The Military in the Early Modern World: A Comparative Approach [1 ed.] 9783737010139, 9783847110132

Citation preview

Herrschaft und soziale Systeme in der Frühen Neuzeit

Band 26

Herausgegeben im Auftrag des Arbeitskreises Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit e. V. von Matthias Asche, Horst Carl, Marian Füssel, Bernhard R. Kroener, Stefan Kroll, Markus Meumann, Ute Planert und Ralf Pröve

Markus Meumann / Andrea Pühringer (eds.)

The Military in the Early Modern World A Comparative Approach

With 4 figures

V&R unipress

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über https://dnb.de abrufbar. © 2020, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Theaterstraße 13, D-37073 Göttingen Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Das Werk und seine Teile sind urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung in anderen als den gesetzlich zugelassenen Fällen bedarf der vorherigen schriftlichen Einwilligung des Verlages. Umschlagabbildung: © Tom Engel Lektorat: Bird und Hübner GbR, Pfalzburger Straße 51, D-10717 Berlin Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Verlage | www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com ISSN 2198-1574 ISBN 978-3-7370-1013-9

Contents

Markus Meumann The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment . . . . . .

7

I – The Empire Martin P. Schennach Introduction and Commentary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

31

Andrea Pühringer Between Stagnation and Expansion. The Military and Society in the Habsburg Monarchy from the Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Century . . . .

45

Carmen Winkel Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule. Brandenburg-Prussia as a Prime Example? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

67

Stefan Kroll The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony . . . . . . . . . . .

89

II – Western Europe Ronald G. Asch Introduction and Commentary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 Enrique García Hernán Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574. An Approach to the Problem of Coexistence and Segregation . . . . . . . 119 Olaf van Nimwegen The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army . . . 139

6

Contents

Hervé Drévillon “Secondary Heroes”. War and the Making of the Individual in Eighteenth-Century France . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155

III – North-Eastern and South-Eastern Europe Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg Introduction and Commentary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 Mikko Huhtamies The Archipelago Fleet in Early Modern Sweden – New Military History in a Different Context . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 Daria Starcˇenko ˇ ajka. Cossack Logic of Loot and Violence in The Devil is Sneaking on a C the Black Sea Region in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries . . . . . 205 Rhoads Murphey Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception in Response to the Shift from Expanding to Stable Imperial Frontiers in the Period 1600 to 1800 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 223

IV – East Asia and North America Marian Füssel Introduction and Commentary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 Shinko Taniguchi The Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime: The Characteristics of Bushido (the Way of the Samurai) in Early Modern Japan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253 Kiyohiko Sugiyama A Chinese Dynasty or a Manchu Khanate? The Qing (Ch’ing) Empire and its Military Force . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 Daniel Krebs Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281 Index of Names

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303

Geographical-political Index

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 309

Markus Meumann

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment*

1.

The Emergence of a New Military History of the Early Modern Period and Its Implicit Conceptual Constraints

Military history is a historiographical genre with a long tradition that was already highly significant during the early modern period. It established itself as an independent and widely recognised branch of historiography during the nineteenth century in the course of the professionalisation of military education and the founding of corresponding academies and teaching institutions. However, enthusiasm for the military in general, and for military history in particular, diminished considerably in most countries after the Second World War. An admiring or even glorifying account of past military events, as had been characteristic of military history until then, now appeared inappropriate and obsolete in view of the devastation caused by the war and the many millions of both military and civilian victims. As a result, there was hardly any serious academic engagement with the military topic outside of military institutions for several decades, except, of course, critical research into developments directly related to the Second World War and its origins.1 This applied in particular to Germany and Japan, whose specific militarism, which also included the glorification of past military operations and victories, was seen as an important cause for the escalation of war and the crimes associated with it; but this also applied to many other European countries, including France and partly Britain, as well as to the US.2 * The considerations covered in this introduction are to some extent inspired by the conceptual discussions held with Andrea Pühringer and Ralf Pröve in preparation for the conference that preceded this volume. My sincere thanks go to them for their suggestions and thoughts. 1 See Stephen Morillo with Michael F. Pavkovic, What is Military History?, Cambridge et al. 2006, pp. 37 s.; Jörg Echternkamp, Wolfgang Schmidt, Thomas Vogel (eds.), Perspektiven der Militärgeschichte. Raum, Gewalt und Repräsentation in historischer Forschung und Bildung, Munich 2010. 2 For further details and bibliographical references see the chapters in this volume, especially those by Stefan Kroll, Andrea Pühringer, and Carmen Winkel (for Austria and Germany), Olaf

8

Markus Meumann

This situation lasted until the 1960s and 1970s, when a new interest in military history of earlier epochs, namely the early modern period, arose in Great Britain, France and the US, which notably in the two latter countries was first and foremost inspired by social history.3 This interest is regarded as the starting point of an academic, critically distanced “New Military History”, which in contrast to the traditional military history of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries examines war and the military predominantly “in its interaction with society, economics, politics, and culture”.4 The notion of a New Military History has become more and more common, even ubiquitous, since the 1980s, as this apvan Nimwegen (for the Netherlands), Shinko Taniguchi (for Japan) and Daniel Krebs (for the United States). For the situation in Germany see notably Ralf Pröve, Vom Schmuddelkind zur anerkannten Subdisziplin? Die “neue Militärgeschichte” der Frühen Neuzeit. Perspektiven, Entwicklungen, Probleme, in: Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 51 (2000), pp. 597– 612 (for a version in French see Ralf Pröve, La nouvelle histoire militaire de l’époque moderne en Allemagne. Approches nouvelles, problèmes et perspectives, in: Revue historique des armées 257 (2009), pp. 14–26); Jutta Nowosadtko, Krieg, Gewalt und Ordnung. Einführung in die Militärgeschichte, Tübingen 2002, pp. 75–130; Bernhard R. Kroener, Kriegswesen, Herrschaft und Gesellschaft 1300–1800, Munich 2013, pp. 74 ss. For Japan see Tadashi Suzuki, “Befreiung vom Tabu”: Die japanische Forschung zur europäischen Militärgeschichte seit 1945, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 11 (2007), pp. 25–40; for France Catherine Denys, Die Renaissance der Militärgeschichte der frühen Neuzeit in Frankreich. Eine historiographische Bilanz der Jahre 1945–2005, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 11 (2007), pp. 7– 23, here pp. 8 s. (a French version is accessible at https://de.calameo.com/read/0000097790b8 f9c841b71, 20. 06. 2019). For Britain and the US see e. g. Peter Paret, The New Military History, in: Parameters 31 (1991), pp. 10–18, here pp. 12 ss.; John A. Lynn, The Embattled Future of Academic Military History, in: Journal of Military History 61 (1997), pp. 777–789; Peter H. Wilson, British and American Perspectives on Early Modern Warfare, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 5 (2001), pp. 108–118. 3 For France see Denys, Renaissance (cf. note 2) and below; for the US cf. the chapter by Daniel Krebs in this volume. 4 Paret, The New Military History (cf. note 2), p. 10. A similar definition is used by Peter Karsten, The “New” American Military History: A Map of the Territory, Explored and Unexplored, in: American Quarterly 36 (1984), pp. 389–418; Torbjörn L. Knutsen, Old, Unhappy, Far-off Things: The New Military History of Europe, in: Journal of Peace Research 24 (1987), pp. 87– 98. “New” Military History is therefore often synonymous with “War and Society Studies”. A curtailed definition of New Military History, focusing on the military itself, is given in the cover text of the second edition (2004) of Geoffrey Parker’s study The Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road, which at the same time claims Parker’s authorship of NMH: “The publication in 1972 of The Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road marked the birth of the ‘New Military History’, which emphasises military organisation – mobilisation, pay, supply, morale and, above all, logistics – rather than military ‘events’ such as sieges and battles”. – Without wanting to diminish the significance of Parker’s study, which in many respects represents a milestone in the exploration of the early modern military, the works of the French Nouvelle histoire were (as will be shown below) probably more influential in the emergence of a New Military History of the Early Modern Period on the continent, which was initially decidedly oriented towards social history in many countries. The importance of studies in medieval and early modern history for the formation of NMH in general is stressed in Robert M. Citino, Military Histories Old and New: A Reintroduction, in: American Historical Review 112 (2007), pp. 1070–1090.

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

9

proach found its way – in some cases with considerable delay – into numerous other national historiographies including those of Germany and Japan since the late 1980s/1990s.5 Notably in German-speaking historiography, there has been a real boom in social and cultural studies of the military during the early modern period beginning in the early 1990s, which culminated in the establishment of a study group for social historical research of the early modern military, the Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, in 1995.6 But also in France, one of the countries of origin of the New Military History of the Early Modern Period, the early 1990s marked the beginning of a new, broader interest in, and understanding of, the role of the military in the early modern period. In the words of Catherine Denys, “[a] clear sign of the dawn of a new era was the inclusion of the subject in the 1990/91-curriculum for the Agrégation, the title of which was: Guerre et paix au XVIIe siècle en Europe centrale et orientale (1618– 1721): Aspects militaires, politiques, culturels, religieux et économiques”.7 New Military History, especially if it is dedicated to the early modern period, is

5 Cf. Paret, New Military History (cf. note 2). For Germany see Bernhard R. Kroener, Militär in der Gesellschaft. Aspekte einer neuen Militärgeschichte der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Thomas Kühne, Benjamin Ziemann (eds.), Was ist Militärgeschichte? Paderborn 2000, pp. 283–299; for Japan Shinko Taniguchi, Neue Forschungen zur japanischen Militärgeschichte des 16. bis zur Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 16 (2012), pp. 41–68. For Italy see Piero Del Negro, La storia militare dell’Italia moderna nello specchio della storiografia del Novecento, in: Cheiron 2 (1995), no. 23: Istituzioni militari in Italia fra Medioevo ed Età moderna, ed. by Luciano Pezzolo, pp. 11–33. 6 The Study Group Military and Society in the Early Modern Period (Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit e.V., AMG) was officially founded in May 1995 at a conference in Potsdam. Preliminary conceptual considerations and organisational planning had already been underway since 1993. For more detail see https://amg.hypotheses.org/verein/ geschichte, 17. 10. 2019; Bernhard R. Kroener, Ralf Pröve, Tempi passati. Der “Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit” – Ein Zwischenbericht nach einem Jahrzehnt, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 8 (2004), pp. 100–103. Some pioneering work in the sense of a New Military History was already undertaken in the 1970s and 1980s, including the studies on the imperial military by Jürgen Kraus (Augsburg) and Thomas Schwark (Lübeck), as well as the doctoral thesis of Bernhard Kroener, Les Routes et les Etapes. Die Versorgung der französischen Armeen in Nordostfrankreich (1635–1661). Ein Beitrag zur Verwaltungsgeschichte des Ancien Régime, Münster 1980. 7 Denys, Renaissance (cf. note 2), p. 12. According to Denys, French military history had previously approached its subject almost exclusively from a social, cultural or political point of view until the second half of the 1980s, and had refused to see war and the military as objects of research to be studied for their own sake. As Denys points out further, it is therefore no coincidence that most of the studies on the French army in the early modern period were initially presented by British and American historians like John Lynn, David Parrott or James B. Wood, until, in 2005, Stéphane Perréon’s thesis L’armée en Bretagne au XVIIIe siècle. Institution militaire et société civile au temps de l’intendance et des États, was published with Presses universitaires de Rennes.

10

Markus Meumann

therefore not only “new” in a methodical or epistemological sense,8 but also as an academic discipline, a subject of university curricula and master programs. A quarter of a century later, the New Military History of the Early Modern Period can point to an impressive record of its impact on historiography as well as the developments in academic institutions, particularly with regard to the research into the military in Europe. The term New Military History became internationally established during the 1980s and 1990s and has been used with more or less programmatic intent in numerous publications since. Furthermore, the last two decades have seen the inception of several journals, book series, online platforms, and research groups, as well as individual studies focussed on the military in, or at least including, the early modern period.9 Military History (not only) of the early modern period is now well embedded, albeit with differing levels of intensity, at many universities in Europe and beyond.10 Despite the New Military History’s semantic and research-political success there are still issues concerning the methodological and epistemological suitability of the concept (or, more correctly, the historiographical approach). Even given its stated objectives, there is no clear consensus of what is new in the New Military History and how it distinguishes itself in its profile from conventional 8 Whether the NMH is really new in this sense has been contested since the term NMH emerged; cf., among others, Paret, The New Military History (cf. note 2), pp. 14 ss.; John Whiteclay Chambers II, The New Military History: Myth and Reality, in: Journal of Military History 55 (1991), pp. 395–406; Joanna Bourke, New Military History, in: Matthew Hughes (ed.), Palgrave Advances in Modern Military History, Basingstoke 2006, pp. 258–280, here 260f. In my view (which is that of a historian of Early Modern Europe), it is an undeniable fact that there is a new interest in the role of the military in early modern history which emerged between the 1960s or 1970s and the 1990s and which can be addressed more precisely as a social or cultural history of the military in the Early Modern World or simply as a New Military History of the Early Modern Period, as I put it here. 9 For Germany, the book series Krieg in der Geschichte (published by Schöningh) and Herrschaft und soziale Systeme (with Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht) should be mentioned here as well as the journal Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, edited by the above-mentioned Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, and the online platform Portal Militärgeschichte, run by the Study Group for Military History (Arbeitskreis für Militärgeschichte), founded in 1995. The series Studies in War, Society, and the Military (University of Nebraska Press, since 1997), Cambridge Military Histories or Bloomsbury Studies in Military History could be named as prominent examples from the English speaking world. 10 While the history of war and the military in Germany has become a recognised subject of early modern studies, as it is in Britain and France, there are still reservations towards military history as an academic discipline in the Netherlands, as Olaf van Nimwegen points out in his contribution to this volume. For the situation in Finland and Sweden cf. Mikko Huhtamies, Kriegswesen und Gesellschaft in der frühen Neuzeit in der finnisch-schwedischen Geschichtsforschung, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der frühen Neuzeit 5 (2001), pp. 118–127; for Italy Claudio Donati, Militärstrukturen der italienischen Staaten in der frühen Neuzeit: ein Forschungsbericht jüngster Studien, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 7 (2003), pp. 145–167.

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

11

military history.11 Furthermore, its relationship with, and delineation from war and conflict studies, which are more strongly influenced by political science, and their subject has not been clearly resolved. New Military History, particularly when relating to the early modern period, is for most of its supporters and protagonists inextricably bound up with the specific historic conditions during its emergence in the 1960s and 1970s, i. e. it refers primarily to the study of the military as a social group and its relations to civilian society.12 Indeed, as will be discussed in more detail below, its strong connection with the parallel development of Social History in most western historiographies, notably the impact of a “New History” in France during the same period, strongly shaped its academic profile. For a long period, New Military History thus concerned itself first and foremost with the social history of the military, particularly when dealing with the early modern period. This history of its origins and its resulting perspective have led to several conceptual issues that still significantly influence our picture of organised violence during the early modern period, and thereby impact the progress of subsequent research. Part of this perception is the preferred focus on the military as a social group or system, as described in the outline to this series, Herrschaft und soziale Systeme, 20 years ago. A consequence of this approach has been a number of imbalances in the research into the actors in armed conflicts in the early modern period. This has significantly shaped our view of these actors, an image that is only gradually being opened up and differentiated by new approaches. The most important of these imbalances include: – the often-observed absence of war and violence in historiographies, particularly those in continental Europe, studying the early modern military, which can be attributed to the claim that peacetime was in some ways the norm for the military, at least for a standing army. This approach appeared increasingly problematic in the face of the return of war in Europe during the 1990s and the New Wars of the current millennium, which coincided with the international academic ascendency of New Military History, and thus has become one of 11 For bibliographical references to the relevant discussion, cf. note 7. Apart from an understandable fundamental scepticism towards the self-labelling of research directions as “new”, the partly polemically conducted debate about the “new” in New Military History is probably also to be recognised in part as a defensive reaction of “conventional” military history, which is closely linked to military institutions. A clear example of this attitude is the Introduction of American military historian Russell Frank Weigley to his edited volume: New Dimensions in Military History. An Anthology, San Rafael, CA 1975, especially p. 11. 12 For the discussion in English, cf. note 4, as well as Wilson, British and American Perspectives (cf. note 2), for France see Denys, Renaissance (cf. note 2) and for Italy Del Negro, La storia militare (cf. note 5). For Germany see Ernst Willi Hansen, Zur Problematik einer Sozialgeschichte des deutschen Militärs im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert. Ein Forschungsbericht, in: Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 6 (1979), pp. 425–460; Kroener, Militär in der Gesellschaft (cf. Note 5).

12

Markus Meumann

New Military History’s most significant challenges. In recent years, researchers around the world have looked to address this by gradually shifting the emphasis of their analysis from the social history of the military to a cultural history of organised violence; – the related image of the social system of the military as a closed group, hard to penetrate and only loosely connected to the rest of society, which more recent research has revealed to actually not be the case, neither in peacetime nor – at least for the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries – to any significant extent in times of war; – resulting from the previous two bullets, the nearly exclusive focus on the regular army, which was assembled with government approval and privileges and therefore is generally seen as state organised (at least, again, in Western historiographies). This has led to the neglect and even exclusion of non- or paramilitary organisations and actors in organised violence in Europe and elsewhere; – and finally, inextricably connected with, and partly resulting from the above, the dominance of a concept of organisation of military violence and its actors in the early modern period focussed on Europe and the West, and conceptually closely coupled with the western notion of the state, as expressed in the semantic fields of the “military” or the “army” (and navy).

2.

From the Social History of Armies towards a Cultural History of Organised Violence: Achievements and Challenges of the New Military History of the Early Modern Period

After the Second World War, in order to escape the dubious reputation of a military history largely written by military personnel, at military academies and research centres or by formerly active officers, and to become acceptable to academic historical scholarship, research into the military of the early modern period had to conform to the precepts of a social history paradigm which had gained prominence internationally in the 1960s, and still remained dominant into the 1980s.13 It is thus not by chance that New Military History in its early modern variant, especially in its beginnings, was and is first and foremost a social history of the military.14 Neither is it an accident in this context that the genesis of 13 Denys, Renaissance (cf. note 2), speaks of the years from 1945 to 1960 as a “time of banishment”; Morillo, What is Military History (cf. note 1), of an “academic eclipse”. 14 Particularly in English-speaking contexts, the concept of a “military revolution” is occasionally regarded as part of the New Military History of the Early Modern Period. However, as will be discussed below, this is not the case, since Michael Roberts’ concept, presented in 1956,

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

13

a New Military History became manifest primarily in the field of military history of earlier epochs such as the Late Middle Ages and the early modern period, the eighteenth century in particular.15 On the one hand that is because military institutions wrote (and still write) official military history according to their self-image primarily as the military history of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the Second World War in particular, while earlier epochs were considered less pertinent for political and epistemological reasons. The French Nouvelle histoire, on the other hand, which in other countries has been not entirely correctly equated with the Annales, is probably the internationally most influential orientation in social history, particularly in the field of medieval and early modern history. It was therefore no coincidence that the pioneering study of the French Nouvelle histoire militaire, whose impact on continental European New Military History cannot be overstated, is situated in the field of eighteenth-century history as it enabled the application of the methods of the Nouvelle histoire in an almost exemplary manner to the copious serial data from the so-called contrôles des troupes (lists of personnel).16 Following this example, the pioneering New Military History studies in other European countries such as Germany or Italy,17 albeit created more than a generation later, likewise deal with the “long” eighteenth century and resort to similar, mainly serial sources, as did André Corvisier and after him his colleagues and students, such as Anne Blanchard, Gilbert Bodinier, Jean-Pierre Bois und Jean Chagniot.18 This decidedly fruitful and therefore in principle unreservedly positive legacy of the French Nouvelle histoire militaire weighs heavily here and

15 16 17

18

is essentially the absolutism narrative that has been established since the nineteenth century to describe monarchical institutions (to which the Swedish Army, which Roberts considered, also belonged), and which has only been somewhat embellished by modernisation theory. See Citino, Military Histories (cf. note 4), pp. 1077 ss.; Morillo, What is military history (cf. note 1), pp. 38–41. André Corvisier, L’armée française de la fin du XVIIe siècle au ministère de Choiseul. Le soldat, 2 vols., Paris 1964. See also Denys, Renaissance (cf. note 2), pp. 9 s. For Germany, it is necessary to mention Ralf Pröve, Stehendes Heer und städtische Gesellschaft im 18. Jahrhundert. Göttingen und seine Militärbevölkerung 1713–1756, Munich 1995; Stefan Kroll, Soldaten im 18. Jahrhundert zwischen Friedensalltag und Kriegserfahrung. Lebenswelten und Kultur in der kursächsischen Armee 1728–1796, Paderborn 2006; Jutta Nowosadtko, Stehendes Heer im Ständestaat. Das Zusammenleben von Militär- und Zivilbevölkerung im Fürstbistum Münster 1650–1803, Paderborn 2007. For Italy see e. g. Sabina Loriga, Soldats. Un laboratoire disciplinaire: l’armée piémontaise au XVIIIe siècle, Paris 1991; Carla Sodini, Soldati lucchesi nella prima metà del Seicento, Lucca 2000. Anne Blanchard, Les ingénieurs du “ Roy ” de Louis XIV à Louis XVI, étude du corps des fortifications, Montpellier 1979; Gilbert Bodinier, Les officiers de l’armée royale combattants de la Guerre d’indépendance des Etats Unis, Vincennes 1983; Jean-Pierre Bois, Les anciens soldats dans la société française au XVIIIe siècle, Paris 1990; Jean Chagniot, Paris et l’armée au XVIIIe siècle, étude politique et sociale, Paris 1985.

14

Markus Meumann

resulted in New Military History in the other named countries constituting itself as the social history of the military, considering the military as a more or less autonomous social system.19 As a result, the military’s actual purpose, the exercise of collective violence in armed conflicts, often took a backseat or even threatened to disappear entirely from view.20 In Germany, to look at one example in a little more detail, a series of studies by historians associated with the Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit from the mid-1990s onwards concentrated on the living and material conditions of soldiers and their families as well as the daily routine of men in the standing armies of the eighteenth century and the mercenary armies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.21 Research covered the possibilities and vicissitudes of family life, the often insecure living conditions of children and the role of women in camp society and garrison routine, ranging from life in the baggage train of the mercenary armies to the daily life in garrison towns in the eighteenth century.22 These studies also revealed the eminent significance of women (and sometimes children) for the maintenance of the social, judicial and economic systems of the military, be that via their participation in taking prizes and the looting of corpses on the battlefield, or nursing, aspects that had previously remained obscure.23 Moreover, researchers looked at aspects such as 19 In the US, too, the New Military History of the Early Modern Period was essentially constituted as social history of the military, as Daniel Krebs’ contribution to this volume points out. 20 Cf. note 7. 21 Regarding the standing army, see the works of Kroll, Nowosadtko, and Pröve mentioned in note 17. The social history of the mercenary armies of the first half of the early modern period were studied by Peter Burschel, Söldner im Nordwestdeutschland des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts. Sozialgeschichtliche Studien, Göttingen 1994; Jan Willem Huntebrinker, “Fromme Knechte” und “Garteteufel”. Söldner als soziale Gruppe im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, Constance 2010. 22 Markus Meumann, Soldatenfamilien und uneheliche Kinder: Ein soziales Problem im Gefolge der stehenden Heere, in: Bernhard R. Kroener, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Krieg und Frieden. Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, Paderborn 1996, pp. 219–236; Bernhard R. Kroener, “…und ist der jammer nit zu beschreiben”. Geschlechterbeziehungen und Überlebensstrategien in der Lagergesellschaft des Dreißigjährigen Krieges, in: Karen Hagemann, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Landsknechte, Soldatenfrauen und Nationalkrieger. Militär, Krieg und Geschlechterordnung im historischen Wandel. Frankfurt et al. 1998, pp. 279–296; Jutta Nowosadtko, Soldatenpartnerschaften. Stehendes Heer und weibliche Bevölkerung im 18. Jahrhundert, in: ibid., pp. 297–321; Beate Engelen, Soldatenfrauen in Preußen. Eine Strukturanalyse der Garnisonsgesellschaft im späten 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, Münster 2005. For an overview in English see John A. Lynn, Women, Armies, and Warfare in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge 2008; Barton C. Hacker (ed.), A Companion to Women’s Military History, Leiden 2012. 23 See John A. Lynn, Essential Women, Necessary Wives, in: ibid., pp. 93–136. Some critical comments on the treatment of women in conventional military history can be found in Joanna Bourke, New Military History (cf. note 7), p. 259.

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

15

exercises, manoeuvres, reviews and watches, the internal mechanisms of authority within a regiment or company, the disciplining and punishment of men on the one hand, and the complex web of loyalty and patronage between officers, non-commissioned officers and ordinary soldiers on the other hand, coupled with an emerging esprit de corps, national identification and the associated concepts of masculinity.24 The well-studied problem of mass desertion to some extent represented the dark side of the standing army as it established itself as an independent subsystem within society, which similarly to the practice of recruitment based on using persuasion, alcohol and often brute force, revealed the existence of dysfunctionality within the system of the military and its frictions with civilian society.25 The social history approach, in the sense of the “war and society approach”,26 often linked with, or even used as a synonym for, New Military History, obviously also considered conflicts between the military camp or garrison and civilian society, both during peacetime and in times of war.27 This revealed a wide variety 24 See e. g. Carmen Winkel, Zwischen adliger Reputation und militärischer Subordination. Normative Ehrvorstellungen und soziale Praxis im preußischen Offizierkorps, Paderborn 2014; Katrin Möbius, Sascha Möbius, Prussian Army Soldiers and the Seven Years’ War. The Psychology of Honour, London 2019. The relationship between national identification and gender roles is stressed by Karen Hagemann, “Mannlicher Muth und teutsche Ehre”. Nation, Militär und Geschlecht zur Zeit der antinapoleonischen Kriege Preußens, Paderborn 2002. For a discussion of this topic in a French context, see the chapter by Hervé Drévillon in this volume. 25 On desertion see Michael Sikora, Disziplin und Desertion. Strukturprobleme militärischer Organisation im 18. Jahrhundert, Berlin 1996; Ulrich Bröckling, Michael Sikora (eds.), Armeen und ihre Deserteure. Vernachlässigte Kapitel einer Militärgeschichte der Neuzeit, Göttingen 1998; Jörg Muth, Flucht aus dem militärischen Alltag. Ursachen und individuelle Ausprägung der Desertion in der Armee Friedrichs des Großen, Freiburg 2003; Marcus von Salisch, Treue Deserteure. Das kursächsische Militär und der Siebenjährige Krieg, Munich 2008; on recruitment see Herbert Müller-Hengstenberg, Werbung, Rekrutierung und Desertation beim Kurkölnischen Militär im 17. Jahrhundert, in: Annalen des historischen Vereins für den Niederrhein 195 (1992), pp. 167–175; Ralf Pröve, Norbert Winnige, “…kein großer Trieb zu Krieges-Diensten”. Wie Göttinger Bürgersöhne im 18. Jahrhundert zum hannoverschen Militär gepreßt wurden, in: Göttinger Jahrbuch 37 (1989), pp. 91–99; Matthias Manke, Tagediebe, Trunkenbolde, Totschläger. Soldatenrekrutierung zwischen Bestrafung und Barmherzigkeit in Mecklenburg-Schwerin am Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts, in: Mecklenburgische Jahrbücher 124 (2009), pp. 131–167. For studies on desertion in the Swedish army see Huhtamies, Kriegswesen und Gesellschaft (cf. note 9), pp. 122 s. For France see e. g. Louis Bergès, Résister à la conscription: 1798–1814. Le cas des départements aquitains, Paris 2002. 26 Michael S. Neiberg, War and Society, in: Hughes (ed.), Palgrave Advances (cf. note 8), pp. 42– 60. See also Wilson, British and American perspectives (cf. note 2), p. 108. 27 See on behalf of many others Ralf Pröve, Zum Verhältnis von Militär und Gesellschaft im Spiegel gewaltsamer Rekrutierungen (1648–1789), in: Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 22 (1995), S. 191–223; Stefan Kroll, Kersten Krüger (eds.), Militär und ländliche Bevölkerung in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2000; Maren Lorenz, Das Rad der Gewalt. Militär und Zivilbevölkerung in Norddeutschland nach dem Dreißigjährigen Krieg (1650–1700), Cologne

16

Markus Meumann

of contacts between both societies particularly in the garrison towns of the eighteenth century, since in Germany, as in most other countries, the soldiers as well as their families – a reason why the authorities tried to limit their numbers – were not housed in barracks but billeted in civilian households.28 Nonetheless, in the end these studies mostly stressed the fundamental independence of the social system of the military, as it did not answer to the civic authorities but to regimental commanders or courts (the so-called forum militare).29 This is even more the case for the period prior to the advent of the standing army, roughly the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when armies were in the main only raised for specific campaigns and released at the end of those. The contacts between the military and civilian worlds in this period, which due to the availability of sources were studied primarily for the seventeenth century and the Thirty Years’ War in particular, were until recently presented almost entirely from the perspective of history of often bloody conflict. In it soldiers and particularly rural civilian populations faced each other as implacable adversaries, just as described in probably the most famous literary depiction of the Thirty Years’ War, Hans Jacob Christoph von Grimmelshausen’s Der abentheuerliche Simplicissimus Teutsch, but also in numerous chronicles and so-called self-testimonies (Selbstzeugnisse).30 Here, too, the assumption was of two worlds facing 2007. An example dealing with France and the Low Countries is Philippe Bragard, JeanFrançois Chanet, Catherine Denys, Philippe Guignet (eds.), L’armée et la ville dans l’Europe du Nord et du Nord-Ouest. Du XVe siècle à nos jours, Louvain-la-Neuve 2007. 28 See Ralf Pröve, Der Soldat in der ‘guten Bürgerstube’: Das frühneuzeitliche Einquartierungssystem und seine Folgen, in: Bernhard R. Kroener, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Krieg und Frieden. Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, Paderborn 1996, pp. 191–217. 29 For the Holy Roman Empire see Peter H. Wilson, Early Modern German Military Justice, in: Davide Maffi (ed.), Tra Marte e Astrea. Giustizia e giurisdizione militare nell’Europa della prima età moderna (secc. XVI–XVIII), Milano 2012, pp. 43–85; Nowosadtko, Stehendes Heer (cf. note 17), pp. 108–156; Pröve, Stehendes Heer und städtische Gesellschaft (cf. note 17), pp. 29–32; for a comparative European approach see Markus Meumann, Comment les conflits entre militaires et civils étaient-ils réglés au XVIIe siècle? Les exemples du Nord de la France et du duché de Magdebourg, in: Bragard et al. (eds.), L’armée et la ville (cf. note 27), pp. 89–100; Christopher Storrs, Military Justice in Early Modern Europe, in: Maffi (ed.), Tra Marte e Astrea, pp. 11–41, for Italy and Spain, respectively the Spanish Netherlands, see the other contributions in this volume. 30 Hans Jacob Christoph von Grimmelshausen, Der abentheuerliche Simplicissimus Teutsch und Continuatio, ed. by Dirk Niefanger, Stuttgart 2017; for a recent English edition see Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen, The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus, transl. by J.A. Underwood, London 2018. Although the term “self-testimonies” is misleading because most of the texts labelled as such are actually chronical accounts, they have nevertheless greatly promoted research into the Thirty Years’ War from the perspective of the experience of war. See Benigna von Krusenstjern, Hans Medick (eds.), Zwischen Alltag und Katastrophe. Der Dreißigjährige Krieg aus der Nähe, Göttingen 1999; The Thirty Years War: A Documentary History, ed. and transl. by Tryntje Helfferich, Indianapolis 2009; Hans Medick, Benjamin Marschke, Experiencing the Thirty Years War. A Brief History with Documents,

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

17

each other in hostility, where it hardly mattered whether the soldiers encountered by civilians in armies on the march or billeted for long periods of time were their own or “allied” troops, or whether they were enemy soldiers. The idea that the relationship between soldiers and civilians in wartime was marked exclusively by a real-life antagonism has only recently been criticised.31 Historical research into the Thirty Years’ War, which at least in Germanspeaking historiography and the public has traditionally been perceived as the most dramatic experience of war and violence in the history of Germany prior to the Second World War, as vividly illustrated in the context of the commemorations on the occasion of the 400th anniversary of the outbreak of the war in 2018, has since an early stage been open to a cultural historical analysis of violence.32 This enabled the research to reflect the re-emergence of actual wars in the 1990s, beyond rather simplistically equating the Thirty Years’ War with the so-called New Wars in the political science of the 2000s,33 and also to adopt suggestions from cultural studies, whereas it took New Military History somewhat longer, until the middle of the noughties, to more broadly engage with the actual purpose of the military, that is to say the exercise of organised collective violence. Interest focussed initially on war crimes against the civilian population,34 clearly influenced by contemporary actual wars and the related political

31

32

33 34

Boston/New York 2013; Hans Medick, Der Dreißigjährige Krieg: Zeugnisse vom Leben mit Gewalt, 3rd ed., Göttingen 2019. The idea of a lifeworld antagonism between soldiers and the civilian population is most prominently – and as based mainly on a “conflict approach” and the related sources – convincingly expressed by Michael Kaiser, Die Söldner und die Bevölkerung. Überlegungen zu Konstituierung und Überwindung eines lebensweltlichen Antagonismus, in: Kroll, Krüger (eds.), Militär und ländliche Bevölkerung (cf. note 27), pp. 79–120. For a critique, which is based on a praxeological approach to social relations in wartime and on new sources that show a close relation between “soldiers” and “civilans” in the 1620s see Silke Toerpsch, Briefe aus der Landgrafschaft Hessen-Kassel im Jahr 1625: Forschungsperspektiven zur Geschichte des Dreißigjährigen Krieges, in: Dreißigjähriger Krieg Online/ The Thirty Years War Online, ed. by Markus Meumann, https://thirty-years-war-online. net/quellen/briefe/einleitung/, 20. 06. 2019. Markus Meumann, Dirk Niefanger (eds.), “Ein Schauplatz herber Angst”. Wahrnehmung und Darstellung von Gewalt im 17. Jahrhundert, Göttingen 1997; Krusenstjern, Medick (eds.), Zwischen Alltag und Katastrophe (cf. note 30); Ronald G. Asch, “Wo der Soldat hinkömbt, da ist alles sein”. Military Violence and Atrocities in the Thirty Years War Re-examined, in: German History 18 (2000), pp. 291–309. Herfried Münkler, The New Wars, Cambridge 2005, pp. 32–50 (first in German in 2002). See e. g. Sönke Neitzel, Daniel Hohrath (eds.), Kriegsgreuel: Die Entgrenzung der Gewalt in kriegerischen Konflikten, Paderborn 2007 (based on a conference organised in 2005 at the university of Mainz, see https://www.hsozkult.de/event/id/termine-3450, 20. 06. 2019). For the British and West-European context see Erica Charters, Eve Rosenhaft, Hannah Smith (eds.), Civilians and War in Europe 1618–1815, Liverpool 2012 (based on a conference held at the University of Liverpool 2009); Mark Grimsley, Clifford J. Rogers (eds.), Civilians in the Path of War, Nebraska 2008; Markus Meumann, “ j’ay dit plusieurs fois aux officiers principaux d’en

18

Markus Meumann

and media discourse, and the related question of military and martial law, as well as the actors in these unequal or asymmetric wars, which in turn invited comparisons with supposed historical examples and the social and cultural historical research into those.35 A milestone in this regard occurred in 2009 when the research group Gewaltgemeinschaften (communities of violence) was established with funding from the German Research Foundation. The research group took an approach based on social science and ethnology and, on their part, produced a series of important publications on the subjects of actors, markets and mechanisms of violence.36 This was followed towards the end of that decade by a shift in focus towards the trade of war and the cultural history of battle.37 Here, too, it was possible to refer to examples from French and especially British historical scholarship which had engaged with the history of battles since the 1970s.38 John Keegan’s Face of the Battle (1976) was ground-breaking in this context. In it,

35

36

37

38

faire des exemples ”. Institutionen, Intentionen und Praxis der französischen Militärgerichtsbarkeit im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, in: Jutta Nowosadtko, Diethelm Klippel, Kai Lohsträter (eds.), Militär und Recht vom 16. bis 19. Jahrhundert. Gelehrter Diskurs – Praxis – Transformationen, Göttingen 2016, pp. 87–144. See e. g. Stig Förster, Christian Jansen, Günther Kronenbitter (eds.), Die Rückkehr der Condottieri? Krieg und Militär zwischen staatlichem Monopol und Privatisierung, Paderborn 2010. The conference associated with the volume took place in 2006. Other conferences to be mentioned here include: Die Kapitalisierung des Krieges. Kriegsunternehmer in Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit/The Capitalisation of War. Military Entrepreneurs in the Late Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period (Berlin, 18. 03. 2009–20. 03. 2009); Die Geschichte der Söldner in der Neuzeit (The History of Mercenaries in the Modern Period, Bonn, 30. 10. 2015), Söldnerlandschaften. Frühneuzeitliche Gewaltmärkte im Vergleich/Mercenary Regions. Early Modern Markets of Violence in Comparison, Bern, 15. 11. 2012–16. 11. 2012; Freibeuter der Moderne: Politisch-militärische Akteure an den Rändern von Souveränität und Legitimität/Modern Buccaneers: Political and Military Actors at the Margins of Sovereignty and Legitimacy, Bern, 20. 10. 2011–21. 10. 2011. Conference reports (in German) are available at https://www.hsozkult.de/. Horst Carl, Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg (eds.), Lohn der Gewalt. Beutepraktiken von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit, Paderborn 2011; Winfried Speitkamp (ed.), Gewaltgemeinschaften in der Geschichte. Entstehung, Kohäsionskraft und Zerfall; Göttingen 2013; Cora Dietl, Titus Knäppl (eds.), Rules of Violence. On the Cultural History of Collective Violence from Late Antiquity to the Confessional Age, Berlin 2014; Stefan Xenakis, Gewalt und Gemeinschaft. Kriegsknechte um 1500, Paderborn 2015; Philipp Batelka, Michael Weise, Stephanie Zehnle (eds.), Zwischen Tätern und Opfern: Gewaltbeziehungen und Gewaltgemeinschaften, Göttingen 2017. Marian Füssel, Michael Sikora (eds.), Kulturgeschichte der Schlacht, Paderborn 2014 (The preceding conference was held in 2009; for a report see https://www.hsozkult.de/confer encereport/id/tagungsberichte-2880, 20. 06. 2019); Jörg Rogge (ed.), Killing and Being Killed. Bodies in Battle. Perspectives on Fighters in the Middle Ages, Bielefeld 2017 (preceded by a conference held at Mainz, 16. 04. 2015–18. 04. 2015). Following the example of Georges Duby’s Dimanche de Bouvines (1973), such well-known representatives of the Nouvelle histoire militaire as Jean-Paul Bertaud, André Corvisier, Jean Chagniot and Jean-Pierre Bois already covered individual battles of the French army in the 1970s and 1980s. See Denys, Renaissance, pp. 16 s.

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

19

Keegan engaged historiographically with the conventional history of battle, and at the same time distanced his approach from it. Using the examples of three battles, Agincourt, Waterloo and the Somme, he developed a programme of a comprehensive cultural history of battle ranging from the military technical and tactical factors and developments to the perspective of the participants’ experience. This takes us to a final look at British historical research, which over the past 25 years has produced a large number of significant representatives of and studies on the New Military History of the Early Modern Period and especially the related study of the so-called Fiscal Military State in England and Europe,39 but at the same time has undergone a rather different historiographical development from France and continental Europe.40 In fact in Britain, too, the early modern period was at the forefront of the development of New Military History with Geoffrey Parker’s 1972 The Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road being a milestone, combining social with economic history and the history of technology in the sense of an analysis of military logistics and resource management. Here, and as early as in France, the relationship between war and society became the centre of interest in Britain in the late 1970s and early 1980s.41 However, and on the one hand, in Britain military matters had not been so radically neglected by academic historical scholarship as they had been in France, continental Europe and ultimately in the US.42 On the other hand, the British contributions to New Military History were, and partially still are, characterised less by the social history of the military but by a focus on factors relating to technology and military tactics as well the role of the state as apparent in the concept of Military Revolution, which, while remaining problematic, exerted a significant influence far beyond Britain. The concept was first presented by British historian Michael Roberts in his inaugural lecture at Queen’s University 39 Succeeding John Brewer’s ground-breaking study The Sinews of Power (1989), this approach has become very productive in understanding why and how most early modern states in Europe managed to sustain their strong and long-lasting engagement in warfare. For an overview see Christopher Storrs, The Fiscal-Military State in the Eighteenth Century. Essays for P.G.M. Dickson, Aldershot 2009. 40 See also Wilson, British and American perspectives (cf. note 2). 41 See ibid., pp. 108 s. The most prominent product of this interest was the Fontana History of War and European Society, containing contributions on the early modern period authored by John R. Hale and Frank Tallett. On the French context see Philippe Contamine, Guerre, état et société à la fin du Moyen âge. Études sur les armées des rois de France 1337–1494, Paris 1972; Jules Maurin, Armée, guerre, société. Soldats languedociens 1889–1919, Paris 1982; Patrick Landier, Guerre, violences et société en France (1635–1659), d’après les archives de l’armée de terre à Vincennes, typewritten thesis, Paris [1979]; Jean Perrin, Guerre, noblesse et société. Un seigneur alsacien au temps de la guerre de trente ans: Jean-Sébastien II zu Rhein, seigneur de Dornach et de Pfastatt 1608–1666, Strasbourg 1979. 42 See the chapter by Daniel Krebs.

20

Markus Meumann

Belfast in 1955 and published a year later. Roberts, a specialist in Swedish History, noted a profound change in the conduct of war in the period 1560 to 1660, which he attributed at its core to the change in military tactics, but which had an impact on the strategy and conduct of war as well as the administrative structures of the state and thus could be considered as the central dividing line between the medieval and modern world.43 Roberts’ concept, taken up and popularised soon after by Sir George Norman Clark in his Wiles Lectures, also delivered in Belfast, met with wide acceptance among British historians: “For the next two decades, almost every work on early modern Europe that mentioned warfare included a paragraph or two which largely repeated Roberts’ argument.”44 It is for this reason that the concept of Military Revolution is sometimes regarded by Englishlanguage historians as part of New Military History.45 However, in contrast to most other publications in this field, including those mentioned above, Roberts and his successors were barely interested in societal factors or the social history of the military, or rather the coexistence of military and civilian societies. This is due to the fact that the concept of Military Revolution cannot hide its origin in the concept of absolutism at its core, which Roberts merely “modernised” using military technical arguments, similar to the way Gerhard Oestreich did with the concept of social disciplining in Germany, aimed at describing the supposed modernisation of society in the second half of the early modern period.46 This only changed in 1988 when Geoffrey Parker, an early critic of the concept of Military Revolution, shifted its timelines and provided it with a line of argument more strongly centred on technology.47 Moreover, Parker linked it to European expansionism, the success of which was argued now to be based on the military superiority of the Europeans. In this sharpened form the concept of Military Revolution had a wide impact beyond the English-speaking world, and it 43 Michael Roberts, The Military Revolution, 1560–1660. An Inaugural Lecture Delivered before the Queen’s University of Belfast, Belfast 1956. 44 Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500– 1800, 2nd ed., Cambridge 1996, p. 2. 45 See Morillo, What is Military History? (cf. note 1), pp. 42 ss., who is also critical of the concept. 46 On the concept itself, which was extremely influential during the 1980s and early 1990s in (West-) German historiography, see Winfried Schulze, Gerhard Oestreichs Begriff “Sozialdisziplinierung in der frühen Neuzeit”, in: Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 14 (1987), pp. 265–302. For a fundamental criticism see Markus Meumann, Ralf Pröve, Die Faszination des Staates und die historische Praxis, in: idem. (eds.), Herrschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit. Umrisse eines dynamisch-kommunikativen Prozesses, Münster 2004, pp. 11–49. 47 Parker, The Military Revolution (cf. note 44). For his critique of the original concept see idem, The ‘Military Revolution’, 1560–1660 – a myth?, in: The Journal of Modern History 48/2 (1976), pp. 195–214. Another critical assessment is David A. Parrot, Strategy and Tactics in the Thirty Years’ War: the ‘Military Revolution’, in: Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 38/2 (1985), pp. 7–25.

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

21

has interlinked in many ways since with New Military History research.48 However, during the subsequent two decades the concept of Military Revolution has experienced such a plethora of readjustments and reinterpretations, described even as metastases by American military historian Dennis E. Showalter,49 that it has lost any clear shape in the meantime, thus contributing to the obfuscation rather than enlightenment of its subject in that more or less the whole of the history of the military from the Late Middle Ages up to today is understood to be a sequence of Military Revolutions.50 In view of this development and some of the fundamental criticisms associated with it, it seems surprising that for some historians “military revolution is not quite dead yet”.51 The concept of the Military Revolution thus puts a laser-like focus on the above-mentioned conceptual problems of New Military History as a whole, particularly as they are of a semantic conceptual nature. The term “military”, used as an adjective as in French and English, or as a noun as in German, has a tendency to tempt the user towards a premature linguistic and conceptual equation of historically very disparate, or at least different, phenomena, ultimately not adequately representing sophisticated historical events and evidence. The linking of disparate phenomena in the use of the term Military History, irrespective of whether referring to old or new military history, results in them being subsumed under an identical terminological roof, which is motivated in the main by today’s historical view and its terminological organisation. Talking about “the military” thus induces a tendency to obscure the otherness (early modern phenomena and environments different from our own experience) that

48 Among others: Jeremy Black, A Military Revolution? Military Change and European Society 1550–1800, Basingstoke 1991; Andrew Ayton, John L. Price (eds.), The Medieval Military Revolution. State, Society and Military Change in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, London 1995; David Eltis, The Military Revolution in Sixteenth-Century Europe, London 1995. For the related conceptual discussions see Clifford J. Rogers (ed.), The Military Revolution Debate. Readings on the Military Transformation of Early Modern Europe, Boulder 1995; Olaf van Nimwegen, The Dutch Army and the Military Revolutions, 1588–1688, Woodbridge 2010. In France and also in Germany, the Military Revolution was greeted with some reservations, see Denys, Renaissance (cf. Note 2), p. 13 ss.; Kroener, Kriegswesen, Herrschaft und Gesellschaft (cf. note 2), pp. 69 ss. 49 Dennis Showalter, Thinking about Military Revolution, in: Jeremy Black (ed.), Warfare in Europe 1650–1792, Aldershot 2005, pp. 551 ss. 50 McGregor Knox, Murray Willamson (eds.), The Dynamics of the Military Revolution, 1300– 2050, Cambridge 2001. Thorough critiques of this are provided, for instance, by Frank Jacob, Gilmar Visoni-Alonzo, The Military Revolution in Early Modern Europe: A Revision, London 2016. 51 See Keynote Address by Prof. Geoffrey Parker at the 86th Annual Meeting of the Society for Military History: “Is ‘The Military Revolution’ dead yet?”, https://www.youtube.com/watch? v=P8Jonajoen, 17. 10. 2019.

22

Markus Meumann

historical research should and must elaborate on, in favour of a convergence of Then and Now and the emphasis on assumed historical continuities.52 The latter also applies to the establishment of a world and epoch-spanning New Military History as an academic discipline in its own right. In its homogenous labelling of temporal and phenomenological disparate historical elements as military history it has a tendency to semantically imply a continuity between forms of organised collective violence and between the armed forces involved then and now. As a result, on the one hand, many studies, overviews and series dealing with military history, but not confined to those, draw a direct line between the standing armies of the late seventeenth century and those of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In some terminological and epistemological layouts this line can reach back to the medieval levies, even the Roman exercitus, and is extended up to today via the mercenary armies of the Late Middle Ages and the first two centuries of the early modern period.53 On the other hand, the most diverse groups and technologies linked to war and the perpetration of violence are being dealt with as a matter of course under the term military without sufficiently defining or even just reflecting which degree of organisation of collective violence sensibly justifies the use of the term military, or what criteria must be fulfilled before using it in its often implied modern meaning. The now common parlance of a New Military History and its global success, including the undoubtedly impressive number of recently published research efforts merely sketched out above, must not obscure the fact that military history, be it old or new, can in no way be academically regarded as a selfevident or self-explaining discipline of historical scholarship. This is especially pertinent to the period prior to the establishment of standing armies during the late seventeenth century. It should also be noted that New Military History includes, terminologically, a correlation of its subject with a certain form of 52 A fitting example of this are the numerous recent books on global military history by Jeremy Black, who in his Rethinking Military History (2004) criticizes the Eurocentrism and technology-centred nature of military history, advocating a broader consideration of global developments, while at the same time failing to acknowledge the differences within the very disparate examples taken from various world regions and times by subsuming them under the label of military history. 53 An example of this are the conferences of the German Working Group for Military History (Arbeitskreis Militärgeschichte), which consistently take their topics from a wide spectrum of historical periods, from antiquity to the present day. A side aspect of this construction of a long-term identity of “military”, which has become fashionable in the past decade, is equating private military companies, increasingly used in the wars of the 21st century, with the mercenary leaders and war entrepreneurs of the late Middle Ages and early modern period. For a comprehensive critique of this see the introduction to Matthias Meinhardt, Markus Meumann (eds.), Die Kapitalisierung des Krieges. Kriegsunternehmer im Spätmittelalter und in der Frühen Neuzeit/The Capitalisation of War. Military Entrepreneurs in the Late Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period, Münster 2020.

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

23

(usually state) organised perpetration of violence for certain purposes (usually the combatting of an equally state-organised enemy). The global establishment of a New Military History of the Early Modern Period and its achievements in the research into the early modern military should not lead to a false, albeit admittedly obvious-seeming, sense of certainty that its historical research subject has been widely, or even sufficiently and, historically adequately, described. Furthermore, these achievements do not free us from the necessity to keep asking ourselves what exactly is meant when using the term Military for the early modern period. Nor do they remove the need to constantly remind ourselves during the process of research, including when representing historical facts and developments, of the mostly implicit epistemological and conceptual assumptions we carry independently of the historical material and apply to it. Finally, we should state these assumptions explicitly (so that they are traceable) both to ourselves and the recipients of our research efforts. The undeniable global success of New Military History very much challenges and obliges us to continually reflect on our research subject, i. e. the forms of organised collective violence during the early modern period, as well as on our own assumptions and research interests, and to question any premature correlation and categorisation. That is because “the military”, in contrast with what the term (New) Military History suggests, is not so obvious a research subject for the early modern period or periods equally remote from the present, even if at first glance the development of the military in its modern sense appears to have its origin and immediate antecedents in the early modern period. It may help to consider the contemporary semantic, which refers to the military as a noun only from the eighteenth century onwards, having previously favoured other terms, and which adopted the new term not in an entirely neutral sense.54 We should be aware that use of terms such as “the army” or “the navy” in contemporary sources can create misleading impressions, as the terms are current and familiar in today’s language, but may have carried a different meaning at the time. Finally, the success of New Military History should not lead us to forget that particularly the new, in contrast to the old, military history is not an end in itself, but that research into the military must be incorporated into the endeavour to understand and explain multi-layered historical developments, something that occasionally appears to have been missed in the face of a revived popular interest in military history as expressed in, for example, the current fashion for historical re-enactments. Re54 Frederick William I of Prussia, for example, had two orders published on 14 February and 8 April 1718, in which he forbade the population, when talking about his troops and regiments, to use either “militia” or “military”. See Eugen von Frauenholz, Entwicklungsgeschichte des deutschen Heerwesens, vol. 4: Das Heerwesen in der Zeit des Absolutismus, Munich 1940, pp. 231 s.

24

Markus Meumann

search into the military for the early modern period, therefore, cannot be the task of a New Military History that sees itself as a specialist discipline. Instead, exploration of war and organised violence must be part and the task of general research on the early modern period, something that of necessity must include the implementation of the cultural turn and its offshoots, as witnessed increasingly since the start of the new millennium. Ultimately, challenges posed by global or world history have to be considered alongside those of cultural history. Is it legitimate to describe forms of organised collective violence in non-European or non-Western societies of the early modern period as military or to cover them with reference to Western sources or terminology? Is it acceptable to globally refer to the military during the early modern period? These questions in the end apply to the concept of this volume which covers the broad spectrum of organised violence from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries under the common heading of the Military. At least it does not do so implicitly, assuming it to be self-evident, but by expressly discussing the subject. It is thus the stated objective of this volume not only to sum up the achievements and challenges of early modern New Military History, but at the same time to fundamentally critically assess the sustainability of the term and concept of “the military” with its sociological and epistemological premises for the early modern period.

3.

What was “the military” in the Early Modern World? Questions and New Insights from a Comparative Perspective

The contributions in this volume are both testimony to, and result of, the new scholarly interest in military history, commonly referred to as New Military History. Most were initially presented at the 10th bi-annual conference of the aforementioned Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit in March 2013.55 When Ralf Pröve, Andrea Pühringer and I set out to prepare this anniversary meeting of the study group it seemed an appropriate opportunity to provide a review of the work and research results achieved, both for our members and the interested professional public. We wanted to balance the achievements of the New Military History of the Early Modern Period in Germany with those produced by our numerous members in other European and non-European countries.56 At the same time we were concerned about the challenges and pos55 For a conference report (in German) see http://www.hsozkult.de/conferencereport/id/ta gungsberichte-4835, 20. 06. 2019. 56 Since its inception, the Arbeitskreis has endeavored to attract members from outside the German-speaking world and has regularly encouraged them to publish research overviews of

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

25

sible deficits of a predominantly “civilian” New Military History, which was primarily founded on social and cultural history – not least in view of the “return of war” in Europe and elsewhere with its accompanying phenomena, such as destruction, attacks against the civilian population, mass rape, expulsion and ethnic cleansing, which took place almost at the same moment as New Military History spread in Germany and many other European and non-European countries.57 The central concern of this 10th conference of the study group, that was simultaneously dedicated to the 65th birthday of the eminent German military historian Bernhard R. Kroener and generously hosted by the University of Potsdam,58 was to provide a first summary, a performance record of the New Military History of the Early Modern Period, not only in Germany, but in principle from as global a perspective as possible, over the past 20 to 25 years. What has been achieved during this period? And what still remains to be done? More specifically, which new findings have been produced and how have they changed our view of the military in Early Modern history and our approach to it? What does this mean for the image that we cultivate of the role of the military as a political and social factor during the early modern period? What desiderata exist or have arisen from the research of the last two decades? Where can we observe gaps or even blind spots in current approaches? How have methods in New Military History developed since the 1990s and how, in particular, has it responded to the cultural turn in the humanities, which has now lasted for nearly two decades? How, if at all, has it reacted to the political changes and the growing presence of war in our own world compared to its Anglo-French formation phase from the 1970s to the early 1990s, and how has it dealt with this in terms of the New Military History of the Early Modern Period in their home countries in the study group’s journal Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit. See https://amg.hypotheses. org/schriften/zeitschrift, 17. 10. 2018. 57 During the Cold War, and more specifically the period between the end of the Vietnam War (the last war to have been massively followed by the public in Western societies) and the breakup of the bipolar world order in 1990/91, there had of course been numerous armed conflicts and wars. However, only the return of war to Europe and Western participation in the wars in the Middle East has raised awareness of the presence and reality of war in Western societies. 58 The conference was organised on the Potsdam side by Ralf Pröve, who was supported by a team of highly motivated student assistants (Marcel Kellner, Peter Maaß, Juliane Petermann, Silvan Pischnick, Jana Schulze, Jelena Tomovic) under the direction of Julia Wille. Without their work, the conference would not have been held in such a pleasant atmosphere. We would therefore like to take this opportunity to thank them all once again for their dedicated cooperation. Furthermore, we would also like to thank the Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit e.V., the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft, the Centre of Early Modern Studies at the University of Potsdam, the publishing houses V&R unipress in Göttingen and Ferdinand Schöningh in Paderborn, as well as the individual sponsors Burkhardt Otto, Detlef Meier, Klaus Halbhübner, Hans-Hermann Ponitz, Jürgen K. Wied, Hans Gottfried Klärner and Jörg Mollenhauer.

26

Markus Meumann

epistemology and research practice? Are there any consequences we have to draw from this for our fundamental understanding of our object of research, i. e. the institution, the social group or system usually referred to as the military in early modern times and its relationship to the rest of the population or to society as a whole? And finally: if so, what would this mean for our further dealings with this topic? In the light of recent research and the New Wars we have now been witnessing for roughly two decades is it permissible or adequate to speak of the military, or more currently in English and French, the army, in the early modern period, and can the military or warlike sphere really be as clearly distinguished from the nonmilitary sphere as the use of the term suggests? In other words, was the army of c. 1500 or c. 1600 semantically identical with that of the later eighteenth century? After all, considerable changes took place in the composition and social status of the military social group and its relationship to the rest of society, both with regard to the legal position and power-political significance of the institution or system, during the 300 years from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century. These changes are rather superficially described by the frequently used formula of a transition from the pike squares (Gewalthaufen) of the early sixteenth century, mostly consisting of mercenaries, via the standing army of the late seventeenth and eighteenth century to the conscripted army at the end of the eighteenthcentury Wars of the French Revolution and linked to the process of early modern state-building. From a retrospective point of view this description may be grosso modo correct, but on closer examination of the actual contemporaneous context it provides a representation of the social and institutional changes of the military/army that are all too schematic and superficial. The subtitle of the conference preceding the volume, held in Potsdam in 2013, was therefore deliberately formulated as a question: “What was the military in the early modern period?” It was clear to us from the outset that answering the above questions, not least because of their dual, historiographical and empirical direction of impact, calls for an international, comparative perspective in order to balance out any historiographical peculiarities particularly obvious in Germany. This should enable us to better assess whether certain trends, problems and requirements of a New Military History for example in Germany, but also in other European countries, the US or Japan, are fuelled by national historiographical traditions or whether they can also be observed in other historiographies, and in this respect are perhaps due to the historical object rather than the historiographical traditions or peculiarities, or possibly are an expression of the ever-increasing networking of historical research around the globe. Furthermore, it is the multitude and diversity of the research results of the different national New Military Histories, both on a historiographical and empirical level, that allows or rather forces us to draw our current picture of the early modern military as one that is much broader

The Military in the Early Modern World: A Critical Assessment

27

and more diverse than that of 20, 30 or 40 years ago. It is our conviction that as a consequence of this we should differentiate and critically reflect our thinking and talking about the military/army in the early modern period in the way already mentioned above. It is for this reason that the editors of this volume have consciously chosen a global perspective. Only a comparative approach involving as many countries and world regions as possible allows us to pose and adequately answer the question to what extent the military with its progressive institutionalisation and autonomy in the sense of system-theoretical approaches during the early modern period was an overarching phenomenon that can, or even must, be regarded as a European or perhaps even a global structural element of the epoch. Therefore, the given focus of the conference was defined thematically in a broad way. The contributors were asked to present a specific historical example suitable for illustrating the current state of research on early modern military history in their country from a historiographical as well as an empirical point of view, and which would allow engaging in critical discussions with regard to both points of view. Against the background of recent research, the aim was to gain a clearer idea of what we mean when we speak of the military/army in the early modern period and how exactly we have to picture this. In order to ensure a certain thematic linkage between the contributions and sufficient starting points for the discussion, three central research concepts or axes of interpretation were introduced in order to stimulate theoretical and epistemological reflection: Herrschaftsinstrument, Gewaltökonomie and Lebenswelt (instrument of governance, economy of violence, lifeworld). These concepts have had a decisive influence on the perspectives of early modernist research into collective violence and military history in the past decades and therefore seemed suitable for providing suggestions and epistemological reflections for future research on the topic of the military in early modern times. At the same time, this should ensure that the current German-language research debates of the topic, which we are part of and that therefore shape our conceptualisation, are embedded in the broader international discussion and enable a comparative, globally-oriented approach at the epistemological level. As a result, twelve case studies from contexts, milieus and lifeworlds of the early modern period that differ in time and space, and also socially and politically, are presented in this volume. They deal with the military from the middle of the sixteenth to the late eighteenth century in German-speaking Central Europe (Austria, Prussia, Saxony), in Western Europe (the Netherlands, France, and Spain), Northern and Southeastern Europe (Finland/Sweden, the Black Sea region, and the Ottoman Empire) as well as East Asia (China, Japan) and colonial North America. With one exception, the contributions were presented during the conference and commented on and discussed in detail by the speakers and

28

Markus Meumann

renowned experts from Austria, Germany, the Netherlands, Sweden and the United Kingdom. These comments fed into the introductions to the different sections in the present volume compiled by the respective chair-persons of the sessions, which summarise the contributions and identify overarching aspects and questions for the respective major regions. Thanks to the additional chapter by Daniel Krebs dealing with the North American colonial and Indian wars, the regional focus was extended beyond Europe and East Asia. The editors would have welcomed further contributions on other world regions of military historical importance, such as India, but this proved unsuccessful despite intensive efforts to find relevant speakers and authors. Nevertheless, we hope that the volume will provide a multifaceted picture of “the military” in the early modern world, which, in the sense of the aforesaid, highlights the complexity of organised violence during the early modern period. *** Bernhard R. Kroener has played a decisive role in the emergence of a New Military History of the Early Modern Period in Germany and its embedding into the international research context. For more than 30 years, Prof. Kroener has worked to identify factors such as violence, war and the military as central elements of early modern history, and to promote their appropriate representation in academic research into Early Modern Times.59 This was a challenging undertaking given the fact that initially many German-language handbooks and overviews have for a long time avoided these central themes. In 1995, together with Ralf Pröve, he set up the Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit (AMG) and as its chairman for many years promoted research into early modern military history in Germany and beyond. As mentioned above, the 2013 conference preceding this volume was held in honour of Prof. Kroener’s 65th birthday. It is therefore the sincere wish of the editors to also dedicate the publication of the revised contributions to him. A final word of thanks on behalf of the editors goes to Dr Cord Oestmann (Winchester) who kindly translated Carmen Winkel’s contribution and gave this introduction the necessary linguistic review. We would also like to thank our publisher V&R unipress for their professional support and Dr Katherine Bird for the indispensable native-language editing of the entire volume. 59 See Ralf Pröve, Bernhard R. Kroener und der dritte Weg der Militärgeschichte, in: idem, Bruno Thoß (eds.), Kriegerische Gewalt und militärische Präsenz in der Neuzeit. Ausgewählte Schriften von Bernhard R. Kroener, Paderborn 2008, pp. XIII ss. A list of Prof. Kroener’s publications can be found in Christian Th. Müller, Matthias Rogg (eds.), Das ist Militärgeschichte! Probleme, Projekte, Perspektiven. Für Bernhard R. Kroener zum 65. Geburtstag. Paderborn 2013, pp. 498–507.

I – The Empire

Martin P. Schennach

Introduction and Commentary

1.

In Lieu of an Introduction: Public Law and the Military in Austria, Prussia and Saxony in the Eighteenth Century

“Austria is a country of very resilient land forces. In times of peace, the number extends to over 270,000 men, whereas in periods of war the number generally grows to 350,000 men. An increase of up to 400,000 men is possible without any notable disadvantage to the state”.1 This statement is taken from Joseph Max von Liechtenstern’s work entitled The Constitution of the Austrian Monarchy (Staatsverfassung der österreichischen Monarchie), published in 1791, and it introduces the book chapter in which he elaborates the Austrian armed forces. The work itself deals with the ius publicum speciale (territorial public law, also called ius publicum specialissimum) of the territories under Habsburg rule which was distinguished from the public law of the Holy Roman Empire and from general state theory (allgemeine Staatslehre). Liechtenstern, in particular, and the ius publicum speciale, in general, do not confine themselves to explaining the fundamental laws of the Austrian monarchy (or, in the case of the ius publicum speciale, of any other territory of the Holy Roman Empire). Liechtenstern does not merely outline the public law of Habsburg territories; that is, he does not only analyse the “constitution” in a strict sense.2 He also deals with topics that may be regarded as subjects regularly treated by so-called “statistics”, understood – according to the conceptualisation at that time – as a comprehensive theory and description of European states.3 Indeed, in contrast to climatic, geographic, 1 Joseph Freiherr von Liechtenstern, Staatsverfassung der Oesterreichischen Monarchie im Grundrisse, Vienna 1791, p. 308. 2 Heinz Mohnhaupt, Dieter Grimm, Verfassung. Zur Geschichte des Begriffs von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. Zwei Studien, 2nd ed., Berlin 2002. 3 Cf. Johan Van der Zande, Statistik and History in the German Enlightenment, in: Journal of the History of Ideas 71/3 (2010), pp. 411–432; Pasquale Pasquino, Politisches und historisches Interesse. “Statistik” und historische Staatslehre bei Gottfried Achenwall (1719– 1772), in: Erich Hans Bödeker et al. (eds.), Aufklärung und Geschichte. Studien zur deut-

32

Martin P. Schennach

economic and religious issues of the Austrian Monarchy, which are intensively described by Liechtenstern, the “political constitution” is treated quite compactly. He outlines the history of the Habsburg territories and their financial and military potential in order to “succinctly explain the Habsburg monarchy from different perspectives”.4 The close relationship between public law and statistics is particularly evident in Carl Heinrich Römer’s Public Law and Statistics of the Electorate of Saxony, which was published in 1787.5 Römer surveys the rights and titles of the Saxon electoral prince as well as the administrative judicial, tax and feudal system of Saxony, and in this context, he also treats the “armed forces of the Electorate of Saxony and of all Saxon countries”.6 Römer’s work illustrates the aim of the literary genre to present a complete picture of the territory under review. He explains the legal principles of the ius armatorum of the Saxon elector and the historical genesis of the standing army. He points out that the Saxon army comprised 26,000 soldiers (a number which, according to Römer, could be increased in times of war). Additional topics that he addresses include the territorial defence system (Landesdefensionswesen), which had been abolished by Römer’s time; the recruitment and legal situation of the soldiers; the contingents of the nobility, including their financial compensation; the financing and quartering of the army (including exemptions in combination with any legal controversies resulting from these privileges); the different service obligations of the subjects in case of war; and the participation of the provincial estates as well as the relevant administrative structures. Obviously, Römer tries to present detailed information, for instance, when he refers to the

schen Geschichtswissenschaft im 18. Jahrhundert, 2nd ed., Göttingen 1992, pp. 144–168; Gabriella Valera, Statistik, Staatengeschichte, Geschichte im 18. Jahrhundert, in: ibid., pp. 119–143; Mohammed H. Rassem, Justin Stagl (eds.), Statistik und Staatsbeschreibung in der Neuzeit, vornehmlich im 16.–18. Jahrhundert. Bericht über ein interdisziplinäres Symposion in Wolfenbüttel, 25.–27. September 1978, Paderborn et al. 1980. 4 Liechtenstern, Staatsverfassung (cf. note 1), p. 7. 5 Römer is briefly mentioned by Manfred Friedrich, Geschichte der deutschen Staatsrechtswissenschaft, Berlin 1997, p. 116; Dietmar Willoweit, Das Staatsrecht Kreittmayrs, in: Richard Bauer (ed.), Wiguläus Xaver Aloys Freiherr von Kreittmayr 1705–1790: Ein Leben für Recht, Staat und Politik. Festschrift zum 200. Todestag, Munich 1991, pp. 101–117, here p. 111; mention of Römer is found only in annotations by Dietmar Willoweit, Rechtsgrundlagen der Territorialgewalt. Landesobrigkeit, Herrschaftsrechte und Territorium in der Rechtswissenschaft der Neuzeit, Cologne et al. 1975, pp. 258, 261, 303 s.; he is not mentioned by Dietmar Willoweit, Landesstaatsrecht als Herrschaftsverfassung des 18. Jahrhunderts, in: Rechtsgeschichte 19 (2011), pp. 333–353. 6 Cf. Carl Heinrich von Römer, Staatsrecht und Statistik des Churfürstenthums Sachsen und der dabey befindlichen Lande, Halle 1787, pp. 225–256, quotation here p. 225.

Introduction and Commentary

33

Institute for Soldatenknaben, which is also raised by Stefan Kroll, and even here notes relevant contemporary publications.7 In fact, at that time, the branch of jurisprudence dealing with the “particular” public law of a single territory had difficulties obtaining relevant information. Generally, these deficits resulted from the fact that information about the armed forces was considered sensitive from a military point of view and consequently usually classified as secret in territorial archives as princely arcana.8 Therefore, publications on public law and statistics, when discussing the armed forces of a state, were restricted to publicly accessible printed material.9 In contrast to Austria and Saxony, Prussian public law was treated only marginally by legal scholars in the eighteenth century. The first monograph on Prussian constitutional law appeared only in the mid-nineteenth century.10 Statistical works written at the turn of the nineteenth century dealt only briefly with the Prussian military.11

2.

State Building and New Military History

Due to limited primary source material, works on public law and statistics published in the eighteenth century can hardly provide information that is as yet unknown in today’s historiography.12 Nevertheless, they reveal contemporary legal perspectives on war and the military, which is also true for legal pamphlets published on the occasion of the Austrian War of Succession or the Seven Years’ War, which legitimated the actions of one of the involved parties. Furthermore, 7 Ibid., vol. 2, p. 256. 8 Also ibid., vol. 1, preface (not paginated); Cf. Johann Peter von Ludewig, Erläuterte Germania Princeps, das ist: Historisch-politisch- und rechtliche Anmerckungen über desselben teutschen Fürsten-Staaten …, Buch 1, Frankfurt/M. et al. 1744, pp. 5 s.; Johann Jacob Moser, Allgemeine Einleitung in die Lehre des besonderen Staats-Rechts aller einzelnen Stände des Heil. Röm. Reichs, und in sein von diesem Staats-Recht handlendes Werck, Frankfurt/M. et al. 1739, p. 24: “es ist ferner gleichsam ein altes Reichs-Herkommen, daß von denen Archivsachen niemand nichts wissen dörffe, als ein oder ein paar Acten-Hüter und wann es hochkommt, einer oder etliche von denen Bedieneten und offt diese nicht alles”. 9 The limitation to available source material is explicitly mentioned by Johann Stephan Pütter, Historisch-politisches Handbuch von den besonderen Teutschen Staaten. 1. Theil: Oesterreich, Bayern und Pfalz, Göttingen 1758, p. XXIV. 10 Cf. Friedrich, Geschichte (cf. note 5), p. 116. 11 Cf. Leopold Krug, Abriß der neuesten Statistik des preußischen Staats, 2nd ed., Halle 1805, pp. 124–131; ibid., p. 9 with pointers to literature published up to 1805. 12 However, there are also no serious deviations; cf. data regarding the development of Austrian troop strength in Michael Hochedlinger, Rekrutierung, Militarisierung, Modernisierung. Militär und ländliche Gesellschaft in der Habsburgermonarchie im Zeitalter des aufgeklärten Absolutismus, in: Stefan Kroll, Kersten Krüger (eds.), Herrschaft und soziale Systeme in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2000, pp. 327–375, here pp. 338 s.

34

Martin P. Schennach

the strong nexus between state building and the military system, which is particularly emphasised by both Andrea Pühringer, and Carmen Winkel, is taken for granted by all public law experts of the eighteenth century. Information about the military system is regarded as indispensable for the understanding of a state’s “constitution”. This is a link to the contributions by Pühringer, Winkel, and Kroll: Using the example of the early modern development of the Austrian monarchy and especially of its financial administration, Pühringer illustrates the importance of the military for the formation of the modern state, which is – from a different point of view – also emphasised by Winkel. Pühringer and Kroll both refer to another fact also stressed by Römer, Liechtenstern and other authors on public law and statistics of the eighteenth century: Austria and Saxony were zusammengesetzte Staaten or Staatenkörper, or – when applying modern terminology – “composite monarchies” (Helmut G. Koenigsberger), “monarchische Unionen von Ständestaaten” (Otto Brunner) or “composite states” (“zusammengesetzte Staaten”), respectively.13 As a consequence, the military was an important factor for enhancing integration. This is also emphasised by Winkel, who demonstrates how newly conquered territories could be incorporated by integrating local elites into the officer corps. Even Römer stresses the relevance of the military system for the process of state building, e. g. when pointing out some constitutional particularities in Saxon countries as well as prerogatives of certain cities and the correlating conflicts.14 But also with regard to other topics, taking into account eighteenth-century literature which deals with public law and statistics may be useful and instructive. Thus, when Kroll outlines the rare use and frequency of the term “military” (except for composites), these results are confirmed in the oeuvres of Römer, Liechtenstern or Ignaz de Luca. Moreover, the question of whether and how these authors choose to adopt a comparative perspective can be revealing. Direct comparisons between Prussia, Saxony and Austria remain astonishingly rare: Römer merely pointed out (correctly) that Prussian territories were much more burdened by the recruitment of soldiers than Saxony. Liechtenstern highlighted that the skills of the Austrian infantry were not outdone by Prussian soldiers, and that Austrian artillery was unrivalled. However, it is evident that both Römer and Liechtenstern chose a comparison with Prussia, which reflects the external perception of the Prussian military system by an erudite public. But even without explicit com13 Cf. literature suggestions presented by Martin P. Schennach, Die “österreichische Gesamtstaatsidee”. Das Verhältnis zwischen “Gesamtstaat” und Ländern als Gegenstand rechtshistorischer Forschung, in: idem (ed.), Rechtshistorische Aspekte des österreichischen Föderalismus. Beiträge zur Tagung an der Universität Innsbruck am 28. und 29. November 2013, Vienna 2015, pp. 1–29, here pp. 24 s. 14 Cf. e. g. Römer, Staatsrecht und Statistik (cf. note 6), vol. 2, pp. 232, 235–237, 240 s. etc.

Introduction and Commentary

35

parative studies, contemporary statistics literature leaves no doubt which of the states treated by Winkel, Pühringer, and Kroll had the leading position in terms of resources: In 1800 the Austrian army was composed of nearly 300,000 men in times of peace,15 making the Prussian competitor – despite the far more intensive mobilisation of resources – outnumbered by several ten thousands of men.16

3.

Comparing Austria, Prussia, and Saxony

Not only did eighteenth-century literature on public law and statistics fail to strengthen comparative perspectives on Austria’s, Prussia’s, and Saxony’s military systems, but also today’s historical research shows a tendency to neglect comparative studies. As far as these are realised, they are mostly done by Austrian historians. It is significant that only Andrea Pühringer, continuing the preliminary studies of Michael Hochedlinger, compares Austria and Prussia, whereas German historiography broadly ignores the existence of the Habsburg monarchy as the “greatest Central European military power of early modern times”17 and concentrates, at least for the most part, on developments in Prussia. This onesided focus on Prussia reflects and continues – as Winkel points out – a long Prussia-focused tradition. Pühringer correctly outlines the bellicose character of the Austrian hereditary provinces during the early modern period, which was caused by the dangerous proximity to the Ottoman Empire (among other reasons). In addition, the war theatres of the maison d’Autriche had a European dimension and extended for instance from the Holy Roman Empire and south-eastern Europe to northern Italy and France.18 The fact that the Monarchia Austriaca has hardly ever been considered by German historiography is accurately pointed out by Pühringer. Stefan Kroll’s contribution, by contrast, refers to the Prussian examples several 15 Cf. Ignaz De Luca, Historisch-statistisches Lesebuch zur Kenntniß des Östreichischen Staates. Erster Theil: Staatsgeschichte von Östreich. Zweyter Theil: Oestreichs Staatsverwaltungskunde, Vienna 1797/1798, p. 211; Johann Andreas Demian, Statistisches Gemälde der östreichischen Monarchie. Ein Lesebuch für denkende Unterthanen, Vienna 1796, p. 116. 16 Cf. Krug, Abriß (cf. note 11), p. 126 (“ungefähr 250.000”). Highlighted also very obviously by Friedrich Leopold Brunn, Grundriß der Staatskunde des deutschen Reichs in ihrem ganzen Umfange, mit Inbegriff der sämmtlichen preußischen und östereichischen Staaten. Zum Gebrauch der obern Klassen in höhern Schulen und Gymnasien, Berlin 1796, pp. 122 and 200. 17 Michael Hochedlinger, Der gewaffnete Doppeladler. Ständische Landesdefension, Stehendes Heer und “Staatsverdichtung” in der Frühneuzeitlichen Habsburgermonarchie, in: Petr Mat’a, Thomas Winkelbauer (eds.), Die Habsburgermonarchie 1620 bis 1740. Leistungen und Grenzen des Absolutismusparadigmas, Stuttgart 2006, pp. 217–250, here p. 224; also Hochedlinger, Rekrutierung (cf. note 12), p. 339. 18 Michael Hochedlinger, Austria’s Wars of Emergence. War, State and Society in the Habsburg Monarchy 1683–1797, London et al. 2003.

36

Martin P. Schennach

times and thus illustrates how frequently military developments in other territories of the Holy Roman Empire are compared to Prussia. Brandenburg-Prussia, generally speaking, was (and partially still is) regarded as an ideal representation of military (and connected social) developments and it has continued to virtually serve as a standard.19 This is one way to explain why the Habsburg Monarchy was largely ignored by those German historians who analysed military and social phenomena in German territories: The object of comparison (in our case Prussia) – even if it is not accepted as a standard for all other cases (although this is what largely occurs) – is at least attributed a special importance. This supports – maybe only unconsciously – the perpetuation of long-existing and outdated master narratives, as Carmen Winkel also points out. Regrettably, this persistent historiographical dominance of Prussia favours neglecting the most important military factor in early modern Central Europe, i. e., Austria.20 Furthermore, the constant reference to Prussia as an object of comparison throughout the nineteenth and partly during the twentieth century appears to be a means of expressing recognition: After all, it is only Prussia’s military rise and success that seemed to make possible the foundation of the German Empire in 1871; it was for the same reason that the development of Austria was totally neglected after its final defeat in the battle for supremacy in the Deutschen Bund in 1866. It was only after the definitive discrediting of Prussian militarism after two world wars that admiration for the Prussian military system came to an end. Yet this did not lead one to pay more attention to the Austrian case. Indeed, military development in Austria’s hereditary provinces has continued to be only rarely put to use for comparison – be it alternatively or cumulatively to Prussia. This can also be explained by the state of research on Austria, as Pühringer discusses in her contribution. After 1945 it was Austrian historiography itself which described the Habsburg Monarchy as a pacific power in the heart of Europe that was practically forced to participate in its adversaries’ wars. After the bitter experiences under the National Socialist regime, this invention of early modern Austria as a predominantly peaceful nation mainly aimed at the construction of a unique Austrian identity that was strictly independent from Germany.21 In addition, Pühringer (as well as for some time Michael Hochedlinger) criticises a number of considerable research deficits, which contribute to keeping 19 For instance Thomas Wollschläger, Die “Military Revolution” und der deutsche Territorialstaat unter besonderer Berücksichtigung Brandenburg-Preußens und Sachsens. Determinanten der Staatskonsolidierung im europäischen Kontext 1670–1740, Halle 2002. 20 Cf. Michael Hochedlinger, Abschied vom Klischee. Für eine Neubewertung der Habsburgermonarchie in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Wiener Zeitschrift zur Geschichte der Neuzeit 1 (2001), pp. 9–24, here p. 15. 21 Cf. the clear statement made by idem, The Early Modern Cinderella, in: Austrian History Yearbook 32 (2001), pp. 207–213, here p. 209.

Introduction and Commentary

37

the Habsburg Monarchy a less attractive object for comparison. Nevertheless, despite all research gaps and the multitude of research desiderata, the progress made during the last two decades deserves to be appreciated. This is due to a considerable extent to the numerous contributions of Hochedlinger, which are distinguished by an intensive use of primary sources. Furthermore, taking into account the relatively small number of professional historians in Austria, it becomes necessary to moderate one’s complaints concerning the allegedly miserable state of research. Unfortunately, German researchers have hardly ever made use of the Austrian State Archives. Compared to the archival heritage of all the other territories of the former Holy Roman Empire, Vienna offers by far the greatest variety and density of archival sources relevant for military history, mainly in the Kriegsarchiv and partly also in the Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv. Given the enormous extent of these sources, nearly all questions regarding New Military History could be treated.22 However, Winfried Schulze’s work on Austria’s domestic territorial defence system was not successful in drawing attention to this overabundance of sources.23

4.

Plurality of Methodological Approaches

All three contributions choose and present different perspectives on the early modern “military” and its role in society. There are questions looking back on an enduring research tradition (for example the relations between the process of state building24 and military treated by Pühringer and Winkel), but the authors 22 Cf. idem, “Der schlafende Riese”. Das Österreichische Staatsarchiv, Abteilung Kriegsarchiv, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 9 (2005), pp. 165–186, here p. 165. 23 Nevertheless, it is necessary to point out that it is quite difficult for people outside Vienna or abroad to work in the Austrian State Archives – not primarily because of the complex archival situation but because of the Austrian State Archives’ terms of use, which impose rigid quantitative restrictions. 24 Cf. the references in the contributions by Winkel and Pühringer. Bernhard R. Kroener, “Das Schwungrad an der Staatsmaschine”? Die Bedeutung der bewaffneten Macht in der europäischen Geschichte der Frühen Neuzeit, in: idem, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Krieg und Frieden. Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, Paderborn et al. 1996, pp. 1–24 already uses for the title of his article the metaphor created in 1901 by Otto Hintze, who characterised the armed forces as the “Schwungrad an der Staatsmaschine”; cf. also Johannes Kunisch, Absolutismus. Europäische Geschichte vom Westfälischen Frieden bis zur Krise des Ancien Régime, Göttingen 1986, pp. 84–97, particularly p. 85; Wolfgang Reinhard, Das Wachstum der Staatsgewalt. Historische Reflexionen, in: Der Staat 31 (1992), pp. 59–75, here p. 67 (“[…] ist der moderne Staat ein Kriegsstaat, der seine Verwaltung und Besteuerung ausweitet, um Krieg führen zu können”); as Pühringer emphasises, the contributions by Hochedlinger are essential for the Habsburg monarchy, cf. e. g. Michael Hochedlinger, Militarisierung und Staatsverdichtung. Das Beispiel der Habsburgermonarchie in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Thomas Kolnberger et al. (eds.), Krieg und Akkulturation, Vienna 2004, pp. 107–129; idem, Büro-

38

Martin P. Schennach

also put recent research trends into focus. By emphasising the importance of rituals, symbols and stagings, Winkel and (to a lesser degree) Kroll show an affiliation with the “new cultural history”, e. g. when mentioning horses given to the monarch or the military commander on the occasion of an officer’s death (Winkel) or when pointing out that reviews and military inspections were mainly aimed at demonstrating power and creating a closer relationship between monarch and soldiers (Winkel, Kroll).25 Kroll’s contribution, by adopting Vierhaus’ concept of the Lebenswelt, also refers to the beginnings of New Military History in the early 1990s.26 In addition, Kroll’s statements on the social status of soldiers, which improved at the end of the eighteenth century, completely confirm recent research findings: The Wars of Coalition against revolutionary and imperial France are seen as a time of intense patriotic propaganda, which led to a better societal appreciation of common soldiers who had previously mostly been perceived negatively by civil and military elites.27 Moreover, Carmen Winkel sees rule and domination (Herrschaft) not only as a one-sided process of commanding and obeying, but as a multipolar communicative process essentially based on negotiation. Thus, she introduces a concept which was mainly developed by two experts in military history: Markus Meumann and Ralf Pröve.28

25

26 27 28

kratisierung, Zentralisierung, Sozialdisziplinierung, Konfessionalisierung, Militarisierung: Politische Geschichte der Frühen Neuzeit als “Machtstaatsgeschichte”, in: Hans-Christof Kraus, Thomas Nicklas (eds.), Geschichte der Politik. Alte und neue Wege, Munich 2007, pp. 239–269; idem, Der gewaffnete Doppeladler (cf. note 17), pp. 217–250. Recent surveys on cultural history that mention as research fields e. g. body and gender history, history of communication, etc. also include military history, cf. among others Achim Landwehr, Kulturgeschichte, Stuttgart 2009; idem, Kulturgeschichte, in: Frank Bösch, Jürgen Danyel (eds.), Zeitgeschichte – Konzepte und Methoden, Göttingen 2012, pp. 313–328; idem, We’ve only just begun. Cultural History in Germany, in: Jörg Rogge (ed.), Cultural History in Europe: Institutions, Themes, Perspectives, Bielefeld 2011, pp. 191–209; also looking at Michael Maurer, Kulturgeschichte, Cologne et al. 2008; Silvio Vietta, Europäische Kulturgeschichte. Eine Einführung, Munich 2005. As an example of practical use e. g. Ralf Pröve, Carmen Winkel, Rituale in der frühneuzeitlichen Lebenswelt Militär, in: idem (eds.), Übergänge schaffen. Ritual und Performanz in der frühneuzeitlichen Militärgesellschaft, Göttingen 2012, pp. 7–24, particularly pp. 15–22. Cf. e. g. Wolfram Wette, Militärgeschichte von unten, in: idem (ed.), Der Krieg des kleinen Mannes. Eine Militärgeschichte von unten, Munich 1992, pp. 9–47. Cf. pars pro toto the contributions of Ute Planert, Der Mythos vom Befreiungskrieg. Frankreichs Kriege und der deutsche Süden. Alltag – Wahrnehmung – Deutung 1792–1841, Paderborn 2006. Cf. Markus Meumann, Ralf Pröve, Die Faszination des Staates und die historische Praxis. Zur Beschreibung von Herrschaftsbeziehungen jenseits teleologischer und dualistischer Begriffsbildungen, in: idem (eds.), Herrschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit. Umrisse eines dynamischkommunikativen Prozesses, Münster 2004, pp. 11–49; dealt with by Ralf Pröve, Norbert Winnige (eds.), Wissen ist Macht. Herrschaft und Kommunikation in Brandenburg-Preußen 1600–1850, Berlin 2001.

Introduction and Commentary

39

The variety of questions and approaches offered by the three contributors (Pühringer, Winkel and Kroll) reflects the plurality of methodical approaches dominating the field of New Military History. Nevertheless, all three evidently do not consider New Military History as a monolithic block, as a field of research clearly separated from others. In fact, more and more researchers who do not see themselves as military historians are dealing with relevant aspects of military history, e. g. the “new cultural history” or gender history. The multiple methodical approaches have widened the research field considerably, which can be seen as a sustained success of efforts and developments over the past 25 years. In fact, formerly marginalised subjects that are relevant to military history have increasingly become a central focus of historiography. Thus, military history in general has advanced from a historiographical “urchin” to the position of a recognized sub-discipline29 and is nowadays regarded as an essential historical factor.30

5.

Research Gaps

However, it must be stated that all authors who (although to different extents) emphasise the relevance of the factor “military” to the process of state building mostly overlook or neglect legal aspects. For instance, Winkel explains the intensified Verrechtlichung ( juridification and institutionalisation) as an important element in the process of state building and stresses the major role of the commanding officer in the implementation of military law, while Kroll refers to ordinances and regulations for military service as a means of disciplining soldiers. On the one hand, the connection between the military and the law is only outlined en passant and, on the other hand, it is surprisingly superficial and insubstantial.31 Indeed “new” military historical research neglects one important component (which should therefore not be seen as a deficit specific to these authors): legal 29 Ralf Pröve, Vom Schmuddelkind zur anerkannten Subdisziplin? Die “neue Militärgeschichte” der Frühen Neuzeit – Perspektiven, Entwicklungen, Probleme, in: Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 10 (2000), pp. 597–612. 30 Cf. Martin P. Schennach, Revolte in der Region. Zur Tiroler Erhebung von 1809, Innsbruck 2009, p. 48. 31 Cf. Stefan Kroll, Soldaten im 18. Jahrhundert zwischen Friedensalltag und Kriegserfahrung. Lebenswelten und Kultur und der kursächsischen Armee 1728–1796, Paderborn et al. 2006, p. 35: “Dienst- und Exerzierreglements, Ordonnanzen, Edikte und Verordnungen sind wichtige rechtshistorische Quellen, die in der Regel vom Landesherrn […] verantwortet wurden. Ihr hoher Stellenwert für die vorliegende Arbeit wird vor allem deutlich, wenn die ausgeprägte Tendenz zur Verrechtlichung und Bürokratisierung des gesamten Militärwesens berücksichtigt wird.”

40

Martin P. Schennach

history. Since its origins, New Military History has become a field of encounter for numerous researchers across a wide spectrum of scientific interests; they have frequently used the conjunction “and” or composite words in order to describe their fields of research: Especially “military and society”32, “military and cities”33, “military and women/gender”34, “military and religion”35 or “military and migration”36 have been subjects of intensive research. The post-positioned nouns refer to areas of society or life which should be connected with “war” and “military”. A broad range of approaches – gender history, “new cultural history”, social history and Alltagsgeschichte – could easily be united under the label of New Military History; however, questions regarding legal history have hardly been integrated. This observation is confirmed by looking at Berhard K. Kroener’s opus on Warfare, sovereignty and society, 1300–1800 (published as a part of the series “Encyclopedia of German History”), which summarises the status and central fields of research: it is significant that legal transformation processes are only marginally treated.37 The same applies to Jutta Nowosadtko’s work, which focuses on early modern times and was published a decade earlier. The position it reflects is similar in that it explicitly mentions only operational, political, social, and technical history as well as the history of art as possible methodological approaches to military history (at least questions dealing with legal history seem 32 Cf. e. g. idem, Kersten Krüger (eds.), Militär und ländliche Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster et al. 2000. 33 Cf. e. g. Ralf Pröve, Stadtgemeindlicher Republikanismus und die “Macht des Volkes”. Civile Ordnungsformationen und kommunale Leitbilder politischer Partizipation in deutschen Staaten vom Ende des 18. bis zur Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts, Göttingen 2000. 34 Cf. e. g. Karen Hagemann, Militär, Krieg und Geschlechterverhältnisse. Untersuchungen, Überlegungen und Fragen zur Militärgeschichte der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Ralf Pröve (ed.), Klio in Uniform? Probleme und Perspektiven einer modernen Militärgeschichte der Frühen Neuzeit, Cologne et al. 1997, pp. 35–88; idem, “Mannlicher Muth und Teutsche Ehre”. Nation, Militär und Geschlecht zur Zeit der Antinapoleonischen Kriege Preußens, Paderborn et al. 2002; idem, Nation, Krieg und Geschlechterordnung: Zum kulturellen und politischen Diskurs in der Zeit der antinapoleonischen Erhebung Preußens 1806–1815, in: Geschichte und Gesellschaft 22 (1996), pp. 562–591; idem, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Landsknechte, Soldatenfrauen und Nationalkrieger. Militär, Krieg und Geschlechterordnung im historischen Wandel, Frankfurt/M. et al. 1998; cf. also Bernhard R. Kroener, Militär in der Gesellschaft. Aspekte einer neuen Militärgeschichte in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: idem, Kriegerische Gewalt und militärische Präsenz in der Neuzeit. Ausgewählte Schriften. Im Auftrag des Militärgeschichtlichen Forschungsamtes ed. by Ralf Pröve, Bruno Thoß, Paderborn et al. 2008, pp. 65–82, here pp. 74 s. 35 Hence the title of the anthology by Michael Kaiser, Stefan Kroll (eds.), Militär und Religiosität in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2004. 36 Cf. Matthias Asche et al. (eds.), Krieg, Militär und Migration in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster et al. 2006. 37 Bernhard R. Kroener, Kriegswesen, Herrschaft und Gesellschaft 1300–1800, Munich 2013. It seems to be significant that terms such as “Recht” or “Kriegsrecht” do not appear in the index, “Militärrecht” comes up three times in total (and relates to matters of minor importance).

Introduction and Commentary

41

to be implicitly included in the sections “social history” and “political history”).38 This neglect is especially astonishing when we bear in mind the model of early modern rule as a multipolar communication process, stressed especially by Winkel and supported also by others. This model of a multipolar communication process could open new perspectives on legal history.39 In addition, legal theories on the implementation of laws could contribute, if applied to historical analysis, to recent discussions on military and the limits of the “social disciplining” (Sozialdisziplinierung) paradigm. The fact that research on the early modern military tends to neglect the legal framework may be caused by several factors. Until now, German-speaking legal historians have been very reluctant to take part in scientific discourses concerning questions of New Military History. Therefore, research gaps are also a consequence of the absence of legal historians. Nevertheless, investigations by historians focusing on legal aspects of military history are quite rare40 and often of an earlier date.41 To be sure, there are exceptions. For instance, investigations on the deviance of soldiers in general and on the phenomenon of desertion in particular – closely related to the field of historischer Kriminalitätsforschung –

38 Jutta Nowosadtko, Krieg, Gewalt und Ordnung. Einführung in die Militärgeschichte, Tübingen 2002, pp. 153 and 156. More examples: Neither in the anthology by Thomas Kühne, Benjamin Ziemann (eds.), Was ist Militärgeschichte, Paderborn et al. 2000 nor in the correlative opus published more than a decade later by Christian Th. Müller, Matthias Rogg (eds.), Das ist Militärgeschichte. Probleme, Projekte, Perspektiven, Paderborn et al. 2013 is legal history explicitly mentioned as a possible methodological approach. 39 Cf. Meumann/Pröve, Faszination des Staates (cf. note 28), 2004; Heinrich Kaak, Martina Schattkowsky, Einführung, in: idem (eds.), Herrschaft. Machtentfaltung über adligen und fürstlichen Grundbesitz in der Frühen Neuzeit, Vienna et al. 2003, pp. VII–XIX; Stefan Brakensiek, Lokale Amtsträger in deutschen Territorien der Frühen Neuzeit. Institutionelle Grundlagen, akzeptanzorientierte Herrschaftspraxis und obrigkeitliche Identität, in: Ronald G. Asch, Dagmar Freist (eds.), Staatsbildung als kultureller Prozess. Strukturwandel und Legitimation von Herrschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, Vienna et al. 2005, pp. 49–67 (all with further suggestions for literature). 40 See e. g. Volker Schmidtchen, Ius in bello und militärischer Alltag. Rechtliche Regelungen in Kriegsordnungen des 14. bis 16. Jahrhunderts, in: Horst Brunner (ed.), Der Krieg im Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit. Gründe, Begründungen, Bilder, Bräuche, Recht, Wiesbaden 1999, pp. 35–56; Ralf Pröve, Vom ius ad bellum zum ius in bello. Legitimation militärischer Gewalt in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Michaela Hohkamp et al. (eds.), Gewalt in der Frühen Neuzeit. Beiträge zur 5. Tagung der Arbeitsgemeinschaft Frühe Neuzeit im VHD, Berlin, pp. 261–270. 41 Cf. e. g. Hans-Michael Möller, Das Regiment der Landsknechte. Untersuchungen zu Verfassung, Recht und Selbstverständnis in deutschen Söldnerheeren des 16. Jahrhunderts, Wiesbaden 1976; Wilhelm Erben, Ursprung und Entwicklung der deutschen Kriegsartikel, in: Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung, Ergänzungsband 6, Innsbruck 1901, pp. 473–529; still important for administrative structures is Jürg Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung und Heeresaufbringung in Österreich bis 1806, Frankfurt/M. 1965.

