The Devil's Acre (33 page)

The first of Sam’s two pieces of solid-gold luck arrived as unexpectedly and as beautifully as a balloon loaded with bullion just drifting on down into the factory yard. He’d been up in the office with Mr Lowry – by pure chance, really, as these days he was far more usually away giving chase to military men through the clubs of London – dictating letters to his sales agents in Liège, Brussels and Aix-la-Chapelle, and anyone else he could think of that might be of use to him on mainland Europe. The secretary was recording his words with prompt precision (his penmanship remained first-rate, it had to be admitted), but despite Sam’s urgings this once-promising junior had no thoughts of his own to offer.

‘Come on, Mr Lowry, where might be right for us? The Belgians are reluctant, damn ‘em, but what about the Frenchies? They’re sure to pile in to this bust-up with Russia, ain’t they? I took tea with their emperor a couple of years back, y’know; funny little bastard he was, but he liked my guns well enough. Let’s fire off a dispatch to him. Might as well start at the top! What d’you say?’

The Englishman merely shifted and nodded, not even looking up from the page before him. Sam grew seriously impatient, eventually asking straight out if he didn’t see the importance of growing the company in Europe – of spinning out a web of international contacts and preferential trade channels. Still he got nothing more than a pat response.
The gun-maker began to wonder if the boy was about to attempt a back-stab like Stickney and those other traitorous Yankees, and would have to be slung out in the same manner.

Then one of the new men burst in, the acting foreman Sam thought it was, and in rather disbelieving tones reported the arrival of royalty. All three of them went directly to the circular window. A procession of the very grandest broughams, each one an oily black with an elaborate coat-of-arms emblazoned on its doors, was rolling in through the Ponsonby Street gate.

‘Good Lord, Colonel,’ said Mr Lowry, ‘that’s the Prince Consort.’

Sam stared back at him blankly.

‘Prince Albert. The Queen’s husband.’

A minute later Sam was down in the yard, raising his hat to this august personage as he stepped out into the rather miserable English afternoon. The prince was a fine enough specimen, tall and well-covered in Sam’s own mould, albeit with rather sloping shoulders. Smartly attired in the solemn manner favoured by the British nobility, he had a high forehead, a modest moustache and a lofty, slow, undemonstrative air. Sam perceived nothing in him of the divine mandate that was supposed to rest with these European monarchs; a Queen’s consort he might be, but he certainly seemed to have no natural superiority over any freeborn citizen of America. He kept these thoughts well hidden.

They stood facing each other as the rest of Albert’s party disembarked, the soldiers of the royal bodyguard exchanging appraising glares with Mr Noone and his men. Then, in a thick German accent, the prince apologised for making such a visit unannounced, and expressed an ardent wish for what he termed an ‘ocular demonstration of the Colt manufacturing process’. Sam assented at once, looking around for Alfie Richards and ordering the acting foreman to ready the works for inspection.

Thus began a rather stiff circuit of the factory. Sam’s most humorous observations met only with polite, baffled smiles; but Albert wanted to see everything, every stage, scrutinising the machines in a manner that suggested more than a passing
interest in engineering. On the machine floor he held a freshly bored barrel up to the light, marvelling at the perfect spiral of the rifle grooves as if he looked upon the most splendorous of God’s orchids.

The tour ended in the testing range just off the proving room. Prince Albert was no marksman, it had to be said; he shot like an unlettered labourer trying to write down his name, great concentration leading only to a laughable result. The best possible noises were made afterwards, however, gratitude, admiration and so on. Biting back his fighting Yankee spirit, Sam even managed an awkward little bow as he handed over a boxed pair of presentation Navys, making himself think of the headlines. He was striding towards Richards before the royal carriage was out of the gates.

The press agent was smoking with the secretary, over by the warehouse. Richards had been kept busy of late, writing up the military visits for the armaments press and then monitoring the reaction to them. This suited him well; it kept him out of trouble, for the most part. Next to the secretary he still had something of a vagabond air, but his eyes were alert.

‘Your friend Pam again,’ he said as Sam approached, pointing towards the final carriage with his cigar as it pulled away towards Westminster. ‘That was due to his influence, I’ll wager, just like all those blessed soldiers.’

