George Martin - Fevre Dream

Sour Billy Tipton and four of them were climbing toward him.

Abner Marsh turned and ascended. Rush forward and ring the bell, he thought wildly, ring the bell for help… but Julian had come down from the texas deck now, and cut him off. For a moment Marsh stood, dead with despair. He had no escape, he was trapped between Julian and the others, unarmed except for his useless goddamned stick, and it didn’t matter, nothing hurt them anyway, fighting was useless, he might as well give in. Julian wore a thin, cruel smile as he advanced. In his mind Marsh saw that pale face descending on his own, teeth bared, those eyes bright with fever and thirst, red and ancient and invincible. If he’d had tears Marsh might have wept. He found he could not move his legs from where they were rooted, and even his stick seemed far too heavy.

Then, far up the river, another side-wheeler came round a bend, and Abner Marsh would never have noticed, but the pilot did, and the steam whistle of the Fevre Dream called out to tell the other steamer that she’d take the larboard when they passed. The shrill wail of the great whistle stirred Marsh from his paralysis, and he looked up and saw the far-off lights of the descending boat and the fires belching from the tops of her tall chimneys, and the near-black sky that loomed above it, and the lightning dim in the distance lighting up the clouds from within, and the river, the river black and endless, the river that was his home and his trade and his friend and his worst enemy and fickle, brutal, loving consort to his ladies. It flowed on like it always flowed, and it didn’t know nothing nor care nothing about Damon Julian and all his kind, they were nothing to it, they would be gone and forgotten and the old devil river would still be rolling and cutting new channels and drowning towns and crops and raising up others and crushing steamboats in its teeth so it could spit out splinters.

Abner Marsh moved to where the tops of the great paddleboxes loomed above the deck. Julian came following him. “Captain,” he called, his voice twisted but still seductive. Marsh ignored it. He pulled himself up on top of the paddlebox with a strength born of urgency, a strength he didn’t know he had. Beneath his feet the great side-wheel turned. He could feel it shaking through the wood, could hear the chunka-chunka. He moved aft, carefully, not wanting to fall in the wrong place, where the wheels would suck him under and smash him up. He looked down. The light was almost gone, and the water seemed black, but where the Fevre Dream had gone it was boiling and churning. The glow from the steamer’s furnaces touched it with red, so it looked like boiling blood. Abner Marsh stared down at it and froze. More blood, he thought, more goddamn blood, can’t get away from it, can’t get away nohow. The pounding of the steamer’s stroke was thunder in his ears.

Sour Billy Tipton vaulted up on top of the paddlebox and moved warily toward him. “Mister Julian wants you, fat man,” he said. “Come along now, you gone as far as you can go.” He took out his little knife and smiled. Sour Billy Tipton had a truly frightening smile.

“It ain’t blood,” Marsh said loudly, “it’s just the goddamn river.” Still clutching his stick, he took a deep breath, and threw himself off the steamer. Sour Billy’s curses were ringing in his ears when he hit the water.

Aboard the Steamer Fevre Dream, Mississippi River, August 1857

Raymond and Armand were supporting Damon Julian between them when Sour Billy leaped down from the paddlebox. Julian looked like he’d slaughtered a pig; his clothing was soaked through with blood. “You allowed him to escape, Billy,” he said coldly. His tone made Sour Billy nervous.

“He’s finished,” Billy insisted. “Them paddles will suck him under and smash him, or he’ll drown. You ought to of seen the splash he made when he hit the water, that big belly of his first. Ain’t goin’ to have to look at his warts no more.” As he spoke, Sour Billy was looking around, and he didn’t like what he saw, not one bit; Julian all bloody, a red smeary trail leading down the texas stairs and halfway down the hurricane deck, and that dandy of a clerk hanging off the end of the texas porch, more blood coming out of his mouth.

“If you fail me, Billy, you will never be as we are,” Julian said. “I hope he is dead, for your sake. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Billy. “Mister Julian, what happened?”

“They attacked me, Billy. They attacked us. According to the good captain, they killed Jean. Bashed his goddamn head to pieces, I believe that was the phrase.” He smiled. “Marsh and his wretch of a clerk and someone named Mike were responsible.”

“Hairy Mike Dunne,” said Raymond Ortega. “He is the mate of the Fevre Dream, Damon. Large, stupid, and uncouth. It is his job to shout at the darkies and beat them.”

“Ah,” Julian said. “Let me go,” he said to Raymond and Armand. “I feel stronger now. I can stand.”

The twilight had deepened. They stood in shadow. “Damon,” warned Vincent, “the watch will change at supper. Crewmen will be coming up to their cabins. We must do something. We must get off this steamer, or they will find us out.” He looked at the blood, the body.

“No,” said Julian. “Billy will clean it up. Won’t you, Billy?”

“Yes,” said Sour Billy. “I’ll just toss the clerk in after his Cap’n.”

“Do it then, Billy, instead of telling me about it.” Julian’s smile was cold. “And then come to York’s cabin. We will retire there now. I need a change of clothes.”

It took Sour Billy Tipton nearly twenty minutes to remove the evidence of the death on the texas. He worked in haste, all too aware of how easy it would be for someone to come out of his cabin, or up the stairs. The darkness was almost complete by then, however, which helped. He dragged Jeffers’ body down the deck, hauled it up on the paddlebox with some difficulty-the clerk was heavier than Billy ever would have guessed-and shoved it over. The night and the river swallowed it, and the splash wasn’t nearly as big as the one Marsh had made. It was almost lost in the sound of the paddlewheels. Sour Billy had just stripped off his shirt and started cleaning up the blood when he had a stroke of luck-the storm that had been coming all afternoon finally broke. Thunder boomed in his ears, lightning came stabbing down at the river, and the rains began. Clean, cold, pounding rains, smashing down onto the deck, soaking Billy through to his bones, and washing away the blood.

Sour Billy was dripping when he finally entered Joshua York’s cabin, his once-fine shirt a damp ball in his hand. “It’s done,” he said.

Damon Julian was sitting in a deep leather chair. He had changed into some fresh clothing, had a drink in hand, and looked as strong and healthy as ever. Raymond was standing at his side, Armand was in the other chair, Vincent was seated on the desk, Kurt in the desk chair. And Joshua York sat on his bed, staring down at his feet, head sunk, his skin white as chalk dust. He looked like a whipped cur, thought Sour Billy.

“Ah, Billy,” said Julian. “What ever would we do without you?”

Sour Billy nodded. “I been thinking while I was out there, Mister Julian,” he said. “The way I figger, we got two choices. This here steamer has a yawl, for doin’ soundings and such. We could take her and light out. Or now that the storm’s broke, we could just wait till the pilot ties her up, and then get ashore. We ain’t far from Bayou Sara, maybe we’ll put in there.”

“I have no interest in Bayou Sara, Billy. I have no interest in leaving this excellent steamboat. The Fevre Dream is ours now. Isn’t that right, Joshua?”