Authors: Thomas Pynchon
Shelby comes in a-bellowing after a Warrant for Catherine Wheat's Fine. "Mrs. Warford advises against it," replies Joseph Warford, "her Gifts in this area being widely known,— and Evan don't try to squeeze this one dry, for there's not that much in it."
"Damme! Joe! My old Colleague-at-Law,— his worthy Wife at whose table I've ever been happy to dine. Betray'd! Who'd've thought it of either one, here, hey Will? Hey, Tom?— Tom?" Tom Hynes is not immediately visible.
Amazingly to all, Mrs. Warford and a resolute Candle-flame reveal the North-Mountain Casanova retir'd to a Stuft Chair in a dim corner, with Catherine Wheat upon his Lap, whilst he strokes her intently. "You wounded me," she is advising him, "I was bleeding,— I've the Marks yet,— here,— can you see my back?"
''Twas but a Willow Switch, and you were curl'd up so tight...I'd never harm you, Katie."
"Why, you lying snake, of course you would,— and you did."
"How was I suppos'd to feel?— ev'ryone staring,— without even telling me first, you just went to Captain Price— I believ'd it our own secret child, the secret of our love, thah' no one need know—
"Are you crazy?— hide a Baby! You know what Babies are, net? You've been in the House with ours, for even a Minute? What Secret?"
"Well,.. .maybe I know that now— Maybe I was young then,— maybe even, even foolish."
"Then was three months ago, you could've just married me then,— sav'd us all this." She doesn't care by now who thinks what, not even Tom, whom she is looking schlag in the eye.
Firmly propell'd from behind by his Wife,— her Version of a suggestive Nudge,— Mr. Warford abruptly enters the Tête-à-Tête, rumbling, "Hynes as you have spoil'd this Girl, and taken her Credit from her, you ought to marry her."
Both young people regard the Avuncular Apparition, and the bobbing Arc of Faces behind, with strangely calm'd Expressions. She rests her head upon Hynes's shoulder, exhales, and continues to gaze at the Company, her face, if not smug, then at least innocently relaxing after a long struggle. "So, Tom," a confidence in her voice he's never heard, but were he quicker, might have felt concern'd about, "what d'ye think, my Boil'd Potato?"
"Oh," his Face drap'd in a slow Daze, "I haven't much against it. Sure, I'll consider of it."
Intending to offer twenty-five, but mov'd by the Spirit in the Room, Conrad Wheat declares, "Ye shall have thirty pounds from me. And a five-pound wedding, so."
"Hurrah," cries Mrs. Warford. "Now,— when were you thinking of, young man, exactly?"
"When." Tom Hynes, not sure what today's date is, notes, with some alarm, that all this whole Rioting, Baby-snatching, litigious Time, it has been Christmastide. Has Christmas come and gone and he's miss'd it in all the Commotion? "Before year's end, Miss's," he supposes.
"Just a minute," cries Capt. Shelby, who's been busy scribbling. The Merriment subsides. "There's yet this matter of the Girl's Fine. Joe, if ye'll not write me a Warrant, p'raps ye'll at least, kindly, sign one of my own, here?"
Mr. Warford peers over at his Wife, who for the second time tonight desuperpollicates, with a mischievous tho' unwavering smile for the Captain. "Sorry."
"I don't know how much more, as a man, I can really take of this," mutters the Welshman. "Damn'd Dutchman with his five-pound Ridot-toes and his Indian-Corn Poison,— oh, much too grand to comply with my lawful Writ, and now, old Joe, you refuse me once, and then again,— this night am I thrice denied,— then Damme, I'll sign it myself,— there! Now someone, seize the young Lady forthwith!”
"My pleasure!" cries the dim Tom Hynes, clasping his sweetheart, who squeals.
Will Hynes frowns at Shelby. "What new Thievery's this?"
"I'll take your Note happily, Tom," the Captain prompts.
"Dad?"
"I think he wants you to be here for the Wedding," explains Will Hynes.
"Before the Year is out," intones Mrs. W.
Thus, upon the night of December 31st, all are gather'd at Mr. War-ford's House, in clean Clothes and hopeful Spirits. Snow drifts in the corners of Window-panes distant from the Fire. Mrs. Warford has made a great dark, spirit-soak'd Fruit-Cake, and iced it for good Measure, in bridal White. Conrad Wheat has brought a Waggon-load of his lately run Conoloways White, whose drinking requires close attention, lest it prove but one more way of falling asleep. Stamp Act rumors fly among small gatherings of young Men, in and out of doors. An assortment of Calathumpians are there, with a full Battery of cowbells tun'd to the Pen-tatonick Scale, Drums with 'Possum-skin Heads, Whistles and Gongs and a Military Bugle found in the woods after Braddock's Defeat.
