The System of the World (109 page)

LATE AFTERNOON,
20
OCTOBER
1714

“S
O-NEAR-AND-YET-SO-FAR.
That what you’ve been thinking all this time?” said Charles White. He spoke with remarkable aplomb for a man whose elbows were bound together behind his back with rope. He was displaying those elbows to the whole room, almost as if it was
the latest fashion from Paris. For he had turned his back on Newton, and on the Beefeaters who were now guarding him, so that he could gaze out a window that overlooked Mint Street.

As Master of the Mint, Newton could have claimed whatever space he’d taken a whim to. But he’d always been a most practical Master, keen to better the productivity of the place, and so he had situated his personal atelier so as not to impede the coiners’ work. It was about forty feet on a side, divided into several closets, a wee chamber that communicated with the interior of Brick Tower and thence to the Inner Ward, and a single great laboratory-cum-office that commanded a view up, and down, and across this leg of Mint Street. Scarlet late-afternoon sun was angling in through rents in northwestern clouds, setting White’s left cheek and shoulder aglow, but only because they were elevated above the ground here; below them, Mint Street had already fallen into twilight, being over-shadowed by the glum row of casemates that lined the near surface of the outer wall. The casemate situated across from Newton’s laboratory and a bit off to the right was at once the best and the worst of these. Its sole practical function, lately, had been to enclose the Vault that housed the Pyx. As such it had been guarded round the clock by men identifying themselves as Queen’s, and more recently King’s, Messengers. Which amounted to that they wore silver-greyhound badges and had bits of paper bearing the signature and the seal of Charles White.

This view of the house—which was to say, Sir Isaac Newton’s view—was one that Charles White had never had the opportunity to enjoy until a few moments ago, when the Yeomen had frogmarched him in to the laboratory. He was making it clear now that he was well pleased with the picture his hand-picked Messengers made, standing there as a finely dressed and heavily-armed barrier between Newton and his magic box. When the Messengers spied White up in the window, lit up by the sun, they took to hip-hip-huzzahing him, perhaps not realizing that he was under arrest, and on a serious charge indeed—

“High Treason,” Newton was saying. He was seated at a vast table, which had turned black from hard employment. He was still wearing the crimson robes he had donned, this morning, for the Coronation. “I cannot think of any other word to describe what you stand accused of doing.”

“Accused!?”
White asked merrily, and now, at last, tore himself from the window, and turned in to the room to face Newton. The sunset-light filled the laboratory like a refulgent gas, making all dull-colored things, such as the table and the faded beams of the low ceiling, even dimmer than they were. But anything that had an iota of
shine or of color gleamed out of the dark like colored stars: Newton’s robes, the ribbons trapped between pages of his fat, ragged, ancient books, the brass and gold of his many scales and balances, samples of gold and silver piled here and there. “Who has accused me?”

“Jack Shaftoe.”

“Don’t suppose that has anything to do with your putting three hundred pounds of lead on his chest?”

“I do not suppose so,” said Newton, “for I suppose that you are quite guilty. But I do admit that an adroit barrister could build a case that Jack Shaftoe is an unreliable witness to begin with, made more so by the torment of the
peine forte et dure
.”

White now, for the first time, seemed taken aback. He had not expected Isaac Newton, of all people, to lend him a hand in erecting his legal defense. “You care not what happens to Jack—whether he is believed, or no!” White tried.

“I care not whether he was your puppet, or you his, or both of you de Gex’s.”

“But you need to establish that the Pyx was adulterated
by someone,
so that you’ll not be held responsible for what is found there. And Jack’s testimony, perhaps, is not deemed reliable enough to prove that beyond doubt. You need
my
word on it.”

“You shall have adequate time to develop that and other theories in your new lodgings,” said Newton, who stood up abruptly, and nodded to the Beefeaters. He had heard some sort of commotion down below, and wanted to go have a look. As did White; but, obeying gestures from Newton, the Yeomen laid hands on the prisoner and dragged him back before he could get near Newton, or the window. White became agitated for the first time, and cursed and made unrealistic demands, then fanciful threats as the Beefeaters dragged him back to the inner chamber, and thence into Brick Tower; from there, it would be a short march across the Parade to one of the Yeomen’s houses where White would be an involuntary guest from now on.

20
OCTOBER
1714

DUSK,
20
OCTOBER
1714

S
O NEAR AND YET SO FAR,
White had said; but emerging from the sally-port stairs into the purple shades of Mint Street, Isaac Newton was nearer yet, and yet more far than he had been half a minute ago. A lot of men had arrived at once, and they had come in two distinct blocs: the first, which he had spied from his window, was a posse of half a dozen noblemen, generally young, and all of them mounted: at a glance, most likely cavalry officers, still in their Coronation plumage. These had ridden up to, and surrounded, the knot of King’s Messengers who guarded the door of the Warden’s House. The latter were at a prohibitive disadvantage, being on foot. But they all possessed a little of their master’s bluster, and were making a terrific show of thrusting their chests in the air and nudging their swords out of their scabbards, and letting it be known, in an oratorio of sonorous vowels and a rush of trilled R’s, just what a grievous and unsconscionable and actionable affront this all was.

