Newton's Cannon

by J. Gregory Keyes

  “I am fortunate to have such a wise counselor,” Ben returned sarcastically. But he chewed over what Robert had said for the rest of the trip and found that it had the flavor of the wider world he had begun to taste.

  The run to Northampton took most of the day, and when Ben returned he was dead tired from having helped load and unload several tons of grain. He wilted onto one of the two wooden chairs in their sparsely furnished room.

  He had just closed his eyes for an instant, wondering which tavern they would go to for supper, when something tapped him on the head. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at a letter addressed to him.

  “Must've been brought while we were out,” Robert told him.

  Ben fumbled at the seal. His eyes darted to the signature at the bottom; when he saw it, he sucked in a disappointed breath.

  The letter was signed “Hermes.” Who in the devil was Hermes? And then he realized that it was, like Janus, a pen name. More puzzled than ever, he turned his attention to the text.

  To the honorable Janus:

  Allow me to make apologies for my master, the illustrious Sir Isaac Newton. He is presently engag'd in activities of high import which require his entire devotion and energies. Your persistent letters, however, have made themselves known to Sir Isaac, and he has instruct'd me—a pupil of his—to make your acquaintance. Consequently, it is my pleasure to invite you to a meeting of a scientific club. You may present yourself at the Grecian Coffeehouse in Devereaux Court, the Strand, on September the fifth, at six hours past noon. Myself and the other members of our society await your presence with great anticipation.

  Your humble servant,

  Hermes.

  Two days later, with a lump of anticipation large enough to choke on lodged in his throat, wearing a new coat and waistcoat bought with his last pound and shilling, Ben Franklin walked up the Strand, past the Sommerset and Essex houses and the grand old college of the Temple. Hackneys and sedan chairs hurried up and down the street, bearing bewigged and bepowdered gentlemen and ladies. Footmen hurried after their masters, liveried and plumed, and girls walked in groups along the sidewalk admiring the wares of hawkers and shopkeepers. The Strand was like a river of bright jewels, not certain which way it should flow.

  Ben took no real note of this colorful flood of humanity around him. He saw only one thing; the right turn that wound into Devereaux Court, and above it the sign of the Grecian Coffeehouse, growing larger and more legible with each step.

  The time was five hours and fifty minutes past noon.

  6.

  Disclosures

  “Awaken, O beauty in the tower,” urged a most unpleasant voice.

  Everything was unpleasant: the sickening motion of the carriage; her swollen, papery tongue; the eye-pricking darts of the rising sun. She felt as if she had been drowned in brandy and resurrected in some pagan underworld. What exactly had happened last night?

  “I wasn't asleep,” Adrienne growled at Crecy, who was shaking her arm.

  “My pardon,” Crecy returned. “What I mean to say is, you must get out of the carriage.”

  “What? Why?” For it was clear that they had not reached Versailles. Adrienne saw nothing but trees through either window.

  “Because,” Crecy explained, “Nicolas and I are about to sink it into a lake.”

  Adrienne blinked. She allowed Crecy to lead her out of the carriage. Her legs seemed nerveless, but she was soon seated against the rough bark of an elm.

  “Stay there,” Crecy commanded.

  Adrienne squinted at her surroundings. Nature's architecture surrounded them, colonnades of oak and ash supporting green arches above, where unseen birds piped and chattered cheerfully. Perhaps five paces away she could see the lake Crecy spoke of. A pond, really, but it looked deep. They were on a bluff some thirty feet above it.

  Meanwhile, Nicolas was unharnessing the horses. Now and then he lifted his head and scanned the woods.

  Adrienne digested her situation and found that it gave her heartburn. She had been drunk, drunk right out of her silly mind. The duchess had done it to her, feeding her glass after glass of brandy, but she should have known better. She remembered meeting Fatio. Fatio had been even drunker than she, she guessed, and he had confessed …

  Now she remembered.

  “We have to return to Versailles,” she said weakly and then again, with all of the strength she could command. “We must return to Versailles.”

  “I assure you that is what we are trying to do.”

