“That’s no choice at all,” Kat said tiredly. She ran her hand through her hair. “I’ll go with William.”
“I thought you would,” Peter said. He stood too. “I asked him to wait. I’ll send him to see you, then . . . We’d prefer you stay here until William’s flagship is ready to leave.”
“I thought as much,” Kat said. “How many people out there”—she jabbed a hand at the wall—“blame me?”
“Fewer than you seem to think,” Peter said. “But enough to be dangerous, if they see you.”
He turned and left the bedroom. Kat followed him, oddly unsure of herself. It felt good to be free, to feel as though a sword was no longer hanging over her head, but . . . she still blamed herself. She’d beaten the king, she’d stopped him, she’d made sure he’d be executed, yet . . . she felt as if she was still at fault. What had happened would haunt her for the rest of her days.
Peter stepped through the hatch. A moment later, William stepped in.
“Kat,” he said. His voice was awkward. “Are you . . . ?”
Kat had to smile, despite their shared awkwardness. “I think I need to salute you,” she said, suiting action to words. “When are we leaving?”
“Soon,” William said. “I’m glad it worked out.”
“So am I,” Kat admitted. She promised herself that she’d catch up with the news broadcasts and reports as soon as she was on the way to William’s flagship. She’d lost track of what was happening in the liberated zone since the civil war had broken out. “The future will just have to take care of itself.”
“We’ll take care of it,” William corrected. “Together.”
AFTERWORD
If you’ve been following my career, you’ll have noticed that I seem to like writing about civil wars, rebellions, and insurrections. In this, I am following in the footsteps of such greats as Robert A. Heinlein (The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress), David Weber/Steve White (Insurrection), and a multitude of other writers who have mined history for inspiration. Indeed, many of those writers got me into studying real history instead of history getting me into those books! Truth—historical truth—is often stranger than fiction.
In one sense, all civil wars are different. In another, they are often very alike. There are, in general terms, only two types of civil war. The first might be defined as a War of Secession, where a region of a country, perhaps one culturally distinct from the remainder of the nation, fights for its independence. The second might be defined as a War of Revolution, where one side seeks to gain control of the levers of power and use them as it sees fit. The latter tends to veer between battles for the throne—putting someone else on the throne without threatening the structure of monarchy itself—and outright revolutions, which aim to reform or destroy the governing system itself. This is never as easy as it sounds. People are naturally conservative, perhaps in fear that what might replace the old system will be worse. This is not an unreasonable fear. The Russian and French Revolutions destroyed the monarchist governments, which were awful, but they were replaced with governments that were inarguably worse. In both cases, the losers made their lives harder by reminding the people who threw them out precisely why they threw them out.
The origins of civil wars, therefore, can be hotly disputed. The winner, whoever that happens to be, has an interest in portraying the losing side as negatively as possible, if only to discourage others from following in their footsteps. The American Civil War, for example, had a number of separate causes, but most studies tend to focus on the slavery issue alone, both because slavery is seen (and rightly so) as a great evil and because it is relatively simple. This does tend to raise the question of why so many poor white Southerners fought for a system that was weighted against them—slavery was hardly an asset to those who owned no slaves, who struggled against a warped economy—and leads to all sorts of nasty allegations, ranging from racism to simple stupidity. The fact that the South had good reason to resent and fear the North is generally overlooked.
Indeed, the American Civil War is odd because the losers shaped so much of its early mythology. The Myth of the Lost Cause, a belief the South lost because it was utterly outgunned rather than morally in the wrong, lingers on.
Throughout Anglo-American history, there have been three civil wars of staggering significance. The American Civil War (attempted War of Secession) is obviously one of them. The American War of Independence (successful War of Secession) is also one of them. But there is a third, the English Civil War (War of Revolution), and its semicontinuation, the Glorious Revolution (War of Revolution). The English Civil War is far less well known, particularly in America, even though it swept across all three British kingdoms and touched the early American colonies. In some ways, the winners sought to bury the truth and vilify their enemies. In others, the origins and course of the war are confusing, unlike the relatively simple, and later, American War of Independence.
The English Civil War was hardly the first civil war in Britain, nor was it the first to reshape the political and social landscape, but it was, perhaps, the most significant. Put simply, the dispute between King Charles I and Parliament was over who really called the shots. In theory, the king possessed near-absolute power; in practice, the king’s powers were limited by long-standing customs and legalities, including the need to go to parliament for funds. In some ways, Charles inherited a mess from his father and Elizabeth Tudor. In others, Charles blundered from mistake to mistake until he found himself committed to war against his own government. The resulting civil war seesawed backwards and forwards for several years until Parliament developed the New Model Army, came to terms with the Scots, and crushed Charles’s army. Even then, they were unsure what to do with him. It wasn’t until Charles, who had already developed a reputation for double-dealing and outright treachery, finally overstepped himself that they put him on trial (itself a legal headache, as previous dispositions tended to wait until matters were beyond recovery) and beheaded him.
