“Sin as practis’d is not deep enough for you, Sir?” inquires Dixon.
“Why is it that we honor the Great Thieves of Whitehall, for Acts that in Whitechapel would merit hanging? Why admire the one sort of Thief, and despise the other? I suggest, ’tis because of the Scale of the Crime.— What we of the Mobility love to watch, is any of the Great Motrices, Greed, Lust, Revenge, taken out of all measure, brought quite past the scale of the ev’ryday world, approaching what we always knew were the true Dimensions of Desire. Let Antony lose the world for Cleopatra, to be sure,— not Dick his Day’s Wages, at the Tavern.”
46
When they may, they drink. So does ev’ryone else. Presently as they come more and more under the jurisdiction of the Night Sky, they drink less after Dark, finding it impossible to look out into That, however narrow’d the Field, with Vision in any way a-wobble, and be expected to work the micrometer, take readings, note the Time, and perform an hundred other tasks, most of them unforgivingly in need of Accuracy. Cloudy nights, of course, being exceptions to this Rule, are welcom’d by all.
Each ten Minutes of Great Circle, about ev’ry twelve miles, their Intention is to pause, set up the Sector and determine their Latitude, then figure the offsets to the true Line over the distance they’ve just come,— the true Line that has run along with them, at their left hands, an invisible Companion, but Yards away, in the Brush, outside the Fire-light.
Twelve miles from the Post Mark’d West, the Party crosses the Road from Octarara to Christiana Bridge, with a Farm-House close by, upon the Pennsylvania side. Here they set up camp, and begin their Latitude Work. Axmen set off in search of Food. The fragrant noontide so quiet you may hear the shuffling of Playing-cards. . . . ’Tis a Saturday, in that lull when all the Sellers have pass’d early into Town, and most of the Buyers, and families who dwell within a few hours by Waggon have not yet begun to head back home. Now and then, horsemen dismount at the Tavern a few Chains up the Road, as others come reeling back from it, sometimes deciding to sleep overnight here in Camp.
After half a dozen such have dropp’d into midday Slumber, “Do we encourage this?” Mason asks himself aloud, in Dixon’s hearing. “Suppose but one of them is a French Agent, pretending to be drunk, perhaps even bent upon our Dissolution,— ”
“As Christians, have we any choice but to allow all who wish, to enter freely?” offers Dixon.
“Ahrrh, well, as you put it that way. . . .”
The Crew, now up to thirty Hands, having, in their first ten minutes of Arc, cross’d three Creeks and a River, and gone thro’ one House, are dispos’d to a merry week-end, tho’ mornings, when the demands of Recompense fall heaviest, are not to be altogether restful, so near is Octarara Road. Waggons-ful of Iron Products,— Bar and Rod Stock, Nails, Hatchets and Knives,— drawn by teams of Oxen, pass slowly, a-clank and a-creak, each step a Drama, left to right, right to left, across the Visto, all the Day. When Night falls, the Drivers unhitch and out-span their Teams, and make fires, and stay up drinking well past the Culminations of the later Stars, for Mason and Dixon, attending the Clock, the Plumb-line, the eternal Heavens, can hear them in dispute, often upon some point of religion. “Unco’ Quantity of Iron upon the Road,” comments Dixon.” ’Tis running me old Needle amok.”
“Aye, as if the Prussian Army’s about someplace,” Mason none too pleas’d with any of it.
First thing Monday morning, they all come staggering from Bedrolls and Latrines to stand in loose Ranks and be tallied in. Overseer Barnes reads the Plan of the Day, the Revd comes by to say a short Prayer, then Special Requests are submitted, a few in writing, but most aloud and expected to be dealt with upon the Spot. Some mornings the Petitioning grows agitated indeed, with only the clanging of the Breakfast Alarm able to interrupt it.
“He’s telling them Parrot Jokes again.”
“Who is?”
“You know, . . . him.”
“Ehud? is this true, what he’s saying?”
“Mr. Barnes, Cap’n, Sir, all I said was, ‘Sailor walks into a Tavern with a Parrot on his Shoulder, young Lass says,—’ ”
“There! he’s doing it again!”
“‘ “What’ll it be?” and the Parrot says,—’ ”
“Two hours’ extra Duty, Ehud. Yes, Mr. Spinney.”
