For more than an hour they moved down the river in silence, the only sound the slap of the oars against water and the song of an occasional bird. Toby Lanyard and Abner Marsh rowed, while Joshua and Valerie lay huddled together as if they were asleep, and Karl Framm sprawled beneath a blanket. The sun rose in the sky. It was a chill, windy day, but a bright one. Marsh was thankful for the planters and the great piles of smoking bagasse that lined the shores since the drifting gray pall from their fires gave the only shade there was for the night folks.
Once Valerie cried out, as if in terrible pain. Joshua opened his eyes and bent over her, stroking her long black hair and whispering to her. Valerie whimpered. “I thought you were the one, Joshua,” she said. “The pale king. I thought you’d come to change it all, to take us back.” Her whole body trembled when she tried to talk. “The city, my father told me of the city. Is it there, Joshua? The dark city?”
“Quiet,” said Joshua York. “Quiet. You weaken yourself.”
“But is it there? I thought you would take us home, dear Joshua. I dreamt of it, I did. I was so tired of it all. I thought you had come to save us.
“Quiet,” Joshua said. He was trying to be forceful, but his voice was sad and weary.
“The pale king,” she whispered. “Come to save us. I thought you had come to save us.”
Joshua York kissed her lightly on her swollen, blistered lips. “So did I,” he said bitterly. Then he pressed his fingers against her mouth to quiet her, and closed his eyes again.
Abner Marsh rowed, while the river flowed around them and the sun beat down overhead and the wind swept smoke and ash across the water. A cinder got in his eye somehow, and Marsh cussed and rubbed at it until the eye was red and swollen and the tearing had stopped. By then his whole body was one huge ache.
Two hours downstream Joshua began to talk, never opening his eyes, in a voice thick with pain. “He is mad, you know,” he said. “It is true. He took me, night after night. The pale king, yes, I thought that, thought I was . . . but Julian vanquished me, time after time, and I submitted. His eyes, Abner, you have seen his eyes. Darkness, such darkness. And old. I thought he was evil, and strong, and clever. But I learned it was not so. Julian is not . . . Abner, he is mad, truly. Once, he must have been all that I thought him, but now . . . it is as though he sleeps. At times, he wakes, briefly, and one senses what he must have been. You saw it, Abner, that night at supper, you saw Julian stirred, awakened. But most of the time. . . . Abner, he takes no interest in the boat, the river, the people and events around him. Sour Billy runs the Fevre Dream, devises the schemes that keep my people safe. Julian seldom gives orders, and when he does they are arbitrary, even stupid. He does not read, or talk, he does not play chess. He eats indifferently. I do not think he even tastes it. Since taking the Fevre Dream, Julian has descended into some dark dream. He spends most of his time in his cabin, in the darkness, alone. It was Billy who spied the steamer following us, not Julian.
“I thought him evil at first, a dark king leading his people into ruin, but watching him . . . he is ruined already, hollow, empty. He feasts on the lives of your people because he has no life of his own, not even a name that is truly his. Once I wondered what he thought of, alone, all those days and nights in darkness. I know now that he does not think at all. Perhaps he dreams. If so, I think he dreams of death, of an ending. He dwells in that black empty cabin as if it were a tomb, stirring from it only at the scent of blood. And the things he does . . . it is more than rashness. He courts destruction, discovery. He must want an end, a rest, I believe. He is so old. How tired he must be.”
“He offered me a deal,” Abner Marsh said. Without breaking his labored stroke, Marsh recounted his conversation with Damon Julian.
“You had half the truth, Abner,” Julian said when he’d finished. “Yes, he would have liked to corrupt you, as a taunt to me. But that was not all. You might have agreed and never meant it. You might have lied to him, waited for a chance, and tried to kill him. I think Julian knew that. By bringing you aboard, he toyed with his own death.”
Marsh snorted. “If he wants to die, he could cooperate more.”
Joshua opened his eyes. They were small and faded. “When the danger is real and close to hand, it wakes him. The beast in him . . . the beast is old and mindless and weary, but when it wakes it struggles desperately to live . . . it is strong, Abner. And old.” Joshua laughed feebly, a bitter laugh without humor. “After that night . . . after it all went wrong . . . I asked myself, over and over, how it could have happened. Julian had drained a full glass of my . . . my potion . . . it should have been enough, it should have killed the red thirst, it should have . . . I did not understand . . . it had always worked before, always, but not with Julian, not . . . not with him. At first I thought it was his strength, the power of him, the evil. Then . . . then one night he saw the question in my eyes, and he laughed and told me. Abner, you remember . . . when I told you my story . . . when I was very young, the thirst did not touch me. Do you remember?”
