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

by Richard Bergen

  "But that's unusual." Stanley made Grover hand him the amulet and now studied it with an expert's eye. "The coat of arms of the Scottish Guard," he said almost reverently. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "It's a test," a slightly slurred voice now came flying through the vault. " A test of courage in His Majesty's Guard."

  "What are you saying, Lance?" Stanley turned his eyes towards the drunken creature on the other side of the fire.

  "Last year I met some Seafarers who had tortured a fellow dressed the same way with just such an amulet. He had told everything. All candidates have to reach the 'Scottish Breeze' unarmed. They have to wear this thing around their neck at all times. Whoever makes it gets to take the next test, but whoever doesn't is out."

  I winced slightly at the word Seafarer. Contrary to the harmless sound of the word, it didn't mean real sailors, but members of the second gang of robbers who were up to mischief in the harbour district. Seafarers and Wolves had been rivals for domination of this district for years. Fortunately, I had not yet met any of these criminals. However, they were said to be more ruthless, murderous and risk-taking than the members of the Wolves' Club. Their distinguishing mark was the sailor's clothing that many of them wore. Some had supposedly shaved their skulls to look even more dangerous. Richard always had a few scary stories he told me about the fellows. I was not at all comfortable with the idea that they might be out hunting prospective Guardsmen.

  Stanley looks at the amulet again, fascinated. "The ribbon looks familiar somehow. Like I've seen it somewhere before. Just where?"

  Slowly Stanley's head turned in my direction. I followed his eyes, quickly realising what he was seeing, but no longer able to hide the telltale vermilion. "That's what I thought." Stanley reached up to my collar and pulled the amulet out of my shirt.

  "So, you escaped the Guardsmen?" he sneered as he also took Richard's trinket. In a leader's commanding tone he bellowed, "Uther, Lance, Grover and Robert!"

  The men addressed rose and strode obediently towards Stanley. When they had surrounded us, old Uther asked, "What are you going to do with them, boss?"

  Stanley's face darkened. "Take the pack to the river!"

  Chapter 8

  I was shivering as the robbers escorted us out into the open. My feet were still bare and my pants were thin and clammy. I turned slightly to Richard who was trotting along beside me. Quietly I said, "You were really good with your story. It's a pity Stan didn't get on to us."

  "Shut up!" Uther gave me a flat blow to the back of the head. "No talking here."

  "Where are you taking us?" asked Richard, ignoring the order. Uther tried to reprimand him, but Grover was already replying, "Well, we want to see how well you can swim." He gave a dirty laugh. "We have our own little bathing place at the piers."

  I had a bad feeling. During my brief time at the Club, I had heard that there was a spot on the river where traitors were dumped. Obviously the men intended to consign us to that fate. They would kill us. That they hadn't done so yet was our only good fortune. I thought feverishly how we could take advantage of this circumstance.

  We passed through Stiliards, a cluster of old warehouses that had once served as London bases for privileged Hanseatic merchants before Elizabeth had cut their trading rights. A bleak, doom-laden atmosphere prevailed here. My bare feet were covered in mud after only a few moments. Hordes of rats squealed and scattered as soon as they saw us. Debris and junk kept blocking the way of our small group, but escape was out of the question. The robbers had our hands fixed behind the backs and were pushing us forward, poking us again and again with their daggers and rapiers. Uther even had a large pistol with him, which he brandished threateningly in his right fist. After a short while, the warehouses made way for a view of the Thames. The river looked deceptively almost idyllic in the glow of the moon. The light reflected on the surface. But after only a few yards we realised that there was nothing idyllic about this place. We entered a wide, wooden pier and the stench of the river hit us. Since the Thames carried the sewage of eight hundred thousand Londoners into the sea, it was no wonder it didn't smell like rose water. It smelled as if every Londoner was suffering from dysentery at the same time.

  "Here we are," Uther now groaned unnecessarily. "A balmy evening for a cool swim, boys. The big merchant ships from Lübeck and Hamburg used to unload their cargo at these piers. That's why the water is particularly deep at this point. And what can I say? Everything we have sunk so far in this foul broth has stayed in there." At this he looked at his companions and nodded slowly. Uther had obviously declared himself the head of the little horde of bandits, which was accepted uncritically by the other men. Now they searched frantically near the pier and after a few minutes had found what looked like rough stone. With two wackerstones in their hands, they came towards us.

