Antietam and the Maryland Campaign: Part 4 – Aftermath of the Battle

The Confederate victory at Second Manassas, August 28-30, 1862, followed victories in the Valley Campaign and the Peninsula. The casualties incurred by the Army of the Potomac included 14,000 killed or wounded of 62,000 engaged, compared to about half of that for the Army of Northern Virginia. Then, on September 1, Stonewall Jackson defeated a Union cohort retreating from the battlefield at Chantilly. General Pope was relieved of command and sent to Minnesota to deal with the Sioux, and was never again involved in the Civil War. Pope would blame Fitz-John Porter for the loss, even though that wasn’t the case; Porter would be heard from again at Antietam but would go through a devastating court martial soon after. One of Pope’s generals said of him, “Suffice to say ... that more insolence, superciliousness, ignorance, and pretentiousness were never combined in one man.”

In this multi-part series, here Lloyd W Klein looks at what happened during the Battle of Antietam itself.

Read part 1 on the background here, part 2 on General McClellan’s Response to Finding the Lost Order here, and part 3 on the battle itself here.

Abraham Lincoln and George B. McClellan at Antietam, Maryland, October 3, 1862. Source: Public domain, United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cwpb.04351., available here.

Aftermath

The battle was over by 5:30 pm. When the smoke cleared and the guns fell silent, Antietam had inflicted an unprecedented toll: estimated total casualties reached 22,717 men—killed, wounded, missing, or captured—making it the bloodiest single‐day engagement in American history. More Americans died in battle on September 17, 1862, than on any other day in the nation's history. The bloodiest battle in American history was Gettysburg, but its more than 46,000 casualties occurred over three days. Antietam ranks fifth in terms of total casualties in Civil War battles.

The devastation to both armies was profound. Officers, enlisted men & horses were destroyed in huge numbers. The dead and wounded littered the field, and it would take months for the dead to be buried. For years after, and even to this day, the remains of soldiers are still being found, evidence of the battle resurfacing in the form of bullets, cannonballs, horseshoes, and other detritus.

The battle is traditionally considered a tactical draw but a strategic Union victory. Modern scholarship suggests Antietam was both a Federal tactical and strategic victory. The battle inflicted terrible casualties on the Army of Northern Virginia, which was already in the process of disintegrating from straggling. Federal troops broke Confederate lines five times during the fighting, and at no point did Southern forces regain the line they occupied before the battle started. Lee remained in place for another day out of the refusal to abandon his campaign, but that amounted to nothing more than posturing.

Lee stayed on the battlefield overnight He prepared to defend against a renewed assault, which never came. Strategically, the battle was a disaster for Lee. The casualties were catastrophic for an army of his size. The ANV retreated to Virginia, McClellan did not pursue despite myriad orders to do so, and was relieved for the second time as commander.

The figures are staggering. Union losses totaled 12,401 (including 2,108 killed, 9,540 wounded, and 753 missing or captured), while Confederate losses amounted to 10,316 (with 1,546 killed, 7,752 wounded, and 1,018 missing or captured). Britannica additionally notes that officer casualties were especially severe: six generals (three Union, three Confederate) fell in the battle, and about a dozen more were wounded.

Looking at the troops actually committed, roughly 56,000 Federal soldiers engaged on key fronts suffered 12,400 casualties (~22%), while about 37,400 Confederates incurred 10,300 casualties (~27.5%)—meaning nearly one in four combatants on the field was killed, wounded, or went missing. When set against the full armies present (approximately 132,000 Union and 87,000 Confederate), these figures translate to overall casualty rates of about 9% and 12%, respectively—figures that belie the ferocity experienced by frontline units.

In terms of casualty composition, of the 22,717 total:

3,654 men were killed (≈16.1%)

17,292 were wounded (≈76.1%)

1,771 were missing or captured (≈7.8%)  

This breakdown roughly mirrors the broader Civil War norm—where about 20% of battle casualties were deaths and 80% were wounds—but Antietam’s sheer scale set a grim benchmark, producing the highest single‐day body count in U.S. military history.

Every historian includes or excludes various units, which may or may not be considered to be part of the battle. Sears, for example, gives lower figures. The desertion rate of the Confederate forces is another major area of contention. According to the Washington Post, these traditional figures are skewed. In his after-action report, McClellan claimed that his men buried 2,700 Confederates on the Antietam battlefield and captured 6,000 more. He could only guess at the number of wounded, but he estimated it was 18,742 men, using the ratio of killed to wounded for his own troops.

This stands in stark contrast to Confederate reports, which claimed losses of 1,674 dead, 2,292 missing and 9,451 wounded — a total of 13,417. Even discounting the wounded, the discrepancy between the two reports is almost 5,000 casualties.

Which is right? The burial grounds would indicate that McClellan’s number is closer to the truth. More than 3,300 dead rebels specifically associated with the Antietam campaign can be found buried in the Confederate cemeteries in Hagerstown, Frederick, Shepherdstown and Winchester. This number is larger than McClellan’s because it includes bodies buried by the Confederates themselves as well as those who died shortly after the battle.

Perhaps the most important misconception is the number of troops Lee brought with him during his invasion. Most historians cite McClellan as having had 87,000 men and Lee around 40,000. These numbers are often used for the entire three-week campaign, with the Confederates sometimes credited with as many as 55,000 men, 15,000 of whom straggled off before the battle. But there are no complete returns for Lee’s army until Oct. 10, 1862. Every historian’s count is merely a best-guess estimate.

Lee filed his first return five days after the battle, noting the count is “very imperfect” and does not include cavalry or artillery. It states that on Sept. 22, he had at least 36,418 infantry. Adding a conservative number of 5,000 for the missing cavalry and artillery units would bring his total to about 41,000 troops at the end of the campaign.

Eighteen days later, on Oct. 10, Lee filed his first complete report, which showed 64,273 present for duty. This number is significant because Lee had not received a single new regiment to replace his losses; nor did he receive many, if any, recruits because the February draft law had already pulled every eligible man into the army by early summer. If we add Lee’s reported campaign losses of 13,417 (which, as already noted, are too low), it would show that Lee started the campaign with at least 75,000 men. My final answer is that a lot of people died or were wounded, but we really will never know exactly.

IF this is true, McClellan’s supposed outsized numerical advantage is overstated, and his potential to have annihilated Lee is exaggerated. The army he drove back was not much smaller than his own. He did it without proper cavalry support, with his superiors hoping to oust him and with a significant portion of his army untrained. And as it turns out, he inflicted more damage on Lee’s army than anyone suspected.

Lee’s Retreat

Lee was just lucky to have gotten out of Antietam intact. It was a horrible day for him. He had divided his army numerous times and had not planned to be attacked while Jackson was at Harpers Ferry and Longstreet was at Suffolk.  Losing armies in retreat are by definition at their most vulnerable, but for that very reason, at their most dangerous.

On September 18, the armies remained in their positions without fighting. By this point, Lee was highly vulnerable. His army had its back to the Potomac River, just a few miles away, and a quarter of his force had been lost in the previous day’s battle. And after more than two weeks of marching, his men were tired. McClellan, on the other hand, welcomed thousands of additional troops on September 18. But, although he outnumbered Lee’s troops by almost three times, McClellan did not pursue Lee. In fact, despite constant urging from President Abraham Lincoln and Chief of Staff Henry Halleck, McClellan did not move toward Virginia for over a month. McClellan overestimated the size of Lee’s force, assuming that Lee had nearly 100,000 troops in his command, and insisted that the fall of Harpers Ferry, Virginia, on September 15 allowed an additional 40,000 Confederate troops, in his inflated estimation, to fight at Antietam.

Once again, though, modern scholarship has shifted this traditional view. The newest thought points out that McClellan did not pursue Lee because his own army was in no position to give battle. They note that this Union force was in reality four separate commands and that with the battlefield losses, it lacked a unified command structure to organize a movement. The Battle of Shepherdstown, in which just a small part tried to pursue at Shepherdstown (or Botelers) Ford the next 3 days, resulted in a small-scale disaster. Undoubtedly, the units engaged were in bad shape: on September 17th, the 1st Corps suffered 27 % casualties, the Second 31%, the 9th 20 %, and, lastly, the 12th Corps lost 22%. Antietam NPS ranger Keith Snyder has stated that during the battle, there were, in both armies, at least 300 corps, division, brigade, and regimental command changes. In the Federal army alone, there were close to 600 officers, below the rank of colonel, who were either killed or wounded. Not only were the rank and file slaughtered, the command structure was decimated as well.

The post-Antietam messages and reports in the Antietam Official Records contain numerous requests for supplies ranging from ammunition, blankets, shoes, rations, and food. Horses were a major problem. Union horses had also suffered severe casualties. Although Lincoln famously pooh-poohed this concern ("What have your horses done that they are fatigued?”), the Union Army couldn’t move anywhere without the replenishment of the major transportation modality.

Lee retreated across the Potomac River at Shepherdstown Ford, also called Boteler’s Ford: After several days of maneuvering and skirmishing with Union forces, Lee's army crossed the Potomac River at Shepherdstown Ford on September 19-20, 1862. This crossing allowed them to retreat back into Virginia after the Battle of Antietam.

The Battle of Shepherdstown on September 20th. There were 624 casualties—363 Union and 261 Confederate. The Battle of Shepherdstown is one of the largest engagements fought in the modern state of West Virginia (it was still Virginia at the time of the battle in 1862). It was largely inconsequential in the course of the Antietam Campaign because it essentially harassed, but did not stop, Lee’s retreat.

Bodies of Confederate dead gathered for burial after the Battle of Antietam. Source: Public domain, United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cwpb.01094, available here.

Lincoln Pays a Visit

Meanwhile, President Lincoln was severely disappointed in McClellan's performance both during and after the battle. He believed that McClellan's overly cautious and poorly coordinated actions in the field had caused the battle to be a tactical draw rather than the overwhelming Confederate defeat it really should have been. The president was even more astonished that from September 17 to October 26, despite repeated entreaties from the War Department and the president himself, McClellan declined to pursue Lee across the Potomac, citing shortages of equipment and the fear of overextending his forces.

Famously, President Lincoln came to visit General McClellan on October 3rd. As you can clearly see from the photo, the temperature of the meeting was frosty. As these stiff poses suggest, the personal relationship between the general and the president remained awkward. Abraham Lincoln spent four days travelling over the field, just two weeks after the guns fell silent. He met with McClellan, trying to prod his young Napoleon into action, met with other generals, and with thousands of wounded soldiers, including both Union and Confederate. His trip was well-documented, and the photos of his visit are among the most famous of the entire war.

The biggest winner of all was President Lincoln, absolutely. He had won a victory in time for the November election, to show that progress in the war was being made. The Republicans kept the Senate, gaining an additional seat, and also the House, although they lost 27 seats. Despite inflation, new taxes, a longer and deadlier war than expected, and a midterm election, Lincoln had pulled out a victory of his own.

Lincoln, the master politician, turned Antietam into a political windfall. He used the victory as a cover to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, redefining the purpose of the war and turning it into a moral struggle, not a cultural one. With one victory, he showed Congress and the voters that he had control over how the war would progress and what it was about. Moreover, the English Parliament dropped any discussion of bringing the combatants together for negotiations.

What had seemed just a few weeks before like the biggest crisis in the existence of the country up to that time was resolved by a president who chose the best man available for the predicament at hand, not necessarily the one he got along with or liked best or could manipulate: a far cry from what passes for executive decision making these days. Lincoln showed by his decision how to keep one’s eyes on the prize. This is a lesson numerous hospital administrators I know could learn. Lincoln was the greatest President, and his management of this crisis must forever be regarded as brilliant and exemplary of his genius.

Other winners include all subsequent generations of Americans, because Lincoln used McClellan’s victory to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, the critical first step for redefining what liberty and freedom could mean. The 4 million enslaved Americans were also victors. Although a pure wartime measure, it meant that slavery was on the road to extinction; Allen Nevins has pointed out that within weeks, slaves were leaving their masters’ plantations. The common Federal soldiers were victors. The battle showed that they WERE capable of defeating Massa Robert.

This photograph waw taken by Alexander Gardner., working for Mathew Brady. Lincoln wrote his wife that he was about to sit for the famous photographer with Little Mac: “If we can sit still long enough, which should be no problem for the general.” Lincoln was a sharp, quick-witted man, all right. He was highly critical of McClellan for allowing Lee to get away.

The Dead of Antietam

Mathew Brady exhibited a series of 97 photographs taken immediately after the Battle of Antietam. These images were the first to show the dead bodies of soldiers still on the battlefield.  The impact of this exhibit changed how non-combatants viewed war, and indeed, war news reporting, ever since.

"Mr. Brady has done something to bring home to us the terrible reality and earnestness of war. If he has not brought bodies and laid them in our dooryards and along the streets, he has done something very like it." So wrote a correspondent for The New York Times after visiting Mathew Brady's Manhattan gallery in October 1862 to view the famed photographer's latest exhibit, "The Dead of Antietam."

The accompanying photographs are the two best-known Antietam photographs and are immediately recognizable to every Civil War enthusiast. The top image shows Confederate dead at the Dunker Church. The photographer was standing in what is today the Visitors Center Parking Lot. The second, entitled “View in the Field, on the west side of Hagerstown road, after the Battle of Antietam,” shows the dead by a fence in a road that still exists. The ease of modern accessibility to these locations and their banality add to our sense of horror.  The 95 others are graphic and disturbing even by modern standards, several of which I used in the past week.

The Times review continued:

"You will see hushed, reverent groups standing around these weird copies of carnage," the review noted, "bending down to look in the pale faces of the dead, chained by the strange spell that dwells in the dead men's eyes."

Harper’s Weekly, the leading news weekly, devoted the center spread of its October 18, 1862, issue to images of the Antietam dead. Although the technology did not yet exist to reproduce actual photographs in newspapers and news weeklies, the periodical published woodcut engravings of eight photos, including six showing the dead.

