“If only we could’ve gotten the language we wanted in the Charter, the Tale might have been different. But our friends at Court are few, and now and then invisible, even to us.”
“They fail’d to get the Bishop-of-Durham Clause,” puts in Gershom.
“Look ye,— wasn’t it like Iron Plate upon a Steam-Boiler for ev’ryone else? Virginia? The Calverts, the Penns? Ohio by precedent surely is entitl’d to one?”
“All respect, Colonel, those Grants,” Gershom points out, “were more like fantastickal Tales, drafted in the days of some Kings who were not altogether real themselves. ’Twas a world of Masquing then, Fictions of faraway lands, what did they care? ‘Bishop-of-Durham Clause? no problem with that,— how can we set you up, a Palatine Residence? ’tis yours,— you like cedar shakes, brick, traditional Stone approach, whatever, it’s fine,— what’s that, you want to put in a what, a Harem? why to be sure,— and how many Ladies would that be, Sir? of course you’ve a choice,— Lord Smedley, the Catalogue, please.’ ”
“Any Bishop-of-Durham Clause in America,” says Dixon, “suggests a likeness, in the British Mind, between your Indians West of the Allegheny Ridge, and their Scots beyond Hadrian’s Wall,— as the Bishop Prince’s half of the bargain, is to defend the King against whatever wild cannibal Host lies North of us,— whose nightly Bagpipe-Musick, in the time of the ’Forty-five, could easily bring all within earshot to insomniack Terror by Dawn.”
“Why, Sir,” exclaims the Colo, “you might be describing a camp upon Monongahela, and the Death-hollows all night from across the River. The long watchfulness, listening to the Brush. Ev’ry mis’rable last Leaf. The Darkness implacable. When you gentlemen come to stand at the Boundary between the Settl’d and the Unpossess’d, just about to enter the Deep Woods, you will recognize the Sensation. . . .
“Yet, we sought no more than to become that encampment in the Night, that small refuge of Civilization in the far Wilderness.”
“Trouble was, so’d the French,” Gershom remarks.
“Thankee, Gersh.”
Mason meanwhile is embark’d upon an Apologia for Astronomy and his own career therein. “The dispute is at least as old as Plato. Indeed, I feel like Glaucon in the Seventh Book of the ‘Republic,’ nervously listing for Socrates all the practical reasons he can think of for teaching Astronomy in the schools.”
“Let’s see, then, do I feel like Socrates . . . ? Alas, Sir, I think not today,— nor Mrs. Socrates, neither,— that no doubt otherwise excellent Lady being, as I am told, far too busy with shrewish pursuits to bother with her Kitchen, and thus scarcely able to suggest to you, for example, this excellent Apricot Tart.”
Mason is not sure, but thinks he has just detected a certain Cilial Excursion. “Obliged, Ma’am. All Lens-fellows, I mean, recognize that our first Duty is to be of publick Use. Hmm, oh, the Raspberry, too, then. . . . Thankee. Even with the Pelhams currently in Eclipse, we all must proceed by way of th’ establish’d Routes, with ev’ry farthing we spend charg’d finickingly against the Royal Purse. We are too visible, up on our Hilltop, to spend much time among unworldly Speculations, or indeed aught but the details of our Work,— focus’d in particular these days upon the Problem of the Longitude.”
“Oh. And what happen’d to those Transits of Venus?”
“There we have acted more as philosophical Frigates, Ma’am, each detach’d upon his Commission,— whilst the ev’ryday work of the Observatories goes on as always, for the task at Greenwich, as at Paris, is to know every celestial motion so perfectly, that Sailors at last may trust their lives to this Knowledge.”
“Here,” the Colo beams, “more fame attaches to the Transits,— Observers station’d all ’round the world, even in Massachusetts,— Treasuries of all lands pouring forth gold,— ev’ry Astronomer suddenly employ’d,— and all to find a true value for the ‘Earth’s Parallax.’ Why, most of us here in Virginia wouldn’t know a Parallax from a Pinwheel if it came on up and said how-d’ye do.”
