The Devil's Acre (4 page)

This spectacle was greeted with laughter from the line; as more people turned to take it in, Edward noticed a lively-looking young woman in the plain yet respectable clothing of a domestic servant away from her place of employment, waiting in the queue with several others in similar dress. She was smiling wickedly at a remark made by one of her companions – a smile that made him smile as well to behold it. In the middle of her left cheek were two small but distinctive marks, side by side and oddly even. As she turned back towards the factory door, her smile fading, their eyes met. For a single clear moment they both stood in place, contemplating each other.

Then Colonel Colt called out his name, clapping his hands together as he headed back to the carriage. Edward smoothed down a twisted lapel and went over to join him.

Sam took the steps of the American embassy three at a time. Ignoring the grand brass knocker, he hammered on the door with his fist. It opened just an inch or two, as if in caution, so he gave it a hearty push, causing it to connect violently with the forehead of the unfortunate footman on the other side and send him staggering back into a floral arrangement.

‘Ice, right now,’ Sam instructed as he strode past, flicking a shilling at his victim. ‘That’ll see you right.’

The servants were coming at him, taking little bows, their eyebrows raised all the way up in that queer English manner, but he would have none of it. Deftly, he weaved around them and loped up the main staircase, arriving in an emerald green hall with the doors to the main reception room directly ahead. It was an apartment designed to make a man not born to splendour feel small and worthless: columns, chandeliers, fancy pictures, gold leaf by the yard. Nonplussed, thinking that the effect was rather aristocratic and decidedly un-American, Sam turned his attention to the other guests. His mood improved immediately. The crowd was a grey one, and sombre-looking. This, he knew well, tended to denote the presence of some serious political authority. He also registered a handful of smart naval coats and crimson jackets, adorned with medals and sashes of various hues. Generals, admirals and politicians, rounded up in one place: prime hunting ground for a sharp gun-maker.

A voice bleated at his shoulder. Irritably, Sam turned to
see a persistent flunky asking for his surtout, his hat and his name; he supplied them, not bothering to disguise his impatience. He was announced to the company, and met their attention with a scowl.

‘Take it in, you blasted Bulls,’ he muttered under his breath as he attempted to flatten his curls. ‘I shall have you yet.’

Mr Buchanan, the newly appointed American minister in whose honour the reception was being held, approached to welcome him, looking pretty damn distinguished with his neat white hair and high starched collar. ‘It pleases me greatly,’ he declared, ‘that such a singular personage as Colonel Samuel Colt, perhaps the most famous American presently in London, can find the time to attend this modest gathering.’

Sam knew Jim Buchanan a little from Washington and their handshake was cordial enough. The minister was no businessman, though, and could not disguise his personal feelings. That oblong face with its prominent chin and small, mild eyes was easy to read: he considers me vulgar, Sam thought with some amusement, and is concerned that I might put lordly noses out of joint with my brash manners. They exchanged a few words about Buchanan’s new post.

‘I was on good terms with Mr Lawrence, your predecessor,’ Sam said. ‘He was a man prepared to extend whatever help he could to an honest American trying to achieve something in this damnably slow-paced country.’

‘Indeed,’ Buchanan replied carefully.

Sam saw at once that the fellow didn’t want to give any sense of an understanding between them – to put himself in a position where he might be asked to overstep some invisible barrier of diplomatic protocol. This was a predictable attitude. The new minister was renowned for his aversion to risk, to anything that might attract critical attention; a general habit of life that had been fostered (or so it was rumoured) by his secret preference for male companionship in the bedchamber.

Taking Sam’s arm, Buchanan guided him over to a large group of men and women whose colourful dress and openness of manner marked them as Americans. There was a round of introductions, and not a single name Sam recognised.
Binding them all was the false sense of familiarity that one so often encountered among countrymen brought together abroad. Their conversation was concerned entirely with Franklin Pierce, the new president, and the tragic accident which had befallen his family between the election and his inauguration; they were relating the details, Sam couldn’t help but think, with a certain ghoulish pleasure.

‘Crushed to death, the boy was, within the president’s sight!’ one lady pronounced, her eyes open wide. ‘The railway carriage rolled over onto its side, you see, and the child had been leaning from the window – oh, I can’t bear to think of it!’

‘Pierce is a broken man, they say,’ opined the fellow next to her. ‘Barely made it through his oath. Sits in the Oval Office all day long with the curtains drawn, paralysed with grief for his lost son.’

