George Martin - Fevre Dream

Abner Marsh threw open the door of the pilot house and roared for Captain Yoerger. He had to roar three times, and it took a good five minutes before Yoerger put in an appearance. “Sorry, Cap’n,” the old man said, “I was down on the main deck. Irish Tommy and Big Johanssen got scalded pretty bad.” He saw the ruins of the paddle and stopped. “My poor ol’ gal,” he murmured in a crestfallen tone.

“Some pipe bust?” Marsh asked.

“A lot of pipes,” Yoerger admitted, tearing his gaze away from the battered paddle wheel. “Steam all over the place, might have been worse if Doc hadn’t opened the ’scape-pipes quick and kept ’em open. That hit we took tore everything loose.”

Marsh sagged. That was the final blow. Now even if they could winch themselves off the bar, rig up a new rudder, and somehow back clear of the cutoff on half a paddle, moving that damned tree somehow to get past it-none of which would be easy-they also had busted-up steampipes and maybe boiler damage to contend with. He cussed loud and long.

“Cap’n,” said Yoerger, “we won’t be able to hunt ’em down now, like you planned, but least we’re safe. The Fevre Dream will steam round that bend and figure we’re long gone and they’ll go down river after us.”

“No,” said Marsh. “Cap’n, I want you to rig up stretchers for them that’s burned, and start off through the woods.” He pointed with his stick. The riverbank was ten feet away through shallow water. “Get to a town. Got to be one near.”

“Two miles past the foot of this island,” the pilot put in.

Marsh nodded at him. “Good. You take ’em there, then. I want all of you to go, and go quick.” He remembered that glint of gold as Jeffers’s spectacles tumbled off him, that terrible little flash. Not again, Abner Marsh thought, not again on account of him. “Find a doctor to patch them up. You’ll be safe, I reckon. They want me, not you.”

“You aren’t comin’?” asked Yoerger.

“I got my gun,” said Abner Marsh. “And I got myself a feeling. I’m waitin’.”

“Come with us.”

“If I run, they’ll follow. If they get me, you’re safe. That’s how I figure it, anyway.”

“If they don’t come-”

“Then I come trudging after you at first light,” Marsh said. He stamped his walking stick impatiently. “I’m still cap’n here, ain’t I? Quit jawin’ with me, and do like I say. I want all of you off my steamer, you hear?”

“Cap’n Marsh,” Yoerger said, “at least let Cat and me he’p you.”

“No. Git.”

“Cap’n-”

“GO!” shouted Marsh, red-faced. “GO!”

Yoerger blanched and took the startled pilot by the arm and drew him out of the pilot house. When they had hurried down, Abner Marsh glanced back at the river once more-still nothing-and then went downstairs to his cabin. He took the rifle from the wall, checked it and loaded it, and slid the box of custom shells into the pocket of his white coat. Armed, Marsh returned to the hurricane deck, and fixed up his chair where he could keep an eye on the river. If they were smart, Abner Marsh figured, they’d know how low the river stage was. They’d know that maybe the Eli Reynolds could run this cutoff and maybe she couldn’t, but even at best she’d have to steam through slowly, sounding all the way. They’d know, once they came round the bend, that they’d beaten her. And if they knew that, they wouldn’t steam downriver at all. They’d hold the Fevre Dream near the foot of the cutoff, waiting for the Reynolds. And meanwhile, the men-or night folks-that they’d let off near the head of the island would be crawling through the cutoff in a yawl, just in case the Reynolds stopped or got hung up. That was what Abner Marsh would have done, anyway.

The little stretch of river he could see was still empty. He felt a bit chilly, waiting. Any moment now he expected to see the yawl come round that stand of trees, full of silent dark figures with faces pale and smirking in the moonlight. He checked his gun again, and wished Yoerger would hurry.

Yoerger and Grove and the rest of the crew of the Eli Reynolds had been gone fifteen minutes, with still nothing moving on the river.

There were lots of noises in the night. The water gurgling around the wreck of his steamer, the wind rattling the trees together, animals off in the woods. Marsh rose, finger on the trigger of his rifle, and scanned upstream warily. There was nothing to see, nothing but silty river water washing across sandbars, gnarled roots, the fallen black corpse of the tree that had smashed up his steamer’s paddle. He saw driftwood moving, and nothing else. “Maybe they ain’t so smart,” he muttered under his breath.

From the corner of his eye, Marsh glimpsed something pale on the island across the stream. He spun toward it, raising his gun to his shoulder, but there was nothing there, just black dense woods and thick river mud. Twenty yards of shallow water lay between him and the dark, silent island. Abner Marsh was breathing hard. What if they don’t bring the yawl down the cutoff, he thought. What if they land it and come on foot?

The Eli Reynolds creaked beneath him, and Marsh grew more uneasy. Just settling, he told himself, she’s aground and settling into the sand. But another part of him was whispering, whispering that maybe that creak was a footstep, that maybe they’d stole up on him while he was watching the river. Maybe they were on the boat already. Maybe Damon Julian was coming up the staircase even now, gliding through the main cabin-he knew how quiet Julian could walk-and searching the cabins, moving toward the stair that would lead him up here, up to the hurricane deck.

Marsh turned his chair so he faced the top of the stair, just in case a pale white face should suddenly heave into view. His hands were sweating where they held the rifle, making the stock all slippery. He wiped them on his pants leg.

The sound of soft whispering came drifting up the stairwell.

They were down there, Marsh thought, down there plotting how to get at him. He was trapped up here, alone. Not that being alone mattered. He’d had help before and it hadn’t made no difference to them. Marsh rose and moved to the top of the stair, looking down into darkness streaked by wan moonlight. He gripped the gun hard, blinked, waited for something to show itself. He waited for the longest time, listening to those vague whispers, his heart thumping away like the Reynolds’ old tired engine. They wanted him to hear them, Abner Marsh thought. They wanted him to be afraid. They’d come sneaking up on his steamer like haunts, so fleet and silent he hadn’t seen them, and now they were trying to put the fear on him. “I know you’re down there,” he shouted. “Come on up. I got something for you, Julian.” He hefted the gun.

Silence.

“Damn you,” Marsh yelled.

Something moved at the foot of the stairs, a darting figure, pale and quick. Marsh jerked the gun up to fire, but it was gone before he could even begin to take aim. He swore and took two steps down the stairs, then stopped. This was what they wanted him to do, he thought. They were trying to lure him down there, to the promenade and the darkened cabins and the dim dusty saloon with the moonlight washing through its dirty skylight. Up here on the hurricane deck, he could hold them off. They couldn’t get to him easy up here; he could see them sliding up the stairs, climbing the sides, whatever. But down there, he’d be at their mercy.

“Captain,” a soft voice called up to him. “Captain Marsh.”

Marsh raised his gun, squinting.

“Don’t shoot, Captain. It’s me. It’s only me.” She stepped into view at the bottom of the stairs.

Valerie.

Marsh hesitated. She was smiling up at him, dark hair catching the moonbeams, waiting. She wore trousers and a man’s ruffled shirt, unbuttoned down the front. Her skin was soft and pale, and her eyes caught his and held them, shining violet beacons, deep, beautiful, endless. He could swim in those eyes forever. “Come to me, Captain,” Valerie called. “I’m alone. Joshua sent me. Come down, so we can talk.” Marsh took two steps downward, trapped by those brilliant eyes. Valerie held her arms out.