Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Hallo, Cap'n. This un's a likely one,— hey?" A muscular, untended dark cloud of an Indiv. has appear'd upon Dixon's starboard Quarter.
"No, Blackie, he's another Astronomer,— you recollect the one last year? Well, this is his Partner."
"Mais oui, mais oui," Dixon sweeping off his Hat and making his Notion of a Bow. "You hate Engleesh bastaird? Want to keel them, eh? Haw, haw! Me too!"
"Much rather kill you," sighs Blackie. "But, as I mayn't, you shall have to stand me a pint instead."
"Seems fair." Tho' by now broad daylight outside, in here 'tis forever Midnight,— Resolutions proper to the hour being made and kept all 'round them, Windows shutter'd, lamps few. Good thing I'm a jolly straight-ahead Lad, Dixon reminds himself,— or I'd start to imagine all kinds of things—
"To the 'Sixty-six!" Pewter clanking, ale spilling and commingling, much of it upon the Clothing of the Company.
"What d'ye think, then?" Blackie asks abruptly of Dixon.
"Eeh,— not Philadelphia, is it?"
"Nor Boston neither!" Blackie assures him, with a clap upon the shoulder. "Tho' it little matters."
"Aye,— ev'ry Province is agreed in this Business. All speak as One."
"What a terrible thing, that British Governments should mis-read us so, when we wish to believe in their Wisdom, their better grasp of History, as of Secular Likelihood,— yet they will keep finding ways to nourish our Doubts."
"Will their Stupidity prove beyond the reach even of Mr. Franklin, our American Prometheus?"
"Why bother to educate 'em? The stupider the better."
"Yet too stupid, and the only Choice left is Battle."
"There's the Ticket!" cries Blackie.
"At the Peak of the Riots, Blackie was running about a Thousand Sailors," remarks Capt. Volcanoe.
"And they're still in Town," Blackie with an eager Nod, "thanks to Cap'n Kennedy." Who, in Command of H.M.S. Coventry, is regulating Traffick in the Harbor, allowing ships to enter, but detaining as many as
he may who attempt to leave with their Clearance Papers unstamp'd. "Here comes one of my Lads now, in fact."
Who does it prove to be but Foretopman Bodine, once of the Seahorse, who, as he now relates, having jump'd that ship in Madras, watching from shore as she sail'd away to the Capture of Manila, had then hir'd on to a China ship, which was set upon in mid-Ocean by Pirates, who took him to South America, whence he escap'd, making his way North, among Typhoons and Hurricanoes, Jungle and Swamp, Alligators and Boas, Indians and Spaniards, till fetching up in Perth Amboy in the company of a certain Roaring Dot, belle of the Harbor.
"Woman of my dreams," Fender-belly vilely chuckling.
"Nought but a Snotter waiting for a Sprit," his Lady controverts him. "Happen'd to be this 'un, 's all."
"Sav'd his arse from a musket ball before Fort George in November."
"Aye!" Blackie all a-grin, "What a Night! Thousands of us! A fierce Wind, coming in off the Harbor at our backs... Sparks from the Torches flying ev'rywhere!"
"Blackie kept imagining his Hat was a-fire," recalls the Captain. "All shouting up at them, 'Liberty!' Daring them to shoot Buggers. Tho' Major James could have ta'en easily a thousand Souls at the first Volley, he held his fire, and our War with Britain did not begin. But good Fender could have provok'd it, if anyone could." Whilst he was exposing his Hind-Parts to the Gaze of those in the Fort, prudent Dot, recognizing signs of Trouble ahead, remov'd a Sap from her Stocking, and bestow'd the Pygephanous Tar a Memento, from which he did not awaken until the next day, by which time he'd been convey'd to her Barge at the Amboys.
"Well met, Friend," says a quiet Voice at Dixon's Elbow. "I'll not tell if you won't." Peering thro' the Smoke, he recognizes Philip Dimdown, now as un-Macaronickal as possible, a serious young man upon a Mission whose end may not be predicted. They make their way to a Corner with a Clavier, from whose top Dixon must remove a Madeira bottle, two cold Chops, and a severely tatter'd Periwig in order even to lounge against it. "So, tha're not a Fop after all? I may pass Fop Remarks, make Fop-Joaks, without giving offense?”
' 'Twas the best way to get by them," Dimdown causing his Tankard to nod, amiably. "Rattling quite discomposes these Brits, some of whom may go for weeks without saying any more than they have to. Yet as no true Macaroni would, in non-Macaronick Company, behave too Maca-ronickally, in that was the impersonation you saw, defective. That is, I might have been more subdued about it."
"Fool'd me, for fair."
