Beneath the Dover Sky

by Murray Pura

  Ben shrugged. “I’ve brought it up now and again, but life swept me up in its rough-and-ready current like it does everyone. I had no intention of going to France during the war, but there I was. Had no idea of flying a plane, and one day there I was up in the clouds. Didn’t know I’d win the Victoria Cross or marry William and Elizabeth Danforth’s youngest daughter or have children with her, but that’s how it turned out. Back of my mind I held onto the Methodist Church and Africa and missionary service even though I couldn’t see how it might come together.”

  Jeremy raised his eyebrows and blew out a mouthful of air. “I see.”

  “I know you’re Church of England, and I expect you don’t approve of my being a Methodist minister, but—”

  Jeremy waved a hand. “This is not 1780, Ben. I know many fine Methodist clerics. That doesn’t matter to me one bit. I’m just a bit taken aback by everything you’ve said. It’s like standing on the beach at Brighton and suddenly getting slammed by a monstrous ocean wave.”

  “You don’t think I’m suited?”

  “I don’t think that at all. You’re a fine man. I’m just trying to take it all in. Look, I can’t say it’s right or it’s wrong. It’s your life, and it’s your decision to make. But you are going to have to bring Victoria in on this—and the sooner the better.”

  Ben glanced away. “I know, I know. But I don’t want her thinking I just came up with this off the top of my head so I could show the world what a man with two tin legs was capable of. The dream’s been a part of me for a long time.”

  “Explain that to her.”

  Ben looked up at the arched ceiling of stone. “Perhaps in the spring.”

  “It won’t get easier.”

  “Not with Victoria Anne Danforth it won’t, right enough.”

  Jeremy rubbed his hand over his mouth. “But there’s something more important. Is this just an idea you’ve been carrying around since you were a lad? Or do you feel a call?”

  “A call?”

  “Do you…do you think God is part of this? That He’s speaking to you about becoming a minister?”

  Ben folded his arms over his chest. “And what would that sound like?”

  “I really can’t describe it.”

  “This happened to you?”

  “It did, yes.”

  “The impression has always been with me. Since I was a schoolboy. It’s never left me alone. Always nagging, always pestering, always tugging at my sleeve and grabbing me by the arm—even when I flew during the war and even when I did all the air races. It’s got a grip on me like a fever. Or like a dog with its teeth sunk into my leg.”

  Jeremy’s smile grew.

  Ben looked at him. “No music. No angels in white. No pleasant warmth tingling through my body. Just this constant at me, at me, at me. I don’t suppose that sounds at all like God, does it?”

  Jeremy laughed. “Actually, it sounds a good deal like Him.”

  Dear Cornelia, my diary,

  April fool’s! I thought I was coming along quite nicely as far as love and marriage were concerned. I adore Albrecht, I absolutely do. And after those chats with Libby last year I thought I’d gotten this whole issue of her having a relationship with Terry Fordyce off my chest. Now she’s off to Cartagena, Spain, where the Royal Navy ships have berthed for two weeks. He cabled her, she thought about it for five seconds, and then she went downtown and sent back a telegram accepting his invitation. Jane remains here with Albrecht, Sean, and me. She’s pouting quite a bit. I think our almost-twelve-year-old has a bit of a thing for Commander Fordyce.

  I have no wish to rush off to Spain, and I have no desire to see Terry. I’m looking forward to traveling to Pura with Albrecht very much, and that’s only six weeks away. But I must confess I still don’t like the idea of Libby spending time with Terry. She continues to tell me it’s no more than friendship, but what woman takes a train hundreds of miles to see a man for two or three days simply for the purpose of developing a friendship? Why not wait a bit until his ship is back in English waters in May or June?

  Of course she wants to see him as soon as possible. Of course she has every right to see him. But this man was once very precious to me. I don’t know if what I’m feeling is jealousy or possessiveness or what. I can only say it is very hard to think of her spending hours in his company—dining with him, making him laugh, enjoying his gallantries. I don’t wish to be with him, but I don’t wish for her to be with him either.

