The Caledonian Race: A Pulp Adventure (George Glen Series Book 2)

by Richard Bergen

  In the meantime, the last boys had also woken up and were rubbing their aching skulls. Apparently we had all been hit on the head to stun us. But where we were was a mystery to me.

  "Men!", Fletcher now began his speech. "You are all here for one reason. You all have a desire to become part of Her Majesty's Guard. You have all already proven yourselves worthy in various matters. That is why you stand here today."

  By now everyone - I counted fourteen boys - had stood up and assumed their posture. Despite my aching head, I felt anticipation and excitement. I was particularly impressed by the fact that Fletcher had referred to us as men.

  "But of course we can't accept every applicant. Only the strongest and bravest will soon wear the red tunic. To find out who these brave ones are, you will be given three tests to pass. The first test is the easiest. Wilbur!"

  The Guardsman addressed pulled out a number of glittering objects from a large leather bag. He approached the first lads and put a sort of collar on them, from which hung a sparkling object. Richard and I were also given something like this. I looked at the heavy object with interest. It was a kind of amulet, the coat of arms of the Scottish Guard set in gold. The eyes of the lions shone reddish. They had to be rubies set in. The ribbon to which the amulet was attached shimmered vermilion, a colour similar to the identification ribbons that every Guardsman wore on his upper arm in his spare time.

  "This is the coat of arms of the Guard," Stephen explained. "Wear it with grace and dignity." He nodded to Wilbur, who was now working on several latches on the back wall of the bare room. Finally, with a groaning sound, the entire back wall of the room fell backwards as if a drawbridge had opened. The London night was visible. The cottage we had been taken to was on a slight rise. The waterfront spread out before us. A pale half moon gave deceptive light.

  "This is the docklands of London. It's one big Sodom. Nowhere else in the world is there more night-time violence, more people being attacked, looted or murdered. Your task is to survive it for one night. You have a few rules to follow. Firstly, the amulet must be worn visibly around your neck at all times. Secondly, you must not leave the harbour area. Thirdly, when the Saint Paul's bell has struck six times, you must reach the 'Scottish Breeze', no sooner and no later. Fourthly, you must still wear your amulet around your neck. To prevent you from breaking the rules, Guardsmen patrol the entire waterfront. The entrances are also guarded. Do you understand everything?"

  Some boys cleared their throats uncertainly, but finally we nodded cautiously.

  "Well then!" Fletcher waved his hand.

  Uncertainly, we plodded around on the floor. No one quite knew what was required of them to do when Wilbur drew one of his wheellock pistols and fired it into the air without blinking an eye. A booming noise surrounded us. Some of the boys cried out in fright. They all stumbled over the back wall of the house lying on the ground and slid or ran hurriedly down the small slope towards the waterfront. Richard and I ran side by side and approached the gloomy, threatening-looking buildings.

  "What kind of test is this?" gasped Richard beside me. "Do you think it will be so hard to make our way to the 'Breeze'?"

  We reached a mouldering wall of a nearby building and took shelter behind a pile of wood. "The problem is the amulet," I explained to Richard. "Every peon and cutthroat we come across will want to take it from us. Since we have to wear it openly, we have almost no chance. We must run away, leave the harbour quarter altogether." It was the first thing that came to mind. "Then we'll return just before the bells ring and pretend we never left."

  As Richard didn't seem to have a better idea, we jumped up and ran hurriedly through the alleys. Fortunately, there seemed to be little activity at the moment. We crossed Wolsies Lane and headed north. From here we would get onto Thames Street.

  "There are nobles and commoners on Saint Michaels or Crooked Lane at all hours. Thieves and robbers don't easily stray there because armed town guards patrol it day and night. If we just sit down in a concealed doorway there, I think we could pass the time." Richard seemed to know what he was talking about. After all, he had been roaming the nocturnal streets of the capital much longer than I had.

  As we approached Thames Street, however, we realised that it had been cordoned off by two Guardsmen with red armbands.

