In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers

by Simon J. Townley

  The guard ordered Conall out of the room and down the steps. He led him back to the warehouse and sat him down among the wildmen. One of them turned, looked at him, closed his eyes and nodded, then went back to staring at a wall.

  The man had known. They had all known. Tugon had known but said nothing. Faro was a traitor, a slaver, a killer maybe. But he was still Conall’s brother, and he had to be saved.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE OLD TIMER

  The slavers dragged Conall to the hut where the rest of The Arkady’s crew were quartered, and pushed him inside. It was evening, the slaves had returned from a day of toil and the crew were resting on their beds. Conall found a free bed close to his crew-mates and sat on it, waiting to see if they’d talk to him. An hour he sat there, alone, brooding over Faro’s betrayal before finally ‘Bones’ Bagatt came over.

  “Some of the boys think you’re a spy,” he said. “Working for your brother.”

  “I’m no spy.

  “Why else would Faro put you in here?”

  Conall didn’t look up. “I came with the wildmen, you saw me. Got the captain out the cells.”

  “Guess your brother’s not the forgiving type.”

  “Oh, he gave me a chance. Work as a slave, or become like him.”

  “Tough choice.”

  “Easy enough.”

  “For some. They’ll come round, in time.” Bagatt gestured towards the other men. “Just don’t go asking questions. Or listening. You say the captain got away? You sure?”

  Conall nodded. “Across the water.”

  “He’ll come for us then.”

  “If he gets the chance, he will. The wildmen won’t give up. They’ll try again. We need to be ready. We should make a plan to help them. It’s the generators. We have to get to them, knock them out. Take down the lights and the fences.”

  “I’ll talk to the engineer, see what he says. By the way, what happened to Jonah?”

  Conall told Bagatt about the Russian slave camp, their journey across land, taking The Angela, the ship wreck. He left out all mention of finding The Arkady and the treasure map. Better if no one knew.

  “Where was Jonah? Attacking the gates?”

  Conall shook his head. “Went off on his own.”

  Bagatt waited for Conall to say more. He felt the pressure, ignored it. Finally Bagatt made to move off. “Guess you have reasons for keeping things quiet. May be for the best, who knows.”

  The next morning, Conall rose at four with the other slaves, ate a breakfast of cold porridge and walked eight miles to an opencast coal mine. He was given a pickaxe and told to work a seam. The slaves sweated and toiled for six hours, had a ten minute break, ate chunks of bread thrown by the slavers, then worked once more. The light was failing by the time they stopped, and they trudged back to the compound, Conall’s feet howling with pain, his every muscle aching and sore. They sat outside at tables with no shelter from the drizzle as the womenfolk brought bowls of stew and stale bread. Heather was among them. She put the bowl down in front of Conall. “Heard you were here,” she said. “I’ve got Rufus. He’ll be happy to see you.” One of the guards shouted at her to keep moving. “We wash up behind the huts over there. Some of the men come to talk. There are guards but they don’t seem to mind.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She slipped an extra lump of bread onto his plate and scurried off.

  As the other men left the tables Conall made a show of clearing up the plates. His cold muscles had clamped down, reluctant to move, resisting every motion. He lumbered towards the washing up area, arms laden with bowls. One of the guards ordered him to hurry, and some of the men gave him dismissive looks, as if he were weak for helping.

  Heather stood in a group of women barely visible in the gloom, the side of her face dimly lit by an outside light. One of the women gestured Conall forward. They gathered around him, shielding him from the guards as Heather opened her coat, and handed him Rufus.

  The dog scoured Conall’s face with its rasping tongue, half in welcome, half as punishment for going away. The terrier clawed at Conall’s chest and neck, a bundle of excitement that made the women laugh and chatter and want to put their hands on the dog, ruffling his head and ears. Guards shouted at them, told them to get to work, but the women ignored them.

  “I’d better keep him,” Heather said. “The guards let me look after him. But they’re harsher on the men.” She looked at the floor, said nothing more.

