It's been exactly five months since I created the Sobel Wiki, an online encyclopedia of Robert Sobel's counterfactual history For Want of a Nail: If Burgoyne Had Won at Saratoga. 153 days of moderately diligent work on my part has resulted in a wiki with 300 pages, about twenty-five of which are mere stubs. Much of this surge in activity is due to the creation of an archive for the For All Nails project, an extension of Sobel's timeline by a group of alternate history enthusiasts (including myself).
I should note that I was mistaken in Update 4 when I claimed there were 303 For All Nails vignettes. The actual number then was 366, and the number has increased since then to 371. I failed to count multipart vignettes (for instance, number 243, "Napoleon's Nail", is actually 8 parts long, while number 51, "Victoria's Secret", is 14 parts long). Of the five additional vignettes, three were written by me, and one each by my fellow FAN authors Jonathan Edelstein and "President Chester A. Arthur". On top of that, FAN author David Mix Barrington has begun posting his own vignettes to the Sobel Wiki archive, so I may actually have a second regular contributor there. 38 of the 371 vignettes are now available at the Sobel Wiki archive.
FAN lives! Sobel Wiki forever!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
For All Nails #307: In the Country of the Bland
Norfolk, Virginia, S.C., CNA
11 May 1784
The sights, sounds, and smells of a bustling port town were as familiar to Alexander Hamilton as his own name, and were a welcome change of pace after two years spent struggling to build a new settlement on the sun-drenched alien plains of Spanish Tejas. It had been four years since Hamilton had left Norfolk with Nathanael Greene's party of exiles. Back then, the town was still recovering from the fires that had destroyed it in 1776. Now, the newly-established capital of the newly-established Southern Confederation had fully recovered from the former devastation. Houses of wood and brick lined the streets, which were filled with waggons, coaches, riders, and foot traffic.
Hamilton had been two weeks at sea, and was eager to shake off the dust of his travels. Unfortunately, he was learning that public accommodations were hard to come by in Norfolk. The town was full of transients such as himself, all competing for the same limited supply of rooms. Following a disappointing conversation with the owner of the Boar's Head tavern on Duke Street, Hamilton had found a seat in the common room and ordered a tankard of ale. If he couldn't find anywhere to stay, he would have to return to his cabin aboard the ship, a prospect he found unpleasant.
The last thing Hamilton expected to hear was the sound of a familiar voice, but there was no mistaking that reedy tenor saying, " . . . sooner trust one of my coon hounds to govern this colony than that simpleton!" As though to remove all doubt, the speaker followed his words with a phlegmy cough that Hamilton could still vividly recall from his time on General Washington's staff.
Hamilton turned to see the source of the scornful words, and found himself looking at his former comrade-in-arms, Colonel Theodorick Bland the Younger of the First Virginia Cavalry Regiment. Bland was standing in the doorway of the common room, speaking with a second man Hamilton didn't recognize, and holding the all-too-familiar handkerchief to his mouth.
Hamilton rose from his seat, and the movement attracted Bland's attention. There was no mistaking the shock of recognition on Bland's features. A moment passed, then Bland motioned for Hamilton to join him and the other man.
"You'll forgive me if I interrupt our conversation," Bland said to the other man, "but it isn't often one sees a ghost in the common room of the Boar's Head. Mr. Wright, please allow me to introduce Mr. Alexander Hamilton of the State of Jefferson. Mr. Hamilton, this is Mr. James Wright, my fellow Royal Governor for the Province of Georgia."
Hamilton bowed to the other man, saying, "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wright. The name is of course a familiar one."
"Likewise, Mr. Hamilton," Wright replied, returning the bow. He turned back to Bland and said, "As much as I would enjoy participating in a meeting of old friends, I fear my business takes me elsewhere. Mr. Hamilton, a pleasure. Mr. Bland, I shall save you a seat at the King George." So saying, Wright bowed towards the two men and left the Boar's Head.
"Mr. Hamilton," Bland said, "I would very much esteem it if you would join me for a time in my room."
"Mr. Bland, I would not dream of refusing."
Bland led Hamilton from the common room to a private room in the rear of the Boar's Head. The two men settled at a table there, and after another bout of coughing, Bland said, "You will forgive me, sir, if I seek to satisfy my curiosity. How is it that you find yourself back in the colonies? I was under the impression that when you and your fellows departed these shores, you were going for good and all."
"I have been in correspondence with Mr. Loudon in New-York," Hamilton answered. "He seems to feel that the reading public here in the colonies would be interested to hear the thoughts of an exiled Patriot on the changes that have taken place since my departure. The mails between Jefferson City and New-York being uncertain at best, I felt it would be best to bring Mr. Loudon the manuscript in person. Captain Reynolds has put in here in Norfolk for several days while he sees to business of his own, and so I decided to procure a room for the balance of my stay. I fear my efforts in that direction have been unproductive."
"You pique my curiosity, sir," said Bland. "I for one would indeed be interested to hear your thoughts. You may take this as proof of the soundness of Mr. Loudon's business acumen."
"Very well, Mr. Bland. If I were to sum up my thoughts in a single word, that word would be 'regret'. Had I thought it possible to stay, I would have done so. Sadly, sentiment was running high against those of us who sought independence from the British Crown, and so I felt it best to depart."
"Nonsense, sir!" Bland insisted, followed by a fit of coughing. "If you wished to remain, there was no impediment to your doing so. After all, I was as much a Patriot as you, and yet now I find myself entrusted with the rule of the Province of Virginia."
"You, sir, are a respected member of a long and illustrious line of gentlemen of Virginia," Hamilton pointed out. "You had a place in society waiting for you when you retired from the Continental Army." Hamilton remembered that Bland's health had always been poor, and had finally led him to resign his command of the First Virginia Cavalry a month after the Battle of Germantown.
"I, on the other hand," he continued, "am naught but a fatherless emigrant. I had no patron or place to safeguard me from the opprobrium of the triumphant Loyalists. I shall not go into my experiences in New-York after the end of the Rebellion, other than to say that they gave me ample proof that I would be better off elsewhere. And so, when I heard of General Greene's proposed expedition to New Spain, I determined to join him.
"But now that you have my tale, sir," Hamilton concluded, "I must have yours. How does a former rebel cavalry commander find himself chosen to be Royal Governor of Virginia?"
Bland paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then said, "Sir, I am certain you recall the temper of the times after the loss of Philadelphia and Albany."
"I do, sir," said Hamilton, and so he did. After that double disaster, the heart seemed to go out of the Patriot cause. Men such as Dickinson, who had always questioned the wisdom of declaring independence, had gained popular support, and sentiment grew for a return to British rule.
Nodding, Bland continued. "The House of Delegates had turned against independence, and found itself at odds with Governor Henry, who continued to support it. When Henry attempted to dissolve the House and rule by decree, it became necessary to remove him from office. A number of men from the First Cavalry were in Williamsburg at the time, and they sought me out for the purpose. I agreed, and so Henry was placed under arrest and the House chose Mr. Hubard in his place. When Sir Henry Clinton was placed in command of the southern colonies, he restored Lord Dunmore to his place. That proved an unfortunate choice, for Dunmore seemed to think himself still living in the time before the Rebellion, and came near to setting it off again with his intemperate speech and actions before Sir Henry relieved him."
" 'Dunmore should have done less.' " Hamilton quoted the familiar Virginian aphorism.
"As you say, sir," said Bland with a chuckle that became another cough. "By that time I was much in Sir Henry's confidence, and he chose to make me acting governor. Lord North saw fit to confirm the appointment, and so I remain."
"In that case," observed Hamilton, "I would expect to find you in Williamsburg, rather than Norfolk."
Bland shook his head sadly. "Mr. Hamilton, nothing would please me more than to remain in Williamsburg and deal with the business of Virginia. Unfortunately, Lord North's judgment in filling the offices of state here in America remains erratic."
"Then the word that has reached us in Jefferson City is true?" said Hamilton. "Mr. Connolly has been named Governor-General of your new confederation?"
"You have heard correctly, sir," said Bland. "He has indeed."
When he had first heard the news, it had taken some time for Hamilton to place the name. Finally, he had recalled Connolly, a physician and soldier-of-fortune from Pennsylvania. After the battles of Lexington and Concord had set off the Rebellion, Connolly, then a resident of Fort Pitt, had approached Lord Dunmore with a scheme to travel to Fort Detroit and there recruit a force of Loyalists and Indians. Connolly would then lead this force, which he meant to call the Loyal Foresters, to Fort Pitt to recruit more Loyalists, and finally to Virginia, to combine there with a second force called the Ethiopian Regiment that Dunmore had recruited from the escaped slaves of Patriots. Dunmore meant to use this mixed force of Loyalists, Indians, and freed slaves to put down the Rebellion in Virginia.
Even nine years later, Hamilton was still appalled at the folly of the idea. Burgoyne had recruited Indian auxiliaries for his invasion of New York, and it had come near to ruining his plans. Indians were uncertain allies at best, and they often failed to discriminate between Loyalist and Patriot settlers, one white scalp being as good as another to them. In any case, word of Connolly's business had gotten to General Washington, who alerted the Committee of Safety in Maryland. Connolly had been captured in Hagerstown in November 1775 with several incriminating documents in his possession, and had spent the remainder of the Rebellion in gaol.
"Whatever could have possessed Lord North to make such an appointment?" Hamilton wondered.
"This was more of Lord Dunmore's work, you may depend upon it, sir," said Bland. "Connolly was Dunmore's creature. And so you find me in Norfolk as Virginia's representative on the General Council. Mr. Wright and myself and the others see to it that Connolly has no opportunity to get into mischief. He still hopes to make himself master of the Southern Confederation, but I mean to break him of that ambition."
"It seems to me," Hamilton observed, "that you risk your own position. What is to keep Connolly from complaining about you to his friends in London and having you replaced with a more biddable man? You serve at the King's pleasure, after all, just as he does."
"Oh, complain he does, I assure you of that," said Bland, with another chuckle that devolved into a fit of coughing. "But for every report Lord Germain receives from Connolly denouncing me as an obstreperous villain, he receives another from Sir John praising me to the skies." It took a moment for Hamilton to realize that Sir John was the Viceroy, Sir John Dickinson.
Bland continued, "Best appointment Lord North could have made. The only man north of the Maryland border who isn't a damned scoundrel."
Curious, Hamilton said, "If you'll pardon the observation, sir, I don't recall you being so set against the northern colonies during the Rebellion."
"And who else was it but the men of the north who removed General Washington from command of the army?" Bland demanded. "Especially that rascal Rush. The general was our only hope of victory, and the fools cast him aside!"
Hamilton's own recollection of events was that it had been General Charles Lee, the Englishman-turned-Virginian, who had led the effort to remove Washington from command of the Continental Army, but he let Bland's accusation stand. Instead, he said, "And how is the general, these days?"
Bland's temper instantly subsided, replaced by sadness. "As well as can be expected, I suppose. I see to it that he does not suffer unduly. He lives the life of a country gentleman, the life he has always sought, at Mount Vernon, with Lady Washington beside him. He may correspond with whom he will, and may see whom he will. He has all that any man might wish."
"Except his liberty," said Hamilton.
With a sigh, Bland agreed, "Except his liberty." His expression became dour again as he added, "Connolly feels that I am too lenient with the general. This, too, he complains about to Lord Germain. Fortunately, Sir John feels as I do, and so Connolly's complaints fall upon deaf ears."
Hamilton raised his tankard in salute, and Bland returned the gesture.
"I must say, Mr. Hamilton, that I much admire what you and General Greene and the others have done," said Bland. "And better by far to seek out new lands to inhabit than to continue the fight as that lunatic Marion has done." Francis Marion, Hamilton knew, was a lieutenant colonel in the Continental Army who had refused to lay down his arms following the armistice of June 1778. Instead, he had retreated into the Carolina and Virginia back-country and attracted a band of like-minded men who declared themselves to be the "provisional government of the United States of America." Marion, who had raised himself to the rank of general, used the tactics he had learned in the Cherokee War in raids against "Tory" targets, and had so far managed to elude or defeat every army Bland had sent against him.
