"The Bloody Man"
- Thread starter EdT
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EdT
Interesting. So Ollie ends up in New England, possibly emigrating with other puritans prior to the war.
This sounds like it could be very bad for Britain. Without him playing a prominent role the Parliamentarians will be somewhat weaker so you will probably have a longer and bloodier civil war and possibly even a royalist victory
! That would be a disaster as instead of becoming a major player Britain would be restrained by the sort of autocratic system on the continent.
Even presuming the Parliamentarians win they will probably be weaker which could mean a lot of nasty things happening. If the Scots still attack England again they might win or the wars could be longer and bloodier. Ireland might see a lot more bloodshed as well before some sort of order is restored. Furthermore a weaker Parliamentarian cause could well feel the need to be harsher in all three kingdoms. Not to mention while the suppression of the Levellers was an opportunity missed it could have got a lot messier. Plenty of 'opportunities' for Britain to be really screwed up.
I don't suppose I could put in a request for a TL in which Britain ends up clearly better off than OTL please EdT? The Mosely one was a bit of a mix but for Britain Churchill [senior and junior] turned out to be distinctly disutopian. This one also sound like it won't end well.
Steve
Interesting. So Ollie ends up in New England, possibly emigrating with other puritans prior to the war.
This sounds like it could be very bad for Britain. Without him playing a prominent role the Parliamentarians will be somewhat weaker so you will probably have a longer and bloodier civil war and possibly even a royalist victory
! That would be a disaster as instead of becoming a major player Britain would be restrained by the sort of autocratic system on the continent.Even presuming the Parliamentarians win they will probably be weaker which could mean a lot of nasty things happening. If the Scots still attack England again they might win or the wars could be longer and bloodier. Ireland might see a lot more bloodshed as well before some sort of order is restored. Furthermore a weaker Parliamentarian cause could well feel the need to be harsher in all three kingdoms
. Not to mention while the suppression of the Levellers was an opportunity missed it could have got a lot messier. Plenty of 'opportunities' for Britain to be really screwed up.I don't suppose I could put in a request for a TL in which Britain ends up clearly better off than OTL please EdT? The Mosely one was a bit of a mix but for Britain Churchill [senior and junior] turned out to be distinctly disutopian. This one also sound like it won't end well.
Steve
I'll be looking forward to this new TL of yours, EdT.
We recently had a discussion about a possible royalist victory, and it seems to be hard to achieve even without Cromwell: https://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=204276
This sounds like it could be very bad for Britain. Without him playing a prominent role the Parliamentarians will be somewhat weaker so you will probably have a longer and bloodier civil war and possibly even a royalist victory
We recently had a discussion about a possible royalist victory, and it seems to be hard to achieve even without Cromwell: https://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=204276
Actually, no- 'I's are fine in this context, it's having 'F' and 'S' permanently distinct from each other that's the anachronistic bit. But to be quite honest, when you do that it's a pain to read, so I thought it'd be better not to bother.
I have it sitting in front of me now actually. It's a good read like you say, and quite good for the broad sweep of things. Luckily I'm the member of a good library though, so I'm mostly using that and wonderful, wonderful JSTOR as my source texts...
Don't worry, I'm working on that now and then as well. It would have been better to get that sorted first, strictly speaking, but as I was on a roll with this I figured I would be able to contibute to both for the near future. The Caesariad is beginning to move towards its conclusion anyhow and I have no intention of leaving it unfinished.
Why do you think I chose the period? There are so many wonderful characters to play with, from scoundrels like Captain Blood (I mean seriously, what a name...) to chaps like Alexander Peden, who preached his sermons wearing this. And they're the comparatively normal ones!
I don't suppose I could put in a request for a TL in which Britain ends up clearly better off than OTL please EdT? The Mosely one was a bit of a mix but for Britain Churchill [senior and junior] turned out to be distinctly disutopian. This one also sound like it won't end well.
Well, you know how I'm not one to aim for better or worse (or even think you can accurately judge such a thing) in Alternative History. I just like 'different'. And you never know, Britain might turn out the better for the lack of Cromwell- it's certainly rather a different world...
I did see that actually, and wanted to contribute but didn't want to give away any of my ideas! FWIW, I think the King could have just about won with a PoD up to about spring 1643, but it's a difficult task, I agree; have to say that a TL where he marches on London after Edgehill would be a fun one though, as while he'd probably score a negotiated peace in his favour, I suspect it wouldn't have been long until the whole thing kicked off again...
Well, that explains that map of New England in your DeviantArt, Ed.
There are plenty more where that came from!
how wil ireland develop if no one conviently shows up and kills the majority of catholic engligh settlers and lords?
Cromwell in America -ouch, that's something that's fluttered in and out of my aged brain a number of times, so I'll be fascinated to see it given the EdT treatment, even if it's peripheral to the main story.