42

Martin P. Schennach

take into account the legal framework.42 However, contemporary works on military law – which flourished especially in the eighteenth century – have hardly ever been analysed as an independent literary genre. Rather, they have been exploited in a very selective way for specific questions. The transformation of early modern jurisprudential scientific discourses on the military could be very promising.43 Nevertheless, up to now, this has only been realised for aspects of the history of international law, i. e., as far as the ius in bello and the ius ad bellum are concerned.44 Another field of research may illustrate the potential of an approach inspired by legal history for issues of concern to New Military History: When we take into account the abundant early modern police ordinances and legislation to enhance “good police” (“gute Policey”) in general as well as their correspondent implementation processes, it is evident that including recent research on “good police”45 would also offer new insights into New Military History. This could be seen in 2003 in a conference organised by the working group “Policey/Polizei in pre-modern Europe”,46 which led to several online publications.47 Recently, more 42 E. g. Stefan Kroll, Soldaten im 18. Jahrhundert (cf. note 31), pp. 505 s.; Michael Sikora, Ulrich Bröckling (eds.), Armeen und ihre Deserteure. Vernachlässigte Kapitel einer Militärgeschichte der Neuzeit, Göttingen 1998; Ralf Pröve, Stehendes Heer und städtische Gesellschaft im 18. Jahrhundert. Göttingen und seine Militärbevölkerung 1713–1756, Munich 1995, pp. 51–53 (desertion) and pp. 29–32 (military justice); mentioned by Peter Burschel, Zur Sozialgeschichte innermilitärischer Disziplinierung im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, in: Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 42 (1994), pp. 965–981. 43 From the point of view of a legal historian e. g. Diethelm Klippel, Michael Zwanzger, Krieg und Frieden im Naturrecht des 18. und 19. Jahrhunderts, in: Werner Rösener (ed.), Staat und Krieg. Vom Mittelalter bis zur Moderne, Göttingen 2000, pp. 136–155; from the point of view of an expert in international law (with strong historical interests) Harald Steiger, “Occupatio bellica” in der Literatur des Völkerrechts der Christenheit (Spätmittelalter bis 18. Jahrhundert), in: Markus Meumann, Jörg Rogge (eds.), Die besetzte res publica. Zum Verhältnis von ziviler Obrigkeit und militärischer Herrschaft in besetzten Gebieten vom Spätmittelalter bis zum 18. Jahrhundert, Hamburg 2006, pp. 201–240. 44 Cf. the pointers on literature in Ilse Reiter-Zatloukal, Krieg und Recht in Kontinentaleuropa vom 16. bis ins 19. Jahrhundert, in: Thomas Kolnberger, Ilja Steffelbauer (eds.), Krieg in der europäischen Neuzeit, Vienna 2010, pp. 321–346; Thomas Simon, Art. Kriegsrecht, in: Friedrich Jaeger (ed.), Enzyklopädie der Neuzeit, vol. 7, Stuttgart et al. 2008, pp. 186–189. 45 See recently Louis Pahlow, Staatsbildung und Herrschaftsdurchsetzung in Stadt und Territorium. Neuere Forschungen zur Geschichte der “Policey”, in: Zeitschrift für Neuere Rechtsgeschichte 33 (2011), pp. 73–78; Andrea Iseli, Gute Policey. Öffentliche Ordnung in der Frühen Neuzeit, Stuttgart 2009. 46 Cf. http://www.univie.ac.at/policey-ak/?page_id=109, 18. 03. 2015; conference proceedings by Ulla Schuh, Policey, öffentliche Ordnung und Militär. Aufgaben des Militärs zur Aufrechterhaltung “guter Policey” in der Frühneuzeit. Bericht über die 6. Tagung des AK “Policey/Polizei im vormodernen Europa” (APO), in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 7 (2003), pp. 205–210. 47 See also the Policey Working Papers: http://www.univie.ac.at/policey-ak/pwp.htm, 08. 03. 2015: Hanna Sonkajärvi, Auf der Suche nach einer “Guten Policey”. Städtische Normen und das Militär in der freien Stadt Straßburg im 18. Jahrhundert, 2004; Robert Meier, Am unteren Ende der Herrschaft. Das Militär der Grafschaft Wertheim und seine Polizeiaufgaben, 2004;

Introduction and Commentary

43

focus has been put on early modern military jurisdiction48 – not only on single spectacular trials which have already been intensively analysed49 – even though this branch of research is confronted with a very unfavourable archival heritage as a result of the organisational framework.50 In 2007 the annual conference of the working group “Military and society in early modern times” concentrated on the practice as well as on the legal principles of military justice. It aimed at outlining the strong nexus between law and military,51 and its findings are expected to be published in the near future.52 All in all, the concluding pointers to possible research desiderata should not be seen as isolated; they refer to and complete remarks made by Pühringer. The articles by Winkel, Kroll, and Pühringer undoubtedly reflect the current plurality of thematic and methodological approaches to New Military History, although it is obvious – not only with regard to the Austrian research landscape – that a lot of work remains to be done.

48

49 50 51 52

Jan Willem Huntebrinker, “Gartknecht” und “Passport”. Zum Problem von Mobilität, Zugehörigkeit und Kontrolle (15.–17. Jahrhundert), 2007; e. g. Jutta Nowosadtko, Stehendes Heer im Ständestaat. Das Zusammenleben von Militär- und Zivilbevölkerung im Fürstbistum Münster 1650–1803, Paderborn et al. 2011. Even when police legislation is taken into account, no links are usually established with recent research, cf. for instance (with regard to sales taxes) Guy Thewes, Stände, Staat und Militär. Versorgung und Finanzierung der Armee in den Österreichischen Niederlanden 1715–1795, Vienna et al. 2012, pp. 227–230. E. g. Hanna Sonkajärvi, Militärjustiz in den Österreichischen Niederlanden im 18. Jahrhundert. Zwischen Reformstreben und Rechtsunsicherheit, in: Franz M. Eybl (ed.), Nebenschauplätze. Ränder und Übergänge in Geschichte und Kultur des Aufklärungsjahrhunderts, Bochum 2014, pp. 125–136; Martin P. Schennach, Lokale Obrigkeiten und Soldaten. Militärgerichtsbarkeit in Tirol in der ersten Hälfte des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: Andrea Griesebner et al. (eds.), Justiz und Gerechtigkeit. Historische Beiträge (16. bis 19. Jahrhundert), Innsbruck et al. 2002, pp. 199–217; Martin P. Schennach, Recht in der Revolte. Zur strafrechtlichen Behandlung der Tiroler Aufständischen 1809, in: Marco Bellabarba et al. (eds.), Eliten in Tirol zwischen Ancien Régime und Vormärz. Akten der internationalen Tagung vom 15. bis 18. Oktober 2008 an der Freien Universität Bozen, Innsbruck et al. 2010, pp. 429–453; outlined in detail also by Nowosadtko, Stehendes Heer (cf. note 47), pp. 108–156; Maren Lorenz, Das Rad der Gewalt. Militär und Zivilbevölkerung in Norddeutschland nach dem Dreißigjährigen Krieg (1650–1700), Cologne et al. 2007, here particularly pp. 99–154. Cf. for instance Jürgen Kloosterhuis, Katte. Ordre und Kriegsartikel. Aktenanalytische und militärhistorische Aspekte einer “facheusen” Geschichte, 2nd ed., Berlin 2011. Also mentioned by Sonkajärvi, Militärjustiz (cf. note 48), p. 128; sharing the same point of view Schennach, Lokale Obrigkeiten (cf. note 48), p. 200. Cf. Ulrike Ludwig, Tagungsbericht: “Militärrecht in der Frühen Neuzeit”. 7. Tagung des AMG (Bayreuth, 4.–7. Oktober 2007), in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 11/2 (2007), pp. 181–186. Jutta Nowosadtko et al. (eds.), Militär und Recht vom 16. bis 19. Jahrhundert. Gelehrter Diskurs – Praxis – Transformationen, Göttingen 2016.

Andrea Pühringer

Between Stagnation and Expansion. The Military and Society in the Habsburg Monarchy from the Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Century

1.

Military and War Historiography

On 20th January 2013 a legally binding referendum on compulsory military service was held in Austria. The public had to decide between, on the one hand, the retention of military service consisting of conscription into the armed forces or alternative civilian service or, on the other hand, the introduction of a professional army with the alternative of one year of voluntary social service. 60 percent voted for the status quo, the voter turnout was about 50 percent.1 Interestingly, the ÖVP and FPÖ voted for the retention of compulsory military service, the SPÖ and The Greens for a professional army – in contrast to the German political situation, even though in both countries a grand coalition is in power. The result of the referendum reflects the general discomfort of the Austrian public with military affairs, a discomfort associated with ideas like neutrality, keeping out of alliances or a partnership with NATO2. It is not surprising that this discomfort results from history, but to find a plausible explanation we have to look back to not only the two lost wars of the twentieth century, but also to the late Habsburg monarchy of the nineteenth century and, moreover, consider Austrian military historiography. In a review of the anthology on war in early modern Europe edited by Thomas Kolnberger and Ilja Steffelbauer, Herfried Münkler stated: “Looking at so much of Austria’s military history in early modern Europe could almost make us forget 1 URL: http://www.wienerzeitung.at/dossiers/bundesheer/, 22. 01. 2013. 2 Nota bene: Partnership, not membership! When it joined the EU, Austria entered into a partnership with NATO. This owed less to a general scepticism towards the military than rather to the experience of the period after 1945, when Austria was occupied by the four allies USA, UK, France, and USSR. Only in 1955 was the USSR willing to withdraw – under the proviso that Austria remain neutral in the allies and block system. This neutrality is codified in the constitution but contradicts current EU law. One motive for this widespread attitude may be found in Austria’s geographic position, until the fall of the Iron Curtain it was right on the border to the CSSR and Hungary as well as to Yugoslavia, which was non-aligned, but had a statedirected economy.

46

Andrea Pühringer

the characterizing motto of the Viennese imperial dynasty of this period: ‘Bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria nube.’”3 Research on military history in Austria may seem marginal to German eyes – and that includes the early modern period as well as the ‘long’ nineteenth century – but by now it has proven that the Habsburg monarchy was a mostly military state and bella gerant alii a well-fabricated image.4 Without agreeing entirely with the lament about the non-existence of Austrian military historiography, we have to state its precarious situation. But the actual situation and the different approaches taken by research can only be understood in the context of their development since the nineteenth century.5 The foundation of the Forschungsanstalt der Armee (Research Institute of the Army) in 1801, the war archive governed by the military until 1918, and the Heeresmuseum (Museum of the Army) in 1891, now Heeresgeschichtliches Museum (Museum of Military History), which has been governed by the ministry of defence up until today, set a course that was altered only at the end of the twentieth century, when an increasing number of historians, who were not members of the military, started researching military history.6

3 Herfried Münkler, review of: Kolnberger, Thomas, Steffelbauer, Ilja (Hrsg.): Krieg in der europäischen Neuzeit. Vienna 2010, in: H-Soz-u-Kult, 16. 12.2011, : “Bei so viel österreichischer Militärgeschichte im Europa der Frühen Neuzeit könnte man fast das gerade für diese Zeit geprägte Motto des Wiener Kaiserhauses vergessen: ‘Bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria nube’”. 4 This seems to be a well-staged historical misrepresentation (Geschichtsklitterung), similar to the more recent ideas of “Austrian victimhood” or “Hitler, the German”. Cf. also Alfred Kohler, “Tu felix Austria nube…”. Vom Klischee zur Neubewertung dynastischer Politik in der neueren Geschichte Europas, in: ZHF 21 (1994), pp. 461–482; Helmut G. Koenigsberger, Mars und Venus: Internationale Beziehungen und Kriegführung der Habsburger in der frühen Neuzeit, in: Christine Roll (ed.), Recht und Reich im Zeitalter der Reformation. Festschrift für Horst Rabe, Frankfurt 1996, pp. 31–55. 5 I will not define New Military History in this chapter, because in this context it seems superfluous, cf. for example Bernhard R. Kroener, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Krieg und Frieden. Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, Paderborn 1996; Thomas Kühne, Benjamin Ziemann (eds.), Was ist Militärgeschichte?, Paderborn 2000; Christian Th. Müller, Matthias Rogg (eds.), Das ist Militärgeschichte!, Paderborn 2013. 6 For this and the following cf. in particular Michael Hochedlinger, Kleine Quellenkunde zur österreichischen Militärgeschichte 1800–1914, http://www.oesta.gv.at/DocView.axd?CobId= 35385, 10. 12. 2012, pp. 1–26, here particularly pp. 1–6, also the relevant literature listed here; Günther Kronenbitter, Ein weites Feld. Anmerkungen zur (österreichischen) Militärgeschichte, in: Zeitgeschichte 30/4 (2003), pp. 185–191, here particularly pp. 185–187, who is less interested in the early modern period than in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, but nevertheless correctly assesses the situation. The same is true for Laurence Cole et al., Glanz – Gewalt – Gehorsam. Tradition und Perspektiven der Militärgeschichtsschreibung zur Habsburgermonarchie, in: idem (eds.), Glanz – Gewalt – Gehorsam. Militär und Gesellschaft in der Habsburgermonarchie 1800–1918, Essen 2011, pp. 13–31, here pp. 15–17.

Between Stagnation and Expansion

47

Nevertheless, as can be seen in the relevant publications on traditional war history and military history, the public interpretative primacy – with regard to the past as well as the present – is in military hands. Research on military history focuses on contemporary and recent events and is mainly conducted by the research department of the Museum of Military History, the Academy of National Defence and the Military Academy in Wiener Neustadt – none of them civilian institutions.7 When Michael Hochedlinger as late as 2004 accused early modern military history of a lack of methodological and conceptual self-reflection,8 we can hardly contradict him. But we have to consider that, as a consequence of the situation sketched above, research on the military history of the early modern period is often embedded in other, mainly ‘civilian’ interests.9 Ralf Pröve’s notion of the ‘gutter image’10 of military history in Austria is still valid and stems from the situation of a research field dominated by military institutions, whereas the universities hardly offer any adequate research or teaching. Moreover, research in military history has its main temporal focus on the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, which again is rooted in the history of those times,11 because the breakdown of the monarchy and in particular the relations to the ‘other’ parts of the empire are analysed on the basis of the nineteenth century.12 7 Hochedlinger, Kleine Quellenkunde (cf. note 6), p. 3. 8 Idem, Quellen zum kaiserlichen Kriegswesen, in: Josef Pauser et al. (eds.), Quellenkunde der Habsburgermonarchie (16.–18. Jahrhundert), Vienna et al. 2004, pp. 162–181, here p. 163. 9 The same is true for his criticism of a lack of survey studies so that regional and local studies cannot be contextualised due to the absence of an underlying matrix. Hochedlinger, Quellen (cf. note 8), p. 164. But he himself deplores the ‘terminological jumble’ of war history, military history, Wehrgeschichte (history of defence), Heereskunde oder Heeresgeschichte (army history), Hochedlinger, Kleine Quellenkunde (cf. note 6), p. 4. Cf. also Johann Christoph Allmayer-Beck, Die Militärgeschichtsschreibung in Österreich von ihren Anfängen bis zum Jahr 1918, in: Militärgeschichte in Deutschland und Österreich vom 18. Jahrhundert bis in die Gegenwart, Herford et al. 1985, pp. 70–86. 10 Ralf Pröve, Vom Schmuddelkind zur anerkannten Subdisziplin? Die “neue Militärgeschichte” der Frühen Neuzeit. Perspektiven, Entwicklungen, Probleme, in: Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 51 (2000), pp. 597–612. 11 Kronenbitter, Ein weites Feld (cf. note 6), pp. 185 s.; Cole et al., Glanz (cf. Note 6), pp. 15–17. 12 Worth mentioning in this context is the problem of the ‘Austrian nation’ for historiography after 1918. Going into detail is beyond the scope of this chapter, but let me at least point out the growing mythology and renaissance of Kakania after both World Wars and the mental implications of two defeats. Cf. Laurence Cole, Der Habsburg-Mythos, in: Emil Brix et al. (eds.), Memoria Austriae I. Menschen, Mythen, Zeiten, Vienna 2004, pp. 473–504; William M. Johnston, Der österreichische Mensch. Kulturgeschichte der Eigenart Österreichs, Vienna et al. 2010; Nikolaus Buschmann, Niederlage als retrospektiver Sieg? Die Entscheidung von 1866 aus Sicht der historischen Verlierer, in: Horst Carl et al. (ed.), Kriegsniederlagen. Erfahrungen und Erinnerungen, Berlin 2004, pp. 123–161; cf. also the introduction in: Claudio Magris, Il Mito Absburgico nella Letteratura Austriaca Moderna, 3rd ed. Torino 1996.

48

Andrea Pühringer

It remains to say that so far only little New Military History of the Early Modern Period has been conducted, but it is on the increase.13 It is, though, generally linked to general early modern history, which is hardly astonishing, considering the lack of institutional connections. Only few historians explicitly call themselves ‘military historians’. This, again, is not surprising considering how close the institutions of military history are to the state. Many new studies are connected to a general ‘new Habsburg research’, to exaggerate slightly.14 ‘New’ in this context means that, on the one hand, general themes and turns of early modern history, of which military history unquestionably is a part, are applied to the Habsburg monarchy. On the other hand, today the monarchy in its entirety is no longer seen as the idea of a teleologically developed general government (Gesamtstaat), but rather as a ‘composite state’ seen from its centres and peripheries and analysed also in its contradictions.15 This occurs in cooperation with historians of the successor states of the former crown lands, so that the sources in their respective languages can also be considered. Moreover, the research conducted in these countries is being increasingly received, even if this is 13 Sometimes an Austrian paper ‘strays into’ in a German anthology, cf. Martin P. Schennach, “Der Soldat sich nit mit den Baurn, auch der Baur nit mit den Soldaten betragt”. Das Verhältnis zwischen Tiroler Landbevölkerung und Militär von 1600 bis 1650, in: Stefan Kroll, Kersten Krüger (eds.), Militär und ländliche Gesellschaft in der frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2000, pp. 41–78; Michael Hochedlinger, Rekrutierung – Militarisierung – Modernisierung. Militär und ländliche Gesellschaft in der Habsburgermonarchie im Zeitalter des aufgeklärten Absolutismus, in: ibid., pp. 327–353; Christa Hämmerle, Von den Geschlechtern der Kriege und des Militärs. Forschungseinblicke und Bemerkungen zu einer neuen Debatte, in: Thomas Kühne, Benjamin Ziemann (eds.), Was ist Militärgeschichte?, Paderborn 2000, pp. 229–262; Michael Hochedlinger, I generali dell’imperatore. Note bibliografiche e archivistiche per la ricerca sulle élites militari nella Monarchia asburgica della prima età moderna, in: Claudio Donati, Bernhard R. Kroener (eds.), Militari e società civile nell’Europa dell’età moderna (secoli XVI–XVIII), Bologna 2007, pp. 463–496; idem, Bürokratisierung, Zentralisierung, Sozialdisziplinierung, Konfessionalisierung, Militarisierung. Politische Geschichte der Frühen Neuzeit als “Machtstaatsgeschichte”, in: Hans-Christof Kraus, Thomas Nicklas (eds.), Geschichte der Politik. Alte und neue Wege, Munich 2007, pp. 239–269; Andrea Pühringer, Die Entwicklung des Militärs und die militärische Revolution in der Habsburgermonarchie, in: Karin Sperl, Martin Scheutz, Arno Strohmeyer (eds.), Die Schlacht von Mogersdorf/St. Gotthard und der Friede von Eisenburg/Vasvár 1664. Rahmenbedingungen, Akteure, Auswirkungen und Rezeption eines europäischen Ereignisses, Eisenstadt 2016, pp. 63–88. 14 In addition – and without intending to air any grievances – a part of Austrian research is not received in Germany. This can be shown on the basis of the KVC (Karlsruhe Virtual Catalog). Much of the Austrian research literature cannot or hardly be found in German libraries. 15 In the meantime this led to a lack of interest for the history of the Habsburg monarchy in Austria, as Karl Vocelka, Das Habsburgerreich als Gegenstand und Aufgabe der österreichischen Geschichtsforschung, in: Martin Scheutz, Arno Strohmeyer (eds.), Was heißt “österreichische Geschichte”? Probleme, Perspektiven und Räume der Neuzeitforschung, Innsbruck et al. 2008, pp. 37–50, here p. 46, laconically noticed, it culminated in a ‘provincialisation’ of Austrian history, almost a dissolving of history in a kind of Landeskunde (regional studies).

Between Stagnation and Expansion

49

sometimes difficult due to language problems.16 So research is moving away from the hegemony of the German language towards comparative studies in the different territories – presumably due to both a younger generation of historians and changed political conditions after 1989/90.17 16 In order to win international attention, translations into English, but also into German are rapidly increasing. Notably, Hungarian research focuses intensely on the Ottoman Empire due to the shifting border between the two countries. As the researchers in the successor states of the crowns of Wenzel and Stephen are very active, only a small choice of studies can be presented. But in these countries, too, there is no explicit military history, but it is part of general early modern history. Cf. for example Géza Pálffy, Magyarorság két világbirodalom határán (1526–1711) (Hungary on the Border of Two World Empires, 1526–1711), in: Ignác Romsic (ed.), Magyarország története (History of Hungary), Budapest 2007, pp. 307–487; idem, Európa védelmében. haditérképészet a Habsburg birodalom magyarországi határvidk´én a 16–17. században (Defending Europe), Pápa 2000; idem, Türkenabwehr, Grenzsoldatentum und die Militarisierung der Gesellschaft in Ungarn in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Historisches Jahrbuch 123 (2003), pp. 111–148; Gábor Ágoston, A hódolt Magyarország (Hungary under Ottoman Rule), Budapest 1992; idem, Európa és az Oszmán hódítás (Europe and the Ottoman Conquest), Budapest 2014; József Kelenik, The Military Revolution in Hungary, in: Géza David, Pál Fodor (eds.), Ottomans, Hungarians, and Habsburgs in Central Europe: The Military Confines in the Era of Ottoman Conquest, Leiden 2000, pp. 117–159; Kinga Xénia Havadi-Nagy, Die Slawonische und Banater Militärgrenze. Kriegserfahrungen und räumliche Mobilität, Cluj-Napoca 2010; Istvân Kenyeres, Grundherrschaften und Grenzfestungen. Die Kammerherrschaften und die Türkenabwehr im Königreich Ungarn des 16. Jahrhunderts, in: Krisztián Csaplár-Degovics (ed.), Geteilt – Vereinigt. Beiträge zur Geschichte des Königreichs Ungarn in der Frühneuzeit (16.–18. Jahrhundert), Berlin 2011, pp. 98–129; Philipp Roy, Ferenc Tóth, La défaite ottomane. Le début de la reconquête hongroise, Paris 2014; Ferenc Tóth, La guerre des Russes et des Autrichiens contre l’Empire ottoman 1736–1739, Paris 2011; idem, Petr Mat’a, “Unerträgliche praegravation”. Steuererhebung und Militärfinanzierung im Königreich Böhmen vom Dreißigjährigen Krieg bis zum Regierungsantritt Maria Theresias, in: Peter Rauscher (ed.), Kriegführung und Staatsfinanzen. Die Habsburgermonarchie und das Heilige Römische Reich vom Dreißigjährigen Krieg bis zum Ende des habsburgischen Kaisertums 1740, Münster 2010, pp. 139–185; Marie Koldinská, Ivan Sˇedivý, Válka a armáda cˇeských deˇjinách. Sociohistorické cˇrty, Praha 2008. 17 Cf. also Petr Mat’a, Thomas Winkelbauer, Einleitung: Das Absolutismuskonzept, die Neubewertung der frühneuzeitlichen Monarchie und der zusammengesetzte Staat der österreichischen Habsburger im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, in: idem (eds.), Die Habsburgermonarchie 1620 bis 1740. Leistungen und Grenzen des Absolutismusparadigmas, Stuttgart 2006, pp. 7–42, here pp. 7–9 and note 2. They refer to different national conceptions of history (Geschichtsbilder): “The traditional conception of history of the Habsburg monarchy is more heterogeneous, because it consists of competing historical partial narratives, which since the nineteenth century formed within the frame of different conceptual historical master narratives, partially as a history of suffering and loss, as a martyrology (Czech, Silesian), or a history of resistance (Hungarian), partially as a success story, whose telos was seen in Austria becoming a great power. In fact it is extremely problematic to talk about a ‘historiography of the Habsburg Monarchy’, because this has emerged only in the last few years – owing to the concept of a composite, early modern state – from the mixture of imperial, national and regional historiographical traditions, which continue to have an effect until today.” (“Das herkömmliche Geschichtsbild der Habsburgermonarchie ist viel heterogener, denn es besteht aus miteinander konkurrierender Teilerzählungen, die sich seit dem 19. Jahrhundert innerhalb des Rahmens unterschiedlich konzipierter geschichtlicher Großerzählungen for-

50

Andrea Pühringer

In general, it can be said that the neglect of the military in research has nothing to do with a lack of sources – rather the opposite is true, probably the mass of archival writing has a deterrent effect.18 While modern military history focuses on the nineteenth century, World War One, or on the end of the monarchy, pivotal themes for early modern research are the wars against the Ottoman Empire, the sieges of Vienna, the military border, victorious Prince Eugen and the relations to Prussia.19 In the following, two key topics will highlight the Habsburg situation. They are closely interwoven with each other and with all the problems and desiderata dominating early modern military history. The first issue is military finances, how they were raised and spent, the second is the Habsburg-Ottoman antagonism, which characterized the relations between the two states for almost all of the early modern period. Finally, a short comparative look at Prussia may also illuminate the militarisation of society in the Habsburg territories. The selection of these themes was – like every research interest – to some extent arbitrary. Nevertheless, for centuries these issues dominated and moulded the military as well as society in the everyday life of the early modern Danube mierten, und zwar zum Teil als eine Leidens- und Verlustgeschichte, sei es als martyrologischer (Tschechen, Schlesier), sei es in widerstandskämpferischer (Ungarn) Erzählweise, zum Teil als eine Erfolgsgeschichte, deren Telos in der österreichischen ‘Großmachtwerdung’ gesehen wurde. In der Tat ist es äußerst problematisch, von einer ‘Geschichtsschreibung der Habsburgermonarchie’ zu sprechen, denn diese konstituiert sich erst in den letzten Jahren aufgrund des Konzepts eines zusammengesetzten, frühmodernen Staates aus der Gemengelage der bis heute nachwirkenden imperialen, nationalen und regionalen Traditionen der Geschichtsschreibung”.) Ibid., pp. 19–20. They also see a general neglect of the years between 1620 and 1740 in the studies on the Habsburg Monarchy – not only a deficit in military historiography, ibid. p. 23. Listing the literature would lead too far, cf. generally the publications of the Institute for Austrian Historical Research (IFÖG), which support these new trends. Cf. also Michael Hochedlinger, Der gewaffnete Doppeladler. Ständische Landesdefension, Stehendes Heer und “Staatsverdichtung” in der frühneuzeitlichen Habsburgermonarchie, in: ibid., pp. 217–250, here p. 221; Cole et al., Glanz (cf. note 6), pp. 15 s. 18 For select sources cf. Hochedlinger, Kleine Quellenkunde (cf. Note 6), pp. 1–26, here also extensive bibliographic information; Hochedlinger, Quellen (cf. Note 8), pp. 162–181; Géza Pállfy, Die Akten und Protokolle des Wiener Hofkriegsrats im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, in: Pauser et al., Quellenkunde (cf. note 8), pp. 182–195; idem, “Der schlafende Riese”. Das Österreichische Staatsarchiv, Abteilung Kriegsarchiv, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 9 (2005), pp. 165–186, here pp. 179–186; Peter Broucek, Bemerkungen zu den Manuskripte–Sammlungen des Kriegsarchivs, in: Quellen zur Militärgeschichte. 200 Jahre Kriegsarchiv, Innsbruck 2001, pp. 117–130; Anton Tantner, Die Quellen der Konskription, in: Pauser et al., Quellenkunde (cf. note 8), pp. 196–204 for the sources of prime importance. In this context, the comprehensive sources of the estates should also be considered, cf. the papers of William D. Godsey, Gernot P. Obersteiner, Andrea Pühringer and Robert Rebitsch in: Rauscher, Kriegführung (cf. note 16). 19 So it cannot be argued that in Austria too few studies are published concerning this issue. Online searches for the keyword “Military” in the ÖHB (Austrian Historical Bibliography) produced more than 5,100 titles.

Between Stagnation and Expansion

51

Monarchy. Research findings by now allow more comprehensive insights into the interrelation of military and society – even though a structural history of the military is still lacking. The two following subjects are to be seen mainly in relation to the keywords economy of violence and the military as an instrument of governance, as described in the introduction to this volume, while approaches towards the lifeworld in early modern military history of the Habsburg monarchy – with some exceptions – are still lacking, or are treated only implicitly and without an appropriate methodological approach.20

2.

Key Topic: Military Finances

The finances of a state or any other community – be it military or civilian – are always to be seen in the context of its administrative structures. So, unsurprisingly, the heading of one of the four chapters in the first volume of Thomas Winkelbauer’s History of Austria in the confessional period is Military and Finances, thus referring to the close nexus of the two domains.21 This is indicated by the very first reorganisation of the financial administration in our period in 1527/28: with the acquisition of the Crown of Saint Stephen, the Hungarian and Croatian defence against the Ottomans became a concern for centuries, which caused the reorganisation of the military administration, manifested in the founding of the military council at the Viennese court (Wiener Hofkriegsrat) in 1556.22 Some of highest positions in the military administrations for the defence against the Ottomans were established during this period, which until the eighteenth century developed into autonomous departments of warfare and military administration, like Oberstzeugmeister, Oberstbaukommissar, Oberstproviantmeister in Hungary or Oberstschiffmeister, for recruitment and salaries the Oberstmustermeister and Oberstzahlmeister in Hungary.23 This ‘specialisation’ and extension of administrative structures implies that the domain of military finances was about to expand. Military spending just on defending the border to the Ottoman Empire rose from 1.5 to 2.1 million gulden

20 Cf. for example Schennach, Der Soldat (cf. note 13). 21 Thomas Winkelbauer, Ständefreiheit und Fürstenmacht. Länder und Untertanen des Hauses Habsburg im konfessionellen Zeitalter, vol. 1, Vienna 2003, pp. 409–529. 22 Pállfy, Akten (cf. note 18), p. 183. On financial administration cf. also Peter Rauscher, Quellen der obersten landesfürstlichen Finanzverwaltung in den habsburgischen Ländern (16. Jahrhundert), in: Pauser et al., Quellenkunde (cf. note 8), pp. 144–152, or the anthology Friedrich Edelmayer et al. (eds.), Finanzen und Herrschaft. Materielle Grundlagen fürstlicher Politik in den habsburgischen Ländern und im Heiligen Römischen Reich im 16. Jahrhundert, Vienna et al. 2003. 23 Pállfy, Akten (cf. note 18), p. 185.

52

Andrea Pühringer

between 1570 and 1590 – the cost of the Imperial household amounted to about one third of these sums.24 Compared to the eighteenth century these sums seem low, because we can note a continuous rise of military expenditure up to about 30 million gulden during the War of the Spanish Succession, when military expenditure amounted to about 90 percent of total expenditure. In 1655, military expenditure amounted to four million, in 1684 to 15 million gulden per year, which means that the conquest of parts of the Ottoman Empire allowed the monarchy to quadruple its financial resources. However, this simultaneously led to an increase in national debt (Staatsschulden).25 Nonetheless, this enormous increase in the national, primarily military budget had to be met by public revenue. This was achieved in the middle of the eighteenth century by reforms of the administration and the tax system, and thus taxes were raised by 50 percent.26 As the necessity to finance the by now almost permanent warfare led to hypothecation and debt, besides borrowing from different bankers the initiation and ‘refinement’ of the contribution system27 during the Thirty Years’ War made it possible to finance the upkeep of the army even after the end of war. Both ‘ordinary’ direct taxes as well as excise taxes increased, but nonetheless the extraordinari Kontribution (extraordinary contribution) was retained as an additional tax.28 The comparison of military tax 24 Thomas Winkelbauer, Nervus rerum Austriacarum. Zur Finanzgeschichte der Habsburgermonarchie um 1700, in: Mat’a, idem, Die Habsburgermonarchie 1620 bis 1740 (cf. note 17), pp. 179–215, here p. 179. More extensively: Géza Pállfy, Der Preis für die Verteidigung der Habsburgermonarchie. Die Kosten der Türkenabwehr in der zweiten Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts, in: Edelmayer et al., Finanzen und Herrschaft (cf. note 22), pp. 20–44; István Kenyeres, Die Kriegsausgaben der Habsburgermonarchie von der Mitte des 16. Jahrhunderts bis zum ersten Drittel des 17. Jahrhunderts, in: Rauscher, Kriegführung (cf. note 16), pp. 41– 80, emphasizing the necessity of the Imperial support. Peter Rauscher, Kaiser und Reich. Die Reichstürkenhilfen von Ferdinand I. bis zum Beginn des “Langen Türkenkriegs” (1548– 1593), in: ibid., pp. 45–83. 25 Winkelbauer, Nervus rerum (cf. note 24), p. 180; he calculates the monetary value in Hungarian oxen. Three exemplary prices should be mentioned: In 1655 military expenditure amounted to 58.5 percent of total expenditure, in contrast to 41.5 percent for civil administration, correlating to a total of 4.02 Million Gulden or 156,117 oxen. 1704 the 30 million level was exceeded, military expenditure amounted to 93.6 percent of total expenditure, 34.4 Mio Gulden being equivalent to 1,049,741 oxen. In 1754 the sum came to 30.63 Million Gulden or 1,344,601 oxen. Ibid. p. 182. 26 Ibid., pp. 180 s. Important was the renunciation of fund economy, for the sake of fiscal account unity and the creation of a uniform government budget. But until the 1750s parallel independent fiscal accounts continued to exist – for example the Generalkriegskommissariat, reorganised in 1746. Ibid., pp. 191 s. 27 Contribution here meaning a tax, not pillage (Brandschatzung). 28 Winkelbauer, Nervus rerum (cf. note 24), pp. 195–197. Concerning taxes, the Thirty Years’ War represents a turning point, because during its course taxes increased as never before and reached levels that never dropped again. Cf. also Wolfgang Reinhard, Kriegsstaat – Steuerstaat – Machtstaat, in: Ronald G. Asch, Heinz Duchhardt (eds.), Der Absolutismus – ein Mythos?

Between Stagnation and Expansion

53

revenue and military expenditure between 1655 and 1735 shows that both were 100 percent congruent only in exceptional cases, often the coverage lay between 30 to 50 percent, a situation which sometimes led to a demobilisation of troops in the midst of war.29 As the monarchy and its rulers often came close to financial collapse, the single territories had to avert national bankruptcy with their revenue from taxes and contributions. Until the mid-seventeenth century, the Bohemian and Austrian territories were drawn on in particular. Not until the 1670s and 1680s was Hungary also subjected to enormously increasing taxes, which consequently led to the Wars of Kurucs and the revolts under Franz II Rákóczi. This and other examples show the inconsistencies in the law in the monarchy as well as the special status of Hungary, latent tendencies which were finally codified in the Austro-Hungarian Compromise of 1867.30 The distribution of burdens also differed within the territories: In the Bohemian countries31 the estate lords contributed 40 percent, the subjects 60 percent, although here the domain revStrukturwandel monarchischer Herrschaft in West- und Mitteleuropa, Cologne et al. 1996, pp. 277–310; Peter Rauscher, Kriegführung und Staatsfinanzen: Die Habsburgermonarchie und das Heilige Römische Reich vom Dreißigjährigen Krieg bis zum Ende des habsburgischen Kaisertums 1740, in: idem, Kriegführung (cf. note 16), pp. 5–38, here pp. 12–14; Michael Hochedlinger, “Onus militare”. Zum Problem der Kriegsfinanzierung in der frühneuzeitlichen Habsburgermonarchie 1500–1750, in: ibid., pp. 81–136, here p. 115. For other financial support cf. Matthias Schnettger, Subsidien und Kontributionen. Die finanziellen Beiträge der italienischen Reichsvasallen zu Reichs- und Türkenkriegen im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, in: ibid., pp. 543–571; Jan Paul Niederkorn, Reichsitalien als Finanzquelle des Kaiserhofs. Subsidien und Kontributionen (16.–17. Jahrhundert), in: Matthias Schnettger, Marcello Verga (eds.), L’Impero e l’Italia nella prima età moderna. Das Reich und Italien in der Frühen Neuzeit, Berlin 2006, pp. 67–84. 29 Hochedlinger, Onus militare (cf. note 28), p. 118; idem, The Habsburg Monarchy: From “Military-Fiscal-State” to “Militarization”, in: Christopher Storrs (ed.), The Fiscal-Military State in Eighteenth-Century Europe. Essays in honour of P.G.M. Dickson, Farnham 2009, pp. 55–94, here 83. 30 Arno Strohmeyer, Die Habsburger Reiche 1555–1740: Herrschaft – Gesellschaft – Politik, Darmstadt 2012, pp. 74 s.; Winkelbauer, Nervus rerum (cf. note 24), pp. 205–207. Until about 1655 the Bohemians bore two-thirds and the Austrian territories one-third of the contributions, but then Hungary until 1697 had to pay 4 million gulden, in proportion twice as much as the Bohemian share. Ibid. Cf. also István Kenyeres, Die Finanzen des Königreichs Ungarn in der zweiten Hälfte des 16. Jahrhunderts, in: Edelmayer et al., Finanzen und Herrschaft (cf. note 22), pp. 84–122, who emphasises the high amounts that Hungary paid in the second half of the sixteenth century, ibid. p. 121. József Zachar, König und Stände: Kriegführung und Militärorganisation in Ungarn im ausgehenden 17. und in der ersten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts, in: Rauscher, Kriegführung (cf. note 16), pp. 253–288; András Oross, Die für Ungarn zuständigen Kammern und die Kriegsfinanzierung der Habsburgermonarchie an der Wende vom 17. zum 18. Jahrhundert, in: ibid., pp. 289–310. 31 For the individual territories of the Bohemian crown cf. Mat’a, Unerträgliche praegravation (cf. note 16), pp. 139–185; Jirˇí David, Staatsfinanzen und Steuererhebung in Mähren (1620– 1740), pp. 187–210; Kazimierz Orzechowski, Landstände, Steuern und Heereswesen in Schlesien (1620–1740), in: ibid., pp. 211–227.

54

Andrea Pühringer

enues were higher than in other territories due to the larger proportion of allodial lands (Eigenwirtschaft). The proportions in the Austrian countries32 differed in so far as 17 percent of the tax burden was born by the landlords and 83 percent by the subjects.33 So this structure of the Monarchia Austriaca illustrates that raising financial resources was less a concern of the sovereign than the estates.34 The estates were responsible not only for the levying and administration of taxes, but also for the assessment of the tax base, which is the reason for the territorial differences.35 We find a similar situation in the Austrian Netherlands, which only came into the Habsburg ‘sphere of influence’ after 1715. But here a package of centralistic reform measures following Wenzel Anton von Kaunitz promptly took effect in the second half of the eighteenth century.36

32 For the Austrian territories cf. William D. Godsey, Österreichische Landschaftsverwaltung und Stehendes Heer im Barockzeitalter: Niederösterreich und Krain im Vergleich, in: Rauscher, Kriegführung (cf. note 16), pp. 313–354; Gernot P. Obersteiner, “Wenn das Panthertier fleugt…”. Militärverwaltung und Kriegsfinanzierung in der Steiermark vom 16. bis 18. Jahrhundert. Ein Überblick, in: ibid., pp. 355–383; Andrea Pühringer, “…nach äusseristen Kröfften best möglichisten Widerstandt zu thuen”. Landstände, Militär und Finanzen im Land ob der Enns, in: ibid., pp. 385–405; Robert Rebitsch, Wehrorganisation und Kriegsfinanzierung in der Grafschaft Tirol nach dem Dreißigjährigen Krieg, in: ibid., pp. 407–429; Andrea Pühringer, The Urban Fiscal System in the Habsburg Monarchy: The Case of the Austrian Hereditary Lands in the Sixteenth to Eighteenth Centuries, in: José Ignacio Andrés Ucendo, Michael Limberger (eds.), Taxation and Debt in the Early Modern City, London 2012, pp. 167–179 and 224–228, here p. 173–176. 33 Winkelbauer, Nervus rerum (cf. note 24), pp. 208 s., these proportions would only change in the reign of Joseph II, when the taxation rates of landholdings of subjects and nobles (Rustikal- und Dominikalland) were aligned. Rauscher, Kriegführung und Staatsfinanzen (cf. note 28), p. 23, in view of the financial burdens of the different territorial groups talks about a Bohemian-Austrian core state, in which Hungary, Tyrol and the Austrian Vorlande were only partly integrated and the Italian and Belgian territories could not be integrated after 1714 (“… böhmisch-österreichischen Kernstaat, in den Ungarn, Tirol und die Vorlande nur partiell und die italienischen und belgischen Gebiete nach 1714 nicht mehr integriert werden konnten”). 34 Hochedlinger, Onus militare (cf. note 28), p. 85, talks about the “complementary state”. Extensively on the complex dichotomy of princely ruler and estates cf. Gerhard Ammerer et al. (eds.), Bündnispartner und Konkurrenten der Landesfürsten? Die Stände in der Habsburgermonarchie, Vienna et al. 2007. For the military in particular cf. William D. Godsey, Jr., Stände, Militärwesen und Staatsbildung in Österreich zwischen Dreißigjährigem Krieg und Maria Theresia, in: ibid., pp. 233–267. 35 Hochedlinger, Onus militare (cf. note 28), p. 90. He emphasises the unequal distribution of burdens, where Hungary, Tyrol, and the Vorlande are the traditional exceptions; ibid., pp. 122–124. 36 Guy Thewes, Stände, Staat und Militär. Versorgung und Finanzierung der Armee in den Österreichischen Niederlanden 1715–1795, Vienna et al. 2012, pp. 168–204; cf. also idem, Das Geld ist der Nerv aller Verteidigung. Militärfinanzierung am Beispiel der österreichischen Niederlande (1715–1795), in: Kolnberger, Steffelbauer, Krieg (cf. note 3), pp. 427–455.

Between Stagnation and Expansion

55

It is agreed that the Thirty Years’ War furthered the modernisation of warfare,37 and insofar can be seen as a turning point, as it meant the end of military entrepreneurs and mercenaries, while the subsequent forms of recruitment made it structurally possible to enormously increase the armed forces.38 The Landesaufgebot (territorial contingent) of the estates can be seen as a kind of predecessor to these new forms of recruitment. The territorial contingents could only be posted for a limited period and only for the defence of the territory and were supplementary to expensive mercenaries. However, their military value was not undisputed. Nonetheless the Austrian territories developed – particularly when facing the Türkengefahr (Turkish menace) in the second half of the sixteenth century, a system that recruited every thirtieth man. But the resistance against this system was enormous, because the missions were far away on the border to the Ottoman Empire, which is why the estates shifted step-by-step from drafting subjects to financing mercenaries.39 But already the Thirty Years’ War had shown the necessity of permanently employed military troops, which was emphasised by the fortification of the south-eastern border. The soldiers could no longer be disbanded after a campaign. So since the 1680s a new system of supplementing the mercenary army came into being, the so-called Landrekrutenstellung (procuring of recruits by territory). This process ended with – to exaggerate slightly – the standing army and the coercive recruitment of the subjects, who had to serve not only for a campaign or a war, but for their whole lives.40 And to complete the circle and return to finances, this system of financing compulsory military service by direct taxes was far less expensive than the old mercenary armies – albeit not so efficient.41 37 Generally, for the ‘modernisation’ of warfare cf. Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500–1800, Cambridge 1988. 38 Rauscher, Kriegführung und Staatsfinanzen (cf. note 28), p. 24; Hochedlinger, Onus militare (cf. note 28), pp. 111 s. Of importance were the experiences connected to the example of Wallenstein as a military entrepreneur in particular for the hereditary lands. For army sizes in the Thirty Years’ War cf. also Jürgen Pohl, “Die Profiantirung der keyserlichen Armaden ahnbelangendt”. Studien zur Versorgung der kaiserlichen Armee 1634/35, Vienna 1994, pp. 25–32. 39 Hochedlinger, Der gewaffnete Doppeladler (cf. note 17), pp. 227–229. 40 Joseph II introduced lifelong compulsory service in 1782, which was reduced only in 1801. Cf. Helmut Kuzmics, Sabine A. Haring, Habitus und Reform in der Habsburger Armee zwischen 1800 und 1918, in: Karl-Heinz Lutz et al. (ed.), Reform – Reorganisation – Transformation. Zum Wandel in deutschen Streitkräften von den preußischen Heeresreformen bis zur Transformation der Bundeswehr, Munich 2010, pp. 107–128, here pp. 112 s. 41 Winkelbauer, Nervus rerum (cf. note 24), p. 198; Hochedlinger, Der gewaffnete Doppeladler (cf. note 17), pp. 236–238; idem, Austria’s Wars of Emergence 1683–1797. War, State and Society in the Habsburg Monarchy, London et al. 2003, pp. 109–111; Hochedlinger, Rekrutierung (cf. note 13), pp. 340–344; Schennach, Der Soldat (cf. note 13), pp. 70 s.; Pohl, Profiantirung (cf. note 38), pp. 37 s. For the correlating administrative structures cf. Godsey, Stände (cf. note 34), 237–247.

56

3.

Andrea Pühringer

Key Topic: The Ottoman-Habsburg Antagonism

For nearly the whole early modern period – from the 1520s until the nineteenth century – the relationship with the Ottoman Empire would decisively influence the development of the Habsburg monarchy. Already a century earlier, before the territories of the Crown of Saint Stephen42 were reigned over by the Casa de Austria, irregular Ottoman troops conducted deep forays into the regions of Inner Austria, into the hereditary lands. These so-called akıncı were feared as Renner und Brenner (runners and burners), they operated without pay, only for booty, and were replaced by the Tartars in later times. They were neither conquering troops nor the dreaded infantry of the Janissaries, but a kind of terror troop intended to spread fear and terror in the borderlands.43 They attacked villages, robbing, looting, abducting, or killing. The landlords, who were obliged by medieval fief tradition to protect the peasant population, reacted helplessly and powerlessly. So in wide sections of the population a fear of the Ottomans (Türkenfurcht) emerged, which, as a result of the Ottoman Wars, spread progressively northwards and finally created the mythologised image of the hereditary enemy of Christianity all over Europe.44 The Hungarian experience with the Ottomans since the first half of the fifteenth century led to an expansion of the fortification system along the lower Danube and the Sava, which was based on a series of border fortresses. Until the conquest of Belgrade in 1521, these fortresses formed an effective line of defence. Beyond that, via Croatia and Slavonia, Inner Austria, in particular Carniola and Styria as well as southern Lower Austria were subjected to Ottoman attacks. So in 1522 the Inner Austrian estates were willing to comply with the Croatians’ request for help and to protect the border with garrisons and fortresses.45 After the battle 42 Part of it was the kingdom of Hungary and the Regnum tripartitum – Croatia, Dalmatia and Slavonia, governed since the beginning of the twelfth century in personal union. Strohmeyer, Habsburger Reiche (cf. note 30), p. 8. 43 Cf. also the chapters by Rhoads Murphey on the Janissaries and Daria Starcˇenko on the Cossacks in this volume. 44 Karl Vocelka, Erblande gegen Erbfeinde. Die österreichischen Länder und das Osmanische Reich in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Gabriele Haug-Moritz, Ludolf Pelizaeus (eds.), Repräsentationen der islamischen Welt im Europa der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2010, pp. 41–54, here p. 42; Marlene Kurz, Der “Türcke”. Habsburgs Herausforderung im Osten, in: Kolnberger et al., Krieg und Akkulturation, Vienna 2004, pp. 39–57, here p. 47. For Türkenfurcht cf. Karl Vocelka, Die politische Propaganda Kaiser Rudolfs II. (1572–1612), Vienna 1981, pp. 219–227; Jan Paul Niederkorn, Argumentationsstrategien für Bündnisse gegen die Osmanen in Gesandtenberichten, in: Marlene Kurz et al. (eds.), Das Osmanische Reich und die Habsburgermonarchie, Vienna et al. 2005, pp. 205–212. 45 Jürg Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung und Heeresaufbringung in Österreich bis 1806, Frankfurt 1965, pp. 28 s., the Reichstag also granted an allocation for a limited period. For the Croatian part of the military border cf. Gunther E. Rothenberg, The Austrian Military Border

Between Stagnation and Expansion

57

of Mohács in 1526, Hungary with Croatia and Slavonia fell to the Habsburgs – at least those parts which had not already been conquered by the Ottomans.46 Until that point, the conquest of Ofen was the major Ottoman aim, but now they began to make a claim on Vienna – especially as the opponent of Ferdinand, King Johann Zápolya, elected by Hungarian magnates, put himself under the protection of Sultan Süleyman.47 As a result, the Ottomans crusaded against Vienna, but they could not capture the town. In 1541, Ofen (Buda) fell into Ottoman hands, in 1542 the attempt to reconquer the town failed. One year later, the Ottomans struck back and with Esztergom, Székesfehérvár, and Pécs reinforced the defensive ring around Buda. The Peace of Constantinople in 1547 confirmed Hungary’s trisection. The obvious superiority of the Ottoman army was primarily due to their efficient logistics and well-trained professional soldiers like the Janissaries.48 When in 1552 a new campaign led to the Ottoman conquest of the fortresses Szolnok and Temesvár and the castles in the Komitat Nógrád, a military border was considered as a defence system, where along a distance of more than 1,000 km between the Adriatic Sea and Upper Hungary numerous in Croatia, 1552–1747, Urbana 1960; idem, The Habsburg Military Border System: Some Reconsiderations, in: Béla K. Király (ed.), Special topics and generalizations on the 18th and 19th centuries, New York 1979, pp. 361–392; Jakob Amstadt, Die k. k. Militärgrenze 1522– 1881, Würzburg 1969; Cf. Winfried Schulze, Landesdefension und Staatsbildung. Studien zum Kriegswesen des innerösterreichischen Territorialstaates, 1564–1619, Vienna et al. 1973; Karl Kaser, Freier Bauer und Soldat. Die Militarisierung der agrarischen Gesellschaft in der kroatisch-slawonischen Militärgrenze (1535–1811), Graz 1986; Karl Kaser, Das Steiermärkische Landesarchiv, ein Zensus, die Lika und die Militärgrenze zu Beginn des 18. Jahrhunderts, in: Festschrift Gerhard Pferschy zum 70. Geburtstag, Graz 2000, pp. 471–486. 46 Mohács led to Hungary’s trisection: apart from the Habsburg part, the central part became Ottoman and in the east became the new principality of Transylvania, a Christian vassal of the sultan. Cf. István György Tóth, Von Bocskai bis Zenta. Ungarn im Habsburgerreich im 17. Jahrhundert (1606–1697), in: Kaiser und König. Eine historische Reise: Österreich und Ungarn 1526–1918. Ausstellungskatalog, Budapest et al. 2001, pp. 51–54, here p. 51. For the early Ottoman-Hungarian conflicts cf. András Forgó, Überlegungen zum Wandel des Osmanenbildes im Königreich Ungarn der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Haug-Moritz, Pelizaeus, Repräsentationen der islamischen Welt (cf. note 44), pp. 75–94; Hochedlinger, Austria’s Wars of Emergence (cf. note 41), pp. 83 s. For the Hungarian part of the military border cf. Pállfy, Preis für die Verteidigung (cf. note 24); idem, Die Türkenabwehr in Ungarn im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert – ein Forschungsdesiderat, in: Anzeiger der philosophisch-historischen Klasse der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 137 (2002), pp. 99–131; idem, The Origins and Development of the Border Defence System Against the Ottoman Empire in Hungary (Up to the Early Eighteenth Century), in: Dávid, Fodor (eds.), Ottomans (cf. note 16), pp. 3–69. 47 Géza Pállfy, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung der Türkenabwehr in Ungarn 1526–1699, in: Kaiser und König (cf. note 46), pp. 37–46, here pp. 37 s. The second area of conflict between Ottomans and Habsburg, the Mediterranean and the North African coast, can only be mentioned, but evidently it had strategic implications. Cf. Strohmeyer, Habsburger Reiche (cf. note 30), pp. 91–94; Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung (cf. note 45), pp. 28 s. 48 Pállfy, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), p. 38; Strohmeyer, Habsburger Reiche (cf. note 30), pp. 94 s.

58

Andrea Pühringer

fortresses were to be newly constructed or, if they already existed, were to be fortified. At the end of the 1560s there were between 100 and 120 fortresses and in 1593, 171 fortresses with a garrison of about 27,000 soldiers.49 This was the result of a situation of permanent guerrilla warfare, even after the peace agreement the Ottomans forayed into the country and spied out vulnerable points in the defence system. The Viennese army command decided on a defensive war strategy, namely, efficient protection of the fortresses by utilising the topographical vantage, a better protection of smaller strongholds – a strategy that would prove itself in the Long Ottoman War (1593–1606).50 In this context, the establishment of the Hofkriegsrat (Military Court Council) in 1556 was important. The council initially cooperated very closely with the Hungarian magnates, because they had knowledge of the country. Whereas the previous defensive actions merely answered the immediate needs, now a consistent strategy of defence began to develop.51 Nevertheless, the military defence as well as its funding had a kind of double character: on the one hand it was centralistic (zentralstaatlich), with financial support coming from the hereditary lands, Bohemia and the Empire via the Hofkriegsrat, and on the other hand it depended on the estates, because the Hungarian estates had to approve the taxation for the Hungarian contributions. This dichotomy remained until the end of the Ottoman Wars.52 In 1577 alterations in administration occurred, when the Inner Austrian estates obtained the direct managing leadership for the Croatian-Slavonic territories and established the Inner Austrian Hofkriegsrat to carry out this function in 1578. The four Hungarian border territories, however, continued to fall under the authority of the Viennese Hofkriegsrat. The Hauptgrenzkonferenz (Central Border Conference) in 1577 had decided this, and it also dealt with the problems

49 Pállfy, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), p. 39; idem, Preis für die Verteidigung (cf. note 24), p. 24, counts 75 Hungarian and 96 Croatian-Slavonic fortresses for 1593, so in total 171 border fortresses. 50 Idem, Türkenabwehr in Ungarn (cf. note 46), pp. 108–111; idem, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), p. 40. 51 Strohmeyer, Habsburger Reiche (cf. note 30), pp. 95 s.; Pállfy, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), pp. 39 s.; idem, Preis für die Verteidigung (cf. note 24), pp. 21 s., points out that the rapid developments in the military were already visible. Cf. Gábor Ágoston, Habsburg and Ottomans: Defense, Military Change and Shifts in Power, in: The Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 22 (1998), pp. 126–141. Two innovations are the result of the Long Ottoman War: infantrymen staffed with firearms outnumbered the pikemen, and the maintenance of the army in winter, of the Winterkriegsvolk became common practice after 1600, Winkelbauer, Nervus rerum (cf. note 24), p. 194; Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung (cf. note 45), pp. 45–48. 52 Pállfy, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), p. 38; for the support from the Empire, the Reichstürkenhilfe, cf. Rauscher, Kaiser und Reich (cf. note 24).

Between Stagnation and Expansion

59

of fortification, supply of ammunition and provisions, salaries of the garrisons, and keeping discipline among the troops.53 The border areas were initially ravaged and partly desolated, but gradually the fortresses were staffed with refugees from more southern regions or with native civilians.54 Payment defaults led to tax exemptions and various privileges, but also induced border troops to take up farming or civil professions for additional income.55 Thus, a kind of militarised society of farmers evolved, supported by troops from the estates.56 At the beginning of the seventeenth century – after the conquest of Kanizsa in 1600 – the situation at the borders was relatively calm – the Ottomans as well as the Habsburg were engaged elsewhere, the Thirty Years’ War swallowed enormous sums of money, leading to the withdrawal of troops from the borders and the absence of financial support. From the 1650s onwards and due to the end of the war, more and more soldiers or parts of the army were no longer needed and were posted to the border. This led to friction with the old troops, because the ‘full-time soldier’ now had to cope with border troops who were embedded in both civilian and in military life, and could not be integrated into the standing army or companies.57 So, particularly during the relatively long period of peace in the seventeenth century, the commitment of the border troops declined. This situation improved only with the liberation of Ofen in 1686.58 After the Peace of Karlowitz/Sremski 53 Hochedlinger, Austria’s Wars of Emergence (cf. note 41), p. 86. The support of the Austrian estates and the Empire was divided as follows: the Slavonic border was financed by Styria, the Croatian border by Carinthia and Carniola, the Canisian border by Hungary, Styria, and Lower Austria, the border of the Rába by Lower Austria, Hungary, and the Empire, the border of the mining towns (along the Garam/Hron, Gran river) by Moravia, Bohemia, and Hungary, and the Hungarian border by Hungary, Silesia, and the Empire; Pállfy, Türkenabwehr in Ungarn (cf. note 46), p. 99; idem, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), p. 41; Schulze, Landesdefension (cf. note 45), pp. 65–69. 54 Kaser, Das Steiermärkische Landesarchiv (cf. note 45), p. 472, so Walachians from the southeastern Balkan regions were settled on the Croatian borders. Karl Kaser, Das “Kriegstheater” zwischen den Kulturen. Die habsburgische Militärgrenze in Kroatien, in: Kolnberger et al., Krieg und Akkulturation (cf. note 44), pp. 85–101, here p. 86, assumes that “this border with its characteristic social developments, different from the surrounding areas, […] could in this form develop only due to a total breakdown of the old economic, infrastructural, and social order” (diese Grenze mit ihren charakteristischen, sich von den umliegenden Gebieten unterscheidenden sozialen Entwicklungen […] in dieser Form nur aufgrund des völligen Zusammenbruchs der alten wirtschaftlichen, infrastrukturellen und sozialen Ordnung entstehen” konnte. 55 Hochedlinger, Austria’s Wars of Emergence (cf. note 41), pp. 89 s.; Pállfy, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), p. 44. 56 Kaser, Kriegstheater (cf. note 54), pp. 88–90; Hochedlinger, Austria’s Wars of Emergence (cf. note 41), p. 91. 57 Hochedlinger, Austria’s Wars of Emergence (cf. note 41), pp. 89–91; Pállfy, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), p. 42. 58 Pállfy, Die Entstehung und Entwicklung (cf. note 47), p. 45.

60

Andrea Pühringer

Karlovci in 1699, the strategic modalities concerning the border changed – the Hofkriegsrat adopted sole responsibility, the border was removed from civil administration. With regard to the further development of the military border, the Hungarian estates were completely bypassed. The garrisons no longer comprised Hungarian troops, but newly settled south-Slavic soldiers, who thus acquired privileged properties.59 Due to the length of the border, no real peace was made, only a truce, which still held in the case of invasions with less than 4,000 men and no artillery, and which led to permanent guerrilla warfare.60 After the Peace of Passarowitz/Pozˇarevac in 1718, which brought Belgrade and the Banat to Habsburg, if only until the Peace of Belgrade in 1739, the Habsburg monarchy could hardly territorially expand by war. Even the annexation of the Bukowina in 1775 occurred without a military confrontation and with the approval of Russia.61 Nonetheless, the propaganda against the Ottomans was kept up, because the military border still had to be protected, and financial support from the estates and the Empire was required to achieve this aim.62 In the middle of the eighteenth century, participation in military service again increased, due to a change in social structures between 1745 and 1770 that merged the different regional border troops into a uniform, militarised society. This development was triggered by the military border laws passed in 1754 that 59 Ibid., pp. 45 s.; Kaser, Das Steiermärkische Landesarchiv (cf. note 45), pp. 475 s., noted for parts of the Croatian border that until 1712 the population was nearly exchanged, the Wallachian and Muslim population moved away, whereas Catholics moved in, whereas the Wallachians were mostly orthodox Christians. Cf. also Natasˇa Sˇtefanec, Demographic Changes on the Habsburg-Ottoman Border in Slavonia (c. 1570–1640), in: Kurz et al., Das Osmanische Reich (cf. note 44), pp. 551–578, here particularly p. 559. The Romanian soldierfarmers, too, benefited from the military border, because they finally stopped being serfs, cf. Ioan Bolovan, Die österreichische Militärgrenze und die Siebenbürger Rumänen im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, in: Ulrike Tischler-Hofer, Renate Zedinger (eds.), Kuppeln – Korn – Kanonen. Unerkannte und unbekannte Spuren in Südosteuropa von der Aufklärung bis in die Gegenwart, Innsbruck 2010, pp. 311–324, here p. 315. 60 Vocelka, Erblande gegen Erbfeinde (cf. note 44), p. 43; Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung (cf. note 45), pp. 34–36. 61 Ivan Parvev, “Du glückliches Österreich, verhandle”. Militär versus Diplomatie in der habsburgischen Südosteuropa-Politik 1739–1878, in: Kurz et al., Das Osmanische Reich (cf. note 44), pp. 539–550, here p. 542. 62 Vocelka, Erblande gegen Erbfeinde (cf. note 44), pp. 48–52; for the reflection on hereditary enemy and Türkenpropaganda (propaganda against the turcs) cf. also Peter Rauscher, Die Erinnerung an den Erbfeind. Die “Zweite Türkenbelagerung” Wiens 1683 im öffentlichen Bewusstsein Österreichs im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, in: Haug-Moritz, Pelizaeus, Repräsentationen der islamischen Welt (cf. note 44), pp. 278–305. For financial support from the Empire cf. Winfried Schulze, Reich und Türkengefahr im späten 16. Jahrhundert. Studien zu den politischen und gesellschaftlichen Auswirkungen einer äußeren Bedrohung, Munich 1978, here particularly pp. 255–270; Hochedlinger, Austria’s Wars of Emergence (cf. note 41), pp. 92–95.

Between Stagnation and Expansion

61

unified different legal customs. The Viennese central administration (Zentralbehörden) took over the functions of the Inner Austrian authorities, and the border defence system was transformed into a regimental organisation conceived for operations on the battlefield.63 Among other reasons, this was due to the fact that after 1699 the border was pushed further and further to the south or southeast, so that the areas of defence grew, leading to increasing numbers of border soldiers, while the Ottoman expansion was on the decline. A reduction in the number of border soldiers could not be enforced, because they refused to give up their privileges.64 So until 1770 the border soldier developed into a universal militiaman, who could be deployed anywhere. As the regiments assembled for this purpose could not be filled, civilian properties had to be purchased, thus creating a unified military border territory, which lasted well into the nineteenth century. Only in 1881 was the Croatian military border dissolved.65 So three conclusions can be drawn from the Ottoman-Habsburg antagonism: First, the Ottoman Empire with its aggressive behaviour can be – if somewhat exaggeratedly – interpreted as a catalyst for the modernisation of the Habsburg military. Second, the Ottoman Wars, in which the Empire was involved to no small extent financially as well as with troops, gave the Habsburg Monarchy military leadership within the Empire with regard to the protection and defence of the military border.66 Third, the long-lasting military struggles made a significant contribution to the militarisation of society in the Monarchia Austriaca.

4.

A Brief Comparative View: Prussian-Habsburg Antagonism

Owing to the genius loci of the conference preceding this volume, the German dualism of the second half of the eighteenth century deserves a brief analysis. The above-mentioned militarisation of society, for which the Hohenzollern state is often seen as the prime example, is on closer examination rather a characteristic phenomenon of its time than the Prussian Sonderweg – although a certain role model function, particularly regarding the Habsburg monarchy, cannot be denied.67 As early as 1722 the Military Court Council (Hofkriegsrat) as the highest 63 64 65 66

Kaser, Kriegstheater (cf. note 54), pp. 93 s. Ibid., p. 94. Ibid., pp. 85, 96 s. Cf. Rauscher, Kriegführung und Staatsfinanzen (cf. note 28), p. 13; Jan Paul Niederkorn, Die europäischen Mächte und der “Lange Türkenkrieg” Kaiser Rudolfs II. (1593–1606), Vienna 1993, pp. 49–70. 67 Already Jeremy Black, Eighteenth Century Europe 1700–1789, 2nd ed., Basingstoke 1999, p. 353, referred to the comparatively high extent of militarisation of more or less all states. Cf. also the chapter by Carmen Winkel in this volume.

62

Andrea Pühringer

military authority showed tendencies towards centralisation, when it attempted to withdraw the recruitment of soldiers from the estates.68 But it took the administration reforms of 1748/49 under Count Friedrich Wilhelm von Haugwitz to end the antagonism between princely ruler and estates – that had been much more pronounced than in Prussia – and to step-by-step disempower the estates.69 The loss of Silesia during the Austrian War of Succession had been essential for the reorganisation of the state in these years, following the Prussian pattern and leading to the assertion of the autonomy of the central state. One objective was the modernisation of the military and financial administration, which aimed not only at removing the estates’ power of taxation, but also at exacting higher taxes.70 Accordingly, the estates’ administrative organisation was pushed back and replaced by (central) institutions of the princely ruler – for instance by the Directorium in publicis et cameralibus, which took over financial administration and replaced the Bohemian and Austrian Hofkanzlei. On the lowest local administrative level, county councils (Kreishauptmannschaften) were introduced, which served to control the manors and dealt with mainly military matters, such as procurement of board and lodging for the troops. The estates agreed on longterm granting of taxes, so that the annoying levying of taxes was resolved. But all these reforms were constrained to the Bohemian and Austrian parts of the monarchy, Hungary and the Italian and Belgian territories were exempted, Tyrol obtained a special status.71 The reforms of the 1760s and 1770s, which focused on the military administration, show how closely civil and military society were already interwoven.72 The training of army officers was improved and achieved a scientific basis with the institution of the military academy in Wiener Neustadt in 1751 and the fusion of different seminars into the Technical Military Academy (Technischen Militärakademie) between 1756 and 1760. In 1758 the General(quartiermeister)stab was

68 Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung (cf. note 45), 97. 69 As late as at the end of the seventeenth century a princely administration authority was almost totally non-existent. 70 Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung (cf. note 45), p. 74, although the estates had profited nicely from the compensation of the contributionary system. 71 Ibid., pp. 76–78, 103; Michael Hochedlinger, Der König und die Habsburgermonarchie. Oder: Wie preußisch war Österreich im 18. Jahrhundert, in: Friedrich300 1 (2008), http://www. perspectivia.net/content/publikationen/friedrich300-colloquien/friedrich-bestandsaufnahme/ hochedlinger_habsburgermonarchie, pp. 15 s.; for Belgium cf. Thewes, Stände (cf. note 36), pp. 109–146. 72 The opposite was explicitly intended, that is the separation of military and society, as is made clear by the replacement of compulsory army service by free recruitment in the Empire or the lodging of soldiers in barracks. The Seven Years’ War, however, proved the system a failure. Hochedlinger, König (cf. note 71), p. 23.

Between Stagnation and Expansion

63

established, which surveyed the territory of the monarchy in peacetime.73 The census of the years 1770/71, which introduced house numbers, served not only military ends, but was also executed by military staff.74 The adoption and the adaption of the system of conscription and recruitment districts following the Prussian example in 1770–1781 replaced the Landrekrutenstellung and thus not only advanced the militarisation of society, but also consolidated the state, that now for the first time had direct access to its subjects, bypassing the estates and the landlords respectively.75 The recruiting system worked similar to that in Prussia. There were many exemptions for those who were deemed socio-economically indispensable, whereas those who were drafted had to undergo basic training but apart from regular military exercises in peacetime could otherwise follow their respective professions. Militarisation within society increased, expressed for example in wearing uniforms on Sunday and holidays.76 So it can be

73 Hochedlinger, Quellen (cf. note 8), p. 170; idem, König (cf. note 71), p. 23, in 1751 uniforms were permitted at the court and in 1757 the order of Maria-Theresia for military merits of officers was created – both a document for the ‘arrival’ of the military in society. Hochedlinger even talks about a Prussification of the Habsburg monarchy, in particular during the reign of Joseph II. 74 Hochedlinger, Der gewaffnete Doppeladler (cf. note 17), p. 225; Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung (cf. note 45), pp. 108–113. The census of these years was the first reliable one, which already separated the male population into soldiers and exempt, and besides house numbers introduced the census of draught cattle. Hochedlinger, König (cf. note 71), p. 24. Cf. also Anton Tantner, Ordnung der Häuser, Beschreibung der Seelen. Hausnummerierung und Seelenkonskription in der Habsburgermonarchie, Innsbruck 2007. 75 Hochedlinger, Quellen (cf. note 8), p. 169; idem, Onus militare (cf. note 28), p. 135; cf. also idem, Anton Tantner (eds.), “… der größte Teil der Untertanen lebt elend und mühselig”. Die Berichte des Hofkriegsrates zur sozialen und wirtschaftlichen Lage der Habsburgermonarchie 1770–1771, Vienna 2005; Peter Wilson, Social Militarization in Eighteenth-Century Germany, in: German History 18 (2000), pp. 1–39. 76 Hochedlinger, König (cf. note 71), p. 25. Under the law of conscription of 1777 those who were exempt included the clergy, the nobility, civil servants, notabilities, citizens of towns and “professionists” in the country, farmers who cultivated at least a quarter-farm, as well as the next heirs of these citizens and farmers and some further explicitly mentioned professional groups, Zimmermann, Militärverwaltung (cf. note 45), p. 110; Hochedlinger, Rekrutierung (cf. note 13), p. 358. Simultaneously the marriages of soldiers were supported, in order to maintain the population of soldiers on the one hand and on the other hand to prevent desertions, ibid. p. 360; idem, Auf dem Weg zur allgemeinen Wehrpflicht? Die Einführung des “Konskriptions- und Werbbezirkssystems” in der Habsburgermonarchie, in: idem, Tantner, …der größte Teil (cf. note 75), pp. II–XVIII, here pp. VIII s.; cf. also Michael Sikora, Disziplin und Desertion. Strukturprobleme militärischer Organisation im 18. Jahrhundert, Berlin 1996, pp. 317–322 for the subject of soldiers’ marriages as well as for the “Utopia of the soldiers reproducing themselves”: pp. 350–353. Generally, for the problems of militarisation cf. Michael Sikora, Militarisierung und Zivilisierung. Die preußischen Heeresreformen und ihre Ambivalenzen, in: Peter Baumgart et al. (eds.), Die Preußische Armee zwischen Ancien Régime und Reichsgründung, Paderborn et al. 2008, pp. 164–195, from which conclusions for the Habsburg monarchy can be drawn; cf. Bernhard R. Kroener, “Des Königs Rock”. Das

64

Andrea Pühringer

stated that the difference between Prussia and the Austrian monarchy in the second half of the eighteenth century was more of a gradual than of a principle nature.77 This situation alone in addition to the latest research show that the idea of the military in early modern times as an isolated body can in no way be sustained, rather increased interrelations between civil and military society following the new recruitment system is notable. In this respect, the administrative reforms of Maria Theresia can be interpreted as a break for state, society and military alike. Just the ‘distance to the military’ of the Kakanian nobility may be considered a distinctive feature from Prussia. There are several reasons for this: the distance of parts of the noble estates to the reigning dynasty, due to the centrally enforced confessionalisation in the seventeenth century, resulted in an exchange of elites and thus keeping some of the older noble families away from military duty due to considerations of family policy. On the other hand, this development brought foreign nobles into the Austrian territories, who – once incorporated into the estates – took over the appropriate military ranks. In addition, the numerous nobilitations of officers demonstrate the increasing degree of militarisation.78 Furthermore, the landlords could live from the income brought in by their estates and manors, in contrast to the rather meagre military salary. There was actually no financial need to join the army; a situation that could hardly be more different from Prussia with its often deeply indebted manors.79 On the other hand, in contrast to Prussia, the years since 1683, in particular the Ottoman Wars, had attracted a lot of ‘foreign’ nobles, above all from the Empire, so that only a small number of commanders originated from the native nobility, whose distance to the military thus increased. This led to an often lamented heterogeneity of the Habsburg army, which negatively affected how it operated.80

77

78 79 80

Offizierskorps in Frankreich, Österreich und Preußen im 18. Jahrhundert – Werkzeug sozialer Militarisierung oder Symbol gesellschaftlicher Integration?, in: ibid., pp. 72–95. Michael Hochedlinger argued that the difference to the Prussian state of power and war was not a difference in principle but gradual, dependent on the narrower Prussian power base, which the Hohenzollern had to compensate by a more efficient and therefore also a harsher mobilisation of capacities. (“Der Unterschied zum preußischen Macht- und Kriegsstaat war kein prinzipieller, sondern ein gradueller, bedingt durch die schmälere Machtbasis Preußens, die von den Hohenzollern durch eine effizientere und daher auch schroffer ausfallende Mobilisierung aller Kapazitäten kompensiert werden musste”); idem, Abschied vom Klischee. Für eine Neubewertung der Habsburgermonarchie in der Frühen Neuzeit, in: Wiener Zeitschrift zur Geschichte der Neuzeit 1 (2001), pp. 9–24, here p. 15. Cf. for example Frank Göse, Zum Verhältnis von landadliger Sozialisation zu adliger Militärkarriere. Das Beispiel Preußen und Österreich im ausgehenden 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, in: MIÖG 109 (2001), pp. 118–153, here pp. 123, 133. This is a clear contrast to the prospering manors of Austrian landlords. Hochedlinger, Der gewaffnete Doppeladler (cf. note 17), p. 235; Kroener, Des Königs Rock (cf. note 76), p. 82; Göse, Verhältnis (cf. note 78), p. 127. An interesting comparison of impera-

Between Stagnation and Expansion

5.

65

Conclusion

There is no denying that research on military history in the Habsburg monarchy still has many gaps. But maybe we should not too much insist on explicitly declaring any research on the military as military history, be it of the old style or the new, but rather that today research focuses on a certain topic and within this framework includes an analysis of the military, too. To exaggerate: perhaps we should simply accept that as a consequence of the growing interdependence of civil and military society in the eighteenth century both complexes can simply not be analysed separately. An explicitly so-called military history, defining itself as such, may no longer be required and certainly should not be left to the military that – and here I am speaking about the Austrian countries – still defines military history in the old manner as a history of war, thus ignoring the changing circumstances of ‘civilian’ science.81 The increasing militarisation of society was a process that changed society as a whole, not by any means limited to Brandenburg-Prussia, but also influenced the territories of lesser powers (mittelmächtig), albeit under different structural conditions.82 And the Habsburg monarchy was not only affected in its later times, we are much rather looking at a more or less continuous process, which evolved – to once more use the picture of the composite state – in a different speed in different territories. Recent research in several ways countermands one of the often quoted ‘master narratives’, based on Alexander Gerschenkron’s economic theory of relative backwardness,83 that implies a general lack of reforms and universal stagnation. In spite of some setbacks, the territorial expansion of the Habsburg monarchy was only possible as a result of an administrative permeation. Although the torial troops and troops of the Empire during the Seven Years’ War, in particular concerning the military leadership in: Helmut Neuhaus, Das Reich im Kampf gegen Friedrich den Großen. Reichsarmee und Reichskriegführung im Siebenjährigen Krieg, in: Bernhard R. Kroener (ed.), Europa im Zeitalter Friedrichs des Großen, Munich 1989, pp. 213–243, here in particular pp. 223–229. 81 The papers held by the Museum of Military History show this nicely – an official series of publications by the Republic of Austria and the Ministry for National Defence and Sports. The same goes for the papers on the history of the Austrian army, edited by the general staff of the same Ministry of National Defence and Sports. 82 Peter Wilson, War, State, and Society in Württemberg 1677–1793, Cambridge 1995; Holger Th. Gräf, Landesdefension oder “Fundamentalmilitarisierung”? Das hessische Defensionswerk unter Landgraf Moritz (1592–1627), in: Rüdiger Bergien, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Spießer, Patrioten, Revolutionäre. Militärische Mobilisierung und gesellschaftliche Ordnung in der Neuzeit, Göttingen 2010, pp. 29–48; Günther Kronenbitter, Waffenträger im Vielvölkerreich. Miliz und Volksbewaffnung in der späten Habsburgermonarchie, in: ibid., pp. 49–69. 83 Alexander Gerschenkron, Wirtschaftliche Rückständigkeit in historischer Perspektive, in: Hans-Ulrich Wehler (ed.), Geschichte und Ökonomie, Cologne 1973, pp. 121–139.

66

Andrea Pühringer

military as an economic determinant of the national economy as a whole has as yet hardly been examined, the enormous increase in military administration and military finances of up to 90 percent of the whole (national) budget, once more prove Michael Hochedlinger’s statement that the Habsburg monarchy was a military monarchy,84 which basically expanded until 1878 or 1908 (occupation and annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina respectively), externally as well as internally, to finally implode.

84 Hochedlinger, Der gewaffnete Doppeladler (cf. note 17), p. 218, pointed out the close correlation between external pressure and war on the one hand, and augmentation of power and the internal conditions of a state on the other hand (“den engen Zusammenhang zwischen Außendruck und Krieg auf der einen, Machtsteigerung und innere Verfasstheit eines Staates auf der anderen Seite”).

Carmen Winkel

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule. Brandenburg-Prussia as a Prime Example?

“What is the meaning of the military in the early modern period?” In this chapter, I seek to answer this question, which served as the guiding question for the conference preceding this volume. In doing so, I use the example of Prussia, which in many respects is regarded as the archetype for the military in the early modern period, such that developments there have been taken as characteristic for the early modern military in general.1 Brandenburg-Prussia has always occupied a special place in military historiography. However, this has not resulted in a particularly differentiated state of research. Rather, the Prussian military of the eighteenth century is still characterised by attributes such as ‘monarchic’ and ‘absolutist’, thus unreflectively continuing the narratives of nineteenth-century historiography. The person of Frederick II is decisive for the concentration on Prussia; an approach that is frequently criticised in research but still prevails to date.2 In the context of the gradual coalescence of the German princely states into an empire, Frederick II came to symbolise monarchy in general and thus became the figurehead of a German nation led by Prussia. This resulted in the king being mythologised, his achievements and particularly his military victories having since been repeated mantra-like, not least of all during the 300th anniversary of his birth in 2012.3 Significantly, beyond the widespread media interest there were hardly any scholarly studies clearly distancing themselves from the Prussiacentric conception of history. Instead, a long-held and unchanging image is conveyed: that of the king and his army.

1 See also Jutta Nowosadtko, Stehendes Heer im Ständestaat. Das Zusammenleben von Militärund Zivilbevölkerung im Fürstbistum Münster (1650–1803), Paderborn 2011. 2 Ernst-Willi Hansen, Zur Problematik einer Sozialgeschichte des deutschen Militärs im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert. Ein Forschungsbericht, in: Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 6 (1979), pp. 425–460, here p. 432. 3 For a brief overview of current research, see collected reviews, Carmen Winkel, in: Militärgeschichtliche Zeitschrift 71 (2012), 1, pp. 66–174.

68

Carmen Winkel

My chapter explicitly challenges this image by assuming a differentiated concept of lordship as well as of the military in the eighteenth century. Using the aristocratic elites, I will examine how Frederick William I and Frederick II ruled the army, and ruled using the army. The focus on the military elite is not only the result of the better availability of sources, but also due to the fact that the relationship between king and officers was a central pillar of the understanding of authority by the monarchs being studied here. Furthermore, more recent studies emphasise how central the relationship between prince and nobility was in the process of state formation and also highlight the role played by the integration of the nobility into the structures of the monarch’s rule in the increase of power.4 The quantitative power of the army, providing a wide variety of opportunities for support and advancement compared to the civilian administration, included ample integration potential for members of the nobility and thus also new career opportunities given that the nobility provided the majority of officers in nearly all European countries.5 In the following, I will use a differentiated definition of rule in order to examine the relationship between monarch and officers. Firstly, I am going to take a brief look at the state of research on this ‘favourite topic’ of German military history. Secondly, I will define the term of ‘rule’ and then search for domination-free spheres. This will be followed, thirdly, by a description of the techniques of governance used by the king within the army. The final section is dedicated to the question of the extent of cooperation between the nobility and the monarch in the military sphere.

4 Dagmar Freist, Einleitung: Staatsbildung, lokale Herrschaftsprozesse, in: Ronald G. Asch, idem. (eds.), Staatsbildung als kultureller Prozess, Cologne 2005, pp. 1–49, here p. 35. 5 See Johannes Kunisch, Die Deutschen Führungsschichten im Zeitalter des Absolutismus, in: Hanns Hubert Hofmann, Günther Franz (eds.), Deutsche Führungsschichten in der Neuzeit. Eine Zwischenbilanz, Boppard 1980, pp. 111–141, here p. 124. Nearly 50 % of all officers in Bavaria were of noble birth, 70 % in Saxony, 56 % in Baden, and in France and the Habsburg Monarchy nearly 90 % of commissions were held by noblemen throughout the eighteenth century. Cf. Walter Demel, Der europäische Adel. Vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart, Munich 2005, p. 85; Bernhard R. Kroener, “Des Königs Rock”. Das Offizierkorps in Frankreich, Österreich und Preußen im 18. Jahrhundert – Werkzeug sozialer Militarisierung oder Symbol gesellschaftlicher Integration?, in: Peter Baumgart et al. (eds.), Die Preußische Armee. Zwischen Ancien Regime und Staatsgründung, Paderborn 2009, pp. 72–95, here p. 82; Christopher Storrs, H. M. Scott, The Military Revolution and the European Nobility, c. 1600–1800, in: War in History 3 (1996), pp. 1–42, here p. 10.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

1.

69

Current State of Research

It is beyond dispute that the military functioned as an agent of state building and to increase power in the early modern period.6 However, under the term of absolutism these processes have been viewed for a long time almost exclusively ‘top down’, assessing as exemplary in particular the execution of government by a handful of regents, such as Frederick II. For instance, Rolf Dieter Müller in his 2009 handbook on military history considers the relationship of military, state, and society in Prussia an exemplar for the modern absolutist state (“Militär, Staat und Gesellschaft […bilden…] in Preußen ein […] mustergültiges Beispiel für den modernen absolutistischen Staat.”7). This beloved paradigm of absolutism received an expanded, social dimension with the introduction of the concept of ‘social disciplining’ in the 1970s and 80s. This thesis was further accentuated for Brandenburg-Prussia under the term of ‘social militarisation’. The initiator and most popular proponent of this impactful theory was Otto Büsch, who in 1962 in his thesis entitled Militärsystem und Sozialleben im alten Preussen 1713-1807 assumed a social militarisation of Prussian society by means of the recruitment of soldiers via the Canton System.8 In his postulated identity of the military and social systems, he found a Sonderweg in the development of Brandenburg-Prussia, a view which has doggedly persisted in spite of several revisions. For example, Manfred Messerschmidt’s article in the voluminous Handbuch der Preußischen Geschichte, published in 2000, restates this thesis without acknowledging the numerous studies which have substantially revised this picture in the meantime.9 This anachronistic view is particularly evident when considering the ‘favourite subject’ of Prussian military history, the officer corps. The normative and socially disciplining interference by the monarch was seen as fulfilled in an almost exemplary fashion within the officer corps, using the integration of the allegedly “politically emasculated” nobility into the army as powerful proof.10 Even though

6 Stefan Kroll, Soldaten im 18. Jahrhundert zwischen Friedensalltag und Kriegserfahrung. Lebenswelten und Kultur in der kursächsischen Armee 1728–1799, Paderborn 2006, p. 16; Ralf Pröve, Militär und Gesellschaft im Preußen des 18. Jahrhunderts. Vorstellung eines Forschungskonzepts, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 12/1 (2008), pp. 72–80, here p. 78. 7 Rolf-Dieter Müller, Militärgeschichte, Cologne 2009, p. 150. 8 Jutta Nowosadtko, Krieg, Gewalt und Ordnung. Einführung in die Militärgeschichte, Tübingen 2002, p. 119. 9 Manfred Messerschmidt, Das preußische Militärwesen, in: Wolfgang Neugebauer (ed.), Handbuch der preussischen Geschichte, vol. 3, Berlin 2000, pp. 319–547. 10 Rainer Wohlfeil, Adel und Heerwesen, in: Hellmuth Rössler (ed.), Deutscher Adel 1555–1740, Darmstadt, 1965, pp. 315–343, here p. 329.

70

Carmen Winkel

this explanatory model has been rejected by the history of the nobility,11 more recent military-historical studies,12 such as those by Georg Hebbelmann and Rolf Straubel, emphasise this thesis by continuing to place the person of the monarch in the centre of their investigation and by regarding his absolute claim to power to be fulfilled in this system.13 In conclusion to these brief remarks it has to be noted that while research in the last 20 years has established the image of the military and of the army as a part of society, older narratives still dominate the subject. Prussia’s army continues to be viewed as a prime example of the enforcement of an absolutist claim to rule by the monarch,14 who in this sphere supposedly has been able to successfully implement his normative and disciplining efforts. But this one sided, top-down perspective does not answer the central question relating to the Prussian military, namely how and whether this often lauded, close bond between monarch and military had been established. Answering this question requires abandoning well-trodden paths of interpretation and a reorientation towards questions about the functional mechanisms of government in general, which are being intensively discussed in current research on the early modern period.15

11 Frank Göse, Rittergut – Garnison – Residenz. Studien zur Sozialstruktur und politischen Wirksamkeit des brandenburgischen Adels 1648–1763, Berlin 2005; idem, Zum Verhältnis von landadliger Sozialisation zu adliger Militärkarriere. Das Beispiel Preußen und Österreich im ausgehenden 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, in: Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung 109 (2001), pp. 118–153; idem, Zwischen Rittergut und Garnison. Aspekte der Verknüpfung von Adelsforschung und Militärgeschichte am Beispiel BrandenburgPreußens, in: Ralf Pröve (ed.), Klio in Uniform? Probleme und Perspektiven einer modernen Militärgeschichte der Frühen Neuzeit, Cologne 1997, pp. 109–143. 12 There are a number of studies on the Prussian army which provide a more precise and differentiated examination of the role of the military during the processes of the growth of central authority and state building, but they represent the exception from the rule. As a representative sample, the works of Beate Engelen, Martin Winter, Frank Göse and Daniel Hohrath should be mentioned. 13 Georg Hebbelmann, Das preußische “Offizierkorps” im 18. Jahrhundert. Analyse der Sozialstruktur einer Funktionselite, Münster 1998; Rolf Straubel, “Er möchte nur wissen, daß die Armée mir gehöret”. Friedrich II. und seine Offiziere. Ausgewählte Aspekte der königlichen Personalpolitik, Berlin 2012. 14 The marked concentration on the person of the king becomes particularly apparent by means of the generally very poor state of research regarding many central field commanders of the period. For example, there is no modern biography of Leopold of Anhalt-Dessau, who played a central role in the Prussian army. 15 Cf. Markus Meumann, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Herrschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit. Umrisse eines dynamisch-kommunikativen Prozesses, Berlin 2004.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

2.

71

Authority and Areas of Freedom in the Military

Central to the understanding of the military in the early modern period is the consideration of armed power as an instrument of rule.16 The pithy quotations of Frederick William I and Frederick II, which seamlessly fit the image of absolutist rule, provide eloquent testimony. They repeatedly emphasised that ‘the army is mine’ (die Armee gehöret mir) or ‘let them know, I am master over my soldiers and I alone determine their fate’ (sie sollen nur wissen, das ich der Herr über meine Soldaten bin und allein die Geschicke bestimme). They repeated their claim to rule over the army in numerous such pronouncements and thus cast themselves as baroque princes. Generations of historians have fallen for this selfprojection and did not question the limits of these claims, but rather viewed and still view the army as a monolithic block whose fate was solely determined by the king. In contrast to this, and analogous to the replacement of the image of absolutism, early modern research has developed a more differentiated definition of governance. Authority is no longer seen to be a unilateral, top-down process of domination by the monarch, but as a multipolar, dynamic, and reciprocal act of interaction and communication between the actors involved.17 Recently, this has been summarised succinctly under the tag of ‘negotiation’ (Aushandeln). Having said that, the German term does distort the actual meaning by suggesting an equal and egalitarian constellation between ruler and subjects (“eine gleichgewichtig-egalitäre Konstellation zwischen Herrschaft und Untertanen suggerieren will”18). The term ‘negotiation’ used in the English-language early modern research is more precise than the German translation. The fact remains that rule is not a unilateral and domination-oriented process but rather one that is formed by the exchange between the participants. This perspective opens up the analysis of those areas within the army that are beyond the monarch’s reach. The regiments had been increasingly subjected to the claim of rule by the monarch since the late seventeenth century. In the course of the nation building process characterised by increasing centralisation, bureaucratisation and juridification, the monarch increasingly assumed powers 16 Jointly responsible for this very narrow perspective is the much shortened definition of the military as a fighting unit, which is being used as a research and source term, thus preventing any option to use it in an operational context. The early modern military is partially being researched to date using modern technical terminology, a terminology which leads to distorted assumptions and an erroneous understanding of the military in the early modern period. See Pröve, Militär und Gesellschaft (cf. note 6), p. 76. 17 Wolfgang Reinhard, Zusammenfassung: Staatsbildung durch “Aushandeln”?, in: Asch, Freist (eds.), Staatsbildung (cf. note 4), pp. 429–439, here p. 430. 18 Ibid., p. 434.

72

Carmen Winkel

formerly exercised by the regimental commander. Nevertheless, the image of the ruler’s increasing control over the military, which neatly fitted the concept of the absolutist monarch and developed in this particular research context, has already been revised. In reality, while the regiments were subordinated under the ruler, the regimental commander/colonel-in-chief remained crucial for the replenishment of troops and the promotion of officers.19 In spite of all encroachments by the crown into the colonel-in-chiefs’ right of appointment, all attempts to centrally administer the military units failed during the eighteenth century. Administrative vacancies remained in areas such as the recruitment of young officers, economic administration, as well as the enforcement of military justice.20 The colonels’ duty to assess their officers on a regular basis and to inform the monarch of the outcome, as well as their right of proposal for new appointments and promotions made them the central entities deciding military careers.21 The colonel was his regiment’s economic administrator and thus his officers’ ‘employer’. This linkage function between king and officers turned the regimental commander into a broker, that is to say an intermediary, who redistributed the monarch’s resources among his officers.22 The colonels-in-chief were also able to use the regimental economy which enabled them to autonomously administer the resources of their units to employ a system of grace and favour. Central areas such as the appointment of new officers were held by regimental commanders/ colonels-in-chief even though the king repeatedly exercised influence and took personnel decisions. Thus, the colonels had access to varied resources and did not just occupy an intermediary position,23 but served as patrons to their officers. As the regimental commander was able to influence decisions of the king in his role as broker or contractor, for example through recommendations or negative assessments of officers, his position can therefore not be described as a mere intermediary.24

19 Jutta Nowosadtko, “Der Militairstand ist ein privilegierter Stand, der seine eigene Gesetze, obrigkeitliche Ordnung und Gerichtsbarkeit hat”. Die “Verstaatlichung” stehender Heere in systemtheoretischer Perspektive, in: Meumann, Pröve (eds.), Herrschaft, (cf. note 15), pp. 121–143, here p. 123. 20 Ibid., p. 133. 21 The regiment in the British Army retained its central significance for the career and training of its officers until well into the twentieth century. See David French, Military Identities. The Regimental System, the British Army, and the British people, c. 1870–2000, Oxford 2008. 22 Andreas Klein, Regeln der Patronage. Eine historisch-anthropologische Studie der Mikropolitik des John James Hamilton, First Marquess ob Abercorn, in Irland, Augsburg 2009, p. 42; Heiko Droste emphasises the role of the patrons as ‘Shareholders of the Crown’ who brokered crown resources to their clients, thus binding them; see idem, Im Dienste der Krone. Schwedische Diplomaten im 17. Jahrhundert, Berlin 2006, p. 298. 23 Klein, Regeln der Patronage (cf. note 22), p. 43. 24 Klein identifies four types of brokers, among these the broker with ‘leverage’, ibid. p. 46.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

73

The regimental commander had the duty to submit nominations for promotion in the event of any vacancies. This did not just include promotions following a tour of duty. Commanders informed the king of officers’ mistakes and derelictions and proposed alternatives. Due to the nature of available sources, it is not possible to establish how often commanders deviated from rules of promotion by seniority. However, an inspection of an extensive body of military correspondence suggests that this process was not an exception.25 On 9th March 1768 Staff Captain von Goertz from the Regiment of Hussars Möhring addressed a complaint to the king, stating that, in 1757, during the expansion of the regiment he had been overlooked in favour of Staff Captain von Platen, a cousin of General Major von Wartenberg, and is asking now to be given the company of the late Cavalry Captain von Bogdansky (daß er 1757, bey der im Regiment errichteten Augmentation den Vetter des General Major von Wartenberg nunmehrigen Staabs Rittmeister von Platen nachgesetzet worden, und bittet ihn, durch Ertheilung des verstorbenen Rittmeisters von Bogdansky Compagnie, in seinen wahren Posten zu setzen26). The officer from the Regiment of Hussars had been overlooked for promotion because the regimental commander Hartwig von Wartenberg27 had given preferential consideration to his cousin. Service in the army offered a variety of career and promotion opportunities for officers, only some of which could be realised as the case of officer Goertz demonstrated. It appears that the king afforded General Major von Wartenberg’s justification, of which there is unfortunately no record, a greater weight than the enforcement of the rule of promotion by seniority. The overlooked officer from the Möhring regiment regarded the king as the authority to protect his right to promotion by seniority. Crucial in this case was the fact that the officer was denied promotion to the rank of company commander. Commanding a company and the associated remuneration was the career goal of every officer. While promotion by seniority had been the preferred principle of promotion since the government of Frederick William I, there still was always room for patronage by the king or, such as in this case, by the regimental commander. In this case, Frederick II responded to the officer’s petition: ‘He has to put up with it’ (Er muss sich das gefallen laßen28). Thus, the colonels-in-chief became the de25 Cf. Carmen Winkel, Die Rekrutierung der militärischen Elite über soziale Netzwerke: Das preußische Offizierkorps (1713–1786), in: Hitotsubashi Journal of Law and Politics 39 (2011), pp. 43–55. 26 Geheimes Staatsarchiv Preußischer Kulturbesitz (GStA PK), I. HA Rep. 96 B, No. 135; Extracte für Kabinettsvorträge, fol. 444. 27 Hartwig von Wartenberg was colonel-in-chief of the Regiment of Hussars No. 3 between 1745 and 1757. Following his death at the battle of Alt-Bunzlau in 1757 the regiment was taken over by Karl Emanuel von Warnery until 1758. Between 1758 and 1773 the regiment was led by Christian von Möhring. 28 GStA PK, I. HA Rep. 96 B, No.135; Extracte für Kabinettsvorträge, fol. 444.

74

Carmen Winkel

cisive authority for their regimental officers in matters of career progression. Interference by the king in matters of regimental promotions, therefore, became for the commander an attack on his central position as patron to his officers. On the occasion of a troop review, Colonel von Below asked the king not to advance a Junker outside of the promotion by seniority as the general regarded this as Tort, i. e. an injustice, to himself if he were overruled in this matter.29 Such encroachments by the monarch resulted in inevitable complaints by overlooked Junkers and conflicts, as well as a risk that the regimental commander would fail to fulfil his obligations as a patron and lose an important instrument of power.

3.

The Army and the Officer Corps as a Means of Rule

The army did not only function as an instrument of external and internal enforcement for the early modern monarch but also as a representation of authority and served to integrate the elites. These aspects have frequently been referenced by the research into Brandenburg-Prussia.30 Furthermore, the monarch’s claim to power could be impressively represented using the army. Just consider the deployment of ruler’s monograms on the uniforms31 or the wearing of an officer’s uniform by Frederick William I and Frederick II. The thus publicised proximity to the army is not a mere claim to power, but should rather be seen as a technique and practice of rule. In order to engender subservience, particularly among officers of noble birth, the monarchy staged a close personal bond between the king and the officers – which due to the size of the officer corps always remained aspirational – without actually achieving it. Older research has already pointed out that the regular military inspections, reviews, and manoeuvres in Prussia were of little military value, as the presented skills were limited to a variety of weapons’ drill and pre-rehearsed sequences of troop movements.32 To a greater degree it was an opportunity to effectively stage the monarch’s prerogative of control of the army by using these occasions to carry out ‘personnel management’. The subalterns were advised in advance, even by the king himself, to lodge 29 Carl Wilhelm von Hülsen, Unter Friedrich dem Großen. Aus den Memoiren 1752–1773, Berlin 1890, reprint Osnabrück 1973, p. 33. 30 See Peter-Michael Hahn, Dynastische Selbstdarstellung und Militärmacht. Kriegerische Symbolik als höfische Zeichensprache in Brandenburg-Preußen im 17. Jahrhundert, in: Ronald G. Asch et al. (eds.), Frieden und Krieg in der Frühen Neuzeit. Die europäische Staatenordnung und die außereuropäische Welt, Munich 2001, vol. 2, pp. 115–137. 31 Robert von Schrötter, Das preußische Offizierskorps unter dem ersten Könige von Preußen, in: Forschungen zur brandenburgischen und preußischen Geschichte 26 (1913), pp. 77–143; 27 (1914), pp. 97–167. 32 Curt Jany, Geschichte der Königlich Preußischen Armee bis zum Jahre 1807, vol. 1, Berlin 1928, p. 833.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

75

petitions regarding retirement, discharge, marriage, etc. The colonel-in-chief and regimental commanders used the events to present their new Junker, introduce the officers who were about to be discharged on medical grounds, and in turn petitioned themselves for promotions or other benefices. This staging of personal proximity of the ruler to his army, his officers in particular, demonstrates that the military was not only an instrument of power but rather which techniques of governance were used to generate the loyalty of officers and men. These techniques include social as well as symbolic, semantic and ritual practices. One of these practices, which has thus far been ignored by both the territorial as well as the military historiography will be presented here representatively. It concerns the so-called parade horses or Sterbepferde (lit. ‘death horses’). Part of customary military law was the practice shortly after the death of a general to give his ‘best’ horse, including the tack, to the monarch. For subalterns the horse was given to the regimental commander. The custom of transferring items of military equipment after the death of its officer-owner to his superior can probably be tracked back to the feudal relationship between nobility and ruler and the associated duty of military service. The transfer of specific items to the feudal or estate lord formed an integral part of customary law in several regions of the empire in the early modern period.33 Similar provisions can be found for the estate ownership; here, too, the lord was able to claim specific items after the death of an estate subject such as the Sterbepferd in the case of the death of a tenant farmer. This portion of the inheritance thus symbolised the essence of the relationship between estate lord and subject. In the military, this symbol was the horse, based on the feudal bond of the vassals and the duty of military service towards the prince. Nonetheless, military service by the nobility became decreasingly significant during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries until it was finally abandoned in exchange for monetary equivalents. The payment of these Lehenspferdegelder34 (lit. ‘feudal horse payments’), which were proportionate to the size of the nobleman’s estate, were evidence of the further loosening of the feudal bond between nobility and prince. The conversion of estates into allodial property, i. e. making them hereditary, by Frederick William I in BrandenburgPrussia in 1717/18, effectively abolished the feudal system – at least in some provinces. The provision of horses was dropped when estates became the he33 Johann Samuel Ersch, Johann Gottfried Gruber (eds.), Allgemeine Encyklopädie der Wissenschaften und Künste, 1. Sektion, 15. Theil, vol. 2, Leipzig 1852, p. 68. Under the term of ‘best head’ feudal lords were able to claim agricultural equipment or part of the livestock. 34 The payment of these dues in Prussia can be verified as early as the beginning of the eighteenth century; see Frank Göse, Das Verhältnis Friedrich Wilhelms I. zum Adel, in: Friedrich Beck, Julius H. Schoeps (eds.), Der Soldatenkönig Friedrich Wilhelm I. in seiner Zeit, Potsdam 2003, pp. 99–141, here p. 104.

