Trinity

by Leon Uris

  MacAdam Rankin used this cleverly during negotiations to depress the price of the business. Once Witherspoon and McNab sold out, the architects' recommendations were filed away and never acted upon. The old building rattled along as grimly as before, aging garishly, growing filthier and more dangerous by the year.

  When Rankin passed from the scene and Lord Roger took over, linen was again in a bull market and the factory was in full production. He made a single inspection of the building and never again went above the ground floor. With his control of flax lands and mills, the shirt factory profits were staggering, some half million quid a year, and this money largely financed Lord Roger's plunge into railroads, ships and other acquisitions. There was talk now and again about doing something with the building but this proved idle patter. No renovations were made on the excuse and rationale that linen might collapse again. It became a prime and basic policy of Foyle Enterprises that the shirt factory was going to be milked dry.

  With concern shifted away from renovating the old building or putting up a new one, the major problem was to keep union organizers out. Maxwell Swan had long shown his mettle in that area at the Weed Works in Belfast. After personally setting up a spy system in the factory, he detached his first assistant Kermit Devine to remain in Londonderry with Lord Hubble. Although De vine was a Catholic, he had been a loyal servant of the Crown for three decades when Swan bought him out of Dublin Castle.

  Devine's spy system was not only the peer of that in the Weed Works, he developed a special action squad of fanatical loyalty to the Earl. They were constantly at hand ready to apply their union-smashing skills at any level, on any assignment, at any time. Despite them, labor peace at Witherspoon & McNab remained tentative. The factory was almost totally Catholic, not the brand of loyal workers Sir Frederick had in his Belfast domain, and alertness against anarchy was an around-the-clock business.

  *

  Lord Roger arrived at Foyle Enterprises headquarters at precisely nine o'clock. The Georgian mansion on Abercorn Road stood about a block away from the shirt factory and could be seen from some of its upper windows. Coming to the office was jolly fun these days, for his father-in-law had a bright new toy to play with.

  For a number of years a quandary had existed on the home island concerning the telephone. The national company was privately owned and deemed a threat to the government-monopolized telegraph system which was operated by the General Post Office. While Parliament argued the issue and select committees investigated, the telephone's growth remained stunted. New lines in the cities were wanting everywhere but stringing wires from house to house was unsightly and unmanageable and the government was reluctant to grant underground leave ways. Applications were also declined on the long-distance intercity rights-of-way.

  Sir Frederick became enamored of the telephone from the beginning and bought heavily into an Ulster subsidiary of the national company which established the first switchboard in Belfast for local subscribers. It was easier to manipulate things away from the mother island and, after years of hassle, Sir Frederick was able to obtain a leave way from Belfast to Londonderry by using the route of his trans-Ulster railway.

  The long-distance system in Ulster began at a switchboard at the Weed Works and terminated at Foyle Enterprises, another coup of the dynamic Sir Frederick.

  Lord Roger came to his office twice weekly, on Monday and Friday, to open and close the week's business. He deplored that absenteeism during his father's reign that put everything into the hands of underlings and made their holdings deteriorate accordingly.

  Along with his personal assistant, Ralph Hastings, Kermit Devine was constantly at Roger's side and served as a daily courier to and from the Manor. Devine never achieved Swan's status but he was heavily into the undercover side of things as the unions attempted to infringe. A nondescript man of total loyalty in his late fifties, Devine's squad carried on the seamy affairs of beatings, kidnappings or whatever was required to maintain labor peace.

  After the morning round of meetings with his factory and mill directors, rail and shipping people and solicitors, the toy would be put into play. Lord Roger chatted with Sir Frederick in great detail twice a week, usually during the noon hour. In addition to old business and new schemes, Caroline and the boys came into Londonderry one day for the titillation of their grandfather. It was gossamer, pure gossamer, this telephone!

  On this Friday it was ten minutes to twelve when Lord Roger rang through, precisely the time the fire started.

