Newton's Cannon (19 page)

“That makes me sad,” Nicolas said.

“Oh?”

“When you smile, it should be because you are joyful.”

Adrienne snorted. “A young lady is always joyful,” she said. “Serious, dutiful, and joyful.”

“Now you make fun of me,” Nicolas said.

Adrienne regarded the young man for a long moment. “Do you know,” she said after a moment, “that there were supposed to be no dark corners at Saint Cyr? No places for girls to whisper to one another. No places for secrets. Did you ever have secrets as a boy, Nicolas?”

“Of course I did,” he replied.

“I believe,” Adrienne went on, “that one cannot have a friend if one does not share secrets with him.”

“How long were you at Saint Cyr?” the guardsman asked.

“Fourteen years,” she replied.

“And you never had a friend?”

She sucked in a deep breath. “Yes, in the end I think I did,” she said at last.

He nodded as if he understood. “I am sorry to have troubled you, milady.”

“As you suspected, I was troubled before,” Adrienne said. “But see here, Nicolas. You have learned a secret about me, and I have learned none about you.”

“By your light,” he said, “if we share secrets we shall become friends.”

“Why, yes,” she said.

He smiled. “Well then, I must think a bit, for I wouldn't want to base a friendship on some spuriously chosen secret. It must be a fine one.”

He seemed to think for some time, then his gaze found hers again, his eyes like hieroglyph jewels, suddenly full of meaning. She felt a faint warmth in her breast. His lips parted.

At that moment, lightning struck the carriage. The windows shattered inward; she felt a sting on her cheek, and the entire carriage tilted, seemed to leap forward, and then jarred to a halt.
Adrienne found herself crushed against the coach wall by Nicolas, stunned. Then Nicolas was shaking her, his mouth moving frantically, but, though she could hear what he was saying his words made no sense to her. She nodded, hoping he would understand that she was uninjured.

At least, she thought that she was.

The carriage was tilted as if the wheels on one side had been torn from it. Nicolas reached past her and wrenched the door open, producing his pistol and colichemarde as he did so. Outside, Adrienne caught rushed, blurred motion. There was a shot, a tiny little sound, and then another flash of lightning.

Then there was silence.

Ben fit the last bolt into place and stepped back to admire his work. Nodding, he wiped grease on his already ink- and mudstained breeches. “I don't know if you'll work,” he told his invention, “but I like the look of you.”

James stepped in from outside, shaking out his greatcoat. “Talking to God again, Ben?” he said. “You can tell him I could do without the rain.” He flashed a smile, doffed his hat, and shook that, too.

“I'm done talking to him for the day,” Ben said, “but I'll keep it in mind next time we converse. How did it go with the Couranteers?”

“The
other
Couranteers, you mean. We count
you
one, you know.”

Ben turned as if examining the press to hide the stupid beam he knew had just crossed his face. “Well, what did they allow?”

“We're all agreed that we'll be damned before letting the ministers tell us what we can and cannot print,” James said.

“Relevant choice of words,” Ben noted. “But if I'm a Couranteer, I'm in it with you.”

“That's good, because if I'm arrested, you must keep up publishing.”

“Arrested?” Ben asked, gripping the frame of the press.

“It
is
a possibility,” James said. “It has been threatened, though I can scarce imagine what crime they might charge me with that would keep me imprisoned for long.”

“What would stop them from arresting me, too?”

“Well, there is the beauty of being an apprentice, Benjamin,”
James said happily, clapping him on the back. “You cannot be arrested for doing what I tell you to do.”

“Oh-ho!” said Ben, raising his brows.

“Oh-ho indeed,” James repeated. “God's teeth, Ben, what in the name—what the devil is
that
?” James had just noticed his new device.

It resembled a bull's-eye lantern but had what looked like butterfly wings of woven wire unfolded from the sides and thirty small, sharpened graphite rods protruding from the front, where the shutter should be. A wooden grip protruded from the back.

