There is something else in progress,— something Mason cannot quite confide. Happen he's lost someone close? and recently enough to matter, aye,— for he's a way of pitching ever into the Hour, heedless, as Dixon remembers himself, after his father passed on— "I'll come along, if I may...?"
"Suture Self, as the Medical Students like to say."
They go out a back door, into the innyard. A leafless tree arches in the light of a single Lanthorn set above a taut gathering of card-players, their secret breathing visible for all to try to read, and Wigs, white as the snow on the Roofslates, nodding in and out of the Shadows.
Sailors, mouths ajar, lope by in the lanes. Sailors in Slouch-Hats, Sailors with Queues, puffing on Pipes, eating Potatoes, some who'll be going back to the Ship, and some who won't, from old sea-wretches with too many Explosions in their Lives, to Child-Midshipmen who have yet to hear their first,— passing in and out the Doors of Ale-Drapers, Naval Tailors, Sweet-shops, Gaming-Lairs, upstart Chapels, calling, singing Catches, whistling as if Wind had never paid a Visit, vomiting as the Sea has never caus'd them to.
"Happen his Dressing-Room's close by," Dixon suggests, "? - in with the Horses, maybe...?"
"No one would keep a talking Dog in with Horses, it'd drive them mad inside of a Minute."
"Occurs often, does it, where you come from?"
"Gentlemen," in a whisper out of a dark corner. "If you'll keep your voices down, I'll be with you in a trice." Slowly into their shifting spill of lantern-light, tongue a-loll, comes the Dog, who pauses to yawn, nods, "Good evening to ye," and leads them at a trot out of the stables, out of the courtyard, and down the street, pausing now and then for nasal inquiries.
"Where are we going?" Mason asks.
"This seems to be all right." The Learned English Dog stops and pisses.
"This dog," Mason singing sotto voce, "is causing me ap-pre-hen-sion,— surely creatures of miracle ought not to, I mean,...Flying horses? None of them ever—
"The Sphinx...?" adds Dixon.
"My Thought precisely."
"Now, Gents!" 'Tis a sudden, large Son of Neptune, backed by an uncertain number of comparably drunken Shipmates. "You've an inter?est in this Dog here?"
"Wish'd a word with him only," Mason's quick to assure them.
"Hey! I know you two,— ye're the ones with all the strange Machin?ery, sailing in the Seahorse. Well,— ye're in luck, for we're all Seahorses here, I'm Fender-Belly Bodine, Captain of the Foretop, and these are my Mates,— " Cheering. " - But you can call me Fender. Now,— our plan, is to snatch this Critter, and for you Gents to then keep it in with your own highly guarded Cargo, out of sight of the Master-at-Arms, until we reach a likely Island,—
"Island..." "Snatch..." both Surveyors a bit in a daze.
"I've been out more than once to the Indies,— there's a million islands out there, each more likely than the last, and I tell you a handful of Sailors with their wits about them, and that talking Dog to keep the Savages amused, why, we could be kings."
"Long life to Kings!" cry several sailors.
"Aye and to Cooch Girls!"
"— and Coconut-Ale!"
"Hold," cautions Mason. "I've heard they eat dogs out there."
"Wrap 'em in palm leaves," Dixon solemnly, "and bake 'em on the beach...?"
"First time you turn your back," Mason warns, "that Dog's going to be some Savage's Luncheon."
"Rrrrrraahff! Excuse me?" says the Learned D., "as I seem to be the Topick here, I do feel impelled, to make an Observation?"
"That's all right, then, Fido," Bodine making vague petting motions,
- trust us, there's a good bow-wow...."
A small, noisy party of Fops, Macaronis, or Lunarians,— it is difficult quite to distinguish which,— has been working its way up the street and into Ear-shot. Thro' several window-panes, moving candlelight appears. Hostlers roll about disgruntled upon feed-sack Pillows and beds. Unen?gaged Glim-jacks look in, to see if they can cast any light on matters.
The Dog pushes Mason's Leg with his Head. "We may not have another chance to chat, even upon the Fly.”
"There is something I must know," Mason hoarsely whispers, in the tone of a lover tormented by Doubts, "- - Have you a soul,— that is, are you a human Spirit, re-incarnate as a Dog?"
The L.E.D. blinks, shivers, nods in a resign'd way. "You are hardly the first to ask. Travelers return'd from the Japanese Islands tell of certain religious Puzzles known as Koan, perhaps the most fam'd of which con?cerns your very Question,— whether a Dog hath the nature of the divine Buddha. A reply given by a certain very wise Master is, 'Mu!''
" 'Mu,' " repeats Mason, thoughtfully.
"It is necessary for the Seeker to meditate upon the Koan until driven to a state of holy Insanity,— and I would recommend this to you in par?ticular. But please do not come to the Learned English Dog if it's reli?gious Comfort you're after. I may be preternatural, but I am not supernatural. 'Tis the Age of Reason, rrrf? There is ever an Explanation at hand, and no such thing as a Talking Dog,— Talking Dogs belong with Dragons and Unicorns. What there are, however, are Provisions for Sur?vival in a World less fantastick.