"I can assure you, sir," said Hamilton, "that the effort is much more admirable from a distance than it is in person. The land is harsh, and the Indians in that country are as fierce as any you will find here in the colonies. There is much to be done, but we are so few that it is all we can do to maintain ourselves."
"I think I know where you might find more settlers for your new land," said Bland.
"And where might that be, sir?"
"Why, right here in the Southern Confederation," Bland replied. "I may tell you that Lord Germain is entirely too niggardly in opening new lands to settlement. There are thousands here who wish to settle beyond the mountains, but cannot for want of land to settle on. From what you tell me, sir, there is land in plenty to be found in Jefferson."
"Would they be willing to make the journey to Jefferson?" Hamilton wondered. "The way is long, and the destination, as I have mentioned, a harsh one."
"They would be, despite the hardships. If," and here Bland paused. "If, I say, they could be assured that they would suffer no persecution at the hands of their predecessors. Would you and your Patriots denigrate them for lacking your revolutionary zeal?"
"There you may ease your mind, sir," Hamilton responded. "General Greene is as mindful as I am of the difficulties presented by our small numbers. He would welcome with open arms any man who chose to settle in Jefferson, whether Patriot or Loyalist. In fact, I may say, sir, that I at least would be happier to have more men in our new country who were not so adamant in their disdain for the CNA. I think it would be a mistake to oppose ourselves to Great Britain, and I see no need for hostility between our two countries. It would be better, I think, if we could let the disagreements of the past stay past, and seek more amicable relations. Jefferson's destiny lies to the west, beyond the Mississippi, and it would be better to have a friendly CNA at our back."
Now Bland had a look of interest upon his features. "Are there many in Jefferson who feel as you do, Mr. Hamilton?"
"All too few, at present," Hamilton admitted. "Most feel as Jay and Gallatin do, that enmity with Britain and the CNA is inevitable, and that we ought to ally ourselves with France against you. All the more reason, to my mind, for men of a different temper to come settle in our country."
"I see," said Bland, nodding. "I am pleased to have had this chance to converse with you, Mr. Hamilton. And I think I may safely promise you that there will indeed be men of your cast of mind coming to settle in your country. A great many men."
Bland smiled, then, and added, "If you do well by them, sir, I think I can guarantee that they will do well by you in return."
11 May 1784
The sights, sounds, and smells of a bustling port town were as familiar to Alexander Hamilton as his own name, and were a welcome change of pace after two years spent struggling to build a new settlement on the sun-drenched alien plains of Spanish Tejas. It had been four years since Hamilton had left Norfolk with Nathanael Greene's party of exiles. Back then, the town was still recovering from the fires that had destroyed it in 1776. Now, the newly-established capital of the newly-established Southern Confederation had fully recovered from the former devastation. Houses of wood and brick lined the streets, which were filled with waggons, coaches, riders, and foot traffic.
Hamilton had been two weeks at sea, and was eager to shake off the dust of his travels. Unfortunately, he was learning that public accommodations were hard to come by in Norfolk. The town was full of transients such as himself, all competing for the same limited supply of rooms. Following a disappointing conversation with the owner of the Boar's Head tavern on Duke Street, Hamilton had found a seat in the common room and ordered a tankard of ale. If he couldn't find anywhere to stay, he would have to return to his cabin aboard the ship, a prospect he found unpleasant.
The last thing Hamilton expected to hear was the sound of a familiar voice, but there was no mistaking that reedy tenor saying, " . . . sooner trust one of my coon hounds to govern this colony than that simpleton!" As though to remove all doubt, the speaker followed his words with a phlegmy cough that Hamilton could still vividly recall from his time on General Washington's staff.
Hamilton turned to see the source of the scornful words, and found himself looking at his former comrade-in-arms, Colonel Theodorick Bland the Younger of the First Virginia Cavalry Regiment. Bland was standing in the doorway of the common room, speaking with a second man Hamilton didn't recognize, and holding the all-too-familiar handkerchief to his mouth.
Hamilton rose from his seat, and the movement attracted Bland's attention. There was no mistaking the shock of recognition on Bland's features. A moment passed, then Bland motioned for Hamilton to join him and the other man.
"You'll forgive me if I interrupt our conversation," Bland said to the other man, "but it isn't often one sees a ghost in the common room of the Boar's Head. Mr. Wright, please allow me to introduce Mr. Alexander Hamilton of the State of Jefferson. Mr. Hamilton, this is Mr. James Wright, my fellow Royal Governor for the Province of Georgia."
Hamilton bowed to the other man, saying, "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wright. The name is of course a familiar one."
"Likewise, Mr. Hamilton," Wright replied, returning the bow. He turned back to Bland and said, "As much as I would enjoy participating in a meeting of old friends, I fear my business takes me elsewhere. Mr. Hamilton, a pleasure. Mr. Bland, I shall save you a seat at the King George." So saying, Wright bowed towards the two men and left the Boar's Head.
"Mr. Hamilton," Bland said, "I would very much esteem it if you would join me for a time in my room."
"Mr. Bland, I would not dream of refusing."
Bland led Hamilton from the common room to a private room in the rear of the Boar's Head. The two men settled at a table there, and after another bout of coughing, Bland said, "You will forgive me, sir, if I seek to satisfy my curiosity. How is it that you find yourself back in the colonies? I was under the impression that when you and your fellows departed these shores, you were going for good and all."
"I have been in correspondence with Mr. Loudon in New-York," Hamilton answered. "He seems to feel that the reading public here in the colonies would be interested to hear the thoughts of an exiled Patriot on the changes that have taken place since my departure. The mails between Jefferson City and New-York being uncertain at best, I felt it would be best to bring Mr. Loudon the manuscript in person. Captain Reynolds has put in here in Norfolk for several days while he sees to business of his own, and so I decided to procure a room for the balance of my stay. I fear my efforts in that direction have been unproductive."
"You pique my curiosity, sir," said Bland. "I for one would indeed be interested to hear your thoughts. You may take this as proof of the soundness of Mr. Loudon's business acumen."
"Very well, Mr. Bland. If I were to sum up my thoughts in a single word, that word would be 'regret'. Had I thought it possible to stay, I would have done so. Sadly, sentiment was running high against those of us who sought independence from the British Crown, and so I felt it best to depart."
"Nonsense, sir!" Bland insisted, followed by a fit of coughing. "If you wished to remain, there was no impediment to your doing so. After all, I was as much a Patriot as you, and yet now I find myself entrusted with the rule of the Province of Virginia."
"You, sir, are a respected member of a long and illustrious line of gentlemen of Virginia," Hamilton pointed out. "You had a place in society waiting for you when you retired from the Continental Army." Hamilton remembered that Bland's health had always been poor, and had finally led him to resign his command of the First Virginia Cavalry a month after the Battle of Germantown.
"I, on the other hand," he continued, "am naught but a fatherless emigrant. I had no patron or place to safeguard me from the opprobrium of the triumphant Loyalists. I shall not go into my experiences in New-York after the end of the Rebellion, other than to say that they gave me ample proof that I would be better off elsewhere. And so, when I heard of General Greene's proposed expedition to New Spain, I determined to join him.
"But now that you have my tale, sir," Hamilton concluded, "I must have yours. How does a former rebel cavalry commander find himself chosen to be Royal Governor of Virginia?"
Bland paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then said, "Sir, I am certain you recall the temper of the times after the loss of Philadelphia and Albany."
"I do, sir," said Hamilton, and so he did. After that double disaster, the heart seemed to go out of the Patriot cause. Men such as Dickinson, who had always questioned the wisdom of declaring independence, had gained popular support, and sentiment grew for a return to British rule.
Nodding, Bland continued. "The House of Delegates had turned against independence, and found itself at odds with Governor Henry, who continued to support it. When Henry attempted to dissolve the House and rule by decree, it became necessary to remove him from office. A number of men from the First Cavalry were in Williamsburg at the time, and they sought me out for the purpose. I agreed, and so Henry was placed under arrest and the House chose Mr. Hubard in his place. When Sir Henry Clinton was placed in command of the southern colonies, he restored Lord Dunmore to his place. That proved an unfortunate choice, for Dunmore seemed to think himself still living in the time before the Rebellion, and came near to setting it off again with his intemperate speech and actions before Sir Henry relieved him."
" 'Dunmore should have done less.' " Hamilton quoted the familiar Virginian aphorism.
"As you say, sir," said Bland with a chuckle that became another cough. "By that time I was much in Sir Henry's confidence, and he chose to make me acting governor. Lord North saw fit to confirm the appointment, and so I remain."
"In that case," observed Hamilton, "I would expect to find you in Williamsburg, rather than Norfolk."
Bland shook his head sadly. "Mr. Hamilton, nothing would please me more than to remain in Williamsburg and deal with the business of Virginia. Unfortunately, Lord North's judgment in filling the offices of state here in America remains erratic."
"Then the word that has reached us in Jefferson City is true?" said Hamilton. "Mr. Connolly has been named Governor-General of your new confederation?"
"You have heard correctly, sir," said Bland. "He has indeed."
When he had first heard the news, it had taken some time for Hamilton to place the name. Finally, he had recalled Connolly, a physician and soldier-of-fortune from Pennsylvania. After the battles of Lexington and Concord had set off the Rebellion, Connolly, then a resident of Fort Pitt, had approached Lord Dunmore with a scheme to travel to Fort Detroit and there recruit a force of Loyalists and Indians. Connolly would then lead this force, which he meant to call the Loyal Foresters, to Fort Pitt to recruit more Loyalists, and finally to Virginia, to combine there with a second force called the Ethiopian Regiment that Dunmore had recruited from the escaped slaves of Patriots. Dunmore meant to use this mixed force of Loyalists, Indians, and freed slaves to put down the Rebellion in Virginia.
Even nine years later, Hamilton was still appalled at the folly of the idea. Burgoyne had recruited Indian auxiliaries for his invasion of New York, and it had come near to ruining his plans. Indians were uncertain allies at best, and they often failed to discriminate between Loyalist and Patriot settlers, one white scalp being as good as another to them. In any case, word of Connolly's business had gotten to General Washington, who alerted the Committee of Safety in Maryland. Connolly had been captured in Hagerstown in November 1775 with several incriminating documents in his possession, and had spent the remainder of the Rebellion in gaol.
"Whatever could have possessed Lord North to make such an appointment?" Hamilton wondered.
"This was more of Lord Dunmore's work, you may depend upon it, sir," said Bland. "Connolly was Dunmore's creature. And so you find me in Norfolk as Virginia's representative on the General Council. Mr. Wright and myself and the others see to it that Connolly has no opportunity to get into mischief. He still hopes to make himself master of the Southern Confederation, but I mean to break him of that ambition."
"It seems to me," Hamilton observed, "that you risk your own position. What is to keep Connolly from complaining about you to his friends in London and having you replaced with a more biddable man? You serve at the King's pleasure, after all, just as he does."
"Oh, complain he does, I assure you of that," said Bland, with another chuckle that devolved into a fit of coughing. "But for every report Lord Germain receives from Connolly denouncing me as an obstreperous villain, he receives another from Sir John praising me to the skies." It took a moment for Hamilton to realize that Sir John was the Viceroy, Sir John Dickinson.
Bland continued, "Best appointment Lord North could have made. The only man north of the Maryland border who isn't a damned scoundrel."
Curious, Hamilton said, "If you'll pardon the observation, sir, I don't recall you being so set against the northern colonies during the Rebellion."
"And who else was it but the men of the north who removed General Washington from command of the army?" Bland demanded. "Especially that rascal Rush. The general was our only hope of victory, and the fools cast him aside!"
