For All Nails #319: Strategic Alliance by Johnny Pez

For All Nails #319: Strategic Alliance
by Johnny Pez

Gallivan Airfield
Michigan City, Indiana, CNA
14 November 1935

More than once as he flew across the continent, John Jackson found himself sympathizing with Governor-General Douglas Watson. Like Watson, Jackson had faced considerable resistance from his staff to his plan to travel by airmobile. Too dangerous, they kept telling him. If he died unexpectedly, the company would find itself paralyzed as the heads of the various subsidiaries intrigued to replace him.

Unlike Watson, Jackson had refused to let himself be talked out of his decision. Watson could spare the time; he could not. It would take three days to travel from San Francisco to Michigan City by train or locomobile, and he didn't have three days to spare. With refueling stops in Conyers and St. Louis, the trip would only require 20 hours by airmobile, so airmobile it had to be.

Jackson and his aide Sandoval were only at Gallivan Airfield long enough to go through an abbreviated version of customs before a waiting livery took them out to Galloway Point. Normally, the two men would have spent the forty-minute ride working, but he had yielded to his staff to the point of not bringing any sensitive documents with him into the C.N.A. The C.B.I. was known to be rather suspicious where Kramer Associates was concerned, the fruit of his predecessors' sometimes injudicious attempts to influence North American elections results. While it was unlikely that they would attempt anything as crude as a search of his possessions, there was no point in tempting fate. Instead, Jackson spent his time looking out through the livery's back window at the passing landscape, and conversing with Sandoval.

Sandoval's position as Jackson's chief assistant made him one of the top men in the company, and along with Aikens and Salazar he was in the running to succeed Jackson as president of the company. In the running, but not certain to do so. Like Jackson himself under Benedict, Sandoval would have to prove he had the right mix of daring, prudence, vision, and business acumen if he wanted the top spot. Jackson would have been lying if he had denied taking a certain amount of enjoyment from the competition. Salazar was off in the Philippines paving the way for the upcoming move; Aikens was in Honolulu overseeing the university; and Sandoval was here with him. Only time would tell which of the three had chosen the right path to the presidency.

"Ever been to Michigan City before, Sandoval?"

"No, sir, it's my first time here."

Jackson knew that perfectly well, of course. "I've been here twice before," he continued. "It's a little odd. At first, you think you might be in San Francisco or Henrytown, but then you start noticing differences."

Sandoval nodded. "All of the signs are in English," he noted.

"That's the first thing you notice," Jackson agreed. He nodded toward the passing lokes in the other traffic lane.

Sandoval peered at them for a long moment before saying, "Well, most of them are North American, obviously."

Jackson said, "And the drivers?"

He could practically see the Edison lamp going off over Sandoval's head. "A lot of them are Negroes," he said.

"About a third, I'd say," said Jackson.

"That is a big difference," Sandoval admitted. Back in Mexico, ownership of locomobiles was still mostly confined to Anglos and Hispanos, though the number of Mexicano drivers was growing steadily. Jackson doubted whether there were more than a thousand Negroes in all of Mexico who owned locomobiles. As he always did when he contemplated the racial divisions in his native land, Jackson felt relieved at the company's impending departure for the Far East.

The blocks of flats, row houses, duplexes, and single-family homes they were passing through suddenly gave way to spacious estates, most of them well-fenced. "I take it we've entered Galloway Point," said Sandoval.

Jackson nodded again. "They all look like they've been transplanted from the English countryside. A few of them have been. You can tell the North Americans still look to the British for their notions of gracious living."

At last the livery turned right onto a gravel drive (of course!) leading up to an imposing wrought-iron gate with a uniformed attendant. A brief conversation between attendant and driver, and the gate swung ponderously open. The gravel drive meandered through meticulously-kept grounds to the front entrance of an imposing faux-English-manor. The livery halted, and the driver opened the door for Jackson and Sandoval, then stood at a fair approximation of attention as they emerged.

An elderly, immaculately-dressed Negro came down the steps from the front doors to welcome them. "Good afternoon Mr. Jackson, Mr. Sandoval," he said. "I am Mr. Billington. Mr. Galloway has been expecting you." Jackson recognized the man: Ferdinand Billington, a member of one of the most prominent Negro families in the C.N.A. Forty-two years before, his father had been the first Negro from the Northern Confederation to be elected to the Grand Council; two years ago, Billington's son had been elected to the same seat. Billington himself served as chief counsel for North American Motors, and was one of Owen Galloway's closest friends. He led them up the steps, where two formally-dressed servants, one Negro and one white, opened the doors for them.

The interior of the Galloway mansion matched the exterior in mimicking an English country manor. There was oak paneling everywhere, portraits of various ancestral Galloways hanging from the walls, and even suits of armor. A visitor could be forgiven for thinking the building was centuries old, but Jackson happened to know that it had been built only twenty-five years before, by Owen Galloway's father, who was the first member of the prestigious family to reside in Michigan City.

Mr. Billington led them into a library, currently unoccupied, and told them, "Mr. Galloway with be with you momentarily," before backing out of the room and closing the doors behind him.

Sandoval was looking around the library. He said, "I have the oddest feeling that I've been here before."

"You've probably seen it hundreds of times," Jackson told him. "This is where Mr. Galloway broadcasts his weekly homilies. He has a full set of vitavision equipment stowed in the next room."

"You seem quite well-informed, sir," said a voice behind them. It was the most familiar voice in the English-speaking world, more familiar than any political leader or entertainer. Jackson and Sandoval turned and saw Owen Galloway standing just inside the library's doorway, with Billington standing discreetly behind him.

Galloway was far and away the most popular public figure in the C.N.A. Had he wished it, he could have been Governor-General; indeed, on more than one occasion it had been necessary for him to act to prevent the Grand Council from elevating him to the office. With one speech, he had transformed Governor-General Watson from a political mastermind to a pariah fighting to stay in office. He was the architect of the Galloway Plan, which had arguably prevented civil war from breaking out in the C.N.A. twelve years before. He was also the president of North American Motors, the largest corporation in the C.N.A., and the second largest in the world, and thus in a sense the closest thing Jackson had to a business rival.

"I try to be, sir," Jackson responded.

Galloway gestured for the four of them to seat themselves at the far end of the library, in seats ranged around a low table near a fireplace where a fire burned low. Servants entered and placed plates of pâté, caviar, and other delicacies on the table, and Galloway invited his guests to help themselves.To Jackson's surprise, Galloway's voice was quite animated, and precisely modulated, in startling contrast to the dull monotone in which he gave his weekly speeches to the nation. He supposed that the other man must simply be bad at reciting prepared speeches.

Jackson would have preferred to get right to the point, but he knew that when dealing with North Americans, the formalities had to be observed. Galloway was their host, and it was a host's duty to provide refreshments. So Galloway and Jackson discussed trivialities while they ate together, and Jackson endured it with as much patience as he could muster.

Once they had eaten, and the servants had returned to clear away the plates, Galloway said, "Now then, Mr. Jackson, to what do I owe the honor of your presence in my home? Your representatives assured me that it was not related to business, and I admit I am unsure what other common interests we might share."

"Mr. Galloway," Jackson answered, "we share the same common interest that all men of good will share: the cause of world peace."

Galloway raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You, Mr. Jackson? An idealist?"

