The Baroque Cycle: Quicksilver, the Confusion, and the System of the World (7 page)

“It’s not mysterious to
me.
”

“Since then, it’s been toiling at the Mint, and working up new versions of old books, and vomiting flames at Leibniz.”

“And you are advising me to emulate
that
?”

“I am advising you to put down the file, pack up your cards, step back from the workbench, and consider the future of the revolution.”

“What revolution can you possibly be talking about? There was the Glorious one back in ’88, and people are nattering on about throwing one here, but…”

“Don’t be disingenuous, Daniel. You speak and think in a language that did not exist when you and Sir Isaac entered Trinity.”

“Fine, fine. If you want to call it a revolution, I won’t quibble.”

“That revolution is turning on itself now. The calculus dispute is becoming a schism between the natural philosophers of the Continent and those of Great Britain. The British have far more to lose. Already there’s a reluctance to use Leibniz’s techniques—which are now more advanced, since he actually bothered to disseminate his ideas. Your difficulties in starting the Massachusetts Bay Colony Institute of Technologickal Arts are a symptom of the same ailment. So do not lurk on the fringes of civilization trifling with cards and cranks, Dr. Waterhouse. Return to the core, look at first causes, heal the central wound. If you can accomplish that, why, then, by the time your son is of an age to become a student, the Institute will no longer be a log cabin sinking into the mire, but a campus of domed pavilions and many-chambered laboratories along the banks of the River Charles, where the most ingenious youth of America will convene to study and refine the art of automatic computation!”

Dr. Waterhouse is favoring him with a look of bleak pity usually directed toward uncles too far gone to know they are incontinent. “Or at least I might catch a fever and die three days from now and provide Faith and Godfrey with a comfortable pension.”

“There’s that added inducement.”

T
O BE A
E
UROPEAN
C
HRISTIAN
(the rest of the world might be forgiven for thinking) was to build ships and sail them to any and all coasts not already a-bristle with cannons, make landfall at river’s mouth, kiss the dirt, plant a cross or a flag, scare the hell out of any
indigenes with a musketry demo’, and—having come so far, and suffered and risked so much—unpack a shallow basin and scoop up some muck from the river-bottom. Whirled about, the basin became a vortex, shrouded in murk for a few moments as the silt rose into the current like dust from a cyclone. But as that was blown away by the river’s current, the shape of the vortex was revealed. In its middle was an eye of dirt that slowly disintegrated from the outside in as lighter granules were shouldered to the outside and cast off. Left in the middle was a huddle of nodes, heavier than all the rest. Blue eyes from far away attended to these, for sometimes they were shiny and yellow.

Now, ‘twere easy to call such men stupid (not even broaching the subjects of greedy, violent, arrogant,
et cetera
), for there was something wilfully idiotic in going to an unknown country, ignoring its people, their languages, art, its beasts and butterflies, flowers, herbs, trees, ruins,
et cetera,
and reducing it all to a few lumps of heavy matter in the center of a dish. Yet as Daniel, in the tavern, tries to rake together his early memories of Trinity and of Cambridge, he’s chagrined to find that a like process has been going on within his skull for half a century.

The impressions he received in those years had been as infinitely various as what confronted a Conquistador when he dragged his longboat up onto an uncharted shore.
Bewilderment,
in its ancient and literal sense of being cast away in a trackless wild, was the lot of the explorer, and it well described Daniel’s state of mind during his first years at Trinity. The analogy was not all that far-fetched, for Daniel had matriculated just after the Restoration, and found himself among young men of the Quality who’d spent most of their lives in Paris. Their clothing struck Daniel’s eye much as the gorgeous plumage of tropical birds would a black-robed Jesuit, and their rapiers and daggers were no less fatal than the fangs and talons of jungle predators. Being a pensive chap, he had, on the very first day, begun trying to make sense of it—to get to the bottom of things, like the explorer who turns his back on orang-utans and orchids to jam his pan into the mud of a creek bed. Naught but swirling murk had been the result.

In years since he has rarely gone back to those old memories. As he does now, in the tavern near Harvard College, he’s startled to find that the muddy whirl has been swept away. The mental pan has been churning for fifty years, sorting the dirt and sand to the periphery and throwing it off. Most of the memories are simply gone. All that remain are a few wee nuggets. It’s not plain to Daniel
why
these
impressions have stayed, while others, which seemed as or more important to him at the time they happened, have gone away. But if the gold-panning similitude is faithful, it means that these memories matter more than the ones that have flown. For gold stays in the pan’s center because of its density; it has more matter (whatever that means) in a given extent than anything else.

