In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (22 page)

“We have spies among the slavers,” Tugon said, ignoring Jonah’s discomfort. “The crew of your ship are being held near the old town.”

“Longyearbyen, from the old days?” Jonah asked.
 

Tugon nodded. Conall glanced at Jonah’s face, saw the gleam in his eye. The lust for treasure.
 

“Your crew work in a coal mine. The captain and his wife are held in a cell and questioned every day, starved and beaten. No one knows why.”
 

Conall could guess. Did the slavers know of the map? Should he warn Tugon?
 

Jonah tugged on his beard thoughtfully. “So what’s the plan?”
 

“War,” Tugon said. “We attack. We free our people, rescue yours, close the mines, drive the slavers from our land.”

“Sounds simple, when you put it like that,” Jonah said. “But there’s a whole bunch of killing and dying to be done before all this is over. On both sides.”
 

Tugon looked at Jonah, unblinking, his face impassive. “You know these men, they’re the same that took you, at the quarry. What would you do? Talk to them? Hope they change? We drive them from the land.”
 

“No mercy, eh?” Jonah leant heavily on his cane.

“You’ll help us?” Tugon looked from Jonah to Conall and back again.
 

Conall didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
 

“You’ll help us fight?”
 

He’d never killed a man and didn’t know if he could. He understood little of wars and fighting. And would his mother let him go? Or would she try to stop him? “Whatever it takes. Is there word of my brother?”
 

Tugon stared at the ground. “He’s in the camp.”
 

“Alive? With the crew? We’ll free him, when we get the others.”

“Your brother may not want your help.”
 

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“People change in the slave camps. I’ve seen it. I was there longer than you.”
 

“He’s my brother. They won’t break him.”
 

“They might change him. You might not know your brother, when you find him.”
 

“I have to help him.”

“It might be too late.”
 

“I have to try.”
 

“You’re right,” Tugon said. “It is good to try.” He turned and strode away, deep in talk with the leaders of the Oduma.
 

Conall stared after Tugon. “What did all that mean?”
 

“Don’t pay it any mind. They like being mysterious,” Jonah said. “This fighting’s more of a concern. No telling which way it’ll go. Slavers have guns. Explosives too. Can’t be sure. It’s a risk. And then there’s the confusion, the chaos, everyone chasing around, taking their eye off things.”
 

“Don’t.” Conall knew Jonah was thinking about the treasure. The battle would be the cover he’d need, the ideal time to go looking. “Let’s get the crew safe. Nothing else.”
 

“Aye, you’re right,” Jonah said. “Forget the treasure. Leave it be. Get our people out. That’s what counts.”
 

 
The first mate muttered similar thoughts throughout the evening, and over dinner, and before they slumped into their blankets, as if trying to convince Conall, or himself, or the world in general.
 

But the next day, when Conall woke, Jonah was gone.
 

Three days passed, with no sign of Jonah. The first mate had disappeared into the woods and valleys of Spitsbergen. Conall said nothing, not wanting to reveal Argent was missing. But Tugon must have known. Surely Jonah couldn’t have slipped away unseen? The Oduma knew these lands, and all Jonah had was an old map and a heap of cunning. He’d be seen, he’d be followed, and if he moved towards that treasure, Tugon would know.
 

As the days went by, Conall spent less and less time with his mother. She’d grown tense and agitated as preparations for war progressed, telling Conall he couldn’t go to fight, forbidding it even. She insisted he be confined to camp, to stay by her side with the women and children.
 

He didn’t bother to argue with her. He went straight to Tugon. “I’m no child and they’re my friends. My brother’s in there. You need me. The crew will trust me. They don’t know you, or any of your men. There’s no one else.”
 

“No,” Tugon said, “there’s no one else.” He said no more, but Conall understood the meaning. Jonah should have been here. Jonah should have done what Conall must do.
 

