Grapeshot and Guillotines

By Gary Oswald

The history of the world is, in many ways, a history of revolutions. Not only those that succeeded, though a great many did, but those that failed and those that were averted.

What if they weren't? What if Canada had won its independence in 1837? What if the Taiping rebels had formed their own country in China? What if Trinidad revolted against the British in the 1930s? What if a Socialist Commune arose in East Sussex?

In this collection of 13 short stories, the authors of Sea Lion Press explore the revolutions that never happened.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Lion Press
• Release date: Nov 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223602347

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. While ‘real-world’ characters may appear, the nature of the divergent story means any depictions herein are fictionalised and in no way an indication of real events. Above all, characterisations have been developed with the primary aim of telling a compelling story.

Published by Sea Lion Press, 2021. All rights reserved.

Contents

Foreword by Gary Oswald

Time of the Wolf by Jared Kavanagh

El Salvador Salvadoreño by Alex Langer

Minutes of the People’s Self-Defence Council of the People’s Revolutionary Commune of Greater Hailsham by Adam Selby-Martin

Beyond the Boundaries by J. Concagh

Man’s Holy Cause by Gary Oswald

Go Forward Regardless by J.A Belanger

The Blender by Paul Hynes

In the Blood by Ryan Fleming

Il Risorgimento by Brent Harris

Containing the Revolution by Tom Anderson

The Heavenly King’s World View by Benjamin N. Grant

Land And Liberty! by Bob Mumby

The Reluctant Revolution by Blaise Burtulato

Foreword

Gary Oswald

REVOLUTION! THE MASSES rising up! Mobs. Pitchforks. Grapeshot. Guillotines.

It’s a classic setting in fiction, and understandably so. Revolutions are a rich source of drama and moral uncertainty. The extent to which various revolutions were necessary or justified is still debated by academics across the world and doubtless will be for many decades longer.

I do not need to explain the history of revolution being followed by terrors; suffice to say there has been no shortage of atrocities and crimes committed by those who wanted to create a new world. Having said that, the terror of the revolutionaries needs to be compared to the terror of the rejected pre-revolutionary status quo. The Haitian Revolution resulted in numerous massacres, but a situation without a Haitian Revolution is one where slaves are worked to death in their thousands. Sometimes a revolution is the lesser of two evils, sometimes it’s necessary – but even with the cleanest motives, they still carry an inevitable price tag in terms of corpses.

This is why, when revolutions are betrayed or compromised, when one dictator replaces another, it’s so disappointing because it feels like that price tag hasn’t been spent on anything worth buying. That for the revolution to be worth that cost, the new regime needs to be better than the old regime; that it needs to achieve the things its members wanted, and it often doesn’t. That kind of moral uncertainty about what you do next, once the oppressive old regime has been destroyed, how exactly you can build something better, what that looks like and how you handle the threat of it falling apart, is what makes revolutions such interesting fictional events.

This is why so much historical fiction is based around the French, American or Russian revolutions, where these questions can be raised and answered. What will our protagonist do in this situation? What would you do?

But there were, of course, more revolutions than just those three. The history of the world is, in many ways, a history of revolutions. Not only those that succeeded, though a great many did, but those that failed and those that were averted. A revolution is what happens when the people decide the cost of the status quo is not acceptable, when they demand changes to that status quo, when peaceful methods of change are either not available or have been rejected, while reform is what happens when the people in charge allow peaceful methods of change and so avoid the threat of a revolution. It is possible to argue that, if not conquered by outside forces, all societies in the end either reform or are overthrown.

So what if 18th Century France instead chose reform, and 19th Century UK didn’t – and so faced revolution?

Alternate history is about looking at the past and wondering what would have happened if different choices had been made. This book is a collection of thirteen short stories by thirteen talented writers who have looked at the history of various countries and explored the possibilities for different revolutions. Ones that happened in our history; ones that merely could have done. Successful ones, failed ones, progressive ones, regressive counter-revolutions, revolutions betrayed, revolutions co-opted, and revolutions that go too far. I hope you enjoy what they came up with.

And with the drama of the revolution transferred to different countries, which are possibly closer to home, maybe that question of ‘what would you do?’ will find new relevance.

Time of the Wolf

Jared Kavanagh

NOVEMBER 1920

Brittany, France-that-was

Behind me, waves broke against the rocks, a regular cadence that provided the only loud sounds. Everything else was quieter, with the occasional coo-coo of some kind of pigeon, and a few more human sounds from time to time as my soldiers adjusted their positions.

This is as good a place as any, I murmured, softly enough that none of my men could hear – though they would not have abandoned me. These were the most loyal men; the luckiest, too. Both luck and loyalty had been vital for anyone still with me.

