Kilts allowed Scottish warriors increased mobility in battle as they dashed around the Highlands, but these proud traditional tartan garments had one major problem: no pockets. A man without pockets to stash things in is a man in a state of clutter and confusion. This was as true in the Middle Ages as it is today. Yet as early as the 12th century, Highlanders had developed a clever solution in a small all-purpose bag which became known as the sporran. 

The sporran, which is still a part of traditional Scottish menswear, was the ideal travel bag for the Scottish warrior on the go. Worn slung from a belt over the kilt, the sporran could be used to stash knives, food, bullets as soon as they were invented and whatever else an enterprising warrior wanted to take on the road. Early sporrans were made from leather or animal hide. Starting in the late 17th century, sporrans were furnished with metal clasps and gradually came to incorporate more intricate metal designs. 

Ceremonial sporrans were developed for military use in the 18th century. These are made with animal hair and are known as sporran molach. Animal hair used to make them have typically included goat hair, horsehair and rabbit fur. Soldiers’ sporrans feature tassels, which swing when the kilt-wearing trooper is marching. The number of tassels, as well as their placement, weave and colors, are rich in meaning and vary depending on regiment and wearer.

Some officers have had custom sporrans made for them. The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders have traditionally worn a tassel arrangement known as the “Swinging Six” style and sporrans made from badger heads. Sometimes fox heads have been used for sporrans as well. A sporran can be worn sideways over the hip or more boldly front and center.

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

See more stories

subscribe now!

 

Judas Maccabeus (190-160 bce)

The third of five sons born to Mattathias of the Hasmonean family, priest (cohen) of Modein—the others being Eleazar, Simon, John and Jonathan—the man more widely known by his Greek name was known in Hebrew as Yehuda HaMakab, or Judah the Hammer. Judas was a cohen in his own right and would have remained so had his Seleucid overlord, Antiochus IV Epiphanes (“God Manifest”), not sought to promote homogeneity in his multi-ethnic kingdom by imposing Hellenic culture and religion on all his subjects in 168 bce. That included installing images of Hellenic gods in the Second Temple of Jerusalem, provoking a revolt by Mattathias, his sons and other Jewish pietists. 

During this war for control over Judea, Judas came to the fore. After winning a string of victories, he led his makeshift army into Jerusalem on the 25th day in the Hebrew month of Kislev (approximately December), 164 bce. In the course of cleansing the Temple, tradition has it that there was only enough oil to light it for a single day, but it burned through eight nights until more oil was found. 

The fighting was far from over, however. Eleazar was killed in 161 and at Elasa in 160. Judas was outgeneraled by Bacchides and died fighting. His burial ended with a quotation from King David’s lament to King Saul: “How the mighty have fallen!” Jonathan and Simon subsequently died, leaving John the last Maccabee standing by 142 bce, when Judea finally won autonomy within the Seleucid kingdom and independence in 141.

Narses (c.ad 478-568)

The exact dates of Narses’ birth and death are uncertain, as is how he came to be castrated. What is known is that he was a Romanized Armenian who served as steward, chief treasurer and grand chamber of the court to the Eastern Roman Emperor Justinian I. 

He played a vital role in putting down the Nika riots on 532, but there is no evidence of military training leading to Justinian’s ordering him in 538 to Italy, where Count Flavius Belisarius, after having conquered the Vandals in North Africa in 533, was trying to wrest the Western Roman Empire from the Ostrogoths. Although Narses demonstrated a surprising grasp of command, he and Belisarius did not trust one another and Justinian recalled Narses. Working with minimal resources, Belisarius conduced a brilliant defense of Rome in 538, but in 541 Justinian, suspecting his loyalty, reassigned him to fight the Sassanians in Mesopotamia. Narses took Belisarius’ place in Italy and by June 551 was the supreme commander at age 73 with a string of victories. In 554 the undersized eunuch was feted to the first Triumph held in Rome in 150 years—and the last. On Nov. 14, 565, Justinian died and the new emperor, Justin II, recalled Narses to Constantinople in 567. Some accounts claim he died enroute in April 568, but others describe his death in peaceful retirement in 574 at what might have been age 96—itself an achievement in the treacherous cauldron of Byzantine politics. 

Genghis Khan (c. 1162-1227)

Born to a Mongol chieftain of the Borjigin clan, Temujin was eight when his father died. Certainly he would have learned the standard Mongol mounted warrior repertoire, but his accomplishments had gone far beyond that by 1206, when a kurultai of his peers elected him their first khagan, under the name of Genghis Khan. Among the most intriguing mysteries surrounding his rise to power is how he learned, hands-on, to forge alliances, turn an unwieldy collection of steppe warriors into a vast, well-disciplined army capable of conquering continents and, while he was at it, create a political entity of unprecedented scope to administer his holdings, complete with a codified legal system—all conceived virtually from scratch.

Although the victims of his ruthless expansion of empire have been estimated as high as 17 million—one-fifth the earth’s population at the time—Genghis Khan conquered the largest contiguous land mass in history and laid the foundation for a meritocracy allowing universal religious tolerance, which in times of peace connected the western world by pan-Eurasian trade. All this was without precedent in the Mongol world, but it lasted a quarter of a millennium. Is it any wonder that, however controversial he is elsewhere, Genghis Khan is still at the top of Mongolia’s hierarchy of national heroes?

Johann Tserclaes, Count of Tilly (1559-1632)

Born in the Brabant in the Spanish Netherlands (now Belgium), Johann Tserclaes, Count of Tilly attended Jesuit school in Cologne, but at age 15 enlisted as a soldier in the Spanish army against the Dutch in the Eighty Years War. In 1600 he served in a mercenary unit with the Holy Roman Empire fighting Ottoman forces in Hungary and Transylvania. It was not uncommon for professional soldiers to learn hands-on as they rose in the ranks in the 17th century, but Tilly was exceptional in that he ascended from private to field marshal in just five years. In 1610 Duke Maximilian I gave him command of the Catholic League. 

When the Thirty Years War broke out in Bohemia in 1618, Tilly’s victory at White Mountain in 1620 knocked Bohemia out of the conflict at almost the beginning. As other Protestant countries rose against the Empire, Tilly defeated each in turn, seeming to be invincible.

Tilly’s career began to tarnish when King Gustavus II Adolphus put the Thirty Years War through a new phase with his innovatively mobile Swedish army. After a 20-day siege, on May 20, 1631 Tilly’s forces stormed Magdeburg and for the first time he lost control over his troops, who butchered 20,000 of the city’s 25,000 population. On Sept. 17, Tilly confronted Gustavus at Breitenfeld and was convincingly outmaneuvered and beaten, suffering 27,000 casualties. Tilly scored a modest victory at Bamberg on March 9, 1632, but at Rain am Lech on April 15 he was struck in the thigh by an arquebus round and died of osteomyelitis in Ingolstadt on the 30th.

Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658)

When the English Civil War broke out, its most famous—and notorious—figure was known among the merchant community and had been a member of Parliament for his home county of Huntingdon in 1628-29 and 1640-42. His only military experience had been raising a cavalry troop in Cambridgeshire for the Parliamentarians, which arrived too late to participate in the opening battle at Edgehill on Oct. 23, 1642. Oliver Cromwell proved avid at learning from experience, most notably at Gainesborough on July 23, 1643, at which point he was a colonel. He was involved in redeveloping the Parliamentary forces into a “New Model Army,” which proved its worth in the pivotal battles of Marston Moor in July 1644 and Naseby on June 14, 1645. By 1652 Cromwell’s subsequent campaigns in Scotland and Ireland sealed his place among Britain’s most successful generals. If appraised by his own standard, however—“warts and all”—he is also remembered as a regicide (he was the third of 59 to sign King Charles I’s death warrant), the revolutionary who dissolved Parliament and made himself “Lord Protector,” i.e. dictator, and one of those oppressors the Irish still love to hate.

Nathanael Greene (1742-1786)

Born in Warwick, Rhode Island, Nathanael Greene was running a mill when the American Revolution broke out, but he was an avid reader with—despite being a Quaker—a fascination with military science. That and his advocating the break with Britain led to his being expelled from his congregation, although he still regarded himself as a Quaker. When the battles of Lexington and Concord occurred, Greene’s only contribution was to form a militia unit, the Kentish Guard. On June 14, 1775 Greene met Maj. Gen. George Washington, the new commander of the Continental Army, in Boston, and the two became close friends. Serving as quartermaster-general, Greene distinguished himself in combat at Brandywine Creek, Valley Forge and Monmouth Court House. On Dec. 2, 1780 Washington sent Greene to Charlotte, N.C., where he reorganized the beaten Continental forces in the southern colonies and set out to retake them from British Lt. Gen. Charles Cornwallis’ army. Greene choreographed an artful campaign of fighting retreats, climaxing at Guilford Court House, N.C., on March 15, 1781. Although Cornwallis ended up holding the ground and technically winning the battle, the 633 casualties he suffered compelled him to disengage and retire to Virginia. While Cornwallis was trapped at Yorktown, Greene took the offensive, driving the last British in the South from Charleston, S.C. on Dec. 14, 1782. Before his death of heatstroke in Georgia on June 19, 1786, Greene summed up how he wore Cornwallis down: “We fight, get beat, rise and fight again.”

François-Dominique Toussaint Louverture (1743-1803)

The son of an educated slave on French-owned Saint-Domingue, François-Dominique Toussaint got some education of his own from Jesuit contacts while serving as a livestock handler, herder, coachman and steward until 1776, when he attained freedom. A slave revolt broke out between oppressed blacks and their white and mulatto overseers in August 1791. By 1793 he was leading rebels in a self-developed guerrilla force and had adopted the surname “Louverture” (“opening”). Later that year he and his followers helped a newly-Republican France fight off Spanish and British forces and was encouraged to learn that the French National Assembly ended slavery in May 1794. Over the following years Louverture displayed a remarkable grasp of civil leadership, restoring the economy in 1795 and overrunning Spanish San Domingo in January 1801, declaring the liberation of its white, black and mulatto population. In January 1802, however, Sainte-Domingue was invaded by a French army led by Maj. Gen. Charles Victoire Emmanuel Leclerc, brother-in-law of First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte, with orders to reinstate slavery on the island. Overwhelmed and losing followers, Louverture agreed to lay down his arms in May and retire to his plantation. Instead, Bonaparte ordered his arrest. He died in Fort-de-Joux in the Jura Mountains on April 7, 1803. 

Bonaparte’s treachery backfired. Leclerc died of yellow fever in November 1802. On May 18, 1803 Bonaparte made some quick cash for his European operations by approving American President Jefferson’s Louisiana Purchase, effectively writing off his ambitions in the New World. On Jan. 1, 1804 one of Louverture’s disciples, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, declared himself governor-general of Haiti, the world’s first black republic. 

Thomas-Alexandre Dumas-Davy de la Pailleterie (1762-1806)

Thomas-Alexandre Dumas-Davy de la Pailleterie was the issue of Alexandre Davy, Marquis de la Pailleterie, a minor French noble plantation owner in Jérémie, Saint-Domingue (now Haiti), and one of his slaves, Marie-Céssette Dumas (whose surname Thomas-Alexandre adopted). The boy accompanied his father to France, where he could be free and get an education. In 1786, however, he enlisted in the French army’s 5th Dragoon Regiment (Queen). When the French Revolution broke out, he found numerous opportunities to show his military talents. On June 2, 1792 he was promoted to corporal, but over the next few years he was commissioned a lieutenant, then rose to lieutenant colonel and, in July 1793–the first person of African descent in history to attain the rank of brigadier general. Although not the most gifted strategist, he was exceptionally strong and reveled in leading by example. Among others, Dumas commanded the Army of the West in 1796 and the Army of Italy in 1796. On March 25, 1797, during a fighting retreat from Brixen and Botzen in the Tyrol, Dumas held the Brixen bridge against an Austrian cavalry squadron singlehanded. From 1798 to 1799 he served in Napoleon Bonaparte’s Army of the Orient. 

Retiring in 1802, Dumas died of stomach cancer in 1806. Undoubtedly his lifetime of adventure inspired his son, Alexandre Dumas Sr., to write adventure novels, such as The Three Musketeers, The Man in the Iron Mask and The Count of Monte Cristo. His grandson, Alexandre Dumas Jr. also became an esteemed novelist and playwright, best known for La Dame aux Camélias.

Benjamin H. Grierson (1826-1911)

One of the iconic names in American Civil War cavalry had no military training and was afraid of horses. Born in Pittsburgh, Pa. on July 8, 1826, Benjamin Henry Grierson was nearly kicked to death by a horse at age eight and distrusted the beasts ever since. Educated in Ohio, he became a music teacher and shopkeeper in Illinois when war broke out and joined the U.S. Army at Cairo on May 8, 1861, as a volunteer aide to Brig. Gen. Benjamin M. Prentiss. On Oct. 24, however, Grierson was assigned to the 6th Illinois Cavalry and on March 26, 1862 his men elected him colonel.

Mastering his horse problem, Grierson led his troopers on raids and skirmishes throughout Tennessee and Mississippi. This climaxed with a diversionary raid in which Grierson led 1,700 troopers of the 6th and 7th Illinois and 2nd Iowa Cavalry regiments from La Grange, Tenn. on April 17, 1863 600 miles to Baton Rouge, La. on May 2. A step ahead of Confederate pursuers, Grierson’s raiders inflicted 100 casualties, took 500 prisoners, captured 3,000 arms and destroyed 50 to 60 railroad and telegraph lines. Of greatest strategic importance, the raid diverted a division’s worth of Confederate soldiers while Maj. Gen. Ulysses Grant’s forces slipped south of the Mississippi fortress of Vicksburg, leading to its July 4 surrender. After the war, Grierson decided to make a career of Army service, spending most on the frontier, his commands including the 10th U.S. Cavalry Regiment (Colored). On April 5, 1890 he was given a rare promotion to brigadier general in the Regular Army, shortly before retiring on July 8 of that year. 

Vo Nguyen Giap (1911-2013)

The son of a well-to-do farmer who died in a French prison, Vo Nguyen Giap attended a Catholic lycée in Hue, joined the Indochinese Communist Party in 1931, gained a law degree in 1938 and worked as a history teacher while self-studying military history. In May 1940 he met Ho Chi Minh in China, where he learned tactics and strategy as practiced by Mao Zedong. By the end of World War II Giap was Minister of Defense for the communist-nationalist People’s Army of Vietnam (PAVN). 

Between 1946 and 1954 Giap blended guerrilla and conventional warfare, winning some campaigns and suffering some stinging defeats but learning from experience. His decisive victory over the French at Dien Bien Phu in 1954 shocked the Western powers, as did his success in wearing down U.S. forces between 1965 and 1973. Giap viewed himself as more soldier than politician, which may explain his being sidelined by North Vietnamese General Secretary Le Duan, whose “big battle” strategy prevailed over Giap’s during the 1968 Tet and 1972 Easter offensives, resulting in bloody tactical defeats. In the end, the PAVN prevailed over the American-backed Saigon government in 1975. In 1978 Giap oversaw an invasion of Kampuchea that toppled Pol Pot’s radical Maoist Khmer Rouge government. When the Chinese retaliated with a punitive expedition into Vietnam on Feb. 12, 1979, the PAVN’s stout defense convinced the invaders to withdraw on March 16. 

Although Vo Nguyen Giap is widely touted as one of the military geniuses of his century, much of his self-taught strategy and tactics could only have worked in Indochina’s unique conditions in the second half of the 20th century.

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

See more stories

subscribe now!

 

As an instrument of war, the flail was a handheld, two-piece, jointed weapon, consisting of a wooden handle of varying length (up to 5-6 feet long) and a shorter, perhaps 1–2-feet long, heavy impact rod serving as a “striking-head” which was attached to the handle by a flexible rope, leather strap or chain links, allowing it to swing freely up and down and in a full circle.

By making a sweeping, downward blow with the flail’s handle, the weapon’s wielder greatly increased the impact energy of his blow through the increased energy generated by the centripetal force of the free-swinging “striking-head,” thereby inflicting a more powerful blow on the target. Some flail wielders even increased the lethality of their flail’s striking-head by replacing the rod with a longer-chain-linked, spiked head, orb-shaped ball, creating the Kettenmorgenstern (chain morning star).

Peasant farmers just trying to survive medieval combat added spikes and metal studs, considering any lethal enhancement a battlefield “plus” if it helped them get through a battle alive.

Flail weapons are best classified as “peasant levy’ weapons” since they evolved from the flail grain thresher, an agricultural tool typically used by farmers to separate grain from their husks (dating from ancient Roman times) through heavy beating, and therefore one of the commonly-available farming tools that peasant levies who were involuntarily conscripted into military service had readily available.

Other such peasant farming/foresting tools that could be quickly converted into military use when peasants were called up included axes, billhooks, knives, adzes and heavy mallets. Certainly, at least by the 15th century—as Czech Hussite peasant infantry who fought with flails demonstrate—flails were in use and there are accounts confirming its use through the 17th century.

Variations of the flail weapon were developed in widespread world regions. In medieval Russia and East Asia, steppe warriors wielded kisten, flails with smooth metal or bone balls attached to the haft by rope or a leather strap. Similar, flail-like, hand-wielded impact weapons were developed by the Chinese (nunchakus, three-section-staff, and the knotted-rope knout) and the Koreans (pyeongong). Yet, the most famous flail-pattern weapon may never have been part of the Medieval armored knight’s weapons array.

Today, the most popular and well-known image of the flail weapon—perpetuated by modern-era novels and films—is of fully-armored Medieval knights (literally) “flailing” away in knight-to-knight combat, bashing at each other brandishing short-hafted “morning star” flails sporting long-chain-linked, spiked balls.

Yet, today’s medieval armored knight combat historians are at odds as to whether such weapons even existed. Contemporary paintings depict such weapons, and post-medieval examples do exist, but many historians doubt if these were more than conceptual imaginings. Indeed, a short-handled, long-chained “morning star” flail, in practical use, could have been more dangerous to the flail weapon’s wielder than to the weapon’s target!

Certainly, the flail was used in medieval combat, but the version depicted in 19th century and later romantic “knighthood” novels and films was likely never used in knightly combat.

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

See more stories

subscribe now!

 

A large group of forgotten combatants stare out at us every day from the annals of war history. They are visible to us in everything from ancient stone reliefs to elegant oil paintings to scratched early black-and-white photos; they regularly appear in statuary alongside famous war leaders, and they have taken part in too many historical battles to name. They are horses, and many avid military history enthusiasts usually don’t give much pause to think about them. This is because horses are animals and, as such, are often taken for granted.

Considered within conflict history, horses have often been viewed as little more than vehicles or baggage conveyors for warriors of the past. Yet horses were warriors in their own right.

In addition to bearing the stresses of combat, horses have also borne another burden alongside soldiers of yore—armor.

In medieval and Renaissance Europe, horses were essential for battle as well as tournament sports like jousting. A complete set of horse armor could weigh between 40 to 90 pounds—and that’s not even counting the added weight of the rider.

Most horses selected for battle or tournament challenges were robust breeds—the four-legged equivalent of tanks. Breeds capable of charging into combat wearing armor were known as destriers, coursers and rounceys. As with humans, armor for a horse was not always intended for merely protective functions, but could also be ceremonial and an indicator of its owner’s status in society.

While body armor for horses varied according to the riders’ culture, traditions and available materials, a universal and common element of horse armor across the globe tended to be the chanfron (also called shaffron or chamfron), head and facial armor which might fairly be called a “horse helmet.” The following is a roundup of some unusual examples of chanfrons and other elements of horse armor from around the world.

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

See more stories

subscribe now!

 

East meets West in this innovative Japanese fire arrow known as the bo-hiya. The fire arrow is a basic projectile that found use across the globe for many centuries. Japanese warriors are recorded as loosing them from their bows (yumi) since at least the fifth century of the common era.

Gunpowder began to appear in Chinese armies in the 10th century and Japanese contact with the outside world—most tellingly, being invaded twice by the Mongols in the late 13th century—exposed them to new technology and the motivation to develop it for their own defense. Among the weapon concepts this exposure advanced was that of the fire arrow.

Japanese military technology got a fresh jump start in 1543, when the Portuguese established trade relations with Japan. Consequently the Japanese acquired European-style matchlock muskets or arquebuses, more advanced than the Chinese firearms they had previously used up until that point.

Besides reverse engineering muskets that gradually transformed their approach to warfare, the Japanese used Portuguese gunpowder technology to put a new spin on the flaming arrow—literally. 

Arrows, with wooden shafts for carrying flame and deadly tips of metal to pierce foes, were given fins and repurposed to be launched from gunpowder weapons. Hemp rope, coated with an oxidizer such as potassium nitrate to render it waterproof but flammable, was wrapped around the shaft to form a fuze.

These powerful fiery arrows became known as bo-hiya. Some could be launched from cannons called hiya taihu while others, like this example, were fired from a type of tanegashima hand-held firearm called the hiya zutsu. 

A multifaceted projectile, the bo-hiya was used on land by samurai gunners as well as at sea, where its ability to set wooden vessels aflame led to it becoming a standard shipboard weapon—used by both the pirates (kaizuku or wako) that preyed on maritime commerce and by the seagoing imperial samurai who hunted them down. 

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

See more stories

subscribe now!

