Authors: Thomas Pynchon
"Not only presuming us their Subjects, which is bad enough,— but that we're merely another kind of Nigger,— well that's what I can't forgive. Are you sure?"
"Civility, Sir! The word you have employ'd, here in this quiet Pool of Reason, is a very Shark, which ever feels its Lunch-Hour nigh."
"Excuse me, do I hear that Word again? In this Smoak, 'twould seem, so are we all."
"Eeh!" Washington grabbing Mason.
"Colonel, Sir," twitching away, " 'twould be far preferable,—
"That voice, Mason! 'tis my Tithable, Gershom!"
"And furthermore, here's the latest news of the King." Several hoots and whistles. "King goes in a Tavern, bar-tender says, what'll it be, George, King says, I'm in disguise here, how'd you know who I was,— bar-tender says, that Crown on your Head,— King says, Only a Madman
would walk around wearing a Crown,— bar-tender falls on his knees,— Your Majesty!"
Half the Company seem to believe this is a white Customer, impersonating an African. Others, having caught Gershom's act before, recognize him right away.
"Hey Gersh, do the one about the Crocodile that can talk."
"The Rabbit in the Moon!"
"Wait a bit, somebody say there's a real Negroe in here?"
"Hell, maybe even more 'n one."
For the rest of the evening, ev'ryone suspects ev'ryone else of being Gershom. Now and then someone, tho' the Bellows are never quite fast enough to reveal who, tells another King-Joak.
"King's Alchemist presents him with a Philtre that can transport him where'er he wishes.—
Mason's turn to put the Clutch upon Washington. "Baby-Phiz Nathe McClean, or I'm a Sailor."
"King decides he'll journey to the Sun," the invisible Youth continues, "— Alchemist says, 'Your Majesty! The Sun?— it burns at thousands of Fahrenheit's Degrees,— far too hot there for anything to remain alive.' King says, 'So, where's the Difficulty?— I'll go at Night.' "
Young Nathe, back in Classes at William and Mary, daily more woven into Continental Realities, here, seen thro' what he and his School-mates style the Room-Brume, appears already less fit, more slothful than the narrow and restless Camp-Factotum of the summer previous. "I left that Party just in time," he confides. "I should have been crazy as Captain Zhang, had I remain'd a week more."
"Crazy enough," remarks his friend Murray.
"That bad, was it?" Mason a bit reserv'd.
"All respect, Sir, the Captain wasn't just Pipe-Smoaking in the Article of that Sha. We all felt it, as, to Appearance, did you and Mr. Dixon. Surveying a Property Line, that may be one thing,— clearing and marking a Right Line of an Hundred Leagues, into the Lands of Others, cannot be a kindly Act."
"Should we have refus'd the Commission, then?" Mason in ever-sharpening Nasality, "— We didn't invent Parallels of Latitude. Your
Dispute is with Hipparchus, and Eratosthenes before him,— both, I believe, dead?"
"Perhaps no harm will come of it. So must we pray. Remember me to Mr. Dixon. Your Servant, Sir," as Nathe once more is subsum'd into Nicotick Vapors opaque as Futurity, leaving Mason feeling guilty as foolish, unable to rely as much as before upon Remembrances of the cheerful Boy who pass'd like a Shuttle, ever to and fro and amidst, as if weaving the very Party on into the West, Day upon Day.
The Surveyors return to the North Mountain at the end of March, to find the Shelby Seat engulf'd as ever in Turmoil. Six neighbors having but lately petition'd Governor Sharpe to remove him and his co-Adjutor Mr. Joseph Warford as Justices of the Peace, the Captain's secular Woes have multiplied sensibly toward a State of irremediable Chaos, owing to the great Scandal over the winter involving Tom Hynes, Catherine Wheat, and their Baby.
"You recall how last September,— not long before you Boys arriv'd,— Conrad Wheat, one of our Distillers hereabouts, 's Girl Catherine goes up before Cap'n Price holding in her Arms her newborn Baby, swearing under Oath that Tom Hynes is the Father. She doesn't appear at November Court in Frederick's Town, so the matter's put over till March."
Tom wonders what she's up to. Some other Swain behind the Smokehouse he don't know about? He's all perplex'd. His own father is happy to advise him. "This is my grandson. Know what that means?"
"Um, no Sir."
"A Grand-Son means a man can quit worrying at last. Means the chain goes on unbroken. The Miracle of Fatherhood. That's as long as the little sucker's Daddy ain't some contemptible Fool, who'd gladly run away, but for his own Father, who'd beat him so roundly he'd be running nowhere for a long while, o' course."
"Wha." Tom a-gape. "Marry the bitch?”
