When they may, they drink. So does ev'ryone else. Presently as they come more and more under the jurisdiction of the Night Sky, they drink less after Dark, finding it impossible to look out into That, however narrow'd the Field, with Vision in any way a-wobble, and be expected to work the micrometer, take readings, note the Time, and perform an hundred other tasks, most of them unforgivingly in need of Accuracy. Cloudy nights, of course, being exceptions to this Rule, are welcom'd by all.
Each ten Minutes of Great Circle, about ev'ry twelve miles, their Intention is to pause, set up the Sector and determine their Latitude, then figure the offsets to the true Line over the distance they've just come,— the true Line that has run along with them, at their left hands, an invisible Companion, but Yards away, in the Brush, outside the Fire-light.
Twelve miles from the Post Mark'd West, the Party crosses the Road from Octarara to Christiana Bridge, with a Farm-House close by, upon the Pennsylvania side. Here they set up camp, and begin their Latitude Work. Axmen set off in search of Food. The fragrant noontide so quiet you may hear the shuffling of Playing-cards.... Tis a Saturday, in that lull when all the Sellers have pass'd early into Town, and most of the Buyers, and families who dwell within a few hours by Waggon have not yet begun to head back home. Now and then, horsemen dismount at the Tavern a few Chains up the Road, as others come wobbling back from it, sometimes deciding to sleep overnight here in Camp.
After half a dozen such have dropp'd into midday Slumber, "Do we encourage this?" Mason asks himself aloud, in Dixon's hearing. "Sup?pose but one of them is a French Agent, pretending to be drunk, perhaps even bent upon our Dissolution,—
"As Christians, have we any choice but to allow all who wish, to enter freely?" offers Dixon.
"Ahrrh, well, as you put it that way—"
The Crew, now up to thirty Hands, having, in their first ten minutes of Arc, cross'd three Creeks and a River, and gone thro' one House, are dis-pos'd to a merry week-end, tho' mornings, when the demands of Recom?pense fall heaviest, are not to be altogether restful, so near is Octarara Road. Waggons-ful of Iron Products,— Bar and Rod Stock, Nails, Hatchets and Knives,— drawn by teams of Oxen, pass slowly, a-clank and a-creak, each step a Drama, left to right, right to left, across the Visto, all the Day. When Night falls, the Drivers unhitch and out-span their Teams, and make fires, and stay up drinking well past the Culmi?nations of the later Stars, for Mason and Dixon, attending the Clock, the Plumb-line, the eternal Heavens, can hear them in dispute, often upon some point of religion. "Unco' Quantity of Iron upon the Road," com?ments Dixon. " 'Tis running me old Needle amok."
"Aye, as if the Prussian Army's about someplace," Mason none too pleas'd with any of it.
First thing Monday morning, they all come staggering from Bedrolls and Latrines to stand in loose Ranks and be tallied in. Overseer Barnes reads the Plan of the Day, the Revd comes by to say a short Prayer, then Special Requests are submitted, a few in writing, but most aloud and expected to be dealt with upon the Spot. Some mornings the Petitioning grows agitated indeed, with only the clanging of the Breakfast Alarm able to interrupt it.
"He's telling them Parrot Jokes again."
"Who is?"
"You know,...him."
"Ehud? is this true, what he's saying?”
"Mr. Barnes, Cap'n, Sir, all I said was, 'Sailor walks into a Tavern with a Parrot on his Shoulder, young Lass says,—
"There! he's doing it again!"
" ' "What'll it be?" and the Parrot says,— ' "
"Two hours' extra Duty, Ehud. Yes, Mr. Spinney."
' 'Tis the Porridge again, Cap'n. As previously sworn, I can't abide an Oat mill'd that way, and they all know it in the Commissary, yet each morning, looking up at me from the Bowl,— faugh,— one more deliber?ate Insult. The cooks all snickering— How long before I must begin to vomi', I'd like to know?"
"Then you must grind your own, Lad,— as the Indians do, between Stones. There's boiling water in the Cook-tent, ask politely and they may let you have some of that."
"Thankee Cap'n as ever, yet there abides the question of the Salt?"
"I'll have a word with 'em, Spinney. Now, is it...too much? or too lit?tle, Salt, exactly?"
"On second thought never mind, Cap'n."
"You're sure, now, 'tis no trouble.... Wonderful. And now whom do I see, but aye, Mr. Sweet, back again are we, how repetitious. Let me divine what your Request may be."
"My mate,— he was a Philadelphia Lawyer once, but gave it all up for the freedom of the Forest,— he says that, as an Expedition over land is like a ship at sea, Mr. Mason may, like a ship's Captain, exercise certain prerogatives,—
"Ah," Mr. Barnes raising a huge hand, "and a lovelier lass was never seen this side of the previous cow-shed I'm sure, yet, how long can this go on, boy? Were you a woman, I'd say you were but flighty, and there'd be an end. But in a Lad, you know, it makes me apprehen?sive. Suppose you do marry one of them,— what happens when you meet the next?"
"Um...wait let me ask my Mate—"
"Chat with ye tomorrow, Sir? Lovely, and remember me to your Betroth'd. And your Mate, of course. Next? Mr. McNutley,— it's been near a year, man,— not another one in the works? All the best, and ye're such a scraggy Ancient, too.”
"My thinking, Cap'n,— tho' some say hop to it just after the Harvest, so they'll give birth and be up again in time for next Harvest,— but I say just before Planting's better, so they can help wi' that, yet not be so far along by Harvest, that they can't help considerable wi' that, too. How-beit, my Gwen, she's due in a month or two, I think, and I ought to be with her, pretty soon,—
"Grow Titts," Mr. Barnes advises, "and learn to talk for an Hour with?out taking a Breath, and maybe as she grows more daz'd with her Preg?nancy, she'll mistake ye for another Woman, taking from it what comfort she may. Otherwise, 'tis the Company of Women she needs, not the Author of it all, thumping about."
On they come, still too ill-assorted, too newly hir'd, to know what they may profitably expect, and what will ever remain hopeless,— tho' some will develop a taste for the exquisite discomforts of Rejection. Here is a protest, not the first, about Mrs. Eggslap's troublesome habit of extorting a higher fee once her Services are in Progress. This time 'tis Stig, the Swedish Axman. He speaks no English, Mr. Barnes no Swedish,— yet all have heard the dismal story before. At least once in every Sentence, Stig cries, "Yingle-Yangle! Yingle-Yangle!" denoting...Something of importance to him.
"Here is young Mr. McClean, he's just the one you ought to see, Stig,— yah yah, yoost the vun?"
Nathanael, the youngest of the McCleans, is here working during his summer "Vacation" from College in Williamsburg. At first, the Crew accorded him the Drone of intimate Insult, which is ever the Tender-Foot's Lot,— up to a point, at least, for his Father and Brothers are here, well in control of all aspects of the Expedition, from turning Angles to peeling Potatoes. Soon,— how, none can say,— the Axmen have assign'd to Nathanael a Character, closer to Macheath than to the diligent Facto?tum he knows himself to be, t............