Newton's Cannon

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “Well, we've nearly arrived,” Ben said. “Are you in with me, or not?”

  John raised his hands helplessly. “My mother has always told me I am destined to end with bad company,” he said.

  They were now at the bookstore owned by Nicholas Boone. Ben and John stumped up to the door and glanced around, trying not to appear furtive. Ben stepped up and knocked.

  The door opened to reveal a young man of about nineteen years with reddish, disheveled hair and glasses. His white shirt was smudged with printer's ink, as were his blue knee breeches.

  “Oh, so it's young Franklin and Collins,” the fellow said, his voice low despite his obvious cheer at seeing them. “What could bring the two of you here?”

  “We've come for the Freemason meeting, Tom,” Ben replied. “What did you think?”

  “Oh,” Tom said. “Then I hope you know the password.”

  Ben held his hand up solemnly, as if swearing to something, and chanted, “Ostium aperite blockheado magno.”

  “Hey!” Tom replied, indignantly. “I'm not much for the Latin, but—”

  “That means ‘Open the door, great friend,’ ” Ben translated.

  “I somehow don't believe that blockheado is Latin for ‘friend,’ ” Tom returned. “And here I was about to do you a favor.”

  “And much do I appreciate it, Tom.”

  Tom nodded good-naturedly. “Come this way, then. As I said, I think Mr. Boone will not miss a volume or two over the space of a few days.”

  The two younger boys followed him through the shop. After a few moments of searching through books on the shelves, Ben turned innocently to Tom.

  “Didn't a ship come in from England, not two days ago?”

  “Yes indeed. I'll be unpacking the new shipment this afternoon.”

  “I wonder if we could look at those.”

  Tom looked suddenly uneasy. “The new books? I don't know, Ben. Surely there must be something here that strikes your fancy.”

  “I was hoping for something of a more scientific bent,” Ben explained.

  “Scientific.” Tom returned to scanning the shelves.

  “I might make a guess that there is such a book in those boxes,” Ben said innocently.

  Tom grimaced. “But if you borrowed one of the new books, I would have to have it back early in the morning.”

  “What a fine suggestion,” Ben said. “Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Perkins.”

  Tom looked confused for a moment—probably trying to understand how loaning out a brand-new book had suddenly become his idea—but then turned to the crates. One by one, he lifted out the precious new volumes while Ben stood over him, hardly able to contain his impatience.

  “That's it!” he breathed, as Tom hefted out a particularly weighty tome.

  “The Principia Mathematica? Sir Isaac Newton's book? I thought you had read it.”

  “This is the amended version,” Ben explained. “The one with the new alchemical treatise.”

  Tom continued to hesitate as he stared at the red-bound volume. “I don't know, Ben.”

  “Did I tell you,” Ben asked, “that I brought you a present?”

  “Truly?” Tom brightened as Ben reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper.

  “I hoped you would bring me something,” he exclaimed. “Is it the London Mercury?”

  “Only the first sheet, I'm afraid,” Ben apologized. “But that news you now hold is only a day old.”

  “A day old, all the way from England,” Tom wondered, unfolding the sheet. “Your brother James was a genius to think of this.”

  “His brother, the king's arse,” John snarled. “Using the aetherschreiber to send that paper from London was Ben's idea, not James'.”

  “John—” Ben began.

  “James would never even have bought the machine if Ben hadn't convinced him to.”

  “That's an exaggeration, John.”

  “Really? Your idea?” Tom asked.

  “Please, Tom, don't go repeating that.”

  “But was it really your idea?”

  Ben blew out a breath and then quirked his mouth, a mockery of a grin. “It might have been.”

  John snorted. “Might have been.”

  “Well,” Tom said, “I used to wonder if all of this science would find a practical purpose, but that aether-scribbler changed my mind about that. To be able to write across the Atlantic in an instant—”

  “That,” Ben said, holding up his borrowed book, “is why I read Newton.”

  “That was a right lucky guess, Ben,” John observed as they made their way back to Queen Street.

  “No guess at all, John,” Ben replied smugly. “It so happens that I knew one of the leading citizens of our town had implied in a letter to Nicholas Boone that this volume would be well appreciated and quickly purchased were it to be ordered.”

  “And how did you come to see this letter?” John asked.

  Ben grinned slyly. “I wrote it,” he replied.

  Ben knew he was in trouble when he saw his brother's shop door was open. The open door probably meant that James was home early.

  “There you are,” James snarled when he entered.

  “I—” Ben began, turning, but then he saw the expression on James' face. He bit back his reply and deposited his book on a nearby bench.

  “I thought you would be setting type,” James went on, more quietly.

  “I was just about to begin that,” Ben said. “I was only out for a walk.”

  “Certain that you were. But where do you walk this time of afternoon? Perhaps down to the water to see the pretty ships?”

  “Not today,” Ben replied.

  “I see. Well, as you know, I, too, understand the attraction of the waves, little brother. But let us not forget that you've signed your indenture, with Father and God as witness.”

  “I wouldn't forget that,” Ben replied, but the statement seemed feeble, somehow overpowered by the iron presses. Ben thought about breaking his indenture almost every day.