“ ’Tis the Porridge again, Cap’n. As previously sworn, I can’t abide an Oat mill’d that way, and they all know it in the Commissary, yet each morning, looking up at me from the Bowl,— faugh,— one more deliberate Insult. The cooks all snickering. . . . How long before I must begin to vomi’, I’d like to know?”
“Then you must grind your own, Lad,— as the Indians do, between Stones. There’s boiling water in the Cook-tent, ask politely and they may let you have some of that.”
“Thankee Cap’n as ever, yet there abides the question of the Salt?”
“I’ll have a word with ’em, Spinney. Now, is it . . . too much? or too little, Salt, exactly?”
“On second thought never mind, Cap’n.”
“You’re sure, now, ’tis no trouble. . . . Wonderful. And now whom do I see, but aye, Mr. Sweet, back again are we, how repetitious. Let me divine what your Request may be.”
“My mate,— he was a Philadelphia Lawyer once, but gave it all up for the freedom of the Forest,— he says that, as an Expedition over land is like a ship at sea, Mr. Mason may, like a ship’s Captain, exercise certain prerogatives,— ”
“Ah,” Mr. Barnes raising a huge hand, “and a lovelier lass was never seen this side of the previous cow-shed I’m sure, yet, how long can this go on, boy? Were you a woman, I’d say you were but flighty, and there’d be an end. But in a Lad, you know, it makes me apprehensive. Suppose you do marry one of them,— what happens when you meet the next?”
“Um . . . wait let me ask my Mate. . . .”
“Chat with ye tomorrow, Sir? Lovely, and remember me to your Betroth’d. And your Mate, of course. Next? Mr. McNutley,— it’s been near a year, man,— not another one in the works? All the best, and ye’re such a scraggy Ancient, too.”
“My thinking, Cap’n,— tho’ some say hop to it just after the Harvest, so they’ll give birth and be up again in time for next Harvest,— but I say just before Planting’s better, so they can help wi’ that, yet not be so far along by Harvest, that they can’t help considerable wi’ that, too. Howbeit, my Gwen, she’s due in a month or two, I think, and I ought to be with her, pretty soon,— ”
“Grow Titts,” Mr. Barnes advises, “and learn to talk for an Hour without taking a Breath, and maybe as she grows more daz’d with her Pregnancy, she’ll mistake ye for another Woman, taking from it what comfort she may. Otherwise, ’tis the Company of Women she needs, not the Author of it all, thumping about.”
On they come, still too ill-assorted, too newly hir’d, to know what they may profitably expect, and what will ever remain hopeless,— tho’ some will develop a taste for the exquisite discomforts of Rejection. Here is a protest, not the first, about Mrs. Eggslap’s troublesome habit of extorting a higher fee once her Services are in Progress. This time ’tis Stig, the Swedish Axman. He speaks no English, Mr. Barnes no Swedish,— yet all have heard the dismal story before. At least once in every Sentence, Stig cries, “Yingle-Yangle! Yingle-Yangle!” denoting . . . Something of importance to him.
“Here is young Mr. McClean, he’s just the one you ought to see, Stig,— yah yah, yoost the vun?”
Nathanael, the youngest of the McCleans, is here working during his summer “Vacation” from College in Williamsburg. At first, the Crew accorded him the Drone of intimate Insult, which is ever the Tender-Foot’s Lot,— up to a point, at least, for his Father and Brothers are here, well in control of all aspects of the Expedition, from turning Angles to peeling Potatoes. Soon,— how, none can say,— the Axmen have assign’d to Nathanael a Character, close
r to Macheath than to the diligent Factotum he knows himself to be, tho’ he’s tried to explain what in this Party he is and isn’t,— yet do they expect him to take Bribes, to wink at Gambling, to keep local Justices of the Peace and Sheriffs satisfied,— above all, they continue to regard him as the Bully who protects Mrs. Eggslap and all her fair Colleagues, who some days have number’d in the Dozens. Hence Mr. Barnes’s patent relief at Nathe’s appearance now.
“He only looks like a kid,— but he’s dangerous,— too dangerous for me.” This from Moses Barnes, generally adjudg’d too dangerous for ev’rybody else. “Hello, Mr. McClean, quite another scorcher today, isn’t it? Hope ev’rything’s to your satisfaction?”
“Oh, come on, then,” Nathe says, “I’m on my way to see Mo anyhow.” They proceed to the Mess Tent, where Moses McClean is sitting in front of and frowning at a Pile of Accompts.
