‘So I’ve joined the gun factory,’ she announced brightly. ‘Mrs Vincent’s letter of recommendation did the trick, like you said it would. And it’s decent enough work, I s’pose – one and six a day, which ain’t half bad. Better than what I was getting before.’
Amy said nothing; her brow creased as she pulled a needle through the rose. Something was troubling her. Caroline took the sandwich back from Katie and tore off a small piece, placing it carefully in the child’s outstretched fingers.
‘It’s a pleasant thing to be out of service, I must say,’ she continued, ‘and in a new part of town. I’m grateful for you passing on word of this to me, Amy. I mean it. After Mr Vincent done what he done, ending himself in the public road, we all thought we’d be in the workhouse for sure before the month’s close. Blind panic, there was, down in the servants’ parlour.’
Caroline had witnessed her former master’s demise – prompted by a shocking loss on the money markets, or so it was rumoured. Early one cold Wednesday morning at the start of March she’d been on her knees scrubbing the front steps, cursing the butler who’d given her the job, welcoming the warmth of the water on her freezing fingers as she rinsed the brush in the bucket. Mr Vincent had stepped over her, dressed for the City but lacking his coat and hat. The Times was in his hand, held limply by the spine, spilling out pages as he wandered to the gate. Reaching the street, he’d stood on the edge of the pavement, peering back and forth, craning his neck as if searching for a cab. A huge coal wagon had passed by, heading up towards Highgate. Mr Vincent had walked out alongside it, crouched down in the muddy thoroughfare and placed his head beneath one of its rear wheels. It had run on over him without so much as a bump, squashing his skull flat; Caroline’s first reaction, watching incredulously from her soapy step, had been to let out a yelp of manic laughter.
Amy’s needle halted. ‘I am glad you have found a position, Caro,’ she said quietly.
Caroline fed another piece of sandwich to Katie. ‘I saw your Martin, in a tavern near the works. He was drinking with this Yankee engineer. Quill was his name.’
Amy set down her rose. ‘He’s mentioned Mr Quill to me.’
‘A harmless old cove, that one. Likes to talk. Loves his Colonel, this Colt fellow. And he’s really taken a shine to Mart. I’m told that he’s looking to train him up – turn him into a proper engineer.’
This was surely good news, but Amy made no reaction to it. She looked at her daughter for a moment, and then stared blankly into the fire.
‘There were other paddies there as well,’ Caroline went on. ‘Roscommoners like Mart. Friends of his, from the looks of things. Those I work with said that they’re employed in the forging shop, and keep mostly to themselves. One is making a name for himself, though, as a regular hard customer – Pat Slattery, he’s called. Word is that he’ll serve out any Englishman who dares look his way.’
Amy sighed sharply, her head dipping forward.
‘D’you know him?’ Caroline asked.
Her sister rubbed at her eyes with a bony, needle-scarred knuckle. ‘He was a porter with Mart and Jack in Covent Garden,’ she replied, ‘but they’re old pals. From Ireland. There’s a whole group. I – I was hoping that Mart had broken with them, by moving to Colt and all, but I had me doubts.’ Amy hesitated. ‘It’s just that Pat Slattery is – is – he’s –’ Merely saying the name made her slip on her words and lose her way. She was frightened.
‘D’you think they’re up to something? Planning mischief – or thievery?’
Amy shook her head. ‘No. No. Martin wouldn’t. He’s a good man, Caro. He’s never been nothing but kind to Michael and Katie and me.’
Caroline scowled, made immediately impatient by this unconditional loyalty. ‘Oh Amy, for Christ’s sake, listen to yourself! Where is he right now, if he’s such a saint? It’s the dead of night, you’re alone with your babies in this wretched place with no coal and no food even, and where is your precious Martin? Out drinking up his wages, that’s where, propping up some bar with the legion of the bloody useless!’
Katie caught the heat in her aunt’s voice and gazed at her questioningly. The girl’s almond-shaped eyes – the same eyes as Caroline and Amy – were open wide, her lower lip starting to tremble. Caroline made a shushing noise, bounced Katie up and down rather briskly, and then gave her another piece of the sandwich.
