In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (15 page)

“No drinking, none.”
 

Tugon put an arm on Jonah’s shoulder. “Spitsbergen,” he said and pointed at the money. “Not drinking. We go home.”
 

“You’re the one going home, I’m just looking for my crew,” Jonah said.
 

“Comes to same thing, doesn’t it?” Conall walked beside Jonah, not looking at him, staring up at the painted houses, the slanted roofs, the wafts of smoke coming from chimneys.
 

“Aye, I guess it does at that,” Jonah said. “You’re a wise man, for such young years, Mr Hawkins. I’ll give you that.”
 

≈≈≈≈

In the morning, Conall took a handful of coins and bought paint and a brush. He painted over the Russian name, christening the boat ‘
The Angela
’. It was his mother’s name, a fact he knew only from Faro. Everything about his family he’d learnt from Faro. He looked out to sea. Had his brother made it Spitsbergen? Had he found them? Had he even looked, or was he still in the brig?
 

He checked the cabin, looking through food supplies, examining the nets. He took two plastic water containers, scoured and scratched from years of use, carried them to the town well, queuing behind the local women for his chance to fill them. One he lugged back to the boat, then returned for the second. He tidied the cramped galley and washed the pans and plates.
 

They’d need more wood for the stove so he wandered the foreshore, admiring the fishing boats, then up a path towards woods beyond the town. He filled a bag with sticks and kindling, selecting the driest wood. Then he made his way further up the hill, to a clearing at the summit where he could see across the fjord, sunlight glinting off rocks and ocean. Even this far north, in a morning breeze, the day was warm. The conifer woods below him struggled to survive, with vast swathes of open land where fire had ripped through the dry trees.
 

He took the firewood back to
The Angela
and tidied the sails and rigging, greeting local fishermen as they came to their boats, setting out for the day’s catch. The harbour-master asked after his friends, and when they planned to leave. His tone was friendlier than the night before, but still the hint lay behind the words that they must leave. Conall didn’t blame the man, though. The world was too dangerous to trust strangers.
 

Tugon returned with food for their journey, dried meats and fish, flour and potatoes, carrots and cabbage, bacon, eggs and preserved fruit, bought with the money from Lars.
 

“How much is left? We need maps and rope, waterproofs and new shoes.” Conall pointed to his left foot, the toes bulging through the leather.
 

“Jonah, looking for charts,” Tugon said.
 

“Where is he looking?”
 

Tugon shrugged.
 

Conall glanced towards the town. He’d been around Jonah long enough to know how his mind worked. For the best maps, you talked to sailors. And sailors you’d find at an inn. He glanced at the old clock in the cabin. Ten past eleven. Would Jonah be drinking, this early? He found Lars, asked him which inns the sailors used. Only one place open at this hour, the harbour-master said, on the far side of town.

Conall headed along wide streets ignoring stares from the townsfolk, head bent forward, striding fast, hoping he was wrong.
 

The inn was an old stone building with thick walls, strong foundations and a steep roof, built back in the days it snowed all winter. He walked down a sets of steps to rooms below street level, with windows that looked out at the feet of passers-by. Jonah sat at a table with three Norwegians, two fishermen by the looks of them, and the third a woman, her arm draped over the first mate’s shoulder. A barman sat in the corner reading a book.
 

Jonah looked up as Conall approached, waved his hand as if to ward off an avenging angel. “Now young Hawkins, a man deserves refreshment after long weeks of captivity and a hard journey. Refreshment and a little relaxation.” He slapped the woman’s backside, his voice loud and confident, filled with the bravado of beer.

One of the Norwegians shuffled a pack of cards. The second ordered more drinks, though the fishermen weren’t on beer. Instead, they drank hot tea, staying sober. Keeping their minds sharp. Conall leant on the table, imposing his presence on Jonah. “We don’t have money to waste on drinking. Or gambling. You’re in charge of the boat, getting us out of the fjord.”
 

“One drink, maybe two, and a round of cards. A little relaxation.” He slapped the woman’s backside again and she giggled into his ear.
 

The rest of the pub lay empty, cold and dark. Outside, the townsfolk were going about their business. The sound of children playing drifted through the open windows.
 