The crowd in Charing Cross, the sword falling silently on the neck of Charles I: this is his first nugget. Then there’s nothing until some months later when the Waterhouses and their old family friends the Bolstroods went on a sort of holiday in the country to demolish a cathedral.

Nugget: In silhouette against a cathedral’s rose window, a bent, black wraith lumbering, his two arms a pendulum, a severed marble saint’s head swinging in them. This was Drake Waterhouse, Daniel’s father, about sixty years old.

Nugget: The stone head in flight, turning to look back in surprise at Drake. The gorgeous fabric of the window drawn inwards, like the skin on a kettle of soup when you poke a spoon through it—the glass falling away, the transcendent vision of the window converted to a disk of plain old blue-green English hillside beneath a silver sky. This was the English Civil War.

Nugget: A short but stout man, having done with battering down the gilded fence that Archbishop Laud had built around the altar, dropping his sledgehammer and falling into an epileptic fit on the Lord’s Table. This was Gregory Bolstrood, about fifty years old at the time. He was a preacher. He called himself an Independent. His tendency to throw fits had led to rumors that he barked like a dog during his three-hour sermons, and so the sect he’d founded, and Drake had funded, had come to be known as the Barkers.

Nugget: A younger Barker smiting the cathedral’s organ with an iron rod—stately pipes being felled like trees, polished boxwood keys skittering across the marble floor. This was Knott Bolstrood, the son of Gregory, in his prime.

B
UT THESE ARE ALL FROM
his early childhood, before he’d learned to read and think. After that his young life had been well-ordered and (he’s surprised to see in retrospect) interesting. Adventurous, even. Drake was a trader. After Cromwell had won and the Civil War ended, he and young Daniel traveled all over England during the 1650s buying the local produce low, then shipping it to Holland where it could be sold high. Despite much of the trade being
illegal (for Drake held it as a religious conviction that the State had no business imposing on him with taxes and tariffs, and considered smuggling not just a good idea but a sacred observance), it was all orderly enough. Daniel’s memories of that time—to the extent he still has any—are as prim and simple as a morality play penned by Puritans. It was not until the Restoration, and his going off to Trinity, that all became confused again, and he entered into a kind of second toddlerhood.

Nugget: The night before Daniel rode up to Cambridge to begin his four-year Cram Session for the End of the World, he slept in his father’s house on the outskirts of London. The bed was a rectangle of stout beams, a piece of canvas stretched across the middle by a zigzag of hairy ropes, a sack of straw tossed on, and half a dozen Dissenting preachers snoring into one another’s feet. Royalty was back, England had a King, who was called Charles II, and that King had courtiers. One of them, John Com-stock, had drawn up an Act of Uniformity, and the King had signed it—with one stroke of the quill making all Independent ministers into unemployed heretics. Of course they had all converged on Drake’s house. Sir Roger L’Estrange, the Surveyor of the Press, came every few days and raided the place, on the suspicion that all those idle Phanatiques must be grinding out handbills in the cellar.

Wilkins—who for a brief while had been Master of Trinity—had secured Daniel a place there. Daniel had phant’sied that he should be Wilkins’s student, his protégé. But before Daniel could matriculate, the Restoration had forced Wilkins out. Wilkins had retired to London to serve as the minister of the Church of St. Lawrence Jewry and, in his spare time, to launch the Royal Society. It was a lesson for Daniel in just how enormously a plan could go awry. For Daniel had been living in London, and could have spent as much time as he pleased with Wilkins, and gone to all the meetings of the Royal Society, and learnt everything he might have cared to know of Natural Philosophy simply by walking across town. Instead he went up to Trinity a few months after Wilkins had left it behind forever.

Nugget: On the ride up to Cambridge he passed by roadside saints whose noses and ears had been hammered off years ago by enraged Puritans. Each one of them, therefore, bore a marked resemblance to Drake. It seemed to him that each one turned its head to watch him ride past.

Nugget: A wench with paint on her face, squealing as she fell
backwards onto Daniel’s bed at Trinity College. Daniel getting an erection. This was the Restoration.

The woman’s weight on his legs suddenly doubled as a boy half her age, embedded in a flouncing spray of French lace, fell on top of her. This was Upnor.

