Fevre Dream Page 0,18

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,