The Devil's Acre (13 page)

‘I’ve killed that there cocksucker,’ he told them, completely calm, ‘and by God I’ll do you three as well if you don’t tell me pretty damn quick who sent you against Sam Colt.’

‘B-Bob Adams!’ blurted one immediately, panic-stricken. ‘Mercy, sir, do not murder me! I am but nineteen, sir! It were Bob Adams!’

Noone paused, considering this piece of information. ‘Know that from this point on, anything you pitch at Colt will come back at you Adams boys double. This dumb bastard here will be just the goddamn start of it.’ He looked away. ‘Let ‘em go.’

The Adams men were released, and given a couple of kicks apiece. They made their escape as quickly as they could. Martin saw one stumble in the mud at the square’s edge, lose his cap, and not even bend to pick it up after he’d righted himself. Noone’s face showed no emotion: lines deepened by the lamplight, the eye lost in shadow and mouth set in an expression of unreflecting, unflinching sternness, it looked like the profile of an ancient carving.

Slattery approached him, tugged down his mask and
started to offer advice on the disposal of the body in a gruff, comradely manner. ‘Grosvenor Canal’s the best place in this part o’ town,’ he said. ‘If we weight him properly, he’ll find his way out into the river without once breaking the surface – and then he’s lost to all men.’

Listening to his brother say these things, staring at the corpse sprawled in the mud, Martin felt a sickening sense of shame. They had abetted in an unjust killing. Molly Maguire had no love for those who did such things. This was why she was staying away – why she would neither move among them nor make so much as a single sound. From where he was standing, he could see something of the dead man’s face. The poor fellow had been young, not much older than his nineteen-year-old companion. His neck and brow were pocked with furnace burns.

Noone didn’t react to Slattery’s advice. Instead, he took the lantern from whoever was holding it and swivelled the thing around so that Slattery and a couple of the other Mollys, Joe and Owen it looked like, were lit up by its beam. Martin tensed. There was another purpose to this mission.

‘So you see what happens,’ the watchman said, in the same disconcertingly level tone he’d used on the Adams men, ‘to them that cross Colonel Colt.’

The Molly Maguires had been played for fools. Noone knew exactly what they were about – and he’d brought them out to this deserted square for a confrontation. Martin counted the dark shapes around the lantern. There were three other Yankees beside Noone, all doubtlessly armed with six-shooters. A half-dozen Mollys would pose no problem for them.

‘Did you think I’d let you Papist motherfuckers steal from us? Did you honestly think it would be that goddamn
easy?’

Slattery was squinting in the bull’s-eye’s light, squaring up his shoulders, seemingly unworried by this sudden reversal. ‘Papist, is it?’ he said with menacing lightness. ‘You got sump’n to say about the Holy Father there, have ye?’

The lantern moved nearer. When Noone spoke his voice was different, lower yet buckling with violence. ‘Let me tell you about that miserable cunt you call a
Holy Father,’
he
spat. ‘I was born near Donegal. That’s right, you dumb micks – I was Irish. We were forced to leave our home after a gang of Catholics, devoted followers of your blasted Pope, strung up my father on the public highway. His
crime,
as you people had the sheer goddamn nerve to describe it, was only to be an organiser of the local Orangemen. I was but five years old. We cursed Ireland, my mother and me, we sailed across the Atlantic Ocean without a backward glance, and we became Americans.’ There was a clicking sound: the cocking of a revolver. Martin went cold. ‘I am an
American,
damn you, and a Colt man. You Papist sons of whores can go fuck yourselves.’

Slattery was shaking his head, laughing softly. The Mollys knew what this meant. They seized hold of him just as he launched himself towards the watchman, wrestling him back, and managed to march him from the square. The Yankees followed them with the lantern’s beam, but did not open fire; a couple sniggered. Shivering with fury, Slattery twisted halfway around and started to shout something. Just in time, Martin clamped a hand over his mouth, and he fought hard to keep it there.

Gage Stickney was waiting for them at the forge doors when they arrived to start their shift six hours later. As they started across the yard he ambled forward, raising up a palm as broad as a spade-head. Behind him, two of the Americans from the square were leaning against the wall of the factory building, smoking cheroots. Both had Navy revolvers hanging from their belts.

