The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 73

"You have have wound up here in Newgate, Mr. Ketch. But never mind, I take your meaning." wound up here in Newgate, Mr. Ketch. But never mind, I take your meaning."

"They'd have to come and live with me. Here."

"It is not the best environment for raising small children," Shaftoe allowed.

"That's why-excuse me-" Ketch steps behind Shaftoe, draws out another length of cord, and strings it between the latter's elbows. Ketch makes a sliding knot, and begins to draw it tighter, bringing Shaftoe's elbows closer together-but only a bit.

"It would be a shame to wrinkle the Hanging-Suit," Shaftoe remarks.

"A great shame, Mr. Shaftoe, but more important to me is your comfort."

Shaftoe smiles in spite of himself at this polite evasion. And with that smile on his face, he steps forward, raises a knee, and places one immaculate polished shoe on the stone anvil. "Do have a care with that hammer, my good man," he says to the smith-a pox-ravaged prisoner who looks like he has been in Newgate since the Fire. "These clothes mean nothing to me, but they will soon be inherited inherited by my good friend Mr. Ketch here. For he is not only my friend, and my sole heir, but the by my good friend Mr. Ketch here. For he is not only my friend, and my sole heir, but the executor executor of my will. By the immemorial traditions of this Realm, all that I wear upon my person, and the contents of its pockets, are of my will. By the immemorial traditions of this Realm, all that I wear upon my person, and the contents of its pockets, are his his at the moment of my expiration. In those pockets reside several coins of diverse denominations. If you go about your work soberly, and leave my shoes unmarked, Mr. Ketch may choose to reach into one of my pockets and fish out a rather large coin for your Civility Money; but if you ruin them, Mr. Ketch may have to recoup his losses by giving you at the moment of my expiration. In those pockets reside several coins of diverse denominations. If you go about your work soberly, and leave my shoes unmarked, Mr. Ketch may choose to reach into one of my pockets and fish out a rather large coin for your Civility Money; but if you ruin them, Mr. Ketch may have to recoup his losses by giving you nothing nothing."

In consequence of this, the smith spends more time getting Jack's chains off than all the other condemnees put together. But get them off he does, and for his pains receives a handsome shilling from Shaftoe's pocket and Ketch's hand.

The Trial of the Pyx NO TWO T TRIALS of the Pyx are the same. Details vary depending on whose ox is being gored at the time, and who's goring it. Anciently the Mayor and Citizens of London would stand by and witness the whole rite, which was the most reasonable thing in the world given that the City men had a greater stake in the soundness of the coinage than anyone else. It made for some crowded and riotous Trials, and so at some point a jury of twelve respected City men came to stand in for the whole Citizenry. They would take a hand in those parts of the Trial that did not require any special Guild expertise, and observe the Jury of Goldsmiths carrying out those that did, and when the a.s.sayers had rendered their verdict, they would go out into London and relate the good or bad news to their fellow-Citizens. of the Pyx are the same. Details vary depending on whose ox is being gored at the time, and who's goring it. Anciently the Mayor and Citizens of London would stand by and witness the whole rite, which was the most reasonable thing in the world given that the City men had a greater stake in the soundness of the coinage than anyone else. It made for some crowded and riotous Trials, and so at some point a jury of twelve respected City men came to stand in for the whole Citizenry. They would take a hand in those parts of the Trial that did not require any special Guild expertise, and observe the Jury of Goldsmiths carrying out those that did, and when the a.s.sayers had rendered their verdict, they would go out into London and relate the good or bad news to their fellow-Citizens.

In recent centuries the presence of the City men has slowly dwindled, to the point where Sir Isaac Newton has felt moved to complain that Trials of the Pyx have become a shadowy rite conducted by a cabal or conspiracy of Goldsmiths, un.o.bserved and unaccountable. It is safe to say the Goldsmiths are no more pleased by these remarks than by anything else Isaac has done during his tenure at the Mint. Still and all, the entire point of the exercise is to prove Isaac a traitorous fraud, and, if at all possible, to see his hand chopped off in New Palace Yard. All of which is less likely to come to pa.s.s if Isaac can make a credible case that the Trial is rigged by a shadowy Guild. So for today's Trial the pendulum has swung back as far as it can without inviting the whole City. It is a full-dress, dual-Jury affair. The City's represented not only by the Lord Mayor but also by a full jury of twelve Citizens, separate from and independent of the jury of Goldsmiths. And they'll not just watch but-mostly through their chosen delegate, Mr. Threader-partic.i.p.ate. Only after these dozen Citizens have been recognized and sworn and shunted off to their own corner is it time for the Princ.i.p.als to be brought in and the Trial to begin in earnest.

The King's Remembrancer asks for the Pyx. Out goes the Serjeant at Arms. A minute later he's back with the Earl of Lostwithiel in tow, and behind Lostwithiel are four more King's Messengers carrying a palanquin on which rests the Pyx. This is set down before the table, and Lostwithiel avers that it really is the Pyx and that he fetched it in good order straight from the Tower, and no monkey business along the way.

The King's Remembrancer then asks the Serjeant to summon the second Jury: that of the Goldsmiths. A minute later, the Twelve troop in, all a-gleam, and line up before him. They cannot take their eyes off the Pyx, at least not until the King's Remembrancer speaks, as follows: "Do you swear that you shall well and truly, after your knowledge and discretion, make the a.s.says of the monies of gold and silver that have been reposited in the Pyx, and truly report if the said monies be in weight and fineness according to the King's standards of his Treasury, and also if the same monies be sufficient in allay, et cetera et cetera, according to the Covenant comprised in the Indenture thereof made between the King's grace and the Master of his Mint, so help you G.o.d?"

"We do," say the Jury of Goldsmiths.

Satisfied of that, the King's Remembrancer asks for the Master of the Mint: the man, and the moment, everyone has been waiting for. All bodies and heads and eyes turn to follow the Serjeant out of the room, then remain motionless as his boot-steps recede through Star Chamber and the gallery beyond.

