I wonder, ever since the Muratian conquest of the peninsula, we've regularly received updates on the conditions of Sicily under the Neapolitan Bourbons, but what of the other major island of Italy? How is Savoyard Sardinia faring? It's not like the valuable part of the "Kingdom of Sardinia" of OTL was the place that gave the polity its name, after all. I suppose life must be pretty miserable for the royal family in Cagliari, what with being the rulers of the equivalent of a manure-flavoured lollipop among prized territories and only because London props you up day after day.
The Dead Skunk
- Thread starter Lycaon pictus
- Start date
I wonder, ever since the Muratian conquest of the peninsula, we've regularly received updates on the conditions of Sicily under the Neapolitan Bourbons, but what of the other major island of Italy? How is Savoyard Sardinia faring? It's not like the valuable part of the "Kingdom of Sardinia" of OTL was the place that gave the polity its name, after all. I suppose life must be pretty miserable for the royal family in Cagliari, what with being the rulers of the equivalent of a manure-flavoured lollipop among prized territories and only because London props you up day after day.
Lycaon pictus
Donor
William Roscoe did a bit better ITTL. Instead of an abrupt end to the war followed by an economic crash, the war tapered off over a period of years. The economic decline was slower, and his bank was able to ride it out. Nonetheless, it was hectic enough that he decided to get out of the banking business in ’21. (Which was a good move, since the bank in question now has a big chunk of its wealth tied up in shares of American canals.)
Victor Emmanuel died in 1825 in Cagliari. His successor, his brother Charles Felix, is definitely not felix in the Latin sense. Sardinia is still recovering from his abolishing of community latifundias. There is some low-level resistance to Savoyard rule in Sardinia, mostly in the name of unification with Italy.
One encouraging sign is that the marriage between Charles Albert and Maria Theresa of Austria did not go through ITTL. Politically speaking, Charles Albert was a man trying to keep his options open, and marrying into the House of Hapsburg at the moment when many Italians wanted to burn that house to the ground would have permanently tied him to the reactionaries. He still seems to be keeping his options open, both marital and political. Charles Felix doesn’t trust him, but he has no other heir.
A Bubble in the Water (5)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
February 15, 1826
Trafalgar
When Sir Charles MacCarthy stepped off the boat, there was a white man there in Royal Navy uniform to greet him, along with a small cluster of Negroes and two men who appeared to be Indians. His first thought was that they were the naval officer’s porters.
“Commodore Nicholas Lockyer,” said the white man. “I’m in charge of the Navy base.”
“William Davidson,” said the best-dressed of the Negroes. “I was factotum to Sir Thomas.” The two Indians introduced themselves as William McIntosh and George Miconaba[1], the highest chiefs of the Muscogee and Seminole. (MacCarthy was very glad they’d introduced themselves before he could do anything embarrassing like hand them his luggage.)
“You must be the new governor,” said Lockyer. He gestured at the city, which was mostly little houses and garden plots beyond the taverns and fish markets near the harbour.
“I am indeed. Sir Charles MacCarthy, at your service. I imagine there’s a deal of business that wants doing.”
“There is indeed,” said Lockyer. “These gentlemen and myself have been attempting to act as the colony’s government since we lost Sir Thomas. We will need you to review our decisions.”[2]
“There are other matters as well, which we have deferred until your arrival, governor,” said Davidson. “In addition to the lives it cost, the yellow fever left a number of unclaimed properties. We’re still looking for the heirs — but in the meantime, some of them have been claimed by squatters. Sir Thomas would not have wanted them to lie idle, but property must be respected.” The first thought that came to MacCarthy’s mind was that the squatters should be told to build houses of their own — Heaven knew there was room — but he decided to look into the matter a little more. It wouldn’t do to be making decisions when he was not ten minutes ashore.
“You will be pleased to hear that Sir Thomas was laid to rest with all honours back in London.” What MacCarthy did not say, because no one would have been pleased to hear it, was that the pro-slavery vicar had tried to deny him burial in the parish church. Her Highness, who had been close to Raffles, had personally had a few words with that vicar and had… persuaded him to do the right thing.[3]
“That is good to hear, governor,” said Davidson. “To lose Sir Thomas or Lafon would have been bad. To lose them both…”[4] He shook his head.
“Your family lives here?”
Davidson nodded.
“How have they fared?”
