Newton's Cannon

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “You own no fault in this, sir,” she replied loudly so that all could hear. “I would rather that the rogues had murdered me than see such a brave man as you shamed.”

  “And I would rather have died than that they should have touched you at all,” he answered.

  Adrienne flashed her smile brightly. “But then who would guard me now, sir?”

  He bowed again and escorted her to the carriage, handing his horse to one of the pistoleers.

  Once they were both inside, the procession started. Nicolas sat speechless.

  “How badly were you hurt?”Adrienne asked after a time.

  “I would feel better if I had been hurt more badly.” He smiled ruefully. “As it happened, a bullet grazed my shoulder. Then something … I don't know. It felt as if all the light were sucked out of my head, and then I knew nothing until I awoke.”

  “Grazed? Then why do you wear this sling?” Adrienne asked.

  “It was the bone that was grazed,” Nicolas admitted. He paused. “I hear the king is livid.”

  “Don't worry, Nicolas, I shall speak for you.”

  “Lady, I meant only that the king is very worried about you.” He looked out the window and said softly, “Many were afraid that you might be murdered, or worse.”

  “Well, I wasn't,” Adrienne replied.

  The carriage bumped along quietly for a moment, and then Nicolas turned back to her. Something hard and bright glittered in his eyes, something both terrible and wonderful.

  “I will only say this, milady,” he began, “that if another man lays hand on you without your desiring him to, it will only be because I am dead and God has received me and locked me away so that I cannot throw myself from heaven. I would forsake even salvation to prevent your being accosted again.”

  “Hush,” Adrienne murmured. “Hush, Nicolas.” Her gaze locked with his for a long moment, and she felt as if she were falling from a great height.

  “You don't understand,” he said finally.

  “No, Nicolas,” she replied. “I think that I do.”

  It was quite dark when they reached Marly. Adrienne was told that she would be received at the king's bedside before sleep. Despite his best efforts, Nicolas had fallen asleep in the carriage. Another guard told her later that he had neither slept nor eaten since her abduction.

  On the way to the royal chambers she and her escort passed through the great gallery of Marly. She found it carpeted with courtiers, mostly sitting or lying on the floor playing cards. Louis had built Marly for comfort and privacy. And yet Louis could not go anywhere without courtiers. It was as if he did not exist without them.

  When the courtiers saw her there was a scattering of congratulations for her “narrow escape.” Many of the faces belied the well-wishing, and she realized with a chill that all were now watching her, wondering about her, constructing their schemes around her.

  “Thank you,” she said, curtseying. “Though I must thank the count of Toulouse and his huntsmen, or I should not stand before you now.”

  She curtsied again and allowed her escort to take her on to the coucher.

  Louis lay in bed clothed in a magnificent dressing gown, the covers pulled back to his waist. “My dear Mademoiselle de Montchevreuil,” he said, his voice quite strong and clear. “It is so very good to see you alive and well. God will damn me for ever having risked you so. I beg your most humble forgiveness.”

  “I— You need no forgiveness from me, Your Majesty, for you have not wronged me. And God and your son Toulouse and the guardsmen of your Hundred Swiss have all conspired to keep my body and soul together.”

  “You were not hurt? They did not harm you in any way?”

  “In no way other than delaying my arrival at Marly, Majesty,” she replied.

  “Ah, my dear Adrienne,” Louis said. “I am a man and king of all France, and yet you possess more gallantry than I do. It is not meet.

  “Sit here,” he said, indicating a small stool beside the bed. “I realize that you are tired, but I have something to say to you, something that a few short hours ago I feared I might never be able to say.”

  “Majesty?”

  “So much has gone from my life, Adrienne, so many years since the grand, beautiful days. I thought to return to that, and in some ways I think we must. France must see me as I was, so that France can be what it was. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Sire,” she replied.