Conall took hold of Jonah’s shoulder, tried to pull him from the chair. “No cards, no gambling. That’s not your money. It belongs to all of us.”
 

Jonah swiped at him angrily, pushing Conall back. He stumbled, put an arm onto a table to stop himself from falling. In the corner, the barman looked up, went back to his book.
 

The woman said something in Norwegian, the tone caustic and aimed at Conall. She stroked Jonah’s hair as if combing for lice, or panning for gold. One of the fishermen dealt the cards, urging Jonah to concentrate on the game.
 

“What about your crew,
The Arkady
, Captain Hudson, Svalbard?”
 

“They’ll wait, we’ll catch ‘em up, a few hours of rest won’t stop us. No point starting a voyage without being prepared, young Hawkins, you learn that after a few years at sea.”
 

“Do you have the maps? How much money is left?”
 

“Don’t you worry about the money. I’ve got that in hand,” Jonah said, gesturing towards the cards. He took a long swig of beer and caressed the woman’s leg.
 

He thought he’d win at cards but these men were taking him for a fool, staying sober, working together, using the woman and the beer to keep him distracted. Conall knew he should stay, watch the game to make sure Jonah wasn’t cheated, but he couldn’t stand to see the man make a fool of himself. This atmosphere was threatening, the men glaring at him. There was nothing he could do alone but Tugon would change things. The wildman could take back the money and drag the first mate out of that bar.
 

Conall ran from the room, up the stairs and through the town, back towards
The Angela
. He didn’t pause, leaping around people as they got in his way, ignoring the shouts of the harbour-master. He made it to the boat, gasping for breath. No sign of Tugon, the cabin doors shut. He looked up and down the quay. Over by the harbour-master’s building Lars stood watching, hands on hips. Conall strode over. “Have you seen Tugon? Where did he go?”
 

“Not my job to look after your shipmates. Did you find the other one? In the bar, drinking?”

“And gambling.”
 

“You still have to leave, end of the day. Those are the rules, town leaders made ‘em.”

Conall stopped fishermen, asking if they’d seen Tugon. One pointed along the shoreline, said he’d seem him heading off along the foreshore. Conall leapt onto stones, sure of his footing. This was taking too long. Jonah might have lost their money by now. He rounded the cove and saw Tugon kneeling at the edge of the water as if in prayer. He slowed as he approached, called his name. Tugon remained silent, motionless for a moment, then turned and looked at Conall.
 

“It’s Jonah, drinking, gambling. Sorry to interrupt.”
 

Tugon rose to his feet, gestured for Conall to lead the way, but it was clear he would walk, not run.
 

“To the boat first,” Tugon said. “We get a gun. In case we need it.”
 

They headed back to
The Angela
, and Tugon headed below deck to get a weapon. As he waited, Conall saw Jonah on the quayside, stumbling towards the boat with the two Norwegian fishermen from the bar either side of him. Jonah looked drunk, but shocked, guilty, his mouth twitching. The first mate noticed Conall, looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. “Now look boys,” Jonah said, “it can’t be helped what’s done is done and I meant well.” His voice was slurred, his face red from drinking.
 

“What’s going on? You lost the money?” Conall said. “Get on the boat, sober up.”
 

“Ah, now then, about that.”
 

“Boat is ours,” one of the fishermen said. He held up a hand-written note, barely legible, but Conall made out a signature: Jonah Argent.
 

“You gambled the boat? You lost our only way of getting to Svalbard?”
 

“There are other boats, young Hawkins, this is a set-back, is all.”
 

“We won the boat, fair and square,” the second fisherman said.
 

“He’s right, it’s all above board,” Jonah said. “A deal’s a deal. A man of the sea stands by his word.”
 

“They cheated,” Conall said. “They took you for a fool.”
 

“Hey,” one of the Norwegians raised a fist, threatening to strike Conall. He flinched, but no blow came.
 

Tugon shouted at the Norwegians from the top of the cabin steps. “We talk about this,” he said. “Make a deal.”
 

“What kind of a deal? The boat’s ours, we won her. What else you got to offer?”
 

