12
Mason, Dixon, and Maskelyne are in a punch house on Cock Hill called "The Moon," sitting like an allegorickal Sculpture titl'd, Awkwardness. It is not easy to say which of them is contributing more to sustaining the Tableau. Mason is suspicious of Maskelyne, Maskelyne struggles not to offend Mason, and Dixon and Maskelyne have been estrang'd from the instant Dixon, learning of Maskelyne's Residence at Pembroke College, Cambridge, brought up the name of Christopher Smart. "Durham Lad...? He became a Fellow at Pembroke...?" A Gust of Panic crosses Maskelyne's face briefly, then his Curatickal Blank returns. "Mr. Smart was our perennial Seaton Prize-winner.—He left two years after I arriv'd,— our Intimacy being limited to Meal-times, when I brought his Food to the Fellows' Table, and fetch'd away his soil'd Napery and his gnaw'd Bones. Sometimes, after they'd all gone, we of the Scullery would eat their Leavings,— his may have been among 'em, I did not distinguish closely,— I was a Lad, and not all aware of how uncomfortable a Life it must have been. To live at Cambridge, to step where Newton stepp'd? I would have become a servant's servant."
"Newton is my Deity," Dixon rather blurts, ignoring Maskelyne's efforts to show polite astonishment by raising one eyebrow without also raising the other, "and Mr. Smart, why I knew him when I was small, a rather older Lad, who came to Raby on his School Vacations, his Father being Steward of the Vane Estates down in Kent, You see, as was mah Great-Uncle George of Raby." Maskelyne now has his Eye-balls roll'd to Heaven, as if praying for Wing'd Escape. "So both of us quickly learn'd our way 'round the Larders, the trysting places, the passageways inside the Walls, where our Errands often took us, Mr. Kit's being usually to or from the Chapel. I can recall no-one marking in him any unkind moment,— tho' he did seem, each time he return'd to Raby, a bit more preoccupied."
"In 'fifty-six, I believe, he was confin'd in a Hospital for the Insane," says Maskelyne, his Field-Creature's Eyes a-sparkle. "And releas'd, I have heard, the Year before last, mad as when he went in."
"Why aye," Dixon grimly beams, "it must have been thah' Raby Castle, that did it to him...?"
"Well it certainly wasn't Pembroke," Maskelyne sniffs. "Indeed, 'twas only when poor Smart gave up Cambridge, that his mind began to leave him."
"Away from those healthy Surroundings...?" Dixon replies, with clench'd Amiability.
There is Commotion as the Landlord, Mr. Blackner, and several Regulars, leaning to hear, lose all idea of their centers of Gravity, and staggering in the puddles of Ale that commonly decorate the Floor of The Moon, go crashing among the furniture.
Mason, as if newly arriv'd, speaks at last. "Forget not London itself, as a pre-eminent author of Madness,— Greenwich to Grub-Street, the Place is not for ev'ryone,— drawn tho' we be to the grandeur, the hundred Villages strewn all up and down the great Inlet from the Sea, and the wide World beyond,— yet for many, the Cost, how great."
Maskelyne, choosing to hear in this a rebuke, snaps, "Perhaps too many damn'd Gothickal Scribblers about, far too many's what did for Mr. Smart," seeming in his turn to allude to Mason's earlier-announc'd preferences in Entertainment.
As Mason considers some reply, Dixon gallantly fills in. "Why, Grub-Street Pub-Street, Sir. The Ghastly Fop? Vampyrs of Covent Garden? Come, come. Worth a dozen of any Tom. Jones, Sir."
This receives Maskelyne's careful Smirk. He fancies it a Smile, but 'tis an Attitude of the Mouth only,— the eyes do not engage in it, being off upon business of their own. The impression is of unrelenting wariness. "I'd expected such to lie up Mr. Mason's Lane,— hadn't suppos'd your own tastes to run there as well. Excellent way to pass those Obless Nights, I'd imagine, reading each to the other?"
Mr. Blackner has appear'd. "I always fancied the one about the Italian with no Head, that'd be, now, Count Senzacapo, do any of you know that one?"
"Excellent choice, Sir," Dixon as it seems cheerily, "— that Episode with the three peasant girls,—
- and those Illustrations!" The Lads lewdly chuckling.
"Yet surely," Maskelyne all but whining, "there's far too much of it about? Encouraging," his Voice dropping, "all these melancholick people." He gestures 'round the Room with his head. "This Island, especially,... is full of them. Six months I've been here,— too many idle Minutes to be fill'd, soon pile up, topple, and overwhelm the healthiest Mind,- "
"Sirius Business," cackles the Proprietor, sliding away to other Mischief.
"Damn the fellow," Maskelyne clutching his Head.
"Something else coming, here," Dixon advises.
Mason looks up. "Aahhrr! the Natives from the Kitchen,— Maskelyne! what is it, a Cannibal Sacrifice?—
"No!" Maskelyne screams, "Worse!"
"Worse?" Dixon murmurs, by which time all can see the Candles upon the great iced Cake, being borne out to them as its Escort burst into "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."
Mr. Blackner brandishes an invisible Spoon. "Assembl'd it myself, Sir, tho' my Apprentice here did the Icing."
"They found out!" whispers Maskelyne, "- - but how? Do I talk in my sleep, whilst they listen at the Door? Why would I mention my birthday in my sleep? 'Twas last week, anyway."
"Congratulations, much Joy," wish Mason and Dixon.
"Twenty-nine's Fell Shadow! 0, inhospitably final year of any Pretense to Youth, its Dreams now, how wither'd away.. .tho' styl'd a Prime, yet bid'st thou Adieu to the Prime of Life!...There,— there, in the Stygian Mists of Futurity, loometh the dread Thirty,— Transition unspeakable! Prime so soon fallen, thy Virtue so easily broken, into a Number divisible,— penetrable!— by six others!" At each of Maskelyne's dis-
mal Apostrophes, the Merriment in the Room takes another step up in Loudness, tho' muffl'd in Cake. The Ale at The Moon, brew'd with the runoff from up-country, into whose further ingredients no one has ever inquir'd closely, keeps arriving, thanks to Maskelyne, now fully a-bawl,— "Fourth Decade of Life! thy Gates but a brief Year ahead,— tho' in this place, a Year can seem a Century,— what hold'st thou for the superannuated?"
"Marriage!" shouts a Sailor.
"Death!"
"The Morn!" All the Pewter rings with dour Amusement.
"Ye're a cheery lot for being so melancholick," Maskelyne raising his Tankard. "When are you leaving? I'll miss you."
Mason and Dixon have been looking over at each other in some Agitation. When Maskelyne at last takes himself outdoors, Dixon sits up briskly,— "Just reviewing this,— I am to leave you for at least three months in the company of this Gentleman? Is than' more or less,—
"Dixon.—The Sector...doesn't...work."
"Whah'...!"
"The Sisson instrument,— someone's put the Plumb-line on wrong. The change he's looking for in the position of Sirius, would span but a few seconds of Arc,— yet the Error owing to the Plumb-line is much greater,— enough to submerge utterly the Result he seeks. Yet he continues here under Royal Society orders,— as now, apparently, do we."
"Tha talk like a sober man."
"Who can get drunk in this terrible place?"
"Cock Ale Tomorrow! Cock Ale Tomorrow!" screams a Malay running into the Room, holding by the Feet a dead Fighting-Cock trailing its last Blood in splashes like Characters Death would know how to read.
"Why, then 'tis damn'd Bencoolen all over again."
"With as little freedom to demur. Yet I might find a way to fix his Plumb-line for him."
"Would thee at least let me have a look at it? Before I leave, thah'
"Pray you, do not even bring up the Topick of Instruments with him. The one he's oblig'd to go on with, will he nill he, has far more than money invested in it.”
"Nonetheless, 'tis the Friendly thing to do,— I'm John Bird's Field Rep, aren't I,— certainly know my way 'round a Sector,— tricks with Beeswax and Breath that few have even heard of,—
Back comes Maskelyne, fussing with his Queue. "Think about it!" Mason whispers in some panick, as the other Astronomer locates his Seat, sits, and peers at them suspiciously.
Dixon with a beefy grimace meant to convey righteousness, "Nah,— I'm going to ask him."
"Fine! fine, go ahead,— I withdraw from this in advance, it's between you two."
Dixon's eyebrows shoot Hatward, signaling Mischief. "Eeh, well thah's too bahd, Meeaahson,— my Question to Mr. Maskelyne was to've been, Pray thee Sir, might I buy the next Round out of my own Pocket, blessed be thy own Generosity for fair, of course,—
"Ahhrrhh!" Mason brings his Head to the Table-top in a controll'd thump, as Mr. Blackner immediately appears with three gigantic Pots of today's Cock Ale. "Rum Suck, Gents, and if Mr. Mas-son, can resist it, why then you Gents may divide this third Pot betwixt ye, Compliments of the House." Mr. Blackner's Receipt for Cock Ale is esteem'd up and down the India Route, and when these Malays stop in Town with their traveling Cock-Fights, the Main Ingredient being suddenly plentiful, Cock Ale, as some might say, is in Season. Mr. Blackner prefers to soak the necessary dried Fruit Bits in Mountain, or Malaga Wine, instead of Canary, and to squeeze the Carcass dry with a cunning Chinese Duck-Press, won at Euchre from a fugitive aristocrat of that Land, in which Force may be multiplied to unprecedented Values, extracting mystick Humors not obtain'd in other Receipts.
Maskelyne looks from one Astronomer to the other. "Excuse me for asking,— and as a Curate only,— lies there between you, some lack of complete Trust?"
"More like a Lapse of Attention," mutters Mason, reaching for one of the Ale-Cans.
"It seem'd a perfectly friendly Request," Maskelyne keeps at it. "Is he often on at you like this, Mr. Dixon? Shall I have to guard my own Tongue?"
"Doesn't work. Whatever you say, from 'Good Morning' on, he'll find
somethin'init...?”
"Yet if you could refrain from 'Good Morning,' " Mason advises Maskelyne, "the rest of the Day would fall into place effortlessly."
"I shall miss your good advice, Mr. Dixon."
When inform'd that he must return to the Cape directly, Dixon remains strangely calm. " Tis said of the French Astronomers, that they never turn their Instruments, be it out of Pride or Insouciance or some French Sentiment we don't possess, whilst what seems to distinguish us out here, is that we do. We reverse our Sectors, we measure ev'rything in both Directions. It follows, if we've two clocks, that we must find out all we may of their separate Goings, and then, exchanging their positions in the World, be it thousands of Leagues' removal, note the results. 'Tis the British Way, to take the extra step that may one day give us an Edge when we need one, probably against the French. Small Investment, large Reward. I regard myself as a practitioner of British Science now."
"I'll be sure to pass the Word along to London," Maskelyne gentle as Lye.
When Mason and Dixon arriv'd in St. Helena, the observers' Teams exchang'd Clocks,— Dixon, barely ashore, turning about and taking the Shelton Clock back to the Cape by the next ship out, and Mason setting up the Ellicott Clock in Maskelyne's Rooms in James's Town. For a short while, the two Clocks stood side by side, set upon a level Shelf, as just outside, unceasingly, the Ocean beat.... However well sprung the Bracket arrangements, these Walls were fix'd ultimately to the Sea, whose Rhythm must have affected the Pendula of both clocks in ways we do not fully appreciate,— the Pendulum as is well known, being a Clock's most sensitive Organ of communication,— here allowing the two to chat, in the Interval between the one's being taken from its Shipping-Case and the other's being nail'd up in its own, to go with Dixon to the Cape. Both are veterans of the Transit of Venus, as well as having been employ'd, Hour upon dark Hour, in Astronomers' work, from Equal-Altitude Duty to the Timing of Jupiter's Moons, which back and forth like restless Ducklings keep vanishing behind their Maternal Planet, only quickly to reappear. "You'll be on Duty twenty-four hours, is what it comes to," the Ellicott Clock advises. "Along with the usual fixation upon one's rate of Going...."
"So, what's it like in Cape Town?" the other wishes to know.
"The air is ever moist, as you'd say," replies the Ellicott Clock,— whose only knowledge of the Cape has been gather'd in the Rainy Season,— before going on then to recite a list of Horologick Ailments it currently suffers from, from Sluggish Main-spring to Breguet's Palsy, the other's Bob swinging along in Sympathy.
"Then I collect, all there's not Water-proof'd."
"They do take advantage of ev'ry Break in the Weather to make it more so."
"Alas, and what else, then? The Dutch Clocks, what are they like?"
"Hmm...of course much will depend upon you. Some get along with
Dutch Clocks quite well Haven't Dutchmen, for Generations, been
living with Dutch Clocks in the House, after all,— even whilst they sleep? Indeed, 'tis exactly that Dutch Stolidity of Character that's requir'd, for their Clocks strike each Quarter-hour, and without warning,— BONGGbing! sort of effect. Takes a certain Personality, 's what I'm saying."
The Ellicott Clock is referring to the absence of a striking-train, which in British Clocks can usually be heard in Motion a bit before the Hammer begins hitting the bell. But in those Cape Clocks that happen, like the Vrooms' and Zeemanns' to've been made in Holland, 'tis rather Cams upon a separate Wheel, gear'd to the Minute Hand, that cause the striking,— so there is never warning.
"Um," says the other. "And how'd your British Observers react to that?"
"Mason, being the more phlegmatick of the two, kept silent longer, his rage however rising bit by bit at each unannounc'd Striking, till at last it must brim over. Dixon,— in whose Care you'll be,— preferr'd to express himself otherwise, choosing, each time he was caught unawares, to.. .well, scream,— and most vexedly too, aye sets a Time-piece's Rods to humming, damme 'f it don't."
"I must hope that my own remain less resonant with his Cries, then. Mustn't I."
"Ah, he soon relents, and vows never again to be assaulted so rudely,— yet sure as time, fifteen minutes later, 'twill happen again. He could never, not even upon his last day there, remember that that Dutch Clock was going to strike." They share a Tremolo of amusement.
"Wonderful chatting with you like this. Well! let's just tick these off once more,— there're the Rains, the Rudeness of the native Clocks, the Mental Instability of the Astronomer 'pon whom I shall be depending utterly.. .anything we've left out?"
"The Gunfire at the Curfew, which has never once been on time,— and might easily lead, in the uncaution'd, to a loss of Sanity."
"In that case, allow me to thank you for your part in preserving mine,— tho' I do so in advance, for who knows when next we'll meet?"
"Next Transit of Venus, I suppose."
"Eight years hence! Do hope it's not that long."
"Time will tell...."
"Anything you'd like to know about St. Helena? or Maskelyne?"
"I hear Steps coming."
"Quickly then,— Maskelyne is insane, but not as insane as some, among whom you must particularly watch out for—
Too late. 'Tis Dixon and a Ship's Carpenter, and before either Clock can bid the other Adieu, the Shelton Clock is taken, crated up, and stow'd aboard the taut and lacquer'd Indiaman straining at her Anchor-Cables to be out in the Trades again. And indeed, what they wanted to talk about all along, was the Ocean. Somehow they could not get to the Topick. Neither Clock really knows what it is,— beyond an undeniably rhythmick Being of some sort,— tho' they've spent most of their lives in Range of it, sometimes no more than a Barrel-Stave and a Hull-Plank away. Its Wave-beats have ever been with them, yet can neither quite say, where upon it they may lie. What they feel is an Attraction, more and less resistible, to beat in Synchrony with it, regardless of their Pendulum-lengths, or even the divisions of the Day. The closest they come to talking of it is when the Shelton Clock confides, "I really don't like Ships much."
"Ha! Try being below the water-line in one that's under attack sometime."
"Not sure I want to hear about that."
"Thank you. There's never much to tell, so I have to embellish. 'Tis a task I am happy to avoid."
When Dixon and the Shelton Clock are alone at last, "Well! Here we are, sailing back to Cape Town, and all for thee! Eeh! So! Thoo're a Clock! Interesting Work, I'll bet...?" The Clock cannot compensate for a
fine quivering in its Pendulum, which Dixon notices. Tha've probably been hearing Tales about me. Setting a-jangle all the sensitive Clockwork about with m' Screaming. Yet, think of these episodes as regular Tonicks, without which tha might succumb to the Weather, which can get unusual, or the ways of the Dutch...?"
"Watch out for the Pox," Dixon in turn advises his Co-adjutor, just before stepping into the Boat. "You thought the Cape was something,— this place...it's..." shaking his head, "risky. A Fair of damn'd Souls, if tha like." Clouds loom, Ocean rains approach.
"As if there'd ever be any time.—Now, what of Maskelyne?"
"Oh...he should watch out for it, too...?"
"Ahr..."
"I am resolv'd upon no further criticism of any Brother Lens," Dixon with eyes rais'd sanctimoniously. "Even one to whom Right Ascension may require a Wrong or two.—Howbeit, thoo know him better than I...?"
"You seem to be saying, that I should look out for myself."
"Did Ah say than'? Ah didn't say thah'...?" as he sees Mason's head begin its slow lateral Reciprocation, "thoo said thah'."
"Thankee, Dixon. Always useful, talking these things over. Well. Convey my warm sentiments to any there who may yet feel such for me."
"Thah' won't take long."
"Mind y'self, Jere. Mind the Clock."
"See thee at Christmastide, Charlie.”
Intent upon picking his way back over the wet Rocks to the Sea-Steps, ascending with the same care, Mason doesn't notice Maskelyne till he's ashore and nearly upon him. It seems an odd place to find him, unless he's here for the departure of a ship,— and upon this Tide, only Dixon's is bound away. Withal, Mason doubts that he wishes to be seen,— his Eyes, on detecting Mason, performing a swift Passado.
"My Early Stroll," he greets Mason. "Up most of the Night, anyway, Stargazer's Curse. Mr. Dixon and the Clock successfully embark'd, I trust."
Mason nods, gazing past the little Harbor, out to Sea. None of his business where Maskelyne goes, or comes,— God let it remain so. The Stars wheel into the blackness of the broken steep Hills guarding the Mouth of the Valley. Fog begins to stir against the Day swelling near. Among the whiten'd Rock Walls of the Houses seethes a great Whisper of living Voice.
"Shall we enter again the Atlantick Whore-House, find Breakfast, and get to work?"
At this hour, Lanthorns through Window-Glass beckon ev'rywhere. "It certainly isn't Cape Town," Mason marvels. Sailors a-stagger, Nymphs going on and off Shift, novice Company Writers too perplex'd to sleep, Fish-Mongers in Tandem with giant Tunas slung betwixt 'em con-sid'rately as Chair riders, Slaves singing in the local patois, Torches a-twinkle ev'rywhere,— and no Curfew. John Company, unlike its Dutch counterpart, recognizes here the primacy of Tide Tables, and, beyond them, of the Moon,— ceding to her de facto rule over all arrivals and departures, including Life and Death, upon this broken Island, so long ill us'd.
They cross the Bridge, go along the Main Parade, the Waves ever beating, and past the Company Castle, pausing at the bottom of the principal Street. "Tho' small in secular Dimensions," Maskelyne gesturing in at the Town, "yet entering, ye discover its true Extent,— which proves Mazy as an European City...no end of corners yet to be turn'd. 'Tis Loaves and Fishes, here in James's Town, and Philosophy has no answer." He appears lucid and sincere.
"Then" (Mason, as he reviews it later, should likely not have blurted) "if someone wish'd to disappear for a while, yet remain upon the Island,- "
The bright eyes begin to blink, as if in some Code. "Of course, forever would be easier,— because of the Sea, that is."
Mason isn't sure he wants to know what this means. "Of course, but, say for a Se'nnight?"
' 'Twould depend who's in Pursuit."
"Say, Honorable John."
"Hum. The first two or three days'd be easy,— assuming one had a perfect knowledge of the Town and the Island,— for the initial Search-Parties would be of younger Writers and 'Prentices, too new here to know even the Castle in its true Extension, disruptive lads, intimidating, alerting ev'ry Soul to the Imminence of a Search Island-wide,— that is, thro' this entire World,—
"You've, ehm, certainly thought this out...."
"You were inquiring upon your own Behalf, I'd assum'd.... No need for me to disappear. Oh, Dear, the Royal Soc's quite forgotten all about old N.M., Esq. Lounging his life away waiting at the King's Expense for the Home Planet to move along. But now at the very Instant there is work to be done at last, the Heav'ns have provided me—
"Yes?" inquires Mason, pleasantly enough.
"— a veteran Astronomer, with a brilliant Success to his Credit, to share in my simpler, meaner Duties.”
"Mr. Waddington, I collect, being...somehow unavailable for the Honor."
Maskelyne shrugs. "No sooner did the Planet detach from the Sun's further limb than 'twas D.I.O. for Mr. Waddington."
Waddington left, in fact, three weeks after the Transit. "I don't do Parallaxes of Sirius, I don't do Tides," he mutter'd as they made their Farewells, "I don't do Satellites of Jupiter, all it says in my Contract is one Transit of Venus,— and that's what I did. If you wish me to observe the next, there'll have to be a new Contract."
"Easy Passage to ye, Robert," replied Maskelyne equably, "moonlit Nights and successful Lunars all the way," as he turn'd, toward the Town, and the Whores' Quarter again by the little Bridge, and the somber Cleft of the Valley ascending in back of it all, to go and re-engage with his Tasks.
"This Island," Maskelyne sighs, " - not ev'ryone's Brochette of Curried Albacore, is it?" Waddington express'd his displeasure upon their Indiaman's first sight of Lot and Lot's Wife, and the grim Company Fort at Sandy Bay,— not a Day of his Engagement was to pass, without the Island providing new ways to disappoint him. Too few Streets, too many Stares, the Coffee seeming to him adulterated with inferior Javas, obviously broken from Company Cargoes by enterprizing Pursers—
"Surely not," Mason alarm'd.
"Be easy. 'Twas his Phantasy. Afterward, appearing before the Royal Society, he prais'd St. Helena, and its Governor, very extravagantly and generously, having withal, on the way Home, got his Lunars beautifully,— the Captain forgave him the cost of his Passage, they came that near,— tho' the Weather grew so thick at the end that they were all the way in to Portland Bill before anyone saw Land, Waddington being heard to let out a heart-felt cry of Joy, that at least he'd liv'd to see England again."
"I must try to honor his precedent," Mason supposes, "mustn't I."
"You mean you won't help me with the Tidal data either? A couple of Sticks to be set in the Water, where's the Hardship?"
"I meant, rather, that I must obtain Lunars in quantity and of a Quality to match. If I weren't intending to help, I should have sail'd with Dixon, away from this,— that is,—
"Pray you. There is no Comment upon the Island so unfavorable, that I've not heard already from Waddington, or utter'd myself. For a while I firmly believ'd this Place a conscious Creature, animated by power drawn from beneath the Earth, assembl'd in secret, by the Company,— entirely theirs,— no Action, no Thought nor Dream, that had not the Co. for its Author. Ha-ha, yes imagine, fanciful me. I tried to walk lightly. I did not want It feeling my Foot-Steps. If I trod too hard, I would feel It flinch. So I try not to do that. So might you. All, even the large population here of Insane, go about most softly. What Authority enforces the Practice? Governor Hutchinson? The Company Troops? I suggest that more than either, 'tis the awareness of living upon a Slumbering Creature, compar'd to whose Size, we figure not quite as Lice,— that keeps us uniquely attentive to Life so precarious, and what Civility is truly necessary, to carry it on. Hence, no Curfew. To live, we must be up at all hours. Every moment of our Waking, pass'd in fear, with the possibility ceaseless of sliding into licentiousness and squalor,—
"Ah! Well now ye've brought the Topick up,—
"Sir. Ye may speak lightly in London of these things, but here we may, only at our Peril. You have not yet seen Squalor, Sir,— be advis'd that you now live in the Metropolis of that Condition."
Mason is sweating heavily, thinking, Dixon has left me alone here with a dangerously insane person. And, and why did Waddington really have to leave so quickly? Hey? Fool?— why, 'tis plain as Day, his Departure had Panick written all over it! Obviously, one must live in perpetual caution, here, never to Alarm Maskelyne. Ahhrr....
Mason begins by trying to slow down his usually convulsive shrugging. "I'm...but newly come."
"What are you saying? Hey? That I should have left with Waddington? How? Why are you caressing your Hat so forcefully? Obs of Sirius must be taken as far apart as possible, mustn't they,— at least six months of what the World no doubt sees as Idleness, whilst the Planet, in its good time, cranketh about, from one side of its Orbit to the other, the Base Line creeping ever longer, the longer being the better.. .how is any of that my fault?" Is he expecting an answer? They have pass'd thro' the level part of the Town, and begun to climb.
"You think me neglectful?" Maskelyne with an unsettl'd frown. "You can tell me freely, how I seem to you. Alone in this place, how am I to know anything, even of how I look? Wore my Wig for a while, but ev'ry-one gave it such queer Stares? There's not a Looking-Glass of any useful size 'pon the Island. Too luxurious to merit the Lading. No one here knows how he appears to anyone else, save for some Maidens down by the Bridge, who are said to possess Rouge-Boxes with miniature mirrors set inside the Covers, that allow them to View their Features, tho' one at a Time. All that is not thus in Fragments, is Invisible. And if my Character as well be experiencing some like 'Morphosis, some Veering into Error, how am I to know? Perhaps you are sent, upon this Anti-Etesian Wind unbearable, as Correction,— to act as my moral Regulator.—How we've all long'd for one of those, hey?"
With any number of ways to respond to this, Mason chooses a Silence, which he hopes will not be taken as unsociable, and they climb on.
As the Island's only Harbor out of the Wind, James's Town knows slumber but fleetingly. Sailors speak of it, before and after coming ashore, as of a place visited in an Opium Dream. Musick ev'ry time a Door or shutter comes open, Torches trailing scarves of flame ever rising. Chuck-farthing players in the Alley-way. Ornamental Lanthorns scarcely bigger than the Flames they hold, dangling from the Wrists of young Ladies with business at this Hour,— "All the Rage in Town just now," Maskelyne assures Mason. "These Girls flock to the Indiamen as much for the Shopping, as for the Sailors,— taking up one novelty upon the next, discarding each as lightly as they choose another.. .a mix'd lot, as you see, African.. .Malay.. .the odd Irish Rose—"
"Oo Reverend, who's your attractive friend?"
"Now now, Bridget Yes, a lovely Day to you,— " waving amiably.
"Not that one ever lacks for wholesome Activities, here, one can pick-nick up the Valley. Visit Sandy Bay. Improve one's mind, study Vortices, learn Chinese. Drink." He pretends now to reel in astonishment before an Entry, in a Wall more Brick than Lime, above which swings a Sign depicting a White Luminary with the face of a Woman of the Town, multiply-patch'd to indicate Behavior she might, upon Acquaintance, prove to be a Good Sport about.
"Ah, ha. Amazing! Why, here again's The Moon. Care to pop in?" Inside, a chorus of pleasant-looking young Women begin to sing,—
Well Sailor ahoy,
Put down that Harpoon,
You're a fortunate Boy,
For ye've beach'd on The Moon,
And we Moon Maidens hope,
We shall know ye quite soon,
'Tis the end of our Rope,—
We need Men, in The Moon.
Ah, Men in The Moon,
A miraculous Boon,
Midnight and Noon, we need
Men in The Moon!
What but Maskelyne's local? "Usual Sir Cloudsley, Gov? and the Madeira for your friend? Mr. Mas-son,, excellent. Mr. Dixon successfully embark'd, I trust?"
"Once again, a Pleasure," Mason squints.
The landlord, Mr. Blackner, is that extremity of Quidnunc which, given enough time, necessarily emerges upon a small Island surrounded by Ocean for thousands of Soul-less leagues in ev'ry direction, where the village-siz'd population have only one another to talk about, and anyone newly arriv'd is feasted upon with an eagerness match'd only in certain rivers of South America. Everyone comes to know what everyone else knows,— and the strange mind-to-mind Throb may be felt distinctly, not to mention apprehensively, by the New-comer.
As soon as Mr. Blackner, by way of this remarkable intelligence-gathering Mirror, discover'd Maskelyne's connections to Clive and the East India Company, he began announcing the news to Visitors, some of them no more than common Seamen, with a jerk of the Thumb in Maskelyne's direction,— "That's Clive of India's brother-in-law, over there. Right by the Crock of Gin?"
"Out in the Wind a bit too long again, Mr. B.”
"My Oath,— the Celebrated Super-Nabob his brother-in-law, right before your eyes,— and he has two Brothers, and Clive of India's their brother-in-law, too." Sometimes actually bringing over to Maskelyne the wary pint-clutching Visitor, "Here, Nevil my Lad,— who's your brother-in-law? Go ahead, tell him."
Annoying himself each time, Maskelyne, reluctant to fuss, wishing only to have it over with, replies, "Aye, 'tis Lord Clive."
"But,— Clive of India?" the shrewd Visitor will wish to make sure.
"That very Hero, sir, has the great good fortune to be married to my sister."
"Ah yes, yes," their Host far too avid, "that of course'd be Miss Peggy."
For this sort of thing he has receiv'd nearly audible glares,— 'tis a finely pois'd arrangement here at The Moon. In return for suffering the familiarities of a celebrity-mad Knit-wit, Maskelyne is allow'd to run up a Tab, already legendary even in a hard-drinking port like this, that might finance a small War,— chargeable to the Royal Society of course, and beyond them, should they demur above a sum Mr. Blackner is not certain of (which will disagreeably prove to be but five shillings per Day), to the wealthy-without-limit Clive of India. Maskelyne may also feel the weight of Family Tradition, his brother Edmund, known as Mun, ten years before, on his way out to the Carnatic as a young Company Writer, having also visited The Moon, and not cared for it much,— suggesting it might, however, be just young Nevil's sort of place. Maskelyne is still trying to work out what that might be.
Later, up at the Upper Observatory upon Alarum Ridge, Mason tries to have a look at the Plumb-line Suspension without appearing too blatant about it, Maskelyne having grown ever more fretful,— not to mention resentful. On the Day of the Transit, Mason and Dixon had obtain'd Times for all four contacts internal and external of Venus and the Sun, whilst here at St. Helena, just at the crucial moment of first contact, a Cloud had appear'd, and made directly for the Sun. How Maskelyne's heart must have sunk. He'd been warn'd not to place his observatory too low, had known of Dr. Halley's difficulties with the early Fog that often fill'd the great Ravine. Upon hearing of Maskelyne's ill-fortune, Mason understands that his Task will be never to appear pleas'd in front of him,— nor for that matter to respond to any of his Stiletto-Flourishes, which will prove to be frequent.
"Of course not all are chosen for the Cape,— you Lads had the Pearl of the Lot, damme 'f you didn't." Maskelyne's voice, in such times of stress, edges toward a throat-bas'd Soprano.
' 'Twas the only port we could make in time." If Mason repeats it once, in this St. Helenian Sojourn, he does so a thousand times,— suggesting an average of ten times per Day.
"Damme if you're not simply bless'd, aye, and blessed as well, I've a Curacy, you may trust me in that Article. As for the rest of us, why, what matter that all Curricula are brought in the ill-starr'd Instant each to the same ignominious Halt, poor Boobies as we be.
"Yet there go I, repining at what really was too much, too quickly,— not only the Weather, you do appreciate, for even had the seeing been
perfect that day, there'd yet have been the d——'d Sector, do forgive me,
'tis the matter of the Plumb-line, falsum in unum Principle, how can I trust anything I may see thro' it, now?
"Especially here. Somewhere else it might not have matter'd as much, but it's disturbing here, Mason,— don't you think? Aren't you feeling, I don't know,— disturb'd?"
"Disturb'd? Why, no, Maskelyne, after the Cape I find it quite calming here, in a Tropical way, pure Air, Coffee beyond compare,— from Bush to Oast unmediated!— the Sky remarkably productive of Obs,— what more could a man ask?"
"What more— " slapping himself smartly once upon each cheek, as if to restrain an outburst. "Of course,— I am being far too nice, aye and no doubt namby-pambical as well,— ha ha, ha,— after all, what's being confin'd upon the Summit of a living Volcanoe whose History includes violent Explosion, hey? which might indeed re-awaken at any moment, with nought to escape to in that lively Event, but thousands of Leagues of Ocean, empty in ev'ry direction,— Aahckk! Mason, can y' not feel it? This place! this great Ruin,— haunted...an Obstinate Spectre,— an ancient Crime,— none here will ever escape it, 'tis in the Gases they breathe, Generation unto Generation,— Ah! 'Tis it! There! Look ye!"-pointing beyond the circle of Lanthorn-light, his features clench'd uncomfortably.
The first time Maskelyne carried on thus, Mason became very alarm'd. He already suspects that the Island enjoys a Dispensation not perhaps as relentlessly Newtonian as Southern England's,— and as to whose Author's Identity, one may grow confus'd, so ubiquitous here are signs of the Infernal. Howbeit, after some number of these Seizures, Mason no longer feels quite so oblig'd to react. It is thus with some surprize and a keen rectal Pang that his leisurely Gaze now does detect something out there, and quite large, too, that should not be,— a patch of Nothing, where but the other moment shone a safe Wedge of Stars Encyclopedically nam'd. "Um, this Observatory, Maskelyne? The Company's provided you some sort of, that is,...Armory?"
"Ha! a set of French Duelling-pieces, with the Flints unreliable. Take your pick,— does it matter? against What approaches, Shot is without effect." The Visitant,— by now more than Shadow,— has crept toward the Zenith, engrossing more and more of the field of Stars, till at length rolling overhead and down toward the Horizon.
"Weatherr," Mason almost disappointed. With that, rain begins to fall, dense and steaming, sending him cursing outside to make secure the sliding Roof, whilst Maskelyne occupies himself inside with a fresh Pipe, snug as Punch in his Booth. Mason feels less resentful than resign'd, preferring anyway the certain uproar of Elements he knows, to the spookish fug of Maskelyne's Sermons upon the Unknown. Soon the Rain-Fall is spouting from all three corners of his Hat at once, regardless of what Angle he places his Head at.
Later, Obless, reluctant to sleep, they open another bottle of Mountain. Outside this ephemeral Hut, anything may wait. Mountains sharp and steep as the Heights of Hell. The next Planet, yet without a name,— so, in The Moon, have they been solemnly assur'd.—A little traveling Stage-Troupe, is St. Helena really, all Performance,— a Plantation, sent out years since by its metropolitan Planet, which will remain invisible for years indeterminate before revealing itself and acquiring a Name, till then this place must serve as an Aide-Memoire, a Representation of Home. Many here, Descendants of the first Settlers, would never visit the Home Planet, altho' some claim to've been there and back, and more than once. "What if 'twere so?" declares Maskelyne. "Ev'ry People have a story of how they were created. If one
were heretickal enough, which I certainly am not, one might begin to entertain some notion of the Garden in Genesis, as an instance of extra-terrestrial Plantation."
Maskelyne is the pure type of one who would transcend the Earth,— making him, for Mason, a walking cautionary Tale. For years now, after midnight Culminations, has he himself lain and listen'd to the Sky-Temptress, whispering, Forget the Boys, forget your loyalties to your Dead, first of all to Rebekah, for she, they, are but distractions, temporal, flesh, ever attempting to drag the Uranian Devotee back down out of his realm of pure Mathesis, of that which abides.
"For if each Star is little more a mathematickal Point, located upon the Hemisphere of Heaven by Right Ascension and Declination, then all the Stars, taken together, tho' innumerable, must like any other set of points, in turn represent some single gigantick Equation, to the mind of God as straightforward as, say, the Equation of a Sphere,— to us unreadable, incalculable. A lonely, uncompensated, perhaps even impossible Task,— yet some of us must ever be seeking, I suppose."
"Those of us with the Time for it," suggests Mason.
One cloudless afternoon they stand in the scent of an orange-grove,— as tourists elsewhere might stand and gape at some mighty cataract or
chasm,— nose-gaping, rather, at a manifold of odor neither Englishman
has ever encountered before. They have been searching for it all the long
declining Day,— it is the last Orange-Grove upon the Island,— a sou
venir of a Paradise decrepit Shadows of Clouds dapple the green hill
sides, Houses with red Tile roofs preside over small Valleys, the Pasture
lying soft as Sheep,— all, with the volcanic Meadow where the two
stand, circl'd by the hellish Cusps of Peaks unnatural,— frozen in mid-
thrust, jagged at every scale. "Saint Brendan set out in the fifth century
to discover an Island he believ'd was the Paradise of the Scriptures,— and found it. Some believ'd it Madeira, Columbus was told by some at
Madeira that they had seen it in the West, Philosophers of our own Day
say they have prov'd it but a Mirage. So will the Reign of Reason cheer
ily dispose of any allegations of Paradise.
"Yet suppose this was the Island. He came back, did he not? He died the very old Bishop of the Monastery he founded at Clonfert, as far from
the Western Sea as he might, this side of Shannon. Perhaps that was Paradise. Else, why leave?"
"A Riddle! Wondrous! Just the Ticket! Why, ere 'tis solv'd, we may be back in England and done with this!"
"The Serpent, being the obvious Answer."
"What Serpent?"
"The one dwelling within the Volcanoe, Mason, surely you are not ignorant upon the Topick?"
"Regretfully, Sir,— "
"Serpent, Worm, or Dragon, 'tis all the same to It, for It speaketh no Tongue but its own. It Rules this Island, whose ancient Curse and secret Name, is Disobedience. In thoughtless Greed, within a few pitiably brief Generations, have these People devastated a Garden in which, once, anything might grow. Their Muck-heaps ev'rywhere, Disease, Madness. One day, not far distant, with the last leaf of the last Old-Father-Never-Die bush destroy'd, whilst the unremitting Wind carries off the last soil from the last barren Meadow, with nought but other Humans the only Life remaining then to the Island,— how will they take their own last step,— how disobey themselves into Oblivion? Simply die one by one, alone and suspicious, as is the style of the place, till all are done? Or will they rather choose to murder one another, for the joy to be had in that?"
"How soon is this, that we're talking about?"
"Pray we may be gone by then. We have our own ways of Disobedience,— unless I presume,— express'd in the Motto of Jakob Bernouilli the second,— Invito Patre Sidera Verso,— 'Against my father's wishes I study the stars.'''
Mason pauses to squint and shake his head free of annoyance. "How do you know anything of my Father's wishes? Do you mean, that because he is only a Miller and a Baker, he would naturally oppose Star-Gazing, out of Perverse and willful Ignorance?"
"I mean only that in our Times, 'tis not a rare Dispute," Maskelyne assures him. "Reason, or any Vocation to it,— the Pursuit of the Sciences,— these are the hope of the Young, the new Music their Families cannot follow, occasionally not even listen to. I know well the struggle, mine being with Mun especially, tho' Peggy as well would rag me.. .they cozen'd me once into casting her Horoscope, with particular reference to the likelihood of her being married any time soon. Twas but a moment's work to contrive the Wheel of a Maiden's dreams,— Jupiter smiling upon Venus in the house of partnerships, Mars exactly at the mid-heaven, Mercury with smooth sailing ahead, not a retrograde body in sight. Was I thank'd? Rather, one simple Horo, and 'twas 'Nevil the Astrologer,' thenceforward."
"Not as insulting as 'Star-Gazer,' anyway."
"And what if I did cast a Natal Chart or two whilst at Westminster,— and of course later, at Cambridge, when I found I could get sixpence,— well. I suppose you've lost respect for me now," this being their second week up on the Ridge, with confession apt to flow like the "water that cometh down out of the country" noted in ancient Maps of this place.
"You got sixpence? I never did better than three, and that was with all the Arabian Parts thrown in as Inducement."
"Oh, don't I remember those, Lens-brother,— 'tis our Burden. Kepler said that Astrology is Astronomy's wanton little sister, who goes out and sells herself that Astronomy may keep her Virtue,— surely we have all done the Covent Garden turn. As to the older Sister, how many Steps may she herself indeed already have taken into Compromise? for,
Be the Instrument brazen, or be it Fleshen,
Star-Gazing's ever a Whore's profession,—
(Isn't it?)
Some in a Palace, all Marble and Brick,
Some behind Hedges for less than a kick, tell me
What's it matter,
The Stars will say,
We've been ga-zing, back at ye,
Many a Day,
And there's nothing we haven't seen
More than one way,
Sing Deny o deny o day...
Now some go to Bath, where, like candle and Moth, even men of the Cloth seek them out. Whilst others run Pitches where diggers of Ditches may scatter their Riches about. Tho' the tools of their Trade may be differently made, for their Arts they are paid, all the same,— 'Pon Astronomer's Couch or Coquette's, all avouch, 'tis a reckless Debowch of a Game—
There are Stars yet to see, There are Planets hiding, Peepers are we, with a Lust abiding, Some style it 'Providence,' Others say, 'God,—
Some call it even, and some call it Odd, Yes but what's it matter, The Stars will say, &c.
"We've a while before Sirius,— " Maskelyne flush'd with Song, "what say I do yours now, and you do mine later?"
"What?" Mason begins to edge toward the Tent opening.
"Your natal Chart, Mason. Have you ever had it done?"
