In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers Read online

  Jonah and Conall waited for an hour. Then another. Finally Tugon returned with news. Three men lay hidden in a cave, a hundred feet or more above the river, waiting for them with guns and dogs.

  “Putting a deal of effort into catching us,” Jonah said. “Plan to make an example of the runaways, I’d say. Given the choice, I’ll not get taken alive.”

  They talked round ways of getting past the men, whether they could sneak through in darkness, surprise them in the cave or double back and find another route. But in the end, they settled on an ambush of their own.

  Jonah and Conall walked the river path, knowing they’d be seen and taken, while Tugon kept out of sight.

  “You think he knows how to fire that gun?” Jonah muttered as the path wound below the cave where the slavers were camped. “Hope he can hit something. It ain’t easy, if you’ve never done it.”

  A shout above them, and a slaver appeared on the rocks, a gun in his hands. Another in front, and the third behind. The slavers had sprung their trap and two of them advanced. Conall glanced back. One man was already gone. Tugon had struck.

  A flurry of stones and the slaver above them stumbled and fell, crashing onto rocks. The remaining man shouted in alarm, realising he was alone, unsure what had happened. Before he could act, a gun fired and he collapsed dead in the river, his body buffeted against rocks.

  “He’s good at killing,” Jonah muttered. “Trust him less than ever. Don’t let’s turn our back on him anytime soon.”

  Jonah searched the bodies and took their guns. “Fed up with that wildman being the only one armed around here,” he muttered to Conall.

  Tugon gathered the bodies and insisted on burying them, using loose stones to build a cairn over the corpses. The wildman knelt beside it, intoning a prayer for the dead.

  Conall had seen burials on Shetland, the family grieving and performing rituals. But no one said prayers, kneeling by the grave, bowing to the sun, prostrating themselves on the earth.

  “Makes no sense to me,” Jonah said. “He killed ‘em without blinking, now he’s praying for their souls. These wild folk got strange ways.”

  Tugon sat in silence beside the burial, eyes closed, head held straight, showing no sign of moving.

  “There’ll be people coming sometime.” Jonah paced up and down on the rocks. “A change of shift, bringing supplies.”

  Two dogs barked from the cave above the river.

  “Must be leashed,” Jonah said. “Best leave ‘em that way and get moving.” He shouted to Tugon, urging him to get up. The wildman opened his eyes and held up a hand, urging them to silence. He went back to his prayer.

  Conall got to his feet, hands fidgeting. “I can’t leave the dogs. They’ll starve if no one comes. It’s cruel.”

  “They’ll tear you to shreds if you let ‘em go.”

  “I’ll go look. These men must have had food. There might be supplies we can take.” Conall skirted around Tugon and clambered over the rocks towards the cave. Two black dogs, waist high, thick-set and savage looking had been tied to a rock. They strained at their leather leads, barking at Conall, teeth gnashing and drooling saliva. He moved past them, careful to keep out of range of snapping jaws. In the cave he found a bag of food, dried meats and potatoes, flour and cornmeal, vegetables and herbs. A metal cooking pot lay beside the fire, along with bowls and spoons, a long knife, a flint and a pile of papers held down by a rock. He crouched to inspect them and flicked through hand-written notes in a language he took to be Russian. On the bottom of the pile he found a hand-drawn map. It showed the quarry where they had worked, the river, the cave, and the sea to the north, the inlet that would take them to the open ocean, if only they could get their hands on a boat. Conall grabbed the bag, the supplies and the map, took the knife in his right hand and inched past the dogs. He waved the knife at the animals, forcing them back.

  If he released them the dogs would attack. If he even tried, he’d get bitten for his trouble. He cursed the animals and their blind anger, but he took food from the bag and scattered it on the floor of the cave. The dogs dived on it, snarling at each other. He filled a wooden bowl with water from a metal can and put it in reach of the animals. Then he backed away, the dogs watching him go. It was the best he could do for them. Someone should come looking, when these men never returned to camp. They’d have a chance to survive, at least.