Sam frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

‘It is indirect, but he’s surely the cause.’ Richards smirked at Lowry; they’d been talking about this while the prince had been in the firing range. ‘Word is that Albert was pressing for Lord Palmerston’s removal from the cabinet, shortly before our dear Home Secretary decided to excuse himself at the end of last year. Some observers have asserted that Albert’s distaste for Pam was due to the fact that the Consort, God save him, is a member of the House of Coburg – and a kinsman to Tsar Nicholas.’

The gun-maker considered this. ‘So the prince wanted to be rid of the only member of this spineless government who’ll stand up to the goddamn Russians.’

The press agent nodded. ‘That’s what was claimed. But it came to naught, of course. Pam has returned, more powerful and popular than ever, and poor, clumsy Albert is left trying to correct the impression that he is secretly on the side of our foes. Taking an interest in one of brave Lord Palmerston’s pet causes – Colonel Colt’s magnificent revolver factory – is surely a good way to do this, especially as he knows that we will do all we can to publicise his visit.’ He blew gently on the tip of his cigar. ‘Quite canny, really, for such a dull dog as the Consort.’

Sam reflected on this for a moment. It seemed that Lawrence Street had been right. His connection with that strange minister was bringing results. ‘Write it up, Alfie,’ he ordered. ‘This’ll hit the trade like a six-pound ball.’

The second piece of luck, the real stunner, arrived only a few days later, reaching Sam as he lounged against the marble counter of the sales office on Spring Gardens. He was being regaled by Mr Dennett, his London sales agent – a mostly redundant position, in truth, with Sam himself in the city. Mr Lowry stood over at the display cases, studying a fan of old Dragoons, while Dennett, a rather odious little reptile, told Sam at quite unnecessary length of the increase in individual sales that had been brought about by the prince’s visit to the factory.

‘Up five hundred per cent, Colonel, no word of a lie,’ he said. ‘Why, I can hardly refill my stock room fast enough!’

Then, thankfully, a liveried messenger had walked in and handed Sam a note on Board of Ordnance paper. It informed him in a smart clerical hand that he was wanted at his earliest convenience for a private discussion with Sir Thomas Hastings, Storekeeper of the Ordnance. The gun-maker set off immediately, instructing Mr Lowry to remain in Spring Gardens. Pall Mall was barely a hundred yards from the sales office, so he decided to chance the mud and make the journey on foot. Something told him that this was going to be good.

How very different was the Board of Ordnance from his last visit! The desk-clerk met him with respectful civility, waving over a footman to escort him to his destination; in
the corridors people stepped aside humbly, as if in recognition of his importance; and upon arrival at the Storekeeper’s door he was admitted at once, without a moment’s shilly-shally or delay. Old Tom Hastings rose to greet him with a tumbler of spirits and a toothy smile, gesturing towards a pair of chairs set before his fire, ready for a two-man conference. After some brief pleasantries he got to the point.

‘My dear Colonel Colt,’ he began, drumming his fingers on the side of his glass, ‘you must have realised that Great Britain is preparing for war.’

Sam’s heart sang; it bellowed with animal glee; it jumped up on the table and beat its chest like a goddamn gorilla. His hopes for that factory by the river were to be realised. ‘I have, Tom,’ he replied gravely.

‘And you must also know that the focus of this preparation, at this early stage, has been our navy. They are at the front line, as things currently stand – out patrolling in the Black Sea after that terrible massacre at Sinope. And a second naval front is expected to open up in the Baltic before very long.’

‘Christ Almighty, Tom,’ Sam said, nodding. ‘I know this.’

‘Tests have been conducted,’ Hastings went on, ‘comparing your revolvers with those of Mr Adams. I am delighted to tell you, Colonel, that they went in your favour. Yours have been deemed the pistols most suited to naval use.’

Sam couldn’t help it; he laughed, driving his right fist hard into his left palm.
‘Damn
you, Bob Adams!’ he cried. ‘How about that!’

