The Border Reiver (27 page)

The walk back down the hill was hard going on Nat; his calf muscle was next to useless. Every time he put weight on the leg, the pain was fierce. His face felt contorted from wincing.

His leg was painful, but he had no idea of the damage the wound in his chest had done or was doing. He needed medical attention and he needed it fast.

He staggered towards the car. He touched the cold handle of the door, and no sooner had his hand made contact than he heard the engines. His heart sank as his head spun to see seven or eight military vehicles snaking along the narrow country road below his farm. He watched for a second or two; then he turned to his wood. The land that he knew so well was his only chance of escape. It was not an upper hand against these numbers; but, if he could get into the trees, he could disappear.

Jumping into the car, he fired the ignition and the engine sparked first time. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and pulled off the clutch; the vehicle leapt into action, tearing for bite in the loose gravel. As the tyres gnarled at solid earth, it lurched forward. He spun the wheel to point the car at the gate leading into the field and up to the woods. He clattered through the wooden gate which had bridged the gap to the top field for over fifty years. He kept his foot flat as the car revved in second gear up the steep incline. The land was not too boggy and the car’s tyres managed to grip enough to push the lump of metal up the hill. The engine whined as he approached the gate to the wood. Again, he drove straight through it and then veered the car into the ditch with a violent rocking thump. He shook off the impact and rolled out of the car.

Scrambling through the undergrowth, bracken tearing at his skin, he fell on the top of a knoll just behind the stone wall which separated the wood from the field below. He had a clear sight of the farm below; the vehicles were stopping, lined up on the gravel and the drive. He watched as troops jumped from the trucks and were directed to fan out across the field and approach his position.

He rested his head in the soft wet grass as he thought. He was desperate now, he felt cold and tired. He had three full magazines for his rifle and he could drop some of the men who wanted him dead now. Or, he could run and leave them guessing where he was.

However, they saw the car. They must have seen him driving up the hill.

He raised his head to the telescopic sights and he lined up the first, unlucky, anonymous shadowy figure. He settled his breath, in, out, calm, steady and then he squeezed the trigger and he felt the kick. He heard the pfft of the silenced shot and the dark figure fell.

After the first shot, Nat stopped. He rested his head again in the wet earth; he had no stomach for killing faceless men anymore.

He looked again at the approaching soldiers and beyond. Then he noticed the NSO commander by the trucks. Without hesitation, he put his eye to his weapon and fired twice. He hit the man in the shoulder, and he watched as he scrambled out of sight behind the vehicles. It was less than a minute later that he saw the black dot parting the smoke over Hexham in its violent downdraft. He paused for a second as if for confirmation of what he already knew. There it was, soft, almost inaudible: the pulsating throb of rotor blades beating a course for his position.

He wanted to lie there forever, but he had to move. Digging into the depths of his determination, he pushed himself through the pain and to his feet, and he ran as fast as he could into the thickest part of the wood. He didn't stop; he knew he had many acres to lose himself in.

*    *    *    *    *

“I want him pinned down, but I don’t want a kill from the air; you understand me?” Beaston spat over the radio to the pilots in the helicopter. “I want to see the whites of this bastard’s eyes,” he muttered to himself after putting the receiver down. He sat on the tailgate of one of the trucks; his shirt was pulled down over his broken shoulder. Nat's bullet had passed in through the meat of his upper arm. A medic worked quickly to stem the blood and make the injury stable. The General would live, but it was another infuriating dent in his pride.

As the chopper roared overhead, Beaston was brushing the medic away and barking at his troops to form up. There was no time to lose, now was the time to rid the dog of this tick.

*    *    *    *    *

Nat scrambled through the thick coniferous wood. The bare branches at ground level were hard as bone and ripped his skin as he ran. The strong sticky sap filled his nostrils with its reassuring smell. He ignored his injuries as best he could, but he knew that his movement was laboured and that he was still losing blood; he felt light headed. He focussed on surviving the next hour. His goal was to reach an outcrop of rock which would give him a rocky shelter from the searching helicopter and also give him some elevation from the approaching NSO men.

He was about two hundred yards from where he wanted to hide. To his left were the deepest darkest coniferous trees in the woodland. To his right was the edge of the steep ravine which gave passage to where Esme lay buried. He hugged the edge of the drop because the going was much easier than in the thick of the trees.

