How the Portuguese saw their maritime force: Photography of merchant and war vessels in Portugal before the First World War

Abstract

Starting in the mid nineteenth century, Portugal began modernising its merchant fleet and Navy, lagging a few decades behind other European nations. Simultaneously, photography began its development within the country. Around the turn of the century, the adoption of the halftone process allowed photographs to circulate widely in the press. This study investigates photography's role in portraying and communicating the evolution of the Portuguese fleet to wider audiences, as a tool of defence and imperial control, as well as in the civilian context. Employing Barthes’ semiotic analysis, which includes juxtaposing photographic and textual sources, this article reveals how photographers and the illustrated press presented the Portuguese fleet's evolution as representing progress, national pride and political affirmation – for regime (monarchic and republican) legitimisation and for Portugal's ‘civilising mission’ in Africa and Asia – even though the fleet lagged behind other nations’ fleets. The sources include photographs kept in different archives and those published in the illustrated press.

Introduction

The nineteenth century saw a groundbreaking revolution in shipbuilding. Iron and steel replaced wood, while sails gave way to steam. New boilers and engines were invented and accompanied by developments in propulsion. ¹ At the same time, photography emerged and developed, gradually becoming more affordable, portable and accessible to wider audiences. Photographers documented the vast tapestry of human life, from the political arena to the intimacy of daily moments, conflict, leisure and celebration. Photography gradually permeated different layers of society, laying the foundations for modern media culture. ²

This article explores how the development of the Portuguese Navy and merchant navy was represented by photography and presented to Portuguese audiences. It shows that photographers contributed to creating a narrative of progress, global connectedness, colonial agency and military power, even though the fleet lagged behind in terms of size and modernity compared to other western countries.

The sources include photographs kept in different archives and those published in the illustrated press – namely, Illustração Portugueza and Occidente, ³ the most important illustrated magazines of the time. Published twice or three times a month, they focused on commonplace elements of daily life, which included the merchant fleet and the Navy. Their price was steep, but they were affordable to many. Moreover, it was customary for buyers to share the issues discussed therein with the rest of their social networks. Distribution was carried out nationally, with some agents also operating in the Portuguese colonies and other foreign countries. ⁴ Nevertheless, the coverage outside the mainland was likely more dispersed and less impactful. Because there is no data on the breadth of circulation of the photographs currently held in the archives, it is reasonable to conclude that those published in the press had a greater impact within the mainland, where they offered unprecedented visual information to larger segments of Portuguese society.

Although photography captures a moment in time and space, it is not an objective practice. Photographs are the result of subjective choices made by the photographers, encompassing subject selection, framing and assorted technical aspects, which reflects their values and biases, along with those of their commissioners or plausible audiences and the prevailing standards of the time. Even photographed human subjects add another layer of subjectivity by expressing both their own identity and the persona they wish to project. ⁵

Progress in printing methods had accelerated the reproduction and circulation of photographs since the 1880s. The invention of halftone printing transformed the use of photography in the press, paving the way for photojournalism. Halftone reproductions added to the subjectivity of photographs, as the choices of publishers regarding captioning, cropping, resizing or placement could alter their meaning. ⁶

However, photographs, and their halftone reproductions in the press, presented an image of unfiltered reality, meeting the positivist and empiricist philosophies of the time and resonating with the era's fascination with technology. ⁷ Moreover, photojournalists were believed to be impartial and focused on objective reporting. ⁸ Therefore, photographs were accepted as objective depictions of reality, devoid from the subjectivity that artists imposed on their paintings or wood engravings. ⁹ For this reason, photography wielded a significant persuasive power, ¹⁰ particularly in countries with low literacy, like Portugal. ¹¹

In this vein, as a subjective practice accepted as an objective product, photography had the potential to create narratives and influence public opinion. Photographs published in the illustrated press shaped and legitimised perceptions of reality through recurring exposure to the audience. ¹² To unveil those narratives and the representations embedded in photographs, it is necessary to go beyond the mere identification of the visual elements therein – what Barthes calls the signifiers or denoted message. ¹³ Photography lacks a standardised code, and its analysis will always be subjective. ¹⁴ However, there are some rules that can help curtail the researcher's bias and dive into photographs’ significance.

