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On July 19, 1870 France declared war on Prussia, starting the Franco-Prussian War.

Louis Napoleon evidently had his own Neo-Conservatives who guaranteed that the French army would Can-Can its way to Berlin.

In fact, the Emperor decided to lead the chorus line himself. Unfortunately, the charming bumbler had delusions of competence; he inherited the name Bonaparte but none of his uncle’s military genius. His army of 120.000 soldiers never got further than Sedan, where the entire force was captured by the Germans. And this French army was supposed to be rescuing another French army that was trapped at Metz.

To Bismarck’s amazement, the French weren’t getting the hint. Having lost the Emperor, the French government now proclaimed itself a republic and vowed to continue the war. The French raised five more armies, which meant that the Germans had to take the trouble to crush four more of them. (The fifth army survived by fleeing to Switzerland.) Paris fortified itself and withstood a siege for three months; before the Parisians finally surrendered, they ate the animals in the city zoo.

Bismarck certainly was making the best of the situation. He had used the war to coalesce the German states into one unified–under Prussian hegemony–empire. The new Kaiser was vacationing at Versailles, while Bismarck was enjoying even more luxury as the uninvited guest at the Rothschild estate outside of Paris. Bismarck himself had turned down Versailles, quipping “Why live like a King when you can live like a God.”

The Chancellor was keeping a running tab of the expenses, and he had every intention of making France pay. Had France surrendered along with its hapless Emperor, Bismarck would have been satisfied with minor border adjustments. But after 10 months of war, Bismarck now demanded Alsace and Lorraine and a staggering indemnity of 6 billion gold Francs.

Although the unwelcomed guest of the French Rothschilds, Bismarck generally was more deferential to the family. Their man in Berlin, Gerson Bleichroder, was Bismarck’s banker and financial advisor. As you would gather from his name, Gerson was not exactly an Aryan aristocrat. Bleichroder played a role in the negotiations between a vanquished France and a vindictive Prussia. When informed of Germany’s demand for six billion gold Francs, the head of the French delegation protested, “If we started counting from the time of Jesus Christ, we would not reach such a sum.” Bismarck retorted–in French–“That’s why I have Bleichroder. He started counting long before Jesus Christ.”

After three ghastly years of war with cousin Willy, the royal family of Britain felt pressured to change its name. Saxe-Coburg-Gotha sounded unpatriotic. Indeed, the British royal family was quite German. Although born in London, Queen Mary was Teck-nically German. The mother of King George was (mercifully) Danish, but his paternal ancestry was almost completely Deutsch. (There had been a Scottish/Danish great- great- etc. grandmother almost three hundred years earlier.) The family decided to rename itself the impeccably anglophile guise of Windsor.

I have done a calculation of the British ancestry of the Royal family. You may need a microscope.

George V was 3/32768 English. By comparison, he was much more Scottish: 3/4096. The rest of his ancestors were German or Danish. However, George VI actually married a nice British girl. But then his daughter had to marry ein Battenberg (even if the family tactfully translated it to Mountbatten).

It is ironic but British law does not require the monarch to be British. The sole requirement is that he or she be Protestant.  At the penalty of disinheritance, a member of the Royal Family is prohibited from marrying a Catholic.

However, the prohibition does not apply to other religions. So, in theory, Prince Charles could have married Nigella Lawson (Levinson actually) or Rachel Weisz.

July 16, 1054

Imagine the marriage of Arianna Huffington and Tony Danza.  Do you think that it would last?  She despises him as a  vulgar barbarian; he resents her as an effete, overbearing dragon.  (Well, they both are right.)  Yes, a divorce is inevitable.  In fact, it happened this day in 1054: the final schism between Byzantium and the Roman Catholic Church.

Constantinople and Rome had never liked each other; but that was not essential to the union.  “Honor and obey” would have been sufficient; alas, neither party was willing to be the supplicant one.  Each claimed to be the capital of Christendom.    For a few centuries, however, Rome had no choice but to defer.  A Byzantine garrison was there to remind the Bishop of Rome of his manners.  A few uncooperative Popes found themselves dragged to Constantinople.  (If it was any solace, a Byzantine dungeon was probably more comfortable than the Vatican during Dark Ages.)

