Exactly. Simon Winchester

a conventional long-case clock. They are instead brass bar balances that look like a pair of dumbbells, both placed vertically on the outer edges of the mechanism and its wheel trains, and connected at their tops and bottoms by pairs of springs, which provide the mechanism with a form of artificial gravity, as Harrison wrote. These springs allow the two balance beams to swing back and forth, back and forth, nodding toward and away from each other endlessly (provided that the white-gloved curator, successor on land to the ship’s master at sea, winds the mechanism daily) as the clock ticks on.

      H1, H2, and H3, each clock a subtle improvement upon its predecessor, each the work of years of patient experimentation—H3 took Harrison fully nineteen years to build—employ essentially the same bar balance principle, and when they are working, they are machines of an astonishing, hypnotic beauty and seemingly bewildering complexity. Many of the improvements that this former carpenter and viola player, bell tuner and choirmaster—for eighteenth-century polymaths were polymaths indeed—included in each have gone on to become essential components of modern precision machinery: Harrison created the encaged roller bearing, for example, which became the predecessor to the ball bearing and led to the founding of huge modern corporations such as Timken and SKF. And the bimetallic strip, invented solely by Harrison in an attempt to compensate for changes in temperature in his H3 timekeeper, is still employed in scores of mundane essentials: in thermostats, toasters, electric kettles, and their like.

      As it happened, none of these three fantastical contraptions, however beautiful in appearance and revolutionary in design they may have been, turned out to be a success. Each was taken to a ship and used by the crew as timekeeper, and each time, though the timekeeper offered an improvement on surmising the ships’ various positions, the accuracy of the vessel’s clock-derived longitude was wildly at variance from what the Board of Longitude demanded—and so no prize was awarded. Harrison’s genius and determination were recognized, though, and hefty grants continued to come his way in the hope that he would, in time, make a horological breakthrough. And this he did, at last, when between the four years from 1755 until 1759 he made not another clock, but a watch, a watch that has been known, since it was cleaned and restored in the 1930s, simply as H4.^*

      The watch was a technical triumph in every sense. After thirty-one years of near-obsessive work, Harrison managed to squeeze almost all the improvements he had engineered in his large pendulum clocks into this single five-inch silver case, and add some others, to make certain that his timekeeper was as close to chronological infallibility as was humanly possible.

      In place of the oscillating beam balances that made the magic madness of his large clocks so spectacular to see, he substituted a temperature-controlled spiral mainspring, together with a fast-beating balance wheel that spun back and forth at the hitherto unprecedented rate of some eighteen thousand times an hour. He also had an automatic remontoir, so-called, which rewound the mainspring eight times a minute, keeping the tension constant, the beats unvarying. There was a downside, though: this watch needed oiling, and so, in an effort to reduce friction and keep the needed application of oil to a minimum, Harrison introduced, where possible, bearings made of diamond, one of the early instances of a jeweled escapement.

      It remains a mystery just how, without the use of precision machine tools—the development of which will be central to the story that follows—Harrison was able to accomplish all this. Certainly, all those who have made copies of H4 and its successor, K1 (which was used on all Captain James Cook’s voyages), have had to use machine tools to fashion the more delicate parts of the watches: the notion that such work could possibly be done by the hand of a sixty-six-year-old John Harrison still beggars belief.

      Once his task was completed, he handed the finished watch over to the Admiralty for its crucial test. The instrument (in the care of Harrison’s son William, who acted as its chaperone) was taken aboard the HMS Deptford, a fifty-gun fourth-rate ship of the line, and sent out on a five-thousand-mile voyage from Portsmouth to Jamaica.^* Careful observation at the end of the trip showed the watch to have accumulated a timekeeping error of only 5.1 seconds, well within the limits of the longitude prize. Over the entire 147 days of a voyage that involved a complex and unsettling stormy return journey (in which William Harrison had to swaddle the timekeeper in blankets), the watch error was just 1 minute 54.5 seconds, a level of accuracy never imagined for a seaborne timekeeping instrument.

      And while it would be agreeable to report that John Harrison then won the prize for his marvelous creation, much has been made of the fact that he did not. The Board of Longitude prevaricated for years, the Astronomer Royal of the day declaring that a much better way of determining longitude, known as the lunar distance method, was being perfected, and that there was therefore no need for sea clocks to be made. Poor John Harrison, therefore, had to visit King George III (a great admirer, as it happens) to ask him to intercede on his behalf.

      A series of humiliations followed. H4 was forced to be tested once again, and recorded an error of 39.2 seconds over a forty-seven-day voyage—once again, well within the limits set by the Board of Longitude. Harrison then had to dismantle the watch in front of a panel of observers and hand his precious instrument to the Royal Observatory for a ten-month running trial to check (once again, but this time on a stable site) its accuracy. It was torturous and vexing for the now-elderly Harrison, who at seventy-nine was becoming increasingly and understandably embittered by the whole procedure.

      Finally, and thanks in large part to King George’s intervention, Harrison did get almost all his money. The popular memory of him, though, is of a genius hard done by, and his great clocks and the two sea watches, H4 and K1, remain the most potent memorials, three of them beating out the time steadily and ceaselessly as a reminder of how their maker, with his devotion to precision and accuracy in his craft work, helped so profoundly to change the world.

      THE ANTIKYTHERA MECHANISM, then, was a device remarkable and precise in its making and aspect, but its inaccuracy and understandably amateurish construction rendered it unreliable and, in practical terms, well-nigh useless. John Harrison’s timekeepers, though, were both precise and accurate, but given that they took years to make and perfect, and were the result of hugely costly craftsmanship, it would be idle to declare them either as candidates or as the fountainhead for true and world-changing precision. Also, though intending no disrespect to an indelible technical achievement, it is worth noting that John Harrison’s clockworks enjoyed perhaps only three centuries’ worth of practical usefulness. Nowadays, the brassbound chronometer in a ship’s chart room, just like the sextant kept in its watertight morocco box, is a thing more decorative than essential. Time signals of impeccable accuracy now come across the radio. The digital readout of longitude and latitude coordinates come to a ship’s bridge from a Global Positioning System’s (GPS) interrogation of faraway satellites. Clockwork machines, however beautifully their gears may be cut and enclosed in casings, however precious and intricately engraved, are a creation of yesterday’s technology, and are retained nowadays by and large for their precautionary value only: if the seagoing vessel loses all power, or if the master is a purist with a disdain for technology, then John Harrison’s works have real practical worth. Otherwise, his clocks gather dust and salt, or are kept in glass cases, and his name will begin to slip gradually astern, to vanish inevitably and soon in a sea fret of history, way stations at the beginning of the voyage.

      For precision to be a phenomenon that would entirely alter human society, as it undeniably has done and will do for the foreseeable future, it has to be expressed in a form that is duplicable; it has to be possible for the same precise artifact to be made again and again with comparative ease and at a reasonable frequency and cost. Any true and knowledgeable craftsman (just like John Harrison) may be able, if equipped with sufficient skill, ample time, and tools and material of quality, to make one thing of elegance and evident precision. He may even make three or four or five of the same thing. And all will be beautiful, and most will inspire awe.

      Large cabinets in museums devoted to the history of science (most notably at Oxford and Cambridge and Yale) are today filled with such objects. There are astrolabes and orreries, armillary spheres and astraria, octants and quadrants, and formidably elaborate sextants, both mural and framed, which are to be seen in particular abundance, most of them utterly exquisite, intricate, and assembled with a jeweler’s care.

      At