Barthes observes that the denoted message supports the connoted (symbolic) message (composed of signifieds or icons) – that is, how society is viewed and communicated. The accumulation of icons and signifieds, and the repetition of the connoted message, creates signs or myths – visual representations of abstract concepts like ‘modernity’ or ‘progress’. ¹⁵ Furthermore, Barthes emphasises the historicity of the connotated message, meaning that its interpretation is essentially historical and involves knowing the details and motivations behind a photograph’s creation (author, commissioner, audience). ¹⁶ It is also important to consider the material context of photographs – whether they are in archival collections, albums or the pages of magazines – bearing in mind that the organisation of photographs is not random; it holds meaning and influences the viewer’s interpretation. ¹⁷ Finally, considering that photography is connected to the rhetoric of the same period, written sources contemporary to photographs (captions, newspaper articles, private letters, legislation, parliamentary debates, technical reports) are essential to their analysis. What is more, written sources help to limit ambiguity and restrict researcher bias. ¹⁸

Merchant ships and cameras: framing a narrative of modernity

The era of steamships began in Portugal in 1821, when the Conde de Palmella, a Liverpool-built steamer, began navigating between Lisbon and Porto. In the following decades, it was joined by several wooden paddle steamers built in British shipyards, which reinforced the Lisbon–Porto route and connected the Portuguese capital to the Algarve, the Madeira and Azores archipelagos, and colonial territories. Most were operated by private companies, whereas state-owned merchant vessels focused on imperial shipping. ¹⁹

The first known photographs of steamships in Portugal date from the 1880s. Before the First World War, the number of photographs escalated, showing a broader scope of vessels in different roles, which reflects the gradual normalisation of steamships in Portugal, the dissemination of photography and the implementation of halftones in the press.

Photographers were mostly interested in the routines of steamships, often combining the vessels’ technical features with the human presence aboard, capturing both the modernisation of the fleet and the people who experienced it. Some photographs show vessels overshadowed by the immensity of the sea or adjoining landforms. This highlights their robustness in enduring the hazards of transatlantic crossings. ²⁰ The original caption of a photograph kept in Porto’s Portuguese Centre of Photography exemplifies this well. Although the focus is on a group of girls sitting on a hill overlooking Funchal (Madeira), the caption underscores the presence of the S. S. Scot, which probably brought them there. ²¹ The S. S. Scot is not identifiable in the image but it is surrounded by other vessels conveying the same message: Madeira was just a breadth away from the mainland.

Photographs solely of ships, showing them from their port or starboard sides, are also frequent. At first sight, these pictures appear to be mere records – a precise testament to the vessel rather than the promotion of a specific message. ²² They include no disturbing features – the passengers not being visible – other than smaller vessels to highlight the ship’s dimensions. Often, the editors of illustrated magazines purposely deleted any details beyond the vessel and the water. However, there was a clear intent to emphasise liners and freighters as modern means of transportation. The text that accompanied the photographs added details about the dimensions of the ships, their speed, cargo capacity, comfort, luxuriousness and amenities (music halls, smoking and dining rooms, electric lighting, elevators, wireless telegraph).

These features were further underscored by photographs zooming in on the conditions of travel aboard liners. Most likely these photo-reportages were commissioned by the shipping firms themselves. As such, these settings attracted the elite, shipping company directors and members of government, who had themselves photographed on these symbols of progress. ²³ These framings underlined the comfortable, deluxe and up-to-date amenities of the new vessels and advertised the services offered by the shipping companies. Moreover, they emphasised that these modern ships were a significant upgrade on the wooden vessels of the past and matched the worth of the fleets of other, more powerful, nations, promoting them as icons of modernity. ²⁴ As part of a country located on the technological periphery of Europe, illustrated magazines felt the impulse to replicate the advancements of core nations. This push originated not only from a notion of progress based on technological grounds, but also from a desire to escape the stigma linked with pertaining to the periphery. ²⁵

A human presence is seen on photographs of passengers and crew working. The iconic scene of passengers aboard waving goodbye to friends and relatives on the dockside can also be witnessed in Portuguese photographs. ²⁶ Curiously, these images of travellers frequently disguise social differences. At first sight, members of the upper classes are not evidently distinguishable from the working classes. Only on closer inspection and after reading the caption or accompanying text can viewers perceive the social differences. Regardless, photography conveyed the message that steamers were a mode of transportation for all, albeit in very different circumstances and boarding conditions. If some photographs showed the elite travelling, like Hélène of Orléans, Duchess of Aosta, on her way to Madeira, others captured anonymous folk, such as migrants from the southern province of Alentejo arriving in Lisbon in search of a better life (Figure 1) or passengers travelling or migrating to Brazil. ²⁷

Figure 1.