 

The Mongol Subjugation of Novgorod (1238)

In 1238, a 40,000-man Mongol horde led by Genghiz Khan’s grandson, Batu Khan, embarked on a campaign of conquest against the Rus. By the end of 1238 they had taken 14 major cities and razed them for failing to heed Batu’s ultimatums. Only two major cities in the northern Rus territories were spared: Pskov and Novgorod, which pledged fealty to the Great Khan and agreed to annually pay a tax based on 10 percent of their produce. Novgorod, a vital fur-trading center, was surrounded by potential enemies, including not only the Mongols, but the Swedes and an order of German warrior-monks known as the Teutonic Knights.

Both western powers coveted the lands to the east, declaring their purpose to spread Catholicism while destroying the Eastern Orthodox Church. Appointed kniaz (prince) of Novgorod in 1236 at age 15, Alexsandr Yaroslavich was compelled to choose his friends and enemies carefully. He knew resisting the Mongols was suicide, but they tended to spare those who surrendered and left them to their own domestic affairs…whereas the Swedes would seize land and the Germans would kill nearly everybody.

As the Mongols marched on Novgorod in 1238, the spring thaws hampered their horses, halting the campaign 120 kilometers short of its objective. Seizing his opportunity, Alexsandr met the Mongols and accepted their terms. Pskov did the same. The Mongols moved on, establishing their western headquarters at Sarai under a yellow banner for which their force became known as the Golden Horde. Alexsandr made the right choice. He would later have to battle both his western enemies, defeating the Swedes on the Neva River on July 15, 1240 (for which he acquired the moniker Alexsandr Nevsky) and the Livonian Knights at Lake Peipus on April 5, 1242. Credited with preserving Russian civilization at a time of terrible duress, Alexsandr did so by knowing both when to fight and when not to.

The 335-Years War (1651-1986)

What if they gave a war and nobody came? Better still, what if they gave a war and nobody noticed? During the English Civil War, the United Provinces of the Netherlands sided with the English Parliament. As one consequence many Dutch ships were seized or sunk by the Royalist navy, which by 1651 was based in the Isles of Scilly, supporting the last diehards in Cornwall.

On March 30 Lt. Adm. Maarten Harpertsoon Tromp arrived at Scilly, demanding reparation for damages to Dutch ships. Receiving no satisfactory answer, Tromp declared war but then sailed away—and never returned. Critics of that so-called “war” have since noted that as an admiral, not a sovereign, Tromp was really in no position to formally declare war. The issue seemed moot in June 1651 when a Parliamentarian fleet under General at Sea Robert Blake arrived at Scilly to compel the last Royalists to surrender.

So things stood until 1986, when historian Roy Duncan chanced upon Tromp’s idle threat and in the course of investigation concluded that, the utter lack of hostilities notwithstanding, the Netherlands and Isles of Scilly had spent the past 335 years at war but had never gotten around to declaring peace. That oversight was finally remedied on April 17, 1986, when Dutch ambassador to Britain Jonkheer Rein Huydecoper formally declared one of history’s longest conflicts at an end—adding that it must have horrified the islands’ inhabitants “to know we could have attacked at any moment.” 

The Kettle War (1784)

Along with winning independence, in 1585 the Republic of the Netherlands closed off the Scheldt River to trade from the Spanish Netherlands to the south, adversely affecting Antwerp’s and Ghent’s access to the North Sea while serving to Amsterdam’s advantage. Spain accepted that arrangement again in the 1648 Treaty of Westphalia, but in 1714 Spain ceded the southern Netherlands to Habsburg Austria. Between 1780 and 1784 the Netherlands allied with the fledgling United States of America in hopes of gaining an advantage over Britain but was defeated. Seeking to take advantage of that situation, on Oct. 9, 1784, Holy Roman Emperor Joseph II sent three ships, headed by the large merchantman Le Louis, into the Scheldt.

Calling his bluff, the Dutch sent the warship Dolfijn to intercept the Austrians, firing a shot through a soup kettle aboard Le Louis. At this point the Austrian flagship surrendered. On Oct. 30 Emperor Joseph declared war and the Netherlands began mobilizing its forces. Austrian troops invaded the Netherlands, razing a custom house and occupying Fort Lillo, whose withdrawing garrison broke the dikes and inundated the region, drowning many locals but halting the Austrian advance. France mediated a settlement signed on Feb. 8, 1785, as the Treaty of Fontainebleau, upholding the Netherlands’ control over the Scheldt but recompensing the Austrian Netherlands with 10 million florins.

The Anglo-Swedish War (1810–1812)

With the signing of the Treaty of Paris on Jan. 6, 1810, Emperor Napoleon imposed his Continental System throughout Europe and placing a trade embargo on one of his remaining enemies, Great Britain. That included Sweden, Britain’s longtime trading partner. A booming smuggling trade led Napoleon to issue an ultimatum on Nov.13, 1810, giving his reluctant ally five days to declare war and confiscate all British shipping and goods found on Swedish soil, or itself face war from France and all its allies. Sweden duly declared war on Nov. 17, but there were no direct hostilities over the next year and a half—in fact, Sweden looked the other way while the Royal Navy occupied and used its isle of Hanö as a base.

Ironically, this delicate standoff was upset by a Frenchman, Marshal Jean-Baptiste Bernadotte, who with the death of Sweden’s Crown Prince Charles August on May 28, 1810, was elected crown prince on Aug. 21. Although King Charles XIII was Sweden’s official ruler, his illness and disinterest in national affairs caused him to leave Crown Prince Bernadotte as the de facto ruler—who put Swedish interests above France’s. Relations with Napoleon deteriorated until France occupied Swedish Pomerania and the isle of Rügen in 1812. Bernadotte’s response included the Treaty of Örebro on July 18, 1812, formally ending the bloodless war against Britain and thus declaring a soon-to-be bloodier war against Napoleon’s France.

The Aroostook War (1838–1839)

Both the American Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 ended with unfinished business regarding the boundaries between the United States and British North America. On several occasions both countries came to the brink of further conflicts. One such was the “Aroostook War” regarding unresolved land claims between Lower Canada and Massachusetts, exacerbated in 1820 when a new state, Maine, broke away from Massachusetts. By 1839 the U.S. had raised 6,000 militia and local posses to patrol the disputed territory while British troop strength rose to as high as 15,000.

There were no direct confrontations.

Two British militiamen were injured by bears. The decisive action came in 1842 in the form of negotiations between British Master of the Mint Alexander Baring, 1st Baron Ashburton and U.S. Secretary of State Daniel Webster. As was often the case, the resultant Webster-Ashburton Treaty was a compromise. Most land went to Maine, leaving a vital area northeast for the Halifax Road to connect Lower Canada with the Maritime provinces of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. In 1840 Maine created Aroostook County to administer civil authority in its expected territory, from which the incident got its name in the history books.  

The Pig War (1859)

Since at least the 1844 American presidential election that got James K. Polk elected on a slogan of “Fifty-four-Forty or Fight,” the United States set its sights on raising the northern border of the “Oregon Territory” (including what is now Oregon, Washington, Idaho and British Columbia) to 54 degrees 40 minutes north latitude, rather than 49 degrees north as it had been in 1846. That border bisected San Juan Island, in the Straits of Juan de Fuca between Seattle and Vancouver, where on June 15, 1859, American resident Lyman Cutlar caught Charlie Griffin’s pig rooting in his garden and shot it dead.

Cutlar subsequently offered to compensate his British neighbor $10 for his loss. Griffin angrily demanded that local authorities arrest Cutlar. The U.S. authorities would not countenance Britain arresting an American citizen. Soon both sides were reinforcing the island with troops and offshore warships. Things came to a head when the governor of British Columbia ordered the commander of the British Pacific Fleet, Adm. Robert Baynes, to invade the island.

At that critical hour Baynes became the voice of reason when he disobeyed the order, declaring that he would “not involve two great nations in a war over a squabble about a pig!”

News of the standoff spurred Washington and London to negotiate while reducing troop strength on San Juan to 100 each. Finally in 1872, an international commission headed by Kaiser Wilhelm I of Germany settled the matter by ceding the entire island to the United States. Total casualties: one British pig.

The Pembina Raid (1871)

Following the American Civil War a committee of radical nationalists called the Irish Brotherhood, or Fenians, embarked on three attempts to capture large areas of British North America to ransom for an independent Irish republic. Although the participants were mostly hardened Civil War veterans—from both sides—their first attempt to seize the Niagara Falls peninsula in 1866 failed. A second attempt launched from New York and Vermont in 1870 was a greater failure—largely because the Fenians were facing better-prepared militiamen now defending their own sovereign state, the Dominion of Canada. Although the Irish Brotherhood itself had given up on the idea, Col. John O’Neill set out west for one more try, planning to invade Manitoba and form an alliance with the half-blood Métis, then rebelling against the Canadian authorities for land, ethnic and religious rights. By late 1871, however, Ottawa was acquiescing to Métis demands. Consequently the Métis had no intention of allying with the Fenians. 

Undeterred, at 7:30 a.m. on the morning of Oct. 5, 1871, O’Neill led 37 followers to seize the Hudson’s Bay Company trading post and the nearby East Lynne Customs House in Pembina. Of 20 people taken prisoner, a young boy escaped and ran to the U.S. Army base at Fort Pembina. While about a thousand Canadian militia marched south to deal with the threat, Capt. Loyd Wheaton led 30 soldiers of Company I, 20th U.S. Infantry Regiment to the settlement. O’Neill later said he was loath to fight bluecoats alongside whom he had served during the Civil War.

The Fenians fled north, but O’Neill and 10 others were quickly captured. By 3 p.m. the crisis was over. Canada had seen off its last invasion threat without firing a shot. Taken to St. Paul, Minnesota, O’Neill was tried twice for violating the Neutrality Acts and twice acquitted on the grounds that he had not really done so. Unknown to O’Neill, in May 1870 the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers had straightened out the disputed Canadian border, resulting in Pembina no longer being a quarter mile north of the border, but three-quarters of a mile south in Dakota Territory. O’Neill gave up his invasion ambitions under an avalanche of public ridicule over not only failing to conquer Canada but failing to even find Canada!

The Lobster War (1961–1963)

There have been numerous conflicts over territory and others over the natural resources they produce. One example began in 1961 when French fishermen seeking spiny lobsters off Mauretania tried their luck on the other side of the Atlantic and discovered crustacean gold on underwater shelves 250 to 650 feet deep. Soon, however, the French vessels were intercepted and driven off by Brazilian corvettes upholding a government claim that that part of the Continental Shelf was their territory, as was any sea life that walked on it. On Jan. 1, 1962 Brazilian warships apprehended the French Cassiopée, but the next time two Brazilian corvettes went after French lobstermen they were in turn intercepted by the French destroyer Tartu.

By April 1963 both sides were considering war. Fortunately, an international tribunal summarized the French claim as being that lobsters, like fish, were swimming in the sea, not walking on the shelf. This prompted Brazilian Admiral Paolo Moreira da Silva’s counterclaim that that argument was akin to saying that if a kangaroo hops through the air, that made it a bird.

The matter was finally settled by the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea on Dec. 10, 1964. By it, Brazilian coastal waters were extended to 200 nautical miles but permitted 26 French ships to catch lobsters for five years in “designated areas,” paying a small percentage of their catch to Brazil. Otherwise the two nations might have warred for a pretender to the throne of the true lobster—spiny lobsters, a.k.a. langustas, don’t have claws like their North Atlantic cousins and are thus not considered true lobsters. Although often used for “lobster tails,” some might not find them tasty enough “to die for.” 

The Sumdorong Chu Standoff (1986–1987)

While the United States and the Soviet Union were having a nuclear Cold War faceoff, in October 1962 border tensions in the Himalayas between India and the People’s Republic of China flared when Indian troops seized Thag La Ridge. The People’s Liberation Army reacted in force, inflicting a stinging defeat on the Indians at Namka Chu. Over the next 24 years both sides reformed and improved their military capabilities while still eying one another suspiciously. On Oct. 18-20, 1986, India staged Operation Falcon, an airlift that occupied Zemithang and several other high ground positions, including Hathung La ridge and Sumdorong Chu. The PLA responded by moving in reinforcements, calling on India for a flag meeting on Nov. 15. This was not forthcoming.

In the spring of 1987 the Indians conducted Operation Chequerboard, an aerial redeployment of troops involving 10 divisions and several warplane squadrons along the North East India border. China declared these activities a provocation, but India showed no intention of withdrawing from its positions. By May 1997 soldiers of both powers were staring down each other’s gun barrels while Western diplomats, recognizing similar language to that preceding the 1962 clash, braced for a major war.

Cooler heads seem to have prevailed, for on Aug. 5, 1987, Indian and Chinese officials held a flag meeting at Bum. Both sides agreed to discuss the situation and in 1988 Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi visited Beijing, reciprocating for the first time Zhou Enlai’s April 1960 visit to India. The talks were accompanied by mutual reductions in forces from a Line of Actual Control that was agreed upon in 1993. With the crisis defused, there would be no major Sino-Indian border incidents again until 2020.

The Whisky War (1984–2022)

The disagreement over the exact national boundaries dividing little Hans Island involved two of the least likely adversaries, both members of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization: Canada and Denmark. Lying in the Kennedy Channel between Ellesmere and the autonomous Danish territory of Greenland, Hans was divided in half by a line that left a gap in its exact border descriptions. That gap went ignored until 1980, when the Canadian firm Dome Petroleum began four years of research on and around the island.

Matters took a more specific direction in 1984, however, when Canadian soldiers landed on Hans and left behind a Maple Leaf flag and a bottle of whisky. In that same year the Danish Minister for Greenland Affairs arrived to plant the Danish flag with a bottle of schnapps and a letter saying, “Welcome to the Danish Island.” These provocations heralded decades of escalating mutual visits and gestures that left all manner of souvenirs behind. Finally, on Aug. 8, 2005—following a particularly busy July—the Danish press announced that Canada wished to commence serious negotiations to settle the remaining boundary dispute once and for all.

Even so, it took the Russian “special military operation” against Ukraine to remind the world how serious war could be, resulting in the rivals unveiling a plan on June 14 for satisfactorily dividing the unresolved remnants of Hans Island between the Canadian territory of Nunavut and Danish Greenland.

this article first appeared in military history quarterly

See more stories

subscribe now!

 

It is a tale of paranoia, revenge, of kings and divided loyalties, and one family’s quest for honor. No, it is not the Wars of the Roses nor Julius Caesar’s civil war in Rome. It is the story of Spain’s Guzman family, and their epic generational mission to dominate the narrow peninsula of Gibraltar, slightly less than 3 miles wide, known popularly as “The Rock.”

Cue up the “Game of Thrones” theme song and envision a giant boulder in the middle of the ocean.  

The Ancestor Who Started It All  

Gibraltar, the tip of the Iberian Peninsula known for its iconic rock formation that shoots up 1,398 feet into the air, had been a traffic stop for a motley assortment of Romans, Phoenicians, Visigoths, Byzantines and whoever else happened to be floating around the coast of Spain at any given time. The Almohad Caliphate constructed a large fortress upon it—which might have contributed to the Rock envy that gripped various neighboring powers for the next several centuries.

Gibraltar eventually fell into the hands of the Marinid Sultanate and was basking in scenic isolation when King Ferdinand IV of Castile decided he wanted to claim it as part of Spain’s Reconquista in 1309.

The man chosen for this task was Alonzo Perez de Guzman, the king’s loyal retainer, known as Guzman “the Good.” But Guzman had not earned the epithet of “the Good” for his congenial personality. In fact he was notoriously ruthless. A loyal buddy of the king, Guzman had previously (in)famously refused to negotiate the release of his own son from captivity by one of the king’s rivals—instead Guzman is reputed to have offered his own knife to be used for the execution. The boy was murdered, and his head was allegedly catapulted into the midst of Guzman’s men to their great distress. Guzman however remained emotionless and is said to have informed his wife about the whole thing later. She is reported to have been, justifiably, horrified. In any case, the king considered “Guzman the Good” an ideal henchman. Guzman also had another son, who would carry on his legacy for years to come.

Arriving at Gibraltar in June 1309, Guzman attacked the peninsula by land and sea and bombarded the place with catapults. The Muslim garrison surrendered by September, and Gibraltar became a feather in Spain’s cap.

But Guzman’s success was short-lived. Although by then an older man over 50, he was ever eager to be in the thick of slaughter and mayhem. He sallied forth to Algeciras, where the king’s forces successfully ousted a Muslim garrison. Apparently Guzman failed to notice that enemy troops had not been ousted from the surrounding countryside, which he decided to “tour” with his troops. The tour was short-lived—Muslim forces annihilated Guzman along with his encampment.

In a show of generosity, the king awarded governorship of Gibraltar to Guzman’s son, Juan Alonso Perez de Guzmán y Coronel, thereby tying the family to “the Rock” for which they would battle for years to come.

Guzman 2.0 and Even More Sieges

Unlike his famous father, Juan Alonso Perez de Guzmán y Coronel proved to be an absentee warrior. He appears not to have been present on Gibraltar when the Emirate of Granada, unhappy that the Rock had been unceremoniously snatched by the Spanish, tried to reclaim it in 1315 but failed during the peninsula’s second siege.

This was far from the end of the story. The Marinid Sultanate hadn’t given up on the Rock and made a grab for Gibraltar in 1333. This time they took it—much to the despair of Juan Alonso Perez de Guzmán y Coronel, who finally showed up at Gibraltar. He arrived too late for the third siege, just in time to see victory go to the opposing side.  

The Spanish decided they weren’t just going to accept this new score, so they immediately mounted a rematch—the fourth siege, also in 1333. Guzman wanted to make good on his name this time…or at least as much as he was able to. He is described as vigorously helping make preparations for the great reconquest. What he actually did during the battle is unknown, since there don’t seem to be many, if any, historical sources describing him doing any fighting during the siege. However he was at least in attendance for it.

A Stalemate

The end result of the fourth siege was that both sides exhausted each other, ran out of food, and became so miserable that they drew up a truce agreement. The Spanish sailed away without taking the Rock and the sultan of Granada was assassinated by indignant followers who, despite the fact that they were technically victorious, didn’t approve of the truce being signed.

A fifth siege took place afterwards, which ended with a fizzle after King Alfonso XI of Castile died of the Plague in 1350. Guzman—again—seems to have failed to appear for that engagement.

Gibraltar was out of Spain’s hands. A sixth siege took place between two opposing Muslim factions when the Spanish weren’t looking, with the victors being the Nasrid kingdom of Granada.

Drowned On Arrival

Two generations later the Guzman family was at it again—specifically, Enrique Pérez de Guzmán y Castilla, who launched an adventure in 1436 to take the Rock for his family honor once and for all…and failed with a freak accident.

After temporarily abandoning their conquest of the Rock, the Guzmans had married into Spain’s royal family. Their fortunes and standing had improved. Enrique intended to imitate his famous ancestor, Guzman the Good, and seize Gibraltar for honor and glory in a feat of military might. He organized a campaign and rallied men to his cause. They were going to launch assaults from both land and sea. They were going to take the Rock.

Things quickly went askew. Enrique failed to take the high tide into account. When D-Day arrived, Enrique and his men washed up on the wrong side of the Rock below the sheer cliffs. Landing boats flipped over and men were tossed overboard. Among them was Enrique.

Legend says he was trying to save his men when the accident happened. No one knows for sure. In any case his boat was overloaded with men from another boat who didn’t want to drown and thus inevitably sank, drowning their commander.

Thus Enrique Pérez de Guzmán y Castilla died before the seventh siege even began. We can only wonder what the Muslim garrison, looking down from the cliffs, must have thought as they watched the Spanish floundering in the water below.

In any case, the Muslim defenders recovered Enrique’s body from the surf, posthumously decapitated him and hung his body in a basket from the fortress walls, presumably as a warning to would-be besiegers.

A Son’s Revenge—Siege No. 8

Meanwhile, on another side of the Rock, Enrique’s son, who was supposed to be commanding the land forces, fell into despair at his father’s drowning. He pulled back his troops and is said to have tried to negotiate with the Muslim garrison to return his father’s body, but was rebuffed. The young man withdrew in anger and humiliation…but, in classic Guzman fashion, he would definitely return. His name was Juan Alonso de Guzmán y Suárez de Figueroa Orozco. He was determined to avenge the accidental death of his father.

Guzman came back to Gibraltar to roost 26 years later in 1462, resolved that the Rock would be his at last. He had spent years fuming about the failure to possess Gibraltar and his father’s ignominious demise. An informant brought news to Spain that the Muslim garrison at Gibraltar had been slacking off in terms of its defenses.

Forces led by Alonzo of Arcos were the first to get there, but couldn’t do the job without help and asked for aid from Spanish nobles. Guzman decided it was the right time to settle scores and jumped into the fray. The eighth siege was soon underway.

However, if Guzman had inherited the iron pride of his ancestor Guzman the Good, he also seems to have been plagued by the curse of another ancestor—he arrived late. The siege was pretty well over and Rodrigo Ponce de Leon, Duke of Cadiz, was already in control of the city gates, ready to accept surrender, when the indignant Guzman finally arrived on the scene.

There was a spat such as could only have happened between two proud Spanish noblemen. According to lore, Guzman and Ponce de Leon narrowly avoided a physical fight over which one of them would be allowed to actually take the Rock. To avoid an all-out duel, they worked out a deal to walk into the fortress together and politely set up their banners at the same time. Thus the siege ended and the families hated each other ever since.