“Yet, what a Rage it was! the Transit-of-Venus Wig, that several women were seen wearing upon Broad Street, Husband, do ye remember it? a dark little round Knot against a great white powder’d sphere,— ”
“And that Transit-of-Venus Pudding? Same thing, a single black Currant upon a Circular Field of White,— ”
“— and the Sailors, with that miserable song,— ”
“ ’Tis time to set sail, [sings the Colo]
Farewell, Portsmouth Ale,
Ta-ta to the gay can-tinas,
For we’re off, my Girl, to the end of the world
To be there, ere the Tran-sit of Venus.—
She’s the something something,— ”
“Goddess of Love,” Martha in a pleasant tho’ impatient soprano,
“— Shining above,
Without a bit of Meanness,
Tho’ we’ll have no more fun till she’s cross’d o’er the Sun,
’Tis ho, for the Transit of Venus!
[Colo Washington joining her for the Bridge]
Out where the trade winds blow,
Further than Sailors go,
If it’s not Ice and Snow,
’Twill be hotter than Hell, we know,
So!
Wave to your Dear, stow all your gear, and
Show a bit of Keenness,
Bid Molly adieu,
She isn’t for you,—
For you’re for the Transit of Venus!”
By the last four Bars, they are facing and gazing at one another with an Affection having to do not so much with the Lyric, as with keeping the Harmony, and finishing together.
Gershom is presently telling King-Joaks,— “Actually they’re Slave-and-Master Joaks, re-tailor’d for these Audiences. King says to his Fool, ‘So,— tell me, honestly,— what makes you willing to go about like such a Fool all the time?’ ‘Hey, George,’ says the Fool,— ‘that’s easy,— I do it for the same reason as you,— out of Want.’— ‘What-what,’ goes the King, ‘how’s that?’— ‘Why, you for want of Wit, and I for want of Money.’ ”
The King is jesting with one of his Ambassadors. “Damme,” he cries, “if you don’t look like some great dishevel’d Sheep!” Ambassador replies, “I know that I’ve had the honor, several times, to represent your Majesty’s Person.”
The King, merry but distraught, asks leave of those at his Table, to Toast the Devil. “Why,” says the Fool, “where that Gentleman resides, he is already well toasted. . . . Yet, I could never object to one of your Majesty’s particular Friends.”
The King takes a long coach-ride out into the country, and decides to walk back to the Palace, in company with his Fool. Growing at length fatigued, they learn, of a farmer they meet, that they’ve ten miles yet to go. “Maybe we’d better send for the Carriage,” says the King. “Come on, George,” replies the Fool, “— we can do it easily,— ’tis but five miles apiece.”
Gershom follows these by singing “Havah Nagilah,” a merry Jewish Air, whilst clicking together a pair of Spoons in Syncopation.
“ ’Twas Céléron de Bienville who began the Dispute in ’forty-nine,” recalls the Colo later, “when he voyaged South from Canada, landing upon the shore of Lake Erie, following French Creek to the Allegheny, where, to assert France’s claims, he buried a lead plate, bearing the Royal Seal . . . thence by Battoe to the Ohio, and down it, past Allegheny, Beaver, Fish Creek, Muskingum, Kanahwah, Scioto, planting as he went these leaden Flags at the Mouths of each Stream in turn. . . .”
“Lead?” Dixon, curiously.
“A Memorandum,” it seems to Mason, “of other uses for the Metal, such as Shot,— another expression of that famous French contempt, not only to be prodigal with a base metal, but to bury it, in the dirt and the dark, as if that were the only way an Englishman might notice it.�
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“Oh, Sir, likely ’twas Practicality,” beams Washington, “— Lead being cheaper than silver or gold, and if kept out of the Air that way, quite durable as well.”
“Any metal in the form of a Plate,” Dixon muses, “or Disk, might plausibly have an Electrickal Purpose.”
“Have a word with Dr. Franklin,” offers the Colo, “he’ll know.”
“Electricity, again.” Mason gestures at his partner with his Thumb, shaking his head morosely. “Aye, ’tis the topick that most provokes his Disorder,— quite harmless of course,— comes over him without warning, suddenly he’s on about his favorite Fluid, and no stopping him. Even Dr. Franklin can shed no light . . . the best physicians of the Royal Society,”— a shrug,— “baffl’d. We but hope, one day, he may regain his senses.”
“A childhood Misadventure with a Torpedo,” Dixon, with a brief move of his head toward Mason, confides, “— thus his Sensitivity at all References to the,”— whispering,— “electrickal!”
“Shocking!” Gershom remarks, and Mrs. W. beats Ta-ta-ma-ma smartly upon the Tabletop, whilst the Colo holds his Head, as if it ach’d.
