The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 25

But when the smoke finally cleared, he saw no such thing, but rather an unbeast, a nightmare vision, like one of the horrors from Malplaquet that cluttered his brain, like so many stuffed monsters in an old hunter's attic, and came alive each night to torment him just as he was about to drop off to sleep. This unbeast moved, and slid limp from the window, landing on its head in the gra.s.s before him. It did not come to a decent position of repose. Rather the corpse was propped up on something: a half-pike or javelin that had transfixed its ribcage, like an enormous alien bone that had grafted itself onto the man's skeleton.

MacIan looked up into the vacant window but saw no one there-so it must have come in to in to the window from the window from outside outside. But he was the only man in the yard, and he had no memory of chucking any spears lately. It had to have come from above, then. He turned around to face b.l.o.o.d.y Tower and ran his gaze up forty feet of sheer stone to its parapet.

There, framed in a slot between two crenels, and silhouetted against the sky, was a very large man with a beard flowing down his front. Smaller men were active around him, hustling among the gun-carriages that were situated on the roof of this Tower, wheeling them about to aim toward the River, chocking them up with thick quoins so that they were aimed, not at the s.h.i.+pping in the Pool, but down upon the soldiers on the Wharf.

The big man with the beard was gripping in one hand another half-pike. He raised the other to make a gesture. It was not a hand but a barbed hook with a skein of moist detritus swinging from it, possibly hair or shreds of clothing. With this he pointed up, away from the river, drawing MacIan's eye away from the toils of the gunners and towards the penetralia of the Tower of London. Over the roofs of the Cold Harbour storehouses he pointed, and over the soldiers' barracks and the gate of the Inmost Ward, to the lofty prize that stood in the center of all, commanding the complex, the River, and the City from its four turrets: the White Tower. He thrust his hook at it thrice.

The Hero of the Gy needed no more urging. Dropping his empty musket, he unslung his Claymore for what he guessed would be the last time, and hurried between droning musket-b.a.l.l.s towards Cold Harbour Gate.

LIKE ANY SELF-RESPECTING CONDEMNED traitor, MacIan had spent plenty of time plotting dramatic escapes from the Tower of London. He knew where the exits were. Today, though, he must think of them as entrances. traitor, MacIan had spent plenty of time plotting dramatic escapes from the Tower of London. He knew where the exits were. Today, though, he must think of them as entrances.

There were five gates to the Inner Ward. One of them was an old sally-port in the northeast corner, near Brick Tower, leading into the Mint. It was of no concern today. The remaining four gates were s.p.a.ced unevenly along Water Lane. b.l.o.o.d.y Tower and Wakefield Tower each contained a gate. These two structures were so close together as to const.i.tute virtually a single, misshapen building. A stroller moving east on Water Lane would spy the b.l.o.o.d.y Tower gate first and then, after rounding the bastion of Wakefield, see its gate. But though close together, these two portals were as divergent as they could be. The first was a broad, ma.s.sive, handsome Gothick arch that led directly onto the Parade via the court where Rufus MacIan was now standing. Thanks to the Russian, the light s.h.i.+ning through that arch was reticulated by a ma.s.sive grid of iron bars. Beyond it MacIan could see several redcoats lying still in the middle of Water Lane. They'd marched back from the Wharf expecting to re-enter the Inner Ward through that arch, but had been stopped by the ancient portcullis. And at that moment a dozen Scots hors.e.m.e.n had charged down on them swinging sabers. When horse attacked foot the outcome was never in doubt, unless the foot had pikes, and were well drilled. The Wharf Guard of the Tower of London did not carry or use pikes.

The second gate was a little postern giving entry to the circular ground floor of Wakefield Tower. Thence one could cross into a long L-shaped gallery that ran up through Cold Harbour and broke into the open just short of the White Tower. This was not a fit way for cavalry to come in. If things were proceeding according to plan, Tom the Black-guard was ensconced beneath a window near the vertex of the L, commanding both legs of the pa.s.sage, with a large number of loaded firearms in his lap. Few if any of the Tower's would-be defenders would pa.s.s in or out through the Wakefield Tower gate. But some of its attackers should have come running in that way on the heels of the cavalry charge.

MacIan ran north along the verge of the Parade, pa.s.sing by the Cold Harbour storehouses on his right. There was still a d.a.m.nable lot of musket-fire coming from Yeomen's windows, but none of it was directed his way any longer. When he reached the corner of the last storehouse and ducked around it, he at last had a safe vantage-point from which to appreciate why. The appearance of a few gunners atop b.l.o.o.d.y Tower and the adjoining stretch of wall, aiming Her Majesty's cannons down across Water Lane toward the Wharf, had compelled the Wharf Guard to pitch their muskets into the river and stand helpless. They were no longer able to shoot at men climbing the rope ladder into the Lieutenant's Lodging. And so a continual parade of invaders was now emerging from the front door of that house and sprinting down to b.l.o.o.d.y Tower where they could take stairs up to the battlements and man yet more cannons. As they did, they drew what little fire the Yeomen could muster. But even this was being suppressed by occasional fusillades from firing-points that the invaders had set up along the southern edge of the Parade.

