“The true humiliation came at the end of each Exhibition, when Vaucanson actually open’d me up, and show’d to anyone who wish’d to stare, any Bas-mondain, the intricate Web within of Wheels, levers, and wires, unto the last tiny piece of Linkage, nay, the very falling Plummet that gave me Life,— nowadays, itself ’morphos’d, so as to fall without end. . . . They pointed, titter’d, sketch’d exquisitely in the air,— Indignity absolute. He would never allow anyone the least suspicion that I might after all be real. Inside me lay Truth Mechanickal,— outside was but clever impersonation. I was that much his Creature, that he own’d the right to deny my Soul.
“His undoing was in modifying my Design, hoping to produce Venus from a Machine, as you might say. My submission was not yet complete enough. In the years before the next War, as Publick tastes veer’d in quite another Direction and we were left becalm’d, each in the Company of few but the other, his demands grew less and less those of a Man of Science. He wish’d, rather, to hear Sounds of affection and contentment, in his presence. He got nothing more abandon’d than Wing Caresses, perhaps a Beak-Bite . . . a limited Repertoire, but all the same, one felt . . . compromis’d. He wish’d to control utterly, not an Automaton, but a creature capable of Love, not only for Drakes and Ducklings, but for himself. The approach of his middle years, the winds blowing as from an untravel’d North . . .”
’Tis on their way back East for the last time, that the Duck learns to hold perfectly still in the Air, at any altitude, and remain there whilst the Earth spins beneath her. She understands that she may now shift north or south, to any Latitude she likes, without being restricted any more to the Line and its Visto. But she is curious about where else the Parallel goes. She ascends, one evening after Mess, and as the Party, with their Tents, all go rolling away into the Shadow, they in their Turn watch her, pois’d above the last lit Meridian, recede over the Horizon and vanish. Next morning here she comes roaring in at well over seven hundred miles per hour, coasting to a smooth stop and settling upon the Cook-tent’s Peak with not a Feather out of place. “Interesting Planet,” is her comment. “I have been o’er the Foot of the Italian Boot, close by Bukhara and Samarkand,— “I can’t wait to do the Equator. Ye have tapp’d into but five degrees of three hundred sixty, twenty minutes of a Day it would cause you Astonishment and Distress to learn of your minor tho’ morally problematick part in.”
“A Global Scheme! Ah knew it!” Dixon beginning to scream, “what’d Ah tell thee?”
“Get a grip on yerrself, man,” mutters Mason, “what happen’d to ‘We’re men of Science’?”
“And Men of Science,” cries Dixon, “may be but the simple Tools of others, with no more idea of what they are about, than a Hammer knows of a House.”
(“Ah,” sighs Euphrenia, “all too true. The Life of an Automaton cannot, however conceiv’d, strike anyone as enviable.”
“Excuse us, Aunt,” ventures DePugh, “but did we understand you to say,—”
“Don’t get her started!” Brae hisses.
“Have you, Aunt,” Ethelmer fiendishly pretending Interest, “really shar’d the Life of— ”
“Shar’d! Why, in my own Student Days, in far-off Paris, France, I was oblig’d to keep Starvation off my Sill, by pretending to be an Automaton Oboe player. My Manager, Signore Drivelli, actually, under the Statutes of the Two Sicilies, we were man and wife, not only charg’d Admission, but also took bets on the side as to how long I could play between breaths.”
“Zabby,” pleads Mr. LeSpark, “speak with her about this sometime, could you please, it being your Family?”
“What was your best Time?” asks Ethelmer.
“Never went longer than twenty minutes or so, but I could’ve easily tootl’d on all night, the secret being to sneak Charges of Air in thro’ your Nose, using the cheeks as a Plenum, for Storage, as ’tis in the Bag-Pipes,— The Musick written for Oboe is notoriously lacking in places to breathe. The Notes just keep coming, sixteen or thirty-two of ’em ev’ry time you tap your foot, not to mention the embellishments you’re expected to put in yourself, for no extra Fee of course,— the principal Reason so many of us go insane being, not from forcing air into a small mouthpiece, but in all the sneakery and diversion of Attention requir’d to keep blowing,— in India they understand how important the breath is,— being indeed the Soul in different form,— and how dangerous it is to meddle unnaturally with the rhythms proper to it. . . .”)