This may seem odd, from our point of view, but Parliament was not at first interested in tearing down the entire social order and starting again. Parliament wanted to reform the system, not destroy it. The king had a vital role in the prewar constitution—the collection of laws, understandings, and suchlike that govern Britain—and simply chopping off his head was not, for many of them, an understanding. To us, the idea of negotiating with someone who had nothing to negotiate with seems absurd. To them, the king still had something to offer. Weirdly enough, there was a considerable degree of continuity between Charles I, Oliver Cromwell (who became Lord Protector, king in all but name), and Charles II. The English Civil War was a War of Revolution, but not too much revolution.
But it did change things, more than ever before. Parliament’s supremacy was largely unchallenged. Charles II, upon his Restoration, knew the risks of pressing too hard. (This didn’t stop him risking everything on a secret understanding with France, which, luckily for him, remained undisclosed until after his death.) The steady weakening of the royal supremacy ensured that James II, when he took the throne upon Charles II’s death, could be simply and bloodlessly removed in the Glorious Revolution. Indeed, the English Civil War and the liberties it enshrined in law can be seen as a precursor to the American War of Independence.
Such wars, however, come with extreme risks. The French Revolution did not lead to a stable, postmonarchical form of government. Instead, Napoleon eventually took power and unleashed an endless series of wars across Europe until he was defeated and exiled in 1814. The monarchists were returned to Paris, but rapidly proved they’d learned nothing from their exile, giving Napoleon a chance to make another bid for power in 1815. The Russian Revolution started promisingly, at first, but collapsed into a nightmare when the communists took power and imposed their own order on the country. On one hand, this was different from the monarchy. On the other, it was far worse.
In the modern world, it must be noted, civil wars can be brutal. The collapse or perversion of government power, in
which the government sides openly with one of the factions, can rip society to shreds, shattering what little social trust remains. It becomes impossible to either separate peacefully or escape, thus ensuring a war that rapidly leads to an endless series of atrocities. This is very human—people who feel they cannot escape have a flat choice between submission or fighting and often choose to fight—but disastrous. Once the cycle of revenge gets underway, it cannot be stopped easily. The collapse of Yugoslavia, the civil wars of Iraq, and the chaos that gripped British India as the British withdrew and the Raj separated into India and Pakistan stand as a stark warning of how bad things can become.
There has been much talk recently, from America, of civil war. This is, in one sense, hardly a new phenomenon. America was born in a civil war—the only reason the American War of Independence is not generally counted as a civil war is that the rebels won, turning the conflict into a successful War of Secession—and there were outbreaks of violence almost from day one. The Whiskey Rebellion, for example, sowed the seeds for much to come. On one hand, it showed the newborn government could exercise effective control in its territory; on the other, it showed the government was prepared to impose taxes on people who lacked representation. The fear of the federal government growing so powerful it could not be stopped is not a new thing. Donald Trump’s “drain the swamp” battle cry is merely the continuation of a struggle as old as America itself.
But the American Civil War was relatively civilized, by the standards of the time. The Confederate States of America did not seek to overrun, occupy, and reshape the United States. They lacked the power to do so, even if they had the will. They merely sought independence, which seemed, to many in the North, to be an entirely reasonable request. And this could have been granted, without causing immense hardship to the North. The South, both poor whites and blacks who were enslaved, would have had serious problems as industrial development continued, but those would have been the results of a system already in place. They would not have been imposed by outside powers.
A modern-day American Civil War would be far worse. There would be no clearly defined “nations,” no unified command-and-control systems . . . the military would be torn apart, battles would be fought over every state government and capital, food distribution networks would break down, and the economy would collapse, causing mass starvation that would bring the cities to their knees. Whoever won would have to cope with a legacy of bitterness that would pervade every layer of society, from the high to the low. It would be a nightmare beyond calculation, one that would cast a long shadow for decades to come.
The only way to stop such a catastrophe is to seek compromise. But our modern-day societies are increasingly averse to compromise. And that bodes ill for the future.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christopher G. Nuttall is the author of more than a dozen series, including the bestselling Ark Royal books, as well as the Embers of War, Angel in the Whirlwind, Royal Sorceress, Bookworm, Schooled in Magic, Twilight of the Gods, and Zero Enigma series. Born and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, Christopher studied history, which inspired him to imagine new worlds and create an alternate-history website. Those imaginings provided a solid base for storytelling and eventually led him to publish more than one hundred works, including novels, short stories, and one novella. He moves between Britain and Malaysia with his partner, muse, and critic, Aisha. For more information, visit his blog at www.chrishanger.wordpress.com and his website at www.chrishanger.net.
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