“Kind of you to ask, governor. My Sarah, the children… they pulled through, but it was a near thing. Some two hundred in this city died of the fever.”
They turned a corner. The streets in this part of Trafalgar were all higgledy-piggledy, with no one road running straight from the port to the central grid. This, MacCarthy had been briefed, was deliberate planning, to deprive hurricane winds of a channel into the heart of the city. Not that it would matter until there were more houses taller than one storey and closer together, but it showed how far ahead the previous governor had thought. MacCarthy had been a colonial governor before, but never of a place with so much sense of promise — not even the yellow fever could extinguish it.
“To think ten years ago there was nothing here but hickory and live oak,” said Lockyer as they walked past an Asian man leading a donkey burdened with rice down to the docks.
“The old governor had a vision for this place,” said Miconaba. “I hope that vision will survive him.”
“If you’re speaking of slavery, you needn’t fear that I will permit it,” said MacCarthy. “I abhor it.”
* * *
It was four hours later. MacCarthy felt as though he had taken at least a good-sized chunk out of the backlog of work in front of him.
“Governor?” said Davidson in a surprisingly low voice.
“Yes.”
“When you have a moment, governor, there’s a man in the garden you’ll be wanting to see.”
“Will I, now? Concerning what?”
“Concerning slavery, and the fighting of it. And concerning the collection of intelligence from beyond our northern border. Intelligence which is of some import to king and country.”
“Now is as good a time as any.”
The governor’s mansion was one of the few two-storey buildings in Trafalgar. Apart from that, it didn’t look like much. To the south lay the the beginning of the great tree-lined avenue that was simply called the Boulevard. To the north lay the Botanical and Experimental Garden, a great square some half a mile on a side. As MacCarthy walked through it, he reflected that the old governor seemed to have invested more time and effort on the garden than he had on his house.[5]
The white man in the center of the garden was not quite forty. He was of medium height, with dark, curly hair and a distinct cleft chin.
“Greetings and felicitations,” he said in an educated tone. “You must be the new governor.”
[1] This is OTL’s Micanopy.
[2] IOTL, Raffles died of apoplexy in July of 1826.
[3] IOTL, Raffles was denied burial inside St. Mary’s of Hendon because of his abolitionist views.
[4] IOTL, Barthelemy Lafon died in 1820 — also of yellow fever.
[5] Raffles was very much into botany and zoology — IOTL he was involved in the founding of the Zoological Society of London and was the first president of the London Zoo. IOTL and ITTL, he lent his name to the world’s largest and stinkiest flower, Rafflesia.
Trafalgar
When Sir Charles MacCarthy stepped off the boat, there was a white man there in Royal Navy uniform to greet him, along with a small cluster of Negroes and two men who appeared to be Indians. His first thought was that they were the naval officer’s porters.
“Commodore Nicholas Lockyer,” said the white man. “I’m in charge of the Navy base.”
“William Davidson,” said the best-dressed of the Negroes. “I was factotum to Sir Thomas.” The two Indians introduced themselves as William McIntosh and George Miconaba[1], the highest chiefs of the Muscogee and Seminole. (MacCarthy was very glad they’d introduced themselves before he could do anything embarrassing like hand them his luggage.)
“You must be the new governor,” said Lockyer. He gestured at the city, which was mostly little houses and garden plots beyond the taverns and fish markets near the harbour.
“I am indeed. Sir Charles MacCarthy, at your service. I imagine there’s a deal of business that wants doing.”
“There is indeed,” said Lockyer. “These gentlemen and myself have been attempting to act as the colony’s government since we lost Sir Thomas. We will need you to review our decisions.”[2]
“There are other matters as well, which we have deferred until your arrival, governor,” said Davidson. “In addition to the lives it cost, the yellow fever left a number of unclaimed properties. We’re still looking for the heirs — but in the meantime, some of them have been claimed by squatters. Sir Thomas would not have wanted them to lie idle, but property must be respected.” The first thought that came to MacCarthy’s mind was that the squatters should be told to build houses of their own — Heaven knew there was room — but he decided to look into the matter a little more. It wouldn’t do to be making decisions when he was not ten minutes ashore.
“You will be pleased to hear that Sir Thomas was laid to rest with all honours back in London.” What MacCarthy did not say, because no one would have been pleased to hear it, was that the pro-slavery vicar had tried to deny him burial in the parish church. Her Highness, who had been close to Raffles, had personally had a few words with that vicar and had… persuaded him to do the right thing.[3]
“That is good to hear, governor,” said Davidson. “To lose Sir Thomas or Lafon would have been bad. To lose them both…”[4] He shook his head.
