Devon Monk - Tin Swift

“We’re taking her down,” Hink said.

The racket of the fans pushing the Swift drowned out anything else. Hink fought the controls, pushed by crosswinds and updrafts as he gave her full throttle to ram that black bag of air.

Their only chance was speed.

Good thing speed was what the Swift had by the bucketloads.

The ship’s frame screeched under the strain of the dive, her tin bones singing out like a hundred wet fingers over fine crystal.

The ship vibrated with the sound of it, the song of it. A rise of pride, of power, of fearless joy swelled Hink’s chest. He ripped off his breathing gear and let out a whoop and holler. Mr. Lum’s deep laughter rolled through the cabin.

The Black Sledge yawed to the side, slinging around hard to show the guns that prickled a line down the length of her.

“Ready, Mr. Seldom?” Hink yelled.

“Aye, Captain!” The Irishman set a hook from his belt to the mid-bar above his head, stomped his feet into the floor belts, then opened the starboard rear door.

The gust of wind that rattled the inside of the ship set her to shaking and would have stirred up anything not tied down, but Hink, Guffin, and Lum were hooked tight to the framework by belts at their waist and braces over their boots.

The blast of a cannon pounded the air like a giant clapping the Swift between his hands. The port rear fan sputtered before picking up to plumb again.

Hink kept the throttle full open. The window filled with the Black Sledge . He could see every stitch and rivet on the big old barge.

The Swift screamed out her killing song as the engine pumped thunder and power into her bones. The repercussions of another cannon shot—this one wide—cracked through the air.

Closer. So close, Hink could jump the door and land on the Black Sledge ’s wing, if he wanted.

“Now!” he yelled to Mr. Seldom. But even as the word left his lips, Mr. Seldom had already let loose the flaming hook.

Guffin got himself settled in to see how many swear words he could fit in a breath as he, Hink, and Lum fought the controls to pull the Swift up out of her suicide dive.

The wind gave them hell, but just as Hink was thinking it was time to tell the crew to kiss their boots good-bye, the breeze shifted and nudged the Swift ’s tail, giving her the air she needed. The Swift scraped over the top of the Black Sledge , leaving more than a little dust behind.

“Seldom?” Hink called out.

“Dead on, Captain,” Seldom yelled.

And then as if in response, the Black Sledge shuddered and rocked as she fell away beneath them. A gout of flame took up the port side of her—Seldom’s torch hitting dry tinder. They’d go up in a flame if they didn’t dump water to put out the fire. Of course, without enough water, there’d be no steam to keep her up or put her down soft. Especially not with a storm looming.

The way Hink reckoned it, Captain Barlow had himself a handful of hard decisions to make right about now.

And otherwise occupied was just how Hink liked the crew of the ships he was about to board.

“Guffin. The wheel,” Hink said.

Guffin jammed a staypin in the controls, unlatched his belt line, and with one hand on the overhead bars made his way across the ship to the helm.

Once there, Hink unlatched and left the wheel in Guffin’s hands, not waiting to see if he had latched the harness to the interior framework of the ship or kicked boots into the straps.

Hink caught at the framework as he ran to the door Seldom was manning.

“Give me as long as you can,” Hink said.

Seldom nodded. “Always do.”

Hink unlatched his breathing gear, dragging the scarf at his neck up over his nose, and buttoned it to the leather lining at the edge of his goggles. This high, the cold could freeze a man’s face right off.

Seldom unplugged Hink’s hose, then latched around Hink’s torso the harness that would haul him home. He handed Hink the three-hooks, two rakelike handles with metal barbs at one end and leather cuffs at the other. Hink buckled the cuffs around his wrists and gripped the handles.

“Keep her up, boys!” he yelled. Then Captain Hink stepped out the door and into the brace of wind.

The fall was fast, hard, and at the same time seemed to take forever. Wind blasted his eyes, face, and near tore off his clothes. The Black Sledge was just a few stories below him, and if he hit it right, the netting that covered her canvas would be plenty enough for him to catch on to.

Captain Hink hit the ship and swung the hooks in both his hands, which did a hell of a job of tangling up with the ropes.

He grunted in pain as his shoulders bore the weight of his landing and his arms nearly ripped from their sockets. It took him a second to breathe air back into his lungs and shake the dizzy out of his head. Then he was scrambling down the netting, toward the windows.

He hung down off the netting, his harness line still attached to the Swift . If this was gonna get done, it’d have to be fast, before the lines fouled and he’d have to cut free.

That is, if he lived long enough to cut free.

He pulled his gun, shot the window, and then smashed the glass out of it with the heavy barbed end of the hook. No return fire, which meant he’d caught them away from the glass, maybe busy, say, trying to douse the flame crawling up the side of their ship.

He pushed in through the broken window. Not much slack on his line left, and he’d be damned if he was going to cut free to go any farther.

The smoke that rolled through the old tub was choking and hot. Captain Barlow was somewhere in that mess, shouting orders. The dim shape of men scurrying to do as their captain told them impressed Hink. Even though Barlow was a snake-bellied traitor, he knew how to run a tight ship.

If the Sledge had any luck still on her ledger, she might make it through this little debacle.

They say luck favors the brave and fortune favors fools. Hink decided that he must be just enough of both today. One of Barlow’s crewmen was shock-still and strapped to the side bar, likely watching his life march before his eyes. Hink didn’t have to take but a step or two before he was in front of the man.

“I’m commandeering your services, sailor.” Hink hit him across the back of the head with the blunt end of the hook. The man sagged and Hink took up some swearing as he pulled the extra hauling harness off of his belt and strapped it around the man. He attached a second line onto the rope that was latched to his own harness so they both had a chance to be pulled back up to the Swift .

“You better be worth the trouble,” Hink muttered as he lifted the man up across his shoulder and stomped back to the window.

Once he’d muscled the both of them out the hole and up the ropes on the outside of the ship, a yell from behind him clued him in that the crew had been stirred up. Then gunshots rang out, louder than the flames, louder than the fire, louder than old Barlow himself. Hink knew he’d better get off this puffer fast if he wanted to keep on living.

He pulled on the rope, three hard tugs in a row, and pushed away from the ship like a kid swinging for a water hole.

The added weight of the unconscious man on his harness near took the breath back out of him as they slammed into the side of the ship. But Mr. Seldom had caught his signal. Hink felt the jerk and pull of the rope winching upward.

The Swift ’s engines changed tone as Guffin maneuvered her up and away from the foundering Black Sledge .

Hink glanced up at his ship. She was a shiny beauty, ghostlike and luminescent against the smoke and clouds. Even swinging the waltz on a string beneath her, he couldn’t help but smile.