"We dwell among people of the Kirk, lad," advises the elder Hynes, "_ recalling the Sampler your dear Mother made, that hangs o'er the Hearth,— "
" 'expect indians; " nods Tom.
"Exactly in the same daily Spirit, must a man, aye and Woman too, at ev'ry Moment, expect Law-Suits out here, from any Direction, for any reason, or none. In a Presbyterian World, 'tis best to keep a tidy Life. Marry her."
"She.. .um, she'd never have me,—
"Proving she's got good Sense,— all the more reason why you need to marry her. Now tonight I'm going to lock you in this Shed here,—
"Dad!"
"To-night, Tom, you must be sober and alone with your Soul, not out rowdy-dowing. Take note I've been holding back the Hickory, so far. This is too important. Think about it."
So young Hynes obeys, tho' his Thoughts aren't quite as spiritual as his Father might have hop'd for. Rather, Tom thro' these dark Hours slowly pieces together what, even in the sunlight of the next day, to his redden'd eyes, continues to look like a clever Plan.
"Forget the Bitch," he announces, "we'll seize the Baby," dashing off before William can comment, to call upon Capt. Shelby and ask him, as Peace Commissioner, to write him a Warrant to repossess the Baby. The Captain, hearing the Story, is amus'd. His blood gets to racing at the possibility of yet another lawsuit. He goes thro' a great Rigmarole with good Paper, Pens and Inks of several Colors, and Wax Seals as well, and Tom, who can't read any of it, figures he's as good as got that Baby in his Hands.
That Monday Night, about nine or ten, they go to serve the instrument,— Tom, and the Constable, along with Moran, Dawson, a couple of others, Nathan Lynn, and John Gerloh, show up at Wheat's House, pretending at first they only want a Quart of Whiskey. Six of 'em, they're planning to share a Quart? The German, suspicious already, now spies Tom Hynes among the Company. "A Pint, I can only sell you."
"Well come on out here, Conrad, we want you to look at something." Conrad thinks about it,— there are women and children in the house, his nearest Pistol is too far away. He shrugs and steps into the night, leaving
the Door open a little, with only the Thrusts of light from candles inside, moving to and fro, to see by. "We've come for the Baby, Conrad," says the Constable, Barney Johnson. "Will you give him up?"
"Why should I?"
"Court Order."
"May I see it."
"Too dark."
"Read it to me?"
Barney sighs. "Here, Moran, you've the Lanthorn,—
What Shelby wrote proves to be a Search Warrant for Stolen Goods,— more of the Welshman's peculiar notion of Mirth. Catherine pops out the door to remind the Constable that her Child ain't Goods, stolen or however. Tom, jumping down off his horse, goes after her, and she slams the Door in his face. Ev'rybody's feeling edgy.
"Who sign'd this Order?" Conrad shouts.
"Don't tell him anything!" warns Tom in a Temper.
"Tom, 'tis all legal," says the Constable. "And Conrad, now,— the Warrant is Captain Shelby's, but,—
"Shelby! Some Court Order, Barnett,— shame, so. Captain Shelby's Demand?— more of his Bullying,— it means nothing. My daughter has already given Security to Justice Price, and her Child is safe here."
"Catherine Wheat having fail'd to show up in Justice Price's Court last Month," Constable Johnson in a small hurried voice proclaims, "is deem'd in violation of the Law, and pending Disposition, for the good of the Child must I order my Deputies to lay hands upon it, forthwith."
"Lay hands upon this!" cries one of the Girls of the House, and shakes out a great Wing of Dish-Water, whose pinguid Embrace not all escape, whilst another sets the Hounds who live in the back, upon the Party. The House of a sudden is seen to be fill'd with more people than anyone might have imagin'd.