Hamilton's own recollection of events was that it had been General Charles Lee, the Englishman-turned-Virginian, who had led the effort to remove Washington from command of the Continental Army, but he let Bland's accusation stand. Instead, he said, "And how is the general, these days?"
Bland's temper instantly subsided, replaced by sadness. "As well as can be expected, I suppose. I see to it that he does not suffer unduly. He lives the life of a country gentleman, the life he has always sought, at Mount Vernon, with Lady Washington beside him. He may correspond with whom he will, and may see whom he will. He has all that any man might wish."
"Except his liberty," said Hamilton.
With a sigh, Bland agreed, "Except his liberty." His expression became dour again as he added, "Connolly feels that I am too lenient with the general. This, too, he complains about to Lord Germain. Fortunately, Sir John feels as I do, and so Connolly's complaints fall upon deaf ears."
Hamilton raised his tankard in salute, and Bland returned the gesture.
"I must say, Mr. Hamilton, that I much admire what you and General Greene and the others have done," said Bland. "And better by far to seek out new lands to inhabit than to continue the fight as that lunatic Marion has done." Francis Marion, Hamilton knew, was a lieutenant colonel in the Continental Army who had refused to lay down his arms following the armistice of June 1778. Instead, he had retreated into the Carolina and Virginia back-country and attracted a band of like-minded men who declared themselves to be the "provisional government of the United States of America." Marion, who had raised himself to the rank of general, used the tactics he had learned in the Cherokee War in raids against "Tory" targets, and had so far managed to elude or defeat every army Bland had sent against him.
"I can assure you, sir," said Hamilton, "that the effort is much more admirable from a distance than it is in person. The land is harsh, and the Indians in that country are as fierce as any you will find here in the colonies. There is much to be done, but we are so few that it is all we can do to maintain ourselves."
"I think I know where you might find more settlers for your new land," said Bland.
"And where might that be, sir?"
"Why, right here in the Southern Confederation," Bland replied. "I may tell you that Lord Germain is entirely too niggardly in opening new lands to settlement. There are thousands here who wish to settle beyond the mountains, but cannot for want of land to settle on. From what you tell me, sir, there is land in plenty to be found in Jefferson."
"Would they be willing to make the journey to Jefferson?" Hamilton wondered. "The way is long, and the destination, as I have mentioned, a harsh one."
"They would be, despite the hardships. If," and here Bland paused. "If, I say, they could be assured that they would suffer no persecution at the hands of their predecessors. Would you and your Patriots denigrate them for lacking your revolutionary zeal?"
"There you may ease your mind, sir," Hamilton responded. "General Greene is as mindful as I am of the difficulties presented by our small numbers. He would welcome with open arms any man who chose to settle in Jefferson, whether Patriot or Loyalist. In fact, I may say, sir, that I at least would be happier to have more men in our new country who were not so adamant in their disdain for the CNA. I think it would be a mistake to oppose ourselves to Great Britain, and I see no need for hostility between our two countries. It would be better, I think, if we could let the disagreements of the past stay past, and seek more amicable relations. Jefferson's destiny lies to the west, beyond the Mississippi, and it would be better to have a friendly CNA at our back."
Now Bland had a look of interest upon his features. "Are there many in Jefferson who feel as you do, Mr. Hamilton?"
"All too few, at present," Hamilton admitted. "Most feel as Jay and Gallatin do, that enmity with Britain and the CNA is inevitable, and that we ought to ally ourselves with France against you. All the more reason, to my mind, for men of a different temper to come settle in our country."
"I see," said Bland, nodding. "I am pleased to have had this chance to converse with you, Mr. Hamilton. And I think I may safely promise you that there will indeed be men of your cast of mind coming to settle in your country. A great many men."
Bland smiled, then, and added, "If you do well by them, sir, I think I can guarantee that they will do well by you in return."
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
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Monday, January 10, 2011
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For All Nails #305: The King's Justice
(UPDATE: After considering the advice of Noel Maurer, I've decided to make a slight change to the ending of this vignette. The original ending can be found below.)
Buenos Aires, Argentina
9 February 1981
King Fernando III of New Granada felt that he was showing admirable restraint when he said to his pilot, "Mary, are you certain?" instead of "Mary, are you insane?" Fernando had been brought here to the Nueva Granada from a reception at the Presidential Palace by his secretary, Oscar Ortiz, who had refused to say why. He had found Captain Mary Smith, chief pilot of the Nueva Granada, holding a man at gunpoint, bound and gagged, in her cabin aboard the airmobile. She claimed he was Martin Falcone, a former Army Intelligence officer from Mexico, and an agent of former Secretary of War Vincent Mercator. [1]
Fernando had heard the name before; Alexander Elbittar had mentioned having dealings with the man between the overthrow of the Hermión regime and the Bali massacre. Since then, he, along with the rest of Mercator's retinue, had vanished from sight. That had been over six years ago.
Smith answered decisively. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure. I never forget a face."
Queen Sophia spoke up. "How did you find him?"
"Me and some of the crew of the Nueva were pub-crawling earlier tonight, and I recognized him at a place called the Red Parrot," said Smith. "We grabbed him and brought him here, then I called up Serjeant Gomez and had him bring you two."
There was a surreal quality to the situation that Fernando found most unnerving. Vincent Mercator had been the most wanted man in the world, since setting off a hydrogen bomb at a meeting of Kramer Associates executives on Bali on Christmas morning 1974. The incident had ultimately led to the invasion and occupation of New Granada in the Alliance War. If Mercator were to be captured now . . . .
"Remove his gag, please," Fernando ordered. "Let us hear what your man has to say for himself."
Gomez kept a gun trained on the bound man while Smith pulled the gag from his mouth. Falcone -- if it was Falcone -- remained defiantly silent.
"Are you Colonel Falcone?" Fernando asked him.
"I would like to speak to a lawyer," the man answered.
"That is not possible," said Fernando.
"You are holding me against my will," the man said. "That is a crime here in Argentina, and you will have to answer for it."
"If you are Martin Falcone," said Fernando, "then you are a wanted man in Argentina, and my crew acted properly in taking you into custody."
"In that case," said the man, "please turn me over to the authorities. You have no jurisdiction over me."
"As it happens, I do," Fernando said. "The Nueva Granada falls under the right of extraterritoriality. New Granadan law holds sway here, and under that law, I, as sovereign, have the power to conduct legal proceedings. It is not a power I have ever had cause to exercise, but thanks to your associate Mr. Elbittar, I do have this power. And under that power, I have chosen to detain you as a material witness concerning the whereabouts of Vincent Mercator. If, that is, you are in fact Martin Falcone, formerly of the Army of the United States of Mexico. Do you wish to confirm or deny this?"
There was a long pause before the man said, "Yes, I am Martin Falcone."
"Thank you," said Fernando. "Now, can you inform me as to the whereabouts of Vincent Mercator?"
"He is dead."
It took a moment for Fernando to wrap his mind around Falcone's pronouncement. "Dead? How can he be dead?"
Falcone shrugged as well as he could under the circumstances. "He was an old man. Old men die. He was dying even while he planned the strike against el Pulpo. A cancer. Two weeks after the bomb went off, he passed away on board the Cochise and was buried at sea."
Smith spoke up suddenly. "Remember right after the Bali bombing, when all those men that looked like Mercator started turning up? And they all turned out not to be him? [2] I bet he planned it that way the whole time, to leave people wondering."
"Can you prove that Mercator is dead?" Fernando asked.
"Not directly, no," said Falcone. "But you may remember that in his vitavised speech, [3] he made certain demands of the governments of Scandinavia, Australia, and other nations, and threatened them with similar attacks if they did not comply. They ignored his demands, and suffered no consequences. Secretary Mercator had only the single device he used against el Pulpo. The rest was a bluff, and the nations called his bluff. It did not matter. He struck the blow he meant to strike."
"He was mad," Fernando stated, "and both Bali and New Granada payed the price for his madness. And what is more, he failed. Kramer Associates suffered a blow, but it was not a mortal blow. The company is still the largest in the world, and still growing. And if K.A. no longer claims to be a world power, that was a claim it gave up before Mercator's attack, when it turned over its weapons to the Taiwanese government." [4]
There was another pause before Sophia said, "Do you believe him? Do you believe Mercator has been dead all along?"
"It would explain why nobody has been able to find him after searching the world for six years," said Fernando. He turned back to Falcone. "And what became of the Cochise?" It had been the prototype for the USM's fleet of atomic-powered submersibles, and Mercator's people had made off with it a few days before the Bali bombing. [5]
"We scuttled it, about twenty miles beyond the mouth of the Rio de la Plata," said Falcone. "It was the Secretary's last order."
Fernando felt a sense of anticlimax. For six years, Vincent Mercator had been the world's greatest villain, a terrorist armed with his own atomic arsenal. Now he was gone. He had never been there at all. It had all been one last mad trick by a dying lunatic.
"May I go now?" Falcone asked. "You have what you wanted."
Fernando considered Falcone's request, then said, "Very well."
"What?" Smith exclaimed. "You're letting him go?"
"As I said," Fernando explained, "Mr. Falcone is a material witness concerning the whereabouts of Mercator. Now that we know that Mercator is dead, we have no further reason to hold him."
"Suppose he's lying?"
"That has no bearing on the question. Mr. Falcone has given his statement, and that is all that I required of him. I might also add, Captain Smith, that holding on to him would necessarily involve informing President Taveras that members of my flight crew have been kidnapping people off the streets of Buenos Aires, which would be awkward for a number of reasons. No, my decision stands."
Falcone turned to face Smith then. "How unfortunate for you, Alexandra. You will be cheated of your revenge."
Smith's expression showed contempt. "Mister, I don't need revenge. I'm the goddamned chief pilot of this bird. I kept the king and queen there safe and sound while the whole motherfucking Bornholm Alliance was trying to track 'em down. You know what that makes me? A big damn hero! I even got an executive pardon from Governor-General Carter fucking Monaghan, courtesy of His Majesty there. Fuck revenge, I've got a motherfucking life!"
To Fernando's surprise, Falcone burst into laughter. "And here I thought the age of miracles was over. Your Majesty, you've done the impossible: you've taught Alexandra Stapleton the value of loyalty. For that, I salute you."
Shaking his head, Fernando said, "Serjeant, please see that our guest is safely escorted off the Nueva Granada. The Queen and I have a reception to return to."
Notes:
1. See FAN #303.
2. See FAN #203.
3. See FAN #143.
4. See FAN #43.
5. See FAN #153.
(ORIGINAL ENDING)
"May I go now?" Falcone asked. "You have what you wanted."
Fernando shook his head. "I think not. You might be lying, after all. And you are still a wanted man. I believe the best course of action would be to turn you over to President Costigan, and let him decide your fate."
Falcone turned to face Smith then. "You, at least, must be pleased, Alexandra. At long last, you have had your revenge."
Smith's expression showed contempt. "Mister, I don't need revenge. I'm the goddamned chief pilot of this bird. I kept the king and queen there safe and sound while the whole motherfucking Bornholm Alliance was trying to track 'em down. You know what that makes me? A big damn hero! I even got an executive pardon from Governor-General Carter fucking Monaghan, courtesy of His Majesty there. Fuck revenge, I've got a motherfucking life!"
To Fernando's surprise, Falcone burst into laughter. "And here I thought the age of miracles was over. Your Majesty, you've done the impossible: you've taught Alexandra Stapleton the value of loyalty. For that, I salute you, and I go to my fate at el Enano's tiny hands with a glad heart."
Shaking his head, Fernando said, "Serjeant, keep our guest safe. The Queen and I have a reception to return to."
