have trodden this path and have no knowledge of any livelihood other than this corner of the world […]. I am too old for this kind of thing and yet I would be happy to have some influence with our countrymen to make them aware of the different quality of wealth that forests have over cattle, without this meaning that I am of the opinion that this

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 239 kind of farming should be excluded as I know that it is essential for the valley and I only want to say that well cared-for forests enjoyed opportunely is a more useful livelihood than that of cattle and when the two are prudently united they could produce many advantages.43 These sentences clearly show how the villagers’ perception of the forest differed from that of the Navy and the people with political-economic knowledge of the interests of the State. For both worlds, the forest was a fundamental asset that needed to be cared for and preserved. For the villagers, the interest of the forest lay in the fact that it allowed them to develop their economic activity, livestock and, to a lesser extent, agriculture. Forestry exploitation, however, needs a certain amount of regulation and care to prevent forests from being destroyed. That is why the local authorities had to adopt regulatory measures in order to reconcile local interests with exploitation of the forest’s rich resources.44 In his expedition around the Pyrenees in 1777, Placido Correa discovered the work being performed in the forests close to the Roncal Valley “a certain Pedro Vicente Gambra”.45 Therefore, Placido Correa, aware of Pedro Vicente Gambra’s experience in the forestry business of the Navarrese Pyrenean valleys, decided to make him responsible for the navigability of the river Irati. The work began in 1779, when the Irati Commission was first establishing itself in the Irati Forest. To achieve their goal, they devised two types of constructions to raise the level of water: dams and locks. The dams were the most basic constructions. Essentially, they consisted of a wall, which extended across the whole riverbed to increase the volume in the area behind the dam. This construction was generally made from timber, which reduced the costs and made it easier to repair (Figure 9.1). To enable the almadías to overcome the navigation obstacle represented by the dam, a ramp was installed, generally to one side of the dam, allowing them to continue their descent. Locks or sluices were the other constructions made on the rivers. They were similar to dams, but with gates that allowed the water that accumulated behind them to be released (Figure 9.2). Those built by Pedro Vicente Gambra on the river Irati consisted of four stone pillars between which there were three spaces in which the wooden lock gate was installed. A contract was signed with Melchor de Marichalar for the construction of the pillars and the sides of the structure, built from masonry stones.46 Marichalar was the most important stonemason and builder in the area who operated mainly in the Roncal Valley as he was a native of the town of Garde. His constructions include, in particular, the portico of Roncal church.47 These locks later required repairs and a contract was signed to supply sand for these works. The increasing number of contracts entered into meant that more sectors of the

240  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde

Figure 9.1  Photograph of a dam constructed in the Urralegui gully at the beginning of the 20th century.

Figure 9.2  Design of a lock constructed by Pedro Vicente Gambra on the River Irati.

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 241 rural economies of the area gradually became involved in logging in the forest, and therefore the local economy could aspire to being more than merely subsistence. The timber industry began to affect all sectors of the Navarrese Pyrenean valleys. But all these constructions and all these works on the river also encouraged its conservation, care, and cleanliness. In addition to all these major engineering works, it was essential to keep the river free of branches and clear its banks of trees, as this reduced the flow of an already narrow river, and to remove large stones that hindered navigation.48 As part of this reshaping of the river undertaken by Pedro Vicente Gambra, it was decided to build three locks, one close to Orbaiceta, another in Aribe and a third at the outlet of the Oroz gorge.49 The work was completed by the end of 1781, but not without conflicts between the contracting party and the people hired to perform the task, as can be seen in this letter from Pedro Vicente Gambra: The constructions [specified in] the aforementioned contract to make the river Irati suitable for transporting the king’s timber are completely finished. I hope to hand them over to Don Placido Correa next week, (…) but according to what I infer, he is going to turn his back on everything, leaving us after he has done many thousands of pesos’ worth of business, and I still doubt that he will receive these works unless litigation is resorted to because he is mean and more changeable than a weather vane.50 Despite the problems that may have arisen, the works were successful and allowed the intensive extraction of timber to begin. The locks, once open, provided an hour and a half of extra water, permitting the almadías to descend the river practically throughout the year: The two enclosures that have been executed without any other master than my industry have worked so well that each one of them produces and gives an hour and a half of water, supplying what is necessary for the transportation of wood, which is a wonderful thing and very useful.51 The locks made it possible to reconcile the Navy’s requirements with local needs. It is true that the State’s main aim was to achieve the largest quantity of timber possible, but the towns and their inhabitants also needed the river for their daily activities. The mills required a constant flow of water, but the locks stopped the water until it was needed. The solution to finding a sustainable balance between both needs was for the locks to be closed at dusk, accumulating the necessary water all night. At dawn, they were opened, and the almadías could pass thanks to the water that they released. Raft traffic was thus concentrated at the break of dawn, whereas during the

242  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde rest of the day the river was free to be used by the mills and for any other need of the towns: It was to be by closing the gates in the dark and opening them in the morning so the sunrise would come […] leaving them open all day long so that there would be no shortage of water in the mills.52

9.4  The Roncal Valley: innovation and development The experience acquired by Pedro Vicente Gambra during his years in charge of making the river Irati navigable led him to want to take advantage of all the improvements carried out on the Irati to develop his own businesses as a timber merchant. As previously mentioned, Gambra was already devoted to selling timber before working on the Irati, but on a much smaller scale. To progress to a higher level, he began to supply timber to the works of the Imperial Channel of Aragón for which his friend Ramón Pignatelli was responsible.53 He thus began to build and to provide the Roncal Valley with the necessary logistic means to be able to remove from its forests quantities of timber comparable to those to be extracted from Irati. He first focused on the Urralegui stream. He signed a contract with the community of municipalities of the Roncal Valley that allowed him to extract timber at a specific price, 54 and began to work on making the stream navigable to transport the timber. The stream was so small and had such a low water level that he had to construct 14 dams and two locks.55 The cost of these works amounted to 140,000 reales.56 As well as in Urralegui, he built locks on the Mace stream, in Belagua, in the town Isaba, and in a place called Lapabe located between Roncal and Burgui. He thus created an impressive network of locks and dams that allowed timber to be extracted from practically any forest in the Roncal Valley. It also permitted this timber to reach Tortosa unhindered, if necessary, all year round, making Roncal timber available on the national market. The Navy Secretary thus gained access to a location which had previously been inaccessible and contained a huge reserve of planks. In his endeavour to secure a contract to supply timber to the Navy, Pedro Vicente Gambra made all these constructions and took an interest in the prices at which the Navy was purchasing timber in Tortosa. 57 At the time Joaquín Jovellar and Juan Ludeña’s company were extracting timber from the Pyrenees for Cartagena Arsenal, loading the wood in Tortosa,58 Pedro Vicente began to negotiate with the Navy, but owing to the situation of the timber supply policy then being implemented by the Navy Secretary planks were not needed. Owing to the clear commitment at the time to supply timber from the Baltic, 59 mainly through the timber contract granted to the Banco Nacional de San Carlos,60 the arsenals did not need other sources of planks in 1782, and therefore Pedro Vicente Gambra did not manage to gain the contract.

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 243 This was not the only, or even the most serious, obstacle that Pedro Vicente Gambra encountered, since in 1787 he had to deal with an extraordinary flood which demolished all the constructions he had built on the river and wreaked great destruction in the various towns in the valley.61 The destruction of all his work cost Gambra over 320,000 reales in losses and required him to invest another large quantity of reales to make the river navigable again to transport timber.62 This huge economic effort attests to the huge importance and the interest that Pedro Vicente Gambra had in making forestry exploitation a major industry in the Roncal Valley. However, this significant commitment unwittingly contributed greatly to the environmental damage caused by the flooding. The flooding destroyed the rivers and banks, leaving them strewn with trees, branches, mud, and even debris from the damaged and demolished buildings.63 Had Gambra not cleaned the river, it would have been very difficult for it to return to its natural State so quickly, and other areas could even have been affected by flooding caused by the diversion of the river bed. However, thanks to his interest in promoting the timber industry, the ecosystem was able to recover in a very short time.64 The strategy pursued by Gambra was to rebuild the former constructions on the Urralegui stream and he decided to innovate and greatly improve the lock that existed at Lapabe. To do so, he made a vast investment in this single lock, creating what was a unique construction at the time. Larger than those built on the Irati, it made it possible to collect sufficient water for the almadías to pass any area with a low water volume. Its size was such that, when the water was released at Caparroso, located 80 kilometres from Roncal, the river level rose 10 inches. My experiments with wood and hydraulic works operate so well that, with only one sluice managed by two workers—the king’s requiring twenty, there being in mine the same or more water than in the five of Irati with waters, but very low—the wood sails up to Sangüesa in the district of 14 leagues, so that in Caparroso the river rises 10 inches.65 The main advantage of this new lock design compared with those previously constructed was the difference in the number of personnel required to open and to close its gates. In those on the Irati, which generated a smaller reservoir, around 20 operators were needed to close the gates, mainly due to the strength of the stream when closing them. Thanks to the new design, the Lapabe lock required only two operators, a huge reduction in personnel. As can be seen in Figure 9.3, the lock was reinforced by a base made from masonry stones, which supported the wooden wall with its three gates. There were two small gaps on either side of the base, which could be opened and closed from the upper part of the lock. It was very simple to open the lock, since the river’s flow helped push the gate open, but did not allow it to be easily closed. The openings in the base made this task easier.

244  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde

Figure 9.3   Plan of the lock constructed, in Lapabe by Pedro Vicente Gambra following the 1787 flood.

These gaps were kept open when closing the gates, so that the water did not reach the level of the gates, making the closing movement very simple. The lock moreover had a crane-like system to help raise certain elements. The new design was a huge success and impressed the highest authorities of the court. In 1791 this fact, but mainly a change in the international circumstances of the supply of planks,66 allowed Pedro Vicente Gambra to obtain the long sought-after timber contract to supply the Cartagena Arsenal.67 The new design also helped Gambra with his following projects (see Figure 9.4). In 1803 he was commissioned to devise a plan for extracting timber from the forests close to Eril la Vall in Catalonia.68 For this project, he proposed building two locks using the same technology he had developed in the Roncal Valley. There was thus a continuity in the development of the new locks. In the Roncal Valley, forest management and conservation were carried out in the same way as in the Irati Forest. It was the State that decided on the measures to be taken and, therefore, the same forest conservation and regeneration work was implemented in all the woodlands where forestry practices were focused on catering to the Navy’s needs. In this case, all that changed was the ownership of the forest. In the Roncal Valley, the forest belonged to the Roncal Valley community who were therefore responsible for ensuring that these conservation measures were implemented. To this end, it was necessary for the landowner, in this case Pedro Vicente Gambra, to sign a contract to exploit the forest.69

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 245

Figure 9.4  Plan of the project proposed by Pedro Vicente Gambra in 1803 for the Eril forests.

246  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde

9.5 Conclusions The Irati Forest and later the Roncal Valley emerged as two areas capable of solving the Navy’s problems of supplies from the Baltic. This triggered a small industrial revolution in these Pyrenean valleys which, used to being subsistence economies, witnessed for a few years how the forestry industry became a source of wealth and labour that affected all sectors of the population, who had to coexist with it. This revolution led people like Pedro Vicente Gambra to innovate and invest in this “timber fever”, giving rise to technological developments in river transport and hydraulic engineering. They were aware that caring for and adapting the river to their needs was just another cog in the wheel of timber extraction. That is why so much effort and investment was put into making certain rivers navigable, so that timber could be extracted from nearby forests. The State had to address the French intrusion in the Spanish forests and defend the forest resources located on its border. It therefore had to encourage this logging through investment to ensure that timber extraction from the Irati Forest was profitable. This investment led to numerous contracts to make the river navigable and to supply materials for the constructions, among other things. Through these contracts, the State was able to exert control over this border area and succeeded in controlling the border and expelling the French from the Spanish forests. In ecological terms, as we have seen throughout this essay, the exploitation of the Pyrenean mountains did not involve any kind of deforestation; on the contrary, the timber industry promoted the care and conservation of forests and rivers. The forests were replanted, the new saplings were cared for, the rivers were cleaned and the forests were given a status whereby it was necessary to have permission to cut down any tree. We may therefore conclude that the timber industry not only did not harm the Pyrenean Forest ecosystem but was also actually conducive to its development and sustainability. And not only was it sustainable from an ecological point of view but also the whole timber industry furthermore developed, becoming economically and socially sustainable. In addition, the Irati Forest posed a logistic and political challenge for the State, which had to deal with both purely orographic and foreign-policy problems.

Notes 1 Archivo General de la Marina Don Álvaro de Bazán (AGMAB), Arsenales, Maderas, 3767. 2 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3792. 3 Chamorro Esteban (2019); De la Fuente (2020); Delgado Ribas (2018); Goodman (1997); Martínez-González (2015); Merino Navarro (1981). 4 Archivo General de Navarra (AGN), Reino, Montes, leg. 1, N. 49, 1766; Archivo General de Simancas (AGS), Secretaría de Marina (SMA), 336; Torres Sánchez and Riezu-Elizalde (2021); Garate Ojanguren (1990). 5 Aragón-Ruano and Riezu-Elizalde (2021, 22); AGN, Virreinato, Documentos, 70, N. 12, 1769.

