"The Bloody Man"

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Hi all, so thank you so much for all those of you who voted for the Bloody Man in the first round of the Turtledoves- the TL has a brace of awards now, which is fantastic!

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As a result, the TL is now under consideration for the Best TL and the Best AH Feature categories of the superlatives. So if you could find your way to here and here to vote, I would be very grateful; what with LoRaG, LTTW and Malê Rising, it's going to be a very tough competition...

Oh, and new post quite soon by the way.
 
So, a random but hopefully interesting segue. I’ve been writing the next chapter of TBM, which involves Cromwell’s invasion of the New Netherlands, and I came across an strange factoid- apparently, everyone on the continent thought that the English had tails. It’s one of these strange things which appears to rise spontaneously across Europe, and with no definite source; the earliest surviving reference is in 1150 but refers to it in a very casual way that suggests it’s a well-known ‘fact’. Four hundred years later John Bale was complaining that “...an Englishman now cannot travel in another land, but it is most contumeliously thrown in his teeth that he has a tail.

Why? Nobody’s sure- there are obvious demonic overtones to the whole thing, but the trait is also referred to in a sexual way. There’s a vague legend about Saxon apostates throwing bits of fish at St Augustine and God giving them tails as punishment, but this seems to be restricted to Scotland. Maybe it was brought to the continent by Scottish mercenaries sometime in the 100 Years' War. The other theory is that people arrived at the idea via the whole Angles/Angels pun; fallen angels probably had tails, after all. Interestingly the 14th century Myreur des Histors of Jean d'Outremeuse, relates that the original Angles had tails like beasts, that their name comes from 'Engle', a piece of land near the tower of Babel, and that they are (obviously) descended from Cain.

Whatever the reason, the belief in tailed-Englishmen gradually died out in most of Europe during the 16th century, but for some reason the one place where it persisted was the Netherlands. As a result, every single contemporary Dutch cartoon of Oliver Cromwell makes him look like a furry.

Take this woodcut from the Anglo-Dutch War; Cromwell (A) is vomiting all his stolen Royal treasure while being struck on the arse with lightning, while at the same time Robert Blake (E) violently expels the Parliamentary Navy from his arse, which a helpful Dutchman is prodding. They’re doing this while sporting lovely tails.

Cromwell.jpg


Here's another, from 1652 and entitled "The Horrible Tail-Man"; a slightly camp Cromwell is trying to dissuade an English Royalist, a Scotsman and an Irishman (which sounds like the beginning of a bad joke- presumably the punchline is "why the long tail?") from cutting off his most impressive attribute. This, he explains, is what he has used to oppress his enemies, and keep the Three Kingdoms under his control;

Cromwell1.jpg


Perhaps as a result of these cartoons, Cromwell was repeatedly referred to as "the Tail Man" in Dutch discourse during the Commonwealth period (he was also accused on one occasion of being a werewolf, which neatly fits the beastly theme). The exact form of the tail he has varies- most of the time, as a shifty foreigner, he has a fox tail, which links into a Dutch proverb about a Fox preaching the passion; other times, he has a wolf's tail (as a sheep in wolf's clothing), and on occasion he is portrayed as Hercules, his Lion mantle providing the neccesary tail.

The Dutch image of the Englishman with the tail gradually disappears with the restoration, shifting instead to the more generic image of Englishmen as dogs (although still, generally, with their tails being chopped off. It didn't quite die with Cromwell though; the last genuine example of the trend is seen during the second Anglo-Dutch war, where a cartoon was published showing Charles II with a long tail, which a Bishop is carrying like a trail on a dress. The caption warns the bishop that 'he who serves the Tail will be rewarded with merely a stink'.
 
So, a random but hopefully interesting segue. I’ve been writing the next chapter of TBM, which involves Cromwell’s invasion of the New Netherlands, and I came across an strange factoid- apparently, everyone on the continent thought that the English had tails.

It does give a whole new meaning to Brushing off my Tails :D (and does explain why that song doesn't mention trousers)

There’s a vague legend about Saxon apostates throwing bits of fish at St Augustine and God giving them tails as punishment, but this seems to be restricted to Scotland

It's interesting that according to this description of the legend, the tails were known as "Muggles" - those cursed with them were known as "Mugglings".

Cheers,
Nigel.
 

Faeelin

Banned
I don't know. It's probably more like how everyone in Alabama marries their sister; a weird slur.