Buenos Aires, Argentina
9 February 1981
King Fernando III of New Granada felt that he was showing admirable restraint when he said to his pilot, "Mary, are you certain?" instead of "Mary, are you insane?" Fernando had been brought here to the Nueva Granada from a reception at the Presidential Palace by his secretary, Oscar Ortiz, who had refused to say why. He had found Captain Mary Smith, chief pilot of the Nueva Granada, holding a man at gunpoint, bound and gagged, in her cabin aboard the airmobile. She claimed he was Martin Falcone, a former Army Intelligence officer from Mexico, and an agent of former Secretary of War Vincent Mercator. [1]
Fernando had heard the name before; Alexander Elbittar had mentioned having dealings with the man between the overthrow of the Hermión regime and the Bali massacre. Since then, he, along with the rest of Mercator's retinue, had vanished from sight. That had been over six years ago.
Smith answered decisively. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure. I never forget a face."
Queen Sophia spoke up. "How did you find him?"
"Me and some of the crew of the Nueva were pub-crawling earlier tonight, and I recognized him at a place called the Red Parrot," said Smith. "We grabbed him and brought him here, then I called up Serjeant Gomez and had him bring you two."
There was a surreal quality to the situation that Fernando found most unnerving. Vincent Mercator had been the most wanted man in the world, since setting off a hydrogen bomb at a meeting of Kramer Associates executives on Bali on Christmas morning 1974. The incident had ultimately led to the invasion and occupation of New Granada in the Alliance War. If Mercator were to be captured now . . . .
"Remove his gag, please," Fernando ordered. "Let us hear what your man has to say for himself."
Gomez kept a gun trained on the bound man while Smith pulled the gag from his mouth. Falcone -- if it was Falcone -- remained defiantly silent.
"Are you Colonel Falcone?" Fernando asked him.
"I would like to speak to a lawyer," the man answered.
"That is not possible," said Fernando.
"You are holding me against my will," the man said. "That is a crime here in Argentina, and you will have to answer for it."
"If you are Martin Falcone," said Fernando, "then you are a wanted man in Argentina, and my crew acted properly in taking you into custody."
"In that case," said the man, "please turn me over to the authorities. You have no jurisdiction over me."
"As it happens, I do," Fernando said. "The Nueva Granada falls under the right of extraterritoriality. New Granadan law holds sway here, and under that law, I, as sovereign, have the power to conduct legal proceedings. It is not a power I have ever had cause to exercise, but thanks to your associate Mr. Elbittar, I do have this power. And under that power, I have chosen to detain you as a material witness concerning the whereabouts of Vincent Mercator. If, that is, you are in fact Martin Falcone, formerly of the Army of the United States of Mexico. Do you wish to confirm or deny this?"
There was a long pause before the man said, "Yes, I am Martin Falcone."
"Thank you," said Fernando. "Now, can you inform me as to the whereabouts of Vincent Mercator?"
"He is dead."
It took a moment for Fernando to wrap his mind around Falcone's pronouncement. "Dead? How can he be dead?"
Falcone shrugged as well as he could under the circumstances. "He was an old man. Old men die. He was dying even while he planned the strike against el Pulpo. A cancer. Two weeks after the bomb went off, he passed away on board the Cochise and was buried at sea."
Smith spoke up suddenly. "Remember right after the Bali bombing, when all those men that looked like Mercator started turning up? And they all turned out not to be him? [2] I bet he planned it that way the whole time, to leave people wondering."
"Can you prove that Mercator is dead?" Fernando asked.
"Not directly, no," said Falcone. "But you may remember that in his vitavised speech, [3] he made certain demands of the governments of Scandinavia, Australia, and other nations, and threatened them with similar attacks if they did not comply. They ignored his demands, and suffered no consequences. Secretary Mercator had only the single device he used against el Pulpo. The rest was a bluff, and the nations called his bluff. It did not matter. He struck the blow he meant to strike."
"He was mad," Fernando stated, "and both Bali and New Granada payed the price for his madness. And what is more, he failed. Kramer Associates suffered a blow, but it was not a mortal blow. The company is still the largest in the world, and still growing. And if K.A. no longer claims to be a world power, that was a claim it gave up before Mercator's attack, when it turned over its weapons to the Taiwanese government." [4]
There was another pause before Sophia said, "Do you believe him? Do you believe Mercator has been dead all along?"
"It would explain why nobody has been able to find him after searching the world for six years," said Fernando. He turned back to Falcone. "And what became of the Cochise?" It had been the prototype for the USM's fleet of atomic-powered submersibles, and Mercator's people had made off with it a few days before the Bali bombing. [5]
"We scuttled it, about twenty miles beyond the mouth of the Rio de la Plata," said Falcone. "It was the Secretary's last order."
Fernando felt a sense of anticlimax. For six years, Vincent Mercator had been the world's greatest villain, a terrorist armed with his own atomic arsenal. Now he was gone. He had never been there at all. It had all been one last mad trick by a dying lunatic.
"May I go now?" Falcone asked. "You have what you wanted."
Fernando considered Falcone's request, then said, "Very well."
"What?" Smith exclaimed. "You're letting him go?"
"As I said," Fernando explained, "Mr. Falcone is a material witness concerning the whereabouts of Mercator. Now that we know that Mercator is dead, we have no further reason to hold him."
"Suppose he's lying?"
"That has no bearing on the question. Mr. Falcone has given his statement, and that is all that I required of him. I might also add, Captain Smith, that holding on to him would necessarily involve informing President Taveras that members of my flight crew have been kidnapping people off the streets of Buenos Aires, which would be awkward for a number of reasons. No, my decision stands."
Falcone turned to face Smith then. "How unfortunate for you, Alexandra. You will be cheated of your revenge."
Smith's expression showed contempt. "Mister, I don't need revenge. I'm the goddamned chief pilot of this bird. I kept the king and queen there safe and sound while the whole motherfucking Bornholm Alliance was trying to track 'em down. You know what that makes me? A big damn hero! I even got an executive pardon from Governor-General Carter fucking Monaghan, courtesy of His Majesty there. Fuck revenge, I've got a motherfucking life!"
To Fernando's surprise, Falcone burst into laughter. "And here I thought the age of miracles was over. Your Majesty, you've done the impossible: you've taught Alexandra Stapleton the value of loyalty. For that, I salute you."
Shaking his head, Fernando said, "Serjeant, please see that our guest is safely escorted off the Nueva Granada. The Queen and I have a reception to return to."
Notes:
1. See FAN #303.
2. See FAN #203.
3. See FAN #143.
4. See FAN #43.
5. See FAN #153.
(ORIGINAL ENDING)
"May I go now?" Falcone asked. "You have what you wanted."
Fernando shook his head. "I think not. You might be lying, after all. And you are still a wanted man. I believe the best course of action would be to turn you over to President Costigan, and let him decide your fate."
Falcone turned to face Smith then. "You, at least, must be pleased, Alexandra. At long last, you have had your revenge."
Smith's expression showed contempt. "Mister, I don't need revenge. I'm the goddamned chief pilot of this bird. I kept the king and queen there safe and sound while the whole motherfucking Bornholm Alliance was trying to track 'em down. You know what that makes me? A big damn hero! I even got an executive pardon from Governor-General Carter fucking Monaghan, courtesy of His Majesty there. Fuck revenge, I've got a motherfucking life!"
To Fernando's surprise, Falcone burst into laughter. "And here I thought the age of miracles was over. Your Majesty, you've done the impossible: you've taught Alexandra Stapleton the value of loyalty. For that, I salute you, and I go to my fate at el Enano's tiny hands with a glad heart."
Shaking his head, Fernando said, "Serjeant, keep our guest safe. The Queen and I have a reception to return to."
Friday, January 7, 2011
For a minute there, I lost myself
Today's embedded music video comes from 1996: "Karma Police" by Radiohead.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Happy birthday Isaac Asimov
I'm sorry he's gone, but at the same time I'm glad that he passed away before the country he loved began its long, ugly downward spiral.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Digital Day 010111
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Friday, December 31, 2010
For All Nails #304: Look Both Ways Before Crossing
This is the latest entry in the For All Nails project, a continuation of the alternate history of Robert Sobel's For Want of a Nail: If Burgoyne Had Won at Saratoga. The following vignette is a direct sequel to For All Nails #300: Descendants, which can be found here at the Sobel Wiki FAN archive.
From Newstime
14 April 1980
London
14 April 1980
"What the devil do you mean by this?" an annoyed Justin McIntee inquired of his uninvited guest.
"I must apologize for the irregular nature of this visit," said the dark man in heavily accented English. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Moussa Traoré, and I am Ghana's Minister to the Court of St. James."
McIntee wasn't quite certain whether he believed the fellow, but if he was telling the truth, then the nature of his visit was not difficult to guess, nor the reason why he had turned up at his home and not at his office in the Colonial and Empire Ministry. "Very well. Will you have a seat, Minister Traoré?"
"Thank you, Minister, you are most kind."
"I assume," McIntee began after seating himself across from Traoré, "that your visit has something to do with the recent referendum in France."
"My visit has everything to do with the referendum," Traoré said with a smile. "My sovereign had an ulterior motive in seeking it. He knew well enough, you see, what the outcome would be. He felt that he could count on the French people to reject his overtures, and reject them overwhelmingly. He wanted to make it clear to his subjects just where they actually stood with respect to France, and the French have obliged him. There is now a great deal of anti-French feeling in Ghana. The people wish to make those feelings known in some concrete fashion, and that is why I have come to you."
McIntee nodded. "Am I correct in supposing that King Victor wishes to come to some sort of arrangement with the United Empire?"
"You are, sir, quite correct. If Lord Sidney were to extend an offer of membership in the Empire, my sovereign would be quite happy to oblige, and my people would as well."
"Yes, I can certainly see how this would benefit King Victor," said McIntee. "Tell me now how it would benefit the United Empire."
"The Empire is currently suffering a surfeit of what your people call 'bad publicity'. The American War did not turn out well, the North Americans have severed their ties with you and moved closer to your German enemies, and five years on, Vincent Mercator still remains at large, despite Sir Geoffrey Gold's emphatic promises to bring him to justice. If my people need to celebrate a triumph, so do yours. If my people would like to see the French discomfited, so would yours."
McIntee had to admit, Traoré made sense. It was the fiasco over the American War that had cost his predecessor his post as Colonial and Empire Secretary. Over half the cabinet had followed Gold into political oblivion in the shakeup following the war. As well, the NRP had lost nearly thirty seats in the last election, giving them a bare 3-seat majority in the Commons. With a by-election in Bolton coming up, they needed something to point to to convince the voters that the NRP still had a viable vision for the future. If King Victor had planned all this in advance, then his sense of timing was exquisite.
Cautiously, he said, "If, speaking hypothetically, we were to agree to the admission of Ghana to the United Empire, what sort of terms would you be asking?"
The other man's smile grew wider.
From Newstime
14 April 1980
After all the rhetoric attending the French referendum on union with Ghana, the final results have been anticlimactic. By an overwhelming majority approaching 90%, the French people have rejected the proposed union. French Premier Yvette Fanchon, who was careful to distance herself from the referendum, appears to have sustained no political damage from the results. "The people of France have spoken," she stated after the final results had been announced. "As much as we might respect and admire our African cousins, it is best that we continue on our separate paths."
How the results will play in Ghana is less certain. Paramount King Victor Fontaine must return to the nation over which he reigns and tell his subjects that their French "mother" (as Fanchon's great-grandfather once put it) has rejected them. The vote cannot help but be seen as a rebuke, and Victor, whose power over his subjects is more theoretical than real, may find himself facing a backlash that could conceivably topple him from his throne.
London
14 April 1980
"What the devil do you mean by this?" an annoyed Justin McIntee inquired of his uninvited guest.
"I must apologize for the irregular nature of this visit," said the dark man in heavily accented English. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Moussa Traoré, and I am Ghana's Minister to the Court of St. James."