Amy, too, grew annoyed. ‘He is gentle,’ she said. ‘Not once has he so much as raised his hand to any of us. And he is true – do you have any notion of how rare that is, Caro?’
Caroline rolled her eyes; her sister would often resort to this tactic. ‘How could I possibly, Amy, unmarried as I am?’
This sarcasm was ignored. ‘Neither does he pay any notice to the many spiteful things that are said out in the Court. They call him a traitor to Ireland, to his people, as he is bound to an Englishwoman with half-English issue. And he does not pay them any notice at all.’ Her pale cheeks were colouring, and her voice becoming yet more insistent. ‘He is my husband, Caro.’
‘Only in the eyes of Rome,’ Caroline retorted. Her blood was up now. ‘Where was it you was betrothed? A chapel in an old potter’s shed on Orchard Street, weren’t it, by some crack-brained boggler of a priest? You ain’t no Catholic, Amy. Your union with Martin Rea is founded on a flaming lie.’
Amy didn’t respond. She fell quite silent, in fact, reaching over to pick at her artificial rose. Caroline itched with shame. Yet again, she’d gone a step too far; she’d said things she hadn’t meant, regretting them even as they passed through her lips. She didn’t, in truth, give two farthings for religion of any kind, yet here she was coming on like some doorstep Evangelical raging against Papist heresy. This was often the way between the sisters these days: an almost accidental battle, with the victor plunged into miserable remorse the second it was concluded.
‘I’ll bet you’re right, anyway,’ Caroline said at last, as if making a concession, attempting to mask her guilt with breezy cheerfulness. ‘Lord, you couldn’t steal from the bloomin’ Yankees even if you were stupid enough to try. They’re far too careful. I ain’t so much as seen a complete pistol in all the time I been there.’ She cast a look around the tiny, dirty room. ‘We stand to turn a decent penny off this Colonel Colt, Amy – your Mart in particular, what with this Mr Quill looking out for him. You’ll be leaving the Devil’s Acre, I should think, before this year’s out. I’ve found lodgings just along the river, in Millbank, in a new terrace next to a lumber yard. You could do very nicely over there.’
Katie had finished the sandwich but wanted more. Whimpering, she tugged at the front of Caroline’s apron. When nothing else was produced, the whimper grew into a low, continuous moan, the infant’s smooth little berry of a face crumpling with distress.
Amy stood, wrapping a thin shawl around her shoulders. ‘This is our home, Caroline,’ she said coldly. ‘We ain’t going nowhere.’ Then she crossed the room and took back her child.
London dirt coated the window beside Caroline’s drilling machine like a sheet of cheap brown paper. She had to lean up close to the pane to see anything much through it at all. Her ears had not misled her; down in the courtyard were the thirty or so men employed in the forging shop. Released to take their dinner, they were wandering towards the river, over to the row of costermongers and victual-sellers that had set up on the near side of Ponsonby Street to snag custom from the new Colt factory. All had removed their caps in the April sunshine and were smoking hungrily after their morning’s labour. After passing through the tall factory gates, most simply selected a stall, made their purchases and walked back into the yard, eating as they went. A small number lingered, however, taking time to choose or trying to haggle down the price.
There was an angry, affronted shout from the direction of a boiler-cart selling steamed potatoes. Caroline squinted, looking closer. A dark, fierce-looking man, quite short and thin but utterly fearless, was cursing loudly in a strong Irish accent, making an energeti
c complaint to the stallholder. It was Pat Slattery, the fellow she’d seen with Martin and Mr Quill in the Eagle – whose name alone had caused her sister such alarm. A handful of others, his Roscommon boys, rushed to his side, raising their voices along with his. Martin’s stooped, broad-shouldered form was not among them. Caroline supposed that he must be off somewhere doing the bidding of the chief engineer.
