A second, third, and forth torch lit up, creating a square. That was where they’d need to land and lash.
“Reverse engines, men,” Hink said. “Bring our lady down soft and easy.”
There wasn’t much steam left in the boiler. They’d been drafting glim vapors for the last five miles at least. Which meant there was no easy way to put the ship down. But Hink intended to get her rested with the least amount of injury to her, and to those on board.
The wind let off a bit, but the rain was aiming to make it a dangerous proposition. None of Old Jack’s landing fields were generous in size. Though the Swift was a small vessel, Hink didn’t envy a captain of a larger vessel trying to touch down in this port.
With more pitch and yaw than he’d like, Hink tucked the Swift down, her patched landing gear rolling, then catching at the rocky soil.
“Lash her tight, men. We don’t want to dive the cliff by morning.”
Guffin, Ansell, and Seldom were already out the door before the ship had more than a heartbeat on the ground. Usually Hink would be right behind them, making sure his ship was secure.
But instead he stood there, transfixed, his hand on the wheel.
The sensation of the ship around him was still there, but not as strong as when he was in the air. He felt Molly dousing the flumes, and the cooling of the boiler and pipes like a slowing heartbeat, as if he were breathing from a hard run and sleep was waiting just around the corner for him.
“Captain Hink,” Cedar Hunt said, from close enough that Hink knew he’d been standing there a while, “I think you’re wanted outside.”
Hink let go of the wheel, one hand at a time, his fingers lingering just a second longer against the smooth wood before he was no longer touching the ship. The feel of her around him, the sensation that he and the ship were tied together closer than skin to bone, slipped away with the contact.
He turned. For a moment, he was just a man again. Hot in his damp clothes, weary on his feet, and much more tired than he usually was after a flight.
Whatever the witch had done to make him aware of the ship, it took something out of a man to endure it.
Mrs. Lindson stood near Miss Small, who sat, her eyes closed, at the rear of the ship. The wolf was untied and pacing in front of them.
He didn’t see Molly.
The rain spit like gravel against the ship, and over that, he heard his name.
“Captain Hink, you’ll come out of your ship with your hands up, or I’ll blow that bucket out from under your feet.”
Hink would know that rusted voice anywhere. It was Old Jack.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Cedar asked.
“No need,” Hink said, unbuttoning his coat and pulling a small bag that might hold tobacco or coins out of his pocket.
“I just need to make between Old Jack and I, an understanding.” He drew his revolver, then strode out the door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
General Alabaster Saint paced in front of the tent. Mr. Shunt had insisted that they erect a space for him apart from the barracks, the mess hall, the hangar, and General Saint’s quarters.
They had done so, and just after dawn Mr. Shunt had set about his task.
Private Bailey was the first man to enter that tent. He screamed for an hour. At the end of that hour, he had been carried out, weak and exhausted. And with a new hand attached where before there had been nothing but a stump.
A hand that worked as if it were his own. Except for the dull silver stitchwork around the wrist, and the slightest clicking sound when he curled his fingers into a fist, it would pass for a living thing.
“Does it please you?” Mr. Shunt asked from the shadows inside the tent door.
“Will he survive it?”
Mr. Shunt spread his hands. “Some will not. The strong become stronger.”
“Will he survive it?” Alabaster Saint asked again.
“That one?” Shunt narrowed his eyes and lifted his head as if he could see through the walls of the barracks where Bailey rested. As if he could see all the way through the man to the nightmares beneath his skin. “Yes.” He exhaled.
“I will be pleased when all the others are done.”
General Saint turned on his bootheel and strode off to his office. “Lieutenant Foster, to me,” he barked.
Foster fell into step behind the general.
A third of the Saint’s militia had been crippled from the war. Men who held a grudge against the war made for excellent fighters against the standing rulers.
The general waited until Lieutenant Foster had shut the door before turning.
“I do not trust that man,” the Saint said, pacing. “You will see that there is a gun on him at all times.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Report to me when he has finished his task.”