  I pray all these confusing and conflicting feelings I have will be gone when I wake up. I pray that Terry will become no more than any other man out there floating around on the sea in a boat.

  Danforth flat, Port of Dover

  Charlotte watched as her husband smacked his fist into his palm over and over in the front parlor of their Dover flat. “Lost! And now Labor holds the reins of the greatest nation on earth in its grip! The greatest nation and the greatest empire!”

  “You and your father have retained your seats. That’s something.”

  “So did Tanner Buchanan.”

  “Still, you won reelection, and we all know it was a difficult campaign. I’m very proud of you, persevering right through the swamp and heat of May and June.”

  “We may still be MPs, Char, but we have no power.”

  Charlotte leaned forward on the couch. “I spoke with your father at some length, Edward. Yes, Labor has more seats in the House—but barely. And they didn’t win the popular vote. They don’t have a clear majority. The day will come when they will need to cross the aisle. Ramsay MacDonald is prime minister for a year or two, but eventually there will be a hung Parliament. At that point, if MacDonald wants to form a government capable of passing legislation, he must patch together some sort of national coalition. That’s how your father put it.”

  Edward threw himself into an armchair. “I have no desire to be on the same side of the aisle as Tanner Buchanan.”

  She smiled, reached over, and rubbed his shoulder and back. “Love, if you wish the Conservative Party to continue to exert a positive influence on British politics, I doubt you’ll have much choice. Of course you could sit on the Opposition benches and glare at Lord Buchanan from there, perhaps shake your fist at him now and then, and even occasionally pitch a wadded ball of paper at his head.”

  “They’d escort me from the chamber tout de suite for that.”

  “But how exciting. You might actually bop him between the eyes. Then he’d challenge you to a duel of honor and you’d run him through. No more evil Lord Tanner. Triumph! His last words? ‘Why, I am justly killed by mine own treachery.’ ”

  Edward laughed. “Here I am, tired and flustered by it all and yet how is it possible that my Pendle Hill beauty can still make merry with me?”

  She took his hand and curled her strong fingers tightly around it. “After ten years of marriage too.”

  “Well, you look ten years younger, Charlotte Squire, not ten years older. Are you sure we’re not traveling backwards in time on H.G. Wells’ invention?”

  She tugged his arm over to her and kissed his hand while keeping her dark-blue eyes focused on him. “What if we were? Would you still have me? Still marry me in that great heap of rocks and battlements in Scotland?”

  “I’d do it a hundred times over—a thousand times over.”

  “Prove it, Lord Edward Danforth, MP.”

  “Prove it?”

  “Take me to our room, hold me in your arms, and tell me in exactly a thousand different ways how and why you still love me.” She stood up, and still holding his hand dragged him to his feet.

  “You’re joking! Colm will be up and wailing in two hours. You need what little bit of sleep you can get.”

  She pulled him across the room. “Yes, well, that’s what nannies and warm bottles are for. Do put some effort into it, Edward. I feel like I’m trying to heave anchor on that great new battleship they just put into service.”

  “The one named after old Admiral Rodney? How I’d lov
e to sail on her. Sixteen-inch guns!”

  “There, we got some life out of you with that. Come along. You can do it. Only two or three more sea miles, and you can snuggle up to your new berth. Rule Britannia, Lord Edward. Britannia rule the waves.”

  He grinned as she yanked him into their room and shut the door.

  “You’re as mad as a hatter,” he said.

  Old City, Jerusalem

  “Death to the Jews!”

  “Strike for Allah! Strike!”

  Thousands of men boiled from the Dome of the Rock into the streets.

  “Right!” snapped Robbie. “Leftenant Kirke!”

  “Sir.”

  “They’re bent on murder this time. Go after them with your platoon. Work with the police. Arrest the leaders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leftenant Skilling!”

  “Sir.”

  “Follow him with your men.”

  “Yes, sir. What if—what if the mob won’t let us arrest their leaders, sir?”

  Robbie’s eyes were like rock. “Fire weapons to warn them. If they’re killing Jews or they assault your troops, direct your fire as seems most appropriate.”

  Robbie turned to the British soldiers still at attention behind him, their eyes fixed on the Western Wall. “Leftenants Stark and Kettle!”