Making the cover of Illustração Portugueza, families of migrants from southern Portugal disembark from a ferry in Lisbon, 1911 (photograph by Joshua Benoliel).

On a different note, the liners and the firms that operated them (especially Empresa Nacional de Navegação, the market leader, but also other foreign companies) were commended for linking Portugal with America and with its African and Asian colonies. Aptly, most of the Empresa Nacional ships had names that echoed the cities, regions or islands in the empire. ²⁸ Consequently, these photographs conveyed representations not only of progress, but also of globalisation and the ‘civilising mission.’ ²⁹

Ships were portrayed as critical devices for other infrastructure – namely, ports, which acted as portals of globalisation or, in other words, sites that served as centres and promoters of world trade, global connections and cultural transfer. ³⁰ Ships themselves were also depicted as such portals. Different vessels were shown anchored in Lisbon's port, between the train stations of Santa Apolónia and Alcântara, apparently materialising the harbour's self-given moniker as ‘the pier of Europe’.

From the mid nineteenth century, Portuguese stakeholders imagined Lisbon as a transoceanic and colonial commercial hub, benefitting from Portugal's location in the south-west corner of Europe. They planned to build railways and develop the harbour to turn Lisbon into a pivotal relay platform with America, Africa and Asia. However, investments in cross-border railways were a financial failure due to scarce traffic. Despite these setbacks, the ambition of Lisbon becoming ‘the pier of Europe’ endured. ³¹ Although this prospect never materialised, traffic in the harbour surged from the 1860s onward, encouraging a wave of grand plans for its development, with engineers, architects and policymakers offering inventive proposals for the port's expansion. ³² In 1887, the government commissioned Pierre Hersent, a French engineer, to direct the construction of new piers, warehouses and transportation infrastructure. Despite many disputes between the government and the contractor, the port progressively expanded to accommodate larger ships. By 1914, it featured a 4.7-kilometre linear extension, a storage area of 14,000 square metres, seven docks, six hydraulic cranes and two shipyards. ³³ The latter promoted Lisbon's port as an important infrastructure for steamers on international routes in need of repair, with the press deeming them another sign of progress. ³⁴

Photographers followed the expansion and the utilisation of the port by increasingly larger ships, visually recording the infrastructure's development into the river and its accommodation of global maritime fluxes. These photographs offered a perspective of the transformation and domestication of the natural environment by human agency. Other images depicted passengers embarking and disembarking, foreign dignitaries visiting, mail being transferred to land services, and cargo (exported and imported) being loaded and unloaded (Figure 2). These pictures offered visual proof of written claims that the port was bustling with activity and had become a crucial component of internationalisation and globalisation. In the press, it was acknowledged as a hub of technological advancements and ‘one of the best in the world’, ³⁵ realising its potential as ‘the pier of Europe’, ³⁶ although its size and facilities lagged behind those of other European harbours. ³⁷

Figure 2.

Docked in Lisbon's harbour, a ship is unloading cocoa, one of the most valuable commodities of the empire, 1913 (photograph by Joshua Benoliel).

Considering Portugal's status as a colonial power – albeit a second-rate one – these photographs illustrated the vital role of merchant ships and liners in connecting the mainland with its colonies. On the one hand, these vessels were crucial for two-way trade, transporting prized products like cocoa from the colonies (Figure 2) and returning with goods produced on the mainland – a trade that photography framed as part of a mission to ‘civilise’ the colonial territories. On the other hand, transports owned by private companies were pivotal in carrying troops to the colonies, where various ethnic groups resisted Portuguese expansion. ³⁸ By supporting military operations, the merchant navy became intertwined in Portugal's ‘civilising mission’ – a new feature that photographers emphasised in their work. Photographs recorded groups of soldiers embarking or aboard different ships, departing from Lisbon to quell the resistance in the colonies. The same vessels brought back victorious armies from Africa. ³⁹ On one memorable occasion, the leader of the empire of Gaza in Mozambique, Gungunhana, was brought to Lisbon as a prisoner in a small steamer, accompanied by a retinue of his followers. The moment was recorded in a series of consecutive shots taken by the photographer José Chaves Cruz, which later circulated in the press. ⁴⁰

