The Devil's Acre

by Matthew Plampin

  The diners lounged in poses of satiety, rubbing their bulging bellies and picking at the few morsels that remained on their plates. The air above them swam with the smoke from costly cigars, ordered by Sam to be brought in their boxes from the divan downstairs. The table before them was strewn with the wreckage of their feast; the turkeys’ forlorn-looking carcasses, torn asunder by hands unschooled in polite manners; various bones, half-eaten potatoes and slicks of soup and gravy; the many ale pots carried up to cater to palettes unsympathetic to wine. Early on, Sam had instructed the waiters to hang back, so that they were not constantly underfoot, clearing things away.

  ‘We are but simple fellows, y’see,’ he’d explained, ‘mechanics and suchlike, and we’d rather the dishes were left until we’re quite finished with ‘em.’

  This had been understood immediately, the staff becoming all but invisible. It was a fine, accommodating place, this Royal Divan; they’d set up Sam’s Yankee banquet with professional thoroughness, attending to every one of his very particular requests. Only a short stroll up Piccadilly from his own rooms, the Royal sat in the middle of an imposing row opposite the iron railings of Green Park. It was damn expensive, of course, and far better than his men were accustomed to. Their attempts at gentlemanly dress – odd combinations of cheap dandy garb and moth-eaten Sunday best – demonstrated this clearly enough, and were a comical sight indeed for any discerning eye. But that night was a special celebration, both of Sam’s return to England and of the significant advances made by Messrs Quill and Ballou in his absence. He wanted to treat them, to unite them in comradeship – and to reaffirm their loyalties to the Colt Company after a summer under James. The gun-maker looked around the table. All were there, from engineers to fitters, and all were taking advantage of his generosity in the intended manner. Mr Noone and his lieutenants, in particular, were tipping back whiskey like they were engaged in some kind of contest. It’s going pretty goddamn well, thought their employer; then his gaze reached the figure of his London secretary, who sat a few places to his left, and his satisfaction diminished somewhat.

  The word to describe Mr Lowry that evening was contained. This could hardly be attributed to some innate British reserve, brought out by the very American character of the gathering – good old Alfie Richards, his countryman, was in the thick of things, waging a heated debate about horse-racing with a couple of the polishers, gesticulating wildly with a well-gnawed duck drumstick. No, a definite change had come over his secretary during the summer months. The boy had handled the European letters with prompt discretion, it was true, but he seemed guarded, lacking in spirit. Sam was inclined to attribute this to his experiences under Jamie – to having watched his block-headed, profligate brother squander so much of what they’d accomplished in the spring. Since his return, Sam and Mr Lowry hadn’t spent more than a couple of hours together. The gun-maker decided that they would have a private word before he left the dinner, to restore some of the confidence that had existed between them and perhaps get an idea of what was amiss. This was a man he’d once thought of as a potential manager, after all; it would be a crying shame if the London secretary was permanently dulled and had to be cut loose.

  Collecting himself, Sam put in a new wad of Old Red, refreshed his bourbon from the bottle beside his plate and got to his feet. A hush fell, and every head turned his way. ‘I thank you, my friends,’ he began, ‘for joining me here this night to partake in what I believe you’ll agree was some superfine Yankee cuisine…’

  Their cheers were so loud that he was obliged to stop. The twenty-five men rattled spoons inside tankards, whistled and whooped; Alfie Richards shouted ‘Bravo!’ like he was giving an ovation at the close of a grand opera. After a minute or so of this, Sam gestured for quiet.

  ‘I wish to express my earnest thanks to the two gentlemen seated over there on my right, Mr Loren Ballou and Mr Benjamin Quill. I owe them both a great debt, and it is in their honour that I have thrown this little gam. Without their noble and learned efforts, our fearsome son of a bitch of a factory would not have half the goddamn poke that she does at this present time.’

  They erupted again, pelting the engineers with cigar ends, corks and anything else that came to hand. Quill’s beam split his red face in two; he waved those tattooed arms of his around to deflect the rain of missiles, swearing good-humouredly at his attackers. Ballou was less impressed, recoiling slightly from the barrage, wincing as the bright orange beak from one of the ducks bounced off his dome-like forehead.

