Ring of Fire III

by Eric Flint

  “I merely amused myself paraphrasing your words.”

  Duport had been staring at his hands. Now he looked up again. “You witnessed this gravity measurement, Master Thorndike? You vouch for the report?”

  “Of course. I followed the design of the apparatus from the beginning, and checked the math myself. Not that there’s anything complicated about it.”

  “Very well. I’ll take your word for it.”

  Dr. Comber favored him with a wry smile. “No, I don’t think you should do that. The essence of science is repeatable experiment, as we’ve heard often enough. I would have you reach a conclusion by your own hands and eyes, rather than give grudging agreement to the opinions of others. Please, do the experiment. John, how long would it take to prepare?”

  John snapped to full alertness at the question. “I should think three or four hours for Master Duport to read the report and familiarize himself with the plan. The mathematics is within the grasp of any B.A. The apparatus is still in place in the porter’s storeroom, so we only need wait for the town to become quiet before we can start a run. Some time after eleven should be suitable. Say, four hours to take the measurements and reduce the data.”

  “So it could be done this very night. Good. We can convene again at noon tomorrow and finish this debate without putting off the donors any longer. James? Will you do it?”

  “Since you ask in such a way, how could I refuse?”

  “I thank you.” Dr. Comber looked over sharply at John. “You appear to have something else on your mind. Say it.”

  “Er, I’m not a major fellow yet.”

  Thorndike laughed. “We all know how your disputations went. You will be in three weeks, short of slipping a doxy into our sacred precincts.” There was a flurry of snickers around the table at that absurd thought.

  “You won’t like it.”

  Dr. Comber still had his eye fastened on him. “It seems to be my duty increasingly often of late to listen to things I don’t like. Speak.”

  “Well, then, a number of the undergraduates and B.A.s are starting to ask why they should continue to study Aristotle’s cosmos. They object to having their time wasted.”

  Duport erupted. “We all studied it. Why should they be excused?”

  Thorndike shot back, “That was before it was discredited.”

  * * *

  The decision hadn’t been unanimous, but in the end the fellows had passed the grace, much to John’s relief. Thankfully, Duport was among those assenting. Now a large part of the university, with families and friends, was gathered in Great St. Mary’s Church for the commencement. Dr. Henry Smyth was officiating, he being vice chancellor this year. John had been placed at the end of the M.A.s, so that he could assist Richard. He leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry. Thorndike and I are being scrupulously careful with the proofreading. The text will be printed as you wrote it.”

  “The index and the table of contents, though? I’ve done no work on them.”

  “A couple of sizars are compiling them as we speak. John Stay and Edward Lucy. They’re good lads, and it will benefit their educations more than waiting at table. Besides, Thorndike and I will check every entry. All right, it’s time for us.”

  John stood up, then gave Richard his hand. They walked to the front, Richard leaning on his cane with one hand and John’s arm with the other.

  Dr. Smyth stepped down from the platform as they came toward him, in consideration of Richard’s infirmity. He announced, “John Rant. Master of Arts.” He presented the diploma to John’s free hand. “Richard Leamington. Honorary Master of Arts, by the grace of the master and fellows of Trinity College.” Richard let go of John’s arm long enough to take the diploma, then passed it to John to carry for him as they returned to their seats, to scattered clapping.

  There were two other honorary degrees given, both by royal influence.

  Then two men ascended the platform and went to stand beside Dr. Smyth. John had seen the mayor of Cambridge before; the other must be Jeremiah Brantley. He looked toward Richard. Richard nodded.

  The mayor had a document in his hand. Holding it out before him, he addressed the assembly in a ringing baritone. “The towns and merchants of Cambridgeshire named here now present the endowment for a chair of mathematics at this university, to be called the Cantabrigian Chair.” It took him a solid two minutes to read all the donors’ names. “The duty of the Cantabrigian Professor shall be to act in all ways to promote the knowledge and use of mathematics for the public good, foremost by teaching. We give this with the condition that the holder shall not be required to take holy orders.” He handed it to the vice chancellor. “Dr. Smyth, will you confer the insignia?”