But an interesting tale, nonetheless.
 
This makes me thinking about the "island monkeys". That is the term some friends of mine use jokingly when referring to English people. I never understood where this comes from, those pictures are the first things to give it at least a tiny bit of sense.
 
That's very interesting. Points for creativity if nothing else.

I particularly like Blake releasing the Navy. Nothing beats some ye olde scatological satire
 
I particularly like Blake releasing the Navy. Nothing beats some ye olde scatological satire

One thing I've enjoyed learning from this TL is that raunchiness is not a strictly modern phenomenon. The popular image of the 16th century is basically "Everyone was a humorless Puritan who thought having fun was a sin". It's enlightening to see that this wasn't the case.
 
One thing I've enjoyed learning from this TL is that raunchiness is not a strictly modern phenomenon. The popular image of the 16th century is basically "Everyone was a humorless Puritan who thought having fun was a sin". It's enlightening to see that this wasn't the case.

In that case, then my work here is done! Seriously, a big part of this TL is trying to demonstrate exactly what you say. I find it very interesting that the one bunch of people who actually were the miserable, fun-banning, fire and brimstone killjoys of the period weren't the Puritans (although they did have elements of this attitude) but rather the Scottish Covenanters. Now they really were miserable buggers.

Anyhow, time for the next chapter. And appropriately enough, it does involve rather a tall tale...
 
Chapter 30

In that day the LORD with his sore and great and strong sword shall punish leviathan the piercing serpent, even leviathan that crooked serpent; and he shall slay the dragon that is in the sea.
Isaiah 27: 1

_____________________________________________


Schout's Bay
Long Island, September 1647


Oliver Cromwell grunted in satisfaction as the last boat came ashore and the remainder of his invasion force formed up on the field adjacent to the beach. For the attack on New Amsterdam, he had gathered the largest colonial army yet put into the field; four hundred and fifty men from across the four colonies, all armed with pike and shot, and even a small squadron of cavalry to provide his army with mobile striking power. To sneak them down the north shore of Long Island under the cover of darkness had been a significant achievement, and now, as the sun rose, his main concern was to continue the run of good luck.

He turned to Lion Gardiner, who had commanded the advance guard. “Any sign of the Dutch?” he asked.

The veteran shook his head. “None. Their attention will still be on that fool Underhill to the east. The natives know of our presence, of course-“ he nodded at the Matinecock guide they had hired in Warwick the week before- “and the people of Hampstead will find out soon enough when they drive their cattle up here for the morning, but neither should pose too much of a problem. The villagers might be sectaries, but they’re still Englishmen.”

Cromwell pursed his lips. “Perhaps, Lion. But watch them closely, regardless. I don’t want some Anabaptist running off to warn Banckert that we’re here.”

Gardiner made to reply, but Cromwell’s attention had drifted away, his eyes scanning the men in front of him. “I do not see Henry,” he finally said, with a touch of irritation, “where is he?”

As if in response, a commotion was heard on the deck of the nearest brigantine, about fifty feet from shore, and the figure of a youth appeared, stripped to the waist and with his long hair tied back. “I shall join you presently, father!” his son shouted, leaping from the deck and executing a perfect dive into the clear blue water of the bay.

Cromwell smiled despite himself as the young man’s inseparable companion, a terrier he had christened ‘Gorton’ for its incessant yapping, followed him into the water, barking madly. I cannot fault his enthusiasm, he thought, as Henry swam towards the shore with a strong, practised stroke, but it is not seemly for a gentleman to know how to swim in the sea like that. A fin appeared in the water behind his son and to the right, and Cromwell’s smile broadened. A porpoise, he thought, remembering how sailors always welcomed their presence; an excellent omen.

Suddenly, there was a disturbance to his side, as the Matinecock guide began to shout. “Machtandogamek!” he exclaimed, clutching at Gardiner’s arm in terror and pointing at the bay. As the cry went out the dog began barking frantically. Cromwell saw something huge and dark in the water behind his son, and added his own shouts of warning to the tumult. Henry, hearing the noise, stopped swimming; and then in an instant, he was pulled beneath the waves. For a dreadful moment, the bay was still- and then suddenly he broke the surface, close to the shore, coughing and splashing, as the dark shape moved in to strike again.

