Stay ConnectedIn each episode of History Fix, I discuss lesser known stories from history that you won’t be able to stop thinking about. Need your history fix? You’ve come to the right place.
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It’s 1719, Daniel Defoe flips through the freshly printed pages of his latest novel. It took him just six months to write but he has a good feeling about this one. He runs his finger along the title page, “The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe” printed in bold black ink. He feels good about this story, a story that landed on his lap, really. And his hunch would prove correct. The new novel would sell through 4 editions before the end of the year and over the next century or so it would come to be printed in more editions and translations than any other book in Western literature, besides the bible, of course. You’re likely familiar with Robinson Crusoe, even if you haven’t read the book. It’s become the quintessential story of adventure and survival. But did you know, the story of Robinson Crusoe is based on the real life survival of an actual man? Let’s fix that.
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In 1522 Catalina Suarez finally arrived in New Spain, excited to see her beloved husband after 3 years apart. Soon after her long awaited arrival, however, her excitement was deflated. She immediately learned her husband, Hernán Cortés, had been having an affair with his enslaved indigenous translator Doña Marina, who was often called La Malinche. And worse, the two had a child together. No matter, Catalina was determined to repair the relationship and assume her rightful position as consort to the governor of New Spain. Three months later, Catalina was dead of reported “natural causes.” But did you know, the evidence actually suggests that Catalina Suarez’ death was far more sinister than the records would have you believe? Let’s fix that.
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"When we gazed upon all this splendor at once, we scarcely knew what to think, and we doubted whether all that we beheld was real. A series of large towns stretched themselves along the banks of the lake, out of which still larger ones rose magnificently above the waters. Innumerable crowds of canoes were plying everywhere around us; at regular distances we continually passed over new bridges, and before us lay the great city of Mexico in all its splendor." Those are the words of Bernal Díaz del Castillo, a Spanish soldier, upon first seeing the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan in 1519. At the time, the Aztec Empire was the most powerful Mesoamerican kingdom of all time, with 80,000 square miles of territory and some 15 million inhabitants. Just 2 years later, the empire would crumble, utterly defeated by European forces staking a claim for Spain. But did you know, the leader of this exploit, Hernán Cortés, had defied Spanish authority and run off to conquer the Aztecs with less than 500 soldiers? Let’s fix that.
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The decade of the 1920s is often referred to as the “Roaring Twenties.” You can probably picture it now: jazz trumpets blare while women in shiny dresses dance the Charleston with their beaus and sip fancy martinis. It’s fast, it’s loud, it’s fun, it’s one big party, like New Years Eve every night. Night clubs, cocktails, rock and roll, all of these cultural staples evolved out of the roaring twenties. But take the alcohol away and, I’m not sure they would have roared quite as loudly. Surprisingly, the twenties took place during a 13 year period in the United States known as prohibition, when the manufacture, transport, and sale of alcoholic beverages was illegal. Despite this, Americans went to great lengths to keep the party roaring. The government had its work cut out for it to enforce this new ban on alcohol. But, did you know, they took that enforcement so seriously, it resulted in the deaths of over 10,000 Americans? Let’s fix that.
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Upon his death in 1547, England’s King Henry VIII was interred in a vault beneath the floor of St. George’s Chapel in Windsor Castle. He had chosen this spot, specifically because it was where his beloved 3rd wife, Jane Seymour had been buried a decade earlier. It’s sweet right? Together in life and death, like star crossed lovers, buried side by side. But did you know, Henry never intended to remain buried next to Jane and actually had much grander plans for his remains? Let’s fix that.
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It’s May 1536. Anne Boleyn has just been beheaded at the tower of London. The crowd falls silent. Onlookers are shocked. Some didn’t believe it would really happen. There’s some hesitant cheering, some applauding. The queens ladies in waiting scream, wail, fall to the ground. One rushes forward and gathers Anne’s head in a white cloth. Others drag her body from the stage. Somewhere a cannon fires. Anne is carted away. She’ll be buried in a shallow, unmarked grave. Meanwhile, as the cannonfire fades away, Henry VIII hops on a barge. His wife’s decapitated body is still warm and yet, he moved on long ago. He has his sights set on another woman, Jane Seymour. By the end of the month, he’ll make her his third wife.
