Newton's Cannon

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Hush,” a voice told him. “There are angels who protect kings, and I am such a one. And you shall be the greatest king of all.”

  “An angel who protects kings,” Louis repeated. In his dream he was warm, happy, and the pain and fear of a moment ago were fleeing. In his dream, he slept and he knew peace.

  1716

  A Miracle

  Benjamin Franklin was ten years old when he saw his first miracle. Cold fingers of wind had been groping up the narrow streets of Boston all day, and as night fell they clenched and tightened their grip. The sunset burned like a furnace, but it was empty bluster. The equinox had come and gone, and winter had an early hold on the Massachusetts colony.

  Ben was only just beginning to recognize the chill as he stood on the Long Wharf, watching the tall, sleek lines of a sloop as she sailed into port. He was worried less about the cold than about how to explain to his father where he had been and why it had taken him so long to get a loaf of bread. He should not lie to his father—that would be a terrible sin, he knew. But with his brother Josiah so recently run off to sea, his father would not want to hear that Ben had been watching ships again. He did not want to lose two sons to the waves and wind, that had been made abundantly clear. Ben wondered if there were some way to frame the truth so that it was not incriminating. He could argue that his love of ships was just a love of well-crafted things. But he did long to follow his brother to adventure— whales and pirates and unknown realms. The truth was, he could not stand the thought of remaining for his entire life in Boston, not with the promise of grammar school and college snatched away from him.

  His mood now bleak, Ben turned down Crooked Lane, hoping to shave a few moments from his journey back home. The narrow alley was almost entirely dark, as stars began bejeweling the indigo sky above. Here and there the halfhearted flame of a candle gave life to a window. The candles brought Ben no comfort, reminding him instead of what he would be doing tomorrow: boiling tallow to make the wretched things. And the day after that and so on, until he was an old man.

  Halfway up the lane he saw a light that did not flicker. At first he thought it a lantern, but even the illumination of a lantern wavered. This shone as steadily as the sun. Ben felt a little chill that had nothing to do with the marrow-freezing air. The light was peeping through half-closed shutters of a boardinghouse.

  His decision took only an instant. He was already late. This light seemed so unnatural, he knew that it must be some trick. Perhaps the flame was encased in a paper lantern. He moved through the yard as quietly as he could, until he could see the light itself: a pale, bluish, egg-sized sphere. He immediately understood that this light was not a flame. But if not flame, what?

  A spark from flint and steel had something of the quality of this sphere's light, yet sparks lived briefest of all. His young mind could find nothing else to account for what he saw. Besides, he knew in his bones that this was alchemy, magic— science, the king of magics.

  If there was magic, there must be a magician. He crept closer to the house until his eye was almost pressed against the thick pane of glass.

  The sphere was the only source of light in the room. There was no fire in the hearth, but the window was warm to the touch. Ben wondered if the magic light gave off heat as well. If so, it could not be very much heat, since less than a foot away from the glowing sphere a man sat, reading a book. The sphere, Ben now saw, was actually floating above the man's head, so that his wig and brows shadowed his face. His wig cascaded in ringlets to his shoulders. His blue coat resembled a uniform of some kind. He was leaning over the table, tracing the characters in his book. So clear was the light, so legible the characters, that Ben could make out that the book was written neither in English nor in Latin. The characters were all swooping curls and curves, as beautiful as they were enigmatic.

  The man was not having an easy time reading the script, Ben thought. He was puzzling at it. Ben could see this because the magician traced his finger over the same line several times before moving on.

  How long he stood there, Ben did not know. Nor was he afterward certain why. But what Ben thought was, That could be me. That could be me reading that book, commanding that light.

  There were no whales or pirates in Boston, but there were books. The three years of school his father had been able to afford had provided Ben with the skills he needed to read and understand what he read, and he had long ago devoured most of the books his father and uncle owned. None of them were on magic, but if there was such a thing as magic, there must be books on it. And now that he knew there was such a thing, his future suddenly seemed brighter. He would become more than a tallow chandler.

  Indeed, when he tore his gaze from the window and went at last home, he realized that if one flameless lantern could be made, then so could another. And if enough were made, neither he nor his father would be in the candlemaking trade for long.

  Tiptoeing away he spared one look back, and in that instant the magician looked up from the book and rubbed his eyes. It was an unremarkable face, but it suddenly seemed to Ben that the man saw him from the corner of his eye, as if he had known Ben was there from the very beginning. Then the magician's features were in shadow again, but his eyes seemed to catch the light, reflecting red like those of a hound. Ben abandoned all efforts at silence and flew home with what speed his short legs could command.

  “I told you, Josiah, the world is changing faster than we want,” Uncle Benjamin maintained, propping his elbows on the table. “I'd heard tell of these flameless lamps in England two years ago. And now one has come to Boston.” He shook his head wonderingly.

  Ben's father frowned at his brother. “I'm not so concerned with these new devices as I am with my son's moral well-being. In your excitement, I wish you would at least remonstrate with your nephew for spying.”