The thing’s head rose out of the water, seeming to tower above the boy. For a split second, Cromwell stood rooted to the spot in terror, gazing at its great blood-soaked maw, the rows of cruel, dagger-like teeth, the great black body the length of several men. Then, the monstrosity’s eyes, leaden and soulless, met his own, and all fear of the unknown vanished. Instead, memories stirred of Cambridge, and of furtive afternoons reading the Clavis Salomonis; he knew what this enemy was, and how to vanquish it. Leviathan, sixth Infernal Prince, keeper of the Hellmouth, he thought, with revulsion. I know what you are, beast, and you shall not take my son.

“Demon!” he roared, pulling his pistols from his belt and racing into the water towards the beast. His first shot went wide; his second struck the thing on the snout, causing it to rear up and abandon its attack. In a flash, Cromwell had thrown the guns aside and had drawn his sword, charging past his stricken son into water that came up to his waist, determined to dispatch his foe.

“Unclean spirit,” he yelled, plunging his sword into the flank of the hellish thing as its grotesque jaws snapped open and shut, the very touch of its corrupt flesh ripping his skin open and soaking the water with his blood, “Remember thy sentence! Remember thy judgement!” He thrust home the sword, again and again. “Remember the day to be at hand, wherin thou shalt burn in fire everlasting!”

The abomination recoiled in agony at the holy words, and its great fluke caught Cromwell full in the face, sending him flying backwards into the water. Dazed, he thrashed around to find his footing and then leapt up, realising that he had lost his sword. The demon, enraged, had forgotten about Henry and had swung round to face its new foe. With a flick of its powerful tail it surged towards Cromwell, who stood firm with his hand raised, determined to finish the exorcism before the hellish thing could devour him. He dimly heard a shout, and, half turning, caught the pike that Lion Gardiner had tossed him from the shore, where the other men had dragged his son, pale and faint from loss of blood.

Cromwell lowered the weapon and prepared to take the charge, praying God for deliverance. The terrible jaws seemed to fill his entire vision, and then the pole was ripped from his hands and Cromwell flew through the air once again, landing in a tangled heap in the shallows. He wiped his eyes, and smiled grimly; the haft of the pike was protruding from Leviathan’s jaws, and so little of it was visible that the weapon must have travelled far down into the thing’s gullet.

Cromwell knew though that physical weapons would only slow the abomination down; the only way to truly destroy his foe was by unleashing his spiritual arsenal. Moving stiffly now- he had landed awkwardly on his leg and could barely see for the blood pouring from his lacerated face- he splashed through the red foam to where the hellish thing was thrashing around in shin-deep water, desperately trying to return to the safety of the bay. As he approached, he saw his sword buried in the beast’s flank; with a savage grin, he pulled the weapon free, then carefully moved forwards. His first thought was to try to avoid the terrible snapping jaws, but with mounting jubilation, he realised that the monster’s movements had slowed, as if in acceptance of what was to come.

Slowly, almost gently, he placed the tip of his sword on the top of the thing’s cruel snout, and spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth before pronouncing the final words of the exorcism rite.

“In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, come out, and depart!” he cried, and thrust the sword home. The malign intelligence in the demon’s eyes faded as its spirit was banished back to hell, and the monstrosity went limp. Cromwell, exhausted, collapsed into the surf. His last memory before he fainted from shock and blood-loss was the rasp of the bone-saw as the surgeon removed the mangled remains of his son’s lower leg.


****

(Taken from “Cromwell: New England’s Founding Father” by Martijn White, Oxford 1941)

“Cromwell’s encounter with the shark is undoubtedly the most celebrated moment of his career, and with good reason; not only did it represent a moment of genuine personal heroism, but it carried a powerful symbolic and religious message. The New Englanders were superstitious and god-fearing folk, and even omens such as the discovery of a snake in church held great power to them[1]. The slaying of a sea monster in such dramatic fashion could hardly fail to be of immense import. Some inevitably saw the incident as an omen of the coming apocalypse; yet as the news spread back to the settlements of New England and across the Atlantic, another interpretation took hold. Cromwell’s deeds were the stuff of which legends are made, and before long the basic elements of the modern tale were falling into place, encouraged by political allies such as Henry Vane and fervent believers such as John Davenport, who ordered a week of celebratory fasting in New Haven to mark the joyous news. Here, on the threshold not only of the primitive sea of the “infidel sharks”[2] but also of the heathen and unsettled New World, a redoubtable Christian warrior had cast out the devil himself. In doing so, sin was banished from the land, returning the Americas to its prelapsarian state and opening the way for godly settlement. It was a powerful tale, and one that was highly attractive to the New Englanders, who had left their homes across the Atlantic to, as Cromwell himself had put it, “transform the New World into a bulwark against the Antichrist.” By the time Cromwell’s great grandson Richard commissioned the famous painting that hangs to this day in the Governor’s mansion at Broughton, the tale of Cromwell and the Shark had long since been cemented as New England’s foundation myth[3].

