by Stuart Clark
‘Don’t. You’ll crack your skull on the stone.’
‘Summoned in the name of His Royal Highness Prince George, but I know who’s really behind this fiasco. Two hours of torture to get here, forcing me to piss on the roadside because I can no longer wait out a single carriage ride.’
Halley flinched at the vulgarity.
‘Shocking isn’t it – to hear such words?’
‘Don’t lower yourself on my account, John. I know my manners have offended you in the past, and I want to apologise.’
‘It’s not your manners, it’s your theft of my observations.’
‘John, sailors are dying for want of your catalogue. You heard what happened last week. Two thousand lives lost on the Scilly Isles.’
‘Poor navigation is my fault now? You’re liars and thieves. All of you.’
‘Let me take you for coffee afterwards. We have much to mend between us.’
‘You and I have nothing to discuss as long as you align yourself with Newton.’ Freeing his arm, Flamsteed struggled to open the hefty front door. ‘You’re nothing if you side with him in this matter.’
The door closed heavily, separating the men.
Newton contemplated Fatio’s spidery handwriting as Flamsteed edged into the committee room. There was no return address and no signature on the letter. It had been hand-delivered to Newton’s home and contained only a date and a time. He already knew the place. He kept the message concealed from the other committee members who were seated on either side of him.
As Flamsteed took his place, Newton folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket. The Astronomer Royal was moving with such calculated lethargy it bordered on contempt. Newton did not wait for him to make himself comfortable. He picked up the committee’s report.
As he spoke, Halley slunk into the room, his face downcast. He slid into a seat to Newton’s left, near the panelled door.
‘Reverend John Flamsteed, on the command of Prince George, this committee has reviewed your observations, taken during these past years at the public’s expense. We have found you negligent and lazy in the collection of the lunar data, and tardy in the publication of this public property. Therefore, this committee has decided that your star chart is to be published without further delay.’
‘You cannot force me to publish anything I am not ready to,’ said Flamsteed. ‘The observations are mine. I bought the telescopes when King Charles overlooked the fact that an observatory needs equipment. That makes them my property.’
Newton leaned forwards. ‘You have been kept in employment these past thirty years out of the public purse. Your data is the property of the Crown, and we shall publish it as such.’ He eased back, gesturing to his left. ‘We have asked Mr Halley to make the final preparations and oversee the publication. Your further involvement is not required.’
‘Halley?’ gasped Flamsteed.
‘Yes. This country’s most distinguished astronomer.’ Newton glanced to his left, where Halley was scrutinising the table-top, one shoulder turned away.
‘I will not work with him.’ Flamsteed jabbed a crooked finger.
‘We’re not asking you to. We have your data,’ said Newton.
‘He’s a filthy adulterer and an atheist to boot.’
Halley cringed. There were indignant tuts from the others. Newton raised his voice. ‘He is an esteemed member of this society; you will treat him with every respect. He will publish your catalogue, since you have proved incapable of doing so.’
‘I will not take this from you, another atheist,’ stormed Flamsteed.
‘Atheist?’ The word was a knife-thrust. Newton shot to his feet, the heavy presidential chair rocking backwards.
‘We’ve all heard about your refusal to take Holy Orders,’ continued Flamsteed.
‘Reverend, you go too far,’ said an outraged voice to Newton’s right.
‘Do I?’ Flamsteed’s eyes blazed. ‘Ask him about his secret meetings with Locke. What did they talk about? We’ve all heard of the papers found in Locke’s possession that spoke against the Holy Trinity. What’s that if not atheism?’
Newton felt the papers he was holding crumpling in his grip. The others were looking at him. He cleared his throat. ‘I will not be held accountable for Mr Locke’s views. Your unfounded accusations serve only to divert us from the issue of your negligence with royal data. I warn you now, in front of witnesses, if you do anything to hinder the publication, you will be judged to have disobeyed a direct commandment from the Queen and Prince George.’
