Authors: Thomas Pynchon
hela, beyond Ohio,— tho' the betting in the Taverns is overwhelmingly against your getting quite that far."
"Won't that depend upon how far the Proprietors wish the Line to run?" inquires Mr. Mason.
"If by 'the Proprietors' you mean those who truly own it," remarks John Harland.
"The Indians," suggests Mr. Dixon.
"The Army," says Mr. Harland.
"I meant, rather, the Penns," Mason a bit starch'd, " - as Maryland's Grant ends just past Laurel Hill, from there West 'tis Penn's Line alone, dividing Penn lands from Virginia,— who bear none of the Cost."
"Five Degrees from the Atlantick Coast," opines Mr. McClean, "will include Fort Pitt, and the first few miles of Ohio before it bends south.... Iron deposits, Coal as well, underground mountain-ranges of it, burning down there for centuries, known to the Indians, perhaps us'd as well in connection with their mysterious Lead Mines in the Mountains. Right up your Street, Mr. Dixon."
The Surveyors soon discover, that the Meridian drawn north from the Tangent Point, will run slightly inside the Twelve-Mile Arc, crossing it twice, at points about a mile and a half apart,— producing now, between them, two boundary lines, one "straight," and one, about a thousandth of a Mile longer, "curv'd" (which will one day be declar'd the Legal Boundary, thus whittling a tiny Sliver from Maryland). The three and a half Miles to the West Line remaining can be run as a piece of pure Meridian,— to be styl'd, "the North Line."
"All I know", Mason shrugs. " 's I'm suppos'd to line up Alioth and Polaris with the Flame of a Candle, a mile away, being held by you, who at the same time must ever be bisecting the Flame perfectly with the string of your Plummet."
"Unless it sets the String on fire, of course." So Dixon is sent out into Darkness variable as the Moon, thick with predators bestial and human, Indians upon missions forever secret from European eyes, all moving easily among this Community of Night, interrupted only by the odd unschedul'd Idiot. Even Animals are late to arrive at Water
holes, and so run into others in the Herd, away from whom the latecomers would as gladly have kept,— and Herd-Politics takes another strange and unforeseen turn. Through it all, there is the unsure and withal helpless Assistant, moving his Lanthorn about in the Air, whilst a distant voice through a Speaking-trumpet bids him go right, then left.
"Frankly," Mason chuckles, by way of what he fancies Encouragement, "were I watching from the Darkness, I shouldn't want to get too close to anyone in a peculiar Hat, shouting in a loud metal Voice? The Savages may be as frighten'd of you as were the People in Cecil County last winter."
' 'Twastn't I than' frighten'd 'em... ? They took me for the Apprentice, no more...?"
"I saw you, deny it all you like, I saw you conversing with that Torpedo,—
"Nooah,— they were but more of thy Visions, Mason! tha were having them hourly, by then,— which is when, in fahct... ? ev'ryone grew frighten'd of thee... ? Another few days of bad weather, and...," he spreads his hands, with a pitying Gaze.
At last, on June 6th, in a meadow belonging to Capt. John Singleton, nearly 50 Chains east of Mr. Rhys Price's House, where the Meridian and Parallel intersect, the Surveyors sink in a Post, mark'd W upon the West Side, and N upon the North, and the Boundary is clos'd.
Here at the northeast corner of Maryland, the Geometrickal Pilgrim may well wish to stand in the company of his thoughts, at this purest of intersections mark'd so far upon America. Yet, Geomancer, beware,— if thy Gaze but turn Eastward by an Eye-lash's Diameter, thou must view the notorious Wedge,— resulting from the failure of the Tangent Point to be exactly at this corner of Maryland, but rather some five miles south, creating a semi-cusp or Thorn of that Length, and doubtful ownership,— not so much claim'd by any one Province, as priz'd for its Ambiguity,— occupied by all whose Wish, hardly uncommon in this Era of fluid Identity, is not to reside anywhere. As a peaceful and meadowlike Vista sweeps Southward, the Line and the Arc approach one another, one may imagine almost sensibly,
Bearing in from either Limb of Sight, A-thrum, like peevish Dumbledores in flight
as great Tox has it, in his Pennsylvaniad.
