Authors: Thomas Pynchon
Each time, they set out slightly to the North of West, upon a Bearing that will describe Ten Minutes of Great Circle before intersecting again the true West Line. The Gentlemen know from calculation that the Angle to be turn'd off must be 0°08'18" to the Northward of perfect West. For a while they take Sky Observations to confirm this, Dixon as if in deference to Mason as Astronomer,— but presently they are turning the Angle directly from the Plate of the Instrument,— a Surveyor's habit, that Dixon may feel more comfortable with, which they drift wordlessly into, beginning to learn, each at his own rate, that the choice not to dispute oftentimes sets free minutes, indeed hours, otherwise wasted in issueless Quarreling. Neither appreciates this at the time.
When they reach the end of each twelve-mile-or-so segment, they stop, and set up the Sector, to find the distances, in Degrees, of several Stars, at their highest points in the Night, from the Zenith. Bradley's Star Catalogue gives the Declination, or Celestial Latitude, for each Star. This value, plus the Zenith Distance, equals the Earthly Latitude of the Observing Point.
Owing to the error in taking Bearings, that ever accompanies the running of a real Arc upon the not quite perfectly spherickal Earth, the Sector will never be set up exactly in the Latitude of the true Line. So Off-sets are figur'd at each Mile, ranging from zero at the eastern end, to whatever the difference in Latitude might prove to be, at the other. These offsets must then be added to the purely geometrical differences, at each Mile, between the ten minutes of Great Circle actually run, and its Chord,— the Line itself,— each time increasing from zero to about twenty-one feet at the halfway point, then decreasing again to zero.
As Fortune had put their first Ten Minutes of Arc close beside Octarara Road, so does their next Stage west allow them to set up the Sector but twenty-six Chains short of the east bank of Susquehanna, a mile and a half of Taverns strung near and nearer along the way up to the Peach Bottom Ferry. On Sunday the twelfth of May, they begin their Zenith Obs again, continuing them till the twenty-ninth. It will be a brisk and pleasant Fortnight beside the broad River, which dashes and rolls 'round two small Islands directly in the line of the Visto. On days of cloud, they endeavor to project the Line across the River, whose breadth they take the occasion to compute,— tho' the task falls mostly to Dixon, being, as Mason informs ev'ryone, more Surveyor's Work, really.
Dixon and Mr. McClean, along with Darby and Cope, go trudging down to the River to have a look. Common practice would be to measure out a Base Line upon the further Bank, set up there, turn off ninety degrees, put a mark on the near side, come back across, set up at the mark there, and find the angle between the two ends of the Base Line,—
then, with the aid of a book full of logarithms, including those of "Trig" functions, 'twould take but a minute and a half of adding and checking, to find the distance across the River.
"That's how we learn'd in Durham," Dixon recalls, "to measure across places we'd rather not go. Not so much Rivers, of course, as unexpected patches,— sudden entire ranges of Spoil-heaps, or a Grove out in an empty Fell,— certainly nowhere near this d——'d many Trees."
"I've found little Joy in these Situations," offers Mr. McClean, whilst Darby and Cope nod at one another, silent as understudies in the Wings, moving their Lips no more than necessary. Sweating and muttering, all go tramping up and down the Bank, kicking up clouds of Gnats, crushing wild Herbs in Blossom, seeking a line of sight that will allow them to use a Right Angle,— a Fool's Errand, as it proves. At length, "Eeh, we'll have to use what Angles we can, then, that bonny with ev'ryone?"
And more than soon enough for the Chain-men, tho' Mr. McClean is shaking his head. "I never get the Figures right."
"Then let huz pre-vail somehow upon Mr. Mason, to review our computing,— Angles being the same,— so I surmise,— down here as Out There." Mr. McClean takes over the eighteen-inch Hadley's, and Dixon repeats his Sights with the Circumferentor, obtaining at last an ungainly Oblique Triangle, from which they calculate Susquehanna to be about seven-eighths of a mile across.
To Mason meanwhile has fallen the Task of projecting the Line across the River and setting upon its Western bank a point they might take up again from. Upon their last Saturday at Susquehanna, he writes, ".. .about sun set I was returning from the other Side of the River, and at the distance of about 1.5 Mile the Lightning fell in perpendicular streaks, (about a foot in breadth to appearance) from the cloud to the ground. This was the first lightning I ever saw in streaks continued without the least break through the whole, all the way from the Cloud to the Horizon."
Less formally, he comes running screaming into Dixon's Tent, just as Dixon is lighting his Evening Pipe. "Did you see that?"
"Bright as Day...?" Dixon nods.