  ‘I have often had cause, my friends, to remember something that my mother once told me when I was but a tiny infant. It is better to be at the head of a louse, she said, than at the tail of a lion. I have always held this close to my heart. I have taken charge of every stage of my life, and would advise any other man here to do the same. I have struggled – by God, have I struggled – to keep myself free from any arrangement that would have me beholden to governments, or kings, or boards of goddamn directors.’ Sam paused, taking a good chew of his tobacco, savouring the earnest respect that emanated from the table. ‘As I stood in those brick barns by the river yesterday morning, looking over what these two fine men here have done – Christ Almighty, what every one of you has done – to make my bold plan real, I found myself reconsidering Ma Colt’s old saying. It is better to be at the head of a louse, for certain – but you fellows have placed me at the head of a goddamn lion. And I drink to you all.’

  The gun-maker lifted up his glass in a salute, swallowing the contents in one gulp. His men did the same, and their empty cups and glasses banged down upon the table in a ragged but enthusiastic percussion.

  ‘Now, my lads, I know that the summer has not been easy, for one very obvious reason. But I’m back now. Soon we will start to really do things, all of us – to show John Bull what Yankee boys are capable of when we set our minds to an object.’

  The men exchanged grins and refilled their glasses in expectation of the next toast. Sam straightened his coat and spat some juice on the floor beside him. It was time for the real news.

  ‘Things are afoot on the fringes of Europe,’ he declared. ‘I won’t bore away your merriment with the details, but Turkey has demanded that Russia retreat double-quick from the Principalities – from the lands she has occupied. I have it on good authority that the Russians will not go along with this demand. Their Tsar, on his throne now for thirty years, considers himself appointed by God Himself and thus beyond all error. Such is the folly of the old world, my friends. Be damn glad that you are free of it.’ He picked up the bourbon bottle, drawing out the cork, pouring as he spoke. ‘As I’m sure you already know, our British hosts have committed themselves to aiding Turkey. Gunboats have sailed for Constantinople, and there are voices in their cabinet calling loudly for action. It is underway. The hammer is falling, and nothing can stop it. War is coming – war at last.’

  They cheered again, even more loudly than before, throwing back their heads and baying like mountain apes.

  ‘War, of course, is a very terrible thing,’ Sam went on with mock gravity, drawing a wicked laugh from the company, ‘and it brings misfortune to millions. But to a few, to men like us, it brings incredible opportunity. We are well placed here in London. These old Bull generals will be looking out for weapons that will give their troops a real advantage – of course they will. And what could be better than the very latest model of Colonel Colt’s six-shooting Navy revolver, the best goddamn peacemaker on God’s green earth, expertly manufactured on their own goddamn doorstep?’

  Mr Quill rose unsteadily from his chair, raising a black beer bottle so high that it sounded a tolling note against the brass chandelier above his head. The others began to follow his example, and within ten seconds all were standing with their drinks held aloft.

  ‘To war in Europe, gentlemen,’ Sam bellowed, ‘and the Colt arms that will surely be bought to fight it!’

  6

  Edward was the first to return to his seat. He set down h
is port glass. Richards had filled it to the brim but he’d been unable to take so much as a sip. He felt nauseous, a sour redolence of the procession of rich, meaty dishes he had eaten, of the various wines and spirits he had drunk, coating the back of his throat like silt in a drain. Pushing his chair away from the table, he rested his elbows on his knees and put his throbbing head in his hands, trying to order his thoughts.

  Cousin Arthur would be sent to fight against the Russians. This seemed almost certain now. Edward could not drink a toast to this, and was finding all the brash jollity around him difficult to bear. There could be no escaping the fact that as a Colt man he was involved in the coming war – but in an entirely cynical, opportunistic way. The secretary felt something close to guilt, and cursed his wretchedly illogical, contradictory nature. What the devil did you think this enterprise was building towards, he asked himself – the factory, the machines, the meetings with government officials? What conceivable purpose did you think those thousands of firearms would serve, if not this?