Yet there remains to the Wedge an Unseen World, beyond Resolution, of transactions never recorded,— upon Creeksides and beneath Hedges, in Barns, Lofts, and Spring-houses, in the long Summer Maize fields, where one may be lost within minutes of entering the vast unforgiving Thickets of Stalks,— indeed, all manner of secret paths and clearings and alcoves are defin'd,— push'd over or stamp'd into being, roofless as Ruins, for but a few fugitive weeks of lull before autumnal responsibilities come again looming. The sun burns, the gravid short Forests beckon. The Soil, when enough is reveal'd, becomes another sand Arena. Anybody may be in there, from clandestine lovers to smugglers of weapons, some hawking contraband,— buckles, lockets, tea, laces from France,— some marking off "Lots" for use in some future piece of Land-Jobbery. Insect pests are almost intimidated into leaving, but sooner or later come back.
Nearby, withal, is Iron Hill, a famous and semi-magical Magnetick Anomaly, known to Elf Communities near and far, into which riskers of other peoples' Capital have been itching for years to dig,— but being reluctant to reward more than one set of Provincial Officials at a time, are waiting until the legal status of the Wedge becomes clear. Is it part of Pennsylvania? Maryland? or of the new entity "Delaware"?— which on paper at least belongs to Pennsylvania, William Penn's having leas'd it from the Duke for a term often thousand years,— tho' it has enjoy'd, for fifty of these, its own Legislature and Executive Council.
'Tis no one's, for the moment. A small geographick Anomaly, a-bustle with Appetites high and low, their offerings and acceptances.
The North Line quickly completed, the Surveyors are order'd back to Susquehanna, this time to continue the West Line "as far as the Country is inhabited." Legally this suggests as far as the Proclamation Line, at the Crest of the Alleghenies. Even before the Party reaches the River,— as if 'twere a Fate neither could avoid,— Darby and Cope are pretending to be Mason and Dixon, tho' not always respectively. It begins when someone having observ'd the Chain, assumes the obvious,— "Mr. Mason! a-and this must be Mr. Dixon!"
"Not exactly," says Cope.
"He means," Darby hastily puts in, "that he's Mason, and I'm Dixon, isn't that right, 'Mason'?"
"I'd prefer to be Dixon," hisses Cope.
"Next time, all right?" The Links of the Chain cak'd with dried Dirt, and squeaking almost painfully....
"You'll want to take care," they're eventually warn'd by a friendly Tapster, "there're a couple of Lads about, pretending to be you two."
"Get on," says Darby.
"Why should anyone wish to be us?" wonders Cope.
Maidens in varying ratios of Indignation to Curiosity show up in camp, demanding to see Mason or Dixon, or both. Upon meeting the real Surveyors, "Well, but you're not him,— " "— nor you the other."
"Of course not," reply Mason and Dixon. When they have a moment to talk about it together, "It must be someone in camp," Mason suggests, "My guess is, 'tis Darby and Cope."
"How, then?"
"Well, they're never about, are they, when all these folk show up to complain? And their Names, like ours, are usually spoken together.... Yet you know more of Chain-men than I,— what think ye?"
"The Chain-man's Sorrows," it seems to Dixon, "all proceed from being forbidden, but upon sufferance of the Party-Chief, so much as to touch any Instrument, excepting the Chain,— with centuries of that word's poetic Associations adding to its Weight. Farmers in Durham
aren't the only ones who call it the D——l's Guts.... Chain-men bear
it, they hate it, they tend it carefully, their feelings ever in a muddle... they cannot keep from sliding queer covetous glances at the other Instruments. They understand the Surveyor's Injunction, yet touch they must, and will,— some honestly wishing to learn more of the Arts, others merely to fiddle with the Equipment. That Messieurs Darby and Cope, being, here in America, Surveyors fully competent with all Instru- ments, should now toil as Chain-men...?— under British supervision withal...?— invidious Situations arise, d'tha see."
"Then shall we break with Tradition, perhaps allow them to use our Surveying Instruments?— Or yours, rather, as I possess none of my own."
"Eeh! What,— My Circumferentor...? Why, 'tis another of my very Senses...? 'Twould be like letting someone else do my Smelling for 9"
me..
"Hum, so...You and this...Instrument are...quite close, then? D'ye have a Name, that you call it by?"
"Mason, the thought of either Darby's or Cope's Eye-ball dripping fluids all over the Lenses of my Old Circ,—
"Ha! 'Old Circ'! How charming you people are, how child-like in your Attachments."
"Perhaps if the Tools of thy Trade had ever belong'd to thee, instead of to the King, tha might at least once have felt this simple, sentimental Bond,— quite common among the People in fact, though scarcely, I guess, among all those great Publick Zenith-Sectors and Telescopes and so forth, up there but a footfall from the Highest in the
Land...?"
_
Mason drops his head in false apology. "Yet another Flaw! how many more, before my Character's too riddl'd for it to matter? Dixon, I know I am not worthy, to carry your esteem'd Instrument. Blessing upon you both, and much joy of your Relationship."