  He showed his haul to Jonah. “Good work, lad,” the first mate said, studying the map intently and tracking a route with his finger. “Look, on the inlet, there’s a port marked, a day or two of walking. But we’d better get going.”

  As they walked away from the burial cairn, taking the path downstream along the river, Jonah strode ahead, full of renewed energy. Having the map put him back in control. He could see a way to the sea, and once they reached it, he would be in his element once more, master of his fate.

  Tugon brooded. The wildman looked deep in thought. He glanced back as they rounded a corner, as if saying a final farewell to long lost friends. Conall loitered, giving Tugon time to catch up. “You did the right thing, saved our lives.”

  “It’s hard to kill,” Tugon said, and walked on in silence. Conall fell into step beside him, neither of them talking, listening to Jonah up ahead, whistling a tune.

  ≈≈≈≈

  A day and a half they walked, until they saw the sea. Jonah led the way, the map taken from the slavers in one hand and a gun in the other. He stood on a hilltop, pointing proudly, as the others climbed the slope to join him. “It’s a beautiful sight,” he said, his voice proud and joyful, as if about to be reunited with a longed-for lover.

  The town was a sprawl of houses and work-buildings thrown up around a harbour. The buildings were mostly stone and wood and little thought had been given to making the place look attractive or inviting. It had the hard, brutal look of the slaver camp.

  “Reckon we walk into town, see what happens,” Jonah said.

  Conall didn’t like the idea much. “Too dangerous, there might be more slavers. We should go round, keep clear of the town.”

  “We need a boat,” Jonah said. “I can get us back to the Norwegian towns, Kirkenes won’t be so far, once we’re at sea.”

  “Easier to stay hidden on land. We could walk it.”

  “Too hard on my feet, lad. Too far. The land’s tough. And I’m sick of walking. Get us on water and we’ve a chance. A boat, that’s the thing. ”

  “You sure you can find Kirkenes?”

  “Things are easier at sea, follow the coast line. How hard can it be? Yes, I can find it, with the right boat. And the only place to find one is in that town.”

  Jonah took the bag off Conall’s back and rummaged through it until he found the guns. He put his own handgun on the ground beside them, and examined the three weapons, checking them for bullets. “You still got your gun?” he asked Tugon. “How many bullets?”

  “Three.”

  “Here.” Jonah handed one of the guns to the wildman, another to Conall.

  “You know how to fire that boy?”

  Conall held the gun in the palm of his hand, the steel discoloured and stained over long years. “Pull the trigger. What more is there to know?”

  “Ain’t that simple. Got to hit something to be any use. Gun’s no good if you don’t know what you’re doing. For that you need practice and we can’t spare the bullets. Don’t want to be heard either. Don’t use it unless you must and keep it hidden.”

  Jonah tucked his own gun into his belt, hid it under his shirt. “Keep ‘em out of view,” he said. He handed the bag back to Conall. “And don’t lets go talking too much in that town either, letting people hear we’re outsiders. Come on, let’s steal us a boat.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THIEVES IN THE NIGHT

  The town was eery quiet, barely a soul on the streets. They headed past an inn and down steep residential streets through the town towards the main harbour. Conall’s eyes flashed at the blankness of the windows, se
nsing eyes all around. An old lady carrying a bundle of firewood gave them a stare and crossed the street to keep out of their way. Two fishermen walked by, each with a bucket of crabs. They looked the strangers up and down, but Jonah and Tugon must have seemed mean enough and fierce enough that they didn’t risk speaking out.

  They reached the harbour and worked their way along the seafront, examining the boats. “There’s plenty here might get us to Kirkenes,” Jonah said. “That ain’t so hard, close to land. But the open seas to Svalbard are something else. Four hundred miles, and if a storm gets up you’ll know it.” Jonah strode up and down, a frown on his face, muttering to himself. Finally he clapped his hands. “That one there.” He pointed to a boat, moored out in the bay, away from the main harbour, around a hundred yards from land. She was a two masted yawl, a jib at the front, thirty foot long, ten in the beam, with a cabin below decks.

