As Lewis started to tell Jones what he’d outlined to Jack and JoHanna, Wilbur slid away from them. No, this couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. There had to be a way to get the refugees safely away, as well as some way to stop the Natchez from being scuttled and moored. There had to be. Didn’t there?
“Everything is all fouled up,” Wilbur said, the end of a tirade to Jeremiah. It had been a long monologue, starting with Kirby Jackson and just how deeply Wilbur feared being stranded steamless on a docked Natchez, then without so much as a segue, the new trouble with the Kazakhs. He’d laid out Lewis’s betrayal; even in steam form, he’d been shaking in anger as he spoke. He’d had to take in steam twice before he finished the rant, but it felt good to be filled with heat; it matched his mood.
“I can understand the way you’re feelin’,” Jeremiah told Wilbur. “But it’s good you caught the greedy bastard before it was too late. Now we mebbe can do somethin’ ’bout it.”
“What?” Wilbur husked angrily. “What can we do?”
“Dunno exactly yet. Gotta talk to the cap’n, JoHanna, Jack, and Wild Fox first, and we can all think on it. But for damn sure we gotta get ’em off the boat before ICE and this Agent Jones grabs ’em. We’ll be in Cincinnati tomorrow.”
“And I can’t leave the ship, Jackson’s refused Captain Montaigne’s offer—again—and Agent Jones is waiting there to grab poor Nurassyl and the others.”
Jeremiah leaned back in his ancient desk chair, the half-broken mechanism threatening to spill him over backwards. Wilbur unconsciously put his hand on the split leather there as if he could hold it up; droplets of steam condensed and soaked into the foam under the cracks. “Sure has been full’a problems, this trip,” Jeremiah said.
“Any luck finding a new job?” Wilbur asked, feeling somewhat guilty that he’d been going on for so long about his own concerns and ignoring how Jeremiah had been affected.
Jeremiah snorted. “Hell no. Nothin’ yet. Maybe if the cap’n turns down the comp’ny’s offer and finds herself on another boat that just happens to need a good pilot…” He shrugged. Wilbur saw his gaze flick over to the pictures around his desk and the room: drawings of the earliest iterations of the Natchez and photos of the last few built by Thomas Leathers, and a large sixteen-by-twenty photo of Wilbur’s current version. There were pictures of other steamboats as well: a poor print of the huge painting in the Natchez’s main salon depicting the race between the seventh Natchez and the Robert E. Lee, with huge clouds of black smoke pouring from their stacks into a tumultuous night sky; a dramatic drawing of the fatally overloaded Sultana exploding and burning on the Mississippi River in 1865, killing more than 1,600 former Union prisoners of war, the worst steamboat disaster in history; a photograph from 1922 that showed the Island Queen, the Tacoma, and the Morning Star all burning in the Ohio River off Cincinnati’s Public Landing after a fire started by a welder on the Morning Star quickly spread to the other two boats; and, almost ironically, a photo of the replacement Island Queen burning, from 1947 when a boiler exploded and sent the boat afire on the Monongahela River in Pittsburgh, sinking her and killing twenty-four.
Wilbur stared at the pictures, a sudden realization coming to him. “You need to talk to those insurance investigators—the guy with the horns and his wife,” he said, “and I need to get back into Jackson’s stateroom…”
Cincinnati. Tall Stacks.
Wilbur had to admit that the sight made him helplessly nostalgic. There were sixteen or so boats all lined up along the Public Landing and Yeatman’s Cove area of the Cincinnati riverfront, some of them just replica party boats, but a few were actual steamboats like the Natchez: the Belle of Louisville, the Delta Queen, the Mississippi Queen, the President, the General Jackson, the Majestic, and (to Wilbur’s mind) the obscenely bloated American Queen. Even in Wilbur’s earliest memories of the river, back in the 1930s, there was rarely such an array of steamboats gathered in one place, the prime days of the steamboats having already passed half a century earlier.
For that alone, the Tall Stacks was magnificent and splendid and wonderful. This was a fantasy come to life, an image of a past that had gone all too quickly. The riverfront area was packed with the curious, with period-costumed presenters, with families and children, which filled Wilbur with a double regret. I never had the chance to know my child or to show him or her anything like this, or to walk along the riverboat hand in hand with Eleanor, our child running along in excitement in front of us. I would have loved that. Eleanor would have loved it.