  “You don't understand,” Adrienne said. “Fatio, his formula! It's designed to—”

  “Wait!” Crecy entreated, throwing a saddle over one of the horses. Where had she gotten a saddle? “Let me see if I can guess. Fatio's formula will kill millions of people. It's a horror, a monstrosity. The king is the devil himself for approving its use. Does that hit the mark?” Crecy delivered the lines like a melodramatic actor, grasping at her chest as if rending her garment.

  “Veronique, I demand that you still your tongue!” Nicolas shouted. “It isn't her fault!”

  “Not her fault that she was drunk? That she ran screaming about death and destruction and the king's moral character all through the Palais Royal? Well, tell me then, Monsieur Hundred Swiss, whom shall we blame?”

  “Nicolas, is that true?” Adrienne gasped.

  Nicolas would not meet her eyes, but he nodded reluctantly.

  “Oh, no. My disguise?”

  “We did our best,” Crecy answered. “We kept you between us, shouting drunkenly ourselves to try and drown you out. We kept your wig and mustache on.”

  “Fatio?”

  “Fatio found his rest about the same time you took ill. I doubt that he will remember much of what he said, though someone might tell him.”

  “And why do we sink the carriage?”

  “I'll explain in a moment,” Nicolas said. “Crecy, if you don't mind?”

  Adrienne watched impatiently as Crecy and Nicolas grunted and shoved the massive carriage toward the edge. It seemed to her that they should not be able to move it, but a moment or two later the carriage tumbled over. The lake kissed it with watery lips and then sucked it down.

  “Now, we should be gone,” Crecy recommended. “Adrienne, can you ride?”

  Adrienne wondered if she meant at all or at the moment, but she merely nodded, rising unsteadily to her feet. Nicolas held the reins of a golden stallion out to her. It was bridled and saddled, not one of the carriage horses. Two similar mounts awaited Crecy and Nicolas.

  “Where did these come from?” Adrienne asked as she put her foot in the stirrup.

  “We took them from the men d'Artagnan, here, killed,” Crecy replied, tersely.

  Adrienne's jaw dropped, and she swung about to regard Nicolas. “What is happening?” she asked.

  “Let's go. I'll tell you as we ride.”

  Adrienne mounted. Her horse moved off at a fast walk.

  “We shall have to make more speed soon,” Crecy informed her. “You see, Demoiselle, we have something of a trick to accomplish, your guardian and I. We must not only return you to Versailles alive, but we must return you without anyone knowing that you were in Paris. We three rogues—” She gestured at the three of them. “—must vanish as if we have never been.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, my dear, I fear you will be killed if we do not.”

  “By the king?”

  “No, the king would be very upset, but he would not kill you. There are those, though,” Crecy said, “who would be perfectly happy if millions of human beings died.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I cannot tell you that yet. But you must tell me, Adrienne. What was it you suddenly understood about Fatio's formula?”

  “I don't know if I can trust you,” she finally said after a pause.

  “You trust me?” Crecy said, her voice quite cold. “Do you know what d'Artagnan and I have risked for you?”

  “I know that you r
isk yourselves. I don't know why, or that it is for me. I don't know you at all, Mademoiselle Crecy, save that in each instance I have been involved with you, I have spent altogether too much time on horseback.”

  “What do you mean?” Crecy asked.

  “You know very well what I mean, Monsieur Brigand.”

  Crecy clicked her tongue and looked up at the sky. “So you guessed that?”

  “I didn't until yesterday. When you were pretending to be a man, I recognized you.”

  “Brilliant, Mademoiselle,” Crecy said.

  “That isn't all,” Adrienne continued. “On the horse was not the first time I ever heard your voice. You were also the guard who fished me out of the Grand Canal when the barge was set afire.”

  “Now your story becomes more fantastic,” Crecy remarked.

  “Nevertheless, I believe that you have masqueraded as a man and become one of the Hundred Swiss—perhaps with some help from my good friend Nicolas here.”

