An Atlas of Extinct Countries

by Gideon Defoe

  ‡ Bismarck did not endear himself to the Bavarians when he described them as ‘half-way between an Austrian and a human being’.

  § Ludwig II tried to go on holiday with an actor friend, but his efforts to travel incognito went awry when a boat he hired in Lucerne turned up decked out in Bavarian flags and the captain greeted him as ‘your majesty’.

  The Islands of Refreshment

  1811–16

  Population: 4

  Cause of death: a boating accident

  Today: a British Overseas Territory

  ///untiring.cranes.skimmed

  Today there is a sign on Tristan da Cunha welcoming visitors to ‘the Remotest Island’. 1,500 miles from anywhere, this isn’t tourist-board hyperbole. The Portuguese explorer Tristão da Cunha spotted the tiny volcanic speck in 1506, but decided it looked too unappealing to stop off at. It wasn’t until 1811 that the first would-be permanent settler showed up, a young adventurer from Salem, Massachusetts, named Jonathan Lambert.*

  He’d hitched a lift on a whaling ship, along with a dog and three companions. One of these, Thomas Currie, had been promised 12 Spanish dollars a month to help set up a new country. They rowed ashore and Lambert boldly announced the land as his own, ‘solely for myself and my heirs for ever’. He instantly embarked on a rebranding exercise, collectively rechristening da Cunha and its two equally windswept neighbours (‘Nightingale’ and ‘Inaccessible’) with a more approachable-sounding name – the Islands of Refreshment. This welcoming kingdom had the stated aim of providing refreshment to passing travellers – ‘all vessels, of whatever description, and belonging to whatever nation, will visit me for that purpose’. Lambert had, in effect, set up a glorified motorway service station, but in the stupidest place possible: an obscure part of the Atlantic where the only passing ships, as far from civilisation as they could be, were inclined to nick stuff rather than pay for it.†

  Just like a real motorway services, things were bleak. The new inhabitants butchered an enormous number of seals, hoping to make enough oil from the blubber to sell to passing mariners to pay for a nicer boat. They ate a lot of turnips, their only substitute for bread. Life proved difficult. Then, in 1812, one year into the project, Lambert and two others disappeared: presumed drowned in a boating accident while out fishing. Thomas Currie – seething about never having been paid by his vanished boss – was left to fend for himself.

  It was a grumpy Currie who recounted the whole sorry escapade to the British when they turned up four years later. They’d come to claim the island as a naval base, worried it might otherwise be used as a stopping-off point from which to mount a rescue of Napoleon, newly exiled on St Helena. It seems like precautionary overkill, because St Helena is still 1,343 miles away, but they’d learned their lesson from the whole Elba fiasco.

  Swallowed by the British Empire, the independent Islands of Refreshment were no more, but this new occupation finally led to a slightly more successful community getting established there. Nowadays they even have a British postcode.‡ Though they also have several cases of progressive blindness caused by retinitis pigmentosa, because Tristan da Cunha has become an unfortunate case study in why tiny gene pools are Not A Great Thing.

  * Probably lies: Lambert thought he was the first person to ever stay on the island, but the presence of pigs suggests other people, possibly Dutch traders, must have stopped off first, at least briefly.

  † Today, it is still a six-day boat journey from the nearest mainland, South Africa.

  ‡ Evacuated to Hampshire in 1961 after a volcanic eruption, virtually the entire population voted to return to the island, so it can’t be as bad as Currie made out.

  The Kingdom of Corsica

  March–November 1736

  Capital: Cervione

  Languages: Italian, Corsican, French, German

  Currency: soldi

  Cause of death: in-fighting and bad debts

  Today: part of France

  ///auctioning.politicians.fatten

  Theodore Stephan Freiherr von Neuhoff – of ‘fine form and a handsome face’ – left a trail of debts, inspired an opera and a couple of novels, got punched by jealous husbands, and basically did all the eighteenth-century Errol Flynn stuff you could hope for.