Ships soon became vehicles for leisure, enjoyed by the elite and the working classes. While the wealthy owned their own yachts and motorboats, the latter utilised public transportation ferries or riverboats to travel to leisure destinations. ⁴¹ These images revealed a clear distinction between the social classes, which the photographs of liners did not translate as effectively. Images of yachts typically depicted a small number of individuals aboard consciously posing for the photographer, while those documenting the working classes showed packed scenes, with people more concerned with getting on or off the boat than with the camera. The disparity in passenger numbers, promoted by steamers and cameras, suggested the exclusivity of some recreational activities, underlining social differentiation. ⁴² In keeping with this social distinction, the caption of one photograph of a steamer used by commoners underscored that it was one of the ‘cheap routes’. ⁴³

Photo-narratives often highlighted the health gains of these boat trips, particularly for Lisbon workers and dwellers. They labelled boat journeys a hygienic habit, a refreshing relief from the capital's polluted ambience, which was likened to a furnace. The suburbs on the left bank of the Tagus, which were accessible by boat, offered solace, where one could breathe reviving air, enjoy the landscape and sundry attractions, and replenish one's strength. ⁴⁴ Children's health was a particular concern, closely associated with a perceived decline of the so-called ‘Portuguese race’. ⁴⁵ Therefore, they were taken on annual ferry rides across the Tagus to the beaches of Trafaria. ⁴⁶

Furthermore, ships were important for the promotion of tourism, transporting Portuguese and international travellers to various scenic sites in Portugal, some of which were only accessible by boat. Photography recorded these journeys and served at the same time as a promotional tool for the destinations visited by these tourists. ⁴⁷

The leisure activities associated with motorboats included thrilling sporting competitions. Gasoline-powered speedboats appeared in Portugal in the late 1900s. ⁴⁸ The photographs of these races hold unique significance, as they clearly capture the essence of speed. The distinctive trails that the motorboats created on the water's surface, leaving behind a powerful wake, served as a visual testament to their velocity. ⁴⁹ Unlike cars, which gradually evolved to become accessible beyond Portuguese high society, motorboat racing remained an exclusive pursuit of the elite. Transport ships played a central role in promoting water sports. They could follow the competitions closely, often carrying the judges and prestigious guests, including members of the royal family on occasion. This association with high society further underscored the elitist nature of these maritime technological advancements in leisure activities. ⁵⁰

Steam-powered vessels also incorporated a political dimension, which was documented and disseminated by photography. The most evident situation was when these vessels transported national and foreign dignitaries on official duties, who borrowed some of the technological prestige and modernity of these vehicles. ⁵¹ One of these photographs has special meaning as the last picture of King Charles and Queen Amélia taken together, minutes before the assassination of the Portuguese monarch (Figure 3). ⁵²

Figure 3.

Inadvertently walking towards his demise, King Charles disembarks in Terreiro do Paço from the ferry from Barreiro, 1908 (photograph by Joshua Benoliel).

During the chaotic early years of the Portuguese Republic, photography enhanced the importance of steamers and towboats in sustaining some semblance of urban transportation. As strikes, a recently acquired workers’ right, brough urban land systems to a halt, waterborne vessels kept some goods and people circulating. ⁵³ More importantly for the solidification of the new regime, photographers recorded and disseminated the role of steamers in internal politics, especially in transporting political prisoners or striking workers, as well as ostracised groups like the Petites Sœurs des Pauvres (Little Sisters of the Poor), a Catholic order expelled by the republican government. ⁵⁴

On a contrasting note, photographers also recorded shipwrecks in images that stressed the perils of going to sea, even on iron or steel ships. ⁵⁵ Nonetheless, these kinds of photographs were far less frequent than images of safe voyages. They did not intend to raise doubts over the safety of sea voyages, but to exploit the audience’s fascination with calamities, which, while being repellent, were also fascinating. ⁵⁶ Some photographs, however, did portray critically overloaded boats, suggesting the potential reason for these disasters. ⁵⁷