"I was probably indulging Fop Sentiments long kept under, unknown even to myself. Yet, even a Son of Liberty needs to have a little Diversion, given that scarcely a day passes when one doesn't have to step lively if one wishes to remain attach'd to one's Arse, and for me, say,— being a Fop's just the ticket. Right now I'm obsess'd with Wigs. I find I have to change them once a week at least in order to remain unidentified. What think ye of this one? Just snatch'd it up and threw it on,— in Town but for the night,— been trav'ling about in a French Bomb-Ketch, taken in the late War, La Fougueuse, two Mortars in the Cock-Pit, spot of Bother with the Trim in any kind of a Chop, dates back to 'forty-two, but she gets us where we want to go, she gets us 'round the Communications," seeming by this to denote, the total Ensemble of Routes by which Messages might in those days pass among Americans,— by which Selves entirely word-made were announc'd and shar'd, now and then merging in a plasma, like the Over-soul of the Hindoo, surging to and fro along the lanes, from hillside to bluff, by way of Lanthorn-Flashes, transnoctial hoofbeats, Sharpies and Snows, cryptograms curl'd among Macaronick Wigs, Songs, Sermons, Bells in the Towers, Hat-Brims, letters to the Papers, Broadsheets at the Corners, Criers at Town Limits facing out into the Unknown in the dead of Winter, in the middle of the Night, and shouting, never without the confidence that someone is listening, somewhere, and passing the Message along,— upon Water as upon Land, La Fougueuse in Company with Ferries coming and going 'round the Clock, linking coastal Connecticut, New-York, the Jerseys, all up and down Chesapeake, a single great branch'd Creature, impulses trav'ling Creeks and Coves at the speed of Thought,— Virginia, the Car-olinas, well into and beyond the Mountains, into the water-Prairie of Ohio, and thence...
" 'Tis vast," Blackie assures Dixon. "Ain't never been nothing like it. Been living in Brooklyn all my life, seen some 'shit' some English Gents wouldn't even know if they stepp'd in it,...and by t'en, 'twould be too late. But what's going on wit' t'ese Lawyers," pollicating the Captain, "hey,— yese don't want to know. It's vast, all right? Know what I'm saying,— vast."
Dixon shrugging, shakes his head to indicate ignorance upon the Top-ick. "Christ's Return...?" he guesses.
"That's next, after us."
"Yese are paving the way?"
"Very likely put, Sir,— " cries an ecclesiastickal-looking Personage, "I should add, 'inspiringly' but for the prepond'rance of Deists among us, whom Christ makes uncomfortable. They will have their day. And later, a generation, or two, from now, when the People are at last grown disenchanted enough, 'twill be time for Christ to return to the Hearts of His own."
"Why Asaph, poh to ye and your 'they'! ye're a d——'d Voltaire
Reader yourself, what kind of Thorns-and-Angels Stuff is this?"
"Mr. Dixon, being a Quaker, can hold little love for any King, Blackie, do calm down a bit,— tho' his love for Christ may be another matter, and 'twas that I was deferring to, that's if you don't mind?"
'' 'Course not," Blackie replies with the smugness of one who believes he has scor'd a Point.
"Tho' rear'd a Friend," Dixon feels he must clarify, "I was expos'd at a receptive Age to a Rush of Deistick thoughts, aye very Deistick indeed...?— all in a great tumble, by way of Mr. Emerson of Hur-worth,— so I've a Sentimental Foot in each, as tha'd say...?"
"As a Quaker, you'd surely rather see us independent of Britain?" inquires Mr. Dimdown.
' 'Tis not how British treat Americans," Dixon amiably rubescent, " 'tis how both of You treat the African Slaves, and the Indians Native here, that engages the Friends more closely,— an old and melancholy History.... My allegiance, as a Quaker born, would lie, above all Tribes, with Christ,— withal, as a Geordie, for reasons unarguably Tribal, I can have no sympathy for any British King,— not even one who's paid my Wages, bless 'im. Call me an ungrateful Cur, go ahead, I've been call'd
worse.—
Eeh, lo, thy Jack's empty...? Can't have thah', allow me, all who're dry, no problem, Mr. McClean shall enter each into his Ledger, and in the fullness of Time will all be repaid,— aye then, here they come! how canny, with those greeaht Foahm Tops on 'em, what do tha call thah'?"
"That is a 'Head,' " Blackie quizzickal. "They don't have that, back wherever you're from? What kind o' Ale-drinker are you then, Sir?"
"Shall we quarrel, after all?"
"Innocent question," Blackie looking about for support.
"Very well, as tha did ask,— I'm a faithful and traditional Ale-Drinker, Sir, who does thee a courtesy in even swallowing this pale, hopp'd-up, water'd-down imitation of Small Beer."
"Far preferable," replies Blackie, "- - even if slanderously and vilely untrue,— to that black, sluggish, treacly substitute for Naval Tar, Sir, no offense meant, that they swill down over in England?" with a look that would have been meaningful, could it get much beyond a common Glower.