"Not as cold as last winter this time, d'ye remember?"
"Cold enough for me."
"Never hope to see another like that one."
"This morning my Dogs wanted to stay in."
"Your Dogs have to lean against the Wall to bark, Gus."
Captain Shelby recites the Service as if it were Poetry. "Will you Thomas Hynes, take Catherine Wheat to your lawful wedded Wife?"
"Aye, Sir, I will."
"And Catherine Wheat, Thomas Hynes to your lawful wedded Husband— "
"I will."
- Then, barring some further act of Disrespect toward yet another Signature of mine, acting within my Authority as Officer of the Peace, I am delighted to be able at last to pronounce,— Jump, Dog! Leap, Bitch! And I'll be damn'd if all the men on Earth, can un-marry you!"
"Tell 'em, Captain!"
"Oh, Tom you've broken my heart!”
"And several others as well!"
The Fiddler raises his Bow and attacks "The Black Joke." Feet rediscover Steps that are their own, and not those of the Day and its Demands.
When Tom wakes next morning, only slowly recognizing the bed Mrs. Warford is charging him five shillings for, the first thing he notices is the wallpaper, pattern'd all over with identical small blue Flowers, upon a Ground of glowing Vermilion. He lies there for a long time in the crescent light, doing nothing but regarding this floral Repetition. He finds that if he comes close enough to the Wall, and lets his eyes drift slightly out of Focus, each Blossom will divide in two, and these slide away to each Side, until re-combining with a Neighbor,— and that the new-made images appear now to have Depth, making an Array of solid Objects suspended in a quivering bright /Ether.
It may have been a difficult night,— only one or two things stand out. He does recall Capt. Shelby performing the Marriage. He looks over beside him, now, and sure enough, there's Katie asleep, with an Egg-shap'd drop of Sunlight about to touch her Shoulder. So that was real.... He also recalls getting up in the middle of the night to piss, and being
confronted with a Figure he at first imagines as the D——l, because it
bears a Pitchfork,— but which he presently recognizes as Capt. Shelby.
"Been waiting, Mr. Hynes. Thought ye'd never come. Look at them, they're all asleep." In every dark nook lay revelers, under and upon the Furniture and Stairs. "All except me, I'm the only one who stay'd up, for I knew ye'd try to escape. Now,— get your Arse back into that Chamber, and if you dare to leave your lawful Wife, tonight or ever, this," waving the Fork, "gets jobb'd in your Guts, are we in Agreement?"
"Captain, all's I got up for was to piss,— and I was thinking more of outside the Judge's House than in?"
"Why didn't you say so? Come on, then. We'll see. We'll go piss in the snow."
Threading their way among snoring celebrants, trying not to blunder onto drooling Faces or disarrang'd Skirts, they go outside, and together piss in the Snow. Shelby writes his name, sweepingly, as if at the bottom of some Blank and all-powerful Warrant of the Winter, whilst Tom draws
a simple Heart, unpierc'd, unletter'd, whose outline he fills in carefully, completely, and then some. The Captain looks over. "You certainly did have to piss. Hallelujah. Attend me. Give up the pleasures of Town,— those brick Defiles are not for you...your Fate lies rather to the West. When those Surveyors return in the Spring, they'll be needing Hands. You can be head of Shelby's Men, a sort of Party within the Party, what say you?"
"Did me a service," Tom Hynes will declare, when anyone asks. "I'm forever oblig'd to the Captain,— Catherine Wheat is the best thing that ever happen'd to me,— without her I'd be lost. He sure knew what was best."
They are reluctant to quit the freezing Night. Tom asks, quietly, "May she come along?"
"She'll be in Foal again. Hey?"
"Forgot about that."
Shelby regards him silently and at length. "I had ye calculated for a Renegade. Why ye're going to be another damn'd Grandfather Cresap, Tom,— you'll see.”
In the strong twilight over the Mountains of Wales, draining of light League upon League of darkly forested Peaks...to the eye familiar, the occasional interruption of a Cabin or Plantation...chimney Smoke, a gray patch of girdl'd Trees amid the green pervading...a Shade ascending one hollow at a time, the wind acquires at the Dark a potency it did not possess in the light. An ax-bit's blow quench'd in living wood. A dog after a Squirrel. A percussive "Sandwich" of hammer, anvil, and the Work between. Night over all this watershed how vast, that covers each soul in it like a breathing Mouth, humid, warm, carrying the odors of living and dying, that takes back ev'rything committed upon the Land that Day, without appeal, dissolving all in Shadow.
