Fevre Dream

by George R. R. Martin

  “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?”

  Joshua York raised his head. “Yes,” he said. His voice was so weak it was hardly audible.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Sour Billy insisted. “The cap’n and the head clerk both gone, what are people goin’ to think? They’re goin’ to be missed, questions are goin’ to get asked. Real soon now too.”

  “He is right, Damon,” Raymond put in. “I have been aboard this steamer since Natchez. The passengers may come and go, but the crew—we are in danger here. We are the strange ones, suspected, unknown. When Marsh and Jeffers are missed, they will look to us first.”

  “And then there’s this mate,” added Billy. “If he helped Marsh, he knows everything, Mister Julian.”

  “Kill him, Billy.”

  Sour Billy Tipton swallowed uneasily. “Suppose I do kill him, Mister Julian? Won’t do no good. He’ll be missed too, and there’s others under him, a whole damn army of niggers and dumb Germans and big Swedes. We got less than twenty, and during the day there’s only me. We got to get off this steamboat, and real quick, too. We can’t fight the crew, and even if we could, I sure can’t fight ’em alone all by myself. We got to go.”

  “We are staying. It is for them to fear us, Billy. How can you ever be one of the masters if you still think as a slave? We are staying.”

  “What will we do when Marsh and Jeffers are found gone?” asked Vincent.

  “And what about the mate? He is a threat,” said Kurt.

  Damon Julian stared at Sour Billy and smiled. “Ah,” he said. He sipped his drink. “Why, we will let Billy take care of these little problems for us. Billy will show us how clever he is, won’t you, Billy?”

  “Me?” Sour Billy Tipton stood open-mouthed. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Won’t you, Billy?”

  “Yes,” Billy said quickly. “Yes.”

  “I can solve this without further bloodshed,” Joshua York said, with a hint of his old resolve in his voice. “I am still captain aboard this steamer. Let me discharge Mister Dunne and any of the others that you may fear. We can get them off the Fevre Dream cleanly. There has been enough death.”

  “Has there?” asked Julian.

  “Firing ’em won’t work,” Sour Billy said to York. “They’ll only wonder why and demand to see Cap’n Marsh.”

  “Yes,” agreed Raymond. “They don’t follow York,” he added, to Julian. “They don’t trust him. He had to come out in broad daylight before any of them would agree to go down the bayou with him. With Marsh gone, and Jeffers too, he will never be able to control them.”

  Sour Billy Tipton looked at Joshua York with surprise and new respect. “You did that?” he blurted. “Went out by day?” The others sometimes dared the dusk, or lingered a short time after sunrise, but he had never seen any of them come out when the sun was high. Not even Julian.

  Joshua York looked at him coldly, and did not answer.

  “Dear Joshua likes to play at being cattle,” Julian said, amused. “Perhaps he hoped his skin would turn brown and leathery.”

  The others laughed politely.

  While they were laughing, Sour Billy got himself an idea. He scratched his head and let himself smile. “We won’t fire them,” he said suddenly to Julian. “I know. We’ll make ’em run off. I know just how to do it.”

  “Good, Billy. What ever would we do without you?”

  “Can you make him do like I tell him?” Billy asked, jerking a thumb in York’s direction.

  “I will do what I must to protect my people,” Joshua York said, “and to protect my crew as well. There is no need for compulsion.”

  “Well, well,” said Sour Billy. “Real nice.” This was going to be even easier than he’d figured. Julian would be real impressed. “I got to go get me a new shirt. You get dressed, Mister Cap’n York, and then we’ll do us some protectin’.”

  “Yes,” Julian added softly. “And Kurt will go with you as well.” He raised his glass to York. “Just in case.”

  A half hour later, Sour Billy led Joshua York and Kurt down to the boiler deck. The rain had let up a little, and the Fevre Dream had put in at Bayou Sara and was tied up next to a dozen smaller steamers. In the main saloon, supper had been served. Julian and his people were in there with the rest, eating inconspicuously. The captain’s chair was empty, though, and someone was bound to comment sooner or later. Fortunately, Hairy Mike Dunne was down below on the main deck, bellowing at the rousters as they loaded up some freight and a dozen cords of wood. Sour Billy had watched him carefully from above before starting in on his plan; Dunne was the dangerous one.

  “The body first,” Sour Billy said, leading them straight to the outer door of the cabin where Jean Ardant had met his end. Kurt broke the lock with a single swing of his hand. Inside, Billy lit the lamp, and they took in the thing on the bed. Sour Billy Tipton whistled. “Well, well,” he said. “Those friends of yours sure did a job on ol’ Jean,” he said to York. “Half his brains is on the sheets and half is on the wall.”