Sam quickly concluded that none of these blabbering fools was of any use to him. He looked over at the silver-bearded John Bulls conferring in other parts of the room and prepared to break away.

Another of the ladies, moved almost to tears by Pierce’s tale, intercepted him. ‘How can a man recover from such a blow, Colonel Colt? Can he at all?’

His departure checked for a moment, Sam paused in thought. ‘Of matters concerning dead children, ma’am, I really cannot say,’ he answered. ‘But it’s going to be a tough time indeed for those of us that might have been intending to do business with our government. That’s one reason why you find me here in London, setting up a new factory. Speaking frankly, though, my hopes for a Pierce presidency were always low. I’ve known the fellow for a number of years, from his army days. Far too fond of the bottle – and I reckon he’s reaching for it now, with a new dedication, in order to take the edge off his sorrow.’

Buchanan, a close ally of the Pierce administration, pursed his lips in disapproval, and tried to jog the startled group on to a fresh subject – some vacuous fixture of the London social season about which he’d developed a sudden fascination. Sam took this opportunity to move off. Refusing a flute of
champagne – the stuff played merry havoc with his gut – he sauntered to the centre of the reception room.

The gun-maker had made ample preparation for occasions such as this. Just before leaving Connecticut he’d furnished himself with a folio of portrait engravings of the foremost British politicians. On the voyage over, with time on his hands, he’d memorised the various configurations of thinning pates, furrowed brows, bushy white chops and belligerent jowls; and by the time he landed in Liverpool he could put a name and role to every aged face. It had irked him to discover that they had all switched their posts about since his last visit. Lord John Russell, scourge of the Catholics, was no longer Prime Minister, but Leader of the House, whatever that meant; disappointingly, Lord Palmerston, a man about whom Sam had heard many good things, had lost the Foreign Office and was now Home Secretary. The Earl of Aberdeen was currently at the helm, and a dull dog he appeared. Sam got the sense that the present British Government was an uneasy coalition of men who would trample each other down in a flash if the chance arose. It hurt his head to think about this for too long, though, and he wished that these scheming nobles would just stay put for a while and see if their achievements didn’t rise accordingly.

For perhaps half a minute he saw no one of consequence. Then it struck out at him – one of the first half-dozen portraits from his folio, coloured and brought to life. A sober-looking fellow, bald as a knee but oddly childlike about the face: it was Lord Clarendon, Palmerston’s replacement as Foreign Secretary. And by God, the person beside him, fat-cheeked and jovial, was none other than Lord Newcastle, the Secretary of State for War. These were the very men he needed. Sam was considering how best to introduce himself when they shifted about, in response to the arrival of someone else behind them; and there was his friend Tom Hastings, the elusive Keeper of the Ordnance, addressing Clarendon with obvious familiarity. Sam’s blood stirred; his nostrils flared. This was a proper piece of good fortune, and he would seize it with both hands.

Hastings, a stooped old turtle decked out in a naval uniform, saw him approach and smiled warmly. Sam noticed for the first time that he had the most enormous ears, from which greyish hair sprouted in bunches. There was little in his thoughtful face that hinted at his distinguished naval past; Commodore Hastings had served under Nelson, had taken Bonaparte into his last exile, and had been single-handedly responsible for every major scientific advance in British naval cannonry since. Sam didn’t know too much about any of this. It was enough for him that the aged Commodore had influence, a passion for all things gun-related and a demonstrable predisposition for Colt.

‘My dear Colonel, what is this I hear about you and Clarence Paget?’ Hastings whispered discreetly, moving away from his companions to greet Sam. ‘You pointed a
pistol
at him, in his own rooms? Can this be true?’

They shook hands. Hastings was plainly delighted to think of Paget being threatened with a gun; the two men were fierce rivals of long standing.

‘Not exactly, Tom,’ he replied. ‘We disagreed, is all.’

Hastings grinned. ‘A subject best saved for another time, perhaps.’ He directed Sam towards the ministers. ‘Here, come and meet these fine gentlemen.’

Clarendon and Newcastle were somewhat reserved, as might have been expected, but they proved open enough to Sam’s conversation and soon became curious to learn more of the revolver factory at Bessborough Place and its many innovations. Sam invited both to take a tour, thinking that he would send them each a pair of the finest engraved Navys that same night. It was looking good, in short, very good indeed; then an English lady, clad in black silk and lace, appeared between the ministers.