"Lord, into what Sub-urbs Satanick hast Thou introduc'd me this time?— Thy Procedures not to be question'd, of course.”
The Wind has begun to shake the Tents. The Surveyors hear the stumbling of Rain-drops against the taut Duck. Their Candle-flames are being torn to shining waxen wild-flowers. "I am assuming that I may be confident of my Safety here," Dixon puffing, "the entire issue of Lightning in America having been resolv'd by your Friend Dr. Franklin, who draws it off at will, easy as drawing Ale from a Cask— Ah have got that correct, haven't Ah...? 'Tis certainly the right place for Lightning, eeh! Nothing like this in Staindrop! Lud Oafery did claim to've been hit once over by Low Dinsdale, but there were no other witnesses,—
"Dixon, our, um, Lives? are in Danger?"
"Hardly enough to interrupt a perfectly good— " Here he is silenc'd by an immense Thunder-Bolt from directly overhead, as their frail Prism is bleach'd in unholy Light. " - Saturday Night for, is it I ask you...?" his Head emerging at last from beneath a Blanket, "Mason? Say, Mason,— are thee...?"
Mason, now outside, pushes aside the Tent-flap with his head, but does not enter. "Dixon. I will now seek Shelter beneath that Waggon out there, d'ye see it? If you wish to join me, there's room."
"Bit too much Iron there for me, thanks all the same."
"Interesting. Up to you of course,— " Another great blinding Peal. When Dixon can see again, Mason has withdrawn. Each Lightning-stroke another step across the landscape, the miles-high Electrickal Insect, whose footfalls are Thunder-Claps, proceeds at some broken, incomprehensible Pace, passing on toward Philadelphia and the Sea, and the Sky is restor'd to its pitiless Clarity, in time to obtain a good Zenith Distance for Capella.
Their latest orders, gallop'd in by Express, are to return to the Tangent Point, and run the three and a half Miles of Meridian, or North Line, needed to close the Boundaries of the Lower Counties. A Line must now be drawn Northward, from the Tangent Point, till striking the West Line at right angles, thus defining the northeast corner of Maryland. To obtain this last five miles of Boundary, the Parties have agreed, as if repenting close to the end of a long life of Error, to draw the Line at last due North and South.
Esteem'd Murray,—
Whatever else happens upon this Expedition. I am getting to meet an uncommon lot of Milk-maids. Every morning and evening they line up among the Tents, in the canvas alley-ways, clanking pails and kettles and whispering among themselves. And laughing. Ah! Laughter at the Outset of the Day. Some are lovely beyond the pen of this wretched apprentice. Some,— but even a 'Prentice must refrain from comparison. Gladly would I welcome attention from any of them,— alas, what am I to do?
Whilst, for their own part, the Lasses, often quite brazen about it, go on thinning the Milk with well-water, putting in Snails to make it froth, keeping it warm who knows how,— "Coy Milk-Maids" being a Game courtly as any back in the Metropolis, and like Dancing, exercis'd with ease and enjoyment, upon both sides.
'Tis Cream-Pot Love in the Morning Dew,
Again at the Close of Day,
One creeps about, like a Spider who
Might covet some Curds and Whey...
For...'tis...
[Refrain]
Dairy!— oh gimme that
Dairy! the lengths that I'd
Go to for its sake are extr'ordin-ary,—
"The step, you see, like this? And,—
I see a
Cow 'n' just drool,
Act like a fool,
Any time a Cheese, roll by,—
Butter and Milk,
Foods of that Ilk,
Make me shake my head, goin'
Me-oh my!
Polly's in the Penthouse,
Molly's in the Mood,
Ev'rybody lookin' for that
Lactick Food,
Oh Dairy,
Though Seasons may Vary, I'll ever be very Enchanted, by you!
In the midst of teaching a long Queue of fair Purveyors the Steps of a Reel current at Williamsburg, Young Nathe is abruptly smit.
Miracle! after miserable nights in roadside hovels styl'd "Inns,"— the companionless sunsets turn after Planet's turn,— the days of regarding Daughters and even Wives of settlers with what I once imagin'd a Soulful Gaze (not always distinguishable, by she that receiv'd it, from an Offensive Stare),— unexpectedly to find, in the Day's first Dew, with the Light increasing so swiftly, apt, any instant, to reveal in her that decisive Flaw the Crepuscule had hidden (tho' steadfast beneath the Light, she but grew more Fair),— Her, whom I call, "Galactica,"— for she is one of the Purveyors, to this Expedition, of Dairy Products.—
"Poh!" I can hear you,— "another Tale of Cream-Pot Love,— well aye, of course, as who has not practis'd it, in this Edenick
Dairy-land,— yet Galactica, tho' in that larcenous Sisterhood, not
truly of it.—
What I'm in, is a Sailor's predicament,— far too soon
must we extend the Line past any journey she can make in safety,
or indeed find the time for. There is no question of her joining our
Caravan. Her Duty here is as compelling as would be my own, were
she to come, to deflect from her Person the attentions of up to an
hundred men, including the implacable Stig— So must I beseech
Her wait till Winter, when we leave off and return Eastward,— then
until we head West again in the Spring, and so on,— Moments too
few, and the Waiting too heavy a burden, I fear, upon fair Galactica.
