Mason & Dixon

by Thomas Pynchon

  “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 Battoe,— 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 command it. . . . We might make thro’ your Nations an Avenue of Ruin, terrible 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 Warpath, 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.”

  “ ‘A few’! Forty miles?”

  “ ’Tis easy country. We’re over the last ridge. We’re in the Ohio Country.”

  Mason has seen it from the top of Laurel Hill,” . . . the most delightful pleasing View of the Western Plains the Eye can behold,”— the Paradise once denied him by the Mills, now denied him by, he supposes, British American Policy ever devious. They decide to travel light and fast,— not to take the Sector, nor any other Instrument. “Mustn’t tie thah’ River in, just yet . . . ?”

  “Aye, let them all be free while they may.”

  Mason is Gothickally depressive, as Dixon is Westeringly manic. Dixon’s Head, like a Needle forever ninety degrees out, tho’ it wobble some, remains true to perfect West, whilst Mason might as well be riding backwards, so often does he look behind, certain they are about to meet an abbreviation of Braddock’s Fate. Mason withal, via the happenstances of God’s Whimsy, is riding Creeping Nick, the same crazy animal that threw him on to the Jersey Ice. Departing at Sundown, keeping their Latitude as best they may by Polaris, growing more fearful with ev’ry Mile, they travel thro’ the Night, trans-Terminal America whirling by, smelling of wildflowers and Silt, and immediate Lobes of Honeysuckle-scent apt to ambush the unwary Nose, amid moonlight, owls, smears of nocturnal Color somewhere off-center in the Field of Vision,— they make it to the gr
eat River just at Dawn,— the Rush of the Water loud as the Sea,— stunn’d by the beauty of it they forget, they linger, they over-stay all practickal Time, and are surpriz’d by a Party of Indians in elaborate Paint-Work.

  “Far from your Tents, Red Coat.” It is Catfish and his Nephew, and some Friends, who reluctantly lower their Rifles.

  “Having a Look at the River, Sir,” Dixon replies.

  “There are Catawba Parties about. Mingoes, Seneca. Good thing we saw you first. How’d you sneak out past Hendricks? He never sleeps.”

  Mason sees it first,— then, tipp’d by his frozen silence, Dixon. Catfish is packing a Lancaster Rifle, slung in a Scabbard upon his Saddle, with an inverted Pentacle upon the Stock, unmistakable in the Moon-light. Mason looks over, on the possibility that Dixon has a Plan, and sees Dixon already looking back at him, upon the same deluded Hope.

  “Actually,” says Dixon, “we only just arriv’d, so it isn’t as if we’ve ‘seen’ the River, if that poses any sort of problem,— ”

  “— and it certainly isn’t as if we’re planning to settle here,— ”

  Catfish with one huge hand slides the Rifle out and holds it up before him, noticing the Sterloop as if for the first time. He smiles without mirth at the Surveyors. “You think this is my Rifle? No! I took this Rifle! From a White man I have wish’d to meet for a long time. He was a very bad man. Even White People hated him. Beautiful Piece, isn’t it?”

  “The Sign on it has evil Powers,” Mason warns. “You should take a Knife or something, and pry it out.”

  “What happen’d to its owner?” Dixon with a look of unsuccessfully feign’d innocence.

  The Delaware is delighted to share that information with them, pulling from a Bag he carries a long Lock of fair European Hair so freshly taken, ’tis yet darkly a-drip, at one end, with Blood. “This very day, Milords. Had you been earlier, you might have met.”

  Either Mason or Dixon might reply, “We’ve met,”— yet neither does. “It didn’t feel complete to me,” Mason admits later, “I expected he yet liv’d, screaming about the Woods, driven to revenge at any price, a Monomaniack with a Hole in the top of his Head,— ”

  “— looking for that Rifle back,” adds Dixon.

  Coming back, setting in the last Marks, crossing Jennings Run, little Allegheny, Wills Creek, Wills Creek Mountain, the Road up to Bedford, Evitts Creek, Evitts Mountain, at all the highest Points in the Visto, they put up Cairns, as the ancient British Ley-builders and Dodsmen before them, as later the Romans, for purposes more Legionary than commercial. The Hands keep leaving, without notice. With those who stay, the Astronomers, transiting from Weightless Obs to earthly back-wrenching Toil the Obs demand by way of Expression, set Posts ev’ry Mile, these being large segments of Tree, roughly squar’d, twelve by twelve inches, and five or sometimes six or seven foot long. First the Crew dig a deep Post-Hole, put in the Post, fill back the Hole, tamping down the Earth scientifickally, one shovel-ful at a time, then bring more Stone and Earth to make a Cone about the Post, leaving perhaps six inches of it visible. That is the Surveyors’ estimate of the Mark’s Longevity,— tho’ of course Angles of Repose vary,— and withal, Mason and Dixon will bicker, by now, over anything.

  On November 5th, two things happen at once,— the Visto is com-pleted, and the Indians depart,— as if, as long as a Tree remain’d, so might they. At last the Axmen have clear’d the Visto back to the Post marking their last Station of the Year previous,— east of which all lies clear, all the way back to Delaware. “There being one continued Visto,” Mason writes in the Journal, “opened in the true Parallel from the intersection of the North Line from the Tangent Point with the Parallel to the Ridge we left off at on the 9th of October last.

  “Mr. Hugh Crawford with the Indians and all Hands (except 13 kept to Erect Marks in the Line etc.) Left us in order to proceed Home.”

