The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2)

by Brendan DuBois

  Then someone came forward –-- a senior guard, name of Duval --– and he had a megaphone that he brought up to his mouth. He yelled through the megaphone but even as close as they were, it seemed like the northern wind was determined to steal his words. In murmured conversation with the boys of Barracks 20, they found out was going on.

  Prisoner Kimball Ed, of the Kingdom of Ontario, sentenced for ten years for an assault on an Imperial officer, now guilty of escape, said escape now being a capitol crime, and was to be punished for escaping.

  Tulley coughed and then spat on the ground. “Poor damn fool ain’t bein’ killed for escaping.”

  “He’s not?” Armand asked.

  “Nope,” Tulley said. “Damn fool is bein’ killed for bein’ caught.”

  Armand’s hands were deep in the pockets of his jacket, as Kimball Ed was led to the center of the platform. Over the man’s head was a wooden frame, and dangling from the frame was a length of rope with a noose at the end. Two guards kept holding him up as the noose was placed over the head.

  Armand looked away.

  There was a shout from up on the platform, and then a murmuring sound, and then a soft thud. And a slight groan from the assembled men as the shape that had once been a man dangled from the rope, kicking slightly, and then halting. Then the guards started moving them back to the barracks. Armand said, “How often does this happen?”

  “What? Executions or escape attempts?”

  “Escape attempts.”

  Tulley said, “Oh, every couple of months or so. But they never work, Armand. Never. And you know why?”

  “Tell me,” Armand said. “I want to know.”

  He pointed out to the low hills and plains about them. “You get beyond the fence –-- not a hard thing to do --– where do you go? The nearest town is about ten or so klicks away, called SaintJohn. You get to SaintJohn and you’re dead man walking, ‘cause everyone in SaintJohn knows everybody else, and if you don’t belong there, you get ratted out.”

  “How about someplace else?”

  “Sure. Go west and its bogs. Go east and its bogs. North is SaintJohn and snow. In the bogs, you’ll starve, or get eaten, or get chewed up by the insects. Sometimes search parties, they find bodies, or bones, or sometimes, crazed guys, walking in circles, their skin all red and puffy from being chewed on by the mosquitoes.”

  They were approaching their barracks. Armand said, “How about the south?”

  He laughed. “Oh, sure. The south. What’s south is Amerka, buddy, the badlands. Cross the border and you’re someplace where they’ll kill you, and then eat you… if you’re lucky. Maybe the barbarians are in a pissy mood, they eat you first, let you watch as they cut off your leg and hambone, chew it up nice for their tribe. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “No, not thinking,” Armand said, lying easily to his barracks mate. “Just asking.”

  They went up the wooden steps together. “Then ask all you like. You see, the emperor and his lackeys, they could have saved lots of money by not buyin’ fences. Who needs a fence? Whole goddamn kingdom out there is a prison.”

  Two days later, when the boys of barracks nineteen were marching back after their shift was over, two men with long greatcoats and polished black boots up to their knees stepped out from the shadows of one of the warehouses. They approached MacKenzie and each took an arm and took him away. He didn’t return that night, wasn’t in the barracks the next day, and when the boys came back after another shift out on the oil sands, he was still gone. Armand waited for someone to explain what happened, but no one did.

  After the evening’s meal was over --- more stew with unidentified meat --- Johnny stood in the center of the barracks and announced, “Let’s face it, MacKenzie’s gone, so we gotta get ourselves a new barracks chief.”

  Armand looked around at the other boys, gauging their reaction. They didn’t look pleased. A voice from the back. “Yeah, Johnny, and who do you have in mind? You?”

  “Why the hell not?” he said defiantly. “I’ve been here as long as MacKenzie was, I know the combo to his safebox. Why not me?”

  A boy named Harrison stepped forward, with red, wavy hair. “’Cause you whine too much, Johnny. That’s why. Maybe I should be barracks chief.”

  A younger boy piped up. “We could take a vote!”

