George Martin - Fevre Dream

“Bronze John is taking a ride up the river on your steamer,” Sour Billy Tipton said. “Leastwise, that’s what they think.”

Joshua York frowned. “Bronze John?”

Sour Billy smiled. “Yaller fever, Cap’n. I can tell you never been in New Orleans when Bronze John made a call. Ain’t nobody goin’ to stay on this boat longer than he has to, nor look close at this body, nor go to talk with Jeffers or Marsh. I let ’em think they got the fever, you see. The fever is real catching. Fast, too. You turn yaller and heave up black stuff and burn like the devil, and then you die. Only now we better burn up ol’ Jean here, so they think we’re takin’ this serious.”

It took them ten minutes to get the furnace going again, and they finally had to call over a big Swedish fireman to help them, but that was all right. Sour Billy saw his eyes when he spied the body crammed in with the wood, and smiled at how fast he run off. Pretty soon Jean was going good. Sour Billy watched him smoke, then turned away, bored. He noticed the barrels of lard standing near to hand. “Use that for racing, do you?” he asked Joshua York.

York nodded.

Sour Billy spat. “Down here, when a cap’n gets into the race and needs some more steam, he just has ’em chuck in a nice fat nigger. Lard’s too expensive. You see, I know something about steamers, too. Too bad we couldn’t save Jean for a race.”

Kurt smiled at that, but Joshua York only stared, glowering. Sour Billy didn’t like that look, not one bit, but before he could say anything he heard the voice he’d been waiting for.

“YOU!”

Hairy Mike Dunne came swaggering in from the forecastle, all six foot of him. Rain was dripping off the wide brim of his black felt hat, and moisture beaded his black whiskers, and his clothes were stuck to his body. His eyes were hard little green marbles, and he had his iron club in hand, smacking it up against his palm threateningly. Behind him stood a dozen deckhands, stokers, and roustabouts. The big Swede was there, and an even bigger nigger with one ear, and a wiry mulatto with a two-by-four, and a couple guys with knives. The mate came closer, and the others followed him. “Who you burnin’ there, boy?” he roared. “What’s all this ’bout yaller fever? Ain’t no yaller fever on this boat.”

“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.”

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…”