Authors: Thomas Pynchon
The Learned D., drawn by the smell of Blood in the Cock-Pit, tries to act nonchalant, but what can they expect of him? How is he supposed to ignore this pure Edge of blood-love? Oh yawn yes of course, seen it all before, birds slashing one another to death, sixteen go in, one comes out alive, indeed mm-hmm, and a jolly time betwixt, whilst the Substance we are not supposed to acknowledge drips and flies ev'rywhere— "'There, Learnèd," calls Mrs. Jellow brusquely, "we must leave the birds to their Work." Beneath the swaying Gamester, the general pace of the Room keeps profitably hectic. From the Labyrinth in back come assorted sounds of greater and lesser Ecstasy, along with percussions upon Flesh, laughter more and less feign'd, furniture a-thump, some Duetto of Viol and Chinese Flute, the demented crowing of fighting-cocks waiting their moment, cries in Concert at some inaudible turn of a card or roll of the Fulhams high and low, calls for Bitter and Three-Threads rising ever hopeful, like ariettas in the shadow'd Wilderness of Rooms, out where the Lamps are fewer, and the movements deeper with at least one more Grade of Intent...At length the Dog halts, having led them to where, residing half out of doors, fram'd in cabl'd timbers wash'd in from a wreck of long ago, an old piece of awning held by a gnaw'd split, ancient Euphroe between her and the sky with its varied Menace, sits Dark Hepsie, the Pythoness of the Point.
"Here," the Dog butting at Mason, "here is the one you must see."
Instantly, Mason concludes (as he will confess months later to Dixon) that it all has to do with Rebekah, his wife, who died two years ago this February next. Unable to abandon her, Mason is nonetheless eager to be aboard a ship, bound somewhere impossible,— long Voyages by sea being thought to help his condition, describ'd to him as Hyperthrenia, or "Excess in Mourning." Somehow the Learned Dog has led him to presume there exist safe-conduct Procedures for the realm of Death,— that through this Dog-reveal'd Crone, he will be allow'd at last to pass over, and find, and visit her, and come back, his Faith resurrected. That is as much of a leap as can be expected of a melancholick heart. At the same time, he smokes that the Learned English D.,— or Fang, as now he apparently wishes to be known,— in introducing them thus, is pursuing an entirely personal End.
"Angelo said there'd be a Package for me?"
"Quotha! Am I the Evening Coach?" The two rummage about in the Shadows. "Look ye, I'll be seeing him later, and I'll be sure to ask,—
"Just what you said last time," the Dog shaking his head reprovingly.
"Here, then,— a Sacrifice, direct from me own meager Mess, a bit of stew'd Hen,— 'tis the best I can do for ye today.”
"Peace, Grandam,— reclaim thy Ort. The Learned One has yet to sink quite that low." The Dog, with an expressive swing of his Head, makes a dignified Exit, no more than one wag of the Tail per step.
"Your ship will put to Sea upon a Friday," Hepsie greets Mason and Dixon, "- - would that be a Boatswain's Pipe into the Ear of either of you Gents?"
"Why, the Collier Sailors believe 'tis bad luck...?" Dixon replies, as if back at Woolwich before his Examiners, "it being the day of Christ's Execution."
"Nicely, Sir. Thus does your Captain Smith disrespect Christ, Fate, Saint Peter, and the god Neptune,— and withal there's not an insurancer in the Kingdom, from Lloyd's on down, who'll touch your case for less than a sum you can never, as Astronomers, possibly afford."
"Yet if we be dead," Dixon points out, "the Royal Navy absorbing the cost of a burial at sea, what further Expenses might there be?"
"You are independent of a Family, Sir."
"Incredible! Why, you must be a very Scryeress...?" Dixon having already spied, beneath her layers of careful Decrepitude (as he will later tell Mason), a shockingly young Woman hard at work,— with whom, country Lout that he is, he can't keep from flirting.
But Mason is now growing anxious. "Are we in danger, then? What have you heard?"
Silently she passes him a soil'd Broadside Sheet, upon which are printed descriptions of varied Services, and the Fees therefor. "What's this? You won't do Curses?"
"My Insurance? Prohibitive," she cackles, as the young fancy the old to cackle. "I believe what you seek is under 'Intelligence, Naval.''
"Half a Crown?"
"If you insist."
"Ehm... Dixon?"
"What? You want me to put in half of thah'?"
"We can't very well charge.. .this.. .to the Society, can we?"
"Do I shame you, Sir?" Hepsie too 'pert by Decades.
"Oh, all right," Mason digging laboriously into his Purse, sorting out Coins and mumbling the Amounts.