‘Stop there,’ commanded Stickney, ‘and turn your grimy mick asses back around. As of right now you’re no longer in the employ of Colonel Colt. You ain’t allowed in here no more.’

The hulking foreman delivered this news with a smirk, taking a bully’s pleasure in using his authority to squash those beneath him, but it came as no surprise to the Mollys. After being denounced by Noone, the Irishmen had slunk back into the Devil’s Acre. Settling in their regular bolt-hole, Brian O’Dowd’s Holy Lamb off Orchard Street, they’d sunk
a few flasks of poteen and made an honest assessment of the situation. Although they hadn’t actually stolen anything yet, and Noone had no proof of any wrongdoing, it was plain that his suspicion was enough; that he despised the Catholic Irish and would surely see them ejected from the works. The plan, as it had stood, was finished. At the break of day, however, they’d risen from the table as one, all knowing exactly what they were going to do. It was not the Molly Maguires’ way to hand their foes victory. If Noone wanted to expel them from the Colt factory, they would go there and have him do it. They’d filed from the tavern, passing old Brian snoring behind the bar, and joined the early morning tide of costermongers, labourers, beggars and pickpockets that was gushing over the mouldy stones of Westminster into the neighbouring quarters of the city.

Slattery had stayed uncharacteristically quiet since his confrontation with the watchman, keeping out of the conversation in the Holy Lamb, concentrating on his drink. Now, though, at the sight of Stickney standing in his path, he seemed to come back to himself. ‘Why has this been done?’ he demanded, taking two more steps forward. ‘What reason is given?’

They faced each other for a few seconds, Pat Slattery and this great giant of a foreman, like a bandy little monkey before a ragged brown bear. Then Stickney cast a glance back at the gunmen, who duly prised themselves from the wall and tossed their cheroots onto the cobbles.

‘There ain’t no union here, pal,’ he said wearily. ‘You ain’t going to receive no letter of goddamn explanation from the Colt Company. Just get yourself gone, or we’ll fetch the police and have you arrested.’

At this Slattery snorted in disgust, sidestepped the foreman and strode into the centre of the yard.
‘Noone!’
he bellowed, wheeling around, glaring at the long rows of windows as if his enemy lurked behind each and every one. ‘Noone, ye Orange
bastard,
there’ll be a reckoning for this! D’ye hear me? We’ll find you, and we’ll –’

The two armed Yankees were advancing on him now, hands going to the revolvers on their belts. Martin looked
to the other Mollys. There was no noble battle to be fought here. Slattery would have to be reined in once again. Jack made it over to him first, wrapping him in his arms; and the rest of them were there a moment later, smothering his threats, lifting him up and manhandling him towards the gates. Only when they were out on Ponsonby Street, facing the crawling sludge of the river and the dull chimneys that covered its southern bank, did they let him go. Losing his balance, he dropped to the ground, swearing harshly. Martin looked back towards the factory building. The Yankees still had their weapons drawn but had not followed them. They were safe.

‘Should’ve guessed that this would occur,’ growled Slattery from down on the pavement. ‘It’s well known that the Catholic Irishmen who have fled to America since the Hunger are treated little better than their Negro slaves.’ He climbed to his feet, shaking a sheet of piss-soaked newspaper from his jacket and gesturing contemptuously towards the pistol works. ‘What is this place, anyhow, but a stock-house for our tyrants? That bastard Colonel is here to court the
British Crown,
ain’t he, no matter how many failed bleedin’ revolutionaries he parades about. Damn him, damn ‘em all!’

‘Mart,’ said Jack, dusting his hands together, ‘I do believe somebody’s calling out for you.’

It was Mr Quill, drawn from the engine room by the commotion outside. He was waving at the Irishmen with his good arm as he hobbled slowly in their direction.

‘This is a chance.’ Jack’s black eyes were fixed on Martin. ‘Go on over.’

Martin looked out at the river. A decent-sized part of him was actually glad that the plan had been ruined and they’d all been thrown from the factory – that the lies and deception could be brought to an end. ‘I cannot, Jack. Not alone.’

‘We still need those guns, Mart. We need them to balance off some of the evil what’s been done to us.’ Jack’s voice was growing insistent. ‘Think of Molly Maguire. Think of what she’s endured.’

