The slaves were led onto the boat, taken below deck and ordered into a cramped room at the front, still chained together.
“Water,” Conall said to one of the Russians, and made a gesture of drinking. The man cursed and spat, but poured a cup of water from a barrel on deck. The men took sips, passing it down the line. Then Conall ducked his head and stepped into the storage room aft, a cramped, airless compartment barely big enough for the six men. The door slammed shut leaving them in darkness. Shouts came from the Russians, an engine purred into life, and the boat pulled away. After ten minutes, the Russians killed the engine and put up her sails. Conall knew the sounds well by know, found himself rehearsing the names, the actions. And counting the footsteps. “There’s only three of them.”
“Armed, though,” Jonah whispered back. “And we’re chained together. Wouldn’t want to fall overboard, not like this. Or sail a boat, even if we did overpower ‘em. Which we wouldn’t.”
Conall sensed Jonah following the motions of the boat, working out where they were headed.
“East,” Argent said.
“What does that mean?”
“Russia, Murmansk maybe, who can tell.”
The four other captives spoke together in whispers. Conall heard enough to know they weren’t Russians, must be Norwegians. One of them spoke to him in broken English, told him they were fishermen from Akkafjord. They’d been taken off their boat at gunpoint, led through Hammerfest in chains in the dead of night, their mouths taped so they couldn’t call for help. They spoke of pirates and slavers, growing in number, haunting the northern towns, pillaging villages, always seeking out more men to take into captivity.
“Why do they need so many slaves?”
The men didn’t know, and said the stories were guesses or lies or people turning their worst fears into truth.
The rocking of the boat grew stronger as it moved into open waters.
“Good thing we’re all sailors,” Jonah said. “Wouldn’t want a sick one in with us, pressed in here.”
Conall’s limbs ached from being crushed into a corner of the room, knees in the air. The collar round his neck weighed him down, digging into his skin when he tried to rest his head on the wall. His back and shoulders were sore from the beatings and the skin on his wrists had been rubbed raw from the bindings. The more he focused on the pain, the worse it got, until he made himself stop. He thought instead of Lerwick, of times with Rufus, wandering the island, alone and desperate but free. Free to go anywhere on the Shetland mainland, explore the other islands too when he persuaded fishermen to take him across. Days and weeks spent roaming the landscape, watching the sea and skies, playing with the dog, foraging for food. His life had seemed hard at the time, but now that felt like a dream. He thought of Faro, locked in the brig of The Arkady. He’d be angry and cursing his fate, but he didn’t know his luck. At least Faro would make it to Svalbard. He might find their parents. At least they would learn Conall was alive, somewhere, that he’d been looking for them.
Before dark, the Russians brought a thin gruel, gave them more water. Conall slept fitfully, dozing and waking repeatedly. The Norwegians spoke less and less the longer the voyage lasted. The men in that cramped space retreated into their thoughts, their fears and memories and hopes, not knowing what waited for them.
They sailed all the next day and into the night, before finally Conall heard sounds of making port. The boat was moored alongside a jetty. More voices drifted from outside, speaking Russian. The door opened and the men ordered them out. They led them onto the deck and along the rickety gangplank. It swayed as the boat rocked on the wake of a passing fishing boat.
Around the quay stood ruined buildings, miles of concreted roads and hard surface, pitted with grasses, shrubs and trees that had forced their way through, tough roots breaking up the old world. A watery sun shone through early morning mist, and Conall could make out mountains to the west, south and east. They had travelled up a narrow bay or inlet several miles wide.
The Russians shouted at him and he lowered his eyes, head slumped forward.
Ahead of them, a group of men in black clothes waited, their faces invisible as they lurked in the shade of a tall brick building. One of them held a whip loosely in one hand. He shouted orders and the Russians from the boat responded, spurring Conall on.
“More Russians,” Jonah whispered. “Across the old border, I reckon.”
