‘And we will be free, girl,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
The famous guest arrived on foot, sauntering in through the Bessborough Place gate. This took Sam by surprise; he had everyone lined up outside the warehouse, ready for inspection after a grand private carriage had swept in through the main gates and made a stately circuit of the water trough. Instead, he found himself skipping around the factory block to head his visitor off, damning Walter Noone to the lowest, hottest shelves of hell as he did so. It was the watchman’s job to make sure that confusions like this did not occur; he had so far failed to appear, however, joining Mr Quill on the roster of the Colt Company’s missing. The whole occasion, in short, was shaping up to be an unqualified disaster. Two of his senior staff absent without explanation, his machines quite dead, his engine split open like a fig – all on the day that one of the most celebrated men in the entire city was coming to call with the declared intention of
‘studying the legendary Colt works in all their thundering glory!’
Sam caught sight of the guest and slowed his pace, twisting his head atop his neck until something clicked. This can still be done, he told himself; you can still pull it off. The resulting publicity, the article in the fellow’s magazine that would be read by many thousands across Britain and beyond, was surely worth the effort of a few show-manlike contortions.
The famous author was a spry little critter, with an attitude of casual amusement better suited to the beach-side boulevard
at Coney Island than a London gun works. His hair was a few inches longer than Sam thought necessary, and his beard, although confined to his mouth and chin, had been permitted to grow down to his collar in an affectedly artistic manner. Recognising Sam at once, he hailed him with actorly grandness and strolled over. Their handshake was a good deal firmer than the gun-maker had been expecting. His voice, too, was strong and rich, trained by performance it seemed, with the ghost of that stubborn cockney aitch manifesting before the odd word – smiling broadly, he declared that he was delighted to make Sam’s ‘hacquaintance’.
‘Mr Dickens, it’s an honour,’ Sam replied, pumping the hand with a vigour to match the author’s own, ‘for me and all my people.’
This, he perceived, was an entirely self-made man – not an over-schooled literary gentleman born in the lap of privilege, but someone who possessed an almost American impulse for self-betterment, and had refused to let his station in life be defined by his birth. Of course, like most Americans Sam was also aware that Mr Dickens had visited his homeland a decade or so earlier and had painted a truly grotesque picture of it in the infamous novel
Chuzzlewit.
For many citizens of the Republic, Yankees and Southrons alike, the author was still considered a bitter enemy. Sam was as affronted by John Bull condescension as anyone, but the simple fact was that this fellow was currently at the very height of his popularity. Everything he’d published for at least the last five years had met with astounding success. Whatever he might have written in the past, he was plainly well disposed towards this particular outpost of American endeavour – and that, quite frankly, was enough for Sam Colt.
It was warm for an English March, but Mr Dickens wore a long cape over his clothes as if preparing for heavy rain. He removed it now, handing it to the single assistant who’d accompanied him, and Sam saw that it served as a disguise rather than a guard against the weather. The suit of clothes beneath was distinctive indeed, cut in the English style but in strong, assertive colours. His coat and trousers were the same rich russet as his hat, but shot through with a thin
check of yellow; his waistcoat a deep cerulean blue, the necktie an arresting shade of lavender. That, Sam thought approvingly, is the costume of a man of true character.
Lowry and Richards had followed Sam around to the Bessborough Place gate, and the famous author insisted on shaking their hands as well before proceeding any further. Both mumbled and beamed, impressed despite themselves. This brought Sam some amusement. Earlier on, Alfie Richards had been doing his best to seem perfectly bored by the prospect of meeting Mr Dickens, claiming rather imperiously that he was more of a ‘Thack man’ – whatever the hell that meant.
These introductions complete, Dickens turned his attention back to Sam. ‘First of all, Colonel,’ he began, ‘I must apologise for the extremely short notice I gave you. I’m presently rather pressed for time, you understand, as I am engaged in preparations for my next literary hadventure – rallying myself, if you like, for my next charge against the reading public of our two great nations.’
Now this was interesting. Sam had never read a single word of Dickens himself but he understood that the stories first emerged in serial form. Were the author’s article on the Colt works to appear in the same issue as an episode of this latest tale, sales were sure to be enormous. It would do more for the company than a hundred of Richards’s pieces in the trade press.