  The month before, rather reluctantly, Edward had sent Arthur the pair of Navys he’d requested. He’d reasoned that they would help to keep his eager young cousin safe, and could prove vital in fending off the enemy. Arthur’s letter of thanks, however, had openly extolled the revolvers’ offensive potential, stating that they would surely enable him to perform yet greater feats of daring on the battlefield and thus guarantee him a lion’s share of glory. The lieutenant was absolutely determined to be at the forefront of any action, in the fiercest fighting. That he had appeared to give such recklessness his tacit support brought Edward deep disquiet.

  Colonel Colt had started off again. He was predicting that the cavalry would be the first to take his pistols, followed by the guards’ regiments maybe, and then the rest; adding that he was also secretly confident of interest from the London police, who he thought could be convinced to buy a few ten thousands. ‘Who knows, my lads, p’raps such a purchase would bring some actual order to this goddamn city, eh?’ There was another burst of laughter and the clink of glasses.

  Richards flopped into the chair beside Edward’s, throwing a long arm over its back. ‘Are you quite all right, Lowry?’ he inquired. ‘Only I must say that you look to me like a chap who’s about to reconsider his supper, if you catch my meaning. It’s a look I happen to know rather well.’

  The press agent was enjoying their American feast immensely. There was a decanter of good port at his elbow and a fat, fresh cigar between his teeth – neither of which had cost him a farthing – and he was in a lively company to whom he owed no money whatsoever. He looked well, relatively speaking at least; he’d managed to shave and find a clean coat, and his face bore only a single modest lesion, just below the left eye. His wife had permitted him back into the marital home after a month of exile, which he’d passed mostly in a cheap boarding house in Euston. This reunion with his Mabel, as well as an equally significant reunion with Samuel Colt a few weeks after that, had served to restore him to an approximation of his normal self.

  They had spoken of the incident in the coffee house only once. Richards had sloped into the factory office and casually informed Edward that the man he’d shot was reported to be on the road to recovery. The fellow wouldn’t be contacting the police over the matter either, the press agent had revealed, as he had some pretty compelling reasons of his own for wanting to keep it quiet. And that was all he had to say. He treated Edward rather less acidly than previously, but in every other respect seemed to have put the shooting completely from his mind.

  Edward could not do this. He’d witnessed the result of a moment’s drunken stupidity with a revolver, and had seen the profound fear that the weapon could inspire. He often found himself imagining how much worse it could have been – how many innocent lives might have been claimed by Richards’s haphazard blasting. Yet an inevitable consequence of their work, of the factory at Pimlico, would be to make many more of these guns available to the people of London. And mass-produced Colt revolvers, as he knew only too well, were among the cheapest firearms ever made.

  Richards studied Edward for a second or two. ‘Nothing has actually happened, y’know,’ he said, leaning towards him in confidence. ‘We’re all cheering this bloody war, but it’s quite probable that it won’t even be fought. I needn’t tell you what diplomacy is like. The Turks may still be talked down; the Russians may lose the stomach for it. In a way, it is the perfect situation. The Army will buy to ensure that they are ready to fight, yet the odds are good that they won’t have to – so we acquire our contracts, make our money and no blood is spilled.’ He nodded at Colt, who had concluded his speech, retaken his seat and was applying himself single-mindedly to his bourbon. ‘Old Samuel there wants to make the most of it that he can, naturally, and talk up Great Britain’s imminent war to anyone who’ll listen. But talk is all it is.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Edward muttered doubtfully, rather annoyed that his discomfort with the Colonel’s speech was so obvious.

  The press agent slapped him on the shoulder. ‘That’s the spirit, old boy! You must think of your work for these Americans as an indirect path to your patriotic duty. The Colonel’s guns are the very bloody best, and will certainly speed along a British victory.’ He sucked on his cigar for a moment, remembering what he had just asserted. ‘If we fight, that is, which I think is rather unlikely.’