"I'll level with you, sir," said Jackson. "My firm seeks to expand into the Far East. For that, I need stable business conditions. And I happen to know that President Silva has plans to wage a war of conquest in that part of the world. The last thing I need is the U.S. Pacific Fleet attacking my business partners, so you and I share a common interest in keeping the peace, even if our motives might differ."

Galloway's face still exhibited skepticism. "And how do you propose that we should pursue this common interest?"

"We each have our own preferred means of influencing opinion," Jackson said. "For you, it is your weekly addresses to your nation. And not just to your own nation, I might add. They are also broadcast in my own country, and I understand that recordings of your speeches are broadcast in other nations around the world, often in translation in those countries where English is not commonly spoken."

"I believe I know what your own preferred method is," Galloway responded. "I understand your Mr. Fuentes took exception to it, and sought to put an end to it. Unsuccessfully, I might add."

Jackson allowed himself a thin smile. "Think of it as an old company tradition. I believe that together, we have sufficient resources at our command to identify those men who represent a threat to world peace, and to see to it that they are not allowed to influence policy in their respective nations. A strategic alliance, as it were."

Galloway shook his head. "Mr. Jackson, I see that you mean well, or at least you mean something. It is my belief, however, that efforts to corrupt the political process, even in the cause of peace, would prove to be a cure that was worse than the disease." He stood up from his seat and added, "I believe that we have nothing more to say to one another. Good day, sir. Mr. Billington, if you would be so kind?"

Billington politely escorted the two visitors to the front door, where they found their livery still waiting. As the vehicle pulled away from the front entrance, Jackson sighed.  "Well, Sandoval," he said, "now you see what idealism will get you."

"Are you certain he was wrong, sir?" Sandoval replied. "Isn't that the reason we're leaving Mexico? Seventy years of buying politicians has left the country with a completely dysfunctional political system, so we're moving to the Philippines. And what then? Will we keep jumping from country to country, buying politicians as we go, and then leaving when the political culture becomes too corrupt to function?"

Jackson made no answer, but he knew then and there that when he finally stepped down as head of the company, Sandoval would not be replacing him.

For All Nails #318: Who You Gonna Call?

For All Nails #318: Who You Gonna Call?
By Johnny Pez


Gallivan Hall, Burgoyne University
Burgoyne, Pennsylvania, N.C., CNA
30 April 1952

He paused at the door to his office. There was a note pinned to the door with the words VENKMAN BURN IN HELL scrawled on it. With a sigh, Professor Peter Venkman pulled the note off and fumbled his key into the lock. He told himself that it least it meant that he had succeeded in making people passionate about economics. He had been looking to stir things up when he published his book, and he had clearly succeeded.

Inside was the old oak desk he had inherited from his father, the bookshelves he had acquired over the years, the framed prints on the walls. The desk was piled high with books, notes, paperweights, and trays, all jostling for room with the dactylograph and telephone, and a vase of flowers. There was a smell of old paper, and begonias. He had just seated himself behind the desk when the telephone rang.

After a brief internal debate, he picked up the handset. “Venkman,” he said simply.

“Professor Venkman?” said a female voice on the other end. The accent was distinctly Virginian. “This is Councilman Mason’s office. Can you hold for the Councilman?”

“Certainly,” Venkman said automatically, not quite understanding the conversation. Did he know a Councilman Mason? Could he be a member of the Burgoyne City Council? Then, a moment later, the combination of the accent and the name brought a sudden epiphany. No, not the City Council, the Grand Council. The country’s national legislature.

Venkman was ready when the familiar voice came on the line. “Professor Venkman? This is Richard Mason.”

“Good morning, Councilman,” said Venkman, and he was pleased at the tone of insouciance he was able to bring to the words. As though he routinely accepted phone calls from North American political leaders. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping we could talk about your new book,” said Mason. “I’ve just finished it, and I find your ideas intriguing. Perhaps you ought to consider publishing a newsletter.”

“They’re not my ideas, as such,” Venkman said.

“Yes, Professor, you’ve been careful to give proper credit to Mister Morris and Monsieur De Bow. That’s the mark of a true scholar and gentleman, and one of the reasons I think you’re just the man I’m looking for.”

Was Mason saying what Venkman thought he was saying? “Sir, are you offering me a position with your campaign?”

He heard a chuckle from the other man. In his mind’s eye, an image came to him of Mason on the vitavision with his head tilted back, giving just such a chuckle in response to one of Jeffrey Martin’s borderline-rude interview questions. “You’re not a man who believes in beating about the bush, are you Professor?”

Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Councilman, the economics profession is unfortunately oversupplied with people who use words for concealment rather than illumination. As a matter of sheer self-preservation, I’ve had to develop a capacity for cutting through pointless verbosity and getting to the point.”

Another chuckle. “Professor, you make economics sound an awful lot like politics. No, I’m not quite ready to offer you a job, but it is a definite possibility. That’s the reason I’m calling you now, to find out if you’ve got the right sort of, oh, temperament for the job. For example, were you being deliberately provocative when you called your book The Ghost of Lawrence French?”

“To be honest, Councilman, yes I was. Given the state of the world today, and particularly the state of economics, I thought that something provocative was just what was called for.” Venkman shifted in his chair, and glanced out the window. The day was overcast, as it usually was in Burgoyne. In spite of the threatening sky, there were students out in the quadrangle playing an impromptu game of cricket.

“That’s just what I was hoping to hear, Professor Venkman, because I feel the same way myself. Mr. Billington’s devotion to balanced budgets is an admirable thing in the abstract, but I think we need something more to pull us out of the slump we’ve been in since the end of the war. I find your book to be an admirable explication of why that is, and what needs to be done about it.”

“Councilman,” said Venkman cautiously, “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but it sounds to me like you’ve already decided what you want to do, and you’re just using my ideas as a useful way to rationalize it.”

Another chuckle from the Councilman. One of the things Venkman had noticed about Mason was that he wasn’t shy about expressing his emotions. Ever since Owen Galloway started giving his vitavision talks thirty years back, every politician on the national stage had felt the need to curry favor with the voting public by imitating his dull monotone. Even Governor-General Billington mostly kept to the same pattern, with only occasional flashes of dry wit. Mason, by contrast, spoke with conviction, letting his voice and expression show what was in his heart. It seemed to Venkman that the Councilman’s popularity came not so much from what he said, as how he said it. After a generation of Owen Galloway imitations, it was like a breath of fresh air on a stuffy day.

“Well, not so much to rationalize, Professor, as to confirm my own ideas,” said Mason. “I read Mr. Morris’s General Theory myself back in the day, and I found it very convincing. And I was here in Burgoyne back in ’38 and ’39, so I was able to see the policies of your colleague Professor French in action. As you yourself pointed out in your book, the contrast between Mr. Morris’s policies in Britain and Professor French’s here in North America provided an unparalleled opportunity to determine who was right and who was wrong. Mr. Morris was proved right, and Professor French wrong. You say you wish to exorcise Professor French’s ghost from the halls of power here in Burgoyne. I am prepared to do so, and I would very much enjoy your assistance in doing so, if you are willing to provide it.”

Once again, Venkman felt the need to cut to the chase. “You wish me to join your campaign as an economic advisor, then?”

“No, Professor Venkman, I do not.”