Rebelling against The Crown

To add insult to injury, King Enrique IV of Spain gave Guzman the boot after the siege was won. Ordering Guzman to leave the Rock’s premises, the king awarded himself the title of “King of Gibraltar.” Of course Guzman would have none of it. Guzman launched the ninth siege of Gibraltar, against his own king, on July 26, 1467—and actually achieved his life’s goal of taking the Rock for his family.

However, after all of that trouble, his son Enrique Perez de Guzmán y Fonseca didn’t seem to have been very passionate about the Rock or building up family roots there. He was more interested in money than war. Reputed to have been the richest man in Spain, he was known for crooked dealings and treating those who engaged in business with him unjustly.

Queen Isabella I of Castile gave him the title of Marquis of Gibraltar, but changed her mind after he died and took the title away from the family. Seemingly it was Isabella’s chance to rectify the fact that the Rock had technically been stolen from the crown previously.

In the style of his ancestors before him, the late nobleman’s son, Juan Alonso Pérez de Guzmán y de Ribera, was furious that the Rock had been taken away from him and dared to write to the queen exactly what he thought about it. It seems that Isabella ignored him. She removed the Guzman family banners from Gibraltar and decorated the place with Spanish royal emblems.

After Isabella died in 1504, Guzman decided he was going to reverse this redecorating project and restore the Rock to Guzman family ownership. Gathering an army, he mounted the tenth siege of the Rock with the help of his son, named Enrique.

The Fate of Gibraltar

Guzman expected that the city would welcome him with open arms. The opposite occurred. Royal troops in the fortress barricaded themselves inside and local Gibraltarians rallied to Spain’s cause. The Guzmans sat outside the city for four months before eventually realizing that victory just wasn’t going to happen.

Counseled by the church, the Guzman family finally gave up on Gibraltar—temporarily. Juan de Guzman firmly believed that the Rock was his rightful property and was actually planning to launch an eleventh siege before he perished at age 40 in 1507.

After having shed blood, sweat and tears for Gibraltar from 1309 to 1507, the Guzman family ceased to besiege the Rock. However it definitely wasn’t the last time the family would leave an unusual footprint in Spain’s military history.    

A Guzman descendant, Alonso Pérez de Guzmán y de Zuniga-Sotomayor, was placed in charge of the doomed Spanish Armada in 1588—against his wishes. In contrast to his fierce ancestors, Guzman protested against being given command, pleading ignorance of naval matters and an alleged tendency toward seasickness.

Nevertheless Guzman got the job despite expressly not wanting it. Needless to say the Spanish Armada was soundly defeated by the English, who would also ultimately take ownership of the Guzman family treasure, Gibraltar.   

A peculiar drink materializes across the United States every winter holiday season—at Christmas parties, in grocery stores, and at family gatherings for example. It is eggnog. As its name suggests, it contains eggs, along with milk, sugar, and heavy cream, plus spices such as nutmeg, vanilla or cinnamon. Alcoholic spirits, like whiskey, rum or bourbon, can also add some zing to eggnog.

The creamy drink is a weird mix, and it tends to divide opinion. Maybe the mere sight of it is enough to make you duck for cover…or alternatively you might be called an eggnog hog. How did this strange beverage find its way into our lives in the first place?  

Medieval Remedy

There are debates about how exactly eggnog came to be. However, most people who have probed its mysterious origins agree that it seems to have morphed from an English drink called “posset.”

Posset was used as a remedy in England as far back as the 15^th century. One early reference to it is Russell’s “Boke of Nurture,” which dates from about 1460. Posset’s main ingredient was milk, which was heated, flavored with alcoholic drinks, and curdled before being sweetened with the same types of spices used for eggnog—namely, nutmeg and cinnamon.

It was considered a healthy and comforting drink, and was thought to help people recover from various colds and illnesses. Posset varied and evolved over time; it could include ingredients like egg yolks, and sometimes breadcrumbs. Wealthier people who had more dairy products on hand—and who could afford to make more frivolous use of them—whipped up possets as desserts. Sets for making possets were popular gifts among the well-to-do.

Posset might have been “the medieval eggnog,” according to Smithsonian Magazine. It made several cameo appearances in the writings of William Shakespeare, including being used as a Mickey Finn by Lady Macbeth on two unsuspecting guards.

George Washington And The Eggnog Riot

It is likely that eggnog sprung up as a colonial cousin of posset in British North America. It was generally easier for ordinary people in the American colonies to make their own versions of “posset” due to entrepreneurial spirit and sheer abundance of resources. Dairy farms were everywhere and there was no shortage of brewers of alcoholic beverages.

The term “eggnog” started popping up in North America in the late 1700s. As well as the name, the ingredients differ from what went into a traditional English posset, and are more or less the same as what we have now.

Aside from being “first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen,” George Washington is also rumored to be among the first Americans to publicize his own boozy eggnog recipe for Christmas parties. Yet contrary to popular belief, Washington is unlikely to have written his own eggnog recipe. The one commonly attributed to him contained rye whiskey, brandy, rum and sherry, but Mount Vernon claims the recipe has no tie to Washington.

Although it might not be linked to the first commander-in-chief, eggnog has an inglorious tie with the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. The academy became the scene of the infamous Eggnog Riot of 1826, in which cadets revolted against a disciplinarian superintendent who attempted to ban them from drinking alcohol. The cadets got their hands on some strong eggnog and ran wild, smashing windows and attacking officers. The aftermath of the Eggnog Riot saw 11 cadets expelled and five more withdraw from West Point.

As to its funny name? Historical debates rage as to where it might have come from. It has been claimed that “nog” either derives from a primordial English ale cup called a “noggins,” or from the slang term “grog” (also known to mean rum, or booze in general to those of us who are less picky). Even if its historical mysteries go unsolved, eggnog remains an indisputable part of the American winter holiday season.

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

Steel plate armor is commonly associated with medieval times. However, studies reveal that the production of plate armor fully encasing the human body dates back to the early 15th century and reached its zenith a century later during the Renaissance. 

Although developed initially for military purposes, so-called “suits of armor” took on different roles in society. Indeed, armor became a staple of social life and came to be viewed as a status symbol. Armor in fact performed various functions, and each suit was designed to be ideal for a specific purpose—whether for combat, tournaments, festivals or merely grand public events. 

The Vienna Art History Museum (Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien) recently provided a highly detailed examination of the various forms, functions and types of armor in an exhibit entitled “Iron Men: Fashion in Steel” (Iron Men—Mode in Stahl) which ran from March through June, 2022 and showcased about 170 artifacts. The exhibit was Vienna’s first major exhibit about armor and sparked detailed studies of European steel plate armor by leading experts which provide useful insights to modern historians. Notably, the exhibit provided glimpses of rarely seen items from Vienna’s Imperial Armory, excellent examples of the flexibility of armor both as a military tool and as a statement ostentatiously declaring the wearer’s elevated social status. 

“While some of these pieces were actually used in the bloodiest conflicts of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, others were worn at ceremonies like coronations and parades,” wrote Ronald S. Lauder, Director of Vienna’s Imperial Armory, in a museum book containing scholarly articles focused on the exhibition. “However all of them had one thing in common: breathtaking artisanship is present in every detail.” 

The Origins of Steel Plate Armor

Suits of plated steel body armor were a European invention. Although commonly viewed as heavy and awkward by members of the general public today, they were in fact engineered to provide flexibility in combat as well as personal protection. Stefan Krause, curator of the Vienna Art History Museum, writes that a typical suit of steel armor weighed from between 40 to 60 pounds. He contends that wearing a suit of armor is comparable to firefighters, soldiers, or astronauts wearing protective equipment today—for example, the combat load (body armor, weapon, ammunition, water, supplies, etc.) carried by a typical Army or Marine infantryman in field operations today weighs 70 to 100 pounds or more! The Vienna museum’s suits of armor weigh substantially less than their modern counterpart gear, demonstrating that heavy gear can still be efficient, functional and offer mobility. 

Steel plate armor was designed to withstand bladed, impact and bow-launched weapons from the early 15th to early 17th centuries, including polearms, swords, war hammers, arrows, crossbows and eventually early, primitive firearms. However, the advent over time of more powerful firearms featuring more efficient and reliable gunpowder, along with the development of increasingly-advanced military technology eventually rendered steel plate body armor obsolete. 

Armor By Design

Armor production was overseen by master armorers, who honed their craft over many years and sold designs from workshops staffed by multiple employees. German and Austrian artisans in particular took armor production to a whole new level. With special focus on the intricacies of metal-working and engineering, they created workshops that were more like small factories where craftsmen worked in assembly lines and suits of armor were mass-produced—as well as custom made by special order. Notable armorers including members of the Seusenhofer family of Innsbruck, Austria and the Helmschmied family of Augsburg, southern Germany in addition to numerous armorers in Nuremberg, Germany, produced armor en masse and designed custom pieces for high-paying clients.

Master armorers were essentially the managers of these workshop “factories”—although responsible for the armor which carried their unique “brand,” they did not personally create every piece. They were however very involved in designing custom-made pieces by special commission. 

Plate armor was created from sheets of metal cut and shaped by tools including shears, hammers and chisels. It was formed using various different shapes of anvils. Armorers also used molds. Steel sheets were usually worked cold, although sometimes bulges in the metal were removed through heating, according to Fabian Brenker in the Vienna museum’s exhibition book. Each piece of plate armor was specially crafted to fit and move in unison with other pieces.

Master armorers took care to ensure that all pieces fit together with precision and did not get stuck, chafe or open up awkward gaps exposing areas of the body when moving. Each piece had to be carefully aligned, and in fact no piece went into the final stages of production alone. Each element of the entire suit proceeded into the final stages of creation in unison. A single suit of steel plate armor could consist of as many as 200 individual pieces.

Fast-Produced, Not Just Mass Produced

Mass-produced armor was typically made of cheaper material and made available for common soldiers. It was not usually polished. Custom designed suits, often commissioned by aristocrats, were embellished and at times polished to create mirror-like surfaces. Polishing techniques included the use of large water-powered whetstones as well as smoothing using files. Extra polishing could be done using leather straps and emery mineral powder. 

Despite the meticulous craftsmanship needed to make good steel plate armor, expert armorers could accomplish their work with remarkable speed. Records show that Austrian armorer Jörg Seusenhofer, son of armorer Hans Seusenhofer and nephew of the more eminent armorer Konrad Seusenhofer, could produce an output of 90 pieces of mass-produced steel armor a week at his workshop, with his employees hammering 30 breastplates and backplates simultaneously per day. His famous uncle Konrad wrote in 1514 that he could produce two full suits of armor for a member of Italy’s famous Medici family within a mere two months with some added time needed for gilding. Konrad employed six masters and journeymen for detail work plus six or seven additional craftsmen for intensive labor, as well as four grinders and polishers, and support staff consisting of two day-laborers and one blacksmith.

Historical records indicate that smithing workshops in Nuremberg also used women to assist with polishing armor pieces and some detail-oriented tasks. Armor workshops often became generational family businesses.

Armor By “Mail Order”

Master armorers faced a unique challenge in taking the measurements of their clients. The best plate armor fit like a glove, encasing its wearer like a hard but fluid exoskeleton. Measurement was thus essential to producing a truly fine—and perfectly functional—product. However, the highest-paying clients were often royals or nobles who commissioned special suits from across long geographical distances throughout Europe. England’s King Henry VIII, for example, contracted Konrad Seusenhofer to produce a suit of plate armor, which when finished had to be delivered from Austria to England. Master armorers did not usually travel but made exceptions for royalty and heads of state. 

Both armorers and their clients came up with creative ways to circumvent distance and get business done. Armorers sometimes sent paper templates for clients to try on, mark measurements on and return in a “mail-order” type of phenomenon. At other times clients sent pieces of their clothing to armorers. German armorer Konrad Richter, based in Augsburg, once used stuffing to fill clothes sent to him by a client to create a well-fitting steel suit. In one unique case, Emperor Charles V of Austria in 1526 created models of his legs using wax casts and molten lead and sent them to Augsburg to obtain custom-made greaves and cuisses from Kolman Helmschmied. 

Embellishing armor became an art form unto itself. Armor pieces designed for aristocratic clients could be decorated using filing techniques, engraving, gilding, or riveting with copper alloy, and also painted—historical evidence suggests that painted pieces of armor were more common than previously realized. 

The Many Uses And Variations of Armor

The appearance of a particular suit of steel plate armor largely depended on its intended use. Wealthy clients commissioned armor for public appearances at specific events such as festivals, ceremonies and tournaments. Some suits of armor served purely decorative functions, while others, such as tournament armor, were intended not only to be festive but functional in combat.

Armor also varied based on what type of combat it was intended for. For example, specific types of armor were made for jousting. Yet even jousting armor varied, Krause writes, depending on whether it would be used for high-impact jousting between individuals or jousting skirmishes between groups organized in “teams.” 

Although it might seem like a finished suit of armor’s appearance was permanently fixed, it could actually be modified later. Clever master armorers sometimes developed upgrades called garnitures, which were essentially interchangeable pieces a man could swap out from his suit of armor depending on what activity he was engaging in. For example, pieces in the garniture set could be interchanged for tournament activities such as jousting or hand-to-hand combat on the battlefield. Garnitures were fashioned according to a cohesive design so that they did not appear mismatched when modifying a suit of armor.

A Matter of Prestige

Garnitures however were not the answer to every problem, and armor was incapable of being modified past a certain point. Men could outgrow their armor—particularly in early adulthood and middle age. Although master armorers could adjust suits of armor that did not fit their clients, or which needed some tweaking for comfort, it was simply impossible for even the best armorer to adjust a suit for significant alterations in size or weight. Thus, older adolescents would have had to forsake a favorite suit of armor after experiencing late growth spurts. Middle-aged men with any notable expanse in waistline would have been incapable of surreptitiously squeezing back into a lean suit of armor from their agile youth. Most often, men were required to obtain multiple suits of armor throughout their lifetimes. Commissioning new suits was always expensive, but for soldiers, knights and men who held leadership positions or influence in society, it was necessary. 

Ceremonial armor could be shaped to imitate the fluid, curving intricacies of cloth, such as sleeves and skirts. Faux buttons and patterns could also be created, not to mention pictorial engravings that told stories in images across the wearer’s body. The creative possibilities were endless. South German Landsknecht mercenaries had a particular influence on fashion and also therefore steel armor. Seeking to distinguish themselves as an elite fighting force, they sported fancy clothing with dramatically puffed sleeves, bold colors and feathered hats. These mercenaries essentially sparked a bouffant fashion craze that spread throughout Renaissance Europe and quickly found its way into armorers’ workshops, and consequently into the portraits of nobles, military leaders and heads of state. Rulers and members of the aristocracy were quick to seize on the latest trends and show them off in the form of steel armor—it was a matter not only of style but prestige.

“Steel armor was a symbol of strength,” writes Krause. “Few other forms of representation symbolically brought out such an expression of the wearer’s prestige, his dignity, his political and military might—or at least his aspirations towards them.”

The Art of Helmets

In contrast to plate armor, metal helmets had already been decorated since practically time immemorial, and thus they were not as much of a novelty as steel plate armor. However, like plate armor, helmets adapted in form and function from the 12th century well into the Renaissance. With alternately ornamental or formidable appearances, steel helmets could appear as intimidating screens on the battlefield or whimsical headgear for festivals. Some common elements used to decorate helmets included plumes of feathers, horns, crowns, wings, or ancient family crests. Gold applique could also be used to create striking designs on helmets. The Landsknecht fashion trend during the Renaissance saw helmets made to appear like extravagant hats. 

Helmets worn with steel plate armor are often presumed to offer minimal visibility to knights on the battlefield. While it is true that helmet visors provided narrow and limited fields of vision, additional vision was created by breathing holes in the visor. Larger breathing holes were ideal not only for vision but also to allow for inhaling more oxygen. Fewer and smaller openings in helmet visors did not allow for heat and carbon dioxide from exhalation to exit the helmet quickly, and limited breathing of oxygen could result in exhaustion, especially if the wearer was involved in intense physical activity. Historical records show that improving visor design was an issue and knights resorted to opening their visors in some instances despite the risk of exposing their faces in battle. 

During the Renaissance, it also became fashionable to create costumes for festivals and tournaments harkening back to ancient times, or to faraway places. Noblemen sometimes cast themselves as heroes of ancient Rome or Greece, or even as mythological creatures, with classical or grotesque helmet designs. 

How Armor Influenced…Fashion?

Although developed for military purposes, steel armor also revolutionized textile clothing. Men in Europe usually wore long tunics until about 1350, but a fundamental shift in men’s clothing style occurred during the middle of the 14th century as steel plate armor developed. The use of plated armor also required the use of close-fitting mail shirts. Soldiers and knights had already been wearing padded gambesons under mail or as an alternative to it in the 12th to 14th centuries. However, the development of more form-fitting steel armor pieces in the 14th century made tight padding beneath the steel too restrictive for movement. Quilted arming doublets with chainmail voiders or sleeves came into play, and from 1430 to 1470, padded material was restricted to protect the torso area. Tunics were thus no longer very practical and went out of style as shirts in general became shorter and tighter. 

Another practical reason for this tectonic shift in outerwear was the fact that steel does not breathe and is not conducive to air circulation, thus trapping body heat. Doublets and lighter garments beneath the breastplate functioned to drain heat and perspiration and prevented wearers from becoming easily overheated. 

Changes made not only to armor but everyday garments made the male silhouette more visible. While mail was initially worn to protect the lower body, detailed armor plates for the legs and lower body were engineered, including the codpiece. 

The Humble But Proud Codpiece

The codpiece, known in German as the “modesty plate” (Schamplatte), has a unique history. It appears prominently in suits of armor and representations of Renaissance men. In her detailed study of codpieces in the Vienna museum book, Marina Viallon writes that figures wearing mail breeches with codpieces are depicted in stone funerary effigies from Germany from the late 14th century. Without padded codpieces, common infantrymen had minimal protection for the groin area in battle. The Landsknechts, whose influence on fashion might have eclipsed their military achievements, began wearing exaggerated codpieces to broadcast virility. The practice spread throughout the aristocracy of 15th century Europe—perhaps since noblemen wished to avoid the awkwardness of outwardly appearing less “virile” than commoners under their command. 

Codpieces were adapted into steel armor pieces. Although worn during certain tournament activities, such as during single combat displays, they were never adapted for cavalry armor for practical reasons. Expensive to produce, they were sometimes decorated by gilding or engraving, and symbolized masculine power. “Worn like the prow of a ship, it was part of the body language of the ruling class, expressing confidence and authority,” writes Viallon. 

Not Clunky, But Haut Couture

Whatever its purpose, every suit of armor constructed for a knight or highborn man was intended to reflect nobility of character. Concepts of knighthood influenced members of the gentry, with the result that knights and aristocrats—perhaps alternatively called “gentlemen”—were generally expected to be well-mannered, educated, and display social graces. They were different from common soldiers in that they were expected not to engage in undisciplined behavior such as public drunkenness. Brawling and disrespect towards ladies were also frowned upon. Thus, bespoke suits of armor created for high-ranking military men and members of the aristocracy were intended not only to symbolize power but to reflect greatness of spirit.

Steel suits of armor have been underestimated in modern times—incorrectly portrayed in popular films as clunky or dysfunctional relics from a bygone era. However, taking a closer look at the art, function and form of steel plate armor reveals much about not only the ingenuity of European artisans and craftsmen who developed it but also the high spirit of idealism that expressed itself in these sleek, strong bodies of metal.

The date of Sept. 1 belongs almost exclusively to the memory of the start of the Second World War in Europe. Images of blitzkrieg, panzers, the desperate plight and subsequent fall of Poland consume the historical memory. 

While its exact origins are murkier in the historiography, other moments in time belonging to this date have been, understandably, eclipsed.  

Yet we here at HistoryNet want to take another look at those underrepresented moments that have been dwarfed by that day in the historical ledger. (That being said, if you simply do not care and are here for the start of World War II, we get that.) 

Ten dates in history that warrant a further look: 

Sept. 1, 1532: Anne Boleyn becomes marquess 

Love is in the air as Lady Anne Boleyn is made marquess of Pembroke by her fiancé, King Henry VIII. What’s a little nepotism among lovers? 

Sept. 1,1862: The Battle of Chantilly 

During the American Civil War, Confederate troops defeat a group of retreating Union Army troops during the Battle of Chantilly. It is also where Phil Kearny, a major general in the Union Army, was out conducting his own reconnaissance. In a driving thunderstorm on the evening of Sept. 1, 1862, he and his escort rode into a Rebel ambush during the Battle of Ox Hill (Chantilly), an abrupt encounter following the Confederate victory at the Second Battle of Bull Run. When Kearny cavalierly ignored an order to surrender and tried to ride away, a single bullet to the spine ended the life of a true fighting general, according to historian Gordon Berg.  

Sept. 1, 1864: Evacuation of Atlanta 

Once again during the American Civil War, but this time in 1864: Confederate Gen. John Bell Hood orders the evacuation of Atlanta, ending a four-month siege by Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman, who begins his infamous March to the Sea.  

Sept. 1, 1878: First Woman Telephone Operator 

Emma Nutt becomes the world’s first female telephone operator after being recruited by Alexander Graham Bell. 

