The Devil's Acre

by Matthew Plampin

  It looked, in all, like the setting for some kind of popular ceremony. The visit of Lajos Kossuth was being made to serve as the public unveiling of the factory – the event that would announce Colt’s arrival in London to the world. Despite the unruly workers, the Colonel’s evident peevishness and the disruptive efforts of those at the gate, Edward was growing excited. This, he thought, is the proper start of it.

  Richards wore a frock-coat the colour of old Madeira with a ruffled shirt, and appeared surprisingly well. There was still something tarnished and moth-eaten about him, though, as if he was a rather neglected stuffed peacock instead of the actual living bird. Glancing over at the demonstration he let out a theatrical groan. ‘It would seem that we are this week’s cause,’ he declared, his nasal voice dripping with contempt. ‘How confoundedly tiresome.’

  As the street sermon continued, intruding upon the jaunty music of Colt’s band, the tolerance of the assembled workers was soon used up. They started to heckle, telling the sermoniser to get himself back to church or shut his trap. When this did not deter him they started up a steady barrage of mud, dung and stones. A direct hit to the forehead with a jagged pebble effectively ended the lesson; the preacher stepped back unsteadily among his companions, accepting a handkerchief from Lady Wardell herself with which to staunch the blood that trickled across his face.

  Even before this unexpected protest had commenced the morning had not been going smoothly. From the moment it had opened the factory had been alive with talk of a second beating, this time of three English operatives from the shaping machines. It had occurred on Lupus Street, significantly closer to the Colt premises, and limbs had been broken; one of the victims was said to be so badly hurt that he would not be able to return to the works. The general reaction to this news had been fearful, but some among the Americans were angry. Walter Noone, in particular, had been positively incensed, taking the attack as a personal insult. He’d insisted on a private conversation with the Colonel in the factory office, during which he’d no doubt laid out the case for immediate vengeful action. It was fair to assume that this hadn’t gone as he’d hoped, however, as he’d emerged from the office even more enraged than he’d gone in. Right then, in the minutes before Kossuth’s arrival, the watchman was marching intently along the perimeter of the factory, drawing nervous glances from protesters and Colt workers alike. His weathered, inexpressive features were visibly straining, like a door about to break open before some great force pushing against it from within.

  ‘So, Mr Lowry,’ said Richards, chuckling at the smart cessation of the sermon, ‘I understand that you were present when this little visit was conceived.’

  ‘I was, Mr Richards.’

  The press agent grunted cynically. ‘He does very well indeed, this Mr Kossuth, for such a wretched failure. Forced to abdicate, driven into penniless exile, sent trailing around the globe like a bloody mendicant – yet still hailed as a living saint by the plebeian million wherever he damn well pokes his head up.’ He crossed his arms, leaning back against the sliding door. ‘Really rather depressing, is it not?’

  Edward was attempting to refute this assessment when he was interrupted by a loud clatter of hooves over on Ponsonby Street, and the sudden flash of yellow panelling. The Colt barouche, sent to collect Kossuth from his Clerkenwell boarding house some hours earlier, cut swiftly past Lady Wardell’s party and drove across to the bandstand to hearty cheers; on cue, the musicians struck up a brisk version of ‘Hail Columbia’. Colonel Colt strode over to take his place before his men. He turned to Edward and muttered that Mr Kossuth was to be presented with a pair of their finest Hartford Navys if he took to the stand and addressed the factory.

  ‘If he don’t,’ he added, ‘then to hell with him.’

  The secretary nodded, thinking momentarily of his own revolver. Still a little intoxicated by his success in the shooting gallery, he’d carried it home that night feeling more alert and intrepid than he ever had in his life. The usual rowdy crowds occupied the pavements of Long Acre, lounging outside taverns, and spilled from the cheaper theatres on Drury Lane. He did not cross the road to avoid them as he normally would have done but walked straight through the centre of their songs and arguments, almost willing one of the drunken roughs to shove him, to challenge him, so that he could produce the Navy from under his coat and face the scoundrel down. It wasn’t loaded, of course, but how was anyone to know that?