As Dixon becomes possess’d by the Horizon, Hugh Crawfford is seen to walk to and fro shaking his head, presently muttering softly. Mason corners him behind a Waggon. “Out with it, Sir,— things are too precarious here for you to be concealing your opinions from me.”
“Not concealing. Withholding, maybe,—” Mason, losing his composure, lunges for and attempts to strangle the Guide. They slip and stagger in the newly fallen Leaves. “Very well,— Mason! off, off, attend me, this is a Mountain Dulcimer, that I put together by Hand once, when there wasn’t much else to do,—” and in a wild Note-scape, almost minor, almost Celtick, commences an uncommonly amazing Hammering and Plucking. When Mason appears soothed enough, “Now, I’ve seen Mr. Dixon’s Ailment before,— yes,— with trappers, with traders,
With rangers and strangers, the
Frenchies out there call it
‘Rap-ture de West,’ Brother,
Sooner or later,
It’s go-ing, to take ye,
Away to the sunset,
Along with the rest,
So ’tis hey, ye Dirt-Farmers,
I’m gone, for the Prairies,
And over, the Mountains, and
Down to the Sea, if I
Get back some Day, tho’ the
World shine as Morning, yet
Ever will sunsets be
Beck’ning to me. . . .
But out under the Moon, Chestnut Ridge and Cheat behind them, and Monongahela to cross, into an Overture of meadow to the Horizon, low-lands become to them a dream whilst under a Spell, the way it gives back the Light, the way it withholds its Shadows,— who might not come to believe in an Eternal West? In a Momentum that bears all away? “Men are remov’d by it, and women, from where they were,— as if surrender’d to a great current of Westering. You will hear of gold cities, marble cities, men that fly, women that fight, fantastickal creatures never dream’d in Europe,— something always to take and draw you that way,” Mr. Crawfford puffing meanwhile upon an Indian Pipe, whose Bowl, finely carv’d of soft stone, by a Quebec Frenchman he had dealings with years ago, depicts a female head of Classical beauty, her Locks spilling beyond obsessiveness, all blacken’d with fire and grease, smok’d out of for all those years, having held a thousand Stems, from Reeds stirr’d by the Mists of Niagara, to Cane at the mouth of the Mississippi, “— you recall to me myself, in my first days out here, up all night, going West by way of the Stars. It’s said some have a gift for it, like dowsing, and can run true bearings indefinitely under the most obscur’d of Skies. Many of Colonel Byrd’s Companions running the Line ’twixt Virginia and Carolina possess’d the gift,— when the Party split, with half going ’round the Great Dismal and half right across, becoming detain’d in that Cypress Purgatory for weeks, ’twas the Westering Certainty that got ’em thro’ safe. . . . I’ve even managed to keep my Latitude for the odd few seconds, so I take an amateur’s Interest, and thus far, by my estimate, you are hardly the width of a pipestem out. As to what draws Mr. Dixon,— I don’t mean to present it lightly. We say the Westering’s ‘got’ him. And I also tell you this so you’ll know that when”— here Mason draws a sharp breath,— “something requires an unpremeditated cessation to the Line, well,— Mr. Dixon . . . may not be inclin’d to stop.”
“He wouldn’t take a chance with his—” but the Guide has put a hand upon Mason’s arm, motioning with his head as Dixon comes into view,— he h
as been wandering among the tents and Waggons, looking troubled, very tall and out of scale in the uncertain dinner-time light. By the time he’s out of earshot again, it has occurr’d to Mason, “You said what? an unpremeditated,— ”
“Cessation.”
“Is there something else I should know?”
There is, nor does it take long in coming. Mortality at last touches the Expedition. William Baker and John Carpenter are kill’d by the Fall of a single Tree, on September 17th, a Thursday. ’Tis possible they’d sign’d up together, and work’d together,— their names are enter’d together in Mr. McClean’s records. The next week, Carpenter’s is enter’d by mistake, to be follow’d by a trailing Line over to a row of Zeros, for Days work’d in the Week. Mo must have forgot,— so may the Book-keeper’s Page be haunted,— a Ghost-Entry, John Carpenter’s Soul lingering,— William Baker’s, to Appearance, having mov’d on.
