A shorter version of this story was published by Canada’s History in April 2010. I also wrote about Ruddock and her Cabot research in The Race to the New World
On February 17, 2006, a 418-word obituary for Alwyn Amy Ruddock appeared in The Guardian. Written by Edith Emma Mason, a former colleague in the history department at the University of London’s Birkbeck College, it briefly recapped the life work of an 89-year-old woman who had died on December 21, 2005.
Ruddock was a respected historian who had made what were widely believed to be breakthrough finds about the voyages of discovery to the New World by John Cabot in the late 15th century. Mason noted how Ruddock had produced “a draft of a book about Cabot, but destroyed it because it did not meet her exacting standards. She began work on the book again, but her progress was slowed by failing eyesight and declining health.”
This second version of the Cabot book was never completed, stated Mason, who concluded by observing that Ruddock “left strict orders that all research papers were to be destroyed at her death.” Ruddock’s will had indeed instructed her trustees “to burn shred or otherwise destroy all my letters and photographs both personal and professional microfilms unfinished writings and other research and notes in my possession at the time of my death if this has not already been done prior to my death…as soon as possible after my death.”
On March 22, 2006, Evan Jones received a copy of the obituary from a colleague. A senior lecturer at the University of Bristol who specializes in Bristol maritime history of the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries, Jones was too young to have known Ruddock, but he knew her reputation and all about the Cabot book that never was. Mobilizing the Bristol historical community, Jones was able to confirm his worst fears: Ruddock’s unpublished life’s work had long since been fed through a shredder, stuffed into 78 bags, and unceremoniously disposed of. A close friend and neighbor of Ruddock’s who was one of the estate’s beneficiaries and trustees had been compensated an additional five thousand pounds under the will’s terms for doing her posthumous bidding.
The revelation was a stunning coda to a perplexing and tragic career. Leading academics had been persuaded for four decades that Ruddock was poised to turn the story of Cabot and the discovery of North America (in her own words) “upside down.” Lost amid the destroyed materials were copies of evidence and the archival origins for exactly what she had found, which she is not known to have revealed to any living person.
The main subject of her lost studies, Zuan Caboto, was a Venetian citizen who made three voyages to the New World out of the port of Bristol for England’s Henry VII. Better known as John Cabot, his first voyage in 1496 turned back without reaching land. On his second, he became the first European mariner after the Norse known to have reached North America, making landfall on June 24, 1497, most likely somewhere in eastern Canada—Labrador, Newfoundland and Nova Scotia have all been proposed. (Columbus at that time had only visited Caribbean islands.) Of his third voyage, a five-ship expedition in 1498, little was known. Historians had generally accepted that Cabot had perished en route. Except possibly for one ship that put into Ireland with storm damage on the outbound leg, none of the flotilla in fact was known to have made it back.
Much of what we currently know about Ruddock’s stillborn publishing plans and research endures in numerous letters preserved in the papers of a longstanding Ruddock colleague, the renowned scholar of early American exploration and colonization, David Beers (D.B.) Quinn, which were transferred to the Library of Congress before his death in 2002. The correspondence between Quinn and Ruddock was unindexed, and would not be found by researchers pursuing Ruddock’s lost research until 2007.
As the ongoing investigation following her death has revealed, by the time she began her final push to publish her Cabot book in the 1990s, Ruddock had located, in previously unexploited records squirreled away in public and private European archives, significant finds not only on John Cabot, but also on his celebrated son Sebastian and on even earlier discovery voyages by Bristol mariners. She planned to show that the Italian cleric, Giovanni Antonio de Carbonariis (aka Giovanni Antonio Carbonaro), a deputy collector of Papal taxes in England who was known to be on Cabot’s voyage of 1498, was a link to hitherto unknown financing for Cabot by Italian bankers with operations in London. She knew about a letter by these bankers in which the first known reference is made to Cabot’s 1497 voyage. Moreover, she intended to argue that Giovanni Antonio had stayed behind in Newfoundland on the 1498 voyage at a settlement that included a church in Conception Bay, which would have been the first in the New World, at the place now resonantly known as Carbonear. The Augustine friar had then sailed up the Labrador coast in 1499, making discoveries later wrongly attributed to a voyage in the early 16th century.