76

Carmen Winkel

reditary property of the nobility and it was replaced by a regular payment in lieu of horses which equated to a de facto taxation of the nobility.35 The demand for the Sterbepferd, however, was not maintained for reasons of tradition, but in order to stage a symbolic personal service relationship. Austria, for example, only introduced the provision of the Sterbepferde in 1732. From then onwards every staff officer was obliged, after his death, to yield a horse of his estate to his colonel.36 That it was the regimental commander rather than the king who was the recipient in this scenario is entirely consistent in light of the dominant position of the commander towards the monarch until the first half of the eighteenth century.37 For the monarch the horse represented the old feudal covenant of protection and loyalty between knight and prince. The absence of a formal arrangement for the provision of the horse is indicative of a customary law. There is no mention of this practice in any of the Prussian regulations between 1713 and 1786.38 It has not been possible to clarify whether the horses were regularly claimed or were surrendered only on the initiative of the officer’s dependants. However, the fact that dependants enquired of the monarch whether and how the horse should be delivered suggests a common knowledge of the process and thus common acceptance.39 The horse was due as a portion of the inheritance to the monarch or regimental commander as Praecipuum, i. e. upfront payment, irrespective of the officer’s estate. There is evidence that this custom was practised in the Prussian army during the reigns of Frederick William I and Frederick II. Depending on the social standing of the general concerned, these parade horses were publicly presented and personally handed over to the monarch in Potsdam. In one case, the Prince of Anhalt-Zerbst personally delivered the expensively decorated pa-

35 Ibid., p. 101. 36 Alphons von Domin-Petrushevecz, Neuere österreichische Rechtsgeschichte, Vienna 1869, p. 25. 37 Michael Hochedlinger, Mars Ennobled. The Ascent of the Military and the Creation of a Military Nobility in Mid-Eighteenth Century Austria, in: German History 17 (1999), pp. 141– 177, here p. 146. 38 That this practice was based on military customary law may be deduced from the form of words used when abolishing it, namely that it concerned a ‘former custom’; see Carl Ludwig Rabe (ed.), Preußische Gesetze und Verordnungen welche auf die allgemeine Deposital-, Hypotheken-, Gerichts-, Criminal- und Städte-Ordnung, auf das allgemeine Landrecht, auf den Anhang zum allgemeinen Landrechte und zur allgemeinen Gerichtsordnung, auf die landschaftlichen Credit-Reglements und auf Provinzial- und Statuar-Rechte Bezug haben, vol. 2: 1790–1794, Halle 1816, p. 299. 39 GStA PK, VIII. HA Slg. Kurt von Priesdorff, No. 1761.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

77

rade horse to the royal residence after the death of Prince Leopold of AnhaltDessau.40 These Sterbepferde, which as in the case of the late Prince of Anhalt-Dessau, alongside their symbolic significance also possessed considerable financial value, were used by the king in turn as a resource for patronage as he re-gifted them. The Dessau Sterbepferd was given to Adjutant General von Winterfeld who was one of the king’s particular protégés. General von Grumbkow, the monarch’s adjutant, in turn received the parade horse of the late General Field Marshal von Glasenapp.41 The extensive coverage of these presents in the papers indicates that in the courtly-military milieu they represented an important indication of royal favour and thus augmented the social and symbolic capital of the favoured officer.42 The parade horse was a military symbol which can also be interpreted as the last execution of an order by the subordinate to his superior. The Prince of Anhalt-Dessau visited Frederick William I on his deathbed shortly before the king died on 29 May 1740. As a result, the king ordered his English horses to be paraded in order for the Prince to choose one (engehlsche pferde Rausführen laßen das ich mihr habe ein[s] aus Suchen müßen43). As General Field Marshal the prince held a higher military rank than the dying monarch who remained a colonel throughout his life and who had never promoted himself on his accession. Through the symbolic gift of the Sterbepferd the monarch on the one hand confirmed the military hierarchy and recognised the higher ranking officer in the Prussian army. On the other hand, he presented himself as part of the officer corps and thus explicitly demonstrated the bond connecting him to all officers. The king not only symbolised his connection to the military via the wearing of the uniform, but he saw himself, as clearly demonstrated in this example, as part of the officer corps.44 In the transfer of the horse to the Prince of Anhalt-Dessau the king himself apparently demonstrated this connection by justifying his action as a retiring colonel towards the first field

40 Johann David Erdmann Preuß, Urkundenbuch zur Lebensgeschichte Friedrichs des Großen, vol. 5, Berlin 1834, p. 248. 41 Ibid. The king bequeathed the parade horse of a fallen officer of the regiment of hussars Wurmb to the Major of Hussars von Zieten as reward for his good service; see GStA PK, VIII. HA Slg. Kurt von Priesdorff, No. 1761, letter dated 6th February 1741. The horse of General von Bredow, in turn, went to his nephew who served as ensign in the 1st Battalion of Guards; see Kurt von Priesdorff, Soldatisches Führertum, Hamburg 1937, vol. 1, p. 273. The regifting thus had a significant social component. 42 The details of the Sterbepferde are quoted by Preuß according to: Berlinische Nachrichten von Staats- und gelehrten Sachen, cf. Preuß, Urkundenbuch (cf. note 41), p. 248. 43 Otto Krauske, Die Briefe König Friedrich Wilhelms I. an den Fürsten Leopold von AnhaltDessau 1704–1740, Berlin 1905, p. 714, quoted here the letter of Prince Leopold to his son Maurice, dated the 1st June 1740 describing the last hours of the monarch. 44 Wohlfeil, Adel und Heerwesen (cf. note 10), here p. 335.

78

Carmen Winkel

marshal of the army (als ein vom Dienst ausscheidender Oberste dem ersten Feldmarschall des Heeres45). The importance of the gift for the prince is demonstrated by his mentioning it in a letter, which he sent the day after the king’s death, to his son Maurice. In the prince’s obituary of Frederick William I, the transfer also was extensively mentioned. Leopold therefore instructed his successors to keep the horse and tack always in their possession in memory of this splendid king (diese Pferde Equipage, so lange als dieselbe nur immer dauern will, beständig bei meinem Hause zu immer währenden Andenken dieses vortrefflichen Königs allhier zur verwahren46). These pieces of equipment47 served on the one hand as mementos of his patron and friend, and on the other hand these symbols of royal favour became part of the family treasure of the Princes of Anhalt-Dessau. Apart from its financial value, the horse was a symbol of royal favour and expression of gratitude for the prince’s long service, a fact explicitly referenced by the prince in his obituary of the king.

4.

Rule through Cooperation

The importance of local elites in the integration of new territories has been repeatedly emphasised in the research in recent years. Personal networks helped to bridge geographical distances and to establish communication.48 Such contacts played a prominent role in Brandenburg-Prussia as the fragmented territory was the prime example of a ‘composite monarchy’.49 For example, following the acquisition of Neuenburg, Frederick I ennobled several Neuenburg families. Furthermore, during the reign of Frederick William II there are a striking number of ennoblements of families from the principality, now part of Prussia. These ennoblements were not just restricted to officers but also included in45 Quoted after Friedrich von Oppeln-Bronikowski, Der alte Dessauer. Fürst Leopold von Anhalt-Dessau. Ein Bild seines Lebens und Wirkens, Stuttgart 1941, p. 54, no source reference. 46 Quoted after Krauske, Briefe König Friedrich Wilhelms I. (cf. note 43), p. 716. 47 Leopold names these individually as ‘pistols, saddle, caparison, pistol cloth and holster’ (Pistolen, Sattel, Schabracken, Pistolenlappen und Holstern), cf. ibid. 48 Hillard von Thiessen, Christian Windler, Einleitung, in: idem (eds.), Nähe in der Ferne. Personale Verflechtung in den Außenbeziehungen der Frühen Neuzeit, Berlin 2005, pp. 9–15, here p. 9. 49 Birgit Emich, Territoriale Integration in der Frühen Neuzeit. Ferrara und der Kirchenstaat, Cologne 2005, p. 24 emphasises this aspect and draws attention to the fact that there are hardly any studies covering Brandenburg-Prussia’s policy of integration. On the perspectives offered by this theme for a ‘modern political history’, see Michael Rohrschneider, Zusammengesetzte Staatlichkeit in der Frühen Neuzeit. Aspekte und Perspektiven der neueren Forschung am Beispiel Brandenburg-Preußens, in: Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 90/2 (2008), pp. 321–351, here p. 322.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

79

dividuals in influential positions such as the state councillors Jonas Hory and Etienne Meuron as well as Mayor Johann Henri de Pierre, to name but a few.50 The integration of Neuenburg would have been impossible without Prussian cooperation with the Bondeli family. The example also demonstrates the tight interlocking between foreign, domestic, and military policy. The Bondelis were part of one of the most influential families in Bern and used their connections to further Prussian claims for Neuenburg. In this function the Bondeli family established contact with Alexander von Dohna, son of Frederick von Dohna, who served as an officer in the army of Electoral Brandenburg and owned a regiment. It is not exactly known when Siméon Bondeli and Alexander von Dohna met but both were often at the elector’s court and belonged to the Bernese elite. An expression of this close relationship was the commissions provided for two of Siméon Bondeli’s brothers and the son of his brother-in-law in the von Dohna regiment.51 The Bondeli family placed at least four of its members in the von Dohna regiment, something encouraged by von Dohna himself as he required supporters in Bern who could take care of his estates in Coppet (weil er in Bern Interessenvertreter brauchte, die sich um die Belange seiner Güter in Coppet kümmerten52). Whereas only fifteen Swiss officers had joined the Prussian army before the Seven Years’ War, this number rose afterwards. Between 1764 and 1786, 73 Swiss entered regular units of the Prussian army as officers.53 The majority of these came from Bern and the principality of Neuenburg which had belonged to Prussia since 1707.54 The Prussian influence had played a significant role here. The Dohna family, too, continued to care for its clients. For example, Christoph II Count of Dohna petitioned the king in 1756 for a commission for a member of 50 Maximilian Ferdinand Gritzner, Chronologische Matrikel der Brandenburgisch-Preussischen Standeserhöhungen und Gnadenakte, Berlin 1874, pp. 16, 20. The ennoblement of the upper stratum of Neuenburg society is mentioned neither in older nor more recent literature on the integration of Neuenburg into the Prussian monarchy in the eighteenth century; see Philipe Henry, Les relations politiques entre Neuchâtel et Berlin au XVIIIe Siècle, in: Martin Fontius, Helmut Holzhey (eds.), Schweizer im Berlin des 18. Jahrhunderts, Berlin 1996, pp. 33–45. 51 Rudolf Gugger, Finanzierung der Ausbildung eidgenössischer Subalternoffiziere in Preussen am Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts, in: Norbert Furrer et al. (eds.), Gente ferocissima. Solddienst und Gesellschaft in der Schweiz (15.–19. Jahrhundert). Eine Festschrift für Alain Dubois, Zürich 1997, p. 198, note 136. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid., p. 191. A Swiss Freibatallion was in existence during the Seven Years’ War, but it was disbanded at the end of this war. 54 Wolfgang Stribrny, Die Könige von Preußen als Fürsten von Neuenburg-Neuchâtel (1707– 1848). Geschichte einer Personalunion, Berlin 1998; Henry A. Favre, Neuenburgs Union mit Preussen und seine Zugehörigkeit zur Eidgenossenschaft. Ein Beitrag zur Verfassungsgeschichte von Neuenburg bis zu seinem Aufgehen in der Eidgenossenschaft, Leipzig 1932.

80

Carmen Winkel

the Bondeli family. Christoph von Dohna was at this point Lieutenant General and colonel-in-chief of infantry regiment No. 16,55 which had been established by his relative Alexander Count von Dohna in 1689.56 Christoph von Dohna requested the appointment of Bondeli to the rank of full ensign, that is to say a promotion without a corresponding vacancy in the officer corps (Gefreiten Corporal von Bondeli, welcher das Bürger Recht in Bern, und daselbst wie in der gantzen Schweitz angesehene Verwandte hat, zum über completten Fähnrich allerunterthänigst zu declariren57). He justified his nomination citing the good conduct of this young person and expressing the hope that this would assist in the recruitment of troops (die gute Conduite dieses jungen Menschen und die Hoffnung durch denselben in der Werbung etwas auszurichten58). The good contacts of the Bondeli family in Switzerland were to be used for the recruitment of foreign recruits, which prompted the king to accede to the request, but with the remark that the young man should be used as a recruitment officer (Ich bin es zufrieden aber er muß Werbe officier werden59). Like many other regiments the unit established by Alexander Count von Dohna remained under the control of the family for many years: He himself was regimental commander between 1748 and 1762, and even after his death members of the Bondeli family continued to serve in this regiment. This allowed the Dohna family to provide successfully for members of the Bondeli family and thus smooth the path of their Swiss clients at court and in administration.60 The cooperation between nobility and monarch in the military becomes particularly apparent during the replenishment recruitment of troops. This represented the Achilles heel of every army during the eighteenth century as they constantly required young recruits, physically suitable for military service, especially during times of war. The recruitment of soldiers via the system of cantons is still regarded as particular proof of an ‘absolutist monarchical rule’61 in Prussian military history. The population was divided into fixed recruitment districts aligned to a regiment. Every boy born in this district was recorded in the muster roll at birth and conscripted into the regiment when required.62 However, 55 Priesdorff, Soldatisches Führertum (cf. note 41), vol. 1, No. 3 43, pp. 311 s. 56 For the history of the constitution of the regiment cf. Adolph Menzel, Die Armee Friedrichs des Großen in ihrer Uniformierung, Berlin 1908, reprint Augsburg 1998, p. 135. 57 GStA PK, I. HA Rep. 96, No. 602 S, Acta des Kabinets Friedrich II. Correspondence with Lieutenant General Christof Count Dohna, letter dated 1st June 1756. 58 Ibid. 59 Ibid. 60 For a general discussion of Swiss soldiers in Prussian service, see Gugger, Finanzierung (cf. note 51). 61 Müller, Militärgeschichte (cf. note 7), p. 150. 62 For a general description cf. Martin Winter, Untertanengeist durch Militärpflicht? Das preußische Kantonsystem in brandenburgischen Städten im 18. Jahrhundert, Bielefeld 2005.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

81

this method produced only 50 % of the required recruits; the other half was enlisted through free regimental recruitment.63 This form of recruitment does not fit the familiar view of the monarchical Prussian army and is thus rarely mentioned in research. Foreign recruitment remained the responsibility of the regimental commanders until the end of the Seven Years’ War. It was only withdrawn from most regiments at the end of the war and replaced by centrally organised recruitment. Regimental commanders made targeted use of their officers’ social and economic capital by commissioning noblemen as recruitment officers solely on the basis of their excellent connections in potential recruitment territories. These officers did not carry out regular duties but via their networks procured recruits for the Prussian army. Foreign recruitment was solely sustained via these mostly aristocratic networks in the eighteenth century. Prince Augustus William of Brunswick-Bevern requested his ensign von Werckamp on his transfer from infantry regiment No. 25 to be commander of infantry regiment No. 4164 in 1742. Regiment von Kalckstein had already assented to the transfer of the ensign. The prince justified his request with familial obligations. Young Werckamp had been entrusted to him by his relatives. They, in return for the prince’s protection of their son, had promised free recruitment in the county of Wittgenstein (daß wenn ich selbigen zu Berlin etwaß erlernen laßen, auch vor bezahlung deßen Equipage, wenn er Officier würde, sorgte, und solches in der Werbung dortigen Orthes besonders in der Grafschafft Wittgenstein, in welcher ich schon seit einigen Jahren die Werbung und Enrollierung junger Burschen allein habe, wieder zu gute kommen sollte. Es ist solches auch bereits nicht ohne Effect gewesen, so lange ich bey dem Kalcksteinschen Regiment gestanden65). The military elite in particularly is a good example of networking elites in all domains of politics. As the strict separation of civilian and military spheres was still unknown in the eighteenth century, high-ranking officers were given courtly offices as a matter of course, or conducted diplomatic missions based on their family connections, linguistic abilities or confidential positions at court.66 This was aided by the often close contacts of noble families abroad, a general feature of nobility that was interconnected across borders rather than nationally.67 The cooperation between king and nobility within the military is particularly im63 Curt Jany, Geschichte der Königlich Preußischen Armee bis zum Jahre 1807, Berlin 1929, vol. 3, p. 24. 64 Priesdorff, Soldatisches Führertum (cf. note 41), vol. 1, No. 329, pp. 293 ss. 65 GStA PK, I. HA Rep 96, No. 102 B, Des regierenden Herzogs August Wilhelm Immediat Korrespondenz, vol. 1: 1740–1755, letter dated 14th September 1742. 66 On the foreign policy importance of officers cf. Carmen Winkel, Im Dienste seiner Majestät: Netzwerke im Offizierkorps als Mittel der Außenpolitik (1713–1786), in: Gundula Gahlen, idem (eds.), Militärische Eliten in der Frühen Neuzeit, Potsdam 2010, pp. 59–85. 67 Kunisch, Führungsschichten (cf. note 5), p. 125.

82

Carmen Winkel

pressive when considering the allocation of regiments to members of the high nobility. Service in the military by members of the high nobility can already be observed in the army of Brandenburg in the seventeenth century. The increased military and political prestige of the victorious Prussian army following the Seven Years’ War meant that it now provided an alternative to the Habsburg military which had attracted many representatives of European dynasties during its phase as a major power before 1721. This has been cited as the motivation for the service of several princes under the Prussian colours since the middle of the eighteenth century.68 However, Brandenburg had already embarked on influencing Protestant imperial princes since the end of the seventeenth century, thereby creating for itself a successful client system within the empire.69 The increasing attractiveness of the court at Berlin was, on the one hand, due to Prussia’s policy of financial subsidies, under which tax payments owed by financially distressed counts of the empire to the empire and emperor were paid by Prussia.70 On the other hand, at least since the end of the Seven Years’ War, Prussia’s attractiveness was based on its increased political and military significance.71 However, as the king’s efforts at courting specific families clearly demonstrate, the attachment of imperial princes to the Prussian monarch could not rely solely on factors such as prestige or economic considerations. It appears that in Prussia the formation of a clientele of imperial princes was usually achieved via the army. Among the staff officers promoted to general between 1740 and 1786, 27 were princes who thus provided around 8 % of all generals.72 Moreover, the number of officers from the high nobility would have

68 Ronald G. Asch, Europäischer Adel in der Frühen Neuzeit. Eine Einführung, Cologne 2008, p. 211. 69 Volker Press, Reichsgrafenstand und Reich. Zur Sozial- und Verfassungsgeschichte des deutschen Hochadels in der frühen Neuzeit, in: Jürgen Heideking et al. (eds.), Wege in die Zeitgeschichte. Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag von Gerhard Schulz, Berlin 1989, pp. 3–30, here p. 20. 70 This aspect was particularly delicate as the imperial immediacy of imperial princes and counts was threatened if their patron Prussia took over these payments. 71 Press, Reichsgrafenstand (cf. note 69), p. 20. As a consequence, service in the Prussian army was not particularly attractive to Protestant princes of the empire in the seventeenth century – sons of the Catholic houses tended to serve in the imperial church. Only few counts of the empire served in Brandenburg’s army or entered civilian service. See Johannes Arndt, Zwischen kollegialer Solidarität. Die Reichsgrafen im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, in: Ronald G. Asch (ed.), Der Europäische Adel im Ancien Régime. Von der Krise der ständischen Monarchien bis zur Revolution (1600–1789), Cologne 2001, pp. 105–129, here p. 117. 72 Joachim Engelmann, Friedrich der Große und seine Generale, Utting 1988, p. 19. Engelmann’s analysis is based on biographical information of Priesdorff, Soldatisches Führertum (cf. note 41).

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

83

been even higher as some of its members, particularly illegitimate sons,73 would have been received commissions for the army and many would have gained promotion to the highest military ranks. The service of officers from the high nobility, either of princes of the House of Hohenzollern or scions of other dynasties, stood under very different auspices than that of the comrades from the lower nobility. Sixty-seven percent of the officers promoted to the rank of Major General between 1740 and 1763 had a length of service of over 44 years. Princes promoted during this period achieved this rank after an average of five to twelve years.74 They did not have to serve from the proverbial scratch but were preferentially promoted. However, the varied demands on office made no exception for officers from the high nobility, as it demanded of them certain abilities as well as subordination under experienced officers. This led to tensions and conflicts which required the monarch’s intervention and often resulted in a clearly partisan resolution in favour of the officer from the high nobility.75 Not all the officers from the high nobility actively served in the army as some held merely titular ranks which promised high incomes but did not require actual service. Actively serving reigning princes were the exception76 as the manifold demands of military service clashed with the official duties of a prince. Reigning princes continued to lead their regiments, but the actual business of the regiment was often carried out by a commander. In contrast, members of the houses of imperial princes were expected to carry out active military service. Purely honorary posts were the absolute exception; these lesser nobles were expected to ‘learn’ their duties, which amounted to requirements for their physical presence as the training of an officer was conducted as part of the daily garrison duties. Military-historical research has this far treated the service of reigning imperial princes or their sons in the armies of European dynasties under the aspect of aristocratic self-image.77 It was customary during the early modern period to fill offices with certain individuals out of political or personal considerations.78 73 The support of the ‘natural’ sons from families of the high nobility in the army has so far largely been ignored in research. 74 Numbers according to Engelmann, Friedrich der Große (cf. note 72), p. 19. 75 Major General von Bieberstein was dismissed as regimental commander in 1752 because the seventeen-year-old Prince Frederick Eugene, who had only entered service in 1750, refused to submit to his superior. The General was reappointed to a command at the start of the Seven Years’ War. See also Priesdorff, Soldatisches Führertum (cf. note 41), vol. 1, No. 349, p. 323. 76 Rouven Pons, Die Kunst der Loyalität. Ludwig VIII. von Hessen-Darmstadt (1691–1768) und der Wiener Kaiserhof, Marburg 2009, p. 145. 77 An exception is Ernst Opgenoorth, “Ausländer” in Brandenburg-Preussen. Als leitende Beamte und Offiziere 1604–1871, Würzburg 1967, pp. 57–60; on the French foreign regiments, see Ronald G. Asch, Ständische Stellung und Selbstverständnis des Adels im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, in: idem (ed.), Adel (cf. note 71), pp. 3–49, here p. 17. 78 Wolfram Fischer, Rekrutierung und Ausbildung von Personal für den modernen Staat: Beamte, Offiziere und Techniker in England, Frankreich und Preußen in der frühen Neuzeit,

84

Carmen Winkel

Loyalty and political benefit were more important than any professional expertise when making appointments.79 Personal service and the associated rewards updated and maintained relationships of patronage.80 Patronage provided access to royal offices in the early modern period. These mechanisms have hardly been considered for the military where the emphasis has been on the militaryprofessional requirements associated with military service. However, here too, the allocation of offices was oriented towards political considerations and paid scant regard to the actual military competence or training of the holder of the rank. This naturally led to conflicts of rank and social standing with the ‘professional soldiers’. While in Prussia military offices were never for sale, like for instance in France.81 Nevertheless, the award of high military offices to members of the high nobility motivated by political and familial considerations still resulted in conflicts which were the result of the contrast of noble status consciousness and the requirements for professionalisation, a contrast frequently pointed out in research.82 This was the case with Hereditary Prince Frederick of Hesse-Kassel who, following his conversion to Catholicism, was accepted into Prussian service out of political considerations. When the prince was subsequently involved in several disputes concerning rank, Frederick II repeatedly stressed the prince’s political significance. Thus he urged Baron de la Motte, mentor to the prince, not to allow the conflict with the Hessian hereditary prince to escalate. Frederick II pleaded with de la Motte to do him a favour and yield to the prince on the question of rank. He reminded him of the prince’s special status, and as Frederick had need of the prince in important matters he was again asking de la Motte to indulge the king, not to make an issue of rank, but rather to flatter the prince (so ersuche ich Euch um des Himmels willen, Mir den Gefallen zu thun und jetzo gegen ihn in dem Artikel wegen des Ranges nachzugeben. Ihr wisset bereits, dass alle mit ihm ad honores und sonder Conséquence ist, und da Ich den Prinzen in sonst wichtigen Angelegenheiten nöthig habe, so werdet Ihr Mir eine besondere Gefälligkeit erweisen, wenn Ihr Euch wegen eines Ranges gegen ihn nicht moviret, vielmehr

79 80 81 82

in: Reinhart Koselleck (ed.), Studien zum Beginn der modernen Welt, Stuttgart 1977, pp. 194– 217, here p. 202. Wolfgang Reinhard, Kommentar: Mikrogeschichte und Makrogeschichte, in: Thiessen, Windler (eds.), Nähe in der Ferne (cf. note 48), pp. 135–145, here p. 136. Christian Wieland, Fürsten, Freunde, Diplomaten. Die römisch-florentinischen Beziehungen unter Paul V. (1605–1621), Cologne 2004, p. 17. A more detailed description can be found in Rafe Blaufarb, The French Army 1750–1820. Careers, talent, merit, Manchester 2002. See Frank Göse “Es war mir wie einem armen Gemeinen zu Muthe”. Überlegungen zur Professionalisierung adliger Offiziere ausgewählter deutscher Reichsterritorien im 17. Jahrhundert, in: Gahlen, Winkel (eds.), Militärische Eliten (cf. note 66), pp. 185–215.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

85

denselben flattiren und Distinictions bezeigen werdet83). In a letter, Frederick II justifies the prince’s assignment to a military command against this background: given the current political constellations, and the age and poor health of the hereditary prince’s father, he was keen to manage the prince in such a way so to prevent him from taking a position that could be prejudicial to the king and his allies (Ich habe, gedachten Erbprinzen in gegenwärtigen Conjuncturen, bei den zumal seines Herrn Vaters Durchlaucht erreichten Jahren und denen schwächlichen Gesundheitsumständen, worinnen er sich findet, zu menagiren, auf dass ersterer nicht eine Partie nehme, so Mir und Meinen Alliirten sehr präjudicirlich sein könnte84). The king is acting out of his dynastic interest completely disregarding intraarmy dependencies in the negotiations. Regiments becoming vacant represented an important asset for the king to dispense patronage. Frederick Charles Ferdinand of Brunswick-Bevern, younger brother of Duke Augustus-William, joined the Prussian army in 1756 at the instigation of his brother who had already been serving there since 1731. Frederick Charles had previously been in Danish service and he petitioned the king to appoint him to his Danish rank of Major General and to give him command of a regiment which had already participated in the king’s glorious campaigns (welches Höchst Deroselben glorreichen FeldZügen bereits beigewohnet85). However, in a marginal note to the petition the king remarks that he was unable to give him an old regiment (Ein altes Regiment kann ich ihn nicht geben.). The outbreak of war had limited severely the resources for military patronage. Newly raised regiments were preferentially allocated to experienced officers; furthermore, commands needed to be given to the politically significant among the monarch’s clients who additionally required a military mentor. The Prince of Brunswick-Bevern remained without a regiment until 1757 when he received the Major General’s commission which in accordance with the prince’s wishes had been backdated and thus matched the service age of the rank he had held in the Danish army.86 On the order of the king dated 16th January 1757, he was finally appointed to his regimental command in accordance with his petition, albeit not to the field regiment he had aspired to. Instead, by royal order he received command of the formerly Saxon regiment Prince Xavier which was re-named Young-Bevern to differentiate it from Regiment No. 7, the Old-Bevern.87 The king had integrated all the Saxon regiments into the Prussian army 83 Politische Correspondenz Friedrich’s des Großen, ed. by the Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 47 vols., Berlin 1879–2003, vol. 14, No. 8807, p. 454. 84 Ibid., No. 8864, pp. 507 s. 85 GStA PK, I. HA Rep. 96, No. 102 K, Des Erbprinzen Friedrich Carl Ferdinands Immediat Korrespondenz 1757–1759, letter dated 18th December 1756. 86 Priesdorff, Soldatisches Führertum (cf. note 41), vol. 1, No. 410, p. 396. 87 Jany, Geschichte (cf. note 63), vol. 2, p. 376.

86

Carmen Winkel

following the capitulation of the Saxon army at Pirna – a course of action that was based on the assumed Prussian sympathies among the Saxons (angenommenen Preußenfreundlichkeit der Sachsen), something which soon proved to be a fatal misjudgement.88 The Saxon regiments, in contrast with the usual procedure to distribute individual captured enemy soldiers among the regiments, were integrated into the Prussian army en bloc. Prussian officers were put in command of the men and ten new Prussian regiments were formed from the remainder of the Saxon army.89 This led to massive numbers of desertions from the former Saxon regiments now under Prussian command. The former regiment Xavier lost so many soldiers in April that it had to be replenished in Liegnitz using Silesian recruits. The regiment finally broke up completely, or rather the 1st Battalion was taken prisoner at Schweidnitz, by the end of 1757.90 Frederick II was intent on raising further Saxon battalions in spite of the mass desertions by the Saxons. Orders regarding measures designed to prevent mass desertions were issued but were ineffectual.91 Prince Frederick Charles Ferdinand petitioned for a regular regiment following the loss of his own, referencing the king’s assurance to that effect on entering his command.92 Frederick II’s response was unequivocal: “I took him out of attachment to his brother. He will not get an old regiment. Why did he allow his own to break up” (ich hette ihn aus Complaisance vohr seinen Bruder genommen ein alt Regiment kriegt er nicht, warum hat er das seinige aus einander laufen lassen93). Even though the cabinet secretary translated the content of Frederick’s marginal note into a polite letter of response, the prince would have understood the accusation contained in the toned down version: “I am unable to allocate you one of the old regiments as they are already taken. You will recall that I have taken you into service out of attachment to your older brother. I regret that your previous regiment has broken up.” (Ich kann Euer Liebden keines von denen alten Regimentern conferiren, da von denen selben bereits alle besetzt sind. Dabey werden Dieselben sich erinnern, daß Ich sie aus complaisance vor Dero 88 Kroll, Soldaten im 18. Jahrhundert (cf. note 6), p. 353. 89 Marcus von Salisch, Treue Deserteure. Das kursächsische Militär und der Siebenjährige Krieg, Munich 2009, p. 140. 90 Jany, Geschichte (cf. note 63), vol. 2, pp. 376 s. Most units were disbanded towards the end of 1757 as they had suffered great losses due to desertion on the retreat from Bohemia. The Saxon soldiers from the 2nd Battalion Young-Bevern had mutinied when ordered to march to Silesia. The situation was only calmed following the intervention of armed peasants and called-in Prussian troops. See Kroll, Soldaten im 18. Jahrhundert (cf. note 6), p. 360. 91 Erwin Dette, Friedrich der Große und sein Heer, Göttingen 1915, S. 28; Politische Correspondenz (cf. note 83), vol. 14, p. 451, note 2. 92 GStA PK, I. HA Rep. 96, No. 102 K, Des Erbprinzen Friedrich Carl Ferdinands Immediat Korrespondenz 1757–1759, letter dated 10th January 1758. 93 Ibid.

Eighteenth-Century Military and Princely Rule

87

älteren Herrn Bruder in den Dienst genommen. Inzwischen es mir leyd thut, das das Euer Liebden vorher conferirt gewesene Regiment auseinander gelauffen ist.94) The king had taken the prince into service only out of obligation of kinship. The prince, who apart from his social capital, as member of a branch line related to the Prussians, brought neither practical skills nor other political, social or symbolic capital and ultimately only represented ‘baggage’ for the monarch. This conclusion is reinforced by the fact that he had been given a more than thankless military command. The leadership of regiments formed from Saxon recruits proved a really difficult task as they were prone to mass desertions, and the Saxon soldiers often protested against the Prussian drills, which were particularly severely practiced here.95 The appointment did not follow considerations of skill, but Frederick II rather used the many new vacancies resulting from the raising of the ten new regiments to supply his less important clients, such as the Prince of Brunswick.96 The explosive nature of this regimental assignment is demonstrated by the fact that the king otherwise allocated these new regiments, which were difficult to command due to their personnel composition, to long-serving professional soldiers.97 However, he was unable to ignore the repeated petitions of the prince even though no other vacant regiments were available.

5.

Conclusion

“What is the meaning of the military in the early modern period?” The Brandenburg-Prussian army offers a highly multi-facetted picture based on a differentiated definition of rule. The army was an instrument of power, a means to represent authority, an important means of integration for foreign elites, and finally the space in which nobility and monarch cooperated on varied levels. It has been demonstrated that the integration of the nobility into the monarch’s regimen was successful using a variety of instruments of power. Partly, this covered traditional means of rule, such as feudal ties; beyond this, the Prussian rulers developed varied new instruments, such as the symbol of the parade horse or their wearing of the army uniform. However, the limits of the regal claim to power became equally apparent. The influence of the colonels-in-chief and regimental commanders on their units was significant, in spite of the increased

94 Priesdorff, Soldatisches Führertum (cf. note 41), vol. 1, No. 410, p. 397. 95 Salisch, Treue Deserteure (cf. note 89), pp. 141–153. 96 Duffy described the officers assigned to these units as ‘second class’, but they were more accurately characterised as inexperienced; quoted after ibid., p. 140. 97 A complete list of the regimental commanders of these ten new infantry units can be found in Jany, Geschichte (cf. note 63), vol. 2, pp. 375–377.

88

Carmen Winkel

subordination under the monarch. The opinion of the colonels regarding the recruitment and promotion of officers was decisive for the king. The achievement of the process of negotiation of governance in the military was demonstrated in the successful cooperation of nobility and monarch. The replenishment of troops in particular could not have been achieved without the collaboration of the nobility. Even though every second Prussian soldier during the eighteenth century came from Prussia, an enormous number of soldiers was especially required for the three Silesian Wars but these could not have been recruited from the small kingdom. Recruitment was very much characterised by networks of nobility. A policy of recruitment without these networks would hardly have been feasible, particularly when, as in the case of Prussia, it came to the significant overexpansion of troop numbers in contrast to the number of inhabitants and economic potential.

Stefan Kroll

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

First and foremost, ‘military’ is a term that was coined and first used in research in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries. It describes the usual organisation of armed forces during that period. The term, however, does not seen to appropriately capture the social praxis of military groups of actors and their close ties to civil, non-military society in the eighteenth century. The concept of lifeworld, as developed by historical cultural science, provides an alternative approach for research. Using the example of the common Saxon soldiers, this chapter discusses which diverse notions, self- and external perceptions were held by the service members during times of peace and of war. Furthermore, this chapter examines how these notions developed during the eighteenth century and how they related to social praxis. Preceding this is a short overview of the organisation and the war deployment of the Saxon army in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as well an overview of current research on this topic.

1.

The Saxon Military in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries

1.1.

Organisation of the army and war deployment – an overview

The image of war in the Electorate of Saxony was, as everywhere in Central Europe during the sixteenth and early seventeenth century, characterised by recruited mercenary forces. They were hired when needed, only to be dismissed again after the campaign or war ended.1 The system’s shortcomings were recognised by John George I who passed a Defensionsordnung (an Act of Defence) 1 Frank Bauer, Zur Organisation und Struktur der kursächsischen Armee an der Wende vom 17. zum 18. Jahrhundert, in: Sächsische Heimatblätter 29 (1983), pp. 224–227; cf. Oscar Schuster, F. A. Francke, Geschichte der Sächsischen Armee von deren Errichtung bis auf die neueste Zeit, 3 vols., Leipzig 1885, vol. 1.

90

Stefan Kroll

with the consent of the Stände (estates/diets) in 1613. The general conscription of the landowners was the foundational element of this act.2 The act described a Defensionswerk (a regulated system of defence) as consisting of three segments: the cavalry, the infantry, and the artillery. The usual army, consisting exclusively of angesessenen Landeskindern (local men/subjects), was complemented particularly in the Thirty Years’ War by hired regiments of mercenaries. The mercenaries had proved themselves superior to the Defensioner (the regular defenders) due to their better weaponry and training. After the Thirty Years’ War, the Saxon system of defence experienced a gradual demise. Constant tensions throughout Europe and the permanent virulent threats of war led to the establishment of a standing army in 1682.3 In the following decades until the end of the Great Northern War, the newly formed Saxon army participated in several campaigns and wars. Initially, the Saxon army counted approximately 10,000 men but increased its force levels depending on the state’s financial resources. The regiments, which were frequently controlled by colonels, developed after the military reform of 1728 into governmental institutions directly controlled by the sovereign.4 By using intensified means of recruitment, the number of soldiers increased up to 27,000 men by 1730. During the reign of Augustus II the Strong, the Landmiliz (rural militia), which functioned mainly as a national defence force, was rebuilt in 1733 and remained active until 1756.5 In the First Silesian War 1741/42, the Saxon army fought alongside its allies Prussia, Bavaria and France against Austria, only to align itself with Austria and England-Hanover in the Second Silesian War 1744/45 and to turn against its former allies. The war ended in Prussia’s favour when Saxony was defeated in the Battle of Kesseldorf on 15th December 1745. As early as 1756, the beginning of the Seven Years’ War, the Saxon army surrendered to Prussia. Many soldiers who had been forcefully integrated into the Prussian army deserted and joined the Sammlungswerk (consolidation of deserters). It was established, in particular, in Thuringia and Austria in order to reorganise the Saxon army outside of its “homeland”, which 2 Cf. Rolf Naumann, Das kursächsische Defensionswerk (1613 bis 1709), Leipzig 1916; Max Barthold, Franz Verlohren, Stammregister und Chronik der Kur- und Königlich Sächsischen Armee von 1670 bis zum Beginn des Zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts, Leipzig 1910. 3 Cf. Walther Thenius, Die Anfänge des stehenden Heerwesens in Kursachsen unter Johann Georg III. und Johann Georg IV., Leipzig 1912. 4 Gerhard Quaas, Belastungen der Landbevölkerung Kursachsens durch das stehende Heer, Diss. Berlin (East) 1985; Reinhold Müller, Die kurfürstlich-sächsische Armee von 1730 bis 1733 unter besonderer Beachtung ihrer Struktur, Einsatzgrundsätze, Dislozierung und die Bekleidung und Ausrüstung der Truppenteile, Diss. Leipzig 1986; idem (ed.), Die Armee Augusts des Starken. Das sächsische Heer von 1730 bis 1733, 2nd ed., Berlin (East) 1987. 5 Stefan Kroll, Soldaten im 18. Jahrhundert zwischen Friedensalltag und Kriegserfahrung. Lebenswelten und Kultur in der kursächsischen Armee 1728–1796, Paderborn 2006, pp. 125– 129. The abolition of the Landmiliz in 1756 was permanent.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

91

had been occupied by Prussia. These contingents comprised the basis for the reorganisation of the Saxon army that began after the end of the Seven Years’ War.6 It was followed by a longer period of peace, which was only briefly interrupted by the Bavarian War of Succession in 1778. During most of the eighteenth century, the Electorate of Saxony maintained the third strongest army of the empire after Austria and Prussia. The War of the First Coalition against France in 1793 provided the first opportunity for the Electorate of Saxony to participate with its own contingent of troops. The Saxon army was dissolved after the War of the Fourth Coalition in which it fought alongside the Prussian army against the French and suffered a devastating loss at the Battle of Jena-Auerstedt in 1806. The Electorate became a Confederate State of the Rhine in the very same year, and on 20th December 1806 finally became a realm by the grace of Napoleon.

1.2.

On the Term ‘Military’

Throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the army’s developmental trajectory was constantly shifting, as were the names for the armed forces of the Electorate of Saxony and their confederates. Historical sources provide many different descriptions for a single soldier varying from Landsknecht, Söldner (mercenary), Defensioner (defender), Kreissoldat (soldier of a local district) and others. However, as a comprehensive and common feature all of the terms share the notion of military service in the name of a sovereign. During the eighteenth century, the term ‘military’ was more and more frequently used to describe the entire army of the Electorate of Saxony, but usually in combination with another term. This can be seen, in particular, when analysing Court and State Calendars published in the early eighteenth century.7 The front page of the 1735 edition contains a description in the title proclaiming that the edition not only deals with the royal and princely court, but also with the Collegia and a “detailed account of the military”. The calendar itself contains a register of military ranks beginning with guard units (Chevalier-Garde, Garde du Corps, Schweizer Leibgarde), followed by the artillery, engineers and cadets corps. The generals of the Electorate of Saxony were listed separately. Around thirty years later, a better understanding of the description Militär=Staat (military state) is presented on the front page and the Churfürstl. Sächsische hohe Generalität und Militair=Etat (military and generals of higher rank in the Electorate of Saxony) are listed in the 6 Ibid., pp. 108–112; Torsten Schwenke, Die Neuformierung des sächsischen Militärs nach 1763, in: Dresdner Hefte 114 (2013), pp. 64–71. 7 Königl. Poln. und Churfürstl. Sächsischer Hof- und Staats-Calender auf das Jahr 1735; Churfürstlicher Sächsischer Hof- und Staats-Calender auf das Jahr 1765; Churfürstlicher Sächsischer Hof- und Staats-Calender auf das Jahr 1795.

92

Stefan Kroll

calendar. Now the list is led by the generals, followed by the general military court, the general cadre court and the government in Dresden – including the guard(s) formations based in Dresden. In 1795, another 30 years later, the term Militär-Etat (military budget) had disappeared from the front page in favour of the current title Hof= und Staats= Calender auf das Jahr 1795 (court and state calendar for the year 1795). However, the compilation of the Militair=Etats at the end has not changed. It is rather unusual for Saxon sources to use the term ‘military’ (without additional specification) to describe the entire army. Yet, terms like Armee (army), Tr(o)uppen (troops) and Miliz (militia) are common, for example in the Feld-Gebeth für die Miliz8 (field prayer for the militia), published in 1741, or in the follow-up from 1778 titled Feld-Gebeth bey der Armée9 (field prayer in the army). As the terms commonly used at the time differed, it is difficult to find an alternative to the collective term ‘military’, commonly used by researchers. However, the term ‘military’ evolved from a different social and scientific context in the late nineteenth and twentieth century.10 For me it is more important to define the term ‘military’ within its social, economic, legal and cultural boundaries. By doing so, I would like to emphasis the close link between the military, as the main social group in early modern Europe, and ‘civil’, nonmilitary society.

1.3.

Recent Research on the Saxon Military

I would like to start by outlining recent research on the Saxon military during the early modern period. Furthermore, I will examine to what extent current concepts, questions, and methods from “general” research on the early modern era have expanded into the regional research of this topic over the last two decades.11 In addition, studies will be included which do not deal explicitly with the military, but have drawn attention to it in the context of another research interest.12 While the historiography of the GDR was hardly interested in the military formations of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the interest of regional research in traditional military history, in particular the history of events and people, increased after 1990, also with regard to the Electorate of Saxony. In addition to general surveys such as the three-volume military history of Saxony 8 Feld-Gebeth für die Miliz, s.l. 1741. 9 Feld-Gebeth bey der Armée, s.l. 1778. 10 Bernhard R. Kroener, Lemma “Militär”, in: Enzyklopädie der Neuzeit, vol. 12, Stuttgart, Weimar 2008, col. 496–504. 11 For older research, see the overview in Kroll, Soldaten (cf. note 5), pp. 32–35. 12 This commented overview complements the references in my own habilitation thesis published in 2006. There I also dealt extensively with military lifeworlds, ibid.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

93

by Harald Weber,13 most publications focus on single outstanding events, prominent battles and famous military leaders. In this context, the Study group for Saxon military history, founded in Dresden in 1991, is worth mentioning. Its publications are usually characterised by a more traditional approach to military history. The same applies to the monograph by Wolfgang Gülich, published in 2006, dealing with the Saxon army at the time of Napoleon and its reorganisation in 1810.14 The book is based less on archival studies, but rather evaluates previous research. Roland Sennewald recently published his substantial book about the Saxon army during the Thirty Years’ War.15 It is organised chronologically and above all thematically diverse and richly illustrated. Yet, the wealth of detail provided is somewhat overwhelming while the author failed to organise the book into overarching themes. The history of the Saxon army has only attracted the interest of modern historiographers over the last ten to 15 years. The renewed interest in military history in Germany has had a huge influence on this, since the discipline is known for its focus on the social and cultural classification of the military.16 Thomas Wollschläger presented another interesting approach in his thesis from 2002. He explores which opportunities arise when the established concept of the “military revolution” is applied to other European regions.17 Wollschläger ponders the question whether Prussia on the one hand and the Electorate of Saxony on the other hand experienced developments within the military revolution which turned them into modern states, equal competitors within the European conflict of powers, or major powers.18 The navy, fortification, and military engineering are central to his investigation. As one might expect, the Electorate of Saxony fares poorly in this comparison. However, the development of the Saxon engineering academy, which was established in 1742/43, is an exception, since the academy’s influence reached beyond the borders of the electorate. Additionally, the book reveals that the Saxon officer corps provided comparatively good op-

13 Harald Weber, Militärgeschichte des Churfürstenthums Sachsen und Ihrer Majestät in Pohlen 1613–1733, Taura/Burgstädt 2008; idem, Militärgeschichte des Churfürstenthums Sachsen 1733–1763. Der Siebenjährige Krieg und die Sachsen, Taura/Burgstädt 2009; idem, Militärgeschichte Sachsens: vom Churfürstenthum zum Königreich, 1763–1812, Taura/Burgstädt 2011. 14 Wolfgang Gülich, Die Sächsische Armee zur Zeit Napoleons. Die Reorganisation von 1810, Beucha 2006. 15 Roland Sennewald, Das kursächsische Heer im Dreißigjährigen Krieg, Berlin 2013. 16 Cf. especially the series of papers and the journal of the study group for military and society in the early modern period, http://www.amg-fnz.de, 24. 09. 2014. 17 Thomas Wollschläger, Die Military Revolution und der deutsche Territorialstaat. Determinanten der Staatskonsolidierung im europäischen Kontext 1670–1740, Norderstedt 2004. 18 Ibid., p. 101.

94

Stefan Kroll

portunities for advancement, as skilled officers were indeed able to rise from the lowest ranks to the rank of general. Marcus von Salisch’s thesis, published in 2009, can also be regarded as a military history survey.19 He examines the history of the Saxon army during the Seven Years’ War and focuses especially on the topic of desertion. The book is mostly arranged as a history of events, but aims to expand the perspective by taking into account social and everyday history as well as certain aspects of motivation. The author seldom offers observations from the bottom up and does not include them methodically. The behaviour of the common soldier is portrayed in a rather one-sided fashion as it is characterised by a dominant patriotic attitude. This leads to the impression that the Saxon soldier’s ‘honour’ should be reinstated, while failing to differentiate properly. However, the survey is convincing in that it comprises an in-depth analysis of non-printed and printed sources. This makes it an important starting point for a prospective complete overview on the Saxon military in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that meets modern standards. Frank Göse dealt with the question of how the reputation of the Saxon army developed in Prussia, and vice versa, between the end of the Thirty Years’ War and the Seven Years’ War.20 The organisation of the army, in particular recruitment and enlistment, are the centre of attention. The ample material contained within the National Archives in Dresden proved extremely useful for the spatially overarching investigations conducted by Jürgen Luh21 and Jan Willem Huntebrinker. In his thesis, published in 2010, Huntebrinker examined mercenaries as a social group in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.22 Many of the examples stem from the early modern Electorate of Saxony. Huntebrinker analyses how the social group of mercenaries was constituted within the frame of a corporative society while drawing on the popular imagery and the mercenaries’ self-display during military trials. On the other hand, Luh’s study makes a significant contribution since he incorporates the material culture of the military. Musket, rifle, bayonet, and uniform are placed in a cultural-history context forming a topic which so far has not been studied in sufficient detail.23 Additionally, the economic and social fundamentals of war19 Marcus von Salisch, Treue Deserteure. Das kursächsische Militär und der Siebenjährige Krieg, Munich 2009. 20 Frank Göse, Ressentimentgeladenheit und Rezeptionsbereitschaft: Bemerkungen zum kursächsisch-preußischen Verhältnis auf dem Gebiet der Militärgeschichte von der Mitte des 17. bis zur Mitte des 18. Jahrhunderts, in: Christian Th. Müller, Matthias Rogg (eds.), Das ist Militärgeschichte! Probleme – Projekte – Perspektiven, Paderborn 2013, pp. 383–398. 21 Jürgen Luh, Kriegskunst in Europa 1650–1800, Cologne et al. 2004. 22 Jan Willem Huntebrinker, “Fromme Knechte” und “Garteteufel”. Söldner als soziale Gruppe im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert, Konstanz 2010. 23 Cf. the journal Militär und materielle Kultur in der Frühen Neuzeit and within the introductory article by Jan Willem Huntebrinker, Ulrike Ludwig, Militär und materielle Kultur

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

95

fare, even in the Saxon army, and the theoretical and practical aspects of Festungskrieg (fortress warfare) are examined. One of the most influential research approaches being discussed within the studies on the early modern period in recent years is the concept of commemorative culture.24 This new approach had also been applied to the military field. Commemorative culture focuses on the collective as the carrier of memories and on the media essential for the communication of knowledge and remembrance. More than in the empirical historical approach, the connection of the collective and the respective knowledge are more central. The knowledge is aligned to the revelation of long-term processes of change. In this regard, illustrations of wartime events, monuments, coins or medals as well as anniversary and commemorative publications become sources of significant importance. Working with this broadly defined understanding, Gunter Janoschke published a substantial study concerning the Electorate of Saxony. He focused on military associations and commemorative culture regarding the military although his temporal priority is the second half of the nineteenth century.25 The study by Roman Töppel26 deals with Saxony, too, but it is arranged quite differently. In his thesis, of which the first edition was published in 2008, Töppel analysed how the sentiment of the Saxon population and military developed from 1806 to 1813. Furthermore, he examines which wartime events and burdens of war exerted the greatest influence on the people’s mood. The study is not only based on diaries, letters, and memoirs, but also on the people’s sentiment as compiled in reports by the Secret Police from the years 1812/13 and from contemporary literature. Personal testimonials and ego-documents have attracted broad interest over recent years. This is reflected in the publication of various volumes concerned with the records of military personnel. Regarding the army of the Electorate of Saxony, Sebastian Schaar27 presented a study in 2008 worth mentioning. It comprises the comprehensive annotation of a Saxon infantryman’s memories of

24 25 26 27

in der Frühen Neuzeit. Einführung, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 13/1 (2009), pp. 7–15. Horst Carl, Ute Planert, Militärische Erinnerungskulturen – Militär als Gegenstand und Träger kollektiver Erinnerung, in: idem (eds.), Militärische Erinnerungskulturen vom 14. bis zum 19. Jahrhundert. Träger – Medien – Deutungskonkurrenzen, Göttingen 2012, pp. 11–26. Gunter Janoschke, Militärvereine und militärische Erinnerungskultur im Königreich Sachsen 1863–1913, Leipzig 2009. Roman Töppel, Die Sachsen und Napoleon. Ein Stimmungsbild 1806–1813, Cologne et al. 2008. Sebastian Schaar, Christian Friedrich Frenzel (1780–1864). Erinnerungen eines sächsischen Infanteristen an die napoleonischen Kriege. Edition und Kommentar, Dresden 2008.

96

Stefan Kroll

the Napoleonic wars. In addition, the autobiography of Friedrich Christian Sohr, a member of the Saxon military audit, has been edited critically.28 The subject of the military is increasingly flowing into local and regional historical studies whose main interests are centred on other topics, like the recent findings from Gerd Schwerhoff ’s research group (Chair of Modern History at the University of Dresden). With the help of Saxon source material, Alexander Kästner demonstrated, for example, the different perspectives on the dialogue between historical research about suicide and military history research.29 On the other hand, a project funded by the German Research Foundation under the direction of Gerd Schwerhoff and Ulrike Ludwig dealt with the duel as a cultural practice of the early modern period. The project examined not only the role of aristocrats and students, but also the role of military personnel within these more or less ritualised conflicts of honour.30 Furthermore, the military milieu is considered extensively in the work of Falk Bretschneider, who examined the history of confinement in Saxony during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.31 The military is also evaluated in the book by Helmut Bräuer and Elke Schlenkrich on urban and rural poverty.32 In her thesis, Nina Krüger examined with the aid of broad source material, among other things, the conflicts associated with the development of the Defensionswesen (general defence) in the second half of the seventeenth century.33 The comparative analysis of court and state calendars provides an interesting new approach to determining the military’s importance within the social system of the Electorate of Saxony in the eighteenth century. This can also be achieved

28 Stefan Kroll, Die Autobiographie des kursächsischen Fouriers Friedrich Christian Sohr (1748 bis 1788). Einführung zu einer kritischen Edition im Internet, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 9/2 (2005), pp. 146–154. 29 Alexander Kästner, Desertionen in das Jenseits. Ansätze und Desiderate einer militärhistorischen Suizidforschung für die Frühe Neuzeit, in: Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit 11/2 (2007), pp. 85–112; idem (ed.), Tödliche Geschichte(n). Selbsttötungen in Kursachsen im Spannungsfeld von Normen und Praktiken (1547–1815), Konstanz 2012. 30 Cf. Ulrike Ludwig, Barbara Krug-Richter, Gerd Schwerhoff (eds.), Das Duell. Ehrenkämpfe vom Mittelalter bis zur Moderne, Konstanz 2012. 31 Falk Bretschneider, Gefangene Gesellschaft. Eine Geschichte der Einsperrung in Sachsen im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, Konstanz 2008. 32 Helmut Bräuer, Zur Mentalität armer Leute in Obersachsen 1500 bis 1800. Essays, Leipzig 2008; idem, Weggelegte Kinder während der frühen Neuzeit in Obersachsen, in: Sebastian Schmidt (ed.), Arme und ihre Lebensperspektiven in der Frühen Neuzeit, Frankfurt/M. 2008, pp. 21–50; idem, Kinderbettel und Bettelkinder Mitteleuropas zwischen 1500 und 1800. Beobachtungen, Thesen, Anregungen, Leipzig 2010; Elke Schlenkrich, Von Leuten auf dem Sterbestroh. Sozialgeschichte obersächsischer Lazarette in der frühen Neuzeit, Beucha 2002. 33 Nina Krüger, Landesherr und Landstände in Kursachsen auf den Ständeversammlungen der zweiten Hälfte des 17. Jahrhunderts, Frankfurt/M. 2007, pp. 256–281.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

97

with the help of printed address books, as Thomas Weller demonstrated using the example of Leipzig.34 Regarding ceremonial rank, further observations are possible on the basis of the so-called Lager (camps) or Campements. These camps served, in particular under the rule of Augustus II the Strong, a military purpose as sites for exercise and also had a representative function. Considering the substantial body of source material35 that has not yet been explored sufficiently, many promising impulses are available for ritual and performance studies, which have recently attracted interest.36 According to Katrin Keller, the encampment of Zeithain in 173037 can be regarded as unique in the European history of festivals due to the distinct connection between convivial and military elements.38 The camp attracted attention beyond the borders of the Electorate and the Holy Roman Empire. Several publications, even in other European countries, reflected this fact. Similar to the Planetenfest (festival celebrating a particular constellation of the planets) in 1719, the military exercises demonstrated the central links between comedies, balls, hunts or boat trips. In this manner, everyday courtly life was transferred to the rural solitude of the Saxon province. The baroque and military court festival in Zeithain had been orchestrated as a total artwork completed with a banquet, music, illuminations, and tremendous fireworks. This illustrates the diverse overlaps and connections between the military and the civil sector. It became obvious that both sectors were separate to a lesser extent than scholars had assumed for a long time.

34 Thomas Weller, Theatrum Praecedentiae. Zeremonieller Rang und gesellschaftliche Ordnung in der frühneuzeitlichen Stadt: Leipzig 1500–1800, Darmstadt 2006. 35 Still fundamental Hans Beschorner, Beschreibungen und bildliche Darstellungen des Zeithainer Lagers, in: Neues Archiv für sächsische Geschichte und Alterthumskunde 27 (1906), pp. 103–151. 36 Cf. Ralf Pröve, Carmen Winkel (eds.), Übergänge schaffen. Ritual und Performanz in der frühneuzeitlichen Militärgesellschaft, Göttingen 2012. 37 Still the most detailed edition Hans Beschorner, Das Zeithainer Lager von 1730, in: Neues Archiv für sächsische Geschichte und Alterthumskunde 28 (1907), pp. 50–113, 200–252. 38 Katrin Keller, “Dresden schien zu meiner Zeit ein rechtes bezaubertes Land…”. Zur Festkultur am Hofe Augusts des Starken, in: Michel Espagne, Matthias Middell (eds.), Von der Elbe bis an die Seine. Kulturtransfer zwischen Sachsen und Frankreich im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert, Leipzig 1999, pp. 43–65; cf. further and with Saxon examples Ulrich Schütte, Tradition und Innovation – höfisches Fest und militärische Zeichen, in: Die wehrhafte Residenz. Zeughaus – Marstall – Militär. Jahrbuch der Stiftung Thüringer Schlösser und Gärten 12 (2009), pp. 11–26.

98

Stefan Kroll

2.

Daily Life in Times of Peace and Experiences of War: External and Self-Perception of Military Lifeworlds in the Electorate of Saxony

2.1.

Lifeworld(s) as a Research Topic in Historical Cultural Sciences

The term ‘lifeworld’, central to the conference and this chapter, originated in philosophy during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.39 William James already emphasised the multiplicity and mutual relativity of human lifeworlds. Between World War I and II, Edmund Husserl proposed the theory that all human knowledge is subject related in the same way as the experiences and perceptions of a subject are determined for their lifeworld. Husserl’s phenomenology was crucial for the further development of the term ‘lifeworld’.40 Subsequently, the term found its way into empirical research. Sociologists and pedagogues in particular concentrated intensely on the notion of the lifeworld and further developed it in their disciplines.41 The sociologists Alfred Schütz and, later, Thomas Luckmann emphasised the complex relationships between subjects that depend on communication and lead to the construction of lifeworlds as systems that are neither closed nor static. The term lifeworld was further developed by Jürgen Habermas in his Theory of Communicative Action,42 in which he describes the change of perspective towards the participant or agent. According to Habermas, the agent reconstructs communication, action and lifeworld as a “cognitive framework” in their daily life. Habermas’ account finally led to the analysis of lifeworlds within historical sciences. In his article from 1995, Rudolf Vierhaus took up the term lifeworld and tried to make it applicable to historical research.43 Vierhaus describes a lifeworld as a socially constituted, culturally formed, symbolically interpreted reality, which is not static but tied to the transition

39 This general overview follows the clear definition of the term’s etymology presented by Heiko Haumann, Lebensweltlich orientierte Geschichtsschreibung in den Jüdischen Studien. Das Basler Beispiel, in: idem (ed.), Lebenswelten und Geschichte. Zur Theorie und Praxis der Forschung, Vienna et al. 2012, pp. 70–84. 40 Cf. Rochus Sowa (ed.), Edmund Husserl. Die Lebenswelt. Auslegungen der vorgegebenen Welt und ihrer Konstitution. Texte aus dem Nachlass (1916–1937), Darmstadt 2008. 41 Haumann, Geschichtsschreibung (cf. note 39), p. 75. A systemic reconstructive reinterpretation of the term ‘lifeworld’ was described by Björn Kraus, Lebenswelt und Lebensweltorientierung – eine begriffliche Revision als Angebot an eine systemisch-konstruktivistische Sozialarbeitswissenschaft, in: Kontext. Zeitschrift für Systemische Therapie und Familientherapie 37/2 (2006), pp. 116–129. 42 Haumann, Geschichtsschreibung (cf. note 39), pp. 76–79. 43 Rudolf Vierhaus, Die Rekonstruktion historischer Lebenswelten. Probleme moderner Kulturgeschichtsschreibung, in: Hartmut Lehmann (ed.), Wege zu einer neuen Kulturgeschichte, Göttingen 1995, pp. 7–28.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

99

between external influence and internal development.44 Every individual can live simultaneously in different lifeworlds and these can alternate or overlap. According to Vierhaus, reconstruction describes a past social reality and its symbolic explanation by human beings as members (of this reality). The explanation is achieved with terms, interpretations, and illustrations with the help of the language of the present, but without limiting it to fixed explanatory models and evaluation rules of the present.45 Rudolf Vierhaus emphasised the relationship between an individual’s life and the social and cultural system they were embedded in as the centre of an advanced social history.46 In this case, the discipline interacts with the subject area of recent cultural history.47 The complex relationship between rulers and those ruled over – still a crucial problem in research – cannot be described solely as a ‘system of social disciplining from above’. Instead, the role of customs, the need for security, loyalties, adaption and resistance ‘from below’ is of similar importance. More attention should be focused on attitudes towards life, experiences, expectations, traditional and educational knowledge, general principles as well as self-perception and external perception. For this purpose, Vierhaus recommended the term Historische Kulturwissenschaft (historical cultural science).48 He describes ‘culture’ as the ‘entirety of the wise men’ and their experience of lifeworld reality and reality construction, their symbolic perception of reality, their means of communication and production, as well as power relations.49 The different ‘realities’ compromise not only social conditions and processes, but also explanations tied to time and space. They have always been interpreted by agents and tradition.50 With the help of Vierhaus’ concept of historical cultural science with its focus on the term ‘lifeworld’, it is possible to reconstruct military lifeworlds. However, in his investigation Vierhaus concentrated on smaller units like a family, a village, a monastery or a guild, because he considered it important to compare various data and information from different sources.51 Such a micro-historical approach 44 Ibid., p. 14. In historical sciences the term ‘lifeworld’ often lacks elaborate thinking. Robert von Friedeburg, Lebenswelt und Kultur der unterständischen Schichten in der Frühen Neuzeit, Munich 2010, for example, leaves out a definition although his encyclopedic overview includes a large chapter on the terminology. 45 Vierhaus, Rekonstruktion (cf. note 43), pp. 15 s. 46 Ibid., p. 24. 47 Ibid., pp. 12 s. 48 The discussion on questions and methods concerning historical cultural science is a widespread current issue; cf. Jan Kusber et al. (eds.), Historische Kulturwissenschaften. Positionen, Praktiken und Perspektiven, Bielefeld 2010. 49 Vierhaus, Rekonstruktion (cf. fn. 43), p. 16. 50 Ibid., p. 17. 51 Ibid., p. 18.

100

Stefan Kroll

may not be capable of adequately identifying the relations between individual and society. Generic ways of behaving and thinking can be deduced easily, but they are likely to lack a comparative basis.52 In this context, it is highly recommended to take a close look at the programmatic view of Anne Lipp, who outlines cultural history as military history.53 For Lipp it is indisputable that military history with the orientation of cultural history is concerned with military-related groups of persons as well as the defining role of the military in a particular social context.54 In contrast to a comprehensively applied “cultural history of war” – for which Lipp also outlines certain topics and methods – she proposes in this context an investigation of structures of explanation and perception, images of the world and society, and models for orientation and the evaluation of appropriate factors in order to define groups of military agents.55 Moreover, the impact of these groups on comparable categories in non-military society would have to be addressed. Furthermore, it would be important to examine the relevance and dependence of practice in cultural structures as far as they are applicable to military actions. Therefore, practical research should be aiming for an analysis of the action-based value orientation and the self-conception of soldiers and how they affect social practice.56 In the context of this work’s leading question, it is advisable to evaluate the sources in order to identify certain general principles, to identify the characteristics of the self- and external perception of soldiers, as well as to assess the experiences and approaches of the individuals affected. The following section uses the example of the Electorate of Saxony in order to discuss how many different concepts the members of the military had in times of war and peace. At the same time, the development of these ideas during the eighteenth century and the extent to which they corresponded to social practice will also be analysed.

52 Vierhaus is fully aware of this problem. He also warns against over-interpreting sources. Ibid., p. 22. 53 Anne Lipp, Diskurs und Praxis. Militärgeschichte als Kulturgeschichte, in: Thomas Kühne, Benjamin Ziemann (eds.), Was ist Militärgeschichte? Paderborn et al. 2000, pp. 211–229. 54 Ibid., p. 213. 55 Ibid., p. 214. 56 Stephan Huck’s dissertation serves as a good example for the explicit application of the concept “lifeworld” in the context of the history of early modern members of the military. Stephan Huck, Soldaten gegen Nordamerika: Lebenswelten Braunschweiger Subsidientruppen im amerikanischen Unabhängigkeitskrieg, Braunschweig 2011.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

2.2.

101

External Perceptions

It becomes immediately clear that various different and partially competing perceptions of ‘the soldier’ existed. We are now relatively well informed about the image of the soldier as it was often discussed within the bürgerliche Öffentlichkeit (bourgeois public). Not only lawyers, theologians and other “civil” authors interested in the military participated in this discourse, but also serving and former officers. Due to various reasons, most of the published texts deliver a predominantly negative view of the common soldier. Punishments inflicted on soldiers in public and not behind closed barrack doors were one important factor. Examples include the Bastonade (blows with a stick) during drill or the greatly feared Spießrutenlaufen (running the gauntlet). According to the regulations of duty, ordinances, and other relevant orders, the common soldier was first and foremost a recipient of orders and obliged to obey and submit. His superior officers were primarily able to discipline him by physical punishment. Soldiers’ behaviour towards the civilian population was regulated by ordinances and people outside of the military were most likely aware of the military’s most important orders in this regard. Therefore, one can assume that these orders contributed to the construction of interpretive patterns within the non-military population. Even in the Electorate of Saxony recruitment was frequently conducted by force and deceit despite the moderating regulation introduced in the eighteenth century and this must have cast a poor light on the military in general.57 The young lads or wandering journeymen who had been lured into the military against their actual will and without realising because they allowed themselves to ‘get drank under the table’, must have seemed naïve and foolish to the rest of the population. This form of recruitment did not go unnoticed, for example in the tavern, which was regarded as the centre of the rural and urban public. Various exemptions from official duty contributed to the negative reputation of military service. As these exemptions were mostly linked to specific professions, not belonging to this group of Eximierten (citizens who were exempted from the local jurisdiction due to their particular privileges) must have led to resentments within a society which had an overall corporative character. In conjunction with civilian proponents of the Enlightenment, officers of the Saxon army had sought to improve the soldiers’ reputation in public since the 1770s. This process was related to the increasing importance of the philosophy of Enlightenment as well as certain debates previously conducted in Prussia. These military enlighteners propagated an overall positive perception of the common soldier not only in enlightened journals, but also in autonomous publications.58 57 Cf. Kroll, Soldaten (cf. note 5), pp. 112–147. 58 Ibid., pp. 181–192.

102

Stefan Kroll

In addition, structural grievances within the military were revealed. These had contributed substantially to the widely spread contempt the common soldier had to face. At the same time, the military enlighteners developed their own concept for disciplining the common soldier. From then onwards, the soldier should be motivated to absolve a more virtuous (tugendhaften) and honourable (ehrenhaften) service by compliments and virtuous behaviour on behalf of superiors rather than harshness and discipline. The concept also comprised the idea of collective rather than individual honour (Ehre) for the sergeants and soldiers.59 This added another relevant interpretive pattern for the educated upper class in the last third of the eighteenth century. The dominant negative image of the soldier had now at least been challenged. Both interpretive patterns concerned the soldier during times of peace, while the soldier’s esteem generally increased during war. While the interstate diplomacy of the eighteenth century was able to peacefully resolve most precarious situations, the civilian world depended on a powerful army when the country had to be defended against an external enemy or power-political aims had to be asserted. The demand for a battle-experienced and highly motivated soldier almost inevitably had to grow. The Seven Years’ War demonstrated a distinct climax in this regard. Some Prussian authors propagated the myth of the Heldentod (heroic death) linked to older paragons, partially reaching almost back to antiquity. In particular, Johann Wilhelm Ludwig Gleim and Thomas Abbt promised glory and honour for the soldier who gave his life for his homeland with the help of glorifying songs. In their songs the common soldier was moved by his own patriotischen Heldentod (patriotic and heroic death) into the same ranks as God, king, and fatherland.60 While the Prussian discourse during the Seven Years’ War also referred to Saxon soldiers at best, a further development during the War of Bavarian Succession in 1778/79 beyond the Prussian-Saxon border can be demonstrated. Stage plays as well as soldiers’ songs and poems, addressed directly to the common soldier, incorporated the concept of the Heldentod. The Saxon soldier who gave his life for his fatherland was also celebrated by authors as a glorious

59 Ibid., pp. 192–200. 60 Hans-Martin Blitz, Aus Liebe zum Vaterland. Die deutsche Nation im 18. Jahrhundert, Hamburg 2000, pp. 265–280; Wolfgang Burgdorf, “Reichsnationalismus” gegen “Territorialnationalismus”. Phasen der Intensivierung des nationalen Bewußtseins in Deutschland seit dem Siebenjährigen Krieg, in: Dieter Langewiesche, Georg Schmidt (eds.), Föderative Nation. Deutschlandkonzepte von der Reformation bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg, Munich 2000, pp. 157– 189, here pp. 164–169; especially for Abbt see Ulrich Bröckling, Disziplin. Soziologie und Geschichte militärischer Gehorsamsproduktion, Munich 1997, pp. 95–100; Eva Piirimäe, Dying for the Fatherland. Thomas Abbt’s Theory of Aesthetic Patriotism, in: History of European Ideas 35 (2009), pp. 194–208.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

103

and honourable hero.61 This concept, which was popular during the time of the coalition wars against France, was based on the most male virtues. Patriotismus (patriotism) and Wehrhaftigkeit (martial prowess) were virtues every soldier was encouraged to strive for. The soldier’s death, however, was not perceived as exclusively positive by the authors. Many of them, who were influenced by the ideas of the Enlightenment, expressed their criticism of military service in wartime during the second half of the eighteenth century. Not only the composers of a growing number of soldier’s songs, but also the deserted Prussian soldier Ulrich Bräker62 or the former Saxon furir Friedrich Christian Sohr63 belonged to this group of critics. This demonstrates competing interpretive patterns. The first deployment the Saxon army participated in with its own contingent was during the First War of Coalition against France from 1793 to 1796. This campaign revealed surprisingly clearly the extent to which a collective change of attitude towards military service had taken place. This change could also be interpreted from a different perspective, namely the influence of a patriotically charged war on traditional patterns of interpretation. During 1793 and 1794, the Saxon patriots had succeeded in prompting the population to declare its solidarity with their soldiers marching into battle – at least on the surface.64 The Saxon patriots’ success arose from their promotion of the national spirit of optimism against the old Erbfeind (hereditary enemy) France who was undergoing a phase of revolutionary turmoil. The declaration of solidarity can be demonstrated by the immense generosity of all social classes. The previously disregarded and vilified soldiers became heldenhaft-patriotische (heroic and patriotic) combatants as they defended the liberty of the Saxon and German fatherland. From then onwards they deserved the full support of every single Saxon subject. The philosophy of Enlightenment established itself as one of the most significant prerequisites for the patriotic commitment of local rulers and the educated bourgeoisie. The new forms of mass communication with newspapers and journals leading the way also assisted this process. The Leipziger Zeitungen, in particular, contributed to the propagation of a positive image of the soldier. Their reports about the Saxon corps’ deployment were not only elaborate and 61 Kroll, Soldaten (cf. note 5), pp. 337–341. 62 Jürgen Kloosterhuis, Donner, Blitz und Bräker. Der Soldatendienst des “armen Mannes im Tockenburg” aus der Sicht des preußischen Militärsystems in: Alfred Messerli, Adolf Muschg (eds.), Schreibsucht. Autobiographische Schriften des Pietisten Ulrich Bräker (1735–1798), Göttingen 2004, pp. 129–187. 63 Kroll, Autobiographie (cf. note 28). 64 Cf. Stefan Kroll, “Gottesfurcht” und “Vaterlandsliebe”: Zwei Triebfedern zur Motivierung und Disziplinierung von Soldaten im Krieg? Das Beispiel Kursachsen im 18. Jahrhundert, in: Michael Kaiser, Stefan Kroll (eds.), Militär und Religiosität in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2004, pp. 225–248.

104

Stefan Kroll

relatively current, but the newspaper also published the donors’ announcements and letters of appreciation from the regiments and soldiers supported. Considering this patriotic enthusiasm for war, it was not difficult to publicly endow the Saxon soldier fighting for his Vaterland (fatherland) with respect and individual Ehre (honour). This was achieved most notably by the local connection in the assistance provided. Soldiers who were born or had grown up in a particular city or manor’s domain were the first to receive support from there. The fact that there were only a small number of foreign soldiers within the Saxon army certainly contributed to the apparent efficacy of this system.65 Financial donations and public celebrations arranged by enlightened patriots for the departing and returning local troops in various garrison towns, should also be mentioned in this context. For instance, the Gesellschaft von Freunden der Tonkunst bürgerlichen Standes (Society of Bourgeois Friends of Musical Arts) prepared a charity concert on 1st May 1794 in Zeits in celebration of the return of the First Battalion of the Elector’s Infantry Regiment from the campaign against France. The proceeds benefited the widows and children of the fallen as well as the wounded soldiers of the battalion who had become invalids.66 The festive celebration began with the great overture of Mozart’s The Magic Flute and the inhabitants’ intention – according to a newspaper article – was to show their gratitude and to thank the brave soldiers, who had fought valiantly on the German side, on their return to the walls of the garrison town (braven Kriegern, die an so vielen tapfern Thaten der Deutschen einen ehrenvollen Antheil genommen haben, bey ihrer Rückkehr in die Mauern der Garnisonstadt, auf eine ausgezeichnete Art ihre Freude zu bezeigen). The soldiers were lauded with speeches and specially composed musical works in a distinguished manner to receive Dank deutscher Patrioten für die Verteidigung des Vaterlandes (the thanks of German patriots for the defence of the fatherland). The 36 musicians were said to have refused to accept payment. The important role of the ideational dimension within this war is expressed by the evaluation of the corps’ military importance during their service in southwest Germany between 1793 and 1796: The Electorate of Saxony only used a relatively small contingent of its entire military force. The major part of the forces remained in the electorate, which, in contrast to earlier wars of the eighteenth century, was at no time threatened directly by military action.67 In comparison, the public interest in this war in the Heimat (homeland) nevertheless was much 65 Ibid., pp. 243–247. 66 Oeffentliche Freudensbezeigungen in der Stiftsstadt Zeits, als Beweiß der Achtung und Freundschaft des dasigen Publikums gegen das vom Rhein aus dem Feldzuge gegen die Franken zurückgekommene brave erste Batallion Churfürst Infanterie, am 1 May 1794, in: Dresdner Gelehrte Anzeigen auf das Jahr 1794, XXII. Stück, col. 177–182. 67 Kroll, Soldaten (cf. note 5), pp. 365–379.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

105

greater than in other contingents of Saxon troops fighting for the emperor and the Holy Roman Empire in previous decades, for example against France 1735/ 36. However, the question of the extent to which the profound valorisation of military service in the Electorate of Saxony during the anti-revolutionary War of Coalition against France influenced the dominant image of the soldier in the long run still remains a topic of research.68 The fact that the war took place far away from Saxony’s population might have contributed to the positive evaluation of military service. Saxony’s population was only informed indirectly about this war through newspapers, but never directly through negative personal experiences since it was spared from occupation during this conflict. Similarly, the image of the soldier changed under the influence of enlightenment and war, especially among the educated elites of the country, so the view of the leading military classes on their subordinates changed during the eighteenth century.69 Experiences in warfare against the revolutionary French army accelerated a process that was starting in Saxony and that was also influenced by military enlightenment. Individual honour was, according to the government in the Electorate of Saxony and the generals in charge, no longer restricted to aristocrats in the officer corps, but could also ‘officially’ be achieved by noncommissioned officers and common soldiers. A visible example of this honour was the Militär- und Verdienstmedaille (Medal of Merit) introduced in 1796 based on the Austrian and Prussian model.70 The analysis of commendation lists from the War of the First Coalition against France proves that humane behaviour towards the enemy was evaluated as honourable. However, valour and fearlessness continued to be the more important characteristics of the fighting soldier from the military leadership’s point of view.71 They are, without a doubt, remarkable indications that in the Electorate of Saxony the image of the soldier held by authorities and also among the ranks of the noble-bourgeois population had already started to change during 1793/96. Consequently, the reforms of 1810 (especially the introduction of the general compulsory military draft) can be viewed not as a radical change but as a milestone in terms of a long-term process of change. Although the influence of the French military reform on the Electorate of Saxony between 1789 and 1815 is indisputable, the extent to which this reform can be viewed as a break in continuity or as the ‘second military revolution’ is less

68 Basic approaches concerning the evaluation are done by Töppel, Sachsen (cf. note 26). 69 In general, on the issue of military elites in early modern times cf. Militär und Gesellschaft in der frühen Neuzeit, vol. 14/1 (2010). 70 Carl August von Winckler, System des Chur=Sächsischen Kriegs=Rechts, part 3, Leipzig 1804, p. 67. 71 Hauptstaatsarchiv (HStA) Dresden, Kriegsarchiv (D), No. 1396.

106

Stefan Kroll

clear.72 Consequently, the change of paradigms towards a more positive image of the soldier among the political, cultural and economic ruling classes of the country already started to evolve before the beginning of the Revolutionary Wars. Furthermore, the late Enlightenment can be seen as a major influence on this development. Finally, which conclusions can be drawn about the perception and the assumption of a group that is commonly called the ‘broader population’ which means that they are not members of the ruling classes of the country? To what extent did the relevant competing images of soldiers influence their behaviour? The reconstruction of diverse social practices shows clearly that there was no unified attitude, nor a clearly structured image of the soldier; moreover, there was no congruent behaviour towards non-commissioned officers and common soldiers in the Saxon army. Finally, the precise experiences people gained from encounters with soldiers as well as their individual predispositions were too diverse. Therefore, it is necessary to differentiate between citizens in garrison towns, who had direct contact with the billeted soldiers and their relatives, and the rural population, who experienced soldiers mostly when they were on leave or in the position of hired agricultural labourers. Although farmers appreciated soldiers as cheap labourers, they were afraid of their lack of discipline and often violent behaviour. The population of smaller towns without garrisons might only have had few personal encounters with the military. In this case, the ways in which inhabitants talked about soldiers in their social environments or reports by foreigners may have played a larger role.

2.3.

Social Practice and Self-Awareness

Compared to the discourse of military enlighteners, which insights can be gained from the perspective of the social practice and the actual living conditions of soldiers? It is not possible to determine whether the examples of awards and commendations contained in enlightened writings were only isolated cases. The circumstances probably varied between different regiments and companies. However, it is certain that there were enlightened officers within the Saxon army attempting to implement their ideals in official everyday life and some succeeded. There is significant evidence for an increasingly humane approach to subordinates. The analysis of the Festungsbaustrafe (consigned to fortification 72 Daniel Hohrath, Spätbarocke Kriegspraxis und aufgeklärte Kriegswissenschaften. Neuere Forschungen und Perspektiven zu Krieg und Militär im “Zeitalter der Aufklärung”, in: Daniel Hohrath, Klaus Gerteis (eds.), Die Kriegskunst im Lichte der Vernunft. Militär und Aufklärung im 18. Jahrhundert, vol. 2, Hamburg 2000, pp. 5–47, here pp. 11–13.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

107

building), inflicted on corporals and soldiers during 1764 and 1789, indicates a noticeable assuagement of the punishment practice of Spießrutenlaufen (running the gauntlet).73 In the 1780s, the punishment of building a fortification had been inflicted only very rarely for life or indefinitely on members of the military. Its duration decreased gradually while the conditions of detention improved. This applied, in particular, to the provisions and medical treatment of detainees. The low pay for soldiers was a considerable point of criticism for the enlighteners.74 Soldiers’ net pay, last increased in 1729, was not sufficient to cover the soldier’s fundamental necessities of life, especially because a significant fall in purchasing power followed the Seven Years’ War. Without additional income, no corporal or common soldier could get by. This applied all the more when the soldier had a family to care for. The examination of the actual praxis reveals various ways of making ends meet. Income from diverse forms of secondary employment, in particular manual and day work, was the most important. Additionally, the soldier had to assert his rights against fraudulent superiors who demanded illegal payments for specific goods and services. The relation to the Quartierwirt (overseer of the soldiers’ quarters) had a financial dimension as well, since many had to be paid in cash or compensated with benefits in kind. Having considered these additional sources of income, for the poorer parts of the population serving as a soldier presented a serious alternative to other insecure or temporary means of earning a living. Service in a garrison was largely subject to normative regulations. The comrades’ conviviality and the excessive consumption of alcohol in the taverns helped to relieve the monotony of everyday life. The enlighteners demanded the introduction of garrison and regiment schools. However, apart from a few exceptions, these were introduced very hesitantly in the Electorate of Saxony and not before the 1770s.75 Much depended on the initiative of individual officers and other private persons. Prior to this schooling, most children of soldiers were reliant upon Winkelschulen (small private and charity schools) if their parents could afford it. The result was that elementary knowledge comprising reading, writing, and arithmetic was as fragmentary as was the required religious instruction. In 1738, a Soldatenknaben-Erziehungsinstitut (an educational institute primarily for children of soldiers) was established in Dresden. Although it was regarded highly and very advanced for its time, due to its lack of capacity alone it was not able to resolve the fundamental problem of the lack of educational provision for soldiers’ children.76 Furthermore, no girls were admitted. 73 74 75 76

Kroll, Soldaten (cf. note 5), pp. 310–321. Ibid., pp. 278–289. Ibid., pp. 259 s. Ibid., pp. 260–265.

108

Stefan Kroll

The soldiers’ poor reputation in the upper bourgeois classes was mainly based on their alleged inclination to outbursts and brusqueness. The service’s monotony and harshness as well as the difficult material circumstances did indeed provoke regular outbursts of frustration. These were often intensified by the influence of alcohol and directed against the quarter’s overseers with whom the soldiers formed involuntary living communities.77 These conditions had been defused after the Seven Years’ War when the praxis of Ausmieten (renting out) was widely implemented and the regulations written down in the written regulations became much more precise. Moreover, billeted soldiers and inhabitants of the town or village were connected to each other in a close-knit social network. Especially from an economic perspective, both sides could benefit from each other in many ways. However, one must not ignore that the experiences of the official daily routine influenced the soldiers’ behaviour too. Since soldiers were punished with beatings for the smallest misdemeanour and moreover trained for the killing of enemies, their level of inhibition regarding the use of violence in everyday life sank tremendously despite all the sanctions they were threatened with. This applied, in particular, for soldiers who were on vacation and therefore outside the direct sphere of influence of their military superior.78 Additionally, most soldiers were of an age at which the application of force occurred disproportionally often, even for the eighteenth century.79 Moreover, for the entire eighteenth century it can be shown that not only drill and means of coercion were applied in order to transform the recruit into an efficient soldier. In addition, different symbols and symbolic actions were employed to address the emotional dimension in the soldier’s personality. For instance, the deliberate creation of an ésprit de corps (Korpsgeist) was aimed at strengthening the communal spirit, while uniforms, flags, music, and specific rituals were intended to further a soldier’s identification with the service.80 Only the situation of war could demonstrate to which extent these arrangements worked and were able to conceal the downside of everyday military life. During the eighteenth century, war deployment for the common soldier was associated with the transition into an entirely different lifeworld. Unlike the often monotonous everyday life of marching and staying in military encampments, participation in a big battle was an extreme situation. In personal testimonies or ego-documents, corporals and soldiers reflected frequently and extensively on these events. These sources mirror the interpretive approaches and processing 77 Ibid., pp. 290–298. 78 Cf. ibid., pp. 298–307. 79 Cf. Maren Lorenz, Das Rad der Gewalt. Militär und Zivilbevölkerung nach dem Dreißigjährigen Krieg, Cologne et al. 2007, regarding this context for the second half of the seventeenth century. 80 Cf. ibid., pp. 205–220.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

109

strategies of the people affected particularly strongly. Courage, which was the first demand on a soldier, could be demonstrated in battle. Bravely contributing to a battle significantly increased the level of military esteem accorded to corporals and common soldiers. However, the question remains: what exactly was the military leadership expecting? In this respect the source of the Verzeichnis der Unteroffiziere und Soldaten vom Sächs. 1. Reichskontingente, welche sich während des Feldzuges am Rhein und der Saar 1793–94 ausgezeichnet haben81 (register of corporals and soldiers from the first Saxon contingent who excelled during the campaign at the Rhine and Saar 1793–94) is very useful. This register contains not only the names of 159 corporals and soldiers who were considered worthy of distinction, but also cites the acts which led to the honouring.82 The record is divided into sections for cavalry, artillery, and infantry and therefore allows for a differentiation according to formations. Acts that were praised as especially brave included sturdy persistence despite shelling from the enemy’s canons, prolonged firing at the approaching opponent, the defence of a bridge against a numerically superior enemy, or continued battle readiness after being wounded. Additionally, soldiers who assisted a threatened or wounded fighter out of a dangerous situation were equally commended. Servicemen who stopped the enemy by firing their complete ammunition mit Ordnung und Geschwindigkeit (in an orderly and fast manner) or who eluded capture by leaping into the Rhine earned praise, too. Long-serving corporals and soldiers were honoured multiple times as they behaved bravely and reliably on a regular basis despite their age. They served as role models for the younger comrades. Apparently, it was extraordinary for a carabineer or dragoon to keep on fighting on foot after losing his horse. In contrast, hussars were often distinguished for delivering captives or bringing back horses from their forays. Among the artillerymen, it was especially those gunners who continued shelling in great danger or under difficult conditions who were honoured. Soldiers who acted in other exemplary fashions were praised occasionally, too. Servicemen who prevented the looting of dead or wounded Frenchmen or who were unusually attentive to a wounded enemy officer were honoured for their philanthropy. This indicates that a soldier could earn accolades with particularly humane behaviour towards the enemy. In contrast, rescuing threatened comrades demonstrates a mixture between bravery and esprit de corps. How did the soldiers express themselves? Unfortunately, comparatively few letters from soldiers in the Saxon army are preserved. However, there are other sources facilitating insights into the individual processing of battle experiences. 81 HStA Dresden, Kriegsarchiv (D), No. 1396. 82 In general, the performance during and outside of battle were considered especially worthy of recognition.

110

Stefan Kroll

These include reports of the interrogations which were conducted with 28 Saxon soldiers after the battle of Hohenfriedeberg (4th June 1745).83 The significance of the question of whether a soldier acted bravely or not becomes clear here, too. Grenadier Große stated that he and his fellow comrades had fought back for an hour and had fired every single one of the 36 cartridges.84 A similar statement was made by the piper Otto: even after all of the ammunition was exhausted they fought back as long as they could and defended themselves bravely (sich gewehret, so lange sie gekonnt, und brav defendiret).85 Grenadier Tauchmann claimed that he had fought back with his fixed bayonet against superior numbers until he was floored by a blow.86 On the ground, he sustained four more wounds to the head before he lost consciousness. The musketeer Heege perceived the enemy as an overwhelming superior. Nevertheless, his regiment had fought bravely against the Prussians who were acting as Austrian auxiliary troops with 70,000 men. Although forced to withdraw, they continued firing (in einem Feuern gegen die Preußen tapffer gehalten, alleine da diese wohl mit 70,000 Mann gegen die Chur Sächßische Armée als Österreichische AuxiliarTrouppes agiret, seyen letztere um 10 Uhr im linken Fliegel sich zwar zu retiriren genöthiget worden, sie hätten aber immer im Retiriren sich wieder in Positur gesetzt und auf den Feind geschoßen).87 The cuirassier Jahn stated that his regiment (Bestenbostel) had fought three times within five hours through the Prussian cavalry while the three Austrian regiments of cavalry involved did not fight back for long.88 Considering the initial situation of the interrogations, it is surprising that quite a number of the soldiers questioned admitted an obvious lack of courage, at least indirectly. Either the soldiers themselves or their comrades took flight very quickly and without delaying resistance. The grenadier Springer reflects on that when he stated that the soldiers of his battalion fired only twice at the Prussians, withdrew through a village one mile away shortly afterwards and finally dispersed (hätten nur 2 mahl auf die Preußen gefeuret, sich aber bald darauf durch ein Dorff und 1 Meile weit retiriret, und endlich zerstreuet).89 These insufficient actions resembled the statement of the musketeer Köhler who remembered the resistance offered by his infantry regiment of Niesemuschel. On persistent inquiry he even admitted that he got lost right at the beginning of the battle and did 83 For the necessary criticism on sources cf. Kroll, Soldaten (cf. note 5), pp. 414–417. 84 HStA Dresden, Locat 423/14: Vermischte Papiere betreffs des Kriegs 1745, besonders den schlesischen Feldzug (Schlacht bei Hohenfriedeberg) betr. (1745), fol. 25 b. 85 Ibid., fol. 32 b. 86 Ibid., fol. 29 b. 87 Ibid., fol. 47 b. 88 Ibid., fol. 50 a. 89 Ibid., fol. 37 a.

The Lifeworld of Soldiers in Eighteen-Century Saxony

111

not execute his assignments sufficiently (daß er sich von seines Officiers Compagnie gleich im Anfang der Bataille verlauffen, und seine Devoirs nicht hinlänglich observiret).90 However, the reports contain no explicit evidence that the soldiers were fearful or afraid of the horrors of battle. This is not surprising since these kinds of statements probably would have entailed disciplinary action for the corporal or soldier. On the contrary, the examination of autobiographic sources demonstrates vividly that soldiers did indeed react with such feelings to life-threatening situations. A very good example for this is the biography of the furir Friedrich Christian Sohr in which he provided frank insights about his emotional life. He admits to fear and dread multiple times. Although he did not participate in a “real” battle during the War of Bavarian Succession, he regularly had forward contact with the enemy as a service member of the Saxon volunteer battalions. At the end of July in 1778, he unexpectedly received the command to advance into a forest area with Prussian hussars and other service members of his battalion. Even though he had consumed plenty of wine before, he described his following demeanour as everything but brave: While we enjoyed our meal, we received an order to come to the breakfast prepared in the forest. On the way, we encountered hussars who already had eaten the breakfast so that the blood ran down their bodies. Oh God, how anxious I felt. Now I was ordered to go in the forest where they were always shooting. The infantry proceeded and fired with canons at which the snipers and Croats withdrew and our hussars attacked again and drove the hostile cavalry back (which I approved because I was on foot and could not have run as fast as they rode, loaded with the musket, a full knapsack, a pack with army bread and two flasks of wine, from this one can easily consider that I nearly succumbed the burden of weapons and food. My front was well protected as I had all my schemata and stocked papers buttoned into it and thus a dull bullet, not a fresh one could hit me so easily, because I always kept enough distance behind me and observed the rearguard from a top level while I followed with slow steps.) The hussars always openly attacked, they beat one commander and many dragoons and hussars, and they captured one cavalry captain along with 30 men and 45 horses. Partly because of anxiety, partly because of fatigue, I sat down in a deep ditch, cut myself a slice of army bread, opened one of my flasks and revived my dull and timid heart.91

These few examples illustrating everyday military life in times of peace as well as during wartime deployment have shown that to distinguish between only one civilian and one military lifeworld, which was suggested by Michael Kaiser a few

90 Ibid., fol. 64 a. 91 F. C. S[ohr], Meine Geschichte, Görlitz 1788, pp. 37 s., translation S. K.

112

Stefan Kroll

years ago, is not sufficient.92 The soldier lived not in one, but in various lifeworlds. Military service, including sentry duty and drill, constituted only one aspect of life in the garrison. When billeted into a civilian house(hold), the soldier had to assimilate to wholly different norms and habits. Furthermore, times of administrative leave often meant returning to the rural lifeworld, where many recruits originally came from, and that was characterised by familiar relations. War deployment represented an entirely different lifeworld for the soldier, and also war imprisonment, which some experienced, was also something extraordinary. Beyond the indisputable legal difference, the examination of social praxis in the Electorate of Saxony has revealed several links and similarities between the civilian and the military population. [Henrik Bönner and Philipp Ott helped to translate the text.]

92 Michael Kaiser, Die Söldner und die Bevölkerung. Überlegungen zu Konstituierung und Überwindung eines lebensweltlichen Antagonismus, in: Stefan Kroll, Kersten Krüger (eds.), Militär und ländliche Gesellschaft in der frühen Neuzeit, Hamburg 2000, pp. 79–120, in particular pp. 110–120.

II – Western Europe

Ronald G. Asch

Introduction and Commentary

The three chapters in this section of our volume all deal with very different aspects of early modern military history, spanning the entire period from the mid-sixteenth century to the French Revolution. Enrique García Hernán focuses in his paper on the army of an empire that was truly global in scope and, although dominated to some extent by its Castilian centre, could only survive by relying on a multitude of different regional and national elites. The Spanish Habsburgs of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries had to integrate the various principalities and kingdoms that were subject to their rule within one political system, which was never free of tensions, but which nevertheless managed to survive the challenge both of almost permanent warfare and of periodic financial breakdown better than one might have expected. The Dutch Republic was in more than one way the opposite of the Spanish Empire, a comparatively small state, strongly federal and decentralised in its political structure. It was a republic dominated to a considerable extent by urban elites, though not as ‘bourgeois’ and anti-aristocratic in its outlook and cultural values as the traditional account of Dutch history wants us to believe. Finally, there is France, the greatest military power in Europe between the 1660s and the 1740s (at least as far as land warfare is concerned), which in the eighteenth century discovered that the old ‘recipes’ for military success no longer worked. Let me first say a few words about García Hernán’s chapter. Historians have often overemphasised the Spanish or rather the Castilian character of the Empire which Charles I (V) built and Philip II inherited and ruled. Not only did the famous Spanish tercios comprise only a comparatively small percentage of the troops recruited for defending the empire – soldiers and officers from Italy, from the southern Netherlands and from Germany made up the majority of the army of Flanders after 1570 for example – but the Empire also had, at times, to seek ways to come to terms with the Muslim population of North Africa. Although Spain never managed to control any larger stretches of land on the southern shore of the Mediterranean, it did succeed in occupying a number of important

116

Ronald G. Asch

coastal towns in the sixteenth century. The most important one was probably Tunis, which the Ottomans did not finally reconquer until 1575. García Hernán can show convincingly that Spain, so often depicted as a crusading power which fought Muslims wherever it could, had its own methods to win over Muslim allies when this was deemed expedient. Admittedly, Muslims who had fled from Spain or had been expelled were less than keen to live under Spanish government in North Africa, but others saw cooperation with Spain as a real alternative to Ottoman rule. In more ways than one, the Spanish forces in North Africa represented a multi-ethnic and multicultural army – a fact which did not necessarily diminish its coherence or ability to fight as García Hernán demonstrates. The Dutch army, one of Spain’s principal opponents in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, was perhaps not quite as multicultural as the Spanish one. Nevertheless, its soldiers were often mercenaries who came from outside the Dutch Republic. The Holy Roman Empire and Scotland were particularly important areas where soldiers were regularly recruited from. Consequently, the Dutch army of that time is often depicted in traditional accounts of Dutch history as constituting a world of its own, detached from the political and social life of the Republic, and even at times posing a threat to it. However, Olaf von Nimwegen in his chapter on military life in the Dutch Republic can show that this is a largely erroneous conception. There may have been some truth in this view for the late sixteenth and very early seventeenth century when the soldiers fighting for the new state were often badly paid and suffered from a lack of discipline. From the mid-seventeenth century onwards, however, the professional soldiers that served the republic developed their own esprit de corps. Furthermore, many of the highranking officers were Dutch noblemen; Dutch historians of an older generation were inclined to forget that being a member of the social elite in the Netherlands did not necessarily mean that one had to be a merchant or a member of the urban rentier class. Noble landowners played quite an important role, particularly outside the core provinces of Holland. However, even the foreigners tended to be loyal to the state that employed them. This held equally for the common soldiers who no longer served for only one or two campaigns under the Dutch command, but sometimes for their entire period of active service. Fighting for money and a sense of taking pride in the political attachment one had formed to the country one was fighting for were not mutually exclusive phenomena. This was as true for the army of a republic such as the Netherlands as for the soldiers of a multi-ethnic composite monarchy such as the Spanish Empire which García Hernan discusses in his paper. Van Nimwegen thereby confirms David Parrott’s judgement that both early modern mercenaries and military entrepreneurs were by no means as dysfunctional or potentially disloyal as has often been maintained.