They wait, and wait, and wait, until every man jack in the room is quite certain that it really is taking longer than it ought to-much longer- longer-something must be out of joint. A member of the City jury can be heard mumbling some kind of witticism. One of the goldsmiths says clearly, "Perhaps he's at the hanging!" and another responds, "Perhaps he's run off to France!" whereupon he is furiously shushed by no less than the Duke of Marlborough. must be out of joint. A member of the City jury can be heard mumbling some kind of witticism. One of the goldsmiths says clearly, "Perhaps he's at the hanging!" and another responds, "Perhaps he's run off to France!" whereupon he is furiously shushed by no less than the Duke of Marlborough.

When all of that noise and bother die down, it is finally possible to hear people approaching Star Chamber-rather more people than the King's Remembrancer asked for. The entourage, if that's what it is, bates outside. The Serjeant comes in. On his arm is a young woman. They cross the floor of Star Chamber; her head turns to gaze curiously at the a.s.sayer's furnace, whose red light shines on her, so that Daniel recognizes her as Catherine Barton.

She comes in to the chamber and is heralded by the Serjeant. Great is her fame, of course, and so the amount of ogling that now takes place is beyond all boundaries of dignity. It almost would have been better if she had showed up stark naked. "My lords," she says, for with so many dignitaries in the room she daren't speculate as to who is in charge, "Sir Isaac Newton is ill. I have sat by his bed this last week and I beseeched him not to answer your summons. He would not heed me, but gave orders that he was to be brought here this morning no matter what. He is very weak, and so, if it please my lords, I have arranged to bring him here in his sedan chair. With your permission, I'll have him brought in thusly."

"As his nurse, Miss Barton, is it your opinion that he is fit to understand what is going on around him, and to be tried?" asks the King's Remembrancer.

"Oh, yes. He knows," Miss Barton insists, "however, because he is so very weak, he requests that Dr. Daniel Waterhouse act as his spokesman." And, having now fixed on the King's Remembrancer as the boss, she steps forward and hands him a letter, presumably written in Isaac's hand, saying as much.

Generally not one to seize the moment, Daniel acts all out of character now by striding in to the middle of the room while most eyes are still trying to pick him out in the crowd. "If Sir Isaac's proposal is acceptable to my lords, then I shall be honoured to serve as his hand and voice."

There is a certain amount of looking back and forth now, but this does not alter what is inside the Pyx, or what is written on the indenture, and so in the end it does not really matter. Suddenly, important heads are nodding all around the room. "It is so ordered," says the King's Remembrancer, not before reading the letter through twice. "You have the grat.i.tude of the Council, Dr. Waterhouse. Er, shall we have Sir Isaac's chair brought in, then?"

"There is no precedent for this, and so pray allow me to suggest one," Daniel says. "We are soon to move in to the Star Chamber for the a.s.say, are we not? Then rather than move Sir Isaac twice, I suggest we make him comfortable straightaway in Star Chamber. He can hear the indenture being read from there."

"So ordered!"

Miss Barton curtseys her way out and flits across Star Chamber, calling to Daniel with her eyes. Daniel excuses himself and backs out. Heads lean in and faces turn to line the doorway. Daniel is confronted by the black obelisk of Isaac's sedan chair, suspended between two astonished-looking porters. Miss Barton is hissing directions: "In the corner! The corner! No, that one!" There is some almost comical turning about, but finally they understand what she wants: for the sedan's door to face toward a corner of Star Chamber so that when the door is open Isaac, in his pitiful state, won't be visible to the entire Chamber. Finally they get it set down the way she wants it. Daniel side-steps through a narrow gap between pole and wall, and backs in to the corner. He glances up one time to see all of those faces in the next room peering through the doorway at him. Then he undoes the latch on the sedan chair's door and opens it. The first thing he sees is a hand, pale and still, gripping an ornate key. He opens the door farther, letting light shine in so that he can see Isaac sprawled against the wall of his black box, eyes open and mouth a-gape, perfectly still. Daniel need not check his pulse to be certain that what he is looking at, here, is the recently deceased corpse of Sir Isaac Newton, dead at age seventy-one of Newgate gaol-fever.

The Press-Yard, Newgate Prison TEN MINUTES LATER they are down in the Press-Yard, just off Phoenix Court. It is called a Yard but is really nothing more than a fortified alley. A short caravan is drawn up there, waiting to convey them all to Tyburn: a wagon containing various tools of Mr. Ketch's trade; a s.p.a.cious open cart, already loaded with empty coffins; and, drawing up the rear, a sledge. The cart is for most of the condemnees, for Ketch, and for the Ordinary. The sledge is reserved for Shaftoe, it being the tradition that a traitor be dragged to his death facing backwards. Mere hanging is too good for such a vile person, wheels are too nice. they are down in the Press-Yard, just off Phoenix Court. It is called a Yard but is really nothing more than a fortified alley. A short caravan is drawn up there, waiting to convey them all to Tyburn: a wagon containing various tools of Mr. Ketch's trade; a s.p.a.cious open cart, already loaded with empty coffins; and, drawing up the rear, a sledge. The cart is for most of the condemnees, for Ketch, and for the Ordinary. The sledge is reserved for Shaftoe, it being the tradition that a traitor be dragged to his death facing backwards. Mere hanging is too good for such a vile person, wheels are too nice.

As the condemnees progress from each stage to the next, their entourage grows. Here in the Press-Yard there must be two score men, mostly gaolers with cudgels, but a few constables as well. Jack's beginning to see blunderbusses. A sort of corridor is formed, tending to funnel them straight to the big cart. The other prisoners clamber up and sit down, using coffin-lids as benches. Jack is directed to his wheelless land-barge, which has a plank to sit on, but no coffin; by the end of the day, a coffin, or indeed any other container, will be quite wasted on him.