  “He’s safer with you. Take care of him.”

  “Until we get out.”

  He watched her face. She was trying to sound hopeful. But she didn’t believe it. “I saw your parents. They were in cells, we got them out before the alarms went off. They escaped by boat across the bay.”

  “How were they?”

  “Alive. They’re with the wildmen. They’ll come for us, you’ll see. The Oduma won’t give up. I know their leader.”

  “The slavers have guns.”

  “They’ll find a way.”

  Her eyes and mouth twitched. She wanted to believe him, but couldn’t find the hope. “I’m glad my parents are safe,” she said. “You should talk to your brother, let him help you.”

  “By betraying everyone? Never.”

  “Winter’s coming,” she said. “It’s dark, all day long they say. And freezing cold. The slaves die, but they don’t stop working. The women work inside at least. It’s easier for us. You have to get out, before the worst of it.”

  “I’ll wait for the rescue. It’s coming, you can be sure. Don’t give up.”

  She reached out and took Rufus from his arms. “I’d better take him, the guards are coming.”

  The dog dug his claws into Conall’s clothing, clinging on. Heather prised Rufus free and whisked him under her coat.

  A guard grunted at Conall, raised a baton, striding towards him. “Back to work,” he shouted. He cracked the baton across Conall’s upper back, kicked him on the legs.

  Conall staggered away, fleeing towards the men’s huts. When he got there his bed was hard, cold and flea-infested, the room filled with the sound of snoring and coughing. He pulled a rough blanket over his shoulders and lay still, unable to sleep, thinking of all that had passed: escaping the quarry, the journey to Spitsbergen, the shipwreck, rescuing The Arkady, finding Tugon. Finding his mother, after all these years. And losing it all again. He was a slave once more, his life controlled by these men, working for their profit. But this time, at least, he knew his enemy. Knew him better than any man alive.

  ≈≈≈≈

  The next morning Bagatt talked to him openly over breakfast. “The other men are coming round,” he said. “They seen you working, living here. Though there’s some that’ll never fully trust you. Not unless you kill your brother. Most of them’d do it for you, without a second thought. I would too. You felt his whip yet? Takes it out on us, from the ship, ‘cos of him being in the brig, but it wasn’t our fault he was caught stealing. What was he looking for anyway? He was working against us the whole time I guess.”

  Conall shoved a chunk of dry bread into his mouth, chewing hard, giving himself a moment to think. Did Bagatt know? He must. He was closest to Jonah, his second in command.

  “Faro was looking for a map.” Conall kept his voice barely above a whisper. He spoke staring down into his bowl, so his words wouldn’t carry, so no one could read his lips.

  “A map eh? What map would that be?”

  “Treasure map. We overheard talk.”

  “Spying huh? Gets you in trouble, that kind of thing.”

  “Meant nothing by it. Adventure, that’s all, like in stories. It sounded exciting. Faro wanted to find it. Not take anything, just to see.”

  “You tell anyone else about this?”

  “No.”

  “And he never found this map?”

  “He didn’t get chance.”

  “Faro didn’t, but what about you?”

  “I never looked.”
>
  A pause, the two of them watching each other, like dogs circling, unsure.

  “Well, it’s lost now anyway, along with the ship.” Bagatt kept his gaze on Conall’s eyes as he said it.

  Conall didn’t blink. “That’s right. It’s lost.”

  “Explains things though,” Bagatt said. “Your brother had the captain and his wife in a cell. He questioned them every day, we’re told. Had them beaten, threatened. Gentle souls, the Hudsons, mean no harm. Not right, that. Not after what they did for you boys, letting you stay on board. But I reckon your brother’s still looking for that map. Wanted the Hudsons to tell him where it was hid. Or what was on it.”

  “They didn’t talk.”