Challenge: Two photographers Brady hired to document the war produced these images at Antietam. Who were these men who took these incredible photographs that changed war reporting forever?

Matthew Brady decided to move on from studio portraits and cartes-de-visite to document the war, and, with permission from President Lincoln, he organized and self-financed a team of photographers who took thousands of photographs documenting camp life and battlefield scenes. One of these photographers on Brady’s team, Alexander Gardner, took all the photographs featured, and James Gibson assisted.

In 1862, Brady’s exhibit The Dead of Antietam showed the public the first ever photographs of a battlefield before the dead had been removed. The exhibition took place at Brady’s studio on Broadway in New York City. In modern society, we often see live battlefield scenes on television news and movie images of graphic content, and have become somewhat desensitized to the violence of warfare. It is hard for us today to fully comprehend the shocking impression this exhibit made.

Gardner arrived on the battlefield on September 19, 1862, two days after the battle had ended. He photographed the dead and the living who handled their remains, demonstrating without protecting the viewer from the sight, those who had grisly wounds, those who fell over rocks in their final moments, and the bodies bloating under the hot sun.

Gardner and Brady knew they were capturing history with their cameras, but their primary reason for taking battlefield images was that they knew they would sell. Civil War photos and stereo views sold well during and after the war. Their popularity is evidenced by the dozens of original views available today at online auction sites or from antique photograph dealers. Brady’s stereographs and Album Gallery Cards cost 50 cents each during the war. That’s $10.67 in 2020 dollars, putting them in the same general price range as a video or movie today.

These images received extensive media attention. They shocked and fascinated, and saddened those who saw them. And to this day, they remain some of the most graphic images of American war casualties ever published. Unlike the battle images of Vietnam, these images did not create an anti-war backlash. Instead, they convinced the public that the soldiers fighting for their country were indeed brave, and that war was not the glorious spectacle of fairy tales.

The New York Times review conveys the impact of these photos, perhaps as well as the photos themselves:

“The living that throng Broadway care little perhaps for the Dead at Antietam, but we fancy they would jostle less carelessly down the great thoroughfare, saunter less at their ease, were a few dripping bodies, fresh from the field, laid along the pavement. There would be a gathering up of skirts and a careful picking of way; conversation would be less lively, and the general air of pedestrians more subdued. As it is, the dead of the battlefield come up to us very rarely, even in dreams. We see the list in the morning paper at breakfast, but dismiss its recollection with the coffee.”

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References

·       Sears Stephen. Landscape Turned Red: The Battle of Antietam, Houghton Mifflin, 1983.

·       Rossino, Alexander & Thorp, Gene. The Tale Untwisted: George McClellan and the Discovery of Lee's Lost Orders, September 13, 1862. El Dorado Hills, CA: Savas Beatie.

·       Rossino, Alexander. Their Maryland: the Army of Northern Virginia from the Potomac Crossing to Sharpsburg in September 1862. Savas Beatie. 2021.

·       Rossino, Alex. Calamity at Frederick: Robert E. Lee, Special Orders No. 191, and Confederate Misfortune on the Road to Antietam. Savas Beattie, 2023.

·       Hartwig, D Scott. I Dread the Thought of the Place: The Battle of Antietam and the End of the Maryland Campaign. Johns Hopkins University Press, 2023.

·       https://emergingcivilwar.com/2022/02/24/who-lost-the-lost-order/

·       https://www.rebellionresearch.com/special-order-191-ruse-of-war-part-1

·       https://www.theodysseyonline.com/the-insignificance-of-special-order-191

·       https://alexanderrossinocom.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/ns-lees-beaver-creek-plan-june-2022.pdf

·       Rossino, Alexander B. Reset in Maryland. America’s Civil War Winter 2024 pp 22-31.

·       Rossino, Alexander. Lecture: Before September: The Origin of the 1862 Maryland Campaign. Antietam Institute, July 7, 2025.

·       https://antietaminstitute.org/2025/01/10/before-september-the-origin-of-the-1862-maryland-campaign-dr-alex-rossino/

·       https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/in-defense-of-mcclellan-at-antietam-a-contrarian-view/2012/09/06/79a0e5cc-f131-11e1-892d-bc92fee603a7_story.html

·       https://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/special/artsandliving/civilwar/mcclellan-graphic/

·       Marcel D'Aoust. https://www.historynet.com/little-mac-not-dawdle/

·       https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/in-defense-of-mcclellan-at-antietam-a-contrarian-view/2012/09/06/79a0e5cc-f131-11e1-892d-bc92fee603a7_story.html

·       https://www.battlefields.org/learn/civil-war/battles/shepherdstown

·       https://civildiscourse-historyblog.com/blog/2021/3/15/retreat-from-antietam-the-battle-of-shepherdstown-september-19-20-1862

·       https://www.nytimes.com/1862/10/20/archives/bradys-photographs-pictures-of-the-dead-at-antietam.html

The Avignon Papacy and the Fight for France: Part 4 - Is it Over for France?

The Avignon Papacy (1309-1376) was the period during which seven successive popes resided at Avignon, in modern-day southern France, rather than at Rome. It followed a bitter conflict between the papacy and King Philip IV of France, and the death of Pope Boniface VIII in 1303 marked a decisive shift in the balance of power within the Church. Talia Bega explains — and looks at where it was over for France following a series of problems.

You can read part 1 on the Church in the 13th century here, part 2 on the Rise of Philip IV and financial problems here, and part 3 on the start of the Papacy here.

A fresco of Pope Clément VI in the Chapelle Saint-Martial of the Palais des Papes by Matteo Giovanetti . Source: Public domain, Palais des Papes, available here.

The issues of France

After the death of Philip IV, France slid deeper into difficulty, weakened by a crisis of succession as his sons died one after another without surviving male heirs. In 1328 the crown passed from the House of Capet to the House of Valois under a new king, Philip VI - a shift that concentrated authority ever more firmly in French hands. As the earlier articles described, the first Avignon popes were largely creatures of these powerful French kings. Clement V, for instance, had bowed to Philip IV over the Knights Templar, whom the king had arrested in 1307 and whose order Clement went on to abolish in 1312.

Under John XXII, the papacy struggled to master the turbulent Italian states and to fend off the powerful Holy Roman Emperor, Louis IV. These popes issued a stream of decrees that kept the papacy anchored in France, at a safe remove from the conflicts that had engulfed the Church at the start of the fourteenth century. John's successor, Benedict XII, was a very different figure: an austere Cistercian and reformer who set about curbing the luxury and abuses of the papal court rather than indulging in them. His pontificate coincided with a gathering storm, as Edward III of England pressed his claim to the French throne and launched a series of campaigns to make it good.

To meet this threat, Philip VI leaned on the Church to help defend his throne against English conquest. In 1337 there began the long struggle that would reshape both kingdoms - the Hundred Years' War (1337-1453), a contest for the very survival of the French crown. Benedict XII (Jacques Fournier), who had succeeded John XXII in 1334, was French-born and had risen through a long ecclesiastical career, serving as bishop of Pamiers from 1317 and being made a cardinal in 1327. A committed reformer, he tightened discipline in the religious orders, began building the Palais des Papes, and settled a lingering theological dispute with his bull on the beatific vision (1336); he also kept up the running conflict with Louis IV, which both sides were by now anxious to resolve.

The English Issue

Clement VI (Pierre Roger) was the fourth Avignon pope in unbroken French succession, and he came to the office after a long career in the Church. A gifted scholar, he had studied and taught at Paris and held a series of ecclesiastical posts. In 1326 he became abbot of Fécamp, one of the great royal abbeys of France, a position that placed him close to the crown. He was also entrusted with important diplomatic missions, including matters touching the Duchy of Aquitaine and relations with England.

He served as a royal counsellor, becoming bishop of Arras in 1328 and then, after a spell as archbishop of Sens, archbishop of Rouen in 1330 - demanding roles in which he worked to keep the peace between the French and English crowns. He also entered the great theological debate of the day: in 1333 he defended the orthodox view of the beatific vision, that the souls of the blessed behold God immediately after death. When he was elected pope in 1342, he enjoyed strong backing from the French court - including the king's son John, the future John II - and from a conclave dominated by French cardinals, which settled on him within two days.

Crowned at Pentecost amid a throng of French supporters, Clement owed much of his standing to the French crown and to the connections he had built over the years - an alignment that would later complicate his efforts at peacemaking, even as Edward III's victories mounted in the Hundred Years' War (Gruber, 1933, 193). Among the marks of his reign was the creation of a host of new cardinals, overwhelmingly French, which bound the College still more tightly to French interests. The Black Death, which swept away perhaps a third of Europe's population between 1347 and 1351, posed a graver challenge still: Clement granted remission of sins to those who died of the plague and, when Jews were scapegoated for it, issued bulls forbidding their persecution.

Like most popes, Clement was drawn into the quarrels of princes. He backed Charles IV of Luxembourg against Louis IV in the contest for the Empire, and after Louis's death in 1347 the imperial succession remained disputed. He also cast himself as a mediator between France and England, working to shore up the French throne and to keep the peace whenever the monarchs seemed bent on renewed conflict. Clement died in 1352, leaving the Church to face deepening troubles. His reign had been a boon to France - built on the authority he had won under earlier French kings - but that advantage would not long outlast him.

So what?

For the English, it often seemed that the Church was not on their side (Gruber, 1933, 194). A succession of truces - Malestroit in 1343, Calais in 1347 - punctuated the fighting, and although the English held the military advantage in these early years, they increasingly regarded the Avignon Papacy as an instrument of the French crown (Menache, 1986, 427). They came to see it as a threat, and under Clement VI that suspicion only deepened. These first four Avignon popes are worth dwelling on before we reach 1370, for they set the stage for the upheavals that would soon convulse Europe.

France, too, was troubled in these years, wracked by internal strife and the loss of territory to England. The situation nonetheless allowed the papacy to support France quietly, without provoking the English crown by open favoritism. The real question is how France would emerge from it all: its kings often looked weak, and it remained to be seen whether the Church could survive alongside them.

Now read about the War of the Breton Succession here.

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References

Gruber, John. “The Peace Negotiations of the Avignon Popes.” The Catholic Historical Review 19, no. 2 (1933): 190–99. http://www.jstor.org/stable/25013157.

Menache, Sophia. “The Failure of John XXII’s Policy toward France and England: Reasons and Outcomes, 1316-1334.” Church History, vol. 55, no. 4, 1986, pp. 423–37. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/3166366. Accessed 5 Aug. 2026.

King John: Rebellion and Magna Carta – Part 3

By 1215, England had reached a point where opposition to King John was no longer a collection of private grievances among a handful of dissatisfied nobles. Years of military failure, heavy taxation, arbitrary government and disputes with the Church had steadily eroded confidence in the king. The loss of Normandy and much of the Angevin Empire had damaged John's prestige, while his repeated demands for money to finance further military campaigns placed an increasingly heavy burden upon his subjects. For many of the barons, the question was no longer simply whether John was a successful king. It was whether his authority could continue without restraint.

Terry Bailey explains.

You can read part 1 on the cruel King who made his own enemies here, and part 2 on losing an empire here.

The 1225 version of Magna Carta issued by Henry III of England. Source: Public domain, National Archives, available here.

The rebellion that emerged was therefore organized rather than spontaneous. A group of powerful barons formed a coalition against John, coordinating their demands and presenting a united political front. They were not attempting to abolish the monarchy, nor were they seeking to produce a modern democracy. Their objective was to force the king to recognize that even a monarch was subject to established law and custom. In medieval England, this was a revolutionary proposition in practice, even though the rebels themselves largely expressed their demands in terms of restoring traditional rights.

The rebels understood that military pressure alone might not be enough. They needed to demonstrate that John could no longer govern effectively without their cooperation. Their campaign therefore combined armed resistance with political organization. When negotiations failed, the barons moved against royal strongholds and eventually seized London in May 1215. The capture of the capital was a decisive turning point. London was not merely England's largest and most important city; it was a center of royal finance, administration and trade. Its loss placed enormous pressure upon John and demonstrated that the rebellion had become a national political crisis.

With London in rebel hands, John was forced to negotiate. The king and the barons met at Runnymede, a meadow beside the River Thames, in June 1215. The negotiations were difficult, and neither side entirely trusted the other. The barons wanted enforceable guarantees that John would respect their liberties, while John wanted to preserve the authority of the Crown. The resulting document, eventually known as Magna Carta, was therefore not a declaration of democracy but a negotiated attempt to prevent the kingdom from descending further into civil war.

Magna Carta was sealed by John on 15 June 1215. Its immediate purpose was practical: to settle the dispute between the king and the rebel barons. Yet the document contained principles whose significance would eventually extend far beyond the circumstances in which it was produced. It established the idea that the king's authority was not unlimited and that royal government should operate according to recognized law and custom.

One of the earliest provisions concerned the Church. Magna Carta declared that the English Church should be free and possess its liberties unimpaired. This reflected the bitter struggle between John and the papacy that had dominated part of his reign, but it also reinforced the broader principle that the king could not simply treat every institution within his kingdom as an extension of his personal authority.

The charter also dealt extensively with property and inheritance. The arbitrary seizure of land, excessive financial demands and abuses of feudal authority had invoked deep resentment among the barons. Magna Carta attempted to establish clearer rules governing inheritance, debts, property and the responsibilities of royal officials. These provisions were particularly important to the aristocracy, but the underlying principle was broader: property could not simply be taken or manipulated at the king's personal whim.

Taxation was another major source of conflict. John had repeatedly demanded money from his subjects to finance his wars, including through scutage, a payment traditionally made by knights in place of military service. Magna Carta placed important restrictions on the king's ability to impose certain extraordinary financial demands without the "common counsel" of the kingdom. Although this was not parliamentary taxation in the modern sense, it represented an important step towards the principle that taxation required consultation and consent.