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 247 6 7 8 9

Aragón-Ruano (2019a, 432). AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3767. AGS, SMA, 373. AGN, Procesos judiciales, 007269; AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3767; AGS, SMA, 373. 10 Archivo Histórico Nacional (AHN), Estado, 3217; AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3767. 11 Merino Navarro (1981). 12 AGS, SMA, 355 and 368. 13 Davey (2011, 166–167). 14 AGS, SMA, 368; AHN, Estado, 3217; AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3767. 15 AGS, SMA, 368. 16 Guerrero Aspurz (1992, 18); Caro Baroja (1995, 1054–1056). 17 Labeaga Mendiola (1992, 16); Alegría Suescun (2010, 2). 18 Aragón-Ruano (2019a, 439); López Arandia (2018, 137–139); Ioan Rus (2018, 542–550); Archivo privado de la Casa Grambra (ACG), Sección documentación, 6; AGS, SMA, 336; AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3800; AGMAB, Arsenales, Asientos, 5489. 19 De la Fuente (2020, 24–26). 20 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3767. 21 AGN, Reino, Limites, leg. 2, carp. 33. 22 AGS, SMA, 575. 23 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3800. 24 Aragón-Ruano (2019, 446). 25 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3800. 26 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3800. 27 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3800. 28 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3800. 29 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3821. 30 AGN, Procesos judiciales, 007269, 260–261. 31 AGN, Procesos judiciales, 156380, 007269 and 337987. 32 Aragón-Ruano (2019a, 443). 33 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3767 and 3785; AGN, Procesos judiciales, 007269, 63–76. 34 Reichert (2019, 2021); Crespo Solana (2014, 2018); AGS, SMA, 368; AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3767. 35 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3778; Archivo del Banco De España (ABDE), Juntas de Gobierno, Actas de Acuerdos, 135, f. 154. 36 Graham (2009, 328). 37 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3795. 38 Ioan Rus (2018, 543). 39 López Arandia (2018, 139, 2021, 106–111); Trindade (2021, 180); AGS, SMA, 319, 324, 336, 561 and 580. 40 ACG, Arca de arriba, Papeles sueltos, 1779. 41 ACG, Sección documentación, leg. 9, 1798. 42 Archivo General de Indias (AGI), Indiferente, 159, N.9, ff. 5–10. 43 ACG, leg. 5, 1779. 44 ACG, Sección documentación, leg. 9, 1786. 45 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3767. 46 AGS, SMA, 368. 47 AGN, Protocolos Notariales, Pedro Miguel Ros, 6 April 1760. 48 AGMAB, Arsenales, Maderas, 3800. 49 AGS, SMA, 368. 50 ACG, Sección correspondencia, leg. 54, Copia de Cartas de 1778–1784.

248  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde 1 5 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59

ACG, Sección correspondencia, leg. 54, Copia de Cartas de 1778–1784. ACG, Sección documentación, leg. 9. AGN, Procesos judiciales, 007518. ACG, Sección documentación, leg. 5. ACG, Sección documentación, leg. 9. ACG, Sección correspondencia, leg. 54, Copia de Cartas de 1778–1784. ACG, Sección correspondencia, leg. 54, Copia de Cartas de 1778–1784. Torres Sánchez and Riezu-Elizalde (2021, 218–221). Torres Sánchez and Riezu-Elizalde (2021, 215–218); Reichert (2019, 80–83); Carrasco González (2000, 328–333). 60 ABDE, Juntas de Gobierno, Actas de Acuerdos, 133, 134, f. 523 y 135, f. 27. 61 Archivo del Ayuntamiento del Roncal (AAR), caja 213, Deslindes 1321, N. 29, 1787. 62 ACG, Arca de arriba, Papeles sueltos. 63 AAR, Caja 213, Deslindes 1321, N. 29, 1787. 64 ACG, Carta escrita al señor Floridablanca por diciembre de 1789, Arca de arriba, Papeles sueltos. 65 ACG, Sección correspondencia, leg. 5, Copia de Cartas de 1791–1792. 66 Torres Sánchez and Riezu-Elizalde (2021, 218–220). 67 ACG, Sección correspondencia, leg. 54, Copia de Cartas de 1791–1792; ACG, Sección documentación, leg. 9, p. 4. Aragón-Ruano & Riezu-Elizalde (2021, 22–31). 68 ACG, Arca de arriba, Papeles sueltos, 1803. 69 ACG, leg. 54, Copia de Cartas de 1778–1784.

Bibliography Alegría Suescun, D. (2010). “Primeras noticias del tráfico almadiero en Navarra”, La kukula, 21, 1–3. Aragón-Ruano, A. (2019). “Ríos de madera. Recursos forestales e hídricos para la Real Armada durante el siglo XVIII en Guipúzcoa y Navarra”, Tiempos modernos: Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 426–455. Aragón-Ruano, A. y Riezu-Elizalde, O. (2021). “¿Un proyecto quimérico? Suministros forestales desde los pirineos occidentales para la Real Armada en el siglo XVIII”, Studia Historica. Historia moderna, 43, 1, 13–45. Caro Baroja, J. (1995). “Notas de etnografía navarra”, Príncipe de Viana, 56, 206, 1047–1078. Carrasco González, M.G. (2000). “Cádiz y el Báltico. Casas comerciales suecas en Cádiz (1780–1800)”, in A. Ramos Santana (ed.), Comercio y navegación entre España y Suecia: (siglos X–XX), Cádiz: Universidad de Cádiz, 317–345. Chamorro Esteban, A. (2019). “Bosques y galeras: la explotación maderera para la construcción naval en las Atarazanas de Barcelona (1573–1746)”, Tiempos modernos: Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 39, 374–395. Crespo Solana, A. (2014). “A Network-Based Merchant Empire: Dutch Trade in the Hispanic Atlantic (1680–1740)”, in G. Oostindie and J.V. Roitman (eds.), Dutch Atlantic Connections, 1680–1800: Linking Empires, Bridging Borders, Leiden: Brill, 139–158. Crespo Solana, A. (2018). “Cooperación y competencia político-económica en la larga duración: Holanda en la ruta del Mediterráneo (1621–1702)”, Pedralbes: Revista d’historia moderna, 38, 19–49.

Logistics, sustainability and river transport of wood supplies 249 Davey, J. (2011), “Securing the Sinews of Sea Power: British intervention in the Baltic 1780–1815”, The International History Review, 33, 2, 161–184. De la Fuente, P. (2020). “Tu regere imperio fluctus hispane memento”. La aportación extranjera a la construcción naval dieciochesca. Una perspectiva comparativa y diacrónica a partir de los casos de San Felíu de Guixols (1715–1719) y Ferrol (1750–1756), La Coruña: Universidade da Coruña. Dedieu, J.P. (2011). “Les groupes financiers et industriels au service du roi. Espagne, fin XVIIe-début XVIIIe siècle”, in A. Dubet and J.P. Luis (eds.), Les financiers et la construction de l’Etat—France, Espagne (XVIIe–XIXe siècle), Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 87–104. Delgado Ribas, J.M. (2018). “La corrupción como mecanismo de fidelización. El caso de la Cataluña borbónica (1714–1770)”, in A. Coello and M. Rodrigo (eds.), La justicia robada. Corrupción, codicia y bien público en el mundo hispánico (siglos XVII–XX), Barcelona: Icaria, Historia, 129–154. Diego Liaño, C. and García Cordón, J.C. (2003). “La Corona y los pueblos en la explotación de los montes de Cantabria: Deforestación y gestión del bosque en la segunda mitad del siglo XVIII”, Cuadernos de la Sociedad Española de Ciencias Forestales, 16, 215–220. Dubet, A. (2008). Un estadista francés en la España de los Borbones. Juan Orry y las primeras reformas de Felipe V (1701–1706), Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva. Fernández Albaladejo, P. (1977). “El decreto de suspensión de pagos de 1739: análisis y explicación”, Moneda y Crédito, 142, 51–81. Fernández Flórez, M. (2019). “Controversias sobre los usos forestales en Cantabria durante la segunda mitad del siglo XVIII”, Obradoiro de Historia Moderna, 28, 163–186. Gambra, R. (1959). “El Valle de Roncal en la Guerra de la Independencia. Los orígenes de la Guerra en Navarra y el ‘proyecto secreto’”, Príncipe de Viana, XX, 76–77, 187–215. Garate Ojanguren, M.M. (1990). La Real Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas, San Sebastián: Sociedad Guipuzcoana de Ediciones y Publicaciones. Gennaioli, N. and Voth, H. (2015). “State Capacity and Military Conflict”, The Review of Economic Studies, 82, 4, 1409–1448. Goodman, D. (1997). El poderío naval español. Historia de la Armada española del siglo XVII, Barcelona: Península. Graham, H. (2009). “Fleurs-de-lis in the Forest: Absolute Monarchy and Attempts at Resource Management in Eighteenth-Century France”, France History, 23, 311–335. Guerrero Aspurz, M.C. (1992). “Estudio de las almadías en sus diversos aspectos históricos, geográficos y culturales”, Cuadernos de etnología y etnografía de Navarra, Año XXIV, 59, 7–24. Ioan Rus D. (2018). “Peacetime Changes to the Landscape in Eighteenth Century Transylvania”, The Hungarian Historical Review, 7, 3, 541–567. Labeaga Mendiola, J.C. (1992) Almadías en Navarra. Merindad de Sangu ë sa, Pamplona: Gobierno de Navarra. López Arandia, M.A. (2018). “Aprovisionando de madera al Arsenal de Cartagena: el proyecto de Manuel Bernia y las flotaciones por el río Segura (1784–1793)”, Tiempos Modernos: Revista electrónica de Historia Moderna, 9, 36, 127–168.

250  Ó. Riezu-Elizalde (2021). “Los suministros forestales desde la provincia marítima de segura de la sierra a través del Real Negociado de Maderas, la Secretaría de Marina y los asentistas”, Studia Historica. Historia moderna, 43, 1, 103–137. Martínez-González, A.J. (2015). Las superintendencias de montes y plantíos (1574–1748): derecho y política forestal para las armadas en la Edad Moderna, Valencia: Tirant lo Blanch. Merino Navarro, J. (1981). La Armada Española en el siglo XVIII, Madrid: Fundación Universitaria Española. Quintero González, J. (2004). La Carraca. El primer arsenal ilustrado español (1717–1776), Madrid: Ministerio de Defensa, Instituto de Historia y Cultura Naval. Reichert, R. (2019). “¿Cómo España trató de recuperar su poderío naval? Un acercamiento a las estrategias de la marina real sobre los suministros de materias primas forestales provenientes del Báltico y Nueva España (1754–1795)”, Espacio, tiempo y forma. Serie IV, Historia moderna, 32, 73–102. (2021). “El transporte de maderas para los departamentos navales españoles en la segunda mitad del siglo XVIII”, Studia Historica. Historia moderna, 43, 1, 47–70. Torres Sánchez, R. (2006). “The Failure of the Spanish Crown’s Tobacco Tax Monopoly in Catalonia during the Eighteenth Century”, The Journal of European Economic History, 35, 1, 721–760. Torres Sánchez, R. and Riezu-Elizalde, O. (2021). “What Did the Forestry State’s Triumph Consist of? Contractor State and Eighteenth-Century Timber Contractors”, Studia Historica. Historia Moderna, 43, 1, 195–226. Trindade, A. (2021). “Regional Timber Supply for Shipbuilding and Maintenance of War Fleets in Cadiz: Methods, Agents and Phases (1717–1736)”, Studia Historica. Historia Moderna, 43, 1, 139–194.

10 Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s A history of forests compensation1 Cristina Joanaz de Melo

Universidade Nova de Lisboa [New University of Lisbon], [email protected] 10.1 Introduction During the 1700s and early 1800s, Portugal faced wars in the colonies, risks of piracy in the Atlantic Ocean, and a permanent state of alert at its borders with Spain. This political situation was further exacerbated by natural disasters such as earthquakes (1755 and 1761) and devastating torrential floods (1770, 1780s–1790s) that caused material damage and the destruction of food leading to famine and epidemics. In the 1800s, the menace of conflict developed into effective military confrontations, foreign occupation, and internal wars: the War of the Oranges with Spain (1801), the French invasions (1808–1812), British rule (1812–1820) and the Portuguese Civil Wars between liberals and absolutists (1820–1834). 2 In such situations, the Portuguese territory’s demand for forest resources was huge and the woods of the metropolis proved capable of supplying forest products to the royal arsenals and shipyards, as well as for the population’s daily needs, throughout the entire 18th century. Indeed, after the Lisbon earthquake on 1 November 1755, the laws enacted by the marquis of Pombal in the context of the reconstruction of the capital of the Portuguese Empire reveal the existence of a domestic supply of wood and forest products from private estates. Even the royal preserves located around the Tagus water basins—which (according to the main narrative discussed in the introduction) had been destroyed as a result of supplying wood for the discoveries in the 16th and 17th centuries—were compelled after 1755 to send logs from those same (formerly depleted) areas in the Tagus uplands and slopes to the royal sawmills to be converted into timber and stored in stockpiles in the region of Leiria (located about 150 km north of Lisbon). Decades later, the metropolis of the Portuguese Empire also could afford to support the war effort during the Napoleonic wars and the civil liberal wars against absolutist armies from the 1790s to the 1830s. Defence logistics were supplied from domestic-metropolitan woodlands and forests and not from regions of the empire. We should probably admit that the constant supplies of forest produce required to cope with the mammoth task of rebuilding Lisbon after the earthquake of 1 November 1755, shipbuilding, the reconstruction of DOI: 10.4324/9781003309253-11

252  C. J. de Melo housing, the production of charcoal for heating and the restoration of farming landscapes would have entailed felling many trees and harvesting timber from those areas, supporting the idea of the devastation of woods. And yet, against all historiographical odds, there is an alternative explanation for the availability of such materials, which rely on forest renewal and management in order to last in the long run and even expand: the implementation of practices that were inherited from at least the 17th century and further improved throughout the 18th century. More than challenging a classical and almost homogeneous historiographical perception of forest destruction—without replenishment—before the 19th century, this chapter aims to examine what happened to the landscapes after the extraction of resources, when possible, in the long run. Indeed, the history of forest replenishment, recovery and maintenance through sustainable strategies is proving to be an open field for research in Early Modern Portugal as well as in other geographical areas. It provides an example of hidden and invisible forests that were available, depleted, regenerated and degraded again in the long run. This chapter sets out to explore this topic in relation to Portuguese territory with a view to encouraging further research on forest recovery. More than revolutionary, this idea is almost a question of logic. There must first be forests in order for them to be destroyed. They cannot be summed up by dates and moments of depletion. Nature is dynamic, and after plants have been extracted, if they are properly cut, they are reborn, sprout and evolve. And, given that communities depended on natural resources for subsistence, it is likely that they would have made an effort to ensure the availability of those resources instead of depleting them. As logic is not enough, it is necessary to demonstrate from the examples of royal forests during the 18th century that, following the felling of trees and cutting of branches, and the production of charcoal, resources were replenished. However, in periods of high consumption and scarcity of resources for certain purposes, the official discourse was that the balance between consumption and replenishment of forest resources was always negative. From the point of view of the improvement of forest management, the regulation of 1751 clearly stands out as a turning point. While the regulations of 1605 provided an amazing manual for improving the preservation of royal forests and private woodlands by organising and establishing rules for alternating extraction, from 1751 onwards the management of forests to compensate for the loss of trees and ensure forest preservation led to a higher level of specialisation. Consequently, this contribution analyses forest renewal, compensation, replenishment, expansion and management to achieve lasting results in the long run, seeking to understand the other side of forest history: evolving landscapes and human efforts to make natural resources last in Early Modern Portugal inspired by studies on forest management

