Fevre Dream (6 page)

“I’m a man of my word!” Marsh said stoutly.

“Good,” said York. “Now listen. You meant well, but it was wrong of you to wake me as you did. Never do it again. Never. For any reason.”

“If the boiler blows and we catch afire, I’m to let you crisp in here, is that it?”

York’s eyes glittered in the half-light. “No,” he admitted. “But it might be safer for you if you did. I am unruly when woken suddenly. I am not myself. I have been known, at such times, to do things I later regret. That was why I was so short with you. I apologize for it, but it would happen again. Or worse. Do you understand, Abner? Never come in here when my door is locked.”

Marsh frowned, but he could think of nothing to say. He had struck the bargain, after all; if York wanted to get all upset about a little sleep, it was his business. “I understand,” he said. “Your apology is accepted, and you got mine, if it matters. Now, do you want to come up and watch us take the
Southerner
? Seein’ as how you’re woke already and all?”

“No,” said York, grim-faced. “It is not that I have no interest, Abner. I do. But—you must understand—I need my rest, vitally. And I do not care for daylight. The sun is harsh, burning. Have you ever had a bad burn? If so, you can understand. You’ve seen how fair I am. The sun and I do not agree. It is a medical condition, Abner. I do not care to discuss it further.”

“All right,” Marsh said. Beneath his feet, the deck began to vibrate slightly. The steam whistle sounded its ear-piercing wail. “We’re backing out,” Marsh said. “I got to go. Joshua, I’m sorry to have bothered you, truly I am.”

York nodded, turned away, and began to pour himself more of his noxious drink. “I know.” He sipped at it this time. “Go,” he said. “I will see you this evening, at supper.” Marsh moved toward the door, but York’s voice stopped him before he could open it. “Abner.”

“Yes?” Marsh said.

Joshua York favored him with a pale thin smile. “Beat her, Abner. Win.”

Marsh grinned, and left the cabin.

When he reached the pilot house, the
Fevre Dream
had backed clear of the landing, and was reversing her paddles. The
Southerner
was already well down the river. The pilot house was crowded with a good half-dozen off-duty pilots, talking and chewing tobacco and making side wagers on whether or not they’d catch the other boat. Even Mister Daly had interrupted his leisure to come up and observe. The passengers all knew something was afoot; the lower decks were crowded as they sat along the railings and pushed onto the forecastle for a good view.

Kitch swung the great black-and-silver wheel, and the
Fevre Dream
angled out toward the main channel, sliding into the brisk current behind her rival. He called down for more steam. Whitey threw some pitch in the furnaces and they gave the folks on shore a show, puffing out great clouds of dense black smoke as they steamed away. Abner Marsh stood behind the pilot, leaning on his stick and squinting. The afternoon sun shone on the clear blue water ahead of them, leaving blinding reflections that danced and shimmered and hurt the eyes, except where the churning wake of the
Southerner
’s paddle wheels had cut them all up into a thousand fiery pieces.

For a few moments it looked easy. The
Fevre Dream
surged forward, steam and smoke flying from her, American flags fore and aft flapping like the devil, her wheels slapping against the water in an ever-faster tempo, engines rumbling below. The gap between her and the other steamer began to diminish visibly. But the
Southerner
was no
Mary Kaye,
no two-bit stern-wheeler to be left behind at will. It wasn’t long before her captain or her pilot realized what was going on, and her reply was a taunting lurch of speed. Her smoke thickened and came streaming back at them, and her wake grew even more violent and choppy, so Kitch had to swing the
Fevre Dream
wide a bit to avoid it, losing part of the current as he did. The distance between them widened again, then held steady.

“Keep after her,” Marsh told his pilot after it was clear that the two steamers were holding their positions. He left the pilot house and went searching for Hairy Mike Dunne, who he finally located on the forecastle of the main deck, with his boots up on a crate and a big cigar in his mouth. “Round up the roustas and deckhands,” Marsh said to the mate. “I want ’em to trim boat.” Hairy Mike nodded, rose, ground out his smoke, and started bellowing.

In a few moments most of the crew could be found aft and larboard, to partially offset the weight of the passengers, the majority of whom were crowded up forward and starboard to watch the race. “Damn passengers,” Marsh muttered. The
Fevre Dream,
now slightly better balanced, began to creep up on the
Southerner
once more. Marsh returned to the pilot house.

