In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers Page 6

  “Have you sailed this coast before?” Conall asked. “You speak as if you know it?”

  “Many times, in my youth.”

  “You’ve been to Svalbard?”

  “No, not that far north. It was different then, climate’s changed so fast. There were glaciers on Spitsbergen, ice the year round if you can believe it. Gone now, they say. But it still snows up there, I’ve heard, in depths of winter. Long winters. Dark all day and night.”

  “It’s true then? The sun never rises?”

  “Never sets in summer. Unnatural place to be farming, if you ask me, but the captain’s set on it, or says he is at least.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth young Hawkins. Now get over to the fore mast and tell Jim to put a bit of slack in that clewline.”

  When his turn on deck was finished, Conall went below to muck out the animals. He opened the door to the pens and found Faro there already, with Heather, the two of them laughing, watching the piglets play. Heather turned and waved but Faro ignored him and left without speaking a word.

  Heather gave Conall a questioning stare. “You two not speaking?”

  “Guess not. How’s Rufus?”

  “Missing you. What did you argue about?”

  “Nothing. If he causes trouble, just tap him on the nose. He understands that.”

  “I assume you mean the dog, not your brother.”

  Conall grunted, shovelling pig muck into a bucket.

  “Brothers. You’ve only got each other, and now you’re not talking.” She drifted towards the door, paused as if she wanted to say something more, but no words came. The door closed softly behind her as she left.

  Conall went back to his shovelling but the row with his brother still raged in his thoughts. All those years on Shetland, barely a cross word. Always standing by each other, working as a team, because they had no one else.

  But that had changed. The crew of The Arkady had taken them in. Fed them, protected them, forgiven them for sneaking on board.

  Stealing the map was wrong. He wouldn’t help Faro. But he couldn’t speak against him either. The argument was only skin deep. There was still blood, tying them together. The bond of family was unbreakable.

  ≈≈≈≈

  Four days later they arrived at Tromsø, one of the old cities of Norway. The town sprawled across an island, connected to the mainland by a long, ancient bridge. The houses were mostly wood, with some of stone and brick and concrete, patched together and mended over the years.

  The crew were free to take shore leave, but the captain issued strict orders: go ashore in groups of four or more, an armed guard on the ship at all times, no straying too far from the dockside, and no drinking. The men grumbled bitterly, but put their hands to getting the ship ready for port.

  The aloofness between him and Faro had started to thaw, but still they barely spoke. Conall didn’t dare mention the map, or their parents, or what they would do when they reached Svalbard, for risk of starting another fight.

  Once the ship was tied up, Conall found his brother loitering by the forecastle, looking not at the town but towards the sea and the fjord, the endless miles of ocean and rock.

  He stood behind his brother, looking over his shoulder. “You going ashore? I’m with Mrs Hudson again.”

  “Sticking with mummy? Or playing the hero?”

  Faro had a skill with cutting words, and over the years Conall had learnt to ignore them, letting them wash past. “Are you going with Jonah?”

  “I’m staying on board. There’s nothing here but stinking fishwives and men with beards.”

  Erica called, ready to set off. Conall left his brother staring at the sea, and joined the captain’s wife and her bodyguard of four sailors. Jonah gave handguns to two of them, and the men tucked the weapons away out of sight.

  Erica put an arm around Conall’s shoulder. “Can’t go without my protector,” she said. He sensed the sailors around them grinning at each other, and knew he’d be teased in the canteen later. “My husband told me not to go ashore. Forbade it. A direct order,” she said. She leant down to whisper to him, conspiratorial. “A lesson in life, young man. Never give a woman a direct order. Especially your wife.”

  They toured the town, meeting up with the cook and his party, comparing notes on food and supplies. She’d brought silver for trading, a small bag of diamonds, intricate jewellery made of gold and precious stones, along with spices from the far south. She searched out flower shops and vegetable stalls, asking about growing conditions and where they got their stock, how the plants coped with long, dark winters and the kinds of trees that flourished in the hinterland away from the sea. She asked about climate and rainfall and how the grass was doing, about wildflowers and meadows, butterflies and bees.

