Newton's Cannon (5 page)

“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?

Adrienne paused in midstroke, 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.

Though lately she wondered if she even cared about
them
anymore, as they seemed to no longer care for her.

Fatio probably wished to thank her for her intercession on his behalf with the king. He owed her more than he knew; she had unfortunately attracted the attentions of Louis when he had doubtless forgotten her. The king had heroic appetites in all things, and the Persian elixir had clearly revived many of the king's vital juices. Yet with Maintenon alive, Louis had always been gentlemanly, fatherly even, to Adrienne.

In their last meeting, she had sensed less paternal sentiments. What attracted him to her she could not imagine. The meaning of beauty was still a mystery to her. When she looked at herself in the mirror she saw tresses a single remove from black, skin that bore the dark tint of her Spanish grandmother, eyes like ripe olives. She saw a figure that—even at the age of twenty-two— still retained a sort of adolescent awkwardness. It seemed to her that her nose was too big.

Nevertheless, the king found her attractive, and though she hated to admit it, a part of her was flattered. After all, he was the king. There had been very short, very guilty moments when she had daydreamed of being his mistress. But being his mistress, she had come to understand, could be more a curse than a blessing.

This time, there came a knock at her door, and with a sigh,
she returned to it. She knew that Fatio was also attracted to her, but she had even less interest in him as a suitor.

“Yes?” she inquired.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle,” Marie d'Alambert, the matron of women at the academy, replied. “Monsieur Fatio de Duillier wishes to speak with you.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Adrienne answered, and opened her door. “I would be delighted to receive the gentleman.”

Fatio sipped his coffee with enjoyment. “Dear lady, you have been of incalculable service to me. The king not only received me, but he has provided me with a staff and a budget to pursue my project.”

“I am delighted to hear that,” Adrienne answered. De Duillier was not a bad sort—somewhat lacking in social graces, perhaps, but a fine mathematician. Her investigations into his work showed that he had been a student of the great Isaac Newton in his youth. And de Duillier seemed untroubled by using her skills with books to his advantage. This allowed her to use the king's library without suspicion. In fact, de Duillier called on her services so frequently, she was virtually his personal secretary. This permitted her to observe lectures from distinguished scholars, even to attend meetings, all without raising the hackles of those around her. She had only to pretend to find it all so
dreary
…