"Viz.—  Once, the only reason Men kept Dogs was for food. Noting that among Men no crime was quite so abhorr'd as eating the flesh of another human, Dog quickly learn'd to act as human as possible,— and to pass this Ability on from Parents to Pups. So we know how to evoke from you, Man, one day at a time, at least enough Mercy for one day more of Life. Nonetheless, however accomplish'd, our Lives are never settled,— we go on as tail-wagging Scheherazades, ever a step away from the dread Palm Leaf, nightly delaying the Blades of our Masters by telling back to them tales of their humanity. I am but an extreme Expression of this Process,—
"Oh I say, Dog in Palm Leaf, what nonsense," comments one of the Lunarians, " - really, far too sensitive, I mean really, Dog? In Palm Leaf? Civiliz'd Humans have better things to do than go about drooling after Dog in Palm Leaf or whatever, don't we Algernon?"
"Could you possibly," inquired the Terrier, head cocked in some Annoyance, "not keep saying that? / do not say things like, 'Macaroni Italian Style,' do I, nor 'Fop Fricasee,'—
"Why, you beastly little— "
"Grrrr! and your deliberate use of 'drooling,' Sir, is vile.”
The Lunarian reaches for his Hanger. "Perhaps we may settle this upon the spot, Sir."
"Derek? You're talking to a D-O-G?"
"Tho' your weapon put me under some Handicap," points out the Dog, "in fairness, I should mention my late feelings of Aversion to water? Which may, as you know, signal the onset of the Hydrophobia. Yes! The Great H. And should I get in past your Blade for a few playful nips, and manage to, well, break the old Skin,— why, then you should soon have caught the same, eh?" Immediately 'round the Dog develops a circle of Absence, of about a fathom's radius, later recall'd by both Astronomers as remarkably regular in shape. "Nice doggie!" " 'Ere,— me last iced Cake, that me Mum sent me all 'e way from Bahf. You take i'." "What think yese? I'll give two to one the Fop's Blood'll be first to show."
"Sounds fair," says Fender Bodine. "I fancy the Dog,— anyone else?"
"Oughtn't we to summon the Owners...?" suggests Mr. Dixon.
The Dog has begun to pace back and forth. "I am a British Dog, Sir. No one owns me."
"Who're the Gentleman and Lady who were with you in the Assembly Room?" inquires Mason.
"You mean the Fabulous Jellows? Here they come now."
"Protect you from sailors?" wails Mrs. Jellow, approaching at a dead run over the treacherous Cobbles of the Lane, "Oh, no, thank you, that was not in our Agreement." Her husband, pulling on his Breeches, Wig a-lop, follows at a sleepy Amble. "Now you apologize for whatever it was you did, and get back in that Stable in your lovely straw Bed."
"We were wondering, Ma'am," Bodine with his hat off, quavering angelically, "would the li'oo Doggie be for sale?"
"Not at any price, Topman, and be off wi' you, and your rowdy-dowing Flock as well." At her Voice, a number of Sailors in whose Flexibility lies their Preservation from the Hazards of Drink, are seen to freeze.
"Do not oppose her," Jellow advises, "for she is a first-rate of an hun?dred Guns, and her Broadside is Annihilation."
"Thankee, Jellow,— slow again, I see."
"Oh dear," Bodine putting his hat back on and sighing. "Apologies, Sir and Madam, and much Happiness of your Dog."
"You are the owners of this Marvel?" inquires Mason.
"We prefer 'Exhibitors,' " says Mr. Jellow.
"Damme, they'd better," grumphs the Dog, as if to himself.
"Why, here is The Pearl of Sumatra!" calls Dixon, who for some while has been growing increasingly desperate for a Drink, "And a jolly place it seems."
"Fender-Belly is buying!" shouts some mischievous Sailor, forever unidentified amid the eager Rush for the Entry of this fifth- or sixth-most-notorious sailors' Haunt upon the Point, even in whose Climate of general Iniquity The Pearl distinguishes itself, much as might one of its Eponyms, shining 'midst the decadent Flesh of some Oyster taken from the Southern Sea.
"How about a slug into y'r Breadroom, there, Fido?"
"Pray you, call me Fang— Well, and yes I do like a drop of Roll-me-in-the-Kennel now and then...."
Inside, seamen of all ranks and ratings mill slowly in a murk of pipe-smoke and soot from cheap candles, whilst counter-swirling go a choice assortment of Portsmouth Polls in strip'd and floral Gowns whose bold reds, oranges, and purples are taken down in this light, bruised, made oily and worn, with black mix'd in everywhere, colors turning ever toward Night. Both Surveyors note, after a while, that the net Motion of the Company is away from the Street-Doors and toward the back of the Establishment, where, upon a length of turf fertiliz'd with the blood and the droppings of generations of male Poultry, beneath a bright inverted Cone of Lanthorn Light striking blue a great ever-stirring Knot of Smoke, and a Defaulter merry beyond the limits of cock-fight etiquette sus?pended in a basket above the Pit, a Welsh Main is in progress. Beyond this, a Visto of gaming tables may be made out, and further back a rick?ety Labyrinth of Rooms for sleeping or debauchery, all receding like headlands into a mist.
