In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (16 page)

Four hundred miles, Jonah told them: with a favourable wind they’d make five knots an hour. They’d be at Svalbard in three days, maybe four. But if the winds were foul, it might take five, six at the outside.
 

On the fifth day out, Conall looked to the north, hoping for sight of land. Still nothing. The wind was from the south west: they should be there by now. But what if they’d missed the islands, sailed right past them? They needed charts but had none, and that was the fault of the first mate, his drinking, his gambling and his whoring.
 

Conall held the wheel lightly in one hand. Jonah was sleeping below deck, he and Conall taking six hour turns on watch. It was for the best. It meant they didn’t have to see other much. Or talk. Conall put his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the light, staring north. Was that land, or another mirage? He needed binoculars. He needed charts. He changed the heading, lashed the rope and went to adjust his sails.
 

Jonah had taught him well. The first mate was a fine seaman when sober, and knew his rigging. He also understood how to pass on his knowledge, piece by piece, sharing experience instead of facts. He gave reminders when needed, got Conall to act on what he learnt and rehearse it again later, take it to heart by grasping it with his hands and eyes.
 

To the south, black clouds threatened rain or worse, moving fast. Conall’s gaze turned to the north. A dark shape, it could be land, too early to be sure. If it was Svalbard, they might make the shelter of the islands before a storm struck. Then again, they might be thrown onto rocks, splintered and wrecked out here in the wilds, where no ships came.
 

Tugon prowled the deck like a caged animal that can smell its freedom. He too stared to the north, desperate to see his home once more. How many years had he dreamt of this moment? Tugon leaned over the rail, pointing. He’d seen it too, that black strip on the horizon.
 

It was land, Conall was sure of it now. But the storm was growing behind. It would push them towards the land and hurl them at the rocks, if they didn’t take care. He looked over his shoulder at the clouds. A black streak filled the air: rain, stretching from sky to sea. Should they outrun it, or sit it out here, in the open ocean? Conall gestured towards the cabin. “Wake Jonah, tell him land ahead and a storm behind.”

Jonah arrived on deck, the sleeves of his shirt flapping in the wind, his dark hair flattened and tangled, eyes bleary from sleep. His eyes avoided Conall. Five days and the pair had barely spoken except to share ship’s business. He took in the storm, the dark shape of land, and scowled.
 

Conall held to the wheel, waiting, while the first mate curled his straggle of a beard around his fingers. “Is it Spitsbergen?”

“Might be at that,” Jonah said at last. “Hard to tell.”
 

Hard to tell, with no binoculars, no charts. No way to know how the land looked. It might be a sea stack, a small island, or the archipelago of Svalbard.
 

Jonah took the wheel and reeled off a list of tasks for Conall and Tugon, taking in sails, tying down everything that moved, making the cabin secure.
 

The wind caught the boat, the seas rose and the rain soaked them. Conall’s hand fumbled with the sails. Jonah lashed himself to the wheel, trying to keep her steady, but with no forward motion the ship was thrown around helplessly. Waves twenty, thirty feet high crashed over
The Angela
.
 

“Heave to,” Jonah yelled. Conall rushed to set the mainsail and headsails against each other, locking the boat at an angle to the wind and waves. Jonah lashed the wheel and ordered them below.
 

They huddled in the cabin, wearing the lifejackets they’d found in the stores. There was nothing to be done on deck, no way to fight raging seas. A mountain of waves shook the boat like a rag in a dog’s mouth. Tugon groaned and vomited into the galley sink.
 

Conall clung to a rail near a porthole, trying to keep watch. But the skies were black, the sea rolling, and he’d lost all sense of direction. Were they heading for the rocks, or being carried from land? How would they find Svalbard now, with no charts?
 

For an hour or more the wind howled in the rigging. Water sloshed over the decks. The ship pitched up, a rearing beast bellowing with rage, then down into troughs, as if ready to throw her riders, toss them into the ocean in retribution for bringing her to this end.
 