  Ben felt his face burn. He looked about him to see if anyone else had heard, but the hubbub of conversation produced by Ben's siblings—eight of them were at home tonight—was enough to drown out the three of them. Ben, his father, and Uncle Benjamin often fell into conversation after dinner, especially now that Ben's older brothers James and Josiah were away. The remaining Franklins rarely cared to join them in their usually bookish discussions.

  Uncle Benjamin took his brother's soft-spoken comment to heart. He turned to his nephew and namesake. “Young Ben,” he said, “what betook you to spy on this man? Is spying a habit you nurture?”

  “What?” Ben asked, astonished. “Oh, no, sir. 'Twere not an act of peeping but of investigation. As when Galileo trained his telescope on the heavens.”

  “Oh, indeed?” Ben's father asked mildly. “Your observations were purely scientific, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you felt no impropriety at peeking into someone's window.”

  “It was an uncovered window,” Ben explained.

  “Ben,” his father said, frowning, “you argue well, but if you do not take care, you will logic yourself straight into hell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come, Josiah,” Uncle Benjamin said. “If you had seen such a strange and unnatural light—”

  “I would have passed it by or knocked to inquire, preferably at a reasonable hour,” Ben's father finished. “I would not have sneaked across the yard and peeked into his window.” He glared at them both.

  “Only this one time, eh, Ben?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Ben affirmed.

  Ben's father sighed heavily. “I should never have named the boy after you, Benjamin. For now you rise to defend his every misdeed.”

  “I'm not defending him, Josiah. What he did was wrong. I'm merely making it clear that the boy knows he did transgress.” He did not wink at Ben, but his glance seemed to contain one.

  “I do understand,” Ben assured them both.

  His father's face softened. “I know that you are perfectly adept at learning your lessons, Son,” he said. “Did I ever tell
you about that time he came home tootling on a pennywhistle?”

  “I have no recollection,” Uncle Benjamin admitted. Ben felt another blush coming on. Would his father ever cease to tell this story? At least James—who never failed to taunt him cruelly about his mistakes—was not here. Though he would never say it aloud, Ben could scarcely be sorry James was 'prenticed in England.

  “I'd given the boy a few pennies,” Ben's father explained, “and he came home with a whistle, well pleased. Such a din he made! And I asked him what it cost and he told me. Then what did I say, Son?”

  “You said, ‘Oh, so you've given ten pennies for a whistle worth but two.’ ”

  “And he learned,” his father went on. “Since then I've approved of all his purchases—not that he makes many.”

  “I know what he saves his money for,” Uncle Benjamin said, patting Ben's shoulder affectionately. “Books. What are you reading now, Nephew?”

  “I'm reading Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners, by Mr. Bunyan,” Ben answered.

  “Ah, so The Pilgrim's Progress pleased you, then?”

  “Very much, Uncle Benjamin.” Ben pursed his lips. “And speaking of such matters …”

  “Yes?” his father asked mildly.

  “Since I won't be going to school anymore, I'm hoping to pursue my education, here, at home.”

  “And I encourage you to.”

  “Yes, Father, I know. Your encouragement is my sword and shield 'gainst ignorance. It is— The short of it is, I want to educate myself in science.”

  His father settled back in his chair, face thoughtful.

  “What will that profit you, Ben? I've never told you not to read anything, I've always encouraged it. But I wonder about these new philosophical machines. They seem worrisomely close to witchcraft to me. You know that, too, or you wouldn't have asked me whether you could learn of them.”

  “They don't say so in London,” Uncle Benjamin interposed softly.

  “Or in France,” his father shot back, “but you know what deviltry they've put this ‘science’ toward there.”

  “Bah. The same could be said of such an honest invention as a musket. It only profits us to know the mind of God, don't you think?”

  “Indeed. But is it the mind of God that makes stones glow and float in the air?” Ben's father lifted his hands. “I don't know, and neither do you. Neither does Ben, and it's his immortal soul I worry about. Not to mention his pockets, for books are not cheaply had.”

  “Father,” Ben said carefully, ordering his words in his mind, “you ask how it will profit me. I ask you, When every man in Boston has a flameless lantern, who will buy candles?”

  The two older men turned to stare at him, and he was secretly pleased at their dumfounded expressions.

  “Say that again,” Uncle Benjamin whispered.

  “Well, suppose these lights are easy to make—”

  “Suppose they are expensive,” his father interrupted.

  “Yes,” Ben persisted, “suppose they cost ten times—thirty times—the price of a candle. But suppose also that they never burn down—need never be replaced? Would not the wise man then invest in the more expensive item so that he could save in the long term?”

  His father was silent for a moment. His uncle sat equally quiet, observing the exchange between father and son.

  “We don't know that they last forever,” Josiah finally said. “We don't know that they are not even more dear than thirty times the cost of a candle.”

  “No, Father, we don't,” Ben said. “But if you give me your leave, I can find out.”

  “Do what you think best, Ben,” his father at last acquiesced. “And when you are not certain what is best, then you speak to me. ‘One leak will sink a boat: one sin will destroy a sinner.’ You see, I, too, have read your Mr. Bunyan.”

  “Agreed, Father.”

  “Now then, here is another thing that touches on your bookishness. Where were you before you spied on this magician? You took a very long time after a single loaf of bread, even with some espionage thrown in.”