  “Who knows,” Bagatt said. “If he tortured them, they’d talk I’d say. Treasure maps no use if you’re dead. And if someone threatens your wife, you’ll give it up. Hudson would anyway. Some might not but he would, he’s a good man. Bit soft, but a decent soul. You can say that for him. But maybe there is no map. Hard to talk, if there’s nothing to say.”

  “That must be it. There is no map.”

  “Aye.” Bagatt nodded his head, put his hands on the table as if to get up and go. “Oh, by the way, where’d you say Jonah got to?”

  “Went off on his own.”

  “Why would that be?”

  Conall shrugged. “He didn’t trust the wildmen, wanted to get back to civilisation.”

  “He won’t find it on Spitsbergen,” Bagatt said. “You remember anything more about Jonah, you let us know. Come on, we’d better move, before the guards get their whips out.”

  The slaves marched to the mine, same as the day before, and toiled with their pickaxes, hammers and shovels, same as the day before. They ate stale bread and worked every moment of daylight, digging the coal the slavers burnt in their generators. They sweated and groaned with pain, and staggered back at the end of it, sitting in the rain to eat morsels of food, same as the day before.

  The only thing different was the old guy, who kept watching Conall. He’d been there for years, Bagatt said, when Conall pointed him out. One of the leaders of the slave camp, for what that was worth. He spoke for the men, the old timers, not for the wildmen but for those taken from ships and settlements, town and farms. The slavers didn’t listen, but he spoke up all the same. He went to see the bosses at times, which made some call him a spy. But there was little chance of that, Bagatt said. The man was underfed. He was worked too hard. He got no favours. If anything, the guards were harder on him. “Maybe he’s marked as trouble.”

  “So why’s he watching me?”

  “Knows you’re Faro’s brother, I’d guess. Thinks you’re a spy. He’s not alone.”

  Conall ignored the man, stuck to his business as the days passed and the nights got longer and colder. Weeks went by, and Conall settled into a routine: he worked when he was told, saw Heather and Rufus when he could, and slept the rest of the time, trying to stay strong by eating everything even when the food was foul and stale.

  “They’ll come, one day. We have to be ready.” It was his mantra as he toured the slave huts or walked in line or worked in the quarry. He told Heather and Bagatt and the wildmen. Anyone else who would listen. He saw little of Faro, except in the distance, strutting around the compound, wearing Conall’s old binoculars around his neck, taken from The Arkady. He’d have searched the captain’s quarters for the map before leaving, and claimed the glasses for his own. Conall made another mental notch. One more grievance to settle with his brother.

  As Autumn arrived, early this far north, Conall got used to the work, and the cold, the conditions, even the food. But not to the stares of the old man. Conall would look up, see him staring.

  “Have it out with him,” Bagatt said. “Tell him you’re no spy. He must know it by now. See what he wants. Best way.”

  One grey, blustery day Conall took Bagatt’s advice. They were in the quarry, faces plastered with coal dust, lungs thick with it, eating their lunch, throwing the food down fast before the guards ordered them back to work. Conall looked up, met the man’s eyes as he was looking over at him. He got up. Bagatt glanced at him. “Good a time as any.” There’d be no trouble, not with the guards here. The old man could call on plenty of friends. Slaves trusted the old-timer because he knew the ropes, and for a lot of them, he was the one who’d shown them how to survive, how to look like you were working hard while conserving energy, how to stay warm, get enough food, keep clear of the guards.

  “Old one,” people called him, as if he had no name. “Go ask the old one,” they’d say, if you were sick or in trouble with the guards, or if men were stealing your food. “The old one’ll sort it out, always does.” Though he wasn’t that old. Younger than Jonah. Or Captain Hudson.

  Men were afraid of him, but he was skin and bone. The weakest man here, by the look of him, but there must be some strength inside. A terrier, that’s what he looked like, he hung on to life the way Rufus could grip a rope and never let go.

  Conall walked up to the man, stood over him, there at the table. The man looked up, a grimace of a smile under his pointed nose, eyes fixed in a penetrating stare. “You got something to say?”

  “I’m no spy.”

