Charley Benton straightened his back painfully. The day had been hot, the evening was sticky; his shirt lay where he had flung it earlier across a barrel, one of a stack alongside a warehouse wall. He reached for the garment and struggled into it, sweat and dirt making the operation both difficult and uncomfortable.
“Christ, I’ll be glad to get home tonight. Anyone seen Jack?”
“Saw ’im earlier on, down on number two. They’re loadin’ the South American – the Carlotta.” His companion swung a dirty jacket over one shoulder. “Comin’ fer a pint before the off?”
Charley shook his head, not without regret. “Sorry, Ted. I promised Annie I’d give our Jack a message for Mam. She’ll skin me if I don’t do it.”
The other man chuckled. “That’s what I like to see. A man boss in ’is own ’ome.”
“Garn!” A third man, who had been sitting on the ground, his back to a barrel, his legs stretched out before him as he made the most of a few minutes’ rest in the sun after a hard day, scrambled tiredly to his feet and slapped Charley good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Take no notice, Charley. ’E’s jealous, is all. ’E’d give ’is eye teeth to be ordered about by your Annie!”
Another small group of men – stevedores from Jack’s gang – trooped together along the quayside, their heavy boots clattering on the wood. The sun, though low, still shone benignly, gilding the rippling water with gold, warming metal and stone, drawing into the air the smell of tar and of oil; the strong tang of cinnamon lifted from the bales stacked further along the waterfront.
“Evenin’, Ted. Charley.”
“How’s things, Charley boy?”
“Fine thanks, just fine. Seen Jack, have you?”
“You’ve missed ’im again, mate. ’E’s gone back to the Carlotta lookin’ fer you. You must have missed each other somewhere along the way.” He made to move on.
Charley caught his arm. “Looking for me? On the Carlotta?”
The man turned a sweat-streaked dirty face. “Yeah. You. You’re ’is brother, ain’t you?”
“Aye, but—”
The man shook his arm free and moved on, calling over his shoulder. “Me an Jack ’ad to see one of the officers earlier on, about the stowing – dangerous cargo and all. When we was coming back a kid stopped Jack and said as ow ’is brother Charley’d been lookin’ for ’im all over, an’ ’e’d see ’im back on the ship. So Jack went off. That’s all I know—” His voice echoed hollowly in the empty, pillared space of the warehouse.
Charley watched the retreating backs with a frown, then turned and walked on out of the dim, shadowed building and once more into the bright, sea-smelling air. His footsteps bounced back from the high walls that edged the landward side of the wharf. They were faster now, a little urgent.
He had sent no message to Jack.
The Carlotta was berthed at an isolated point at the far end of the docks, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. Charley was almost running when he reached her. He took the steeply sloping gangway at some speed, his long, experienced stride taking in a dozen wide wooden slats at a time. On the deck he stopped, his sun-bleached head lifted.
There could be no mistaking it; pungent, acrid, the faint smell of smoke.
The wide space of the deck was empty, the working gear cleared and tidily stacked, ropes coiled, the paraphernalia of a seagoing vessel neatly stowed. The Carlotta had two great hatches, one closed and well-battened down; the other, the one they were loading, was open, chains and ropes running down through it from the enormous crane that overhung the ship’s decks from the quayside.
It was from this open hatch that faint, living tendrils of smoke drifted and coiled into the clear evening air.
“Jack?”
No reply; no movement but the slight lift and fall of the deck beneath his feet. The fragile ribbons puffed and drifted, almost invisible. He should raise the alarm now, without delay. But Jack. Where in hell’s name was Jack? He ran to the unguarded edge of the hatch and peered into the dimness of the enormous hold. It was a cavern of shapes and shadows; the smell of smoke drifted strongly to him, but he could see no flame, and neither, yet, was the smoke very thick.
“Jack? Jack, lad, are you there?”
He heard the faint footfall behind him a fraction of a second before Jake Aster slammed hard into his back. But that split second was enough. Before the man hit him he had half-turned, stepped a little to the side, and the murderous intention of his attacker, to knock him over the edge and into the smoking hold, was at least partially frustrated.
The knife Aster held spun noisily across the deck. The two men stared at each other, breathing heavily. “I got one of you bastards,” Jake said quietly. “Now I’m going to get me the other—”
From somewhere below came a faint cry: Jack’s voice, Charley was certain. With a roar he launched himself upon Aster. Taken by surprise the slighter man could not withstand the violence of the charge. He teetered for a moment on the edge of the hatch, hugging his assailant to him, trying to retain his balance. With an immense effort Charley broke his grip, and with a cry Aster toppled helplessly backwards into a darkness that now rolled with dense smoke. But in falling he unbalanced Charley; the big man staggered and slipped over the edge, landing on hands and knees on the flat of one of the packing cases. Pain shot up his left shin, taking his breath, jolting his stomach unpleasantly. A billow of turgid smoke rolled over him and he choked, cursing. Somewhere in the far reaches of the darkness around him a tiny, angry flicker of light flared and died and flared again.