Both boats were going at it hard now, and they were pretty well matched. Abner Marsh figured the
Fevre Dream
was more powerful but it wasn’t enough. She was heavily laden with freight and running low in the water and in the
Southerner
’s wake to boot, so the waves kicked up over her head a bit and slowed her, while the
Southerner
skipped along easy as you please, with nothing aboard but passengers and nothing ahead but a clear river. Now, barring breakdowns or accidents, it was up to the pilots. Kitch was intent at the wheel, handling her easy, doing his damndest to pick up a few minutes at every chance. Behind him, Daly and the vagabond pilots were babbling away, full of advice on the river and its stage and how best to run it.

For more than an hour the
Fevre Dream
chased the
Southerner,
losing sight of her once or twice around bends, but edging closer each time as Kitch shaved it tight coming around. Once they got close enough so Marsh could make out the faces of the passengers leaning on the other boat’s aft railings, but then the
Southerner
kicked forward again and restored the distance between them. “Bet you they just changed pilots,” Kitch said, spitting a wad of tobacco juice into a nearby cuspidor. “See the way she perked up there?”

“I seen,” Marsh growled. “Now I want to see us perk up a mite too.”

Then they got their break. One moment the
Southerner
was holding steady in front of them, sweeping around a densely wooded bend. Then all of a sudden her whistle started to hooting, and she slowed, and trembled, and her side wheels started to back.

“Careful,” Daly said to Kitch. Kitch spat again and moved the wheel, carefullike, and the
Fevre Dream
nosed across the turbulent wake of the
Southerner
to go wide and starboard of her. When they were halfway round the bend, they saw the cause of the trouble; another big steamer, main deck all but buried beneath bales of tobacco, had run aground on a sandbar. Her mate and crew were out with spars and winches, trying to grasshopper her over. The
Southerner
had almost run right into ’em.

For a long few minutes the river was chaotic. The men on the bar were all shouting and waving, the
Southerner
backed like the devil, the
Fevre Dream
steamed toward clear water. Then the
Southerner
reversed her wheels again, and her head turned and it looked as though she was trying to cross right in front of the
Fevre Dream
. “Damn egg-suckin’ idyut,” Kitch said, and he swung the wheel a little more and told Whitey to ease up on the larboard. But he didn’t back, or try to stop her. The two big steamers edged toward each other, closer and closer. Marsh could hear passengers crying out in alarm down below, and there was a second or two when even
he
thought they were going to collide.

But then the
Southerner
eased off herself, and her pilot swung her bow downstream again, and the
Fevre Dream
nosed by her with feet to spare. Someone began to cheer below.

“Keep her goin’,” Marsh muttered, so low that no one could have heard him. The
Southerner
had her wheels kicking up spray and was hot after them, behind now, but not by much, running a bare boat’s length astern. All the damn passengers on the
Fevre Dream
rushed aft, of course, and all the crew had to rush forward, so the steamer shook to all the running footsteps.

The
Southerner
was gaining on them again. She was running to their larboard, parallel and just behind. Her bow came up to the
Fevre Dream
’s stern now, and she was creeping up inch by inch. The sides of the two steamers were close enough so that passengers could have jumped from one to the other, if they’d had a mind to, though the
Fevre Dream
stood taller. “Damn,” said Marsh, when the other boat drew almost abreast of them. “Enough is enough. Kitch, call down and tell Whitey to use my lard.”

The pilot glanced his way, grinning ear to ear. “Lard, cap’n? Oh, I knew you was a sly one!” He barked a command down the speaking tube to the engine room.

The two steamers were running head to head. Marsh’s grip on his stick was all sweat. Down below, probably, the deckhands were arguing with some damn foreigners, who’d gone and perched on those lard barrels and had to be dislodged before the lard could be dragged off to the stokers. Marsh was burning with impatience, hot as his lard would be. Good lard was expensive, but it came in handy on a steamer. The cook could use it, and it burned damned
hot,
and that was what they needed now, a good hot head of high-pressure steam they couldn’t get from wood alone.

When the lard got chucked in, there was no doubt in the pilot house. Long high columns of white steam came a-hissing up out of the ’scape-pipes, and smoke rolled from the high chimneys, and the
Fevre Dream
snorted fire and shook just a mite, and then she was sparkling,
chunkachunkachunka
fast as a train wheel, the stroke pounding the deck. She went flying right on out ahead of the
Southerner,
and when she was safely clear of her Kitch eased her right in front of the other steamer’s bow, leaving them to ride her waves. All those worthless berthless pilots were chuckling and passing around smokes and yapping about what a heller of a boat this
Fevre Dream
was, while the
Southerner
receded behind them and Abner Marsh grinned like a fool.

