a-scurry, thro' the night.
"Lightning doesn't strike twice," suggests Dixon.
"Correct. It strikes once, as it just lately did for me out there. Now 'tis your turn."
"Hold, hold...? Are tha sure of thah'...?”
6
"The Interdiction at Sea," it seems to the Revd, "was patently a warning to the Astronomers, from Beyond. Tho' men of Science, both now con-fess'd to older and more Earthly Certainties, being willing then and there to give up Bencoolen, offering rather to observe the Transit from any other Station yet in reach,— Skanderoon was mention'd,— but the Royal S. wrote back in the most overbearing way, on about loss of honor, strongly threatening legal action if Mason and Dixon were to break their contract,force majeure or no, even when it was pointed out yet again that Bencoolen lay in the hands of the French, anyway. No matter that the Astronomers were right and the R.S. wrong,— they had to comply."
"But why?" laughs Brae in exasperation, waving her Needle and Floss about. "Why weren't they simply more flexible in London? Just send the Seahorse someplace else?"
"So they did, when next our Astronomers put to sea." "Having, I hope, splic'd their Main-Brace well,— g'd Evening, all." Tis Uncle Lomax, sliding in from the day at his Soap-Works, smelling of his Product, allowing the cheeriness of the Sot to overcome the diffidence of a man in an unpopular calling,— for "Philadelphia Soap" is a Byword, throughout the American Provinces, of low Quality. At the touch of water, nay, damp Air, it becomes a vile Mucus that refuses to be held in any sort of grip, gentle or firm, and often leaves things dirtier than they were before its application,— making it, more properly, an Anti-Soap. He steers a Loxodrome for the cabinet where ardent Spirits are kept for Guests of the Wet Persuasion, and pretends to weigh his Choice.
So off we sail again (the Revd continues), this time in convoy with another, larger Frigate,— the idea being, Children, always to get back up on the Horse that has nearly killed one. Especially if it's a Sea Horse. I am quarter'd with Lieutenant Unchleigh, a rattle-head. "Damme, Sir,— a Book? Close it up immediately."
" Tis the Holy Bible, Sir."
"No matter, 'tis Print,— Print causes Civil Unrest,— Civil Unrest in any Ship at Sea is intolerable. Coffee as well. Where are newpapers found? In those damnable Whig Coffee-Houses. Eh? A Potion stimulating rebellion and immoderate desires."
I feel a certain Gastrick Desolation. What will be his idea of Diversion ashore? Nothing to do with Coffee, I suppose,— tho' this Route to India be known as a Caffeinist's Dream. What else may he not abide? My Berth a Prison, unseamanlike Behavior abounding, the very Ship a Ship of Death. How is any of this going to help restore me to the "ordinary World"?— the answer, which I am yet too young to see, being that these are the very given Conditions of the "ordinary World." At the time, my inward lament goes something like this,—
Where are the wicked young Widows tonight,
That sail the East India Trade?
Topside with the Captain, below with the Crew,
Beauteously ever display'd.
Oh I wish I was anyplace,
But the Someplace I'm in,
With too many Confusions and Pains,—
Take me back to the Cross-Roads,
Let me choose, once again,
To cruise the East India Lanes.
Frigate Captains are uncomfortable with sailing in formation,— 'tis to be turn'd to fussing about forever with Jib and Staysail, by someone senior with an oppressively tidy Theory of Station-keeping. The Aversion of the Seahorse's new Captain to group manoeuvres indeed extends to
sailing with even one other warship, as the captain of the Brilliant, 36, will discover before they are out of the Channel.
In the brisk weather, there seems little sense in dawdling. The impatient Capt. Grant keeps closing the gap between himself and the ship ahead, often drawing up to a distance that allows Sailors easily to converse in ordinary tones,
"Lightning doesn't strike twice," suggests Dixon.
"Correct. It strikes once, as it just lately did for me out there. Now 'tis your turn."
"Hold, hold...? Are tha sure of thah'...?”
6
"The Interdiction at Sea," it seems to the Revd, "was patently a warning to the Astronomers, from Beyond. Tho' men of Science, both now con-fess'd to older and more Earthly Certainties, being willing then and there to give up Bencoolen, offering rather to observe the Transit from any other Station yet in reach,— Skanderoon was mention'd,— but the Royal S. wrote back in the most overbearing way, on about loss of honor, strongly threatening legal action if Mason and Dixon were to break their contract,force majeure or no, even when it was pointed out yet again that Bencoolen lay in the hands of the French, anyway. No matter that the Astronomers were right and the R.S. wrong,— they had to comply."
"But why?" laughs Brae in exasperation, waving her Needle and Floss about. "Why weren't they simply more flexible in London? Just send the Seahorse someplace else?"
"So they did, when next our Astronomers put to sea." "Having, I hope, splic'd their Main-Brace well,— g'd Evening, all." Tis Uncle Lomax, sliding in from the day at his Soap-Works, smelling of his Product, allowing the cheeriness of the Sot to overcome the diffidence of a man in an unpopular calling,— for "Philadelphia Soap" is a Byword, throughout the American Provinces, of low Quality. At the touch of water, nay, damp Air, it becomes a vile Mucus that refuses to be held in any sort of grip, gentle or firm, and often leaves things dirtier than they were before its application,— making it, more properly, an Anti-Soap. He steers a Loxodrome for the cabinet where ardent Spirits are kept for Guests of the Wet Persuasion, and pretends to weigh his Choice.
So off we sail again (the Revd continues), this time in convoy with another, larger Frigate,— the idea being, Children, always to get back up on the Horse that has nearly killed one. Especially if it's a Sea Horse. I am quarter'd with Lieutenant Unchleigh, a rattle-head. "Damme, Sir,— a Book? Close it up immediately."
" Tis the Holy Bible, Sir."
"No matter, 'tis Print,— Print causes Civil Unrest,— Civil Unrest in any Ship at Sea is intolerable. Coffee as well. Where are newpapers found? In those damnable Whig Coffee-Houses. Eh? A Potion stimulating rebellion and immoderate desires."
I feel a certain Gastrick Desolation. What will be his idea of Diversion ashore? Nothing to do with Coffee, I suppose,— tho' this Route to India be known as a Caffeinist's Dream. What else may he not abide? My Berth a Prison, unseamanlike Behavior abounding, the very Ship a Ship of Death. How is any of this going to help restore me to the "ordinary World"?— the answer, which I am yet too young to see, being that these are the very given Conditions of the "ordinary World." At the time, my inward lament goes something like this,—
Where are the wicked young Widows tonight,
That sail the East India Trade?
Topside with the Captain, below with the Crew,
Beauteously ever display'd.
Oh I wish I was anyplace,
But the Someplace I'm in,
With too many Confusions and Pains,—
Take me back to the Cross-Roads,
Let me choose, once again,
To cruise the East India Lanes.
Frigate Captains are uncomfortable with sailing in formation,— 'tis to be turn'd to fussing about forever with Jib and Staysail, by someone senior with an oppressively tidy Theory of Station-keeping. The Aversion of the Seahorse's new Captain to group manoeuvres indeed extends to
sailing with even one other warship, as the captain of the Brilliant, 36, will discover before they are out of the Channel.
In the brisk weather, there seems little sense in dawdling. The impatient Capt. Grant keeps closing the gap between himself and the ship ahead, often drawing up to a distance that allows Sailors easily to converse in ordinary tones,
Similar Books