“As he is employ’d here but upon trial,” Moses supposes, “his expenses may legitimately be withheld from the Books,”— and thus are they able to pacify Stig with a Sum whose Immediacy out-dazzles its Modesty. Yet Nathe is not quite free of the Matter, for Mrs. Eggslap accosts him in the muddy shade behind the cook-tent. “I do wish you wouldn’t keep saying ‘Extortion,’” she pleads more than once. Nathe makes the mistake of asking her, then, what does she think it is? “I knew we’d reach an understanding,” grasping his hand and placing it upon her Hip, as if they were about to Dance.
“That Stig,” Nathe blurts, “— you know he don’t even speak English, Mizziz E. You took unfair advantage.”
“Nathanael, my hasty Puddin’, he brings that Ax to bed. He talks to it, and wants me to do the same. ‘Oh,— oh how d’ye do, there,’ says I to it, as so would you, were it being wiggl’d at you by some piece o’ logging machinery with an Erection. Then he starts in with the ‘Yingle-Yangle!’ Right? ‘Yingle-Yangle!’” I know that accent well, ’tis from the Neighborhood of Bedlam. Is that blushing, Nathe, or but the Sun in that innocent Face? Have ye never heard of Bonus Pay for hazardous Duty? that’s what I was adding on.”
“Fifty percent?” he’s heedless enough to remind her.
“For you, my turtle-dove, I’d cap it at, oh let’s say half o’ that,— twenty-five?”
“It’s still ext— well, exorbitant.”
“Hmm. Five of it to you, of course.”
“Five percent!”
“Oh, all right, ten, I never could resist a sweet Face.” She swiftly kisses him, pressing into his hand some sort of Bank-note, and is off in a Wake of Jasmine Absolute.
As if waiting upon an invisible Queue, up next pops the Pass-Bank Bully Guy Spit, with another offer of a share in the Pass Bank proceeds. He is now offering 15 percent, up from 12. He believes Nathe to be a hard bargainer, holding out for more, when in fact the Youth is but trying to avoid an entire new mountain-range of worry in the Terrain already giv’n him to toil up and down in. But it throws all Mr. Spit’s calculations out,— indeed, he assures Nathe, ’twould “threaten the very Arrangement,” were he to refuse some share.
For all the Warnings Nathe has receiv’d as to avoiding Temptation, he’d not seen the true Article at first hand till this Swamper’s Post fell to him, by virtue of his Family’s favor with Mason and Dixon.” ’Twill be his salvation,” Archibald McClean assur’d the Astronomers. “He is wasting too damn’d much time reading Books. He lives in some world all of us ’d be lucky to inhabit, but do not.”
“And so, neither must he?” Mr. Dixon pretending astonishment. “Why, Heavens,— Books aren’t going to hurt him . . . ? Once he’s found out about them, ’tis too late in any case. One way or another, he’ll read whah’ he needs to . . . ?”
Mr. McClean, stung, cocks his head. “How many Sons have you, Sir?”
“Eeh, Friend, Ah have but been one . . . ?”
“Howbeit, then,” Mr. McClean shrugs, and seeks Dixon’s Gaze. “Mostly that we’ll need the extra Hand?”
Thus, soon, to his Father’s unconcern, Nathe is as wildly a-spin, in unsuspected Engagement with Establish’d Greed, as any Nabobescent young Writer out in Bengal. Book-reading is no match, tho’ he tries, being loan’d the choicest of limp, creas’d, and spatter’d books of erotick Pictures and Text, staying up to finish an extra chapter in The Ghastly Fop, to see how it comes out,— having, at last, no time to read, nor even look at Etchings. By the time he remembers how to unbutton his Breeches, he has fallen asleep. He is now falling asleep, usually face-first, with no warning, into not only his own bowl of Soup, but great Kettles of it as well,— and not only Soup, but Porridge, too. He also falls out of trees, off stools, and into card-games, scattering the hands and coins and usually getting thump’d for it. For days on end, press’d by continual demands, he may eat nothing but a fugitive Crust, sauc’d with the lees of some ale-jack and the Pipe-ash therein,— yet suddenly, as in a Spring flood, will he find himself devouring without pause, through the workday, anything that comes to hand, or even too close. Mr. Barnes says he has seen Nathe eating in his Sleep, though this may be but more of the Overseer’s great Wit.