  Nicolas opened his mouth to protest, but Adrienne held up her hand. “It was entirely too simple for Crecy to bring you into this mad scheme. You know that since the ‘kidnapping,’ the king has misliked me traveling alone or with a single guard, and yet you allowed it.”

  Nicolas colored but held her gaze. “I have done what I thought was best,” he answered stubbornly.

  “Oh? And was it best when you allowed me to be kidnapped?”

  She had been guessing about that part, but their reactions confirmed it.

  “Yes, I see it now,” she continued. “A prearranged kidnapping, one in which no one would be killed. You, Nicolas, only pretended to be hurt while Crecy—and who else was it, Count Toulouse himself?—rode off with me.”

  “You omit one important detail,” Crecy riposted. “D'Artagnan here had a musket ball in his shoulder.”

  “Did he?”

  “Enough, Veronique,” Nicolas replied. “It is no use.”

  “No, Nicolas,” Crecy objected, some real heat entering her voice at last. She turned on Adrienne. “He shot himself after we left, to prevent suspicion, to protect you.”

  Adrienne nearly faltered at that, but she pressed on. “I don't see how I have been protected by that,” Adrienne retorted. “But even assuming I have, you understand if I wonder what your motives are.”

  “Perhaps we are both deeply smitten by you, Mademoiselle, and have followed you about to keep you from harm. And see how you repay us.” Crecy uttered a pacific little laugh and shook her head.

  Adrienne felt her face burn. “Don't ridicule me,” she demanded. “Give me a reason to trust you. Give me someone to trust!”

  But at that, the two exchanged glances as if trying to communicate by silent parley and decide how to respond. That meant that they were both most likely interpreting someone else's commands.

  “I only wanted you to know that I know,” Adrienne explained, “so that you will not both think me an utter fool. And if you are taking me somewhere to sink me like that carriage, you will do so knowing that I was not entirely ignorant of my fate.”

  Nicolas turned wide, shocked eyes on her. “Whatever else you believe,” he gasped, “do not think I could do you any harm!”

  “How touching,” Crecy declared, and then added more soberly, “but of course the same is true of me, my dear.”

  And then, suddenly, she drew a pistol. “Nicolas, did you—”

  “Yes,” he said grimly, “I hear them, too.” He readied a short carbine musket designed for firing from horseback. A thrill of fear swept through Adrienne—she almost believed they were about to shoot her—but now she heard the baying of hounds.

  “Who hunts us?” she asked.

  “Any number of people,” Nicolas replied. “The secret police came after us last night, but I killed them. I don't know who these are.” He urged his horse over toward her, opened his coat, and pulled a weapon from a pocket. “Take this,” he said. “Go with Crecy. If you are beset, aim and pull the trigger. Make certain that Crecy is nowhere in front of you.”

  The pistol he handed her was huge. It had a normal-seeming flintlock, but the barrel flared to more than an inch in diameter toward the end.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Hunting.” He dropped his voice. “Adrienne, I am sorry for the lies between us. Sometimes a man has many duties to choose between. Sometimes he does not make the right choices.” He paused, and his eyes hardened. “Crecy is half right,” he whispered harshly, “for I do love you.”

  “I don't know what you want,” she moaned, but the sudden concussion of joy and terror shook her to the bone. He had said it, and now she could no longer pretend.

  Nicolas had already turned his mount, was already galloping away.

  “Come,” Crecy said, riding up alongside. “Come now if you want to survive this.”

  “Nicolas …”

  “If anyone can live through what he is about to attempt, believe me, it is Nicolas,” Crecy said. “You don't know him like I do. But if he dies, we must make it worth the sacrifice. Now.”

  Perhaps five minutes later, she heard shots in the distance, little snapping sounds like ice breaking. She gripped the pistol in her hand, trying to recall if she had ever even held one before; she knew that she had never fired one.

  She wondered where they were. What would she do if both Nicolas and Crecy were killed?

  It would be her fault. If not for her drunken babbling, the plan would have been perfect.