  “And yet, I am not what I was. Adrienne, I am better than what I was then; Maintenon taught me to be better. And though she began as my mistress, she taught me the folly of mistresses.” He frowned. “You see, not long ago, I believed that I was about to take a new mistress. I meant to propose this to you, Adrienne.”

  “Me, Sire?”

  “Yes, Adrienne. You are so like my Maintenon.” He sat up straighter in bed. “You see how I have changed since they killed my dauphin? The fire meant to kill me only awakened the full potency of the Persian elixir. Now that my sight has returned, you see how I have become young again?”

  Adrienne felt a sweat form on her brow. The king looked no different than he had when last she had seen him, save that his eyes did not focus. What did he mean?

  When she did not answer, he took her hand and patted it. “It is shocking, I'll admit. Though I have felt much younger for many years, I never thought to see again the body and face I had when I was twenty, and yet here it is! This is an age for miracles. And with these new eyes, Adrienne, I see you not as merely another Maintenon. You have a grace and a beauty about you, and you always smile. It would please me, the court, and France, if you would consent to marry me and be my queen. And, as queen, give France a new dauphin.”

  Adrienne knew that there were tears coursing down her face, but there was nothing she could do about them. She did manage to let no sound escape her. Across the room, Bontemps looked away, his face almost brutalized by sympathy, though whether for her or for the king she could not say.

  If Louis noticed her tears, he did not say so, but continued to stare past her, an expectant look on his face. She waited until she was absolutely certain that she could speak without her voice breaking. “Of course, my king,” she said. “How could I ever say otherwise?”

  But at least, now she was in the eye of the storm.

  20.

  Teach

  Dawn came with no land in sight. Ben rubbed eyes gritty with fatigue but even in full and brilliant morning he saw only the edges of a flat blue plate with him in the center.

  The battering of the previous day had sunken cold stones of pain into his muscle and bone. His brain was in worse shape than his body. He had not slept; shock and terror had played themselves over and over in his mind. He could still see them enacting their parts, but he had no tears left to cry, no more prayers.

  The endless expanse of sea around him was a wonderful sight. Bracewell could not sneak up on him here—he would be able to see the fiend coming for him for miles. He might not be able to stop him, but at least death would not find him unaware.

  It felt to Ben as if he had a hole in his heart, for he couldn't believe James was dead. It made no sense to him: He could remember James talking, laughing, scowling. James was real, had been real all Ben's life. This nightmare with Bracewell seemed a phantasm. The last few months were the lie, the illusion. James was real, and that had to mean alive.

  But morning made him understand most sharply that he had to return to Boston immediately. James was dead. But what if Bracewell went after his father and mother? What of John Collins? Ben had been the very worst sort of coward, because Bracewell had even told him that he would kill John; and he had run anyway to save his own miserable life. He had to go back. He rose stiffly and put up the sail.

  With no compass and no land in sight, he had not the faintest idea where to point his prow. Probably most directions would take him to land. If he sailed south, he would likely hit Cape Cod. If he sailed west, there would be land. Only eastward was there danger o
f becoming lost …

  He knew which way east was! It was a wonder how stupid one could be after a night—two nights, really—without sleep. He went to work setting the sail.

  He sat back impatiently, watching for land, noting absently the spangles of sun on the water, the growing warmth of the day, and the gentle rocking of the boat. How had Bracewell survived? he wondered. Kraftpistoles released a controlled eruption of lux and phlegm, producing a flame much like lightning. His device had been designed to trigger the lux in the metal of the gun to release all at once, randomly rather than directionally. For Bracewell, it should have been like being struck by lightning or worse.

  The light on the water seemed to form a pattern. Ben frowned, trying to decipher the heliographic message, blinking often from the glare, each blink longer than the last.

  When Ben awoke, it was dark, and thunder stuttered in the distance. Cursing, he sat up, his mind fuzzy. The last he remembered were his eyelids lying like stones, the sun heating them red-hot.