"Well..."
"It's all right, neither have I,— perhaps most Lens-folk would rather not know. But as we're old Charlatans together, maroon'd here in this other-worldly Place, and withal sharing the same Ruling Planet,— rather, Goddess,— to whose least sigh we must attend, or risk more than we ought,— eh?"
Mason blinks. Is it the Altitude? Hardly do to get into a Kick-up with Clive of India's brother-in-law, he supposes. Hey? What if this isn't Insanity? and no worse than the frantic chumminess of Exile.... Ahrrh, yet suppose, more harshly, that 'tis Bradley whom Maskelyne wishes to snuggle up to,— Mason having run into any number of amateur Star-gazers with the same ideas about access to the A.R.,— back Home, 'twas possible to wave them Adieu till they be absorb'd back into the human Nebulosity of the Town,— but here in a Tent in the middle of the 360-degree Ocean,— what choice does he have?
"Date of Birth?”
"Don't know. They had me baptiz'd May Day, and that's the day I mark."
"So you were born some weeks earlier, perhaps in Aries, even Pisces.... Less probably, in Taurus, yet,— " he is giving Mason the heavy 0.0.
"If it's helpful, I am told that of the Qualities observ'd in my comportment, those of the classick Taurean prevail,— Persistent, Phlegmatick, Provok'd only with great difficulty,— our Passion of Titanick Scope, our Fate, ever to be prick'd at by small men in spangl'd Costumes."
"First of May, then, shall we?" So Maskelyne goes to work. By Dark-Lanthorn-Light, his face a-glimmer and smooth as wax, whilst the Sea crashes up to them past the baffling of vertiginous Peaks and Ravines, he pencils out a Wheel, and begins to fill it with Glyphs and Numerals. At one point, as if without thinking, he reaches back and releases his Queue, and hair swings forward to either side, curtaining him and his bright eyes with the calculations. Soon he is passing wordless remarks such as "Hmm!" and "Yaacch!,"— Mason beginning to huff somewhat, feeling like a Model to whom an Artist is making cryptic Suggestions. "There," says Maskelyne at last. "Will ye look at all those Venus aspects...La, la, la— Where's that Mountain, again?"
"You're right, after all, I'd rather not know. Sorry to've put ye to all this trouble,— "
"First of all, doesn't it seem odd, that you and Mr. Dixon, with your natal signs rul'd by Venus and the Sun respectively, should have lately, as partners, observ'd the conjunction of those very two bodies,— the Event occurring, as well, in the Sign of the Twins?"
Shrugging, "Chance of a Sun ruler, one in twelve. Chance of a Venus ruler, two in twelve,— Chance of the Pair, two in one hundred forty-four,— a Coincidence appealing, yet not overwhelming."
"Yet as Odds,— say, upon a Race,—
Tho' it takes Mason a while to recognize it, Maskelyne has been trying to convey the Dimensions of his Curiosity. As a man of Religion, he has often enough sought among the smaller Probabilities for proofs of God's recent Attendance, has practis'd Epsilonics for the sake of stronger Faith, as what deep-dyed Newtonian would not? One in seventy-
two, or point zero one four, is not a figure he can be quite comfortable with. Tis not quite Miraculous enough, there's the very Deuce of it. And if not quite a clear Intervention by the Creator, not quite from Heaven, then what Power is this an Act of?
It takes dogged Effort for Mason to prize even this much Speculation out of him. Yet what else after all is there to do in this miserable Place, but smoke Pipes and discuss God,— as newly met guests at some Assembly might discuss a common Acquaintance but lately withdrawn?
"Your natal Jupiter lies in Gemini,— the very Sign in which the late Transit occurr'd, of which you Lads made that very fine Ob. Traditionally, Wealth from Collaboration,— yet both Mercury and Venus are in Aries,— possibly your Natal Sign,— favoring Independence, Leadership,— and both lie blessedly Sextile to your Moon in Aquarius.. .humane, inclin'd to Science, a devotee of Reason.. .'tho squar'd by your Sun of course—" He has fallen into a kind of mystickal Bustling, like a Gypsy at the Fair. "But dear oh dear, not much sign of Mr. Dixon at all.. .nothing closer than your Mars in Virgo, standing two and a half Degrees in from the Cusp with Leo, suggesting you make him a truculent and wary neighbor." His shiny-eyed, vixenish Phiz peering out of all that loose Hair.
"You take a deep Interest in Mr. Dixon?"
A Parsonickal spread of Hands. "Shallow curiosity, Sir,— the amateur Observer's Curse. Yet, now ye've rais'd it,— have there been others, who.. .have taken an Interest in him? Who can they be,— and what may they expect?"
"Well. It can't be the Honorable E.I.C., can it? Or you'd know. Wouldn't you."
"As much as you. There being the fitful Rumor that your Mr. Peach will be nam'd a Director."
"As well as a Long-Establish'd Truth," Mason, later, will fear he snapp'd back, "that your Lord Clive may have anything he damn'd wishes. What of it? Any repayment I may owe Sam Peach, is many orders of Magnitude beneath the Arrangements proper to,— " pausing to deepen his Voice, "Clive,— of In-dia,"— Mason having found that inflecting the Name thus, whilst reliably nettling Maskelyne, also seems strangely to amuse him.
"We are quite the Pair, then,— that is, I presume," peering at Mason, "both Subjects of the same Invisible Power? No? What is it, think ye? Something richer than many a Nation, yet with no Boundaries,— which, tho' never part of any Coalition, yet maintains its own great Army and Navy,— able to pay for the last War, as the next, with no more bother than finding the Key to a certain iron Box,— yet which allows the Bri-tannick Governance that gave it Charter, to sink beneath oceanick Waves of Ink incarnadine."
"Bless us!" Mason cries. "Another Riddle! Hold, permit me to guess...."
"Or perhaps, like our Tapster, you entertain Fancies, as to my relations with Lord Clive. Splendid! Out of Dark Policy do I encourage it in all, as little as object to it,— yet the Truth is so drab, Mason, indeed, since Peggy and he return'd, I've been to Berkeley Square but once, not seen them above thrice more,— ever in Company, certainly not in Private. Clive and I do not play Whist together, nor in Disguise haunt the Snares of Ranelagh,— he did not bring me back a jewel'd Telescope, nor am I his Connection in London for the purchase of Opium. Seldom if ever does he, upon the least movement of my Eyebrow, rush forward insisting I take Waggon-Loads of Oriental Treasure."
"Being the very least I should've expected,— what are Brothers-in-law for? Perhaps, wishing any Gifts to you to be appropriate, he yet remains unclear as to the Range of your Interests."
"He's not yet ready to make use of me, that's all. Someday he must...I've been paid for...it shan't cost him anything." Maskelyne's Phiz, with its one-sided smile and wary eyes and need for Complicity, would not have grown this cautious, had some blows not already landed. Whatever his Bargain, he is not happy with it. Mason, who as yet hasn't seen the terms of his own, is but apprehensive.
"Here we are," Maskelyne plaintively, "Englishmen in the bloom of Sanity, being snatch'd away, one by one, high and low, ev'ryday, like some population of distraught Malays waiting for the call of Amok,— going along, at what we style Peace with the Day,— all at once, Bang-o! another 'un out in the Street waving the old Krees,— being British of course, more likely a butter-knife or something,— yet with no Place, no
Link upon the Great Chain, at all safe,— none however exalted,— no and that is why I fear so, dear Colleague, for my sister, and for the great Soldier whose Fate is hers...," peering out now from a burrow of Anxiety, dug one long sour midwatch upon the next.
Mason has no way to tell how deliberate this is. Maskelyne, as all London, has known about Clive's use of Opium,— yet what Comfort can Mason give him? Such things have ended badly before,— whilst Maskelyne has ever presented an Enigma. Long before they met, Mason felt his sidling Advent, cloak'd as by Thames-side Leagues of Smoke and Mists. At last,— at first,— he saw the introductory Letter, as Dr. Bradley in the Octagon Room brought it fretfully to and fro, muttering, "Damn difficult to make out, seems to be instructing me in the matter of Lunar Distances,— yet somehow I can't quite...here, see if you can make any sense,— " letting go of it, allowing the document to flutter Earthward faster than Mason could dive to catch it, and disappearing toward the Observers' Kitchen.
At first, and then upon re-reading, he could make no more sense of the Letter than Bradley had done. One of Mason's chores as Assistant was to review just such Correspondence. Since the Longitude Act of 1714, which offer'd Prizes up to twenty thousand Pounds for a reliable way to find the true Longitude at Sea, the Observatory had become a Target for Suggestions, Schemes, Rants, Sermons, full-length Books, all directed to Bradley's Attention, upon the Problem of the Longitude. Though some were cagy, hinting at Amazing Simplicity and Ingenious Devising, whilst giving no details, most of the letters were all-out philo-sophick confessions, showing either an unhealthy naivete, or an inner certainty that the Scheme would never work anyway. For many, it was at least a chance to Rattle at length to a World that was ignoring them. Others were more passionate as to the worth of their Inventions, though employing Arts more of the Actor-Projector than of the Geometer. Occasionally Insanity roll'd a sly Eye-ball into the picture. Treatises on "Par-ageography" arriv'd, with alternative Maps of the World superimpos'd upon the more familiar ones. Many,— as had the elder Cabot upon his deathbed,— claim'd to've been told the Secrets of the Longitude by God (or, as some preferr'd, Thatwhichever Created Earth and her Rate of
Spin). Others told of Rapture by creatures not precisely Angels, nor yet Demons,— styl'd "Agents of Altitude." That they were taken aloft and shewn the Earth as it appear'd from the Distance of the Sun, and that the Navigator of the Vessel us'd a kind of Micrometer, whose Lines were clapp'd to the Diameter of the Earth, and that the measuring device read 8.75 seconds of Arc, "not in our numbers of course, not until accurately transnumerated, from theirs.—More than happy to share details of this toilsome Conversion, upon duly authorized request.—Yet, as there now exists no further need for a foreign expedition to obtain the Earth's Solar Parallax from the Transit of Venus, You would oblige me by recalling your own Parties and using what influence you can with Astronomers of other Principalities, as well as among the Jesuits &c." A retir'd Naval officer wrote from Hampshire of the great Asymmetrick Principle he had discover'd, "an invisible Grain built into Creation, whereby, 'tis less work to rip than to cross-cut, to multiply than to divide, to take the Derivative than the Integral,— and, coming to my Point,— to obtain the Latitude than the Longitude. For the one, we need only know the Sun's elevation at Noon,— yet from the difficulty of finding the other, enter-prizes have founder'd, fleets have perish'd, treasure unreckonable lies beneath th' indifferent Sea. The solution is simple enough, though lengthier. I have practis'd its Elements from various Quarter-decks, in all conditions from close-reef'd to becalm'd,— my Zero Meridian not upon Greenwich, nor Paris, but a certain Himalayan Observatory, in Thibet, the Book of Tables I consult being reduced from Observations made there by the celebrated Dr. Zhang, then, as now, in exile. These are not Lunars, nor yet Galileans, but based upon the very slow Progress of what is undoubtedly a Planet, though no one else claims to've seen it, near ŋ Geminorum."
Bradley ask'd Mason to read that part aloud, twice. "Aye, the Star I do recall,— lying upon the Zodiacal Path, a Pebble, a Clod, just in front of Castor's left foot, perhaps eternally about to be kick'd," if Bradley, who was never mistaken, was not mistaken, "— hence 'Propus,' though Flamsteed, paronomastickally disposed, call'd it 'Tropus' because it mark'd the turning point of the Summer Solstice."
"Although," Mason attentively foot-noting, "that Point presently lies somewhat to the east.”
"Well,— you know just about where we mean, then, Charles. I do seem to recollect, now...well within the Field...aye, some kind of blur.. .a greenish blue. Perhaps I noted it down. Welcome to have a look, on your own Time of course, make sure you fix it with your Lady, they don't like it when you're up at night you know.. .prowling about.. .believe in their Hearts that men are Were-wolves, have you noticed? Never mind— you never heard a thing— "
And before the Echo had quite gone, in came Susannah, the lightest of dove-gray fans beneath her Eyes,— as if knowing her destiny, Mason thought, ashamed as he did at how it sounded, helpless before the great Cruel Unspoken,— the Astronomer's desire for a son,— and her fear
that she might find, in their next Attempt, her own dissolution Yes, he
had entertain'd such vile Conjectures, as who would not? He'd also imagin'd her lounging about all day, scoffing Sweets, shooing admirers out different doorways whilst admitting others, answering spousal importunities thro' Doors that remain'd shut, issuing Bradley ultimata and extravagant requisitions. Chocolates. A Coach and Six to go to her Mantua-Maker's. A full season's Residence at Bath. A Commission abroad for an Admirer grown inconvenient....
Not all Predators are narrow-set of Eye. In Town, some of the more ruthless Beauties have gone far disguis'd as wide-eyed Prey. Such a feral Doe was Susannah. If Bradley knew of this, 'twas an Article of his sentimental Service long agreed to.
The absence of further children after Miss Bradley was a secret Text denied to Mason. He seeth'd with it, a Beast in lean times, prowling for signs, turn'd by any Scent however contradictory,— or, to a Beast, unbeastly. She was back in Chalford. Had she ever slept with Bradley again? Did she have Bradley on her Name, but Mason on her Mind? Did she dream of Mason now as he'd once dreamt of her? Was that Oinking upon the Rooftop?— Their Trajectories never, Mason thought with dismay, even to cross,— tho' he'd've settl'd for that,— one passionate Hour, one only, then estrangement eternal, so craz'd had he been after Susannah Peach.
I was only sixteen, upon your wedding day, I stood outside the churchyard, and cried.
And now I'm working for the man, who carried you away, And ev'ry day I see you by his side.
Sometimes you're smiling,— sometimes you ain't, Most times you never look my way,— I'm still as a Mill-Pond, I'm as patient as a Saint, Wond'ring if there's things you'd like to say.
Oh, are you day-dreaming of me,
Do you tuck me in at Night,
When he's fast asleep beside you,
Are those Fingers doing right?
How can Love conquer all,
When Love can be so blind? and you've got
Bradley on your Name,
And Mason on your Mind—
When it falls Mason's turn at Maskelyne's natal Chart, he grows unac-customedly cheery, breezing through the computation and filling in the last Aspect with a Flourish. "There's the old Horo. Now, let us have a look, shall we. Hum."
"Pray you, Moon aspects only,— spare me the rest."
"Poh, Superstition. Your Moon is in Taurus, and making a grand trine with Mars and Venus. Wish ye Joy of that, I'm sure. No Squares...no Squares? Mercy." A Snort. "You're Fortune's little Pet. Abnormal number of trines and sextiles, as well,— in ev'ry Combination,— yet another promise of Good Luck. Jupiter and Mercury in your birth Sign,— Mercury's retrograde, but then Mercury's always retrograde,— hey?"
"The fell Datum!" cries Maskelyne. "I slip down streets unnam'd to the salons of unregister'd Rhetorick-Masters, where all struggle to teach me, yet continues it my curse, that the World cannot understand me when I express myself. My letters are ignor'd, my monographs rejected. Mercury retrograde! Tiny, fleet Trickster, yet counterponderating all these Blessings Astrologickal!"
"Excuse me? I'm not actually sure that I—
"Ah! Now 'tis you, even you, Mason! What use are Trines and Sex-tiles, if Human Discourse be denied me? Fly on, fly on, Midge of Mischief,— thou hast triumph'd!”
Mason understands that he may if he wishes see himself thro' Duty at St. Helena by baiting Maskelyne thus, any time he has a Velleity to. He also understands how quickly the amusement value of this will fade. "Usually," he feels nonetheless impell'd to suggest, "a Messenger going the other way is returning, after having deliver'd his Message someplace else."
Maskelyne frowns and begins to consider this. The next day, after smoking a while in silence, "Perhaps that's it. Explains a good deal, doesn't it? A Message that never came to me. How shall I proceed?— waste what scrap of Life-Span remains to me, attempting to find out what it was?"
"According to this Chart," advises Mason, "you'll find out sooner or later. Refrain from struggle, allow your Life to convey it to you when it will, and as in all else, Bob's your Uncle. Or in this case, Brother-in-Law.”
Mason, up on the Ridge, finds himself wondering about Dixon,— whether he has arriv'd safely at the Cape,— what, if he be there, he may be doing at a particular moment,— given the time of day or night, and Weather unknown. "Our daily lives to distant Stars attuned," he writes in a Letter to Dixon he then decides not to send,—
("Just a moment," Pitt says.
"You saw this Document?" inquires Pliny.
"Good Lads!" cries Uncle Ives, blessing each with a Pistole. "No, no, don't thank me, the only condition is that you spend it wisely. Prudently invested, it could provide you a tidy Fund by the time you're establish'd enough as Attorneys to need a friendly Judge now and then. Be better of course if you were partners. Confuse people."
"Our idea, actually," says Pitt, "is for one of us to run away and pretend to lead a Wastrel's Life, whilst the other applies himself diligently to the Law,—
- making it even less possible to tell you apart," declares their Aunt Euphie.)
Mason can calculate roughly when Dixon may be at the Snout, watching Jupiter and its Harem of moons, and when up in the Malay quarter, inspecting some Harem of his own. He imagines Dixon learning to cook a Khari with orange leaves, re-inventing the Frikkadel, putting that G-dawful Ketjap in ev'rything.
Believing he has walked away from the Cape and successfully not
looked back, to see what Plutonian wife, in what thin garment, may
after all have follow'd,— tho' none of them is anyone's Eurydice, he
knows well enough who that is,— or would be, were he Orpheus
enough to carry a Tune in a Bucket,— Mason continues to wonder, how
Dixon has brought himself to turn, and then, to appearance imper
turbable as a Clam, go back in,— back to Jet, Greet, Els, Austra,
Johanna, the unsunn'd Skins, the Ovine Aromas, the Traffick to and
from the Medicine-Cabinet at all hours, the Whispering in the Corners,
the never-ending Intrigues,— whilst coiled behind all gazes the great
Worm of Slavery. No hour of the Chapter-Ring is exempt from the
echoes of Heated Voices off unadorn'd Walls. The Girls, having raided
their Father's Snuff Supply, dashing about, colliding and dreamy, and
talking to no effect
By the time Dixon arrives, a number of stories have just begun to circulate...the Town pretends to be shock'd. Church services, far from the Ordeals Johanna has expected, turn lively at last, with smirks and stares and eye-avoidance, in full knowledge that ev'ryone knows ev'ryone else's secrets,— she feels she's being admitted at last to the adult life of the Cape...tho' nothing, understand, for all the racing up and down stairs and hanging out windows, has really "happen'd," as these matters are reckon'd,— so that she feels like an imposter, too, which is not without its own thrill of shame, before the Faces of the Congregation, where within the Brass-bound mercilessness of Sunday, these multiple acts of sisterhood will continue, till after a while the focus shifts to some new Bathsheba.
Cornelius, for his part, is not having quite so easy a time of it. Suddenly, wherever he goes, Dixon finds this unstable Butter-box up the wrong end of some Elephant Gun swiveling ever in Dixon's direction, as if the Dutchman had decided to accept him as a fair substitute for Mason. Through the streets, in the great South-East wind, the wig-snatching, flame-fanning, judgment-warping Wind, they chase, Cornelius presently setting the Fork'd Support in the blowing dirt, with some smoldering naval slow-match he carries in his teeth igniting a giant full Dutch-ounce blast whose Ball ricochets off the roof-tiles, sending small
Slides of red fragments into the street a good ten feet wide and short, windage calculations out here being matters more of Sentiment than of Science. He pauses to reload, his hair-tie loos'd and then blown away downwind whilst Dixon lopes on, unwilling to believe that the Dutchman can still feel unrequited enough to want to go through this exercise again,— until the next great crack, echoing from the hillside, as the hor-netting sphere this time explodes a watermelon at a nearby market stand, and the greengrocers head for cover. As the Dutchman, unhurried, stolid, probably insane, is reloading for yet another onslaught, this time Musketoon-style with a great pink Fist-ful of bullets, Dixon, having had enough, turns and makes a run at him. There seems to be time. As he gets near, he sees white all 'round Vroom's irises, and though it may not matter in a short while, knows that the Dutchman has never faced a charging animal in his life,— until now, it seems, for he stands paralyzed, powder horn slipping from his grasp, screaming, "No! I am supposed to do this!"
Dixon takes the weapon gently away. "My life, for that ass Mason's? Excuse me, the Mails, I've not been getting my Gazette,— was there some amendment to the Code of Honor that no one told me of?"
"This is not about Honor, it is about Blood!"
"Aye, and were you a Malay Lad I shouldn't be that surprised...? but as you're a Dutch Lad, well, well, this 'running amok' business,— not that much in your people's line, is it, there's a good fellow...," coaxing him along before the wind, "same as we don't see that many Malays, do we really, standing about in wooden shoes, eh? fingers stopping up holes in the Dike sort of thing, no we don't, now just around this corner, good,— a little Soupkie ought to be just the Ar-ticle...?—
"Soupkie," the Dutchman in a stricken monotone, nodding.
"Through this door, Mynheer,— there he is,— Abdul, you son of a sea-camel. We need a crock of your Special reserve gin, with the unusual herbs in it,— have the Nautch Girls come in yet? Eeh, well,— we'll just be over here, in the Corner... ?"
"Ice. Ice."
"Quite so, Cornelius,— I may call you that mayn't I,— Ice Abdul by all means and perhaps two pipes as well?" He waves Cornelius into the Tavern. "My Local,— The World's End.”
They retreat to a dark corner and for the next several hours, in a fragrant Nebulosity that provides comfort when Dixon cannot, go a-sorting in some detail thro' the Vrooms' domestic Sadness. Dixon is astonished at its depth, though it all becomes difficult to follow after a while. The fire roars, above it the Haunch of some Animal unfamiliar to Englishmen is slowly turn'd, and basted. A Phillippino guitar player strums a careless Suite of Nautical Melodies, at the end of each of which he grins, "Not done yet! More to come, Sí?" Tallow candles gutter and go out, as others are relit elsewhere in the Room. The wind hoots up and down the alley-ways, Table Bay slowly but measurably is blown seaward, the Town being borne away from the Shore-line at the same rate, and as the evening falls, in from all this peculiar Weather, hair and costumes blown and tangl'd, wearing Cast-offs from the days of the Sumptuary Laws, which the Slaves who got them either sold again promptly, or could not bring themselves to wear, in Ticklingburgs and Paduasoy, Swanskin and Shalloon, Brabant Lace and Ostrich-Feather Hats, here enter a Parade of curiously turned-out young creatures, most of whom appear to know Dixon,— each to go sit at a table-ful of Sailors, take a pipe or a drink, and eventually leave with a nautical Prize in tow. The Phillippino strums passionate minor-key Declarations of Longing. The Smoke in the room, though chiefly from tobacco, includes as well that of Opium, Hemp, and Cloves, so that anyone who walks in must become intoxicated, merely by standing and breathing.
Dixon came ashore intending to clear Mason's Name of all Suspicion before Cornelius, if not before the Town, but somehow no opening for this has occurred. "Here's what we'll do," proposes Cornelius now, gravely giddy, "— we will go to the Company Lodge, where the women are of all races, sizes, and specialties. We'll use my membership to get in, and you, that is the Royal Society, will then pay for everything."
"I am happy to see you thus return'd to what the Dutch must reckon Sanity," replies Dixon, for whom the Scene before them has begun to break up into small swarming Bits of Color, "and of course I'd be nothing but delighted...?"
The Company Seraglio smells of sandalwood and burning Musk. There is difficulty at the Door, regarding some unpaid Dues.... The
Barometer in the ebony case upon the Wall cannot be read, the Lettering too intricate, the Numerals possibly in some System other than the Arabic. There is no column of Mercury, no moving Pointer. Yet Pressure may be read by the Adept, remaining invisible until sought for— The Instrument hangs above a velvet Meridien from France, near a painting of a mounted settler at dusk, somewhere out in Hottentot Land with his old smooth-bore athwart the Saddle, the Mountains between here and Home all grays, except for the sunset catching their Peaks a strange thinn'd luminous Red. And there. In the Shadows, all but painted over,—
Once again Dixon's unsuspicious Heart is surpriz'd. The first person to enter the Room is Austra, in a black velvet Gown and a leather collar, being leash-led by a tiny, expressionless Malay Sylph. It is evident from the Leer on Cornelius's Phiz, that the Tableau has been arrang'd for Dixon. There is enough time for her to recognize him, and know that he will not help her, either, before she passes into another Room, not looking back, to continue this slavery within Slavery....At the moment of her
Vanishing, he pays her full Notice for the first time,— tho' who could have avoided some Overspill from Mason's obsession? even with Mason seldom able to bore Dixon upon the Topick, Dixon most usually being out satisfying his more general Desire for anything, and on lucky Days everything, the World might be presenting to him, moment by moment. Had he not been under Siege rather by imps of Appetite indiscriminate, might he and Mason have become Rivals for her Attention? Thus stands he gawping after her.
"Let no one say that we cannot have Fun, when we must," Cornelius declares, thumping Dixon upon the Shoulder. "It is our Garden of Amusement, here."
Something a bit too Churchlike for Dixon, however,— a devotion to ritual and timing, the Space under-lit, what light there is as White as Wig-Powder, flowing from pure white candles, burning smoothly in the still air, and from bowls of incense close by, white Smoke in the same unwavering Ascent. Now in high Humor, Cornelius shows him secret Pornoscopes, conceal'd by fanciful room decorations, where Burghers may recline, grunting expressively, and spy upon one another in Activi-
ties that may be elephantine, birdlike, over in a flash, long as Church,
enclos'd in hopeless desire for, revenge on, escape from some Woman,
somewhere along these befabl'd and dolorous Company Lanes, someone
said, some Woman
The Opium-Girls are kept in a room of their own. That the substance is smoked in a Pipe has put it immediately in favor among the Dutch Gentlemen. Taken with tobacco, producing a vertiginous Swoon, such as might require most of an evening of drinking spirits to obtain, it seems to promise a great savings in time and cash, a thought these thrifty tradesmen find enchanting. Before this Surrender to Sloth, however, Lust is schedul'd, splashing outside the Church-drawn boundaries of marriage, as across racial lines. Slave Women are brought here from ev'rywhere in this Hemisphere, to serve as dreamy, pliant shadows, Baths of Flesh darker than Dutch, the dangerously beautiful Extrusion of everything these white brothers, seeking Communion, cannot afford to contain,— whilst their wives, if adverted to at all, are imagin'd at home, sighing over needlework, or the Bible.
The Gunfire is at nine, in practice this curfew is stretched for as much as an hour, but by ten the sailors, so cheery, young, and careless with money, have to be out. After they are gone passes a silent period, an enshadowment which, prolonged past a certain point upon the Clock-Face, begins to rouse apprehension among the filles, for they know their Night has begun, and who is coming for them now, and some of what will be done to them. Many who have been to Rooms forbidden the others, report seeing, inside these, a Door to at least one Room further, which may not be opened. The Penetralia of the Lodge are thus, even to those employed there, a region without a map. Anything may be there. Perhaps miracles are still possible,— both evil miracles, such as occur when excesses of Ill Treatment are transform'd to Joy,— quite common in this Era,— and the reverse, when excesses of Well-being at length bring an Anguish no less painful for being metaphysickal,— Good Miracles. Even in a Polity sunny, bustling, and order'd as Cape Town, for reasons that mystify all (some blame the South-East winds, pointing to now-legendary examples of insane behavior in the dry season, whilst others whisper of magickal Practices of the Natives or Malays), howbeit, now and then, Madness will visit by Surprize, taking away to its Realm of Voices and Pain even a mind in the rosiest fullness of Sanity. When they are too dangerous to roam free, the town Madmen are kept as a responsibility of the Company, confin'd in padded rooms in the Slave Lodge. Sometimes for their amusement the Herren will escort a particularly disobedient employee to a Madman's cell, push her inside, and lock the door. Next to each cell is a Viewing Room where the gentlemen may then observe, through a wall of Glass disguis'd as a great Mirror, the often quite unviewable Rencontre. The Madmen are of every race, condition, and degree of Affliction, from the amiably delusionary to the remorselessly homicidal. Some of them hate women, some desire them, some know hate and desire as but minor aspects of a greater, Oceanick Impulse, in which, report those who survive, it is unquestionably better not to be included. Again, some do not survive. When the Herren cannot return their Remains to their villages, they dispose of them by sea, that the Jackals may not have them.
What so far there have been only rumors of, is a room nine by seven feet and five inches, being with Dutch parsimony reduc'd to a quarter-size replica of the cell at Fort William, Calcutta, in which 146 Europeans were oblig'd to spend the night of 20—21 June 1756. There persists along the Company nerve-lines a terrible simple nearness to the Night of the "Black Hole," some Zero-Point of history, reckoning whence, all the Marvels to follow,— Quebec, Dr. Halley's Comet, the Battle of Quiberon Bay, aye and the Transit of Venus, too,— would elapse as fugitive as Opium dreams, and mattering less.... To find the Black Hole in a menu of Erotic Scenarios surprizes no one at this particular end of the World,— Residents, visitors, even a few Seamen of elevated sensibility have return'd, whenever possible, to be urg'd along by graceful Lodge-Nymphs in indigo Dhotis and Turbans, dainty scimitars a-flash, commanding their naked "Captives" to squeeze together more and more tightly into the scale-model cell with as many Slaves,— impersonating Europeans,— as will make up the complement, calculated at thirty-six, best able to afford visitors an authentick Sense of the Black Hole of Calcutta Experience.
"If one did not wish to suffer Horror directly," comments the Revd in his Day-Book, "one might either transcend it spiritually, or eroticize it
carnally,— the sex Entrepreneurs reasoning that the combination of Equatorial heat, sweat, and the flesh of strangers in enforc'd intimacy might be Pleasurable,— that therefore might some dramatiz'd approach to death under such circumstances be pleasurable as well, with all squirming together in a serpent's Nest of Limbs and Apertures and penises, immobiliz'd in a bondage of similarly bound bodies, lubricated with a gleaming mixture of their own shar'd sweat, piss, and feces, nothing to breathe but one another's exhausted breaths, moving toward some single slow warm Explosion—"
(Tho' he does not of course read any of this aloud,— choosing rather to skim ahead to the Moral.)
"Behind our public reaction to the Event, the outrage and Piety, what else may abide,— what untouchable Residue? Small numbers of people go on telling much larger numbers what to do with their precious Lives,— among these Multitudes, all but a few go on allowing them to do so. The British in India encourage the teeming populations they rule to teem as much as they like, whilst taking their land for themselves, and then restricting the parts of it the People will be permitted to teem upon.
"Yet hear the Cry, 0 Lord, when even a small Metaphor of this continental Coercion is practis'd in Reverse, as 'twas in the old B.H. of C.
" 'Metaphor!' you cry,— 'Sir, an hundred twenty lives were lost!'
"I reply, 'British lives. What think you the overnight Harvest of Death is, in Calcutta alone, in Indian lives?— not only upon that one Night, but ev'ry Night, in Streets that few could even tell you how to get to,— Street upon desperate Street, till the smoke of the Pyres takes it all into the Invisible, yet, invisible, doth it go on. All of which greatly suiteth the Company, and to whatever Share it has negotiated, His Majesty's Government as well.'''
Cornelius has vanish'd into the Room of the Beasts, "A peculiarly Afrikaner Taste," he pauses to advise Dixon, "- - you might not enjoy it!" A slender dark Arm, full of Bangles, emerges from the Door-way, and a practis'd Hand removes his Hat. "Let's go, Simba."
Dixon has some idea of roaming the Lodge, finding a secret Tunnel to the Castle, searching for Austra,— tho' what he will do then is less clear to him. He gets no further than a small on-Premises Tap-room, where, paus'd for what they are pleas'd down in these Parts to term "Ale," he encounters whom but Police Agent Bonk, wearing a Dressing-Gown of red Velvet galloon'd with Gold, sweating copiously and trying to get Drunk on Cape Madeira.
"You are back? When did you arrive?"
"Your Shop didn't know about it?"
"I am done with that. I am a Farmer now. This is my last night in Cape
Town, tho' I might have remain'd here, as a Free Burgher. Tomorrow I put
my Family in an Ox-waggon, and start North. Perhaps over the Moun
tains. Out of the reach of the Company, who desire total Control over ev'ry
moment of ev'ry Life here. I could not for them longer work. The Moun
tains beckon'd, the vast Hottentot Land beyond And at last, do you
know, a curious thing happen'd. The more the Company exerted itself,— Searches in the middle of the Night, property impounded,— the more Farmers up-country felt press'd to move North, away from the Castle. They styl'd it 'Trekking,' and themselves 'Trekkers.' The demands of my job,— the amount of Surveillance alone they wish'd,— were overwhelming. The Supervisors each week coming up with newer and less realistick Quotas. No time for anything. Out there are green rolling Leagues of farmland and Range, Bushmen for the most part docile, I am assur'd, wild Game ev'rywhere, and best of all no more Company orders to obey."
' Tis a brave Venture...?— much Success."
"I'm confident about most of it,— the one thing causing me some Apprehension,— do you mind if we,— that is, you're not in the middle of anything,—
"Ev'ryone else's Fun, it seems."
"I can fire a Rifle when I'm standing still, you see,— it is the Shooting and Loading whilst on Horseback, that worries me. I don't know how to do it,— and 'tis said there's no use going out there if you don't. Now, I was leaning toward an Oortman, then I heard, no, they're too heavy, too much Powder to carry, you're better off with a Bobbejaanboud, you put the butt on the ground and muzzle-load from the Saddle, and if you're press'd for time, why simply hit the Ground with the Butt, and the powder comes out this over-siz'd Priming Hole and into the Pan,— but then I thought, Well, suppose I got the Oortman anyway, then enlarg'd the Hole myself....”
Dixon returns to the Vroom residence at Dawn, all but carrying an equally, tho' perhaps not likewise, exhausted Cornelius. Ev'ryone is up. The Daughters run about, regarding Dixon out of the corners of their Eyes. What enchanted Mason about these Girls, Dixon comes to realize, with some consternation, is their readiness to seek the Shadow, avoid the light, believe in what haunts these shores exactly to the Atom,— ghosts ev'rywhere,— Slaves, Hottentots driven into exile, animals remorselessly Savage,— a Reservoir of Sin, whose Weight, like that of the atmosphere, is borne day after day unnotic'd, adverted to only when some Vacuum is encounter'd,— a Stranger in Town, a Malay publickly distraught, an hour at the Lodge,— into which its Contents might rush with a Turbulence felt and wonder'd at by all. The Vroom Girls and their counterparts all over town are Daughters of the End of the World, smiling more than they ought, chirping when needful, alert to each instant of the long Day as likely as the next to hold a chance of Ruin. In their Dreams they ever return to Prisons of Stone, to Gates with Seals 'tis Death to break, the odor of soap and Slops, the Stillness of certain Corridors, the unchallengeable Love of a Tyrant, Yellow Light from unseen Watch-Fires flickering upon the Wall, and unexpectedly, rounding a particular Corner, to the tall Clock from Home, ringing the Quarter-Hour.
One by one the girls have grown up believing the Vroom Clock, a long-case heirloom brought from Holland, to be a living Creature, conscious of itself, and of them, too, with its hooded Face, its heartbeat, the bearing of a solemn Messenger. It stands deep in the House, in a passageway between the Front and the Back,— the two Worlds,— witness to everything that transpires within hearing-range with but its one Hour-Hand, and two Bells, a Great and a Small, for striking the Hours and Quarter-hours. They call it 'Boet,'— the traditional name, here, for an elder Brother.
When Mason and Dixon arriv'd with the Ellicott Clock, the Girls assum'd it was a Traveling Companion of the Englishmen. Later, when Dixon return'd with a different Clock, Mr. Shelton's, no-one notic'd but Greet. "Please go carefully," she takes him aside to whisper. "They think Charles and you've something to do with the Longitude. After you were gone, they came to believe, that the Royal Society's Clock, which you had with you, was able to keep Errorless Time at Sea,— a British State Secret,— we are apt to believe anything here. The East India Company is about to present two fabulous Clocks, of Gold encrusted with Diamonds, with tiny Clock-Work Birds and such, to the Emperor of China. 'Twould be far wiser of you, to hide this new Clock, and pretend that you are back for.. .some other reason."
"The Transit's run, Lass, all that remains is to find the Going of the Clock, and,— eeh,— why Greet, the very idea."
"They all know I'm in here with you." She seizes the two sides of her Bodice and tears it apart. A young Bosom appears, pale and pink. "Did you just do that? Shall I call out that you did? Or was it a Spontaneous Seam Separation, apt to happen to any Bodice, really?"
"Thou did it, Lass."
"They won't believe that."
"So they may say. But they know thee."
"Brutal Albion, you are making it difficult for me to love you." She presses together a few hidden Snaps, and the Bodice is once again complete. "Mr. Mason was never so cold."
"Mason is naturally affectionate. Tho' he appears not to know one end of a Woman from another, yet 'tis all he thinks about, when he has a moment to think. Would tha denounce me to the Company Castle, then?"
"Go carefully."
Down in the Castle, however, they are facing a Dilemma. There is an unpremeditated wave of Enthusiasm for two-handed Clocks currently sweeping over the Dutch, both here and back in Holland. Soon, during an interrogation, someone will wish to note the precise time that each question is ask'd, or action taken, by a clock with two hands,— not because anyone will ever review it,— perhaps to intimidate the subject with the most advanc'd mechanical Device of its time, certainly because Minute-Scal'd Accuracy is possible by now, and there is room for Minutes to be enter'd in the Records. Any new Clock in their Neighborhood is thus eligible for the Honor.
Word has finally reach'd them, however, of Dixon's connection with Christopher Le Maire. They assume, without Reflection, that the Jesuit must belong to some branch of the Dutch Le Maires, fam'd among whom were Jacob, navigator and explorer of the southern seas, and Isaac, the East India Company Director and speculator, notorious for having introduced to the Dutch Stock Exchange the practice of trading in Shares one did not actually own. And the Priest is currently teaching in Flanders, is he not? Accordingly, Dixon's Dossier is flagg'd in Yellow, which means, "Caution,— may be connected dangerously," allowing him to go on as ever at the Cape, running before any wind of Sensory delight, as the Church-Faithful carouse, Slaves conspire their Freedom, and Functionaries flee the Castle, and head for open Country.
15
Mason, convinc'd that he has been set upon a Pilgrimage by Forces beyond his ability at present to reach,— a Station of the Cross being his preferr'd Trope,— finds much to Puzzle in Maskelyne's insistence that they move to the other side of the Island, from enclosure to exposure, from Shelter to an unremitting and much-warn'd-against Wind. "The Attraction of Mountains," Maskelyne Jobates, whilst slowly 'round him The Moon becomes a Dormitory, "— according to Newton, these Peaks may hold enough Mass to deflect our Plumb-lines, thereby throwing off our Zenith Obs. We must therefore repeat these Obs at the other side of the Island, and take the Mean Values betwixt 'em."
"The Other Side,"— it does give Mason a Chill. If the Cape of Good Hope be a Parable about Slavery and Free Will he fancies he has almost tho' not quite grasp'd, then what of this Translocation? That Maskelyne's Obsessedness in the Article of Plumb-lines, may be a factor in the change, will not become apparent till too late. Days in a row now pass in which Maskelyne speaks of little but the faulty Suspension of the Sisson Instrument. "My career, my Life,— hanging from a damn'd Pin!" He takes to accosting strangers in The Moon and then in other taverns, subjecting them to long wearying recitations describing the malfunction in numbing detail, and what he has instructed be done to correct it, and how others have complied, or not,— a history without sentiment or suspense (save that in which the Plumb-line, as it proves faultily, hangs upon its Loop, and that upon its Pin).
"How did Waddington like it over there?" Mason inquires.
"He wouldn't go. Not even a Day-Excursion to Sandy Bay. 'I know the Score,' he said, again and again, 'I've seen them come in to Town from the Windward Side, I see what the Wind does to 'em, it is no condition I care to enter,' was how he put it."
"It doesn't sound all that appealing to me, either," allows Mason. "Yet, to cancel Error when possible,— it's like turning the Instrument, isn't it? An Obligation, not easily neglected."
"Ah, Neglect. Ah, Conscience."