Mr. Ketch, who is nothing if not organized, opens one of the several lockers on his supply-wagon, and pulls out several lengths of rope. Each of them has a hangman's noose in one end. He tosses all but one of them into the big cart, then circles around to the rear where he addresses Jack.

"It's a fine one, eh?" he exclaims, holding up the noose.

"If you were not wearing a black hood you'd be glowing with pride, Mr. Ketch. But I do not know why."

"This rope I got from a pirate-captain I hanged last year."

"He supplied his own rope?"

"Indeed. A hawser, he called it. Look at the thickness of it."

"He wanted to be sure the rope would not break? That seems very odd to me."

"No, no, I'll show you!" And Ketch steps round to Shaftoe's left side and fits the noose over the latter's head. The rope is so thick and stiff, the noose so tight, that it can barely close around Shaftoe's throat. But the knot lodges under his left ear like a great bony fist. "Feel that leverage-now you'll take my meaning, sir!" Ketch says, pulling up once or twice on the loose end of the rope. Each time he does, the knot, bearing on the heel of Shaftoe's skull, crowbars his entire head forward and to one side. "And look at the length of it!" Shaftoe turns to see that Ketch has retreated to a distance of some two fathoms, but still has not run out of rope. "With this I can give you a drop such as few men are afforded, Mr. Shaftoe, very few. By the time you get to the end of this rope you'll be moving as fast as a cannonball. You'll be smoking a pipe in Heaven long before I chop off your t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and shovel your guts out; and the quartering will mean as little to you, as coffin-worms to a dead bishop."

"You are a princely fellow, Mr. Ketch, and Betty is fortunate to have you."

"Mr. Shaftoe," says Jack Ketch in a lower voice, stepping up very close to him now, and absent-mindedly wrapping the loose rope into a neat coil, "I shan't have leisure to exchange words with you again, until we are standing beneath the Tree. For I've other prisoners to tend to, as you can see, and the journey to Tyburn promises to be, er..."

"Festive?"

"I was going to say 'eventful,' not wanting to show disrespect. I'll be in the cart. We shall not be able to hear each other. Since you're facing backwards, we shall not be able to see see each other. Even when we are face to face beneath the Tree, the noise will be such that we'll not be able to exchange a word, though we scream in each other's ears. So I say to you now, sir, thank you! Thank you! And know that you shall feel less pain today than a man who bangs his head on a door-frame in a dark room." each other. Even when we are face to face beneath the Tree, the noise will be such that we'll not be able to exchange a word, though we scream in each other's ears. So I say to you now, sir, thank you! Thank you! And know that you shall feel less pain today than a man who bangs his head on a door-frame in a dark room."

"In the way of pain, I ask for nothing more nor less than what I deserve," says Shaftoe, "and I shall entrust you, Mr. Ketch, with that determination."

"And I shall prove worthy of that trust sir! Farewell!" says Jack Ketch. He turns his back on Shaftoe as if he's afraid he might cry again. He straightens his back, works on his composure, smooths down his hood, and steps up into the cart, where he has other clients waiting.

Star Chamber THE NEXT TIME Daniel has his wits about him, the King's Remembrancer is reading some doc.u.ment aloud, declaiming in the hoa.r.s.e lope of one who has been reading for quite a long while. Daniel looks through the doorway to see the King's Remembrancer peering through half-gla.s.ses at a generously sized parchment with a zigzag edge: one of the counterpanes of an indenture. This would be the contract that Isaac signed when he became Master of the Mint. It is one of the treasures that Daniel fetched out of the Abbey vault. What it says is that Isaac accepts sole personal responsibility for whatever is about to be found in the Pyx. It probably seemed like a lot of dry legal gibberish when Isaac signed it, but as the words resound through Star Chamber in the hearing of all the most important men in the Realm, it strikes him as so very grave and formidable as to make Isaac almost lucky to be dead. Daniel notes that he is the object of curious scrutiny by several of those men, and so he fixes his gaze on Isaac's dead face, smiles, nods, and makes a Daniel has his wits about him, the King's Remembrancer is reading some doc.u.ment aloud, declaiming in the hoa.r.s.e lope of one who has been reading for quite a long while. Daniel looks through the doorway to see the King's Remembrancer peering through half-gla.s.ses at a generously sized parchment with a zigzag edge: one of the counterpanes of an indenture. This would be the contract that Isaac signed when he became Master of the Mint. It is one of the treasures that Daniel fetched out of the Abbey vault. What it says is that Isaac accepts sole personal responsibility for whatever is about to be found in the Pyx. It probably seemed like a lot of dry legal gibberish when Isaac signed it, but as the words resound through Star Chamber in the hearing of all the most important men in the Realm, it strikes him as so very grave and formidable as to make Isaac almost lucky to be dead. Daniel notes that he is the object of curious scrutiny by several of those men, and so he fixes his gaze on Isaac's dead face, smiles, nods, and makes a sotto voce sotto voce remark as if chatting with the sick man. remark as if chatting with the sick man.

The Indenture draws to a thunderous end with invocations of G.o.d and of the Sovereign, and then the King's Remembrancer looks up and demands the three keys of the Pyx.

In taking Isaac's key out of his hand, Daniel notes that rigor mortis rigor mortis has not set in yet. He can't have been dead for long. has not set in yet. He can't have been dead for long.

The other Key-holders of the Pyx have already undone their respective locks by the time Daniel gets in there. Only one lock remains: a beauty, made to look like the front of the Temple of Solomon. Daniel gets it open and flips the hasp out of the way. Two members of the City jury step up and raise the lid of the Pyx. The cervical vertebrae of the Great and the Good pop and creak all round as they vie to see what's in it: a pile of wee leather packets, called Sinthias, each labeled with a month and a year.

"Very well," says the King's Remembrancer, "the Jurors may withdraw to Star Chamber to conduct the a.s.say."