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 253 techniques such as pollarding and similar practices and the co-evolution of landscapes. 3 As a more recent bibliography on the consumption and management of forests for royal purposes in the Iberian Peninsula shows, despite the significant extraction of resources, exploitation occurred in specific geographical areas and involved specific tree species. Furthermore, not all Spanish and Portuguese forests were depleted and did not recover until the 19th century.4 Examining in depth the context of availability of forest resources and regeneration, this article clearly contests the idea of a continuous predation of forests throughout the Early Modern Age without distinguishing between regions and chronologies of resource extraction. Many overviews have drawn generalised global conclusions on forest destruction from regional examples, which are generally limited to specific woodlands belonging to the monarchs rather than the various kingdoms as a whole.5 Concerning the Portuguese situation, it is currently known that, drawing on its vast possessions of different types of forests, the Portuguese Crown could sustain a dynamic of alternate extraction of forest products for shipbuilding, namely pines (Pinus pinea, Pinus pinaster), cork and oak trees, from different woods located in the highlands, lowlands and specific areas of the Atlantic coast from the 15th to the 19th century, proving that royal forests were harvested and replenished several times in the long run.6 The abovementioned three species clearly do not represent all forest trees in Portugal or any other region, and in parallel to their cycles of use and replenishment, other forest cover remained, never being mentioned as scarce or destroyed in legislative texts. Therefore, the scarcity of tree species targeted for royal use in the Early Modern Age, despite being mentioned repeatedly in forestry legislation from the 1500s to the 1800s, must not be mistaken for the widespread devastation and depletion of all plant cover. Thus, it is important to confirm, on the one hand, to what extent forest destruction in contemporary sources meant an actual absence of trees and other plant cover and, on the other hand, what happened to the rest of the trees and flora in royal, seignorial and collective forests throughout the territory. Consequently, in order to interpret the distribution, variety and density of woodlands in Portugal during the 1700s and 1810s, the perspective from which they are viewed must be shifted from the dynamics of mere destruction to the processes that made possible permanent availability. That is the core aim of this chapter. Thus, without contradicting, let alone denying, the heavy consumption of forest resources in Portugal and areas belonging to its naval empire during the 1500s and 1600s, it should be stressed that 18th-century forest management of the royal woodlands and all other seigniorial domains is still largely unknown. This chapter thus aims to contribute to the academic debate by unravelling part of forest history concerning: (a) the recovery, renewal and

254  C. J. de Melo management of woods with a view to achieving lasting results, in order to explain the availability of a supply of resources for fencing, furniture, farming tools, the crafting of river boats, the building of bridges and so on and (b) how, when and where such dynamics took place in Portugal as a launching pad for similar studies beyond the Portuguese territory. As part of a careful analysis of the meanings of forest-related offences in Ancien Regime contexts, the heuristics and hermeneutics of forestry legislation must be thoroughly revisited. It should be remembered that at the time very few people could read and interpret laws. Printed materials, a very expensive commodity, were to be distributed and made known to those who could read and obey them, so that claims of ignorance of those rules were to no avail when enforcing royal legislation. Therefore, it is of crucial importance to clarify at whom those narratives of establishing royal prerogatives over forest resources, reiterated in legal texts over the centuries, were targeted.7 A further question that seems indispensable is to understand how the need to establish punishments for forest offences attributed to rural communities and to forest keepers in royal legislation would legitimise the Crown’s intromission in accessing resources in seigniorial lands. Under the Ancien Regime, taking back property rights from the nobility required an outstanding justification. The contexts in which forestry acts were drawn up and issued play a very important role in understanding the contradictions found between the legislation referring to a scarcity and lack of resources and data on the daily management of the same royal preserves that reveals a wide variety of situations, namely phases and cycles of resource availability and scarcity. The main corpus of such primary sources is the Archive of the Central Administration for the Royal Preserves (Montaria Mor do Reino (MMR), 1521–1833), which includes books of correspondence and diaries of daily tasks mentioning actions like sowing, the planting of new woods, pollarding, coppicing and transport of cargoes by land or by boat to the royal shipyards (MMR1-2, Registo de Correspondência, 1755–1796). These sources make it possible to access and extract resources or orders laying down the removal of wood mass for royal use (MMR, 16–17, 1624–1833), the policing of preserves (MMR, 20–27, 1770–1779) and lawsuits on the poaching of game animals and flora (MMR 31, 37–38, 1700–1800), all handwritten contemporary documents housed in the Historical Library and Archive of Public Works in Lisbon (Arquivo Histórico e Biblioteca do Ministerio de Obras Púbricas). Such a coherent corpus is followed by another core group of documentation on royal forests and trees located in highland areas, and after the 1800s the records of the Royal Forges (Reais Ferrarias da Foz de Alge (RFFA), 1800–1832) dealing with equivalent information, and the Administration of the Royal Pinewoods of Leiria (Administração dos Reais Pinhais de Leiria (ARPL), 1811–1824), which prove that wood was delivered for the defence of the outskirts of Lisbon (1812) and for public works, including shipbuilding from 1811 to 1824.

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 255 Summing up, there is a story of forest regeneration in the Early Modern Age that provides a possible explanation for major questions posed about the availability of Portuguese forest products during the 1700s–1800s, such as: • •

•

•

•

How could and did Portugal account for the existence of forests throughout the 1700s and early 1800s in areas allegedly destroyed permanently in the previous two centuries? In the 1700s, if the availability of forest products was the legacy of management, what practices and techniques were implemented to ensure the survival of forests after they had supplied wood for carpentry and shipbuilding? Considering the contexts of huge demand for forest products throughout the 1700s and early 1800s, did the uncertainty of foreign supplies of forest products and the string of natural disasters spur improvements in Portuguese forest management? If so, what were those developments? In the 1800s, was the widespread distribution of very dense woodlands throughout Portuguese territory the result of a forestry legacy of previous centuries in private and royal estates? Did such a supply result from a specific intervention in the regeneration of Crown woodlands that started in the mid-1700s due to intensive consumption for imperial services or from a combination of the two previous circumstances: the legacy of seigniorial woods together with the replenishment of royal woodlands carried out specifically from the mid-1700s onwards? To what extent have royal woodlands and analyses of former kings’ forests projected an image of scarcity that may or may not coincide with the rest of the territory?

This chapter will go on to discuss concerns and actions performed to promote the compensation, recovery, duration and growth of forests from the 1700s to the early 1800s. The issues put forward are addressed from the perspective of the territorial response to material crises due to the destruction caused by natural disasters, socio-economic demands, imperial monopolies and war.

10.2 Setting the scene: wood supplies urgently needed for rescuing, defence and rebuilding In the mid-18th century, a key occurrence affected Europe: the Lisbon earthquake of 1 November 1755. This terrifying event was followed by a massive tidal wave. The destructive waters dragged logs stored in the harbour into the ocean. Piles of raw materials for shipbuilding carried away by the ebb tide ended up floating off the coast of Lisbon. Some of that timber was recovered but soaking wet, and therefore could not be put to any use in the short term.8

256  C. J. de Melo As these devastating events occurred on All Saints’ Day, lit candles in many churches and houses caused fires which consumed plenty of wooden constructions. Natural destruction and flames left the capital of a naval empire in ruins, plunged into chaos and unprotected.9 Human resources were allocated to rescue tasks. Like the capital, the Portuguese coast from the Algarve to Minho was defenceless, becoming easy prey for military and pirate attacks. The vulnerability of inland borders increased against a potential invasion from Spain, with which political relations had been uncertain since the War of the Spanish Succession.10 In a context of urgent needs for defence and rebuilding, forest resources were required for almost every single activity involving reconstruction, protection from natural and human threats, firewood and many other everyday activities. Given the plethora of historiographical conclusions on the destruction of Portuguese forests at the time, one would expect most of those materials for reconstruction to have been obtained from the colonies, namely from Brazil. Surprisingly, Brazilian forest history of the third millennium strongly dismisses such an assumption. According to José Augusto Padua, in the 1790s the viceroyalty and the Portuguese Crown were deeply concerned about the rapid depletion of the Brazilian Atlantic forests due to the burning down of vast areas by Portuguese settlers, who were converting wildernesses into arable land and producing wood for housing and other commodities—not to ship primarily to Portugal.11 The above conclusions would imply that the timber and wood produced in Brazil were not massively destined for exportation to Portugal for shipbuilding or housing and less for charcoal production. This possibility has been strongly corroborated. Indeed, in 2014 Diogo Carvalho Cabral vigorously argued that the Atlantic Forest in Brazil was not destroyed due to shipbuilding in Portugal, namely throughout the 1700s. The timber cargoes in greatest demand from Portuguese importers were rich essences, woods for furniture and dyes. In addition, the journey to Lisbon lasted ninety days whereas the route through British-Canadian naval corridors took only thirty. Merchandise coming from Brazil was easily lost due to storms, piracy and smuggling. Traders in the home country stood to lose too much money in cargoes and boats. Therefore, importing timber from Brazil would have been economically unfavourable in several aspects.12 Bearing in mind that we are questioning the assumed explanation of Brazilian timber imports to Portugal destined for building structures, it is important first to compare such studies with analyses of Portugal’s balance of trade during the 1700s and 1800s in order to try to explain why commercial strategies seem to have turned a blind eye to the facilities granted in Portugal in 1756 exempting from import duties timber from Brazil transported in vessels from the Company of Grão Para and Maranhão.13 The balance of trade between Portugal and Brazil, which has been thoroughly

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 257 studied by Jorge Pedreira from the 1750s to the 1830s, confirms that timber imported to Portugal from abroad was normally for the textile industry and furniture, including woods shipped from European ports.14 Thus, if timber for shipbuilding or defence was not supplied from abroad, the timber delivered to the naval shipyards of Lisbon and sawmills in Leiria must have come, at least partially, from Portuguese forests. Admitting that academic syntheses overlook part of the story when taking legislation to be reliable proof of forest destruction, the availability of domestic forest resources would still be contradicted by royal legislation of 1751, 1790, 1797 and 1800, which reiterated the same problem felt since the 16th century: the forest was being destroyed by peasants and careless policing by wardens. This proves that, on the one hand, forest resources were available in the woods, to be extracted, and, on the other hand, that the Crown was the biggest consumer of forest resources for shipbuilding. Thus, the official royal narratives on the scarcity and destruction of forests, blaming peasants and local authorities for those practices, must be analysed in the proper context because the social agents to whom the forest offences were attributed could not have damaged the woodlands or have extracted and transported wood as they did not, and nor could they, own the logistic means needed to perform such tasks.

10.3 The hidden meanings of royal narratives on scarcity and forest destruction Paying considerable attention to the narrative of the parties guilty of destroying the forests, earlier studies proved that the Portuguese Crown, and not low-ranking officialdom and the peasantry alone, was responsible for much of the identified degradation of royal forests throughout the 1400s to the 1600s.15 However, many Portuguese royal decrees mention the destruction of the royal woodlands, such as those promulgated in 1496, 1575, 1605, 1575, 1751, 1790–1797 and 1800, which specifically address kings’, queens’ and princes’ woods. The blame for their destruction always falls on peasants, craftsmen, game keepers, tree wardens, judges of the royal preserves or several clerks but never on the nobility and less on the royal family.16 From the point of view of poachers, producing and smuggling charcoal and wood gathered from forest floors were worthwhile as the quantities were relatively small and could be easily and discreetly transported. On the contrary, felling trees and transporting cargoes of logs or wood across the royal preserves would have been quite audacious, given the harsh policies protecting these specific resources, which were stated to be scarce and whose extraction was proclaimed to be the king’s prerogative. Moreover, in the royal forests there were alternative trees (to pine and cork trees) from which fruits, fodder or wood could be obtained.17 Why would peasants, low-ranking officials and even poachers destroy trees marked and policed

258  C. J. de Melo for royal use, risking incarceration or, worse still, being charged with heavy fines when there were safer alternatives? Besides, an extensive logistic structure, set of tools, machinery, warehouses and long-range transport would have been required to deliver wood and other materials for shipbuilding. Peasants and forest wardens of the royal preserves could not use the infrastructure for processing trunks without specific authorisation and nor did they possess the necessary means to transport large loads, which were royally owned. Thus, rural communities stood too much to lose from committing offences against forest resources for shipbuilding. Why, then, from the 15th to the 19th century, would royal decrees insist on blaming the social group least interested in destroying “royal sticks” (paos reais in Portuguese, which were royal woods whose trees were reserved for naval construction or trees marked in private estates for the same purpose of naval construction), for this behaviour? If such reiterations continue in updated legislation, who was really affected by the royal prerogative of imposing restrictions on felling trees fit for “Royal Service”? Which areas and seigniorial estates were covered by that royal prerogative apart from the kings’ estates? Were trees marked for royal use far from or contiguous to the royal woods in seigniorial lands? In the latter case, landlords would have benefited from the protection provided by royal keepers, who policed their resources against forest offences. As is strongly suggested, seigniorial landowners would have been the prime target of that royal prerogative and not the rural populations. This assertion needs to be examined in the historical, cultural, social and political context of the Ancien Regime.

