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Post by rvm45 on Sept 1, 2021 10:42:49 GMT -6
"Fictive Kin" is one of a broad class of stories that I have contemplated featuring an "Infinite Frontier."
WHAT IF America had never run out of Frontiers? What if the American West was INFINITE?
In this case, it is the Eastern Woodland Forests that never runs out.
Although the tools and weaponry are crude, every 10, 20, 30 or 40-years, The Powers That Be open a series of portals to alternate Earths much like the one the pioneers come from.
Some have Indians or other Indigenous People. Others are devoid of human life.
Also, apparently some of the Indian Shamans can also open portals.
Travel and trade goes both ways, but it costs far more energy to go "Upstream" to where you came from. A poor man who is unhappy with his situation may never be able to afford passage back...
Fictive Kin
Chapter One
“Are you the dude known as ‘Pard’?” Spring asked.
“Just so,” responded Pard.
“My name is ‘Spring.’ I understand that we may be distant kin,” Spring said.
The people were getting ready to go on the march once more. This happened ever so often. Generally, about once every 40-years, though it could happen every 10-years for awhile, or it might not happen for 60-years.
When the people first came into a new land, there was a scramble for the best cropland, the best mines, the best salt licks und so weiter.
After a decade, two, or at most three, those who hadn’t managed to grab hold of the gusto and hold fast, had entered the ranks of the “have nots.”
While there were sagas about “have nots” who elbowed their way into have society—and it could happen—there was a reason why the stories of such exceptional men would be passed down for many generations. It was because it was such an exceptional rarity.
Moving onto the new frontier carried certain risks. Even if one didn’t die, if he brought too little wherewithal, he might live the rest of his life as a rag-picker, living rougher than he would have lived as a peon if he’d stayed in Virginia.
By longstanding custom, the recently vacated land was always referred to as “Virginia” or “Virginnie.”
If one was a lone wolf or indeed, if he belonged to a weak family or clan, he might find himself bullied into poverty or bullied to death.
The law and the law officers in Virginnie always favored the rich and powerful—though occasionally there would be a surprising verdict. People in civilized lands though, had a vested interest in preserving the outward appearance of fairness and impartiality.
Anyway, the old-line aristocratic families had already made their bones. They didn’t need to crush and kill the peons with quite so much studied callousness, to impress the spectating peons.
The frontier was different though. Peckerwood clans with their eyes on being the new aristocracy needed to have a chip on their shoulder. The public confused forbearance with timidity. Once a cascade started, it was often too late to halt the avalanche.
Both of the men knew that Spring didn’t represent a long-lost branch of the family from back Virginnie way. Neither was lying or attempting to deceive the other.
If the men felt they were a good fit after feeling each other out, Pard would confirm that Spring was a long-lost cousin and from then on, they were family.
Most men, in that place and time, were relatively honest and they had honor. Well, almost all of the poor people had honor. Honor might be a bit thinner amongst the aristocracy.
Once Pard accepted Spring as kin, blood was thicker than water. They would be as close as brothers.
Pard had to make sure that Spring wasn’t some sort of con-man, malignant narcissist, sociopath, mayonnaise-eater or Episcopalian though.
“Come to my house and have supper with us tonight,” Pard said.
Spring used a whistle. Seven wagons, each pulled by four husky Bactrian camels came to Spring’s signal.
There were two extra-large black men in the driver’s seat of each wagon—one diving and one riding shotgun. There were a few extra men riding on camel-back—except one fellow who rode a great Zebra-Striped Clydesdale Mule.
There was no official segregation on the frontier. The people just naturally seemed to segregate themselves. Pard hadn’t seen a half-a-dozen blacks in his life.
There was precious little racial hatred though. Who would get themselves all in a dither, hating people that they might only encounter a few times in their lives and then, only in passing?
“They’re not hired hands, Pard. They’re my in-laws. Does that bother you? I always said that people had the right to be racist if they want to, but there is no need to inflict our presence on your family, if you find us loathsome,” Spring said.
“Can I be absolutely astonished and flabbergasted, without finding fault?” Pard asked.
“Sure, that’s an honest reaction,” Spring said.
Spring slapped Pard good-naturedly on his shoulder and laughed. The large black man who rode the giant Zebra Clydesdale Mule also laughed and offered to shake Pard’s hand.
“Set up camp in sight of Pard’s house. We can’t expect his wife to feed so many at one go,” Spring said.
Spring wasn’t looking forward to supper. These dirt-poor mountain types, placed a high value on hospitality. They would bring out the absolute best that they had to offer, to share with guests—even if that made them go short later on—but sometimes their best was far from palatable…
Not that Spring was squeamish where manners were concerned.
“Where I come from, it is customary for a guest to make some small contribution towards supper,” Spring lied.
Well, that was kinda true—but those days were so long ago and so far away that they sometimes seemed like a distant dream.
There was maybe 25-pounds of fat link-sausages in the flour sack—hot spicy pork sausage—that Spring handed Pard’s wife along with 12-pounds of flour, 10-pounds of sugar, 5-pounds of ground coffee, a pound of salt, a pound of baking powder, a pound of pepper, a pound of sage, a pound of cinnamon and some cocoa.