“Your family lives here?”
Davidson nodded.
“How have they fared?”
“Kind of you to ask, governor. My Sarah, the children… they pulled through, but it was a near thing. Some two hundred in this city died of the fever.”
They turned a corner. The streets in this part of Trafalgar were all higgledy-piggledy, with no one road running straight from the port to the central grid. This, MacCarthy had been briefed, was deliberate planning, to deprive hurricane winds of a channel into the heart of the city. Not that it would matter until there were more houses taller than one storey and closer together, but it showed how far ahead the previous governor had thought. MacCarthy had been a colonial governor before, but never of a place with so much sense of promise — not even the yellow fever could extinguish it.
“To think ten years ago there was nothing here but hickory and live oak,” said Lockyer as they walked past an Asian man leading a donkey burdened with rice down to the docks.
“The old governor had a vision for this place,” said Miconaba. “I hope that vision will survive him.”
“If you’re speaking of slavery, you needn’t fear that I will permit it,” said MacCarthy. “I abhor it.”
* * *
It was four hours later. MacCarthy felt as though he had taken at least a good-sized chunk out of the backlog of work in front of him.
“Governor?” said Davidson in a surprisingly low voice.
“Yes.”
“When you have a moment, governor, there’s a man in the garden you’ll be wanting to see.”
“Will I, now? Concerning what?”
“Concerning slavery, and the fighting of it. And concerning the collection of intelligence from beyond our northern border. Intelligence which is of some import to king and country.”
“Now is as good a time as any.”
The governor’s mansion was one of the few two-storey buildings in Trafalgar. Apart from that, it didn’t look like much. To the south lay the the beginning of the great tree-lined avenue that was simply called the Boulevard. To the north lay the Botanical and Experimental Garden, a great square some half a mile on a side. As MacCarthy walked through it, he reflected that the old governor seemed to have invested more time and effort on the garden than he had on his house.[5]
The white man in the center of the garden was not quite forty. He was of medium height, with dark, curly hair and a distinct cleft chin.
“Greetings and felicitations,” he said in an educated tone. “You must be the new governor.”
[1] This is OTL’s Micanopy.
[2] IOTL, Raffles died of apoplexy in July of 1826.
[3] IOTL, Raffles was denied burial inside St. Mary’s of Hendon because of his abolitionist views.
[4] IOTL, Barthelemy Lafon died in 1820 — also of yellow fever.
[5] Raffles was very much into botany and zoology — IOTL he was involved in the founding of the Zoological Society of London and was the first president of the London Zoo. IOTL and ITTL, he lent his name to the world’s largest and stinkiest flower, Rafflesia.
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Donald Reaver
Donor
Good to see this back, so this is Singapore under a new name? Let us see were this goes.
Admiral Matt
Gone Fishin'
What accent would that be, exactly? To an American observer the expression "a perfect English accent" would be clear enough, but to a Briton I would have thought it would sound like one part of the country or another. No?
Lycaon pictus
Donor
You're right, that was a bad way of putting it. Fixed.
(It's worth noting that very few people in British Florida speak English with any kind of British accent, but since MacCarthy has only been there for a few hours, he hasn't gotten used to that yet.)
Unspoken Words (1)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
March 29, 1826
Palace of the Djenina
The Casbah, Algiers
Hussein Dey looked at his fly-whisk for a moment, then, with a sigh, carefully set it down on a table and turned back to face Lord Clancarty.
He spoke. “I regret with all my heart the indignities that His Majesty and his family have suffered from these corsairs,” said the interpreter. [Lord Clancarty translated the interpreter’s words as please don’t be mad at me.]
The Dey continued. “You may be sure,” said the interpreter, “that no effort will be spared to bring these jackals to justice.” [It’s not true, but you may be sure of it anyway.]
The foreign secretary nodded, his face neutral. As Mohametan potentates went, he thought, Hussein Dey and the other Hussein in Tunis weren’t the worst of men, but they had fallen into bad company — Sultan Abd al-Rahman of Morocco. The pirates who had taken the Sicilian royal family were Moroccans who had sailed out of Tunis, and now the family had turned up in Algiers — having been brought here blindfolded in the hold of a ship. Even now, the king could not say for sure which ports he had been taken to.