  “Sir!” the two officers responded in unison.

  “Take a pair of armored cars. I shall be in another. Follow me. Bring your platoons. We are heading to the Mea Shearim neighborhood.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Robbie leaped into an armored car. The engine roared and the car shot forward. The driver threaded it swiftly through the narrow and crooked streets of the Old City. Eventually the convoy and troops were forced to a standstill as hundreds of men in robes called Thawbs jammed the roads and lanes. Robbie saw a Jewish man and his wife hauled from their house and stabbed to death. He unholstered his Webley revolver and fired two shots into the air. The mob shrank back, shouting. Jumping to the ground, Robbie pointed his pistol at the killers who glared back at him in a mixture of fear and rage, deep and dark frown lines crisscrossing their faces. The rest of the soldiers joined him.

  “Corporal Reynolds. Sergeant Ward.”

  “Major Danforth?”

  “Sir.”

  “Arrest these three men on a charge of murder. Chain them and put them in one of the armored cars.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The tallest of the three Arabs sneered, bent down and wiped the blood from his knife on the dress of the woman he’d stabbed, and spat at Robbie. “British pig. You and your Balfour Declaration. This is holy war, a jihad. Beware.”

  “There were Jews living here thousands of years before Mohammed was born. And they shall continue to live here side by side with their Arab neighbors. Drop your knife.”

  “In fifty years there will be no Jews in Jerusalem or within a thousand miles of Palestine.”

  “They are ‘people of the Book’ according to the Qur’an. They are to be accorded tolerance, respect, and liberty under Islamic law. Have you forgotten the Prophet’s words?”

  The man spat again.

  Robbie thumbed the hammer back on his revolver. “Are you ready to die for breaking sharia law?”

  “You would not do it.”

  The mob around Robbie, the armored cars, and the other British soldiers seethed as people shrieked, “Death to the Jews! Kill the Jewish dogs!”

  “They are ‘people of the Book’!” Robbie shouted above the clamor. “Do not defile your faith! Obey the Prophet and return to your homes!”

  “The Mufti has blessed us!”

  Robbie thrust the revolver at the three men. “Corporal Reynolds! Sergeant Ward! Do your duty!”

  “Sir!” The corporal and sergeant stepped forward with manacles.

  The crowd reacted by throwing stones and sticks at the soldiers.

  Robbie swung his pistol quickly over to the men in the mob who were closest to him. “Are you ready to die violating the words of the Qur’an? Are you ready to die defying the words of Mohammed?”

  A man lunged at him with a sword. Robbie shot him in the shoulder, and he collapsed with a scream. Then Robbie shot the man next to him in the foot. The mob fell back, cursing and breaking apart as men fled into alleys and arched doorways. Robbie aimed his pistol back on the three killers, including the tall Arab who had spoken before.

  “Drop the knife or I will shoot. All three of you—drop your knives. If you do not, I will open fire.”

  The tallest man’s eyes remained full of black fire but he laid his knife down on the body of the dead woman. So did the other two. The sergeant and corporal rushed up with the chains.

  “You will regret this, British!” the tall man said between clenched teeth as the manacles went on his wrists with a loud snap of iron.

  Robbie glanced at the window of the house the Arabs had dragged the man and woman from. A small girl with dark curls and round brown eyes gazed at him. He thought of his daughter’s eyes and face.

  “I doubt it,” he replied.

  Dover Sky

  “Dad! I think you’d better come in the house and listen to this.”

  “Yes, what is it, Edward? I’m rather busy here.” Lord Preston was covered in soap and water as he and his grandchildren washed the year-old Belgian shepherds on the lawn amidst loud squeals and shouts. “We’ve decided on a name for the brown one instead of calling him Shepherd all the time. Now he must learn to answer to Charlemagne. Isn’t that a grand name? Doesn’t it suit him?”

  “Dad, it’s the BBC,” Edward said, leaning out the window. “They’re announcing a second day of riots in Jerusalem and Palestine.”