"Thankee, Mason, I mean that sincerely. As to our Chain-men,— they being qualified Lensfolk, might we not allow them some time with the Sector...? neither of us actually owning it."
"Fine with me, I've but its Custodians to report to. You must answer to its Maker."
"John Bird would do the same, I'm certain...?"
"Deferring as ever in matters of character," Mason making mock-French flourishes in the Air with his Hat.
"Why here are the Gents themselves, a Miracle, fetch me the Jesuit Telegraph, for I must report it to the Pope,— how now Boys,—
"Far too truculent," mutters Mason. "Mr. Cope, Mr. Darby, well met."
"We prefer 'Darby and Cope,' actually," says Darby.
"He being the Head and all," adds Cope.
"Of course that's only east to west,—
"Depending who ends up with the Stobs, really,—
Going on to describe, in foul-copy Stichomythia, their Practice of exchanging ten small wood stakes, to keep the Chain-Count accurate, tho' between Mr. Darby's habit of keeping Stobs ev'rywhere about him, including in his Belt, Leggings, and Hat, and Mr. Cope's Forgetfulness in counting, they have grown so fearful of Stob-Loss, as to have begun Exchanging Stobs after eleven Chains instead of ten, with Mr. Cope then passing back only nine of his, and keeping one. Yet now one and now the other will forget, and revert to the old ten-Chain Method—
"We may be miles off by now," Dixon's eyes having grown very round.
"Save that thro' some dark miracle of Mathesis," says Darby, ''our Errors have ever exactly cancel'd out."
"Else Susquehanna measur'd to Potowmack, Might haply 'maze the Trav'ler loxodromick,—
"With phantom Leagues, too many or too few,— As if a very Hole in Space 'twere, too."
A pause. Not a mischievous Dimple 'pon either Phiz. "All content otherwise?" Mason as he imagines smoothly.
"Go easy, Mason, don't upset them...?—
' 'Twas him made me do it!" screams Mr. Cope, as if yielding before a sudden Stress.
"Booby!" ejaculates Mr. Darby. " 'Twas you began it!"
"Yet Head Ev'rything must you ever be, mustn't you, leaving poor, miserable Cope to shift as he may,—
"Made thee do what?" inquires Dixon.
"Aha! You see?" cries Mason, "— now are they confessing."
Actually, the Chain-men are fallen rather to thumping one the other, as Mason and Dixon look on. "Then again," confides Mason behind his Hand, "a turn at the Sector mightn't be such a good idea, not just now...."
There is Commotion up the Visto. A delegation of newly hir'd Axmen come marching in. "Here are the very Subjects!" cries one of these.
"Now then ye heathen, hold, 'tis not how we Christians settle our differences."
"Yet they seem like white men,—
"Cleverly indeed fiendishly disguis'd, tho' 'Darby' and 'Cope' are not quite British Names, are they?"
"Why, they are as British as anyone here...?" Dixon points out.
"Not according to your pay-List,— see here, it reads, 'Darby and Cope, Chinamen.''
"Thah's...'Chain-men'...?"
"Ah."
"Not the same,— "
"Oh dear."
"Is Mr. Barnes but fun-mongering, and we the Gulls?"
"Pity, really. None of us has seen a Chinaman before."
"Soon," promises the oracular Squire Haligast, in a Voice so charg'd with passion that immediately all but the most desperate of the Axmen believe him.
By the twenty-second of June they are back below the Peach Bottom Ferry,— another Saturday Night,— ready to start West again. There rushes the River,— both Surveyors understanding by now 'tis not only a River, being as well the Boundary to another Country. Next day, they measure southward about forty-five feet to correct their error in Latitude, "...and there placed a mark, and in the direction of this, and the Mark on the East Side of the River,.. .we proceeded to run the Line."
Just before they cross Susquehanna, a Parcel arrives for them by way of a lather'd Youth riding Express upon a black Barb, neither showing any sign of tiring,— with a terrible "Yee-hah!" the Youth sweeps off his Tricorne, wheels, and has gallop'd back into the Brush. In the Package is Fr. Boscovich's Book, De Soils et Lunce at last, Defectibus, publish'd dispatch'd Transatlantickally by Maskelyne, who in the Jobation accompanying, invites their Attention to a great Variety of Data within, including a Warning as to the Attraction of Mountains,— "In Italy 'twas establish'd, that the Umbrian Appenines caus'd a very considerable deviation of the Plumb-line Northward, as the party, moving in that direction, drew ever closer.”
"First the Iron-Lodes disable my Needle," moans Dixon, "now the Mountains are about to throw off my Plummet?"