Mason & Dixon (30 page)

"What need of Deity," growls Emerson, "in London, among the Nabobs and philosophers? Stirring speeches to Diplomats...Glass of Madeira and a pipe at the jolly old Goose and Gridiron. Election to the hallow'd Society itself... Wonderful stuff, why aye,— yet what's his game, now, Kit?"

Nodding submissively, as if it had been coerc'd from him,— a silent "Very Well,"- "Brother Ruggiero wishes to measure a Degree, in America."

"How forthright, look at this."

"Latitude or Longitude?" inquires Dixon.

"Latitude. No further inland than necessary."

Emerson snorts. "No Rome to Rimini this time...?"

"He'd settle for a fraction of a Degree."

"He'll get none, Sir. This King will never allow Jesuit philosophers into British North America...? along either co-ordinate, be their motives unblemish'd as candle-wax,— and as to that,— what are your motives, why does the Society of Jesus after thirteen years suddenly want to start measuring Degrees again? How does it help you thump any more Protestants than you already do, basically?"

"Mayn't we be allow'd some curiosity as to the shape and size of the planet we're living on?" replies Maire, unblinking, just short of questioning the civility of his host.

"Why aye, so may we all...? But what your line-running Mate Boscovich also wants, indeed openly enough for word of it to've reach'd even the tilth-stopp'd Ears of this country Philosopher, is a great number of Jesuit Observatories, flung as a Web, all over the World it seems,— modeled somewhat, I'm told, upon the provisions made for observing the Transits of Venus. An obvious Question arises,— how often will Emplacements like that ever be needed? Any Celestial Event close

 
enough for it to matter which part of the Earth 'tis observ'd from, being surely too rare to merit that sizable an investment...? Therefore,— Emerson's notorious "therefore,"— intended, Dixon has at length dis-cover'd, to bully his students into believing there must have been some train of logic they fail'd to see,— "the inner purpose, rather, can only be,— to penetrate China. The rest being but Diversion."

Maire, face forbearing, shrugs, "This is the Epoch of our Exile, William. Day upon Day, Jesuits are being expell'd from the kingdoms of Europe. Maria Theresa, God save her, is all but our last Protector. Our time here in the West may be more limited than any of us wishes to think about. Even within our Faith we are as itinerant Strangers. We must consider possible places of refuge—" He crosses his hands upon his Breast. "China...?"

Emerson sputters into his tea. "Eehh!— what makes you think the Chinese'll like you Jezzies any better than the Bourbons do?"

"They might. They're not Catholic."

"Nor would yese have to worry about Expulsion or Suppression, Chinese much preferring to,— " Emerson makes a playful Head-chopping gesture. "What charms as it frightens us plain folk," he goes on, "is how Jesuits observe Devotions so transcendent, whilst practicing Crimes so terrestrial,— their Inventions as wondrously advanced as their use of them is remorselessly ancient. They seem to us at once, benevolent Visitors, from a Place quite beyond our reach, and corrupted Assassins, best kept beyond the reach of."

"Fair enough," says the priest, "yet, Jeremiah, here you've a Choice at last, between staying at home, and venturing abroad...? For tho' your Faith teaches equality and peace, I've yet to meet one of you Quaker Lads who hasn't the inward desire to be led into some fight. (Lo, William, he blushes.) Why, if Authority and Battle be your Meat, lad, our Out-Fit can supply as much as you like. The Wine ration's home-made but all for free,— the Uniform's not to everyone's taste, yet it does attract the Attention of the ladies, and you'll learn to work all the Machines,—

So — Have,—

A-

 
'Nother look,— at the Army that

Wrote the Book,— take the Path that you

Should've took— and you'll be

On your way!

Get, up, and, wipe-off-that-chin,

You can begin, to have a

Whole new oth-er life,—

Soldj'ring for Christ,

Reas'nably priced,—

And nobody's missing

The Kids or th' Wife! So,

Here's the Drill,

Take the Quill,

Sign upon the Line or any-

Where you will,

There's Heretics a-plenty and a

License to kill, if you're a

Brother in the S. of J.!"

At the close of which the Priest unhelpfully blurts, "(Celibacy of course being ever strictly enjoin'd.—
 
) / If you're a Brother in the—

"What, no fucking?" Dixon acting far too astonish'd, as some otherworldly Accompaniment jingles to a halt.

"Why, happen our vow of Chastity's the very thing that allows us to approach the Transcendent...?"

