1634: The Ram Rebellion (assiti shards)

by Eric Flint

“You could let it run, if that is the course upon which Herr Salatto and this council decide. That will unquestionably bring attacks on the houses and barns of landlords and overseers, the burning of castles, killings, with enough atrocity and ferocity that the margraves of Ansbach and Bayreuth, who are allies of Gustavus Adolphus, will come to fear that it will spill over into their lands. Until enough has happened that they can demand that he put it down. Until he might have to agree to their demands, which would drive a wedge between him and Herr Stearns.”

  “Or?” Johnnie F. asked. There’s an ‘or’ in your voice.”

  “Or, between now and then, you, all of you, here and in Bamberg and in Fulda, can try to harness it and direct it. Control it, as a cavalryman controls a war horse ten times his weight. Get it used to wearing reins. Try to ride a ram.”

  * * *

  Finally, Steve asked, “New business?”

  Meyfarth pushed a sheet of paper across the table. “My resignation.”

  They all looked at him, utterly shocked.

  “I have done what I can for you. I will not be going back to Grantville or Thuringia. The University of Erfurt will have no lack of takers for its prestigious tenured professorships. Because of the death of Duke Johann Casimir, I am free of obligations to any lord.”

  “So?” Saunders Wendell was deeply suspicious.

  “Herr Wendell, for much of my life, I have been employed as an administrator or in diplomatic matters. But I am a pastor. That was my first oath. I assure you that I have prayed extensively in regard to this decision. I have also consulted with many others-with Dean Gerhard in Jena, with Professor Osiander from Tuebingen. Indeed, with your up-time colleague, Herr Lambert. I am going to Bamberg, where I am going to establish a Lutheran congregation in a Catholic city. Although much of the patriciate there was Protestant up into the 1620’s, the bishop’s campaign and the witch trials broke all organization among the Lutherans and took the property of the Lutheran churches and wealthy Lutherans such as Councilman Junius, whose daughter came into Grantville for refuge. Now, there are only a few who are openly Protestant, those who went into exile and have come back. Many who converted in order to stay are ashamed. We must begin again.”

  The entire table buzzed with objections.

  Meyfarth waited them out; then shook his head. “Herr Ellis was right, you know.”

  Johnnie F. asked, “How?”

  “When he said that what happened to you and Herr Thornton in Bamberg was because your special commissioners there did not take their assignment seriously enough. They paid it only lip service, and did a little around their regular jobs, when they had time. So the Bamberg authorities, such as Councilman Faerber, did not believe them when they said, “We mean it.’ They thought that it could be evaded.”

  Johnnie F. nodded slowly.

  “I know that many of you do not like Herr Ellis. You find him to be a harsh, prejudiced, abrasive man. You do not find him to be a colleague with whom you can work easily or well. But sometimes, harsh, prejudiced, unpleasant men are also right. It is my best judgment that in this matter, his opinion was correct. As I said already, I have prayed, a great deal, concerning this matter. So I am going to Bamberg. Without a prince and without a patron, with no consistory to pay me and no building in which any flock that I gather can meet. With no tithes to support me. With only my hope that you will continue to mean it when you say that there will be religious toleration in Franconia. And though I feel more like a lamb led to the slaughter than a belligerent ram, I shall nonetheless do this.”

  Franconia, December, 1633

  Willard Thornton stood at the unmarked crossroads. He was glad that his bicycle was in Bamberg; it would have been hard to push the thing over the hills in this snow. He wondered which of the two forks would lead him back to his bicycle.

  A thin man, huddled into a black cloak, was coming up the road behind him, walking alone. Willard waited. Perhaps he knew which road went to Bamberg.

  “Ah, Herr Thornton.”

  “I’m, ah, afraid you have the advantage of me.”

  “My name is Meyfarth. I have been working with the NUS administration in Wuerzburg. I heard a great deal about you, last fall.”

  “Oh.” Willard was still vaguely embarrassed about last fall. “Um, do you happen to know which of these forks leads to Bamberg?”

