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 smiled as well. This here was a decent man. It made him regret the deception he was working, but he knew that there was no other way. He had to do right by Molly Maguire. He had to get her some justice.
There was a loud peal of laughter from around the corner of the Eagle’s L-shaped saloon, followed by a burst of song. Martin looked over; squeezed into a snug at the tavern’s rear was a large group of factory workers, men and women, several of whom he recognised from the Colt works.
‘You’re certain that we’ll succeed here in London then, Mr Quill?’ he asked.
The chief engineer put his empty tankard on the bar indicating to the pot-boy that he would have it refilled. ‘Sam Colt has been plying his trade for a good long while, Mart. He has the greatest bodies in Washington tame as little white mice. Government men, soldiers, lawyers even – he conquers ‘em all in the end. He can’t fail here. These Bulls that seek to compete with him, or to confound his purposes, are in for an unpleasant surprise.’ Quill sized up his new measure of dog’s-nose and took another mighty gulp; he drinks harder than a bloody Irishman, Martin thought. ‘Did I ever tell you how he broke the back of Eli Whitney?’
Martin had heard this tale before, twice in fact. It was one of Mr Quill’s favourites. He shook his head, though, and settled down to listen to how the Colonel, after years of savage rivalry and manoeuvring, drove the Massachusetts Arms Company (of which poor Eli was the proprietor) out of the revolver business altogether. Long before the story’s dramatic courtroom conclusion, however, someone called his name. He recognised the voice; it was Caroline, Amy’s younger sister. She was walking towards them from the snug. Martin noticed that she was wearing the plain garments of a factory operative. The last he’d heard she was a chambermaid in a smart house in Islington, the residence of an important gent in the City. Something had changed.
Martin and Caroline had never been particularly friendly. He knew that she didn’t much like her sister being married to an Irishman, and living off in the Devil’s Acre. Amy and her had been close when they were small, there only being a year between them. The two girls looked alike, it had to be said, sharing the same broad cheekbones and pretty, slightly crooked mouth. Amy’s hair was darker, though, and her eyes larger, and her thoughtful manner was replaced in Caroline by an argumentative, trouble-making curiosity that Martin found difficult to warm to. He asked her what she was doing in the Eagle, keeping his tone pleasant, knowing as he spoke what her answer would be.
‘Why, Mart, I am an employee of Colonel Colt,’ she replied, flashing Mr Quill a bright, saucy smile. ‘I daresay I’ve been under his roof for almost as long as you have, though of course I ain’t yet reached the same level of favour. I’m in here now with some of my new pals from the machine floor, enlarging our acquaintance, as they say.’
Somewhat reluctantly, Martin introduced her to Mr Quill, explaining their connection. He beamed back at her, utterly charmed. She already knew exactly who the chief engineer was, and had a series of questions lined up about her employer which it pleased him enormously to answer. After a minute, he turned to the bar to buy them all new drinks.
‘Will you have some dog’s-nose, Caroline?’
‘Just gin for me, sir, if you please,’ she said with a mock-curtsey. ‘You may leave out the ale.’
Martin felt a pang of irritation. ‘How did you know of the factory, then?’ he asked. ‘How did you know that the Colonel was hiring?’
She moved in a little closer, angling her hip towards Mr Quill as she took her glass of gin from his hand; the two moles on her cheek, distinct marks a neat inch apart, stood out like an adder-bite against the liquor-flushed skin. ‘My sister told me that you were thinking of joining, Martin.’ She hesitated. ‘Along with some of your friends, them coves what was in here earlier, Pat Slattery and the rest. I’d just lost my position – through no fault of my own, Mr Quill, I assure you – so I thought I’d try gun-making for myself. I find that I rather like it.’
‘It’s fine work indeed for a strong, smart girl,’ said Mr Quill approvingly, ‘until a good husband comes along, at least.’ He removed his worn sailor’s cap, exposing his unruly thatch of hair. ‘Don’t suppose you’d consider the chief engineer, Caroline, scoundrelly old wretch tho’ he be?’
Martin made a show of joining in their free, boozy laughter, just managing to hide his annoyance at the thought of this infernally nosy girl having placed herself within the gun factory. Molly’s work could still be done, of course, but his sister-in-law’s presence was something else he’d now have to take into consideration.
Caroline knew not to outstay her welcome. After exchanging a couple more playful remarks with Mr Quill, she polished off her gin, bade them a good night and went back to the snug. The engineer watched her go before drinking down his dog’s-nose and ordering them both another.
‘So,’ he said when the drinks had arrived, ‘you’re married to an Englishwoman.’
Martin’s self-control left him. He would not be rebuked or teased for this now, and certainly not by Ben Quill – a Yankee, for Christ’s sake. ‘Mother o’ God,’ he snapped, ‘can a man control the workings of his heart? He cannot, Mr Quill – he cannot.’ Surprised by this outburst, by the honesty in his voice, he quickly lifted up his pot again, hiding himself behind it as he took a long swallow.
There was a pause; then Mr Quill, with a sad shake of his head, knocked his pot solemnly against Martin’s. ‘By Heavens, Mart,’ he murmured, ‘I’ll surely drink to that.’
The Eagle closed its doors at twelve. Martin and Mr Quill, both well-oiled, started wandering up the Belgrave Road, through the eerie silence of Pimlico’s southern end. It was a warm night, a taste of the approaching summer; the two men puffed on their pipes, ambling along with no particular purpose in mind. Caroline had departed