“Yet not daz’d enough,” Mason assures the Company, “nor too young, to miss recognizing, in the Torpedo, five-sixths of whose Length is taken up with these Electrical Plates, the Principle of all these Structures,— which is, that you must stack a great many of them, one immediately upon the next, if you wish to produce any effect large enough to be useful in, let alone noticed by, the World.— Aye, Dixon, well might you wag your Head,— wag away, may it circulate some sense. For what possible use a single plate, Lead or Gold, buried in the Earth, is, is beyond me.”
“Perhaps only beyond our Sensorium, how Feeble,” replies Dixon. “As were the Heavens, you may recall, but a short while ago, before Telescopes were invented . . . ? Why may not these Plates collectively form a Tellurick Leyden-Pile? If not for storing quantities of simple Electrick Force, then to hold smaller charges, easily shap’d into invisible Symbols, decipherable by Means surely available to those Philosophes. . . .”
“I fear the only message upon those Disks was a challenge, Sir,— a Provocation,” asserts Washington. “The Surveyor’s equivalent of a slap from a Glove.”
And yet . . . (speculates the Revd), what else? There remains a residue of Belief, out to the Westward, that the mere presence of Glyphs and Signs can produce magickal Effects,— for of the essence of Magic is the power of small Magickal Words, to work enormous physical Wonders,— as of coded inscriptions in fables, once unlock’d, to yield up Treasure past telling. So, Seals become of primary Moment, and their precise descriptions, often, matters of Life and Death, for one letter misplaced can summon Destruction immediate and merciless.
“You saw such Plates?”
“I dug a few of ’em up.” Eyes etch’d in Crimson, the Colo is grinning at Dixon meaningfully, whilst Mrs. Washington grimaces in Warning. But Gershom is already on the way to fetch the Mementoes, calling mischievously, “Coming raaaight up, Suh! Bunch of Dead Weights,— beg pardon, Lead Plates (what’d I say?),— practically new, original Soil yet in place. . . .(Does the Gentleman know how to divert Guests?)”
What immediately draws Dixon’s Attention is not the Royal Seal of France, but the markings upon the Reverse side. “Bless us, ’tis Chinese!”
“Chinese? Remarkable, Sir. The only Europeans who recognize such Writing, seem usually to be the . . . Jesuits.”
“Excuse me . . . ?” Dixon immediately upon the defensive, “Problem here, Colonel?”
“Depends,” the Colo replies, with a Pause whose Heft all can appreciate, “— are you . . . a traveling Man?”
“Why aye,” Dixon having learn’d of the Masonick password from a Lodge-member in Philadelphia, “and I’m traveling West!”
“West? Oh. Haw, haw! Well and so you are. Look ye,— ’tis simply this,— that from time to time, a Jesuit up North in Quebec will put off his skirts for Breeches, and cross the border in disguise, to work some mischief down here,— so a fellow has to be extra vigilant, is all. Report ev’rything to the Lodge, so that way somebody there can piece together a great many small items into a longer Tale,— perhaps even trace the movements, day to day, of these sinister intruders.”
“Speaking as Postmaster-General,” Dr. Franklin will later amplify, back in Philadelphia, “— I see our greatest problem as Time,— never anything, but Time. For any message to reach its recipient, we must reckon in a fix’d delay,— months by ship, days over Land,— whilst via the Jesuit Telegraph, they enjoy their d——’d Marvel of instant Communication,”— far-reaching and free of error, thanks to giant balloons sent to great Altitudes, Mirrors of para- (not to mention dia-) bolickal perfection, beams of light focused to hitherto unimagined intensities,— so, at any rate, say the encrypted reports that find their ways to the desks of highly-plac’d men whose daily task it is, to make sure they know everything,— appropriate to their places,— that must be known.
As expected of a Jesuit invention, timing and discipline are ev’rything. It is rumor’d that the Fathers limit themselves to giving orders, whilst the actual labor is entrusted to the Telegraph Squads, elite teams of converted Chinese, drill’d, through Loyolan methods, to perform with split-second timing the balloon launchings, to learn the art of aiming the beam, and, its reflection once acquir’d, to keep most faithfully fix’d upon it,— for like the glance of a Woman at a Ball, it must be held for a certain time before conveying a Message. “So we ever lag behind them, by gaps of Time none of us knows how to make up. If we could but capture one Machine intact, we might take it apart to see how it works. . . . Yet, what use? They’ll only invent another twice as fiendish,— for here are conjoin’d the two most powerful sources of Brain-Power on Earth, the one as closely harness’d to its Disciplin’d Rage for Jesus, as the other to that Escape into the Void, which is the very Asian Mystery. Together, they make up a small Army of Dark Engineers who could run the World. The Sino-Jesuit conjunction may prove a greater threat to Christendom than ever the Mongols or the Moors. Pray that more than the Quarrel over Feng Shui divides them.”