They were a full ten minutes ahead of the
Southerner
when they put into Cairo, where the broad Ohio’s clear waters merged with the muddy Mississippi. By then Abner Marsh had almost forgot about that little incident with Joshua York.

CHAPTER SIX

Julian Plantation, Louisiana,
July 1857

Sour Billy Tipton was out front, chucking his knife at the big dead tree that fronted the gravel path, when the riders approached. It was morning but already hot as hell, and Sour Billy was working himself up a good sweat and thinking of going down for a swim when he finished up his knife-throwing. Then he saw the riders emerge from the woods where the old road crooked around. He went over to the dead tree and pulled loose his knife and slid it back into its sheath behind his back, all thoughts of swimming forgotten.

The riders came on real slow, but bold as brass, riding straight up in broad daylight like they belonged here. They couldn’t be from these parts, Sour Billy figured; what neighbors they had all knew that Damon Julian didn’t like no one coming onto his land without his leave. When they were still too far away to make out good, he wondered if maybe they weren’t some of Montreuil’s Creole friends come to make trouble. If so, they were going to regret it.

Then he saw why they were riding so slow, and Sour Billy relaxed. Two niggers in chains were stumbling along behind the two men on horseback. He crossed his arms and leaned against the tree, waiting for them to reach him.

Sure enough, they reined up. One of the men on horseback looked at the house, with its peeling paint and half-rotted front steps, spat out a wad of tobacco juice, and turned to Sour Billy. “This the Julian plantation?” he said. He was a big red-faced man with a wart on his nose, dressed in smelly leathers and a slouchy felt hat.

“Sure is,” Sour Billy replied. But he was looking past the horseman and his companion, a lean pink-cheeked youth who was probably the other’s son. He went walking over to the two haggard-looking niggers, downcast and miserable in their chains, and Sour Billy smiled. “Why,” he said, “if it ain’t Lily and Sam. Never thought you two be dropping by again. Must be two years since you went and run off. Mister Julian will be real pleased to know that you come back.”

Sam, a big powerful-looking buck, raised his head and stared at Sour Billy, but there was no defiance in his eyes. Only fear. “We come on ’em up to Arkansas, my boy and me,” the red-faced man said. “Tried to claim they was free niggers, but they didn’t fool me for a minute, no sir.”

Sour Billy looked at the slave catchers and nodded. “Go on.”

“They was awful stubborn, these two. Couldn’t get ’em to tell us where they was from for the longest while. Whipped ’em right smart, used a few other tricks I know. Usually, with niggers, you just scares ’em a bit and it pops right out. Not with these.” He spat. “Well, we finally got it out of ’em. Show him, Jim.”

The boy dismounted, went over to the woman, and lifted her right arm. Three fingers were missing from her hand. One of the stumps was still crusted over with a scab.

“We started with the right cause we noticed she was left-handed,” the man said. “Didn’t want to cripple her up too bad, you unnerstand, but we couldn’t find nothin’ in the papers, no posters out neither, so . . .” He shrugged eloquently. “Got to the third finger, like you see, and the man finally told us. The woman cussed him out somethin’ fierce.” He guffawed. “Anyway, here they is. Two slaves like that, got to be worth somethin’ to us for catchin’ ’em. This Mister Julian at home?”

“No,” said Sour Billy, looking up at the sun. It was still a couple of hours shy of noon.

“Well,” said the red-faced man, “you must be the overseer, right? The one they call Sour Billy?”

“That’s me,” he said. “Sam and Lily talk about me?”

The slave catcher laughed again. “Oh, they did a powerful lot of talkin’ once we knew where they come from. Talked all the way here. We shut ’em up a time or two, my boy and me, but then they’d just start to talkin’ again. Some stories, too.”

Sour Billy looked at the two runaways with his cold, malicious eyes, but neither one would meet his gaze.

“Maybe you can just take charge of these two, and give us our reward, and we’ll be ridin’ on our way,” the man said.

“No,” said Sour Billy Tipton. “You got to wait. Mister Julian will want to give you his thanks personal. Won’t be too long. He’ll be back by dark.”

“By dark, huh?” the man said. He and his son exchanged glances. “Funny, Mister Sour Billy, but these here niggers said you’d say jest that very thing. They tell queer stories bout what goes on here after dark. My boy and I, we’d jest sooner take our money and leave, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It won’t be all the same to Mister Julian,” Sour Billy said. “And I can’t give you no money neither. You going to believe some fool story told you by a couple niggers?”