Conall clung to the table in the cabin. It was nailed to the floor and he wound his body around one of the legs, waiting for the storm to pass. Just as he began to hope, dream they might be through the worst of it, a tearing of wood ripped the air and seawater poured in. Jonah reacted fastest, lunging for the doors, getting them open, shouting at the others to move, get out, abandon ship.
 

Conall staggered up the steps, Jonah pushing him from behind. He heard Tugon’s despairing roar of pain, or anguish, or anger, mingled with Jonah yelling but he couldn’t make out the words. The boat was sinking, no saving her now, but she sat stable in the waters for a few precious moments, as the ballast of seawater held her firm against the waves. Then a mountain of water rose, cresting over them, crashing onto the decks. Conall was swept over, no way of knowing if the others survived.
 

Stay alive, one moment longer. There was nothing else to be done, no fighting the power of the sea. No way to swim, or keep above water. Only the lifejacket saved him, and his instinct to keep his mouth shut, even when his lungs screamed for air, waiting to surface. His head burst free and he gulped down air, then another wave carried him clear of the sinking boat. He looked back, saw the mast disappearing, the last of her, gone. No sign of land or the rocks that had skewered them. Nothing but waves and storm clouds and rain, a writhing, broiling sea, the numbing coldness, and a terrifying, unnatural, unnerving sense of peace.
 

The wave lifted him, hurling his body towards rocks. His chest and knees smashed into unforgiving granite. He flailed with his arms, desperate to protect his head, but grasping for a handhold, a hard place where he could cling like a limpet cowering from the fury of the sea.

His fingers grabbed at the rock but slipped and he was pulled back by the wave. It reared again, hurling him forward. This time he held tight, ignoring the pain that stung his legs, arms and chest, hanging onto life. Back came the sea to crash over him, intent on dragging him from his precipice. But Conall defied the ocean. For hours he clung to the rocks until the storm weakened. The ocean grew tired of torturing him and left him stranded on the edge of a sea stack, half a mile or more from land.

Land. It might be Spitsbergen, for all he could tell. Svalbard or not, he had to reach it, or die here, of thirst or cold, hunger or exposure, whichever got him first. Better to swim and drown than wait and die. He struck out, still wearing his lifejacket. The water here was bitter cold, and he might die of it long before he reached land. He put the thoughts aside, they did no good. Endure or die. He kept going, eyes fixed on the shore, a terrier digging for its prey. His body screamed for rest, ready to sink and let life go, but his spirit was firm, the goal in sight. No matter how far. He would endure. Not die.
 

 
The land grew closer but his limbs were tired and close to giving up. On, on. Think of Rufus, waiting, pining. Think of warmth and food and dry land. Think of Heather, of the treasure hidden somewhere on Spitsbergen. Think of anything, but not death.
 

The walls of rock reared high above him but to his right lay a bay. He could make land. He urged his legs to keep kicking, his arms to make one final effort. When he finally pulled himself from the water he knew he was close to exhaustion and could do no more. Relief washed over him, he was alive. For now. But he had to rest, to sleep, and let his body regain its strength.
 

He lay on his back, eyes closed, legs bent, groaning with pain. Then, from the water, a shout for help and he knew the voice: Jonah.
 

The first mate was in the water. Two, three hundred yards from land, making slow progress. His arms dragged him through the waves, but the effort was too much for him. He was a big man, strong to the point of being fearsome, but age and drink had weakened him, and when did he ever swim?
 

Conall forced himself to his feet, waved at the first mate. But a voice in his head, insistent, ordered him not to go. Faro’s voice, assertive, sarcastic, telling him not to risk his life for the fat drunk. Don’t take chances for a man who might betray you any moment. Who already had. And who deserved what came to him. It was Argent’s fault, his job to get the charts, they’d have been safe on land if not for the first mate’s folly, long before the storm struck.

Jonah flailed, a wave pushed him away from shore. Faro’s voice whispered not to go. Conall was tired, he’d die if he went back in, there was nothing he could do. Nothing he should do. The first mate wasn’t family. Why risk it?
 