Venkman found himself at a loss. “Then, I’m not certain … “

Again, there was that chuckle. “You, Professor, are a man with a talent for clear prose and the pithy phrase, and a knack for explaining the more, shall we say, impenetrable intricacies of economics in a way that the layman can understand. That talent would be wasted in the rough and tumble of a political campaign. What you need, sir, unless I am much mistaken, is a platform from which to speak on the economic issues of the day. And I may have just such a platform from which you might speak. You are familiar, are you not, with Mrs. Pynchon?”

Venkman, of course, was quite familiar with her. “The publisher of the Burgoyne Tribune?”

“The very one,” said Mason. “Mrs. Pynchon’s family, and the Tribune, have long been mainstays of the Liberal Party, and I know for a fact that she would be pleased to offer a weekly column to the author of that notable work of popular economics, The Ghost of Lawrence French.”

“And I would write for your campaign?” Venkman found the idea distasteful.

“You would write on whatever topic happened to seize your fancy, Professor. Have no fears on that score. As long as you maintain the intellectual standards of both the newspaper columnist and the professional economist, you would have free rein.”

As Venkman considered the idea, he could not deny that he found it attractive. There was a dreadful amount of foolishness published in the country’s newspapers and general interest magazines, to say nothing of the vitavision, on the subject of economics. It would be bracing to have the chance to counteract it on a regular basis.

“Very well, Councilman,” he said at last. “You can tell Mrs. Pynchon that if she’s willing to risk it, so am I.”

“Splendid, Professor, just splendid!” Mason enthused. “I’ll inform the dear woman, and she can set the wheels in motion. Oh, and if she should ask what name you have in mind for the column, what should I tell her? Knowing the newspaper business as I do, I suspect that she’ll want to associate it in some way with your book. A spectral theme seems called for.”

Venkman thought about it. “The Exorcist?” he suggested. “That might turn a few heads.”

Mason sounded less than enthusiastic. “If you’ll forgive me, Professor, that strikes me as perhaps a trifle obscure. Apart from the occasional enthusiast for religious history, it would mean little to the general newspaper reader. I also suspect Mrs. Pynchon would find it somewhat lacking in what the journalistic profession calls ‘sock’.”

Sock, eh? Venkman grinned suddenly. “In that case, Councilman, how about The Ghost Buster?”

“Just the thing, Professor,” said Mason with another chuckle. “Just the thing! You may expect to hear from the Tribune in the near future. For now, I must bid you a reluctant farewell.”

“Good-bye, Councilman,” Venkman replied. “And thank you.”

“Oh, no, Professor. Thank you!”

A click, and Mason was gone. Venkman set the phone’s handset on its cradle, and leaned back in his chair. The cricket game was still going on outside.

A newspaper columnist, he thought to himself, and smiled.

THE END

For All Nails #317: The Specials

For All Nails #317: The Specials

By Johnny Pez

Nacogdoches, Jefferson, USM

7 October 1908

When Junie woke up in the middle of the night to find her father and mother fully dressed, she didn’t have to wonder what was happening. She knew that the Specials had come for them.

“Get dressed, Junie,” her mother told her. “We’re leaving.”

Without another word, Junie began to get dressed, while her parents woke Jemmie and Lily and set them to dressing as well. In spite of the darkness, they all acted quickly, and in five minutes, the whole family was dressed, and preparing to leave.

While her body was putting on her ragged clothes, Junie’s mind kept going over the secret words that every slave in Mexico knew: “The first snake goes down into the valley, and the second snake goes up into the mountains.” After she finished dressing, she let her finger trace out the signs that she knew went with the secret words: SVSM.

Her mother and father led the three children out of the shack, and into the moonless night. The light of the stars let her make out two more figures in the darkness: two men, dressed as they were in the rags of slaves. Junie knew, though, that the two men weren’t slaves. They were the Specials, and they were here to lead them across the river Jordan to freedom.

The Specials didn’t speak; they simply gestured for the slaves to follow them, and the slaves did. The Specials led Junie and the others through the plantation’s recently-harvested cotton fields, until they came to a dirt road. Stepping out onto the road felt to Junie like stepping out of her old life, and into a new one. Up until then, the slaves hadn’t been doing anything wrong. They could go where they liked around the plantation, but going out onto the road without permission from Master Henry or the overseer was forbidden.

The Specials led them down the dirt road in the starry night, farther and farther away from the plantation. To left and right, there were the same fields of cotton, looking strangely naked with the puffs of cotton gone. After they had been traveling for a time, Junie heard the sound of a wagon approaching from behind them. The Specials heard it too, and led them all into a cotton field on their right.

The wagon was just passing by, and Junie thought her heart would freeze when she saw one of the Specials stand up and let out a sharp whistle.

The wagon came to a halt. The driver, a white man, looked over at the Special and said, “That you, Cliff?”

“It ain’t President Flores,” the Special answered.

The driver let out a laugh and said, “All right, hop on up.” The Specials led the slaves out of the field and to the back of the wagon. There were half a dozen bales of cotton there, but the driver did something to one, and Junie saw that it wasn’t a real bale of cotton, just an empty barrel made up to look like one. The white man said, “Don’t worry, plenty of room for everyone.”

The Specials helped the slaves up onto the wagon, and into the false cotton bales. Junie was relieved to find that there was a bag filled with straw to lie down on inside the bale. While she lay there waiting for the rest of her family to hide themselves, one of the Specials said to the white man, “Took you long enough to find us.”

Junie held her breath while she waited for the white man to scold the Special for sassing him. Instead, the white man just laughed again and said, “All these goddamn back roads look alike. Don’t these people know about signs?”

“Signs cost money,” the Special answered. “You know what these people are like when it comes to spending money they don’t have to.”

“Don’t I just,” said the white man. The conversation left Junie completely adrift. Who was the driver, and why didn’t he act like any white man she had ever met?

Junie was in one of the false bales along with Jemmie and Lily, while her mother and father were together in the other one. In spite of the jolting of the wagon, her brother and sister were soon fast asleep, but it seemed to Junie that she was awake for hours and hours in the dark. She must have fallen asleep, though, because she was suddenly awakened by a light.

She sat up, startled, to find that the false bale had been opened up again, and daylight was pouring into it. The two Specials and the white man were standing there, and Junie was finally able to get a good look at the three of them. One of the Specials was a man of middle years, while the other looked to be little older than Junie herself. The white man looked like every other white man Junie had ever seen, and she felt a wave of fear shake her as he stood there. But the older Special was saying, “It’s all right, children. We’ve stopped for the day. You can all come out, it’s safe.”

Junie crawled out of the false bale, and the younger Special helped her down to the ground. They seemed to be in an old barn that was half falling down. There were three other people in the barn, all of them white, who were looking after the horses. They ignored the slaves emerging from the back of the wagon. When they were all out, the white man left to join the others with the horses.

“Where are we?” asked her father.

“Safe house,” said the older Special. “We need to give the horses a chance to rest. And us too, of course. Come with me.”

The two Specials led her family out of the barn, and across a yard to an old plantation house that was almost as broken-down as the barn. Inside, though, there was food and water, and a solid table surrounded by chairs. “Have a seat,” the older Special invited them. The fleeing slaves sat, and the Specials joined them at the table. The food was simple jerked beef, with some raw vegetables and two loaves of bread.

Junie’s family talked among themselves, but seemed reluctant to speak to the Specials, who ate along with them in silence. But the younger Special was sitting next to Junie, and she was bursting with questions, so she finally worked up the courage to speak to him. “Sir?” she asked.

“Call me Park,” the Special answered.