Dixon looks on in approval. "You spend money like a very Geordie. He means no harm, lass... ?" beaming, nudging Mason urgently with his Toe, as Bullies shift about in the Dark, and Boats wait with muffl'd Oars to ferry them against their will over to a Life they may not return from. The smell of the great Anchorage,— smoke, Pitch, salt and decay,— sweeps in fitfully.
"Sirs, attend me," the coins having silently vanish'd, " - Since last year, the Year of Marvels, when Hawke drove Conflans upon that lee shore at Quiberon Bay, the remnants of the Brest fleet have been understandably short of Elan, or Esprit, or whatever they style that stuff over there,— excepting, now and then, among the Captains of smaller Frigates, souls as restless to engage in personal Tactics as dispos'd to sniff at national Strategy. Mortmain, Le Chisel, St.-Foux,— mad dogs all,— any of them, and others, likely at any time to sail out from Brest, indifferent to Risk, tSte-a-tete as ever with the end of the World, seeking new Objects of a Resentment inexhaustible."
"Oh dear," Mason clutching his head. "Suppose...we sail upon some other Day, then?"
"Mason, pray You,— 'tis the Age of Reason," Dixon reminds him, "we're Men of Science. To huz must all days run alike, the same number of identical Seconds, each proceeding in but one Direction, irreclaimable...? If we would have Omens, why, let us recall that the Astronomer's Symbol for Friday is also that of the planet Venus herself,— a good enough Omen, surely... ?"
"I tell you," the young Impostress merrily raising a Finger, "French Frigates will be where they will be, day of the week be damn'd,— especially St.-Foux, with La Changhaienne. You know of the Ecole de Pira-terie at Toulon? Famous. He has lately been appointed to the Kiddean Chair."
Mason and Dixon would like to stay, the one to fuss and the other to flirt, but as they now notice, a considerable Queue has form'd behind them. There are
Gamesters in Trouble, Sweet-Hearts untrue, Sailors with no one to bid them adieu,
Roistering Fops and the Mast-Pond Brigade, all Impatient to chat with the Sibylline Maid, singing,
Let us go down, to Hepsie's tonight, Maybe tonight, she'll show us the Light,— Maybe she'll cackle, and maybe she'll cry, But for two and a kick she won't spit in your Eye.
She warn'd Ramillies sailors, Beware of the Bolt,
And the Corsica-bound of Pa-oli's Revolt,—
From lottery Tickets to History's End,
She's the mis'rable, bug-bitten sailor's best friend, singing,
Let us go down, &c.
"Nice doing Business with you, Boys, hope I see yese again," with an amiable Nod for Dixon.
Back at the Cock-fights, Fender-Belly Bodine comes lurching across their bow, curious. "So what'd she have to say?"
Something about crazy Frigate Captains sailing out of Brest, is all either of them can remember by now.
"Just what she told my Mauve, and for free. Good. We'll have a fight, Gents. And if it's Le Chisel, we'll have a Stern-chase, too. Back on old H.M.S. Inconvenience, we wasted many a Day and Night watching that fancy Counter get smaller by the minute. And when he'd open'd far enough from us, it pleas'd him to put out the Lanthorn in his Cabin, as if to say, 'Toot fini, time to frappay le Sack.' Skipper saw that light go out, he always mutter'd the same thing,— 'The Dark take you, Le Chisel, and might you as readily vanish from my Life,'— and then we'd slacken Sail, and come about, and the real Work would begin,— beating away, unsatisfied once more, against the Wind." Foretopman Bodine pausing to squeeze the nearest Rondures of a young Poll who has shimmer'd in from some Opium Dream in the Vicinity. Like Hepsie, Mauve is far from what she pretends. Most men are fool'd into seeing a melancholy Waif, when in reality she's the most cheerful of little Butter-Biscuits, who has escap'd looking matronly only thanks to that constant Exertion demanded by the company of Sailors. She and Hepsie in fact share quarters in Portsea, as well as a Wardrobe noted, even here upon the Point, for its unconsider'd use of Printed Fabricks.
"She's a wonderful old woman, 's Hepsie," says Mauve. "Fortunes have been won heeding her advice, as lost ignoring it. She tells you beware, why, she has reckon'd your Odds and found them long— She is Lloyd's of Portsmouth. Believe her."
Later, around Dawn, earnestly needing a further Word with Hepsie or the Dog, Mason can find no trace of either, search as he may. Nor will anyone admit to knowing of them at all, let alone their Whereabouts. He will continue to search, even unto scanning the shore as the Seahorse gets under way at last, on Friday, 9 January 1761.
Had it proved of any help that the Revd had tried to follow the advice of Epictetus, to keep before him every day death, exile, and loss, believing it a condition of his spiritual Contract with the world as given? When the French sail came a-twinkling,— with never-quite-invisible death upon the Whir fore and aft, with no place at all safe and only the unhelpful sea for escape, amid the soprano cries of the powder-monkeys, the smell of charr'd wood, the Muzzle's iron breath,— how had these daily devotions, he now wondered, ultimately ever been of use, how, in the snug Shambles of the Seahorse?