"Happen," growls Emerson, "it's what makes you so mean, methodical, and without pity."

"Rubbish. You like glamor jobs? travel, excitement? chance to look into any number of things you may have been wond'ring about both inside and outside. Your success with the Transit of Venus was a mark of God, that he remains in Sympathy with our Designs, which now are entwin'd with the Projected Boundary-Line Survey in America. You are a perfect candidate for the Position,— a working Land-Surveyor with astronomical experience. I can assure you of Calvert approval,— that you come of a Quaker Family must appeal to at least one major faction in Pennsylvania,— and further, to the morbid delight of certain devotees of monarchies past, your Family is closely associated with Raby Castle, and thereby the melancholy yet darkly inspirational Tale of Sir Henry Vane the younger.”

"What, Jacobites in America? thought all thah' was over with...?" Dixon puzzles.

"Rather does the Tale go on, accumulating Power, told sweetly to Jacobite babes between the prayers and the Lullaby,— for Jacobites, like the Forces invisible that must ever create them, will persist. The Dispute did not end with Cromwell, nor Restoration,— nor William of Orange, nor Hanovers,— if English Soil has seen its last arm'd encounters, then the fighting-ground is now remov'd to America,— yet another use for the damn'd Place,— with Weapons likewise new, including fanciful Stuart Charters to American Adventurers, launch'd upon Futurity's Sea like floating Mines, their purposes not to be met for years, perhaps for more than one Life-span, their Mischief incalculable."

"Young Vane was never a Regicide," Dixon insists.

"0, thou Fool," needles Emerson, "he was treacherous as a Serpent."

"Yet 'round Raby, most believe 'twas the baseness of the father, in pursuing the destruction of Strafford, that caus'd the same fate to descend upon the son."

' 'Twas your Vane Junior gave Pym the notes, for Heaven's sake," Emerson grumbles.

"A copy of a copy,— " says Dixon, "useless as evidence, wouldn't you call thah' at least a venial sin, Friend Maire?"

"Wrong!" Emerson feigning horror, "now we'll be here all week...?"

The Jesuit, who has never master'd the European Art of expressive shrugging, spreads his hands. "What man may ever know, how much the son may have shared his father's resentment, when the Barony of Raby went to Strafford? It seems a shabby enough motive for one man, let alone two, to feel it worth another's life. Young Vane was twenty-seven,— about your age, Jeremiah. Had he no idea, of how easily those who pursue the Business of the World may resort to Murder? Perhaps he thought Pym and his people would use it only in private, as a negotiating point."

"Murder...?" Dixon perplex'd.

"Judicial Murder, Whelp," Emerson glares, ' - words cost them nothing, Scriveners only a little more,— and lo! another Bill of Attainder or Sentence of Death, both in this our Day common as washing-bills, for the human life figures as nothing,— that being all the secret to Governance upon Earth.”

"Whilst Heaven," Maire reminds him, "sets the worth of a Soul at Everything."

"Why aye, unless it be Indians of Paraguay, or Jews of Spain, or Jansenists across the way, and y' knaah I'd love to sit about and talk of Religion till Hell freezeth oahver,— especially Newton's Views upon Gravity and the Holy Ghost, tho' yese'll have to wait for my Volume upon the Subject, alas. Meantime, there being no Ale in the House,—

"As if there ever would be," mutters the Jesuit.

- and as in any case I find this standing Bitch quite soon a source of fatigue,— better," proposes Emerson, "we repair to my Local, The Cudgel and Throck." A moment Dixon has been dreading, for those who drink at this Ale-Grotto of terrible Reputation, do so out of a Melancholy advanc'd beyond his understanding. He has not quite made a connection between himself, in his own Publick-House Habitude, and these other but provisionally vertical Blurs of Sentiment, beyond a common fatality, for as many as might present themselves, of the doubtful comforts of Sadness.

Fr. Maire now removes his Cloak, revealing the snuff-color'd coat and breeches of a middling Town-Dweller. From an inner pocket he produces a costly Ramillies Wig, shakes it out in a brisk Cloud of scented Litharge, and claps it on, with a minimum of fuss, over his ascetic's Crop. "There. I am now Mr. Emerson's distant Cousin Ambrose, of Godless London."

'' 'Godless' being just the note for the old Cudge," nods Emerson, as they go, "- - 'tis the Poahpish, that's not overly welcome.”