He heard a gate groaning behind him and so turned his back to the Parade, which had become a sort of closed chapter anyway.

He had been engaged, these last few moments, on a project of looping north round the end of Cold Harbour to get from the Inner Ward (a parade for Guards and a village green for Yeomen) into the Inmost Ward (the court of a Royal Palace). He was facing now into an interval some ten or fifteen paces wide separating the Cold Harbour buildings from the corner of the White Tower. That opening was walled off; but there was a gate in the wall, which was being very considerately opened for him by a man in a kilt.

"At last, someone I can talk to," MacIan said. MacIan said. "Welcome to the Tower, lad." "Welcome to the Tower, lad."

"And welcome to the Inmost Ward, uncle," returned this young man, and stepped back to let him enter. returned this young man, and stepped back to let him enter.

This was a mere bowling-green compared to the Parade. It seemed even smaller than it was because it was mashed between the immense White Tower on the north and, on the south, Wakefield Tower (a palace unto itself) and a congeries of bulky office buildings and storehouses belonging to the Ordnance. Somewhere in the midst of that would be another tiny postern-the third of Water Lane's four portals-communicating with the Constable's Lodgings, and of no interest today. Far more important was the last gate, a proper arch, large enough for Highlanders to ride through without dismounting. That gave access to a sort of barracks-street along the eastern perimeter of the Inmost Ward, and thence to another gate, a partner of the one MacIan had just walked through...where was it, though? His eye, no judge of distances, had trouble making sense of the place. But the piper had taken up a position at the head of the barracks-street to lead the cavalry onwards. The sound of the music cras.h.i.+ng from the stony environs gave MacIan the information he wanted to decypher the place. He found the gate in question. It was open. Men were beginning to ride through it. Some were slumped over in their saddles, clutching at battle-wounds earned in Water Lane, or perhaps earlier, when they had galloped out of the streets of London town to astonish the sentries posted at Lion Gate. But most were riding straight-backed and proud, and one-bless him-carrying the unfurled colors of MacIan of MacDonald.

"So that is the famous White Tower," said the lad who had opened the gate for him, "Feich! It's not even white!" It's not even white!"

"The Englishmen have no self-pride. If you read their history you will see that they are nothing more than a lot of doxy and mistemious bog-stalkers. Think: what would a few gallons of white paint cost the Queen of England?"

"For the love of G.o.d, I'd come down and paint it myself just so I wouldn't have to look at it. Everywhere you go in this cursed city, there it stands, a blot on the horizon."

"I've a more expeditious solution," MacIan answered. "I know of one place, not far from here, where you can look in any direction you please without having to suffer the sight of this rubble-heap."

"Where's that, uncle?"

"The inside of it!" And MacIan beckoned to the banner-carrier.

"What-how do you get in?" inquired the lad.

"Through the b.l.o.o.d.y front door. They built it high off the ground, you see, there-to make it easy to defend-but the English, lazy as they are, have built a lovely timber staircase so they need not strain themselves."

"I cannot see it."

"The barracks are in the way. Follow me!" MacIan entered the front door of a sort of gatehouse pent between two barracks.

"I'll go before you, uncle!" cried the lad; and behind him, like exclamations could be heard from other warriors who were hastily dismounting in the Inmost Ward and running to catch up with them, enc.u.mbered by diverse cutla.s.ses, Claymores, blunderbusses, and granadoes.

But Rufus MacIan strode out the back of the gatehouse and began climbing a rude wooden staircase towards a simple round-headed archway cut into the White Tower's south wall. "You do not understand," he called over his shoulder. "You are looking forward, now, to a pitched battle for the White Tower. As if this were a picaroon-romance. But the battle is over. You have fought it and won it."

A Yeoman Warder suddenly stood framed in the arch. He drew an old rapier from a scabbard at his hip, held it up above his head, and began to charge down the timber stairs, screaming. Rufus MacIan did not bother reaching for his Claymore. The Yeoman was butchered on the hoof by musket-b.a.l.l.s flying in from half a dozen different angles. He sprayed and faltered at each impact, disintegrating before their eyes, and then collapsed and rolled down the stairs leaving much of himself behind.

"He's been reading picaroon-romances, too," observed Rufus MacIan. "Watch your step, lads, it's a wee bit slippery."

He took the last steps two at a time and strode across the threshold of the White Tower, saying, "I claim thee for Glen Coe."

The City of London LATE AFTERNOON.

