is a broken man, they say,’ opined the fellow next to her. ‘Barely made it through his oath. Sits in the Oval Office all day long with the curtains drawn, paralysed with grief for his lost son.’
Sam quickly concluded that none of these blabbering fools was of any use to him. He looked over at the silver-bearded John Bulls conferring in other parts of the room and prepared to break away.
Another of the ladies, moved almost to tears by Pierce’s tale, intercepted him. ‘How can a man recover from such a blow, Colonel Colt? Can he at all?’
His departure checked for a moment, Sam paused in thought. ‘Of matters concerning dead children, ma’am, I really cannot say,’ he answered. ‘But it’s going to be a tough time indeed for those of us that might have been intending to do business with our government. That’s one reason why you find me here in London, setting up a new factory. Speaking frankly, though, my hopes for a Pierce presidency were always low. I’ve known the fellow for a number of years, from his army days. Far too fond of the bottle – and I reckon he’s reaching for it now, with a new dedication, in order to take the edge off his sorrow.’
Buchanan, a close ally of the Pierce administration, pursed his lips in disapproval, and tried to jog the startled group on to a fresh subject – some vacuous fixture of the London social season about which he’d developed a sudden fascination. Sam took this opportunity to move off. Refusing a flute of champagne – the stuff played merry havoc with his gut – he sauntered to the centre of the reception room.
The gun-maker had made ample preparation for occasions such as this. Just before leaving Connecticut he’d furnished himself with a folio of portrait engravings of the foremost British politicians. On the voyage over, with time on his hands, he’d memorised the various configurations of thinning pates, furrowed brows, bushy white chops and belligerent jowls; and by the time he landed in Liverpool he could put a name and role to every aged face. It had irked him to discover that they had all switched their posts about since his last visit. Lord John Russell, scourge of the Catholics, was no longer Prime Minister, but Leader of the House, whatever that meant; disappointingly, Lord Palmerston, a man about whom Sam had heard many good things, had lost the Foreign Office and was now Home Secretary. The Earl of Aberdeen was currently at the helm, and a dull dog he appeared. Sam got the sense that the present British Government was an uneasy coalition of men who would trample each other down in a flash if the chance arose. It hurt his head to think about this for too long, though, and he wished that these scheming nobles would just stay put for a while and see if their achievements didn’t rise accordingly.
For perhaps half a minute he saw no one of consequence. Then it struck out at him – one of the first half-dozen portraits from his folio, coloured and brought to life. A sober-looking fellow, bald as a knee but oddly childlike about the face: it was Lord Clarendon, Palmerston’s replacement as Foreign Secretary. And by God, the person beside him, fat-cheeked and jovial, was none other than Lord Newcastle, the Secretary of State for War. These were the very men he needed. Sam was considering how best to introduce himself when they shifted about, in response to the arrival of someone else behind them; and there was his friend Tom Hastings, the elusive Keeper of the Ordnance, addressing Clarendon with obvious familiarity. Sam’s blood stirred; his nostrils flared. This was a proper piece of good fortune, and he would seize it with both hands.
Hastings, a stooped old turtle decked out in a naval uniform, saw him approach and smiled warmly. Sam noticed for the first time that he had the most enormous ears, from which greyish hair sprouted in bunches. There was little in his thoughtful face that hinted at his distinguished naval past; Commodore Hastings had served under Nelson, had taken Bonaparte into his last exile, and had been single-handedly responsible for every major scientific advance in British naval cannonry since. Sam didn’t know too much about any of this. It was enough for him that the aged Commodore had influence, a passion for all things gun-related and a demonstrable predisposition for Colt.
‘My dear Colonel, what is this I hear about you and Clarence Paget?’ Hastings whispered discreetly, moving away from his companions to greet Sam. ‘You pointed a pistol at him, in his own rooms? Can this be true?’
They shook hands. Hastings was plainly delighted to think of Paget being threatened with a gun; the two men were fierce rivals of long standing.
‘Not exactly, Tom,’ he replied. ‘We disagreed, is all.’
Hastings grinned. ‘A subject best saved for another time, perhaps.’ He directed Sam towards the ministers. ‘Here, come and meet these fine gentlemen.’
Clarendon and Newcastle were somewhat reserved, as might have been expected, but they proved open enough to Sam’s conversation and soon became curious to learn more of the revolver factory at Bessborough Place and its many innovations. Sam invited both to take a tour, thinking that he would send them each a pair of the finest engraved Navys that same night. It was looking good, in short, very good indeed; then an English lady, clad in black silk and lace, appeared between the ministers.
‘Excuse me, Lord Clarendon – Lord Newcastle – Commodore Hastings,’ she said with an incline of her head, her voice surprisingly deep and full of confidence.
Sam was immediately vexed. Could she not see that business was underway? Was such a thing beyond her cosseted mind to perceive? He almost ordered her to leave them alone, to get back to her gossiping, but managed to restrain himself and turn towards her with terse civility. This lady was perhaps fifty and more heavy-featured than he usually cared for, but not without allure. There was an appealing energy there; was she a widow, he wondered, who had devoted herself to charitable works? She was looking back at him coldly. Although she had not yet said his name, it was plainly him that she had come over to speak with.
‘Lady Wardell,’ said Newcastle with a bow.
‘Cecilia,’ murmured Clarendon. ‘How very nice to see you.’
There was definite apprehension in the Foreign Secretary’s tone. At once, Sam knew that this Lady Wardell was the campaigning sort. She was there to confront him.
‘And you, sir,’ she announced sternly, ‘must be the American gentleman who plans to flood the streets of London with repeating pistols.’
The skin around Sam’s right eye tightened with irritation. These people were always so goddamn self-important; every one of them seemed to believe that he’d never heard their particular line of garbage before. ‘I am Colonel Colt, ma’am, certainly,’ he said. ‘What is it that you have to say to me?’
The woman lifted her nose in the air; as with so many of these rich Bulls, haughtiness came to her as naturally as drawing breath. ‘Only, sir, that you are quite unquestionably a merchant of death!’
This remark was made bluntly and bitterly, less as an accusation than a statement of fact, and it killed all other conversation within a wide radius. Newcastle and Clarendon glanced about in furtive embarrassment, as if they’d been caught smoking cigars without their host’s permission and were looking for somewhere quietly to dispose of their butts.
Sam, however, was a picture of unconcern. ‘Only that, ma’am?’
Her lips formed a resolute line. This was a veteran, a sturdy old cruiser with a long record of skirmishes behind her, and she would not be easily vanquished. ‘Your dastardly wares are designed to kill, and to kill in greater numbers than ever before. This cannot be denied. How can you possibly reconcile this with your Christian conscience, sir? How can you bear to profit from such copious bloodshed?’
‘Ma’am,’ said Sam with a sigh, readying his standard defence, ‘I think we can agree that