He scrambled to his feet.
“Jack? Jack!”
A slight answering sound, a smothered, choking cough. Charley dragged his neckerchief from his throat and tied it around his nose and mouth, then balanced himself for a moment before he jumped into the narrow alley that led between the huge cases. His shin jolted again. There was, so far as he could see, no sign of Jake Aster.
“Jack, where are you?” He had to lift the protecting cloth from his mouth to shout; the acrid taste of smoke was on his tongue, in his throat.
He strained his ears; faintly he heard it “Here. Port side.” Pain-filled, short-breathed words, not so very far away. Charley blundered through the veiled dark. The fire had been set in more than one spot; glimmers and flashes lit the gloom, dancing shadows appeared above him, leaping like demons on the underside of the deck above.
He found his brother at the end of the gangway formed by stacked lumber on one side and rows of crates on the other. He had pulled himself painfully upright; in the faint glow of the fire one whole side of his face looked to be an open, bloody wound. When Charley, too stunned even to curse, held out a hand to help him, Jack flinched away.
“Chest—” he gasped. “Broken ribs – I think. – Get out, Charley. – Get out. – Explosives.”
Not far from them fire cracked, something slipped and flared.
Charley’s eyes were streaming, the air scorched his throat and lungs as he breathed.
“Back to the hatch,” he said, coughing, “I’ll haul you up.”
Jack shook his head; he was almost doubled up, only the stacked timber prevented him from falling. “Can’t.”
“Bloody can.” With his teeth clamped into his own lip at the revulsed shudder of agony that went through his brother’s body as he did it, Charley bent, pulled Jack forward and over his shoulder and stood in one movement. Jack’s body gave one outraged convulsion and went limp, his arms swinging. With sweat rolling down his face, stinging his eyes, plastering his hair to his smoke-grimed skin Charley staggered towards the promise of the open hatch.
It wasn’t far. Above him, dangling through the hatch, was the loading gear; chains, cables, ropes. And on one side the thing Charley had most hoped to find; a long rope, hanging free and running independently through a pulley just above the level of the deck.
He lowered his burden; Jack doubled up, coughing excruciatingly. Not so very far away something moved; slithered, like a wounded animal.
Charley wrenched a piece of planking from a crate, tied it with a few swift, skilful movements to the end of the rope; tied directly around Jack’s body it would crush his already damaged chest.
“Explosives,” Jack wheezed. “Get out, Charley.”
“Not without you. Get your arse off that deck and on to this.” Charley coughed viciously. “Hurry!”
Jack pulled himself upright, clung to the thick rope.
“That’s the ticket. When you get to the top just hang on. I can – follow – up the chain – pull you over the top—” It was becoming impossible to breathe.
In the distance, at last, an alarm bell rang.
With all his strength Charley began to heave on the end of the rope. Painfully slowly Jack lifted, rising through the smoke towards the blessed patch of blue sky above. Behind him, twisted into the fire sounds, Charley heard a wheezing, anguished blasphemy.
The makeshift swing spun as it rose, slowly one way, then the other. Jack slipped a little, grabbed for the rope: the shock ran into Charley’s fingers.
Then at last the strain on his arms was released. Jack had pulled himself onto the side of the hatch; he lay now exhausted, half-in-half-out of the hole, his legs dangling in smoke.
Charley let go of the rope and jumped for the thick chain that dropped into the hold from the wharfside machinery. With the heavy links under his hands he turned at last and looked at the man who was dragging himself to his feet just yards away. Jake Aster’s body was twisted, his face a scream of hatred and pain.
Charley started up the chain. A moment later he was in the relatively clear air, swinging across the gap, dropping to his knees on the warming deck and dragging Jack up and away from the hole, which looked as if it led down to hell. He half carried his brother to the rail, away from the smoke that billowed from the hatch. Along the quayside men ran, shouting and waving their arms. A clatter of hooves, and a fire engine swayed around the corner. Charley propped Jack over the rail, grabbed a rope and turned to go back.
“Charley! No!”
“I’m not going back down there. But he’s just under the hatch. I can’t leave him there, Jack. I can’t. If he can manage I’ll try to pull him out.”
“I told you, there’s a case of—”
But Charley was gone, running back through the rolling smoke, throwing himself on his stomach beside the hole.
“Aster! Can you hear me? I’m dropping a rope. Try to get it round you. I’ll pull you out. But quick!” His voice was all but lost in the animal roar of the fire.
There was no reply. Blistering heat lifted, singeing Charley’s skin and eyebrows.
“Aster!”