“My government, and the government of Spain, both wish to express their appreciation for the kindness you have extended to the royals,” said Lord Clancarty. [We were half expecting you savages to sell Princess Luisa Carlotta into somebody’s harem.]
“Think nothing of it.” [Hey, we’re not that stupid.] “The Sultan holds the House of Bourbon in high esteem, and is deeply grieved by their misfortunes.” [Also, we’re willing to be on your side in the whole Sicily question. But could you please maintain the fiction that we’re vassals of the Sublime Porte, so nobody blames us for anything?] “Convey my compliments to His Majesty Ferdinand VII.” [Remind me again why Britain is doing Spain’s work for it here?]
“I shall,” said Lord Clancarty. “The Prime Minister and Lord Exmouth both regard it as a stain on Britain’s honour that such a thing should have happened in waters patrolled by the Royal Navy. We shall be pleased to restore the Bourbons to their kin.” [In case you’ve forgotten which nation is the true master of these waters, let me remind you once again, with words this time rather than cannonballs.]
“The loss of the treasure greatly concerns us,” added Lord Clancarty. “Sicily is a poor nation to begin with. It can scarcely afford to be robbed in this fashion.” This was true. In fact, compared to the treasure the royals were almost beside the point. From the point of view of a kidnapper, the ideal victim was of a rich family or had rich friends, so that they could be ransomed for a substantial sum — however, the victim should not be so important that their misfortune would bring the wrath of a nation down on the likes of Al-Husayn II. Or, if they were completely unknown and poor, they could be sold into slavery and no one would come looking for them. Having already stolen the treasury of Sicily, it was no wonder that the pirates had let the impoverished royals of Sicily go.
“If it is God’s will, we shall find it again,” came the reply. “Pirate gold is notoriously difficult to track down.” [I got my share.]
There hadn’t been much hope of getting the treasure back. No doubt most of it was in the hands of the lords of Morocco, Algiers and Tunis. And no doubt it would be spent on ships and guns — North Africa was not a natural source of shipbuilding timber. Which would mean more piracy down the road. Which… wouldn’t do.
And Sicily was still in a state of civil war, but it had shifted from being a three-sides war to a two-sided one. The humiliation at Favignana had driven what was left of the Bourbon monarchists into the arms of the Republicans or the Italianists. Something else to lay at the doors of the pirates, those who harboured them, and those who made little deals with them.
Palace of the Djenina
The Casbah, Algiers
Hussein Dey looked at his fly-whisk for a moment, then, with a sigh, carefully set it down on a table and turned back to face Lord Clancarty.
He spoke. “I regret with all my heart the indignities that His Majesty and his family have suffered from these corsairs,” said the interpreter. [Lord Clancarty translated the interpreter’s words as please don’t be mad at me.]
The Dey continued. “You may be sure,” said the interpreter, “that no effort will be spared to bring these jackals to justice.” [It’s not true, but you may be sure of it anyway.]
The foreign secretary nodded, his face neutral. As Mohametan potentates went, he thought, Hussein Dey and the other Hussein in Tunis weren’t the worst of men, but they had fallen into bad company — Sultan Abd al-Rahman of Morocco. The pirates who had taken the Sicilian royal family were Moroccans who had sailed out of Tunis, and now the family had turned up in Algiers — having been brought here blindfolded in the hold of a ship. Even now, the king could not say for sure which ports he had been taken to.
“My government, and the government of Spain, both wish to express their appreciation for the kindness you have extended to the royals,” said Lord Clancarty. [We were half expecting you savages to sell Princess Luisa Carlotta into somebody’s harem.]
“Think nothing of it.” [Hey, we’re not that stupid.] “The Sultan holds the House of Bourbon in high esteem, and is deeply grieved by their misfortunes.” [Also, we’re willing to be on your side in the whole Sicily question. But could you please maintain the fiction that we’re vassals of the Sublime Porte, so nobody blames us for anything?] “Convey my compliments to His Majesty Ferdinand VII.” [Remind me again why Britain is doing Spain’s work for it here?]
“I shall,” said Lord Clancarty. “The Prime Minister and Lord Exmouth both regard it as a stain on Britain’s honour that such a thing should have happened in waters patrolled by the Royal Navy. We shall be pleased to restore the Bourbons to their kin.” [In case you’ve forgotten which nation is the true master of these waters, let me remind you once again, with words this time rather than cannonballs.]