Introduction and Commentary

117

Admittedly, the great time of the Dutch army was the seventeenth century, when the appeal to a sense of patriotism and national allegiance was hardly anywhere the decisive factor when rulers wanted to persuade their troops to give their utmost in battle and during a campaign. Matters changed over the course of the eighteenth century. The discourse of patriotism became increasingly important both in times of peace and war. Patriotism replaced, to some extent, the allegiance to a dynasty or to the king as a person as the most important bond between noble officers and the country they served. However, as Hervé Drévillon can show, the role of simple soldiers in battle and their motivation to fight also became an important subject of discussion from the mid-eighteenth century onwards, at least in France. Military heroes had in the past always been thought of as men of noble birth, but now the heroism of the common soldier was increasingly appreciated as an important factor which gave an army the capacity to overcome its opponents and to stand its ground in battle. But if common soldiers could be heroes or at least ‘secondary heroes’, then honour could no longer be seen as something which only aristocrats and nobles had a claim to. Honour had to be redefined in such a way that it became compatible with the ideal of a patriotic nation of soldiers and citizens. The ancien régime, with its inherited social hierarchies and manifold privileges, never really managed to resolve the problem of reconciling the honour of the common soldier, the secondary hero, with the older traditions of a society and an army dominated by a hereditary nobility. It was left to the Revolution to turn every soldier into a potential hero. No greater contrast could be imagined than that between the revolutionary armies of the 1790s and the multinational armed forces of the Spanish Empire or the professional mercenaries which the Dutch Republic employed. But before the triumph of nationalism and before patriotism replaced older concepts of allegiance, these armies had often been just as successful as the troops fighting for the French Revolution and the modern nation state. With the waning of national allegiance as a factor that can motivate men (and women) to die for their country, and given the fact that in Europe for all intents and purposes we now live in a post-heroic age, the military professionalism of the Dutch army or the ability of the Spanish crown to create an efficient force out of a very mixed bag of multiethnic units may be models which are far more pertinent for the armies of our own age than the citizen-armies of the period between the late eighteenth century and the Second World War. This may not be the master narrative which historians of an older generation tried to promote and which still often underlies recent works on military history of the early modern period, especially with regard to Western Europe (in fact, it is quite the opposite), but it may nevertheless be a new master narrative with a different political message from the old one.

Enrique García Hernán

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574. An Approach to the Problem of Coexistence and Segregation

The relationship between Christian soldiers and Muslim civilians was a constant during the fifteenth century in Spain, where the environment could be described as hostile or marked by extreme suspicion even when open war was not declared. Iberian governments had to find a policy capable of responding to the problems of maintaining order with a Muslim population. These tensions continued to exert a profound impact when Spanish soldiers settled in outposts on the North African coast in the following century. The case of the occupation of Tunis in 1535, its conferral to a Moorish ‘vassal’ ruler and eventual loss in 1574 can serve as a historiographical model to analyze the relationship between soldiers and civilians across the early modern period.1 The uneasy co-existence of civilian and military personnel across the religious divide, and in an environment in which sovereignty was separated and contested, was a feature of the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and can also be found in the history of the British settlements in India. The following article will analyze how Don John of Austria (Don Juan de Austria) managed the Spanish military presence in Tunis thanks to his instructions given to both Christian and Moorish subjects to pre1 I am indebted to Dr Philip Williams for the English translation and to Dr Markus Meumann for his comments. This paper forms part of the Project of the Spanish Ministerio de Economía y Competividad HAR 2012-36884-C02-01. See Antonio Sánchez-Gijón, La Goleta, Bona, Bugía y Africa. Los presidios del reino de Túnez en la política mediterránea del Emperador, in: Carlos José Hernando Sánchez (ed.), Las Fortificaciones de Carlos V, Madrid 2000, pp. 625–651. A general overview is provided in Enrique García Hernán, La armada española en la Monarquía de Felipe II y la defensa del Mediterráneo, Madrid 1995; an interpretation based upon sovereignty and Islamic holy law are explored in Philip Williams, Empire and Holy War in the Mediterranean. The Galley and Maritime Conflict between the Habsburgs and Ottomans, London 2014; idem, The Strategy of Galley Warfare in the Mediterranean (1560–1620), in: Enrique García Hernán, Davide Maffi (eds.), Guerra y Sociedad en la Monarquía Hispánica. Política, Estrategia y Cultura en la Edad Moderna (1500–1700), 2 vols., Madrid 2006, vol. 1, pp. 891–920. Excellent general overviews are provided in Miguel Ángel de Bunes Ibarra, Los Barbarroja. Corsarios del Mediterráneo, Madrid 2004; Beatriz Alonso Acero, Sultanes de Berbería en tierras de la cristiandad. Exilio musulmán, conversión y asimilación en la Monarquía hispánica (siglos xvi y xvii), Barcelona 2006.

120

Enrique García Hernán

serve the peace between soldiers and civilians. These instructions are preserved in the Archivo General de Simancas.2

1.

Spanish Military Rule in North Africa during the Sixteenth Century

From the late fifteenth century, Spain conquered a series of towns on the coast of North Africa. Positions at Melilla, Oran-Mers El Kebir, Bugía (Bougie, Béjaïa), Bona, Tripoli, Algiers, Peñón de Vélez de la Gomera, and La Goleta were seized and garrisoned.3 The history of these outposts or presidios presents a fascinating example of the interaction of a rather stark military ambition – the drive towards the conquest of Muslim territories, expressed in the same terms that had driven the conquest of the last Moorish kingdom in Iberia, Granada – with civilian realities that modified this aim. There was no contradiction between the Spanish society and its soldiers in North Africa, holding arms and Christian citizenship, because these soldiers were defending the Spanish monarchy as subjects of the Catholic king. The presidios in North Africa presented a striking example of a foreign military occupation, but following the excellent work of Beatriz Alonso, it is now possible to view the society that emerged in the most successful of the presidios, Oran-Mers El Kebir, as a manifestation of co-existence.4 The form of societies that emerged in these frontier outposts was characterized by collaboration between the Christian garrison and the Muslim or Moorish society (‘the Moors of Peace’). Moreover, Jews played a crucial role in conducting trade and commerce.5 Spanish military operations in the seventeenth century came to depend on wheat exported from Oran and sourced from Moorish communities.6 This was certainly the case in the most important of the presidios, the twin bastions of Oran and Mers El Kebir. Here, the relative wealth of the surrounding countryside served to foster an economic system which, if not 2 Archivo General de Simancas, Estado 1140, pp. 29–31. Don Juan de Austria, Tunis, 30th October 1574. 3 Peñón Vélez de la Gomera is part of several peñones, or rock fortresses, on the coast of North Africa, see Beatriz Alonso Acero, Cisneros y la conquista española del norte de Africa, Madrid 2006; Juan Bautista Vilar, Ramón Lourido, Relaciones entre España y el Magreb, siglos XVII y XVIII, Madrid 1994, pp. 63–88. 4 Idem, Orán-Mazalquivir, 1589–1639. Una sociedad española en la frontera de Berbería, Madrid 2000; Williams, Empire and Holy War (cf. note 1). 5 Beatriz Alonso Acero, Judíos y musulmanes en la España de Felipe II: los presidios norteafricanos, paradigma de la sociedad de frontera, in: José Martínez Millán (ed.), Felipe II (1598– 1998), Europa dividida: la monarquía católica de Felipe II, vol. 2, Madrid 1998, pp. 11–28. 6 Idem, Trenes de avituallamiento en las plazas españolas de Berbería, in: García Hernán, Maffi, Guerra y sociedad (cf. note 1), vol. 1, pp. 739–766.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

121

immune to serious fluctuations and intermittent disruptions, was nevertheless productive enough to bind Christians, Moors (Moros), and Jews in a cycle of mutual profit. The ‘Moors of Peace’, communities of Moors who acknowledged Spanish rule, provided the basis for a sophisticated economic system. In the early seventeenth century, when Castile suffered a series of terrible harvest failures, the grain from Oran played an important role in feeding the towns, armies, and navies of Spain. The key to this prosperity was the abundant supply of water in the valleys around Oran: given the relative fertility of its domains, the outpost quickly assumed the role of entrepôt, emerging not only as a trading hub and point of contact. Paradoxically, the crusading ethos which led to the conquest and settlement of Oran was all but eradicated from the society that emerged there: the culture of the city-outpost in fact perpetuated the medieval Iberian custom of convivencia (co-existence). Here, a Christian military system operated with, rather than above, a Moorish society and both benefited enormously from the trade networks which were forged by Jewish merchants. Oran therefore had much more in common with the coastal fortresses of the New World, where mestizaje (the mixing of races and cultures) was so vitally important, than with the more homogenous society in mainland Europe.7 Much research still needs to be done on the other presidios of North Africa, none of which enjoyed the same environmental benefits as Oran-Mers El Kebir. Many of the bastions maintained by the Spanish in Berbería were relatively small and isolated fortresses; often, indeed, garrisons inhabited bastions that had been built many centuries before, with obvious military deficiencies. Still, it would seem that in all of the positions – La Goleta, Bugía, Tripoli (handed over to the Order of the Knights of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem in Malta in 1530 and lost in 1551), Peñón de Vélez de la Gomera – the relationship with the local Moorish princes was important, if not decisive. Thus, one of the reasons for the failure to extend the walls of Bugía was the difficult relationship with the local Moorish communities, whose leaders were reluctant to allow the Spanish to improve their position. The frustrations inherent to life in this outpost – the constant efforts to improve the battlements and the almost inevitable failure to do so – led to serious tensions between the commanders sent by Charles V (1500– 1558) to govern it. The position at La Goleta, captured in 1535 by the Emperor, was marked by a similarly fraught relationship with the local elites.

7 José Luis Gonzalo Sánchez-Molero, Beatriz Alonso Acero, Alá en la corte de un príncipe cristiano: el horizonte musulmán en la formación de Felipe II (1532–1557), in: Torre de los Lujanes 35 (1998), pp. 109–140; Paola Castaño Rodríguez, Tres aproximaciones al mestizaje en América Latina colonial, in: Historia crítica 23 (2003), pp. 115–134; Juan B. Olaechea Labayen, El mestizaje como gesta, Madrid 1992; Henry Kamen, Spain’s Road to Empire: How Spain Became a World Power, 1492–1763, London 2002.

122

Enrique García Hernán

The work of scholars over the last 20 years has transformed our understanding of the military system established by the Spanish monarchy in North Africa in the early modern period.8 This is especially true in regards to the question of the coexistence and segregation of Christian military personnel and Muslim civilians. Many scholars today would draw parallels between the monarchy’s military system in ‘Barbary’ (Berbería) in the early modern period – its chain of coastal outposts or presidios in modern day Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya – and the system previously established in the Kingdom of Castile in the course of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in reconquered cities and towns in the South of Spain.9 In both systems, royal power was expressed and maintained through the fortress, and an attempt was made to demarcate areas of influence within the town or city in order to segregate Christian soldiers from a society in which Muslims formed the great majority of the population. This policy was implemented with the aim of avoiding the sort of tensions that inevitably arose as a result of the proximity of two or three faiths in recently-conquered territories. While the authority of the king was in theory absolute over his Christian, Jewish, and Muslim subjects in North Africa, in practice, vast amounts of political, economic, social, and legal authority were conceded to the Muslim community and its leaders. A society organized on Islamic precepts paid homage to its Christian king or ‘overlord’, with both the ruler and the subjects operating on the explicit understanding that all efforts would be made to avoid tensions.10 The strategic interest of the monarchy in North Africa was almost entirely military, being designed to contain the wave of Ottoman advances. Having said this, the possibility of commercial activity was never entirely discounted. The 8 Sánchez Gijón, La Goleta (cf. note 1), pp. 625–651; Robert Mantran, L’évolution des relations entre la Tunisie et l’Empire ottoman du XVIe au XIXe siècle, in: Les Cahiers de la Tunisie 7 (1959), pp. 319–333; Salvatore Bono, Documenti inediti e rari sulla storia della Tunisia negli anni 1573–1574, in: Studi Maghrebini 1 (1966), pp. 91–101; idem, Documents italiens sur la Reconquête Musulmane de Tunis (1574), in: Actes du Premier Congrès d’Histoire et de la Civilisation du Maghreb (1974), Tunis 1979, vol. 2, pp. 29–35; idem, L’ occupazione spagnuola e la riconquista musulmana de Tunisia (1573–1574), in: Africa (1978), pp. 351–382; Paul Sebag, La Goulette et sa forteresse de la fin du XVIe siècle à nos jours, in: Revue de l’Institut des Belles Lettres Arabes 30 (1967), pp. 13–34; idem, Une relation inédite sur la prise de Tunis par les Turcs en 1574, Tunis 1971; Alessandro Ripa di Meana, Gli italiani in Africa, ossia gli assedi della Goletta e del forte di Tunisi nel 1574, Torino 1865; Paul Sebag, Une ville européenne à Tunis au XVIe siècle, in: Les Cahiers de la Tunisie 8 (1961), pp. 97–108. 9 Miguel Ángel Ladero Quesada, La toma de Mazalquivir y el retorno de Nápoles. Julio de 1505– Junio de 1506, in: La España Medieval 36 (2013), pp. 183–224; Idem, Recursos militares y guerras de los Reyes Católicos, in: Revista de Historia Militar, extra 1 (2001), pp. 361–382. 10 Anne Brogini, María Ghazali, Un enjeu espagnol en Méditerranée: les présides de Tripoli et de La Goulette au XVIe siècle, in: Cahiers de la Méditerranée 70 (2005), http://cdlm.revues.org/ 840; Andrew C. Hess, The Forgotten Frontier: A History of the Sixteenth-century IberoAfrican Frontier, Chicago 2010; Halil I˙nalcık, The Ottoman Empire: The Classical Age 1300– 1600, Phoenix 2000.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

123

‘capitulations’ of treaties signed between the monarchy and the Hafsí rulers included contingencies for trade: the clause eight of the agreement signed in 1535, for instance, set down the terms of communication and exchange.11 Prior to the capture of the city, a certain degree of importance had been allocated to the Jewish community of Tunis, although it was later found out that this group had fled before the arrival of the Christian force in 1573. Orders were dispatched to determine which properties they had left behind. There were also rumors of prosperous Turkish businessmen who had fled, leaving behind a considerable fortune.12 The principal purpose of these bastions was to contain the Ottoman advance, and to this end in 1535 Charles V captured the fortresses of La Goleta and Tunis, and received the pledge of homage from the Hafsí (sometimes ‘Hafsid’) rulers of the city as his subjects. His suzerainty over the Kingdom of Tunis having been established, the Emperor faced the dilemma about the direction of his general policy in North Africa or Barbary. One option was to establish a permanent military presence in order to press forward with conquests, and thus draw the fighting away from the coasts of Spain; the alternative policy was to retain a limited defensive capacity based on the use of coastal forts and vassalage agreements with local Moorish rulers. While both strategies can be described as essentially defensive in nature, the latter depended on giving the initiative to the Ottoman Turks, almost challenging the sultan to embark on the vast expense of major campaigns in the Mediterranean summer. In general, Charles V and Philip II (1556–1598) followed this second policy. Certainly, this was the case in 1535, when the city of Tunis and the old fort or alcazaba were returned to the Hafsid ruler. In trying to understand this Realpolitik, it is necessary to take into account the question of manpower: put in the simplest terms, the Spanish monarchy was always adversely affected by the imbalance between the needs or priorities of strategy and the number of troops available to it.13 Given the enormous scale of Philip II’s commitments in Spain, North Africa, Italy, and the Low Countries, the king was constantly aware of the need to preserve troops – especially his veteran soldiers. The demands of war drove commanders to employ civilian personnel. 11 Primitivo Mariño, Tratados internacionales de España. Carlos V. II. España-Norte de Africa, Madrid 1980, pp. 49 s.; see also Alfredo Alvar Ezquerra, José Ignacio Ruiz Rodríguez, Túnez 1535: halcones y halconeros, Madrid 2010. In 1537, 1538 and 1539 two asientos or militarycommercial contracts were signed by the Viceroy of Sicily and the ‘King of Tunis’; unfortunately Muley Hazen did not adhere to the terms of these agreements. 12 Enrique García Hernán, Conquista y pérdida de Túnez por don Juan de Austria (1573–74), in: Guerra e Pace in età moderna. Annali di storia militare europea 2 (2010), pp. 39–95. 13 On the role of the tercio of Sicily, see Carlos Belloso Martín, La antemuralla de la monarquía. Los Tercios españoles en el Reino de Sicilia en el Siglo XVI, Madrid 2010.

124

Enrique García Hernán

In the last ten years, scholars have turned their attention to the important role played by militias and gente de guerra in the monarchy.14 The establishment of permanent military forces was a surprisingly complex and demanding task. The Council of War faced serious difficulties in establishing a general militia in Castile. The project to create the ‘Old Guards of Castile’ from 1493 to 1703 was at best only partially successful.15 The principal problem lay in securing the collaboration of the key power groups in Castile – the municipalities, local oligarchs, and feudal lords, with their numerous jurisdictions, exemptions and privileges – and who were not always forthcoming in supporting the ambitions of the crown. The militias evolved – or degenerated – from being a sort of semi-professional force to a form of indirect taxation on the population, as local oligarchs and nobles were able to acquire and control the major militia posts to use them as a source of political power to serve their own ends. There was a crucial advantage in pursuing this policy: an individual could be dispensed from serving in the militia by making a monetary contribution to the capitán. This right effectively allowed the captains to transform their companies from a semi-professional militia unit into a source of valuable income.16 The multiplicity of forms of state formation in the early modern period is now being recognized by historians. Far from emerging in a linear form (‘a military revolution’), the fiscal-military state was established and extended in a protracted and often contradictory series of military transformations, which were themselves the result of the intense pressures exerted by conflict. Following David Parrott’s recent important study of the ‘business of war’, it is possible to view the attempts by the Spanish monarchy to use Hafsí rulers as contractors in their wars against the Ottoman Empire as part of a process through which all governments passed.17 In general terms, the New Military History has tended to blur the division between military and social history, arguing that the imposition of this boundary was anachronistic. In one sense, the example of Tunis in 1573–74 may prove an exception to this rule, insofar as the intention of Don John of Austria, the half14 On militias, see José Javier Ruiz Ibáñez (ed.), Las milicias del rey de España. Sociedad, política e identidad en las Monarquías Ibéricas, Madrid 2009. For reform plans for the militias in Spain cf. Enrique García Hernán, Milicia General en la Edad Moderna. El Batallón de don Rafael de la Barreda y Figueroa, Madrid 2003. 15 Enrique Martínez Ruiz, Magdalena de Pazzis Pi Corrales, Las Guardas de Castilla (primer ejército permanente español), Madrid 2013. 16 Antonio Jiménez Estrella, Las milicias en Castilla: evolución y proyección social de un modelo de defensa alternativo al ejército de los Austrias, in: Ruiz Ibáñez, Las milicias (cf. note 14), pp. 72–102. 17 I. A. A.Thompson, War and Government in Habsburg Spain 1560–1620, London 1976; David Parrott, The Business of War. Military Enterprise and Military Revolution in Early Modern Europe, Cambridge 2012.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

125

brother of Philip II and his commander in the Mediterranean (capitán general del mar Mediterráneo), and his officers was precisely to impose a strict demarcation between civilian and military personnel. In one sense, this prefigured the norms found in eighteenth-century warfare, when the despised soldiers would be exiled to the barracks and so separated from society. On the other hand, the attempt at Tunis proved wholly unsuccessful and may have been unrealistic. The example of Tunis demonstrates that the effective exercise of European military authority was dependent on collaboration with the local population, in this case the Moors of the city. While the seaside fortress deploying new technology has had many distinguished advocates among historians, the example of Tunis demonstrates the extent to which the effective work of the coastal presidio required the establishment of a stable relationship with the indigenous society and its elites, with all of the concessions, compromises, anomalies, and ambiguities that this demanded.18 The Portuguese and Spanish empires in the New Worlds were based on the inevitable mixture of cultures and races; while Don John’s plans looked back to the Middle Ages and the patterns of settlement and control established in southern Spain after the phases of re-conquest.19 An interesting parallel can be found in the cities maintained by the British East India Company in the second half of the seventeenth century. Here, the government in cities such as Bombay and Madras was also committed to a policy of religious tolerance. The government respected the indigenous courts and customs, while seeking to mobilize Hindus and Muslims in the local militias. So great, in fact, was the degree of reliance upon these non-British militias that one complaint was that the influence of the government extended no further than the garrison walls.20 Yet, Don John of Austria was aware that this initiative depended on resurrecting the old relationship with members of the Hafsí dynasty and their Moorish subjects. The Spanish monarchy therefore not only recognized the status of the Moors as its subjects, but also did everything in its power in order to try to engineer the toleration of their religious practices and cultural customs as Muslims. This proved to be too difficult to achieve, and the failure of this program clearly contributed to the defeat of 1574, when a huge Ottoman expeditionary force of irregular troops of Muslims from Anatolia was able to capture La 18 On fortifications in the Mediterranean, cf. John Francis Guilmartin, Jr., Gunpowder and Galleys. Changing Technology and Mediterranean Warfare at Sea in the 16th Century, 2nd ed., London 2003. 19 García Hernán, Conquista (cf. note 12), pp. 39–95; Bartolomé Bennassar, Don Juan de Austria, un héroe para un imperio, Madrid 2000; Charles Truxillo, Crusaders in the Far East. The Moro Wars in the Philippines in the Context of the Ibero-Islamic World War, Fremont, CA 2012. 20 Philip J. Stern, The Company-State. Corporate Sovereignty and the Early Modern Foundations of the British Empire in India, Oxford et al. 2010.

126

Enrique García Hernán

Goleta, which had been in Christian hands since 1535, and Tunis, focusing on marriage as an element of state building.21 Before proceeding, two important remarks must be made. The first is that there was always great doubt in the king’s mind about the wisdom of Don John’s policy of retaining Tunis. Many of his senior strategists believed that this was an unwise choice, and Philip II in fact issued instructions in September 1574 to destroy the citadel in the city (which was still incomplete) and retreat back to La Goleta. By this point, both fortresses had already fallen.22 The second observation concerns the política de convivencia in Tunis itself: the aim of this policy was not to engineer a multicultural society in which different faiths and traditions would be treated as equals. Rather than forge a single social order in which Muslim and Christian, soldier and civilian, would live side by side, the government tried to keep the military and non-military groups apart as often as possible, hoping that both groups would realize that they shared a number of common goals, the most obvious being their antipathy to the Ottoman Empire and the need to resist its expansionist tendencies. To this end, the city of Tunis was segregated, with the government imposing boundaries or limits within which the respective communities had to exist. Three challenges existed to this policy, although it has to be admitted that all three remain, to some extent, beyond the range of the Christian documentation. The first of these was that the factions and rivalries within the ruling Hafsí family greatly complicated matters for the Spanish and their client ruler, Muley Mohammed. The second major difficulty lay in the presence in Tunis of a community of exiled Moriscos, or ‘new Christians’, who had left Spain in response to the government’s attempts to eradicate their Muslim identities; of particular importance was the group that had migrated to Tunis during or as a result of the ‘War of Granada’ of 1568–1570. The third problem lay in the presence of a group who proclaimed that loyalty to Islam should overrule all other points of allegiance in Tunis, and who therefore sought to engineer the return of the Ottoman Empire, which it heralded as the leader of the Muslim brotherhood. After 1535, the Spanish administration in La Goleta, which fell under the jurisdiction of the kingdom of Sicily, carefully followed the disputes within the Hafsí dynasty, above all because of the difficult relationship that existed between the subjects of Tunis and the Christian soldiers of the presidio. While the overall strategic interests of the Hafsí and the Habsburgs led to cooperation, in practice, numerous disputes and incidents, some of them quite violent and serious, served to complicate this relationship. The most important challenge to this alliance 21 Amy Aisen Kallander, Women, Gender and the Palace Households in Ottoman Tunisia, Austin, TX 2013. 22 García Hernán, Conquista (cf. note 12), pp. 39–95.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

127

came from the presence in Tunis of exiled Moriscos. Since the 1520s, groups of Moriscos had settled in and around Tunis, looking for stability, prosperity, and the opportunity to practice their Islamic faith, and during the War of Granada this community grew rapidly. This development led to a point of tension. Charles V had ‘capitulated’, or agreed with Muley Hazen that Hazen would interdict Moriscos from settling in his territories; both rulers agreed to treat this group as common enemies. Aware of the relative ambiguity of the ‘fealty’ of his Hafsí ‘vassal-king’, Charles V attempted to incorporate the dynasty into his monarchy. In 1543 and 1545, a number of military-economic contracts (asientos) were signed with the aim of establishing Mohammed, son of Muley Hazen, as a contractor serving the Spanish monarchy (he was described as the infante, or crown prince). These accords had no implications.23 The significance of these contracts should not, however, be overlooked: had they come to fruition, the consequences would have been to turn Mohammed into a contractor in a similar way that Andrea Doria, the famous Genoese admiral, was a businessman serving the crown.24 Moreover, the very fact of the existence of these contracts identified Muley Mohammed as the Spanish candidate to the throne in preference to his brother, Muley Hamida. The fraternal rivalry would be an on-going feature of the history of the Kingdom of Tunis. A number of other problems arose. In the first place, Muley Hazen failed to pay the tribute to the Emperor which had been specified in the capitulations of 1535. Nor did he respect the commercial privileges and religious liberties which, by virtue of the treaties with the Emperor, he had promised to extend to Christians in his ‘kingdom’. In turn, his policies were shaped by a series of internal tensions. As we have seen, he faced criticism from a faction that advocated a more hardline Islamic policy that would have brought about an alliance with the Ottomans against the Spanish monarchy. One of the manifestations of the tensions implicit in the government of Tunis after 1535 lay in occasional attacks by groups of Moorish cavalry on Spanish troops, with the result that the Christian soldiers of the presidio of La Goleta had to arm themselves when they ventured out from the citadel. Another on-going point of tension lay in the clause that the Moors should hand over to the governor of the fort any soldiers who sought to desert and ‘turn Turk’, to become a Muslim. It should also be added that a number of the

23 Sadok Boubaker, L’empereur Charles Quint et le sultan hafside Mawlay al-Hasan (1525– 1550), in: idem, Clara Ilham Alvarez Dopico (eds.), Empreintes espagnoles dans l’histoire tunisienne, Gijón 2011, pp. 13–57. 24 Thomas Allison Kirk, Genoa and the Sea. Policy and Power in an Early Modern Maritime Republic, 1559–1684, Baltimore, MD 2005; Luca Lo Basso, Uomini da remo. Galee e galeotti nel Mediterraneo in età moderna, Milano 2003.

128

Enrique García Hernán

governors of La Goleta were investigated for illegal commercial activities.25 In 1547 and 1548, a new treaty was agreed with Hamida, although this did little to allay the tensions. Indeed, the grievances of the Christians were made public in 1550, when Pedro de la Cueva published his Dialogue that deals with the rebellion of the Kingdom of Tunis after it was won by His Majesty.26 The tension between Moors and Spaniards in Tunis had increased in 1568/69 as a result of the rebellion of the Moriscos of Granada against the king. In the course of this violent revolt, a sizeable community of ‘new Christians’ fled southern Spain and settled in Tunis.27 In turn, the fighting in Granada must be understood as a manifestation of the broader Ottoman-Habsburg clash. The rebels in southern Spain were able to draw upon the assistance of the Ottoman Turks. In 1569, Sultan Selim II (1566–1574) decided to assist the revolt of the Moriscos and to take advantage of Philip II’s commitment in Granada in order to seize the city of Tunis. Both decisions were clearly part of a coherent strategy whose aim was to extend Constantinople’s influence in the region.28 The city of Tunis was captured for the Ottoman Turks by Aluchalí (Euch Alí), a Calabrian renegade and renowned corsair, who had served as governor of Algiers since 1568. Having successfully conquered the city, he left the Sardinian renegade, Caito Ramdhan, as governor of Tunis. Caito Ramdhan was able to establish a political relationship with a member of the Hafsí dynasty, Muley Hamida. At this juncture it is difficult to state the level of complicity between Hamida and the Ottoman officers, as this alliance or understanding operated largely beyond the Christian documentation. It can only be said with certainty that Muley Hamida was presented in the royal correspondence as a figure opposed to the alliance with the Spanish monarchy, and therefore, by the logic of his position, he was amenable to Ottoman interests.29 In 1569, Muley Hamida made a move against his father, Muley Hazen, Charles V’s unreliable ally, and overthrew him. Whether he did so with explicit backing from the Ottoman Empire is not clear. Having expelled his father, Hamida 25 Gennaro Variale, Un juicio de Frontera: el caso de Francisco de Tovar, Alcalde de La Goleta, in: Juan Luis Castellano, Miguel López-Guadalupe Muñoz (eds.), Actas de la XI reunión científica de la fundación española de historia moderna, Universidad de Granada, Granada 2012, vol. 1, pp. 1224–1232. 26 Diálogo que trata de la rebelión del reino de Túnez después que S.M. lo ganó, Ms. in: Real Academia de la Historia 3/8921(2). 27 Enrique García Hernán, De la Guerra de Granada a la Batalla de Lepanto: progresos de una armada moderna, in: Revista de Historia Naval 14/54 (1996), pp. 53–68. 28 Miguel Ángel de Bunes Ibarra, La imagen de los musulmanes y del norte de África en la España de los siglos XVI y XVII. Los caracteres de una hostilidad, Madrid 1989; Alonso Acero, Sultanes (cf. note 1); Isabelle Poutrin, Convertir les musulmans. Espagne, 1491–1609, Paris 2012. 29 See instructions of Don Juan in: Archivo General de Simancas, Estado 1140, 29.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

129

reached an accommodation of sorts with Aluchalí (Euch Alí) and Caito Ramdhan in 1569; for the next four years, Hazen lived in an unidentified village or position (Coraino), a few miles from the walls of Tunis. According to one document, it was he who was ‘ruling’ when the army, led by Don John, arrived at the gates of the city in 1573. At this stage, Don John decided to send Hamida to Sicily and appointed his brother, Mohammed, who previously had been in exile in Sicily, as ‘the governor of the Moorish people’.30 The Ottoman advance in 1569 had, however, been limited in its ambition. Philip II of Spain retained the fortress of La Goleta, on the isthmus of Tunis. This outpost was extremely expensive to maintain. Philip II retained it because it was a means of restraining the Barbary corsairs, who operated under Ottoman protection and who inflicted a great deal of damage on his states and kingdoms with their constant attacks and raids.31 The Spanish monarchy had little or no economic interest in La Goleta or Tunis, as the terrain of the regions to the East of the town of Bona was extremely poor and supported only a relatively low level of economic activity. Having surveyed the fortress at Bona in 1541, Charles V immediately decided to abandon it; his only concern was to make sure that the enemy could never again make use of the town.32 A similar conclusion was reached with regards to the important position at Mahdia (‘África’), captured in 1550 and abandoned and destroyed in 1554.33

2.

Christians and Muslims in Tunis 1572–1574

The Spanish occupation of the city of Tunis in 1573/74 can also be seen as a chapter in the ferocious rivalry between two brothers, Muley Hamida and Muley Mohammed, both of whom commanded the loyalty of extensive factions. Philip II decided to try to smooth troubled waters with bribes, offering both siblings salaries and pensions to serve him. These propositions were made by Philip II in spite of the oft-repeated observation that little in the way of loyalty could be expected from either of them.34 Between 1569 and 1573, Mohammed had re30 Salvatore Bono, Tunisi e La Goleta negli anni 1573–1574, in: Africa 31 (1976), pp. 1–39; idem, L’occupazione spagnuola e la riconquista musulmana di Tunisi (1573–1574), in: Africa 33 (1978), pp. 351–381; idem, Documenti inediti e rari sulla storia della Tunisia negli anni 1573– 1574, in: Studi Magrebini 1 (1966), pp. 91–101. 31 Gianclaudio Civale, Tunisi spagnola, tra violenza e coesistenza (1573–74), in: Mediterranea. Ricerche storiche 8/21 (2011), pp. 51–88; Ricardo González Castrillo, La pérdida de La Goleta y Túnez en 1574 y otros sucesos de historia otomana narrados por un testigo presencial: Alonso de Salamanca, in: Anales de Estudios Árabes 3 (1992), pp. 247–286. 32 Sánchez-Gijón, La Goleta (cf. note 1), pp. 641–645. 33 On the terrain around Tripoli see Bunes Ibarra, La imagen (cf. note 28), p. 25 s. 34 Williams, Empire and Holy War (cf. note 1), Introduction and chapter 8.

130

Enrique García Hernán

peatedly urged the king to undertake the expedition to Tunis to remove his brother and establish – or, strictly speaking, re-establish – the entire kingdom under the suzerainty of the Spanish monarchy. Some statesmen believed that the rivalry between the two pretenders should be encouraged. The Viceroy of Sicily advised the king that Mohammed went to Tunis “to move new disagreements in those parts, from which it will result that the affairs of the enemy will be diminished […]”.35 It is worth noting that the viceroy referred to the Moors as ‘enemies’. The policy of the Spanish monarchy in Tunis could perhaps be described as that of ‘divide and rule’, employing one faction to exhaust the energies of the other. The famous battle of Lepanto (7th October 1571) has attracted the interest of an enormous number of historians over many centuries.36 In contrast, the conquest of the city of Tunis (11th October 1573) by Don John and the subsequent loss of La Goleta (25th August 1574) and Tunis (13th September 1574) have drawn relatively little interest, although the latter two events culminated in a great loss of life, even regarding standards of those days.37 In 1573, Don John was in command of a total of 12,694 men, although he returned to Sicily; he also had some 500 horses at his disposition. There were 972 aventureros – troops that can be described as adventurers or volunteers who served in the hope of gaining experience, fame and wealth – and 700 builders or gastadores. The regiment (tercio) of Lope de Figueroa had 2,918 men; the old tercio of Naples had 2,380 men. There were another 515 Spanish aventureros, 5,505 Italian infantry, the coronelía of Jerónimo Londrón with 788 troops, 56 German aventureros, and 4,000 German troops who travelled aboard ships. A relatively large garrison was left to defend La Goleta and the newly constructed fort at Tunis.38 Manpower was always in short supply for the monarquía de España. This became emphatically clear in 1574, in the wake of the defeats in North Africa. Given the scale of the losses in Tunis, Philip II had to rethink his plans. In early October 1574, he asked for a report on his forces in Italy and the remaining 35 Archivo General de Simancas, Estado 1139, 44. Terranova to the King, Palermo, 20th April 1573. The proposals of Mohamed to Philip II, Estado 1139, 50 y 99, 20th April 1572 and 2nd June 1573. 36 See David and Enrique García Hernán, Lepanto. El día después, Madrid 1999; Roberto Muñoz Bolaños, Dionisio A. Cueto, La batalla de Lepanto, 1571, Madrid 2003; Hugh Bicheno, La batalla de Lepanto, Madrid 2006; María José Rodríguez Salgado, Felipe II el Paladín de la Cristiandad y la paz con el turco, Valladolid 2004. 37 Geronimo de Torres y Aguilera, Chronica y recopilación de varios successos de guerra que ha acontescido en Italia y partes de Levante y Berbería desde que el Turco Selín rompió con venecianos y fue sobre la isla de Chipre, año MDLXX, hasta que se perdió la Goleta y fuerte de Túnez en el de MDLXIIII, Zaragoza 1579. Biblioteca Nacional de Madrid, Ms. 1750. Relación del suceso de la Goleta y fuerte de Túnez y ysla de Estaño, 1574, fol. 152–161. 38 García Hernán, Conquista (cf. note 12), pp. 39–95.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

131

presidios in North Africa. A memorandum was compiled and arrived on his desk in November. In Italy, there were normally 4,000 soldiers in Naples, 3,000 in Sicily, and another 3,000 in Lombardy. Of the regiments or tercios of Naples, 7 companies (1,400 troops) had been in Tunis; moreover, 40 men from all of the other 9 companies (360 troops) had been moved to the garrisons in the city and La Goleta. Therefore, a total of 1,760 men from the regiment had been in Tunis, meaning that only 2,240 men remained in the Kingdom of Naples. For some time, the tercio of Sicily had been slightly lower than its nominal size, with 2,500 men or fewer. Six hundred had been stationed in the plazas in Barbary, and the viceroy had asked for these troops to be replaced. Therefore, just under 2,000 troops remained. Don John had taken the lion’s share (1,500) of the tercio of Don Lope de Figueroa, which previously had been garrisoned in Sardinia. He had also removed 1,500 men from the tercio of Lombardy. In total, in October 1574, Don John was in command of some 7,000 troops. If another operation against La Goleta had to be undertaken, he needed about 6,000 troops to realize the expedition with confidence. But if he were to do this, only 1,000 men would remain in Italy. This was an extremely small number. The only solution was to raise another 6,000 men in Spain and send them to Naples and Sicily to ‘re-inflate the tercios’ of those kingdoms, and dispatch another 500 to Milan.39 The defense of these kingdoms was a pressing concern. The king set down a series of measures that were to be adopted immediately. He was conscious of the fact that since the arrival of Don John in Italy, the Kingdoms of Naples and Sicily had contributed around 2,000,000 escudos – an enormous amount. However, he insisted that these kingdoms should continue to pay “as it is done for their defense”.40 With regards to the nationalities of the men under Don John, the Council of War had the following information: Spaniards Germans The regiment of Octavio Gonzaga The regiment of Segismundo Gonzaga The regiment of Stefano Mari The regiment of Tiberio Brancacio The regiment of the Duke of Boyano Adventurers Total

6,000 2,000 1,800 1,500 800 800 3,000 500 16,400

While the new fort at Tunis was being built, Don John ordered the stationing of a garrison inside the alcazaba, the old castle palace. Andrés de Salazar was put in charge of this position, with 4,000 Italians in a tercio under the command of the 39 Ibid. 40 See Archivo General de Simancas, Guerra Antigua 78, 302; Estado 1142, 206. The military reports about Tunis in 1574.

132

Enrique García Hernán

colonel (maestre de campo) Pagano Doria. The overall commander was Gabrio Cerbellón, who held the title of ‘captain general of the artillery of the fleet’. The infante Muley Mohammed was responsible for the civil government of the Moros. As mentioned above, Don John sent Muley Hamida with his servants and children in two galleys to Palermo; they were instructed to remain there indefinitely, until Philip II decided what to do with them. This was a decision which Don John would come to regret. The crucial issue was the extent to which Moors and Christians could work side-by-side in order to prepare the city and its two fortresses (La Goleta and the new one which Don John ordered to be built) for the expected Ottoman assault. The government faced a task of considerable complexity, as Don John’s troops had subjected the city to a terrible sack in 1573, similar in scope to the one which had been perpetrated in 1535 by Charles V’s army. Don John’s instructions to Gabrio Cerbellón and the infante Muley Mohamed were to cooperate in order to achieve the desired harmony and collaboration between the Christian military and the Moorish civilians. These ‘Instructions’ are, therefore, a historical document of substantial religious, cultural, and military importance, representing orders given to a Christian captain-general (who was an illegitimate brother of the king) and a Muslim ‘prince’, to work together in order to defend a position against an anticipated Ottoman attack.41 The terms of this cooperation were set out in reference to the suzerainty of the Spanish monarchy over the Kingdom of Tunis, thus presupposing a degree of collaboration and common interest, which defied the paradigm of the Muslim-Christian conflict. In return, all forms of respect and protection were extended to the Moorish population by the government. The Islamic faith was not only tolerated but also respected.42 To this end, Don John proclaimed a law underlining the authority of Muley Mohammed and affirming that the Moors “can live by their law and with the same rights and customs that they usually exercise”. Neither the Church nor the secular authorities were to act against the “laws and customs of the people of Tunis […] but instead all of these matters should be referred to the authority, order and government of Muley Mohammed. The Moors must be certain that they will not receive any ill-treatment”.43 The instructions given to Muley Mohammed provide a template for co-existence: the Christians were not to enslave any Moro, nor seize their clothes, money or property. The objective was to achieve peace and justice between Moors and Christians, “and the Moros will not receive any ill-treatment nor harm, but 41 Ibid., Estado 1140, 29–31. Don John of Austria, Tunis, 30th October 1574. 42 Louis Poinssot, Raymond Lantier, Les gouverneurs de La Goulette durant l’occupation espagnole (1535–1574), in: Revue Tunisienne 2 (1930), pp. 216–252. 43 Archivo General de Simancas, Estado 1140. 30. Patent of Don John of Austria, 19th October 1573.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

133

rather will be afforded all charity, benevolence and generosity”. To this end, no efforts were to be made to convert them to Christianity; indeed, the orders went further, specifying that no discussions were to be entered on the matter of religion and that the Muslims were to be left in peace to celebrate their rites and customs. While these clauses suggest a relatively enlightened and progressive attitude towards the religious division, in reality the ambitions of the government were very limited and based on an extremely pessimistic view of the likelihood of achieving ‘co-existence’.44 The two communities were kept apart: insofar as possible, all forms of interaction had to be prevented. One of the points given to the infante specifies “that between the Christians and Moros, no discussions or ordinary conversations should be allowed”.45 Accordingly, the city was divided and segregated. The roads which fed into the main street of the Christian areas or quarters were blocked off, “so that the Moros can live in this manner with more satisfaction and calm in their houses […] and you shall not allow that any Moor should go to live in the areas dedicated to the Christians, nor to the contrary that any Christian live amongst the Moors”. Certain areas were dedicated to commerce, and a market area was designated; mosques were not allowed in the Christian areas, while the Spanish, Italian, and German soldiers were not permitted “to speak to Moorish females, nor to take their veil from them, nor to commit with them any indecency”.46 One of the major problems in implementing this policy – perhaps, indeed the principal problem – lay in the presence of Moriscos who had recently arrived as refugees or exiles from Granada. These groups had good cause to resent the Spanish: the governments of Granada and Valencia had promised to respect their beliefs and cultures but the crown had subsequently forced them to convert to Christianity.47 Don John promised to the infante that such events would not happen again, stressing to Mohammed his right to govern the Moors according to their rites, laws and customs. Not everyone was so conciliatory. The Viceroy of Sicily, Pedro Portocarrero, proposed that the Moriscos, who had fled from Granada and Valencia, should be arrested and enslaved in Tunis and those Muslims who turned out to be renegades – in other words, Christians who had converted to Islam – should be condemned to the galleys.48 This was, obviously, a 44 About the pessimistic view see Alonso Acero, Sultanes (cf. note 1). 45 Archivo General de Simancas, Estado 1140, 29–31. Don John of Austria, Tunis, 30th October 1574. 46 Ibid. 47 A great deal has been written on the ‘New Christians’: Antonio Domínguez Ortiz, Bernard Vincent, Historia de los moriscos. Vida y tragedia de una minoría, Madrid 1978; Miguel Ángel de Bunes Ibarra, Los moriscos en el pensamiento histórico. Historiografía de un grupo marginado, Madrid 1983. 48 Archivo General de Simancas, Estado 1141, 108. Portocarrero to Terranova, La Goleta, 26th July 1574.

134

Enrique García Hernán

relatively hardline approach and was not in accordance with the instructions given by Don John and Philip II. In response, the king informed Portocarrero that this policy would be counterproductive in relation to the renegades: “none of them would want to return to Christianity for fear” of being condemned to the galleys.49 He did, however, agree on the potential danger posed by the Moriscos being garrisoned in or allowed access to the forts of La Goleta and Tunis. The king proposed Morisco soldiers (who had converted to Christianity) and former renegades (meaning, soldiers who were now Christians but had previously converted to Islam) should be sent to Sicily in order to prevent them from acting as spies.50 While this measure can by no means be read as indicative of a desire to introduce a policy based upon the ideal of co-existence in the modern sense, it again underlines the relatively ambiguous or mixed status of the garrisons: clearly ‘new Christian’ soldiers and former ‘Christians of Allah’ were prominent in the companies guarding these vital strategic positions.51 The terms of this legislation suggest that the government took the presence of Moriscos in and around Tunis as given, and was willing to accept their presence in order to secure harmony. The underlying assumption held that the phenomenon of conversion was somehow inevitable and ineradicable: it was extremely difficult to stop men from converting from one faith to the other; paradoxically, the relative fluidity of religious identities served to heighten tensions. The government certainly implemented a range of measures in an attempt to prevent conversion from one faith to the other. The order was given that Moors who presented themselves to the garrison at La Goleta with the intention of being baptized should be returned to ‘the governor of the Moors’. By the same standard, those Christian soldiers who sought to abandon their posts and ‘take the turban’ were to be handed back to Philip II’s officials. Don John also prohibited the practice of soldiers ransacking houses in search of money. Any cash confiscated in this way was to be returned to its original owners. While the details of the instructions were often based on an extremely pessimistic view of the possibility of peaceful coexistence, the tone of these documents frequently suggested that all actions should be guided by a sense of generosity and patience. The instructions for Cerbellón were very clear on this point: It would be of enormous benefit to take great vigilance and care so that the Moors see that they will be treated with humanity and kindness, and you should order it so that the soldiers, both Spanish and Italian, and all other persons who remain in Tunis, will not

49 Ibid., Estado 1140, 29–31. Don John of Austria, Tunis, 30th October 1574. 50 Ibid., Estado 1140, 154. Philip II to Don Pedro Portocarrero. Madrid 13th Novembre 1572. 51 On renegades, see Lucile and Bartolomé Bennassar, Les Chrétiens d’Allah. Histoire extraordinaire des rénegats XVIe–XVIIe siècles, Paris 1989; Anita Gonzalez-Raymond, La Croix et le Croissant. Les inquisiteurs des iles face à l’Islam 1550–1700, Paris 1992.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

135

mistreat the Moors in either word or deed. The troops are not to capture any of the Moors, nor their sons or daughters, nor wives; nor are you to confiscate their property, and if anyone should take these things from the Moors then they should return them immediately. These rules are to be implemented on the pain of death and they are to be carried out without exception, although the soldiers are to be allowed to keep the clothes and furniture that they took when they entered the said city of Tunis […] these things were granted to them as a reward for their work in capturing the town. And so in conclusion I request that it should be proclaimed throughout the province that the Moros are to be treated well, in such a way that they see the difference between the government of the ministers of His Majesty and of those of Tunis.52

The government, then, had to tread a very fine line. Military discipline was to be imposed, while the Moorish population was to be respected. The Christian documentation demonstrates an awareness of the emerging tensions. The Moorish population began to fear the Christians as they had feared the Turks, as one source informed Mohammed: “the spirit of these people of Tunis is not very peaceful, for the fear that they have of both, the Turks and the Christians, and they do not know how to pass their business between these two nations”.53 One incident underlined the tensions faced by the government. On 18th February 1574, a group of 600 Moors launched a surprise attack on 100 soldiers who were working on the fortifications, just about 180 feet from the gates of the new fort, under the command of Salazar. This ambush resulted in the death of a number of Spaniards and provoked a reaction – it has to be said, an extreme reaction – on the part of the troops who marched to the city in order to arrest the Moors in question. The governor, unable to contain the fury of his men, tried to restrain them with the express order “that you should not touch a woman, child or thread of clothing”.54 These instructions were, unfortunately, not enough to prevent a savage reprisal, which culminated in a massacre in the neighborhood of Babazueca. Here, the fighting was ferocious, involving street-by-street skirmishing (“there was not a single street which we did not have to fight to win”), and resulted in the death of some 600 Moors. For their part, the Spanish lost five soldiers and 50 were injured, among them the captain Don Lope Hurtado. There were also some 50 Italians among the troops.55 In response, a party of Moors later sallied from the city and destroyed the walls the troops had built on 18th February. Relations reached rock bottom, the Moors were greatly affected by this incident 52 Archivo General de Simancas, Estado 1140, 29–31. Don John of Austria, Tunis, 30th October 1574. 53 Ibid., Estado 488. Coroan to the infante Muley, 23rd May 1573. “Las voluntades de esos de Túnez no están muy sosegadas del miedo que tienen de los turcos y de los cristianos, y no saben en medio de estas dos naciones cómo ha de pasar su negocio”. 54 Ibid., Estado 1140, 29–31. Don John of Austria, Tunis, 30th October 1574. 55 Ibid., Estado 1141, 24. Terranova to Philip II, Palermo, 14th March 1574; Estado 1141, 25. Gabrio Cerbellón to Terranova, Tunis, 26th January 1574.

136

Enrique García Hernán

and were in great uproar. The infante asked for a meeting of the commanders in the alcazaba, “so that we may deal with the manner in which we should live from now on and with whom we will be able to do so safely”.56 Cerbellón suggested that they should follow more closely the instructions that Don John had given them. They agreed, expressing the hope that it would be possible to start afresh. Not everyone, however, was convinced by this decision. The Moorish laborers who previously had been building the fort refused to return for some 40 days, until the infante finally persuaded them to return to work. This delay may have been crucial, because when the Ottoman fleet arrived, the fort at Tunis was not yet completed.

3.

Coexistence by Segregation?

There was, therefore, a determined effort to establish a form of coexistence in Tunis in 1573/74. Rather than being based on mutual respect and tolerance, it was founded upon the separation and containment of tensions. The instructions sought to create a military outpost in which ‘national’ or dynastic interests prevailed over religious identities: put another way, the two parts of the Habsburg-Hafsí confederacy of 1573/74 were united only by their desire to resist Ottoman ambitions. While the pessimistic assumptions that underlay the instructions were mitigated by clauses which sought to extend a degree of generosity to the Moors, there can be no doubt that the basic underlying rationale was proved correct: neither the soldiers of the presidios nor the native Moors came to accept the political and religious program set down by their respective leaders. Both groups acted independently, thus contributing to the military failure of what might, in better circumstances, have served as a model for collaboration against a common foe. The breakdown of this relationship made the return of the Ottoman Turks not only possible but probable. In due course, Tunis and La Goleta were lost. The remarkable feature of the Spanish presence at Tunis between 1535 and 1574 was that, in attempting to wage a holy war, the government recurred to a secular rationale. The Tunis campaigns against the Ottomans led Charles V, Philip II, and Don John to formulate a policy that sought to separate politics and religion. This plan can be seen as part of a general strategy, as throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the Spanish monarchy sought to engineer alliances with the Safavid Persian, the standard-bearer of Shia’ Islam, in order to

56 Ibid., Estado 1533, 172. Salazar to the viceroy of Sicily, Tunis, 26th February 1574.

Christian Military and Muslim Civilians in Hafsí Tunis, 1572–1574

137

form a joint front against the Ottoman Empire.57 This program led to a large number of emissaries being sent from Rome and Madrid to Persia, the study of which is providing a series of novel insights into the realities of diplomatic negotiations and the cultural, social, and theological context which underpinned them. The case of Tunis is comparable to the siege of Hormuz by Piri Reis in 1552, during the Portuguese-Ottoman conflict in the Persian Gulf.58 One important question is why did the attempt at Tunis in 1573–74 failed while others succeeded. The twin-base of Oran-Mers El Kebir existed as a model of co-existence. In Oran, the ‘Moors of Peace’ were extremely important: these were communities of Moorish peasants who lived within the Kingdom of Tunis and Tlemcen; they too were subjects of the King of Spain, and, like the moros of Tunis, they were allowed to live in accordance with their Muslim faith. One obvious point of difference was that Tunis and La Goleta in 1573/4 existed under an intense pressure, as it was known that an enormous fleet was being prepared in Constantinople and that its most likely destination was the city to the East of the ruins of Carthage. While this military consideration was surely decisive, the impression – and it can be nothing more than an impression – is that in Tunis the economic options were relatively limited. In contrast, Oran-Mers El Kebir was a region of considerably greater productivity and wealth, its prosperity based on the exploitation of the nearby rivers and the production and sale of grain.

4.

Conclusion

While in recent times the theme of the clash of civilizations has been much discussed, the realities of sixteenth century warfare transcended the narrow paradigm of the Christian-Muslim confrontation. The plan of the Spanish monarchy in Tunis throughout the sixteenth century was to use vassalage agreements with local Muslim dynasties in order to face the Ottoman threat. Similar arrangements were put into place in the other territories held or governed in North Africa. In many respects, the intention was to avoid war, or to limit its scope and consequences. There was always a chance that peace was about to break out. In Oran, the tradition of coexistence was strong, being reflected not only in the grain trade but also in the multi-racial composition of the garrison.59

57 Enrique García Hernán, The Holy See, the Spanish Monarchy and Safavid Persia in the Sixteenth Century: Some Aspects of the Involvement, in: Willem Floor, Edmund Herzig (eds.), Iran and the World in the Safavid Age, London et al. 2012, pp. 181–206. 58 Dejanirah Couto, Portuguese-Ottoman Rivalry in the Persian Gulf in the Mid-Sixteenth Century: the Siege of Hormur, 1552, in: Acta Iranica 52 (2011), pp. 145–175. 59 Alonso Acero, Orán-Mazalquivir (cf. note 4).

138

Enrique García Hernán

Having said this, it should be stressed that no linear progression can be discerned. The regimes established in Tunis by the Ottoman Empire in 1574 explicitly looked to religious justification and the tradition of piracy and raiding. Tunis became part of the lands of war, with an elite corps of corsairs who styled themselves according to the gazi tradition inherited from the seventh and eighth centuries.60 In this respect, as in so many others, the development of the Mediterranean, the relationship between trade and privateering, military and civilian, peace and war did not follow any linear progression, but instead followed complex and often contradictory patterns of evolution.

60 On the corsairs of Algiers and the ideology or legitimization of their actions, cf. Alexander H. de Groot, The Ottoman Threat to Europe, 1571–1830: Historical Fact or Fancy?, in: Victor Mallia-Milanes (ed.), Hospitaller Malta. Studies on Early Modern Malta and the Order of St John of Jerusalem, Msida 1993, pp. 99–254; see also Lemnouar Merouche, Recherches sur l’Algérie à l’époque Ottomane. La course mythes et réalité, Paris 2007; on gazi ideology and the representation of Tunisian corsairs as martyrs who were certain to be rewarded in paradise, cf. Daniel Panzac, La marine ottomane. De l’apogée à la chute de l’Empire (1572– 1923), Paris 2009, pp. 86–89. On the broader question of Ottoman legitimization see Gábor Ágoston, Information, ideology, and limits of imperial power in: Virginia H. Aksan, Daniel Goffman (eds.), The Early Modern Ottomans. Remapping the Empire, Cambridge 2007, pp. 75–103.

Olaf van Nimwegen

The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army

1.

The Need for a New Perception of the Dutch Military Past

In the Netherlands, the study of military history is still barely accepted as an academic discipline. History departments contain chairs in ancient, medieval, early modern, modern, Dutch, social, political, economic, church, and global history. Historiography, history of science, maritime (naval) history, gender studies and contemporary conflict studies have also gained a steady foothold in the academic curriculum. The study of the military past is not so fortunate. Only special chairs exist, and all of these are connected to the Dutch Institute for Military History (NIMH),1 a subsidiary of the Dutch Ministry of Defence. The main focus of the NIMH is on the modern period. It is telling that for the first two parts of the multi-volume study on Dutch Military History (1568–2000) – the first dealing with the Eighty Years’ War (1568–1648) and the second with the Netherlands as a great and minor power in the period 1648–1813 – specialists from outside the NIMH had to be contracted.2 The neglect of early modern military history in the present-day Netherlands, and especially with regard to its land-based forces, is closely linked to the perception of the Dutch military past. The fleet is seen as quintessentially Dutch in contrast to the early modern army that is still widely regarded as a Fremdkörper, composed of foreign riff-raff. Recent studies on the Dutch navy have shown that the ships’ crews were also a mix of nationalities, but without this resulting in a more balanced perception of the Dutch military past.3 How can we explain the 1 Nederlands Instituut voor Militaire Geschiedenis (NIMH), The Hague. 2 Louis Sicking (Leiden University), Ronald Prud’homme van Reine (independent scholar) and Adri van Vliet (NIMH) for the navy and myself for the army. Cf. idem, De Tachtigjarige Oorlog. Van opstand naar geregelde oorlog 1568–1648, Amsterdam 2013. Publication of vol. 2 is expected: idem, Krijgsmacht en handelsgeest. Om het machtsevenwicht in Europa 1648–1813. 3 Jaap R. Bruijn, Varend verleden. De Nederlandse oorlogsvloot in de zeventiende en achttiende eeuw, Amsterdam 1998, pp. 71–73. This is an expanded and revised version of idem, The Dutch Navy of the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries, Columbia, SC 1993.

140

Olaf van Nimwegen

persistency of a notion that is so clearly in need of revision? In the second half of the nineteenth century, the idea took hold that the Dutch people had never looked favourably on the military profession. The first decades of the Dutch Revolt against Philip II of Habsburg, King of Spain and sovereign lord of the Netherlands, were seen as an anomaly, with the Spanish brutality forcing the traditionally peace-loving Dutch to pick up the sword themselves to fight for religious freedom. As soon as the Spanish threat abated, and the struggle for survival changed into a war along more distant borders, the Dutch immediately turned into merchants and farmers again, leaving the fighting to foreign hirelings. That the early modern Dutch themselves spoke of a States Army (Armee van den Staat) instead of a Dutch army, seemed to underscore the validity of this view. In truth, however, the army of the Dutch Republic was from the start a mixed force made up of native-born soldiers and of those recruited from abroad, with the units originating from within the United Netherlands forming the backbone of this armed force.4 The Dutch rebels had agreed in the Union of Utrecht of 1579 to jointly raise and maintain an army to defend themselves against their common enemy. At first, this armed force was simply called ‘our army’ or ‘soldiery in the service of the Land’, but from 1588 onwards the Dutch spoke of Militie van den Staat and Troupes van den Staat. After 1750, Armee van den Staat became more common, probably as a result of the growing influence of French culture. Staat reflected the triple oath of allegiance required of all soldiers in Dutch service. In accordance with the resolution of the States-General of 1st June 1588, officers and common troops had to swear allegiance to the States-General, the sovereign body representing all seven member provinces of the Dutch Republic, to the separate provincial States and to the regents of the garrison towns.5 So instead of being 4 See Olaf van Nimwegen, The Dutch Army and the Military Revolutions 1588–1688, Woodbridge 2010; idem, De Republiek der Verenigde Nederlanden als grote mogendheid. Buitenlandse politiek en oorlogvoering in de eerste helft van de achttiende eeuw en in het bijzonder tijdens de Oostenrijkse Successieoorlog (1740–1748), Amsterdam 2002; John M. Stapleton, Jr, Forging a Coalition Army: William III, the Grand Alliance, and the Confederate Army in the Spanish Netherlands, 1688–1697, PhD thesis The Ohio State University 2003; H. L. Zwitzer, “De militie van den Staat”. Het leger van de Republiek der Verenigde Nederlanden, Amsterdam 1991. 5 Simon van Slingelandt, Historische verhandeling van het gesag over de militie van den Staat der Vereenigde Nederlanden, getrokken uit de registers en andere publique acten, in: Staatkundige Geschriften 4, Amsterdam 1785, p. 20. By resolution of 16th June 1651 the States of Holland appended to the Oath of Allegiance of 1st June 1588 a ‘Formulary of oath of allegiance required of all colonels of foot and horse, rittmasters, captains, lieutenants, minor-officers and all the troops, repartitioned to Holland and West-Friesland, to be handed to the States thereof ’, a ‘Formulary of oath of allegiance required of all colonels of foot and horse, rittmasters, captains, lieutenants, minor officers and all the troops, garrisoned within the Province of Holland or West-Friesland, and not being of her repartition, to be handed to the States thereof ’, and lastly

The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army

141

proof of a supposed gap separating Dutch society and the military, the name States Army was an expression of the close bond between the military and the Dutch government bodies. What motivated men to serve in the army of the Dutch Republic has so far not been the subject of a systematic, long-term investigation. In the 1570s and 1580s, relations between mercenaries in rebel pay and Dutch civilians were often poisoned by financial distress, resulting in mutinous behaviour by the troops and breaches of promise by town councils and provincial authorities, but from 1588 onwards the situation dramatically improved. Although soldiers and civilians continued to see each other as belonging to different lifeworlds, the overriding feeling was one of mutual dependence, with the troops offering protection against enemy attack and, in return for this, the civilian authorities provided them with the means to make a livelihood without the need for plunder. Both civilians and soldiers agreed that their symbiotic relationship was too valuable to be jeopardised by not living up to their part of the contract. A good example of this is offered by the mustering out of service of the German Solms Regiment in 1594. On 8th August, Colonel Georg Eberhard Count of Solms, the lieutenantcolonel, the captains and lower ranking officers representing the common soldiers of the regiment met with a delegation of the Dutch Council of State. The Germans said their goodbyes, thanked the Dutch Republic for the good pay they had received, and offered their further services should the need for this arise. In return, the Dutch officials released the troops from their oath of allegiance, thanked them in the name of the States-General for their loyal service “and wished them a good journey [home]”.6 Earning a living and escaping from boredom were obvious reasons for enlisting in the Dutch army, but there were other reasons as well. The more lofty concepts of honour, loyalty, religious fervour and patriotism also counted here. On 13th July 1691, a Dutch sergeant held as a prisoner of war by the French in Trarbach wrote to his wife that his jailors “are pressuring us constantly so that we will serve [in the French army] or they will take us away again [to more distant garrison towns]. They may take me where they will, I will not serve them.”7 Clearly, loyalty was not a commodity that could be bought or forced upon a ‘Formulary of oath of allegiance required of the captains, other officers and soldiers, to be handed to the magistrates of the towns where they with their companies are garrisoned or where they will be sent to respectively’; Lieuwe van Aitzema, Herstelde Leeuw, ofte Discours over het gepasseerde in de Vereenichde Nederlanden, in ′t jaer 1650 ende 1651, new edition, The Hague 1671, pp. 138–142. The oaths can also be found in: Polityck ende militair Handtboecxken vanden staet der geunieerde provincien, s.l. 1652. 6 Nationaal Archief (NA), The Hague, The Netherlands, Archief van de Staten-Generaal, inv. no. 4878, Letter of the Council of State, Groningen 8 Augustus 1594. 7 Tresoar, Leeuwarden, The Netherlands, Fries Stadhouderlijk Archief, inv. no. 668, Sergeant Hendrick Hase to his wife Jacomijne Hase, Trarbach opposite Mont Royal, 13 July 1691.

142

Olaf van Nimwegen

someone. Nor can money alone explain why common soldiers were willing to risk injury and even death when victory was far from certain. During the French siege of Bergen op Zoom in 1747, the regiment of Van Kinschot was ordered on 16th August to defend the covered way. Hereupon Major Ernst Willem van Bilderbeek assembled all the soldiers in a circle around him and then told them “that the regiment had had the honour to be in the service of the State for a hundred and one years. Then he recounted all the battles […] and sieges [the regiment had taken part in], wishing them all that they would prove to be the equals of their ancestors”.8 Evidently, the image in modern historiography of the Dutch as a non-military nation is at odds with contemporary evidence. But if this is so obvious, how can we explain the tenacity of this distorted perception? The Dutch Revolt has captured the imagination of historians ever since. And not without reason. Its unprecedented length, the enormous suffering endured by the population and its surprising outcome – the defeat of the mighty Spanish Empire – have turned the Eighty Years’ War into an almost mythical struggle for freedom. Nineteenth- and twentieth-century Dutch historians were keen on showing how ordinary burghers took up arms to fight under the leadership of the Prince of Orange for religious freedom and political independence. The assassination of William the Silent in 1584 confirmed his status as a martyr for freedom in an intolerant age. The fact that he had also been a military commander was, if not simply ignored, only admitted grudgingly by academic historians.9 Presenting him as a fugitive leader of mercenaries was, apparently, deemed incompatible with his status of father of the fatherland. The exception to this rule was J. W. Wijn (†1965), for a longtime the only academically-trained Dutch military historian. In his studies, he rightly pointed out that from the start the rebels realised that Spanish victory was a foregone conclusion unless they raised an army of their own.10 The quality of Wijn’s work was recognised by his fellow historians, but without resulting in a reappraisal of the military dimension of the 1570s and 1580s. Until quite recently, not even Geoffrey Parker’s groundbreaking study on the Army of Flanders (originally published in 1972), with its detailed analysis of the military difficulties faced by the Spanish army in the Netherlands, led to a renewed interest in this matter. Erik Swart’s study of the 8 NA, Archief van de Raad van State, inv. no. 1899, Pieter Johan van As, Ensign in the Regiment of Van Kinschot, ‘Aanteekeninge van de vier campagnes als van de jaaren 1743, 44, 45 en 1747 en wat ik geduurende deselve bijgewoont hebbe’. 9 For example J.S. Bartstra, Oranje als rebellenleider in Holland en Zeeland (1572–1576), in: P. Geyl (ed.), Wilhelmus van Nassouwe, Middelburg 1933, pp. 110–144, here p. 123; K.W. Swart, Willem van Oranje en de Nederlandse Opstand, 1572–1584, Den Haag 1994, p. 174. 10 J.W. Wijn, Het Noordhollandse regiment in de eerste jaren van de Opstand tegen Spanje, in: Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 62 (1949), pp. 235–261; idem, Het krijgswezen in den tijd van prins Maurits, Utrecht 1934.

The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army

143

Dutch rebel forces published in 2006 was therefore most welcome.11 Unfortunately, throughout his dissertation his main concern is to prove that the military successes of the great captains Maurice of Orange, William Louis of Nassau and Frederick Henry of Orange in the 1590s and the first half of the seventeenth century should not be credited to their famous military reforms, but were the result of new tactical insights already developed by William of Orange in the 1570s. This is unfortunate, because although Swart’s revisionism was much overdue, his argumentation leads to confusion about what William of Orange’s military concerns were, and how his decisions affected rebel military effectiveness. At first, William of Orange and his fellow rebel leaders adhered to traditional forms of raising an army. They contracted with military entrepreneurs to recruit a specified number of troops in return for the payment of a lump sum. These soldiers were organised in the tradition of the Landsknechte. They often served for only one campaign, and after the expiration of their term of service, they could search for new employment anywhere they liked. As free soldiers, they had the right to elect spokesmen who made their grievances known to their officers, and they were even permitted in certain cases to sit in judgement over their own comrades: the famous trial by pike. There are many excellent German studies dealing with the Landsknechte.12 This is not surprising since the majority of them were German, but not all of them. Landsknechte were also raised in the Netherlands. For example, in 1521, the States of Holland proposed raising 2,000 Landsknechte within their own province13 and in 1546, the Stadholder of Friesland, Groningen and Overijssel, contracted with Johan van Ewsum (†1570) to recruit and equip two companies of 400 soldiers, each in the province of Groningen.14 From the start, however, there was a fundamental difference between German and Dutch Landsknechte with regard to weaponry. German Landsknechte held pikes in the highest regard, whereas soldiers raised in the Netherlands preferred firearms, at the time a weapon of doubtful tactical value.15 Early 11 Erik Swart, Krijgsvolk. Militaire professionalisering en het ontstaan van het Staatse leger, 1568–1590, Amsterdam 2006. 12 For example Reinhard Baumann, Landsknechte. Ihre Geschichte und Kultur vom späten Mittelalter bis zum Dreißigjährigen Krieg, Munich 1994; Hans-Michael Möller, Das Regiment der Landsknechte. Untersuchungen zu Verfassung, Recht und Selbstverständnis in deutschen Söldnerheeren des 16. Jahrhunderts, Wiesbaden 1976; Gerhard Quaas, Das Handwerk der Landsknechte. Waffen und Bewaffnung zwischen 1500 und 1600, Osnabrück 1997. 13 Jan Wagenaar, Vaderlandsche Historie, vol. 4, 2nd ed., Amsterdam 1770, pp. 430–435. 14 Groninger Archieven, Groningen, The Netherlands, Familiearchief van Ewsum, inv. no. 190, Contract with Captain Johan van Ewsum, Deventer 1546. 15 Adriaen Duyck, Instructie van de crijchs-oorts stellinghe, allen hoofden, beleyders van armeyden van voetvolck ende andere crijchslast hebbende nut ende dienstelijck, Leiden 1588, p. 101.

144

Olaf van Nimwegen

handguns were cumbersome, unreliable and took a long time to reload. Their impact on the outcome of battles was therefore limited. In the long term, however, the Dutch preference for firearms would give the States Army an important tactical advantage over its enemies. The development of a method of sustainable volley-fire by the Nassau cousins in 1590s is widely regarded as one of the cornerstones of the early modern military revolution. However, the linkages between this tactical innovation and the changeover from mercenaries to professional soldiers has been understood very differently. Gerhard Oestreich, Michael Roberts and Werner Hahlweg maintained that the new Dutch tactics demanded highly trained and disciplined soldiers, qualities that were at odds with the values of the Landsknechte.16 According to Erik Swart, William of Orange understood as early as the 1570s that a tactical revolution was impossible without first transforming the Landsknechte into disciplined professional soldiers. Swart’s argumentation is debatable because the Dutch rebel leader had no intention of making gunfire the cornerstone of Dutch tactics; on the contrary, his main concern was finding a way to increase the number of pikemen in Dutch companies. The decision by the States of Holland to do away with the military organisation of the Landsknechte had therefore nothing whatsoever to do with new tactical insights. It served the political goal of relieving the burghers from the fear of being betrayed or molested by the very soldiers they had hired for their protection. In the 1570s, Dutch rebel troops lost their right to self-representation and their term of service was no longer limited to one campaign, but usually lasted for the duration of hostilities. This significantly reduced the bargaining position of the troops.17

2.

From Hireling to Professional Long-Serving Soldier (1570– 1750): The Centrality of Socio-Political Loyalty

The end of the era of the free soldier is widely regarded as one of the turning points in early modern military history. Consequently, it is of crucial importance to define what makes a professional soldier different from a mercenary. After all, both are hired soldiers, who fight for pay. Pointing out differences in training and battlefield discipline will not do, because the Landsknechte were highly trained and disciplined fighters, as Dutch contemporaries were well aware.18 The ease 16 For an overview of their views, see Van Nimwegen, The Dutch Army (cf. note 4), pp. 3, 7 ss. 17 Olaf van Nimwegen, The Transformation of Army Organization in Early-Modern Western Europe, c. 1500–1789, in: Frank Tallett, D.J.B. Trim (eds.), European Warfare, 1350–1750, Cambridge 2010, pp. 159–180. 18 J.A. Mol, Hoofdelingen en huurlingen. Militaire innovatie en de aanloop tot 1498, in: Johan Frieswijk et al. (ed.), Fryslân, staat en macht 1450–1650, Hilversum 1999, pp. 65–84.

The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army

145

with which the Spanish, Italian, and Walloon troops defeated the Dutch rebel forces in the 1570s and 1580s was also due to their superior battle discipline and highly developed fighting skills. What then sets a professional soldier apart from a hireling? To answer this question, we must turn to the concept of socio-political loyalty. The Renaissance, famous for the revival of Roman and Greek culture, also witnessed the rebirth of the axioms of classical warfare. Drill and training turned men with limited fighting skills and of ordinary build into a warring machine capable of defeating enemies more numerous, individually more skilled and perhaps even braver. Comradeship and shared dangers cemented soldiers into a brotherhood of arms. Their mutual loyalty was essential for unit cohesion; yet, loyalty simultaneously posed a problem for the state and society if it remained limited to fellow soldiers. According to the Florentine politician Niccolò Machiavelli, states that put their trust in mercenaries would sooner or later have to lament their decision. He warned that these soldiers were only motivated by their lust for wealth, and consequently could turn just as easily on their employers as fight the enemy. Machiavelli’s (1469–1527) opinion was therefore that the citizens themselves should take up arms to defend their homes. The Dutch political philosopher Justus Lipsius (1547–1606) agreed with Machiavelli that hirelings were a pest, but he did not believe that a militia would be able to withstand attacks by mercenaries. Instead, he argued for a moral reform that would turn the ferocious soldiery into a military force that was imbued with a sense of duty to the state.19 Lipsius’s ideas inspired Maurice and William Louis in drilling the Dutch troops to perfection. However, it would have been unthinkable that they were to succeed in their efforts without a simultaneous further tightening of the grip of the Dutch political leadership on its armed forces. Although the dismantling of the Landsknecht-organisation in the 1570s had already greatly weakened the bargaining position of the soldiers, it slowly dawned on the regents that more was needed to turn the soldiery into a military force subservient to society. Of crucial importance was the introduction of the repartitiestelsel in 1588. Since under this system of repartitions each province had to pay a fixed number of infantry and cavalry companies, Johan van Oldenbarnevelt (1547–1619), the Advocate, or chairman, of the States of Holland since 1586, declared as early as March 1589 that the appointment of company commanders, lieutenants and ensigns, or cornets, was a provincial prerogative. The other provinces subscribed to this standpoint of the Hollanders. The regents approved candidates for officer positions based on their martial qualities, but even more so based on their political reliability and religious fervour. Over time, the religious factor lost its importance – after 1650, army officers from Catholic families were no longer an exception, 19 Van Nimwegen, The Transformation (cf. note 17), pp. 159 ss.

146

Olaf van Nimwegen

and could even attain the rank of general. Socio-political loyalty to the Dutch constitution and the overheid (the States-General, the provincial States, the municipal governments, and the Captain-General of the Union, commander-inchief of all landforces) remained the foundation of army-state relations in the Dutch Republic from 1588 to 1795.20 The repartitiestelsel redefined the relationship between army and society. Captains continued to be both military commanders and enterprisers, but their ties to the political leadership and society had become much closer. The relationship between common soldiers and the population also took a turn for the better now that troops no longer had to fear starvation because of pay arrears. For many Dutch peasants, looting became a bad memory from a distant past, and, as Griet Vermeesch has shown, townspeople even competed with each other for billeting troops.21 This is not to say that war was turned into an enjoyable spectacle. On the contrary, people living in warzones suffered greatly from depredation as Leo Adriaenssen never tires of arguing in his study on “surviving on the frontlines in the Meierij of Bois-le-Duc”.22 However, it is important to note that outside of these warzones common people had much less to fear from the soldiery from the 1600s onwards. The political and the military leadership did all they could to curb unruly behaviour by soldiers. It is telling that as early as 1594, when Dutch soldiers looted a few houses in Zeist, a small town near Utrecht, the sheriff remarked to the States of Utrecht that this reminded him of the ‘old’ crimes from ‘earlier times’ and that one was no longer used to being treated this way by one’s own troops.23 Furthermore, in 1746, a Dutch general observed: “Our people […] are little used to war and the disasters that accompany it. A smashed pot, a window broken, and a tree cut, makes them cry out as if they have been totally looted.”24 Regrettably, Adriaenssen turned a blind eye to this development. By the middle of the seventeenth century, the era of the standing army of longserving professional troops dawned, not yet in an organisational sense but certainly in the minds of political thinkers. In his book Politike discoursen, published posthumously in 1662, Johan de la Court (1622–1660), a younger brother of the more famous political theorist Pieter de la Court,25 shared Machiavelli’s and 20 Idem, The Dutch Army (cf. note 4), pp. 23 s. 21 Griet Vermeesch, Oorlog, steden en staatsvorming. De grenssteden Gorinchem en Doesburg tijdens de geboorte-eeuw van de Republiek (1570–1680), Amsterdam 2006, p. 109. 22 Leo Adriaenssen, Staatsvormend geweld. Overleven aan de frontlinies in de Meierij van Den Bosch, 1572–1629, Tilburg 2007. 23 Het Utrechts Archief (HUA), Utrecht, The Netherlands, Archief Staten van Utrecht, inv. no. 292–1, A. Willems, Sheriff of Zeist, to Gielles van Ledenberch, Secretary of the States of Utrecht, Zeist 28 March 1594. 24 Van Nimwegen, De Republiek (cf. note 4), p. 130. 25 Maarten Prak, Gouden Eeuw. Het raadsel van de Republiek, Nijmegen 2002, p. 213.

The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army

147

Lipsius’s condemnation of mercenaries, who, they supposed, only served because they enjoyed killing and robbing, because by doing so they leave no doubt that [they do not serve] out of love and […] honour. For what honour can there be found in the spilling of human blood, killing and wanton destruction, unless it is done for one’s own protection, and the defence of the Fatherland, Religion and Freedom, [motives] that are of no importance to these mercenaries.

Good soldiers on the other hand, De la Court argued, fight out of love for the fatherland, and for the partij (i. e. the prince, the political leadership) they serve, or out of a thirst for honour.26 In short, he leaves no doubt that it is not serving for pay that turns soldiers into a scourge but the absence of a close bond between the armed forces and the state and the society they serve. The question of sociopolitical loyalty determined whether a soldier was a professional or a mercenary. This notion is of the greatest importance, because it helps us understand why troops that served for pay remained the backbone of all early modern militaries, in spite of the continuing and widespread admiration for the citizen armies of ancient Greece and Rome. Long-serving professional soldiers posed no threat to the political leadership or society because they had a double loyalty: to their comrades, to whom they entrusted their lives on the battlefield and to the partij they had sworn allegiance to. Could this explain why there was no opposition to the creation of standing armies in the second half of the seventeenth century? England was the exception. In the English ‘standing army debate’, loyalty was an issue because of a crisis over political leadership between the Crown and Parliament. Control of the army was one of the main issues at stake. It is no coincidence that the Dutch Republic was caught up in its own army debate at the closing of the eighteenth century. In the 1780s, the Dutch political leadership split into two opposing sides: on the one hand, there were the supporters of the hereditary Stadholder William V (1748–1806) and, on the other, his opponents, the Patriots. The Patriot movement was a loose alliance of burghers and regents who demanded constitutional reforms. Because of this political crisis, the sociopolitical loyalty of the States Army was questioned for the first time since 1588. In his study on the enigma of the Dutch Golden Age, Maarten Prak struck a blow for the Dutch soldiers. He rightly stresses that it is misleading to dismiss them as mere ‘mercenaries’. They were professionals, he writes, not adventurers. They were long-serving, were married to local women, often had children “and in fact lived as ordinary people of the garrison town in which they were quartered”.27 Prak’s summary is fully justified. However, I would like to draw attention to his use of the word ‘ordinary’, because it sets soldiers apart from normal society. It 26 Johan de la Court, Politike discoursen, Amsterdam 1662, book III, ‘on military matters’, p. 287. 27 Prak, Gouden Eeuw (cf. note 25), p. 81.

148

Olaf van Nimwegen

raises in fact the question of the existence of a separate Soldatenstand in the Dutch Republic. Historiography often maintains that Dutch society treated the military profession with disdain. It is emphasised that the merchant elite and wealthy farmers preferred their sons to make money in trade and cattle breeding rather than see their offspring pursue a career as military officers, and that the common people could earn a better livelihood in fishery or cottage industry than as lowly paid common soldiers. From the perspective of Holland, this is by and large an accurate depiction, but when other provinces and social groups are taken into consideration, a very different picture presents itself. Conrad Gietman has pointed out that Dutch nobles were no exception to the rule that the European nobility regarded the pursuit of military honours as most fitting for its social status. They saw displays of bravery in battle and fighting duels as indispensable for gaining and maintaining one’s reputation.28 Although Dutch provincial and city governments condemned the fighting of duels, they encouraged nobles as well as commoners to learn the art of war. The influential Utrecht regent and delegate to the States-General Floris Thin advised the States of Utrecht in May 1577 to agree to raising a permanent native contingent of soldiers. This would assure that “our nobles and commoners will practice the art of war, so that in times of need we will find at home, what we now had to look for abroad”.29 What Floris Thin aimed at was a mixed force made up of professional troops supplemented by a militia of trained citizens, a notion further elaborated upon by Lipsius. Article VIII of the Union of Utrecht (23 January 1579) turned Thin’s proposal into the official policy of all Dutch rebel provinces. It stated that a muster would be held of all able-bodied men between eighteen and sixty years of age “in order that at all times the inhabitants of the lands can be called upon for assistance”.30 Turning this article into fact proved to be very difficult. Over the next two hundred years, Dutch burghers and farmers occasionally took up arms to defend their homelands, but the official creation of a Dutch militia force would have to wait until 1795. However, 1579 made it very clear that the era of the mercenary was rapidly ending. Over the next three decades, the soldiers in Dutch pay were turned into loyal protectors of civil society. The Dutch army was composed of men from many nations, as mentioned earlier. From the start, however, its constituent parts (the companies and regiments) were quite homogeneous, and over time the States Army became more 28 Conrad Gietman, Eer en geweld in de Oost-Nederlandse adelscultuur, in: Virtus 10 (2003), pp. 103–121, here pp. 108 s., 111. 29 HUA, Archief Staten van Utrecht Landsheerlijke Tijd, inv. no. 699, Floris Thin, Mechelen 12 May 1577. 30 Z.W. Sneller, Unie van Utrecht en Plakkaat van Verlatinge. De wording van den Nederlandschen staat, Rotterdam 1929, pp. 33–40; Zwitzer, De militie van den Staat (cf. note 4), pp. 20 ss.

The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army

149

and more Dutch in outlook. We have to go back to the introduction of the repartitiestelsel to understand this development. The provincial States wanted, as mentioned above, assurances about the quality and reliability of those to whom they entrusted command over their troops. Consequently, all candidates for the rank of colonel, captain (rittmaster), lieutenant and ensign not only had to provide proof of their military qualities, but also needed letters of reference from powerful regents or from the Captain-General. The provincial and municipal governments, and the Captain-General championed the appointment of Dutch nobles or patricians for the rank of officer in the native companies. The position of Captain-General of a province was always combined with the office of Stadholder, the highest ranking servant of the provincial States, so that the Princes of Orange and the Counts of Nassau personified the bond that existed between the army and the political leadership. The career of the Utrecht noble jonkheer Johan van Huchtenbroek (1564–1601), Lord of Amelisweerd, offers a good example of the close relations that existed between military and society. Van Huchtenbroek was rittmaster from 1591 to 1593. Then he held office as one of Utrecht’s burgomasters until 1599. In 1600, he was commissioned colonel of the Utrecht regiment of foot. He fought at the battle of Nieuwpoort (1600) and was killed in action the following year during the defence of Ostend.31 From 1588 to 1795, members or clients of noble and patrician families monopolised officer positions. The highest offices were reserved for leading families, such as the Van Wassenaer’s (Holland), Van Reede’s (Utrecht), Van Rechteren’s and Bentinck’s (Overijssel and Gelderland), and Aylva’s (Friesland). Members of the Orange-Nassau family held the most prestigious posts. The rank of field marshal was almost invariably held by a relative of the Princes of Orange. It was still possible for able soldiers without connections to rise through the ranks, but their advancement was painfully slow. Many had to wait twenty years or more before they received a commission as captain. The situation was not different in the foreign regiments in Dutch pay. The colonels of the Scottish, French, and German troops had the right to appoint new officers, but only after prior consent from the Captain-General of the Union, the commander-in-chief of all Dutch forces. The Princes of Orange made sure that the candidates had good connections in their homelands and were acceptable to the Dutch authorities. Often, foreign-born officers married into Dutch noble families, thereby cementing the bond with their new adopted country. The Swedish-born Dutch General Isaac Kock Baron of Cronström (1661–1751), for example, was married to the Utrecht noblewoman Trajectina Anna Elisabeth Tuyll van Serooskerken. A further strengthening of the bond between army and society in the Dutch Republic occurred after 1650. There are two reasons for this: the First and Second 31 F.J.G. ten Raa, Het Staatsche leger, vol. 2, Breda 1913, pp. 155 s.

150

Olaf van Nimwegen

Stadholderless Era (1650–1672 and 1702–1747) and the creation of the Dutch standing army of long-serving professional troops in the 1670s and 1680s. So accustomed have we become to the stereotype of the early modern soldier as either an unruly Landsknecht or a pitiful robot beaten into submission by his officers, that we forget that the image we have of the military in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries is rather based on perception than founded on reality. True, in the second half of the eighteenth century, military discipline was harshly enforced in all European armies, but this was a recent development inspired by the spectacular successes of the Prussian army under Frederick the Great. From 1600 to 1750, Dutch soldiers were vigorously drilled so that they could fight as a disciplined group on the battlefield, but as soon as they had left the parade ground, they were by and large free to do as they pleased. Commenting on the Second Stadholderless Era, a Dutch general acidly observed in 1786: “The [soldiers of the] regiments garrisoned within the provinces became civilians and all martial spirit was put out. […] What difficulties did one not meet regarding the marriage of soldiers [with local women], that hardly could be prevented.”32

3.

Socio-Political Loyalty Compromised: The Supposed Prussification of the Dutch Standing Army (1750–1795)

After the War of the Austrian Succession (1740–1748), Field Marshal Louis Ernst Duke of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel (1718–1788), acting Captain-General of the Union during the minority (1751–1766) of William V, reorganised the Dutch army according to the Prussian model, stepped up drill, and had (challenged) the officers also to keep a close eye on the soldiers outside of the parade field. Furthermore, he had the regiments rotate frequently between garrison towns. The results were disastrous. Critics of the hereditary Stadholderate – following the French attack on the Dutch Republic in 1747 the office of Stadholder had been reintroduced in all seven provinces and the following year been made hereditary – saw this as a deliberate attempt to break the bond between society and army that had existed since 1588. Both the adherents of ‘the true freedom’, the political theory that maintained that sovereignty lay with the provincial States, and the oppositional Patriots believed that it was Brunswick’s intention to turn the Dutch army into a tool that could be used to make William V an absolute monarch in all but name.

32 Koninklijk Huisarchief (KHA), The Hague, Archive of William V, inv. no. 1945, MajorGeneral Willem Gerrit van der Hoop, The Hague 26 June 1786, with an appendix “On the permanency of the garrisons”.

The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army

151

Dutch scholars have mostly neglected the military dimension of the Dutch Civil War (1786–1787). Historians of the Patriot movement have accepted the contemporary discourse on military affairs as fact, instead of recognising it for what it was, namely hyperbolic argumentation. The Patriot press described soldiers as paid slaves, military dogs and Orange cattle, incapable of thinking for themselves. In the 1780s, the Dutch professional troops changed almost overnight from loyal defenders of the fatherland into the “the most despicable creatures”33 that could be found in the Republic. The events of the Dutch Civil War proved the Patriot’s condemnation of the military to be totally unfounded. Both national and foreign troops stayed true to their triple oath of allegiance. Consequently, neither the Patriots nor William Vand his supporters were in a position to defeat one another, unless they succeeded in persuading the officers and soldiers to break their oaths. Contrary to the worries of the Patriots that Brunswick had turned the Dutch soldiers into mindless robots who obeyed the Captain-General without question, the greater part of the officers and nearly all of the common soldiers refused to take sides in the political dispute. William V, moreover, had no intention to stoop to a practice that would violate the constitution of the Dutch Republic. Above all, this explains why in 1787 a Prussian intervention force was needed to restore the Stadholderate in the province of Holland.34 The political crisis of the 1780s refuted the Patriots’ claim that the army had become an instrument for internal oppression. This is not to say, however, that all their worries about the Dutch military were unfounded. A substantial number of military officers were highly critical of the Prussification of the Dutch army. Prussian discipline was considered synonymous with brutality. Would it not be better, the former Dutch Colonel Nockern von Schorn (c. 1725–1805) had already argued in 1783, if soldiers obeyed willingly and fought bravely out of a sense of duty and love for the country they served? Soldiers should not be treated as machines, he continued, but as free people motivated by honour, gratitude and love.35 Nockhern voiced an opinion that was often heard in enlightened circles. A growing number of Dutch officers, while adhering to the view that drill was indispensable for transforming recruits into an effective fighting force, also be33 Ibid. 34 Olaf van Nimwegen, Van oude naar nieuwe armee: de totstandkoming van het Bataafse leger (1751–1799), in: A.M.J.A. Berkvens et al. (eds.), Het Franse Nederland: de inlijving 1810–1813, Hilversum 2012, pp. 49–82, here pp. 49–57. 35 Friedrich Nockhern von Schorn, Versuch über ein allgemeines System aller militairischen Kenntnisse, nebst einer einleuchtenden Methode die Kriegswissenschaft mit Ordnung und Erkenntniß zu studieren, Neurenberg 1785, translation of the French edition of 1783, pp. 35– 40, 105 s. Nockhern served as an officer in the Dutch infantry from 1748 to 1775, when he was granted an honorable discharge as brevet-colonel. Two years later, he married Baroness Doekje van Haren (1739–1819), second daughter of the Frisian regent and author Onno Zwier van Haren.

152

Olaf van Nimwegen

lieved that the rank and file should be trained to think for themselves. They were of the opinion that Dutch soldiers could never be turned into their Prussian counterparts because they were too accustomed to a measure of freedom, an assessment fully shared by none other than Charles Duke of Brunswick-Lunenburg (1735–1806), commander of the Prussian intervention force. When William Vasked him in February 1788 to temporarily garrison a number of Dutch towns with his troops, Brunswick-Lunenburg replied that he foresaw difficulties because the Germans were accustomed “à une tenue très rigide”. He worried that the ‘simple’ German soldier would become unruly if he came into close contact with soldiers “accoutumes à un degré de liberté”. He urged William V, therefore, to pay attention that his German troops were kept away as far as possible from the Dutch troops.36

4.

Conclusion

The old adage money is the sinew of war holds especially true for the early modern period, because the size of Europe’s armed forces was determined first and foremost by the availability of coinage. Nothing has shaped our modern perception of the early modern military more than this dependence on ready money. Serving for cash has become almost synonymous with unreliability, and as a consequence the early modern distinction between mercenary and professional long-serving soldier has become blurred in modern historiography. All too often, both are dismissed as hired foreign riff-raff who only served for personal gain or because they could not survive in the civilian world. In the preceding pages, I have endeavoured to prove the unjustness of this assessment with regard to the Dutch army. True, without cash Dutch soldiers could not be maintained. However, this does not mean that all troops who fight for pay are as a rule unreliable Soldateska. Money was the indispensable lubricant of early modern war, because the government was not directly responsible for the upkeep of its army. The troops had to buy foodstuffs and clothing themselves, hire lodgings, and even pay for their weapons in cash. Without a steady flow of coins, the early modern military quickly ran into trouble. Because of the entrepreneurial character of early modern armies, army-state relations were soured by mutual distrust. For this reason, Machiavelli warned against hiring mercenaries. Indeed, governments and civic society had every reason to distrust the Landsknechte. However, at the close of the sixteenth century, the era of the ‘free soldier’ was ending. The first half of the seventeenth century witnessed the gradual changeover from mercenary to 36 KHA, Archive of William V, inv. no. 473, Charles Duke of Brunswick-Lunenburg, Brunswick 20 February 1788.

The Pitfalls of Modern Perceptions of the Early Modern Dutch Army

153

long-serving professional soldier, not yet in an organisational sense, but certainly with regard to the question of socio-political loyalty. Ready money remained essential for the functioning of an army, but the reliability of troops was no longer in doubt. Naturally, when the payment of wages fell into arrears, soldiers deserted in droves, but the time when civilians had to fear becoming the hostage of the troops they had hired had passed. Collective action by mutinous soldiers – a common phenomenon in the sixteenth century – had become a spectre of the past. The creation of the standing army of long-serving professional troops in the second half of the seventeenth century turned soldiers into trustworthy defenders of state and society. In the case of the Dutch Republic, the socio-political loyalty of the military was further assured by close connections between the political elite and the officer corps, as well as the triple oath of allegiance all soldiers were required to take. The second half of the eighteenth century marks the highpoint of the standing army. Soldiers were drilled to a standard of perfection not seen before, and discipline was strictly enforced both on and outside the parade ground. Paradoxically, instead of convincing society even more of the reliability of its armed forces, the Prussification of most of Europe’s armies put the socio-political loyalty of the military again into question. This feeling of unease was not a typical Dutch phenomenon. On the contrary, with regard to socio-political reliability, there is no indication whatsoever that regents, burghers and common people harboured any suspicion about the loyalty of the troops from 1588 until the last quarter of the eighteenth century. For answers to the sudden outburst of anti-army sentiments in the 1780s, we must therefore look into the rapidly escalating power struggle between William V and the Patriots. The military was a pawn in this political conflict. The Patriots denounced the soldiers as mindless puppets, not because this was really the case, but because this perception offered a useful tool in their fight against the Stadholder. The Dutch army debate of the 1780s savours of artificiality. The Patriot discourse was clearly inspired by the writings of contemporary German military thinkers,37 which is not surprising considering the large number of German-born officers serving in the States Army. Later generations of Dutch historians have interpreted the antimilitary rhetoric of the Patriots as fact. This is most unfortunate, for it obscures the remarkable bond that existed between army and society from 1588 to 1795.

37 Johannes Kunisch, Fürst – Gesellschaft – Krieg. Studien zur bellizistischen Disposition des absoluten Fürstenstaates, Cologne 1992, pp. 148, 150 s., 177–197; Van Nimwegen, Van oude naar nieuwe armee (cf. note 34), pp. 54 ss.

Hervé Drévillon

“Secondary Heroes”. War and the Making of the Individual in Eighteenth-Century France

In 1745, following the Battle of Fontenoy, a literary quarrel was provoked by the publication of the Poème de Fontenoy, in which Voltaire, hoping to be elected to the Académie française, disproportionately praised the glory of Louis XV, to whom he attributed all the merit of the victory.1 Several critical works were then published denouncing Voltaire’s overly apologetic poem. The critics’ most frequent complaint concerned the loss of life; Voltaire was criticized for having ignored the human cost of the battle by focusing exclusively on the glory of his sovereign and the fates of a few lords.2 Among the critics was a fictionalized version of the parish priest of Fontenoy, who was supposed to have petitioned the king to complain that the victims of the battle had been unceremoniously buried on the territory of his parish, preventing him from officiating and thus receiving the payment (casuel3) that would be his due:4 … You are too good a Christian To want, I hope, To bury, in my Parish, Seven or eight thousand men for nothing; This is my due, this is my claim. Of my rights and my fee These men have deprived me: A certain Monsieur de Voltaire Gave the death certificate Of all the Lords who are dead5

1 Voltaire, La Bataille de Fontenoy, poème, Paris 1745. 2 In particular, [Jean Dromgold], Réflexions sur un imprimé intitulé “La Bataille de Fontenoy”, dédiées à M. de Voltaire historiographe de France, s.l. s.d. [1745]. 3 The casuel was a sum of money due to the priest on the occasion of some religious ceremonies. 4 Jean-Henri Marchand, Requête du curé de Fontenoy au Roy, Fontenoy 1745. 5 “ […] vous êtes trop bon Chrétien / Pour vouloir, à ce que j’espère, / Que sur ma Paroisse on enterre / Sept ou huit mille hommes pour rien; / C’est mon casuel, c’est mon bien. / Sur mes

156

Hervé Drévillon

Apart from the satirical condemnation of the priest’s venality, an underlying issue in the text had to do with the fate of the anonymous soldiers buried without any sacrament or the least recognition. This critique could also be found in a pamphlet entitled The Military Academy or the Secondary Hero (L’académie militaire ou les héros subalternes, 1745). This fictional academy was composed of private soldiers and was dedicated to the glorification of true military values. In this book, the narrative of Fontenoy focuses on the aftermath of the battle in order to highlight the plights and sorrows of wounded soldiers. The hospital set in Lille is described as “another battlefield […] where death triumphed and still spilled its furies”.6 The description does all it can to inspire pity in the reader by describing the physical and psychological suffering of wounded soldiers.7 A member of the Academy reads a poem “in honor of secondary heroes” which serves as a counterpoint to that of Voltaire: The King’s Regiment, loyal to the Crown Chased by death, and surrounded by flames, Having lost a thousand Heroes, so many demi-gods, Owed all to their arms and nothing to their forefathers8

The “secondary heroes” quarrel calls for an inquiry into the status of the individual at war. Who were these soldiers killed and wounded in the battle of Fontenoy? Were they no better than slaves, bound to obey to the king’s will? Or were they individuals who could be thought to form, together, a nation? At the end of the Ancien Régime, this question arose from a tension between, on the one hand, the soldier’s submission to a collective order, which had become, over the centuries, more and more binding, dehumanizing and impersonal, and on the other hand, the assertion of the soldier’s individuality. In the eighteenth century, a soldier’s uniform was devoid of any kind of individual distinction. He was equipped with regulation weapons and was subject to a strict discipline that required total submission.9 However, submission to the collective order is not produced by disciplinary coercion alone. Submission, according to reformers

6 7 8 9

droits et mon honoraire / On m’a fait encor d’autres torts : / Un fameux Monsieur de Voltaire / A donné l’extrait mortuaire / De tous les Seigneurs qui sont morts ”; ibid., p. 7. “ un autre champ de bataille […] où la mort triomphait et promenait encore ses fureurs ”. [Claude Godard d’Aucour], L’académie militaire ou les héros subalternes, s.l. 1745, vol. 1, p. 282. “ le sang coule, tout ce triste lieu retentit de mille cris affreux ; la mort suit les Barbares, leur applaudit, et l’on jette sur ses pas, au lieu de fleurs, des bras, des jambes et des cadavres sanglants, Anglais, Français, tout est confondu ”, ibid. “ Le Régiment du Roi, celui de la Couronne / Que le trépas poursuit, que la flamme environne, / Perdent mille Héros, autant de demi-Dieux, / Devant tout à leur bras et rien à leurs aïeux ” ; ibid., p. 202. Arnaud Guinier, L’Honneur du soldat. Ethique martiale et discipline guerrière dans la France des Lumières, Ceyzérieu 2014.

