“Mm-Hmm . . . ? Sumatran, tha say . . . ?”
“You seem about to swoon, Sir.”
He takes a delighted breath. “Ah don’t know how much of my story tha may already have heard,” bringing his Chair closer, “— or, to be fair to Mason, our story.”
She shifts her own Chair away. “You and Mr. Mason are . . . quite close, I collect.”
“Huz? We get along. This is our second Job together . . . ? The Trick is all in stayin’ out of each other’s way, really.”
“There are Arrangements in the World,” she explains, “too sadly familiar to Women, wherein, as we say among us, with the one, you get the other as well,— ”
“Lass, Lass . . . ? Eeh, what a Suggestion. We’d make thah’ one only to our Commissioners, I vouch. . . . Unless, that is, tha’re indicating some interest in Mason?”
“Or asking ’pon Molly’s behalf,” her Eye-Lashes indulging in an extra Bat. “This gets very complicated, doesn’t it?”
“Mason does need to be out more, for fair. Ah’m but thinkin’ o’ meself, here . . . ? Ever been coop’d up with a Melancholick, for days on end?”
Dolly shrugs. “Oh, aye, Molly Sour-Apple. She’s lucky I don’t get like that. Two of us? Forget it.”
“I find it hard work to be cheery all the time,” says Dixon, “— as cheery as it seems I must.”
“Really,— tell me all. The Way your Face begins to ache.”
“ ‘Here’s the Optimist,’ wagging their Thumbs. Mr. Franklin must get thah’all the time . . . ?”
“Mr. Franklin does not confide in me, nor would I encourage him to. He is too charming, too mysterious, entirely the wrong sort for a great Philosopher.”
Dixon touches the end of his Nose. “Ow!” shaking his finger back and forth. “Needs some filing down. Do excuse me.”
“My Tale is simple. I held my first Mariner’s Compass when I was nine, an age when Girls develop unforeseen yet passionate Interests. I believ’d there was a Ghost in the Room. I walk’d with it, then, ev’rywhere. The first thing I understood was that it did not always point North . . . and it was the Dips and Deflexions I grew most curious about.”
“In my Circumferentor Box, I learn’d to read what Shapes lay beneath the Earth, all in the Needle’s Dance . . . ? Upon the Fell, as if there were not enough already out there to bring me anxiety, I discover’d my Instrument acting as a Cryptoscope, into Powers hidden and waiting the Needles of Intruders, set up as a picket to warn Something within of any unannounc’d wishes to enter. No Creatures of the Fell I’d ever heard of enjoy’d that much Protection,— being shabby, solitary, notable more for the irrational fierceness of their Desires, than for any elegance or Justice in the enactment of them.”
“You have impress’d them in Maryland,” she informs him. “Cecilius Calvert, or, as he is styl’d by some, for his unreflective effusions, ‘The Silliest’ Calvert,— tho’ not by me, for I consider him subtle,— believes you a Wizard, a Dowser of Iron.”
“Close attention to the Instrument, a lot of Back-sighting, repetition, and frustration,— why disenchant them? If it’s Weird Geordie Powers they wish, why W.G.P.’s they shall have, and plenty of them too . . . ? Mr. Calvert offer’d me Port, in a Silver Cup . . . ? Seem’d quite merry . . . ?”
“In most places it is term’d, ‘Giggling.’ They are Geese, down there. They imagine, that you and your Instrument will make of them Nabobs, like Lord Lepton, to whose ill-reputed Plantation you must be drawn, upon your way West, resistlessly as the Needle. Then, Sailor among the Iron Isles,— Circumferentor Swab,— Beware.”
31
One morning in late December, they wake to a smell of Sea-Weed and Brine. The Wind is sensibly colder,— before it swiftly run gray small clouds, more and less dark. Light, when it arrives, comes ever crosswise. “Something wrong with the Town this morning,” Dixon mutters.
“And what’s that G-dawful twittering sound?”
“Styl’d ‘Birds,’ I’m told . . . ?”
“How’s it possible we’ve never heard any here before,— Dixon! Hold,— the Hammers! the Rip-Saws! the Meat-Waggons! the Screaming uninterrupted! what’s happen’d?”
“Eeh . . . it’s been Christmas, hasn’t it . . . ?”
