Hink measured time by how long he could hold out against the pain before he cussed or moaned.
Lieutenant Foster’s men made it easy by coming past him every once in a while and hitting him in the face, the stomach, or his bad leg. He’d hoped one of them might have the guts or the hate to knock him clean out, just so he could slip the pain unconscious, but they were good soldiers.
They knew exactly how much he could endure. And doled it out.
Mr. Foster didn’t have a lot to say, which was fine with Hink, since he’d always thought the man to be a piss-proud lick finger who couldn’t blow his own nose without asking Alabaster Saint to hold the hanky.
But on the other hand, if Foster was the chatty sort, he might have some kind of idea where in damnation they were taking him.
Not that he supposed he’d get out of it alive anyway, but if the chance fell upon him, he’d like to know which direction to run.
The uneven drone of the ship’s damaged fans filled his head. There wasn’t a window anywhere in his eyesight. They’d thrown him belowdecks, but made sure he was trussed up well out of reach of any of the supplies down there with him.
And there were plenty of supplies.
Along with three guards who kept their guns leveled at him.
He knew one of those men. Couldn’t much recall his name, but he’d been part of the mutiny Hink had led all those years ago. Chickened out of it halfway to Chicago. Heard he went back begging to Alabaster for forgiveness. Heard Alabaster had accepted him into the new army he was mustering.
Course, he cut off his ear first.
Wasn’t a man who’d served under the Saint who had walked away from the last battle unscathed. So Alabaster Saint made sure the man carried a wound just like the rest of them.
The general enjoyed his torturing almost as much as he enjoyed just plain killing folk.
Hink thought maybe he could get a little conversation out of the soldiers, but he was still gagged and, frankly, not feeling his best.
So he did what he could to breathe, and hurt, and memorize the faces of the men who inflicted that hurt on him.
The Saint might be top cock at torture, but there was no man who could match Hink when it came to revenge.
With no water, and no relief, it was a long damn ride before the ship fans altered in sound.
They were heading into the wind, changing course. From the tip the floor suddenly took, they were coming down to land. He half hoped his gun company would find themselves something less useful to do and give him a moment to gather his wits.
Instead, they stood watch over him as the ship went through the various stages of anchor, catch, lash, and landing, and was walked to whatever dock or port had been readied for her.
Then one of the soldiers walked up to him and hit him so hard in the side of the head, he heard his neck crack before he went out.