If Pard’s wife couldn’t make a palatable supper with all those relatively expensive ingredients to work with, then Spring pitied Pard and the children, living with such a toxic cook.
“This is Spring. He may be Aunt Mauves’ great nephew…” Pard started.
He paused and looked at the 6-foot 9-inch 440-pound black man standing by Spring’s side.
“This is my bother-in-law, ‘Jesse.’ He is my wife’s brother. He is pretty much my bodyguard 24/7,” Spring shrugged.
“This is my wife ‘Henryka’,” Pard began.
Pard had a 14-year old son named “Amos.” He had a 13-year-old son named “Hosea.” He had twin sons “Eric” and “Bart.” They were both 10-years old. His youngest son was 8-years-old.
Had Pard given the old lady a break between Hosea and the twins? Nope, he’d had a daughter named “Diana.” He also had a 16-year-old daughter named “Irene” and daughters 7 and 4-years old.
Spring couldn’t say that he was surprised. Big families were the norm, though there seemed a natural cut-off that kept most women from having more than about five children.
Of course, some women were barren and some who were not barren, didn’t manage to birth even the proverbial five—but there you had it.
He had solid proof that at least one thing on the Pard family homestead was in A-1 working shape—well, two-things, counting Henryka’s womb…
At any rate, Spring had investigated Pard’s small family, before selecting him as the root-stock he was willing to be grafted on to. He knew how many brothers, nephews, sons and daughters the man had, and what their ages were, before he ever spoke to Pard. . “Let me see your rifle, Pard,” Spring requested.
Pard gestured and Amos fetched the rifle from the pins over the mantle.
‘Typical,’ Spring thought.
The rifle was a flinchlock with considerable drop at the heel. It was old, .44 Caliber and almost 6-foot tall when the butt was rested solidly against the ground.
Spring thought that he could even see a bit of rifling left inside the ancient barrel. He was more concerned to find the rifle unloaded.
“Pard, all weapons are always loaded. An unloaded weapon will get you killed. I hate to be harsh, but this is simply dick-headed. Don’t let me catch you with an unloaded weapon again,” Spring said curtly.
He gestured to Jesse. The black giant left and returned with a couple of boxes over his shoulder.
“This is a double-barreled, caplock, .58 Caliber rifle,” Spring began.
“This wouldn’t be a good rifle for a young man who walks many miles carrying his rifle each day, hunting, exploring and suchlike. Truth be told, the double is almost as cumbersome as carrying two rifles,” Spring exaggerated.
“You’re at the age where you spend far more of your time at home—and if you need a rifle, it will be to defend the homestead or to go fight a brief feud,” Spring said.
He gave a brief rundown of siege mentality on the frontier.
The double gave Pard two quick shots, but then it took twice as long to reload.
He might, try to fire twice when he first saw people were invading his homestead.
In that time and place, a 50% hit probability was excellent. Most frontier sieges used 13 to perhaps 50 effectives. 50-to-1 was a bit hopeless, but even if it was 30-to-1, losing a clan member right at the very beginning might very well dishearten the attackers.
Anyway, if one fired both barrels, he could load and fire just one barrel at a time subsequently, unless and until he had a chance to fully reload.
The other alternative was to shoot and load only one barrel at a time, holding the second barrel in perpetual readiness for the sudden Christmas rush. People would know that Pard had the double-barreled .58 Caliber and it would complicate their scheming. While Pard sat and weighed the weighty matter of clan warfare on the frontier, Spring produced a pair of Caplock .58 Caliber pistols—one right-handed, the other left-handed.
“Most of the time, a man with a pistol is stronger in the threat than the execution. I will make sure that you become a reasonably good pistol shot though. You wear those pistols out in plain sight where everyone knows that you have them—and raiding your homestead becomes even more complicated,” Spring said.
Pard sat and thought momentarily: was it better to arm his wife or his 14-year-old son with the ancient flinchlock to back him up? He had never pictured his small family being a two-rifle household any time in the historical future.
Just then, Spring pulled another long gun from the first box that Jesse had fetched. It was a double-barreled 10-gauge caplock shotgun.
“That is good for hunting ducks and geese in the fall. It is okay for night-time coon hunting, but it is a bit of a wooly-bear-worm to lug through the forest at night. It is a big heavy gun. It is very effective at repelling boarders at close range in the middle of the night,” Spring said.
“O, there is one string to all of this. Just because you have better firearms at hand, don’t swap or sell old mister reliable. You should have formed too deep of an attachment to your old rifle to ever sell it. If you’re the type of swine who sells your family, don’t ever let me find out,” Spring said.
“You talk as if our old rifle is alive,” young Amos said.
“Many so-called ‘inanimate objects’ are in fact sentient. Weapons—particularly knives, swords and firearms fit into this category. They love you. They serve you to the best of their ability and it grieves them when you misuse or abuse them. It grieves them, when you never stop to consider their feelings and swap and trade them like a whore selling her body,” Spring said.