Photographing the Navy to boost nationalism

The Navy was crucial for Portugal's defence strategy and for overseeing its vast imperial territory as part of the ‘civilising mission.’ Moreover, it was a reflection of the nation's rich maritime history, dating back to the fifteenth century. However, the Portuguese Navy lagged behind its European counterparts in technical terms and in its capacity to defend and patrol continental and imperial waters. While countries like France and Britain had been using steam engines, iron coating and shell guns in their naval vessels since 1840, ⁵⁸ in the 1850s, the Portuguese fleet consisted primarily of wooden sailing ships. In the 1860s, steam-powered gunboats were imported from Germany and Britain or assembled domestically in the Navy's arsenal in Lisbon. They gave the Portuguese Navy a substantial advantage against local foes in the African colonies, but were still insufficient in number to oversee the empire. In 1875, the Portuguese government acquired the ironclad Vasco da Gama. It arrived in Portugal with a group of gunboats, avisos and corvettes, and was powerful enough to cause damage to larger ships but mostly suited for coastal defence and patrol missions. The first torpedo boat arrived in Portugal in 1880 (followed by three more before the end of the century), 15 years after the invention of self-propelled torpedoes by Robert Whithead. ⁵⁹

The 1880s witnessed more technological innovations, international rivalries and the growth of economic interest groups that favoured greater public investment in the advancement of naval war machines. ⁶⁰ Portugal followed suit a decade later, motivated by the British Ultimatum (1890) and growing unrest in the imperial domains. Before the end of the century, the Navy was bolstered by five new cruisers: D. Carlos, São Gabriel, São Rafael, Adamastor and Rainha D. Amélia. ⁶¹ However, the Portuguese Navy remained inadequate. The number of vessels matched that of other nations of a similar size, but was glaringly limited considering the vastness of the empire. Moreover, the vessels soon became outdated, falling short of the standards of other navies.

Photographers recorded this expansion in a significant and fawning way. ⁶² The ironclad Vasco da Gama and the cruisers emerged as the flagships of the fleet and were the favourites of the illustrated press. ⁶³ However, the accompanying written reports painted a substantially different picture. Despite emphasising the armada's features, these textual accounts frequently mentioned the navy's shortcomings in protecting the empire.

Boasting 15 steam boilers and a combined 16,500 horsepower – as described in the illustrated press – the cruisers could reach speeds of up to 15.5 knots. Their 25-centimetre-thick armour, 35 rapid-fire cannons, eight Nordenfelt machine guns and two torpedo launchers (installed aboard São Rafael and Adamastor) suggested formidable fighting capabilities. For less powerful navies, torpedoes were a game-changer, as they offered a considerable advantage against larger armoured ships. ⁶⁴ Additionally, the Rainha D. Amélia had the merit of being built solely by Portuguese industrial ingenuity, adding another layer of nationalism to the ship, which was reinforced by the photographs and accounts that documented it. ⁶⁵

Every new addition to the Navy, especially if built by Portuguese expertise, ignited the attention of photographers and, consequently, national enthusiasm. This was especially noticeable in an era when nations with obsolete military equipment were swiftly defeated, as demonstrated by Spain's humiliation in the 1898 Spanish-American War. ⁶⁶ Therefore, the launch of new vessels built at the Navy's arsenal was a matter of celebration, often in the presence of the king, heir apparent and government officials. In these photographs, the cheering crowds surrounding the ship also offered scale, underlining its huge dimensions. ⁶⁷ Two gunboats, Pátria and Infante D. Manuel, were launched in 1903 and 1905, respectively. Subsidised by a public donation collected after the British Ultimatum, the vessels were built to patrol the rivers of Portugal and its colonies. Occidente documented these events, emphasising their national origin and technical specifications (often beyond the understanding of the public), thereby adding a layer of nationalistic feeling to the photographs. Features like top-speed ranges of 13 to 25 kilometres per hour, armament with various rapid-fire cannons and 15-millimetre-thick steel plating were underscored in the text, complementing the information provided by the images. ⁶⁸

Photography echoed not only the military significance of these warships but also their symbolic and political meaning. Images of their global voyages, especially to the Portuguese colonies, underlined the nation's reach. In the same vein, photographs of their participation in international events, such as the centennial of the opening of Brazilian harbours to international trade (1808–1908) and of Argentina's independence (1810–1910), served as displays of Portuguese influence in the international community. However, photographers failed to translate the growing concerns that surrounded the Navy's planned presence at Brazil's approaching centennial of independence (1922). The aging armada was a challenge, which raised doubts about Portugal's capability of making a good impression on such a historic occasion, and this motivated calls for the fleet's modernisation. ⁶⁹

The new republican regime, instated in 1910, began by renaming many of the ships after republican figures. Other vessels did not have their original designations changed, as they celebrated agreed-on historical figures or sites. ⁷⁰ Photographers continued to record their voyages for the Republic, just as they had done during the monarchy, additionally celebrating the ships’ usefulness in suppressing monarchist insurrections and transporting exiled partisans of the former regime. Images of voyages to the colonies and international events, with the ships serving as ambassadors for the new regime, can also be easily found in the press. ⁷¹

Republican policymakers and naval strategists made additional enhancements to the fleet, including the installation of wireless telegraphy aboard the Vasco da Gama. As reported by Illustração Portugueza, this technology allowed the ship to communicate over a 1,200-mile radius. ⁷² In this case, photographs failed to translate the true import of this innovation, simply presenting sailors carrying out routine duties on board. However, they were associated with accompanying texts that played a central role in explaining this technical advancement and its significance.