McIntee wasn't quite certain whether he believed the fellow, but if he was telling the truth, then the nature of his visit was not difficult to guess, nor the reason why he had turned up at his home and not at his office in the Colonial and Empire Ministry. "Very well. Will you have a seat, Minister Traoré?"
"Thank you, Minister, you are most kind."
"I assume," McIntee began after seating himself across from Traoré, "that your visit has something to do with the recent referendum in France."
"My visit has everything to do with the referendum," Traoré said with a smile. "My sovereign had an ulterior motive in seeking it. He knew well enough, you see, what the outcome would be. He felt that he could count on the French people to reject his overtures, and reject them overwhelmingly. He wanted to make it clear to his subjects just where they actually stood with respect to France, and the French have obliged him. There is now a great deal of anti-French feeling in Ghana. The people wish to make those feelings known in some concrete fashion, and that is why I have come to you."
McIntee nodded. "Am I correct in supposing that King Victor wishes to come to some sort of arrangement with the United Empire?"
"You are, sir, quite correct. If Lord Sidney were to extend an offer of membership in the Empire, my sovereign would be quite happy to oblige, and my people would as well."
"Yes, I can certainly see how this would benefit King Victor," said McIntee. "Tell me now how it would benefit the United Empire."
"The Empire is currently suffering a surfeit of what your people call 'bad publicity'. The American War did not turn out well, the North Americans have severed their ties with you and moved closer to your German enemies, and five years on, Vincent Mercator still remains at large, despite Sir Geoffrey Gold's emphatic promises to bring him to justice. If my people need to celebrate a triumph, so do yours. If my people would like to see the French discomfited, so would yours."
McIntee had to admit, Traoré made sense. It was the fiasco over the American War that had cost his predecessor his post as Colonial and Empire Secretary. Over half the cabinet had followed Gold into political oblivion in the shakeup following the war. As well, the NRP had lost nearly thirty seats in the last election, giving them a bare 3-seat majority in the Commons. With a by-election in Bolton coming up, they needed something to point to to convince the voters that the NRP still had a viable vision for the future. If King Victor had planned all this in advance, then his sense of timing was exquisite.
Cautiously, he said, "If, speaking hypothetically, we were to agree to the admission of Ghana to the United Empire, what sort of terms would you be asking?"
The other man's smile grew wider.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Sobel Wiki Update 4
It's been exactly four months since I created the Sobel Wiki, an online encyclopedia of Robert Sobel's counterfactual history For Want of a Nail: If Burgoyne Had Won at Saratoga. 122 days of moderately diligent work on my part has resulted in a wiki with 185 pages, about twenty-five of which are mere stubs. Moreover, not content merely to wikify the most detailed timeline in all of alternate history, I've chosen to expand the Sobel Wiki to include an archive of all 303 (at last count) vignettes from the For All Nails project. Needless to say, it's going to take a while to get all 303 set in place (unless I get some help from some of the other members of the FAN Cabal, hint, hint), but once that's done, the Sobel Wiki will be the online resource for all things FWoaN-related!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
If man is five
While I'm busy with various other projects, here's a music video to keep you entertained. It's the Pixies doing a 1989 live performance of "Monkey Gone to Heaven" on BBC Two's The Late Show.
Monday, December 6, 2010
DBTL Extra: Kelly, Jack, and Eddie visit Białystok
Kelly, Jack, and Eddie visit Białystok
by Dan McDonald
---
The New York Times, March 3rd, 1950
MILITARY MISSION TO POLAND LEAVES TOMORROW
Washington - President Alben Barkley met with military and industry officials today before their departure to Warsaw, Poland, for a Warsaw Pact summit. The summit, the first since the Senate ratified the Warsaw Pact treaty, starts Monday . . . .
MIDTERM ELECTIONS LOOK TO BE HEATED
With voters polarizing on the issue of international involvement, the 1950 congressional elections look to be . . .
---
The Lockheed C-23 (a military repackaging of the Lockheed JetCon) now labelled "Air Corps One" just crossed over the western shore of Scotland. General Henry H. "Hap" Arnold, soon-to-be-exiting commander of the US Army Air Corps, looked out the window of the smaller of two "offices" on board the transport. The larger one belonged to the President.
"Kelly, I just want to know one thing. Can you build me something that can keep up with anything we've seen," he grimaced, "including those goddamn British rocket planes? Or do I have to stay on an extra year and beg to Congress to buy something off the Polish government?"
Clarence "Kelly" Johnson anticipated this question, and calmly replied, "General, those rocket planes are a waste of money and metal. They are good for small-payload missions. Great for dropping an A-bomb and then scrambling, but not much else. And it's not like anyone else besides the British or the Poles will have them. What we want is something that can go fast, say just below Mach 1, and still be able to turn on a dime and fight."
Arnold stared out over the Atlantic, now the only thing in view, and said, "I like that. A jet-powered dogfighter. Something like the Lily, but faster."
Johnson chuckled at the flowery names of planes originating in the Garden, "Yes. A straight-wing jet won't cut it here.[1]"
"Can you do it? And have a prototype before I retire?"
"I'll need to set up my own shop, my own way. I don't want people looking over my shoulder," he looked around, "Christ, I had Howard Hughes and his goons bugging me constantly while working on this lady."
Kelly Johnson's Lockheed Jet Constellation (JetCon, his "lady") and Boeing's 287 (Dash) had kept American aviation moderately up to snuff with European passenger designs. The swept-wing, four-engine JetCon held the passenger aircraft speed record for New York to London, and had secured Johnson's reputation as a designer. In spite of this, he chafed at the restrictions the private sector placed on his designs.
He was surprised when General Arnold had invited him, Jack Northrop, and Eddie Allen of Boeing along for a visit to the Polish Commonwealth. He was more surprised at the escorts that flanked the JetCon upon entering Polish airspace. Jet powered fighters that kept up with and even outran his speedy entry into commercial aviation. Now that was what he dreamed about, reading Tom Swift as a child. Finally, he was floored at being allowed to visit the fabled "Garden" at Białystok. The Orchid bomber, which could reach any city in Europe from Warsaw and fly back after dropping its load; and the Lily, the straight-winged jet that was the mainstay of the Warsaw Pact air forces - both of these made Kelly Johnson jealous. He could've built either one of these given what he was asking of Arnold. He'd heard whisperings of a "Sunflower", but couldn't suss anything about it save its absolute secrecy.
Arnold continued, "If we can grow it at home, I don't think anything will be too unreasonable. Just ask for it, money, men."
Johnson interrupted, "I want to hand-pick my men, and I won't need a lot of them, nor a lot of money. I just want freedom to build what I want to outfly the Lilies, or whatever the Russians, Japs, or anyone else have."
Arnold nodded. Arnold had heard his own whispers, about Soviet defectors flying their MiGs into the Commonwealth.
Johnson continued, "I'll give you reports, but I don't want to have to bury myself in red tape and paperwork."
Arnold smiled, "Done."
Johnson smiled, "General," he paused, "I can put us ahead if you let me."
---
From Skunk Works at 50 - An Illustrated History (c) 2001
---
[1] In OTL, Johnson's first jet, the P-80/F-80 Shooting Star, was a fixed-wing aircraft that soon proved behind the times in Korea. With commercial and Soviet vs. Japanese swept-wing experience in DBTL, he understood the advantages.
by Dan McDonald
---
The New York Times, March 3rd, 1950
MILITARY MISSION TO POLAND LEAVES TOMORROW
Washington - President Alben Barkley met with military and industry officials today before their departure to Warsaw, Poland, for a Warsaw Pact summit. The summit, the first since the Senate ratified the Warsaw Pact treaty, starts Monday . . . .
MIDTERM ELECTIONS LOOK TO BE HEATED
With voters polarizing on the issue of international involvement, the 1950 congressional elections look to be . . .
---
The Lockheed C-23 (a military repackaging of the Lockheed JetCon) now labelled "Air Corps One" just crossed over the western shore of Scotland. General Henry H. "Hap" Arnold, soon-to-be-exiting commander of the US Army Air Corps, looked out the window of the smaller of two "offices" on board the transport. The larger one belonged to the President.
"Kelly, I just want to know one thing. Can you build me something that can keep up with anything we've seen," he grimaced, "including those goddamn British rocket planes? Or do I have to stay on an extra year and beg to Congress to buy something off the Polish government?"
Clarence "Kelly" Johnson anticipated this question, and calmly replied, "General, those rocket planes are a waste of money and metal. They are good for small-payload missions. Great for dropping an A-bomb and then scrambling, but not much else. And it's not like anyone else besides the British or the Poles will have them. What we want is something that can go fast, say just below Mach 1, and still be able to turn on a dime and fight."
Arnold stared out over the Atlantic, now the only thing in view, and said, "I like that. A jet-powered dogfighter. Something like the Lily, but faster."
Johnson chuckled at the flowery names of planes originating in the Garden, "Yes. A straight-wing jet won't cut it here.[1]"
"Can you do it? And have a prototype before I retire?"
"I'll need to set up my own shop, my own way. I don't want people looking over my shoulder," he looked around, "Christ, I had Howard Hughes and his goons bugging me constantly while working on this lady."
Kelly Johnson's Lockheed Jet Constellation (JetCon, his "lady") and Boeing's 287 (Dash) had kept American aviation moderately up to snuff with European passenger designs. The swept-wing, four-engine JetCon held the passenger aircraft speed record for New York to London, and had secured Johnson's reputation as a designer. In spite of this, he chafed at the restrictions the private sector placed on his designs.
He was surprised when General Arnold had invited him, Jack Northrop, and Eddie Allen of Boeing along for a visit to the Polish Commonwealth. He was more surprised at the escorts that flanked the JetCon upon entering Polish airspace. Jet powered fighters that kept up with and even outran his speedy entry into commercial aviation. Now that was what he dreamed about, reading Tom Swift as a child. Finally, he was floored at being allowed to visit the fabled "Garden" at Białystok. The Orchid bomber, which could reach any city in Europe from Warsaw and fly back after dropping its load; and the Lily, the straight-winged jet that was the mainstay of the Warsaw Pact air forces - both of these made Kelly Johnson jealous. He could've built either one of these given what he was asking of Arnold. He'd heard whisperings of a "Sunflower", but couldn't suss anything about it save its absolute secrecy.
Arnold continued, "If we can grow it at home, I don't think anything will be too unreasonable. Just ask for it, money, men."
Johnson interrupted, "I want to hand-pick my men, and I won't need a lot of them, nor a lot of money. I just want freedom to build what I want to outfly the Lilies, or whatever the Russians, Japs, or anyone else have."
Arnold nodded. Arnold had heard his own whispers, about Soviet defectors flying their MiGs into the Commonwealth.
Johnson continued, "I'll give you reports, but I don't want to have to bury myself in red tape and paperwork."
Arnold smiled, "Done."
Johnson smiled, "General," he paused, "I can put us ahead if you let me."
---
From Skunk Works at 50 - An Illustrated History (c) 2001
On the flight back from Warsaw, Arnold, convinced that Johnson could deliver, commissioned specifications for new jet-powered military aircraft. Three types, a trans-oceanic bomber, a medium-range low-flying bomber, and a air-to-air fighter, were to be put out for contract.
Lockheed bid for, and won, the fighter contract. With Arnold's help, Johnson convinced Lockheed to commission the Advanced Projects Facility. . .
. . .
The Lockheed YF-1 Lightning shocked the world. In two years, Johnson's Skunk Works had prototyped the world's first supersonic fighter. It would prove to the Warsaw Pact, and the American people, that the US intended on being an equal partner in its new alliance.
"The funny thing about the Lightning was that we would've been ready sooner were it not for engine problems," said Johnson after the 1955 introduction of the F-1A, "We still beat the Tigerlily by 6 months, but we had to invent concepts like an afterburner, not to mention build them."
(Picture of a plane that looks like a cross between OTL F-104 Starfighter, F-100 Super Sabre, and F-4 Phantom.)