The Learned D., drawn by the smell of Blood in the Cock-Pit, tries to act nonchalant, but what can they expect of him? How is he supposed to ignore this pure Edge of blood-love? Oh yawn yes of course, seen it all before, birds slashing one another to death, sixteen go in, one comes out alive, indeed mm-hmm, and a jolly time betwixt, whilst the Substance we are not supposed to acknowledge drips and flies ev'rywhere— "'There, Learnèd," calls Mrs. Jellow brusquely, "we must leave the birds to their Work." Beneath the swaying Gamester, the general pace of the Room keeps profitably hectic. From the Labyrinth in back come assorted sounds of greater and lesser Ecstasy, along with percussions upon Flesh, laughter more and less feign'd, furniture a-thump, some Duetto of Viol and Chinese Flute, the demented crowing of fighting-cocks waiting their moment, cries in Concert at some inaudible turn of a card or roll of the Fulhams high and low, calls for Bitter and Three-Threads rising ever hopeful, like ariettas in the shadow'd Wilderness of Rooms, out where the Lamps are fewer, and the movements deeper with at least one more Grade of Intent...At length the Dog halts, having led them to where, residing half out of doors, fram'd in cabl'd timbers wash'd in from a wreck of long ago, an old piece of awning held by a gnaw'd split, ancient Euphroe between her and the sky with its varied Menace, sits Dark Hepsie, the Pythoness of the Point.
"Here," the Dog butting at Mason, "here is the one you must see."
Instantly, Mason concludes (as he will confess months later to Dixon) that it all has to do with Rebekah, his wife, who died two years ago this February next. Unable to abandon her, Mason is nonetheless eager to be aboard a ship, bound somewhere impossible,— long Voyages by sea being thought to help his condition, describ'd to him as Hyperthrenia, or "Excess in Mourning." Somehow the Learned Dog has led him to pre?sume there exist safe-conduct Procedures for the realm of Death,— that through this Dog-reveal'd Crone, he will be allow'd at last to pass over, and find, and visit her, and come back, his Faith resurrected. That is as much of a leap as can be expected of a melancholick heart. At the same time, he smokes that the Learned English D.,— or Fang, as now he apparently wishes to be known,— in introducing them thus, is pursuing an entirely personal End.
"Angelo said there'd be a Package for me?"
"Quotha! Am I the Evening Coach?" The two rummage about in the Shadows. "Look ye, I'll be seeing him later, and I'll be sure to ask,—
"Just what you said last time," the Dog shaking his head reprovingly.
"Here, then,— a Sacrifice, direct from me own meager Mess, a bit of stew'd Hen,— 'tis the best I can do for ye today.”
"Peace, Grandam,— reclaim thy Ort. The Learned One has yet to sink quite that low." The Dog, with an expressive swing of his Head, makes a dignified Exit, no more than one wag of the Tail per step.
"Your ship will put to Sea upon a Friday," Hepsie greets Mason and Dixon, "- - would that be a Boatswain's Pipe into the Ear of either of you Gents?"
"Why, the Collier Sailors believe 'tis bad luck...?" Dixon replies, as if back at Woolwich before his Examiners, "it being the day of Christ's Execution."
"Nicely, Sir. Thus does your Captain Smith disrespect Christ, Fate, Saint Peter, and the god Neptune,— and withal there's not an insurancer in the Kingdom, from Lloyd's on down, who'll touch your case for less than a sum you can never, as Astronomers, possibly afford."
"Yet if we be dead," Dixon points out, "the Royal Navy absorbing the cost of a burial at sea, what further Expenses might there be?"
"You are independent of a Family, Sir."
"Incredible! Why, you must be a very Scryeress...?" Dixon having already spied, beneath her layers of careful Decrepitude (as he will later tell Mason), a shockingly young Woman hard at work,— with whom, country Lout that he is, he can't keep from flirting.
But Mason is now growing anxious. "Are we in danger, then? What have you heard?"
Silently she passes him a soil'd Broadside Sheet, upon which are printed descriptions of varied Services, and the Fees therefor. "What's this? You won't do Curses?"
"My Insurance? Prohibitive," she cackles, as the young fancy the old to cackle. "I believe what you seek is under 'Intelligence, Naval.''
"Half a Crown?"
"If you insist."
"Ehm... Dixon?"
"What? You want me to put in half of thah'?"
"We can't very well charge.. .this.. .to the Society, can we?"
"Do I shame you, Sir?" Hepsie too 'pert by Decades.
"Oh, all right," Mason digging laboriously into his Purse, sorting out Coins and mumbling the Amounts.
Dixon looks on in approval. "You spend money like a very Geordie. He means no harm, lass... ?" beaming, nudging Mason urgently with his Toe, as Bullies shift about in the Dark, and Boats wait with muffl'd Oars to ferry them against their will over to a Life they may not return from. The smell of the great Anchorage,— smoke, Pitch, salt and decay,— sweeps in fitfully.
"Sirs, attend me," the coins having silently vanish'd, " - Since last year, the Year of Marvels, when Hawke drove Conflans upon that lee shore at Quiberon Bay, the remnants of the Brest fleet have been under?standably short of Elan, or Esprit, or whatever they style that stuff over there,— excepting, now and then, among the Captains of smaller Frigates, souls as restless to engage in personal Tactics as dispos'd to sniff at national Strategy. Mortmain, Le Chisel, St.-Foux,— mad dogs all,— any of them, and others, likely at any time to sail out from Brest, indifferent to Risk, tSte-a-tete as ever with the end of the World, seeking new Objects of a Resentment inexhaustible."
