1634: The Ram Rebellion Read online

  Yet, here was this young man. Where had he come from, this tall and strong man of business? It was just a week ago that he had been laughing as he sat his first pony.

  “Very well, my son, if we must, then we must. I will sell the Lehen of Sundremda, and I will sell it to that Newhouse person and the villagers,” he answered. “But the price! I know the market. It is worth twice that.”

  “Yes, Papa, I know. But not to us, not for years. The rents are set. We could not change anything without buying the renters out, then buying the property from Marion County.”

  * * *

  Mary Lee had talked to Birdie and Ernst Bachmeier after Clara’s visit. While Birdie had been in no mood to do any favors for Claus Junker, Ernst was thrilled at the prospect. The lines of status were much more severe in the seventeenth century. Owning property, actually owning it, meant you were a person of considerable status. Not a peasant, not someone’s tenant, your own man. Nor did Ernst bear Claus Junker any ill will. He had always been fair and decent Lehen holder, understanding if the crops had been bad. Yes, Herr Junker had been harder to deal with since Birdie had leased his farm, but Ernst felt that the difficulties were partly Birdie’s fault.

  There had been phone calls from the Newhouse residence to the government to try and figure out who had the authority to sell the property. Now that there was a government other than the emergency committee, Deborah Trout was apparently the person to see. Deborah had already been approached by Eddie Junker. Then followed quite a bit of back and forth, working out the various ends of the deal. The Junkers needed cash up front, Marion County wanted some of the land both for public right of way and some to sell. The village would lose almost a thousand acres. Birdie would have to give up some of his land as a right of way, which would put a public road right across his original property.

  Ernst and Birdie called a meeting of the village to talk about the proposal. They discussed the pros and cons. The pros were that agreeing to the proposal would give the villagers more control over how the village was run and greater status in the eyes of most down-timers. The cons, well, there was only one con, a big one. If the village agreed to the proposal it would probably cost them more money. Their mortgage payments would run about fifteen percent over their rents. Also, part of the village property, much of the forest and some of the pasture would no longer be part of their village.

  People were concerned, and rightly so, about the consequences to the village and the Gemeinde. If Birdie owned his own land why should he use his tractor to help with the plowing of the rest? What about the people in the village who didn’t own farms, the people who had been helping the farmers as part of their rent? Who would be responsible for what part of the obligations set out in their rental agreement?

  There would need to be some sort of an agreement, or rather, several agreements. One agreement must be made for all of the villagers, and another agreement must be made for the farmers of the Gemeinde. It was a very long meeting, and quite loud.

  Eventually, most of the villagers agreed that the prospect of actually owning their own land, even if they had to pay the bank, was just too attractive to let pass. Only two families refused.

  The mason refused because he wasn’t sure how long he would be living in Sundremda. He hoped that he could continue to work in Sundremda and sell his stone work using transportation provided by Grantville. But he couldn’t be sure and was unwilling to take on such a debt.

  Surprisingly, there was one farming family that disapproved of the whole business. Friedrich Schultz stood up and began speaking, after everyone else had reached agreement.

  “I will not be a party to this, I will not. How do we know that this bank will be as reasonable as Herr Junker if the crops fail? How do we know that this man will truly use the tractor for the good of the village, no matter what he promises?”

  Birdie stood up to answer, offended that someone would question his integrity. “My word is my bond. I always keep my promises because it is the only honorable way to be. I will sign another agreement if necessary, if it will make you happy.”

  “This entire plan, it is unnatural. We are not meant to be gentry. We are farmers, good honest farmers. Why should we do this? We have always been tenants to Herr Junker and his family. He has held the Lehen for many years and has been good to us. I cannot believe that he would agree to this.”

  At this point, Eddie Junker, who attended the meeting in lieu of his father, stood to answer Friedrich. “My father feels that this is a good plan. You will be free of obligations to him, free to farm as you wish. It is a good plan that benefits us all.”

  Friedrich shook his head. “I am disappointed in Herr Junker. My contract is for ninety-nine years and I am the second generation. I have my contract and I will work my farm according to the terms of that contract. I cannot be removed from my farm as long as I pay my rent. I will pay the rent, but I will not, absolutely not be a party to this insanity.”

  Birdie sat through that little speech dumbfounded. Birdie had always figured that Friedrich was just a suck up. Thought he was too afraid of Junker to answer back. Birdie was amazed to realize that the guy actually believed that his proper place was as someone else’s tenant. Birdie couldn’t understand how anyone could actually feel that way.

  Friedrich was trying to queer the whole deal for everyone because he was terrified of owning his own property. He almost managed it, too. Before the deal could go through an agreement must be reached. Agreement took a couple of extra days of negotiations and no one was especially happy with the result.

  Friedrich was unhappy because he didn’t want the mayor of the village as his landlord. And Birdie was unhappy because he was afraid he was going to be stuck as mayor and have to deal with the duckfucker on a regular basis.