They have caught up with this era in the settlement of this West. Though not in all ways insane, yet Capt. Shelby, avid for any occasion to quarrel, exhibits signs of mania upon the topic of Land-Disputes, being often preoccupied from well before sun-up till far into the early Darknesses with litigations great and petty, engrossments Ditto, with Boundary issues a particular Passion,— a fallen Tree, a wand'ring Chicken, the meanders of a Stream, any pretext, any least scent of Inconvenience, will do. He admires this West Line for its great Size, tho' he's puzzl'd as to why there can't be a few angles someplace, to accommodate a close friend, for example,— or even more than one.
"Kings," Mason with a what-can-we-poor-Sheep-do look, which Shelby declines to join him in. "This is how they reason, in Map-siz'd sweeps of the Arm. 'Divide it thus, I command you!' They can't be both-er'd with the fine details."
"Having ink'd a Map or two, I know that impatience, tho' my Sympathy reaches no further. Out here the King has few to count upon, and his troops will be fools, to come much past Cumberland,— you be certain to tell 'em I said so."
"Tell whom?"
"Whoever may be asking."
"Do tha believe we're Spies, Captain...?" Dixon, with genial Tap-Room Menace, moving as if into Range.
"Sirs. I've been out here since before the late War, and have offer'd my Hospitality to many a Spy, of ev'ry persuasion, for, as Spies must travel, so, it follows, some Travelers must be Spies,— yet I bar my Door to no one. 'Tis a Pursuit of men, away in the distant World, no more sinful than the making of Rifles, or the charging of Quit-Rent, yet do I prefer an honest Quarrel out in the open, myself, 'tis more manly somehow, don't ye think?"
Dixon ambles closer, beaming. "Yet 'tis a gormless Spy indeed, who'd lurk where there are no more Secrets to steal."
"How so?"
"What is there that has not been visited, intentionally and not, an hundred times? Gathering Ginseng would be more profitable."
Shelby is of course also a Surveyor, who ranges these Mountains all about, bearing and wielding his Instrument like a Weapon. "Oh, I saw 'pon the Instant how this was," darkly to Dixon, "I saw how the ancient Sorcerers must have enjoy'd what they did. At our Pleasure, we may look thro' this brazen Tube, thro' Glass mathematickally shap'd, and whatever desirable Scene sweeps by as we turn it,— why 'tis ours for writing down the Angle! Good Heavens, what Power!"
There is a love of complexity, here in America, Shelby declares,— pure Space waits the Surveyor,— no previous Lines, no fences, no streets to constrain polygony however extravagant,— especially in Maryland, where, encourag'd by the Re-survey Laws, warranted properties may possess hundreds of sides,— their angles pushing outward and inward,— all Sides zigging and zagging, going ahead and doubling back, making Loops inside Loops,— in America, 'twas ever, Poh! to Simple Quadrilaterals.
"Eeh," Dixon nodding vaguely. He's never regarded his Occupation in quite this way before. His journeyman years coincided with the rage then sweeping Durham for Enclosure,— aye and alas, he had attended at that Altar. He had slic'd into Polygons the Common-Lands of his Forebears. He had drawn Lines of Ink that became Fences of Stone. He had broken up herds of Fell sheep, to be driven ragged and dingy off thro' the Rain, to Gates, and exile. He had turn'd the same covetous Angles as the Welshman,— tho' perhaps never as many, for Shelby seem'd seiz'd with Goniolatry, or the Worship of Angles, defining tracts of virgin Land by as many of these exhilarating Instrumental Sweeps, as possible.
"Thing's to survey your Domain. Even if you don't own it. Here at the Allegheny Crest, ye may stand and look either way, down mile after mile of the Visto ye've cut, and from your Eminence pretend that you own it. Ev'ry Girl, ev'ry Gambler, Tonick Salesman, and Banjo Player that comes down that Line, could easily be paying Tribute to somebody. Not a lot,— no worse than Quitrent,— a Nuisance-Levy really, even if it's a song or a Card-trick or ten minutes in the Hay-Loft."
Shelby accompanies them over North Mountain, whereupon it begins to rain and snow, and continues so for the next ten days. The Cards come out, and the Chap-books and Dice and Bottles. Mason goes to sleep, requesting that he be waken'd only in case of Spring. Dixon tries to learn from Capt. Zhang something of the Luo-Pan, in exchange for Instruction as to the Sector. "The Attention we are paying these Zenith-Stars," he suggests, "has brought me to imagine an Anti-celestial, or backwards Astrology, in which the Stars must be...projected inward, somehow...? mapp'd from the Celestial Sphere onto the Surface of our Globe...? At Greenwich, for example, the Zenith-Star is Gamma Draconis, putting Britain into the Terrestrial Sign of Draco, the Dragon."