  Edward’s very confidence seemed to act as a deterrent, however, and he got back to Holborn without incident. Up in his modest bachelor’s rooms in Red Lion Square, he fell to studying the pistol for the larger part of an hour. He cocked and fired mechanically, like a man winding a clock, watching the tiny ships engraved on the cylinder jerk around on their endless voyage; experimented with carrying it hidden in various places about his person; took aim at doorknobs, at the oil lamp on his small table, at the black tugboat in the cheap etching of Turner’s Temeraire that hung above his fireplace, imagining them being smashed or struck out of shape by his bullets. It was well past two o’clock before he came to his senses, put the gun away in a bureau drawer and fell into his bed.

  Lajos Kossuth had an unexpectedly lawyerly look to him, more like a slightly eccentric barrister from Temple Bar than the visionary leader of millions. The years of poverty and exile were starting to show; there were lines upon his broad forehead, streaks of grey in his full, preciously trimmed beard, and his smart, dark clothes, cut in styles over half a decade old, were beginning to fade. He was plainly exhausted, trying to rub some life into his sunken eyes as he opened the carriage door. It had been reported in the press that he’d addressed an enormous meeting of Trades Unions in the East End two days previously, spoken marvellously for well over an hour and received a rapturous response. Privately, Colonel Colt had been supremely unimpressed by this news, being no admirer of workers’ organisations of any kind; but as it had only increased the Hungarian’s fame, and accordingly the attention paid to his visit to the Colt factory, he’d managed to keep his feelings hidden.

  American and Briton alike supplied an enthusiastic ovation as the revolutionary climbed down from the barouche. Someone pushed their way to Edward’s side, trying to get a little nearer; he looked around to see Mr Quill the engineer, his arm in a sling, clearly not yet recovered from his beating. Martin Rea, Miss Knox’s brother-in-law, stood close behind him, and gave Edward an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. The bandages were gone, revealing a tough face, fashioned by hardship, squinting out from under a grey canvas cap. His age was difficult to estimate – it could have been anything between twenty and forty. Something about him suggested uncommon intelligence, but it was yoked to an aching weariness. Like the engineer, his complexion was still blotted with fading bruises, and there was a sickle-shaped scab across his heavy jaw. Of the two, though, Rea was in considerably better condition; Edward noticed that he was watching out for Quill with careful solicitude, making sure that his injured master did not get into any difficulty.

  Kossuth had brought a small party of shabby, intellectual types with him to the factory. Edward detected a certain haste about them, as if they were eager to get the tour over and done with. The Colonel crossed the yard, giving Kossuth’s hand a brusque shake, saying a few words and then gesturing towards the bandstand.

  His guest shook his head, politely but firmly; he would not speak. ‘You are the people, however,’ he pronounced in a thick Eastern accent, waving vaguely at the crowd of workers. ‘You Americans are the ones – the very ones for making improvements.’

  And that was it. They were to hear nothing of the man’s famous, Shakespearean eloquence, or his grand oratorical ability. It wasn’t enough – especially for a largely English gathering that had just been mistakenly praised for its progressive American character. Colonel Colt turned towards them, directing a bristling, goggle-eyed glare at Richards. His meaning was plain. The press agent pulled himself up to his full height, straightened his ageing frock-c
oat and adjusted his necktie. Then, with an air of absolute self-assurance, he sauntered over to the platform, tipping his top hat to Kossuth as he passed.

  The impromptu speech that followed entirely contradicted the snobbish, dismissive attitude Richards had taken just before their revolutionary visitor’s arrival. It was a colourful, sentimental account of Kossuth’s struggles, and a truly consummate piece of rabble-rousing. Delivered with a full range of animated gesticulations, it reduced the efforts of the protesters at the gate – who were now singing another hymn – to mere background bleating. The Americans around Edward were soon sniggering into their sleeves at Richards’s flourishes, but he held the attention of the London operatives completely, eliciting enthusiastic hurrahs for the brave people of Hungary and fierce boos for their Austrian oppressors. Then he moved on to Imperial Russia, Austria’s wicked accomplice, reminding his audience that the Tsar was massing his forces once more, at that very moment, in certain preparation for a strike against poor, defenceless Turkey. The hoots of denunciation grew almost deafening.