“Park,” Junie said, feeling strange as she did so. “Who’s that white man?”

“That’s Luke,” said Park. “He’s one of us.”

“A Special?” said Junie, astonished.

“That’s right.”

It had never occurred to Junie that there might be white men among the Specials. It gave her a vague sense of disappointment. “I never would have guessed it,” she finally said.

“Mighty useful having a white man along,” the older Special added. “Saves us a lot of trouble.”

Junie supposed it would. A white man driving a wagon would provoke no suspicion from passers-by, where a black man could expect to be stopped on general principles.

“Park,” she spoke again. “How many times you been across the river?”

“This is my first,” said Park.

Again, Junie was taken aback. She supposed, when you thought about it, that every Special had to have a first time going across the river to bring back escaped slaves, but it still struck her as odd.

“You afraid?” she asked him.

“Damn right I am,” the Special said. “But don’t you be. My Pa here’s an old hand at this. He’ll see us through.”

“That’s your Pa?” This seemed to be Junie’s day for being astonished.

“Sure. Makes sense, when you think about it. If we want folks to believe I’m his son, it sure helps that I really am his son.”

Junie’s mind was awhirl. This business of escaping across the river Jordan to freedom suddenly seemed a whole lot more complicated that she had been expecting.

“Your name is Cliff?” she asked Park’s father. She remembered that the white man had called him that.

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re Junie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you, Junie?”

“Fifteen, sir. Uh, Cliff.”

Cliff smiled at the slip, and Junie felt herself warming at the sight. “Cliff, how long before we reach the river Jordan?”

“Well, it’s properly called the Arkansas, but plenty of folks I know call it the Jordan. Depending on the roads, we ought to be there in ten days, give or take a couple.”

Ten days! It seemed like an eternity to Junie. Ten days on the road through Jefferson, the whole time under constant risk of discovery. “I wish we could just fly there!” she suddenly exclaimed.

“Maybe we could,” said Park with a chuckle. “Go down to Jefferson City and steal an airmobile. Assuming they have any airmobiles at Jefferson City.”

It took Junie a moment to place the word. Airmobiles were flying machines that the Tories had invented. She had been inclined to skepticism when she first heard about them, but her father had assured her that they were real.

“Park,” she said, “if the Tories can build airmobiles, and locomobiles, and all that, why can’t they march down to Mexico, and free all the slaves?”

Park shook his head. “Folks in the C.N.A. don’t like the idea of going to war, most of them. Man named Thomas Kronmiller wanted to do just that, and tried to make himself governor-general, but not enough folks went along with him. Instead we got men like Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Merriman who think we ought to leave well enough alone.” It was clear from the tone of his voice what Park thought of Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Merriman.

Cliff spoke up then. “Who do you think is paying for all this, Park?”

Junie was just as puzzled by the question as Park seemed to be when he answered, “Paying for what?

“For you, and me, and Luke, for starters,” said Cliff, “and all the rest of us here in Mexico. Paying for this house, and the wagon, and the guards we keep sweet so they let us go by. Paying to keep our farm in Dickinson County running while we’re busy down here.”

“Well, we do, I guess,” Park finally said. “The Ess Vees.”

Cliff shook his head. “This all costs much more than the Ess Vee could afford. We’ve got the whole country helping out, and that’s a fact. And it’s men like Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Merriman who keep the money coming, and Mr. Gallivan and Mr. McDowell before them.”

“Well, if it’s so expensive,” Park countered, “then why not just go to war and have it done with once and for all?”

Cliff shook his head again. “A war may sound mighty fine, if you’re just talking about it. But it’s a fact that when a war comes, nothing goes the way you think it will. Mr. Gilpin found that out the hard way, and a lot of good men paid dearly to help him learn, your great-uncle Billy included.

“What we’re doing here may not be as exciting as fighting a war, but it’s a better, quieter way to bring freedom to our people here. The Mexicans are content to turn a blind eye to what we do, and the reason they are is that they know they don’t have to worry about Mr. Hemingway or Mr. Merriman sending an army across the border.”

Cliff was silent after that, and Park and Junie were too. He had given her a lot to think about, especially the idea that the Mexicans were letting the Specials steal their slaves away.

After the meal, Cliff and Park led the slaves to another room with several beds in it, then left on some business of their own. Her parents took one, and her brother and sister took another, leaving Junie to sleep alone in hers. It was the first time in her life that she had ever been in a real bed.

Junie woke with a start several times, wondering where she was, before remembering that she was in the old plantation house. The last time she woke, it was dark in the room; she and her family had slept the day away. She lay awake after that, staring into the darkness, until she heard a sound of footsteps and a light approaching. She sat up in the bed, stricken with fear, until she saw that it was Cliff and Park carrying a lantern. “Are we leaving now?” she asked them.

Cliff nodded, and went over to wake up her parents, while Park did the same with Jemmie and Lily. They had another meal at the table before going out to the barn. As the others returned to their hiding places in the false bales, Junie asked Cliff, “Can I ride up top with you and Park?”

Cliff looked over at Luke, who shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said. And just like that, Junie found herself seated next to Park as Luke and Cliff led the horses out of the barn and down a weed-choked drive that led to the road. The two older men joined them on the seat, and with Cliff taking the reins, they resumed their journey north to the river Jordan.

Although she sometimes spoke with Cliff, and once or twice with Luke, Junie spent most of her time talking to Park. He told her about life in the Ess Vee, which for most people meant farming. When she asked him if there were many white people there, Park said that about a third of the people were white. For the most part, whites and Negroes lived apart from each other, though this was becoming less true in the major cities of Fort Lodge and Saint Louis.

“It’s also not true in the Militia, including the Special Militia,” Park said. “We couldn’t do our work if it was. Some of us think that the whole confederation would work better if we didn’t keep ourselves apart.”

Junie thought it sounded more sensible to keep things the way they were. Even knowing that Luke was a Special himself, she found it hard to be in his presence. She could imagine nothing better than living in a whole town with only other Negroes around.

One by one, the days went past, each spent at a different safe house. From time to time, Junie would ride with the Specials; other times, her mother or father or siblings would. One night, she saw a river glinting in the moonlight, and thought that their journey was over. But to her disappointment, it wasn’t the Jordan they were approaching, it was another called the Rio Colorado. They passed through a town called Hermión, then crossed a bridge over the Rio Colorado. There were two white men in the gray uniforms of the Mexican Army manning a toll gate. Junie was terrified, but Luke casually tossed a coin to one of the soldiers, and the other raised the gate. Junie remained frozen in her seat until they had trundled over the bridge and were rolling along the road on the far side.

It was raining when they set out from the last safe house south of the river Jordan, but Junie still wanted to spend the trip up on the seat with the Specials. Cliff had refused, though, saying that this close to the border all the runaway slaves would have to remain concealed in the false bales.

Lying in the false bale beside Jemmie and Lily, it seemed to Junie that they had been there for an eternity. She was too keyed up to sleep, and every minute she was certain that they would be discovered by soldiers from the army, or worse, from the Jefferson Brigades. With the army, Park had told her, you could often bribe your way out of trouble. But the Brigades were different. They were run by the Kramer Company, which Park said was bigger and richer than the government itself, and mean as a snake besides. If the Brigades caught you, they’d shoot you down on the spot, no exceptions.

When, finally, the wagon creaked to a halt, Junie felt herself go dizzy with fear. Was it the army, or the Brigades? She heard the wagon’s gate go down, and felt a rush of cold air as the false bale was opened up.