“Yeah.”
Joshua nodded weakly. The skin was stretched tightly over his face, red and chafed-looking. “Julian is old, Abner, old. The thirst . . . he has not felt the thirst in years . . . hundreds, thousands of . . . years . . . that was why the drink . . . had no effect. I never knew, none of us did. You can outlive the thirst, and he . . . he did not thirst . . . but he fed, because he chose to, because of those things he said that night, you remember, strength and weakness, masters and slaves, all the things he said. Sometimes I think . . . the humanity of him is all hollow, a mask . . . he is only an old animal, so ancient it has lost even the taste for food, but it hunts on nonetheless, because that is all it remembers, that is all it is, the beast. The legends of your race, Abner, your vampire tales . . . the living dead, the undead, we bear those names in your stories. Julian . . . I think with Julian it is the truth. Even the thirst is gone. Undead. Cold and hollow and undead.”
Abner Marsh was trying to frame a comment to the effect that he intended to erase the “un-” part from Joshua’s description of Damon Julian, when Valerie suddenly sat bolt upright in the yawl. Marsh flinched and froze in mid-stroke. Beneath the slouchy felt hat, Valerie’s skin was raw as an open wound, blistered and tight, with a color that had gone beyond red to the dark mottled purple of a bloody bruise. Her lips were cracked, and she drew them back in an insane giggle to reveal long white teeth. The whites of her eyes had swallowed up all the rest, so she looked blind and insane. “It hurts!” she screamed, lifting hands red as lobster claws above her head in an attempt to block out the sun. Then her eyes darted round the boat, and lighted on Karl Framm’s softly breathing form, and she scrambled toward him, her mouth open.
“No!” Joshua York cried. He threw himself on top of her, and wrenched her aside before her teeth could close on Framm’s throat. Valerie struggled crazily, and screamed. Joshua held her immobile. Valerie’s teeth snapped together, again and again, until she had gnashed open her own lip. Her mouth dripped a froth of blood and spit. Struggle as she might, however, Joshua York was too much for her. Finally all the fight seemed to go out of her. She slumped back heavily, staring up at the sun out of blind white eyes.
Joshua cradled her in his arms, despairing. “Abner,” he said, “the lead line. Under it. I hid it there last night, when they went out for you. Please, Abner.”
Marsh stopped rowing and went to the lead line, the thirty-three-foot-long rope used for soundings, a pipe filled with lead at its end. Beneath its coils, Marsh found what Joshua wanted; an unlabeled wine bottle, more than three-quarters full. He passed it up to York, who pulled the cork and forced it to Valerie’s swollen, cracked lips. The liquor dribbled down her chin and most of it wound up soaking her shirt, but Joshua got a little into her mouth. It seemed to help. All of a sudden she began to suck at the bottle greedily, like a baby sucking on a teat. “Easy,” said Joshua York.
Abner Marsh moved the lead line around and frowned. �
�Is that the only bottle?” he asked.
Joshua York nodded. His own face looked scalded now, like the face of a second mate Marsh had once seen who’d stood too near to a steam pipe that burst. Blisters and cracks were appearing. “Julian kept my supply in his cabin, and doled it out a bottle at a time. I dared not protest. Often enough he toyed with the idea of destroying it all.” He pulled the bottle away from Valerie. It was between a quarter and half-full now. “I thought . . . thought it would be enough, until I could make some more. I did not think Valerie would be with us.” His hand shook. He sighed and put the bottle to his own lips, taking a long, deep draught.
“Hurts,” Valerie whimpered. She curled up peacefully, her body trembling, but the fit clearly past her now.
Joshua York handed the bottle back to Marsh. “Keep it, Abner,” he said. “It must last. We must ration it.”
Toby Lanyard had stopped rowing and was staring back at them. Karl Framm stirred weakly in the bottom of the yawl. The boat drifted with the current, and up ahead Marsh saw the smoke of an ascending steamer. He picked up an oar. “Get us to shore, Toby,” he said. “C’mon. I’m goin’ to hail that goddamn boat down there. We got to get us into a cabin.”
