The Devil's Acre (34 page)

He found that he recognised a couple of the dozen committee members who were sat before him. Neither were friends of the Colt Company. There was that mimsy clown Clarence Paget, looking rather pleased with himself; and to the right of him was George Muntz, the Member for Birmingham, the fellow widely believed to have called for this committee to be set up. Mr Muntz represented a gun-making town and was known to be fiercely opposed to the British growth of Colt. It was to be a pillorying. Sam nodded to them, signalling his readiness, vowing to fight with everything he had.

Their questions came thick and fast. How many arms could he make per week? Was he planning to start adapting his machines to manufacture muskets as well as pistols? What were the exact details of his government contract? Sam kept his answers vague, giving away little about his operations in Europe or America, or his future plans. What he did say, though, and say with gusto, was that his production rates were far higher, and his prices far lower, than any other gun-maker in Europe; that his machines were so easy to operate that he could build up an effective workforce from nothing, wherever he was; that his were the only weapons with fully interchangeable parts, enabling him and
him alone
to supply an army with effective spare parts for the guns he provided.

None of the committee members could challenge these points. They scribbled down notes and swapped glances, but they couldn’t get at him. Sam perceived that there were several different agendas at play here. Some of these men were looking to pick his brains, to use his achievements as a template for a government gun works that would free them from the need to patronise private operators such as himself. Others, like Paget and Muntz, had some form of personal stake in the British weapons industry and wanted all foreign competition to be driven out. He also reckoned
that there were one or two there who opposed him on broader political grounds – Aberdeen loyalists who knew of his friendly connection with the mutinous, grandstanding Palmerston. This division of purpose prevented any form of effective assault. The gun-maker started to think that the hearing was going rather well.

Then a stocky, grey-bearded fellow at the far end of the table sat forward in his chair and asked how many guns in total Sam had manufactured since his arrival in England. His accent was Irish, and his tone rather loaded. Sam frowned, requesting his name.

‘Simon Bannan, sir,’ he replied. ‘I am a member of the Commons, but I also sit on the Board of Trade.’

Regarding this new interrogator suspiciously, Sam decided that he would remain as imprecise as possible. ‘Well, Mr Bannan,’ he said, ‘I have not made so many. Some hundreds; some thousands, p’raps.’

‘A very typical answer from you, Colonel Colt, if I may say. Which is it, sir – hundreds or thousands? And where on earth might
thousands
of London-made Colt pistols already have gone?’

Sam blustered through as before, saying that he had no figures with him, that the depths of the factory stock room held many secrets – and giving Mr Lowry a look of such ferocious authority that the secretary promptly put all the factory’s papers back in his document case and slid it beneath the table. He was not obliged to make a full disclosure and the hearing eventually moved on. Bannan was plainly unsatisfied, but acted as if some kind of revelation had nonetheless been extracted from his unwilling witness. The Honourable Member asked that it be formally noted that Colonel Colt could not say how many weapons he had made or where they might all be, and that the true number might be in the thousands.

Sam’s evidence was concluded shortly afterwards. Back in his seat, he felt oddly compromised, as if this Bannan bastard had won some kind of advantage over him – as if his close, pointed questioning had been based on prior knowledge. But what could he possibly know? And from whom
could he have heard it? These were not comfortable reflections, and the gun-maker sat rather ill-temperedly through a parade of other witnesses, all of whom were positively dying to gabble on about Sam Colt and his revolvers. He watched sails passing out on the river, hardly listening. What the devil did he care for the views of a handful of petty John Bull engineers and arms makers? They could dismiss him; they could laud him. He didn’t care.

One witness brought out late in the proceedings won back his attention completely, however. The fellow was called from the back of the room, chairs scraping aside to allow the passage of an outsized form; Sam turned to see who it was and almost leapt from his chair.
Gage Stickney!
That lumbering, traitorous oaf! What in God’s name was he doing there? Had he learnt about the hearing and volunteered? Or had one of Sam’s foes tracked him down, knowing that his testimony would surely be a kick in the guts for the Colt Company? Sam tried to stay calm, but could feel himself purpling as the scheming son of a bitch went before the committee.