While the Jurors are still mumbling and shuffling, Daniel strides out, key in hand, and makes for the sedan chair. Miss Barton has taken up a position in front of it, facing into the room, as if to block any well-wishers-or ill-wishers, for that matter-from trying to get close to her uncle. She's a bit red around the eyes, but when Daniel comes up to place a steadying hand on her shoulder, she feels solid and strong beneath the sleeve of her frock, and after a moment she shrugs him off and directs him toward the corner with a flick of her eyes. Many a London man-about-town has dreamed of receiving a come-hither look from those lovely Orbs, but Daniel will have to settle for what he's just been given: a go-thither look. "He said," she says, "that you would know what to do."

So he goes into the corner, opens the door again, and verifies that Isaac's still dead (which might seem a safe enough thing to a.s.sume; but with Isaac, you never know). He leans his head and shoulders into the box now, and checks under Isaac's armpit: still tepid. Looking up, he has a full view of the back of Catherine Barton's bodice and all of Star Chamber beyond. The black screen darkens everything somewhat, but his eyes soon enough adjust. No one, of course, can see him or Isaac.

On a large table next to the furnace, the City jurors dump out the contents of the Pyx. Sinthias gush out and mound up. A few roll to the floor and are chased down and s.n.a.t.c.hed back. The Pyx is set upright, open, and empty, on the floor. The twenty-four Jurors-Goldsmiths and Citizens working all together, for the nonce-go through the heap, reading the label on each Sinthia, and divide them into two piles: one containing silver coins-shillings, sixpence, and various other penny denominations-and the other gold: guineas, and the odd five-guinea piece. Daniel notes that Mr. Theader has established a commanding position at the end of the table where the gold coins are being piled. Before him is a great two-pan scale. He is wielding a jack-knife, making quick work of the Sinthias, cutting the Yellow Boys out of their leathern straitjackets and stacking them on the table. From time to time he will cup one in his hand and toss it: as always, Daniel cannot make out whether this is a mere nervous tic, or a studied effort to judge its weight.

As the Trial of the Pyx seems well in hand, Daniel turns his attention to matters inside the sedan chair.

He said you would know what to do. Well, yes and no.

Daniel has studied a doc.u.ment, written in Hooke's hand, a.s.serting that a patient (who happened to be one Daniel Waterhouse, but that is neither here nor there) died, and was brought back to life by a coction brewed up by an Alchemist. Hooke set down the receipt as best as he could from memory. Later Isaac went through and studied this, as only Isaac could study a thing, and made any number of annotations to it, all in the mythology-ridden argot and the queer symbology of the Esoteric Brotherhood. Daniel knows more than he'd like to of such things, from having spent so much of his young life around such people, and he's had a few days to go over Hooke's receipt and Newton's commentary and puzzle out what they mean. Isaac has made several attempts in recent weeks to carry out all of the steps in the procedure save the last, and so all of the necessary crucibles, retorts, &c. were lying out in plain sight on his laboratory-table when Daniel began work a couple of days ago, and all of the ingredients were there, too. All, that is, except for the last and most crucial.

Out of his pocket Daniel now takes the small wooden chest. He sets it on Isaac's lap and opens it. The contents are a stoppered gla.s.s flask containing a red liquid, and a paper packet, like a wee Sinthia no bigger than Daniel's fingernail. Daniel unfolds this with great care to expose a small quant.i.ty of gold dust. This is what remains of the ring that Solomon Kohan gave him, which Daniel melted last night to make a counterfeit guinea. Half of that guinea was snipped up into tiny shards that ought to be up Mr. Threader's sleeve just now. The rest of it Daniel tediously rubbed against a file until it was all gone, and collected the dust of it into this paper packet. The particles are so fine that one needs a microscope to view them; this ought to mean that their superficies are enormous, and easily penetrable by any surrounding menstruum. Right now that happens to be air, and not much seems to be happening. But it is time to carry out the last step, which is to place them in a very different menstruum, altogether more reactive. Daniel picks up the phial of scarlet fluid and thumbs the cork out of it, then, practically in the same motion, pours the dust of the Solomonic Gold into the fluid. He replaces the cork and, holding the flask between his palms, clamps the stopper in place with both thumbs and gives it a shake.

A red-orange glow suffuses the interior of the sedan chair. Daniel perceives that it is light shining through the flesh of his hands. But there is no warmth: this is like kaltes feuer kaltes feuer, the cold fire of Phosphorus.

He stuffs the phial under the flap of Isaac's coat so that the unearthly light won't shine through the window of the sedan chair, then risks taking the cork off. It is like staring into the swirling and lambent clouds of a thunderstorm. A scent reaches his nostrils, which he cannot identify, but he knows he's smelled it before, and it brings a powerful urge to lift this draught to his lips and drink it down. He masters this, and considers how to get it into Isaac. It is to be administered orally, he knows that. But how does one get a dead man to drink? Hooke's notes said something about a spatula. Tilting the vial, Daniel observes that the magma is thick, like porridge-it is congealing. If he waits much longer, he fears, it will be solid and unusable. Daniel grabs the only spatulate object near to hand: the key to Isaac's padlock. Using this as a spoon, he digs out a gob of the bright stuff as big as the last joint of his little finger, and introduces it to Isaac's mouth, flips it upside-down, and wipes it off on Isaac's tongue.

He looks out the window, fearful that someone will have noticed the light. But all eyes are on a grave rite being conducted by Mr. Threader: a pile of guineas has been placed on one pan of his great Barock scale, and on the opposite pan, one of the standard weights from the Abbey vault.

He spoons out another gob. Half of the stuff is now gone from the phial. It continues to congeal, but it is still manageable. It has the useful property of adhering to itself more than to anything else, somewhat like mercury; it leaves no wetness, no residue on the inside of the phial or on the key. The final spoonful seems to take with it every last trace of the stuff, and the key emerges from Isaac's mouth clean. Daniel notes that the glow has vanished, and now for the first time risks bringing his trembling hand to Isaac's mouth and pulling his jaw down so that he can inspect the inside of the mouth. He is shocked to find that all of the stuff is gone, as if it had never existed. It has diffused into Isaac's flesh: the vegetative spirit, if that's what it really is, pervading the inert matter of the corpse.