Nugget: A jeweled duelling-sword clattering as its owner dropped to hands and knees and washed the floor with a bubbling fan of vomit. “Eehhr,” he groaned, rising up to a kneeling position and letting his head loll back on his lace collar. Candle-light shone in his face: a bad portrait of the King of England. This was the Duke of Monmouth.

Nugget: A sizar with a mop and a bucket, trying to clean up the room—Monmouth and Upnor and Jeffreys and all of the other fellow-commoners calling for beer, sending him scurrying down to the cellar. This was Roger Comstock. Related, distantly, to the John Comstock who’d written the Act of Uniformity. But from a branch of the family that was at odds with John’s. Hence his base status at Trinity.

Daniel had his own bed at Trinity, and yet he could not sleep. Sharing the great bed in Drake’s house with smelly Phanatiques, or sleeping in common beds of inns while traveling round England with his father, Daniel had enjoyed great unbroken slabs of black, dreamless sleep. But when he went off to University he suddenly found himself sharing his room, and even his bed, with young men who were too drunk to stand up and too dangerous to argue with. His nights were fractured into shards. Vivid, exhausting dreams came through the cracks in between, like vapors escaping from a crazed vessel.

His first coherent memory of the place begins on a night like that.

College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity, Cambridge

1661

S
OME SORT OF COMMOTION
in the courtyard below. Not the usual revels, or else he wouldn’t have bothered to hear it.

Daniel got out of bed and found himself alone in the chamber. The voices below sounded angry. He went to the window. The tail of Ursa Major was like the hand of a cœlestial clock, and Daniel had been studying how to read it. The time was probably around three in the morning.

Beneath him several figures swam in murky pools of lanthorn-light. One of them was dressed as men always had been, in Daniel’s experience, until very recently: a black coat and black breeches with no decorations. But the others were flounced and feathered like rare birds.

The one in black seemed to be defending the door from the others. Until recently, everyone at Cambridge had looked like him, and the University had been allowed to exist only because a godly nation required divines who were fluent in Greek and Latin and Hebrew. He was barring the door because the men in lace and velvet and silk were trying to bring a wench in with them. And hardly for the first time! But this man, apparently, had seen one wench too many, and resolved to make a stand.

A scarlet boy flourished in the midst of the lanthorn-light—a writhing bouquet of tassles and flounces. His arms were crossed over his body. He drew them apart with a sharp ringing noise. A rod of silver light had appeared in each of his hands—a long one in his right, a short one in his left. He drew into a crouch. His companions were all shouting; Daniel could not make out the words, but the feelings expressed were a welter of fear and joy. The black-clad fellow drew out a sword of his own, something dull and clanging, a heavier spadroon, and the scarlet boy came at him like a boiling cloud, with lightning darting out of the center. He fought as animals fight, with movements too quick for the eye to follow, and the man in black fought as men fight, with hesitations and second thoughts. He had a great many holes in him very soon, and was reduced to a heap of somber, bloody clothing on the green grass of the courtyard, shifting and rocking, trying to find a position that was not excruciatingly painful.

All of the Cavaliers ran away. The Duke of Monmouth picked the wench up over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carried her off at a dead run. The scarlet boy tarried long enough to plant a boot on the dying man’s shoulder, turn him over onto his back, and spit something into his face.

All round the courtyard, shutters began to slam closed.

Daniel threw a coat over himself, pulled on a pair of boots, got a lanthorn of his own lit, and hurried downstairs. But it was too late for hurrying—the body was already gone. The blood looked like tar on the grass. Daniel followed one dribble to the next, across the green, out the back of the college, and onto the Backs—the boggy floodplain of the river Cam, which wandered around in back of the University. The wind had come up a bit, making noise in the trees that nearly obscured the splash. A less eager witness than Daniel could have claimed he’d heard nothing, and it would have been no lie.

He stopped then, because his mind had finally come awake, and he was afraid. He was out in the middle of an empty fen, following a dead man toward a dark river, and the wind was trying to blow out his lanthorn.

A pair of naked men appeared in the light, and Daniel screamed.

One of the men was tall, and had the most beautiful eyes Daniel had ever seen in a man’s face; they were like the eyes of a painting of the Pieta that Drake had once flung onto a bonfire. He looked towards Daniel as if to say,
Who dares scream?

The other man was shorter, and he reacted by cringing. Daniel
finally recognized him as Roger Comstock, the sizar. “Who’s that?” this one asked. “My lord?” he guessed.

“No man’s lord,” Daniel said. “It is I. Daniel Waterhouse.”