As he ran, he tried to duck a fallen tree trunk but he caught his back on the bow; he was knocked off balance and he veered over the edge of the ravine. With no conscious decision, he threw out a hand and grabbed a thick branch which hung from the leaning tree. He hung, his legs scrabbling on the steep unstable slope. His hunting rifle fell from his shoulder. It hung on his wrist on his injured side; he had no strength to swing it back up onto the flat ground, so he wriggled it free and let the weapon slip away down slope.

The thud, thud of chopper blades was loud in the air now. He was a sitting duck hanging helplessly over the edge of the ravine. His good hand held his weight, but he had to move. He swung himself up and grabbed with his left hand. Excruciating pain shot through his chest as he grabbed another branch on the trunk. He screamed out in pain as his weakened body took the strain. He was then able to walk his legs up to the top of the incline. His calf was also hurting but nothing like the pain in his chest. He blinked and breathed heavily as he contemplated moving his sound arm.

Finally, he took the full weight of his body on his left arm and grabbed the next branch with his right. The bark now tearing at his hands, but he was there, able to use his stronger right arm to lift himself up and onto safe ground. He lay quietly for a short while catching his breath and collecting himself. All composure had gone; the farmer began to understand that his injuries were making it impossible to keep running. But one thing was certain: he had to get up and get into the rocks or he didn’t have a chance.

The white van trundled over the undulations of the north Northumberland highway. Few places on earth offer a sky vaster and a landscape wilder. Amber sat staring out across the browns of the moorland as it stretched off for miles before hitting the blue sky with its huge billowing clouds. Stuart did not look up from the road; they hadn’t spoken since leaving the farm.

Stuart swung the van off the road at Catcleugh Reservoir and followed the rough woodland track through Castle Crag Forest to hit the border a few miles north at a crossing the Scots had opened for the retreating rebels. They had travelled a short distance when Stuart skidded to a stop. Coming the other way were a number of vehicles which pulled to a stop in front of Stuart’s van.

The door to the first vehicle opened and Jesse Rowell jumped down from the four by fours driver’s side. He ran to Stuart’s window.

“You made it. Good to see you, Stuart. Amber.” He looked through to Amber and smiled warmly.

“Likewise, Jesse. Is the border shut up ahead?”

“No, it’s open; but, we have had word from friendlies in the NSO that, Amber, your father is alive.”

Amber moved immediately to leave the van.

“I’m coming with you then,” she said.

“Whoa, lassie,” said Stuart. “We’ll both go, but we gotta get these guys safe first.” He indicated to the back of the van.

“We haven’t got time for that, Stuart,” Jesse butted in. “Word is that they have him on the run at Carlins Law. And they have men in numbers combing the land to flush him out...we need to get down there and meet them head on from the north. See if we can get him out of there.”

Stuart looked across at Amber, thinking.

“Ok, we’ll come with you if there’s room. Someone in the back can take this one on to the border.”

“Not a problem. Let’s go.”

Stuart and Amber jumped into the flatbed of the truck. It was cold, but they were joining ten other bodies huddled in there. The convoy moved out to save the farmer who had become much more than a mere fighter in their struggle against the regime.

*    *    *    *    *

The helicopter flew low and virtually over his head. The trees rocked wildly under the down force of the helicopter blades, and the noise was immense. Nat couldn’t think, undergrowth slapped him across the face and filled his eyes with vicious specks of dirt. He clenched his fists and beat the earth pushing himself to his feet. He staggered towards the rocky knoll and slid between the crags. He covered himself with his poncho, and he searched the raging sky for the helicopter. To his dismay the helicopter hovered low above his position, and he knew that it was guiding the men to where he was.

He watched as the chopper spun slowly, about fifty feet above his position. He wondered whether a bullet would pierce the windshield. Then he looked at the tail rotors and he watched as it came around. He had a clear shot straight up below the tail and it was moving slowly enough, he thought. He had no idea whether the rounds from his handgun would penetrate the metal or affect the mechanics, but it was worth trying.

The pain of aiming the weapon was excruciating, but the need was greater. He took the strain and watched as the tail of the helicopter slowly spun around to show itself above him once again. His eyes were locked on the tail and he knew he’d make the shot.