  There were jeers and hoots at that, and Harrison and Johnny started eyeing each other. It looked like a fight was going to break out, and it also looked like the other boys in the barracks were moving about, choosing sides. More mutters, more jeers, and Armand thought, this has to stop. A lot of boys are going to get hurt here, maybe even killed. With a sense of anticipation and excitement rushing in, Armand stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

  There were more hoots at that, and Johnny swore. “A noble! Is that what you clowns want here? A bloody noble?”

  Harrison turned to Armand. “Hell, I could go along with that. Why not?”

  Johnny spat on the floor. “He’s a damn noble, that’s why… too damn soft to go up against the stooges and other barracks leaders.”

  Armand said, “I’ve shoveled just as much oil sands as you have since I’ve been here, Johnny. So don’t think I’m soft.”

  Johnny strode up to him, eyes flashing. “Then we’ll settle it. Here and now. You and me, and whoever’s left standing is the new barracks chief.”

  Armand felt the eyes of the other boys staring at him. Maybe it was stupid to have volunteered, but he was convinced it was the right thing to do. He was tired of being one tiny part in one large mechanical machine, shoveling oil sands every day. “You got it, Johnny. Hand-to-hand all right?”

  Johnny said, “Why, noble boy, you think I’m gonna shank you?”

  “Just want to know the rules, that’s all.”

  He stripped off his shirt, revealing old scars and camp-made tattoos. Armand kept his own shirt on, and silently, the other boys circled around them. Johnny stretched his arms. “Oh, this’ll be fun, just you watch. And you asked about rules, noble? Here’s one rule. A shake of hands before we start.”

  Armand saw the harsh humor in Johnny’s eyes and was prepared, so when Armand held out his hand, Johnny grabbed it hard, intending to pull him close in for a hard shot to the chest or the neck. But Armand was faster and used his other hand in a quick slap to break the hold. Johnny fell back a pace and Armand was on him, kicking out with his leg against the other boy’s shins, and Johnny fell on his back, hard. Armand leapt on the boy’s chest, pinning down his wrists with his knees, and then pressed hard with his wrist into Johnny’s throat. The boy gurgled and choked and Armand kept pressing, and then quickly slapped his face, and stood up.

  “I guess I’m the only one left standing, so I’m the new barracks chief, right?” Armand said.

  Johnny stood up, red face splotched with white, chewing on his lower lip, and Armand said, “Guys, give us a moment. All right? Off to the other side of the barracks.”

  The other boys moved with a soft murmur but they walked away. Johnny rubbed at his throat. Armand said, “Offer you a deal.”

  “Maybe I’ll take what I want,” he said.

  “Maybe you will,” Armand said. “But here’s the deal. You see what I do in one week. If I foul it up in one week the job’s yours. One week, Johnny.”

  “Like I said, maybe I take it now,” he said defiantly.

  “Or maybe you won’t,” Armand said. “Those boys moved pretty quick to the other side of the barracks when I ordered them. That means most of them are ready for me to be chief. So if I do screw up, then having me give it to you in a week will make your position even more secure. What do you say?”

  Johnny said, “One week? And how do I know you’ll do that?”

  “My word as noble and gentleman, what else,” Armand said with a touch of bitterness. “But I’m going to need one more thing from you. The combination to MacKenzie’s locker.”

  Johnny said slyly, “So why should I do that?”

  Armand s
tepped in close to Johnny, close enough to smell him. “Because I’m the chief, now, and the damn thing and everything else that was MacKenzie’s is now mine. And if you don’t give it to me right now, then I’m going to put your butt back on the floor. Harder this time.”

  Johnny looked at him with pure hate, and then went over to MacKenzie’s bunk, pulled out the lockbox, and showed Armand the combination --- five, nine, four --- and snapped the lock open. Armand opened up the box, revealing coffee, tea, sugar, chocolates, cookies, hard cheese and candies and packets of cigarettes.

  Armand said, “You hurt your hands at all?”

  “Hunh?”

  “I said, did you hurt your hands at all during our little spat?”

  “No, noble, I didn’t,” Johnny shot back.