  “She’s fast, you can tell by her lines,” Jonah said. “And she’ll survive a heavy sea, in the right hands. She’s been well looked after too, even if she’s showing her age. Not too big for the three of us to handle. Reckon she’s perfect.”

  Conall examined the boat. She seemed small, for the open seas, but he trusted Jonah’s skill. “How do we get aboard?”

  “Row out to her.”

  “We’ll be seen, for sure.”

  “You’ve a point,” Jonah said, “and on a strange boat, one I’ve never sailed before, it’ll take a while to get underway. I’d say she’s got no engine. But other boats here might.” Jonah tugged on his straggle of a beard.

  Conall glanced over his shoulder, back towards the harbour. A group of fisherman loitered by drying nets, aware of the strangers in their town. Keeping watch. He tapped Jonah’s shoulder and gestured with his eyes towards the men. “Wait till dark.”

  “Aye, you might be right. Better than shooting our way out of town. But what do we until then?” Jonah’s eyes turned to the town, examining buildings, looking for opportunities.

  “No inns,” Conall said. “No brothels. Not this time. Follow the captain’s orders, even if he isn’t here.”

  Jonah clipped him across the head, but grunted, accepting he’d have to miss his fun. “We’ve no money anyway, nothing to trade unless we steal and that’s asking for trouble.”

  “One of the guns,” Tugon said, “for a room and a meal.”

  “Shame to let one go,” Jonah said, “but you’ve a point. We could do with getting ourselves in shape, and supplies as well. But where would you trade a gun, in a town like this?”

  “Not an inn,” Conall said in a flash.

  Jonah clipped Conall’s head again. “Right enough boy, I get the message.”

  They found a boarding house for travellers on a bluff overlooking the inlet. The owner examined the gun offered by Jonah, looking suspicious but he didn’t ask any questions. It was worth more than the price of a room for the day. More, maybe, than his whole place, a ramshackle ten-room building that looked set to fall down at any moment. Still, he haggled, reluctant to add supplies of food and fresh clothing to the deal. When Jonah turned and walked off, the man came round, and soon the three of them had their own room, with a view of the boat they planned to steal. Conall settled into a chair for the first shift, watching to see if anyone went on board.

  ≈≈≈≈

  The old clock in the hallway of the boarding house ticked round to ten, only two hours to midnight, and still the sun hadn’t set. They collected their supplies, thrown in as part of the deal for the room: fresh water in a bear-skin container, a sack of flour and paraffin for cooking.

  They made their way down stone steps towards a rocky beach and sat with their backs to the cliff wall, waiting for the sun to creep below the horizon. As the light faded Conall stripped to his underwear and strode into the sea, the cold making his muscles tense up, but he kept going, never pausing. He slipped into the water and swam towards the collection of skiffs moored to buoys a hundred feet or more from the shoreline. He pulled himself onto one of the boats, then looked to the foreshore to see if anyone was watching.

  He slipped the oars into the rowlocks and pulled the skiff through the water. Jonah strode out to meet him. The first mate put the supplies at the front of the boat, handing Conall his shoes and clothing, with a towel from the boarding house. Jonah rowed them out into the channel towards the yawl while Conall dried himself and dressed, his skin covered in goose bumps from the swim and the cold night air.

  There were no lights on the boat. No one had visited her all day or appeared on deck.

  Jonah busied himself studying her sails and rigging, her layout and design. He seemed pleased with what he found, proud of his new command. Tugon took the supplies down the short wooden steps into the cabin.

  “Check the lines, free the cleats, secure the front tack,” Jonah said.

  The sun was still below the horizon but a blue glow filled the sky. Conall’s eyes were used to the gloom and he scurried around the deck carrying out the tasks for getting underway. Tugon stayed below deck even as they cast off and started to move.

  “He don’t like the sea much, I reckon,” Jonah said. “He might not enjoy the crossing to Svalbard.”

  The sails were up and had caught the wind before a shout went up from the shoreline. Voices of alarm rang across the bay. Lights came on in windows across the town.

  “Steady now,” Jonah called, “they’re a long way off and can’t hurt us from there.”