  *

  Terry Devlin had just turned sixteen, completing a full five years of apprenticeship on the third floor. He was at the top of his wage scale, nine shillings a week, and next in line to move up to the cutting room. That would be a glorious day, a signal to manhood. He would have a job, that illusive Bogside rarity, and could begin drinking in the pubs, what with a bob or two in his pocket Terry worked among the blooming girls, pressers of about his age. He had held secret longings for a number of them but was in no position to blurt out his feelings. Before he could get truly friendly, it seemed, they always moved upstairs to become sewing machine operatives. Becoming a cutter meant he could start courting, if he so desired.

  It had been a long and cruel go and during the summer months he thought he'd not outlive the heat, but it would all be worth it now, with his promotion. The third-floor routine before noon was to clean the ash and cinders from the stoves which heated the irons and run them down to the bins outside. Terry Devlin knelt successively before the stoves in his care, opened the door below the grate and shoveled the overflow into a pair of buckets. When these were full up he grunted under their weight, carrying them out of the workroom.

  He quickly adjusted his eyes to the sudden plunge into darkness, for the gaslight in the hall was always blocked by stacks of incoming shirts. Today's backlog ran to two thousand, leaving almost no walking room. He sucked in a breath of fear. In the darkness it was difficult to pinpoint the elevator shaft, which was neither gated nor guarded. Over the years a number of people had fallen to their deaths, including his best friend. Others had been crippled by being trapped and crushed between the shaft opening and the descending elevator.

  He tiptoed gingerly but suddenly left his feet, tripping over an unseen bundle of shirts, and both buckets of ashes spilled over. He sprang up in a frenzy with first thoughts of dirtying the shirts. What to do? Try to brush up the ashes and sneak down unnoticed? Try to get some light on the matter? No, someone might see him then. It was too dark to work . . . maybe open the workroom doors . . . no . . . no . . . they'd see him. If his clumsiness were revealed it could cost him his life's dream of becoming a cutter.

  He stood trembling and whimpering and biting at his finger. His eyes widened suddenly on sight of a hot cinder from his bucket eating through a stack of shirts. The red ring in the material widened and deepened and little curls at smoke rose from them. Terry plunged his way through the mass of garments to a shelf near the lavatory where a bucket of water was stored and grabbed it down and flung it! It was empty, the bottom rotted out! The boy became hopelessly confused at that moment and, as he whirled about looking for respite, the shirts closed on him like the tentacles of a soft octopus. He threw his hands up to knock them off, backing up as he did, and his feet slipped over the edge of the elevator shaft. Terry Devlin plunged down screaming but it went unheard, for the noon whistle drowned it.

  *

  Peg and Maud left their machines quickly at the sound of the whistle and were immediately joined by Deirdre. If all were in luck, if things were not too crowded on the stairs, it would take four minutes to get up to the roof and four minutes to return. That would leave seventeen full minutes up there.

  The cutters on the top floor let the girls have the roof on good days. They had the advantage of working in natural light and ventilation. So many girls would be attempting to get up the four iron ladders through the trap door it would be unfair to add to the congestion … unless one were courting and it was a chanc
e to spend a few minutes together. Besides the gallantry, one could get a peek up a skirt, invited or otherwise, by helping them up and down the ladders.

  Each woman in turn groaned for joy as she reached the burst of light and air and soon the roof held sixty or seventy, chomping away at their lunches and looking out to the ever splendid view of the river at its bend.

  Maud McCracken alone looked down on the Bogside. From here she could almost make out the forge on Lone Moor Road. Thank God the week was nearly over. Sunday they would take the train to Convoy and see the forge. She toyed with the notion of quitting. This week had been particularly agonizing and it wasn't going to get better. She had barely made it up the steps today and by noon she was on the brink of passing out. Peg was right. She ought to stop. It would do nothing but create worry for Myles if she collapsed and had to be carried out. It would be grand if she could wake up Monday and not have to return till after the baby.

  "Peg," she said impulsively, "I think, maybe, tomorrow will be my last day."

  Her sister smiled and patted her hand.

