Mason & Dixon (59 page)

"Eeh, Mason." Dixon by now has learn'd to stay at a respectful distance, and not to rely too heavily upon Touch as a way of communicating. "You believ'd... Really...?"

"Oh well, 'really,'— it's like a Woman, isn't it, you look at each other, you think Of course not, she thinks Of course not,— yet the Alternatives hang about, don't they, like Wraiths."

"Eehh, City Matters, would I knoah anything about thah'?"

"I was up there four years, I lost two women I lov'd, God help me. I lost Bradley, dear to me as well. Were Tears Sixpences, I'd have more invested in that miserable hilltop than Maskelyne could borrow, be the co-signer Clive himself. Well, let him never sleep. Let him pace those rooms, one after another, in the idled silence of the afternoons, till he hears the voices telling him he has no right there, and to go away. Let him stand at last in the Octagon Room, and shiver in the height of Summer. Let him fear to stay up for stars that culminate too late,— Aahhrrhh!"

"Mason,— aren't Maskelyne and Morton both Cambridge men? Wasn't it Morton who put his name forward? They must have wanted one of their own...?"

"The last three A.R.'s were all Oxford men."

"There's a difference?"

Mason stares, then says slowly, "Yes, Dixon, there is a difference.... And he went in as a bloody Sizar, I could have done that,— don't you

 
think I was 'one of their own'? What, then, the Bastard Son? The faithful old Drudge in the Background? Haven't I any standing in this? Is that what this fucking exile in America's about then, Morton and his fucking Royal Society,— to get me out of the way so that Maskelyne can go prancing up to Greenwich freed of opposition,—

"So, Ah'm dragg'd along in the wake of your ill fortune, eeh, another bonny mess...?"

"Might teach you to take care whom your name gets attach'd to. Ahrrhh! Ruin!" He pulls his Hat over his Eyes, and begins to pound his Head slowly upon the Table.

"According to this," Dixon soothingly, as if 'twere a Fan, waving a Page, enclos'd with the letter, clipp'd from the Gentlemen's Magazine of the December previous, "there were, it seems, ten, competing for the job,— Betts, Bevis, Short...so on. Any of those names light a Match?" Though reaching the outskirts of Forbearance, can he really continue? Yes, he ought to. Either Mason cannot admit there's a Class problem here, or, even this deeply compromised, he may yet somehow keep Faith that in the Service of the Heavens, dramatic Elevations of Earthly Position are to be expected of these Times, this Reign of Reason, by any reasonable man. Very well, "Mason, you are a Miller's Son. That can never satisfy them."

"What of it?" Mason snaps back, "Flamsteed was a Maltster's Son. Halley was a Soap-boiler's Son. Astronomers Royal are suppos'd to be social upstarts, for Mercy's sake. And I'd friends in the Company," inflecting this, however, with a Snort and a sidewise Tilt of the Head, assuming Dixon knows roughly how Sam Peach and Clive of India might sort out upon the Company's own Chain of Being.

"Did you and Maskelyne talk about any of this when you were together at St. Helena?"

"Are you insane?"

"Oh, off and on...? And thee?"

"Bradley's Name may have come up."

"And Maskelyne,— may I speculate?— said, 'Has he given Thought to a Successor?' '

"Why, that's amazing. You might have been there. What is it about you people, some mystickal Gift, I imagine.”

"Ahnd,— he didn't say, 'Mason, though clearly I would welcome your support, I'm going to have this A.R. job with or without it,' anything like thah'?"

"Why are you trying to get me to re-live this? It was unpleasant enough the first time."

"So as to avoid it m'self, of course."

"I shall get thro' this, Dixon."

"Were I thee, I should make him feel guilty ev'ry chance I got. Perhaps he doubts his own Worthiness. Tha must never make it too obvious, of course, always the dignified Sufferer,— yet there is no predicting what Advantage tha may build, upon his Uncertainty."

"Why bless me, Sir,— you are a Jesuit, after all. Sinister Alfonso, move aside,— sheathe that Stiletto, wicked Giuseppe,— here is the true Italian Art."

"I-o.? Why, I am simple as a pony, Sir... ?— born in a Drift, a Corf for my cradle, and nought but the Back-shift for Schoolmasters there...?”

44

"Now, many is the philosophickal Mind,— including my own,— convinced that rapid motion through the air is possible along and above certain invisible straight Lines, crossing the earthly landscape, particularly in Britain, where they are known as Ley-lines. Any number of devout enthusiasts, annual Stonehenge and Ave-bury Pilgrims, Quacks, Mongers, Bedlamites,— each has his tale of real flights over the countryside, above these Ley-lines. Withal, 'tis possible to transfer from one of them to another, and thus in theory travel to the furthest reaches of the Kingdom, without once touching the Earth. Something is there, that permits it. No one knows what it is, tho' thousands speculate.

