* * * * *
The convoy made a sharp left turn off the A68 and sped along the narrow country lane running along the north border of Nat’s land. The vehicles pulled up hard as the road ran parallel with the Fairspring Burn, and the rebels leapt down into the lush grass verges.
They were about two miles north of Nat’s position. They could see the helicopter hovering low above the trees.
“I know where he is,” screamed Amber.
“Follow me, follow me,” she called to the others as she climbed the stone wall into the next field. They were in no formation, just running as fast as they could, attempting to cover the ground between themselves and the cornered farmer as quickly as possible. As they covered the open fields, it looked like an infantry charge of old. There were about fifty of them sprinting in silence en masse towards the woodland, the whisper of rye grass under their feet.
* * * * *
Nat waited; his beloved trees surrounded him, enveloped him and made him feel safe. He could feel Esme and Amber there with him. He could see mist ahead of him, or was his sight failing him? He had no idea, but he felt heavy, he felt no pain. He watched as dark figures became evident in the trees. They stopped and fanned out in a ring around his position. No one fired, and no one spoke. Nat sank as low as he could, but he was confused, in full view lying, dying in the undergrowth. He understood now that he didn’t stand a chance.
The first few drops of rain pattered down through the foliage but were followed quickly by a heavy deluge which made a real noise through the wood. Nat laid in his nest, the water beating off his poncho, watching the men who had come to kill him and listening to the drumming of rainfall. It was a good few minutes before the voice was heard
“Bell, I am General Beaston. Can you hear me?” The words echoed through the trees. Nat sat silently watching. He could see the figure who spoke, but he was shaded by the trees and he could not make out any features.
The voice came again, “Well, I'm going to try again, Mr Bell. I want to parley with you. We need to have a conversation before whatever happens here, happens.” The General’s voice was strained as he winced with the pain from the wound that Nat had inflicted in his shoulder.
Again the wood went quiet. Nat listened to the drops of rain landing on foliage, a cough from one of the enemy and then he decided.
“I can hear you,” he shouted at the General.
“You stamped on a nest of hornets, Bell. We have to take you in now or this area will never settle, you understand.”
Nat looked at his hands. They were black with dirt, cut and bleeding from injuries he had not even registered. He was so tired; finished.
He shouted back, “I'm done running, I'll come in. I’ve got nothing left to fight for now.”
“I can see that, Bell. I reckon you've got about fifteen minutes at best. It comes to us all, son. War is lost when you have nothing left."
Beaston took a few careful paces towards Nat. Nat’s blue eyes focussed and the two men looked intently at each other.
"I was very unfashionable for a while. You know why? Because I knew that you could not win a war with hearts and minds. War is about stopping hearts, enslaving minds and crushing hope. That’s what I do very well.”
Nat shifted painfully on the wet ground. As he moved, he heard the amassed soldiers shoulder their weapons and train them on his body. He mustered all his strength to sit up slightly to face Beaston.
“They were innocent people who died in Hexham,” he said.
“There are no innocents in war, Bell.” Beaston’s voice was raised, irate. “I never understand you people. It always baffles me… people in this country… I don't know why you're surprised. I mean we've spent the last three centuries fighting wars in other people’s countries. I always knew that one day we would have to fight on these shores. I thought it was going to be the bloody Islamists, but then along came the anarchists and changed everything.
“It is not like you have never seen the news, all those conflicts across the globe, what did you think - that only military personnel get injured? It amazes me - you people never got upset when all those people in foreign lands had their lives torn apart by war. That's what war is, it is hell. It is destruction, and it is only good for the protagonist who has the most to gain...and, of course, me. I'd be out of work if I weren't bringing hell to the masses. So don't blame me, anyway, I'm just the hammer. I perform the will of others.”
The General made Nat sick with hatred. As he listened to the words, he carried on edging up the stone, his arms spread, his poncho flapping in the breeze.
* * * * *
Amber cut through the trees far quicker than the others; she could hear nothing over the padding of her feet on the wet soil and the scrabbling of twigs in her face and across her body. Then the rain began to fall and masked even those sounds. She could see the craggy outcrop, and she was sure her father would be holed up on the other side.
She stopped momentarily to see where the others were; she could see the figures moving through the trees behind as though the forest were coming alive, so she turned again and moved on. She had about three hundred metres to cover. She skimmed through the tightly packed trees like a roe deer on the hoof. She cocked her weapon and pushed herself harder to cover the ground.
* * * * *
“Stop there, Bell,” Beaston called out from where he stood behind the shady bough of a great oak tree. Nat stopped shuffling; he was almost to his feet. He tried not to show his weakness, but it had become impossible.
