Matthew Plampin - The Devil’s Acre

Finally managing to slot the last bullet into his pistol, the Colonel worked the loading lever and then set the hammer against one of the cylinder pins. Lifting the revolver up to examine it, chewing slowly on his plug, his meaty face assumed a look of almost reverential appreciation. ‘This arm here,’ he declared, ‘is so much finer than the wretched Adams I held in the office of that idiot Paget as to make any comparison downright odious.’

The shining blue and brass Navy was starting to draw notice, as was surely Colt’s intention. Slowly, he turned his head and released a long spurt of tobacco juice onto the range’s sandy floor.

‘Mr Kossuth is not admired by everyone, Colonel,’ Edward volunteered. ‘His boldness in attacking emperors and tsars in his public addresses has made him many new enemies in the palaces of Europe. Louis Napoleon wouldn’t let him so much as set foot in France – and over here, during his last visit a couple of years ago, the few government men who extended a friendly hand found none other than Queen Victoria herself seeking their removal from office.’

‘Queen Victoria herself, eh?’ the Colonel mused. He took another drink, smacking his lips; and then casually spat out his plug, sending the little brown projectile sailing away into a far corner. ‘Perhaps that right there is Lawrence Street’s design, Mr Lowry. Colt revolvers may be out of poor old Kossuth’s reach, but the spectacle of this fearless republican touring my factory – just taking a friendly interest – might be enough to make your Victoria sit up on her goddamn throne and have a hard think about how long her soldiers can really afford to be without my arms.’

Edward coughed hard on his cigar, somewhat startled by this easy talk of rattling the monarch. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the Colonel’s concise strategic summary, and was pleased to have been included in his confidential deliberations. Beneath Colt’s coarse, colourful exterior lay a canny businessman – one who would consider a situation in depth, seeking the advantage. But what could Mr Street possibly be looking to gain from all this? Why would he, a member of Her Majesty’s Parliament, want it to seem that there was an understanding between Colonel Colt and the Hungarian revolutionary? Who was this person?

Before he could frame another query, the Colonel picked up the Navy by the barrel and offered him the stock. Distracted by his ruminations, the secretary accepted it without comment. The weight – and the pistol felt heavy indeed – made him realise what had happened. He looked at his employer enquiringly, but the gun-maker was already up on his feet, hands cupped around his mouth.

‘Mr Marchant!’ Colt yelled above the chatter and the gunfire. ‘Where the hell are you? Mar-chant!’

Seconds later, a squat man with a velvet eye-patch was standing before the American, regarding him dubiously. ‘What is it?’

‘D’you know who I am?’

The man – Mr Marchant – nodded. ‘I ‘ad a suspicion, sir, and upon ‘earing you speak I would say that you’re the Yankee what’s set up a pistol factory down by the river.’

‘Colonel Samuel Colt is my name, and that there in my man’s hand is the latest model of my patented six-shot revolver. You ever had a revolver in this place before, Mr Marchant?’

A small crowd had gathered around them. I am to play the squire, Edward thought wryly, rising from the bench. The Colonel will swagger to the firing line, survey the targets and then hold out his palm with steely nonchalance; I shall approach, obediently place the loaded Navy in it, and retire. Colt was having a fine old time. A rich seam of showmanship ran through him, Edward saw – he plainly relished being up in front of the public with just his wits and his product, making his pitch.

Marchant’s doubtful manner had not been altered by confirmation that he had a globally renowned gun-maker on his premises. ‘We ‘ad one a while back – British made, a five-shooter. Prone to misfiring, it was. I sold it on.’

Colt glowered impressively, his chest swelling beneath his patterned waistcoat. ‘The work of an inferior goddamn imitator, Mr Marchant,’ he roared, ‘and nothing whatsoever to do with me. That there six -shooter of mine don’t damn well misfire, and it has power like nothing you’ve ever seen.’ He paused, gesturing towards the secretary. ‘Mr Lowry here will oblige you with a demonstration.’

Edward barely managed to mask his alarm. There was an expectant murmur from the crowd, and a passage swiftly cleared between him and the firing range. Was this some manner of drunken Yankee joke? The Colonel knew full well that he was the very greenest of gun novices. This had been openly confessed when he’d applied for his position, and had even been accepted as a virtue of his candidacy; he’d argued, rather eloquently he’d thought, that he would be able to see the factory’s proceedings as business only, unhampered by the distortions and prejudices of the enthusiast. No one had contradicted him.

Colonel Colt was retrieving his whiskey from the bench, his expression unreadable. In any other circumstances Edward would have considered protesting his lack of expertise, but he could hardly do so now without embarrassing both himself and his employer. A challenge had been laid before him, he realised, and he could not hesitate. The performance must be flawless. He looked down at the long black pistol that jutted from his fist, regarding it anew. You have in your hand the means to kill a man, he thought, this very instant, as easily as pointing.

Clearing his throat, Edward walked over to the firing line. He placed a boot upon the split log and raised the gun. Although heavy, the weapon was perfectly balanced, the dark walnut stock sitting well against his palm. The mechanism was straightforward enough. He’d watched it enacted on unloaded pieces countless times, but had never once considered picking up a revolver and trying it out. This had plainly been noticed.

The secretary cocked the hammer with his thumb. There was a locking noise in the body of the gun, a sound like the passage of gears rotating towards a decisive, irreversible conclusion. Edward ran his tongue quickly over his top lip. The trigger was tense now, the catch on a coiled spring; he settled it into the first joint of his index finger. He could feel the pulse of his blood against the tempered iron. A cold bead of sweat rolled down his neck. Shutting one eye, taking aim as best he could, he squeezed.

The Navy jolted back against his hand, sending a tremor up his entire arm. The report was deafening, double the volume of every other weapon on the range, with a solid slam to it that was a world away from the weak fizz and pop of Mr Marchant’s ageing rifles. Edward did not dare to lower the pistol, in case he dropped it or discharged a bullet into the floor, nor did he attempt to see whether he had hit the large circular target that was mounted before him. Instead, pulling back the hammer, he fired again, and again, until the cylinder was empty and the pressure of his finger produced only impotent clicks. The six shots had gone off impossibly fast, more rapidly than the eye could blink, and without the slightest hint of a misfire; the staggering advantage of the Colt revolver had been ably displayed. Mr Marchant and his customers were completely silent, stunned by the close succession of blasts. As the haze of gunpowder smoke drifted aside, Edward saw that a couple of black dots had even been punched in the outer rings of the target.

‘There we have it,’ said the Colonel, stepping forward and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘He ain’t exactly a great marksman, is he, but did you see the speed at which he got those bullets off? Could you feel the raw power behind the shots?’ There was a general mutter of agreement. Colt caught Marchant’s eye and nodded towards the bench. At one end, the second Navy from the presentation set lay in its case. ‘That there six-shooter,’ he pronounced, ‘entirely virgin and unfired, is now the property of Marchant’s Shooting Gallery, with the compliments of its inventor. Which of you fine gentlemen, I wonder, will be the first to shoot six straight bull’s-eyes with it?’