  “That's good,” James said. He sank heavily into an oaken chair, then ran ink-blackened fingers through his tousled auburn hair.

  “I can be a hard man, Brother. I don't mean to be. But Father taught us right and wrong, and he's entrusted you to me. You understand that, I know.”

  Ben lowered his eyes, gulping down arguments.

  “I'll set that type now,” he murmured.

  “Be still. You'll set the type when I tell you to.” James clasped his hands together. “Father has raised seventeen of us, Benjamin. Seventeen. Now he deserves that his burden lighten, especially now with his business so poor. I'll not tolerate you running back to him with your complaints.”

  “While you are the very exemplar of filial concern!” Ben heard himself sarcastically blurt. “You would never dream of arguing with Father yourself, would you? You so despise to see him agitated. As the other night—when you called him ‘fearful’ to his face on account of his distress over the new scientific cannons— I'm quite certain you were as respectful as Isaac in your heart!”

  “Ben.”

  “You only wish that Father not know how you beat me!”

  “Father has never been one to spare the rod himself,” James snarled. “Though I can think of one child he spoiled.”

  Ben felt his face burning. “You always say that,” he snapped.

  “Spare me your bookish speech,” James answered wearily. “You were and always will be his favorite. We all know that, and most resent it none. But the rest don't have you 'prenticed to 'em, and I do. So you settle down, and don't you worry Father. For whatever he says, for these nine years you are mine, and by God you will be a proper man and printer at the end of them.”

  Ben clamped his teeth on another retort, for James was watching him carefully, waiting for his excuse. He had already been hit once today.

  “In any event,” James went on, “I hope you had a fine holiday, for it will cost you tonight. I'm
expecting another installment of the Mercury over the aetherschreiber, and someone must stay up to set it. So whatever that is you've brought to read, you can plan on returning it unread.” James quirked his lip a bit and continued. “What would Father think of this habit of yours of thieving books?” He directed a crooked finger toward where Ben had placed the Principia.

  “It isn't theft—” Ben began angrily.

  “Oh, it isn't? You are a printer, Ben, or apprenticed to be. How is it that we printers make our money?”

  “By selling what we print,” Ben answered.

  “By selling how many of what we print?” James pressed.

  “As many as we print, we hope,” Ben answered.

  “Precisely. And how many would we sell if my apprentice were to lend a copy of each broadside and paper to be passed around town?”

  “I take your point, but it isn't theft because I give the books back.”

  “Do you give the words back and what you learned from them?”

  “But I can't afford to buy such books,” Ben complained. “If it weren't for my reading, for what I know of things scientific, you would not have the fine business you are about to enjoy—” He stopped abruptly when James bolted from his chair. His sleeves were rolled up, and the sinews of his arms bunched dangerously. Ben closed his eyes, preparing for the blow. But the blow did not land, though James continued to stand close enough for Ben to smell the sour scent of ale on his breath.

  “Open your eyes, little brother,” James commanded.

  Ben did so, to find James gazing down at him with an odd expression—something different from the fury he had expected.

  “Why do you provoke me so? Why must your mouth always get the better of both our senses?”

  You are the one who always begins the arguments with Father, Ben thought. You are the provoking one. But, “I don't know,” is what he said. It is just so easily done.

  “You made a fortunate observation about the aetherschreiber, Ben. I admit that, though I would have seen the possibilities, too, given time. I have much to worry about and less time for idle thought than you. It is I, remember, who must pay our bills. Bills that will not be paid if we don't publish. And this scheme of ours has yet to prove itself. We shall be the first to deliver the Mercury to Boston on its printing date, but others will quickly imitate us. We must be prepared to offer more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  James laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready to discuss business with me respectfully and put away your boyish pride?”

  It is you who are too proud, Ben thought.

  “Yes, sir,” Ben said, trying to put a little enthusiasm in his voice.

  “Very well. Have a seat, Ben.

  “I have settled on two things,” James said. “But I'll hear what you have to say of them. The first is that I want you to write a few more of those Grub-Street ballads of yours. The one about Blackbeard's grand escape made us a few shillings and was generally pleasing.”

  “Except to Father,” Ben replied carefully.

  For once it was the right thing to say. James shook his head. “Our father is a wonderful man—and no son could love his father more than I—but he comes from a different time. Remember that I tried to convince him to quit the chandler's trade when I returned from London? Already candlemakers were going bankrupt when I was apprenticed there.”

  Ben remembered that he had made the suggestion to Father, the night he'd seen the flameless lamp, but it would not do to bring that up. Ultimately James was right; their father, unconvinced that the new alchemical lanterns would become popular, had continued making candles. But then Cotton Mather himself had endorsed the scientific lights, and the major thoroughfares of the town were already lit with them. The new town hall had not a single candle in it. More than one disastrous fire had plagued Boston, and many saw the lanterns as a godsend.

  “More ballads, then,” Ben relented.

  “You needn't sound so excited about it,” James said dryly, and Ben suddenly realized that his brother had actually been trying to please him, give him something interesting to do for a change—although something he hoped would profit them.

