The Sensorium of God

by Stuart Clark

  ‘Katherine!’ Mary had interjected, sparking a giggle from her daughter.

  Hargreaves had blushed furiously.

  Now, standing next to the family, he said, ‘Though, I confess, I didn’t realise the observatory was so far outside London.’

  ‘It has to be far enough away so that the city fog doesn’t obscure the view. The ordinary clouds are nuisance enough.’ Halley led them through the entrance gate and into the small courtyard. As he paused before the steps, Mary brushed his shoulders clean of wig-powder and gave him an encouraging nod. He stepped to the door, knocked and stepped backwards into the midst of the gathering, adjusting his clothing yet again.

  It took an age for the door to creak open. As it did Halley fought a surge of unease. Bringing his whole family here – and a clergyman – unannounced was so obvious. He quelled the feeling; of course it was obvious, it had to be recognisable as a gesture of apology and atonement.

  Flamsteed gawped at them round the door.

  Halley looked back.

  ‘Reverend Flamsteed, a pleasure to meet you,’ said Margaret in her serious tone. ‘Father often speaks of you.’

  ‘John,’ Halley said, but stalled after the first word.

  Flamsteed cautiously opened the door. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Halley ushered his family and Hargreaves into the observatory building. Mary smiled hopefully as she passed.

  There were not enough chairs, so Halley’s children and the vicar pressed themselves against the sitting-room walls, like medical students at their first dissection. Flamsteed and Halley sat at the small central table. Mary perched on a stool.

  ‘I keep a simple home,’ said Flamsteed, unabashed.

  ‘Is Margaret here?’ asked Halley. Turning to his elder daughter, he said, ‘You share his wife’s name.’

  ‘Derived from the Greek word margarites, meaning pearl,’ she said.

  Flamsteed ignored the exchange. ‘She’s staying in the parish this week. I’ll be joining her at the weekend.’

  Halley remembered the time, long ago, when he had come here convinced that Flamsteed’s rectorship would make vacant the post of King’s Astronomer. The rebuff still embarrassed him. Realising he had slipped into reverie, he rubbed his hands together, looking around for inspiration. Hargreaves was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘I’ve been telling the Reverend Hargreaves about a most curious calico shirt that I saw on the docks,’ said Halley. ‘It was brought from India, I discovered. It was woven in such a way as to be entirely without a seam. Had I not seen it myself I would have never believed it.’

  Flamsteed stared.

  ‘It explains the scriptural revelation about our Saviour’s coat being seamless.’ Halley could hear himself floundering.

  ‘Oh yes, we were discussing it on the coach ride over here,’ chipped in Hargreaves.

  ‘You came by coach?’ asked Flamsteed.

  ‘The six of us were pressed so tightly together it prevented us being thrown around by the potholes.’

  Flamsteed did not react. Halley’s smile died.

  ‘Let me show you the errors I have noted in your star catalogue.’ Flamsteed huffed from the table and shuffled into the other room.

  When he returned he dropped the book on the table, forcing Halley to snatch his fingers away before the tome hit them. ‘In truth, there are only a handful of pages that are free of error.’

  Halley dropped his gaze. He knew that he had not paid as much attention to the work as he should have, but that statement must be an exaggeration.

  ‘I’m told that you were paid for your editing, Mr Halley. Yet I receive nothing for my preparations . . .’

  Except your salary, thought the younger astronomer.

  ‘. . . nor has my Margaret, who has learned enough mathematics to be an invaluable assistant.’ The disgust in Flamsteed’s voice was obvious.

  Before Halley could say something he would regret, he reached for Mary’s hand. ‘I understand the value of a good wife.’

  The bloated face remained impassive.

  Halley lightly touched his fist to the table. ‘Heavens, John! Believe me when I say that I would gladly burn every copy, if you would just publish your version.’

  Flamsteed’s face twitched. ‘Burn every copy? A sacrifice to heavenly truth?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Halley.