“One of us,” Mason declares, “must put on his Shoes and Coat, and go down into that Street, there, and discover the reason for this unsettling Silence.”
“Eeh, so let’s have Junior’s Arse in the Roasting-Pan once again, shall we,— thah’s bonny!” protests Dixon.
“Be practical,— if they kill you, and I remain safe, the loss to British Astronomy, if any, will go largely unnotic’d.”
“Well,— put thah’ way, of course,— where’s m’ Hat, then . . . ?, not that one, thankee, Sir . . . ?, no, I’ll need the Broad-Brim today,— ”
“You’re going out as a Quaker?”
“Eeh! He has Costume-Advice for me now as well! He, who all too plainly exhibits his Need, when in Publick, ever to deflect Attention,— ”
“— Inexpensive Salvo,” Mason notes.
“Geordie Intuition, then,” Dixon tapping his Head with the side of his Thumb, before pulling on a classick Philadelphia Quaker’s Hat, differing in little but Size from thousands of others here in Town. “Trust mine. In London they may sift you by your Shoes,— but in this Place, ’tis Hat and Wig by which a man, aye and Woman too, may infallibly be known.”
“They’ve been looking at, at my Wig, all this time? My Hat? Dixon,— you’re sure?”
“Aye, and forming Opinions bas’d upon what they saw, as well . . . ?”
“. . . Oh. Ehm, what, f’r example?”
“Eeh, what matter,— ’tis much too late . . . ? they’ve all made up their minds about thee by now.”
“Then I’ll wear something else.”
“So then they’ll be on about thah’,— ’Aye there he is, old Look Before Ye Leap,— he, bold enough to clap on anything as stylish as the Adonis? eeh no, ’tis but the tried and true for old Heavens What’ll They Think o’ Me.’ ”
“What,— my Wig, it isn’t . . . adventurous enough, you’re saying.”
“Attend me, man, Molly and Dolly, remember them? discuss little but thy Appearance, and ways to modify it, at least in my hearing,— ruining, alas, and more than once, the promise of a Sparkish Evening,— thy Wig in particular provoking one of the greatest,— forgive me,— of all my Failures of Attention.”
“It’s a Ramillies, of the middling sort . . . bought some years since of a fugitive Irish Wig-Maker at Bermondsey . . . styl’d himself ‘Mister Larry, Whilst Ye Tarry’ . . . nothing remarkable at all about it. You say you’ve been spending time with— ”
“Time and Coin and little else, aye but thah’s another Tale, ’s it not . . . ? withal, my Reconnaissance mission awaits, and Damme, I’m Off!” And he is, Mason following so closely as nearly to have his Nose caught in the Jamb.
“Wait,— I was going out wi’ ye!” Hopping down the stairs into his Shoes, attempting to button his Jacket, “How are you fitting that in, among all the Obs and Social Visits?”
“Fitting whah’ in . . . ?” Dixon staring in comick Dismay down toward his Penis, as he has seen Market-place Drolls do. The Snow this morning is ankle-deep, crepitous, with more on the way. The Street before the Inn seems deserted. “Odd for Wednesday Market . . . ?”
“ ’Tis another damn’d Preacher,” Mason opines, “who’s magnetiz’d the whole Population away to a Tent someplace. You know how they are, here. Flock to anything won’t they, worldly Philadelphians.”
The nearest Coffee-House, The Restless Bee, lies but a block and a half distant. There, if anyplace, should be News, up-to-the-Minute. On the way over, they begin at last to hear Ships’ Bells and Boatswains’ Pipes from the Docks, Children out coasting, dogs barking,
a Teamster with a laden Waggon in a Snow-Drift, and presently indeed the crescent Drone and Susurrus of Assembly. Directly in front of The Restless Bee, they come upon a Circle of Citizens, observing, and in some cases wagering upon, a furious Struggle between two Men, one to appearance a City Quaker, whose Hat has been knock’d off,— the other, an apparent Presbyterian from the Back-Country, dress’d in Animal Hides from Head to Foot,— each having already taken a number of solid Blows from the other, neither showing any lapse of Pugnacity.
“Excuse me, Sir,” Mason inquires of a Gentleman in full Wig, Velvet Coat, and Breeches, and carrying a Lawyer’s Bag, “— what is the Matter here?”