  “Oh. I …” He had forgotten about that. He picked at the grain of the table wood with his thumbnail. “I went down to the Long Wharf. A New York sloop was coming in. I heard some boys talking about it.”

  Ben's father sighed. “Why do boys so pine for the sea?” he asked.

  “I don't pine, sir—” Ben began.

  “I wasn't asking you, lad. It was a question for the Almighty. Ben, I know that if I try to keep you in the chandler's trade, you will treat it badly or run off like your brother Josiah. So here is my thought. I will try to find you a trade more suited to your talents, and in turn you will remain here in Boston, at least until you've reached a proper age.”

  Ben hesitated. “What trade did you have in mind, Father?”

  “Well, I must apprentice you, so here is my thought.” He leaned forward and reached across the table to clasp Ben's hand. “Your brother James is due home soon from England. He has just written me that he has purchased a press and some letters. James is going to set up a printing shop right here in Boston.”

  Ben felt a sudden, almost giddy hope. Was his father going to send him to England, too, to serve an apprenticeship in the printer's trade? That was more than he had dared hope.

  “Yes, I thought you would like this idea,” his father exclaimed. “Brother, what did I tell you?”

  “It will please him well,” he replied, but his eyes were watching his nephew carefully.

  “It's settled then, if James agrees,” his father said, eyes shining. “When your brother returns, you shall be 'prenticed to him. That should bring you in touch with those books you seek, give you a trade that will bring you pleasure, and keep you here in Massachusetts.”

  Ben felt his happy expression freeze. Be apprenticed to James? What a horrible thing that would be. The thought of becoming a printer was interesting. It was the years of servitude to a brother that worried him. Father telling him what to do was one thing, but being under the command of James was quite another.

  Ben reached his bed that night with a feeling of both wonder and resignation. Though he could hardly dispute that things had taken a turn for the better, it seemed that something was slipping away from him. And at the very edge of sleep, he realized it was the floating light and that strange, curling text. The shadow of James and the future he brought with him dimmed hope of that alchemical light.

  That can be me, he thought again insistently. I will find every book in Boston that tells of science and magic, and I shall make my own devices. I shall profit from inventing them, too, and Father will be proud. But something about that rang false, so that when sleep at last found him, it found a fitful and unhappy boy.

  Part One

  REASON AND

  MADNESS,

  1720

  1.

  Versailles

  Louis awoke to the clatter of Bontemps, his valet, putting away his folding bed, as he did every morning. A frigid wind blustered in through the open windows of his bedchamber, and Louis greeted it with none of his former pleasure. Once, it would have invigorated him. Now, he imagined the wind as death's frustrated caress.

  Another metallic click, a sigh, and he heard Bontemps retreating. Louis arranged in his mind the day to come. The order in his days was his only remaining comfort. He had made Versailles into a great and precise clock, and though he was king, he was carried along by its mechanisms as surely as his lowliest servant or courtier. More certainly, in fact, since a servant might slip briefly away and steal a private moment, encounter a mistress, take a nap. This was his only private moment, in bed, pretending to be asleep. It gave him time to think and to remember.

  The Persian elixir had given him new life and a body that felt younger than it had in thirty years, but it had robbed him of everything else. Gone were his brother Phillipe; his son Monseigneur; his grandson, the duke of Burgundy, and his wife, the duchess Marie-Adelaide, whose death had broken his heart. It was
as if God were sweeping clean the line of Louis XIV. The dust had also claimed almost all of his old friends and companions. But worst of all was the loss of his wife, Maintenon.

  Now he had only France, and France was a restless, thankless mistress. He knew—though his ministers tried to keep it from him—that there were whispers against him now. As the years passed and he grew stronger and more full of health, those who had hidden their wishes that he would die and make way for a new regime were allowing themselves snide asides. They were plotting. There were even some who whispered that the real Louis was dead, and he the devil's proxy.

  He had returned to Versailles to show them he was king and to restore the image of glory to accompany his renewed health.

  In the antechamber outside, he now heard the subdued chatter of the ever-present courtiers, awaiting their chance to see him. He heard footsteps entering, and he knew without opening his eyes that the porte-buchon du Roi had come in to light the fire in the fireplace.

  The gears of Versailles creaked on. More footsteps as the royal watchmaker entered the room, wound Louis' watch, and departed.

  Yes, he had been right to return to Versailles. Five years ago, when he was dying, his chateau of Marly—comfortable, pleasant, intimate Marly—had seemed the place to spend the remainder of his days. Versailles was drafty; it was an instrument of torture that cost a sizable fraction of the treasury each year to maintain. But Versailles was splendid, a fit dwelling for Apollo. The nation needed him here.

  A shuffling from the side door was his wig maker, bringing his dressing wig and the wig of the day.

  That meant he had a few more moments. Beneath the covers, he stretched, and was gratified to feel muscles respond to his commands. Since his brush with death, his body felt fresh and alive. All his old appetites were returning to him. All of them, and some would not be denied gratification much longer.

  Why, then, if his body was again sound, did a feeling of dread still hound him? Why did his dreams grow persistently darker? Why did he fear being alone?