"Oh dear," Mason clutching his head. "Suppose...we sail upon some other Day, then?"
"Mason, pray You,— 'tis the Age of Reason," Dixon reminds him, "we're Men of Science. To huz must all days run alike, the same number of identical Seconds, each proceeding in but one Direction, irreclaimable...? If we would have Omens, why, let us recall that the Astronomer's Symbol for Friday is also that of the planet Venus herself,— a good enough Omen, surely... ?"
"I tell you," the young Impostress merrily raising a Finger, "French Frigates will be where they will be, day of the week be damn'd,— espe?cially St.-Foux, with La Changhaienne. You know of the Ecole de Pira-terie at Toulon? Famous. He has lately been appointed to the Kiddean Chair."
Mason and Dixon would like to stay, the one to fuss and the other to flirt, but as they now notice, a considerable Queue has form'd behind them. There are
Gamesters in Trouble, Sweet-Hearts untrue, Sailors with no one to bid them adieu,
Roistering Fops and the Mast-Pond Brigade, all Impatient to chat with the Sibylline Maid, singing,
Let us go down, to Hepsie's tonight, Maybe tonight, she'll show us the Light,— Maybe she'll cackle, and maybe she'll cry, But for two and a kick she won't spit in your Eye.
She warn'd Ramillies sailors, Beware of the Bolt,
And the Corsica-bound of Pa-oli's Revolt,—
From lottery Tickets to History's End,
She's the mis'rable, bug-bitten sailor's best friend, singing,
Let us go down, &c.
"Nice doing Business with you, Boys, hope I see yese again," with an amiable Nod for Dixon.
Back at the Cock-fights, Fender-Belly Bodine comes lurching across their bow, curious. "So what'd she have to say?"
Something about crazy Frigate Captains sailing out of Brest, is all either of them can remember by now.
"Just what she told my Mauve, and for free. Good. We'll have a fight, Gents. And if it's Le Chisel, we'll have a Stern-chase, too. Back on old H.M.S. Inconvenience, we wasted many a Day and Night watching that fancy Counter get smaller by the minute. And when he'd open'd far enough from us, it pleas'd him to put out the Lanthorn in his Cabin, as if to say, 'Toot fini, time to frappay le Sack.' Skipper saw that light go out, he always mutter'd the same thing,— 'The Dark take you, Le Chisel, and might you as readily vanish from my Life,'— and then we'd slacken Sail, and come about, and the real Work would begin,— beating away, unsat?isfied once more, against the Wind." Foretopman Bodine pausing to squeeze the nearest Rondures of a young Poll who has shimmer'd in from some Opium Dream in the Vicinity. Like Hepsie, Mauve is far from what she pretends. Most men are fool'd into seeing a melancholy Waif, when in reality she's the most cheerful of little Butter-Biscuits, who has escap'd looking matronly only thanks to that constant Exertion demanded by the company of Sailors. She and Hepsie in fact share quar?ters in Portsea, as well as a Wardrobe noted, even here upon the Point, for its unconsider'd use of Printed Fabricks.
"She's a wonderful old woman, 's Hepsie," says Mauve. "Fortunes have been won heeding her advice, as lost ignoring it. She tells you beware, why, she has reckon'd your Odds and found them long— She is Lloyd's of Portsmouth. Believe her."
Later, around Dawn, earnestly needing a further Word with Hepsie or the Dog, Mason can find no trace of either, search as he may. Nor will anyone admit to knowing of them at all, let alone their Whereabouts. He will continue to search, even unto scanning the shore as the Seahorse gets under way at last, on Friday, 9 January 1761.

Had it proved of any help that the Revd had tried to follow the advice of Epictetus, to keep before him every day death, exile, and loss, believing it a condition of his spiritual Contract with the world as given? When the French sail came a-twinkling,— with never-quite-invisible death upon the Whir fore and aft, with no place at all safe and only the unhelpful sea for escape, amid the soprano cries of the powder-monkeys, the smell of charr'd wood, the Muzzle's iron breath,— how had these daily devotions, he now wondered, ultimately ever been of use, how, in the snug Sham?bles of the Seahorse?
To the children, he remarks aloud, "Of course, Prayer was what got us through."
"I should have pray'd," murmurs Cousin Ethelmer, to Tenebras's mild astonishment. Since appearing in the Doorway during a difficult bit of double-Back-stitch Filling two Days ago, return'd from College in the Jerseys, he has been otherwise all Boldness.
"Not seiz'd a Match? Not gone running up and down the Decks screaming and lighting Guns as you went? Cousin." The Twins consult each the other's Phiz, pretending to be stricken.
Ethelmer smiles and amiably pollicates the Revd, and less certainly Mr. LeSpark, his own Uncle, as if to say, "We are surrounded by the Pious, and their well-known wish never to hear of anything that sets the Blood a-racing.”
Brae looks away, but keeps him in the corner of her eye, as if to reply, "Boy, Blood may 'race' as quietly as it must...."