“My teacher said that believing such things betrays a childlike worldview,” 12-year-old Diana chimed in.
“Then your instructor is a fool and a pimp and I’ll tell him so to his face,” Spring said.
“I already have—many times. That is why I was banned from school,” Diana said.
“Young Mister Amos! Are you sitting there pondering borrowing your father’s shotgun or his flinchlock to go hunting? I’ve heard that you’re quite the hunter with your homemade latchet crossbow. If you have such a daft idea floating around your noggin, then you’re almost as daft as Diana’s teacher,” Spring said.
Spring pulled out a .54 Caliber Caplock rifle and two matched pistols.
“Why would you borrow that big heavy 10-gauge shotgun or that old flintlock, when you have a brand new rifle of your own? .58 Caliber is a bit over-gunned for almost everything except grizzly, bison and moose. Certainly, bison, grizzly and moose have been killed with .50 Caliber—or even .45 Caliber,” Spring said.
“You don’t see many .54’s—you see even less .52’s. Still, some time the difference between .50 and .54 may help you out. Remember, not only is the ball bigger in diameter, but the weight of the bullet also goes up as well,” Spring told Amos.
“Amos, you and Diana come with me and Jesse—otherwise it will take us half the night to get all of my gifts to y’all,” Spring said.
He gave both of the twins nice .45 Caliber hunting rifles, scaled-down for youngsters, and both rifles came with a matched pair of .45 Caliber pistols.
Finally, he had a diminutive .40 Caliber rifle for 8-year-old David, along with a brace of .40 Caliber pistols. Spring had seen people make .36 Caliber squirrel rifles, but black powder tended to foul badly in such a small caliber. .40 Caliber seemed an improvement all around.
Rifles were expensive. Few would commission a rifle built to fit such a small boy, knowing that he would soon outgrow it.
The secret was becoming ever more obvious. Spring was a master gun maker with a large shop and a number of labor-saving innovations—and he was quite well-heeled. It wasn’t quite clear though, why he wanted to dump a king’s ransom worth of rifles, pistols and shotguns onto Pard’s family, turning them into an armed camp.
Spring had Bowies, tomahawks and small push daggers that were made to match each of the weapons that he had given Pard and his sons.
Finally, he gave the five boys a double-barrel 12 Gauge shotgun to be shared between them. The 12 Gauge was lighter and handier than Pard’s 10-gauge. It would stand the family in good stead, when harvesting migrating water fowl and it was a bang-up back-up, for when the homestead was about to be overrun.
“Alright, I have some gifts for the girls too, but it is getting late. We need to have a class on pistol marksmanship tomorrow morning—that and firearm maintenance. You haven’t done too badly with the old rifle—but a few things could be better. You need to let me see that old flinchlock for a few days. I can improve it considerably,” Spring said.
“Uh, by the way…anyone know anything at all about how to fight with Bowie, tomahawk or sword? No? I’ll have my in-laws conduct a seminar for y’all starting tomorrow. There is really no need to go very deeply into the sword, unless you mean to seriously pursue swordsmanship. Just the basics, so you know what you’re up against, if you ever encounter a swordsman,” Spring said.
“I want to learn the sword. Can I study the sword, Cousin Spring?” Diana asked.
“It is fine by me, if your parents can spare you from your chores. I’m only a mediocre swordsman myself. One of my in-laws will have to teach you.” Spring said.
Diana noticed the strange look that the huge Jesse gave Spring, when he said that he was a mediocre swordsman. She wasn’t sure what to make of the odd glance though.
“She might as well. She is hopeless at anything that she doesn’t want to do,” Henryka shrugged.
Some mothers might have resented Spring turning the whole family into a heavily-armed camp in a single afternoon. Not many mothers in the families headed to the new frontier would have felt that way though—certainly not Henryka.
Life was dangerous. Having her husband and sons better armed would nip some troubled in the bud, before it even started. For the rest, she had never heard the motto:
“Peace through superior firepower,”
But it summed up her feelings admirably.
She was a bit puzzled about what Spring was up to. He had expended far more than enough resources to buy his way into a far larger and more formidable clan.
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Post by texican on Sept 1, 2021 17:33:51 GMT -6
Pard had to make sure that Spring wasn’t some sort of con-man, malignant narcissist, sociopath, mayonnaise-eater or Episcopalian though.
rvm,
Mayonnaise-Eater is really an insult which should not be used lightly.
I for one do not eat mayonnaise, but Miracle Whip. Call me a mayonnaise-eater and the fight is on. Just be careful about maligning Miracle Whip, you hear now.
Thanks for the second story.
Texican....
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Post by eyeseetwo on Sept 5, 2021 18:10:02 GMT -6
Very interesting. Look forward to more.
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Post by rvm45 on Sept 9, 2021 12:41:54 GMT -6
Chapter Two 2686
“Guns aren’t the main thing for you girls—at least for most of you,” Spring said while giving Diana a long searching glance.
“Nonetheless, women sometimes need to kill varmints, defend themselves or contribute to the defense of their home. Let’s get the guns out of the way. We’ll get in some practice and then move on to some girly stuff that I bought y’all,” Spring said.