The man frowned, working his tobacco all the while. “Nigger stories is one thing,” he said finally, “but I knowed niggers to tell the truth once in a while too. Now, what we’ll do, Mister Sour Billy, is wait, like you say, for this Mister Julian to come home. But don’t you think we’re gonna let ourself be cheated.” He had a pistol by his side. He patted it. “I’m gonna wear my friend here whiles I wait, and my boy he’s got one too, and we’re both of us handy with our knives. You unnerstand? These niggers learned us all about that little knife you got hid behind your back, so don’t you go a-reachin’ back there, like to scratch on anything, or else our fingers might get a little bit itchy too. Let’s jest all of us wait and be friends.”

Sour Billy turned his eyes on the slave catcher and gave him a cold stare, but the big man was too stupid to even notice. “We’ll wait inside,” Sour Billy said, keeping his hands well clear of his back.

“Jest fine,” the slave catcher said. He dismounted. “My name is Tom Johnston, by the way, and that’s my boy Jim.”

“Mister Julian will be pleased to meet you,” Sour Billy said. “Tie up your horses and bring the niggers on inside. Careful on the steps. They’s rotted through in places.”

The woman started to whimper as they led her toward the house, but Jim Johnston gave her a smart crack across the mouth and she fell silent again.

Sour Billy led them to the library, and drew back the heavy curtains to admit some light into the dim, dusty room. The slaves sat on the floor, while the two catchers stretched out in the heavy leather chairs. “Now,” said Tom Johnston, “this here is real nice.”

“Everything is all rotten and dusty, Daddy,” the youth said. “Jest like them niggers said it’d be.”

“Well, well,” said Sour Billy, looking at the two niggers. “Well, well. Mister Julian ain’t going to be pleased you been spreadin’ tales about his house. You two earned yourself a whippin’.”

The big black buck, Sam, found the courage to raise his head and glower. “I ain’t scared o’ no whippin’.”

Sour Billy smiled just slightly. “Why then, there’s worse things than whippin’, Sam. Indeed there is.”

That was too much for the woman, Lily. She looked at the youth. “He’s tellin’ the truth, massa Jim, he is. You got to lissen. Take us outta here ’fore dark. You and your daddy kin own us, work us, we work real hard for you, we will. Won’t run away. We’re good niggers. Never would have run away, but for . . . for . . .
don’t
wait till dark, massa, don’t. It’ll be too late then.”

The boy hit her, hard, with the butt of his pistol, leaving a welt across her cheek and knocking her backward to the carpet where she lay, shuddering and weeping. “Shut your lyin’ black mouth,” he said.

“You want a drink?” Sour Billy asked him.

The hours passed. They went through most of two bottles of Julian’s best brandy, swilling it down like it was cheap whiskey. They ate. They talked. Sour Billy didn’t do much talking himself, just asked questions to draw out Tom Johnston, who was drunk and vain and in love with his own voice. The slave catchers operated out of Napoleon, Arkansas, it seemed, but they weren’t there much, traveling like they did. There was a Missus Johnston, but she stayed at home with her daughter. They didn’t tell her much of their business. “Woman ain’t got no reason to know about her man’s comin’s and goin’s. You tell ’em somethin’ or other, jest you don’t see if they don’t go and bother you about it if you’re late. Then you got to slap ’em around.” He spat. “Easier just to keep ’em guessing, so they’s grateful when you shows up.” Johnston left Sour Billy with the impression that he preferred topping nigger wenches anyway, so his wife was no loss to him.

Outside, the sun was sinking toward the west.

When the shadows lay thick across the room. Sour Billy rose and drew the curtains and lit some candles. “I’ll go and get Mister Julian,” he said.

The younger Johnston looked awful pale as he turned to his father, Sour Billy thought. “Daddy, I didn’t hear no one ride up,” he said.

“Wait,” said Sour Billy Tipton. He left them, walked through the darkened, deserted ballroom, and climbed the grand staircase. Upstairs, he entered a large bedroom, the wide French windows boarded up, the ornate bed shrouded by a black velvet canopy. “Mister Julian,” he called softly, from the door. The room was black and stifling.

Behind the canopy, something stirred. The velvet hangings were pushed back. Damon Julian emerged; pale, quiet, cold. His black eyes seemed to reach right out of the darkness and touch Sour Billy. “Yes, Billy?” came the soft voice.

Sour Billy told him everything.

Damon Julian smiled. “Bring them into the dining room. I’ll join you in a few moments.”

