As the first European printed image of the Aztec capital, the first European map of the Gulf of Mexico, and the first map to use the names Florida and Yucatan, the 1524 map of Tenochtitlan from Cortes’ second and third letter earned a place in the history of cartography (Figure I). This map, published in Nuremberg to accompany the Latin edition, is commonly mentioned in histories of cartography, but scholarship about this map is relatively general, with the exception of a few historians’ efforts. The prevailing scholarship revolves around its possible authorship, while issues of the map's function and cultural meaning within visual culture are largely missing. In fact, J. Brian Harley notes that the latter type of analysis is rather scarce in most cartographic histories:

What is missing in the history of cartographic literature are studies of the theoretical frameworks which might be appropriate for the reconstruction of such meaning in maps.

This article uses a legal case from the French Indian Ocean empire during the American Revolutionary War (ca. 1778–1780) to explore the operation of mobile legal spaces: that is, law-filled spaces that moved (such as ships) or which were highly shaped by movement in and out of them (ports). These types of spaces, characteristic of early modern seaborne European empires, created distinctive problems and opportunities for those navigating imperial rule, both rulers and ruled. In particular, the essay argues that the mobility of legal spaces added significant spatial and temporal dimensions to the well-known legal diversity and pluralism of the early modern world. In mobile spaces, legal regimes might overlap or conflict temporarily, be relevant for only a fixed period of time, or come into force when a ship reached a particular location. Recognising the ubiquity of these mobile legal spaces and the powerful effects that they had can change how we understand the functioning of law in colonial empires.

During the last two decades our historical ideas about the Mughal Empire have considerably altered. This change of attitude is due to two scholarly tendencies both of which have directed attention away from the Mughal court centres of Delhi and Agra. In an effort to illuminate the processes of Mughal decline, one approach has aimed to stress the emergence of eighteenth-century successor states which grew vigorously independent, but still remained under the sacrosanct umbrella of Mughal authority. Many studies of these new political configurations have seriously questioned the cliché de l'époque of a highly centralized Mughal polity, which now to have been faced with numerous limitations and ‘inner frontiers’. The disenchanting practice of permanent sedition and betrayal could never live up to the expectations of the Mughal ideal of harmony and legitimate obedience. In contrast to this view from below, another approach has tried to enlarge the scale by analysing the various ways in which India was incorporated into the world economy of the Indian Ocean. From this point of view Mughal India became the central part of a dynamic world system with various interactions and interdependencies between often highly urbanized and commercialized states.

To write a comparative study on so broad a scale as colonial exploitation systems in two such very different countries as Java and India would be an enormous task. A more practical approach would be to select a single aspect of the Dutch system on Java for study, and compare this same feature in the context of the British colony. And, conversely, to isolate a particular facet of British practice in India and compare it to Dutch usage on Java, asking.how the systems worked or did not work as they did over a given span of time.

The forced removal and resettlement of population was a main feature of late European colonialism, in Africa and elsewhere. Both were crucial to the formulation and enactment of securitarian projects and developmental schemes, and to their recurrent intersection and close interdependence. The repertoires of repressive developmentalism—the shaping of development strategies by securitarian concerns and the contamination of schemes of security by socioeconomic rationales—were diverse, inspiring the various authorities and guiding many specific operations on the ground. This text provides one telling example of these repertoires, the Operação Robusta (1969–1974), which entailed the forced removal of thousands of men, women, and children from the district of North Cuanza to the district of Zaire (both in the north of Angola, under Portuguese rule, and in the middle of an armed conflict that started in 1961), and was seen as a model for similar actions. Assessing the drives and the prospects associated with the operation, this text also addresses its violent dynamics and effects, namely the substantial separation of families, the meagre provision of welfare, and the intense processes of land expropriation.

The main square of Mexico City, known as the Zocalo, occupies a central place in the make-up of the city, the nation, and even the national identity of Mexico. As we all know, the conquistadors built Mexico City on the site of Tenochtitlán, the capital of the Aztec empire. Indeed, the ruins of the Great Temple of the old city lie hidden under the square itself. This essay deals with the moment when the native past began to emerge from beneath the plaza, when a viceroy had the ground paved, and undertook a series of public works to solve the problems of drainage and water channelling which had existed throughout the history of the city. In his effort to modernise, the viceroy brought his contemporaries face to face with a long-buried past. For amidst the construction work two great archaeological pieces were discovered in 1790. These findings were subsequently studied by the multi-talented Creole, Antonio León y Gama, one of the most steadfast representatives of the Enlightenment in New Spain. By examining elements of Leon y Gama's work, I want to do a bit of historical excavation myself and reveal the existence of what we might describe, following Mary Louise Pratt, as a contact zone—one in which contemporary tools for investigatively ordering time and space were brought to bear on natural and cultural phenomena alike, in order to situate Mexico and its cultural heritage historically as well as geographically.