Two years and two thousand kilometres away, I had commanded one hundred thousand men. That number had shrunk with every battle and every day, but I had held the ever-reducing core with me, right until this moment. They were the last thread of order in a world that had lost all sanity, all hope.

Now, I had but twenty-one men with me. Soon I would have none. This place would do for a final stand, the last gesture of defiance. None of us held any illusions that we would survive, but we had chosen to end our days with weapons in hand rather than surrender to chaos.

From his vantage atop the highest rock, Hans called out, Movement in the distance!

I waved a hand in acknowledgement, then raised my voice to carry above the sound of breaking waves. It’s time. No speeches now. You’ve heard too many from me already. Let me just say this: whatever happens today, I’m proud of every one of you.

My soldiers clapped each other on the back, if they were near each other. The rest offered quiet words to their neighbours.

Dietrich shouted, We wouldn’t have it any other way, Wolf-Marshal. Other soldiers yelled out affirmations of his words.

I gave them one final wave, and bowed my head so that none of them could see anything glistening in my eyes.

Hans yelled out another warning. The rebel forces drew close.

The attackers came with more finesse than in the early days. They divided their forces in two, coming at us from north and east, moving carefully, using both cover and covering fire. They knew they would win, but were trying not to bleed themselves too badly in the process.

I could not help but recognise the irony in that. Years before, in what they called the Great War, the world’s armies had fought for order. No-one in command had cared enough about how much blood was spilled in the struggle. Now the world was overrun by traitors and anarchists, and the forces of chaos worried more about bloodshed than the forces of order.

In response, the crack of Gewehr rifles played a staccato tune of defiance. Each of us fired back at every opportunity. Ammunition was plentiful now, though it had been otherwise in the past. The few who had survived the previous battles had collected an abundance of bullets from those who were no longer capable of firing them.

Two rebels fell that I saw, but I could not keep count of their total losses. In past battles, I had been a commander, able to watch the battle’s progress. This time, I had to fire a rifle as much as the rest. We shot, and the rebels fired back.

The first bellow of pain came from the highest rock. I spared a glance to see Hans sliding down the side, too fast to be in control. Wounded and soon to be dead, then.

More cries sounded around me as more of my men fell, one by one. I kept my eyes on the rebels in front of me, shooting as best I could. More of the enemy perished than my soldiers, but then they could afford the losses.

Some of the rebels reached near enough that our rifle sights were ineffective. I switched to using the rifle without sights. Wasteful of bullets, but then none of us would need ammunition again after this battle.

I fired on yet another rebel, and had the fleeting satisfaction of seeing him drop. Whether wounded or dead I could not say, but it was a blow for order. Perhaps the final blow for order because, moments later, agony erupted in my leg.

Instinctively, I checked on the injury. A bullet had gone through my thigh and out again. Blood seeped out, but I had been fortunate enough that it missed both artery and bone. If fortune was the right word when I would be dead in minutes, wound or no wound.

When I looked back up again, the battle had ceased. None of my men were still firing. If they had been capable of using weapons, they would never have halted.

Good-bye, Dietrich, Hans... everyone, I whispered.

One rebel walked up slowly, in plain sight. Others were waiting in the distance, no doubt with rifles at the ready in case I tried to fire again. I made no such attempt; I did not even know whether I could pick up the rifle again.

The man wore the mixed browns and greys that the rebels had adopted instead of a uniform. We meet at last, Wolf-Marshal.

I sighed. Do not mock me. Just finish this.

No mockery is intended. The world is in awe of what you have done. Of what the Wolf has done.

I managed a small smile. I could have earned worse nicknames, I suppose. And what is your name?

Call me Vasily.

A Russian?

I’m no Russian. Nor am I Polish, or German. The time for borders is past. Those were the dominion of princes and presidents, of those who spilled the blood of the world for no good cause. Now I am just a worker, and just a man.

I paused before answering. After so long fighting the rebels, so long trying to salvage some sanity in a world that had lost all reason, I had grown used to them showing no mercy. I could not understand why this one did not just shoot.

You’re not just a worker. You command.

I guide, not command. Have you learned nothing from the great struggle which encompassed the world? Well, the world has had its fill of rulers. It no longer has a place for those who issue orders for their own benefit and disregard the lives and needs of those they command.

The world will always have commanders, I replied. That’s how it works.

"That’s how the world operated, in the old order. As to whether it worked – tell me honestly, can you describe these last few years as the world working? To me, it is the world failing."

I— I paused again. I disliked speaking with rebels, since they always used the example of the world’s worst moment, its recent insanity. The Great War. To them, it was evidence that the world could be no better without wrecking everything and building on the rubble. I refused to accept that. There was always hope. If not for me, then for the world.

