Free Longitude by Dava Sobel Page A

30th, the commissioners of the Board of Longitude convened for the very first time—twenty-three years after the board was created—citing his marvelous machine as the occasion.
    Harrison presented himself and H-1 to the eight commissioners who sat in judgment of his work. He recognized several friendly faces among them. In addition to Dr. Halley, already a booster, he saw Sir Charles of the Admiralty, who had written the letter of concern on the eve of H-1’s maiden voyage, urging that Harrison get a fair shake. And there was Admiral Norris, head of the fleet at Lisbon, who had given Harrison his sailing orders. The two academics in attendance, Dr. Robert Smith, the Plumian Professor of Astronomy at Cambridge, and Dr. James Bradley, the Savilian Professor of Astronomy at Oxford, also supported Harrison, as both of them had signed their names to the letter of endorsement that Graham wrote on behalf of the Royal Society. Dr. Smith even shared Harrison’s interest in music and had his own odd views on the musical scale. Sir Hans Sloane, president of the Royal Society, rounded out the scientific representation at the meeting. The other two board members, unknown to Harrison, were the Right Honorable Arthur Onslow, speaker of the House of Commons, and Lord Monson, commissioner of Lands and Plantations, who reflected the board’s political clout.
    Harrison had everything to gain. He stood there with his prized possession, before a group of professionals and politicians predisposed to be proud of what he’d done for king and country. He had every right to demand a West Indies trial, to prove H-1 deserving of the £20,000 promised in the Longitude Act. But he was too much of a perfectionist to do it.
    Instead, Harrison pointed out the foibles of H-1. He was the only person in the room to say anything at all critical of the sea clock, which had not erred more than a few seconds in twenty-four hours to or from Lisbon on the trial run. Still, Harrison said it showed some “defects” that he wanted to correct. He conceded he needed to do a bit more tinkering with the mechanism. He could also make the clock a lot smaller, he thought. With another two years’ work, if the board could see its way clear to advancing him some funds for further development, he could produce another timekeeper. An even better timekeeper. And then he would come back to the board and request an official trial on a voyage to the West Indies. But not now.
    The board gave its stamp of approval to an offer it couldn’t refuse. As for the £500 Harrison wanted as seed money, the board promised to pay half of it as soon as possible. Harrison could claim the other half once he had turned over the finished product to a ship’s captain of the Royal Navy, ready for a road test. At that point, according to the agreement recorded in the minutes of the meeting, Harrison would either accompany the new timekeeper to the West Indies himself, or appoint “some proper Person” to go in his stead. (Perhaps the commissioners had heard tell of Harrison’s seasickness and were already making allowances for him.)
    One last provision completed the compact. Upon the return of the second timekeeper from its trial at sea, Harrison would surrender it, along with the first sea clock, “for the Use of the Public.”
    A better businessman might have balked at this point. Indeed, Harrison could have argued that while the board was entitled to the second machine, as thanks for its subsidy, it had no claim to the first, which he had built at his own expense. But, rather than quibble over rights of ownership, he took the board’s proprietary interest as a positive incentive. He inferred that he was in their employ now, like an artist commissioned to create a great work for the throne, and so would be royally rewarded.
    Harrison wrote this assumption prominently, a bit pompously, on the face of the second timekeeper when he finished it. Above the austere, unornamented dial of H-2 is