  "These are just for safety," Uther explained to us. "No man can swim with his hands behind his back, but you would flounder about and torture yourselves needlessly. The stones will shorten the struggle and give you a merciful end."

  "Oh, how charming of you," I groaned bitterly. "I will put in a good word for you with the Almighty. Such a noble deed must be rewarded." I tried to sound sarcastic, but inside I was trembling with mortal fear. Rich seemed to feel the same way. In his eyes I saw the same panic I had glimpsed months ago in the Tower.

  "Fucking brandy!" Lance groaned, clutching his head. "This cheap booze is making my head hurt." With that, he took another hearty swig from the wineskin he had brought with him and then belched loudly. Then he set about wrapping the stones with rope.

  "You really do drink all kinds of rubbish," Uther observed. "Should stick to good whisky, then you wouldn't have a headache either!"

  "That sixteen-seventeen we took off that draper made my head hurt, too, though."

  The wiry Grover now objected, "But every moron knows that the sixteen-seventeen is one big disappointment. The sixteen-sixteen from Coleraine is the real thing."

  "Ah, yes!" Uther looked pensive. "When old O'Bannon was still master distiller. God curse the bloody pox that took him!"

  I listened up. What the men were talking about seemed very familiar. I thought of the barrel in the cellar of the 'Breeze' and the number sixteen hundred and sixteen stamped into the dark brown wood. I exchanged a quick glance with Richard and realised he was thinking the very same thing.

  "I know where ..." Richard started to speak, but immediately caught a cuff from Uther, which flung his head to one side and stopped further words. "Shut up, you brat!"

  "What Richard wanted to say is ...", I intervened. Uther lunged again, but I jumped back a bit and quickly explained, "We know where a whole barrel of that drop is hidden."

  Uther was about to lunge again to hit me when Lance grabbed his arm. "Let the brat finish!"

  Snorting, Uther lowered his arm and looked at me with hostility, "So speak! And I advise you, don't talk nonsense or we will ..."

  "... sink you in the river?" Richard sounded bitter in a frightening way. His lower lip was bleeding and staining the freshly stolen doublet. Resignedly, he looked down into the dark, watery grave that awaited.

  "We can cut off a few of your fingers first if you want." Uther hissed at us. "So don't be so cheeky! I want to hear from you now where the bloody barrel is hidden."

  "It's in the basement of the 'Scottish Breeze'."

  "Waste of time," Uther grumbled. "We'll never get in there. There are always at least ten Guardsmen there. It was a nice try, George and Richard, but unfortunately you have a date with the Thames. You don't want to keep the old lady waiting, do you?"

  I felt Uther now knotting the heavy stone to my manacles and panic threatened to overwhelm me again. "There is a way," I quickly groaned. "A secret way. Behind the 'Breeze' is a cargo lift to the basement. It's never guarded and never locked. We can sneak in and steal the barrel without any Guardsmen noticing."

  Uther cut the rope and with a crash the stone landed on the planks. The weight that h
ad been pulling on me just a moment ago was now no longer felt. Uther turned me around and grabbed me by the neck. Greed shone in his eyes as he warned me urgently. "If you lie, you will suffer, I mean it. Do you understand? Suffer! Lead us there and don't try any tricks or I'll break every finger of yours one by one before I cut them off!"

  Somehow this threat strangely failed to have its effect on me (Uther was richly unimaginative, I found. Doing bad things with fingers seemed to be the end of his wisdom), but I nodded surrendered, as if I were utterly terrified. I felt we had convinced the bandits. All that was needed now was a plan that would free us from their hold.

  So as we moved away from the Thames again and walked the narrow streets that would lead us out of Stiliards, I thought feverishly.