HE WAS PRESENTABLE. He was amiable. He'd been taught to sign his name-a.s.suming Jones really He was amiable. He'd been taught to sign his name-a.s.suming Jones really was was his name-on command. Beyond that he was, and always would be, perfectly illiterate. This rendered it out of the question that Seaman Jones of the good s.h.i.+p his name-on command. Beyond that he was, and always would be, perfectly illiterate. This rendered it out of the question that Seaman Jones of the good s.h.i.+p Minerva Minerva would ever be an officer, or a man of commerce. would ever be an officer, or a man of commerce.

Jones did not chafe under his limitations-if he was even aware he had any. They had picked him up in Jamaica. His story at the time was that he was a wholesome North Devon lad who had been abducted from the sh.o.r.e round Lynmouth by a boat-load of sailors from a Bristol slave-s.h.i.+p anch.o.r.ed in the Channel-in other words, that he'd been press-ganged-and that, after a run to Guinea to pick up slaves, he had jumped s.h.i.+p in Jamaica. They had always a.s.sumed that Jones would jump s.h.i.+p again one day, and avail himself of his first chance to get back to his family farm on the edge of Exmoor. But that had been years ago. Jones had proved immune to the temptations of Exmoor on several occasions, as Minerva Minerva frequently called at Plymouth, Dartmouth, and other ports convenient to his supposed homeland. Indeed, he gave every indication of being perfectly content with his lot aboard frequently called at Plymouth, Dartmouth, and other ports convenient to his supposed homeland. Indeed, he gave every indication of being perfectly content with his lot aboard Minerva Minerva. There had been some trouble with rowdiness at first, providing a hint as to what Jones was running away from, but as years and voyages had gone by he had ripened into a steady, reliable, if somewhat limited crewman.

So on the liability side of Jones's account, to illiteracy could be added a mysterious, probably criminal past, and a want of ambition. He had, however, one a.s.set that was not possessed by the officer who was walking next to him up Lombard Street: he was a white-skinned Englishman. From time to time Jones was called upon to make the most of this a.s.set by dressing up in a pair of breeches, leather shoes, a waistcoat, a long watch coat of a somewhat nautical cut, and a very plain horsehair periwig. This was the sort of get-up that a s.h.i.+p's officer might keep stuffed in a footlocker while crossing an ocean, and pull out after dropping anchor in some harbor, so that he could go ash.o.r.e and look minimally decent in the eyes of money-scriveners, victuallers, s.h.i.+p-chandlers, and insurance underwriters.

If these two were to hail a hackney coach and travel a couple of miles west to the new streets round Piccadilly and St. James, where shopping shopping rather than rather than s.h.i.+pping s.h.i.+pping was the order of the day, their roles, in the eyes of most casual strollers, might be reversed. For people with an eye for clothes would notice that Dappa's actually fit him, that they were of recent make, well cared for, and cleverly picked out. The lace around his s.h.i.+rt-cuffs had never been dragged through beer-foam, goose-grease and damp ink; his shoes shone like wax fruit. The sophisticated toffs of the West End would then take in the fact that Dappa was older, that he was alert to everything going on around them, and that when they came to street-corners Dappa went where he would, and Jones followed. Jones looked about himself curiously, but he was not really paying attention in the way that Dappa was. A West Ender, watching this procession of two stride past, might conclude that Dappa was a Moorish diplomat from Algiers or Rabat, and Jones his local guide. was the order of the day, their roles, in the eyes of most casual strollers, might be reversed. For people with an eye for clothes would notice that Dappa's actually fit him, that they were of recent make, well cared for, and cleverly picked out. The lace around his s.h.i.+rt-cuffs had never been dragged through beer-foam, goose-grease and damp ink; his shoes shone like wax fruit. The sophisticated toffs of the West End would then take in the fact that Dappa was older, that he was alert to everything going on around them, and that when they came to street-corners Dappa went where he would, and Jones followed. Jones looked about himself curiously, but he was not really paying attention in the way that Dappa was. A West Ender, watching this procession of two stride past, might conclude that Dappa was a Moorish diplomat from Algiers or Rabat, and Jones his local guide.

But this was not the West End. This was the City of London. They were only a stone's throw from Change Alley. No one paid much heed to clothing here, unless it was as a truly vulgar and shocking exhibit of wealth. By that standard both Dappa and Jones were invisible. Dappa, darting ahead through the crowd of money-men, was a.s.sumed to be the servant-a meat souvenir picked up on a trading-voyage-beating a path through the jungle, as it were, and keeping a shrewd eye for hazards. Jones, strolling in Dappa's wake, was obviously the master, and what might in other settings have been seen as a stupid or vacuous expression could be taken, here, as the meditative phizz of a financial savant who was trying to plumb the meaning of the latest trend in Sword Blade Company share prices, and couldn't be bothered to dress himself elegantly or indeed to find his own way down the street. His absent-minded way of taking in everything around him was proof that his was a mind tuned to follow the divagating strains, and quiver in sympathy with the startling chords, of the Market.