As the tail came to its closest point, he released a burst of five shots, smooth as a whisper and his shot was straight and true. It penetrated the underside of the tail where the rotor’s components were positioned, but the helicopter carried on circling as it was.

Nat’s head dropped; there was nothing more he could do. Then he heard a slight change in the sound above him. He looked up again, and his eye caught the wisp of black smoke coming from the rotor blades. He must have hit the mechanism; he could see the helicopter was making more erratic moves. He watched carefully. The smoke became thicker, the tail began to spin more quickly. It was as though the wind had dramatically picked up all of a sudden, and the helicopter banked off to the east, the pilot was losing control, and the rear rotor was smoking heavily now.  The aircraft went out of view below the trees to Nat’s left, and he heard the deafening grind of rotors on wood, like a giant lawn mower running over sticks. Then there was an enormous crash and the noise of the engines stopped.

The wood was silent, peaceful. Nat lay against the rock, his breathing was shallow. Blood was oozing from the wound in his chest. Right then, he felt like he would never move again. The sounds drifted through the trees. He could hear the faint rustles and snapping branches of the approaching soldiers. He lay prone against the cold stone, slumped and lifeless. He was shivering, struggling for breath, concentrating on the necklace that Esme had given to Amber. He waited.

*    *    *    *    *

The convoy made a sharp left turn off the A68 and sped along the narrow country lane running along the north border of Nat’s land. The vehicles pulled up hard as the road ran parallel with the Fairspring Burn, and the rebels leapt down into the lush grass verges.

They were about two miles north of Nat’s position. They could see the helicopter hovering low above the trees.

“I know where he is,” screamed Amber.

“Follow me, follow me,” she called to the others as she climbed the stone wall into the next field. They were in no formation, just running as fast as they could, attempting to cover the ground between themselves and the cornered farmer as quickly as possible. As they covered the open fields, it looked like an infantry charge of old. There were about fifty of them sprinting in silence
en masse
towards the woodland, the whisper of rye grass under their feet.

*    *    *    *    *

Nat waited; his beloved trees surrounded him, enveloped him and made him feel safe. He could feel Esme and Amber there with him. He could see mist ahead of him, or was his sight failing him? He had no idea, but he felt heavy, he felt no pain. He watched as dark figures became evident in the trees. They stopped and fanned out in a ring around his position. No one fired, and no one spoke. Nat sank as low as he could, but he was confused, in full view lying, dying in the undergrowth. He understood now that he didn’t stand a chance.

The first few drops of rain pattered down through the foliage but were followed quickly by a heavy deluge which made a real noise through the wood. Nat laid in his nest, the water beating off his poncho, watching the men who had come to kill him and listening to the drumming of rainfall. It was a good few minutes before the voice was heard

“Bell, I am General Beaston. Can you hear me?” The words echoed through the trees. Nat sat silently watching. He could see the figure who spoke, but he was shaded by the trees and he could not make out any features.

The voice came again, “Well, I'm going to try again, Mr Bell. I want to parley with you. We need to have a conversation before whatever happens here, happens.” The General’s voice was strained as he winced with the pain from the wound that Nat had inflicted in his shoulder.

Again the wood went quiet. Nat listened to the drops of rain landing on foliage, a cough from one of the enemy and then he decided.

“I can hear you,” he shouted at the General.

“You stamped on a nest of hornets, Bell. We have to take you in now or this area will never settle, you understand.”

Nat looked at his hands. They were black with dirt, cut and bleeding from injuries he had not even registered. He was so tired; finished.

He shouted back, “I'm done running, I'll come in. I’ve got nothing left to fight for now.”

“I can see that, Bell. I reckon you've got about fifteen minutes at best. It comes to us all, son. War is lost when you have nothing left."

Beaston took a few careful paces towards Nat. Nat’s blue eyes focussed and the two men looked intently at each other.

"I was very unfashionable for a while. You know why? Because I knew that you could not win a war with hearts and minds. War is about stopping hearts, enslaving minds and crushing hope. That’s what I do very well.”

Nat shifted painfully on the wet ground. As he moved, he heard the amassed soldiers shoulder their weapons and train them on his body. He mustered all his strength to sit up slightly to face Beaston.