In the middle of the eighth century, the couple had a vicious fight over interior decorating.  Rome liked icons; Constantinople didn’t.  From that point on, they were unofficially separated.  At the same time, Rome found a more appreciative partner–a muscle-bound parvenu named France.  While rich, sophisticated Constantinople had scoffed at Rome’s claims to primacy, rich, ignorant France craved the classy distinctions that Rome could confer.

For the first time since the Emperor Constantine, Rome felt like a capital again.  And it loved the attention and the power.  From then on, Rome was no longer the neglected domestic of Constantinople.  It was the rival.  The pagans of Eastern and Northern Europe found themselves the subject of competing Christianities.  Would they be converted (and subservient) to Rome or Constantinople?  Rome turned out to be quite adept at hustling, one of the advantages of vulgarity.  It had missionaries who promised anything to make their quotas, and its armed adherents were never shy about swordpoint conversions.  (How else would you convert the Vikings?)

However, there were presumed limits to Rome’s marketing:  it was to keep out of Byzantine dioceses.  Greek Christians were not to be enticed or rustled.  But Southern Italy –or Western Greece depending on your perspective–became the focus of contention.  The area had long been held by the Byzantines, but in the mid-eleventh century Norman freebooters had seized much of it.  While hardly paragons of piety, the Normans gave nominal allegiance to Rome and let Latin practices be introduced into the Greek churches of Southern Italy.  The Patriarch of Constantinople, a quarrelsome bureaucrat named Michael Cerularius, publicly denounced Pope Leo IX as an accomplice to theft.   He further inveighed against the Pope for all sorts of theological failings including being “Judaistic”.  Popes really appreciate that adjective.

If Leo was ever good natured about being slandered, this was not the time.  The Pope was dying, and his temper was as short as his life expectancy.  He wrote a scathing letter back to “Bishop” Cerularius but refrained from sending it when he received a conciliatory letter from the Byzantine Emperor.  The Emperor had seen where this quarrel was heading, and was hoping to avert it; after all, while trying to retain Southern Italy, he did not need another enemy.  A Papal delegation was invited to Constantinople, where any disputes would be diplomatically resolved.  All that was required were men of good will.  But the Pope’s delegates were anything but; the two cardinals and an archbishop hated the Byzantines.  They went to Constantinople, looking to be outraged and freely giving offense.  Of course, the Patriarch did not disappoint them; he snubbed them.  They responded by translating and distributing the Pope’s attack on the Patriarch.  This did not win them friends in Constantinople; do you think that they cared?

While fomenting a schism, the Roman delegates received word that Pope Leo had died.  They no longer had any authority but that did not stop them by from committing one final, definitive offense.  Dressing in their full canonical regalia, the three entered Hagia Sophia–on this day in 1054.  The church was crowded; the Eucharist was being celebrated.  There would be no lack of witnesses.  The Roman delegation walked up to the High Altar and left there a Bull of Excommunication for the Patriarch.

In fact, the Papal Bull had no validity.  The Pope was dead, and his legates had lost any authority to issue an excommunication.  The Bull could have been ignored.  But the Byzantines chose not to.  Yes, the Roman delegation had infuriated them, but it was only the culmination of Rome’s endless pretensions and affronts.  If that meaningless parchment was an excuse for a schism, the Byzantines were glad to have it.

In 1789 France was greatest country in Europe. Wealthy, sophisticated, in the forefront of art, intellect and fashion, it was the paragon of western civilization. And all these achievements were despite a government of remarkable incompetence.

The French monarchy was an anachronism. It had modern pomp but medieval circumstances. The government faced 18th century expenses with a 14th century income. A king, on the whims of his mistress, could plunge France into a calamitous war, but he could not raise the taxes to pay for it. The king did not have to answer for his vanity, lust, bigotry or mistakes; but he had to borrow the money for them.

The Crown had been bankrupt throughout most of the 18th century. Much of the treasury actually had been lost in a stock market crash of 1720. The monarchy simply borrowed money to meet its expenses and then borrowed more money to pay off its debts. The deficits grew but the monarchy continued its profligate ways.

By 1778, France could not even afford to win a war; but the prospect of subsidizing the American rebellion against Britain seemed an irresistible revenge for a century of French defeats. In fact, France was so eager that its treaty with the Americans made no provision for repayment or the restoration of lost French territories in America. France proved to be generous to a default. The new debts precipitated a financial crisis. There just wasn’t enough money to borrow. The Crown had to raise taxes; ironically, it did not have that authority.

