Mississippi Roll. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

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      ‘We do, Captain,’ Jyrgal answered. ‘JoHanna and Jack have both told us this. We’ll cause you no trouble. You have my word.’

      ‘See that you keep that promise,’ Montaigne said. To Wilbur, she looked uncertain and more than a little worried about the prospect. Still, she nodded and allowed JoHanna to lead the little group to the stateroom toward the stern, next to JoHanna’s own room. JoHanna hurried them in, then shut the door quickly behind them as Wilbur watched Captain Montaigne climb the short flight of stairs up to the hurricane deck and the pilothouse. Wilbur went to the wall of the refugees’ room and pushed himself through until he stood inside, though he kept his form deliberately invisible for the moment.

      ‘… best we could do,’ JoHanna was saying, with Jyrgal translating to the others. ‘Jyrgal will select the group to go down to the main deck with me.’ The captain hadn’t been joking about tight quarters – even with a portion of the group leaving, this was worse than the crew bunk rooms down on the main deck. Wilbur had no idea how all of them were going to sleep, much less tolerate being in the same room for any amount of time. JoHanna pointed to an interior door to the left. ‘That door leads to an adjoining cabin that’s also for your use. I’ve put mats in there for sleeping; you can roll them up for more room when you’re not using them. Each room also has its own bathroom, as does the room on the main deck, so you don’t need to go outside for that. I’ll have a trusted crew member, maybe Jack but possibly someone else, drop off food for everyone and pick up the trays afterward. If you hear a knock like this’ – JoHanna knocked on the wall: two quick raps, a pause, three more quick ones, then a last short one – ‘you can open the outside door. Otherwise, don’t open the door for anyone else, keep it locked from the inside, and make sure the windows are always covered. Does everyone – and I mean every one of you – understand that?’

      The group nodded, their assorted faces – most displaying obvious joker attributes – solemn. ‘Good,’ JoHanna said. ‘Arrangements are being made through the Joker Anti-Defamation League, the JADL, to get you to sanctuary cities along the river. We’ll be dropping you off along the way, no more than two or three at a time, where you’ll be given aid. In the meantime, make yourselves as comfortable as you can and stay as quiet as possible.’

      ‘You should not worry,’ Jyrgal told her in his slow English. ‘This is much better than where we were, and we are very grateful for your help.’

      JoHanna gave a sigh as she went to the door. ‘No one deserves to be treated the way you have, and I’m ashamed for my country. I’m glad we could help. I just hope …’ She didn’t finish the thought, and Wilbur watched her nod to the refugees. ‘All right, those who Jyrgal chose, come with me.’ JoHanna opened the door, peered out along the promenade, and slid out quickly, gesturing for the smaller group to follow her.

      Wilbur remained behind. He stared at them – a threat to his boat and thus to his own safety – as memory swept over him …

      It was March of 1948, and he and Eleanor, not yet a year married, were in Cincinnati, where Wilbur was supervising the finishing touches on the Natchez, already afloat on the Ohio and readying for its maiden voyage down the Ohio and on to the Mississippi toward its future home of New Orleans. They’d been in the Netherland Plaza Pavillion Caprice, where they’d listened to the radio broadcast of the NCAA finals game between Baylor and Kentucky. Kentucky had won, 58–42, and Alex Groza had won the Most Outstanding Player trophy for having scored fifty-four points during the tournament. There were whispers among some of the people listening that perhaps the unstoppable Groza might be one of those ‘aces’ that people were talking about.

      Now, with the ball game over and a local band playing on the stage, they were enjoying highballs at their table as the waitstaff, nearly all of them colored, circulated among the tables. Wilbur was telling Eleanor some of the history of his grandfather’s sequence of Natchez steamboats. ‘He was a tough and stubborn old bird, from what I understand. Had to be, to keep building all those new boats time and time again.’

      ‘You never knew him?’ Eleanor asked. She was scissoring a jeweled pendant in her fingers, the light catching on the facets of the large emerald that was its centerpiece: a gift from her parents when they’d announced their engagement.

      ‘He died in New Orleans in 1896, twenty years before I’d be born – believe it or not, after being struck by a hit-and-run bicyclist. My dad was only three at the time.’ Wilbur lifted a hand at the slow beginning of his wife’s smile. ‘Uh-uh. You’re not allowed to laugh at that,’ he said. ‘It was a tragedy.’

      ‘Being killed by a hit-and-run bicycle?’

      ‘Grandpa Thomas was eighty. Not exactly a spring chicken.’

      ‘Thought you said he was a tough and stubborn old bird. Though if he still managed to get his poor second wife pregnant in his seventies …’ She laughed, and Wilbur had to laugh along with her.

      ‘He saw a lot in his time,’ he told her. ‘The Civil War, for instance.’

      Eleanor nodded at that, sipping at her highball. One of the waiters passed the table, refilling their water glasses, his skin starkly dark against the white sleeves of his jacket. Wilbur saw her gaze follow the man. ‘I’ve been reading up on steamboats on my own, since we’re going to be living on one,’ Eleanor said, her attention moving from the waiter back to Wilbur. ‘I learned that some of them used to smuggle slaves from the South. Brought them here to Cincinnati sometimes, in fact …’ She stopped, looking embarrassed, taking another, longer sip from the glass. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I know how your grandfather …’

      Wilbur shrugged. ‘My grandfather was a man of his time and place,’ he said. ‘Yes, he was a Confederate and unapologetic about his views. Heck, Eleanor, the sixth Natchez took Jefferson Davis to his home after he’d been elected president of the Confederate States of America; Granddad used his boat to transport Confederate troops to Memphis; and – according to what I’ve been told by family – he deliberately torched that Natchez in 1863 to keep her from being seized by Union forces. He never smuggled any slaves to freedom; in fact, from what I’ve been told, he despised the captains who did and considered them traitors. After the war, he refused to fly the Stars and Stripes flag on any of his boats – he finally, finally let the eighth Natchez raise the American flag in 1885, as she passed Vicksburg. Sometimes …’ Wilbur managed a wan smile and lifted his own drink. ‘Sometimes I think I’m glad I never had the chance to know him. After what I saw in the war, after what we heard was done in Germany to the Jews, and the horrors the Japs inflicted on the Chinese … well, Grandpa Thomas’s political beliefs feel like a bloody stain on my family’s legacy.’ He grunted a short, deprecating laugh. ‘Families – they all have skeletons they’d prefer to keep buried.’

      ‘You’re not your grandfather, Wilbur,’ she told him. ‘As you said, he was a man of his time. Any sins he might have committed aren’t yours to bear.’ She put her hand over his on the tablecloth, her wide blue eyes searching his own. ‘You aren’t him, Wilbur,’ she said with a slow emphasis. ‘You’re a far better and wiser man. I wouldn’t have fallen in love with someone who wasn’t also a good and compassionate person. Which is what you are.’

      She leaned over and kissed him. ‘Now let’s go upstairs to our room,’ she said. ‘And no more talking about your grandpa Thomas.’

      He remembered how they’d made love that night, and how they’d moved aboard the Natchez two days later, which would be their home for the next three years, until that day when everything changed …

      Now Wilbur was looking at twenty or so ragged, tired, СКАЧАТЬ