Chewing hard, the gun-maker fixed his gaze on the Navy that lay on the table before him, trying to halt the turning of his temper by running his eye over its perfectly fashioned lines. An invitation to dine was extended. Sam wasn’t inclined to accept at first, but the expression on Street’s face made him reconsider – the purpose of this meeting, it seemed to say, has not yet been attained. Leaning around in his chair, the gun-maker instructed Mr Lowry to return to the factory and see to the close of the day’s business.
It was fine enough fare, some woody-tasting game-birds followed by baked turbot and a rich macaroni pudding; Sam got the servant to leave him the bourbon bottle, deciding that he would make the best of the situation. There was no sign of a wife, or indeed women of any kind. The minister simply stated that Lady Palmerston was out of town visiting a friend, and called for another bottle of Bordeaux. As they ate, their host regaled them with the story of his latest ingenious play in the Commons, in which he outsmarted his rivals (who, it seemed, were legion) and saw his own murky political ends achieved. Here was a man, Sam mused, who revelled in cunning and subterfuge at the highest levels – Lawrence Street’s true master. This dinner would not be innocent. Something was up.
At some advanced point the discussion moved on to America, specifically the Kansas-Nebraska Act that was just about to be introduced to Congress. Sam had heard much about this over the summer. Slave-owners and antislavery abolitionists were both pouring into the same western regions, and President Franklin Pierce, in an ill-conceived attempt to calm the situation, was going formally to create the territories of Kansas and Nebraska, and then allow the residents to vote on whether or not they would have slaves there. This potentially meant the expansion of America’s slave ownership; everyone Sam had spoken to in New York and Connecticut was staunchly opposed to the Act, considering it a presidential sop to the slavers made by an openly pro-Southern Democrat, a doughface of the weakest kind.
Palmerston was very interested in this affair; he’d obviously been following it closely, and had in fact given it a good deal more thought than Sam had himself. ‘Your President is storing up trouble there, Colonel, you mark my words. The people in these new states will not separate themselves neatly, in accordance with some unseen celestial plan. There will be violence, bloodshed, conflict even – in the western territories, yes, but also in America at large. I fear that the evil of slavery is set to bring your young nation to a very dismal head.’
Street spoke up from the end of the dining table. ‘Surely, Colonel, as a proud Connecticut Yankee, you are as fierce an opponent of slavery as any man in this room?’
Sam sat back, frowning, swilling the bourbon around in his glass. The pious tone of these Englishmen was annoying him; he felt that they were passing judgement on something they could never hope to understand. ‘I’ve seen the South,’ he answered slowly. ‘I sailed along the Ohio River in the thirties, and I’ve spent some time in New Orleans. And I have to admit that slavery is a deeply wrong-headed system.’
‘Hear, hear!’ hollered Palmerston, banging the tabletop.
‘Bravo,’ said Street, rather more quietly.
‘To my mind,’ the gun-maker went on, ‘it is above all very wasteful and inefficient. The blacks are ignorant and idle beyond belief, and they do nothing well. And the whites, so used to being slave-masters, have forgotten how to perform even the smallest service for themselves. The result is a society where every meal is lukewarm, every bed unmade, every shirt but half-washed and burned by the goddamn iron.’
There was an uncertain pause.
‘You favour emancipation, though,’ Street said. ‘Surely.’
‘More than that,’ Sam came back, ‘I believe that every Negro in the American states should be returned to the African lands from which he was originally taken, without delay. The southern states would improve beyond measure if they had decent workers toiling for a decent daily wage. And I can tell you, gentlemen, that could such a thing be arranged, there wouldn’t be a single plantation owner who’d oppose it.’ He knocked back his whiskey, barely feeling it pass down his throat. ‘But it’s impossible, sadly; there’s already far too many of ‘em. And I’m told they breed like goddamn rats.’
The Englishmen were looking at each other over their half-filled wine glasses. Someone, one of the aides, coughed.