Spring had double barrel 20-Gauge shotgun for Henryka, Irene and Diana. A 20-Gauge loaded with birdshot was sufficient to take care of varmints around the homestead. A 20-Gauge loaded with buckshot was nothing to sneeze at and a .615 Caliber ball could be the answer to many questions.
In addition, the half-stocked and short-barreled guns were light and easy for the girls to maneuver. He gave each of the girls a single .45 Caliber pistol for open wear and a lighter and shorter barreled derringer that shared a bore-size.
“No matter how diligent that you are, the time will come that you must set your shoulder arm down momentarily. That is what your full-sized pistol is for—so you’re never unarmed. That and it gives you a quick third shot for when two do not suffice,” Spring told them.
“You must never let anyone know that you have that smaller pistol. That is for when you are faced with a ‘Fate Worse Than Death.’ Don’t threaten anyone with it. Watch him until he is no farther than arm’s reach and then shoot him,” Spring said.
“What if there is more than one?” Diana asked.
“You have knives and tomahawks,” Spring shrugged.
“Not every situation is survivable. Sometimes you just luck out the wrong way. Remember though, being forced is a ‘Fate Worse Than Death’,” Spring said.
“If producing a weapon and shooting one of your clients makes your other clients scared or angry enough to merely kill you rather than raping you, that is a gain—though bought at a dear price,” he concluded.
“Diana. I understand that you like to hunt. I have a .45 Caliber rifle for you and another .45 Caliber pistol. you really should have a brace of pistols when you go into the woods—even when you go with one of your brothers,” He said.
“That 20-Gauge isn’t out of the question as a woods gun either. I’d rather have two quick .615’s than a single .45 or .50 if a grizzly charged me at close range—or even a big black bear. You won’t find many grizzlies in the deep woods, but it could happen,” Spring said.
He had a double barrel 28-Gauge—.55 Caliber—for 7-year old Terrie, along with a long and a short pistol in .40 Caliber. 4-year old Caroline was too young to have a firearm.
It was late in the afternoon when the family concluded their target practice.
“Sorry, we’ll get to edged weapons tomorrow. This turned out to take longer than I expected,” Spring said.
“I learned a lot about guns and shooting that I never knew before—especially shooting pistols,” Pard said.
“Pard, when we are out on the frontier, never shoot all of your weapons like this. Even if you take turns keeping watch, if you’re attacked, you will have heavily fouled weapons that are ready to fail due to powder residue,” Spring said.
“There is no harm done today. We aren’t on the frontier and my men are keeping watch. I let you foul all your weapons at one time to prove a point. Second, they’re your children—you decide. David and Terrie are a bit young to be walking around with loaded weapons. If you decide not to arm them though, do not have them walking around with unloaded weapons. That can lead to bad habits and all sorts of other grief,” Spring said.
“Cousin Spring, why is Amos’ rifle a 54 Caliber, while mine is just a .50 Caliber?” 13-year old Hosea asked.
“Amos is large for his age while you’re a bit small for your age,” Spring remarked.
“Amos is a bit burdened with the .54 Caliber—a bigger caliber makes for a heavier gun—but he will soon grow into it,” Spring explained.
*********** *************** *********************
When they went into Pard’s cabin and the cavalcade of gifts continued.
Spring’s in-laws brought in box after box.
There were several big bolts of calico cloth—two each in yellow calico, red calico and blue calico—plus there were two bolts of black cloth.
There were four bolts of black denim and two of blue denim. Finally, there were six bolts of corduroy—two each of black, forest green and deep blue.
“I have a pattern here,” Spring said.
It was a collarless shirt with long belled sleeves and a rather deep slit in the front to make putting on the stiff shirt easier. There were eyelets up each side of the slit to allow laces—but they were intended to be decorative.
“Can you make shirts like these? If you can, I’d like two of each of the corduroys and a couple in black denim. I’ll pay you for the work,” Spring said.
“Wouldn’t that be a bit ridiculous for you to pay after you gave us the material—and so much other stuff!?!” Henryka said.
“Look, you can use a three-button cuff and turn the sleeves into big bloused sleeves. Then add these long-pointed collars—if you want something a bit more formal. I have no use for formal clothing, but you might,” Spring said.
As a point of fact, Spring had carefully drawn the patterns from his considerable memory. His mother had made him shirts like that ages ago.
He liked the collarless shirts with belled sleeves for woods roaming and casual wear. He’d worn the more formal collared shirts to school.
His peers had derided him and called his shirts “Elvis shirts.”
He cared about other’s opinions not at all. They did kinda resemble the shirts Elvis wore onstage, though that had been the least of Spring’s concerns when he selected the shirt pattern from his mother’s catalog of patterns.
Years later, people would sneer at Spring’s mutton-chop sideburns and tell him contemptuously that “Elvis is dead!”
‘Pond and honor! I can go for weeks and never think of Elvis Presley, but y’all have to invoke his name every time you see me. Who is obsessed with Elvis?’ Spring had thought.