Cliff’s voice came out of the darkness. “Children, get up. We’re here!”

Within moments, Junie and her siblings had scrambled out of the wagon, and their parents soon joined them. It was still raining, and the weather had turned cold, but Junie didn’t care. She looked around, but in the darkness it was hard to make anything out. Cliff said, “Join hands and follow me,” and the runaway slaves did.

Cliff led them away from the wagon, which rolled away behind them with Luke at the reins. Junie could tell that they were in among trees, and Cliff led them carefully between them. Finally, after maybe fifteen minutes, they emerged from the trees, and Junie could hear the sound of water rolling past. They were here! They were here on the banks of the river Jordan!

“You all right?” a whispered voice asked. She could tell without looking that it was Park.

“I’m fine, Park. What happens now?”

There was the flare of a lucifer, and Junie could see Cliff lighting the wick of a lantern. Park explained, “There should be a boat on the other bank, waiting for our signal. Once they get it, they’ll row over and pick us up.” Cliff held the lantern up with the lamp covered, then uncovered it three times, paused, then three times more. Through the rain, Junie could see a distant light blink twice.

“Did you see it?” Park asked.

Junie nodded, then realized he wouldn’t be able to see her in the dark and added, “Yes. That was them?”

“It was,” Park confirmed.

And it was. Ten minutes later, a boat with six men rowing it had come up out of the darkness. Two of them, Junie couldn’t help noticing, were white. One of the men in it threw a rope, which Park caught. Junie and her parents joined him in drawing the boat to the south bank of the river Jordan. One of the rowers got out, and between them Park, Cliff, and he were able to help the slaves on board.

Junie could feel a pool of water at the bottom of the boat as she hunkered down, and she worried for a moment that it was sinking. The rowers seemed unconcerned, though, so she tried to put the thought out of her mind. One of the men was calling out time as the rowers maneuvered the boat across the river Jordan.

Looking ahead of them, Junie saw that a lantern was casting a steady light over a spot on the north bank, and the boat was making for it. As they came closer, she could make out the man who was holding it. He was wearing a black uniform with silver trim, and Junie thought her heart was going to leap from her chest when she saw the SVSM marks on his shoulder boards.

More men emerged into the lantern’s light, also in uniform. One of the rowers cast the rope out, and the uniformed Specials caught it and pulled the boat to the bank. One by one, members of Junie’s family were helped out of the boat, and onto the north bank of the river Jordan, onto the Promised Land.

Cliff and Park were the last to reach the bank, and as the rowers pulled the boat up onto the riverbank, Cliff walked up to the man with the lantern, saluted, and said, “Serjeant Clifford Monaghan, Southern Vandalia Special Militia.” There was something odd about the way he talked. Back in Jefferson, he had sounded like every other Negro Junie knew. Now his words were somehow more precise, more formal. More educated, Junie realized.

Park did the same, in the same precise manner of speech, saying, “Constable Parker Monaghan.” Then he added, “All present, sir. No losses.”

The man handed the lantern to one of the other uniformed Specials and returned their salute. “Captain George Carpenter,” he answered, also in the same style speech. “Well done, Serjeant, Constable.” Then he turned to her father and said, “Welcome to Southern Vandalia, Mister … “

“Carter,” her father answered. “Jack Carter. My wife Sara, and my children Junie, Jemmie, and Lily.”

It was the first time Junie had ever heard her father give his full name to anyone but another slave. And then it struck her like a wave: they weren’t slaves any more. They were free. She felt hot tears running down her face among the cold drops of rain.

“Mister Carter,” Captain Carpenter finished. “If you and your family would come this way, we can get you properly settled in.”

Junie reached out to take Park’s hand in hers, and together they followed Captain Carpenter through the night, into the Promised Land.

THE END

For All Nails #315: If This Be Treason

The For All Nails may be moving a bit slowly these days, but it hasn't stopped. Now up at the Sobel Wiki is the third vignette featuring Abigail Burgoyne, Dowager Duchess of Albany:

For All Nails #315: If This Be Treason

by Johnny Pez


Springfield, Massachusetts, N.C., CNA
22 February 1817

Abigail Burgoyne, Dowager Duchess of Albany, shivered in spite of the fire that burned before her. Her host had made his apologies when business called him away, leaving her alone in the lushly appointed sitting room, with only the blazing fire in the hearth to keep her company.

It had taken all her powers of persuasion to get her son to agree to allow her to visit Springfield. He had finally relented when she pointed out that she was the ideal person to infiltrate the conspiracy centered at the Springfield Armory. She was prominent enough to gain access, but above suspicion of espionage due to her age and sex. Above all, in a situation where the loyalty of all was suspect, she was the only person he could absolutely trust.

In two weeks, building on what Johnny had already learned or deduced from other sources, she had been able to pierce to the heart of the conspiracy. Now she was an honored guest of the ringleader, the man whose avarice and treachery had cost the lives of so many people, and corrupted one of the centers of the Northern Confederation’s military power.

In her bedroom, not far away, was a copy of Jay’s Notes on the Perfidy of Our Former Friends. If her host had her room searched (and she had no doubt that if he hadn’t already, he soon would), it would help to convince him that her reputation as a sympathizer with the rebels of ’75 still held true. The book also served as the key to the cipher she had been using to report her discoveries to her son.

Much of the time, her visit to Springfield was nothing more than the social call it appeared to be. She had been genuinely pleased to renew the acquaintance of the many friends she had made during her long tenure as the ruler of the Burgoyne social scene. Being in Springfield, of course she would call upon Sally Dale, the wife of the armory’s superintendant, whom she knew from Colonel Dale’s days as the Southern Confederation’s delegate to the Grand Council.

She was soon able to establish that Dale knew nothing of the secret sale of weapons from the armory to the members of Tecumseh’s army. However, conversations with Sally’s circle of friends had allowed her to piece together enough information to lead her to the head of the conspiracy, and secured an invitation to spend the night here in his home.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of the sitting room door opening. Turning from the fireplace, she saw her host enter.

Major Stephen Decatur, the Inspector of Ordinance at the Springfield Armory, was a man in his late 30s, with the solid build and dark, aquiline features of his French grandfather and namesake. His wide mouth grew wider as he smiled at Abigail and said, “My apologies again, my lady, for deserting you. I unfortunately had business to attend to that would brook no delay.” His voice was deep, and he spoke with the broad accent of his Philadelphia youth.

“No apology is necessary, Major,” Abigail answered. “I understand. You are a man of consequence, with much to occupy your attention. My late husband was the same way.”

Major Decatur seated himself near the fire, and she took a chair near him. “I would have liked to meet your husband,” he continued. “Of course, I was born after his great victory at Saratoga, and only a child when he was Viceroy. But I learned of his deeds at school, and I may admit to you that it was his example that led me to seek a soldier’s life, much to the dismay of my mother.”

“Was your father more accommodating of your wishes?” Abigail asked.

“I never knew my father,” said Decatur, as his wide mouth turned down. “During the Rebellion, he sided with the rebels, and captained a privateer. That proved to be his undoing. When the Congress agreed to return to British rule, my father and the other privateer captains were arrested and charged with piracy. My father was hanged in the same month as the rebel leaders in London.”

Abigail closed her eyes. “I am sorry, Major. That should not have been. Your father was a patriot, and deserved better of his country.”

