Mason & Dixon Read online

  “Insane,” Mason shuddering in fear only partly exaggerated. “How can the Admiralty allow such Men freely to set to sea, in these murderous machines of war?”

  “A Quaker might say, ’tis war thah’s insane, and Frigate captains only more open about it . . . ?”

  “What,— All War,— no exceptions? You go about in this,— forgive me,— this Coat, Hat, and Breeches of unmistakably military color and cut,— ”

  “Upon the theory that a Representation of Authority, whose extent no one is quite sure of, may act as a deterrent to Personal Assault.”

  “— not to mention this Ocean of Ale flowing thro’ you, day after day, Sundays not exempt,— a Potable well known for provoking Truculence,— ”

  “Hold,— tha’re saying Wine-Drinkers are the meek who’ll inherit the Earth?”

  “Preferably that part of it with a sunward slope, and well-drain’d, aye,— and what of it, Mustard-Grinder?”

  “Ale does not make me violent,” Dixon explains, “— I am violent by nature. Ale-drinking, rather, slows me down, increasing the chances I’ll fall asleep before I cause too much damage. I could summon witnesses, if tha’d like . . . ?”

  By this point they are well out to Sea, bound for Tenerife to take on water and wine (hence the priority of the Topick), and then as far East as a mysterious seal’d Dispatch, handed to the Captain at Plymouth just before they cast off, will command. “Oh, that’s all right,” Mason waving grandly, “I’ll take your word for it.” And together as the sun goes down o’er the starboard Bow, they sing.

  We swore up and down, that we’d sail nevermore,

  Thro’ waters infested by French-men,

  Whilst in Safety and Smugness, all dry on the Shore,

  Kept Morton and all of his Hench-men,—

  Yet a Shark is a Shark, in the day or the dark,

  Be he Minister, fish or King’s Be-ench-man,

  With a Munch and a Crunch and the Lunch shall be free!

  And Good-bye, Royal Soci . . . e-tee!

  [Refrain]

  For we’re off to the Indies, off to the East,

  Ho for the Fables and Ho for the Feast,—

  Grov’ling like Slaves in the Land of the Turk,

  There’s nought an Astronomer won’t do for Work.

  From the time they clear’d the Lizard, Capt. Grant has made no secret of where he’s been these dreary months since Quiberon Bay,— camp’d like a Gypsy upon a waiting-list, is where, ever laboring to empty his mind, seeking to become but the sleek Purity of Ink upon Paper, trusting in the large-scale behavior of Destiny to bring him, even in this wretched Lull, a Ship, any Ship,— until he saw the Seahorse, and amended this to, well, almost any Ship. . . .

  It had done his Hopes little good to see her so wounded, tho’ he understood the Immortality of Ships,— new masts stepp’d in and Yards set, Riggers all over her, new preventers and Swifters and Futtock-Staves, one miserable reeving at a time,— yet slow as Clock-hands, Wood, Hemp, and Canvas Resurrection would proceed. Three weeks and she was whole again, waiting in Sutton Pool. Grant’s orders were to follow the Brilliant when the Brilliant should be order’d to depart, and then stand by for further Advice.

  This came by way of an Admiralty Fopling, standing up in the Gig that brought him out, waving a seal’d Sheaf of Papers. “You’re to head South, and open these at Tenerife,” a Smirk possessing the young Phiz as whiskers had not so far been able to do. “Now this is an instrument of Receipt,— ”

  Muttering, Capt. Grant surreptitiously flicked the Quill, trying to spatter ink-drops upon the Visitor’s snowy lac’d Stock, as he pretended to blurt, “Yet Sir, I must confide this to someone, the Truth being,— ”

  “ ‘Truth’ . . . ?” A look of unaccustom’d Astonishment. “Perhaps I am not your ideal Confidant,” he mumbled, “— divided Loyalties sort of thing. . . .”

  Feverishly, Capt. Grant continued, “— I find my thoughts ever wand’ring, that is, you see, to the Topick of Bencoolen, and to the Rumor that my Predecessor was order’d there in full knowledge that ’twas already in the hands of the French,— rendering his whole trip rather pointless, and naturally the Thought then did occur to me, well, what if my orders are to some equally impossible Destination? Except that now it seems I may not know till Tenerife.”

