George Martin - Fevre Dream

Sour Billy Tipton was seething. It was all he could do to stop from pulling out the knife and sticking it in Joshua York’s broad back, but he knew that York would just turn on him, and Julian wouldn’t be pleased either. “All right,” he said. “Maybe I will ask him. He’s older’n you, York, and he knows things you don’t. Maybe I’ll just ask him right now.”

Karl Framm chuckled again, and even York glanced away from the wheel to smile tauntingly. “Why are you waiting, then?” he said. “Ask him.” Sour Billy went below to the texas to ask.

Damon Julian had taken over the captain’s cabin that had been Joshua York’s. Billy knocked politely. “Yes, Billy,” came the soft reply. He opened the door and entered. The room was black, but he could sense Julian sitting a few feet away, in the darkness. “Have we caught Captain Marsh yet?” Julian asked.

“He’s still runnin’,” Billy said, “but we’re goin’ to have him soon, Mister Julian.”

“Ah. Then why are you here, Billy? I told you to stay with Joshua.”

“I got to ask you something,” Sour Billy said. He repeated all that Joshua York had told him. When he was done, the room was very quiet.

“Poor Billy,” Julian said finally. “Do you have doubts, Billy, after all this time? If you doubt, you will never complete the change, Billy. That is why dear Joshua is so tormented. His doubts have left him in between, half-master and half-cattle. Do you understand? You must have patience.”

“I want to start,” Sour Billy insisted. “It’s been years, Mister Julian. Now we got this steamer, things is better than they was. I want to be one of you. You promised me.”

“So I did.” Damon Julian chuckled. “Well then, Billy, we will have to start, won’t we? You have served me well, and if you are so insistent, I can hardly refuse you, can I? You’re so clever, I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

Sour Billy could hardly believe his ears. “You mean you’ll do it?” Joshua York would be awful sorry for his tone, Billy thought wildly.

“Of course, Billy. I have given you a promise.”

“When?”

“The change cannot be done in a single night. It will take time to transform you, Billy. Years.”

“Years?” Sour Billy said, dismayed. He didn’t care to wait no years. In the stories, it didn’t take no years.

“I’m afraid so. As you grew from a boy into a man, slowly, you now must grow from a slave into a master. We will nourish you well, Billy, and from the blood you will gain power, beauty, speed. You will drink life and it will flow through your veins, until you are reborn into the night. It cannot be done quickly, but it can be done. It shall be as I have promised. You will have the life eternal, and the mastery, and the red thirst will fill you. We will begin soon.”

“How soon?”

“To begin, you must drink, Billy. For that we need a victim.” He laughed. “Captain Marsh,” he said suddenly. “He will suffice for you, Billy. When we catch his steamer, bring him here to me, as I have told you. Unharmed. I shall not touch him. He will be yours, Billy. We will bind him up in his grand saloon, and you shall drink of him, night after night. A man his size must have a lot of blood in him. He will last a long time, Billy, and take you a long way into the change. Yes. You will begin with Captain Marsh, as soon as he is ours. Catch them, Billy. For me, and for yourself.”

Aboard the Steamer Eli Reynolds, Mississippi River, October 1857

Abner Marsh was watching from the pilot house of the Eli Reynolds when the Fevre Dream slid into her crossing. He stamped his stick down hard and cussed, but down under he wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved. It would have cut the heart right out of him to see his lady rip herself asunder on that damned bluff reef, Marsh knew. On the other hand, now the Fevre Dream was still after them, and if she caught the Reynolds, no doubt Damon Julian would rip the heart right out of him. It seemed a losing game either way. Marsh stood there frowning while the pilot of the Eli Reynolds turned her rudder and began his own crossing. Steaming after them through the darkness, the Fevre Dream was a fearful sight. Marsh had built her to take the Eclipse, to be the fastest boat that ever got up a head of steam, and now he had to outrun her in one of the oldest, sorriest boats on the river. “No help for it,” he said aloud, turning to his pilot. “We’re in a race,” he said. “See that we ain’t caught.”

The man looked at him like he was crazy, and maybe he was.

Abner Marsh took himself down to the main deck, to see what he could do. Cat Grove and the head engineer, Doc Turney, had already taken charge. The deck was awash with heat. The furnace was roaring and crackling, and gouts of flame were licking up and sometimes out every time the firemen tossed in fresh wood. Grove had all his stokers down there, sweating and feeding that red-orange maw, and coating the beech and pine knots with lard before they tossed them in. Grove was carrying a pail of whiskey with a big copper ladle, and he went around to each man in turn, so they could drink with only the briefest of pauses. Sweat ran down his bare chest in a steady stream, and like his stokers, his face was red from the terrible heat. It was hard to see how they could stand it, but the furnace was fed steadily.

Doc Turney was watching the pressure gauges on the boiler. Marsh went over and looked, too. Pressure was creeping higher and higher. The engineer looked at him. “Ain’t had pressure up this high in the four years I been on her,” he shouted. You had to shout to be heard above the sizzle and cough of the furnace, the hiss of the steam, the pounding of the engine. Marsh put out a hand tentatively, pulled it back quickly. The boiler was too hot to touch. “What’ll I do about the safety cock, Cap’n?” asked Turney.

“Knock it back,” Marsh shouted. “We need steam, Mister.”

Turney frowned and did like he was told. Marsh watched the gauge; the needle rose steadily. The steam was practically shrieking through the pipes, but it was having its effect: the engine was shuddering and thumping like it was going to shake itself to pieces, and the wheel was turning, spinning faster than it had done in years, whapwhapwhapwhapwhap, spinning so the spray fanned out behind it and the whole boat vibrated, pushing like it had never pushed before.

The second engineer and the strikers were dancing around the engines, oiling and greasing, keeping the stroke smooth. They looked like little black monkeys drenched in tar. They moved as quick as monkeys too. They had to. It wasn’t easy to grease up moving parts while they were moving, especially at the rate the Reynolds’ old ratchedy engine was moving now.

“FASTER!” Grove roared. “Faster with that lard!” A big red-haired fireman staggered away from the mouth of the furnace, dizzy with the heat. He dropped to his knees, but another stoker took his place at once, and Grove moved to the fallen man and poured a ladle of whiskey over his head. The man looked up, wet and blinking, and opened his mouth, and the mate ladled some more alcohol down his gut. In a minute he was up again, smearing lard on pine knots.

The engineer grimaced and opened the ’scape-pipes, sending scalding-hot steam whistling up into the night and dropping the boiler pressure a mite. Then it began to build again. Solder was running and melting on some of the pipes, but men were standing ready to patch up any that split open. Marsh was soaked with sweat from the damp heat of the steam and the dry wash of the furnace’s fury. Everywhere around him folks were running, shouting, passing wood and lard, feeding the furnace, tending the boiler and the engines. The stroke and the wheel made a terrible noise, the furnace flames drenched them all in shifting red light. It was a sweltering inferno, a hell of noise and activity and smoke and steam and danger. The steamer was shaking and coughing and trembling like a man about to collapse and die. But she moved, and down here there was nothing Abner Marsh could say or do to make her move faster.