Flamsteed’s face filled with a look of contempt. ‘Your day of judgement is coming, and yours,’ he said, flicking a look at Halley, ‘but not yet from God. There are more earthbound authorities that have their eyes on you and your irreligious thinking.’
Newton was still pretending not to have been hooked by Flamsteed’s barbs when the old man was dismissed and shown from the room. The other Fellows made their own sheepish exits.
How had Flamsteed known about his religious views? Could he have read it in his eyes that day at Greenwich when he had questioned him about the biblical passage? Had he heard of it from gossip? Had he seen the anonymous pamphlet Newton had written for Locke and guessed the author?
‘Isaac?’
The voice made him jump.
Halley was still in the room, his face drawn.
‘Isaac, he may be right about the authorities taking an interest in our work. I’ve been visited, had questions asked about you and the theory of gravity. Some are saying it’s irreligious thinking. Are you attacking religion with your theory of gravity?’
‘What is it to you, Mr Halley? We all know that your beliefs are sadly lacking.’ He charged for the door. He knew he had to get home and destroy anything that could implicate him.
Newton tore into the house and half-fell into his study. Dashing from pile to pile, he thumbed through ledgers, ripping out first one page, then another and another, and flinging them into the empty grate.
There was so much of his writing about this, how could he destroy it all? His entire work was shot through with the belief.
But I am still right on this one thing, rang his inner voice; Christ was not fully divine.
Where was the family Bible he had read, underlining the relevant passages to support his beliefs? Could he bring himself to burn the very book that had given his mother such comfort?
Gaol. He had some inkling of what it must be like from his visits during his war with the counterfeiters: the cold stone walls, the drip of moisture, the soiled straw, the rats, the cries of other inmates.
Even if he escaped gaol, he had heard of the lynching of heretics.
His desk was full of his attempted lunar calculations. Bellowing, he lunged at the sheaf of higgledy-piggledy papers, screwing them into big handfuls and dashing them in the direction of the grate.
But the room was still full of papers. He couldn’t burn it all. It wasn’t just his theology; there was his alchemy, too. That, in its own way, was equally incriminating. This room alone was filled with enough evidence to send him to gaol, maybe even hang him, several times over.
It came to him in a terrible realisation that there was only one way to stop this. If it was his theory of gravity that was causing people to ask questions, then he must publicly destroy it. And he knew how to do it. He had known it since the madness had left him and he had taken the job at the Mint. He had recognised it the very first time he had looked into the night sky with a clear mind and had seen the stars looking back at him.
A star had to be a burning Sun placed far off in space. So, each one must be producing its own pull of gravity. And that meant that each was pulling on the others, so they should be collapsing together – the whole Universe should be collapsing! It was pure, inescapable logic. Yet the stars were there, shining night after night, year after year, eon after eon, fixed in position, defying the very law of gravity he thought applied across the Universe.
Try as hard as he might,
he could find no solution to this conundrum. There was no mathematical trick that he could pull. He was beaten, and not for the want of data this time. His theory of gravity was fatally flawed. All he needed was the courage to say so. That must silence his critics.
He looked around the room. A fresh panic engulfed him. Even if he spoiled his philosophy, the authorities could still find all the evidence they needed of his Arianism. Then no one would care about gravity anyway.
Think!
To his knowledge only two people knew for certain of his Arianism. His breathing began to steady. Yes, that was the most serious threat to him at the moment. The first was Locke, now dead and gone, and the second was Fatio . . .
Fatio!
What was the time? Newton was late.
As uncomfortable as it felt, Newton made himself look into the other man’s eyes. ‘Say that again.’
They spoke quietly, cocooned in the grubby clutter of Fatio’s apartment.
‘There is someone I would like you to meet,’ said Fatio.
‘Who?’
‘A Frenchman working in London, Elie Marion. He’s gathering true believers. His vision is yours: that someone is among us now who will bring us to the Kingdom of God. We must cleanse our souls in preparation. The Judgement is close at hand.’