The dining room had a great old chandelier, but it had not been lit in Sour Billy’s memory. After bringing in the slave catchers, he found some matches and touched off a small oil lamp, which he set on the middle of the long table, so it threw a small ring of light on the white linen tablecloth but left the rest of the narrow, high-ceilinged room in shadow. The Johnstons took seats, the younger one peering around uneasily, his hand never leaving his pistol. The niggers held each other miserably at one end of the table.

“Where’s this Julian?” Tom Johnston growled.

“Soon, Tom,” said Sour Billy. “Wait.”

For nearly ten minutes no one spoke. Then Jim Johnston sucked in his breath. “Daddy,” he said, “look. Somebody’s standin’ in that door!”

The door led to the kitchen. It was black back there. Full night had fallen, and the only illumination in this part of the house was the oil lamp on the table. Beyond the kitchen door nothing could be seen but vague, threatening shadows—and something that looked like the outline of a human form, standing very still.

Lily whimpered, and the nigger Sam held her more closely. Tom Johnston got to his feet, his chair scraping over the wooden floor, his face hard. He drew and cocked his pistol. “Who’s that?” he demanded. “Come out!”

“No need to be alarmed,” said Damon Julian.

They all turned, Johnston jumping like he’d been spooked. Julian stood beneath the archway to the foyer, framed against darkness, smiling charmingly, dressed in a long dark suit with a red silk tie shining at his neck. His eyes were dark and amused, the flame of the lamp reflected in them. “That’s only Valerie,” Julian said.

With a rustle of her skirts, she emerged and stood in the kitchen door, pale and quiet yet still strikingly beautiful. Johnston looked at her and laughed. “Ah,” he said, “only a woman. Sorry, Mister Julian. Them nigger stories got me all jumpy.”

“I understand perfectly,” said Damon Julian.

“There’s others behind him,”
Jim Johnston whispered. They all saw them now; dim figures, indistinct, lost in the darkness at Julian’s back.

“Only my friends,” said Damon Julian, smiling. A woman in a light blue gown emerged at his right. “Cynthia,” he said. Another woman, in green, stood to his left. “Adrienne,” Julian added. He raised his arm in a weary, languid gesture. “And that is Raymond, and Jean, and Kurt.” They emerged together, moving silent as cats, from other doors ringing the long room. “And behind you are Alain and Jorge and Vincent.”

Johnston whirled, and there they were, stepping out from the shadows. Still more came into view behind Julian himself. Except for the whisperings of cloth against cloth, none of them made any sound as they moved. And they all stared, and smiled invitingly.

Sour Billy wasn’t smiling, though he was vastly amused at the way Tom Johnston clutched his gun and cast his eyes about like a frightened animal. “Mister Julian,” he said, “I ought to tell you that Mister Johnston here don’t intend to be cheated. He’s got him a
gun,
Mister Julian, and his boy too, and they’re both handy with their knives.”

“Ah,” said Damon Julian.

The niggers began to pray. Young Jim Johnston looked at Damon Julian and drew his own pistol. “We brung you your niggers,” he said. “We won’t bother you for no reward, neither. We’ll jest be goin’.”

“Going?” Julian said. “Now, would I let you leave without a reward? When you’ve come all the way from Arkansas just to bring us a few darkies? I wouldn’t hear of it.” He crossed the room. Jim Johnston, caught in those dark eyes of his, held his pistol up and did not move. Julian took it from his hand and laid it on the table. He touched the youth’s cheek. “Beneath the dirt, you’re a handsome boy,” he said.

“What are you doin’ to my boy?” Tom Johnston demanded.
“Get away from him!”
He flourished his pistol.

Damon Julian glanced around. “Your boy has a certain rude beauty,” he said. “You, on the other hand, have a wart.”

“He
is
a wart,” Sour Billy Tipton suggested.

Tom Johnston glared and Damon Julian smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “Amusing, Billy.” Julian gestured to Valerie and Adrienne. They glided toward him, and each took young Jim Johnston by the arm.

“You want help?” Sour Billy offered.

“No,” said Julian, “thank you.” With a graceful, almost offhand gesture, he raised his hand and brought it lightly across the youth’s long neck. Jim Johnston made a wet, choking sound. A thin line of red suddenly appeared across his throat, a little looping scarlet necklace, whose bright red beads swelled larger and larger as they watched, bursting one by one to send trickles down his neck. Jim Johnston began to thrash, but the iron embrace of the two pale women held him immobile. Damon Julian leaned forward, and pressed his open mouth to the flow, to catch the hot bright blood.