"Here went we off upon the most prodigious such Line yet attempted,— in America, where undertakings of its scale are possible,— astronomically precise,— carefully set prisms of Oolite,— the Master-valve of rose Quartz, at the eastern Terminus. Any Argument from Design, here, must include a yearning for Flight, perhaps even higher and faster than is customary along Ley-lines we know. I try not to wonder. I must wonder. Whenever the Surveyors separate, they run into Thickets, Bogs, bad Dreams,— united, they pursue a ride through the air, they are link'd to the stars, to that inhuman Precision, and are deferr'd to because of it, tho' also fear'd and resented—"

- Wicks Cherrycoke, Spiritual Day-Book

March is snowy and frozen, clear nights are rare, and the Surveyors need

ev'ry one they can get for Azimuth observations to find out the exact Direction westward, to strike off in. Ev'rything upon the Ground, by April, as they're about to begin the West Line, must be sighted thro' a haze of green Resurrection.

"There'll be more out there than Stars to gaze at," says Mr. Harland, who's hired on as an Instrument-Bearer at five shillings a day. "Over Susquehanna,— once you've cross'd the York to Baltimore Road,— you'll see."

"I grew up west of that Road," adds Mrs. Harland, "and he ain't just hummin' 'Love in a Cottage,' either. Tis not for ev'rybody,— I know I lit East as soon's I was tall enough to cry in the right Uncle's ale-can, and it's also how I met the Wild Ranger here, who's never been west of Elk Creek. Maybe it's not even for you, Johnny."

"Tho' we do understand your Sentiments, Ma'am," Mason advises, "we are legally restrain'd from intervening in anyone's family business."

"Ah well, too bad, tried my best, fate is fate, Lord'll provide," she carols, bustling back into the House.

"Took it awfully well, I thought," says Mason.

"Maybe not," John Harland shaking his head as he follows her in. "Better go see."

"She never actually said she wanted him off the Crew," Dixon notes.

"It's what she meant. You have to understand them, Dixon, they've this silent language, that only men of experience speak at all fluently."

"Then why is it I've lost count of how many of my evenings tha've ruin'd, with thy talk of Cannibalism, or Suicide, or Bickering among the Whigs... ? anything, but what 'they' wish to hear?"

"Unannounc'd blow."

Robert Boggs comes running by with fifty-weight of Harness hanging from each Shoulder. "Some Stranger over there by the Monument, acting peculiar." Off he runs again.

They go to see,— and there he is, up in the corner of Harland's field, curiously prostrated before the chunk of Rose Quartz where cross the Latitude of the south Edge of Philadelphia, and the Longitude of the Post Mark'd West,— the single Point to which all work upon the West Line (and its eastward Protraction to the Delaware Shore) will finally refer. All about, in the Noontide, go Waggoners and Instrument-Bearers in Commotion, preparing for the Translation south to Mr. Bryant's Field, and the

 
Post Mark'd West. Swifts come out in raiding-parties, but avoid the luminous Stone,— Dogs wait at what they've learn'd is a safe distance from it.

"Quite powerful," when they have coax'd him back at last to their own regime of Light, " - where'd you boys find this one? Whoo-ee!" He has been trying to find what in his Calling is known as the "Ghost," another Crystal inside the ostensible one, more or less clearly form'd. ' 'Tis there the Pictures appear.. .tho' it varies from one Operator to the next,— some need a perfect deep Blank, and cannot scry in Ghost-Quartz. Others, before too much Clarity, become blind to the other World...my own Crystal,"— he searches his Pockets and produces a Hand-siz'd Specimen with a faint Violet tinge,— "the Symmetries are not always easy to see...here, these twin Heptagons...centering your Vision upon their Common side, gaze straight in,—

"Aahhrrhh!" Mason recoiling and nearly casting away the crystal.

"Huge, dark Eyes?" the Scryer wishes to know.

"Aye.—
 
Who is it?" Mason knows.

"The Face I see is a bit more friendly,— but then 'twould have to be, wouldn't it, or I'd be in some other line of Work."

His name is Jonas Everybeet, and in the time he travels with the Party, he will locate, here and there across the Land, Islands in Earth's Magnetic Field,— Anomalies with no explanation for being where they are,— other than conscious intervention by whoever or whatever was here before the Indians. "Anyone's Guess what they're for. And then your own very long Row of Oolite Shafts. Perfectly lin'd up with the Spin of the Earth. Suggestive, anyhow."