Sept. 1, 1897: America’s First Subway 

The Tremont Street subway opens in Boston, making it the first underground transit system in North America. Take that, London Tube. 

Sept. 1, 1939: George Marshall Becomes Chief of Staff 

In perhaps one of the best decisions of the war, President Franklin D. Roosevelt appoints Gen. George C. Marshall chief of staff of the United States Army. Marshall: 1, Nazis: 0. 

Sept. 1, 1952: ‘The Old Man and the Sea’ Is Published 

Ernest Hemingway’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel “The Old Man and the Sea” is published. “But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”  

Sept. 1, 1961: TWA Flight 529 Crashes in Chicago 

Shortly after takeoff from Midway Airport in Chicago, TWA Flight 529 crashes, killing all 78 people on board. At the time, it was the deadliest commercial plane disaster in U.S. history. 

Sept. 1, 1985: The Titanic Is Found 

A joint American-French expedition locates the wreckage of the RMS Titanic. The shipwreck was henceforth preserved by UNESCO regulations, although now it is protected through a bilateral agreement between the U.S. and the U.K., which was signed in November 2019. The treaty, first presented in 2003 among the U.K., the U.S., Canada and France, languished for nearly two decades because at least two signatories were required. The U.K. signed quickly, but it was not until 2019 that the U.S. State Department announced that it had also entered into the agreement, making the agreement official. Our hearts can officially go on.  

Sept. 1, 2004: Beslan School Siege Begins 

In one of the worst terrorist attacks in Russian history, the Beslan school siege begins in the small North Ossetian town. According to Radio Free Europe, “Dozens of armed assailants stormed the school and captured more than 1,100 people — including more than 700 schoolchildren and relatives and friends who had come for a ceremony marking the first day of the new school year.” The standoff lasts for nearly three days with more than 385 people killed, including hostages, security personnel and terrorists.  

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

My favorite three-letter word in the English language? P-I-E. But though it’s one of the first words you learn as a child — and one of the simplest and shortest words in English — the pie has been around since before the existence of either the United States of America or the country of England. Pies are even older than the English language.

The origins of pie date back to the early Egyptian culture. Their pie had a honey filling encased in a crusty cake made from barley, oats, rye or wheat. One Egyptian tablet created before 2000 B.C. provided a recipe for chicken pie. Both sound pretty delicious, and it shows the nation liked both sweet and savory pies. The ancient Greeks got in on the pie business around the fifth century B.C. The pie pastry is mentioned in the plays of Aristophanes, and heeven suggests there was a vocation of pastry chef, totally separate from a baker.  

ROMAN PIES 

It was the Roman Empire that expanded on the covering of pies. They made a pastry of flour, oil and water to cover up their meat of choice, but it initially was not meant to be consumed with the savory inside — it was strictly added to preserve the juices. “Apicius,” a Roman cookbook though to have been written anywhere from the first century A.D. to the fifth century A.D., has many recipes that include a pie casing. The clever Romans even developed a cheesecake called “placenta,” which had a pastry base. Because of their development of roadways, Roman concoctions traveled across Europe with a vibrant trade system. So the world of pies expanded across the continent.  

THE ENGLISH PERFECT PIE 

However, it was Great Britain that vaulted pies to a higher level. Definitions of pie from the 1300s clearly stated it was either meat or fish covered in a pastry. Like the Romans, these coverings were meant to contain the savory food inside instead of being eaten with it. The pastry topping also served to preserve the meat or fish inside on long voyages abroad and as a space saver for ships with limited storage. This eliminated the need to bring along a cook and the live animals it would take to create the pies.  

The only knock on British pies was the terminology associated with them. The word pie was spelled “pye,” which wasn’t so bad, but the pastry covering was called a “coffyn,” more frequently spelled today as “coffin.” Many pie coverings were actually a rectangular shape, thus justifying the moniker. Still, this was definitely a term you did not want to associate with such a delicious treat, but more on that later. One bad habit when serving fowl in a pastry was to leave the bird’s legs hanging outside of the covering to make it easier to pick up. This method was certainly a crude presentation not suitable for modern sensibilities.  

During the era of knights in armor and damsels in England, pies became a focus at opulent banquets. It became vogue to remove the covering to showcase the inner delicacies. (Except for cases like Arya Stark’s revenge pie in “Game of Thrones”). The elaborate pies included in this period were sometimes outlandish. Imagine a huge pie that contained musicians or jesters. There were few limits to the lengths these medieval people would explore. But if you think about it, today’s stunts involve sometimes putting a person inside a large cake for birthdays and other events — even British nursery rhymes mentioned “Four and 20 blackbirds baked in a pie.” Some thought this just a tall tale, but royalty and aristocracy really would attempt to impress their guests by creating pies with live animals inside.  

Geoffrey Chaucer branched out to pastries with fruit contained within. He published a recipe for apple pie long before it became synonymous with moms showcasing the wholesomeness of traditional American values. In addition to the apples, ingredients included figs, pears and raisins but did not contain any sugar. (Sounds like a healthy version of pie today, using the natural sweeteners within the fruits.)  

A letter exists from a baker to Jane Seymour, third wife of Henry VIII stating, “… hope this pasty reaches you in better condition to the last one …” showing royalty continued to indulge in the delicacies.  

THE FIRST CHERRY PIE 

In the middle of the 1500s, England created a new type of pie especially for Queen Elizabeth I. The very first documented cherry pie was made specifically for the queen. No mention of her reaction to the taste is recorded, but pastries continued to be a staple in England. When pie prices became too inflated for most commoners, King Richard II issued an ordinance limiting the ceiling on the cost within London’s city limits.   

Over the years, Great Britain continued to develop many types of pies. In Scotland, they have a Scotch pie (or mutton pie). As with pies with steak or kidney fillings, mutton pie is often seasoned with copious amounts of pepper. Sometimes the inside of the pie will also include potatoes, eggs, baked beans or gravy to complement the meat.  

Even the British miners developed their own version of pies that catered to their surroundings underground called Cornish pasties. These were filled with beef or venison, potatoes and rutabagas or sometimes just fruit. Like in earlier days, these pasties would last a whole week, being rolled up in a paste made of flour and lard. Once baked, the hardened crust created a seal for the food inside. They were also easily tucked into a miner’s pocket until needed. 

PIES IN THE US 

So when did pie first travel to what would become the original 13 colonies? It may sound cliché but the first pies arrived on the Mayflower with the Pilgrims at Cape Cod in 1620. (Remember the pies made for long ship voyages?) Unfortunately, the first Thanksgiving did not mention any pie being consumed.  

Tastier pies were on the horizon, as colonial America contained such sweeteners as maple syrup, cane syrup, molasses and honey collected from imported English bees. The very first American cookbook, dated 1796, contained a recipe for “Pompkin Pudding,” which was baked in a crust. Varieties of the principal ingredients included pumpkins, blueberries, pear, apple and quince. The popularity of pies along the East Coast grew, and as the country expanded west, pies went along for the ride. The fillings of the pies grew, as well, on the westward trek with cream, custard, lemons, coconuts, blackberries, strawberries and many more.  

PIES AS WEAPONS IN THE CIVIL WAR 

When the American Civil War erupted in 1861, pies were consumed across both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line. And some citizens used people’s universal love of pie to wage the war.  

On Sept. 12, 1861, a “free colored woman” named Mrs. Welton was arrested for selling poisoned pies to Union soldiers on the streets of St. Louis, Missouri. Pittsburgh was a hotbed of poison pie incidents, as well. A resident, Mrs. Nevins, managed to dispatch her husband, a retuning soldier, via a poisoned pie. She joined another Pittsburgh woman named Grinder in garnering a sentence of death.  

Arsenic and strychnine were the principle culprits put into deadly pies. However, women in the South branched out with such death-dealing pie ingredients as ground glass and diamond dust gathered from a jeweler’s floor.  

Members of the 52^nd Massachusetts Infantry stationed in Louisiana were particular targets of female Southerners. After the reoccupation of Baton Rouge in late December 1862, this Yankee unit accidentally burned down the state capitol building. That, combined with the haughty attitudes of the Northerners, compelled the local ladies to gain a bit of revenge on the invaders. One Bay State soldier had earlier been writing home about how much he missed his mother’s custard pie. By February, 1863, he wrote home that his “captain had forbidden them to buy any pies from these Rebel women.” A comrade had “bought one yesterday but was dead today.”  

Even the elderly got in on the pie action. A grandmother in Plaquemine, Louisiana, across the Mississippi River from Baton Rouge, had come home to find her 12-year-old grandson murdered by the occupying Federals for making rifle cartridges at home. She set about to fight back the only way she knew how, which was to include some ground glass into pies she sold to soldiers on the streets in Baton Rouge. 

Not all deadly pies were intentional: Accidents caused some of the people to pass away from eating pies. On Dec. 1, 1864, a Minnesota newspaper lamented the poisoning of seven enlisted men from eating a cracker pie. Fortunately, no one died, and it was discovered “arsenic had been used by mistake for tartaric acid.” Saleratus, the precursor to baking powder, contained some dangerous properties and when not mixed right was fatal. 

THE BOSTON CREAM PIE QUESTION 

A less stomach-churning controversy over pies arose back in Boston in the mid-1800s. Today, there are not many people in the United States who have not heard of the famous Boston cream pie. But each time someone thinks they have proof of its true origin, another record is found to refute the actual year the popular pie was first made.  

Local legend has the pie being created in 1856. Claims have it being served for the grand opening of Boston’s Parker House. However, many cannot or will not explain the existence of the Dedham Cream Pie. Published recipes of the tasty Dedham, Massachusetts, pie come out around the same time, and one recipe for it was published in the city of Boston. The person documenting the Dedham dessert was a female physician and nurse.         

EMPANADAS AND CALZONES 

Eventually, the pie made its way to the Americas via different European cultures. For instance, the Spanish brought over their version of the pie, the empanada. The name literally translates into “enbreaded” or “wrapped in bread.” These treats were variously filled with meat, cheese, tomatoes or corn, among other foods. Once they crossed the sea to North and South America, many empanadas were baked but subject to being fried as well.  

Like a pastry, the dough is simply folded over the ingredients inside. The contents and shapes may vary dependent on where they are located, but the principle is the same. One city in Louisiana embraced these savory treats, dubbing them “Natchitoches meat pies.” They are served in restaurants or even at convenience stores right off the I-49 exit and come mild or spicy beef or filled with crawfish. Don’t despair if you live far away, as they are even frozen and sent across the United States boxed up.  

The Italians followed suit with a wonderful rendition of a savory pie called a calzone. It is almost like a pizza folded over, and is popular across the U.S. 

THE WAR AGAINST PIES 

In the early 1900s, pies went from being used in warfare to being the focus of a war against them. As the country embarked on a nationwide health movement, pie became the focus of a smear campaign. Ladies Home Journal published two articles condemning the popular dessert, with the author, Sarah Tyson Rorer, stating: “The inside of a pie is injurious [and] pies and cakes ae indigestible.”  

Since the 1950s, though, pie has returned to being the phenomenon it deserves to be treated as. The range of fillings has only increased over the years, including Key lime, potato chips and Oreos. So the next time you dig into a pie of any flavor, think about the long journey it took over centuries, oceans and continents to get to you.

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

Gravy’s so easy to make — just mix meat drippings and a pinch of flour to thicken it and you are done. But the pan-scraping sauce, particularly creamy white gravy, has had a surprising sojourn throughout history. Along with its cousins gruel and chocolate gravy, it makes up part of a family of simple, filling foods that anyone can make and nearly everyone enjoys.

And though its legacy is wide, white gravy’s chief contribution to American military cuisine may be one that soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen loudly profess to loathe — but that they actually seem to love.

But before we get to that, a brief history of white gravy and how it led to the military staple known as “SOS.”

WHITE GRAVY AND CHOCOLATE GRAVY

White gravy, the broadly Southern staple found blanketing chicken fried steak and biscuits, is a version of a fancier sauce. Actually François de la Varenne, chef de cuisine for Louis XIV’s diplomat Nicolas Chalon du Blé, gets credit for first concocting it. La Varenne authored the world’s first commercial cookbook, “Le Cuisinier François” (“The French Cook”), and the recipe for béchamel sauce accompanied early French explorers to Louisiana, where meatier variants soon followed.

One cousin of white gravy is the lesser-known chocolate option. In the early 1500s, one of the most prized spoils from the Spanish conquest of the Americas was the secret of the cacao tree, the seed of which forms the basis for chocolate. This discovery led to the eventual transport of the precious commodity of chocolate to the Spanish-held territories of Louisiana and Texas in later years.

At some point, very possibly along the frontier between Spanish Louisiana and the first-British, then-American-held Tennessee Valley, the chocolate was mixed with other ingredients to formulate a sweetened version of the gravy with the same purpose, poured over pancakes, biscuits, and the like, gradually spreading throughout the Upland South. Folks in the Ozark Mountains use this version of gravy nowadays more often than they do along the coastline.

GRUEL, WHITE GRAVY’S UNLOVED COUSIN

On the other hand, white gravy’s distant relative gruel suffers from a stigma. Gruel is typically associated with both the sick and downtrodden; the fact it rhymes with “cruel” does not help its standing. However, Ursuline nun Marie-Madeleine Hachard excitedly wrote her father in 1727 about the wonderful food in Louisiana. She seemed almost giddy, expounding, “We are getting remarkably used to the wild food of this country … rice cooked in milk [gruel] is very common and we eat it often ….”

In the mid-1700s, Native American tribes in Louisiana offered a resident Frenchman, Lt. Dumont, a similar type of mixture that he described as gruel made from husked maize, water and oil from bear fat. Dumont, receiving this repast in return for some gifts and trinkets, noted, “The French eat it on salads and also … for making soups.”

(White gravy on a salad is quite a concept!)

GRUEL AS MIRACLE CURE

A century later, gruel was reintroduced across the United States via an 1860 marketing surge driven by its supposed medicinal value. Newspapers were saturated with advertisements lauding its “invigorating” qualities. One particular brand of gruel claimed to be helpful to children as well as “highly useful and beneficent to Women in the state of Pregnancy.”

During the Civil War, Ransler Wilcox of the 49th Massachusetts Infantry was stationed in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and jotted this in his diary: “I do not feel well … have been to the doctor and got some medicine … gruel for dinner … tea and gruel for supper.”

Samuel Haskell of the 30th Maine Infantry on duty at Morganza, Louisiana wrote, “I have been sick [and] I dare not eat the rations we draw … [we can get] every thing but flour …. I have bought some to make some grewall.”

Modern postnatal care research papers have lauded its benefits in artificial infant feeding. Maybe there is something to this aspect of gruel being a cure for your ailments after all.

In the aftermath of the Battle of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, in July 1863, women from the surrounding area flocked to the battlefield to assist with the large number of wounded soldiers. Supplies being minimal, the makeshift hospitals resorted to whatever was at hand to ease the pain and hunger of the injured men.

Farina is mentioned in lots of reminiscences from nurses and ladies of the Sanitary Commission. The caretakers would add water or milk to the farina and heated it to a palatable gruel mixture. This allowed the comforting, warm food that would stretch to larger groups of troops. The concoction was also very nourishing and easy to eat and digest.

One Union soldier marching through the south recalled: “Many a soldier will remember how, when he fell out of the ranks during one of those severe marches, and the planter nearby scowled and glowered so that he could not enter the rich man’s door,” some sympathetic slave woman “helped him to her own cabin . made him tea and gruel, and nursed him as tenderly as his sister would have done.”

GRAVY ON THE GO

During the 1864 Red River Campaign, Lt. George G. Smith of the 1^st Louisiana (U.S.) Infantry put the two staples of rations together out of necessity. All he had available to eat was “a piece of boiled salt pork, a few pieces of hard tack and some coffee. Salt pork I could not, and hard tack I would not eat.”

Finally, Smith decided, “I will soak my hard tack in some hot water and soften it up a little, and fry some of the salt pork in my tin plate and then fry the soaked hard tack in the gravy. Very good!”

After creating the makeshift white gravy, Smith noticed comrades were watching the process. Within a week, instead of garnering the credit for the mixture, he noticed the entire camp was relishing the new dish made from items everyone had in their haversacks.  

Whether a remedy for sickness or not, anyone who has ever read the book or watched one of the numerous movie versions of Charles Dickens’ classic “Oliver Twist” surely recalls the protagonist uttering the plaintive line about gruel: “Please, sir, I want some more.” One can assume this is the juncture where being orphaned, poor and homeless became associated with the term “gruel.” The derogatory meaning associated with the word has even found its way into mainstream media thanks to a statewide sports column. Headlines of a postseason loss for Louisiana State University football a few years back opined, “LSU’s holiday bowl gruel typified a mushy season.”

S*** ON A SHINGLE

White gravy has ingratiated itself with the United States military; for example, add sausage and you have sawmill gravy. Chipped beef even found its way into the white gravy mixture with the future doughboys right before World War I.

Soldiers and sailors eventually dubbed it “SOS” (“Save Our Souls” or “Same Old Slop” being the PG-rated translations) when served on a piece of toast. The very first documented proof of the military making SOS was the 1910 “Manual of Army Cooks.” Field conditions caused some ingredients to change due to availability but for the most part the stuff used to make the concoction for the troops included … well, see for yourself.

Recipe #251. Beef, chipped: 15 pounds of chipped beef; 1 pound fat, butter preferred; 1½ pounds flour, browned in fat; 2 12-ounce cans of evaporated milk; bunch parsley; ¼ ounce of Pepper; 6 quarts of beef stock

Before you start cooking this up, please realize you have to invite 59 friends over to consume this massive portion with you, as it was measured out to feed 60 hungry soldiers.

One of the stories of the famous “Band of Brothers,” Easy Company of the 506^th Parachute Regiment of the 101^st Airborne Division, happened stateside, before they crossed the ocean to fight the Germans in World War II. They boarded a train bound for Sturgis, Kentucky. At the railroad depot, women from the Red Cross gave them doughnuts and coffee. The soldiers camped outside of the town and were treated to what seemed to be the Army’s meal of choice to offer troops in the field, creamed chipped beef on toast.

Gerry Stearns of the 89^th Infantry Division recalled his experiences with SOS in World War II.

“Sometimes the GI’s names for staples could have been off-putting,” he wrote. “The Mess Sergeant’s menu listed ‘cream chipped beef on toast.’ What we called it was ‘Something on a Shingle,’ or usually ‘S.O.S.’ I was uneasy about trying that until about three or four o’clock one morning I was checking the buildings of the reception center where I was a limited service MP. There was an interesting smell of frying meat as I approached the mess hall. I am pretty sure my General Orders required me to investigate. What I found were mounds of hamburger being cooked in big pans, a milk and flour sauce being prepared and hundreds of bread slices being toasted. I became an instant fan and a regular participant in this and many subsequent S. O. S. Breakfasts.” 

SOS TAKES OFF

SOS grew in popularity during both world wars and in Korea and Vietnam. Near the end of World War II, the Army published the recipe in “TM 10-412” in August 1944 but made a few changes in the previously standard ingredients. The parsley and beef stock had been removed in an effort to make a creamier chipped beef serving. It was a success, but cooks still had to be reminded to soak the chipped beef beforehand to remove the preservative salt. The U. S. Air Force joined in serving SOS in World War II and through the next few wars.

Dennis Peterson of the 309^th Tactical Fighter Squadron fondly recalled many SOS meals during the Vietnam War.

“Good eating,” Peterson wrote. “It [SOS] was always available on the food tray. Eggs and bacon were my preference, but SOS was delicious, too.”

Becoming a professional truck driver after the war, Peterson would often sample similar food on his travels across the Southern United States roadways.

The U. S. Navy had their own varied ingredients, which included tomatoes, fresh ground beef and nutmeg. One sailor commented that his ship got upset when they were given the SOS with chipped beef Army variant instead of the minced beef style they had been served for so long. They eventually convinced the cooks to restrict the chipped beef version to once a year.

Interestingly enough, if you look through any Navy cookbook from 1927 until 1952, you will find that there is no recipe for making creamed beef. Hands down, they preferred minced beef, something unique to their branch of service. The only other group to eat it were U. S. Marines being transported on Navy vessels. A Navy cook was taught to thicken the tomato sauce for the minced beef with cornstarch. Their nautical SOS was served for an entire week and then alternated the next week with corned beef hash and hard-boiled eggs and so on throughout the year.

“Probably because space is such a premium aboard ship, we did not have chipped beef, just good old hamburger meat, minced with plenty of black pepper and salt, “ said U. S. Navy Cook Striker (apprentice) Jon Lord, aboard the U.S.S. California from 1974 to 1975. “It was more of what today we would call sausage gravy. We fed 450 men, three times a day at sea. Breakfast was the favorite meal. As I recall, there would be one or two meats on the line every morning: bacon, sausage, ham, or SOS. SOS was always a crew favorite.” 

SOS TODAY

More recently, some branches of service have decided to go with a healthier SOS, using very lean ground beef (less than 10% fat) or implementing ground turkey to provide the meat in the meal. Regardless of the mixture, the popularity of this dish has persevered in the military over the years.

In the aftermath of the disastrous Hurricane Katrina along the Gulf coast in 2005, the makeshift kitchens at Camp Beauregard in Pineville, Louisiana, were full of continuous large containers of the white gold, this version mixed with ground beef. This was used to fill the many hungry stomachs of the various units from across the United States sent down on rescue missions throughout the state and nostalgically housed in the old World War II-era barracks on post. Considering the disaster areas they were confronting on a daily basis and the shortage of generators on post, the warm, tasty SOS made a lasting culinary experience akin to the earlier days of the military camp.