  Born into a semi-noble family in Cologne, he joined the army at 17, where he started a lifelong habit of racking up huge gambling losses.* Then he did a runner across Europe, marrying one of the Queen of Spain’s maids en route. Whose jewellery he then stole, before heading back to Paris where he used the swag to invest in one of the first financial bubbles.†

  Aged 26, bankrupt and living in south London, von Neuhoff hid in bed to avoid his creditors, read books about highwaymen and got heavily into alchemy. He quit England and headed back to the continent, where he had an affair with a nun. The only thing more illegal than having an affair with a nun was working as a ‘magicotherapist’, so he did that too, telling people he could predict lottery numbers, exorcise demons and make love potions.‡ While plying this slippery trade in Genoa, he encountered some Corsican rebels. The rebels were after self-determination, free from the yoke of the Genoese. Everyone hated Genoa by this point in history, and the Corsicans had a legitimate grievance – they were regarded as ‘barbarians’ by their rulers, and forbidden from hunting or fishing.§ Partly attracted by the romance of helping the plucky underdog, mostly attracted to the opportunity of smuggling coral, Theodore agreed to help them, on the proviso that, should this all work out, he be declared king. He borrowed money – borrowing money being his main skill – and purchased arms for the cause. He sought alliances in Turkey and Morocco but, sympathetic as they were, nobody wanted to get involved. So, he returned to Corsica, decked out in his new king outfit (fur-trimmed robe, plumed tricorn, gilded cane) and – either by luck or unexpected military skill – drove the Genoese back to a couple of fortified enclaves.

  Theodore then issued a set of articles: there would be low taxes, he would found a university and no foreigners could be king (apart from him). He got rid of the unpopular attacar custom, which dictated that a man who touched or was seen alone with a woman was required to marry her, regardless of either party’s feelings on the matter. After a good harvest, Corsica improbably found itself doing better under its dubious king than anyone had the right to expect.

  But the island famous for its vendettas was never going to be an easy place to run.¶ One of the Corsican rebels in particular, Giacinthio Paoli, had it in for Theodore. By nature liberal, and always with one eye on the financial side of things, Theodore had proclaimed religious tolerance of Jews – which was a step too far for Paoli and the conservative Corsicans. When the Genoese posted up notices telling the islanders about their king’s iffy past, Paoli happily stoked the rumours and discontent. Theodore was forced to flee, first to Florence and eventually to Amsterdam, where he went on trying to raise the funds he needed to secure his kingdom.

  In an Amsterdam pub, one of his creditors recognised him and Theodore’s luck ran out. He ignobly offered Corsica to Spain if they’d pay his debt for him, but Spain refused. Thrown into a debtor’s jail,** but a huckster to the end, he still managed to produce a prospectus trying to lure investors with lucrative-sounding tales of Corsica’s olive oil, almonds and figs, despite the obvious lost cause of the whole enterprise. If he had been alive today, he would almost certainly be raising venture capital millions for pointless juicers.

  * Theodore would try to pay off his creditors with promissory notes which, when opened, turned out to be blank bits of paper.

  † The Mississippi scheme was the brainchild of John Law, a Scottish banker who invented most of the traits of bankers we still know and love – ruinous financial products, rampant speculation and a ridiculous property bubble that almost ruined France.

  ‡ Other jobs attempted by Theodore: ‘virtuoso’, ‘language teacher’ and ‘connoisseur of pictures’. During his magicother
apist years he went by the name ‘Baron von Syburg’.

  § One person who later tried to defend Genoa’s treatment of the Corsicans was Mussolini, which is not much of an endorsement.

  ¶ Corsica today has the highest per capita murder rate in Europe.

  ** Later in life, incarcerated in England, Theodore successfully campaigned to have a nicer prison built. He died in Soho, aged 62.

