Fevre Dream (26 page)

“Do like I told you,” Sour Billy said to York in a low urgent voice. He backed away from the furnace as the mate advanced.

Joshua York stepped between them and raised his hands. “Stop,” he said. “Mister Dunne, I’m discharging you, here and now. You are no longer mate of the
Fevre Dream
.”

Dunne eyed him suspiciously. “I ain’t?” he said. Then he grimaced. “Hell, you ain’t firin’
me
!”

“I am the master and captain here.”

“Is you? Well, I takes orders from Cap’n Marsh. He tells me to git, I git. Till then, I stay. An’ don’t tell me no lies ’bout buyin’ him out. Heard them lies this mornin’.” He took another step forward. “Now you git out of the way, Cap’n. I’m gone git me some answers from Mister Sour Billy here.”

“Mister Dunne, there is sickness aboard this steamer. I am discharging you for your own safety.” Joshua York lied with real nice sincerity, Sour Billy thought. “Mister Tipton will be the new mate. He’s already been exposed.”

“Him?”
The iron billet smacked against the mate’s palm. “He ain’t no steamboater.”

“Been an overseer,” Billy said. “I can handle niggers.” He moved forward again.

Hairy Mike Dunne laughed.

Sour Billy felt cold all over. If there was one thing in the world that he could not stand, it was being laughed at. Right then and there he decided not to scare Dunne off after all. Killing him would be much nicer. “You got all them niggers and white trash behind you,” he said to the mate. “Looks to me like you’re scared to face me by yourself.”

Dunne’s green eyes narrowed dangerously, and he smacked his club into his palm even harder than before. He came forward two quick steps, into the full glare of the furnace, and stood there, awash in the hellish glow, peering in at the burning corpse. Finally he turned to face Sour Billy again. “Only him in there,” he said. “Thass good fo’ you. If it’d been the Cap’n or Jeffers, I was gone break ever’ bone in you body befo’ I kilt you. Now I’m jest gone kill you right off.”

“No,” Joshua York said. He stepped in front of the mate again. “Get off my steamer,” he said. “You’re discharged.”

Hairy Mike Dunne shoved him out of the way. “Stay out o’ this, Cap’n. Fair fight, jest me an’ him. If he whips me, he’s mate. Only I’m gone bash his head in, an’ then you an’ me’ll go find Cap’n Marsh and see who leaves this here steamboat.”

Sour Billy reached behind him and pulled out his knife.

Joshua York looked from one to the other in despair. The other men had all drawn back now, and were calling out encouragement to Hairy Mike. Kurt moved forward smoothly and pulled York out of the way, to keep him from interfering.

Bathed in the furnace light, Hairy Mike Dunne looked like something straight out of hell, smoke curling up around him, his skin flushed and reddish, the water drying on his hair, his club smacking against his palm as he advanced. He smiled. “I fought boys with knifes befo’,” he said, punctuating his words with smacks. “Lots o’ dirty lil’ boys.” Smack. “I been cut befo’ too.” Smack. “Cuts heal up, Sour Billy.” Smack. “Bust heads, thass another thing.” Smack. Smack. Smack.

Billy had been steadily retreating, until his back came up hard against a stack of crates. The knife was loose in his hand. Hairy Mike saw him cornered, and grinned, raising the iron billet high overhead. He came forward roaring.

And Sour Billy Tipton tossed the knife in his hand, and sent it slicing through the air. It caught Hairy Mike right under his chin, driving up through his whiskers and into his head. He went to his knees and blood came pouring out of his mouth and then he pitched forward onto the deck.

“Well, well,” Sour Billy said, sauntering over to the body. He kicked it in the head, and smiled, for the niggers and the foreigners and for Kurt, but mostly for Joshua York. “Well, well,” he repeated. “Guess that makes me mate.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

St. Louis,
September 1857

Abner Marsh slammed the door behind him when he came stomping into the Pine Street office of the Fevre River Packet Company. “Where is she?” Marsh demanded, striding across the room and leaning on the desk to stare down at the startled agent. A fly buzzed around his head, and Marsh brushed it away impatiently. “I said
where is she
?”

The agent was a gaunt, dark young man in a striped shirt and a green eyeshade. He was very flustered. “Why,” he said, “why, Cap’n Marsh, why it’s a pleasure, I never thought, that is, we didn’t expect you, no sir, Cap’n, not a bit. Is the
Fevre Dream
come in, Cap’n?”