  * * *

  Twenty four loan applications, twenty two of them using the land they wanted to buy as the collateral for the loan. All of them were from down-timers with no, or very little, credit history. Larkin Newhouse’s application, the twenty third, used the land in Sundremda plus his equity in the farm inside the Ring of Fire as collateral. The villagers of Sundremda wanted to buy their village and wanted the bank to loan them the money to do it. It was not unexpected. The twenty fourth application was from the township of Sundremda, requesting funds to buy two public buildings and one farm.

  September, 1632

  Ernst Bachmeier leaned against the fence post and mused. The fall of 1632 had given him no answers as to whether wheat or flax was the better cash crop. He suspected that if they’d planted dandelions then dandelions would have sold amazingly well. The lousy weather had almost been compensated for by the addition of lime to the soil. The crops were good, very good, even though Birdie claimed they were only passable by up-time standards. There was something called an “industrial revolution” getting started in and around the Ring of Fire and labor was increasingly hard to come by. But, the goods! Oh, the goods that came out of Grantville. A bed with springs in it!

  Ernst once again found himself looking over the land. The land that would be his someday, his alone. The land that he would pass down to his children, someday, hopefully in the far future. Ah, such a future.

  Bacon

  Eric Flint

  “All right, I finished it,” said Mike Stearns, the moment he strode into Melissa Mailey’s office. Triumphantly, he dropped the Economic History of Europe onto her desk. The tome landed with a resounding thump.

  Mike stooped and peered at the legs of the desk. “Pretty well-built. I thought it might collapse.”

  “Well, now that you’ve finished that one, I’m sure – ”

  “Not a chance, Melissa!” He held up his hands and crossed his two forefingers, as if warding off a vampire. “Besides, I don’t need to. Birdie Newhouse – bless him – has shown us the way. In practice, by getting his hands dirty, just like I predicted.”

  Melissa frowned, almost fiercely. “Mike, be serious! You can’t solve the tangled land tenure relat
ions of seventeenth century Germany by simply buying the land. Even if everyone was willing to sell, we couldn’t possibly afford it. King Midas couldn’t afford it.”

  Mike shook his head. “I’m not talking about that. Tactics come, tactics go. What matters is what Birdie did, not how he did it. Birdie and Mary Lee both. They got in there and mixed it up with the people on the ground, and took it from there. That’s what we need – only organized. Something like a cross between the OSS of World War II days, Willie Ray’s grangers, and – and – I dunno. Maybe the Peace Corps. Whatever. We’ll figure it out as we go.”

  Melissa laced her fingers together and stared at him.

  “You’re nuts,” she proclaimed, after a few seconds. “On the other hand, it is a charming idea. Like the poet said, in beauty there is truth. You’d need the right people to carry it out, though – and not somebody like Harry Lefferts.”

  Mike chuckled. “Can’t you just see Harry as an agrarian organizer?” His voice took on a slightly thicker hillbilly accent. “’Let’s all get together, boys. Or I’ll shoot you dead.’”

  Melissa grimaced. “That’s not really funny, Mike.”

  “Sure it is. But I agree, Harry’s not the right type. You got any suggestions?”

  Melissa’s eyes narrowed, as they did when she was chewing on a problem.

  “Well . . . There’s somebody I think we could at least raise the idea with. Deborah Trout.”

  It was Mike’s turn to frown. “Len’s wife? She’s always struck me as pretty straight-laced.”

  “Well, not her personally. She’s in her fifties now, anyway. A bit long in the tooth to be gallivanting around the German countryside. But she’s got someone in her office that I think she’d be willing – delighted, actually – to part company with.”

  “Who?”

  “Noelle Murphy.”

  Mike’s frown was now as fierce as Melissa’s had been earlier. “I though she wanted to be a nun. I can’t say I know her at all, but I always got the sense that she’s as straight-laced as they come. I can’t really see her . . . why are you grinning at me like that?”

  “Because the idea’s charming in its own right. Don’t forgot that Noelle’s a bastard, too – or do you really think that idiot Francis fathered her? Pat Murphy’s bastard, at that.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Melissa, if there is any single person in Grantville who can be described as ‘not playing with a full deck’ more than Pat Murphy . . .”

  Melissa clucked her tongue reprovingly. She did that extraordinarily well. “Thou shalt not visit the sins of the mother on the daughter. The follies, neither. This much I can tell you, because she was a student of mine – Noelle’s smart as a whip, and there’s a lot more going on under the surface than it looks. As for the religious business, she’s never actually decided to become a nun, so far as I know. And what difference does it make anyway? We’re not asking her to play Mata Hari, are we?”

  Mike rubbed his chin. “Well, no. But . . .”

  Melissa rose from her desk. “Come on. Let’s at least raise the idea with Deborah and see what she thinks.”

  * * *

  Deborah Trout was enthusiastic. As Mike had darkly suspected.

  “Noelle would be perfect! How soon can she clear her desk out?”

  “What I thought,” he muttered under his breath. Then, loudly enough to be heard:

  “Oh, not any time soon. For the moment, she’ll appear to be staying on the job. Undercover, you might call it.”

  “Oh.” It was almost comical, the way Deborah’s face fell.

  * * *

  On their way back, Mike grumbled to Melissa. “This is a screwy idea. The only reason Deborah likes it is so she can get rid of Noelle.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Melissa serenely. “But look at it this way, Mike. How would you characterize Deborah Trout?”