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Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived. Henry VIII went down in history, not so much for what he accomplished as king of England but for one tantalizing fact - he had six wives. Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard, Katherine Parr - these six women are often defined by their association with Henry VIII, she was wife number 2, she was number 5, she was number 6, their very humanity reduced to a number. Not Catherine, not Anne, not Jane, just “Henry VIII’s wife.” But these women were more than just wives, they were individuals, each with their own story, all of them overshadowed by the desperation of a man determined to continue his legacy. But did you know, in his absurd quest for a male heir, Henry VIII ripped his country apart, changing the religion of the entire nation, executing his closest advisors, tormenting his wives, and ultimately failing miserably? Let’s fix that.
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The year is 79 AD. A bustling Roman port city sits nestled at the base of a mountain. Ships bob in the harbor, their nets heavy with fish and crabs to sell at the markets. Already the vendors have gathered, offering fresh pomegranates, pots of honey, spiced wine. In the forum a group huddles excitedly around a sign, recently erected, announcing the date of the next gladiator battle. Children run by, chasing a cat, giggling. They duck into an alley past a man who has just emerged through the low doorway of a tabernae, squinting in the sunlight. Above, a woman leans out an open window. She shakes out a cloth and hangs it up to dry. It seems an ordinary day in Pompeii, a city in the Campania region of ancient Rome. But everything is about to change. That seemingly innocent mountain isn’t just a mountain, it’s a volcano and it’s about to erupt, burying Pompeii in over 13 feet of rock and ash, rendering it uninhabitable, and preserving it for 1,500 years. But did you know, Pompeii wasn’t so much forgotten as it was left, undisturbed, like a time capsule for future generations to dig up? Let’s fix that.
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Musket fire, soldiers yelling, chaos. It’s the summer of 1782 and Robert Shurtleff lies groaning on the ground, clutching a gash in his forehead. He’s been shot at least twice. He can feel a musket ball lodged in his thigh, another in his shoulder. The skirmish is over but that brings no relief to Shurtleff. A fellow infantryman rushes over in search of survivors. “Hospital,” he says. “No,” Shurtleff growls, “let me die.” But the soldier grabs Shurtleff and tosses him onto the back of a horse. Later, he winces in pain, nervous, adrenaline pumping as a doctor stitches up his head wound. The doctor is called away and Shurtleff drags himself off the cot, grabbing a penknife and a needle, he limps out of the tent and off into the woods. He’ll remove the musket balls himself. It’s too risky. Because, you see, Robert Shurtleff is hiding something, something big, a secret the doctor would have surely uncovered. Robert Shurtleff is not a man at all. He’s actually a woman named Deborah Sampson and women are strictly forbidden from fighting in the continental army. But did you know, Deborah Sampson wasn’t even the only woman to help form this great nation? Many “founding mothers” have slipped through the cracks of history. Let’s fix that.
Purchase Hannah's book "Remarkable Women of the Outer Banks" here!
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It’s April 1986. Alarms at the Forsmark Nuclear Power Plant in Sweden start going off unexpectedly, warning of high levels of radiation. Operators are confused. The power plant is fully operational. Nothing is amiss. The radiation detectors shouldn’t be going off. Soon, other nuclear power plants in Scandinavia start reporting the same thing. Their alarms are going off too. A dangerous amount of radiation is spreading throughout northern Europe, but where is it coming from? They narrow it down to an area in Ukraine, which is part of the Soviet Union. They reach out. What’s going on? But the Soviets deny any issues with their nuclear facilities. “All good here,” they say, “no problems at all.” But that’s a lie - a big one. In reality, the most devastating nuclear disaster in history is underway at Chernobyl and it’s worse than anyone realizes. The Soviets may be keeping a poker face, but did you know their desperation to prove themselves to the world almost destroyed it entirely? Let’s fix that.
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