The process of colonization ran for untold millennia before it came to a halt in the past few generations, but colonialism is uniquely tied to the period beginning around 1500, with the first Spanish incursions into the Americas, and ending with the independence movements of British, French, German, and other territories around the end of World War I. That’s about 400 years worth of colonial sensibilities, a fairly large swath of “modern” history affected by the building and upkeep of colonies.
What can we use from that time to build a good story? It’s a little beyond the traditional view of fantasy, but this period has become a significant part of the post-medieval fantasy subgenre. Paul Kearney’s Monarchies of God series and Django Wexler’s The Thousand Names are two excellent works I’ve read in recent years that fit into the “colonial era”; the first is a voyage of exploration to a new world, the latter a native uprising in a faraway imperial holding. These neatly bracket the ends of the era, in fact: colonialism begins with the first attempt at a colony, and it ends when the native—or nativized—population revolts against its distant masters.
Making a colony
The colony itself, obviously, is the central focus of a colonial story. At the beginning, it’s very much a tale of people struggling to tame a hostile environment. The true stories of European settlers coming to America are riveting. They’re full of doubt and faith, strife both with the natives and with each other, desperation and perseverance. Australia, sub-Saharan Africa, and southern Asia all have equally gripping accounts of the trials and tribulations the supposedly advanced Europeans had to endure to make those places their own. Even in the realm of science fiction, one can imagine a story about the first colonists on the moon, Mars, or a planet in a distant solar system to fall along the same lines.
After the initial struggles, the colony is not out of the woods by any means. They’ll have to adapt to their new location, to the sheer distance from their homeland. In 18th-century Australia, for instance, colonists might as well have been on another world, because they about as likely to return to England. The churning waters of the Atlantic meant that the Americas were little better off. India and Indochina were surrounded by hostility, and the antagonism of the natives of Africa is the stuff of legend. Add to that the unfamiliar terrain, the entirely new set of flora and fauna, even the differences in climate—a colony today wouldn’t be a sure thing, and these people managed it as much as 500 years ago!
Eventually, the early turbulence settles, probably after a generation or two. Once the original settlers have died off, you’re left with a population that is truly “native”. That’s where the real fun of colonialism comes in. The home government (or corporation, or whatever) might want to send more colonists, and this will cause a clash between the newcomers and those who have grown up in the colony. Or the colony’s patrons back home might want something to show for their initial outlay; some colonies were established purely for profit, especially in the Far East.
It’s entirely likely for these tensions between the colony’s native inhabitants and their motherland to grow into rebellion or open revolt. It took England’s American colonies a century and a half to reach that point, longer for India and South Africa, but it did happen. Of course, that coincided with an increased liberalism in political thought, part of the Enlightenment that ran through the entire Western world. Without the philosophies of the late 18th century, the cause of American independence (and the Mexican, African, Indian, and others that followed in its wake) might have been delayed by decades.
Our land
There’s a single wild card that makes colonizing into colonialism: the natives. Whether we’re talking about Native Americans, Australian Aborigines, or any other preexisting population, they’ll have something to say about the foreigners landing on their shores, claiming their lands. In our history, we know how that turned out, but it wasn’t always a sure thing.
Australia had a relatively sparse population anyway, but its indigenous inhabitants tended to live in the same general areas that the colonists wanted to take for themselves. They’re the best lands on an otherwise marginal continent, so that’s not surprising. The Americas, on the other hand, may have been peopled to a much larger extent. Upper estimates put the total Native American population in 1491 as high as 100 million. Half that sounds more reasonable, but that’s still a lot more natives than you might think from watching westerns.
We know what happened to most of them, though: they died. Disease and what might be called an early example of ethnic cleansing did them in. The same things tended to have the same effect—devastation—on all the other native populations of the world, but the Americas get top billing, thanks to a combination of factors. One, the US has a lot more global power than Australia or South Africa. Two, the colonization started earlier, so the effects of this interchange of genes, ideas, and disease vectors weren’t understood as well as in the 1700s. And third, the violent persecution of the indigenous peoples didn’t end with colonialism; anti-Indian sentiment ran high for the first century of the United States’ existence. Yes, apartheid lasted longer as an institution, but it was more political than militant.