"Why then Conrad, I am personally sadden'd to think you would lie thus in wait for us,— " the Constable unable to finish his thought as he must struggle to remain atop his Mount. Out the Door, and a Window or two as well, come Barkley, Steed, and the Rush brothers,— Brooks and Flint remaining within, to see to the Ladies,— advancing upon the Constable's Men, who with back-Country Whoops come a-charging, Cudgels
ready to strike, Tom in his not altogether subdued way screaming, "He's mine Bitch and I'll have him alive or dead!" One of Wheat's boys, roughly push'd, falls, is hurt. A sister swoops in to snatch the Baby, and bring him in his Swaddling, looking like a little stuff'd Cabbage-Leaf, back to the Kitchen, whilst the others in the House shut and bar the Door, tho' not for long, as the Rioters, close behind, begin breaking it in. The Boy has a compress of Arnica Tea upon his Thump by now, and will be all right. Conrad has a lot invested in the Door, which he's carpen-ter'd, carv'd, and hung all with his one set of hands,— he watches, not yet able to believe that these men he thought he knew could become a Band of Raiders who mean him harm, and his Grand-son as well, it seems, for now in this ear-batt'ring Kitchen Melee the Baby is suddenly become a Ball in a Game, being toss'd in short high arcs from one Party to another 'bout the House, as the Shelbyites go beating upon anyone in their Reach, injuring some so badly they won't make it in to Court. No more hazardous than the usual North Mountain Wedding. Young Tom is beating the Mother of his Child, informing her, in a Voice not entirely in his Control, of his intention to kill her,— passionate lad, tho' not in any way women are apt to find welcome, is it? Nathan Lynn grabs the Baby and runs out the Door, then one of Wheat's Women, chasing after, gets him back, runs on into the Field with Barney after her and John Gerloh close behind. They catch her and beat her till she gives the Child up, all out in the Dark where they can't see her as well as they could back in the Candle-light,— they've no sense of depth here, and don't know how hard to strike. All are Phantoms to one another. At last, she reclines in a frozen Furrow, weeping, trying to get one of them to look her in the face. Gerloh will not, and Barney is too occupied with the Baby,— who, upon assessing the Constable, has begun to cry.
Well, "cry" is perhaps not it exactly. All the way to Ralph Matson's House, that little Banshee lets out a Protest that echoes for miles off these Hills,— Irish Folk cross themselves, needlewomen drop Stitches not to mention Beaux. "For the Days then teeter'd 'round us all," comments Capt. Shelby, "- - we'd soon enough ourselves be upon the March from Frederick Town down to Annapolis, riding as a Troop, two and three a-breast, with inexpensive Comparisons made to the Paxton Boys, tho' 'twas the Stamp Dispute that brought us out, and whether the Assembly
would pass its Journal. Tom's domestick Drama gave us a practice run, as you'd say, for Acts of Publick necessity impending."
At last they convey the Goods successfully across to Matson's, upon the Pennsylvania side,— Capt. Shelby's there waiting, with Will Hynes,— the Baby crying to chill the Bones of Pontiac himself. "Give it here, Barney," says the Cap'n, "ye're doing that all wrong,— " and takes the Baby, who abruptly falls silent, gazing up at the Captain's Eyebrows. "Aye, you like that, do you? Can't say you look much like a Hynes. Just as well." He Orbs one by one the bleeding, dishevel'd Escort. "Do I take it the Mother was unwilling to give the Infant up?"
"I made the Dutch Bitch's blood fly," Tom Hynes informs the Company.
"Say it three times quickly, Tom, and we'll believe you."
"That, incidentally, is the Exclamation verbatim," Uncle Ives here asserts, "— see Proceedings of the Council of Maryland, for the Year 'sixty-five. Your Uncle has been telling the story as depos'd much later by people wishing to have Shelby dismiss'd as a Peace Officer, perhaps to get even for some wrong committed during the Crisis attending the Stamp Act, or perhaps more ancient. But here he crossed the Line,— a Pennsylvanian raid upon a Maryland Farmer. 'Twas more, than whose Warrant should have effect where,— Shelby ignor'd the Power of the Line, and chose to defy it. So it became a matter for Annapolis."
" 'Tis all there," allows the Revd, "the whole squalid Tale, transcending the usual Neighborly Resentment, tied in to that strange rising of Spirit throughout the Countryside,— from a certain cock of the Hat, to the Refusal of all further Belief in Boundaries or British Government,— a will'd Departure from History."
Captain Shelby's personal Peeve is the lack of respect for his Signature upon writs and orders, which he seems to run into at ev'ry Turn, either Side of the Line. The Law, in its Majesty, can look after itself,— 'tis the Disrespect for him personally, that Shelby cannot abide. "Damn the Dutchman, he'd better stay over there in Maryland or he'll be well thrash'd. Refusing my Writ! Good thing I wasn't along with you, Barney, Fd've burn'd his house down." No one reminds him that he wrote the Baby-Repossession Order in jest. He refuses in turn, to accept Security from Flint and Brooks on behalf of the Wheat girl,— "If my Writ means
nothing over there, why should your Security mean any more over
here?"-- taking instead the Hyneses' Note for £100 as Bond to keep the Baby off the Parish.
The Captain's troubles are not over, for now Conrad Wheat brings Suit over the Riot at his House, obliging all Parties to show up at Justice War-ford's House for a Hearing preliminary to Court. Tom Hynes the merry Bachelor, tho' bobbing Corklike as ever, beginning to feel remorse, no longer alludes to his recent blood-letting Activities. No one wants to hear about it anyway. When the moment to appear before the Justice arrives at last, he's all but desperate to see Kate.