Conall dived into the waves and swam against them to where Jonah floated, treading water, too weak now to make for the beach, content to stay alive. Conall saw matted blood in Argent’s hair from an open wound on his head. His eyes were blurred, half vacant. The man was barely conscious. Conall grasped Jonah under the arms, kicked out with his legs, hauling them both back towards the shoreline.
 

Still the sarcastic voice, praising the do-gooder, the little hero.
 

Conall reached the shore once more, pulled Jonah up onto dry land, the effort too much for his aching limbs. He shouted at him, urging the first mate to help himself, to move, but the man was half drowned. Conall turned him over onto his front, sat on his back and pounded on his lungs to get the salt water out of his body. Jonah coughed, wretched, and breathed freely. Conall stood and hooked his hands under Jonah’s armpits, dragged him up the rocks, out of the water, away from the grasping talons of the waves.
 

He turned and looked inland. Steep cliffs led to high hills, the land mostly bare rock, patches of grass and moss, no trees or shrubs, no livestock or nibbled fields. A barren land. Was this Svalbard? Was it all like this? Jonah groaned, beginning to move. They needed shelter, warmth, a place to rest. Then food and fresh water. But these things were nowhere to be seen.
 

Where was Tugon? Washed ashore or drowned? Conall knelt by Jonah. “Can you walk?”
 

The first mate groaned but pushed himself onto his hands and knees, head hanging between his arms. He coughed up more water, spat onto the stones. “The bloody sea’ll get me in the end,” he said. “That or the rocks.” He spluttered, collapsed to the ground and rolled over. But his face looked clearer now, his eyes coming back to life. He reached out and grasped Conall’s arm. “There’s a devil in nature, boy, out to get me.”

“Did you see Tugon? Did he make it off the boat?”
 

“No idea lad, he got out the cabin sure enough, ahead of me, but I saw nothing of him after that. Took a crack from the main mast as the ship rolled.” He rubbed his head, grimacing in pain. “Lucky to be alive. You saved me at the end. I was sore glad to see you coming for me, young Hawkins. There’s some that wouldn’t have bothered.”
 

“Do you know where we are? Is this Svalbard?”
 

“Must be.”
 

“Which island?”
 

“Can’t be certain, but Spitsbergen is the biggest, it’s the most likely.”
 

“We should look for Tugon, get somewhere high, in case he’s in the water.”
 

“Can he swim? Didn’t think to ask,” Jonah said. “A bit late now. Feel bad about that, losing a ship. Never happened before, and I should’ve been able to keep her afloat through any storm. She was a good boat.”
 

“We hit rocks, you couldn’t know.”
 

“Not without charts, no.” Jonah glanced at Conall, a devil in his eye, and grinned. “Forgive me, young Hawkins. I was wrong and know it, but we can’t go on fighting. Not if we’re to survive.”
 

Conall untied his lifejacket, slung it over his shoulder, not ready to let it go just yet, in case Tugon was out there and needed help.
 

“We should rest,” Jonah said. “I can’t move. I’m at the end, boy.”
 

“Stay here, I’ll head up there.” He pointed to a high headland above the bay.
 

“Go easy on yourself.”
 

Conall tried to run up the slope, but his legs gave way, and he soon fell into a walk, more a stumble, determined to gain height so he could look out across the sea for the wildman.

After twenty minutes of walking, he turned, using a hand to shield his eyes. Miles of ocean, but no sign of Tugon. The rain had stopped, the storm had passed over, but the winds kept the waters choppy.
The Angela
was gone, sunk beneath the waves with not even debris visible. Come on Tugon, he whispered to the wind, be alive. Don’t drown out here, so close to home, after so many years away, after so much suffering.

There was so sign of him in the water or on land, but he might have washed ashore miles away. The seas had been so high, he could have been washed far down the coast. Conall dreaded seeing a body, floating face down in the waters, but he kept looking all the same. One way or the other, he needed to know.
 

He made his way uphill until he reached the highest point on the headland. Still no sign. To the south, sunlight broke through the clouds. He turned and gazed to the north, and saw something, glinting white against the sea. He stared hard. It was only a speck in the far distance. What he’d give, right now, for his binoculars.