  ‘If I were to burn this volume and publish my own, I wonder if Sir Isaac – or you – would recognise the kindness I have done?’

  ‘I would be the first to applaud you for your efforts.’

  The family and Hargreaves left soon after. They gathered outside in a similar fashion to their arrival, and Halley looked from one uncertain face to the other.

  ‘How about repairing to Greenwich village to find some lunch?’ he suggested.

  His son agreed immediately, needing no further prompting to turn down the hill. Everyone followed. Hargreaves and the children were soon a dozen paces ahead, Katherine every now and again gently bumping shoulders with the clergyman.

  Halley ignored her flirting and looked back over his shoulder at the red-brick observatory. ‘He’s as immoveable as the bend in the Thames.’

  ‘At least you tried,’ said Mary, slipping her arm through his. ‘He may yet come round.’

  ‘I once fancied that I might succeed him. Now . . .’

  She drew him closer. ‘Let’s not talk about the future. It will unfold all too quickly and of its own accord. But we have this lovely afternoon together. Let’s enjoy it.’

  Her proximity reached into his core. ‘Come on,’ she said, urging him into a run to catch up with the others. It was an ungainly feeling to start with, but with each footfall he remembered the joy of running and wondered why he had ever stopped. Laughter welled up and broke free, drawing the attention of Margaret, whose mouth gaped in surprise at the sight of her old father careering towards her.

  Back in the city, a huddle of prisoners stood on a raised platform. It was evident that they had been there for some time. Bent over, their heads and hands were poked through filthy wooden stocks; their garments were streaked with food and other stains. Up high, the sun beat down its own humiliation.

  Newton stepped towards the criminals.

  Fatio was in the front line, where they put the worst offenders so that they would take the brunt of the public’s assault. His forehead was red and angry from the sun. His hands looked empty of blood and he stank of rotten food and bodily fluids. His eyes were slits. He swallowed before uttering the words: ‘I wish they had killed me.’

  Newton made a disappointed sound. He had not come to hear self-pity. Now he thought about it, what had he come here for? Something had compelled him to make the journey from the Mint that morning. Perhaps it was just to see the end of this particular story. Well, he had seen it now in all its ignominy. He made to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ croaked Fatio, bringing Newton to a halt. ‘I loved you.’

  ‘You loved me for what you thought I could offer you and your foolish ideas.’

  ‘All I ever tried to do was marry your new philosophy with the old.’

  ‘There is no marriage to be had. Everything is different now. The best thing you can do with your manuscript is to burn it.’

  There was something in Fatio’s gaze, something so unfathomable that Newton decided it was further evidence of the man’s cracked mind. He turned again to leave.

  This time Fatio made no attempt to stop him.

  42

  Hanover

  Leibniz tried to stop the tears.

  Newton has finished me.

  The words echoed in his head, drowning out the litany coming from the petty official standing over him. The young man had not even been bothered to deliver his verdict in a private office, preferring to ambush him in one of the state rooms, within earshot of the staff who were busily packing more of the King’s possessions for transportation to London.

  The throne that I helped negotiate for him, though
t Leibniz bitterly.

  ‘You do understand what I’ve been saying, Mr Leibniz? The evidence against you is compelling.’

  ‘I did not steal Newton’s mathematics.’

  ‘We have an official document, authored by independent advisers from the Royal Society.’

  ‘Independent! They’re his mouthpieces.’ He raised a fist.

  ‘The Royal Society says that you were shown Sir Isaac’s private papers before you published your calculus,’ intoned the official.

  ‘But I could take nothing from his work that I didn’t know already. It only proved to me that we were both upon the same subject. How can I make you understand? I’m cut adrift. If only I could accompany you to London, I could see Newton and reconcile this matter.’

  ‘I have just told you that the King desires you to stay here and finish the family history.’

  ‘But I could write about a new history of England.’

  ‘He does not want you in London.’

  ‘If I could just see His Majesty–’

  ‘He is busy with more important matters. Compose yourself.’