Perhaps the most famous principle appears in Clause 39, which addressed imprisonment, dispossession and justice. It stated that no free man was to be arrested, imprisoned, dispossessed, outlawed or exiled except by the lawful judgment of his equals or by the law of the land. The provision did not establish universal equality before the law as we understand it today, because medieval society was deeply hierarchical. Nevertheless, it placed an important conceptual limitation upon arbitrary royal power: the king could not simply punish a free man according to personal preference without reference to lawful process.

The famous phrase "law of the land" would acquire enormous importance in later centuries. Magna Carta did not invent the idea that kings should obey the law, but it gave that principle a powerful written expression. The significance of Clause 39 lies therefore not simply in what it meant to a thirteenth-century baron, but in how later generations interpreted and developed its underlying concept of due process and lawful government.

Another extraordinary provision was the security clause, Clause 61. This introduced a mechanism through which a committee of twenty-five barons could monitor the king's compliance with the charter. If John violated its terms, the barons could take action against him, including seizing royal property until the breach was corrected. In effect, the clause attempted to give the charter an enforcement mechanism rather than relying solely upon the king's goodwill.

The inclusion of Clause 61 reveals just how little trust existed between John and his opponents. The rebels clearly believed that a simple promise from the king would be insufficient. They wanted a practical means of compelling him to obey the agreement. In doing so, they were challenging one of the fundamental assumptions of medieval kingship: that royal authority ultimately rested in the person of the monarch.

Although the barons were the driving force behind the rebellion, the crisis affected a much wider section of English society. Merchants depended upon predictable laws and secure trade, while townspeople were increasingly important to the economy and administration of the kingdom. Freemen had interests in property, justice and protection from arbitrary authority, while peasants, although largely excluded from political power, were affected by the taxation, feudal obligations and administrative abuses generated by royal government.

It would therefore be misleading to portray Magna Carta as a document written for ordinary people in the modern democratic sense. Most of its immediate beneficiaries were members of the political and social elite, particularly the barons and other free men. Yet the principle that government should be constrained by law possessed a potential far greater than the intentions of those who penned it. Over succeeding centuries, lawyers, politicians and reformers would repeatedly return to Magna Carta as evidence that royal authority had limits.

This is where the events of 1215 become particularly important in the longer history of constitutional government. England did not suddenly become a constitutional monarchy when John sealed Magna Carta. There was no parliament in the modern sense, no universal suffrage and no concept of equal political rights. Nevertheless, the confrontation established a powerful precedent: the king could be compelled to recognize that his authority was subject to law and that certain decisions required consultation and established procedure.

For John, however, Magna Carta was never a settlement he genuinely intended to embrace. He had accepted the charter because the political and military circumstances had left him with little alternative. Almost immediately, both sides began preparing for the possibility that the agreement would collapse. John appealed to Pope Innocent III, who regarded the charter as an unacceptable limitation upon the authority of an anointed king. The pope subsequently annulled it, and the fragile peace of 1215 disintegrated.

England was once again plunged into civil war. The rebels had achieved an extraordinary victory at Runnymede, but they had not solved the fundamental problem of John's kingship. The charter had been sealed, but it had not been secured. The struggle between the king and his opponents would therefore continue, setting the stage for the final and most dramatic phase of John's reign.

Needless to say, the sealing of Magna Carta in June 1215 was therefore neither the end of King John's troubles nor the sudden birth of English democracy. It was the product of a profound political crisis in which military defeat, financial demands, arbitrary government and conflict with the Church had combined to undermine confidence in the Crown. The barons had forced John to accept written limitations upon his authority, but the charter remained a fragile compromise rather than a lasting peace. Its provisions were shaped by the immediate concerns of medieval society, particularly the rights of the Church, the aristocracy and free men, and they did not create equality, representative government or universal rights. Nevertheless, the principle that emerged from the confrontation was immensely significant: the king was not entirely above the law. Royal authority could be challenged, negotiated and, at least in principle, restrained by established law and custom.

Yet Magna Carta's immediate failure is as important as its later legacy. John's appeal to Pope Innocent III and the papal annulment of the charter demonstrated how little genuine trust existed between the Crown and the rebel barons. Within months, England had returned to civil war, proving that a document alone could not resolve a political struggle when neither side was prepared to accept its terms. The conflict would ultimately outlive John himself, whose reign descended into further military and political crisis before his death in October 1216. Magna Carta would also be reissued in modified forms under his successors, gradually separating the enduring principles of lawful government from the circumstances of its troubled birth.

The true importance of 1215 therefore lies not in the notion that England suddenly became free, but in the precedent established by the confrontation between John and his opponents. Magna Carta became a symbol of the proposition that government must operate within the law and that even a monarch cannot exercise power entirely according to personal will. Over the centuries, later generations would reinterpret its provisions, particularly those concerning lawful judgment, due process and taxation, giving them meanings far beyond what the barons at Runnymede could have anticipated. The rebellion of 1215 was born from medieval grievances and elite political interests, but its consequences reached into the development of constitutional government itself. In that sense, the crisis surrounding King John transformed a desperate attempt to restrain an unpopular monarch into one of the most enduring political landmarks in English history.

Now, read Terry’s series on King Kenry VIII and his wives here.

History on the Street in Ireland and Malta

When strolling through hot sandy Malta, strange are the sights that might startle a tourist, especially those of us with an interest in Anglo-Irish history. Among the sacred sites of domes and steeples there’s an occasional red object that resembles and shares the shape of icons back home in the damp cool British Isles.

Here, John O’Dowd looks at history in Ireland and Malta.

WB Yeats by George Charles Beresford. Source: Public domain, National Portrait Gallery, available here.

Yes, Malta is a warm dry dusty paradise; a pearl in the Mediterranean. It’s so far south that it almost touches Africa. On the contrary, for an example, Ireland is an emerald on an opposite edge of Europe, shivering and glittering with wet jagged cliffs reaching towards America. Even in summer, it’s bashed by the cold Atlantic and stung with a razor-sharp wind. The only image nature shares with both outposts is the sky and endless sea, albeit, one island is surrounded with deep growling colours and the other illuminated with sunnier shades.

So, to find a common denominator, some might note that both islands were graced with Ireland’s Nobel-winning poet, WB Yeats. Known for rebellious theatre and love letters, it’s rumoured that he meandered through Malta’s capital, Valetta. However, Yeats wasn’t fit for much walking and was on the resort to see a doctor. It’s understood that he was suffering from Malta Fever, and didn’t do much writing either. However, a first edition of his work was prized and lovingly kept at a local library. To this day, his poetry is read, studied and celebrated in Malta but no, Yeats poetry or any other Irish writing is not what jumps out immediately at Irish tourists as they ramble through sun-drenched streets. Rather, it’s something much more objectively physical and British that stirs an interest in visitors. It’s a chunk of metal, a bit of a bulk that’s cemented into the ground.

As bold as the burning sun, blatantly Britannic icons are the attraction: a British post-box and phone kiosk! These relics of empire stand to attention on Mediterranean squares and street corners. They’re blazingly stark naked in bright royal red polished paint beside palm trees. These metal icons are moulded with a monarch’s mark and standing tall with an imperialist stance. For any historian rambling through Malta, squinting at majestic buildings and dazed by illuminated limestone, the abrupt spasms of royal red metallic street furniture are a feast for the eye.

Visitors are often in awe with these colonial relics of ingenuity, marvelling at how polished they are; such a shine to put councils back home to shame. A child might think of Postman Pat with his black and white cat; children throughout Malta and the world are familiar with the cartoon characters serving the Royal Mail.

Irish streets also inherited such iconic furniture but the sculptured structures were painted green or matching shades of cream long ago. Both Malta and the Emerald Isle are adorned with these metallic monuments to a British monarch, as are numerous other ex-colonies and crown territories throughout the world. Gibraltar is another Mediterranean example but remnants of the late-empire’s infrastructure don’t stop there. A red phone-box buried in jungle has startled many travellers in Africa. Treading through growth in Sierra Leone, a hiker could come upon a British phone-box in need of a coat of paint. It’s indeed red, though blistered by sun but standing tall against towering greenery that threatens to devour it. Neglected and long out of order but, like the metal monuments in Malta, and Postman Pat, it’s loved. It seems that the whole empire, or its remnants, is littered with icons from yesteryear: post-box, kiosk, clock tower, a road sign, bus stop, bus shelter with Victorian wrought-iron railings, together with lengths of railway sunk beneath a jungle floor, not to forget the odd statue of Queen Victoria.

Ireland is an oddity because the street furniture is painted green or a matching shade of cream. Sometimes, a heavy repetitive coat of the thick moss colour was pasted onto a post-box. The new colouring for postal and telegraphy infrastructure erupted with Irish independence. In 1922, the Free State set about installing street names in the Irish language, and rechristening train stations to honour revolutionary leaders. However, nothing was more vibrantly stark and as immediate as painting metalwork on a street. The change of sovereignty was heralded with a thick coat of green paint. The painting of hardware in Ireland was described as the first populist act of the new parliament, the Dail Eireann in Dublin. Decoration was easy but the imprinted symbols of British monarchs were more stubborn and refused to budge; crests remained moulded in metal. In Ireland and Malta, and indeed worldwide, lettering for Queen Victoria and King George remain inscribed and alive to this day. History leaves its mark upon the street.

While post-boxes in Ireland are green, those across the sea remain royalist red. However, there’s the overlapping corner on the Emerald Isle where colours clash. It’s where symbols matter. Tribal colours in Ulster are displayed as patriotically as a flag on a lamppost, changing abruptly at the Gerrymandered border: Green or Red, British or Irish, Loyalist or Republican. Some Unionists and observers alike suspect that these team colours could pose a problem if Irish unity was to proceed. History points to Britannic regalia being discoloured and some demolished: Nelson’s Pillar blown-up in Dublin and Queen Victoria’s statue smashed to smithereens. Could Unionists be robbed of their cultural comforts yet again? Surely, they’d see red if anyone was to paint their local post box in Belfast green!

Maybe Malta, an island that’s a thousand miles away, has the amicable answer. It has significantly more in common with Ireland than a post-box, or a phone-box or the love of Postman Pat with his black and white cat. Malta is declared to be the world’s most Catholic country, even more than the Republic of Ireland. This tiny blessed state boasts more papist churches in relation to population than anywhere else. It has a majestic baroque cathedral that makes the Vatican look like a mere garden shed. This is where Europe stood against Arab invaders, resisted the Otterman Empire, flew the flag and held the frontline for Christendom. The course of Europe’s history was decided in Malta. Ever since establishing a home for Christian knights, a springboard for crusades, and hosting the Order of Saint John, they’ve been blessing themselves and going to a Catholic mass, to confession and kneeling for the Angelus at six o’clock. Like children throughout Ireland, youngsters in Malta will prepare for their First Holy Communion and go on to get married in a Catholic church and maybe receive Last Rites from a priest at the end of their lives.

In a further similarity with republican Ireland, Malta had its own rebellion against British rule, during the time of the Irish Troubles. The bloody Sette Giugnio riots occurred in 1919. This resulted in, initially, a harsh suppression by the colonial authorities and then self-government being reluctantly granted in 1921. The two islands seemingly moved in similar steps at, roughly, the same time. As with the Easter Rising being commemorated in Dublin, Malta marks Sette Giugnio every year.

So, did Malta remove British icons or, maybe, go paint a post-box? No, not a bit of it. Despite its rebellion and papist allegiance, Malta was fighting for empire and its Protestant king a few years later. It held the fort for the Mother Country throughout World War Two. The island garrison in the Mediterranean was under siege. Again! Its history is littered with bombardments because of its strategic location: before and during the Roman Empire, then an Arab conquest and throughout the time of the Ottermans. As late as 1800 the island was blockaded during Napoleonic wars. So, in the early Forties it was rewarded yet again for its stubbornness, for their Maltese tendency to resist surrender. They were bold and resilient to the end. Being a mighty British defender of the sea resulted in it being bombed and bombed again. It was hit more than any other country on planet Earth. Despite being attacked mercilessly it refused to surrender; as always. It held the record for the most battered place during the war until a nuclear blast elevated poor Japan to take that most unwanted prize. At the end of an awful war the whole island was awarded the George Cross Medal for bravery and loyalty.

Some might have thought that Malta would have had enough of British colours and paraphernalia and all things empire. But no! Catholic Malta’s fondness for the red British post-box and kiosk is as staunch as the Irish Protestant’s appreciation for the Orange Lodge; loved, as children would love Postman Pat with his black and white cat.

Unionist or Nationalist, British or Irish, planter or Gael, take heed of Catholic rebels in Malta, proud of their Anglican steeple dominating the Valetta skyline. The tall stout Protestant church, Saint Paul’s, is just down the street from scores of Catholic churches and Saint John’s cathedral. Could Malta be a model for Ulster, a Catholic gesture and promise not to paint the town green again? Could voters for Irish unity still cherish nostalgia and appreciate the British post-box? 

It’s an important question because symbols matter. To this day, tribes fight over colours and words in Ulster, tearing down flags to burn and spit on, and whitewashing road signs into oblivion. A visitor to Malta, Carl Jung, psychologist and author of Man And His Symbols, unfolds the significance of steeples, statues, spirals and the like. Jung had an interest in the miss-mash of sacred sites on the island dating back centuries beyond the arrival of the British or any other empire. Today’s tourist is presented with both prehistoric and post-Roman religious symbols. The sacred structures sit happy alongside icons of Twentieth-century modernity and telepathy. They document religion’s history with domes and spikes, the symbols that Jung wrote about. It seems he did not write about the Great British phone-box, not a mention of its ornate crest to honour a monarch, but disciples of Jung regard technology as an emerging religion, as they did capitalism and all things money. They believe every religion has its symbols. Joseph Campbell, the writer and Jung-follower, suggested that modern structures, such as boastful tech towers and financial skyscrapers, reflect beliefs and are up there with the domes and steeples. Or maybe down there on a street with a red British phone-box.