In 1949, after a four-year long armed struggle, Indonesia finally achieved effective control over its entire territory, with the exception of West Irian (now Papua). Nevertheless, the young nation faced serious political and economic problems. The Japanese occupation and the long fight against the Dutch had seriously impoverished the Indonesian people. The new government also faced armed insurrections and secessionist movements in various regions such as Aceh, West Java, South Sulawesi, and the Moluccas, which threatened the country's territorial integrity. In late January 1950, scarcely one month after the transfer of sovereignty, Raymond Westerling (a rogue member of the Dutch army) along with a few hundred troops under his command, carried out an audacious but quixotic plan to occupy Bandung and Jakarta. Although this plan immediately failed, it increased the sense of vulnerability of the Indonesian government.

In early 1787, as American vessels flooded the Gold Coast with rum and as the French worked to extend their coastal position, the Cape Coast Castle governor Thomas Price, reported that the Fante, England's coastal allies, ‘are too politic a people, and too well acquainted with their own interests, ever to wish to confine their trade to one nation’. Price's summation of the issues affecting Anglo-Fante relations on the late eighteenth-century Gold Coast (modern Ghana) provides the foundation for this article. This article contributes to West African coastal historiography in that it examines the relationship between the Gold Coast and the Atlantic World through the trans-Atlantic slave trade. The article expands upon this foundation by narrowing the focus to one Gold Coast trade/administrative enclave. It examines the enclave during a period of change, the 1770s to the early 1800s that culminated in radical reconstruction of coastal relations. The article utilises the Fetu city of Cape Coast, also the administrative centre for England's Company of Merchants Trading to Africa (hereafter CMTA), to examine the relationship between Atlantic (external) and coastal (internal) factors within an African trade enclave. To accomplish this, it eliminates the dichotomy that exists between exploring general coastal trends within a diverse coastal region. This raises a question concerning the consequence of these general trends upon diverse states, cultures and peoples. Do the general trends affect each group similarly or differently and, if so, why? The focus upon one Gold Coast enclave expands our understanding of the consequences caused by the interaction of Atlantic and coastal factors.

This paper explores the multi-faceted nature of the spiritual geopolitics that shaped Cromwellian foreign policy in relation to the Western Design of 1654-5. It stresses the central importance of Protestant religion as a motivating force and argues that the failure of the Design was interpreted in religious terms just as much as its original aims had been. A number of motives combined to drive Cromwell into launching the Western Design. These included: the ‘Elizabethan’ tradition of English anti-Spanish policy; the pursuit of England’s imperial/colonial interests in the Caribbean; an attempt to strengthen England financially by weakening the Spanish economy; the search for security within Europe by allying with France against Spain; and, underpinning all these, the launching of a Protestant crusade against a power that Cromwell regarded as England’s ‘providential enemy’. The failure of the Design in the summer of 1655 was perceived in similarly religious terms. Just as recent scholarship on Britain’s internal conflicts of the 1640s has emphasised the central role of religion and its inseparability from other issues, so the same phenomenon is evident not only in the motives for the Western Design but also in how its defeat was perceived and interpreted.

In the last issue of Itinerario (vol. XVI, 1992/2), Jan Breman of the University of Amsterdam, has published an English translation of his introduction to the third edition of his book Koelies, Planters en Koloniale Politiek. In this article, titled ‘Controversial Views on Writing Colonial History’, Breman tries to deal with some of the ‘more sceptical and sometimes even hostile’ reactions to his book on plantation labour in East Coast Sumatra during the last decades of the nineteenth century. However, his contribution has a more important purport, as he suggests a specific way in which the history of the colonial past should be written, dismissing at the same time the approach to the colonial past undertaken by what he calls the ‘Leiden Revisionist School’.

The drive towards the abolition of the slave trade at the beginning of the 19th century was not effective until the 1850s. It was perhaps the only migratory intercontinental movement in history which came to a complete stop because of political pressures in spite of the fact that neither the supply nor the demand for African slaves had disappeared.

Because of the continuing demand for bonded labour in some of the plantation areas in the New World (notably the Guiana's, Trinidad, Cuba and Brazil) and because of a new demand for bonded labour in the developing sugar and mining industries in Mauritius, Réunion, Queensland (Australia), Natal (South Africa), the Fiji-islands and Hawaii an international search for ‘newslaves’ started.

Before embarking on our exploration a word of caution is in order. The following is not meant to be a full-fledged scholarly paper pulling out all the available evidence. All it intends to do is to throw out a couple of suggestions which hopefully may give rise to discussion. It is, therefore, an unabashed exercise in speculation. Also it will endeavour to compress within the compass of a brief paper complicated and diverging developments taking place during a period of more than a thousand years over a diverse and widely stretched area. At best it may serve as an essay in the sense of a speculative ‘attempt’; in short, a discussion piece. It arose from previous discussions with students and colleagues, especially with Andre Wink, who may recognise a blurred reflection of their own ideas.

