Mason & Dixon (41 page)

"The Paxtons'll kill us all!" someone blubbers.

"Fuck 'em, they shan't have anyone here. Enough is enough."

"Our Line had better be set no nearer than Schuylkill, and the Ferries there brought back, first thing."

"How many Cannon have we in Town?"

Mason and Dixon look at each other bleakly. "Well. If I'd known 'twould be like this in America..."

In fact, when word arriv'd of the first Conestoga Massacre, neither Astronomer quite register'd its full Solemnity. The Cedar-Street Observatory was up at last,— Mr. Loxley and his Lads were done shimming and cozening square Members to Circular Purposes,— and after two days of Rain and Snow, Mason and Dixon were taking their first Obs from it. Mason did note as peculiar, that the first mortal acts of Savagery in America after their Arrival should have been committed by Whites

against Indians. Dixon mutter'd, "Why, 'tis the d——'d Butter-Bags all

over again."

They saw white Brutality enough, at the Cape of Good Hope. They can no better understand it now, than then. Something is eluding them.

Whites in both places are become the very Savages of their own worst Dreams, far out of Measure to any Provocation. Mason and Dixon have consult'd with all it seems to them they safely may. "Recall that there are two kinds of electricity," Dr. Franklin remark'd, "positive and negative. Cape Town's curse is its Weather,— the Electrick Charge during the Stormy season being ev'rywhere Positive, whilst in the Dry Season, all is Negative."

"Are you certain," Dixon mischievously, " 'tis not the other way 'round? That the rainy weather—

"Yes, yes," somewhat brusquely, "whichever Direction it goes, the relevant Quantity here, is the size of the Swing between the two,— that vertiginous re-polarizing of the Air, and perhaps the Æther too, which may be affecting the very Mentality of the People there."

"Then what's America's excuse?" Dixon inquir'd, mild as Country Tea.

"Unfortunately, young people," recalls the Revd, "the word Liberty, so unreflectively sacred to us today, was taken in those Times to encompass even the darkest of Men's rights,— to injure whomever we might wish,— unto extermination, were it possible,— Free of Royal advice or Proclamation Lines and such. This being, indeed and alas, one of the Liberties our late War was fought to secure."

Brae, on her way out of the Room for a moment, turns in the Door-way, shock'd. "What a horrid thing to say!" She does not remain to press the Point.

"At the Time of Bushy Run," confides Ives LeSpark, "— and I have seen the very Document,— General Bouquet and General Gage both sign'd off on expenditures to replace Hospital Blankets us'd 'to convey the Small-pox to the Indians,' as they perhaps too clearly stipulated. To my knowledge," marvels Ives, "this had never been attempted, on the part of any modern Army, till then."

"Yes, Wicks?" Mr. LeSpark beaming at the Revd, "You wish'd to add something? You may ever speak freely here,— killing Indians having long ago ceas'd to figure as a sensitive Topick in this House."

"Since you put it that way," the Revd, in will'd Cheeriness, "firstly,— ev'ryone knew about the British infection of the Indians, and no one spoke out. The Paxton Boys were but implementing this same Wicked Policy of extermination, using Rifles instead,— altho',— Secondly, unlike our own more virtuous Day, no one back then, was free from Sin. Quakers, as handsomely as Traders of less pacific Faiths, profited from the sale of Weapons to the Indians, including counterfeit Brown Besses that blew up in the faces of their Purchasers, as often as fell'd any White Settlers. Thirdly,—

"How many more are there likely to be?" inquires his Brother-in-Law. "Apparently I must reconsider my offer."

"Ev'ryone got along," declares Uncle Wicks. "Ye can't go looking for Sinners, not in an Occupied City,— for ev'ryone at one time or another here was some kind of Rogue, the Preacher as the Printer's Devil, the Mantua-Maker as the Milk-Maid,— even little Peggy Shippen, God bless her, outrageous Flirt even at four or five, skipping in and out, handing each of us Flowers whilst her Father frown'd one by one over our Disbursements. 'Papa's Work is making him sad,' the Miniature Temptress explain'd to us. 'My work never makes me sad.' 'What is your work, little Girl?' asks your innocent Uncle. 'To marry a General,' she replies, sweeping back her Hair, 'and die rich.' During the Occupation, having reach'd an even more dangerous Age, she had her Sights actually train'd upon poor young André, till he had his Hurricane, and march'd away, whereupon she sulk'd, tho' not without Company, till Arnold march'd in,— the little Schuylkill-side Cleopatra."

"Am I about to be shock'd?" inquires Tenebrae, re-entering.

"Hope not," DePugh blurts quietly.

"Well, DePugh."

"You've made an impression," mutters Ethelmer.

"Didn't mean to, I'm sure."

Tenebra? surveys the Pair. Unpromising. She sits, and bends to a Patch of Chevron-Stitch'd Filling.