‘At any rate,’ pronounced Lord Palmerston after a couple of seconds, ‘whichever way it all proceeds will be favourable for you, eh, Colonel? Ah, the great comfort that must reside in manufacturing weapons for one’s livelihood! No danger at all of the market for your worthy productions drying up, now is there?’
He gave Sam that smile again, the inside of his taut upper lip blackened by red wine. Sam looked back at him, feeling adversarial and pretty goddamn drunk. He couldn’t make this old bastard out. Was he mocking Sam, or the divided people of America, or both? Or neither?
The gun-maker picked up the bourbon bottle. ‘As I often have cause to remark, Mister Palmerston,’ he snarled, drawing out the stopper, ‘the Colt revolver is a peacemaker. Brought to a dispute of any size, in any part of the world, by any man, it will make the goddamn peace. You can take that as the seller’s guarantee.’
This bold claim brought Sam’s gift of pistols back to the minister’s mind, and he proposed that they go out into his garden right then to shoot off a few bullets. Sam consented without really thinking, and lurched through the mansion’s luxury out into the darkness. The evening, he realised, had slipped past him entirely; it was night, full and proper, black as the bottom of a pond. He was aware that it must be cold as the breath was coming out of their little party like rushes of steam, but he hardly felt it. The garden was seriously big, far more space than should rightfully be reserved for one man in the heart of the largest city on earth. Two lanterns had been set against the base of a wall, and for a second Sam thought that they were to serve as the targets; then he saw the half-dozen old boots arranged in a line between them. Someone had loaded one of the pistols, and by general consensus it was offered to Sam.
‘Show us how it is done, Colonel!’ they cried.
Sam refused, pushing his trembling hands deep into the pockets of his coat, which some obliging flunky had brought over and helped him into. He found himself longing for the rocking of a railway carriage, for the swell of the sea against a steam-ship’s hull; for the sweet freedom of travel.
The company proved insistent. ‘Come, sir,’ urged Palmerston. ‘Why, a revolver-shooting lesson from Colonel Samuel Colt is akin to instruction in music from Charles Hallé – or in sculpture from the immortal Buonarroti! Do not deny us, I beg you!’
The gun-maker shook his head, turning to spit his plug away into some bushes. ‘I don’t shoot at targets,’ he said firmly. ‘Not ever.’
After a short, quizzical silence, the minister gestured for the pistol to be given to him instead, briefly weighing it in his hand before taking aim with offhand confidence. His first shot sounded rather muted to Sam, a dry pop more than a bang; then a split-second later it echoed back from somewhere with its volume doubled, setting several distant dogs off into frenzied peals of barking. The old fellow fiddled with the hammer and fired again. One of the boots spun and flapped like a leathery bird, prompting a round of huzzahs – the loudest of which came from the shooter himself. Curtains started to open in houses all around the garden, and faces both irate and fearful peeped out. Palmerston glanced up at them with clear satisfaction before loosing the remaining four shots in a deliberate, emphatic rhythm. Only one hit home, shearing off a toecap before striking the brickwork behind.
Sam was caught in the cloud of powder-smoke, and a mighty sneeze ripped through him, nearly doubling him over. As he recovered, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, he heard a visitor being announced – Lord John Russell, no less, another senior member of Lord Aberdeen’s cabinet. Sam had courted this fellow in the past, back when he’d been prime minister, yet his advances had met with complete indifference. Russell’
s current position – Leader of the House – was a useless one as far as Sam was concerned, and he resolved to leave. He’d had his fill of these John Bull politicians for one night, quite frankly, and desired only the peace and solitude of his rooms.
Palmerston passed the smoking revolver to a lackey, proclaiming the experience great fun. Rubbing his hands together, he turned to meet his latest caller. Russell had been brought straight through from the hall and was still in top hat and greatcoat. His face was fine-boned, aristocratic, almost feminine; Palmerston looked like a positive brute beside him, which was no mean feat. He, too, was old and strikingly small, but wizened rather than bandy, and brooding where his colleague was brash. It emerged that he’d come straight from Parliament, and was there to discuss what was described only as ‘reform’. Looking to the revolver, he said that he’d heard the gunfire out on Carlton Gardens, and had simply assumed that Palmerston had taken to using firearms on his beleaguered servants – ‘as it is surely the next natural step’.