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Prologue
_____________________________________________
St Ives,
Huntingdonshire, May 1633
Oliver Cromwell was drunk. That was what he had set out to accomplish that evening, and he was not a man who liked to fail in achieving his goals. Which, in its own way, was precisely the problem. When he had left his modest farmhouse just outside St Ives earlier that day, he had decided that the liberal application of ale was the only way to dull the pain of his complete failure in life.
And what a failure it has been, he thought as he left the town behind him for the Ramsey road and fenland. Cromwell had never seen himself as a man of high ambition. Oh, his ancestor had been a Great Man, sure enough, but Cromwells before and after were generally content to be moderately prosperous landowners and gentlemen.
“Neither in wealth, nor obscurity,” he muttered to himself, remembering his father’s words. Yet I am not even capable of achieving this modest ambition, he thought bitterly, recalling the house and land in Huntingdon which he had been forced to sell, his subsequent exile in St Ives, and the prospect of his fall from the ranks of the gentry. From Chief Minister to penury in five generations.
What had he achieved in life? Precious little, he thought. Matriculation at Cambridge, but no degree. Attendance at Lincoln’s Inn, but never called to the Bar. Election to Parliament, briefly, with one badly-misjudged speech as all he had to show for the honour. A good wife though, he mused, smiling at the thought of Elizabeth, and seven children, six of whom still live. His smile vanished again. But what shall I leave them? A rented farmhouse and ballooning debts?
Inside the Dolphin, with its hearty fire and good company, the ale had seemed like an excellent way of staving off his melancholy. Outside in the lonely darkness of the Huntingdonshire countryside, it just seemed to magnify the misery.
Cromwell had never been a particularly religious man. Oh, he certainly believed, in an ill-defined sort of way. He prayed sometimes. He had even occasionally made vague resolutions to return to Sidney Sussex and talk to the redoubtable Dr Ward about Calvin and Knox. But the windy preaching of the Reverend Chicheley at All Saints, his parish church, had never inspired him to take that decisive step.
My spiritual life is as stunted as my worldly one, Cromwell thought, and the notion rocked him to the very core as only a drunken insight can. He stopped to piss- then, on impulse, knelt by the roadside instead, and looked up into the clear night sky. “I am a sinner, Lord,” he mumbled, feeling the approach of beery tears, “but I beg of you- give me a sign!”
For a long moment, he waited in silence, the only sounds the distant noise from the town and the occasional scream of a fox. No heavenly figure appeared, and no voice came from the sky. Cromwell sighed deeply, his eyes misting, and made to get up. Just as he did so, something made him glance upwards. For the briefest of instants, a falling star flashed across the sky, moving from right to left. Westwards, Cromwell thought, and then suddenly the significance of what he had seen struck him and he fell back to the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks, his mouth reciting the Psalm his mother had taught him.
“I love the Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications. Because he hath inclined his ear unto me, therefore will I call upon him as long as I live.”
He ran the rest of the way home, inebriation forgotten, only to find it dark and silent; Elizabeth had clearly given up on his return at a reasonable hour and retreated to bed. She will doubtless want to have words in the morning, Cromwell thought, but everything is changed now. He crept to his study, and, hands trembling, lit a candle. By its flickering light he opened a draw on his writing desk and plucked out the letter John Hampden had sent him the previous week.
Cromwell scanned the text, and then picked out the sentence that had lodged in his mind. “Judgement is coming to England,” his cousin had written, “yet while the country is brought to desolation, God hath prepared a place for refuge for many whom he meaneth to save.”
He put down the letter and scrabbled around on his desk for some paper, a quill and ink. Then, bent over his desk, still wearing his muddy boots and stinking of beer, he began to write.
“My Dear Cousin,
I was most greatly interested in your continuing words on the endeavours undertaken by The Viscount Saye, Lords Rich and Brooke, Messers Humfry, Pym, Pelham and your good self. As I have previously indicated, it hath long been my belief that these gentlemen are persons of great piety and estate, and that nothing could be a better or more honourable task than to help raise and support the plantation and settlement of the Connecticut River.
England groaneth under her inhabitants. No longer will any man’s estate suffice him to keep sail with his equal, and he that doeth not must live in contempt. I now write to inform you, that I, by means that I will relate to you presently, and in the presence of God who is the searcher of all our hearts, have now elected to join willingly in the great work of which you write, and resolve to inhabit and continue my days in New England…”
Now the LORD had said unto Abram, Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from thy father's house, unto a land that I will shew thee: And I will make of thee a great nation, and I will bless thee, and make thy name great; and thou shalt be a blessing.
Genesis 12:1-2.
Genesis 12:1-2.
_____________________________________________
St Ives,
Huntingdonshire, May 1633
Oliver Cromwell was drunk. That was what he had set out to accomplish that evening, and he was not a man who liked to fail in achieving his goals. Which, in its own way, was precisely the problem. When he had left his modest farmhouse just outside St Ives earlier that day, he had decided that the liberal application of ale was the only way to dull the pain of his complete failure in life.
And what a failure it has been, he thought as he left the town behind him for the Ramsey road and fenland. Cromwell had never seen himself as a man of high ambition. Oh, his ancestor had been a Great Man, sure enough, but Cromwells before and after were generally content to be moderately prosperous landowners and gentlemen.