Or so Dappa told himself, to check his own impatience, when Seaman Jones paused to chat up a pretty orange-girl on a street-corner, or reached out to accept a handbill from a dirty, bawling pamphleteer. When they came at last to the doorway of Worth's Coffee-House on Birchin Lane, just across the way from the Herac.l.i.tean riot of Change Alley, Dappa fell to the rear. Jones strode forward and entered the coffee-house first. A few moments later Dappa was pulling Jones's chair out for him as he seated himself at a vacant table, and scurrying after a maid to make Mr. Jones's desires known.

"We are early," Dappa told Jones after he had got back to the table with the coffee, "and Mr. Sawyer is ever late, and so make yourself comfortable, as I cannot. After this, there's no more leisure until we reach Ma.s.sachusetts." And Dappa took up the pose of a servant, standing behind Jones, ready to dart forward and tend to emergent needs.

Everyone else in the place was either involved in a conversation or, if alone, reading something. Worth's Coffee-House was the haunt of a sub-species of petty financier who provided bridge loans, and other, less easily explained financial instruments, to the s.h.i.+pping trade. Of the singletons scattered about the place, some were salts consulting tide-tables or almanacks. Others looked like money-scriveners or money-goldsmiths. Their choices in reading material leaned towards London newspapers. Jones, here, was the odd man out in that he could not read at all. But at the corner of Gracechurch and Lombard, he had accepted a libel from a nasty tub-faced tout who looked and smelled as if he'd washed his face with rancid tallow, and who had bestowed an evil look on Dappa as he'd walked by. Jones had rolled it up and carried it here in one hand, looking for all the world like a man of affairs toting a Bill of Exchange to be redeemed. But now, in an effort to blend in with this literate crowd, Jones unrolled the handbill and smoothed it out on the table, and bent over it, aping the poses of the readers around him.

He had it upside down! Dappa bent his face toward the floor, and stepped forward so that he could discreetly knee Jones in the a.r.s.e. But Jones was quicker than Dappa gave him credit for. Though he knew nothing of letters, he had figured out on his own that the doc.u.ment needed to be spun around. For this bill was ill.u.s.trated ill.u.s.trated: at the top of the page was a fist-sized blot of ink, a butcherous woodcut of a savage black-skinned man with spraying dreadlocks. His throat was clasped in a white lace cravat, his shoulders dignified by good English tailoring. Printed beneath this portrait in crusty letters an inch high was the word DAPPA.

followed by A SLAVE, property of MR. CHARLES WHITE, ESQ., is missing and presumed stolen or astray. A REWARD in the amount of TEN GUINEAS shall be given to the first party who brings this Neeger to the dwelling of Mr. White on St. James's Square.

And then finer print, which Dappa would need gla.s.ses to read. But he could not get his gla.s.ses out of his breast pocket, because not a muscle in his body would move.

Sloop Atalanta, Atalanta, off the s.h.i.+ve off the s.h.i.+ve SUNSET.

HE WISHED H HOOKE WERE HERE. A Natural Philosopher could not but be enthralled by all that was laid out for view by such a rare low tide. The sun had sunk low in the west and, behind London's dome of smoke, shone the color of a horseshoe when the farrier beats it out on the anvil. That light was skidding across the tidal flats all round, making them seem not so flat at all. The surface of the muck was rippled, as if it were a pond that had been disturbed by a chill wind, then frozen. But more remarkable to Daniel was the shape of Foulness Sand, a few miles to the north, across the mouth of the Thames. This country of muck, larger than some German princ.i.p.alities, lay concealed beneath the water most of the time. It was devoid of any features such as rocks or vegetation. Yet when the tide drew off, the great quant.i.ty of water that had been stranded in the dells of all those frozen ripples drained away, not as a streaming sheet, and not by quiet seepage into the earth, but by finding its way to the low places. One hand-sized puddle would erupt in upon its neighbor, and those two would join forces and go looking for a nearby place that lay a hair's breadth lower, even as every other dollop of water for miles around was pursuing a like strategy. The result, integrated (to use Leibniz's terminology) over the whole of Foulness Sand, was that entire systems of rivers and tributaries sprang into being. Some of those rivers looked as old as the Thames, and big enough to build cities on; yet in a few hours they'd disappear. Existing in a state of pure alienation, unsoftened by reeds or willows, and not encrusted by the buildings of men, they were pure geometry. Albeit geometry of an irregular and organic cast, repugnant to Euclid or, Daniel suspected, to the silver-haired knight who was standing next to him. But Hooke would have seen beauty and found fascination there, and wrought pictures of it, as he had done with flies and fleas. A Natural Philosopher could not but be enthralled by all that was laid out for view by such a rare low tide. The sun had sunk low in the west and, behind London's dome of smoke, shone the color of a horseshoe when the farrier beats it out on the anvil. That light was skidding across the tidal flats all round, making them seem not so flat at all. The surface of the muck was rippled, as if it were a pond that had been disturbed by a chill wind, then frozen. But more remarkable to Daniel was the shape of Foulness Sand, a few miles to the north, across the mouth of the Thames. This country of muck, larger than some German princ.i.p.alities, lay concealed beneath the water most of the time. It was devoid of any features such as rocks or vegetation. Yet when the tide drew off, the great quant.i.ty of water that had been stranded in the dells of all those frozen ripples drained away, not as a streaming sheet, and not by quiet seepage into the earth, but by finding its way to the low places. One hand-sized puddle would erupt in upon its neighbor, and those two would join forces and go looking for a nearby place that lay a hair's breadth lower, even as every other dollop of water for miles around was pursuing a like strategy. The result, integrated (to use Leibniz's terminology) over the whole of Foulness Sand, was that entire systems of rivers and tributaries sprang into being. Some of those rivers looked as old as the Thames, and big enough to build cities on; yet in a few hours they'd disappear. Existing in a state of pure alienation, unsoftened by reeds or willows, and not encrusted by the buildings of men, they were pure geometry. Albeit geometry of an irregular and organic cast, repugnant to Euclid or, Daniel suspected, to the silver-haired knight who was standing next to him. But Hooke would have seen beauty and found fascination there, and wrought pictures of it, as he had done with flies and fleas.