Other aspects of her research were known at least to Quinn before she died, but not her sources. As indicated by a 1992 letter to Quinn, she was adamant that Cabot had not vanished or been killed by Spaniards on the 1498 voyage, but had returned safely and died in England in 1500. Already she had published her belief that Bristol mariners had actually reached the New World more than two decades before Columbus planted the Spanish flag in the Caribbean. “I take the line that the Bristol discovery was pre-1470 but lost again until Cabot made landfall in 1497,” she reiterated in a 1988 letter to Quinn. While other scholars, including Quinn, had proposed that men of Bristol had reached the New World well before Christopher Columbus did, Ruddock would claim to have evidence for her early-voyage theory, from Italian and Spanish sources. She was also expected to shed more light on the long-debated connections between Cabot and his fellow Italian explorer for hire, Columbus.
But the book she planned, which was well under way by 1966, kept changing its focus, or shifting between an academic and a popular work, or splitting into two books, and never appearing as promised. Following her retirement in 1976, Quinn knew little more than that she had turned up important evidence, probably in Italy. No one has come forward who knew exactly what she had, precisely where she’d found it, or how deeply it was going to impact the status quo of exploration history. Tantalized by the prospect of a revolution in their understanding of North America’s discovery, scholars waited for her to reveal her breakthroughs.
And waited, for decades. Historians like Quinn withheld some of their own work, fearing Ruddock’s always-imminent revelations would render their efforts pointless and obsolete; some left the study area largely to her, knowing the head start she had and not wanting to invade her turf. Most certainly some young scholars avoided entering her field altogether. Then Ruddock died, and had a trustee of her estate destroy the photographs, rolls of microfilm and papers that could tell others what she alone knew.
It was maddening. It was exasperating. And Evan Jones was unwilling to leave the dual mysteries alone: of who else besides the Vikings might have gotten to America before Columbus, and what Ruddock had discovered in that regard.
• • •
Alwyn Ruddock’s reputation as an economic historian was established early, initially through collaboration with D.B. Quinn. Born in 1916 on the Isle of Wight, Ruddock was a student at Southampton’s University College, the forerunner of Southampton University, when the Irish-born Quinn had a spell as a lecturer there in the late 1930s. Quinn edited with her “assistance” a two-volume work on the port books, or local customs accounts, of Southampton, for the reign of Edward IV. When the first volume came out in 1937, Ruddock was only 21.
Ruddock’s association with Quinn was longstanding but often brittle. Ruddock made her own way, and would chafe at the idea she was some sort of Quinn protégé. Eileen Power was her doctoral thesis advisor and mentor, and Ruddock would come up with very different ideas than Quinn did about early Bristol voyages to the New World.
She successfully presented her doctoral dissertation, “The trade of Southampton with the Mediterranean,” in 1940, to the University of London, which oversaw degree granting at University College. Working in trying wartime conditions at University College, she published a number of papers, and began teaching at Birkbeck in 1946, where she was appointed a “reader of history” in 1951. She was thirty-five, and had already managed to climb a long way up the academic ladder. Ruddock would spend the rest of her career as a reader at Birkbeck.
In the British system, “reader is a quite high-status position, between senior lecturer and professor,” explains Jones, who is leading the international pursuit of Ruddock’s lost evidence. “In Ruddock’s day, perhaps 10 to 15 percent of full-time university academics got to reader and 5 to 10 percent to professor. Most departments had only one professor, who was also the department head.”
In 1951 Ruddock published a 300-page volume for the Southampton Records Series I, Italian Merchants and Shipping in Southampton, 1270-1600. This expansion of her thesis is a well-written and accessible work, refuting any notion that Ruddock might have been incapable of turning research into book-length prose. But it was the last book she would ever publish.
A ten-year lull in publishing of any kind followed the release of the Southampton volume and her appointment as reader, but her research continued as she accumulated a perplexing dossier of abandoned or stillborn projects. She gave up on a book on Harry Huttoft (c. 1483-1540), who had been mayor of Southampton and surveyor of the royal Customs, after considerable research, She had also likely prepared a third volume on the Southampton port records, but it too failed to materialize: she suspected Quinn of having stopped it somehow, but he denied it. She drafted a book on English merchant activity in the Mediterranean, and there is cause to believe she planned to write a further book about Italian merchant communities in the Mediterranean, both of which spurred her research in the 1950s and early 1960s. Sifting through records at home and around the Mediterranean, Ruddock happened upon references to the most celebrated Italian navigator in England in the late 15th century.