What could Martin say to this? Their oath had been invoked. He flexed his injured wrist; then he turned away
from his brothers and started across the yard, hiding his reluctance as best he could. One of Noone’s men shouted at him, but Mr Quill bade the fellow be silent and let his assistant approach. As Martin came closer, he saw that the chief engineer’s round, bruised face wore an expression of complete bewilderment.

‘What goddamn nonsense is this, Mart?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been dismissed for trying to
steal gun parts?’

Martin shook his head as if a grave misunderstanding had taken place. ‘Here’s the truth of it, Mr Quill.’ He spoke confidentially, as if imparting a sensitive secret. ‘We did a piece of work with Mr Noone at his request, late last night – fist-work, sir, if ye catch my meaning. It came out that my friends and I are Roman Catholics, a religion that Mr Noone despises, being as his family is Protestant Irish, and Orange Order to boot. These are old, bloody differences back in Ireland. This is why he wants us run out of the factory.’

Mr Quill had his own doubts about Noone and readily accepted Martin’s story. ‘Come on, Mart,’ he said, ‘let’s get us back to the engine. We’ve a devil of a lot still to do. These tales are hogwash, plain and simple. There’s nothing I can do for your pals, I’m afraid, but you’ll not lose your place over this.’

Stickney tried to stop them. ‘That there’s a goddamn
thief,
Ben. Will you bring a known thief back under the Colonel’s roof?’

‘This fellow,’ Mr Quill replied, pointing at Martin, ‘has the beginnings of a fine Colt engineer, and I need him to ensure the smooth running of the engine. He’s as much a thief, Gage, as you are yourself.’ Stickney frowned and opened his mouth to reply, but the engineer would not hear him. ‘I’ll go to the Colonel himself if I must. I’ll not see Martin Rea crushed on some moon-struck whim of Mr Noone’s.’

Stickney backed down. It seemed that Martin was saved, for the moment at least. As he made to follow his protector inside the factory, mumbling his thanks, he glanced over at the other Mollys. They were wandering away along the riverbank, back towards the Acre. Slattery and Jack were lingering a little behind the others, watching his progress, and touched
the brims of their caps to bid him farewell. Martin was alone within the Yankee pistol works. The task before him had become many times more difficult. Noone and Stickney would be on him like a pair of hungry beagles eyeing a cornered rabbit, kept from lunging in only by fear of the master’s stick. His brothers, Slattery in particular, would surely be expecting great results. He tried to blink away the hot itch of his tired eyes, but without success. What the devil had he taken on?

Something dark seemed to flit over him; the shadow of a large gull perhaps, flying low before the watery April sun. Martin looked up, shielding his brow. At one of the factory’s first-floor windows, peering out between reflections of powdery clouds, was the face of his wife – his dear, sweet Amy, whom he had not seen for almost three days straight. He smiled, not understanding why she was up there but lifting his hand to wave nonetheless; and saw that it was not Amy at all but her sister Caroline, regarding him with unfriendly curiosity. She was seated at her drill, her fair hair tied up beneath a headscarf, lodged securely in the very heart of Colonel Colt’s operation. No one is paying any special attention to
her,
he thought. She could get hold of every pistol part up on the machine floor. If she could be made to help –

And then Molly Maguire’s voice filled Martin’s ears once more, rushing upon him like thick surf surging across an empty beach. It was the voice of both a fresh young girl and the most ancient woman you could imagine; a voice that had known unbearable pain and maddening anger, and would not let those who had wronged her live on in peace. Following his gaze up to Caroline’s window, she hissed out a decisive
yes.

Mr Lowry was sat in the middle of the tavern table. Caroline’s friends from the machine floor, mostly girls of twenty or thereabouts, were crowded around him, interrogating him with some enthusiasm. She herself stayed at the table’s end, on the fringes of his little audience, trying to look like she wasn’t paying him much notice.