Flank'd by the D——l's Garden and the Gates of Chaos, the Company
Fort at Sandy Bay commands that inhospitable, luminously Turquoise
Recess in the Shore, representing the level of Daring that John Company
is expecting one day in its ideal Enemy,— the silent Windward-Side
companion to the great Fort at James's Town, which ever bustles with
Sentries, and martial Musick, whilst this one appears deserted,— Flag-
less, Walls unpierc'd, as if drawn in against the Wind. The Discipline
here, tho' Military in name, is founded in fact upon a Rip-Rap of Play-
Acting, Superstitions, mortal Hatreds, and unnatural Loves, of a solem
nity appropriate to the unabating Wind, that first Voice, not yet
inflected,— the pure Whirl,— of the very Planet. The Gunfire here is at
Sunset, and aim'd full into the Wind, as if to repel an Onslaught. Years
ago the Soldiers set up, and now continue as a Tradition, various Suicide-
Banks and Madness-Pools, into which one may put as little as a six
pence,— more substantial Sums going into side-Wagers, and the
Percentages of Widows' Shares being ever negotiable,— and thus con
vert this Wind into Cash, as others might convert it to a Rotary Impulse
upon a Mill-Stone. Fortunes certainly the equal of many a Nabob's are
amass'd, risk'd, and lost within a Night. "We are the Doings of Global
Trade in miniature!" cries the Post Surgeon, who tries never to stir too far
from the deepest rooms of the Fort, where the Wind may oppress him
least, and is careful to include it in each daily Prayer, as if 'twere a Deity
in itself, infinitely in Need, ever demanding
Pois'd at length upon the last Cliff, with the eternal South-easter full upon them, Mason, knowing he cannot be heard, says, "Well,— Waddington may have had a point." Maskelyne nevertheless plucks from the Wind his Meaning, and later, indoors at Sandy Bay, replies, "It is not to all tastes, here. Tis said those who learn to endure it, are wond'rously Transform'd."
"Oh, aye, that Farmer last night who ran about barking, and bit the Landlorrrd's Wife,— verry diverting, Sir,— yet perhaps upon this Coast they be merely mad, finding as little welcome at James's Town, where Sobriety is necessary to Commerce, as those Folk might upon the Windward, where, against such helpless Exposure as this, a vigilant Folly must be the only Defense,— two distinct nations, in a state of mutual mistrust, within ten Miles' Compass, and the Wind never relenting, as if causing to accumulate in the Island yet another Influence that must be corrected for. Perhaps, if discover'd, 'twould be as celebrated as the Aberration of Light."
Maskelyne flushes darkly and seems to change the Topick.
"I was out upon the Cliffs today and fell in with one of the Company Soldiers here. German fellow. Dieter. Came out that he's in something of a spot. Enlisted in ignorance that anyplace like this could exist."
"Now he wants out," suggests Mason.
"A strangely affecting Case, nonetheless. I cannot explain it. He seem'd to know me. Or I him. Had you been there,—
"He might have seem'd to know me as well?"
"Am I so unwary? Your Innuendo is not new to me,— yet, he has ask'd for no money. And what matter, that he knows of my connection with Clive?"
"Oh Dear. How'd that happen?"
"I told him."
"Ah."
"He was quite distraught, and but a Pace or two from the Edge of the Precipice. 'No one can help me,' he was crying, 'not Frederick of Prussia, nor George of England, nor the great Lord Clive himself,' and so forth,— and I being the only one within earshot able to say, 'Well, actually, as to Clive, you know,— ' What would you have done?"
"Were I in a position to offer Clive's Services to the Publick? Why, I don't know, Maskelyne. Determine first of all what percentage to take, I suppose...."
The German had stood there, in the late Sunlight, his Eyes enormous and magnetick, fixing the Astronomer where he stood, the Sea roaring
below them, and in the Wind, Stock-ends, Kerchiefs, Queue-Ribands, all coming undone and fluttering like so many Tell-tales. "You...could really help?"
"I've been living over in James's Town," Maskelyne deferent, attempting to speak calmly. "This is the first time I've pass'd more than a Day over here,— yet I find already, that the Wind is having an Effect, upon my Nerves. Causing me to imagine things, that may not be so? Have you notic'd that?"
"The Wind owns this Island," Dieter inform'd him,— "What awful Pride, to keep a Station here. Who would ever invade, by way of this mortal Coast? If they surviv'd landing upon a Lee Shore, they must get inland in a day,— once into those Mountains, oblig'd to cross all that width of Purgatory, before descending upon James's Town— Are the Dutch that crazy? ravening, lost to the world? The French? Three of their Men o' War, only the year before last, station'd themselves out there, lounging to windward, just in the middle of the Company's sea-lane, like village ne'er-do-wells hoping for a fight. They manag'd to intercept and chase four of the Company's China ships, who at last made a run for South America, finding refuge in the Bay of All Saints. We watch'd it all, as we had ev'ry day, day and night. The Sails, the Signals thro' the Glass...we swore to shapes in the Darkness, creeping ashore in the terrible Moon-Light...and what do your Hosts over there at James's Fort expect to see, coming down out of their Ravine? What last unfaceable enemy? When one night, out of habit, someone will look up at the Watch-fire upon the Ridge, and find there all black as Doom.—Overrun? all gone mad and simply walk'd away? How much time elaps'd, and how much remaining to the Town?
"The Company promis'd travel, adventure, dusky Maidens, and one Day, Nawabheit.... A silken Curtain opening upon Life itself! Who would not have been persuaded? So I enlisted, and without time to catch a breath was I posted here, to the Windward Side of St. Helena, God who hath abandon'd us.... We are spiritually ill here, deprav'd. You are Clive of India's Brother-in-Law. A word from you would set me free."
"Well, I'm, I haven't that much influence with the Company...and Clive has but recently return'd to England, whilst I," he shrugg'd, "am here. I suppose.”
"And Shuja-ud-Daula, the Nabob Wazir of Oudh, is out there,— with an Army. Bengal, Sir, is a Magazine waiting to explode,— no time for your Schwager to be in England, when perhaps already too late it grows."
"His enemies among his own," Maskelyne supposed, "being inveterate as any Hindu Intriguer, and Leadenhall Street no simpler than the Bagh Bazaar, England is a Battle-Field to him, 'pon which he must engage. Since the Court of Directors' election, he has been lock'd in a struggle with Mr. Sullivan for the Soul of the Company. I am not sure how many favors he may command right now, even of the dimension you suggest."
"Sobald das Geld in Kasten klingt," Dieter recited, sighing, "Die Seele aus dem Fegefeuer springt."
Later, talking it over with Mason, "Tho' there be no escape from this place for me, the Logic of the Orbit, the Laws of Newton and Kepler constraining,— yet could I ransom at least one Soul, from this awful Wind, the Levy Money would not be miss'd."
"You said he asked for none."
"Not he. The Company. So they are paid the twenty pounds they paid him to enlist, it matters little who replaces him."
Does Maskelyne mean more, when he speaks of "the Wind"? May he be thinking of his own obligations to the East India Company, and the unlikelihood that anyone would ever ransom him? "We may sail with the Wind," he said once, "at the same speed, working all its nuances,— or we may stand still, and feel its full true Course and Speed upon us, with all finer Motions lost in that Simplicity."
The incident of the German Soldier, in Maskelyne's life, seems like St. Helena itself, the visible and torn Remnant of a Sub-History unwit-ness'd. None of what Maskelyne says about it quite explains the Power over his Sentiments, that Dieter exerts.
"You'll pay the money yourself?" Mason only trying to be helpful.
"I can't go to Clive, can I. Not for this."
Mason is almost unsettl'd enough by the Wind to ask, "For what, then, will you go to him?"
Some last Flinching of Sanity prevents him,— for where might the Discussion go? "What do you desire in the world? Is it in Clive's Power to bestow? How appropriate is it in Scale, for a Brother-in-law? What
balance shall you owe him then?”
None of the words need ever be spoken,— tho' given the Wind, and its properties of transformation, there are no guarantees they will not be. Yet if Mason but remains silent, keeping his Wits about him and his Arse out of the Wind, who's to say that one day when this too has pass'd, back in England, among Colonnades, Mirrors, Uniforms and Ball-Gowns, Medals and Orders, Necklaces and Brooches incandescent,— and the Applause of Philosophickal Europe,— Lord Clive may not approach discreetly bearing an emboss'd Envelope,—
"You've been Commended most warmly, Sir, by my dear brother-in-law, as largely having restor'd him to Reason, after his prolong'd Residence at St. Helena had somewhat diminish'd it. Horrid Station,— one good Volcanick Eruption, why 'twould solve ev'rything— But,— as I was saying, I needn't tell you, Nevil's Sanity is important to me, as I'm sure it must be to Lady Clive as well. I wish I knew some better way to express..." But being Clive of India, alas, does not. The stiff cream Object approaching Mason's Hand... "For preserving the Futurity of Astronomy in Britain..." Thus at the instant of first Exterior Contact, before Immersion of the Gift into a Coat-Pocket, all Honor Mason might take in the Moment is drain'd away, as even his Daydreams turn upon him, allowing among them Clive Anointing Maskelyne, as if in some particularly tasteless Painting destin'd to hang at the Greenwich Observatory,— "It has its Elements of Excess," Maskelyne will admit, "dive's Tunick in partickular, and one or two of the attending Dignitaries' Hats.. .yet, see how he's drap'd me,— " Mason returns from these Excursions dejectedly mindful, like any moral Tumbler, that when Murder is too inconvenient, Self-sacrifice must do,— tho' 'tis not possible for him, to imagine Maskelyne as quite ever blazing enough for any grand, or even swift, Immolation,— 'twould be a Slow Roast, Years in length, that awaited any who might come spiraling in his way. Gleefully, prefacing each with a whisper'd, "Of course, this is but Romance," Mason then wallows in Reveries, more and more elaborate, of Mishaps for Maskelyne, many of them Vertical in Nature.
And here it is, upon the Windward Side, where no ship ever comes willingly, that her visits begin. At some point, Mason realizes he has been
hearing her voice, clearly, clean of all intervention— 'Tis two years and more. Rebekah, who in her living silences drove him to moments of fury, now wrapt in what should be the silence of her grave, has begun to speak to him, as if free to do so at last, all she couldn't even have whispered at Greenwich, not with the heavens so close, with the light-handed trickery of God so on display.
He tries to joke with himself. Isn't this suppos'd to be the Age of Reason? To believe in the cold light of this all-business world that Rebekah haunts him is to slip, to stagger in a crowd, into the embrace of the Painted Italian Whore herself, and the Air to fill with suffocating incense, and the radiant Deity to go dim forever. But if Reason be also Permission at last to believe in the evidence of our Earthly Senses, then how can he not concede to her some Resurrection?— to deny her, how cruel!
Yet she can come to him anywhere. He understands early that she must come, that something is important enough to risk frightening him too much, driving him further from the World than he has already gone. She may choose a path, and to all others Mask'd, a Shadow, wait for him. She can wait, now. Is this her redress for the many times he failed to attend her whilst she lived,— now must he go through it and not miss a word? That these furloughs from death are short does not console him.
Once, long before dawn, bidden he can scarce say how, Mason rises from his cot,— Maskelyne across the shelter snoring in a miasma of wine-fumes and an Obs Suit patch'd together from local sources, whose colors in the Gloom are mercifully obscur'd,— enters the Wind, picks his way 'cross Boot-slashing Rock up over the ridgeline and down onto the floor of a ruin'd ebony forest, where among fog-wisps and ancient black logging debris polish'd by the Wind, she accosts him shiv'ring in his Cloak. The Ocean beats past the tiny accidental Island. "I can't have Maskelyne finding me out here."
"I imagin'd you miss'd me," she replies in her own unmodified voice. Christ. The Moonlight insists she is there. Her eyes have broken into white, and grown pointed at the outer ends, her ears are back like a cat's. "What are you up to here, Charlie? What is this place?"
He tells her. For the first time since the Seahorse, he is afraid again.
"For the Distance to one Star? Your Lie-by was alone here for Months. He manag'd. Why do you remain?"
"Earth being now nearly an orbit's diameter distant from where she was, the Work requires two,— and I must do as others direct."
"But wait till you're over here, Mopery."
"You refer to...," he twirls his hand at her, head to toe, uncertain how, or whether, to bring up the topick of Death, and having died. She nods, her smile not, so far, terrible.
Telling Maskelyne is out of the question,— Mason believes he would sooner or later use it to someone's detriment. But when at last Dixon does come up the Sea-Steps at James's Town, Mason will seize his Arm and whisk him off to his local, The Ruin'd Officer, to tell him as soon as he can.
"Then She has come to me since.. .she came last night." They are sitting in front of, but not drinking, two glasses of Cape Constantia.
"Oh, aye...?"
Stubborn, heat in his face, "Damme, she was here— Was it not her Soul? What, then? Memory is not so all-enwrapping, Dream sooner or later betrays itself. If an Actor or a painted Portrait may represent a Personage no longer alive, might there not be other Modalities of Appearance, as well?...No, nothing of Reason in it.—In truth, I have ever waited meeting her again." Nodding as if to confirm it.
He continues, tho' not aloud,— There is a Countryside in my Thoughts, populated with agreeable Company, mapped with Romantick scenery, Standing-Stones and broken Archways, cedar and Yew, shaded Streams, and meadows a-riot with wild-flowers,— holding therein assemblies and frolicks...and each time, somewhere by surprize goes Rebekah, ever at a distance, but damme 'tis she, and a moment passes in which we have each recognized the other,— my breath goes away, I turn to Marble,—
"Oh, Dixon. I am afraid."
Dixon, carefully, keeping back as far as he can get, stretches an arm and places his hand on Mason's shoulder.
Mason's feet remain tranquil. "Then," he is smiling to himself at the foolishness of this, of ev'rything, "what shall I do?"
"Why, get on with it," replies Dixon.
"Easy advice to give,— how often I've done it...." "Even easier to take, Friend,— for there's no alternative." "Do you believe what you're saying? How has Getting On With It been working out for you, then? You expect me to live in the eternal Present, like some Hindoo? Wonderful,— my own Gooroo, ever here with a sage answer. Tell me, then,— what if I can't just lightly let her drop? What if I won't just leave her to the Weather, and Forgetfulness? What if I want to spend, even squander, my precious time trying to make it up to her? Somehow? Do you think anyone can simply let that all go?"
"Thou must," Dixon does not say. Instead, tilting his wine-glass at Mason as if 'twere a leaden Ale-Can, he beams sympathetickally. "Then tha must break thy Silence, and tell me somewhat of her.”
16
Here is what Mason tells Dixon of how Rebekah and he first met. Not yet understanding the narrative lengths Mason will go to, to avoid betraying her, Dixon believes ev'ry word—
'Twas at the annual cheese-rolling at the parish church in Randwick, a few miles the other side of Stroud. And May-Day as well, in its full English Glory, Mason's Baptismal day,— its own Breath being drawn again and again across the Brooksides, Copses, and Fields, heated, fragrant. Every young woman for miles around would be there, although Mason adopted a more Scientifick motive, that of wishing to see at first hand, a much-rumored Prodigy, styled "The Octuple Gloucester,"— a giant Cheese, the largest known in the Region, perhaps in the Kingdom.
Some considered it an example of Reason run amok,— an unreflec-tive Vicar, worshiping at the wrong Altar, having convinced local Cheesemen to pool their efforts in accomplishing the feat. Scaled up from the dimensions of the classic Single Gloucester, not only in Thickness, but actually octupled in all dimensions, making it more like a 512-fold or Quincentenariduodecuple Gloucester,— running to nearly four tons in weight when green, and even after shrinkage towering ten feet high by the time it emerged from the giant Shed built at the outskirts of town especially for this unprecedented Caseifaction,— the extraordinary Cheese, as it slowly aged, had already provided material for months of public Rumor. In recent days, trying to contain their impatience, crowds had begun to gather outside the shed entrance, as if a royal birth were imminent. As gatherings of the People, in this part of England, often produc'd gastro-spiritual Distress among the Clothiers, there were also on hand a small body of Light Cavalry. When the Cheese was at last carefully rolled into publick View, those who were there remember a collective gasp, a beat of silence, then, "Well,— I knew it was going to be big, but— "..."How ever are they going to get it up to the Church?"... "Wonder what it tastes like?"
Traditionally, the cheeses to be blessed and ritually rolled thrice 'round the churchyard, and thence down a Hill, ordinary-sized Double Gloucesters, were carried to the site in wheeled litters of some antiquity, though such clearly, for this Behemoth, would not do. Someone finally located a gigantic Cotswold Waggon, painted brick red and sky blue, as were the spokes and rims, respectively, of its wheels. The Cheese, an equally vivid orange-yellow, had then to be carefully rolled off a kind of dock and on into the bed of the Waggon, where, like some dangerous large animal, it was secured with stout Cables in an erect position. As the sides of the Waggon were of spindles and not planks, the Cheese was visible to onlookers in its full Circumference.
The progress to Randwick Church was a Spectacle long to be remembered. Neighbor Folk of all conditions lined the route, at first, as the great Cheese swayed and loomed into view, silently in awe,— then, presently, as if strangely calmed by the Beams of a Luminary rising anew above each dip in the road,— calling out to the Cheese and its conveyors, calls which after not too long became huzzahs and even Hosannas. Drinkers tumbled out of the alehouses and toasted the majestic food product as it passed— "Let's have three cheers for the Great Octuple, lads!" Girls blew Kisses. Local youths from time to time would spring aboard, to help steady the cargo when the road-surface became difficult, able to tell one day of how they had escorted the great Cheese upon its journey, that famous first of May. Singing,
Here's to the great, Octuple boys! the
Mon-ster Cheese of fame,
Let's cheer it with, a thund'rous noise,
Then twice more of the same,—
Oh the bells shall ring, and
The guns shall roar,
For the won-derful Octuple Glo'r...
Aye, all the Lads, who push and who-pull,
Ev'ry Master, ev'ry Pupil
Single-ton and married Coople,
Eye at Win-dow, Door and Looph'le,
Ev'ry minim, dram and scruple
Of their Praise is Thine, Octuple!"
Of course Mason was there hoping to see Susannah Peach, even if it had to be from a distance, surrounded by cousins and friends. She would appear, as always, in silk. Her father, Samuel Peach, was a silk merchant of some repute, and a growing Power within the East India Company. Mason imagin'd her brought bolts of it, by Indians queu'd up in bright Livery, Silks without limit from the furthest of the far Eastern lands, the house in Minchinhampton soon drap'd ev'rywhere in bright spilled, intriguingly wrinkl'd yards of silkstuffs,— an hundred mirror'd candles casting upon it the fatty yellow light of a tropical sun. Savage flowers of the Indies, demurer Blooms of the British garden, stripes and tartans, foreign colors undream'd of in Newton's prismatics, damasks with epic-length Oriental tales woven into them, requiring hours of attentive gazing whilst the light at the window went changing so as to reveal newer and deeper labyrinths of event, Velvets whose grasp of incident light was so predatory and absolute that one moved closer to compensate for what was not being reflected, till it felt like being drawn, oneself, inside the unthinkable contours of an invisible surface. She could distinguish Shantung from Tussah and Pongee, being often quite passionate in her Preferences. "Would you like to learn Silk, Charles? It might mean Aleppo instead of India. Would that disappoint you?"
"No, Miss." He had visited her House when she wasn't there. He had enter'd her room. He had knelt by her Bed and press'd his face to the Counterpane of Silk to inhale what he could of her Scent. In the Sewing-Room, from down at Surface-level, he imagin'd from the Silk strewn so carelessly, a Terrain steeply wrinkl'd into mountainsides and ravines, through which pass'd dangerous Silk-route shortcuts, down upon which with the patience of Reptiles bands of arm'd men in colorful costume gaz'd, and waited. Waited to kidnap and unspeakably mistreat beautiful young Silk Heiresses....
Today he felt more than usually glum. His father's birthday gift to him had been a day off from duties at the Mill. All 'round him, ev'rybody else his age was flirting, chasing, and larking, whilst he trudged about, waiting at last only for the giant Cheese, which had been due to arrive, actually, some while ago. Susannah, as the daughter of a local dignitary, might be accompanying it upon its journey,— or might have stayed home altogether. He could see no one, withal, who was not by this point pair'd off. Not much use in staying, he suppos'd.... He started down the hillside by the church, planning at the bottom to pick up the road back in to Stroud, incompletely attentive to the slow Crescendo of cheering from the crowd above, and the wave of Children spilling down the Hill, and the first cries of Warning.
As he'd learn later, the Vicar had decided for reasons of safety to roll nothing greater than a Double Gloucester down the Hill,— yet as if ordain'd by some invariance in the Day's Angular Momentum, the Drag-Shoe on one side of the Octuple's Waggon broke away, causing the conveyance to slew, and slip down the side of a Hummock, and at last tip over, launching the Cheese into the Air, just before the Waggon (its Catapult) fell over with a great creak and jangle, Wheels a-spin, as meanwhile the enormous Cheese was hitting the Slope perfectly vertical,— bouncing once, startlingly orange against the green hillside, and beginning to roll, gathering speed. The first peripheral impression Mason had of it was of course a star-gazer's,— thinking, Why, the Moon isn't suppos'd to be out, nor full, nor quite this bright shade of yellow, nor for that matter to be growing in size this way,— about then smoaking belatedly where he was, and what was about to happen.
"Ahr! Mercy!" He threw his arms in front of his Face and succumb'd before the cylindrickal Onslaught, with a peculiar Horror at having been singl'd out for Misadventure... The Victim of a Cheese malevolent, being his last thought before abrupt Rescue by way of a stout shove, preceded by an energetick Rustling of Taffeta,— as he went toppling onto his face, grass up his Nose, hearing thro' his Belly the homicidal Ponderosity roll by without the interruption of a flatten'd Mason to divert it from its Destiny.
As he arose, slowly, holding his head, blowing out alternate Nostrils, her Voice first reach'd him. "Were it Night-time, Sir, I'd say you were out
Star-Gazing." She put upon her r the same vigorous Edge as his Father on a difficult day,— withal, "Star-Gazing" in those parts was a young man's term for masturbating. He might have said something then to regret forever, but her looks had him stupefied. If she was not, like Susannah, a Classick English Rose, neither was she any rugged Blossom of the Heath. He found himself staring at the shape of her mouth, her Lips slightly apart, in an Inquiry that just fail'd to be a Smile,— like a Gate-Keeper about to have a Word with him. What shadow'd Gates lay at her Back? What mystick Residence?
"My wish too intently these days," he declares to Dixon when it is possible to do so, "is to re-paint the Scene, so that she might bear somehow her fate in her Face, eyes guarded, searching for small injustices to respond to because she cannot bear what she knows will befall her,— yet Rebekah's innocence of Mortality kept ever intact.. .oh, shall this divide my Heart? she saw nothing, that May-Day, but Life ahead of her."
("There are no records of her in Gloucestershire," interrupts Uncle Ives.
"What, none? Shall none ever appear?"
"With respect to your Faith in the as-yet-Unmaterializ'd, Mason was baptiz'd at Sapperton Church, as were his Children,— yet he and Rebekah were not married there. So mayn't they have met elsewhere as well,— even at Greenwich?"
"Unless ghosts are double,— " "— one walking, the other still," the Twins propose.)
Country Wife open and fair, City Wife a Creature of Smoke, Soot, Intrigue, Purposes unutter'd...her plainly visible Phantom attends Mason as if he were a Commissioner of Unfinish'd Business, representing Rebekah at her most vital and belov'd. Is this, like the Bread and Wine, a kindness of the Almighty, sparing him a sight he could not have abided? What might that be, too merciless to bear? At times he believes he has almost seen black Fumes welling from the Surface of her Apparition, heard her Voice thickening to the timbres of the Beasts...the serpents of Hell, real and swift, lying just the other side of her Shadow.. .the smell of them in their long, cold Waiting— He gazes, at such moments, feeling pleasurably helpless. She occupies now an entirely new angular relation to Mercy, to those refusals, among the Living, to act on behalf of
Death or its ev'ryday Coercions,— Wages too low to live upon, Laws written by Owners, Infantry, Bailiffs, Prison, Death's thousand Metaphors in the World,— as if, the instant of her passing over having acted as a Lens, the rays of her Soul have undergone moral Refraction.
He tries teasing her with his earth-bound Despair. "Measuring Angles among illuminated Points, there must be more to it, 'Bekah, you see them as they are, you must."
"Oh, Charlie. 'Must.' " Laughter does not traverse easily the baffling of Death,— yet he cannot harden his heart enough to miss the old Note within,— 'tis sure, 'tis his own Rebekah. Her voice affects him like music in F-sharp minor, drawing him to the dire promise. "You believ'd, when you were a Boy, that the Stars were Souls departed."
"And you, that they were Ships at Anchor." She had, once,— as our Sky, a Harbor to Travelers from Ev'rywhere.
"Look to the Earth." she instructs him. "Belonging to her as I do, I know she lives, and that here upon this Volcanoe in the Sea, close to the Forces within, even you, Mopery, may learn of her, Tellurick Secrets you could never guess."
"I've betray'd you," he cries. "Ah,— I should have—
"Lit Candles? I am past Light. Pray'd for me ev'ry Day? I am outside of Time. Good, living Charles,...good Flesh and Blood—" Between them now something like a Wind is picking up speed and beginning to obscure his View of her. She bares her Teeth, and pales, and turns, drifting away, evaporating before she is halfway across the slain Forest.
Erect after her dear Flesh impossible to him till Resurrection Day, he returns to his bed-clothes. In the Crepuscule, Maskelyne's Observing Suit is edging into Visibility. Great Waves of Melancholy, syncopating the Atlantick Counterparts not far away, surge against him. They might drown him, or bear him up,— he lies not caring, and fails to find Sleep again. Maskelyne, on the other side of the Tent, slumbers till Midday. "Hullo, Mason. Was that you, coming in about Dawn?"
"Not I." Unpremeditatedly.
"Hum,— Might it've been Dieter, d'ye think?"
"Dieter? Why would he be in the Tent?"
"The Wind."
"Ahrr,— that is, of course.”
"He's not Dieter.. .at least not any more, he isn't."
Mason recalls that he has never met the German face to face. "How is the project for his Release getting on?"
' 'Tis someone else. You may be confus'd. Pray, erase Dieter from your Mind, and I shall be much oblig'd."
Mason, understanding little enough already, still resounding up and down his Center-Line with Rebekah's Visit, is abruptly certain that Dieter is a Ghost as well. How wise would it be, however, to share this Revelation with Maskelyne? "He is well, I trust," keeping at it for reasons he sees only after he has spoken.
' 'Well'! What are you saying, Mason? To be not well over here, is to be dead. How you have avoided that Fate, indeed puzzles me."
"Which leaves you,— are you 'well,' Maskelyne?"
' 'Tis Dieter who's in Peril here. Medically, I cannot speak,— yet as one of the Lord's Menials, I see his Soul insulted in ways Souls do not bear readily. Why did you not, rather, ask after him? His Fate has Consequences within my own."
Mason has begun in recent days hearing in the Wind entire orchestral Performances, of musick distinctly not British,— Viennese, perhaps, Hungarian, even Moorish. He finds he cannot concentrate. The Wind seems to be blowing cross-wise to the light incoming from Sirius, producing false images, as if, in Bradley's Metaphor for the Aberration, the Vehicle, Wind, has broken thro' some Barrier, and enter'd the no-nonsense regime of the Tenor, Light, whilst remaining attach'd to it. As supernatural as a Visitant from the Regime of Death to the sunny Colony of Life,— to be metaphorickal about it—
"I think the two of ye need some time together," Mason, with what remains of his good Sense, suggests. "And to be honest, I haven't your resistance to this Wind. It is driving me insane." His Stomach warning him not to add, "You are driving me insane."
He runs without delay down to the Shingle and begins assembling a Signal-Fire, using his Coat to fan it, advising any Coasters that might come by, of his need of passage to the Leeward Side. The Price will be more or less Criminal.
Maskelyne waves good-bye from the Ridge. He wears a Canary Coat and Breeches Mason has never observ'd him in before, a Wig that even at this Distance causes a contraction of the Pupils, and a Hat, more obscurely, suggesting Optickal Machinery of uncertain Purpose. He seems to be on his Way to the Fort, perhaps into it. Perhaps that is where Dieter does his principal Haunting. Presently a Dhow ventures in, to Wading-Distance. "Good Ride to Jamestown! Twenty Rix-Dollars! Good Price!"
"Ten!" having no idea if he can afford it.
"Only as far as Friar's Valley."
"Break-neck," whispers a Voice clearly, tho' no one is there.
"To Break-neck," calls Mason.
"I've no wish to offend your Companion. Done.”
17
Once 'round Castle Rock and the Needles, they can run before the Wind, down past Manatee Bay, and the great Ridge-line above wheeling as they rush on,— doubling at last the South-West Point, standing off from Man and Horse, Lines and Hooks drop over the side, and presently the Day's Meal is flopping about the Deck,— they have lost the Wind. The Absence stuns him. Breezes, Tides, and Eddies must now get them past this Coast. The Crew, who've been out in it for a few Days, find Mason's Discombob-ulancy amusing. That their Remarks are not in English sends him further a-reel. When they debark him at the mouth of Break-Neck Valley, two or three Miles from the Town, he is more than eager to be off.
He can smell the Town upon the Wind, the Smoke and Muck-Piles, long before he sees it. Awakening from a sort of Road-Trance, he finds himself before the Jenkin's Ear Museum, dedicated to the eponymous Organ whose timely Display brought England in against Spain in the War of '39. Not long after, Robert Jenkin went to work for the East India Company,— many styl'd it a quid pro quo,— being assign'd to St. Helena in '41 as Governor, and bringing with him the influential Ear, already by then encasqu'd in a little Show-case of Crystal and Silver, and pickl'd in Atlantick Brine. James's Town wove its Spell. Eventually, at Cards, Mr. Jenkin extended his Credit too far even for Honorable John. There remain'd the last unavoidable Object of Value, which he bet against what prov'd to be a Cross-Ruff, whence it pass'd into the Hands of Nick Mournival, an Enterpriser of the Town.
Mason is chagrin'd to find set in a low Wall a tiny Portico and Gate, no more than three feet high, with a Sign one must stoop to read,— "Ear of Rob' Jenkin, Esq., Within." Clearly there must be some other entry, tho' Mason can find none, not even by repeated Jumps to see what lies over the Wall,— to appearance, a Garden gone to weeds. Reluctantly at last he takes to his elbows and knees, to investigate the diminutive Doorway at close hand,— the Door, after a light Push, swinging open without a Squeak. Mason peers in. What Illumination there is reveals a sort of Ramp-way leading downward, with just enough height to crawl.
Owing to a certain Corporate Surplus accumulated at Cape Town, Mason's smooth descent is here and there in doubt,— each time, indeed, tho' but temporarily stuck, he comes near Panick. At last, having gain'd a slightly roomier sort of Foyer, hewn, it seems, from the Volcanick Rock of the Island, he is startl'd by a Voice, quite near.
"Good Day to you, Pilgrim, and thanks for your interest in a great modern secular Relic. Helen of Troy's face may've launch'd a thousand ships,— this is but one Ear, yet in its Time, it sent navies into combat 'round the Globe. Think of it as the closest thing you're apt to see to Helen's Face, and for one Pistole 'tis a Bargain."
"Bit steep, isn't it? Where, ehm, are you, by the way...the Echo in here,— "
"Look in front of you."
"Yaahhgghh— "
"Ta-ra-ra! Yes, here all the time. Nick Mournival, formerly Esquire, now your Servant. Once a Company Director, now.. .as you see. Fortune's wheel is on the Rise or Fall where'er we go, but nowhere does it turn quite as furiously as here, upon this unhappy Mountain-Top in the Sea."
"You are Florinda's friend. We met before the Battery one evening,— she is well, I trust."
"She is flown. Some Chicken-Nabob traveling home with his Mother. Watch'd her work him. Masterful. She knew I was observing, and put on a Show. Her Stage Training,— humiliating, of course.—
"Well," brightly, "where's the Ear then,— just have a look if I may, and be off?"
"Dear no, that's not how 'tis done, I must come along, to operate the Show.”
"Excuse me,— Show...?"
Nai've Mason. First he must endure The Spaniard's Crime, The Ear Display'd to Parliament, the Declaration of War,— with Mournival speaking all the parts and putting in the sounds of Cannonades, and Storms at Sea, Traffick in Whitehall, Spanish Jabbering and the like, and providing incidental music upon the Mandoline from Mr. Squivelli's L'Orecchio Fatale, that is, "The Fateful Ear." A Disquisition upon Jenkin's Ear-Ring, "Aye, 'twas never Mr. J.'s Ear the Spaniard was after, but the great Ruby in it. For one silver shilling, you may view this remarkable Jewel, red as a wound, pluck'd from the Navel of an importantly connected Nautch-Dancer, by a Mate off a Coaster, who should've known better,— passing then from Scoundrel to Scoundrel, tho' Death to possess yet coveted passionately, from the Northern Sea to the farther swamps of the Indies, absorbing in its Passage, and bearing onward, one Episode after another, the brutal and dishonorable Tale of Bengal and the Carnatic, in the Days of the Company,— till it settl'd in to dangle beneath the fateful Lobe of Mr. Jenkin, and wait, a-throb with unlucki-ness, the Spaniard's Blade."
In the strait and increasingly malodorous space where they crouch, awash in monologue and vocal Tricks, Mason's only diversion is what Mr. Mournival, by now seeming more openly derang'd, styles "The Chronoscope," which, for a fee, may be squinted into,— here in all colors of the Prism sails the brig Rebecca, forever just about to be intercepted by the infamous Guarda-Costa. Mason's Squint is not merely wistful,— the ship's name is a Message from across some darker Sea,— as he has come to believe in a metaphysickal escape for the Seahorse, back there off Brest, much like this very depiction,— the Event not yet "reduc'd to certainty," the Day still'd, oceanick, an ascent, a reclaiming of light, wind express'd as its integral, each Sail a great held Breath.... Into just such a Dispensation, that far-off morning, had he risen... like a Child...India, all Islands possible, the open, inextinguishable Light.. .his last morning of Immortality.
"And finally, a salute to the career of Mr. Jenkin with the E.I.C., featuring his brief and not dishonorable tenure as Governor here." Nick Mournival's Tortoise Pick begins to vibrate upon the Notes of "Rule Britannia," as a life-siz'd portrait of Jenkin now shimmers into view, the
missing Ear tastefully disguis'd by the excursions of a Wig of twenty years ago, and the Curriculum Vitas is grandly recited.
All this while, the Ear reposes in its Pickling-Jar of Swedish lead Crystal, as if being withheld from Time's Appetite for some Destiny obscure to all. Presently 'tis noted by Mason,— he hopes, an effect of the light,— that somehow, the Ear has been a-glow,— for a while, too,— withal, it seems, as he watches, to come to Attention, to gain muscular Tone, to grow indeed quite firm, and, in its saline Bath, erect. It is listening. Quickly Mason grips himself by the head, attempting to forestall Panick.
"Aha." Mr. Mournival breaks off his narration. "Good for you, Sir. Some of them never do smoak it, you know. Yes of course Ear's been listening,— what're Ears for?— and to be honest, there's not much to do down here— Ear may look small and brine-soak'd to some, but I can tell you she's one voracious Vessel,— can't get enough of human speech, she'll take anything, in any language,— sometimes I must sit and read to her, the Bible, the Lunar Tables, The Ghastly Fop, whatever comes to hand...'tis Ear's great Hunger, that never abates."
" 'Ear'?"
"Oh? What would you call her? 'Nose'?"
"I...but wish'd not to speak inappropriately,— ' Mason's Eyes swiveling about more and more wildly, failing to locate the Egress.
"You're a Sporting Gentleman, I recognize your style, been to any number of London Clubs in me time, how'd you like to"— his Nudge, in this under-ground Intimacy, comes like an Assault,— "get a little closer, maybe.. .tell her something in private?" As much as the Space allows, he now flourishes a Key.
"Ehm, perhaps I'll just,— could you, actually, kindly, point me to the...Way out?"
Mr. Mournival has unlock'd the Vitrine, and reach'd into the Sea-Glow within. "You ought not leave, Sir, till you've spoken into Ear. She'll be a much better Judge of when you may go. And 'twill cost but a Rix-Dollar more,—
"What!"
"Be advis'd, I am empower'd to use Violence, I've a Warrant from the Company,—
"Here then,— take, take two Rix-Dollars,— why not? only Dutch money, isn't it, no more real than the Cape be, and that terrible Dream that has seiz'd and will not release them,—
"Don't tell me," shrugs Mr. Mournival. "Tell Ear. It's just the sort of Chat-up she fancies. Treat for you today, Ear!" he cries, startling Mason into a back-twinge he would rather not have. "Go ahead, Sir. Put your Lips as close as as you care to."
"You're not altogether well," Mason points out.
"And more of us on the Leeward Side than you'd ever suspect— There.. .so.—Better? Now whisper Ear your Wish, your fondest Wish,— join all those Sailors and Whores and Company Writers without number who've found their way down here, who've cried their own desires into the Great Insatiable. Upon my Solicitor's Advice, I must also remind you at this Point, that Ear only listens to Wishes,— she doesn't grant 'em."
Mason can scarce look into the blue-green Radiance surrounding the Ear,— in this crowded darkness, even the pale luminescence stuns.. .and just as well, too, for the Organ has now definitely risen up out of its Pickle, and without question is offering itself, half-cur'd and subterranean cold, to Mason's approaching Mouth. I have surviv'd the Royal Baby, Mason tells himself,— this can be done. The flirtatious Ear stands like a shell-fish,— vibrating, waiting.
His fondest Wish? that Rebekah live, and that,— but he will not betray her, not for this. What he whispers, rather, into the pervading scent of Brine and...something else, is, "A speedy and safe passage for Mr. Dixon, back to this place. For his personal sake, of course, but for my Sanity as well."
Helen of Troy, mutatis mutandis, might have smirk'd, yet even if the Ear were able to smirk, Mason wouldn't have notic'd, would he,— being preoccupied so with the Metaphysicks of the Moment. Till now, he has never properly understood the phrase Calling into a Void,— having imagin'd it said by Wives of Husbands, or Teachers of Students. Here, however, in the form of this priapick Ear, is the Void, and the very anti-Oracle— revealing nothing, as it absorbs ev'rything. One kneels and begs, one is humiliated, one crawls on.
"The Egress you seek lies directly before you, Sir,— " the Mandoline jingling a recessional Medley of Indian Airs as Mason climbs on. At the
moment, all he wants to see is the Atlantic Sky. "Godspeed!" calls Nick Mournival, "- - may you fare better in the life you resume, than ever did I in the one I abandon'd."
Having squirm'd past the last obstacle, Mason finds himself presently at Ground Level in the neglected Garden he glimps'd earlier. The Walls are markedly higher in here than he remembers them from the Street,— whose ev'ry audible Nuance now comes clear to him, near and far, all of
equal Loudness, from ev'ry part of the Town,— but invisible In its
suggestion of Transition between Two Worlds, the space offers an invitation to look into his Soul for a moment, before passing back to the Port-Town he has stepp'd from...a Sailors' waterfront Chapel, as some would say. He begins, like a Dog, to explore the Walls, proceeding about the stone Perimeter. Bright green Vines with red trumpet-shap'd Flowers, brighter indeed than the Day really allows...no door-ways of any kind.. .then Rain, salt from the Leagues of Vacant Ocean—
"I was in a State. I must have found the way out. Unless the real Mason is yet there captive in that exitless Patch, and I but his Representative."
When Dixon hears this, at last, a few days out in their Passage back to England, he sits staring at Mason. "Well,— this is going to seem uncoah', but as near as I can calculate, at exactly the instant you spoke into this Object, I heard, as out of a speaking-trumpet, your message. I was sitting in The World's End,— in some Wise that no Philosophy can explain, the Wind outside dropp'd for just long enough for me to hear. Of course I didn't recognize it as you, Mason,— so darken'd with echo and so forth was that Voice... ?"
"Dixon, I am 'maz'd...my Wish, as well, you say.... Ahrr! You almost persuaded me,— why can you never just let it be?— you had the hook right in my Mouth, Sir."
"In Durham, we tend to let the Coarse Fish go...?"
"Oh, aye,— in favor of what, pray?"
"We look more for Carp, or Salmon-Trout, tho' naturally 'twould be a bit different down where tha do thy fishing,— a more predatory style no Doubt,— desperate, as tha'd say.... Only come up to Wearside some time, we'll teach thee how to wait."
"I am a Taurus, Friend. I know how to wait.”
"Ever use a Ledger on thy Line?"
"A Lead Sinker, in the Frome? What a Hope,— something would eat it...? aye, so fast you'd never feel a thing...? I'm serious, Dixon. Lead? They esteem it a Delicacy."
" 'Tis just how I talk about places I don't fancy anyone else fishing in...?"
"For the Sake of the publick Health, nor should I,— not in those Clothiers' Sewer-Lines that were once my home Streams. We grew up feeling oblig'd to fish, yet certainly not to eat anything we caught. Too many cautionary Tales known to all."
"Much fishing at St. Helena?"
"I didn't leave Maskelyne in the best of mental health,— perhaps he's been here too long."
"With orbitally diametrick Obs as one's Plan, why there's never thah' much choice...? But life is so short." Dixon's Phiz now all piously of-course-I-never-gossip-but, " - Are you suggesting there's some other reason for his long Sojourn there, where five minutes is more than enough for some?"
"Mister, Dixon!" leaving Dixon just time to shrug unapologetickally, "what could that possibly be?"