  The State of Muskogee

  1799–1803

  Population: circa 50,000

  Capital: Mikasuke

  Languages: English, various Muskogean

  Cause of death: a double cross

  Today: part of Florida, USA

  ///live.bursting.smoke

  In the eighteenth century, William Bowles, a bored 14-year-old in the US state of Maryland, joined a Loyalist regiment fighting on the side of the British in the American War of Independence. He found the military even duller than his previous life, and fast became ‘stir crazy and insubordinate’. Before long, his commanding officers had had enough of Bowles turning up late to everything and kicked him out, so he ran away to live with the Native Americans. He wasn’t unique in this – hundreds of white men threw in their lot with the locals – but he was unique in the size of his dreams.

  Bowles envisaged ‘an entirely new nation state rising up out of the swamps’ under the leadership of – don’t drop your monocle in shock at this – William Bowles. It would be called Muskogee, after the Muscogee (or Creek) people, and it would be a self-governing ‘Indian nation’, right where what is now Florida starts to droop into the Gulf of Mexico. Here the indigenous Creek and Cherokee would live free from both the Spanish (currently in charge) and the Americans (looming ominously). The way the country would maintain this unlikely independence was by pledging loyalty to the British Empire, who would help defend it should the need arise. Note: if your plan involves the British coming to your rescue at any point, then it is a Bad Plan. Can’t emphasise this enough.

  Nonetheless, Bowles left his Creek wife and headed off on a sort of glad-handing tour, trying to secure aid for the project. He went to Nova Scotia and the Bahamas and Quebec and finally London, where he petitioned George III (not yet loopy), introducing himself as ‘the leader of an independent and populous nation’.* The British gave a shrug and some vague words of tacit approval. Satisfied, Bowles got to work on designing a flag, because these types always jump straight to that. Flag and motto hammered out – ‘Liberty or death!’ – in 1792 he sailed into New Orleans, looking to sit down with the Spanish and come to an agreement that would avoid war. The Spanish governor listened hard and nodded along and suggested that it all sounded fine but advised Bowles that he should head over to Cuba to speak to some slightly higher-up authorities. Just to rubberstamp everything.

  It was a trap. As soon as Bowles showed up in Cuba, the Spanish clapped him in irons and shipped him off to Cádiz. From there they shipped him another few thousand miles away to the Philippines – far enough, they felt, to be permanently out of their hair. Bowles wasn’t to be put off so easily. He borrowed a tenner and made his way to London, then booked passage back to America, where, in 1800, he tried it all again.

  Bowles and 300 Creek warriors seized a Spanish fort and hoisted his flag. Near to present-day Tallahassee, he began building his capital. He unveiled bold plans to start a newspaper and a university. But news of a truce between Britain and Spain, coupled with growing doubts about the flamboyant Bowles’s skill as a statesman, meant the Creek had already lost faith in their would-be leader. They struck a deal behind his back: in exchange for debt forgiveness, they would turn him over to the Spanish once again.

  For the second time, Bowles found himself a prisoner in Havana. This time there wouldn’t be an escape – refusing to eat, because he was understandably fed up by this point, Bowles wasted away. The Creek fared no better without him – the United States would soon swoop into Muscogee territory. The town Bowles had built, and the nation he had tried to lead, were all but wiped out by genocidal future-president Andrew Jackson, who got himself put on the twenty-dollar bill for his troubles.

  * The title William Bowles awarded himself was ‘Director General and Commander-In-Chief of the Muskogee Nation’.

  The Republic of Sonora

  1853–4

  Capital: La Paz

  Cause of death: nobody took it seriously

  Today: part of Mexico

  ///betrayed.plunge.debating

  By 1848 the United States seemed to have stopped growing, and that annoyed a lot of people. Continual expansion – ‘Manifest Destiny’ – was regarded as a God-given right. If the government wasn’t up to the task, then it was down to individuals with the Right Stuff, individuals who would take that Manifest Destiny into their own strong, patriotic hands. This was the age of the filibusters, back when the term still referred to plundering adventurers rather than politicians talking for ages. Enter William Walker – five foot two, pale and slight, ‘as unprepossessing-looking a person as one would meet in a day’s walk’.