In garrison situations, the Army SOS would be served over toast. In field-based scenarios, the SOS would be put atop baking powder biscuits.

“Since the cooks started to cook breakfast before sunrise, they had to work under blackout conditions,” one cook said later. “The walls of the mess tent were drawn, and the cooks had to work with flashlights. This was important because you could see a cigarette for miles.”

But whether you can see it or not as you eat, SOS or chipped beef, or whatever you prefer to call it, has seemingly made itself a permanent home in America’s military mess halls.  

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

The admiral stood victorious, his battered vessel rocking gently with the changing of tide that had served him so well. With his sword stained crimson and his face blackened with soot, he observed with elation the seascape of carnage laid out before him. He’d performed a miracle this day, and the exhausted yet heartened crews of his tiny fleet knew it. More importantly, the enemy knew it.

In 1545 Yi Sun-sin (Yee Soon-shin) was born into a family which had served as military officers for generations. Yi passed the military service examination in 1576, though he had to take it twice, having fallen from his horse in a freak accident during his first attempt. Yet this inauspicious beginning launched an incredible career.

Assigned to a succession of low-level positions in both the army and navy, he first gained the court’s attention for actions facing the Jurchen in 1583. Through guile and solid military tactics, Yi proved remarkable amongst his peers. Chief State Councilor Yu Song-nyong, a childhood friend, emerged as a strong advocate near the throne, ensuring future assignments would increasingly recognize Yi’s potential. Their friendship would also save the kingdom.

Assigned as commander of the Left Jeolla Navy, based at Yeosu on the southern coast, Yi arrived in 1591 to find a small fleet of 24 pannokson and 15 hyeupson at anchor in the bay.

Studious and diligent, Yi set to work learning all he could about naval command and warfare. Pouring through the archives he discovered the 1413 A.D. plans for a simple turtle ship and, after consultations with a local shipbuilder, ordered construction to begin.

Both Yi and Councilor Yu were convinced that war with Japan was coming. Yi strengthened his fleet, trained the men, and made logistical arrangements to support wartime operations.

The Japanese Prepare For War

Japan’s invasions of Korea spanned 1592-1598 A.D. and reflected the ambition and desire of one man, Japan’s Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Unable to claim the title of shogun due to his lowly birth, he nonetheless ruled Japan as first Kampaku (Regent) and then as Taiko (Retired Regent). Regardless of title, his rule was absolute. The conclusion of his campaign in 1590 brought Japan under his control, ending – or at least putting on hold –123 years of civil war.

Yet Hideyoshi had a problem. Japan had been fighting itself for so long that it teemed with an excess of warriors and warlike men. The samurai class was restless in a suddenly peaceful Japan. Local uprisings and internecine feuds plagued the empire. Hideyoshi needed an outlet for this military energy – especially for the troublesome clans from Kyushu, who proved his most combative subjects.

Across the sea to the West lay the Chinese Ming Empire. Haughty in its dealings with Japan, the Ming routinely treated Japanese emissaries with disdain, looking down on a culture that seemed to worship combat to the detriment of more filial pursuits. The long-standing Chinese prerequisite to kowtow before the emperor in order to conduct trade did not sit well with Japan’s martial leaders.

Trade was thus limited and piracy was rampant. Japanese marauders haunted the coasts of China and Korea, sometimes raiding deep inland in search of food and booty.

Between China and Japan lay Joseon Korea, at the time ruled by King Sonjo. A deeply Confucian state, Korea’s ties to Ming China were strong after the two joined forces to end Mongol domination of the region two centuries prior. This cooperation led to the longest period of Sino-Korean peace in their 2,000 years of shared history. The Joseon court had long realized the value of trade and played the part of China’s little brother to secure necessary economic benefits.

In preparation for the assault upon China, Hideyoshi demanded safe passage for his armies through Korea. This was something quite impossible for Sonjo. The king refused and immediately dispatched word to the Ming Emperor at Nanjing. The Japanese were coming.

The Invasion Begins

The division of 18,700 Japanese men that landed at Busan on May 23, 1592, was a veteran force, hardened by a lifetime of incessant warfare and bored by two years of peace. The samurai were deadly in close combat and also armed with Portuguese-derived arquebuses of superior quality to any firearms carried on the Asian Continent. Japan’s initial landing would be followed by 131,000 troops in seven divisions.

Joseon’s Army, in steady decline since the defeat of the Mongols, was almost the polar opposite of its opponent. Officers gained position by passing national examinations. Their soldiers were conscripts, raised only when needed and with a modicum of training and experience. What few professional warriors Korea maintained were mostly cavalry and deployed in the northeast facing the troublesome Jurchen.

An undercurrent of factionalism at odds with any rational attempt to accomplish military objectives undercut both sides in the conflict. On the Korean side, the court was split into “Easterners” and “Westerners” struggling for favor and position throughout the course of the war, sometimes with deleterious effects upon the actual fighting. For the Japanese, long-standing rivalries between many senior commanders complicated battlefield coordination. High-ranking samurai almost came to physical blows at least once.

Strengths and Weaknesses

It was only 694 kilometers from Busan to the Chinese border. Yet the problem with invading Korea was the peninsula’s difficult terrain. Steep mountains and fast-moving rivers constituted a defender’s paradise, defeating invaders even without help from a population stubbornly unwilling to live under foreign control.

Any invasion of Korea thus demanded more of the logistician than the tactician. Any incursion into China, presumably launched from a secure base in Korea, required supplies to be transported north across endless mountains or by sea around the southern and western coasts.

Realizing the difficulty in maintaining long lines of land communication, Hideyoshi favored the sea, and assembled 700 transports and 300 warships to make it work.

All was now in place for Asia’s first real naval war. Yet for all the apparent advantages the Japanese armies had over their Korean foes, the exact opposite was true when it came to their respective navies.

Hideyoshi had no full-time navy and the ships he ordered into service were owned by subordinates with fiefs on the coast, many of whom had been pirates.

In contrast, Korea, in response to constant piracy along its coasts, had long maintained a professional navy. Ships were designed from the keel up to operate in the shallow, rocky littorals which gird the Korean peninsula.

Japanese sea-going warships at this time were light and v-hulled, built for speed. Japan’s preferred tactic was to board enemy vessels and fight hand-to-hand. Narrow abeam, and top-heavy, the largest of their ships could only mount three to four cannons facing forward. Most of the samurai fleet, however, consisted of unarmed transports relying upon massed arquebus fire as the primary means of ranged weaponry.

Korea’s pannokson were flat-bottomed with a wide beam and expansive fighting deck. Each battleship mounted 20 or more cannons capable of delivering devastating, large caliber broadsides out to a thousand paces.

The centerpiece of every Korean fleet, pannokson were the capital ships of the navy, supported by smaller vessels called hyeupson, and fishing boats pressed into use as scouts.

Admiral Yi also commissioned the construction of kobukson, the famous “Turtle Ships” that stunned his foes. Riding low in the water, the covered fighting deck of a “turtle ship” was sealed from inside and studded with iron spikes to discourage boarding.

Designed to ram the more fragile Japanese ships, these ships also carried an impressive complement of cannon. Yi’s first turtle ship was completed just in time for the war — a stroke of luck for the soon-to-be famous commander.

Yi Takes Action

Reports of the Japanese landing at Busan, and the fall of Dongnae Fortress to the north, reached the admiral within a few days. More disturbing news included the scuttling of both Left and Right fleets of the nearby Kyongsang Navy.

This represented an incredible lost opportunity as the vanguard Japanese commander, Konishi Yukinaga, tired of waiting for his warship escort, had rashly sailed to Busan with only unarmed transports. This Japanese force could easily have been slaughtered by the Kyongsang Navy’s combined 150 pannokson. Instead the two Korean admirals, Pak Hong, and Won Kyun, fearful of the enormous fleet filling the horizon, burned their vessels and deserted their posts. Won Kyun seemingly had a change of heart mid-way through the act and four of his pannokson escaped destruction.

In the rapidly evolving situation, Yi acted deliberately. He gathered maps, intelligence, and supplies, and received the court’s permission to sail beyond his assigned area of operations off Jeolla Province.

Coordinating with the commander of the Right Jeolla Navy, his intent was to combine their fleets, link up with Won, and commence combat operations against the invaders.

Won’s hysterical pleas to the court for assistance — hypocritically accusing Yi of cowardice in the face of the enemy — forced Yi’s hand. He was ordered to set sail before the Jeolla Navy was able to consolidate. After linking up with Won’s skulking remnant near Koje Island, Yi learned of a Japanese naval force raiding a local village.

When he sailed into Okp’o Harbor on June 16, 1592, Yi Sun-sin stepped into the spotlight of military history.

The First Korean Victory

Catching the enemy in the act of pillage, the Korean fleet formed a line of battle as the Japanese rushed to their ships or fled into the hills beyond the burning village.

Yi rallied his inexperienced crews and set to work destroying as many enemy vessels as possible with cannon fire. He reported to the court the destruction of 26 ships — the first Korean victory of the war and news that lifted the spirits of King Sonjo.

Over the next 24 hours, Yi attacked two more isolated Japanese forces and sunk an additional 20 vessels. The Koreans had thus far lost no ships and suffered only three casualties.

As the fleet rested from three battles in two days, terrible news arrived that Seoul had fallen to advancing Japanese armies. The king had escaped to the north.

Both admirals wept at the news. They agreed to withdraw to their bases, file official reports, and plan their next engagement. Another reason for Yi’s decision to return to Yeosu became clear when he launched sorties three weeks later. His turtle ship was ready for action.

Rampage Through the Japanese Fleet

Yi’s rampage through the Japanese fleet—including a daring raid on Busan itself, destroying 128 enemy vessels—continued through 1594 when a ceasefire was arranged by Korea’s Ming ally. Armies of samurai had reached Pyongyang and Korea’s northeastern border, but were forced to retreat south through attrition and the allied Ming-Joseon army.

By the time of the truce, Japan controlled only a string of fortifications along Korea’s southern coast. Most of these fortresses were isolated. Admiral Yi controlled the sea lanes and guerrillas roaming the hills, rendering logistical sustainability difficult.

Yi refused to stand idly by, however, while the invaders remained on Korean soil. In defiance of Ming envoys and Joseon officials, he maintained pressure on the “robbers” right up until large-scale military operations resumed in 1597.

However, when the samurai were again let off the leash, Yi was no longer at the head of the triumphant Korean navy – a stunning development with serious consequences.

The Admiral Is Betrayed

By 1597 Yi had been responsible for the destruction of over 352 Japanese ships. Japanese leadership realized something had to be done if success were to be achieved in a second invasion attempt.

Yukinaga set a trap. He passed word that Kato Kiyomasu, whom he hated, would soon return from Japan, and urged Yi to intercept the force as it transited. Yi, however, saw through the false report and refused to take the bait.

Scheming Korean court members seeking to undermine the Easterner Faction cited Yi’s “failure” to act and accused him of “disloyalty and disobedience.” These charges were presented them to King Sonjo who, incredibly, issued a warrant to arrest Korea’s savior.

Yi obediently left the combined fleet — by this time over 200 vessels including at least three turtle ships — in the incompetent hands of Won Kyun.

The hero was led in chains back to Seoul. There he was tried, found guilty, tortured, and demoted to the rank of private soldier. Sentenced to serve in General Kwon Yul’s army, Yi’s new commander felt sorry for all that had befallen the man. Kwon allowed him to fulfill his duties at home in Ansan, where he mourned the recent passing of his mother.

Disaster struck in Yi’s absence. Won led the fleet into another Japanese trap at Chilcheollyang. Everything about this battle indicates that Won had learned nothing while serving at the right hand of Yi. Despite his clear advantage in firepower, Won impetuously rushed to engage the enemy in “glorious” close combat. As a result, the Korean fleet was shattered. Only 12 pannokson and 120 soldiers escaped the slaughter.

Yi was still living in disgrace when a royal messenger arrived. The kingdom needed his help. Yi was officially reinstated him as commander of the combined fleet.

Victor of 18 battles during the first invasion, Yi took command of a demoralized force and less than half the ships that had been at his disposal than when the war began.

With his customary energy, he went to work, already receiving reports that the enemy intended to capitalize upon the presumed destruction of the Joseon Navy. All odds were in favor of the samurai, and it must have appeared to the Japanese that Hideyoshi’s plan would succeed.

Using Nature as an ally

The stage was now set for the most impressive of Yi’s battles, which transformed him from a hero into an unparalleled legend in the pantheon of Korean historical figures.

Yi laid a trap of his own at the volatile Myongyang Strait. He hoped that by using local knowledge of the environment and a personal display of courage that he could rebuild the confidence of the battered remnants of his once-strong navy.

A Japanese force of over 300 vessels, including at least 130 warships, sailed west toward the Jeolla coast. This armada would, by necessity, pass through Myongyang — a narrow strait where the tidal surge reaches 10 to 12 knots and, remarkably, changes direction every three hours. Yi possessed this information. Clearly his enemy did not. Buoyed by their recent victory, the Japanese rushed headlong to attack on sight.

Becoming trapped in the narrows, the invaders were unable to bring overwhelming force to bear against the small Korean force.

Understanding the timing of Myongyang’s tidal currents allowed Yi to control and pace the battle. He took advantage of the natural phenomenon to magnify cannon and ramming attacks upon his astonished foes.

By the end of a hard day’s fight, Yi had sunk 31 enemy vessels, once again without losing a single ship. The remainder of the Japanese force fled all the way to Busan, never again to challenge Yi’s control of Jeolla’s coastline.

Yi’s incredible victory at Myongyang single-handedly derailed the second invasion, forcing the immediate abandonment of the Japanese thrust toward Seoul and a return to their isolated coastal fortifications.

Yi’s Death in Combat

A large Chinese fleet reinforced Yi in July 1598 and the reinvigorated Korean Navy prowled the littoral, hunting any vessel bold enough to make the perilous run to the fortresses at Suncheon and Sacheon.

Yi would continue to harass Japanese supply lines, even participating in a coordinated sea-land attack on Suncheon Castle on October 19. Later the same month, however, word arrived that Toyotomi Hideyoshi had died. The war was over, and the invaders hastily negotiated a ceasefire to facilitate their withdrawal.

Unwilling to allow his enemy to depart unscathed, Yi instituted a naval blockade of Suncheon, preventing Yukinaga’s 15,000 men from making their escape. With Ming and Joseon forces controlling all land and sea approaches, the samurai were in a bind, yet rolled the dice once more, testing their luck against Yi’s tactical brilliance for the last time.

The Battle of Noryang on December 16, 1598, culminated in the sinking of over 200 Japanese vessels. However, it created enough of a diversion for Yukinaga and his men to escape. More importantly for Koreans, it also resulted in the death of Admiral Yi.

Yi fell in combat, while securing a tremendous military victory, quite literally chasing the enemy from his beloved homeland. The admiral’s death in his final battle kept him far from the postwar factional politics of the kind that had nearly ruined him — and the country — just one year prior.

An Enduring Legacy

Throughout his six-year naval command, Yi fought and won 23 battles, destroying over 780 Japanese ships without losing a single vessel of his own, an incredible military record by any account. His actions during the first invasion prevented Japanese seaborne supply, forcing an impossible overland route, and causing the vanguard samurai armies to wither on the vine. This frustrated not only the attempt to pacify the Korean countryside but left the invaders logistically incapable of invading China.

His timely passing neatly protected Yi Sun-sin’s legendary status — one he maintains to this day in memorials etched onto statues around modern Korea including one at Gwanghamun Plaza in Seoul, and another overlooking Busan Harbor.

Yi’s reputation for diligence, self-discipline, and unwavering devotion to duty — despite his government’s unjust persecution of him — have placed him above all others in the litany of Korean historical figures worthy of emulation.

For Yi, perhaps the greatest honor of all would be the reverence he instilled in the descendants of his enemies. When Adm. Togo was celebrated for his incredible victory over the Russians at Tsushima in 1905, an admirer compared him to admirals Horatio Nelson and Yi.

A naval hero himself, and descendant of Kyushu samurai, Togo responded, “It may be proper to compare me with Nelson, but not with Korea’s Yi Sun-sin, for he has no equal.”

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

On entering the state of Tlaxcala in what today is central Mexico, Spanish conquistadors under Hernán Cortés soon found themselves surrounded by tens of thousands of hostile warriors and fighting desperately for survival. Of all the peoples they had encountered since their arrival in Mexico nearly five months ago, none had offered such fierce and determined resistance. The Tlaxcalans showed little fear of either Spanish horses or riders, even grasping the lances of the cavaliers and seeking to overthrow their mounts.

One horseman, unable to wrench his lance from the tenacious grasp of an enemy and robbed of his forward momentum, was immediately beset by a throng of warriors who struck at his charger with terrible obsidian-edged broadswords, nearly beheading the animal. Struggling out from beneath his lifeless horse, the rider shielded himself from his assailants’ blows with upraised arm and rodela (a small steel shield, or buckler). He surely would have died on the spot had his fellows not rushed to the rescue. A sharp battle raged, as fierce as any waged over a Homeric hero, before the Spaniards withdrew with the rider and his saddle. The Tlaxcalans, after hacking further at the remains of the horse, carried off severed chunks for display to fellow countrymen, to prove the vulnerability of the beasts. The rider later succumbed to his wounds.

When Hernán Cortés landed on Mexico’s Gulf Coast in April 1519, he had only vague notions of what lay ahead. He knew the local people were subjects of a great empire governed by a mighty prince named Montezuma, who lived in a magnificent city in the interior. He also knew the Aztecs possessed wealth almost beyond the dreams of avarice, and he immediately began contemplating ways to make the most of the opportunities fortune had laid before him.

The force with which Cortés searched out his fame initially comprised 11 ships, 100 mariners, 508 soldiers—including 32 crossbowmen and 13 harquebusiers—16 horses, 10 heavy brass guns and four falconets—slender resources indeed with which to penetrate an empire whose territory held a population of many millions and whose influence stretched from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Whatever other faults have been attributed to Cortés, an inability to make simple numerical calculations is not among them. It was crucial for him to win allies, and he ultimately had tremendous success in doing so. Tens of thousands of natives would aid the Spaniards as warriors, porters and laborers and by supplying food throughout the conquest of Mexico. Allies not only assisted Cortés in material terms but also boosted his authority in his dealings with Montezuma. Of his allies, the most remarkable—both because of their character and the efforts necessary to secure their friendship—were the Tlaxcalans.

Cortés greatly desired to secure an alliance with the Tlaxcalans, reported to be an independent, hardy and warlike people, undying in their hatred for Montezuma and unyielding in resistance to his rule. Yet long years of encirclement by their foes and frequent raids and invasions of their lands by vassals of the empire had honed the mistrust of the Tlaxcalans to a fine edge. They had gotten advance word of these strange visitors who had come in great ships, of the fantastic beasts on which they rode, and of their thunder and smoke that killed. They also knew the men from the sea traveled to see Montezuma and marched in the company of his vassals. Thus they naturally assumed the foreigners were servants of their mortal foe, come to destroy them.

As Cortés neared the Tlaxcalan frontier, he sent ahead two Cempoalan chiefs as envoys. After waiting two days with no word, the column resumed its march and soon encountered the terrified envoys. Having arrived in the midst of war preparations, they had been seized as suspected spies. The Tlaxcalans, they said, positively burned with the fervor of determined resistance. None would listen to the Spanish overtures of goodwill. The only reply to Cortés’ offer of friendship was a resolve, often repeated in the captives’ presence, that whether the intruders were supernatural beings or mortal men, the Tlaxcalans would tear out their hearts and gnaw the flesh from their bones. Threatened with the same, the envoys had managed to slip away from their inattentive guards. Undaunted, Cortés unfurled his banner and marched forward.

A force of some 3,000 screaming Tlaxcalans sprang from ambush, unleashing a hail of arrows and fire-hardened darts

The Spanish column had not traveled far when scouts reported some 30 Tlaxcalans ahead, equipped for battle and observing the column. Cortés ordered a detachment to capture one or more of them. But when the Spaniards beckoned with their hands and made signs of peace, the warriors mounted a furious attack. As the vanguard met their charge, killing five of the enemy, a force of some 3,000 screaming Tlaxcalans sprang from ambush, unleashing a hail of arrows and fire-hardened darts.

Cortés immediately ordered the rest of the column forward. Soldiers brought their harquebuses and crossbows to bear, and once rolled into position, the artillery barked out death on the massed attackers. The Tlaxcalans were well accustomed to the sounds of battle as they knew it—drums, horns, the thud of weapons striking flesh, the cries of men—but they entered a new realm of sensation as the report of firearms thundered in their ears, and terrible echoes rolled back from the surrounding hills. Death descended on thunderous wings. Yet while the warriors gradually gave way under this novel destruction, they did not flee. They retreated in an orderly fashion, maintaining their ranks. Encamping by a stream, the Spaniards spent an uneasy night sleeping in their armor with weapons ready. The horses remained saddled and bridled, and sentries and patrols kept vigilant watch.