  Our path led us away again from the mud and dirt of the uninhabited trading quarter. Soon we met passers-by who crossed our path. Most of them were lice-ridden day labourers or drunken dandies looking for diversion in the inns and gambling dens. We also met sailors on shore leave, recognisable by their weather-beaten skin and the wide, lunging stride that one learned at sea when it was important not to stumble during a storm. Rigged whores strolled past us, looking for fools willing to pay. It struck me that there was indeed a world of difference between these sad, scruffy and often toothless individuals and the girls of the 'Breeze'. At some distance I recognised a familiar face. It was old Oslac. Apparently he was one of the Guardsmen who were to supervise our activities. I quickly lowered my head. As I did so, I signalled to Richard to do the same. The Wolves escorting us made a good visual cover. As tempting as the possibility of revealing ourselves to Oslac and being rescued was, it was not very promising. Without the amulets, we would be disqualified on the spot and it was questionable anyway whether Oslac alone would be up to the fight against four Wolves. The Guardsmen were the best swordsmen in England, but Uther possessed a pistol.

  A few moments of trepidation followed before we had passed the old Guardsman. A few winding alleys later we had reached the small square in the middle of which the 'Scottish Breeze' was enthroned.

  In front of the blue entrance door with the white cross, in the light of a torch, we noticed another man with a vermilion armband. Six horses were tied to the railing in front of the inn. So at least the same number of Scottish Guardsmen had to be in the tavern.

  "We must get to the other side," Richard now whispered. "And we should stay in the shadows of the houses so the guards won't notice us."

  There was a muffled groan as Uther gave Rich a fierce liver punch. "I would have thought of that myself, you little ferret of a bastard."

  Richard coughed. His face was hateful as he looked up again.

  Uther eyed his men. "We should sneak around to the other side, staying in the shadows of the houses. Be a damn shame if the guard notices us. So let's go, you filthy dogs!"

  "Wolves," Lance improved with a sense of accuracy that belied his inebriated state.

  "Wolves it is, then." Uther growled sourly and started moving.

  Taking cover, we circled the square and cautiously reached the back of the inn. In the shadows I could make out the outline of the privy and the narrow staircase leading up the back of the 'Breeze'.

  "Over there!", I whispered.

  A little later we had reached the ramp. I saw the iron arches where there should normally be a large lock and was relieved to find that Brawley's unreliability could be relied upon.

  "We all have to stand up on the platform to make it heavier." Fortunately, I had spoken loud enough to reach all the bandits. Therefore I was spared a blow from Uther.

  When everyone had stepped onto the platform and the construct began to creak ominously, I pictured in my mind the sequence of events that would follow. The bandits would enter the cellar, see the barrel and surely want to taste the contents first. I had to take advantage of this moment. My rapier was ready to hand in the straw bag of my mattress, which lay spread out in the immediate vicinity of the barrel. I would grab it when the men were drinking. After that, it would have to be quick. The bandits had orders to kill us. Taking us to the river again and disposing of us there would probably be too complicated for them. It was much more likely that they would cut our throats on the spot and leave us bleeding while they made off with the barrel. The biggest problem was Uther's pistol. Against a ranged weapon, a rapier was a poor defence. So I had to put all my energy into killing Uther first, preferably with a clean stab in his back. Then I was to hurry with Richard to the lift. In the general confusion we would be able to pull ourselves up by the ropes of the pulley and disappear into the shadows of the night. The bandits were all bigger, heavier, more immobile and drunker than we were. They would not be able to follow us fast enough.

  I was comfortable with this plan. Only the fact that I couldn't bring Rich into it was vexing.

  Crunching, the lift gave way under our accumulated weight and lowered a good three inches. The gap that now opened up was enough to push a couple of strong hands in between. With combined strength, the platform was now pushed further down until Lance could reach the rope of a pulley that held the platform. Now he could simply lower the platform with steady and not very demanding movements. With a dull sound, the platform touched down on the ground a little later. The men tried to orient themselves in the darkness, which they managed after some initial difficulties.

  "There are barrels." Grover pointed euphorically in one direction. "There are taps too, so let's taste the drop."

  Moments later I heard it bubbling and gurgling as Grover tasted from his hand for want of a cup. "This is wine, not whisky," he immediately groaned. "George, you promised us whisky."

  "Further ahead," I explained patiently. "The barrel that looks almost black." I didn't like being the focus of interest like that at all. Not at all. It spoiled my plan.

  I turned carefully past the bandits who were now besieging the black barrel. Again I heard it bubbling.