"I find that these coins are satisfactory for weight," Mr. Threader announces, "and so I propose that we now prevail upon our good friends, the Company of Goldsmiths, to a.s.say the metal for fineness." As Mr. Threader says this, he glances toward Daniel.

"The Company of Goldsmiths stands ready to conduct the a.s.say," announces the eldest of that jury. "We have nominated Mr. William Ham as Fusour."

William steps forward and addresses Mr. Threader. "I shall require a fair sample of the metal having an aggregate weight of twelve grains, if you please, sir."

"It is my honour to have been nominated Pesour by the Jury of Citizens," says Mr. Threader agreeably. "I propose to give you your twelve grains by cutting small amounts from several coins, as is the established practice."

"The Company of Goldsmiths a.s.sents," says the Fusour.

"Then let the guineas from the Sinthias be mixed that a fair sample may be drawn," says the Pesour.

With that, all the stacks of guineas piled on the table are swept off, in a clashing golden avalanche, into the Pyx. Watched intently by twenty-three other jurors-and now by Daniel, who has withdrawn from the sedan chair, and come over to observe-one of the Citizens stirs through the guineas with his hand, mixing them thoroughly. When that has gone on for long enough, he averts his gaze, displays an empty hand to the room, thrusts it into the middle of the Pyx, and pulls out a single guinea, which he places on the table before the Pesour.

Each of the other eleven City men does the same. A dozen guineas, chosen at random, are now lined up on the table before Mr. Threader.

Church of St. Sepulchre All good people, pray heartily unto G.o.d for these poor Sinners, who are now going to their Death, for whom this great Bell doth toll. You that are condemned to die, repent with lamentable Tears; ask Mercy of the Lord for the Salvation of your souls through the Merits, Death, and Pa.s.sion of Jesus Christ, who now sits on the right Hand of G.o.d, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return unto Him. Lord have Mercy upon you! Christ have Mercy upon you! All good people, pray heartily unto G.o.d for these poor Sinners, who are now going to their Death, for whom this great Bell doth toll. You that are condemned to die, repent with lamentable Tears; ask Mercy of the Lord for the Salvation of your souls through the Merits, Death, and Pa.s.sion of Jesus Christ, who now sits on the right Hand of G.o.d, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return unto Him. Lord have Mercy upon you! Christ have Mercy upon you!-THE BELL-MAN OF ST. SEPULCHRE'S WHEN THEY DRAG HIM OUT of the Press-Yard he's startled to see that they've actually dropped the portcullis, severing Newgate Street of the Press-Yard he's startled to see that they've actually dropped the portcullis, severing Newgate Street intra muros intra muros from Holborn from Holborn extra extra. He can hear a seething Mobb on the other side of it, but not see them, as a squadron of mounted soldiers is drawn up on the near side of the mighty Grate, forming up as if to mount a sally.

Presently, his private ceremonial sledge slews itself round in the street so that he is facing abaft, which means gazing down Newgate toward the heart of old London Town. This ought to provide him a more or less straight view down Newgate and Cheapside all the way to the 'Change, miles away; but instead all he sees is more soldiers. Squadrons are issuing from Phoenix Court on the right, and the grounds of Christ's Hospital on the left, and forming up in the wide part of the street behind him. This is unusual.

The air feels heavy, pushing in queerly on his skull. Because of the crowd-noise it is difficult to discern why, at first; then he recollects that every bell in London is ringing, m.u.f.fled, to announce the Hanging-March.

The first leg of the three-mile journey encompa.s.ses somewhat less than a hundred yards, that being the distance from the portcullis of Newgate to the Church-Yard of St. Sepulchre's. It only takes them about twenty minutes, which makes Jack phant'sy this isn't going to be so very difficult as popular legend would have one believe. He remembers these things as being a good deal bigger and rowdier. But then he hasn't attended one since before the Plague, and everything seemed larger through a child's eyes.

Still and all, he has plenty of time to rid himself of the cord that Jack Ketch used to link his elbows. Being loose to begin with, it sc.r.a.pes off easily on the rough planks of the sledge. He's about to toss it away into the crowd when he gets to looking at it, and thinks it might have other uses. Jack-who's lived on ships, and knows his knotwork-has a bowline in the end of it before the Mobb can chant "Jack Shaftoe!" and slips this over the toe of his shoe. It catches on the heel, and makes a kind of stirrup. With a few undignified gestures he is able to thread it up his leg, beneath his breeches. Then, reaching down his front, he pulls it up under his shirt so that it emerges from his collar, just at the base of his throat. And now his seamanship once again comes into play as he whips that cord round the noose a few times, and makes it fast.

Though he can't see forward, he knows they are before St. Sepulchre's, because its m.u.f.fled bell has become very loud, and is now reinforced by a familiar but unwelcome clang. The Bell-Man once again has added his monotonous note. He is reinforced by the Vicar of that church and diverse acolytes and hangers-on. Most of these, Jack peevishly suspects, only agreed to this duty so that they could get excellent front-row seats to the Hanging-March.

Some sort of ritual-completely inaudible to Jack, who is half-deaf in the best of circ.u.mstances-plays out on the steps of the church. It is for his benefit, he knows. He is ready to give the Bell-Man another round of abuse. But he bates. Tiresome though these people are, they have his best interests at heart, and some of the lesser criminals up on the cart might derive comfort from this.

The general idea, here, is that back in the old days, when St. Sepulchre's sat outside the City Gate on the Edge of Nowhere, this was the last church that any Tyburn-bound prisoner would ever see, and hence marked his absolutely final opportunity to repent. This being the London of today, they'll pa.s.s any number of Wren-churches between here and the Fatal Tree. But tradition is tradition. And so the Church of England gets a few points for sheer persistence.