“They were innocent people who died in Hexham,” he said.

“There are no innocents in war, Bell.” Beaston’s voice was raised, irate. “I never understand you people. It always baffles me… people in this country… I don't know why you're surprised. I mean we've spent the last three centuries fighting wars in other people’s countries. I always knew that one day we would have to fight on these shores. I thought it was going to be the bloody Islamists, but then along came the anarchists and changed everything.

“It is not like you have never seen the news, all those conflicts across the globe, what did you think - that only military personnel get injured? It amazes me - you people never got upset when all those people in foreign lands had their lives torn apart by war. That's what war is, it is hell. It is destruction, and it is only good for the protagonist who has the most to gain...and, of course, me. I'd be out of work if I weren't bringing hell to the masses. So don't blame me, anyway, I'm just the hammer. I perform the will of others.”

The General made Nat sick with hatred. As he listened to the words, he carried on edging up the stone, his arms spread, his poncho flapping in the breeze.

*    *    *    *    *

Amber cut through the trees far quicker than the others; she could hear nothing over the padding of her feet on the wet soil and the scrabbling of twigs in her face and across her body. Then the rain began to fall and masked even those sounds. She could see the craggy outcrop, and she was sure her father would be holed up on the other side.

She stopped momentarily to see where the others were; she could see the figures moving through the trees behind as though the forest were coming alive, so she turned again and moved on. She had about three hundred metres to cover. She skimmed through the tightly packed trees like a roe deer on the hoof. She cocked her weapon and pushed herself harder to cover the ground.

*    *    *    *    *

“Stop there, Bell,” Beaston called out from where he stood behind the shady bough of a great oak tree. Nat stopped shuffling; he was almost to his feet. He tried not to show his weakness, but it had become impossible.

The lower leg of his left leg was sodden, a dark burgundy soaked the material and the left side of his poncho betrayed his chest wound with a large blood red stain, shiny wet in the middle. His face was ashen, the lines deep and pronounced by the pain. His beard hung wet as did his shock of hair; his eyes, however, still shone azure and sharp.

Beaston leaned against the tree, relaxed, his hand above his head against the rough bark, his injured left arm strapped roughly across his body. He watched the man in front of him. After a few moments, he pushed himself off the tree and walked slowly towards Nat. Blood showed through the field dressing on his shoulder too, but only a patch. He had a pistol in his other hand which he swung freely. His brown hair was wavy, verging on foppish; his military greens were well worn but clean and ship-shape. He wore desert boots, and he covered the ground with contempt for its nature; its uncultivated beauty was an irritation to a man like Beaston, nothing but a logistical quandary. He came within ten yards of the farmer who lay against the rock to support his dead weight.

“That’s better; I can look you in the eye now, Bell.” Beaston’s eyes were wide set, he was a handsome man but, like Nat Bell, his face had seen many hard years and the life he had lived was written in his skin. His eyes were dark and intense, the left misshapen by a scar.

“You remind me of the Taliban, Bell. You've got your own set of ideas and to hell with the rest of us, eh?”

Nat said nothing, but his heart beat enough blood for his brain to calculate.

Beaston continued, “When I was young, I was like you - not young teenage, I mean really young. One day we had a big family lunch and my father wanted us all to play some damn game. Well, I didn't want to play inside - some fucking charades or some such - I wanted to play outside with my cousin. But he was too scared of my father, so I went out alone. I was playing with a ball in the garden when my father came out. He took me to the greenhouse. I was a little scared at this point; I knew I was in trouble. The old bastard took me by the neck, and he pushed my head down into the water butt. I thrashed about and pushed and pulled but, my god, man, I was only eight or nine; I was no match for his power. He held me under water until I passed out,” Beaston paused for breath; he nodded at Nat as if to re-affirm the story. Nat stared back at the man who had come to kill him.

“When I came to, my father told me that the first lesson in life is that other people are in control of your life. You might not want to do what you have to do, but if you don't do it, the whole system fails.” Again Beaston paused, nodding, letting the point sink in. “I think you could have done with a lesson like that, Bell. I'm the hand holding you under, son, but I'm afraid there’s no let up here. You went too far when you started killing people.”