  “Not my Desk, really, so terribly sorry,” descending again to the Gig, calling back, “yet chin up, perhaps it is a British Destination, or will be so by the time you get there,— so much more swiftly than the Trade Winds, these Days, do the Winds of Diplomacy blow.”

  “Boy, ye’re sending me ’pon a damn’d fool’s errand.”

  “Ah,— your first, Sir?”

  He couldn’t very well call the Sprout out, could he?— especially as he recognized too easily the malapert youth he himself had once been, the Offense he’d offer’d merely by being present,— down to the matching Waistcoat and Queue-Tie, in the same choice of citrick-yellow. He settled for loading and priming a Pistol, aiming it across the water, and allowing the Youth to decide whether to cower in the Boat or jump into the Water.

  At this turn of his Life, Capt. Grant has discover’d in his own feckless Youth, a Source of pre-civiliz’d Sentiment useful to his Praxis of now and then pretending to be insane, thus deriving an Advantage over any unsure as to which side of Reason he may actually stand upon. Not till they’re well at Sea, with a Fortnight more till they sight the Peaks of Tenerife, does he find Mason busy at the same Arts, morose and silent, beetle-back’d against the Wind, keeping Vigil all day and night of 13 February, the second Anniversary of his Wife Rebekah’s passing, touching neither Food nor Drink,— with no one upon the Ship, including Capt. Grant, willing to approach too near,— till the final eight Bells, when Mason reaches for a Loaf and a Bottle and becomes upon the instant convivial as anyone has ever seen him.

  The Sailors, having mark’d in both Men these rapid changes of Aspect, are determin’d to keep a wary eye,— tho’ Madness at Sea is not quite as worrying as fire or theft, being indeed so of the essence of a Frigate’s crew that one might as well speak of “Hemp at Sea” or “Wood at Sea.” It’s a Village, after all, ’s a Frigate,— and what is a Village, without Village Idiots? Ev’ryone on board knows who the Madmen are, and that they are here as security against the Forces of Night,— “Don’t want the French hurting my Mate here, do I. Jus’ ’coz half the time he thinks he’s Admiral Hawke,— ”

  “Noted, noted. Now unhand me, I say!”

  “There, there, your Lordship.”

  “— Common Swab.”

  This ship’s history has, however, prov’d too hectick for its Military Band. The Frigate life is not for ev’ryone,— it seems wherever this one put in, whenever any sailor went over and fail’d to return, he was a Seahorse musician. One by one, thro’ the years of the Rivalry with France, the little Combination dwindl’d,— upon the North American Station, they lost their Inner Voices, halfway thro’ the West Indies their Continuo,— until, home again, the Hautboy-player having been one night absorb’d into that Other World of which Wapping is the anteroom, the Seahorse found herself down to a single Fifer, to whom it fell, the noontide the Frenchman appear’d, to inspire the Lads into battle with his one silver Pipe.

  None, later, could say,— tho’ sure the Moment was enough,— the deepening bowel-fear as the ships drew slowly together, the l’Grand growing ever larger, smaller details ever more visible, the Seahorse’s Crew, understanding that nothing would go away now, and that Shot was inevitable, ’morphosing to extensions of a single Engine homicidal,— in that general and ungovernable Tip of Soul, what allow’d us to hear the Musick so keenly?— the Fife being of standard Military issue, tun’d in that most martial of Scales, B-flat major, stirring in all who heard it, even Philosophers, the desire to prevail over a detestable Enemy,— its Performance recall’d
as “virtually Orchestral.” Amid the Blasts, the heavy tun’d Whirrs of enemy Shot, the mortal Cries, could the Instrument ever be heard,— “Hearts of Oak,” “Rule, Britannia,”— aching for the phantom polyphony no longer on board, trying to make up for the other Voices by Efforts of Lip as difficult as any of Limb, proceeding among the Gun-Tackle.