Despite tourist hotels, Valetta has been spared the latest fashion in high-rise structure. It’s skyline and street scene has everything it needs to reflect ancient gods, Christendom and Twentieth-century modernity. The Internet, digitalisation and virtual space-age clouds may have rendered the post-box and phone-box redundant but the old street icons demand their slot in history. They stand there, alongside church and cathedral, not in a museum. Or is Malta a living museum? Regardless of a visitor’s belief, whether its ancient, modern or futuristic, there’s plenty to entertain the eye of today’s historian, tourist, dreamer, whoever.

Today, visitors walk in the footsteps of both Jung and Ireland’s writer of love letters. Yeats is regarded as the most all-time poetic client of the Royal Mail or any postal service. He is read and quoted here. Unfortunately, he was delivered late for much of Ireland. He was a true servant to Eire through troubled times, being instrumental in making the Irish Free-state function when, as with Malta, the British released its hold. However, he remained loyal to Protestant tradition. He would probably have voted to keep his local post-box painted red. He insisted on being buried in a Protestant churchyard but despite his allegiance to English tradition he embraced, honoured, promoted and even mourned Celtic culture: faeries, banshee and all. In his famous poem, Easter 1916, he wrote of Irish nationalism:

Wherever green is worn…..  A terrible beauty is born.

Maybe Ireland could revisit Yeats poetry, and copy Malta, adopt iconic monuments to a monarch, keep them as an inheritance rather than symbols of suppression. Let all be loved by tourist and locals alike, as Yeats loved Ireland and faeries, as the Maltese cherish symbols of the past, love authentic British icons as children love Postman Pat with his black and white cat.

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Kingdom of Aksum & the 570-580 AD War with the Sasanian Empire of Persia

Late Antiquity would witness a conflict between one African Kingdom and Persia that would give the Persians both headaches and competition for control of economic trade and profit in the Arabian Peninsula. Here, Husain Roussel looks at the battle between Persia and the Kingdom of Aksum.

Folio from a Tarikhnama (Book of history) by Balami. Source: Public domain, Abu Ali Bal'ami , available here.

Introduction

The Kingdom of Aksum described by contemporary Persians of the time as one of the world’s four great empires, along with the Persians, Romans, and China. The Kingdom of Aksum also known as Axum or Aksumite Empire was a regional power located in what is now the Tigray Region and present town of Aksum in the country of Ethiopia that existed in the area from the early 1st century AD until around 960 AD. The Aksumites were the first Kingdom in Sub-Saharan Africa to mint their own coinage in the year 270 AD under Aksumite King Endybis with their coins found as far away as India through maritime trade networks. The Aksumite Kingdom emerged as a regional power after it defeated their competitor the Kingdom of Kush in present day Sudan (Nubia) for sole supremacy and trade for profitable resources like gold deposits in the region around the year 350 AD. Aksum had become one of the Christian Kingdoms to emerge early in Sub-Saharan Africa before the rise of both Islamic expansion and influence in Egypt beginning with the Rashidun Caliphate where Islam had become the new religion for the majority of the population. The first Nubian King recorded to have accepted the Christian faith around the 5th Century was King Silko, King of Nobatia. The Aksumites became Christians sometime around the middle of the 4th Century AD under the Aksumite King Ezana after his conversion to Christianity. However, other lands outside of Nubia and Ethiopia not under direct control by Islam or Christian Kingdoms would witness followers of the Christian faith enduring harsh and sometimes severe treatment by leaders of other faiths namely, those residing in the client states of the Sasanian Empire of Persia. The Sasanian Persians were at this time involved in fierce rivalry and continuous wars with the Byzantine Empire (Eastern Roman Empire) and the Orthodox Christian faith for regional supremacy.

Rise of the Sub-Saharan Christian Kingdoms

The Kingdom of Kush had fallen to the Aksumites, however other Nubian groups formerly under control of the Kushite Kingdom and remnants of the Meroitic Kushite population began mixing with a host of new Nubian settlers forming into 3 new separate Christian Kingdoms called The Kingdom of Nobatia (400 AD - 7th Century AD), The Kingdom of Alodia (6th Century AD - 1500 AD), and the Kingdom of Makuria (5th Century - Late 15thCentury). All of these Christian Nubian Kingdoms along with the Kingdom of Aksum began to ally themselves with the Byzantine Empire to maintain a trade presence in Nubian and Ethiopian areas of influence. The Kingdoms were indeed separate and at times would go to war with each other, although their sole mission in Sub-Saharan Africa was the prevention of Islamic or Pagan inspired threats from taking over their Kingdoms. The alliance with Byzantium and other Christian Kingdoms would see a massive growth of new profits, trade networks, military alliances with the Byzantine Empire during warfare, and far reaching diplomatic relations outside of Africa. The culture exchange would also see Byzantine and Hellenistic inspired styles mixed with local styles in clothing, the introduction of Christian monasteries and new designs for architecture, building of numerous Christian churches, and Byzantine missionaries spreading the teachings of Orthodox Christianity to each Kingdom. The 3 Nubian Christian Kingdoms and Aksum would be a buffer between the influence of Islam and the spread of Orthodox Christianity on behalf of the Byzantine Empire in the Sub-Saharan region. Despite this wealth of knowledge, trade, and alliances, the Kingdom of Aksum as the most powerful at the time of the African proxy states under Byzantine influence wanted to spread their wings to more distant shores. The Aksumites were not satisfied with just controlling territory in Ethiopia and Nubian lands deciding they were powerful and bold enough to expand their trade routes and secure profits from the Saudi Arabian Peninsula. The Aksumites decided they would use the protection and liberation of persecuted Christians in Saudi Arabia to justify their invasion of new territory.

Mistreatment and Massacre of Christians in Najran

A significant population of Christian settlers and bishops lived in the South Arabian town of Najran. The community had been spreading in the region since pre Islamic times and became more numerous in the area around the 5th Century AD. They aligned themselves with the Byzantine Empire who supported them in their religious beliefs and spreading the teachings of Jesus Christ. For a time, the community lived in peace with protection from the Byzantine Emperors. Najran is possibly where early Christians were able to establish the first foundation for Christianity to set foot in the Saudi Arabian Peninsula. Judaism had also found a safe haven for sanctuary in the pre Islamic Arabian Peninsula. The Jewish Kingdom of Himyar located in the southwestern mountainous range of the Arabian Peninsula was in what is now the country of Yemen. Around the early 520s AD the Jewish King Yusuf As'ar Yath'ar (Dhū Nuwās) of the Himyarites led a campaign of persecution against the Christian community of Najran and the Christian community in his Kingdom. He ruthlessly made war on any followers of beliefs outside of the Jewish faith. The persecution involved a campaign of genocide which led to a massacre of Christians that shocked most of the Christian world that had heard about the event during this time. Procopius notes Hellesthaeaus, the king of the Aethiopians, who was a Christian and a most devoted adherent of this faith, discovered that a number of the Homeritae on the opposite mainland were oppressing the Christians there outrageously; many of these rascals were Jews. (Dewing, 2023, Book 1, Ch. 20, p. 68). The most likely reasons for the Himyarite King Dhu Nuwas to attack the Christians was to consolidate his own political power, cripple the expanding influence of the Christian faith, and more importantly to retaliate against the Byzantine Empire for their persecution of Jews. A mistake that the Kingdom of Himyar would soon regret and a spark for future war between the Sasanian Persians and Aksumites for who would finally control the region.

Aksumite Invasion and Capture of Himyar

Like a scene from the Godfather film, the Byzantine Emperor Justin I also called Justin the Thracian and founder of the famous Justinian dynasty immediately gave his blessings and permission for the Aksumites to wage a war of retribution against the Kingdom of Himyar for the unforgivable slaughter of the Christian community in Najran. This was according to the Byzantine Scholar and Historian Procopius of Caesarea (500 AD - 565 AD), a request made by the Byzantine Emperor to King Kaleb (also named Hellestheaios) of the Kingdom of Aksum to send his Aksumite Christian armies from Ethiopia to invade Himyar which resulted in an overwhelming victory for the Aksumite army in 525 AD. The Aksumites had a powerful navy and were capable of using them not only for securement of trade routes in the Red Sea and beyond but also for massive troop transports for warfare operations against their rivals. This would lead to the Kingdom of Aksum gaining total control over present day Yemen and the South Arabian Peninsula. King Kaleb gathered a large army in response to the persections of Christians, according to Procopius, he therefore collected a fleet of ships and an army and came against them, and he conquered them in battle and slew both the king and many of the Homeritae. (Dewing, 2023, Book 1, Ch. 20, p. 68). The Himyarite King Dhū Nuwās is said in legend to have committed suicide whether than accept the defeat of his army by the Aksumites. King Kaleb then placed a viceroy named Sumyafa' Ashwa al-Yazani, also named Esimiphaios to govern Himyar for the Aksumite Empire outside of Africa and receive tribute from the Aksumites who moved to the area. This would be shortlived since the viceroy was eventually overthrown by the Aksumites who refused paying tribute to King Kaleb. The viceroy was murdered by the Aksumite General Abraha who was one of the commanders sent by King Kaleb to crush Himyar and Yemeni resistance during the invasion of Himyar.  He would then declare himself King Abraha of the newly formed Himyarite-Aksumite Kingdom of Yemen. King Kaleb sent around 2 separate expeditions to retake Himyar from the usurper Abraha, however both attempts failed with their commanders killed and surviving troops defecting to Abraha. Abraha was left as sole and undisputed ruler of Himyar and South Arabia with accounts of 100,000 soldiers under his authority throughout the region.

The Abyssinian King Abraha of Himyar

King Abraha ruled the Himyarite-Aksumite Kingdom with an iron fist from about 535 AD until his death sometime before 570 AD. He sent numerous expeditions allegedly with war elephants to pre Islamic Mecca with the goal of destroying pagan idols and the Kaaba Holy Shrine to build a large Orthodox Chrisitan Church on the site. He failed for unknown reasons that were attributed by later Islamic tradition to be the divine act of Allah. He instead built with the help of Byzantine guidance the Grand Cathedral of Al-Qalis Church in Sana'a, Yemen to rival the Kaaba in Mecca and continue the spread and importance of Christianity among his people. In addition to building other Christian churches in Himyar, Najran, and other locations within his sphere of control Abraha’s military campaigns continue to grow in conquests. His control of territory during his reign extended to large parts of the Arabian Peninsula, lower parts of modern day Iraq, and possibly the area of Palestine. He would not be able to have total control of these areas due to constant skirmishes and small wars with the Sasanian Persian Empire and the Lakhmid Kingdom a client state of the Sasanian Persians who fought hard to retake these conquests from Abraha. King Abraha eventually died, and had two sons that would be the successors to his Aksumite ruled Himyarite Kingdom. The first son to rule was named King Yaksum ibn Abraha, but he would die early in his reign. The second son King Masruq ibn Abraha would wage numerous wars against the Sasanian Persian Empire to retain control of his Kingdom in Yemen.

Himyar Elites Plead with Persia to Remove Aksumite Rule

The Persian Rulers of the Sasanian Empire had finally deicded around 570 AD they had enough of Aksumite dominance, aggression, and expansion in their backyard. The client states of the Sasanian Empire were pleading and begging for assistance from the Persians to lead a large scale military invasion to crush the Aksumites and drive them back to the shores of Africa. Saif ibn Dhi Yazan al-Himyari whose mother was married to King Abraha by force wanted to take the throne of Himyar for himself and seek revenge. He initially made a request to the Byzantine Emperor for support and to be recognized as the rightful King of Himyar, His request for help was denied and his next option was to seek help from the Sasanian Empire King of Kings the ruler Khosrow I, and this time help would come. The agreement came with the promise that the Kingdom of Himyar would become fully annexed to the Sasanian Empire as a vassal state once the Aksumites were driven out of the region. True to his word, Khosrow I sent the Sasanian Persian General Wahrez and his son Nawzadh with a army of around 16,000 soldiers transported by a fleet of ships that sailed around the Arabian Peninsula from the Persian Gulf port of Oballa just east of the modern day city of Basra in southern Iraq. The Persians wrecked 2 ships out of the 8 used to transport their military during the invasion but managed to capture the Bahrain islands, the portside town of Sohar in Oman, and the province of Dhofar also in Oman. However, during the invasion against stiff resistance from the Aksumite army General Wahrez’s son Nawzadh was killed during the initial fighting. General Wahrez then swore a blood vegeance against the Aksumite King for the death of his son. The next stop for the Sasanian Perisan army once they secured territory in Oman and defeated further resistance was a march to the region of Hadhramaut which covers a large portion of Yemen.

The Battle of Hadhramaut 1st Persian War

King Masruq ibn Abraha of the Himyarite- Aksumite Kingdom arrived in 570 AD to meet the Persian army with a military force of 6,000 to 10,000 men against the 16,000 commanded by the Persian General Wahrez. The Aksumites fault bravely and ferociously, but were no match for the advanced military techology that the Persians brought with them to the battlefield that the defenders were not accustomed to fighting against. For example, one deadly weapon used by the Sasanian Persian Cavalry called the Panjagan was a type of projectile weapon that could fire around five arrows at once against Aksumite enemy targets. The Persians won the battle in a decisive victory, and King Masruq ibn Abraha is said to have been personally executed by General Wahrez for the early death of his son during the beginning of the conflict. This was not the end of the conflict and the Persians then advanced toward Sanaa the Yemeni Capital and the main powerbase for the Aksumites in Yemen. General Wahrez led the seige against the city and once again the defenders were no match for the Persian offensive. The city fell and Saif ibn Dhi Yazan as promised was placed as the King of Himyar and the vassal governor for Persia in the region once controlled by the Aksumites. The Aksumites that remained now had to swear allegiance to the new ruler of the Himyarites. General Wahrez then returned to Persian with his army and a large amount of plunder from the invasion.