“This is a Disaster,” Mason curl’d as a dying Leaf, dispos’d to give it all up. “You agree, don’t you, Jeremiah, you know it doesn’t happen, it never happens, that two are kill’d in the fall of a single Tree?”
“Their People have them,— they’ll be safe?” too vex’d in Reassuring himself, to see Mason’s Point.
“You were the one looking for a Sign, weren’t you, well there’s your miserable Sign, why aren’t you reading it.”
“ ’Twas a tall old Chestnut, they set their Wedges wrong, and then it fell where they hadn’t guess’d it would. What else, pray?”
“Damn’d right, pray,” snaps Mason, “— somebody’d better, around here.”
They sit in the Tent, Coffee growing cold, Mason waiting for the Sector to arrive, Dixon waiting for Mason to burst forth with “Well what’s the fucking Use, really?” to which Dixon will have to come up with an answer, and not take too much time, either, doing it.
Geminity hath found a fleshless Face,—
No second Chance, ’tis Death that’s won the Race
Between the Line in all its Purity,
And what lay, mass’d, within the mortal Tree . . .
— Timothy Tox, The Line
No question, beyond Cheat they move in a time and space apt, one instant to the next, to stretch or shrink,— as a Chain’s length may, upon the clement Page, pass little notic’d, whilst in an Ambuscade, may reckon as, perhaps, all,— or nothing.
When the Sector arrives, they set up upon a Bluff overlooking Monongahela, and watch the Culmination of Stars in Lyra and Cygnus, correcting for seconds plus and minus of Aberration, Deviation, Precession, and Refraction, whilst in Cabins nearby the Wives of the new-hir’d Axmen gather, and those Axmen who may, come thro’, and out the back, to take White Maize Whiskey out of a Tin Cup.
Soon as the Party have stept West of Monongahela, Indians of Nations other than Iroquois begin showing up to have a look at them. The Delaware Chief Catfish, his Lady, and his Nephew arrive in the first days of October, all dress’d as Europeans might be, and confer apart with the Mohawks, exchanging Strings of Wampom with them. Stranger and Native alike confess ignorance of Catfish’s Mission in these parts, far from his Village, and as if Disguis’d, in Coat, Waistcoat, Breeches, and Cock’d Hat. “Looking for Business,” is how Hugh Crawfford translates it, adding, “It is usually best in these cases, not to inquire too closely.” A few miles further on west, eight Senecas, going south to fight the Cherokees, come and stay over in Camp, obtaining Powder of Mo McClean, along with some Paint. “Materials of War,— I’m not sure we can write these off,” Mason cautiously suggests to him. The Commissary glares, as if presented with an opening for some Violence. “Well they’re southern Indians,” he explains instead. “They are Snakes down there,— poisonous, no human feeling. Whereas, these Seneca, well, they’re our Indians,— we live in, as off, the same Forests,— if we can help ’m along, it ever pays to have a friend or two out here, Gents.” And at the final Station by Dunkard Creek,— as Mason records in his “Memoranda,” for 1767,— the venerable Prisqueetom, Prince of the Delawares and brother to their King, pays them a call, and is presently describing for them the great unbroken Meadow of the West, whilst Indian Visitors pass by in all directions, staring or amus’d, sometimes in Drink as well, regardless of the hour,— all Figures relating to their daily ration of Spirits having been negotiable since the Party cross’d Monongahela.
“It’s like Covent Garden on Saturday Night,” Mason grumbles, “— what are we become,— a Show they all must see, or lose credibility among . . . whatever Indians have for Fops? I ought to just go over and inform that old Coot,— ”
“Mason, he’s eighty-six . . . ? And why should Traffick not be Brisk? These People freely travel an Arrangement of High-Roads, connected upon a Scale Continental, that nothing we know of in North Britain can equal . . . ? Making huz little different from the Strollers who work the Inns along the Coaching Roads of more civiliz’d Lands. . . . Can’t speak for thee, but I rather welcome all this mix’d Society. Not as . . . formal, this way, as it might become,—” swinging his head westward. “Heaven help us if we run out of Whiskey. As it is, Mo’s got distillers clear back the other side o’ Monongahela working back-shifts by the light of the moon, and Waggons that do and don’t make it thro’, all so that our Guests here’ll be taken care of . . . ?”