Meanwhile, Mason and Dixon, a-jangle thro' Veins and Reins with Caf-feous Humors, impatient themselves to speak, are launch'd upon the choppy Day, attending, with what Civility they may summon, the often reckless Monologues of others.

"The true War here is between the City and the back Inhabitants,— the true dying, done by Irish, Scots, Indians, Catholics, far from Philadelphia, as from any Ear that might have understood their final words. Yet is the City selling rifles to anyone with the Price, most egre-giously the Indians who desire our Dissolution,—

"The rivalry is withal useful to the British, our common Enemy, who thus gain the pretext for keeping troops forever upon our Land."

"Whilst their damn'd Proclamation Line, forbids to venture there those same back Inhabitants who took Ohio, at great suffering, from the French. These damn'd British, with their list of Offenses growing daily, have much to answer for."

"Oh, I tremble that Britain should ever have to reckon with the base cowards who left Braddock to die,— who will turn and flee at the stir of a feather, be it but upon some dead Turkey-cock. Oh,— let us by no means offer Offense to the scum of Hibernia, nor to the Jacobite refuse of Scotland, nor to any one of this mongrel multiplicity of mud-dwellers, less civiliz'd, indeed less human, than the Savages 'pon whom they intrude."

"Is he in here again? Someone, pray, kill him."

"Reason, Reason,— the Irish, Sir are school'd long and arduously in Insurrection, knowing how to take a Magazine, or raid a Convoy. Britain, tho' evoke she the tenderest feelings, has made it so."

Thus does the Lunch-Hour speed by. Soon there's a distinct feeling in the Rooms, of Afternoon. Maps have been brought and spread, Pigeons bearing Messages dispatch'd from under Roof-peaks by expert Belgians, resident here, to as far away as Lancaster County. Boys old enough to handle a Rifle are drilling out in Back. Younger brothers are active at the next Order of Minitude, with long Sticks, whilst down at the next, the Dogs run obsessively to and fro, all 'round the Edges, faces a-twist with Efforts to understand. Down the Street 'round the Corner, into the City at large, the Sailors grumble in their candle-less Ale-Hovels, the devout Man of Business looks ahead to an hour dedicated again to the Daily Question, the Child trembles at the turn in the Day when the ghosts shift about behind the Doors, and out in the Gust-beaten wilderness come the Paxton Boys...

Steadily on they ride, relax'd, in Poise, Rifles a-thwart,— the dreaded Paxton Boys. With Hunters' Eyes, and ancient Wrongs a-ranklin' They soon come vis-a-vis with Mr. Franklin, Whose Gaze behind empurpl'd Lenses hidden, Cannot be seen, and so may not be bidden.

- Tox, "The Siege of Philadelphia, or, Attila Turn'd Anew"

'Tis too cloudy for Obs tonight. Mason frets at the delay. As soon as they shall have taken Measurements enough to yield trustworthy Mean Values of the Zenith Distances of Algol, Marfak, Capella, and their other Latitude-Stars,— allowing them at last to compute the exact Latitude of the southernmost point of Philadelphia,— they can pack up and go looking for the next Observatory Site, someplace in that same Latitude, to the west of here.

"Can't be too soon for me," Mason mutters. They are returning to their rooms, from the Observatory. Tavern music and hoofbeats racket upon the brick, often for blocks.

"I was hoping we'd yet be in Town when those 'Boys' ride in," Dixon all but sighs.

"Why? The worst sort of Celtick Degenerates? Their Ancestors ate human flesh,— as their Relatives continue to, no doubt. They've tasted Blood, they'll shoot at anything, especially, ehm, Targets of bright Color which fail to blend enough, with the Environment. No, the best thing for this Party to do, is not dawdle, but simply get on with our Work,— basically, get out of this place, and if possible, lose the red Coat."

"Mason, reflect,— as we must go West, into the Forks of Brandy-wine,— and as these Barbarians of thine are advancing to the East, we are likely to meet them well before anyone in Philadelphia does...?"

Mason frowns. "Yet,— suppose we kept ever fifteen miles to the south,— any roads we'd have to cross leading up from the South, not down from Harris's Ferry,— the main body then ought to pass by to the north of us."

"Unless they've Rangers out, maybe even looking for huz...?" wistfully.

"Then you'd have your Adventure, after all. Tho' why should they bother?”

"Dunno...? Happen we're par-ticularly the Intruders they can't abide...? What must we look like? A sizable Band of Arm'd Pioneers, working for the Proprietors...? mystical Machinery they've never seen...? Up far too late at night, gazin' at the Heavens...? Why, what would thee think, were it revers'd?"