The Aksumite Rebellion 2nd  Persian War 

Saif ibn Dhi Yazan ruled as a vassal King of Himyar for the Persians for about 4 years before he was murdered during a rebellion by his Aksumite subjects. The Aksumites regained control of the Kingdom of Himyar sometime around 575 AD and briefly mangae to hold it until around 578 AD. King of Kings Khosrow I infuriated by the insurrection and death of his vassal king in Himyar sends another invasion force to Yemen with the goal of complete destruction of Aksumite resistance and total annexation of the southern Arabian Peninsula for the Sasanian Persian Empire. He once again sends his victorius commander the Sasanian Persian General Wahrez in 575 AD this time with a force of between 4,000 – 8,000 soldiers to defeat the small Aksumite resistance force which by this time had no sizable army left from the previous war. Khosrow I feared if he did not react soon the Aksumites would be able to maintain a foothold once again in Yemen and receive support and possibly a formidable military force sent from the Kingdom of Aksum in Africa. His army quickly crushed the Aksumite resistance upon their arrival and removed any further threats of future Aksumite domination in the region. The Persians decided to end Himyarite self rule by the successors of Saif ibn Yazan after his death. Khosrow I then appointed General Wahrez to be the Governor of the Yemeni terrritory after full annexation to the Sasanian Empire charged with providing security, stability, and to prevent further pro Byzantine or Aksumite  influence in the region during their conflict with the Byzantine Empire during the Byzantine-Sasanian War that was fought between 572 AD - 591 AD.

Conclusion

The Persians had allowed the Aksumites to rule Yemen and the Arabian Peninsula for so long because they did not have the resources to divert a military force to attack the Aksumites while they were in constant warfare with the Byzantine Empire. The numerous wars with the Byzantine Empire for control of the Caucases, Mesopotamian regions, and access to the Silk Road were their primary concern and Yemen was not only secondary but too far away for another war while fighting the Byzantines at the same time. The Aksumites did trade with the Persians and the Persians received benefits from the trade, but they also took land away from the Persian client states. This entailed both an interdependence in mutual economic trade between the 2 powers and complex warfare for territorial control. The Persians of the Sasanian Empire under the King of Kings Khosrow I still had to show they were a powerful force to be reckoned with if they wanted to retain the loyalty of their client states and not appear that the Great Sasanian Persian Empire was both weak and unreliable to assist their subjects in times of need. The Kingdom of Aksum lost their grip and control of the Arabian Peninsula after 50 years of dominance once they were dealt a severe blow by the Persians. They would go on to rule in Africa, but their Kingdom would eventually collapse due to losing vital sea trade routes, environmental disasters, wars with other people like the nomadic Beja, internal political conflicts, and most importantly the later rise of Islamic conquests in surrounding areas crippling further economic ventures. The Sasanian Empire would suffer a similar lost and end to their Persian Empire with overwhelming military defeats and eventual conquest by Islamic forces of the Rashidun Caliphate. There would be no real winners between Aksum and the Sasanians once Islam took hold in the Middle East and North Africa. The only true winner would be the Byzantine Empire who managed to survive longer but with no more powerful client states like the kingdom of Aksum to fight their proxy wars. The Byzantines themselves would eventually end as a sovereign state in the year 1453 with a crushing defeat by Muslim forces of the Ottoman Empire.

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References

Procopius. (2023). The Persian wars (H. B. Dewing, Trans.). East India Publishing Company.

Image 1: Roussel, Husain. “Gold Coin of the Aksumite Kingdom King Ebana, 440 AD - 470 AD”, (2026) Photograph. Writer’s Private Collection.

Image 2: Roussel, Husain. Silver Dirhem of the Sasanian Empire King Peroz I, 459 AD – 484 AD”. (2026) Photograph. Writer’s Private Collection.

Illustration: Depiction of the Persian army General Wahrez killing the Aksumite King Masruq ibn Abraha with an arrow.  Early 14th Century Folio from a Tarikhnama (Book of History) by Balami. (Public Domain Illustration).

The Day That Philadelphia Helped To Save Washington D.C.

If you thought like most of us that the Battle of Gettysburg was the end of the significant fighting in the American Civil War — you’d be gravely mistaken. If you thought that the only sitting US President who took enemy fire in a Battle was George Washington or Teddy Roosevelt, unfortunately that it not correct either.

Michael Thomas Leibrandt explains.

Sergeant William J. Wray. Source: Public domain, Another Group of Heroes, available here.

During the summer of 1864 with both Richmond and Petersburg under siege, both Grant Union Army and Robert E. Lee’s Army if Northern Virginia were skirmishing around Maryland. One of Lee’s commanders who has been present at Gettysburg (General Jubal Early) began to move north directly threatening Washington DC. 

He engaged Union forces in a two-day battle at Monocacy Creek — where Federal Forces under Major General Lew Wallace were defeated and ultimately retreated back towards Baltimore — leaving the route to the American Capital open.

Among the approximately seventy earthen forts helping to depend Washington DC in 1864 were Fort Derussy, Fort Reno, and Fort Stephens. But the Pennsylvania 6th Corps who also contributed to a Union victory at Gettysburg would reinforce the capital. The Confederate Army would begin their attack at Fort Stephens — less than five miles from the White House.

President Abraham Lincoln was used to being in dangerous situations. In 1861 — he was moved to Washington for the inauguration in secret by train. Just a year earlier, he was the target amid a shot that rang out while he was riding on a regular trip to the soldier’s home. As the Confederate Army approached Washington — Lincoln and his family were evacuated from their cottage retreat. One day later —  both he and Mary Todd Lincoln rode to Fort Stephens to observe the fighting.

Climbing onto the parapets — President Lincoln and his stove-top hat came in range of Confederate Sharpshooters. A surgeon behind him was struck in the shoulder. According to legend — a young Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. who would later become an Associate Supreme Court Judge under the Roosevelt Administration — screamed toward President Lincoln to take cover. Moments later — Secretary of War Edwin Stanton quickly ushered Lincoln away to safety.

The next day — Early withdrew after Fort Stephens was reinforced by more Federal forces. Union forces subsequentlycleared the peach orchard in front of Fort Stephens of Confederate sharpshooters and artillery. Among the defenders from Philadelphia were the 98th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry which was also at Gettysburg. Philadelphian Sergeant William J. Wray of K Company even earned the Medal of Honor for his role in rallying troops.

Several notable quotes came from the engagement including a Federal soldier who was heard to have said, “Jubal Early should have attacked earlier in the morning, but Early was late.” General Early also made the famous remark, “We didn’t take Washington, but we scared Abe Lincoln like Hell.”

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Michael Thomas Leibrandt lives and works in the Philadelphia Suburbs.

Before Sunrise: Inside a Roman Bakery

Like today, a Roman bakery started very early and provided essential delicious food to the populace. Here, William McGrath describes how a Roman bakery operated in the early hours of the morning

Still life with eggs, birds and bronze dishes. Source: Public domain, Naples National Archaeological Museum, available here.

Before sunrise, the bakery is already awake.

The streets outside still lie in darkness, their stone surfaces cool beneath the night air, but warm light spills through the open doorway of the pistrinum, stretching across the street in uneven bands of gold. Before the first customer appears, before the markets begin to stir, the smell arrives first.

Fresh bread.

Warm flour.

Wood smoke.

Even those passing by know where it comes from.

Inside, the heat is immediate.

At the heart of the bakery stands the furnus, the great domed oven upon which everything depends. Built from brick and stone, its rounded walls have absorbed years of heat, smoke, and ash until they have become almost black around the mouth. The opening appears surprisingly small compared with the chamber hidden behind it, just large enough for long wooden paddles to slide loaves deep inside.

The fire itself is already dying.

It has done its work.

Hours earlier, bundles of seasoned wood were fed into the oven until the stone glowed with stored heat. Now the embers are raked away, leaving the floor clean enough for bread to bake directly upon the hot stone. The warmth radiates from the oven in slow waves, reaching every corner of the room.

The bakery never truly cools.

Every surface seems touched by warmth. Flour rests in a fine white dust across benches, shelves, and the shoulders of those who work here. It hangs faintly in the air, catching the light as workers pass through it.

The sounds are constant.

Wooden paddles scrape against stone. Dough lands heavily upon worn workbenches with a soft, rhythmic thud. Sacks of grain are lowered onto the floor. Someone coughs as another cloud of flour rises into the air. Quiet conversation blends with laughter before disappearing beneath the crackle of the oven and the steady knock of wooden bowls against the tables.

Outside, the deep grinding of millstones turns without pause.

Many bakeries ground their own flour using large volcanic stone mills, often powered by donkeys walking patiently in endless circles. Wheat disappears beneath the heavy stones before emerging as fresh flour, ready to become the day's bread.

Nothing inside the bakery remains still for long.

A broad-shouldered baker leans his full weight into a mound of dough, folding it again and again until it becomes smooth beneath his hands. Nearby, another worker rolls smaller portions across the bench with quick, practiced movements, scarcely looking as years of experience guide each motion. A younger apprentice hurries between them carrying baskets almost too large for him, drawing amused smiles from the older bakers as flour clings to his hair and eyelashes.

No one speaks of rushing.

Yet everyone moves quickly.

Each person understands their place within the rhythm of the bakery.

Roman bakeries employed a mixture of skilled bakers, apprentices, slaves, and freedmen. Every loaf depended upon their combined labor, each task passing seamlessly to the next. While one worker kneads, another shapes. While one loads the oven, another prepares the next batch. Long before sunrise, an entire day's work is already unfolding.

The dough itself changes beneath their hands.

At first it feels rough, uneven, reluctant to hold together. Gradually it softens, becoming elastic beneath steady pressure until it stretches without tearing. The smell changes too. Dry grain gives way to the gentle scent of rising bread, subtle at first before slowly filling the room.

Not every loaf is the same.

Some are large, round wheels intended to feed entire households. Others are smaller, carried home beneath an arm while still warm. Many are carefully scored before baking into eight equal sections, creating the familiar wheel-shaped loaves discovered preserved beneath the ash of Pompeii. The cuts make them easier to divide, whether shared among a family or sold in individual portions.

The color tells its own story.

The finest loaves emerge pale golden, made from carefully sifted wheat flour affordable only to wealthier households. Others bake darker, using barley or coarser grains more commonly found on ordinary Roman tables. Both nourish, though not every Roman eats equally.

Bread is only part of the day's work.

Honey cakes sweetened with thick golden honey cool upon wooden boards. Small buns flavored with poppy seeds or scented with anise wait beside fruit-filled pastries containing chopped dates or dried figs. Their sweetness is gentle rather than rich, but enough to tempt those passing the doorway as the first warmth of morning reaches the street.

The smell grows stronger.

Warm crust.

Roasted grain.

Honey.

Olive oil.

Smoke from the oven drifts beyond the doorway and settles into the cool morning air. Before anyone sees the bakery itself, they know exactly where it is.

Customers begin to arrive.

Some carry baskets from home. Others simply wait their turn, exchanging greetings with neighbors while watching fresh loaves disappear from the oven. Children stand on their toes trying to glimpse the shelves beyond the counter. One man cannot resist tearing away a corner of a loaf before he has even left the doorway, quickly passing it from one hand to the other as the heat catches his fingers.

No one seems surprised.

This happens every morning.

For Romans, bread was more than food. It formed the foundation of daily life, eaten by rich and poor alike. Entire neighborhoods depended upon bakeries like this one, where skilled workers transformed grain into the food that sustained the city. The smell drifting through the streets each morning was as familiar to ancient Rome as church bells or morning traffic are today.

Outside, daylight finally begins to spread across the rooftops.

The city awakens.

Merchants unlock their shops. Market stalls fill the streets. Voices rise from every direction as Rome begins another day.

Inside the bakery, little has changed.

The oven still glows with stored heat. Flour still hangs in the air. Fresh loaves continue to emerge one after another, their crusts crackling softly as they cool upon wooden shelves.

Long before the city is fully awake, Rome already knows where breakfast is waiting.

It simply follows the smell.

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Now read about what happened in Ancient Rome after dark here.

King John: Losing an Empire - War, Defeat and a Growing Rebellion – Part 2

The reign of King John entered its most dangerous phase not simply because he was unpopular, but because military failure began to undermine the very foundations of his authority. When John became king in 1199, he inherited one of the most extensive collections of territories ever assembled by an English monarch. The Angevin Empire stretched across large parts of modern-day France, from Normandy and Anjou to Aquitaine, while England itself provided the wealth and political base from which these possessions could be governed. Yet within little more than a decade, much of this vast inheritance had disappeared. The loss of these territories would have consequences far beyond the battlefield. It would damage John's reputation as a ruler, drain the English treasury, increase the financial demands placed upon his subjects and, ultimately, convince many of his most powerful nobles that the king himself had become a threat to the stability of the realm.

Terry Beiley explains.

You can read part 1 on the cruel King who made his own enemies here.

The coronation of Philip II of France. Source: Public domain, Bibliothèque nationale de France, available here.

John's difficulties began almost immediately after his accession. His claim to the French territories inherited from his brother Richard I was challenged by his nephew, Arthur of Brittany. Arthur was supported by Philip II of France, who saw an opportunity to weaken the Angevin territories that had long represented a formidable obstacle to Capetian expansion. John initially appeared capable of containing the threat, but his position deteriorated rapidly. His military response was undermined by political divisions within his French territories, and several important nobles began transferring their allegiance to Philip.