He had come to them straight from Colonel Colt’s side, and was still dressed for splendid dining halls and government houses. He could not have stood out more among the custom of the Spread Eagle had he burst into flames. Caroline liked this. It would have bothered her had he made an attempt to adopt the costume of ordinary folk, as if he felt that he could blend into their company for an evening simply by donning their garments; this tactic, often employed by gentlemen out for adventure in the poorer parts of the city, smacked of trickery to her. He’d approached their table fearlessly enough, ignoring the surly stares of gas-workers and masons, and had taken his place among them without awkwardness. Caroline’s friends had all heard about how he’d walked her home, and had seen the two of them talking together during Mr Kossuth’s visit to the factory. They’d welcomed the secretary warmly, keen to examine him.

Their first concern was his origins.

‘Is this a proper
gentleman
we have here, Maisie? He has the look, don’t he, and the fancy togs too.’

‘Aye, there’s a silver spoon in that there gob and no mistake. What is it, sir? Family fallen on hard times, has it – forced you to do an honest day’s work?’

‘Ooh, they’re the worst, ain’t they? Lapsed quality is idle as bedamned, every last one of ‘em!’

Mr Lowry’s laugh was very slightly strained. ‘I must protest that I’m no such thing. I’m but the only son of a penniless schoolmaster, sent out into the world to make his living like every man and woman in this tavern. My own endeavours alone have brought me to the Colt Company.’

This met with general approval. ‘’Scuse me, sir,’ mumbled Maisie, ‘for what I said just then. I always been a pepperer, girls, ain’t I?’

‘Swipey old cow, more like.’

Caroline joined in the mirth that greeted this remark, thinking that the secretary was not so far above her after all. She’d known servants, scullery maids and footmen whose relatives had found employment as schoolmasters. A broader discussion of education began, a couple of veterans of the ragged schools making bitter speeches on the uselessness of lessons to working people and the cruelty common among those charged with imparting them. Mr Lowry sat through this with steady patience. Despite the favour he’d found with the Yankee Colonel, it had to be said that he’d given himself no airs. A pot of ale was fetched for him, and the conversation moved on to the exact nature of his place in the gun works.

‘So you’re ‘is clerk,’ said Nancy, the girl who sat opposite Caroline.

Mr Lowry considered this. ‘In a manner of speaking, miss, I suppose I am. Although the Colonel does not like letting anyone at all near the factory’s account books. He will employ no notaries, on point of principle. There are significant parts of the Colt business that are known to him alone.’

‘What does he have you do, then?’

‘I run errands. I write a great deal of letters. I offer counsel, at times, on matters of business. I ride with him in his carriage.’

‘Ooh, I seen it!’ Nancy shrilled, forgetting that everyone
had – that it was often parked in the middle of the factory yard for hours at a time. ‘A right spanker, that one!’

The secretary smiled. ‘And perhaps most importantly of all, I attempt to smooth down the many fine feathers he ruffles with his curt Yankee ways.’

He went on to tell them something of their Colonel’s misadventures out in Society; of how, when invited to dine in the grandest houses, he deliberately addressed nobles and gentlefolk by the wrong titles, used the wrong cutlery and glasses, argued fiercely over matters of foreign policy (his oft-expressed view seeming to be that war should be pursued in every circumstance) and dismissed those unfamiliar with revolving pistols and the armament trade as if they were nothing but dismal idiots. The operatives laughed hard at all this, tickled to hear of such open displays of scorn for their betters. They raised their pots and glasses, toasting the Colonel’s boldness and honesty of spirit. Caroline found that she was smiling as well, but at the speedy ease with which her smart secretary had won over her companions rather than at his stories.

Before long, their drinks were finished. The group dissolved, a number of them heading for the bar after a chaotic exchange of instructions and coins. As if by accident, a path cleared between Caroline and Mr Lowry. She could feel the other girls swapping glances – could hear the creak of the bench as he rose from it and joined her at the table’s end. Knocking back the last of her gin, she kept her eyes on the ale-pots that dotted the tabletop like stout tin chimneys.

‘You took your time, sir,’ she said. ‘Three weeks, has it been? I’d all but lost hope.’

‘It is a busy period, Miss Knox, as I told you,’ he replied as he settled upon a stool. ‘The first London gun is almost made, and –’

‘Oh I know, Mr Lowry,’ Caroline interrupted, ‘believe me I do. Lord above, we talk nothing else up on the machine floor! Honestly, sir, the pride we’ll all feel when that day comes will be quite
enormous.’