Abner Marsh snorted, straightened, and stamped his walking stick on the bare wooden floor in disgust. “Mister Green,” he said, “quit your goddamn babblin’ and pay attention now. I asked you,
where is she
? Now, what do you think I was asking about, Mister Green?”

The agent swallowed. “I reckon I don’t know, Cap’n.”

“The
Fevre Dream
!” Marsh bellowed, red in the face. “I want to know where she is! She ain’t down by the landing, I know that much, I got eyes. And I didn’t see her anywhere along the goddamn river. Did she come in and leave again? Did she steam up to St. Paul, or the Missouri? The Ohio? Don’t look so damn thunderstruck, just tell me.
Where’s my goddamn steamer?
”

“I don’t know, Cap’n,” said Green. “I mean, if you didn’t bring her in, I got no idea. She’s never been in St. Louis, not since you took her down the river back in July. But we heard . . . we . . .”

“Yes? What?”

“The fever, sir. We heard yellow fever broke out on the
Fevre Dream
down to Bayou Sara. Folks were dyin’ like flies, we heard, just like flies. Mister Jeffers and you, we heard you had it, too. That’s why I never expected . . . with everyone dyin’ and all, we thought they’d burn her, Cap’n. The steamer.” He slipped off his eyeshade and scratched his head. “I guess you got over the fever, Cap’n. Glad to hear it. Only . . . if the
Fevre Dream
ain’t with you, where is she? Are you sure you didn’t come in on her, and maybe forget? I hear the fever can make a man awful absentminded.”

Abner Marsh scowled. “I ain’t had the fever, and I sure as hell can tell one steamboat from another, Mister Green. I came in on the
Princess
. I was sick for a week or so, all right, but it wasn’t no fever. I had the chills, on account of fallin’ in the goddamn river and almost drownin’. That’s how I lost the
Fevre Dream,
and now I aim to find her again, you hear me?” He snorted. “Where’d you hear all this stuff about yellow fever?”

“The crew, Cap’n, the ones who left her down in Bayou Sara. Some of ’em came in when they arrived in St. Louis, oh, ’bout a week ago it was. Some of ’em asked about jobs on the
Eli Reynolds,
Cap’n, but of course she’s all full up, so I had to let ’em go. I hope I done right. You weren’t here, of course, nor Mister Jeffers, and I thought maybe you was both dead, so I couldn’t get no instructions.”

“Never mind about that,” Marsh said. The news heartened him somewhat. If Julian and his pack had taken over Marsh’s steamer, at least some of his crew had gotten clear. “Who was here?”

“Why, I saw Jack Ely, the second engineer, and some waiters, and a couple of your strikers—Sam Kline and Sam Thompson, it was. There was a few others.”

“Any of them still around?”

Green shrugged. “When I didn’t hire ’em, they went looking around to other boats, Cap’n. I don’t know.”

“Damn,” Marsh said.

“Wait!” the agent said, raising a finger. “I know! Mister Albright, the pilot, he was one of ’em told me about the fever. He was here about four days ago, and he didn’t want no job—he’s a lower river pilot, you know, so the
Eli Reynolds
wasn’t for him. He said he was taking a room at the Planters’ House until he could find a position on one of the classier boats, a big side-wheeler like.”

“Albright, eh,” Marsh said. “What about Karl Framm? You see him?” If Framm and Albright had both left the
Fevre Dream,
the steamer shouldn’t be hard to find. Without qualified pilots, she couldn’t move.

But Green shook his head. “No. Ain’t seen Mister Framm.”

Marsh’s hopes sank. If Karl Framm was still aboard her, the
Fevre Dream
could be anywhere along the river. She might have gone off any one of a number of tributaries, or maybe the
Fevre Dream
had even steamed back down to New Orleans while he was laid up in that woodyard south of Bayou Sara. “I’m goin’ to pay a call on Dan Albright,” he told the agent. “While I’m gone, I want you to write some letters. To agents, pilots, anybody you know along the river, from here to New Orleans. Ask about the
Fevre Dream
. Somebody has got to have seen her. Steamer like that don’t just vanish. You write those letters up this afternoon, you hear, and get down to the landing and post them on the fastest boats you see. I aim to find my steamer.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent said. He got out a stack of paper and a pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write.

