Timeline - Michael Crichton [169]
Turning to the second cannon, he carefully poured his finely ground gunpowder into a sack, which he stuffed into the cannon mouth. Then he said, “André, the sand, please.” Marek came forward and set the basin of sand at the Professor’s feet.
“What is that sand for?” Oliver asked.
“A precaution, my Lord, against error.” Johnston picked up a second metal arrow, handling it gingerly, holding it only at each end and gently inserting it into the cannon. The tip of the arrow was grooved, the grooves filled with thick brown acrid paste.
“This is my powder, and my arrow.”
The gunner handed the Professor a thin stick of wood, glowing red at one end. Johnston touched the first cannon.
There was a modest explosion: a puff of black smoke, and the arrow flew onto the field, landing a hundred yards short of the nearest trebuchet.
“Now my powder, and my arrow.”
The Professor touched the second cannon.
There was a loud explosion and a blast of dense smoke. The arrow landed alongside a trebuchet, missing it by ten feet. It lay in the grass.
Oliver snorted. “Is that all? You will forgive me if I have—”
Just then, the arrow burst into a circle of fire, spitting blobs of flame in all directions. The trebuchet immediately caught fire, and men on the field ran forward, carrying the horses’ water bags to put it out.
“I see . . .,” Lord Oliver said.
But water seemed to spread the fire, not quench it. With each new dousing, the flames leapt higher. The men stepped back, confused. In the end, they watched helplessly as the trebuchet burned before them. In a few moments, it was a mass of charred, smoking timbers.
“By God, Edward and Saint George,” Oliver said.
Johnston gave a small bow, smiled.
“You have twice the range and an arrow that alights itself—how?”
“The powder is ground fine and so explodes more fiercely. The arrows are filled with oil, sulfur and quicklime, mixed with tow. Touching any water makes them catch fire—here it’s the dampness of the grass. That is why I have a basin of sand, should the slightest bit of the mixture be upon my fingers and start to burn from the moisture of my hands. It is a most delicate weapon, my Lord, and delicate to handle.”
He turned to the third basin, near Marek.
“Now, my Lord,” Johnston said, picking up a wooden stick, “I pray you observe what follows.” He dipped the stick into the third bowl, coating the tip with the oily, foul-smelling mixture. He held the stick in the air. “As you see, there is no change. And there shall be no change for hours, or days, until . . .” With the theatricality of a magician, he splashed the stick with a small cup of water.
The stick made a hissing sound, began to smoke, and then burst into flames as the Professor held it. The flame was a hot-orange color.
“Ah,” Oliver said, sighing with pleasure. “I must have a quantity of this. How many men do you require to grind and make your substance?”
“My Lord, twenty will do. Fifty is better.”
“You shall have fifty, or more as you will,” Oliver said, rubbing his hands. “How quickly can you make it?”
“The preparation is not lengthy, my Lord,” Johnston said, “but it cannot be done in haste, for it is dangerous work. And once made, the substance is a hazard within your castle, for Arnaut is certain to attack you with flaming devices.”
Oliver snorted. “I care nothing for that, Magister. Make it now, and I shall put it to use this very night.”
:
Back in the arsenal, Marek watched as Johnston arranged the soldiers in rows of ten, with a grinding bowl in front of each man. Johnston walked down the rows, pausing now and again to give instructions. The soldiers were grumbling about what they called “kitchen work,” but Johnston told them that these were, in his words, the herbs of war.
It was several minutes later when the Professor came over to sit in the corner with him. Watching the soldiers