The next morning they resumed the march, only to find their path blocked by an army of 6,000 warriors who made their deadly intentions clear through hostile demonstrations. Cortés once again tried diplomacy, sending forth three captives of the previous day’s fight bearing a message of peace. The message was ill-received. No sooner had the captives blended into the ranks of their fellows than the entire multitude began to howl with rage, their weapons and colorful plumage swaying like a forest whipped by storm winds. Battle was joined.

The Tlaxcalan fighters were no unruly mob, but an organized army with strict military discipline. Many were slain in the initial assault, and the survivors fell back. But their purpose was not swift victory; rather, by a gradual and controlled retreat they sought to lure their enemy forward into difficult terrain where many thousands of their fellows waited in ambush. When those warriors did spring the trap, the Spanish were in a fix, unable to adequately defend themselves on broken ground where their cavalry was of little use. Fighting their way through a shower of missiles past several ravines, they drew up on level ground and dressed their lines. Cortés realized that cohesion of their formation was the key to survival. As they were surrounded, any advance of the infantry would necessarily open gaps through which warriors might pour. The only mobile arm of the Spanish force was the cavalry, led by Cortés himself, which for the better part of an hour wheeled and charged endlessly within the shrinking sphere of open ground. Only after eight of their captains fell slain did the Tlaxcalans finally withdraw, concluding what the Spaniards would call the Battle of Tehuacingo, fought on Sept. 2, 1519.

The dawn of September 3 brought no fresh assault, so the Spaniards spent the day resting, repairing equipment and replenishing their stock of crossbow bolts. Cortés used the time for reflection. The courage and tenacity displayed by the Tlaxcalans in battle made them even more desirable as allies, yet they had met every attempt at amicable communication with threats or immediate attack. How, Cortés wondered, could he overcome the mistrust and hatred the Spaniards’ presence seemed to engender and establish diplomatic discourse?

Among the 15 captives taken on the second day of battle were two chiefs, and Cortés had them brought before him for questioning. To their surprise they had been well-treated and were thus willing to talk. From them Cortés learned much about the land and people of Tlaxcala. Each locality had its own lord, maintained and supported through a system of feudal dependency not unlike the structure that had long prevailed in Europe. Assembled in council, such lords represented the government of Tlaxcala, and each contributed forces for their mutual defense.

The chiefs informed Cortés their supreme commander was Xicotencatl, a most fierce and resolute man. It was he who adamantly maintained the Spaniards were spies of Montezuma and insisted on their annihilation. His was the banner spotted waving over the warriors who had fought with such ferocity, and his colors adorned their faces. Cortés emerged from council with the chiefs strengthened in his conviction the Spaniards must press on—continuing to extend diplomatic overtures, yes, but destroying all who rose against them. The next morning he led out a force to seek provisions in nearby towns and take prisoners, lest his foe infer from inaction the Spaniards had been weakened or discouraged by the resistance they had encountered.

Released from captivity, the pair of tlaxcalan chiefs later returned to Cortés with a message that peace would come only when the gods had been appeased with an offering of Spanish hearts and blood

Cortés returned to camp that afternoon with some 20 additional captives, who doubtless anticipated a horrible fate. Instead, they were fed, presented with beads and entreated by interpreters to lay down their anger and become brothers with the Spaniards. Cortés then set them free. He also released the two chiefs, directing them to bear another message of peace to the capital. Intercepted by sentries and taken before Xicotencatl, the pair returned to Cortés with a message that peace would come only when the gods had been appeased with an offering of Spanish hearts and blood. Adding to this bleak pronouncement, the chiefs reported that the combined forces of Tlaxcala had gathered to destroy them. Spanish padres kept busy all night hearing confessions.

The sun rose on men prepared for death. Thinking it better for morale to keep the men active than to wait in uncertainty, Cortés assembled the army. His remarks were practical rather than inspirational. All were to remain calm and methodical. Artillerymen were to direct their fire into dense groups of the enemy. Some crossbowmen and harquebusiers were to load while others fired, thus maintaining as continuous a stream of fire as possible without wasting ammunition. Swordsmen were to employ their points, thrusting into the bowels of their adversaries. Horsemen were to charge at half speed, restrain their mounts and aim their lances at the face and eyes of the enemy. None were to break ranks. To fail to maintain cohesive lines or succumb to exhaustion was to die. With those words of grim advice ringing in their ears, the men marched forth. Even the wounded, with the aid of their comrades, donned armor, grabbed weapons and kept pace as best they could, for all knew no man could be spared from this crucial contest.

They had not gone far when the Spaniards beheld the largest army they had yet seen in the New World. Sun glinting from spear points of copper and obsidian formed undulating waves of light above the throng of warriors. All shouted defiance and raised a fearsome war cry to accompany the thunder of drums. From what he had learned of native heraldry, Cortés could identify the banners of principal captains, as well as Xicotencatl’s personal armorial device—a white heron atop a rock. Beside it flew a banner emblazoned with a golden eagle on outstretched wings—the standard of the Tlaxcalan state. Spanish chroniclers estimated enemy numbers at anywhere from 50,000 to 150,000 men. Even at the low estimate, the position of the 400-odd Spaniards and their handful of Indian allies would have been akin to a sandcastle trying to hold back the sea.

No embassies were exchanged. When the Spaniards came into range, warriors released a spattering of missiles, which quickly became a torrent. Cortés and his men suffered their stings until reaching a distance more favorable for their guns and artillery. The volleys they fired into the densely packed enemy ranks inflicted dreadful carnage. The Tlaxcalans could not carry the dead and wounded from the field as quickly as they were struck down.

No longer able to endure this punishment, Xicotencatl’s warriors surged forward like a crashing tide. Spears and clubs hammered against the rodelas of the swordsmen as the latter strove to maintain the line. Their arms burned with fatigue as they repeatedly thrust into the bodies of a seemingly unending stream of attackers. Though crossbowmen and harquebusiers desperately poured fire into the enemy horde, the weight of numbers began to tell, and breaches opened in the Spanish line. Cortés bellowed orders but could not make himself heard above the din. For a moment it looked as though the Spaniards and their allies would be swept away.

Yet even as their victory seemed at hand, the Tlaxcalans were no longer able to sustain the attack. The price had been too high. The ground was littered with their dead and wounded, maimed and torn in ways they had neither experienced nor imagined. Their energy was spent, and the tide receded. The battle had lasted some four hours.

The Spaniards, nearly all wounded in one way or another, were utterly exhausted. As they staggered back to camp, the soldiers raised prayers of gratitude to God for their survival.

On the heels of his almost miraculous victory Cortés again sent envoys to the Tlaxcalan capital, seeking peace and safe passage. Angered rather than chastened by their army’s defeat, the lords rejected the overture and ordered Xicotencatl to mount a nighttime assault. Though he attacked with 10,000 of his best warriors, the Tlaxcalan commander fared no better, as the Spaniards were constantly on the alert.

On the heels of this latest failure the next day’s embassy received a more favorable reception. Among the elder lords, held in great respect, was the namesake father of Xicotencatl. He advised making peace with the Spaniards. Like Cortés, he thought the valiant soldiers from across the sea would make invaluable allies. Cempoalan envoys who had accompanied the Spaniards from the coast reported to the lords that Cortés had ordered Totonac settlements in the high sierra to cease paying tribute to Montezuma. The news allayed Tlaxcalan fears these visitors were servants of their great enemy and gave weight to Spanish declarations of goodwill. Heeding the elder Xicotencatl’s counsel, the lords ordered their army to cease attacking the Spaniards.

But the younger Xicotencatl, his blood up, was loath to lay down his arms and reaffirmed his intention to annihilate the Spaniards. Negotiations ground to a halt as the four chiefs chosen as ambassadors would not proceed for fear of the obstinate commander. The lords then got word to the army’s captains not to obey Xicotencatl unless he made peace with Cortés.

At last the commander agreed to send an embassy of 40 gift-bearing Tlaxcalans to the Spanish camp. His emissaries remained there overnight, making detailed observations. The alert Cempoalans suspected these men to be spies and warned Cortés that Xicotencatl had encamped nearby with the likely intention of mounting another nighttime assault. Convinced of the same after interrogating two of the emissaries, Cortés sent an uncompromising message. Taking 17 spies captive, he cut off the hands of some, the thumbs of others, and had these grisly trophies sent to their commander. The message the returning emissaries bore was unequivocal: Xicotencatl was to present himself in two days to accept the Spanish offer of peace, or Cortés would seek him out and destroy him.

The results of his gambit were immediate. The four ambassadors, no longer blocked by the army, approached camp that very day. Appearing before Cortés, they made deep obeisance and begged his pardon for having attacked him. The Tlaxcalans, they explained, had believed the Spaniards to be agents of Montezuma, who had never ceased in his attempts by force or fraud to invade their country. The ambassadors asked forgiveness for their error and accepted Cortés’ offer of friendship.

The Spaniards entered the capital of Tlaxcala on Sept. 23, 1519. Taking the lords aside, Cortés questioned them closely concerning interior Mexico and the Aztec empire. He heard again of the great power and wealth of Montezuma and was given a detailed description of the Aztecan capital of Tenochtitlán—the causeways by which it was approached, its fortifications, its infrastructure and its public buildings. The Tlaxcalan elders even brought pictures painted on henequen cloth depicting their battles with the Aztecs, from which Cortés learned much concerning Montezuma’s command structure and tactics.

The Spanish alliance with Tlaxcala continued to yield much of value throughout the conquest of Mexico. The Tlaxcalans provided supplies, fought alongside the conquistadors against the hostile vassals of Montezuma, gave the Spaniards safe haven after their initial expulsion from the Valley of Mexico, contributed warriors to the siege of Tenochtitlán and participated wholeheartedly in the final destruction of the hostile and oppressive Aztec empire. Cortés’ olive branch had fostered that successful military alliance. MH

Justin D. Lyons is an associate professor of history and government at Ohio’s Cedarville University. For further reading he recommends A True History of the Conquest of New Spain, by Bernal Díaz del Castillo; Conquest: Cortés, Montezuma and the Fall of Old Mexico, by Hugh Thomas; and History of the Conquest of Mexico, by William H. Prescott.

this article first appeared in Military History magazine

See more stories

Subscribe now!

 

When people think of Switzerland, they tend to think neutrality (and cool pocket knives and stylish watches, I guess). But there was a point when the country was caught up in a religious civil war that their armies tried to resolve with soup, according to lore.

In the early 16th century, conflict arose between the Protestant forces from Zurich and Catholic forces from Zug — Switzerland’s Christian Reformation — but legend has it that on the field of Kappel am Albis, no blood was shed. Instead, the armies simply shared some good, hot soup.

There are no records that detail how the soup was made or where it came from, but the story of the milk soup, known as “Kappel Milchsuppe” has become an integral story in Swiss history.

Made primarily with bread and milk, there is no definitive recipe left from the 1500s. Today’s recipes, however, feature various takes with butters, milks, cheeses, onion and garlic.

Though few facts about the original 500-year-old soup can be verified, BBC reported that historians agree the “broth was created by accident in June 1529 when two hungry armies met on a battlefield on what is now known as the Milchsuppestein, or ‘milk soup pasture.’”

“The soldiers from both sides mingled and eventually dined together — supposedly the troops from Zug provided the milk, and those from Zürich the bread to make this soup,” wrote Swiss cook and blogger Andie Pilot.

This brought to a close the first Kappel War.

“Negotiations continued, but to the amazement of everyone, the infantry brokered their own truce over a cooking pot while on the battlefield,” former Kappel Abbey pastor and historian Susanne Wey-Korthals told BBC. “Naturally, they were hungry after the long march, and Zürich had plenty of bread and salt, while Zug had a surplus of milk from its farms. From that the legend was born.”

Unfortunately the bisque was not enough to stop the fighting indefinitely.

The second Kappel War was fought in 1531. Ironically, a food embargo imposed on the Catholics brought the two armies back to war, bringing about a resolution in Switzerland’s Protestant Reformation. Ultimately, the Roman Catholics would go on to win when Zürich’s Protestant leader Huldrych Zwingli was killed.

Still, the lands of Milchsuppestein and the legendary soup enjoyed by the two warring factions became enduring symbols of Swiss peace. A stone monument to the original bloodless battlefield meeting remains there to this day.

“These fields have played witness to some of the most important moments in Swiss history,” Wey-Korthals said. “Switzerland found a way to compromise here. To concentrate on what we had in common rather than focus on our differences. It sounds remarkable, but we did it over a bowl of soup.”

Originally published on Military Times, our sister publication.

In 1615 Japanese warlord Tokugawa Ieyasu surveyed his last battlefield, the blood-soaked ground of Tennoji near Osaka. He’d seen much conflict across the width and breadth of the empire, but at age 72 his work was done. All
of Japan had been brought under consolidated military rule—his rule, a fact made clear to all when the emperor named him shogun, meaning roughly “barbarian-quelling generalissimo.”

Yet Ieyasu hadn’t reached this peak by himself. The foundation for a unified Japan had been laid by his peers Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi. That Ieyasu not only knew but also fought both against and alongside his predecessors makes the story of Japan’s bloody unification unique in the annals of military history.

Nobunaga The Conqueror

Nobunaga was a minor daimyo (feudal lord) when he embarked on his own path to greatness. Born within the precincts of Nagoya in 1534, he wrested leadership of the Oda clan when his father died in 1551. Through a series of campaigns concluding in 1559 he established control of Owari Province, the heavily fortified, rice-rich base of operations for all that followed.

Gauging the Oda clan weakened by the effort, the neighboring Imagawa clan struck, capturing castles at Washizu and Marune on the periphery of Nobunaga’s territory. With the visionary goal of seizing the imperial seat of power at Kyoto and declaring himself shogun, Imagawa Yoshimoto marched at the head of 25,000 men. While the Imagawa army rested in a distant gorge, Nobunaga force marched 3,000 Oda warriors into position and ambushed the far larger enemy force in a legendary victory that boosted his and his clan’s prestige.

Samurai (Japan’s hereditary military nobility) flocked to his banner. Among them was an ambitious peasant named Kinoshita Tokichiro, who was destined for things far greater than his humble birth suggested. Generations of Japanese would come to know him as Toyotomi Hideyoshi.

Nobunaga’s victory at the 1560 Battle of Okehazama sent the Imagawa into steep decline, weakening the clan’s hold over lesser daimyo and allowing them to be poached by Nobunaga. Among the spoils were Matsudaira Moto-
yasu, his lands and his small but capable army. Motoyasu would become known to history as Tokugawa Ieyasu. Thus by 1561 all three warlords who would forge a unified Japan had surfaced in the historical record.

That same year, with the death of a key rival, Nobunaga moved on Mino Province, due north of his base in Owari. Capping off that campaign in 1567, he seized Inabayama Castle, an imposing fortification more than 1,000 feet above the valley floor with clear lines of sight in all directions. Renaming it Gifu Castle, Nobunaga made it his headquarters, while a network of lower castles barracked his growing army. As his power grew, Nobunaga adorned the fortified complex with increasingly luxurious palace grounds at the foot of the mountain. It remained his primary residence until the completion of Azuchi Castle in 1579.

With Mino secured and his forces ensconced around Gifu, Nobunaga marched on Omi Province, the gateway to Kyoto. His ostensible intentions were to install Ashikaga Yoshiaki as shogun to resolve a succession dispute within the latter’s failing shogunate.

This was Nobunaga’s moment, and he clearly recognized it as such. His troops effortlessly rolled across Omi and entered Kyoto in 1568, bringing him instant fame for the rapidity and decisiveness with which he’d struck.

Securing the support of the new shogun—who, after all, owed his succession to the Oda clan—Nobunaga headed north into Echizen Province in 1570 to take on the allied Asakura and Azai clans. Though he faced an initial setback from a growing anti-Oda alliance, by 1573 he had crushed both the Asakura and Azai, seizing their respective Ichijodani and Odani castles and forcing their leaders to commit seppuku (ritual suicide).

Nobunaga then turned his wrath on the Ikko-ikki, a militant Buddhist sect that had joined the doomed opposition forces and fought him in the past. Pitting an army of religious zealots against Nobunaga’s seasoned samurai warriors, the resulting campaign featured prolonged sieges of Nagashima Castle and the fortified temple complexes of Mount Hiei and Ishiyama Hongan-ji, the main Ikko-ikki stronghold at Osaka. While the sect survived the onslaught, it lost all momentum and was eradicated as an effective armed force.

By 1573 the shogun, Yoshiaki, had tired of being a puppet and threw his support behind Nobunaga’s enemies. In response the mighty warlord deposed the thankless Yoshiaki. Having made himself the most powerful daimyo in all Japan, Nobunaga inevitably clashed with contemporary rivals. He proved equal to the task. Conflict with the potent Takeda clan, for example, all but ended after the Takeda rashly besieged Tokugawa-aligned Nagashino Castle in 1575, prompting a forced march by Oda and Tokugawa warriors to relieve its defenders. In the resulting battle Nobunaga’s and Ieyasu’s allied forces decimated Takeda’s vaunted cavalry corps with what was arguably history’s first recorded use of volley fire by massed firearms.

With these victories Nobunaga, with clear designs on further conquest, secured control of central Honshu. He had refused several official titles offered by the deposed shogun, leaving no doubt who was really in charge. But treachery waited in the wings.

In 1582 one of Nobunaga’s subordinate generals, Akechi Mitsuhide, directed his army to surround Honno-ji Temple, where the daimyo was enjoying a tea ceremony with only his bodyguard and servants in attendance. The subsequent skirmish was fierce, but Nobunaga was trapped and committed seppuku rather than suffer the shame of capture.

To keep his head from falling into the traitor’s hands, he ordered his page to set the temple ablaze around them.

Thus ended the life of Japan’s most auspicious military leader to date. It remains unclear what motivated Mitsuhide to rebel against his liege. What is clear is that the general sought to turn the murder into a coup, sending out letters entreating the Mori clan to join him.

Hideyoshi, out east pressing the Mori on Nobunaga’s behalf, promptly terminated his campaign and returned to Kyoto like an avenging angel. Defeating Mitsuhide days later at the Battle of Yamazaki, Hideyoshi then stepped into the shoes of his late patron as leader of the consolidated forces.

hideyoshi the Former Peasant

Born in Nakamura to peasants in 1536, Hideyoshi blazed the most remarkable path to success recorded in the Sengoku period. His father had served among the ashigaru—peasant foot soldiers who constituted the rank and file of the samurai armies. While many legends obscure Hideyoshi’s upbringing, he is thought to have been initially subordinate to the Imagawa before absconding with funds entrusted to him by that clan. By 1558, however, Hideyoshi was firmly in the employ of Nobunaga.

Nobunaga must have divined something special in the lowborn ashigaru, as he entrusted Hideyoshi with ever increasing responsibility, such as repairing fortifications and negotiating on his master’s behalf. The relatively easy 1561 seizure of Inabayama Castle is thought to have reflected Hideyoshi’s efforts, and by 1568 he was one of Nobunaga’s favorite generals. In 1573, following several successes, including a successful rearguard action that shielded his lord’s withdrawal from Echizen Province, Hideyoshi was made a daimyo in his own right, and the Oda clan granted him three districts in Omi.

His steady ascension of the ranks put Hideyoshi in precisely the right place after Nobunaga’s 1582 assassination. Having avenged his benefactor’s death, he assumed command of the largest Japanese army ever assembled. Perhaps more important, Hideyoshi shared Nobunaga’s vision for a unified Japan.

In a bold move Hideyoshi ordered the construction of a massive new fortress at Osaka. Built atop the very ashes of Hongan-ji Temple, in which Nobunaga had perished, the fortress represented an unambiguous statement of intent. Osaka Castle would remain the headquarters of the Toyotomi clan until its destruction in 1615. Having made all necessary logistical arrangements to see the project through, Hideyoshi put his army in order and drafted plans for continued conquest—though he first had to tie up a few loose ends.

Not everyone was happy a former peasant had assumed control of Oda’s armies. Among the disgruntled were Nobunaga’s surviving second son, Nobukatsu, who convinced the powerful Ieyasu of the legitimacy of his hereditary claim. The succession crisis precipitated inconclusive battles at Komaki and Nagakute. While the remarkable military leaders never directly faced one another in combat, Hideyoshi worked behind the scenes to inhibit Ieyasu’s allies, ultimately forcing the latter’s Tokugawa clan to come to terms. Ieyasu remained Hideyoshi’s ally, albeit a reluctant one, for the rest of the latter’s extraordinary life.

Ineligible to receive the title shogun due to his lowly birth, Hideyoshi arranged to have himself named kampaku, imperial regent, providing him necessary legitimacy. Under the auspices of that political mantle Hideyoshi then devoted his attentions to achieving Nobunaga’s goal. In 1585 he seized Kii Province, crushing the warrior monks of Negoro-ji (onetime allies of the extinct Ikko-ikki), burning neighboring Ota Castle to the ground and slaughtering anyone who escaped the conflagration.

Using Kii as a base, Hideyoshi sent a 113,000-man invasion force to Shikoku, the smallest of Japan’s main islands, where he crushed the ruling Chosokabe clan following a 26-day siege of Ichinomiya Castle. Expanding in multiple directions at once, he simultaneously attacked Etchu Province to the north with 100,000 men.

Having completed these conquests by 1586, Hideyoshi dispatched his half-brother to invade Kyushu, Japan’s third largest island. Meanwhile, Hideyoshi himself, with some 200,000 men, conquered all of western Honshu in a drive to link up with his brother. By year’s end the siblings met in Satsuma Province, at the southern tip of Kyushu, where they forced 30,000 warriors of the Shimazu clan to surrender.

