George Martin - Fevre Dream

He returned to York’s locked door and began pounding again, and suddenly the steam whistle began to shriek. Once. Twice. Three times. Long angry blasts. Marsh flailed away with his stick.

York’s cabin door came open.

Marsh took one look at York’s eyes and his mouth hung open in mid-shout. The steam whistle sounded again, and he waved hurriedly. It fell silent. “Get in here,” Joshua York said in a cold whisper.

Marsh entered, and York swung the door shut behind him. Marsh heard him throw the lock. He didn’t see it. He didn’t see anything. Once the door closed, York’s cabin was black as the pit. Not even a crack of light snuck in through the door or the shuttered, curtained windows. Marsh felt like he’d gone blind. But in his mind’s eye, a vision lingered, the last thing he’d seen before the darkness closed in: Joshua York, standing in the doorway naked as the day he was born, his skin deathly white as alabaster, his lips drawn back in animal rage, his eyes like two smoky gray slits opening onto hell.

“Joshua,” Marsh said, “can you turn on a lamp? Or pull back a curtain, or something? I can’t see.”

“I can see just fine,” York’s voice replied from the darkness behind him. Marsh hadn’t heard him move. He turned, and blundered into something. “Hold still,” York commanded, with such force and fury in his tone that Marsh had no choice but to obey. “Here, I’ll give you a light, before you wreck my cabin.”

A match flared across the room, and York touched it to his reading candle, then seated himself on the edge of his rumpled bed. He’d donned a pair of trousers, somehow, but his face was hard and terrible. “There,” he said. “Now, why are you here? I warn you, you had better have a reason!”

Marsh began to grow angry. No one talked to him that way, no one. “The Southerner is next to us, York,” he snapped. “The fastest damn boat on this river, got the horns and everything. I’m fixin’ to run Fevre Dream after her, and I thought you’d want to see. If you don’t think that’s reason enough for getting you out of bed, then you ain’t no steamboatman and you never will be! And you watch your manners with me, you hear?”

Something flared in Joshua York’s eyes, and he started to rise, but even as he did he checked himself, and turned away. “Abner,” he said. He paused, frowning. “I am sorry. I did not intend to treat you with disrespect, or to frighten you. Your intent was good.” Marsh was startled to see his hand clench violently, before he steadied it. York crossed the dim cabin with three quick, purposeful strides. On his desk rested the bottle of his private drink, the one Marsh had caused him to open the night before. He poured out a full goblet of it, tossed back his head, and drained it straightaway. “Ah,” he said softly. He swung about to face Marsh again. “Abner,” he said, “I’ve given you your dream boat, but not as a gift. We struck a bargain. You are to obey such orders as I give, respect my eccentric behavior, and ask no questions. Do you mean to live up to your half of our bargain?”

“I’m a man of my word!” Marsh said stoutly.

“Good,” said York. “Now listen. You meant well, but it was wrong of you to wake me as you did. Never do it again. Never. For any reason.”

“If the boiler blows and we catch afire, I’m to let you crisp in here, is that it?”

York’s eyes glittered in the half-light. “No,” he admitted. “But it might be safer for you if you did. I am unruly when woken suddenly. I am not myself. I have been known, at such times, to do things I later regret. That was why I was so short with you. I apologize for it, but it would happen again. Or worse. Do you understand, Abner? Never come in here when my door is locked.”

Marsh frowned, but he could think of nothing to say. He had struck the bargain, after all; if York wanted to get all upset about a little sleep, it was his business. “I understand,” he said. “Your apology is accepted, and you got mine, if it matters. Now, do you want to come up and watch us take the Southerner? Seein’ as how you’re woke already and all?”

“No,” said York, grim-faced. “It is not that I have no interest, Abner. I do. But-you must understand-I need my rest, vitally. And I do not care for daylight. The sun is harsh, burning. Have you ever had a bad burn? If so, you can understand. You’ve seen how fair I am. The sun and I do not agree. It is a medical condition, Abner. I do not care to discuss it further.”

“All right,” Marsh said. Beneath his feet, the deck began to vibrate slightly. The steam whistle sounded its ear-piercing wail. “We’re backing out,” Marsh said. “I got to go. Joshua, I’m sorry to have bothered you, truly I am.”

York nodded, turned away, and began to pour himself more of his noxious drink. “I know.” He sipped at it this time. “Go,” he said. “I will see you this evening, at supper.” Marsh moved toward the door, but York’s voice stopped him before he could open it. “Abner.”

“Yes?” Marsh said.

Joshua York favored him with a pale thin smile. “Beat her, Abner. Win.”

Marsh grinned, and left the cabin.

When he reached the pilot house, the Fevre Dream had backed clear of the landing, and was reversing her paddles. The Southerner was already well down the river. The pilot house was crowded with a good half-dozen off-duty pilots, talking and chewing tobacco and making side wagers on whether or not they’d catch the other boat. Even Mister Daly had interrupted his leisure to come up and observe. The passengers all knew something was afoot; the lower decks were crowded as they sat along the railings and pushed onto the forecastle for a good view.

Kitch swung the great black-and-silver wheel, and the Fevre Dream angled out toward the main channel, sliding into the brisk current behind her rival. He called down for more steam. Whitey threw some pitch in the furnaces and they gave the folks on shore a show, puffing out great clouds of dense black smoke as they steamed away. Abner Marsh stood behind the pilot, leaning on his stick and squinting. The afternoon sun shone on the clear blue water ahead of them, leaving blinding reflections that danced and shimmered and hurt the eyes, except where the churning wake of the Southerner ’s paddle wheels had cut them all up into a thousand fiery pieces.

For a few moments it looked easy. The Fevre Dream surged forward, steam and smoke flying from her, American flags fore and aft flapping like the devil, her wheels slapping against the water in an ever-faster tempo, engines rumbling below. The gap between her and the other steamer began to diminish visibly. But the Southerner was no Mary Kaye, no two-bit stern-wheeler to be left behind at will. It wasn’t long before her captain or her pilot realized what was going on, and her reply was a taunting lurch of speed. Her smoke thickened and came streaming back at them, and her wake grew even more violent and choppy, so Kitch had to swing the Fevre Dream wide a bit to avoid it, losing part of the current as he did. The distance between them widened again, then held steady.

“Keep after her,” Marsh told his pilot after it was clear that the two steamers were holding their positions. He left the pilot house and went searching for Hairy Mike Dunne, who he finally located on the forecastle of the main deck, with his boots up on a crate and a big cigar in his mouth. “Round up the roustas and deckhands,” Marsh said to the mate. “I want ’em to trim boat.” Hairy Mike nodded, rose, ground out his smoke, and started bellowing.

In a few moments most of the crew could be found aft and larboard, to partially offset the weight of the passengers, the majority of whom were crowded up forward and starboard to watch the race. “Damn passengers,” Marsh muttered. The Fevre Dream, now slightly better balanced, began to creep up on the Southerner once more. Marsh returned to the pilot house.