  Walker had already studied medicine and law* and watched his fiancée die of yellow fever by the time he moved out west to San Francisco, where he managed to get sent to jail for writing an article criticising a local judge. He became briefly famous for a duel in which he was shot twice because he’d never used a revolver before and didn’t know how to work it properly. Not letting any of that dampen his spirits, he travelled to the Mexican-controlled region of Sonora, where he approached the government with a simple request: he wanted to turn the place into an American colony. A lot of Mexicans had headed north to work in California, Walker pointed out, and the land was now vulnerable to attack from the Apache. It would be in Mexico’s best interests for him to take over. Mexico unsurprisingly failed to follow his logic and turned him down. Without missing a beat, Walker returned to San Francisco where he set about selling bonds for his proposed new nation and started to raise an army. Men who had failed to strike lucky in the gold rush eagerly signed up, promised land rich in silver as a reward.

  Walker’s tiny army, 50 or so strong, successfully seized the city of La Paz in Baja California. The eagle-eyed might note that La Paz is still a few hundred miles away from Sonora, but that didn’t stop Walker proclaiming it ‘a great victory’. Back in San Francisco, they went nuts for this news. Walker declared all of Baja California his, which was bold, if a bit meaningless.† The Mexicans attacked his new ‘capital’ in Ensenada but were held back. Unfortunately, at about this point Walker’s only boat sailed off unexpectedly (the captain possibly bribed by the prisoners on board) and he was left without any supplies. An already semi-farcical situation had become really farcical, but Walker took no notice whatsoever. He pressed on towards the east, and – again having barely done anything in terms of actual conquering – proclaimed the land successfully annexed, christened it the Republic of Sonora and named himself president.

  Illness, desertions and bandits quickly reduced his very small army into a band of about 30. Even for someone with the Tom Cruise-like level of self-belief displayed by Walker, it was pretty obvious that you couldn’t seriously be considered to be running a country with a force of 30. He reluctantly trudged his men to the relative safety of the American fort at San Diego. They arrested him, because setting up countries in direct contravention of international treaties is fairly illegal. But at his trial, in the spirit of the time, it took a jury just eight minutes to acquit him.

  It might have been a kindness if they hadn’t. Walker had gotten a taste for filibustering, and would later try the exact same trick in Nicaragua,‡ where he once again managed to become president/mess up/get captured/be sent back to the United States/get put on trial/have a jury instantly acquit him. A lesser/more sensible man would have called that a day. Not Walker. His final, fatal attempt to do it all for a third time saw him come unstuck in Honduras. This time though, when it all went wrong, Walker wound up facing
a Honduran firing squad rather than an American jury. He was still only 36.

  * Having grown up an obvious prodigy in Nashville, Tennessee, Walker – who liked to get about – attended both the University of Edinburgh and the University of Heidelberg.

  † A newspaper of the day idly wondered why Walker didn’t save himself a lot of bother and simply claim to have conquered the whole of Mexico while he was busy claiming things.

  ‡ After a military defeat in Rivas, Nicaragua, he deliberately contaminated the local water wells with corpses, causing a cholera epidemic that killed thousands.

  The Kingdom of Araucanía & Patagonia

  1860–62

  Capital: Perquenco (hypothetically)

  Language: Mapudungu (hypothetically)

  Cause of death: would-be king declared a lunatic

  Today: part of Chile

  ///stargazing.shopkeepers.flogging

  The indigenous Mapuche peoples of South America hadn’t been treated well by new arrivals to their lands – a sentence so predictable it’s almost not worth typing. They had done their best to hold off first the Incas and then the Spanish, but the establishment of an independent Chile in the middle of the nineteenth century proved disastrous for them. The Mapuche found themselves displaced and stateless. What they needed was a wily French lawyer. At least, that’s what wily French lawyer Orélie-Antoine de Tounens decided they needed. A wily French lawyer who could also be their king.