George Martin - Fevre Dream

It was a damn fine crew, those men on the Fevre Dream. Right from the first day, they all did their jobs, so by the time the stars were all out over New Albany, the cargo and the passengers were on board and on the records, the steam was up and the furnaces were roaring with a terrible ruddy light and enough heat to make the main deck warmer than Natchez-under-the-hill on a good night, and a fine meal was a-cooking in the kitchen. Abner Marsh checked it all, and when he was satisfied he climbed on up to the pilot house, which stood resplendent and dignified above all the chaos and bellowing below. “Back her out,” he said to his pilot. And the pilot called down for some steam, and set the two great side wheels to backing. Abner Marsh stood back of him respectfully, and the Fevre Dream slid smoothly out onto the black, starlit waters of the Ohio.

Once out in the river, the pilot reversed the wheels and turned her to downstream, and the big steamer vibrated a little and slipped into the main channel easy as you please, the wheels going chunkachunka chunkachunka as they churned and roiled the water, the boat moving along faster and faster, with the speed of the current and her own steam, sparklin’ along swift as a steamboater’s dream, swift as sin, swift as the Eclipse herself. Above their heads, the chimneys gave off two long streamers of black smoke, and clouds of sparks flew out and vanished behind them, settling to the river to die like so many red and orange fireflies. To Abner Marsh’s eyes, the smoke and steam and sparks they trailed behind them were a finer, grander sight than all the fireworks they’d seen in Louisville on the Fourth. The pilot reached up and sounded their steam whistle then, and the long shrill scream of it deafened them; it was a wonderful whistle, with a wild keening edge to it and a blast that could be heard for miles.

Not until the lights of Louisville and New Albany disappeared behind them and the Fevre Dream was steaming between banks as black and empty as they’d been a century ago did Abner Marsh become aware that Joshua York had come up to the pilot house and was standing by his side.

He was done up all fine, in trousers and tailcoat of the purest white, with a deep blue vest, a white shirt full of ruffles and fancies, and a blue silk tie. The watch chain that stretched across his vest was silver, and on one pale hand York wore a big silver ring, with a bright blue stone set in it, gleaming. White and blue and silver; those were the boat’s colors, and York looked a part of her. The pilot house was hung with showy blue and silver curtains, and the big stuffed couch to the back of it was blue, and the oilcloth, too. “Why, I like your getup, Joshua,” Marsh said to him.

York smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “It seemed appropriate. You look striking as well.” Marsh had bought himself a new pilot’s jacket with shiny brass buttons, and a cap with the steamer’s name embroidered on it in silver thread.

“Yeah,” Marsh replied. He was never at ease with compliments; cussing was easier and more comfortable to him. “Well,” he said, “were you up when we left?” York had been sleeping in the captain’s cabin on the texas deck most of the day, while Marsh sweated and worried and performed most of the captain’s actual duties. Marsh had slowly grown accustomed to the way York and his companions lived up the nights and slept during the day. He’d known others who’d done the same, and the one time he’d asked York about it, Joshua had just smiled and spouted that poem about “gaudy day” at Marsh again.

“I was standing on the hurricane deck, forward of the chimneys, watching everything. It was cool up there, once we got underway.”

“A fast steamer makes her own wind,” Marsh said. “Don’t matter how hot the day is or how fierce the wood’s burning, it’s always fine and cool up above. Sometimes I feel a mite sorry for those down on the main deck, but what the hell, they’re only payin’ a dollar.”

“Of course,” Joshua York agreed.

The boat gave a heavy thunk just then, and shook slightly.

“What was that?” York asked.

“We just run over a log, probably,” Marsh replied. “That so?” he asked the pilot.

“Grazed it,” the man replied. “Don’t fret, Cap’n. No damage done.”

Abner Marsh nodded and turned back to York. “Well, should we be going on down to the main cabin? The passengers will all be up and about, seeing as how this is the first night out, so we can meet a few of ’em, talk ’em up, see that everything is good and proper.”

“I’d be glad to,” York replied. “But first, Abner, will you join me in my cabin for a drink? We ought to celebrate our departure, don’t you agree?”

Marsh shrugged. “A drink? Well, I don’t see why not.” He tipped his cap at the pilot. “Good night, Mister Daly. I’ll have some coffee sent up for you, if you’d like.”

They left the pilot house and repaired to the captain’s cabin, pausing for a moment while York unlocked the door-he had insisted that his cabin, and indeed all the staterooms on the boat, have good locks. That was a bit peculiar, but Marsh had been willing to acquiesce. York wasn’t used to life on a steamer, after all, and most of his other requests had been sensible enough, like all that silver and the mirrors that made the main saloon such a splendid place.

York’s cabin was three times the length of the passenger staterooms and twice as wide, so by steamer standards it was immense. But this was the first time Abner Marsh had been inside it since York had taken possession, so he looked around curiously. A pair of oil lamps on opposite sides of the cabin gave the interior a warm, cozy light. The wide stained-glass windows were dark now, shuttered off and curtained with heavy black velvet that looked soft and rich in the lamplight. In one corner was a tall chest of drawers with a basin of water set atop it, and a silver-framed mirror on the wall. There was a narrow but comfortable-looking featherbed, and two big leather chairs, and a great wide rosewood desk with lots of drawers and nooks and crannies. It stood flush against one wall. Above it, a fine old map of the Mississippi river system had been tacked up. The top of the desk was covered with leather-bound ledgers and piles and piles of newspapers. That was another of Joshua York’s peculiarities; he read an inordinate number of newspapers, from just about all over-papers from England, papers in foreign languages, Mr. Greeley’s Tribune of course and the Herald from New York as well, just about all the St. Louis and New Orleans papers, and all kinds of little rivertown weeklies. He got packets of newspapers delivered to him every day. Books too; there was a tall bookcase in the cabin, and it was crammed full, and more books were stacked up on the little table by the bed, with a half-melted reading candle on top of them.

Abner Marsh didn’t waste time looking at books, though. Next to the bookcase was a wooden wine rack, with twenty or thirty bottles lying neatly on their sides. He went directly to it and pulled out a bottle. The bottle was unlabeled, and the liquid within was a somber red, so dark it was almost black. A cap of shiny black wax sealed the cork on. “You got a knife?” he asked York, turning with the bottle in his hand.

“I don’t think you’d care much for that vintage, Abner,” York said. He was holding a tray with two silver goblets and a crystal decanter. “I have some excellent sherry here. Why don’t we have that instead?”

Marsh hesitated. York’s sherry was usually just fine and he hated to pass it up, but knowing Joshua he figured that any wine he kept a private stock of had to be superlative. Besides, he was curious. He shifted the bottle from one hand to the other. The liquid within flowed slowly, creeping along languidly like some sweet liqueur. “What is this anyway?” Marsh asked, frowning.