By this time, they're making a mile or two per day. On the seventh of August, they cross Braddock's Road at 189 miles and 69 Chains. Thirty-two Chains further on, they cross the Road a second Time. The next Day, a Mile and 35 Chains beyond that, they cross it a Third Time.
"I'm not content with this, Dixon, not at all."
Three agents for Philadelphia land-speculating Interests are said to be out here this summer, scouting real estate,— Harris, Wallace, and Friggs. The Metropolitan cabal back there, 'tis said, goes upon the hope of the next Purchase of the Indians, of as much trans-Alleghenian Land as possible. The settlers having been serv'd Eviction Notices last year by Capt. Mackay and the Highland Forty-second, and withal Surveying itself about to be proclaim'd a Crime,— fifty Pounds' fine and three months in Jail,— these Gentlemen suppose they may take over the Rights out here for virtually nothing.
"Three months for Surveying!" Mason marvels. "And if someone's been doing it all his Life? A-and think of the Money! Is that fifty Pounds per Act of surveying? Per Diem, perhaps?"
"Thankee, Friend Mason."
Before crossing the Big Yochio Geni, in the evening after Mess, the Surveyors gather all who've follow'd the Party undaunted this far.
"Now like Prospero must I conjure you all away, for from here to the Warpath, we'll have no time for gentle recreations, but must stand Watch and Watch for as far west as we may.”
"Whah',— no musicians? The Indians love our Musick."
"The Indians will need their Ears for other Tasks."
"We must go back to that Fort, then."
"We'll wait for them at Cumberland."
"A long way, sister. So far we've enjoy'd an Escort of Mohawk fighters, best in the Land. Who'll be protecting us on the way back?"
"Might get lucky and hook up with a band of Axmen headed home?"
"They'll be long gone. Absorb'd like Hail-Stones into the Earth."
"Well I'm not languishing by the Banks of Potowmack, I'm for some?place with Lamps outdoors, and purses full of idle Specie. Anybody for Williamsburg?"
They arrange to keep the Sector at the House of Mr. Spears, where Brad-dock's Road meets the Bank of the Yochio, and go in search of the Fer?ryman, Mr. Ice. "They expect a Ferryman to be silent," announces he, his eyes a-glimmer. Taking his Coat and draping it over his head so as to hood his face, "Well. Welcome aboard. Smoking Lamp's lit on this Craft." On shore his brother-in-law is letting out the line, allowing them to be taken by the Stream, as his Nephew upon the further side waits to begin hauling them in. Exactly at the middle of the River, for a moment, no one can see either Father or Son. To appearance, the passengers stand upon a raft in a boundless body of water.
"Now here is what they did to me, and mine,"— and the last Ice pro?ceeds to tell ev'ry detail of the Massacre that took his family, in the dread days of Braddock's defeat. Time, whilst he speaks, is abolish'd. The mist from the River halts in its Ascent, the Frogs pause between Croaks, and the peepers in mid-peep. The great black cobbles of the River-bed stir and knock no longer. The Dead are being summon'd. The Ferryman's Grief is immune to Time,— as if in Exchange for a sacrifice of earthly Freedom, to the Flow of this particular Stream.
"You think this is some kind of Penance? Hey, I enjoy this. Such looks on Passengers' Faces, when they hear how the Flesh and Bones of those I lov'd were insulted! They are us'd to tales of Frederick's rank'd Automata, executing perfect manoeuvres upon the unending German Plain,— down here in the American Woods, that same War proceeded
silently, in persistent Shade, one swift animal Death at a time.. .no Treaty can end it, and when all are dead, Ghosts will go on contending. 'Twas the perfect War. No mercy, no restraint, pure joy in killing. It cannot be let go so easily."
The Youghiogheny, cov'd and willow'd and Sycamor'd, has no Fish in it that Mason has been able to learn of. "Yah, you'll hear that," says Ice,— "Yet ev'ryone up and down this River knows of the great School of Ghost-fish that inhabit it, pale green, seldom seen, two sets of Fins each side and a Tail like a Dragon's. They travel unmolested where they will, secure in the belief that no Angler in his right mind would dare attempt to catch any of them. And that, Sir, could be where you come in."
Dixon is trying to nudge Mason alert, but owing to the Darkness, not always connecting. Mason is already simpering like a Milk-maid. "Who, Sir? I am but a Country coarse-fisher, after the odd Chub or Roach, what?ever the Mills haven't kill'd or chas'd off, actually, is usually what I set?tle for, and goodness, why this Fish of yours sounds far too much for my light-rod skills, being so very, as ye might say, big,—
"Mason," Dixon, not often a Mutterer, mutters.
"Up to five, some say six foot long," Ice avows, "big as a man or Woman, pale as a floating Corpse,...yet these do live...tho' few have dar'd, some of us out here have taken Ghosters,— I could show you more than one, stuft and mounted,— no question of eating them, of course...indeed, no question trying to hang one over the Hearth, given the Wives who object to looking at them for long.— Or at all.
"The Yochio as it comes down off the Mountains of Virginia descends very rapidly, very dangerously. You might not want, or even be able, to wade in it. Some think it's the Fall, the very Speed of the Flow, that cre?ates those Ghosters. No one knows. Their entire lives are engulf'd unceasingly in change. They never come to rest. They never know an Instant of Tranquillity. One wonders, what must their idea of Death be," Ice's feign'd Smile nearly unendurable, "how are they going to deal with eternal Rest? unless this World be already their Purgatory, and they no longer classifiable as living Fish."
"And what of those who seek them?"
"Ghosters are accorded a respect comparable to that shewn the Dead.... If we get out upon this River tonight," says Mr. Ice, "perhaps
we'll see a few. They like it just after the rain. In the sun-light, they show up against the black rocks of the River-Bed. In the Dark, they glow some,— for one another, they do. Us,— they pay no mind. In a way, that could prove an advantage...to an Angler bold enough."
"Pray you," Mason's hands upon his Bosom.
Mr. Ice abruptly turning to Dixon, "Forgive me, Sir, if I stare. Yours is the first Red Coat to be seen in these parts since Braddock's great Tragedy,— the only ones out here with Opportunity to wear one, being the Indians who from the Corpses of English soldiers, took them. Even to these Savages, even intoxicated, 'tis too much shame, ever to put a Red Coat on."
