Authors: Thomas Pynchon
When they later re-convene at Harlands', Mason gets around to inquiring of Dixon, what was his Purpose, in entering Maryland.
"Bait. Make myself available. Like Friend Franklin, out in the Thunder-Gusts... ?"
"You wish'd to be...stricken? assaulted?"
"I'm content with 'Approach'd'...? Yet no French Agents, nor Jesuits in Disguise, have announc'd themselves,...nor have Freemasons cryptickally sign'd to me— Yet I suppose my own Surveillor might be secreted anywhere in our Party, among our Axmen, Cooks, or Followers, noting ev'rything."
In Williamsburg at last, Dixon feels he has come to the Heart of the Storm. There can be no more profit in going any further South,— this will have to do for whatever he may learn.
The Tobacco Plantations lie inert, all last season's crop being well transported to Glasgow by now, and the Seeds of the next not yet in Flats— Whilst the Young, who seem to be at ev'ry hand, take their Joy of Assemblies and River-Parties, Balls and Weddings,— others, longer in the Curing-Shed, rather hasten to explore at last the seasonless Vales of Sleep, with trusted,— how else?— African Slaves to stand in Cordons all 'round, and keep each Dreamer safe. Dixon rides into Town, a Maze-like Disposition of split-rail Fences, a Dockyard's worth of Ship-lap Siding, a quiet Profligacy of Flemish Bond to be found upon vertical Surfaces from Pig-Ark to Palace. The last Seed-Pods hang, black and unbreach'd, from the Catalpa Trees. Swains by Garden Walls rehearse the Arts of Misunderstanding. Some nights, the Wind, at a good Canter,
will as easily freeze tears to uncreas'd Faces, as Finger-tips to waistcoat Buttons. There is an Edge to Young Romance, this year, that none of those testing its Sharpness may recognize, quite yet.
The Stamp Act has re-assign'd the roles of the Comedy, and the Audience are in an Uproar. Suddenly Fathers of desirable Girls are no longer minor Inconveniences, some indeed proving to be active Foes, capable of great Mischief. Lads who imagin'd themselves inflexible Rivals for life, find themselves now all but Comrades in Arms. The languorous Pleasantries of Love, are more and more interrupted by the brisk Requisitions of Honor. Over the winter-solid Roads, goes a great seething,— of mounted younger Gentlemen riding together by the dozens upon rented horses, Express Messengers in love with pure Velocity, Disgruntl'd Suitors with Pistols stuff'd in their Spatterdashes, seal'd Waggons not even a western Black-Boy would think of detaining. The May Session of the Burgesses, the eloquent defiance of Mr. Patrick Henry, and the Virginia Resolutions,— that Dividing Ridge beyond which all the Streams of American Time must fall unmappable,— lie but weeks ahead. At the College, Dixon may hear wise Prophecy,— at the State House, interested Oratory,— but there proves no-place quite as congenial to the unmedi-ated newness of History a-transpiring, as Raleigh's Tavern. Virginians young and old are standing to toast the King's Confoundment. When it's his own turn to, Dixon chooses rather to honor what has ever imported to him,— raising his ale-can, "To the pursuit of Happiness."
"Hey, Sir,— that is excellent!" exclaims a tall red-headed youth at the next table. "And ain't it oh so true.... You don't mind if I use the Phrase sometime?"
"Pray thee, Sir."
"Has someone a Pencil?" The youth finds a scrap of paper, and Dixon lends him his Lead "Vine," that he uses for sketching in the Field. "Surveyor? Say," it occurs to him, scribbling, "are you Mason, or Dixon?"
"Tom takes a Relative interest in West Lines," quips the Landlord, "his father having help'd run the one that forms our own southern border."
"Upon the Topick of West Lines," Dixon assures him, "any Advice would be more than welcome,— anything."
' 'Twas Colonel Byrd that began it,— Pa, with Professor Fry, con-tinu'd it. My guess is, the Professor did most of the Mathematickal
Work,— for I know Pa was ever impatient with that. He would wear out books of Tables, so vehemently did he consult them.
"Colonel Byrd's segment is the oldest, run long before my time. He recorded each Day in a Field-book,— not only the Miles and Poles tra-vers'd, but more usefully all the Human Stuff,— the petty Resentments, the insults offer'd and taken, the illnesses, the cures, the Food they ate, the Spirits they drank, the Ladies of all Hues, who captur'd their various eyes, now and again— "
"Is it printed, and sold?"
"Not yet. When it shall be, I hope that ev'ry Surveyor will read it as a term of his Apprenticeship,— my father styl'd it one of the great Cautionary Tales of the Vocation."
"As to...?"
"Joint Ventures. Particularly when half the Commissioners live north of the other half. In Colonel Byrd's history, the Carolinians in the Party were envious, gluttonous, slothful Degenerates all,— somehow owing to the difference in Latitude. 'Twould not surprise me if Pennsylvanians were to entertain similar opinions of their own Neighbors to the South, including Virginia. This land of Sensual Beasts."