  Lord Preston hesitated as he was about to run a brush over the squirming Flanders’ long, black coat. “A second day? Why, we’ve heard nothing about it.” Covered in water, he ran up the steps of the manor and through the front door. The radio was playing in the library. Charlotte was walking up and down in front of the stacks of books, eight-month-old Colm Alexander in her arms. Edward stood near the radio with his hands in his pockets and head down.

  We continue to receive cables and signals from the Old City and outlying areas of Palestine. Fatalities have mounted since the unrest broke out into open violence yesterday, August twenty-third. Mobs of Arabs are assaulting Jews in their neighborhoods and homes in Jerusalem. There have also been attacks in Hebron. Dozens of Jews have been killed, the pharmacy in a medical clinic destroyed, and a synagogue desecrated and set ablaze. There are reliable reports of massacres on an unprecedented scale. We shall continue to provide updates as they become available.

  “Dear God!” Lord Preston stood perfectly still as the water ran off his clothing and spread across the polished hardwood floor. “We must pray now! Skitt?”

  Skitt was right behind him. “My lord?”

  “Pray, fetch Lady Preston and other members of the family. Have them gather here.” He looked at Edward. “Please get the prime minister on the phone.”

  “MacDonald? Why he’s Labor, Father. He won’t talk to you.”

  “Of course he’ll talk to me. He’ll need you and me if he hopes to form a national coalition government in a year or two and stay in power. More to the point, we’ve never had cross words. Ring him, please.”

  “All right.”

  Lord Preston’s shoulders sagged after Edward left the room. Charlotte moved quickly to his side and put a hand on his arm.

  “Da, are you all right?”

  “Just overwhelmed, my dear. How quickly we move from happiness to fear.” He leaned over and kissed her infant’s forehead between his wide, blue eyes. “But God is great.”

  Old City, Jerusalem

  “Get back!” Robbie grabbed a Tommy gun from inside the hatch of the armored car and fired a burst over the heads of the men in the mob. When they failed to react, he sprayed bullets at their feet so that stone chips sprang into the air. Shaking their fists, they retreated.

  “
Death to the Jews!”

  “Kill the dogs!”

  “Strike the infidels! Praise Allah!”

  The mob surged toward the Jewish shops and houses once again. Robbie, who had only had two hours of sleep in the armored car the night before, saw dead children lying in their own blood in the road. This was the third or fourth time he’d witnessed that atrocity since they’d arrived on the scene. A flame of anger shot through him. “Leftenant Kettle!” he barked.

  “Sir?”

  “Your men will fire a volley over their heads. If they fail to fall back, aim low and shoot the men in front.”

  “Sir.”

  Chunks of wood and rocks bounced off the armored cars. The sudden blast of rifle fire made the Arabs in the back of the mob scatter, but the leaders still pushed towards the Jewish homes, trampling the bodies of the murdered boys.

  Robbie aimed the Tommy gun at a heavily bearded man holding two swords whose white Thawb was streaked with blood. “Get out of here! Yella, yella! Hurry up.”

  The man continued to edge past the armored car.

  “Leftenant Kettle! Fire at their feet!”

  The officer shouted the command, and British rifles blazed. The leaders cringed, suddenly shouted, began to chant, and ran past the armored car—three or four dozen of them, the heavily bearded man in front. Robbie vaulted from his armored car and chased them as they swarmed a house. They broke the door and windows and seized two women by their hair.

  Robbie struck several men with the stock of the Thompson submachine gun, knocking them to the pavement. The bearded man swiped at him with a sword, and Robbie rammed the barrel of the Tommy gun straight into his face, crushing his nose. He fired two rounds into another man’s leg and another two into the shoulder of a man who was beating one of the women.

  “Kettle! Arrest them! Every one of the devils you can lay your hands on. Knock them flat if they won’t hold still for the manacles!”

  “Sir!” The officer turned to his platoon. “Men, seize the Arabs directly in front of you. Stick your gun barrel in their guts if necessary. March each man off to the side and chain him up. If your man won’t go with you voluntarily, give him a rifle butt to the head to wake him up. These are murderers, lads. No kid gloves now. He takes the chains or you flatten him. D’ya hear me?”