"Dark as Hell and twiced as hot," muttered Swain from the shadows behind the clerk's map-table. A ragged chorus of ayes answered. The Captain checked his pocket watch; ten o'clock sharp. Old Swain and his hourly announcements hadn't lost a minute in twenty years. The Captain snapped his pocket watch shut and peered out into the darkness. There, to port, loomed a hulking mass of shadow twice the height of any around it -- Cleary's Oak, last marker before the riverboat landing at Float. "We're an hour from Float, Mr. Barker. Notify the deck crew we'll be putting in for the night." "Aye, Cap'n." "She won't like that," said Swain, whispering. "Fit to be tied, she'll be. Full of fire and steam." "Who, Swain?" "You know who. The wand-waver. The Yankee." "Go back to sleep." "I heard her talkin' while the boys were hauling me up the deck," said Swain, gesturing with the stump of his missing right arm.