Three young Ladies are peeping 'round the Door-Way, like shore-birds at the edge of the Water, stepping nicely in and out of that Aura of Tobacco-Smoke that Men for centuries have understood keeps women away as well as were they Bugs. "I'm going in," declares the boldest of the Girls, actually then proceeding two or three steps inside, before crying, "Eehyeww!" and skipping in Retreat. Then another would try,— and "Eeyooh!" and out again, and so forth, amid an unbroken stream of close Discussion,— their desire for Romantick Mischief thus struggling with their feminine abhorrence of Tobacco.
Dixon beams and waves at them. "Are all Virginian Ladies as merrily dispos'd?"
"Ev'rywhere but at Norfolk, where talk of Passion far outweighs its Enactment,— indeed, the Sailors' Paronomasia for that wretched Place, is 'No-Fuck.' "
"They'll be wishing to Dance. I think," judges young Tom. "We've been hearing that Musick for a while, now.”
"But watch your Form, Sir, if Dueling be not your preferr'd Pastime, for one wrong Dance-step, Leg before Wicket, as you might say, and no shortage of Virginia Blades about to defend a Lady's Honor,— 'twill be out at Dawn wi' you."
Sure enough, no more than twenty steps into the Assembly Room, and eight Measures into a lively Jig with a certain "Urania," Dixon is aware of a perfum'd flickering upon one Cheek, which proves to be the Glove of her Fiancé, Fabian.
"Did they tell You I was a Quaker, Sir, and would not fight?—
"They did,— which is why I suggest we settle this at Quoits, Sir,— Megs at forty Feet, Ringers only."
"Eeh, most agreeable," says Dixon, instead of, as he will insist he meant to say, "• - if so, they are quizzing with you, Sir,— in fact I am a Transported Felon of the most Desperate Stripe, to whom, in the great Feast of Sin, Murder is but an Hors d'Oeuvre...?"
"We have found Quoiting," Fabian is explaining, "similar enough to Pistols to satisfy us, with the same long and narrow Field, the Rencontre, if one wishes, at Dawn, the two Megs driv'n in the ground at a Distance negotiable, the Metal hurtling thro' the Air, even, if you listen closely enough, a certain Hum,—
"Thah' was negotiable? I might have said thirty feet? Eeh! too focus'd, I imagine, upon the part where ev'ryone gets to stay alive...?"
At Dawn they go trooping out, the lot of them, to a Quoiting-Ground near the Water. When there's just light enough to see the other Meg by, the Contest begins. After each Disputant wins a game, and they agree not to play the third, receiving each a Kiss of equal Vivacity from the fair Pretext herself, all repair to Breakfast amid smoky and sodden good Companionship.
Returning north,— mud Tracks, black wet Branching of Trees overhead, as Revelations of Earth out thro' the Snow,— Dixon, inhabiting Silence, waits, Clop after Clop, Mile after Mile, for some kind of sense to be made of what has otherwise been a pointless Trip. Somewhere between Joppa and Head of Elk, lightless within and without, he begins to Whistle, and presently to sing.
Polecat in the Parlor, Hound-Dog up the Tree, Continental Ladies Are Riddle enough for me...
In all Virginia, tho' Slaves pass'd before his Sight, he saw none. That was what had not occurr'd. It was all about something else, not Calverts, Jesuits, Penns, nor Chinese.
Having mark'd the sixth Anniversary of Rebekah's Passing, Mason leaves the Forks of Brandywine and proceeds north, arriving in New-York by way of the Staten Island Ferry,— the approaching Sky-line negligible but for a great Steeple, far to port, belonging to the Trinity Church, at the head of Wall-Street, where he will attend services on Sunday. But then there is Monday Night.
"The Battery's the spot to be," he is inform'd by all he meets who know the Town. It proves to be a testimonial to Desire, for upon a Cold Night of Wind that tears the Flames from the Torches, and sends waves against the Sea-Wall, yet along that Lee Shore, amorous Gaits more cautious for the wet Footing, go well into the Midnight a Parade of needful Citizens, Faces ever bent from the assault of Wind smooth as Light, toward the empty Path, the unapproachable Shadow, Acts never specified. Mason, seeing no point, joins them for a while nonetheless. It all proceeds wordless as a Skating-Party. Presently he has fallen in with a certain Amelia, a Milk-Maid of Brooklyn, somehow alone in New-York without funds. "Here then. You've not eaten." He is correct. At a Tavern in Pearl-Street, she scoffs down several Chops, a Platter of Roasted Potatoes, her bowl of Fish Chowder and his, before Mason has butter'd his Bread. A Clock strikes the Hour. "Oh, no!" They must run to catch the last Ferry back to her farm upon Long-Island. A bittersweet passage, Ferries ev'rywhere upon that cold and cloud-torn Styx, Bells dolefully a-bang in the Murk, strange little gaff-rigg'd coasters and lighters veering all over the Water, stack'd high abovedecks with Cargo,— a prosperous Hell.