Even at the time, there were sceptics. One Dutch Orangist pamphlet, outraged at the New Englander invasion of the West India Company’s colony, published a cartoon of an oafish Englishman fighting what appears to be a sea-monster but is in fact his own tail[4], while the Dutch fleet creeps up behind him; the Royalist news sheet Mercurius Pragmaticus suggested that Cromwell had “drunk his bellyfull of salt water” and lamented that "no wonder imposters are impudent in this brazen age.” Yet there is little reason to doubt the veracity of the traditional account, save the supernatural element. Sharks are known to frequent the waters off Long Island, and still visit Schout’s Bay to this day[5]; it is likely that the beast that attacked Henry Cromwell was either a Bull or White shark, both of which are aggressive and known to target swimmers in certain circumstances[6]. Too many witnesses saw the incident for it to be dismissed as fiction, despite some later claims. Quite aside from Henry Cromwell’s famous account, both Lion Gardiner and John Seeley left descriptions of what happened that morning, and these grizzled soldiers were not known for their literary embellishment. Only one piece of Cromwell’s own correspondence on the topic remains, and this letter, sent to John Winthrop of Boston, dwelt almost exclusively on the survival of his son Henry, who had lost his leg below the thigh but remained alive;

“It was an astonishing mercy; so great and seasonable as indeed we are like them that dreamed. What can we say! The Lord fill our souls with thankfulness, that our mouths may be full of his praise- and our lives too…”

Of his own actions, he remained determinedly tight-lipped, noting modestly that;

“Man can do nothing unaided, but the Lord may do what he will. Faith in Providence is my only support, yet if I believe not, He remains faithful. Sir, pray for me, that I may walk worthy of the Lord in all that He hath called me unto.”

Cromwell would not be drawn further, and in later life would bat away questions on the subject with some irritation. His already unshakeable faith and self-belief were clearly bolstered his experience, but he was clearly careful of public self-aggrandisement, and likely realised that the tale would benefit his reputation more if told by others. Perhaps he was also traumatised by what had happened; it was entirely plausible that his struggle against the demon of Schout’s Bay left mental scars to match the facial scarring he bore for the rest of his life. Yet even if he wished to draw a veil over the events of that morning, Cromwell clearly held some measure of pride for what had transpired, and it was characteristic that his method of displaying this was entirely conventional, and within the law of the land; in the summer of 1648, the College of Arms, its home still not rebuilt after the Fire of London and missing most of its Heralds, who had sided with the King[7] received a letter from Broughton requesting permission for the Cromwell family crest to be changed from a lion to a dog-fish…”


(Taken from “New England: A History” by Robert Talbot, Miskatonic University Press 1937)

“After the famous drama of Schout’s Bay, any military campaign would be an anti-climax, and so it proved for the invasion of the New Netherlands. The villages of eastern Long Island put up no fight and were swiftly taken with little trouble; the reaction of the inhabitants to the arrival of the New Englanders ranged from delight to sullen resentment, but no violence was offered. Once Breuckelen and Gravesend were secured, on October 4th, Cromwell turned his gaze on his real target, the colonial capital of New Amsterdam. Unfortunately for the Dutch, the settlement was in no condition to endure a siege. Fort Amsterdam, which should have been the strongpoint of the colony, was practically derelict; a point not lost on the settlers, who had complained in their Remonstrance to the West India Company that the bastion “lies like a molehill or a tottering wall,” and who had received the curt response “That the fort is not properly repaired does not concern the inhabitants. It is not their domain, but the Company’s.”[8] The sudden arrival of the English had meant that no effort had been made to bring in powder and food from the surrounding settlements, a stockade intended to defend the town was still under construction[9], and most important of all, the population had absolutely no inclination to fight.