But this hubbub was dying away at the moment Newton emerged from the sally-port and came out into the Street—where, for the first time in a while, no one paid him any note. All eyes had collected on one of the mounted nobles: a young man, well-but not extravagantly dressed, who had remained silent through all of the insults and the bluff of Charles White’s Messengers. In the moment before the man
moved or spoke, there was a cæsura; and during it, one could hear the muffled
tromp
of massed boots coming up Mint Street. The second, larger bloc of men was marching this way.

The leader of the riders peeled back his cloak to reveal a prodigious Document sealed by a swingeing ruby of wax.

“The German’s been busy with his dictionary,” cracked one of the Messengers.

A nearby rider commanded, “Silence, and pay due respect when speaking of our King.”

“Long live the King,” said the leader of the riders, and all of his companions echoed it. The Messengers could summon up no more than an incoherent murmur. The rider now broke the seal, unrolled the page, and read it: “Know all men by these presents that I, George, by the Grace of God King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain,
et cetera
, do hereby relieve Mr. Charles White, Esq., of the post of Captain of the King’s Messengers, and appoint in his place William, the Earl of Lostwithiel.” He lifted his gaze from the document and began to roll it up. “I am the Earl of Lostwithiel,” he let them know, almost shyly, “and as Captain of the King’s Messengers I hereby relieve you all of your positions—” sweeping his eyes across the faces of the men on foot “—and bid you stand down. The men you see around you are the new King’s Messengers, and have assumed all of your duties and responsibilities.”

During all of this the
tromp, tromp, tromp
of the soldiers’ boots had been growing louder; it echoed from the fronts of the casemates down around Mint Street’s northern elbow, where the Moneyers lived, and had been dining in their halls. But they had all put their faces in the windows to see what was going on. A white charger came into view, followed, at half a length, by a gray one, both ridden by men wearing uniforms of officers in the King’s Own Black Torrent Guard; behind them marched a column of regulars. Even if the Old Messengers had been of a mind to cross swords with the New and be massacred there in the middle of Mint Street, this might have given them second thoughts. One, then another, then all of them punched their swords back in to their scabbards, peeled off their silver-greyhound badges, and flung them on the cobbles, turned their backs, and walked away in the direction of Brass Mount, dividing to pass round Isaac Newton who was coming the other way.

“My lord,” said Newton.

“Sir Isaac,” said Lostwithiel, and doffed his hat.

“I am pleased that his majesty has been so quick to rid the Mint of those men. I welcome you to the Tower. It is a great day.”

“Here’s thanks for that,” said Lostwithiel, and doffed his hat again.

“Those men, you must know, have stood between me and his majesty’s Pyx ever since that day in June when I was made aware that it might have been compromised.”

Even as Newton was speaking these words he was edging nearer the door of the Warden’s House, watched interestedly by all of the new Messengers.

The column of soldiers stomped to a halt just at the elbow in the street below Bowyer Tower. The second officer—a Colonel, it could now be seen, with a peg-leg—gave some inaudible command to some subordinates in his wake, touching off a long train of ramifications that ended with sergeants bellowing incomprehensible things to the troops. The outcome was that the troops marched away towards their barracks-houses all around the Liberty of the Tower.

Meanwhile the officer on the white charger—a General—rode forward to join the King’s Messengers, and presently drew up alongside the Earl of Lostwithiel. This was the Duke of Marlborough, and so a bit of time was devoted, now, to everyone’s showing him various degrees of respect. His peg-legged colonel was bringing up the rear; and behind him was a platoon that had not yet been given leave to go back to its quarters. But this kept a respectful distance, and so Newton was left the sole unmounted man on the street, a smudge of red, and a head of white steam, in a gloomy crevasse.

“My lord,” Marlborough announced to Lostwithiel, “in yonder House is a Vault. Within that Vault is a lock-box belonging to his majesty, denominated the Pyx. The Pyx has a unique status in this Realm. It is a repository of Evidence. From time to time that box is opened and the evidence subjected to a judicious examination by a jury of men who have been chosen by the Sovereign. The object of that Trial is to find out whether or not the Master of his majesty’s Mint—” and here Marlborough permitted himself a cock of the head toward Newton “—has been fulfilling the terms of the solemn Indenture that bears his name. You will appreciate that the Trial of the Pyx is a matter of utmost gravity; and yet it is only meaningful insofar as the evidence being weighed—which is to say, the Pyx—has been kept sacrosanct. No one who has an interest in the outcome of that Trial, which shall occur in nine days, must be suffered to approach the Pyx. This is the will of the King.”

“My will, your grace, is to please his majesty.”

“Very good, then,” said Marlborough. “Colonel Barnes, you will assist my lord Lostwithiel in keeping an eye on the place, won’t you?”

“With pleasure, your grace,” said the peg-legged colonel, and then made a head-jerking move that sent the platoon of Black Torrent Guards in to motion. They took up positions flanking the
house’s doors, and a moment later they were joined by the new Messengers, who had begun to dismount. The Duke of Marlborough turned his charger around and rode away. Newton turned around and went back to his laboratory.