"Do the same rivers always spring up? Or is it new ones, in different places, at every tide?" Daniel mused.

"One will recur, again and again, for years, perhaps undergoing slow alterations from tide to tide," Isaac answered.

"It was a rhetorical question," Daniel muttered.

"Then some day, perhaps after a storm or an exceptional high tide, the water draws back, and it is gone, never to be seen again. There is much in the subterranean realm that is as opaque to the mind, as it is to the eye."

Isaac now moved across the p.o.o.p deck to view s.h.i.+ve Tor. Daniel felt compelled to stay at his elbow.

To their left, gray spread to infinity. Ahead, it extended only to the sh.o.r.e of the Isle of Grain, a couple of miles distant. Most of the isle barely rose above the horizon, but there was one hill, perhaps fifty to a hundred feet above sea level, gra.s.sy, with a few weather-shocked trees flinging their arms back aghast. Atop that stood a small, blocky, ancient stone church. It stood broadside to the sea, as if the masons had begun by erecting a wind-wall so that they would have something to stand in the lee of, then topped it with a steep roof to deflect the gales heavenwards. On its western front was a square tower with a flat roof and a crenellated top, which the Black Torrent Guard had pressed into service as a watch-tower.

Between Atalanta Atalanta and the foot of that hill, the gray expanse was divided into an upper and a lower part by an irregular line of heaving froth. Below, this was tinged with blue and aqua. Above-nearer the land-it was washed with brownish and yellowish and greenish hues and mottled by scattered swellings in the mud. Sea-birds skimmed along just above it, moving in twos and threes as if hanging together for safety. From time to time they would alight and skitter about on twiglike legs, pecking at the mud. Some of them were doing so around the very foundations of s.h.i.+ve Tor, which stood high, but not dry, halfway between and the foot of that hill, the gray expanse was divided into an upper and a lower part by an irregular line of heaving froth. Below, this was tinged with blue and aqua. Above-nearer the land-it was washed with brownish and yellowish and greenish hues and mottled by scattered swellings in the mud. Sea-birds skimmed along just above it, moving in twos and threes as if hanging together for safety. From time to time they would alight and skitter about on twiglike legs, pecking at the mud. Some of them were doing so around the very foundations of s.h.i.+ve Tor, which stood high, but not dry, halfway between Atalanta Atalanta and the foot of the hill. and the foot of the hill.

The Tor's dredged s.h.i.+p-channel was aimed obliquely downriver, so to find its entrance Atalanta Atalanta would have to glide a short distance past the s.h.i.+ve and come about. The sailors were making ready to accomplish that and to launch the longboat, and they were going about it smartly, for it now seemed quite possible that they might lose the fleeing whaler in the dark. A silver-greyhound flag had been produced from somewhere and was being lashed to a stunted flagpole on the longboat's transom, so that, for what it was worth, everyone who saw them would know that they were the Queen's Messengers. Two dragoons had been pressed into service throwing sounding-leads over the rail and calling out depths, one on the port and one on the starboard side of the bow. would have to glide a short distance past the s.h.i.+ve and come about. The sailors were making ready to accomplish that and to launch the longboat, and they were going about it smartly, for it now seemed quite possible that they might lose the fleeing whaler in the dark. A silver-greyhound flag had been produced from somewhere and was being lashed to a stunted flagpole on the longboat's transom, so that, for what it was worth, everyone who saw them would know that they were the Queen's Messengers. Two dragoons had been pressed into service throwing sounding-leads over the rail and calling out depths, one on the port and one on the starboard side of the bow.