‘Excuse me, Lord Clarendon – Lord Newcastle – Commodore Hastings,’ she said with an incline of her head, her voice surprisingly deep and full of confidence.

Sam was immediately vexed. Could she not see that business was underway? Was such a thing beyond her cosseted mind to perceive? He almost ordered her to leave them alone, to get back to her gossiping, but managed to restrain himself
and turn towards her with terse civility. This lady was perhaps fifty and more heavy-featured than he usually cared for, but not without allure. There was an appealing energy there; was she a widow, he wondered, who had devoted herself to charitable works? She was looking back at him coldly. Although she had not yet said his name, it was plainly him that she had come over to speak with.

‘Lady Wardell,’ said Newcastle with a bow.

‘Cecilia,’ murmured Clarendon. ‘How very nice to see you.’

There was definite apprehension in the Foreign Secretary’s tone. At once, Sam knew that this Lady Wardell was the campaigning sort. She was there to confront him.

‘And you, sir,’ she announced sternly, ‘must be the American gentleman who plans to flood the streets of London with repeating pistols.’

The skin around Sam’s right eye tightened with irritation. These people were always so goddamn self-important; every one of them seemed to believe that he’d never heard their particular line of garbage before. ‘I am Colonel Colt, ma’am, certainly,’ he said. ‘What is it that you have to say to me?’

The woman lifted her nose in the air; as with so many of these rich Bulls, haughtiness came to her as naturally as drawing breath. ‘Only, sir, that you are quite unquestionably
a merchant of death!’

This remark was made bluntly and bitterly, less as an accusation than a statement of fact, and it killed all other conversation within a wide radius. Newcastle and Clarendon glanced about in furtive embarrassment, as if they’d been caught smoking cigars without their host’s permission and were looking for somewhere quietly to dispose of their butts.

Sam, however, was a picture of unconcern. ‘Only that, ma’am?’

Her lips formed a resolute line. This was a veteran, a sturdy old cruiser with a long record of skirmishes behind her, and she would not be easily vanquished. ‘Your dastardly wares are designed to kill, and to kill in greater numbers than ever before. This cannot be denied. How can you
possibly reconcile this with your Christian conscience, sir? How can you bear to profit from such copious bloodshed?’

‘Ma’am,’ said Sam with a sigh, readying his standard defence, ‘I think we can agree that the people of this world are very far from being satisfied with one another. I call my guns peacemakers: yes,
peacemakers.
They are tools expressly designed for preserving the peace. If every man had a revolver on his belt, who on earth would dare draw one?’

Hastings, God save him, made a low sound indicating concurrence; the ministers, however, were drifting off like untethered barges on a canal, slowly distancing themselves from the gun-maker and the attention he was attracting.

The fractious noblewoman was unconvinced by Sam’s solid reasoning. ‘You cannot honestly believe that, Colonel. Surely you must understand that firearms generate violence in the exact way that liquor generates drunkenness. Put a revolver in a man’s grasp and he will long to use it at the very first opportunity!’

There was no curtailing her now. On and on she went, enlarging on her theories about Sam and his business with furious vigour. Growing more angry, he considered mentioning the Kaffir War, and how much easier it might have been on the British Army if they’d had his revolvers; or perhaps the efficacy of the Colt six-shooter in the ongoing American struggle against the barbarian red men. He thought better of this, though. It was pretty certain that the self-righteous drab before him would not be won over by talk of proficient savage-killing.

‘You must agree, somewhere within you,’ she was saying now, almost imploringly, ‘that it is the religious duty of men of ingenuity and engineering skill – men such as yourself, Colonel Colt – to
aid
the peoples of the world, not provide the means for them to destroy one another.’

The ministers were gone now, swallowed up by the company; Sam’s speedy path to the higher levels of government, such an unlikely stroke of goddamn luck, had closed. Hastings had stuck loyally by the gun-maker’s side, but was entirely cowed by this lady and therefore useless. Colt’s tolerance for his aristocratic adversary, this creature of England’s
grandest houses and rolling private parks, suddenly left him.

‘Unfortunately, precious few of the world’s troubles will find a solution in these fine sentiments alone,’ he declared with an air of curt finality. ‘As I’ve said, ma’am, my revolvers are tools, that’s all, designed and manufactured to the best of my ability, and intended to help disputing parties reach a condition of peace as quickly as possible.’