  “We need inside knowledge,” she told Conall as they walked along the quayside towards the ship. “These people live above the arctic circle, they know what it’s like. They’ve seen the change. They know how the insects are coping, which plants have survived, which are new to this part of the world.”

  He paused to let her go in front of him up the gangplank. “You love nature. Why go to Spitsbergen? People say it’s bare, nothing but rocks and ice.”

  “Not any more,” she said. “Besides. It holds hidden treasures.” A flash of a smile, but she turned and strode ahead up the gangplank before he could ask any further.

  On deck the crew were busy loading supplies, stacking hay and straw, piling boxes of vegetables outside the galley. But they seemed unnaturally quiet. Faces turned towards him, looking away if he caught their eye. A tension hung in the air. The captain stood on the rail at the edge of the poop deck, surveying the work, his face stern.

  Jonah strode towards them and spoke to Mrs Hudson, whispering something Conall couldn’t catch. Then Jonah stepped in front of him, expression serious, face set hard, eyes unblinking, gripping his cane. “Placing you under arrest, young Mr Hawkins.”

  “Why, what have I done?”

  “Take him to the brig boys.”

  “Not with his brother, keep them apart,” the captain shouted from the poop deck.

  Jonah conferred with Bagatt. “Lock him in the laundry for now,” Jonah said. “It’ll be secure until we can deal with him.”

  Conall looked towards Erica for help. She put a hand on his shoulder, but said nothing, pushing him gently towards Jonah, telling him he had to go.

  “What’s this about?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Faro. Faro had done something, and Conall was getting blamed. The map. It had to be. Faro had been caught, and now they’d both be left behind in Tromsø.

  The door to the cramped laundry room slammed shut and he squeezed in beside three large sinks filled with socks and underwear, left there to soak. It smelt musty, the air humid and heavy. The carpenter’s toolbox rattled on the other side of the door as he knelt to fix a lock. The sound of screws in wood told Conall he was now a prisoner.

  There was no chair, no bed in the room, so Conall sat on the floor, knees up to his chin, arms wrapped around them, wondering what to say when the captain called him to be questioned. He could insist on his innocence and betray Faro. Or stand by his brother, take whatever punishment came his way.

  But there was no choice. If they put Faro off at Tromsø, then Conall had to stay with him. They had set off together, had always been together. The two of them would make it to Svalbard, and find their parents, dead or alive. They’d do this together. They were brothers, a team. Unbreakable.

  ≈≈≈≈

  The Arkady sailed with Conall still locked in the laundry. The hum of the engine told him they were getting under way. From overhead came the familiar sounds of the crew in the rigging.

  Hours passed. The ship steered out of the fjord into the coastal waters, heading north under sail. Bagatt brought a meal and water. Then more waiting.

  They hadn’t been le
ft in Tromsø, but where next? Would Captain Hudson take them all the way to Svalbard? Or leave them in some Norwegian town, inaccessible except by sea, hundreds of miles from either Shetland or Spitsbergen?

  Conall curled up on the floor and slept, waking to the sound of the door being unlocked. ‘Bones’ Bagatt stood there, face stern, eyes refusing to look straight at Conall. No words were spoken. Bagatt led him to the captain’s stateroom.

  “Your brother was caught stealing,” Captain Hudson said. He sat with his wife to one side, Jonah to the other, and stared at Conall, waiting for his reaction.

  Conall glanced from face to face. Mrs Hudson gazed at her hands. Jonah stared into Conall’s eyes, as relentless as the captain. But did Jonah know? Or suspect? Had Faro found the map, been caught with it, red-handed?

  “You don’t appear surprised,” the captain said. He folded his hands on the table in front of him, fingers interlocked, waiting for Conall to speak.

