abolitionists and argue over whether Stephen A. Douglas ought to be president, while York said hello to Smith and Brown, who were at one of the tables playing cards with some planters and a notorious gambler. Someone was tinkling on the grand piano, stateroom doors opened and closed all the time, and the whole place was bright with light and laughter.
Later they went down to a different world on the main deck; cargo piled everywhere, roustabouts and deckers asleep on coils of rope and bags of sugar, a family gathered around a little fire they’d built cooking something or other, a drunk passed out behind the stairs. The engine room was awash in the hellish red glow of the furnaces, and Whitey was in the middle of it all, with his shirt soaked by sweat and grease in his beard, bellowing at his strikers to be heard above the hiss of the steam and the
chunkachunka
of the wheels churning water. The rods were awesome, moving back and forth in their long powerful strokes. They watched for a while, York and he, until the heat and smell of machine oil got to be too much for them.
Some time later they were up on the hurricane deck, passing a bottle between them, strolling and talking in their own cool wind. The stars were bright as a lady’s diamonds overhead, the Fevre River banner was flapping on both fore and verge flagpoles, and the river around them was blacker than the blackest slave Marsh had ever seen.
They ran all night, Daly standing the long watch up in the pilot house, keeping them moving at a smart clip—though nothing to what they could do if pressed, Marsh knew—along the dark Ohio, with nothingness all around them. It was a charmed run, with no snags or sawyers or sandbars to bedevil them. Only twice did they have to send out a yawl ahead of them for soundings, and both times they found good water when they dropped lead, and the
Fevre Dream
steamed on. A few houses were glimpsed on the shore, most dark and shuttered for the night, but one with a light burning in a high window. Marsh wondered who was awake up there, and what they thought when the steamer went on by. She must have been a fine sight, with her decks all lit and the music and laughter drifting out over the water, the sparks and smoke from her chimneys, and her name big on the wheelhouse,
Fevre Dream
done all in thick fancy blue lettering with silver trim around it. He almost wished he was on shore just to see it.
The big excitement of the night came just before midnight, when they first sighted another steamer churning water ahead of them. When Marsh saw, he took York by the elbow and led him on up to the pilot house. It was crowded up there, Daly still at the wheel, sipping coffee, two other pilots and three passengers sitting on the couch behind him. The pilots weren’t nobody hired by Marsh, but pilots rode free if they wanted to, that was a custom of the river, and they usually rode in the pilot house to chat with the man at the wheel and keep up on the river. Marsh ignored them. “Mister Daly,” he said to his pilot, “there’s a steamer up ahead.”
“I see it, Cap’n Marsh,” Daly replied with a laconic grin.
“Wonder what boat that is? You got any idea, Daly?” Whatever boat it was, it wasn’t much; some squat stern-wheeler with a pilot house square as a cracker box.
“Sure don’t,” the pilot replied.
Abner Marsh turned to Joshua York. “Joshua,” he said, “you’re the real captain, now, and I don’t want to be givin’ you too many suggestions. But the truth is, I’m awful curious as to what steamer that is on up ahead of us. Why don’t you tell Daly here to catch her for us, so I can relax a bit.”
York smiled. “Certainly,” he said. “Mister Daly, you heard Captain Marsh. Do you think the
Fevre Dream
can catch that boat on ahead?”
“She can catch
anything,
”the pilot said. He called down to the engineer for more steam, and pulled the steam whistle again, and the wild banshee scream echoed over the
Later they went down to a different world on the main deck; cargo piled everywhere, roustabouts and deckers asleep on coils of rope and bags of sugar, a family gathered around a little fire they’d built cooking something or other, a drunk passed out behind the stairs. The engine room was awash in the hellish red glow of the furnaces, and Whitey was in the middle of it all, with his shirt soaked by sweat and grease in his beard, bellowing at his strikers to be heard above the hiss of the steam and the
chunkachunka
of the wheels churning water. The rods were awesome, moving back and forth in their long powerful strokes. They watched for a while, York and he, until the heat and smell of machine oil got to be too much for them.
Some time later they were up on the hurricane deck, passing a bottle between them, strolling and talking in their own cool wind. The stars were bright as a lady’s diamonds overhead, the Fevre River banner was flapping on both fore and verge flagpoles, and the river around them was blacker than the blackest slave Marsh had ever seen.
They ran all night, Daly standing the long watch up in the pilot house, keeping them moving at a smart clip—though nothing to what they could do if pressed, Marsh knew—along the dark Ohio, with nothingness all around them. It was a charmed run, with no snags or sawyers or sandbars to bedevil them. Only twice did they have to send out a yawl ahead of them for soundings, and both times they found good water when they dropped lead, and the
Fevre Dream
steamed on. A few houses were glimpsed on the shore, most dark and shuttered for the night, but one with a light burning in a high window. Marsh wondered who was awake up there, and what they thought when the steamer went on by. She must have been a fine sight, with her decks all lit and the music and laughter drifting out over the water, the sparks and smoke from her chimneys, and her name big on the wheelhouse,
Fevre Dream
done all in thick fancy blue lettering with silver trim around it. He almost wished he was on shore just to see it.
The big excitement of the night came just before midnight, when they first sighted another steamer churning water ahead of them. When Marsh saw, he took York by the elbow and led him on up to the pilot house. It was crowded up there, Daly still at the wheel, sipping coffee, two other pilots and three passengers sitting on the couch behind him. The pilots weren’t nobody hired by Marsh, but pilots rode free if they wanted to, that was a custom of the river, and they usually rode in the pilot house to chat with the man at the wheel and keep up on the river. Marsh ignored them. “Mister Daly,” he said to his pilot, “there’s a steamer up ahead.”
“I see it, Cap’n Marsh,” Daly replied with a laconic grin.
“Wonder what boat that is? You got any idea, Daly?” Whatever boat it was, it wasn’t much; some squat stern-wheeler with a pilot house square as a cracker box.
“Sure don’t,” the pilot replied.
Abner Marsh turned to Joshua York. “Joshua,” he said, “you’re the real captain, now, and I don’t want to be givin’ you too many suggestions. But the truth is, I’m awful curious as to what steamer that is on up ahead of us. Why don’t you tell Daly here to catch her for us, so I can relax a bit.”
York smiled. “Certainly,” he said. “Mister Daly, you heard Captain Marsh. Do you think the
Fevre Dream
can catch that boat on ahead?”
“She can catch
anything,
”the pilot said. He called down to the engineer for more steam, and pulled the steam whistle again, and the wild banshee scream echoed over the
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