went outside. Sam welcomed the evening’s chill; it felt like fresh freedom after the stifling ordeals of the embassy. He left the surtout unbuttoned as he descended to the pavement of Grosvenor Square.
Street had stopped at the top of the steps. He was shaking his head. ‘Forgive me, Colonel, but I must say that such a course would be a poor use of your time. There are others of equal standing and influence who have a true interest in your endeavours. They see the potential of your factory and your weapons, and the advantages they offer over anything already produced in this country – over the pistols of Mr Adams, say. They would have you succeed here, supplying our forces with all the revolvers you could manufacture. Don’t take any further trouble with Clarendon and his ilk.’
Sam realised then that Street was at the ambassadorial residence that evening with the express purpose of meeting with him and having this talk. He was a proxy, most likely; a plan of some sort was being put into motion. ‘By thunder, Mr Street, who are these people?’ he exclaimed. ‘And how do they propose that this is to be achieved?’
A faint shadow of amusement passed over Street’s features. ‘First of all, we need your factory to work properly. The main engine, I hear, is underpowered, and causing the machinery to drag most terribly.’
Sam frowned. His orders were that no one outside the Colt Company was to be told of the factory’s troubles, but word had obviously leaked out. He opened his mouth to dispute Street’s confident assessment, but said nothing. The man was utterly sure of his information – and furthermore, it was correct. This is a devious critter indeed, the gun-maker thought. He’s trying to unbalance me, to set me on the back foot so that I will fall more easily into his wider scheme.
‘Once the factory is running your friends can help you,’ Street continued. ‘Commodore Hastings upstairs, for instance, and also those to whom I have already alluded. All will be in a better position to make your case, and at the very highest levels.’
‘Who the devil are these men, these mysterious friends of mine?’ Sam demanded. ‘This cloak-and-dagger horseshit don’t butter no parsnips with me, Mr Street! I will know, damn it, or I will forget we’ve ever met!’
The little blond fellow crossed his arms, taking in the dark square, unmoved by Sam’s show of anger. ‘May I ask you a question, Colonel?’
Sam glanced up at the embassy windows. Someone was looking out at them; they pulled back abruptly. He gestured his assent.
‘Why did you decide to establish your factory in London? Why not Paris, or Berlin, or Amsterdam?’
Rather impatiently, Sam began to reel off the list of reasons for his choice – the reputation he had acquired at the Great Exhibition, the frequent steamers crossing between New York and Liverpool, the common tongue that meant his engineers could quickly train up new operatives – when Street stopped him.
‘Was it not because of the bond that you feel between my country and your own? The powerful sense that we are brethren, sprung from the same Anglo-Saxon stock, not only speaking the same language, as you say, but possessing the same enlightened feelings – the same civilising impulse? Did you not wish specifically to endow Great Britain’s armed forces with the spectacular advantage of your revolver?’
Colt considered this for a moment. He could see the angle, and it was a damn sharp one. ‘I…was conscious of such a bond, yes – an Anglo-Saxon bond, exactly as you describe it.’ He felt himself warming to the theme. ‘The Colt Company is in the process of taking on English hands as we speak. It has always been my goal, Mr Street, to give this venture of mine a transatlantic character. Why, two of my closest London employees, my personal secretary and my press agent, are Englishmen, taken on for their knowledge of how things are over here.’
Street seemed to approve of all this. ‘You must repeat these sentiments often, Colonel, and loudly. It will detract from those who cite your nationality as the primary reason to reject your inventions – and they will remain our most tenacious opponents, I promise you.’
This unaccountable man then looked back briefly at the embassy doors, which were being held ajar for him; he’d got what he wanted from Sam and was about to go back inside. He came halfway down the steps, jerking along in that peculiar way of his, and extended his hand. Sam went back up to meet him and they shook firmly.
‘Know that you have your London allies,’ Street said, producing a card and laying it across Sam’s palm. ‘We shall speak again when your cause is more advanced. Good night to you, Colonel.’
The doors shut solidly behind him. Sam muttered in bemusement, pulling on fine calfskin gloves as he turned towards the square. Carriages lined the black oval of lawn in its centre, their lamps out, waiting for the reception’s end. He spotted his own quickly enough, despite the sooty gloom; its superiority was apparent even among the conveyances of Buchanan’s noble guests. His coachman was not expecting to be called for at least another hour, and would probably be dozing on his box.
The gun-maker took out a screw of Old Red and cut a generous plug. As he ground it between his teeth, feeling the rich tobacco set his mind afire and his fingers tingling inside his gloves, he ran through what had just transpired on the embassy steps. Something satisfactory had been achieved, of that he was certain; although now he thought hard about it he couldn’t say exactly what it might be. It had to be admitted, also, that he’d allowed himself to be put off the scent. Street had sidestepped his demands for information with professional efficiency. The identity of the Colt Company’s unseen supporters, of these men who supposedly watched his progress with such close interest, remained unknown.
Starting over to his carriage, Sam paused beneath a street lamp and flipped over the card. Hon. Lawrence Street, MP, it read; Lord Commissioner of the Treasury, Whitehall.
Bolted down in its brick cradle, the engine was like a captive whale exhausted after a long struggle with the harpoon, emitting great sighs of white steam and the occasional high-pitched ping. It had been idling for the past two hours, but was still scalding hot; Martin heard Mr Quill curse as he brushed against the shining side of its copper boiler. The time was almost upon them. He looked over at Pat, Jack and the rest. They were hefting their shovels, ready to work. The warmth and closeness of that engine room was something devilish, and it was filthy too, grease, sweat and coal-dust mingling on every face and pair of arms to form a slick second skin. Darkness had fallen outside, and the factory lamps were lit. To Martin’s right, through the short passageway that led from the engine room to the forging shop, he could see a shadowy row of drop-hammers, standing before their clay ovens like so many giant corkscrews. The mass of operatives had been gone now for over an hour, and away from the wheezes of the engine the building was quiet. Martin had stayed on, as he did every night. Mr Quill welcomed this diligence, and he was pledged to do whatever was necessary to secure the chief engineer’s trust.
This campaign, in truth, was already pretty well advanced. Martin had been appointed as Mr Quill’s assistant on the basis of his easy aptitude with the drop-hammer – something that had taken him quite by surprise, as he’d never so much as touched a forging machine before being taken on at Colt. Quill had told him that he had a natural knack for machine-work, and would not hear his protestations of ignorance.
‘Learning is over-rated, Mart,’ he’d said in his Yankee burr. ‘Diligence is what’s required, in the first instance – diligence in the service of a willing spirit. We’ll soon have you up to speed.’