Barnes was arguing with the sloop's captain as to which of them would need more dragoons. The latter wanted it understood that this was Mr. Charles White's pleasure-jacht, not an Admiralty s.h.i.+p, and that, in consequence, he did not have any Marines aboard; and as the fleeing whaler probably contained the leaders of Jack's organization-possibly even Jack himself-at any rate, the most notorious and dangerous criminal traitors in the Realm-most of the dragoons really ought to remain aboard the sloop. not an Admiralty s.h.i.+p, and that, in consequence, he did not have any Marines aboard; and as the fleeing whaler probably contained the leaders of Jack's organization-possibly even Jack himself-at any rate, the most notorious and dangerous criminal traitors in the Realm-most of the dragoons really ought to remain aboard the sloop.

"But you are overhauling a single boat," Barnes was saying. "We are a.s.saulting a stone fortress. There's no telling what we shall find-"

But it was useless. Charles White-who would be staying on the sloop, that he might have the glory of catching Jack the Coiner-came down on his captain's side, and pointed out that Barnes's party would in a few minutes be reinforced by nearly a full company of dragoons charging across from the Isle of Grain. The number of dragoons put off in the longboat, not including Colonel Barnes and Sergeant Shaftoe, would be eight. If that was not enough, they could always draw back and await the onslaught from sh.o.r.e.

"It is like playing a part in a masque," Daniel heard Barnes muttering, "a farce ent.i.tled 'How bad plans are made.' "

"If Jack understood the true nature of the Solomonic Gold, he would not use it to coin false guineas," Isaac said to Daniel, apparently feeling some need to justify his tactics aloud. "To him it is only gold. Slightly above common gold in value, but still gold. Finding himself under attack, he would get it out of the Tor and aboard the hooker. But when the hooker ran aground, he would resolve to abandon it. For he would have other h.o.a.rds elsewhere."

"You think he threw it overboard?"

"The band of criminals on the hooker, in their panic, might have thrown anything anything heavy overboard. So we might find it strewn along the bank of the dredged channel. Or it might still be aboard the hooker. I don't think it is in the Tor, or on the whaler-come! It's now!" And Isaac moved with short quick steps to the head of the stair that ran down to the upperdeck. His box of gear was slung over his shoulder on a leather strap, and it banged on his hip as he went, and threatened to pull him off balance. Daniel scurried up behind him and put a steadying hand on the box, and in this way the two old philosophers moved down the steps and across to where the longboat was a-dangle from a pair of out-thrust yards. Soon enough they, Barnes, Shaftoe, eight dragoons, and an able seaman from the sloop's crew were aboard; though Daniel nearly toppled into the water, and in the scramble, lost his periwig. Lines were worked, and the boat jostled and slanted beneath them. They fell into the looming shadow of the sloop's hull. Between the darkness and the loss of his wig, Daniel felt chilly, and called for someone to throw a blanket down to him. Soon a wadded-up lump of gray wool thudded down, followed by a knit watchman's cap, which Daniel gratefully pulled down over his naked skull. As the sloop pulled away from them he saw his wig spinning in a vortex, its long white ponytail pointing this way and that, like a compa.s.s needle that has lost its fix on true north. heavy overboard. So we might find it strewn along the bank of the dredged channel. Or it might still be aboard the hooker. I don't think it is in the Tor, or on the whaler-come! It's now!" And Isaac moved with short quick steps to the head of the stair that ran down to the upperdeck. His box of gear was slung over his shoulder on a leather strap, and it banged on his hip as he went, and threatened to pull him off balance. Daniel scurried up behind him and put a steadying hand on the box, and in this way the two old philosophers moved down the steps and across to where the longboat was a-dangle from a pair of out-thrust yards. Soon enough they, Barnes, Shaftoe, eight dragoons, and an able seaman from the sloop's crew were aboard; though Daniel nearly toppled into the water, and in the scramble, lost his periwig. Lines were worked, and the boat jostled and slanted beneath them. They fell into the looming shadow of the sloop's hull. Between the darkness and the loss of his wig, Daniel felt chilly, and called for someone to throw a blanket down to him. Soon a wadded-up lump of gray wool thudded down, followed by a knit watchman's cap, which Daniel gratefully pulled down over his naked skull. As the sloop pulled away from them he saw his wig spinning in a vortex, its long white ponytail pointing this way and that, like a compa.s.s needle that has lost its fix on true north.

The sloop-which seemed to move so slowly when one was aboard-sprang away from them. Or perhaps it only felt that way to one who was being marooned. Within a minute they were beyond shouting-range, and might signal the larger vessel only by having a dragoon fire a musket into the air.