“Many men who deserved better failed to receive it after the Rebellion,” she heard him say. “I say nothing against your husband, you understand. He sought to reconcile the two sides, and there was many a rebel who would have shared my father’s fate had it not been for General Burgoyne’s clemency.”

Abigail opened her eyes again, and saw that the Major’s frown had deepened. “Still,” she said, “there were too many who did, and more who fled for fear of their lives. I came close to doing so myself.”

Now the Major’s expressive face showed surprise. “You, my lady?”

Abigail found her mind going back to the days after the Rebellion, as it had done so many times before. “Lord Albany was my second husband. My first was Dick Conrad, a soldier in General Washington’s army. He died in the winter of ’78, at the encampment at Valley Forge. And there I was, a traitor’s widow in New-York City with no friends and no prospects. When I heard of General Arnold’s plan to build a Patriot settlement in Spanish Louisiana, I planned to join him. It was only Johnny’s proposal of marriage that persuaded me to stay.”

“And just as well for you that you did,” Major Decatur said. There was no need for him to enlarge on his comment; General Arnold’s party had crossed the Mississippi in June of 1780, and never been heard from again. “I confess I find it odd to hear the Dowager Duchess of Albany speak of going on the Wilderness Walk with General Arnold. I wonder now that you remained in Burgoyne after the Duke’s passing, my lady; to hear you tell it, you would have been content to leave for Jefferson.”

Abigail’s eyes drifted toward the fire as she spoke. “I might well have, had it been a matter of myself alone. However, by then I had the boys to think of. In spite of his lofty title, Little Johnny was the son of an American mother, and I meant to bring him up in the land of his birth.”

“American?” said Major Decatur. “That’s not a word one hears often these days. One might think you were still a rebel at heart.”

“One would be correct,” Abigail answered as she continued to stare into the flames. “Parliament does nothing for us that we might not do for ourselves. It was the Georgians who took Florida from Spain. It was we who took Louisiana, not the British.”

“Are we not British, then?” said Decatur softly.

“We are Americans,” Abigail said, equally softly. “Or, if you must, North Americans. The British keep us weak and divided, but the day will come when we are united, as we were under the Congress. And on that day, we will live, and breathe, and even die if need be, as North Americans. And the whole world will know that we are our own people, and not merely an inferior sort of British.”

There was a long silence, which the Major finally broke. “Would it surprise you to learn, my lady, that there are others who believe as you do?”

Now Abigail turned her gaze from the fire, to look into Decatur’s eyes. “Belief is a simple matter. It means nothing if there are no deeds to match the words.”

Decatur laughed. “Deeds enough! There have been blows in plenty struck against the creatures of King George the Mad and his debauched Regent. Blows that have shaken this rotten Confederation of theirs to its foundations! I tell you, my lady, that it was the weapons of this very arsenal that allowed Tecumseh’s warriors and John Howard’s enslaved brothers to rise up and fight for their liberty!”

“You seek to jest with me, surely,” said Abigail. “How could these weapons find their way into the hands of Indians and slaves?”

“It is no jest, my lady,” said Decatur earnestly. “All across this wilderness of North America there are men who believe as you and I do. They have confederates among the Indians, and among the slaves, and among the Free Quebec Party as well. Tecumseh’s war and Howard’s rebellion are only the beginning. We will not rest until the Tory Confederation has been brought down, and the United States of America raised up in its place.”

Abigail rose from her seat now, went to a window, and drew aside the blind. There was nothing to see but darkness beyond. She raised her hand to her cheek, then let it rest upon the windowsill.

Still staring out the window into the night, she said, “I was in Burgoyne, you know, when Tecumseh’s army took Allegheny City. I saw them burn it. I saw the people there fleeing for their lives.”

“A regrettable necessity, my lady,” she heard Decatur’s voice from behind her. “Are you familiar with Jefferson’s Apologia?”

“I am,” said Abigail. “I know the lines you refer to. ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’ Jefferson wrote them knowing that his own blood would shortly be shed by the tyrants of London. And yet, I wonder. How will your new United States of America be raised up when the people of the country lie dead, slain by the weapons you have distributed? Will it be raised up by Tecumseh’s warriors? By Howard’s slaves? By Monsieur Ribot’s dissidents?”

A note of fear was creeping into Decatur’s voice. “My lady? I do not understand.”

Abigail remained by the window. She thought she could make out shapes in the darkness, but she might be mistaken. “Where is the United States of America, Major? It is already here. It will not replace the Confederation; it will be the Confederation. Its capital will be the city I live in, the city you tried to destroy, the city that bears the name of my husband, and my sons, and myself.”

Finally, she let the blind drop. There was no longer any question about what she had seen in the darkness. Turning, she saw that Major Decatur had risen from his seat. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “What have you done?”

“I am here on behalf of my son, the Duke of Albany,” Abigail responded. “He knew that weapons from the armory had found their way into the hands of Tecumseh’s army. I came here to learn who was responsible, and I have.”

There was a smashing sound in another part of the house. Abigail fancied that it was the sound of a door being forced open. Major Decatur began turning his head abruptly, as though seeking a means of escape. Then he turned his attention on her, and his hands clenched into fists. “Traitor,” he hissed.

There was a rush of footsteps, and the door to the sitting room was flung open. Men in the red uniforms of the Massachusetts Provincial Militia poured into the room, led by a man in civilian clothing. “Mother!” he exclaimed. “Are you –“

“I am unharmed, Johnny,” said Abigail. “Allow me to introduce Major Stephen Decatur, the man you’ve been seeking. Major, my son, John Burgoyne, Duke of Albany.”

As the militiamen bound Major Decatur, Johnny placed a gentle arm around her shoulders and led her from the room. She did not spare Decatur a glance as she murmured, “If this be treason, then make the most of it.”

For All Nails #314: The Magnificent Anachronism

For All Nails #314: The Magnificent Anachronism
by Johnny Pez

Norfolk, Virginia, S.C., CNA
1 May 1972

Once again, as he had so many times before in his life, Dick Mason faced a cluster of vitavision cameras and a gaggle of reporters. This time, though, he was standing unaided on his own two feet, without the crutch that had been his constant companion throughout his political career.

“Good morning, my friends,” he began. No more “my fellow North Americans” or “gentlemen of the press.” He was finally done with that, as he was done with so many other things in his life. “I’m here today to talk about something that is never talked about. It’s something that many of us here in the C.N.A. have had to face, and we’ve had to face it alone, because it’s something that it isn’t considered polite to mention.

“I’m sure that many of you in this room have heard rumors, and I’m sure that many of you have made jokes, about my condition. Well, I’m here to tell you, and tell the entire nation, that what you’ve heard is true.

“I am Richard Mason, and I am an alcoholic.”

As he had expected, there was a susurrus of whispered words around the room that quickly grew into a low babble, then abruptly cut off, as the assembled reporters remembered that they were here to listen, not talk.

Mason could read the mood of the room, as any good politician could. Twenty-five years in the public eye had made him a master of the art. If he wished, he could play upon the group of reporters like a harpist playing upon his instrument. In times past, he would have, working their emotions, making them feel what he wished them to feel.

But not this time. Now he knew that the desire to manipulate the people he spoke to was a symptom of his problem. That desire was the Devil calling to him, and he had gained the strength to put the Devil behind him.

Instead, Mason continued as if he had not heard. He remained cold and rational. “The alienists tell us that alcoholism is a disease of the mind. But we in this country do not treat it like a disease. We regard it as a moral failing, and we drown it in silence.

