Fevre Dream by George R R Martin

Author:George R R Martin [Martin, George R R]
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aboard the Steamer Fevre Dream,

Mississippi River,

August 1857

When the sun rose over New Orleans the next morning, a swollen yellow eye that turned the river mists to crimson and promised a scorching day, Abner Marsh was waiting on the levee.

He had run a long way the night before, plunging through the gaslit streets of the Vieux Carré like a madman, smashing into strollers, stumbling and panting, running as he had never run in all his years, until finally he realized, belatedly, that no one was pursuing him. Then Marsh had found a dim, smoky grog shop, and put down three quick whiskeys to stop his shaking hands. And finally, close to dawn, he had started back toward the Fevre Dream. Never in his life had Abner Marsh been angrier or more ashamed. They had run him off his own damn steamboat, stuck a knife to his neck, slaughtered a goddamn baby right in front of him, on his own table. No one got away with treating Abner Marsh like that, he thought; not white men nor coloreds nor Red Indians nor any goddamn vampires. Damon Julian was going to be mighty regretful, he swore to himself. Day had come now, and the hunters would become the prey.

The landing was already humming with activity when Marsh approached. Another big side-wheeler had put in beside the Fevre Dream and was unloading, peddlers were selling fruits and frozen creams from wheeled carts, one or two hotel omnibuses had put in an appearance. And the Fevre Dream had her steam up, Marsh saw with surprise and alarm. Dark smoke was curling upward from her chimneys, and down below a ragtag group of roustabouts was loading up the last of the freight. He quickened his pace, and accosted one of them. He shouted, “You there! Hold on!”

The rouster was a huge, thickly built black man with a shiny bald head and one missing ear. He turned at Marsh’s shout, a barrel on his right shoulder. “Yessuh, Cap’n.”

“What’s goin’ on here?” Marsh demanded. “Why’s the steam up? I didn’t give no orders.”

The rouster frowned. “I just loads ’em up, Cap’n. Don’t know nuthin’, suh.”

Marsh swore and moved past him. Hairy Mike Dunne came swaggering across the stage, his iron billet in hand. “Mike,” called Marsh.

Hairy Mike frowned, a fierce look of concentration on his dark face. “Mornin’, Cap’n. You really sell this here boat?”

“What?”

“Cap’n York, he says you sold you half to him, says you ain’t acomin’ with us. I got back a couple hours past midnight, me an’ some of them boys, an’ York he says you’n’ him figgered two cap’n were one too many, an’ he bought you out. An’ he tole Whitey to get the steam up, he did, and here we is. That the truth o’ it, Cap’n?”

Marsh scowled. The roustabouts were gathering round curiously, so he grabbed Hairy Mike by the arm and drew him across the stage onto the main deck. “I ain’t got no time for no long stories,” he said when the two of them were reasonably apart from everybody else.

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