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39th of Summer, 5859
Libertycave, Mount Curry
Textiles: They’re an old human tradition from the Neolithic to the John Brownitic. Getting a fresh pair of trousers, whether these trousers be from the pelt of the long-extinct mammoth or the long-extant silkworm, is a time-honored tradition that is most likely to continue as long as trousers are in fashion. Then the next thing will be fashionable until trousers are back in fashion until they aren’t and so on and so forth as the cycle of fashion continues forward, backwards, sometimes upwards and then downwards. A cycle of fashion which, no matter which universe one finds oneself in, one can find easily whether it be in the hair of a fashionable macaroni in Great Britain or the broad cuffs of a fugitive slave in Libertycave.
“I finished a shirt here, cross that one off!”
On the order of the freemen, little Tater erased a line from the tally of clothes orders. It was a simple system they had set up in a newly constructed mud hut: an illustration of the item, and tally marks next to it to mark how much was needed. Brown had tried to give the freemen a crash course on how to write numbers the earthling way, and some had actually learned quickly enough to write every number they might need, but tally marks were universal enough to be understood by everyone.
Understanding was especially important due to the newly freed slaves from the plantations, some of them had been recently brought over to Gemeinplatz and didn’t know the language. Most of them had stayed, not wanting to set out for freedom in a land they knew nothing about. Communication through hand gestures were good enough to get these men working on the simplest of tasks; it didn’t take much to hand someone a spear and tell them how to swing it around. A similar thing had happened with the textile work, the new recruits were already at work in the “clothes shack”.
The clothes shack was, as it’s less-than-grand title suggested clear as day, a shack. Small, cramped, yet surprisingly functional. It was part of the new generation of mud huts in Libertycave, the generation with actual wooden supports and pillars to hold it together. The floor was made of fired brick covered with “pillows” made out of straw and wool. Light only came through a hole at the top and small frames constructed out of wood. These windowless frames were only possible thanks to a combination of the ransomed tools and newly forged copper nails. Productivity had increased severalfold ever since the freemen were able to see themselves while indoors. On other bright news, the rate of sore behinds had decreased somewhere around 97.8% after the freemen began placing textiles like linen on the hard grounds they sat and napped at. For the first time in a while, old Brown had woken up without feeling like his spine was a lost cause. What seemed like a simple delivery of textiles had ended up upping the morale of the men by a margin greater than one might initially assume.
“Boot’s done, cross it!”
Tater erased yet another line from the tally that sat next to an image of a boot. Unlike construction, which almost all slaves had no experience in, tailoring was a skill that almost everybody in Gemeinplatz had dabbled in whether they were under chains or under the delusion of thinking they were free under their lords. Mass clothes production was a part of industrial society and its consequences, and the people of Gemeinplatz didn’t have the luxury of emptying their wallets for designer shirts. Professional tailors only existed in the urban areas, the urban areas in which a majority of people in an agrarian society don’t reside in. Peasants often made their own clothes, which was true for slaves as well. Libertycave had quickly gotten rid of its population of shirtless people, which was a plus if this story was ever to be adopted in a family friendly fashion for television.
With the most necessary clothes made, some of the more fashionable freemen had even begun attempts at imitating the high fashion of the urban elite, adding embroidered cuffs and frills on their outfits. Brown and Tubman didn’t agree with this unchristian show of vanity, but the people here were free, as the title of “freemen” implied, to decorate their clothes as they wanted.
Some minds were on a more correct track however, those minds working on making “armor”. A layer of stuffing filled with hair and scrap textiles, sandwiched between two layers of linen or wool made an effective enough gambeson for the military of Libertycave. Not only was this armor decently protective in combat, but it’d also protect one against the cold elements whenever the dreadful winter came to visit. With this development, the most capable warriors of Libertycave had slowly distinguished themselves with the gambeson they were given, and with their distinguishment came organized training.
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“One two three, one two three… Good, you’re not breaking your lines!” shouted Ayomide. She now looked the part of a proper warrior, the clothes stolen from the late mine owner being replaced by thick gambeson. Her once bare head was now crowned by the steel helmet (and former bowl) from the very late Watanabe Generico. A company of spearmen followed her from behind, doing their best to maintain cohesion in their march. The former waitress wasn’t the most experienced in military leadership, and Brown would usually be the one doing the training, but Captain Ayomide took over whenever Captain Brown was off doing the many tasks he busied himself with. Making the man train to walk together in a straight line wasn’t the hardest to attempt. Ayomide knew not why such choreography would ever be useful, she thought that scattering behind some trees and pelting their enemies with spears was good enough. Still, the old man seemed to be experienced in martial matters much more than her, so the catgirl could only trust Brown that he knew what he was doing…
…probably.