‘For your magazine, this is?’ he asked. ‘For
Household Virtues?’
Dickens laughed lightly and patted his arm.
‘Words,
my dear chap –
Household Words.
Yes, that’s where I shall place it. I have not yet settled upon a title, but it is to be set in a northern mill-town. I came to feel that I should obtain a bit of first-hand knowledge of such a place before setting my pen to paper – so I betook myself to Preston and a couple of other sooty citadels, and achieved my end admirably.’ He cocked his head thoughtfully. ‘Wandering those dismal, uniform lanes, I came across many a hoary old soul, thirty years bent over a clattering loom; many a disillusioned radical spitting a sermon of fire upon a smoke-blackened street
corner; many an impassioned union man electrifying his tavern audience with visions of solidarity, of a new –’
‘Well, I ain’t got time for no union here,’ Sam broke in. ‘You want to make common cause with the other hands against me, you find somewhere else to work. I pay well, Mr Dickens, I deal fairly, and I make my factory a decent enough place to be. What more could a reasonable man want?’
The author was regarding him with a wry, evaluating smile. ‘Fascinating,’ he murmured. ‘I must confess that it did seem as though some of the more vituperative hagitators were sowing division with their employers that could only serve to worsen their situation in the long run. It is an error, I think, this tendency to unionise – but surely an understandable one.’
‘You want to join a goddamn union,’ Sam said emphatically, ‘then you don’t work for Sam Colt.’
‘Quite so.’ Mr Dickens cast a look around the plain brick blocks of the pistol works. ‘At any rate, on my return to London I find that Colonel Colt of Connecticut is the toast of several really rather lofty circles. A large government contract, is that correct? A radical member routed in a Select Committee hearing?’
Sam glanced at Lowry; the boy was impassive. ‘Something like that, yes.’
‘I spent a good deal of time discussing your achievements with my friend Johnnie Russell – who says that he once hencountered you in the flesh in the garden of our dear Lord Palmerston. It was this conversation that convinced me to write to you. A wondrous revolver factory, marshalled by a brilliant American inventor, on the shores of old Father Thames? Why, sir, it sounded too amazing to miss!’
So there was the connection. It was yet another thing owed – indirectly perhaps, but still – to Palmerston. This Dickens, for all his interest in factory folk, liked to rub shoulders with some powerful people.
‘A tour won’t pose a problem.’ Sam cleared his throat. ‘At this point, though, I should tell you that the factory itself is closed at present.’
The author let out a gasp of disappointment. ‘But my dear Colonel! Your famous machines!’
The Colt men, proprietor, secretary and press agent, delivered the cover story they’d prepared first thing that morning. The engine was being recalibrated, a lengthy and incomprehensibly technical process, in order to increase production speeds for the Baltic Fleet contract – and in anticipation of more government contracts in the future. Lowry presented the report he’d drawn up on the normal operation of the machinery, a tight, fastidious grid of figures that Mr Dickens looked at for a couple of seconds with eyebrows raised before passing it to his assistant. Sam then proposed that they go instead to the warehouse to see the famous Colt blue being applied, the parts fitted and assembled, and the finished weapons put through their paces in the proving room. The great author, appeased it seemed, indicated his assent.
They walked into the yard, over to where the skeleton workforce was arranged in front of the warehouse. There were perhaps forty souls in all: the American staff, the women from the packing room and a handful of others. Mr Dickens was recognised in moments, the women blushing and whispering excitedly behind their hands. The Americans were more guarded, no doubt remembering the row over
Chuzzlewit.
Sam crossed his arms and stared at them hard. They knew better than to try any impudence towards an important visitor. And besides, it wasn’t as if any of them would have actually
read
the goddamn book.
Instead of halting by Sam’s side and perhaps making an address of some kind, Mr Dickens kept on going, moving among the women of the packing room, receiving their praise with modest dips of the head and urging any who tried to drop a curtsey to stand back up and shake his hand. Within a minute he had them gathered around him in a circle and was asking them questions about their lives, appearing to take genuine interest in their replies. The gun-maker looked on, entirely mystified. What a man like that could hope to gain from conversation with girls on two shillings a day was utterly beyond him. Soon even the Americans were joining in, though, forgetting their
reservations, laughing along at the dandy author’s quick-witted remarks.