“Yessuh, Cap’n,” said Toby.
Joshua touched his brow and flinched. “No,” he said softly. “No, Abner, you shouldn’t. Questions.” He tried to stand up, and reeled dizzily, dropping back to his knees. “Burning,” he said. “No. Listen to me. Not the boat, Abner. Keep on. A town, we’ll reach a town. By dark . . . Abner?”
“Hell,” said Abner Marsh, “you been out here maybe four hours now, and look at you. Look at her. It ain’t even noon yet. Both of you will be burned to a crisp if we don’t get you inside.”
“No,” said York. “They’ll ask questions, Abner. You can’t . . .”
“Shut your damn fool mouth,” Marsh said, putting his aching back into the oar. The yawl moved across the river. The steamer was coming up at them, pennants waving in the wind, a handful of passengers strolling out on her promenade. It was a New Orleans packet boat, Marsh saw as they got near, a medium-sized side-wheeler named the H. E. Edwards. He waved an oar at her and called across the water, while Toby rowed and the yawl rocked. On the decks of the steamboat, passengers waved back and pointed. She gave a short, impatient blast on her whistle, and Abner Marsh craned his head around and saw another boat, way down the river, a white dot in the distance. His heart sunk. They were racing, he knew, and there was no steamer in the world going to stop for a hail in the middle of a race.
The H. E. Edwards surged past them at full speed, paddles kicking so hard the wake bobbed them up and down like they was shooting a rapids. Abner Marsh cussed and called after her and waved his oar threateningly. The second boat approached and passed even faster, her stacks trailing sparks. They were left drifting in midriver, with empty fields all around them, the sun above, and a pile of smouldering bagasse downstream sending up a gray pillar of smoke. “Land,” Marsh said to Toby, and they made for the western bank. When they ran aground, he jumped out and pulled the yawl farther in, standing knee-deep in mud. Even on the goddamn shore, he thought when he looked around, there was no shade, no trees to shelter them from the merciless sun. “Get on out of there,” Marsh bellowed at Toby Lanyard. “We got to get them up on the bank,” he said. “Then we’ll drag out this goddamn boat and turn it over, get ’em under it.” Toby nodded. They got Framm ashore first, then Valerie. When Marsh took her under the arms and lifted her, she shuddered wildly. Her face looked so bad he was scared to touch it, lest it come off in his hand.
When they returned for Joshua, he was already out of the boat. “I’ll help,” he said. “It’s heavy.” He was leaning against the side of the yawl.
Marsh nodded to Toby, and the three of them pushed the boat clear out of the river. It was hard. Abner Marsh put all his strength into it. The mud along the bank fought against him with wet, clutching fingers. Without Joshua, they might never have done it. But finally they got it over the embankment into the field, and flipping it over was easy. Marsh grabbed Valerie under the arms again and dragged her under the boat. “You get under here too, Joshua,” he said, turning. Toby had Karl Framm and was ministering to him, forcing a handful of river water between the pilot’s pale lips. Joshua was nowhere to be seen. Marsh scowled and went around the yawl. His pants, soaked and heavy with mud, clung to his legs. “Joshua,” he roared, “where the hell you got yourself . . .”
Joshua York had collapsed on the river bank, his red, burned hand clawing at the mud. “Goddamn,”Marsh roared. “Toby!”
Toby came running, and together they pulled York into the shade. His eyes were closed. Marsh fetched out the bottle and forced some down his throat. “Drink it, Joshua, drink it. Goddamn you anyway.” Finally York began to swallow. He didn’t stop swallowing until the bottle was empty. Abner Marsh held it in his hand, frowning. He turned it upside down. A last drop of Joshua York’s private liquor ran out and fell on Marsh’s mud-caked boot. “Hell,” said Marsh. He flung the empty bottle into the river. “Stay with ’em, Toby,” he said. “I’m goin’ to fetch some help. Must be somebody round here.”
“Yessuh, Cap’n Marsh,” Toby replied.