"Six months... ? a man can pass thro' an entire phase of his life in that time. Have an Adventure,— who knows?"
"You don't mean to raise the possibility of..."
"Friend Mason, who am I to say? 'Tis thoo's been with him since October. Have there been publick displays, Beauties unintroduc'd, mysterious absences? Sirius neglected? Happen he's only been going off to drink, as drinking does seem to take up an unco' Fraction of people's time here...?"
"I have come to believe, that Maskelyne lingers only because Bradley discover'd the Aberration, and achiev'd Glory, whilst trying to find the Parallax of London's Zenith-Star. Might not that great moment of Clarity beneath Draco, reasons Maskelyne, be repeated there, beneath the Great Dog?"
"He thinks he'll find something else, like the Aberration...?"
"He's careful, that's all. If there's anything to it, he'll know soon enough.”
"Did I say anything? Ah don't even knaah the Lad...?"
"Nor I,— I'm speculating. Suppose that were it, 's all I'm saying— And yet he stays on. He could've come back with us, couldn't he? Has he in the Strangeness of his Solitude, reach'd a Compact with the Island, as if 'twere sentient, has he in some way come to belong to it in Perpetuity? The Whores' Bridge, his Desert,— his Trial of Passage, Abstinence?"
"Or, in that place, Indulgence," Dixon reminds him.
They would rather discuss Maskelyne's Affairs, than what waits in England, in their own Futurity. Through his Correspondence, Maskelyne has heard of one Possibility, tho' 'tis far from a Reduction to Certainty. Following the Chancery decision the year before, as to the Boundaries between the American Provinces of Pennsylvania and Maryland, both Proprietors have petition'd the Astronomer Royal for assistance, using the most modern means available, in marking these out,— one of them being a Parallel of Latitude, five degrees, an Hundred Leagues, of Wilderness East to West.
"Why would Maskelyne tell us of this?"
"He'd not want it for himself. He'd rather see us permanently abroad,— then 'tis alone at last with Dr. Bradley."
"Would thou go to America?"
"I don't know that Bradley would recommend me again," Mason says. "For reasons we appreciate. Nor shall Maskelyne be too eager,— if it cannot advance the cause of Lunars, what use is it? Who? Waddington? Yourself? If you are interested, Dixon, after the Work you did at the Cape, you may likely write your own Contract."
"That good, was it?"
"Yes. Mine was lucky,— the Sector practickally did the Work,— but yours was good."
"Then they'll want to send us both again...? Won't they. Eeh,— a bonny gone-on,— the two of huz, in America."
"I don't think so.”
18
Void of Course, back with Senses Boggl'd from War, Slavery, Successful Obs, the wind at St. Helena, unaccustom'd Respect from their Peers, Mason and Dixon wander about London like Tops a-spin, usually together, colliding from time to time and bouncing away smartly. They get to dine at The Mitre, tho' it is mid-afternoon and a Ploughman's Lunch of unintegrated Remnants of earlier meals. They address the Council of the Royal Society, and find they have nothing but good to say of all they have met at St. Helena and the Cape.
Dixon is soon departed Northward, his only Thought of The Jolly Pitman in Staindrop, an Idler's Haunt recall'd the more extravagantly as the Distance from Home increas'd. In London, Mason is less certain how to proceed. He must see his Boys, whom he cannot help missing, yet at the same time he dreads the Re-Union. In Town, he pays his Devoirs, and as Bonk predicted, is casually question'd, across what prove to be a Variety of Desks, by Agents of the Navy, the East India Company, the Royal Society, and the Parliamentary Curious, from King's Men to Rockingham Whigs, as to Vegetable Supply, Road-Widths, Shore-Batteries, Civilian Morale, Slave Discontent, and the like. He is releas'd at the sour gray end of afternoon into a City preparing for Night,— descending into Faith, from one Opportunity to the next, as once, early in his Grief for Rebekah, he descended into Sin.
The Cock Lane Ghost is all the Rage. Mason makes a point of going out to see what he can see. He finds at the fam'd Parsons Dwelling no Ghost, but is amaz'd at the Living who arrive whilst he's there. "Imagine who's here when I'm not?" he is not fully conscious of having utter'd aloud. "That's Mrs. Woffington over there. Little Chap by her Side? Gar-rick. Aye."
Giddily exited into the Lane again, he resolves, upon Rebekah's next Visit, to ask if she mightn't just pop 'round here, for a look within the Walls. But the Days in London stretch on, until he understands that she will not come to him here,— that she wants him in Sapperton,— Home.
However content Rebekah may be, Mason's Sisters are unusually harsh in their treatment of him. The Boys regard him politely. He brings them a pair of Toy Ships, bought as a last-minute afterthought off a bum-boat in Santa Cruz Bay. They take them down to the Stream, leaving the Women to discuss his character, and Mason puzzles thro' with them what he may of the Rigging, re-express'd by Carvers living in Tenerife, after their memories of visiting ships from everywhere. William is five. Doctor Isaac is three.
"It's from very far away," asserts Willy, more to Doc than to this incompletely recogniz'd man, whom it may be unwise to address. "It's not British."
"Your Boat?" Doc has no such caution in piping at Mason.
Mason has a look. "We carried more Guns, I think. There were not quite so many oddly-shap'd Sails. And of course as you note, these are blue. Exact shade of the Sea,— making them invisible Ships, as they sail along. Sneak right up on the French. Before they know it,— Touché!" Pretending to reach toward them with Intent to Tickle. They shrug out of range more than retreat, meantime eyeing him more curiously than before. Doc is closer to agreeable Laughter than his Brother, who believes it his Duty to be the Watchful One. Their boats ride the lenient Current together, in and out of the Shadows, ever in easy reach of rescue, the Boys shepherding them with Willow Wands, no more obtrusive in this Naval History than Gods in a Myth.
In the first weeks of July, Bradley falls ill, and gets steadily worse. On the thirteenth, in Chalford, he dies, and is put to rest with Susannah at Minchinhampton.
Mason rides over as he's done unnumber'd Times, trying not to think ahead. It does not much seem to matter. Too much lies unresolv'd for any Social Visit to clear away. He talks it over with himself.
"And Bradley knew..."
"Ev'rybody knew ev'rything. Except me. I only thought I did, so of course 'twas I who did the most screaming. Thro' the sleepless noontides Astronomers cherish, the emotion that rag'd within those admir'd walls could have shifted the Zero Meridian by seconds of Arc, into either Hemisphere, why who knows, even bounced it back and forth a few times.
"The indoor environment quickly became impossible to live in. That strange Parlor-Game commencing, Rebekah and I moving out of the Observatory, down to Feather Row, trudging up and down that hill at all Hours, with William going ev'rywhere in a sort of Sling,— then, before anyone quite realizes it, Susannah has mov'd in next door, Bradley begins visiting, at first penitent, then abject, soon he's there ev'ry night, takes to dropping in on us, hinting about, presently we're together as a foursome, boating upon the River, playing at Cards upon Nights of Cloud or Storm, Pope Joan, Piquet, Rebekah's sweet Voice, Susannah's hands never touch'd by Sunlight, impossible not to gaze at,— then we move up the hill again, whilst Bradley in some small flaring Snit takes our old Feather Row quarters...the Heavens wheel on, meantime."
Was he fated for these terrible unending four-door Farces? They do not always end luckily, as at the Cape, with ev'ryone's Blood unspill'd.
Young Sam Peach, Susannah's Brother, is there, and Miss Bradley, seventeen and despite her sleeplessness and Pallor, a-bloom,— and even with Bradley looking out of her face, more like her mother than Mason would ever have thought possible in the turn of a Socket, the Scroll of a Nose. He expects to disintegrate, but thro' the mercy of some curious Numbness, does not. They advise him, as gently as they've ever known how, that Bradley wish'd only the Family near. Any further word will be in the newspapers. Thus do Gloucestershire Nabobs deal with former Employees.
All the way back in to Stroud, episodes of the past flick at him like great sticky Webs. Some of us are Outlaws, and some Trespassers upon the very World. Everywhere stand Monitors advising Mason, that he may not proceed. He is a Warrior who has just lost his Lord.
Day into night, rain into starry heavens, when Rebekah crept from their bed to join Mason upon the Astronomer's Couch, Bradley's wraith stood over them, a lonely, weakly-illuminated picture of himself, compelled to watch them, to observe, yet wishing he did not have to hover so,— crying,— no louder than a Whisper,— "I am a Quadrant mounted upon a Wall, I must be ever fiduciary, sent into Error neither by Heat nor by Cold, that with which the Stars themselves are correlated,— finely-set enough for the Aberration of Light, but too coarse to read, with any penetration, the Winds of Desire." He was insanely in love with his young Wife, and had no way to estimate where the end of it might lie.
When young Miss Bradley and Rebekah went thro' their time of infatuation, talking long into the nights, Mason would come in from Observing to find them among the bed-clothes, and generally no room for him without waking one of them.
"How did you meet and marry him?" the girl wishes to know.
"My marriageable years had ebb'd away," Rebekah relates, "so slowly that I never knew the moment I was beach'd upon the Fearful Isle where no Flower grows. Days pass, one upon the next.... And then, against Hope,— lo, a Sail. There at the Horizon,— no idea how far,— a faint Promise of Rescue.. .a sort of Indiaman, as it prov'd."
"With an hundred handsome Sailors aboard, to choose from?" giggles Miss Bradley.
"But the one, alas, Impertinence A Pair of Gentlemen came to me
one day and said, 'Here is the one you must marry,'— and put before me a small cheap sketch, in Sepia already fading, of Charles. Handsome and fine as any Nabob you'd wish for,— since you were about to ask, Princess Sukie,— and of course I knew he wouldn't look that fair in person, yet had I assum'd some Honesty from them,— so to find Picture and Man quite as different as they prov'd to be, well, did surprize me. ' 'Twas but a Representation,' they explain'd, repeatedly, till I quite lost count, having also ceas'd to know what the word meant, anyway."
"Who were these Gentlemen? Had they come from Grandfather Peach's Company?"
"A mystery, lass. They were turn'd out in that flash way of Naboblets, all Morning Tussah and braided Hats, tha may have seen such visiting at
the Peaches' in the Country,— yet they might have been Buzz-men as easily, having some difficulties with the English Tongue, which, given my own, I may not judge."
"Where were ye wed?"
"Down near the East India Docks. 'Clive Chapel,' as they styl'd it then, a Nabob's Day-Dream, made to seem a Treasure-Cave of the East, with Walls of Crystal, Chandeliers of Lenses Prismatick, that could make the light of but a single Candle brighter than a Beacon, Prie-Dieux of Gold, Windows all of precious Gems instead of color'd Glass, depicting Scenes from the Wedding of Lord Clive and Miss Maskelyne,— her Gown entirely of Pearl, his Uniform Jacket of Burmese Ruby, their Eyes painstakingly a-sparkle with tiny Sapphires and Zircons."
"Heavenly.. .and their Hair?"
"Amber,— in its many shades— And the Dignitaries attending, and their Ladies, each in a different Costume, each out-dazzling each,— the Clergy officiating,— the Views of Bombay in the Background,— well, it seem'd to go on forever. You could gaze and get lost. Perhaps I did."
"Or he might have."
"He got lost among the Stars. Years before he met me."
"Papa is like that. I know. They just... drift off, don't they?"
Bradley had reported upon the Comets of '23 and '37, but not, apparently, that of '44, one day to be term'd the finest of the Century. What came sweeping instead into his life that year, was his Bride, Susannah Peach. Did he make any connection at the time between the Comet, and the girl? Or again, in '57, another Comet-year, when she departed from his life?— though Mason would seem to be the one up there most ready to connect the fast-moving image of a female head in the Sky, its hair streaming in a Wind inconceivable, with posthumous Visitation,— hectic high-speed star-gazing, not the usual small-Arc quotinoctian affair by any means. It would have been Mason, desperate with longing, who, had he kept a Journal, would have written,—
"Through the seven-foot Telescope, at that resolution, 'tis a Face, though yet veil'd, 'twill be hers, I swear it, I stare till my eyes ache. I must ask Bradley's advice, and with equal urgency, of course, I must not."
First Susannah, then Rebekah. The nearly two years separating their deaths were rul'd by the Approaching Comet of Dr. Halley, which
reach'd perihelion a month after Rebekah died,— dimming in the glare of the Sun, swinging about behind it, then appearing once more— Whereupon, 'twas Mason's midnight Duty to go in, and open the shutters of the roof, and fearfully recline, to search for her, find her, note her exact location, measure her. On his back. And when she was so close that there could remain no further doubt, how did he hold himself from crying out after the stricken bright Prow of her Face and Hair, out there so alone in the Midnight, unshelter'd, on display to ev'ry 'Gazer with a Lens at his disposal? He could not look too directly...as if he fear'd a direct stare from the eyes he fancied he saw, he could but take fugitive Squints, long enough to measure the great Flow of Hair gone white, his thumb and fingers busy with the Micrometer, no time to linger upon Sentiments, not beneath this long Hovering, this undesired Recognition.
Up late between Stars, Mason listen'd downhill to the Owls as they hunted, and kill'd, himself falling into a kind of stunn'd Attendance but a step and a half this side of Dream.... In the Turning-Evil of this time, awaiting her sure Return, he seem'd one night to push through to the other side of something, some Membrane, and understood that the death-faced Hunters below were not moaning that way from any cause,— rather, 'twas the Sound itself that possess'd them, an independent Force, using them as a way into the Secular Air, its purposes in the world far from the Rodents of the Hill-side, mysterious to all.
The pitch of Lust and Death in the Observatory was palpable to, if seldom nameable by, those who came up there. "Phoh! beginning to doubt we'd ever get away again."
"In the Tales I was brought up on, they eat people in places like that. What is going on between those two?
Mason more than once had caught the old Astronomer watching Susannah with a focus'd Patience he recogniz'd from the Sector Room...as if waiting for a sudden shift in the sky of Passion, like that headlong change in Star Position that had led him to the discovery of the Aberration of Light,— waiting for his Heart to leap again the way it had then, after Night upon Night of watching a little Ellipse, a copy in miniature of how the Earth was traveling in its own Orbit, enacted by London's own Zenith-star, Caput Draconis, the Dragon's Head, looking for the
Star's Parallax, as had been Dr. Hooke before him. When the Star inex-
plicably appear'd to be moving, it took him some time to understand and explain the apparent Disorder of the Heavens he was observing. ''I thought 'twas meself,— all the Coffee and Tobacco, driving me unreliable." He also saw at the Time a Great Finger reaching in from the Distance, pausing at Draco and,— gently for a Finger of its size,— stirring up into a small Vortex the Stars there.
By the time Mason went to work for him, he was known and rever'd thro'out Europe, and in the midst of compiling a great Volume of Observations Lunar, planetary, and astral,— to interested Parties priceless, yet to their Lawyers pricey enough to merit Disputing over. By Warrant of Queen Anne, "Visitors" from the Royal Society were entitl'd annually to a Copy of all Obs,— now,— so Mason had heard being shouted in another room during his late moments with the Peaches,— as Queen Anne was dead these many years, so must be her Warrant, and as the Obs had ever belong'd to Bradley personally, so now did they to his Heirs and Assigns.
Had Susannah been but a means of getting those Obs into the Peach family, and the eager Mittens of Sam Peach, Sr.? Were they the Price of a Directorship in the East India Company? Once there was a child, having done her Job, would the little Operative have been free to return to Chalford, back into the Peach Bosom, whilst her Doting Charge fidgeted about with his Lenses and screw-Settings, at distant Greenwich?
Even Mason's Horse looks back at him, reproachful at this. An ungentlemanly Speculation. Who has not been an indulgent Husband? "Who ever set out to be an old fool with a young Wife?" Mason argues aloud. "Of course he ador'd her, his Governess in all things. How shall I speak?"
Sam could've told Tales'd chill any Father's Blood. His affections, as ever, with the Doctor, nonetheless, when they wed, did he welcome the Relief. Now may he welcome the Obs, too. Yet Mason, as Bradley s Assistant, perform'd many of them. Shall he put in a Claim for these? He thinks not, as he was really giving them to Bradley, all, for nothing more than, "Thank you, Mr. Mason, and well done.”
19
In the bar of The George, what should he find, as the Topick of vehement Conversation, but Bradley again.
"I don't care how much glory he's brought England, he'll still have to pay for his Pints in here."
"Not likely now, is it? Poor Bugger."
"Howbeit,— he was in, don't forget, with Macclesfield and that gang, that stole the Eleven Days right off the Calendar. God may wait, for the living God's a Beast of Prey, Who waits, and may wait for years.. .yet at last, when least expected, He springs."
"Thank you, Rev,— now when do I get to sell Ale in your Chapel? Sunday be all right?"
"Nay, attend him,— the Battle-fields we know, situated in Earth's three Dimensions, have also their counterparts in Time,— and if the Popish gain advantage in Time's Reckoning, they may easily carry the Day."
"Why, that they've had, the Day and the Night as well, since 'fifty-two, when we were all taken over onto Roman Whore's Time, and lost eleven days' worth of our own."
Mason pretends to examine his shoe-buckle, trying not to sigh too heavily. Of the many Classics of Idiocy, this Idiocy of the Eleven Days has join'd the select handful that may never be escap'd. Some have held this Grudge for ten years,— not so long, as Grudges go. Now that misfortune has overtaken Bradley's life, do they feel aveng'd at last? He listens to the weary Hymn once more, as he has from his father, at this moment but walking-miles distant, still asleep, soon to wake—
"So what the D——l is yerr dear Friend Dr. Bradley up t', he and his
Protectors? Stealing eleven Days? Can that be done?" It seem'd his Father had really been asking.
"No, Pa,— by Act of Parliament, September second next shall be call'd, as ever, September second,— but the day after will be known as 'September fourteenth,' and then all will go on consecutive, as before."
"But,— 'twill really be September third."
"The third by the Old Style, aye. But ev'ryone will be using the New."
"Then what of the days between? Macclesfield takes them away, and declares they never were?" With a baffled Truculence in his Phiz that made Mason equally as anxious to comfort the distress it too clearly sig-nal'd, as to avoid the shouting it too often promis'd.
"We can call Days whatever we like. Give them names,— Georgeday, Charlesday,— or Numbers, so long as ev'ryone's clear what they're to be call'd."
"Aye Son, but,— what's become of the Eleven Days? and do you even know? you're telling me they're just.. .gone?" Would he not give this up? The shins of both men began to prickle with unmediated memories of violent collisions between Leather and Bone.
"Cheer ye, Pa, for there's a bright side,— we'll arrive instantly at the fourteenth, gaining eleven days that we didn't have to live through, nor be mark'd by, nor age at all in the course of,— we'll be eleven days younger than we would've been."
"Are you daft? Won't it make my next Birthday be here that much sooner? That's eleven Days older, idiot,— older."
"No," said Mason. "Or...wait a moment,—
"I've people asking me, what Macclesfield will do with the days he is stealing, and why is Dr. Bradley helping him, and I tell them, my son will know. And I did hope you'd know."
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking." He now began to quiz himself insomniac with this, wond'ring if his father had struggl'd thus with Mason's own earlier questions about the World. He invested Precious Sleep in the Question, and saw not a Farthing's Dividend.
Mr. Swivett, approaching a facial lividity that would alarm a Physician, were one present, now proclaims, "Not only did they insult the God-given structure of the Year, they also put us on Catholic Time. French Time. We've been fighting France all our Lives, all our Fathers' Lives, France is the Enemy eternal,— why be rul'd by their Calendar?"
"Because their Philosophers and ours," explains Mr. Hailstone, "are all in League, with those in other States of Europe, and the Jesuits too, among them possessing Machines, Powders, Rays, Elixirs and such, none less than remarkable,— one, now and then, so daunting that even the Agents of Kings must stay their Hands."
"Time, ye see," says the Landlord, "is the money of Science, isn't it. The Philosophers need a Time, common to all, as Traders do a common Coinage."
"Suggesting as well an Interest, in those Events which would occur in several Parts of the Globe at the same Instant."
"Like in the Book of Revelations?"
"Like the Transit of Venus, eh Mr. Mason?"
"Yahh!" Mason jumping in surprise. "Thankee, Sir, I never heard that one before."
"Mr. Mason," appeals Mr. Swivett, "you work'd beside Dr. Bradley, at Greenwich,— did the Doctor never bring the matter up? Weren't you personally curious?"
The George is clearly the wrong place to be tonight,— no easier than at Bradley's Bed-Side,— so remains he stunn'd at having been sent away, and with such unspeakable Coldness. Yet the spirited expedition into the Deserts of Idiocy Mr. Swivett now proposes, may be just the way for Mason to evade for a bit the whole subject of Bradley's dying without ever resolving what yet lies between them. A Gleam more malicious than merry creeps into his eyes. "Years before my time, tho' of course one was bound to hear things...," producing his Pipe, pouring Claret into his Cup, and reclining in his Chair. "Aye, the infamous conspiracy 'gainst th' Eleven Days,— hum,— kept sequester'd, as they say, by the younger Macclesfield,— intern'd not as to space, but rather.. .Time."
'Twas in that Schizochronick year of '52, that Macclesfield became President of the Royal Society, continuing so for twelve more Years, till his unfortunate passing. Among the Mobility, the Post was seen as a
shameless political reward from the Walpole-Gang, for his Theft of the People's Time, and certain proof of his guilt.
"My Father required but four years as Earl of Macclesfield to bring the Name down," he complain'd to Bradley, around the time the Bill was in Committee, "descending thro' Impeachment, thro' Confinement in the Tower, into a kind of popular Attainder,— for the People are now all too ready to believe me a Thief as well. Would that I might restore to them their Days, and be done! Throw them open the Gates of Shirburn Castle, lay on the Barrels of Ale, and Sides of Beef, appear upon a Battlement with mystickal Machines, solemnly set back two hundred sixty-four Hours the hands of the Castle Clock, and declare again the Day its ancient Numbering, to general Huzzahs,— alas, with all that, who in G-d's Name among them could want eleven more Days? of what? the further chance that something else dreadful will happen, in a Life of already unbearable misfortune?"
"Yet we are mortal," whisper'd Bradley. "Would you spit, my Lord, truly, upon eleven more Days?" He laugh'd carefully. His eyes, ordinarily protuberant, were lately shadow'd and cowl'd. Macclesfield regarded his Employee,— for they were master and servant in this as in all else,— briefly, before resuming.
"My people are from Leek, in Staffordshire. For a while, during the summer, the sun sets behind one edge of Cloud Hill, reappears upon the other side, and sets again. I grew up knowing the Sun might set twice,— what are eleven missing days to me?"
Bradley, distracted, forgot to laugh at this pretty Excursion. "What happen'd when you discover'd the rest of the World accustom'd to seeing it set but once, Milord?"
Macclesfield star'd vacantly, his face gone in the Instant to its own Commission'd Portrait,— a response to unwelcome speech perfected by the Class to which he yet aspir'd. Bradley might never have spoken.
Below them the lamps were coming on in the Taverns, the wind was shaking the Plantations of bare Trees, the River ceasing to reflect, as it began to absorb, the last light of the Day. They were out in Greenwich Park, walking near Lord Chesterfield's House,— the Autumn was well advanced, the trees gone to Pen-Strokes and Shadows in crippl'd Plexity, bath'd in the declining light. A keen Wind flow'd about them. Down the
Hill-side, light in colors of the Hearth was transmitted by window-panes more and less optickally true. Hounds bark'd in the Forest.
Bradley was fifty-nine that year, Macclesfield four years younger, calling him James this, James that. The older man was in perpetual bad health, did not hunt, ride, nor even fish, had married foolishly, had been entirely purchas'd long ago, Aberration, Nutation, Star Catalogue, and all, tho' he'd denied it successfully to himself.... "Ev'ryone lies, James, each appropriate to his place in the Chain.... We who rule must tell great Lies, whilst ye lower down need only lie a little bit. This is yet another thankless sacrifice we make for you, so that you may not have to feel as much Remorse as we do,— as we must. Part of noblesse oblige, as you might say.. .is it so strange that the son of a lawyer who bought and then destroy'd in shame a once-honorable Title, should seek refuge in stargazing? They betray us not, nor ever do they lie,— they are pure Mathe-sis. Unless they be Moons or Planets, possessing Diameter, each exists as but a dimensionless Point,— a simple pair of Numbers, Right Ascension and Declination....Numbers that you Men of Science are actually
paid, out of the Purses of Kings, to find."
"Fret not, Milord," replied Bradley, as if he were being paid to soothe the Patron, "— among Brother Lenses, all are welcome."
"Can you warrant me, that you did just now not insult me, James?"
Bradley imagin'd he caught a certain playfulness of Tone, but was unsure how much to wager upon that. "I have listen'd to my Lord insult himself for this last Hour,— why should I wish to join in, especially considering the respect I hold him in?"
"As a Lensman only, of course."
"You make it difficult."
They trudg'd thro' fallen Oak Leaves that sail'd and stirr'd about their Calves. They smell'd Chimney-Smoke. Blasted Autumn, invader of old Bones.
"Here," Mason explains to a small Audience at The George, "purely, as who might say, dangerously, was Time that must be denied its freedom to elapse. As if, for as long as The Days lay frozen, Mortality itself might present no claims. The Folk for miles around could sense a Presence,— something altogether too frightening for any of the regular servants at Shirburn Castle to go near. Macclesfield had to hire Strangers from far, far to the east."
"The Indies?"
"China?"
"Stepney!"
His Lordship, as Mason relates, requir'd a People who liv'd in quite another relation to Time,— one that did not, like our own, hold at its heart the terror of Time's passage,— far more preferably, Indifference to it, pure and transparent as possible. The Verbs of their language no more possessing tenses, than their Nouns Case-Endings,— for these People remain'd as careless of Sequences in Time as disengaged from Subjects, Objects, Possession, or indeed anything which might among Englishmen require a Preposition.
"As to Gender,— well, Dear me but that's something else again entirely, isn't it, aye and damme if it isn't— Howbeit,— thro' the good Offices of an Hungarian Intermediary,—
Protest from all in the Company.
"Hey? Genders? Very well,— of Genders they have three,— Male, Female, and the Third Sex no one talks about,— Dead. What, then, you may be curious to know, are the emotional relations between Male and Dead, Female and Dead, Dead and Dead? Eh? Just so. What of love triangles? Do they automatically become Quadrilaterals? With Death no longer in as simple a way parting us, no longer the Barrier nor Sanction that it was, what becomes of Marriage Vows,— how must we redefine Being Faithful... ?" By which he means (so the Revd, who was there in but a representational sense, ghostly as an imperfect narrative to be told in futurity, would have guess'd) that Rebekah's visits at St. Helena, if sexual, were profoundly like nothing he knew,— whilst she assum'd that he well understood her obligations among the Dead, and would respond ever as she wish'd. Yet how would he? being allow'd no access to any of those million'd dramas among the Dead. They were like the Stars to him,— unable to project himself among their enigmatic Gatherings, he could but observe thro' a mediating Instrument. The many-Lens'd Rebekah.
"Thro' the Efforts of Count Paradicsom, in any Case, a Band of these Aliens the Size of a Regiment, were presently arriv'd in Gloucestershire.
Bless us. Nothing like it since the Druids. They march'd in through the Castle gates playing upon enormous Chimes of Crystal Antimony, and trumpets fashion'd from the Bones of ancient Species found lying upon the great unbroken Plain where they dwell, their Music proceeding, not straight-ahead like an English marching-tune, but rather wandering unpredictably, with no clear beginning, nor end."
"Uniforms?"
"A sturdy sort of Armor head to toe, woven of the low Desert Shrubs of their Land."
"Ah, military chaps,— imposing, as you'd say?"
"Asiatick Pygmies," Mason says, "actually. Yet despite their stature, any Mob would have thought twice about challenging their right to colonize th' Eleven Days.
"Their Commission, that is, their Charter if you like, directed them to inhabit the Days, yet not to allow the Time to elapse. They were expected to set up Households, Farms, Villages, Mills,— an entire Plantation in Time."
"And say, do they live there yet? or, rather, 'then'? and have any of the days elaps'd, despite these enigmatick Gaolers?"
"Now and then, a traveler's report.... Geographickally, they're by now diffus'd ev'rywhere obedient to the New-Style Act,— some to America, some out to India,— vacant India! return'd unto wild Dogs and Serpents... the breeze off the Hoogli, blowing past the empty door-way of a certain...Black Hole?— and wherever they are, temporally, eleven days to the Tick behind us. Tis all an Eden there, Lads, and only they inhabit it, they and their Generations. 'Tis their great Saga,— the Pygmies' Discovery of Great Britain. Arriv'd they cannot say how, nor care, they sleep in our beds, live in our Rooms, eat from our Dishes what we have left in the Larders, finish our Bottles, play with our Cards and upon our Instruments, squat upon our Necessaries,— the more curious of them ever pursuing us, as might Historians of Times not yet come, by way of the clues to our lives that they find in Objects we have surrender'd to the Day, or been willing to leave behind at its End,— to them a mystery Nation, relentlessly being 'British,' a vast Hive of Ghosts not quite van-ish'd into Futurity...."
"Then...”
"Aye and recall," Mason's Phiz but precariously earnest, "where you were, eleven days ago,— saw you anyone really foreign about? Very short, perhaps? Even...Oriental in Aspect?"
"Well,— well yes, now that you,— " recalls Mr. Hailstone, "right out in Parliament-Street, it was, a strange little fellow, head shaved ev'ry-where, red damask robes with gold embellishments, what could in the right circs be call'd a fashionable Hat, a sort of squat Obelisk,— and as cryptickally inscrib'd. Not that I paid all that much Attention, of course, tho' a good number of Citizens, themselves by way of Brims and Cockades displaying Headgear Messages a-plenty, were loitering about, trying to decipher this Stranger's Hat.. .the odd thing was, he didn't pay any of us the least heed. Imagine. Stroud Macaronis pok'd at him with their Sticks, Irish servants pass'd Leprechaun remarks, respectable Matrons of the town ventur'd to chuck him under the Chin. All reported a surprizing transparency, some a many-color'd Twinkling about the Fringes of his Figure."
"Of course,— for you saw him as he was, in the relative Vacuum of his Plantation,— whilst he, for his Part, believ'd you all to be prankish Ghosts he must not acknowledge, fearing who knows what mental harm. You haunted each other."
"Thus, from the Cargo of Days, having broken Eleven, precious, untranspir'd, for his Masters to use as they will, having withal conspir'd to deliver our Land unto these strange alien Pygmies, stands Bradley tonight, before the Lord's Assizes, his Soul in the gravest Peril, let us pray," and Revd Cromorne proceeds to what we in the Trade call Drop the Transom, voice falling to a whisper, Eyelids fluttering over Eyeballs of increas'd Albedo, Do excuse me, I'm talking to God here, be with ye as soon as we're done,—
Is Mason going to get angry and into a fight? Will he stand and announce, "This is none of God's judgment,— to be offended as gravely by Calendar Reform as by Mortal Sin, requires a meanness of spirit quite out of the reach of any known Deity,— tho' well within the resources of Stroud, it seems." And walk out thro' their stunn'd ranks to the Embrace of the Night, and never enter the place again? No.—He buys ev'ryone another Pint, instead, and resigns himself to seeking out his Family tomorrow,— tho' sure Agents of Melancholy, they sooner or later feel regretful for it, whilst Regret is just the sort of Sentiment that regular life at The George depends on having no part of. The Landlord is kind and forthright, the Ale as good as any in Britain, the Defenestration of the Clothiers in '56 has inscrib'd the place forever in Legend, and Good Eggs far outnumber Bad Hats,— yet so dismal have these late Hours in it been for Mason, as to make him actually look forward to meeting his Relations again.
20
The Boys circle about, not sure of him, tho' Doc has come running, as he has done each time, at the sound of the Horse, his own Motion far ahead of his earthly feet, the moment he spies Mason, stopping short and gazing intently. "Hello! All well, Papa?"
"Why, yes." Alighting, "Hello, Doctor Isaac. How's ev'ryone faring here?"
"Oh...we're all good?" He reaches up without hesitation to take Mason's hand, and they go in.
Today Mason is patient, and by and by the two have settl'd inside his slacken'd Perimeter. They live with their Aunt Hester, Mason's sister, and her husband, Elroy. Mason, having ridden up to the house prepar'd spiritually for Disrespect, Recrimination, bad Coffee, also finds Delicia Quail, the Clothier's daughter, in a colorful pongee gown at least an order of Magnitude too riotous for any casual Visit in these Parts. Before long it is distressingly clear, that she suffers from that uncontroll'd Need to be a Bride, known to Physicians as Nymphomania, in whose cheerful Frenzy nuances vanish, and ev'ry unattach'd man is a potential Husband.
"You're young enough," she ticks off item by item, "Your Sons need a Mother and I've been tending kids all my life. I can bake a Sally Lunn, whose Aroma alone is guaranteed to add Inches to any Waistline, even one as trim as your own, Charlie Mason. My Puddings are Legend even in Painswick. I was brought up in the Anglican Faith, and with enough Spirits to drink, am said to be a merry companion. What were you looking for, exactly, in a second wife?"
" 'Licia, a Joy seeing you again, till this instant I wasn't aware I was looking. Yet I must have been, mustn't I?" At this moment, were he attending, he might have heard, from the direction of St. Kenelm's church-yard, a certain subterranean Rotation.
"What a faraway soul you can be, Mr. Mason," she smiles effort-fully,— "must 1 instruct you, that 'tis universal, upon this Planet, for a young widower to seek a new wife as soon as decency permits? Even wait an extra day, if he's shy."
"Thankee. So have I heard, and keep hearing, from so many well-wishers. Were I not under unbreakable Obligation,—
"To whom? The Royal Society? A Room-ful of men in Wigs, droning away in the candle-light, that's where you'd rather be, than home at the Hearth with your next Wife, and little ones? And the Custard,— ruin'd! How could you!" to appearance self-persuaded, she draws back from him. "What sort of night-crawling creature are you, then?"
"Oh, be a friendly Girl," prays Mason.
"I am not dramatizing at the moment, Charles."
"Kiss me right now, Sweet-Heart."
"Twittering London Fop," she snarls, making to go off. The Boys come running in. "Auntie 'Licia!" "Don't go!" She gathers them in, flashing Mason a There-you-see Smirk, over their small nuzzling heads. "The time you took for your long Sea-Journey might be excus'd, as a remedy for excessive Grief. But you're back now, aren't you?"
"Not entirely, for now there's something else up. So I may be off again, and fairly soon,— "
"What?" shrieks Hester. "Where to, now? There's no work in England? You had a secure job at Greenwich once, what happen'd to that?"
"Times change, Hetty. I enjoy'd that Post by way of the Newcastle Gang, who languish now at politickal Death's Door. New sorts of Whig control the Appointments." Bradley is gone, that's it,— yet he will not whine,— not in front of the Boys. Nor may anyone 'round here even recognize the Name. "The Pay's said to be good,—
"Were I you," advises Delicia Quail, "I should stick to the matter of the Longitude, for that is where the Money's at.”
"You have studied the Question.—True that in the short term, there'll be plenty of Almanack work, Lunars being the only practickal method at sea right now, and much cheaper than any Time-piece. But soon enough, sturdier offspring of Mr. Harrison's Watch will be showing their noontide Faces all about the Fleets, and Lunars will have had their day. The best we wretched Lunarians can ever hope for, is to share the Prize, which will prove at last a Tart cut too many ways to satisfy any. The real Fees nowadays, 'Licia, are to be earn'd abroad. For the first time real money is finding its way even into Astronomy,— Public Funds paying for entire Expeditions. It ages me to recall that Bradley, in discovering the Aberration, was obliged to rely upon the Generosity of those Nobility who shar'd his Passion for the Stars,"— an opening for someone at least to offer Condolences. None does.
"Where is it this time, Charlie?" asks his Sister Anne, but turn'd seventeen and eager to be out of the House, where she is an unpaid 'round-the-clock Menial.
"There're only Rumors, nothing's decided,—
"Papa!" cries the demonick Doctor Isaac.
"Tell us, Sir?" pipes William. Their Eyes so round and unwavering.
Mason drops his head. "America."
This is greeted with an Uproar, as ev'ryone seeks to comment at once,— "For G-d's Sake, Charles," Hester in piercing disbelief, "you were lucky to come back alive once,— the Odds are well against you now,— you might be thinking of these Two, for a change," whilst the Boys thump and shout, "Snakes! Bears! Indians!" and the like, and the Tea-Kettle whistles furiously upon the Stove, and no one attends.
Whilst the Feminine Gales rage all about, Elroy draws Mason aside, offering a pipeful of Virginia. "This job in America,— you'll be Star-Gazing again?"
"They want Boundary-Lines, hundreds of Miles long, as perfect as they can get 'em. For that, someone must take Latitudes and Longitudes, by the Stars."
"And you'll be some time away, I imagine."
"I never meant the Lads to be a burden on you, or Hester, I can see poor Annie's running Night and Day,— Christ they're enormous, I don't even know them.”
"And the next time you see them? Years, again? Charles, I esteem them as mine, for in this House all get the same Porridge, out of the same Pot,— you are off traveling more than you're here, whilst we'd be happy to take 'em. In which case, you'd have to sign over—
"Ahhrrhh! Never!"
"Then there would be another Price, that you might not wish to pay."
He knows, roughly, what it is, and waits dumb as a Stone.
"When they're of Age, they'll both be apprentic'd to your Father at the Mill. Standard seven-year Contracts. He'll reimburse us till then, and we could well use that help, Charles."
"Why isn't he telling me this?"
"I represent your Father in this matter."
"You? you're a lawyer?"
"No, yet ev'ryone needs Representation, from time to time. If you go to America, you'll be hearing all about that, I expect."
A wonderful Dilemma. Meanwhile more and less distant Relations proceed thro' the Day to come at him from all directions, unerring as Swifts, pointing Fingers, shaking Fists, brandishing Sticks, all with Reasons he ought to stay in Sapperton, vividly recalling to Mason Reason upon Reason why, two years ago, he was happy to leave all this. Back then, of course, he had his Grief. But time has gone on, and absent the Force majeure that drove them, stunn'd, together for an Instant to agree, for the same service now, there will be a Price.
The Boys, up since before Dawn, mombly upon the Floor with Fatigue, lurch over to kiss him good-Night, as if he has never been away, and ev'ry night they have been kissing him so. As ever, he is surpriz'd by the fierceness of their bodies, their inability to hold back, the purity of the not-yet-dishonest,— 'twould take a harder Case than Mason not to struggle with Tears of Sentiment. His relations look on, variously grimacing, sneering, or pretending not to see, all recalling his difficulties, in particular with Dr. Isaac, in even touching his Sons. "I am ever afraid they'll draw away," he confesses to his little sister Anne, sitting in the Kitchen drinking Coffee, after the Boys have gone off to bed. "Who would not be? Willy doesn't remember me, Doc is too little,...and what has Hester been telling them about their Father?”
"That you'd be home soon," says Anne. "That you were away, upon a Mission for the King, but that soon, you would be with them again."
"Whilst she's selling them to their Grand-Dad."
"What else are we to do?"
He must talk with his Father about this. I am thirty-four, he tells himself, riding over at a morose trot. Whence come these rectal Flashes? What's the worst he'll do, assault me with a day-old Cob-Loaf? It is further possible that Elroy is making the whole thing up, as part of some elaborate Extortion Scheme, wagering that Mason will never be able to verify it.
"No, that's not quite it," his Father pretends to explain. "I said, that as I'd been paying some of their upkeep all along, all the time their father's been off touring the Tropic Isles, why the least I ought to have's a lien on their services, when they're old enough to work. Young Elroy never knows when I'm joking."
"Well, were you?"
"Was I what? Paying? of course I was paying. When am I ever not? No one else in this Family has any money, but by me. I'm the one soon or late you all come to."
"I meant, were you joking."
His smile suggests, Soon I shall be unable to hear anything you say, and then I'll have escap'd you at last. Among ye, but not of ye.
"How did you know about the job in America?"
"The Baker knows ev'rything."
"They don't know in London."
"When I heard that your Protector had died, I knew."
Shouting back and forth, as if above the sound of the Wind of Time. "I don't see the connection."
"I know. D'ye recall, that I warn'd you of Sam Peach?"
"You said he was not my friend."
"And was he, when you went to visit? How'd your parrtickularr Friend treat you?"
Of course his father would have heard about how he was turn'd away. That must have been his only reason for granting this Audience. "Gloat?" Mason inquires in a quieter ev'ryday Voice, "having a nice Gloat over it are we, how admirable, no wonder I've turn'd out this way.”
The elder Mason smiles at him without warmth. "You're a Fool," he shouts. "Stay or go,— 'twill be me who ends up getting them both, I'm the neck of the great Family Funnel 'round here, ain't I? Were you planning to come in to Work today?"
Tho' 'tis not the first time Mason has been so berated, yet, he reflects, the Cob-Loaf would have been kinder.