If Stickney had been summoned especially to do a number on Sam Colt he didn’t disappoint. Keeping those brutish, unintelligent features directed very firmly towards his questioners, the lying rascal contradicted every one of Sam’s proud assertions about the Pimlico works. The miraculous interchangeability of Colt pistol parts was a myth, he said; those revolutionary machines, also, were largely copied from pieces at the Springfield Armory, and took far more skill to operate and maintain than the Colonel had let on.

And then Bannan was there again, coming in with one of his killer queries. ‘Mr Stickney, what would you say that the Colonel’s overall aim was, back in America?’

‘He wants to be the only maker of arms in the entire country,’ the wretch answered at once. ‘He shuts up everyone, and he keeps the whole of it himself. He has closed every establishment.’

Stickney’s implication was clear:
this is what he seeks here as well.
A disapproving rumble went around the room. Unable
to listen to any more, Sam got to his feet, departed the hearing without another word and charged back through the Palace’s echoing vestibules towards the open air. A pontoon bridge of duck-boards stretched from the doors of Parliament to the gates of the bog-like construction site that encircled it. Sam kicked one up, sending it cartwheeling away across a puddle and spraying his coat with mud.

‘Scheming
motherfucker!’
he shouted. ‘After what I gave him – the chance I gave him that he damn well
squandered
– this is what he goes and does to me!’

Those nearby, a mixture of gentlemen, police, assorted lackeys and site labourers, were all studying the gun-maker carefully. He glowered back at them, laying down a challenge that he knew none would accept. Mr Lowry arrived at his elbow, flustered after a dash across the Palace. Sam rounded on him as if he were personally responsible for what had just happened.

‘Who the devil was that Bannan character? What was he trying to do in there? One of Aberdeen’s men, is he, opposing me because I’m linked with the fellow who’s sure to take the old muddler’s place?’

Lowry said nothing, opening his document case and rifling through the papers within – none of which Sam had so much as glanced at while giving his evidence to the committee. Losing patience, he snatched the case from the secretary’s hands and cast it violently into the muck.

‘God
damn
this island!’ he barked. ‘There are far too many crowded in here, d’you know that? Too many men squabbling over too goddamn little!’

Sam stomped away over the boards, out through the gates of the site to the square beyond. He raised a hand and the yellow carriage came into view a few seconds later. The time had definitely come for a trip to mainland Europe. He was damned if he was going to beg these people for their custom, or let his operations on this side of the Atlantic remain dependent on these blockheaded Bulls. It really made a fellow wonder if doing business in this godforsaken country was worth the effort. The pace of everything was so slow; the general attitude towards any kind of success or original thinking
so goddamn grudging; the interests of those you had to deal with so tangled and corrupt. Sam started to map the journey out in his mind as he swung himself into his carriage: a train to Folkestone, a steamer to Boulogne, another train to Paris – and then onward to fresh opportunities.

The Mollys found a dark alley off Bessborough Place in which to prepare themselves. The sack that Jack had once used to carry his murphies was bulging with garments; the Irishmen started to root through it, dividing up the contents. Owen lit a match, ran it around the end of a cork and began marking up his face. They were dressing for battle.

Jack came to Martin’s side and asked if he would join with them. ‘I brought you a bonnet special,’ he said, ‘and your own bit o’ cork.’

Martin shook his head. He didn’t feel whatever it was he used to feel before they’d struck their blows back in Ireland. This wasn’t Molly’s work – or at least not the work of the Molly he’d known back then. The creature who visited him now was very different. It seemed that Martin had pleased her for the last time in the fight before the Parliament building. Since that fateful night she’d grown increasingly malign; there was no love in her any more, no guidance or protectiveness, only menace. He’d glimpsed her just a couple of hours earlier, back in the dairy, perched above the cattle stall where Amy was putting their child to bed, her long fingers working the air like the legs of insects. She had the look of a black witch, closer to the beasts than to man, ready to snatch Katie away to a lair beneath a hill so that she could feed on her innocent flesh. For a moment this vile apparition had left Martin too appalled to move; and when he made
to go over she’d leapt straight upwards, vanishing into the rafters.

