Fevre Dream Page 0,106

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."

"Do like I told you," Sour Billy said to York in a low urgent voice. He backed away from the furnace as the mate advanced.

Joshua York stepped between them and raised his hands. "Stop," he said. "Mister Dunne, I'm discharging you, here and now. You are no longer mate of the Fevre Dream."

Dunne eyed him suspiciously. "I ain't?" he said. Then he grimaced. "Hell, you ain't firin' me!"

"I am the master and captain here."

"Is you? Well, I takes orders from Cap'n Marsh. He tells me to git, I git. Till then, I stay. An' don't tell me no lies 'bout buyin' him out. Heard them lies this mornin'." He took another step forward. "Now you git out of the way, Cap'n. I'm gone git me some answers from Mister Sour Billy here."

"Mister Dunne, there is sickness aboard this steamer. I am discharging you for your own safety." Joshua York lied with real nice sincerity, Sour Billy thought. "Mister Tipton will be the new mate. He's already been exposed."

"Him?" The iron billet smacked against the mate's palm. "He ain't no steamboater."

"Been an overseer," Billy said. "I can handle niggers." He moved forward again.

Hairy Mike Dunne laughed.

Sour Billy felt cold all over. If there was one thing in the world that he could not stand, it was being laughed at. Right then and there he decided not to scare Dunne off after all. Killing him would be much nicer. "You got all them niggers and white trash behind you," he said to the mate. "Looks to me like you're scared to face me by yourself."

Dunne's green eyes narrowed dangerously, and he smacked his club into his palm even harder than before. He came forward two quick steps, into the full glare of the furnace,