  Ben tried to brighten, though he felt not at all cheery. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps I can write a poem about Sir Isaac Newton.”

  James smiled condescendingly. “What dry stuff that would be. I was thinking of Marlborough—something military, that's what people like.”

  Ben shrugged and nodded.

  “The other thing,” James went on, “is that I wish to use the aetherschreiber to find other news—perhaps from the continent.”

  Ben looked at him blankly. “What?”

  “Oh, not the way we do from England, where we have my friend Hubbard to send us the Mercury. But we can get other things, can we not? Dispatches, conversations?”

  “Well,” Ben began, “that would be a fine idea if the aetherschreiber worked in such a manner. But it does not.”

  James frowned. “I know how they work, Ben. Between my machine and the one in England there exists a sociable quality which binds them together. It is the same sort of affinity as gravity or magnetism.”

  “Yes,” Ben acknowledged. “But Newton's point about affinity is that they are of different specificities.”

  “Don't think to lecture me,” James cautioned.

  “I'm only trying to explain why your idea won't work.”

  James regarded him coldly for a moment and then nodded. “Go on, then.”

  “Affinities are a kind of attraction between similar objects. And the more similar the objects, the more powerful the affinity. Gravity is the most general affinity, because the only similarity it requires is that the objects in question both be composed of matter.

  “And you also know that magnetism is more specific, for it only affects certain metals. That's why a magnet will draw up iron even in defiance of gravity.

  “Well, the affinity that allows the aetherschreibers to write to one another across the ocean is much more specific. The chime— that crystal plate in the aetherschreiber—is twin to the one in England. But what that means is that these two machines can only speak to each other. The crystal is poured by a glassmaker and then cut in two. No two objects in the world are as similar.”

  James frowned. “There must be some way to find the affinity of some other crystal.”

  Ben cocked his head. “I don't think—” But then an idea struck him. “The book I have over there is the revised Principia Mathematica. If what you wish can be done, it is probably in there that I shall find the means to do it.” He then waited breathlessly.

  Finally, James sighed heavily. “Stay up tonight and transcribe the rest of the Mercury when it comes in. Lay out the sheets, and I shall set type in the morning and delay waking you for an hour. That will give you time to read this book, will it not?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Because my muse tells me that I am correct in this, Ben. And if I am, our future will be assured.”

  Your future, you mean, Ben reflected.

  “Finish today's type, and then you are free to read. Hubbard won't begin sending until eleven o'clock or so. As for myself, I have other matters to attend to.” He rose and dusted his knees with the palms of his hands. “We accomplish the most, Ben, when we work together without bickering. Sometimes you give me hope, little brother.” He donned his cinnamon coat and left the printshop, doubtless headed back to the Green Dragon.

  It took only a few moments for the little elation Ben felt to evaporate. He had succeeded in gaining permission to read his book—something he would have found a way to do anyway— but he had also implied that his brother's idea might be possible. The fact that James even came up with the notion demonstrated that he knew little if anything about Newton's laws of affinity. How could he ever explain to his brother—without getting hit— that what he wanted was simply impossible, if not laughable?

  3.

  Adrienne

  Adrienne paused in midst
roke, frowning, unsure whether she had really heard a faint scratching at her door or merely the echo of her own pen on paper. When the faint rasping repeated itself, she deftly lifted her pages of calculations and slipped them into the drawer of her desk. As she rose, she glimpsed her face in the mirror and read the conflicting emotions there: anger at having to hide her work, shame, and beneath all of that, a furtive sort of glee. It was the face of a sinner who loved too well her sin.

  Not that her devotion to the scientific was a sin—it was just not what a young woman did. But the concealment—that was another thing, especially when she dared not speak of it in confession.

  She approached the door hesitantly. Scratching was what passed for knocking at Versailles, but this was not Versailles. Had someone been sent from the court? “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Fatio de Duillier,” a muffled voice answered.

  “Monsieur, it is only in Versailles that one scratches for admittance,” she called. “Elsewhere, one knocks.”

  “Yes, of course,” Fatio answered. “I wonder if I might speak with you.”

  “You might if you are accompanied by a chaperon,” she answered, making certain to tinge her voice with regret. “Otherwise I fear what might be whispered of me.”

  “Oh, dear, of course,” the disembodied voice replied. “One moment, Mademoiselle.”

  She stepped back to her desk to make certain that everything was as it should be. Her mouth pulled in a sardonic grin when she realized that the Principia lay open on her bed. She had concealed a fish but left the whale in plain sight. She pushed it beneath her mattress.

  If her interests in mathematical subjects ever became general knowledge, she would find her position at the Academy of Sciences terminated. Only her former appointment as the queen's secretary had made it possible for her to be here in the first place. Only by preserving the illusion that her interests were confined to music, mythology, and needlework could she remain close to the truest love of her life: the sublime precision and balance of equations. Furthermore, if attention were attracted to her skills and knowledge, it might lead to broader inquiry into how she attained her intimacy with science, and that could endanger persons other than herself.