Ruddock probably made her key Cabot discoveries around 1963 or 1964. Her initial plan may have been to write a paper about them in 1965, but she shifted to producing a book no later than 1966. She made a splendid public debut in Cabot scholarship that year, with an article in Geographical Journal on John Day, an Englishman who wrote an undated letter at some point before Cabot’s 1498 voyage that provided unprecedented detail about the 1497 voyage. Its recipient in Spain, while not positively identified, is generally accepted to have been none other than Christopher Columbus.
In 1955, the scholar Louis-André Vigneras discovered the letter in the Spanish archives in Simancas. Vigneras’s find was hailed as the most important Cabot-related discovery in a century, but nobody could figure out who John Day was. Ruddock proved that “John Day” was the alias a prominent London merchant named Hugh Say used in his Bristol activities. Her insights showed that Columbus had an intelligence pipeline right into the merchant community surrounding Cabot in Bristol, and that Columbus was aware of Cabot’s discovery of a significant landfall to the north of the Caribbean before he embarked on his third voyage, in 1498, and sighted South America for the first time.
The Day/Say breakthrough affirmed Ruddock’s status as a diligent researcher who could deliver the goods on Cabot, and it likely persuaded her she had reached an evidentiary critical mass that warranted an entire book. She meanwhile had produced a draft of a volume on English merchant activity in the Mediterranean in the first half of the sixteenth century, which was to be published by the Hakluyt Society, but for some reason the society declined to bring it out. She tried taking it Athlone, an imprint of the University of London, but when Athlone was sold there was evidently no home for it.
In November 1966 Quinn was tipped off that Ruddock was preparing a Cabot book. While she confirmed for Quinn she was indeed rewriting the story of Cabot and Bristol mariners, she deliberately kept her revelations vague. On February 10, 1967, Ruddock teasingly allowed to Quinn: “The documents I’ve got on Cabot do alter our picture of everything rather radically…” She would ultimately claim to have perhaps 23 new documents, which was an astounding haul. The sum total of known documents relating to Cabot’s voyages otherwise totaled 25, and most of them had been published in 1962 by the Hakluyt Society in The Cabot Voyages and Bristol Discovery Under Henry VII.
Her Cabot book (which plainly had a history more complex than Mason could convey in an obituary) seemed substantially ready in early 1967. “I am hoping to get this out by Christmas,” she further informed Quinn on February 10. “The publishers are ready to go ahead the minute I complete the typescript.…”
But Christmas 1967 came and went without a book, and so did all of 1968. The book was back on again in December 1968, as she informed Quinn: “My work on Cabot & the Bristol men was temporarily held up…But I believe I’ve all the new material tied up now. Altogether it makes quite a nice sized book & I will be going to press about Easter.” Again, there was no book.
In a letter to the Times Literary Supplement published on July 3, 1969, Ruddock baldly announced “the publication early next year of my book on Columbus, Cabot, and the English Discovery of America.” Cabot’s second billing to Columbus was intriguing, and the title otherwise promised to proved that Englishmen, not Columbus, got to the New World first. That same year, she included in a published paper footnote references to chapters in the forthcoming book. But the book didn’t appear. The Quinn papers indicate she submitted a manuscript to Oxford University Press and that it was rejected. The publisher’s archives in Oxford have no record of a Cabot project with Ruddock ever reaching the contractual stage.
She published two more important papers, on the 1480-81 Bristol voyages in search of the fabled island of Brasil in 1969, and on Sebastian Cabot in 1974. Several more times over the next few decades, her fresh plans for a Cabot book surfaced. Ruddock offered a host of reasons for delays and false starts: problems with getting difficult Italian translations just right, unsympathetic academic presses, pressures at Birkbeck, new documentary discoveries made by others on Cabot’s life prior to the Bristol voyages that had to be incorporated.
Not even retirement removed the obstacles. Ruddock’s husband, Vernon Southward, who worked for British Airways, retired in 1974, and Ruddock followed in 1976. They relocated to a country home, Wren Cottage, near Midhurst Common in West Sussex. According to Mason’s obituary, it was “ideal for his hobby of painting, but not always for Alwyn’s historical research, since visits to London presented traveling difficulties.” Ruddock required a car and driver to get around, and after Southward’s death, she chose to remain in Midhurst Common, where he was buried (and she would be buried in the same grave), as she preserved his painting studio at Wren Cottage as a shrine to his memory.