  The thunder sounded again, a long stream of concussions echoing across the water. Ben sucked in a few quick breaths, trying to clear his head. He had never managed a boat in a storm, and this craft was not likely to stand a squall even in experienced hands. But a quick survey of the sky showed him stars, bright and clear, and no hint of clouds. But suddenly, off to port, he saw a dozen pinpricks of red light.

  And then, a moment later, the rumbling sounded once more, and he understood he had been awakened by cannon fire. Out there in the night, two titans were warring. He saw a jagged slash of light that must be a kraftpistole or similar weapon and he watched, fascinated, for at least an hour, trying to imagine the fight. Were they warships of England and France, or were they pirates?

  It was only slowly that a chill penetrated his fascination. Where was he? How long had he slept? What if he had slept for two days instead of one? He had no way of knowing. His mouth was dry, and his stomach felt like an empty bag. It could have been two days. Surely Bracewell had either died or killed John by now. Surely to continue on to Boston was a fool's errand.

  But he had to know. He had to return.

  He took down the sail, for the night, and shortly after that, the flame and thunder of the distant battle died down, leaving Ben alone with his remorse.

  A few hours later, daylight brought him considerably more hope, for land was in sight, probably the cape. He would be able to find his bearing and work back up the coast to Boston in a day or so. He raised his sail and began his first tack shoreward.

  He had covered only half the distance when the boat thunked hollowly into something. Ben peered over the bow, and he saw a halfsubmerged barrel bumping along. The hope of land had distracted him, he realized, and now he scrutinized the sea.

  Flotsam was scattered widely in all directions.

  He concluded that one of the ships he had heard warring the night before must have met its end, for some of the wreckage seemed to be spars and boards.

  When he came nearer to the shore, he saw at least three man shapes, lying beached among part of a mast and other items he could not recognize. What if they were alive?

  He could hear his father's voice in his heart once more, and he knew what his father would do. Besides, there might be food and fresh water and some clue to what ship this had been.

  So he put the boat ashore.

  The first man was certainly dead: he lay supine, half his face gone, crabs picking at what remained. These men must all be dead or they would have made some sign by now. But then he thought he heard a shout, and he turned to scan the beach.

  He saw an arm waving. The arm was attached to a man.

  “Hey there!” the man called, weakly. “Boy!”

  Ben staggered toward him as quickly as he could.

  “Sure it is that God must have sent you,” the man said when Ben drew nearer, “for without you I was surely doomed to die here.”

  Ben stopped cold in his tracks.

  The man—sitting propped against a stone—was enormous, probably the biggest man Ben had ever seen. His shoulders seemed a yard across, and standing he would tower above six feet tall. He probably could not stand, however, for one leg was tied with a rag stained bright red with fresh blood. His black hair hung matted down to the shoulders of his stained white shirt, and his beard—twisted into a dozen or so black-ribboned braids—lay wetly upon his thick chest.

  “Have a seat, boy, and tell me your name.” He gestured toward a second rock with the pistol gripped in one massive hand. “Or shall I tell you mine first?”

  “I know you,” Ben said. “Edward Teach. Blackbeard.” He began to back away.

  “Well, good, so I'm not unknown in these parts. So sit and tell me your name. Be a polite lad.”

  “I think your powder is wet,” Ben said quietly.

  Blackbeard stopped smiling, and Ben met his gaze. Ben saw his death there, same as he had with Bracewell, but whereas Bracewell had killed James the way one might a flea, Black-beard's eyes promised something more slow and painful. From ice to fire, Ben thought.

  “Listen, boy,” the pirate said very deliberately. “It may well be that my powder is wet, but it may be that it isn't. Cartridges are waxed, you know, just for this sort of occasion. In any event, let me tell you what will occur here if you do not heed my words this instant. I will pull this trigger. If the pistol does not fire, I will draw my cutlass.” He patted the massive sword that lay beside him. “It'll be exceeding painful for me to walk on this leg, but catch you I will, and then I will cut off first your ears, then your feet, and so on. Is that clear?”