Dixon sighs. Ale Loyalty is important to him, as part of a pact with the Youth he wish'd to remain connected to. He lifts and drinks, as calmly as possible, the entire Pint of American Ale, without pausing for any Breath. Having then taken one at last, "0 Error!" he cries, "How could I've so misjudg'd this?"
Blackie is as short of Time as anyone here. This thing that is now taking shape has an Inertia that may yet bear all before it.. .he can no longer indulge himself in what once, not long ago, would have prov'd a lively Contest,— nowadays, all energy, all attention, is claim'd by Futurity, unwritten as unscryable, the Door wide open.
Thus, "I once took Joy, 's a matter of fact, in many a British Pint," recalls Blackie, "and go ever in the Faith that so I shall again, some day. Meanwhile, as with our Tea, we brew American."
"Believe I'll have another of those...?" replies Dixon. "Would tha join me?”
Upon the Roads of Mason's journey South, the scene is alarming. In Maryland, in September, the Mob had pull'd down the house of Zachariah Hood, who, refusing to resign as the Province's Stamp Distributor, fled to New-York, and was granted refuge in Fort George, in time to witness Foretopman Bodine's Bi-Lunar Exhibition. Tho' 'twas now possible to clear Vessels out of Chesapeake Ports unstamp'd, pleading a lack of Stamps, Maryland was somehow among the last of the American Provinces to do so. As if, having paus'd self-amaz'd at their bold deed, the Mobility were now considering their next step. As Autumn rusted toward Winter, Youths went careering along the high roads firing long Rifles from Horse-back at any target that might suggest a connexion with stamp'd Paper, Puffs of Breath and Smoke decorating the way. Groups of farm Girls stood at crossroads and sang to them, "Americans All." Their Fathers, not always with better things to do, offer'd Jugs and Pipes, and their Mothers Tea. Traveling Sons of Liberty never had to pay a farthing for Drink,— and were ever the objects of Suggestions that, for even the liveliest of them, would have taken more time away from their Itineraries than Duty would allow. Massachusetts Bay accents were heard for the first time, out in the Allegheny, up in the Coves, or "Coves," as Folk there were pronouncing it, purs'd as the Yankees were broad. New-Yorkers in Georgia, Pennsylvanians in the Caroli-nas, Virginians ev'rywhere, upon Horses perhaps better looking than suited to the Work,— all took time to appreciate the musick of Voices from far away, yet already, unmistakably, American.
Out in the Field, Down by the Sea, The Hour has peal'd, Whoever ye be,
Daughter of Erin, Scotia's Son, Let us be daring,— Let it be done.
It is time for
The Choosing,—
Americans all,
No more refusing
The Cry, and the Call,—
For the Grain to be sifted,
For the Tyrants to fall,
As the Low shall be lifted,—
Americans all...
Till the end of the Story, Till the end of the Fight, Till the last craven Tory Has taken to Flight,
Let us go to the Wall, Let us march thro' the Pain, Americans all, Slaves ne'er again.
At Williamsburg, Mason, as well as being invited to the College of William and Mary, to inspect the Philosophickal Apparati, is introduc'd, at the State House, to a Party of Tuscarora Chiefs, upon a Mission to bring out the last of their people from the Carolinas, and conduct them safely back under the Protection of the Senecas, where they will join the rest of their Tribe, the sixth of the Six Nations.
The Escort have some apprehension about crossing Pennsylvania, with an hundred, perhaps two hundred, Tuscaroras, for they have heard
of the Paxton Massacres. But along the way they are to be join'd by Protectors from various Nations, principally Mohawks. Tho' their Territory lies hundreds of Leagues to the North, the Six Nations are ever a-bustle thro' the Forests of Pennsylvania, observing all Movement, regardless of Size, vigilantly. "Any of Paxtonian Disposition," Mason tries to reassure the Chiefs, "being usually bless'd with a Marksman's Eye, know who's in the Woods, and why,— yet will not at ev'ry Opportunity choose to engage."
He is staying at Mr. Wetherburn's. One morning a note appears tuck'd into a Frame full of cross'd Ribbons, from Col° Washington, in Town and seeking a quiet game or two of Billiards. Their Tranquillity is not long preserv'd, as more and more arrive in Raleigh's Billiard-Room, 'round the fam'd great Table.
"Even as Clearings appear in the Smoke of a Tavern, so in Colonial matters may we be able to see into, and often enough thro', the motives of Georgie Rex and that dangerous Band of Boobies.... Henceforth, it seems, the Irish and the Ulster Scots are to be upon the same terms with them as the Africans, Hindoos, and other Dark peoples they enslave,— and so, to make it easier to shoot us, with all Americans,— tho' we be driven more mystically, not by the Lash and Musket, but by Ledger and Theodolite. All to assure them of an eternal Supply of cheap axmen, farmers, a few rude artisans, and docile buyers of British goods."