29
Cities begin upon the day the Walls of the Shambles go up, to screen away Blood and Blood-letting, Animals’ Cries, Smells and Soil, from Residents already grown fragile before Country Realities. The Better-Off live far as they may, from the concentration of Slaughter. Soon, Country Melancholicks are flocking to Town like Crows, dark’ning the Sun. Dress’d Meats appear in the Market,— Sausages hang against the Sky, forming Lines of Text, cryptick Intestinal Commentary.
The Veery Brothers, professional effigy makers, run an establishment south of the Shambles at Second and Market Streets, by the Court House. Mason, in unabating Search after the Grisly, must pay a Visit.
“Can’t just have any old bundle of Rags up there, even if ’tis meant to be burnt to ashes, can we,” says Cosmo, “— our Mobility like to feel they’re burning something, don’t you see? Oh, we do Jack-Boots and Petticoats, bread-and-butter items the year ’round, yet we strive for at least the next order of Magnytude. . . .”
“Here, for example, our Publick Beheading Model,—” adds his brother Damian, “or, ‘the Topper,’ as we like to call it, Key to ev’rything being the Neck, o’ course, for after you’ve led them up to the one great Moment, how can you disappoint ’em wiv any less than that nice sa’isfying Chhhunk! as the Blade strikes, i’n’t it, and will pure Beeswax do the Job? No,— fine for the Head and whatever, but look what you’ve got to chop at,— spine? throat? muscles in the neck? well,— not exactly Wax, is it? So it’s on with the old Smock, lovely visit next door, scavenging among th’ appropriately siz’d Necks for bones and suet and such. Then it’s up to the Kiddy here to cover it all over and give it a Head with a famous, or better Infamous, Face. He’s a rare Wax Artist, our Cosmo is. Likenesses almost from another World, perhaps not a Worl
d many of us would find that comfortable. Products of the innocent Hive, Sir, and beneath, the refuse of the daily Slaughter, yes there you have it, a grisly Amalgam, perhaps even a sort of Teaching,— sure you’d enter any darken’d Room our lads and lasses happen’d to be in, only upon ill advice indeed.”
Which of course is exactly what Mason runs out and contrives to do, as soon as he gets a chance. He and Dixon go Tavern-hopping and find secret-society meetings in the back rooms of every place they visit. There is gambling, Madeira, carryings-on. Some invite them to join. Some they do join. “What, no floggings? No bare-breasted Acolytes in Chains? No ritual deflorations? Drinking-games with Madeira, that’s it?”
Some of these Collegia, learning that Mason’s Name is Mason, claim to be Free-Masons of one Lodge and another. “Anyone whose name is Mason is automatickally a Member, the first of your Name likely having work’d as a Stonemason back in the Era of the great Cathedrals,— as you are descended from him, so are Free-Masons today descended from his Guild-Fellows. You are a Mason ex Nomine, as some might describe it.” Unless, of course, ’twas an elaborate scheme to avoid paying for Drink.
In one of these Ale Venues, somewhere between The Indian Queen and The Duke of Gloucester, there proves to be a Back Room’s back room,— for purposes of uninvited inspection a pantry, but in fact an Arsenal for various Mob activities. Anyone else out in search of Gothickal experiences might have found it neither quite ancient nor ominous enough to bother with. But Mason can ever locate those spaces most fertile for the husbanding of Melancholy. So now, blundersome, in he steps, candle-less as well, relying upon the light of a Lanthorn hanging outside the small Window, waiting for his eyes to adjust, making out first two Figures, then three, and at length the Roomful, erect, crowding close, without breath or pulse,— his immediate need is to speak, not challenging but pleading,— slowly, as he is able to make out more of the Faces, what he fears grows less deniable,— they are directing, nowhere but into his own eyes, stares unbearable with meaning he cannot grasp, as if,— he does not wish to examine this too closely,— as if they know him, and withal, expect him. . . .
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