But enough about that. Let’s get back to colonialism. Anywhere there’s a society, even a tribal one, in place, there’s bound to be friction. The Europeans won everywhere both from the disease factor and because of their relative level of technology. Once the illnesses had run their course, and the surviving native remnants were immune or simply too remote to become infected, the guns and horses utterly outclassed anything they could bring to bear.
It wasn’t always constant warfare and subjugation, though. Many colonies wanted to work with the natives. The reasons for cooperation are obvious: here’s a culture that’s already entrenched. They know the land in a way you never will, and all they want are a few of your high-quality guns or blankets or iron pots. In exchange, they teach you how to live better. And some of the colonists badly needed such lessons. Religious dissidents and petty criminals make poor settlers in the best circumstances, and colonies were far from that. It’s not surprising, then, that so many histories of colonization start with a few years of working in concert with the natives.
The colonial populations always seem to grow faster than the indigenous ones, because they’re not susceptible to the diseases they brought and because they’re often being supplemented by a steady influx of new colonists from the homeland. Thus, it’s almost natural that the settlers start taking more and more land, squeezing out the natives. That’s when the squabbles start. Maybe it begins as a raid here or an assassination there. Eventually, it can become something far greater, as in the cases of King Philip’s War in America and the Zulu wars in Africa. (Sometimes, as with the French and Indian War, it can be helped along by outside forces.)
If all-out war happens, it’s rarely to the sole detriment of the colony. The natives can inflict some serious wounds—the Zulus certainly did—but a colonial nation necessarily has a sizable military backing. It’s often just a matter of time before the inevitable attrition takes its toll.
On the other hand, there’s another way a native population can be effectively destroyed by colonists: marriage. Intermingling between European and American began with the first voyage of Columbus, if not the Viking landings half a millennium earlier. It’s here where those cultural differences can come to the fore. Men taking native wives—even if by force—will have a moderating effect on the persecution of those natives. Some might even abandon their own societies to join those of their spouses, but far more will introduce half-native children into the larger colonial mix. This plays havoc with the casual racism of the period, creating systems of delineation like those in Mexico, but also further blurring the line between the “good” guys and the “bad”.
In the story
For a story set in the age of colonialism, you’ve got plenty of options. Your story could be the founding of a colony, from the first landfall (if not before, looking at the original cause of the migration) to the pivotal event that ensures its survival. With natives added in, that gives you ample opportunity for action, intrigue, and first-contact diplomacy. You can delve into the indigenous culture, possibly through the eyes of a hostage or envoy, or you might turn things around and give the POV of the natives defending their homes from invaders.
The second phase of colonialism, after the initial generation is dead and gone, might be considered the “boom” phase. New settlers are coming in, while existing ones are expanding their families at a high rate. Food and land are in abundance. Here, the tensions between foreign and indigenous are still in play, but then you have the growing class of born-and-raised native sons and daughters. What are their stories? Where do they stand? They may resent the “actual” natives for causing trouble, but equally despise the motherland they’ve never known, who only sees their home as a trading post, a military base, and a source of cheap labor.
If you’re following the American model, it’s not too far to go for the third phase: rebellion. If it’s successful, this is where the colony ends, but colonialism may remain for some time. Most likely, it’ll finally die out with the original rebels or their children, but animosity between “native” and “outsider” won’t go away so easily, even as those labels become less and less meaningful. It may even get worse.
In the end, though, it’s your story. Following the historical trail of cause and effect, however, is a good start towards realism. We know this outcome can happen, because it did. People, even people set in a different world, tend to have the same motivations, the same influences. Barring unforeseen circumstances—magic or aliens, for example—it’s hard to imagine colonialism turning out too differently. It’s human nature.