Slattery and his friends started rocking the cart back and forth, and a dull clang rang out as one of them struck the boiler with his fist. The rest promptly followed suit, and soon the squat iron tank was under a prolonged, noisy attack. The stallholder did not try to weather this battering for long, driving his dented boiler-cart off towards Vauxhall Bridge in a hail of oaths and stones, whipping his braying mule for all he was worth. The Irishmen patted each other’s backs, nodding with the curt satisfaction of a job well done. They paid visits to a couple of the surrounding stalls – which served them quickly, waving away payment – and then came back through the factory gates, joking with each other as they settled against a wall to eat. These were creatures from the Devil’s Acre, Caroline thought; that was their natural place. What could possibly have lured them out to this Yankee’s factory in Pimlico? It wasn’t just the daily wage, that was for certain. Amy was wrong – something was going on here.
Nancy, the girl across from Caroline, cleared her throat pointedly. This could only mean that Mr Alvord, their overseer, was approaching. Abruptly, Caroline turned from the window and reapplied herself to her labours. The drilling machine was about the size of a household mangle, but far more intricate and weighty in construction. Everything centred on the pistol part held in its middle by an elaborate clamp. This particular part was called the hammer, but to Caroline it looked more like a small twig or a wishbone. It was certainly hard to imagine this delicate piece of steel fitting into anything as deadly as a gun; hang it on a length of chain, she’d thought when first she saw it, and it would make a pretty pendant. Two different-sized holes had been run through the hammer presently fixed in the machine, which meant that there was one more left to do. The rotating head suspended before her held three drill-bits. At that moment, however, she couldn’t for the life of her remember which bit to use.
Compared with other factories that Caroline had seen – a few mills and potteries, glimpsed from the street – the machine floor of the Colt works was almost disturbingly quiet. The labour done there largely involved making adjustments, aligning clamps and so on; the machines were actually engaged for a few seconds only, and would emit no more than a high, rasping whine. There was the slapping of the belts, and the constant background hum of the brass driving cylinder overhead, but for much of the time the floor was swaddled in a schoolroom hush. The sound of men’s boots coming up behind her was thus clearly audible, and she stiffened at it; there were at least five pairs of them. Chancing a backwards glance, twisting momentarily atop her stool, she saw that the chubby, bland-faced Mr Alvord was surrounded by numerous others, more than she had time to count. They were all following an imposing bearded fellow, thick-set and tall, who looked like he knew his way around a gaming room – Colonel Colt, her employer.
Frowning in concentration, knowing that she must make a convincing display for the Colonel’s sake, Caroline turned the drill-head to the left. It slid around easily, with a heavy, well-greased clunk. She leaned over to pull the lever that would connect her machine to the spinning cylinder ahead.
‘Mr Alvord,’ said a deep Yankee voice at her shoulder, ‘if I’m not mistaken, this girl is just about to sink a second bolt-cam hole through that there hammer.’
This voice, of course, belonged to Colt. Caroline cursed her luck. Alvord was at her side the very next instant, smelling of bad teeth and root ginger, disengaging the belt, rotating the drill-head, apologising profusely for her stupidity. She looked around, thinking to assume her best servant’s manner and assure the Colonel that it wouldn’t ever happen again.
A small, hard eye was scrutinising her from beneath the brim of a strange Yankee hat. ‘That hammer is the most vital part of a Colt pistol, young miss,’ the Colonel said, not entirely unkindly. ‘It’s what marks us out from our main rivals in this city. You be sure to learn how to drill it properly.’ He swivelled on his heel so that he faced the overseer. ‘And Mr Alvord, p’raps you might like to deliver your lesson again. Although it is true that even the most slow-witted of humans can be trained in the operation of my machines, the rate of success does depend a little on the quality of the goddamn instruction.’ With this, the gun-maker strode away in the direction of the jiggers and the lock-frames – the heavier devices that shaped the central parts of the revolver.
Alvord, enraged and humiliated, pointed to the drill-head. ‘Start at position one, turning anticlockwise.’ He indicated each bit in turn. ‘That’s the hammer spring; the bolt cam; the main spring roller. If you don’t have it by the end of the day we’ll be replacing you in the morning, understand?’