  Armand gestured to the lockbox. “Then take two of whatever you want from there, and we’ll call it a night.”

  The next day, after the morning count in the courtyard outside of the boys’ barracks, Armand felt something heavy pressing down upon his shoulders as he waited for the guard with the clipboard to approach him. There were eighteen boys lined up behind Armand and he felt all of them staring at him. This was what it was like, to take charge, to be a true noble and take responsibility for people. The guard with the clipboard noted him, and Armand said, “Nineteen, mon capitan.”

  The guard --- whose name was Mallory and had a thick black beard --- said, “You the new barracks chief?”

  “I am,” he said. “Armand de la Couture at your service.”

  “Hah, some service,” Mallory said. He crooked a finger at Armand and said, “Over here, noble boy.”

  Armand stepped across the muddy ground to where Mallory stood. All about them lines of boys were patiently standing still, ready to head out for their morning work. Mallory said quietly, “MacKenzie paid me once a week. Five bars of chocolate, five packets of cigarettes. The price is now doubled.”

  “Gee,” Armand said. “And why’s that?”

  “Because I said so, boy-o. You got a problem with that?”

  Armand breathed in the cold air, watched the other guards at work, including the major running this detachment, a stumpy man who limped due to a wooden left leg and who always had an unlit cigar in his mouth.

  “Tell you what,” Armand said, trying to keep his voice calm and even. “In contract negotiations, you’ve made what’s called an opening offer. And here’s my counter-offer. The payment remains the same.”

  Mallory cursed and his face colored. “Double, or you’ll be in the cooler for a month.”

  “Not much of a counter-offer on your part,” Armand said. “So here’s my response. The price stays the same, or your major there, mon capitan, he gets detailed information on how you’re being bribed by the prisoners in barracks nineteen. How you’re allowing major infractions of the rules to go unpunished. Very detailed reports.”

  Mallory pulled his wooden truncheon free. “You stinking piece of crap, I’m going to tune you up and then it’s off to the cooler for you.”

  Armand forced a smile on his face even though he was scared out of his wits. “That’s your right, mon capitan, but I’ve had a number of affidavits written and witnessed that outline the bribery you’ve been receiving. These affidavits will be forwarded to the good major if anything… untoward happens to me.”

  Mallory’s hand hesitated on the truncheon. Armand gave him a brief nod. “My apologies, mon capitan. My earlier offer didn’t have what’s known as a sweetener, something of value for you. So let’s reach a new agreement, shall we? Your weekly payment is increased by ten percent. And in return ---” Armand gestured to his barracks mates “ ---my boys there get new jackets, hats and gloves. An increase in weekly payments for you, in return for a one-time payment on your part.”

  Mallory put his truncheon back on his belt. “The hell with you. Get back in line.”

  “At once, mon capitan,” Armand said. He stepped back in line, making sure he didn’t turn away, to expose himself for an angry blow from Mallory. Johnny stepped next to him, breathing on his cold hands. “What was that all about? Making nice with the stooges already?’

  Armand said, “We were having a frank and open exchange of views, that’s all.”

  That night, when they came back from the oil sands, brown paper packages wrapped in twine was on every bunk. They were torn open and there were whistles and laughter as the new clothing was unpacked. Armand stood there, thinking he shouldn’t push his luck with Mallory, maybe he should increase the weekly pay-off just a bit more to show his satisfaction with the clothing delivery, when Johnny stepped in front of him, carrying a jacket.

  “One week?” he demanded.

  “That was the offer,” Armand said.

  “I don’t need a goddamn week,” Johnny said, and in a manner of seconds, the rest of the barracks grew quiet.

  “You don’t, then?” Armand asked, gauging how Johnny was standing, where his hands were, and then ---

  Johnny shrugged his jacket on, stuck out his hand. “Good job. Boss.”

  Armand shook the rough hand. “Glad to hear it.”