The situation of the Portuguese Navy deteriorated with the Republic, despite the promises of the new regime. The number of warships decreased with the disbandment of many vessels, surpassing efforts to build or acquire gunboats, torpedo boat destroyers and even a submarine. ⁷³ To make matters worse, in 1911, the São Rafael, one of the Navy's flagships, which had been instrumental in the republican uprising, met an unfortunate end. A storm caused the cruiser to sink near Vila do Conde in the north of Portugal. Exploiting the public's fascination with disasters, photographers flocked to the fishing town to capture the ship's last moments. ⁷⁴ While these photographs suggested the potential decline of the Republic's naval power, the allure of the disaster outweighed fears of negative publicity.

The efforts of the republican government to bolster the Navy were highlighted with extravagant launch ceremonies attended by the newly elected president, other dignitaries and, of course, several photographers. These events mirrored those held during the monarchy, with the photographs seeking to illustrate the new regime's embrace of modern technology and naval power. Notably, photographers recorded the advent of two new types of vessel: destroyers and submarines.

The destroyers Douro and Guadiana were launched in 1913 and 1914, respectively, following their swift production at the Navy's arsenal. The ceremonies were documented, with the photographs later published in the illustrated press (Figure 4), countering perceptions of naval decline. ⁷⁵ Detailed specifications bolstered the image of the technical marvels and the ‘technological sublime’ associated with the new vessels: ⁷⁶ 700 tons, 73 metres long, 11,000-horsepower engines enabling a top speed of 27 knots for 400 miles, a 15-knot cruising range of 1,600 miles, two 7-millimetre Armstrong rapid-fire cannons, a larger 100-millimetre cannon, two torpedo launchers, wireless telegraphy and electricity. ⁷⁷ Photography celebrated the expansion and modernisation of the Portuguese Navy, endorsing nationalistic feelings and the new Republic, but it hid important details. The Portuguese destroyers were commissioned two decades after similar models were first developed in Britain, which, even then, had top speeds higher than the Portuguese ships. ⁷⁸

Figure 4.

President Manuel de Arriaga executes the customary act of removing the last holding peg of the Douro, witnessed closely by Afonso Costa, prime minister and finance minister, and António Macieira, foreign affairs minister, 1913 (unknown photographer).

On a similar note, Portugal's first submarine, the Espadarte (‘Swordfish’), arrived in the Tagus in August 1913 after traversing the Mediterranean from Livorno (Italy). ⁷⁹ It arrived 15 years after the French submarine Gustave Zédé's pioneering feat of hitting a battleship with a practice torpedo, and when submarines were established weapons of war. ⁸⁰ The Espadarte was the first of a submarine squadron of four that arrived in Portugal in the following years. The full squadron was composed of the Foca, the Golfinho and the Hidra.

Submarines’ underwater abilities drew instant interest from photographers, which materialised in an album chronicling the new squadron, including images of the submarines’ assembly in Italy. ⁸¹ The Espadarte offered photographers a unique opportunity to develop never-before-seen pictures, including a perspective from the periscope. ⁸² Although blurred even by contemporary standards (which likely made it unqualified for publication in the press), the photograph gave a foretaste of the submarine's groundbreaking and menacing aptitudes, denoting the arrival of progress in the Portuguese Navy.