That left only one major opposition clan: the Hojo of Honshu’s Kanto Region, centered on the fortified village of Edo (present-day Tokyo). Repositioning his forces, Hideyoshi launched the inevitable assault on the Hojo in 1590. In the final showdown at Odawara Castle his 220,000 troops faced some 82,000 Hojo defenders. By then Hideyoshi’s power was undisputed, and the end was never in doubt.

After a three-month siege Hideyoshi compelled the Hojo to surrender by means of an ingenious ruse. While investing Odawara, he ordered the construction of a new fortress, Ishigakiyama Ichiya, beyond a distant tree line. When its walls were complete—a feat accomplished in a mere 80 days—Hideyoshi had his men fell the intervening trees. Beholding what appeared to be an enemy fortress built overnight, the starving defenders lost their will to fight and surrendered. With that, all of Japan was under Hideyoshi’s dominion.

Yet unification created a new set of problems. The empire had been at war with itself for 123 years. Conflict was all Japan’s warrior class had known, thus the sudden arrival of peace generated tension.

Absent combat, how was an ambitious young samurai to achieve greatness? With internal warfare outlawed, how could one increase the lands of family and clan?

The samurai grew restless, nowhere more so than on Kyushu, where most warriors had surrendered rather than confront the massive invasion force. Just as threatening to Hideyoshi, who was a staunch Zen Buddhist, was the thoroughly foreign Christian religion practiced by large numbers of the Kyushu samurai.

The cunning kampaku soon devised a plan to rid himself of the most troublesome samurai while consolidating his rule back home. Hideyoshi fomented a foreign war, ostensibly affording an opportunity for the quarrelsome warriors to secure both lands and honor. In 1592, with the stated goal of conquering China and India, he launched back-to-back invasions of Joseon Korea.

Though the operations were poorly planned, Hideyoshi’s armies boasted significant tactical advantages over the Korean forces they encountered and thus pushed rapidly north, brushing aside all resistance. Ultimately, however, inadequate logistics, an ineffectual navy and intervention by the Ming Chinese undid the exertions of his soldiers. By the time Hideyoshi died in 1598, the Japanese had withdrawn to a string of fortifications along Korea’s southern coast, where they hunkered down, waiting for a chance to return home. Hideyoshi’s death, while a boon to the troops enduring privation on the continent, bred problems of its own. The kampaku left behind a single male heir, 5-year-old Hideyori. On realizing his life was ebbing, Hideyoshi had sought to ensure his toddler son’s rise to power by drawing chief allies and daimyos into a balanced regency of Hideyori.

Notwithstanding the regency or his oath to the dying kampaku, Ieyasu—the former vassal to Nobunaga and reluctant ally to Hideyoshi—wasn’t about to stand by and allow a child to rule Japan.

Ieyasu The Rebellious Vassal

Ieyasu was born in 1542 at Okazaki Castle, southeast of Nagoya. In 1548, amid the violent interclan politics of the time, the Oda abducted 6-year-old Ieyasu and held him hostage. Nobunaga’s father, Nobuhide, threatened to kill Ieyasu if the Tokugawa refused to sever all ties with the Imagawa. Though Ieyasu’s father refused, Nobuhide didn’t carry through with his threat. Had he done so, Japan’s history might have turned out very differently.

Ieyasu’s captivity, by first the Oda and then the Imagawa, lasted until he was 14, though as a potential future ally he was reportedly treated well. Once released to assume leadership of his clan, Ieyasu remained subordinate to the Imagawa and even led forces against the Oda for a time, by all accounts commanding well. The final defeat of the Imagawa in 1560 enabled him to assert a measure of independence, which he did by forming a lifelong alliance with Nobunaga.

Ieyasu was far more earnest in service to the Oda than to Hideyoshi, though why remains unclear. Perhaps he was disdainful of the latter’s humble origins, or maybe he foresaw he would have to contend with Hideyoshi for dominance.

Following Hideyoshi’s rise to power and the inconclusive power struggles that followed, Ieyasu negotiated an alliance with the former in 1585. Their combined victory at Odawara in 1590 left the whole of Hojo territory to be distributed as the kampaku saw fit.

Wisely uncomfortable with having Ieyasu so close to his base at Osaka, Hideyoshi offered him the eight provinces of the Kanto Region in exchange for lands near Nagoya. Ieyasu agreed, taking ownership of the rich plains east of Mt. Fuji. That in turn provided Ieyasu with the physical distance he would need to formulate his own plans for domination.

In the wake of Hideyoshi’s 1598 death Ieyasu led an army west to Fushimi Castle, near Kyoto, within a day’s march of Osaka Castle, where the appointed heir, Hideyori, was being raised. This alarmed the other regents, who formed an alliance to oppose the potential usurper. The aggressive moves prompted a nationwide split into a western faction, supporting young Hideyori’s regency, and an eastern faction, allied with the Tokugawa clan.

In 1600 Ieyasu marched his forces north in a preemptive strike on the Uesugi clan, steadfast allies of Hideyori. Before he could land the blow, however, he received word a western army was fast approaching and turned to meet the greater threat. In the subsequent Battle of Sekigahara his 89,000-man eastern army met the 82,000-man western army in a fog-shrouded, confused engagement.

Amid the fighting Ieyasu’s preeminence as a strategist became evident, and a sizeable portion of his opponent’s force defected, leading to a decisive defeat of the westerners.

Over the next few days the victors hunted down and killed all surviving opposition leaders, leaving Ieyasu the master of all Japan.

Showdown at Osaka Castle

Though Ieyasu was declared shogun in 1603, a final act remained in the saga of Tokugawa hegemony. In 1614 young Hideyori, still alive despite so much death on his behalf, rallied dispossessed ronin (masterless samurai) and his late father’s onetime supporters into a force with which he intended to recover his birthright. Refusing Ieyasu’s order to abandon Osaka Castle, Hideyori instead prepared for war. Emerging from official retirement, Ieyasu led a 164,000-man army against the 120,000 westerners holding out inside the vast bastion, surrounding the fortress in January 1615.

The resulting siege of Osaka Castle is noteworthy for the presence of artillery on both sides—a rare sight on medieval Japanese battlefields. The shogunate fielded more than 300 pieces, including light Japanese cannons and larger, long-range European guns. Having failed to breach the outer walls by direct assault over the course of six weeks, Ieyasu resorted to a continuous, heavy bombardment and within three days negotiated a cease-fire. Yet Hideyori continued his saber-rattling.

The impasse stretched into summer when Ieyasu returned and, in a signal victory south of Osaka at Tennoji, solidified his reign and that of his descendants. It was Ieyasu’s final battle, and with it he cemented the unified Japan we recognize today.

Contemporary Japanese acknowledge with reverence the work of their three great unifiers. Oda Nobunaga, Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Tokugawa Ieyasu took a continually warring mass of feudal domains and mercilessly hammered them into a nation.

In present-day Japan, the only country in the world with a pacifist constitution, there is no pining for a return to those bellicose times, when wars never ceased, and samurai held the power of life and death over everyone. Yet there remains a very real sense Japan would not be the nation it is today had it not passed through such a fiery crucible. Thus its people maintain tremendous pride in the accomplishments of these three men, uttering their names with all the respect and admiration they earned by conquest at the edge of the sword. MH

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

While the katana sword tends to be associated with male samurai of Japan, a distinctive weapon called the naginata has been traditionally associated with women and female fighters known as onna-bugeisha. Why is the naginata so strongly associated with women—and is it true that the weapon was designed with women in mind?  

What is a Naginata?

The naginata is a curved sword mounted on a pole. It is recorded as having been used by warrior priests circa 750 A.D. It first rose to prevalence during the Kamakura period from 1192 to 1333, a feudal era that might well be considered a Renaissance period for Japan’s warrior class. The naginata had several tactical advantages which made it popular on the battlefield. As a polearm, it lent warriors a much longer reach. Its single-edged blade was narrow but heavy, which allowed wielders to manipulate gravity to launch hard and deadly strikes. It proved ideal for fighting on horseback. It also proved its worth masterfully against famed katana blades—a skilled practitioner of naginatajutsu, or the art of naginata wielding, could effectively dispatch multiple samurai swordsmen with a few well-placed sweeps of the arm.

Why Did Women Start Using the Naginata?

This deadly polearm was not designed specifically for women. Why then did it become known over time as a “woman’s weapon”? The naginata proved its worth as an ideal weapon for female self-defense during the Warring States period, also known as the Sengoku Jidai, according to an article published by Ellis Amdur in the Journal of Asian Martial Arts entitled, “The Role of Arms-Bearing Women in Japanese History.”

During a time when raiding and pillaging were common, noblewomen were often left in charge of guarding their households while men were away at war. The naginata—with its long reach and powerful blade that could so easily be spun into motion—enabled women to defend themselves at close quarters. According to Amdur: “A strong, lithe woman armed with a naginata could keep all but the best warriors at a distance, where all the advantages of strength, weight or sword counted for less.”

Due to its length and weight, the naginata did not require any excessive lunging, leaping or weight shifting to use effectively. A well-balanced weapon, it could be used to great effect with minimal and understated movements. It could thus be spun with deadly efficiency by a woman wearing a restrictive kimono. This made it a powerful but easy weapon for a woman at home to grab in self-defense—perhaps like a medieval melee equivalent of a shotgun.

famous Women Who Used the Naginata

Several stories passed into legend of the wives of Japanese noblemen wielding the naginata to fend off intruders. In one famous instance, an aristocratic woman, married to a certain Mimura Kotoku, is said to have drawn her naginata against an enemy general invading her husband’s castle. Although the intruder refused to duel with her and pejoratively called her a “demon” for her ferocity, she allegedly killed his bodyguards and forced him to withdraw. Women bearing the naginata were idealized on woodblock prints. While the traditional role of women in feudal Japanese society largely barred them from becoming full-fledged warriors, female fighters using the naginata were perceived to be acting with duty and loyalty in defense of their homes and honor.

Thus, over time, the naginata came to symbolize female virtue in Japan. It was displayed in samurai homes and was even given to brides as wedding presents. Seen as a worthy pursuit for women, naginatajutsu became a popular martial arts form for girls and all-female schools began to flourish.

“What the sword was to a man—a weapon embodying his soul—the halberd-like naginata was to a woman,” wrote Michael Hoffman in The Japan Times.

Arguably the most famous woman to use the naginata in battle was Nakano Takeko, who gathered a troop of female fighters to help defend her domain from imperial troops during the Battle of Aizu in 1868. Takeko’s all-female unit is said to have benefited from the element of surprise, since their enemies hesitated to attack once they realized they were facing women. Boldly leading her group, Takeko became famous for wielding her naginata with deadly precision against an overwhelming force of imperial troops. After killing several soldiers she was mortally wounded by a gunshot. With grim resolve as she lay dying, Takeko asked her sister to behead her so that her head would not be taken by the enemy as a trophy. Her sister complied with her wishes, and her head was taken to a local temple for burial.

Other women present during the siege shared Takeko’s steely spirit. A death poem written by one of the women who defended Aizu castle during the same battle reads: “Each time I die and am reborn into the world I wish to return as a stalwart warrior.” Takeko has been honored as a hero, with a memorial standing at the spot where she fell in battle. A statue of her poised ready to strike with her naginata stands in Fukushima, Japan.

While the naginata was not designed specifically for women, the weapon will forever remain most associated with women throughout history who bravely took advantage of its strong and graceful design.

historynet magazines

Our 9 best-selling history titles feature in-depth storytelling and iconic imagery to engage and inform on the people, the wars, and the events that shaped America and the world.

subscribe today

For 21⁄2 centuries, Mamelukes had ruled the Middle East, but by the start of the 16th century their grip had weakened. Originally serving as slave warriors in Egypt, the Mamelukes seized power in 1249, and in the years following their victory over the Mongols at Ain Jalut in 1260 they became the dominant force in the region. But their glory days had passed by the time they ventured out to maintain a territorial advantage over the advancing Ottoman Turks.

A tradition-bound military society, the Mamelukes stubbornly resisted the introduction of modern firearms such as artillery and arquebuses into their ranks as insulting and dishonorable. That the Ottomans had adopted and mastered such weapons only increased the Mamelukes’ contempt. Aiming to showcase the equestrian skills from which they derived their pride as much as to train his men, Sultan al-Ghawri revived traditional cavalry training exercises and military displays of skill with sword, lance and bow. Visually impressive though they were, those exercises proved to be an intelligence bonanza for the Ottoman envoy in Cairo.

Relations between Egypt and the Ottoman Turks had been deteriorating for some time. Two years earlier, in 1514, Egyptian Mameluke client Ala al-Dawla of Albistan refused an Ottoman request for assistance against the Persian Safavids. The Mamelukes quietly applauded him for that, fearing Ottoman moves and hoping for a Safavid victory to bolster their own position in the frontier region between the two empires.

Consequently, following the Turkish victory in the Battle of Chaldiran in August 1514, Ala al-Dawla was killed by Sultan Selim I, and his land was annexed to the Ottoman Empire, in clear violation of Cairo’s rights. Adding insult to injury, Selim sent al-Dawla’s head to Mameluke Sultan Kansuh al-Ghawri, along with an announcement of the conquest. With the Ottomans also extending their control over Kurdistan, the balance of power in that frontier region was shifting in their favor. Al-Ghawri saw that he must react to the Ottoman provocation, but as he was making final preparations for a military expedition in late May 1516, a courier arrived at the Mameluke camp on Cairo’s outskirts with a message from Selim. It called for peace and offered an explanation about the al-Dawla affair.

After quickly recovering from the blow dealt them by the Ottomans at Chaldiran, the Safavids had raised a new army and had even defeated an Ottoman force. Though Selim had threatened the Mamelukes, his main enemy was the Safavids, whom he passionately hated. Dismissing Selim’s overture as a manipulative ruse designed to free the Ottomans to deal with the resurgent Safavids without Mameluke interference, al-Ghawri continued as planned, setting off for Syria with the main Mameluke force.

Al-Ghawri believed that a confrontation between the Ottomans and Safavids was imminent. Adding credence to that, two Turkish emissaries approached him upon his arrival in Aleppo, Syria, and assured him that the Ottoman dispute was with the Safavids, not with the Mamelukes. They asked that the Egyptians not interfere. Still angry at Selim’s patronizing attitude and certain that the Ottomans would next turn on him, al-Ghawri detained the Ottoman emissaries and treated them poorly.

Meanwhile, as Selim prepared to resume the offensive against the Safavids, he learned that they had pulled back. Memories of the successful scorched-earth tactics that the Persians had employed during their previous confrontation were still fresh in Selim’s mind. In mid-July 1516, it was still not clear to which enemy he would give priority, but he could not ignore the Mameluke force now poised in Syria.

Al-Ghawri’s plans of facing an Ottoman army weary and weakened from battle with the Safavids were starting to backfire. Perhaps sensing the change in Ottoman intent, he released Selim’s emissaries and dispatched an emissary of his own to the Ottoman sultan with a message of neutrality. At that point, Ottoman sources claimed that they intercepted a message sent by al-Ghawri to the Safavids pledging mutual support. Outraged by al-Ghawri’s duplicity, short-tempered Selim decided on war with the Mamelukes. When the Mameluke emissary arrived at Selim’s camp carrying al-Ghawri’s neutrality offer, his entourage was killed, and the emissary was sent back to al-Ghawri with a message: “Meet me at Marj Dabiq!”

Accepting the challenge, the Mamelukes faced the Ottoman army at Marj Dabiq on August 24, 1516. Sultan al-Ghawri deployed at the head of his army. On the right flank was the Damascus regiment, commanded by its governor, Sibay; on the left was Aleppo’s governor, Khayrbak, and his men. Auxiliary infantry composed of Bedouin, Turcomen and Kurds supplemented the force. Ottoman sources estimated the Mameluke force at 20,000 to 30,000 men. Against them, Selim fielded a well-trained, well-organized and experienced body of infantry and cavalry, supported by long-range muskets and artillery. Though awed by the size of the Ottoman army, said to number anywhere from 60,000 to 100,000, the Mamelukes were not intimidated. They remained confident in the superiority of their traditional ways of war.

At the forefront of al-Ghawri’s own contingent were the seasoned veterans— Mamelukes purchased and trained by previous sultans. They were clearly more battle-tested than al-Ghawri’s own Mameluke recruits, but he was later charged with favoritism, sparing his own warriors at the veterans’ expense. There is probably some truth to those charges— with intrigue and conspiracy commonplace in the Mameluke political process, it was common for paranoid sultans to purge their predecessors’ Mamelukes to avoid revolt while favoring their own troops to maintain their support.

The backbone of Mameluke tactics was the cavalry charge, followed by a rapid withdrawal. Mameluke veterans, followed by the horsemen from Aleppo and Damascus, made the first charge while unleashing a deadly hail of arrows. In that ferocious opening assault, they proved their superior horsemanship by ably maneuvering around the Ottoman artillery, breaking through the Turkish ranks and driving back the Kurds and Turcomen on the Ottoman flanks. The Mamelukes even succeeded in capturing seven Ottoman standards and cutting down some of the arquebusiers. In that close combat, Ottoman firearms could not be brought to bear, and as chronicler Ibn Tulun wrote: “[E]arly in the day the Mameluke army had the upper hand. By noon they were busily engaged in pillage and plunder.”

The tide turned when the Ottoman cannons and arquebuses opened fire with a deafening roar that resulting in panic among the Mameluke men and horses. Having fought firearms-equipped enemies in Europe, the Ottomans themselves had become quite adept in their use. “In Marj Dabiq every cannon killed some fifty or sixty or a hundred people until that steppe resembled a slaughter-house from the blood,” wrote Mameluke historian Ibn Zunbul.

Stunned by their heavy losses, the Mamelukes seemed to realize their predicament. Zunbul wrote fatalistically, “[W]e cannot resist the Ottoman army and its great numbers and its firearms.” At that critical moment, when a resolute advance might yet have won success, al-Ghawri and his own Mamelukes remained inactive. When he ordered them to fall back, the veterans, who had borne the brunt of the fighting, felt they were being sacrificed and lost their will. Dissension in the ranks led to a loss of cohesion and, in the ensuing confusion, Governor Sibay was killed, leaving his Damascus contingent leaderless.

With the situation unraveling, Governor Khayrbak added to the confusion by spreading the rumor that al-Ghawri had fallen in battle. Khayrbak had long been in contact with the Ottomans, arranging to defect in exchange for a prominent position with them. Good to his word, he now broke ranks, withdrew his forces in the midst of battle and fled the field. Compounding his treachery, he had also been passing valuable intelligence to the Ottomans and misinformation to his own side. In fact, his instigation is said to have played a large role in convincing Selim to move against the Mamelukes. Khayrbak’s treachery paid off in an appointment as the first Ottoman governor of Egypt.

With the battlefield situation rapidly deteriorating and groups of his army fleeing, al-Ghawri fell from his horse and died minutes later, apparently from a stroke. His body was whisked away and never found. When the Ottomans learned of al-Ghawri’s death, they pressed their attack, and after a brief resistance the last of the Mamelukes broke and fled. All of their battle standards fell into Turkish hands, along with al-Ghawri’s and the senior Mameluke officers’ baggage.

“The plain was littered with mutilated remnants of this confrontation,” wrote Zunbul. “Corpses lay in heaps, many without heads. Faces of the fallen were smeared with blood and grime, disfiguring their features. Slain horses lay scattered about, their saddles thrown from their backs. Gold-embossed swords, steel-mail tunics, tatters of uniforms were strewn all over.”

In a matter of weeks, the Ottomans occupied all of Syria and Palestine. Hoping to avoid the grueling march across the Sinai Desert to take Cairo, Selim proposed to al-Ghawri’s nephew Tumanbay, who had assumed power in Cairo, that he submit to the Ottomans and govern Egypt as the Ottoman viceroy. Rather than agree to that common Ottoman practice, Tumanbay remained defiant. Sultan Selim then ordered the Ottoman army across the Sinai, arriving in the Cairo area in late January 1517.

Tumanbay prepared to make a stand at the Ridaniyya military camp, at the approaches to Cairo. Finally comprehending the need for firearms, the Mamelukes hastily assembled what weaponry they could muster to fortify Ridaniyya. All Egypt had, however, was siege artillery— unsuited for the type of war it was about to face.

When the Battle of Ridaniyya was fought on January 23, 1517, the 20,000- strong Egyptian army was defeated within 20 minutes after the Ottomans swept around and attacked from the rear. Since the Egyptians could not turn their movable heavy siege guns to face the rear, they did not even fire a shot. The Mameluke sultanate had come to an end.

After making Egypt a satellite of their empire, the Ottomans continued on to Arabia. Selim doubled the size of his empire, adding all the lands of the Islamic caliphate, save for Persia (Iran) and Mesopotamia. With sovereignty over all the holy places of Islam, and possessing vast wealth and power, Selim became the most prestigious ruler in the Muslim world. His reign is considered the prelude to the Ottoman Empire’s golden age. Not until World War I—exactly 400 years later—when British General Edmund Allenby defeated the German-allied Ottoman Turks, were its borders reshuffled, bringing an end to Ottoman rule over the Middle East.

