Newton's Cannon (7 page)

John's face retained a dubious cast. “Explain it then,” he sighed, “until I see what my figuring did.”

Ben shrugged. “We know that matter is composed of four elements, do we not?”

“Damnatum, lux, phlegm, and gas,” John agreed. “I didn't say to treat me as an imbecile.”

Ben nodded. “I'm sorry. Tell me what you do understand about matter.”

“I have read the
Principia
, and
Optics
, and Robert Boyle's book on the foundations of alchemy,” John said, somewhat pompously. “I know that all substances are formed by combinations of the four elements in various proportions and configurations.”

“And ferments?”

John nodded. “Ferments are the patterns or molds in the aether that matter resides in.”

“A simplistic accounting, but true.”

“Don't tell me
you
understand all there is to know of aetherics,” John retorted.

“No, you're right, I don't,” Ben admitted. “And I didn't mean to slight your explanation. It
is
aether that gives matter form, and the analogy of a mold isn't a bad one. But these ‘molds’ are built of affinities, like gravity, electromagnetism, sociability.”

“Understood,” John said, “but now you begin to reach the limits of what I know.”

Ben plunged on with his explanation. “When we say that there are molds in the aether, we do not mean whole things—like houses or chairs or men—are there. We mean that the shapes of the com-pounds—iron, lead, gold,
water
—are there. I prefer to think of these ferments as self-weaving looms—that's the analogy Newton uses—each of which knows the design of a different tapestry. Each takes the four elements and weaves them together to create its own particular design.”

“That's why part of the formula we worked on required a matrix,” John stated.

“Exactly. You see why I like the loom analogy better. Thus we can think of a copper ferment weaving copper from damnatum, lux, and a small amount of gas.”

“Yes.”

Ben liked playing teacher to John Collins, a boy who had thus far outdone him in debate, writing, and mathematics.

“In any event,” Ben continued, “the warp of the loom and the
plan
by which matter is woven are formed of various kinds of attractions and in unique combinations. Each compound, each ferment, has its own peculiar harmonic, or vibration.”

“I'm still following you,” John said. “That's how aetherschreibers work—the mated pairs have identical harmonic qualities.”

“Yes, exactly. As does iron or glass or—” He paused significantly.
“—water.”

John stared at him. When he spoke his voice seemed almost strained. “You changed the ferment so that the matter in it was rewoven from water to ice.”

“Yes!” Ben crowed, clapping John on the back. “Of course, it is a very minor change, one that occurs naturally. After all, anyone can boil water—”

“But only by applying heat, thus changing the ferment in a cruder fashion. Your harmonicum does it directly.”

“As do any number of devices,” Ben reminded him. “The flameless lanterns operate by causing air to release lux. As you said, my device is a smaller version of the French fervefactum. Ever since Newton discovered the philosopher's mercury—the substance that can transmit vibrations into the aether—we have found ways to alter the states and composition of matter.”

“But this machine of yours is different?”

Ben smiled. “I think so. Because it can do two different things.”

“Freeze
and
boil water.”

“Yes. Most devices are made to mediate only one kind of change. My machine translates the vibrations of sound into aetheric ones—there is a small amount of philosopher's mercury
in its heart, which I got from a broken aetherschreiber. All I had to do was provide a number of possibilities—”

“Wait,” John said, holding up his hand. “This was strictly hit or miss? You had eight notes. What if none of them affected the ferment? Or what if the effect had been— It could have done
anything
.”

“No,” Ben averred. “I didn't think of this all by myself. An inventor named Dennis Papin designed most of the device. In fact, he used it to run a small boat. This device only affects water, and water has only three states—liquid, solid, vapor. By making the glasses different sizes, I thought the chances were good I could produce at least one change of state.”

“But this Papin's machine did not use glasses?”

“No. His doesn't use sound at all. He derived the proper vibrations of the mercury—and thus the aether—in the more usual way, by using an alchemical catalyst to set up the proper harmonics.”

John looked at him with what might have been awe. “By God, Ben, whatever made you think of using glass?”