Tugon marched his people relentlessly across the island. There was no sign of settlements or slavers inland. According to the wildmen, the incomers lived around the coast where the sea kept the climate warmer in winter, where they could fish and trade by boat. There were no roads across the island, only animal tracks, little more than trails through ferns or brambles or dense heather. But the convoy kept moving, growing larger as more tribes joined them, no longer bringing their women and children. Only the men, armed with spears and bows and knives, grim faced and quiet.

Tugon assembled his forces in a valley ten miles from the sea. They numbered five thousand or more. Conall had never seen so many people gathered in one small space. But it wasn’t enough, the tribesmen whispered. More would come, but needed time. The island was large, and took days, even weeks to cross on foot. “We should wait,” people said, “he’s rash, looking for revenge on the slavers. It’s not time.”
 

But every day that passed, more slaves would die. Conall knew it. Tugon too. They’d worked for these men, seen the cruelty, the craving for production and quantity and profit. Faro was in there, and Heather. They had to act. There was darkness now, in the night, for an hour or more. It was enough, Tugon said. It was time to strike.
 

And so they struck.
 

≈≈≈≈

The slaver camp had been built on a peninsular, with sea on three sides. It was connected to the mainland by a narrow strip of land that was guarded, fenced and patrolled by dogs. On this headland lived the slaves, made to walk ten miles each day to the coal mine where they worked. The offices and storerooms, warehouses and workshops were located behind the fences. A harbour with stout stone walls protected the slaver ships which docked here, bringing supplies and people and weapons.

The Oduma launched their boats: canoes carved out of tree trunks, coracles made from bark treated with pine resin, row-boats taken from the settlers over the years. They crossed the bay towards the slaver camp, barely making a sound as oars and paddles dipped into the water. On the headland lights shone from the guard rooms and from torches swinging as men patrolled fences. But the approach by sea was unprotected. No dogs would smell them coming.
 

The advance party slipped ashore on a stony beach, no more than a hundred men. Their task was to find the prisoners, alert the slaves, free them before the main assault. Conall helped pull the coracle up the stones. Olan, the wildman leading the attack, tapped his shoulder. He pointed to their right, to brick buildings that served as offices for the slavers, where they did their business and made their plans. The captain and his wife were held in the basement, according to Tugon’s spies, in a locked cell with no window, no light, unseen by the other prisoners.
 

The Oduma split up, the main group heading left, towards the long wooden huts where the slaves were housed. Conall and Olan, with a dozen men, crept along the foreshore to the brick buildings. A single guard slouched in a doorway. One of the tribesman edged closer, took him by surprise and snapped his neck. The door was opened, and they slipped inside, unseen.
 

The building should be empty at night, according to the spies, except for a guard in the basement itself, keeping an eye on a dozen or so prisoners. They were kept close to the heart of the operations, so they could be questioned at will, and so they could never meet the other slaves, exchange information or offer them leadership. These were the ones the slavers feared.
 

Olan made a noise outside the metal door of the basement, a long, low whistle. The man inside called out to them. He shouted. The jangle of keys and the door swung open. He stepped through and a knife pierced his windpipe, no chance to scream or moan. He fell dead, blood splattering on walls. The Oduma dragged the body away and Olan led them into the basement.
 

≈≈≈≈

One of the Oduma brought keys from the guard room. The first cell they opened held three men, skin and bone, faces gaunt and haunted, bruised and beaten. They cowered towards the back of the room in pitch darkness. Conall called to reassure them, urging them to keep quiet. The men huddled together, refusing to move or come out of their cell.
 

“Leave them,” Olan said. “They’ll run, when the fighting starts. Find your captain.”
 

Conall walked up and down the cell doors, calling out to Captain Hudson and Erica in little more than a whisper, until finally a voice came from the other side. “Who’s there? Who is that?”
 

“Conall Hawkins, sir.”
 

A moment of silence. “Conall? How? Is Jonah with you?”
 

“He made it to Spitsbergen. But he’s not here.”
 