The Ohio River itself was alive with recreational vessels of all description. Loud music blared from the main stage just upriver—several regional acts had been booked to play (though not the Jokertown Boys), and a bluegrass band was set up under a tent in front of the American Queen, flailing away at “Ridin’ That Midnight Train” with banjo, fiddle, guitar, and upright bass. The Natchez was parked in the blue shadow of the Roebling Suspension Bridge, designed by John A. Roebling (who would go on to create the Brooklyn Bridge)—when that bridge had been completed in 1866, Wilbur had been told often enough in his visits to Cincinnati, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world. The riverfront parks on both the Ohio and Kentucky sides of the river were lined with painted facades of period shops and booths selling everything from Cincinnati-style chili to ice cream—and though it would have been wonderful to have been able to stroll the riverfront and board the other boats, or to walk into the city just a few blocks away, that was nothing Wilbur could do.
The irregular festival had been held in Cincinnati every three to five years since the mid-1990s, and the Natchez had been one of its attractions several times now. Wilbur would have enjoyed the spectacle of this one as well, even if only from the boat, but he couldn’t. All that had happened on the voyage, all that was threatening to happen soon, drove out any pleasure he might have felt: the thought of his steamboat docked permanently here afterward; the issue of the refugees they were smuggling and Lewis’s betrayal.
Tellingly, the consortium that owned the Natchez had purchased airline tickets or passage back on the other boats for their passengers, since the Natchez would not be leaving Cincinnati after the festival. As a result, many of the boat’s contingent had already disembarked, taking to hotels downtown or new staterooms on another boat to enjoy what the festival had to offer before they left.
That didn’t mean that the Natchez was anywhere close to deserted. The festival had sold thousands of “port passes” that permitted attendees to board the various steamboats to look around them (and have their pass stamped by each as a souvenir). They also sold tickets for thrice-daily short cruises on the Ohio: morning, afternoon, and evening. That meant there was always a crowd aboard the Natchez that first day—and crowds had to be watched so that they didn’t stumble across the remaining Kazakhs prematurely, all of them now ensconced in stateroom 3 on the texas deck. Even the traitor Lewis helped with that.
The second day featured the evening steamboat race between the Natchez, the Belle, and the Delta Queen: the Natchez would be packed with people who had purchased tickets allowing them to be aboard for the race.
It wasn’t until the morning of the race that anyone heard from Leo and Wanda. In the captain’s stateroom, Leo scratched his forehead under the curl of his right ram’s horn, frowning. “We’ve checked with our contacts, did some digging, and your suspicions were right, Jeremiah,” Leo said to the group gathered around him: Jeremiah, Captain Montaigne, JoHanna, Jack, Wild Fox, and Sylvia. And Wilbur, watching silently and invisibly in a corner. “I can tell you that the Natchez is insured to the hilt and well over. The Natchez Consortium—and Jackson as its majority shareholder—would stand to make a tidy little profit if something catastrophic would happen to the boat.”
“Converting the Natchez to a casino or a hotel or even just an entertainment center would cost a small fortune for the necessary renovations,” Wanda added. Wilbur noted that she was taller than Leo by a few inches, even in
flats. He liked her voice: smoky and low and sensual without any deliberate attempt on her part—it reminded him of Eleanor’s. “My bet is that it would be better all around if once they dock the Natchez to start that work, someone conveniently starts a fire on the boat and burns her down to the waterline. Probably at night, when no one’s around to raise the alarm. No one gets hurt to complicate things, and the insurance gives the consortium a tidy last profit before they dissolve the company.”
Wanda shrugged. Jeremiah looked toward the corner where Wilbur was standing.
“A welder cutting steel creates a spark, it smolders for hours on some oily rags and later ignites: voilà! A perfect insurance fire,” Leo said, picking up Wanda’s thread. “Happens all the time, and absent any obvious sign of arson, too often the insurance company just has to pay up.”
