attack'd anyway. Why would they believe any story from the English, be the Messenger King Louie Himself?"
"A little Sixth-Rate! What possible mischief could it get into? What possible threat to France?"
" Tis call'd, in that jabber over there, Une Affaire des Frégates,— 'An Affair of the Frigates.' "
"Of Forces less visible, I fear."
"Here,— any more of that Golden Virginian about? 'Twill settle our wits." In what each is surpriz'd to note for the first time as a companionable Silence, they prepare Pipes, find a Dish in the Cupboard and a live Coal in the Fire, and light up.
Wrapt tightly, as within Vacuum-Hemispheres, lies the Unspoken,— the concentration of Terror and death of but two afternoons ago, tran-spir'd without one word, in brute Contempt for any language but that of winds and masses, cries and blood. Impenetrable, it calls up Questions whose Awkwardness has only increas'd as the Astronomers have come to understand there may be no way of ever finding the Answers.
"Did the Captain signal? Did they read it, and attack despite it?"
"Or because of it...?"
It seems not to belong in either of their lives. "Was there a mistake in the Plan of the Day? Did we get a piece of someone else's History, a fragment spall'd off of some Great Moment,— perhaps the late Engagement at Quiberon Bay,— such as now and then may fly into the ev'ryday paths of lives less dramatick? And there we are, with our Wigs askew."
"Happen," Dixon contributes in turn, "we were never meant at all to go to Bencoolen,— someone needed a couple of Martyrs, and we inconveniently surviv'd...?”
"What a terrible thing to say."
''Terrible,' well, as to 'Terrible'..." And what they cannot speak, some of it not yet, some of it never, resumes breathless Sovereignty in the wax-lit Rooms.
In swift reply comes a Letter of Reproach and Threat from the Royal Society. Someday Mason and Dixon may not dream as often of the Battle with the Frenchman,— but this Letter they will go back to again and again, unable to release it.
"Not even the courtesy,— Damme! of a personal Reply,— 'tis rather the final draft of some faceless committee. To my Heart's Cry, my appeal to Bradley for Guidance, Apprentice to master, confiding candidly my fears, trusting in his Discretion,— to a four years' Adjunct, his Protege even longer,— instead of Comfort or Advice, he betrays my Confession to some Gang of initial'd Scoundrels, leaving them the task of bringing us to the level of Fear needed to get us back aboard that dreadful Ship."
"Yet others," carefully, "might hear in it a distinct Voice, indeed quite full of personal Heat."
Mason shrugs. "Who, then? 'Twas Morton his Signature,— " his Eyebrows rak'd a shade too high for it to be other than a request to let this go.
"Ordinarily, Ah'd allow it to depart upon the Tides of Fortune...?" says Dixon, "- - but as I'm included in this charge of Cowardice, if it be a Matter between thee and Dr. Bradley, why, I hope tha'd tell me somewhat of it...?"
"You suppose this is Bradley's voice? I think not, for I know him,— Bradley cannot write like this, even simple social notes give him trouble. '...Whenever their circumstances, now uncertain and eventual, shall happen to be reduced to Certainty.' Not likely."
"Eeh, thah's deep...? 'Reduc'd.' "
"As if...there were no single Destiny," puzzles Mason, "but rather a choice among a great many possible ones, their number steadily diminishing each time a Choice be made, till at last 'reduc'd,' to the events that do happen to us, as we pass among 'em, thro' Time unredeemable,— much as a Lens, indeed, may receive all the Light from some vast celestial Field of View, and reduce it to a single Point. Suggests an optical person,— your Mr. Bird, perhaps.”
"Then tha may rest easy, mayn't thee, if it's I who's being reprov'd by my Mentor, for a change...?"
Thus sleeplessly on both continue to rattle, whilst Plymouth reels merrily all 'round them, well illuminated, as
"A little Sixth-Rate! What possible mischief could it get into? What possible threat to France?"
" Tis call'd, in that jabber over there, Une Affaire des Frégates,— 'An Affair of the Frigates.' "
"Of Forces less visible, I fear."
"Here,— any more of that Golden Virginian about? 'Twill settle our wits." In what each is surpriz'd to note for the first time as a companionable Silence, they prepare Pipes, find a Dish in the Cupboard and a live Coal in the Fire, and light up.
Wrapt tightly, as within Vacuum-Hemispheres, lies the Unspoken,— the concentration of Terror and death of but two afternoons ago, tran-spir'd without one word, in brute Contempt for any language but that of winds and masses, cries and blood. Impenetrable, it calls up Questions whose Awkwardness has only increas'd as the Astronomers have come to understand there may be no way of ever finding the Answers.
"Did the Captain signal? Did they read it, and attack despite it?"
"Or because of it...?"
It seems not to belong in either of their lives. "Was there a mistake in the Plan of the Day? Did we get a piece of someone else's History, a fragment spall'd off of some Great Moment,— perhaps the late Engagement at Quiberon Bay,— such as now and then may fly into the ev'ryday paths of lives less dramatick? And there we are, with our Wigs askew."
"Happen," Dixon contributes in turn, "we were never meant at all to go to Bencoolen,— someone needed a couple of Martyrs, and we inconveniently surviv'd...?”
"What a terrible thing to say."
''Terrible,' well, as to 'Terrible'..." And what they cannot speak, some of it not yet, some of it never, resumes breathless Sovereignty in the wax-lit Rooms.
In swift reply comes a Letter of Reproach and Threat from the Royal Society. Someday Mason and Dixon may not dream as often of the Battle with the Frenchman,— but this Letter they will go back to again and again, unable to release it.
"Not even the courtesy,— Damme! of a personal Reply,— 'tis rather the final draft of some faceless committee. To my Heart's Cry, my appeal to Bradley for Guidance, Apprentice to master, confiding candidly my fears, trusting in his Discretion,— to a four years' Adjunct, his Protege even longer,— instead of Comfort or Advice, he betrays my Confession to some Gang of initial'd Scoundrels, leaving them the task of bringing us to the level of Fear needed to get us back aboard that dreadful Ship."
"Yet others," carefully, "might hear in it a distinct Voice, indeed quite full of personal Heat."
Mason shrugs. "Who, then? 'Twas Morton his Signature,— " his Eyebrows rak'd a shade too high for it to be other than a request to let this go.
"Ordinarily, Ah'd allow it to depart upon the Tides of Fortune...?" says Dixon, "- - but as I'm included in this charge of Cowardice, if it be a Matter between thee and Dr. Bradley, why, I hope tha'd tell me somewhat of it...?"
"You suppose this is Bradley's voice? I think not, for I know him,— Bradley cannot write like this, even simple social notes give him trouble. '...Whenever their circumstances, now uncertain and eventual, shall happen to be reduced to Certainty.' Not likely."
"Eeh, thah's deep...? 'Reduc'd.' "
"As if...there were no single Destiny," puzzles Mason, "but rather a choice among a great many possible ones, their number steadily diminishing each time a Choice be made, till at last 'reduc'd,' to the events that do happen to us, as we pass among 'em, thro' Time unredeemable,— much as a Lens, indeed, may receive all the Light from some vast celestial Field of View, and reduce it to a single Point. Suggests an optical person,— your Mr. Bird, perhaps.”
"Then tha may rest easy, mayn't thee, if it's I who's being reprov'd by my Mentor, for a change...?"
Thus sleeplessly on both continue to rattle, whilst Plymouth reels merrily all 'round them, well illuminated, as
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