Nunslinger 7

by Stark Holborn

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

The year is 1864. Sister Thomas Josephine is on her way from St Louis, Missouri, to Sacramento, California. During the course of her journey, however, she'll find that her faith requires her to take off her wimple and pick up a gun... The events following the battle of El Paso del Norte found Sister Thomas Josephine fighting for her life. When she's returned to her St Louis, Missouri, convent an unwilling prisoner, she takes a vow of silence. But when she hears news of Abe Muir's survival, she must make a terrible decision: can she forget her promises to him and live the rest of her life in silence and contemplation? Or will she once again throw aside everything she knows and set out for Indian Territory? Where once she rode an ungainly horse called Pokeberry, Sister Thomas Josephine will now find herself riding the rolling Mississippi River in search of action, adventure, and a soul worth saving.

Release date: June 5, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 80

Sample

CHAPTER EIGHT

Thou hast clothed me with skin and flesh

 

The Annabel Lee was indeed a tub: it jostled between two grand steamships like a mongrel dog between greyhounds. From what I could make out in the darkness, she was a hodgepodge of dainty wood and coarse metal, painted from ten different cans. My stomach flipped as I set one foot upon the gangway, and I wondered what new trouble I was walking into.

 ‘She don’t look like much,’ said Eli, the drunk, as he hauled himself up the rope alongside me, ‘but Jim’s the best goddamn engineer on the Mississipp’. Ripped out her old boiler he did, made one new. Now she runs like the devil was chasin’ her ass with a hot poker.’

 I tried not to let the profanity unnerve me, yet my stomach did another small somersault.

 ‘Weren’t nothin’ to it,’ Jim replied gruffly, cradling his hand.

 ‘Like hell there weren’t,’ Eli cried. ‘If he loses his arm, lad, we’ll be so far up shit creek–’

 ‘Where shall I work?’ I interrupted, grateful that the darkness hid my red face. ‘I’ll need some light.’

 ‘Best come on up to the wheelhouse,’ advised the older man with the beard. ‘I’ll get them to fetch the medical chest.’

 ‘Who’s he?’ I murmured to Eli as we climbed a set of rickety metal stairs towards the top of the boat. ‘Is he the captain?’

 ‘N’awww,’ the man slurred, ‘Hallow ain’t no captain. He’s the pilot.’

 I had only the slightest clue what this meant, but from the tone of Eli’s voice, it was clear that Mr. Hallow was the most respected man on the ship.

 The wheelhouse was a precarious glass and wood construction; a crow’s nest perched above the top deck with barely enough room for four people. There was an ancient stove, glowing with embers, and a cracked leather seat in the corner. It housed the ship’s great steering wheel, surrounded by a strange network of pulleys and funnels.

 Mr Hallow soon entered, bearing a lantern. Jim, with the injured hand, came after him. I shied away from the direct glare of the light, as we shuffled about to make room, and peered instead into the medical chest. It was poorly stocked. An almost empty bottle of morphine and a lack of bandages spoke of the crew’s attempts to minister to themselves. I poked about. To my amazement I found a little tin containing two needles, thread, and an injecting syringe.

 I held it up to the light: it looked clean, as if it had never been used.

 ‘This is wonderful,’ I murmured. ‘I can get some morphine straight into you, to help with the pain.’

 Jim was shuffling down the seat. I almost laughed to see such a huge man inching away from me.

 ‘It’s only an injection; it will not hurt overly much,’ I told him, drawing a half inch of morphine into the chamber and sterilizing the point in the lamp flame.

 ‘Don’t care for it,’ he declared. Even in the darkness I could see he was turning pale. ‘It ain’t right. A good wash of river water’ll sort this hand out.’

 ‘Quiet, now, and let the lad work,’ commanded Mr. Hallow. ‘You’ll be no use in the boiler room if you can’t hold a spanner.’

 I unwrapped the rag from around Jim’s hand. The wound ran raggedly across his palm, angry and oozing. I traced a vein in his wrist with my eyes.

‘Now hold still,’ I told him, before pushing the needle in and depressing the plunger. He gave one high-pitched cry, then his eyes rolled shut and he slumped down.

 ‘He’s swooned,’ said Eli incredulously, tears of laughter springing to his eyes. ‘Big Jim’s done swooned like a girl.’

 Despite their laugh. . .