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at the easy way Joshua sat, remembered the force behind those gray eyes, the strength of his handshake. "No."

"I have been honest in many of things I've said to you," Joshua continued. "My purpose is not my only obsession. I love this steamer as you do, Abner, and share many of your dreams for her. I want to pilot her, to know the river. I want to be on hand the day we outrun the Eclipse. Believe me when I say-"

There was a knock on the door.

Marsh was startled. Joshua York smiled and shrugged. "My friends from Natchez come up for their drink," he explained. "A moment!" he called loudly. He said to Marsh in a low, urgent voice, "Think about all I have said, Abner. We can talk again, if you'd like. But keep my faith, and talk to no one about this. I have no wish to involve others."

"You got my word," Marsh said. "Hell, who'd believe it?"

Joshua smiled. "If you would be so kind as to let in my guests while I pour us some drinks," he said.

Marsh got up and opened the door. Outside a man and a woman stood talking in soft whispers. Beyond them, Marsh saw the moon standing between the chimneys like a glowing decoration. He heard snatches of a bawdy song from Natchez-under-the-hill, faint in the distance. "Come on in," he said.

The strangers were a fine-looking couple, Marsh saw as they entered. The man was young, almost boyish, very lean and handsome, with black hair and fair skin and heavy, sensual lips. He had a fierce cold look in his black eyes when he glanced briefly at Marsh. And the woman... Abner Marsh looked at her, and found it hard to look away. She was a real beauty. Long hair black as midnight, skin as fine as milk-white silk, high cheekbones. Her waist was so small Marsh wanted to reach out and see if his big hands would go all the way around. He looked up at her face instead, and found her staring at him. Her eyes were incredible. Marsh had never seen eyes that color before; a deep, velvety purple, full of promise. He felt like he could drown in those eyes. They reminded him of a color he'd seen on the river, once or twice, at twilight, a strange violet stillness glimpsed only briefly, before darkness came in for good and all. Marsh stared into those eyes helplessly for what seemed like ages, until the woman finally gave him an enigmatic smile and turned briskly away.

Joshua had filled four glasses; for Marsh, a tumbler of whiskey, for himself and the others, his private stock. "I am pleased to have you here," he said as he served the drinks, "I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?"

"Quite," the man said, taking up his glass and looking at it dubiously. Remembering his own taste of the stuff, Marsh didn't blame him one bit.

"You have a lovely steamboat, Captain York," the woman said in a warm voice. "I shall enjoy taking passage on it."

"I hope we shall be traveling together for some time," Joshua replied graciously. "As for the Fevre Dream, I am very proud of her, but your compliments should really be directed to my partner." He gestured. "If you will permit me to make introductions, this formidable gentleman here is Captain Abner Marsh, my associate in Fevre River Packets and the real master of the Fevre Dream, if truth be told."

The woman smiled at Abner again, while the man nodded stiffly.

"Abner," York continued, "may I present Mister Raymond Ortega, of New Orleans, and his fiancee, Miss Valerie Mersault?"

"Real glad to have you with us," Marsh said awkwardly.

Joshua raised his glass. "A toast," he said. "To new beginnings!"

They echoed his words, and drank.

Chapter Eleven

Aboard the Steamer FEVRE DREAM, Mississippi River, August 1857

ABNER Marsh had a mind that was not unlike his body. It was big all around, ample in size and capacity, and he crammed all sorts of things into it. It was strong as well; when Abner Marsh took something in his hand it did not easily slip away, and when he took something in his head it was not easily forgotten. He was a powerful man with a powerful brain, but body and mind shared one other trait as well: they were deliberate. Some might even say slow. Marsh did not run, he did not dance, he did not scamper or slide along; he walked with a straightforward dignified gait