Ayomide’s company reached an empty square in the middle of the newly establishing town of Libertycave, the freemen watching the soldiers of the League of Gileadites do their rounds.
“Halt!”
The soldiers did as ordered by Ayomide, forming a line of spears that was two ranks deep. This was about as deep as they could go before the ranks at the bank risked skewering their comrades at the front with their current setup of weaponry. The men at the front had been already issued shields, though it’d probably take a thousand witnesses to call these “five planks held together by copper nails” a shield. These would, at their best, serve to give an illusion of safety to the troops.
“Let us square up!”
Brown had also insisted on making the men practice this weird maneuver, where the men would enter into formation to form a square that was empty in the middle. This was much harder than it sounded, and it took a good three minutes before the men had pushed each other into an acceptable shape. Shielded men were at the front, with the unshielded spear-throwers standing on the back. This was (according to old Brown) meant to counter cavalry, a factor which everyone in Gemeinplatz knew almost from birth to fear. Those who could afford to go on a horse were the wealthy, usually noblemen, who could also afford training and equipment. Seeing such well-trained, well-armed men charging towards you on horseback was enough to break the morale of any army unprepared to deal with them. Cavalry wasn’t that big of a concern atop a mountain, horses are famously bad at climbing mountains unless they’re a special breed of horse developed by Bethesda, but they’d become a big concern at the flatland below. Horses, intelligent enough to understand that running towards sharp objects wasn’t a good idea, would refuse to run into the wall of armed men in the square which would allow the spear throwers at the back to target the cavalrymen… in theory at least. The reality was a confused mess of men making a shape that looked something like a square if Ayomide squinted hard enough.
“Okay, you’re dismissed for today.” Ayomide couldn’t help but heave a sigh as the mass of men dissolved. Making men march in a square? What kind of weird fantasies was the old man having? Not even divine intervention could make such a big mass of man walk in a straight line, let alone a whole square. The catgirl captain found a nearby rock to seat herself on, her backside being cushioned by the thick layers of gambeson. All she wanted to do was skewer some slavers, the spear in her hand was twitching around to confirm that fact, not conduct choreography exercises. She was unlike Tubman or Brown, and like many other freemen in Libertycave her mind couldn’t comprehend a world where their goals were accomplished and they were truly free. Hence, most of them didn’t have any long-term plans beyond simple survival. What geometric shapes, a square that was definitely non-donut shaped, had to do with survival wasn’t exactly clear.
Ayomide’s break was suddenly interrupted by someone calling for her, that someone being famous slimeslayer, experienced leatherworker and radical abolitionistier John Brown. The catgirl looked over to where he was and pinched her nose to close it once she realized where Brown was standing at. She slowly marched over to Brown, breathing in from her mouth as to not smell the dung-laden leather being processed by the old man’s new disciples. “What is it that you need, old man?” Lines of leather, standing in attention like soldiers, were doing their best to breach Ayomide’s nose through their pungent smell.
Brown took out a processed bear pelt from the rack, holding it towards Ayomide. She jumped a few steps back, prompting the old man to look a bit frustrated. “Young lady, it is simply a pelt.”
“Yes, it’s simply a pelt. One that reeks of dung.” She looked up from the reeking pelt to see Brown. “So, what’s the matter?”
“This is a replacement pelt for your old one, that’s what’s the matter. I haven’t seen you with it for a long time.” After that, Ayomide couldn’t bring herself to refuse the pelt as the old man placed it in her one arm (the other one was still busy pinching her own nose). “Did you lose it during the battle?”
“I… lost it during a battle, yes. Thank you, old man.” Ayomide had been feeling a bit cold ever since she had donated her pelt to a good cause.
“Be more careful with those, we don’t have infinite resources. Being wasteful is a sin too, young lady, and you better keep that in mind.” Brown was about to give further lessons, though his lessons were not to be as one of the leatherworkers called out to him for help. “Be seeing you, young lady!” The old turned back and raced to help the freemen.
Ayomide was once again left alone with a stinking bear pelt on her hands. It’d be a while before she had the courage to actually put the thing on herself. So would the freemen have a while before they had the courage to leave the mountain, unless something big was to happen and stir up events on the flatlands…