Then a couple decades later, teens would holler “Wolverine!” when they saw his sideburns.
‘So, I have gone from imitating a pop-singing superstar to cosplaying a cartoon character!?!’ Spring sighed to himself.
“My father used to say that one simply did not wear corduroy except in late Fall, Winter and very early Spring. I never heard anyone else repeat this so-called taboo,” Spring said.
“It might have been because he thought that corduroy was too hot for Summer. My father had a positive fetish about keeping cool. He cut off my pant legs about here…”
Spring pointed to mid-thigh.
“And he made me wear sissy-shorty-pants all Summer—so I would be ‘cool.’ It still makes me angry to think about such an indignity, even after all these years!”
‘You wouldn’t believe how many years!’ Spring thought to himself.
He calmed himself. He should keep his grievances to entertain himself.
Pard’s family was a bit taken aback. They were woods folk. Running around bare-legged would expose the legs to blackberry and other stickers, chiggers, biting flies, poison ivy, hard brushes against tree bark and boulders, sunburn and whatever—besides being downright undignified.
Rumor had it, that certain Indian tribes ran around with bare torso and bare legs in warm weather. But then, Indians didn’t have trousers. Anyway, no one that the Pard family knew of had sighted any Indians in the last 75-years.
“Anyway, he said it as if it was as big a gaucherie as putting ketchup on hotdogs,” Spring said.
He saw they were all staring at him in incomprehension.
“A ‘hotdog’ is a small—a little fatter than my ring-finger—sausage. The meat was very finely ground and the spices were exceedingly mild. They were often eaten on a long narrow bun made for that purpose,” Spring explained.
“Ketchup was a rather sweet spicy tomato sauce often put on food—mainly food deep-fried in oil. It was good on French fries, hush-puppies, fried green tomatoes, fried okra and especially fried fish. It was kinda optional on meat dishes…”
“But the one place one never ever never was supposed put Ketchup was on a hotdog. Only children and the terminally gauche would ever commit such a disgusting and immoral action,” Spring said.
“HMMMmmnnn…I miss ketchup—especially when I eat fried catfish. I could show you how to make it. You’d have to solemnly swear never to put any on a hotdog. Anyway!” Spring said.
There were reams of wool yarn.
“Some folks knit while others seem to crochet. Few seem able to do both. Embroidery is something else entirely. It is decorative but neat,” Spring said.
“I have a sewing kit for each of you girls as well as several books on knitting, crocheting, embroidery and macramé. You boys, I have smaller sewing kits for y’all. Being able to do simple repairs to your clothing when you’re in the field is an important survival skill,” Spring said.
“There is nothing effeminate about sewing. All the best tailors are men. Some of the best seamstresses and embroiderers are men.
“Isn’t the word ‘seamstress’ feminine?” Hosea asked.
“One would think, but anyone who makes dresses and women’s clothing is a seamstress—male or female,” Spring said.
“Why would a man become a dressmaker?” Hosea asked.
“It isn’t back-breaking or dirty work—not like mining or working a farm—and you get to meet and handle all sorts of pretty girls and women,” Spring shrugged.
Spring entertained the ambition to try out many careers in his long life. Most of those yearnings never got past the daydreaming stage. Once, long ago, Spring had been watching a late-night talk show. The guest was a doctor, but Spring had missed the beginning. He didn’t know the fellow’s name or what his claim to fame was.
At the host’s urging, the doctor explained how he had put himself through college—an Ivy League College—at least through pre-med—by making custom formal dresses for his fellow students.
He come from a long line of dressmakers and had been making custom-made dresses for years. He had a sewing machine in his dorm room and he could turn out two or three dresses a month.
Those were very well-made expensive dresses for rich girls to wear to fancy activities—rich girls and those trying hard to look like rich girls. His dresses were top quality—and although he sold them for a great deal—they were cheaper than what the girls could buy anywhere else.
Even rich girls love to save money. The not-so-rich, even more.
“Some of the guys called me a sissy, but hey! I made good money. I didn’t bust my back and I got to meet all kinds of pretty girls,” the doctor had said.
For about 10-minutes, Spring had contemplated being a seamstress. He was already past college age though. Even if he was not, he doubted that the demand and ability to pay was anywhere near as great at a state college like Spring had attended—and anyway, there were things that Spring wanted to do much more.
That was in the ancient days with electric sewing machines and electric lights. Spring sure as Hell wasn’t going to start dressmaking using a treadle sewing machine and working by lantern-light.
Spring had cookware and serve wear—new, top-of-the-line stuff. The stuff was cheaper here than it would be on the frontier for at least 40-years or so.
“I have a family Bible for y’all, though I must say that I think that family Bibles are largely worthless,” Spring said.
Henryka frowned at what she took as an irreligious comment.
“Sure, it is handy to have all those pages up front to register births, deaths and marriages. If you want to seriously study the scriptures though, have you ever tried to read one of those oversized volumes? There is no convenient or comfortable way to hold it at proper reading distance,” Spring added.
“That’s why I have a personal Bible for each of you,” He added.
