cc.fireice-第2部分

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　Tovrov　was　ruffled　at　being　ordered　about　on　his　own　ship；　but　then　thought　of　the　money　locked　safe　in　his　cabin　smoothed　his　feathers。　He　was　also　wise　enough　not　to　argue　with　a　man　who　towered　above　him。　He　took　up　a　post　on　the　bow　as　instructed。
　
　The　group　huddled　on　the　quay　filed　onto　the　ship。
　
　Tovrov　heard　the　sleepy　voice　of　a　young　girl　or　boy　being　shushed　by　an　adult　as　the　passengers　made　their　way　to　their　quarters。　Others　followed；　lugging　boxes　or　steamer　trunks。　From　the　grunts　and　curses；　he　guessed　that　the　baggage　was　heavy。　The　last　person　onto　the　ship　was　Federoff；　who　huffed　with　unaccustomed　exertion　from　the　short　climb。
　
　〃Well；　my　good　fellow；〃　he　said　cheerily；　clapping　his　gloves　together　for　warmth。　〃That's　the　last　of　it。　Is　everything　ready？〃
　〃We　sail　when　you　give　the　order。〃
　〃Consider　it　given。　Here　is　the　rest　of　your　money。〃　He　handed　Tovrov　an　envelope　that　crackled　with　new　bills。　Then；　unexpectedly；　he　embraced　the　captain　in　a　bear　hug　and　kissed　him　on　both　cheeks。　〃Mother　Russia　can　never　pay　you　enough；〃　he　whispered。　〃Tonight　you　make　history。〃　He　released　the　astounded　captain　and　descended　the　gangway。　After　a　moment；　the　truck　drove　off　and　disappeared　into　the　gloom。
　
　The　captain　brought　the　envelope　to　his　nose；　inhaling　the　smell　of　rubles　as　if　they　were　roses；　then　he　tucked　the　money　in　a　coat　pocket　and　climbed　to　the　wheelhouse。　He　went　into　the　chart　room　behind　the　wheelhouse；　then　through　a　door　into　his　cabin　to　roust　Sergei；　his　first　mate。　The　captain　fold　the　young　Georgian　to　wake　the　crew　and　cast　off。　Muttering　inprehensibly　to　himself；　the　mate　went　below　to　follow　orders。
　
　A　handful　of　human　flotsam　staggered　out　onto　the　deck　in　various　states　of　sobriety。　Tovrov　watched　from　the　wheelhouse　as　the　mooring　lines　were　cast　off　and　the　gangway　pulled　up。　There　were　a　dozen　crewmen　in　all；　including　two　men　hired　at　the　last　minute　as　stokers　down　in　the　〃junkyard；〃　as　the　engine　room　was　called。　The　chief　engineer　was　a　petent　seaman　who　had　stayed　with　the　captain　out　of　loyalty。　He　wielded　his　oilcan　like　a　magic　wand　and　breathed　life　into　the　piles　of　scrap　metal　that　powered　the　Star。　The　boilers　had　been　warming　up　and　were　building　up　steam　as　well　as　could　be　expected。
　
　Tovrov　took　the　helm；　the　telegraph　jangled　and　the　ship　moved　away　from　the　dock。　As　the　Odessa　Star　inched　her　way　out　of　the　fog…bound　harbor；　those　who　saw　her　crossed　themselves　and　invoked　ancient　prayers　to　ward　off　demons。　She　seemed　to　float　above　the　water　like　a　phantom　ship　doomed　to　wander　the　world　in　search　of　drowned　sailors　for　her　crew。　Her　running　lights　were　veiled　in　a　gauzy　glow；　as　if　Saint　Elmo's　fire　danced　in　the　rigging。
　
　The　captain　steered　the　ship　through　the　winding　channel　and　around　fog…shrouded　boats　as　easily　as　a　porpoise　using　its　natural　radar。　Years　of　steaming　between　Odessa　and　Constantinople　had　engraved　the　route　in　his　brain；　and　he　knew　without　resorting　to　charts　or　channel　markers　how　many　turns　of　the　wheel　to　make。
　
　The　Star's　French　owners　had　purposely　neglected　her　maintenance　for　years；　hoping　one　good　storm　would　send　the　ship　to　the　bottom　and　payout　its　insurance。　Rust　dripped　from　the　scuppers　like　bleeding　sores　and　streaked　the　blistered　hull。　The　masts　and　cranes　were　splotched　by　corrosion。　The　ship　listed　drunkenly　to　port；　where　water　from　a　leaky　bilge　had　settled。　The　Star's　engines；　worn　and　long　in　need　of　an　overhaul；　wheezed　as　if　they　suffered　from　emphysema。　The　choking　black　cloud　that　poured　from　its　single　smokestack　stank　as　if　it　were　sulfur　emanating　from　Hades。　Like　a　terminal　patient　who　somehow　existed　in　a　wasted　body；　the　Star　continued　to　plow　through　the　seas　long　after　she　should　have　been　declared　clinically　dead。
　