These concluding reflections assess how the contributors to this special issue intervene in key assumptions that shape the current field of archival studies. As the “archival turn” gains ground, forms of Euro- and state-centrism reappear in scholarship otherwise innovative in its attention to the textual remnants of the past. Here, instead, we explore the methodological stakes involved in defining both the “archive” and the historical power brokers who created and preserved a documentary record in pursuit of their varied social, cultural, economic, and political projects. The essay points to the resurgence of culturalist and civilisational indices for comparative archivistics, and follows the arguments collected in this issue to assert by contrast the often uneven and uneasy regional, administrative, and procedural definitions at work within preserved records. Identifying “mobility” as both a methodological tactic and a historical process, this conclusion presents a fluid rather than fixed textual landscape and presents an alternative frame for investigating preservationist practices.

The Dutch loss of Brazil in 1654 favoured the resettlement of Dutch merchants along the Wild Coast and in the Lesser Antilles and the establishment of new colonies. Cayenne Island was one of them. One WIC patent was handed to Jan Claes Langedijck, who settled at the former French fort of Cépérou, and another patent was given to David Nassy, who settled in the Anse de Rémire, situated at the opposite part of the former island. Both colonies were taken by the French in May 1664 as part of the imperial French expansion under King Louis XIV and Jean-Baptist Colbert. It is argued here that the main French goal was to gain control of the sugar plantations of the Sephardic community located there, and, to a lesser extent, the much-desired territorial control of this region as proposed by the newly established French West India Company. The Dutch were aware of the attack, but could not intervene as it was already too late to send support to the poorly defended Cayenne colony. Both parties negotiated the take-over and the majority of the Dutch settlers stayed under French rule, as was suggested by the Dutch government and hoped for by the French.

Although French chartered companies operating on the west coast of Africa and in India followed a similar model of organization, their liquidation processes differed depending of the area of their monopoly. As well as exploring the reasons for the distinction between these two regions of exclusive trade, this article demonstrates that the differing liquidation processes negatively impacted company shareholders in the two regions. Taking the perspective of shareholders farther, it explores the case of a specific investor and the informal economic profits he benefitted from. This approach contributes to deepening our understanding of the French early modern companies’ bankruptcies by examining informal aspects that would not be readily visible from an exclusively institutional point of view.

The importance of Africa and African agency in the formation of the Atlantic world is now widely acknowledged by historians, but Africa has drawn less attention than other regions in analyses of the British Atlantic. Drawing upon the nascent methodology of global microhistory, this article contributes to a scholarly rebalancing by examining two maritime lawsuits from the 1640s concerning British voyages to Senegambia and Sierra Leone, both of which resulted in conflict between British seafarers and with their African trading partners. A close study of the documents surviving from these lawsuits provides an unusually detailed glimpse of these particular moments of contact and violence across cultures. More fundamentally, such an approach illuminates the ocean-spanning networks within which these ventures took place, and reveals the ways in which British traders and sailors perceived trade in Africa within their own legal frameworks. This article argues that by the middle of the seventeenth century, as merchants and politicians in Britain began to imagine an Atlantic empire, trade in West Africa was an important part of their vision of the Atlantic world.

In the interwar period, a system for the movement of men, arms, and printed matter developed into a political network that in imperial sources came to be called the “lascar system.” Lascars were Indian seamen who worked for British and international merchant shipping companies and had contacts with trade unionists, communists, anarchists, and other politically active parties across the world—in particular in port towns such as Hamburg, Antwerp and Marseilles. They became key players in the politics of the interwar world, and especially in a still-colonised India, which was subject to various censorship regulations and a panoply of repressive legislation. A number of lascars became crucial in the emerging communist movement and in trade union politics. In a world of increasingly stringent border controls, restrictions on the movement of people, and paranoia about political radicalism and its ability to “infect” new areas, the lascars' mobility became an asset to political movements and a source of anxiety for states.

Given this, it is surprising that the literature on lascars seldom, if ever, addresses the question of their political activities. This essay takes some steps in that direction, focusing on the 1920s, when the “lascar system” took shape. “Lascar” is of course a name given to a profession, not an identity or a political ideology; and yet the importance of this profession in the politics of the early twentieth century, and of the interwar period in particular, is far too important to ignore or treat as mere coincidence.

In Spain's last colony, Western Sahara, both efforts by the colonial power to stimulate development and the negative impacts of colonisation intensified between the end of the Ifni-Sahara War (1957–58) and the Spanish withdrawal in 1975. Spanish economical and geopolitical interests triggered an important industrial and urban development of the territory. Cities such as Laayoune, Villa Cisneros, Smara, and the Bou Craa phosphate deposits were to showcase Spanish modernising colonial policies.

However, the effects of war, the control of colonial frontiers, and severe droughts during the 1960s strongly affected Sahrawi society. In this context, the Spanish colonial state developed new forms of control over the Sahrawi population, which included the progressive (forced) settling of nomadic people around military posts and Spanish cities, bringing about the adoption of new economic paradigms. Not only did the Francoist government distribute subsidies, both money and goods; it furthermore implemented policies aimed at controlling the Sahrawi way of life, particularly in the areas of hygiene, education, and gender relations. The essay analyses these “carrot-and-stick” strategies at the intersection of colonial control and forced sedentarisation with regard to the implementation of a market-oriented economy in Western Sahara.