“My biographer Mr. Losee has called me a magnificent anachronism. Would that I were! Far from being an anachronism, I am in this respect completely modern, and my condition is one I share with far too many men and women. All across this land, millions of North Americans struggle against this disease in shame, and in solitude. Just as I struggled against it for so many years, in shame and solitude. Struggled and failed.”

He was making his audience uncomfortable, he knew. He could read it in the way they avoided looking at him, avoided looking at each other. It was a familiar sensation, all too familiar. Back in his days as governor-general, he had sensed that discomfort, and fed it, until the people he spoke to cried out for a way to ease their guilt. And he had given them a way. He had told them that they could buy forgiveness from the world, and they were ready to believe him – ready to pay any price to lift the burden of guilt from their souls.

But that was the way of the Devil, and he would no longer do the Devil’s work. He would tell the truth, calmly and deliberately.

“I have seen the toll this disease takes on its victims, and on their friends, their families, their careers, and their lives. It took its toll on me, and were it not for the work of one man, it would take its toll still.

“Fourteen months ago, I read a book called Fight for Life by a man named Perceval Aldrich. Mr. Aldrich teaches us that the struggle against this disease should not be a solitary one. The greatest ally we have, he writes, is the comradeship and example we gain when we join with others who share the same affliction, and seek its cure. I took his words to heart, and I found other men and women who struggled against this disease, and together we were able to help each other to fight for life. Thanks to Mr. Aldrich, and to those men and women, I have been sober for fourteen months.

“Twenty years ago, I sought to bring help to a world torn apart by war. It was a noble goal, but I see now that there is a problem of equal magnitude right here in the C.N.A. that I, and all of us, have chosen to neglect. I will neglect it no more.

“I am here today to announce the creation of an organization called the Aldrich Alliance, to help others as I have been helped myself. I have chosen to devote the remainder of my life to the organization and expansion of the Alliance. In this way, the millions who face this disease will no longer have to face it alone.”

And once more, he could hear the Devil tempting him. He could reveal just how brief that remainder would be, and the news would dominate the evening broadcasts and the morning headlines . . . and the Alliance would be forgotten. The doctors had given him a year at most before the cancer claimed his life. Would it be time enough? The question was irrelevant. It was the time he had.

Inwardly, Mason sighed. He had said what he needed to say, what he had come here to say. However, the obligations of a lifetime were not so easily dealt with. This would be his last chance to exorcise the ghosts that clustered around him, and he must use that chance as best he could.

“There are those who will say, with scorn, or with alarm, that I have abandoned the cause of peace and justice. To them I say that no man is indispensable, and that the cause is greater than any man. That cause will go on without me, carried on by such worthy men and women as Councilman Tryon, Professor Volk, Chancellor Dean, and Mayor Levine. I have a new calling, as worthy as any I have had before.

“In closing, I would like to take this opportunity to thank all the people who have enriched my life over the years.

“First, my former colleagues in the Liberal Party, especially my friend Councilman Speigal, who made my years as governor-general the success they were, and who I repaid with undeserved scorn. He knew all too well the facts of my condition; how could he not? Yet even when our conflicts were at their most bitter, his sense of honor would not allow him to make capital of it.

“Next, my former colleagues in the Peace and Justice Party, especially Professor Volk, who did so much to make the party a reality, and a force for good in the land. It speaks well of our great nation that such a man of learning and wisdom could gain so prominent a place in our public affairs.

“Above all, I would like to thank my wife Angeline, and my daughters Patricia and Cynthia, who stood by me during all my trials, and showed me what truly matters in a man’s life.

“Thank you, my friends. Thank you for listening.”

Dick Mason turned away from the microphone-festooned podium as it was lit by a cascade of flashbulbs. He ignored the questions shouted at him as he walked away. He had said what he needed to say. There was so much left for him to do, and so little time in which to do it.

And in the distant recesses of his mind, he could hear the Devil calling to him. He could hear him, but he knew that he could fight him. And he would.

THE END

FAN #313: "Uncommon Women" by David Mix Barrington

Up today at the Sobel Wiki is the new latest For All Nails vignette, #313: "Uncommon Women" by David Mix Barrington, in which Dave MB's Sobel Timeline alter-ego enjoys an outing with his girlfriend in August 1976.

This is the first new FAN vignette to be written entirely by someone who wasn't me since Mike "President Chester A. Arthur" Davis posted his last Martin Cole vignette two years and eight days ago. (There were two other non-Pez vignettes posted to soc.history.what-if in the interval, but both Jonathan Edelstein's "Domestic Scene" from exactly two years ago, and Dave's "Notes from the Investigation, Part 2" from last August 25, were largely written in the early oughts, and only completed and posted after I started the ball rolling again two and a half years ago.)

It pleases me no end to see For All Nails continuing its slow but inexorable revival, so I'd like to take this opportunity to remind the members of my vast global audience that the resurrected FAN Cabal is open to anyone who wants to take a whack at extending the Sobel Timeline, whether they were part of the original Cabal or not.

"Uncommon Women" was also posted to shw-i earlier today.

FAN #305: "The King's Justice" by Johnny Pez

Up today at the Sobel Wiki, the last remaining For All Nails vignettes have been posted.* First is #298: "Love Story" by Jonathan Edelstein, his last FAN vignette before posting #306: "Domestic Scene" on 16 January 2011.  "Love Story" is, well, a love story set in Numidia, a majority-Jewish state occupying the site of our own world's Libya.  Sobel briefly mentions that hundreds of thousands of Russian peasants, many of them Jews, crossed into the Ottoman Empire in the chaos of the 1880s, and that some eventually found their way to North Africa, where a large Russian community was formed by the turn of the century.  Jonathan turned this odd reference in Sobel, and an even briefer throwaway reference in M.G. Alderman's #21B: "... And Met With My Downfall", into the nation of Numidia.

Next is my own #305: "The King's Justice", a sequel to #303: "Buque Nights", that resolved the latter's cliffhanger ending and (possibly) the most important hanging plot thread from the For All Nails narrative: the fate of former Mexican Secretary of War Vincent Mercator.

"Love Story" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 7 February 2005.  "The King's Justice" was never posted to shw-i, but was posted to this blog on 10 January 2011.  At the blog post, you will also find the vignette's original ending, and the comment by Noel Maurer that persuaded me to change it.

And thus concludes my quixotic project to create a complete online For All Nails archive after, good heavens, five months of steady work.  If anyone out there has actually been following this fit of madness, you have in equal measure my thanks and my pity.  Just in case anyone is worried about suffering from Sobel withdrawal, I remind you that the larger Sobel Wiki remains a work-in-progress, and will continue to be so, I daresay, for the indefinite future.  Meanwhile, the Johnny Pez blog will resume its former status as a repository for basenji anecdotes, prophetic utterances, left-wing rants, and the occasional embedded music video.

*Sharp-eyed observers of the For All Nails archive page will notice that there are still two dead links in the archive.  These are #125: "I, Mercator (Part 4)" and #242: "Brothers", both by Carlos Yu, both unfinished and likely to remain so.

FAN #303: "Buque Nights" by Johnny Pez

Up today at the Sobel Wiki, along with articles on Egypt and Ghana, are two more For All Nails vignettes.  First is #297: "Jerusalem Folly", the last vignette by FAN maestro Noel Maurer, and a companion piece to #296: "Red Sea Morning".  Next is my own #303: "Buque Nights", another visit with King Fernando and Queen Sophia of New Granada, in February 1981.