To the children, he remarks aloud, "Of course, Prayer was what got us through."
"I should have pray'd," murmurs Cousin Ethelmer, to Tenebras's mild astonishment. Since appearing in the Doorway during a difficult bit of double-Back-stitch Filling two Days ago, return'd from College in the Jerseys, he has been otherwise all Boldness.
"Not seiz'd a Match? Not gone running up and down the Decks screaming and lighting Guns as you went? Cousin." The Twins consult each the other's Phiz, pretending to be stricken.
Ethelmer smiles and amiably pollicates the Revd, and less certainly Mr. LeSpark, his own Uncle, as if to say, "We are surrounded by the Pious, and their well-known wish never to hear of anything that sets the Blood a-racing.”
Brae looks away, but keeps him in the corner of her eye, as if to reply, "Boy, Blood may 'race' as quietly as it must...."
Mr. LeSpark made his Fortune years before the War, selling weapons to French and British, Settlers and Indians alike,— Knives, Tomahawks, Rifles, Hand-Cannons in the old Dutch Style, Grenades, small Bombs. "Trouble yourself not," he lik'd to assure his Customers, "over Diameter." If there are Account-books in which Casualties are the Units of Exchange, then, so it seems to Ethelmer, his Uncle is deeply in Arrears. Ethelmer has heard tales of past crimes, but can hardly assault his Host with accusations. Ev'ryone "knows,"— that is, considering Uncle Wade as some collection of family stories, ev'ryone remembers. Some Adventures have converg'd into a Saga that is difficult to reconcile with the living Uncle, who sends him bank-drafts on Whims inscrutable that catch the Nephew ever by surprise, frequents the horse-races in Maryland, actually once fed apples to the great Selim, and these days doesn't mind if Ethelmer comes along to visit the Stables. At the late Autumn Meet, gaily dress'd young women, fancier than he thought possible, had wav'd and smil'd, indeed come over bold as city Cats to engage Ethelmer in conversation. Tho' young, he was shrewd enough to smoak that what they were after was his Plainness, including an idea of his Innocence, which they fail'd to note was long, even enjoyably, departed.
"He wants whah'?"
Mason nodding with a sour Smile.
"Out of our Expenses? shall it leave us enough for Candles and Soahp, do You guess?"
"No one's sure, Captain Smith having not himself appear'd before the Council,— rather, his Brother came, and read them the Captain's Letter."
"An hundred pounds,— apiece...?"
"An hundred Guineas."
"Eeh...that suggests they expect someone to come back with a counter-offer...? As it isn't huz, who would thah' be?"
"It comes down to the Royal Soc. or the Royal N." As Mason has heard it, the Council mill'd all about, like Domestick Fowl in Perplexity, repeating, "Proportional Share!" in tones of Outrage, "— Pro-portional? Sha-a-are?"
"Leaving this, this Post-Captain the right to Lay it Out, as he calls it, at his Pleasure."
"Some Captain!— step away from a Privateer, by G-d." Aggriev'd voices echoing in the great stairwell, Silver ringing upon Silver,— sugar-Loaves and assorted Biscuits, French Brandy in Coffee,— Stick-Flourishes, motes of wig-powder jigging by the thousands in the candle-light.
"Immediately raising a particular Suspicion,— unworthy of this Captain, goes without saying, and yet,—
- not to be easily distinguish'd from petty Extortion."
"Quite the sort of behavior Lord Anson's forever on about eradicat-ing...."
"...and other remarks in the same Line," reports Mason. "They were just able at last to appoint a Committee of Two to wait upon Lord Anson himself, who took the time to inform them that in the Royal Navy, a Ship of War's Captain is expected to pay for his own victualing."
"Really," said Mr. Mead, "I didn't know that, m'Lord,— are you quite— I didn't mean that,— of course you're sure,— but rather,—
"His Thought being," endeavored Mr. White, "that all this time, we'd rather imagin'd that the Navy—
"Alas, Gentlemen, one of Many Sacrifices necessary to that strange Servitude we style 'Command,' " replied the First Lord. "Howbeit, 'twill depend largely on how much your Captain plans to drink, and how many livestock he may feel comfortable living among,— hardly do to be slipping in goat shit whilst trying to get ten or twelve Guns off in proper Sequence, sort of thing. At the same time, we cannot have our Frigate Captains adopting the ways of Street Bullies, and this Approach to one's guests, mm, it does seem a bit singular. We'll have Stephens or someone send Captain Smith a note, shall we,— invoking gently my own pois'd Thunderbolt, of course."