In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (9 page)

“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.”
 

The captain skewered him with a stare. “I see. So you’re along for the treasure, is that it? Fools. But thank you, for being honest, at last. Go.” He waved his hand in dismissal.
 

Conall stopped, holding the door handle. “There’s no map? No treasure?”

“Oh yes,” the captain said, laughter in his voice. “There’s treasure, but buried too deep for you to find. Or the first mate, either, for that matter. Leave me, I’ve work to do.”
 

In the companionway he met Heather, Rufus cradled in her arms. She handed him the dog. “Been walking him round the deck,” she said. “He gets bored in the cabin all day.”

The terrier licked Conall’s face, clawing at his chest and wriggling with delight. “Thanks for looking after him.”
 

“How’s your brother?”
 

“Don’t know, haven’t seen him. Not allowed.”
 

On deck, Jonah yelled Conall’s name. He was late for his watch. He handed the dog back to Heather, ruffling his ears.
 

“Don’t worry,” she said, “we’ll be at Svalbard soon. Everything will be better there, you’ll see.”

≈≈≈≈

When
The Arkady
reached Hammerfest in northern Norway, the captain gave the order to anchor offshore. He’d take no chances with the ship being moored alongside the dock, where it could be stormed by a mob. He assembled the crew on deck and gave guns and knives to those going to the town. Conall was the only one not given any weapon.

“Captain doesn’t trust you,” Jonah told him. “Not enough to leave you on board. Not enough to give you a gun.” Conall’s long knife had been confiscated the day Faro was arrested. He had nothing but his wits, and the protection of Jonah Argent.
 

“It’s a wild town,” the captain told the men as they tied up the row-boats on the dockside. “Take care. Be back here, in two hours, no delays, stay out of trouble. If you’re not here, we sail without you. We’ll wait for no one. Understood? And no drinking, no whoring.”
 

The crew had been talking about Hammerfest for days. It was a town of legend, the untamed capital of northern Norway. A small settlement in the old days, as people fled north it had turned into a staging post to the melting arctic, a lawless place, where slavers roamed the streets and alleyways, where crooks, thieves and gangsters preyed on anyone who let their guard down.
 

One sailor remained at the dockside to watch over the boats. The captain set off towards the harbour-master’s offices with his men. Jonah told the others to follow him. Their task was to buy fresh food for the cook, then get news of Svalbard, find people who had been there, gauge the talk around the town. And finally, if they could, to take on a new member of crew, a guide who had sailed to Spitsbergen recently, who knew the waters and safe landings.

Jonah held the list of supplies. He called at the first shops he found, rattling off his orders and haggling over payment. They lugged the boxes and bags down to the boats. Jonah ordered the sailors to make return trips out to
The Arkady
until everything was stowed on ship.
 

“Conall, with me,” he said. “Rest of you, keep working. Once you’re done, you know where to find me.”
 

Jonah strode off up the hill, setting a fierce pace even without the help of his cane. Up to his old tricks. Did he never learn? Conall ran after the first mate. “The captain told us to stick together.”
 

“The captain didn’t give us enough time for all the tasks he wants finished,” Argent said. “He needs a guide and information, and there’s only one place we’ll find that.” He pointed to an inn perched on high land overlooking the harbour.
 

“The captain said…”
 

“Don’t keep telling me what the captain said, boy. Are you his parrot?” Jonah kept up his swift pace, never pausing to let Conall catch up or get his breath back.
 

The inn, a sprawling wooden building two storeys high, had a balcony out front. Three women sat on chairs, looking over the harbour and catching the eye of everyone who approached. One of them stood and waved towards them. Jonah bowed low with a flourish, winked at Conall and strode through the front door.
 

The bar was dark and gloomy after the bright afternoon sunshine outside and Conall’s eyes took time to adjust. He made out a handful of men huddled around tables.

 
“Take care now, no loose talk,” Jonah said. He stalked to the bar, shouted for service. A tall, thin man with an eye missing slouched towards them. He said nothing as he fetched Jonah’s drinks, a beer and a glass of spirits, clear stuff in a shot glass that Argent knocked back with a single gulp. The barman put a mug of beer in front of Conall but he didn’t touch it.
 

“Know any good sailors, men who’ve been north?” Jonah asked. “We’re taking on crew, if there’s someone with knowledge of the seas.”
 

“And where would you be heading?” the thin man said in a thick, foreign accent. His hair was jet black, his skin pale, his mouth set in a permanent sneer.
 

“North,” Jonah said.
 

The barman shrugged and turned away from them, returning to a table where he’d been playing cards with two other men.
 

“Not too friendly,” Conall said.
 

“He’s not, but there’s some here who spend more time getting to know a man, if you take my meaning. Stay here, don’t go wandering, or finding any trouble. I’ll be upstairs, see if the ladies have the information we need.” Jonah slugged his beer, crossed to the card table, spoke to the barman briefly, then headed up a set of wooden steps.
 

Conall turned to look around the room. Faces lurked in dark corners. No one seemed to be looking his way. All the same, he felt self-conscious, as if people watched him. As if they knew he had no business being here.
 