“Secondary Heroes”

157

and military regulations, requires the individual’s assent. This can be seen in the case of desertion, that critical moment when the individual rejects the constraints of collective order. Indeed, the phenomenon of desertion leads us to question the soldier’s status: did he enlist as a result of force or of his own free will? Can he be seen as a slave who has relinquished his personal rights, or as a freeman engaged by contract? The question has not only military implications but political ones as well. To what extent did the Ancien Régime army acknowledge the soldier as an individual, and thus as a citizen?10

1.

The Soldier between Singularity and Uniformity

The most visible mark of a soldier’s submission was his uniform, which suggested the effacement of the individual within a logic of functionality.11 Made compulsory at the same time as arms regulations in the 1680s, uniforms were an instrument of operational efficiency, discipline and hygiene. Under the Ancien Régime, dress codes were a component of social order, positioning individuals in a hierarchy. Uniformity of dress abolished personal distinctions, and individual soldiers could no longer be recognized except through the outward signs indicating their function. In 1729, a royal decree required officers to wear a uniform which resembled that of a soldier, with only slight differences, such as the quality of the fabric, whether the buttons were enriched with gold or silver, or their sleeves embellished with lace.12 From 1737, officers were required to wear uniforms in garrison, whereas military dress was forbidden outside of the army.13 This separation of civilians and military personnel turned the army into a specific social group, with its own internal regulations, its members unified by common appearance.14 Beginning in 1744, general officers themselves were by royal decree obliged to comply with this rule. Even for the highest representatives of the military, the uniform was intended to signify ‘the honor and obedience’ owed to those who wore it: not the honor accorded to an individual, but the collective dignity of 10 See Hervé Drévillon, L’Individu et la guerre du chevalier Bayard au Soldat inconnu, Paris 2013. 11 Idem, La tenue militaire entre uniformité et distinction sous les règnes de Louis XIV et de Louis XV, in: Martin Aurell et al. (eds.), Signes et couleurs des identités politiques du Moyen Age à nos jours, Rennes 2009, pp. 381–392. 12 Ordonnance du Roi portant règlement pour l’habillement de l’infanterie française, Paris, 10 mars 1729. 13 In the following decades, wearing military dress was permitted for officers and even became a sign of distinction. A kind of military elegance thus emerged. 14 In 1759, the épaulette was adopted as a regulatory mark of distinction between officers and soldiers.

158

Hervé Drévillon

function or rank. The difference appeared clearly in the memory of an officer sent to the Secretary of State for War in the middle of the century: “There is no distinction between the uniform of a brigadier of the king’s army and a sublieutenant. This lack of distinctive labelling allows people without birth and merit to pass for officers and to undermine the reputation that the officer corps has earned”.15 According to Alfred de Vigny, eighteenth-century officers particularly hated the uniform, as it gives the same appearance to all, and calls attention to the attire and not the man.16 The uniform thus contributed to the formation of a corporate entity, which profoundly altered the process of assigning identity. In 1780, Joseph Servan, author of The Soldier Citizen, or patriotic views on the most advantageous way to provide for the defense of the realm (Le soldat citoyen ou Vues patriotiques sur la manière la plus avantageuse de pourvoir à la defense du royaume), stressed the unity of the military group thus constituted: We see society divided into different classes of citizens. In each of these classes, men are unequal to each other. Some are rich, some are poor; some lead, many follow. But in no other class are men more bound to each other, more submissive, more dependent and more chained to the law, as in that of the defenders of the State.17

Uniformity symbolized the standardization that had gripped early modern European armies. In the early seventeenth century, Jérémy Billon explained the place of each soldier in the collective order of a battalion: “In order to draw the line, and keep it in its entirety, each must have his name (that is, his sequence number in the file), and always return to his place; and should a place become empty, it must immediately be filled”.18 Since the adoption of the bayonet-andrifle system at the end of the seventeenth century, foot soldiers formed a single model, which replaced the dual pike-and-musket system. Tactical patterns of the 15 “ Il n’y a nulle distinction dans l’uniforme entre un brigadier des armées du roi et un souslieutenant. Cette absence de marque distinctive permet à des gens de naissance et sans conduite de s’annoncer pour des officiers et de porter atteinte au renom que le corps d’officiers s’est acquis. ” Mémoire anonyme sur la tenue militaire, Service Historique de la Défense (SHD), 1M 1705. 16 “ Ils haïssaient particulièrement l’uniforme, qui donne à tous le même aspect, et soumet les esprits à l’habit et non à l’homme. ” Alfred de Vigny, Servitude et grandeur militaires, Paris 1885 [1835], p. 17. 17 “ Nous voyons la société se partager en différentes classes de citoyens. Dans chacune de ces classes, les hommes sont inégaux entre eux. Les uns sont riches, les autres sont faibles ; quelquesuns commandent, beaucoup obéissent. Mais dans aucune classe les hommes ne sont plus liés les uns aux autres, ne sont plus soumis, plus dépendants, plus enchaînés à la loi, que dans celle des défenseurs de l’Etat ”. Joseph Servan, Le soldat citoyen ou Vues patriotiques sur la manière la plus avantageuse de pourvoir à la defense du royaume, [Neufchâtel] 1780, p. 422. 18 “ Pour bien dresser la file, et la conserver en son entier, il faut que chacun aye sont nom (i. e. numéro d’ordre dans la file), qu’il se remette toujours en sa mesme place: et quand il s’en va quelqu’un, que l’on en remette toujours à la même place qui vaque en la file ”, Jeremy Billon, Les principes de l’art militaire, Rouen 1622 [1615], p. 166.

“Secondary Heroes”

159

eighteenth century confirmed this standardization by enclosing soldiers in a static formation in which compliance with regulations and firing procedures limited individual initiative and alternative forms of combat. Firing by row, then firing by squad (adopted by ordinance for the exercise of infantry in 1764), were very demanding in terms of discipline.19 Firing by squad, for instance, required a complex formation to enable the different parts of a battalion to shoot at the same time. Linear warfare required passive submission to a grueling level of discipline. In particular, the soldier had to know how to ‘receive’ enemy fire: he must be placed in profile to offer the thinnest possible surface to enemy’s fire. It was in this regulation position that many soldiers were wounded at Malplaquet in September 1709. André Corvisier emphasizes, rightly, the importance of this fact: wounded soldiers had great self-discipline, and were, we can infer, perfectly conscious of the risks and resigned to their fates.20 Being shot by an expected volley was totally different from being hit by a bullet during an offensive action.21 Combat psychology has shown that action prevents soldiers from psychological collapse.22 This is an important aspect of the tactical controversy between proponents of ordre mince and those of ordre profond (‘thin order’ vs. ‘deep order’). What the Chevalier de Folard considered typical of the French disposition was not only a tactical order (column vs. line) but also a psychological defense. According to Folard, linear warfare was particularly deadly: [M]en, standing stock-still at a certain distance from each other, form two long lines, because of the limited height of the battalions. Over the course of several hours they are exposed to prodigious and continual cannon and gun fire, all the more dangerous as fire is exchanged on a large front, which, in a short time, causes the loss of an infinite number of men.23

In contrast, fighting in a column preserves individuals from psychological collapse, thanks to the enthusiasm of action, which serves to anesthetize the impulse toward self-preservation. According to Folard, a column suffers less by fire because it advances at a more lively and accelerated speed. In linear warfare, battalions march at a slow and weighty pace because they cannot otherwise go

19 Cf. Guinier, L’Honneur du soldat (cf. note 9). 20 André Corvisier, La bataille de Malplaquet, 1709. L’effondrement de la France évité, Paris 1997. 21 John Lynn, Battle. A History of Combat and Culture, Boulder, CO 2004, pp. 111–144. 22 Henri Laborit, Eloge de la fuite, Paris 1976. 23 “ Des hommes rangés sans branler à une certaine distance les uns des autres, et sur deux lignes d’une grande étendue, à cause du peu de hauteur des bataillons qui se voient exposés à plusieurs heures à un feu prodigieux et continuel de canon et de coups de fusils, d’autant plus meurtrier que les corps qui se passent ainsi réciproquement par les armes combattent sur un grand front, qui cause en peu de temps la perte d’une infinité de monde ”. Chevalier de Folard, Traité de la colonne, dans Histoire de Polybe, Amsterdam 1774, t. 1, p. lxxix.

160

Hervé Drévillon

without drifting or rupturing, and thus they are more exposed to various sources of fire, which makes the soldiers lose the eagerness that speed and slenderness inspire in the heart.24

The ordre mince, which prevailed despite Folard’s opinion, reduced soldiers to the state of soulless automatons deprived of the inner fire lit by action. According to Simon-Nicolas-Henri Linguet, a lawyer, not only did the self-interested vanity of commanding three hundred thousand rifles carried by machines dressed as men infringe on the daily existence of these wretches but it decreased the value of the individual himself.25 The tactical and disciplinary order came to signify a loss of individuality and humanity. Symbolically, the soldier lost his name when he joined the army and adopted a nickname (or nom de guerre) such as La Tulipe, La Fleur or La Liberté, etc. At the end of the seventeenth century, Nicolas-Rémond des Cours highlighted the consequences of the loss of the soldier’s name and identity: There is no peril to the officer, because all the glory is for him. Honor, which is at the tip of his sword, is a beautiful curtain that hides from his eyes the horror of battle and its aftermath. But for the soldier, whose name, since it is unknown, cannot wither, who sees blood and misery pour from his wounds, do we not drown out the risks with promises of glory?26

The impossibility of mobilizing soldiers’ sense of honor posed a major problem since, according to Montesquieu, honor is the “principle of monarchical government”.27 Honor tightens the bond between the individual and society. It defines what an individual owes to society, and what a society owes to the individual; that is why Montesquieu considered it to be the foundation of a political and social contract. The lack of honor expels soldiers from the civic community. Military reformers of the eighteenth century were deeply aware that subsuming the in24 La colonne “ souffre bien moins de feu, parce que son mouvement en avant est d’un cours vif et plus accéléré. Les bataillons marchent d’un pas lent et grave parce qu’ils ne peuvent aller autrement sans flotter et sans se rompre, et par là ils se trouvent plus longtemps exposés aux différentes bouches à feu ; ce qui fait perdre aux soldats cette ardeur que la vitesse et l’élancement allument dans le cœur ”; ibid. 25 “ Non seulement la vanité intéressée de commander à trois cent mille fusils portés par des machines habillées en hommes, a fait attenter à la subsistance journalière de ces misérables, mais elle a diminué la valeur de l’individu même ”. Simon-Nicolas-Henri Linguet, Annales politiques, civiles et littéraires du XVIIIe siècle, t. 1, London 1777, “ Réflexions préliminaires ”, p. 28. 26 “ Il n’y a point de péril pour l’officier. Parce que toute la gloire est pour lui. L’honneur qui est au bout de la pointe de son épée est un beau rideau qui couvre à ses yeux l’horreur du combat et de ses suites. Mais pour le soldat, de qui le nom inconnu ne craint point de se flétrir, qui voit sortir de ses blessures du sang et de la misère, peut-on trop lui couvrir le péril par des promesses ”, Nicolas-Rémond Des Cours, Les véritables devoirs de l’homme d’épée, Amsterdam 1697, p. 72. 27 Charles Louis de Secondat de Montesquieu, L’Esprit des lois, L. III, ch. 7, “ Du principe de la monarchie ”.

“Secondary Heroes”

161

dividual into the collective was a danger to the social order since it deprived soldiers of a sense of individual responsibility and involvement. Some tried to promote an alternative understanding of discipline that would preserve the individual.28 In fact, it is not necessary from a military standpoint for the individual to submit himself so fully to the group: the collective order might also be considered the sum of differentiated individuals. Such a pattern was the basis of the military humanism in the sixteenth century, particularly in the Machiavellian ideal of a citizens’ army. This pattern faded during the seventeenth century, when soldiers came to be considered a social non-entity, subject to coercive discipline.29 Eighteenth-century reformers attempted to revive the idea of humanist discipline; the Baron de Fourquevaux, for instance, suggested that when nature fails, industry and exercise can compensate for it.30 Discipline, then, was a question of education. For Pierre Charron, discipline has two goals: “to make the soldiers valiant and transform them to men of good will; and so it has two parts, valor and morality”.31 Under the influence of the Enlightenment, the conception of discipline as a matter of education changed the stakes and significance of military regulations. Baron de Maltzan proposed educating soldiers rather than punishing them: “the base of the introduction of the discipline is to persuade, to convince”.32 After the 1770s, the emerging conception of military order created more room for individuality and personal initiative. The firing regulations of 1776 took into consideration the situation of each private soldier in the collective order.33 Under the influence of small war practices, the development of light troops (infantry as well as cavalry) promoted combat tactics based on individual initiative, rather than collective discipline.34 The introduction of these practices was identified by Michel Foucault, albeit somewhat erroneously from a strictly chronological point of view. 28 For instance, [L’auteur d’Azémor], Considérations sur l’influence des mœurs dans l’état militaire des nations, Londres 1788; or Baron de Maltzan, Extrait de mon mémoire sur une augmentation, article discipline, 1776, SHD, 1M 1786. 29 As depicted by Jacques Callot, Misères et malheurs de la guerre, Paris 1633 ; cf. Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban, “ Moyens d’améliorer nos troupes et de faire une infanterie perpétuelle et très excellente ”, in: Michèle Virol (ed.), Les Oisivetés de Monsieur de Vauban ou ramas de plusieurs mémoires de sa façon sur différents sujets, Seyssel 2007, pp. 967–1153. 30 “ Car en ce que nature default de soy, l’industie y peut supplir et l’exercice […] ”, [Raymond Fourquevaux], Instructions sur le fait de la guerre, Paris 1553 [1549], fol. 3 v°. 31 “ ceste discipline doit tendre à deux fins: à rendre les soldats vaillans et gens de bien : et ainsi elle a deux parties, la vaillance et les mœurs ”, Pierre Charron, De la sagesse, Rouen 1633 [1601], p. 539. 32 “ la baze à l’introduction de la discipline c’est de persuader, c’est de convaincre ”, Baron de Maltzan, Extrait (cf. note 28), p. 70. 33 Ordonnance du Roi pour régler l’exercice de ses troupes d’infanterie, du 1er juin 1776, Lille 1776. 34 Guillaume Philibert Duhesme, Précis historique de l’infanterie légère, de ses fonctions et de son influence dans la tactique des différents siècles, Lyon 1806; Jean Colin, L’éducation militaire de Napoléon, Paris 1900.

162

Hervé Drévillon

Foucault dated the emergence of individual combat to the beginning of the eighteenth century, while, on the contrary, the regulations introduced more collective constraint.35 Foucault was right, however, to identify a potential affirmation of the individual in military regulations even if he over-anticipated its realization. The disciplinary enterprise does not in fact aim at an undifferentiated mass; in order to be effective it must address individuals as such. According to Foucault, the disciplinary machine is one whose principle is no longer the mass, whether moving or stationary, but a geometry of divisible segments, whose basic unit is the mobile soldier with his rifle.36 The adoption of the rifle-and-bayonet system certainly tended to standardize the soldier, but it also empowered him by giving him the combined capacity for fire and shock, defense and attack, whereas before that, pikemen and musketeers were dependent on each other. In fact, the disciplinary process is meaningful only if it applies to individuals. The administrative registration of soldiers (contrôle des troupes) established in 1716 suggests such a duality. The need to keep official registration records of soldiers was expressed in September 1620 by a royal ordinance: The king, who wanted to personally attend the latest inspection of the troops, as well as to remedy the abuses committed in his infantry, ordered the commissioners […] to keep a record, in each company, […] on which will be written down the name, surname, place of birth and the distinguishing features of each soldier.37

The goal of the record was to fight against passe-volants (fake soldiers) and desertion through the identification of each soldier. In the eighteenth century, administrative records kept track of each soldier’s name, nom de guerre, date and place of birth, physical description, (re-)enlistment date, and any change of status (promotions, for instance). These records reflect the binary in which the soldier was (literally) inscribed: he was incorporated into a collective order which subsumed, in part, his individuality, while at the same time acknowledged him as a unique entity with his own personal history and physical appearance. See, for example, the enlistment contract of Antoine Paccard in the Cavalry Regiment Royal-Picardy in 1767. Speaking in the first person, the soldier gives his signature and grants his agreement to the description of himself which is the basis of his enlistment. 35 Michel Foucault, Surveiller et punir. Naissance de la prison, Paris 1975; cf. also Alain Ehrenberg, Le corps militaire. Politique et pédagogie en démocratie, Paris 1983. 36 Foucault, Surveiller et punir (cf. note 35), p. 192. 37 “ Le roi, ayant voulu assister en personne aux dernières monstres des troupes et voulant remédier aux abus qu’il a reconnu être commis dans son infanterie, ordonne aux commissaires […] de faire en chaque compagnie un rôle de signal de tous les gens de guerre de la compagnie sur lequel on portera le nom, surnom, le lieu de naissance et les marques particulières de chaque soldat ”, Ordonnance du 26 septembre 1620, BNF, collection Châtre de Cangé, vol. 21, Rés. F 179, fol. 212.

“Secondary Heroes”

163

Fig. 1: Enlistment of Antoine-Marie Paccard in the cavalry regiment of Royal-Picardie.

The tension between the individual and the collective order is consubstantial with the birth of the modern army, itself the result of a mathematized art of war, in which each individual becomes a geometrical point, an algebraic unit. But it is also the result of a political structure that breaks with the statutory inequality of medieval armies. In modern warfare, all soldiers are equal. Like discipline, uniformity is ambivalent: it erases the distinctions between individuals, but it also allows for the expression of a singular identity. See, for example, the way Carmontelle (Louis Carrogis) depicted different kinds of self-representation in the entourage of the Duke of Orleans in the years 1750–1770. Some officers have been depicted in the simplicity of their military garb, which became an integral part of their identity:

164

Hervé Drévillon

Fig. 2: Officers in uniform. Louis Carrogis (called Carmontelle), Monsieur de Marassé, captain in the Grenadiers de France (left) and Monsieur de Boutelière, captain in the dragoons (right), Chantilly, Musée Condé.

At the same time, images of soldiers depart from the archetype by portraying their attempt to assume an individual identity:

Fig. 3: A private of the infantry regiment of Brissac. Anonymous, Soldat du régiment d’infanterie de Brissac, huile sur toile, Paris, Musée de l’Armée.

“Secondary Heroes”

2.

165

The Soldier as a Man of Honor

What was, then, the status of the soldier as an individual? Did he relinquish his liberty and dignity by enlisting in the army, or did he remain a free man? In this context, the debate on the Prussian model is of key importance. It contrasted the image of a Prussian soldier, drilled to behave as an automaton and reduced to the status of a slave, with the French soldier who enlisted by his free will, and who was not supposed to have waived his fundamental rights.38 What sorts of links were thought to bind those different soldiers to the army and, more generally, to society as a whole? In Montesquieu’s terms, what ‘principles’39 made the army work as a society unto itself ? What kind of ‘human passion’ drove military action? It is generally thought, of course, that the principle driving the Prussian army was (again, in Montesquieu’s terms) ‘fear’. But could one say that the governing principle of the French army was honor?40 During the Enlightenment, appealing to a sense of honor was seen as a way to encourage soldiers to remain loyal to their contract and to their civic duties. The way to foster the military spirit, advised the Chevalier de Jaucourt, is to reward and to honor the love of the fatherland, to bind soldiers together by enthusiasm, and by oath.41 The nationalization of honor, as David Bell and Jay Smith describe, applied primarily to the military sphere.42 A famous anecdote reported in Le soldat citoyen, suggests this: “It may be recalled here the word of a soldier who served under the Marshal de Saxe, who, when asked what country he belonged to, replied: I have the honor, he said, to be French.”43 The debate on degrading punishment was, in this respect, particularly instructive. Infamy and public humiliation seemed characteristic of the servitude of Prussian soldiers, while a 38 For instance, “ Les raisons qui justifient la sévérité des Prussiens, sont autant de motifs qui doivent nous la faire rejeter: elle est chez eux le fruit de la nécessité; des caractères froids & mélancoliques, des âmes engourdies par la crainte & abattues par l’autorité, ne pouvant être mues par le patriotisme restent toujours sans élévation; on est donc obligé d’y suppléer par une discipline outrée ”, [Pierre Augustin de Varennes], Réflexions morales relatives au militaire françois, Paris 1779, p. 6. 39 “ La nature est ce qui le fait tel; et son principe, ce qui le fait agir. L’une est sa structure particulière et l’autre les passions humaines qui le font mouvoir ” (there is this difference between the nature of the government and its principle: its nature is that which makes it what it is, and its principle, that which makes it act), Montesquieu, L’Esprit des lois (cf. note 27), L. III, ch. 1. 40 Hervé Drévillon, L’âme est à Dieu et l’honneur à nous. Honneur et distinction de soi à l’époque moderne, in: Revue Historique 654 (2010), pp. 361–395. 41 Chevalier de Jaucourt, Mémoire sur les moyens de détruire l’esprit de désertion qui existe en France, s. d., SHD, 1M 1784, 78. 42 David Bell, The Cult of the Nation in France. Inventing Nationalism, 1680–1820, Cambridge, MA 2001; Jay Smith, Nobility Reimagined. The Patriotic Nation in Eighteenth Century France, Ithaca, NY 2005. 43 Servan, Le soldat citoyen (cf. note 17), p. 423.

166

Hervé Drévillon

nation of free men should be reluctant to humiliate those who agreed to serve in the army.44 Honor, in that sense, appears to prefigure citizenship, granting the soldier dignity as a man and as a citizen: Tell the soldiers about their wives, their children; speak to them of homeland and honor. The soldier has always been sensitive to such feelings, especially at the moment of danger. Never was the voice of the nation unknown to him.45

The character of the “secondary hero”, which came into being after the Battle of Fontenoy, was popularized to the point of becoming a true literary archetype that developed across a range of media: engravings, press, theater, etc. This figure truly took shape in 1779, after an incident during the conquest of Grenada: Sr. Horadou, known as Languedoc, sergeant of grenadiers in the regiment of Haynault, was at the forefront. Having shown the greatest bravery during the action, he threw himself into the last battery; & darting between enemy soldiers, he saved the life of Sr. Vence, who had gone ahead of him. Count d’Estaing, under the gaze of whom the sergeant had fought, the moment after arriving in the battery, embraced him and made him an officer.46

The truth of this episode is confirmed by the regimental record: Jean Auradou, known as Languedoc, Sergeant. August 20, 1766, son of Jacques and Marie Guereau native [of Alzoune] in Languedoc [ jurisdiction] of Carcassonne, aged 17, height 5 p. 4 p., Brown hair and eyebrows, brown eyes, medium nose pointed at the tip, shapely mouth, red chin and face. Incorporated February 7, 1760. Made an Officer in America, January 20, 1780.47

The story of Jean Auradou was unique. A year after his promotion, in 1781, the edict of Ségur limited access to the officer ranks to gentlemen with four degrees

44 See, for instance, ibid., p. 420: “ de tous les moyens qui peuvent maintenir la discipline parmi les troupes, les châtiments sont ceux qu’il est essentiel de mettre le moins en usage. Le grand art du législateur est de se servir, pour conduire les hommes, de l’honneur, du patriotisme et des récompenses. Tels sont les moyens les plus flatteurs et qui doivent le mieux réussir avec des François. L’esclave combat à regret pour sa prison et pour sa chaîne ”. 45 Considérations sur l’influence (cf. note 28), p. 39. 46 “ Le Sr. Horadou, dit Languedoc, sergent de grenadiers au régiment de Haynault, étoit a l’avant-garde. Après avoir montré, pendant l’action, la plus grande intrépidité, il sauta dans la derniere batterie du morne; & s’élançant à travers les soldats ennemis, il sauva la vie au Sr. Vence, qui le precédoit. Le comte d’Estaing, sous les yeux de qui ce sergent avoit combattu, arrivant l’instant après dans la batterie, l’embrassa en lui déclarant qu’il le faisoit officier ”; Relation de la prise de la Grenade, Grenade à St.-George 1779, p. 6. 47 “ Jean Auradou dit Languedoc, sergent du 20 août 1766, fils de feu Jacques et de Marie Guereau natif [d’Alzoune] en Languedoc [ juridiction] de Carcassonne, agé de 17 ans, taille de 5 p. 4 p., cheveux et sourcils bruns, les yeux roux, nez moyen relevé du bout, bouche bien faite, visage et menton roux au regt. Incorporé le 7 février 1760, fait officier en Amérique le 20 janvier 1780 ”; SHD, 1 Yc 394, Régiment d’infanterie du Hainaut, 1753–1786.

“Secondary Heroes”

167

Fig. 4: A “secondary hero”. La valeur récompensée à la prise de la Grenade le 4 juillet 1779, s.l., s.d.

of nobility.48 In fact, the rise of commoners in the military profession had become quite rare. In the infantry, soldiers’ careers could not, without exception, go beyond the rank of sergeant. That is where the rhetoric of honor reached its limits since, as Montesquieu wrote, the nature of honor is to request preferences and distinctions.49 To assign honor to soldiers demanded, in return, a recognition of their ability to be promoted and to reach higher ranks. The “secondary heroes” debate not only revealed the need to acknowledge the sacrifice of ordinary soldiers, but also to recognize the quality of their services and the need for official appreciation. In a libelle from 1767, a fictional soldier from the Gardes françaises complained on behalf of his fellow soldiers by contrasting the officer’s glory with the soldier’s anonymity, in an attempt to reverse the logic of honor: “They [the officers] know that we lead the same career as they do, without the same expectations, and that if we defy death without the same hope of fame, we are all the

48 Rafe Blaufarb, The French Army, 1750–1820: Carrers, Merit, Talent, Manchester, New York 2002; David Bien, La réaction aristocratique avant 1789: l’exemple de l’armée, in: Annales ESC 29 (1974), pp. 23–48, 505–534; Louis Tuetey, Les officiers sous l’ancien régime. Nobles et roturiers, Paris 1908. 49 Montesquieu, L’Esprit des lois (cf. note 27), III, 7.

168

Hervé Drévillon

more estimable.”50 Nonetheless, beyond the demand for recognition, what we hear in this assertion is the soldier’s frustration. On the eve of the French Revolution, the promotion of soldiers’ honor was a real political goal. To be honored, soldiers must receive honors. Honor, then, is revealed to be a mixture of virtue and self-interest. However, in the French Army, virtue was encouraged, but selfinterest was denied to soldiers. In the beginning of the French Revolution, honor became a matrix of citizenship, and not just the resurgence of an Ancien Régime ideal. Better yet, it is possible to say, as Anne Simonin has suggested, that the French Revolution made the achievement of civic honor a possibility by providing each individual with dignity.51 Some revolutionary principles seemed to rehabilitate honor, a value which the Ancien Régime had trapped in the logic of privilege. In the military sphere, Servan demonstrated that the Ancien Régime had restricted the meaning of the term by limiting it to the aristocracy: What could be more absurd than calling the same man a hero before the enemy and a slave before you! … Montesquieu says that honor is the principle of monarchies … My lords! Do you know why there is neither a monarchy nor a fatherland? It is because you have destroyed honor … You have spared no effort in removing it from the army.52

From August 1789 to October 1791, the members of the Constituent Assembly had to deal with many military issues in order to transform the royal army into a national army, and they established a military committee responsible for defining new military patterns.53 One of the main issues was the application of the principle of equal rights set forth in the Declaration of Human Rights. Now that nobility was no longer a requirement to reach the rank of officer, how would soldiers now be assessed for advancement? In September 1790, Alexandre Lameth, on behalf of the military committee, presented the new organization of promotions, highlighting the importance of defining the principles of promotion for “public order and the dearest rights of individuals”.54 The Assembly estab50 “ Ils savent que si nous courons la même carrière qu’eux sans avoir les mêmes espérances, si nous bravons la mort sans les mêmes prétentions à la Renommée, nous n’en sommes que plus estimables ”; Réponse des soldats du régiment des Gardes françaises aux Loisirs d’un soldat du même régiment, s.l. 1767, p. 10. 51 Anne Simonin, Le déshonneur dans la République. Une histoire de l’indignité 1791–1958, Paris 2008, p. 57. 52 Quoi de plus absurde? Vouloir que le même homme soit un héros devant l’ennemi et un esclave devant vous !… Montesquieu dit que l’honneur est le principe des monarchies… Grands ! savez-vous pourquoi il n’y a plus ni monarchie, ni patrie? C’est que vous avez détruit l’honneur… Il n’y a point d’efforts que vous n’ayez faits pour l’extirper de l’armée. Joseph Servan, La Seconde aux grands, s.l. s.d., p. 17. 53 Pierre Caron, Les papiers des comités militaires de la Constituante, de la Législative et de la Convention (1789–an IV), Paris 1912. 54 Archives parlementaires de 1787 à 1860, Paris 1875, vol. 12, p. 76.

“Secondary Heroes”

169

lished three different and complementary ways to reach a higher rank: seniority, collegial choice and king’s choice. Soldiers rising to the rank of sergeants were chosen by sergeants currently in charge, and were appointed by the captain of the company. Access to the officer corps started at the rank of sub-lieutenant. Onefourth of the sub-lieutenants were chosen by the officers of each regiment from the sergeants. The remaining three-fourths had direct entry into the officer corps through recruitment. Up to the rank of captain, seniority was the rule. The king’s choice came beyond the rank of lieutenant colonel, with varying proportions of seniority. Lameth argued that the new laws on promotion will be the most valuable benefits for the army, because they concern not only wealth but dignity, and the glory of each individual. They will become one more way to attach them to the Constitution.55 Indeed, the new organization of military promotions established the link – always lacking under the Ancien Régime – between the private soldier, the army and society at large. It created the conditions for the recognition of the soldier as a citizen, thanks to the acknowledgement of his status as an individual with dignity. Honor and dignity were the key ideals of citizenship. All that remained was to give soldiers a legal status that would confirm their claim to dignity. In 1790, Guibert was very skeptical about the possibility of giving a soldier the full rights of a citizen. In the Traité de la force publique, he argued that the principles that form the basis for discipline and prejudices that make up the military spirit are by their nature necessarily in opposition to all the principles of civic spirit.56 Guibert believed that a soldier could never be a full citizen, but this was not the prevailing opinion in the Constituent Assembly. In 1791, Charles Chabroud, a member of the military committee, presented a proposal for a new military penal code. Its purpose was to give the soldier a status that would not deprive him of his basic civil rights, while respecting the specificity of the military. Chabroud admitted that the soldier’s commitment ‘alienates’ him from his freedom. As long as his commitment lasts, he is almost a slave.57 But although the soldier has waived a portion of his freedom, he has not renounced his honor. Chabroud proposes then to exploit this sentiment in order to elaborate the civic status of the soldier: “There is, for the soldiers of all ranks, a delicate honor which must not be injured; there is a dignity of man and of citizen that the soldier has

55 Ibid. 56 “ Les principes qui servent de base à la discipline, et les préjugés qui composent l’esprit militaire, sont nécessairement et par leur nature en opposition avec tous les principes de l’esprit citoyen ”, Jacques Antoine Guibert, De la force publique, considérée dans tous ses rapports, Paris 1790, p. 12. 57 Charles Chabroud, Rapport et projet de loi sur les délits et les peines proposé à l’Assemblée Nationale au nom du Comité militaire, Paris 1791, p. 21.

170

Hervé Drévillon

not abdicated.”58 Chabroud, then, concludes that honor will provide the terms of the penal military code.59 At the end of the Ancien Régime, the humiliation of soldiers through degrading punishment was seen as the expression of the arbitrary nature of the monarchy and as a sign of the alienation of soldiers. The new military code, then, had to establish the legal conditions in which a soldier could be deprived of his dignity. Chabroud’s project followed the idea that any violation of military law is a punishable offense, but any fault of this kind is not a crime; it only becomes so when it is accompanied by serious circumstances expressed in the law. Mistakes are punished by penalties of discipline; only offenses can be punished by afflictive or defamatory penalties.60 Admittedly, soldiers were not ordinary citizens, but consideration for their dignity made it possible to treat them like citizens. It is often said that the French Revolution was devoted to the principle of virtue, as opposed to the Ancien Régime’s valorization of honor. In fact, honor and dignity can be considered to be revolutionary achievements, since they became the prerogatives of all citizens.61 In the military, this conquest ended a contradiction latent in the army throughout the Ancien Régime. The result of this process can be seen in the law of 6 Fructidor, 2nd year, which prohibited any citizen from bearing a name or surname other than those expressed in his birth certificate.62 Soldiers could relinquish their noms de guerre and recover the name that designated them as citizens and individuals.

58 “ Il y a pour le soldat de tous les rangs un honneur délicat, qui ne doit pas être blessé; il y a une dignité d’homme et de citoyen que le soldat n’a pas abdiquée ”; ibid., p. 22. 59 “ C’est à l’honneur qui lui a été promis de fournir le plan du code pénal militaire ”; ibid., p. 16. 60 “ Art. 5: Toute contravention à la loi militaire est une faute punissable; mais toute faute de ce genre n’est pas un délit ; elle ne le devient que lorsqu’elle est accompagnée des circonstances graves énoncées dans la loi. Les fautes sont punies par des peines de discipline; les délits seuls peuvent l’être par des peines afflictives ou infamantes ”; Décret sur la compétence des tribunaux militaire, leur organisation et la manière de procéder devant eux, 22 septembre 1790, in: Hughes Berriat (ed.), Législation militaire ou recueil méthodique et raisonné des lois, décrets, arrêtés, règlements et instructions actuellement en vigueur sur toutes les branches de l’état militaire, Paris 1812, part 2, p. 386. 61 See also Charles Walton, Policing Public Opinion in the French Revolution. The Culture of Calumny and the Problem of Free Speech, Oxford 2009. 62 “ Aucun citoyen ne pourra porter de nom ni de prénom autres que ceux exprimés dans son acte de naissance ”, Loi du 6 fructidor an II, Bulletin des lois de la République française, no. 44, Paris 1794, p. 5.

III – North-Eastern and South-Eastern Europe

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

Introduction and Commentary

1.

Markets of Violence and the ‘Military Revolution’: A New Military History of Eastern Europe

In the existing comparative European research on violence in the early modern period, Eastern Europe has thus far scarcely been conceived of as a separate region with its own structures. Approaches rooted in the theory of modernisation have tended to assume a delayed occurrence of the early modern ‘military revolution’ in Eastern Europe during the course of the seventeenth century: this spread gradually into the region from the Netherlands in the sixteenth century, initially via Swedish influences and carried by German, Dutch, French, and Scottish soldiers. As in Western Europe, it was accompanied by an expansion of the bureaucratic apparatus, an increase in the tax burden, wide-reaching financial reform, and the general permeation of Eastern European societies by the state. These processes were seen to have taken place over the entire course of the seventeenth century for the Tsardom of Muscovy (Marshall Poe)1 and PolandLithuania (Robert Frost);2 for the former they culminated in a successful process of state formation, in that they led to the large-scale military and state reforms under Peter the Great in the early eighteenth century, whereas they proved to be unsuccessful in the latter case, which was ‘punished’ by partition and annexation. However, when applied to the early modern period, these theories leave a great deal of questions requiring further clarification, and indeed even ignore certain 1 Marshall Poe, The Consequences of the Military Revolution in Muscovy: A Comparative Perspective, in: Comparative Studies in Society and History 38 (1996), pp. 603–618; idem, The Military Revolution, Administrative Development and Cultural Change in Early Modern Russia, in: The Journal of Early Modern History 2 (1998), pp. 247–273. 2 Robert Frost, The Northern Wars: War, State and Society in Northeastern Europe, 1558–1721, London 2000; idem, The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the “Military Revolution”, in: Mieczysław B. Biskupski, James S. Pula (eds.), Poland and Europe: Historical Dimensions, New York 1993, pp. 19–47.

174

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

developments completely. After all, in what we are actually confronted with in Eastern Europe are developments pulling in the opposite direction, at least initially (into the first third of the seventeenth century), and with what has sometimes been characterised as the ‘orientalisation’ of warfare, that is a prioritisation of light cavalry and only using the infantry as an auxiliary force.3 Before the eighteenth century, there is very little evidence in the region for the construction of early modern fortresses following the Italian model in (the so-called trace italienne), often connected with the ‘military revolution’. It was only with the construction of the Novodvinsk Fortress in Archangelsk in 1701 and the Peter and Paul Fortress in St. Petersburg in 1703 that these innovations in military architecture were finally adopted; Polish initiatives such as the Kudak Fortress (1635/39–1648) on the Dnieper close to present-day Dnipropetrovsk remain few and far between, and were abandoned as a result of financial crises,4 whilst neither of the great Swedish fortresses at Sveaborg (1748-) and Svartholm (1749-) were constructed until the mid-eighteenth century. Newer approaches, and in particular the anthology edited by Brian Davies in 2012, Warfare in Eastern Europe, tend to adopt a more revisionist approach to the theory of a ‘military revolution’ from the West. Crucial to an understanding of military developments in Eastern Europe, according to Davies, are the geographical and related social, demographic and infrastructural differences between the ‘Baltic’ and the ‘(Danubian-)Pontic Theatres of War’. The differing forms of warfare in these regions impacted accordingly upon the extent and range of the military transformations they experienced, i. e. the degree to which Western technologies and tactics were adopted in the Baltic Sea region and were implemented in Central Europe, that is in Ukraine and the Black Sea region. Furthermore, it was the Ottoman Empire which had been most influential over the centuries in shaping military affairs in Eastern Europe, so that the majority of innovations in the Muscovy of the sixteenth century had Ottoman rather than Western roots (artillery, the laager tactic, the Streltsy modelled on the Janissaries). Therefore, Davies considers it necessary not to speak in terms of a 3 Vitalij V. Penskoj, Velikaja ognestrel′naja revolucija [The Great Gunpowder Revolution], Moscow 2010, pp. 64–72. 4 In essence denied for the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in Bogusław Dybas´, Fortece Rzeczypospolitej. Studium z dziejów budowy fortyfikacji stałych w pan´stwie polsko-litewskim w XVII wieku [Fortresses of the Rzeczpospolita. Study on the History of Constructing Permanent Fortifications in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth in the Seventeenth Century], Torun´ 1998; only single elements of trace italienne can be found in fortress construction in Moscow since the 1530s (Fortress Starodub); cf. Anatolij N. Kirpicˇnikov, Kreposti bastionnogo tipa v srednevekovoj Rossii [Fortifications of the Bastion type in Medieval Russia], Pamjatniki kul’tury. Novye otkrytija, Ezˇegodnik 1978; Leningrad 1979, pp. 471–499; Konstantin Nossov, Russian Fortresses 1480–1682, Oxford 2006; idem, Russkie kreposti konca 15–17 vv. [Russian Fortification from Late Fifteenth to Seventeenth Century], Sankt Petersburg 2009.

Introduction and Commentary

175

‘military revolution’ in Eastern Europe, but rather in terms of ‘military adaptation’.5 The most recent comparative study on the ‘military revolution’ in the Ottoman Empire, Poland-Lithuania and the Muscovite Empire also highlights the particularities of the Eastern European ‘theatre of war’, whilst still maintaining a fundamentally state-centred position. However, in this position the ‘military revolution’ is reduced to a technological and tactical reform of the military, and in the final analysis its consequences were dependent on the assertiveness of the central authorities.6 From the state-centred perspective of the late modern period, this master narrative possesses a certain plausibility since it can indicate those state structures of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries in which these processes generally did prevail. However, it overlooks a central aspect of the ‘military revolution’, namely the close interrelationship between societal transformation, military-technological developments, and the accompanying expansion of the state’s monopoly on violence, followed by geographical expansion.7 However, the concept of a ‘military revolution’, in the meantime also contentious in research on Western Europe,8 does offer a point of contact to a further theory, in which the concept of the monopoly on violence also plays a central role, and which can improve our understanding of historical processes of violence in Eastern Europe. The theory of ‘markets of violence’, developed by Georg Elwert on the basis of African societies in the twentieth century, has thus far found little attention in European history,9 but it does possess a great descriptive

5 Brian L. Davies, Introduction, in: idem (ed.), Warfare in Eastern Europe, 1500–1800, Leiden 2012, pp. 1–18, here pp. 10–12. For the Ottoman Empire: Gábor Ágoston, Firearms and Military Adaptation: The Ottomans and the European Military Revolution, 1450–1800, in: Journal of World History 25 (2014), pp. 85–124. 6 Penskoj, Velikaja ognestrel′naja revolucija (cf. note 3). 7 Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500– 1800, New York 1988; Brian M. Downing, The Military Revolution and Political Change. Origins of Democracy and Autocracy in Early Modern Europe, Princeton 1993. 8 Jeremy Black, A Military Revolution? Military Change and European Society, 1550–1800, London 1991. 9 Elwert suggests using the theory for early modern European history, but does not explain how in detail: “It is tempting to analyse early modern Europe and the period preceding the establishment of stable capitalism structures there under the same perspective”, Georg Elwert, Markets of Violence, in: idem, Stephan Feuchtwang, Dieter Neubert (eds.), Dynamics of Violence. Processes of Escalation and De-Escalation in Violent Group Conflicts, Berlin 1999, pp. 85–102, here p. 88, note 4. An example for the application of this concept is Andreas Klein, Machtstrukturen auf einem Gewaltmarkt. Strukturen der Gewalt im anglo-schottischen Grenzland des 16. Jahrhunderts, in: Mathis Prange, Christine Reinle (eds.), Fehdehandeln im spätmittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Europa und Fehdegruppen, Göttingen 2014, pp. 61–91.

176

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

and analytical potential, and can be applied very well to the Eastern Europe of the early modern period. Elwert describes ‘markets of violence’ as economic fields dominated by civil war, warlords or robbery, in which a self-perpetuating system emerges which links non-violent commodity markets with the violent acquisition of goods. It is the profit implied in the entwined violent and non-violent forms of appropriation and exchange which is the guiding principle of action.10

Markets of violence can “emerge in spaces open to violence – above all in the absence of a monopoly on violence” (emphasis by the author).11 The absence of a monopoly on violence is not enough in itself, however, and access to a functioning market economy is also required: When the market economy and spaces open to violence encounter each other, this can lead to a positive reaction: market interests enlarge the spaces open to violence and, in these spaces, interests are realised to a growing degree. Formulated more abstractly, a market of violence should be conceived of as an interaction shaped by the primary aims of acquisition, in which both robbery and the exchange of goods are present, as well as their transitional and combinational forms (such as ransom demands, road tolls, protection money etc.). In this the various forms of action are so closely linked to one another that, fundamentally, each actor has various options open to him, ranging from robbery to trade (that is to say, a pure trader is never faced by a pure robber) and that, on the other hand, a self-stabilising system of action (albeit a conflictual one) emerges.12

Markets of violence generally only last for one or two decades, until they are brought to a standstill through internal (the exhaustion of resources) or external factors (trade blockades or the establishment of a monopoly of/on violence). Since the two concepts mentioned above both draw upon the idea of the monopoly on violence, it seems worthwhile here to investigate this idea from a historical perspective, and thereby also to reconsider the longer-standing history of violence in Eastern Europe in the area of tension between the monopoly on violence, markets of violence and communities of violence.

2.

A History of Violence in Eastern Europe

In Eastern Europe we are confronted by two focal points of conflict and by a continuous history of violence and war: the Baltic region, and above all the Baltic territories (Livonia), as a theatre of war (Nordic Wars), and Ukraine as a central market of violence. Despite the interrelationship between Livonia and Ukraine 10 Elwert, Markets of Violence (cf. note 9), p. 86. 11 Idem, Gewaltmärkte. Beobachtungen zur Zweckrationalität der Gewalt, in: Trutz von Trotha (ed.), Soziologie der Gewalt, Opladen 1997, pp. 86–101, here p. 88. 12 Ibid.

Introduction and Commentary

177

discussed above by Davies, the respective structures of violence in these two areas were typologically different: despite decade long conflicts and the existing points of connection to global markets through the Hanseatic League, one does not find any markets of violence on the Baltic coast. This is for two primary reasons: firstly, there were no real goods which were easy to acquire and transport and that could have satisfied the potential needs of such a market; secondly, the permanent struggle between the neighbouring powers over Livonia meant that a power vacuum never emerged here: rather, the competing states were constantly striving to bind the region to themselves on a long-term basis and to develop it administratively, and particularly in the case of Sweden we can see a paradigm of the ‘fiscal-military state’.13 In the northern Black Sea region a completely different constellation of power dominated. The area between the Dniester and the Dnieper rivers, almost completely depopulated following the Mongol invasions of the mid-thirteenth century, was transformed into a wasteland of sorts, which came to be known as the ‘Wild Fields’. Tatar war parties regularly crossed these steppes on their plunder and abduction raids to the North. From the fifteenth century at the latest, one can find evidence of settlement from the Ruthenian regions of Poland-Lithuanian and from Muscovite lands, consisting for the large part of runaway peasants and outlaws. These set up their homes in small groups on the banks of rivers, followed a semi-nomadic existence,14 and appropriated for themselves the Turkic word kazak (Cossack) from the Turkic-speaking steppe-raiders already living there. These too were composed of expellees and fugitives who had been ejected or had fled from their tribal or client federations in the context of the various tribal and succession conflicts among the Golden Horde and its successors, but from time to time they also fell under the loose dominion/control of the Crimean Khanate.15 As Mihnea Berindei has pointed out, in the sixteenth century on both the Ottoman and the Polish side, the term kazak was not yet ethnically-connoted, and referred primarily to brigands and secondarily to a type of irregular (border) troops. Accordingly, the Tatars and the Nogais in the Budjak were still referred to as kazak in the second half of the sixteenth century.16 Even at a later date, Tatar

13 Jan Glete, War and the State in Early Modern Europe. Spain, the Dutch Republic and Sweden as Fiscal-Military States, 1500–1660, London/New York 2002, pp. 174–212. 14 The Polish chronicler Marcin Bielski mentions the Cossacks on the Dniepr for the first time in the year 1486. Józef Turowski (ed.), Kronika Marcina Bielskiego, vol. 2, Sanok 1856, p. 882; he also gives the first description of the Zaporogian Cossacks: Ibid., vol. 3, pp. 1358–1361. 15 Yücel Öztürk, Özü’den Tuna’ya Kazaklar [The Cossacks from the Dniepr to the Danube river], Istanbul 2004, pp. 214 s. 16 Mihnea Berindei, Le problème des “Cosaques” dans la seconde moitié du XVIe siècle, in: Cahiers du monde russe et soviétique 13 (1972), pp. 338–367. Cf. also Andrzej Dziubin´ski, La province turque d’Aqkerman – nouveau facteur politique et économique sur les confins

178

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

defectors can still be found among the ranks of the predominantly Slavicspeaking, Orthodox Cossacks. From the outset, these small communities, existing beyond the reach of Tatar suzerainty, had to defend themselves against the Tatars,17 but it would require two ‘war entrepreneurs’ for the Cossacks to permanently establish themselves military in the middle of the sixteenth century: Bernhard von Prittwitz (1500–1561) and Dmytro Vyshnevetsky. Prittwitz, a Silesian nobleman from the GermanPolish border region around Groß-Wartenburg and Schildberg in Polish-Lithuanian service, recruited a private troop of Cossacks at the end of the 1530s, primarily in order to defend his own estates and the office entrusted to him as Starost of Bar in Podolia from Tatar raids. From 1540 onwards however, he himself began to cross regularly into Tatar territories and to take a rich booty, also of people. According to Andrzej Dziubin´ski, this change of strategy was based upon the initiative of the Hetman Jan Tarnowski, who in his youth had fought on the side of the Portuguese against the Berbers, and who now wished to see these Portuguese tactics applied in the Ukraine.18 His contemporary Vyshnevetsky (Vysˇnevec’kyj, died 1564) was not only considered to be the founder of the Zaporozhian Sich but also laid the foundations of the Cossack mercenaries, in that he attempted to sell his services not only to Poland-Lithuania, the Tsar of Muscovy and the Moldavian nobility, but also to the Ottoman Sultan.19 Both Prittwitz and Vyshnevetsky were to gain recognition as defenders of the borders against Tatar raids and abductions – a role which the forces of the state were unable to fulfil themselves. As Peter Lock has written: Spaces open to violence, from which the state has either withdrawn voluntarily, or has been forced to do so, can be opened up not only to criminal organisations, but also to private security forces – and the boundary between the two can often be somewhat fluid.20

17 18

19

20

méridionaux de l’Etat polono-lituanien au XVIe siècle, in: Revue Roumaine d’Histoire 35 (1996), pp. 137–148, here pp. 140, 144. Cf. Elwerts thesis on Africa: “Sedentary peasants had to enter the military structure as mercenaries, serfs or as self-defending communities, if they wanted to avoid slavery”. Elwert, Markets of Violence (cf. note 9), p. 86. Andrzej Dziubin´ski, Polsko-litewski napady na tureckie pogranicze czarnomorskie w epoce dwu ostatnich Jagiellonów [Polish-Lithuanian Raids on the Ottoman Black Sea Border in the Times of the Two Last Jagiellonian Rulers], in: Kwartalnik Historyczny 103/3 (1996), pp. 53– 87, here pp. 55–57. The latest biography: Oleg Ju. Kuznecov, Rycar′ Dikogo polja. Knjaz′ D.vI. Visˇneveckij, Moscow 2013; Vyshnevetsky as a military entrepreneur: Chantal Lemercier-Quelquejay, Un condottiere lithuanien du XVIe siècle: Le prince Dimitrij Visˇneveckij et l’origine de la Secˇ Zaporogue d’après les Archives ottomanes, in: Cahiers du Monde russe et soviétique 10 (1969), pp. 257–279. Peter Lock, Sicherheit à la carte? Entstaatlichung, Gewaltmärkte und Privatisierung des staatlichen Gewaltmonopols, in: Tanja Brühl et al. (eds.), Die Privatisierung der Weltpolitik,

Introduction and Commentary

179

The motivations shaping the actions of both the Cossack and the Tatar armed groups were primarily dictated by the global market,21 with which they had a reciprocal relationship. On the one hand, they required a sales market for their loot and for their military services; on the other hand, “the logistics of military operations, even those on a low-scale, were dependent upon international commodity flows, such as the flow of munitions”.22 In the mid-sixteenth century, the Lithuanian chronicler Michalon Litwin described how countless ships from the opposite shore of the Black Sea would supply the Tatars with weapons, clothing and horses. And if an ordinary horseman did not have any slaves to sell, then he committed himself for his part, on a contractual basis, to remunerate this person by a certain date for the weaponry, clothing and live horses he had received likewise with living beings, but not with horses, rather with a certain number of people of our own blood. And these oaths were always fulfilled, as if they always had our people ready and waiting in a stockyard.23

Politically, such military entrepreneurs only enjoyed limited support: in the aftermath of several serious raiding expeditions into Ottoman territory conducted during the Persian campaigns of Suleiman in 1548/1549, Prittwitz was accused of jeopardising the newly-agreed peace with the Ottomans, reached following the death of Sigismund, and felt himself obliged to defend his actions by reading a memorandum in front of the senate.24 He stated that the Ottomans themselves had broken the peace, since the superficially Tatar raids were backed by Ottoman merchants, and that ‘Turks’, that is Ottomans, had also joined in the raiding parties. Thus, the memorandum stated: And Turks deigned to go with them [the Tatars] and also sent their servants with them, and others gave the Tatars horses for half of the bounty, as they continue to do today. And how well that suits them, since they enrich themselves greatly thereby: since what the Tatar managed to grab hold of with the aid of the horses, of this he had to give a half

21 22 23

24

Entstaatlichung und Kommerzialisierung im Globalisierungsprozess, Bonn 2001, pp. 82–103, p. 211. Idem: “Die Bühne, auf der Parteien bewaffneter Konflikte um des Überleben willens eine Rolle finden müssen, ist die Weltwirtschaft.” Cited by Thomas Eppacher, Private Sicherheitsund Militärfirmen. Wesen, Wirken und Fähigkeiten, Berlin 2012, p. 243. Ibid., p. 242. Michalonis Lituani, De moribus tartarorum, lituanorum et moscorum, Fragmina X, Basel 1615, pp. 10 s: “[…] promittit in contractibus creditori quilibet numeraturum se ad certum diem pro vestibus, armis, et equis vivacioribus, vivaces etiam, verum non equos, sed homines, eosque sanguinis nostri. Et statur huiusmodi promissis eorum secure, perinde ac si in vivariis, et cortibus suis reclusos semper habeant illi homines nostros”. For detailed information about Prittwitz cf. Dziubin´ski, Polsko-Litewskie Napady (cf. note 18) as well as Gilles Veinstein, Prélude au problème cosaque [À travers les registres de dommages ottomans des années 1545–1555], in: Cahiers du monde russe et soviétique 30 (1989), pp. 329–361.

180

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

to the Turk, and the second half was bought by the Turk for as much as he wanted to pay, and he took the horses back.25

The practice of loaning the poor Tatars horses and armour for their raids and thereby keeping a portion of their loot in return had a long tradition in the Eurasian steppe, and can be evidenced by numerous other examples.26 However, trade in looted cattle was not the only ‘Ukrainian’ branch of economic activity that Prittwitz participated in. He was also supposedly the first person to attempt to sell Cossacks as mercenaries to another European ruler (Albrecht of Prussia).27 The case (study) of Prittwitz demonstrates clearly how the Ottoman slave trade, under the specific conditions of the Ukrainian ‘market of violence’ could elicit related economic rationales on the Polish side of the border, which were however directed towards other sales markets (European cattle market). As the example of cooperation between Tatar slavers and Ottoman merchants outlined by Prittwitz shows, the phenomenon of the large-scale enslavement of Eastern European people in the early modern period is well known. After all, the global assertion of the internationalism ‘slave’ – derived from the ‘Slavs’, the majority population in Eastern Europe – is closely interconnected to the large numbers of Slavic slaves in the entire Ottoman Empire and in the Mediterranean region as late as the early modern period. It is difficult to establish precise figures, however various estimations suggest a figure of ca. 2 million enslaved people from Eastern Europe, traded and sold over and around the Black Sea between 1500 and 1700.28 During this era, therefore, the Eastern European slave trade surpassed the transatlantic slave trade in size. In the older research, as well as in some current journal articles, this phenomenon has often been explained through the idea of a clash of Islamic ‘slaveholding societies’ with the Eastern European great powers of Poland-Lithuania and Russia, with the Ukraine – literally the lands ‘on the borders’ – made to seem 25 Andrzej Tomczak, Memoriał Bernarda Pretwicza do Króla z 1550 r., in: Studia i Materiały do Historii Wojskowos´ci 4 (1960), pp. 328–357, here p. 343, cf. also p. 345. 26 Je˛drzej Taranowski, Krótkie wypisanie drogi z Polski do Konstantynopola, a z tamta˛d zas´ do Astrachania […], in: Józef Ignacy Kraszewski (ed.), Podróz˙e i poselstwa polskie do Turcyi […], Krakau 1860, pp. 41–63, here p. 55; Jean Baptiste Tavernier, Le six voyages de Jean Baptiste Tavernier, Ecuyer Baron d’Aubonne qui’il a fait en Turquie, en Perse et aux Indes, Paris 1676, p. 341. 27 Dziubin´ski, Polsko-Litewskie Napady (cf. note 18), p. 81. 28 Mikhail B. Kizilov, The Black Sea and the Slave Trade: The Role of Crimean Maritime Towns in the Trade of Slaves and Captives in the Fifteenth to Eighteenth Centuries, in: International Journal of Maritime History 17 (2005), pp. 211–235; Dariusz Kołodziejcyzk, Slave Hunting and Slave Redemption as a Business Enterprise: The Northern Black Sea Region in the Sixteenth to Seventeenth Centuries, in: Ebru Boyar, Kate Fleet (eds.), The Ottomans and Trade, Roma 2006, pp. 149–159.

Introduction and Commentary

181

an uncontrollable area of violence. At the same time, ‘parasitical groupings’ such as the Crimean Khanate enriched themselves on the slave trade whilst, in the final analysis, ‘progressive powers’ such as Russia brought progress (Soviet historiography).29 By contrast, however, more recent research has emphasised the role of regional groups of violence such as the Tatars – and on the other side the Cossacks – as well as the initially Genoese and later (aside from Moldavian intermezzos in the Danube and Dniester estuaries) Ottoman Black Sea cities (Kilia, Akkerman, Kaffa, Ocˇakiv etc.), which participated in the slave trade and its revenues for reasons of rational calculation. Smaller armed groups, largely Tatar but sometimes ethnically mixed, and known in Ottoman as bes¸ bas¸ (five heads), were also constantly engaged in the trafficking of people from the present-day Dobruja and Budjak regions (today part of Bulgaria and Romania on the Black Sea coast) (ca. 1,000 slaves per year).30 As a result of the easily negotiable distance between these groups of violence and densely populated rural regions – ca. 500 km between the northern and north western Black Sea Region and Red Ruthenia to the east and southeast of L’wów – practices of kidnapping took place predominantly in this region. International trade routes running through the region also meant that metal products and weapons were easily accessible, further encouraging violent conflict.31 The Polish crown was also involved in slave trading,32 and in 1532 they issued a letter of consignment to the Jews of L’wów, entitling them to sell ‘guilty youths’ to the Ottoman Empire.33 Similar procedures by regional administrations, i. e. the selling of persons into slavery, can also be found in Red Ruthenian court proceedings. Transnational merchant elites such as Armenian, Jewish and, particularly in the seventeenth century, Ottoman traders34 were also

29 Vitalij V. Tichonov, Rasprodazˇa solnecˇnoj zdravnicy. Boi zu istoriju Kryma v poslevoennom SSSR [The Sell-Out of the Sunny Spa Towns. The Struggle for the History of the Crimea in Post-War UdSSR], in: Rodina 1 (2015), pp. 152 s. 30 Andrzej Dziubin´ski, Handel niewolnikami polskimi i ruskimi w Turcji w 16 w. i jego organizacja’ [The Trade with Polish and Russian Slaves in Turkey in the Sixteenth Century and Its Structure], in: Zeszyty historyczne uniwersytety Warszawskiego 3 (1963), pp. 36–49. 31 Georg Elwert, Stephan Feuchtwang, Dieter Neubert, The Dynamics of Collective Violence – an Introduction, in: idem (eds.), Dynamics of Violence (cf. note 9), pp. 9–31, here pp. 12–14 about “warring and oscillating violence”. 32 Andrzej Dziubin´ski, Na szlakach Orientu. Handel mie˛dzy Polska˛ a Imperium Osman´skim w XVI–XVIII wieku, Warsaw 1997, especially the chapter “Slave Trade”, pp. 203–216. 33 Safe conduct (Salvus conductus) from 18th June 1532 “ac item abducere in Turciam et illic in servitutem vendere aliquot iuvenes inculpato”; Tadeusz Wierzbowski, Matricularum Regni Poloniae summaria, vol. 2, Warsaw 1907, p. 421. 34 See for examples Dziubin´ski, Na szlakach Orientu (cf. note 32), pp. 204–206; Mikhail B. Kizilov, Slaves, Money Lenders, and Prisoner Guards: The Jews and the Trade in Slaves and Captives in the Crimean Khanate, in: Journal of Jewish Studies 58 (2007), pp. 189–210.

182

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

involved both in the concealed slave trade and in mediating ransoms, as too were Cossacks. Cooperation between competing groups of violence in the Ukraine was even clearer during the large war campaigns of 1649, 1653, 1660, and 1667, in which Tatar groups were allied with Cossack or Polish troops, and which each ended with formal ceasefires that entitled the Tatars to depart with their human bounty.35 The German Hieronymus Holsten, a mercenary in Polish service, described the capture of Russian soldiers following a blockade by Polish troops in the autumn of 1660 in the following terms: But oh people! How the paroles were now issued the whole evening, and it was ordered that no accord should be reached with the Muscovites. The most important were taken under arrest, and the rest were to be handed over to the Tatars or put to the sword […] and various Tatars had gathered by me to this end, who took my Muscovites captive. That morning over a thousand lay naked and slaughtered on the Maidan (square) and between our huts […]. The Tatars had by then taken 8,000 prisoner and thus, since it was already late in winter, they went to their Tartary. Meanwhile I got the Muscovite wagons and [had] gained from so many exquisite things that I was therefore over 1,000 [Thaler] richer as a result.36

It is difficult to calculate the importance of the slave trade for the communities of violence in the Ukraine – what is indisputable is the fundamental importance of the slave trade for the Black Sea Tatars, for whom roughly equal sources of revenue have been postulated, drawn from war booty (as a rule in Ottoman service), slave trading, and agricultural sources of income. Less clear, but not to be underestimated, was its role as a hidden source of revenue for other groups of violence in the region (not only through direct sale, but also through the arranging of ransoms, the transfer of news and messages, and stealing from captives). Furthermore, the slave trade also encouraged violent practices through the promotion of a high degree of mobility, on which success depended, and the development of financially strong enterprises. Central for the utilisation of the Tatars by the Ottomans was the fact that, here, a traditional booty economy, which had always operated without salaries, came into contact with significant changes in the classical Ottoman military system (that is Janissaries and Sipahis), such as occurred following the Battle of Mezo˝keresztes/Haçova in 1596.37 The assessment of the changing role of the Jan35 Dariusz Kołodziejczyk, Slave Hunting and Slave Redemption as a Business Enterprise: The Northern Black Sea Region in the Sixteenth to Seventeenth Centuries, in: Oriente Moderno, Nuova serie 86/1 (2006), pp. 149–159, here p. 153. 36 Kriegsabenteuer des Rittmeisters Hieronymus Christian von Holsten 1655–1666, ed. by Helmut Lahrkamp, Wiesbaden 1971, pp. 36 s. 37 Öktay Özel, The Reign of Violence: The Celalis c. 1550–1700, in: Christine Woodhead (ed.), The Ottoman World, New York 2012, pp. 184–204, here p. 189. The Ottoman reaction led to a military

Introduction and Commentary

183

issaries is disputed in research on the subject and, in this volume, Rhoads Murphey proposes a new interpretation for the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In summary: through the slave trade, early modern market economies, shaped by the demand from Istanbul and the Mediterranean region, encountered spaces open to violence. The Tatar groups were opposed to the Cossacks, who were initially implemented as security forces, but who became increasingly independent, and themselves fell under the sway of the market of violence, in that they also turned their hand to kidnapping, ransom demands, and frequent changes of allegiance.

3.

Communities of Violence in Eastern Europe (Cossacks, Tatars)

The emergence of a market of violence in the Northern Black Sea area had wideranging consequences for the entire Eastern European region in the early modern period. The first and most immediate of these was expansion, founded upon robbery: both the Cossacks and the Tatars looted goods from neighbouring areas, which were often subject to the suzerainty of state authorities (land and sea raids).38 Furthermore, the two federations took advantage of the era of political instability in order to transform the central areas of the neighbouring states, on a short-term basis, into structures akin to markets of violence (during the Smuta from 1606 to 1613/1618 in the Muscovite Empire, and the Khmelnytsky uprising and the following crisis in the Potop of 1648–1660 in Poland-Lithuania). At the same time, however, this market of violence also constituted possibly the largest market for mercenaries in the early modern period. It was not only the formal sovereigns over these areas, such as Poland-Lithuania and the Ottoman Empire, who called upon the services of the Cossacks and the Tatars. At various times the Muscovite Empire, the Polish-Lithuanian nobility, Moldavian and Wallachian rulers, Swedish generals, and even Holy Roman Emperors and French decentralization and, consequently, to its re-ethnicisation, or rather its re-tribalization. Exemplary for this is the increased recourse to the Tatars cf. Gabor Ágoston, Military Transformation in the Ottoman Empire and Russia, 1500–1800, in: Kritika: Explorations in Russian and Eurasian History 12/2 (2011), pp. 281–319; Virginia Aksan, Ottoman Ethnographies of Warfare, 1500–1800, in: Wayne E. Lee (ed.), Empires and Indigenes. Intercultural Alliance, Imperial Expansion and Warfare in the Early Modern World, New York 2011, pp. 141–163; and Joseph Fletcher, Turco-Mongolian Monarchic Tradition, in: Harvard Ukrainian Studies 3/4 (1979/80), pp. 236–251. 38 Daria Starcˇenko, Verheerende Geschwindigkeit – Zweckrationalität von Gewalt. See-Expeditionen und (Beute-) Kriege bei polnisch-litauischen Kosaken am Beispiel der KhotinKampagne 1621, in: Horst Carl, Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg (eds.), Lohn der Gewalt. Beutepraktiken von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit, Paderborn 2011, pp. 167–199.

184

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

Kings took advantage of the military skills offered by these mercenaries.39 Above all, it was the never-ending series of small-scale conflicts and also the absence of a monopoly of violence which rendered the Cossacks and the Tatars such valuable warriors, and they can be characterised accurately as ‘marginal area soldiers’.40 These relations also shaped practices of violence in the wider region, since fiscal-military states (Sweden, the Ottoman Empire, and later also Prussia) remained marginal in Eastern Europe (and repeatedly failed in their expansionist tendencies as a result of shortages of resources and infrastructural problems). By contrast, what dominated was the recruitment of groups of violence through the promise of booty, to which remaining payments and final discharges were also linked. These groups constituted, especially in the seventeenth century, a market for violence and mercenaries which was largely able to provide for itself, and violent phenomena occurred accumulatively following military campaigns and the disbanding of these associations (e. g. the Cossacks in 1625 and 1637).41 Fundamentally, one should not conceive of these associations of violence and loot as ethnically unified – an ethnic homogeneity was only attributed to them by the descriptions of outsiders.42 The ‘Polish Riders’ (1607–1626) were seen re39 George Gajecki, Alexander Baran, The Cossacks in the Thirty Years’ War, vol. 1–2, Roma 1969–1983; Aleksandr L. Stanislavskij, Grazˇdanskaja vojna v Rossii 17 v.: Kazacˇestvo na perelome istorii, Moscow 1990; Andrij V. Fedoruk, Najmane kozac′ke vijs′ko (16 – seredyna ˇ ernihiv 2000. 17 st.). Ideologija, organizacija ta vijs′kove mysteztvo, PhD thesis C 40 Daniel Pipes, Slave Soldiers and Islam: Genesis of the Military System, New Haven 1981, pp. 75–86, here p. 77: “Several elements contributed to the recurrent military superiority of marginal area soldiers: the hardships of their way of life, their healthiness, and their social organization; the fact that no government controlled them was of key importance.” 41 Daria Starcˇenko, Kosaken zwischen Tatendrang und Rechtfertigungsdruck. Ordnungsvorstellungen einer Gewaltgemeinschaft im Kontext von Konkurrenz und Gewaltkultur, in: Zeitschrift für Ostmitteleuropa-Forschung 60 (2011), pp. 494–518. 42 Perceived as an ethnic group like for example the Walloons: Allerunderthänigste Supplication, Etlicher NiederOesterreichischen Landständ An Die Kayserliche Mayestät: Daraus das Grawsamb, Unmenschlich, und Barbarisch Tyrannisieren des Kayserlichen Kriegsvolcks, sonderlich der Cosaggen und Walonen wieder dieselbe Land, zu sehen ist, s.l. 1620. Even European scholars came to a similar conclusion: The university of Jena asked in March 1622 to avert the upcoming marching-through of “ein Anzahl Wallonen und Coßagken”, which “diese Fürstenthumb zuverheeren und in die Asche zulegen vorhabens sein”, because “durch die Grausamkeit dieser Völcker nicht so sehr die Region, als unsere wahre und allein seligmachende Religion |: welcher sie von Herzen Feindt : in Gefahr gesetzet werden möchte”. Rector und Professores der Universitet Jena an Herzog Johann Philipp von Sachsen-Altenburg, 9th March 1622; Staatsarchiv Dresden, 10024 Geheimer Rat, Loc. 9195/3, S. 274. Sometimes synonymic to Poles: “die Polen oder Cosacken”, so Boudewijn de Jonge, Expeditiones Caesareo-Bvqvoianae: Das ist, Warhafft vnd eigentliche Beschreibung alles dessen was durch den Herren Grafen von Bucquoy, etc. Keyserlicher Maiestät Kriegsheers Generalen, bey wehrender Vnruh in Böhenn, Österreich, Mehren vnnd Vngaren verrichtet worden: Darinn sonderlich der gantze Verlauff der Pragerischen Schlacht grundt, vnnd außführlich angezeigt wirdt; Endlich welcher gestalt Wollgemelter Graf in Vngaren Ritterlich sein Leben geendet, s.l. 1621, p. 59.

Introduction and Commentary

185

spectively in the Grand Duchy of Moscow as ‘Lithuanians’ and ‘Poles’, in Poland as ‘Russians’ or ‘Lithuanians’, and in German-language sources in the Holy Roman Empire as ‘Cossacks’ or even as ‘Croatians’!43 In Tatar groups could also be found Moldavians and Wallachians,44 Turks, Hungarians, and Cossacks (the so-called kardes¸ kazak – Brother Cossacks). The Transylvanian chronicler Georg Kraus recorded that the Hungarians, Moldavians, Wallachians, and Germans who accompanied the Tatars on their Moravian campaign of 1663 would call out names in Czech, German, and Hungarian in the woods in order to draw out the local population who were hiding there.45 ‘Paul the Cossack’, a Tatar spy with Polish-Lithuanian roots captured in 1663, reporting on his own career, stated that in the Tatar units there were also German soldiers, who had previously been in the service of Brandenburg.46 It is evident from this that these groups had considerable room for action, which can only be explained through high levels of mobility and the use of resources of the market and violence. These communities of violence therefore constituted, at least in the two centuries before the Great Northern War, a central and autonomous factor in the history of the military and violence in Eastern Europe. These groupings also left long-lasting traces upon Western European military history. The Cossacks were esteemed as light cavalry in the Thirty Years’ War, for example by Wallenstein, and contributed considerably to the establishment of this branch of the military in the western armies.47 A further Cossack contribution were the lightweight boats, the so-called ˇcajkas, successfully deployed by Poland in the Baltic and by Peter I against the Swedish fleet in the early eighteenth century.48 43 Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg, Strukturen einer mobilen Gewaltgemeinschaft im östlichen Europa. Der polnisch-litauische Freireiterverband der “Lisowczycy” von der Entstehung im Moskauer Reich bis zur gewaltsamen Auflösung durch den polnisch-litauischen Reichstag (1607–1626), in: Winfried Speitkamp (ed.), Gewaltgemeinschaften. Von der Spätantike bis ins 20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen 2013, pp. 185–208, here p. 196. 44 Victor Ostapchuk, The Ottoman Black Sea frontier and the Relations of the Porte with the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and Muscovy, 1622–1628, PhD thesis Cambridge, MA 1989, p. 44; Andrzej Gliwa, Kraina upartych niepogód. Zniszczenia wojenne na obszarze ziemy przemyskiej w XVII wieku [The Land of Persisent Bad Weather. War Destruction in the Przemys´l Land in the Seventeenth Century], Przemys´l 2013, pp. 106, 269. 45 Georg Kraus, Siebenbürgische Chronik des Schässburger Stadtschreibers Georg Kraus: 1608– 1665, vol. 2, Vienna 1864, p. 350 (for the year 1663). 46 Mária Ivanics, Krimtatarische Spionage im osmanisch-habsburgischen Grenzgebiet während des Feldzuges im Jahre 1663, in: Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 61 (2008), pp. 1 s., 119–133. 47 Osip L. Wajnsˇtejn, Rossija i Tridcatiletnjaja vojna [Russia and the Thirty Years’ War], Moscow 1947, p. 80; Gajecky, Baran, The Cossacks (cf. note 39), vol. 2, pp. 60–67. 48 Agnieszka Biedrzycka, Wojsko J.K.M. Zaporoskie nad Bałtykiem. Próby wykorzystania Kozaków w walce ze Szwecja˛ w I połowie XVII wieku (do roku 1635) [The Zaprogian Armed

186

4.

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

Western Specialists in Eastern European Communities of Violence

The market of violence which was the Ukraine therefore impacted greatly upon the entire region, and its influence could be felt as far away as Western Europe. However, it was itself also subject to dramatic and sometimes fatal western influences. These can be found above all on the personal level, but also on the related technological and military-administrative levels. Firstly, one should mention the increasing use of gunpowder. This harbinger of the military revolution placed a highly efficient weapon for defence into the hands of the dispersed Cossack groups, with which they were quickly able to establish themselves as meaningful actors in the region. The Cossacks – contrary to popular belief – predominantly fought as infantry soldiers up to the 1620s, and proved to be successful against their mounted opponents thanks to their tactics of barricading themselves inside a stronghold or a circle of wagons and fending off the attack with dense rifle fire.49 It was gunpowder which made the emergence of the Cossack communities of violence, and thus the structural stabilisation of the market of violence, possible in the first place.50 Such processes of knowledge transfer can be attributed to a great extent to certain individual foreign persons (such as the aforementioned Prittwitz or Vyshnevetsky), but direct Cossack involvement in European conflicts as mercenaries also contributed. Questions concerning the political and cultural consequences may well remain hotly contested,51 but what appears to be indisputable in any case is a transformation in the tactics of the Cossack forces, namely the rapid increase in importance of the cavalry.

Forces on the Baltic Sea. Attempts to Deploy the Cossacks in the Fight against the Swedes in the First Half of the Seventeenth Century (until 1635)], in: Przegla˛d Gdan´ski 59 (1999), pp. 19– 32; Maciej Franz, Zaporozˇskie kazaki v bor′be za Pribaltiku [Zaporogian Cossacks in combat on the Baltic], in: Studia Slavica et Balcanica Petropolitana 1 (2014), pp. 88–97. 49 The army of the Ottoman-Tatars besieged the camp of the Cossacks near Chocim six times in 1621, but without success: Pauli Z˙egota (ed.), Pamie˛tniki o wyprawie chocimskiej r. 1621 [Memories of the Expedition to Chocim in 1621], Cracow 1853. 50 Serhii Plokhy, The Cossacks and Religion in Early Modern Ukraine, New York 2001, p. 30: “The growth of the Cossacks’ military significance in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries and the success of their struggle with the Tatars were due at least in part to the military revolution that swept Europe in the early modern period. […] As infantrymen bearing firearms displaced mounted warriors armed with swords, lances, or bows, the Ukrainian Cossacks, who were predominantly infantrymen, became more successful in their struggle with the steppe nomads and the Crimean Tatars, who fought mainly on horseback. The use of gunpowder should therefore be regarded as one of the major preconditions for the colonization of the Ukrainian steppe and the growing power of Ukrainian Cossackdom”. 51 Gajecki, Baran, The Cossacks (cf. note 39), vol. 2, pp. 75–79.

Introduction and Commentary

187

Alongside this process, North West European entrepreneurs of violence, trained and schooled in places such as the Netherlands and the Holy Roman Empire, could establish themselves at the summit of smaller regiments as soughtafter experts. In Eastern Europe, such ‘modern’ units were called upon to combat semi-nomadic communities of violence, and it was hoped that they would finally come up with effective strategies in this regard. Various ethnic attributions such as ‘Germans’ or ‘Scots’ can be found in references to these experts, and it should be emphasised, therefore, that we are dealing here with groups which were fundamentally ethnically diverse. In an overview of the specialists operating in Eastern Europe, one group in particular stands out, and it is one which has usually been better known from a German perspective as stationary and noble, and rarely investigated as specialists in violence. This is the group of minor nobles and military contractors situated round the Baltic Sea, in Pomerania, in Prussia and Livonia. The Eastern and South Eastern Baltic Coast, in particular historical Old Livonia, but also the Prussian lands constituted a grey zone of fracture between condensed centralised states with significant military apparatuses. In Eastern Europe, the Livonian and Baltic entrepreneurs of violence often acted as captains or members of mercenary groups with ethnic label, namely the ‘German regiments’ or ‘German riders’. These groups of violence were seen as ‘Western European’, and there are certainly parallels to the Croatian and ‘Polish or Cossack riders’ in the Thirty Years’ War. Ethnic labels operated in similar ways, and there were also similar problems of communication. It is perhaps not without a certain irony that it was believed, both in the east and the west of Europe, that the ‘true’ experts in violence came from elsewhere, and were strangers. The ‘German’ units basically operated similarly to local groupings, plundering and enriching themselves in the same way. Holsten himself claimed that “he who at that time could pilfer the most was the best soldier”,52 and they seized not only goods, but also people. “The best loot I made was 4 large oxen and a young Hungarian noble girl of 14 years, whom I dressed like a Polish boy”.53 It is unclear what happened to the girl, and whether or not she was ransomed for money.54 In several passages, Holsten also graphically describes rape scenes, in which he himself also participated as a perpetrator. In terms of the actual practices of violence, western and eastern specialists were equal to each other. 52 Ibid., p. 20. 53 Ibid., p. 21. 54 Karol Z˙ojdz´, Przeciwko moralnos´ci, czy dyscyplinie? Przeste˛pstwa seksualne popełniane przez z˙ołnierzy koronnych i litewskich w XVII [Against Morals or Discipline? Sex Crime Committed by Polish-Lithuanian Soldiers in the Seventeenth Century], in: Zbigniew Hundert et al. (eds.), Studia nad staropolska˛ sztuka˛ wojenna˛, vol. 3, Os´wie˛cim 2014, pp. 95–112, here pp. 104 s.

188

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

However, the increasing deployment of Western European mercenaries by Poland-Lithuania following Wladyslaw IV’s military reforms of 1630 only brought about minor structural changes in the Polish-Lithuanian army. Time and again in their struggles against the Cossacks and Moscow, Warsaw and individual magnates called upon tried-and-tested recruitment practices, in which entire mercenary regiments were hired only for the duration of the campaign – a practice which the other emerging regional power, the Muscovite Empire, declined to use at the time. In this respect, it is interesting to compare and contrast Holsten’s striking testimony with that of a Scottish officer in Russian service.55 Patrick Leopold Gordon of Auchleuchries (1635–1699) came from an aristocratic Scottish family, but he left his homeland, which was deteriorating into civil war, at the age of 16, and in 1655 he enlisted as a cavalryman in Swedish service. One year later he transferred to the Polish army in which, like Holsten, he served under Jerzy Lubomirski, and he remained for five years, despite intense Russian courtship of his services. Following his release, he did finally decide for Moscow, entering into service here in 1661 alongside three further Scottish officers. Gordon was by no means the first Scot in the Muscovite army. By the time he joined, three of his compatriots already held the rank of general: Alexander Leslie (died 1663), Thomas Dalyell (1615–1685) and William Drummond (ca. 1617– 1688).56 Their role was not only direct military command, but also to train the regiments under their supervision: when Dalyell and Drummond returned to Scotland in 1666 they were praised among other things in their farewell for having led their soldiers in battle and for instructing them well.57 Gordon was therefore also expected to demonstrate his ability in handling weapons, and this test was conducted personally by the step-father of the Tsar himself, I. D. Miloslavsky: Being come into field, wee found the Boyar [Miloslavsky] there before us, who ordered us to take up pike und musquets (being there ready) and show how wee could handle our arms; wherewith being surprized, I told hin, if I had knowne of this, I should have brought forth one of my boyes, who perhaps could handle armes better as I myself; adding, that it was the least part of an officer to know how to handle armes, conduct being the most materiall. Whereat, he, taking me up short, told me, that the best colonell comeing into this country must to do so; to which I replyed, Seing it is the fashion, I am

55 Passages from the Diary of General Patrick Gordon of Auchleuchries A.D. 1635–A.D.1699, Aberdeen 1869. 56 Aleksandr A. Rogozˇin, Generalitet polkov “novogo stroja” v Rossii vtoroj poloviny 17 veka, [The Generals of the Units of the “New Type” in Russia in the Second Half of the Seventeenth Century], PhD thesis Orel 2014, p. 56. 57 Sobranie gosudarstvennych gramot i dogovorov [Collection of National Documents and Treaties], vol. 4, nr. 39, Moscow 1826, pp. 143 s.

Introduction and Commentary

189

content. And so having handled the pike and musket, with al there postures, to his great satisfaction, I returned.58

Two days later Gordon discovered that he had been accepted into the rank of major in the service of the Tsar, and one week after this I gott orders to receive from a Russe seven hundred men, where to be in our regiment, being runneway sojours out of severall regiments, and fetched back from diverse places. […I] exercised these souldiers twice in a day in faire weather.59

Over the next five years, weapons training was to be his main task, as was the norm for a foreign officer in Russian service. Gordon wrote that he had to drill the regiment twice daily, and furthermore that no day went by when he did not receive new soldiers or have to send others back to the various garrisons and regiments to which they belonged. Like those of Holsten, Gordon’s memoirs also provide vivid descriptions of outbreaks of violence, but the context was completely different. When a Russian captain in his regiment caught the soldiers playing cards at night, he not only confiscated all the money, but also blackmailed them, on threat of prosecution, for a further 60 roubles. When this was reported to Gordon on the following day, he sent for him in the evening, and, haveing dispatched the guard and my servants, all exept one, out of the way, he being come into the roome, I began to expostulate with him, telling him, that I could not suffer such abuses any longer, and that I would break his neck one tyme or another. Whereat he beginning to storme, I got him by the head, and flinging him downe, with a fresh, short, oaken endgell, I so belaboured his back and sides, that he was scarce able to rise; whereupon, telling him that I would break his neck if he played such tricks hereafter, I packed him out of doores.60

In 1667, Gordon was transferred to Sevsk,61 the largest military and administrative centre of the Tsarist Empire on the border of the steppe. Here he occupied himself with fortress construction and military administration, and recruited a dragoon regiment, with whom he successfully fought in the Ukraine against the Ottomans and the pro-Ottoman Hetman Petro Doroshenko between 1674 and 1678.62 This was followed by his appointment as Commander of Kiev in 1678, where he was entrusted with fortifying the city. In fulfilling this task he 58 59 60 61

Gordon, Diary (cf. note 55), p. 44. Ibid., pp. 45–49. Ibid., p. 50. Dmitrij G. Fedosov, Michail R. Ryzˇenkov (eds.), Patrik Gordon. Dnevnik 1677–1678, Moscow 2005, pp. 101–129. 62 Brian L. Davies, The Second Chigirin Campaign: Late Muscovite Military Power in Transition, in: Eric Lohr, Marshall Poe (eds.), The Military and Society in Russia: 1450–1917, Leiden 2002, pp. 97–118.

190

Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg

petitioned the Moscow government for engineers and specialists in November; of the eight high-ranking officers sent out to help him, only one had a Russian name. In 1684, Gordon submitted a thesis to the Chancellor V. V. Golitsyn, in which he laid out the possibility, the necessity even, of an offensive war against the Crimean Khanate. This resulted in two campaigns on the peninsula, the first time in history that the Muscovite Empire launched an offensive against the Crimea. This was also partly made possible by the fact that, with the substantial participation of Western European specialists, Moscow had been constructing a large-scale defensive system on its southern borders, of which the so-called Belgorod and Izium Lines were perhaps the best-known elements. This system consisted not only of fortresses and earthworks, but also of regular troops and conscripted peasants. The ‘military colonisation’63 that accompanied the administrative appropriation and permeation of the region created an area free of violence, which spread ever further to the south, bringing civil colonists in its train.64 This process occurred at the expense of the ‘spaces open to violence’ in the northern Black Sea region: the market of violence was not only deprived of its geographical space, but also its economic basis. Such an understanding allows one to examine the crises of the young Hetman state, the civil war which has entered into Ukrainian national historiography as the Ruina (1657–1687) in a new light. On the one hand, the increasing shortage of resources intensified the competition both within and between the communities of violence, and on the other hand, it also forced them to act outside of their established logic, so that, for example, Cossacks and Tatars, formerly enemies, increasingly acted as allies. When Cossackdom did manage a short-term consolidation under Ivan Mazepa in 1704, the largest part of the region already found itself, de facto, under Muscovite rule. Following Mazepa’s failed attempt, with the assistance of the Swedish King, to free himself from Moscow, Peter I destroyed the Sich. Subsequently, in 1716, the Don Cossacks were subordinated to the newly created College of War.65 Patrick Gordon, who in his final years, symbolically, was a close friend and trusted advisor of the young Peter, is not only the best known, but also a typologically very representative example of the hundreds of Western European experts and specialists who entered into the service of Moscow over the course of 63 Idem, Warfare, State and Society on the Black Sea Steppe, 1500–1700, London 2007, pp. 81–85. 64 Brian J. Boeck, Containment vs. Colonization: Muscovite Approaches to Settling the Steppe, in: Nicholas B. Breyfogle et al. (eds.), Peopling the Russian Periphery: Borderland Colonization in Eurasian History, London 2007, pp. 41–60; Carol B. Stevens, The Politics of Food Supply: Grain and the State in Southern Russia, 1640–1700, PhD thesis Ann Arbor 1988, pp. 36–42; idem, Russia’s Wars of Emergence, 1460–1730, Harlow 2007, pp. 133–138, 193–196. 65 Local elites “had to adjust to new rules of professionalism and loyalty if they wished to succeed in the fiscal-military states”; Glete, War and the State (cf. note 13), p. 14.

Introduction and Commentary

191

the seventeenth century, and made their careers here.66 Not only did they bring their specialist expertise with them, they also confronted the Moscow government with a social and administrative challenge: how should they integrate the foreign specialists in violence into the complicated existing system of military administration, which was structured solely around mestnichestvo, that is the allocation of positions according to birthright and noble rank? Following attempts to form a parallel system of ‘new German regiments’, a radical solution was found in 1682: the mestnichestvo system was done away with. From now on officers would be promoted according to their skills and their service. A useful contrast to this can be found in the Polish-Lithuanian autorament system, in which the army was divided into two parts: the ‘national army’ (autorament narodowy) and the ‘foreign army’ (autorament cudzoziemski), which were strictly separated from one another on all levels. And whereas the Moscow elite strongly sought to integrate the foreign specialists, even at the cost of the abandonment of a long-established system, the Polish nobility pushed in 1667 for the complete abolition of the crown’s foreign forces.67 In conclusion: western-acculturated violence actors exerted an enormous influence upon the early modern market of violence in Eastern Europe. This extended from (directly) tactics and technologies through to (indirectly) fundamental transformations in the militaries and administrations of the neighbouring states, of which the Muscovite Empire, in which the military revolution was advanced primarily by Western European violence experts, was the most successful.

66 The Swedish engineer Erik Palmqvist counted in Moscow and Siberia alone 103 West Euroˇ ernikova, Evropeizacija Rossii vo vtoroj polovine pean superior officers in 1673. Tatjana V. C 15–17 vekach [The Europeanization of Russia from the Second Half of the Fifteenth to the Seventeenth Century], Moscow 2012, p. 411. 67 Zbigniew Hundert, Wojsko koronne wobec elekcji 1668 roku [The Army of the Crown towards the Elections of 1668], in: Adam Dobron´ski et al. (eds.), Studia z dziejów wojskowos´ci, vol. 1, Białystok 2012, pp. 91–114, here p. 94.

Mikko Huhtamies

The Archipelago Fleet in Early Modern Sweden – New Military History in a Different Context

New Military History in its European variety has conventionally focused on the continental model of standing armies. The main emphasis has been on land armies, which were usually recruited from the towns or the countryside of the relatively densely populated European continent. In addition, an analysis of the so-called military revolution by Michael Roberts has been based on the continental scene of war during the seventeenth century.1 However, remarkable military reforms were carried out in Sweden and Finland2 already in the sixteenth century, during the Vasa era, and even revolutionary reforms in the eighteenth century. The purpose of this chapter is to revise the continental model of early modern military history by focusing on a military peculiarity, namely the Swedish archipelago fleet, a hybrid of an army and a fleet. The archipelago fleet was not a fleet proper, but neither was it an army in boats. Because of its ambiguous nature as a military organisation, as something between the army and the fleet, it was called the floating army (corps volant) in the eighteenth century. Historians have paid relatively little attention to the archipelago fleet. In Sweden and Finland, the historiography concerning the topic can be divided into old (war history) and new military history. Important works from the ‘old school’ include Svenska flottans historia, 1522–1634 (Stockholm 1890) by Axel Zettersten and Illustrerad svensk sjökrigshistoria by Gunnar Unger (Stockholm 1923). An example of a survey situated between the old and the new military history is Oscar Nikulas’s Svenska skärgårdsflottan (Helsingfors 1933), which still has a central place in this field as a groundbreaking study, although it strictly focuses on 1 Michael Roberts, The Military Revolution, 1560–1660, Belfast 1956, rep. in: idem, Essays in Swedish History, London 1967, pp. 195–225. Since the 1970s, the concept of a military revolution has been much discussed in Anglophone historiography, see Jeremy Black, A Military Revolution? Military Change and the European Society 1550–1800, London 1991; Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West 1500–1800, Cambridge 1996. 2 Finland was the eastern part of Sweden ca. 1150–1809.

194

Mikko Huhtamies

military issues. A representative of the New Military History is Hans Norman’s (ed.) Skärgårdsflottan Uppbyggnad, militär användning och förankring I det svenska samhället 1700–1824 (Falun 2000), which gives a deep and broad insight into the archipelago fleet and its connections to society. The sole and the most important historian working on this topic who has published in English is the late Jan Glete, who died in 2009. In his book Navies and Nations. Warship, Navies and State Building in Europe and America, 1500–1860 (2 vols., Stockholm 1993), Glete studied the naval forces of Sweden in the European and the global context. He developed the concept of the fiscal-military state and the role of naval forces in state formation. In the following sections, I am going to reflect on some of the central issues of the New Military History with regard to the archipelago fleet, with some emphasis on geography.3 What kind of impact did the archipelago fleet and war have on infrastructure and everyday life in the coastal areas? What was the timescale and the meaning of military revolution in the maritime world of the Gulf of Finland (hereafter referred to as ‘the Gulf ’). The revolutionary nature of the archipelago fleet will be treated under the following aspects: the temporary or permanent nature of the galley fleet, the use of the galleys, the level of firepower, the meaning of trace italienne, the organisation of recruitment, the distance to the warzone, the level of militarisation and, lastly, the fleet’s impact on society. The focus has been divided into two periods, 1560–1660 and 1660–1760, in order to be coherent with the discussion of the timescale of the military revolution as proposed by Michael Roberts. Overall, the following sections will shed some light on the concept of the military in early modern coastal areas of Finland.

1.

The Archipelago Fleet – a Hybrid of an Army and a Fleet

Geography and Military History The military history of early modern Sweden–Finland has been dominated, perhaps to an even greater extent than most countries, by geography, and not only by geopolitics. I mean geography in general, and especially the geography of communications. In early modern Sweden–Finland, waterways formed the most important network for communications traffic. The inland routes were poor right up to the end of the eighteenth century or even to the age of steam in the nineteenth century. Waterways provided the main transport routes both in summer and in winter. The frozen rivers and lakes formed an invisible com3 On the geography and history of Scandinavia, see William R. Mead, An Historical Geography of Scandinavia, London 1981.

The Archipelago Fleet in Early Modern Sweden

195

munication network, which did not feature on maps and was known only by the locals. Icy winters were an exotic scene of war, described by the sixteenth-century cartographer and Gothic historian Olaus Magnus (Carta marina 1539, The History of the Northern Peoples 1555). The richly-illustrated Carta marina launched the first widespread and long-standing image of the North. The communications traffic and waterways were of utmost significance in this map. In the early modern period, the most important waterway was the labyrinthlike East-West archipelago passage along the northern coast of the Gulf of Finland. In this area a unique kind of amphibious warfare developed, which, in fact, did not exist to the same extent anywhere else in Europe. The archipelago fleet consisted of oared galleys and from the 1750s onward archipelago frigates, which were hybrids of galleys and men-of-war, mortar sloops, cannon prams and cannon sloops, and dinghies. The archipelago was a world of its own and a unique scene of amphibious warfare that mainly took place in the Finnish archipelago in the Gulf. Unlike in Central Europe, it was a natural and non-urbanised environment. Until the mideighteenth century, there were no fortified harbours or strongholds. The archipelago, a rocky labyrinth of skerries with circulating winds, formed a natural defensive barrier and an odd and puzzling environment for an intruder. The winds were often foul, which made sailing impossible. Oars were the only form of propulsion.

The Use of Galleys in the Sixteenth Century From earliest times, oared ships have dominated coastal seafaring in the Gulf. The medieval duty of coastal defence, the ledung, comprising a rather obscure fleet of small oared vessels with permanent peasant crews, was one of the first forms of military organisation in Sweden.4 The special nature of the geographical conditions paved the way for a Nordic tradition of long, oared, clinker-built vessels with auxiliary sails, the best-known example of which is the flexible and seaworthy Viking ship. The first archipelago fleet of galleys (galeyder) was founded in Sweden in the 1540s, and the peak of the galley fleet was in the period 1570–1590.5 In the 1590s, Sweden temporarily had the fourth biggest galley fleet in the world, which, however, consisted of no more than about 30 galleys.6 During the sixteenth 4 Philip Line, Kingship and State Formation in Sweden: 1130–1290 (The Northern World 27), Leiden 2007, pp. 241–255. 5 Jan Glete, Vasatidens galärflottor, in: Hans Norman (ed.), Skärgårdsflottan. Uppbygnad, militär användning och förankring i det svenska samhället 1700–1824, Lund 2000, pp. 37–48. 6 Lars Ericson Wolke, Johan III.: en biografi, Lund 2006, pp. 304.

196

Mikko Huhtamies

century (the Vasa era), the galleys were used mainly for transporting men and ammunition to the warzone in the Carelian Isthmus and the Lake Ladoga area in the east. No battles were carried out in the archipelago, because the Russians did not have galleys. The Swedish archipelago fleet consisted mainly of Mediterranean-type Renaissance galleys, long-oared vessels with Latin sails.7 In the sixteenth century, the galleys were equipped with ordnance. Besides their main logistical function, they were used as floating fortresses to block narrow and shallow passages. It can be argued that revolutionary European reforms in fortifications took the shape of ‘floating bastions’ in the Gulf. This outcome was at least partly determined by geography, but also by the diffusion of foreign innovations. The pioneering but still limited introduction of firepower in the archipelago vessels was thus a reflection of the continental fortification revolution (trace italienne). In general, in the sixteenth century the levels of professionalism and technology in shipbuilding and archipelago warfare were low, although Sweden did have some contact with Italian fortification engineering and shipbuilding. In the Vasa era, the galleys were built quite poorly, rapidly constructed from green pine (fresh, not seasoned, not durable wood) to gain lightness. This meant that a whole galley fleet could be built at once. It was quite usual that whole galley fleets vanished after a short time, as did the big galley fleet of John III (d. 1592). The galley fleet of the sixteenth century can be described as temporary. It was built for ad hoc purposes often in acute situations. Therefore, it cannot be considered a permanent or standing military organisation.

A Seasonal Impact on Infrastructure in the Sixteenth and Early Seventeenth Centuries During the sixteenth century, the archipelago fleet had a fairly restricted impact on society at large. The impact of the fleet was, however, pivotal for the coming military revolution. Oared vessels had instrumental connections with society, and the archipelago fleet can be seen as a Herrschaftsinstrument (an instrument of rule). In the sixteenth century – during the Vasa era – galleys were an important instrument of rule. The king and his court travelled by the waterways, and a galley with hundreds of soldiers on board was the safest way to transport royal valuables and silver from the mines. The silver was used to hire foreign mercenaries. In 7 On galleys in general, see Angus Konstam, Renaissance War Galley 1470–1590, Oxford 2002; Fredric Lane, Ships and Shipbuilders of the Renaissance, Baltimore et al. 1992; Jan Glete, Svenska örlogsfartyg 1521–1560. Flottans uppbyggnad under ett tekniskt brytningsskede, in: Forum navale 30 (1976), pp. 39–41.

The Archipelago Fleet in Early Modern Sweden

197

addition to the transportation of bullion, the archipelago fleet had an important watchdog role in the economy. Gustav Vasa, strongly influenced by his German advisers on cameralism and mercantilism, tried to prevent illegal trading among the peasants in the archipelago. Trade between the coastal peasants of Finland and Reval (later Tallinn) flourished, and to prevent this trade the king ordered galleys to patrol the sea passages in order to control the traffic. During the Vasa age, the recruitment of crews for the archipelago fleet changed and was based on a variety of methods. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, recruitment of crews (båtsmän) was based on a permanent system called ständiga båtsmanshåll.8 Its reform, which can be called ‘revolutionary’ from an organisational point of view, occurred in 1634, half a century before the corresponding permanent system was introduced to the army in 1682. The introduction of indelningverket (allotment: a system used in Sweden and in Finland for keeping a trained army at all times) is well known among military historians, but its groundbreaking forerunner of 1634 is much less known. Recruitment was based on using the inhabitants of the archipelago as rowers and pilots. This access to a kind of free military labour force was a major advantage for the Crown and, in general, a central reason for the use of galleys in Sweden. The money saved could be used to hire foreign mercenaries. Due to large-scale recruitment, necessary for the extremely manpower-intensive oared vessels, as well as the maintenance and infrastructural needs of galleys, the archipelago fleet already had an indirect impact on society in the sixteenth century. However, this impact was temporary and seasonal, because it was restricted to the sailing season. Despite this limitation, the strongholds of the archipelago fleet in the Vasa era became embryonic town-like centres. The archipelago fleet fostered manufacturing, for example, and the logistical needs of the galleys and shipbuilding helped develop the sawmill industry in the hinterlands of Helsinki.