The decisive crisis came in 1203–1204 with the loss of Normandy. John had been unable to prevent Philip II from systematically attacking the duchy, while a combination of military pressure, defections and political miscalculation weakened the English position. The fall of Château Gaillard, the great fortress constructed by Richard I to guard Normandy, was particularly significant. When Château Gaillard fell in March 1204, the strategic position of Normandy became increasingly untenable. Rouen itself surrendered soon afterwards. By the end of 1204, Normandy, Anjou, Maine and Touraine had effectively been lost to the French crown.

The loss was catastrophic for John's prestige. Normandy had been under English royal control for generations and was not merely another possession across the Channel. It had been central to the political and economic power of the Norman and Angevin kings. Its loss meant that John had failed to defend one of the most important parts of his inheritance. Worse still, much of the defeat had occurred without the kind of spectacular final battle that could easily be blamed upon bad luck. Philip had gradually dismantled John's position through military pressure, diplomacy and the exploitation of John's political weaknesses.

The collapse of Normandy marked the beginning of the end of what historians commonly call the Angevin Empire. The term itself is somewhat misleading, because these territories were not a unified empire in the modern sense. They were a collection of duchies, counties and lordships held by the same ruling dynasty, each with its own traditions, laws and political relationships. Nevertheless, the territories together gave the English monarchy enormous prestige and resources. Their loss dramatically altered the balance of power between England and France.

John did not simply accept the loss. He spent much of the remainder of his reign attempting to recover the territories taken by Philip. This created a dilemma. To regain his continental possessions, John needed money. To obtain money, he had to place greater financial demands upon England. Yet the more money he extracted, the greater the resentment among the very people whose support he needed.

The king's strategy was ambitious. John attempted to build alliances against Philip and encouraged his nephew Otto IV, Holy Roman Emperor, to challenge French power. Other rulers and nobles were drawn into a broad coalition that sought to contain Philip II. In 1214, John launched a major campaign in France while his allies attacked from the north. If successful, the operation could have reversed years of French expansion and restored much of John's lost position. Instead, the campaign ended in disaster.

The crucial confrontation took place at the Battle of Bouvines in July 1214. John had already suffered a setback at La Roche-aux-Moines, where his advance into Anjou collapsed after resistance from local forces and the approach of enemy troops. Meanwhile, the allied army led by Otto IV met Philip II at Bouvines. The French king achieved a decisive victory. The defeat destroyed the coalition's immediate hopes of reversing French expansion and left John in an increasingly desperate position.

For John, Bouvines was far more than a military defeat. It represented the failure of years of diplomacy, taxation and military preparation. The enormous sums raised for the campaign had produced no corresponding victory. England had paid heavily for a war that had failed to restore the lost territories. The political consequences were therefore particularly severe.

John's attempts to finance his wars had already placed considerable pressure upon the English nobility. Medieval kings did not possess a modern taxation system capable of providing a predictable national income. The crown depended upon a mixture of traditional revenues, feudal payments, customs duties, fines, land income and extraordinary demands imposed when circumstances required additional money.

One of the most important mechanisms available to John was scutage, a payment traditionally made by knights or their lords in place of military service. In principle, scutage allowed the king to hire soldiers rather than requiring every knight owing military service to serve personally. It could therefore be a practical method of financing warfare. Under John, however, its repeated use and increasing financial burden contributed to the growing perception that the king was exploiting his feudal rights to extract as much money as possible from his subjects.

Scutage was not the only source of resentment. John imposed a range of extraordinary financial demands, fines and levies, and his administration became increasingly aggressive in collecting royal revenues. The issue was not simply that taxation existed; medieval kings had always demanded money. The problem was the scale and frequency of John's demands, particularly when the money appeared to be financing unsuccessful military campaigns.

For the barons, this produced a deeply troubling situation. They were expected to provide money to a king who had already lost enormous territories and then demanded still more resources to recover them. The argument could easily be turned against John: if his wars had repeatedly failed, why should the barons continue paying for them?

There was also a fundamental political issue beneath the financial dispute. Feudal government depended upon relationships of obligation and loyalty. A king expected service and money from his nobles, while nobles expected the king to protect their interests, respect established customs and administer justice. When either side believed the other was failing in its obligations, the relationship could begin to fracture.

John's reputation made the problem considerably worse. His military failures reinforced existing suspicions about his judgement, while his methods of government created fear and hostility among many of his subjects. His dealings with powerful nobles were frequently confrontational, and his use of financial penalties could leave wealthy men vulnerable to the king's demands. A monarch who was already distrusted could not easily impose extraordinary taxation without provoking resistance.

The Church also became increasingly hostile towards John. The dispute over the appointment of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Stephen Langton, had already brought John into conflict with Pope Innocent III. When John refused to accept the papal choice, England was placed under an interdict in 1208, suspending many public religious services. John himself was eventually excommunicated in 1209.

The dispute eventually became another source of political isolation. Although John ultimately submitted to the papacy and made substantial concessions, the episode damaged his relationship with important Church leaders. His willingness to confront the Church demonstrated the extraordinary extent to which he was prepared to resist opposition, but it also meant that he had alienated an institution possessing enormous political and social influence.

By the time John returned from his failed campaign in France in 1214, his position had become increasingly precarious. He had lost Normandy and most of the Angevin territories that had once formed the foundation of his family's continental power. His attempt to recover them had ended in failure. His treasury had been depleted by years of warfare, while the financial burden placed upon the English nobility had become increasingly difficult to justify.

The barons' dissatisfaction therefore cannot be explained simply as opposition to taxation. Their grievances were connected to a much larger question: could John still be trusted to govern effectively? A king could demand extraordinary sacrifices from his nobles if those sacrifices produced security, victory and prosperity. John was increasingly asking them to pay for failure.

This distinction was crucial. Had John won a spectacular victory over Philip II, many of his financial demands might have been remembered as the necessary price of restoring the kingdom's continental possessions. Instead, the defeat at Bouvines left the barons with little to show for the enormous resources they had provided. The king had not restored his lost empire. He had merely spent more money attempting to recover it.

John was therefore becoming politically isolated. His relationship with the barons was deteriorating, his relationship with the Church had been severely damaged, and his reputation as a military leader had suffered repeated blows. Even his eventual reconciliation with the papacy could not repair the deeper problem: too many powerful men had begun to question whether John's rule served the interests of the kingdom.

The loss of Normandy had begun as a military and territorial disaster. By 1214, however, it had developed into a constitutional and political crisis. John's inability to defend the inheritance of his dynasty had damaged his prestige; his determination to recover it had exhausted resources; and his methods of raising money had turned financial necessity into political resentment.

For an increasing number of barons, the issue was no longer simply whether John was an unpleasant or unpopular king. They were beginning to believe that his judgement, policies and methods of government were actively endangering the kingdom itself. If John could not win his wars, protect the realm, respect established political relationships or restrain his demands for money, then the traditional bonds between king and subjects were in danger of collapsing.

The stage was therefore set for open confrontation. The next crisis would not be fought primarily on the battlefields of France, but in the political heart of England, where John's opponents would attempt to force the king to accept limits upon his authority.

And it was there, in 1215, that the struggle would produce one of the most famous documents in English history: Magna Carta.

The story of John's failures in France was not simply one of lost castles, defeated armies and disappearing territories. It was the story of how military failure transformed the relationship between a medieval king and the people upon whom his authority depended.

When John inherited the throne in 1199, he inherited the vast territorial legacy of Henry II and Richard I. Within a few years, however, Normandy, Anjou, Maine and Touraine had been lost to Philip II. The fall of Château Gaillard and Rouen became powerful symbols of a king unable to defend his inheritance, fundamentally weakening his prestige.

John's response was to attempt to recover what he had lost. But war required enormous financial resources, creating the central contradiction of his reign: he needed the support of his kingdom to finance his wars, yet the taxes, scutage, fines and feudal payments used to raise that money increasingly destroyed that support.

The defeat at Bouvines in 1214 brought this contradiction into sharp focus. Despite years of taxation, preparation and alliance-building, John failed to recover his territories. His subjects were being asked to make greater sacrifices without receiving the military success that might have justified them.

The growing opposition was therefore not simply personal dislike of John. It was a crisis of trust. Medieval kingship depended upon reciprocal obligations: the king expected loyalty, military service and financial support, while his subjects expected protection, justice and respect for established customs. John was increasingly failing to uphold his side of that bargain.

Military defeat, financial demands, disputes with the nobility and conflict with the Church combined to produce a dangerous accumulation of grievances. By 1214, these problems had become interconnected: military failure required more money; more money created resentment; resentment weakened loyalty; and weakened loyalty made effective government increasingly difficult.

The question was no longer simply whether John was unpopular, but whether he could be trusted to govern within the accepted customs of the realm.

This was the crisis that led towards Magna Carta. It did not emerge suddenly because the barons disliked John, nor was it originally a declaration of democracy or modern human rights. It was a medieval attempt to resolve a political crisis by reaffirming established rights and limiting the king's ability to act beyond accepted custom.

By the end of 1214, John had lost much of his continental inheritance, failed to recover it, spent heavily attempting to do so and alienated many of the men whose cooperation was essential to his rule. The battlefield had effectively moved from France to England. The next confrontation would be fought not with siege engines and cavalry, but through political pressure, negotiation and eventually rebellion.

In 1215, John's opponents would force him to confront the consequences of years of military failure, financial demands and political miscalculation. The road to Magna Carta had begun with the loss of an empire. It would culminate in one of the first great confrontations over the limits of the English Crown.

Now read part 3 on rebellion and Magna Carta here.

Just Why can Writing History be so Frustrating?

Historians worthy of their craft must portray the past and present honestly, as accurately as possible, and ideally be unbiased. They should verify the truth of each subject to eliminate inaccuracies and establish the correct facts, or, at worst, as close to them as possible if no further research material is available. Unfortunately, this is not always the case, as there can be too many inconsistencies in the references they use.

Ken Wright explains.

Field Marshall Rommel in Paris in 1940. Source: Bundesarchiv, Bild 146-1970-076-43 / CC-BY-SA 3.0, German Federal Archives, available here.

When attempting to write his history of the Roman people in the late first century BC, the Roman historian Livy [59bc-AD17] found it difficult to determine which (if any) accounts could be trusted. He concluded that none were reliable. In his research, he was troubled by how families had created traditions of heroic deeds and high office held by their ancestors—an early form of today's ‘fake news’.

Over the centuries, nothing has changed.

In the acknowledgment chapter of his excellent book ‘Last Battle’ Decapo Press, 2013, author and historian Stephen Harding wrote, ‘Writing history is always challenging and in that the passage of time often obscures certain events, versus revealing them. Eyewitnesses pass away, memories fade, and records, if they were kept at all, are destroyed as being no longer relevant or disappear into bureaucratic oblivion. That being said, the historian must diligently search out whatever documents remain. Like a detective evaluates evidence through knowledge of the subject and the application of both logic and common sense, the historian assesses the available information and then weaves all the various strands into an account that is accurate and as complete as possible.’ 

Readers interested in history should be aware that books, documentaries, magazines, and official records can, and quite often do, contain flaws. The who, what, when, and how are the main offenders, making it difficult for the reader to understand what the valid and proper account of an event or events is.

Using an extract from a distinguished American Research Professor at UCLA, Lynn Hunt's excellent book ‘History, Why it Matters’ discusses a universal problem facing historians. ‘Despite its occasional reliance on scientific techniques, history is not a science. It is a literary art that uses scientific techniques where relevant, but whose fundamental aim is to tell a true story. The truthful part rests on documentation, and in this regard, the historian is like a detective, lawyer, or investigative journalist sifting through information, analysing and comparing sources, written or not, using every possible forensic procedure to get at the truth, that is, the facts of the case. The story part requires something else: a literary reconstruction that relies on a series of interpretations. The interpretations make the facts relevant. The world is filled with mountains of historical facts, but we only care about a tiny number of them at any given moment. We care about those facts that enable us to tell the story we want to tell. Telling the story draws our attention to the facts but also frequently stirs up disputes. Historians can tell very different stories about the same event by emphasising different facts. This cacophony casts doubt on the truth of any one interpretation. If there is so much disagreement about interpretations, how can history make any claim on the truth about the past? Is it just your story vs. mine?’

EVENT ONE

Here, two military historical events are used as examples of the inconsistencies found in books, documentaries, magazines, and official records, which can often contain flaws. Errors in dates, locations, and who did what are the main issues, making it difficult for readers to determine the true and accurate account of events. These are just a few of the many historical incidents that show the challenges faced by historians and writers when working with material that might be incorrect but is still presented as fact.

Version One. July 17, 1944.

In this account, one author places Field Marshal Rommel in the area around Caen, France, visiting the 227th and 276th Infantry Divisions, the II SS Panzer Corps, and the I SS Panzer Corps headquarters to confer with various commanders, including SS-Oberst-Gruppenführer Sepp Dietrich and SS-Oberführer Kurt [Panzer] Meyer.

After the meeting, Rommel left Dietrich’s HQ in his staff car at 4:00 pm. Sergeant Daniel, the driver, took back roads until Livarot, about twenty-five miles from Caen. Rommel’s car then turned onto a paved road that joined the main highway a couple of miles outside Vimoutiers. At that point, Rommel and Daniel decided to attempt a quick dash on the highway.

Allied air supremacy had made any movement along the Falaise–Caen road extremely risky, if not impossible. When Rommel’s vehicle entered the main highway on routine patrol, a South African pilot with the Royal Air Force, Squadron Leader J.J. le Roux, and his wingman spotted an enemy vehicle and quickly attacked.

The official German report records what happened. ‘Suddenly, the air observer, Obergefreiter [Lance-Corporal] Holke, reported two aircraft closing in right above the road. Sgt Daniel drove at top speed, trying to reach a track and take cover there. Just as he reached it, the enemy aircraft, going flat out, opened fire. Field Marshal Rommel at that moment glanced backwards’ 2.  