The Mollys began to struggle into their outfits. This could be it, Martin thought – the end of my time with them. By morning he could be free, taking his wife and child away from London for good. It could not come fast enough. Amy had told him about her meeting with Caroline, whispering into his ear as they lay together in the straw of their stall. This was a complication that they really didn’t need. His stubborn sister-in-law wouldn’t ever give up on Amy and Katie. The longer they sat waiting in that mildewed shed, the greater the chance she’d try something – something that might queer Slattery’s plan and bring down his ire upon them all. He’d instructed Amy not to tell anyone else. The Mollys thought that no one in London knew that they were still there, readying for action, and it had to stay that way. The best thing for the Rea family would be if the plan went off exactly as intended, enabling them to flee the city before Slattery went gunning for Lord John Russell.

Of the plan itself, all Martin had been told was that they were going to break into the Colt works, presumably with the aim of stealing as many revolvers as they could carry. He reckoned that his task would most probably be to lead them to the stock room and ensure that they took everything they’d need to mount their attack. Slattery had also made it clear that he still wanted vengeance against Colt for the setbacks he’d caused – for the sound thrashing Slattery himself had received at the hands of Walter Noone, from which he’d only just properly recovered. Martin’s guess was that he’d be looking to start a fire, but burning this pile would be difficult. Colonel Colt had experience at laying out pistol works, and had taken care to arrange his premises so that any blaze would spread slowly, if at all. No gunpowder was stored on the site after hours either, so there was no chance of an explosion. Fire-carts would most probably be rattling into the yard before the flames had crept beyond a single department.

Up ahead, Slattery walked beneath a street lamp. Martin
hadn’t seen a man done up in Molly’s rags for some years now and the sight was a jarring one, bringing back memories of a truly desperate time. Amy had been made to fetch this apparel for them from the old clothes sellers on Petticoat Lane. The frocks must be black, they’d told her, and the bonnets ribboned in Irish green. Slattery’s old dress was faded and patched, with chalky sweat-rings beneath each armpit; tight to bursting across his crooked shoulders, it hung in loose folds around the hips. He turned to look back along the alley, revealing a face scored with lines of burnt cork. Heavy circles had been drawn beneath his eyes and several strokes slashed across his cheeks, making his spare, pox-scarred features seem like an animated skull – a devilish spirit returned from limbo to wreak bloody havoc among the living.

A single wave of Slattery’s hand brought the others over to him. Molly’s rags made it hard to tell one from another, as was partly their purpose. A couple had pinned paper clover-leaves to their bonnets, and Jack stood an inch or two taller than the rest, but otherwise they were identical. Half a dozen Molly Maguires were about to be loosed upon Colonel Colt.

Slattery grabbed Martin’s collar as he passed. ‘Are you ready for what needs to be done?’ he demanded.

Martin shook him off. ‘What
is
to be done? You ain’t told me yet.’

‘Molly’s work is all. You’ll know soon enough.’ Slattery fingered the frayed cuff of Martin’s jacket with mocking tenderness. ‘I’m glad you ain’t in the rags, Martin. Wouldn’t have been
right,
now would it?’

Hoisting their skirts up past their waists, the Mollys scaled the Bessborough Place gate, dropping down into the yard. Dawn was still three hours off; a single gas-lamp burned over by the warehouse. Martin climbed the gate last, and saw that Slattery was leading the way to the factory block. This was surely a mistake.

‘Slattery, ye eejit,’ he hissed at the gang of bobbing bonnets, making a wide gesture towards the warehouse, ‘the pistols are over there!’