Mr. LeSpark made his Fortune years before the War, selling weapons to French and British, Settlers and Indians alike,— Knives, Tomahawks, Rifles, Hand-Cannons in the old Dutch Style, Grenades, small Bombs. "Trouble yourself not," he lik'd to assure his Customers, "over Diame?ter." If there are Account-books in which Casualties are the Units of Exchange, then, so it seems to Ethelmer, his Uncle is deeply in Arrears. Ethelmer has heard tales of past crimes, but can hardly assault his Host with accusations. Ev'ryone "knows,"— that is, considering Uncle Wade as some collection of family stories, ev'ryone remembers. Some Adven?tures have converg'd into a Saga that is difficult to reconcile with the liv?ing Uncle, who sends him bank-drafts on Whims inscrutable that catch the Nephew ever by surprise, frequents the horse-races in Maryland, actually once fed apples to the great Selim, and these days doesn't mind if Ethelmer comes along to visit the Stables. At the late Autumn Meet, gaily dress'd young women, fancier than he thought possible, had wav'd and smil'd, indeed come over bold as city Cats to engage Ethelmer in conversation. Tho' young, he was shrewd enough to smoak that what they were after was his Plainness, including an idea of his Innocence, which they fail'd to note was long, even enjoyably, departed.
"He wants whah'?"
Mason nodding with a sour Smile.
"Out of our Expenses? shall it leave us enough for Candles and Soahp, do You guess?"
"No one's sure, Captain Smith having not himself appear'd before the Council,— rather, his Brother came, and read them the Captain's Letter."
"An hundred pounds,— apiece...?"
"An hundred Guineas."
"Eeh...that suggests they expect someone to come back with a counter-offer...? As it isn't huz, who would thah' be?"
"It comes down to the Royal Soc. or the Royal N." As Mason has heard it, the Council mill'd all about, like Domestick Fowl in Perplexity, repeating, "Proportional Share!" in tones of Outrage, "— Pro-portional? Sha-a-are?"
"Leaving this, this Post-Captain the right to Lay it Out, as he calls it, at his Pleasure."
"Some Captain!— step away from a Privateer, by G-d." Aggriev'd voices echoing in the great stairwell, Silver ringing upon Silver,— sugar-Loaves and assorted Biscuits, French Brandy in Coffee,— Stick-Flourishes, motes of wig-powder jigging by the thousands in the candle-light.
"Immediately raising a particular Suspicion,— unworthy of this Cap?tain, goes without saying, and yet,—
- not to be easily distinguish'd from petty Extortion."
"Quite the sort of behavior Lord Anson's forever on about eradicat-ing...."
"...and other remarks in the same Line," reports Mason. "They were just able at last to appoint a Committee of Two to wait upon Lord Anson himself, who took the time to inform them that in the Royal Navy, a Ship of War's Captain is expected to pay for his own victualing."
"Really," said Mr. Mead, "I didn't know that, m'Lord,— are you quite— I didn't mean that,— of course you're sure,— but rather,—
"His Thought being," endeavored Mr. White, "that all this time, we'd rather imagin'd that the Navy—
"Alas, Gentlemen, one of Many Sacrifices necessary to that strange Servitude we style 'Command,' " replied the First Lord. "Howbeit, 'twill depend largely on how much your Captain plans to drink, and how many livestock he may feel comfortable living among,— hardly do to be slip?ping in goat shit whilst trying to get ten or twelve Guns off in proper Sequence, sort of thing. At the same time, we cannot have our Frigate Captains adopting the ways of Street Bullies, and this Approach to one's guests, mm, it does seem a bit singular. We'll have Stephens or someone send Captain Smith a note, shall we,— invoking gently my own pois'd Thunderbolt, of course."
"Oh Dear," Capt. Smith upon the Quarter-deck in the Winter's grudg'd Sunlight, the Letter fluttering in the Breeze,— from the direc?tion of London, somewhere among a peak'd Convoy of Clouds, a steady Mutter as of Displeasure on High, "and yet I knew it. Didn't I. Ah,— misunderstood!”
Far from any Extortion-scheme, it had rather been the Captain's own
Expectation,— the fancy of a Heart unschool'd in Guile,— that they
would of course all three be messing together, Day upon Day, the voyage
long, in his Quarters, drinking Madeira, singing Catches, exchanging
Sallies of Wit and theories about the Stars,— how else?— he being of
such a philosophickal leaning, and so starv'd for Discourse, it never
occurr'd to him that other Arrangements were even possible
"I assum'd, foolishly, that we'd go in equal Thirds, and meant to ask but your Share of what I hop'd to be spending, out of my personal Funds, upon your behalf,— not to mention that buying for three, at certain Chandleries, would've got me a discount,— Ah! What matter? Best of intentions, Gentlemen, no wish to offend the First Lord,— our Great Cir?cumnavigator, after all, my Hero as a Lad...."
"We regret it, Sir," Dixon offers, "— far too much Whim-Wham."
Mason brings his Head up with a surpris'd look. "Saintly of you, con?sidering your Screams could be heard out past the Isle of Wight? Now, previously unconsulted, / am expected to join this Love-Feast?"
Dixon and the Captain, as if in Conspiracy, beam sweetly back till Mason can abide no more. "Very well,— tho' someone ought to have told you, Captain, of that Rutabageous Anemia which afflicts Lensmen as a Class,— the misunderstanding then should never have arisen."
"Gracious of You, Mr. Mason," cries Dixon, heartily.
"Most generous," adds the Captain.