The Home Secretary introduced Sam with great fanfare, going on to provide an enthused, rose-hued description of an afternoon-long discussion of production methods and pricing that had culminated in a little practical demonstration.
‘All fascinating, fascinating stuff, Russell,’ he boomed. ‘The shape of the future, I tell you.’
Russell nodded, feigning a casual interest, plainly suspicious. These two were seasoned political operators and had clearly been sparring against one another for years. Deciding to leave them to it, Sam bade them both a curt goodnight, saying that the next day was set to be a damnably busy one. Palmerston didn’t try to convince him to stay longer, but his farewell was warm; somewhat warmer, in fact, than their inconclusive meeting seemed to warrant. Sam strode back through the house in a state of whiskey-blasted irascibility, feeling as if he’d just been played for a fool, paraded like a chieftain from a savage land.
Footsteps trotted up behind him, and a hand was laid on his forearm on its backward swing. It was Street. ‘A word, Colonel,’ he said quickly.
Sam didn’t stop. ‘My time is valuable, Mr Street – I have told you that before, haven’t I? What the devil was all that about? Kansas? Slavery, for God’s sake? I don’t like being manipulated. I won’t damn well stand for it. There are plenty of other nations that want my arms. Why, the Emperor of France is –’ Steady now, Samuel, warned a cool, sober voice from somewhere inside him; watch your goddamn tongue. ‘The simple truth of it is that I don’t have the leisure to stand about and be gulled by old Jeremy Diddler in there, with his curious hair and his ivory teeth and his miserable goddamn condescension! And so good night to you, Mr Street!’
Reaching the front door some seconds before the startled footman, Sam was forced to wait while his hat was fetched. Street seized the opportunity, delivering his argument with the speed and precision of a master chef slicing up an onion.
‘He is using you, yes, but generous recompense will come. He was showing you – and Lord Russell there – that he is your friend. Lord Palmerston will not be in the Home Office forever, Colonel. He has greater things in mind. The government is desperately weak, and all this prevarication and delay over Russia is only making it look weaker. Our political opponents are too scattered and irresolute to mount any kind of challenge. It is a good time for a strong figure – a popular figure, who has shown nerve and decisiveness from the start.’ The hat arrived; Street managed to meet Sam’s eye as he pulled it on. ‘And Colonel, it is an exceedingly good time to have such a figure as your friend.’
Sam scowled and stepped outside. ‘We’ll see about that, Mr Street, won’t we,’ he said, and raised his arm to summon to his coachman.
PART THREE
The Devil’s Acre
1
The Exchequer on Bridge Street was the sort of inexpensive chop-house you could be done with in less than a quarter-hour. It was heaving with parliamentary types, aides, clerks and newspapermen for the most part. Circular tables were arranged across the main room like lilies on a pond, the parties dining upon them seated so closely together that they seemed in many places to overlap. Edward immediately felt rather out of his element, but was glad of the Exchequer’s warmth after the chill fog that drifted about New Palace Yard. He removed his gloves and peered around in the low gaslight; spotting Saul Graff’s stooped shoulders away in a corner booth, he signalled his intentions to the head waiter and started to edge over to his friend.
One word hung above the tables, shaping itself from the diners’ cigar smoke in letters three feet high: Sinope. An Ottoman harbour on the Black Sea, it had been the site of the first major clash between Russia and Turkey, reported in the British press that morning. A Turkish flotilla carrying reinforcements and supplies had been sheltering there when a surprise attack was launched by a Russian squadron sailing out from Sebastopol. The Turkish ships had been blown to timber in under an hour, almost without resistance, and fires had spread to the shore; thousands of sailors and townspeople were believed to have perished. The mood in the Exchequer was one of condemnation, of outrage at a dastardly attack by the Tsar’s men – and anticipation of British action, especially as a fleet under Admiral Dundas was ready and waiting at Constantinople.