“It’s Comstock and Jeffreys. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?” Both of the men were naked and soaked, their long hair draggling and seeping on their shoulders. Yet even Comstock seemed at ease compared to Daniel, who was dry, clothed, and equipped with a lanthorn.

“I might ask the same of you. Where are your clothes?”

Jeffreys now stepped forward. Comstock knew to shut up.

“We doffed our clothing when we swam the river,” Jeffreys said, as if this should be perfectly obvious.

Comstock saw the hole in that story as quickly as Daniel did, and hastily plugged it: “When we emerged, we found that we had drifted for some distance downstream, and were unable to find them again in the darkness.”

“Why did you swim the river?”

“We were in hot pursuit of that ruffian.”

“Ruffian!?”

The outburst caused a narrowing of the beautiful eyes. A look of mild disgust appeared on Jeffreys’s face. But Roger Comstock was not above continuing with the conversation: “Yes! Some Phanatique—a Puritan, or possibly a Barker—he challenged my Lord Upnor in the courtyard just now! You must not have seen it.”

“I did see it.”

“Ah.” Jeffreys turned sideways, caught his dripping penis between two fingers, and urinated tremendously onto the ground. He was staring toward the College. “The window of your and My Lord Monmouth’s chamber is awkwardly located—you must have leaned out of it?”

“Perhaps I leaned out a bit.”

“Otherwise, how could you have seen the men duelling?”

“Would you call it duelling, or murdering?”

Once again, Jeffreys appeared to be overcome with queasiness at the fact that he was having a conversation of any sort with the likes of Daniel. Comstock put on a convincing display of mock astonishment. “Are you claiming to have witnessed a murder?”

Daniel was too taken aback to answer. Jeffreys continued to jet urine onto the ground; he had produced a great steaming patch of it already, as if he intended to cover his nakedness with a cloud. He furrowed his brow and asked, “Murder, you say. So a man has died?”

“I…I should suppose so,” Daniel stammered.

“Hmmm…
supposing
is a
dangerous
practice, when you are supposing that an Earl has committed a capital crime. Perhaps you’d better show the dead body to the Justice of the Peace, and allow the coroner to establish a cause of death.”

“The body is gone.”

“You say
body
. Wouldn’t it be
correct
to say,
wounded man
?”

“Well…I did not personally verify that the heart had stopped, if that is what you mean.”

“Wounded man would be the
correct
term, then. To me, he seemed very much a
wounded
man, and not a
dead
one, when Com-stock and I were pursuing him across the Backs.”

“Unquestionably not dead,” Comstock agreed.

“But I saw him lying there—”

“From your window?” Jeffreys asked, finally done pissing.

“Yes.”

“But you are not looking out your window
now,
are you, Waterhouse?”

“Obviously not.”

“Thank you for telling me what is
obvious.
Did you leap out of your window, or did you walk down stairs?”

“Down stairs, of course!”

“Can you see the courtyard from the staircase?”

“No.”

“So as you descended the stairs, you lost sight of the wounded man.”

“Naturally.”

“You really haven’t the faintest idea, do you, Waterhouse, of what happened in the courtyard during the interval when you were coming down stairs?”

“No, but—”

“And despite this ignorance—ignorance utter, black, and entire—you presume to accuse an Earl, and personal friend of the King, of having committed—what was it again?”

“I believe he said
murder,
sir,” Comstock put in helpfully.

“Very well. Let us go and wake up the Justice of the Peace,” Jeffreys said. On his way past Waterhouse he snatched the lanthorn, and then began marching back towards the College. Comstock followed him, giggling.

First Jeffreys had to get himself dried off, and to summon his own sizar to dress his hair and get his clothes on—a gentleman could not go and visit the Justice of the Peace in a disheveled state. Meanwhile Daniel had to sit in his chamber with Comstock, who bustled about and cleaned the place with more diligence than he
had ever shown before. Since Daniel was not in a talkative mood, Roger Comstock filled in the silences. “Louis Anglesey, Earl of Upnor—pushes a sword like a demon, doesn’t he? You’d never guess he’s only fourteen! It’s because he and Monmouth and all that lot spent the Interregnum in Paris, taking their pushing-lessons at the Academy of Monsieur du Plessis, near the Palais Cardinal. They learned a very French conception of honor there, and haven’t quite adjusted to England yet—they’ll challenge a man to a duel at the slightest offence—real or phant’sied. Oh, now, don’t look so stricken, Mr. Waterhouse—remember that if that fellow he was duelling with is found, and is found to be dead, and his injuries found to be the cause of his death, and those injuries are found to’ve been inflicted by My Lord Upnor, and not in a duel
per se
but in an unprovoked assault, and if a jury can be persuaded to overlook the faults in your account—in a word, if he is successfully prosecuted for this hypothetical murder—then you won’t have to worry about it! After all, if he’s guilty, then he can’t very well claim you’ve dishonored him with the accusation, can he? Nice and tidy, Mr. Waterhouse. Some of his friends might be quite angry with you, I’ll admit—oh, no, Mr. Waterhouse, I didn’t mean it in the way you think.
I
am not your enemy—remember, I am of the Golden, not the Silver, Comstocks.”