10.4 Forest rights under the Ancien Regime: property rights and seigniorial ethos In the Ancien Regime, the social order was divided into those who held rights and those who did not. Privileges were granted to nobility as an essence of their ethos, while general laws were for the low social strata, who lacked privileges.18 Given the recognition of the nobility as a social stratum, the (Portuguese) royalty could not easily diminish that status and the common element of self-definition of belonging it, namely property rights. The implication of diminishing property rights in seigniorial forests meant that the demand for wood products for royal use would be sufficiently met near the royal shipyards and in areas of fast transport. Therefore, seigniorial lands near royal preserves in the proximity of given river courses were included in specific perimeters where the monarchs imposed their exclusive rights to fell pine and cork trees. The aim was to speed up and facilitate transport from the areas of extraction to the royal arsenals. The question is how could such an imposition be legitimised? Attributing abundant blame for offences against property rights to the low social classes in the king’s forests would consequently provide the

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 259 king with a justification for intervening in his forests as well as at their boundaries. Possibly as early as in the 15th century, though probably more evidently in the 16th and 17th centuries, landowners would having benefited from the surveillance provided by the monarch’s guards. Such indirect legitimisation and acceptance would be expressed in legislation that regulated the king’s exclusive prerogative over marking and felling specific tree species in specific areas of seigniorial lands which, according to available academic studies and sources consulted so far, did not provoke any sort of complaints or riots from the noble houses against the king. Actually, in the late 16th century, legislation approved by King D. Sebastião, such as the regulations on cork oak trees from 1575 and the establishment of new royal preserves in both the highlands and the lowlands of the Tagus and Sado, reinforced the already acquired powers to enforce the prerogative of marking and felling “royal sticks” in both royal and seigniorial lands for royal use, under the property regime of the “preserve”.19 The regulations on the royal preserves proclaimed by D. Sebastião I and later the Ordinances of D. Philip I of Portugal (Philip II of Spain) established rules on forestation and the planting and management of trees that were to be followed by the population in general as well as by the gentry and noble landowners. The Ordinances of D. Philip I imposed on the owners of land located beside the river Tagus the obligation of reforesting those lands with cork oaks and other trees, as well as producing timber for the Royal Navy. They likewise forbade them to cut down “cork oaks, young cork oak, oaks and ensinhos”, which were protected wholly for the Royal Navy, throughout an area that stretched from the river Elga, at the end of the Rosmaninhal, to Abrantes, as laid down in the regulations on cork oaks.20 Royal hunting preserves and royal forests were increased outstandingly in 1570s, during the reign of D. Sebastião I. The motivations for such a decision have not yet been fully addressed. Perhaps it stemmed from his political ambitions concerning the north of Africa, where the nobility could demonstrate their value by fighting with the king in a war. In this case, military campaigns against the Moors in northern Africa were not only a chance to prove military might against the enemy but also to gain control of the passage from Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic Ocean. In this context it could be relevant to improving the Portuguese war fleet. And for that purpose wood would be required fast. 21 Therefore, apart from the preserves imposed in the lowlands of the left bank of the Tagus, the cork oak regulations issued in 1575 by D. Sebastião for the Upper Tagus valleys, encompassing indistinctively secular seigniorial and ecclesial lands located close to means of river transport to the Lisbon shipyards, may have played a significant role in extending the royal prerogative of marking and preserving “royal trees” in seigniorial lands. Indeed, literature shows that timber from those origins did arrive at the royal arsenals. 22

260  C. J. de Melo Regardless of the possible political aim of empowering the Royal Navy, D. Sebastião died in 1578, but the royal preserves designated in the upper Tagus area continued under the Habsburg and Bragança dynasties. In 1605, by means of new regulations on the royal preserves, Philip II articulated the administration of those woods, reiterating and extending the prerogative of exclusive rights to fell cork oaks and pine trees in the proximity of royal lands. Indeed, none of the kings of the Avis, Habsburg and Bragança dynasties would ever mark similar perimeters in the Douro River water basin, a region of cork oak forests, where river transport was also assured, and caravels had already been crafted and shipped from Oporto to Lisbon.23 The main difference was that there were no royal woods there. The monarchs seem to have cautiously tweaked seigniorial property rights just enough to fulfil their aims but not so much as to trigger protests from the nobility. Justifying the proximity of royal woods and the logic of recruiting nearby “royal sticks” or establishing similar impositions far from royal estates would have been quite a different matter. In fact, a century half later in 1751, in the new plan for the management of the royal forests and the pinewoods of the region of Leiria, once again the property rights of other seigniorial landowners were barely touched.24 On 18 October 1751, the new regulations brought effective novelties on the techniques and processes of pine woodland management. However, the landscape chosen for the replanting and expansion of woodlands was a long strip of sandbanks with no arable land along the Atlantic coastline, responsibility for which continued to fall to the Crown pursuant to natural law. Those soils were unsuitable for agriculture. As they lacked economic, social or symbolic value, there was no risk of encroaching on any seigniorial property rights. Actually, taking back part of the functions stemming from the privilege of controlling and administering all the royal preserves under the noble household of the Chief Keeper of the Realm (the household of monteiro-mor do Reino) was the issue that needed to be handled with diplomacy. The function of managing the royal preserves had been merged with the essence of the seigniorial household of the chief Royal Keepers of the Realm since 1521. Curtailing those privileges required diplomacy. The transfer of responsibility for forest management from the General Administration of the Royal Preserves to the Secretary of the Navy was underpinned by justifications of royal service such as the protection and defence of the kingdom and empire through the provision of resources for defence and naval warfare. As the Navy required a steady supply of timber, coastal lands near the sea were suitable places for planting new seedlings and for creating a new guard corps. This involved dismantling some of the royal preserves and relieving the monteiro-mor do Reino (chief Keeper of the Royal Preserves) of extra management and surveillance tasks. And once again the result was divided responsibility because of the poor management of the officials and peasants. The wardens of the preserves

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 261 abused their power, stealing forest resources and game, such as the royal trees in the lowland preserves and especially in the game reserves, owing to the shortage of human resources to defend them from forest offenses and forest destruction. 25 Consequently, from the 15th to the 18th centuries the prerogative of “royal sticks” and accusations of “offences” committed against forests by the low social classes concerned pine, cork and oak trees. It is as if no other species existed—which is not really believable. Therefore, what remained beyond the monopolisation of tree species for royal use in forests, how were royal woodlands accessed, and how was all the other plant cover managed?

10.5 The royal forests in the 1700s—management of consumption From the 16th century to the 18th century, as forest management evolved, it is known that in the European colonies and, specifically, those of Portugal vast areas of woodlands were cleared to supply wood for shipbuilding or burned to convert those areas into farmlands. In this process of forest destruction, which has been extensively mentioned, after the felling of the trees, the populations and rulers carried out actions in these places to compensate for where they had been depleted, cut down or cleared. Thus, by the start of the 18th century, the landscape was no longer the same as it was in 1500s or 1600s when the take-off of transatlantic sailing required huge amounts of wood for shipbuilding. Considering that the colonies supplied timber while European forests were recovering in the second half of 1600s, as well as during 1700–1750s, some of those woods, once destroyed and bereft of trees, would have recovered and grown into mature forests in the 1700s, while other regions remained under harsh pressure to supply forest products, namely the lowlands, among the best farming soils in the kingdom, and near the coast or rivers like the Cávado, Vouga, Mondego, Tagus and Sado. According to available studies, in the first half of 1700s charcoal for the glass manufactory in Coina—south of Lisbon—was produced and consumed in the royal preserves of the lowlands on the left bank of the Tagus. In the 1740s that supply was considered insufficient to ensure the running of the factory. Consequently, in 1747 the glass factory was relocated near the pinewoods of Leiria. 26 Forests with a fair density of resources in 1605 would thus have been different by the 1740s and the Leiria woodlands would have been regenerated by then. The question is, would a glass manufactory and the charcoal produced for its ovens have been enough to justify relocating the factory from the woods of the lowlands to the pinewoods of the region of Leiria in the village of the Marinha Grande? Perhaps a parallel issue of forest resource consumption across the left bank of the river Tagus might have spurred this transfer. Although it has scarcely been studied from this perspective,

262  C. J. de Melo around the same time the royal Court was living in the region of Salvaterra de Magos, chasing big game near the royal preserves that were also supplying charcoal for the king’s glass factory. Once the Leiria pinewoods were able to provide wood for the arsenal and at the same time supply charcoal without eradicating forest resources, the glassworks could be transferred to that region and cease to compete for the consumption of resources in the lower Tagus area. Indeed, Leiria was the recipient of the Crown’s master plan to promote the expansion of the kings’ woodlands. The plan of 1751 (reflected in the regulations approved that year) proposed a sustained specialisation of pinewood management. It revealed and explained how to develop a strategy of plantings to ensure that timber could be extracted every single year. The programme also indicated that trees should be trained to grow in particular shapes suited to specific functions. That way pine woodlands would provide a constant future supply of forest products for the Navy while continuing to produce charcoal for the royal factories. 27 However, the programme of 1751 would take decades to yield results. Therefore, those areas, newly planted in 1751, could not be used for territorial reconstruction, defence and communications after the Lisbon earthquake of 1755. Indeed, from 1756 to 1761 forest products extracted from the royal preserves were taken from woodlands already under pressure in the first half of the century, firstly the lowlands of the Tagus then extending to the Sado River and Leiria. From the 1760s onwards demand continued to be intense, but the requirements for logs and branches from the royal woodlands were targeted at the Upper Tagus valleys and lowlands of the Sado River (from where transportation to the royal sawmills in Leiria, 150 km north of Lisbon, would be longer and more expensive than from those in the lowlands of Tagus). 28 During the 1750s and 1760s, instructions were frequently given to produce and deliver charcoal from specific royal preserves in the outskirts of Lisbon. Charcoal for royal uses as well as for trade in the capital would be obtained from the royal woods of Sintra and not from the Tagus woodlands to spare the resources from those regions. 29 At the same time, contradicting the accusations of royal legislation, all Portuguese monarchs—ruling from 1721 to 1824, namely D. João V, D. José I, D. Maria I and D. João VI—authorised the rural populations to collect fodder, sticks, and wood for carpentry and furniture and to cut branches for firewood from different trees such as poplars, elms, willows, yews, ash trees, birches [choupos, olmos-ulmeiros, salgueiros, teixos, freixos, bétulas] and others. Furthermore, all those monarchs also issued orders for those species to be planted, not all at the same time.30 It seems important to note that, before and after the Earthquake of 1755, the forest products requested by the monarchs from the Montaria-Mor do Reino [forestry bureau] were accompanied by very accurate instructions concerning the cutting and removal of the different resources. Those

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 263 messages addressed the techniques to be employed for felling, coppicing or pollarding, specifying the tree species and the spots in the royal preserves from where the forest products were to be taken, precisely to avoid depletion and to guarantee a future supply of the different components of the trees.31 Once royal orders were complied with, the tasks performed were described and reported to the monteiro-mor of the realm. This officer informed the Court about the cargoes of logs, wooden planks or firewood that had been shipped to their destination, Lisbon or Leiria, receiving confirmation of the arrival of those shipments, which were be copied in the records of the correspondence of the Montaria-Mor of the realm.32 Other tasks were also recorded in those books, such as the need to monitor waterworks, to repair fences made of sticks or to plant shrubs and trees to reinforce hedges of trees to hold in river banks in spots where flooding occurred annually. This issue is an indirect indication of a whole set of invisible forest management practices which started with the unexpected floods of 1770 that caused devastating damage during the 1780s and 1790s.

10.6 Torrential flooding as a trigger for riverbank afforestation in the 1770s to the 1790s In Early Modern Portugal, flooding was a normal occurrence in winter.33 In 1770 extremely heavy rainfall was followed by the “greatest inundation of the Tagus lowlands since 1669”.34 However, in the 1750s and 1760s, a significant amount of torrential rainfall did not cause such huge devastation by dragging soils and cultivated fields as similar rainfall did in 1770 and again during 1782–1784. So, the question is: why did equivalent torrential rain cause more degradation after the 1770s? The lack of sturdy plant cover in those landscapes along the slopes, fields and banks of the river Tagus very likely contributed to increasing the potential damage caused by waters, which dragged crops, cattle, farming equipment and even people downstream. This situation was repeated.35 Confronted with this natural disaster, Queen Maria I created a department of hydraulic works to find solutions to control the devastating impact of the Tagus overflows. Submerged crops rotted and stagnant waters were conducive to the spread of epidemics. It was, therefore, necessary, on the one hand, to protect human lives, cattle and farming soils and, on the other hand, to prevent health crises triggered by remaining stagnant waters in arable lands during the warm seasons.36 In 1784, the mission of protecting the banks of the Tagus and cultivated fields was entrusted to the Count of Valadares, who promoted the planting of thorny shrubs, poplars, willows and pine trees to act as fencing. This apparently successful measure proved to be effective until 1786, when new torrential flows once again destroyed and dragged fences and trees, depositing cloaks of sand over cultivated fields.37

264  C. J. de Melo Also, in the 1780s, the Mondego River in the centre of the kingdom was dealing with equivalent problems. Queen Maria, I required a new insight into this unsolved matter of unsafe protection against floods. The engineer Estêvão Cabral was ordered to visit the inundated fields and all the banks of the Tagus River from Lisbon to the Spanish border.38 Estêvão Cabral suggested similar solutions to those adopted by the Count of Valadares: lining the river banks with “real woods” instead of rows of trees together with thorny shrubs.39 These solutions were feasible from a landscaping perspective but limited, once more, by property rights. The queen could not impose the afforestation measures in seigniorial lands, only along the strip of land bordering waters that were under royal protection. Further inland, planting woods to protect their fields would be a matter of choice for private landowners. Furthermore, slopes faced similar obstacles except in royal estates and royal woods, as in the case of the forests located beside the River Alge (a tertiary water basin of the Tagus) in the Zêzere Valley that supplied the royal forges. The furnaces situated further up in the hills were supplied by pinewoods close to the watercourse. Such a location ensured transportation of the logs and all forest resources directly from the spots under exploitation to the forges at the mouth of river (stream) Alge.40 Actually, the woods of Alge had very rarely been required to supply timber for the royal shipyards throughout the 1700s, even after the 1755 earthquake.41 The Crown owned the monopoly over gun production, for which charcoal was required in substantial quantities. Those forests seem to have been left to supply wood almost exclusively to the royal forges and therefore remained substantially dense. However, it is interesting to stress the configuration of these woodlands as they consisted of alternate stretches of clear rocky ground and wooded areas, presumably to prevent the spread of uncontrolled fires. Their main purpose would not have been to divide torrential waters, but Estêvão Cabral noted that they contributed to diminishing their strength.42 As a matter of fact, Estêvão Cabral’s memoirs reporting the diagnosis of the banks and slopes of upper valleys of the Tagus State that the regions of Abrantes and Tomar served by the Zêzere and Nabão valleys, all in the Upper Tagus region, would be good examples of abundant woodland production and, more importantly, did not suffer from flood damage. Furthermore, those woodlands also produced timber as well as pine nuts in areas where the soils were not well suited to cultivating cereals. This combination of positive results was further developed in the regulations of the 1800s on the royal preserves concerning new approaches to royal forestry management.