The lower leg of his left leg was sodden, a dark burgundy soaked the material and the left side of his poncho betrayed his chest wound with a large blood red stain, shiny wet in the middle. His face was ashen, the lines deep and pronounced by the pain. His beard hung wet as did his shock of hair; his eyes, however, still shone azure and sharp.
Beaston leaned against the tree, relaxed, his hand above his head against the rough bark, his injured left arm strapped roughly across his body. He watched the man in front of him. After a few moments, he pushed himself off the tree and walked slowly towards Nat. Blood showed through the field dressing on his shoulder too, but only a patch. He had a pistol in his other hand which he swung freely. His brown hair was wavy, verging on foppish; his military greens were well worn but clean and ship-shape. He wore desert boots, and he covered the ground with contempt for its nature; its uncultivated beauty was an irritation to a man like Beaston, nothing but a logistical quandary. He came within ten yards of the farmer who lay against the rock to support his dead weight.
“That’s better; I can look you in the eye now, Bell.” Beaston’s eyes were wide set, he was a handsome man but, like Nat Bell, his face had seen many hard years and the life he had lived was written in his skin. His eyes were dark and intense, the left misshapen by a scar.
“You remind me of the Taliban, Bell. You've got your own set of ideas and to hell with the rest of us, eh?”
Nat said nothing, but his heart beat enough blood for his brain to calculate.
Beaston continued, “When I was young, I was like you - not young teenage, I mean really young. One day we had a big family lunch and my father wanted us all to play some damn game. Well, I didn't want to play inside - some fucking charades or some such - I wanted to play outside with my cousin. But he was too scared of my father, so I went out alone. I was playing with a ball in the garden when my father came out. He took me to the greenhouse. I was a little scared at this point; I knew I was in trouble. The old bastard took me by the neck, and he pushed my head down into the water butt. I thrashed about and pushed and pulled but, my god, man, I was only eight or nine; I was no match for his power. He held me under water until I passed out,” Beaston paused for breath; he nodded at Nat as if to re-affirm the story. Nat stared back at the man who had come to kill him.
“When I came to, my father told me that the first lesson in life is that other people are in control of your life. You might not want to do what you have to do, but if
you don't do it, the whole system fails.” Again Beaston paused, nodding, letting the point sink in. “I think you could have done with a lesson like that, Bell. I'm the hand holding you under, son, but I'm afraid there’s no let up here. You went too far when you started killing people.”
Beastons face hardened; Nat’s eyes narrowed and his clenched teeth shone below his matted whiskers. The troops behind Beaston pricked at the flashpoint of unspoken energy.
* * * * *
Amber came upon the craggy knoll and she was sprinting as she rounded the outcrop. That was when her father came into view. Her heart rolled over as she saw him leaning against the rock visibly wounded and about ten feet from another man. They were like gunslingers at noon. She dropped to her belly and aimed her weapon; momentarily she registered the NSO troops in the trees behind, so she waited for the others to arrive.
As she paused for no more than a second, her brain unravelled the situation. Her mouth opened to scream and her finger squeezed the trigger as Nat Bell moved like lightning; drawing a handgun from his belt, he fired once, hitting Beaston in the head. The General screamed an involuntary wail and fell to the floor.
Nat stood, his gun outstretched, as all hell broke loose from the trees, the rounds pumped into his body for what seemed like an eternity. Amber watched as his body convulsed, absorbing round after round. The stone behind him splintered as the bullets ricocheted off it. His blood misted the air in front of him, and he fell sideways into the bracken that covered the woodland floor, his blood flowing free into the land.
Amber watched the horror of her father’s death. The reality felt like a dream in that desperate, visceral moment. She screamed a banshee’s wail as she fired indiscriminately into the trees. She got to her feet and began to charge down to where her father lay, but a huge arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back to safety leaving the other rebels to fight the regime troops.
As her brain registered the horror she had witnessed, something dark was spreading through her veins. The young woman kicked and thrashed and smashed the butt of her weapon into Stuart’s face. As she screamed and wailed, cried and spat, a heavy mist was descending in her soul. Suddenly, she stopped thrashing and her mind became lucid: hatred blackened her heart and life became death in the name of vengeance.
As the rebels overwhelmed the regime soldiers, the pair stood in the leafy clearing. The rain beat down upon them, upon Nat's forlorn body lying in the scrub. Amber stood, calmly contemplating the misery. Stuart watched her face harden, her eyes steel and her soul retreat from the comfort of his support to stand alone in the face of her enemy. The big man's heart sank and tears came to his eyes as the cycle of tragedy began its second revolution.
The End
The Border Reiver Page 25