Eventually, Sam got the staff back to work and the tour underway. Mr Dickens was shown the blueing ovens, the fitters’ benches and the many half-made cases and crates; he was taken around the washroom and the staff reading room (recent copies of
Household Words
had been piled there a couple of hours previously), and given a lengthy explanation of the ventilation system. He was impressed by it all.
‘My word, Colonel Colt,’ he announced at one point, ‘this is truly the most modern-minded of henterprises. It seems to me, sir, that you are a new model of international employer – a man as benevolent as he is forward-thinking!’
After half an hour or so they came to the proving room, the usual concluding point of the tour. ‘This is where the pistols are tested,’ Sam informed his guest, ‘or proved as we gun-makers term it, afore they’re sent away for the regular government proof in the Tower of London.’
‘Prove all things,’
Mr Dickens recited as he entered.
‘Hold fast to that which is good.’
Sam sensed that this was from scripture, but knew no more than that. ‘Indeed,’ he said.
The celebrity surveyed the rows of finished revolvers laid out on tables; the heaps of tools; the tins of ammunition and powder; the wooden testing tubes and the small firing range. ‘I must say that I’m surprised at its character,’ he commented, moving to the middle of the room. ‘I was rather expecting a mysterious iron-plated chamber – a dungeon devoted to arcane procedure and esoteric hexperiment – not this cheerful, workaday place. It brings to mind something of the shooting galleries of Leicester Square. D’you know them at all, Colonel?’
‘My business has obliged me to visit a couple.’
‘A good few scenes of
Bleak House,
my most recent tale, were set in such an hestablishment. One of my principal characters, the shooting master, of whom I grew very fond, was a former military man like yourself.’
Sam took up a position by the door, feeling a keen need for a chew. ‘I ain’t got too much time for books, in truth.’
Mr Dickens went quiet, lowering his chin with his eyes closed, a knuckle raised to his lips. His host was about to ask if anything was amiss when he jumped suddenly back to life.
‘“Now what,” says Mr George, “may this be? Is it a blank cartridge, or a ball? A flash in the pan, or a shot?”’
For a second or two Sam didn’t know which way to look. The famous author was commencing some kind of impromptu performance, making the floor of the Colt proving room his stage. He took the parts both of this ‘Mr George’ – for whom he adopted a booming, drill-sergeant’s voice and a flustered expression – and that of the narrator, in tones like a more excited version of his own. The smiths started to turn around, setting down the guns they were working on.
‘An open letter is the subject of the trooper’s speculations,’ Mr Dickens continued, hand angled against his mouth as if delivering an aside, ‘and it seems to perplex him mightily.’
He proceeded to embark upon an energetic mime of a man scrutinising an envelope, holding it at arm’s length then bringing it close, screwing up his face and pacing back and forth, setting the thing down and then picking it up again – all the while supplying his own commentary to the fellow’s confusion. It went on for several minutes before ending up where it had begun.
‘“Is it,” Mr George still muses, “blank cartridge or ball?”’
There were chortles and a smattering of applause. The gun-maker was wondering what exactly to do next when the door by his side opened just far enough to admit Walt Noone’s scowling mug. Sam glared at him, ready to demand that he account for his absence that morning, but the watchman managed to speak first.
‘This way, Colonel,’ he muttered urgently. ‘There’s something you got to see.’
Sam didn’t argue. He was glad of the excuse, to be honest; the exuberant Mr Dickens was starting to tire him. Nodding to Lowry and Richards, he followed Noone back out into the yard. The watchman led him wordlessly through the Ponsonby Street gate and straight on through the midday
traffic – showing the palm of his hand to an approaching dray with such blunt violence that the driver drew it to an immediate halt. He was angry, madly angry, the lid rattling on a boiling kettle.
They strode onto the section of the quay given over to the Colt works. The wooden pier had been extended, and a coal barge was moored at its end. It had yet to be unloaded, the barrows standing empty on the shore; the labourers who would do the job stood off to the side in an apprehensive huddle, held back by Noone’s men. Noone himself went to where the pier joined the quay, standing at the very edge, locking his hands behind his back and lifting up his chin. His meaning was plain enough. Sam went to his side and looked down at the river.