Throughout the 17th century, Cardinal Richelieu and Louis XIV had amassed and consolidated the powers of the monarchy. Yet, they had either overlooked or whimsically chosen to preserve one medieval constraint: the power to create new taxes.

That was the prerogative of the Estates General. Since the 14th century France had this rudimentary and frequently neglected form of a general assembly.  It could be summoned only at the king’s discretions, and the French kings proved very discreet. The Estates General was usually summoned in the event of an emergency. When Louis XVI found the crown overwhelmed by its debts, he reluctantly summoned the Estates General to convene in 1789. (The last previous Estates General had met in 1614.)

The Estates General was comprised of three estates that represented the people and classes of France. The First Estate was the clergy and the Second was the aristocracy. The Third Estate was everyone else but particularly the affluent, educated and vociferous bourgeoisie. Since the first two Estates were generally exempt from taxes, the Third Estate would bear most of any new financial burden.

Louis XVI expected the assembly to comply with his requests for new taxes. Louis XIV might have awed such concessions from the deputies. Louix XV might have charmed them. However, Louis XVI lacked his ancestors’ majesty. The 34 year-old was corpulent, awkward and maladroit. Certain merchants in Alsace might have described him as a “schlub.” Louis could not command the Assembly’s acquiescence. Perhaps no one could. The Third Estate wanted concessions in return for its money. Of course, one might expect that from commoners. However, the majority of the First Estate and even a significant number of the aristocrats sided with the demand for reforms, in particular the establishment of a permanent general assembly for legislation.  The French may have hated the British but they liked the idea of a government a l’anglais.

The King and his equally obtuse advisers were shocked by this impertinence. They first tried ignoring the Assembly’s demands. The Crown then resorted to petty intimidation. It locked the doors of the chambers where the Estates General had been meeting. The dispossessed deputies simply moved to a nearby tennis court where they voted to demand a permanent legislature. Faced with this opposition, the dithering King was finally ready to concede to the Estates’ first requests. But, after six weeks of evasions, ploys and intimidation, the aggravated Assembly had increased the tenor and extent of its demands.

Louis was rarely decisive but, when he was, it was a consistent disaster. He now ordered troops from their posts along the border to march on Paris. The king seemed to think his subjects were more of an enemy than any foreign power. If he was hoping to intimidate the Estates General, he only succeeded in igniting riots. The populace of Paris rose in rebellion, desperate to arm itself against any royal suppression. On the morning of July 14, 1789, the militants looted the arsenal at Les Invalides. The mob then attacked the Bastille, a fortress that now served as a royal prison.

Responding to an armed rabble on a rampage, the Civil Guard of Paris mustered its troops and its artillery and marched to the site of the riot. The Civil Guard should have had no trouble dispersing the disorganized mob: it would have been a slaughter. However, when the cannons and muskets of the Guard fired, they fired on the Bastille. Against this united front, the Bastille soon fell.

The news reached the King the following morning. The dismayed Louis asked, “Is this a rebellion?”

“No sire,” a wiser courtier replied. “It is a revolution.”

July 10, 1509:  John Calvin Begins Denouncing the World

This is an awkward day in Heaven.  God help the Angel so tactless as to wish John Calvin a Happy Birthday.  The Protestant Reformer does not  mind being over 500 years old; on the contrary, decrepitude becomes him.  No, he just finds that the adjective “happy” is an accusation, the insinuation of a human pleasure. However, Reverend Calvin might appreciate a cake with 500 lit candles because that would remind him of the fires of Hell that only God’s arbitrary mercy spared him.

You have to wonder:  this curmudgeon was preferable to syphilitic Popes?  Certainly not at a dinner party or as a friend on Facebook, but something in the Manic-Repressive did have a certain appeal.  He could be considered the gentile Ayn Rand.  When you are miserable, you are holy; and you are doing God’s Will by making everyone else miserable, too.  Furthermore, Calvin could also be regarded as the gentile Milton Friedman; if you are making money, it must be God’s Will.  So, if you regard bad manners and greed as sacraments, then Calvin has a theology for you.

The Dutch adhered to the greed,  the Presbyterians of Scotland worshipped the misery, and the Puritans of England embraced both.  Unfortunately, this leaves us with an ironic fact of evolution.  The dour, repressive John Calvin is the Godfather of Liberals. 