“Is this some sort of weapon like those crafty pistols I've heard of?”

“Sort of,” Ben admitted.

“I repeat,” James said. “What is it?”

“Just an experiment,” Ben said. “I'll explain it after I see if it works or not.”

James cocked his head, trying to decide if he should press his younger brother for an explanation. But then he shrugged, went over to the press, and began to wipe it with an oily rag. “What have we got coming in tonight?” he asked.

“Sir Henry's ‘Observations of Calcutta,’ ” Ben replied.

“Good, good,” James replied. “His letters always make fine reading. See if you can find some news on the war in Florida,” he said. “The war in the South will be on everyone's mind now.”

“Do you think the French will win?” Ben asked, trying to keep the tightness from his voice.

James shrugged. “People have been predicting the demise of the French empire for more than a decade now, but they always manage to surprise us. What's your opinion, Ben? This seems to be more a war of science than of men.”

“France made the early strides in the application of science to warfare, but now they have fallen behind,” Ben replied. “These new guns of Marlborough's pound the French fortresses and have no antidote.”
Unless
, he thought sickly,
I have just given them one.
For the more he thought of it, the more certain he was that “F” was French. What had John said about the formula? That it was almost as if it were for bringing two cannonballs in
flight together? A picture painted itself in Ben's mind, a battle in which each cannonball fired could be countered in the air. It would change warfare forever. It might bring the French to preeminence on the battlefield again.

“Ben?” James was asking. “You have that faraway, stupid look again. Is that what you are working on? Some new weapon for England?”

Ben glanced at the contraption on the table. Was James making fun of him? But he appeared serious.

“Yes,” Ben replied, happy that it was not entirely a lie. “Well, more of a defense, really.”

James nodded. “We really should talk about taking out patents on these inventions of yours,” he muttered.

“Perhaps,” Ben replied uncertainly. His mind was still on the eleven-day discrepancy. Could there be
any
other way of accounting for it?

“When all else fails,
ask
,” Ben said to himself, staring at the silent schreiber. But
how
to ask? And could he trust their answer? He composed the query in his mind over and over, but no magical solution presented itself.

With the complete punctuality that characterized Sir Henry's correspondence, the schreiber began taking dictation from its cousin in India. Ben watched the paper move without his usual excitement. India, too, was embroiled in the war with the French. What if Calcutta should fall and Sir Henry should die just because a boy in Boston had let his pride and greed for attention blind him to the obvious?

He sent his thanks and the latest news from New England to Sir Henry, and then, hesitantly, reached for his tuning device. Still uncertain what he would write, he moved the tube to the setting he had always assumed was corresponded to a schreiber in Britain. “God will that it is,” Ben breathed.

He sat staring for an instant, and then reached for the pen. But before he touched it, it rattled. And then, just above the chime, a red glow appeared. Before he could begin to scream, the glow coalesced into an eye. Then it winked closed again, and the
aetherschreiber wrote three words in a scratchy, ungainly hand:
I see you.

“Why, Benjamin! Come in!” His mother pushed the door wider and gave him a hug. Ben noticed for the first time the lines etching her soft face, the streaks of silver in her auburn hair.

“It's been long enough since we've seen you, Son,” she went on.

“I'm sorry, Mother. I've been … I've been busy.”

“So I hear,” she replied. “You and James have created quite a stir. A sermon was preached against you last Sunday—which you would have heard, had you been at church.”

Ben returned her hug and looked around the room. For a moment, the aching familiarity of it nearly brought him to tears.

“Ben? Is something wrong?” his mother asked.

He shook his head. “I need to talk to Father,” he said. “Is he here?”

“No,” she answered him quietly.

He thought he heard disappointment in her voice. Though he loved his mother, he had somehow never found the time to be close to her. He had always imagined that one day he would correct that. He had always imagined there would be time.

“He's gone to Charles Town on business. He won't be home until late tonight, maybe even the morning.”

“Oh.”