Ben pursed his lips. “I don't have the faintest idea. No, wait, that isn't true. It was something my father said. He plays the fiddle. Usually he plays well, but the other night he was having difficulty finding the notes. And he joked, saying, ‘I have but to hit all the notes to find the proper one!’ and then he ran his finger down the string, sliding from one tone to the next. And something in here …” Ben tapped his skull.

“Something in there has a serious genius,” John finished for him.

“I had no real reason to think it would work, until you proved it on paper,” Ben confessed. “And then I reread books so that I could explain it to you if it
did
work. I've learned more this last week by experimenting than in three years of reading.”

“ ‘Hands learn quicker than eyes,’” John quoted, “ ‘and quicker by working than sloth.’” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You already knew it would work because you've already experimented!”

Ben allowed himself a sly grin. “You have me,” he said.

“And then you pretended not to know that it would work.”
John was getting angry as the implications sank in. “Ben Franklin, were you trying to fool me for fooling's sake?”

“No, John,” Ben said, feeling his face color. “It's just that … what if it
had
boiled my blood? I didn't want to risk my best friend in such a way.”

John's face changed; the anger blew out of it, replaced by confusion and mock severity. “Oh, well …”

“It's time we got going,” Ben observed. “Could you help me carry this thing home?”

“Why glass, Ben? Why not a fiddle string?” John asked as they walked past the bowling green lugging the awkward device. A handful of people playing at ninepins stopped to stare curiously.

“I tried that first, and it didn't work, though I'm not certain why. Bear in mind that the crucial element is the philosopher's mercury, because only that transforms my musical notes into aethereal ones. I don't know
why
it does that, I just know it does. Perhaps the sound must come from crystal, or perhaps the tones generate some other kind of harmonic in the glass— which in turn affects the mercury.”
Despite all of my fine talk
, Ben thought to himself,
I really don't know what it is I've done.

“I wonder why it glowed pink on that one note?”

“Another thing for you to help me explain.”

“At least I see the relevance of the experiment to aetherschreibers now,” John allowed. “If you can use sound to change the ferment of water, you can use it to alter the ferment of the chime in the aetherschreiber. And if you could alter it gradually— like your father moving his finger down the violin string— then you should be able to match it to the ferments of other aetherschreibers.”

Ben nodded. “That's what I'm hoping.”

“Have you tried that yet?”

“No, I want to try it tonight. And I was hoping—”

“Hoping what?” John asked, when Ben stalled.

“Hoping that you would help me write up the math so we can send this somewhere—perhaps to Sir Isaac Newton himself!”

“ ‘Collins and Franklin on Harmonic Affinity,’” John said. “That sounds good.”

“ ‘Franklin and Collins’ sounds even better.”

They were just launching into a debate when Ben caught a motion from the corner of his eye. From the shadows of Hillie Lane, a man in a brass-buttoned blue coat was watching them, a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his face. From beneath the brim of the hat, Ben thought he saw the fellow's eyes flash like red fireflies—like the man he had seen reading, under the flameless lantern four years ago. Ben quickly glanced away, feeling a rush of fear tingle up through his feet. As they made the final turn onto Queen Street, he looked back once more, but the strange man was nowhere to be seen.

“I'm going to bed now,” James said. “Mind you that you cover the light when you're done.”

“I will,” Ben assured his brother, though he wondered
why
the light had to be covered. The flameless lantern would continue producing light whether it was covered or not.

The aetherschreiber was nearly done with the page. Ben poised to feed it another, admiring the machine, the grace and precision with which it wrote. It wrote, in fact, in the handwriting of a man an ocean away—that thought sent goosebumps along Ben's spine. At this moment, Horatio Hubbard sat at his machine in London, his hand moving the pen and the metal arm on which it was mounted.

Of course, to keep it writing
here
, Ben would have to stay up half the night, changing the paper and winding the clock key that provided the arm with motive power.

And he needed to solve the puzzle of tuning the schreiber. The triumph of the day remained with him, but it was subdued now by fatigue.