“Neither in wealth, nor obscurity,” he muttered to himself, remembering his father’s words. Yet I am not even capable of achieving this modest ambition, he thought bitterly, recalling the house and land in Huntingdon which he had been forced to sell, his subsequent exile in St Ives, and the prospect of his fall from the ranks of the gentry. From Chief Minister to penury in five generations.
What had he achieved in life? Precious little, he thought. Matriculation at Cambridge, but no degree. Attendance at Lincoln’s Inn, but never called to the Bar. Election to Parliament, briefly, with one badly-misjudged speech as all he had to show for the honour. A good wife though, he mused, smiling at the thought of Elizabeth, and seven children, six of whom still live. His smile vanished again. But what shall I leave them? A rented farmhouse and ballooning debts?
Inside the Dolphin, with its hearty fire and good company, the ale had seemed like an excellent way of staving off his melancholy. Outside in the lonely darkness of the Huntingdonshire countryside, it just seemed to magnify the misery.
Cromwell had never been a particularly religious man. Oh, he certainly believed, in an ill-defined sort of way. He prayed sometimes. He had even occasionally made vague resolutions to return to Sidney Sussex and talk to the redoubtable Dr Ward about Calvin and Knox. But the windy preaching of the Reverend Chicheley at All Saints, his parish church, had never inspired him to take that decisive step.
My spiritual life is as stunted as my worldly one, Cromwell thought, and the notion rocked him to the very core as only a drunken insight can. He stopped to piss- then, on impulse, knelt by the roadside instead, and looked up into the clear night sky. “I am a sinner, Lord,” he mumbled, feeling the approach of beery tears, “but I beg of you- give me a sign!”
For a long moment, he waited in silence, the only sounds the distant noise from the town and the occasional scream of a fox. No heavenly figure appeared, and no voice came from the sky. Cromwell sighed deeply, his eyes misting, and made to get up. Just as he did so, something made him glance upwards. For the briefest of instants, a falling star flashed across the sky, moving from right to left. Westwards, Cromwell thought, and then suddenly the significance of what he had seen struck him and he fell back to the ground, tears streaming down his cheeks, his mouth reciting the Psalm his mother had taught him.
“I love the Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications. Because he hath inclined his ear unto me, therefore will I call upon him as long as I live.”
He ran the rest of the way home, inebriation forgotten, only to find it dark and silent; Elizabeth had clearly given up on his return at a reasonable hour and retreated to bed. She will doubtless want to have words in the morning, Cromwell thought, but everything is changed now. He crept to his study, and, hands trembling, lit a candle. By its flickering light he opened a draw on his writing desk and plucked out the letter John Hampden had sent him the previous week.
Cromwell scanned the text, and then picked out the sentence that had lodged in his mind. “Judgement is coming to England,” his cousin had written, “yet while the country is brought to desolation, God hath prepared a place for refuge for many whom he meaneth to save.”
He put down the letter and scrabbled around on his desk for some paper, a quill and ink. Then, bent over his desk, still wearing his muddy boots and stinking of beer, he began to write.
“My Dear Cousin,
I was most greatly interested in your continuing words on the endeavours undertaken by The Viscount Saye, Lords Rich and Brooke, Messers Humfry, Pym, Pelham and your good self. As I have previously indicated, it hath long been my belief that these gentlemen are persons of great piety and estate, and that nothing could be a better or more honourable task than to help raise and support the plantation and settlement of the Connecticut River.
England groaneth under her inhabitants. No longer will any man’s estate suffice him to keep sail with his equal, and he that doeth not must live in contempt. I now write to inform you, that I, by means that I will relate to you presently, and in the presence of God who is the searcher of all our hearts, have now elected to join willingly in the great work of which you write, and resolve to inhabit and continue my days in New England…”
Interesting. I wonder what his wife's opinion will be, of this shooting star he saw while full of ale.
Convenience won't provide what Ireland needs.
The lack of anything vaguely resembling Irish leadership with the slightest clue guarantees disaster. Eliminate King Charles, all his trusted advisors(as opposed to competent men like Rupert or Ormonde) and every Catholic cleric of note to appear and Ireland might have a chance...
The lack of anything vaguely resembling Irish leadership with the slightest clue guarantees disaster. Eliminate King Charles, all his trusted advisors(as opposed to competent men like Rupert or Ormonde) and every Catholic cleric of note to appear and Ireland might have a chance...
I will watch this with great interest. Seventeenth century Britain isn't a topic that I know a great deal about but no doubt I will be greatly enlightened in the process.
Kaiphranos
Donor
I'll be interested to see where this goes...
(Also, about that cover: am I the only one who thinks that figure in the center looks a bit like Teddy Roosevelt? Except for the "hands and feet are swapped" thing, that is...)
(Also, about that cover: am I the only one who thinks that figure in the center looks a bit like Teddy Roosevelt? Except for the "hands and feet are swapped" thing, that is...)
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