************ ************** **************************
The next day. Spring pitched a tent and set up a temporary armory. He was busy modifying the old .44 Caliber flintlock, but he had a steady parade of visitors.
First Amos appeared.
“Can I watch?” Amos asked.
Amos was red-haired like his father and while his brother Hosea was small for his age, Amos was large for his age—with surprising musculature for a 14-year-old.
“Just try to stay out of the way,” Spring said.
“Can I apprentice? I want to be a gun maker like you,” Amos said.
Spring frowned.
“A youngster like you should spend most of his time hunting, trapping and fishing—that and chasing girls. You won’t be young twice,” Spring said.
After a moment, Spring relented.
“I’ll make you a half-apprentice. I will buy your labor from your father on any day that you would have had to work on the farm. On your free days, I expect you to become an expert woodsman. How can you build guns for woodsmen, if you have never been a woodsman?” Spring asked.
Spring cut about 14-inches off the front of the flintlock. He removed the breechblock and he laboriously bored the barrel out to .615 Caliber—20 Gauge.
The rifling was almost gone. The bore was deeply pitted and the barrel walls were overly thick. The barrel had quite enough mass to make a satisfactory big-bored smoothbore.
Then Spring rebored and threaded the touch-hole to convert the ancient flinchlock to caplock.
Spring put some coarse, but well-executed checkering on the ancient stock. He shortened the forend and the ramrod and he re-did the sights.
“What is the purpose of all that?” Amos asked
“A family can always use another shotgun—when the geese fly in the Fall and when you’re standing off a home invasion. Your old gun has been given a new life,” Spring said.
While Spring was still working on the old flinchlock, Diana joined them.
“Is your wife good at knitting, embroidery, crocheting and macramé?” Diana asked Spring.
“I wouldn’t know,” Spring said.
“How can you not know something like that?” Diana demanded.
“I have never met her. All I have is a brief description: She is tall. She is very dark and muscular, with big thick lips and large busts. Her eyes are balls of purest metallic gold and her hair is long and straight and the color of brightly colored silver. Properly speaking, she isn’t a mortal. She is a goddess,” Spring explained.
“The Bible says that there aren’t any other gods and goddesses,” Diana objected.
“No, the Bible forbids us to worship other gods and goddesses. I assure you, that unless one is submissive to the point of neurosis, marrying someone is not the same thing as worshipping them. Ach Ja! That word ‘Worship’ gets booted about a bit. I mean, true worship,” Spring said.
“What about your in-laws then?” Diana demanded.
“You have a very big nose for such a little girl. However, my life is largely an open book. Jesse and the others are androids…”
“Okay. They’re created beings,” Spring said.
“We’re all created beings—created by God,” Diana said.
“Well, God created Adam and Eve, but all the humans since then have been the product of procreation—not special creation. Jesse and the others weren’t created by God—not directly—nor are they the product of procreation. They’re machines—like your 20-Gauge shotgun or those two treadle-sewing-machines that I gave your mother and you girls,” Spring said.
“You must think that I’m a damned fool!” Diana retorted.
Spring shrugged. He didn’t give a rat’s ass if anyone believed his story, but he admired the little girl’s plainspokenness.
“Jesse come here. Demonstrate to this little girl that you are an android—without doing yourself any long-lasting injury,” Spring said.
Jesse cut himself across the back of one hand. The cut was deep enough for Diana to see the silver colored bones in Jesse’s hand, the copper-colored tendons and ligaments and the blue muscle tissue and blood.
Jesse squeezed a few drops out onto the ground to be sure to satisfy Diana’s skepticism before he let the wound heal.
“Is your wife an android too?” Diana asked.
‘“Gynoid.’ The female version of Jesse would be a gynoid—not an android. I have no idea if Amelia is a gynoid or not. I do know that if I can finally find her, that she will bear my children for me—so gynoid or not, who cares?” Spring said.
“Diana, I don’t mind satisfying your curiosity. You’re family now. I wouldn’t spread that knowledge to outsiders if I were you—but you must decide. I’ll answer more of your questions later. For now, go think about what I’ve already told you and consider what you want to know most urgently, the next time that I’m in the mood to be interrogated. I won’t answer an avalanche of ill-considered queries,” Spring shooed her off with a smile.
“I heard all of that,” Amos said.
“Of course, you’re my apprentice. I wouldn’t hide such things from you,” Spring said.
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Post by rvm45 on Sept 10, 2021 7:07:54 GMT -6
Chapter Three 5605
Harold and his two grown sons came by after Hosea. Harold was Pard’s brother and Thomas and Timothy were Pard’s nephews. The boy’s mother had died giving birth to Timothy. Death during childbirth was not that uncommon on the frontier.
Well, maybe it was a little less common than it might have been. Any genetic predisposition to having difficult deliveries had been ruthlessly eliminated by natural selection.
Many potential problems associated with childbirth were stochastic rather than genetic though, so there you had it.
“I hear that you’re our long-lost cousin,” Harold said.
“Come to get your freebies?” Spring said with a smile.
“Honestly, I’m rather busy now. Come to supper tonight and I’ll get to know you a bit. I don’t want to keep you in suspense though,” Spring said.