One of the men grabbed the chain and dragged the line of captives towards a door. As it opened, a stench of humanity hit Conall with full force. Sweat and shit and piss and vomit and fear. Despair. The man with the whip shouted as they reached the door, and the men unchained the slaves, then pushed each of them inside.
Conall stepped into a huge space, hundreds of feet across, the roof pitted with skylights through which sunlight filtered, dim and defuse. The building was one big open space, featureless and empty but for a sea of people, men sitting on the floor, scattered groups of women huddled together, even children who looked as young as nine or ten.
Behind them, the door slammed shut.
“Someone’s got a plan,” Jonah said. “Putting a lot of work into this.”
“Who needs so many slaves? What do they do?”
“Hard to say, though I reckon we’ll find out soon enough,” Jonah said. “Find a space, get some rest. Nothing we can do but wait.”
Jonah lowered himself to the floor and rested with his back against the wall. Conall stood over the first mate for a moment. “Gonna look around.”
“Watch yourself.” Jonah stretched his legs straight, put his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
Conall stalked the room, glad of the chance to walk after hours cramped up in the boat. Most of the people looked away, not wanting to be seen or spoken to, trying to be invisible. Others stared back at him in defiance, as if hungry for someone to confront. All around there was a confusing babble of languages.
He studied the mass of people. They had clumped into groups. On the far side from the door, a group of thirty or more in distinctive clothes, made from rough spun wool and animal hides. The men sat in a circle outside the women and children as if protecting them. They had the look of an entire tribe taken prisoner. The fisherman from the boat had drifted to the centre of the room. They talked with a group of around twenty men, wearing the same cotton shirts, patterned wool jumpers. In one corner sat a huddled group of children protected by a handful of women. They glared at Conall as he approached, defiant and ready to fight to defend their young. He passed by, trying to signal that he meant no harm.
He rejoined Jonah, told him what he’d seen and heard, but Argent showed little interest. After an hour or more, Russians came with food, huge pans of soup they ladled into cups and handed round. Conall sipped the soup, grateful for anything to ease the hunger, though it tasted foul. Fish and potatoes he guessed, it was hard to be sure.
The meal done, a group of men, armed with guns, whips and knives, toured the room, giving orders. They divided the slaves into groups of twelve and chained them together in lines. They set off in file through a single door, then into the open. Conall breathed deep on the fresh air, glad to be out of the stinking warehouse.
He tried to count the number of slaves in the line. Two hundred at least, being marched through the outskirts of a town in broad daylight. The slavers had no fear. “Murmansk,” Jonah muttered as they walked a bleak road away from the town.
“You been here before?”
“No, boy, but it fits.”
“How far from Svalbard?”
“Four hundred miles or so, across the Barents Sea. Easy in The Arkady, but we don’t have a ship. Or any way of getting one.”
“Shut up,” a Russian snarled as he passed and smacked Jonah in the back with a stick.
They walked all day and slept in a concrete building. The next day they walked again, and the next. Endless hours of it. Conall’s legs and back screamed with pain and fatigue. There was nothing to do but endu
re. No complaining would help, no pleas for mercy. They headed south-east, away from the sea, inland through dense conifer woods, past fields freshly ploughed, some already planted with young crops. They passed through small towns and villages, children running from the houses to point and stare until dragged inside by parents who refused to look the slaves in the eye.
On the fourth day of walking they saw in the distance a vast scar across the landscape where trees and soil had been cleared. An immense gouge, many miles wide, had been dug into the earth, exposing bare rock.
“That’s why they need so many slaves, then,” Jonah said. “It’d take some digging.”
Conall frowned, shaking his head. No one could dig that, not with ten thousand slaves. It must be from the old days, when machines did the work. But now men were needed. In their hundreds and thousands.
The closer they came to the mine, the uglier it grew, de-fouling the forest and mountains around, a pit into which men sunk their misery and greed. A town had been built either side of the approach road. They passed houses and offices, shops and inns. They entered the quarry through wide metal gates in a fence of rusted wire. The slaves were led to a open area in front of three large buildings and sorted into groups. The women yelled and screamed as they were separated from the men.