“Have you and James been at each other again?”

“What? Oh, no, we haven't. Actually we've gotten along rather well since we started printing the paper.”

“No wonder. You have to stand back-to-back against half the town.” She smiled broadly. “That's no matter. I would rather have my sons battling the whole world than fighting each other. It pains your father to see you at each other so.” She paused. “It pains him to never see you at the church as well. It makes him think that you have forgotten all that he taught you.”

Ben shook his head. “I haven't forgotten. That's why I came to see him. He told me if I was ever unsure I should come and see him.” His lip quivered, but he didn't want to cry in front of his mother.

Then, suddenly, her arms were around him again, and she rocked him on his feet, brushing back his hair.

“He'll be back tomorrow,” she murmured, “and whatever it is, he'll make it all right.”

And for a few moments he believed her. It was the best gift she was capable of giving him.

An hour later, resting on the Long Wharf, he believed no longer. He had counted on his father to help him somehow, but he realized now that this was beyond the older man's power. His father knew little of science and less of whatever sorcery was being practiced against him. Whatever he said, it would be good, solid, common sense.

But Ben was beginning to doubt that there was any room in the world for common sense. Perhaps Sir Isaac Newton had murdered that decades ago and it was only just now starting noticeably to rot.

A sudden, salty breeze buffeted him as he started back toward town. Between him and the shore, a girl of perhaps sixteen sat on the wharf singing, cradling an infant. Her song was plaintive, minor-keyed, rising and falling with the waves that lapped the wharf. The words were clear and somehow chilling, despite the fact that it was obviously a lullaby.

Ben hurried on, fleeing he knew not what. The roofs of Boston, for the first time ever, beckoned him
away
from the sea, back to its solid, land-loving heart.

* * *

He walked all over town, from the neck to the millpond, before returning home. Toward evening he felt better, despite the fact that James would be furious at his absence. But the moment had come for him to explain some things to James. He and John had gone too far, boys pretending they were men—worse,
great
men. James might not know what to do, but he had friends in England. If Ben and John had accidentally aided the French surely word could be gotten to someone in London who would know who should be told. With luck, they would not try him and John for treason.

As to that weird, hellish eye, he didn't even want to consider
that
right now.

Just beyond Union Street, Ben saw a familiar silhouette moving through the long shadows that hatched the thoroughfare. Bracewell, riding on a brown mare, turning his head this way and that.

Oh, God
, Ben thought.
He's looking for me.
Ben sidled quickly into a narrow lane and then ran. Bracewell was working up Hanover, so Ben planned to double around behind the man, then shoot across to Queen Street and James.

I mustn't panic
, Ben told himself. But that was hard. He reached Queen Street and, glancing back, he saw no horse bearing down on him, no angry sorcerer. But Queen Street was full of people milling about and shouting. A column of black smoke rose up into the sky. Ben slowed, puzzled.

The smoke came from James' print shop. Someone in the crowd, rushing off, was calling for water.

“Benjamin!” someone shouted. It was Mrs. Sheaf, who owned the school next door. Her eyes were red and tear streaked. “Ben—” He brushed past her. Thick black smoke was billowing out of the shop. He started toward the door; he had to get the aetherschreiber out, the run of the paper …

Two feet inside, the heat smote him. Two men were coming toward him, carrying someone. As he staggered, someone caught him from behind and yanked him out into the street again. He coughed, his head swimming, and sank to the pavement.

“No, no, don't let him see,” he heard someone shout.

He turned his head and met James' eyes. They were wide, glassy, still.

Then he was screaming his brother's name again and again.

They let him scream. Soon the buckets were coming, more to keep the fire from spreading to other buildings than to try to save the doomed one.

Bracewell had done this. Forcing his brain to even such an elementary conclusion required hideous effort. Nothing mattered anymore. The aetherschreiber, the French war—it was so stupid that he had been
so
worried about those things, when James had been
dying
, when Bracewell had been
murdering
him.