Liberals were not always the kindly if patronizing, ineffectual, open-minded to the point of chaotic, “secular humanists” that you know and love. No, in the beginning, liberals were grim, ruthless bigots. In the 17th century, Fox News actually would have been right: these liberals really did have a war against Christmas. 

Yes, just as Creationists deny the family resemblance to Neanderthals, liberals seem loathe to admit their descent from the Calvinists.  The Puritans are the antithesis of modern liberal values. They were miserable, dogmatic misanthropes, regarding all but themselves as the appetizers of Satan.  When they were in power, under Cromwell, they suppressed cards, dance, theater, even the celebration of Christmas. Any hint of color was suspiciously Catholic. (The Puritans did permit beer, cider and ale, but those beverages were more sanitary than 17th century water.).

However, their misanthropism had an egalitarian character; they hated everyone equally. The monarchy was not beyond their censure; indeed, they deeply resented that their taxes should subsidize the royal pleasures. They would have restricted Elizabeth I to one good dress (plain black silk) and two or three frocks. Yet, these dour curmudgeons were the first to realize that Parliament offered them a weekday pulpit to denounce the vices and faults of England. Their numbers in Parliament grew over time, reflecting the middle class alienation from the monarchy. They were a handful of cantankerous pennypinchers in the reign of Elizabeth. They were the vociferous minority that attacked the incompetence of James I. They were the militant core of the majority that resisted the intimidation of Charles I. And they were the vanguard of the triumphant army that established the supremacy of Parliament over the monarchy.

Once in power, the Puritans succeeded in making England miserable, but England was neither sanctified nor grateful for the experience. Indeed, after a decade of Cromwell, Puritanism had lost its Calvinist charisma for the middle class. England longed for pageantry and syphilis; and Charles II would offer both. If, however, the Puritans now receded from political domination, they had left one legacy that the Restoration could never undo. Parliament was the supreme institution of the land; and the monarch served at its sufferance.

As for the Puritans, power–however shortlived–had proved both corrupting and enlightening. They had liked dominance and, in hope of regaining it, they realized that politics was more useful than dogma. They did not immediately or completely forsake their cherished prejudices; they still hated Catholics and distrusted the Stuarts. However, they shed their repressive theocratic personality, and reinvented Calvinism into a self-improvement, assertiveness training. They became the champions of a rising–secular–middle class struggling against the hereditary rule of upper-class twits. The new and improved faction needed a more appealing name than Puritan. In hindsight, Whig wasn’t a great choice but it did escape that dour Calvinist stigma.

New name, new image. True, over the next two hundred years, there was an occasional lapse from those lurking, recessive genes: William Gladstone was creepy enough to be a Puritan. Nonetheless, the modern liberal would gladly claim his Whig descent from John Locke, Robert Walpole, William Pitt and their American kinsmen (Franklin, Jefferson and the rest). But one cannot claim that the modern liberal sprang forth fully developed from the mind of John Locke. Whether we like it or not, the family tree includes John Calvin.

Of course, the fact would make Calvin miserable, but isn’t that what he would want?

July 3, 1778:  The Why in Wyoming

We Americans tend to misuse the word “massacre”.  When five rowdies in Boston get shot by British troops defending themselves, that is remembered as the Boston Massacre.  When seven members of the Moran gang are gunned down by their Capone rivals, that is the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.  Now, really, do seven corpses even add up to a  misdemeanor?  A massacre should amount to a mass of dead.  The St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre certainly meets that standard; in 1572 as many as 30,000 French Protestants discovered the disadvantage of being the chosen elect.  (In fact, the appalling number left the English at a loss for words–so they borrowed one from the French:  massacre.)

But on this day in 1778 there really was a massacre in the Wyoming Valley in northeastern Pennsylvania.  A raiding party of some 600 Tories and Iroquois attacked the settlements there.  The Patriots–as they fancied themselves–(and Rebels by the British definition) had only half of that number in their militia.  But their commander, a Colonel Zebulon Butler, decided to attack.  Frederick the Great would have done the same thing; Napoleon probably would not because at the time he was only nine.  However, both Frederick and a grown-up Napoleon might have used more tactics than just blind audacity.  So Zebulon Butler is not remembered as a military genius.  He was lucky enough to survive the battle and manage to avoid being captured.  About twenty of his men were also that fortunate.