‘And you think this prophet is . . .’ A bead of sweat trickled into Newton’s mouth. He tasted salt and thought of Lot’s wife.
Fatio’s eyes were wide. ‘You know who the prophet is.’
Newton felt queasy.
‘Elie will know it too, as soon as he meets you. I’ve already told him about you. Will you meet him, Isaac?’
‘How?’ Newton had to buy thinking time.
‘We gather in secret. Marion, me, the others.’
‘How many others?’
‘Every meeting there are more. Over thirty at the last.’
At that moment, Newton saw the solution as clearly as the dirty plate on Fatio’s bedside table. He experienced a sense of awful inevitability.
‘Promise me you will think about it,’ Fatio urged.
Newton waited just long enough to make it seem as if he were weighing the decision. ‘Send me the date and time of the next meeting. I will be there.’
39
Oxford
Although the banquet had yet to begin, the rafters were already echoing with wine-fuelled laughter and conversation. No sooner had the academics hoisted their glasses in a toast to the new King, George I, than the quaffing began in earnest. The dining-hall grew warm from the candles and the press of bodies.
Halley meandered through the gathering, stopping here and there to acknowledge a brief greeting or pleasantry.
How’s the observatory coming along?
How are the comet calculations?
Have you seen the graffiti on the Arundel Marbles – shocking, isn’t it?
I should say. I’d like to take the same knife that the villain used and use it on him – followed by a thunderous laugh.
‘I simply cannot – will not – bring myself to acknowledge him,’ said a diner. ‘A Hanoverian duke is not a King of England. What say you, Edmond?’
‘With the greatest respect, Mr Hearne, I know so little of these matters that I content myself to serve the monarch in possession at the time.’
A stung look greeted his comment. Halley thought it best to excuse himself and move on.
A few paces later, a nasal rasp made him turn.
‘Couldn’t have said it better myself. “The monarch in possession” – skilfully put.’ Winslow smiled coldly. ‘Oh, don’t look so surprised. We old boys have to stick together, right?’ He displayed his gowned arms.
‘You studied here?’
‘Awarded my degree for effort rather than by royal commandment. That embarrasses you, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me. We’re friends, remember, and friends don’t keep secrets from one another.’
‘Christ’s wounds! There’s nothing to tell.’
‘That’s not what the new Princess of Wales thinks. It seems that Princess Caroline studied under Leibniz and has some concerns about, shall we call it, Newtonianism.’
‘Leibniz is nothing but a troublemaker.’
‘Maybe so, but he’s now the one with influence at court. I thought you and I both understood that survival is the only game worth playing?’
Halley looked away to the high leaded windows and the darkness beyond.
‘Very well,’ hissed Winslow, ‘but don’t ever say I didn’t try to help you. You’ve never been to one of these gatherings, have you? Watch yourself: the entertainment can get a little personal, especially towards newcomers.’
Halley spent the next hour rolling tasteless food around his mouth; his mind did the same with Winslow’s words.
After another toast to the King, the Fool took to the centre of the room. He was a young man of admirable height and musculature, with a flashing smile that drew in his audience. He was clad in the multicoloured patchwork of a mediaeval jester and carried an inflated pig’s bladder that he used to dislodge a few wigs as he made a circuit of the room. There was a palpable expectation in the air.
He paused as he drew close to Halley. ‘Gentlemen of Oxford, my task here tonight is to formally welcome our new Savilian Professor of Astronomy, Edmond Halley, into the bosom of the University. And, as you shall soon hear, if there is one thing that Mr Halley knows his way around, it’s bosoms.’
Halley squirmed.