The new arrivals were taken to a long, wooden building. Inside stood rows of beds, packed together, with mattresses made of cotton, stuffed with straw.
“Find a bed, claim it, keep it,” one of the Russians shouted. “Rest now. Tomorrow, you work.”
Jonah led Conall across the room, away from the door. “Guards come in there. If they’re looking for trouble, someone to mess with, they’ll pick on those closest.”
Jonah threw himself down on a bed, indicated Conall should do the same.
Conall’s body ached, but he needed answers, information, hope that there was a way out. “What do they mine here?”
“No telling,” Jonah said. “Not sure I care. I’m in no hurry to start work.”
Argent put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed. Conall sat on the bed, watching the other slaves find their beds, groups of them talking, whispering, consoling each other. He wondered if many here spoke English. They would need allies to survive, and for that they needed to talk.
Conall lay on the bed, the mattress lumpy and uncomfortable, but he was glad of anywhere to rest after days of walking. He curled up in a ball, thinking of Rufus and Faro, of Captain Hudson and his daughter Heather, and his last sight of The Arkady, sailing north.
Chapter Nine
BREAKING ROCK
A woman’s scream tore the air. Conall sat up in his bed, pulled on his shirt, the room utterly dark.
“Settle down,” Jonah said from the next bed. “Nothing you can do.” His voice suggested he was lying on his back, relaxed. Going nowhere.
“She’s being hurt.”
Another scream, a woman shouting for help, men’s voices raised, laughing at her.
“We have to do something.”
“Doors are locked, remember. They have guns. All you can do is get yourself killed. You won’t help her.”
Conall fumbled under the bed for his shoes, tied the laces in the dark, cursing his fingers. “Better to try than do nothing.”
Jonah grabbed him by the shirt, shoved him flat to the bed. “I said leave it,” Jonah snarled. “You’ll listen for your own good. You’re part of my crew and I give the orders.”
Conall wriggled, broke free. “We’re not on the ship.”
“You promised to follow orders.”
“I promised Captain Hudson. He’s not here. And we’ll not see him again.” He pulled free of Jonah and ran between beds across the dorm room. Argent was right, the door was locked. He shook it. Listened. A woman sobbed outside while men stood around talking. He shook the handle again.
The door was pushed open from the other side and a light shone in his face, a Russian voice shouted at him. Two of the guards advanced on him, one with a club. The man raised it above his head, brought it crashing down towards Conall’s skull. He dodged just in time, span away, and scurried into the darkness. The guards shouted after him but didn’t follow. The door slammed shut and he heard the key in the lock.
He lumbered back towards his bed, defeated. The woman needed help but in the end he’d done nothing. He’d been helpless, in the face of it.
“Can’t do anything, alone,” Jonah said.
“But I’m not alone.”
“There’s only two of us.”
“There’s hundreds. Together, we could have stopped that. They couldn’t kill us all.”
“Try getting these to help,” Jonah said. “It won’t happen.”
“Guess not, I couldn’t even get you.” He sensed Jonah bristling in the dark, but the first mate said nothing. Conall curled into a tight ball but sleep wouldn’t come, and he spent the night lying awake, on the edge of action, listening for screams.
≈≈≈≈
A Russian guard strode through the dorm ringing a bell. He shouted orders at the new slaves, telling them to get outside, into a courtyard formed by four of the low wooden buildings. The men stripped off their clothes and walked under a stream of water from a collecting tower. The water was icy, and the early morning air carried a chill, as cold as the depths of winter back on Shetland. Conall stood with the water cascading on his head, goosebumps on his skin, washing off the dust and sweat from their long walk.
Clutching their clothes while they waited to dry off, the men queued for a chunk of bread and a mug of water. The guards took names, gave them numbers to memorise. They stamped the numbers onto metal strips and pinned them to the collars around the necks of their captives. The men were divided into work groups, Jonah ordered one way and Conall another.