  "Shit!", Richard groaned. "Across Church Lane it is, then. The Guardsmen can't be everywhere."

  Hectically we began our retreat, making our way through winding alleys and keeping to the shadows. A little later we had to realise that there was no escape. Guardsmen patrolled both Church Lane and Broad Lane, making escape via northbound Thames Street impossible. We were at the mercy of the scum of the docks and had to make the best of our precarious situation.

  "What we desperately need are clothes and weapons. If we can defend ourselves, the amulets cannot be taken from us so easily."

  "But clothes and weapons are not lying around," I pointed out.

  "You could be wrong there. We could find what we're looking for in the Wolves' Club."

  "How so?"

  "Can you remember the way to our old hideout?"

  "Sure I do, Rich. Get to the point!"

  "Stanley always liked to fork out some of the loot for himself. One time I was secretly following him. After a heist, he had gone into the building above the robbers' den. Since it was ramshackle, no one had lived there for years. Some of the rooms were filled with rainwater that had seeped in through the broken roof. And there I saw Stanley disappear into a chamber filled with piles of clothes - leftovers from the murdered and plundered souls the Club had butchered over the years. There was also a chest there filled with daggers, pistols and rapiers. I saw it with my own eyes."

  "And we can just get in there without a key?" I asked in disbelief. "Yes, that's just it. Stanley, the old fox, has plausibly persuaded the members of the Club that the upstairs is haunted. You know the widespread fear of ghosts."

  "The son of a bitch took advantage of it."

  "Old Stan only ever pretended to be an equal part of the Wolves. Secretly, he had already prepared his getaway."

  "Our old den of thieves is a few streets away. We should be on our way."

  Under cover of the shadows, we crept from niche to niche, scrupulously careful not to be discovered. At the next crossroads, we spotted a bare-chested young guy in thin trousers running down the street. A tall man with a red bandage on his upper arm was blocking his way. The man snapped, "Where's your amulet?"

  Dumbfounded, the young man backed away and pulled the amulet out of his belt to show it off.

  "Breaking the rules," the Guardsman bluffed curtly. "The amulet is to be worn visibly around the neck. You're out." With that he (I thought I recognised Locan) had snatched the pitiful aspirant's amulet and sent him off with a kick in the butt. Humiliated, the young man strode away.

  My heart was in my mouth. Neither Richard nor I had expected the Guardsmen to have such a presence in the docklands.

  As Locan disappeared around the next corner again, we ran across the crossing towards the opposite corner. Instantly we found ourselves surrounded by five ragged figures.

  "Hey, look! Two more fellows draped in expensive ornaments," grunted one. "Luck is really with us today," another rejoiced.

  The buggers tried to surround us. I realised that one of them, probably their leader, wore an amulet around his neck. An aura of sweaty stench and booze surrounded them. If they were drunk, their reflexes might have slowed down a bit, so hope sprang up in me. When they had almost surrounded us, I tapped Rich on the shoulder and we shot forward simultaneously. Under the grasping arms of the vagabonds we dropped to the ground, slid between their legs and quickly picked ourselves up again. Immediately we began to run for our lives.

  The crooks had taken up the chase, cursing. To our right, we noticed a hunched, half-naked figure in the gutter. He seemed to be still breathing, although he had numerous bruises. His trousers had been pulled down to the knees. I didn't want to imag
ine what had been done to that boy. Rich and I desperately increased our pace, but felt that the pursuers were close on our heels. Two turns later we had reached our destination. A man-sized barrel lying on its side next to a building wall. Richard threw himself against the lid and it swung open silently. We threw ourselves into the darkness of the barrel. The lid closed behind us and we could hear our pursuers yelling as they ran past our hiding place.

  "This is our old secret entrance," I said, surprised and relieved. A musty stench was wafting around us, coming from the rotten wood the barrel was now made of. We crawled through the bulbous hull and reached the back wall of the barrel, which could be prised open just as easily as the front wall. Already we found ourselves in the basement of the dilapidated house that stood above the Club of Wolves' den. Pale light filtered through the small windows, casting a cold glow on the sandy floor of the room. In the centre I could now faintly make out the outline of the cellar hatch leading down to the den. No guards had been placed here. Stanley usually had only one of his companions stand guard outside the actual house entrance, I now remembered.