  Slowcombe had been press’d from a tavern in Wapping where he clearly ought not to’ve been, mischievous Lad,— having learn’d the Art of his Instrument from the fam’d Hanoverian Fifer Johann Ulrich, whom the Duke of Bedford had brought in after the previous War to instruct his Regimental Winds. “You’ll ask, what’s a Royal Artilleryman doing in a Sailor’s Haunt? Aye, nowt but a low, mud-bound Gunner, surrounded by them who must be both Gunners and Seamen,— hoping, I confess, to pass as one of them. Is ours not the Age of Metamorphosis, with any turn of Fortune a possibility? So, upon that Night, did I pass abruptly from Soldier to Sailor, in less than the swallowing of a cheaply opiated Pint, and found, but for the inconvenience of it, a Dream come true,— there being Soldiers’ sorts of Lasses, I mean, and Sailors’ sorts, and a quiet Brotherhood who appreciate the Sailors’ Lasses who be left, for all the reasons we know, unattended. And now tell me, for I’ll ne’er tell you, of the short and devious Fifer out trolling for trouble, creeping ’round, sniggering, peeping up Skirts,— yet ah, my Lads, most times all it took was to bring out the Fife, and finger upon it some brief Air,— eight Bars of any little Quantz Etude, and usually she was mine.”

  “Rather stick the Pig and hear it squeal,” comments Jack “Fingers” Soames, a viperish Lad whose eponymous Gesture, made in answer to all Overtures, however ritual or ev’ryday, strangely lacks any hostile Intent, being expressive rather of a deep-held wish, so far as may be possible within the Perimeter of a Sixth-Rate, to be left alone. All but the most resolutely matey of Ship’s Company are content to oblige him. He enjoys the solitude that results,— never idle, obeying commands Outer and Inner, perfecting maritime Skills,— amid, but not of, a floating Village of others just as busy living lives he’s no desire to enter. “So you got married, does that mean you forgot how to fuck yourself?”“ ‘Nice day’? do you know Bollocks?— go get hit by Lightning.”

  The only crew member he has ever been Civil to is Veevle, legendary thro’out the Royal N. for being impossible to wake to stand Watch. Countless hundreds of Ship-mates have tried without issue to rouse the somniac Tar. The Admiralty is understood secretly to have plac’d in Escrow a £1,000 reward for the first who should succeed. Audible methods, such as screaming, having been early discourag’d by others requiring sleep, his would-be Awakeners have tried hitting the Soles of Veevle’s Feet with Rope-ends, introducing Cockroaches up his Nose, and rolling him over and administering Enemas of Lucas the Cook’s notorious Coffee, which in several sworn instances has restor’d life to certified Cadavers. Nothing works. They whisper elaborate Promises. They light Slow-Matches and place them between his Toes. They wrap him in his Hammock and lower him over the Side, and at the touch of the Waves, he but makes a snuggling motion, and begins to snore. It is soon widely appreciated that one must catch Veevle whilst awake, and trick him into standing someone else’s Watch, whereupon he becomes the smartest and most estimable of Seamen.

  “Cheerly. Cheerly, then, Lads. . . .”

  “Excuse me, Captain, problem with the Euphroes again.”

  “Get O’Brian up here, then, if it’s about Euphroes, he’s the one to see.”

  “Hey t’en, Pat. Scribblin’ again, are ye? More Sea Stories?” Not only does O’Brian know all there is to know and more ’pon the Topick of Euphroes, and Rigging even more obscure,— he’s also acknowledg’d as the best Yarn-Spinner in all the Fleets. “Euphroe Detail again.”

  They are in the southern Latitudes at last, hence the need for Awnings,— the shipboard routine settl’d into, the Boatswain, Mr. Higgs, turning ev’ryone to upon the Project of tidying up the work of the Riggers at Plymouth, who’ve left far too many Ends untuck’d for this Deck-Tyrant, born under the sign of Virgo, so obsessive about neatness in Knot-work, as to provide a source of Amusement for the Captain, who finds him an ideal Subject to practice being insane upon. “A Phiz of Doom! we can’t have this! Worse than idle Whistling!” Mr. Higgs obliges the section not on Watch to attend Instruction in Lashings, Seizings, the art of making a Turk’s Head that might fool a Harem Girl. “You may think no one’ll get close enough to see it, but a Thousand details, each nearly invisible, all working together, can mean the difference between a ship that goes warping and kedging in to a Foreign Port, and one that Makes an Entrance. And which will the Scoundrels think of meddling with first, eh? Now I want to see each of ye hauling me taut a Matthew Walker, that England shall be proud of,”— implying that somewhere there is a Royal Museum of Splices, Hitches, and Bends, where their Work may one day lie upon Display. Some in the Narcosis of the Cruise are more than eager to adopt Mr. Higgs’s Obsessedness as to Loose Ends, becoming many of them quite picky indeed, scrutinizing the Rigging, often whilst fifty feet up in its Midst, for unsightly Dribblings of Stockholm Tar, Hooks too carelessly mous’d, fray’d Throat-Seizing among the Dead-eyes.