Cottle. The certainty hit Wilbur immediately. That’s what Jackson was talking to him about back in Memphis. He’ll be the one to do it. He knows the boat as well as anyone, and he’ll be there to help the contractors to remove the boilers.
“We’re still having our people in New York look over Jackson and the consortium,” Leo added. “We’ll let you know if we find out anything else. But if I were a betting man, I’d say that’s why Jackson has zero interest in any offer you’ve made to buy him out.”
“Thanks for following up on that,” Captain Montaigne told the couple. “We appreciate it.”
The Storgmans both smiled. “No problem,” Wanda told them. “As Leo said, if we hear anything else interesting, you’ll be the first to know.”
Leo and Wanda left the room. Jeremiah was already shaking his head as the door closed behind them. “So that’s it,” he said. “We’ll get the last of the Kazakhs off the boat, then we’ll all have to start looking for new jobs. And poor Wilbur…” He left that sentence hanging.
Poor Wilbur indeed, Wilbur thought. I’m the one with no options at all. What happens to me if they burn the Natchez down around me? He had no answer to that … or, rather, the answers that rattled through his head scared him more than he wanted to admit.
He plunged his hands into the wall, seeking the steam and taking it in. When he had enough, he allowed himself to become visible. “I have some thoughts about the refugees, at least,” he said.
Wilbur went up to the pilothouse as Jeremiah backed the Natchez away from its dock to lead the other two boats upriver to the race’s starting point at the Manhattan Harbor Yacht Club in Dayton, Kentucky, about five miles from the finish line of the Suspension Bridge (itself packed with onlookers). Wilbur had taken in steam so he’d be somewhat visible in the dusk, though the two of them were alone in the pilothouse. Jeremiah’s face was more lined than usual.
“You’re still okay with everything we planned out?” Wilbur asked him.
“Yeah, I am,” Jeremiah told him. “I just want it all to be over. One way or t’other.”
The three steamboats moved majestically upriver, Gimcrack loudly playing the calliope and Jeremiah dutifully sounding the steam whistle between tunes. Wilbur, looking out from the pilothouse window, saw the horned head of Leo Storgman moving toward the pilot house, pushing through the crowds permitted up on the hurricane deck to watch the race. Wilbur released enough steam to make himself invisible again as Leo hurried up the stairs and hammered on the door. Jeremiah raised eyebrows in Wilbur’s direction and opened the door.
“I need to find the captain,” Leo said rather breathlessly. “I looked on the boiler deck and knocked on her cabin door. Wanda and I just had a call from New York; it seems that the Natchez isn’t the only thing your Mr. Jackson has insured. Several of the crew—Captain Montaigne, JoHanna, Cottle, and you, Jeremiah, and a few others—he took out heavy life insurance policies against each of you—a couple of months ago.”
Jeremiah’s head went back, startled. “Life insurance? You gotta be kiddin’.”
Leo shook his head. “Nope. I don’t think he’s planning to torch the boat while it’s empty. I need to talk to Captain Montaigne.”
Jeremiah plucked a microphone from a clip on the instrument panel. “Captain Montaigne,” he said, and they heard his voice reverberating from the speakers around the boat, “please report to the pilot house.”
Wilbur was already slipping through the wall of the pilothouse and out before the captain could answer, a cold fear running through his head. A policy on Cottle? I thought he and Jackson were working together. And if not, then … Wilbur shuddered.
Wilbur went first to the refugees’ cabin, stopping to take in steam again before he entered. Jyrgal and his family, Timur, and the two lovers, Tazh and Aiman, were the only Kazakhs remaining aboard. Their belongings were packed and ready in the room for them to leave once the race was over and the passengers started to disembark. “There’s something going on,” Wilbur said immediately on entering the room. “Our plans may have to change. If you hear alarms, you need to leave the room and head for the lifeboats. Look for JoHanna, Jack, or the captain; they’ll know what to do.”
“There is danger for the boat?” Jyrgal said.
“Maybe,” Wilbur said. “I don’t know.”
“And you, Wilbur?” That was Nurassyl, speaking the little English he had picked up from their lessons. “You leave, too?”
“I…” Wilbur shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Cannot?” Nurassyl persisted.