The Fool nodded appreciatively at the guffaws from the crowd. ‘Doubtless you already know of those great services he has rendered to England: maps and voyages, star charts and so on, so I want to tell you of his greater labours. Yes, gentlemen, I know what you are thinking: what can possibly be greater than his work for the good of England? Let me tell you, it is his greater work to the population of the human race. Yes, this man has tirelessly sought to increase the number of humans in the world, selflessly giving himself to women over the years . . .’
There was another approving roar from the diners. Halley forced himself to lift his glass in salute, but his cheeks were burning.
‘First, there was the lady of advancing years on his trip to Saint Helena, who suddenly found herself with child. Mr Halley modestly accredited it to the beneficial tropical air, but I think we know better, gentlemen. It was not the air but the vigour of youth – Mr Halley’s youth, if I may call it that – that gave her a swollen belly . . .’
The Fool flashed a smile at Halley.
Halley remonstrated: ‘That was her husband’s doing, not mine.’
‘Cheer up, Edmond,’ said his neighbour, ‘it’s just a bit of fun.’
‘There was also Lady Hevelius of Danzig.’ The Fool strutted with open arms, then hugged himself tightly. ‘Married to a much older gentleman. A gentleman, so rumour has it, whose great years kept his wife in permanent’ – he opened his arms again and let his wrists flop lifelessly – ‘frustration. In this situation, Mr Halley here did what any true gentleman would. He bedded her – and here’s the best of it: he bedded her in her marital home. No clandestine tryst or rendezvous for him. He went to her very house and bedded her, while her cuckolded husband snored softly just a few doors away. Have you ever heard of greater devotion to the furtherance of the population?’
The sounds of hilarity bounced from the wooden panelling, but this time Halley detected an undertone of disapproval. Across the room one face stood out from the rest: Winslow’s. There was no amusement on his face, just a steely look of satisfaction. The spymaster raised his glass.
The revels broke up around midnight, after the interminable music and poetry. Halley sat through the whole thing but absorbed nothing, his mood ruined. He refused every attempt to refill his wine glass and stared morosely at the residue of ruby fluid. When the boisterous etiquette allowed, he excused himself from the table.
The cool night air hit him as he entered the cloisters; he was glad to be away from the clinging fug of
tobacco smoke in the hall. He breathed deeply.
‘Edmond! A word.’
The torches were burning low but still offered enough light to reveal Winslow.
‘This was your doing, wasn’t it? You did all this just to humiliate me in public,’ accused Halley.
‘Tell me what I need to know about Newton and the humiliation will cease. I cannot convict him on the say-so of a German philosopher alone. I need corroboration.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘You see, I’ve been thinking about you. What does an atheist have to fear? Not divine justice, that’s for sure. No, it has to be something he’d miss while he still lives. So, I’ve reasoned that the thing someone like you would fear most is loss. Am I right? It could be loss of dignity, loss of reputation, loss of family.’
‘I’ve warned you before, leave my family out of these affairs,’ growled Halley.
‘It doesn’t need to be loss of life,’ continued Winslow. ‘This new lot don’t go in for that kind of thing as much as the Stuarts did. But, of course, you know all about that, don’t you?’
Father . . . The night darkened around Halley.
‘But I digress. The loss could just be of trust, or respect, or perhaps love. Something that will last for the rest of a lifetime and hurt every single day. Say the loss of a wife’s trust and love for her husband.’
The talking face filled Halley’s vision. Then it was jerking upwards and backwards, a bubble of blood exploding from the lips as Halley’s fist struck home.
‘Leave my family alone,’ he spluttered.
Winslow looked up from the ground, wide-eyed. ‘Do you know, that’s exactly what your father said just before . . . Well, you know . . .’
Halley launched himself at Winslow, fists clenched and ready to land more blows. He halted at the sound of footsteps and laughter echoing in the cloisters. Two men weaved round the corner, gowns askew.
‘My, my, what’s happening here?’ asked one of them.
Winslow wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth and struggled to his feet. ‘Nothing, gentlemen. I just lost my footing.’ He straightened his clothing. ‘And so has Mr Halley.’