In fact, far from the Ogre or Troll his son makes him out to be, Charles Sr. is a wistful and spiritual person. He believes that bread is alive,— that the yeast Animalcula may unite in a single purposeful individual,— that each Loaf is so organized, with the crust, for example, serving as skin or Carapace,— the small cavities within exhibiting a strange complexity, their pale Walls, to appearance smooth, proving, upon magnification, to be made up of even smaller bubbles, and, one may presume, so forth, down to the Limits of the Invisible. The Loaf, the indispensible point of convergence upon every British table, the solid British Quartern Loaf, is mostly, like the Soul, Emptiness.
"Wait till you've had the dough in your hands, Charlie," when they could yet talk without restraint, "and feel how warm, like flesh, how it gives off heat.—And if you set a Loaf aside, in a dark, quiet place, it will grow."
"Is it alive?" Young Mason had not wish'd to ask.
"Yes." A silence. "Would you like to have a go at some kneading, then." Weary more than patient, he expected the boy to say no. But as if the images of Flesh so intrigued him, that he must plunge his hands into the carnescent mass, young Mason presently did go to work at his father's Ovens. Mornings of Cock-crows in the dark, far up in the little valleys and echoing from the stones of town, horses a-stir, stable lads and serving-girls curling and turning on the earth floors, travelers dreaming, wives awakening,— young Mason kept thinking he could see dawn up the street, but dawn had not quite touch'd the Vale. His father work'd beside him, in light from two lanthorns, liquid, softened by years of flour-dust baked onto the reflectors,— watching his son in quick pulses of attention, but aware even so that the lad would rather be someplace else. In the next months, he would speak about duties to Charlie, who'd go along with it, tho' pulled at, the miller could tell, by something else, pull'd away from the silent loaves and the rumbling stones, out to London, the stars, the sea, India.
"Go ahead then, Charles," his mother, Anne Damsel, would call from someplace unseen.
"Talking to me?" the Baker kneading, without breaking his Rhythm, "or the little Starrrgazer?" putting in what Scorn he could afford. Mason, hands in the dough, watch'd his father openly, feeling the pain in his arms, the pale mass seething with live resistance,— hungry peoples' invention to fill in for times of no Meat, and presently a Succedaneum for Our Lord's own Flesh— The baker's trade terrified the young man. He learn'd as much of it as would keep him going,— but when he began to see into it,— the smells, the unaccountable swelling of the dough, the oven door like a door before a Sacrament,— the daily repetitions of smell and ferment and some hidden Drama, as in the Mass,— was he fleeing to the repetitions of the Sky, believing them safer, not as saturated in life and death? If Christ's Body could enter Bread, then what else might?— might it not be as easily haunted by ghosts less welcome? Alone in the early empty mornings even for a few seconds with the mute white rows, he was overwhelmed by the ghostliness of Bread.
"What is it you think I do, then, when I'm up staring at the Sky in the middle of the night?" He stands there, as if hanging, under a sack of flour, hanging waiting, as if his father might stop work, and begin to chat with him.
The baker cocks an eyebrow. Whatever it is, he doesn't understand it, yet hesitates to start the Lad a-jabbering again. Is it his Wits? Slow-wittedness runs among the Damsel side, of course,— has for centuries. But how can his son so imperfectly grasp the nature of Work? Doesn't he even understand that he has to sleep sometime?
In fact, young Mason nods all the time, more than once with a risen raw Loaf for a pillow, his ear flow'd into intimately by the living network of cells, which seems, just before he wakes,— he insists he wasn't dreaming,— to contrive in some wise, directly in his ear canal, to speak to him. It says, "Remember us to your Father."
"What happens to men sometimes," his Father wants to tell Charlie, "is that one day all at once they'll understand how much they love their children, as absolutely as a child gives away its own love, and the terri-
ble terms that come with that,— and it proves too much to bear, and they'll not want it, any of it, and back away in fear. And that's how these miserable situations arise,— in particular between fathers and sons. The Father too afraid, the Child too innocent. Yet if he could but survive the first onrush of fear, and be bless'd with enough Time to think, he might find a way through—" Hoping Charlie might have look'd at him and ask'd, "Are you and I finding a way through?"
He keeps trying. " 'Tis all one thing. From field, to Mill-stone, to oven. All part of Bread. A Proceeding. There'd be naught to knead or bake without this." He gestures toward where the great Stones move in their Dumbness and Power,— "The Grinding, the Rising, the Baking, at each stage it grows lighter, it rises not only in the Pans but from the Earth itself, being ground to Flour, as Stones are ground to Dust, from that condition taking in water, then being fill'd with Air by Yeasts, finding its way at last to Heat, rising each time, d'ye see, until it be a perfect thing." Picking up a Loaf and holding it to his face. Young Mason thinks he is about to eat it.
21
The towns around the Golden Valley didn't think much of one another,— as if combin'd in a League, not for Trade, but for purposes of Envy, Spite, and Vendetta. Living in a Paradise, they chose to enact a Purgatory, where the new Mill-Money flowing in seem'd not to preserve the Equilibrium of Meanness and Stultification they all thought they'd reach'd, so much as to knock all lop-sided again. The precise Geography of the Water-shed was now primary,— where Races might go, for Wheels to be driven and Workshops to be run from them...'twas like coming before the Final Judge and discovering that good and useful Lives, innocence of Wrong-doing, purity of Character, count for far less, than what He really wishes of us, something we have no more suspected than anyone in the Valley had ever imagin'd that the Flow of Water through Nature, along a Gradient provided free by the same Deity, might be re-shap'd to drive a Row of Looms, each working thousands of Yarns in strictest right-angularity,— as far from Earthly forms as possible,— nor that ev'ry stage of the 'Morphosis, would have its equivalent in Pounds, Shillings, and Pence.
"Yet some will wish but to flee,— to Gloucester, to London, to America,— anywhere but this Sink of village bickering." So, at least, did Charles represent his Needs for a future outside the Valley. Rebekah gazed back, an enigma to him, Eve in paradise,— or Eurydice in hell, yet to learn, after it was too late, where she'd been.. .his mind rac'd with ancient stories. How could he allow that she might have her own story? How could he not choose the easier road, and refer her to some male character, the love-crazy Poet, the tempted Innocent? Was he supposed to light a pipe, pick her up, settle back, and read her all at one sitting? Was this what women wanted? Whom could he ask?
Had he gone to his father, already retreating into the unstirr'd Labyrinths of deafness (though they'd been shouting at each other all their lives), had the elder Charles for once showed some sympathy, who knows where they might have taken it? Instead, accepting that he must not love this young man as he had once, secretly, with all the mindless surrender of a mother, loved Charlie the baby, taking Charles Jr.'s arm, he would have steered him down a gradient of noise till they could shout comfortably. They'd be standing by the little pond, ducks drifting, gnats aswarm— "Is she yawny then, too? Nobody's going to marry you, you young fool, unless there's something really wrong with her. What do women want? A good provider, not some stargazer who won't grow up."
"If the Position at Greenwich—
"Sam Peach is not your friend. For every effort he makes on yen-behalf, there will be a price, and you may not enjoy paying it when it falls due."
All subjunctive, of course,— had young Mason gone to his father, this might have been the conversation likely to result.
They found a Hill-Top and pick-nick'd. Mason, she had already notic'd, search'd ever in the smoky distance, beyond the Observatory, and the winding of the River, for the East India Docks. "Do you dream of the far Indies?" she ask'd finally. "I do. I wish we might go."
He'd been in fact just about to tell her. It delighted him, this wordless Transgression of Cause and Effect. Aloud, "So we might." And her face turn'd to him. "What are you doing on the sixth of June 1761?"
Innocently expectant, "Oh, I'd have to look in my Calendar of
Engagements Are you inviting me off to the Indies, then?"
"Sumatra, if we're lucky."
"If we're not?"
"Dunno. Hounslow Heath?"
"I meant,— would you go alone? Leave me here?”
'"Twould have to be together."
She was looking at him closely. He meant something else, but she couldn't quite see what. "Would we sail in an Indiaman?"
"Halfway 'round the world."
"Aye, and back,— and would we be Nabobs?"
"Alas, my 'Bekah, nor even chicken Nabobs,— though we might put aside enough to bespeak an Orrery, perhaps find employment as Operators, appearing in Public Rooms up and down the Coaching Routes."
"You won't have this job any more? Stargazer's Apprentice, or whatever it be."
"The Work has to go on," he told her. "Down here, the Rivalry with France, keen as ever,— out There, the Timeless, ev'rything upon the Move, no pattern ever to repeat itself.... Someone at Greenwich, ev'ry Night the Sky allows, must open the Shutters to its Majesty, and go in again to the unforgiving Snout and secure the Obs. If not me. someone."
"I can't believe Dr. Bradley wouldn't want you back."
"You see how he is,— his Age how merciless. By the time we return'd, we might no longer be able to look to his support."
"This sounds like Politics, 'Heart. I thought you gaz'd at Stars, and thought higher thoughts, you people."
"Arh, Arh! Alas,— not exactly. Astronomy is as soil'd at the hands of the Pelhamites as ev'ry other Business in this Kingdom,— and we ever at the mercy of Place-jobbery, as much as any Nincompoop at Court."
"Why, Disgruntlement. I had no idea."
Neither had he. "Kiss me anyway."
"Never kiss'd a.. .Placeman before."
"Play your Cards handsomely, ye shall have what we call the Newcastle Special."
"Humm.... And I shall learn Malay, Hindoo, Chinese, too. I'll be like one of those talking parrots. Oh, Mopery, you think I talk too much now, but Eastward bound, I shall never give those patient Ears a moment of rest, and you, unfortunate Lord, must suffer it, tho' count it a blessing my Wish was not to take lessons upon the Bag-pipes...."
As if this middle-aged Gothicism of Mason's were but some of the Residue, darken'd and sour'd, of an earlier and more hopeful Bottling of Self, he tells Dixon of how, one night near the Solstice, courting, they
decided to ride South, to view Stonehenge by moonlight,— she close and snug upon the Pillion, wind rushing by, those expressive arms, all his back a-shiver and fingers aching,— presently falling in with the ancient Welsh cattle route call'd the Calfway, that ran from Bisley down to Chal-ford and up the other side of the Valley, toward the Salisbury Plain,— a day, a night, love beneath Hedges, sleep, another day,— arriving a few hours before sunset upon Midsummer Eve.
She was restless. She mov'd closer to him. "Charlie. It's very old, isn't it. What is it?"
"The old stargazers us'd it."
"It's too familiar. I've this feeling.. .1 know the place, and it knows me. Could it be our ancestors? even so long ago, in your family, or mine?"
"Oh, we've been millers and bakers forever,— yet it might be some o' yours."
"We did have relations hereabouts."
"Then depend upon it,— if you mark the mass of these Stones, there must've once been full employment 'round here, and for many Years,— some of yours were bound to've been in on it...but dear oh dear, now won't Tongues be a-wag from Bisley to Stroud,— 'Lord in thy Mercy, he's married a Druid!''
Their rhythm suddenly laps'd, hearing him speak the Verb lately so much upon her mind,— and more so than upon her lips,— having left her, for a moment, abash'd.
He snapp'd his Fingers. "But of course, you are Druid, aren't you,— frightfully awkward, tho' how would I've known, you don't look Druid particularly,— not as if I'd examin'd you as to religious beliefs or anything, is it.... So! Druid! Well, well,— do you still, ehm, put people in those wicker things, and set them on fire? hmm? or have you had a Reformation of your Faith as well?" He was smiling companionably, as if expecting some reply to this.
By surprize, she allow'd herself a merry laugh, made a fist, and slowly but meaningfully brought it to his Mouth. "And in Sapperton they'll say, 'Lord in thy Mercy, she's married an Idiot.''
And as they ascended for the first time to the Observatory, she gave Charlie another of her open-handed smacks upon the Wig-top. "Druids! You have the Presumption to quiz with me about Druids!"
"Don't fancy it much, hey?" He stood with Bags and Boxes, already aching from the climb, yet aware that this was exactly how he'd prefer to come breezing into his new Position, helplessly burden'd and under affectionate assault by this handsome Lass, this particular one.
"Well look at it? It's peculiar isn't it? Are ye taking me to one of these sinister Castles, oh I've read about them,— secret Rituals, Folk in Capes and Hoods? Sex? Torture? Nuns and Monks? Why Charlie, the Idea."
"Hold, I never said,— excuse me, you've read about what?"
"And Night falling as well." They had heard an early Owl. "And what might go on in that part, there?"
"An ancient Well,— old as Stonehenge, anyway. Flamsteed us'd it for Obs in the Day-time. I'll show you it tomorrow, if I may."
And what sorts of Looks will she and Susannah be exchanging there in the courtyard of the Observatory, across the wind that bears away ev'rything spoken?— steps from the Zero Meridian of the World, the young Mistress in her Door-way, the Sorcerer's Apprentice's lower-born Wife, with her head inclin'd out of politeness, yet her eyes gazing out of Curiosity.... When does Rebekah begin to suspect that she is there to guarantee her husband's behavior?
He wants to dream for her a Resurrection, nothing Gothic, nor even Scriptural,— rather, a pleasant, pretty Ascent, some breezy forenoon, out of the tended Patch before the Stone, St. Kenelm's in the sunlight, Painted Ladies buffeted among swaying wild-flowers, all then rushing downward in a spectral blur as she rises above the valley, into the Wind, the shape of Sapperton in finish'd purity below, the Ridgeline behind her, cold, etch'd, that should have kept them from Oxford and Bradleys and all that came after.
He must keep reminding himself not to search the Boys' Faces too intently for Rebekah's. It makes them squirm, which gives him little Joy. Upon Days when he knows he will see them, he stares into his Mirror, memorizing his own face well enough to filter it out of Willy's and Doc's, leaving, if the Trick succeed, Rebekah's alone, her dear living Face,— tho' at about half the optickal Resolution, he guesses. When the time comes, he finds he cannot remember what he looks like. Withal, their Faces are their own, unsortably,— and claim the Moment.
"Will there be savages?" William asks. "Will you be afraid?”
"Yes,— and maybe."
"Will you have a Rifle?"
"I'll have a Telescope."
"Maybe they'll think it's a Rifle."
"Going where Mama go?" asks Doctor Isaac.
Someday, Mason almost replies. "Don't know." He picks the boy up, turns him upside down, and holds him by his feet. "Now then, what's this?"
"Me too!" cries Will.
One in each Arm, "I'll need to be at least this strong, in America." Each time he bids them farewell and rides away, he pretends there'll be at least one more Visit. They watch him depart, smaller in the Doorway than in his embrace, and at the Turn of the Road, hand in hand, go dashing off.
London is chang'd. There's less welcome than he discovers he's been wishing for. Ev'rywhere he looks are Squalid Mementoes of his History in the Town,— one Station after another upon a Progress Melancholick.
Mason has pimp'd for Maskelyne, that is his sin, what they whisper of even before his trailing Boot-sole has left the Carpet of the Foyer,— he has acquiesc'd in an elaborate Seduction of not only the Soprano within, but the comickal Basso at the Door as well. He knows what is happening. Yet at the same time, how can he know,— isn't he but a simple lad from the Country? Here comes this sly Cambridge Mathematician. By the time Mason smoaks his Game, 'tis too late, and he is all but pack'd off to America and well out of the way, whilst the interloper stops at home, making briskly what Interest he may.
That would be the Text of it, anyhow,— with Sermons upon it a-plenty, no doubt, to follow. The Pilgrim, however long or crooked his Road, may keep ever before him the Holy Place he must by his Faith seek, as the American Ranger, however indeterminate or unposted his Wilderness, may enjoy, ever at his Back, the Impulse of Duty he must, by his Honor, attend. Mason, not quite grown undeceiv'd as to Places that may no longer exist, nor yet quite reluctant enough, to be push'd into someone else's Notion of Futurity, is thus restricted to the outer
Suburbs that ring the Earthly City,— the Capital at the Heart of his Time,— not altogether banish'd from, tho' as little welcom'd into, that distant Splendor. By this Formula, any visit he makes with Maskelyne is fated to add a public component to what, in private, is already proving unendurable.
"Penance," Mason declares. They meet in London, Summer '63, at Mun Maskelyne's Rooms near New Bond Street, with Mason waiting to hear about the Engagement in America, and Nevil Maskelyne on the Eve of sailing off upon the Barbados Trials of Mr. Harrison's bothersome Watch. The eminent young Lalande, who has recently (in '62) succeeded J. N. Delisle in the chair of astronomy in the College de France, is likewise in town to view trials of the Chronometer, and to dine at The Mitre Club as well.
"He's but my age," remarks Maskelyne, "— adjunct Astronomer at the Paris Observatory before he was twenty-one. You, by contrast, were,— was it twenty-eight?— when you went to work for Bradley?"
"Withal, I am six years older than him to begin with," grunts Mason. "That gives him a jump of.. .what,— thirteen? fourteen years,— better get cracking, hadn't we.—Regard this, we're talking about Lalande again."
"For a Frenchman, he doesn't seem that difficult. Rather idolizes me, 's a matter of fact, tho' I can't imagine why—"
Mason ought to reply, "Because he's too young to judge Character," but instead grimaces diplomatically.
"Aha! Here he comes now!"
"Nevil,— Cher Maître!" They are at one another's cheeks. Mason immediately suspects that Maskelyne has hir'd an Actor, a quasi-amateur Stroller at that, to impersonate the fam'd Philosophe.
"Dr. Bradley was the Lumina of our little Constellation of Astronomers, Sir," the Frenchman, to appearance sincere, greets Mason. "Lemonnier, my Mentor, worship'd him."
There is a Crash and a great voic'd Roar. A Woman shrieks, and several sets of footsteps hasten away. "Ah, and you'll get to meet Mun," his Brother in a Curatickal murmur.
Who now comes thumping in. "Just down from Bath, Nevil, need a good sleep to wake me up. Met this Herschel fella at the Octagon
Chapel, rather your sort of indiv., I'd imagine, Astrologer like yourself, frightfully damn'd talented Organist as well, goes without saying. Doo-doo doodley, doodley doodley doodley,— well you get the Idea.— Hul-lo, J.J., still in Town?— Who's this? Looks like he forgot where the Punch Bowl went. All in fun, Sir, and let us see what Nevil did give you to drink? Ah!" He pretends to back away in Terror from Mason's Cup. "The Lad means well, of course,— but he has no idea of Hospitality. Come along."
"I'll go along with you," says J. J. Lalande, "I'm off to Drury Lane to see Florizel and Perdita."
"Both of them, eh?" Mun shaking his head in admiration. "You French,— say."
The next thing Mason knows, Night has fallen and he is in a Quarter of the City previously unknown to him. Fans of violet light, from Lan-thorns of tinted glass, reveal silent Crowds of hastening men and women. Odd Screams now and then break the determin'd Rush of Footfalls. Mun seems unconcern'd at the firmness of the Mobility's Grip upon them, once they have enter'd the Current. Soon he has vanish'd, leaving Mason to find his way back, tho' by now 'tis unclear if, thro' an Agency yet to be discover'd, he has not already, Wig and Waistcoat, been not so much transported as translated, to a congruent Street somewhere in America.
22
Fr. Christopher Maire, far from pallid, wearing no black beyond his Queue-Tie, neither wiry nor unnaturally fit, in Manner as free of the suave as of the pinguid, seems scarcely any Englishman's idea of a Jesuit. Yet he will confess, that earlier in life, during his Adventures in Italy with Fr. Boscovich in fact, he took time better us'd in spiritual Work to cultivate a more Loyolan Image,— proving quite unsuccessful at it, however,— remaining fair and spindle-shap'd as when he stepp'd off the boat, failing to rid his speech of Geordie coloration, nor ever achieving that opaque Effect of a Stiletto-Waver stuff'd into a Churchly Frock, which distinguishes El Auténtico.
Maire awaits Dixon in Emerson's front parlor,— outside, the traffic in and out of Hurworth creaks, and whistles, and clops. Those bound from Teeside across the Fells take a last opportunity to hark human Speech, before the long miles and unspoken-of but too well known Visits toward the end of the Day, when the cool'd light above the spoil-heaps favors them. And if any hint of the sinister were to accompany this Priest, 'twould be well in that Northern, bones-and-blood tradition, of beings like Hob Headless, said to haunt the road between Hurworth and Neasham, all of whose former Neighbors were agreed upon what a wholesome individual he once seem'd.
Emerson, bustling into the room bearing the remains of the Bloat Herring from Breakfast, directly adjoining upon the Plate an Ox-Tail from several Meals ago, and something that may once have been a Haggis, cries, "Now clap yersel's down," in an unnaturally vivacious tone.
Tis no great leap for most to imagine William Emerson a Wizard. Interest in the Dark Arts is ever miasmatick in Durham, as if rising from the coal-beds,— old as Draconick Incursion, the scaly Visitors drawn by the familiar odors of Sulfur and Burning,— not to mention Ghosts in ev'ry Tavern, and Cannibals, impossible to Defeat, ranging the Fells— Seekers come in from all 'round to Hurworth, where Emerson is ever available to cast a Horoscope, mix up a Philtre, find a stolen Purse. Not all his feats are benevolent,— once, out of Annoyance, he kept a neighbor Lad in a Tree for most of the Day, unable to stir, let alone descend...using a form of the very Technique which has found its late Exponent in Dr. Mesmer.
"In Paris," comments Cousin DePugh, his father happening for a Moment to be out of the Room, " 'tis all the Rage— indeed, / have been Mesmeriz'd."
"What,— " Ethelmer needling in among a general murmur of Dubiety, "by Mesmer himself, I suppose."
"Yes and Dr. M. was also kind enough to instruct some of us in what he knew,—
"Mesmer charges an hundred Louis, 'tis well known," cries Euphie, "That's eighty-five pounds Brit, where's your poor Father getting money like that?"
"Oh, Franz gave us a Price, as there were so many of us, who wish'd to learn. By forgoing one Pint per Evening, for a Stretch somewhat longer than Lent, I soon had replenish'd my Funds. In fact, I don't ever recall telling Pa about it, and would be oblig'd, dear Cousin, um, that is..."
"Peach Not is ever my Policy, DePugh."
"I've become quite good at the Mesmerick Arts,— indeed I'm thinking of setting up a practice in America."
"New-York's the Place," advises Brae, "they've ev'rything there. But stay out of this Town, Coz, if you're looking to turn any Profit.”
"Brae!" cries her father in a mock-offended Tone. "Anyone with the necessary Drive can make a go of it here. As Mr. Tox says in his Penn-sylvaniad,— twenty-first or -second Book,
'A young man seeking to advance himself,
Will get him to the nearest Source of Pelf.—
And few of these are more distinctly Pelfier,
Than,— Long Life, Queen of Schuylkill!— Philadelphia.'''
"I was thinking more of the West," says DePugh. "Little or no Medical equipment to weigh down one's Progress...the necessary Herbs, in those Wilds,— so 'tis said,— ev'rywhere to be found...and the Powers being already long known to Indian medicine-men, Business opportunities await the alert Practitioner, among Red, even as White, customers."
"More likely," his Uncle suggests, "any Doctors who're already there will run you out of town, if they don't kill you first, because they don't want the Competition."
"But it's America, Sir! Competition is of her Essence!"
"Nobody here wants Competition," Ives LeSpark re-entering, shaking his head gravely. "All wish but to name their Price, and maintain it, without the extra work and worry all these damn'd Up-starts require."
"More work for you, Nunk," supposes Ethelmer.
"We are like Physicians, there is always enough Work for us, as we treat the Moral Diseases," replies the Attorney, "nor are we any more dispos'd than our Brother Doctors to meeting other folks' Prices,— hence our zeal in defending Monopoly."
"A form of Sloth," notes the Revd, "that only Brutality can maintain for long, soon destroy'd if 'tis not abandon'd first."
"Rubbish," several Voices pronounce at once.
"Looks as if I'll need Fire-Arms," reckons DePugh.
"You know the Uncle to see, then," advises Aunt Euph.
"Already your Load increases," Brae puts in. "A Man oughtn't to be too weigh'd down."
"Franz told us we need bring but the proper Gaze."
"Hmm. Let us see.”
"Be warn'd, Cousin...."
"He's Magnetick," says Thelmer.
Most of Hurworth (the Revd has meanwhile continu'd) believe William Emerson a practicing Magician. Sheep-tenders have reported flights, usually at dusk, Passages of shadows aloft that can only have been one of Emerson's classes out upon a Field-Trip, for he is teaching them to fly. Toward Sunset, when ev'ry least Ruffle in the Nap of the Terrain is magnified as Shadow, they'll be out looking for traces of Roman and earlier ruins. In the Twilight they ascend, one by one, dutiful Pupils, Caps tied firmly down, Rust Light upon the Wrinkles in their Clothing, to flock above the Village, before moving out across the Fells, following southwesterly the Ley-Lines he shows them, sighting upon the Palatine Residence at Bishop Auckland, whilst Chapel-Spires, roadside Crosses, pre-historic standing Stones, holy Spring-heads, one by one in perfect Line, go passing directly beneath,— until just at the river, over ancient Vinovium, the Flock will pause to re-group. He is teaching them to sense rather than see this Line, to learn exactly what it feels like to yaw too much to its port or starboard. The Ley seems to generate, along its length, an Influence,— palpable as that of Earth's Magnetism upon a Needle,— "That is," Dixon will avow years later to Mason, with every appearance of sincerity, "I knew I could feel those Lines."
"Bisley Church," recalls Mason, "with a history of unending village Meannesses,— false Surveys, 'cursed Wells, vicious Hoaxes, ruin'd ceremonies, switch'd Corpses...and on into Stultification unending, traditional accounts of its construction suggesting, if not the intervention,
then at least the cooperative presence of the D——l,— was meant for a
field near Chalford,— but each night the stones were removed and transported in a right line, through the air, at brisk speed, to the church's present site. You can take a Map, draw a straight line from the Barrow near Great Badminton we call the Giant's Caves, to the Long Barrow near The Camp, and you'll observe it passes directly over Bisley, and might have been the church stones' route of transport, the ancient Barrows being known sources of, and foci for, the Tellurick Energies.”
"Oh,— well our Leys were nowhere near as evil as thah'...? Flying them was indeed quite pleasant, yes quite pleasant indeed,—
Over Wearside, here at Nightfall, exactly upon this Edge between sunlight too bright to see much by and moonlight providing another reading in coal-blue or luminous bone,— when spirits also are said in these parts to come out,— so beneath them now do the Dark-Age Maps, the long, dogged Roman Palimpsest, the earlier contours of Brigantum itself, emerge at a certain combination of low Sun-angle and Scholarly Altitude above the Fell,— coming up through the Spoil-heaps and the grazing, in colors of evening, in Map-makers' ink-washes, green Walnut, Weld, Brazil-wood, Lake, Terra-Sienna, Cullens-Earth, and Burnt Umber,— as Emerson meanwhile points out to his Flock the lines of the Roman baths and barracks and the temples to Mithras, the crypts in which the mysteries were pass'd on to novices, once long ago invisibly nested at the Camp's secret core, now open to anyone's curiosity. "The moral lesson in this," declares Emerson, "being,— Don't Die."
"The Romans," he continues, in class the next day, "were preoccupied with conveying Force, be it hydraulic, or military, or architectural,— along straight Lines. The Leys are at least that old,— perhaps Druidic, tho' others say Mithraic, in origin. Whichever Cult shall gain the honor, Right Lines beyond a certain Magnitude become of less use or instruction to those who must dwell among them, than intelligible, by their immense regularity, to more distant Onlookers, as giving a clear sign of Human Presence upon the Planet.
"The Argument for a Mithraic Origin is encourag'd by the Cult's known preference for underground Temples, either natural or man-made. They would have found a home in Durham, here among Pit-men and young Plutonians like yourselves,— indeed, let us suppose the earliest Coal-Pits were discover'd by Mithraist Sappers...? from the Camp up at Vinovia, poking about for a suitable Grotto,— who, seeking Ormazd, God of Light, found rather a condens'd Blackness which hides Light within, till set aflame.. .mystickal Stuff, Coal. Don't imagine any of you notice that, too busy getting it all over yerselves, or resenting it for being so heavy, or counting Chaldrons. Pretending it solid, when like light and Heat, it indeed flows. Eppur' si muove, if yese like."
Flow is his passion. He stands waist-deep in the Tees, fishing, con
templating its currents, believing, as Dixon will one day come to believe
of the Wear, that 'twill draw out the Gout from his leg. Emerson has no
patience with analysis. He loves Vortices, may stare at 'em for hours, if
he's the Time, so far as they remain in the River,— yet, once upon Paper,
he hates them, hates the misuse,— and therefore hates Euler, for exam
ple, at least as much as he reveres Newton. The first book he publish'd
was upon Fluxions. He is much shorter than Dixon. He has devis'd a
sailing-Scheme, whereby Winds are imagin'd to be forms of Gravity act
ing not vertically but laterally, along the Globe's Surface,— a Ship to
him is the Paradigm of the Universe. "All the possible forces in play
are represented each by its representative sheets, stays, braces, and
shrouds and such,— a set of lines in space, each at its particular angle.
Easy to see why sea-captains go crazy,— godlike power over realities so
simplified "
The Telescope, the Fluxions, the invention of Logarithms and the frenzy of multiplication, often for its own sake, that follow'd have for Emerson all been steps of an unarguable approach to God, a growing clarity,— Gravity, the Pulse of Time, the finite speed of Light present themselves to him as aspects of God's character. It's like becoming friendly with an erratic, powerful, potentially dangerous member of the Aristocracy. He holds no quarrel with the Creator's sovereignty, but is repeatedly appall'd at the lapses in Attention, the flaws in Design, the squand'rings of life and energy, the failures to be reasonable, or to exercise common sense,— first appall'd, then angry. We are taught,— we believe,— that it is love of the Creation which drives the Philosopher in his Studies. Emerson is driven, rather, by a passionate Resentment.
Upon concluding their Course of Study, Dixon's Class are brought in for a Valedictory Chat with Emerson.
"Your turn, Jeremiah. What's your aim in life?"
"Surveyor."
"What, Fool!— Staring yourself Blind...? Chaining through the Glaur...? Another damn'd Lamentation's added to the List,— 'Oink, oink.' "
A head-Shake, a Deferential Grin, yet, "These are busy times in Durham, Sir, the Demand for Enclosure having made Nabobs already of
more than one plain Dodman. It may happen overnight, upon the Proceeds of but one Commission,— for, prudently invested,—
"Assuming you know what 'prudently' is, even so,— there are only so many of these big spenders. What happens when you run out of 'Squireocracy ? "
"Business can but increase,— between enclosure and subdivision...? why there's work enough in Durham, the very day, for an hundred Surveyors."
Emerson gazes at nothing anyone can make out, for a long time. "You and your Class-mates all know," he murmurs at last, "of my confidence in Astrology,— yet here, facing thee, Plutonian Counter-example, must my Faith halt, and tremble. Regard th'self,— born under the Sign of the Lion, destin'd thereby for optimism, ambition, power in the larger World,— yet what do I behold instead, but a tepid, slothful Mope, with the Passions of a Pit-prop, whose dreams extend no further than siting Gazebos for jump'd-up Mustard-Farmers from Tow Law? whose naked Aim is but to accumulate Money, ever more Money, with as little work as possible? Tell me,— what natal Sign does that, I would have to say, exclusively, suggest to you?"
"The Bull," mumbles Dixon, aware this is also Emerson's natal Sign, but not wishing to seem too pleas'd with it. "Don't think I haven't had the same thought, Sir, but I looked for it in the Parish records, and there I am, end of July."
"Happen you've somewhat in the region of Pisces I don't know about? For there's the Sign of Enclosure... Leonian Fire kept ever within... ? artfully hidden... ? Aye, of course,— that must be it."
"Why then advise me, as tha did from the outset, that my Destiny was to inscribe the Earth...? Why show any of us the Leys as tha did, and the great Roman streets,— direct as Shafts of Light's what tha call'd them...."
"To weed out you who are too content with Spectacle," Emerson replies.
"Of the Pupils thou've declined to teach further, there are enough of us to form a Club," complains Dixon.
"You wanted only the flying, Jeremiah. 'Twas never about Flying."
"What else could it've been...?”
"Fret not, you will execute Maps of breath-taking beauty, which is a form of Flight not at all dishonorable."
"Not what Ah have in mind, tho' Ah do thank thee, may I say Friend Emerson, now we're no longer master and—
"Tha may not...? I am still Sir to you. Chain-carrier, go,— some fool's stately Ditches await thee."
Not that many years later, here is Dixon in his Teacher's Parlor, trying not to look at, much less eat, the Refreshments, observing instead the wordless messages between Emerson and Maire, and speculating as to who might have ow'd whom what, in arranging this Conference, in which Dixon seems to be some sort of desirable Package, if not Prize.
"I am off to St. Omer," the Priest says, "the merciless Environment of children, the company of most of whom I would not willingly have sought."
"Is it your Oath of Obedience?" The Geordie 0, as if a Comment upon Maire's failure to seem Jesuit enough, prolonged only just short of giving offense.
Maire sighs. "You have never met one of us before?"
"Aye, mind yourself, Dixon, you've studied De Litteraria Expeditions et Soforthia,— show some respect."
Dixon, whose hat until now has been upon his head Quaker style, sweeps it off smartly enough, blurting, "Pray thee Sir, my admiration for thah' great Traverse, is match'd only by some of my feelings about Newton...?"
It gets him a wan smile. "I can imagine how you taught them that, William,— the march from Rome to Rimini, across plains and over mountains, with galloping Horses, Telescopes,— perhaps, knowing your ways, a few Brigands as well. How could it fail to appeal to boys' imaginations? I should be taking down Memoranda."
"I've tried to scribble an Angle or two whilst upon horseback," says Dixon, "— I stand 'maz'd to hear of Father Boscovich's long poem of the Tale at first Hand, that he wrote, as you went...?"
"Indeed, and in Scribe as fair as that produc'd upon an oak desk in a solid house far from the sea. 'Twill soon, I'm told, be printed in London. He did also alight now and then to attend to less literary Tasks, such as measuring two degrees of Latitude, for the first time in History, but,— let
me draw back from the brink of Conjugate Capital Sin, and only add, that I commend and celebrate mio cam Ruggiero, as much as will satisfy you,— and may God be with him, in his present sojourn in London." His (as many suppos'd) secret Arrival the year before last, having been intended to reassure the British as to the continu'd Neutrality, in the present War, of the strategic Dalmatian Port of Ragusa,— Fr. Boscovich's birth-place, as it happen'd.
"What need of Deity," growls Emerson, "in London, among the Nabobs and philosophers? Stirring speeches to Diplomats...Glass of Madeira and a pipe at the jolly old Goose and Gridiron. Election to the hallow'd Society itself... Wonderful stuff, why aye,— yet what's his game, now, Kit?"
Nodding submissively, as if it had been coerc'd from him,— a silent "Very Well,"- "Brother Ruggiero wishes to measure a Degree, in America."
"How forthright, look at this."
"Latitude or Longitude?" inquires Dixon.
"Latitude. No further inland than necessary."
Emerson snorts. "No Rome to Rimini this time...?"
"He'd settle for a fraction of a Degree."
"He'll get none, Sir. This King will never allow Jesuit philosophers into British North America...? along either co-ordinate, be their motives unblemish'd as candle-wax,— and as to that,— what are your motives, why does the Society of Jesus after thirteen years suddenly want to start measuring Degrees again? How does it help you thump any more Protestants than you already do, basically?"
"Mayn't we be allow'd some curiosity as to the shape and size of the planet we're living on?" replies Maire, unblinking, just short of questioning the civility of his host.
"Why aye, so may we all...? But what your line-running Mate Boscovich also wants, indeed openly enough for word of it to've reach'd even the tilth-stopp'd Ears of this country Philosopher, is a great number of Jesuit Observatories, flung as a Web, all over the World it seems,— modeled somewhat, I'm told, upon the provisions made for observing the Transits of Venus. An obvious Question arises,— how often will Emplacements like that ever be needed? Any Celestial Event close
enough for it to matter which part of the Earth 'tis observ'd from, being surely too rare to merit that sizable an investment...? Therefore,— Emerson's notorious "therefore,"— intended, Dixon has at length dis-cover'd, to bully his students into believing there must have been some train of logic they fail'd to see,— "the inner purpose, rather, can only be,— to penetrate China. The rest being but Diversion."
Maire, face forbearing, shrugs, "This is the Epoch of our Exile, William. Day upon Day, Jesuits are being expell'd from the kingdoms of Europe. Maria Theresa, God save her, is all but our last Protector. Our time here in the West may be more limited than any of us wishes to think about. Even within our Faith we are as itinerant Strangers. We must consider possible places of refuge—" He crosses his hands upon his Breast. "China...?"
Emerson sputters into his tea. "Eehh!— what makes you think the Chinese'll like you Jezzies any better than the Bourbons do?"
"They might. They're not Catholic."
"Nor would yese have to worry about Expulsion or Suppression, Chinese much preferring to,— " Emerson makes a playful Head-chopping gesture. "What charms as it frightens us plain folk," he goes on, "is how Jesuits observe Devotions so transcendent, whilst practicing Crimes so terrestrial,— their Inventions as wondrously advanced as their use of them is remorselessly ancient. They seem to us at once, benevolent Visitors, from a Place quite beyond our reach, and corrupted Assassins, best kept beyond the reach of."
"Fair enough," says the priest, "yet, Jeremiah, here you've a Choice at last, between staying at home, and venturing abroad...? For tho' your Faith teaches equality and peace, I've yet to meet one of you Quaker Lads who hasn't the inward desire to be led into some fight. (Lo, William, he blushes.) Why, if Authority and Battle be your Meat, lad, our Out-Fit can supply as much as you like. The Wine ration's home-made but all for free,— the Uniform's not to everyone's taste, yet it does attract the Attention of the ladies, and you'll learn to work all the Machines,—
So — Have,—
A-
'Nother look,— at the Army that
Wrote the Book,— take the Path that you
Should've took— and you'll be
On your way!
Get, up, and, wipe-off-that-chin,
You can begin, to have a
Whole new oth-er life,—
Soldj'ring for Christ,
Reas'nably priced,—
And nobody's missing
The Kids or th' Wife! So,
Here's the Drill,
Take the Quill,
Sign upon the Line or any-
Where you will,
There's Heretics a-plenty and a
License to kill, if you're a
Brother in the S. of J.!"
At the close of which the Priest unhelpfully blurts, "(Celibacy of course being ever strictly enjoin'd.—) / If you're a Brother in the—
"What, no fucking?" Dixon acting far too astonish'd, as some otherworldly Accompaniment jingles to a halt.
"Why, happen our vow of Chastity's the very thing that allows us to approach the Transcendent...?"
"Happen," growls Emerson, "it's what makes you so mean, methodical, and without pity."
"Rubbish. You like glamor jobs? travel, excitement? chance to look into any number of things you may have been wond'ring about both inside and outside. Your success with the Transit of Venus was a mark of God, that he remains in Sympathy with our Designs, which now are entwin'd with the Projected Boundary-Line Survey in America. You are a perfect candidate for the Position,— a working Land-Surveyor with astronomical experience. I can assure you of Calvert approval,— that you come of a Quaker Family must appeal to at least one major faction in Pennsylvania,— and further, to the morbid delight of certain devotees of monarchies past, your Family is closely associated with Raby Castle, and thereby the melancholy yet darkly inspirational Tale of Sir Henry Vane the younger.”
"What, Jacobites in America? thought all thah' was over with...?" Dixon puzzles.
"Rather does the Tale go on, accumulating Power, told sweetly to Jacobite babes between the prayers and the Lullaby,— for Jacobites, like the Forces invisible that must ever create them, will persist. The Dispute did not end with Cromwell, nor Restoration,— nor William of Orange, nor Hanovers,— if English Soil has seen its last arm'd encounters, then the fighting-ground is now remov'd to America,— yet another use for the damn'd Place,— with Weapons likewise new, including fanciful Stuart Charters to American Adventurers, launch'd upon Futurity's Sea like floating Mines, their purposes not to be met for years, perhaps for more than one Life-span, their Mischief incalculable."
"Young Vane was never a Regicide," Dixon insists.
"0, thou Fool," needles Emerson, "he was treacherous as a Serpent."
"Yet 'round Raby, most believe 'twas the baseness of the father, in pursuing the destruction of Strafford, that caus'd the same fate to descend upon the son."
' 'Twas your Vane Junior gave Pym the notes, for Heaven's sake," Emerson grumbles.
"A copy of a copy,— " says Dixon, "useless as evidence, wouldn't you call thah' at least a venial sin, Friend Maire?"
"Wrong!" Emerson feigning horror, "now we'll be here all week...?"
The Jesuit, who has never master'd the European Art of expressive shrugging, spreads his hands. "What man may ever know, how much the son may have shared his father's resentment, when the Barony of Raby went to Strafford? It seems a shabby enough motive for one man, let alone two, to feel it worth another's life. Young Vane was twenty-seven,— about your age, Jeremiah. Had he no idea, of how easily those who pursue the Business of the World may resort to Murder? Perhaps he thought Pym and his people would use it only in private, as a negotiating point."