  "We have to go up there," Rich whispered to me, pointing to a narrow, wooden staircase that led to the upper floor. We quickly made our way up the rickety construction and carefully climbed the creaking steps.

  On the upper floor, the ceiling supported by rotten beams hung much lower than on the ground floor. We almost bumped our heads; a full-grown man would only be able to stand bent over here. As Richard had described it before, the floor was covered with huge pools of water. It dripped irregularly from the ceiling beams. That one could believe in ghosts in a place like this made sense to me.

  "Back there," Rich hissed at me. He led the way, his bare feet churning the water. A narrow corridor later, we had reached a low, solid wooden door. Richard felt the frame, sliding his fingers over the top frame beam. "There it is." In his hand he held a large key.

  "Well done, Rich." Appreciatively, I patted my friend on the shoulder. I was impressed in an honest way by his talents and very glad to have him by my side. The experience with our pursuers had left me very uneasy. The amulets had made us fair game.

  When Rich had opened the door, he stepped inside. I followed on his heels. Had I heard a noise behind me? Was my imagination already playing tricks on me? I turned around and saw two large rats hopping quickly through the puddles. Reassured, I slipped further through the door. Richard had already opened a large chest and let out a delighted "I've got it!". Clanking sounds came from the chest, then my friend was also holding a big rapier in his hand. "From now on we are no longer defenceless." He was noticeably pleased and pulled out a heavy pistol as well.

  I had walked past him and opened a large wardrobe that filled the back of the chamber. Mountains of unsorted clothes had been stuffed into the various shelves here. After some rummaging, I found two shirts and two leather sleeveless jackets that should fit Richard and me. Unfortunately, there were no shoes or boots in this wardrobe. I handed Rich his clothes and he quickly put them on. I did the same. The night was cool and it was very pleasant to at last feel something warming on my skin.

  "Pick a weapon and then let's get out of here again!" urged Richard. A slight panic had crept into his voice.

  "Why so scared?", I asked back quietly.

  "I have a really bad feeling about this." Rich remained vague. "Like we're ..."

  "... being watched, you mean?" The deep voice drifted towards us from the doorway. A sinister figure slipped into the room. I heard the clack of a wheel lock being moved into firing position.

  Chapter 7

  From the darkness of the doorway, the figure now stepped into the room. Moonlight shone dimly on the stranger's face through a window. I recognised Stanley, captain and leader of the Club of Wolves. "Well, I'll be damned! For years I've been telling men this place is haunted and now I actually see two ghosts in the flesh. Richard and George." He held a pistol pointed at us. "I didn't think I'd ever see you guys again. I thought you were..."

  "... beheaded!", I completed his sentence, mixing as much anger as I could into the words. It seemed advisable to go for confrontation. "After you left the two of us at Stephen Fletcher's house, it almost came to that, too."

  "And to what do you owe the fact that you are now standing in front of me about to steal from me?"

  "We managed to escape," Richard answered quickly. "On our way to the Tower there was a commotion in the street. We took the opportunity and disappeared into the darkness of the night."

  Stanley nodded slowly. "So you disappeared into the shadows like little weasels, right?"

  "We had a lot of luck." I could tell Stan didn't want to believe our words. "Anyway. It's good to have you guys back. Come on downstairs with me. I'm sure the others would like to hear what you've been up to!"

  A bad feeling came over me. We were at their mercy. Stan kept the gun pointed at us and gestured towards the door. We surrendered to our fate and moved forward. As Richard tried to slip a small dagger into his waistband, Stanley hissed reprovingly, "Tss, tss!" He indicated to my friend with a look that he should leave the weapon behind. There was no thought of discussion. Stanley held the superior position. I thanked God that we had covered our conspicuous amulets when we slipped on our shirts. Coming under the eyes of the Wolves with such ornaments would have been even more dangerous.