Hit in the left shoulder and arm, Daniel lost control of the vehicle, which ricocheted off a tree stump and ended up embedded against the embankment on the far side of the road. Shrapnel hit Rommel in the temple and cheekbone as he sat in the jump seat on the side away from the cannon fire and was thrown twenty yards from the car, suffering a triple fracture to the skull. 3. ‘A second aircraft flew back over the crash site, firing at the wounded where they lay.’ 4. Only two of the four men emerged unscathed. Field Marshal Rommel was taken to a Luftwaffe hospital near Paris and eventually returned home to recuperate.

Observations

The author only mentions Rommel and Daniel leaving Dietrich’s HQ. However, the official German account reports an air observer [Holke] observing two aircraft approaching. Only Rommel was taken to the hospital, so what happened to his driver? Who was the other person with the air observer, and where did both of them originate? The author and many other sources have credited Squadron Leader Johannes Jacobus le Roux, RAF 602 Squadron, with the attack on Rommel’s staff car. There are, however, other contenders for this event, as will be discussed further.

Version Two

Another author wrote that in a large open Horch, Rommel’s car, his party departed Dietrich’s HQ. Rommel sat in the front as was his habit. At the wheel was his regular driver, Daniel. In the back were staff members Captain Lang, Major Neuhaus, and Holke, who was there specifically as an aircraft lookout. On N179, just outside Livarot, the lookout shouted an alarm. Two Canadian Spitfires from 412 Squadron came diving down in a curving attack from behind and to the left. At about three hundred yards, Charlie Fox, in the lead aircraft, squeezed off a brief burst from his 20mm cannon.

Daniel was seriously wounded, losing control of the speeding car. It hurtled on for several hundred yards before crashing into the ditch. Captain Lang escaped unhurt, Major Neuhaus received minor injuries, and Daniel died of his injuries shortly afterwards—no mention of  Holke. Field Marshal Rommel was thrown against the windshield post, sustaining serious head injuries. 5.

Observations

In this account, five people are in the staff car, and Charlie Fox, a Canadian pilot, was credited with the attack. A ditch suddenly appears, and Rommel is alleged to have sustained a serious head injury from contact with the windshield post [pillar], compared with the injuries described in version one. And what is, or where is, N179? One could assume it was the major road or highway that Rommel’s car had just entered.

Version Three

From the German perspective, Second Lieutenant Heins was in a Panzer Grenadier Unit of the 21st Panzer Division, travelling in a German Kubelwagon [German version of the Willys Jeep] from Livarot to St. Pierre-sur-Dille. Two Mercedes cars overtook him, and he noticed that a General was sitting in the first one. He followed at about 550 yards distance. Their average speed was about 80-100 kilometres per hour. The General, he found out later, was Field Marshal Rommel, and he was sitting to the right of the driver. Another two high-ranking officers were sitting in the back [of the first car] whilst Rommel’s adjutants were following in the second car.

About a mile outside Livarot, they came to a bend in the road, an open target for any prowling enemy aircraft. Heins, in the Kubelwagon, noticed six [Typhoons] were in the air. Heins saw one of the Typhoons diving onto the road from the right. He took evasive action and managed to get onto a sidetrack whilst the other two cars continued on their way. The first car was machine-gunned, but no rockets were fired. Rommel’s driver was hit and lost control of the car, which was swaying from one side of the road to the other. At this juncture, Rommel jumped out of the car, which was still travelling at high speed, fell on his face, and slid about ten yards along the road. His driver, who was severely wounded, managed to stop the car about 200 yards further on.

When Rommel’s Adjutants and Heins arrived on the scene, they found Rommel had bad injuries to the right side of his face and a possible skull fracture. Rommel was taken straight back to Livaro, staying one day, then was transferred to the Luftwaffe hospital at Bernay. Rommel was sent home after three weeks to recuperate. 6.

Observations

Heins noted Rommel’s two cars as Mercedes. The previous author stated they were Horch. Heins describes seeing six Typhoons, but both earlier authors suggest only two Spitfires were involved. Heins mentioned no rockets being fired. Since Typhoons carried rockets, this might mean the attacking aircraft had expended all their rockets, or perhaps they weren’t Typhoons at all. Another possibility is that he saw Typhoons earlier and assumed they were the same aircraft attacking later. Even Rommel eventually said they were Spitfires. All three accounts give very different versions of Sergeant Daniel’s fate and whether he lost control of his car. Did it crash, or didn’t it?

There is no consistency among these three versions regarding how Rommel sustained his injuries, and Heins noted that Rommel’s two cars were Mercedes. The previous author stated they were Horch. Heins describes seeing six Typhoons, but both earlier authors suggest only two Spitfires were involved. Heins mentioned no rockets being fired. Since Typhoons carried rockets, this might mean the attacking aircraft had used all their rockets, or perhaps they weren’t Typhoons at all. Another possibility is that he saw Typhoons earlier and assumed they were the same aircraft attacking later. Even Rommel eventually said they were Spitfires. All three accounts give very different versions of Sergeant Daniel’s fate and whether he lost control of his car. Did it crash, or didn’t it? What exactly they were. The first author wrote that Rommel was taken to the Luftwaffe hospital near Paris, but Heins placed the hospital at Bernay, which is nowhere near Paris. The shortest distance in modern times is eighty-one miles [130 km]. The air observer, Holke, is not mentioned. Was he killed, wounded, or having a quiet cigarette? If he was injured, did he go to the hospital with Rommel.?

The final question is who should get the credit for taking the famed Desert Fox out of action. The debate still rages today. Not to be left out, of course, the Americans claimed that it was one of their fighters, a P-47 Thunderbolt, that deserved the credit. Since both Le Roux and Fox were flying Spitfires, and as Rommel himself stated, it was a Spitfire, Typhoons and the American P-47 are dismissed.

17 July 1944. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was always a risk-taker. His bold manoeuvres, ferocity in attack, and tenacity in pursuit were the qualities that earned him the nickname 'Desert Fox’ during his battles against the Allied forces in the Western Desert. He was both feared and respected as a highly professional soldier — polite, decent, and untainted by the crimes of the Nazi regime. Although he was not a member of the Nazi Party, he was nevertheless devoted to Hitler, who had shown him respect and affection. As the tide of war turned against Germany and its Axis allies, Rommel, by 1944 or even earlier, had realised — as many others in the German armed forces also did — that Germany’s only hope of survival lay in making peace or facing destruction. Rommel’s views on the future of the war damaged his once-excellent relationship with Hitler, and he was branded a defeatist and consequently ignored.

While Rommel was recovering from his wounds at the Luftwaffe hospital, ‘Operation Valkyrie’, an assassination attempt on Hitler, was carried out by Colonel Count Claus von Stauffenberg on 20 July 1944 at ‘Wolfsschanze’ [Wolf’s Lair] in East Prussia. A bomb was detonated inside the building where Hitler was holding a meeting. Hitler survived, and his vengeance was severe. Those who were implicated or even suspected of being involved were rounded up and executed. Rommel had become involved in the plot but had only taken a passive stance, prepared to assume whatever role the new government might ask of him rather than actively attempting to kill Hitler.

Rommel had been transferred to his home in Herrlingen, which is midway between Munich and Stuttgart, to convalesce when on 14 October around midday, Generals Burgdoff and Maisel arrived. Their driver remained outside in the car while the two visitors spent the next forty-five minutes in private conversation with Rommel.

Rommel was informed he faced two options due to his involvement in the plot to remove Hitler: a poison that acted in three seconds, a state funeral with no repercussions for his family, or going on trial for high treason. This would have been a sham trial, and the verdict a foregone conclusion.

For the sake of his family, Rommel chose the first option and, leaving his home and family for the last time, went with the two Generals some distance away from the house in their car. The news spread all over Germany. Rommel had died of a heart attack and was given a state funeral as befitting one of Germany’s most popular military leaders and folk heroes.

Of the two pilots believed to have attacked Rommel’s car on that significant day, 17 July 1944, Sqn Leader le Roux died in an aircraft crash on 19 September 1944, and Charlie Fox died in a car accident on 18 October 2008.

EVENT TWO

The second example of historical inconsistencies begins in early August 1944. Allied intelligence reported that the German army threatened to break through the Allied lines near the small French village of Mortain, using four or five Panzer units. The German code for this operation was Unternehmen [Operation] Lüttich. Opposing them were only two United States divisions. At a high-level Allied conference, it was decided that rocket-firing Typhoon squadrons would be deployed to help counter the German attack.

7 August

Around midday, once a heavy mist had lifted, the RAF Typhoons attacked and inflicted significant damage on the German forces. Three pilots were lost, all from the 245 Squadron. One aircraft crash-landed in what was then a ‘no man’s land’ between the opposing forces.

Lieutenant Belton Cooper served in the United States Army’s 3rd Armoured Division Maintenance Battalion, which played a role in the battle described in his excellent book ‘Death Traps’ about American Sherman tanks struggling against the superior firepower and heavy armour of German tanks. As tank casualties increased, an air strike was called for. The American Ninth Air Force was already stretched thin, so the Royal Air Force was brought in to help.

Lt Cooper describes a group of low-flying RAF Hawker Typhoons coming in at low altitude, firing rockets at German armour and infantry on the hilltop. This, combined with heavy artillery, infantry, and tank fire, eventually brought the German counterattack to a slow, grinding halt.

As soon as it was safe to do so, Lt Cooper’s Maintenance Battalion started moving their recovery vehicles into the area for the maintenance crews to salvage and repair whatever tanks they could. It was during this operation that a crashed wreck of a British Typhoon shot down by German ground fire was found upside down, with the tail section embedded in the ground.

Lt Cooper; ‘One of the maintenance mechanics notified a sergeant that there was a body inside the aircraft upside down and still secured by his seatbelt. There was a strong odour of gasoline leaking from the plane's fuel tanks as the graves registration people removed the young British Flight Lieutenant’s body and placed it on a stretcher. But suddenly, they realised that the Flight Lieutenant was still alive. He had been hanging upside down for several hours; it was a miracle that he had survived. A fuel line in the engine department had broken, and fuel was leaking inside the cockpit and running down his seat, down his back, into his hair and onto the ground. He was soaked from head to foot and was beginning to develop red burn marks on his neck and hands from the high-octane fuel. Medics brought blankets, rolled him on his stomach, and stripped off his gasoline-soaked clothing.’

‘His entire back, buttocks, and the back of his legs were burned red raw from the gasoline. As he slowly regained consciousness, he was obviously in severe pain. As soon as the medics had moved him a safe distance from the plane, he asked for a cigarette. 7.

Observations

Lt Cooper fails to mention the date when his recovery crew started their battlefield clearance, nor does he specify who the pilot was or what events led to the pilot's predicament. Usually, this is a simple account of a battlefield event. The more curious reader might want to know that the pilot was Flight Lieutenant Robert [Bob] Gordon Fallas Lee of the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, from Selbourne, Orchard Road, Shalford, Surrey, England. His aircraft, MN459/M-R, belonged to 245 Squadron, part of the 2nd Tactical Air Force, and he had been flying in combat for two years.

It is here that six writers offer conflicting accounts that challenge Lt Cooper’s version. They are as follows:

Version One

Wounded by flak, Flight Lieutenant Lee lost consciousness and control of his Typhoon while attempting a forced landing. The aircraft crashed inverted into the ground, trapping him inside the cockpit. The wreck lay in ‘no man’s land', and as Lee drifted in and out of consciousness, the Germans used the aircraft for target practice. He was struck in the hand and leg by rifle bullets. At one stage, a fire broke out, but fortunately, it was quickly extinguished. After five days, a US Army battlefield clearance team discovered the wreck and rescued an emaciated Lee from the wreckage cockpit.

Version Two

 Flight Lieutenant Bob Lee of 245 Sqn was hit by flak and lost consciousness. When he regained awareness, he found his Typhoon had crashed into the ground upside down in ‘no-man's land.' Lee managed to release his harness but was trapped inside his aircraft, where he would spend the next few days. During that time, the Germans used the wreck for target practice, hitting him in the hand and leg; on one occasion, they started a fire that fortunately went out. A US unit clearing the battlefield rescued him.

Version Three

Bob Lee was shot down and performed a wheels-up landing in enemy territory. The aircraft slid along the ground and rolled onto its back, trapping him inside as he hung from his straps. He managed to turn upright but couldn’t escape because the sides of the fuselage had dug into the earth. Besides a broken leg from the crash, he was wounded twice more when the Germans fired shots into the plane. He survived for six days on his emergency rations. When the Germans left, a salvage unit from the army's recovery section checked the aircraft and heard some sounds and knocks on the fuselage. They lifted him out and found him in a serious condition. He was hospitalised and awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross [DFC] 9.  

Version Four

An extract from the fourth supplement to ‘The London Gazette’, dated 27 October 1944, lists the awards approved by the King. It states in part, ‘Flight Lieutenant Lee [124172] was, during a sortie near Falaise in August 1944, forced to attempt a landing on rough ground after being hit in the hand and having his aircraft disabled by anti-aircraft fire. As he touched down, the aircraft overturned close to the enemy lines. Flight Lieutenant Lee was trapped in the cockpit. As he tried to free himself, the enemy directed machine gun fire at him. From then on, he was repeatedly shot at, and on one occasion, he was hit in the leg, which was shattered. Flight Lieutenant Lee was found alive by our [British or US] advancing troops. For five days, he lay trapped, badly wounded, and harassed by enemy machine gun fire.

Version Five

An unknown reporter wrote that while lying in a hospital with a broken leg, a Typhoon pilot shared an amazing story.

‘I got my kite down on the ground all right, but it hit a bump and turned over, leaving me trapped in the cockpit. The petrol tanks were nearly full, and I expected to be roasted any minute as many bullets and shells flew around. There is not a lot of room in the cockpit of a Typhoon, and there I was upside down. I had to risk ripping my parachute off. It might have opened and filled the cockpit anyway. But I succeeded and was able to lever myself into a hunched-up position with my feet resting on the instrument panel.’

