Harry Turtledove’s *How Few Remain* opens like a deep inhalation of alternate air—familiar but tinged with the strange, the scent of a history ever so slightly warped. Published in 1997, it’s the first novel in what would become his magnum opus of counterfactual America—the sprawling *Southern Victory* series—and it remains one of his most elegant and unsettling thought experiments. The premise is disarmingly simple: the Confederacy wins the Civil War.
But Turtledove doesn’t treat that as a parlor game. He treats it like a wound. He lets it fester, deepen, and calcify into a society that looks both horrifyingly alien and disturbingly recognizable. If Ward Moore’s *Bring the Jubilee* felt like a dirge for lost causes, *How Few Remain* feels like an anthem to the terrible persistence of them.
The book begins twenty years after the South’s triumph—1881, a generation later. The Confederacy is independent, arrogant, expansionist, and thriving on the moral rot of its foundation: slavery. The Union, humiliated and diminished, stands north of the Mason-Dixon line nursing resentment and envy. Europe has chosen sides — Britain and France support the South, seeing in it a geopolitical counterweight to the American colossus that never came to be.
The stage is set not just for another war but for a reconfiguration of destiny. But Turtledove, ever the patient craftsman, doesn’t leap into grand battles at once. He builds a world. Slowly, meticulously, with the historian’s obsession and the novelist’s flair, he lets us feel the texture of this alternate century — the sound of its newspapers, the smell of its railways, the rhythms of its politics. It’s almost sensuous, in that way. You *live* in his alternate world before the guns even fire.
And then, of course, the guns do fire. The Confederate States, confident and swollen with hubris, attempt to expand westward into Montana Territory. The United States, cornered and furious, rises to resist. The Second War Between the States begins — a conflict that’s both a mirror and a mutation of the first. It’s not just about territory anymore; it’s about ideology, about the unresolved trauma of a nation split along moral fault lines. And through the smoke of that coming war, Turtledove populates his stage with an ensemble cast that is, frankly, dazzling in its audacity: Abraham Lincoln, not the martyr of history but a humbled, radicalised socialist writer; Frederick Douglass, the conscience of a fractured republic; George Custer, not the doomed cavalryman of Little Bighorn but a blazing war hero; Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain), sharp-tongued and disillusioned; and a rising Confederate officer named George Pickett — among others. Each of them is drawn with that peculiar Turtledove gift: half myth, half man.
What’s remarkable about *How Few Remain* is how seamlessly it integrates its real-world figures into the machinery of fiction without reducing them to gimmicks. Lincoln’s arc, in particular, is heartbreaking and luminous. In this timeline, his Emancipation Proclamation never came to be.
The South won before he could transform the war into a moral crusade. Stripped of his presidency, Lincoln becomes an almost Tolstoyan figure — poor, bearded, furious, writing revolutionary tracts about the dignity of labour and the tyranny of the capital-owning class. It’s like watching history’s ghost in exile. You can feel the ache in every line — the tragedy of potential unrealized, the grandeur of a moral vision that history itself betrayed. When he meets Frederick Douglass in this world, their conversations crackle with a quiet fury, the kind born of knowing that righteousness without power is just poetry.
Turtledove’s choice to frame Lincoln as a socialist pamphleteer is brilliant, because it distills the novel’s central philosophical question: what happens to moral conviction when history erases its moment? If Moore’s Hodge Backmaker was crushed by the weight of the past, Turtledove’s Lincoln is set adrift in the ruins of the future. He becomes an emblem of defiance, of conscience unfulfilled. And yet, through him, the Union’s spirit flickers — not in victory, but in resistance.
Custer, on the other hand, is all bluster and brittle charisma. In this world, he survives Little Bighorn, becomes the embodiment of martial glory, and steps into the role of America’s avenger. But beneath the swagger, Turtledove paints a man intoxicated by destiny — a symbol of America’s addiction to its own mythos.
His duel with Confederate general Stonewall Jackson (one of the novel’s most riveting narrative threads) becomes almost metaphysical — not just a clash of armies, but of visions. Jackson represents a kind of fatalistic piety, Custer the raw secular will to power. Watching them circle each other feels like watching two ideas — divine providence and human pride — grapple for the soul of the continent.