The Tories and the Iroquois did take prisoners; they just didn’t keep them.  The British commander counted 273 scalps, but he did curtail his troops’ tonsorial enthusiasm.  The civilians of the Wyoming Valley were not harmed.   Of course, the late and defoliated militia men had been their husbands and sons; so they were not exactly grateful to the Empire.  The British had gained a minor victory and major notoriety. 

Indeed, the lurid story of the Wyoming Valley Massacre spread well beyond Pennsylvania.  Thomas Campbell, a Scotsman who could empathize with anyone hating the English, wrote an epic poem recounting the life and losses of a witness to the massacre:  “Gertrude of Wyoming”.  Stop laughing.  At the time (1809), that seemed like a serious title. The poem really was very popular.  It must have been a favorite of Ohio Congressman J.M. Ashley; in 1865 he proposed a bill naming a stretch of the Great Plains for a valley in eastern Pennsylvania.  The choice of Wyoming was irrelevant, incongruous and absurd, but it stuck.

April 24, 1547.

The Hapsburg Hipster

Charles V–Holy Roman Emperor, King of Spain, Archduke of Austria, Grand Duke of Burgundy and general landlord of Christendom–must have felt very good in 1547. Aside from his damn gout, everything was going his way.   His chronic enemy–Francis I–was preoccupied with dying of syphilis. His greatest threat–the Ottoman Empire–was pinned down in a war with the Persia. (The Turks had seized three of Persia’s western provinces, but discovered that it is easier to invade Mesopotamia than to hold it.) Yes, the Council of Trent was bugging Charles to crush the Protestant heresy–but so what! He had never been particularly fond of Popes and Cardinals; indeed, he had tolerated Luther for being less offensive than the Medici Popes. No, the Church’s most powerful parishioner would move against the Protestants only when–and if–he was ready; and Charles, having his father’s Flemish temperament rather than his Mother’s Spanish one, first had to be provoked.

But the Protestant princes of Northern Germany were flouting imperial authority. They were confiscating the Church’s property and appointing Protestants to bishoprics, defying Charles’ edicts to respect the rights and privileges of the Catholic Church. The Princes further aggravated the Emperor by forming a defensive alliance in 1531, the cacophonous named Schmalkaldic League. Charles was insulted but not endangered; so he could wait.

In fact, Charles waited 15 years; and in 1546, the timing was right. Saxony was the bastion of Protestantism. It had provided sanctuary and support to the young Professor Luther. Saxony’s prince Johan Frederick had founded the Schmalkaldic League. Now, however, Johan Frederick was threatened by the usurping designs of an ambitious cousin. And guess who Charles decided to support? Of course, the Schmalkaldic League rallied to the support of Johan Frederick and, in effect, declared war on the Emperor.

The Northern Princes may have had religion in common, but apparently little else. They were still trying to coordinate their forces when the Emperor’s much larger army descended upon them at Muhlberg in 1547. The battle was short, decisive, and not the most encouraging affirmation of the Reformation. The Schmalkaldic League proved to be as ridiculous as it sounded.  Johan Frederick of Saxony was captured, threatened with death and forced to cede his sovereignty and most of his lands to his annoying cousin.

The Protestant Princes once again were mindful of etiquette: the Emperor always takes precedence. Charles’ sovereignty was reestablished, but the Emperor sensed that his victory had limits. Any attempt to eradicate Protestantism would be prolonged, very bloody and probably impossible. (His great-great-nephews would fight a Thirty Years War to learn that.) Charles was happy with a political victory rather than a theological chimera.

Johan Frederick had to be content with his life. His cousin reigned in Saxony and that branch of the family would continue to do so until 1918. The dispossessed Prince–now a mere duke–and his descendants were reduced to ruling over a few motley towns and estates. Their little realm was known by its most prominent properties: the town of Coburg and the duchy of Gotha.

And in time, the family of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha would acquire a few more properties to alleviate the loss of Saxony. The job in Brussels helped, and the position in London is pretty prestigious.

June 28, 1914: Belgrade

The Serbian Press Secretary opened the news conference with this statement.

“The Serbian government was sad to learn that the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife the Archduchess Sophie shot each other today. We wish that they had found a more peaceful way to solve their marital problems.”

I will now answer your questions.

Reporter: Eyewitnesses report that the couple was assassinated by a terrorist linked to Serbia. Is the Serbian government denying any connection to this terrorist organization?

Spokesmanvic: There have been so many assassinations and it is just pointless and malicious to allege that this government had any knowledge, link or responsibility for the murder of President McKinley.

