wound.
Raymond went next, by Julian’s leave, then Adrienne, then Jorge. Finally, when the others were done, Julian turned to Jean with a smile and a gesture. He fell on her with a stifled sob, wrenching her from Sour Billy’s embrace, and began to tear at the soft flesh of her throat. Damon Julian grimaced with distaste. “When he is done,” he told Sour Billy, “clean it up.”
CHAPTER THREE
New Albany, Indiana,
June 1857
The mists were thick on the river and the air damp and chilly. It was just after midnight when Joshua York, finally arrived from St. Louis, met Abner Marsh in the deserted boatyards of New Albany. Marsh had been waiting for almost half an hour when York appeared, striding out of the fog like some pale apparition. Behind him, silent as shadows, came four others.
Marsh grinned toothily. “Joshua,” he said. He nodded curtly to the others. He had met them briefly back in April, in St. Louis, before he had taken passage to New Albany to supervise the building of his dream. They were York’s friends and traveling companions, but an odder bunch Marsh had never met. Two of them were men of indeterminate age with foreign names that he could neither remember nor pronounce; he called ’em Smith and Brown, to York’s amusement. They were always yapping at each other in some outlandish gibble-gabble. The third man, a hollow-cheeked Easterner who dressed like a mortician, was called Simon and never spoke at all. The woman, Katherine, was said to be a Britisher. She was tall and kind of stooped, with a sickly, decaying look to her. She reminded Marsh of a great white vulture. But she was York’s friend, all of them were, and York had warned him that he might have peculiar friends, so Abner Marsh held his tongue.
“Good evening, Abner,” York said. He stopped and glanced around the yards, where the half-built steamers lay like so many skeletons amid the gray flowing mists. “Cold night, isn’t it? For June?”
“That it is. You come far?”
“I’ve taken a suite at the Galt House over in Louisville. We hired a boat to take us across the river.” His cool gray eyes studied the nearest steamboat with interest. “Is this one ours?”
Marsh snorted. “This little thing? Hell no, that’s just some cheap stern-wheeler they’re building for the Cincinnati trade. You don’t think I’d put no damned stern-wheel on
our
boat, do you?”
York smiled. “Forgive my ignorance. Where is our boat, then?”
“Come this way,” Marsh said, gesturing broadly with his walking stick. He led them half across the boatyard. “There,” he said, pointing.
The mists gave way for them, and there she stood, high and proud, dwarfing all the other boats around her. Her cabins and rails gleamed with fresh paint pale as snow, bright even in the gray shroud of fog. Way up on her texas roof, halfway to the stars, her pilot house seemed to glitter; a glass temple, its ornate cupola decorated all around with fancy woodwork as intricate as Irish lace. Her chimneys, twin pillars that stood just forward of the texas deck, rose up a hundred feet, black and straight and haughty. Their feathered tops bloomed like two dark metal flowers. Her hull was slender and seemed to go on forever, with her stern obscured by the fog. Like all the first-class boats, she was a side-wheeler. Set amidship, the huge curved wheelhouses loomed gigantic, hinting at the vast power of the paddle wheels concealed within them. They seemed all the larger for want of the name that would soon be emblazoned across them.
In the night and the fog, amid all those smaller, plainer boats, she seemed a vision, a white phantom from some riverman’s dream. She took the breath away, Marsh thought as they stood there.
Smith was gibbling and Brown was gabbling back at him, but Joshua York just looked. For the longest time he looked, and then he nodded. “We have created something beautiful, Abner,” he said.
Marsh smiled.
“I had not expected to find her
Raymond went next, by Julian’s leave, then Adrienne, then Jorge. Finally, when the others were done, Julian turned to Jean with a smile and a gesture. He fell on her with a stifled sob, wrenching her from Sour Billy’s embrace, and began to tear at the soft flesh of her throat. Damon Julian grimaced with distaste. “When he is done,” he told Sour Billy, “clean it up.”
CHAPTER THREE
New Albany, Indiana,
June 1857
The mists were thick on the river and the air damp and chilly. It was just after midnight when Joshua York, finally arrived from St. Louis, met Abner Marsh in the deserted boatyards of New Albany. Marsh had been waiting for almost half an hour when York appeared, striding out of the fog like some pale apparition. Behind him, silent as shadows, came four others.
Marsh grinned toothily. “Joshua,” he said. He nodded curtly to the others. He had met them briefly back in April, in St. Louis, before he had taken passage to New Albany to supervise the building of his dream. They were York’s friends and traveling companions, but an odder bunch Marsh had never met. Two of them were men of indeterminate age with foreign names that he could neither remember nor pronounce; he called ’em Smith and Brown, to York’s amusement. They were always yapping at each other in some outlandish gibble-gabble. The third man, a hollow-cheeked Easterner who dressed like a mortician, was called Simon and never spoke at all. The woman, Katherine, was said to be a Britisher. She was tall and kind of stooped, with a sickly, decaying look to her. She reminded Marsh of a great white vulture. But she was York’s friend, all of them were, and York had warned him that he might have peculiar friends, so Abner Marsh held his tongue.
“Good evening, Abner,” York said. He stopped and glanced around the yards, where the half-built steamers lay like so many skeletons amid the gray flowing mists. “Cold night, isn’t it? For June?”
“That it is. You come far?”
“I’ve taken a suite at the Galt House over in Louisville. We hired a boat to take us across the river.” His cool gray eyes studied the nearest steamboat with interest. “Is this one ours?”
Marsh snorted. “This little thing? Hell no, that’s just some cheap stern-wheeler they’re building for the Cincinnati trade. You don’t think I’d put no damned stern-wheel on
our
boat, do you?”
York smiled. “Forgive my ignorance. Where is our boat, then?”
“Come this way,” Marsh said, gesturing broadly with his walking stick. He led them half across the boatyard. “There,” he said, pointing.
The mists gave way for them, and there she stood, high and proud, dwarfing all the other boats around her. Her cabins and rails gleamed with fresh paint pale as snow, bright even in the gray shroud of fog. Way up on her texas roof, halfway to the stars, her pilot house seemed to glitter; a glass temple, its ornate cupola decorated all around with fancy woodwork as intricate as Irish lace. Her chimneys, twin pillars that stood just forward of the texas deck, rose up a hundred feet, black and straight and haughty. Their feathered tops bloomed like two dark metal flowers. Her hull was slender and seemed to go on forever, with her stern obscured by the fog. Like all the first-class boats, she was a side-wheeler. Set amidship, the huge curved wheelhouses loomed gigantic, hinting at the vast power of the paddle wheels concealed within them. They seemed all the larger for want of the name that would soon be emblazoned across them.
In the night and the fog, amid all those smaller, plainer boats, she seemed a vision, a white phantom from some riverman’s dream. She took the breath away, Marsh thought as they stood there.
Smith was gibbling and Brown was gabbling back at him, but Joshua York just looked. For the longest time he looked, and then he nodded. “We have created something beautiful, Abner,” he said.
Marsh smiled.
“I had not expected to find her
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