They ignored him. Jack slid a crowbar from his sleeve and cracked open the factory door. It shuddered back, the runner-wheel catching as if it knew who it was being forced to admit. Martin followed the Mollys inside, hurrying after them through the drop-hammers of the forging shop, into the engine room. As he entered that familiar place he realised their aim. They were going to cripple the Colt engine.

Slattery lit a candle, placed it on Mr Quill’s work bench and then pulled a few old, misshapen tools out from under his dress. ‘So, Martin,’ he asked, nodding towards the still pistons, ‘tell us how best to do in this bleedin’ thing.’

‘We should be over in the warehouse,’ Martin spat. ‘That’s where your guns are. What about Lord John, Pat? This is a waste o’ time.’

Jack spoke up, hefting his crowbar. ‘We’ve got to punish him first, Mart, for what he done to Molly. It’s the best way.’

‘This here’s what we want from you, Martin Rea.’ Slattery was grinning like a madman. ‘This is your debt to Molly Maguire – how you save what’s left o’ your bleedin’ Saxon family.’

Martin stared at the low stone ceiling. Amy and Katie were back at the dairy, waiting for him to return. There was only one way that he had any chance of ever reaching them. ‘Yous could split the boiler,’ he answered at last. ‘Bash in the drive axle.’

Slattery handed him a foot-long chisel. ‘Off you go, then, pal,’ he said, his voice straining with mirth.

Martin stood before the engine for a moment – the thing on which he’d expended the best of his life’s energies, working alongside perhaps the truest friend he’d ever known. Then he lunged forward. The chisel’s end punched straight through the copper flank of the boiler, releasing a blast of wet, metallic heat. Teeth gritted hard, Martin shifted his hold on the handle and tore downwards, as if gutting a hanging carcass; warm water poured across the brick floor. Through the corner of his eye he saw Jack swing his crowbar at the drive axle, knocking it out of shape with a resounding clang. The other Mollys had produced their own weapons and were
soon attacking the rest of the engine in a range of spirited, noisy ways.

So caught up did Martin become in ripping open the boiler that he didn’t notice everyone else had stopped until Jack tapped him sharply on the arm. He looked around; the Mollys were scattering, scurrying into the forging shop. On the far side of the factory, a lantern’s light was reaching in through the open door. Someone was coming across the yard. They’d been discovered.

Martin was the last out of the engine room. Jack was running straight for the factory door. Slattery was already struggling to close it, to keep out those who approached, while the others pounded up the creaking staircase to the machine floor. As Jack arrived at Slattery’s side, a shoulder was forced into the gap, the arm thrashing about, trying to grab hold of someone. The two Mollys pushed together as more hands fastened themselves around the edge of the door. Martin added his strength to the effort to force it shut, straining with all his might, but they were seriously outnumbered. After half a minute the door jumped back another few inches.

‘Get your boot in there, Lee!’ cried a Yankee voice – it was Walter Noone. ‘Stick it right in, go on!’

‘Ain’t no use in this,’ panted Slattery. ‘Let go on three, aye?’

They counted down and hopped away; the door flew open, causing several of the Yankees to overbalance and topple through. Slattery darted for the staircase and Martin fell in behind him. They’d reached the machine floor landing before they realised that Jack wasn’t with them.

They could hear fighting somewhere below.

‘I got this cocksucker,’ bellowed Noone. ‘You go get the others!’

‘This,’ pronounced Slattery, drawing something from beneath his skirts, ‘smells like a bleedin’ trap to me.’ He raised his voice, shouting down the stairs. ‘We’re a-coming, Jack! Don’t you fret none, brother!’

He held a Colt Navy in his hand, the one remaining pistol from the three Caroline had got to them. Martin cursed under his breath; he’d forgotten that the Mollys still had it.
No mention had been made of it during the weeks in the dairy. Slattery leaned around the banister, cocking the revolver. There was a flash of white light and a loud, hollow bang as he squeezed off a single shot into the darkness of the stairway. Before he could fire again several reports sounded from the direction of the forging shop, and the beam next to his shoulder was blown to splinters. The Yankees were shooting back. Slattery scrambled for cover with a startled yelp, heading into the avenues of the machine floor. Martin went after him. Colonel Colt’s contraptions stood in the darkness like the skeletons of strange, ancient monsters. The two Irishmen ducked down among them.