Tis arrang'd at last that they will be put in the Lieutenant's Mess, which is financ'd out of the Ship's Account,— that is, by the Navy,— and take their turns with the other principal Officers in dining with the Cap?tain, whose dreams of a long, uneventful Voyage and plenty of Philo-sophick Conversation would thus have been abridg'd even had the l'Grand never emerg'd above the Horizon.
On the eighth of December the Captain has an Express from the Admiralty, ordering him not to sail. "Furthermore," he informs Mason and Dixon, "Bencoolen is in the hands of the French. I see no mention of any plans to re-take the place soon. I am sorry."
"I knew it... ?" Dixon walking away shaking his head.
"We may still make the Cape of Good Hope in time," says Capt. Smith. "That'll likely be our destination, if and when they cut the Orders.”
"No one else is going there to observe," Mason says. "Odd, isn't it? You'd think there'd be a Team from somewhere."
Capt. Smith looks away, as if embarrass'd. "Perhaps there is?" he sug?gests, as gently as possible.
As they proceed down the Channel, "Aye, and that's the Tail of the Bolt," a sailor informs them, "where the Ramillies went down but the year Feb?ruary, losing seven hundred Souls. They were in south-west Weather, the sailing-master could not see,— he gambl'd as to which Headland it was, mistaking the Bolt for Rome Head and lost all."
"This is League for League the most dangerous Body of Water in the world," complains another. "Sands and Streams, Banks and Races, I've no Peace till we're past the Start Point and headed for the Sea."
"Can this Lad get us out all right?"
"Oh, young Smith's been around forever. Collier Sailor. If he's alive, he must have learn'd somewhat."
Passing the Start-Point at last, the cock's-comb of hilltops to star?board, the Ship leaning in the up-Channel wind, the late sun upon the heights,— more brilliant gold and blue than either Landsman has ever seen,— the Cold of approaching Night carrying an edge, the possibility that by Morning the Weather will be quite brisk indeed..."Su-ma-tra," sing the sailors of the Seahorse,
"Where girls all look like Cleo-
Pat-tra,
And when you're done you'll simply
Barter 'er,
For yet another twice as
Hot, tra-
La la-la la-la la-la la—
La la la, la..."
From the day he assum'd command of the Seahorse, Capt. Smith has lived in a tidy corner of Hell previously unfamiliar to him. Leaving the rainswept landing, rowed out into the wet heaving Groves of masts and spars upon Spithead, 'mid sewage and tar and the Breath of the Wind,
 he had searched, with increasing desperation, for some encouraging first sight of his new command, till oblig'd at last to accept the remote scruffy Sixth Rate throwing itself like a tether'd beast against its anchor-cables. Yet, yet,...through the crystalline spray, how gilded comes she,— how corposantly edg'd in a persisting and, if Glories there be, glorious light...and he knows her, it must be from a Dream, how could it be other? A Light in which all Pain and failure, all fear, are bleach'd away....
He'd been greeted at the Quarter-deck by a Youth of loutish and ungather'd appearance, recruited but recently in a press-gang sweep of Wapping, who exclaim'd, "Damme! Look at this, Boys! An officer wha' knows enough to come in out of the rain!"
Trying not to bark, Capt. Smith replied, "What's your name, sailor?" "By some I be styl'd, 'Blinky.' And who might you be?" "Attend me, Blinky,— I am the Captain of this Vessel." "Well," advised the young salt, "you've got a good job,— don't fuck up."
Steady advice. He haunts his little Raider like a nearly unsensed ghost, now silent upon his side of the Quarter-deck, now bending late and dutifully over the lunar-distance forms. "He wishes to be taken as a man of Science," opines the Revd upon first meeting the Astronomers, - perhaps he even seeks your own good opinion. Mention'd in a report to the Royal Society? However you do that sort of thing." Choos?ing to stand with the ingenious and Philosophickal wing of the Naval profession rather than its Traditional and bloody-minded one, though he would fight honorably, Capt. Smith does not consider his best game to be war.
The Vessel herself, however, enjoys a Reputation for Nerve, having proved it at Quebec, fearless under the French batteries of Beauport, part of a Diversion whilst the real assault proceeded quite upon the other flank, out of the troop-cariying ships that had sailed past the city, further upstream. Thenceforward is her Glory assur'd. She has done her duty in the service of a miracle in that year of miracles, 1759, upon whose Ides of March Dr. Johnson happen'd to remark, "No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail; for being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.”
Some would call her a Frigate, though officially she is a couple of guns shy, causing others to add the prefix "Jackass,"— a nautical term. Neither Names nor modest throw-weights have kept her from mixing it up with bigger ships. Capt. Smith has long understood that tho' a Sea Horse may be born in spirit an Arab stallion, sometimes must it also function as a Jackass,— a Creature known, that is, as much for its obsti?nacy in an argument as for its trick of turning and using its hind legs as a weapon. "Therefore I want the best gun crew for the Stern Cannon. Let this Jackass show them a deadly kick."
When the l'Grand comes a-looming, nevertheless, the Captain is more than a little surprised. Why should Monsieur be taking the trouble?— knowing the answer to be "Frigate Business," built into the definition of the command. In return for freedom to range upon the Sea, one was bound by a Code as strict as that of any ancient Knight. The Seahorse's Motto, lovingly embroider'd by a certain Needlewoman of Southsea, and nail'd above the Bed in his Cabin, reads Eques Sit Mquus.