If Director Banckert had been present resistance might have been attempted, but he was engaged upriver attempting to settle the perennial dispute about who had jurisdiction over Fort Orange[10]. This was providential; the population of New Amsterdam were so determined not to fight that he may have found facing a mutiny[11]. As a result, when Cromwell’s force crossed the East River on a miserable October morning, it was met by a party of settlers offering terms for surrender; terms that, after some negotiation, the New Englanders accepted. There was no further resistance, and the occupiers, who almost outnumbered the residents, quickly cemented their control on the town. When Joost Banckert returned from his trip upriver, he was astonished to find a new wooden stockade thrown up around Fort Amsterdam, the New England jack and stripes flying from the church at its centre, and English ships patrolling Raritan Bay and the rivers. In such circumstances, there was little the Director could do except summon up all the dignity he could muster, threaten dire consequences and return across the Atlantic to inform his superiors of the disaster that had transpired…”


****

Colen Donck
New Netherlands, October 1647


Adriaen Cornelissen van der Donck heard the sound of voices in the hall, and put his book down, sighing as he did so. Tonight is unlikely to be enjoyable, but it is necessary, he thought. He had not yet had a chance to meet the conqueror of the New Netherlands, but knew that the survival of his colony now rested entirely in the hands of the man he had invited for dinner. The English invasion posed a grave threat, but also an opportunity; it was possible that the Nine might be able to forge a more productive relationship with their new overlord than they had with the Company’s Director. Van der Donck knew a little of his guest, and none of it inspired him with much confidence. A madman and terror of the natives, he thought, whose friends now claim he banished the Devil himself from these shores. He shook his head, wearily. Englishmen are forever confusing fanaticism with godliness. It is possible to lead a pious life without thinking oneself to be the second coming of a bloody-handed Old Testament prophet.

The door opened, and his manservant led his guest in to the room, as Van der Donck rose to greet him. A glance at the man’s ruddy complexion, bull neck and assertive posture left the Dutchman’s heart sinking- a violent, drunken boor, as I feared- but then instead of the gloating or cutting comment Van der Donck expected, his guest instead bowed crisply, and with perfect courtesy. “Mijn hoogwelgeboren heer,” Cromwell said, in passable Dutch.

Van der Donck tried to suppress a chuckle. Interesting! He thought. There is more to this one than meets the eye. He clasped the other man’s hand.

“Governor Cromwell,” he replied in English, “you honour me! But I am afraid you overestimate my station. The local people call me the Jonkheer, but it is only a fancy; I am no nobleman. I appreciate your gesture nonetheless, however.”

Cromwell nodded in acceptance, and Van der Donck immediately realised that his ‘mistake’ had been entirely deliberate. “We are all princes in this New World, are we not?” he replied, and stiffly bent to sit, wincing as he did so. His host realised that Cromwell’s natural ruddiness was accentuated by the strange wounds all over his skin; it is as if he has been rubbed in glass-paper, Van der Donck thought.

“Are you wounded, sir?” he asked. “I was not aware of any fighting at the Fort.”

Cromwell shook his head, grimly. “No man resisted us. Rather, upon our landing, one of the princes of Hell tried to make off with my son.” He paused, and gave the ghost of a smile. “It was a hard fight, but I prevented him.”

Van der Donck spent a moment trying to work out whether his guest was joking or not, and eventually gave up. “It sounds like you may be in need of drink in that case,” he remarked lightly, turning to the sideboard. “Can I offer you a glass of sack before we dine?”

There was a short pause as he poured the drinks. Finally, Cromwell turned to his host. “It gladdens my heart, Sir, that you have been so hospitable,” he remarked, taking his glass and sipping the contents appreciatively, “for I am not come to act as conqueror, of to deny you your autonomy. The New World needs no Kings. I would rather leave you to settle your own affairs, under New England’s aegis.”

Why in God’s name did you invade us then? Van der Donck thought sharply. Cromwell caught his expression, and chuckled. “I have come to this place not because of pride, or lust for power. Rather because Providence commands; I do the work of the Lord, and He has delivered me unto you.”

He placed his glass on the sideboard carefully. “Yet perhaps Providence works for you also. I love strangers, but especially those, like you, who are of our religion. Yet are we even strangers? More unites us than divides, for do we not face the same trials- hostile natives, the supply of food, the struggle against arbitrary rule? You live amongst Englishmen; you know we do not possess tails! I have read your Remonstrance, sir, and there is much in it that I have said myself in response to those in England who have sought to order our affairs in a manner that suits them, rather than ourselves. You wish to be part of a free association of sovereign states, yet the United Republics have spurned you; I would see you join our own Confederation. ”

His host pursed his lips. “So you are offering us complete freedom of action?” he asked, sceptically. “Your repair of Fort Amsterdam suggests you mean to stay.”