It was not the first time he’d said something like this. Daniel knew that the Comstocks were a grotesquely large and complicated family, who had begun popping up in minor roles as far back as the reign of King Richard Lionheart, and he gathered that this Silver/Golden dichotomy was some kind of feud between different branches of the clan. Roger Comstock wanted to impress on Daniel that he had nothing in common, other than a name, with John Comstock: the aging gunpowder magnate and arch-Royalist, and now Lord Chancellor, who had been the author of the recent Declaration of Uniformity—the act that had filled Drake’s house with jobless Ranters, Barkers, Quakers,
et cetera
. “Your people,” Daniel said, “the Golden Comstocks, as you dub them—pray, what are they?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“High Church?” Meaning Anglicans of the Archbishop Laud school, who according to Drake and his ilk were really no different from Papists—and Drake believed that the Pope was literally the Antichrist. “Low Church?” Meaning Anglicans of a more Calvinist bent, nationalistic, suspicious of priests in fancy clothes. “Independents?” Meaning ones who’d severed all ties with the Established Church, and made up their own churches as it suited them. Daniel
did not venture any further down the continuum, for he had already shot well beyond Roger Comstock’s limits as a theologian.

Roger threw up his hands and said merely, “Because of the unpleasantness with the Silver branch, recent generations of the Golden Comstocks have spent rather a lot of time in the Dutch Republic.”

To Daniel, the Dutch Republic meant God-fearing places like Leiden, where the pilgrims had sojourned before going to Massachusetts. But it presently came clear that Roger was talking about Amsterdam. “There are all sorts of churches in Amsterdam. Cheek by jowl. Strange as it must sound, this habit has quite worn off on us over the years.”

“Meaning what? That you’ve become used to preserving your faith despite being surrounded by heretics?”

“No. Rather, it’s as if I’ve got an Amsterdam inside of my head.”

“A
what
!?”

“Many different sects and faiths that are always arguing with one another. A Babel of religious disputation that never dies down. I have got used to it.”

“You believe
nothing
!?”

Further debate—if listening to Roger’s ramblings could be considered such—was cut off by the arrival of Monmouth, who strolled in looking offensively relaxed. Roger Comstock had to make a fuss over him for a while—jacking his boots off, letting his hair down, getting him undressed. Comstock supplied entertainment by telling the tale of chasing the killer Puritan across the Backs and into the River Cam. The more the Duke heard of this story, the more he liked it, and the more he loved Roger Comstock. And yet Com-stock made so many ingratiating references to Waterhouse that Daniel began to feel that he was still part of the same merry crew; and Monmouth even directed one or two kindly winks at him.

Finally Jeffreys arrived in a freshly blocked wig, fur-lined cape, purple silk doublet, and fringed breeches, a ruby-handled rapier dangling alongside one leg, and fantastical boots turned down at the tops so far that they nearly brushed the ground. Looking, therefore, twice as old and ten times as rich as Daniel, even though he was a year younger and probably broke. He led the faltering Daniel and the implacably cheerful Comstock down the staircase—pausing there for a while to reflect upon the total impossibility of anyone’s seeing the courtyard from it—and across Trinity’s great lawn and out the gate into the streets of Cambridge, where water-filled wheel-ruts, reflecting the light of dawn, looked like torpid, fluorescent snakes. In a few minutes they reached the house of the
Justice of the Peace, and were informed that he was at church. Jeffreys therefore led them to an alehouse, where he was soon engulfed in wenches. He caused drink and food to be brought out. Daniel sat and watched him tear into a great bloody haunch of beef whilst downing two pints of ale and four small glasses of the Irish drink known as Usquebaugh. None of it had any effect on Jeffreys; he was one of those who could become staggeringly drunk and yet only wax quieter and calmer.