Reporter: The Austrian government is accusing Serbia of supporting terrorists.

Spokesmanvic: Look, this “event” probably was a carjacking that got out of hand. If the conspiracy-paranoids in Austria need a culprit, they should accuse Mexico. There is no question that the Mexicans killed the Archduke Maximilian, and a Chicano street gang may have killed Franz Ferdinand as a member initiation.

Reporter: I’m Clive Murdoch of the Melbourne Swagman. Got me a two part question. Is it possible that the assassination was the work of bolshevik-anarchists and do you got nude photos of the Archduchess for our page three?

Spokesmanvic: Yes and no. And those were excellent questions. Thank you.

Reporter: Do you feel that the controversial, iconoclastic studies of Freud and the provocative, scathing plays of Arthur Schnitzler offer any predicative insights into the psychology and actions of pre-post-modernist Vienna?

Spokesmanvic: You’re from The New York Times, aren’t you? Yes, the Austrians want to kill us. Interestingly enough, they also want to kill Freud and Schnitzler.

Obituary I

It is day 87 of the coverage of the death of Michael Jackson.  Since his posthumous appointment as America’s Good Will Ambassador, Mr. Jackson has visited 47 countries.

It is a tribute to America’s plastic surgeons as well as Michael’s stamina that the decomposition has been minimal.  No one really is going to notice a disintegrating pancreas.  Ambassador Jackson has been credited with the disarmament agreement with North Korea.  Kim Jung Il was a big fan, and was willing to make any concession to have Mr. Jackson’s visit.

Iran has been omitted from itinerary, but Ayatollah Khamenei tried not to seem hurt.  “Who wants that Jew anyway?  He is no Petula Clarke!”

Obituary II

Alas, on this day in 363, Julian the Apostate was killed.  Ruling the Roman Empire from 361 to 363, Julian was the last pagan emperor and the first management consultant.

Since 312, the Empire had been operating on a new managerial system called Christianity. The prototype of Total Quality Management, Christianity provided the benefits of monotheism without circumcision. It also offered eternal retirement benefits, which proved very popular among the meek.

Constantine imagined that Christianity would be a cohesive and subservient force for the government. Instead, the Christian sects were fighting each other when they weren’t persecuting everyone else. Christianity certainly did not discourage fraticide in the Imperial family. Constantine’s sons killed each other off, leaving the throne to cousin Julian. Having barely survived the carnage, he was not impressed with Christianity.

To save the Empire, Julian tried to reinvent Paganism.But as a graduate of the best schools in the Empire, Julian felt that Paganism needed intellectual dignity: fewer orgies, more seminars. So the Emperor preached Neo-Platonism, a unique combination of philosophy and animal sacrifices. His religion would appeal to the masses’ minds rather than to their fears and hopes.His approach certainly had cerebral appeal. Pagans had fun, Christians had solace but Neoplatonists had metaphysics. There weren’t many converts. The Christians resented Julian, while the pagans were just bewildered. (The Jews liked him because he wasn’t persecuting them.)

Unfortunately, Julian did not have a chance to promote his metaphysical, synergized paradigm. While leading the Roman army against Persia, he was killed in battle. We still don’t know by which side.

On this day in 1876, George Armstrong Custer thought he had a brilliant idea to propel his Presidential campaign. He would wipe out an Indian encampment on the Little Big Horn River. Such a glorious victory would overshadow the other contenders for the Democratic nomination. Unfortunately, Col. Custer seemed to have underestimated the number of Indian braves or Tilden supporters at the Little Big Horn. 

He didn’t live to regret it. Neither did half of the Seventh Cavalry.

If ever a blundering buffoon deserved to be portrayed by Adam Sandler, it was Custer. Hollywood, however, has usually depicted him in heroic glory. Perhaps the most entertaining and definitely the least accurate depiction was in “They Died With Their Boots On,” a 1941 deification starring Errol Flynn.

In that saga, Flynn deliberately sacrificed himself against at least 5000 Sioux who, if unimpeded by Custer, would have rampaged through the nation, ruined the Philadelphia Exposition and scalped Alexander Graham Bell.

Now if I correctly recall…the Sioux were made all the more dangerous and sinister by having Eric von Stroiheim and Peter van Eyck play the Indian leaders Sitting von Bulow and Crazy Horst.