  *

  For the last fifteen minutes of his call to Belfast, Lord Roger was constantly interrupted by one commotion or another outside. It began with the noon whistle. His office was in the rear so he was unable to see what was going on. The long-distance line faded more than usual, adding to his annoyance. By twenty-five after twelve any notion of continuing the conversation was killed by the sound of the fire brigade charging up Abercorn Road. He shouted to Sir Frederick that he would try to replace the call later when things had quieted down and he rang off.

  At that moment Kermit Devine flung his door open.

  "What the devil's going on out there, Mr. Devine?"

  "There's a fire at the factory," Devine said, opening the double doors into the adjoining conference room which afforded a view down Abercorn Road to the Witherspoon & McNab building. The two men watched the scene of workers pouring from both sides of the building, emptying into the streets in a half-carnival atmosphere.

  Horse-drawn hose reel and chemical wagons came in from different directions followed in a moment by the hook and ladder and steam fire engines pulled by troikas of beating hoofs. A Constabulary van emptied its police, who cleared out operating room and set up a line.

  "Doesn't appear too bad," Roger mumbled, pointing to a thin spiral of smoke out of the third floor.

  "On the roof, m'lord, look!"

  "My God," Roger whispered, gripping the curtains. He felt faint, then quickly gained control. There were women up there, shouting. If anything went wrong, it could be a calamity. He told himself to think. Think! Think! Think! No time to lose one's head.

  "Mr. Devine, we'd best have our wits about us."

  "I agree to that."

  "Are your men at hand?"

  "They are, sir."

  “Good. We may have to come up with some special assignments if this isn't brought under control at once." Roger paced and shoveled at his hair, glancing back and forth at the growing commotion in the street. "You are fully aware of the past unpleasantness we've had with Kevin O'Garvey over that building."

  "I am, sir. Fortunately, he's in London at the moment."

  "Well, thank God for that. I want you to get down there, speak to the fire commander and get as accurate and complete a picture as possible. On your way out have the switchboard put me through to Sir Frederick. Keep a line open until he's located."

  Devine nodded and was on his way. Roger watched the column of smoke from the third floor thicken as more people continued to evacuate the place. As he looked to the roof, the person of Kevin O'Garvey loomed more and more ominous. If there were deaths, O'Garvey would blow the lid and this time the results could be utterly ruinous. He cursed himself for not taking Swan's advice to get rid of O'Garvey when there was a chance. Well, too late for hindsight. It all became jewel-clear. Unless O'Garvey was intercepted and disposed of the old deal would be illuminated. Otherwise, there was even the possibility of manslaughter charges. With the reformists running Parliament the scandal would be shattering . . . dragging them all up to the dock . . . As the first flames blew out of the side of the factory, Roger returned to his office and snatched up the phone.

  "Where the devil is my call to Sir Frederick?"

  "Sorry, sir, bit of confusion here."

  *

  Old Ben Haggarty, the ancient foreman of the cutters, came through the trap door with a number of men as the first whiffs of smoke danced around the roof.

  "Ladies! Ladies! If you please!" he shouted, and held up his hands to ward off the barrage of questions. "If you'll kindly quiet down!" They gathered in close. "There seems to be a small fire on the third floor," he said. "The lads from the fire brigade are at hand and it should be under control in a matter of minutes. There is no danger whatsoever."

  A massive intonation of relief followed and he waved their jabbering to a halt once more.

  "We are going to make an orderly evacuation. I want no pushing or shoving. At all costs, no one is to panic. My boys will lead you down, we've lanterns, and you should be out on the street in ten minutes. One at a time, one at a time."

  As Ben Haggarty spoke, Maud alone was able to pierce through his calm and detect pending disaster.

  Perhaps she was dreaming it up, but somehow, at that instant, she knew she was going to die. As Ben spoke she maneuvered Deirdre close to the escape route. Deirdre, poor little ragamuffin, was an image of herself eight years ago. Maud looked at the girl who had never felt a single true flush of joy and she made her decision. Maud had had her moment or two, that spark of hope that came with the Gaelic League, a few wild times with a few wild lads, a touch of laughter here and there. With Myles there had been nights of complete magic both with him and with the dream they shared.