Stylistically, Turtledove writes with the steadiness of a historian who has seen too much. His prose isn’t flashy, but it’s inexorably immersive. He knows when to linger and when to march on. The rhythm of his sentences mirrors the rhythm of war — long stretches of quiet observation punctuated by bursts of chaos. And unlike many alternate historians, he resists the temptation to make his characters mere chess pieces. They think, they suffer, they rationalise. There’s even a strange intimacy to his descriptions of politics — the smoky rooms, the cautious alliances, the little hypocrisies that shape empires.
One of Turtledove’s recurring themes — and *How Few Remain* embodies it in full — is the moral blindness of victory. The Confederacy in this world is triumphant, but it’s hollow at its core. Its society is gilded with European admiration and wealth, but spiritually stunted, built on human bondage and denial. Turtledove doesn’t caricature it; he anatomises it. He shows us its arrogance, its genteel self-justifications, its smug belief in divine sanction. And in doing so, he holds up a mirror to the complacency of all nations that mistake success for virtue.
But the novel isn’t mere allegory. It’s emotionally alive. The letters between soldiers, the reflections of journalists, and the weariness of veterans — all feel painfully authentic. There’s a scene where Douglass speaks at a Northern rally, and his words ring with the same prophetic electricity that animates his historical speeches. “A people who forget what they have been made to suffer,” he warns, “will be made to suffer it again.” That line, fictional as it is, reverberates beyond the page. It’s Turtledove’s thesis in miniature.
There’s also the subtle but devastating motif of industrial transformation. In the real world, the postbellum United States became a colossus of innovation and mechanised might. In Turtledove’s version, that energy curdles. The Confederacy industrialises to sustain its military ambitions, but without moral direction; the Union industrialises to survive, its factories humming like angry hearts. The machine becomes both saviour and curse.
War itself becomes a factory process — efficient, impersonal, relentless. Turtledove sketches this transformation with eerie calm, letting readers see how technological progress and ethical regression can coexist.
And then there’s the title: *How Few Remain*. It comes from Kipling’s “Recessional” — “Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, / Lest we forget — lest we forget!” The choice is deliberate, almost chilling. Turtledove’s alternate America is a world that forgot — forgot its founding ideals, forgot the moral cost of compromise, and forgot what it means to be united not just by geography but by conscience. The “few who remain” are those who still remember — Lincoln, Douglass, a handful of radicals who refuse to accept the world as it is. The title turns into an invocation, a prayer for the moral memory of nations.
Turtledove, being both a historian and a novelist, has an uncanny sense of inevitability. He knows how history moves — not in leaps but in slow, grinding turns of ideology and circumstance. You can feel the tectonic plates shifting beneath every conversation, every minor battle. By the end, when the war concludes not with resolution but with a kind of exhausted stalemate, the reader is left in that quintessential Turtledovian space — the uneasy knowledge that history never ends; it only mutates. The Confederacy survives again, the Union endures, but both are poisoned by what they’ve become. The dream of America — the myth of unity — remains suspended, trembling, unfinished.
What makes *How Few Remain* extraordinary, though, is its moral vision. It refuses to glorify war or revisionism. It doesn’t fetishise the Confederate victory or indulge in nostalgic kitsch. It stares straight into the abyss of what might have been and forces us to confront our own world’s fragility. The alternate past becomes a commentary on the present — on how nations justify oppression, how they mythologise failure, and how they rewrite guilt into destiny. Reading it today feels unsettlingly familiar. The Confederacy’s propaganda machine, its appeal to “heritage”, and its obsession with sovereignty — all echo in modern political rhetoric. It’s not history at all; it’s a prologue.
Yet, despite its bleakness, there’s something deeply humane in the novel’s undercurrent. Turtledove’s affection for his characters, even the flawed ones, never fades. He allows them dignity, even when they’re wrong. Custer’s pride, Lincoln’s bitterness, Douglass’s hope — all are drawn with compassion. That’s perhaps Turtledove’s greatest gift: the ability to see history not as a ledger of nations but as a mosaic of souls.
And so, *How Few Remain* stands as more than the opening salvo of a long saga. It’s a meditation on contingency, on the fragility of progress, and on the ways history punishes arrogance and rewards endurance. It’s less about the war that was lost than about the humanity that remains — how few, indeed, but how fierce.