He lingered for five minutes, maybe ten, then left his beer, unwilling to break the captain’s orders, and moved towards the door. As he crossed the bar-room, he felt the hair on his neck prickle as eyes followed him. The muscles in his shoulders tensed. The room was eery quiet, men whispering in corners, but from upstairs came the sound of female shrieks and laughter. Conall stepped through the doorway, saw
The Arkady
moored across the bay, her white hull catching the late afternoon sunlight. He looked down towards the harbour, hoping to see the crew making their way up the winding path towards the inn. Instead he saw one of the row-boats setting off for the ship.
 

What was taking Jonah so long? Two hours the captain said. Would he really sail without them?

 
Conall moved away from the doorway, stepping out of the shade into direct sunlight. The weather was cooler this far north. No longer the sweltering heat he was used to in Shetland. There was even a chill in the wind coming from the north east across the arctic sea.
 

He heard a noise behind him. Two men emerged, not from the bar-room, but around the side of the inn, on the road twenty yards below him. Between him and the harbour. The look of them, the way they carried themselves, shoulders tensed, arms loose but ready, something warned him. He span around. Two more rushed from the inn and lunged at him. He twisted, turned, struggled to break free. One of them wrapped an arm around Conall’s neck, held him in a head lock. He wriggled, his ears and cheeks scraping on rough wool of the man’s coat. Conall broke free and ran but there was nowhere to go.
 

“Come here,” one of the men shouted.
 

Conall yelled Jonah’s name. Argent was armed. If these men had no guns, he could deal with them in a moment. He screamed again for Jonah as the men rushed him.
 

He fought back, kicking and punching when he could, but there were too many and too strong. Heavy blows landed on his back, his sides, on his skull. He fell, his face splattered with mud, cheek pressed against hard stone. One of the men pinned him down. Another tied his hand behind him. He tried to yell once more but his voice was feeble, little more than a croak.
 

“Good for the mines, this one,” a man said.
 

“Fetch a fair price.”
 

A roar like a charging bear erupted from the inn. He twisted his head around and saw Jonah charge from the doorway. In his right hand he held a pistol. The gun fired, the noise echoing across the bay, and one of the attackers grunted, staggered and fell across Conall’s legs, a hole in his chest, blood pouring into the mud.
 

The men grappled with Jonah. He got off another shot, but he was soon overwhelmed, the gun snatched from his hands. The big man went on fighting, even as half a dozen of them punched and kicked, hanging onto his arms. Disarmed, his legs knocked from under him, Jonah went down, a gnarled, ancient tree toppling after centuries of grasping for sunlight.
 

Kicks and blows rained onto Jonah’s body. Conall tried to call out for help, but it was hopeless. Where were the sailors from
The Arkady
? He tried to stand, struggling to his knees, hands roped behind his back. One of the men cursed, striding towards him. Conall felt a brush of air, a blow to his skull, and the world went black.
 

Conall woke in darkness. Pain throbbed in his head, his back and shoulders aching, bruised and tender. He lay on a cold, hard floor, face down, the left side of his face pressed against stone. He shifted his arms, groaned with the effort.
 

“Lie still boy. There’s nothing to be done. Rest yourself,” Jonah said.
 

Conall looked up, trying to see the first mate. The room was black. He sensed the man, sitting a few yards away. “Where are we?”
 

“No telling. A brick building, small room. Door’s bolted. No way out.”
 

“What happened? Who were those men?”
 

“Slavers.” Jonah’s voice was weary, almost resigned, but bitter. A deep anger simmered underneath. “Always hated slavers.”

“The captain will be looking, he won’t leave without us.”
 

“He’s a good man. He’ll look. But he won’t find us, and he’ll sail soon enough. He’s got a crew to protect. Women and children. Can’t put them in danger for the sake of two missing men.”
 

“The sailors. They’ll tell him we were at that bar.”
 

“That won’t help us much. He’ll get no truth in that place.”
 

“We should never have gone there.” Conall heard the accusing tone in his own voice, the self-pity, and regretted the words the moment they were spoken.
 

Jonah grunted. “You should’ve stayed put, where I left you. Learn to do as you’re told, follow orders.”
 

“The captain’s orders? Or yours?”
 

“If it’s blaming someone you want, then carry on. Won’t do no good though. Won’t get us out of here.”

“What will?”
 

“Waiting. For the right moment.”
 

But what if the moment never came? And even if he escaped, how would he find Faro again, and Rufus? Or Heather? He rolled onto his side, sat up. He needed a plan. What would Faro do? If his brother was here, he’d already be scheming, working out ways to get them free. But Faro brother was locked in the brig of
The Arkady
, sailing north.
 

Conall lifted himself off his knees, the palms of his hands pressing into the floor. He stood up straight, legs shaking. Stretching his arms he felt wooden beams and above them corrugated metal, ancient and loose. A way out but noisy. If guards were close by, they’d surely hear.
 

“Settle yourself down, there’s no escape, I’ve looked,” Jonah said.
 

Conall ached from feet to head. He felt his neck and face, shoulders and arms, assessing damage. Nothing broken, but he couldn’t fight or run. Not like this. And what of Jonah? “Do you have your cane?”