‘For four days, the battle raged around me, with the Germans periodically firing a few shells and bullets at my machine. But the armoured plating saved me. On the sixth day, I heard planes above me and switched on my wing lights, trying to attract their attention, but all I got were some bullets from the Germans. Finally, on the eighth day, some American ambulance men came along, and they got the surprise of their lives when they found me.

[The reporter wrote that Flt Lt Lee had lived on malted milk tablets] 10.

Observations

The only consistent facts so far that can be positively established from the previous five versions are that he was shot down, trapped in his aircraft cockpit with a damaged leg, and with an injured hand. He was rescued and later awarded the DFC.

The following has not been positively established.

How was his plane shot down? Was it caused by flak or ground fire? Was he trapped upside down, or did he manage to right himself? Did his hand get wounded in flight or on the ground? Was his leg broken during the crash landing or by German ground fire while he was already on the ground? Was it actually broken? How close was he to enemy lines, and were they firing machine guns or rifles at the wreck? Why would they use the wreck as target practice in the first place? If they did, how was he not killed? It would have been easy for the Germans to walk to the wreckage and check if the pilot was there. Was he covered in aviation fuel, as Lt Cooper wrote, and did any fires start and then stop? Did he land the plane, or, as one report suggests, did he pass out only to find the aircraft had seemingly landed itself and then turned upside down? Were the wheels up or down? How long had he been trapped—eight days, six days, five days, or just a few hours? Did he have emergency rations and eat them? Was the wreck near a knocked-out American tank? Why would he turn on his wing lights, assuming it was nighttime and they were working, when he knew the Germans were nearby? That would’ve been a completely irrational move. How did he handle the blood loss from his wounds, and how did he deal with the call of nature, especially if he was actually upside down? The latter, while not historically crucial, still raises an interesting question.

How does the historian sort out all these mixed and inconsistent reports to form a true picture? What is the reader to believe? In this particular case, America’s most popular Pulitzer-Prize-winning journalist of the time, Ernest Taylor ‘Ernie’ Pyle, might provide some of the answers. But even here, one has to be cautious of journalistic licence and, in modern terms, his use of ‘feel good’ reporting. Pyle was well known for his columns in the American Scripps-Howard newspapers while working as a roving war correspondent from 1935 to 1945.

Pyle was inspecting the battlefield after the Battle of Mortain when he and an unknown officer [not Lt Cooper] noticed a man trapped in an aircraft wreck. His account is entirely different from Lt Cooper’s, yet both were at the scene.

Version Six

Pyle later wrote, ‘We ran to a British plane lying upside down and got down on our hands and knees to peek through the tiny hole in the side. A man lay on his back in the small space of the cockpit. His feet disappeared somewhere in the jumble of dials and pedals above him. His shirt was open, and his chest was bare to the waist. The pilot turned his eyes towards me when I peered in and said, ‘Oh, hello’ in a typical British manner of off-handed friendliness. Stupidly, I asked, ‘Are you all right?’ He answered, ‘Yes, quite. Now that your chaps are here.’ I asked him how long he had been trapped in the wrecked plane. He said he didn’t know for sure, as he got mixed up about the passage of time, but he did know the date of the month he was shot down. When he told me I cried out loud; ‘Good God!’ He had been lying there trapped for eight days.’11.

‘His left leg was broken and punctured by an ack-ack burst. His back was burned by raw gasoline that had spilled. The foot of his injured leg was pinned rigidly under the rudder bar. The space was so small he couldn’t squirm around to relieve his weight from his painful back. He couldn’t straighten out his legs, which were bent above him. He had not a bite to eat or a drop of water for eight days, and yet when we found him, his physical condition was good, and his mind was calm and rational. He was in agony, yet in his Oxford accent, he even apologised for taking up our time to get him out. The American soldiers of our rescue party cussed as they worked, and cussed with open admiration for this British flier’s greatness of heart, which kept him alive and sane through his lonely and gradually hope-diminishing ordeal. One of them said, ‘God, but these Limeys have got guts!’

‘It took us almost an hour to get him out. While we worked, he talked to us. Under the circumstances, we didn’t push him on details, but in a nutshell, he established that he was an RAF Flight Lieutenant piloting a night fighter. Over a certain area, the Germans had let him have it from the ground with machine gun fire. The first hit knocked out his motor. He was too low to jump so foolishly, he said, he turned on his landing lights to try a crash landing. The second hit got him in the leg, and a third bullet cut across his right-hand fingers, clipping everyone to the bone. He left his wheels up, and the plane's belly hit the ground going uphill, leaving a groove it had dug for about fifty yards. Then the plane flopped, tail over the nose, onto its back. He said that was all he remembered for a while. When he came to, they were shelling all around him. For eight days, he was in no man’s land, which passed back and forth between American and German forces.’

‘Lee was taken to a clearing station of the American 30th Division. His back responded very well to treatment. The gangrene [caused by aviation fuel?] was cut away, and when it was seen he would pull through; he was transferred to another field hospital and then three days later was evacuated by air to England.’ 12.   

In early October 1944, Ernie Pyle interrupted his trip back from America to visit the hospital where Flt Lt Lee was recovering. He then penned an article for the Mt. Adams Sun dated 13 October 1944, describing his visit. ‘During that time, I clarified some details I would like to have pursued during the time of Lee’s rescue but did not due to the situation and the pain he was obviously in.’

‘I thought and wrote he was wounded while he was still in the air. But he told me it didn’t happen until about three hours after the crash, when shelling and shooting surrounded him. He said that whatever kind of shell it was, it made a terrific racket when it came through the plane and struck him. The wound was caused by a 20-millimetre shell that had exploded in his leg. It had destroyed about an inch of both bones in the leg, and he has had to date three operations with more to come. It would be about a year before he would have recovered enough to go home.

He said the worst thing in those eight days was the thirst. For days, he visualised creeks full of water, and all the pubs where he had left a little beer in the bottom of the glasses.’ 13. Pyle’s account, whilst detailed, does provide some of the answers, but not all and writing that a 20-millimetre shell had exploded in Lee’s leg could be viewed as a piece of journalistic licence. If this did happen, there is every chance the pilot would have had his leg shattered and died from blood loss or trauma. Considering all his wounds, would it be logical to assume the pilot would have bled to death, especially given the supposed severity of the leg wound.

At this point, the reader has read enough and may wonder if it all matters now. Yes, it does! For the historian whose central ethical responsibility is to record for posterity the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and for the reader who relies on the historian to inform and shape his or her perception of history, past and present. Moreover, if incorrect facts are not corrected over time, they will only get worse. How can mankind move forward if all its past isn't accurate? Inconsistencies aren't confined to just one branch of history. They are evident throughout it. Perhaps it will always be this way.

It should be pointed out that there is no intention to deride or cast any dispersions on any of the authors of the quoted articles or their historical presentations. They can write about their research and present a valid account. Their accounts were simply used to make chosen comparisons to point out the problems that make writing history so damn frustrating for both the writer and the reader.

What do you think about history writing? Let us know below.

Did you enjoy the piece? Join us on X here to receive regular updates: @HistoryIsNowMag

Footnotes

1- Prados. John.  Normandy Crucible. New American Library, 2012. Pages 104-105.

2- Pimlott. John. [Ed] Rommel In His Own Words. Greenhill Books, London. 1994 Page   183.

3- Prados. Pages 104-105.

4- Pimlott. Page 183.

5- Russworm. Lance. 2003. Spitfire Emporium. www.spitcrazy.com/charleys account.htm

6- Darling Tim. www.amnesta.net/other/rommel.html [with kind permission]

7-Pages 72-73 ‘Death Traps’ Belton. Y. Cooper. Ballantine Books-New York. 2003. Recommended reading.

8- Typhoon Wings of 2nd TAF, 1942-45. Chris Thomas, Osprey Combat Aircraft No 86. UK.

9- Typhoon Warfare. Tom Hall. Self-published book. Australia, 2000.

10- Launceston Examiner [Launceston, Tasmania] Tuesday 22 August 1944, Page 1.

11-. Source-Wikipedia.

12- Extract from Ernest Pyle’s book ‘Brave Men’, University of Nebraska Press. 2001. Pages 311-312.

13- Extract from Mt. Adams Sun. Bingen, Washington. 13 October 1944. Page 2. 

Henry Ossawa Tanner: Painting Light, Faith, and Enduring Grace

Some painters command attention with spectacle. Henry Ossawa Tanner achieved something rarer: he cultivated stillness. His finest canvases seem to breathe, inviting viewers into rooms filled with lamplight, dusk, prayer, and reflection. Across a career that stretched from the late nineteenth century into the early decades of the twentieth, Tanner became one of America's most accomplished painters, celebrated not for grand gestures but for an extraordinary command of mood, subtle color, and emotional restraint.

Brian D'Ambrosio explains.

Henry Ossawa Tanner by Frederick Gutekunst. Source: Public domain, Archives of American Art, available here.

Born in Pittsburgh in 1859 and raised in Philadelphia, Tanner demonstrated an early fascination with drawing. As a young man, he enrolled at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, where he studied under the demanding painter and teacher Thomas Eakins. Eakins emphasized anatomical precision, careful observation, and technical discipline—lessons Tanner absorbed with exceptional success. Yet his own painterly voice gradually evolved beyond realism toward something more lyrical. He painted faithfully from observation, yet he was just as interested in the emotions that lingered after first impressions faded.

His early works reveal an artist drawn to modest moments rather than theatrical subjects. Instead of fashionable society portraits or sweeping historical scenes, Tanner found lasting significance in humble interiors and everyday experience. One of his most admired paintings, The Banjo Lesson (1893), depicts an elderly man teaching a child to play. Every gesture feels deliberate, inviting viewers into an intensely private exchange. Warm amber light settles across the figures, transforming a simple lesson into a meditation on knowledge, affection, and continuity. Perhaps that explains why the painting remains among the most beloved images in American art.

Equally compelling is The Thankful Poor (1894), in which an older man and a boy bow their heads before a modest meal. Nothing lavish appears on the table. Instead, Tanner allows light to become the principal storyteller. Sunlight filters gently through the room, catching worn hands, coarse cloth, and simple crockery. The restrained composition leaves room for viewers to discover gratitude and companionship on their own, never slipping into sentimentality.

Seeking broader opportunities, Tanner moved to Paris in 1891 and enrolled at the Académie Julian. France proved both a creative refuge and the place where his reputation flourished. He exhibited regularly at the prestigious Paris Salon, receiving an honorable mention at the 1896 Salon for Daniel in the Lions' Den, a third-class medal in 1897 for The Resurrection of Lazarus, and later a silver medal at the 1900 Exposition Universelle. Critics admired both his technical sophistication and his distinctive handling of radiant color, while collectors increasingly sought his paintings.

Paris also deepened Tanner's fascination with biblical subjects. Rather than dramatizing sacred narratives, he sought emotional authenticity rooted in place. Repeated journeys through Egypt, Palestine, Syria, and other parts of the Middle East informed these works with careful observation of architecture, clothing, terrain, and regional sunlight.

No painting better represents Tanner's mature vision than The Annunciation (1898). Instead of presenting an elaborately winged angel, he renders the heavenly messenger as a radiant shaft of light. Mary sits on a simple bed, quietly contemplative rather than visibly astonished. The textured plaster walls, humble furnishings, and muted palette create a convincing domestic setting without sacrificing its spiritual mystery. More than a century later, the painting still feels remarkably modern because Tanner trusted radiance itself to carry the emotional weight.

Other celebrated works reveal the same mastery. Nicodemus Visiting Jesus unfolds beneath cool evening blues that seem almost velvety, while Daniel in the Lions' Den replaces overt drama with solemn resolve. Throughout these paintings, moonlight, lamplight, and shadow become narrative devices every bit as expressive as gesture or facial expression. Indeed, few American painters mastered light with greater subtlety.

What distinguished Tanner technically was his exceptional command of color and light. Thin glazes layered one over another created depth that seems almost ethereal. Edges soften naturally into surrounding color, while carefully placed highlights guide the eye without calling attention to themselves. Close inspection reveals weathered stone, woven fabric, polished wood, and even the coolness of evening air. Perhaps no element of his craft was more refined than his ability to make radiance seem almost tangible.

Recognition followed steadily. Tanner was made a Chevalier of the French Legion of Honor in 1923, became an Associate of the National Academy of Design in 1927, and was elected a full Academician in 1929. His paintings entered major museum collections on both sides of the Atlantic, and his influence extended well beyond his own generation. Indeed, artists and historians continue to admire the consistency of his vision and the disciplined craftsmanship that defined every stage of his career.

Today, Tanner's paintings remain among the treasures of the Smithsonian American Art Museum, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and the Musée d'Orsay, among other distinguished institutions. Many visitors linger before his paintings, discovering new subtleties each time their eyes adjust to his restrained compositions. Their subdued rhythms, luminous surfaces, and emotional depth reward patient looking.

Henry Ossawa Tanner died in Paris in 1937, leaving behind a body of work distinguished by technical excellence, thoughtful composition, and uncommon emotional depth. He demonstrated that lasting paintings need not overwhelm the viewer with spectacle. Instead, they reveal themselves gradually through craftsmanship, patient observation, and an extraordinary understanding of how light can transform a familiar scene into something timeless.

Brian D'Ambrosio is the author of Montana Eccentrics, New Mexico Eccentrics,  Italian-Americana: Explorers, Entertainers, and Eccentrics, and American Eccentrics: Mavericks, Misfits, and Visionaries. Available here: Amazon US | Amazon UK

References

Various obituaries, Newspapers.com

Smithsonian Archives of American Art, Henry Ossawa Tanner Papers, 1860s–1978 (bulk 1890–1937)

White House Historical Association

Encyclopaedia Britannica