Ruddock’s decision to give up on academic presses and try to produce a popular work by securing an agent in the 1980s was another unproductive distraction. She also pitched the University of Toronto Press in 1989; what became of that overture is unknown, as the publisher has nothing on file for her.
Quinn, whose own output of academic and general-interest publications was just this side of monumental, expressed sympathy to Ruddock in 1988 on her publishing misadventures. But there had been many rough spots in their relationship, dating back to the 1930s, and by 1992 he could not refrain from chastisement. “It is rather difficult for any one else in this field to make progress until you have produced your documents…I turned up recently a letter of yours of 1965 in which you said confidently that the documents and their context were almost complete and you expected to produce them very soin [sic]. That is 27 years ago.”
Quinn had begun trying to get her to place whatever new documents she had into the scholarly record. He argued she could then write a book without having to laboriously introduce these new items (with the burdensome multilingual appendices she insisted on). But that was never going to happen. “I must publish in full myself before other folk begin using documents I have found, to prove or disprove God knows what,” she informed Quinn in 1992.
It’s difficult not to empathize somewhat with Ruddock, whose publishing failures should not be written off simply as the result of irascible eccentricity or hyper-perfectionism. She was clearly hurt by colleagues. Hostile committees or individuals at academic presses apparently repeatedly thwarted her publishing plans. Oxford University Press, the Hakluyt Society, and Harvester Press all turned down her projects. Mason would also write in a longer obituary for the Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research that Ruddock had been burned early in her career by another academic who used her unpublished research without attribution.
But Ruddock’s career proved to be its own peculiar achievement. She managed to dominate a field of research for decades, including long after she retired, without publishing scarcely anything about her specific discoveries. The overwhelming bulk of Cabot evidence she said she’d turned up was composed of cards she was not prepared to show others until they were in the book she continued to plan, write, discard, and revise.
Quinn was still hoping she would also produce her book on English merchants in the Mediterranean, something she had no intention of doing. Its destruction was as great a loss as the disappearance of her Cabot work. In a 1992 letter Quinn rather bleakly offered: “I do hope to see one or both of these volumes before I die. The danger is that you might die also without publishing.”
• • •
Her last chance on John Cabot came with the University of Exeter Press (UEP), which she approached in October 1992 to write a book that would be released in time for the five hundredth anniversary celebrations of Cabot’s discoveries, in 1997. UEP signed her, after vetting her proposal with Quinn. She even discussed a smaller follow-up book on Sebastian Cabot with them. But the anniversary came and went without a single page of manuscript arriving, and Ruddock turned eighty-one.
The fear Quinn expressed in 1992 proved well founded. He died in March 2002, never having seen a Ruddock book or knowing precisely what she had found all those years ago. She was still trying to produce a book that year, but time was catching up with her. Eighteen months after Quinn’s death, Ruddock drafted her final will.
The question of why Alwyn Ruddock destroyed her life’s work persists. Beyond her will’s statement that she considered her findings her personal property, a letter from Quinn to Ruddock may have been the most fateful. He warned her in 1992 that if she didn’t complete the book, she might die before she could publish “as Norah Evans did with her work on Hooker that she sat on for so long and never lived to see published – though an American published a book on part of it only a few years after her death.” To Ruddock, the thought of someone profiting from her hard-won research (particularly when her own publishing efforts had been rejected by scholarly houses), drawing from it conclusions she would never support, would have been intolerable.
Having dug up so much of the past, she did her best to rebury it. Whatever she had discovered about Cabot and Bristol mariners would have to be discovered all over again.
• • •
When Evan Jones confirmed in the spring of 2006 that Ruddock’s papers in fact had been destroyed as the obituary so stunningly promised, he contacted University of Exeter Press, in hope that something might yet survive there. He was sensitive to Ruddock’s last wishes, but Ruddock’s will had left open one possible avenue.
“I much dislike posthumous publication and do not wish anyone to try to finish work left unfinished by me at the time of my death,” the will stated. “The only exception to this shall be a book which may be already in the press in course of publication at the time of my death or incapacity.” Perhaps there was something of the sort at UEP, a draft manuscript that could satisfy her will’s exception. But all that UEP ever received from Ruddock was a seven-page synopsis she turned in at the proposal stage, as well as some later supplementary notes.