10.7 Royal preserves in 1800: the example of agroforestry, a perfect combination In 1800, new Regulations on Royal Preserves were promulgated by the authorisation of 21 March 1800. The preamble to this legislation refers to

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 265 former decrees that had not been obeyed either by the populations or by the officers of the royal preserves. These orders, published during 1790 and 1799, referred to the forest offences committed against the woods belonging to the household of the Royal Queens and Princesses and the initiatives to promote better policing and replenishment of forest resources by sowing new woodlands of pine trees on the estates of Alenquer and Alverca, near the mouth of the Tagus, on the north bank. Therefore, those royal orders had been fully disregarded by officialdom and rural communities. To remedy the situation and improve forest administration under the Crown’s protection, a new set of regulations was required. That of 1800 introduced a major innovation: it permanently separated the administration of the game preserves used for hunting from that of the preserves for wood, farming and charcoal production, matching the most suitable plants to the capacity of the soils in the landscapes allocated to each of those cultivations.43 The mosaic of the royal forests was redesigned, establishing the parcelling of preserves for combined farming and woodlands, separate perimeters for hunting, and driving the woodlands used exclusively for timber production to mountains, slopes and sandbanks. These changes required the Crown to relinquish hunting rights in lands preserved for that purpose since the Middle Ages. Influenced by physiocratic approaches, the monarch allowed himself to reduce symbolic rights inherent in an ethos—stable since the 15th century—by abolishing the big game preserves in the lowlands of river Tagus. The question is, how was such an outcome achieved? In 1796, according to the opinion of the head keeper of the preserves, the royal woods and game parks, which were no longer frequented by the royal family as they had been in the first decades of D. Maria’s reign, required adjustments to be made to their management and policing. He stated in his reports to Prince D. João that those same lands which used to be full of plant cover in the late 1790s were now treeless, namely the pinewoods nearest to the Palace of Salvaterra de Magos. In those documents of 1796, the head keeper of the preserves claimed that the pinewood of Escaroupim “was a wood only in name”. In 1800, the same expression was found in the decree establishing the new regulations on the royal preserves of 21 March 1800, as a justification for implementing new rules for managing hunting, forestry and agriculture in that specific area and for modifying the geographical areas given over to producing forest resources for shipbuilding, other carpentry activities and charcoal as well as managing forests in a State of wilderness for game breeding so that the various types of forest production and consumption did not end up eliminating the resources of the royal woods.44 In the late 18th century, the monteiro-mor faced a problem of scarcity of forest resources in the lowlands due quite probably to previous overexploitation of those items: firstly, in the first half of the century, to be delivered for shipbuilding and charcoal production; secondly to contribute

266  C. J. de Melo to the reconstruction of Lisbon and war affairs after the major earthquake of 1755; thirdly, to help regenerate lands devastated by torrential flooding in the 1770s and 1790s. Confronted with so many setbacks when it came to extracting forest resources and the impossibility of controlling natural disasters that swept away new seedlings and young green cover on slopes in 1796, the monteiro-mor proposed a plan for forest recovery that could be successfully carried out. The project sent to the Prince Regent, the future D. João VI, would only be accepted after it had been carefully worked out by the minister, D. Rodrigo de Sousa Coutinho, for about four years.45 Addressing all the sensitive Ancien Regime issues about the illegitimacy of seigniorial rights and the place of the monarch in the Natural Social Order of many social classes (with and without privileges), with the sovereign at the top—which, from an Absolutistic perspective, was where he should remain—it was important to consider how to tackle the issues put into q ­ uestion by the American and French revolutions. Given the great difficulty of the task of diminishing royal privileges, especially in such a context, changing the king’s property rights required the utmost sustained proposal. A brilliant argument was put forward showing how the Portuguese Crown, the king and the kingdom would benefit from such a new way of managing the territory. Afforestation along the coastline would protect arable lands from sea upsurges and invasive sands while producing timber. Thus, planting trees in these areas would be a preventive measure against natural disasters. If forests specifically planted for timber and wood production were extended to the hills of the Tagus and Sado valleys, the lowlands could be used both as game preserves and as wild areas for game breeding alongside cultivated pinewoods. Using royal woodlands under the kings’ control for farming would be doubly advantageous: it would make it possible to produce food and extra income for the monarch while permitting such lands to be cultivated.46 King John VI accepted all these plans in the decree of 21 March 1800. The following decrees of 1802–1804 established the implementation of such laws ordering the planting of trees in the s­ andbanks of Coimbra in Mondego water basin lowlands, as well as in the pinewood of Escaroupim in the Tagus lowlands.47 Meanwhile, in the 1810s, trees in woods that had survived or were planted—at least, in the second half of the 1700s—would provide not only timber for the royal shipyards but also food during the French/Napoleonic invasions.

10.8 Visible and tangible forests: forest availability in the 1800s French soldiers marching across Portugal during the Napoleonic Invasions (1808–1812) provide accounts of the unexpected: the abundance of trees in a wide region encompassing the royal woodlands themselves and further

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 267 beyond. In late 1810 the advance of the invading army was thwarted by the lack of bridges while it marched westward across the territory carrying heavy artillery in the region of Abrantes. Confronted with such unexpected drawbacks, the troops were forced to fall enough trees to ensure a safe passage and build a bridge that allowed men and artillery to cross the river. After overcoming the obstacle and resuming their march in the direction of the coast before arriving in Coimbra, their progresses was slowed systematically by the continuous, very dense woods. And after reaching the plains of the river Mondego, the troops rested before carrying on their southward march, going along the coast of Leiria and again finding a continuous landscape of woodlands stretching down to the outskirts of Lisbon.48 In 1812, the British soldiers, enemies of the French, likewise reported that Portuguese territory was full of dense woods and groves of olive bushes as well as other fruit trees in the outskirts of Lisbon, in Torres Vedras, until Wellington ordered they be fully cut down “as far as the eye could see” to ensure the best shooting range possible. As part of this defence campaign, 50,000 olive trees were cut down, proving, despite such extensive clearance, that in 1812 those trees were occupying the land.49 The information provided on the Leiria pinewoods after 1812 referred to intense damage: the forests were full of weeds and had not been cleaned since the royal family had left for Brazil (1807). If these areas needed to be cleared of brushwood to prevent forest fires, they could not have been treeless. However, a problem remains as it is not known how dense the woods were in 1812.50 Indeed, the record books of daily tasks performed in the Leiria pinewoods during 1811–1824 do not allow us to identify clearly which parts of the woods were devastated and which recovered. Part of the Leiria pinewoods would have been the result of the sowings ordered by Prince D. João and by French authorities under the French Consulates. The existence of bushes occupying the floor of the Leiria pinewoods suggests that the forests were not cleared and that peasants were allowed to go inside to gather wood and use the pastures for their cattle, indicating a lack of royal control over the cleaning of the woods rather than devastation. This could be confirmed by the licences for the extraction of resources held in the archives of the royal preserves of the Leiria region from Obidos downwards during 1811–1833.51 Thus, the main point to address with respect to those contemporary testimonies is that the woodlands on the outskirts of Lisbon were dense up to the 1810s, proving that trees were not sacrificed for shipbuilding or to rebuild Lisbon after 1755 but rather not until a specific moment for military defence purposes in the early 19th century. Therefore, the destruction of forests mentioned in the Alvará of 21 March 1800 did not apply to the whole territory. Furthermore, when comparing this information with literature on food availability from the 1800s to 1840s, Isabel Drumond Braga presents

268  C. J. de Melo sources that shed considerable light on the distribution of forests across the entire national territory: surveys by doctors on health conditions.52 During the 1830s and 1840s, when the country was in the grip of a health crisis and food shortage, doctors were travelling around the districts informing the Portuguese central authorities about the distribution of food in good condition to feed the populations, describing the availability of nuts as an important source of nourishing food. Those inventories illustrate that the fruit of cork, oak, stone pine, maritime pine, chestnut, walnut and hazelnut trees was described as an important food supply.53 This information gathered from a field study provides grounds for questioning the general conclusions on forest scarcity and the destruction of resources without replenishment. In the 1830s, those trees could only have existed if they had been planted at least 50–70 years earlier in the throes of the aforementioned torrential flooding from the 1770s onwards or earlier in the 1750s. But once again, this data does not allow us to draw a real conclusion: further elements must be added to support such a possibility. Perhaps the statistics on agricultural production of the 1600s and 1800s might reinforce such an idea. Indeed, the statistics on farm production and cereal prices throughout the Early Modern and contemporary ages show a global increase in State production from the 19th century onwards. The comfortable conclusion would be that the taxation of the produce of fruit trees is an indication of its availability. But analyses of Portuguese economic history do not specify in detail the production of acorns, pine nuts, walnuts, chestnuts and almonds. Global data merely allows us to conclude that agriculture production steadily increased throughout the 19th century.54 One possible explanation for such a mismatch might be the terminology used in the past, which is no longer familiar to us. For instance, trees that produce spiky fruits whose seeds we eat would have been called “thorned orchards” (pomares de espinho) in Portugal, not forest trees. That applies to all the types of nuts mentioned above, indicating that sources referring to the production of frutos secos (lit. “dry fruits”)—as nuts are called in Portuguese—require new research from a historical perspective.

10.9 Conclusions Plenty of examples have been presented to show that, aside from forest destruction, throughout the entire Early Modern Age, Portugal witnessed attempts at regenerating forests, woodlands and other tree cover. During the 1700s, the Portuguese monarchs had promoted sowing, planting, pruning and coppicing in their forests. Some of those young forest plants did not thrive. This is not tantamount to not intending to promote forest compensation. Indeed, the 1751 regulations of the pinewoods of Leiria further stretched the meaning of woodland exploitation, managed in a very oriented way to deliver different forest products on a steady annual basis

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 269 instead of forbidding extraction to avoid depletion; production would be carried out in such a way that depletion would not occur. The forestry management practices adopted attest to a very thorough knowledge. Firstly, they reveal an awareness of how to carry out monocultures of trees. Such practices followed an already known process of harvesting treetops in orchards, a technique that was apparently adapted, in some cases, to thorny “nut” trees. Indeed, those tree species were managed to ensure they kept on producing fruits in the 19th century, and given that they were indeed producing edible fruits, they could not have been destroyed. However, this topic requires further demonstration. In addition, throughout the Early Modern Age, the Portuguese Crown managed to amplify the area of forest production and exploitation by finding ways of not triggering too much seigniorial unsatisfaction while imposing royal prerogatives on land owned by the nobility. Such an approach leads us to think that one of the meanings and intentions of establishing forest offences in legislation was to empower the royal figure over equals and to provide an excuse to exercise a not very clear right to demand seigniorial forest resources. At this point, we might perhaps agree that the first pitfall of interpreting the general destruction of forests—grounded in royal legislation—would be analysing the narrative of forest destruction without considering how the argument of blaming the lower social classes for forest offences disguised the Crown’s aim to legitimise the extraction of forest trees in other seigniorial lands. Indeed, environmental historical analyses need to be reminded that the rationale of Early Modern Age European political and social culture was totally different from 20th- and 21st-century environmental-ecological paradigms. A lack of historical context might have obfuscated the possibility of investigating how depleted afforested areas could have been regenerated in many different processes in the lowlands, highland river margins and coastlands. In the long run, some Portuguese royal forests had recovered. This result contradicts not the reality of the pressure exerted on woods but the idea of a permanent destruction of forests without attempts at replenishment and recovery—which is clearly not the case. The examples provided throughout the chapter demonstrate the many efforts made to reduce the scarcity of the required wood for royal use not only by forbidding access to trees under royal protection—as mentioned in the legislation—but also by promoting sowing, planting and alternate harvesting of resources, as clearly expressed by other data on daily activities in the royal estates. Such activities prove that both lower officialdom and peasants performed forest management—contrary to what was stated in the narratives of destruction, which place the blame for forest destruction on those very officials. Indeed, the blame never falls on the king or any member of the royal family, the Church or the aristocracy.