  Leibniz sensed a tear rolling down his cheek. All his life he had imagined joining the meetings at the Royal Society, watching the experiments, reading his papers and applauding others for their efforts, contributing. But now, on the brink of it, Newton had struck a fatal blow. He was to be excluded utterly and for ever. Not even his own prince would support him.

  The official screwed up his nose as Leibniz tottered pathetically. ‘You do see, don’t you? Sir Isaac Newton is the most important philosopher in the world. You are nothing but a court historian who’s been unable to finish a task. You’ve merely dabbled in mathematics, and now you’ve made the mistake of borrowing from the greatest living mathematician. It’s impossible for you to join the King in England. You’d be an embarrassment.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Leibniz stiffly. ‘I have work to do, for the King of England.’

  All along his route to the library, he noticed the indentations in rugs where furniture had been removed and the bright squares of paint where pictures had been unhooked. He paused for breath by a window and looked out over the garden; the hedgerows and flowerbeds might just as well be prison walls. As he leaned on the alcove, an idea stirred. It was fully formed. Perfect.

  He might not be able to challenge Newton in person, but Princess Caroline could. She was already in London, going about her duties as the new Princess of Wales. Had she not been equally appalled by Newton’s tinkering with the meaning of God?

  He recalled her outrage the morning he had shown her Newton’s Opticks. All he had to do was write her a letter. It could be in the hands of the courier tonight and in her own within a week. Reminded of the damage one of her subjects was perpetrating, she would feel duty-bound to investigate.

  A grim satisfaction took hold. One letter, and he could set Newton’s downfall in motion.

  43

  London

  Halley was in the mood to celebrate as he squeezed into the Waggoner’s. It was loud and sweaty. Unlike the coffee-shops, where the conversation was generally intellectual, here men talked for no other reason than to amuse each other or brag about their exploits.

  Perfect, he thought, wanting to prolong the visceral sensation of triumph that had exploded inside him that afternoon when the numbers had fallen into place. Racing from the Society’s library, he had paced across Crane Court a dozen times, tracing out the shape his mathematics had revealed.

  It was a perfect ellipse, long and narrow, and it joined up every observation of the comets of 1531, 1607 and 1682. Inescapably, these three objects were but a single one, endlessly travelling around the Sun. At first it would fall inwards to whip round the Sun, then it would coast back out into the inky darkness way beyond Saturn before the Sun’s gravity inexorably pulled it back in again, decades later.

  It was out there now, somewhere beyond the reach of any telescope, guided by gravity. But I can calculate its position and know where it is. He relished the godlike thrill of the knowledge, of the certainty he could have of nature, all of it made possible by Newton’s understanding of gravity.

  He soon found sailors to drink with, mostly new arrivals off a ship bringing sugar cane from the West Indies. They were eager for three things: to drink, to find women and to set sail again. As refreshments kept arriving, so the men talked more about the women they wanted to find, but none of them seemed to be doing anything much about it. So they drank more.

  ‘I can tell the future, you know,’ Halley remarked to a craggy, one-eyed sailor.

  ‘Can you now? I suppose you’ll be asking me to cross your palm with silver next.’

  ‘No,’ said Halley, ‘not like that. Calculated, scientific prediction. I’ve studied the paths of comets and found one that returns from the same part of the sky and follows the same path every seventy-six years or so.’

  The sailor searched for words, eventually plumping for a bemused ‘Well done.’

  ‘It will next appear in 1758.’

  ‘Can you also tell when the women’ll be here?’

  ‘You don’t understand. If I’m right, I have proved for all time the value of Isaac Newton’s work on gravity. I have provided the theory with a crucial experiment–’

  ‘I think you need another tot, my friend,’ laughed the sailor, revealing more gaps than teeth. His compatriots were swift to join in. Soon Halley was smothered in a friendly chorus of derision.

  ‘I need my wife, gentlemen. I bid you good-night.’ He headed for the door, weaving only slightly: nothing a quick nap in the carriage on the way home would not fix.