  “It must be a mistake.” Conall’s throat was dry as desert wind, his voice crackling as he spoke.

  “Were you involved?” It was the first time Mrs Hudson had spoken since Conall came into the room. “Did you have anything to do with this?”

  “Nothing, it’s a mistake. Faro wouldn’t steal.”

  “You two survived, somehow, on Lerwick, for ten years,” Jonah said. “You never stole?”

  What did they call stealing? The boys had been desperate, hungry enough, to take rabbits from a trap, fish from a line, the hooks and bait strung between two posts at low tide, covered by the incoming sea, the catch revealed as the ocean receded. They’d get there first, take flounders from the hooks. They’d taken bread from the bakers tray, left out to cool in the early morning breeze. What about the binoculars he found? The man who owned them was long dead. Was that stealing? What did it mean to steal? Or lie?

  “Never, Faro never stole. Nor me.”

  “Why was he in my cabin? Going through my things?” The captain’s voice was harsher now, angry.

  “The boy is not his brother’s keeper,” Mrs Hudson said.

  “They act as one.” Jonah sat back in his chair, the wood creaking under the weight, the man’s head resting on the sloping ceiling, his shoulders obscuring all light from the portholes along that part of the cabin.

  Conall stood his ground, trying to speak firm and sound confident. “He wouldn’t steal, I know that. “You’ve helped us. We’re grateful for this chance.”

  “Can you explain why he was there?” The captain’s hands were tense, gripped together.

  “No.” They must have questioned Faro. What had he said? “Was he cleaning?” Conall didn’t dare glance at Jonah. He felt the first mate’s eyes on him. “Was anything taken?”

  “He was caught, before he could get away. The room was locked,” the captain said. “He opened the lock, without the key. That’s quite a trick.”

  Faro had practiced with padlocks, doors to ruined houses. They’d broken into empty buildings, barns and storehouses when they needed shelter. Helped themselves to potatoes from the town store when they were starving. A useful skill, indeed.

  “What was he looking for? He searched my cabin, ignored a bag of silver coins, an antique watch, priceless books.”

  “Then he wasn’t stealing.”

  “What was he doing?” The captain’s voice was gruff, deep, echoing with rage.

  “Conall if you know, you must tell us,” said Mrs Hudson.

  “I don’t know, I was with you. Faro wouldn’t steal, it’s a misunderstanding.”

  The captain thumped the table. “Why was he there?”

  “Ask him. He’ll tell you.” Let Faro talk. It was his idea, he should invent the story.

  “All he tells us is lies. Says he was looking for a map of settlements, on Spitsbergen, among my possessions, to help find your parents. Says you wanted it. Does that mean anything?”

  Conall had to answer fast, any delay looked bad. But he couldn’t think. Why would Faro say that? There must be a reason. If he denied it, Faro’s story fell apart. Admit it, and he’d be taken as an accomplice. “I don’t remember. He must have misunderstood. We talked about finding them. I said we needed a map.” His tongue tripped over the word. Still he refused to look Jonah in the eye. “Of settlements, so we’d know where they might be living. But it was an idea, that’s all. Wondering if it existed.”

  “You could have asked,” Mrs Hudson said. “We’d have no reason to hide it from you.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t want to trouble you,”

  The captain roared at him, “get out.”

  Conall paused, but Mrs Hudson nodded, waved him towards the door. “Wait outside,” she said.

  He stood there, the longest twenty minutes of his life, listening to them talking inside, their voices too low to make out the words. He could tell how the argument tipped one way then the other from the tone of their voices, the captain stern, his wife softer, Jonah unsure. Finally he heard the clomp of Argent’s cane on the stateroom floor and the door opened. Jonah emerged, walked past Conall without a word and went on deck.

  Mrs Hudson came next, told him to go in. She closed the door behind him, leaving Conall alone with the captain and his fierce eyes.