  Before Richards could add anything more, someone across the table with whom he’d been arguing earlier about an obscure point of horse-racing issued a new challenge to him on the subject of fetlocks, and he leapt back happily into the fray.

  A summons from the other side of the dining room made Edward’s head snap up with instinctive obedience. Colonel Colt stood in the doorway; seeing that he had his secretary’s attention, he nodded towards the corridor, indicating a wish for a private conference. On his feet at once, Edward skirted the dining table, drawing some unfriendly glances from the American staff. One of Noone’s men, feigning inadvertence, slid his chair back into the secretary’s path. Edward sidestepped it coolly and strode from the room.

  The Colonel was at the top of the staircase, blocking it with his bulk, shifting the tobacco plug in his cheek around with his tongue. He looked a little heavier, as if he’d eaten rather well during his sojourn in Connecticut and the long weeks at sea, but those small, hard eyes still shone with purposeful energy. Having settled the business of the Hartford dyke to his satisfaction, it was plain that Colt was now focused entirely upon setting right Jamie’s neglectful reign and putting his London works back on course.

  Edward went before him and awaited his instructions. There had been an unmistakable distance between them since Colt’s return. He was worried that in his conflicted state he might have worn his qualms a little too openly. The Colonel was capable of singular perspicacity, and might well have realised that his secretary’s commitment to the goals of the Colt Company had taken several hard knocks during his absence. Edward had resolved to address this, to show that he remained an effective employee – a professional man before all else. Losing favour with Colonel Colt would help nothing.

  ‘I’ve got us back in with Lawrence Street,’ the Colonel announced flatly. ‘Didn’t take much, in truth. He could see that James’s thick-headedness was his own – and not any wider reflection on the rest of us. He’s trying to win me some time with his master, this Lord Palmerston.’

  Edward nodded, attempting to unravel the various possible meanings here. Colt’s brusque manner seemed to contain an implicit criticism of his failure to keep Street content while he was in America. At the same time, though, he found that he was flattered to be told of this latest development – to have such privileged information shared with him. He felt a stirring of that old excitement, that sense of limitless possibility; and the doubts that had been troubling him during the meal faded from his mind.

  ‘I will ensure that we are ready,’ he said.

  Colt contemplated him for a second, as if reachin
g some unknowable conclusion, and then turned towards the stairs.

  ‘You are leaving us, Colonel?’ Edward asked in surprise.

  ‘Never have more than a couple of drinks with your people, Mr Lowry,’ the gun-maker replied as he started to descend. ‘That there’s a basic rule of business. A fellow might wind up making promises and declarations that he’d later regret.’

  Back in the spring Edward had seen Colt the worse for drink on several occasions. Was he being paid an oblique compliment here – was the Colonel suggesting that he was more than merely another subordinate? Or had he simply forgotten?

  ‘Besides,’ the gun-maker added, ‘I have someone to see – a soldier my idiot brother managed to offend.’

  Edward moved to the edge of the staircase. ‘Shall I accompany you?’

  ‘No, Mr Lowry,’ Colt said curtly, not looking back, ‘that won’t be necessary. You get in there and enjoy the damn dinner. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  And with that he thundered down to the room below. Edward remained on the landing for a few seconds, staring in confusion at the red and green pattern on the rug beneath his boots. He’d just been tested, he was sure of it – drawn in and pushed away at the same time, a tactic intended to knock him off balance. Although undeniably pleased that he’d retained his place at Colonel Colt’s side, he was also ashamed at the speed with which his misgivings about the war and everything else had left his thoughts – at how pathetically eager he still was to do the Colonel’s bidding. Shaking his head, he went back to the dining room, wishing he hadn’t drunk quite so much port.

  A debate was underway around the table.

  ‘Who would’ve thought it, eh, Ben?’ Walter Noone was calling out to Mr Quill. ‘A fourth-generation Yankee boy like you angling for the custom of the goddamn redcoats! Your own father, I believe, fought these John Bull cocksuckers on the streets of Baltimore, and saw the flames rage after they’d put Washington to the torch. What would he say to the work you’re doing now? He’d be so goddamn proud of you, wouldn’t he?’