A gust of wind swirled. The smoke sucked, eddied, cleared for a fraction of a second. Below him Jake Aster stood, leaning on a wooden crate, his figure drawn in fire, his face the most terrible thing that Charley Benton had ever seen. And the last. For in that moment a detonation lifted the other hatch, blasted fire upwards, rocked the Carlotta at her moorings.
Charley was flung backwards like a rag doll tossed aside by a child’s hand.
Jack was left clinging to the rail, totally untouched by the explosion, screaming his brother’s name.
The news of the fire and explosion on the Carlotta ran through dockland and beyond like fire itself; and it lost nothing in the telling. By the time Molly, riding home in a packed omnibus after working rather later than usual, heard the story, the casualties were running into dozens.
“Sabotage,” said one man, squashed beside her, “bound to be. Them ruddy Boers, shouldn’t wonder.”
“Or the Irish,” said another, gloomily.
“Accident, I heard.” A man perched on the edge of the seat opposite Molly was chewing something noisily and talking around it. “Me brother’s in the docks. Trucker. ’E was there when it ’appened. Explosives ’e said. An accident.”
The pavements were crowded with home-going workers, the pubs were doing a roaring trade. Her fellow passengers had now embarked upon a lively discussion of the war in South Africa. Molly reflected wryly that on a normal evening no one would say a word to his neighbour, scarcely an apology if he stepped on his foot; but given a disaster to break the ice people who would not usually greet one another would talk like old friends. The bus creaked laboriously on, swaying and jolting.
Molly tried to subdue the faint unease that the news of the explosion had awakened in her. It was ridiculous to worry. There were thousands of men working in the docks. The odds against Jack and Charley being involved in this explosion, or whatever it was, must be enormous— But when she turned the corner of Park Boad, foreboding struck hard. A group of women stood talking by one of the gates, obviously having come straight from their kitchens. All still had on their aprons, one of them brandished a wooden spoon as she talked. Two men stood with them. As Molly’s sharp footsteps approached they turned, looked, nudged each other. As she came closer they fell silent, and one of them called, “Have you heard anything, love?”
“Heard anything?” Molly felt sick. “What about?”
“Oh, dearie me, don’t you know? The Benton boys. They was caught in the explosion in the docks.”
Molly heard no more; she was running, skirts gathered to her knees, flying to the gate, up the path.
Nancy had seen her coming, was standing at the open door. She was very pale, but composed. She had heard the news an hour since and had had some time to recover a little.
“Nancy? Nancy, what happened?”
“We aren’t sure. Come in, Moll. Get your breath. There’s some tea in the pot—”
Molly shook her head. “No. Thank you. Tell me—”
“Jack and Charley are both hurt,” Nancy said quietly, “that’s all I know.”
“You don’t know how badly?”
“No. They aren’t dead. Or they weren’t an hour ago. That’s all the man could tell us. He came to fetch Mam and Annie. They went off to the hospital.” Her lip quivered, she took a breath, holding hard to her composure. “I’ve heard nothing since. I stayed to take care of the baby and to wait for you and for our kid. He’s gone from school to supper with a friend. I hope to God no one tells him before he gets home.” Her voice shook despite her efforts. “It may not be as bad as it sounds,” she added, with no great conviction.
“What happened?”
“They don’t know exactly. But—” The expression on her face almost warned the other girl what to expect.
“What, Nancy? What is it?”
“A man was killed in the explosion on the Carlotta.” She paused, then said, flatly, “Jake Aster.”
“What!”
“Jack was working the ship. Charley wasn’t. No one knows how he came to be there—”
“Jake Aster. Oh, Nancy.”
Nancy turned away, leaned her crossed arms upon the mantelpiece above the empty grate. After a moment she said, shakily, “Would you go to the hospital for me, Moll? Find out what’s going on? God knows when Mam or Annie will be back, and I’ll go mad if I don’t hear soon.”
“Of course. If you’re certain you wouldn’t rather go yourself? I could stay and—”
Nancy shook her head. “No. I can’t let anyone else tell our kid. Not even you. You know how he feels about Jack and Charley. He’ll likely need looking after. He’s mine,” she added – the first time that Molly had ever heard her say it so – “even if he doesn’t know it Besides,” she said, attempting a small, strained smile, “that great lummock of a brother of mine would rather see you than me any day, daft pair that you both are. Give them my love if—” she paused painfully “—if you’re allowed to see them.”
Molly kissed her swiftly on her smooth, cold cheek. “I will, I promise,” she whispered, and was gone.
The hospital smelled as only hospitals can; of disinfectant and urine, of an indefinable sickly odour that had no counterpart in the outside world. Molly’s boots clipped sharply on the floor of the long cream-and-green tiled corridor down which she had been directed. Her mind, as it had been for the whole of the journey, was blank of all but a fierce, talisman determination to believe that all would be well.
