Mason & Dixon (91 page)

"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 Monon-gahela, 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 untrav-el'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.

"These Catawbas," Mason falling increasingly short of perfect nonchalance. "How close are they, I wonder?"

"Whoever set these, they weren't more than two, and they were moving fast. The main body could be anywhere south of here."

" 'Twould be useful to know how far south...?" Dixon supposes.

"He means, let us go on, into sure Ambuscado and Death," Mason hastily, "he's a bit, what do you people call it?" Tapping his Nob and twirling his finger beside it. "Pray do not suppose all Englishmen to be quite so free of care."

"By the time we get anywhere to tell anyone, they'll be someplace else. We'd better go back. For now, say nothing more, and try to move quietly."

Mr. Barnes is troubl'd at the Depth of the Silence that reigns. "No longer frets th' intemperate Jay," he mutters, " - withal, the Siskin chirpeth not."

"Cap'n, what the fuck is going on?"

At either end of the Warrior Path, the heat, the agitation, the increasing Tension grow. Never in memory, they are assur'd by their Mohawk Escort, have Iroquois and Catawba each wish'd so passionately the other's Destruction. Any new day may bring the unavoidable Descent.

With Indians all 'round them, the Warpath a-tremble with murd'rous Hopes, its emptiness feeling more and more unnatural as the hours tick on, into the End of Day, as the latent Blades of Warriors press more closely upon the Membrane that divides their Subjunctive World from our number'd and dreamless Indicative, Apprehension rising, Axmen deserting, the ghosts of '55 growing, hourly, more sensible and sovereign,— as unaveng'd Fires foul the Dusk, unanswer'd mortal Cries travel the Forests at the speed of Wind. Ah Christ,— besides West, where else are they heading, those few with the Clarity to remain?

They both dream of going on, unhinder'd, as the Halt dream of running, the Earth-bound of flying. Rays of light appear from behind Clouds, the faces of the Bison upon close Approach grow more human, unbearably so, as if just about to speak, Rivers run swifter, and wider, till at last the Party halts before one that mayn't be cross'd, even by the sturdiest Bat-toe,— that for miles runs deeper than the height of a Conestoga Waggon. Upon that final Bank, an Indian will appear silently, and lead the party past a forested Bend to a great Bridge, fashion'd of Iron, quite out of reach of British or for that matter French Arts, soaring over to the far Shore, its highest part, whenever there are rain-clouds, indeed lost to sight,— constructed long ago by whatever advanced Nation live upon the River's opposite side.

"May we cross?" asks Dixon.

"May we not cross?" asks Mason.

"Alas," replies the Son of the Forest, "not yet,— for to earn Passage, there is more you must do."

"Why show it to huz at all?" wonders Dixon.

"If I did not, your Great Road thro' the Trees would miss it. You move like wood-borers inside a Post in a great House, in the dark, eating and shitting, moving ever into the Wood and away from your shit, with no idea at all what else lies Without."

"In the Forest," comments Mr. Crawfford, "ev'ryone comes 'round in a Circle sooner or later. One day, your foot comes down in your own shit. There, as the Indians say, is the first Step upon the Trail to Wisdom."

They wake.

70

At the moment of the Interdiction, when their Eyes at length meet, what they believe they once found aboard the Seahorse fails, this time, to appear. It is not a faltering on either man's part, or the mistaken impression of one, or any moral lapse,— 'tis a difference of opinion. Mason, stubborn, wishes to go on, believing that with Hugh Crawfford's help, he may negotiate for another ten minutes of Arc.

"But Mason, they don't know what thah' is...?"

"We'll show them. Let them look thro' the Instruments or something. Or they can watch us writing."

"They don't want any of thah'? They want to know how to stop this great invisible Thing that comes crawling Straight on over their Lands, devouring all in its Path."

"Well! of course it's a living creature, 'tis all of us, temporarily collected into an Entity, whose Labors none could do alone."

"A tree-slaughtering Animal, with no purpose but to continue creating forever a perfect Corridor over the Land. Its teeth of Steel,— its Jaws, Axmen,— its Life's Blood, Disbursement. And what of its intentions, beyond killing ev'rything due west of it? do you know? I don't either."

"Then,— just tidying these thoughts up a bit,— you're saying this Line has a Will to proceed Westward,—

"What else are these people suppos'd to believe? Haven't we been saying, with an hundred Blades all the day long,— This is how far into your land we may strike, this is what we claim to westward. As you see
what we may do to Trees, and how little we care,— imagine how little we
care for Indians, and what we are prepar'd to do to you. That Influence
you have felt, along our Line, that Current strong as a River's,— we com
mand it
  
We might make thro' your Nations an Avenue of Ruin, terri
ble as the Path of a Whirl-Wind."

"But those are Threats we do not make."

"But might as well make. As the Indians wish, we must go no further."

"No. We must go on."

For eleven Days, from the ninth thro' the nineteenth of October, they linger beside Dunkard Creek, the Indians keeping their distance, looking to their Weapons, as to their Routes of withdrawal, whilst the White Folk dispute. Some of the Hands are back east of here, cutting the Visto to Breadth, as Autumn closes in and ev'ryone is eager to be away, for there are other Tasks that claim each in the Party, including the Surveyors,— who at some point exchange Positions, with Dixon now for pushing on, razzle-dazzling their way among the Indians at least as far as Ohio. "Cheer's the Ticket. Let them have more than their daily Ration of Spirits. They'll be Sports."

"Wait,— you think you'll be getting through on charm? Indians all the way up into the Six Nations and down to the Cherokee know about that Coat,— many have their Eye upon it, and you are but the minor inconvenience from which 'twill have to be remov'd."

The Indians grow coy and sinister. The Women stare openly, steadily amus'd. Mason and Dixon are allow'd to cross the War-path, and three more Turnings of Dunkard Creek, before they can climb to a Ridge-top high enough to set up the Sector. At last the Dodmen have reach'd their Western Terminus, at 233 Miles, 13 Chains, and 68 Links from the Post Mark'd West. "Damme, we're only a few miles shy."