UEP agreed to share what it had with Jones in the interest of scholarship. Ruddock’s synopsis was typically cagey; she was plainly concerned that her findings would leak out when UEP distributed the proposal for academic review. She only provided one-paragraph summaries of each chapter, without citing a single source. But the synopsis revealed for the first time the astonishing scope of Ruddock’s purported findings, and was enough to reignite research on Cabot and Bristol mariners.
Jones dissected the synopsis with the input of other researchers, analyzing assertions without known precedents and sketching out strategies for hunting down source materials. To encourage the widest possible participation, and with the permission of both UEP and Ruddock’s executors, he published Ruddock’s synopsis and his analysis in Historical Research. Given the expected public interest in the story, the journal agreed to make the article freely available online from April 2007 before it came out in print in May 2008.
Another important resource proved to be the letters in D.B. Quinn’s papers at the Library of Congress, which only came to light after Jones published his paper online. A researcher with a doctorate, Jeff Reed, had known Quinn well and had met Ruddock through him, providing her with reference materials. When Reed learned by chance of Ruddock’s death in March 2007, he contacted University of Exeter Press, to learn whatever had happened with the book. UEP in turn put Reed in touch with Jones, who sent him an advance copy of his paper just days before its online appearance.
Reed knew that Quinn’s papers were in the Library of Congress. As he lived in Washington, D.C., he volunteered to investigate them, and discovered the considerable mass of unindexed correspondence relating to Ruddock, which he went to work transcribing. A Ruddock letter to Quinn on February 9, 1992, is but one motherlode of clues as to where she had been researching Cabot. She recounted how her work on the planned book on English merchants in the Mediterranean trade “involved a lot of digging in the records in Italian ports, Malta, Dubrovnik etc where the English ships put in and there were English agents. Richard Hakluyt lamented the loss of all the ledger books of the English involved so I went after the account books and letters of their Italian associates in the Italian colonies in London and Southampton and the records of Italian notaries in those ports where I had leads from the [High Court of Admiralty] records in [The National Archives]. I found the Cabots only by chance…”
The Quinn papers mined by Reed also pointed Jones at Margaret Condon and her lost discoveries relating to early Bristol voyages. As an assistant keeper at Britain’s Public Record Office (now The National Archives) in the late 1970s, she came across two major new pieces of evidence. The first was an undated letter from Henry VII ordering a stay of judicial proceedings against a Bristol merchant named William Weston, who was about to go on a voyage to the “new founde land,” likely in 1499. The letter, which cannot have been written later than March 1500, contains the earliest recorded reference to what we now call Newfoundland. The other find was a 1502 record of a payment of £100 of Henry’s money to Hugh Elliot of Bristol and his associates, a reward that offset their costs of a two-ship voyage to the “new found isle.” And Weston, who otherwise had never been heard of, appeared to be the first Englishman known to have commanded a voyage (provided it actually sailed) to the New World—Cabot having been Italian. Discovery history had a whole new discoverer.
Condon was an expert in Henry VII, not in Bristol voyages of discovery, and didn’t initially realize the importance of her finds. They came to the attention of Quinn, who proposed to Condon they write a paper together, and he produced a draft in 1981. But then Quinn set it aside, for depressingly familiar reasons. “One reason I held back,” he wrote to Condon in 1985, “was because I hoped against hope that Alwyn Ruddock would at last get out her book on Columbus and Cabot, but there is no sign of it after another four years so I do not feel any compunction about publishing in what she regards as her area.” Nevertheless, he continued to hold off, and the joint paper went unpublished. Only in 2007, when Reed looked into the Quinn papers, did Condon’s finds emerge.
Jones tracked down Condon, who was retired, and enlisted her aid in searching for Cabot evidence that Ruddock might have found at The National Archives. Condon’s forgotten discoveries finally received the attention they (and Condon) long deserved when Jones published a paper on them in Historical Research in August 2009.
Still, there were doubts in academia about the prospects of the search for Ruddock’s evidence. Perhaps she had found a few interesting things in dusty ledgers, but overreached when trying to turn them into a book that rewrote exploration history. There were even concerns that in her advancing years she had begun to succumb to dementia.