  “Head down,” Crecy shouted suddenly, and her pistol barked. Something whined by Adrienne's ear, and then she heard a second muffled boom. Ahead, four riders emerged from a blind of trees; one hung almost comically to his horse's mane, his chin and neck scarlet. A second was holstering a smoking carbine and drawing his sword, and the other two commenced to charge. She had time to absorb that they wore the uniform of the Gray Musketeers as she awkwardly raised her pistol.

  7.

  The Newtonians

  To first appearances, the Grecian was a coffeehouse like other coffeehouses—well, like other respectable ones.

  At first Ben merely stood inside the doorway. The Grecian was crowded, its long tables packed with gentlemen dressed from the height of fashion to near rags. Ben slowly picked through the crowd with an eager gaze, hoping he might recognize some famous philosopher. To his disappointment, though he fancied he saw many faces of great intelligence and wit, none spurred recognition.

  How was he to know this Hermes? How was Hermes to know him? He had deliberately omitted any mention of his age in all of his letters, figuring that Sir Isaac would not eagerly greet a young boy. If Hermes had an eye out for him, he was probably not looking for a boy.

  He went through the room again, and this time his eye picked out a single table at which only a few people sat, one of whom was a woman—a rare sight in real coffeehouses, especially when they were young and pretty.

  This woman was pretty—and exotic as well. She wore her own hair, which was very black. Her skin was pale, her eyes slanted and almond shaped. Her red lips wore a sort of permanent pout below an upturned nose that might almost be thought of as impish if her demeanor were not so regal. She might have been any age between sixteen and thirty-six. She was speaking, and the others at the table—four men in their twenties—listened, enthralled.

  Ben noticed an empty space on a nearby bench. If nothing else, he decided, he would go and see what this strange, lovely creature was saying.

  “Our institute is not so grand,” she said in an accent Ben could not place, “and yet we have made progress in attracting scholars.”

  “Yes,” one of the men answered in a French accent, “I'm certain that Herr Leibniz was a great prize. I wonder if he had any luck instituting the social reforms he aspired to?” His sarcasm was evident; his lips seemed frozen in a perpetual smirk. Though Ben had no great love for Leibniz and his philosophies, there was something so self-satisfied about the man's criticism that he bridled a bit.

  The woman was affect
ed in the same way. “Sir,” she said, “your contempt of Leibniz's philosophies is well known, but whatever you may think of him, he was a man of science, and his students are not necessarily hampered by his faults. It is true that he took his position in my lord's court in hopes of implementing certain policies. I assure you, Tsar Peter was well aware of that. But I argue that his wish to reform humanity was no stranger than Sir Isaac's latest … obsession.”

  “Here, here,” seconded another fellow in a solid British drawl. Unlike the rest, he affected a large wig that seemed to swallow his small, plump face. Ben barely noticed, for he had just understood two things: The woman was Russian, and they spoke of Sir Isaac almost as if they knew him. Could one of these men— or even the woman—be Hermes? He took up a newspaper and tried to appear to scrutinize it, but he found himself glancing up often.

  The Smirker favored the Wig with a slightly disdainful glance. “Come now,” he said, rather patronizingly. “Sir Isaac has shown us a world of order, of poetic precision. His method has dissected light and matter and mathematics from Leibniz's mysticism. Do you truly hold that Newton's interest in history and the ancients is on par with Leibniz's absurd notion that we live in the best of all possible worlds?”

  The woman frowned. “I believe that you are deliberately misrepresenting the late doctor,” she said, “and just as deliberately you are ignoring the theological arcanery of Sir Isaac's latest efforts.”

  “He is old,” the Smirker said, “and his thoughts turn to the religion of his youth. I can forgive him that.”

  “Oh, 'tis passing fair generous of you to cede him that!” snapped a third man, who sat across the table from the woman. He spoke in a crisp and unmistakable Scottish burr, which perfectly suited his square, studious face and curly brown hair. “ 'Tis more than presumptuous of any of you t' guess at what the great man is aboot. He ha' applied mathematical tools to the understandin' o' alchemy, physics, and thaumaturgy. What makes you so certain that he will fail t' apply the same methods t'history?”