The rite, whatever it is, doesn't last long, and then the church-folk come out with little nosegays for the prisoners, and cups of wine. Jack accepts both with good grace, reaching deep into his pockets for Civility Money. This gesture is noted by the crowd and garners a roar of approval, which comes to Jack's ears as a great sea tearing into a pebbly beach a mile away. And so Jack beckons the Bell-Man over and gives him a whole guinea for his pains-though not before biting down on it. This jest elicits laughs even from the soldiers. Finally, since this is going over so well, he gets the Vicar to descend the steps, and hands over another guinea-his last-for the poor-box, and shakes his hand. And nearly jerks the poor fellow's arm out of its socket, as the sledge has started up again. This thanks to Ketch, who has not failed to notice Shaftoe's guineas-which is to say, Ketch's Ketch's guineas-disappearing into the undeserving hands of Church-men! Ketch gets the caravan moving double-time, as if they were being menaced from the rear by a Horde of Mongols. Not until they are well clear of the danger, and moving along at a good steady clip, does Ketch turn his attention back to Shaftoe. His mouth is half-open. His rotting jaw is slack. guineas-disappearing into the undeserving hands of Church-men! Ketch gets the caravan moving double-time, as if they were being menaced from the rear by a Horde of Mongols. Not until they are well clear of the danger, and moving along at a good steady clip, does Ketch turn his attention back to Shaftoe. His mouth is half-open. His rotting jaw is slack. What on earth were you thinking!? What on earth were you thinking!? he seems to say, he seems to say, I could have fed my family for a year on what you just gave away! I could have fed my family for a year on what you just gave away!

Thus is Jack jerked away from St. Sepulchre's behind without even having had time to think about repentance-which was supposed to have been the entire point of stopping there. Either he has already repented, back in Newgate Chapel this morning, or else he never will.

But, in all seriousness, he thinks he might have repented. Something happened there, in truth. A sort of portcullis clanged down, severing the long, bad part of his life from a shorter and better part of it. It is all bound up, somehow, with that procedure of eating the coin of bread. But there is a powerful point to that rite, and he reckons it has something to do with a joining together, a sharing with everyone else who's ever accepted payment in that coinage, G.o.d's Legal Tender. In sum, Jack feels strangely one with all of Christendom this morning-which is not by any means a familiar way for him to feel-and Christendom seems to reciprocate those tender feelings, for all of it has turned out to see him off.

Now at last he begins to comprehend the immensity and power of the Mobb. Until this point he has seen it at a remove, like a man watching a play. Now there is a reversal. Jack is the poor player having his hour on the stage, and the audience is all of London. Or since so many appear to have come in from out of town, let's just call it all of the Universe. They react to his merest gesture. They even react to things he hasn't actually done. Seams of laughter rip through the crowd in response to jests he is rumored to have uttered. Not one person in an hundred even knows of his own knowledge that Jack is here, because most of them (as Jack recollects from having been a part of such Mobbs) can only see others' backs. They have been drawn here by the legend that Jack Shaftoe will be drawn to Tyburn on a sledge, and having come, and being unable to see him, they get by on the suspicion that he is out there somewhere. Jack Ketch-still stung and dismayed by the loss of those two guineas-is without a doubt the foremost member of the audience, viewing Jack's performance from, as it were, his own private box-on-wheels.

Jack guesses that every constable, beadle, bailiff, watchman, and gaoler in London is included in the entourage. Even for a normal Hanging-Day this does not suffice to hold back the crowd, and so there are always soldiers with half-pikes. But today there are these mounted squadrons as well. Jack had supposed at first that they were cavalry, but quickly knew from their colors that they were actually the King's Own Black Torrent Guards-no less than the terrible Dragoons who keep the Tower. Awfully nice of them to come out for his execution considering all of the trouble he has put them to in recent months. 'Tis a splendid gesture, and probably a calculated one. Of all His Majesty's regiments, none would be more avid to witness his death, none less likely to allow him to slip away. And so all that Jack sees of the Mobb, he sees by peering, through his low, sledge-back vantage-point, between the scissoring legs of the Dragoons' mounts. But he sees plenty.

The King's Own Black Torrent Guards have blundered into a sort of pincer now, and allowed themselves to be enveloped. For to the north of St. Sepulchre's is Smithfield, a largish open s.p.a.ce, site of the cattle market, and used for occasional burnings at the stake.* The two great streets that curve down from Smithfield are Gilt-Spur, which they've already pa.s.sed, and Cow-Lane, which is ahead. Smithfield, it is now obvious, has served as an immense gathering-place and holding-pen for hanging-watchers; for at least the past day, and probably longer, revelers have congregated there to hurl spent gin-bottles into howling bonfires. The ringing of the church-bells has served as their signal, and now they are flooding down Gilt-Spur Street and Cow-Lane. This puts a million of them in front of the procession and a million behind. The two great streets that curve down from Smithfield are Gilt-Spur, which they've already pa.s.sed, and Cow-Lane, which is ahead. Smithfield, it is now obvious, has served as an immense gathering-place and holding-pen for hanging-watchers; for at least the past day, and probably longer, revelers have congregated there to hurl spent gin-bottles into howling bonfires. The ringing of the church-bells has served as their signal, and now they are flooding down Gilt-Spur Street and Cow-Lane. This puts a million of them in front of the procession and a million behind.