Caroline nodded, repeating the names of the drill-bits. Alvord had already left, though, starting after Colonel Colt. She became aware that one of the Colonel’s followers had become detached from the train, and was lingering by her machine. Hands on the drill-head, she aimed a sly sidelong look in his direction. There stood a young man in an English frock-coat and top hat, a junior office type of the sort you saw perched up on the roofs of omnibuses bound for the City, smoking their cigars and surveying the streets below as if they were the rightful owners of all London. She supposed that this particular fellow was part of Colonel Colt’s English establishment. He had a cool quality about him, though, a watchfulness, that held an undeniable appeal. He was studying her closely. Pausing in her work, she put a hand on her hip and met his gaze, thinking to embarrass any ignoble intention that might be lurking in his mind.
Caroline recognised him – the straight, short nose and smooth brow, the neat, coppery whiskers, the faint quizzical cast to his lips. It was the gentleman she’d seen in the yard on that first morning, a fortnight previously. He tipped his hat to her and went after Colt.
‘The Colonel’s starting to fret,’ whispered Nancy knowingly. ‘That’s what it’s all about. Word is that he’s looking to show the factory off as soon as he can, to the Army and some government toffs most likely. But now, just as he’s got the engine running nicely at last, his chief engineer goes and gets hisself knocked senseless.’
Caroline met this rather absently. ‘What are you on about, Nance?’
Keen to be the bearer of gossip, Nancy leaned in closer, poking her flat, snub-nosed face between the raised parts of her machine. ‘The beatings, Caro – ain’t you heard? Mr Quill the Yankee engineer and his paddy assistant. Got served out something proper last night in Pimlico, up on one of Mr Cubitt’s sites near Warwick Square.’
The smart young man left Caroline’s mind at once. ‘What?’
Nancy was well pleased by this response. Nothing gave this sturdy factory veteran more satisfaction than to adopt the guise of the wise old hand with privileged information to share. ‘They’ll be all right, best anyone can tell,’ she said casually. ‘In a week or so, anyway. The Colonel’s got ‘em laid up in the Yankees’ lodging house over on Tachbrook Street. Brought in a doctor and everything. No one knows who done it. There’s stories aplenty, o’ course.’
This was why Martin hadn’t been down in the yard with Slattery. He was lying all bashed up in a Pimlico lodging house. Amy would be going mad with worry. Would he have thought to get word to her? Would he have been able to? Helplessly, Caroline looked around the long, dingy machine room; at the Colonel’s greasy metal contraptions, their operators hunched over them as if they were being slowly devoured; at the complex cat’s-cradle of machine-belts, flapping and tensing with the shifting of the levers. It was only late morning. There was no chance of her being able to get away before seven. When she’d been taken on, the foreman had stressed that any unexplained absence from your machine during factory hours would see you s
lung straight out the gate.
Caroline tried to return her attention to the drill-head, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Martin – of what had befallen him and Mr Quill after she’d spoken with them in the Eagle. Why would anyone attack them like that?
She could only come up with one possible answer. It had to be something to do with Pat Slattery.
All fifty of Colt’s female operatives were employed in the same region of the works, on the lighter machines, and they took their dinner together. They sat by the water trough in the centre of the yard, chattering and laughing as they ate. Caroline stayed apart from them, having no wish to listen to their excited speculation about the beatings. She’d bought a white onion and a piece of cheese, but frustration and worry had taken away her appetite completely. Pacing the factory’s boundary, she peered out through the railings, along the wide river in the direction of Westminster.
The bell rang, summoning them inside. It occurred to Caroline that she could just walk into the forging shop right then, confront Slattery and demand that he reveal everything he knew, for the sake of Martin’s wife and children. This was a tempting notion indeed. Crossing the yard to the sliding factory door, preparing to file in behind the other women, she imagined herself simply doing it: turning away from the staircase, weaving between the drop-hammers, approaching the Irishman as he stoked his fire and saying her piece with righteous, unchallengeable anger.
The Devil's Acre Page 7
