Fevre Dream (25 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Aboard the Steamer
Fevre Dream,
Mississippi River,
August 1857

Raymond and Armand were supporting Damon Julian between them when Sour Billy leaped down from the paddlebox. Julian looked like he’d slaughtered a pig; his clothing was soaked through with blood. “You allowed him to escape, Billy,” he said coldly. His tone made Sour Billy nervous.

“He’s finished,” Billy insisted. “Them paddles will suck him under and smash him, or he’ll drown. You ought to of seen the splash he made when he hit the water, that big belly of his first. Ain’t goin’ to have to look at his warts no more.” As he spoke, Sour Billy was looking around, and he didn’t like what he saw, not one bit; Julian all bloody, a red smeary trail leading down the texas stairs and halfway down the hurricane deck, and that dandy of a clerk hanging off the end of the texas porch, more blood coming out of his mouth.

“If you fail me, Billy, you will never be as we are,” Julian said. “I hope he is dead, for your sake. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Billy. “Mister Julian, what happened?”

“They attacked me, Billy. They attacked
us
. According to the good captain, they killed Jean. Bashed his goddamn head to pieces, I believe that was the phrase.” He smiled. “Marsh and his wretch of a clerk and someone named Mike were responsible.”

“Hairy Mike Dunne,” said Raymond Ortega. “He is the mate of the
Fevre Dream,
Damon. Large, stupid, and uncouth. It is his job to shout at the darkies and beat them.”

“Ah,” Julian said. “Let me go,” he said to Raymond and Armand. “I feel stronger now. I can stand.”

The twilight had deepened. They stood in shadow. “Damon,” warned Vincent, “the watch will change at supper. Crewmen will be coming up to their cabins. We must do something. We must get off this steamer, or they will find us out.” He looked at the blood, the body.

“No,” said Julian. “Billy will clean it up. Won’t you, Billy?”

“Yes,” said Sour Billy. “I’ll just toss the clerk in after his Cap’n.”

“Do it then, Billy, instead of telling me about it.” Julian’s smile was cold. “And then come to York’s cabin. We will retire there now. I need a change of clothes.”

It took Sour Billy Tipton nearly twenty minutes to remove the evidence of the death on the texas. He worked in haste, all too aware of how easy it would be for someone to come out of his cabin, or up the stairs. The darkness was almost complete by then, however, which helped. He dragged Jeffers’ body down the deck, hauled it up on the paddlebox with some difficulty—the clerk was heavier than Billy ever would have guessed—and shoved it over. The night and the river swallowed it, and the splash wasn’t nearly as big as the one Marsh had made. It was almost lost in the sound of the paddlewheels. Sour Billy had just stripped off his shirt and started cleaning up the blood when he had a stroke of luck—the storm that had been coming all afternoon finally broke. Thunder boomed in his ears, lightning came stabbing down at the river, and the rains began. Clean, cold, pounding rains, smashing down onto the deck, soaking Billy through to his bones, and washing away the blood.

Sour Billy was dripping when he finally entered Joshua York’s cabin, his once-fine shirt a damp ball in his hand. “It’s done,” he said.

Damon Julian was sitting in a deep leather chair. He had changed into some fresh clothing, had a drink in hand, and looked as strong and healthy as ever. Raymond was standing at his side, Armand was in the other chair, Vincent was seated on the desk, Kurt in the desk chair. And Joshua York sat on his bed, staring down at his feet, head sunk, his skin white as chalk dust. He looked like a whipped cur, thought Sour Billy.

“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.”