Amy is dress'd from Boots to Bonnet all in different Articles of black, a curious choice of color for a milkmaid, it seems to Mason, tho', as he has been instructed ever to remind himself, this is New-York, where other Customs prevail. "Oh, aye, at home they're on at me about it without Mercy," she tells him, "I'm, as, 'But I like Black,'— yet my Uncle, he's, as, 'Strangers will take you for I don't know what,' hey,— I don't know what, either. Do you?"
"How should I— "
"You're a stranger, aren't you? Well? What would you take me for?"
Days later, riding back to Brandywine through the Jerseys, he will rehearse endlessly whether she said "would you take me," or "do you take me," and ways he might have improv'd upon "Um...," his actual Reply. She does glance back with an Expression he's noted often in his life from Women, tho' never sure what it means.
The "Uncle" seems young for one of that Designation, his Hair
a-shine with some scented Pomade, side-whiskers shav'd to quite acute
Angles, his hand ever straying to consult the over-siz'd and far from
ornamental Dirk he wears in a Scabbard upon his Belt. With Mason he
is genial but guarded,— toward Amy, however, even Mason detects
insinuations of reprisal to come. "All her Funds? even the Pennies little
Ezekiel gave her, to buy him Sweets? Oh, Amelia. Dear oh dear. Was she
careless, was that it? Did she look in the Window of some English Shop
and see a Frock she fancied? Did one of those awful big-city Dips fly by
and lift her whole Bundle, perhaps as an Exercise? Is that what hap-
pen'd, 'Amelia'?"— pronouncing the name with such Vexation, that
Mason faces the inconvenient Dilemma of stepping in as a Gentleman
must,— yet on behalf of someone he has cross'd a River with under, it
now appears, an assum'd Name. Where is his Loyalty presum'd to lie? It
isn't as if they've been at all, as you'd say, intimate, is it?.. .Fortunately,
by this point in his Deliberations, Amelia, in a suggestive Tone, is mur
muring, "I know I've been ever so wicked, Uncle,...but the Gentleman
has been very kind
“
Causing a redirection of the avuncular Gaze upon Mason, for reasons he will grasp only later, when Dixon explains it to him back in Camp, with Gestures, some of them impatient. "We all appreciate a kind Gentleman 'round here," the young man offers, as into the Parlor behind him now slide an assortment of Rogues weirder than any Mason has yet seen, be it at Portsmouth, or the Cape, or even Lancaster Town.
"Look what Pussy's brought in," leers a Half-Breed with a braided Queue.
"Brit, by the look of him," cries a short, freckl'd seaman in whom Stature and Pugnacity enjoy an inverse relation. "— long way from home ain't you old Gloak?"
"Who does your Wigs, Coz?"
"There there, my Lads, think of the Impression we must be making, when we ought to be showing our Guest that here in Brooklyn, we can be just as warm and friendly as they are over in New-York. We're not Country-folk, after all. We've seen 'em all, all manner of Traveler, saints and sinners, green and season'd, some who could teach Eels to wriggle and some who were pure fiduciary Edge, and I'll tell you, this one...I don't know. What do you think, Patsy? He's not so easy to read. You've done the Ferry-boat Lurk, you know all the Kiddies, what say you?"
Someone who in different Costume might easily be taken for a Pirate of the Century past, gives Mason the up-and-down. "New one on me, Cap'n. The diff'rently-siz'd Eye-balls suggest a life spent peering into small Op'nings. Yet he's not a Bum-bailiff, nor a bum's assistant,— lacks that, what you would call, cool disinterest."
"Amen to that," cries the lewd Half-Breed.
"Where would his Interests lie, do you think?" inquires Uncle. Ev'ry-one looks at Amelia.
" 'Xcuse me? I'm suppos'd to know? I'm sure I was, as, 'Ahoy, Sailor,' and Stuff?" she exclaims at last.
"What's he been peeping into, then?" the truculent Sailor yells. General again is the Merriment.
"I observe the Heavens," Mason seeking thro' the force of his upward gaze some self-Elevation, "I am a Cadastral Surveyor, upon a Contractual Assignment," in a tone inviting a respectful hush.
Instead of which, Amelia, squealing in alarm,— "Cad! Ass?— Eeeoo!"-- jumps backward, into the not entirely unwelcoming embrace of her "Uncle," whilst a number of Dogs begin to wail, as it seems, disappointedly, and a thick-set Irishman, announcing in a pleasant voice, "I'll kill him, if you lot would rather not," begins to load his Pistol.