He sighed. ‘You are mocking me again.’

Caroline turned to him, all innocence. ‘There is no mockery in me, Mr Lowry, not an ounce. You are rather out of your element here in the Eagle, and feeling a little vulnerable, I daresay. The truth is that we are very glad to see you here.’

Amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth. ‘We, miss?’

She shrugged, pleased by his meaning but deliberately ignoring it. ‘It says something, don’t it, you coming down here to the riverside and talking with us. Takes a brave soul to pay a call to the Spread Eagle in a blessed frock-coat, that’s for sure.’

He hesitated for a second. ‘You know that I would endure a good deal more than a labourers’ tavern for the chance to sit by your side.’

Caroline let out a loud laugh, banging down her empty glass. ‘Dear Lord, sir, are you trying to spin a humble factory girl’s head?’ She leaned in a little closer to study his face. He meant what he’d said. A warm, woozy fondness flooded into her, and she knew that there was now a distinct possibility that she might have to take this fellow off for a solitary walk before the evening was out; a walk that might well involve a kiss or two.

‘Mr Lowry,’ she murmured, ‘would you be so good as to fetch me another gin?’

He went immediately, smiling broadly, and returned a few moments later with a drink for each of them.

They had perhaps another three minutes together before a finger tapped her shoulder. It was Billy, one of the pot-boys. ‘Someone out back for you, Caro. Says she’s your sister.’

This was unexpected. Caroline had never known Amy to venture this far west, not at this time of day – and certainly not to visit a tavern. ‘Why don’t she just come inside, then?’ she asked.

‘She wouldn’t,’ Billy answered. ‘She’s upset – tears an’ that.’

Caroline got to her feet without another word, leaving a rather dismayed Mr Lowry with Nancy and the rest and making for the door. It was Martin again, she was sure of
it. He’d done something awful. Imagining a host of grievous wrongs, she stormed out into the tavern’s yard, ready to tear the name of her thoughtless brother-in-law into tiny bloody pieces. Amy, however, was nowhere to be seen. Caroline peered down the Eagle’s narrow alley. Half a dozen men were sharing a ribald joke as they directed hard streams of piss against the bricks; a girl she knew from the machine floor had slipped over while squatting drunkenly nearby, and now shouted out slurred curses as urine and filth saturated her petticoats.

Her temper cooling and perplexity setting in, Caroline looked around more carefully. There was a flash off to the left, from the Equitable Gas-Works, produced by the strange, ceaseless labours underway within; for an instant a sheet of white light was thrown across the row of gigantic cylindrical tanks that loomed behind its walls. She walked around to Pulford Street, heading ten or fifteen yards up it, but there was no sign of a woman with two infants. Had there been a mistake? Had she and her sister missed each other?

Just as she was about to turn around, she heard something; her name, it sounded like, whispered in a begging tone. It had come from the mouth of George Street, a slimy lane that served as little more than a drainage channel for the terrace behind which it ran, and yet was also a popular spot for whores on account of being entirely unlit. As Caroline approached, there was some shuffling and moaning further along; followed by a male oath, a hoarse scream and the sound of someone being struck repeatedly. She stopped, startled, and was on the verge of bolting when her sister came forward suddenly from the shadows and took hold of her wrist.

Caroline barely managed to stop herself from crying out. ‘Heavens, Amy!’ she gasped. ‘You scared me half to death, girl! I thought you was a pouncey, come to cut off me nose!’ Her relief quickly switched back to anger. Shaking off Amy’s hand, she grasped her sister by the elbow and led her back to Pulford Street, not stopping until they were almost at the Eagle, with the oily river glinting before them. ‘What are you doing out here, you bloody fool? You looking to get
yourself grabbed – done in?’ She held Amy out at arm’s length. Her sister was dressed in a cotton bonnet and shawl, and she was quite alone. ‘Where’s Katie? Little Michael?’

Amy swallowed, her eyes shining beneath the street-lights; she’d been weeping, as Billy the pot-boy had reported. ‘With Mart. At – at home.’

‘With
Mart?
By my soul, has somebody died?’ Caroline almost laughed, but the desolate cast of her sister’s features checked her.