Spring handed Harold a nice double-barreled .50 Caliber. It was lighter than Pard’s .58 Caliber, if Harold ever wanted to take his rifle hunting.
Harold was at least a decade younger than Pard and hunting wasn’t out of the question for him.
Both of Harold’s sons got single-barreled .50’s. They all got a matched pair of .50-Caliber pistols as well. Spring was feeling generous, so he threw in a double-barreled 12-Gauge shotgun for the trio to share.
“Jesse, I’m busy. Will you do the honors?” Spring said.
Jesse set each of the trio up with a personal Bible, a small sewing kit, a small mess kit and tomahawk, Bowie and small caping knife, as Spring impatiently waved them away.
“What are you doing now?” Amos asked.
“This is quite a chunk of barrel that I cut off your old family gun. It would be a waste not to turn it into a pistol,” Spring said.
“If you’re going to bore it out to 20-Gauge, why didn’t you bore it out with the rest of the barrel, before you cut it off?” Amos asked.
“That’s a reasonable question. The difficulty of boring a deep hole goes up exponentially with the length of that hole—especially with these Daniel Boone era bullshit tools,” Spring said.
“Who is Daniel Boone,” Amos asked.
“He was a very olde tyme pioneer, He lived and died before my grandfather was even born. Considering how old that I am, that is a very long time ago,” Spring replied.
************** ***************** ************************
Suppertime came and went. Harold and sons pledged to make common cause with Pard’s family.
Spring got a few searching stares, but no one questioned him about Amelia or his android in-laws. Those were the type things best discussed with one or two of his new family members at a time…
And so far as Spring was concerned, Harold and his two sons weren’t thoroughly vetted yet. If he told Pard, Diana or Amos something and they wanted to repeat it to one or all of the new trio, fine, well and good. He just wasn’t going to tell them anything directly yet.
************ **************** *****************
Spring put the finishing touches on the 20-Gauge pistol while Amos watched and did an occasional gopher for Spring.
Hosea came walking into the tent just as Spring finished the plow handle pistol grip stock and laid the lockwork to rest in it.
“You’re just in time, Hosea. You seemed a bit disappointed with your rifle, because it was a .50 Caliber. I made you a 20-Gauge pistol. You can shoot small game at close range with it. If you’re going into trouble, nine .30-Caliber balls will make a long division problem out of someone,” Spring said.
“Or you can load it with a single .615 Punkin’ Ball and have a really big-bored back-up. It might not stop a big bear at close range—but the bear would certainly know that he’d been hit,” Spring said.
“It is going to be up to you to finish both the metal and the stock. How nice that third pistol will look hanging on your belt will be largely up to you,” Spring said.
“By the way, what did you come by to tell me? Are the British coming?” Spring asked.
“British?” Hosea asked.
“Revenuers—they wore distinctive red coats to identify themselves,” Spring explained.
“Didn’t that make them stand out in the forests?” Amos asked.
“Well yes. That may have contributed to their losing the war. Anyway, what’s up?” Spring asked.
“You said that if any of us boys wanted to study dressmaking, that you’d give us a big sewing kit like you gave the girls. I’ve thought it over and I want to give dressmaking a try. I’ve never liked plowing and I like harvest time even less. Also, I like the idea of meeting many pretty women,” Hosea said.
“You’re rather precocious, aren’t you? Can you read? Cool. The books that I gave your mother are fine for simple fare—homespun stuff, as it were. If you’re going to make a living as a seamstress, you need to be a bit more sophisticated,” Spring said.
“Here is a master sewing kit for you and several books on design and custom fitting and tailoring. My advice to you, is to read these books carefully and fully understand them before you even put scissors to fabric. Your mother needs to clothe her family. You don’t need to clothe anyone and you should avoid production shortcuts and sloppy habits,” Spring said.
“When we get to where we’re going—wherever in Hell that is—I’ll give you your own sewing machine. Right now, it would just overburden your father to have one more piece of gear for him to carry,” Spring said.
‘And it will give me a chance to see how serious you are about being a seamstress,’ Spring thought to himself.
“You have quite a bit of stuff in your wagon,” Amos remarked.
“That is a gross understatement,” Spring agreed.
“It strikes me as strange, that my little brother decided to become a seamstress and you have exactly what he needs to walk that path. Did you somehow manipulate him to want to become a dressmaker?” Amos asked.
“No, actually I’m kinda surprised. He’s young enough to switch to another path, or two or three if he finds that he’s bought a ticket on the wrong train…er, stage,” Spring said.
“You’re looking at me funny. Don’t you believe me? Here, I’ll demonstrate. You want to be a gun maker—yes?” Spring said.
Spring walked to the same hard-sided wagon. He opened the same cupboard panel and stuck his head inside the same way that he’d searched for the books for Hosea.
Amos wondered how Spring could see anything, since his body was blocking almost all the light that could have entered the cubbyhole.
“Pond and honor! Got a few good design books in Rooskie and Eye-Talian—but you’ve never even heard of those languages. You’ve never heard of American either,” Spring said as he came out with five books.