  “Yes. Master Herbert Thorndike. Cantabrigian Professor of Mathematics.” Thorndike stepped forward, and Dr. Smyth draped a colored band of cloth over his shoulders and shook his hand. “The professorship of mathematics shall encompass physics as well, until other arrangements may be possible.”

  * * *

  It looked to be a decent day. There’d been enough of a rain shower overnight to lay the dust, and not enough to turn the roads into a muddy obstacle course. Raindrops still sparkled on the wildflowers by the roadside.

  Nathan watched as James Bright brought the wagon around to the warehouse door, then went to stand by the horses, calming them during the loading.

  Nathan and Jeremiah bent to lift a keg into place. “Father, it’s well that I heeded Daniel and went to call on Richard yesterday. He needs us now. We must bring him here. I could go with James now and we could carry him back in the wagon. There will be room enough.”

  “Why so? I regard him highly, but aren’t they caring for him at the college?”

  “Yes, but that care threatens to take a perverse turn. He’s growing feeble, and his speech is slurred at times. One of the medical faculty has been badgering him unmercifully to allow bleeding and purging. You know how arrogant and headstrong some of that fraternity can be. If he can no longer make his wishes understood forcefully...”

  “Well, a professor of medicine, though. Don’t they know what’s best?”

  “I think we can safely say that nobody in England knows as much about multiple sclerosis as Richard. If he says there’s no treatment, there isn’t. Opiates for times of pain, but that’s about all. Not to mention what the army’s new field medics taught us about first aid. Loss of blood helps nobody, and sterile technique has yet to be taken seriously at Cambridge. Such practices are as likely to carry him off with a raging fever, as bring any other result. And can you imagine anything more miserable than purging a man who must be helped on and off the chamber pot? Not to mention that we owe him once again for Daniel not being caught up in that mess some time back.”

  “No argument there. What could have possessed him to associate with such a pack of wastrels?”

  “The fallibility of all mortals, I suppose, though anyone with the least experience in business matters should have known better. But it’s well Richard found out before anyone else did, and him not even a member of the same college, and made Daniel’s ears burn. And so Daniel was where he belonged, attending to his studies, when the inevitable happened. For which reason he was neither sent away nor gated. I don’t imagine he enjoyed it much at the time, though.”

  Jeremiah chuckled. “I don’t imagine so, either. But what can we do for Richard here?”

  “We can take care of him for what little time he has left, and allow him to die in peace, without anyone battering at him with useless unpleasantness. There’s no more that anyone can do.”

  “That has merit, as a Christian act. Still, before bringing in a house guest, especially an invalid, your mother must have her say.”

  “True enough. I’ll ask her, then.”

  “No, I’ll ask her.”

  A step sounded by the office door. “Ask me what, Jeremiah?”

  * * *

  Supper was long past, yet in high summer there was still plenty of light comin
g through the windows of the bindery. Rant and Thorndike were doing what they could to speed things along, putting the last few signatures of the body of the book into proper order, and passing them to Master Higgs and his two journeymen to sew. Daniel Brantley came through the open door.

  Rant looked up from his work. “What word, Daniel?”

  “The last sheets of the index are on the press now. They tell me three hours until they’re dry enough to carry here. They advise slip sheets, if they’re to be bound tonight.”

  “Good. You’d best wait there for them, lest they wander away in that time and forget to let you back in. I would very much regret Richard passing from us without holding the completed work in his hands and seeing the words he has wrought. I didn’t like the account you gave of his breathing this morning. We leave for your house the moment the work is finished; the moon will be up by then. You have something to study meanwhile, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Latin grammar seems to be inexhaustible for that purpose.”

  John grinned at the memory. “Good enough. Until your return.”

  Daniel left again for the print shop.

  * * *

  It was one thing after another. Inexplicably, two entries in the index had their page numbers transposed. Fortunately, Daniel proofread the thing while the ink was still wet, and the pressman made the correction. Still, it wasted time. The pressman ran off the corrected sheets, several sets for good measure. Daniel was off to the bindery, and the pressman closed up. The first attempt to collate the last signature was done too soon, and it smeared. It was good that there were extra sets, but they had to wait longer for one to dry sufficiently. With everyone tired, Thorndike got the signature collated wrong. The journeyman sewed it, but Master Higgs had seen everything that could possibly go wrong in bookbinding at one time or another in his long life. He caught it before it went into the binding. They took it apart and put it right. Finally it was done, but the sun was already up when Daniel and John Rant reached the Brantley house.