The clerk at the Planters’ House desk bobbed his head in greeting. “Why, it’s Cap’n Marsh,” he said. “Heard about your misfortune, just awful, Bronze John’s a wicked one, that he is. I’m glad you’re better, Cap’n, I truly am.”

“Never mind about that,” Marsh said, annoyed. “What room is Dan Albright in?”

Albright had been polishing his boots. He let Marsh in with a cool, polite nod of greeting, took his seat again, stuck an arm into one boot, and resumed shining as if he’d never been called to the door.

Abner Marsh sat down heavily and wasted no time with pleasantries. “Why’d you leave the
Fevre Dream
?” he asked bluntly.

“Fever, Cap’n,” Albright said. He studied Marsh briefly, then went back to work on his boot without another word.

“Tell me about it, Mister Albright. I wasn’t there.”

Dan Albright frowned. “You weren’t? I understood you and Mister Jeffers found the first sick man.”

“You understood wrong. Now tell me.”

Albright polished his boots and told him; the storm, the supper, the body that Joshua York and Sour Billy Tipton and the other man had carried through the saloon, the flight of passengers and crew. He told it all in as few words as possible. When he was finished, his boots were gleaming. He slid them on.

“Everyone left?” Marsh said.

“No,” said Albright. “Some stayed. Some don’t know the fever as well as I do.”

“Who?”

Albright shrugged. “Cap’n York. His friends. Hairy Mike. The stokers and roustabouts, too. Reckon they were too scared of Mike to run off. Specially down in slave country. Whitey Blake might have stayed. You and Jeffers, I thought.”

“Mister Jeffers is dead,” said Marsh. Albright said nothing.

“What about Karl Framm?” Marsh asked.

“Can’t say.”

“You were partners.”

“We were different. I didn’t see him. I don’t know, Cap’n.”

Marsh frowned. “What happened after you took your wages?”

“I spent a day in Bayou Sara, then took a ride with Cap’n Leathers on the
Natchez
. I rode up to Natchez, looking over the river, spent about a week there, then came on up to St. Louis on the
Robert Folk
.”

“What happened to the
Fevre Dream
?”

“She left.”

“Left?”

“Steamed off, I figure. When I woke up, morning after the fever broke out, she was gone from Bayou Sara.”

“Without a crew?”

“Must have been enough left to run her,” Albright said.

“Where’d she go?”

Albright shrugged. “Didn’t see her from the
Natchez
. I could have missed her, though. Wasn’t looking. Maybe she went downstream.”

“You’re really quite a goddamn help, Mister Albright,” Marsh said.

Albright said, “Can’t tell you what I don’t know. Maybe they burned her. The fever. Never should have given her that name, I figure. Unlucky.”

Abner Marsh was losing patience. “She ain’t been burned,” he said. “She’s on the river somewhere, and I’m goin’ to find her. She ain’t unlucky neither.”

“I was the pilot, Cap’n. I saw it. Storms, fog, delays, and then the fever. She was cursed, that boat. If I was you, I’d give up on her. She’s no good for you. Godless.” He stood up. “That reminds me, I got something belongs to you.” He fetched out two books, and handed them to Marsh. “From the
Fevre Dream
library,” he explained. “I played a game of chess with Cap’n York back in New Orleans, and mentioned that I liked poetry, and he gave me these a day later. When I left, I took them along by mistake.”

Abner Marsh turned the books over in his hands. Poetry. A volume of poems by Byron and one by Shelley. Just what he needed, he thought. His steamboat was gone, vanished off the river, and all he had left to show of her were two goddamn books of poems. “Keep them,” he said to Dan Albright.

Albright shook his head. “Don’t want them. Not the kind of poems I like, Cap’n. Immoral, both of them. No wonder your boat got struck down, carrying books like those.”

Abner Marsh slid the books into his pocket and stood up, scowling. “I had about enough of that, Mister Albright. I won’t hear that kind of talk about my boat. She’s as fine a boat as any on the river, and she ain’t cursed. Ain’t no such thing as curses. The
Fevre Dream
’s a real heller of . . .”