“The loss of the treasure greatly concerns us,” added Lord Clancarty. “Sicily is a poor nation to begin with. It can scarcely afford to be robbed in this fashion.” This was true. In fact, compared to the treasure the royals were almost beside the point. From the point of view of a kidnapper, the ideal victim was of a rich family or had rich friends, so that they could be ransomed for a substantial sum — however, the victim should not be so important that their misfortune would bring the wrath of a nation down on the likes of Al-Husayn II. Or, if they were completely unknown and poor, they could be sold into slavery and no one would come looking for them. Having already stolen the treasury of Sicily, it was no wonder that the pirates had let the impoverished royals of Sicily go.
“If it is God’s will, we shall find it again,” came the reply. “Pirate gold is notoriously difficult to track down.” [I got my share.]
There hadn’t been much hope of getting the treasure back. No doubt most of it was in the hands of the lords of Morocco, Algiers and Tunis. And no doubt it would be spent on ships and guns — North Africa was not a natural source of shipbuilding timber. Which would mean more piracy down the road. Which… wouldn’t do.
And Sicily was still in a state of civil war, but it had shifted from being a three-sides war to a two-sided one. The humiliation at Favignana had driven what was left of the Bourbon monarchists into the arms of the Republicans or the Italianists. Something else to lay at the doors of the pirates, those who harboured them, and those who made little deals with them.
Unspoken Words (2)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
Thank you all.
When the restoration of the Hôtel de Gouvernment is completed, the Treasury and other departments of the Cabinet will have its offices within. Until then, Villeré has persuaded the Assembly to grant me the use of a legislator’s office within the new-built Hôtel de la République.
This great edifice is four storeys tall and of white marble, with colonnades and wrought-iron balconies on three sides in the local fashion, all topped with a mansard roof. It faces R. de St. Pierre and the Place d’Armes, with wings to the northwest and southeast facing R. de Chartres and R. de la Levée, although the legislative offices face the inner courtyard and the rear of the presidential mansion on R. de Toulouse. There are at present far more of these offices than the Assembly requires, for the Hôtel has been planned to allow for the growth of the Republic. Therefore the offices on the second floor stand empty, save those reserved for the deputy heads of the party delegations, and those which have temporarily been given to Cabinet officials such as myself.
The plan of the Hôtel resembles a reversed capital E, the center of which is the hall where the Assembly meets. The floor of this atrium is laid out somewhat like the floor of the House of Commons, but there the resemblance ends. For the atrium is three storeys tall, with balconies for the onlookers and many windows on three sides. Therefore it is blessed with natural light during all hours of the day.
The conference rooms on the third floor serve the function of party lobbies. By mutual agreement, the Conservatives have taken the room in the northwest wing, while the Radicals have taken the room in the southeast wing. In truth, however, those who meet there often find that they have come only to ratify the decisions made by a select few Assemblymen in the corner offices of the party delegation chiefs.
The Hôtel is no monument to imperial glory, for such would be risible in the capitol of a nation so diminutive and so dependent on British goodwill. Rather, it has an egalitarian and welcoming feel, in accordance with the ideals of Louisiana. The entrance is but a few steps up from the street, and the upper porches are hung with many potted flowers and trailing plants. For a man as thoroughly humiliated by Fate and human folly as myself, there is a certain solace to be found in this place.
When the restoration of the Hôtel de Gouvernment is completed, the Treasury and other departments of the Cabinet will have its offices within. Until then, Villeré has persuaded the Assembly to grant me the use of a legislator’s office within the new-built Hôtel de la République.
This great edifice is four storeys tall and of white marble, with colonnades and wrought-iron balconies on three sides in the local fashion, all topped with a mansard roof. It faces R. de St. Pierre and the Place d’Armes, with wings to the northwest and southeast facing R. de Chartres and R. de la Levée, although the legislative offices face the inner courtyard and the rear of the presidential mansion on R. de Toulouse. There are at present far more of these offices than the Assembly requires, for the Hôtel has been planned to allow for the growth of the Republic. Therefore the offices on the second floor stand empty, save those reserved for the deputy heads of the party delegations, and those which have temporarily been given to Cabinet officials such as myself.