You struggle to accept this truth, I know. I did, too. Until the world proved that there is no other way.

I glanced down at my leg again. With pressure, the bleeding had stopped. Perhaps I might even have survived the wound, at another time. Now, it would make no difference, with the leader of anarchists here to end things.

I said, The war was unlike any other in history, in its scale and the sacrifices of soldiers. But however bloody it was, I see no reason to trade the crown of the Kaiser for the crown of anarchy or Marx or syndicates or any of the other creeds you rebels have declared.

The people disagreed. The blood of the workers was shed for rulers. Millions of men sent to early graves simply to play the blood price for a slain Habsburg prince. Until the workers could stand no more.

Shed more blood to protest the shedding of blood, I commented.

He sighed. The workers rose up when they could stand no more futile orders to slay each other to please presidents and princes. The armies of Europe bled themselves white over no worthwhile cause, until—

Until our armies were stabbed in the back by the workers back home.

You call the revolutions betrayal? The people were starving, they were angry, and the only word they received was that ever more people would be sent to futile deaths. Do you truly think they should have kept on supporting a war without end?

The war would not have lasted forever, I insisted. And revolutions just lead to more bloodshed. It is always so.

The people did not see it thus. The citizens of each of the old nations realised the same truth, one by one. They swept away the Tsar, then the Great Turk, then the Kaiser and President almost at once.

Then the rest of Europe was swept away in a red tide of revolution.

He shrugged. The tide of workers, of the people taking back what is theirs.

Shedding more blood, as I said.

Sparing lives, we would call it. The blood of a few would-be rulers is a better price than the blood of millions more in futile war.

Replacing order with chaos, nothing more, I said. Do not tell me that your revolutions have created a new order, for there is only uncertainty and chaos. I could never have led my soldiers so far if there had been order in-between.

A new order cannot be built overnight, he answered. But I do know that the old order could last no longer.

I did not reply. Rebels, he and his men were. He and his ilk had the blood of the Tsar and Kaiser on their hands. They had won their revolutions, but only anarchy would follow. Instead, I looked to the waves which were still breaking against the rocks. Waves which cared nothing for the struggles of men.

Tell me, why did you pick here by the sea to make your stand? The British would never come to save you. The workers there do not control everything, but their aristocrats face too many problems. They will spend no effort on you and your men.

I had to stand somewhere. And I wanted to look on the sea one last time. The endless struggles of the ocean waves will continue, no matter what men do.

He shook his head, and a hint of a smile formed around his lips. What men do matters, if only to other men. Take the great struggle. I don’t know whether it will truly be the war to end wars, as many called it. But I do know it was the war to end nations. The old nations are gone.

Not in my heart. Germany still lives on.

He sighed, and glanced out over the sea for a long moment. "I read something in a history book once, which I have always remembered. It said that most nations were a country with an army, while Prussia was an army with a country. You, though, managed what I would have thought was impossible: holding together an army without a country."

I laughed bitterly. Much good it did me, in the end.

You did better than any other, than anyone would have believed possible. His voice radiated sincerity. You held your armies together from Brest-Litovsk to the Bay of Biscay. Never falling apart, victorious even in defeat since you always held together what was left. Perhaps the greatest march in history.

Until here, on the shores of Brittany, where my tale ends.

All tales end, but your life need not. Not yet.

Do not mock the dying, I said.

I never mock. Your wounds are not severe. And you have a choice. You can join us, and live.

Hah!

This is respect, not mockery. I tell you truly, Wolf-Marshal, your accomplishments on your march have won renown, even though we disagree with you. We would honour you if you joined us. Many who fought for the rulers now fight for the workers. You could be another.

That is no choice, I told him. I had held my soldiers together for such a long march. At first it had been in the hope that I could keep the anarchist tide from sweeping west out of the fallen Russian Empire. Then, after revolution erupted at home, it had been in the hope that I could sway the balance in Germany. With Germany fallen and my soldiers pushed into France-that-was, I had hoped only to find a refuge for my men, some small piece of the old stability. Recently, I had fought on only because I had been looking for the right place for things to end.

There is always a choice. The old order is gone, brought down by its own pride and folly. From the ashes, a new time is born. I invite you to join that time, but only if you choose it freely.

He reached into his coat and pulled out two objects, placing them on the ground in front of me. Here is the hammer of the workers. And here is a pistol with one shot. Pick up the hammer and join us, if you wish. He turned and strode away.

I watched him leave. Reaching for the pistol merely to shoot him would have been folly; his riflemen were surely watching and waiting through open sights.

Once the rebel was gone, I picked up the hammer, studying it for a moment. A curious choice of symbol for a movement that spent more time shedding blood than anything else. I could not accept that hammer, not without dishonouring the sacrifices of the hundred thousand men