The platoons on the Isle of Grain were not moving nearly so quickly. When this plan had first been conceived, Daniel had phant'sied that Atalanta, Atalanta, and those mounted platoons, would converge on the Tor at the same instant. But here they were in this longboat at the mouth of the dredged channel, perhaps a musket-shot from the Tor, and the companies on the isle had not stirred yet. Supposedly they were at the foot of the hill, below the steeple of the church. But they were hidden in the dusky shadows, and obscured by gra.s.s. That they existed at all was merely a comforting a.s.sumption, like that there was a G.o.d and that He meant well. and those mounted platoons, would converge on the Tor at the same instant. But here they were in this longboat at the mouth of the dredged channel, perhaps a musket-shot from the Tor, and the companies on the isle had not stirred yet. Supposedly they were at the foot of the hill, below the steeple of the church. But they were hidden in the dusky shadows, and obscured by gra.s.s. That they existed at all was merely a comforting a.s.sumption, like that there was a G.o.d and that He meant well.

And so for a moment Daniel, and everyone else on the boat with the probable exception of Isaac, were overcome with the sense that it was all a terrible mistake.

Then they could hear the faint sound of a horse blowing air through its lips, out somewhere along the sh.o.r.e. Then faint crackling sounds that came and went in pulses. For the isle was belted with a strand of c.o.c.klesh.e.l.ls rejected by the surf, and some men must be treading on them as they came down on to the tide flats.

"Let's go for a bit of a row then," Barnes said. "I'll wager Jack has some claret inside." He addressed these words to Bob Shaftoe, who bellowed something to his dragoons who were manning the oars. And rowing boats might not have been their metier; metier; but they applied themselves to it cheerfully enough and began bas.h.i.+ng their oars against each other. "Move some b.l.o.o.d.y water!" Bob told them. "This ain't duelling with quarter-staves. Do I look like Robin b.l.o.o.d.y Hood to you? Stop banging 'em together and get 'em in the water!" And much more in that vein as the longboat began to spin and dodge forward across the pale water that lay thin on the mud-bank. They had crossed over the surf-line now, and the foam of the breakers looked as if it were above their alt.i.tude. This illusion was mildly unnerving even to Daniel, who had the advantage of being in a boat; it could not have been comforting to the approaching dragoons. but they applied themselves to it cheerfully enough and began bas.h.i.+ng their oars against each other. "Move some b.l.o.o.d.y water!" Bob told them. "This ain't duelling with quarter-staves. Do I look like Robin b.l.o.o.d.y Hood to you? Stop banging 'em together and get 'em in the water!" And much more in that vein as the longboat began to spin and dodge forward across the pale water that lay thin on the mud-bank. They had crossed over the surf-line now, and the foam of the breakers looked as if it were above their alt.i.tude. This illusion was mildly unnerving even to Daniel, who had the advantage of being in a boat; it could not have been comforting to the approaching dragoons.

Finally a horn sounded from the marshes, a cheer went up from the dragoons, and the edge of the island turned red as the First Company of the Queen's Own Black Torrent Guards emerged from the gra.s.s, all in a wide line, and began to advance over the flats at a trot.

Daniel looked at the Tor. It was square-floored, each face of the building something less than ten yards wide. Perhaps twenty yards' alt.i.tude separated its gaptoothed parapet from its foundation-a pile of boulders atop a lens of greasy black stone that poked up through the bank. "s.h.i.+ve" was a primeval English word for knee-cap, and Daniel, who had sliced a patella or two from cadavers, could see how the rock had come by its name. Slime and barnacles coated the lower reaches and made it difficult to tell where the natural plinth left off and the man-made work began. The Tor had been built up out of bulky brown boulders probably prised from a quarry upriver, barged down at high tide, and rolled overboard. White mortar held it together. There was but a single door, which looked out onto a silted pool at the terminus of this long gouge that they were fitfully navigating. The threshold was an arm's length above where the fur of wee crusty creatures and rank weeds gave way to bare, wave-washed stone. So that was where they had built a floor. From the situation of windows (if that was not too grand a term for them) higher up, Daniel estimated there was a wooden platform above, forming an upper storey, and above that a roof, on which lookouts and gunners might stand to look out over, or through, the woebegone parapet.

"Is there room here for so many horses, when the tide comes in?" Daniel asked.

"First you were worried they would not come at all-I could see it in your phizz-now you're worried because they're coming!" Barnes returned. "It is nonetheless a question that deserves an answer. We are dragoons, Doctor. The horses are mere vehicles. When the men are here, the beasts will be sent back straightaway-they'll be back on the Isle of Grain half an hour from now."

"I do beg your pardon, Colonel. As a wise man once told me, we are all scared."