"Now, Eques," according to the helpful young Revd Wicks Cherry-coke, "means 'an arm'd Horseman.''
"Ranging the Land," Dixon suggests, "as a Frigate-Sailor the Sea."
"Later, in old Rome, it came to mean a sort of Knight,— a Gentleman, somewhere between the ordinary People and the Senate. Sit is 'may he be,' and ?quus means 'just,'— also, perhaps, 'even-temper'd.' So we might take your ship's Motto to mean, 'Let the Sea-Knight who would command this Sea-Horse be ever fair-minded,'—
"— trying not to lose his Temper, even with boil-brain'd subordi?nates?" the Captain growling thus at Lieutenant Unchleigh, who stands timidly signaling for his attention.
"Um, what appears to be a Sail, South-Southwest,— although there is
faction upon the question, others insisting 'tis a Cloud "
"Damnation, Unchleigh," Capt. Smith in a low Voice, reaching for his Glass. "Hell-fire, too. If it's a Frenchman, he's seen us, and is making all sail."
"I knew that," says the Lieutenant.
"Here. Don't drop this. Get up the Mast and tell me exactly what and where it is. Take Bodine up with you, with a watch and compass,— and if it proves to be a sail, do try to obtain a few nicely spac'd magnetickal Bearings, there's a good Lieutenant. You'll note how very Scientifick we are here, Gentlemen. Yet," turning to a group of Sailors holystoning the deck, "ancient Beliefs will persist. Here then, Bongo! Yes! Yes, Captain wishes Excellent Bongo smell Wind!"
The Lascar so address'd, crying, "Aye, aye, Cap'n!," springs to the windward side, up on a rail, and, grasping some Armful of the Fore-Shrouds, presses himself far into the Wind, head-rag a-fluttering,— almost immediately turning his Head, with a look of Savage Glee,— "Frenchies!"
"Hard a-port," calls the Captain, as down from the Maintop comes word that the object does rather appear to be a Sail, at least so far unac?companied, and is withal running express, making to intercept the Sea?horse. "Gentlemen, 'twould oblige me if you'd find ways to be useful below." The Drum begins its Beat. They have grown up, English Boys never far from the Sea, with Tales of its Battles and Pirates and Isles just off the Coasts of Paradise. They know what "below" promises.
At first it seems but a Toy ship, a Toy Destiny.... T'gallants and stay?sails go crowding on, but the wind is obstinate at SSW, the Seahorse may but ever beat against it, in waters treacherous of stream, whilst the l'Grand is fresh out from Brest, with the wind on her port quarter.
' 'Twas small work to come up with us, get to leeward,— from which the French prefer to engage,— and commence her broadsides, the Seahorse responding in kind, for an hour and a half of blasting! and smashing! and masts falling down!"
"Blood flowing in the scuppers!" cries Pitt.
"Did you swing on a rope with a knife in your teeth?" asks Pliny.
"Of course. And a pistol in me boot."
"Uncle." Brae disapproves.
The Revd only beams. One reason Humans remain young so long, compar'd to other Creatures, is that the young are useful in many ways, among them in providing daily, by way of the evil Creatures and Slaugh?ter they love, a Denial of Mortality clamorous enough to allow their Elders release, if only for moments at a time, from Its Claims upon the Attention. "Sad to say, Boys, I was well below, and preoccupied with sea-
 surgery, learning what I needed to know of it upon the Spot. By the end of the Engagement I was left with nothing but my Faith between me and absolute black Panic. Afterward, from whatever had happen'd upon that patch of secular Ocean, I went on to draw Lessons more abstract.
"Watching helplessly as we closed with the l'Grand, I felt that with each fraction of a second, Death was making itself sensible in new
ways We were soon close enough to hear the creak and jingling of the
gun tackle and the rumble of trucks upon the deck, then to see the ends
of the rammers backing through the gun-ports, and vanishing as car?
tridges and wads were pushed into place, and the high-pitch'd foreign
jabbering as we lean'd ever closer
"Broadsides again and again, punctuated by tacking so as to present the Guns of the other Side,— ringing cessations in which came the Thumps of re-loading, the cries of the injur'd and dying, nausea, Speech-lessness, Sweat pouring,— then broadsides once more. Each time the firing stopp'd, there seem'd hope, for a Minute, that we'd got away and it was over,.. .until we'd hear the Gun-Tackle being shifted, and feel in the dark the deck trying to tilt us over, charg'd with the moments, upon the downward Roll, just before the Guns, vibrating in a certain way we had come to expect,— and when it came no more, we stood afraid to breathe, because of what might be next.
"The Astronomers and I meanwhile endur'd intestinal agonies so as not to be the first to foul his breeches in front of the others, as the Spars came crashing from above, and the cannon sent sharp Thuds thro' the Ship like cruel fists boxing our ears, knocking cockroaches out of the overhead,— Blows whose personal Malevolence was more frightening even than their Scale,— the Ship's hoarse Shrieking, a great Sea-animal in pain, the textures of its Cries nearly those of the human Voice when under great Stress."
