Fevre Dream (33 page)

“C’mon,” Marsh snapped.

Billy and Toby carried Framm between them. The pilot was still unconscious, and his boots scraped along the deck as they hurried to the stair. Marsh came just behind them, his hand on the knife, which he kept shoved through his belt, concealed by the hang of his jacket. Valerie and Joshua brought up the rear.

The grand saloon was full of passengers, a few of whom eyed them curiously, but no one said anything. Down on the main deck, they had to step over sleeping deckhands, none of them men Marsh recognized. As they approached the sounding yawl, a couple of men moved toward them. “Where you goin’?” one demanded.

“None of your concern,” Sour Billy said. “We’re taking Framm here for some doctoring. Seems he ain’t feeling good. Both of you, now, help us get him into the yawl.”

One of the men hesitated, staring at Valerie and Joshua. Clearly it was the first time he’d seen either by day. “Does Julian know about this?” he said. Others were watching from all around the main deck, Marsh saw. He held the knife tightly, ready to slit Sour Billy’s goddamn throat if he said one wrong word.

“You giving me lip, Tim?” Billy asked coldly. “You better think of what happened to Alligator George, maybe. Now move your damn ass and do like I told you!”

Tim flinched and jumped to obey. Three others rushed to help him, and in no time at all the yawl was in the water alongside the steamer, and Karl Framm had been lowered into it. Joshua helped Valerie step across, and Toby hopped down after them. The deck was lined with curious hands now. Abner Marsh moved real close to Sour Billy Tipton and whispered, “You done real good so far. Now get into the yawl.”

Sour Billy looked at him. “You said you’d let me go,” he said.

“I lied,” Marsh said. “You’re stayin’ with us till we’re out of here.”

Sour Billy backed away. “No,” he said. “You’re just goin’ to kill me.” He raised his voice.
“Stop them!”
he shouted. “They had me prisoner, they’re running off,
stop them
!” He wrenched backward, out of Marsh’s reach. Marsh cussed and pulled loose the knife but it was too late, all the deckhands and rousters were moving toward him. A couple had knives of their own, he saw. “Kill him!” Sour Billy was yelling. “Get Julian, get help, kill them!”

Marsh grabbed the rope holding the yawl to the steamer, parted it with one swift stroke of the knife, and threw the blade at Billy’s yapping mouth. But it was a bad throw, and anyhow Sour Billy ducked. Someone grabbed Marsh’s jacket. He hit him hard across the face, and shoved him into the men behind him. The yawl was drifting with the current now. Marsh moved to step across before it went out of reach. Joshua was yelling for him to hurry, but somebody caught him around the throat and yanked him back. Abner Marsh kicked back furiously, but the man held on, and the yawl was getting farther away, downstream, Joshua was yelling, and Marsh thought he was done for. Then Toby Lanyard’s goddamn cleaver went whizzing by his ear, taking off a piece of it as it went, and the arm around his throat fell away as Marsh felt blood spatter his shoulder. He threw himself forward, towards the yawl, and made about half the distance, hitting the water heavily, belly first. It took all the breath out of him, and the cold was a shock. Abner Marsh flailed and thrashed and took in a mouthful of water and river mud before he surfaced. He saw the yawl drifting rapidly away, downstream, and paddled toward it. A rock or a knife or something splashed right alongside his head, and another fell a yard in front of him, but Toby had unshipped the oars and was slowing the boat a little, and Marsh reached it and threw an arm over the side. He nearly tipped the boat over trying to climb in, but Joshua had him, and he pulled, and before he knew it Marsh was lying on the bottom of the yawl, blowing out water. When he pulled himself up, they were twenty yards from the
Fevre Dream,
and moving off swiftly as the current got them firmly in its grasp. Sour Billy Tipton had gotten himself a pistol from somewhere, and was standing on the forecastle popping away at them, but he wasn’t hitting anything.

“Damn him,” Marsh said. “I should have killed him, Joshua.”

“If you had, we would never had gotten away.”

Marsh frowned. “Hell. Maybe. Maybe it would have been worth it anyway.” He looked around the yawl. Toby was rowing, looking like he badly needed help. Marsh took another oar. Karl Framm was still unconscious. Marsh wondered how much blood Valerie had taken. Valerie herself didn’t look so good. Huddled up in Framm’s clothing, his hat pulled low over her face, she looked like she was shrivelling in the light. Her pale skin already looked vaguely pinkish, and those big violet eyes seemed small and dim and pained. He wondered if they’d got away after all, as he slipped the oar into the water and put his back into it. His arm hurt, his ear was bleeding, and the sun was bright and rising.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

On the Mississippi River,
October 1857

Abner Marsh hadn’t rowed a sounding yawl in more than twenty years. With only him and Toby pulling, it was damned hard work, even going with the current. His arms and back were complaining fiercely within the half-hour. Marsh grunted and kept on rowing. The
Fevre Dream
was out of sight now, vanished behind them. The sun was creeping up the sky, and the river had grown very wide. It looked to be almost a mile across.

“It hurts,” Valerie said.

Joshua York said, “Cover yourself.”

“I’m
burning,
”she said. “I never thought it would be like this.” She looked up at the sun and shied away as if struck. Marsh was startled by the vivid redness of her face.

Joshua York started to move toward her, and stopped suddenly, looking unsteady. He put a hand up against his brow and took a slow deliberate breath. Then, carefully, he edged closer. “Sit in my shadow,” he said. “Pull down your hat.”

Valerie curled up in the bottom of the yawl, practically in Joshua’s lap. He reached down and straightened the collar of her jacket in an oddly tender manner, then rested his hand on the back of her head.

Down here, Marsh noted, the riverbanks were shorn of all timber but for an occasional row of ornamental saplings. Instead they saw carefully cultivated fields to either side, flat and endless, here and there interrupted by the splendor of a big Greek-Revival plantation house, its cupola overlooking the wide, tranquil river. Ahead on the western shore, a pile of smouldering bagasse, the refuse of sugarcane stalks, was sending up a column of acrid gray smoke. The pile was big as a house; the smoke spread in a shroud across the river. Marsh couldn’t see no flames. “Maybe we ought to put in,” he said to Joshua. “There’s plantations all around us.”

Joshua had closed his eyes. He opened them when Marsh spoke. “No,” he said. “We are too close. We must put more distance between us and them. Billy may be coming after us on foot along the shore, and when night falls . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

Abner Marsh grunted and rowed. Joshua closed his eyes again, and pulled his wide-brimmed white hat lower.

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-f 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.