Cow-Lane joins Holborn near the eastern end of the bridge that Hooke threw over Fleet Ditch some years ago. This is therefore a strategic intersection. If the procession were somehow blocked there by the Mobb, it would have no way of getting across the streaming s.h.i.t-flume of the Fleet, it would be bottled up, unable to reach the killing-ground. Jack can't see it, but he knows they're headed that way, because the earth is tilting beneath the sledge, causing him to recline ever so gently. They are descending Snow Hill. The whole parade should grind to a halt at any moment. But to his surprise they make the turn at the base of the hill without delay, and cross onto the pavers of the bridge. They are halfway across the Fleet Ditch before Jack perceives why: a company of artillery has established a bridgehead there, and set up several cannons, presumably loaded with grapeshot and chains, pointed up Cow-Lane towards Smithfield. A few yards farther along is another battery aimed south along the stony brink of the Ditch, holding back a hundred thousand or so who have formed up there. The Mobb is thus obliged to watch his pa.s.sage from a remove. Jack stands up in his sledge and waves an arm. Ten thousand people surge to glimpse the great event. It is difficult to guess how many are crushed; but at least a hundred of them are projected over the kerb into the Ditch. Jack sits down, not wishing to be responsible for any more such mayhem. Another score of spectators tumble into the Fleet.

Star Chamber TWELVE GRAINS IS A FORTIETH of an ounce; and gold being the densest thing in the world, a fortieth of an ounce is smaller than a pea. Yet such is the precision of the Goldsmiths' techniques that they can conduct a reliable a.s.say with so tiny a sample. To take the twelve grains from a single coin would defeat the purpose of the whole undertaking, for such a test might be queered by a freak of chance: a meaningless surplus or deficit of gold in one particular coin. Hence the mixing and sampling that has led to Mr. Threader's having a dozen guineas set out on the cloth before him. He has come armed with a pair of mighty long-handled snips. He stands up for better leverage, and in short order has cut each of the dozen guineas into halves. He then works his way down the row of twenty-four half-guineas, snipping off their sharp corners. There ought to be forty-eight of these. They are so tiny that they appear to Daniel as points of fire on Threader's black velvet cloth, echoing the stars painted on the ceiling of this chamber. Like a mad demiurge, Mr. Threader creates a little cosmos crowded with half-moons and strewn stars. He then begins to impose Order on his own Chaos, picking up the halved guineas and setting them to one side, while herding the stars into a globular cl.u.s.ter in the middle. It seems that his old fingers have difficulty picking up the wee bits, for he raises his hand to his mouth once or twice and licks his fingertips, like a scholar who is having difficulty getting traction on a page. Everyone is watching this closely, though Daniel's mind is a bit distracted still because of that business with Isaac. He turns his head thataway, and notes that the Lord Privy Seal has ventured out of the side chamber where he and all of the great big-wigs are supposed to be awaiting the verdict of the Jury. His lordship has got it into his head that he is going to say h.e.l.lo to Sir Isaac, and turns that way purposefully. But Catherine has read his mind, has tracked his doddering progress, giving him the evil eye the whole way. He's too blind or careless to notice. She steps into his path. Daniel averts his gaze, not wishing to see the Catastrophe of Manners that's in the offing. of an ounce; and gold being the densest thing in the world, a fortieth of an ounce is smaller than a pea. Yet such is the precision of the Goldsmiths' techniques that they can conduct a reliable a.s.say with so tiny a sample. To take the twelve grains from a single coin would defeat the purpose of the whole undertaking, for such a test might be queered by a freak of chance: a meaningless surplus or deficit of gold in one particular coin. Hence the mixing and sampling that has led to Mr. Threader's having a dozen guineas set out on the cloth before him. He has come armed with a pair of mighty long-handled snips. He stands up for better leverage, and in short order has cut each of the dozen guineas into halves. He then works his way down the row of twenty-four half-guineas, snipping off their sharp corners. There ought to be forty-eight of these. They are so tiny that they appear to Daniel as points of fire on Threader's black velvet cloth, echoing the stars painted on the ceiling of this chamber. Like a mad demiurge, Mr. Threader creates a little cosmos crowded with half-moons and strewn stars. He then begins to impose Order on his own Chaos, picking up the halved guineas and setting them to one side, while herding the stars into a globular cl.u.s.ter in the middle. It seems that his old fingers have difficulty picking up the wee bits, for he raises his hand to his mouth once or twice and licks his fingertips, like a scholar who is having difficulty getting traction on a page. Everyone is watching this closely, though Daniel's mind is a bit distracted still because of that business with Isaac. He turns his head thataway, and notes that the Lord Privy Seal has ventured out of the side chamber where he and all of the great big-wigs are supposed to be awaiting the verdict of the Jury. His lordship has got it into his head that he is going to say h.e.l.lo to Sir Isaac, and turns that way purposefully. But Catherine has read his mind, has tracked his doddering progress, giving him the evil eye the whole way. He's too blind or careless to notice. She steps into his path. Daniel averts his gaze, not wishing to see the Catastrophe of Manners that's in the offing.

"Pray, my lord, do not not, I beg you," cries Catherine Barton from the corner of the room. All heads turn that way except for that of Daniel, who is just turning round the other way.

Mr. Threader glances up over his half-gla.s.ses, reaches down, and puts the tip of his long finger on a star. When he withdraws his hand, it's gone-the star has been snuffed out. But another one tumbles to the cloth in its place. This he seizes between thumb and index finger, picks up, and drops upon the little mound that he's making in the middle. He brings his fingertips to his mouth again to lick them, and Daniel sees a fleck of gold come away on the tip of his tongue and disappear, he supposes, right down Mr. Threader's epiglottis. Then Mr. Threader rubs his hands together as if they're chilly-which they probably are. He favors Daniel with a wink.

The crisis in the corner has been sorted out somehow; heads are turning back toward the Pesour. He stands there motionless, hands at his sides, as if he has not moved a muscle during this little contretemps contretemps. "Sir Isaac is grown so reclusive of late, one can't but wonder what it is he's trying to hide from us!" Mr. Threader remarks, in a clearly audible aside to one of the Goldsmiths. "I daresay all his secrets shall be discovered in a few minutes' time; he can hide from Lord Privy Seal but not from this this." Nodding at the furnace.