---
[1] In OTL, Johnson's first jet, the P-80/F-80 Shooting Star, was a fixed-wing aircraft that soon proved behind the times in Korea. With commercial and Soviet vs. Japanese swept-wing experience in DBTL, he understood the advantages.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Pachydermian Candidate
Suppose you were a Republican mole who had managed to burrow his way into the Democratic Party. Suppose your chief objective was to destroy the Democratic Party from within. And suppose you managed to get elected president as a Democrat. What would you do?
Here are some suggested actions:
While this list is by no means exhaustive, it can serve as a starting point. If you follow it, in just two years, you can completely alienate the Democratic base and erase a Democratic Congressional majority that required two election cycles to create. How you spend the second half of your term (and let's face it, after a performance like this, you're only going to get one) is up to you.
Here are some suggested actions:
- Actively cover up your Republican predecessor's crimes.
- Pursue Republican policies like tax cuts, Romneycare, cap & trade, and "entitlement reform".
- Force Congressional Democrats to support these Republican policies.
- Ignore pressing problems like high unemployment in favor of nonissues like "deficit reduction".
- Refuse to abandon pointless, destructive wars.
- Establish a government program to encourage banks to forclose on homes.
- Make pre-emptive concessions to Republicans in the name of "bipartisanship".
- Fail to fight back against Republican attacks.
- Fail to push back against Republican lies.
- Fail to articulate a Democratic message.
- Fail to coordinate Democratic election campaigns.
- Allow Republicans to dominate the political discourse.
- Ignore repeated Republican vows to destroy you.
- Blame yourself for Republican intransigence.
While this list is by no means exhaustive, it can serve as a starting point. If you follow it, in just two years, you can completely alienate the Democratic base and erase a Democratic Congressional majority that required two election cycles to create. How you spend the second half of your term (and let's face it, after a performance like this, you're only going to get one) is up to you.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
For All Nails #303: Buque Nights
Buenos Aires, Argentina
9 February 1981
Mary Smith, the pilot, was always reticent about her past. That she was Manitoban was obvious from her accent when she spoke English. That she was ex-military was clear enough from her bearing. That she was an exile from the CNA Sophia knew from an occasional comment she had let drop.
But that mattered little to Sophia. Smith had been with them for five years, through the worst of the Alliance War. After the fall of Bogotá, she had kept the Royal Family of New Granada one step ahead of the Alliance troops, flying in a succession of small, fragile aeromobiles. Now that peace was restored and the occupation of New Granada was over, Smith was chief pilot of the Royal Family's official aeromobile, the Nueva Granada.
Sophia, standing behind Smith, looked dubiously out of the windows of the Nueva Granada's flight deck at the swirling white mass beyond. "Looks awfully . . . dense . . . to me," she said in English.
"Nothing to worry about, Sophia," the Manitoban pilot assured her in the same language. "We'll have at least five hundred feet of clear air to land in. Piece of goddamn cake. Now go back and strap yourself in."
"Aye aye, captain," Sophia said, giving the pilot a snappy salute before turning and making her way back to the passenger area. She brushed aside the curtain and entered the cabin she shared with her husband, King Fernando. He, smug bastard, was already strapped in, as if he hadn't a care in the world despite the fog hovering over Buenos Aires.
"How can you be so calm?" she wondered in Spanish as she took the seat next to his.
"As far as I'm concerned," he said, "any landing where we're not being shot at is an easy landing."
"My standards have risen since the war," Sophia told him. "I now consider a landing easy only if there is no mortal danger at all involved."
"If we do all die in a crash," Fernando said philosophically, "at least our troubles will be over. Poor Alexander, on the other hand, will have to start all over again, with an even younger king."
Sophia sighed. The attempt to lift her spirits might have worked, had it not reminded her that her son was back in Bogotá. Alexander Elbittar had persuaded them that the heir to the throne ought not to travel by aeromobile with the rest of the royal family. Elbittar might no longer be Prime Minister of New Granada, but his power was just as great, if no longer as clearly defined. He was still the literal kingmaker, having created the Neogranandan monarchy through sheer force of will. And, damn him, he was right; it had been prudent to leave Don Fernando at home. But that didn't mean Sophia had to like it.
However, Smith proved to be as adept behind the controls of the Nueva Granada as ever, and within half an hour the aeromobile had landed without incident. "You see," said Fernando in English, "your fears of crashing were groundless."
Shaking her head, Sophia said, "You can be deposed, you know."
"You'll have to sieze power later," said Fernando as he unbelted himself and rose from the seat. "Right now, we have a state visit to attend to."
This particular state visit, Sophia knew, represented a major triumph for Alexander Elbittar's new policy. In a time of War Without War, he had reasoned, the proper way to build an empire was through conquest without conquest. Through some thought process that Sophia didn't understand (and there was much about the man's thought processes that she didn't understand), Elbittar had chosen to call his policy el imperio del buque, the empire of the ship. Instead of using military force, he would use cultural and economic power to spread his cherished ideals of Hispanidad.
Argentina represented the first triumph of that policy. Thanks to covert assistance on the part of New Granada, with the even more covert assistance of the European Union, a popular Argentinian movement called the Coalición para la Gente had won a majority of the seats in the Argentine Assembly, ousting the pro-British Partido Liberal. The Coalición's charismatic leader, Angel Taveras, had just been named President by the Assembly, and Fernando and Sophia were the first heads of state to pay their respects to the new leader.
As always happened in these situations, the Nueva Granada had come to a halt a few hundred feet from the airpark terminal, and the Argentinians were wheeling the boarding stairs up to the door. Fernando and Sophia had been joined by the rest of their party: Fernando's secretary Ortiz and his old mentor Brother Francisco, little Leonora and her nursemaid, Elbittar's man Gomez and his security detail. Gomez had a handspeaker and he was quietly communicating with his opposite number among the Argentinians. Gomez looked up and said to Fernando, "We're all set, Sire."
"Tell me one thing," Sophia said as they prepared to leave the aeromobile. "Was it your idea to call them the People's Coalition?" Fernando had been educated in the CNA, and Sophia suspected he had found the idea of Argentina's Liberals facing a People's Coalition irresistable.
"I disclaim all responsibility," said Fernando. "As far as I know, Señor Taveras and his colleagues came up with the name all by themselves. I suppose they were hoping that history would repeat itself, and it looks like it has."
"Not that I'm complaining, mind you," Sophia added. "Seeing the Nats lose their last ally in Latin America is worth a little historical plagiarism."
Fernando chose not to comment, but that was all right. He was well aware of Sophia's loathing for the ultranationalistic National Renewal Party that had ruled her native Great Britain for the past fifteen years.
A member of Gomez's detail opened the door, and they began to file down the boarding stairs. Outside, the airpark was overcast and rather damp, though warmer than a similarly overcast day in London would have been. There was a crowd occupying a cordoned-off area by the terminal building, waving Argentinian and Neogranadan flags, as well as banners bearing the CG's clasped-hands symbol. Another, much smaller cordoned-off area held a small group of journalists and vitavision film crews. A cluster of Argentinian officials was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. The stairs were wide enough for them to descend two abreast, so Fernando and Sophia remained side by side as they went down, waving at the people.
At the foot of the stairs they were met by a stout, formally dressed, middle-aged man, with his head shaved Mexican-style. He gave the royal couple a slight bow and said, "Welcome to Argentina, Your Majesties. I am Esteban Martucci, Secretary of the Interior, and I bear the greetings of President Taveras. The President has asked me to escort you and your party to the Presidential Palace."
"Thank you, Secretary Martucci," Fernando replied, "and my thanks as well to President Taveras."
Two liveries with motowheel escort pulled up to the Neogranadans, and Fernando and Sophia joined Secretary Martucci in the first. The motorcade slowly pulled away from the Nueva Granada, circled the terminal building, and exited through a double gate.
The airpark was ten miles downstream from the center of Buenos Aires, in a suburb called Quilmes. As the motorcade made its way along a locopista toward the city, the fog closed in around them, giving the landscape an insubstantial look. Sophia was reminded once again of London; were it not for the fact that they were driving on the right side of the road, and the road signs looming out of the fog were in Spanish, she could imagine they were passing along the Thames estuary.
Fernando and Martucci were discussing the recent elections, which had seen the CG jump from 39 Assembly seats to 157. Martucci told stories of street fights in Buenos Aires between Liberal and Coalición partisans, and Sophia got the distinct impression that the newly-minted cabinet secretary had been personally "busting heads," as he colourfully put it.
They passed through a flyover interchange with another locopista, and a sign bearing the name AVENIDA RICHARD MASON flashed by in the fog. Puzzled by the Anglo name, it took a moment for Sophia to place it: Richard Mason had been Governor-General of the CNA twenty years before.
"You have a road named after a North American?" she asked Martucci.
"What?" Martucci said, then his puzzled expression cleared and he said, "Oh, the Avenue. Yes, Señor Mason is greatly honoured here. It was very bad here during the war, very bad." Sophia recalled that Argentina had gone through a nasty civil war in the 1940s as factions backed by the British and the Mexicans fought for control of the country. "There was much hunger, our cities in ruins. But you of New Granada, you know how that goes."
"We do," said Fernando, and Sophia nodded. Three years of war had left New Granada in dire straits . . . and once again, the North Americans had jumped into the breach, helping to rebuild a war-torn nation. Though, probably the last thing Carter Monaghan had in mind when he found himself back in the Square Room was becoming the new Richard Mason.
The locopista came to an end, and the motorcade began passing through city streets that had been cleared of traffic. At first there were only occasional small groups who would appear out of the fog to wave their hands (or shake their fists) as they passed. As they drew closer to the center of the city, though, tbe groups became larger, until at last they merged into two continuous crowds of people lining the street. By the time they reached the Plaza de Septiembre, it was like the crowd at the airpark had been transported bodily through space. The motorcade circled once slowly around the plaza while the people cheered, then stopped at the foot of the broad steps leading up to the main entrance of the Presidential Palace.
The Presidential Palace, Sophia knew, was the latest in a series of buildings that went back to the sixteenth century. The current structure dated back to 1877, and was rather typical of the neomannerist style that was popular at the time. Sophia found the building a trifle bland for her taste, but there was no denying its beauty, especially with the fog softening its lines.
Secretary Martucci led the royal couple up the steps and to a temporary platform built to one side that was hung with Neogranadan and Argentinian flags and decorations. Among the people occupying it was a tall, bespectacled man whom Sophia recognized as President Taveras. The short, plump woman standing beside him was Señora Taveras.
The protocol for the initial meeting between president and monarchs had, of course, been worked out beforehand. As a fellow head of state, Taveras would shake hands with Fernando, and give Sophia's hand a gallant kiss, followed by a similar exchange of greetings with Señora Taveras. Then the president would yield the microphone to Fernando, who would give a short address to the gathered multitude. Sophia would not be speaking, to her great relief; even after seven years as Queen of New Granada, she still came down with stage fright at the thought of making public addresses in Spanish.
Fernando's speech sounded rather generic to Sophia, though she knew her husband had worked on it for days. He thanked Taveras, congratulated the Argentinians on their recently-concluded election, and expressed hope for closer relations between the two nations. Then Taveras resumed his place behind the microphone and gave an equally generic speech.
The crowd seemed to enjoy both speeches. Perhaps Sophia had become too critical of oratory; she had heard so many speeches, both as Queen of New Granada and as a royal daughter back in Great Britain, that listening to one made her feel like a jaded theatre critic attending yet another performance of The Maid of the Oaks.
After the speech-making (Fernando liked to copy the late Governor-General of the CNA and call it "speechifying"), the assorted dignitaries entered the Presidential Palace. "It's a lovely building," she remarked to Martucci, "but it could use a little more colour. Have you ever thought of painting it?"
"Painting the Presidential Palace?" He seemed faintly scandalised by the thought.