Originally published in the April 2006 issue of Military History. To subscribe, click here. 

by Lisa Jardin, HarperCollins Publishers, New York, 2005, $21.95.

 Published as part of a series on historic events by Amanda Foreman and Lisa Jardin, The Awful End of Prince William the Silent describes the death of William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, stadtholder of the Low Countries and leader of the Netherlands’ war for independence from Spain. Prince William was killed at the hands of Balthasar Gérard, a French-born fundamentalist Catholic, carrying out the wishes of Spanish King Philip II, who had put a 25,000-ducat bounty on William’s head. The death of William on July 10, 1584, did little to arrest the progress of Dutch independence, but Gérard’s use of a wheel-lock pistol made it the first assassination by means of a handgun.

Jardin describes the war in the Low Countries and the development of the pistol in light cavalry use, and investigates the policy of the intelligence services during the conflict. In that context, William’s death spread terror among his English supporters, leading Queen Elizabeth I and her ministers to legislate against public firearm possession. Thus Jardin connects that period with the current fears of attack by fundamentalist terrorists. Ultimately, however, military victories are more often seen as historic turning points than assassinations. By the time Spain recognized Dutch independence when the Peace of Westphalia ended the Thirty Years’ War in 1648, the Netherlands was not only a nation but also a naval and colonial power.

Originally published in the June 2006 issue of Military History. To subscribe, click here.  

Given its consequences to subsequent white settlement and development of North America over the next two centuries, the Battle of Mauvila may have been the most important fight in North American history. Diseases carried by Hernando de Soto’s soldiers—the first large-scale European force on North American soil—killed millions of American Indians, depopulated entire areas, broke up Indian villages and cities and disrupted the alliances between tribes. This crippling of the social structure destroyed much of their ability to unite against European encroachment, clearing the way for white conquest. Spanish horses that escaped or were captured by Indians became the foundation stock of the first horse populations in America. And the aggression of the gold-seeking Spaniards set the tone for future relationships with the indigenous population. The de Soto expedition’s records provided Europe with the earliest known geographic and biological information of southeastern North America, stimulating European interest, particularly in Spain, which had previously focused on Mexico. After de Soto, nothing would ever be the same again.

But no one could have foreseen such dramatic historical impact on the cool, crisp day when Hernando de Soto, conquistador and general of a large Spanish expeditionary force, rode into the fortified town of Mauvila around 8 a.m. on October 18, 1540, with an advance guard of about 40 cavalrymen. With him was Chief Tascaluza, the Indian chief of an area that stretched from what is now Montgomery, Ala., to the Gulf Coast, wearing the scarlet cloak de Soto had given him when they first met, and astride the largest packhorse the Spanish had. Even then, the chief’s feet nearly touched the ground, for by all accounts he towered over the Spanish soldiers and was possibly close to 7 feet tall, with a muscular, well-proportioned body.

Also accompanying the two leaders were numerous Indian bearers and servants carrying the Spanish army’s supplies, including weapons. Most of them were in chains, and even Tascaluza, nominally an ally, was for all intents and purposes de Soto’s captive. Behind the civility of the two men lay an undercurrent of mistrust. Before the day was over, it would erupt in the largest battle to be fought on the North American continent in the 16th century.

It had been 16 months since de Soto’s arrival in the land that Juan Ponce de Leon, who discovered it on Good Friday in 1513 during Pascua de Florida (the Easter season), had called La Florida. Born in the town of Extremadura on Spain’s border with Portugal in 1500, Hernando de Soto had eschewed his parents’ hopes of his becoming a lawyer. Instead he sailed to the New World as a 15-year-old page. A superb horseman, considered one of the finest lancers in all Spain, he rose to captain’s rank by age 20. His share of spoils in the conquistadors’ wars in Central and South America made him a very wealthy man, and he returned to Spain in 1536 to marry his childhood sweetheart, Ysabel de Bobadilla, who had kept her vow to wait for his return. De Soto was tall for his time, perhaps 5 feet 8 inches, with chiseled good looks and piercing black eyes.

Petitioning King Carlos I of Spain for territorial rights in the New World, de Soto was ultimately given the exclusive right to explore, subjugate and control La Florida—then thought to be an island. He was appointed governor of Cuba, but was required to supply and finance his expedition at his own expense. He bought 10 ships for the transatlantic voyage and, though men flocked to his command, he was selective in choosing them. Some were Portuguese, their average age was in the early 20s, and almost all were veterans of campaigns in America or Italy. They would receive no pay, their only reward being shares of the future wealth—such as gold, silver and precious jewels—that so many of their predecessors had found there, including their general.

When he landed on the south side of what is now Tampa Bay, Fla., on June 2, 1539, de Soto commanded the first large organized force of white men in North America, with more than 600 foot soldiers and cavalrymen, probably another 200 pages and servants, a group of clerics and 225 horses. In addition they had a herd of pigs that eventually swelled to more than 200, and copious supplies including extra boots, chains and ropes, tack, armor, weapons and everything an army of its day would need, except food. The plan was to live off the land. After traveling 300 miles in 4l⁄2 months, they bivouacked at Anhaica (now Tallahassee, Fla.) for the winter.

In the spring of 1540, de Soto headed north, toward what is now South Carolina. He and his group were cordially greeted by the local Indians, but found none of the gold rumored to be there. Turning northwest, the Spanish passed through what is now Asheville, N.C., across the Blue Ridge Mountains, through Swannanoa Gap and arrived near present-day Knoxville, Tenn.

Moving south to Coosa, the largest Indian community on the continent, de Soto and his men still found no gold. After a month they marched south and west into southern Alabama. There, they were cordially met by Tascaluza’s son, accompanied by a retinue of more than 100 nobles elaborately dressed in animal skins and wearing large feathered headdresses.

De Soto finally met Chief Tascaluza himself at Atahachi. Tascaluza, which means Black Warrior in Choctaw, seemed reluctant to offer assistance. Despite the fact that the chief and his people had never seen a horse before, much less men encased in metal armor and carrying such strange war instruments as crossbows and arquebuses, he refused to be intimidated. Spanish cavalrymen who displayed their prowess by almost charging into Tascaluza were regarded with disdain by the chief. Although the chief arranged for the Spanish army to sleep in Atahachi and made sure they and their horses had adequate food, he hesitated to grant de Soto’s request for young women and hundreds more bearers, telling him that all would be provided when they reached his capital of Mauvila—located somewhere in present-day south or central Alabama. The next morning the entire retinue proceeded onward, but the general prudently dispatched two trusted men to proceed to Mauvila ahead of him, with orders to report to him when he arrived.

Mauvila was not a large town, perhaps 80 thatched houses, but it had the best fortifications the Spanish had seen. A circular wall about 15 feet high, made of heavy timbers imbedded vertically in the earth, with branches interwoven between the timbers and covered with mud or clay troweled smooth, encircled the town. Guard towers big enough for six or seven men stood about 150 feet apart, and there were numerous openings in the wall for bowmen. Only two gates permitted entry and exit. The surrounding fields were level and had been cleared of dwellings, bushes and small trees, although some lean-tos had been built there in anticipation of the Spaniards’ arrival.

As the party approached Mauvila, the local chieftain welcomed the Spaniards outside the town, and attractive young women welcomed them with dances and songs. When they entered the town, Tascaluza pointed out houses where members of de Soto’s party could stay, and all the advance guard’s horses except for two or three were led outside and tethered. While the Spanish soldiers tried to talk with the warriors and ogled the girls, Tascaluza quietly slipped away into a large house. Meanwhile, de Soto’s two advance scouts told him what they had found, which was ominous. There were no children or old people in the town. Other than the dancers, the only other women they had seen were all young, and the Spanish were well aware of Indian women’s skill with bows and arrows. The scouts had managed to peek into several houses and had seen arms caches and warriors. De Soto quietly passed the word to his men to remain alert, and they put their helmets on.

Some in de Soto’s entourage were greatly concerned; they were a small group inside a walled compound, with an unknown number of warriors hidden in the houses. The rest of his army was moving raggedly out of Atahachi, scattering in small groups to hunt, find food and “negotiate with the sword.” There had been occasional skirmishes with Indians over the past year, usually involving attacks on individuals or small groups who wandered from the main column, but there had been no serious Indian attempts to challenge the Spaniards. Two men had recently disappeared, however, and Tascaluza, when asked, made it clear that he should not be expected to safeguard Spanish soldiers.

De Soto’s servants put out the morning meal. De Soto sent his translator, Juan Ortiz, to the house Tascaluza had entered to ask the chief to join them for the meal, as he had done every day since their first encounter. This time de Soto demanded that Tascaluza join them. In response, a tall, muscular noble stepped out through the door and said: “Who are these thieves and vagabonds here calling on my lord Tascaluza to come out…speaking with as little reverence as if they were talking to themselves? By the Sun and Moon, one is not able to endure the boldness of these devils, and it is only just that they die for it today….”

Another warrior had come out and placed a bow and arrow in the hand of the noble, who, throwing his martenskin cape off his shoulder, notched an arrow and prepared to let it fly. Captain Baltasar de Gallegos, standing nearby, drew his sword, took a few steps and, in one swift motion, cleaved the man’s entire shoulder and arm from his body. As Gallegos shouted a warning, Indians poured out of the houses with shrill cries and war whoops.

The Spanish soldiers, all seasoned veterans, quickly formed into protective groups, facing outward toward the attackers. Some cavalrymen raced for the horses outside the gates. The fastest of them managed to mount up, others cut the bridles and the rest watched in dismay as Indian arrows killed their horses. Within the walls two knights raced for the few horses tethered inside, but Juan de Solis was shot down by Indian arrows before he could mount. General Rodrigo Ranjel managed to throw himself into the saddle of his warhorse, and he and his men slowly cut a path through the Indians to where de Soto and others were fending off hordes of attackers. De Soto, Ranjel and his men eventually managed to beat a fighting retreat through the howling mob and out the gate.

A young brave rapidly fired several arrows at Gallegos, but the arrows merely stuck in his quilted armor. The brave then charged him, using his heavy bow as a club. He managed to strike Gallegos three or four times before he himself was dispatched by a sword thrust. Blood streamed down Gallegos’ face from wounds under his helmet, but he continued to wield his sword vigorously as he slowly retreated. Nearby, Luis de Moscoso, who was also fighting ferociously, shouted to Gallegos, “Señor Baltasar, come forth, or I will have to leave you, for I cannot wait any longer.”

The Spanish finally managed to get outside the gate, with the loss of five killed and many wounded. The Indians closed and locked the gate, not realizing that a small party of de Soto’s personal staff was trapped inside a house. As soon as the Spanish were driven outside, Tascaluza’s men opened their enemy’s stores. Shouting and beating drums, they fired arrows and hurled insults at the Spanish, then flaunted the captured goods from atop the palisaded walls.

In close combat the Indians fought with clubs and tomahawks, and like all the natives the Spanish encountered in North America, they were tough, courageous and determined. They usually fought in small groups. Extremely agile, they would rapidly fire several arrows and then change position. These southeastern Indians were basically farmers, growing crops of corn, beans and squash. They had no cattle or domesticated animals except dogs and had never seen horses before the Spanish arrived. Their use of metals was limited—small amounts of copper and occasionally gold for ornaments. They wore no protective garments in battle.

Spanish arms and armor gave the conquistadors a distinct advantage. The Indians’ powerful bows were generally 5 or 6 feet long and could deliver arrows with such force that they easily penetrated coats of mail, but de Soto’s men learned early on to use very thick quilted coats instead. Outside Mauvila, Rodrigo Ranjel pulled more than 20 arrows from the padded armor de Soto was wearing. The Spaniards also learned to always break any arrows they found, so the Indians could not reuse them.

Once outside the town, de Soto called for a horse and directed other mounted men to circle the walls and lance any Indians on the outside. In the brief moments before the battle resumed, he sent men to urge the rest of his slow-moving army to move up rapidly.

Suddenly the gates to Mauvila opened and Indians surged out. With de Soto in front, the Spanish soldiers fought to stop the onrush, but were slowly driven back across the field. When the few available cavalrymen stalled the Indians’ advance, de Soto’s foot soldiers paused, then countercharged. The Spanish pushed their assailants back all the way to the gates, which were then closed. Pelted with arrows and stones, the Spanish were forced to move away from the walls. Tascaluza’s warriors then sallied out, and the Spanish retreated again—much farther than was necessary, since they had a clear advantage in the open. Another counterattack compelled the Indians to withdraw inside their fort.

The to-and-fro battle continued over the next three hours—attack and withdraw, attack and withdraw. Don Carlos Enriquez, a well-liked cavalryman married to one of de Soto’s nieces, was moving forward when he felt his mount stagger. He stopped, shifted his lance to his left hand and reached down to pull out the arrow that had penetrated his horse’s chest. At that instant an Indian arrow pierced the cavalryman’s throat. He died the next day.

Almost four hours had passed since the battle was joined, and the fields were littered with dead and wounded Indians. The Spanish foot soldiers and most of the rear guard had all arrived, but Mauvila’s walls and gates had still not been breached. Changing tactics, de Soto divided his men into four groups and directed a group to each side of Mauvila. In each group was one man who carried a firebrand. All but a handful of the mounted men were ordered to dismount and prepare to force the main gate, since the cavalrymen were the best armed—most carried axes as well as their other weapons.

No doubt there were a few moments of relative quiet as the Spanish moved into their positions and the Indians watched from inside the walls. All of de Soto’s men knew there would be no mercy, no retreat and no prisoners. It would be win or die.

When all was ready, de Soto ordered an arquebus fired, and as the sound echoed across the fields his soldiers rushed forward shouting their battle cry, “Santiago” and “At them, men!” Infantrymen quickly broke down the gate, and the armored cavalrymen poured through. Other Spaniards hacked at the walls to break away the clay cover and expose the wood core, then helped each other to climb over and engage the Indians. The streets were too confined for arquebuses, crossbows or longbows and arrows, so combat was hand-to-hand, with swords, halberds and daggers against clubs and tomahawks. In the midst of that desperate melee, Captain Diego de Soto, the general’s nephew and Don Carlos Enriquez’s best friend, learned of his brother-in-law’s mortal wounding. He leaped down from his horse, dropped his lance and rushed into the fray with sword in one hand and buckler in the other. Moments later he was shot down.

Thanks to their armor and metal weapons, the Spanish slowly gained the upper hand, forcing the warriors back through the streets. Soon the torchbearers did their work, and clouds of smoke and flames arose from the houses, killing many Indians inside and neutralizing the braves firing arrows from rooftops. Often the smoke would blow in the faces of the Indians, and the Spanish soldiers would surge forward, only to be pushed back as the wind changed and hindered their own vision. Outside the town, cavalrymen struck down any Indians who left the protection of the walls.

De Soto had been fighting on foot, but after a time he went outside and called for a horse. He mounted, lance in hand, and immediately his old friend and fellow conquistador Nuño Tovar mounted a horse and joined him. With cries of “Make way” and “Santiago!” the two old campaigners entered the fray back inside the town, lancing and slashing at groups of Indians in the central plaza and in the streets, then turned and charged through them again. Soldiers on foot took advantage of the confusion created by mounted charges to press their own onslaught against the scattered braves.

Outside the walls many wounded Indians lay helpless. By midafternoon, the battle was still raging. From time to time, exhausted soldiers would come to lie on their bellies and drink from a pond outside the walls—even though the water was tinged pink with blood.

Tovar was not wounded, although an arrow had penetrated his lance with such force that it remained in place just forward of his hand. He broke it off, leaving remnants that reminded him of a cross. De Soto was not so fortunate. During one Spanish charge, an Indian arrow fired from behind him barely cleared the cantle, penetrated the chain mail over his left buttock and lodged deep in his thigh. Unable to pull it out, he spent almost four hours standing in the saddle as he and Tovar charged and fought on. By late afternoon, Tascaluza’s men inside Mauvila were being steadily reduced. In desperation, women shot arrows or picked up melee weapons to continue the fight, their energy and courage matching that of their kinsmen.

Throughout the fighting in Mauvila, the Spanish tried unsuccessfully to fight their way to the house where the members of de Soto’s personal guard had remained behind and were now trapped. When the Indians realized this, they attacked the house. Inside were three crossbowmen and five halberdiers, an Indian deserter who had become a Spanish ally, two priests and de Soto’s two female servants. As the priests prayed, the others fought, and when Tascaluza’s men chopped holes in the roof, the crossbowmen and Indian archer loosed well-placed volleys into the breaches to fend them off. Finally Spanish foot soldiers carved a path to the house and rescued all of the party.

Late in the day, the fighting raged on a smaller scale. Ten or 12 mounted cavalrymen entered the town and repeatedly charged, often knocking down Spanish foot soldiers as they broke through the Indian ranks. As the sun went down, the exhausted Spanish faced the last few remaining Indian warriors, who gathered together and placed a screen of women in front of them. The women suddenly moved aside, and the braves fired volleys of arrows at the advancing Spanish. It was not enough. In minutes there was only one warrior left. Realizing the battle was lost, he raced to the top of a nearby palisade, unstrung his bow, knotted the bowstring into a loop and hanged himself.

Almost nine hours after it began, the battle was over. Casualties were heavy. By one account 82 Spanish soldiers were killed. In addition, 45 precious horses were lost and 70 wounded.

The native warriors’ losses were never actually counted, but chroniclers would later estimate them as high as 11,000. Modern scholars believe it may have been as low as 3,000, but a much higher number is likely because Indians perished not only in the fighting but also by being trapped in burning houses or being slaughtered in the fields outside the village. Not a single Indian warrior was captured that day. Days later Spanish soldiers were still finding wounded or dead Indians miles away from the battle site. The engagement effectively wiped out warriors and nobles from 50 miles around who had answered Chief Tascaluza’s call. The chieftains in the area were devastated, and would never again regain their prominence.

The body of Tascaluza’s son was found in the field just outside the town, but nothing conclusive was ever heard about the chief himself again. One story, told by captured Indian women, was that as the fighting intensified Tascaluza’s captains urged him to leave against his will, for the sake of the future. They told him they were fully able to direct the fighting in his absence. It will probably never be known if this was true. The women insisted that he did leave, wearing the scarlet cloak that de Soto had given him and escorted by a bodyguard of some 20 or 30 braves. Some Spanish soldiers believed he must have perished in the fire.

Eighteen Spanish soldiers died after the battle. One of them, Portuguese knight Mem Rodriguez, was an experienced cavalryman who had served in Africa. After the battle he lay down and remained in the same position for three days, neither eating nor drinking. On the third day he quietly died. He had no signs of wounds.

After the battle ended, the evening turned cool, and de Soto’s army tried desperately to reorganize and regroup. Great bonfires were built. Seriously wounded men were transferred to lean-tos put up against the outside walls. The general posted sentries, dead horses were skinned and their meat prepared. Wounded soldiers and officers helped one another. Bodies were gathered for burial the next day. A reasonably organized band of warriors could have annihilated the weakened Spanish at that point, but Indians captured later said that almost all their warriors were dead or injured.

Spanish problems were now compounded because all their supplies had been consumed in the conflagration. They stayed at Mauvila for 28 days, recuperating from wounds, resting and reequipping as best they could. With fall approaching, it was absolutely essential that they find food and a suitable place to bivouac. Raids into the surrounding countryside obtained some food, but it was not enough to carry them through to spring. On November 14, de Soto and his army left Mauvila.

The exact location of Mauvila has never been determined. Despite the fact that there was an intense fight in a relatively small area and the ground should still contain hundreds of artifacts—including bolts, lance heads, arrowheads, chains, etc.—archaeologists have never pinpointed the location. When another Spanish force under Tristan de Luna came to the area 20 years later, Tascaluza’s name had been all but forgotten. The towns de Luna’s force found in their travels were poor, and the roads overgrown as a result of disuse.

As devastating as the battle was for the Indians, it was also a disaster for the Spanish. All of their supplies, equipment and food had been lost. The sensible thing to do would have been to march south about six days to Pensacola Bay (then called Achuse), where supply ships and reinforcements awaited. De Soto never considered that. He realized that in all likelihood his discouraged men would refuse to go on and he would be faced with mutiny.

It was the turning point of the expedition. De Soto became withdrawn, moody and irritable. He deliberately turned north toward unknown lands and ultimately crossed the Mississippi River, the first white man to do so. De Soto died on the banks of the Mississippi on May 21, 1542. Taking to the river in crude boats, some 300 survivors sailed down the river to the Gulf of Mexico and arrived at Panuco, near what is now Tampico, Mexico, on September 10, 1543. There, dressed in rags and animal skins, weak from their ordeal, they were treated kindly.

By leading the first large-scale penetration of North America by Europeans, Hernando de Soto proved that Florida was not an island and also provided information on its peoples, their living habits, bison and other fauna and flora, arousing widespread interest throughout Europe. He had also left behind a legacy of death and disease that ravaged the Native American population far beyond the slaughter wrought at Mauvila. He and his men never did find the gold and precious jewels that had beckoned them there in the first place.

Florida-based history writer Lee Rothenberg is researching Hernando de Soto’s explorations through 11 southern states. For further reading, he recommends: The de Soto Chronicles, edited by Lawrence A. Clayton, Vernon James Knight Jr. and Edward C, Moore; and Knights of Spain, Warriors of the Sun, by Charles Hudson.

Originally published in the October 2006 issue of Military History. To subscribe, click here.