Page 20 of A Debt Inherited

“The magazine is shut?” Bennet asked.

“Aye, sir. I saw the padlock set myself when the men carried in the last cask.”

Bennet nodded, moved on, and drew his coat on as he passed beneath the eave. The smell here was not the harbour’s tar and fish, but saltpetre and oil and new-hewn timber. One of the labourers had left a barrow by the door. He put a finger to the barrow’s rim, lifted, and let it fall an inch, feeling the weight as much in his arm as his back.

They had stored too much close. Too much, and too near the wall.

A corporal came towards him at a run that could not be quickened in the heat.

“Sir—Major asks that the night detail be doubled. The town is restless, he says.”

“Very well. Place two at the outer gate, two along the quay, and one at the magazine until the storm has spent itself. Then come to me.”

The corporal saluted and went. Bennet stood a moment longer with his hand upon the lintel, as if the wood might tell him whether all within lay as it should; he heard only the click of a beetle somewhere, and the shallow scrape of his own breath. He moved away.

When the first drop came, it was large enough to be seen upon the dust like a coin. A second, then a slender, slanting veil from the west that became at once a sheet driven by a wind that had risen without warning. The smell of rain carried a sweetness that had a bitter end in it. Bennet felt, rather than saw, the flash; the thunder that followed had no distance to it, no room for breath between the light and the sound. The ground gave a little roll as if the yard were a deck, and the men scattered to shelter with that low cry men give when they are startled but cannot name fear.

He had taken a step—only one—towards the barrack when the magazine door struck outward as if some giant within had put his shoulder to it. Smoke pushed after, not grey but a brown with yellow in it, a breath that would not be taken. For an instant the yard seemed to shrink and grow still, as if all sound had gone to ground; then a voice from within, thin but sharp.

“Help—sir—God’s sake—”

Bennet was moving before he knew he had. “Alarm bell,” he said, though he saw no one to hear it; “water there; bring the tubs.” The rain struck his face like thrown gravel. At the door, heat met him like a wall. He tore the coat from his shoulders and cast it aside, caught the latch with a wet hand, and pushed.

Within, the air had weight. It lay close so that breath came as if drawn through cloth. He saw at once the line of casks stacked along the left-hand wall, dark under their waxed seams, and at their feet, like a small snake, a thread of bright that ran and hissed as it fed itself. Another sound lay beneath it, a low burning as steady as a man’s whisper. The first man was by the casks, half-hidden by smoke; the second had fallen near the door, though not near enough to be reached without stepping inside.

Bennet wrapped his right hand in his neckcloth, drew his knife with the other, and went three paces. The floor had a slickness to it; a skin of oil or damp had formed on the boards. He took the nearer man by the collar and dragged him towards the light. At the threshold, two figures appeared, shapes rather than faces.

“Take him,” Bennet said. “Take him and go clear.”

He turned back. The hiss along the floor seemed closer now; the small bright thread leapt where it found stray dust and made more of itself. The second man’s foot was caught between two staves of a split cask; the wood had opened like a mouth and would not give him up. Bennet knelt, put the knife to the edge of the plank, and prised. His palm slid on the wet wood. The plank lifted an inch and dropped; the man gave a small sound, not quite a word.

“Sir—leave me—”

“Be silent,” Bennet said, not unkindly. He set the knife again, braced his knee, and heaved. The plank came, and with it a splinter that scored his wrist. He took the man by the heels, drew him back, then by the shoulders, and pushed him towards the door. Something across the room flared; heat lifted as if a bellows had been set to the coals. A flake of fire, no larger than a fingernail, fell upon his shirt and winked out.

“The fuse,” someone shouted from the doorway, “the fuse is lit—”

The word did not finish.

Chapter 9

“I know it,” Bennet said, though he did not know whether the man had heard. He saw, past the line of casks, a darker square where a crate had been set, and upon it, the coil whose end had been gnawed. The bright thread was running to join it. He went across the floor as if through mud. A board gave beneath his left foot with a crack; the sound went through his bones. He put his hand against a cask to steady himself and felt the heat in it like a pulse.

At the crate, he set the neckcloth across his mouth and nose, leant, and brought the knife down upon the cord. The blade bit; the hissing sound split into two smaller sounds like water thrown upon iron. He pressed again with that steadiness that moves through resistance by refusing to quarrel with it. The cord parted. The end closest to him burned to a black bead and died. The farther end continued its small advance, but he saw that it would reach now only dead powder, not the heart of the coil.

“Out,” a voice cried at his back, not commanding now, imploring. “Sir—out—”

He looked over his shoulder but did not see faces; only the door with the rain beyond it, and a sheet of smoke that had thickened until the world had narrowed to the length of his arm. He took a step and felt the floor rise as if to meet him. A high thin crack came from somewhere behind him. Instinct made him turn his head towards it though there was nothing to see. The air shifted; in the same moment, there was a blow—no object he could name, only the striking of force upon the ear and skull—and all the light went to bright stars at the edge of his sight.

He found himself upon one knee, with one hand flat upon the board to keep the world from sliding. His mouth filled with the taste of metal. Something was sounding in his ear; he could not tell whether it was outside or within. He waited, and the floor steadied under his palm.

Stand, he told himself, as one might address a reluctant horse. Stand, and go forward; there is work.

He set his foot, felt it take, and rose. The stars faded to a milky wash. He saw, as if from a distance, the sleeve of his shirt darkening from cuff to elbow, and knew he had torn the skin upon the crate.

He went towards the door. The air near it had made a small bargain with the rain and could be taken. He felt a hand upon his shoulder, then two or three at once, and heard his name called.

“Bennet—Bennet—here—mind the sill—”