  York’s gray eyes were full of disgust. “Get on with it,” he said. “I suppose you want us to throw the body in the river.”

  “Hell, no,” said Sour Billy. “Why, we’re goin’ to burn this body. Right down in one of your furnaces, Cap’n. And we’re not sneakin’ it down neither. We’ll just go right on out into the saloon with it, and down the main staircase.”

  “Why, Billy?” York said coldly.

  “Just do it!” Sour Billy snapped. “And I’m Mister Tipton to you, Captain!”

  They wrapped Jean’s corpse in a sheet, so nothing could be seen of it. York went to help Kurt lift it, but Sour Billy chased him off and took up the other end himself. “Wouldn’t look right for a half-owner and cap’n to be a-totin’ a dead man. You just walk along with us and look worried.”

  York didn’t have trouble with the looking worried part. They opened the door to the grand saloon and went out, Jean’s sheeted body between Billy and Kurt. The supper table was half-full. Someone gasped, and all conversation stopped.

  “Can I help, Cap’n York?” asked a small man with white whiskers and oil stains on his vest. “What is it? Somebody die?”

  “Stay away!” Sour Billy shouted when the man took a step toward them.

  “Do as he says, Whitey,” York said.

  The man stopped. “Why, sure, but . . .”

  “It’s just a dead man,” Sour Billy said. “Died in his cabin. Mister Jeffers found him. He got on at New Orleans, must of been sick. He was burnin’ up when Jeffers heard him moanin’.”

  Everyone at the table looked concerned. One man turned very pale and fled toward his own stateroom. Sour Billy made certain not to smile.

  “Where’s Mister Jeffers?” asked Albright, the trim little pilot.

  “Went to his cabin,” Billy said quickly. “He wasn’t feelin’ good. Marsh is with him. Mister Jeffers was lookin’ kind of yaller, I reckon seeing a man die didn’t agree with him.”

  His words had the effect he’d figured on, especially when Armand leaned across the table to Vincent and said—in a loud whisper, like Billy had told him to—“Bronze John.” Then the two of them got up and left, their suppers half-eaten.

  “It ain’t Bronze John!” Billy said loudly. He had to say it loudly, because all of a sudden everybody at this table was trying to talk, and half of them were getting to their feet. “We got to go burn this body, come on now,” he added,
and he and Kurt started shuffling toward the grand staircase again. Joshua York lingered behind, hands upraised, trying to fend off a hundred frightened questions. Passengers and crew alike avoided Kurt and Billy and their burden.

  A couple of scroungy-looking foreigners taking deck passage were the only ones down on the main deck, except for the rousters coming in and out with crates and firewood. The furnaces had been shut down, but they were still hot, and Sour Billy burned his fingers when he and Kurt stuffed the sheeted body into the nearest one. He was still swearing and shaking his hand in the air when Joshua York came down and found him again. “They’re leaving,” York said, his pale features puzzled. “Nearly all the passengers are already packing their bags, and half the crew must have come up to me to ask for their wages. Strikers, chambermaids, waiters, even Jack Ely, the second engineer. I don’t understand.”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  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.”

&nbs
p; “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 . . .”

  “Yes? What?”

  “The fever, sir. We heard yellow fever broke out on the Fevre Dream down to Bayou Sara. Folks were dyin’ like flies, we heard, just like flies. Mister Jeffers and you, we heard you had it, too. That’s why I never expected . . . with everyone dyin’ and all, we thought they’d burn her, Cap’n. The steamer.” He slipped off his eyeshade and scratched his head. “I guess you got over the fever, Cap’n. Glad to hear it. Only . . . if the Fevre Dream ain’t with you, where is she? Are you sure you didn’t come in on her, and maybe forget? I hear the fever can make a man awful absentminded.”

  Abner Marsh scowled. “I ain’t had the fever, and I sure as hell can tell one steamboat from another, Mister Green. I came in on the Princess. I was sick for a week or so, all right, but it wasn’t no fever. I had the chills, on account of fallin’ in the goddamn river and almost drownin’. That’s how I lost the Fevre Dream, and now I aim to find her again, you hear me?” He snorted. “Where’d you hear all this stuff about yellow fever?”

  “The crew, Cap’n, the ones who left her down in Bayou Sara. Some of ’em came in when they arrived in St. Louis, oh, ’bout a week ago it was. Some of ’em asked about jobs on the Eli Reynolds, Cap’n, but of course she’s all full up, so I had to let ’em go. I hope I done right. You weren’t here, of course, nor Mister Jeffers, and I thought maybe you was both dead, so I couldn’t get no instructions.”