Kidnapping in Kongo outruns the king, who complains to Lisbon

By 1514 the seizure of Kongo people for sale to Portuguese buyers had become common enough in West Central Africa to threaten public order and the authority of the king. In 1526 Afonso, king of Kongo, wrote to Portugal to say that traders were everywhere in his country, that they were ruining it, and that people were being enslaved and kidnapped daily, nobles among them and relatives of his own. The letter is one of the earliest written protests against the Atlantic trade by a reigning head of state, and it came from a Christian monarch whose kingdom had received the Portuguese as guests a generation before. The breakdown of law and order it describes helped weaken and eventually bring down a state that had been among the strongest in the region. Many of the people taken through this traffic reached the Caribbean, and Kongo names, spirits and vocabulary are still present in Haiti.

By 1514 the indigenous population of Hispaniola stood at about twenty-nine thousand. Estimates of what it had been in 1492 vary widely, from a few hundred thousand to more than a million, and the disagreement among historians is genuine, turning on how much land the islanders farmed and how many people that land could feed. No figure in the range makes the fall look like anything other than a collapse inside one human lifetime. Two forces did it. The first was disease. Smallpox, influenza and measles had circulated in Eurasia and Africa for centuries and the people of the Caribbean carried no resistance to any of them. The second was the labour system. Men were sent to pan gold in river gravel and women were set to work in Spanish fields, which broke up households, stopped the planting of the cassava and maize the islands lived on, and pushed the birth rate down while it pushed deaths up. Famine follows when the farmers are somewhere else.

Fourteen years after the first cargo, the Spanish crown put the arrangement on a formal footing. Charles V authorised the importation of fifteen thousand enslaved black people into the Spanish Caribbean. The number matters less than the act. Until then Africans had been landed on Hispaniola in small consignments as the gold workings ran short of hands. A licence for fifteen thousand converted an improvisation into a policy, and gave merchants a guaranteed market to organise around. The Gulf of Guinea coast, where the ships loaded, was already selling captives to Portuguese buyers for the sugar estates of the Canary Islands. What the licence did was point that trade west across the Atlantic and fix its destination. Every later structure of the Caribbean, the plantation, the slave code, the mixed African populations of the islands, rests on decisions of this kind taken in Europe in the first decades of the century.

Bartolome de las Casas had spent years on Hispaniola teaching Christianity and had watched the island's original population die under Spanish rule. In 1517 he obtained a royal edict authorising the importation of four thousand Africans a year from the west coast of Africa. The monopoly of that traffic went to a Flemish nobleman who served as chamberlain to Charles V, and he sold it on to a commercial house in Genoa for twenty three thousand ducats. Portuguese traders had landed some Africans on the island as early as 1505, and others arrived at odd times afterwards, but no recognised trade of the kind existed across the Atlantic before this edict. Years passed after the warrant was issued before the traffic settled into a regular system. The man remembered as the friend of the Indians opened the transatlantic slave trade, and the licence was treated from the start as a commodity to be resold at a profit.