Mason & Dixon (24 page)

"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