Barnes nodded gracefully. But he could sense a Newtonian glare boring into the other side of his head, so without delay he said to the sergeant, "Let us advance, and see if we draw fire from the Tor."

"I did not understand that Sir Isaac Newton's role was to draw fire, draw fire," Daniel shot back peevishly, then bit his tongue as even Isaac was smiling at Barnes's jest. Annoyed now with everyone on the boat, including himself, Daniel s.n.a.t.c.hed the blanket-ten pounds of greasy Qwghlmian wool-and settled it over his shoulders. It p.r.i.c.kled him through his clothes like a heap of thistles, but it would eventually be warmer.

The longboat balked mulishly as it sc.r.a.ped its keel on the sandy bottom every few yards. Sergeant Bob became exasperated, then profane, to the point where Sir Isaac became visibly offended. Half of the dragoons divested themselves of their powder-horns and granadoes, and vaulted over the gunwales to land waist-deep in the channel. This lightened the boat's load enough to get its keel out of the muck, and it enabled them to move it along by pus.h.i.+ng on it with their shoulders, as if it were a gun-carriage mired in Flanders. "Take advantage of the shallow water," Barnes said approvingly, "we'll not have it much longer." The colonel had mostly been keeping an eye on the parapet, clearly worried about snipers. Isaac's gaze was fixed on the hooker, which was now rolling freely on the bank of the channel-the direction of the tide had reversed! The sergeant was attending to his men.

Daniel was the only one aware that the charge of the First Company from the Isle of Grain had come to a halt as soon as it had got started. Only a few yards beyond the c.o.c.kle-belt, a few of the horses had gone down. The rest had halted, and the line of redcoats had split and spread into two wings, trying to probe around some obstacle. A pistol-shot tolled for a broken-legged horse. This got everyone's attention. They heard, too, a distant thudding noise: an axe striking wood.

"Jack's men drove pilings into the mud," was Bob's guess, "and stretched chains between 'em, to stop the horses. This they would've done in the highest and driest parts, where the best footing was to be had; which tells us that the flanks are now in a mire. Someone is trying to chop through a piling with an axe."

"There are nails embedded in that piling, then, and his axe is already ruined," announced Isaac absent-mindedly, without taking his eyes off the hooker.

"Sir Isaac has good ears," Daniel explained to the incredulous Bob.

"Then he'd best plug them," answered Bob and picked up a musket. A moment later the boat flinched from its recoil as he fired it into the air. He handed it to one of the dragoons, who set about furiously reloading.

"As long as you are wasting b.a.l.l.s and powder, waste them on the parapet," said the Colonel.

Within a few moments, several other muskets had been fired at the top of the tower, and a large glutinous ma.s.s of smoke had been set adrift on the calm evening air. No answering fire came back from s.h.i.+ve Tor. But the little fusillade had the effect Bob wanted: the dragoons off the Isle of Grain were dismounting, sending their horses back to dry land, and advancing on foot. Daniel was noticing that they now looked like dark motes against the gray sand. A few minutes ago their coats had been a proud red. The difference was not that they were all covered in greasy mud now (though they probably were), but that it was getting dark, and the colors were draining from everything. The evening star had come out, very bright, near the Tor.

A colossal thud came out of the far west. It was impressive enough to divert Isaac's concentration from the hooker. "What was that?" he demanded-the first voice to violate the stillness that had descended upon all.

"A lot of powder was touched off at once," said Colonel Barnes. "On a field of battle, it would signify a dreadful accident. Here, I guess it was the bridge over Yantlet Creek being demolished by a mine."

"Why did you mine the bridge, Colonel?"

"I didn't."

Isaac was gobsmacked. "Then-who did did!?"

"Now you ask me to speculate, Sir Isaac," Barnes said coldly.

"But you have men posted at that bridge," Isaac said.

"Or had, had, sir." sir."

"How could it have been mined, when it was under guard?"

"Again, speculation: it was mined in advance, the mine concealed from view," Barnes said.

"Then, pray tell, who put fire to the fuse?"

"I've no idea."

"No man was needed to put fire to it," Daniel said.

"Then how was it lit?" Barnes demanded.

"The same way as that that was," Daniel answered, and shrugged an arm free of the blanket to point at the Tor. was," Daniel answered, and shrugged an arm free of the blanket to point at the Tor.

Moments earlier he had seen a blue spark in his peripheral vision, and mistaken it for the evening star coming out near s.h.i.+ve Tor. But by now it had become brighter than any heavenly body save the Sun, brighter by far than any Comet. And it was not in the sky, but in one of those small irregular windows in the wall of the Tor.

Everyone was now looking at it, though it was growing brilliant enough to burn the eyes. Only Daniel and Isaac knew what it was.

"Phosphorus is burning inside the Tor," Isaac remarked, more fascinated than alarmed.