Marsh started off across the field. The sugar cane had all been harvested. The fields were wide and empty, but off over a rise Marsh saw a thin trail of smoke. He walked toward it, hoping it was a house and not another goddamned pile of burning bagasse. He hoped in vain, but a few minutes past the fire he saw a bunch of slaves working in the fields, and called out to them, breaking into a run. They took him to the plantation house, where he told the overseer his sad story about the boiler explosion that had sunk their steamboat and killed everyone aboard, except for a few who’d gotten away in the sounding yawl. The man nodded and brought down the planter. “Got a couple folks burned bad,” Marsh told him. “We got to be quick about it.” A couple of minutes later, they’d hitched a pair of horses to a wagon and were off across the fields.
When they arrived at the overturned yawl, Karl Framm was standing up, looking dazed and weak. Abner Marsh jumped down from the wagon and gestured. “Get movin’,” he said to the men who’d come with him, “we got them what was burned under there. Got to get ’em inside.” He turned to Framm. “Are you all right, Mister Framm?”
Framm grinned weakly. “I been better, Cap’n,” he said, “but I been a hell of a lot worse, too.”
Two men were carrying Joshua York to the wagon. His white suit was stained with mud and wine, and he did not move. The third man, the planter’s youngest son, came crawling out from under the yawl and wiped his hands on his pants, frowning. He looked a little sick. “Cap’n Marsh,” he said, “That woman you got under there is burned to death.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Gray Plantation, Louisiana,
October 1857
Two of the houseboys lifted Joshua York from the back of the wagon, and carried him inside and up the wide, curving staircase to a bedroom. “A dark one!” Abner Marsh yelled up at them. “And pull the goddamned curtains, you hear me? I don’t want no goddamned sunlight in there.” He turned to his companions briefly, while the planter and his sons and a couple more slaves went back outside to see to Valerie’s corpse. Framm had thrown an arm around Toby’s shoulders to keep himself erect. “You get some damn food into you, Mister Framm,” Marsh said.
The pilot nodded.
“And remember what happened. We was on the Eli Reynolds, and her boiler blew. Killed everybody, it did, except us. She sunk clean out of sight, a long ways upriver, where there’s no bottom. That’s all you know, you hear? Let me tell the rest.”
“That’s more’n I know,” Framm said. “How the hell did I get here?”
“Never you mind about that. Just listen to what I told you.” Marsh turned and stomped up the stairs while Toby helped Framm to a chair.
They had laid Joshua York on a wide canopied bed, and were undressing him when Marsh came in. Joshua’s
face and hands were the worst, seared horribly, but even beneath his clothing his pale white skin had reddened a bit. He moved feebly as they pulled off his boots, and moaned. “Lawd, this man burned up bad,”one of the slaves said, shaking his head.
Marsh scowled and went to the windows, which were thrown wide. He pulled them shut and closed the shutters. “Fetch me a blanket or something,” he ordered, “to hang across here. Too damn much light. And close them drapes round the bed, too.” His tone was the bellow of a steamer captain, and brooked no argument.
Only when the room was black as Marsh could make it, and a gaunt haggard black woman had come up to tend to York’s burns with herbs and healing salves and cold towels, did Abner Marsh leave. Downstairs, the planter—a bluff, stone-faced, lantern-jawed man who introduced himself as Aaron Gray—and two of his sons were sitting to table with Karl Framm. The scent of food made Marsh realize how long it had been since he’d eaten. He felt ravenous. “Do join us, Cap’n,” Gray said, and Marsh gladly pulled out a chair and let them pile up fried chicken and cornbread and sweet peas and taters on his plate.
Joshua had been right about the questions, Marsh reflected as he wolfed down his food. The Grays asked a hundred of them, and Marsh answered as best he could, when his mouth wasn’t full of food. Framm excused himself just as Marsh was taking seconds—the pilot was still looking poorly—and let himself be led to a bed. The more questions Marsh answered, the less comfortable he got. He wasn’t a natural-born liar like some rivermen he knew, and that became more obvious with every damned word he uttered. Somehow, though, he made it through the meal, although Marsh fancied that Gray and his eldest boy were both looking at him kind of queer by the time he had done with dessert.
“Your nigger is fine,” the second son said as they left the table, “and Robert has gone off to bring back Doctor Moore to attend to the other two. Sally will take care of ’em in the meanwhile. No sense you frettin’, Cap’n. Maybe you’d like to rest up, too. You’ve been through a lot, losin’ your steamboat and all those friends of yours.”
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