Fevre Dream Page 0,32

be able to read the river like it was a book, and the words is just little ripples and eddies, sometimes all faded so they can't be made out properly, and then you got to rely on what you remember about the last time you read that page. Now you wouldn't go try readin' a book in the dark, would you?"

York ignored that. "I can see a ripple on the water as easily as I can see a woodyard, if I know what to look for. Mister Framm, if you can't teach me the river, I'll find a pilot who can. I remind you that I am the owner and master of the Fevre Dream"

Framm glanced around again, frowning now. "More work by night," he said. "If you want to learn by night, it'll cost you eight hundred."

York's expression melted into a slow smile. "Done," he said. "Now, let us begin."

Karl Framm pushed back his slouchy hat until it sat on the back of his head, and gave a long sigh, like a man who was inordinately put upon. "All right," he said, "it's your money, and your boat too. Don't come botherin' me when you tear out her bottom. Now listen up. The river runs pretty straight from St. Louis down to Cairo, before the Ohio comes in. But you got to know it anyhow. This here stretch is called the graveyard from time to time, cause a lot of boats went down here. Some, you can still see the chimneys peeping up above the water, or the whole damn wreck lyin' in the mud if the river's low-the ones that are down under the waterline, though, you better know where they lie, or the next damn boat comin' down is goin' to have to know where you lie. You got to learn your marks, too, and how to handle the boat. Here, step on up and take the wheel, get the feel of her. You couldn't touch bottom with a church steeple right now, it's safe enough." York and Framm changed places. "Now, the first point below St. Louis..." Framm began. Abner Marsh sat himself down on the couch, listening, while the pilot went on and on, meandering from the marks to tricks of steering to long stories about the steamers that lay sunken in the graveyard they were running. He was a colorful storyteller, but after every tale he'd recollect the task at hand and meander back to the marks again. York drank it all in, quietlike. He seemed to pick up the knack of steering quickly, and whenever Framm stopped and asked him to repeat some bit of information, Joshua iust reeled it back at him.

At length, after they'd caught and passed the side-wheeler that had been running ahead of them, Marsh found himself yawning. It was such a fine sharp night, though, that he hated to go to bed. He hoisted himself up and went down to the texas-tender, coming back with a pot of hot coffee and a plate of tarts. When he returned, Karl Framm was spinning the yarn about the wreck of the Drennan Whyte, lost above Natchez in '50 with a treasure aboard her. The Evermonde tried to raise her, caught fire and went to the bottom. The Ellen Adams, a salvage steamer, came looking for the treasure in '51, struck a bar and half sank. "The treasure's cursed, y'see," Framm was saying, "either that or that old devil river just don't want to give it up."

Marsh smiled and poured the coffee. "Joshua," he said, "that story's true enough, but don't you go believing everything he says. This man's the most notorious liar on the river."

"Why, Cap'n!" Framm said, grinning. He turned back to the river. "See that old cabin yonder, with the tumbly-down porch?" he said. "Good, cause you got to recollect it..."and he was off again. Itwas a solid twenty minutes before he got distracted by the story of E. Jenkins, the steamer that was thirty miles long, with hinges in the middle so it could make the turns in the river. Even Joshua York gave Framm an incredulous look for that one. But he was smiling.

Marsh retired about an hour after he'd eaten the last of the tarts. Framm was amusing enough, but he'd take his lessons by day, when he could damn well see the marks the pilot was talking about.

When he woke, it was morning and the Fevre Dream was at Cape Girardeau, taking on a