In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (24 page)

“All they’re good for.” Faro paused, as if a thought had crossed his mind. “Did Jonah survive the wreck?”

Conall’s eyes met his brother’s gaze. Don’t let him know. He shrugged.
 

“Shame. I want that map. It’s here, the treasure, there are stories, everywhere. He didn’t say anything?”
 

“Never mentioned it.”
 

Faro sat on the edge of the table. “Join us. If not…”
 

Conall turned his back to his brother, looked out of the window, across the compound and the bay, where sunlight glinted on the water. “Where’s Rufus?”

“The girl’s got him.”

“Heather?”
 

“I said she could keep him. Keeps the rats down. But if the slaves get hungry, they might eat him.”
 

Conall span round to face his brother once more. “What happened to you? You’re not like this. It isn’t you.”

“I know which side I’m on. The winning side. Question is, what about you?”
 

Conall remembered the quarry, the way his limbs hurt, day and night from the work. The way his stomach ached with hunger. The despair and desperation of the slaves: intense sadness at the way their lives had turned out haunting every moment. He didn’t want to go back to that. Or die in a mine on Spitsbergen, worked to death by men who lived only for profit and power.
 

This was his way out. This was his brother, saving him yet again. Rescuing him, picking him off the floor, getting him out of trouble.
 

For a moment, he wavered. Thoughts of comfort and leisure, of a safe life and knowing where he belonged. He screwed his eyes tightly closed and saw Heather in his mind, clinging to his dog, hugging Rufus to her breast. “I won’t help these people.”
 

“Do it for me,” Faro said. “It’ll look bad, if you turn against them.”
 

“I won’t take your side. Not on this. Not ever.”
 

“You won’t last long here. These slaves drop dead, all the time.”
 

“You’re part of that.”
 

 
“I do what’s right for me,” Faro said. “Take care of myself, had to, I didn’t have anyone looking out for me.”
 

“That doesn’t excuse this.”
 

“Save the do-gooder talk. I’m not interested. Last chance.”
 

“No.”

“Fine.” Faro strode to the door, called down the corridor. A guard appeared in the doorway. Faro walked out without another word. Or a glance.
 

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.
 

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.”