‘The guns,’ hissed Slattery, ‘we’ve got to get to the bleedin’ guns! We’ve got to get Molly’s vengeance!’

Martin seized the grimy frill that drooped from the collar of Slattery’s frock and twisted it up in his fist. ‘You should’ve thought o’
that,’
he growled, ‘when you was ordering me to do in the bleedin’ engine!’ He pushed Slattery away and pointed across the floor. A trail of abandoned tools, clubs and bonnets led to a knocked-out window – the route by which the other four Mollys had just made their escape. ‘We’ve got to go, right now, or the bastards’ll catch us as well.’ The Yankees were coming up the stairs; Martin could even hear the hammers of their pistols drawing back. He climbed to his feet.

Slattery grabbed at his jacket. The bonnet was slipping around the side of his head, held on only by its length of green ribbon. ‘It can still be done. We can still get to the warehouse – break in and take what we need.’

‘That’s just bleedin’ madness, Slattery,’ Martin replied, tugging the jacket from his grasp and rushing to the broken window.

There was no time for a careful exit. Martin hit the cobbles hard, the impact sending him stumbling to his hands and knees. As he picked himself up he heard the flapping of skirts, and then Slattery landed awkwardly beside him; he’d clearly accepted the obvious and was joining Martin’s dash for safety. Together they ran for the outer wall, leaping towards it, clutching at its summit as their boots scrabbled
for purchase between the bricks. Martin made it to the top and was about to jump down the other side when a glint of blued steel caught his eye, back over at the factory block’s broken window. Something wrenched at his left arm, sending him tumbling over. He heard the pistol shot an instant later, echoing out across the Thames as he crashed into the gutter.

Martin rolled over onto his belly, trying to catch his breath. He felt Slattery’s hands upon him, dragging him to his feet. There were cries from inside the gun works, boots thudding over the cobbles, and an order to unlock the gates. Slattery started for Westminster, lifting the front of his skirts so that he could break into a full sprint. Martin checked at his arm. There was a tear in the sleeve of his jacket, an inch or two above the elbow, and a heavy flow of blood was branching across the back of his hand. He loped after Slattery, wincing a little more with every step.

Twenty minutes later Martin was sat on a milking stool, leaning against the side of a cattle stall. His head was throbbing, his arm entirely numb and caked in black blood. The bullet had passed straight through, grazing the bone; Amy was trying to bandage it but her panicked sobbing was making this difficult. Katie watched from her bed, eyes round as buttons.

The Mollys, out of their rags now and with faces wiped clean of burned cork, stood in a miserable circle over by the boarded-up shop front at the dairy’s far end, listening to Slattery recount the story of Jack’s capture. His version told of a brave fight but narrowly lost. He was insisting that it had all been a trap; that there should have been only two men at most on duty at that time of night; that things would’ve played out very differently if he’d had the chance to fire off a couple more bullets. He was saying anything, in short, that shifted the blame away from him and his half-baked plan.

‘But brothers,’ he declared, ‘we did succeed in one thing. We ruined that Colt bastard’s engine. All o’ them bleedin’ Yankees will be out o’ work come the morning. There’s no
way on God’s earth that they’ll meet that government contract now.’

This was more than Martin could stand. How could he claim any triumph at all when they hadn’t gained a single revolver – when Jack Coffee had been run down like a coursed hare, and right that minute was in the hands of Walter Noone? ‘Colt will repair that mess quick enough, Slattery,’ he said. ‘He has people who’ll fix it in a matter o’ hours. Even a split boiler is but a mornin’s work for them. You cannot stop him that way. It was a waste o’ bleedin’ time, like I told you.’