"Murder...?" Dixon perplex'd.
"Judicial Murder, Whelp," Emerson glares, ' - words cost them nothing, Scriveners only a little more,— and lo! another Bill of Attainder or Sentence of Death, both in this our Day common as washing-bills, for the human life figures as nothing,— that being all the secret to Governance upon Earth.”
"Whilst Heaven," Maire reminds him, "sets the worth of a Soul at Everything."
"Why aye, unless it be Indians of Paraguay, or Jews of Spain, or Jansenists across the way, and y' knaah I'd love to sit about and talk of Religion till Hell freezeth oahver,— especially Newton's Views upon Gravity and the Holy Ghost, tho' yese'll have to wait for my Volume upon the Subject, alas. Meantime, there being no Ale in the House,—
"As if there ever would be," mutters the Jesuit.
- and as in any case I find this standing Bitch quite soon a source of fatigue,— better," proposes Emerson, "we repair to my Local, The Cudgel and Throck." A moment Dixon has been dreading, for those who drink at this Ale-Grotto of terrible Reputation, do so out of a Melancholy advanc'd beyond his understanding. He has not quite made a connection between himself, in his own Publick-House Habitude, and these other but provisionally vertical Blurs of Sentiment, beyond a common fatality, for as many as might present themselves, of the doubtful comforts of Sadness.
Fr. Maire now removes his Cloak, revealing the snuff-color'd coat and breeches of a middling Town-Dweller. From an inner pocket he produces a costly Ramillies Wig, shakes it out in a brisk Cloud of scented Litharge, and claps it on, with a minimum of fuss, over his ascetic's Crop. "There. I am now Mr. Emerson's distant Cousin Ambrose, of Godless London."
'' 'Godless' being just the note for the old Cudge," nods Emerson, as they go, "- - 'tis the Poahpish, that's not overly welcome.”
Indeed, one look at the place is enough to reconcile Fr. Maire to the possibility of having to leave it. As a member of the Society of Jesus, he has been in and out of some all but intolerable taverns, among which he believes he has seen the worst Great Britain has to offer,— withal, as a native of County Durham, he has been hearing Tales of this iniquitous Sink all his Life, tho' having till now successfully avoided it.
"Awhrr, God's blood, it's old Back-to-Front," they are greeted upon
entering, "wi' two bumbailiffs he'll lose before sundown,— yet an honest
Tapster has to put up wi' all sorts,— I imagine 'twill be Porter won't it,
yes it would be...? Goblin! bloody bastard, do not even be thinking of
biting my valued guests, or you shall be smit wi' the Gin Bottle again, yes
y'shall...? Eeh, mind your Boots, lads, bit of unpleasantness there from
last night, servants haven't quite gotten to it yet "
"Lovely day, Mr. Brain."
"Aye happen that'll change, too. Lud Oafery's been in and out,— and as nearly as we could understand him, he'd be looking for you, Doctor."
"He'll want another Spell," Emerson guesses. "That's if the last 'un work'd, of course— "
"William, William," his "Cousin" admonishes.
"He buys me a Pint. Where's the Harm? This is Hurworth, not London, Namby. I do Horoscopes as well.”
"Did mine," the Landlord avers, " 'twas all there in the Stars, the whole miserable story, but did I pay attention? Nooaahh...! was regretting the Sixpence, a fool with his eyes in the glaur."
Fr. Maire's eyebrows do take a Bounce when he hears the Price.
"Whah' then?" Emerson mischievously, "only the Church of Rome could quoahte yese any better."
"This place is even more depressing than I remember it," Dixon mutters, just audibly, in case anyone cares to discuss it.
"Oh, aye, 'tis no Jolly Pitman," Emerson snorts, naming Dixon's pre-ferr'd Haunt at the edge of Cockfield Fell, close by the Road, where Miners and Waggoners seek refuge from a Nightfall pass'd alone, and where Travelers, no matter how many Miles they'll have to make up next day, choose to put in, rather than enter at Night that Looming Heath.
"There's Musick at the Pitman, anyway."
"Hold, hold, stand easy, we've Musick here," Mr. Brain producing from behind the Bar a batter'd Hurdy-Gurdy or Hum-Strum of antique design, left years ago by a Gypsy to settle a tab, "aye, Musick a-plenty, you need but ask,— wonderful to have Quality in,— Spot of Handel, perhaps?" whereupon he begins vigorously, though with no clear idea of how the Instrument works, to crank and finger, all in a G-dawful Uproar. The Dog Goblin, cowering eagerly, howls along. Emerson bears the Recital with an unexpected Calm, gazing at a Wall, as if imagining the Notes as they might appear upon some Staff as yet undevis'd, thumping time upon his knee. Dixon, whose mother, Mary Hunter, play'd each Day to her Children upon the Clavier, is less entertain'd.
"Ye'd find nothing like this in China, Jeremiah, Lad," cries Emerson.
"Mr. Dixon," declares the Jesuit, "at present, owing to the pernicious Cult of Feng Shui, you would find it a Surveyor's Bad Dream,— nowhere may a Geometer encounter an honest 36o-Degree Circle,— rather, incomprehensibly and perversely, in willful denial of God's Disposition of Time and Space, preferring 365 and a Quarter."
"That being the number of Days in a year, what Human Surveyor, down here upon the Earth, would reject thah',— each Day a single, perfect Chinese Degree,— were 360 not vastly more convenient, of course, to figure with? Surely God, being Omniscient, has little trouble with
either...? all the Log Tables right there in His Nob, doesn't he,— Dixon, having been out tramping over the Fields and Fells for the past few weeks, with Table and Circumferentor, still enjoying a certain orthogonal Momentum, "and 365 and a quarter seems the sort of Division Jesuits might embrace,— the discomfort of all that extra calculation...? sort of mental Cilice, perhaps...?"
"Oh dear," Emerson's voice echoing within his Ale-can.
"Then again," says Maire, "there is a nice lad in Wigan who'd like the Job."
"Bonnie then, and please convey my best.—Most Geordie Surveyors make terrible Jesuit spies, I'm told."
"Look ye, Jeremiah," the Jesuit placing upon his sleeve a hand Dixon briefly considers biting, "we would expect no reports, no Espionage, no action of any kind,— for the marking of this Line will be undertaken, with or without our Engagement,— we only wish Assurance that someone we know is there, materially, upon the Parallel. No more."
"Why, teach thy Grandam to grope Ducks... ? If we're to have no communication, what matter where I may be?"
The meek Nod again. "In the all but inconceivably remote event we did wish to reach you,— why aye, one does hear of Devices already in position, which could find you faster than any known Packet or Express."
"And...t'would be merely to say 'Whatcheer,' inquire after the Weather, perhaps pass a few Spiritual Remarks, I presume,— not to issue commands tha must already know I'd never o-bey."
"I'll send your Thoughts along. You don't seem eager for this."
"Ask Mr. Emerson. I'm but a county Surveyor,— not really at m' best upon the grand and global type of expedition, content here at home, old Geordie a-slog thro' the darts, now and then, as if by magic, able to calculate lines that may not be chain'd,— the Surveyor's form of walking upon Water.—May your Lancashire Lalande prove more boldly dispos'd...?"
Emerson lifts his head, the ends of his Hair a-sop with Ale, and leers at the Priest. "We had a wager upon this very Topick, I believe."
"No,— " gesturing with his own head at Dixon, "this is the one, William, God's Instrument if ever I saw one. I'm not ready to concede,”
"Hold,— am I a horse, in a horse-race, here? Friend Emerson's bet upon a sure thing then, for I don't fancy working for Jesuits,— no more than having others believe it's what I'm doing."
"You see?" Emerson beams, " Tis the Coldness, if you ask me,— aye, more than anything,— that absence of Pity."
"Pity? Oh, as to Pity,— " The Phiz of the Jesuit, who hasn't been missing too many Rounds, may be observ'd now in a certain state of Beefiness.
"You are twiddling about with that Wig," mutters Emerson, "so as to draw attention. Pray moderate it, Coz."
"You wonder why I'm stuck over in Flanders, with a herd of Boys, all of them with Erections more or less twenty-four hours a day? a sinners' Paradise to some,— to others a form of Penance. Yea, 'tis Penance I do, for having once or twice, when it matter'd, unreflectively shewn an instant of this Pity whose value you cry up so... ? well, I have learn'd, 'tis not for any of us to presume to act as Christ alone may,— for Christ's true Pity lies so beyond us, that we may at best jump and whimper like Dogs who cannot quite catch the Trick of it."
"What a Relief!" cries Dixon, "Whoo! no more Pity? Eehh, where's me Pistols, then...."
"The simpler explanation," Emerson with a distinct uvular component in his Sigh, "may be that none of you people has ever known a moment of Transcendence in his life, nor would re-cognize one did it walk up and bite yese in the Arse,— and in the long sorry Silence, grows the suspicion that Jesuits are but the latest instance of a true Christian passion evaporated away, leaving no more than the usual hollow desires for Authority and mindless O-bedience. Poh, Cousin,— Poh, Sir."
In now strolls Lud Oafery's friend and occasional Translator Mr. Whike, crying, "Eeh! were we having a little discussion as to the,— surely I heard the word,— Jesuits? not them again? that, that same secret cabal of traitorous Serpents, who seek ever to subvert our blessed England before the Interests of Rome, and the Whore-House they call a Church,— those Jesuits? Why, here we'd thought there was no deep Conversation at The Cudgel and Throck."
"Hullo, Whike, I'm told Lud's been asking for me.”
"His Mum, actually. Lud had to go down to Thornton-le-Beans, but he'll be back. Who's your not quite credibly turn'd-out Friend here? (Tis the Wig, Sir,— needs the immediate Attentions of a Professional....) Just when I imagin'd I'd had all you lot sorted out at last!"
"Did I forget to introduce yese? And ordinarily I've the manners of a Lord."
"Which Lord was that?"
"Hadn't plann'd on this so early in the Day," Dixon in a low voice to Maire. To Whike, "Shall we get the Festivities going now, do tha guess, or would tha rather wait for thy Friend Lud,— 'tis all the same to me."
"Was yere Stu-dent ever like this, Sir? One of these big Lads that needs to be thumping away so at us smaller, wee-er folk? Sad, it is."
"Some might find it amusing, Whike," Emerson replies.
"Jeremiah. I am astonish'd. Were you actually planning to strike this perfectly pleasant, tho' strangely idle, young man? And I thought London taverns were quarrelsome!"
"Years ago, once and once only,— all in a spirit of Scientifick Inquiry,— I did, well, take hold of him,—
Jumping back apprehensively, "Didn't ask me, did you?"
"Nor have tha let me forget it,— I only wish'd to pick him up, and throw him at that very Dart-Board over there, to see if his Head, which seem'd pointed enough, might stick...? And he's been on about it ever since,— all right then, Whike? Whike, I admit 'twas the improper way to test thee for Cranial Acuity,— I ought to have ta'en the Board from the Wall, brought it to thee, and then clash'd it upon thy Nob,— tha Bugger."
"I knew one day he'd feel remorse," carols Whike. "I accept yeer Apology most Graceful, Sir."
"Apology!" Dixon's face, as all would swear to later, having com-menc'd to glow in the Murk. "Why, You little— "
All light from the outside vanishes, as something fills the Doorway. "Gaahhrrhh!" it says.
'' 'Here then, don't be laying a finger on my Mate,' " Whike translates,— for 'tis Lud, back from Thornton-le-Beans, and his Mother, Ma Oafery, with him.
In the days of the '45,— guessing that the Young Pretender would
travel ev'rywhere he could by way of those secret Tunnels known to
Papists from ancient times, which ran from most parish Churches away to other points of interest,— thro' that wond'rous Summer, Lads after Adventure haunted these dank passages, all over England, day and night, Dixon among them, walking his own Patrol up and down the Tunnel that ran from Raby Castle to Staindrop Church, down amid whose elegant Stone Facing and Root-Aromas he and Lud Oafery first met. Dixon was carrying a Torch,— Lud was not.
"Why bother," Lud explain'd, "when there's enough like you, who've brought their own light...? How much light can anyone need, just to get thro' a Tunnel, unless of course one stops to admire the Mason-work. Which is what you're doing, ain't it." He had a look. "This dates back to the time when Staindrop was the Metropolis of Stayndropshire with a y, and the very Pearl of Wearside. Right clash amid the best pool of Boring talent in England,— outside the House of Lords, of course,— where would this ancient Drift have gone, if not between Castle and Church?— either of which could afford it easily, for far less than a single Week's revenue—"
Lud in his ramblings claim'd to've been up and down ev'ry Tunnel in the County Palatinate of Durham,— some of them connected one to another, he said, so that any who truly needed to keep out of a Day-light so often perilous, might travel for great Distances, all under Ground.
"Ahrahr AHR, ahr-ahrahr," adds Lud, years later, in The Cudgel and Throck.
"Very old, these Diggings,— " reports Whike, "yet never wandering about under Ground, all bearing true as an Italian Miner's Compass between their Termini."
A Knowledge of Tunneling became more and more negotiable, as more of the Surface succumb'd to Enclosure, Sub-Division, and the simple Exhaustion of Space,— Down Below, where no property Lines existed, lay a World as yet untravers'd, that would clearly belong to those Pioneers who possess'd the Will, and had master'd the Arts of Pluto,— with the Availability of good Equipment besides, ever a Blessing. So, beneath the surfaces of English Parish-Towns, Bands of Pickmen once came a-stir like giant Worms, addressing themselves to Faces that would take them where they must.. .Fire-lit Earth Walls that betray'd nothing of what might lie a Shovel-ful away. Sometimes, 'twas told, a lucky Spade-
man might find buried Treasure,— "Huzzah, no more of this Earth-worming for me, tell the Master I'm off to London and the High Life, and oh yes here's a shilling for your Trouble,— " And sometimes, 'twas told, the Devil sent his own Dodmen, to lead the Diggers in grisly play 'round the Corner again and into the Church-yard, where Death in its full unpleasantness waited them, a Skull, in the instant of any Spade's burden, emerging from the Mud just at Eye-Level, smiling widely as in recognition, the Torches all at that instant guttering in some Vile breath out of the suburbs of Hell.
"The Diggers never knew what was likely to be ahead. They had to trust the Surveyors who kept above. Remember when I told you, Jere, that they were the Conscience of the Community, you pip'd up, that that was what ye'd be. And damme, so ye were!" Thus Whike's Version. Lud's merriment, even at half-voice, acts less to invite, than to intimidate.
"Is thah' what he said?" Emerson blinking his way into the Discussion.
"Thanking Whike for his good Faith, 'tis it, to the Comma. Lud, tha predicted then, solemnly, that our Ways would part,— that I would find my Destiny above, upon the Surface of the Earth,— whilst your own must lie quite the other way."
"Bit further down," nods Lud.
"How's Business been, down there?"
"Brisk as ever it gets upon thy Surface," replies Ma Oafery. "And thoo, Jere Dixon,— 'tis said tha'll be going to America, to build them a Visto of an Hundred Leagues or more...?"
"Sort of long Property-Line, Ma. Both sides want the Trees out of the way. Easier for getting Sights, tho' Ah wouldn't call it a Visto, exactly."
Lud beams. "When tha're down there in the Tunneling and can't see a thing...?" as Whike puts it, "tha feel ever one Foot-fall, ever one Turning, from collecting the Scheme Altogether." They whisper together, casting quick Glances at Father Maire. "Lud wishes to know," Whike relays at last, "Mr. Emerson's Cousin's Views, upon the Structure of the World."
"A Spheroid, the last I heard of it, Sir."
"Ahr Ahr ahr, 'ahr ahhrr!"
" 'And I say, 'tis Flat,' " the Jesuit smoothly translates. "Why of course, Sir, flat as you like, flat as a Funnel-Cake, flat as a Pizza, for all that— “
"Apologies, Sir,— " Whike all Unctuosity, "the foreign Word again, was...?"
"The apology is mine,— Pizza being a Delicacy of Cheese, Bread, and
Fish ubiquitous in the region 'round Mount Vesuvius In my Distrac
tion, I have reach'd for the Word as the over-wrought Child for its Doll."
"You are from Italy, then, sir?" inquires Ma.
"In my Youth I pass'd some profitable months there, Madam."
"Do you recall by chance how it is they cook this 'Pizza'? My Lads and Lasses grow weary of the same Daily Gruel and Haggis, so a Mother is ever upon the Lurk for any new Receipt."
"Why, of course. If there be a risen Loaf about...?"
Mrs. Brain reaches 'neath the Bar and comes up with a Brown Batch-Loaf, rising since Morning, which she presents to "Cousin Ambrose," who begins to punch it out flat upon the Counter-Top. Lud, fascinated, offers to assault the Dough himself, quickly slapping it into a very thin Disk of remarkable Circularity.
"Excellent, Sir," Maire beams, "I don't suppose anyone has a Tomato?"
"A what?"
"Saw one at Darlington Fair, once," nods Mr. Brain.
"No good, in that case,— eaten by now."
"The one I saw, they might not have wanted to eat...?"
Dixon, rummaging in his Surveyor's Kit, has come up with the Bottle of Ketjap, that he now takes with him ev'rywhere. "This do?"
"That was a Torpedo, Husband."
"That Elecktrickal Fish? Oh.. .then this thing he's making isn't eleck-trical?"
"Tho' there ought to be Fish, such as those styl'd by the Neopolitans,
Cicinielli "
"Will Anchovy do?" Mrs. Brain indicates a Cask of West Channel 'Chovies from Devon, pickl'd in Brine.
"Capital. And Cheese?"
"That would be what's left of the Stilton, from the Ploughman's Lunch."
"Very promising indeed," Maire wringing his Hands to conceal their trembling. "Well then, let us just...”
By the Time what is arguably the first British Pizza is ready to come out of the Baking-Oven beside the Hearth, the Road outside has gone quiet and the Moorland dark, several Rounds have come and pass'd, and Lud is beginning to show signs of Apprehension. "At least 'tis cloudy tonight, no Moonlight'll be getting thro'," his Mother whispers to Mr. Emerson.
"Canny Luck, it may have bought us Time." As both Teacher and resolute Rationalist, Pace Bourquelet and Nynauld, Emerson is convinc'd that the ancient popular belief in Were-Wolves, if it does not stem from, is at least reinforced by, the alarm'd reactions of mothers to the onset of Puberty in their sons. Once, at his first sight of it, he was alarm'd, too. Hair sprouting ev'rywhere, voices deepening, often to Growls, Boys who once went to bed early, now grown nocturnal. Mysterious absences occur. The family dog begins acting peculiar. Unusual Attention is paid
to the Roast, just before it's popp'd in the Oven "Lord's sake, Betsy,
what're you saying, that our Ludowick's a werewolf? Get a grip on y'self, woman!"
"Well there's none of it upon my side, is there."
"Oh, I see,— poor Uncle Lonsdale again,— who was releas'd, as you'll recall, with all apologies, the Blood proving to be, but from a hapless Chicken in the Road...."
"Yet the Vicar did testify, Dear, at the Assizes, that for five generations past,—
"RRRR!"
"— oh good evening, Lud, my one would scarcely recognize you...."
"And that was when I said, 'We must go to Dr. Emerson,— he'll knaah whah' to do...?'
"Lud says, that he cannot tell, if you did know what to do. He adds, do not worry, for it amuses him."
"Lud, you're alive, are you not?"
"That wasn't quite his Question," Ma declares. "Would you pass me one of those pointed things?"
"Where's that bright Light coming from?" someone asks.
"The Clouds!" Ma Oafery running out to look. "Where'd they go? Oh, no! Look at that, will yese!" "That" being the Full Moon, just rising into a cloudless Night.
"Quick, the Shutters," squeals Whike, running to and fro.
"Lud, look ye what's over here, more 'Pizza,'—
"Too late!" For Lud has seen the Full Moon, and now pursues it out into the Street, Whike at his Heels.
"I can't bear it when the Change conies," Ma laments. "It's getting harder for me even to look, tho' his own Mum must, mustn't she?—
"He's changing," Whike calls back indoors to the rest of them, - first, the Teeth, aye, and the Snout, and Claws,— now there goes the Hair, good, and he's, yes he's up on two legs now,— he's tying his Stock, fixing a Buckle, and here he is,— Master Ludowick,—
In trips this shaven, somewhat narrow Youth, a Durham Dandy in Silver Brocade, Chinese Fastenings ev'rywhere in bright Gold, for Contrast,— and as a Finial, a curiously cock'd Hat with a long green Parrot Plume extending from it further than anyone present has even known a Feather to go. "Mother!" pipes the 'morphos'd Lud. "When will you do something about your Hair? Whike, stop touching me. Mr. Emerson, well met, turn about, so we may admire thy Buttons,— who's that, Jere Dixon? going over to America! knew they'd pop you one day, what was it, another Raid upon another Larder, I expect,— yet better than being hang'd, what-what, old Turnip?"
"Two, call it three nights," groans Ma Oafery, "ev'ry Month, no worse than the Flux, really,— he has memoriz'd several current Theatrickal Music-Pieces, and sings them to me thro' the Day. He tells Joaks I do not understand. He quizzes with me in Foreign Tongues. Yet am I a Mum,— I can tolerate it.”
The most metaphysickal thing Mason will ever remember Dixon saying is, "I owe my Existence to a pair of Shoes." His Father, George Dixon, Sr., having ridden in late to Quarterly Meeting,— a wet night, ev'ryone gone to bed, a pile of Shoes left out to be clean'd,— in all the great quaquaversal Array, he sees only the pair belonging to Mary Hunter. Without planning it he has stoop'd, pick'd them up, pretending to move them back from the Fire lest they dry and crack. Who would own a pair of shoes like that, who'd have decided to wear them here to Meeting? Fancies herself a bit? A bit too much? He'll have to find out, won't he...?
George can tell a good deal by a pair of Shoes. As 'twas ever the custom Easter Mondays in County Durham, he'd run about Staindrop with other boys of the Fell to pull off the shoes of any Girls they met, and keep them till redeem'd with a gift. Older boys ask'd for a Kiss, younger boys were content with a Sweet, which Girls learn'd to carry a Bag of with them, upon that Day.
The minute he steps into Breakfast next morning,— so, one day, their daughter Elizabeth will come to believe,— they 'spy each other. More likely he's been up before the first bird, to ask the fellow cleaning all the Shoes,— finding out that she's Mary Hunter, from Newcastle. 'Tis a relative who introduces them at last. "Something about thy Shoes, Mary...?"
"My Shoes...?" A direct gaze.
George Dixon, out upon the Road so much that he has left back at the Stables any need in his Conversation to dismount, canters ahead. "Last night I took the Liberty of moving them back from the fire. I trust they're no worse for it."
"Thou must ask them." He is on one knee in a flash, a hand in each Shoe pois'd either side of his Face. Glancing up at her, "Well. How are thee," he addresses one Shoe, "not too wet, not too dry?" Causing it to reply, "Quite well, thanks," in a high-pitch'd voice that draws the attention of a number of small children nearby, "unless I am to be wet with tears of boredom, or dry from too little time walking out.—Why aye," in his ev'ry-day Voice, "and how's thy Sister?" "Eeh!" screeching back at himself in an ill-humor'd Ogress voice, "and have I started talking to gowks, then?" Shaking his own head, "I can't believe you're sisters, the one so sweet, the other— "Watch yourself, Geordie," warns the screechy one.
Some Children have come tottering over to look at the source of these Voices. George Dixon, maybe too young to know trouble when he sees it, can't stop talking to himself. Some crazy Enterprizer, helpful Relations murmur, with a wild-cat coal operation out upon the Fell, whilst others wag their heads in dazed tho' not altogether comfortless unison,— and before any of them know it, the couple are, as they say around Staindrop, "gannin straights."
They are already connected in the Durham Quaker Web,— Mary's mother having died, her father, Thomas Hunter, took a second wife, who also died, and then a third. Eight years after his own death (Mary passing under the protection of her Uncle Jeremiah), the third wife and now widow, Elizabeth, got married again,— this time to Ralph Dixon, George's father.
"So...," taking off his hat and shaking out his hair, "we've each had her for a step-mother. What's that make us, then,— step-brother and step-sister-in-law... ?"
"Yet that is not the Tale the Neighbors have preferr'd to tell. They have it, that Mamma, no sooner than my Father died, married his Father- "
"So...she married thy grandfather...making thy mother also thy grandmother."
"Not too much of that over in Weardale, I imagine. Step-Grandmother, in fact...?”
"What would they do without Hunter women?"
He is tying his Hair back again with a brown grosgrain Ribbon,— she surprizes herself by staring at his hands and their patient way with what has prov'd to be a notable cascade of Hair,— as it comes less and less to frame his face, she understands that he's doing this on purpose, for her, offering, risking, his unprotected Face.
Mary Hunter was nearly eighteen when her father died and she became the ward of her Uncle, Jeremiah Hunter. He was fifty-four at the time. "Think of it as a Picturesque Affliction, my Dear." "Oh, Uncle..." Did she remain his Ward until she married George, twelve years later? It must have been with Uncle Jeremiah in mind that she nam'd her second son. George Sr., not altogether happy with the name,— too Scriptural,— would clutch his head whenever the baby let out a Peep, however good-naturedly, and exclaim, "Alas! The Lamentations of Jeremiah!" Whenever he heard these words, the baby would begin to give Beef in earnest, and his mother grimly to smile. As George Jr. learn'd to talk, he added the phrase to a Repertoire of Teasing Arts he was happy to share with his sisters. The difficulty was that little Jeremiah assum'd nearly all of this was being done to amuse him,— for he lov'd the older children with an unqualified and undaunted certainty, despite the energy bordering upon vehemence with which they lifted, swung, or pass'd him whilst inverted one to the other, and their tales of ghosts and creatures of the Fell, and the nick-naming, exclusions, and words kept secret from him,— 'twas all, to the unreflective Jelly-Belly, as he was known, huge Fun.
Neighbors came to think of his Mother as the cleverest woman ever to marry a Dixon. She pretended, however, that George was the clever one. "He usually reads my Mind," she told Elizabeth, "and if tha find an Husband who's fool'd as seldom, the happier thou'll be...? It saves thee all the day-in-and-day-out effort of trying to fool him,— fetch me that would you, beloved,— and upon the few occasions when thou may fool him,— why, it does wonders for thy Confidence."
"Tha've fooled him? Really, Mamma?"
"Once or twice. Beware a man who admires thy shoes. Thou may love him to distraction, but at the same time thou'll wish strongly to play tricks upon him, which though of an innocent nature, carry with them
chances for misunderstanding. Tis not a pastime for the young,— I would urge thee for example to ease off upon the Raylton lad for the time being, and to concentrate upon thy Sums. Remember, she who keepeth the Books runneth the Business."
"He's so— "
"Yes."
"Oh, tha don't know."
"I know thee." A quick sweep of her palm down the Girl's Hair. "I see that gaupy Look."
His father died when Jeremiah was twenty-two, a fairly miserable stretch beginning for him then, tho' he never drank enough to interfere with field-work,— something he needed as much as ready access to Ale,— still young enough to arise little inconvenienced after a night's strenuous drinking, having led till now the merry Life of a Journeyman Surveyor, errant all through the North country, one Great Land-Holding to another, three-legged Staff cock'd over his shoulder, Circumferentor slung in a Pitman's bag along with dry Stockings and a small wheaten Loaf, spare Needles and Pins, Plummets, Pencils, scrap-paper, and jeweler's Putty for the Compass,— tho' Spaces not yet enclos'd would ever make him uneasy, not a promising mental condition for an outdoor job,— oblig'd to cross the Fell now and again, a dangerous and frightening place,— not only murderers abroad, but Spirits as well,— and Spirits not necessarily in human form, no,— the worst being, almost in human form, but not quite.. .now he long'd only, late at night, whispering to the familiar Floorboards, either to be kill'd and devour'd out there, or to become one of them, predatory and forever unshelter'd,— either way, transform'd.
He broke faith with ev'ry one he knew,— loans unhonor'd, errands unrun, silences unkept. His older sister Hannah married a Yorkshireman but three months after their Father's passing, and Jere show'd up at the Wedding and made a Spectacle of himself. "I'm best getting on with it, Jeremiah,— and so ought thee, and who are thee, to call me such things?" He was turning into a Country Lout, soon to be beyond reclamation.
Elizabeth, tearful and broken, had headed directly for the comfort of her Mother, both assum'd into a silent unapproachable cloud of mourn-
ing,— the boys being left each to his own way of soldiering on, the
Enemy who'd so unanswerably insulted them at their Backs now some
where, and in and out of their sleep George got busier than he had to
be with one Scheme and another,— pulling Greenstone out of the Dyke under Cockfield Fell, carving and fitting together stalks of Humlock for another of his Gas-pipe Schemes, re-designing the Spur-gearing or the Pump-seals out at the Workings. Jeremiah found himself indoors, perfecting his Draftsmanship, bending all day over the work-table, grinding and mixing his own Inks,— sittings and splashes ev'rywhere of King's Yellow, Azure, red Orpiment, Indian lake, Verdigris, Indigo, and Umber. Levigating, elutriating, mixing the gum-water, pouncing and rosining the Paper to prevent soak-through,— preparation he would once rashly have hurried 'round or in great part omitted, was now necessary, absolutely necessary, to do right. He must, if one day call'd upon, produce an overhead view of a World that never was, in truth-like detail, one he'd begun in silence to contrive,— a Map entirely within his mind, of a World he could escape to, if he had to. If he had to, he would enter it entirely but never get lost, for he would have this Map, and in it, spread below, would lie ev'rything,— Mountain of Glass, Sea of Sand, miraculous Springs, Volcanoes, Sacred Cities, mile-deep Chasm, Serpent's Cave, endless Prairie....another Chapbook-Fancy with each Deviation and Dip of the Needle,
When night fell he would put his drafting things away, back into their Velvet Nests in Pear-Wood cases, and go out to The Tiger or The Grey Hound, seeking men who'd been friends of his father's, seeking somehow to nod and smile them into remembering. Much of the Ale-borne Mati-ness others were to see in him was learn'd during this time, at great effort, a word, a Gesture at a Time.
They told him often of things he didn't know, or thought he didn't, of the Coal Business. Iliads of never-quite-straightforward dealings among Owners, Staithemen, Collier-Masters, and Fitters,— who might have own'd a particular Keel and who hadn't but said he did...'twas ever something, for whilst business Tyneside might be done by one-year Contracts and fix'd Fees, here upon the Wear, all was negotiable.
Just before leaving for America, he spends as much Time as he may at The Jolly Pitman, tho' now he is more likely to be the Story-teller.
Some are gone, yet are there some who say, "George would be proud of thee now."
"Will ye come with wee Dodd and me on my Keel, as ye did last time, Jere?"
"Why aye, Mr. Snow, and I thank thee...?"
So it is he now approaches the Harbor, down the River widening out of darkness, into a dawn singing of Staithemen and Keel-Bullies— "How theer!" "Eeh, watcheer!"— the Fleets of Keels carried down and sailing up-stream, the Beam-Work of the first Staithes, penn'd upon the sunrise, both sides of the river a-rumble with, the coal in the shoots and the coal-filled waggons upon the wood rails, the Dyer's Bath of Morning, no redder than Twopenny Beer, spilling 'cross the World east of Chester-le-Street, punctuated by the Geometry of Tunnels, Bridges and earthwork Embankments sizable as Pyramids, the great inclin'd Waggon-Ways, whose Tracks run from the Mine-Heads inland for miles down to the Spouts upon Wear—
America, waiting, someplace. Going out to the collier Mary and Meg, bound again for London River, riding atop the Huddock, Dixon sees Fog, pale and shifting, approach like a great predatory Worm. He has snick-er'd at Gin-shop tales of Keelmen lost in the fog, never expecting any such mishap in his own life, having ever plann'd to spend as much of it as he may upon dry land. But here it comes, the flanks of the aqueous Creature seething ever closer, as young Dodd the Peedee gives a shout of alarm, and Mr. Snow, in his Post of Keel-Bully, begins to swear vigorously. Already half the Shoreline is obscur'd. Far away upon the Shields a bell-buoy rings in the dank morning, and somewhere closer, upon now-invisible Rounds, yet goes the Bell of the Tagareen Man, ship to ship, Iron seeking Iron,— and then, like that, wrapped in the sulfurous Signatures of fresh Coal, have a Score of Savages appear'd out of the Sea-Fret, paddling Pirogues, shouting strange jibber-jabber, the words incomprehensible, yet the vowels unmistakably North British. How to explain this?
"That wild Indian sounds a bit like poor old Cookie, don't it?"
"They've painted themselves—
"Aye, black as Coal-dust."
"How-ye,- " calls Mr. Snow, "What place is this?”
"Why, ye've floated to America, ye buggers!"
"Heer, we'll foy yese in...?"
"America... Eehh...?"
"Eeeh, y' Gowks!" A grappling hook, blackened and lethal, comes flying out of the Fret, just missing young Dodd and catching the Hud-dock. "They're attacking!" screams the Peedee, scrabbling in the coal. And just then, out there, like Hounds let loose, the church bells of America all begin to toll, peculiarly lucid in the fog, a dense Carillon, tun'd so exotically, they might be playing anything,— Methodist hymns, Opera-hall Airs, jigs and gigues, work songs of sailors, Italian serenades, British Ballads, American Marches.
"Now listen heer ye's," the Keel-Bully to Forces invisible, "there's nought to fear from huz, being but poor peaceable Folk lost in this uncommon Fret, who'll be only too pleased to gan wi' ye's, wheerever ye say." In a lower voice, to his own, "They want the Coal. Let them find us." Carefully, sensing the Tides thro' his Soles, he steers them further into the Obscurity. The others, keeping silent, may be anywhere. Snow reacts to ev'ry Splash, ev'ry shift of whatever is flowing past. Soon the Fog begins to clear.
They seem to rock beneath the Belfries of a great Estuarial Town. It smells like Coal. Ordinary Water-Birds coast above, quite at home. "Why I believe they're Geordies, as much as huz!" the Keel-Bully exclaims. Nor do they appear the faces of strangers. Yet where are Keelmen ever as silent as these have now fallen,— and why are the Faces beneath these Basin-crops so unmovingly resentful? Snow and even little Dodd know them. Some stood before the Assizes after the strikes of '43 and '50, and were sentenced to the Gallows, though 'twas later said they were transported to America. Why aye, if this be America, then here they are, in company with Alehouse champions of Legend carrying their Black-jacks big as Washing-tubs, celebrated Free-for-all Heroes, Keel racers from the coaly Tyne, worshiped even Wearside,— "Dobby, is it you, whatcheer!"— as if for Dixon ev'ry Phiz a-reel, ev'ry Can bought and taken, and nocturnal Voice lifted in harmony, down his Time, sooner or later would come to be reprised in this late-Day Invisibility,— and the Fret, for a moment, has made possible some America no traveler's account has yet describ'd,
because as yet none has return'd, tho' many be the mates and dear ones who bide.
And when he sees the little Collier-Brig at last, her Sails not merely be-grim'd, but silken black, with Coal-Dust,— the Mary and Meg,— Dixon suffers a moment and a half of Dread, for her stillness in the Water, her evenness of Trim in a Light never seen upon the Shields.... Was it so, the first time,— did he simply miss it, with his Mind then pitch'd so immoderately further East? Or is this a particular and strong Message concerning America, meant not for him but for someone else, that he may only have got in the way of?
It is dangerous Passage, along the Coast down to the Thames and into the Pool, turning ever to Windward, often into the Teeth of Gales, among treacherous Sands, and the Channels ever re-curving, like great Serpents a-stir. Catching a windward Tide at the King's Channel, beating up toward the Swin, keeping out of the Swatchways and attending ever her Soundings, the Mary and Meg, threading nicely among Rocks, Shallows, a thousand other Vessels each bound its own way, desiring despite her ghostly look to live briskly whilst she may, brings Dixon at last to Long Reach, above Gravesend, guided to her Moorage in the Tier by the slowly rising Dome of St. Paul's, to Westward.
Tomorrow, he and Mason are to sign the Contract.
Miss Tenebrae, perplex'd, puts down her Embroidery. "This case, Uncle, languish'd in court for eighty years, yet just when Mason and Dixon happen to find themselves nicely between Transits of Venus, suddenly ev'ry-one agrees there shall be the Survey in America. Aren't you at least suspicious?"
"You dark Girl. Must all be Enigmata? The Celestial Events were eight years apart,— the Term beyond Human Arrangement. Had the Survey taken longer, they'd have likely observ'd the second Transit from somewhere in America. As it was, running the Line would take them four of those years, with an extra year for measuring a Degree of Latitude in Delaware...."
The days before their Departure are Humid, splash'd into repeatedly by Rain. Upon their meeting again in London after a year and a Half, to sign their Contract with the Proprietors, who arrive back'd by Agents, Lawyers, and Bullies, Dixon, as soon as it is possible to do so,— the Sketch-Artists having dash'd in a few last Details and crept away,— takes off his Hat. "I was sadden'd to hear of Dr. Bradley's Death, Sir."
"Thank you for the Letter you wrote, Jeremiah."
Without agreeing to it, they find themselves, if but for Form's sake, out roistering in what proves to be a sort of sustain'd flow of Strong Drink, in which Mason will obscurely recall being included Gin, and Gin's Hogarthian Society, winding up a Fortnight later in the unpromising Streets of Falmouth, a Town dedicated to Swift Communication, all Hurry, huge Sums at Stake, Veterinarians in Coaches-and-six, Brokers of News to and fro at the Gallop, last-Minute Couriers' Pouches, dilatory Visitors swimming back to Shore from another precise Departure, even as the next Packet after her makes ready to put to sea.
Mason's Nose approaches the Surface of his Ale, withdraws, approaches again. Presently, "If I only might have spoken with Bradley,— you recall our departure from Plymouth? Aye? He had put himself then to the labor of coming down,— between appointments with Pain, for the final Illness, as they said, was from Gravel. Upon the Landing, he kept apart from the others, even from cheery Mr. Birch, who was ev'rywhere at once...Mr. Mead and Mr. White pointing to various Lines and Tackle and correcting one another's Terminology... whilst betwixt Dr. Bradley and me, silent Conversation pass'd." Mason's Brow clearly unhappy. "I believe he had come to apologize," giving away this solemn confidence snappily as another might the Punch-Line of a Joak (for as I often noted, no matter what Sentiments might lie 'pon his Phiz, Mr. Mason was in the Habit of delivering even his gravest Speeches, with the Rhythms and Inflections of the Taproom Comedian). "I was loading an unreasonable weight of Hope upon that Mission, upon the Purity of the Event. Look ye at what I intended to escape. Rebekah lost, my Anchor to all I knew of Birth and Death,— I was adrift in Waters unknown, Intrigues and Faction within the Royal Society, as among Nations and Charter'd Companies. Foolishly seeking in the Alignment of Sun, Venus, and Earth, a moment redeem'd from the Impurity in which I must ever practice my Life,— instead, even this pitiable Hope is interdicted by the deadly l'Grand,— '.. .not at war with the sciences,'— Poh. In Plain Text, that Brass Voice announc'd,— 'The Business of the World is Trade and Death, and you must engage with that unpleasantness, as the price of your not-at-all-assur'd Moment of Purity.—Fool.''
"Eeh! Tha were trans-lating all thah' French Jabber? hardly a bonny Sentiment, Mr. Mason."
"Mr. Dixon, I am cerrtain that you, as the unwaverring Larrk of the Sanguine, will find us a way past that.”
Dixon's Smile acknowledging the Pronoun, "I imagine," he says carefully, "such Moments to lie beyond any Price that might be nam'd...?"
"Oh, I've had 'em for half a Crown sometimes," Mason mutters, "tho' of course your own Experience,—
"Here's The Dodman, Might we go in this one, do tha guess...?"
"Why not? What's it matter? Savages, Wilderness. No one even knows what's out there. And we have just, do you appreciate, contracted, to place a Line directly thro' it? Doesn't it strike you as a little unreasonable?"
"Not to mention the Americans...?"
"Excuse me? They are at least all British there,— aren't they? The Place is but a Patch of England, at a three-thousand-Mile Off-set. Isn't it?"
"Eeh! Eeh! Thoo can be so thoughtful, helping cheer me up wi' thy Joaks, Mason,— I'm fine, really,—
"Dixon, hold,— are you telling me, now, that Americans are not British?— You've heard this somewhere?"
"No more than the Cape Dutch are Dutch...? 'Tis said these people keep Slaves, as did our late Hosts,— that they are likewise inclin'd to kill the People already living where they wish to settle,—
"Another Slave-Colony...so have I heard, as well. Christ."
"This from Quakers of Durham, whose Relations have gone there, and written back. There may be redeeming Qualities to the place. Who knows? The Food? The Lasses? Whatever else there is?"
"The Pay,— I suppose."