Cromwell shrugged. “I will leave men to garrison Fort Hampden, of course. And I would see the surrender of all claims east of the North River to Saybrook- excepting your estates, of course!- Englishmen given the same settlement rights as Dutchmen, and a few other conditions that we can discuss later. But I would trust you to govern your own affairs, in the first instance...”

He trailed off, and Van der Donck understood the implicit threat. This is not a man to cross, he thought, but he is being magnanimous. And so…

“Come sir, let us go to dine,” he said lightly, pouring Cromwell another glass of sack as he went, “I think we have much to discuss.”


****


(Taken from “The New Netherlands” by Peter Collins, Star 1945)

“On November 1st 1647 the Colony of New Kent was formally established, though without a formal charter[12], and the existence of the New Netherlands came to an end. The colony was named, after much debate, for Lion Gardiner’s home county. Outwardly, Cromwellian imperialism had triumphed and a foreign threat had been vanquished, ample revenge for the actions of the Stadtholder in England. Yet in many ways, English rule was simply a veneer concealing the continuation of Dutch norms and traditions. The governance of the new colony took as its blueprint the Remonstrance of 1647, with the imposition of an English Governor as the only modification; the Dutch settlers of New Kent could worship in their traditional manner, speak their own tongue, and elect their own representatives, known as schepenen[13], who held seven of the twelve seats on the colonial general court. The younger John Winthrop, the Colony’s new Governor, had nothing like the untrammelled power that the Director had; the Twelve, unlike the Nine, were protected by law and could not be dismissed[14]. What he did have, however, was a garrison of forty men in Fort Hampden[15]. New England’s latest acquisition might have been given a surprising amount of autonomy, but the Confederation was willing to contemplate force to ensure its retention. The establishment of the New Kent colony along these lines is traditionally regarded as a gesture of magnanimity on the part of the invaders, a transatlantic foreshadowing of the “Verenigde Gemenebesten” of the following year. In reality though, it was a shrewd piece of political chicanery that acknowledged the realities of the relationship between Dutch and English settlers in the Americas; New England could dominate the New Netherlands whenever it chose to exert itself, but had neither the manpower nor the resources to hold it against determined assault, either from within or without[16].

The obvious path for the new colony was admission to the New England Confederation, but this path was not entirely smooth. In early December, meeting in a frigid Fort Providence, the Confederation met to debate the issue. The Saybrook delegates, having received recognition for their claims up to the North River, were powerful advocates of admission, Plymouth was neutral, Massachusetts split and New Haven opposed. The root of the dissent lay in the vexed issue of religious tolerance. Rigid Puritans like John Davenport were relaxed about the addition of Dutch colonists to the Confederation; most of the settlers had, after all, spent time in the United Provinces themselves and were familiar with their ways[17]. What concerned them was the addition of the various sectaries who had settled on Long Island and across Raritan Bay; might New Kent simply serve as another incarnation of the former Providence Plantation and breed heresy on the fringes of New England? Yet as it turned out, temporal concerns began to outweigh the spiritual. All the delegates were keen to see the North and Delaware River valleys opened for settlement; New Haven had already made attempts to found trading posts in the south, but the enterprise had failed thanks to disease[18]. The support of Massachusetts’ wavering delegate, Thomas Dudley, was eventually secured by the resolution of New Kent’s eastern boundary in the Bay’s favour[19]; with this, the necessary threshold was achieved and on December 15th, in the presence of Thomas Baxter and Adriaen Cornelissen van der Donck, the delegates of the New England Confederation voted six votes to two to admit New Kent as the alliance’s fifth member…”


_____________________________________________


[1] IOTL Boston was thrown into panic in 1637 when a snake was discovered in the church pulpit, and the incident was directly blamed for the eruption of the Anne Hutchinson affair.

[2] One common superstition of the time amongst both English sailors and New England colonists was that the sea was the province of the devil, as distinct from ‘godly land’. Herman Melville drew on this theme extensively when he wrote Moby Dick two centuries later.

[3] This is a slight exaggeration- the Mayflower myth is still important ITTL as well; but Cromwell and the Shark will be as central to the New English identity as the Bastille is to the French.