“It’s not possible for me. I’ve tried. I can’t leave. The boat … it holds me.” He hugged himself in illustration. “Look, I have to go. Just stay ready. There’s something I need to check.”
Nurassyl took a step in front of Wilbur as he started to leave, reaching out toward him as Wilbur stopped. Again, the mass of tentacles that served the joker for hands stroked Wilbur’s form as Nurassyl hissed in pain from the touch. The tingling he’d felt when Nurassyl had given him the ability to speak returned, but stronger this time, then Nurassyl staggered backward away from him. Wilbur could see blisters rising on the tentacles even as Nurassyl cradled his arms to his body. “Nurassyl, I’m so sorry…” Wilbur said. “Keşiriñiz.”
Nurassyl was shaking his head. “Not sorry,” he said. “Now—you go.”
“I hurt you.”
“You go,” Nurassyl told him.
Wilbur nodded. He left the cabin.
By the time he reached the boiler room, Wilbur felt Natchez making the turn to head downriver again. He could sense the hull trembling and the steam rising in the pipes, ready to be released as the race began. He could see the boats roughly aligned and pointing toward the lights of Cincinnati and the bridges there: the Delta Queen closest to the Ohio side, the Belle in the center, and Natchez nearest the Kentucky shore. From the entrance to the Manhattan Harbor Yacht Club, a puff of white smoke erupted from a small cannon, followed quickly by the thunder of its report echoing from the hillsides around them, signaling a fair start to the race. There were cheers from the riverbanks and from the passengers lining the decks of the boats in response. Smoke billowed from the stacks of all three boats and their paddle wheels tore at the water. Steam whistles screeched and wailed.
Despite the urgency he felt, Wilbur couldn’t help but watch for a few moments, at least. Steamboat races were somewhat stately affairs, the boats generally capable of top speeds of perhaps ten miles an hour. As heavily laden with passengers as they were, Wilbur doubted they’d manage to exceed that speed, but that was also the case for the other boats. Even at full steam, with the boilers and engines pushed to capacity and the paddles lashing angrily at the river, it would take them half an hour to cover the roughly five miles of river to Cincinnati and the finish line. At the moment, Wilbur could see the Natchez was already ahead of the Belle of Louisville by half a boat length and was slowly widening the lead, with the Queen lagging a full boat length back of the Belle. The boats were close together; he could see the excited faces of the passengers on the Belle and hear those on the Natchez exchanging insults and challenges back and forth from the railings, over the cla
mor of the engines and the steam whistles. Crowds lined the shore on both sides, all of them cheering. Pleasure boats drew white trails on the river ahead of them as they paced the racing steamboats. The excitement from those on the boat was palpable and contagious. Wilbur wanted to shout along with them.
They were still pulling ahead, and Wilbur could feel the engines throbbing against the deck planks. As they approached the I-471 bridge, it was apparent to Wilbur that the Natchez was destined to win the race.
Or would be, under normal circumstances.
Wilbur slid through the wall and into the boiler room. He was immediately enveloped in steam and heat; from long experience, he knew at once something was wrong. Cottle should have been visible, opening valves, checking pressure gauges, and shouting commands to his crew over the furious din of the boat’s engines. But no one at all was visible in the boiler room, though he could hear two crewmembers shouting farther sternward in the engine room. Wilbur heard the engine telegraph chime. “It’s time to give me all she’s got, Mr. Cottle,” Jeremiah’s voice thundered tinnily from the ancient speaking tube connected to the engine room.
There was no answer, but Wilbur quickly scanned the boilers: all the steam valves were cranked wide open. The boilers hissed and fumed, and the whining engines in the wheelhouse were now pounding at the frame of the Natchez like mad drummers beating on a hundred drum sets at once. Wilbur could see the gauges all up against or slightly past the red safety lines and still rising.
Still rising. “Cottle!” Wilbur called out, his voice lost against the furious noise. He glimpsed a pair of feet between the boilers. Gliding closer, he saw Cottle lying on the deck, his uniform shirt off to reveal a soaked wifebeater tee and blood pouring from a deep cut in his scalp.
Mississippi Roll Page 31