"Mightn't someone explain to them,—

"We'd have to to draw within earshot, first,— if Tales I hear of their Rifles be true, why those German Gun-Smiths out there know how to send a Ball thro' a Pretzel, any Loop tha fancy, from a Mile away."

"You seem curiously merry at the Prospect."

"Merrily curious, rather, as to who commands them? Shall they really come against their Mother-City? Is this what America's going to be like? How, as a Quaker born, can I feel toward them any Sentiments, but those of grievous Offense,— yet how, as a child of the 'Forty-five, can my Heart fail to break, for the Lives they've been oblig'd to live? And such Inquiries along that Line."

They are just passing the Door of The Restless Bee Coffee-House, one of those remaining active all night, and, as little able to resist the sounds of Company, as to pass Nose-numb before the Perfumes of Celebes, they enter the Mid-watch Disputancy.

"Now then," Mason's Phiz presently wreathed in Delphic Vapors, "that's if ye'll excuse me,— counter-marching a bit, 'the 'Forty-five'? What would you possibly know, let alone remember, pray, of that fateful Year? You were a Child,— out there in a Pit-Cabin, wi' nowt but Spoil-Heaps to look at,— missin' it all, was the Tale ye told me, Lad!— Arrh! Arrh! The blithe piping of Youth, ever claiming a parrt in History,— I love it!" Somehow another fervent Cup is in his Hand, from which he sips at length, before singing,

"When Night was Day

And Day was Night

Who, then, was the Jacobite?

"Eh? Of course you were far, far too young to appreciate those Grand Days of 'forty-five and -six, all too electrickal with Passion,— "Thee, Mason,— a Jacobite?”

"Anyone who was seventeen that summer, young Dixon, was a Jacobite."

Dixon does recall a band of Riders, cloak'd and mask'd, who clamor'd into Raby in the middle of the night. "I was watching from a Pantry window, down at Fetlock-level— Boots, the Hems of Cloaks,— Tartan Patterns flashing ev'rywhere, tho' the Colors in that light were uncertain. Even now I believe that it was he...I could feel...something of such Moment...such high Purpose...! knelt, transfix'd. I would have done whatever he bade me. 'Twas the only time in my life I have felt that Surrender to Power, upon which, as I have learn'd after, to my Sorrow, all Government is founded. Never again. No more a Maiden as to than', and thankee all the same."

"How so? He and his Forces came, and went, upon quite the other side of England,— the Irish side, most convenient to French Transport."

"And yet, could our Wishes have brought him..."

"Well. Our Wishes. However little I have to expect from my own, yet am I not grown quite so melancholick, as to in any way question those of others."

"Thoughtful of thee, Mason...?"

' 'Twas ever Sun-rise, Dixon, in those times,— I recall less well the Nights,— each morning bringing us in fresh news,— sightings of him ev'rywhere. We chose to loiter near the Houses with Pine Trees by 'em, such being a Coded Welcome to any Jacobite on the Run, as a sign of food and Shelter within."

"In Durham, sometimes when the Wind was fair, we could hear the Bag-Pipes, far away...we had never heard Music like it before...some Lads, aye and Lasses, would travel Miles to hear it— Ah didn't much fancy it, sad to say, much too predatory, less accountable for how it sounded,— less human, the ever-inflated Bag allowing the Player to decouple Song from Breath. It never pans'd for Breath. Can you imagine how unsettling that may've been? Not as a Wild Creature in the night, for ev'ry Beast must roar, yet draw Breath,— whilst this...comes swelling, invisible, resistless. Something that has pass'd beyond the need for Breath."

"I remember,— 'twas how Wolfe's Men came to Stroud. Without Bag-Pipes at the Van, playing that Musick forbidden to all other Scots to play

 
since 1745, and thereby doubly damn'd,— a-chaunting and a-keening all their loss, failure, hatred, may I say, of England,— frightening village after Village into Submission,— the Brits would never have prevail'd in India.. .in their Spoliation of Scotland they had learn'd the Power of that Cry that never Breathes, the direct Appeal to Animal Terror, and converted it to their Uses, leaving Loin-cloths besmear'd all up and down the Tropickal World. And here were they, as those for whom they march'd, doing the same to the Vale of my Birth and Blood.

"The Clothiers had made of children my Age Red Indians, spying upon them from the Woodlands they thought were theirs. We call'd them 'the White People,' and the House they liv'd in, 'the Big House.' Splendid boyhood, you might say, but you'd be wrong,— what I had imagin'd a Paradise proving instead but the brightly illustrated front of the Arras, behind which all manner of fools lay bleeding, and real rats swarm'd, their tails undulating, waiting their moment. I discover'd the Rulers who do not live in Castles but in housing less distinct, often unable to remain past Earshot of the Engines they own and draw their Power from. Imagine you're out late on a Spring night, riding along, with your Sweetheart, an Evening trembling with Promise, all the night an Eden,—