Altho' Dixon is heading off to Sumatra with a member of the Church of England,— that is, the Ancestor of Troubles,— a stranger with whom he moreover but hours before was carousing exactly like Sailors, shameful to say, yet, erring upon the side of Conviviality, will he decide to follow Fox's Advice, and answer "that of God" in Mason, finding it soon enough
 
with the Battle on all 'round them, when both face their equal chances of imminent Death.
Dissolution, Noise, and Fear. Below-decks, reduced to nerves, given in to the emprise of Forces invisible yet possessing great Weight and Speed, which contend in some Phantom realm they have had the bad luck to blunder into, the Astronomers abide, willing themselves blank yet active. Casualties begin to appear in the Sick Bay, the wounds inconceivable, from Oak-Splinters and Chain and Shrapnel, and as Blood creeps like Evening to Dominion over all Surfaces, so grows the Ease of giving in to Panic Fear. It takes an effort to act philosophickal, or even to find ways to be useful,— but a moment's re-focusing proves enough to show them each how at least to keep out of the way, and presently to save steps for the loblolly boy, or run messages to and from other parts of the ship.
After the last of the Gun-Fire, Oak Beams shuddering with the Chase, the Lazarette is crowded and pil'd with bloody Men, including Capt. Smith with a great Splinter in his Leg, his resentment especially powerful,— "I'll have lost thirty of my Crew. Are you two really that important?" Above, on deck, corpses are steaming, wreckage is ev'ry-where, shreds of charr'd sail and line clatter in the Wind that is taking the Frenchman away.
What conversation may have passed between the Post-Captain and the Commandant? He wore the Order of the Holy Ghost, the white Dove plainly visible thro' the Glass,— St.-Foux, almost certainly, yet com?manding a different Ship. What was afoot here? Had the Frenchman really signal'd, "France is not at war with the~~sciences"? Words so mag?nanimous, and yet..."Went poohpooh, he did. Sort of flicking his gloves about. Tm westing my time,' he says, 'You are leetluh meennow,— I throw you back. Perhaps someday we meet when you are biggair Feesh, like me. Meanwhile, I sail away. Poohpooh! Adieu!''
"Nevertheless," Capt. Smith had replied, "I must give chase." One of those French shrugs. "You must, and of course, may." But she is too wounded. They watch the perfect ellipse of the l'Grand's stern dwindle into the dark. At last, well before the midwatch, Captain Smith calls off the Chase, and they come about again, the wind remain?ing as it has been, and with what sail they have, they return to the Ply?mouth Dockyard.
 Some at the time said there had been another sail, and that the Frenchman, assuming it to be a British Man o' War, had in fact broken off, and headed back in to Brest as speedily as her condition would allow. Some on the Seahorse thought they'd seen it,— most had not. ("Perhaps our guardian Angel," the Revd comments, "— instead of Wings, Topgallants.")
A Year before, Morale aboard the l'Grand, never that high to begin with, had seem'd to suffer an all but mortal blow with news of the disaster to the Brest fleet at Quiberon Bay. In calculating her odds vis-a-vis the Seahorse, the Invisible Gamesters who wager daily upon the doings of Commerce and Government must have discounted her advantage in guns and broadside weight, noting that a crew so melancholick is not the surest guarantee of prevailing in a Naval Dispute. Yet, considered as a sentient being, the French Ship continued to display the attitude of an undersiz'd but bellicose Sailor in a Wine-shop, always upon the qui vive for a scrap, never quite reaching the level of Glory it desir'd, always téton dernier of the Squadron, ever chosen for the least hopeful Missions, from embargo patrols off steaming red-dawn coasts below the Equator to rescue attempts beneath the Shadows of the mountainous Waves of winter storms in the Atlantic,— forever unthank'd, disrespected, laboring on, beating now alone at night back into Brest for new spars and rigging and lives.
"Ooh, La,
Fran...
-Ce-euh! [with a certain debonair little Mordant upon "euh"], Ne
Fait-pas-la-Guerre, Con-truh les Sci--en-
ceuhs!"
- sung incessantly till the Ship made Port, and then by the Working-Parties at the Quai, with the sour cadences of Sailors in a Distress not altogether bodily,— humiliated, knowing better, yet unable to keep from humming the catchy fragment, its text instantly having join'd the Com?pany of great Humorous Naval Quotations, which would one day also include, "I have not yet begun to fight," and, "There's something wrong with our damn'd ships today, Chatfield."
Long after Nightfall, Mason and Dixon, officially reliev'd of their Medical Duties, reluctant to part company, go lurching up on Deck, exhausted, laughing at nothing,— or at ev'rything, being alive when they could as easily be dead. Despite the salt rush of Wind, they can no more here, than Below, escape caught in the Drape of the damag'd Sails, the Reek of the Battle past,— the insides of Trees, and of Men— They have to prop each other up till one of them finds something to lean against. "Well, what's this, then?" inquires Mason.
"More like a Transit of Mars...?"
"With us going 'cross its Face."
"Were I less of a cheery Lad, why, I'd almost think..."
"It has occurr'd to me."
"They knew the French had Bencoolen,— what else did they know? Thah's what I'd like to know."
"Are you appropriating that Bottle for reasons I may not wish to hear, or,— ah. Thankee." They pass the Bottle back and forth, and when it is empty, they throw it in the Sea, and open another.