  As Daniel led John in, the family was at the breakfast table, except for Daniel’s mother, who was coming down the stairs. Father looked up and asked, “How does he fare, Abigail?”

  “Poorly. His breathing hesitates, I can hardly hear it. He was able to take some small beer, but none of the porridge. I take it you’ve brought the book, Daniel?”

  John laid down his bag by the door. “I have it.” He reached in and produced it.

  “Best you take it to him quickly.” She turned and went back up, the others following.

  Richard was propped up, several pillows supporting his back. The morning sun through the window fell where his hands rested on the coverlet. He turned his face toward the door and saw the book in John’s hand. “ ’s that...?”

  “Yes, your work, finished and in print. Here it is.” He held it out as Richard raised his hand to take it. Richard got it propped up in his lap, then opened it about three quarters of the way in and flipped pages. The sun fell full on the book.

  “Ch’ter eight. Ne’er saw’t in print b’fore.” He began reading. After five or ten minutes his hand began to tremble heavily.

  Nathan looked over to John and Daniel, and said, “You go down and have something to eat. I’ll stay and hold the book for him.”

  As they left the room, a horn sounded from the river. Father glanced out the window, then turned as well. “I must go down and receive a shipment, it seems.”

  * * *

  Once again the sun was above the horizon. The morning light and the stirrings below awoke James Bright in his chair by the bedside. Everyone who could read Latin had assisted Leamington at one time or another the previous day. It mattered not that Bright had none; he’d taken his turn keeping company with the sick man while he slept.

  It came to him as his head cleared that he heard nothing but the birds outside and the family below. He looked, and could see no movement, not even an irregular rise and fall in the man’s chest. He hesitated but a moment, then called out, “Master Brantley! I think he’s gone.”

  * * *

  Nathan was the first up the stairs, but everyone else down to Cook and old Edmund was close behind. He’d seen death enough in the wars. He looked at the gray of Richard’s face, and the unmoving partly open eyelids. It was hardly necessary to feel for a pulse in his neck or listen at his chest, but he did anyway. He straightened up and sighed. “You’re right. He’s dead, Jim. An hour, perhaps.”

  “What now, then?”

  “He really has no family but the college itself. They’ll see to him. You have a delivery in Cambridge today, if I remember correctly?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Daniel said, “We can take him in the wagon, then. I’ll go with you and give the news to the dean of the chapel. He has the arrangements in hand, and awaits only the word and Richard himself.”

  Nathan asked, “And the book?”

  John answered that. “This first copy will go to the university library. All of us who worked on it have autographed the flyleaf, Richard included. I think it will remain in print for a great long while. And now, after I offer a prayer for Richard’s soul, I must gather my things and be on my way to Lynn.”

  “You’ll breakfast with us first, certainly. But won’t you stay for the funeral?”

  “No, I’m overdue in Grantville. I’ve put them off as long as I decently could, finishing this work. I must meet the faculty as soon as may be, and set to work preparing my lectures.”

  Daniel looked at him. “What are you to teach at the high school, then?”

  “Not the high school, the college. You haven’t seen John Pell’s latest letter to Dr. Comber, posted in the hall?”

  Daniel shook his head. “No.”

  “He tells us that the combined faculties have fulfilled the conditions Congress imposed for the founding of the college. They were required to prepare a complete set of examinations in the subjects required for at least one technical degree. They accomplished this for the Bachelor of Science in physics. One Eve Zibarth, a student of the late Charnock Fielder, has passed. Accordingly, the state vocational school was renamed the Thuringia-Franconia State Technical College with a greatly increased curriculum and added faculty. It conferred its first diploma at the founding ceremony.