Such possibilities are dismissed by Reed. After reading her book synopsis in Jones’ paper, “I was struck by what she claimed. The obvious criticism of the paper was that Ruddock had never published much of her findings, which raised the possibility that her claims were those of a mad old women. But it was clear to me that she was one of those people who, if she said she had found something, she had found it. Anyone who met Ruddock would quickly realize that she was a real old-fashioned archival scholar. I knew both Alwyn Ruddock and David Quinn, and he took seriously everything she said. If I did not know how much Quinn respected Ruddock’s scholarship, I’m not sure if I would have gotten involved in going through his papers.”
“I think we’re now well past the stage of wondering whether Ruddock simply made her claims up— which I was asked a lot at the time my first article came out in 2007,” says Jones. “We’ve corroborated too many of her finds now to doubt her on that score. On the other hand, that doesn’t mean that everything she said was correct.”
The story of Cabot and the early exploration of the New World is going to require a rewrite. “Margaret Condon has made some very interesting finds over the last two months in The National Archives,” Jones told this writer in the autumn of 2009. She has found a reward from Henry VII to William Weston in 1500 for his voyage to the New Found Land, which confirms that he did go in 1499. This also confirms what Ruddock said in her synopsis about the King rewarding Weston. “We also have a reward to William Weston in January 1498, which pretty much confirms his earlier involvement with Cabot and suggests that he accompanied the Venetian on his first voyage to North America.”
As for the 1498 voyage, its fate is no longer quite so shrouded in mystery and alleged Spanish misadventure. “We’ve got a number of documents that support Ruddock’s claims about the return of Cabot’s 1498 voyage,” says Jones. “In particular, we have the initiation of legal proceedings against Lancelot Thirkill and Thomas Bradley in June 1500 for non-payment of a loan the King had advanced them in 1498 for going to the ‘new isle’. And we have documents that seem to put John Cabot, mentioned by name, back in London by May 1500.” Jones can’t say more until the documents have been published in a peer-reviewed journal, but, in the meantime, is seeking to keep the public informed through his project webpage.
Ruddock’s assertion in her synopsis that Giovanni Antonio de Carbonariis was an Augustinian, a fact previously unknown, has proved correct, raising hope that her other claims related to the cleric and Cabot’s Italian financiers might also bear out. Still to be found is the letter written by de Carbonariis’s Italian bankers on August 10, 1497 that would be the first known reference to Cabot’s first successful voyage—tradition says it concluded at Bristol on August 6—and which might also include a reference to a pre-1470 Bristol discovery.
Meanwhile, over in the new founde land, archaeologist Peter Pope of Memorial University, who has been associated with Jones’ Ruddock investigation, is contemplating a search at Carbonear for the settlement that Ruddock said de Carbonariis built in 1498. “It’s really starting to look like she wasn’t off the wall,” Pope says, noting the recent finds by Jones and Condon. Finding any verifiable trace of Carbonariis’ presence at Carbonear is “a real longshot. But because the claim is so astounding, it ups the ante, and makes searching worth the gamble.” And even if he doesn’t find evidence of de Carbonariis, there’s the possibility he will discover other things, from the 16th or early 17th century, which would make a dig effort worthwhile.
“I’m confident that, during this search, material will be discovered that Ruddock didn’t know about,” Jones adds. “After all, good scholar though she was, she didn’t find either of the two documents that Margaret Condon located in The National Archives in the late 1970s.”
And so what began as a recovery project has become a research effort in its own right. John Cabot and the Bristol mariners have returned to the active front of scholarly research. They’ve been away for an awfully long time, but it’s good to have them back.
Afterword: Evan T. Jones and Margaret M. Condon published their findings in Cabot and Bristol’s Age of Discovery (University of Bristol, 2016). The book includes the discovery of two payments to Cabot by Florence’s House of Bardi in 1496 to help fund his proposed expedition to “so that he can go and find the new land.” Jones and Condon were now less certain, however, that Cabot did personally return from the 1498 voyage. “Right now…the outcome of the expedition remains an enigma.” (56) Peter Pope of Memorial University died in 2017 and I am not aware of any findings he might have made where de Carbonariis and Carbonear are concerned. For the latest findings of Jones and Condon on William Weston and Cabot, see “William Weston: Early Voyager to the New World” (Oct 2018)
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