  Like two prisoners (which indeed we were), we walked in front of Stanley through the puddles of the upper floor, carefully climbed down the creaking stairs and, at Stanley's command, opened the floor hatch that led to the Club's den. The familiar smell of burnt wood, booze and men's sweat was in the air as we reached the floor of the den. A wave of disgust threatened to overtake me as I saw all the ragged, filthy fellows loitering around the small fire, now looking at us expectantly.

  "Richard, George!" it went through the crowd. "Did hell spit you out again? How did you escape and where have you been?" The questions stormed us from all sides.

  "Take your seats!" Stanley ordered. "And please answer the questions! Where have you been all this time?" His voice was gentle, but I couldn't miss the underlying threat.

  We sat down by the fire. I knew we were in a pickle. It was too late for the truth. We had already lied and explained that we had escaped under our own efforts. A story had to be found, and quickly. With the best will in the world, however, I couldn't think of anything spontaneously that could explain why we had stayed away from the Club for months.

  "We were in France," Richard blurted out without further ado. My breath caught in my throat. He couldn't ... he shouldn't ...? What in the name of the devil was Richard doing there?

  "After we escaped in that commotion, the Guardsmen searched the streets. We wanted to come here, but the way back was blocked. We made our way to the harbour and hid in two barrels that were standing on the piers. A little later, however, the barrels were moved, turned and rolled so that we lost all senses. When we had a firm grip again, we pushed open the lids and realised that we were in the hold of a ship. We stayed hidden and were brought ashore in Calais two days later."

  "It's an incredible story," Stanley said tensely. "Were you carried across the Channel by an eagle on the way back, or did you even swim?"

  All our hopes were in danger of being swum away. Richard's explanation had been perfect, interweaving actual events with imagined ones, but Stan, the crook, gave us no credence. He had heard many lies in his life. I got angry and snapped at him: "You don't believe us? First you abandon us at Stephen Fletcher's house, then you let the Guardsmen shoot Ol'Timmy, and then you cowardly run away, and now you doubt our explanation!? It certainly wasn't a walk in the park, sitting in barrels stinking of old fish for two days. You can take my word for it. We kept our heads above water in Calais by pickpocketing until we could afford a return passage after a few months."

  Stan looked at us for a while and didn't say anything. But I knew exactly how he thought. He still didn't believe a single syllable we said. The fact that ins
tead of visiting him in the cave, we had ransacked his secret hideouts spoke volumes for him. But if he had disclosed this fact to the other fellows, they would have become suspicious of their leader. He could not and would not allow that. As a robber captain, he did not have the authority of a real captain. He had been elected to his position. If it turned out that he was hiding stolen goods from his naïve comrades, his leadership position would be quickly ended. And with it, his life.

  "Very well, boys!" Stan finally relented. "Have some salted meat and then lie down! In the morning we'll decide what to do with you."

  I managed to exhale in relief for a moment as a wiry little figure came stomping down the stairs. In his hand he held an object that seemed strangely familiar to me. The vermilion ribbon ended at a golden amulet.

  "Grover, you cat-fucking bastard!" Uther, one of the older robbers, greeted the newcomer warmly. "What have you there in your greasy fingers?"

  "I took it off a little boy who crossed my path. The boy was only wearing pants and was full of panic. I introduced him to my knife and asked him who he stole it from."

  "Did he explain himself?" asked Stan, getting to the point. You could still hear it in his chosen pronunciation that he had once been a nobleman with lands and property.

  "He vehemently denied being a thief. He said he was in the service of the King. He would soon be a Guardsman and then he would pay me back for my insolence. I thought he was crazy, but he was very convincing in his anger. So I had to play it safe that he wouldn't take revenge on me one day."

  "You didn't cut his throat, did you?" Uther looked slightly dismayed.

  "From ear to ear," Grover grinned. "He shouldn't have threatened me, then he would have got off with a black eye."