by Stuart Clark
‘Measure the string. That’s the length we need for the calculation.’ Newton looked surprised to see Halley still standing there. ‘Return to London, Mr Halley. Wait for me to contact you. Now that I am upon this subject, I will know the bottom of it before I publish a single word.’
21
Greenwich
Halley had always thought of the Royal Observatory as a gaudy fortress. Perched on the hill overlooking the growing naval yards of Greenwich, the building hid its eccentricity behind an unassuming red-brick facade with whitewashed turrets and curlicues.
He found the best approach was to take the steep hill at a brisk pace. As he did so on this occasion, he passed a well-dressed walking party, their dogs bounding in circles and their ladies treading carefully across the uneven path. The menfolk were pointing out the observatory, but Halley did not stop to listen to their comments. In his experience most recognised the place as where the King’s astronomical work was undertaken, but few realised the magnitude of the task: the thousands of stars to be pinpointed with the modern telescopes inside, and the pages of calculations to be converted into navigational star charts.
As he entered the courtyard the true nature of the building became apparent. The observatory’s main bulk was a double-height octagonal room of giant windows and roof-level balustrades. He was not the first to arrive. Two men, red-faced and sweating despite the bitter day, were carrying a pair of mattresses up the observatory’s steps. Nearby two boys in blue school coats shivered, waiting their turn. One had a mop of red curls, the other lank curtains that had been chopped at shoulder length. Each carried a valise.
‘Come on, lads, let’s get you inside,’ he said. ‘You must be the new students.’
The redhead scampered up the steps.
‘Assistants,’ said the other pointedly.
‘You’ll get on very well with Mr Flamsteed,’ said Halley as the boy passed him.
Halley followed, squeezing past the two workmen on their way out. Behind them was Flamsteed, dressed in a full black cassock. There was a pallor to the astronomer’s face that Halley did not remember seeing before.
‘Lads, allow me to introduce you to the Reverend John Flamsteed, newly ordained Rector of Burstow and the King’s Astronomer,’ said Halley with a flourish.
‘No need for theatrics,’ said Flamsteed over the students’ muted greetings. ‘This way, boys, we have much to prepare for tonight’s eclipse.’
The lower storey of the observatory was a basic affair of dark wood and small windows. It consisted of just four rooms and a short connecting corridor. The new mattresses had been laid on the floor next to Flamsteed’s bed, presumably so that he could read the Bible to the boys before they went to sleep. The bluecoats deposited their belongings, and Flamsteed ushered them into the front room where the fire grate was forbiddingly cold and dark. The redhead looked at it with a mournful expression.
‘Better you get accustomed to the cold before we start the night’s observing; there’ll be nothing to keep us warm then.’ There was a rattle in Flamsteed’s lungs as he spoke.
He set them to work with a lunar map, explaining that the Earth’s shadow would sweep across the Moon from the south-east, and that they were to number the major craters in the order that Earth’s shadow would cross them.
‘By measuring the time the shadow crosses each crater we will be able to calculate the size of the Earth and the distance to the Moon,’ proffered the serious one.
‘Correct, young sir.’ Flamsteed smiled. ‘Now, get to work.’ He turned to Halley, who was waiting at the door.
‘Tell me, John, did I seem that young when I first came to study with you?’ asked Halley.
Flamsteed pulled a face as he pushed past. ‘No.’ He pointed at a mattress under the kitchen table. ‘That’s yours.’
Halley followed him, crouched and tested the softness, rustling the straw filling. ‘Thank you, the wherryman is returning for me at dawn . . . Tell me, John, are you well?’
‘A chill caught observing, that’s all. Don’t fuss; it will pass. There’s something I want to ask you. What’s happening at Cambridge? Mr Newton is up to something, and you’re his confidant, I understand.’
‘I have seen a confidential draft of a work.’
‘And?’
Halley wrestled with breaking his oath. ‘I cannot divulge anything until the next Society meeting.’
‘You choose him over me, after all the tutelage I gave you?’