"Being from Staindrop," Dixon declares, " 'tis seldom at much personal Ease, that I discuss the Unpriceable,— yet, our last time out,— all for an Event that would occupy a few Hours, in some Places, but Minutes,— even with the late War as Precedent,— Hundreds of Lives for some log Palisado, Thousands in Sterling for some handful of Savages' Scalps,— even so, that Transit made no Market sense, whatso-fairly-ever...?"
"You think they paid us too much?" Fear of Enthusiasm immediately entering Mason's Gaze.
"There were moments when they must have thought so...?"
"Such as?”
"Oh, eeh, never mind."
"A certain Exchange of Letters? Correct?"
"I didn't say thah...?"
"The Letter to Bradley? You think that's what put us in the Stuffata? That when we sign'd the letter, we sign'd our careers away? Yet look ye here, we're hir'd again,— aren't we?"
"Out of nowhere...?"
"Surely we are rehabilitated,— all Suspicions wash'd away in the Stream of Time, all Resentments by Star-light heal'd.—What did we even do, that has to be absolv'd? We represented our unwillingness to proceed upon a fool's errand."
"Aye, and they replied, that we were cowards, and must proceed...?"
"Just so."
"Whereupon we touch'd our Hats, o-bey'd, and sail'd off in the same ship that had nearly been blown out from under us...? We did our Duty."
"And more,— not only getting for them their damn'd Transit Observations, but withal their damn'd Longitude,—
"Their 'cursed local Gravity,—
"Damme, Dixon,— 'twas first-rate work,— surely that has preponderated against one Letter to Bradley,— rest his Soul,— yet, I cannot speak easily, even now, of my dismay at how he us'd me,—
"You mean 'huz'...?"
"Very well,— tho' as to who may have felt more piercingly the harshness of the Reply, having presum'd, alas so foolishly, some Connection deeper than this hateful unending Royal Society Intrigue,—
"Their infamy's no fresh News to me," Dixon quietly, " - what we must face is the probability that from now on, tho' we fight like Alexander and labor like Hercules, we shall always be remember'd as the Star-gazers who turn'd Tail under fire."
"So might I have done," cries Mason, "had there been but room to turn it,— the irony how keen!"
"Eeh...? Well.. .1 wasn't as scared as thah', tho 'f course I did feel—
"Hold,— who said I was scared?"
"Who?— Did I...?"
"Were you scared? I wasn't scared. You thought I was scared? I thought you were scared.—
"I do recall a Disinclination, as who would not, to perish beneath the water-line of some, forgive me, miserable Sixth-Rate...?"
"Sounds like headlong panic to me," says Mason. "Thank goodness I was calmer about it."
"Calmer than what? An hour and a half of great Hellish Explosions and mortal screaming? Aye, Serenity,— we'll make a Quaker of thee yet."
"They'd decertify me out of Astronomy,— strictly C. of E. in this Trade,— I'd never micro in on another Star in that Town again. All the Pubs in Greenwich, shewn my Likeness,— aahhrr!"
"I cannot sound why they've hir'd us again...?"
"Nor I, They believe, however, that we do know why. In London, they credit us with a Depth of Motive at least equal to their own. They have to, otherwise they but spin, to no purpose. One may be altogether innocent of Depth,— well take yourself for example, forthright son of the Fells or if you like blunt Geordie,—
"Eeh, aye,— yet I'm no stranger to intriguing, why tha need go no further than Bishop for thah', though there's plenty in Staindrop for fair,— yet are Londoners ever a-scan, ev'ry word tha speak, ev'ry twitch o' thy Phiz, for further meanings, present or not,—
"They've but lately discover'd simple Metaphors— Then ye find too late ye've insulted them,— or been quietly classified, or slander'd,— never knowing quite which word or gesture has done the job—"
" 'Tis call'd, I believe, Being from the Country...?"
Mason lets his head abruptly drop. "Yet, I thought I had quite got the Thames-side way of talking, the Philosophical Parlance, the fashions of the Day,— that the Bumpkin within had been entirely subdued."
"In Bishop we say, 'Ye may take the Boy out of the Country,—
"Yes yes, 'but never the Country out of the Boy.''
"Naa, that's not it,— 'But tha'll never take the Girl out of the City,' 's how we say it...?"
Mason is staring, shaking his head, "What.. .does that mean?"
"Something about Women?"
"You don't believe that they've forgiven us at the Royal Society."
"Nor ever shall...? Tho' eventually, 'tis they who'll look hasty and childish, whilst we'll be deem'd to've shewn a higher order of Courage than the World at present recognizes.”
" 'Eventually'? Oh dear."
"Why aye, we shan't live to see it...?"
"So I shall die a documented Coward. Splendid. Attainted before the Ages, my Sons as well, oh thank you, Dixon, that's wonderful, that cheers me prodigious."
"Or," Dixon trying to speak clearly, "Co-adjutor in an honorable act of Defiance, taken in the full knowledge, that those Bastards upon high would slap us down...?"
"Oh, not I, as Chauncey said when the Bums came in,— I didn't assume any such thing.—Did you? That we were bound to fail?" He shakes his head vigorously, as if there is something upon it, that he wishes to dislodge. "Why on Earth did you sign the Letter?"
Dixon shrugs. "Emerson was right about them, they're evil folk, the lot, your Royal Society...? We had to resist them, somehow...?"
"Or, expressing it more hopefully, we tried to make a positive Suggestion, as to an alternative Station, reachable in time, taken from a list well known to all."
"Your suggestion of Scanderoon was particularly unfortunate," Maskelyne had rush'd to advise Mason, having led him into a Critique of his Cape Mission which seem'd to consist of ev'ry, to Maskelyne, flaw'd decision Mason had made.
"How?" Mason protested. "It wasn't my idea. Scanderoon was ever listed as one of the Alternates."
The little Muskrat. His eyes were unable to come to rest. He paced about far too energetickally. "I don't suppose Mr. Peach has ever spoken to you of the Levant Company...of that lively traffick in Muslins and Bombazines, passing thro' Aleppo, to the Sea, and the Warehouses of the Factors, at Scanderoon?"
"Mr. Peach does business with Aleppo,— no one who has learn'd Silk, can afford not to," Mason replied. "Yet, alas, unaccountably, it has remain'd absent from our Discourse."
"Jews," declar'd Maskelyne, regretting it in the Instant.
"Ah. Let me see if I'm following this. The Royal Society send Dixon and me to the Cape, thus incurring a Debt ow'd to Dutchmen, rather than to Jews, which any Stationing of Astronomers at Scanderoon would imply.”
"Hastily he goes on to explain," now says Mason to Dixon, "that Overtures must be made by way of the East India Company, whose Westernmost Station is at Bagdad. Thence, up the Valley of the Euphrates, by way of Mosul, to Aleppo, which is the Turkey Company's eastern-most Factory, runs a private Communication,— Feluccas, Flights of miraculous Doves, Couriers with astonishing Memories, Rolling Eagres of messages, few upon Paper, up-stream and down,— having long connected, to a great reach of Intimacy, the two Companies. For Astronomers at St. Helena, or even at Bencoolen, all would be Arrang'd straightforwardly,— a clear Debt of Gratitude. But for Services of any 'Complexity,'— well, the Fees start going up,— the Company's Duty is not so clear. Particularly as the Turkey Company's route to India goes on losing custom to the Fleets that Honorable John keeps a-slinging each Day 'round the Cape into those prodigious Winds,— and whilst Janissaries, Sherifs, and Ottomans struggle to determine who shall rule over the Decline."
"What would Jews have requir'd of them, that Dutchmen would not?"
"Is...is this another Riddle?"
"Not wishing this to be taken as any but a Twinge of Curiosity," says Dixon, "- - why has ev'ry Observation site propos'd by the Royal Society prov'd to be a Factory, or Consulate, or other Agency of some royally Charter'd Company?"
"Excuse me? you'd rather be dropp'd blindly, into a Forest on some little-known Continent, perhaps?— no Perimeters,— nor indeed chances of surviving,— in-Tree-guing, as the Monkey said. I think not. Philosophick Work, to proceed at all smartly, wouldn't you agree, requires a controll'd working-space. Charter'd Companies are the ideal Agents to provide that, be the Shore Sumatran or Levantine, or wherever globally, what matter?— Control of the Company Perimeter is ever implicit.
"In any case," says Mason to Dixon, "both Pennsylvania and Maryland are Charter'd Companies as well, if it comes to that. Charter'd Companies may indeed be the form the World has now increasingly begun to take."
"And I thought 'twas a Spheroid...?"
"Play, play,— trouble yourself not with these matters." Mason shivers. "Yet, I never told you how much I admir'd you, for going back to the
Cape,— for me, a Journey impossible. Should some Mischievous Power, in this World or Another, sentence me to repeat the Experience,— and knowing what I know now,—
"There's the Catch, of course," Dixon pretending to be calm.
"What.- "
"Knowing what tha know now. Tha won't. That's part of the Price,— to drink from Lethe, and lose all thy Memories. Tha'll be considering the next World brand new,— nawh...? never seen thah' before!— and tha'll go ahead and make the same mistakes, unless tha've brought along a Remembrancer, as some would say a Conscience...? something stash'd in thy Boot-Strap to get thee going upon a cold Day,— and cold shall it be,— a part of thy Soul that doesn't depend on Memories, that lies further than Memories...?"
Mason regards him carefully. Something has happen'd, back in Durham. He puts on a stuffy Manner, that Dixon might rise to. "We don't have that in the Church."
"Why aye, you do...? If there were as much Silence in thy Masses, as in our Meetings, 'twould be evident even to thee."
"You're saying we jabber too much for you? no time to meditate, not Hindoo enough?— Bad Musick, too, I collect. Well. Any silences in my Church, thank you, are the sort most of us can't wait for to be over. All our worries, usually kept at bay by that protective Murmur of Sound, ye see, come rushing in,— Women, Work, Health, the Authorities,— anything but what you're talking about,— whatever that be."
"Mason,— shall we argue Religious Matters?"
"Good Christ. Dixon. What are we about?”
Two
America 26
For fourscore years, the Boundary Dispute Had lain in Chancery, irresolute, As Penns and Baltimores were born, and pass'd, And nothing ever seem'd to move too fast. Tho' Maryland's case be stronger on the Merits, Yet Penn's the Friend at Court of certain Ferrets, Who'll worry ev'ry dimly doubtful Acre (The betting in the Clubs is with the Quaker). Let Judges judge, and Lawyers have their Day, Yet soon or late, the Line will find its Way, For Skies grow thick with aviating Swine, Ere men pass up the chance to draw a Line. So, one day, into Delaware's great Basin, With strange Machinery sail Mr. Mason, And Mr. Dixon, by the Falmouth Packet, Connected, as with some invis'ble Bracket,— Sharing a Fate, directed by the Stars, To mark the Earth with geometrick Scars.
- Timothy Tox, The Line
From the shore they will hear Milkmaids quarreling and cowbells a-clank, and dogs, and Babies old and new,— Hammers upon Nails, Wives upon Husbands, the ring of Pot-lids, the jingling of Draft-chains, a rifle-shot from a stretch of woods, lengthily crackling tree to tree and across the water.... An animal will come to a Headland, and stand, regarding them with narrowly set Eyes that glow a Moment. Its Face slowly turning as they pass. America.
At sunset they raise the Capes of Delaware, and lie to for the Night in Whorekill Road, just inside Cape Henlopen. The Astronomers hear Rails whistling, and a feral screaming in the Brakes, that the one imagines as Heat, and the other as Slaughter, tho' they do not discuss this. Somewhere a Channel-Buoy rings, reports arrive all night of Lights upon the Shore...Sailors prowl the Decks, losing Sleep. The sunrise comes chaste beyond all easy Wit. The Coffee is brew'd once, and then pour'd thro' its own Grounds again, by Shorty, the Cook. Among the morning Breezes, Capt. Falconer works his Vessel back out between the Hen-and-Chickens and the Shears, to the main Channel, and with a Pilot willing to take Packet-Wages aboard, begins threading among the bars and Flats of Delaware Bay, toward New Castle, where the Bay, narrow'd by then to a River, takes its great ninety-degree turn Eastward,— the Town wheeling away to larboard brick, white, grayish blue of a precise shade neither Astronomer has ever seen, Citizens and their Children waving, horses a-clop upon the paving-stones, white publick Trim-work shifting like Furniture upon the Sky.
Children, at that time Philadelphia was second only to London, as the greatest of English-speaking cities. The Ships' Landing ran well up into the Town, by way of Dock Creek, so that the final Approach was like being reach'd out to, the Wind baffl'd, a slow embrace of Brickwork, as the Town came to swallow one by one their Oceanick Degrees of freedom,— once as many as a Compass box'd, and now, as they single up all lines, as they secure from Sea-Detail, as they come to rest, none. Here is Danger's own Home-Port, where mates swallow the Anchor and have fatal failures of judgment. Where a Sailor who goes up an Alley may not return the same Swab at all.
'Tis the middle of November, though seeming not much different from a late English summer. It is an overcast Evening, rain in the Offing. In a street nearby, oysters from the Delaware shore are being cried by the Waggon-load. The Surveyors stand together at the Quarter-deck, Mason in gray stockings, brown breeches, and snuff-color'd Coat with pinchbeck buttons,— Dixon in red coat, Breeches, and boots, and a Hat with
a severely Military rake to it,— waiting the Instruments, both, now, more keenly than at any time during this late sea-passage, feeling like Supercargo, pos'd not before wild seas or exotick landscapes, but among Objects of Oceanick Commerce,— as all 'round them Sailors and Dock-men labor, nets lift and sway as if by themselves, bulging with casks of nails and jellied eels, British biscuit and buttons for your waistcoat, Ton-icks, Colognes, golden Provolones. Upon the docks a mighty Bustling proceeds, as Waggon-drivers mingle with higher-born couples in Italian chaises, Negroes with hand-barrows, Irish servants with cargo of all sorts upon their backs, running Dogs, rooting Hogs, and underfoot lies all the debris of global Traffick, shreds of spices and teas and coffee-berries, splashes of Geneva gin and Queen-of-Hungary water, oranges and shaddocks fallen and squash'd, seeds that have sprouted between the cobblestones, Pills Balsamic and Universal, ground and scatter'd, down where the Flies convene, and the Spadger hops.
Stevedores are carrying trunks down the planks, or rolling Barrels down into waggons, where Horses, not much different from British farm horses, stand awaiting loads and journeys. Thoroughbred Cousins clitter-clatter in, hauling an open Carriage-Load of artfully dressed Maidens, who do not seem to be related to anyone on board, coming prancingly alongside, smiling and waving at everyone they can see. These are Philadelphia girls,— who, in the article of reckless Flirtation, the Surveyors will discover, put all the stoep-sitters of Cape Town quite in Eclipse. Dixon, playing the rural booby, grins and waves his hat. "Whatcheer, Poll, is it Thoo?"
Philadelphia Girls, Philadelphia Ways, Heavenly Sights, Schuylkill-side Nights, and Phila-delphia Days...
Debarking passengers are scrutiniz'd by dock-side visitors with varying Motives. Some are actually there to meet Passengers. Some have come to gather information. Others with an interest in the category of traveler term'd "unwary" have pass'd the Morning perfecting before pocket mirrors images of guilelessness. Appropriate Elements hover about the cargoes of small but interesting items such as Gemstones and
Medicines, with Pilferage in mind. Vendors of all sorts have set up to
address the Sailors, three weeks at sea. Those who do not stroll these
Pitches one by one, ignore them, streaking past, eager to be in to Town
before Evening's first illuminate Windows
"Pass it by, Lads, 'tis not for you,— why should you ever need this marvelous Potion, prais'd by the most successful lovers of all time,— you there, ye've heard of Don Juan? Casanova? and how about Old Q, the Star of Piccadilly? What d'ye think keeps him so Brisk, eh?"
"Milkmaid in Your Pocket, right here Jack me Boy,— Milkmaid in Your Pocket,"— proving to be a curious portable Cup, equipp'd with a simple Siphon, for carrying about the Liquid of one's Choice, upon which one may then suck, "— whatever the Circs, during a card-game, out in the Street, back in the Ship."
"Her name is Graziana, Lads, a Daughter of Naples,— you that's been to Naples, heh, heh, and you that haven't, why this is your chance! she may not speak a word of English, but there's something she can do, and she's doing it right now! See her handle it,— see her flatten it,— see her toss it twirling in the Air, with all the female exuberance of her Race, and we haven't even gotten to the Scamozz' yet!"
"The Sign upon the Waggon says it all, Boys, 'Heaven or Bust,' those're the choices, you've been out around the World and you know it's true,— now what are you going to do about it? Go in another Tavern, follow like a train'd Dog another flashing of Satinette, wait one Card too many to gather up even a few small Coins,— stumble back to the Ship, single up all lines, out once again into certain Danger. What do you think Jesus feels like, when he sees you missing another Chance like that? Oh, He's watchin'. He knows."
The Revd MacClenaghan, a rousing Evangelist said to be much in the Whitefield Mold, has just been through Town, and the effects of his Passage appear everywhere. Snooty urban Anglicans for whom Christ has figured as a distant, minor Saint are suddenly upon the streets with their Wigs askew, singing original Hymns about rebirth in his Blood. Presbyterians in great Conestoga Waggons haunt the Approaches to taverns and inns, gathering up sinners of all degrees and persuasions, taking them far out into the Country, and subjecting them to intense sermonizing
until they either escape, go to sleep, or find the true turning of Heart that needs no Authentication. Even Quakers are out in the Street, bargaining with unexpected pugnacity, for a share of this Population suddenly rous'd into Christliness.
"The New Religion had crested better than twenty years before," the Revd Cherrycoke explains, "— by the 'sixties we were well into a Descent, that grew more vertiginous with the days, ever toward some great Trough whose terrible Depth no one knew."
"Or, 'yet knows.' " The intermittently gloomy Ethelmer. As so often, the Revd finds himself looking for Tenebras's reactions to the thoughts of her Cousin the University man. "All respect, Sir, wouldn't the scientifick thing have been to keep note, through the years after, of those claiming rebirth in Christ? To see how they did,— how long the certainty lasted? To see who was telling the truth, and how much of it?"
"Oh, there were scoundrels about, to be sure," says the Revd, "claiming falsely for purposes of Commerce, an Awakening they would not have recogniz'd had it shouted to them by Name. But enough people had shar'd the experience, that Charlatans were easily expos'd. That was the curious thing. So many, having been thro' it together.
"You should have seen this place the time Whitefield came. All Philadelphia, delirious with Psalms. People standing up on Ladders at the Church Windows, Torch-light bright as Midday. Direct experience of Christ, hitherto the painfully earn'd privilege of Hermits in the desert, was in the Instant, amid the best farmland on Earth, being freely given to a great Town of Burghers and Churchfolk.—They need only accept. How could the world have remain'd right-side-up after days like those? 'Twas the Holy Ghost, conducting its own Settlement of America. George the Third might claim it, but 'twas the Ghost that rul'd, and rules yet, even in Deistic times."
"Say." DePugh considering. "No wonder there was a Revolution."
"Hmph. Some Revolution," remarks Euphrenia.
"Why, Euph!" cries her sister.
"How not?" protests Ethelmer. "Excuse me, Ma'am,— but as you must appreciate how even your sort of Musick is changing, recall what
Plato said in his 'Republick',— 'When the Forms of Musick change, 'tis a Promise of civil Disorder.'''
"I believe his Quarrel was with the Dithyrambists," the Revd smoothly puts in, "- - who were not changing the Forms of Song, he felt, so much as mixing up one with another, or abandoning them altogether, as their madness might dictate."
"Just what I keep listening for, Thelmer," Euphrenia nods, "in the songs and hymns of your own American day, yet do I seek in vain after madness, and Rapture,— hearing but a careful attending to the same Forms, the same Interests, as of old,— and have you noticed the way ev'rything, suddenly, has begun to gravitate toward B-flat major? That's a sign of trouble ahead. Marches and Anthems, for Triumphs that have not yet been made real. Already 'tis possible to walk the streets of New-York, passing among Buskers and Mongers, from one street-air to the next, and whistle along, and never have to change Key from B flat major."
"Ah. And yet.. .If I may?" The young man seats himself at the Clavier, and arpeggiates a few major chords. "In C, if ye like,— here is something the fellows sing at University, when we are off being merry,— 'To Anacreon in Heaven' 's its Name,— I'll spare ye the words, lest the Innocence of any Ear in the Room, be assaulted." Tenebrae has invented and refin'd a way of rolling her eyes, undetectable to any save her Target, upon whom the effect is said to be devastating. Ethelmer's reaction is not easy to detect, save that he is blinking rapidly, and forgets, for a moment, where Middle C is.
The Air he plays to them would be martial but for its Tempo, being more that of a Minuet,— thirty-two Measures in all,— which by its end has feet tapping and necks a-sway. "Here, I say, is the New Form in its Essence,— Four Stanzas,— sentimentally speaking, a 'Sandwich,' with the third eight 'Bars' as the Filling,— that Phrase," playing it, "ascending like a Sky-Rocket, its appeal to the Emotions primitive as any experienced in the Act of—
"Cousin?— "
- of, of Eating, that's all I was going to say...," hands spread in gawky appeal.
She shakes her Finger at him, tho' as the Revd can easily see, in nought but Play.
"And this is the sort of thing you lads are up to," he avuncularly rumbles, "out there over Delaware? Anatomizing your own drinking songs!— is nothing sacred, and is there not but a small skipping Dance-step, till ye be questioning earthly, nay, Heavenly, Powers?"
"Something's a-stir in Musick, anyway," quickly inserts Aunt Euphy, - most of the new pieces us'd to be one Dance-Tune after another, or, for the Morning Next, a similar Enchainment of Hymns,— no connection, Gigue, Sarabande, Bourree, la la la well a-trip thro' the Zinnias of Life, and how merry, of course,— but 'my' stuff, Thelmer,"— waving a Sheaf of Musick-Sheets,— "all is become Departure, and sentimental Crisis,— the Sandwich-Filling it seems,— and at last, Return to the Tonick, safe at Home, no need even to play loud at the end.—Mason and Dixon's West Line," Aunt Euphrenia setting her Oboe carefully upon the arm of her Chair, "in fact, shares this modern Quality of Departure and Return, wherein, year upon Year, the Ritornelli are not merely the same notes again and again, but variant each time, as Clocks have tick'd onward, Chance has dealt fair and foul, Life, willy-nilly, has been liv'd through—"
"As to journey west," adds the Revd helpfully, "in the same sense as the Sun, is to live, raise Children, grow older, and die, carried along by the Stream of the Day,— whilst to turn Eastward, is somehow to resist time and age, to work against the Wind, seek ever the dawn, even, as who can say, defy Death."
"A drama guaranteed ev'ry time a Reedwoman picks up her Instrument, Wick-Wax,— a Novel in Musick, whose Hero instead of proceeding down the road having one adventure after another, with no end in view, comes rather through some Catastrophe and back to where she set out from."
"No place like home, eh?" guffaws Lomax LeSpark.
"Doesn't sound too revolutionary to me," declares Uncle Ives. "Sounds like a good sermon aim'd at keeping the Country-People in their place."
"That's because you ain't hearing it aright, Nunk. 'Tis the Elder World, Turn'd Upside Down," Ethelmer banging out a fragment of the
tune of that Title, play'd at the surrender of Cornwallis, " Tis a lengthy step in human wisdom, Sir."
"Oh dear oh dear, beware then," the Revd groans in a manner he has learn'd, if challenged, to pass off as Stomach distress. Ethelmer seems dangerous to him somehow, and not only because of Tenebrse,— toward whom these days he is undergoing Deep Avuncularity, with its own Jangle of Sentiments pure and impure. Yet, leaving all that out, there remains to the Boy a residue of Worldliness notable even in this Babylon of post-war Philadelphia,— a step past Deism, a purpos'd Disconnection from Christ—
"...South Philadelphia Ballad-singers," Ethelmer has meanwhile been instructing the Room, "generally Tenors, who are said, in their Succession, to constitute a Chapter in the secret History of a Musick yet to be, if not the Modal change Plato fear'd, then one he did not foresee."
"Not even he." His mathematickal cousin DePugh is disquieted.
"My point exactly!" cries Ethelmer, who has been edging toward the Spirits, mindful that at some point he shall have to edge past his Cousin Tenebrae. " 'Tis ever the sign of Revolutionary times, that Street-Airs become Hymns, and Roist'ring-Songs Anthems,— just as Plato fear'd,— hast heard the Negroe Musick, the flatted Fifths, the vocal portamenti,— 'tis there sings your Revolution. These late ten American Years were but Slaughter of this sort and that. Now begins the true Inversion of the World."
"Don't know, Coz. Much of your Faith seems invested in this novel Musick,—
"Where better?" asks young Ethelmer confidently. "Is it not the very Rhythm of the Engines, the Clamor of the Mills, the Rock of the Oceans, the Roll of the Drums in the Night, why if one wish'd to give it a Name,—
"Surf Music!" DePugh cries.
"Percussion," Brae, sweet as a Pie.
"Very well to both of ye,— nonetheless,— as you, DePugh, shall, one full Moon not too distant, be found haggling in the Alleys with Caribbean Negroes, over the price of some modest Guitar upon which to strum this very Musick, so shall you, Miss, be dancing to it, at your Wedding.”
"Then you should be wearing this 'round your Head," suggests Brae quite upon her "Beat," "if you wish to work as a Gypsy." Handing him from her Sewing-Basket a length of scarlet Muslin, which the game Ethelmer has 'round his head in a Trice.
"More a Pirate than a Gypsy," Brae opines.
"Yet, just as Romantick, in its way...?”
27
" 'Demagogue'!" mutters Dr. Franklin. "Our excellent Sprout Penn, the latest of his crypto-Jesuit ruling family, and his Satanick arrangement with Mr. Allen, his shameless Attentions to the Presbyterian Mobility,— has the effrontery to speak of 'crushing this Demagogue'— well, well, aye, Demagogue...Milton thought it a 'Goblin word,' that might yet describe good Patriots,— '
"Good Patriots all!" cries the impulsive Mr. Dixon, raising his Cup.
Dr. Franklin observes them, one at a time, through the tinted lenses of Spectacles of his own Invention, for moderating the Glare of the Sun, whose Elevation upon his Nose varies, according to the message it happens to be inflecting, giving over all the impression of a Visitor from very far away indeed. The Geometers have encounter'd the eminent Philadel-phian quite by chance, in the pungent and dim back reaches of an Apothecary in Locust-Street, each Gentleman upon a distinct mission of chemical Necessity, as among these shelves and bins, the Godfrey's Cordial and Bateman's Drops, Hooper's Female Pills and Smith's Medicinal Snuff, hasty bargains are struck, Strings of numbers and letters and alchemists' Signs whisper'd (and some never written down), whilst a quiet warm'd Narcosis, as of a drawing to evening far out in a Country of fields where drying herbal crops lie, just perceptibly breathing, possesses the Shop Interior, rendering it indistinct as to size, legality, or destiny.
Dixon is accosting at length a clerk who has taken him for one more English tourist hectically out in search of Chinamen's Drugs,— "Any- thing, ideally, with Ooahpium in it will do...? Al-cohol to keep it in solution of course...perhaps some For-mulation that would go well with the Daffy's Elixir of which we plan to purchase,— eeh, how many Cases was that again, Mr. Mason...?"
Mason glares back, too keenly aware of the celebrated American Philosopher's Eye upon them,— having hoped to project before it, somehow, at least the forms of Precedence,— but of course Dixon's rustic Familiarities have abolish'd, yet again, any such hope,— one more Station of the Cross to be put up with. "Any matter of Supply falls into your area, Dixon. Have a word with Mr. McClean if you're not sure," hearing how it sounds, even as he goes on with it.
Dixon remains cheery. "In thah' welcome Event," making a carefree motion in the Air with his Handkerchief, "an hundred Cases should do the trick, for this time out, anyway,— Now as to that Oahpiated article we were discussing,—
"Aye, we call it a Laudanum, Sir,— compounded according to the original Formulae of the noted Dr. Paracelsus, of Germany."
"An hundred Cases?" screams Mason, "have you gone insane? This is a Church-going Province,— 'twill never be authoriz'd."
"Preventive against a variety of Ailments, Sir...?— excellent anti-costive properties,— given the Uncertainty of Diet,—
"The Commissioners know all too well about Daffy's Elixir, and the uses 'tis put to," Mr. Franklin, who has been attending the exchange, here feels he must point out. "And being imported, 'tis only to be had, at prices charg'd in the English-shops. Now, for a tenth of that outrageous sum, our good Apothecary Mr. Mispick will compound you a 'Salutis' impossible to distinguish from the original. Or you may design your own, consulting with him as to your preferr'd Ratio of Jalap to Senna, which variety of Treacle pleases you,— all the fine points of Daffyolatry are known to him, he has seen it all, and nothing will shock or offend him." He raises a Finger. " 'Strangers, heed my wise advice,— Never pay the Retail Price.' "
"This is kind of you Sir, for fair...? Mr. Mason's choices, illustrative of a more Bacchic Leaning, enjoying Priority of mine, so must I rest content with more modest outlays, from my own meager Purse, alas, for any Philtres peculiarly useful to m'self... ?”
Dr. Franklin shifts his Lenses as if for a clearer look at Dixon. A Smile struggles to find its way through lips purs'd in Speculation,— but before it quite may, being the sort of man who, tho' never seen to consult a Time-piece, always knows the exact Time, "Come," he bids the Astronomers abruptly, "— you've not yet been to a Philadelphia Coffeehouse? Poh,— we must amend that,— something no Visitor should miss,— I must transact an Item or two of Business,— would you honor me by having a brief Sip at my Local, The Blue Jamaica?"
"London," Mr. Mason is soon reporting, "is quite thoroughly charm'd by your Glass Armonica, thanks to the Artistry of the excellent Miss Davies."
"I have done my utmost to convince Miss Davies that, given the general Frangibility, use of any strong Vibrato could prove,— putting it as gallantly as possible,— unwise. Yet she plays so beautifully. My idle Toy has found itself fortunately arriv'd, among a small Host of Virtuosi. Heavens. The Mozart child,— and these Tales I keep hearing, of the young Parisian Doctor, Mesmer, who plays it, 'tis said, unusually well."
"Not the Magnetickal Gent?" says Mason.
"The very same. Known to the R.S. for some time, I collect."
"At The Mitre, he is ever reliable as a topick of lively Discourse."
"Where Franklin is a Member, and tha've scarcely been a Guest," Dixon may be muttering to himself. Aloud,— " 'Scuse me, Friend," briskly upon his feet, "where does one go over the Heap around here?"
Mr. Franklin points out to him a Door to the Yard, and when he is out of earshot, begins, it seems abruptly, to inquire about the Surveyor's "Calvert connections."
Mason is perplex'd. "I didn't know there were any. I imagin'd, that being of a Quaker family, he was deem'd acceptable to the Pennsylvani-ans, but have ever been at a loss to explain his appeal, if any, to the Marylanders."
"The Calverts are content to live in England,— as they are Catholics, their children are educated across the Channel, in St. Omer. One of the Jesuits teaching there is a certain Le Maire, who is native to Durham and a particular friend of Dixon's teacher, William Emerson,— “
"Yes. But you'd have to ask Dixon about the Jesuit. I know of him only as the partner of Roger Boscovich,— the two degrees of Latitude in Italy,—"
- from Rome to Rimini, aye." Franklin, behind his Orchid-hued
Lenses, waits for Mason to work out the Comparisons.
"What's going on, then?" Mason trying to peer, he hopes not as truculently as he feels, into the shadowy Lunettes.
"You might sometime find yourself discussing these matters with your Second,—
"After which," Mason replies, as Franklin suddenly, with naked nar-row'd eyes, looks over the tops of his Spectacles and nods encouragingly, - I am to relate the Minutes of it all to you?"
Mr. Franklin replacing his "Glasses," "Not if it causes you Discomfort, Sir. Although some Discomforts may ever be eas'd by timely application of Ben's Universal Balm,—
- yet do others continue intractable. Why, Dr. Franklin, are you
urging me to this, may I say, dismal choice?"
"Oh,— wagering against your loyalty," Franklin shrugs. "An elementary exercise,— and pray, do not feel you have in any way offended me,— as an adult, I am no stranger to Rejection, I have long learn'd to deal with it in Dignity, as a sane man would,— and without Resentment, motive for it though I may enjoy in Abundance."
"Sir, I cannot spy upon him for you. I am sorry the Politics here have become so, as one would say, Italian, in their intricacies. But my contractual Tasks alone will be difficult enough without— ah and here is Mr. Dixon."
"D'you know a lad nam'd Lewis? Said he knew you, Dr. Franklin."
"Where was this?" Franklin has begun twirling the hair upon either side of his Head, into long Curls.
"Just out in the Alley. He tried to sell me a Watch...? said it was a Masonick Astrologer's Model...? Signs of the Zoahdiahck...? Pheases of the Moon,—
"You didn't— "
"Couldn't. Not unless one of you wants to lend me—
"I'll go have a look," Mason rising. "Come along Dixon, and point him out?”
"Eeh, Ah think he's gone...?" Dixon now preoccupied with pouring the contents of a small Vial into his Coffee.
Mason, unable to insist without appearing to wish to consult out of Franklin's hearing, and needing to piss anyhow, shrugs and withdraws. The moment he vanishes, Franklin begins to press Dixon upon the Top-ick of Mason's "East India Company Connections."
"Is thah' the Dutch or the English one?" Dixon's Phiz altogether innocent. "Ah'm ever confounding 'em...?"
Franklin at last allowing himself to chuckle. "Friend Dixon,— Loyalty is a Gem, of Worth innate, Whose price is never notic'd,— till too late."
"We've had an Adventure or two, you see."
"Ah, me. Don't suppose the name Sam Peach of Chalford would ring a Bell...?"
With quizzical sincerity, "One of thoase lads in The Beggar's Opera...?— "
"Well, well, Mr. Dixon, be easy, I release you,— and look ye, here again is your Companion."
"The man's an entire Instrument-shop," says Mason, "• - droll sort of friend for you to have, Dr. Franklin,— interesting Wig.... Told me a Riddle, in fact,— Why is the King like a near-sighted Gunner?— 'Well d——'d if I know,' I said back, 'but Dr. Franklin is sure to.''
"Mr. Mason! Dear, dear. How would I know any such Joak? Or person?"
"Why, to help you find out how much,— - and how foolishly,— - we have to spend, perhaps!" sing Mason and Dixon.
"Phlogiston and Electric Fir-r-re,— " cries the eminent Philadelphian, "if I'm not the Biter bi-i-t. As you'd say, trans-parent, was I?... Awkward... should've just ask'd them at the Royal Society, being a member
after all....Indeed, I was among 'em at the time you fought the French
Vessel,— in London, when you wrote to them...quite a Hub-Bub, Gentlemen! Tho' absent from the meeting which approv'd their reply to you,— innocent, you understand,— I did attend the next, a classick Display of those people at their worst. Taken one at a time,— dear Tom Birch, august Hadley the Quadrant's Eponym, Mr. Short, Dr. Morton,— excellent minds, invigorating Company,— but when they got all in a Herd,— bless us, the Stubbornness! They knew the French had Ben-
eoolen and would be as content to sink the Seahorse there, as off Brest. They all knew. But they could never allow upstarts to advise them in matters of Global strategy. Alas, the British,— bloody-minded to the end, so long as it be somebody else's Blood. Thus the Board of Trade, thus the House of Commons.... Up there, day after day, instructing them, gently,— a Schoolmaster for Idiots.—Sooner or later, no offense, Gentlemen, Americans must fight them—
"Hurrah, howbeit?— for I am res-cued." He refers in his courtly way, to the arrival of a pair of young Women, both quite pleasant-looking, tho' deck'd out with what, even to the unschool'd Eye, seems willful Eccentricity, and who may or may not have been among those in the Carriage which had been earlier at the Landing.
"There he is!"
"Oh, Doctor!" more than vigorously nudging one another, and laughing at differing rates of Speed.
"These are Molly and Dolly," Franklin introduces them, "Students of the Electrickal Arts, whom I am pleas'd from time to time to examine, in the Sub-ject, ye-e-s.... If you've the Inclination tonight, Gentlemen, I am giving a recital, upon the Glass Instrument, at the sign of The Fair Anchor, upon Carpenters Wharf, just down from The London Coffee House. 'Tis a sort of,— what is the Word I grope for,—
"Gin-shop," sings Molly.
"Opium den," cries Dolly.
"Ladies, Ladies—"
"Doctor, Doctor!" As the Philosopher, attempting to maintain his Hair in some order, is slowly absorb'd into a mirthful Cloud of tartan-edg'd Emerald Green and luminous Coral taffeta, Prints with a Lap-Dog Motif, ribbons with "Sailor Beware," "No free Kisses," "Be Quick about it," and other humorous slogans woven into them, Flounces and loose Hats and wand'ring Tresses, the Astronomers reckon it as good a moment as any to be off. Passing into the Street, they can hear Molly piping, "And she swore to me, she saw it glowing in the Dark...?"
Outside they stand, blinking. "I don't knaahw...?.. .Hadn't thoo imag-in'd him as somehow more..."
"Organized. Aye. By Reputation, he is a man entirely at ease with the inner structures of Time itself. Yet, here he seems strangely...”
"Unfoahcused, as we Lensmen say...?"
Mason rolling his eyes, "Perhaps we should pop into that Fair Anchor this Evening, what think you?"
"Aye, happen those two canny Electricians'll be there...? Rather fancied old Dolly myself. Woman knows how to turn herself out, 'd tha noatice?"
Hearing what he imagines to be an Emphasis upon "two," Mason directs at Dixon an effortful smile, meaning, "Go ahead, but don't expect me to ascend wearily out of my Melancholia just so ev'rybody else can have their own idea of a good time,"— which happens to be the most Dixon would ever think of asking of him, anyhow. And withal, when they show up at The Fair Anchor that Night, it turns out to be Mason's sort of place nicely,— basic and bleak, discouraging ev'ry attempt, even grunting, that might suggest Conviviality, the wood Furniture carv'd upon, splinter'd and scarr'd, the Stale-Ale as under-hopp'd, as 'tis over-water'd. They secure a place along the Bar, and presently Mr. Franklin appears, having exchang'd his Orchid Spectacles for Half-Lenses of Nocturnal Blue. The occupants of the Room, hitherto strewn without more purpose than the human Jetsam of any large Seaport, all sit up at once, draw together, and with the precision of a long-rehears'd Claque, begin to chatter of Miss Davies, and Gluck, and ineluctably, Mesmer.
The Instrument awaits him, its nested Crystal Hemispheres, each tun'd to a Note of the Scale, carefully brought hither through reef'd-Topsail seas and likewise whelming Anxieties back at Lloyd's regarding the inherent Vice of Glass added to the yet imperfectly known contingencies of voyage by Ship,— brought to shine in this commodious Corner, beneath a portrait of some Swedish Statesman too darken'd with Room-smoke for anyone to be sure who it is any more,— Oxenstjerna, Gyllenstjerna, Gyllenborg, who knows?— discussions often becoming quite spirited, though, of course, conducted in Swedish. It has hung there, growing into its Anonymity, since the early times of the Swedish settlers,— gazing into the room, at the nightly dramas of lost consciousness and squander'd Coin, at gaming and roaring and varieties inexhaustible of Argument. Behind it rises a Flight of stairs, up and down which creeps a ceaseless Traffick. Many pause to stare over the false Mahogany Railing at Dr. Franklin seated at his Glass Armonica, or down upon the Figures and into the Decolletages of Molly and Dolly, who not only have show'd up, but have brought along two more young women with similar ideas about Fashion. "These Doxies," Mason mutters, "look ye,— they're staring at me. I can feel myself becoming Unreasonably Suspicious."
"Rest easy,— 'tis me they want," Dixon waving.
"Jerry! Charlie! Over here!" The Ladies seem delighted. Dr. Franklin waits for the parties to rearrange their seating, then strikes a C major chord. The room quiets instantly. He begins to play, rotating, by way of a Treadle Arrangement, the horizontal Stack of Glasses thro' a Trough of Water, to keep the Rims ever wet, and then simply touching each wet rim moving by, as he would have touch'd the Key of an Organ, to produce a queerly hoarse, ringing Tone. If Chimes could whisper, if Melodies could pass away, and their Souls wander the Earth.. .if Ghosts danced at Ghost Ridottoes, 'twould require such Musick, Sentiment ever held back, ever at the Edge of breaking forth, in Fragments, as Glass breaks.
Upon one of his intermissions, the Doctor, having secur'd a Pot of Ale, approaches the Geometers. "Come and meet Mr. Tallihoe, of Virginia," who proves to be anxious that they visit with Col° Washington, of that Province.
"You'll want to have a chat,— he's been out there, knows the country, the Inhabitants,— Surveyor, like yourselves."