"Of what?"

"Think of Mr. Franklin's Armonica. Rather than a Finger circling upon the stationary Rim of a Glass, the Finger keeps still, whilst the Rim rotates. As long as there is movement between the two, a note is produc'd. Similarly, this Oolite Array, at this Latitude, is being spun along at more than seven hundred miles per hour,— spun thro' the light of the Sun, and whatever Medium bears it to us. What arises from this? What Music?"

Ev'ryone has a Point of View they wish to persuade the Surveyors to. "Sometimes you're the Slate," Mason observes, "sometimes you're the Chalk.”

"Eeehh!" Dixon frowns. "And here again is that bothersome Crimp, O'Rooty." The Body-jobber offering them his Services, can arrange, he declares, for "any Work-force, at any level of skill, anywhere you want, when you want them. For instance I imagine you'll be needing some axmen. Hey? Do I know this Business? First thing to decide is how much you want to spend,— local Lads at three and six per Diem, or, for what prices out to but a few farthings more,"— picks up a couple of Powder-Horns, places them either side of his head,— "Scandinavians! yes, the famous Swedish Loggers, each the equal of any ten Axmen these Colonies may produce. Finest double-bit Axes, part of the Package, lifetime Warranty on the Heads, seventy-two-hour replacement Policy, cus-tomiz'd Handle for each Axman, for 'Bjorn may not swing like Stig, nor Stig like Sven,' as the famous Timothy Tox might say,— Swedish Steel here, secret Processes guarded for years, death to reveal them, take you down a perfect swathe of Forest, trimm'd and cleared, fast as you're likely to chain the distance.—
 
Parts of a single great Machine,— human muscle and stamina become but adjunct to the deeper realities of Steel that never needs Sharpening, never rusts,—

"Oh, come, Sir!" the Surveyors exclaim together.

"So then take but one, take Stig here, on a trial basis only, pay what you think he's worth, if you don't like him, send him back.—

Next in line behind O'Rooty comes a "Developer," or Projector of Land-Schemes.

"Kill him," advises Dixon, before anyone can get in a word. Mason risks a quick lateral Squint, but can neither see nor smell any sign of Intoxication. "And do it sooner rather than later, as it only gets more difficult with time."

Since early in their acquaintance, the two have learn'd to mutter together so as to remain unheard beyond a Pipe-stem's Length. The Projector, devotedly binocular and far too brisk, moves in an industrious Hop from one foot to the other, back and forth. "This is someone you know?" Mason not yet all that alarm'd.

"In general only. But work'd for enough of them, didn't I. Not proud of m'self for it. Needed the money." So abridg'd is this reply that Mason surmises some long and probably tangled Iliad of Woe back among the

 
Friths and Fells, which did not work out in Favor of Dixon, who continues, "Well, then...? Whah's thy preference?"

"Ehm,— what?"

"As to which of us will do the Deed."

"Deed...?"

"You know,— " cocking a rigid Finger toward their Visitor, who at last grows aware of being under Discussion.

"Um, Dixon,— come back to the Tent for a moment, would you... yes...yes there's a good chap,— just a word,— excuse us, please, small technical Question, quite trivial really,— come along, good, there we go." Mason, having visited Bedlam as well as Tyburn, in a profound Mime of calm and Patience, Dixon playing his part with equal vigor, using as his models any number of Lunaticks to be found in Bishop, any market day.

The first day of the West Line, April 5th, falls upon a Friday,— the least auspicious day of the week to begin any enterprise, such as sailing from Spithead, for example.

To stand at the Post Mark'd West, and turn to face West, can be a trial for those sentimentally inclin'd, as well as for ev'ryone nearby. It is possible to feel the combin'd force, in perfect Enfilade, of ev'ry future second unelaps'd, ev'ry Chain yet to be stretch'd, every unknown Event to be undergone,— the unmodified Terror of keeping one's Latitude.

They have been held up by the Weather,— first Snow, which by the fourth day, even undrifted, has reached a depth of two feet and nine inches,— then clouded Skies, which prolong the impossibility of Zenith observations. Thursday night the fourth, the Sky is finally clear enough for them to determine their Latitude exactly. The next day, the weather holding, they decide not to waste the Friday, but to seize it, bad luck and all.

A few wrinkles to be smooth'd. Messrs. Darby and Cope have left till the last Minute, the Question of who's to go before, and who behind, upon the Chain. The phrases "Good enough" and "More or less" must be discouraged from the outset. Rules of precedence for Dixon's Circumferen-tor have to be work'd out, principally that, in case of Conflict, it must ever defer to the Sector,— Astronomy before Magnetism.