  Edward shook his head, amazed by Richards’s naked fraudulence but unable to remove the grin from his face. Looking around the yard, wondering if he could chance a cigar, he noticed something strange. Martin Rea had left Mr Quill and was standing alone at the furthermost corner of the warehouse, as if waiting for someone at an appointed place. A few seconds later he was joined by the same Irish gang who’d carried him away from Tachbrook Street that night. This little group had a look of tense purpose about it. The men all had a leanness that seemed to border on malnourishment, yet there was not a hint of frailty in any of them; they were like so many gnarled branches, as bleached and weather-beaten as pieces of driftwood. An especially tortured specimen seemed to be in charge, his mouth shaped by constant frowning, his eyes hidden almost entirely beneath a jutting brow. He walked up close to Rea, prodding him in the chest in a none-too-friendly manner. A couple of words were exchanged, the leader casting a furtive glance back at the crowd. Edward turned away sharply; and when he looked back, the men were gone.

  ‘Mister Lowry!’

  The shout was close to his ear, making him start. Miss Knox was beaming, pleased to have caught him by surprise. The sight of her out there in the spring sunshine, her cheeks flushed, smiling with such bright exhilaration, shortened Edward’s breath. He noticed that her eyes were the most unusual shade of blue, as dark and pure as deep water. Since his dinner with Saul Graff, he’d decided that he would have no more to do with her – that he would act like a practical, professional gentleman and maintain the proper distance between them. Now, though, as she stood before him, this resolution evaporated instantly.

  ‘Why, Miss Knox,’ he replied, touching the brim of his hat, trying to make himself heard over a fresh crescendo of cheering. ‘I just saw your brother-in-law. I must say that he is making a truly remarkable recovery.’

  She set about retying the bow beneath her plain straw bonnet, her smile growing delightfully evil. ‘Mart is just well used to being beaten, sir, is all,’ she explained. ‘He’s had a fair bit of practice at it.’

  ‘Some of the Americans are saying that the attackers were from the Adams pistol works.’

  Her amusement faded; she’d heard this rumour as well. ‘Same as did those lads last night, I suppose.’

  The people around them quietened down; Richards had resumed speaking. They both looked over at him. Pointing skywards, he was holding forth about the transformative spirit that was sweeping through the civilised nations of the world, unseating old corruptions and installing a truly popular democracy in their place – a spirit embodied by guest and host alike at the Colt factory that day.

  This turned out to be the press agent’s closing note. There was an explosion of applause and he dropped from view, his task complete, stepping down from the bandstand. Gage Stickney shouted out that all Colt machine workers were free to take their dinner, and the band struck up once again, lurching their way into a medley of popular tavern ballads. The crowd broke apart, a good portion of it drifting towards the food sellers arrayed outside the gates, who were present in greater numbers that day, attracted by the noise and the spectacle. Lady Wardell and her supporters soon found themselves quite swamped, swallowed up in a jostling, hostile tide; this, at last, obliged them to abandon their protest and take flight.

  Edward saw the Colonel leading Kossuth – who had been made visibly uncomfortable by Richards’s parade of fanciful encomiums – towards the factory door, the American staff parting before them. ‘I must leave you, miss, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. ‘I must join the tour.’

  Miss Knox moved a little closer, her lip curving with gentle reproach. ‘I ain’t seen you around the works.’

  ‘We are really quite busy at the moment.’ This sounded weak indeed. Edward cleared his throat. ‘I simply haven’t been here.’

  ‘Don’t you wish to talk with me again, Mr Lowry?’

  ‘Of course, Miss Knox – of course I do. But the Colonel is a most demanding master. He has me attending on him day and night.’

  The light smile that met this was one of ridicule, and almost unbearably pretty. ‘Heavens,’ she murmured, ‘I never suspected that the role of secretary was such an important one. Does he really need you every single night?’

