Chapter 3

      ‘There’s a ship mooring at the Duke’s dock,’ someone shouted. The men picked up kit, off to find some maintenance work, but George had none. He got a running head start on them, with Tom by his side. They pounded along the cobbled streets, the soles of their boots clicking on the surface with each footfall. At first his boots had rubbed his feet to tatters, but now they were so worn in that it felt like he was running barefoot. Sweat caused by the glaring sun dripped down from his temples and ran round the curve of his neck, under his clothes. It was almost unbearable, but he kept running, otherwise he wouldn’t get there in time.

      War had almost been forgotten in the last few days, as work had taken over. They crossed Gower Street and ducked around a carriage, the coachman swearing at them, before running into the Duke’s dock underneath the brick arch of the dock house. The dock smelled strongly of salt water and that ever present stench of fish that got into the nostrils and never left. There was a ship mooring at the dock. George craned his neck to see around the men in front of him. It was a small ship. Its sails were furled and it was being guided in by a small motor. Rope was already being pulled over one of the mooring posts. A man assisting in the mooring saw them coming and blocked their way. ‘Easy now,’ he said, raising the palms of his hands. The men almost didn’t stop. ‘Easy,’ he said again, louder.

      This time the men stopped in front of the dock master. ‘I need ten able-bodied men to unload this cargo,’ he said. ‘No more.’ There was a collective groan from the group, about fifty, most of them in tatty clothes. ‘She also needs some caulking, if you can do it.’

      A man towards the back of the group with a heavy tin toolbox put a hand up and pushed forward past the dock master. The master started assigning men tasks. ‘You, you, and you,’ he said to three men a couple of rows in front of George. The rest of the men jostled to get noticed, but the master just scowled, picked the rest of the men from elsewhere.

      Tom cursed. ‘I thought we had got lucky there, George,’ he said with a shake of his head.

      ‘Back to the custom house?’ George said. ‘We can look in on the arrivals there.’ Work was scarce on the dock, and down to luck.

      The dock master came back over to the group. ‘There’s a big haul coming in, lads. If you’re quick.’ There were calls from the crowd, asking where.

      ‘…King’s dock’ were the only words George heard, as he dragged Tom after him. The two of them spent most of their days running from one place to another. He didn’t mind the running, but it was the sweat that he couldn’t cope with. In winter it was fine, the running kept you warm, but in the summer it was unbearable. He tried to wear as few layers as possible, but the clothes were for protection. If a piece of cargo slipped it could cut a hole, he’d seen it happen. The boys crossed to the King’s dock. It was a good distance to get to King’s dock. Some part of George suspected that it wouldn’t be worth the effort, but they had to try. Their families depended on the income. Even if it was only a few pence.

      As they turned the corner the expanse opened up to a much greater view. King’s dock was much larger than Duke’s. Here the buildings were spaced back, allowing the cargo to be offloaded and moved to better locations. There was indeed a ship entering the dock, larger than the last. It was crawling into the moorings, carefully using the rudder to make sure that it didn’t hit the dockside. It let off its horn, blaring across the dock, almost deafening, and some of the men following George and Tom cheered, feeling their luck was in.

      This time the dock master agitatedly waved them into a queue at the side of the dock without saying anything. If the men pushed their luck they would be dismissed without a chance to earn any pay. So they waited, eager, but cautious.

      He started assigning them off into queues, and only a few minutes later George and Tom were busy rolling heavy wooden barrels of brandy away from the dockside to a horse-cart that would take them away to a holding area. It took two men to roll each barrel, one guiding while the other put all their weight behind it and gave it a great shove. George and Tom had plenty of experience and idly chatted amongst themselves while they worked. They stopped for a moment to catch their breath, having just loaded the last barrel that would fit onto the cart, rolling it up the wooden chocks that formed a slope to the hold. The coachman put up the tail board with help from Tom to seal the other side.

      ‘You were right,’ Tom said, holding up a paper he had taken off a bench. The headline indicated that the war was in the morning paper again. It had been all that people had talked about since the ultimatum had expired.

      George wondered what Tom was talking about. Staring at him, he urged him to continue.

      ‘About them wanting more troops,’ he said. ‘You were talking about it the other day, remember? It says right here that Lord Kitchener has asked for another hundred thousand men.’

      There was a loud crack, accompanied by the snap of breaking wood, which seemed to drag the sound out from its initial burst.

      He turned to see a shape rushing towards them. He called out to Tom but it was too late. He just had time to reach for Tom and push him out of the way before an escaped barrel knocked into his back with force.

      Tom fell to the ground with a cry as the metal-clad wood knocked into him. It carried on rolling past, and George was just about able to get out of its way, before it crashed against the brick wall of the dock house and burst open, spilling its contents all over the cobbles.

      The coachman rushed to the back of his cart. The back plank had come undone, allowing the barrel to slip off the cart and run free. With the help of a few others, he managed to stop any more barrels falling off the cart and lashed them to the decking with some spare rope.

      George ran over to Tom, sprawled on the cobble floor. Tom had been hit in the back and was lying face down. He feared the worst, but Tom just groaned and tried to roll over.

      ‘Don’t move, Tom. I’ll get help.’

      Tom just smiled back at George as he always did and he pushed George away as he tried to check him for wounds.

      ‘Ah, don’t worry, George.’ He groaned as he sat up and put a hand to his back. ‘I’m all right, I’m all right.’

      He finally accepted help but shook his head. George helped him up with a hand under his armpit and then dusted him down. There was a bit of blood on his forehead, but nothing on the rest of his body except for a bruise that would blacken over the next few days. George wet his handkerchief