"Jerusalem Folly" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 23 September 2004, and "Buque Nights" on 30 November 2010.  "Buque Nights" was also posted to this blog on the same date.

FAN #302: "Legal Challenge" by Johnny Pez

Up today at the Sobel Wiki, along with an article on Philip Halliwell, are two more For All Nails vignettes.  First is #296: "Red Sea Morning" by Jonathan Edelstein, a sequel to Jonathan's #251: "The Armenian Quarter", and also a sequel to Noel Maurer's #280: "Sallah Bread".  Next is my own #302: "Legal Challenge", the first new For All Nails vignette to be written in five years.

"Red Sea Morning" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 23 September 2004, and "Legal Challenge" on 12 September 2010.  "Legal Challenge" was also posted on this blog on 11 September 2010.

FAN #299: "Patience" by Johnny Pez

Up today at the Sobel Wiki are two more For All Nails vignettes.  First is #291: "The Packer" by Jonathan Edelstein, in which a German smuggler finds himself in the North African nation of Numidia in August 1980.  Next is my own #299: "Patience", a sequel to Noel Maurer's #277C: "Handover", featuring King Fernando and Queen Sophia of New Granada.

"The Packer" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 29 March 2004, and "Patience" on 16 February 2005.

FAN #293: "I Will Make You Hurt" by Johnny Pez

Up today at the Sobel Wiki are two more For All Nails vignettes.  First, from January 1980, is #290: "Joining Up is Hard to Do" by Jonathan Edelstein, in which Queen Alexandra of the Cape pays a call on the High Commissioner of the European Union.  Next, from July 1978, is my own #293: "I Will Make You Hurt", a sequel to #292: "I Will Let You Down".

"Joining Up is Hard to Do" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 19 March 2004, and "I Will Make You Hurt" on 23 April 2004.

FAN #292: "I Will Let You Down" by Johnny Pez

Up today at the Sobel Wiki are two more For All Nails vignettes.  First is #289: "Attending Union College" by Noel Maurer, a sequel to yesterday's #282: "My Empire of Dirt".  Next is my own #292: "I Will Let You Down", a sequel to Noel's sequel.

"Attending Union College" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 10 March 2004, and "I Will Let You Down" on 1 April 2004.

FAN #282: "My Empire of Dirt" by Johnny Pez

Up today at the Sobel Wiki are two more For All Nails vignettes.  First is #282: "My Empire of Dirt" by yours truly, in which King Frederick of Poland finds his new job as Chief Executive of the European Union a trying one.  Next is #283: "Ségou is Worth a Mosque" by Jonathan Edelstein, a historical FAN vignette from 1912.

"My Empire of Dirt" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 3 February 2004, and "Ségou is Worth a Mosque" on 10 February 2004.

FAN #280: "Sallah Bread" by Noel Maurer

Up today at the Sobel Wiki, along with an article on the Victoria Canal, are two For All Nails vignettes.  First is #280: "Sallah Bread" by Noel Maurer, in which Sebo Quezadas, now with Mexican Naval Intelligence, reports on an imminent war between Egypt and Arabia in June 1981.  This was the last FAN vignette to feature Noel's author avatar.  Next is #287: "Palace Full of Fantasy" by Mike Keating, the final vignette in Mike's series on the Samuel Adams Brotherhood.  You can tell we're getting near the end, can't you?

"Sallah Bread" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 30 January 2004, and "Palace Full of Fantasy" on 10 March 2004.

FAN #277C: "Handover" by Noel Maurer

Up today at the Sobel Wiki, along with articles on San Antonio and the National Financial Administration, are two For All Nails vignettes.  First is #277C: "Handover" by Noel Maurer, the final installment of Private Nabo and Operation Cold Phoenix.  Next is #286: "You Say You Want a Revolution" by Mike Keating, the continuing story of the Samuel Adams Brotherhood.

"Handover" was first posted as the final section of "Waging Peace" on the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 8 January 2004, and "You Say You Want a Revolution" on 9 March 2004.

FAN #277B: "Waging Peace" by Noel Maurer

Up today at the Sobel Wiki, along with an article on Bogotá, are two more* For All Nails vignettes.  First is #277B: "Waging Peace" by Noel Maurer, continuing the story of Private Nabo of the Mexican Army.  Next is #285: "Death of a Governor-General" by David Mix Barrington and myself, looking at the aftermath of an airmobile crash in the C.N.A. in October 1977.

"Waging Peace" was the second section of a vignette that first appeared under that name on the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 8 January 2004, and "Death of a Governor-General" on 8 March 2004.

FAN #277A: "Military History" by Noel Maurer

Up today at the Sobel Wiki are two more For All Nails vignettes.  Or rather, to be more accurate, one and a third more For All Nails vignettes.  Noel wrote a sequel to #274: "A Call to Barms", and it was even longer than the epic "Easter Rising" -- and that was a collaboration between three people.  I decided that Noel's original vignette, #277: "Waging Peace", was just too bloody long.  So, by the power vested in me as lord and master of the Sobel Wiki, I've broken it up into three sections.  Up today is the first section, #277A: "Military History", in which Private Nabo is assigned to read captured British documents in February 1978.

Also up is #284: "And This Bird You'll Never Tame" by David Mix Barrington, a look at C.N.A. politics heading into the 1978 Grand Council elections.

"Military History" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup as the first section of "Waging Peace" on 8 January 2004, and "And This Bird You'll Never Tame" on 26 February 2004.

FAN #274: "A Call to Barms" by Noel Maurer

Up today at the Sobel Wiki are three more For All Nails vignettes.  First is #270: "O Joy O Rapture Unforeseen" by the FAN Cabal troika of Henrik Kiertzner, Noel Maurer, and David Mix Barrington, a sequel to #267: "Easter Rising".  Next is #274: "A Call to Barms" by Noel Maurer, a sequel to "O Joy O Rapture Unforeseen" that introduces Private Nabo, an aimless young Mexican philosophy major who is called up in 1977 to take part in the Mexican occupation of New Granada.  Finally we have #281: "Mawlid al-Nabi" by Jonathan Edelstein, a sequel to #245: "Laylat al-Ragha'ib".

"O Joy O Rapture Unforeseen" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 4 January 2004, "A Call to Barms" on 8 January 2004, and "Mawlid al-Nabi" on 2 February 2004.

FAN #267: "Easter Rising" by Henrik Kiertzner, Noel Maurer, and Dan McDonald

Up today at the Sobel Wiki is For All Nails vignette #267: "Easter Rising" by the FAN Cabal troika of Henrik Kiertzner, Noel Maurer, and Dan McDonald.  "Easter Rising" is a 6500-word epic telling the tale of an uprising in British-occupied New Granada in April 1977.  Any resemblance to our own world's Tet Offensive is entirely intentional.

"Easter Rising" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 12 November 2003.

FAN #271: "And You Could Have It All" by Johnny Pez

Up today at the Sobel Wiki is For All Nails vignette #271: "And You Could Have It All" by yours truly, a sequel to #244: "Look for the Union Label", featuring two of my favorite characters, King Frederick of Poland and Premier Yvette Fanchon of France.

"And You Could Have It All" was first posted to the soc.history.what-if newsgroup on 6 January 2004.