[4] Dutch cartoons of the period always depicted Englishmen as having tails, the holdover from an old medieval superstition that used to be widespread in Europe.

[5] This is true IOTL too, of course; the shores of Long Island are frequently patrolled by sharks. The first probable recorded shark attack in North America, suffered by Anthony Van Corlaer in 1642, happened off Manhattan; the attack that inspired the finale of Jaws, where Michael Schleisser killed a Great White that had partially climbed on to his boat by stabbing it with a broken oar, took place in Raritan Bay.

[6] Modern observers might note that the attack was likely a result of Henry Cromwell swimming at dawn, in shallow water and with a dog, all very unwise things to do in waters where sharks may be present.

[7] The College suffered the same problems IOTL too, although not at the same time; it continued throughout the Commonwealth period, and at the Restoration all heralds were summarily sacked and replaced by the people who had held the role at the time of Charles I’s death.

[8] The same exchange was made IOTL too.

[9] IOTL a stockade defending New Amsterdam was not constructed until 1652; Banckert is a bit hotter on colonial defence than Stuyvesant, so progress is quicker, but still not enough to make a difference.

[10] This is modern Albany, NY; Both IOTL and ITTL, there was a long-running and acrimonious dispute there between the West India Company, which controlled Fort Orange, and Kiliaen van Rensselaer, who as patroon owned all the land surrounding the Fort and claimed it had been illegally built.

[11] This is essentially what happened OTL when the English took New Amsterdam; Peter Stuyvesant was the only local who was opposed to surrender, and eventually caved in to negotiations after it became clear that if it came to a fight, he'd be manning the stockade on his own.

[12] This is not ideal but no barrier to the creation of a colony; Plymouth, Rhode Island and Connecticut were all established without charters IOTL, and Plymouth never received one.

[13] This translates roughly as ‘Alderman’ and was the term of municipal civic office in the United Republics at the time; IOTL, the abortive municipal government established by Peter Stuyvesant established several.

[14] What has been implemented in the colony is a mix of the municipal government desired by the New Netherlands colonists IOTL, and New England norms.

[15] While on the face of it this is quite a large garrison, in reality I expect most of it will actually be comprised of local English settlers, rather than New Englanders acting as professional soldiers; anything else would simply be too expensive.

[16] ITTL, New England is trying to incorporate the New Netherlands using its own resources, a major change from OTL when the capture of New Amsterdam was a Royal, rather than colonial, affair. The inability to keep large numbers of troops in occupation for long, plus Cromwell’s own pragmatism, are major drivers for the far less dictatorial occupation of the colony ITTL.

[17] The religiously-tolerant Netherlands was a common half-way house for Puritan colonists about to cross the Atlantic, and most of the prominent settlers IOTL had not only spent time there, but could speak Dutch. As a result, contemporary anti-Dutch sentiment was almost entirely on a political basis, rather than a religious one.

[18] IOTL New Haven spent a considerable effort trying to settle the Delaware valley, and in 1642 the modern site of Philadelphia was briefly occupied by an English trading post before it failed thanks to, as John Winthrop put it, “sickness and mortality”. ITTL New Haven’s attempts have been a bit less serious thanks to the more northerly site of the colony, but they have still happened.

[19] This means that unlike IOTL’s New York province, New Kent is confined to the west bank of the Hudson with the exception of a small area surrounding modern Yonkers.
 
For reference, here's a 20th century redrafting of the 'Castello Plan', the earliest surviving map of New Amsterdam from the late 1650s. It's not quite accurate for the previous decade; during the events described in the above post, there was no wall defending the settlement, and Fort Amsterdam was essentially a muddy hill rather than a proper fortification. The depiction of the walls as modern stone ones is anachronistic in any case. It does give a sense of the size of the settlement however, as well as being a very nice map!

1280px-Castelloplan.jpg
 
Interesting. But why put the border on the Hudson? That makes about as much sense as a border running along the Nile.

Oh, and it looks like the TL is winning both of its superlative categories. Don't think I've ever seen that before. I obviously voted for it in both.
 
Interesting. But why put the border on the Hudson? That makes about as much sense as a border running along the Nile.

It might make more sense in this period, before settlement gets too dense. Besides, with "New Kent" now part of New England, it's an internal border. (Disputes about tolls, marine rights, pollution, etc. may still be some time off at this point...)
 
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