“Ahoy Murray,—” Nathe writes to his School-friend back in Tidewater Virginia, “was there a Sermon about Greed? did I sleep through it? Nothing has prepar’d me for its Power how unabating, its Fertility how wild, Occasion for it being presented with ev’ry tally-mark, bottle astray, honest Favor, Milkmaid’s Douceur, Diversion of Tobacco, exchange of Specie,— ev’ry Numeral utter’d, be it upon paper, or spoken low and allow’d to pass with the next breath into the Forgotten. . . .
“They will forever do me favors I do not need, strings of iridescent Trout, July Cherries by the Bushel, with the Stones already out, land-transaction Advice that would put me in a Mansion upon Rappahannock with hundreds of Slaves and no worries forever,— i.e., rewarded as Pan-derers are, in every Form but Cash, a scarce enough commodity at the Coast,— becoming, further West, at last only another fabl’d American Substance.
“What’s happening to me, Murray! This sordid haggling out in the open air, Axmen sidling by with knowing Grins, Girls peering apprehensively ’round corners, popping up from bushes to blow me Kisses of encouragement, even Mr. Mason with his Eyebrows up into his Hat, and Mr. Dixon whistling Airs from The Beggars Opera. I am not the sinister Pimp they take me for.— Oh for someone understanding, out here in this endless Forest! We could ride our wing’d Pigs side by side through the Æther, and chat about it all.
“ ‘Sweet face’! Of course. That’s it, without a doubt. They talk to me in high, sing-song Voices. Either I look younger than I am, or people assume I am some kind of Idiot. Is this what books call ‘Wheedling’? I have heard my first Wheedling,— like discovering a new species of Bird. ’Tis this curse of being a grown Youth, well clapp’d to Life’s Harness, yet looking as I did at three. Men don’t trust it, more Women than I ever imagin’d find it desirable. I am oblig’d to behave as unnaturally Male toward the one Sex, as Cherubickally Neutral toward the other. How is it I nonetheless covet ev’ry fair creature who happens, day by day, to appear in the Path of this Line? As it speeds its way like a Coach upon the Coaching-Road of Desire, where we create continually before us the Road we must journey upon, the Axmen as diligent and unobtrusive as the Tailor of Gloucester’s Mice. . . .”
47
The Instrument Carriers wait till Monday to go back to Mr. Bryant’s and pick up the Sector. “Not so bad so far, d’ye think?” Robert Farlow, who is driving the empty Waggon, remarks to Thomas Hickman, beside him.
“Not bad for Fields we’ve all work’d in forever.” Hickman, who is receiving a shilling more than Farlow this week, bears a worried look. The other six-shilling man, Matt Marine, took himself off up the Bridge Road sometime in the Dark, and hasn’t been seen since,— leaving it upon Hickman’s shoulders to make sure no harm comes to the Sector. Behind them, back in the dust and wood-smoke, the ringing of ax-bits diminishes wit
h distance. John Harland, and John Hannings, and Kit Myers recline in the Waggon-bed among the Cushions for the Sector, the ragged breeze of their Progress bringing them the pleasing Scents of the Spring-tide, as they roll along the New-Castle Road, two to three miles south of the Line, and roughly parallel to it. Overhead, Birds carry twigs to secret destinations. Beside the Road, Children come running to stare, caps askew, Forks and Churns left to lie. Farmers in Waggons coming the other way wave or sometimes, knowing who they are, glare.
Each time, they set out slightly to the North of West, upon a Bearing that will describe Ten Minutes of Great Circle before intersecting again the true West Line. The Gentlemen know from calculation that the Angle to be turn’d off must be o°o8′18″ to the Northward of perfect West. For a while they take Sky Observations to confirm this, Dixon as if in deference to Mason as Astronomer,— but presently they are turning the Angle directly from the Plate of the Instrument,— a Surveyor’s habit, that Dixon may feel more comfortable with, which they drift wordlessly into, beginning to learn, each at his own rate, that the choice not to dispute oftentimes sets free minutes, indeed hours, otherwise wasted in issueless Quarreling. Neither appreciates this at the time.
When they reach the end of each twelve-mile-or-so segment, they stop, and set up the Sector, to find the distances, in Degrees, of several Stars, at their highest points in the Night, from the Zenith. Bradley’s Star Catalogue gives the Declination, or Celestial Latitude, for each Star. This value, plus the Zenith Distance, equals the Earthly Latitude of the Observing Point.
Mason & Dixon Page 51