For a smaller European and imperial country like Portugal, stealthy submarines, running silently and deep, were a way of challenging more powerful nations’ fleets and levelling the playing field. In contrast, the British at first regarded submarines with contempt. They considered them foul play, an ungentlemanly, cowardly and ultimately un-British way of waging war at sea. They were considered no more than weapons wielded by the morally inferior, no better than pirates, who resorted to hiding during battle. Moreover, for the Britons, the visual impact of submarines could not compare with the remarkable greatness of their own colossal fleet. ⁸³

For Portuguese observers, however, photographs of submarines certainly caused a stir, sparking curiosity, intriguing viewers and promoting national pride. Images of the interior of the Espadarte showed a true maze of indicators, valves and strange instruments, seemingly organised in a chaotic manner – a riddle for the lay person. ⁸⁴ The press, apparently struggling to find satisfactory terms to depict the Espadarte, instead relied greatly on the visual impact of its ominous submerging, as seen in a succession of photographs printed in Illustração Portugueza (Figure 5).

Figure 5.

Sequence of the submerging of the Espadarte at Lisbon's Belém dock, 1913 (photographs by Joshua Benoliel).

The Republic continued with the upgrading efforts that the monarchic governments had begun, investing in torpedoes and naval mines. The tests and training exercises with these weapons offered an exceptional opportunity for photographers, who captured striking scenes with explosions that illustrated the Navy's technical prowess and military might. Photography also recorded the public's fascination with these spectacles. Locals crowded the shores, drawn to the sight of the explosions. ⁸⁵ From a different perspective, a photograph of a detonation printed in Illustração Portuguese included a tiny ship to underscore the sheer dimensions of the blast. ⁸⁶

Illustrated magazines revelled in the power unleashed during these training sessions. News pieces described the huge quantities of explosives utilised, the awe-inspiring technique of wireless detonation and the destructive potential of these ‘satanic machines’, as they were called. They noted the hefty price tag and the physical shock experienced by the observers on land who had come to witness the demonstration of the Portuguese Navy's firepower – details that photographs alone could not convey. ⁸⁷ In an issue of Illustração Portugueza published in September 1910, a deeper dive into exercises with torpedoes was offered with a fascinating photographic essay. It focused on the Portuguese Navy's torpedo boats off the coast of Sesimbra, depicting various stages of the operation: precise provisions, crew duties, the remarkable launch of a torpedo (Figure 6) and its retrieval. The essay also portrayed the sailors handling these deadly weapons with a quiet confidence, suggesting their expertise and courage. ⁸⁸

Figure 6.

Launched from Torpedo Boat Number 3 of the Portuguese Navy, a torpedo darts towards the water, 1910 (unknown photographer).

Conclusion

Photography extensively documented the evolution of the Portuguese Navy and merchant marine, showcasing their diverse roles in transportation, commerce, defence, leisure and tourism. However, far from being a simple illustrative tool for depicting ships, it was instrumental in crafting a narrative – circulated primarily in the mainland's illustrated press – that chronicled a peripheral nation's struggle for modernisation, global connectedness, imperial status, military strength and greater proximity to the European core nations. This was done despite the fleet lagging behind in terms of size and modernity compared to other western countries.

The photographs analysed in this article illustrate the Portuguese marine's capacity to safely and comfortably link the mainland with other continents, especially its overseas colonial territories. They present merchant and war vessels as instrumental tools for two key projects: first, for globalisation, aligning with the goal of making Lisbon a relay platform between Europe, America and Africa and, second, for the imperial project, as they carried colonial resources back to the mainland and soldiers and settlers overseas to ‘civilise’ those territories.

On a different note, these photographs also served a political purpose, promoting nationalism and showing how ships could be used to achieve the ruling regime’s political goals, such as propaganda around military might and the expulsion of political enemies. On a social level, while the photographs suggest that these ships were accessible to everyone, they also created a social distinction. They show the elites owning their own boats for sporting pastimes, while members of the general public are grouped together on other vessels.

While there was some negative appraisal of the fleet, seen in photographs of sinkings and texts noting its need for modernisation, these critiques did not stain the overall narrative. This was for two reasons: first, the photographs of sinkings were limited and meant to capitalise on the allure of disaster and, second, the textual critiques were less impactful than the visuals, given the high illiteracy rate in Portuguese society.

In this sense, this article contributes to maritime history by providing a new perspective on the field through the lens of visual studies; to visual culture by showcasing how photography was instrumental in creating a narrative of technological success; and to imperial studies by looking beyond the colonial scenario and examining how ships were presented as instruments of imperialism and how imperialism was normalised as a natural consequence of the ships’ technological modernity. Furthermore, the methodology used in this study can be applied to other contexts, allowing for cross-geographical comparisons and new avenues of research in maritime history – for instance, by focusing on the users, workers and maintainers of Navy and merchant vessels, who are often invisible in historiographical research and about whom sources are scarce.