Halley held his hands up. ‘No, John, no. Please, if I tell you, you must not spread it. Mr Newton is upon the subject of gravity. He has already shown how Kepler’s laws can be derived from an inverse square law, and I believe he’s now searching for more consequences of gravity.’
‘So that explains why he asks me whether the moons of Jupiter follow Kepler’s law.’
‘And do they?’
‘Yes. They can be considered as a miniature system in their own right, with Jupiter replacing the Sun and the moons replacing the planets. Of the planets, only Jupiter and Saturn occasionally disobey Kepler’s laws – and then only when they draw close to each other. Mr Newton requires those observations, too. I receive new demands for astronomical data every few weeks.’
‘What else is he asking for?’ Halley’s heart pounded with excitement.
‘Last week it was the precise position of two stars in Perseus.’
The comet. It had passed through Perseus.
‘His last request is unfathomable,’ continued Flamsteed. ‘He wants information about the tides at Greenwich. His thinking is all over the place, and I cannot keep dropping everything to respond to Mr Newton. I have a star catalogue to complete.’
They were interrupted by the red-haired boy, who popped his head round the door. ‘We’ve finished the numbering, sir.’
The Moon, full and ripe, was visible through the star room’s windows, its dark markings almost obscured by the brightness of the rest of its surface.
Cold air tumbled into the room through the open panes, wrapping them in icy fingers that provoked a coughing fit in Flamsteed. The telescope they were to use that night was a spindly affair, at least a dozen feet in length but a mere four inches in diameter. Halley gripped the end of the instrument and climbed a ladder that was secured across the open window. He rested the telescope on one of the rungs so that it pointed to the Moon as Flamsteed secured the base into a wooden cradle and dipped his head to check the alignment.
The boys took up their positions near the life-sized portraits of King Charles and the Duke of York that concealed a pair of pendulum clocks. Only the pale faces of the clocks were visible, and their ticking was muffled behind the panelling.
Halley descended the ladder, winked at the bluecoats and returned to Flamsteed and the telescope. Even to the naked eye there was a black nibble at the lower side of the Moon.
‘First contact of the umbra. Time?’ called Flamsteed.
The redhead called out the position of the hands, and the other carefully noted them down.
Every time the sharp darkness kissed the lip of a crater, Flamsteed called out its number on the boys’ chart and barked for the time.
After some fifteen minutes, Flamsteed turned away from the eyepiece. ‘Small break,’ he announced. ‘Next crater in four minutes.’ Massaging his fingers, he blew into them and returned to his vigil.
‘Will you miss this place?’ asked Halley.
Flamsteed did not look away from the telescope. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When you move to Burstow?’
‘What makes you think I am moving?’
‘You’re the new Rector of Burstow. You’ll live in your parish. How can you continue your duties as King’s Astronomer?’
Flamsteed rocked backwards. ‘Why, you insolent pup! Are you seeking to replace me here?’
‘Of course not! Well . . . all right, yes, I confess the thought did cross my mind. I need a job. Mary has a child on the way. My stepmother has stolen half of my i
nheritance–’
‘I have no intention of giving up this place until the King’s catalogue is complete or the Good Lord calls me to Heaven. Do I make myself clear?’ fumed Flamsteed.
‘I apologise,’ muttered Halley, cursing himself for being so ill-mannered.
Flamsteed turned back to the eyepiece. ‘Time!’ he barked, more harshly than before.
As the half-hearted winter dawn inched across sky, the clang of church bells drifted down the icy Thames. What started as a single toll grew in urgency until it seemed as if every bell in London was ringing.
Halley stumbled from his makeshift bed and came face to face with the King’s Astronomer, mid-coughing fit.
‘Something’s wrong,’ said Halley.
Flamsteed pulled open the shutters and they peered out.
There were ships on the bend of the river, their white sails as small as handkerchiefs.
‘Please forgive me for my clumsiness yesterday, John. Heavens above, cannot you see my wanting your job as a compliment?’