Opposite Graff sat the Honourable Simon Bannan, his friend’s employer, hunched over a spread of newspapers with a monocle jammed in his right eye and a black beer bottle at his elbow. The radical MP was a solid block of a man with a short-cropped grey beard and an air of common sense affronted. The member for Limerick and a minor official on the Board of Trade, he’d been convinced to join Aberdeen’s coalition by Sir William Molesworth, leader of the radicals aligned to the Prime Minister, on the promise of wide-ranging political reform. Although proudly Irish, Bannan took care to distance himself from the outspoken nationalism of the Commons’ so-called ‘Irish Brigade’. He took no open stance on the Home Rule question and seldom made an issue of his religion, even sitting stoically through Lord John Russell’s frequent anti-Catholic statements in the House.
‘The problem with radicals,’ Graff had once said, ‘and Irish radicals in particular, is that they are an army of captains. Any sense of a unified cause is soon sacrificed to personal glory. But not with Mr Bannan – he’s prepared to put every other matter aside to bring about the betterment of the system at large. Dash it all, he even had no qualms about employing me, an Israelite not five years from his baptismal font, as his confidential aide.’
Edward sat himself next to Saul, who introduced him to Mr Bannan. The Honourable Member didn’t so much as look up from his papers.
‘They are calling it a massacre,’ he declared in a clipped, educated brogue. ‘Two nations are at war. Their navies fight a battle, one wins a decisive victory over the other – and they call it a massacre. People die in war. Did they honestly not realise that this was the case when they were calling for it so enthusiastically?’
‘An easy enough thing to overlook, I suppose,’ murmured Saul.
‘It’s all too clear what will happen now, Mr Graff. Pam and his supporters will call the affair a stain on British honour or some other canting nonsense – urge that Dundas steam into the Black Sea straight away to protect poor Turkey from further attack. They have a sanguinary incident to cite, and they won’t stop citing it. You just watch.’ Bannan sighed, turning the page. His brow twitched in Edward’s direction. ‘So you are the Colt fellow. Mr Graff tells me that you have interesting news concerning your master.’
‘Indeed I have, sir.’ Edward took off his hat. ‘Last week the Colonel was received at Carlton Gardens. He was granted a lengthy personal audience with the Home Secretary. Lawrence Street was present also, and there was talk of business – well, they were dancing around it, at any rate. Some manner of understanding is certainly in place.’
This got Bannan’s attention. He shifted back on his bench, taking out his monocle, frowning in thought.
Saul’s expression was quizzical. ‘Seems a damned strange connection f
or Pam to be making at this point, don’t it? I mean, he can certainly be of great help to Colt, but what’s in it for him?’
‘Oh, it’s an arrangement of mutual benefit,’ Bannan said. ‘We can be quite sure of that. It is subtle, a small part of a larger plan – an eye-catching component of Lord Palmerston’s continued machinations.’ He nodded out at the customers of the Exchequer. ‘Word will go around that the two of them have spoken, that they are on friendly terms. Pam’ll make sure it seeps out somehow. It will add to the public’s impression that he is the only one in the cabinet thinking about what the British Army will need if we go to war. The contrast between him and the Prime Minister will seem greater than ever. Pam is scoping out resources, they will say – trying to find ways to give our brave soldiers an edge over the Russian Bear.’
‘But why on earth is Lord Palmerston so set on waging war?’ Edward asked.
The Honourable Member began to fold away his newspapers. ‘It plays well in the street, Mr Lowry – Christ Almighty, in this place too. Stout-hearted Britons all, rallying behind plucky Pam! Public opinion has a rare power, y’see, and our noble lord has become a dab hand at harnessing it. This business at Sinope will have him positively jumping with joy – even as he prepares to deliver his denunciation and yet another call to arms.’
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