“Plenty,” Tugon said, “You’ll see.” He waved them on board, gesturing them down the steps into the cabin. The Norwegians marched proudly onto their new boat. Conall scowled at Jonah, who waved an arm at him defiantly, but looked away, abashed.
 

Conall stepped into the cabin, following the second Norwegian. A blur, a shout, a crash. One of the Norwegians crumpled to the deck. The other shouted, but Tugon felled him with a blow to the chin. The fisherman’s head cracked into the side of the ship as he collapsed with a grunt.
 

Jonah staggered down the steps, barged into Conall. “Oh lord, that’s done it,” he said.
 

“We need this boat,” Tugon said. “We go to Svalbard, now, and no one stops us. If you don’t get us there…” He glared at Jonah. The first mate stared back, defiant for a moment, but then he lost his balance and staggered. He put a hand out to catch himself and grabbed Conall by the shoulder.

“Get the boat ready,” Tugon said. “We sail, now. Put these off down the fjord, let them walk home.”

“Goes against all the rules of the sea,” Jonah said. “But we’ve no choice now. They’ll not forgive us for knocking ‘em senseless. Get rope, boy, tie ‘em up. We’d better get moving, before that harbour-master comes looking.”

Tugon bound the men below-decks, stuffed cloth into their mouths so they couldn’t yell out if they came round. Conall got the boat ready to sail, leaving Jonah to slump by the wheel, yelling incoherent instructions.

Conall cast off, pushed the boat away from the quay. He managed the sails by himself, trusting Jonah to be sober enough at the wheel. As they caught the wind and pulled away, he saw Lars watching, scratching his head, but there was nothing the harbour-master could do. They were underway, at last, though they had no maps.
 

“Farewell, sweet Kirkenes,” Jonah shouted, his voice slurred.
 

Tugon cursed but Conall couldn’t make out the words.
 

“It’s Svalbard next,” Jonah said, his face flushed red from the drink. “Taking you home, Mr Wildman.”
 

“My name is Tugon.”
 

“Take you to your brother, young Mr Hawkins. Your parents too. And I’ll find my crew.” He hiccuped. “And my ship. And the treasure. I’ll find her, you wait and see.”
 

It happened so fast Conall didn’t even see where the knife came from but Tugon held the blade against Jonah’s windpipe, his face set hard, angry and mean.
 

“The treasure of Spitsbergen is sacred to my people,” he hissed. “Anyone who touches it, who even looks, they’re cursed. And they die.”
 

Conall froze, desperate to intervene, but knew one false move might be the end of Jonah. He could do nothing to stop Tugon. Except talk him out of it. “This treasure exists? What is it?”
 

“Don’t go raising foolish questions,” Jonah said, trying to back away from the knife.
 

“Never ask about the treasure. Don’t think of it. I’ve heard you talk,” Tugon said. “I know your greed. You go near it, my people will kill you. All of you. I’ll help them.”
 

He took the knife from Jonah’s throat and stormed down the steps into the cabin.
 

Jonah was too drunk to be angry, too dazed to react. By the look of him, holding onto the ship’s wheel to keep his balance, he wasn’t even sure what had happened. Could he get them out of this fjord safely? Conall stood by his side, in case he needed to take the wheel. The first mate should go sleep it off, but it made no sense to send him into the cabin, not with Tugon in there, ready to cut his throat.
 

Conall rubbed the sides of his face. Four hundred miles across the Barents Sea, with no charts and two shipmates who might kill each other any moment. If Jonah remembered this, he’d be out for revenge once he was sober. And even if they did make it to Spitsbergen, these men would still be at each other’s throats. Would Jonah listen to reason? Would he leave this treasure alone? Then there was Faro. He didn’t know the treasure was sacred to the wildmen. What if went looking for it? What if he already had?
 

“Go sit somewhere.” Conall took hold of the wheel, pushed Jonah away. Argent staggered off and collapsed into a heap on the deck, his back against the main mast, head lolling on his chest. Conall held the wheel lightly in one hand, heading for the far side of the fjord and prayed silently for fair winds and better luck.