Ahead, heavy swing doors swept shut, creaking, behind a hurrying, uniformed nurse. Before they had stopped their movement Molly had reached them and was peering through the thick glass. In the corridor beyond was a row of straight-backed chairs set against the wall. One lonely figure sat, head and shoulders bowed, fingers twisting in her lap, her statuesque figure slumped to dumpiness.
Sarah.
She did not look up as yet another pair of hurrying feet tapped through the swing doors and approached her. Only when the feet stopped directly in front of her did she lift her head tiredly.
Molly’s heart stopped. She dropped to her knees beside the older woman, took the cold, nerve-wracked hands in her own. At the look in Sarah’s eyes she had almost relinquished the hope that she had stubbornly held to ever since she had heard the news. One, or both of them must be dead. Still holding Sarah’s hand she seated herself on the hard chair beside her.
“Jack?” The voice sounded like someone else’s.
Sarah shook her head. “No. He’s all right At least he will be, so the doctor says. Broken ribs, he’s got, and he’s been badly beaten.” Absently Sarah touched the side of her own face in the place where her eldest son would bear a scar for the rest of his life.
Molly closed her eyes, floated for a second on a golden flood of relief. Then, remembering, her fingers tightened on the hand she held.
“What about Charley?”
Sarah’s head shook again; but differently this time, slowly from side to side, tears running silently down a face already marked by earlier weeping.
“He’s dead?” Molly whispered.
“No.”
“What then? For God’s sake, Sarah, what?”
“He’s blind. My Charley’s blind.”
“Blind?” Molly repeated the word stupidly, as if she had never heard it before.
“Mrs Benton?” Neither of them had heard the rustling approach of a nursing sister in a uniform so stiff that it looked as if it could stand alone.
Molly stood up. The sister, a middle-aged woman with a severe mouth, looked her up and down in repressive enquiry.
“I’ve come to see Jack Benton,” Molly said bluntly, ready to roll up her sleeves and fight for the right.
The woman shook her head briskly, neither a hair of her head nor any corner of her starched white headdress stirring as she did so. “Impossible, I’m afraid.”
Molly stepped forward; her head did not reach the sister’s officious shoulder. “I—”
“Sister Marlow?” A big, genial-faced man had come into the corridor from a nearby door. He fixed bright, intelligent eyes on the group, read at an experienced glance what lay behind Molly’s belligerent stance, the hopeless droop of Sarah’s shoulders.
“Yes, doctor?”
“A moment.” He looked kindly down at Sarah. “Your son Jack is fairly comfortable now, Mrs Benton. You may see him again for a few minutes, later. Your daughter-in-law is with your other son in a room just along the passage there. A remarkable girl, if I might say so. She’ll be a great strength to him I’m sure. If you feel up to it I’m certain they’d be glad to – they’d like you to join them. Your son is awake; it is remarkable that apart from his eyes he is unscathed. Both your boys have the constitution of horses, Mrs Benton. They’ll get well, I assure you. Now, Sister Marlow will take you to Charley.”
Sarah rose heavily to her feet. “Thank you, doctor.”
Molly turned to this new adversary. “I’ve come to see Jack Benton,” she said grimly.
“You’re a relative?” His gentle voice made her own belligerence gauche.
“No,” she said more quietly, “a friend. My name is Molly—” she hesitated “—Alden.”
“Ah, Molly…” He smiled, understanding in his eyes. “If I’m not very much mistaken, Mr Benton has been asking for you. Unless, that is, he has more than one – friend – by the name of Molly?”
“Then I can see him?’’
“Of course. But only for a very few moments. And I must ask you not to tell him of his brother’s blindness. He isn’t strong enough yet. His brother, it seems, almost certainly saved his life; it will do him no good to learn of the cost before he is well enough to bear it.”
Jack’s marked, bloodless face was of a colour with the bandages that swathed his head and with the bleached sheet upon which his big hands lay motionless. His eyes lit when he saw Molly.
Very gently she laid a small finger on his lips in a perfectly natural gesture. “Quiet now, my love. No need to talk. I’m here.” She felt the movement of his lips beneath her finger, saw his small smile of happiness as she settled beside him, his hand in hers, the blue eyes – so very much like Harry’s – fixed upon her face as if he could not bear to look away. She sat so until he slept, and was there still when he woke. In the weeks that followed she spent every spare moment by his side.
They were married in September, just seven weeks after the explosion on the Carlotta. Seven months later two-year-old Danny Benton, to everyone’s delight and to his own slightly aggrieved astonishment, was presented with twin sisters. The birth was premature, and very difficult, but within days Molly was up and about again. Within a few weeks, with Sarah’s grandmotherly aid, she was back at work as if the devil were behind her. Marriage or no marriage the world still waited to be conquered.