Dixon here must suppress a Chuckle, knowing how it annoys Mason to be styl'd so. "Bad enough at the Cape, calling us both Astronomers,— Mason has complained, and more than once. "I'm being insulted coming and going, it's not fair."
"He's said to be of a Wear Valley Family... ? They told me to look him up...?"
At Dawn they are led to a remote cross-roads north of the City. Out of the cold Humidity rolls smoothly a Coach of peculiar Design. "But step aboard, Gents, and this Machine'11 have yese in Mount Vernon ere Phoebus lift 'is Nob again."
"Is it safe?" inquires Mason.
"Perfectly,— 'tis the Road that's perilous!" Mr. Tallihoe shaking both their hands in fare-well.
"You're not coming along...?" Dixon collects.
"Not I. He'll not wish to see me. Lord's Mercy, no."
They ride all night, and neither sleeps. The Coach stops for nothing. Meals, each a distinct kind of "Sandwich," are pass'd to them down thro' a Hatch. The Remains, including Plates, are thrown out the Window, taken by the Wind. There are Newspapers and a Rack-ful of Books, and under the Driver's seat is a Cask of Philadelphia Porter, whose Tap extends within, for the use of the Passengers. When they must piss, they do so into glaz'd Jars, with Chinese Scenes upon them. By the time they consider pissing out the Coach Doors, so swiftly have they Travel'd, that they miss the Chance. The Driver is calling, "Potowmack just ahead, Gents!" He drops them off by the River, into the Slap and Scent of Winter upon the Wing, and points them uphill. Bearing nothing but what they may have stuff'd hastily into their Pockets, they begin the Ascent to Mount Vernon.
28
"In their Decadency these Virginians practice an elaborate Folly of Courtly Love, unmodified since the Dark Ages, so relentlessly that at length they cannot distinguish Fancy from the substantial World, and their Folly absorbs them into itself. They gaily dance the steps their African Slaves teach them, whilst pretending to an aristocracy they seem only to've heard rumors of. Their preferr'd sport is the Duel,— part of the definition of 'Gentleman' in these parts seems to be ownership of a match'd set of Pistols.
"To anyone who has observ'd slave-keepers in Africa, it will seem all quite ancient,— Lords and Serfs,— a Gothick Pursuit,— what, in our corrupted Days, has become of Knights and Castles, when neither is any longer reasonable, or possible. No good can come of such dangerous Boobyism. What sort of Politics may proceed herefrom, only He that sows the Seeds of Folly in His World may say."
- The Revd Wicks Cherrycoke, Spiritual Day-Book
Col° Washington turns out to be taller than Dixon, by about as much as Dixon rises over Mason. "Enable us quite nicely to stand in a Shed if we keep a straight line," he greets them, "though Ah wonder why?" In this Province of the Unreflective, if the Colonel serves not as a Focus of Sobriety, neither is he quite the incompetent Fool depicted in the London press, rattling on, ever so jolly, about the whiz of enemy shot through the air, tho' how mean-spirited must we be to refuse Slack in the Sheets of Manhood to a gangling Sprig, sighting one day through the Eye-piece of a Surveyor's Instrument upon a Plummet-String, the next down the barrel of a Rifle at a Frenchman? In his mature person, tho' he will seem from time to time to allow his Gaze to refocus upon something more remote,— yet 'tis as little Fidgeting as Reverie, something purposeful, rather, allowing him to remain attentive to the Topick at hand. When he hears Dixon speak, he smiles, though owing to the state of his teeth he is reluctant to do so when in company,— a smile from Col° Washington, however tentative, is said to be a mark of favor,— "My people come from around your neck of the woods, I think, for I've relatives who talk the way you do."
Dixon cups an ear. "Happen I hear a fading echo of the old Pitman's Lilt...?"
The Col° shrugs. "Up in Pennsylvania they tell me I talk like an African. They imagine us here surrounded with our Tithables, insensibly sliding into their speech, and so, it is implied, into their Ways as well. Come. Observe this Pitcher upon the Table, an excellent Punch, the invention of my Man Gershom."
Out on the white-column'd porch, tumbler in fist, the large Virginian wants to talk real estate. "Sometimes a man must act quickly upon an opportunity, for in volatile times the chance may never come again. Just for example,— there is a parcel out past the South Mountain I'd like you to take a look at when you go by,— your Line, as I project it, passing
quite close. Spotted it early in the War, kept it in mind ever since.... No
reason you fellows shouldn't turn a Shilling or two whilst you're over here...and have ye consider'd how much free surveying ye'll be giving away,— as the West Line must contribute North and South Boundaries to Pieces innumerable? Don't suppose you have a copy of that Contract ye
sign'd.. .well, no matter Yet I wonder at how you Boys have stirr'd up
the land-jobbers. No one here regards the crest of the Alleghenies as the Barrier it was. You've only to look at the roads, some days the Waggons in a Stream unbroken,— new faces in ships arriving every day, nothing east of Susquehanna left to settle,— the French are out of the Ohio, the Scoundrel Pontiac is vanquish'd, the money is ready, Coffee-Houses in a frenzy of map-sketching and bargaining,— what deters us?”
"General Bouquet's Proclamation,— " Mason suggests, "no new Settlement west of the Allegheny Ridge-Line."
"Poh. The Proprietors won't enforce that."
"Whence then," replies Mason, "the Rumor that Mr. Cresap tried to bribe the General with twenty-five thousand acres, not to proclaim his Line?"
"Hum. Perhaps," chuckles Washington, " 'twas all the old Renegado dared promise,— and Bouquet may have wanted more,— as no Land may be had there now but by his Warrant, his Line might make of him an American Nabob,— as he was not offering his Services out of love for those inexpensive Tokens with which he is synonymous,— rather, the Lord ever Merciful, as in Bengal, sent us a Deliverer whose Appetite for Profit matches his self-confidence. 'Twas Business, more or less Plainly dealt. The next step will be to contract our Indian Wars out to Mercenaries,— preferably school'd in Prussian techniques, as it never hurts to get the best,— tho' many of these Hired professionals miss one pay-day and they're gone like Smoke. Could even be just before a decisive Battle,— forget it, damn 'em, they're off. Did you imagine Bouquet, or the Penns, to be acting out of tender motives, toward the Indians?"
"Why else refrain from expanding West," mildly inquires Dixon, "but out of a regard for the Humanity of those whose Homes they invade?"
"A motive even stronger and purer," frowns Colonel Washington,
- the desire to confound their enemies,— who chiefly are the Presbyterians settling the West, Proclamation-Shmocklamation,— Ulster Scots, who hate England enough to fight against her, now the French are departed,— tho' the cheerfully idiotic, who are numerous, believe such Sectarian passions to lie behind us. The Ulster Scots were dispossess'd once,— shamefully,— herded, transported,— Hostages to the demands of Religious Geography. Then, a second time, were they forc'd to flee the rack-rents of Ulster, for this American unknown. Think ye, there will be any third Coercion? At what cost, pray? Americans will fight Indians whenever they please, which is whenever they can,— and Brits wherever they must, for we will be no more contain'd, than tax'd. The Grenville Ministry ignore these Data, at their Peril."
"Mr. Grenville, alas, neglects to consult me in these Matters," says Mason.
"Wrote to him," adds Dixon,— " 'Tax the East India Company, why don't tha?' Did he even reply?"
"As a rule here," advises the Col", "ye may speak your Minds upon any Topick Politickal. But on no account, ever discuss Religion. If any insist, represent yourselves as Deists. The Back Inhabitants are terrified of all Atheists, especially the Indians,— tho' Englishmen bearing unfamiliar Equipment across their land might easily qualify. Their first Impulse, upon meeting an Atheist, is to shoot at him, often at close range, tho' some of the Lancaster County Rifles are deadly from a mile off,— so running for cover is largely out of the Question. Besides, you cannot know what may be waiting among the Trees...."
"What's that Aroma?" Dixon blurts, knowing quite well, from the Cape, what it is.
"Ah, the new Harvest, how inhospitable of me. 'Tis but a small patch out back, planted as an Experiment,— if it prospers, next season perhaps we'll plant ten Acres, as a Market-Crop. With luck, between the Navy and the New-York Fops, we could get rid of it all, Male and Fim-ble, and see us some Profit. Always a few Shillings in Canary-Seed as well, worse comes to worst.—Here then,— Gershom! Where be you at, my man!"
An African servant with an ambiguous expression appears. "Yes Mas-suh Washington Suh."
"Gershom fetch us if you will some Pipes, and a Bowl of the new-cur'd Hemp. And another gallon of your magnificent Punch. There's a good fellow. Truly, Gentlemen, 'an Israelite in whom there is no guile.'''
Mason, recognizing the source as John 1:47, actually chuckles, whilst Dixon rather glowers. "At Raby Castle," he informs them, Phiz aflame, "Darlington liked to joak of his Steward, my Great-Uncle George, using thah' same quo-tation from the Bible. Yet only from Our Savior, surely, might such words be allow'd to pass, without raising suspicions as to amplitude of Spirit...? From the Earl of Darlington, the remark was no more than the unconsider'd Jollity one expects of a Castle-Dweller,— but to hear it in America, is an Enigma I confess I am at a loss to explain...?"
"Good Sir," the Colonel smiting himself repeatedly upon the head, unto knocking his Wig askew, "I regret providing the Text for an unwelcome association." He snatches the Wig completely off and bows his
head, cocking one eye at Dixon. "The two Conditions are entirely separate, of course."
"I'm a Quaker," shrugs Dixon, "what am I suppos'd to do, call thee out?"
"Don't bother about that Israelite talk, anyhow," Gershom coming back in with a Tray, "it's his way of joaking, he does it all the time."
"Thou aren't offended?"
"As I do happen to be of the Hebrew faith," tilting his head so that all may see the traditional Jewish Yarmulke, attach'd to the crown of his Peruke in a curious display of black on white, "it would seem a waste of precious time."
"Say,— and cook?" beams George Washington. "Gersh, any them Kasha Varnishkies left?"
"Believe you ate 'em all up for Breakfast, Colonel."
"Well whyn't you just whup up another batch,— maybe fry us some hog jowls, he'p it slide on down?"
"One bi-i-i-g mess o' Hog Jowls, comin' raaight up, Suh!"
"Wait a minute," objects Mason. "Do the Jews not believe, that," glancing over at Dixon, "the Article you speak of, is unclean, and so avoid scrupulously its Flesh?"
"Please,— you don't think I feel guilty enough already? As it happens, the Sect I belong to, is concern'd scarce at all with Dietary Rules."
"— of any kind," adds the Col°, having inhal'd mightily upon his Pipe, whence now arises another aromatic Cloud. "Yet if a Jew cooking pork is a Marvel, what of a Negroe, working a Room? Yes, my Oath,— here is Joe Miller resurrected,— they applaud him 'round a circuit of Coaching-inns upon the roads to George's Town, Williamsburg, and Annapolis,— indeed he is known far and Wide, as a Theatrickal Artist of some Attainment, leaving him less and less time for his duties here,— not to mention an income per annum which creeps dangerously close to that of his nominal Master, me." He passes the Pipe to Dixon.
"He wants me to put it in Dismal Swamp Land Company shares," Gershom confides. "How would you Gentlemen advise me?"
Mason and Dixon make eye contact, Dixon blurting, "Didn't they tell us,— " Mason going, "Shh! Sshhhh!," Washington meanwhile trying to wave Gershom back into the house. Gershom, however, has just taken the Pipe from Mr. Dixon. "Thank you." Inhales. Presently, "Well! How are you, Gentlemen, you having a good time? That's quite some Coat you're wearing, Sir. It's, ah, certainly is red, ain't it? And those silver Buttons,— mighty shiny,— tell me, seriously now, you were planning to wear this, out into the Forest?"
"Why, why aye,— "
"Actually, bright red, it's quite a la mode out there, seen rather often,— down the barrels of cheap Rifles.—You'll be very popular with all kinds of Folk,— Delawares, Shawanese, Seneca,— Seneca fancy a nice red Coat.—So !" passing the Pipe to Mason, "I can see which one's the snappy Dresser,— whilst the Indians are shooting at him, the Pres-byterians'll be after you, thinking you're something to eat,— 'It's a Buffalo, I'm tellin' ye, mon!' 'Hush, Patrick, it seem'd but a Squirrel to me.' 'So it's a Squirrel!' ffsss— POM;/"
"Oblig'd of course," squawks Mason, "ever so kind to imagine for me my Death in America.. .need no longer preoccupy myself upon the Matter, kind yes and withal a great relief,— "
Gershom turning to Dixon, "Is he always like this, or does he get indignant sometimes?"
"You see what I have to put up with," groans Col° Washington. "It's makin' me just mee-shugginah. Here, a bit of Tob'o with that?..."
"George."
"Oh-oh, stay calm, it's the Wife, just let me do the— ah my Treasure! excellent Gown, handsome Stuff,— allow me to present," and so forth. Mrs. Washington ("Oh, la, call me Martha, Boys") is a diminutive woman with a cheerful rather than happy air, who seems to bustle even when standing still. At the moment she is carrying an enormous Tray pil'd nearly beyond their Angles of Repose with Tarts, Pop-overs, Gingerbread Figures, fried Pies, stuff'd Doughnuts, and other Units of Refreshment the Surveyors fail to recognize.
"Smell'd that Smoak, figur'd you'd be needing something to nibble on," the doughty Mrs. W. greets them. "The Task as usual falling to that Agent of Domesticity unrelenting, the wife,— as none of you could run a House for more than ten minutes, in the World wherein most of us must dwell, without Anarchy setting in.”
"I was suppos'd to be watching a Pot upon the fire," sighs Washington, "— matters more immediate claim'd my attention, one giving rise to yet another, till a certain Odor recall'd me to the Pot, alas too late,— another ruinous flaw in my Character, perhaps one day to be amended by me, though never to be forgiven by my Lady."
She shakes her head, eyes yawing more than rolling. "George, have a Cookie." He takes a Molasses ginger-bread man, closely examines its Reverse, as if to assure himself that his Wife hasn't somehow burn'd it, and is about to bite the head off, when something else occurs to him.
"Now you may have heard of the Ohio Company,— a joint adventure in which my late brothers had a few small shares. There we were, as deep in the savage state as men have been known to venture, often no clear line of Retreat, a sort of,— Marth, my Nosegay of Virtues, what's a piece of tricky weaving?"
"How," she replies, "pray, would I know? Am I a Weaver?"
- a piece of tricky weaving," the Col° has tried to continue, "— order, I mean to say, in Chaos. Markets appearing, with their unwritten Laws, upon ev'ry patch of open ground, power beginning to sort itself out, Line and Staff,—
Mason and Dixon, in arranging for a fair division of labor, have adopted the practice, whenever two conversations are proceeding at once, of each attending one, with Location usually deciding who gets which. So it falls to Mason to defend his Profession against what he suspects is Mrs. W.'s accusation of unworldliness, whilst Dixon must become emmesh'd in Ohio Company history.
"— with our own forts at Wills and Redstone Creeks, and a Commu
nication between As the East India Company hath its own Navy, why,
so did we our own Army. Out in the wild Anarchy of the Forest, we alone had the coherence and discipline to see this land develop'd as it should be. Rest easy, that the old O.C. still exists," the Col° is protesting, "tho' in different Form."
"Sounds like the After-life," Gershom remarks.
"If only we could've gotten the language we wanted in the Charter, the Tale might have been different. But our friends at Court are few, and now and then invisible, even to us.”
"They fail'd to get the Bishop-of-Durham Clause," puts in Gershom.
"Look ye,— wasn't it like Iron Plate upon a Steam-Boiler for ev'ryone else? Virginia? The Calverts, the Penns? Ohio by precedent surely is entitl'd to one?"
"All respect, Colonel, those Grants," Gershom points out, "were more like fantastickal Tales, drafted in the days of some Kings who were not altogether real themselves. 'Twas a world of Masquing then, Fictions of faraway lands, what did they care? 'Bishop-of-Durham Clause? no problem with that,— how can we set you up, a Palatine Residence? 'tis yours,— you like cedar shakes, brick, traditional Stone approach, whatever, it's fine,— what's that, you want to put in a what, a Harem? why to be sure,— and how many Ladies would that be, Sir? of course you've a choice,— Lord Smedley, the Catalogue, please.''
"Any Bishop-of-Durham Clause in America," says Dixon, "suggests a likeness, in the British Mind, between your Indians West of the Allegheny Ridge, and their Scots beyond Hadrian's Wall,— as the Bishop Prince's half of the bargain, is to defend the King against whatever wild cannibal Host lies North of us,— whose nightly Bagpipe-Musick, in the time of the 'Forty-five, could easily bring all within earshot to insomniack Terror by Dawn."
"Why, Sir," exclaims the Col", "you might be describing a camp upon
Monongahela, and the Death-hollows all night from across the River.
The long watchfulness, listening to the Brush. Ev'ry mis'rable last Leaf.
The Darkness implacable. When you gentlemen come to stand at the
Boundary between the Settl'd and the Unpossess'd, just about to enter
the Deep Woods, you will recognize the Sensation
"Yet, we sought no more than to become that encampment in the Night, that small refuge of Civilization in the far Wilderness."
"Trouble was, so'd the French," Gershom remarks.
"Thankee, Gersh."
Mason meanwhile is embark'd upon an Apologia for Astronomy and his own career therein. "The dispute is at least as old as Plato. Indeed, I feel like Glaucon in the Seventh Book of the 'Republic,' nervously listing for Socrates all the practical reasons he can think of for teaching Astronomy in the schools.”
"Let's see, then, do I feel like Socrates...? Alas, Sir, I think not today,— nor Mrs. Socrates, neither,— that no doubt otherwise excellent Lady being, as I am told, far too busy with shrewish pursuits to bother with her Kitchen, and thus scarcely able to suggest to you, for example, this excellent Apricot Tart."
Mason is not sure, but thinks he has just detected a certain Cilial Excursion. "Obliged, Ma'am. All Lens-fellows, I mean, recognize that our first Duty is to be of publick Use. Hmm, oh, the Raspberry, too, then— Thankee. Even with the Pelhams currently in Eclipse, we all must proceed by way of th' establish'd Routes, with ev'ry farthing we spend charg'd finickingly against the Royal Purse. We are too visible, up on our Hilltop, to spend much time among unworldly Speculations, or indeed aught but the details of our Work,— focus'd in particular these days upon the Problem of the Longitude."
"Oh. And what happen'd to those Transits of Venus?"
"There we have acted more as philosophical Frigates, Ma'am, each detach'd upon his Commission,— whilst the ev'ryday work of the Observatories goes on as always, for the task at Greenwich, as at Paris, is to know every celestial motion so perfectly, that Sailors at last may trust their lives to this Knowledge."
"Here," the Col° beams, "more fame attaches to the Transits,— Observers station'd all 'round the world, even in Massachusetts,— Treasuries of all lands pouring forth gold,— ev'ry Astronomer suddenly employ'd,— and all to find a true value for the 'Earth's Parallax.' Why, most of us here in Virginia wouldn't know a Parallax from a Pinwheel if it came on up and said how-d'ye do."
"Yet, what a Rage it was! the Transit-of-Venus Wig, that several women were seen wearing upon Broad Street, Husband, do ye remember it? a dark little round Knot against a great white powder'd sphere,—
"And that Transit-of-Venus Pudding? Same thing, a single black Currant upon a Circular Field of White,—
- and the Sailors, with that miserable song,—
' 'Tis time to set sail, Farewell, Portsmouth Ale,
Ta-ta to the gay can-tinas, For we're off, my Girl, to the end of the world To be there, ere the Tran-sit of Venus.— She's the something something,—
"Goddess of Love," Martha in a pleasant tho' impatient soprano,
"— Shining above,
Without a bit of Meanness,
Tho' we'll have no more fun till she's cross'd o'er the Sun,
'Tis ho, for the Transit of Venus!
Out where the trade winds blow,
Further than Sailors go,
If it's not Ice and Snow,
'Twill be hotter than Hell, we know,
So!
Wave to your Dear, stow all your gear, and
Show a bit of Keenness,
Bid Molly adieu,
She isn't for you,—
For you're for the Transit of Venus!
By the last four Bars, they are facing and gazing at one another with an Affection having to do not so much with the Lyric, as with keeping the Harmony, and finishing together.
Gershom is presently telling King-Joaks,— "Actually they're Slave-and-Master Joaks, re-tailor'd for these Audiences. King says to his Fool, 'So,— tell me, honestly,— what makes you willing to go about like such a Fool all the time?' 'Hey, George,' says the Fool,— 'that's easy,— I do it for the same reason as you,— out of Want.'— 'What-what,' goes the King, 'how's that?'— 'Why, you for want of Wit, and I for want of Money.'''
The King is jesting with one of his Ambassadors. "Damme," he cries, "if you don't look like some great dishevel'd Sheep!" Ambassador replies, "I know that I've had the honor, several times, to represent your Majesty's Person."
The King, merry but distraught, asks leave of those at his Table, to Toast the Devil. "Why," says the Fool, "where that Gentleman resides,
he is already well toasted— Yet, I could never object to one of your Majesty's particular Friends."
The King takes a long coach-ride out into the country, and decides to walk back to the Palace, in company with his Fool. Growing at length fatigued, they learn, of a farmer they meet, that they've ten miles yet to go. "Maybe we'd better send for the Carriage," says the King. "Come on, George," replies the Fool, "— we can do it easily,— 'tis but five miles apiece."
Gershom follows these by singing "Havah Nagilah," a merry Jewish Air, whilst clicking together a pair of Spoons in Syncopation.
' Twas Celeron de Bienville who began the Dispute in 'forty-nine,"
recalls the Col° later, "when he voyaged South from Canada, landing
upon the shore of Lake Erie, following French Creek to the Allegheny,
where, to assert France's claims, he buried a lead plate, bearing the
Royal Seal...thence by Battoe to the Ohio, and down it, past Allegheny,
Beaver, Fish Creek, Muskingum, Kanahwah, Scioto, planting as he went
these leaden Flags at the Mouths of each Stream in turn "
"Lead?" Dixon, curiously.
"A Memorandum," it seems to Mason, "of other uses for the Metal, such as Shot,— another expression of that famous French contempt, not only to be prodigal with a base metal, but to bury it, in the dirt and the dark, as if that were the only way an Englishman might notice it."
"Oh, Sir, likely 'twas Practicality," beams Washington, ' - Lead being cheaper than silver or gold, and if kept out of the Air that way, quite durable as well."
"Any metal in the form of a Plate," Dixon muses, "or Disk, might plausibly have an Electrickal Purpose."
"Have a word with Dr. Franklin," offers the Col°, "he'll know."
"Electricity, again." Mason gestures at his partner with his Thumb, shaking his head morosely. "Aye, 'tis the topick that most provokes his Disorder,— quite harmless of course,— comes over him without warning, suddenly he's on about his favorite Fluid, and no stopping him. Even Dr. Franklin can shed no light.. .the best physicians of the Royal Society,"— a shrug,— "baffl'd. We but hope, one day, he may regain his senses.”
"A childhood Misadventure with a Torpedo," Dixon, with a brief move of his head toward Mason, confides, "- - thus his Sensitivity at all References to the,"— whispering,— "electrickal!"
"Shocking!" Gershom remarks, and Mrs. W. beats Ta-ta-ma-ma smartly upon the Tabletop, whilst the Col° holds his Head, as if it ach'd.
"Yet not daz'd enough," Mason assures the Company, "nor too young, to miss recognizing, in the Torpedo, five-sixths of whose Length is taken up with these Electrical Plates, the Principle of all these Structures,— which is, that you must stack a great many of them, one immediately upon the next, if you wish to produce any effect large enough to be useful in, let alone noticed by, the World.—Aye, Dixon, well might you wag your Head,— wag away, may it circulate some sense. For what possible use a single plate, Lead or Gold, buried in the Earth, is, is beyond me."
"Perhaps only beyond our Sensorium, how Feeble," replies Dixon. "As were the Heavens, you may recall, but a short while ago, before Telescopes were invented...? Why may not these Plates collectively form a Tellurick Leyden-Pile? If not for storing quantities of simple Electrick Force, then to hold smaller charges, easily shap'd into invisible Symbols, decipherable by Means surely available to those Philosophes— "
"I fear the only message upon those Disks was a challenge, Sir,— a Provocation," asserts Washington. "The Surveyor's equivalent of a slap from a Glove."
And yet... (speculates the Revd), what else? There remains a residue of Belief, out to the Westward, that the mere presence of Glyphs and Signs can produce magickal Effects,— for of the essence of Magic is the power of small Magickal Words, to work enormous physical Wonders,— as of coded inscriptions in fables, once unlock'd, to yield up Treasure past telling. So, Seals become of primary Moment, and their precise descriptions, often, matters of Life and Death, for one letter misplaced can summon Destruction immediate and merciless.
"You saw such Plates?"
"I dug a few of 'em up." Eyes etch'd in Crimson, the Col" is grinning at Dixon meaningfully, whilst Mrs. Washington grimaces in Warning. But Gershom is already on the way to fetch the Mementoes, calling mischievously, "Coming raaaight up, Suh! Bunch of Dead Weights,— beg par-
don, Lead Plates (what'd I say?),— practically new, original Soil yet in place.... (Does the Gentleman know how to divert Guests?)"
What immediately draws Dixon's Attention is not the Royal Seal of France, but the markings upon the Reverse side. "Bless us, 'tis Chinese!"
"Chinese? Remarkable, Sir. The only Europeans who recognize such Writing, seem usually to be the.. Jesuits."
"Excuse me...?" Dixon immediately upon the defensive, "Problem here, Colonel?"
"Depends," the Col° replies, with a Pause whose Heft all can appreciate, "— are you...a traveling Man?"
"Why aye," Dixon having learn'd of the Masonick password from a Lodge-member in Philadelphia, "and I'm traveling West!"
"West? Oh. Haw, haw! Well and so you are. Look ye,— 'tis simply this,— that from time to time, a Jesuit up North in Quebec will put off his skirts for Breeches, and cross the border in disguise, to work some mischief down here,— so a fellow has to be extra vigilant, is all. Report ev'rything to the Lodge, so that way somebody there can piece together a great many small items into a longer Tale,— perhaps even trace the movements, day to day, of these sinister intruders."
"Speaking as Postmaster-General," Dr. Franklin will later amplify, back in Philadelphia, " - I see our greatest problem as Time,— never anything, but Time. For any message to reach its recipient, we must reckon in a fix'd delay,— months by ship, days over Land,— whilst via the Jesuit Telegraph, they enjoy their d——'d Marvel of instant Communication,"— far-reaching and free of error, thanks to giant balloons sent to great Altitudes, Mirrors of para- (not to mention dia-) bolickal perfection, beams of light focused to hitherto unimagined intensities,— so, at any rate, say the encrypted reports that find their ways to the desks of highly-plac'd men whose daily task it is, to make sure they know everything,— appropriate to their places,— that must be known.
As expected of a Jesuit invention, timing and discipline are ev'rything. It is rumor'd that the Fathers limit themselves to giving orders, whilst the actual labor is entrusted to the Telegraph Squads, elite teams of converted Chinese, drill'd, through Loyolan methods, to perform with split-second timing the balloon launchings, to learn the art of aiming the beam, and, its reflection once acquir'd, to keep most faithfully fix'd upon
it,— for like the glance of a Woman at a Ball, it must be held for a certain time before conveying a Message. "So we ever lag behind them, by gaps of Time none of us knows how to make up. If we could but capture one Machine intact, we might take it apart to see how it works— Yet, what use? They'll only invent another twice as fiendish,— for here are conjoin'd the two most powerful sources of Brain-Power on Earth, the one as closely harness'd to its Disciplin'd Rage for Jesus, as the other to that Escape into the Void, which is the very Asian Mystery. Together, they make up a small Army of Dark Engineers who could run the World. The Sino-Jesuit conjunction may prove a greater threat to Christendom than ever the Mongols or the Moors. Pray that more than the Quarrel over Feng Shui divides them.”
29
Cities begin upon the day the Walls of the Shambles go up, to screen away Blood and Blood-letting, Animals' Cries, Smells and Soil, from Residents already grown fragile before Country Realities. The Better-Off live far as they may, from the concentration of Slaughter. Soon, Country Melancholicks are flocking to Town like Crows, dark'ning the Sun. Dress'd Meats appear in the Market,— Sausages hang against the Sky, forming Lines of Text, cryptick Intestinal Commentary.
The Veery Brothers, professional effigy makers, run an establishment south of the Shambles at Second and Market Streets, by the Court House. Mason, in unabating Search after the Grisly, must pay a Visit.
"Can't just have any old bundle of Rags up there, even if 'tis meant to be burnt to ashes, can we," says Cosmo, "— our Mobility like to feel they're burning something, don't you see? Oh, we do Jack-Boots and Petticoats, bread-and-butter items the year 'round, yet we strive for at least the next order of Magnytude...."
"Here, for example, our Publick Beheading Model,— " adds his brother Damian, "or, 'the Topper,' as we like to call it, Key to ev'rything being the Neck, o' course, for after you've led them up to the one great Moment, how can you disappoint 'em wiv any less than that nice sa'isfy-ing Chhhunk! as the Blade strikes, i'n't it, and will pure Beeswax do the Job? No,— fine for the Head and whatever, but look what you've got to chop at,— spine? throat? muscles in the neck? well,— not exactly Wax, is it? So it's on with the old Smock, lovely visit next door, scavenging among th' appropriately siz'd Necks for bones and suet and such. Then it's up to the Kiddy here to cover it all over and give it a Head with a famous, or better Infamous, Face. He's a rare Wax Artist, our Cosmo is. Likenesses almost from another World, perhaps not a World many of us would find that comfortable. Products of the innocent Hive, Sir, and beneath, the refuse of the daily Slaughter, yes there you have it, a grisly Amalgam, perhaps even a sort of Teaching,— sure you'd enter any dark-en'd Room our lads and lasses happen'd to be in, only upon ill advice indeed."
Which of course is exactly what Mason runs out and contrives to do, as soon as he gets a chance. He and Dixon go Tavern-hopping and find secret-society meetings in the back rooms of every place they visit. There is gambling, Madeira, carryings-on. Some invite them to join. Some they do join. "What, no floggings? No bare-breasted Acolytes in Chains? No ritual deflorations? Drinking-games with Madeira, that's it?"
Some of these Collegia, learning that Mason's Name is Mason, claim to be Free-Masons of one Lodge and another. "Anyone whose name is Mason is automatickally a Member, the first of your Name likely having work'd as a Stonemason back in the Era of the great Cathedrals,— as you are descended from him, so are Free-Masons today descended from his Guild-Fellows. You are a Mason ex Nomine, as some might describe it." Unless, of course, 'twas an elaborate scheme to avoid paying for Drink.
In one of these Ale Venues, somewhere between The Indian Queen and The Duke of Gloucester, there proves to be a Back Room's back room,— for purposes of uninvited inspection a pantry, but in fact an Arsenal for various Mob activities. Anyone else out in search of Goth-ickal experiences might have found it neither quite ancient nor ominous enough to bother with. But Mason can ever locate those spaces most fertile for the husbanding of Melancholy. So now, blundersome, in he steps, candle-less as well, relying upon the light of a Lanthorn hanging outside the small Window, waiting for his eyes to adjust, making out first two Figures, then three, and at length the Roomful, erect, crowding close, without breath or pulse,— his immediate need is to speak, not challenging but pleading,— slowly, as he is able to make out more of the Faces, what he fears grows less deniable,— they are directing,
nowhere but into his own eyes, stares unbearable with meaning he cannot grasp, as if,— he does not wish to examine this too closely,— as if they know him, and withal, expect him—
Mason is certain he saw at least one of them at the first Meeting with the Commissioners, the week previous,— tho', that being largely ceremonial, all the Faces then had been fram'd in more or less identical Wigs. Yet if he recognizes me, Mason asks himself now, why doesn't he speak? groping within for the Gentleman's Name, as the enigmatic Phiz continues, in the weak light, to sharpen toward Revelation.
As it will prove, all the Effigies in the back room bear Faces of Commissioners for the Boundary Line, tho' Mason, anxiously upon the lookout wherever in town they have to go, won't fully appreciate it till the second Meeting, on I December. The calm oval room has been furnish'd hastily, but minutes before their arrival, with a perfect Row of black comb-back'd Chairs for the Commissioners, set upon one side of a long Table, facing a Window revealing a late autumnal Garden,— white statues of uncertain Gender leaning in sinuous Poses,— and across the Table, two Chairs of ordinary Second Street origin and faux-Chippendale carving, unmatch'd, intended for the Astronomers, who will have little to look at but the Commissioners.
Luckily for Mason, the Gentlemen enter, not all in a Troop, but in ones and pairs, so giving him a few extra moments in which to work upon his Composure, which needs it. Those waxen Faces that gaz'd at him with such midnight Intent,— here are their daytime counterparts to greet him, with the same, 0 God in Thy Mercy, the same look... as if deliberately to recall the other night. But how could they, could anyone, know? has he been under Surveillance ever since landing here? And,— the Figures in that far back room, were they not Effigies at all, but real people, only pretending to be Effigies, yes these very faces,— ahrrhh! (What did he interrupt them at, then, in the lampless chamber, what Gathering he wasn't supposed to know about? And why couldn't he remember more clearly what had happen'd to him after he went into the Room? Was his Brain, in Mercy, withholding the memory?)
...As the Progress of Wax automata, by ones and twos, approaches, provoking, daring Mason to bring any of it up, the Possibility never presents itself to him, that all the Line Commissioners, from both Provinces,
being political allies of the Proprietors, are natural and obvious Effigy Fodder to a Mobility of Rent-payers,— as will be later pointed out by Dixon, who now has begun casting him curious, offended looks. Neither has slept well for a Fortnight, amid the house-rocking Ponderosities of commercial Drayage, the Barrels and Sledges rumbling at all Hours over the paving-Stones, the Town on a-hammering and brick-laying itself together about them, the street-sellers' cries, the unforeseen coalescences of Sailors and Citizens anywhere in the neighboring night to sing Liberty and wreak Mischief, hoofbeats in large numbers passing beneath the Window, the cries of Beasts from the city Shambles,— Philadelphia in the Dark, in an all-night Din Residents may have got accustom'd to, but which seems to the Astronomers, not yet detach'd from the liquid, dutiful lurches of the Packet thro' th' October seas, the very Mill of Hell.
"Worse than London by far," Mason brushing away Bugs, rolling over and over, four sides at five minutes per side, a Goose upon Insomnia's Spit, uncontrollably humming to himself an idiotic Galop from The Rebel Weaver, which he attended in London just before Departure, instead of Mr. Arne's Love in a Cottage, which would have been wiser. Smells of wood-smoke, horses, and human sewage blow in the windows, along with the noise. Somewhere down the Street a midnight Church congregation sings with a fervency unknown in Sapperton, or in Bisley, for that matter. He keeps waking with his heart racing, fear in his Bowels, something loud having just occurr'd...waiting for it to repeat. And as he relaxes, never knowing the precise moment it begins, the infernal deedle ee, dee-die ee, deedle-eedle-eedle-dee again.
The Rebel Weaver was set in the Golden Valley, being a light-hearted account of the late battles there between Weavers and Clothiers, with interludes of music, juggling, and tricksome Animal Life. "Strangely," Mason has reported to Dixon, "I was not appall'd,— tho' I've every reason to be." The plot, about a Weaver's son who loves the Daughter of a Clothier, and the conflict of loyalties resulting, presents nothing more troubling sentimentally, than the comick misunderstandings of an Italian Opera. One or two of the slower tunes, lugubrious to some Ears, he even yet fancies, tho' this damn'd Galop is another matter.
Upon his own side of the Bed, Dixon snores in a versatility of Tone that Mason, were he less anxious about getting to sleep, might be taking
Notes upon, perhaps to be written up and submitted to the Philosophical Transactions, so unexpectedly polyphonic do some passages emerge, all at the same unhurried, yet presently infuriating, Andante. Both men lie in the Clothing they have worn all day, Dixon as faithful to field-Surveyor's custom, as Mason to that of the Star-Gazer,— his quotidian dress, at Greenwich, having ever doubl'd as his Observing Suit. To sleep, one simply took off the Coat,— tho' Dixon has advis'd against this here. He is of course right. The Bugs run free,— American bugs, who so much resent being brush'd off Human Surfaces, that they will bite anyone for even approaching.
That's it, then. Himself a giant Bug, he rolls quietly from under the Counterpane and crawls from the Room,— dresses in the Hallway and upon the Stairs, and is soon insensibly translated into The Orchid Tavern, by Dock Creek, Hat beside him, Queue a-snarl, buying too many Rounds, enjoying viciously as any recreational Traveler the quaint Stri-dencies of a Politics not his own, yet, before Intoxication sets in, continuing to seek, somewhere in the perilous Text of Faction, Insult, and Threat, a Line or two of worth, to take home with him.
"Pennsylvania Politics? Its name is Simplicity. Religious bodies here cannot be distinguish'd from Political Factions. These are Quaker, Anglican, Presbyterian, German Pietist. Each prevails in its own area of the Province. Till about five years ago, the Presbyterians fought among themselves so fiercely, that despite their great Numbers, they remain'd without much Political Effect,— lately, since the Old and New Lights reach'd their Accommodation, all the other Parties have hasten'd to strike bargains with them as they may,— not least of these the Penns, who tho' Quaker by ancestry are Anglican in Praxis,— some even say, Tools of Rome. Mr. Shippen, upon whom you must wait for each penny you'll spend, is a Presbyterian, the City Variety, quite at ease as a member of the Governor's Council. As for the Anglicans of Philadelphia, the periodick arrival in Town of traveling ministries such as the Reverend MacClenaghan's have now split those Folk between traditional Pen-nites, and Reborns a-dazzle with the New Light, who are more than ready to throw in with the Presbyterians, against the Quakers,— tho' so far Quakers have been able to act in the Assembly as a body, and prevail,— "...Not sure I'm following this," Mason says.
"May you never have the need, Sir. Tis useful nonetheless, now and then, to regard Politics here, as the greater American Question in Miniature,— in the way that Chess represents war,— with Governor Penn a game-piece in the form of the King."
"Who'd be the Rockingham Whigs, I wonder?..."
At a short Arpeggio from the Clavier, a Voice thro' the Vapors announces, "The Moment now ye've all been waiting for...the Saloon of The Orchid Tavern is pleas'd to Present, the fam'd Leyden-Jar Danse Macabre! with that Euclid of the Elecktrick, Philadelphia's own Poor Richard, in the part of Death."
Eager Applause, as into the Lanthorn-Light comes a hooded, Scythe-bearing Figure in Skeleton's Disguise,— tho' the Instant it begins to
speak, all sinister Impression is compromis'd. "Ah...? ex-cellent
Now, if I might have a few Volunteers...from what obviously, here tonight, is the Flower of Philadelphian Youth.... Behold, Pilgrims of Prodigy, my new Battery,— twenty-four Jars crackling and ready." Dr. Franklin now throwing back his hood, to reveal Lenses tonight of a curious shade of Aquamarine, allowing his eyes to be view'd, yet conveying a bleak Contentment that discourages lengthy Gazing. "Come, Gentlemen,— who'll be next,— that's it, go-o-od, Line of Fops, all hold hands, Line of Fops, how many have we now,— dear me, not enough, come, one
more, ever room for one more " Thus briskly collecting into Line a
dozen or so heedless Continentals, placing into the hands of the hindmost a Copper Cable from one Terminal of the Battery, and grasping the hand of the frontmost, Franklin reaches with the Blade of his Scythe to touch the other Terminal,— the Landlord at the same Instant dousing the Glim,— so that the resulting Tableau is lit by terrifying stark Flashes of Blue-white Light, amid the harsh Sputter of the Fulminous Fluid, and the giggling, and indeed Screaming, of the Participants, Snuff flying ev'rywhere and now and then igniting in Billows of green Flame, amid infernal Columns of Smoak.
The Battery having discharg'd, Light is restor'd,— the Company presently regaining enough Composure to note the Arrival of a Thunder-Gust, as Windows begin to rattle and Trees to creak, and the Landlord rushes about trying to Draw the Curtains,— as, thereby, the hearty
Opposition of these Electrophiles, whose wish is ever to observe their admir'd Fluid in its least mediated form.
"So much for Harlequin," cries Dr. Franklin, "Let us get out into the Night's Main Drama!— There's Weather-Gear for all, this Scythe here is the perfect Shape to catch us a Bolt, perhaps a good many,— better than a Key upon a Kite, indeed,— think of it as Death's Picklock,— come, form your Line...all here?" pulling his Hood up again, " - felonious Entry, into the Anterooms of the Cre-a-torr... .Not joining us tonight, Mr. Mason?" Lowering his Lenses and staring for an Instant. Before Mason, from whom all comfort has flown, can quite reply, the Figure has turn'd and taken a Hand at the end of the Line,— the Door opens and the Wind and Rain blow in, Thunder crashes, and with odd strangl'd cries of Amusement, the Party of Seekers are plung'd out into the Storm, and vanish'd.