Indeed, one look at the place is enough to reconcile Fr. Maire to the possibility of having to leave it. As a member of the Society of Jesus, he has been in and out of some all but intolerable taverns, among which he believes he has seen the worst Great Britain has to offer,— withal, as a native of County Durham, he has been hearing Tales of this iniquitous Sink all his Life, tho' having till now successfully avoided it.

"Awhrr, God's blood, it's old Back-to-Front," they are greeted upon
entering, "wi' two bumbailiffs he'll lose before sundown,— yet an honest
Tapster has to put up wi' all sorts,— I imagine 'twill be Porter won't it,
yes it would be...? Goblin! bloody bastard, do not even be thinking of
biting my valued guests, or you shall be smit wi' the Gin Bottle again, yes
y'shall...? Eeh, mind your Boots, lads, bit of unpleasantness there from
last night, servants haven't quite gotten to it yet
          
"

"Lovely day, Mr. Brain."

"Aye happen that'll change, too. Lud Oafery's been in and out,— and as nearly as we could understand him, he'd be looking for you, Doctor."

"He'll want another Spell," Emerson guesses. "That's if the last 'un work'd, of course— "

"William, William," his "Cousin" admonishes.

"He buys me a Pint. Where's the Harm? This is Hurworth, not London, Namby. I do Horoscopes as well.”

"Did mine," the Landlord avers, " 'twas all there in the Stars, the whole miserable story, but did I pay attention? Nooaahh...! was regretting the Sixpence, a fool with his eyes in the glaur."

Fr. Maire's eyebrows do take a Bounce when he hears the Price.

"Whah' then?" Emerson mischievously, "only the Church of Rome could quoahte yese any better."

"This place is even more depressing than I remember it," Dixon mutters, just audibly, in case anyone cares to discuss it.

"Oh, aye, 'tis no Jolly Pitman," Emerson snorts, naming Dixon's pre-ferr'd Haunt at the edge of Cockfield Fell, close by the Road, where Miners and Waggoners seek refuge from a Nightfall pass'd alone, and where Travelers, no matter how many Miles they'll have to make up next day, choose to put in, rather than enter at Night that Looming Heath.

"There's Musick at the Pitman, anyway."

"Hold, hold, stand easy, we've Musick here," Mr. Brain producing from behind the Bar a batter'd Hurdy-Gurdy or Hum-Strum of antique design, left years ago by a Gypsy to settle a tab, "aye, Musick a-plenty, you need but ask,— wonderful to have Quality in,— Spot of Handel, perhaps?" whereupon he begins vigorously, though with no clear idea of how the Instrument works, to crank and finger, all in a G-dawful Uproar. The Dog Goblin, cowering eagerly, howls along. Emerson bears the Recital with an unexpected Calm, gazing at a Wall, as if imagining the Notes as they might appear upon some Staff as yet undevis'd, thumping time upon his knee. Dixon, whose mother, Mary Hunter, play'd each Day to her Children upon the Clavier, is less entertain'd.

"Ye'd find nothing like this in China, Jeremiah, Lad," cries Emerson.

"Mr. Dixon," declares the Jesuit, "at present, owing to the pernicious Cult of Feng Shui, you would find it a Surveyor's Bad Dream,— nowhere may a Geometer encounter an honest 36o-Degree Circle,— rather, incomprehensibly and perversely, in willful denial of God's Disposition of Time and Space, preferring 365 and a Quarter."

"That being the number of Days in a year, what Human Surveyor, down here upon the Earth, would reject thah',— each Day a single, perfect Chinese Degree,— were 360 not vastly more convenient, of course, to figure with? Surely God, being Omniscient, has little trouble with

 
either...? all the Log Tables right there in His Nob, doesn't he,— Dixon, having been out tramping over the Fields and Fells for the past few weeks, with Table and Circumferentor, still enjoying a certain orthogonal Momentum, "and 365 and a quarter seems the sort of Division Jesuits might embrace,— the discomfort of all that extra calculation...? sort of mental Cilice, perhaps...?"

"Oh dear," Emerson's voice echoing within his Ale-can.

"Then again," says Maire, "there is a nice lad in Wigan who'd like the Job."

"Bonnie then, and please convey my best.—
 
Most Geordie Surveyors make terrible Jesuit spies, I'm told."

"Look ye, Jeremiah," the Jesuit placing upon his sleeve a hand Dixon briefly considers biting, "we would expect no reports, no Espionage, no action of any kind,— for the marking of this Line will be undertaken, with or without our Engagement,— we only wish Assurance that someone we know is there, materially, upon the Parallel. No more."