The plan of the Hôtel resembles a reversed capital E, the center of which is the hall where the Assembly meets. The floor of this atrium is laid out somewhat like the floor of the House of Commons, but there the resemblance ends. For the atrium is three storeys tall, with balconies for the onlookers and many windows on three sides. Therefore it is blessed with natural light during all hours of the day.
The conference rooms on the third floor serve the function of party lobbies. By mutual agreement, the Conservatives have taken the room in the northwest wing, while the Radicals have taken the room in the southeast wing. In truth, however, those who meet there often find that they have come only to ratify the decisions made by a select few Assemblymen in the corner offices of the party delegation chiefs.
The Hôtel is no monument to imperial glory, for such would be risible in the capitol of a nation so diminutive and so dependent on British goodwill. Rather, it has an egalitarian and welcoming feel, in accordance with the ideals of Louisiana. The entrance is but a few steps up from the street, and the upper porches are hung with many potted flowers and trailing plants. For a man as thoroughly humiliated by Fate and human folly as myself, there is a certain solace to be found in this place.
-George Canning, in a letter to William Huskisson dated May 31, 1826, and printed in 1830 in the posthumous Letters from New Orleans.
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Really interesting look at Louisiana's governing systems; and through a plausible and unusual mechanism, which I really like.
Poor Canning, though - am I right in thinking he spends the rest of his life in Louisiana?
Poor Canning, though - am I right in thinking he spends the rest of his life in Louisiana?
Lycaon pictus
Donor
Pretty much. He'll live a couple years longer than IOTL, but it will be in New Orleans. On the plus side, his son George Charles Canning is still very much alive.
To be honest, reading up on Louisiana is one of my favorite parts of this world. Is there any sundry information you can give us about it that wouldn't work in a proper entry?
Lycaon pictus
Donor
I'm working on a map and the population of the place, but so far all I have is the parishes. There are 21 of them, plus a swath of unorganized territory in the west. (The structure of the government means there's less incentive to break up the larger ones.)
One interesting fact is that slaves are getting more expensive. They can't (legally) be imported by sea, and and there are both export and import duties on slaves bought from U.S. sellers.
Lycaon pictus
Donor
Sorry for keeping everyone waiting so long. I'm writing to say this isn't dead, and the next post will be some time in September.
Unspoken Words (3)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
Not even the carthagization[1] of the Zunghars[2] in the mid-18th century had ever pacified the westernmost parts of China completely. There had always been some resistance to Qing rule in the region that the Turkic peoples called Altishahr, or the “Six Cities.” And beyond the western border lay the khanate of Kokand, which was officially — and only officially — a protectorate.
The escape of Jahangir Khoja from a Kokandi prison is often attributed to an earthquake which damaged the prison walls. However, it does not seem that the young Madali (Muhammad Ali) Khan made any particular effort to kill or recapture Jahangir. The ambitious descendant of the Khojas, a family regarded as sayyids by the people of Central Asia, quickly found followers in the far west. In a lightning campaign, he defeated the Chinese garrisons, took possession of Kashgar and executed the governor.
With the aid of the Khan of Khotan, Jahangir placed the the fortress of Gulbagh under siege. The garrison at Gulbagh could not hold the fortress indefinitely, but was able to escape. So began the Kashgar War, which would last seven years…
The Balkan War of 1821-24 had ended with Bosnia in an absurdly vulnerable strategic position — not only sandwiched between Austrian-ruled Croatia on two sides, but connected to the larger empire only by a political isthmus with Serbia on one side and Albania and Montenegro on the other. When the civil war began, most of the Bosnian captains sided with the Janissaries. Ottoman loyalists were forced to withdraw to Herzegovina and the Sarajevo area.
At this point, Hussein Gradaščević was just one of many captains of Bosnia, and was initially on the side of the Janissaries. While most rebel activity was simply taking advantage of the fact that the new army was as yet too small to be everywhere at once, Gradaščević proved to be made of different stuff. When the garrisons, reinforced by the sultan, moved northwest out of Sarajevo, Gradaščević tried to trap and destroy them at Zenica. He didn’t quite succeed, but on October 28 the loyalists were forced to withdraw and return to Sarajevo, leaving Gradaščević the effective leader of northern Bosnia.
