‘Proddies have reached the Abbey,’ Thady said. ‘They’ll have got that bleedin’ fire going, Pat.’
Slattery backed away from Martin, knocking out his pipe-bowl and starting from the alley. ‘Best get over there double-quick, then. Wouldn’t want to miss the caper, brothers, now would we?’
At first, Martin stayed put. Jack asked if he was coming and he shook his head. He was no longer one of them; that had been made clear enough. Let them wage their impossible battles without his help. He would return to the room in Soho where he’d lodged his wife and child and consider what to do next. But then, in the light of a gas jet out on St Anne’s Street, he noticed that Slattery was carrying himself strangely. Something heavy was concealed beneath his black fustian coat, weighing his wiry frame down on one side. It had to be a revolver. Owen had brought one to the Lamb that evening so that they could all practise loading it – Slattery must have taken the thing from the tavern while Martin and Jack had been chasing after Caroline. Martin swore; there was no telling what the hot-headed fool might end up doing with it. This could make things far worse than they were already. He had to get that pistol back.
The Acre was in uproar, its residents now under steady attack as restless mobs that had splintered from the parade moving along the riverbank came over to confront their Catholic foe. Martin shoved his way through brawls and beatings, ducking volleys of stones, mud-pies and random rubbish. Furious insults were being hurled back and forth; women screamed and spat from windows, and struck out at any who came close. He just managed to keep sight of Slattery and the rest. They were avoiding the worst of the fighting, striding across Orchard Street and past the tall, solid walls that separated the fringes of the rookery from the precincts of Westminster Abbey.
Martin pursued the Mollys out onto the open expanse of Broad Sanctuary, past the Abbey’s pale, soot-streaked towers and blackened stained glass. The enmity of the Acre was left behind as entirely as its cramped, winding lanes – as if it had been another world or a particularly shallow region of hell. Everyone here was concerned only with advancing down Broad Sanctuary to the square at its end. Martin could hear the rumbling chatter of a very large crowd, and the smell of smoke was growing stronger. He came to the church of St Margaret’s, as chalky and ancient-looking as the Abbey but only a fraction of its size, standing next to its vast neighbour like a calf beside its mother. Just past it, around the corner of its façade, was a sight that made him promptly forget the Colt hidden beneath Pat Slattery’s coat.
In the centre of the square, upon a rectangle of muddy grass, was the bonfire, a two-storey pyramid constructed from numberless branches, planks and beams. Atop it was a crown of flame, already leaping six yards high. People were packed in close to this inferno, as if seeking to toast themselves before it. A few among them were darting in closer still, to toss on more fuel or to poke bravely at its glowing heart; and then they were rushing back away again, alarmed by sudden pops of combustion or the crash of a collapsing branch. Around this blaze had sprung up a bustling winter fair, generously furnished with stalls, street performers and musicians, and the odours of roasting and frying mingled with the wood-smoke. The mighty bonfire, a multitude of torches, lanterns and spitting, flare-like fireworks, and several lines of smart iron street lamps all combined to make the square seem like the most brightly lit spot in the whole of London. Were it not for the chill of November and the scattering of dim stars overhead, Martin thought, you could almost pretend that you stood in some cavernous assembly hall rather than the open air.
The crowd was typically metropolitan in its make-up. Martin saw red infantry jackets, trailing whores like gulls behind a fishing boat; a crew of bemused Lascar sailors who’d found their way over from the docks of Limehouse; a clean-collared, well-supervised crocodile from a respectable boarding school being harassed by grubby street children; numerous rowdy, well-oiled parties from every kind of office, shop and factory; and the standard smattering of rascals and adventurers, trying out their tricks on the scores milling around them. Advertising placards nailed to poles stuck up above the hats, bonnets and caps like so many sails on a lake, announcing the usual amazing exhibitions, affordable guest houses and quality goods. One caught Martin’s attention; it was light blue, about five feet by three, with a tolerably accurate drawing of a single-action revolver at its top. Beneath this, in large, plain letters, was painted Colonel Colt’s Repeating Pistols of British Manufacture – Beware Counterfeits and Patent Infringements! There was a paragraph in smaller print trumpeting the virtues of Colt’s revolver and providing the address both of the works by the river and the sales office in Cockspur Street. And under that was a sketch of some horsemen, American cavalry Martin guessed, routing a band of Indian braves, the ground around them carpeted with the dead.