8 Patrik Höij, Båtsmännen vid skärgårdsflottan. Tjänstgöringsförhållanden och social förankring i lokalsamhället, in: Norman, Skärgårdsflottan (cf. note 5), pp. 241–260.

198

2.

Mikko Huhtamies

The Archipelago Fleet and the Military Revolution in the Eighteenth Century

The Turning Point: the Foundation of Russia’s Baltic Fleet in the Early Eighteenth Century Despite its significance in the sixteenth century, the importance of the archipelago fleet faded in the seventeenth century, and the skills needed to build galleys seemed to vanish gradually as well.9 The galleys disappeared from the Gulf and the emphasis was placed on the fleet of the High Seas. In the 1630s and 1650s, the new theatre of war was in Germany and in Denmark. According to Michael Roberts, the 1630s were the period of Swedish military revolution. However, this is not the case if the issue of revolution is seen from a wider perspective than a narrow tactical focus. The founding of Karlskrona (est. 1680) is a good example of genuinely revolutionary military transformations with a deep militarising impact. New military concentrations like Karlskrona were established – often totally ex nihilo, in uninhabited regions – the Blekinge area in Southern Sweden. This new establishment had far-reaching demographic and militarising consequences, for instance with shipbuilders from Finland being forced to move to Karlskrona in the 1680s. Furthermore, urbanisation, which had been increasing from the 1630s onwards, was linked to militarisation. During the course of the century, over a hundred new towns were established in the Kingdom of Sweden – and especially in Finland. These towns often had military functions. The era of archipelago warfare proper started at the beginning of the eighteenth century. The initiative came from Russia. After defeating the Turks at Azov, Czar Peter the Great founded St. Petersburg in 1703 and established an archipelago fleet of oared vessels. A new galley fleet, the Baltic fleet, was launched.10 The main enemy after the Turks was, once again the old foe, Sweden. In the Great Northern War (1700–1720), the Russians managed to penetrate the Finnish archipelago, which as a natural barrier had hitherto protected Finland, the eastern part of the Swedish empire. The archipelago war in the Gulf began and galleys were used operationally in battles at sea for the first time.11 For military success, 9 For the role of the Swedish galley fleets in Germany during the Thirty Years’ War, see Jürg Meister, Svensk sjökrigföring på Bodensjön under trettioåriga kriget, in: Tidskrift i Sjöväsendet 130 (1967), pp. 474–498, here p. 479; Från Femern och Jankow till Westfaliska freden. Minnesskrift utarbetad och utgiven av Försvarsstabens krigshistoriska avdelning, Stockholm 1948, pp. 190–193. 10 Edward J. Phillips, The Founding of Russia’s Navy. Peter the Great and the Azov Fleet, 1688– 1714, Westport, CO et al. 1995. 11 See, for instance, Ohto Manninen, Korppoo 1743. Kampailu Saaristomeren laivareitistä, in: idem (ed.), Suomalaisten suuret taistelut. Ruotsin, Venäjän ja itsenäisen Suomen riveissä,

The Archipelago Fleet in Early Modern Sweden

199

the need for professionalism was high and the commanders of the Russian galleys had to be recruited from abroad. The Venetian commander of the Baltic galley fleet, Ivan Botzis, a Greek (Dalmatian) mercenary in the service of Peter the Great, had a crucial role in the operations.12 With his galleys, Botzis managed in 1712 to sneak into the Finnish archipelago near Helsinki and helped the land forces occupy Finland. In 1714, the Russian fleet of galleys gained a sweeping victory over the Swedes at the peninsula of Hanko, at Rilax. In Russia, this battle of Gangut (Hanko) is considered as the day of the founding of the Baltic fleet. The end of the war marked an end to Sweden’s Era of Greatness due to its substantial territorial losses – one third of the realm in the Baltic and in Eastern Finland. Despite the suffering during the post-war occupation, known as the Greater Wrath (Fin. Isoviha), one of the positive results of the defeat was that the defence of the eastern buffer zone of the Swedish realm, Finland, was for the first time significantly improved. In the 1720s, a vast defensive programme was launched, and in 1721 a newly established Commission of the Admiralty (amiralitetskomission) launched a plan to establish a galley fleet. This included, among other things, 70 new galleys.

The Skärgårdsflotta as a Swedish Answer to the Russian Threat Archipelago warfare with galleys was a new challenge for the Swedes. The knowhow needed for the “science of galleys” (galere wetenskap) was lacking and had to be gained abroad. In the 1720s, commissions of officers were sent to the Mediterranean, with the mission of finding information on galleys and galley warfare. Swedish officers spent years in the Mediterranean, carrying out expeditions to the arsenals of France (Marseille, Toulon), Venice, Malta, the Vatican, the Ottoman Empire (Constantinople) and Tuscany. It is not always easy to determine whether this travelling can be considered espionage, military co-operation, a grand tour or just ‘tourism’, which already flourished in places like Venice. Travelling was an expensive part of the war economy of eighteenth-century Sweden. Knowledge, indeed, was not obtained without cost.13 The experiences gained from the expeditions were applied in the Gulf, and the reports of the commissions delivered to the Admiralty in Stockholm formed the Helsinki 2007; Journal du Général J. Keith pendant la guerre en Finlande 1741–1743 (Bidrag till kännedom af Finlands natur och folk 44/3), Helsingfors 1887. 12 Cyprian A. G. Bridge (ed.), History of the Russian Fleet during the Reign of Peter the Great by a Contemporary Englishman (1724), London 1899. 13 Mikko Huhtamies, The Mission – How Galley Expertise was Transferred from the Mediterranean to Eighteenth-Century Sweden, in: International Journal of Maritime History 15/1 (2013), pp. 205–228.

200

Mikko Huhtamies

stepping stone for updating the knowledge of galley warfare in Sweden. Venetian and Genoese-style galleys (there was only a slight difference between the two) were built. The final objective was to create an archipelago fleet, now called the skärgårdsflotta, which could operate in the archipelago and support the land forces. In the tactical plans that were drawn up, the archipelago fleet was to be supported by the navy (flotta). The idea was to create a defence on three levels: inland forces, the archipelago fleet in the centre, and the navy on the southern flank. Besides the fact that a galley with narrow draft (less than 2 metres) could be easily adapted to the geographical conditions in the Gulf, there were several other reasons which promoted the use of galleys. They were fairly easy and cheap to manufacture from pine. For the cost of a single ship of the line, it was possible to equip a small fleet of galleys. Galleys were light and could even be hauled over land through hauling passages (drager). In general, the firepower of the archipelago fleet increased during the eighteenth century. Besides the galleys, the archipelago fleet consisted of a new kind of oared vessel with substantial firepower, namely archipelago frigates, which were a hybrid of galleys and men-of-war, mortar sloops, cannon prams and cannon sloops, and dinghies.14 The increased use and development of firepower were revolutionary, and through the use of archipelago frigates, board cannons were introduced into archipelago warfare.

3.

A Revolutionary Impact on Infrastructure in the Eighteenth Century

In the eighteenth century, the archipelago fleet had a direct impact on society. Recruitment for the archipelago fleet (as well as that for the fleet of the High Seas) was reorganised and developed. There were three kinds of “boatmen” (båtsmen) in the archipelago fleet: rotebåtsman (permanent crews who lived in cottages), volontärer (recruited crews) and enrolleringskarlarna (enlisted crews). In general, recruitment was not based on force but on negotiations and reciprocity. For example, the system of enrolleringskarlarana was based on financial contributions for protection (from conscription) and rights (e. g. mercantile rights) for the peasants responsible for delivering the båtsmän to the Crown. The crews served for half a year, the sailing season, after which they were released. The rotebåtsmän lived in small cottages (torp) on the coast as a reserve of free men. It is likely that recruitment was supported by the fact that the Crown could link it 14 Lars Otto Berg, Skärgårdsflottans fartyg. Typer och utveckling under 1700 – och 1800 –talet, in: Norman, Skärgårdsflottan (cf. note 5), pp. 50–76, here pp. 50 s.

The Archipelago Fleet in Early Modern Sweden

201

with the traditional duty of peasants to defend the coast, a custom whose roots stretched all the way back to the medieval ledung. Practical reasons also fostered the willingness to serve. In the eighteenth century, the coasts were the primary targets for enemies. In the bargaining processes of recruitment, the Crown ‘sold’ protection to the coastal population, which for its part was motivated to participate in the defence. Recruitment was also announced in church, linking spiritual and national emotions. Even more important was the impact of the archipelago fleet on infrastructure.15 Galleys with only a short radius of action needed supply bases to provide, above all, food and water for the men, who were the ‘engine’ of the galleys. The main naval base was initially in Stockholm, but in the eighteenth century it was too far away from the eastern front in the Gulf. The Russian galleys could sail in a few hours from St. Petersburg to Helsinki, but it took at least a month for the Swedish squadrons to reach Helsinki from Stockholm. This was the reason for the founding of the fortress of Sveaborg in 1748 (and the smaller Svartholm some 140 km east from Helsinki) to guard Helsinki and block the routes to St. Petersburg. Colonel Augustin Ehrensvärd (1710–1772), the mastermind behind the founding of Sveaborg, was the commander of the fortress, the Gibraltar of the North, as it was slightly exaggeratedly called. Its architecture, influenced by Vauban, was derived from the trace italienne. Sveaborg was the new place d’armes and the main stronghold for the archipelago fleet. The fortress included a high-tech dry dock with wind-powered pumping installations for the galleys. The archipelago fleet was also in transition. In the 1760s, after the experiences gained in the Pomeranian War, English-born ship designer Fredrik Henrik af Chapman (1721–1808) and Ehrensvärd began to design new types of vessels, namely archipelago frigates, cannon sloops, and dinghies, which replaced galleys as the main component of the fleet.16 The construction works at Sveaborg were the biggest and most expensive project in eighteenth-century Sweden. The building process had an enormous economic, innovative and militarising impact on the local economy. In order to facilitate the supply of timber for the construction works of the fortress, a Swedish version of enclosure and privatisation of land (storskift) was launched. Most of the advocates of the storskift were officers in Sveaborg or merchants closely linked to the fortress. New building methods and stonemason techniques from the mining industry were introduced in Sveaborg and in the surrounding Helsinki area. Sveaborg, with its approximately 6,000 soldiers, workers, and in15 Sofia Gustafsson et al., Tuntematon Viapori – innovaatiokeskus ja talouselämän vilkastuttaja, in: Tieteessä Tapahtuu 29/3 (2011), http://blogs.helsinki.fi/sveaborg-project/suomeksi/. 16 Daniel G. Harris, Fredrik Henrik af Chapman. Den förste skeppsbyggnadsarkitekten och hans verk, Stockholm 2001.

202

Mikko Huhtamies

habitants, formed a twin town with the smaller Helsinki (2,000 inhabitants). The newly born twin town became a creative milieu and an innovative centre, a kind of centre of higher technical learning in Finland. Social innovations, such as freemasonry, clubs, cafes, and theatre, spread to Helsinki via Sveaborg. The construction works as an economic engine paved the way for the growth of Helsinki, which in 1809 became the capital of autonomous Finland. In the nineteenth century, during Russian rule over Finland, Helsinki was strongly militarised.

The Archipelago Fleet and the Timing of Military Revolution in Sweden According to Michael Roberts, the (Swedish) military revolution occurred within the period 1560–1660, especially during the reign of Gustav Adolph, while the period 1660–1760 was less important. This timetable does not, however, match the Swedish military revolution from a broader perspective. Already in the sixteenth century, the Vasas allocated substantial amounts of resources to the galley fleet. Despite these investments, these galleys were an ad hoc fleet for temporary purposes. It can be argued that the main enemy of the sixteenth-century galley fleet was rot. In the Vasa era, some embryonic technical improvements were introduced. The galleys were equipped with ordnance, old fortifications were partly modernised according to new European (Italian) standards. Tactically, however, not much was done. The galleys were mainly used for logistical purposes, that is, for transportation. No extra training was needed because no actual battles were fought with galleys. The archipelago fleet in the sixteenth century had a fairly light and seasonal impact on society. By contrast, the impact of the land army was stronger and not just seasonal. To sum up, in the sixteenth century, the archipelago fleet, despite large investments and some technical innovations in artillery and fortification, was not an accelerator of a military revolution. Archipelago Fleet and Aspects of Military Revolution Aspect The fleet The use of galleys (tactics) Trace italienne Firepower (cannons) Professionalism/technology Recruitment Warzone Militarisation Impact on society

1560–1660 ad hoc/temporary logistical supplementary seminal low/craftsmanship ad hoc/semi-permanent far temporary/concentrated indirect/local/seasonal

1660–1760 permanent logistical/operational dominant diffused and increased high/scientific permanent near nationwide direct/nationwide

The Archipelago Fleet in Early Modern Sweden

203

However, the changes in naval warfare in the eighteenth century can be described as revolutionary, which supports the periodisation of the military revolution, as suggested by Jeremy Black.17 The variables are described in the scheme above. In general, the scale of transformation was much larger, even revolutionary, in the eighteenth century. A major turning point was the founding of St. Petersburg in 1703. The archipelago became a warzone and, furthermore, the enemy was much closer. A permanent Swedish archipelago fleet was established and organised in the 1720s. Even more important were the construction works in 1748 for the fortifications and strongholds – Sveaborg and Svartholm, to mention the two most important ones – for the needs of the archipelago fleet. Only at this point can we talk about the dominant role of the trace italienne in the Gulf. In general, society was now deeply militarised. Helsinki became a new and important military town. The trace italienne in the Gulf did not, however, lead to any sieges of extensive duration.18 In addition, the level of professionalism was much higher in the eighteenth century than in the Vasa era. The crews had to master difficult manoeuvres in battles. As a sign of growing professionalism, the first books on galley warfare, dealing with such matters as signals and tactics, were published in Swedish.19 Archipelago warfare had reached a higher scientific level.

4.

Conclusion

The connection between geography and military history, or even history in general, has been close in a remote country like Sweden–Finland, a land with poor communication networks. The passages in the Gulf of Finland were the crucial communication lines as early as the Viking age. The wars of the early modern period were struggles for these passages, since the land forces could not move without the support of a floating army. Due to the geographical factors, the “limitations of change” (Jeremy Black) for a profound military transition were greater in the archipelago.20 Both Russia and Sweden had archipelago fleets in the eighteenth century, and both countries needed technology and expertise from the Mediterranean. The innovations in galley technology diffused to Russia by moving technology from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. Russia even hired Venetian commanders for active service in the Gulf of Finland. Unlike Russia, Sweden could not afford to 17 18 19 20

Black, Military Revolution (cf. note 1), p. 93. Parker, The Military Revolution (cf. note 1), pp. 10–13. Oscar Nikula, Svenska skärgårdsflottan 1756–1791, Helsingfors 1933, pp. 108 s., 246 s. Black, Military Revolution (cf. note 1), p. 35.

204

Mikko Huhtamies

hire a complete crew of galley officers or purchase ready-made or semi-fabricated crafts, like Peter the Great, or attract craftsmen from abroad. Besides, Sweden did not have the geographical advantage of using rivers as a means of transporting naval innovations from the Mediterranean. France, Sweden’s most important ally, also played a role in the power relations connected to oared vessels. Parallels between galley development in the Mediterranean and the Gulf of Finland are worth noting. Whereas the French galley fleet was reduced in the Mediterranean in the 1720s and 1730s, this was the period in the Baltic when galley fleets were established – with the help of French money. The French stopped using galleys in the Mediterranean, but started to finance the Swedish galley fleet. The focus of French naval power policy moved to the Baltic, against Russia. Furthermore, the scrapping of French galleys and the founding of the fortress at Sveaborg, also financed with several barrels of gold from France, took place in the same year, 1748, while in 1749, a major construction project of 20 new galleys was launched. To sum up, France did not quit its power policy with respect to galleys. It founded a new fleet, behind the scenes, in the Gulf of Finland. I have focused on the archipelago fleet in order to answer the question: What was the meaning of the military in early modern Sweden? Despite the disasters and agonies of the war, the build-up of military installations on the coast was an engine of growth. Besides, the oared fleets enabled the Crown to govern remote places, like the archipelago in the Gulf of Finland. With the founding of the skärgårdsflotta in the 1720s and with, for example, the charting and organisation of a pilot and salvaging network, the Crown succeeded in gaining a firm grip on these peripheral areas hitherto beyond the control of the state. However, the oared fleets could not operate without the help of the coastal inhabitants. Galleys with thousands of men needed pilots and logistical support from the inhabitants. The transformations within the archipelago fleet and the military installations connected to it were revolutionary within the period 1660–1760.

Daria Starcˇenko

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka. Cossack Logic of Loot and Violence in the Black Sea Region in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries

The well-known image of an early modern Zaporozhian (Ukrainian) Cossack is the one of a horseman racing across the wilderness (dzikie pola) of the PolishLithuanian steppe-frontier.1 A little-known fact, however, is that in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the Zaporozhian Cossacks sailed the waters of the Black Sea, too. On their keel-less longboats, known as cˇajkas,2 they were crossing along the whole Ottoman-controlled Black Sea and its coasts, bringing plunder, violence and destruction to this region. In fact, according to Victor Ostapchuk, in the pre-Cossack era, the Black Sea had been one of the best-protected regions of the Ottoman Empire, especially in comparison with the Mediterranean region.3 One of the more detailed contemporary reports on the Cossack sea campaigns was composed by Guillaume Le Vasseur de Beauplan in the mid-seventeenth century: [T]he Cossacks […] sneak out on a dark night close to the new moon, keeping themselves hidden in the reeds that are found for three or four leagues up the Borysthenes [the Dnieper river – D.S.], where the galleys dare not venture […]. However, the Cossacks cannot pass so quickly that they cannot be seen, and the alarm is then sounded throughout the whole country, even as far as Constantinople. The Great Lord sends messengers all along the coasts […] warning that the Cossacks have put to sea, so that everyone may be on his guard. […] They land, each man carrying his firearm, leaving only two men and two boys on guard in each boat. They surprise the towns, capture them,

1 By “Ukrainian” or “Zaporozhian” Cossacks, I refer to those who inhabited the region of present-day western and central Ukraine from the late fifteenth century onwards. 2 In Ukrainian and in Russian “cˇajka” means a seagull. The Cossack ˇcajka was a military vessel with a removable mast, rudders at both ends, and ten to fifteen oarsmen per side, armed with light cannons, and fifty to seventy Cossacks armed with muskets. It was an extremely versatile, maneuverable, and hard to detect boat. See Victor Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me on Halı¯l ˘ Pasˇa’s Naval Campaign against the Cossacks (1621), in: Harvard Ukrainian Studies 14 (1990),

pp. 482–521, here p. 496, note 59. 3 Idem, The Human Landscape of the Ottoman Black Sea in the Face of the Cossack Naval Raids, in: Oriente Moderno N.S. 81 (2001), pp. 23–95, here pp. 23, 30.

206

Daria Starcˇenko

loot and burn them, venturing sometimes as far as a league inland. Then they return immediately and embark with their booty, to try their luck elsewhere.4

Remarkable here are the sophisticated Cossack tactics and the security measures put in place by the Ottoman coastal guard. In fact, by the time Beauplan’s account was first published in 1660, the Zaporozhians had been systematically ‘sneaking’ across the Black Sea on cˇajkas for several decades. The first Cossack cˇajkas appeared in the Black Sea region sometime around the mid-sixteenth century. The Ottoman castle of Ocˇakiv (Özi) was one of the first to be attacked.5 During the next decades, the Zaporozhians penetrated further along the coasts towards the Danube in the West and the Crimea in the East.6 By the end of the sixteenth and in the early seventeenth century, the Cossacks were frequently raiding the area from Akkerman (Bilhorod-Dnistrovs’kyi) to the mouth of the Danube, reaching the coasts of Rumelia and Bulgaria (Misivri and Varna). In later years, important strategic ports, such as Kili (Kili, Kilija), Kefe (Caffa, Feodosiya), Azak (Tana, Azov), Trabzon (Trebizond), Samsun, Sinop (Sinope) and even the Bosporus, were repeatedly attacked and plundered.7 The Cossack incursions in the Black Sea reached their peak in the 1610s. During external wars, they temporarily ceased, since large numbers of Cossacks were recruited into the land armies. The same can be stated for the periods of Cossack uprisings (e. g., 1591–1593, 1595/96, 1625, 1630, and 1637/38). Nevertheless, Cossack sea campaigns were undertaken almost annually until the late 1620s. Such massive attacks as those on Sinop (1614), Kefe (1616), and the Bosporus (1624) resonated even outside the Ottoman Empire and made a fairly great impression on contemporaries.8 In the 1630s, however, the Cossack Black Sea incursions finally subsided.9 4 Guillaume Le Vasseur de Beauplan, A Description of Ukraine, Cambridge 1993, pp. 67 s. 5 The data presented below covers those sea campaigns that could be collated with data from different sources and secondary works. On the early Cossack raids in the Ottoman territory cf. Andrzej Dziubin´ski, Polsko-litewskie napady na tureckie pogranicze czarnomorskie w epoce dwu ostatnich Jagiellonów [Polish-Lithuanian Raids on the Ottoman Black Sea Frontier in the Epoch of the Two Last Jagiellonian Kings], in: Kwartalnik Historyczny 103/3 (1996), pp. 53–87; Petro Sas, Voennyj promysel zaporozˇskich kozakiv (persˇa polovina XVII st.) [The Military Trade of the Zaporozhian Cossackdom (First Half of the Seventeenth Century)], in: Ukraïna v centralno-schidnij Evrope 7 (2007), pp. 167–196, here p. 170. 6 Sea campaigns were carried out in 1574, 1576, 1578, 1583, 1587, 1588, 1589, 1593, 1594, 1602, 1603, 1604, 1606, 1607 and 1609. Mihnea Berindei, La porte Ottomane face aux Cosaques zaporogues, 1600–1637, in: Harvard Ukrainian Studies 1 (1977), pp. 273–307, here pp. 273 s.; Ostapchuk, Human Landscape (cf. note 3), p. 39; Marina A. Tolmacheva, The Cossacks at Sea: Pirate Tactics in the Frontier Environment, in: East European Quarterly 24 (1991), pp. 483–512, here. p. 487. 7 Zaporozhian Cossacks appeared in the Bosporus in 1615, 1617, 1621 and 1624. 8 Ostapchuk, Human Landscape (cf. note 3), pp. 45 s.; see also the commentary on the source in: ˇ elebi idem, Oleksandr Galenko, Kozacki cˇornomorski pochody u morskij istorii Katjaba C

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka

207

Yet, this data contradicts the historiographical perspective which indicates that the Cossack activities on the Black Sea were some sort of a side effect of unruly subjects on the periphery. Although they were a key source of military manpower in early modern Poland-Lithuania, Zaporozhian Cossacks remain at the margins of contemporary European academic military history. Except for a few studies,10 scholars of Polish-Lithuanian and Ottoman history do not pay closer attention to the Black Sea excursions of the Zaporozhian Cossacks. Both Ukrainian and Russian historiographies mostly focus on the ‘heroic era’ of the Cossacks on the Black Sea, whereas historians researching the Ottomans mostly omit this topic.11 Moreover, almost no research has been done on the Cossack practices, dynamics, and logic of violence. Though some works have brought up such terms as the “Cossack bread” (kozackij chlib), “plunder trade” (zbobycˇnickyj promysel), or “economy of robbery” (grabizˇnicka ekonomika),12 they neither offer a systematic approach nor do they address the very structures of the “economy” they refer to. This essay seeks to provide a deeper understanding of the Cossack logic of booty and violence in the sixteenth and the first half of the

9

10

11 12

[Cossack Black Sea Naval Campaigns in the Naval History of Katib Çelebi], in: Mappa Mundi. 36. naukovyj prac. na posˇanu Jaroslava Dasˇkevicˇa z nagody iogo 70-ricˇcˇja, Lviv et al. 1996, pp. 341–426, here p. 372. In this period, sea campaigns were carried out in 1612, 1613, 1614, 1615, 1616, 1617, 1620, 1621, 1622, 1623, 1624, 1625, 1626 and 1628. In the 1630s, there were sea campaigns in 1630, 1633, 1634, 1635, 1637 and 1639. Ostapchuk, Human Landscape (cf. note 3), pp. 39, 43–50; Tolmacheva, Cossacks at Sea (cf. note 6), pp. 484, 487, 498, 500. Except for the studies cited here: Chantal Lemercier-Quelquejay, Un condottiere lithuanien du XVIe siècle: Le prince Dimitrij Visˇneveckij et l’origine de la Secˇ Zaporogue d’après le Archives ottomans, in: Cahiers du monde russe et soviétique 10 (1969), pp. 258–279; Berindei, La porte Ottomane (cf. note 6), pp. 273–307; Viktor Brechunenko, Les relations entre la cosaquerie ukrainienne et celle du Don aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles, in: Michel Cadot, Emile Kruba (eds.), Les Cosaques de l’Ukraine: rôle historique, représentations littéraires et artistiques. Actes du 5e colloque international franco-ukrainien, Paris 1995, pp. 75–83; Tadeusz Górski, Flotylle kozackie w słuz˙bie Jagiellonów i Wazów [Cossack Fleets in the Services of the Jagiellonian and Wasa Kings], Gdansk 2003; Victor Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2); Caroline Finkel, Victor Ostapchuk, Outpost of Empire: An Appraisal of Ottoman Building Registers as Sources for the Archeology and Construction History of the Black Sea Fortress of Özi. Dedicated to the Memory of Nejat Göyünç, in: Muqarnas 22 (2005), pp. 150– 188; Viktor Brekhunenko, Kozaky na stepovomu kordoni Evropy: Typologija kozackich spil’not XVI – persˇoj polovyny XVII st. [Cossacks on Europe’s Steppe Frontier: Typology of the Cossack Communities (Sixteenth – First Half of the Seventeenth Century)], Kiev 2011. For a review on the historiography, see Ostapchuk, Human Landscape (cf. note 3), pp. 23 ss. Sergij Lepjavko, Formuvann’ja svitogljadnych zasad ukrains’kogo kozactva (ponjatt’ja “kozackogo chliba” v ostannij tretyni XVI st.) [The Formation of the Ideological Aspects of the Ukrainian Cossackdom (the understanding of the “Cossack bread” in the last decade of the sixteenth century)], in: Ukraïna v centralno-schidnij Evrope 1 (2000), pp. 143–158; Sas, Voennyj promysel (cf. note 5), pp. 167–196; idem, Zaporozˇcy u polsko-moskovskij vijni: Naprikinci Smuty (1617–1618 rr.) [The Zaporozhians in the Polish-Muscovite War: In the End of the Smuta (1617–1618)], Bila Cerkva 2010.

208

Daria Starcˇenko

seventeenth century. By introducing local structures, networks and mechanisms of the Black Sea incursions, I will argue that due to the growing Cossack military manpower, it became a specific private enterprise, as a market for warriors, weapons, and booty emerged on the Polish-Lithuanian frontier.

1.

Military Service and the Emergence of a Cossack Mercenary Market

In the Ukrainian (Ruthenian) territory of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, one of the largest markets for professional mercenaries in Eastern Europe developed between the second half of the sixteenth and the first half of the seventeenth century. During this period, Cossack military potential was increasingly growing. In the sixteenth century, a more persistent defense against the Tatars became necessary since the Crimean Khanate, one of the main suppliers of slaves for the Ottoman slave market, acquired a large number of slaves in the Ruthenian region of Poland-Lithuania.13 In the first half of the sixteenth century, frontier defense squads were organized.14 These squads were headed by noble cavalry masters (rotmistrz) and military governors (starost) of frontier towns, such as Bar, Kanev, Braclav, Vinnicjaa, Wolodimir, Kiev, Kamenec or Chmielnick. Some of them, for example Prince Dymitr Wis´niowecki, became significant military entrepreneurs.15 Since 1581, the so-called Registered Cossacks were on the payroll of Poland-Lithuania to defend frontier settlements against Tatar raids into Polish-Lithuanian territory.16 Furthermore, since the sixteenth and the sev-

13 Victor Ostapchuk, Crimean Tatar Long-Range Campaigns. The View from Remmal Khoja’s History of Sahib Gerey Khan, in: Brian L. Davies (ed.), Warfare in Eastern Europe, 1500–1800, Leiden et al. 2012, pp. 147–173, here pp. 164 s.; Dariusz Kołodziejczyk, Slave Hunting and Slave Redemption as a Business Enterprise. The Northern Black Sea Region in the Sixteenth to Seventeenth Centuries, in: Oriente Moderno N.S. 86 (2006), pp. 149–159; idem, The Crimean Khanate and Poland-Lithuania. International Diplomacy on the European Periphery (15th– 18th century). A Study of Peace Treaties Followed by Annotated Documents, Leiden et al. 2011; Iryna Voroncˇuk, Naselennja Volyni v XVI – persˇoj polovyny XVII st. Rodyna, domogospodarstvo, detograficˇny cˇynnyky [The Population of Wolhynia in the Sixteenth and the First Half of the Seventeenth Centuries. Family, House Economy and Birthrates], Kiev 2012, pp. 387–417, 576–603. 14 Dziubin´ski, Polsko-litewskie napady (cf. note 5), p. 55. 15 Such prominent nobles and large property owners of the Kingdom of Poland and the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, like Prince Bohusz Korecki (starost of Braclav), Prince Andrzej Pron´ski (starost of Cˇerkasy), Mikołaj und Janusz (Jarosz) Sieniawski (the sons of the voivoda of Belsk and later Crown hetman, Mikołaj Sieniawski), Fedir Sangusˇko (starost of Wolodymir), need to be mentioned. Dziubin´ski, Polsko-litewskie napady (cf. note 5), pp. 62, 65 ss. 16 Carsten Kumke, Die Reform der Registerkosaken im Jahre 1638, in: Forschungen zur osteuropäischen Geschichte 48 (1993), S. 105–124.

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka

209

enteenth centuries were quite an intense warring period for Poland-Lithuania, the demand for mercenaries was high. The Cossacks were able to call up large contingents of experienced warriors at short notice.17 It is, at least until the midseventeenth century, difficult to determine the precise number of Cossacks or even to get a reliable estimate.18 While the first Cossack register of 1581 lists only five hundred men (regiments of fifty squads),19 in the first half of the seventeenth century, the figures changed dramatically. At that time, the temporary Cossack register listed up to 8,000 Cossacks. Nevertheless, before the Cossack register of 1649 (Register of Zboriv), in which 40,358 Cossacks20 were inscribed, the Cossack registers neither give sufficient numbers in peacetime nor in wartime. In the first case, large Cossack masses were excluded from the register, while in the second case the Cossack baggage trains (non-enlisted youngsters, so-called pacholki) were not considered in the enlistments. Still, already in the second decade of the first half of the seventeenth century, Cossack numbers grew up to a few dozen thousands. During the smuta (The Great Trouble) war campaign in the Muscovite Empire in 1611–1613, enrolled corps numbering fifteen thousand men are documented; again, with different unofficial Cossack bands which operated in the Muscovite territory at that time and baggage trains not included in the calculation. Some sources, however, give the total number of 30,000 Cossacks in royal service.21 For the Hotin (Khotyn, Chocim) campaign in 1621, the large Cossack corps with its baggage train has been recently investigated, comprising between forty and fifty thousand men.22 In the last decade of the sixteenth century, privatization tendencies can be observed in Cossack recruitment, which with increasing demand, was operating more independently from the Polish-Lithuanian authorities. Officially, non17 Akty otnosjasˇcˇiesja i istorii Juzˇnoj i Zapadnoj Rossii (AJuZR), pt. 3, vol. 1, no. 8; Volumina Legum (VL), vol. 2, St. Petersburg 1859, 1609, p. 465; VL, vol. 3, 1611, p. 16; VL, vol. 3, 1613, p. 122; VL, vol. 3, 1618, p. 157. ˇ iselnist zaporoz’kogo vijska u chotins’kij bitvi 1621 r. 18 The Ukrainian historian Petro Sas, C [The Size of the Zaporozhian Host during the Khotin Battle in 1621], in: Ukraïns’kyj istorycˇcˇnyj zˇurnal 2 (2010), pp. 17–37, demonstrates the challenge of investigating Cossack numbers in the first half of the seventeenth century. 19 Z´ródła dziejowe, part 20: Polska XVI wieku pod wzgle˛dem geograficzno-statystycznym, part 9, Ziemie ruskie, Ukraina (Kijów – Bracław), part 1, ed. by Aleksander Jabłonowski, Warsaw 1894, no. 20, p. 154. 20 Reestra vsego Vojska Zaporozˇskago posle Zborovskago dogovora s korolem pol’skim Janom Kazimirom, sostavlennye 1649 goda, oktjabrja 16 dnja, ed. by Osip Maksimovycˇ Bodjanskij, ˇ tenija v imperatorskom obsˇcˇestve istorii i drevnostej rossijskich pri Moskovskom uniin: C versitete 2/3 (1874). 21 Mykhajlo Hrushevsky, History of Ukraine Rus’, vol. 7, Toronto 1999, p. 263. ˇ iselnist zaporoz’kogo vijska (cf. note 18); see also Carsten Kumke, Führer und Geführte 22 Sas, C bei den Zaporoger Kosaken. Struktur und Geschichte kosakischer Verbände im polnischlitauischen Grenzland (1550–1648), Wiesbaden 1993, S. 103.

210

Daria Starcˇenko

permitted recruitment and enrollments were considered illegal. In some cases, the Polish-Lithuanian government seems to have been either secretly allowing or at least tolerating internal and external enrollments for war campaigns.23 Therefore, recruitment on the frontier was repeatedly initiated by foreign potentates who sent envoys to Zaporizˇzˇje with gifts and pre-payments.24 Generally, the Cossacks refused to receive the emissaries of potential employers if those did not bring any pre-payments and ‘gifts’.25 Gatherings were arranged by (noble) contacts who were known and trusted by the Zaporozhians.26 Although Cossack troops usually went unpaid for months and even years, it would seem that it was not only due to the lack of pay that orders of disbandment were disobeyed and violated. When Cossacks claimed their payments, they either mutinied, threatened with sea campaigns, or, when the situation escalated, rebelled. However, Cossack squads also stayed together as illegal bands (kupy) to await their next, either official or unofficial, employment. Due to political motives, some foreign potentates were apparently interested in diverting the Ottoman forces in the Black Sea, and thus instigated Cossack sea campaigns. Other Black Sea raids were carried out in the course of Ottoman/Crimean internal conflicts. When the 23 Thus, the Polish-Lithuanian government supported the internal struggles of the Crimean Tatars in 1623–1628 and in 1636/37 by providing Cossack squads. At the same time PolishLithuanian authorities pretended that the Cossacks interfered in Crimean affairs on their own. See Mykhajlo Hrushevsky, History of Ukraine Rus’, vol. 8, Toronto 2000, p. 188; Victor Ostapchuk, The Ottoman Black Sea Frontier and the Relations of the Porte with the PolishLithuanian Commonwealth and Muscovy, 1622–1628, Cambridge 1989, pp. 49–58. 24 Archiwum Główne Akt Dawnych w Warszawie [Central Archive of Historical Records in Warsaw] (AGAD), Extranea IX, Polen, no. 59, vol. 89, 28. 02. 1597; Viktor Brekhunenko (ed.), Myrosław Nagielski, Dvanadcat’ lystiv getmaniv vijska zaporoz’skogo XVI – persˇoj polovyni XVII st. Z pol’skich rukopysnych zibran’n [Twelve Letters of Zaporozhian Hetmans from the Sixteenth and the First Half of the Seventeenth Century. From Polish Manuscript Collections], in: Ukrainskij archeograficˇnyj sˇcˇoricˇnyk, nova serija 8/9 (2004) 11/12, no. 2; Biblioteka Jagiellon´ska, no. 2/1952, fol. 386v–388, 17th March 1600, also available via Biblioteka Narodova (BN), mf. 12611; Tagebuch des Erich Lassota, p. 217 s.; for military recruitments of the voivod of Wallachia Michael the Brave (Mihai Viteazul) see Listy Stanisława Z˙ółkiewskiego, 1584– 1620, ed. by Tadeusz Jan Lubomirski, Krakau 1868, pp. 76 s., no. 50, March 1596; for the military mobilization for the Smuta, see ibid., no. 95, 15th February 1604; for the requests of the Crimean Khanate, see e. g. AGAD, Archiwum Koronne Wwarszawsie (AKW), dz. kozackie, no. 42/1, 1633/1634; see Jurij A. Mycyk, Z dyplomatycˇnoho lystuvannia uriadu Kryms’koho khanstva druha polovyna XVI pochatok XVIII stolit’ [Diplomatic Correspondence of the Crimean Khanate in the Second Half of the Sixteenth Century until the Eighteenth Century], in: Zapysky Naukovogo tovaristva imeni Sˇevcˇenka 240 (2000), pp. 473– 502. – See for 1594, 1595 and 1598 Lepjavko, Formurovann’ja (cf. note 12), pp. 121 s., 130; for the late 1620s see Victor Ostapchuk, The Ottoman Black Sea Frontier (cf. note 23). 25 Tagebuch des Erich Lassota (cf. note 24), p. 200. 26 For example, Stanisław Chłopicki, Samuel and Krzysztof Zborowski, or Aleksander Józef Lisowski. See Hrushevsky, History (cf. note 21), vol. 7, pp. 151 s.; Materiały do z˙yciorysu Aleksandra Lisowskiego, ed. by Kazimierz Tyszkowski, in: Przegła˛d historyczno-wojstowy 5 (1932), pp. 101–104, here pp. 101 s.; Kumke, Führer und Geführte (cf. note 22), p. 51.

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka

211

Cossacks attacked Yeniköy in 1624, the Bosporus remained vastly unsecured since the Ottoman fleet was concentrated around the Crimea due to the resolution of the internal Crimean conflict. However, at the time the raid was carried out, the rebellious brothers Mehmed and S¸ahin Gerey seem to have asked the ˙ Cossacks for military support.27 As a result, it was time and again very difficult to enforce the demission of the Cossacks after war campaigns came to an end.28 The Polish-Lithuanian government did not tap the full potential of the Cossacks at sea. In fact, numerous plans and attempts to deploy Zaporozhian Cossacks in the Baltic Sea against Sweden in the first half of the seventeenth century failed.29 It would seem that these plans proved to be a failure mostly for the reason that the Cossacks lacked knowledge of the Baltic region. Conversely, Cossack Black Sea campaigns were based on broad long-term experience, wide networks, and elaborate knowledge of the geographical space. As shown later, these aspects were crucial for the campaigns’ success and Cossack group cohesion. Still, in wars against the Ottoman Empire, it was rather unclear whether the Cossack sea incursions were part of the government’s military strategy. Throughout the Hotin (Khotyn’, Chocim) War in 1621, for instance, Cossack sea raids interfered with the main tasks of the Ottoman fleet, which conveyed supplies for the army.30 Yet, judging from the communication between the governments of the Ottoman Empire and Poland-Lithuania during peacetime, Cossack incursions in the Black Sea region had been perceived as a burden by both sides. This topic was frequently discussed in the central Polish-Lithuanian Diets and regional Dietines. Furthermore, since the Ruthenian lands of Poland-Lithuania were suffering between 1605 and 1633 from a large demographic decline due to Tatar raids31 and skirmishes between Cossacks and Tatars, Tatar raids in the Polish-Lithuanian 27 Although, as Ostapchuk correctly points out, no formal agreement between the Zaporozhian Cossacks and S¸ahin Gerey existed in 1624, there is evidence that suggests that the Cossacks were acting in accordance with the Gerey brothers. Moreover, according to a contemporary Crimean-Ottoman chronicler Ridvan Pas¸azade, they had received sheep and cattle as payment. See Ostapchuk, The Ottoman Black Sea Frontier (cf. note 23), pp. 28, 68–78. 28 Zherela do istoriji Ukrajiny-Rusi [Sources on the History of Ukraine-Rus’], vol. 8, p. 1, Dokumenty po rik 1631, Materialy do istoriji ukrajinskoj kozacˇcˇiny [Materials on History of the Ukrainian Cossackdom], ed. by Ivan Krypjakevicˇ, Lviv 1908, Nr. 153, 154, 155; Pisma Stanisława Z˙ółkiewskiego kanclerza koronnego i hetmana z jego popiersiem [Correspondence of the Crown Chancellor and Hetman Stanisław Z˙ółkiewski], ed. by August Bielowski, Lviv 1861, p. 170, Nr. 38; VL, vol. 3, 1619. 29 Agnieszka Biedrzycka, Wojsko JKM Zaporoskie nad Bałtykiem. Próby wykorzystania Kozaków w walce ze Szwecja˛ w I połowie XVII w. (do roku 1635) [His Majesty the King’s Zaporozhian Host in the Baltic. An Attempt to Mobilize the Cossacks for the Conflict with Sweden in the First Half of the Seventeenth Century (until 1635)], in: Rocznik Gdan´ski 59 (1999) 1, pp. 19–32. 30 See Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2), pp. 485 s. 31 Kołodziejczyk, Slave Hunting (cf. note 13), pp. 149–159; idem, The Crimean Khanate (cf. note 13), pp. xiv s.

212

Daria Starcˇenko

territory and Cossack Black Sea campaigns were regularly addressed in the correspondence between Poland-Lithuania, the Ottoman Empire, and the Crimean Khanate.32 In various documents on peace negotiations, each side guaranteed to regulate its subjects (i. e. Tatars and Cossacks) and to prevent raids into the opponent’s territory.33 Particularly in the first half of the seventeenth century, the Polish-Lithuanian government was frequently pressured to curb Cossack violence and looting activities in the Black Sea region.34 Attempts at regulation had already been made in the 1560s, when Cossack cˇajkas started to appear on the Black Sea more frequently. In the early 1590s, passports were introduced to control the Cossack incursions into the Zaporozˇzˇje and to prevent illegal conglomerations of Cossack bands.35 However, most of the regulation attempts remained ineffective. Solid measures and sanctions were implemented in exceptional contexts, i. e. problematic situations between states that could lead to war. When in the aftermath of the Hotin campaign in spring of 1622 Cossack boats were spotted at sea again, the political circumstances were so tense that Prince Zbaraski suggested to King Sigismund III to transport the culprits to Lviv’ and if necessary even to hand them over to the Ottomans.36 Even though the Registered Cossack squads were observing the actions of the non32 For example, AGAD, AKW, dz. tat., k. 65, t. 125, no. 701, 14th February–14th March 1592; also edited in Kołodziejczyk, The Crimean Khanate (cf. note 13), no. 35, pp. 777–787, here pp. 782 s.; BN, mf. III 3086, Ksie˛ga poselstwa Ławryna Piaseczyn´skiego, fol. 76a–77b, 30th August–28th September 1601; edited in: ibid., no. 40, pp. 814–819, here p. 815; Biblioteka Jagiellonska (BJ), mf. 43, fol. 186b–189b, autumn 1604; edited in: Kołodziejczyk, The Crimean Khanate (cf. note 13), no. 41, pp. 820–827, and Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 80, w.d.1604, pp. 105–109; Biblioteka Czartoryskich (Bib Czart), mf. 1657, pp. 469 s., 20th–30th December 1609; also edited in: Kołodziejczyk, The Crimean Khanate (cf. note 13), no. 44, pp. 840–849; for sea campaigns see AGAD, AKW, dz. tat., k. 65, t. 135, no. 712, 24th October– 2nd November 1624, also edited in: Kołodziejczyk, The Crimean Khanate (cf. note 13), no. 48, p. 878; AGAD, AKW, dz. tat, k. 63, t. 23, no. 484, 2nd–11th November 1634, also edited in: Kołodziejczyk, The Crimean Khanate (cf. note 13), no. 50, pp. 895–904; see also ibid., no. 51, pp. 905–911, no. 52, pp. 912–918, no. 53, pp. 919 ss., no. 54, pp. 923 ss. 33 Ibid. 34 For example, in 1598 Nikodem Kossakowski was instructed to explain to the Ottomans that Zaporozhian Cossacks were uncontrollable since they came from different nations and thus were not Polish-Lithuanian subjects. Furthermore, Kossakowski was to explain that they regularly inflicted damage on Poland-Lithuania, too. AGAD, Libri Legationum, 27, fol. 106v– 108v, June 1598; see for similar argumentation AGAD, Archiwum Zamoyskich (AZ) 3037, pp. 108 s., 18th March 1619, and Biblioteka Uniwersitetu Warszawskiego (BUW), dz. rkps., no. 51, p. 191; edited in: Jurij A. Mycyk, Z dzˇerel Osman’skoj imperii ta Kryms’kogo khanstva XVI – persˇoj polovyny XVII st. [From Sources of the Ottoman Empire and the Crimean Khanate in the Sixteenth and the First Half of the Seventeenth Century], Kiev 2015, pp. 327– 360, here p. 335, no. 9, p. 337, no. 15, p. 338, no. 18. 35 AJuZR, part 3, vol. 1, no. 3, 20th November 1568; Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 50, ca. 1592, pp. 72 ss. 36 Bib Czart (cf. note 32), dz. rk, no. 360, 8th June 1622, pp. 172 s.; also edited by Mycyk, Z dzˇerel Osman’skoj imperii (cf. note 34), pp. 345 s., no. 32.

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka

213

Registered squads in peacetime, it became very difficult to control the different splinter groups.37 Moreover, in the first half of the seventeenth century, the Cossacks started to exploit the tense Polish-Lithuanian–Ottoman relationship and threatened the Polish-Lithuanian government with sea campaigns in order to extort merits or pay that they had been promised. The so-called ‘Cossack commissions’, which were drawn up for the peacetime service of the Registered Cossacks in the seventeenth century, contained sections on sea campaigns, too.38 The Black Sea became rather ‘militarized’ in the first half of the seventeenth century. Current research has shown that in the pre-Cossack time only a marginal naval infrastructure existed in the Black Sea and the coastal fortress garrisons were small. With the Cossacks appearing in the Black Sea region, garrisons at the coastal fortresses (amongst them the garrison to secure the mouth of the Dnieper) were strengthened, naval infrastructure consolidated (like the Ottoman ¸sayqa fleet39), taxation and the supply system for its upkeep were raised, and patrolling and messaging systems were put in place.40

37 AGAD, AZ, Sign. 336, 20th May 1623, pp. 2 s.; AGAD, Extranea IX Polen, no. 61, vol. 98, 22nd May 1623; summarised in: Brekhunenko, Nagielski, Dvanadcat’ lystiv (cf. note 24), no. 4. 38 The Cossack commissions emerged in the first half of the seventeenth century due to modifications of the Cossack register and as an attempt at their regulation. Four commissions existed: the commission of Olsˇanka (komisya Olszan´ska) (1617), Rostawica (komisya Rostawicka) (1619), Kurukiv (komisya Kurukivska) (1625), and Borowica (komisya Borowicka) (1638). Pisma Z˙ółkiewskiego (cf. note 28), no. 63, pp. 311–315, for the first Cossack commission of Olsˇanka, and pp. 330–334, for the second Cossack commission of Rastawica; see also Carsten Kumke, Führer und Geführte (cf. note 22), pp. 235–238; idem, Reform der Registerkosaken (cf. note 16), pp. 105 ss. Even after the Cossack commission was introduced in 1619, the Cossacks asked for permission to carry out sea campaigns in the case that they did not receive the promised pay. Pisma Z˙ółkiewskiego (cf. note 28), pp. 330–338; Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 153, pp. 253 s.; Pisma Z˙ółkiewskiego (cf. note 28), pp. 336, 341, no. 64; Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 71, pp. 361–364. 39 The Ottoman ¸sayqa was used for river commercial and military transport along the Danube or the coast of the Black Sea, as well as for the defense of the river shores and coastal waters. See Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2), p. 496, note 59; idem, Five Documents from the Topkapı Palace Archive on the Ottoman Defense of the Black Sea against the Cossacks (1639), in: Journal of Turkish Studies 11 (1987), pp. 49–104, here p. 49, note 2; idem, Galenko, Kozacki cˇornomorski pochody (cf. note 8), p. 354, note 10. 40 Idem, Five Documents (cf. note 39), pp. 49, 58 s., 76–96; idem, Human Landscape (cf. note 3), p. 30, note 16; Berindei, La Porte ottoman (cf. note 6), pp. 277 s., 281.

214

2.

Daria Starcˇenko

The Resources, the Organization, and the Strategies of Cossack Black Sea Raids

The local nobility, administration, and population were, in one way or another, involved in the Black Sea enterprise.41 In the sixteenth century, the frontier nobles with their defense squads crossed the Ottoman borders, raiding settlements, robbing herdsmen, pasturelands, and trade caravans.42 They continued to participate in Cossack campaigns in the last decade of the sixteenth and in the first half of the seventeenth century. However, due to the Polonization process and social changes within the frontier nobility, the character of the involvement in Cossack incursions into Ottoman territory changed. In the first half of the seventeenth century, nobles who lived amongst the Cossacks were mostly either young, landless adventurers, impoverished, or banished. However, some of them were closely linked to the magnates’ communication networks and served as middlemen between potential employers and the Cossacks.43 Some influential Cossack leaders were even known to belong to the social networks of the higher nobility. Some powerful nobles had Cossack contingents under their patronage.44 Yet, before any profit could be gained, investments had to be made. To provide materials needed for the campaigns, a noble financier seems to have been a popular option. However, Ruthenian nobles and administration seem to have borrowed some practices from the Ottomans. In 1550, the Silesian noble Bernard 41 The Ukrainian historian Petro Sas has already turned his attention to this topic. However, he touched this aspect only cursorily and on a very thin source basis. See Sas, Voennyj promysel (cf. note 5), p. 168. 42 Hrushevsky, History (cf. note 21), p. 99. 43 See Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg, Die Magnaten. Avantgarde der Ständeverfassung oder oligarchische Clique?, in: Joachim Bahlcke et al. (eds.), Ständefreiheit und Staatsgestaltung in Ostmitteleuropa. Übernationale Gemeinsamkeiten in der politischen Kultur vom 16.– 18. Jahrhundert, Leipzig 1996, pp. 119–133, here pp. 122 ss.; Marija Wakounig, Die drei Kronen Ostmitteleuropas, in: idem et al. (eds.), Nation, Nationalitäten und Nationalismus im östlichen Europa. Festschrift für Arnold Suppan zum 65. Geburtstag, Vienna/Berlin 2010, pp. 69–90, here p. 80; Natalja Jakovenko, Narys istoriï seredn’ovicˇnoï ta rann’omodernoï Ukraïny [Outline of History of Medieval and Early Modern Ukraine], Kiev 2009, p. 204; idem, Ukraïn’ska sˇljachta z kinncja XIV do seredyny XVII st. (Volyn’ i Central’na Ukraïna) [The Ukrainian Sˇljachta from the End of the Sixteenth to the Mid-Seventeenth Century (Wolhynia and Central Ukraine)], 2nd ed., Kiev 2008, p. 240; Kumke, Führer und Geführte (cf. note 22), p. 136. 44 For a critical view see Robert I. Frost, The Death of Military Culture? The Citizen Army and the Military Failure of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth 1648–1717, in: Winfried Speitkamp (ed.), Gewaltgemeinschaften. Von der Spätantike bis ins 20. Jahrhundert, Göttingen 2013, pp. 222–227, here pp. 209 s.; Kumke, Führer und Geführte (cf. note 22), p. 137, footnote 114; Andrij Storozˇenko, Stefan Batorij i Dneprovskie kozaki. Izsledovanija, pamjatniki, dokumenty i zametki [Stefan Báthory and the Dniepr Cossacks. Research, Memories, Documents and Records], Kiev 1904, p. 20; Jakovenko, Ukraïn’ska sˇljachta z kinncja (cf. note 43), pp. 113 s.

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka

215

Prewicz described Ottoman merchants from Akkerman, who would conduct Tatar raids either by participating (by sending servants) or by lending horses and supplies in return for booty.45 Similar reports exist for the Polish-Lithuanian palatinates, lords, and town commanders. Nobles not only authorized and initiated the Black Sea campaigns. Some of them clearly supported the Cossack bands by providing different materials (rozmaite adminicula), i. e. ammunition, supplies, and occasionally even boats, without which the campaigns could not have been carried out. Some nobles even participated in the Black Sea campaigns.46 In return, they seem to have received a certain portion of the booty; prior investments were repaid that way as well. In this way, Prince Janusz (Janosˇ) Ostrozski received 2,000 florin for the 1,000 he lent to the Cossacks in 1619.47 Moreover, from the mid-sixteenth century onwards, the administration controlled the uchody of the frontier population, which meant going into steppe fields, rivers, and forests for a certain period of time to acquire booty, and received prior payments and a share of the profit. In fact, the administration was to prevent the population from attending to the Cossacks at their camps in the hard-to-access areas of the Zaporizˇzˇje called sichi (sicˇi), from where sea campaigns usually started. Instead, the burmistrzy, woyty, and watamany rather

45 Bernard Pretwicz i jego apologia na sejmie 1550 r. [Bernard Pretwicz and his Apology in the Diet of 1550], in: Bibliotheka Warszawska, Tom trzeci, Warsaw 1866, pp. 44–59, here pp. 49, 53–57. Though, of course, Pretwicz’s information can be doubted due to the fact that his report was given to justify his raiding activity, other contemporary reports confirm this practice. Thus, Kołodziejczyk refers to another royal document dated 1555 which would validate Pretwicz’s information. Kołodziejczyk, Slave Hunting (cf. note 13), pp. 153 s., note 24. 46 AJuZR, part 3, vol. 1, no. 5, January 1580; AJuZR, part 3, vol. 1, no. 11, 25th June 1590; VL, vol. 2, 1590, p. 310; Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 50, around 1592, pp. 72 ss.; VL, vol. 2, 1609, p. 465; Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 101, 1614, pp. 132 ss.; Pisma Z˙ółkiewskiego (cf. note 28), no. 63, 1617, pp. 311–315, the first Cossack commission of Olszanka; VL, vol. 3, 1618, p. 157; 1619, p. 170; 1624, p. 233; 1635, pp. 403 s.; 1638, p. 440. In 1592 the Crimean Khan Ghazi II Giray complained that during the interim “the Polish palatinates [voycodalar], lords, and town commanders did not restrain and hold the thieves and robbers, living in the kingdom, but [instead] they provisioned them and gave them ships, so that [the latter] arrived at the Dnieper river, captured Tatar cowherds, and drove away Tatar cattle and horses”. AGAD, AKW, dz. tatarski, k. 65, t. 126, no. 702, 14th February–14th March 1592; for the English translation see Kołodziejczyk, The Crimean Khanate (cf. note 13), no. 34, pp. 769–776. For a similar account from 1614 see Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 101, 1614, pp. 132 ss.: “y tam […] kilku wie˛zniow albo ie˛zykow dostano, ktorych kiedy pytano, ska˛d kozazy wychodza˛ za czyim poduszczeniem y otucha˛ takie wyste˛pki czynia˛, tych zameczkow y poła˛mkow, w ktorych mieszkaia˛, starostwie y panowie co zacz sa˛ te zdobyczy, ktore z panstw cesarzu Jego Mosci biora˛, y komu oddaia˛, dali pewna˛ sprawe, ze te pola˛mki sa˛ pod władza˛ y sprawa˛ W. K. Mosci, ze zdobycz, ktora˛ biora˛, do manasteru W. K. Mosci y pogranicznym panom daia˛”. 47 Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 101, 1614, pp. 132 ss.; AGAD, AZ, no. 737, (after) 9th August 1619, p. 56.

216

Daria Starcˇenko

forwarded or enabled Cossack raids and sea campaigns into Ottoman territory.48 Furthermore, they were granted the authority to approve or disallow what was sold (and thus, the selling of the loot, too) in the settlements.49 A decent information system and efficient strategies were essential, too. News, suspicions, and rumors about upcoming Tatar raids or war campaigns circulated along the frontier. Most sources indicate that the Cossack defense squads did not start to make arrangements straight after receiving messages, neither for shortterm defense against the Tatars nor for long-term military campaigns. On the contrary, suspicions and information were verified and filtered before further action was taken. Usually, patrolling units were sent to gather reliable information.50 Therefore, Tatar captives, the so-called ‘tongues’ ( jazyki), were detained and Cossack squads send out to spy in the Tatar vicinity.51 Furthermore, the Cossacks would usually weigh up the dangers, opportunities, and gains of each large land or sea campaign.52 However, confusing information, along with situations that could escalate into violence could have a ripple effect on the frontier settlements. Once mobilizations were triggered, the billeting Cossacks could barely be stopped. Therefore, they forced the population to provide extraordinary taxes, supplies, cattle, saltpeter, lead, and sulfur. When preparations for sea campaigns were made, control over the circulating information was particularly significant. Since the Ottoman naval squadrons and galleys were to prevent the Cossacks from passing into the Black Sea (or back into the Dnieper or the Strait of Kercˇ, which is the passage to the Sea of Azov), the best method to pass the Ottoman defense squadrons was not to be sighted. The ‘sneaking’ technique that Beauplan and other contemporaries describe in such detail was, in fact, astonishingly effective. Moreover, to prevent the strenghtening of the blockades at the passing points, the appearance of the Cossacks had to be un48 See See Brechunenko, Les relations (cf. note 9), p. 77; Beauplan, Description (cf. note 4), p. 466. In the Zaporizˇzˇje, the region below the cataracts, which was made up of confusing waterways, islands, channels and marshes located at the middle of the Dniepr, Zaporozhian Cossacks had their camps. They were not easy to find and difficult to reach. Prevailing research has shown that several camps existed and were used at the same time. In addition to ˇ ornomlycka sicˇ (since 1552), two other camps existed: Bazavlucka sicˇ (between 1593 and the C 1638) and Mykitin’ska sicˇ (since about 1639). Petro Sas, Zaporozˇcy v Pols’ko-Moskovskoj vijni (cf. note 12), pp. 56 s.; see also Viktor Sˇcˇerbak, Bazavlucka Sicˇ (1593–1638 rr.) [The Bazavluk Sicˇ (1593–1638)], in: Kozac’ki Sicˇi (narysi z istoriï ukraïns’kogo kozactva XVI–XIX st.), Kiev, Zaporizˇzˇja 1998, pp. 45–64; idem, Bazavlucka ta Mykitins’ka Sicˇi [The Bazavluk and the Mykitin Sicˇ], in: Istorija ukraïns’kogo kozactva. Narysi u dvoch tomach, Kiev 2006, vol. 1, pp. 548–557. 49 VL, vol. 2, 1590, p. 310. 50 E. g. Bib Czart (cf. note 32), dz. rk., no. 360, pp. 150 ss., 3rd July 1622. 51 AGAD, Extranea IX, Polen, no. 59, vol. 89, 28. W.d. February 1597; see for the edited version of this document Brekhunenko, Nagielski, Dvanadcat’ lystiv (cf. note 24), no. 2. 52 For example, Tagebuch des Erich Lassota (cf. note 24), S. 213 s.

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka

217

expected. That, however, became increasingly demanding in the first half of the seventeenth century, since the Ottoman galleys and ¸sayqa squadrons patrolled at the mouth of the Danube and Dnieper, the Strait of Kercˇ and the Black Sea. When, in the peak time of Cossack incursions, alarming reports appeared, the Ottomans used to strenghten the guard at the fortifications and position even more naval squadrons at places through which the Cossack fleets had to pass.53 Even though the Cossacks’ entry into the Black Sea could not be completely prevented by the strenghtened blockades,54 to make passing easier, the Cossacks had to control the flow of information as well. Nevertheless, during the most intensive phase of Cossack raids, even the smallest rumor would seem to spread immediately into every corner of the Black Sea.55 Cossack Black Sea campaigns were wellorganized. Prearranged in the Zaporizˇzˇje during the spring months, they were usually carried out until late summer or rather early autumn, since later the winter storms began. The Cossack fleet varied in size. Some sea incursions were carried out by a few, other campaigns by dozens, and up to several hundred Cossack boats. It would seem, however, that five was a minimum number to set sail, while the average size of the Cossack fleet, for instance in the 1620s, apparently did not exceed 30 or 40 boats. Large Cossack fleets which included several hundred boats seem to have been rare. Each cˇajka carried between 50 and 70 men. With the exception of the crew’s provisions, supplies like weapons, and ammunition were stored in the boats.56 Qualified men were preferred as group leaders.57 Since many Cossacks were captured during the sea incursions and managed to flee, sometimes after numerous years in captivity, some of them could have possibly had extensive knowledge of the defense 53 The French emissary de Cezy reported in 1623 from Istanbul that, awaiting Cossack sea campaigns, the Ottomans began to set up a defence fleet that was to patrol the Danube and the Black Sea region. Alexandr I. Turgenev (ed.), Historica Russiae monumenta. Akty istoricˇeskie otnosjasˇiesja k Rossii, vol. 2, St. Petersburg 1842, p. 424, 19th March 1623. 54 See the commentary on Halı¯l Pasˇa’s G˙aza¯na¯me in Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. ˘ note 2), pp. 492 s. 55 The emissaries and informants in Istanbul often give an impression of increasing panic among the coastal population, caused by the news of Cossacks about to set sail. Litterae Nuntiorum apostolicorum historiam Ucrainae ilustrantia (1550–1850), ed. by Athanasius G. Welykyj, vol. 4, Roma 1960, no. 1495, p. 18, no. 1496, p. 19, no. 1507, pp. 25 s. etc.; Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 148, p. 231; Turgenev, Historica Russiae (cf. note 53), pp. 412 ss. In several studies Victor Ostapchuk has stressed the importance of the ‘psychological’ impact of the Cossack raids in the Black Sea on the Ottoman population. See Ostapchuk, Human Landscape (cf. note 3); idem, Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2), p. 487. 56 Ibid., p. 496. 57 The enrolment of ‘experienced’ Cossacks for campaigns and wars was a noticeable tendency in the first half of the seventeenth century. It seems that this practice was a reaction toward the increasing Cossack numbers. For example, Bib Czart (cf. note 32), dz. rk., no. 360, 8th May 1622, pp. 170 s.; summarized by Mycyk, Z dzˇerel Osman’skoj imperii (cf. note 34), p. 345, no. 31.

218

Daria Starcˇenko

structures, routes, and the usual course of action of the Ottomans. However, knowledge and experience were gained and trained in praxis, during the sea campaigns. Thus, young boys who had assisted as boat guards were trained from a very young age and, provided that they survived, were skilled not only in Cossack warring techniques but also in sea campaigning. Moreover, in the first half of the seventeenth century, the Zaporozhian Cossacks used to cooperate with the Don Cossacks, who were subjects of the Muscovite Empire.58 When it became difficult to take the usual routes because of the Ottoman defense squadrons and guards or the Polish-Lithuanian repressions, the Zaporozhians frequently used the route via the Sea of Azov to return home. In the 1620s, joint sea campaigns with the Don Cossacks were often carried out from the Don.59 Yet, at sea, the practices and strategies varied according to context. Usually, contact and confrontation were avoided. Thus, diversionary tactics were used to evade Ottoman galleys. For instance, the Cossacks appeared close to a certain place, hid again in an unknown “safe and secret place” just to emerge somewhere else some time later.60 In fact, as contemporary Ottoman sources show, while patrolling the coasts, Ottoman galleys were often unable to spot the Cossack ˇcajka fleet. As for the Cossacks, they were not only able to spot the Ottoman galleys twenty or thirty miles away without being seen, but they also seemed to know where other galleys could potentially have been waiting for them and thus avoided those places.61 Consequently, to a certain extent, the Cossacks were able to keep control over the situation in the Black Sea even when large Ottoman defense fleets were patrolling. Once caught on the open sea, the Cossack boats were in a clear disadvantage to galleys, especially when there was wind to give the latter enormous speed. Conversely, Ottoman galleys could usually be attacked when they ran aground. In a calm sea or reed-filled shallow waters, however, the 58 The Don Cossacks predominantly carried out sea campaigns in the Azov Sea region. Thus, in the first half of the seventeenth century Zaporozhians participated in most of the Black Sea campaigns which were carried out from the Don. For the different phases of cooperation between the Zaporozhian and the Don Cossacks see Brechunenko, Les relations (cf. note 9), pp. 77–81, 83; idem, Zaporozˇec na Donu. Prawowyj satus ukrainskich kozakiv na terenach wijska donskoho w persˇij polowini XVII st. [The Zaporozhians at the Don River. The Legal Status of the Ukrainian Cossack Host in the First Half of the Seventeenth Century], in: Socium. Al’manach social’noj istorii 1 (2002), pp. 145–155. 59 For example Trabzon in 1622, 1625, and 1626; Sinop in 1625, 1630, and 1635; Samsun in 1625; Kefe in 1624 and 1628; Kercˇ in 1628, 1638, 1635, and 1637 and so forth. See Brechunenko, Les relations (cf. note 9), p. 77; Beauplan, Description (cf. note 4), p. 466. 60 G˙aza¯na¯me-i Halı¯l Pasˇa, Topkapı Sarayı Library, Revan 1482, fols. 155b–162a, here fol. 157b, translated by˘Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2), pp. 495–506. 61 “Because their sˇayqas are not large-bodied and are not visible and apparent from a far distance […], they [are able to] discern the mountain-like galleys of the imperial fleet from a place twenty or thirty miles away and turn face to flight [without being observed first]”. Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2), p. 497.

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka

219

Cossacks could overcome even a larger Ottoman ¸sayqa fleet.62 Hiding in shallow waters, they could await nightfall and then escape.63 Ottoman sources often report about the crews fleeing out of fear of the Cossacks, leaving the ships with ammunition and everything else on board behind.64 Although the Cossacks, indeed, were masters in avoiding contact with the Ottoman forces at sea, battles could not be avoided at least while passing the blockades on their way back home.65 The high mobility during the sea campaigns and the deep knowledge of the geographic space allowed the Cossacks to switch between land and sea, carrying their boats if required.66

3.

Economic Gain and Social Cohesion: The Cossack Economy of Violence

Economic gain was an essential element of the Cossack sea campaigning culture since many of the plundered commercial ports were key markets for gold, silver, or textiles, while other ports were the key markets for slaves. Yet, smaller coastal villages were raided as well, as Ostapchuk points out, either by choice, since they were less fortified, or due to the context, for instance when provisions were 62 Ibid., fol. 156b; Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2), pp. 496, 498; Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, no. 146, p. 228. ˇ elebi) on Halı¯l Pasˇa’s campaign. See Ostapchuk, An 63 For example, Evliya Celebi (Ka¯tib C Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2), p. 504, note 97. ˘ 64 The following contemporary description of Pierre Chevalier gives a detailed (though idealized) view on Cossack tactics during an attack at sea: “When they meet with any Galley or Vessel (which they discover at a better and greater distance than they can be discovered, their boats being but two foot and an half above water) they approach towards them till night, keeping about a League’s distance, and then well observing the place where they saw the Vessel, they begin to rowe about midnight with all their force, and encompassing it about, take it unawares, it being impossible for a Vessel beset with such a number of boats all at once to disengage or defend itself; they take out the Money, Guns, and all the Merchandise which they can conveniently carry away, and afterwards sink the ship, they being not dextrous enough to carry her away”. Pierre Chevalier, A Discourse of the Original, Country, Manners, Government and Religion of the Cossacks […], London 1672, p. 15, cited after Shane O’Rourke, The Cossacks, Manchester 2007, p. 48. Another contemporary, the Ottoman chronicler Evliya Celebi, reports about six Ottoman galleys which in 1616 hit a sandbank and ran aground, after they had spotted Cossack boats at the shores of the vicinity of Varna, and tried to reach them. The crew left the galleys behind and fled; the Cossacks plundered and destroyed the galleys. See for the Ukrainian translation of that passage Ostapchuk, Galenko, Kozacki cˇornomorski pochody (cf. note 8), pp. 355 s., 1616, no. 2. See for another account of Evliya Celebi on Halı¯l ˘ Pasˇa’s campaign Ostapchuk, An Ottoman G˙aza¯na¯me (cf. note 2), p. 498, note 71. Here, also, the crew fled in fear of the Cossacks. 65 Ibid., pp. 492 s. 66 Idem, Galenko, Kozacki cˇornomorski pochody (cf. note 8), pp. 383–394, here pp. 383 s., 1638, no. 7.

220

Daria Starcˇenko

needed.67 Occasionally, the Cossacks justified the sea campaigns with their lack of pay, the need for supplies, and the wish to compensate war losses.68 The real income of the sea campaigns, however, remains vague. Most non-quantitative sources refer to a “rich booty” that the Cossacks brought back from their sea campaigns, but do not specify what exactly and how much booty they had looted.69 It would seem that everything that could be transported on a cˇajka was taken: possessions, articles of value, weaponry, and even cattle and captives. Everything that could not be taken was usually burned and/or destroyed.70 Apart from cattle and horse stocks, the Cossacks plundered everything that could be taken on board of a cˇajka. Furthermore, captives were not unusual.71 Most key sources list women and children, particularly young boys aged less than ten years, being captured during the raids.72 Children and youngsters were kept in the Zaporizˇzˇje or sometimes given as a present to the nobles.73 It may have been the case that these boys, after some time in the Zaporizˇzˇje, were taken to sea campaigns, as, for instance, Beauplan illustrates.74 Small boys were also captured while the Cossacks were returning from the Livonian war campaign (1558–1583) and during the war campaign in the Muscovite Empire (1617–1618).75 It is not unlikely that the Cossacks kept women who they had captured in the Ottoman territory, as they did during the aforementioned war campaign in the Muscovite Empire.76 However, the acquisition of captives and ransoming activities do not seem to have been the prime aim in the Black Sea campaigns, although sources clearly indicate that Cossacks not only used to ransom their captives but also 67 Idem, The Human Landscape (cf. note 3), p. 54. 68 For example, Biblioteka PAN w Krakowie, no. 1051, 31st May 1617, p. 176. 69 Ostapchuk, The Human Landscape (cf. note 3), pp. 50–57, investigates the economic effect of Cossack sea campaigns on the basis of taxation data. 70 For example, AGAD, AZ, sign. 3037, w.d. August 1620, fol. 120–120v. 71 Ostapchuk, The Human Landscape (cf. note 3), pp. 58 ss.; Lepjavko, Formuvann’ja (cf. note 12), pp. 147 s.; Dziubin´ski, Polsko-litewskie napady (cf. note 5), p. 70; Sas, Voennyj promysel (cf. note 5), pp. 191–194. 72 According to the account of the vice-admiral of the Ottoman fleet in 1639, on board of the nine Cossack boats which were overcome, 14 Muslim boys aged between 7 and 8, and a few women were found. Ostapchuk, Five documents (cf. note 39), p. 94. Beauplan, Description (cf. note 4), p. 11, reports as well that the Cossacks were “returning home with much booty and some slaves, usually young children […]. No old people are detained, unless they are judged rich enough to buy their freedom by paying ransom”. For another Ottoman source see Ostapchuk, Human Landscape (cf. note 3), p. 58. 73 AGAD, AR, dz. V, no. 15344, 31st May 1632, p. 8; Beauplan, Description (cf. note 4), p. 11, also notes that they would keep the boys “in their own service or give as gifts to the lords of their homeland”. 74 AGAD, AR, dz. V, rkps. 1150, mf. 47657, 24th August 1624, p. 2; Sas, Zaporozˇcy v Pols’koMoskovskoj vijni (cf. note 12), p. 105, gives some short note on that topic, too. 75 Ibid. 76 Tatjana Oparina, Ukrainskie kazaki v Rossii: edinovercy ili inovercy (Mikita Markusˇevskij protiv Leontija Plesˇeeva), in: Socium. Al’manach social’noj istorii 3 (2003), pp. 21–44.

The Devil is Sneaking on a Cˇajka

221

towns during land campaigns.77 The collection of the ransom and the terms of release were arranged by agents and merchants, mostly Moldavian, Jewish, or Armenian.78 Even though there is no evidence on booty masters or inventory at sea, looking at the Cossack techniques and strategies, it would seem that certain regulations and transportation methods for the booty must have existed. Furthermore, the losses during battles need to be taken into consideration. Since Cossack fleets were often attacking various points along the Black Sea coastline, it can be assumed that they sometimes failed and had to try their luck elsewhere. In addition, fleets sometimes returned to the Zaporizˇzˇje to regroup (even to change the hetman) and to set sail again.79 It may have been the case that when large booty was made, Cossacks brought it to the Zaporizˇzˇje. During land campaigns, the booty was divided immediately at a traditional Cossack council, the so-called kolo (Ukrainian word for circle) when it was a hindrance for further activities.80 Since early modern frontier regions and weakly institutionalized settings were particularly open to violence, planned or calculated violence was often used in order to gain material benefits, for instance by the acquisition of goods through robbery or extortion of specific merits and payments.81 With regards to the Cossack sea campaigns, it seems that violence followed rather a rational logic. As has been shown, the campaigns were well-organized, target-oriented, and based upon broad knowledge and experience that had been gradually gained in practice. Therefore, the Cossacks developed socio-economic practices that advanced according to the specific frontier habits in the Polish-Lithuanian–Ottoman frontier zone. The number and the intensity of the Black Sea campaigns clearly correlated with the increase in Cossack numbers along with the socio-economic problems this entailed. Though different regulations, prohibitions, and measures 77 Victor Ostapchuk refers to one Ottoman document which reports about Muslim captives ransomed by Zaporozhian Cossacks in 1629. Ostapchuk, Human Landscape (cf. note 3), p. 60, note 123: Tarih-I al-I ‘Osman, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, H.O. 75, fol. 122r. Stanisław Z˙ółkiewski reported in 1618 about the Cossack attempt to ransom an Ottoman admiral who offered them a ransom amount of 30,000 florin. Pisma Z˙ółkiewskiego (cf. note 28), p. 503. For instance, Cossack bands lead by Nalyvajko ransomed Slutsk in 1595; in 1625 rebellious Cossack masses ransomed Kiev. Hrushevsky, History (cf. note 21), p. 162; Zherela (cf. note 28), vol. 8, p. 285 s., no. 178, w.d. December 1625. For more sophisticated ransom structures, see Géza Dávid, Pál Fodor (eds.), Ransom Slavery along the Ottoman Borders (Early Fifteenth–Early Eighteenth Centuries), Leiden et al. 2007. 78 Listy Stanisława Z˙ółkiewskiego, 1584–1620, ed. by Tadeusz Jan Lubomirski, Krakau 1868, pp. 45 s., no. 26, 21st March 1594; AGAD, Archiwum Zamoyskich, sign. 3037, 1621, fol. 122v– 124v. 79 AGAD, Archiwum Zamoyskich, sign. 337, mf. 22643, 5 th September 1624, p. 38. 80 Zbiór pamie˛tników do dziejów polskich (ZPDP), vol. 2, Warsaw 1858, p. 215; Listy Stanisława Z˙ółkiewskiego (1584–1620) [The Letters of Stanisław Z˙ółkiewski], ed. by Knjaz Liubomirski, Krakau 1868, p. 59. 81 Horst Carl, Hans-Jürgen Bömelburg (eds.), Lohn der Gewalt. Beutepraktiken von der Antike bis zur Neuzeit, Paderborn 2011.

222

Daria Starcˇenko

were introduced, the Polish-Lithuanian government failed to control the Cossack sea incursions sufficiently due to the frontier situation as well as the different local sections of the population and foreign potentates who were involved. The logic of Cossack looting and violence was closely linked with three factors: first, with the frontier situation, second, with the military enterprise in addition to the market for mercenaries and booty, and third, with specific social structures and networks. Yet, the phenomenon of Cossack Black Sea campaigning can neither be reduced to irrational factors, such as strong emotions, i. e. fear or hate, nor merely to economic gain. While, in fact, in many cases economic pressure and dissatisfaction were key triggers for Cossack sea campaigning, the added value, however, seemed to also lie in the process of forming communal relationships (Vergemeinschaftung), thus, in mutual organization, the shared risks and opportunities, the collective violence, and the sense of power over the Ottoman Black Sea region and its population.

Rhoads Murphey

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception in Response to the Shift from Expanding to Stable Imperial Frontiers in the Period 1600 to 1800

Generalisation about the gradual deterioration in the performance standards of Ottoman soldiers over the course of the empire’s 700 year history has commonly – but rather over-simplistically – concluded that the loss of Ottoman military efficiency in the late imperial area post 1700 can be attributed either to mechanistic causes such as poor equipment and deficient tactics or to changes in mental outlook and attitudes towards war and the use of force that contributed to an undermining of the service ethos and commitment of soldiers to fighting as a profession.1 Adherents of the latter explanation lay stress on the loss of the separate status and separation of the Ottoman military as members of an exclusive imperial administrative elite and their closer integration with civil society which, in their view, served as a source of pollution, corruption and corrosion of the purity of their military values and a loss of group identity that undermined their ability to focus on their service requirements in an effective way. The pejorative terms insistently employed in reference to the Janissaries who served as the principal standing infantry force of the Ottoman imperial era until the date of their dissolution in 1826 testify eloquently to the thoroughly entrenched char1 For works emphasising the poor standards of military proficiency displayed by Janissaries of the late imperial era, see i.a. Geoffrey Goodwin, The Janissaries, London 1994, in particular the chapter entitled: “Tulips and Turmoil”, pp.184–212. Another proponent of Janissary ‘decline’ beginning already in the seventeenth century is Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500–1800, Cambridge 1988. Parker’s notions of Ottoman technological backwardness were immediately called into question in the review by Bert Hall and Kelly Devries, in: Technology and Culture 31 (1990), pp. 500–507. The notion of Janissary resistance to change has also been challenged in an article by Günhan Börekçi documenting the Janissaries’ adaptation to a shift in tactics favouring the use of volley fire. Günhan Börekçi, A Contribution to the Military Revolution Debate: The Janissaries Use of Volley Fire during the long Ottoman-Habsburg War of 1593–1606, in: Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientarium Hungaricae 59 (2006), pp. 407–438. The subject remains the focus of a lively scholarly debate. For a recent contribution that focuses on army size as a variable in the implementation of change, see Burak Kadercan, Strong Armies, Slow Adaptation: CivilMilitary Relations in the Diffusion of Military Power, in: International Security 38/3 (2013), pp. 117–152.

224

Rhoads Murphey

acter of an anti-Janissary animus that pervades modern scholarship.2 In this chapter, rather than attempting to set straight the record on the level of such broad generalisations, I will attempt instead to provide some insights into the effect of changes introduced within the institution of the Janissaries as one Ottoman military sub-group. Even with such a limit in place, it will be difficult to cover in detail a period which itself corresponds very nearly with the trajectory of the rise, stabilisation and mature phase of the empire itself over nearly 500 years. To say that Ottoman military provision needed to evolve and respond to changes in military needs as well as the methods and conduct of warfare itself over this period is to state the obvious. What I wish to explore in particular in this chapter is the local and specific effects of such seismic change in global conditions and state demands upon the military on Janissary affiliation and sense of belonging at the level of recruitment and induction cohorts and to assess how membership and identification with military units at the company and regimental scale were affected. As a part of this analysis I will also be interested in documenting and discussing how changes at the macrolevel impacted on soldiers’ professional pride and perception of their self-worth and value to society as the empire moved from a position of near-permanent war readiness and active deployment during most of the period between roughly 1450 and 1700 to a new pattern of relative inactivity and semi-disengagement, especially from military engagements in the European sphere. Of particular interest is the consideration of how adjustment to periods of prolonged peace and military quiescence affected the Janissaries’ perception of their role in peacetime society. The forms that the re-definition of their duties and responsibilities took, formerly more closely and explicitly linked to their designation as ‘men of the sword’ – charged with supporting the state and protecting its stability and security while at the same time serving as the ‘sovereign’s

2 To list only a few examples among the works by modern scholars who have joined in the chorus of condemnation, see the following contributions: Cemal Kafadar, On the Purity and Corruption of the Janissaries’, in: Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 15 (1991), pp. 273–280; Cemal Kafadar, Janissaries and Other Riffraff in Ottoman Istanbul: Rebels Without a Cause?, in: Baki Tezcan, Karl K. Barbir (eds.) Identity and Identity Formation in the Ottoman World, Madison, WI 2007, pp. 113–134; Marinos Sariyannis, ‘Mob’, ‘Scamps’ and Rebels in Seventeenth Century Istanbul: Some Remarks on Ottoman Social Vocabulary, in: International Journal of Turkish Studies 11 (2005), pp. 1–15; Baki Tezcan, The Second Ottoman Empire: Political and Social Transformation in the Early Modern World, Cambridge 2010, p. 190 ss.; in particular pp. 213–224: “The Janissary rebellions of the seventeenth century”. For a study which repeats, for the most part uncritically, all the pejorative stereotypes associated with the Janissaries’ provision (or failure to provide) of military services in the late imperial era, see also Mehmet Mert Sunar, When Grocers, Porters and Other Riff-Raff Become Soldiers: Janissary Artisans and Laborers in Nineteenth Century Istanbul and Edirne, in: Kocaeli Üniversitesi Sosyal Bilimler Enstitüsü Dergisi 17 (2009), pp. 175–194.

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

225

slaves’ (hünkaˆ r kulu) and intimate members of his household – have as yet been ˙ little explored. After several centuries devoted to the development of a warrior culture and service ethos of a particular kind, how and how well did Janissaries manage to reconfigure themselves so as to make a contribution to ‘civil’ society and convert themselves from expanders of the empire’s frontiers – as members of a force whose primary duty was to serve as a ‘permanent and standing’ offensive force – to a force subject to cycles of contraction and expansion of their membership intended to match the state’s fluctuating military needs during the comparatively peaceful eighteenth century? Their demotion from the position of key players and principal actors and decision makers in partnership with the sovereign to implementers of policy decisions reached for them by bureaucrats and politicians who were their new masters in the post-1700 Ottoman world, was fiercely resisted by the Janissary ranks, especially the ‘old guard’ inducted before the end of the devshirme recruitment system that had been based on cadetship and long training for service.3 However, their collective loss of status, as well as the loss of their own internal cohesion resulting from the new military profile and the new methods for recruiting and retaining soldiers that were introduced after 1700 left them with limited options or scope to reassert their lost authority.

1.

The Shift in Military Recruitment Practices Introduced towards the End of the Seventeenth Century

Our investigation of the local effects within the membership of the corps of these broad changes in Ottoman military practice introduced during the era of disengagement on the European front should properly begin with an assessment of the impact of changes in recruitment practices that saw a gradual scaling down of selective recruitment through the devshirme from the Balkan lands starting around 1650 followed by its almost complete cessation circa 1700. Traditionally, recruitment into the Janissary corps had been a highly selective and carefully considered process carried out no more frequently than once every 4–5 years and on a scale sufficient to fill the gap created by natural attrition. Retirement of senior Janissaries and the graduation into permanent regimental service of the fittest of the most recent cohort of new recruits took place on average once every 3 The entry “Devshirme” prepared by Victor Menage for the second edition of the Encyclopaedia of Islam remains the best short summary of the general features of the Ottoman system for infantry recruitment in the middle centuries of the imperial era. See Victor Menage, Art. Devshirme, in: Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., vol. 2, Leiden 1965, pp. 210–213. See also ˇ eri, in: ibid., Leiden 2002, pp. 322–331. Rhoads Murphey, Art. Yeni C

226

Rhoads Murphey

seven years.4 Because the scale of such recruitment was relatively modest, it did not affect the current balances of new, experienced veterans and old-age pensioners previously present within the ranks. We are given to understand by a document dating from the early part of the sixteenth century that the devshirme recruitment agents typically stopped recruiting in particular districts to which they had been sent when they had gathered up a group of adolescent trainees numbering about 100 or no more than 150.5 Some of these raw recruits would not complete their training due to shortcomings in physical stamina or they would be transferred to palace administrative duties, so it is not unreasonable to suggest that a final group entering service from a given sub-region or district chosen for a particular year’s recruitment exercise would add to the strength of the particular regiments among the 196 standing ‘regiments’ (i. e. Janissary ‘companies’, also called chambers or oda barracked in the capital, the Sublime Porte) to the tune of 75–100 each from the various recruitment districts.6 A cohort of 75–100, which coincidentally is the same size as that prescribed for the ‘average’ Janissary company, can be compared in terms of its size and scale with the intimacy of a neighbourhood sub-district in an urban setting in which 15 households with non-familial ties shared the same street or two connected streets that were linked together in terms of close communication and familiarity. In military terms, comradeship or yoldashlik was expressed by use of the metaphor of fellow campaigners or literally ‘fellow travellers on the campaign trail’. Such units, through artificially created, retained their cohesiveness and closeness on a semi-permanent basis, despite changes over time that brought new recruits and bunk mates to replace the departed and the deceased.7 4 For the frequency of new recruitment initiatives, see Menage, Devshirme (cf. note 3), p. 210. Instructions sent to recruiting officers are recorded in the standard work on Janissary organisation by I˙smail H. Uzunçars¸ılı, Osmanlı Devleti Tes¸kılatından Yeniçeri Ocakları, 2 vols., Ankara 1943/44; here vol. 1, pp. 92–109. He relied on the earlier work on the subject undertaken by Ahmed Refik, Devs¸irme usulu ve Acemi Og˘lanları, in: Darülfunun (Istanbul University) Edebiyat Fakültesi Mecmuası 5 (1926), pp. 1–14. 5 See Uzunçars¸ılı, Kapukulu Ocakları (cf. note 4), vol. 1, p. 93. 6 For an idea of the general structure of the Janissary corps and its division into 196 regiments of varying sizes and functions together with some statistics on the fluctuations in its overall size and strength over the period 1527 to 1670, see Rhoads Murphey, Ottoman Warfare 1500–1700, London, 1999, pp. 44–47, Tables 3.4–3.6. 7 The explosion of the ranks of the Janissaries that occurred as a consequence of the introduction of an open recruitment policy – itself driven by the emergency levies instituted during the prolonged military crisis of the late eighteenth century as the Ottomans faced a new military adversary on the Russian frontiers of the empire – is covered in some detail in two articles, both on troop mobilisation and logistics during the 1768–1774 war by Virginia Aksan, The One-Eyed Fighting the Blind: Mobilization, Supply, and Command in the Russo-Turkish War of 1768–1774, in: International History Review 15 (1993), pp. 221–238; idem, What Happened to the Janissaries?, in: War in History 5 (1998), pp. 23–36. Both articles were republished in: idem, Ottomans and Europeans: Contacts and Conflicts, Istanbul 2004.

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

227

In many ways, the 196 companies of the Janissary corps during the era of devshirme recruitment each represented a closed world in which closely-knit groups of individuals acquired a new identity that was not just professional, but almost familial. Thus, although the ultimate ‘father’ figure and patron of the collective membership of the corps was the sultan, he remained a rather remote and distant authority figure, especially after the end of the sixteenth century when sultans participated in campaigns only irregularly and in largely symbolic ways. In these circumstances, the real ‘home’ of these deracinated raw recruits from the Balkan lands was their mutual support group in their respective company messes and their adopted identity as soldiers was formed and forged in that highly localised time- and place-specific crucible.8 There is considerable merit in the view that the small company units within the Janissary corps functioned (through the fraternal ties that developed between mess mates and bunk mates in barracks during the off-season between campaigns) as the replacement families of new recruits and of their elder brothers, the seasoned campaign veterans. The top company officer, the oda-bas¸ı, was always appointed from within their ranks and only the chief commanding officer, the çorbacı, was appointed from outside, according to merit, when a command position became vacant.9 Consequently, since all positions but one within the officer ranks were filled from within by means of seniority, the top internal officer performed his functions as master and chief disciplinary officer, in loco parentis. It is possible of course to over-idealise this relationship between officers and men in the Ottoman infantry prior to the eighteenth century, but what is certain is Janissaries who marched, fought, ate and rejoiced in success together on campaign and who cohabited as fellow members of cohesive units over the winter months established a set rhythm and a routine of living and working together through which – over time and through customary usages – they created a range of invariable routines and shared expectations that became not just internalised and habitual but virtually instinctual. Their collective reactions and group responses in battle relied on a set of behaviours that had been instilled and reinforced over years of shared experience during times of both peace and war.

8 On the regimental identity of the Janissaries as a reflection of the affiliation with the regimental hearth (ocak) or company mess, see Erdal Küçükyalçın, Turna’nın Kalbı Yeniçeri Yoldas¸lıg˘ı ve Bektas¸ilik, Istanbul 2010. This study focuses on the domestic aspects of ‘comradeship’ among serving Janissaries. For an account of common service and the shared experience of raw recruits who were all called upon to perform menial tasks for senior members of their companies until such time as they were fully inducted into the corps as permanent members, see Jurij E. Petrosian (ed.), Mebede-yi kanun-I Yeniçeri Ocag˘ı Tarihi, Moscow 1987, fol. 59 s. (Ottoman text) and pp. 100 s. (Russian translation). 9 Ignatius Mouradgea D’Ohsson, Tableau général de l’Empire ottoman, 3 vols., Paris 1787–1820, vol. 3, part I, book VII, p. 395.

228

Rhoads Murphey

In barracks, the superannuated Janissaries who collected their daily loaf as part of their retirement allowance while they carried out light duties in the capital as korudju (wardens of the imperial parks and performers of similar physically less demanding tasks) served as conservators of traditions and conveyors of regimental history and mythology for the young trainees and recent recruits. By so doing, they provided a cross-generational group experience that contributed a further dimension to the familial character of life in the round for career soldiers. The typical life course of a Janissary included the expectation of being both ‘looked after’ and respected by his comrades in retirement, a dynamic and future prospect/promise that each recruit would have experienced at first hand from the early days of his training as a member of the regiment. The battle-scarred veterans also served as examples and standard-bearers who, by their very presence, reinforced messages regarding the merits of self-discipline, self-sacrifice and collegiality that formed the material basis of regimental pride and the identity of the soldier as a member of the particular military unit which served as his permanent off-the-battlefield ‘home’.10 There seems little doubt that some of the intimacy as well as the permanency of these relations between members of the same regiment/company that prevailed during the period of full Ottoman military engagement – which saw the size of the corps expand from a round figure of 25,000 to a round figure of roughly 50,000 between 1550 and 1650 and a further increase during the era of the Ottoman-Venetian wars over Crete in the 1660s to a round figure of roughly 60,000 – was somewhat eclipsed in the following decades that witnessed, first, sudden and unsustainable troop increases during the wars of the Sacra Ligua at the close of the seventeenth century, and then equally drastic reductions in the ranks in the early years of the eighteenth century.11 It was not so much the absolute size of the corps that mattered most in the loss of intimacy and stability (as well as a sense of predictability) within the corps as the fact that the changes were sudden and abrupt, leaving little time for adjustment or accommodation to 10 The deference shown by the new recruits to men of experience as well as bravery and valour displayed in battle were perhaps natural conditions of the life of professional soldiers but we do have explicit testimony on the value placed by the Ottomans on experience and prowess demonstrated under battle conditions provided in the observations of the sixteenth-century Habsburg envoy Busbecq. See the English translation of his text by Edward Seymour Forster, The Turkish Letters of Ogier Ghislin de Busbecq Imperial Amassador at Constantinople 1554–1562, Oxford, 1927, p. 114: “Such is the confidence inspired by repeated victories and constant experience of warfare [… that] they do not hesitate to re-enlist a veteran infantryman in the cavalry, though he has never fought on horseback, since they are convinced that one who has warlike experience and long service [emphasis is mine] will acquit himself well in any kind of fighting”. 11 Data on the numerical strength of the Janissaries in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is provided in Rhoads Murphey, Ottoman Warfare (cf. note 6), p. 145.

229

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

change. It was easier of course to maintain traditions of excellence and group cohesion during times when the empire remained militarily active on several fronts and when all ranks from trainees to active serving personnel – as well as senior veterans and superannuated troops – contributed to the success of the shared endeavour. However, the suddenness of the military emergencies of the 1690s gave rise to an incipient loss of group cohesion among the Janissaries as mass recruitment of battle-ready adult troops replaced the earlier pattern of selective recruitment of adolescents for training as career soldiers. A rapid glance at some of the relevant figures spanning the period of military emergency in the 1690s and retreat and quiescence in the first decade of the 1700s provides an idea of the scale, rapidity and unpredictability of these changes from the standpoint of the war readiness of the Ottoman ‘standing’ army. In actual fact, by default, the Ottoman armed forces were moving away from a military provision system based on permanent readiness for war to a system based on mobilisation for war as and when required.12 This constituted a massive change in terms of the mentality and psychological outlook as well as the traditional warrior culture and military values of the residual corps of service professionals who struggled to retain and maintain the standards consistently upheld in an earlier military age. We know, for example, from the budget figures for the peace year 1702 that only about one half of the membership of the corps of registered Janissaries of the Sublime Porte (Yeniçeriyan-i Dergah-i Ali), who numbered 39,925, were based in Istanbul.13 Table 1: Pattern of Janissary Service Deployment in the Year 1702 Type of Soldier & Pattern of Deployment Troops on Actual Campaign Alert (Barracked in Istanbul) Cadets and Pensioners (Barracked in Istanbul) Regiments Assigned to Provincial Garrison Duty Total

Number 9,975

Percentage 25

8,742

22

21,208 39,925

53 100 %

The Istanbul-centric focus of military service for the infantry corps had already shifted to a preponderance of Janissary deployment to provincial garrison duty and a shift from an offensive to a defensive posture along the empire’s northern frontiers. Under such circumstances of geographic dispersal, there were limited opportunities for Janissary regiments stationed for long periods in remote and widely dispersed locations to reconnect and share periods of togetherness and 12 See the figures showing the significant reduction in the peacetime strength of Janissaries provided below in Table 2. 13 Source for table 1: Mehmet Genç and Erol Özvar (eds.), Osmanlı Maliyesi: Kurumlar ve Bütçeler, 2 vols., Istanbul 2006, vol. 2, p. 249.

230

Rhoads Murphey

shared endeavour with their brethren in other locations; particularly those stationed permanently in Istanbul. In effect, the circulation and rotation of Janissaries and the opportunities for developing a collective spirit were being impeded and curtailed by the realities and requirements of the new system of military recruitment and provision being introduced at the close of the seventeenth century. How these changes complicated and confused the role of the military – especially during the prolonged periods of peace that ensued after brief and intensive military encounters that required a sudden activation and expansion of Ottoman military capacity – can be seen in better detail if we examine the fluctuations in military recruitment and demobilisation after major conflicts covering the period 1692 to 1730.14 Table 2: Changes in the Proportion of Old Versus Newly Recruited Janissaries over the Period 1692 to 1730 Date and Mobilisation Status 1692 – Janissary battle strength during a high point in the wars of the Sacra Ligua 1702 – Reduction in ranks of ‘actives’ following the Karlowitz Peace Treaty signed in 1699

Old no data

New no data

Total 35, 839

no data

no data

16, 609

1713 – Mobilisation for the campaign against Venice in the Morea 1724 – Return to peacetime strength with some new recruitment to cover the need to defend and refortify the northern frontier after the signing of the Passarowitz Treaty in 1718

16,184 (44.5 %) 19,422 (79.5 %)

20,199 (55.5 %) 4,981 (20.5 %)

36,383

1728 – Small new recruitment to replace retirees and to offset normal wastage 1729 – Repeat of the pattern established in previous year

22,485 (90.9 %) 22,999 (92.7 %)

2,248 (9.1 %) 1,804 (7.3 %)

24,733

1730 – New accession (Sultan Mahmud I): Post-accession political uncertainties and the still unresolved question of mobilisation for war on the eastern front against Iran that was envisaged but unrealised at the end of Ahmed III’s reign resulted in a dramatic surge in Janissary enrolment

23,244 (23.5 %)

75,482 (76.5 %)

98,726

24,403

24,803

The distancing and isolation of Janissaries stationed along the empire’s frontiers in key strategic positions far from the imperial centre in Istanbul taken together with the diminished frequency of active military service in offensive campaigns where they had formerly developed common ties through shared service and

14 Source for Table 2: ibid., vol. 1, p. 160.

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

231

group endeavour resulted in some considerable loss of group identity and cohesion for rank-and-file Janissaries. Both the new style of recruitment that sought battle-ready adults rather than adolescents settling in for long-term induction and indoctrination as members of the Ottoman military establishment and the shift in emphasis and redefining of Ottoman foreign policy objectives towards non-interventionism in place of active engagement, resulted in a loss of the corporate identity and collective spirit that had once motivated and united Janissaries. Their shared mission as the preservers and protectors of the ruler’s dignity and reputation and the empire’s authority and respect beyond its own borders had been seriously compromised. Their valued status as members of the Ottoman askeri class, i. e. tax-exempt and privileged elements belonging to the military-administrative class in imperial service, was also seriously undermined (or so they believed) by the admission into their ranks of untrained or undertrained soldiers inserted into their midst from the common ranks of civil society.15 The loss in social status of the professional soldier in the eighteenth century was a reality, but how such a loss affected their sense of group solidarity, professional identity, regimental solidarity and group cohesion is not very easy to measure or judge. We are confronted with viewpoints preserved in the historical record that reflect intra-Janissary jealousies and conflicts such as those between ‘old’ and ‘new’ Janissaries whose proportions we have outlined and summarised in the two tables provided above. We are confronted at the same time by the mixed and sometimes contradictory perceptions of external observers, both native Ottomans and Europeans, but it is safe to conclude that the largely negative stance and pejorative assessment of the Janissaries by society at large affected their sense of self-worth and their psychological makeup in ways that directly affected their ability to perform their ‘expected’ tasks, both in peace- and in wartime. The time honoured traditions and customs of service that had resulted in internalised and instinctual codes of behaviour were no longer relevant to their present situation, leading not only to loss of self-esteem, but also to a degree of identity confusion. This is reflected in popular discourse regarding the ‘corruption of the Janissaries’ and their distraction by involvements in non15 Doubts about the appropriateness and affordability of maintaining large numbers of rapidly deployable troops in peacetime were already being expressed at the time when Sarı Mehmed Pasha composed his treatise entitled the Nasyaih al-vuzera v’el-ümera which is dated to the early part of Ahmed III’s reign (1703–1730). It was submitted to the sultan sometime before the author’s death in January/February of 1717. The financial burden imposed by treasury support for the Janissaries receives comment in several parts of the text; see Walter L. Wright (ed.), Ottoman Statecraft: The Book of Counsel for Veziers and Governors, Princeton, NJ, 1935, pp. 103 and 113 s. Still, Sarı Mehmed falls far short of advocating sudden or radical cuts in military expenditure and opts rather for gradual change and for financial savings being: “slowly and deliberately accomplished”; ibid., p. 114.