270  C. J. de Melo Thus, the narrative of forest destruction not only attributes responsibility to those who could not afford to destroy forests but also reflects a very partial reality of forest mismanagement across the kingdom that helped reinforce the Crown’s authority to impose royal rights upon land owned by the aristocracy. It was handled cautiously but very efficiently. Summing up, the historical context is fundamental to understanding Ancien Regime environmental contexts with respect to chronology, geography and culture. The second pitfall of taking legislation literally as proof of the unavailability of forest products in precise periods is probably misinterpreting the scarcity of specific trees—pines, oaks and cork oaks—as an absence of all the other tree species constitutive of a Mediterranean-Atlantic forest, and drawing general conclusions about forest depletion from the Crown’s monopolies over particular species linked to economic goals. As Alvaro Aragón Ruano has pointed out, forest scarcity under the Ancien Regime is often a question of the perspective of who is legislating and for what purpose. Thus, in Portuguese processes of first encouraging overseas expeditions and secondly maintaining that activity as an imperial prerogative, if one specific tree species was required for a given craft activity also serving a precise royal interest, its supply needed to be guaranteed no matter what, even exaggerating its supposed scarcity as a justification. The third pitfall is failing to compare the legislation with the daily management of the territory, overlooking the information on the consumption, management, recovery, delivery and even abundance of resources in the royal woods depending on the period in question and on what forest resources were required. Paradoxically, the same legal sources that repeatedly mention the destruction of trees in some royal preserves from the 16th to the 19th centuries, claiming the existence of “forest offences” and scarcity of wood resources, actually prove that regeneration necessarily took place following the destruction, over and over again in exactly the same spots. The fourth pitfall is arriving at general conclusions about the entire Portuguese territory on the basis of the management of royal preserves without studying seignorial secular and religious forest administration. Yet some conclusions can be drawn from the administration of royal preserves concerning processes of forest replenishment and resting in the long run. Thus, the Ancien Regime needs to be known, understood and taken into account before drawing ecological and environmental conclusions about the uses of the territory in different places and periods. Approaching the end of the chapter, the uncomfortable part is addressing the fragilities and lack of results in this contribution. The missing evident element of this research would be the final outcome, an account of how much was destroyed and how much was recovered. Although it is not possible to provide such an account, it is quite clear that in the long run, cycles

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 271 and rhythms of extraction and replenishment were a pattern of intentional management, at least in 17th-century royal forests. It is likely that similar ways of managing forests were to be found in private forests. Thus, the future challenge of research on 18th-century Portuguese forests is to extend the analysis of such landscapes to aristocratic and communal lands. The challenge that exists for other geographical areas and periods in Europe and other parts of the world in the Early Modern and contemporary ages is to make an equivalent effort to find out more about attempts at forest recovery in order to be able, eventually, to compare stories of forest degradation with parallel stories of beneficial actions performed by humans, yet to be unveiled in the light of proper historical contexts.

Notes 1 Cristina Joanaz de Melo author is Contracted Researcher at Institute for Contemporary History-IHC,-Norma Transitória-DL57/2016/CP1453/CT0048]. The IHC is funded by National funds through FCT—Fundação para a Ciência e a Tecnologia, I.P., under the projects UIDB/04209/2020, UIDP/04209/2020, and LA/P/0132/2020. 2 Nunes (2004); Monteiro, Ramos and Sousa (2010). 3 Rotherham (2017); Buttler (2013, 371–376); Winiwarter, Schmid and Dressel (2013, 101–119). 4 Labrador-Arroyo and Trapaga-Monchet (2019); Chamorro Esteban (2019, 374–395); Martínez-González (2019, 321–342); Fernández Izquierdo (2019, 283–320); Land and Dominguez (2019, 179–204); Trapaga-Monchet (2019, 396–425); Ezquerra Revilla (2019, 343–373); Aragón-Ruano (2019, 426–455). 5 Reboredo and Pais (2014, 249–256). 6 Melo (2017, 117–124); Melo (2019, 456–487). 7 Curto (2007). 8 Nozes (1990); Sharady (2014); Viegas and Loureiro (2010). 9 VV. AA. (2005–2006a); VV. AA. (2005–2006b); Versos (2003); Monteiro, Ramos and Sousa (2010, 331–378). 10 Mendes-Victor et.al. (2009); Araújo (2005); Cardoso (2005); Tavares (2005); Barreira (1998); Rollo, Cardim and Buesco (2007). 11 Pádua (2002). 12 Cabral (2014). 13 VV. AA. (2005–2006a); VV. AA. (2005–2006b). 14 Pedreira (1994, 2000, 2015). 15 Costa (1995); Devy-Vareta (1986, 5–37); Labrador-Arroyo (2009); Gomes and Trapaga-Monchet (2017); Trapaga-Monchet and Santos (2016, 62–68). 16 Melo (2000, 2015, 2017); Trapaga-Monchet (2019, 396–425). 17 Biblioteca e Arquivo Histórico do Ministerio de Obras Púbricas (BAHMOP), Montaria-Mor do Reino (MMR) núcleo 17, 1721–1833. 18 Meneses (2015, 146–152); Paiva (2012, 165–182); Monteiro, Ramos and Sousa (2010, 331–378). 19 Melo (2000); Biblioteca da Ajuda (BA), Ms. 44-VIII.6; Biblioteca Nacional de Lisboa (BNL), Regimento da Coutada de Muja—Res.—cod. 11796, f. 356; Regimento da Coutada de Salvaterra de Magos—Res—cod. 7667. The Ordinances of D. Filipe II imposed local authorities the promotion of trees’ planting to produce timber and fruits.

272  C. J. de Melo 20 The regulation of cork-trees, as well as hunting laws, are integrated in the Ordinances of D. Filipe II, in Books I and V: Ord. Book I. Tit. §§ 25 and 26; Ord. Book I. Tit. 58 § 15.; Ord. Book V. Tit. 75; Ordinances of D. Filipe II, Book V, Tit. 75. 21 Melo (2000). 22 Amorim, Polónia and Oswald (2002, 172–173); Costa (1995, 3); Polónia and Domingues (2018). 23 Barros (2006, 133–147, 2015). 24 VV. AA. (1751). 25 Idem. 26 Paul (2018); Santos (2018). 27 VV. AA. (1751). 28 Melo (2000); BAHMOP, [Montaria Mor do Reino (1700–1833)] MMR, núcleos 1 and 2. 29 BAHMOP, MMR 1-2, Livros de Registo de Correspondência 1721–1777; MMR 16–17, Licenças de Cortes (1624–1833), 1721–1833, MMR, núcleos 20–27— Corridas; MMR, núcleos 37–38—Processos e Devassas; Reais Ferrarias da Foz de Alge. 30 BAHMOP, MMR, núcleos 1–2, 1700–1833; MMR, núcleos 16–17,1706–1833. 31 BAHMOP, MMR, núcleo 17, 1756–1792. 32 BAHMOP, MMR, núcleo 1, 1721–1833. 33 Silva (2019). 34 BAMHOP, Ministério do Reino (MR)—MR, 34—Documentos relativos a obras e administração das lezírias do Tejo, caixa 1756–1821; MR 43—Correspondência do Conde de Valadares Encarregado das Obras do Ribatejo 1783–1790; Melo, 2020. 35 BAMHOP, MMR, núcleo 43. 36 Melo, 2020. 37 BAHMOP, MR, 43. 38 Vandelli (1991 [1790], 141–165). 39 Cabral (1991 [1790], 177–204). 40 Royal Forges from Alge River Mouth (Reais Ferrarias da Foz de Alge, RFFA 1800–1804); RFFA- 2-2- Diário dos bosques (atividades)—condução de madeiras (1802—4/1824); RFFA 14—Livros de registo de trabalhos—descrição de atividades—condução de madeiras pelo Rio Alge; RFFA 22—Copiadores de folhas de despesas com oficinas, minas e bosques; RFFA 30—Materiais—madeiras utilizadas nas construções e carvão; RFFA 32—Compra de um baldio para viveiro de sobreiros; RFFA 33—Autos de vistoria /transgressões; RFFA 57— Recibos de produtos remetidos para o exército. 41 BAHMOP, MMR, núcleos 1–2, 1721–1800. 42 Cabral (1991 [1790], 177–204). 43 Alvará of 21 March 1800. 44 Melo (2015). 45 Coutinho (1993a [29 March 1803], 206–2012, 1993b [11 July 1793], 152–168, 1993c [1787], 188–191, 1993d [19 January 1802], 197–201). 46 Santos and Serrão (2013, 475–494). 47 Melo (2020). 48 Barrés (2010, 25–48); Clímaco (2010); Péruse (2010, 158–189); BAHMOP, Administração dos Reais Pinhais de Leiria—1811–1824). 49 Lobo (2015). 50 BAHMOP, Administração dos Reais Pinhais de Leiria—1811–1824, books 1–4, of 6. 51 Melo (2000). 52 Braga (2000).

Forests in Portugal, 1750s–1820s 273 53 (1838–1842) Anais do Conselho de Saúde Pública do Reino Cruz (1843); Simões (1860 [1848]). 54 Freire and Laíns (2017).

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Index

Note: Page references in italics denote figures, in bold tables and with “n” endnotes. Acuña, Juan de 132 Administration of the Royal Pinewoods of Leiria (Administração dos Reais Pinhais de Leiria) (ARPL) 254 aequitas constituta 134 aequitas rudis 134 Afonso III of Portugal 194 Afonso V of Portugal 189 Agricola, Georg Andreas 90 agriculture 11, 20, 96, 157, 171, 188, 239, 260, 265, 268; and ­deforestation 36; economic ­argument on 13; European 91; and Guipuzcoan forests 81–82, 85; shifting and permanent 34; and woodlands 171 agroforestry, and royal preserves 264–266 Agustín, Fray Miguel 90 Alberdi Lonbide, Xabier 105 Alberoni, Giulio 63 Albion, Robert G. 34 Alcalá-Zamora y Queipo de Llano, José 42 alcaldes mayores 59–60 Alderete, Martín de 132 Aleppo pines (Pinus halepensis) 168 Alfonso X of Castile 54, 136 Alges River 200, 264 almadías 232, 236, 238–239, 241, 243 Almeirim pinewoods 199–201 Alva, Andrés de 110 Alzate, Antonio de 162, 166–168 Amezti, Antonio de 139, 141, 147 Ancien Regime 10, 13, 33, 254, 258, 266; forest rights under 258–261;

property rights and seigniorial ethos 258–261 Andrada e Silva, José 9–10 Antonio de Iriarte Belandía, Miguel 230 António Ruiz en sesmaria 198 Appuhn, Karl 6, 11, 157 Aragón Ruano, Alvaro 270 Araujo, Jorge de 196 árboles cruzados 78 árboles rozados 78 ArcGIS Desktop 10.8 212 Archivo Histórico Nacional 131, 136, 149 Argaiz, José Javier 235–236 Armada crisis 39 Arnaut, Lord of Urcuit 78 Arriaga, Julián de 229 Arsenal Nuovo 37 ash (Fraxinus) 165 Ataíde, Alvaro de 189 Atocha, Pascual de 66 Auge, Oliver 15, 75, 99n34 Avis Order 196 Azambuja pinewoods 199, 200, 202 Baltic Commerce and Urban Society (Bogucka) 34 Bamford, Paul 16 Banco Nacional de San Carlos 242 bandits 158, 170–171 Barba, João Rodrigues 195 Barbier, Edward B. 34 Barcelona 65–67; fusta in 161; ­galley-producing hubs 157–158; ­galleys in 157–160, 165, 167, 172–173, 175n33; labour shortage

Index 279 164; merchant navy 156; naval ­activity in 163; plantings in 162; shipyard of 21, 165 Barros y Peralta, Cristóbal de 58–61, 106–107, 115, 131, 133, 134, 161, 165 Barton, Gregory 4 Basque Country 17, 20, 40; empirical silviculture in 75–97; forests 81–82; modern forest resource thought in 88–92, 93, 94; sustainability in 75–97 Basque Enlightenment 88 Basque forestry 119, 122; and ­sustainability 77; tradition 97 Basque Royal Society 90 Basque transnational community 106–110 Batalha, Caetano 10, 12 Battle of Lepanto 166 Bauer, Erich 14 Beldarrain, José de 90 Bermúdez de Castro, José 63 Biscay 77; forestry tradition 105–123; General Assemblies of 80; iron forges 82, 96; reforestation ­programme 84–88; shipbuilding 105–123 Biscayan shipbuilding 105–123; ship proportion and design 112–115; timber shortage 110–112; see also shipbuilding Biscayan traditional forestry practices 118–122, 119, 121 Bogucka, Maria 34 bordes pine 167 Botelho, Heitor 211, 213 Bourbon dynasty 63, 150 Boxer, Charles 12 Braganza dynasty 200 Braudel, Fernand 34 Brazilian Atlantic forests 256 British Empire, forestry policies 4 burgatones 81 Busiñac y Borbón, Philip 66 Bustamante, Toribio Pérez de 62, 63, 83 Cabeção 196–197, 202; royal ­pinewood of 194, 196–197, 202 Cabral, Estêvão 264 Calamón, Juan Pérez 168 Calvi, Giovan Battista 159, 160, 175n28 Cámara de Comptos 235

Campenne, Marquis de 234 Cantabrian communities 131 Cantabrian-Pyrenean: empirical proto-silviculture 77–88; forestry tradition 20, 76, 76 capitalism: birth of 8; Braudel on 34; ecological impact of 4; mercantile 31, 33, 43 Capitulare de Villis of Charlemagne 54 Cardona, Juan de 64–65 Cardoso, Gaspar 199 Carlowitz, Hanns Carl von 16, 75 Cartagena Arsenal 229, 237–238, 242, 244 cartas pueblas/fueros 54 Casado Soto, José Luis 42, 113 Castilho, Pedro de 195 Catalán, Pedro 164 Catalan forests/forestry 162; in age of Lepanto 156–174; exploitation and conservation of 156–174; ­exploitation of 158–163 Catalonia: Commissioner of Plantings and Conservator of Forests (Comisario de Plantíos y Conservador de Bosques) 161, 165–166; conserving forests 163–165; exploitation of Catalan forests 158–163; forest exploration and strategies to combat scarcity 166–172; and Mediterranean ­warfare 156–158; royal pragmatic of 1574 163–165; task for next ­generations 172–174; wood for the king’s galleys 158–163; wood ­shortage 166–172 Catalonian woodlands 21 Carvalho Cabral, Diogo 256 Central Administration for the Royal Preserves (Montaria Mor do Reino) (MMR) 254 Central Europe 4, 36; sustainability in 5; woodlands in 6 Cesar, Vasco Fernandes 192 Charles II, King of Spain 62 Charles III, King of Spain 66–67 Charles V, King of Spain 55, 57–58, 157, 159, 165 Charter of the Forest of 1217 78 Chase-Dunn, Christopher 34 Chaunu, Pierre 108 chestnut trees 58, 79, 138, 146 Chew, Sing C. 33 Claudio, Miguel San 42