"Yes. A pastel, say. Mint green, or lavender, or pink perhaps."
Martucci burst into laughter. "A pink Presidential Palace? Not in Argentina, Your Majesty!"
Within the palace, the decor bore a strong resemblance to the interior of a history museum. Sophia was not surprised. The public areas of the Royal Palace in Bogotá, and for that matter in Buckingham Palace, looked much the same: a showplace to impress tourists.
The party of dignitaries ascended a broad staircase and made their way down a corridor whose decor was more in keeping with the palace's neomannerist exterior. This was the private part of the palace, where the government offices and living quarters were located. The visitors from New Granada had been allotted guest quarters on the second storey, facing the Rio de la Plata.
President Taveras and his wife escorted them into their rooms, and they said their farewells. Then Fernando and Sophia were alone, and the Queen of New Granada let herself fall backwards into an upholstered chair. She had been in constant motion, from palace to airpark to airpark to palace, for eight hours, and she intended to luxuriate in her current state of motionlessness.
Fernando was too considerate to remind her that they still had a full itinerary of tours and receptions and meals to deal with later on. Besides, he seemed as grateful for the break (he usually called it a "breather", another North Americanism acquired during his days at the University of New Orleans) as she was.
She must have been more exhausted than she thought, because her drifting thoughts had taken her back to the Royal Palace, and she was watching Don Fernando romp across the floor with his Congo terrier Nefertiti when she started awake. There was a discreet knocking at the door to their suite, and Fernando was crossing the room in shirtsleeves and stocking feet to answer it.
It was Gomez, a handspeaker in one hand, a clipboard in the other. "Just a reminder, Your Majesty, in thirty minutes we're due to join the president and his party for a tour of the city."
"Thank you, Serjeant. We'll be ready," said Fernando. Gomez was no longer a serjeant, of course, but he had been one that day eight years before when he and Alexander had come to New Orleans to offer Fernando the newly-created throne of New Granada. He nodded to the king and retreated from the suite.
"Up and at 'em," he said in English, yet another North Americanism, a catch-phrase derived from some animated vita show. If only he had gone to Oxford instead of New Orleans.
A quick change of clothes, and Sophia was ready to be introduced to Buenos Aires. The rest of the day passed in a blur of motorcades, speeches, official visits, museums, monuments, schools, hospitals, and public works, with a formal dinner and reception back at the Presidential Palace to top it all off. It was all moving along like a well-oiled machine, so Sophia should have known there was trouble lurking at the end of it.
She and Señora Cicilline, the wife of the Secretary of Labour, were having a fairly interesting conversation concerning the relative merits of Mozart and Beethoven, when Señor Gomez appeared at her side. "Your Majesty," he said quietly, "I fear I must interrupt your conversation. May I speak with you in private?"
A mood of foreboding came upon her. She made her apologies to Señora Cicilline, then followed Gomez out of the salon where the reception was being held.
"Your Majesty," he told her, "it appears that a . . . situation has developed on board the Nueva Granada."
"What sort of situation?"
He was silent for several seconds, before saying, "I think it best that I not say." All this reticence was quite unlike Gomez, who was generally as straightforward as they came. "I think it would be best if you accompanied me to the Nueva Granada. The King has already been informed, and will meet us there."
Gomez had a vehicle waiting for them at a side entrance to the Presidential Palace. The fog had become even thicker with nightfall, and the ride back to the airpark had an unreal quality to it. Gomez remained silent throughout.
There was another locomobile parked at the foot of the boarding stairs when they arrived, and Fernando was just emerging from it as they pulled up. He was accompanied by his secretary Ortiz, and Sophia saw a look pass between Gomez and the secretary. The two were clearly operating in tandem.
As she joined Fernando, he asked, "Do you know what this is about?"
"No. Gomez wouldn't explain."
"Neither would Ortiz. Well, we'll soon find out."
Once on board the aeromobile, Gomez led them to the crew quarters. They entered Mary Smith's cabin, and Sophia was astonished to see a man bound and gagged on Smith's bunk. Smith herself was standing beside him, holding a gun pointed at his head. Without a word, she passed the gun to Gomez, who took up the task of pointing it at the bound man.
"Well, Captain Smith?" said Fernando in English.
Smith radiated confidence. "Your Majesties," she answered in the same language, "that fellow there is named Martin Falcone. He works for Vincent Mercator." A smile touched her lips as she added, "And I bet if we ask him just right, he'll tell us where we can find his boss."
TO BE CONTINUED
9 February 1981
Mary Smith, the pilot, was always reticent about her past. That she was Manitoban was obvious from her accent when she spoke English. That she was ex-military was clear enough from her bearing. That she was an exile from the CNA Sophia knew from an occasional comment she had let drop.
But that mattered little to Sophia. Smith had been with them for five years, through the worst of the Alliance War. After the fall of Bogotá, she had kept the Royal Family of New Granada one step ahead of the Alliance troops, flying in a succession of small, fragile aeromobiles. Now that peace was restored and the occupation of New Granada was over, Smith was chief pilot of the Royal Family's official aeromobile, the Nueva Granada.
Sophia, standing behind Smith, looked dubiously out of the windows of the Nueva Granada's flight deck at the swirling white mass beyond. "Looks awfully . . . dense . . . to me," she said in English.
"Nothing to worry about, Sophia," the Manitoban pilot assured her in the same language. "We'll have at least five hundred feet of clear air to land in. Piece of goddamn cake. Now go back and strap yourself in."
"Aye aye, captain," Sophia said, giving the pilot a snappy salute before turning and making her way back to the passenger area. She brushed aside the curtain and entered the cabin she shared with her husband, King Fernando. He, smug bastard, was already strapped in, as if he hadn't a care in the world despite the fog hovering over Buenos Aires.
"How can you be so calm?" she wondered in Spanish as she took the seat next to his.
"As far as I'm concerned," he said, "any landing where we're not being shot at is an easy landing."
"My standards have risen since the war," Sophia told him. "I now consider a landing easy only if there is no mortal danger at all involved."
"If we do all die in a crash," Fernando said philosophically, "at least our troubles will be over. Poor Alexander, on the other hand, will have to start all over again, with an even younger king."
Sophia sighed. The attempt to lift her spirits might have worked, had it not reminded her that her son was back in Bogotá. Alexander Elbittar had persuaded them that the heir to the throne ought not to travel by aeromobile with the rest of the royal family. Elbittar might no longer be Prime Minister of New Granada, but his power was just as great, if no longer as clearly defined. He was still the literal kingmaker, having created the Neogranandan monarchy through sheer force of will. And, damn him, he was right; it had been prudent to leave Don Fernando at home. But that didn't mean Sophia had to like it.
However, Smith proved to be as adept behind the controls of the Nueva Granada as ever, and within half an hour the aeromobile had landed without incident. "You see," said Fernando in English, "your fears of crashing were groundless."
Shaking her head, Sophia said, "You can be deposed, you know."
"You'll have to sieze power later," said Fernando as he unbelted himself and rose from the seat. "Right now, we have a state visit to attend to."
This particular state visit, Sophia knew, represented a major triumph for Alexander Elbittar's new policy. In a time of War Without War, he had reasoned, the proper way to build an empire was through conquest without conquest. Through some thought process that Sophia didn't understand (and there was much about the man's thought processes that she didn't understand), Elbittar had chosen to call his policy el imperio del buque, the empire of the ship. Instead of using military force, he would use cultural and economic power to spread his cherished ideals of Hispanidad.
Argentina represented the first triumph of that policy. Thanks to covert assistance on the part of New Granada, with the even more covert assistance of the European Union, a popular Argentinian movement called the Coalición para la Gente had won a majority of the seats in the Argentine Assembly, ousting the pro-British Partido Liberal. The Coalición's charismatic leader, Angel Taveras, had just been named President by the Assembly, and Fernando and Sophia were the first heads of state to pay their respects to the new leader.
As always happened in these situations, the Nueva Granada had come to a halt a few hundred feet from the airpark terminal, and the Argentinians were wheeling the boarding stairs up to the door. Fernando and Sophia had been joined by the rest of their party: Fernando's secretary Ortiz and his old mentor Brother Francisco, little Leonora and her nursemaid, Elbittar's man Gomez and his security detail. Gomez had a handspeaker and he was quietly communicating with his opposite number among the Argentinians. Gomez looked up and said to Fernando, "We're all set, Sire."
"Tell me one thing," Sophia said as they prepared to leave the aeromobile. "Was it your idea to call them the People's Coalition?" Fernando had been educated in the CNA, and Sophia suspected he had found the idea of Argentina's Liberals facing a People's Coalition irresistable.
"I disclaim all responsibility," said Fernando. "As far as I know, Señor Taveras and his colleagues came up with the name all by themselves. I suppose they were hoping that history would repeat itself, and it looks like it has."
"Not that I'm complaining, mind you," Sophia added. "Seeing the Nats lose their last ally in Latin America is worth a little historical plagiarism."
Fernando chose not to comment, but that was all right. He was well aware of Sophia's loathing for the ultranationalistic National Renewal Party that had ruled her native Great Britain for the past fifteen years.
A member of Gomez's detail opened the door, and they began to file down the boarding stairs. Outside, the airpark was overcast and rather damp, though warmer than a similarly overcast day in London would have been. There was a crowd occupying a cordoned-off area by the terminal building, waving Argentinian and Neogranadan flags, as well as banners bearing the CG's clasped-hands symbol. Another, much smaller cordoned-off area held a small group of journalists and vitavision film crews. A cluster of Argentinian officials was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. The stairs were wide enough for them to descend two abreast, so Fernando and Sophia remained side by side as they went down, waving at the people.
At the foot of the stairs they were met by a stout, formally dressed, middle-aged man, with his head shaved Mexican-style. He gave the royal couple a slight bow and said, "Welcome to Argentina, Your Majesties. I am Esteban Martucci, Secretary of the Interior, and I bear the greetings of President Taveras. The President has asked me to escort you and your party to the Presidential Palace."
"Thank you, Secretary Martucci," Fernando replied, "and my thanks as well to President Taveras."
Two liveries with motowheel escort pulled up to the Neogranadans, and Fernando and Sophia joined Secretary Martucci in the first. The motorcade slowly pulled away from the Nueva Granada, circled the terminal building, and exited through a double gate.
The airpark was ten miles downstream from the center of Buenos Aires, in a suburb called Quilmes. As the motorcade made its way along a locopista toward the city, the fog closed in around them, giving the landscape an insubstantial look. Sophia was reminded once again of London; were it not for the fact that they were driving on the right side of the road, and the road signs looming out of the fog were in Spanish, she could imagine they were passing along the Thames estuary.
Fernando and Martucci were discussing the recent elections, which had seen the CG jump from 39 Assembly seats to 157. Martucci told stories of street fights in Buenos Aires between Liberal and Coalición partisans, and Sophia got the distinct impression that the newly-minted cabinet secretary had been personally "busting heads," as he colourfully put it.
They passed through a flyover interchange with another locopista, and a sign bearing the name AVENIDA RICHARD MASON flashed by in the fog. Puzzled by the Anglo name, it took a moment for Sophia to place it: Richard Mason had been Governor-General of the CNA twenty years before.
"You have a road named after a North American?" she asked Martucci.
"What?" Martucci said, then his puzzled expression cleared and he said, "Oh, the Avenue. Yes, Señor Mason is greatly honoured here. It was very bad here during the war, very bad." Sophia recalled that Argentina had gone through a nasty civil war in the 1940s as factions backed by the British and the Mexicans fought for control of the country. "There was much hunger, our cities in ruins. But you of New Granada, you know how that goes."
"We do," said Fernando, and Sophia nodded. Three years of war had left New Granada in dire straits . . . and once again, the North Americans had jumped into the breach, helping to rebuild a war-torn nation. Though, probably the last thing Carter Monaghan had in mind when he found himself back in the Square Room was becoming the new Richard Mason.