  “It is this one. I am going to Bamberg, myself. We can walk along together. Two men are safer than one alone.”

  They moved forward.

  Some distance behind them, a half dozen game wardens coming from the direction of Coburg noted several other men stepping out of the trees onto the road leading from Wuerzburg. It was all right, though, upon a closer look. They were Jaeger, too; and they wore the ram’s head on their sleeves.

  “In Aprils Luft,” one of them said.

  “Entfalten sich die Flaggen,” the others completed the sentence.

  The up-timers were manifestly insane to have let either of the men ahead of them go out walking the roads of Franconia alone. Each of them should be guarded by a full company of armed soldiers, at the very least. The Jaeger walked on to Bamberg, keeping just out of sight behind the hills and trees, intent on ensuring that the two innocent, good-hearted, oblivious, but inspirational damned fools who had been placed under their protection by the Ram would live to see the banners unfurl in April.

  Chapter 7:

  “Recriminations Will Get You Nowhere”

  Wuerzburg, January 1, 1634

  Steve Salatto opened one eye, experimentally, and took stock. He felt pretty good. The “American New Year’s Eve” party that he and his wife Anita had hosted for the administrative staff of the New United States in Franconia and the city fathers of Wuerzburg and their wives-paper hats, paper whistles, confetti, and all-had actually been rather sedate. He was beginning to feel like a traitor to his Italian roots. He had even admitted to one of the city’s vintners that he was coming to prefer the dry Franconian white wine to Italian red. It certainly left a guy with less of a head the next morning.

  There was light coming in through the window. He ought to get up. Then he remembered that he had declared the up-time New Year’s day a holiday for the administrative staff, even though the official calendar change to the year 1634 would not roll around until March 25 for a lot of Germany outside the NUS. The feather bed was nice and warm. He tapped his wife Anita on the shoulder and asked, “Ummn?” She turned over with a smile and they settled in for a nice snuggle.

  * * *

  Later on that morning, after they’d begun stirring around, Steve’s eyes fell on a newspaper lying on the table where most of the festivities had centered the night before.

  “Oh, Lord,” he half-moaned. “I forgot about that. It seemed a lot funnier last night than it does today.”

  “What are you talking about?” Anita asked, coming over.

  “This.” He held up the newspaper, showing the first page. It was a very recent issue of the main Bamberg newspaper.

  Anita leaned over his shoulder and started giggling. “I still think it’s funny. I like all those Brillo fables.”

  Glumly, Steve stared down at the thing. Prominently displayed in a box in the lower right hand quarter of the page was a German headline which read “New Brillo Verses,” followed by, in English:

  In a field by the hillside some little ewe-lambs sang

  “Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo."

  And I said to them, “Merinos, why do you stand singing

  ’Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo’?"

  Is it wild boars come ravaging, my ewes?” I cried,

  “Or a wild cat come nipping at your tender hide?"

  With a kick of their heels, they all baaad then replied,

  “Oh, Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo."

  As a scruffy ram butted against the field’s fence

  “Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, tis Brillo."

  And I saw them leap up and go gamboling thence,

 
“Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo."

  As he leaped o’er the fence in a tremendous bound,

  And all the ewes “baaaad” in approving resound,

  Oh! My hopes for rich wool were quite dashed to the ground!

  Oh, Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo.

  Soon many more lambs in the field could be seen

  Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo

  Their coarse kinky wool had no fine silken sheen

  Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo

  As they chased off a wolfling with kicks full of fire,

  Their great bravery somewhat reduced my sad ire,

  “Oh, tell me, brave lambkins, just who is your sire?"

  “Brillo, ‘tis Brillo, ‘tis Brillo!"

  At the bottom was an announcement that a German translation would be provided on the third page, along with the announcement of a contest to see who could produce the best German versification of the rhymes. From experience, Steve knew that within a month this new Brillo fable would have transmuted into half a dozen variations-all of which were aimed at the Franconian establishment.