Gradaščević wasted no time in sending a message to Constantinople. The essence of his message was that he was fighting neither to cancel the reforms nor to secede from the empire, but to create a Bosnian eyalet that would be autonomous and exempt from the reforms while still paying tribute to the capital…
[1] genocide
[2] alternate spelling of Dzungar
The escape of Jahangir Khoja from a Kokandi prison is often attributed to an earthquake which damaged the prison walls. However, it does not seem that the young Madali (Muhammad Ali) Khan made any particular effort to kill or recapture Jahangir. The ambitious descendant of the Khojas, a family regarded as sayyids by the people of Central Asia, quickly found followers in the far west. In a lightning campaign, he defeated the Chinese garrisons, took possession of Kashgar and executed the governor.
With the aid of the Khan of Khotan, Jahangir placed the the fortress of Gulbagh under siege. The garrison at Gulbagh could not hold the fortress indefinitely, but was able to escape. So began the Kashgar War, which would last seven years…
Robert W. Derek, Battlefield of Giants: A History of Central Asia
The Balkan War of 1821-24 had ended with Bosnia in an absurdly vulnerable strategic position — not only sandwiched between Austrian-ruled Croatia on two sides, but connected to the larger empire only by a political isthmus with Serbia on one side and Albania and Montenegro on the other. When the civil war began, most of the Bosnian captains sided with the Janissaries. Ottoman loyalists were forced to withdraw to Herzegovina and the Sarajevo area.
At this point, Hussein Gradaščević was just one of many captains of Bosnia, and was initially on the side of the Janissaries. While most rebel activity was simply taking advantage of the fact that the new army was as yet too small to be everywhere at once, Gradaščević proved to be made of different stuff. When the garrisons, reinforced by the sultan, moved northwest out of Sarajevo, Gradaščević tried to trap and destroy them at Zenica. He didn’t quite succeed, but on October 28 the loyalists were forced to withdraw and return to Sarajevo, leaving Gradaščević the effective leader of northern Bosnia.
Gradaščević wasted no time in sending a message to Constantinople. The essence of his message was that he was fighting neither to cancel the reforms nor to secede from the empire, but to create a Bosnian eyalet that would be autonomous and exempt from the reforms while still paying tribute to the capital…
Kemal Demirçi, The Cardboard Lion: The Last Years of the Ottoman Empire
[1] genocide
[2] alternate spelling of Dzungar
Unspoken Words (4)
Lycaon pictus
Donor
And now I'm making a change to one of this TL's features. Instead of introducing newborn characters whose importance is at least 20 years down the road…
March turned ten in March. He is strong for his age, and quiet. He’s good with horses and does a lot of work in the stables, although sometimes they send him out to the fields anyway just to remind him who’s boss. Not even the other slaves know he can read.
“We do not require benevolence — only respect.” — John March
William Burch turned ten in August. For his birthday, he got a bow and arrow with blunted arrows. His parents were sure there was a limit to the amount of havoc he could wreak with such a nominal weapon. A week later, he lit one of the arrows on fire and fired it at a hornet’s nest right when a team of field hands was walking underneath.
“I have always fought for my country. My country hasn’t always seen it that way.” — William Burch
Adolf Rasmussen turned ten in December, and his English has become quite good. Apart from being able to untangle even the most hopelessly snarled bit of net or line, he isn’t much use out on the boats. His parents are thinking of apprenticing him to somebody. Maybe a gunsmith.
"One rifle is a toy. One thousand rifles can change the course of a battle. One million rifles will alter the very nature of war.” — Adolf Rasmussen
The Class of 1816 (Ten Years On)
March turned ten in March. He is strong for his age, and quiet. He’s good with horses and does a lot of work in the stables, although sometimes they send him out to the fields anyway just to remind him who’s boss. Not even the other slaves know he can read.
“We do not require benevolence — only respect.” — John March
William Burch turned ten in August. For his birthday, he got a bow and arrow with blunted arrows. His parents were sure there was a limit to the amount of havoc he could wreak with such a nominal weapon. A week later, he lit one of the arrows on fire and fired it at a hornet’s nest right when a team of field hands was walking underneath.
“I have always fought for my country. My country hasn’t always seen it that way.” — William Burch
Adolf Rasmussen turned ten in December, and his English has become quite good. Apart from being able to untangle even the most hopelessly snarled bit of net or line, he isn’t much use out on the boats. His parents are thinking of apprenticing him to somebody. Maybe a gunsmith.
"One rifle is a toy. One thousand rifles can change the course of a battle. One million rifles will alter the very nature of war.” — Adolf Rasmussen