One of the Oduma opened the door. The captain stepped through, shielding his wife. “Is this a game? A trap?”
 

“A rescue. We’re here to get you out. The wildmen are coming, the attack is starting. Come, quick.”
 

The couple stood in the doorway, hands to their mouths, whispering.
 

“Now,” Conall urged. “We have to move.”
 

“Why should we believe you?”
 

The sound of distant shouting echoed through the building. The attack was beginning. At any moment, the camp would be awake, filled with lights and gunfire. Olan grabbed the captain by the shoulder and pulled him through the door.
 

Mrs Hudson followed, clutching at her husband protectively. “Have you seen Heather? Have you news of my daughter?” Erica’s voice was strained, terrified.
 

“She’s in the slave barracks. There are wildmen going there now to free everyone. She’ll be safe.”
 

Olan tugged on Conall’s shoulder, urging him to get moving. “To the boats,” he said. “Get the prisoners out.”
 

Conall waved at the Hudsons, trying to get them moving. “You have to go. They’ll come here first. You must get out.”

Olan pushed them towards the door, and the Hudsons began to move. “If this is a trap…” the captain hissed as they ran from the building.
 

Gunfire shattered the silence. The attack was starting. The slavers were awake, aware, and ready to fight.
 

“To the boats,” Olan yelled.
 

They raced to the foreshore. The captain and his wife were helped into a coracle. “Get them away,” Olan said.
 

Two wildmen took the oars. “Conall, come with us,” Erica said. “It’s not safe here.”
 

“I’ll find Heather,” he said. “I promise. There’s a battle to fight. They need me.” His next task was to reach the slave barracks, find the crew, persuade them to fight alongside the wildmen.
 

The oracle pulled away from shore. “Where’s Faro,” Conall called. “Have you seen him? Is he safe?”

“Your brother?” the captain said. “You don’t know?”
 

His heart hammered. What news? “Know what?”
 

A screech of gunfire ripped through the air. “Get down,” one of the wildmen yelled. Bullets bounced off stones. Conall threw himself to the ground, crawled to keep moving, in case he’d been seen. When he looked up, the boat was disappearing into the darkness. The gunfire continued, bullets ricocheting off stones. Conall held his hands over his ears, his face pressed against the pebbles of the beach, his heart pounding, his mind racing. What did the captain mean? What had happened to Faro? What had the slavers done to his brother? If they’d harmed him, he swore to the rocks on which he lay, as the smell of salt water and seaweed overpowered his senses, if they’d hurt his brother he would kill them. He’d kill every last one.

Captain Hudson and his wife disappeared into the darkness as the row-boat taking them to safety slipped across the fjord. Searchlights scanned the water and the sound of the patrol boat’s engine masked the gentle splosh of the oars. Tugon’s plan made sense: he’d sent only a small, advance force across the water. Any more and they’d be seen – an easy target for the men with guns.
 

Conall still lay on the stones of the beach where he’d thrown himself to escape the bullets. He lifted his head. The gunfire had stopped. Olan shouted to his forces, urging them into action. The wildmen were heading for the slave huts. They would free the captives, arm them and then target the building that housed the generators. The whole attack hinged on taking down the power that fed the electric fences. Once that was done, the main force of the Oduma could break through the fences and the battle would soon be won.
 

Conall struggled to his feet and set off at a run towards the slave huts. His job was to find the crew of
The Arkady
and get them to help. When it came to taking out the generators, the skills of men like Bagatt and the engineer might make all the difference.
 

When he reached the huts, Conall saw the familiar white circles painted on the door – the same symbol he had seen at the Russian quarry. Wildmen had already overpowered the guards and the slaves were free but unarmed. He found the crew of
The Arkady
gathered at a far end of a hut, huddled together and ready to fight whoever came at them. They wouldn’t trust the wildmen any more than the slavers. He rushed to greet them. “The captain’s free, and his wife, we put them on the boats.”