　Tovrov　knew　that　the　Star　was　the　last　ship　he　would　ever　mand。　Yet　he　strove　to　maintain　a　spit…and…polish　look。　He　buffed　his　thin…soled　black　shoes　every　morning。　His　white　shirt　was　yellowed　but　clean；　and　he　attempted　to　keep　a　crease　in　his　threadbare　black　trousers。　Only　the　cosmetic　skills　of　an　embalmer　would　have　improved　the　captain's　physical　appearance。　Late　hours；　poor　diet　and　lack　of　sleep　had　taken　their　toll。　His　sunken　cheeks　gave　even　greater　prominence　to　the　long；　red…veined　nose　and　his　skin　was　as　gray　as　parchment。
　
　The　first　mate　went　back　to　sleep；　and　the　crew　settled　in　their　bunks　while　the　first　shift　of　stokers　fed　the　coal　into　the　boilers。　The　captain　lit　up　a　potent　Turkish　cigarette　that　triggered　a　coughing　fit　that　doubled　him　over。　As　he　got　his　fit　under　control；　he　became　aware　that　cold　sea　air　was　ing　in　an　open　door。　He　looked　up　and　saw　he　was　no　longer　alone。　A　huge　man　stood　in　the　doorway；　dramatically　framed　by　wisps　of　fog。　He　stepped　inside　and　shut　the　door　behind　him。
　
　〃Lights；〃　he　said　in　a　baritone　voice　that　identified　him　as　the　figure　who　had　been　the　first　to　e　aboard。
　
　Tovrov　pulled　the　cord　for　the　bare　bulb　that　hung　from　the　overhead。　The　man　had　thrown　back　his　hood。　He　was　tall　and　lean　and　wore　a　white　fur　hat　known　as　a　papakha　at　a　rakish　angle。　A　pale　dueling　scar　slashed　his　right　cheek　above　the　beard　line；　his　skin　was　red　and　blistered　with　snowburn　and　sparkling　drops　of　moisture　matted　his　black　hair　and　beard。　His　left　iris　was　clouded　from　an　injury　or　disease；　and　his　staring　good　eye　made　him　look　like　a　lopsided　Cyclops。
　
　The　fur…lined　cloak　had　fallen　open　to　reveal　a　pistol　holster　at　his　belt；　and　in　his　hand　he　carried　a　rifle。　A　cartridge　bandoleer　crossed　his　chest　and　a　saber　hung　from　his　belt。　He　was　dressed　in　a　muddy　gray　tunic　and　his　feet　were　shod　with　high；　black…leather　boots。　The　uniform　and　his　air　of　barely　repressed　violence　identified　him　as　a　Cossack；　one　of　the　fierce　warrior　caste　who　inhabited　the　rim　of　the　Black　Sea。　Tovrov　stifled　his　revulsion。　Cossacks　had　been　involved　in　the　death　of　his　family；　and　he　always　tried　to　avoid　the　belligerent　horsemen　who　seemed　happiest　when　instilling　fear。
　
　The　man　glanced　around　the　deserted　wheelhouse。　〃Alone？〃
　〃The　first　mate　is　sleeping　back　there；〃　Tovrov　said；　with　a　jerk　of　his　head。　〃He　is　drunk　and　doesn't　hear　anything。〃　He　fumbled　with　a　cigarette　and　offered　the　man　one。
　
　〃My　name　is　Major　Peter　Yakelev；〃　the　man　said；　waving　the　cigarette　away。　〃You　will　do　as　you　are　told；　Captain　Tovrov。〃
　〃You　may　trust　me　to　be　at　your　service；　Major。〃
　〃I　trust　no　one。〃　He　stepped　closer　and　spat　out　the　words。　〃Not　the　White　Russians　or　the　Reds。　Not　the　Germans　or　the　British。　They　are　all　against　us。　Even　Cossacks　have　gone　over　to　the　Bolsheviks。〃　He　glared　at　the　captain；　searching　for　a　nuance　of　defiance。　Seeing　no　threat　in　the　captain's　bland　expression；　he　reached　out　with　thick　fingers。
　
　〃Cigarette；〃　he　growled。　Tovrov　gave　him　the　whole　pack。　The　major　lit　one　up　and　drank　in　the　smoke　as　if　it　were　an　elixir。　Tovrov　was　intrigued　by　the　major's　accent。　The　captain's　father　had　worked　as　a　coachman　for　a　wealthy　landowner；　and　Tovrov　was　familiar　with　the　cultured　speech　of　the　Russian　elite。　This　man　looked　as　if　he　had　sprung　from　the　steppes；　but　he　spoke　with　an　educated　inflection。　Tovrov　knew　that　upper…class　officers　trained　at　the　military　academy　were　often　picked　to　lead　Cossack　troops。
　
　Tovrov　noticed　the　weariness　in　the　Cossack's　ruined　face　and　the　slight　sag　to　the　powerful　shoulders。　〃A　long　trip？〃　he　said。
　
　The　major　grinned　without　humor。　〃Yes；　a　long；　hard　trip。〃　He　blew　twin　plumes　of　smoke　out　of　his　nostrils　and　produced　a　flask　of　vodka　from　his　coat。　He　took　a　pull　and　looked　around。　〃This　ship　stinks；〃　he　declared。
　
　〃The　Star　is　an　old；　old　lady　with　a　great　heart。〃
　〃Your　old　lady　still　stinks；〃　the　Cossack　said。
　
　〃When　you're　my　age；　you　learn　to　hold　your　nose　and　take　what　you　can　get。〃
　
　The　major　roared　with　laughter　and　slapped　Tovrov　on　the　back　so　hard　that　sharp　daggers　of　pain　stabbed　his　ravaged　lungs　and　set　him　coughing。　The　Cossack　offered　Tovrov　his　flask。　The　captain　managed　a　swallow。　It　was　high…quality　vodka；　not　the　rotgut　he　was　used　to。　The　fiery　liquid