Remembering his purpose, Martin wheeled about, hunting for Slattery. He was easily found; the Mollys were locked in discussion with another, far larger gang, Irish navvies it looked like, over by the white wall of St Margaret’s. Their faces were grim; they were not there to celebrate. All of them started along the side of the church, in the direction of the river. Something was going to happen. Martin followed as quickly as he could, barging through a game of dice. Before him now was the sturdy fence of the Parliament site, lined with blue-coated policemen. He could see the roofs of the small hamlet of temporary wooden structures that clustered around the base of the building; and beyond them, receding into shadow, the unfinished palace itself. Much of the crazy, eye-crossing decoration was lost to the gloom, leaving only the impression of a tight grid of stone spanning its immense surface – and those narrow windows, more than he could possibly count, each one reflecting an orange shard of firelight. At the northern end was the hollow stump of what would one day be the clock tower, already over a hundred feet tall, with a lifting engine squatting atop it like an iron spider crawling from a drainpipe.
Martin was drawing close to the Mollys and their friends when a clamour of enthusiasm spread across the entire square. The figure of the Guy, the thwarted Catholic revolutionary still so hated by these Protestants, appeared from the direction of Millbank, and was borne past the new Parliament to a deafening chorus of jeers. A chant started over at the mouth of the Old Palace Yard and was soon taken up by all: Guy, Guy, Guy, poke him in the eye, put him on the bonfire and there let him die!
‘Steady, now, brothers,’ Slattery was saying, ‘steady…’
The Guy had a long boat-hook inserted under each of his arms and was lifted high into the air, at which the chanting grew louder and faster; slowly, he floated over the crowd to his pyre and was balanced at its summit. The flames claimed him at once, wrapping around him ravenously. Two minutes later Guy Fawkes was all but gone.
‘The Holy Father!’ someone yelled – was it Slattery? ‘They’re going to burn the Holy Father!’
There was a great push forward, causing many to fall; Martin staggered, losing his balance. As he struggled to recover, he glimpsed a hideous, grinning model of the Pope, coming into the square from the same direction as the Guy. Pulling himself upright, he stared over disbelievingly at this horrible and deliberate slur upon his religion – the dearly held religion of his parents and sisters. Irish hands were already pulling at its gown, making it slump to one side and the striped hat topple from its head. Martin felt the cheerful mood of the people around him darken swiftly at this disruption of their festivities. A ring of determined defenders closed around the fake Pope, heaving back the press of Irishmen, set on preserving him for the bonfire. Blows were traded; women shrieked; large numbers both fled the brawl and hurried towards it.
Standing in the midst of it all, Martin experienced something unforeseen: a bright flash of exhilaration. He wanted to be there. Pitching in eagerly, he made for the Pope, thinking that he would see this insult to his people ground into the dirt, along with any who tried to stop him. For the first time in many days he heard the voice of Molly Maguire, hoarse with passion, urging him on; he could
feel her hovering above the swell of bodies like a tattered kite, guiding him with her gaze. To his left, Thady Rourke went down, a man clinging to his back. Martin was at his side in seconds, kicking off his attacker. Then he was back at the Pope, a stout stick in his hands, swiping at the kneecaps of one of its bearers. This did the job – down came that revolting form, falling into a jumble of stuffed sacks and outsized autumn vegetables. Molly was chuckling happily, a sound like a handful of rusty tacks jangling together in a jar; Martin looked around, grinning, wanting to share his victory. Through the struggling, swearing crowd he caught sight of Pat Slattery, sprawled awkwardly in the mud. His face was smeared with blood, his black coat all but torn from his back. Molly’s mirth stopped dead. Sensing disaster, Martin ran straight over and started helping him to his feet.
Jack was there too, a moment later. ‘Knew you’d come wi’ us, Mart,’ he muttered. ‘Knew it.’