  Other Sailors look for alternatives to Ennui even more extreme.

  “Where’s Bodine?”

  “Last I saw of him was out the end of the fore t’gallant Yard, with his Penis in the Jewel Block,— quite enjoying the Friction, to Appearance.”

  “You men are that desperate for Entertainment?”

  “Do we seem to you a care-free Lot, Sir? ’Tis quite otherwise. Bodine, among his shipmates, is indeed reckon’d fastidious,— the steps from Boredom to Discontent to Unwise Practices are never shorter than aboard a Sixth-Rate upon a long Voyage, Sir.” One or two chess players hold out for perhaps an extra week,— then ’tis Sal Si Puedes, and they, too, are biting off their toenails, growing Whiskers, piercing Ears, putting upon View, for a fee, fictitious Sea-Creatures that others must bend down to see, becoming thereupon subject to Posterior Assault.

  In such a recreational Vacuum, the Prospect of crossing the Equatorial Line soon grows unnaturally magnified, as objects in certain Mirages and Apparitions at Sea,— a Grand Event, prepared for weeks in advance. Fearless Acrobats of the upper Courses and hardened Gunners with prick’d-in black-powder Tattoos are all at once fussing about, nitter-nattering like a Village-ful of housewives over trivial details of the Ceremony of Initiation plann’d for those new to this Crossing, and dropping into Whispers whenever these “Pollywogs,”— namely, Mason, Dixon, and the Revd Cherrycoke,— happen near. Members of the Crew are to take the parts of King Neptune and his Mermaid Queen, and their Court, and the Royal Baby,— a rôle especially sought after, but assign’d by Tradition to him (Fender Bodine is an early favorite in the Wagering) whose Paunch, oozing with Equatorial Sweat, ’twill be most nauseating for a Pollywog to crawl to and kiss,— this being among the more amiable Items upon the Schedule of Humiliation.

  “Why?” the Twins wish to know. “It sounds more like Punishment. Did somebody make it a crime to cross the Equator?”

  “Sailors’ Pranks, Lads,— ignoring ’em’s best,” huffs Uncle Ives. “And a foolish rowdy-dow over some Geometers’ Abstraction that cannot even be seen.”

  “But that for one Instant,” the Revd points out, “our Shadows lay perfectly beneath us. To change Hemispheres is no abstract turn,— our Attentions to the Royal Baby, and the rest of it, were Tolls exacted for passage thro’ the Gate of the single shadowless Moment, and into the South, with a newly constellated Sky, and all-unforeseen ways of living and dying. So must there be a Ritual of Crossing Over, serving to focus each Pollywog’s Mind upon the Step he was taking.”

  “We’d suppos’d it fun,” frowns Pliny.

  “Your getting thump’d about and all, Uncle,” explains Pitt.

  “Has either of you,” inquires the Revd, “ever had a Basin-ful of Spotted D
ick slung into your Face?” The Twins, deciding that this is not an actual Threat, voice approval of the Practice. “Yes, boys, it does sound sportive enough,— except for the part that no one ever tells you about,— ”

  “Tell us!” cries Pitt.

  “Not sure I ought . . . the same indeed being true of Puddings and the more Cream-like Pies,— ”

  “Tell us, or you’re Salt Pork,” stipulates Pliny.

  “Well, then, Lads,— it goes up your Nose. Yes. You know what Pond-water feels like up there, I’m sure, but imagine . . . thick, cold, day-before-yesterday’s Spotted Dick, . . . curdling, spots of Mold, with all those horrible Raisin-bits, hard as Gravel,— ”

  “And if it goes far enough up your Nose,” adds Uncle Lomax with a monitory tremolo, “Well. Then it’s in your Brain, isn’t it?”

  In the Lull whilst the Boys consider this, the Revd slips back into his tale.

  On southward the Seahorse gallops, as if secure forever in a warm’d, melodious Barcarole of indolent days, when in fact ’twill be only a few degrees of Latitude more till we pick up the Trade Wind, and hear in its Desert Whistle the message Ghosts often bring,— that ’tis time, once again, to turn to. And, in denial of all we thought we knew, to smell the Land we are making for, the green fecund Continent, upon the Wind that comes from behind us.