The locopista came to an end, and the motorcade began passing through city streets that had been cleared of traffic. At first there were only occasional small groups who would appear out of the fog to wave their hands (or shake their fists) as they passed. As they drew closer to the center of the city, though, tbe groups became larger, until at last they merged into two continuous crowds of people lining the street. By the time they reached the Plaza de Septiembre, it was like the crowd at the airpark had been transported bodily through space. The motorcade circled once slowly around the plaza while the people cheered, then stopped at the foot of the broad steps leading up to the main entrance of the Presidential Palace.
The Presidential Palace, Sophia knew, was the latest in a series of buildings that went back to the sixteenth century. The current structure dated back to 1877, and was rather typical of the neomannerist style that was popular at the time. Sophia found the building a trifle bland for her taste, but there was no denying its beauty, especially with the fog softening its lines.
Secretary Martucci led the royal couple up the steps and to a temporary platform built to one side that was hung with Neogranadan and Argentinian flags and decorations. Among the people occupying it was a tall, bespectacled man whom Sophia recognized as President Taveras. The short, plump woman standing beside him was Señora Taveras.
The protocol for the initial meeting between president and monarchs had, of course, been worked out beforehand. As a fellow head of state, Taveras would shake hands with Fernando, and give Sophia's hand a gallant kiss, followed by a similar exchange of greetings with Señora Taveras. Then the president would yield the microphone to Fernando, who would give a short address to the gathered multitude. Sophia would not be speaking, to her great relief; even after seven years as Queen of New Granada, she still came down with stage fright at the thought of making public addresses in Spanish.
Fernando's speech sounded rather generic to Sophia, though she knew her husband had worked on it for days. He thanked Taveras, congratulated the Argentinians on their recently-concluded election, and expressed hope for closer relations between the two nations. Then Taveras resumed his place behind the microphone and gave an equally generic speech.
The crowd seemed to enjoy both speeches. Perhaps Sophia had become too critical of oratory; she had heard so many speeches, both as Queen of New Granada and as a royal daughter back in Great Britain, that listening to one made her feel like a jaded theatre critic attending yet another performance of The Maid of the Oaks.
After the speech-making (Fernando liked to copy the late Governor-General of the CNA and call it "speechifying"), the assorted dignitaries entered the Presidential Palace. "It's a lovely building," she remarked to Martucci, "but it could use a little more colour. Have you ever thought of painting it?"
"Painting the Presidential Palace?" He seemed faintly scandalised by the thought.
"Yes. A pastel, say. Mint green, or lavender, or pink perhaps."
Martucci burst into laughter. "A pink Presidential Palace? Not in Argentina, Your Majesty!"
Within the palace, the decor bore a strong resemblance to the interior of a history museum. Sophia was not surprised. The public areas of the Royal Palace in Bogotá, and for that matter in Buckingham Palace, looked much the same: a showplace to impress tourists.
The party of dignitaries ascended a broad staircase and made their way down a corridor whose decor was more in keeping with the palace's neomannerist exterior. This was the private part of the palace, where the government offices and living quarters were located. The visitors from New Granada had been allotted guest quarters on the second storey, facing the Rio de la Plata.
President Taveras and his wife escorted them into their rooms, and they said their farewells. Then Fernando and Sophia were alone, and the Queen of New Granada let herself fall backwards into an upholstered chair. She had been in constant motion, from palace to airpark to airpark to palace, for eight hours, and she intended to luxuriate in her current state of motionlessness.
Fernando was too considerate to remind her that they still had a full itinerary of tours and receptions and meals to deal with later on. Besides, he seemed as grateful for the break (he usually called it a "breather", another North Americanism acquired during his days at the University of New Orleans) as she was.
She must have been more exhausted than she thought, because her drifting thoughts had taken her back to the Royal Palace, and she was watching Don Fernando romp across the floor with his Congo terrier Nefertiti when she started awake. There was a discreet knocking at the door to their suite, and Fernando was crossing the room in shirtsleeves and stocking feet to answer it.
It was Gomez, a handspeaker in one hand, a clipboard in the other. "Just a reminder, Your Majesty, in thirty minutes we're due to join the president and his party for a tour of the city."
"Thank you, Serjeant. We'll be ready," said Fernando. Gomez was no longer a serjeant, of course, but he had been one that day eight years before when he and Alexander had come to New Orleans to offer Fernando the newly-created throne of New Granada. He nodded to the king and retreated from the suite.
"Up and at 'em," he said in English, yet another North Americanism, a catch-phrase derived from some animated vita show. If only he had gone to Oxford instead of New Orleans.
A quick change of clothes, and Sophia was ready to be introduced to Buenos Aires. The rest of the day passed in a blur of motorcades, speeches, official visits, museums, monuments, schools, hospitals, and public works, with a formal dinner and reception back at the Presidential Palace to top it all off. It was all moving along like a well-oiled machine, so Sophia should have known there was trouble lurking at the end of it.
She and Señora Cicilline, the wife of the Secretary of Labour, were having a fairly interesting conversation concerning the relative merits of Mozart and Beethoven, when Señor Gomez appeared at her side. "Your Majesty," he said quietly, "I fear I must interrupt your conversation. May I speak with you in private?"
A mood of foreboding came upon her. She made her apologies to Señora Cicilline, then followed Gomez out of the salon where the reception was being held.
"Your Majesty," he told her, "it appears that a . . . situation has developed on board the Nueva Granada."
"What sort of situation?"
He was silent for several seconds, before saying, "I think it best that I not say." All this reticence was quite unlike Gomez, who was generally as straightforward as they came. "I think it would be best if you accompanied me to the Nueva Granada. The King has already been informed, and will meet us there."
Gomez had a vehicle waiting for them at a side entrance to the Presidential Palace. The fog had become even thicker with nightfall, and the ride back to the airpark had an unreal quality to it. Gomez remained silent throughout.
There was another locomobile parked at the foot of the boarding stairs when they arrived, and Fernando was just emerging from it as they pulled up. He was accompanied by his secretary Ortiz, and Sophia saw a look pass between Gomez and the secretary. The two were clearly operating in tandem.
As she joined Fernando, he asked, "Do you know what this is about?"
"No. Gomez wouldn't explain."
"Neither would Ortiz. Well, we'll soon find out."
Once on board the aeromobile, Gomez led them to the crew quarters. They entered Mary Smith's cabin, and Sophia was astonished to see a man bound and gagged on Smith's bunk. Smith herself was standing beside him, holding a gun pointed at his head. Without a word, she passed the gun to Gomez, who took up the task of pointing it at the bound man.
"Well, Captain Smith?" said Fernando in English.
Smith radiated confidence. "Your Majesties," she answered in the same language, "that fellow there is named Martin Falcone. He works for Vincent Mercator." A smile touched her lips as she added, "And I bet if we ask him just right, he'll tell us where we can find his boss."
TO BE CONTINUED
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sobel Wiki Update 3
It's been exactly three months since I created the Sobel Wiki, an online encyclopedia of Robert Sobel's counterfactual history For Want of a Nail: If Burgoyne Had Won at Saratoga. Ninety-one days of moderately diligent work on my part has resulted in a wiki with 147 pages, about twenty of which are mere stubs. I'm happy to say that I have fulfilled my quest to celebrate National Blog Posting Month by posting at least one new article to the wiki every day. Or, to be more exact, I will have fulfilled my quest after posting tomorrow's article. I am also proud to announce that the Sobel Wiki has seen the appearance of a second editor, AltWorlder, who created an article stub for the Mexican supercorporation Kramer Associates. Hey, it's a start.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Old memes never die . . . they just smell that way
Apparently the "BBC 100 books" meme is making its way through Facebook again. Although I blogged about this meme the last time it made the rounds a year and a half ago, I figure I might as well have another go. After all, if the memes keep coming back, what else can we do but keep blogging about them?
This one goes back to March 1, 2007, when the UK version of World Book Day held an online poll asking respondents to list their "top 10 books they couldn't live without". They got 2000 responses, and the Guardian wrote up an article listing the top 100 books that resulted.
Fast-forward to February 2009. Some wag on Facebook posts the following provocative message:
And follows it with the list from the World Book Day poll. Why the BBC? Why 6 books? Undoubtedly to provoke outrage over the idea that those bastards at the Beeb think we're all a bunch of unlettered yahoos.* "I'll show them," the reader says to himself. "Only six books indeed. Humph!" And thus an internet meme is born.
In the current iteration of the meme, instead of simply marking an x after those books one has read, one bolds the books/series one has finished, italicizes the books/series one has started but not finished.
I've got a feeling this meme is going to continue popping up from time to time, like a case of online literary herpes.
*Veiled literary reference.
This one goes back to March 1, 2007, when the UK version of World Book Day held an online poll asking respondents to list their "top 10 books they couldn't live without". They got 2000 responses, and the Guardian wrote up an article listing the top 100 books that resulted.
Fast-forward to February 2009. Some wag on Facebook posts the following provocative message:
‘The BBC believes the majority of people will have only read 6 of the 100 books here.
Go to your profile, choose notes, post a new note – copy and edit.
Instructions: Look at the list and put an ‘x’ after those you have read.’
And follows it with the list from the World Book Day poll. Why the BBC? Why 6 books? Undoubtedly to provoke outrage over the idea that those bastards at the Beeb think we're all a bunch of unlettered yahoos.* "I'll show them," the reader says to himself. "Only six books indeed. Humph!" And thus an internet meme is born.
In the current iteration of the meme, instead of simply marking an x after those books one has read, one bolds the books/series one has finished, italicizes the books/series one has started but not finished.
I've got a feeling this meme is going to continue popping up from time to time, like a case of online literary herpes.
*Veiled literary reference.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
You say you want a French Revolution
What's that? You say you want the French Revolution set to Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance"?
Your wish is my command.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
All we are saying is, give catfood a chance
Back in February, the unemployment rate stood at 9.7 percent. It rose up past nine percent in May, then rose past ten percent in October, and only dropped back down below ten percent four months later. The last time the unemployment rate had been so high for so long was during the Great Depression of the 1930s. The country desperately needed action to put people back to work.
That was when President Obama signed Executive Order 13531 creating a bipartisan deficit commission to reduce the federal budget deficit.
Now, nine months later, the unemployment rate is still above nine percent. In fact, it's been stuck at 9.6 percent for the last three months. This is the main reason the Democrats got creamed in the midterm elections, losing control of the House of Representatives. And in response, the two co-chairmen of Obama's deficit commission, the men Obama himself appointed, have released their preliminary proposal for reducing the federal budget deficit: cut benefits for old people, cut taxes for rich people.
Needless to say, most of the Democrats who aren't Barack Obama strenuously objected. Obama's reaction was this:
In other words, we need to give the catfood commission a chance, we can't dismiss it just because it was a bad idea in the first place and it's going to make a bad situation worse. C'mon, guys, we need to be open-minded here!
That was when President Obama signed Executive Order 13531 creating a bipartisan deficit commission to reduce the federal budget deficit.
Now, nine months later, the unemployment rate is still above nine percent. In fact, it's been stuck at 9.6 percent for the last three months. This is the main reason the Democrats got creamed in the midterm elections, losing control of the House of Representatives. And in response, the two co-chairmen of Obama's deficit commission, the men Obama himself appointed, have released their preliminary proposal for reducing the federal budget deficit: cut benefits for old people, cut taxes for rich people.
Needless to say, most of the Democrats who aren't Barack Obama strenuously objected. Obama's reaction was this:
“Before anybody starts shooting down proposals, I think we need to listen, we need to gather up all the facts.”
In other words, we need to give the catfood commission a chance, we can't dismiss it just because it was a bad idea in the first place and it's going to make a bad situation worse. C'mon, guys, we need to be open-minded here!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Digital Day 111110
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