They got Slattery to the high pavement next to St Margaret’s. His nose had been broken again, and badly. Jack peeled back his bloody shirt; someone had stamped on his shoulder so hard that the curve of a boot-heel had been cut into his flesh.
‘The gun,’ he panted. ‘They swiped it.’
Martin looked at Jack. ‘Who, Pat? Did ye see?’
Slattery shook his head, angry and ashamed; he didn’t want to say. ‘Whipped it from under me coat, he did, easy as ye damn well please. The cunt thanked me for it afore he lammed into me – can you believe that?’ He tried to touch his burst, crooked nose but the pain was too much; he tore the hand away in disgust. ‘Damn it all, he was a bleedin’ Yankee!’
It had been Noone. There could be no doubt of it. The method was his: the careful selection of the moment, the sudden, violent action, the deliberate sowing of fear and confusion among his stunned victims. Martin had been certain that those tales of massacre and child-killing that Noone had spun at the Yankee dinner had been both an attempt to rattle him and a clear signal that the watchman was preparing to strike. He’d tried to warn Slattery about this in the Lamb, but he hadn’t wanted to hear it.
‘That Orange bastard is nothing to us, Martin,’ he’d snapped. ‘Nothing. He ain’t got the brains, he ain’t got the heart, and he ain’t got the bleedin’ strength neither. The Molly Maguires ain’t concerned, ye hear?’
And yet now Slattery was a battered mess, one of their three Navys was lost and the Mollys were properly spooked. It was obvious that Noone had been watching them closely, probably since the ejection of Slattery and the rest from the works, following them throughout the city with a practised eye. As he’d stormed back along Piccadilly towards the circus, with Mr Quill chasing behind him calling out some more of his well-meaning words, Martin had wondered how the devil Noone had heard about baby Michael – for he surely had, with his pointed talk of infants being left for wolves and so forth. Here was the answer. The spying watchman had made it his business to learn everything about them.
Martin knew that he could never return to the Colt works now. This was a bitter realisation. Noone would be on him the instant he passed through the gates, dragging him around the yard by his hair most likely, seeking to humiliate Mr Quill with the capture of a thief whose ejection he had prevented the first time around – whose good character he had vouched for. Not, of course, that his disappearance would protect Quill at all. The watchman would enjoy making the details of Martin’s duplicity public, and would certainly stress the vital role played by the foolish, trusting chief engineer. It might even end up costing Quill his position with Colt. He would soon have very good reason to curse the name of Martin Rea.
After setting Slattery down on a pallet in the upstairs room, the Irishmen held an urgent meeting in the bar of the Holy Lamb. They agreed that the two remaining revolvers should be separated, to lessen their chance of discovery by Colt’s men. Owen produced them; young Joe took one, saying that he would hide it in his uncle’s butcher’s shop on Golden Lane, over in the East End. He walked from the tavern and vanished without trace. Neither man nor gun was ever seen again.
They gathered in the Lamb a couple of days later. Slattery was up from his sick-bed, heavily bandaged, grey-skinned and drinking hard. He had a simple explanation for this latest setback.
‘The bugger’s fled,’ he said. ‘Pawned the weapon and used the coin to get hisself as far from London as he can. Lost his damn nerve, ain’t he, the bleedin’ coward.’
The others weren’t so sure and started to murmur uneasily, suspecting that this was more of Walter Noone’s handiwork.
‘Now yous listen to me,’ Slattery shouted, striking the bar. ‘Yous are Molly’s lads, and you’ll do her biddin’. Lord John Russell will still die at our hands, and in the same manner as before. It can still be done.’
‘How, then?’ demanded Martin, his patience gone. ‘I’ve no place in the factory. I can’t find me sister-in-law anywhere – she sure as hell ain’t at Colt no more. How we going to get your bleedin’ guns, Slattery?’
‘Oh, we’ll get them, don’t you worry. And what’s more, we’ll give this jumped-up Yankee a bit o’ bleedin’ punishment for sending his men out after us. D’ye hear me? We’ll have our revenge on Colonel Colt for what he done. That’s right, brothers – Molly’s got us a new plan.’