280  Index Coelho Leitão, Lourenço 193 Colbert Ordinance of 1669 14, 16 Coloma, Francisco 197 Comallonga, Joan de 165–166, 171, 173 Commissioner of Plantings and Conservator of Forests (Comisario de Plantíos y Conservador de Bosques) 161, 165–166 Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas 229, 230 conservation 6, 21, 42, 56–58, 63, 70, 150, 161, 163, 172, 234, 244; of Catalan forests in age of Lepanto 156–174; of forests 163–165; royal pragmatic of 1574 163–165 coppices 5, 77; woodlands 80 Cork Oak Law (1546): assessing forest area 212–213, 214–222; assessing number of trees 212–213, 214–222; proposal for boundaries of 210–212, 213–214; sustainability assessment of forest resources 209–222 cork-trees 79, 184, 188; regulation of 272n20 Correa Lucas, Rui 221 Correa, Placido 231, 233, 234, 238 Corregedores das comarcas (royal magistrates) 186–188, 191–193, 198 corregidores 59 Corregidor Pedro Cano y Mucientes 84 Cortes of Lisbon 185, 189 corvos 86 Costa, Helena da 195 Costa, Jorge da 195 Costa, Leonor 12 Costa, Luís de Lemos da 201 Council of Treasury 201 Council of War (Consejo de Guerra) 62, 159, 165, 171, 173 coutadas 79, 189, 211, 213 Crown commissioner 130 Crown forest policies: under Habsburg rule 191–193; and shipbuilding 188–193; for shipbuilding on ­kingdom-wide scale 188–191 Crown forestry: under Habsburg rule and its aftermath 191–193 Cunha de Vilas Boas, Agostinho da 199–200 curbatones 81 Curiosités de la nature et de l’art par la végétation, ou l’Agriculture et le jardinage dans leur perfection (Le Lorrain) 90

d’Aldana, Marc Antoni 167 De Brito de Meneses, Manoel 199 defence: logistics 251; wood supplies needed for 255–257 defesas 79 deforestation 4, 8, 43–45, 81; in Early Modern Age 12–15; in Early Modern Iberian Peninsula 9–15; and environmental management 36; in German States 36; and global timber trade 33; in Portugal 9–10; and shipbuilding 12–15, 33; Williams on 34; see also shipbuilding; timber Deforesting the Earth (Williams) 33–34 degradationism 2 dehesas 79 De Ibio Calderón, Tomás 192 De la Fuente, Pablo 232 Dendrochronology 35, 38 Department of Cádiz 69 Derqui, Manuel 41 development: and naval ­construction 130–150; of Spanish forestry 130–150 Devy-Vareta, Nicole 185, 186, 187, 188, 195, 209, 221 Dias, Agostinho 197, 199–200 Diaz Montalvo, António199 Digital Elevation Model (DEM) 210, 212 Dinis I of Portugal 9, 184, 194 disaster of Djerba 166 Discurso sobre la plantación del roble 93–94 divisas 79 Domínguez-Delmás, Marta 15, 38 dominium utile 134 Douro River 213 Dowling, Abigail P. 5, 16–17, 54 Drumond Braga, Isabel 267 Duffy, James 12 Duke of Alba 162 Early Modern Age 2–3, 134, 142, 150, 209, 219, 221; deforestation causes in 12–15; forest performance dimensions 8; forestry 6; mercantile capitalism in 31; shipbuilding 39; state-building 5; use of forests in 36; woodlands of 5 Early Modern Europe 212; forest ­compensation 8; moral economy 6 Early Modern Iberian Peninsula 6; deforestation in 9–15; sustainability

Index 281 in 15–23; under-development of the centralised State 9–12; woodland governance in 15–23 Early Modern Portugal 183, 210, 252 Early Modern States 189, 193, 222; and forest management 19 Early Modern warfare 157 Eaux et Fôrets ordinance 83 ebolistas 132 Ebro Basin 159 Ebro River 65–68, 167, 171 Echeverria, Xabier Ignacio 92 ecological suicide 37 Edict of the Forest of 1184 78 Eguiluz-Miranda, Beñat 20, 44 Elga River 191 elm (Ulmus) 165 El Triunfante 41 empirical forestry 183–203 empirical silviculture: in Basque Country 75–97; Cantabrian-Pyrenean 77–88; and Iberian c­ ontribution 76; ­reforestation ­programme 84–88 environmental history 2, 19, 33 Ercilla, Licenciado 140 Escaroupim pinewoods 185, 200–201, 266 ethos 258–261 Evelyn, John 16, 75, 82 exploitation: of Catalan forests 158–163; of Catalan forests in age of Lepanto 156–174 extensive State forestry 20, 56, 64–69 “Father Kirker” see Kircher, Athanasius Faustmann, Martin 92 Fernandes, Manuel 193 Fernández de Iceta, Lope 142, 148 Fernando I of León 194 Fernow, Bernard E. 6 Ferreira, Ignacio 200 Ferrol Arsenal 229, 237 first global age see Early Modern Age Forest and Sea Power (Albion) 34 forest conservation 6, 21, 42, 56–58, 63, 70, 150, 161, 163, 172, 234, 244 forest destruction: in Early Modern Age 268; in Early Modern Portugal 210; generalised global ­conclusions on 253; hidden ­meanings of royal narratives on 257–258; ­homogeneous historiographical perception of 252; and maritime

expansion 13; narrative of 269–270; and ­shipbuilding 19, 22, 210 forest management 261, 263, 269; and Basque Country 78; and Colbert Ordinance of 1669 16; and Early Modern States 19; and forest codes 202; and Kingdom of Portugal 217; and naval industry 37; in Portugal 9, 18, 255; protective functions in 3; regional 119; in Roncal Valley 244; science 3; in Spain 9, 18; State c­ ontrol over 56; strategies 9; ­sustainability in 1, 16; ­sustainable development in 1; and War of Spanish Succession 63 forest policies: for Portuguese w ­ oodlands 185–188; for the royal forest 184–185; for shipbuilding on a k ­ ingdom-wide scale 188–191 forest rights, and Ancien Regime 258–261 forestry: Biscayan traditional practices 118–122, 119, 121; CantabrianPyrenean forestry tradition 20; empirical 183–203; French 16; Guipuzcoan 21; and ­industrialisation 97; institutionalised 6; intensive 71n8; intensive State 56, 57–64; pattern, pre-modern/Early Modern 80–84; policies of British Empire 4; Portuguese 12; science 4, 7, 16, 18; Spanish 11; State interest in 36; sustainable 3, 16; tradition, in Biscay 105–123; Venetian 6, 17 forestry legislation 174, 201, 253–254; France 14, 17; Heitor Botelho 211; on plantings in Portugal 186; Portugal 79; restrictive forest 8; Spanish liberal 11; Spanish Monarchy 107; as woodlands’ destruction 12 forests: availability in 1800s 266–268; Basque Country 81–82; ­conserving 163–165; ­exploitation and c­ ommercialisation of 36; ­exploration and strategies to combat scarcity 166–172; in ­historiography 31–37; management science 3; modern, resource 88–92, 93, 94; pine 44, 66; in Portugal 251–271; royal ­pragmatic of 1574 163–165; ­sustainability, for shipbuilding 105–123; use in Early Modern Age 36; visible and tangible 266–268;

282  Index see also deforestation; timber; woodlands forests compensation 251–271 ForSEAdiscovery project 19, 36, 37–39, 43, 46 France: forestry legislation 14, 17; ­sustainable forest management 16 Freire Gameiro, Domingos 199 French Bourbon reform 64 Froidour, Louis de 75, 83, 90 fueros (Guipuzcoan law codes) 54, 86, 136 Galego, Manuel 192 Gallagher, Nathan 44 galleys: in Barcelona 157–160, 165, 167, 172–173, 175n33; Genoesestyle 164 Gambra, Pedro Vicente 22, 238, 239, 241 Gandolfo, Francisco 168 García de Toledo, José María 167 Gasch-Tomas, José Luis 44 Gaztañeta, José Antonio de 42, 63 Genoese-style galleys 164 gentiles 167 gentry class (capa y espada) 131 Germany 4–5; sustainable forest management 16; traditional forest history 17 “Ghost War” of 1761 10 Gil, Pere 156, 158 Gipuzkoa 106; shipbuilding activity 108–109, 109 González Quintero, José 39 Goyaz, Pedro de 139, 143 Graham, Hamish 11 Great Siege of Malta 166 Grove, Richard 4 guided/shaped trees 78 guiones 82 Guipúzcoa see Province of Guipúzcoa Guipuzcoan woodlands 81, 85–87, 131 Habsburg dynasty 195 Habsburg Monarchy 157; Crown forestry under 191–193 Hajj, Fadi 38 Hall, Thomas D. 34 haut taillis 83 Henry III of England 78 Henry II of England 78 Herculaneum 183

Hispanic Monarchy 20–21, 45, 108, 110, 122 Historical Library and Archive of Public Works in Lisbon (Arquivo Histórico e Biblioteca do Ministerio de Obras Púbricas) 254 historiography: forests in 31–37; ­shipbuilding in 31–37 holm oaks (Quercus ilex) 79, 90, 168, 184 Holy War 156 horca y pendón (fork and standard) 80, 83, 86, 95, 121; expansion of 115–117; veedor 117–118 Hormaechea, Cayetano 41 human-induced ecological degradation 2 hunting 16, 21, 61; in Early Modern Portugal 184; grounds 21, 184–185; in Late Middle Ages 184; managing 265; regulation of 272n20; rights 265; and royal forests 79 Ibáñez de Larranga, Domingo 139, 141 Iberian Empires 4, 6, 11; evolution of naval models in 39–40; need for timber 19; shipbuilding and ­deforestation 12 Iberian Monarchies 2, 6–7 Iberian Peninsula 2, 6–7, 9–16, 18–19, 35, 37, 40–41, 43, 45, 66, 76, 96–97, 119, 159, 203n1, 231, 253 Iberian transition 42 Idíaquez, Alonso 85 Idiáquez, Domingo de 62 Imperial Channel of Aragón 242 individualisation 78–80 Infante Almirante General 66–67 Informe sobre la ley Agraria (Jovellanos) 11 Íñiguez de Alzaga, Francisco 139 institutionalised forestry 6 Instruction on the method for planting trees in Ydia Mountain 90 intensive forestry 71n8 intensive State forestry 56, 57–64 Introduction to Practical Forest Science (Zanthier) 92 ipinabarro 80, 82 Irati Commission 239 Irati forests: logging in 229, 231, 235–236, 246; and the Navy 229–236 Irati Timber Commission 234–235

Index 283 Irati woodlands 229, 231 Islam 158 Isunza, Pedro de 118 jarales 116, 120, 143, 145–147 Jiménez Montes, Germán 44 Joan de l’Erm, Sant 167 João I, King of Portugal 189, 194 João III, King of Portugal 185 João IV, King of Portugal 193, 195 João V, King of Portugal 193, 262 João VI, King of Portugal 262, 266 John of Austria 158, 163 Jordán, Bartolomé 166–167, 198 Jordán, Bautista 166 José I of Portugal 262 Jovellanos, Melchor 11 Jovellar, Joaquín 229, 242 Juan Núnez de Lara, Lord of Biscay 78 Juntas Generales de Guipúzcoa 58 Keyser, Richard 5, 16–17, 54, 76 Kircher, Athanasius 90 Labiano, José Eugenio 230 Lara, Manrique de 165 Late Middle Ages 134, 150, 184 Leiria pinewoods 187, 194–196, 202, 262 Le Lorrain, Pierre 90 León Amores, Carlos 41–42 Lepanto: and conservation of Catalan forests 156–174; and exploitation of Catalan forests 156–174 liberalism 8 Liber iudiciorum of the Visigoths 54 Libro de los secretos de agricultura, casa de campo, y pastoril (Agustín) 90 Liñán y Vera, Luis 66 Lisbon: earthquake of 10, 22, 255, 262; shipyards 12, 14, 22, 183, 192–193, 197, 209, 220, 257, 259 Loewen, Brad 114 logging: decrease in forest cover 221; in Irati forests 229, 231, 235–236, 246; Irati logging commission 233; and local economy 228; methods 229; monopolised 36; and Peninsular War 236; policy 228; in Pyrenean forests 233 logistics 22, 33, 41, 227–246 Louis XIV, King of France 16 Ludeña, Juan 242

madeiras verdes 12, 193 Madrid 62, 131, 142, 191, 199 Mal Lara, Juan de 158 Maltés, José 68 managed trees 119–120, 123 managerial organicism 6 Manrique de Lara, Nicolás 63 Manuel I, King of Portugal 10, 184, 188–189, 194, 202 Máquinas hidráulicas de molinos y herrerías y gobierno de los árboles y montes de Vizcaya (Villarreal de Bérriz) 88–90, 89 Mare Nostrum 157 Maria I, Queen of Portugal 262–264 Marichalar, Melchor de 239 maritime expansion 10, 12–13, 32, 37, 39 maritime warfare: and empirical ­forestry 183–203; and sustainability in Portugal 183–203 Marquardt, Bernd 5 Martínez de Egina, Nicolás 147 Martínez Shaw, Carlos 15 Martíns, Adolfo Miguel 44 Mascarenhas, Antonio 199 Mauch, Christof 19 Mauro, Frederic 12 McNeill, John R. 2 McNeill, William 33 Mediterranean States 157 Medos pinewoods 198–199, 201, 202 Mello e Castro, Martinho de 10 melosos pine 167 mercantile capitalism 31, 33, 43 merchant naos 112–115 metalworking 80–82 Method for breeding nurseries and planting trees 90–91 Method for cultivating trees 90 Middle Ages 130, 133 Mill, James 15 Ministerio de Fomento (Ministry of Public Works) 11 Mira Caballos, Esteban 42, 43 Monarchies see specific Monarchies Monastery of Batalha 195 Monastery of Lorvão 184 Mondego River 264 monopolised logging 36 Montagut i Vallgornera, Pere de 172–173 monteiro-mor 184, 186–187, 197–200, 260, 263, 265–266