His thoughts kept tracing the same circle—like a two-legged dog, his uncle would say—and when the last sheet of the
Mercury
came off, Ben still had not managed to solve the problem. What he needed was a way of changing the ferment of the crystal the way he had changed that of water—and he needed to be able to change it in a gradual but
consistent
manner—the way his father varied pitch on his violin string. Ben had already begun to think that his use of sound to create analogous changes
might be a dead end, because he could imagine no way to vary the pitch of a glass crystal continuously, the way one could a string. If only wire worked!

The other problem was that water was a very simple compound, and the Star Regulas glass that composed the chimes was not. The mathematics of the water ferment had been deduced long ago, but the structure of most compounds was still a mystery to science.

He shook his head blearily. Maybe if he had a
look
at the chime. What was it John had said about hands thinking better than heads? That certainly had to be true of him tonight. He
knew
he could do it. What other man, at the age of fourteen, had made such a discovery as he had today?

Unless, as he was beginning to worry, the discovery had been made long ago and discarded. In which case Isaac Newton would only laugh at John and his paper when it reached him.

Unless it reached him by aetherschreiber
, Ben thought, defiantly. He
was
made for more important places than Boston, and he would prove it.

The chime was a strip of Regulas-laced glass two inches long and half an inch wide. It was bolted to the housing that contained the mercury—or rather, philosopher's mercury, which was a very different substance than what came in thermometers. With a pair of pliers, Ben undid the screws until at last both pulled free and he was able to handle the strip of crystal.

Unfortunately, several moments of staring at it brought no revelation. With a sigh he replaced the plate in its housing and began to tighten the screws. It might be that he
was
in over his head. He knew just enough about these matters to understand his fantastic luck this morning and to know that there was much he did not understand. In a few years he might, especially if he could find the right tutor, but now he might best admit that he was licked.

A tiny
snap
caught his attention then, and his blood ran cold. His mind had been wandering, but his hands had tightened the screws too far. The chime had fractured. And though he did not know
everything
about aetherschreibers, there was one thing he
did
know. In fact, at the moment there were two things about this particular aetherschreiber that concerned him greatly.

The first was that an aetherschreiber with a shattered chime would not work. The second was that James was going to
kill
him when he found out.

Which meant he had less than a day to fix what he had broken.

For the first time in almost a year, Ben put his head down in his hands and wept.

Ben woke up after a few fitful hours and gazed out his window at the waking town. A gray haze filled the streets, enshrouding all but the tallest buildings.

What was he going to do? James would not know the machine was broken until this afternoon, but then what?

With a heavy sigh, he rose, doffed his nightshirt and traded it for a pair of knee breeches, a shirt, and his gray coat.

Perhaps he should go and
see
Father—tell him of James' unfair demands. Perhaps that would serve as sufficient cause to break the indenture.

Tiptoeing down the stairs, Ben crossed through the print shop, spared the aetherschreiber a despairing glance, and creaked the door open. The chill of the fog struck him full in the face. Ben hunched into his coat and began walking. His footsteps thunked on the new cobbles.

He realized that he wasn't going to his father's house when he found himself turning left onto Treamount Street. If he went to Father, it would be admitting defeat and would ultimately make more trouble. James was stubborn, argumentative, and rebellious. He and Father would fight; there was no sense in causing yet more strife between them.

So he was walking in the fog, hoping that when it lifted the one in his brain would lift as well.

Off to his left, where Cotton Hill rose, a few dogs began barking. The dogs probably belonged to the Frenchman Andrew Faneuil, whose enormous house was murkily visible upslope. Ben quickened his steps a bit without knowing why. It was something in the tone of the dogs, perhaps; they sounded nearly hysterical.

His brisk stride brought him quickly to the Common, a vast
meadow bounded by Boston on one side and Roxbury Flats— the marshy, brackish backwaters of the bay—on the other. And next to the Common, the burying ground, its scattered headstones vague and more sinister somehow. Ben paused. Out on the Common, cows were beginning to low, their lackluster trumpeting the perfect herald for a day that was certain to be the most miserable in his life.