For tho' I know next to nothing about the Sex, yet it seems, in my
experience, that their reputation for Patience is gravely over-blown,
and the faithful sailor's Sweetheart of song and Romance as mythi
cal as a Mermaid
On the Twenty-ninth of May, they turn eastward again, measuring offsets and marking them as they go. Now they begin the Day sighting into the Sun, and watching their own Shadows at Evening, Surveyor and Tripod and Instrument stretching back, somehow, toward the past, toward more youthful Selves. Going west, even no further than Susquehanna, living by the simple Diurnal Rhythms,— going ever with the Sun, was not the same as this going against it. " 'Aye, very different indeed," remarks Dixon.
Mason is trying to wake up. The nearest coffee is in the cook-tent. "Pray you," he whispers, "try not to be so damn'd,— did I say damn'd? I meant so fucking chirpy all the time, good chap, good chap," stumbling out of the Tent trying to get his Hair into some kind of Queue. The Coffee is brew'd with the aid of a Fahrenheit's Thermometer, unmark'd save at one place, exactly halfway between freezing and boiling, at 122°, where upon the Wood a small Arrow is inscrib'd, pointing at a Scratch across the glass Tube. 'Tis at this Temperature that the water receives the ground Coffee, the brew being stirr'd once or twice, the Pot remov'd from the fire, its Decoction then proceeding. Tho' clarifying may make sense in London, out here 'tis a luxury, nor are there always Egg-shells to hand. If tasted early, Dixon has found, the fine suspended matter in the coffee lends it an undeniable rustick piquance. Later in the Pot, the Liquid charring itself toward Vileness appeals more to those looking for bodily stimuli,— like Dixon, who is able to sip the most degradedly awful pot's-end poison and yet beam like an Idiot, "Mm-m m! Best Jaraoke west o' the Alleghenies!"— a phrase Overseer Barnes utters often, tho' neither Surveyor quite understands it, especially as the Party are yet east of the Alleghenies. Howbeit, at this point in a Pot's life-cycle, Mason prefers to switch over to Tea, when it is Dixon's turn to begin shaking his head.
"Can't understand how anyone abides that stuff."
"How so?" Mason unable not to react.
"Well, it's disgusting, isn't it? Half-rotted Leaves, scalded with boiling Water and then left to lie, and soak, and bloat?"
"Disgusting? this is Tea, Friend, Cha,— what all tasteful London drinks,— that," pollicating the Coffee-Pot, "is what's disgusting."
"Au contraire," Dixon replies, "Coffee is an art, where precision is all,— Water-Temperature, mean particle diameter, ratio of Coffee to Water or as we say, CTW, and dozens more Variables I'd mention, were they not so clearly out of thy technical Grasp,—
"How is it," Mason pretending amiable curiosity, "that of each Pot of Coffee, only the first Cup is ever worth drinking,— and that, by the time I get to it, someone else has already drunk it?"
Dixon shrugs. "You must improve your Speed...? As to the other, why aye, only the first Cup's any good, owing to Coffee's Sacramental nature, the Sacrament being Penance, entirely absent from thy sunlit World of Tay,— whereby the remainder of the Pot, often dozens of cups deep, represents the Price for enjoying that first perfect Cup."
"Folly," gapes Mason. "Why, ev'ry cup of Tea is perfect...?"
"For what? curing hides?"
For the next three weeks, they are occupied again with the enigmatick Area 'round the Tangent Point, seeking to close the Eastern boundaries of Pennsylvania and Maryland,— the Commissioners, to appearance, being anxious upon this score. "They all live upon this side of Susque-hanna," Mr. McClean conjectures. "They don't want you across it just yet. Across it things are not so civiliz'd, so Anglican, begging your pardon, Sir, nor so Quaker, begging yours, Sir, or should I say, thine. Over Susquehanna begins a different Province entirely, and beginning at the Mountains, another differing from that, and so on,— beyond Mononga-