  Ben wondered if the pirate could make good his threat. It seemed possible. Blackbeard was famous for such feats.

  “What do you want?” Ben asked, his voice flat.

  “Your name for starters,” Teach answered. “And for you to sit.”

  “I'll sit out of reach of your cutlass, if you don't mind,” Ben said. “And my name is Benjamin Franklin.”

  Blackbeard nodded. “Just sit so as I can see you. You are a cool one for your age, Ben.”

  “Two days ago my brother was killed. The same man did his level best to kill me. I've been lost at sea, and now I've met the pirate Blackbeard,” Ben said. “Just what do you want me to do, sing you an opera?”

  Blackbeard blinked at him, then he began to laugh, a coarse snuffling sound that quickly became the roar of a giant.

  “Where are you from, Benjamin?” Teach asked finally.

  “Boston.”

  “Ben Franklin from Boston. Ben Frank …” He raised his eyes, a hint of incredulity in them. “One of my biographers! I'll be damned.”

  “I'm sure you will,” Ben agreed, reflecting that the single thing he had ever signed his name to should come back thus to haunt him.

  Blackbeard laughed again. “Damned fine,” he said. “Damned fine.” He sat up a little straighter. “Now look, Benjamin, I've taken a liking to you, so I'll tell you how we can help each other. Where is it you want to go?”

  “Back to Boston.”

  “Boston. And you say some fellow is trying to kill you back there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Over what, your smart mouth?”

  “That isn't funny,” Ben snarled. “He killed my brother. That might not mean a whole lot to the likes of Edward Teach, but it does to me.”

  “That's the smart mouth I'm talking about,” Teach said. “I want you to mind it. Now.”

  “The hell with you.”

  The hammer on the pirate's gun snapped down. The flint sparked, and the powder in the pan hissed. That was all.

  “Damn. God damn,” Teach snarled, flinging the pistol at him.

  “I told you it was wet,” Ben said.

  Teach had three holsters strapped across his chest. Two were empty, but he drew a gun from the third. “Let's try that again.”

  “Wait,” Ben said. “Wait. I apologize.”

  “Apologize to Satan,” Teach snapped.

  “I just d
id.”

  Blackbeard cocked the pistol, eyes smoldering, but then he chuckled. “What do you want, boy?”

  “You said we could help each other.”

  “I did.”

  “How?”

  “I want your boat, and I'm willing to pay you for it, so long as you help me board her.”

  “You'll slit my throat,” Ben said.

  “No, I give you my word.”

  “Well, then you'll break my neck,” Ben shot back. “Either way, I'll be dead.”

  “You seem in a hurry to die,” Blackbeard growled, “rushing back to Boston to someone who tried to murder you. What good do you think you can do there?”

  “He means to kill a friend of mine.”

  “Your friend is already dead, if that's the case,” Blackbeard said. “Once the officials start looking for who killed your brother, your killer has only a short time. Boston isn't big enough to hide in. He'd finish his business and clear out.”

  “That's what you would do,” Ben retorted.

  “Lad, I'm not often given to advising the young. But if you come through meeting me still alive—if you can keep me from cutting out that insolent tongue of yours—then you're best advised to pursue some other business, because you will have used up all your luck for ten years. It sounds like your brother has tangled you up in something mean—”

  “No. It was I who tangled him.”

  “Well, even worse. If you are the quarry, maybe this fellow would rather chase you than stay to kill your friend. In which case you should lead him far, far away. Now, I'm the fellow can do that for you, see. I can be the man who cuts short this fellow's work, or I can be the one who sets you free of him. Now just tell me which, but don't dither anymore.”

  Ben looked at the sea. “If I sell you my boat, how will I get anywhere?”

  “I'll tell you that, too.”

  “How much for the boat?”

  “Two hundred English pounds.”

  Ben stared at him. “I don't believe you.”

  “That fee includes you loading the boat with any provisions— including water—that have washed up here, and it includes you carrying me down to the boat.”