“Believe it or not, once all of the folks on the frontier spoke American—the white ones, anyway. Nowadays, no one has even heard of the language. O well, Gaeilge is a better, richer language than American anyway.”
“You don’t need to read anything that involves self-contained cartridges or that uses smokeless powder. Whatever it is that keeps the technology suppressed here…” Spring paused.
“Well, first of all, it would cloud your understanding of such things. If you were too, too obstinate though, while you might achieve understanding. You’d find that everything seemed to conspire to prevent you from making use of your discovery, or invention, or whatever,” Spring mused.
“As a last resort, the heavens might defy fate and cut you down before your time. We’ll stick to approved technology for now,” Spring said.
“The other stuff—the dangerous stuff?” Amos asked.
“You will have to learn all the forbidden technologies eventually, unless you choose to terminate your apprenticeship. The trick is to understand this shit, without trying to manifest any of it in this world,” Spring said.
“You almost had me there for a moment. Why do you want to bullshit people so much?” Amos said.
“What did you want to be, before you decided that you want to be a gun maker?” Spring challenged Amos.
“I wanted to be a veterinarian or an apothecary,” Amos said
“I see. Those are both rather similar. Is there anything else?” Spring asked.
“I’ve thought of being an artist or a preacher,” Amos said reluctantly.
Spring stuck his head back into the cupboard. He came out with a dozen books on drawing and art—books by Burne Hogarth, Loomis and Speed—all translated into Gaeilge.
“For an artist,” Spring said.
He dove again and came back with eight books about gathering herbs and turning them into homespun medicine—for man and beast. There were other books on anatomy, comparative anatomy and simple surgery—including amputations and setting broken bones.
“For veterinary and apothecary,” Spring said.
Spring dove into the cupboard again and he came out with twelve books of collected sermons by Charles Spurgeon and the denominational handbook for the Church Of God In Christ.
“What all do you have in there!?!” Amos asked.
“Come look,” Spring said.
When Amos stuck his head and torso deep inside the cupboard, Spring grabbed his ankles and dumped him inside. He found himself in a large, brightly lit place—a library, he supposed.
The hardwood shelves filled with leather-bound books went on as far as the eye could see.
When Amos pulled a book down, he found that it was in some incomprehensible tongue.
“I use my mental energy to call-up books in a tongue that you can read. If you just browsed at random, it might take you weeks to find a single book in Gaeilge. I’ll start teaching you American soon,” Spring said.
“You are absolutely weird!” Amos exclaimed.
“Not me, this wagon,” Spring protested.
“Seriously, I’ve never had an apprentice before. If you truly want to be my apprentice, you will have to master all sorts of arcane shit—it isn’t just about gun making,” Spring said.
“Why not?”
“There are guns all over the frontier. Have you ever met or heard of a gun maker? How about a gun factory? How many Virginnies back, do you think this stream of firearms originates from?” Spring said.
“Your local blacksmith can fix simple problems on your gun—he can even make simple replacement parts—but although firearms are dear, I’ve never met a blacksmith who was inspired to create a firearm,” Spring said.
“I’m the only gun maker that I’ve ever heard of, but I assure you that I don’t make all the guns on the frontier—like some sort of firearm creating Santa Claus,” Spring said.
“Outside of the guns that I make, I’ve never seen a maker’s mark or a signature on any firearm. It is like the guns grew somewhere—like mushrooms,” Spring said.
Amos wandered around the library aimlessly for awhile—like a man in a fugue.
“You can come back to the library when you learn to read and write American. We’re kinda wastin’ time in here now,” Spring said.
He showed Amos the ladder by the window, that made climbing out far more graceful than being pitched unceremoniously in.
“Books are an expensive luxury on the frontier. I’ve just given you over 50 books. I expect you to read and thoroughly understand each and every one of them,” Spring said.
“You need to get into the woods and hunt with your new rifle. You can come kibitz with me, though I won’t be doing much until we get to our new home and I build a shop. Mainly though, I need you to read and ponder each of those books. If your father says anything about you or your brother skipping chores, tell him that I’m buying your time,” Spring said.
“Amos, you aren’t the only gun-loving youngster that I’ve encountered. I can’t answer for what some of them may have thought, but you’re the very first one to come out and ask me to be my apprentice. That is a good omen—I think,” Spring said.
“My friend, I told you that something keeps the technology here repressed. 2000-years ago, all of the weapons were flintlocks. You couldn’t find a caplock or a cap anywhere. Then caplocks started to appear here and there. Now, you only occasionally come across an old museum piece like your family heirloom,” Spring said
“You talk like you were there,” Amos said.
“I won’t hide it from you. 2000-years is a small span of time to me. If you complete your apprenticeship, it will be a small span of time to you too,” Spring said.
Amos snorted.
“Amos, I’ve shown you and your sister miracles and wonders. I don’t know why you continue to doubt me. Never mind. A certain amount of skepticism is a healthy trait.”
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Post by texican on Sept 11, 2021 23:58:36 GMT -6
Thanks rvm for the chapter.
Texican....
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