The midnight bell of St. Jude tolled across the river valley, twelve slow, bronze strokes that seemed muffled by the driving sleet and the rising, deafening roar of the river weir.
On the western timber platform of the secondary sluice, four torches flared in iron sconces bolted to the oak uprights, their greasy yellow flames whipping and hissing in the river wind. Alden Bram stood at the starboard crank of the diversion windlass, his boots braced against the wet deck timbers, his breath pluming in thick white clouds as he spat on his calloused palms.
Opposite him, his massive smith’s apron tied over a heavy wool coat, Garrick Holt gripped the port crank handle. The master smith’s forearms were as thick as an ash fence-post, corded with dark veins that stood out like rope beneath his soot-blackened skin. Between them sat the massive cast-iron worm gear that translated the rotary heave of the cranks into vertical lift for the twin oak diversion gates.
“Take the strain, Garrick,” Bram shouted over the deafening thunder of the water below. “The dog is notched in the sixth tooth. When I knock the locking wedge free, the head will fight the drum with twenty tons of river pressure. Hold her steady until the ratchet catches, or the crank will break your ribs!”