  Naturally, she didn’t wait for an answer. “I’d characterize her as follows: Earnest, efficient, serious, dedicated, hard-working bureaucrat.”

  “Um. Yeah, okay.”

  “And she’s ecstatic at the idea of getting rid of Noelle.”

  Mike started to brighten up. “Mind you,” he cautioned, “there’s a place and a need for level-headed public officials.”

  “Oh, sure. But not where you’d be sending Noelle.”

  There was still a problem. “Uh, Melissa, I admit I don’t know the girl—sorry, young woman—as well as you do. But I get the distinct impression that Noelle thinks of herself as, well—”

  “An earnest, efficient, serious, dedicated, hard-working bureaucrat, with strong religious convictions that are leaning her toward joining a religious order. But don’t forget she’s also a bastard. Trust me on this one, Mike.”

  They walked on a little further. Melissa added:

  “The next thing we need is a symbol of some kind.”

  Mike shook his head. “Stick to what you know, Melissa. No way you can gimmick a symbol that means anything. You just have to wait until something emerges on its own.”

  “From where?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Maybe the meatpacking industry.”

  “Huh?”

  “Bacon. To go with your scrambled eggs.”

  PART II:

  ENTER THE RAM

  Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord GOD to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.”

  Ezekiel 37:4-6

  The Merino Problem

  Paula Goodlett

  “It’s ironic,” Flo said to herself, as she sipped the last of her coffee. “I may just be the only person in Grantville who gained time, instead of losing it.”

  J.D. had gone to work and Flo had the house to herself for a few more hours, until the Sprugs arrived. She and J.D. had met them yesterday and agreed that they should move in. The house was certainly big enough, and with the four girls gone it was sort of lonesome. Johan, Anna, and all six children would barely make a dent in the space. It would be nice to have company.

  Flo intended to enjoy the quiet time. She hadn’t had much of it over the years. Four daughters, the farm, J.D., all these had used up most of her time. Now, it looked like she just might have the time to do some things she had always wanted to do.

  “Who would have thought,” she mused, “that J.D.’s membership in the Seed Savers Exchange would turn out to be so important.”

  Flo agreed with the aim of the Exchange, to preserve genetic diversity in crops by growing and exchanging the seeds of endangered domesticated species. What she had disagreed with was the fact that she had done most of the work of growing, saving and exchanging of those seeds. J.D. was busy teaching during the week and the girls had been busy with school and their own activities. J.D. had helped, of course, when he’d had time. Otherwise, Flo thought, he’d have wound up wearing those heirloom veggies.

  Now, the organization people were calling “The Grange” was in charge of those same heirloom plants. The members of the Grange had recently realized that the seeds from the hybrid plants common on farms and in gardens up-time wouldn’t produce the same plants in the next generation. Flo and J.D.’s stock of non-hybrid seeds had gained hugely in value.

  Flo smirked. J.D. had tried for years to convince them, but very few up-timers would listen. It was easier to go to the store and buy seed every year. There were times she’d have liked to do it herself.

  It was nice that J.D. had been vindicated. It had raised his status in the eyes of the local farmers and led to his being appointed as one of Willie Ray’s assistants. Who knew where that could lead?

  Flo had been thrilled to turn the stock of seeds over to the Grange. Let someone else take charge of that project. She wouldn’t be stuck in the kitchen, canning all the prod
uce this year, either. The lack of new canning lids in town was worrying, but she could reuse some old ones. Some of them would seal properly. Other methods of preservation were possible, also. Flo was sure they’d make it through the winter. Most of her crops, planted before the Ring of Fire, would be dedicated to seed for next year.

  She did think Willie Ray was getting a bit high-handed, though. True, Flo would admit that he had a lot on his platter and she was glad she didn’t have his responsibilities. Still, she resented Willie Ray treating her like “Little Bo Peep” when she tried to talk to him about a better ram.

  The Grange, Willie Ray, and J.D. were all focused on food production. Flo understood that this and the war were priorities. She hadn’t been able to get any of them to listen to her concerns about the sheep, though. “I need an ally. Maybe Johan will listen. He seemed to be interested when we spoke yesterday.”

  Flo stood up, and rinsed the coffee cup. “I don’t think I’ll mention that last few cans of Folgers to anyone,” she murmured slyly. J.D. could be a little over generous on occasion. Flo would just keep that guilty little secret to herself.

  * * *

  It was about 2:00 P.M. before Johan, Anna and the kids arrived. Flo showed them to their rooms. She was pretty surprised when the entire family seemed prepared to move into the single room she had intended for Johan and Anna alone. After some effort, she finally convinced them to take two more bedrooms, one for the boys and one for the girls. There were two bathrooms up there, and two more bedrooms. Flo had originally intended for the family to use all the rooms, but they seemed dead set against it.

  Melissa Mailey had been right, Flo thought, as she and Johan walked toward the sheep pasture. The privacy standards of seventeenth-century Germans were certainly different from the up-timers. She was glad their bedroom was on the first floor. The Sprugs could deal with the kids’ squabbles and she and J.D. wouldn’t even need to know about it.