“Keep your head down, do as you’re told,” Jonah said, as he was led away by the guard.
Conall’s group was taken up the dusty road towards the lip of the quarry. As they reached the top, Conall saw an immense pit, a mile or more across, hundreds of feet deep. Bare earth, exposed rock, an open wound, bleeding and raw. The sides were almost sheer and a winding road zig-zagged into the quarry pit. A line of slaves marched the road, carrying buckets laden with rocks. In the depths of the pit hundreds of men toiled with hammers and chisels, breaking rocks, pounding at the earth.
The guard led them down the road, a half hour’s walk to the bottom, the noise of the miners growing louder with every step. Slaves passed them, heading uphill, struggling under their heavy loads, the buckets of rocks balanced on their shoulders. A foreman took control of the new arrivals, gave them tasks, and tools, and places to work. Some mined rock from the earth, others broke and sifted the rocks or carried buckets.
The foreman, himself a slave and wearing a metal collar, called Conall forward. “English?” He frowned as he looked Conall over. “Help wildman.” Another slave pressed a wooden bucket into his hands, pointed towards the rock face where teams of men toiled with pickaxes and chisels. “Bring rocks, there, there. Watch him, he’s crazy.” The slave prodded his temple three times with the end of his finger.
The wildman was easy to spot, with his long hair half way down his back, wearing no shirt, shorts made of sacking, clogs carved from wood. The man was big. Not as tall as Jonah, but broader, the kind of strength that comes from a lifetime of work.
But what had this man done to be called ‘wildman,’ in a place as savage as this? Conall approached, clutching his bucket.
The man turned to look at him. No smile, no look of greeting. A stare, then he pointed to a pile of rocks that had been separated from the rest. Blue, yellowish, streaked with white. Conall picked one up, looked it over. No gold or silver. No diamonds or precious stones. The rock had hard, crystalline edges. But it looked nothing special.
The wildman grunted at him, gesturing for him to get working.
Conall said his name, pointing at his chest, sure anyone would understand what the g
esture meant. The man’s eyes, so dark they were almost black, glared at him. He understood, all right, but didn’t care. The wildman didn’t speak his own name, but turned back to the rock-face and hammered on his chisel with terrifying force.
Conall filled the bucket with rocks and hauled it across the quarry to where a group of slaves weighed them on scales. They made notes then put the buckets into a pile to be carried up the road out of the quarry. Conall picked up an empty bucket, following the lead of the other slaves. Each group had a set task, the timings co-ordinated so that buckets were returned, left to be picked up and filled again. Not a moment was lost, no effort wasted.
One of the slaves carrying buckets fell into step beside Conall. “That one, dangerous,” he said, in a thick foreign accent. He gestured with his head towards the one known as Wildman. “He’ll work you hard.” The slave nodded towards the scales. “Whoever cuts the most rocks, gets double food. He wins. Always wins. He makes you carry it. Do it, or he might kill you. Crazy man.”
The slave was right. Conall toiled all day, harder than most. He lugged bucket of rocks almost at running speed, while others loitered and idled, preserving their strength. That made sense to Conall. Why work yourself to death for no reason? But the wildman kept cutting rocks and Conall had to carry them, or the man would grunt like an animal, deep, dark and threatening.
Ten hours later, with only a short break for bread and water, Conall was exhausted. The wildman still hadn’t spoken a word. Could he talk? Did he know any language? He understood about the rocks and the double rations right enough.
When their shift ended a new set of slaves took their place. Conall trudged back to the huts and the men sat on the ground while slavers handed out food. Conall looked for Jonah, walking up and down the lines of men, a crust of bread in one hand, a cup of gruel in the other. He heard a familiar grunt, he looked down, and saw the wildman, sitting alone. He threw a chunk of bread towards Conall, his share of the extra food. Conall nodded his thanks, spotted Jonah and strode over to join him.
In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers Page 8