  Angry voices, shouting in Russian, drifted across the dark, still water. Conall heard men pushing a boat down the shore, the splash of the prow and the sound of oars hitting the water. He looked up at the sails. The night air was still, barely a breeze.

  “I’d give anything for an engine, right about now,” Jonah said as he pulled on ropes, adjusting the sails. “Cleat the halyard off, let them luff,” he yelled at Conall. “Need you on deck, if it’s all the same,” he called down into the cabin. Tugon appeared at the top of the steps. “Take the wheel if you would, heel us away from the wind,” Jonah panted, hauling on rope. “And keep your gun handy. Shoot over their heads if they get that close. If it don’t stop ‘em, aim at the waterline, put a hole in them.”

  “What if they’ve got guns?” Conall released the mainsheet to reduce the heel. “Take the wheel. Tugon doesn’t know what you mean. I’ll handle the sails. Just tell me what to do.”

  “You might be right at that,” Jonah said.

  Conall staggered across the deck and handed his gun to Tugon. “Stay aft. Watch for other boats. Leave the sailing to us.”

  Jonah took the wheel, barking instructions at Conall. They caught the wind, began to pick up speed. Conall heard the oar strokes, steady and getting louder, more shouting from the shoreline. Then the sound of an outboard engine kicking into life. Jonah cursed. “They’ll catch us all right,” he said.

  Conall looked back. One of the open fishing boats, a twelve footer with an outboard was gaining on them fast. He made out three men, two standing near the front, a third at the back, his hands on the engine, steering her straight for them.

  Tugon took aim. He fired into the air above their heads. The men shouted, confused, angry and afraid. They had no guns, Conall guessed. Still the boat kept coming. Jonah let go off the wheel, leaned over the side, and fired three bullets at the boat. One of the Russians ducked, diving into the belly of the boat, then one of them screamed with pain.

  “Damn fools,” Jonah yelled. “Holed their boat at the waterline, that’ll slow ‘em up, but didn’t mean to anyone. They’ll learn a lesson from that.”

  The engine noise quietened as the men eased off on the throttle. They’d given up the chase.

  “They might be back,” Jonah said. But the yawl was picking up speed. The Russians were far behind them now, disappearing into the gloom. Jonah steered the craft out into deep waters, standing at the wheel with the wind in his hair. “Feels good being back on the water,” he shouted, a grin across his face. Jonah Argent was back in his
element, and all was right with the world.

  Chapter Twelve

  KIRKENES

  The yawl slipped through the waters of the fjord, tall cliffs to east and west. In front of them lay the town of Kirkenes, sprawling up a hill on a headland. An arm of land created a sheltered bay where the town’s fishing fleet lay tied to a quay, the smaller rowboats pulled up onto the shoreline close by. It was close to eleven at night according to the clock in the cabin but there was still light in the sky to the south, the sun hidden behind mountains. Conall adjusted the wheel, easing the boat towards the harbour. “The town looks peaceful enough. You think anyone’s awake?”

  “They’ll be watching us, don’t you worry,” Jonah said. “Let’s make sure we watch them in return. Don’t want any more surprises.”

  He gave Jonah the wheel and stowed the sails as the first mate guided the boat to the side of the quay. Conall leapt ashore, caught the rope thrown by Tugon and tied her securely. He stopped and listened, looking inland towards the cluster of wooden houses for signs of life.

  The town was smaller than Lerwick. There couldn’t be more than a few thousand here, yet new houses were being built around the town, construction work dotting the hillside and the surrounding bays. But Kirkenes didn’t look like it was thriving. He sensed something in the air, a suspicion, as if this place was a wounded animal, ready to strike.

  Conall waited on the quayside for the others. But Jonah and Tugon hesitated, staying on board. Did they sense something was wrong?

  “The way things are in this part of the world, a strange boat turns up, I’d expect someone to come take a look, find out who we are,” Jonah said.

  Conall turned back to the town. Few lights burnt in window. Most of the windows were dark and shuttered. “It’s late. They’re in bed.”