‘It’s nearly as bad, Caro,’ Amy replied, leaning weakly against a wall. ‘Oh, it’s nearly as bad!’

‘For God’s sake, girl, what is it?’

Amy struggled just to say the word; it finally burst from her lips like a stopper from a holed dam, releasing a great cascade of anguish behind it.
‘Debt.’
Her hands closed over her face, her shoulders heaving with fresh sobs.

This wasn’t, in truth, that much of a surprise. ‘Who’s it with?’ Caroline asked stonily.

Amy looked up at her, a cloudy tear gathering on the end of her chin and then dripping down to the pavement. ‘Some cove back in the Acre. An Irishman named Dickson – a landlord. He’s deadly serious, Caro. There’s talk of – of Mart and me going to the workhouse, and the children to a – a –’ She jerked over as if punched in the stomach, quite speechless with fear.

‘How did this happen?’ Caroline was unable to keep the exasperation from her voice. ‘You’ve always been so bloody
careful,
Amy, keeping up with those damn flowers – and Mart’s always worked, ain’t he? Colt’s paying him well?’

Her sister shook her head. ‘This is old,’ she muttered. ‘Goes back to Ireland. Something awful and mysterious – they won’t say what, exactly. There’s interest, Caro, hundreds and hundreds of pounds. And they’re all marked for it, Mart and all his pals – Jack Coffee, Thady Rourke, Owen McConnell,’ here she paused, drawing in a shuddering breath, ‘Pat Slattery…all of ‘em. They was planning to save up the wages they was getting from the American so they could begin to pay it off. But the Yankee bastard has had them thrown out.’

Caroline sighed; they’d been over this before. ‘They was stealing, Amy,’ she said bluntly. ‘It’s said that Mr Noone and his watchman caught them red-handed. It’s a bloody wonder Mart didn’t go as well.’

This incident, the talk of the factory for the better part of a week, had lifted a great weight from Caroline’s mind. Slattery and his followers had been thieving: it had been as simple as that. Martin, although saved somehow from dismissal, was now isolated, and must surely abandon their little scheme. Caroline had hoped that his wage, and his family’s well-being, might now become his main concern.

Amy wouldn’t have this, of course. Her loyalty to her husband, tested by difficult circumstances, was growing firmer by the day. ‘They went, Caro, because Noone nurses a deep hatred of Catholic Irishmen. And I’d wager that filthy demon would be very pleased to learn of the bind we’re all in now.’

A timber barge cruised by, its bell clanging and blue night-lights shining, making a late delivery to Cubitt’s building yard. Caroline watched it pass. ‘You should leave the Acre, then – leave London. Take your husband and the little ones and go back to Aylesbury. No Irish moneylender would think to follow you there.’

‘We left no one behind us, Caro, no one at all. Who would I go to? This city is the only home I have now – and you are my only true friend.’

Caroline knew then that she was about to be asked for her help; that Amy was going to make the troubles of Martin and his friends her troubles as well. ‘What d’you want from me, Amy? I’ve told you what you should do. I ain’t got no money. My wage at Colt ain’t a fraction of what your Martin receives.’

Amy wiped her eyes on her shawl. ‘The guns,’ she said simply, ‘from the factory. They’re worth a fair bit.’

Caroline stared at her sister, feeling almost as if she was choking. ‘You mean…you mean you want
me
to turn thief too?’

‘Mart says you’re well placed to get all the different parts
– a lot better than he is. And they’re watching him now. He can’t be seen doing anything strange.’

‘Do you have any notion what I’d be risking, Amy, just to save Mart? Why, the Yankees would see me jailed!’

‘Not for Mart,’ Amy corrected her. ‘I’m asking you for Katie and Michael. Please, Caro – for the little ones. If this debt ain’t paid they’ll be given over to the Parish and they’ll never escape. You’ve seen how it goes. There’s something about those places that sticks to you – that can’t be got off.’ Thinking of this made her well up once more; but she pressed on, determined to state her case. ‘Your Colonel’s set to make hundreds of guns, ain’t that right?’

Caroline looked away. ‘Thousands, more like.’

Amy laughed mirthlessly. ‘Well then, bless my heart, he won’t miss a few of them, will he! It’d be like taking a loaf from the bloomin’ baker!’