Everyday is a schoolday. Today I learned about a Bull. That’s Bull with a capital B, as issued by the Pope. It is called a Bull because the latin for the seal, which authenticates its origin, is a “bulla”.
The Bull I learned about today was issued by Pope Nicholas V in 1452. It was called Dum Diversas. This Bull supplied the authority of the church for Catholics to engage in the slave trade. “We grant you [Kings of Spain and Portugal] by these present documents, with our Apostolic Authority, full and free permission to invade, search out, capture, and subjugate the Saracens and pagans and any other unbelievers and enemies of Christ wherever they may be, as well as their kingdoms, duchies, counties, principalities, and other property and to reduce their persons into perpetual slavery.”
It was a bid to incite a new crusade, to save Constantinople from the Turks and to sweep the last of the Iberian muslim kingdoms into the sea. No great crusade emerged and Constantinople fell the the Ottomans the following year. Their most Catholic Majesties of Spain soldiered away until they reconquered Al-Andalus in 1492.
Subsequently great empires were built on the backs of the slave trade. First the Spanish in the Canary Islands, then the Portugese in West Africa. They were followed by the Dutch, the French, the British and the Belgians. Fortunes were made, colonies created, new lands were brought to the plough. Out went a river of blood and back came the fruits of their labour, Coffee, Tea, Tobacco, Sugar, Molasses, Rum, Cotton, Rubber, Spices, Silk and the dangerous fruits of the mining industries, Gold, Silver, Lead, Copper, Tin, Diamonds.
Yup, those Popes knew a thing or two when it came to economics. And look at all the souls that were saved. Why practically all those slaves went on to become good Christians.
The Quadroon Girl; by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Slaver in the broad lagoon
Lay moored with idle sail;
He waited for the rising moon,
And for the evening gale.
Under the shore his boat was tied,
And all her listless crew
Watched the gray alligator slide
Into the still bayou.
Odors of orange-flowers, and spice,
Reached them from time to time,
Like airs that breathe from Paradise
Upon a world of crime.
The Planter, under his roof of thatch,
Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
The Slaver’s thumb was on the latch,
He seemed in haste to go.
He said, “My ship at anchor rides
In yonder broad lagoon;
I only wait the evening tides,
And the rising of the moon.”
Before them, with her face upraised,
In timid attitude,
Like one half curious, half amazed,
A Quadroon maiden stood.
Her eyes were large, and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,
And her own long, raven hair.
And on her lips there played a smile
As holy, meek, and faint,
As lights in some cathedral aisle
The features of a saint.
“The soil is barren,–the farm is old,”
The thoughtful planter said;
Then looked upon the Slaver’s gold,
And then upon the maid.
His heart within him was at strife
With such accurséd gains:
For he knew whose passions gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her veins.
But the voice of nature was too weak;
He took the glittering gold!
Then pale as death grew the maiden’s cheek,
Her hands as icy cold.
The Slaver led her from the door,
He led her by the hand,
To be his slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land!