  “How in the hell did that stupid scruffy ram of Flo Richards’ turn into an endless supply of gasoline poured on the flames?” Steve demanded. “Somebody please tell me.”

  Anita shrugged. “You might as well ask how in the hell a bunch of stupid tea leaves dumped into a harbor turned into something that’s still talked about two hundred years later. Face it, Steve. This place needs a revolution-badly-and damn near anything could have served as the channel.”

  She headed toward the kitchen. “I still think it’s cute. A lot cuter than tea leaves, that’s for sure-and, for my money, it beats ‘one if by land, two if by sea’ by a country mile.”

  “I’m a civil servant!” Steve protested.

  “Yup. A veritable Chinese mandarin. In interesting times,” came Anita’s rejoinder from the kitchen.

  Wuerzburg, early January 1634

  “Guess what, guys,” Saunders Wendell said, “we finally know who we are.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Scott Blackwell asked.

  “They sent down someone to replace Meyfarth, and he brought along an official notice that the former New United States is no more. Bet Arnold Bellamy’s happy to get rid of that NUS acronym! He was sure that everyone in Europe would start referring to us as ‘the nuts’.”

  “Wonderful,” Maydene Utt said. “What are we now?”

  “Don’t know. Steve’s saving it for the meeting, when he introduces the guy.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Don’t know that, either. German. But he speaks English. A ‘must hire’ from Axel Oxenstierna, I understand.”

  The door opened. Steve came in with a thin man who wore a mustache and a goatee. He had a twinkle in his eye. About fifty; older than the departed Meyfarth, at any rate. After the general exchange of “good mornings,” Steve said: “I would like to introduce my new chief of staff to all of you. Ladies and gentlemen, Georg Rodolf Weckherlin, who is going to tell us who we are.”

  Weckherlin bowed with a flourish.

  Scott Blackwell thought that the man would be happy on a stage, playing one of the Three Musketeers. When he opened his mouth, he sounded like he belonged in a Shakespeare play, too.

  “Ah,” Weckherlin said, “it was my privilege to be in Grantville delivering my letter of recommendation from the king’s, ah, emperor’s chancellor. Thus, I had a chance to observe this. First, there was a meeting of the cabinet, presided over by your president Mr. Piazza, to receive suggestions. Then there was a full session of the congress.

  “Someone suggested that it should be the Province of Thuringia. Mr. Arnold Bellamy raised most strenuous objections that he did not wish to be a citizen of PoT. An acronym which, by the way, the youngest son of your Mr. Thomas Stone was kind enough to enlighten me about just before he left for Italy.”

  Weckherlin grinned. Everyone else at the table broke into laughter.

  “Ah, so therefore you are not a PoT. The cabinet did not even present the suggestion to the congress.

  “Then it was noted that Gustavus Adolphus himself had suggested ‘East Virginia.’ This was not received with enthusiasm. An aspect of your prior history, I understand.”

  Nods all around the table.

  “So, subject to a referendum at the next election, they have adopted the name…”

  Weckherlin paused dramatically.

  Twirled the ends of his moustaches.

  “State of Thuringia.”

  “You know,” Scott Blackwell commented, “I can’t see that SoT is a big improvement on PoT.”

  “True, true.” Weckherlin winked. “That is precisely what Mr. Bellamy said.”

  Laughter again.

  Steve watched in admiration. In a few minutes, a man who came into the room as a complete stranger had managed to break the ice and make considerable strides toward being accepted as a member of the working group that it had taken him two years to develop.

  “What are we in connection to the SoT?” Wendell asked.

  “Until the election you are holding this spring, just the Franconian Region. Very dull, alas. Which you will remain if the people here do not vote to become part of the State of Thuringia. If they do vote to become part, there will be yet another discussion and, at least everyone presumes, yet another name.”

  “What are the parts?” Willa Fodor asked. “That is, all the Aemter and Gemeinden and Gerichte and markets and other little administrative units. Are they doing something to straighten that out and come up with one set of jurisdictions?”