“That she is,” Dan Albright interrupted. He stood, too. “I got to see about a berth,” he said, ushering Marsh toward the door. Marsh let himself be ushered. But as Albright was showing him out, the dapper little pilot said, “Cap’n Marsh, leave it be.”

“What?”

“That steamer,” Albright said. “She’s no good for you. You know the way I can smell a storm coming?”

“Yes,” Marsh said. Albright could smell storms better than anyone Marsh had ever known.

“Sometimes I can smell other things too,” the pilot said. “Don’t go looking for her, Cap’n. Forget about her. I figured you was dead. You’re not. You ought to be thankful. Finding the
Fevre Dream
won’t bring you no joy, Cap’n.”

Abner Marsh stared at him. “You can say that. You stood at her wheel, and took her down the river, and you can say that.”

Albright said nothing.

“Well, I ain’t lissening,” Marsh said. “That’s
my
steamboat, Mister Albright, and someday I’m goin’ to pilot her myself, I’m goin’ to run her against the
Eclipse,
you hear, and . . . and . . .” Red-faced and angry, Marsh found himself choking on his own tongue. He could not go on.

“Pride can be sinful, Cap’n,” Dan Albright said. “Leave it be.” He closed the door, leaving Marsh out in the hallway.

Abner Marsh took his lunch in the Planters’ House dining room, eating off by himself in the corner. Albright had shaken him, and he found himself thinking the same thoughts he had run through his head going upriver aboard the
Princess
. He ate a leg of lamb in mint sauce, a mess of turnips and snap beans, and three helpings of tapioca, but even that didn’t calm him. As he drank his coffee, Marsh wondered if maybe Albright wasn’t right. Here he was back in St. Louis, just like he’d been before he met Joshua York in this very same room. He still had his company, the
Eli Reynolds,
and some money in the bank, too. He was an upper river man; it had been a terrible mistake ever to go down to New Orleans. His dream had turned into a nightmare down there in slave country, in the hot fevered south. But now it was over, his steamer had gone and vanished, and if he wanted to he could just pretend that it had never happened at all, that there had never been a steamboat called the
Fevre Dream,
nor people named Joshua York and Damon Julian and Sour Billy Tipton. Joshua had come out of nowhere and now he was gone again. The
Fevre Dream
hadn’t existed in April, and it didn’t seem to exist now, as far as Marsh could see. A sane man couldn’t believe that stuff anyhow, blood-drinking and skulking about by night and bottles of some foul liquor. It had
all
been a fever dream, Abner Marsh thought, but now the fever was gone from him, now he could get on with his life here in St. Louis.

Marsh ordered up some more coffee. They will go on killing, he thought to himself as he drank it, they will go on with the blood-drinking and the murder with no one to stop them. “Can’t stop ’em anyway,” he muttered. He’d done his best, him and Joshua and Hairy Mike and poor old Mister Jeffers, who’d never raise an eyebrow or move a chessman again. It hadn’t gotten them anywhere. And it wouldn’t do no good to go to the authorities, not with a story about a bunch of vampires who stole his steamboat. They’d just believe that yellow fever yarn, and figure he’d gone soft in the head, and maybe lock him up someplace.

Abner Marsh paid his bill and walked back to the office of Fevre River Packets. The landing was crowded and bustling. Above was a clear blue sky, and below was the river bright and clean in the sunlight, and the air had a tang to it, a scent of smoke and steam, and he heard the whistles of the boats passing each other on the river, and the big brass bell of a side-wheeler pulling in. The mates were bellowing and the roustabouts were singing as they loaded freight, and Abner Marsh stood and looked and listened.
This
was his life, the other had been a fever dream indeed. The vampires had been killing for thousands of years, Joshua had told him, so how could Marsh hope to change it? Maybe Julian had been right, anyway. It was their nature to kill. And it was Abner Marsh’s nature to be a steamboatman, nothing more, he wasn’t no fighter, York and Jeffers had tried to fight and they’d paid for it.

When he entered the office, Marsh had just about decided that Dan Albright was dead right. He would forget about the
Fevre Dream,
forget everything that had happened, that was the sensible thing to do. He’d just run his company and maybe make some money, and in a year or two he might have enough to build another boat, a bigger one.

Green was scurrying around the office. “I got twenty letters out, Cap’n,” he said to Marsh. “Already posted, just like you said.”