284  Index Montes de Marina 40 Montes Francos of Urumea 78, 82, 85 Moore, Jason W. 18, 96 Morrison, Sara 16 naos: Basque 113; merchant 112–115; war 112–115 Napoleonic Wars 251, 266 National Pinewood of Escaroupim 185 Nature and Power (Radkau) 6 naval construction: development of Spanish forestry for 130–150; ­forestry policy for 149–150; ­preservation of Spanish forestry for 130–150 naval forestry: intensive and e­ xtensive approaches to 54–70; in Spain 54–70; see also forestry Navarre 22, 59, 66, 68, 70, 76–77, 79, 83, 95–96, 107, 168, 227 Navarrese Pyrenean valleys 239, 241 Navarrese Pyrenees: routes and systems of transporting wood 237–242; and Spanish Monarchy 22 Navarro, Simón 236 Negrão, Manuel 185 “The Newport Ship Project” 37–38 Nicola, Juan de 167 Northern European Empires 4 Northern Spain 69, 70, 111, 130, 161 Nossa Senhora dos Martires ship 41, 209, 220 Nuestra Señora de Atocha wreck 41 Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes 41 oak trees (Quercus) 14, 62, 92, 120, 165, 170, 197, 221, 253, 259, 261 ocean-going ships 209 Odriozola Oyarbide, Lourdes 105, 109 Ojeda, Agustín de 62, 110 Olazábal, San Joan de 118 Ordenações Filipinas of 1603 187 Ordinances of the Brotherhood of Guipúzcoa 79 Orry, Jean 63 Ottoman Empire 157, 159, 162, 163 Oyarzun: as metalworking village 82; plantings made in 86, 87 Pádua José Augusto 256 Pais, João 12–14 paleoenvironmental history 17 Patiño, José 63, 66, 68–69 Pedro II of Brazil 197, 201 Peninsular War (1808–1814) 41

Pérez de Arriola, Juan 139, 141–142 Pérez de Bustamante, Toribio 62, 63 Philip II, King of Spain 58–59, 61, 80–81, 107, 130–132, 134, 191 Philip III 172–173, 187, 195 Philip I of Portugal 259 Philip IV, King of France 62, 66, 83, 192, 193, 198 Philips, Carla Rahn 42 Philip V, King of France 66 Philip VI, King of France 17 Philosophical Treatise of Husbandry and Gardening: Being a New Method of Cultivating and Increasing All Sorts of Trees, Shrubs, and Flowers (Agricola) 90 Pignatelli, Ramón 242 pine (Pinus sylvestris) 165 pine forests 44, 66 Pinto de Carvalho, Sebastião 199 Pinus pinaster 183, 209 Pinus pinea 183, 196, 198, 209 Pinus radiata 97 Pinus spp 36, 44, 45 plantations 59–62; see also forestry; forests plantings: in Barcelona 162; legislation, in Portugal 186; and management 197–201; and uses of other royal pinewoods 197–201 pollards 77–78, 82–84, 86–88, 90, 92, 95, 125n93, 254, 263; guided 120–121; harvesting 119; for ­shipbuilding 118, 123 Pomeranz, Kenneth 33 pommiers 83 Pontica, Gaspar de 139, 142 Portugal 6–7; Crown forest p ­ olicies and shipbuilding 188–193; ­deforestation in 9–10; forest ­availability in 1800s 266–268; forest management in 9, 18, 255; forest policies for royal ­forest 184–185; ­forest policies for ­woodlands 185–188; forestry legislation 79; forests in 251–271; ­legislation on plantings in 186; Leiria’s ­pinewoods, decline in 10, 12; logs for s­ hipbuilding 7; maritime expansion 13; maritime warfare, empirical ­forestry and sustainability in 183–203; tunnel-vision on royal pinewoods 193–201; visible and tangible forests 266–268

Index 285 Portuguese Civil Wars 251 Portuguese Crown 183, 209, 253, 266 Portuguese Empire 163, 251 Portuguese Monarchy 194, 210, 211, 222 Portuguese oak (Quercus faginea) 191 Portuguese woodlands 185–188 Practical Geometry for surveyors and their assessment, according to the Province of Guipúzcoa (Echeverria) 92 Prado y Tovar, Diego de 169, 170 preservation: of the cork oaks 187; of hunting grounds 21; of mines 9; and naval construction 130–150; of ­pinewoods 195; of rivers 9; of roads 9; of royal forests 79, 252; of Spanish forestry 130–150; of trasmochos 123; of woodlands 9, 16, 194 Prince Philip, governor of Spain 159 procuradores 59 property rights 258–261 proto-silviculture see empirical silviculture Provedores 192 Province of Guipúzcoa 57–58; ­differentiated of forested lands 79; forestry laws of 59; forests and economic activities 81–82; forest survey of 88; General Assemblies of 80; reforestation programme 84–88; shipbuilding in 77 Pyrenean Forest ecosystem 246 Pyrenean forests 159, 233 Pyrénées-Atlantiques 229 Quercus suber (cork oak) 183, 209, 210, 212–213, 217, 221 Rackham, Oliver 18 Radkau, Joachim 6 Raia River 197 Ravan, Raji 4 Reboredo, Fernando 12–14 rebuilding, wood supplies for 255–257 reforestation 77, 84–88, 148, 228 regenerative woodland management 18 regidores 59 Rentería 82, 145; common land of Mariola 143; plantings made in 86, 87; woodlands 144 Republic of Genoa 157 Republic of Venice 17 rescuing, wood supplies for 255–257 Riva Herrera, Fernando de la 60–61

Rivera, Isidro 41 riverbank afforestation: in the 1770s to the 1790s 263–264; torrential flooding as trigger for 263–264 river transport 227–246 Roman Empire 183 Roncal church 239 Roncal Valley 239; forest management in 244; innovation and development 242–244 Roots of Empire (Wing) 34 Royal Basque Society 91, 92 Royal Basque Society of Friends of the Country 88 Royal Collegiate Church of Roncesvalles 90 Royal Company of Caracas 83, 86, 95 Royal Council of Castile 130–150 royal forests: in the 1700s 261–263; forest policies for 184–185; and hunting 79; management of ­consumption 261–263 see coutadas Royal Forges (Reais Ferrarias da Foz de Alge (RFFA)) 254 royal hunting preserves 259 royal narratives: on forest destruction 257–258; on scarcity 257–258 Royal Navy 19–20, 22, 95, 260; Irati forest and 229–236 Royal Ordinance on Woodlands and Plantings 150 royal pinewoods: of Cabeção 196–197; and plantings 197–201; for ­shipbuilding 193–201 royal pragmatic of 1574 163–165 royal preserves: in 1800 264–266; as example of agroforestry 264–266 Royal Shipyard of Barcelona 157–158, 158, 159, 160, 166, 173 royal woodlands 134, 253, 255, 257, 261–262, 266 Rückert, Peter 5 Sado River 191, 211, 262 Salas, Hernando de 132 Salazar, Muñoz de 162–163 sampling 38; from historic buildings 45; protocol 38 San Juan 41 Santa María Magdalena warship 41 Santiago de Galicia 114 scarcity: of forest resources 8; of ­natural resources 37; of raw ­materials 45; resource 37; royal

286  Index narratives on 257–258; timber 4–5, 21, 35–36, 80–81 Scarcity and Frontier (Barbier) 34 science forestry 4, 7, 16, 18, 76 Scott, James C. 2–3, 193, 202 Sebastião, King of Portugal 259–260 Sebastião I, King of Portugal 185, 191, 259 seigniorial ethos 258–261 selective pruning 78 Senhora da Nazaré, Nossa 195 Señorío of Vizcaya 57–58 Serrano Mangas, Fernando 42 Setantí, Francesc 159, 161–162 Settala, Giorgio 167, 168 Sever River 191 shipbuilding 18; in 16th–18th ­centuries 31–46; and Basque forests 20; centres in Iberian Peninsula 40; Crown forest policies and 188–193; and deforestation 12–15, 19, 22, 33; and Early Modern Age 39; and forest degradation 18; forest policies on kingdom-wide scale 188–191; in historiography 31–37; Middle Ages 14; in Portugal 7; and scarcity of wood 35–36; in Spain 58–59; sustainability of forests for 105–123; tunnel-vision on royal pinewoods for 193–201; and woodlands ­preservation 16; see also ­deforestation; timber shipwrecks 31, 41–42; archaeological studies of 39; of La Herradura 166; renowned 41; timber in 38, 43, 45 shipyards 36–37, 39, 59, 64–65; Barcelona’s 164; Basque 109; Estero 41; Lisbon 12, 14, 22, 183, 192–193, 197, 209, 220, 257, 259; Mediterranean 56, 229; private 108; royal 254, 258, 264, 266 Siete Partidas of King Alfonso X 54 Silva, Francisco 10, 12 Silva, José see Andrada e Silva, José silviculture 75–97; see also empirical silviculture slow hope 19 soft approach, and plantation quotas 61 Sorraia River 197 Sor River 197 Sound Toll Register database 41 Souto, Jerónimo de 195, 199 Spain 6–7; construction of ships in 109; forest management in 9, 18;

forestry 11; forest timber resources, control of 19–20; naval and ­maritime history 41; naval forestry in 54–70; shipbuilding crisis 105; shipbuilding in 58–59; shipwrecks in 41–42; woodlands protection 11 Spanish Empire 163 Spanish Forest Regulation of 1748 10 Spanish forestry: and Hernán Suárez de Toledo 130–136; individual questioned 136–140, 137; and naval construction 130–150; ­preservation and development of 130–150; ­questionnaires, replies to 140–149; and Spanish Monarchy 130–136 Spanish Laws 40 Spanish Monarchy 7, 14, 19, 20–22, 55, 57, 83–84, 95, 105, 130–136, 163; galley-producing hubs 157; and Hernán Suárez de Toledo 130–136; naval needs 150; and Navarrese Pyrenees 22; overseas needs 130; survival of 163 standard trees 77, 80, 84–87, 90, 92, 95 State forestry 54; extensive 20, 56, 64–69; Hispanic 7; intensive 19, 56, 57–64; Portuguese 7; Spanish 68; and War of Spanish Succession 63 Suárez de Toledo, Hernán 20–21, 81, 131, 132, 134, 135, 138, 139, 150; commission entrusted to 130–136; and Spanish Monarchy 130–136 suariçes (fire oaks) 82 Superintendencia de Montes y Plantíos 40, 44 Superintendent of Forests and Plantations 55–56, 59 sustainability: in Basque Country 75–97; and Basque forestry 77; in Early Modern Iberian Peninsula 15–23; forest resources and Cork Oak Law 209–222; of forests, for shipbuilding 105–123; overview 1–3; rise of 3–9 sustainable development 1, 3–4, 18, 20 sustainable forest management 1, 16, 18 sustainable forestry 3, 16, 21 Sylva or A Discourse of Forest-Trees and the Propagation of Timber (Evelyn) 16 Tagus River 13, 14, 190–191, 197–198, 200, 202, 210–214, 219, 222, 262, 264 taillis-sur-futaies 83

Index 287 Tavern, Jeronimo 84, 95 Tedaldi, Juan Francisco de 84–85 Theoria y práctica del comercio y marina (Uztáriz) 43 Three Graces 173 timber 4–8, 10, 110–112; and forest engineering 42–43; global trade 31–46; Iberian Empires need for 19; management of tree species for 18; for Royal Navy 22; scarcity 4–5, 21, 35–36, 80–81; in shipwrecks 38, 43, 45; shortage and Lisbon’s shipyards 12–13; for Spanish fleet 20; see also forests; shipbuilding; woodlands tinglados 235 Toledo, Hernando de 163, 170, 177n107 tombo dos pinhais 187 torrential flooding and riverbank afforestation 263–264 Traoré, Mohamed 38 trasmochos see managed trees trees see forestry; forests; specific terms trees planted 62, 85 Tribunal Mayor de Cuentas 41 Trindade, Ana Rita 44 tunnel-vision: framework 21; on royal pinewoods for shipbuilding 193–201 underwater archaeology 31, 41–42 Union of Crowns 191, 211 United Nations Conference on Environment and Development 1 Uriarte Ayo, Rafel 81 Urola River 130 Urpín, Jerónimo 172, 178n124 Urteaga, José Luis 15 utilitarianism 15 Uztáriz, Gerónimo de 43 Valcanera forest 167 Valdés y Castro, Juan 67, 69 Valdez-Bubnov, Iván 105 Vallejo, Irene 183 Vareta, Nicole Devy 12 veedor 117–118 Velasco, Manuel de 41 Venetian forestry 6, 17 Vidaror, Julián de 230, 230, 237

Viitala, Esa-Jussi 75, 91–92 Villandas, Afonso de 196 Villarreal de Bérriz, Pedro Bernardo 88–91, 89 Virtudes pinewoods 199, 201, 202 visible/tangible forests 266–268 Warde, Paul 2, 14, 15 war naos 112–115 War of Spanish Succession 63, 69–70, 232, 256 War of the Communities of Castile 132 War of the Oranges 251 watershed lines 212 Western environmentalism 3–4 Western Europe 37; naval industries of 34; shipbuilding hubs in 80; ­woodlands in 6 Western Mediterranean 159 white poplar (Populus alba) 165 Williams, Michael 18, 33–34 Wing, John T. 34, 108 wood: and exploitation of Catalan forests 158–163; for the king’s galleys 158–163; routes and systems of transporting 237–242; shortage of 166–172 woodland governance: in Early Modern Iberian Peninsula 15–23; overview 3–9 woodlands: and agriculture 171; Catalonian 21; in Central Europe 6; division of 78–80; of Early Modern Age 5; expansion in Germany 5; Guipuzcoan 81, 85–87, 131; and Iberian Monarchies 6–7; Irati 229, 231; Portuguese 185–188; protection in Spain 11; regenerative 18; royal 134, 253, 255, 257, 261–262, 266; Royal Ordinance on 81; in Western Europe 6; see also forests; timber wood supplies: for defence 255–257; for rebuilding 255–257; for rescuing 255–257 Zanthier, Hans Dietrich von 92 Zatarain, Juan Miguel 229 Zenón de Somodevilla, Marqués de la Ensenada 63 zone of the counter-market 34