Newton's Cannon (4 page)

“We had—” Fatio drew what seemed to Louis a shaky breath. “—a falling out. Sir Newton is not an easy man; he is prone to harm his friends.”

“
Harm
them?”

“Yes, Sire. He can be quite harsh, and when his favor is withdrawn from you, it is gone forever.”

“I see. So Newton cast you out.”

“Not for any lack of scholarly ability, Your Majesty. His correspondence shows quite clearly that he had nothing but admiration for my skill as a mathematician.”

“Do not presume, Monsieur de Duillier, to try to guess at my intentions.”

“Forgive me, Sire.”

“Was your quarrel with him of proportions sufficient for you to betray him? For are you not here to offer to pit some magical weapon of yours against his?”

Beads of sweat stood clearly on Fatio's head as he answered. “Majesty, I care not what happens or does not happen to England. But upon Sir Isaac Newton I wish revenge. The weapon I will detail for you will accomplish both your aims and my own. In prevailing over England, I will also show Newton that he was wrong to shun me.”

“Tell me of this weapon,” Louis commanded.

Fatio cleared his throat and drew forth a sheet of paper that he unfolded with trembling fingers. “Well, the principle is rather simple, but the mathematics have still to be worked out,” he said. “It involves merely the creation of a certain set of affinities, but as Your Highness may know, the proofs required to actualize such—”

Louis leaned forward, frowning. “This is not what a king wants to hear,” he whispered. “Kings do not care where your ideas come from. They want only to know what your work will
do
.”

“Oh … well—” He paused and lowered his voice. “—it will destroy London, Majesty, or any other city you care to name.”

Louis stared at him, dumbstruck.

“What do you mean,” he asked finally, “
destroy
?”

“As if it never was. Not one brick shall remain.”

Louis regarded him for a long moment, careful to keep his mask in place.

“How?” he asked softly.

Fatio told him, and the king's eyes widened. Then he stood and went to the window, staring out at his gardens for one quarter of an hour before turning back to where the man awaited, twisting his paper in his hands. “Monsieur de Duillier, you are a scientific man. Perhaps you can tell me this. Why do the shadows lie so long in my garden, though the sun stands at noon?”

“It is winter, Sire,” Fatio replied. “The earth has tilted such that the angle of the sun is from the south. In the summer the shadows will scarcely be seen.”

“Let us hope, then, Monsieur de Duillier, that God grants us another summer, for I mislike this long light. As of tomorrow you have my leave to pursue this. Your budget will triple, and I will place a staff at your disposal.”

Fatio fought to keep his features under control but failed.

“Go, with my blessing,” Louis said.

Fatio left, clearly on the very edge of flight, nearly tripping on his own shoe buckles.

“Are you certain that permission has been given for this?” John Collins asked, blue eyes dubious.

Benjamin Franklin straightened his battered tricorn and glanced sidewise at his friend. “Permission? By whose permission does one exercise the natural powers and liberties God has given him? Come, we're harming no one in this, and greatly improving ourselves. And by improving ourselves, how can we not improve our country? This is, in the end, a
patriotic
endeavor.”

John snorted. “I've heard that speech before! How old were we—ten?—when you convinced me and the rest to ‘improve’ the millpond by building a quay out into it, the better to catch minnows? Never mind that the stones we used were stolen from a pile intended for building a home. You argued
then
that we were performing a civic service, and with no more justice.”

Ben shrugged. “Yes, I admit an error in judgment. Our ends were honest enough; 'twas only our means that were questionable.”

“Yes, questionable as in my father laid rod to me when the workmen complained of us,” John reminded him.

“John, John.” Ben sighed, clapping his companion on the shoulder. “I am four years wiser now, and full acquainted with the concept of private property. I've made arrangements with the 'prentice.”

“But as you well know, a 'prentice has no say in such things, so what is the word of this 'prentice to us?”

“His word is gold to me, for he offers what I want,” Ben replied, becoming irritated.

“Now there is the mark of a
reasonable
man,” John shot
back. “He can always find
reason
to justify what he wants to do.”

Ben pursed his lips in growing annoyance. There were few people in Boston—man or woman, young or old—who could best him in an argument, but his best friend was one who could.

The two boys made their way down across the fields that lay between Queen Street—where he worked in his brother's printing shop—and School Street. The sun was bright in an afternoon February sky. They trod a path worn well by other children too impatient to make the square turns of the streets.

They were a study in contrasts, Ben with his chestnut hair above a plump face and sharp chin, John more nearly towheaded, with high cheekbones and a jaw as blockily solid as an anvil.

“See here, John,” Ben resumed, “if you have become too
timid
…”

“I never said that,” John replied. “It's just that you led me to believe that we had the word of Nicholas Boone the
master
, not Thomas Perkins the
'prentice
.”

“I never said such, though I apologize if you thought it. What you must understand is that 'prentices have an economy all of their own. That is why I can trust Tom's word.”

John grunted. “The economy of slavery, perhaps. I can do without the pretty welts and bruises you wear under your shirt, thank you.”

“Well,” Ben muttered after a moment, tasting acid on his tongue, “all apprenticeships are not like mine. But he is my brother, and we should not speak ill of him.”

“I
shall
speak ill of him,” John shot back. “I shall speak ill of him who beats you for no other reason but that you have more of wits in one finger than he has in both clenched fists.”

“Very eloquent, John. Perhaps you should be a scribbler of poetry rather than a mathematician.”

John glared at him but persisted stubbornly. “It is far from poetical to observe simple facts,” he insisted. “And where
is
your lord and master, that you wander so freely in the daylight hours?”

“Filling those two fists of wit you mention with ale at the
Green Dragon,” Ben replied, “for at least another hour and not much more. And so we should make haste.”

“I thought we were not to speak ill of James.”

“Speaking the truth can hardly be considered ill,” Ben replied. And then he added, in a quieter voice, “James is well intentioned. He has always had a temper, and it might be that I am too provoking.”

“Yes, I should think so,” John agreed. “But I should also think one's brother might have more charity. He merely loathes to be outstripped by a boy eight years his junior.”

Ben thought so, too, but he dismissed the suggestion with a diffident wave of his hand. “Well,” he said, “the business of printing suits me, for the time being. I'm not likely to find a better trade in Boston.”

“Oh, aye, in
Boston
,” John agreed, and they shared a brief, conspiratorial glance. They both ached to see what lay beyond the horizon. James made it all the worse when he spoke of London, where
he
had apprenticed. Sometimes Ben was sure his elder brother did that just to rub it in, knowing that Ben could not honorably break their contract: that he was bonded until the age of twenty-one.

“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.”