232

Rhoads Murphey

military activities in trade, commerce and the political sphere, but this masks the reality that Janissaries themselves were receiving contradictory and confused messages about their expected role in and their value to society.16 The separation between ‘military’ and ‘civilian’ in Ottoman society had never been as absolute as some observers of Janissary ‘corruption’ would allow and this is reflected in the study of Janissary probate and estate records for the seventeenth century published by Said Özturk in 1995,17 but perhaps the gulf between the wealthy and the less well-off among the Janissaries was beginning to widen, reflecting a shift in the age and occupational profiles of Janissaries that further affected the cohesion of the recruitment and service cohorts. The consistency in shared experience that had once characterised their service in the era of permanent war-readiness and activism before 1700 was now fatally compromised. It was unclear and as yet undefined what Janissaries were expected to do when the interval between war and peace lengthened from once every 2 or 3 years to once every 10 or 20 years? Deployment to municipal policing and night patrol in the capital and other urban centres and (after 1720) to fire-fighting roles were activities that had some precedent and perceived ‘nobility’ or social respectability, but were such activities enough to occupy the entire membership of the corps? All these were questions to which there were no ready answers, neither amongst the Janissaries themselves nor within society at large. The actual effects of the loss of professional standing and status that resulted from their deactivation and semi-permanent demobilisation as an effective standing military force need to be examined from both an internal Janissary perspective and from the perspective of their critics and detractors. This is something which, for the eighteenth century, has not yet been 16 That non-campaigning ‘soldiers’ performed ceremonial duties and other useful purposes was generally acknowledged by Ottoman bureaucrats and statesmen, but the issue of expense and an accompanying desire to realise the peace dividend and invest in domestic projects, was strongly and eloquently voiced by an increasingly insistent group among the Ottoman intelligentsia. Passages expressing such concerns can be found in the influential text of the court historian Mustafa Naima who completed his retrospective account of the Ottoman dynasty covering the years 1592 to 1660 around the year 1702. See the passages from the introduction (vol. 1) and the conclusion (vol. 4) where Naima reflects on matters of current policy and decision-making: Mehmet Ips¸irli (ed.), Tarih-i Naima, 4 vols., Ankara 2007, vol. 1, pp. 38 s.: erbab-i seyf and vech-i ahar and pp. 39 s.: faide-i mühimme and vol. 4, pp. 1887–1892: netice-yi netice. In this latter passage, Naima makes use of the colourful but highly insulting term taslakçı referring to one who holds out the bowl (tas) to receive undeserved rations or alms without having delivered service that would earn the supplicant the right to be nurtured by the sultan. The content of the philosophical sections of Naima’s history has been studied in a monograph by Lewis V. Thomas, A Study of Naima, New York 1972, in particular, pp. 73–76 and 79 s. on the preface to Naima’s history and pp. 86–88 in the conclusion. Regarding the taslakçı, seen as principally as a provincial as opposed to a Istanbul-based phenomenon in the years following the conclusion of the Ottoman counteroffensive against the forces of the Sacra Ligua between 1684 and 1699, see ibid., p. 124, note 35. 17 Said Öztürk, Askeri kassamına ait onyedinci asır Istanbul Tereke Defterleri, Istanbul 1995.

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

233

systematically undertaken. To counterbalance the exclusive, and rather distorting, focus on Janissary ineptitude and incompetence that examines performance results and outcomes on the battlefield requires that a cause and effect, stimulusresponse analysis should be carried out in relation to the full range of their duties. If Janissaries truly suffered from their closer integration with civil society and the resulting loss of prestige as ‘men of the sword’, then it is worthwhile examining the dynamics and the specifics of this transformational process in detail. The balancing of the objectives and foreign policy priorities of the state with the occupational requirements and desire for maintenance of service standards provided by the military proved particularly difficult to achieve in peacetime when the state’s desire to contain costs by introducing troop cuts came into direct conflict with the livelihoods and inherent instinct for self-preservation of the military. The nature of this balancing of interests and terms for the negotiating of solutions acceptable to both sides can be seen with particular clarity in the light of an imperial edict dating from the middle period of the reign of Sultan Mahmud I (r.1730–1754). In the early part of his reign the sultan had engaged in a series of lesser campaigns in which he had achieved some success and had even earned the title of ghazi, awarded to sultans who achieved success on the campaign trail, but following the conclusion of his wars with Austria and Russia over the period between 1735 and 1739 and the signing of a peace treaty at Belgrade on September 1739, the sultan was eager to institute changes in the empire’s military posture. The 1730s were by no means the first time in Ottoman history that divisions between the war lobby and the peace lobby, often accompanied by bitter confrontations between the interest groups representing the respective sides, had come to the fore in Ottoman politics. Strict controls on new Janissary registration and the offering of incentives to ‘whistle-blowers’ who notified the treasury of the savings to be made from undeclared vacancies (mahlulat) arising from the death or retirement of Janissaries had been imposed by Mahmud’s predecessor on the throne, his uncle Ahmed III (r. 1703–1730) twice previously in the hidjri years 1131 (A.D. Nov. 1718– Nov. 1719) and 1140 (A.D. Aug. 1727– Aug. 1728).18 Salary entitlements of former Janissaries were being accumulated by dishonest sergeants and payroll clerks serving at the level of the 196 discrete Janissary companies (odas) that formed the bottom of the pyramid on which the structure of the Janissary organisation rested. As a response to the savage troop cuts imposed from above they regarded such embezzlement as a legitimate means of fighting back in order to retain some vestige of their former power and patronage in an era 18 The promulgation of these two earlier dated edicts during Sultan Ahmed III’s reign is known from the transcribed text of the 1728 edict published in Uzunçars¸ı, Kapukulu Ocakları (cf. note 4), vol. 1, pp. 642–645. The exact date of its promulgation was evail Receb 1140/ 12–21 February 1728. No copies of the 1719 edict have yet been discovered.

234

Rhoads Murphey

when the prevailing political agenda had marginalised them and the fellow members of their interest group, i. e. the military. To imagine a fusion of interest between the state and its military agents and an absolute subservience and unquestioning obedience of soldiers and officers to their paymaster the sultan or to his deputy the grand vizier is to believe that soldiers acted as automatons, stripped of all personal motivation, initiative and agency. That this was not and could not be the case we know from the turbulent history of forced abdications and the frequent installation of new figures of collateral lineage to lead the dynasty in the years between 1687 and 1740. These events can only be interpreted in the light of a response of the military classes to the mismanagement of affairs of state by the bureaucratic classes in whose care the safety of the empire had been, from their perspective mistakenly, placed. An imperial edict issued in December 1740 in the 11th year of the reign of Sultan Mahmud I can be seen as one phase in the on-going struggle for influence over the state between military and civilian circles within government.19 Mahmud’s edict proposed a significant increase in the whistle-blowers’ reward (ihbariye), offered to encourage honest book keeping by the company commanders (oda-bas¸ıs). Previously, during his uncle’s reign in the period 1703 to 1730, the reward had consisted of a one-off payment of 1 akçe for every 10 akçes of salary savings to the treasury to be paid to the informer. Mahmud introduced the refinement that in addition to the payment of one-tenth of the face value of the pay chit, paid at the time of notification, a deferred payment of two-tenths was to be added to the permanent retirement salary of the oda-bas¸ı of the unit to which the disclosed vacancy belonged.20 In return for their cooperation with and compliance in the task of cleaning up the irregularities in the payroll registers, the oda-bas¸ıs were furthermore guaranteed job security and protected from unwarranted dismissal from their post before their statuary three-year term of service had been completed.21 Mahmud was fully aware that in order to gain 19 Mahmud’s edict dated evail- ¸sevval 1153 / 20–29 December 1740 (BOA, Müzehheb Fermanlar No. 68/1) has been published in facsimile in two collections of sultanic edicts (fermans). See T. C. Bas¸bakanlık, Devlet Ars¸ivleri Genel Müdürlüg˘ü, Osmanlı Ars¸ivi Daire Bas¸kanlıg˘ı, Yayın nu.2, Istanbul 1992, p. 84; idem, Devlet Ars¸ivleri Genel Müdürlüg˘ü, Osmanlı Ars¸ivi Daire Bas¸kanlıg˘ı, Yayın nu.63, Ankara 2003, p. 92. 20 Ibid., Edict of December 1740, lines 12–15. 21 We know of the shift from military to civilian expenditure in the early part of the eighteenth century from the studies published by Mehmet Genç. See in particular Mehmet Genç, L’économie ottomane et la guerre au XVIIIe siècle in: Turcica 27 (1995), pp. 177–196; idem, State and Economy in the Age of Reforms: Continuity and Change, in: Kemal H. Karpat (ed.), Ottoman Past and Today’s Turkey, Leiden 2000, pp. 180–187. Strong indications of Sultan Ahmed’s resolve to eliminate corruption and reduce the bloated Janissary rolls, despite the still present threat and continuing need for soldiers to fulfil defensive roles following the series of defeats on the northern frontiers of the empire, can be found in the court chronicle of Mehmed Ras¸id, Tarih-i Ras¸id, 3 vols., Istanbul 1153 [1741]. On the anti-corruption front we

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

235

success for his proposals, he had to be prepared to sacrifice something and meet his officers halfway. The sultan also realised that demonising the military and labelling them as recalcitrant or insurrectionary and otherwise indulging in the abusive confrontational rhetoric adopted in many official government pronouncements that tended to regard the soldiers’ attempts to protect their interests as traitorous or seditious, would lead to only one end; a repetition of the violent protests that had cost several of his predecessors their thrones. Mahmud opted for persuasion as opposed to coercion and the positive results, at least for the short term, seem apparent from the relatively stable levels of Janissary enrolment and salary entitlements that were achieved over the period 1745–1754. In the decade and a half following the issuing of his edict, the Janissary payroll records covering the 196 permanent regiments of the corps reveal only minor fluctuations. During this time, the number of full-time enlisted men belonging to the 61 regiments (bölüks) of the Commander’s Troops, the 101 companies (cemaat) of the rank-and-file infantry troops and the 34 regiments of the Home Guard (lit. ‘keepers of the sultan’s hunting hounds’) ranged consistently between 33,000 and 35,000.22 When looked at from the soldiers’ perspective and taking into account the perfectly natural desire on their part to preserve their livelihoods and where possible to enhance their career prospects, it can easily be seen how prolonged periods of peace worked against their interests. During the final half of the seventeenth century the state of perpetual mobilisation for war in which the learn of the sultan’s dismissal of the Commander of the Janissaries Ebu Bekr Ag˘a on the 4th of October 1713 (14 Ramazan 1125) on charges of profiteering and embezzlement followed shortly thereafter (in Jan. 1714/Muharrem 1126) by the appointment of a new Chief Treasurer in the person of Osman Efendi with a remit to crack down on defrauders; ibid., vol. 2, fol. 97a. Later in his reign following the soaring of military expenditure connected with the back-toback campaigns against Venice in the Morea (1715) and the attempted relief of the besieged fortress of Belgrade (1717) the sultan once again made it a priority to bring the Janissary payroll back to supportable and sustainable levels. See in particular Ras¸id’s account of the salary distributions for the hicri year 1131(1718/19) and his account of the salary distribution on 6 Receb 1132 (14 May 1720) provided ibid., vol. 3, fol. 29 and 50. For statistics showing the mounting cost of the accession donatives, a key reflector of actual levels of military employment, the figure for 1687 at the outset of the wars of the Sacra Ligua stood at 4,629 purses of silver (185,160,000 akçes) whereas shortly after their conclusion in 1699 at the accession of Ahmed III in 1703 they had risen to 4,938 purses (197,520,000 akçes) even after the effects of demobilisation and the purging of the ranks of some disaffected elements are taken into account. For details on the 1678 distributions, see Rhoads Murphey, Exploring Ottoman Sovereignty, London 2008, p. 128 (table 5.2); Tarih-i Ras¸id (cf. note 21), vol. 1, fol. 139a. For the 1703 accession donatives, see ibid., fol. 19a. 22 The precise figures recorded in Uzuncars¸ılı, Kapukulu Ocakları (cf. note 4), vol. 1, pp. 617 s. are as follows: 1745: 34,695, comprised of 15,803 in the 61 regiments of the Commander’s Troops, 16, 186 in the rank-and-file infantry and a further 2,706 in the home guard; 1750: 34,188 and 1752: 33,109.

236

Rhoads Murphey

empire found itself had offered manifold opportunities for them to demonstrate their skills on the battlefield and accomplish acts of valour that were observed by regimental heralds (çavus¸es) and reported back to company headquarters for acknowledgement and reward. The cessation of conflict for long periods in the early and middle decades of the eighteenth century had led not only to dwindling numbers, but also to a kind of career stagnation for those members of the permanent military who managed to retain their paid positions.23 The insecurity and vulnerability felt by career soldiers during periods of extended peace found expression in a number of ways, among them the temptation to engage in embezzlement and other forms of self-reward referred to above. Inactivity also led to the atrophying of the fighting spirit and warrior values of professional soldiers, which began to become obvious in their battlefield performance when called up for active service. All these developments served to distort and redirect the semi-instinctual behaviour of the soldiers, formerly focused on an external enemy, while at the same time contributing to a transformation in the perception of their functions and value by society at large. Instead of being regarded as ‘heroes’ and saviours and protectors of the realm, they increasingly came to be regarded, in some circles at least, as villains, predators and social misfits.24 The enormity of this motivational and attitudinal shift occurring in gradual increments over the course of the eighteenth century and gathering pace in the final decades of the century when Ottoman armies were consistently and decisively defeated by their imperial Russian counterparts, was noticed by the Ottoman bureaucrat and amateur historian Mansuri-zade Mustafa Nuri Pasha whose work The Consequences of Events identifies underinvestment in the military as the root cause of their poor performance in the field. For Mustafa Nuri Pasha, demotivation and apathy among the empire’s fighting forces was the direct result of the replacement of regulars and career professionals by raw recruits assembled hastily from random sources on the eve of battle and placing them side by side with long-serving career soldiers who had been too long cut off from active service and regular training regimes. Nuri Pahsa referred to this phenomenon observed among the long-term demobilised and 23 Career stagnation for existing Janissaries was the inescapable consequence of the fact that no new recruits were being taken in to occupy the lower ranks. The aging demographic in the profile of the corps in the period following the end of the regular devshirme is noted by a number of commentators. See, for example, Virginia Aksan, Ottoman Military Recruitment Strategies in the Late Eighteenth Century, in: Erik Jan Zürcher (ed.), Arming the State: Military Conscription in the Middle East and Central Asia 1775–1925, New York 1999, pp. 21–39; especially p. 23 ss. 24 This typology is used unreservedly by popular historians of the mid-twentieth century such as Koçu Res¸ad Ekrem, Yeniçeriler, Istanbul 1964, p. 285 ss., where he rails against the excesses of the urban toughs and gang leaders he calls the Yeniçeri kabadayıları to whom he assigns blame for the Janissary “uprising” of 1730.

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

237

demotivated soldiers of the late eighteenth century a ‘loss of familiarity’ (inkitayi ülfet), by which he implied not just technical deficiencies, but a loss of the bonds of mutual loyalty and cohesion forged over years of common service and tried and tested in the crucible of sustained conflict against a common enemy.25 How these changes impacted on popular opinion about the military classes on the one hand and on the soldiers’ pride in service and self-esteem on the other will be examined in the second part of our investigation. Before turning to a detailed consideration of the material changes affecting the military’s ability to perform the duties assigned to it by its political masters, it is worthwhile that we should pause to reflect briefly on the fundamental incompatibility in world views among the Ottoman governing elite of the later imperial era post 1700, between the ‘men of the sword’ (ehl-i seyf) and the civil bureaucracy or ‘men of the pen’ (ehl-i kalem). Some reorientation of Ottoman spending priorities consistent with the demobilisation of the empire’s land forces, lasting for several consecutive years, was bound to take place and it was thus inevitable that some reaction to and resistance against these trends should take shape among the military classes whose voice and demands for their share in state funding priorities had naturally dominated in periods when external threats to the empire’s frontiers had persisted. The martial values which they espoused were no longer supported by a broader social consensus in peacetime and this left them not only isolated, but in some circles reviled, for the constancy of their demands for allocations from the public purse when other social and diplomatic priorities now prevailed.26 The discourse preserved in contemporary Ottoman sources relating to this fundamental divergence of opinion is heavily weighted, in fact nearly exclusively dominated, by the viewpoint of the bureaucrats and of civil society. Members of the political class such as Rami Mehmed Pasha, who served a brief term as Mustafa II’s grand vizier between late January and August of 1703 at the very end of Mustafa’s reign, and Ahmed III’s son in-law and long serving grand vizier Nevs¸ehirli Ibrahim Pasha, who served an uninterrupted term lasting nearly 12 ½ years between 1718 and 1730, are praised and heroised for their success in standing up to the demands of the military classes.27 The same sources applaud 25 Mustafa Nuri, Netayic al-vukuat, 3 vols., Istanbul 1294–1296 [1877–1879], vol. 1, p. 96. 26 For an account of the shifting of Ottoman foreign policy priorities and the implementation of a non-interventionist stance in Europe, see Rhoads Murphey, Twists and Turns in the Diplomatic Dialogue: The Politics of Peace-Making in the Early Eighteenth Century, in: Charles W. Ingrao et al. (eds.), The Peace of Passarowitz, 1718, West Lafayette, IN 2011, pp. 73–91. 27 The critical reassessment of the achievements of the ‘enlightened’ vizier Nevs¸ehirli Ibrahim in works published in the last several years has begun to effect a change in prevailing views on the Ottoman ‘renaissance’ of the early eighteenth century. See in particular the recently published book of Erimtan and the still unpublished thesis of Karahasanog˘lu both of which cast some considerable doubt on the oppositional character of the conflict between ‘reformist’ (en-

238

Rhoads Murphey

the success of these bureaucrats in forcing the military men to back down while stigmatising the ringleaders of attempts to restore the customary rights and privileges of the military as ‘rebels’ and insurrectionists, likewise regarding any of those who took their side in disputes over pay and conditions as members of an unruly mob of social upstarts. That such black and white representations of the confrontation between the forces of reason, i. e. the sultan and his ‘enlightened’ ministers on the one hand and the forces of evil and irrationality, i. e. the ‘ruffians’, upstarts and morally deficient supporters of the cause of the military classes on the other, grossly oversimplifies the case goes without saying. Nevertheless, the fact remains that the reconstruction of an accurate and impartial narrative that gives some space to the countervailing opinions of the Janissaries proves well neigh impossible from the surviving historical record which is saturated with anti-Janissary bias. One noteworthy exception to this anti-military bias in the contemporary historical record is the account of the events leading up to the forced abdication of Ahmed III in favour of his nephew Mahmud I left by a contemporary palace insider called Abdi Efendi.28 In his account Abdi Efendi concedes that Ahmed III’s chief adviser, the reformist grand vizier Nevs¸ehirli Ibrahim who was generally celebrated for his role in sponsoring a cultural renaissance at the Ottoman court during the 1720s, was by no means above reproach, neither in his financial dealings nor in his committing of the sultan to a disastrous course of noninterventionism and passivism in response to the mounting strategic threat emanating from the empire’s eastern frontier with Iran.29 The marginalisation and mistreatment of long-serving and loyal members of the military by Ahmed’s haughty and high-handed vizier is noted as a failure of the empire’s political class and the revolt of the military classes is treated as a predictable, if not desirable, result of their exclusion from the inner circles at court on the advice of Ibrahim and his cronies. Abdi goes so far as to accuse the grand vizier of a predilection for self-gratification and comfortable living (zevk u safa’ya mail) while members of his administration and holders of posts in the civil bureaucracy (ehl-i mansıb) are held responsible for unjust confiscations of the property and livelihoods of longlightened bureaucrats) and ‘recidivist’ (outmoded military elites resisting change) elements at the Ottoman Court. The current consensus suggests a substantial modification of the view which once represented the accepted dogma of twentieth-century Turkish historiography. For an elaboration of the revisionist view, see Can Erimtan, Ottomans Looking West? The Origins of the Tulip Age and Its Development in Modern Turkey, London 2008; Selim Karahasanog˘lu, A Tulip Age Legend: Consumer Behaviour and Material Culture in the Ottoman Empire,1718– 1730, unpub. PhD Thesis State University of New York at Binghampton, NY 2009. 28 Faik Res¸it Unat (ed.), 1730 Patrona Intilali Hakkında Bir Eser: Abdi Tarihi, Ankara 1943. 29 For criticism of the disorganised manner in which the campaigns on the eastern front were being conducted by the sultan’s advisors in Istanbul far removed from the realities of fighting at the front, see ibid., pp. 15–24.

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

239

serving members of the military who had shown the temerity to criticise his policies or oppose his plans regarding the defence of the eastern frontier.30 The sacrifice of the military men fighting at the front went not just unappreciated, but virtually unnoticed and ignored while the representatives of the political class in Istanbul: “passed day and night in séances and musical entertainments”; a phrase used by the author as a euphemism for drinking parties.31 While the author by no means exonerates those who had engaged in street rioting and looting during the removal of Nevs¸ehirli Ibrahim from office and the subsequent deposing of his master and patron Ahmed III, he is keen to make it clear that this represented a delayed reaction to years of neglect and mistreatment at the hands of a vizier who was indifferent to their condition and deaf to their, sometime perfectly reasonable, demands for fair pay and tolerable working conditions.32 Abdi’s account of the Patrona ‘Rebellion’ of 1730 makes it explicit that the setbacks suffered by the civilian authorities were in no small measure due to their own mismanagement and policy failures. At the climax of his account Abdi suggests that the ‘rebels’ had no particular quarrel with the sultan, but rather with the feckless group of pleasure hounds, gamblers and good for nothings (kumarbaz ve yaramaz) with whom he had surrounded himself as his court advisers.33 At the same time, Abdi provides the simulated text of a dramatic parting speech attributed to the departing sovereign Ahmed III in which he advises his successor Mahmud I to: Pray to the Lord both night and day that he might deliver you from the evil and harm bright about by inept and malevolent servitors, for it is indisputable that the sovereign who falls into the clutches of unjust confidantes and ignorant boon companions has no hope of establishing prosperity [in his reign, R.M.].34

The long and the short of Abdi’s message in his short but insightful account of the events is that while the members of the military class might be faulted for their disloyalty, this disloyalty had to be understood as a pardonable or at least understandable response to the consistent and sustained neglect and withdrawal of support by an ungenerous patron. Loyalty and obedience were triggered by good treatment, but the reverse was to be expected when treatment of the military was consistently harsh and unfavourable. In Abdi’s opinion it was the cupidity and stupidity of the sultan’s advisers that had brought about his demise rather than

30 Ibid., p. 26. 31 Ibid. 32 The denial of the campaign-weary soldiers of their rightfully earned pay arrears until the point where it could no longer be ignored after the accession of the new sultan (Mahmud I) in early October 1730 is treated ibid., p. 51. 33 Ibid., p. 41. 34 Ibid., p. 42 (translation R. M.).

240

Rhoads Murphey

the inveterate rebelliousness of the military classes. Such confrontations were avoidable if the legitimate interests of the professional soldiery were taken seriously into account. This was proved by the positive results achieved by the conciliatory stance adopted by Mahmud towards the military as exemplified by the provisions of the imperial edict he issued in late December 1740 as he entered the second decade of his reign.35

2.

Effects of the Changes in Ottoman Mobilisation Practices on the Image and Self-Perception of Career Soldiers after the Close of the Seventeenth Century

A second area for our consideration relates to the effects of the randomising of reward for soldiers in active military service that resulted from the shift in patterns of military engagement and the increasing deprofessionalisation of military service as a career choice in the eighteenth century. The prestige question can be approached from two opposing points of view: namely an examination of how the military perceived society and, conversely, how society perceived the military. It can be proposed without much fear of contradiction that, until the advent of the age of mass conscription in the late nineteenth century, military service represented an open route to social advancement in all periods of Ottoman rule. What occurred in the eighteenth century was that because the Janissary corps proper constituted a closed and rather confined group – with limited prospects for expansion of its membership in the medium to long term because of the military slowdown – opportunities for admission to the permanent ranks, still less a secure and predictable path to rapid promotion within the corps through war service, were becoming ever more restricted with the passage of time. What resulted from this condition of institutional sclerosis was that although the peacetime strength of the Janissary corps was maintained at the relatively steady level of some 20,000 to 22,000 men, the ranks of the would-be or what might be called the ‘aspirational’ Janissaries – in other words, those who were neither trainees selected for permanent service nor fully-fledged and salaried members of the corps, but served instead as a kind of reserve force that could be called up rapidly in case of military need – expanded exponentially.36

35 See the discussion of the context and significance of this document ibid., pp. 15 s. above. 36 On the gradual replacement of regular (i. e., full-time career soldiers) by temporary emergency recruits called variously sarıca, sekban and levend, see Mustafa Cezar, Osmanlı Tarihinde Levendler, Istanbul 1965; Halil Inalcik, Military and Fiscal Transformation in the Ottoman Empire 1600–1700, in: Archivum Ottomanicum 6 (1980), pp. 283–337.

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

241

Such a system had been devised in earlier centuries stretching back as far as the eshkindji system of the fifteenth century and had been used to supply foot soldiers and auxiliaries needed for road clearing and transport duties to assist members of the permanent salaried regiments of the Porte,37 but the scale of this type of casual or non-permanent military labour increased dramatically in the eighteenth century. Such a system aimed at recruitment of temporary forces was put in place largely as a cost-cutting measure compared to its more costly alternative, i. e. the expansion of the permanent standing force. The logic of this system was that groups of 25–30 such members of an auxiliary military unit supplied five active soldiers for fighting whose costs for both equipment and wages were met by the remaining 20–25 members of the group who were gainfully employed in agriculture or in artisanal trades. In earlier times, these five active campaigners were paid a sum of 50 akçes by each of the reservists called yamak which, multiplied by a factor of twenty, yielded a campaign expenses fund of some one thousand akçes for the actives.38 The logic was not that different from the logic that sustained the cavalry army which was based on seasonal or occasional mobilisation of mounted troops whose main source of income and support was the land holdings they cultivated in the off-season between campaigns. In earlier centuries, such techniques for raising and sustaining troops lacked neither precedent nor potentially even prestige.39 During the eighteenth century, what was different was not the practice itself, but its perception and the value attributed to the widespread use of such casual or impermanent military forces. It is not clear to what extent these negative perceptions were rooted in the military traditions espoused by the Janissaries themselves and had their origins in the natural competition between them, as the self- proclaimed experts and professionals who also served as maintainers of ‘proper’ standards, and those whom they regarded as ‘outsiders’ and amateurs who spoiled the good name and reputation of the corps. Another alternative is that such views were an expression of preconceived and prejudicial judgements generated by and circulating in contemporary civil society whose likely origin lay within the ranks of the state administrative bureaucratic corps, whose members competed for social standing and prestige with the members of the former military elite. Intruders and interlopers from the ‘outside’ had always been resented by the old guard with secure places in the established permanent salaried regiments, but added to this 37 See Halil Inalcik, ‘Eshkindji’, in: Encyclopaedia of Islam (cf. note 3), vol. 2, pp. 714 s. 38 For the terms regulating the service of eshkindji troops, see ibid. 39 Other cavalry groups who acted in an auxiliary capacity for the Ottoman army included the voyuks who were also responsible for supplying mounts to the imperial stables; see Rhoads Murphey ‘Woynuk’, in: Encyclopaedia of Islam (cf. note 3), vol. 11, pp. 274 s., and the yaya and müsellem troops who were supplied by the western districts of Anatolia on an irregular but recurring basis. For the latter group, see idem, Ottoman Warfare (cf. note 6), p. 42, note 2.

242

Rhoads Murphey

jealousy was the fear of a permanent loss of status and economic security that became associated with the dramatic troop reductions that followed each hardfought campaign in the new era of quasi-disengagement from military activism commencing after 1700. To a significant degree, the problem of dissention in the ranks derived from concerns, fears and competition for job security within the military itself, which undermined morale and played a corrosive role in declining levels of military efficiency and performance standards.40 The fear of dismissal following demobilisation in the aftermath of active service proved an obstacle to full commitment to service demands for both regulars and irregulars in the eighteenth-century Ottoman military, regardless of whether they had been called up for active service on the eve of battle or after a period of some years in service. As a consequence, it became increasingly difficult to instil a sense of belonging and permanent membership on the one hand, and loyalty and solidarity in an institutional or in a personal sense on the other for those soldiers into whose minds feelings of insecurity and impermanency had insinuated themselves. The move from a selective to an open recruitment system had sown pervasive doubts about the future affecting every level of the military hierarchy from the senior ranks to the most recently enlisted. This prevented not only the unanimity of purpose, shared commitment and high level of motivation essential for success in battle, but it also discouraged a full identification with and integration into the corps that allowed each unit to perform its assigned task through an instinctual knowledge of the value and purpose of its contribution to the success of the shared venture.41 Functional specialisation and inter-regimental communication and cooperation that had been among the hallmarks of the institutional success of the corps in the era of military activism before 1700 was effectively obliterated during the post-1700 era of competition for job security and an atmosphere of inter-divisional suspicion, jealousy and fears over imminent redundancy prevailed. Some of these problems, apparent already in the earliest decades of the century, reached peak proportions during the Russo-Ottoman wars of the 1760s and 1770s. The numerical dominance of new recruits over seasoned veterans shown in table 2 above directed the aspirational goals of soldiers away from the hope for the longer-term rewards of job security and promotion and towards the realisation of short-term gains from booty raiding and plunder. Sometimes, when the 40 The historian Ras¸id provides a detailed and vivid account of the lengths to which serving soldiers with permanent regimental homes would go to avoid detection for truancy or premature demobilisation. For an account of the concluding phases of the Morean campaign in 1715, see Rhoads Murphey, Ottoman Military Organization in South-Eastern Europe, c. 1420– 1720, in: Frank Tallett, David Trim (eds.), European Warfare, 1350–1750, Cambridge 2010, pp. 135–158, in particular, pp. 155 ss. 41 See above.

Long-Term Changes in Janissary Service Ethos and Self-Perception

243

opportunity presented itself, especially during the phase of retreat after a punishing campaign, these pillaging attacks were aimed against their own army’s baggage trains and provisions earmarked for the sustenance of their fellow soldiers. The ‘family’ feeling and close regimental identification and loyalty described as a commonplace feature of the military recruitment system that relied chiefly on the devshirme to provide trained and committed professional soldiers, as outlined in the first part of our paper, was replaced towards the end of the eighteenth century by a pervasive attitude of sauve qui peut among the ranks of the untrained last-minute recruits who lacked the self-confidence, battle experience and sense of solidarity borne out of mutual sacrifice and support that was needed to achieve success in war.42 In conclusion, it may be said be that the cumulative effect of comprehensive changes affecting the administrative, financial and military recruitment spheres took away many of the former certainties that had formed part of the service experience and expectations of soldiers serving in an earlier military age. These certainties – responsible for inspiring confidence in both the self and in the army command – had contributed towards ensuring the predictability and stability of the soldierly routines that underlay Ottoman military success over a prolonged period of military engagement during the two hundred years between roughly 1450 and 1650 when the empire’s frontiers were continuously expanding. Such predictability contributed to the successful channelling and controlled application of force for the achievement of identified and mutually accepted goals, for example in the besieging of fixed fortifications in the heyday of the era of siege warfare. The randomisation of violence and the loosening of controls over its application that resulted from the casualisation of military provision in the period after 1700 replaced shared social goals and military objectives with soldierly behaviour and attitudes towards conflict that sought to maximise personal benefit at the expense of the achievement of communal goals. The uncertainty of their position within the military hierarchy and the impermanency of their position as members of the professional soldiery in the aftermath of campaigns militated against the formation of long-term associations and forms of comradeship based on close group cohesion. These attitudes, 42 On the development (under extreme pressure) of a tendency among Ottoman soldiers to prey on their own and to subject Ottoman supply lines carrying provisions to their brethren deployed on other sectors of a territorially extensive active front, see the example connected with the Janissary rebellion which led to the dismissal and later execution of the Grand Vezier Sarı Süleyman Pas¸a in 1687. An account of these events is provided by Rhoads Murphey, Rewarding Success in Military Enterprise: Forms Used for the Incentivizing of Commanders and their Troops in the Ottoman Military System of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, in: Jeff Fynn-Paul, Carlos Álvares Nogal (eds.), War, Entrepreneurs and the State in Europe and the Mediterranean, 1300–1800, Leiden 2014, pp. 287–306, here pp. 303–306.

244

Rhoads Murphey

generated by the prioritisation of short-term goals as well as self-interested and self-centred motivations for participation in war, seriously undermined the cohesion of the Ottoman army and weakened the resolve of its members to defer to and accept the orders of their commanders. In the late imperial era, army commanders were often political appointees or palace favourites rather than career soldiers with the result that there was a tendency among the rank-and-file soldiery to regard them not as their patrons and protectors so much as obstacles to the fulfilment of their self-defined agendas both for personal survival and for self-enrichment. The marginalisation as well as outnumbering of the career soldiers by recent recruits and non-professional ‘upstarts’ meant, in many battlefront situations, that pressures to prematurely abandon campaign strategies and succumb to the demands voiced by the ‘irregulars’ to return to their civilian pursuits became increasingly irresistible. In a sense, Ottoman military systems had devolved to a position reminiscent not of their own more primitive stage of military development in the time before the capture of Istanbul in 1453, but to a position curiously reminiscent of the dilemma facing the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in his procurement of shortterm military services by contract, i. e. non-permanent soldiers, in the middle decades of the sixteenth century. The main priority of contract soldiers was to fulfil the terms of their short-term contracts with an eye to their future immediately after the conclusion of a campaign rather than a commitment to the performance of their collective responsibilities in the current campaign as set by their present paymasters. To be fully effective, soldiers needed not only the prospect of realising short-term reward, but the hope and expectation of longterm career security to encourage and motivate them to levels of service dedication ‘beyond the call of duty’.43

43 For an account of the uncertain loyalties of Charles’ contract soldiers in the early to midsixteenth century, see James D. Tracy, Emperor Charles V: Impresario of War. Campaign Strategy, International Finance, and Domestic Politics, Cambridge 2002.

IV – East Asia and North America

Marian Füssel

Introduction and Commentary

Opening global perspectives for the New Military History means more than comparing different area studies. Discussing a shared vocabulary and a common ground of approaches are essential prerequisites of any comparative approach. On this basis we can analyze the singularities as well as the common features of early modern cultures of war and the military around the globe. The three articles of this section extend the paradigm of New Military History far beyond the limits of European history. Asia and North America become very important focal points for provincializing European military culture ensuring its proper historicization and at the same time opening up perspectives for a shared history as well as a shared approach to it.1 Shinko Taniguchi introduces us to warrior culture in times of peace in the perspective of Japanese early modern history, early modern here of course in the sense of the Tokugawa period up to the Meiji Restoration in 1868.2 Looking at the Tokugawa period as an era of peace lasting for 250 years raises the question of how to write the New Military History of armies during more or less enduring peacetime. Taniguchi develops a new image of Japan’s splendid isolation during the Tokugawa regime, which resulted in the strengthening of bureaucracy and internal social hierarchies centered on the Edo palace. The logic at work reminds me quite strongly of the royal mechanism described by sociologist Norbert Elias in his famous work on The Court Society of Louis XIV.3 According to Elias, the French court at Versailles managed to control almost the entire nobility by 1 Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe. Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference, Princeton, NJ 2000. An important case for comparison would be especially South Asia and India. For a survey on military history in India cf. Kaushik Roy, Historiographical Survey of the Writings in Indian Military History, in: Sabyaschi Bhattacharya (ed.), Approaches to History. Essays in Indian Historiography, Delhi 2011, pp. 119–157. 2 After discussions of multiple modernities we will also have to consider multiple early modernities, cf. Shmuel N. Eisenstadt (ed.), Multiple Modernities, New Brunswick 2002; Dominic Sachsenmaier et al. (eds.), Reflections on Multiple Modernities. European, Chinese and Other Interpretations, Leiden 2002. 3 Norbert Elias, The Court Society, Oxford 1983.

248

Marian Füssel

obliging them to stay at the court. The presence at court became mandatory to the maintenance of social prestige. A similar but more forceful mechanism seemed to be at work during the Tokugawa period when the domainal lords were forced to come to Edo on a regular basis. Elias’s hypothesis has in the meantime been frequently criticized by many court historians.4 Their critiques raise two main concerns: one being the fact that presence at court also gave the nobility the chance to increase their power and enabled them to distinguish themselves, the other pointing at questioning the effectiveness of absolutist rule.5 In recent research little remains of the former paradigm of absolute control and power; power relations are rather based on negotiations and mutual exchange than on top-down forces.6 It would be interesting to know how Japanese historiography relates to those new concepts of power, rule and governmentality.7 But what happened to the archetype of the Japanese Warrior, the Samurai? Taniguchi points out that although the state had built up more bureaucratic structures, the Samurai did not lose his violent habitus. The habit of the Samurai was cultivated under the term of ‘Bushido’:8 A way of life that with its stoic forms of behavior and self-control reminds us of a European early modernist of the Orangist military reforms of the seventeenth century and the notion of social discipline developed by German historian Gerhard Oestreich.9 As in the case of Elias, the concept of social discipline has been severely criticized for the last twenty years.10 Historians have questioned its effectiveness and the extent of its implementation. Again, it would be an interesting comparison to know how these notions developed in Japan. Were vendettas, bureiuchi or duels among Samurais methods of releasing pressure for a social group essentially trained for violence? How effective was the government’s control of samurai violence? And, in comparison to the culture of the duel in Europe, what were the juridical alternatives to self-justice? Could questions of rank and honor have been tackled at court as in 4 Jeroen Duindam, Myths of Power. Norbert Elias and the Early Modern Court, Amsterdam 1995. 5 Nicholas Henshall, The Myth of Absolutism. Change and Continuity in Early Modern European Monarchy, London et al. 1992; also cf. Ronald G. Asch, Heinz Duchhardt (eds.), Der Absolutismus – ein Mythos? Strukturwandel monarchischer Herrschaft in West- und Mitteleuropa (ca. 1550–1700), Cologne 1996. 6 Stefan Brakensiek, Heide Wunder (eds.), Ergebene Diener ihrer Herren? Herrschaftsvermittlung im alten Europa, Cologne et al. 2005. 7 Ulrich Bröckling, Susanne Krasmann, Thomas Lemke (eds.), Governmentality. Current Issues and Future Challenges, New York, NY 2011. 8 Oleg Benesch, Inventing the Way of the Samurai. Nationalism, Internationalism, and Bushido in Modern Japan, Oxford 2014. 9 Gerhard Oestreich, Neostoicism and the Early Modern State, ed. by Brigitta Oestreich, H.G. Koenigsberger, Cambridge 1982. 10 Winfried Schulze, Gerhard Oestreichs Begriff ‘Sozialdisziplinierung in der frühen Neuzeit’, in: Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 14 (1987), pp. 265–302.

Introduction and Commentary

249

Europe? It seems that there are many dimensions of comparison opened up by a New Military History of Tokugawa Japan and Early Modern Europe. The problems of permanent military professionals caused similar problems in the process of state building. It seems that the similarities and differences between war and peace as causes of the development of the state’s power to control violence have to be reconsidered. The European mafia-activities of state building described by Charles Tilly, that is, building up strong forces for defense that also control disloyal tax payers or insurgent subjects also seemed to work under conditions of extreme isolation.11 Kiyohiko Sugiyama investigates the character of the military forces of the Qing dynasty, Chinas last dynasty that ruled until 1912 and originated from the Manchu conquest during the seventeenth century. The Qing army was constituted by the Eight Banners which formed the military and administrative elite of the empire. They lived separated from Han Chinese society and formed their own military culture. In addition, there existed the Zhasakh Banner formed by the Mongols and the Green Banner formed by the Han Chinese established by the previous Ming Dynasty. The internal structure of the bannermen bears some clear equivalence with European military hierarchies. It consisted of a pyramidal hierarchy combined with the feudal control of the bannermen by their princes. From that angle it reminds us of the theory of social militarization by Otto Büsch who emphasized – and to our present knowledge largely overemphasized – the feudal bonding of the soldier to the regimental chiefs who were their feudal landlords in civil life.12 On the other hand, the implementation of a strict topdown hierarchy seems to be one of the key features of the military revolution in Europe, although a feature that was hardly put into practice until the revolutionary wars.13 European noblemen always found it very hard to obey commands from those whom they considered inferior or less competent than themselves. Especially the ruptures and differences in this Qing empire model of military organization would thus form an interesting point of comparison. One point where the regimental organization of the Eight Banners went far beyond any European appraisal of ceremonial rank as a constituent factor of social and political order was the distinction between left and right. Each of the banners was 11 Charles Tilly, War Making and State Making as Organized Crime, in: Peter Evans et al. (eds.), Bringing the State Back In, Cambridge 1985, pp. 169–191. 12 Otto Büsch, Military System and Social Life in Old Regime Prussia, 1713–1807: The Beginnings of the Social Militarization of Prusso-German Society, Boston 1997; on the discussion of the thesis cf. Peter H. Wilson, Social Militarisation in Eighteenth-Century Germany, in: German History 18 (2000), pp. 1–39; Martin Winter, Untertanengeist durch Militärpflicht? Das preußische Kantonsystem in brandenburgischen Städten im 18. Jahrhundert, Bielefeld 2005. 13 Geoffrey Parker, The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West, 1500– 1800, Cambridge 1988.

250

Marian Füssel

not only located on the left or the right side in battle arrays or court ceremonies, but also in the territories where their garrisons were stationed. Left and right also played an important role in European battle arrays, but to my knowledge they were never extended to the military division of territorial space.14 Sugiyama’s final point is to characterize the Qing Empire as a Central Eurasian state that makes it comparable to the Mongol, Timurid or Safavid Empires. One may take the comparison even further – as suggested here – and compare it to Central European states. Both the Japanese and the Chinese case show that conceptions of “early modern” start in the early seventeenth century and continue far into the nineteenth and early twentieth century in the Chinese case. Besides that continuity above classical European breaks in epoch boundary work the striking similarity is that all reform connecting state building in either Tokugawa Japan, Qing China or a European society (formerly known as the age of absolutism) find similar starting points in the early seventeenth century (in Germany in some respects only after the Thirty Years’ War). A very different approach is pursued by Daniel Krebs in reviewing historiographical trends concerning the military history of colonial North America. He starts with a consideration of the general situation of military history in contemporary academia;15 a scenario I presume sounds familiar to many academic military historians all over the world. Compared to the strong popular interest in matters of military history, the topic is seldom part of universities’ curricula. Nevertheless, the approach of New Military History with its strong emphasis on the social history of early modern armies has not only strengthened its reputation within the general historical community but also inspired a large body of works and publications since the 1970s. Krebs identifies three main schools: the new operational history, the history of war and culture, and the history of war and society. Starting from early ‘celebrations’ of ‘American exceptionalism’, Krebs examines more recent work that portrays the process of settlement rather as violent invasion than as a peaceful project. The struggles among European rivals, such as the second Hundred Years’ War between England and France but primarily the Europeans’ fights against native tribes resulted in a clash of cultures of violence: This confrontation provoked reaction as well as the adaption of techniques, tactics, conventions or technologies. Processes of cultural exchange and negotiation never resulted in one single framework or model. Krebs thus speaks of “colonial American ways of war” in the plural form. While the ‘middle ground’ 14 Max Plassmann, Bikonfessionelle Streitkräfte: Das Beispiel des Schwäbischen Reichskreises (1648–1803), in: Michael Kaiser, Stefan Kroll (eds.), Militär und Religiosität in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster et al. 2004, pp. 33–48, here 41. 15 Also see John A. Lynn, The Embattled Future of Academic Military History, in: Journal of Military History 61 (1997), pp. 777–789.

Introduction and Commentary

251

famously identified by Richard White faded in the middle of the eighteenth century, boundaries were drawn along racist categories of ‘red’ and ‘white’.16 The result was colonial ‘terrorism’ and the ‘extermination of native Americans’. Although military violence was ubiquitous in colonial North America, the fear of standing armies only allowed local militias to prosper. Of course, these were of very different quality and character depending on their local areas. Organized violence nevertheless resulted in a growing common interest and solidarity among settlers and colonists. Quite similar to recent findings in mainland Europe, American historians state that the actors of the local armies not only assembled the ‘scum of the earth’ but were all sorts of people who had to make their living by joining the army.17 Krebs comes to the conclusion that “warfare truly stood at the heart of the colonial experience”. The paradoxical impact that the New Military History had in most parts of the world is also stated for the North American case. The more we know now about gender relations, everyday life in the garrison, recruitment and social background of the soldiers the less we still know about the actual fighting, about campaigns and battles, in short: the practices of violence and warfare. Writing military history as the history of “organized violence” – to quote Bernhard Kroener – will have to integrate these aspects further in the future.18 Otherwise, we will remain stuck in the 1980s. But how do we find a point of comparison for these three very distinct chapters? One striking feature considering the recent historiography on early modern Europe – at least for the last 25 years – is the deconstruction of all grand narratives driven by modernization theory and the included “isms” like “absolutism”, or the concepts of top-down rule, the rationalities of bureaucratization, social militarization, the civilizing process, the disciplinary society, or secularization, to name but a few. All these concepts have helped to establish such a thing as early modern history and the New Military History has much profited from grappling with these concepts. On the other hand, it was exactly the New Military History that has also contributed to the deconstruction of many of these narratives marking out its historical relevance beyond the realm of military history alone. What would, for example, the whole business of state-building research be without its rooting in military matters? Maybe it would be a promising starting point for further discussions to test the adaptability of concepts like “state building from below”, “empowering interactions”, “governmentality” (Michel Foucault), “governance based on acceptance” or “fields of force” (Edward P. 16 Richard White, The Middle Ground. Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650–1815, Cambridge 1991. 17 Stephen Conway, The Mobilization of Manpower for Britain’s Mid-Eighteenth Century Wars, in: Historical Research 77 (2004), pp. 377–404. 18 Bernhard R. Kroener, Kriegswesen, Herrschaft und Gesellschaft 1300–1800, Munich 2013, pp. XIV, 97.

252

Marian Füssel

Thompson) also in an Asian context.19 Especially the view on the North American cultures of warfare has affirmed a general tendency in global history. Today we see circulation rather than diffusion.20 European ways of fighting and technology did not simply spread around the globe but were appropriated and turned into hybrid forms of culture.21 Focusing on circulation also means that this has never been a one-way ticket. Experiences from the “new worlds” also had an impact on European societies. A similar argument can be made for the Asian case. Manchu influence and Han Chinese culture merged to a new Qing Culture. In a way, the circulation of early modern cultures of war and the worldwide circulation of the New Military History show structural similarities. There is no uniform program of military history originating in Europe or the United States to be diffused and spread around the globe, but rather a shared paradigm with specific national appropriations and traditions. Only as such a shared culture of research can the New Military History continue to be a productive approach to military matters with promising prospects for the future.

19 Wim Blockmans et al. (eds.), Empowering Interactions: Political Cultures and the Emergence of the State in Europe 1300–1900, Farnham, Surrey et al. 2009; Ulrich Bröckling et al. (eds.), Governmentality: Current Issues and Future Challenges, New York, NY 2011; Edward P. Thompson, Customs in Common, London 1991. 20 Kapil Raj, Beyond Postcolonialism … and Postpositivism: Circulation and the Global History of Science, in: Isis 104/2 (2013), pp. 337–347. 21 Cf. Marian Füssel, Lernen – Transfer – Aneignung. Theorien und Begriffe für eine transkulturelle Militärgeschichte, in: Birthe Kundrus, Dierk Walter (eds.), Waffen – Wissen – Wandel. Anpassung und Lernen in transkulturellen Erstkonflikten, Hamburg 2012, pp. 34– 49.

Shinko Taniguchi

The Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime: The Characteristics of Bushido (the Way of the Samurai) in Early Modern Japan

In Japan, wars and military affairs have long been analyzed by those interested in military history rather than by academic historians. Recent studies inspired by new military history, such as those of Shuhei Sakaguchi, have changed this situation.1 Moreover, publishers have also contributed to diffusing and popularize the New Military History. Geoffrey Parker’s The Military Revolution: Military Innovation and the Rise of the West 1500–1800 (Cambridge 1988), John Brewer’s The Sinews of Power: War, Money and the English State, 1688–1783 (London 1988), and William H. McNeill’s The Pursuit of Power (Chicago 1982) have been translated into Japanese and have influenced Japanese historians in both Europe and Japan. One of the reasons that the latter have become interested in military history may be that Parker’s work, as translated into Japanese in 1998, is entitled The Battle of Nagashino in Global History: The Impact of the Military Revolution, 1500–1800. The battle of Nagashino in 1575 is well known in Japan for the innovative use of volley fire, in which three thousand harquebuses were positioned in three ranks so that the shooting did not stop during reloading. However, recent studies have shown that the previously estimated number of harquebuses employed in this battle is inaccurate and that this use of firearms was not a new tactic. From the perspective of global military history, Parker overestimated this tactic. Nevertheless, because Parker mentions the Battle of Nagashino in his book, the translator was able to employ its name in the title, which attracted Japanese academic historians and urged them to pay attention to the military history of their country. Particularly in the field of Japanese modern historical scholarship, the theme of remembering and commemorating wars has been in

1 Shuhei Sakaguchi, Hiroto Maruhata (eds.), Kindai Yoroppa no Tankyu 12: Guntai, Kyoto 2009; Shuhei Sakaguchi (ed.), Rekishi to Guntai: Gunjishi no Atarashii Chihei [Japanese translation of Ulrich Bräker, Lebensgeschichte und natürliche Abentheuer des Armen Mannes im Tockenburg, Berlin 1953]; Sakaguchi also introduced Ralf Pröve, Militär, Staat und Gesellschaft im 19. Jahrhundert, Munich 2006, by translating it into Japanese.

254

Shinko Taniguchi

the spotlight during the last ten years,2 since those who experienced World War II are growing older, which puts historians under pressure to preserve the memory of the war by protecting historical sites for future generations and in the interest of lasting peace. Today, the perspective of New Military History is commonly known by both Japanese and European historians. For example, a leading military research association, which publishes the journal Gunjishigaku (Military History), has focused, at its conferences, on topics such as gender in the military, artistic descriptions of battles, music to lift the fighting spirit, and the perception of war. If we look at the titles of the conferences held by the Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit e.V., we see direct parallels between the research trends in military history between Japanese and German scholarship. The Arbeitskreis not only focuses on the relationship between the military and society, but also on the influence of the arts, commemoration, and intellectual activities on military affairs.3 An international approach to the military of the early modern period is thus a wonderful opportunity for a comparative discussion of the scholarly findings in New Military History from several countries and cultures. In what follows, I would like to propose the reconstruction of New Military History through the introduction of the factor of peace, as seen from the perspective of Japanese early modern history.

1.

War and Peace

In European history, the period from the end of the fifteenth to the end of the eighteenth century is known as the early modern era, and it was politically, socially, economically, and culturally different from the modern period. In Japan, by contrast, the phrase ‘early modern age’ refers to the period from the end of the sixteenth to the middle of the nineteenth century. During the Era of the Warring States, seigneurial conflicts for military and political hegemony were rampant. At the end of the sixteenth century, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who succeeded Oda Nobunaga, unified Japan and invaded the Korean peninsula twice, failing to con2 Haga Shoji, 19 Seiki Nihon no Chiiki Shakai to Rekishi Ishiki, Nagoya 1998; Ichinose Toshiya, Jugo no Shakaishi: Senshisha to Izoku, Tokyo 2005; Imai Akihiko, Kindai Nihon to Senshisha Saishi, Tokyo 2005; idem, Hanseihugun Senbotsusha no Irei, Tokyo 2013; Harada Keiichi, Heishi ha Dokohe Itta: Gunyo Kichi to Kokumin Ishiki, Tokyo 2013. 3 Examples of conference titles are: The Historical Development of Military, War, and Gender, Berlin 1997; The Mutual Relationship between Military, War, and Arts in the Early Modern Period, Potsdam 2003; The Memorial Culture of Military from the 14th to the 19th Centuries, Gießen 2009; and The Intellectual Culture on Military in the Early Modern Period, Göttingen 2011.

The Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime

255

quer it. After the death of Hideyoshi, Tokugawa Ieyasu, who prevailed in the campaign of Sekigahara in 1600, founded the Tokugawa Shogunate in Edo, the old name of today’s Tokyo, in 1603. The shogun introduced military lords to feudal relations by giving them fiefs in exchange for military service. Subsequent shoguns succeeded in keeping military and political control over the daimyo (domainal lord) until the Meiji Restoration in 1868, although the state had changed from a feudal polity to a united nation of federal states.4 During the Edo or Tokugawa period, after the Osaka campaign between the leagues of Toyotomi and Tokugawa from 1614 to 1615, a state of peace existed for more than 250 years, excluding the Amakusa-Shimabara ikki (“Peasants’ Rebellion”) of 1637 and the Ainu riot of 1669. This long pacific hiatus contrasts markedly with the situation in early modern Europe, where many wars, conflicts, and battles occurred between or even within powerful households in the quest for political supremacy. Thus, the Pax Tokugawana can be said to be unique from the perspective of global history. Nevertheless, the significance of that period of peace has, in my opinion, not been sufficiently recognized in military history. Japanese historians concentrate almost exclusively on the very beginning or the very end of the Edo era, since wars and battles can be found only during those times. One of my colleagues once asked me, “Does military history need to include the Edo era, a time of peace”? This question concisely expresses the issue at hand. Military history and especially the New Military History have focused their research on the relation between the society and the military, the conscription or draft system and the ethos of military men, the devotion and the loyalty of the military to the nation, region, or military party, military education at school, reports of war in the mass media, the memorialization of wars, and the commemoration of those who died in war. Scholars have been clarifying the relationship between military affairs and social and cultural human activities, not only political and economic ones. However, do we not unconsciously consider military history as a field of study whose subject is war or military affairs and omit the issue of peace?

4 Mary Elizabeth Berry, Hideyoshi, Cambridge, MA 1982; Conrad Totman, Early Modern Japan, Berkeley, CA 1993.

256

2.

Shinko Taniguchi

The Beginning of Early Modernization or Japanization during the East Asian Peace

The military revolution debate has questioned the connection between technological military innovation and the formation of the state. In Japan, the adoption and development of the harquebus demoted the use of the canon and, consequently, the trace italienne style of fortress did not emerge. Fortresses were increasingly built on flat land rather than on hilltops and positioned to control the main communication routes. However, large numbers of lower-class soldiers were mobilized to construct castles made of stone blocks between the end of the sixteenth century and the very beginning of the seventeenth century. At that time, the military and political control of the Tokugawa clan did not yet prevail throughout Japan. Johannes Burkhardt, criticizing the causality between state building and the ability of states to undertake expensive, long wars,5 maintains that the warring states of the early modern age were, in general, immature as well as unstable militarily, politically, and religiously.6 On the contrary, the early modern Japanese nation was being built through the maintenance of national and international peace. Therefore, we can state that the concept of early modern Japan without war contrasts with that of early modern Europe without peace, although during the Edo period no one expected that these peaceful conditions would last for more than two centuries. The long-lasting peace was an unexpected outcome of the mutual influence and interaction of many factors, including the international situation. The Tokugawa Shogunate adapted a policy of kaikin, the prohibition of communication with foreigners. It was once called sakoku, which literally means “closed country” or “national seclusion”, but recent research shows that even under this policy, the Shogunate opened four ‘doors’ to foreigners; to Ainu through the Matsumae domain, to Ryukyu through the Satsuma domain, to Korea through the Tsushima domain, and to China and the Netherlands through Nagasaki city. The first three domains were responsible for ensuring peaceful foreign relations with Ainu, Ryukyu, and Korea on behalf of the Shogunate. In Nagasaki, the situation was a little different, because the city was directly ruled by the Shogunate. Trade with Japanese merchants in Nagasaki was, therefore, closely supervised by Shogunate officials, which meant that free trade by regional lords who rendered homage to the Shogun as a military general or tycoon was banned. This prohibition hindered 5 Cf. Johannes Burkhardt, Die Friedlosigkeit der frühen Neuzeit. Grundlegung einer Theorie der Bellizität Europas, in: Zeitschrift für historische Forschung 24 (1997), p. 509–574. 6 This article was translated into Japanese by Tadashi Suzuki, Heiwa naki Kinsei, in: Toin Hogaku 16 (2002).

The Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime

257

the lords from gaining economic profit through foreign trade, as they had in the past.7 In 1644, the Manchus drove the Ming out of Peking and established their own regime in China. When vassals of the Chinese South Ming dynasty asked the Tokugawa Shogunate for military assistance, the third shogun, Tokugawa Iemitsu, and his advisors debated whether they should dispatch a Japanese force of 20,000 men; however, the Shogunate finally refused this request.8 The Manchus’ conquest of the Ming dynasty was a very shocking event for East Asia. Japan, Korea, and China had independently developed their own politics, economy, and culture; thus, these three early modern nations matured under the East Asian peace. The policy of restricted communication with foreign countries gave Japan an unexpected advantage. The domainal lords became interested in the economic conditions of their own domains and made efforts to develop agriculture, commerce, and industry to increase their wealth. Thus, they collected sufficient taxes from commoners to support their retainers, vassals, and servants in military service. At the same time, the Shogunate forbade Christianity. Christians were forced to choose either to abandon their religious beliefs or to die for their devotion. The Shogunate invented a family registration system by demanding that the members of all families register at Buddhist temples, where they usually paid homage. The Shogunate ordered the domainal lords to enforce this policy even in their own domains. The purpose of this policy was to eliminate Christianity in Japan. With the help of this system, the shogun and the daimyo gathered information about the size and the location of the populations under their political control.

3.

The Tokugawa Federal States and the Development of an Administrative System Based on a Military Organization

Four successive shoguns mobilized their armies at least once during their rules to visit the Nikko Toshogu Shrine, where the first shogun, Tokugawa Ieyasu, was hallowed as a god. By performing this military ceremony, the shoguns demonstrated their military power and prestige to ordinary people, as well as to the domainal lords and their retainers. In the case of the eighth shogun, Tokugawa Yoshimune, the procession to Nikko included 300,000 people. The military procession is assumed to have taken place with dignity and solemnity.9 7 Yasunori Arano, Kinsei Nihon to Higashi Ajia, Tokyo 1988. 8 Hirohumi Yamamoto, Kan’ei Jidai, Tokyo 1989, p. 228–232. 9 Shigeo Negishi, Kyohoki Nikko Shasan ni okeru Shogun no Gyoretsu, in: Dainikko 75 (2005); Kazuo Otomo, Nikko Shasan to Mibun – Daimyo Gyoretsu no Hensei o megutte, in: Ko-

258

Shinko Taniguchi

The military relationship between the shogun as a general and his vassals, including feudal lords, was maintained until the fall of the Shogunate in the middle of the nineteenth century. By compelling the daimyo to pay a military corvée, the shogun reduced their properties. In turn, he used this money to construct dams, riverbanks, and roads, which contributed to the development of communication and increased the economic prosperity of Japan as a whole. Particularly at the very beginning of the Edo period, the shogun employed the military corvée to build new castles, which were given to those domainal lords who had served the shogun for a long time and were trusted. This practice subsequently helped the shogun increase their military power. The daimyo performed sankin-kotai (alternate attendance). They were required to move back and forth between their domains and Edo each year in order to serve the shogun and engage in military services. This tour of duty was very expensive because many retainers and servants had to accompany their masters; thus, over time, the financial situation of the lords worsened. The wives and children of the domainal lords were virtually hostages in their mansions in Edo, where the retainers and vassals, under the direct control of the shogun, were permanently stationed. They numbered 23,604 in 1722.10 All the daimyo, of which there were about 240, had to perform alternate attendance as proof of their military and political obedience to the shogun. Without the permission of the shogun, a lord could not retire or have his offspring assume his position. During their stay in Edo, the domainal lords closely associated with their peers of the same rank and/or with their relations. The ranking system was strictly maintained. When going to Edo Castle to make their New Year visit at the shogun’s house, for example, they had to appear in places appropriate to their ranks. The day that they could go to Edo Castle also corresponded to their status. Ceremonies and rituals in which the shogun and the daimyo participated can be seen as a visual representation of this military and political hierarchy. The power of the shogun usually consisted of two parts: the shogun himself, and then his inner circle and the hereditary daimyo whose ancestors had long served the Tokugawa clan. The political and military strength of the shogun depended on the character of the shogun and these hereditary daimyo (fudai lords). If a shogun was a child or not interested in politics, the league of fudai lords assumed political power and engaged in the decision-making business. However, a strong shogun with his inner circle exercised effective leadership. In this case, shogun either furthered the needs of his subjects or abused his authority. kushigaku 190 (2006); Shigeo Negishi, Kanbun 3 nen Tokugawa Ietsuna Nikko Shasan no Gyoretsu to Seijiteki Igi, in: Kokushigaku 190 (2006). 10 Kyoichi Ogawa, Edo no Hatamoto Jiten, Tokyo 2003, p. 46.

The Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime

259

The eighth shogun, Tokugawa Yoshimune, known as a wise monarch, ordered to place a big box near Edo Castle, where anyone could post a letter with policy suggestions.11 Adopting some of these ideas, he built a hospital for the poor, turned wasteland into arable land in the area of Kanto, and governed both commoners and samurai. Yoshimune seems to have fostered the idea of an exchange between the shogun and his subjects, although its realization depended on the strength of this power against the hereditary daimyo. In comparison, the fifth shogun, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, demanded all people to protect the lives of all creatures, including dogs and horses. Those who killed dogs were sentenced to death.12 These two examples indicate that a top-down system operated in the Edo period, but one must distinguish between its existence and its operational effectiveness. Interestingly, alternate attendance gave the domainal lords the chance to increase their cultural sophistication and to study. Kyoto had long been a cultural center as it had been the residence of emperors and nobles, but Edo gradually became a center of communication, information, and culture in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. During their stays at Edo, domain lords learned the tea ceremony, Japanese poetry, and Confucianism, including military precepts. One of the most famous military scholars, Yamaga Soko, had more than one hundred disciples of the samurai class. After the late seventeenth century, the number of administrative positions increased with the development of governance by commoners in the regions controlled by both the shogun and the lords. Warriors were designated for these administrative positions, though they belonged to military organizations and their social status as warriors was retained. Commoners who were able to read Japanese and write administrative documents were hired as administrative assistants. In some of the regions controlled by a daikan, or the Shogunal intendant, the administrator with only his officials and assistants had to govern more than 100,000 people. Without the commoners’ help, political governance would have been impossible. The same situation can be found in the domains of military lords. In spite of the increasing importance of administrative governance, more than half of the samurai undertook military tasks, such as guarding castles or attending their lords. All warriors formed part of military organizations, while some were additionally engaged in administrative jobs. After finishing their administrative service, they would resume their military functions. This way of managing the administrative and military systems simultaneously did not change until the end of the Edo period. 11 Yuichi Ohira, Meyasubako no kenkyu, Tokyo 2003. 12 Manabu Tsukamoto, Shorui o Meguru Seiji: Genroku no Folklore, Tokyo 1983.

260

Shinko Taniguchi

Warriors of the Edo era lived in houses or row houses in the castle town. The size and shape of their house gates, for example, was determined by their ranks as warriors in a military organization. The position of their houses within the castle town also followed their ranks. The castle of the lord was situated at the center of a castle town. The most prestigious military commanders lived next to the castle. The districts of merchants and craftsmen were distinct from those of the samurai. The retainers lived in houses that were not their own property, which meant that they had to vacate them when they were dismissed by their lords. The same pertained to the daimyo. They had to choose between three options if their behavior was found to be inappropriate or disloyal or if they were idle during military service: They could shut themselves up in their houses, retire, or commit suicide. In the case of the first option, the lords had to relinquish their households to the officers of the Shogunate. These retainers also lost their positions as warriors and forfeited their residences, although some of them might have found new positions. In conclusion, the castle town of each domain visually represented the social structure of the early modern period. Under these national and international military conditions, how did the early modern samurai live each day?

4.

The Appearance of the Early Modern Samurai

During the Edo period, the administrative, political, and economic systems, as well as the aesthetic arts and culture developed and prepared the modern stage of Japan. The Tokugawa authorities succeeded in avoiding involvement in international troubles by restricting their communication with foreign countries and by controlling outbreaks of domainal and private violence within Japan. The early modern samurai acquired an identity distinct from that in earlier times. The image of the samurai today in Japan has been formed by films, television programs, theater, and historical fiction. There are two general images of the samurai at both the popular and the scholarly level. One image is that of the samurai who possessed military skills and prowess, and who readily employed force and violence, challenging other samurai to duels and avenging familial harms. The other image is that of the samurai as a modern governmental bureaucrat, budgeting domain finances or making national policy decisions. Generally speaking, people today tend to enjoy stories that involve sword fights and violence, while many historians tend to emphasize more the bureaucratic aspects of the samurai.13

13 Kazuhiko Kasaya, Shukun Oshikome no kozo: Kinsei Daimyo to Kashindan, Tokyo 1988; Joji

The Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime

261

From the middle of the seventeenth century, the samurai were distinguished from other status groups by their clothes, hairstyles, and pairs of swords. Farmers and townsmen were also allowed to possess swords, since political authorities did not deprive commoners of their weapons. They kept weapons such as harquebuses, pikes, or bows, which they had once used in fighting as hired soldiers. It was not until the 1660s and 1680s that rulers began to forbid commoners to carry swords and started to pay attention to the number of harquebuses in villages. After this moment, the sword became a status symbol of the samurai, who was obliged to wear a pair of swords. If a samurai went out without putting on his swords or lost his swords somewhere, he risked being punished for inappropriate behavior.14 The prohibition of the kabuki (luxurious lifestyle) went hand-in-hand with this change in the meaning associated with the sword. Most of those who favored the kabuki style were the military servants of court nobles or warrior families. The hairstyles and dress were very conspicuous, attracting attention and becoming fashionable even among the samurai. They tied up their hair in ponytails, carried long swords, and wore trousers made of animal skins and clothes with velvet collars. From the beginning of the Edo period, the authorities prohibited this lifestyle, and in the 1640s, the Shogunal authority began to strictly control the activities of these groups, since their social views and propensity for violence were considered serious problems. They assisted their comrades in quarrels and fights, paying little attention to the causes and the effects of their violent actions. Their relationships with their peers were formalized through oaths taken within fraternities; thus, they pledged to follow their sworn brothers until death. The ruling authorities regarded this kind of spiritual bond as a competing form of loyalty, for those who were involved in it might prove to be disloyal.15 A similar kind of emotional attachment can be seen in the practice of following a master to the grave. The Shogunate forbade this type of suicide in 1663.16 Through these regulations and prohibitions, the authorities sought to ban personal relationships that risked endangering the stability and peaceful order of society. Both the shogun and the domainal lords in the Edo period demanded that the samurai serve their own lords as an official duty, free from emotional and personal constraints. Under such circumstances, what kinds of limits existed regarding the use of force? The success of Japan’s modernization following the Meiji Restoration does Fujii, Edo Jidai no Kanryosei, Tokyo 1999; Kazuhiko Kasaya, Bushido: Sono Meiyo no Okite, Tokyo 2001. 14 Shinko Taniguchi, Kinsei Shakai to Ho Kihan, Meiyo, Mibun, Jitsuryoku Koshi, Tokyo 2005. 15 Masamoto Kitajima, Kinseishi no Gunzo, Tokyo 1977; Masashi Yokokura, Kabuki-mono to Bakuhan Shakai – Kabuki no Fukei, in: Goura Ronso 7 (2000). 16 Hirofumi Yamamoto, Junshi no Kozo, Tokyo 1994.

262

Shinko Taniguchi

not necessarily mean that the samurai of the Edo era had lost their identity as warriors. It is often incorrectly assumed that throughout long uninterrupted periods of peace, as more and more samurai became bureaucrats, they refrained from the use of force, which is considered in more detail in the next section. Certainly, political rulers had overall command of military force and ordered warriors to relinquish the habit of flaunting martial prowess in daily life; however, warriors were still permitted to use force in certain situations. I would like to focus on three particular situations involving the samurai use of force or violence, namely fights and quarrels, vendettas or revenge, or attacking commoners in response to rude behavior. Examinations of these situations reveal the unique characteristics of the samurai during the Edo period.

5.

Control of Violence Required of the Samurai

Interestingly, the samurai, more than anyone else, were strictly prohibited from instigating quarrels and fights. Already in the sixteenth century, various house rules included provisions that banned quarrels and fights among samurai of the same military rank.17 Authorities of the early modern period regarded the prohibition of fights as one of the most important disciplinary strategies of military organizations. One of the reasons why the samurai were severely punished for initiating quarrels is the tendency for minor, individual conflicts to turn into violent confrontations of larger groups. Since the samurai of this period supported and depended on one another in daily life, they upheld close personal ties with relatives and equals. Edo was not only the place where the shogun lived with his servants; it was also a military city, in which all ruling lords, along with their servants and households, were stationed each year. It was, in fact, the largest military station in the world. Edo-samurai, who accompanied their lords, were specifically ordered to refrain from quarrelling and fighting with the retainers or vassals of other nobles, since conflicts between servants might have infringed on their lordships and might have led to serious distress. Hence, it is not surprising that lords were themselves forbidden by the Shogun to quarrel with other lords. Fights among lords resulted in severe penalties, including hara-kiri and the dispatch and the extinctions of their houses.18 Nevertheless, it is generally believed that the samurai sought to prove their bravery by fighting with others. By investigating many of their encounters, it becomes clear that conflicts prohibited by authorities differed from those which might have deprived the samurai of their 17 Shosaku Takagi, Nihon Kinsei Kokkashi no Kenkyu, Tokyo 1990. 18 Taniguchi, Kinsei Shakai to Ho Kihan (cf. note 13).

The Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime

263

honor. The principle of punishing both conflicting parties was applied when fights broke out accidentally and were not caused by mutual defamations. Daidoji Yuzan, an Edo period scholar of military studies and the author of budo shoshinshu, stated clearly that dying in a kenka (quarrel) was inujini, or a ‘dog’s death’, a useless and meaningless death.19 Even Yamamoto Jocho, the author of the hagakure, one of the most famous books on the way of the samurai of the Edo period, remarked that a samurai should avoid quarrels and fights among colleagues, because it would mean that he had sacrificed his life.20 Permitting justice by vendetta was another tool for controlling samurai violence. In the Edo era, the katakiuchi or adauchi (vendetta) symbolized the practice of authorized revenge for murdered kin carried out on a murderer who had not yet been captured. The person seeking revenge registered his name and that of his opponent at the respective Shogunate or his lord’s office. This registration system had already existed since the second half of the seventeenth century.21 However, enrolment in advance was not necessary for a vendetta. Following a close examination, the authorities would then decide whether the action was a true vendetta or a case of murder. The Ako Incident, so famously portrayed in Chushingura, may appear to fall under the category of vendetta.22 Most Japanese consider it an archetypical case of vendetta. Strictly speaking, however, the Ako Incident from a legal perspective cannot be regarded as a vendetta. Forty-seven ronin killed Kira Kozukenosuke because their lord, Asano Naganori of the Ako domain, assaulted Kira in Edo Castle and was ordered to practice hara-kiri as a result. They broke into Kira’s residence to avenge their late lord. However, technically it was the bakufu or Shogunal government and not Kira that had punished Lord Asano. The fifth shogun, Tokugawa Tsunayoshi, judged their conduct to be murder, not vendetta, and ordered them to commit suicide. The Shogunate officially accepted a commoner’s registration of a vendetta, a practice that indicates revenge was also sanctioned.23 In fact, commoners who succeeded in the revenge act were often praised and rewarded by their lords. 19 Yuzan Daidoji, Furukawa Tetsushi kotei Budo Shoshinshu, Tokyo 1943. 20 Shinko Taniguchi, Botsuga-teki Chusei Ron no Saikento. Hagakure Shinkaishaku no Kokoromi, in: Waseda Daigaku Daigakuin Bungaku Kenkyuka Kiyo 56 (2011), p. 3–18. 21 Fumio Jimbo, Kataki-uchi, Megataki-uchi Shoko 1, in: Nagoya Daigaku Hosei Ronshu 195 (1995). 22 Many books and articles have been published on the Ako Incident and Chushingura. Some of them are: Eiichi Matsushima, Chushingura, Tokyo 1964; Takehiko Noguchi, Chushingura. Ako Jiken Shijitsu no Nikusei, Tokyo 1994; Seiichi Miyazawa, Kindai Nihon to Chushingura Genso, Tokyo 2001; Shinko Taniguchi, Ako Roshi no Jitsuzo, Tokyo 2006; idem, Ako Roshi to Kiratei Uchiiri, Tokyo 2013; Henry D. Smith, The Capacity of Chushingura, in: Monumenta Nipponica 58/11 (2003), p. 1–42. 23 Kinjiro Hiraide, Katakiuchi, Tokyo 1975.

264

Shinko Taniguchi

Some cases of this kind can be found in the Kogiroku, a compilation of more than 6,000 instances in which commoners were acclaimed for the expression of filial piety to their parents, loyalty to their superiors, and so on.24 However, it must be emphasized that revenge was permitted only when the murderer had not been arrested. Once the killer was captured by officials, he was brought to trial and judged. Consequently, the vendetta did not represent the samurai spirit, but was rather recognized as an expression of filial piety or a manifestation of loyalty to superiors, in spite of differences of status. From the second half of the seventeenth century onwards, the Shogunate and the domain authorities began to encourage a morality based on loyalty to masters and parents. Political leaders often gave rewards to those whose behavior was worthy of being regarded as a manifestation of filial piety. In contrast, people who acted badly or disloyally were punished. This policy, adopted during the reign of the fifth shogun, emphasized that the relationships between parents and children, husbands and wives, and masters and servants were important and essential in maintaining the social order, as discussed in Confucian teachings.25 Megatakiuchi, which literally means the revenge killing of an adulterous wife and her lover by a husband, was yet another expression of this morality for both the samurai and commoners. A samurai, particularly the head of a samurai household, implementing the concept of the noblesse oblige that accompanied his social status, had to demonstrate his ability to control his own actions, govern his family, and serve his lord. It is therefore understandable that warriors in some domains were pressured to carry out their own revenge killings of their wives to recover lost family honor and retain their households.26 Involvement in the megatakiuchi was determined individually. A juridical system was already established in the second half of the seventeenth century, which means that a husband had the possibility to complain about his wife’s adultery to a court. According to the criminal law of the Shogunate government in the first half of the eighteenth century, the crime of adultery was punishable by death. A man could also divorce his wife, demanding some reparations from her lover without the necessity of a lawsuit.27 The term bureiuchi is used to denote an act in which a samurai cuts down a commoner who has behaved rudely towards him. Bureiuchi was a legally prac24 Noriko Sugano, Edo Jidai no Kokomono. Kogiroku no Sekai, Tokyo 1999; idem, Kankoku Kogiroku, Tokyo 1999. 25 Taniguchi, Kinsei Shakai to Ho Kihan (cf. note 13). 26 Ibid. 27 Itaru Yamanaka, Bakuhan Taisei ni okeru Mittsu Shioki no Kenkyu 1–2, Otto no Shiteki Seisaiken to Kokei Keibatuken, in: Kyudai Hogaku 40 (1981) and 43 (1982); Tadashi Takagi, Mikudarihan to Enkiridera, Tokyo 1992.

The Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime

265

ticed and socially acknowledged right, originating in the respect that the samurai felt was owed to their military and administrative powers. Commoners had to express their respect in various ways, including kneeling as a lord’s procession passed, thus affirming the dignity of the samurai. In contrast to vendettas, only a samurai could invoke bureiuchi. Rulers permitted the samurai to use force to regain honor lost due to abuse, slander, or rudeness. The authorities distinguished between sudden quarrels and attacks that stained a samurai’s honor. The former were considered violent acts, but the latter were viewed as legitimate behavior, since a samurai could not ignore the defamation of his character. Cases where warriors attacked commoners who had behaved rudely show that the authorities sanctioned such actions only when the insolence could not be proven. It was generally believed that the samurai’s reputation was recovered through the sacrifice of the commoner’s life.28 Various cases from the Okayama domain survive, including one where a samurai initially failed to kill a commoner who had acted rudely and then, together with his father, brother, and uncle proceeded to pursue the man. They finally caught and succeeded in killing him. As a result, the samurai and all of his family members were permitted to return to the service of their former lord. Another case involved the fourteen-year-old son of a townsman who was sentenced to death for behaving rudely towards a child who was a member of the samurai class.29 It should be noted, however, that samurai were punished if they killed commoners for a reason other than rudeness. In cases where impolite behavior could not be proven, samurai who killed commoners were either officially banished or fled a domain, prior to the formal announcement of their punishment.30

6.

Conclusion – the Military Raison d’Etre in Peacetime: The Bushido or the Way of the Samurai

National and international pacification after the middle of the seventeenth century had gradually changed the raison d’être of the samurai as a military expert. In the Edo period, the wearing of a pair of swords was the symbol of a

28 Yoshiro Hiramatsu, Kinsei Keiji Soshoho no Kenkyu, Tokyo 1960; Hiroshi Harafuji, Bakuhuho to Hanpo, Tokyo 1980; Kazuhiko Kasaya, Shuzoku no Hoseika, in: Iwanamikoza Nihon Rekishi 13 (1994). 29 Shinko Taniguchi, Bureiuchi ni miru Bushi Mibun to Shakai, in: Okayamahan Kenkyukai hen, Han Sekai no Ishiki to Kankei, Tokyo 2000, p. 221–248; idem, Kinsei ni okeru Burei no Kannen, in: Nihon Rekishi 636 (2001). 30 Ibid.

266

Shinko Taniguchi

warrior and proof of membership in the samurai class. Brave behavior excluded fierce or violent actions. Allowing rudeness meant losing bushido. The word bushido, known as the way of the samurai, has been famous in the world since Nitobe Inazo published Bushido: The Soul of Japan in English in 1899, between the Sino-Japanese and the Russo-Japanese War. It was translated into many languages after the Russo-Japanese War because people in Europe and America wanted to know why a little country located in the Far East could beat such a great military power as the Russian Empire. Nitobe explained bushido as the national morality of the Meiji period. However, the way of the samurai during the Edo period was an appropriate way of life only for the samurai class, rather than a general, abstract morality for all Japanese. The way of the samurai was created in the militarily, politically, and socially unique structure of early modern Japan under the conditions of a long-lasting peace. The early modern samurai, retaining their social status as warriors, engaged in both military and administrative work and were responsible for political governance. They differed from other status groups, such as farmers, craftsmen, or merchants in all aspects of their daily lives. Their homes, their clothing, their manners, and customs were a representation of the warrior of the early modern era. Their use of force reflected the honor and noblesse oblige that they claimed as warriors and officials at the top of society. The samurai lived far from commercial activities, which means that, in spite of agricultural development, they lacked economic power; thus, they lived stoic, disciplined, but honorable lives. They were obliged to control themselves physically and mentally. The use of force was severely restricted, excluding instances where they had to protect their honor. This mode of behavior was embedded in the military, political, social, and moral structure of the Edo period. The self-restraint, stoicism, and temperance of bushido were an outcome of the complicated interactions among military and political governance without war and the social structure of the Edo era.

Kiyohiko Sugiyama

A Chinese Dynasty or a Manchu Khanate? The Qing (Ch’ing) Empire and its Military Force*

The Qing (Ch’ing) Dynasty was the last master of the Forbidden City in Beijing (Peking). For this reason, it is usually considered to be China’s last imperial dynasty, and the period of its rule is regarded as the time when China’s imperial administration was brought to its full maturity. In this context, the structure of Qing rule has generally been understood as follows: the emperor was a Chinese emperor, and had inherited the position of the Ming Emperor; he regarded himself as a Confucian monarch, appointed Chinese officials, and in the eighteenth century created a monarchic autocracy. The bureaucracy was virtually a replica of the Ming institutions that it superseded, with the addition of certain new institutions such as the Grand Council. With the Ming régime serving as a point of reference, any elements that do not fit into this framework are either treated as “elements added during the Qing period” or dismissed as “aspects of a dynasty of conquest”. As a whole, the Qing dynasty has been explained as “the last Chinese dynasty”. Therefore, its military forces are generally seen as representative of a traditional and typical Chinese army. However, we should note that the Qing rulers were not Han Chinese, but Manchus, who were conquerors from northeast Asia, or Manchuria. The Jesuit missionaries who visited the Qing court also clearly differentiated between Han Chinese and Manchus. From a different viewpoint, the Qing Empire could be seen as primarily the fruit of military conquest by the Manchus, so the Qing military system must have been characterized by the Manchu tradition and customs from Inner Asia. With this in mind, what were the Qing military forces comprised of, what character did they assume, where did their distinctive features originate, and to what did they bear a resemblance? In this chapter, I will

* I gratefully acknowledge the critical comments made by Kai Filipiak and Marian Füssel on several points of the original paper.

268

Kiyohiko Sugiyama

outline and examine the distinctive features of the Qing military forces from the viewpoint of the Manchu rulers.1 This approach, which would attach importance to the fact that the rulers of the Qing Empire were Manchus, accords with the “Manchu-centered” perspective of the “New Qing History” school that has been flourishing in the United States since the 1990s.2 This school attaches importance to the fact that the Qing Dynasty was an empire ruled by Manchus, who ruled over areas in Inner Asia where a variety of languages and scripts were used. As has been recognized by Mark C. Elliott, a representative driving force behind this school, Japanese researchers have been pioneers in the study of the Qing as a Manchu dynasty, with a focus on Manchu materials, and also in the study of the regions of Inner Asia, and have made use of Mongolian, Tibetan, Turkic, and other non-Chinese materials. Therefore, in this chapter, I base my arguments primarily on the results of Japanese research into Manchu history and the history of Inner Asia.3

1.

The Qing Empire and its Military Forces

The Qing Empire was established by the Manchus, known as Jurchen before 1635, who were Tungusic people under the Ming rule. They built villages, and were engaged in crop and livestock farming, as well as supplemental hunting, so they were in general skilled at horse riding and archery, although they were not nomads like the Mongols.

1 With regard to the Eight Banner system and the structure of the Qing Empire, I have relied on the following articles and have kept notes to a bare minimum: Kiyohiko Sugiyama, The Ch’ing Empire as a Manchu Khanate: The Structure of Rule under the Eight Banners, in: Acta Asiatica 88 (2005), pp. 21–48; idem, Daishin teikoku no shihai kôzô to hakkisei: Manshû ôchô to shite no kokusei shiron [The Structure of Rule in the Qing Empire and the Eight Banner System: A Tentative Study of its Constitution as a Manchu Dynasty], in: Chûgoku Shigaku [Studies in Chinese History] 18 (2008), pp. 159–180; idem, The Qing Empire in the Central Eurasian Context: Its Structure of Rule as Seen from the Eight Banner System, in: Kimitaka Matsuzato (ed.), Comparative Imperiology, Sapporo 2010, pp. 87–108. 2 On trends in the New Qing History school and its “Manchu-centered” perspective, see Evelyn S. Rawski, Reenvisioning the Qing: Significance of the Qing Period in Chinese History, in: Journal of Asian Studies 55 (1996), pp. 829–850; Mark C. Elliot, The Manchu Way: The Eight Banners and Ethnic Identity in Late Imperial China, Stanford 2001, pp. 1–35; James A. Millward, Introduction, in: idem et al. (eds.), New Qing Imperial History: The Making of Inner Asian Empire at Qing Chengde, London 2004, pp. 1–12. 3 On the history of Japanese research on Qing history and research trends in recent years, see Mio Kishimoto, The Ch’ing Dynasty and the East Asian World, in: Acta Asiatica 88 (2005), pp. 87–109; Kiyohiko Sugiyama, Research Trends in the Study of Qing Imperial History in Japan, in: Asian Research Trends N.S. 9 (2014); on the historical outline see Willard J. Peterson (ed.), The Cambridge History of China, vol. 9, part 1, Cambridge 2002.

A Chinese Dynasty or a Manchu Khanate?

269

Since the beginning of the fifteenth century, the Jurchen-Manchu tribes had been officially subject to Ming China, but in fact their chieftains had independent rule over their own territories, and struggled against each other for power. In 1616, Nurhaci (1559–1626), a chieftain of the Aisin Gioro (aixin jueluo) clan in southern Manchuria, unified the Jurchen-Manchu tribes and assumed the position of khan and gave his state the name Latter Jin state. His son and successor Hong Taiji (r. 1626–43), often mistakenly known as Abahai by Westerners, was elected emperor by Manchu, Mongol, and Chinese princes and nobles in 1636 and renamed the Latter Jin State the Great Qing State. This was the origin of the Qing Empire, which survived until 1912. When the Ming Dynasty was overthrown by rebellion in 1644, the Qing troops entered Beijing and put down both the Ming remnants and the rebel forces. So began the Manchu rule of China, which was to last for more than 260 years. The vast territory and various people of the Qing Dynasty consisted of five main groups: the Manchus, who ruled Manchuria under direct control and bore the role of governing the whole empire; the Mongols, who nomadized Inner and Outer (i. e., southern and northern) Mongolia, Qinghai, and Zungaria; the Buddhist Tibetans in the Plateau of Tibet; the Turkic Muslims, who lived in the oases of the Tarim basin, now called the Uighur; and the Han Chinese in China Proper. The Qing military power that conquered and maintained this vast territory consisted of three main categories.4 First, the Eight Banners, which constituted the main military forces. The Eight Banners consisted of eight divisions; they were distinguished by yellow, white, red, and blue flags, which were either plain or bordered, and it is for this reason that they were called ‘banners’. The Eight Banners were not only a military organization: at the beginning of the dynasty, they included everyone under Nurhaci’s rule – ministers, officials, soldiers, servants, and slaves, Manchus, Mongols, Chinese, and Koreans, men and women, young and old. After the Manchu conquest of 1644, the Eight Banners entered Beijing and lived together in the Inner City of Beijing. At the same time, the garrison troops, called the Eight Banner garrisons, were dispatched and stationed in strategic places across the whole empire. Thus, the main military forces of the Qing Empire were the Eight Banners, based in the capital, and the Eight Banner garrisons. The bannermen were entered into a special register, separate from the register into which Han Chinese people were entered, and had a separate living 4 The following is based on Sugiyama, The Ch’ing Empire (cf. note 1); idem, Daishin teikoku (cf. note 1); idem, The Qing Empire (cf. note 1). The basic sources of the Qing administrative and military institutions were Qinding Da Qing huidian (Imperially commissioned collected regulations of the Qing Dynasty), edited five times in 1690, 1733, 1763, 1818, 1899 and Qinding Baqi tongzhi (Imperially commissioned general history of the Eight Banners), edited two times in 1739 and 1799.

270

Kiyohiko Sugiyama

area. The bannermen were prohibited from being engaged in agriculture, industry, or commerce, because they were military personnel and reservists. In other words, up until 1644 they represented a separate state and, even after the Manchu conquest of China, they constituted a separate society that formed the ruling class of the empire, and they continued to exist as a separate body differentiated from Han Chinese society. The second category of military force was the Zhasakh Banners, which was composed of people from the Outer Feudatories, mainly the Mongols. In Mongolia, Qinghai, Zungaria, and the eastern part of East Turkestan were tribal chieftains and feudal lords who were subject to the Qing emperor. They were appointed by the governor, called Zhasakh, and their subjects and troops were organized in banner-type organizations modeled on the Eight Banners, called the Zhasakh Banners. The Zhasakh Banners provided the soldiers and formed a military unit that supplemented the Eight Banner army on military exercises in peacetime and mobilization in wartime. These were the first troops in support. The third group was the Green Standard army, or the Green Banner, which was comprised of Han Chinese soldiers and mostly stationed in China Proper. The Green Standard army originated from the Guard army of the former Ming garrison system. After the Manchu conquest of China, the Ming Guard army that surrendered to Qing power was reorganized into the Green Standard army: this was the second line of troops in support. The Green Standard was a standing army and had 600,000 troops. However, unlike the Manchus and the Mongols, who were proud to be warriors, the social and economic status of soldiers in China was low. In addition, for the Qing rulers as conquerors, the Chinese army was necessarily deemed untrustworthy, so that they were resistant to strengthening the Green Standard. For this reason, the Green Standard army was dispersed from being in large garrisons into small groups of soldiers, and was spread across the towns and villages. It became not so much a garrison troop as a police. As mentioned above, as a result of the diversity of the Qing Empire, the military forces were complex. In wartime, an expeditionary force was formed, which was comprised mainly of the Eight Banner army, supplemented by the Green Standard army in China Proper and the Zhasakh Banner army in Inner Asia, and a special commander was appointed from among the imperial princes or high-rank bannermen to command the force. On the other hand, not only the Green Standard, but also the Eight Banners and the Zhasakh Banners relied chiefly on revenue from China for their maintenance, even though they had originally been feudal troops. The Manchu rulers depended upon the Eight Banners at least until the first half of the nineteenth century, and reigned over the

A Chinese Dynasty or a Manchu Khanate?

271

Chinese in an alliance with the Mongols.5 Let us, therefore, consider the structure of the Eight Banners, which constituted the roots of Manchu rule.

2.

The Structure of the Eight Banner System

The Eight Banners, which Nurhaci had established by 1615, represented an organization combining military and administrative aspects.6 The Eight Banners thus possessed a pyramidal structure. Its basic unit was the niru (company), which served as the source of able-bodied men for military service and labor services; several (up to more than a dozen) niru formed a jalan (regiment); and five jalan made up a gu¯sa (division). The word niru or company means both an administrative unit and the fighting unit that was levied and organized from it. The company captain was a military commander as well as an administrator, and each banner was led by a banner commander appointed from among the bannermen. Initially, there were no distinctions between companies, but as the number of the Mongols and the Chinese submitting to the Manchus increased with the spread of the latter’s power, Mongol companies and Chinese-martial companies were established, and were then organized into divisions. As a consequence, each banner came to consist of three “outer” divisions (Manchu, Mongol, and Chinese-martial) and an “inner” division made up of bondservant companies (booi niru), which were under the direct control of the imperial family. The number of companies, which totaled about 200 during the reign of Nurhaci, increased gradually until, after a century, there were over 1,000 of them. Simply judging from the organizational appearance, it seems that the Eight Banners were similar to a modern army. However, not all of the banners were under the direct command of the khan or emperor. As in a relationship between ruler and ruled, there was a master-servant relationship. The bannermen of each banner, including the banner commander, were all subject to a banner prince, that is, a member of the imperial Aisin Gioro clan who had been invested with a banner. Each banner was under the control of the banner princes, and the emperor himself controlled the Plain and Bordered Yellow Banners and the Plain White Banner, that is, the Upper Three Banners. The differences in status between a banner prince and his bannermen were absolute. In no circumstances was a subject who belonged to another clan, regardless of how much power he might flaunt or how many companies he might 5 On the examination from the viewpoint of the Mongols, see Hiroki Oka, The Mongols and the Qing Dynasty: The North Asian Feature of Qing Rule over the Mongolia, in: Tadashi Yoshida, idem (eds.), Facets of Transformation of the Northeast Asian Countries, Sendai 1998, pp. 129– 151. 6 See Sugiyama, The Ch’ing Empire (cf. note 1); idem, Daishin teikoku (cf. note 1).

272

Kiyohiko Sugiyama

have, able to cross the line between a bannerman, or servant, and a banner prince, or master.7 This relationship of control and subservience between banner princes and bannermen was established through the allocation of a company to the banner prince, which meant that the bannermen belonging to a particular company had to serve their own banner prince. Because of Confucian scruples, the master-servant relationship between banner princes and bannermen is not explicitly noted in Chinese-language sources, but it was clearly described by outside observers such as missionaries. In a letter written in Beijing on 20th July 1725, the French Jesuit Dominique Parennin made the following observations while describing the fate of the imperial prince Sunu and his family, who had been punished by Emperor Yongzheng (r. 1722–1735) on account of their Christian beliefs:8 There are in addition two things to observe. First, that among the Servants who will follow these Princes (i. e., Sunu and his family) into exile, there are two kinds: some are indeed slaves of their household; the others are Tartars or Tartarized Chinese whom the emperor gives in large or small numbers in accordance with the rank with which he honors the princes of his blood. These latter are the retinue of the noble (Regulo), and they are generally called the people of his gate. There are among them considerable mandarins, governors, and governors-general. Although they are not slaves like the former, they are almost equally subject to the wishes of the noble as long as he retains his rank. After his death, they pass into the service of his sons if they are honored with the same rank.

As is clearly stated here, a master-servant or lord-vassal relationship existed in the Eight Banners, in which high-ranking officials submitted to the banner prince’s orders just like slaves. Furthermore, this relationship was not based on private connections or coercion, but was established because these people had been given (donner) to the banner prince by the emperor himself, and the relationship continued from one generation to the next. Furthermore, the emperor and the banner princes selected children of leading vassals or people whom they trusted from among those under their command and created groups of guards and aides who were at their beck and call. These bodyguards were called hiya in Manchu, and in Chinese they were referred to as shiwei, or the Imperial Guard, in

7 On banner princes and their control of bannermen, see Jiaji Du, Qing huangzu yu guozheng guanxi yanjiu [A study of the relationship between the Qing imperial family and national government], Taipei 1998. 8 Lettres édifiantes et curieuses, écrites des Missions Étrangères, par quelques Missionnaires de la Compagnie de Jesus, vol. 18, Paris 1728, pp. 37 s.

A Chinese Dynasty or a Manchu Khanate?

273

the case of the emperor, and huwei, or Escort Guard, in the case of the banner princes.9 The banners were ranked from the Bordered Yellow Banner, which ranked first, to the Bordered Blue Banner, which ranked last, and they were also divided into four left-wing banners, headed by the Bordered Yellow Banner, and four right-wing banners, headed by the Plain Yellow Banner. However, all rights and obligations, such as participation in government, military service, conscripted labor, and division of the spoils of war, were in principle shared equally by all banners.10 This was intended to equalize the distribution of burdens, and it could also be said to have meant that the fruits of conquest were not the exclusive possession of the emperor, but were shared by the entire family. In this respect, the Upper Three Banners, which were under the direct command of the emperor, did not enjoy any special position or treatment. It can be said that, in view of the fact that the emperor possessed particular banners and was attended by the companies belonging to these banners, he too was one of the banner princes. The entire structure was, furthermore, integrated on account of the fact that the banner princes accepted the emperor as the representative of the Eight Banners and as the head of the imperial family. Therefore, the Eight Banners had a dual structure consisting of a pyramidal hierarchy similar to the modern military organization, and the banner princes’ feudal control of the bannermen. Moreover, they differed completely from the institutions and organizations of Ming China, whose imperial family was prohibited from engaging in politics or commanding the army.11

3.

The Eight Banner System as the State Organization

As mentioned above, the Eight Banners were not only the armed forces, but also the administrative organization of the Manchus, and they functioned as a source of personnel for official posts. It is hard to see this feature of the Eight Banners as originating either in the Chinese monarchy and bureaucracy or the Jurchen9 Kiyohiko Sugiyama, Nuruhachi jidai no hiya-sei: Shinsho jiei kô josetsu [The hiya system during the reign of Nurhaci: An introductory study of the Imperial Guard in the early Manchu-Qing period], in: Tôyôshi Kenkyû [The Journal of Oriental Researches] 62 (2003), pp. 97–136. 10 This was known as the jaku¯n ubu (eight privileges), and Du, Qing huangzu yu guozheng guanxi yanjiu Jiaji (cf. note 7), pp. 70–80, calls this system of the equal sharing of rights and obligations in bannerunits under the Eight Banner system the “eight privileges system”. 11 At the beginning of the Ming Dynasty, the princes commanded the army, but after Emperor Yungle (r. 1402–1424), who had been the feudal lord of Beijing, ascended to the throne through a rebellion led by him, the imperial family was gradually restrained and deprived of the political activity and the right to command.