  Deirdre had had nothing.

  Ben Haggarty had done much to keep things orderly and with the help of his lads they began down the ladder. Maud shoved her niece to it.

  "You go on down, love," she said. "I'll wait a bit. I'd just hold things up with this stomach of mine."

  "I'll wait with you, Aunt Maud," the girl answered.

  Maud slapped her over the face, hard. "Do as I tell you!" she commanded.

  "You heard your Aunt Maud," her mother said. "Go down, I'll wait with her."

  "Why did you slap me!"

  "Go down!"

  Peg gripped her sister's hand hard as the girl, still very hurt, swung over the top and out of sight. The noise below increased as a wind shift off the river blew a funnel of smoke over the roof.

  *

  Roger paced a mad route between the conference room and his office as he watched the flames move up the building with steady and unabated speed. He picked up the phone innumerable times. The screaming outside heightened as something went on beyond his line of vision. At last Kermit Devine gasped his way back.

  "Afraid it doesn't look too good."

  "All right, tell me."

  "As much as we can gather, it started on a lower floor and is being carried up through the elevator shafts and stair wells."

  "What about the women on the roof? How many are there?"

  "We don't know, sir. Two of them panicked and leaped off. The firemen got their hand nets beneath them all right, but they went right on through to the pavement."

  "Oh, dear God! Is that bloody chief an incompetent or something? Why the hell don't they get their ladders up?"

  "They'll only go as high as the fourth floor."

  Roger pulled himself together as best he could. As the two men exchanged knowing looks, Roger's assistant, Ralph Hastings, made an appearance.

  "Not meaning to unsettle you, m'lord, but it has been suggested we evacuate here. I spoke to the fire officer myself and he says there's no danger of it reaching us but best not to take any chances."

  "Yes, yes, Hastings. All right. Move everyone along. I shan't be coming for a few moments."

  "Sir, I must insist. . ."

  "Get the hell ou
t, Hastings!" Roger shouted, pushing the man and slamming the door behind him. He returned to his desk in complete calm. "What are your thoughts, Mr. Devine?"

  "My lads are standing by waiting for your instructions. I've sent one to the area commander requesting troops move up to Hubble Manor for the Countess and your sons."

  Roger nodded.

  "I also made a request that the balance of the garrisons of Londonderry and Donegal be alerted to move in to seal off the Bogside in the event of a civil disorder. The main question is O'Garvey. If he were here, my men would do the job."

  "We're going to have to keep news of the fire from leaving Londonderry until I can get through to Sir Frederick," Roger said. "I want the telegraph lines cut from the General Post Office and stop all train movement Can you manage it, Mr. Devine?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good man."

  As Kermit Devine sped out, Roger returned to the conference room in time to see the factory explode into flame.

  *

  Deirdre scrambled back onto the roof screaming for her mother and aunt. Half the women were on their knees weeping out prayers and the others ran around screaming hysterically. As billows of smoke blackened the sky, the heat of encroaching flames slowly turned the roof into a griddle.

  Maud threw her arms about her niece, who babbled a semi-coherent story that some of them got through but the stairs collapsed, driving the rest back up. Mayhem and frenzy took over as the first of the flames licked their way over the cornice onto the roof and began to move them into a corner. Peg shrieked and ran aimlessly, beating at the fire, staggering back in total' mania A finger of fire spurted onto her skirt and in a final last horror she threw herself off the building. Maud had Deirdre mercifully covered from the sight.

  "Hail, Mary," she said, going to her knees, "blessed art thou among women . . . Pray for us now and at the hour of our death."

  *

  Roger hacked as smoke reached his nostrils. He shouted into the phone to no avail. Now the heat could be felt creeping in. He fought his way out of his jacket and loosened his collar. For an agonized instant he hovered on the notion of abandoning the call but realized it could mean the end of them all.