The Attorney, after staring at them for a bit, introduces himself as Mr. Chantry. “Ye’re from well out of Town if ye’ve not heard the news.”
“Eeh,” Dixon’s Eyes seeking the Zenith.
“At Lancaster,— day before yesterday,— the Indians that were taking refuge in the Gaol there, were massacr’d ev’ry one, by local Irregulars,— the same Band that slew the other Indians at Conestoga, but week before last.”
“So finishing what they’d begun,” contributes an Apron’d Mechanick nearby. “Now the entire Tribe is gone, the lot.”
“Were there no Soldiers to prevent it?” Dixon asks.
“Colonel Robertson and his Regiment of Highlanders refus’d to stir, toasting their Noses whilst that brave Paxton Vermin murder’d old people, small children, and defenseless Drunkards.”
“Not being men enough to face Warriors, in a real Fight.”
“Mind yeer Speech, Friend, or ’tis your Hat’ll be on the Ground as well, and your Head in it.”
“And here’s to Matt Smith, and Revd. Stewart!”
“Here’s Death to ’em, the cowardly Dogs!” Further Insults, then Snow-Balls, Fists, and Brickbats, begin to fly.
“This way, Gentlemen,” Mr. Chantry helpfully steering the Surveyors to the Alley and thro’ a back Entry into the Coffee-House, where they find Tumult easily out-roaring what prevails outside. With its own fuliginous Weather, at once public and private, created of smoke billowing from Pipes, Hearths, and Stoves, the Room would provide an extraordinary sight, were any able to see, in this Combination, peculiar and precise, of unceasing Talk and low Visibility, that makes Riot’s indoor Sister, Conspiracy, not only possible, but resultful as well. One may be inches from a neighbor, yet both blurr’d past recognizing,— thus may Advice grow reckless and Prophecy extreme, given the astonishing volume of words moving about in here, not only aloud but upon Paper as well, Paper being waved in the air, poked at repeatedly for emphasis, held up as Shielding against uncongenial remarks. Here and there in the Nebulosity, lone Lamps may be made out, at undefin’d Distances, snugly Halo’d,— Servant-Boys moving to and fro, House-Cats in warm currents of flesh running invisibly before them, each Boy vigorously working his small Bellows to clear a Path thro’ the Smoke, meantime calling out Names true and taken.
“Boy, didn’t they tell you that Name is never to be spoken aloud in this Room?”
“Ha!” from somewhere in the Murk, “so ye’ve sneak’d in again, where yer face can’t be seen!”
“I have ev’ry right, Sir,— ”
“Boy, clear me a pathway to that infamous Voice, and we shall see,— ”
“Gentlemen, Gentlemen!”
“There’ll be Pistol-Play soon enough, by the looks of this new Express here, just arriv’d from over Susquehanna, for there’s no doubt about it now,— the Paxton Boys are on the Move.”
“Hurrah!”
“Shame!”
“How many, Jephthah?”
“ ’Tis Micah. An hundred, and picking up Numbers by the Hour. So says it here.” Smokers pause in mid-puff. The communal Vapors presently beginning to thin, human forms emerge in outline, some standing upon Chairs and even Tables, others seeking, in literal Consternation, refuge beneath the Furniture.
“The Boys say they’re coming for the Moravian Indians this time.”
“Indians, in Philadelphia?” Dixon curiously.
Mr. Chantry explains. Converted by the Moravian Brethren years before the last French war, caught between the warring sides, distrusted by ev’ryone, wishing only to live a Christian Life, these Indians were peacefully settl’d up near the Lehigh when the Rangers there came after them, but a few Weeks before the Conestoga murders, suspecting them of being in League with Pontiac, whose depredations were then at their full Flood. Tho’ some of these People were slain, yet most escaped, arriving at Philadelphia in November,— “About the time you boys did, in fact,— ’spite of the Mob at Germantown, who nearly did for ’em,— and now an hundred forty Souls, from Wyalusing and Wecquetank and Nazareth, they’re down at Province Island, below the City, where the Moravians and Quakers tend them,— the Army, given its showing at Lancaster, being no longer trusted.”
“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 Tenebræ, re-entering.
“Hope not,” DePugh blurts quietly.
“Well, DePugh.”
“You’ve made an impression,” mutters Ethelmer.
“Didn’t mean to, I’m sure.”
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