The Devil’s Acre. Matthew Plampin

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СКАЧАТЬ suchlike, which would have given many thousands o’ Irishmen an honest living wage, and presented them instead with a charity soup so thin it wouldn’t sustain a bleedin’ farm cat.’ His voice had begun to buckle, his rage twisting him up into a bitter ball. ‘That could not overcome his bigot’s hatred of the Catholic Irish even as he was given the power of life and death over us – that chose to let us die!’

      The Molly Maguires had nodded, a couple growling their agreement.

      ‘I’ve a name for you, brothers,’ Slattery had continued. ‘Daniel M’Naghten. Ten years ago this brave Celt went after Sir Robert Peel with a pair of flintlock pistols. He chose poorly – the man he shot was only Peel’s private secretary, and he was brought down by the crushers before he could load another bullet. Well, thanks to the Yankee Colt, this sad result can be avoided by us. We’ll be sure of our man – sure of his much-deserved death. And we’ll fight our way out as well. All we need are a couple o’ dozen of these repeating arms.’

      Now, just over a fortnight later, the Mollys were gathered in Colonel Colt’s engine room, being led by Mr Quill in a second cheer, and a third, as he kept on banging away with his wrench. After a minute or so of this, Stickney intervened. Martin thought him a bad-tempered bastard, and a bully as well; he frowned a little at the sound of the foreman’s voice.

      ‘Calm yourself, Ben, for God’s sake,’ he shouted over the engine, stopping Quill’s arm as it was being raised for yet another blow. ‘We’re still some distance from our best. We could be getting thirty-five horses from this thing, and it’s giving us eighteen at the very most.’

      Mr Quill, red-cheeked and exuberant, regarded the foreman with something close to pity. ‘Gage, if there were another seasoned Colt engineer within a thousand miles of where we’re standing then, yes, I confess that it might be possible to wring some more life out of this here contraption. But look around you, friend! The London factory is working! We can make a goddamn gun!’

      ‘Full production’s a good way off,’ Stickney countered. ‘A distant prospect.’

      Mr Quill would hear no more. ‘The Colonel wants a London revolver, as soon as it can be made, and we’ve put this within reach. Sure, our work ain’t done, Gage, but when is it ever?’

      Having said this, the chief engineer threw open the valves, releasing a deafening flood of steam from the charging engine. With Martin’s help he set about disengaging the pulleys from the cylinder. Once this was complete and the engine had finished its steady, rhythmic deceleration, he proposed that the company head off for a celebratory drink in the Eagle. The sulking Mr Stickney declined, saying he had letters to write and stalking away into the factory. The Mollys agreed readily enough, though, Pat included. Together, they headed for the washroom, recently established in the warehouse across the yard.

      Mr Noone was standing outside the factory’s sliding door, smoking a cigar. He looked at first glance like a soldier, a grizzled cove with a private, unfriendly air about him. Mr Quill, open-hearted as always, invited the watchman to come along with them, but after taking a glance at the engineer’s companions he refused. This was to be expected. Whereas most of the American mechanics and overseers viewed the London recruits with varying degrees of contempt or indifference, Noone saw them as nothing less than the enemy, seeming to believe that the single greatest threat to the factory under his guard came from within. Martin thought this uncommonly quick. He was pretty certain that Noone had nothing on him and his brothers, but he’d spread the word that the watchman was someone the Mollys should keep a close eye on.

      Mr Quill continued on towards the warehouse, peeling off his filthy apron. ‘Another time, p’raps,’ he muttered.

      

      The Spread Eagle stood not twenty yards from the river’s edge, on one of the few stretches of solid embankment that the City Corporation had seen fit to construct. It was a working man’s tavern, drawing custom from the Colt factory, the Pimlico gasworks and every other site of industry along the Lambeth Reach. However, the main body of regulars came from one place only: the vast construction yard of Thomas Cubitt, the man who was building up Pimlico from nothing, street by street and square by square. These masons, labourers and joiners had put up the Eagle itself not two years previously. Now they stood about the bar and slouched in the booths, smoking, joking and arguing as they took their refreshment. This tavern was very different to the flash houses and tumbledown gambling dens that the Mollys frequented back in the Devil’s Acre, and Martin liked it all the more for this. He savoured the newness of the place, the evenness of its construction, from the gleaming brass of the pumps and fittings to the smooth, level surface of the bar. As yet it was untouched by the London rot that crawled out of the Thames and seeped slowly into everything. You could still smell the river, of course – a window had not been made that could shut that out – but amid the welcome odours of tobacco, honest sweat and fresh beer, it was easily endured.

      His brothers didn’t agree, and drifted away after only a drink or two, to Mr Quill’s very vocal disappointment. Martin remained, though, thinking that his being on the right side of the chief engineer could well prove a boon to Molly’s cause. Amy wouldn’t like this one bit – she’d be worn out and cross, the babies would be screaming, and strife would surely be waiting for him when he returned to the Devil’s Acre – but for now, Molly Maguire had to come first. He stayed where he was, leaning across the bar to order another pot of dog’s-nose for him and Mr Quill. The two men drank deep, shivering a little at the keen edge the gin gave the beer, and refilled their pipes.

      ‘You’ll do well at Colt, Mart,’ said Mr Quill wisely, putting a match to his bowl and then passing it to Martin. ‘I feel it – Christ, I guarantee it.’

      This was said at least once a day, and often more. Martin assumed a humble smile. ‘Ah, I’m nothin’ much.’

      Mr Quill shook his head, puffing out smoke. ‘You have a fine mind – an engineering mind. I see it. The Colonel sees it.’ He took the pipe from his mouth and pointed at Martin with its well-chewed stem. ‘Many of those let in through Colt’s doors in the past weeks will be with us for a few months only. But you’re with us for the duration, Mart. I can tell.’

      Turning around, Martin swallowed more of his drink and took a hard drag on his pipe. ‘I do feel my confidence growing some, Mr Quill, I will admit.’

      Quill raised his arm, the sleeve of his canvas jacket pulling back; for an instant Martin could see the diamond-shaped head of a serpent etched on the underside of the engineer’s wrist, its forked tongue licking at his palm. Then he brought his hand down emphatically against the bar’s top.

      ‘Exactly,’ he declared. ‘That’s it exactly. Confidence. All else will follow, Mart. Take my case. I started out in the engine room of a Collins steamer, criss-crossing the goddamn Atlantic three times a month. Now I’m one of Colonel Colt’s senior engineers, making upwards of five dollars a day. This is what an ordinary fellow can achieve if he puts his mind to it.’

      Martin nodded. ‘Aye, I see it, Mr Quill, honest I do. This post I have with you, well…’ He let his voice trail off. ‘It is far beyond anything else that a Roscommon lad such as meself might hope for in this wretched Saxon city.’

      There was sympathy in Quill’s round, ruddy face as he sucked reflectively on his pipe. ‘Well, Mart, there are no such barriers in America. None of these stale old hatreds. It’s a land where a man can live without fear of intrusion or interference. It’s the place for men like us, and by God, once the government of this mouldy old country has finally seen sense and made us both rich, I shall show it to you.’ He grinned, slapped Martin on the shoulder and then drank down a good deal of his dog’s-nose in one pull.

      Martin СКАЧАТЬ