Chapter Thirty-EightThe carriage drifted across the ground, banging against rocks and fallen tents. I heard a scream, and knew we’d knocked over another wounded man. But it was too late, we were no longer in control. The railwayman’s legs dangled half out of the carriage, and his eyes widened with shock as he realised we were flying—almost. Officer Dry reached up and caught hold of his ankle.
I held onto the charred side of the carriage, staring down at Officer Dry. He’d obviously ridden for several days before getting caught up in the battle; his beard was ragged and his grey eyes red-rimmed.
‘Emmeline Muchamore, you are under arrest.’
‘Officer Dry,’ I spat. ‘You are mistaken.’
Our balloon didn’t move. Officer Dry and his horse held us like an anchor. A bald native—William—rode up bes
