"Joe Haldeman - Guardian" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

The parlor aboard the boat had an ample collection of railway schedules, though
of course there was no sure way of knowing which ones were closed down by the strike.
Daniel and I sorted through the collection, writing down possible routes that did not
advertise Pullman service, and presumably would not be affected by the strike.
Studying the large map on the wall, though, I had a sudden inspiration. For an
extra five dollars, we could continue via steamer avoiding Chicago altogether to Duluth,
and from there entrain to St. Paul, Minnesota (the Minneapolis-St. Paul & Duluth
Railroad didn't have Pullmans, being only 151 miles in extent). St. Paul was the northern
terminus of the Diamond Jo Line of steamers, which plied the Mississippi.
We were both excited by the idea of going down Mark Twain's river! I had read
Huckleberry Finn to Daniel as a bedtime story when he was seven and eight, and had
myself read the original Life on the Mississippi—though if I'd seen the later, sadder
version of that book, I might have been less enthusiastic.
(It occurs to me that I should remind modern readers that in 1894 the age of the
steamboat was well past. The train from New York to Chicago cost less and only took a
day. Old people took steamships out of nostalgia—or fear of "railroad spine"—but to
most, it was an eccentric mode of transportation that one might use for a day or so of
sightseeing, or as a change of pace from a long railroad journey.)
Our cabin was small but pleasant, and we slept well after a day of running around;
I also felt a new sense of security for the time being—Edward might have people
watching railroad stations, but there was no one on his side who could walk on water!
I woke in time to see the sunrise over Erie's picturesque harbor. After a hearty
breakfast, we took the air in the ship's bow as it moved swiftly along close to shore,
dense woodlands going by, with many deer and birds ignoring us. We congratulated
ourselves on our decision; it seemed a most agreeable way to travel. By Friday we would
be singing a different tune.
Cleveland looked serene and beautiful from the water. We docked at about four
and were advised to go ashore for supper. With directions from the porter, we went a few
blocks to the Stillman Hotel, where we had lake fish so delicate and superb I can still
recall the flavor.
City quickly gave way to forest as we plied on into the dark. We looked at the
stars for a while—I reviewed the major constellations with Daniel, who had a talent for
seeing fanciful shapes in the sky. I remember him insisting that Draco was President
Cleveland riding a giraffe.
The next day was a lazy one; I drew and painted while Daniel played with some
boys his age. I smelled tobacco on his breath and chastised him for it—did he want his
father's cough?—which made him sulk, but he recovered as we moved up the Detroit
River, and traffic became varied and interesting. We passed a long barge ferrying a
locomotive with twenty-two cars.
We slept through the loading and unloading at Detroit, but woke at Port Huron.
Our boat passed over the new train tunnel connecting the United States and Canada, a
prodigy of engineering—a cast-iron tube wider than a locomotive and more than a mile
long. I was glad to be over it rather than in it.
The gray sky darkened as we went slowly through a narrow strait, and when it
opened out into Lake Huron, the rain and wind began. The steamboat charged on into the
storm, slapping against waves with a slow rise and jarring fall, meanwhile rocking from
side to side in the wind.
Both of us were violently ill. Our belongings slid and crashed around the cabin.
The porter came around to tell us not to light any lamps, and I asked him whether there
was any relief for our seasickness. He directed me to the infirmary, where I had to wait in