Flamsteed kept his back to Halley. ‘And now you compound an insult with a blasphemy. Your time at sea has done you no good, young man. You swear like a sea captain.’
Halley spotted a figure on the steep path. It was the wherryman, charging up the hill swinging his arms.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ said Halley.
When he opened the front door the wherryman was bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. He nodded towards the river. ‘It’s . . .’ he said between giant gulps, ‘ . . . it’s the King.’
The urgent clanging of the bells jarred in Halley’s skull as he slithered around the wharfs. As he became caught up in the crowd of people hurrying towards the churches, a familiar crooked figure drew his attention.
‘Robert!’ Halley made after the shuffling form, moving as fast as the frosty pavement would allow.
Hooke looked round and grasped at Halley’s sleeve. ‘The King needs our prayers; he’s gravely ill.’
‘Robert, you know I don’t–’
‘Even you can do this for the King.’
‘It’s not the King I find it difficult to believe in.’
Halley was swept through the stone entrance by the flow of people and found himself beneath the high vaults. He followed Hooke into the pews, and soon the vicar was rousing the crowd with volume, leaning over his pulpit, the whites of his eyes rolling, assuring them that the power of prayer would save Charles. The people squared their shoulders, straightened their backs and looked ready to march to war. Then they bowed their heads to pray.
Later, as the church emptied, a ripple spread through the crowd. Trying to catch the words, Halley looked at Hooke, whose face was aghast. The ripple passed again, moving from lip to lip. This time it was explicit: the King was dead.
One of the choirboys began to cry.
A gruff shout went up from somewhere in the crowd: ‘Long live the King!’
And the ripple became a single thunderous wave of repetition. Then the crowd fell silent, crusaders robbed of their crusade.
The two men repaired to a tavern near the river. It was unusually busy for the time of day, and they had an odd sense of being out of place. Much of Hooke’s ale ended up spilled down his front as first one patron then another knocked into him.
Halley looked down at his friend. ‘Come, let us find some breathing space. There’s a room at the back.’
They tunnelled through the crowd; the nearby conversations were full of poison and regicide. ‘It’s the only explanation for the speed of it,’ said a pockmarked man, bringing his fist down on the table to emphasise his point.
‘No,’ protested his companion, ‘it’s those experiments they say he did, every day, they say, working with the quicksilver. And did you hear? He converted back to Rome just before he died but choked on the holy water. Seems the Almighty doesn’t like a hypocrite either.’
Halley led Hooke to a tiny, yellow-stained room which so far had been overlooked by the other patrons. They slid on to a bench.
Hooke clanked his pewter tankard on to the table. ‘You spent the night at Greenwich, you say?’
‘Indeed, observing the lunar eclipse. But I have fearfully upset John.’ He explained how he had inquired about his job.
‘I never thought I would laugh on the day the King died,’ chuckled Hooke.
‘Laugh all you want, but the star charts are urgent. I do think they could be tackled with a little more haste. Robert? Robert!’
Hooke’s eyes flickered and his body rolled from the seat, sending the beer splashing over the table and on to the floor. Halley leapt to his feet but he could not avoid the dousing, nor could he prevent Hooke’s collapse. The Gresham Professor hit the ground with a thud. Halley rolled the inert form over and brushed the sawdust from his face. There was a livid mark already visible on Hooke’s forehead. His mouth was moving, emitting small noises, and his eyes fluttered somewhere between lucidity and unconsciousness.
‘Come on, Robert. Let’s get you up.’ Halley took the man by the armpits and heaved, but there was no strength in Hooke’s legs. His head lolled about as Halley hoisted him over his shoulder and manoeuvred through the inn.
‘And him a gentleman, too,’ slurred the pockmarked drunkard as they passed.
‘Grace?’ Halley called, reaching the apartment’s front door. ‘Come quickly!’
She appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth, and drew in a sharp breath at the sight. ‘Not again?’
‘This has happened before?’
She nodded, looking at her uncle’s face. ‘At times, since he was assaulted. It’s getting worse. Let’s get him to his bed. He’ll be fine after a sleep.’