  “Your brother stays in the brig ’til we reach Spitsbergen. Then we’ll put him ashore and be done with him. You, and I’ll regret this, but you get a second chance. You have my wife to thank for that. And the kind offices of Mr Argent, who has agreed to keep a very close eye on you. Do not betray us. Go.”

  Conall paused. More than anything, he wanted to win back this man’s trust. But whatever he said might implicate his brother, and Jonah. He mouthed a simple “thank you,” turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

  He went on deck, reported to Jonah who stood amidships, gazing out to sea.

  “You going to tell me the truth?” Jonah didn’t look at him.

  He knew. About the map. About the boys overhearing his talk with the engineer. He’d figured it out. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  Jonah turned, glared at him. “There’s things you don’t know and don’t understand, being a young man, having lived a sheltered life. Don’t leap to conclusions. Or put a word wrong.” Jonah’s hand moved to the hilt of his knife.

  Conall understood the threat all right. But not Jonah’s words. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Make sure of it. Get to work,” Jonah dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Conall found a bucket and set about scrubbing the deck to look useful. People could see him working. He slopped water onto the wooden boards and scrubbed until his arms ached.

  He had to see Faro, find out what happened. But couldn’t.

  He had to make things right with the captain. But there was no way to do it, without betraying Faro and making an enemy of Argent.

  And he had to steer clear of Jonah, while sticking close to him, under his gaze at all times. There was nothing for it but keep his head down. When they got to Svalbard, they’d leave the boat. Faro would be free, he’d get Rufus back. Forget about treasure and maps, Jonah and The Arkady. Start a new life. Find their parents. That’s what mattered.

  Svalbard couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter Seven

  HAMMERFEST

  The heat had gone out of the wind and the water was ice cold in the fjords. Snow lay on top of the highest mountains, dazzling in the bright spring sunshine. The days grew longer the further north they travelled and soon there would be no darkness, no night at all.

  Erica Hudson stood on deck taking temperature readings as she watched the sun set, comparing the numbers to the calculations she’d made every day of the journey. “Ten degrees hotter than the historical record,” she said.

  Conall stood beside her watching the mountains and fjords slip past. She nodded to him and he hauled on a rope, pulling a thermometer from the ocean. He dragged it on board, taking care not to touch it, holding it up for her to read. She frowned and made a note in her log.


  “Even in the far north, the heat,” she said.

  “When did it happen? The warming? What went wrong?”

  “Too much to tell,” she said. “And I’ve the animals to check on. Ask me another time, when we’ve got hours to spare, and a good meal in our bellies.”

  She packed up her books and handed them to Conall. He carried them to the captain’s stateroom, knocked and waited.

  “Enter,” called Captain Hudson. He looked up at him and grunted.

  Conall put the logs and books on the shelf and made to leave.

  “Wait,” the captain said. “Close the door.” He waved Conall closer to the desk. “Tell me what you know,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  Conall’s mind whirled. Choices. Decisions. Faro would be kept in the brig until Svalbard, then released, no matter what. Jonah would never trust Conall. Faro would never forgive him. There was nothing to lose now, by telling the truth. And yet…

  The captain waited, his expression stern but patient, eyes boring into Conall as if reading the indecision on his face.

  He owed the captain the truth. “We heard talk, in the hold, when we were hiding. About a map.”

  He stopped.

  The captain’s eyes bored into him. “Go on.”

  “Sailors, talking, about treasure. The treasure of Spitsbergen, they called it, and said you were carrying a secret map that shows where it’s buried.”

  A broad grin spread across the captain’s face. He laughed, louder and deeper than Conall had ever heard anyone laugh. Conall opened his mouth to speak, stared at the captain, unbelieving. Why would he laugh? He paused, thrown off by the captain’s strange behaviour. “It was a game to Faro, to find the treasure map, that’s all, he meant no harm. An adventure.”

  “And the names of the sailors?”

  Conall paused. He’d said enough. “It was dark.”