  As the weeks went by, Armand was surprised at how satisfying he found, being the new barracks chief. Oh, there were problems every day --- from disputes to settle, careful negotiations with the guards, and making sure the newbies being assigned to the barracks didn’t get roughed up by other boys --- but each night, he fell asleep tired but satisfied, that he was doing the best he could for his barracks. And he thought that even where he was, his father would be proud of his boy’s negotiating skills.

  He stopped dreaming about Maison de la Couture, about poor Martel, about everything else back there in the east, and he stopped writing letters. As the disappeared MacKenzie had once said, it just didn’t matter any more.

  But one incident stuck in his mind for a long time. It was during the first week as barracks chief, when during meal time, a small loaf of white bread, carefully wrapped in wax paper, was given to him, while the other boys made do with hard dense black bread. Armand was sitting in MacKenzie’s old chair --- and it wasn’t as comfortable as it looked, with busted springs that jabbed at him --- and unwrapped the bread. He sawed off a slice and noted eighteen sets of eyes staring at him. He looked back, took the knife and cut the loaf in half.

  “Johnny,” he said, “mind fetching me a sheet of paper and a pencil?”

  “You got it, boss,” Johnny said, and when Armand had the paper in hand, he tore it in eighteen pieces, wrote down the last name of each barracks mate, and placed the slips of paper in an empty pail.

  “What’s going on?” one of the boys asked.

  “Going to draw lots,” Armand explained. “Each time I get something special like this, I’ll share it with you guys. Seems to be the fair thing to do. So whoever’s name comes out, gets this half loaf.”

  Somebody laughed and said, “Boss, what the hell do you know about being fair, being a noble and all?”

  Armand reached into the pail. “I’m learning, that’s for damn sure.”

  When the weather was extremely cold, they didn’t work out in the oil sands, but the camp management still kept the prisoners busy. In one of the warehouses by the south end of the camp, equipment was brought in that had been used out in the oil sands: troughs, carriages, barrels and pipes, and even the shovels. They were cleaned, inspected, and if some work had to be done, prisoners with a mechanical background took the equipment apart and made the necessary repairs.

  It was loud and cold --– heat was too much of an expense for something as large as the warehouse –-- but with the number of prisoners inside, and with the cutting torches that were used, the place eventually heated up.

  With judicious distributions of tobacco and chocolate to the guards, Armand always managed to get his barracks assigned to the place where the tools were cleaned. It was relatively easy work, and gave his mates exposure to hot water. At these times, Armand allowed himself to think of what it might have been like, to ta
ke a position in his father’s trade ministry once he had graduated from the Service Academy: it was clear from what he had done for barracks nineteen that he had a knack for negotiations. But thinking like that also made him wonder what Father was doing, what he was thinking, and that wasn’t worth wasting time on.

  One morning Armand went from one of the side rooms where faucets dispensed hot water, and brought back two buckets of water. The water was supposed to be used for cleaning gear only, but Armand had a canvas screen erected in one quiet corner of the work area, and one at a time, a boy from his barracks would duck behind and have the first hot water bath in months, and in some cases, years.

  Passing out of the side room, there was a crew of four men, clustered around a pump that was on the floor. It was tight quarters and as he moved through, one of the men stood up and said, “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself,” Armand said.

  Another voice said, “It’s him.”

  And he was suddenly grabbed from behind.

  Armand dropped his pails of water, tried to move, break away from the strong hands holding him, he kicked out and somebody grunted with pain, and then --– bam, bam, bam --– he was punched three times in the left side, and then, was pushed away.

  The four men quickly moved out into the warehouse, fading away among the other workers and the machinery and the workbenches, and something stung, and Armand felt cold, really cold.

  Armand put his left hand to his side, where he had been punched.

  Brought it up, covered with blood.

  Not punched.

  Stabbed.

  Armand stepped forward once, twice, and then collapsed on the dirty concrete floor.

  His side was burning, really hurting now.

  Faces overhead, looking down at him.

  “Help,” Armand whispered. “Help.”

  He closed his eyes.

  Shouts and yells.

  Hands tugging at him.

  The burning becoming sharper, spread, really started to hurt, and then it all went to black.