She shut the door and led the way upstairs to a small, fusty bedroom. Halley lowered Hooke on to the bed. Grace loosened her uncle’s clothing and removed his shoes, then covered him in blankets.
Downstairs, Grace offered Halley a glass of wine.
The aromatic smell teased Halley’s nose. ‘Cinnamon,’ he said with some envy. ‘Expensive stuff.’
‘Uncle lets me choose.’ She poured herself a drink and stepped closer to Halley. ‘Your good health, sir.’ He toasted her in return, guiltily enjoying her proximity and those dark, soulful eyes. He felt breathless.
‘Uncle says you’re to be a father.’
Halley nodded, embarrassed that she should know.
‘The confinement of a wife takes its toll on a man.’ She took a slow drink, keeping her eyes on his.
‘I have to go.’
‘Why? Uncle will be asleep for hours, nothing can rouse him after one of these bouts.’
The soft pleading in her voice paralysed Halley. It had been so long since Mary and he . . . Grace seemed so young, so vulnerable. He wanted to take her in his arms to comfort her, just to comfort her. Her lips were glistening, he noticed, and he sensed his mouth parting in response.
Grace pressed herself against him, lifting her face to his.
Halley closed his eyes as their lips melted together.
Then he broke away roughly and fled.
22
Cambridge
‘I was wrong to call it an inherent force. Whatever the property is that resists change in the motion of an object, it’s not a force. A force can only exist when an object is being accelerated. What are the three states of motion? Stillness, uniform velocity and acceleration. Only in the last case is there a force acting. That means that bodies at rest and those moving because they have already been pushed are equivalent; they have no force acting on them.’
Newton paced the room, raking his hands through his hair. There were no students on the benches to listen to his lecture, but he did not let it trouble him.
A letter from Halley had arrived that morning, explaining that discoveries could not be entered into the Royal Society’s statute book without a paper being presented. The young man was clearly fretting about securing Newton’s priority, but Newton knew that no one else was having these though
ts.
Even the word ‘thoughts’ was inaccurate. It implied some kind of order to the flow. Newton’s head was a jumble of voices, all shouting at him at once. If he could isolate a particular voice, he could channel it to his fingers and scribble furiously to immortalise the inspiration. Afterwards, he would collapse and snatch a few hours of unquiet sleep. Yet most of the time he was paralysed by the cacophony in his head. There were too many new problems to be solved. The world was in constant motion.
He began talking again but not coherently, just making sounds that echoed the equally incoherent picture of nature trying to burst from inside him. He fell silent only when he realised that there was someone in the room, a silhouette against the wall.
He squinted. It was a tiny woman. A woman? How could there be a woman in the college?
He froze.
– Mother?
– You always did think too much, Isaac.
A whinnying horse arrested his attention. Outside, a small procession was heading up the street: half a dozen men in tricorn hats and red robes of varying ornamentation, some wearing golden medallions. The procession stopped. He heard the clanging of a handbell. The mayor drew himself upright in the saddle. ‘Today, the City of Cambridge proclaims the Duke of York, King James II, the supreme leader of all England. We remain now and for ever his most loyal subjects. Long live the King!’
Those on the street gave a cheer of affirmation.
The floor was rippling, the walls undulating around Newton.
James. Catholic. Devil incarnate.
He stumbled towards the back of the room, seeking his mother.
The room was empty.
He flailed his arms, desperate for a handhold. There was no purchase to be had.
‘Mother . . .’
He crashed to the floor, his gown ballooning and settling over him as a shroud might over a dead body.
Part II
Distance
23
Cripplegate
1686
James II wasted no time in tightening his grip on the country. He appointed Catholics to positions of power in his Privy Council and the army, and when Parliament objected to this violation of the Test Act he prorogued it, sending the gentlemen home to their constituencies to mutter and moan. He bolstered the rank and file of the army with Irish Catholics and stationed it to the west of London – a sprawling, chaotic mass of tents and campfires.