Martin glared balefully at the bar’s scratched surface. He’d come to the Lamb that night hoping to hear the scheme abandoned, and escape routes discussed; he saw now that he really should have known better. Slattery’s pride had taken as sound a beating as his body, and he was bent on a reckless gesture. It was a sure bet that this new plan would involve even more mortal danger than the first.
‘Enough,’ he announced angrily, rising from his stool. ‘I’m leaving. It’s over, Slattery. There’s nothing more that can be done here. This bastard Noone is after us, and I’ve a wife and child to consider.’
Arriving back in Soho after the unholy chaos of Bonfire Night, Martin had found Amy asleep on the floor with Katie whimpering on her breast, an empty gin-bottle at her side. He’d woken her up and told her that it was over – that the thefts had been discovered. Caroline had already done the sensible thing, he’d said, and made herself scarce; and they would be following her as soon as he’d squared things with his friends. She’d nodded blearily, worried for her sister but trusting Martin, and clearly relieved to hear that they would be departing London at last, whatever the circumstances. He’d put them both to bed, feeling a familiar queasiness at his own half-truths and omissions. At least, he’d thought, we’ll soon be free of all this.
Thady stepped forward, blocking his path to the tavern door. Martin looked around; the Mollys were drawing in, ready to stop him going. Even Jack, dear old Jack who he’d hoped might want to come with him, seemed set to wrestle him to the ground.
Grunting with discomfort, Slattery heaved his aching carcass over from the bar. ‘Then consider them, Martin,’ he hissed. ‘We’d certainly catch you if you tried to run out on us now. We know you, remember. We know the routes you’d take, the hiding places you’d pick. A woman and an infant really slow a fellow down as well. You wouldn’t stand a chance – and by the Holy Mother, there’d be bleedin’ consequences for that sort of betrayal.’ He jabbed an angry finger in Martin’s face, shaking loose the blood-encrusted dressing stuck over his nose. ‘We’ll let you go when we have our pistols and are set to knock down Lord John, and not a second before. You might not be in that Colt’s factory no longer, but there’s plenty else you can do for us.’ Slattery sucked in some air with a rasping snort and then spat a thumb-sized gobbet of blood and mucus onto the sawdust floor. ‘Your debt to Molly Maguire ain’t paid yet, pal, not by a good bleedin’ distance.’
9
‘Well, Mr Noone,’ Sam said, rising from his chair, ‘what d’you have to tell me? Good news, I take it? Quickly, man, I’ve got to be off.’
He looked over at the watchman. The mad mutt appeared distinctly pleased with himself; the thin little cracks of his eyes were glinting in the winter
light, hard as twice-baked biscuit. Heavens, thought Sam, what mayhem and agony must he have inflicted?
‘I’ve found the thieves, Colonel. Motherfucking Gaels – that man of Ben Quill’s, the one I tried to throw out back in the spring, and a female relation of his from the packing room. There’s a gang, too, over in the Westminster rookery. Each and every one of ‘em dumb as carthorses.’
Sam scooped up his hat. ‘I don’t know about that, Mr Noone. They got a bunch of my guns out of this factory, and from right under your goddamn nose. How many was it – five? Did you get ‘em all back?’
Noone shifted his weight from foot to foot, a good deal of his satisfaction departing. ‘Three of ‘em, yes. One was disposed of by the girl from the packing room – she panicked once she realised we was on to her and got rid of it somewhere. They still have one.’ He looked over stiffly at the office’s circular window. ‘We’ll recover it soon enough.’
‘See that you do. I needn’t remind you, Mr Noone, just how important it is that this particular pistol don’t fall into the clutches of any kind of British official. All we need is for these Irish fools to try a spot of robbery with the thing, and get caught – and we might as well pack this whole place right up and go back to Hartford.’
‘Won’t happen.’ The watchman’s head swivelled back around. There was absolute certainty in his voice; he crossed his callused hands in front of him. ‘I’ll stop these fuckers, Colonel. I’ll stop ‘em dead.’
Sam flattened his hair and fitted on the hat. ‘Don’t you go getting carried away here, Mr Noone,’ he warned. ‘These ain’t your pomo Indians, y’hear? The Colt Company don’t need the kind of attention that a massacre of Irishmen would bring. It really don’t.’
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