  “No one said you were. Guilty conscience?”

  “You keep looking at me. Why?”

  “It’s a free world.”

  “No, it ain’t. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re slaves.”

  “So we are. Both of us. Makes us free as each other though. So I can look if I want.”

  “I’m no spy.”

  “I never called you a spy.”

  “Well I’m not.”

  “Is it true what they say? You’re the brother to that Faro?”

  Conall scowled at the man. “That don’t mean anything. I could have sided with him but didn’t.”

  “Brave move, defying your own brother. Family’s important.”

  “Yeah, well I did, so leave me alone. All right?”

  “I ain’t done nothing to you.”

  “Well, all right.” Conall turned to go.

  “We need to talk, though,” the man said. “Not here, not now. Later, Conall Hawkins, I’ll come see you. After meal time, back at camp. By the washing up women. I seen you go there. Got a sweetheart, I guess.”

  “You know my name. Must know I’m his brother if you know my name. How’d you know it? Been asking around after me?”

  The old one shrugged. “You want to know my name, son?”

  “They call you ‘old one.’ ”

  “That’s because most of ‘em don’t know my name. You do though.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. You haven’t forgotten so much.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  The man held out a hand, ready to shake. Around them, the other men were on their feet, the guards ordering them back to work. They had to go. No more time for talking. Conall took the man’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” the man said. “Name’s Adam.” He paused, gripping Conall’s hand tight. “Adam Hawkins.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  INSURRECTION

  Conall had no chance to speak to the old-timer the rest of that day. Work and the watchful eyes of the guards kept him away. Could it be true, was this man really his father? He hacked at the coal seam, his arms aching, lungs screeching for clean air. Or was the man an impostor, a pretender? Was it a trick, played on him by Faro? As he toiled, he weighed every angle, considered each possible deception. But his heart knew the truth. It was him.

  He kept glancing at the man, through the afternoon of work, and on the walk back to the compound. But now the old-timer never looked Conall’s way. Not when they reached camp or through the evening meal. Conall wolfed down his food and helped the women clear away the plates, hanging around by the washing up basins, Rufus in his arms.

  Finally Adam Hawkins wandered over. He gestured to Conall to step away from the women, so they could talk withou
t being heard. “The dog likes you,” he said.

  “Had him since a pup. Found him at Lerwick, abandoned.”

  “Soul mates, eh?”

  “Something like that.”

  Adam Hawkins breathed out heavily, as if preparing himself, collecting his thoughts. His lips and jaw rolled and writhed, his agitation clear to see on his face. “We never meant to leave you,” he said at last. “It all went wrong. We felt so bad.”

  Conall held Rufus tight against his chest. “So I heard. Left us on shore, went back to your cabin. Bit reckless.”

  “And where would you hear that, Conall Hawkins?”

  “From my mother.” Conall looked into his father’s eyes, held his stare.

  Adam drew himself up tall, breathing deep once more. “You’ve seen her?”

  Conall nodded.

  “She’s safe? Where?”

  “With the Oduma. Safe enough, I guess. She’s been with them, all these years.”

  “It’s for the best. I worried for her, how she’d cope alone.”

  “She thinks you’re dead.”

  “Guess I should be.”

  “She thinks the wildmen killed you.”

  “But she lives with them? That says something.” Adam Hawkins had a wry, dry grin on his face.

  “She seems confused about a lot of things.”

  “Life’s been hard for her,” Adam said. “Losing you, it struck her down. She was half mad, frantic with worry, and the guilt.” He looked over his shoulder, to check who was around, who might be listening to them. The women washing up gossiped with each other. The nearest guards were thirty yards away. “Did she tell you why the wildmen might have wanted to kill me?”

  “For disturbing something sacred.”

  “We needed money, for a boat back to Shetland. To come for you.”

  “Seems to cause a lot of trouble, that treasure.”

  “More than you can imagine.” His voice was a low growl, as if he’d been gargling on coal dust these last ten years.

  “Did you find it?”