Old Hastings permitted himself a small guffaw as well, and the gravity between them dissipated entirely. His party in the Ordnance Office had carried the day, it seemed, defeating Clarence Paget and the Adams faction. Sam’s weapons, named in honour of a navy, would be used to outfit the fighting ships of the most powerful navy in the world. They drank down their drinks and negotiated the British government’s first ever purchase of repeating arms: four thousand Colt Navy revolvers for the Baltic fleet, to be delivered inside a month. Hastings looked a little uncertain as he named these figures, as if he feared he might be asking the impossible.

Sam, however, was nonchalant. ‘Get me my price, Tom,
and you shall have ‘em. I told you my works was quick, didn’t I? That number is nothing to us.’

They made a promise to set it all down in writing and shared an earnest handshake; and then Sam was on his way, heading back to the factory to deliver the news to his staff. He was sure that they would take the prospect of having to turn out four thousand pistols in a month with the professional coolness he demanded of them. There had already been some discussion about starting up a proper night shift. Perhaps the time had come to set this in motion.

The Colt carriage was waiting on the Mall, sent from the sales office by Mr Lowry. Sam told the driver to take him to Pimlico and climbed inside. Sitting down with a sigh, he put his boots up on the opposite seat and cut himself a generous plug of Old Red. Had Palmerston got him this contract as well as everything else? Was it due to the attention all those high-profile tours had won him? Or just the result of his weapons’ undeniable superiority of design and manufacture? It really didn’t matter. He chewed hard on the tobacco, lifted up high on a great fiery wave of exhilaration. It felt as if his beard was curling up into barbs; his fists were cast iron; his belly a great sea-barrel, steel-ribbed and strong.

‘This is it, by thunder,’ he said aloud, as the carriage started along Pall Mall. ‘My rightful due has arrived at last.’

Yet it seemed that even the sweetest English apple had to have its bitter core; Christ, a goddamn hornet buried in its flesh. Less than a week afterwards, before the glow of triumph had faded, some kind of summons arrived at Sam’s rooms on Piccadilly. He was being called as a witness by a Select Committee appointed by the House of Commons to investigate ‘the efficacy and viability of the various small arms currently available in Great Britain’. The gun-maker realised at once that this had come about as a direct result of his contract to supply the Baltic fleet. He knew what was happening here. His opponents were panicking, and sought to slow his progress by whatever means they could.

‘Damn it all,’ he growled as he rode to Parliament, ‘why
can’t we just do business? Why does everything in this country have to be talked out so
endlessly?’

Mr Lowry was with him, brought along to manage the factory papers and supply any necessary facts while Sam was giving his evidence. ‘A Select Committee hearing proves that the Government are taking this matter seriously, at least,’ he offered. ‘It might be a prelude to more contracts.’

Sam shot him a contemptuous look. ‘Horseshit. The sons of bitches want to hobble me, Mr Lowry. They want to stop me getting any more military money – to slam the door in my Yankee face. Just you watch.’

The unfinished Palace of Westminster was a daily sight for Sam, and he’d long ceased to pay it much attention. It had never particularly impressed him. Although massive, it was actually pretty uninteresting beneath the cathedral-style frosting, in his estimation – just a series of rectangular boxes arranged in a line along the riverbank. Stalking in through a looming, pointed archway, he was unsurprised to discover that the churchy theme continued inside, with patterned carvings, vaulted ceilings and unfathomable wall-paintings of fellows in suits of armour and ladies in odd pointy hats. What did it say about a country, he thought, when it chose to house its politicians – who were roguish dogs, like every politician the world over – in a building done up to resemble an ancient place of Christian worship? Were these scheming villains being equated with clergymen, or monks perhaps? Was it imagined that the practice of their dark arts somehow brought them closer to the Almighty? It almost made Sam laugh.

They were directed to a room at the back of the place, past the main chambers, overlooking the putrid Thames. The river’s reek was just detectable through the thick smell of polish that hung about, giving a hint of something foul beneath all the newness. The committee room was decorated with emerald green paper, heavy crimson curtains and mahogany tables, a scheme of indigestible opulence. As Sam had suspected, he was to be the star turn, the centrepiece – the reason that the whole goddamn circus had been brought together. A couple of others spoke before him, but no one
took much notice; the forty-strong audience were soon whispering among themselves and a good number wandered out. When Sam Colt was called, however, every man was back in his chair, quiet and attentive.