  Weckherlin nodded. “Oh, yes, something. Lots of talking. Lots of ‘discussion,’ that is. Should the new state have counties? If the English word ‘county’ is also used to translate ‘Grafschaft,’ then will it insult the towns, such as Badenburg, or other lords, such as the dukes of Saxe-Weimar, who would not wish to see their former duchy demoted to a county? Would they take umbrage? It became very complicated.

  “I did suggest. Just suggested, since I was there at the ‘town meeting’ where people were talking about it, that they could call them ‘shires’ and then they could call the state’s appointee in each of them a ‘sheriff.’

  “Woe is me!” Weckherlin’s face fell into a parody of grief. “They decided that this was much too ‘English.’ But they agreed that making everything a county was not good. So every jurisdiction will keep its own name, Madam. That is, whether a document is in German or in English, unless the people themselves decide to change the name, a former Reichstadt such as Badenburg will remain a Stadt, a Herzogtum such as Saxe-Weimar will keep that name, a Grafschaft such as Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt will keep that name, a Freiherrschaft will remain itself also. But each one will have exactly the same governmental rights and responsibilities and be expected to adopt the same administrative structure and offices, none more or less important than the others. For land and taxes and such matters.

  “They can change, though, if they wish. Thus, your Grantville and its surrounding land, inside the Ring of Fire and what it has annexed, have voted to become West Virginia County, Thuringia. There was some discussion of ‘Ring of Fire County,’ but it was decided that because of the annexations, it isn’t exactly a circle or a ring any more. More like an ‘amoeba,’ a man named Mr. Birdie Newhouse said. One of your high school teachers showed me an ‘amoeba’ through his microscope. Fascinating. Grantville will return to being a city with a charter and there will be a county government established for the remainder of it. Mayor Dreeson said that this was a good thing. But they will not have time to do it right away.

  “Much of the region that was once Grafschaft Gleichen, but the Grafen are extinct, all the parts that were not annexed directly into the Ring of Fire, has voted to become Vasa County, Thuringia. Graf August von Sommersburg and his subjects have decided to be Sommersburg County rather than a Grafschaft, although nobody else is sure why. Erfurt city wishes to remain a Stadt but the hinterl
and around it has voted to become Erfurt County, Thuringia.”

  “Shrewd,” Steve Salatto commented. “Keep the familiar terms, but remodel the underlying structure. Not a bad idea. Comfort zone thinking.”

  Willa hadn’t given up yet. “What about below the county level? The Aemter and such?”

  “I am not sure,” Weckherlin admitted. “But neither are they. At least, they were still talking when I left.”

  Grantville, early January, 1634

  Emma Thornton was in the outer office of the president of the State of Thuringia. President, not governor. There had been a president of the New United States. There had also been a congress of the New United States. Neither of them, thus far, had seen any good and clear reason to demote themselves to governor and legislature, just because the NUS had become the SoT. None of the other of the states that now comprised the United States of Europe used any of the four terms, after all. Instead, they featured a wide variety of titles for the heads of state and the general term Staende, usually translated into English as “Estates,” for their legislative assemblies.

  So, the matter didn’t seem to be urgent. What was an occasional “president” among dukes, landgraves, margraves, and counts? Would a “governor” be any less unique when his colleagues were Herzog, Landgraf, Markgraf, or Graf?

  “Okay, Liz, what’s the most important thing for me to take?”

  Emma was eyeing the president’s chief of staff, Liz Carstairs. Ed Piazza had inherited her from Mike Stearns. He would keep her only until she could make arrangements to move to Magdeburg and become the prime minister’s chief of staff there. Liz also, of course, happened to be the big sister of Emma’s husband, Willard. And president of the LDS Relief Society. And secretary of the Grantville League of Women Voters.

  Emma was never entirely certain which of these personages was the one to which she ought to be deferring at any given moment, but… the truth was that although Liz only had an associate’s degree in administration whereas Emma had a M.Ed. in language arts education, Emma had no doubt at all that Liz was the dominant personality, of which she herself would never manage to be more than the faintest shadow.