  The departing Axmen roam about peering at, poking, and buying Blankets, Kettles, Milch Cows, Grindstones, anything Mo McClean thinks he may sell to lighten the load, before the Mountains, no offer too insulting. The Vendue is a protracted Spectacle of sorrowful farewells, Debts settl’d or evaded, Whiskey Jugs a-swing, upon ev’ry Index, and a Squirrel Stuffata from the Commissary Tent without equal this side of the Allegheny Ridge. At length, the last of the Farmers, new-bought pots and pans a-clank, goes riding off into a dusk render’d in copper-plate, gray and black, the Hatching too crowded to allow for any reversal, or return . . . leaving gather’d by the Waggons, smoking Pipes, gray with fatigue and winter sky-light, Mr. Barnes, Cope, Rob Farlow, the McCleans, Tom Hynes, Boggs Junior, John and Ezekiel Killogh,— and the others of that faithful Core who stay’d across Monongahela, to the Warrior Path, and the westernmost Ridge, and back again.

  None of the Hands is feeling that well. Dixon has been giving out opiated Philtres to all who would but gesture toward their Noses,— as Mo McClean is writing at furious speed, Chits upon Philadelphia Money-Boxes as if he’ll never see the place again, so what’s it matter? Suddenly Expenditures are above £100, then £200, per week. Fiscal insanity has visited the Commissary Tent. Sensing opportunity, Farmers with goods to sell appear from Horizons all swear have been empty for Hours.

  The snow drives in relentlessly. From the ninth to the nineteenth of November,— another eleven-day Spin,— there is little in the Field-Book,— suggesting either a passage so difficult that there was no time for nightly entries, or events so blameworthy on all sides that they were omitted from the Account.

  In fact, such was the level of Engagement requir’d to answer to the Elements, as to mark the Line, that there was no time for bad behavior. This is the Gradient of Days in which the Party must work their way up to the Allegheny Crest, hastening as they may, the early Winter having caught them west of the Mountains. Here lie the most difficult Miles of the long Traverse, this ascent out of Ohio and out of the West. Unsettl’d by the abrupt Absence of Mohawks, with whom they have come to feel almost secure, as so seldom in this Continent of Hazard, the Skies, night upon night, too clouded over for Observations, both Surveyors, cast into Perplexity, Drink and play Whist for Sums neither will ever see all in one place at the same time,— the Crew meanwhile deserting Day upon Day, their replacements taking ever more exorbitant Wages,— yet, whilst they bide in this Realm of the Penny-foolish and Pound-idiotick, till the Moment they must pass over the Crest of the Savage Mountain, does there remain to them, contrary to Reason, against the Day, a measurable chance, to turn, to go back out of no more than Stubbornness, and somehow make all come right . . . for, once over the Summit, they will belong again to the East, to Chesapeake,— to Lords for whom Interests less subjunctive must ever enjoy Priority.

  Tho’ they have lost their Race with the first Snows, yet they pray they may get all the Cairns dug and pil’d before the Ground freezes too hard. The Snow is already a foot deep. Traces break, a Waggon skids back down the Slope on its side, the Canvas bellying, the Animals fearfully trying to fight clear,— Tent-Poles and Spades a-clatter, a Lanthorn against the low-lit Day, falling and smashing upon the Ice, tiny trails of Flame borne instantly away. Here are the last Cadre, out in the uninterrupted Visto,— from a certain Height, oddly verminous upon the pale Riband unfolding,— fairly out in the Hundred-League Current of Sha, where ev’ry Step is purchas’d with a further surrender of Ignorance as to what they have finish’d,— what they have left at their Backs, undone,— what, measuring the Degree of Latitude next Spring, they shall be newly complicit in,— tho’ if it takes them much longer to get over the Ridge, even if they escape freezing solid, they may yet have journey’d further into Terrestrial Knowledge, than will allow them to re-emerge without bargaining away too much for merely another Return following another Excursion, in a Cycle belonging to some Engine whose higher Assembly and indeed Purpose, they are never, except from infrequent Glimpses, quite able to make out.

  Turn’d in Ret
reat Eastward again, watch’d from Cover at ev’ry step, with Apprehensions, instead of lessening, rather mounting, Ridge by Ridge, the Party feel the Warrior Path engrossing more of their sentimental Horizon, even as it recedes into the West. Immediately upon the deaths of Baker and Carpenter begin a string of mishaps between Men and Trees, some nearly lethal, none unconnected. . . . Felling-Mates try to keep as close as they may, often conversing more in a day than they have in all the time since they team’d up. Spending precious Minutes in daily Rituals of Protection, all pay Tolls at the Gate of Sunrise, good but for the one Day that must be got thro’.—

  Mason and Dixon look in again at The Rabbi of Prague, inquiring in partickular after Timothy Tox. “He is mad,” Countrymen are soon explaining to them. “What he now styles, ‘His Golem,’ does not exist.” Mr. Tox looks on with a tolerant Smile.

  “Because he heard it speak the same words as God out of the Burning Bush, Tim nowadays imagines himself Moses,— with a Commission from God, to bring another People out of Captivity.”

  “Out of the City,” declares Timothy Tox, “where Affliction ever reigns, must the Golem deliver them, over Schuylkill, out of that American Egypt.”

  “You don’t want to be going into Philadelphia, Lad,” they warn him, “— carrying Folk off and so forth. Nor, particularly, confiding in too many of those Cits about the Goah-lem, now, for to many of them, the Old Knowledge is an Evil they’ll be as content to execute ye for, as lock ye away.”

  “I am quite undeluded,” the Forest Dithyrambist replies, “as to the Philadelphians,— before all, the Lawyers,— come, come, does no one recall,

  ‘ ’Tis only by the Grace that some call Luck

  That anyone can quite escape the Muck.—