  “As for me, I’m to teach advanced calculus, in Latin. Possibly in English as well, but that’s still to be decided. And I intend to carry my own studies as far as possible. I expect there will be examinations offered by the time I’m ready to sit for them. I hope to return in a few years with a Bachelor of Science in mathematics.”

  Nathan gave him a thin smile. “Mm-hm. Did I see a certain familiar weapon in your bag when you took out Richard’s book?”

  “Yes, he gave it to me some months ago. He said he could no longer use it.”

  “No doubt. The question is, can you use it? Have you practiced with it? Do you know what to do with it, and how to keep it in good order?”

  “I’ve done some shooting with it, and cast more shot. I can hit a target.”

  Nathan snorted. “At leisure, on the shooting range, I expect you can. Stay the day with me, and I’ll give you a concentrated session of army training. The roads have been quiet these many months, but I’ll feel happier if you know how to fight with that fancy toy. Call it my last debt to Richard.”

  Author’s note: Except for Richard Leamington and Daniel Brantley, the university characters are historical. Their actions are fictional, though extrapolated from available biographical information. The remaining characters are fictional.

  A Relation of the Late Siege and Taking of the City of Yerevan by the Turk Including an Authentic Narrative of the Death of the Persian Commander and an Account of the Destruction Wrought by Terrible New Engines of War

  Panteleimon Roberts

  Mir Arash Khan looked out at the trenches of the Ottoman army and marveled at his enemy’s industry. It had been scarcely seven days since the Ottoman cavalry had arrived and chased all h
is soldiers inside the walls, and already the city of Iravan was surrounded by their works. The Ottomans had moved with astonishing speed, appearing just five days after his spy’s first report of their advance from Sivas had reached him. The messenger had nearly killed his horse carrying that report—no army Arash had ever heard of had been able to march so quickly. He had been confident when he was appointed by Shah Safi to defend the city the locals called Yerevan and that the Ottomans had called Revan until Shah Abbas had recovered it thirty-one years ago, but the suddenness with which a force of thousands of Ottoman cavalrymen had appeared had shocked him. He had expected at least a week after the warning arrived to prepare for the arrival of the Ottoman army. That had been a costly mistake—his troops outside the walls had been scattered bringing in supplies or working on extensions to the fortifications. Many of those close to the city had made it inside the walls, but he had lost almost five thousand men on that first day. Of course, that had still left him with over thirty thousand—nearly three times the usual garrison. Indeed, his men were packed so tightly inside the walls that they were all but walking on each other.

  He had so many soldiers because the Ottomans had been expected. The shah’s English friends had shared with him information about Murad obtained from the magicians from the future who had appeared in the Christian lands. They had said that Murad would attack Iravan this year. Murad was supposed to have refused to believe in the stories told, indeed, to have refused to believe in the magicians, but Shah Safi had clung to the predictions. As a result, he had decided to reinforce Iravan. He had also decided to execute Tahmasp Quli Khan, the man who, in the magicians’ histories, had commanded the city and who had yielded it to Murad. The execution had been an excruciating affair, the sort of thing that left one with disturbing dreams. Arash knew this because, when he had been plucked from obscurity to command the defense, he had been forced to witness it as an encouragement to do his duty. Of course, if he surrendered to Murad, there would be little Safi could do to him, but his family had remained in Esfahan. And on that first day, watching as the sipahis had ridden his men down, he had feared that even his best efforts might be to no avail. The second day had been no better, as the Ottomans had rapidly dug a network of trenches and begun to raise gun platforms, and his watchers had reported seeing flashes of the distinctive headgear of the janissaries in the trenches. When the tents of what could only be Sultan Murad’s pavilion had been erected, tantalizingly just out of reach of even guns laid by his best gunners, he believed his worst fears had been realized. But on the third day, he had begun to wonder. The guns in the Ottoman emplacements seemed to be awfully light for siege artillery. Indeed, opposite this gate they seemed to have only a single cannon mounted on an odd high-wheeled carriage and to be using a sort of fireworks rocket to try to fill in. The rockets were a bit frightening, and dangerous to anyone near when they burst, but they seemed to need a long time to set up—so far the shortest interval had been five minutes apart—and they were not any danger to the walls.