  "I'll be the first to taste!" Uther pushed his way forward. "After all, I am your leader."

  "You wish." Lance grumbled so softly it was barely audible.

  Uther obviously hadn't heard, because he began to drink, gurgle, swallow and finally burp. "That's it." Euphorically he looked around. "Sixteen-sixteen. O'Bannon's masterpiece. Full-bodied flavour, with a subtle burn on the finish."

  Greedily, the other men now rushed to the tap. I backed away and hit my straw sack with my heel.

  Now or never, I thought. The men's attention had turned entirely to the booze. I crouched down and tried to undo the lacing of the straw bag - not an easy task in the darkness that surrounded me. I noticed Richard's frantic look. He must have realised what I was about to do. In his eyes I could see both hope and fear - fear that the carnage that was about to follow would be the end of us.

  The ropes loosened and I reached into the straw bag. My fingertips felt the heavy grip of the rapier as a tremendous rumble came down from the stairs. The bandits froze in their actions. I, too, dared not breathe.

  Chapter 9

  "Hey, who's there?" Brawley's thunderous bass boomed through the darkness of the basement vault. Heavy footsteps could be heard on the stairs. "Damn thieving rabble! Drunken riffraff! I'll fill your bellies with lead!" A mighty explosion shook the room. Brawley had fired a pistol and was now stepping through the smoke towards the robbers, who were already fleeing in a hopeless panic. They stumbled to the lift, where they pulled themselves upwards like crawling rats on the ropes of the pulley, fleeing in panic.

  Brawley intervened and got hold of one of the robbers. It was Lance. I heard choking noises as the landlord's hard grip took him by the scruff of the neck. Several punches to the face later, Brawley gave the unfortunate guy a humiliating ass-kicking and watched him flee down the lift shaft.

  Rich and I, meanwhile, had hidden behind our straw mats in the darkness to avoid the angry innkeeper. Before he could look around further, we heard Rachel's voice in the hallway: "Didn't I tell you, Braw? Always lock the hatch!
Every night I tell you and you never do. Now we've got the mess."

  "It's all right, darling. You're right. But the damage is minor. Apart from a few sips of brandy, nothing seems to be missing."

  "Stubborn old chap!" fired back Rahel. "Don't try to play it down! I want to feel safe in my own home."

  "Ay, sugar pie. I'm shutting this place down. You don't have to worry anymore!"

  Grumbling, he now pulled the lift up and then set about going upstairs to secure the hatch from the outside. Rich and I had escaped the grasp of the Wolves, but we were in the next pickle. Although we were already in the 'Breeze', the final destination of our test, without the amulets we had failed and would be chased away in disgrace. Our only chance was to recapture our amulets.

  "We have to get out of here," I whispered to Richard.

  "Brawley is locking the hatch. That way out is blocked to us," my friend pointed out. "We'll have to go through the taproom and hope we're not seen."

  "Damn you Stanley!" I cursed bitterly. "First he sets himself up as a fatherly mentor and then he just lets us be disposed of as if we were mere rubbish."

  "Stan may have been an earl once, but inside he is more depraved than any single member of the Club. He became our leader for a reason." I remarked that my friend probably knew the old man a lot better than I did.

  "We need to get the amulets back from him."

  "First we have to get out of here without running into the Guardsmen. So let's go!" Rich urged.

  "But not without this." I pulled the shiny rapier with the golden hilt out of my straw mattress.

  A wry grin crossed Richard's face as he at least pulled out a small dagger from his straw bag.

  "Better than nothing," I said, then we made our way to the stairs. We hid as best we could in the shadows, taking cover behind a thick support beam as we entered the kitchen area. Rahel and two other cooks had their hands full and no time to look around suspiciously, so we passed through the kitchen unharmed and immediately found ourselves in the taproom. Pressed tightly against the wall, we tried to become one with the shadows as we looked at the Guardsmen carousing at the tables. I recognised Locan, who seemed to be brooding over his ale, and Emory, who was patting Moira, the classy, curvaceous barmaid's backside, which she allowed, if not enjoyed, with a broad grin. Five other men sat with their backs turned to us and in the background I now recognised Tom, who was a truly rare guest at the 'Breeze'. Surely he was there because of our entrance exam.