“Peace, Merriment,— take joy of thy rude Hurricanoe, give no thought to what may lie beyond thy moment’s mean Horizon. Fatum in Denario vertit, but don’t let that stop you, allow me rather to assume as well thy own Burden of Worry, being a self-sacrificing gent, in a curious sort of way,— ”
“Eeh, Mason, mind thy Wig now, for these are all good Lads, they drink but in moderation, no more riotously than in Wapping, I am sure . . . ?”
“Arrhh . . . now am I entirely sedate, thankee.”
“Safest thing’s to act insane, of course,” Mr. Crawfford advises.
“How’s that?”
“We style it, ‘Doing a Chapman.’” A trader by that name, captur’d near Fort Detroit, at the time of Pontiack’s rising, famously having escap’d execution by feigning to be mad. “These folk respect Madness. To them ’tis a holy state.”
“As I told thee, Mason,— nothing for thee to worry about . . . ?”
“I’d notic’d them stepping lightly ’round you.”
Hitherto, as if by Conscious Agreement, Withdrawal into Folly by the one Surveyor would have unfailingly provok’d an Embrace of Sobriety by the other. So, up till now, has the Line been preserv’d, day to day, from frenzied Impulse, as from reason’d Reluctance,— allowing it to proceed on its Way unmolested. Here, as it draws to its last Halt, if anywhere, might both Gentlemen take joy of a brief Holiday from Reason. Yet, “Too busy,” Mason insists, and “Far too cheerful for thah’,” supposes Dixon.
“As the Stars tell you where it is you must cut your Path, so do the Land and its Rivers tell us where our Tracks must go.”
“Yet the Stars, in their Power,” Mason’s Melancholia so advanc’d that he is not fully aware of sitting wrapp’d in a Blanket arguing Religion with a Mohawk Warrior with whom he is scarcely upon intimate Terms, “that only the Mightiest God may command, deserve at least the one small, respectful Courtesy, of allowing their Line to cross, without a Mark, your Nations’ own Great Path. . . .”
“Come,” says Daniel.
“Eeh,” Dixon looking up from his Pipe.
“Come where?” says Mason.
“Out on the Path. We’ll take a Turn down toward Virginia and back again.”
“Am I in Condition for this?” inquires Mason, of no one in particular. “And what of all these Catawbas I keep hearing about?”
“Will we be allow’d to smoak?” Dixon wants to know.
The Indian is gazing at them doubtfully. “You must see, what it is you believe you may cross so easily. Follow me, tho’ I am not entirely pleas’d with my
Back to either of you.”
They proceed along Dunkard Creek, abandoning their short-term Destinies to the possibly homicidal Indian. The Forest life ever presenting Mystery to them,— too much going on, night and day, behind ev’ry Trunk, beneath ev’ry Bush,— how many new Pontiacks may even now be raising forces, planning assaults, perhaps in the Market for a couple of English Surveyors to style a casus belli and publickly torture before putting to death,— yaagghh!— yet isn’t this man entirely vouch’d for by Sir William Johnson? Or, actually, said to be vouch’d for. Hum. Perhaps the first item of the neo-Pontiackal uprising, would be to put Johnson to Death? Perhaps this has already occurred? So busy are the Astronomers with these Apprehensions that they nearly miss their Guide’s Hand-Signal to slow down and approach with Caution what lies ahead.
The Moon has not yet risen. The Indian steps off the Path, motioning to them, to do the same. “This is troubling. They’ve been this far up already. See what you nearly stepp’d on.” He crouches and fleetly retrieves a long, slender tho’ not easily broken, Sliver of something from the Trail. “Swamp Cane. It doesn’t grow up here,— they gather and splinter it, catch and kill Serpents, dip the Points into the venom,— set them in the Trail, aim’d toward us.” Having gather’d as many of the deadly Points as he can find, he bends close to a small patch of untravel’d Ground. “Forgive me, for what I must now beg you to bear at my hands.” Carefully he pushes each Point into the Earth, till only bits of the blunt ends remain.
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