  ‘No,’ Edward admitted, ‘not every night, it’s true. I am usually free by ten o’clock, at any rate.’

  ‘Well, sir, I’m to be found in the Spread Eagle most evenings at present. D’you know it?’

  The secretary nodded, now starting to smile himself. ‘The masons’ tavern on Pulford Street. By the river.’

  She inclined her head in a graceful farewell, strikingly incongruous there in the factory yard – a remnant of her servant’s training, he realised, wheeled out to rib him a little further – and dropped a curtsey. ‘I shall hope to see you there.’

  Edward watched her return to some friends from the machine floor, who’d been following their exchange as best they could, hiding giggles behind their hands. A wide grin had stamped itself across his face. Trembling slightly, he was gripped by a sudden, euphoric urge to sprint around the yard; to run up to Richards, clap him on the back and congratulate him on a magnificent speech; to hurry after the Colonel and their celebrated guest and ensure that the tour was a resounding success.

  He would go to this tavern. He looked down at the cobbles, putting his hands in his pockets. Yes, damn it all, he would.

  7

  ‘Did you see that?’ Slattery demanded as the Mollys walked down the side of the warehouse. ‘Did you? Your sister-in-law, whoring herself to Colt’s secretary?’

  Martin nodded; he’d seen it, the pair of them simpering away at each other, the nature of their conversation plain even at thirty yards’ distance. He had to admire Caroline’s nerve, setting her cap at such a smart young gent. Serving in that big house had clearly given her some grand ideas. The secretary he could remember dimly from the Yankee lodging house. Much was being said about this person by the Americans, and none of it pleasant – not by Mr Quill, of course, who never had a bad word for anybody, but by Mr Stickney and numerous others. He was an impostor, they were claiming, a confidence man out to fleece the Colonel for whatever he could get; or a spy planted by one of Colt’s English rivals. For his part, Martin could find no sign of such cunning fraudulence. Not that this meant it wasn’t there, of course; but to him the secretary seemed to be just another London office type, one of an identical army thousands strong.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Slattery stated. ‘D’ye hear me, Martin? I don’t like it at all. Having that bleedin’ girl here ain’t no good for Molly’s ends.’

  ‘She’ll be seen to.’

  ‘You’ve talked with that Saxon wife o’ yours, have you?’

  Martin ignored the derision in his voice. ‘We’ve had words.’

  This was true enough, but rather than firmly telling Amy what was what, as he was now implying, Martin had in fact found himself
being asked a series of angry questions, mostly concerning Pat Slattery’s presence at the Colt works and what this might mean. He’d managed to throw her off, just about, but Amy was a blasted sharp girl; she knew something was up and would not let it be for long. Caroline was involved somehow, he could tell. The sisters had plainly been nattering. He’d have to think of something to do for them both.

  They reached the warehouse’s side door. A hot pain tightened along Martin’s right forearm as he pushed it open. The tendons in the wrist had been bruised during his beating; more than a week later he still couldn’t clench his fist properly. He stood aside, rubbing his palm with his left thumb. Half a dozen of his brothers, Molly Maguire’s loyal lads, filed in past him. Lajos Kossuth might have the Colt works distracted, but all of them understood that they had to be quick.

  The door led into a large rectangular room. The ceiling was high; although of similar dimensions to the factory block, the warehouse had only two floors instead of three. A row of newly built annealing ovens stood along one wall. Each one had a wide brick working surface stretching from its mouth, into which had been cut a system of pits and channels. Specialist tools, pans, tongs and brushes, were set out across these surfaces, awaiting Kossuth’s inspection. On the floor beside each was a bucket of jet-black fish oil, which gave off a pungent, salty odour; this was the stuff, Martin had learned, that gave Colt pistols their distinctive sheen.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Slattery tersely, nodding at the ovens. ‘Bleedin’ bakery or sump’n?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘This here’s the blueing room. They heat the metal and polish it with that oil there – put on the blue, the Yankees call it. Toughens the gun, Pat, so’s it don’t break or warp or nothin’ when it’s firing off its bullets.’