Daniel is by and large a great stifler of urges and hider of feelings; but he knows that this is a cue. "You dog dog!" he exclaims, and takes half a step forward, reaching around himself, groping for the ridiculous sword he's hung on himself for the occasion, and half yanking it from its scabbard. In that moment every face in the room turns toward him. Mr. Threader snuffs out another star, lets another one fall from between his fingers, and reloads.

"Dr. Waterhouse," he says, mumbling a bit, probably because he is in the act of swallowing a bit of a guinea, "my old friend! Are you feeling quite all right?"

"I am no friend of yours, yours, sir!" Daniel cries, and makes to draw the sword all the way out; but then younger and stronger hands are on his arm, and someone has moved to block his path to Mr. Threader. "I am a true friend of Sir Isaac Newton-a man so dedicated, so loyal to his King and to his craft that he has come here to-day in spite of being laid low with illness!" Daniel shoves the sword back in to its sheath, spins, and takes a few paces back into the open s.p.a.ce between the Jurors and Miss Barton. All eyes track him except for those of Mr. Threader, who is up to more conjuring. "You would do well to remember, sir, that it is your solemn duty to conduct this a.s.say justly and truly, and in spite of the enmity that your profession bears toward Sir Isaac. The Lords of the Council-" and here Daniel turns to gesture with one hand toward the door of the side chamber. The unfamiliar scabbard swings around and whacks him on the ankle, which gives him an idea-he hooks a toe over it, flails his arms, and tumbles to the floor. sir!" Daniel cries, and makes to draw the sword all the way out; but then younger and stronger hands are on his arm, and someone has moved to block his path to Mr. Threader. "I am a true friend of Sir Isaac Newton-a man so dedicated, so loyal to his King and to his craft that he has come here to-day in spite of being laid low with illness!" Daniel shoves the sword back in to its sheath, spins, and takes a few paces back into the open s.p.a.ce between the Jurors and Miss Barton. All eyes track him except for those of Mr. Threader, who is up to more conjuring. "You would do well to remember, sir, that it is your solemn duty to conduct this a.s.say justly and truly, and in spite of the enmity that your profession bears toward Sir Isaac. The Lords of the Council-" and here Daniel turns to gesture with one hand toward the door of the side chamber. The unfamiliar scabbard swings around and whacks him on the ankle, which gives him an idea-he hooks a toe over it, flails his arms, and tumbles to the floor.

It's all the Jurors can do not to laugh out loud. But soon enough they are struck dumb by two very different, yet equally mesmerizing sights: first of all Catherine Barton rushing forward and bending down to a.s.sist Daniel, so that everyone's able to stare down her bodice. Second, the Duke of Marlborough striding in from the next room in high dudgeon.

"What in the name of-" he begins, then stops, lost in contemplation of Miss Barton's cleavage.

" 'Tis nothing, my lord, if you please, a momentary flaring of warm feelings, as when a log bursts on a hearth, and sparks fly," says Mr. Threader. "The only sparks that matter to us are these." He gestures with both hands at the pile of golden bits he has made on the cloth. "If, as I hope, Dr. Waterhouse's exertions have left him quite uninjured, then I shall weigh out twelve grains of these."

"I am...fine," Daniel announces. "Thank you, Miss Barton," he says, for she's just hauled him to his feet, and is spanking the dust from him. "I am sorry," he concludes. "Pray continue, Mr. Threader."

Working now with a pair of tweezers, Mr. Threader moves granules of gold one by one from the pile of snips to one of the pans of his great Scale. On the opposite pan he places a twelve-grain weight from the set that was stored in the Abbey. After a minute the scale-pans begin to move. The Pesour goes into a protracted and tedious work of swapping larger bits for smaller ones, or sometimes snipping a bit in half to make change, as it were.

Finally Mr. Threader steps back from the table, hands upraised like a priest's. "I say," he intones, "that on the pan of yonder scale is a sample of metal fairly chosen from the coins in the Pyx, weighing twelve grains exactly; and I invite the Fusour to a.s.say it."

William Ham steps up.

William has not worked as a goldsmith since he was a boy. But like his father before him he's a member in good standing of the Company. Daniel reckons that they tapped him as Fusour for a reason: he defied Sir Isaac and the King's Messengers in the Bank of England a few days ago, a.s.serting that they had no right to enter the vault and seize a deposit. They honor him for it now. This steadfast Goldsmith protected the sanct.i.ty of England's commerce by his actions in the bank, and now he'll perform a like service by challenging the produce of the Mint.

He has been at work preparing some necessaries over by the furnace. He approaches the Scale now carrying a wooden tray between his hands. On the tray are a sheet of lead, hammered out to a thin irregular disk, like a miniature pie-crust; a bullet-mold; pliers; and a cube of gray-white material rather less than an inch on a side, with a round depression in its upper surface. William Ham sets this down before the scale and tilts the scale-pan so that the twelve grains of gold-bits slide off and shower down into the center of the leaden sheet. He then folds the sheet together to imprison the gold, and wraps it up into a lumpy wad about the size of a hazelnut. He places this into one half of the bullet-mold, settles the other half over it, and squeezes the mold together with the pliers. When the packet comes out it has been rendered almost perfectly spherical: a wee globe, less like the Earth than the pitted gray Moon. He sets this into the depression in the top of the cupel-for that is the name of the cube of burnt bone ash. The sample fits into this neatly, recalling diagrams Daniel once studied in Geometry of spheres inscribed within cubes. William carries the tray over and sets it beside the furnace. A pair of tongs awaits. He uses these to pick up the cupel and thrust it into the heart of the furnace. It is dark and gray at first, but in a few moments it begins to absorb and then to give back some of the radiance in which it's immersed. The lead softens and sags. William Ham consults his watch. A dome of surface tension forms in the cupel as its contents become liquid. The gray ash darkens as the molten metals saturate it.