274

Kiyohiko Sugiyama

Manchu tradition. That being so, where did the organization of the Eight Banners originate from and how can it be characterized? In the past, similarities with the nomadic armies have been pointed out with respect to the hierarchical structure of the Eight Banners, extending from the company to the banner. However, the nomadic armies and their state had many more characteristics, including a system of left and right wings, the monopolization of the right to rule by the imperial family, the shared possession of all subjects under its rule, and the existence of an imperial guard.12 Focusing on these points, we will examine the characteristics of the Eight Banner system.

The Hierarchical Organization A pyramid-shaped hierarchical military and administrative organization that reorganized tribes. The Eight Banner system was organized into a pyramid-like hierarchical system ranging from the company to the banner. The similarity between the Eight Banner system and the organization of the nomadic army is generally explained only through this respect, but there are more organizational similarities than this. The hierarchy was a traditional method of organization dating from the time of the Huns, and its organizational system was developed in the Mongol Empire. In the Mongol Empire’s military system, existing tribes were not organized according to their existing form, but were instead broken up and then reorganized into 1,000-man battalions.13 In the case of the Eight Banners, too, the various forces that had previously been in rivalry and conflict with Nurhaci were first disbanded and then reorganized into companies, with their leaders relegated to the position of subordinates of banner princes. However, the positions of the former tribal chieftains and the integration of the former forces were not completely lost in either the Mongol Empire or the Qing Empire; rather, they were carried over in the appointment of former chieftains as battalion commanders and company captains. Therefore, there were two aspects of tradition and innovation in the Eight Banner system.

12 Masashi Haneda, Safavî-chô no seiritsu [The founding of the Safavid dynasty], in: Tôyôshi Kenkyû [The Journal of Oriental Researches] 37/4 (1978), pp. 24–56. 13 Minobu Honda, Mongoru jidai shi kenkyû [A study of the history of the Mongol period], Tôkyo 1991, chap. 1.

A Chinese Dynasty or a Manchu Khanate?

275

The System of Left and Right Wings Each banner was unchangingly either part of the left wing, i. e., the east, or the right wing, i. e., the west. The left wing was comprised of the Bordered Yellow, Plain White, Bordered White, and Plain Blue banners; the right wing was comprised of the Plain Yellow, Plain Red, Bordered Red, and Bordered Blue banners. When these were arranged from north to south, the two Yellow banners were located to the north, the two White banners to the east, the two Red banners to the west, and the two Blue banners to the south.14 This pattern was used for battle organization, the formation of the great hunt, and the assignment of residential zones in the Inner City of Beijing. This meant that for the Eight Banners and the Qing Empire, the system of left and right wings was not only a battle formation but also a political, social, and ritual regime. Furthermore, this feature is similar to that of nomadic armies and state organizations, including the Mongol Empire, the Timurid Empire in Central Asia, the Safavid Empire in Iran, and many others:15 the Mongol Empire also adopted a similar form of deployment, whereby the ulus, or the nobility of the great khan’s younger brothers and sons, were drawn up on the left and right wings respectively, with the great khan in the center. This set-up was followed both on ritual occasions and at times of military action. Likewise, the basic form of state and military organization in the Timurid Empire and Moghulistan Khanate was a system of left and right wings based on a hierarchical structure. Further, in the early Safavid Empire, which was at the time strongly imbued with the character of a nomadic state, the Turkic-Mongol nomadic tribes were divided into left and right wings, which formed the army.

The Monopoly of Banner-Rulership by the Imperial Family of the Aisin Gioro Clan Only the legitimate progeny of the Nurhaci brothers could be invested with the status of banner princes, and no banner was controlled by the ruler of the nonAisin Gioro clan. This feature can also be found in other states: in the case of the Mongol Empire, only direct descendants of Chinggis (Genghis?) Khan, such as Chaghatay and Batu, possessed independent territories, and after the Mongol 14 See Elliot, The Manchu Way (cf. note 2), p. 103. 15 On the Mongol Empire, see Masaaki Sugiyama, Mongoru teikoku to Dai Gen urusu [The Mongol Empire and Dai-ön ulus], Kyôto 2004, chap.1; on the Timurid Empire and Moghulistan Khanate see Eiji Mano, Bâburu to sono jidai [Bâbur and his times], Kyôto 2001, part 2, chap. 5 and part 3, chap. 4; on the Safavid Empire see Haneda, Safavî-chô no seiritsu (cf. note 12).

276

Kiyohiko Sugiyama

period only descendants of Chinggis Khan could take the title of Khan. In the Timurid Empire, too, the descendants of Timur were given land and retainers and each had his own base. This system was also adapted by the Mughal Empire in India. The background to this was both the traditional thinking that regarded the state as common property of the imperial family, and the increasing strength of regal authority from the Mongol period onwards, which made it possible for the imperial family alone to monopolize the state as common property. At the same time, these customs were incompatible with primogeniture and the institution of a crown prince, which attached excessive importance to one person in a particular position within the family, and in neither the Qing Empire nor these states from the time of the Mongol Empire onward were any such laws of succession established.16

The existence of Groups of Bodyguards and Aides The imperial guard, or hiya, was the elite group within the Eight Banners. The chief duties of the guards were: firstly, to serve as escorts for their master – the emperor or banner princes, secondly, to guard the palace on an everyday basis, and thirdly, to perform various services as personal associates of their master. The hiya could be recognized as an organization that reared the present and future talent pool for potential executive officers in the government and that also held hostages and re-educated personnel, along with receiving rewards and special treatment. Even long after the Manchu conquest of China, many highranking officials among the Manchu bannermen had served as hiya. This feature of the hiya in the Qing Empire is similar to that of the imperial guards in the Mongol Empire, known as kesˇig, kapı kulu (Sultan’s slaves) in the Ottoman Empire, and the gholâm (King’s slaves) in the Safavid Empire.17 As shown above, the characteristics of the Eight Banner system coincided with those of the nomadic armies and their state organization. That is to say, the similarities were not merely organizational, and the Eight Banner system possessed features that were shared in essence across the board with the nomadic military and administrative organizations of Central Eurasia.18 Although the 16 There was a crown prince during the Yuan Dynasty, but, unlike in China, the crown prince did not automatically succeed to the throne, and instead he had to be selected at a general council. 17 See Honda, Mongoru jidai shi kenkyû (cf. note 13); Tadashi Suzuki, Osuman teikoku no kenryoku to erîto [Power and the elite in the Ottoman empire], Tôkyô 1993; Hirotake Maeda, Isulâmu sekai no dorei gunjin to sono jitsuzô [A history of ‘slave elites’ in the Islamic world], Tôkyô 2009. 18 On the idea of Central Eurasia as a historical world, see Denis Sinor, Inner Asia: A Syllabus, Bloomington 1969; idem, Central Eurasia, in: idem, Inner Asia and its Contacts with Medi-

A Chinese Dynasty or a Manchu Khanate?

277

Jurchen-Manchus were not nomads, their army and state organization was extremely similar to that of the nomadic or semi-nomadic states, especially the Mongol Empire and the states that succeeded it. How, then, should one regard the Eight Banners’ relationship with the enormous Han Chinese society under their rule? The Qing Empire took over the administrative machinery and institutions of the late Ming more or less as they were and continued to hold civil service examinations for the appointment of administrative officials. For this reason, the Qing Dynasty is often seen as a Chinese dynasty that followed on from the preceding Ming Dynasty. However, the Eight Banners functioned as a source of personnel in appointments for official posts, especially those of high-rank officials. In contrast, until the nineteenth century, Chinese officials recruited through the civil service examinations were not permitted to involve themselves in the administration of the areas outside China Proper. That is to say, the areas in which Chinese officials could become involved were far more restricted than those of bannermen officials, both in the decision-making process and the scope of their official powers. Moreover, it followed a basic principle of giving precedence to the Manchu language, with higher-level administrative documents being written in Manchu, accompanied by a Chinese version. In other words, although Chinese society and culture, which represented the overwhelming majority and had its own traditions, was respected and provided personnel for government, this should be regarded as no more than coexistence and utilization, and the real governing power was held by the Manchu rulers. The same thing may be said of the military force. For the Eight Banners, although the number of the Chinese-martial bannermen was second to that of the Manchu, and they were appointed to rule in China in large numbers, they were treated as bannermen who were subjected to their own banner princes and were clearly distinguished from Chinese civil officials, as is shown by Parennin’s mention of Chinois Tartarisés (tartarized Chinese).19 As for the Green Standard, while it played a significant role in the campaign for the conquest of China, most of the army personnel had become security forces or police from the end of seventeenth century onward, when rebellion and resistance against the Qing rule were suppressed. Therefore, regardless of the troop strength of the Green Standard, we should not overlook the fact that the Manchu rulers had the right to make decisions about military affairs, and they were similar to the ruling groups of the nomadic states in Central Eurasia. eval Europe, London 1977, pp. 93–119; idem, Introduction, in: The Cambridge History of Early Inner Asia, Cambridge 1990, pp. 1–18. 19 For an example of a similar discussion by other observers, see Joachim Bouvet, Histoire de l’Empereur de la Chine, présenté au Roy, Paris 1697, reprint Paris 1699, pp. 71.

278

Kiyohiko Sugiyama

When one surveys Central Eurasia, the problem of how to govern a permanently settled society consisting of a vast population, speaking different languages and belonging to different cultures, was shared with other states too. In the Safavid Empire, the relationship between the Turkic-Mongol nomadic military officers and the tajik, or Iranian officials and clerks, can be compared to the above-mentioned relationship between bannermen and Chinese civil officials, and the same can be said about the rule over Hindus in the Mughal Empire, as well as over the Arabs and the Balkans in the Ottoman Empire. Although the language of the majority was also used in these empires, a system of documentbased administration using the language and script of the ruling minority was implemented, and they had exclusive control over decision-making.20 When viewed in this light, it could be said with respect to both the political and military organization, and the state as a whole, that the Qing Empire was not only the successor of the Ming Dynasty, but was also a successor to the Mongol Empire and was a parallel state to other contemporary empires. I would like to term these states ‘Central Eurasian states’, and the Qing Empire, centered on the Eight Banners, should also be seen as a type similar to these Central Eurasian states.21 ‘Central Eurasian state’ is a broader concept than nomadic state and may be defined as a state in which a group possessing mounted military power and a means of organizing its authority had control of military affairs and politics, governed the diverse permanently settled societies under its rule with as little interference as possible, and aimed for coexistence with and utilization of their members through appointment to official posts.22 When considered in this manner, the state of the Manchus, who were not nomads, can also be broadly positioned within the context of Central Eurasian history. At the same time, one can also point out the following features as specific characteristics of the Manchus: Firstly, the constituent units of the ruling group were not individual members of the imperial family and their lands, but an organization called banners. For this reason, the ruling group was not easily affected by questions of succession or rewards and punishments involving the families of individual banner princes, and thus maintained stability as an organization. Secondly, since the Manchus were not nomads, they had always been accustomed to settled habitation. They also adopted policies aimed at con20 For a general survey of these empires, see Masashi Haneda, Mittsu no ‘isurâmu kokka’ [Three ‘Islamic States’], in: Iwanami kôza sekai rekisi [Lexicon of World History], vol. 14, Tôkyô 2000, pp. 3–90. 21 See Sugiyama, “The Ch‘ing Empire” (cf. note 1), pp. 38 ss. 22 On the concept of the Central Eurasian State, see Masaaki Sugiyama, Teikoku-shi no myakuraku: rekishi no naka no moderu-ka ni mukete [The thread of the history of empires: Towards a modelling in the context of history], in: Yûzô Yamamoto (ed.), Teikoku no kenkyû [A study of Empire], Nagoya 2003, pp. 67–70.

A Chinese Dynasty or a Manchu Khanate?

279

centrated settlement and did not apportion their lands, as a result of which no rebellions broke out among the imperial family, and it became possible to exercise long-term centralized political leadership. These features were all based on the Eight Banner system, so it can be described as a Manchu form of Central Eurasian political and military organization. When viewed in this light, regardless of how immense the Han Chinese society under its rule may have been, the Qing Empire can be regarded as a type of Central Eurasian state, specifically, an Eastern form of Central Eurasian state.

4.

Concluding Remarks

It is true that, when viewed from the perspective of the Han Chinese, the Ming and the Qing Dynasties may seem much the same apart from hairstyle and clothing. However, one should not overlook the fact that this is not the case when they are considered from different angles. As we have seen, under Chinese-style administrative institutions and a Confucian theory of legitimacy, the Eight Banners held the key to the rule of the Qing Empire, and the Eight Banner system possessed distinctive features that aligned it with nomadic social, political, and military organizations in Central Eurasia. The nature of the Qing Empire was represented by the characteristics of the emperor. The Qing Emperor needed to possess a multifarious character for responding to each of these roles: he was the Khan of the Manchus in command of the Eight Banners, the Chinese Emperor who had inherited his legitimacy from the Ming Dynasty, a great khan who was a successor of the Mongol Empire, a patron of Tibetan Buddhism, and, although not a Muslim himself, a protector of Islam. In addition, he was regarded not only by the Chinese under his rule, but also by people in the countries of East Asia, as a Chinese Emperor who venerated and promoted Confucianism, while in the world of Tibetan Buddhism he was looked upon by Manchus, Mongols, and Tibetans as an incarnation of the bodhisattva Mañjus´rı¯ and a wheel-turning sage-king (cakravartin).23 However, it needs to be noted that, unlike alliances under a single monarch in Europe, this composite and multifarious character of the emperor cannot be clearly divided. It was for this reason that the Qing Emperor was able to unify diverse regions and peoples. To put it another way, it could be said that the emperor had many different faces, but that the people saw only the face that was turned in their direction. Therefore, one may say that we cannot understand the nature of the 23 See Yumiko Ishihama, Chibetto bukkyô sekai no rekisiteki kenkyû [A historical study of the world of Tibetan Buddhism], Tôkyô 2001; idem, The Image of Ch’ien-lung’s Kingship as Seen from the World of Tibetan Buddhism, in: Acta Asiatica 88 (2005), pp. 49–64.

280

Kiyohiko Sugiyama

Qing Empire by restricting the view of the emperor as being simply the Chinese Emperor. Of course, it is hard to represent the nature of such a vast empire through a single character, whether a ‘Manchu Khanate’ or a ‘Chinese Dynasty’, but clearly, in the past most scholars have regarded the Qing Empire one-sidedly as a Chinese Dynasty. However, we have seen that the characteristics of the Qing Empire were similar not only to the Ming Dynasty as a Chinese dynasty, but also to the Mongol Empire and the states that succeeded it in Central Eurasia. It goes without saying that the Qing Empire differed markedly in a great many respects from the Mongol Empire, the Timurid Empire, the Safavid Empire, the Mughal Empire, and others, but we ought not to disregard their similarities. From this viewpoint, one may say that the ‘essence’ of the Qing Empire, regardless of the dominant population of Han Chinese or how deeply the Manchus were affected by Chinese culture, can be described as a “Manchu Khanate” in Central Eurasia. Its military organization, that is, the Eight Banners, had an intense impact on the Qing Empire’s character and nature.

Daniel Krebs

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

The late military historian Douglas Leach once calculated that during 156 years of English colonial history in North America, from the founding of Jamestown in 1607 to the Treaty of Paris after the conclusion of the Seven Years’ War in 1763, the colonists waged war for at least one third of the time somewhere in the New World.1 After long years of research into violence in the United States, John Shy concluded that no other nation had its early history and origins “so clearly linked to warfare”.2 For Fred Anderson and Andrew Cayton, the “grand narrative” of American history with its emphasis on a virgin land and a peaceful people who were slow to anger and eager to return to their plows after reluctantly fighting defensive wars also did not hold up to scrutiny. Instead, the two authors emphasized, warfare stood at the heart of long stretches of colonial American and United States history. In fact, Anderson and Cayton detail in their book over five hundred years of almost constant violence in the New World since the arrival of Europeans at the end of the fifteenth century. This violence, both authors argued, was fueled incessantly by the imperial ambitions of colonial American and, later, United States leaders, from the seventeenth-century French adventurer and explorer Samuel Champlain to U.S. General and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff from 1989 to 1993, Colin Powell.3 Yet, despite such evidence, many historians to this day tend to ignore warfare when writing about American history and society, particularly when discussing the colonial era. One explanation for this unfortunate trend is the decisive turn in academia toward social and cultural history since the 1960s. An emphasis on frameworks such as race, class, and gender seemingly does not fit with military 1 Douglas E. Leach, Arms for Empire: A Military History of the British Colonies in North America, 1607–1763, New York 1973, pp. XI s. 2 John Shy, American Military Experience, in: Journal of Interdisciplinary History 1 (1971), pp. 205–228, rep. in: idem, A People Numerous and Armed: Reflections on the Military Struggle for American Independence, New York 1976, p. 232. 3 Fred Anderson, Andrew R. L. Cayton, The Dominion of War: Empire and Liberty in North America, 1500–2000, New York 2005, pp. IX and XI.

282

Daniel Krebs

history and its focus on politics, organizations, and institutions. The Vietnam War, at least in the United States, also led to concerns in academia that teaching and studying warfare entailed its glorification. In 1986, thus, E. Wayne Carp concluded that “most studies” of the colonial and revolutionary period paid “little attention to military history”, despite abundant evidence that “violence and war have been two of the most pervasive phenomena in American history”.4 By 1997, noted military historian John A. Lynn wrote accusingly of the “embattled future of academic military history” in North America.5 Ten years later, in 2007, Robert Citino found that military history “has largely vanished from the curriculum of many [U.S.] elite universities” and has effectively been “marginalized within professional academic circles”.6 At the same time, however, military history remains very popular with the American public in general. On United States television and movie screens, warfare and violence abound. Since 2000, to name a few examples, Americans flocked into movie theaters to see the Patriot (2000), Black Hawk Down (2001), Clint Eastwood’s Flags of Our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima (2006), The Hurt Locker (2009), Restrepo (2011), or Lone Survivor (2013). On network and cable television, Americans watched immensely popular documentaries or mini-series such as Band of Brothers (2001), Generation Kill (2008), or The Pacific (2010). HBO is currently working on another Second World War mini-series, this time focusing on the air war. In 2014, Fury, a Second World War tank drama starring Brad Pitt opened very successfully at the box office. Even the ancients are popular: 2014 also saw the release of 300: Rise of an Empire, sequel to the surprising hit movie 300 (2007) about the Greek struggles against Persian invasions during the fifth century B.C.E. Military historians have to accept some blame for this disheartening picture. The exclusion of their field from the academe in the United States, especially after the Second World War, was not just a result of the new focus by the profession on social history and other paradigms. The field was pushed to the margins at colleges and universities also because its practitioners defined their subject so narrowly. Military history, it seemed at the time, was only the history of soldiers and leaders during campaigns and in battle. Since these days of old drum-and-bugle accounts, military history has evolved markedly. Today, three main schools exist. All propelled the field far beyond traditional approaches. Current operational historians go about their trade of 4 E. Wayne Carp, Early American Military History: A Review of Recent Work, in: The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography 94/3 (1986), pp. 259–284. 5 John A. Lynn, The Embattled Future of Academic Military History, in: Journal of Military History 61/4 (1997), pp. 777–789. 6 Robert M. Citino, Military Histories Old and New: A Reintroduction, in: American Historical Review 112 (2007), pp. 1070–1090, here p. 1070.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

283

explaining the how and why of battles and campaigns by incorporating questions of military and civic culture, sociology, and psychology. In the past, a “personalist” model had dominated – “blaming General X for zigging when he should have zagged or turning left when he should have turned right”; now, systemic factors are emphasized – such as Clausewitz’ fog of war, or the difficulty of intelligence gathering.7 Since the 1990s, a rising number of military historians focus their inquiries on questions of memory and culture.8 New York University Press recently started its own series on Warfare and Culture, edited by Wayne E. Lee from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.9 John Lynn in 2003 published a long monograph with eight chronological chapters that examine warfare in relation to its changing cultural discourse.10 Military history in the United States today, however, is clearly dominated by what was initially known as the New Military History, the study of war and society, or rather the inquiry into “the nexus between armies and the societies that spawn them”.11 Military historians from this school analyze recruitment, the social composition of armies, civil-military relations, or questions of race, class, and gender. As Peter Paret stated in 1991, the study of war and society broadened our methodological approaches and expanded “the subject of military history from specifics of military organization and action to their widest implications”.12 Historians of war and society sometimes have gone so far in their move away from traditional military history that they occasionally need to be reminded that the “ultimate fact of military history is combat, actual fighting with all its dangers and its heavy costs”.13 Based on these major schools – the new operational history, the history of war and culture, and the history of war and society – the following essay examines what military historians over the last few decades have found out about the English colonies in North America between the founding of Jamestown and the end of the Seven Years’ War. After some initial remarks about early studies of colonial military history and the changes that the history of war and society brought to our understanding of this era, the analysis will focus on the contact period in the seventeenth century. Next, the essay looks at military institutions and concentrates on the debates surrounding the various militia systems established in various colonies. Here, the examination will delve deeper into 7 8 9 10 11 12

Ibid., p. 1079. Ibid., p. 1082. http://nyupress.org/series.aspx?seriesId=64 (accessed 14th September 2013). John A. Lynn, Battle: A History of Combat and Culture, Boulder 2003. Citino, Military Histories (cf. note 6), pp. 1070 s. Quoted in John W. Chambers II., The New Military History: Myth and Reality, in: Journal of Military History 55/3 (1991), pp. 395–406, here p. 397. 13 Lynn, Battle (cf. note 10), p. XV.

284

Daniel Krebs

American Indian warfare before evaluating whether a particular “American way of war” developed out of contact and collision between European and American Indian warfare. The essay will close with a look at the eighteenth century and the era of imperial warfare in North America, as it culminated in the Seven Years’ War, the most expansive colonial conflict in the New World and, in the words of its preeminent historian, the “war that made America”.14

1.

Traditional and New Military History

During the 1940s and 1950s, consensus school historians dominated the scholarly landscape in the United States. Americans, they argued, had shared many ideas since the settlement of the continent by European newcomers in the seventeenth century. Unlike the Old World with its numerous divisions and revolutions, Americans had created a unique culture and society in the New World that allowed democracy and capitalism to flourish and, by the mid-twentieth century, had led to the emergence of the United States as a global superpower.15 In essence, this view of the past was a celebration of American exceptionalism. It also found expression in those works of the period that focused on military history. Daniel J. Boorstin, for instance, one of the foremost consensus historians, argued in The Americans: The Colonial Experience that warfare in the English colonies of North America was very different in nature from its European counterpart. While Europe entered an age of limited warfare after the turmoil of the Thirty Years’ War, American warfare remained “unlimited”, conducted by an armed citizenry organized in militia units. These men constantly had to fight against Indians and other European powers such as France who attempted to contest the English settlements on the new continent. In other words, English colonies in North America were repeatedly forced to defend their families and towns against all kinds of foes and, if they wanted to survive, had no choice but to become skilled frontier warriors. This pattern made for a “distinctive American experience” different from anything in Europe.16 Such an understanding of America’s colonial past influenced other postSecond World War historians. Richard Hofstadter noted in 1970 how “extraordinary” it was to observe the “sheer commonplaceness” of violence in Amer-

14 Fred Anderson, The War That Made America: A Short History of the French and Indian War, New York 2005. 15 See, for example, Daniel J. Boorstin, The American Revolution: Revolution without Dogma, in: idem, Genius of American Politics, Chicago 1953, pp. 66–98. 16 Daniel J. Boorstin, The Americans: The Colonial Experience, New York 1958, p. 352.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

285

ican history and “its persistence into very recent and contemporary times”.17 Just a brief list of major wars in the English colonies of North America during the seventeenth century reads impressively indeed: Virginia’s Tidewater wars (1622– 1631 and 1644–1646); New England’s Pequot War (1636–1637); King Philip’s War (1675–1676); Bacon’s Rebellion in Virginia (1676); King William’s War/The War of the League of Augsburg (1689–1697). The eighteenth century opens with Queen Anne’s War/The War of the Spanish Succession (1702–1713) and the Tuscarora and Yamassee Wars (1711–1715) before moving on to other imperial conflicts such as King George’s War/The War of the Austrian Succession (1744– 1748) and the Seven Years’ War, fought in North America between 1754 and 1761. Only a few scholars at the time fully engaged with these wars and the seemingly constant violence in the English colonies. Howard Peckham in his Pontiac and the Indian Uprising (1947) focused on the aftermath of the Seven Years’ War and later wrote a history of colonial warfare between 1689 and 1762.18 Douglas Leach, as noted above, wrote about the English quest for territory in North America in his Arms for Empire (1958). Both authors wrote rather conventional military histories, with a focus on campaigns and battles. As Richard Kohn noted in 1974, these and other military historians, lacked “a framework in which to place events, and an interpretation beyond the recounting of wars and combat”.19 Peckham or Leach can still be useful to historians today because they tell us something about the long-lasting impact of European military theory and practice in the English colonies of North America.20 Several key questions by these traditional military historians remain with us today. The debates surrounding the structure and effectiveness of colonial militia forces still influence research and writing. Considering the American Revolution and the early national period, military historians still grapple with the question whether the United States in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries needed a regular, standing army to secure its territory and national defense. As Wayne Lee noted not long ago, “comparisons between the militia and regular forces, their effectiveness, virtues, vices, and ideologies, permeate work on early American war”.21 17 Richard Hofstadter, Reflections on Violence in the United States, in: American Violence: A Documentary History, ed. by Richard Hofstadter, Michael Wallace, New York 1970, p. 7. 18 Howard Peckham, Pontiac and the Indian Uprising, Princeton 1947; Douglas E. Leach, Arms for Empire: A Military History of the British Colonies in North America, 1607–1763, New York 1958. 19 Richard Kohn, Military History at the Crossroads, in: Reviews in American History 2 (1974), pp 222–226, here p. 224. 20 Don Higginbotham, The Early American Way of War: Reconnaissance and Appraisal, in: The William and Mary Quarterly. Third Series 44/2 (1987), pp. 230–273, here p. 235. 21 Wayne Lee, Early American Ways of War: A New Reconnaissance, 1600–1815, in: The Historical Journal 44/1 (2001), pp. 269–289, here p. 270.

286

Daniel Krebs

A marked shift in research and focus occurred in the 1960s and 1970s. The New Military History appeared and new questions about the social composition of armies, recruitment of soldiers, or the relationship between society, state, and the military came to dominate our discipline. Other major interests were military thought and institutions, civil-military relations, and how race, class, and gender affected armies and warfare. This new social military history expanded the subject significantly and opened the field to new methodological approaches. Most military historians today focus on such topics. They have moved away from operational history. Despite varying interests, all social military historians seek to connect violence and the military to larger issues of societies and states.22 These historians even did not shy away from attempting a “thick description of military life and especially battle”.23 In essence, many of the findings presented in this essay are a product of this New Military History, the history of war and society in North America as it is usually called today.

2.

Invasions

A central debate in recent military histories of early America surrounds the era of America’s discovery by Christopher Columbus in 1492 and the initial contact period between Europeans and American Indians that followed, stretching long into the nineteenth century for some parts of North America. In particular, historians differ over how to characterize the landing and then settlement by Europeans on the new continent. Considering how many wars were fought very early on between natives and newcomers, historians such as Francis Jennings, John Ferling, or Ian Steele described this process as an invasion, not a settlement. Europeans were aided heavily in that effort by diseases and native divisions. In some areas such as New England about three-quarters of the native population died of smallpox or measles, among other diseases, even before the first Pilgrims and Puritans arrived in the 1620s. Ferling and Steele, in addition, focused in their work on the considerable number of soldiers that Europe sent to the colonies. For Virginia and New England in the early seventeenth century, well-known military leaders like John Smith and Miles Standish received most attention. For the Spanish colonies, Hernán Cortés and Francisco Pizarro came under strict scru22 Peter Karsten, The “New” American Military History: A Map of the Territory, Explored and Unexplored, in: American Quarterly 36 (1984), pp. 319–418; Edward Coffman, The New American Military History, in: Military Affairs 48 (1984), pp. 1–5; Richard H. Kohn, The Social History of the American Soldier: A Review and Prospectus for Research, in: American Historical Review 86 (1981), pp. 553–567; Chambers, The New Military History (cf. note 12), pp. 395–406. 23 Lee, Early American Ways (cf. note 21), p. 279.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

287

tiny. For New France, a man like Samuel de Champlain was important. These soldiers and their fellow invaders, so that view went, brought only rape, plundering, terror, and starvation to the New World and their natives. The goal was always to profit, conquer new lands, or achieve some other political advantage through warfare.24 Other authors such as Wayne Carp rejected the notion of such brutal invasions of the Americas by Europeans, particularly when discussing the English colonies in North America. Carp and others argued instead that only the early and ultimately unsuccessful English colonial projects in the sixteenth century, led by men like Walter Raleigh and Humphrey Gilbert, should be understood within a larger military context. The successful landing in Jamestown, however, should be understood as an overseas commercial venture rather than a military invasion.25 The landings in Plymouth or Massachusetts in the 1620s, according to this view, had similar commercial overtones. Religious dissenters, who came in search of new settlement areas far away from the Church of England, additionally drove migration. The initial number of soldiers in Virginia, Plymouth, and Massachusetts Bay in the seventeenth century, Carp and others argued, was so low that it should not even be used for scholarly arguments. The vast majority of men arriving in Virginia or New England at the time were farmers, traders, artisans, or servants who sought to survive long enough to grow their own tobacco in the Chesapeake region.26 Even Virginia’s era of martial law between 1610 and 1619, often brought forward in such arguments, was only a short-lived experiment.27

3.

A Clash of Cultures

Rather than trying to find the right term to describe the European arrival in the New World, it is probably more fruitful to follow what James Axtell and Daniel Richter studied in several of their publications, the clash of military cultures between natives and newcomers in North America.28 John Lynn recently took a similar approach for a series of essays on combat in Western warfare, from the

24 Francis Jennings, The Invasion of America: Indians, Colonialism, and the Cant of Conquest, New York 1975; John E. Ferling, A Wilderness of Miseries: War and Warriors in Early America, Westport 1980; Ian K. Steele, Warpaths: Invasions of North America, New York 1994. 25 Carp, Early American Military (cf. note 4), p. 264. 26 Ibid., p. 265. 27 David T. Konig, Dale’s Laws’ and the Non-Common Law Origins of Criminal Justice in Virginia, in: American Journal of Legal History 26/4 (1982), pp. 354–375. 28 James Axtell, The European and the Indian: Essays in the Ethnohistory of Colonial North America, Oxford 1981; Daniel K. Richter, War and Culture: The Iroquois Experience, in: William and Mary Quarterly. Third Series 40 (1983), pp. 528–559.

288

Daniel Krebs

ancient Greek’s phalanx to the Israeli-Arab Yom Kippur war of the 1970s.29 Observing such intercultural clashes, Axtell and other ethno-historians have stressed that humans usually either react or adapt.30 Older literature, however, usually emphasized adaptation only. In that view, Europeans arrived in North America in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and learned from American Indians to live and succeed in the New World, including winning battles and wars. In particular, they adopted some of the natives’ tactics, weaponry, and clothing. For instance, Europeans started to hide behind trees, or wore moccasins and used tomahawks. In other words, they became the kind of frontier warriors so often depicted in literature and movies.31 However, a number of military historians such as Armstrong Starkey and, from a different perspective, Guy Chet, have begun to challenge that model. They and others emphasize reactive responses to Native American warfare.32 After a detailed survey of European-Indian warfare from the seventeenth to the nineteenth century, for example, Starkey concluded that American colonists were not the kind of frontier warriors everybody had portrayed in the past. With some notable exceptions such as Benjamin Church during King Philip’s War (1675– 1676), the colonists usually failed to learn the right lessons from their wars against native foes.33 Similarly, Guy Chet argues that, contrary to the common view, only added reliance on British troops and European tactics finally led the colonists to success in the New World. When the colonists actually tried to adapt to an “American” style of warfare during the seventeenth century, they barely avoid disaster – be it during King Philip’s War or the following King William’s War (1689–1701).34 For such studies of reactive responses to Native American warfare, however, it is necessary to understand what Native American warfare actually was. For a long time in the twentieth century, historians argued that native warfare was less ferocious than contemporary European warfare. In fact, the view dominated that “Englishmen […] transferred to the New World the brutality in war and society they had known abroad”. Alden Vaughan and William Shea, for instance, stressed the cruelty of early Virginia’s English society, compared to the local natives from the Powhatan confederacy. Colonists who broke rules in Jamestown were 29 Lynn, Battle (cf. note 10). 30 Axtell, The European (cf. note 28), p. 273. See also, for instance, Craig D. Keener, An Ethnohistorical Analysis of Iroquois Assault Tactics Used Against Fortified Settlements of the Northeast in the Seventeenth Century, in: Ethnohistory 46 (1999), pp. 777–807. 31 Lee, Early American Ways (cf. note 21), pp. 273 s. 32 Ibid., p. 274. 33 Armstrong Starkey, European and Native American Warfare, 1675–1815, Norman 1998. 34 Guy Chet, Conquering the American Wilderness: The Triumph of European Warfare in the Colonial Northeast, Amherst 2003.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

289

hanged, burned, placed on the wheel, or stakes. Their Indian enemies fared even worse. Colonists had few qualms about shooting children, serving poisoned wine to Indian guests, or burning men, women, and children in their houses.35 Natives, on the other hand, seemed to have fought, at most, for “symbolic ascendancy” and their wars were characterized by a surprising “innocuity”.36 Lawrence Keeley’s work, however, showed that this view had to be revised thoroughly. Studying warfare before civilization – by which he meant pre-state violence and fighting – Keeley found out that there was nothing peaceful about this past and that Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s ideal state most likely never actually existed. To the contrary, humans in all societies often went to war and fought battles to kill their enemies. The idea that Europeans somehow brought warfare and violence to otherwise nonviolent Native Americans was simply not true.37 Certainly, the death toll was not as high when natives fought each other. They tended to avoid large-scale battles and focused on ambushes and raids. Small battles and skirmishes characterized these kinds of conflicts. Their wars differed greatly in length and intensity. But conflicts were common and people were targeted and killed, particularly in the Pacific Northwest where abundant resources allowed art to flourish but also incited a lot of jealousy and greed.38 Phrasing the question slightly differently might actually lead us to a better understanding of Native American warfare. Rather than asking whether or not Indians waged war as often or as brutally as their European contemporaries in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it might be more helpful to study how Indians conducted war in the pre- versus post-contact period.39 Brian Ferguson and Neil Whitehead, for global warfare, and Daniel Richter, for North America, have shown how profound the influence of Europeans was on native societies even before they actually came into personal contact with each other. Ferguson and Whitehead described so-called tribal-zones around the globe, areas of various sizes that extended out from the edges of states. In these zones, European technology – iron kettles, knives, muskets, etc. – altered native warfare, tribal boundaries, and allegiances long before natives and Europeans stood face-toface across from each other. Access to these material goods and the new technology was most likely a major cause for conflict and fighting among natives far 35 Alden T. Vaughan, American Genesis: Captain John Smith and the Founding of Virginia, Boston 1975; William L. Shea, The Virginia Militia in the Seventeenth Century, Baton Rouge 1983. 36 Adam Hirsch, The Collision of Military Cultures in Seventeenth Century New England, in: Journal of American History 74 (1998), pp. 1187–1212, here pp. 1190 s. 37 Lawrence H. Keeley, War Before Civilization, New York 1996. 38 George R. Milner, Warfare in Prehistoric and Early Historic Eastern North America, in: Journal of Archeological Research 7 (1999), pp. 105–151, here pp. 108 s. 39 Lee, Early American Ways (cf. note 21), p. 271.

290

Daniel Krebs

away from the areas where Europeans actually settled. Daniel Richter provides numerous examples where various material goods – initially just pieces of iron kettles – were traded and probably also fought over in North America.40 In addition, Native American warfare likely changed dramatically before personal contact with Europeans because of the diseases that swept through the continent after its discovery by Columbus and the Spanish in the late fifteenth century. Richter, for instance, describes in detail the devastating impact these diseases had on the Iroquois in the Northeast. Indeed, large-scale conflicts among native groups in the region, such as the Beaver Wars, erupted around the mid-seventeenth century. These wars were largely a result of the devastating population decrease. One of the reasons why Iroquois warriors around the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence River region went to war so often in that period was indeed to capture members of other tribes, adopt them, and thus symbolically and in reality make up for the lost members of the tribe. Because of the catastrophic impact of the European diseases on Indian country – two-thirds to three-quarters of the Iroquois perished – these “mourning wars” took on a vast scale, lasted for decades, and ranged from the Hudson Bay in the North all the way to the Ohio River in the South.41

4.

Colonial American Ways of War?

Examining reactive responses by Europeans to Native American warfare in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries led a number of military historians to ask whether a genuine American way of war developed in the colonial period. John Ferling had already stressed some time ago that Europeans, when they arrived in North America, brought with them a particular set of ideas about warfare but these also changed markedly in a relatively short time. Confronted with unexpected military problems, such as the vastness of the landscape or elusive native opponents, and the very different kind of war fought by American Indians, these Europeans escalated their conduct and began fighting with a total war mindset.42 As a result, Ferling and others developed their ideas based on a very 40 R. Brian Ferguson, Neil L. Whitehead, War in the Tribal Zone: Expanding States and Indigenous Warfare, Santa Fe 1992; Daniel K. Richter, Facing East from Indian Country: A Native History of Early America, Cambridge 2001. 41 Daniel K. Richter, The Ordeal of the Longhouse: The Peoples of the Iroquois League in the Era of European Colonization, Chapel Hill 1992. 42 John E. Ferling, A Wilderness of Miseries: War and Warriors in Early America, Westport 1980; Steele, Warpaths (cf. note 24); Patrick M. Malone, The Skulking Way of War: Technology and Tactics Among the New England Indians, Lanham 1991; Hirsch, Collision (cf. note 36), pp. 1187–1212.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

291

different kind of American exceptionalism – one in which English colonists brought “almost indescribable terrorism and malevolence” to North America and its natives.43 Recently, John Grenier followed this line of argument in his First Way of War. He argued that the English colonists early on in the seventeenth century discovered that American Indian warriors were reluctant to face them in open battle and instead evaded colonial forces. In order to defeat them nevertheless, the colonists focused on attacking Indian non-combatants and their food supply. Indeed, colonists began waging wars of extermination in which the goal was to kill as many enemies as possible and push the rest off their lands and out of their settlements. Regularly, civilian settlements were attacked. Most famously, New England soldiers encircled and then massacred hundreds of non-combatants at Mystic River, destroyed in 1637 during the Pequot War in what is today Connecticut. Additionally, Grenier emphasized, colonists hunted American Indians, warriors and non-combatants alike, by way of bounty programs for scalps. New Englanders also employed rangers, specialized units that roamed through Indian country and conducted surprise attacks and ambushes.44 John Shy had argued similarly in 1971. After the Thirty Years’ War, for him, Europe moved toward a restrained conduct in warfare. The English colonists in North America, however, continued with an unrestrained approach. The colonists felt that their survival was constantly in danger, which led them to fight particularly ferociously against the natives. Especially the English colonists in North America also saw little else in their native enemies but heathen “savages”. This situation remained unchanged, in Shy’s view, until 1815 when the Americans defeated the last American Indian resistance east of the Mississippi during the War of 1812 and finally secured their independence from Great Britain.45 Russell Weigley applied this view of colonial American warfare to the United States’ history after 1815. American leadership and the public, he argued, always wanted to fight wars by a “strategy of annihilation”. If such a strategy was not implemented during the early republic, it was only because the United States in those decades were simply too weak militarily. That changed, as Ulysses S. Grant’s and William T. Sherman’s U.S. Civil War campaigns show, by the 1860s. From then on, the United States had the will and the means to fight for absolute victory.46

43 John E. Ferling, A Wilderness of Miseries: War and Warriors in Early America, Westport 1980; Steele, Warpaths (cf. note 24), p. 23. 44 John Grenier, The First Way of War: American War Making on the Frontier, 1607–1814, Cambridge 2005. 45 Shy, American Military Experience (cf. note 2), pp. 205–228. 46 Russell F. Weigley, The American Way of War. A History of United States Military Strategy and Policy, New York 1973, ch. 7.

292

Daniel Krebs

While Weigley was arguably only concerned with strategy, other historians found such a particular American way of war also on the tactical and operational level. Armstrong Starkey, for instance, carefully examined warfare during the English colonial and revolutionary American period from 1675, King Philip’s War, to 1815, the end of the War of 1812. When studying frontier fighting (skulking, raids, ambushes, etc.), he emphasized that European and Native American styles of war-making only combined by 1815 to form a particularly American way of war. Before, some Europeans such as Benjamin Church or Robert Rogers went beyond what they knew about irregular war from the Old World but their ideas were not generally adopted. During the War of 1812 in the West, however, European tactics and operational principles mixed with Indian styles of fighting and led to crushing victories such as General William Harrison’s 1813 defeat of the Indians under Shawnee Chief Tecumseh at the Battle of the Thames.47 Considering such complexities on the various levels of war, however, and the change over time that Starkey emphasized, one may actually have to go back to what Don Higginbotham already suggested in 1987. Not a single American way of war existed in colonial times but rather different “American ‘ways’ of war”. Neither the Europeans nor Indians, he argued, originally committed to fighting total wars in the seventeenth century. The European newcomers, when burning food stocks and Indian settlements, quickly understood the devastating psychological impact such tactics had on the natives. After the initial shock, American Indians indeed did become formidable guerilla fighters who battled against and with Europeans long into the nineteenth century. Moreover, Higginbotham also pointed out that the English colonists certainly differentiated in their wars between fighting ferociously against American Indians, fighting in a more “civilized” way against fellow European powers, and fighting with rather more restraint between 1775 and 1783 against their own motherland, Great Britain.48 Similarly, Wayne Lee also emphasized that historians should rather consider multiple American ways of war. He follows what Ronald Karr already pointed out in 1998 when examining the Pequot War in New England. Europeans in North America fought differently against fellow Europeans than against Native Americans. Racial prejudices but also religious motives hereby played a decisive role. But in Europe, Karr emphasized, the same powers also fought differently when facing other Europeans versus rebels, the Ottoman Empire, or the Irish.49 Ian 47 Starkey, Warfare (cf. note 33). 48 Higginbotham, The Early American Way (cf. note 20), p. 234. 49 Ronal Dale Karr, “Why Should You Be So Furious?” The Violence of the Pequot War, in: Journal of American History 85 (1998), pp. 876–909.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

293

Steele in his Betrayals: Fort William Henry and the ‘Massacre’, which analyzed the infamous killing of English prisoners of war by the French Indian allies in 1757, studied just such a clash of various European and Indian ways of war.50 From a different perspective, Jill Lepore in her study of the memory of King Philip’s War, added to this discussion with her thesis that the cruelty the English colonists showed toward their native enemies could be attributed to their fear of losing their Englishness after arriving in North America.51 As for Indian reactions to these changing, or multiple, European styles of war, Daniel Richter contributed some key findings in his recent Facing East from Indian Country. During the seventeenth century, he argued, Indians attempted to integrate Europeans into their worlds. Over the course of the eighteenth century, however, both Europeans and Indians increasingly saw their worlds in racial terms of red versus white. Just as English colonists, and later American revolutionaries, ruthlessly went on campaigns to eradicate native communities, Indian nativists such as Neolin, or the Shawnee Prophet Tenskwatawa, grew in influence and implored their fellow natives to reject and fight the whites encroaching on their land.52

5.

Militias and Regular Forces

Historians of war and society in the English colonies of North America excelled over the last few decades when analyzing military institutions and finding out about recruitment and social composition of those troops who fought American Indians and other imperial European powers between 1607 and 1763. Contrary to European warfare at the time, standing or regular armies never took hold in the English colonies along the Atlantic seaboard. Historians have identified a number of reasons for this peculiarity. Carp stressed that the early English colonists searched for the “least economically disruptive and the most inexpensive form of military defense” of their settlements. Militia forces and “ad hoc voluntary expeditionary” forces best met that condition. Native allies regularly aided both.53 In addition to these largely economic preferences, English colonists in the seventeenth century also brought with them a traditional fear of standing armies. Already in 1637, for instance, Massachusetts resolved that it was too “dangerous” to “create a standing authority of military men, which might easily, in time, 50 Ian K. Steele, Betrayals: Fort William Henry and the Massacre, New York 1990. 51 Jill Lepore, The Name of War: King Philip’s War and the Origins of American Identity, New York 1998. 52 Richter, Facing East (cf. note 40), ch. 5 and 6. 53 Carp, Early American Military History (cf. note 4), p. 276.

294

Daniel Krebs

overthrow the civil power”.54 Events in England over the next two decades only reinforced this view: the English Civil War, Cromwell’s New Model Army, the Protectorate. By the end of the seventeenth century, Real Whig thinkers such as John Trenchard and Thomas Gordon put these experiences into writing and formulated a powerful anti-standing army ideology.55 This ideology also took hold in North America. Lawrence Cress and other historians found that very few colonists, long into the eighteenth century, argued for establishing a professional military. Prominent among those few who favored standing military institutions was George Washington from Virginia. During the American War of Independence, he turned the Continental Army, initially based on New England militias, into a regular force that successfully fought off the British.56 However, as Charles Royster pointed out, only the militia was remembered after the war as truly instrumental for securing independence and preserving America’s civil liberties. A standing army was still considered too much of a threat to freedom in society. Soon after 1783, the newly-founded United States disbanded the Continental Army that actually won the American War of Independence.57 Still, already at the beginning of settlement and conquest in North America during the first decades of the seventeenth century, New England and other colonies further south departed from the English militia tradition. During the reign of Elizabeth I, the English militia had essentially become a “small select group of able-bodied, middle class men” who were organized around local units, called trainbands. Rarely, however, did these trainbands actually meet for drills. If so, as E. Wayne Carp emphasized, the meetings resembled social gatherings rather than actual training. Militarily, these militia units were essentially useless.58 In North America, however, faced with the near-constant threat of Indian attack, colonial militias used “universal compulsory service for all free adult white males” to establish their forces. In some cases, the draft even extended to men on the margins of society. Everybody had to train and serve if needed.59 Nevertheless, militia units in the New World, just like in England, were primarily defensive-oriented military institutions. In many ways, moreover, militia organization and function changed significantly over time and varied greatly 54 Quoted ibid. 55 Lois G. Schwoerer, “No Standing Armies!” The Antiarmy Ideology in Seventeenth-Century England, Baltimore 1974. 56 Lawrence Delbert Cress, Citizens in Arms: The Army and the Militia in American Society to the War of 1812, Chapel Hill 1982. 57 Charles Royster, A Revolutionary People at War: The Continental Army and American Character, 1775–1783, Chapel Hill 1979. 58 Carp, Early American Military History (cf. note 4), p. 268. 59 Ibid., p. 269.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

295

from colony to colony. John Shy detailed some of those variations in a 1963 essay. He highlighted the great differences in structure and personnel between New England and Virginia militias.60 More recently, Harold Selesky stressed not only that militia organization and social composition varied from North to South, but even within New England. Focusing on Connecticut, he found that the militia there was less used to fighting Native Americans than similar units in neighboring Massachusetts. He attributed that to the fact that Connecticut did not have an exposed frontier. In addition, the militia in Connecticut showed at least some characteristics usually reserved for regular forces such as recruitment bounties, expeditionary units, and a rather professional officer corps. Just before the outbreak of the Seven Years’ War, Selesky stressed, many men in Connecticut’s militia were young and poor. Most of them had been brought into their units by some form of family connection or community incentive.61 In Virginia, on the other hand, a strict militia system was established only at first. It soon disintegrated when the situation in and around Jamestown stabilized around 1619. At that point, Virginians left their fortifications to grow tobacco wherever possible. The colony’s militia lost its coherence. At least partially, this contributed to the devastating losses of the First Tidewater War against the Powhatan Confederacy in 1622. A revamped militia after 1624 eased the economic burden on its members by requiring that settlers who remained at home during wartime farm the militiamen’s lands. Over the following decades, however, the militia in Virginia became more and more socially exclusive. For instance, servants and slaves were pushed out in the 1640s and 1650s. After Bacon’s Rebellion in 1676, the militia also kept out many of the poorer freemen. By that time, Virginia’s militia had essentially become a constabulary force, used most often only to recapture escaped slaves.62 These findings dovetail with research into eighteenth-century militia forces elsewhere in English North America. As the threat of Indian attacks waned along the coastal colonies, population numbers rose, and the economy developed further, militia units effectively lost their active combat roles. The South used the militia primarily to assist night watches or as slave patrols. Even in Massachusetts, as Ronald Boucher pointed out for Salem, the militia’s social function within local society became more important than fighting Indians or the French. Training days turned into “secular holidays”.63 However, these units remained an important manpower reservoir in case of emergencies. During those times, most colonies hired and paid volunteers to do 60 61 62 63

John Shy, A new Look at the Colonial Militia, in: A People Numerous (cf. note 2), pp. 175–185. Harold E. Selesky, War and Society in Colonial Connecticut, New Haven 1990. Carp, Early American Military History (cf. note 4), p. 270. Ronald L. Boucher, The Colonial Militia As a Social Institution: Salem, Massachusetts, 1764– 1775, in: Military Affairs 37/4 (1973), pp. 125–130.

296

Daniel Krebs

the actual fighting. Virginia already recruited salaried troops in 1645 to patrol the frontier. South Carolina hired a force of about 600 white men, 400 slaves, and about 100 Indian allies during the Yamassee War.64 In an important study on Virginia’s participation in the Seven Years’ War, James Titus has shown how unpopular the war was among the wider population. Virginians viewed this as yet another western adventure by Lieutenant Governor Robert Dinwiddie and his planter friends who formed the Ohio Company. Few Virginians were actually willing to enlist. In 1754, for instance, despite land and cash bounties, only about 300 men answered the call to arms. Authorities had to resort to conscription to enlist enough soldiers. This draft, however, excluded freeholders entirely. In turn, those Virginians who were then actually subject to the draft became rather restless. In other words, Virginia’s lower classes became suspicious of the elite and their war aims. The land-owning elites were equally suspicious of the masses of land-less folks. Only when Fort Duquesne was captured from the French in 1758 did the colony see true opportunities opening up in the trans-Appalachian West. The legislature promptly offered enlistment bounties and abandoned the draft. Within a few weeks, two new regiments were formed.65 Overall, Virginia’s conscripts were older than recruits from other colonies. They were also more often born outside of the colony. Titus estimates that about 58 percent of the conscripts came from outside the colony. Of those, it seemed that a full 47 percent were recent European immigrants, most of them from the very bottom of society. It is not surprising that the bounty of £ 10 offered in 1758 quickly attracted more than enough recruits.66 For Massachusetts, Fred Anderson’s 1984 monograph on this colony’s People’s Army remains unsurpassed to this day. Based on a detailed examination of muster rolls, he was able to dispel the old notion that men who joined regular expeditionary forces after 1758 – similar to the ones from Virginia – were drawn from the most marginal elements of society. Instead, just like in most European cases, Anderson found that most soldiers in Massachusetts’ volunteer units saw military service as a temporary stopgap. These men were down on their luck farmers and laborers, or simply waiting for an inheritance of some sort. Others were recruited while they still lived in some kind of dependency – usually from their mid-teens through their mid-twenties. During that time, young men were often willing to hire themselves out – or join the military temporarily. In addition, beyond economic pressures, many young men in Massachusetts also joined because of a family connection, or because friends and neighbors in their com64 Carp, Early American Military History (cf. note 4), p. 272. 65 James W. Titus, The Old Dominion at War: Society, Politics, and Warfare in Late Colonial Virginia, Columbia 1991. 66 Lee, Early American Ways (cf. note 21), pp. 279 s.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

297

munity had signed up. Anderson also noted a close relationship between common soldiers and officers. Finally, we cannot overlook the fact that religion and a deep hatred and fear of France, its Indian allies, and Catholicism motivated many to sign up for service.67 European colonists in Massachusetts and elsewhere during the mid-eighteenth century molded European ideas about the military and warfare to fit their particular needs in North America. John Morgan Dederer thereby emphasized the “bifurcation” in the colonies between peacetime militia forces on the one hand and expeditionary militia forces on the other hand. The former were recruited universally. They usually did not embark on extended campaigns. The latter were often used offensively and were a mix of conscripts, volunteers, and substitutes – most of them drawn to the service by bounties and other pay. Rather than continuously focusing on the differences between ideal and actual militias, Dederer argued, historians should understand that both kinds of forces existed; they were just used for different purposes. The ideological basis for all these variations of colonial militia forces in North America, however, remained the same – a continued distrust of standing armies.68

6.

Imperial Power and Warfare

After 1689, warfare in colonial North America became inextricably linked to the increasingly global conflict between imperial England and France, which culminated in the Seven Years’ War, waged in the Americas between 1754 and 1761. No less than four major imperial wars between 1689 and 1761 embroiled all European colonies in North America. Especially the English colony of Massachusetts found itself repeatedly at the crossroads of attacks between New France, the rest of the English colonies on the Atlantic seaboard, and Indian allies on both sides. Near constant conflict bound this colony closely to England and the British empire, and affected society on all levels.69 The pervasiveness of imperial warfare in this period was recently again made strikingly clear in an excellent account by Fred Anderson and Andrew Cayton. The Dominion of War squarely situates the origins of America’s “Empire of Liberty” in the colonial experience. In other words, warfare and conquest were not an exception for otherwise peace-loving Americans, but rather formed the 67 Fred Anderson, A People’s Army: Massachusetts’ Soldiers and Society in the Seven Years’ War, Chapel Hill 1984. 68 John M. Dederer, War in America to 1775: Before Yankee Doodle, New York 1990. 69 Richard R. Johnson, Adjustment to Empire: The New England Colonies, 1675–1715, New Brunswick 1981; William Pencak, War, Politics & Revolution in Provincial Massachusetts, Boston 1981.

298

Daniel Krebs

core of their endeavors in the New World, with the Seven Years’ War as the culmination point.70 By 1761, Britain had eliminated France from North America. Colin Calloway thus argued convincingly that the Peace of Paris in 1763 truly changed the course of not only European but also world history. However, the British triumph in the Seven Years’ War also laid the foundations for the American Revolution and the collapse of the first British Empire by 1783.71 In the cities and towns of colonial America in 1761 or 1763, however, few people thought about such unintended consequences of imperial conquest and victory. As Gary B. Nash stated in 1979, near constant warfare in this period was the main reason for the impoverishment and social stratification of American port towns. On the one hand, war was certainly good for business – for a few. Merchants, shipwrights, or gunsmiths profited immensely. Smuggling and trading boomed. Privateering brought additional income. On the other hand, constant warfare kept many young men away from farms and shops. Casualties also increased urban poverty, especially among the many widows. Poorhouses filled quickly in the first half of the eighteenth century. By 1742, Nash pointed out, 30 percent of Boston’s adult women were widows. In addition, warfare regularly led to currency depreciation and rising taxation. After each conflict, moreover, booming war economies contracted quickly.72 At the same time, imperial warfare, paradoxically, also contributed to the rise of American nationalism. As Anderson and other authors have pointed out, victory in the Seven Years’ War turned most American colonists into British patriots. Yet, when the British crown tried to reorganize and centralize their vast new empire, many protested and resisted. This suggests that participation in imperial warfare generated some kind of common understanding among the colonists, particularly when their interests differed from those of the motherland. While the metropolis in London might have envisioned a centrally-directed empire of inherently unequal subjects, many English colonists in North America saw themselves as equal partners in an imperial endeavor. Hence, they rejected any treatment as second-class subjects. Such feelings already bubbled to the surface in 1748, for instance, when the French fortress of Louisburg on Cape Breton Island, conquered by English colonists in 1745 after a hard and costly fight, was returned to France in the Treaty of Aix-La-Chapelle.73 Overall, however, when considering recent research on this period of imperial warfare in the eighteenth century, one has to agree with John Grenier who argued 70 Anderson, Cayton, The Dominion of War (cf. note 3). 71 Colin Calloway, The Scratch of a Pen: 1763 and the Transformation of North America, New York 2006. 72 Gary B. Nash, Urban Crucible: Social Change, Political Consciousness, and the Origins of the American Revolution, Cambridge 1979. 73 Carp, Early American Military History (cf. note 4), pp. 282 s.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

299

that the “key to the success or failure” of the British empire in North America usually “resided in Anglo-American dealings with Indians”.74 Already in 1991, Richard White’s classic study on The Middle Ground showed American military historians how a system of European-Indian allegiances and alliances worked that had its origins in 1701 when the Iroquois, and more than forty other Indian nations, signed the Great Peace of Montreal. Over the following decades, until the outbreak of the Seven Years’ War in North America, Indians and Europeans – French, British, and Spanish – found a “middle ground” because no one could fully dominate the other. Diplomacy and trade were the main tools in keeping the balance, with the Iroquois positioning themselves best in the Great Lakes region, between the European empires, and thus extending their influence all the way to the Mississippi River.75 That careful balance between Indians and European empires, as Peter Silver wrote in his Our Savage Neighbors, broke apart in the 1750s and 1760s, already before, but particularly during, the Seven Years’ War. One of the main reasons, as Silver exemplified for Pennsylvania, was that formerly divided colonists started to solidify into a single European group of “whites” who stood opposed to racially different “red” Indians.76 This argument is similar to what Daniel Richter argued in Facing East. There, Richter stressed the development of parallel paths by Indians and Whites toward racial hatred and exclusion by the mid-eighteenth century.77 During these years of imperial warfare, the colonial population seems to have come into “much greater contact with metropolitan military authority” than previously suspected.78 Stephen Webb already suggested in 1977 that military considerations, rather than the usual focus on the Navigation Acts or other such trade factors, truly gave rise and shape to the British empire in the Americas. He even described a system of metropolitan control anchored around a “garrison government” which began in the Caribbean and then moved north to Virginia and the rest of the English colonies. Such government at times took on the character of military rule, a model initially developed by the English in Ireland and Scotland. For instance, between 1660 and 1727, Webb wrote, almost 87.5

74 John Grenier, Recent Trends in the Historiography on Warfare in the Colonial Period (1607– 1765), in: History Compass 8/4 (2010), pp. 358–367, here p. 361. 75 Richard White, The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650–1815, New York 1991. 76 Peter Silver, Our Savage Neighbors: How Indian War Transformed Early America, New York 2008. 77 Richter, Facing East (cf. note 40), ch. 5 and 6. 78 Higginbotham, The Early American Way (cf. note 20), p. 245.

300

Daniel Krebs

percent of the governors in royal colonies in North America were military officers and 65 percent had previously served somewhere as garrison commanders.79 Based on such evidence, some historians claim that American colonists might have had fewer problems with the military than Lois Schwoerer, J. G. A. Pocock, or Bernard Bailyn wanted us to believe. John Reid, for instance, stated already in 1977 and 1981 that New Englanders, especially those from Massachusetts, the most war-torn and militarized of all English colonies in North America, really only complained about the presence of large numbers of British soldiers after the Seven Years’ War, when the protests against British efforts to centralize the imperial government and increase taxation heated up.80 Lawrence Cress’ classic Citizens in Arms followed this line of argument and further added doubt to the traditional argument about a strong anti-Redcoat sentiment in the English colonies.81 A number of publications since then have pointed out in detail that those soldiers were indeed not the “scum of the earth”, as previously postulated.82 Silvia Frey, for instance, found that deserters, petty thieves, and other marginal people certainly joined the British army in large numbers; but so did former textile workers, artisans, or agricultural workers, who were driven into the army by a temporary crisis and desperation. The army, similar to colonial American militia units or contemporary continental European armies, became a much-needed means to make some sort of living. Once in the army, many of these men were soon motivated by a regimental esprit de corps. Draconian discipline played less of a role.83 Steven Brumwell pointed out that many British soldiers in North America were actually locals and looked remarkably similar in their social composition to the regular colonial units described by Fred Anderson.84 Based on this renewed focus on British soldiers in North America, Daniel Beattie argued that conditions in the New World forced the army to adapt its

79 Stephen Webb, Army and Empire: English Garrison Government in Britain and America, 1569–1763, in: William and Mary Quarterly. Third Series 34 (1977), pp. 1–31. 80 John Reid, In a Defiant Stance: The Conditions of Law in Massachusetts Bay, the Irish Comparison, and the Coming of the American Revolution, University Park, 1977; idem, In Defiance of the Law: The Standing-Army Controversy, the Two Constitutions, and the Coming of the American Revolution, Chapel Hill 1981. 81 Lawrence Delbert Cress, Citizens in Arms: The Army and the Militia in American Society to the War of 1812, Chapel Hill 1982, ch. 1–3. 82 For the most common early iteration of this view, see J. W. Fortescue, History of the British Army, vol. 1, London 1910, pp. 573 s. 83 Silvia R. Frey, The British Soldier in America: A Social History of Military Life in the Revolutionary Period, Austin 1981, ch. 1 and 6. 84 Stephen Brumwell, Redcoats: The British Soldier and War in the Americas, 1755–1763, New York 2002.

Warfare in Colonial North America – a Review of Historiographical Trends

301

logistics and tactics.85 Peter Russell, however, stated that such changes were actually nothing particularly new. The British Army had adjusted similarly to different conditions before, particularly in Ireland and continental Europe.86 Michael McConnell in 2004 added important insights to that discussion with his examination of the daily life of British soldiers in North America, primarily those stationed in frontier forts and garrisons between 1758 and 1775. What he found were soldiers whose main concern was not military training but rather surviving in the surrounding wilderness.87 In his study, it also becomes clear that the real purpose of the British army in North America, during peacetime at least, was to enforce laws and trade policies, very similar to the main tasks of other European military forces at the time. The fur trade along the frontier in North America received the most attention. After all, this was where the British crown hoped to make considerable profits. More often than not, however, an undermanned army was unable to manage the various interests of the crown, Indians, foreigners, colonies, and colonists.88 This web of trade, conquest, imperial rivalry, and warfare lies at the center of the most important recent work on colonial American military history, Fred Anderson’s Crucible of War on the Seven Years’ War. The author masterfully describes a conflict that involved land and naval actions on three continents and, despite its name, actually spanned a total of nine years, 1754 to 1763.89 This was the first truly global war and the foundation for British dominance in the Atlantic world. The war also had a profound impact on politics and mentalities, cultures, and societies around the world. As a number of reviewers have pointed out, Anderson’s work stands out not only because of the sheer amount of information he provides, but because he is able to show the reader the manifold contingencies, ironies, and paradoxes in history that decided over war and peace.90 Like no historian before, for instance, Anderson tells the story of young George Washington who in 1754 inadvertently started this world war in the backwoods of the Virginia and Pennsylvania backcountry when he stumbled upon a French patrol 85 Daniel Beattie, The Adaptation of the British Army to Wilderness Warfare, 1755–1763, in: Maarten Ultee (ed.), Adapting to Conditions: War and Society in the Eighteenth Century, Tuscaloosa 1986, pp. 56–83. 86 Peter Russell, Redcoats in the Wilderness: British Officers and irregular Warfare in Europe and America, 1740 to 1760, in: William and Mary Quarterly. Third Series 35 (1978), pp. 629– 652. 87 Michael McConnell, Army and Empire: British Soldiers on the American Frontier, 1758–1775, Lincoln 2004. 88 Walter Dunn, Frontier Profit and Loss: The British Army and the Fur Traders, 1760–1764, Westport 1998. 89 Fred Anderson, Crucible of War: The Seven Years’ War and the Fate of Empire in British North America, 1754–1766, New York 2000. 90 Grenier, Warfare (cf. note 74), p. 362; Citino, Military Histories (cf. note 6), p. 1071.

302

Daniel Krebs

and did not understand the motives of his Indian allies when they killed the prisoners made on that fateful day. After the war, as Anderson explained, the British caused a massive Indian uprising in the Great Lakes region, commonly known as Pontiac’s War, and had to readjust entirely their plans for ruling the newly-conquered empire. In the process, following the Proclamation of 1763, which closed western lands to white settlement, the crown angered many of its American subjects. When the crown even tried to recoup some of the costs of the war through increased taxation, a protest movement erupted. This ultimately led to the 1776 Declaration of Independence by thirteen English colonies in North America. Conquering an empire was one thing, as Gregory Dowd and David Dixon observed, managing it successfully was entirely different.91 *** In sum, more historians today acknowledge that warfare truly stood at the heart of the colonial experience. Military historians no longer have to implore their colleagues to include warfare when teaching and researching Colonial America. The history of war and society, ethno-histories of all kinds, identity studies, and a renewed interest in imperial history have added significantly to our understanding of the era and its complex web of warfare, cultures, and societies among so many different peoples. Paradoxically, the new interest in warfare and society in early North America actually resulted in a rather “unmilitary” – in the traditional sense – military history of the colonial era.92 We need additional work on campaigns and actual fighting. Historians know very little about most battles of the era, large and small. To date, only a few good campaign narratives for the allimportant Seven Years’ War exist. Matthew Ward, for instance, gave us a detailed look at the Pennsylvania and Virginia fronts and published an excellent book on the British operations against Quebec.93 Nevertheless, despite all odds, colonial American military history has become a thriving subfield of our discipline.

91 Gregory Evans Dowd, A Spirited Resistance: The North American Indian Struggle for Unity, 1745–1815, Baltimore 1992; David Dixon, Never Come to Peace Again: Pontiac’s Uprising and the Fate of the British Empire in North America, Norman 2005. 92 Grenier, Warfare (cf. note 74), p. 364. 93 Matthew C. Ward, Breaking the Backcountry: The Seven Years’ War in Virginia and Pennsylvania, 1754–1765, Pittsburgh 2003; Matthew C. Ward, The Battle for Quebec, 1759: Britain’s Conquest of Canada, Stroud 2005.

Index of Names

Abbt, Thomas 102 Abdi Efendi 238 s. Adriaenssen, Leo 146 Ahmed III 230, 233, 237–239 Albrecht of Prussia 180 Alonso, Beatriz 120 Aluchalì (Euch Alí) 128 s. Anderson, Fred 281, 296–298, 300–302 Andrés de Salazar 131 Anne Stuart 285 Asano, Naganori 263 Augustus II the Strong 90, 97 Augustus William of Brunswick-Bevern 81, 85 Axtell, James 287 s. Bailyn, Bernard 300 Batu 275 Beattie, Daniel 300 Beauplan, Guillaume Le Vasseur de 205 s., 216, 220 Bell, David 165 Below, Matthias Wilhelm von 74 Berindei, Mihnea 177 Bilderbeek, Ernst Willem van 142 Billon, Jérémy 158 Black, Jeremy 203 Blanchard, Anne 13 Bodinier, Gilbert 13 Bogdansky, Anton von 73 Bois, Jean-Pierre 13 Bondeli, Siméon 79 Boorstin, Daniel J. 284 Botzis, Ivan 199

Boucher, Ronald 295 Bräker, Ulrich 103 Brancacio, Tiberio 131 Bräuer, Helmut 96 Bretschneider, Falk 96 Brewer, John 253 Brumwell, Steven 300 Brunner, Otto 34 Burkhardt, Johannes 256 Büsch, Otto 69, 249 Caito Ramdhan 128 s. Calloway, Colin 298 Carmontelle, Louis (Louis Carrogis) 163 s. Carp, E. Wayne 282, 287, 293 s. Cayton, Andrew 281, 297 Cerbellón, Gabrio 132, 134, 136 Chabroud, Charles 169 s. Chaghatay 275 Chagniot, Jean 13 Champlain, Samuel de 281, 287 Chapman, Fredrik Henrik af 201 Charles I 115 Charles of Brunswick-Lunenburg 152 Charles V 115, 121, 123, 127–129, 132, 136, 244 Charles XII 190 Charron, Pierre 161 Chet, Guy 288 Chinggis (Genghis?) Khan 275 s. Church, Benjamin 288, 292 Clark, George Norman 20 Clausewitz, Carl von 283 Columbus, Christopher 286, 290

304 Cortés, Hernán 286 Corvisier, André 13, 159 Cours, Nicolas-Rémond des Court, Johan de la 146 s. Court, Pieter de la 146 Cress, Lawrence 294, 300 Cromwell, Oliver 294 Cronström, Isaac 149 Cueva, Pedro de la 128

Index of Names

Frederick Henry of Orange 143 Frederick II the Great 67–69, 71, 73 s., 76, 84–87, 150 Frederick of Hesse-Kassel 84 Frederick William I 68, 71, 73–78 Frey, Silvia 300 Frost, Robert 173

160

Daidoji, Yuzan 263 Dalyell, Thomas 188 Davies, Brian 174, 177 de la Motte Fouqué, Heinrich August Dederer, John Morgan 297 Denys, Catherine 9 Dinwiddie, Robert 296 Dixon, David 302 Dohna, Alexander von 79 s. Dohna, Christoph von 79 s. Dohna, Frederick von 79 Doroshenko, Petro 189 Dowd, Gregory 302 Drévillon, Hervé 117 Drummond, William 188 Dziubin´ski, Andrzej 178 Ehrensvärd, Augustin 201 Elias, Norbert 247 s. Elizabeth I 294 Elliott, Mark C. 268 Elwert, Georg 175 s. Estaing, Charles Henri Hector d’ Eugen 50 Ewsum, Johan van 143

166

Ferdinand I 57 Ferguson, Brian 289 Ferling, John 286, 290 Folard, Jean-Charles de 159 s. Foucault, Michel 161 s., 251 Fourquevaux, Raymond de 161 Franz II Rákóczi 53 Frederick Augustus 76 Frederick Charles Ferdinand of Brunswick-Bevern 85–87

84

García Hernán, Enrique 115 s. Georg Eberhard of Solms 141 George II 285 Gerschenkron, Alexander 65 Gietman, Conrad 148 Gilbert, Humphrey 287 Glasenapp, Caspar Otto von 77 Gleim, Johann Wilhelm Ludwig 102 Glete, Jan 194 Golitsyn, V. V. 190 Gonzaga, Octavio 131 Gonzaga, Segismondo 131 Gordon, Thomas 294 Gordon of Auchleuchries, Patrick Leopold 188–190 Göse, Frank 94 Grant, Ulysses S. 291 Grenier, John 291, 298 Grimmelshausen, Hans Jacob Christoph von 16 Grumbkow, Philipp Wilhelm von 77 Guereau, Jacques 166 Guereau, Marie 166 Guibert, Jacques Antoine 169 Gülich, Wolfgang 93 Gustav II Adolph 202 Habermas, Jürgen 98 Hahlweg, Werner 144 Hamida (Muley Hamida) 127–129, 132 Mohammed (Muley Mohammed) 126 s., 129 s., 132 s., 135 Harrison, William 292 Haugwitz, Friedrich Wilhelm von 62 Hazen (Muley Hazen) 127–129 Hebbelmann, Georg 70 Higginbotham, Don 292 Hochedlinger, Michael 35–37, 47, 66

Index of Names

Hofstadter, Richard 284 Holsten, Hieronymus 182, 187–189 Hong Taiji 269 Horadou, Jean (Languedoc) 166 Hory, Jonas 79 Huchtenbroek, Johan van 149 Huntebrinker, Jan Willem 94 Hurtado de Mendoza, Lope 135 Husserl, Edmund 98 James, William 98 Janoschke, Gunter 95 Jaucourt, Louis de 165 Jennings, Francis 286 Johann Zápolya 57 John George I 89 John III 196 John of Austria (Don) 119, 124–126, 129–134, 136 Kaiser, Michael 111 Karr, Ronald 292 Kästner, Alexander 96 Kaunitz, Wenzel Anton von 54 Keeley, Lawrence 289 Keller, Katrin 97 Kinschot, Roeland van 142 Kira, Yoshinaka (Kozukenosuke) 263 Koenigsberger, Helmut G. 34 Kohn, Richard 285 Kolnberger, Thomas 45 Kraus, Georg 185 Krebs, Daniel 28, 250 s. Kroener, Bernhard R. 25, 28, 40, 251 Kroll, Stefan 33–35, 38 s., 43 Krüger, Nina 96 Lameth, Alexandre 168 s. Leach, Douglas 281, 285 Lee, Wayne 283, 285, 292 Leopold of Anhalt-Dessau 77 s. Lepore, Jill 293 Leslie, Alexander 188 Liechtenstern, Joseph Max von 31 s., 34 Linguet, Simon-Nicolas-Henri 160 Lipp, Anne 100

305 Lipsius, Justus 145, 147 s. Litwin, Michalon 179 Lock, Peter 178 Londrón, Jerónimo 130 Lope de Figueroa 130 s. Louis Ernst of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel 150 Louis Philippe I of Orléans 163 Louis XIV 247 Louis XV 155 Lubomirski, Jerzy 188 Luca, Ignaz de 34 Luckmann, Thomas 98 Ludwig, Ulrike 96 Luh, Jürgen 94 Lynn, John 282 s., 287 Machiavelli, Niccolò 145 s., 152 Magnus, Olaus 195 Mahmud I 230, 233–235, 238–240 Maltzan, F. T. de 161 Mari, Stefano 131 Maria Theresia 64 Maurice of Orange 143, 145 Maurice of Saxony 165 Mazepa, Ivan 190 McConnell, Michael 301 McNeill, William H. 253 Mehmed Gerey 211 ˙ Messerschmidt, Manfred 69 Metacom (King Philip) 285, 288, 292 s. Meumann, Markus 38 Meuron, Etienne 79 Miloslavsky, I. D. 188 Möhring, Christian von 73 Montesquieu 160, 165, 167 s. Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 104 Müller, Rolf Dieter 69 Münkler, Herfried 45 Murphey, Rhoads 183 Mustafa II 237 Nash, Gray B.Neolin 298 Nevs¸ehirli Damat Ibrahim Pasha 237–239 Nikulas, Oskar 193 Nimwegen, Olaf van 116

306 Nitobe, Inazo 266 Norman, Hans 194 Nowosadtko, Jutta 40 Nurhaci 269, 271, 274 s. Nuri Pasha, Mustafa Nuri

Index of Names

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques Royster, Charles 294 Russell, Peter 301

289

Paccard, Antoine-Marie 162 s. Pagano, Doria 132 Parennin, Dominique 272, 277 Paret, Peter 283 Parker, Geoffrey 19 s., 142, 253 Parrott, David 116, 124 Patrona Halil 239 Paul the Cossack 185 Peckham, Howard 285 Peter I the Great 173, 185, 190, 198 s., 204 Philip II 115, 123, 125 s., 128–130, 132, 134, 136, 140 Pierre, Johann Henri de 79 Piri Reis 137 Pizarro, Francisco 286 Platen, Dubislaw Friedrich von 73 Pocock, J. G. A. 300 Poe, Marshall 173 Portocarrero, Pedro 133 s. Powell, Colin 281 Prak, Maarten 147 Prewicz, Bernard 215 Prittwitz, Bernhard von 178–180, 186 Pröve, Ralf 24, 28, 38, 47 Pühringer, Andrea 24, 34–37, 39, 43

S¸ahin Gerey 211 Sakaguchi, Shuhei 253 Salisch, Marcus von 94 Schaar, Sebastian 95 Schlenkrich, Elke 96 Schorn, Nockern von 151 Schulze, Winfried 37 Schütz, Alfred 98 Schwerhoff, Gerd 96 Schwoerer, Lois 300 Selesky, Harold 295 Selim II 128 Sennewald, Roland 93 Servan, Joseph 158, 168 Shea, William 288 Sherman, William T. 291 Showalter, Dennis E. 21 Shy, John 281, 291, 295 Sigismund I 179 Sigismund III 212 Silver, Peter 299 Simonin, Anne 168 Smith, Jay 165 Smith, John 286 Sohr, Friedrich Christian 96, 103, 111 Standish, Miles 286 Starkey, Armstrong 288, 292 Steele, Ian 286, 293 Steffelbauer, Ilja 45 Stephen (Saint) 51, 56 Straubel, Rolf 70 Sugiyama, Kiyohiko 249 s. Süleyman I 57, 179 Swart, Erik 142–144

Raleigh, Walter 287 Rami Mehmed Pasha 237 Reid, John 300 Richter, Daniel 287, 289 s., 293, 299 Roberts, Michael 19 s., 144, 193 s., 198, 202 Rogers, Robert 292 Römer, Carl Heinrich 32, 34

Taniguchi, Shinko 247 s. Tarnowski, Jan 178 Tenskwatawa 293 Thin, Floris 148 Thompson, Edward P. 252 Tilly, Charles 249 Titus, James 296

236

Oda, Nobunaga 254 Oestreich, Gerhard 20, 144, 248 Oldenbarnevelt, Johan van 145 Ostapchuk, Victor 205, 219 Ostrozski, Janusz (Janosˇ) 215 Özturk, Said 232

307

Index of Names

Tokugawa, Iemitsu 257 Tokugawa, Ieyasu 255, 257 Tokugawa, Tsunayoshi 259, 263 Tokugawa, Yoshimune 257, 259 Töppel, Roman 95 Toyotomi, Hideyoshi 254 s. Trenchard, John 294 Tuyll van Serooskerken, Trajectina Anna Elisabeth van 149 Unger, Gunnar

193

Vasa, Gustav 197 Vaughan, Alden 288 Vermeesch, Griet 146 Vierhaus, Rudolf 38, 98 s. Vigny, Alfred de 158 Voltaire 155 s. Vyshnevetsky, Dmytro (Vysˇnevec’kyj, Wis´niowecki) 178, 186, 208 Wallenstein (Albrecht von Waldstein) 185 Ward, Matthew 302 Wartenberg, Hartwig von 73

Washington, George 294, 301 Webb, Stephen 299 Weber, Harald 93 Weigley, Russell 291 s. Weller, Thomas 97 White, Richard 251, 299 Whitehead, Neil 289 Wijn, J. W. 142 William I the Silent 142–144 William III 285, 288 William Louis of Nassau 143, 145 William V 147, 150–153 Winkel, Carmen 28, 34–39, 41, 43 Winkelbauer, Thomas 51 Winterfeld, Hans Karl von 77 Wladyslaw IV 188 Wollschläger, Thomas 93 Yamaga, Soko 259 Yamamoto, Jocho 263 Yongzheng 272 Zbaraski, Jerzy 212 Zettersten, Alex 193

Geographical-political Index

Adriatic Sea 57 Agincourt 19 Ainu region 255 s. Aix-la-Chapelle 298 Akkerman 181, 206, 215 Ako domain 263 Algeria 122 Algiers 120, 128 Archangelsk 174 Asia 27 s., 247, 257, 267 s., 270, 275, 279 Austria 27 s., 31–37, 45–47, 51, 53–62, 64 s., 76, 90 s., 105, 110, 119, 150, 233, 285 see also Habsburg Azak/Azov/Tana 198, 206 Azov, Sea of 216, 218 Babazueca 135 Balkan region 225, 227, 278 Baltic region 174, 176, 187, 211 Baltic Sea 174, 177, 185, 187, 199, 203 s., 211 Banat 60 Bavaria 90 s., 102, 111 Beijing/Peking 257, 267, 269, 272, 275 Béjaïa/Bugía/Bougie 120 s. Belfast 20 Belgorod 190 Belgrade 56, 60, 233 Bergen op Zoom 142 Berlin 82 Bern 79 s. Bilhorod-Dnistrovs’kyi 206 Black Sea region 27, 174, 177, 179–183, 190, 205–208, 210–218, 220–222

Blekinge 198 Bohemia 53 s., 58, 62 Bois-le-Duc 146 Bombay 125 Bona 120, 129 Boston 298 Brissac 164 Buda, see Ofen Budjak 177, 181 Bukowina 60 Bulgaria 181, 206 Caffa/Feodosiya/Kaffa/Kefe 181, 206 Cape Breton Island 298 Carcassonne 166 Carelia 196 Caribbean 299 Carniola 56 Carthage 137 Castile 121 s., 124 Chesapeake region 287 China 27, 249 s., 256 s., 267–280 Chocim, see Hotin Connecticut 291, 295 Constantinople 57, 128, 137, 199, 205 Coppet 79 Crete 228 Crimea, Crimean Khanate 177, 181, 190, 206, 208, 211 s. Croatia 51, 56–58, 61, 187 Danube (river) 56, 181, 206, 217 Denmark 198 Dnieper (river) 174, 177, 205, 213, 216 s.

310 Dniester (river) 177, 181 Dnipropetrovsk 174 Dobruja 181 Don (river) 190, 218 Dresden 92–94, 96, 107 Dutch Repulic, see Netherlands Edo (later Tokyo) 247 s., 255, 258–260, 262 s. England 19, 90, 147, 250, 287, 297 see also Great Britain Esztergom 57 Europe 9–12, 19 s., 25, 27 s., 35 s., 42, 45, 56, 89 s., 92, 115, 117, 121, 152 s., 173– 176, 180, 183–187, 191, 193–195, 208, 247–249, 251–253, 255 s., 266, 279, 284, 286, 291 s., 301 Feodosiya, see Caffa Finland 27, 193 s., 197–199, 202 s. Flanders 19, 115, 142 Fort Duquesne 296 France 7–9, 11, 19, 27, 35, 38, 84, 90 s., 103– 105, 115, 117, 155, 164, 199, 204, 250, 284, 297 s. Frisia 143, 149, 151 Gangut/Hanko 199 Gelderland 149 Germany 7, 9, 13 s., 16 s., 20, 24–26, 28, 36, 93, 104, 115, 198, 250 Granada 120, 126–128, 133 Great Britain 7 s., 19, 28, 291 s., 298 see also England Great Lakes 290, 299, 302 Greece 147 Grenada 166 Groningen 143 Gulf of Finland 194–196, 198–201, 203 s. Habsburg territories, Habsburg monarchy 31 s., 35–37, 45 s., 48, 50 s., 54, 56, 60 s., 65 s. Hanko, see Gangut Hanover 90 Haçova, see Mezo˝keresztes

Geographical-political Index

Helsinki 197, 199, 201–203 Hohenfriedeberg 110 Holland 116, 143–145, 148 s., 151 Holy Roman Empire 31, 35–37, 97, 105, 116, 185, 187 Hormuz 137 Hotin/Khotyn‘/Chocim 209, 211 s. Hudson Bay 290 Hungary 51, 53, 57, 62 Iberia 119–121 India 28, 119, 125, 276 Iran, see Persia Ireland 299, 301 Istanbul 183, 213, 226, 229 s., 239, 241, 244 Italy 13, 35, 115, 123, 130 s. Izium 190 Jamestown 281, 283, 287 s., 295 Japan 7, 9, 26 s., 247–250, 253–258, 260 s., 266 Jena-Auerstedt 91 Kanizsa 59 Kaffa, see Caffa Kanto 259 Karlowitz/Sremski Karlovci Karlskrona 198 Kercˇ, Strait of 216 s. Kesseldorf 90 Khotyn‘, see Hotin Kilia/Kili/Kilija 181, 206 Korea 254, 256 s. Kyoto 259

59 s., 230

La Goleta 120 s., 123, 126–132, 134, 136 s. Lake Ladoga 196 Lepanto 130 Libya 122 Liegnitz 86 Lille 156 Livonia 176 s., 187, 220 Lombardy 131 Louisburg 298 Lviv‘/L’wów 181, 212

Geographical-political Index

Madras 125 Madrid 137 Malplaquet 159 Malta 121, 199 Manchuria, Manchu Khanate 267, 269, 280 Marseille 199 Massachusetts 287, 293, 295–297, 300 Matsumae domain 256 Mediterranean (region) 138, 180, 183, 203–205 Mediterranean (sea) 115, 125, 196, 199, 203–205 Melilla 120 Mers El Kebir, see Oran-Mers EL Kebir Mezo˝keresztes/Haçova 182 Ming China 269, 273 see also China Misivri 206 Mississippi (river) 291, 299 Moghulistan Khanate 275 Mohács 57 Mongolia, Mongol Empire 269 s., 274 s., 276 s., 279 s. Montreal 299 Morea 230, 242 Morocco 122 Moscow 185, 188, 190 s. Mughal Empire 276, 278, 280 Muscovite territories, Muscovite Empire 173, 175, 177, 183, 188, 190 s., 209, 218, 220 Mystic River 291 Nagasaki 256 Nagashino 253 Naples 130 s. Netherlands 27 s., 54, 115–117, 123, 139– 143, 146–151, 153, 173, 187, 256 New England 285–287,291 s., 294 s. New France 287, 297 Nikko 257 Nógrád 57 North Africa 115 s., 119–123, 130 s., 137 North America 27 s., 247, 250–252, 281– 295, 297–302

311 Ocˇakiv 181, 206 Ofen/Buda 57, 59 Ohio River 290 Okayama domain 265 Oran-Mers El Kebir 120 s., 137 Osaka 255 Ottoman territory, Ottoman Empire 27, 35, 50–52, 55 s., 61, 124, 126, 128, 137 s., 174 s., 179–181, 183 s., 199, 205 s., 211 s., 214, 216, 220, 276, 278, 292 Overijssel 143, 149 Paris 281, 298 Passarowitz/Pozˇarevac 60, 230 Pécs 57 Peking, see Beijing Pennsylvania 299, 301 s. Peñón de Vélez de la Gomera 120 s. Persian Gulf 137 Persia, Safavid Empire, Iran 136 s., 230, 238, 275 s., 278, 280 Petersburg (St.) 174, 198, 201, 203 Picardy 162 Plymouth 287 Podolia 178 Poland-Lithuania 173, 175, 177 s., 180, 183, 185, 188, 207–209, 211 s. Pomerania 187, 201 Pontiac 302 Potsdam 25 s.,76 Powhatan confederacy 288, 295 Prussia 27, 31, 33–36, 50, 61–65, 67, 69 s., 74 s., 78 s., 82, 84, 88, 90 s., 93 s., 101, 105, 150–152, 165, 180, 184, 187 Qing Empire 249 s., 267–270, 274–280 see also China Qinghai 269 s. Quebec 302 Reval (later Tallin) 197 Rhine (river) 91, 109 Romania 181 Rome 137, 147 Rumelia 206 Russia 60, 180 s., 198 s., 202–204, 233, 266

312 Ruthenia 177, 181, 208, 211 see also Ukraine Ryukyu 256 Saar (river) 109 Safavid Empire, see Persia Salem 295 Samsun 206 Satsuma domain 256 Sava (river) 56 Saxony 27, 31–35, 89–98, 100 s., 104 s., 107, 112 Schildberg 178 Schweidnitz 86 Scotland 116, 188, 299 see also Great Britain Ségur 166 Sekigahara 255 Sevsk 189 Sicily 126, 129–131, 133 s. Silesia 62, 88, 90 Sinop/Sinope 206 Slavonia 56 s. Somme (river) 19 South Carolina 296 Spain 27, 115 s., 119–126, 128 s., 131, 137, 140 Sremski Karlovci, see Karlowitz St. Lawrence River 290 Stockholm 199, 201 Styria 56 Svartholm 174, 201, 203 Sveaborg 174, 201–204 Sweden 27 s., 177, 184, 193–204, 211 Switzerland 80 Székesfehérvár 57 Szolnok 57 Tana, see Azak Tarim basin 269

Geographical-political Index

Temesvár 57 Thames 292 Thuringia 90 Tibet 269 Timurid Empire 250, 275 s., 280 Toulon 199 Trabzon/Trebizond 206 Trarbach 141 Tripoli 120 s. Tsushima Province 256 Tunis 116, 119, 123–138 Tunisia 122 Turkestan 270 Tuscany 199 Tyrol 62 Ukraine 174, 176, 178, 180, 182, 186, 189 United States 8, 252, 268, 281–285, 291, 294 Utrecht 140, 146, 148 s. Valencia 133 Varna 206 Vatican 199 Venice 199, 230 Versailles 247 Vienna 37, 50, 57 Virginia 285–288, 294–296, 299, 301 s. Warsaw 188 Waterloo 19 Wiener Neustadt

47, 62

Yamassee confederacy Zaporozhian Sich 217, 220 s. Zboriv 209 Zeits 104 Zungaria 269 s.

285, 296

178, 190, 210, 212, 215,

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Journal series “Herrschaft und soziale Systeme in der Frühen Neuzeit”

Edited by Matthias Asche, Horst Carl, Marian Füssel, Bernhard R. Kroener, Stefan Kroll, Markus Meumann, Ute Planert and Ralf Pröve on behalf of Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit e. V. Legitimation, practice and effectiveness of rule (“Herrschaft”) are among the central themes of historical research. In particular, the early modern period was largely influenced by a process of consolidation of rule. However, the previously dominant interpretation patterns for describing rule practice and state building have been criticized recently. This has been true for a long time for both the state concept in general, originated in teleology and drawn from ideas of the 19th century and for the absolutism concept which derived from this idea. However, even recent models concentrating more on social and spatial ideas such as Otto Brunner’s “Land und Herrschaft” or Gerhard Oestreich’s concept of social disciplining (“Sozialdisziplinierung”) have become problematic. This is due to the fact that the ideal-typical concept building failed to withstand the long-term results of empirical research and thus lost its epistemological benefit. In addition to the ideal-typical concept building, it is therefore necessary to describe rule exactly, namely in its spatial and social dimensions and ranges. Rule is therefore understood as a social practice that linked the ruler and the subjects in a communicative and dynamic relationship, yet limited by norms set by the authorities on the one hand and unwritten traditions on the other. This social practice developed within the boundaries of a realm, often initially within the smaller framework of spatially limited social units, while being legally, economically and socially defined. In order to describe rule properly, it may be advisable to examine rule in the context of such units, which could often be both a realm and an instrument of rule. This is especially true for formations that can

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

be characterized as “social systems” due to their self-definition and meaning, but also their functional and communicative internal structures. Certainly, the military or the mercenaries of the rising modern age and the standing armies of the 17th and 18th centuries were outstanding examples of such social systems. It is precisely in these armies, which became increasingly institutionalized during and after the Thirty Years’ War, united by means of specific regulations and symbols, and demarcated from the outside, where the problems of rule of the early modern period are particularly striking. On the one hand, the military society of the early modern period, together with its soldiers and their relatives, was organized in a social, legal, hierarchical, yet even manorial manner. On the other hand, the military itself was an instrument of rule – externally in war and internally in peace. However, other less permeable formations and institutions also used the double function of object and subject of rule as their testing field and instrument. This included the other areas of organized public rule such as the increasingly differentiated police and administrative apparatus or the judiciary. The volumes presented in this journal series focus on the history of these social systems in different thematic and methodical approaches, both from the internal and external perspective. However, the function and intensity of rule are always in the foreground.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Publications of AMG In 2000, the AMG established the journal series Herrschaft und soziale Systeme in der Frühen Neuzeit

Volumes published by V&R unipress (from vol. 14 onward): Vol. 26: Markus Meumann / Andrea Pühringer (eds.), The Military in the Early Modern World. A Comparative Approach, Göttingen 2020, 312 p. [ISBN 978-3-8471-1013-2]. Vol. 25: Kaspar von Greyerz, André Holenstein, Andreas Würgler (eds.), Soldgeschäfte, Klientelismus, Korruption in der Frühen Neuzeit, Göttingen 2018, 296 p. [ISBN 978-38471-0859-7]. Vol. 24: Keita Saito, Das Kriegskommissariat der bayerisch-ligistischen Armee während des Dreißigjährigen Krieges, Göttingen 2020, 350 p. [ISBN 978-3-8471-0538-1]. Vol. 23: Johann von Diest, Wirtschaftspolitik und Lobbyismus im 18. Jahrhundert, Göttingen 2016, 392 p. [ISBN 978-3-8471-0603-6]. Vol. 22: Florian Schönfuß, Mars im hohen Haus, Göttingen 2017, 478 p. [ISBN 978-3-84710575-6]. Vol. 21: Frank Zielsdorf, Militärische Erinnerungskulturen in Preußen im 18. Jahrhundert. Akteure – Medien – Dynamiken, Göttingen 2016, 306 p. [ISBN 978-3-8471-0496-4]. Vol. 20: Andreas Rutz (eds.), Krieg und Kriegserfahrung im Westen des Reiches 1568–1714, Göttingen 2015, 392 p. [ISBN 978-3-8471-0350-9]. Vol. 19: Jutta Nowosadtko, Diethelm Klippel (eds.), Militär und Recht (16.–19. Jahrhundert). Gelehrter Diskurs – Praxis – Transformationen, Göttingen 2016, 289 p. [ISBN 9783-8471-0338-7]. Vol. 18: Marc Höchner, Selbstzeugnisse von Schweizer Söldneroffizieren im 18. Jahrhundert, Göttingen 2015, 284 p. [ISBN 978-3-8471-0321-9]. Vol. 17: Jan Kilián (eds.), Michel Stüelers Gedenkbuch (1629–1649). Alltagsleben in Böhmen zur Zeit des Dreißigjährigen Krieges, Göttingen 2014, 462 p. [ISBN 978-3-84710235-9]. Vol. 16: Ralf Pröve, Carmen Winkel (eds.), Übergänge schaffen: Ritual und Performanz in der frühneuzeitlichen Militärgesellschaft, Göttingen 2012, 158 p. [ISBN 978-3-84710023-2]. Vol. 15: Horst Carl, Ute Planert (eds.), Militärische Erinnerungskulturen vom 14. bis zum 19. Jahrhundert. Träger – Medien – Deutungskonkurrenzen, Göttingen 2012, 384 p. [ISBN 978-3-89971-995-6]. Vol. 14: Jan Peters (eds.), Peter Hagendorf – Tagebuch eines Söldners aus dem Dreißigjährigen Krieg, Göttingen 2012, 238 p. [ISBN 978-3-89971-993-2].

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Back volumes: Vol. 13: Matthias Meinhardt, Markus Meumann (eds.), Die Kapitalisierung des Krieges. Kriegsunternehmer in Spätmittelalter und Früher Neuzeit, Münster 2015, 408 p. [ISBN 978-3-643-10108-2]. Vol. 12: Anuschka Tischer, Offizielle Kriegsbegründungen in der Frühen Neuzeit. Herrscherkommunikation in Europa zwischen Souveränität und korporativem Selbstverständnis, Münster 2012, 338 p. [ISBN 978-3-643-10666-7]. Vol. 11: Ralf Pröve, Lebenswelten. Militärische Milieus in der Neuzeit. Gesammelte Abhandlungen, Münster 2010, 222 p. [ISBN 3-643-10768-8]. Vol. 10: Ewa Anklam, Wissen nach Augenmaß. Militärische Beobachtung und Berichterstattung im Siebenjährigen Krieg, Münster 2008, 312 p. [ISBN 978-3-8258-0585-2]. Vol. 9: Matthias Asche, Michael Herrmann, Ulrike Ludwig, Anton Schindling (eds.), Krieg, Militär und Migration in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2008, 344 p. [ISBN 978-3-82589863-6]. Vol. 8: Ursula Löffler, Vermittlung und Durchsetzung von Herrschaft auf dem Lande. Dörfliche Amtsträger im Erzstift und Herzogtum Magdeburg, 17.–18. Jahrhundert, Münster 2005, 256 p. [ISBN 3-8258-8077-X]. Vol. 7: Beate Engelen, Soldatenfrauen in Preußen. Eine Strukturanalyse der Garnisonsgesellschaft im späten 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, Münster 2005, 672 p. [ISBN 3-82588052-4]. Vol. 6: Sebastian Küster, Vier Monarchien – Vier Öffentlichkeiten. Kommunikation um die Schlacht bei Dettingen, Münster 2004, 560 p. [ISBN 3-8258-7773-6]. Vol. 5: Matthias Rogg, Jutta Nowosadtko (eds.) unter Mitarbeit von Sascha Möbius, “Mars und die Musen”. Das Wechselspiel von Militär, Krieg und Kunst in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2008, 408 p. [ISBN 978-3-8258-9809-1]. Vol. 4: Michael Kaiser, Stefan Kroll (eds.), Militär und Religiosität in der Frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2004, 352 p. [ISBN 3-8258-6030-2]. Vol. 3: Markus Meumann, Jörg Rogge (eds.), Die besetzte res publica. Zum Verhältnis von ziviler Obrigkeit und militärischer Herrschaft in besetzten Gebieten vom Spätmittelalter bis zum 18. Jahrhundert, Münster 2006, 416 p. [ISBN 3-8258-6346-8]. Vol. 2: Markus Meumann, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Herrschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit. Umrisse eines dynamisch-kommunikativen Prozesses, Münster 2004, 256 p. [ISBN 3-82586000-0]. Vol. 1: Stefan Kroll, Kersten Krüger (eds.), Militär und ländliche Gesellschaft in der frühen Neuzeit, Münster 2000, 390 p. [ISBN 3-8258-4758-6]. Further publications of the AMG: Karen Hagemann, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Landsknechte, Soldatenfrauen und Nationalkrieger. Militär, Krieg und Geschlechterordnung im historischen Wandel, Frankfurt am Main 1998 (= Geschichte und Geschlechter, Vol. 26), 368 p. [ISBN 3-593-36101-9]. Bernhard R. Kroener, Ralf Pröve (eds.), Krieg und Frieden. Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit, Paderborn 1996, 356 p. [ISBN 3-506-74825-4].