  He had not walked ten paces down the street when powerful arms encircled his neck and gagged him from behind. A black hood was pulled over his face and his legs were kicked from under him.

  Halley knew he was being taken to the Tower when the repetitive pounding of the Mint’s machinery reached through the hood. Terrifying images of the dungeons crowded his mind.

  When he stumbled, a powerful hand clasped his arm and then marched him down corridors, staircases and passages so narrow that his shoulders rubbed the walls. He heard the creak of a door opening and he was planted in a rickety, straight-backed chair. The hood was jerked from his head.

  Shielding his eyes, he squinted at his new surroundings. He saw soft furnishings, polished chests and vases, candelabra, an old Yeoman Guard, and Winslow, sitting not six feet away.

  ‘Do make yourself comfortable. There will be plenty of time for chatting later, but right now I have to slip away and invite another . . . “guest” to join us.’ He stood, sweeping his gaze around the plush room. ‘I thought you might like it here. It’s one of the state rooms James II used when he was the Duke of York. In fact, it’s the room where I first encountered your father.’ He winked and was gone.

  Newton had long since learned to filter out the crump of the Mint’s machinery. It carried so easily through the wooden walls that he could easily pick out the coin-cutters from those stamping the patterns on the face and from those milling the edges. Against this percussion, he was signing off the latest batch of invoices for raw metal when a new sound drew his attention. Rhythmic footsteps made their way along the corridor’s floorboards.

  A stranger entered the room. He was a short, stringy man clad in loose black clothing who wore an expression so cold it took even Newton aback. He spoke in a voice that seemed to lodge in his sinuses.

  ‘Sir Isaac Newton?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Winslow gave him a withering look. ‘Please be seated.’

  ‘I prefer to stand.’

  Winslow shrugged. ‘As you wish. What’s your association with Nicolas Fatio de Duillier?’

  ‘Just who are you to force your way in here and ask such a question?’

  Winslow’s gaze held steady. ‘I can assure you, I have every right.’

  Two red-jacketed Yeomen entered the office.

  ‘They’re more for show than an
ything, I admit, but it would still be best if you answered the question,’ said Winslow.

  Curiously, at that moment Newton thought he could smell the boiled bacon he had eaten for supper last night.

  ‘Now, where were we? Fatio de Duillier.’

  ‘We were acquaintances a long time ago,’ Newton forced himself to say.

  Winslow issued a faint noise, its meaning impossible to discern. He nodded towards Newton’s wig, resting on its stand. ‘You might like to bring that.’

  Newton did nothing.

  ‘It’s up to you. But you will follow me, in the name of the King.’

  Newton stepped round the desk, lifting the wig to his head as he passed Winslow, slowly and deliberately. He could see clear across the top of Winslow’s head as he followed him along the corridor away from the Mint. The Yeomen followed several steps behind. Neither would look at him, but the steady tread of their steps helped focus his mind.

  He had prepared for the possibility of this day. He would reveal the disastrous flaw at the heart of gravity. That would be enough to satisfy them. He forced himself to walk at a slower pace, although every nerve-ending was sparking. He began to rehearse his speech.

  There was an eerie whisper from a multitude of internal voices. Newton felt a tingling down his spine. It was a revelation, if not an epiphany. Maybe the flaw was not a flaw after all.

  Winslow led them outside, and the Tower walls came into view around them. Newton blinked in the bright light. Think fast.

  The Yeoman Guard was looking at Halley incredulously.

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Halley.

  ‘I feel as if I have. You must be Edmond’s boy.’

  Halley froze. ‘You knew my father.’

  ‘I’m Thomas Redman. I was little more than a boy at the time. Haunted me for years what they did to him, you know. What he did to him.’ He threw a glance towards the door. ‘Your father was an honest man, Edmond. He didn’t deserve any of it.’

  At that moment Halley heard some movement in the courtyard. He crossed to the window. Through the uneven glass, it looked as if crimson and black chemicals were sinking in blobs to the bottom of a flask.