"Bradley Denton - The Territory (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denton Bradley)

the smell caused by two hundred men all doing their business in the same spot over the course of a week.
It was even worse than usual this morning, because the leaders of other guerrilla bands had brought
some of their own men into camp the day before. But at least Sam had the grove to himself for now.

When he had finished his business, he continued eastward through the grove until the stench faded and
the trees thinned. Then he sat down with his back against the bole of a sycamore and opened one of his
saddlebags. He removed his Colt Navy revolver and laid it on the ground beside him, then took out a
pen, a bottle of ink, and the deerhide pouch that held his journal. He slid the notebook from the pouch
and flipped pages until he reached a blank sheet, then opened the ink bottle, dipped his pen, and began
to write.

Tuesday, August 11, 1863:

I have had the same dream again, or I should say, another variation thereof. This time when I reached
the dead man, I discovered that his face was that of my brother Henry. Then I awoke with the thought
that it was my fault that Henry was on board thePennsylvania when she blew, which in turn led to the
thought that I was an idiot to ask a young and unsure physician to give him morphine.

But I would have been on the Pennsylvania as well had it not been for the malice of a certain William
Brown, perhaps the only man caught in that storm of metal, wood, and steam who received what he
deserved. As for the morphine, Dr. Peyton himself instructed me to ask the night doctor to give Henry an
eighth of a grain should he become restless. If the doctor administered too much, the fault was his, not
mine.

I see by my words that I have become hard. But five years have passed since that night inMemphis , and
I have seen enough in those years that the hours I spent at Henry's deathbed do not seem so horrific now
-- or, at least, they do not seem so during my waking hours.

A pistol shot rang out back at camp and was followed by the shouted curses of men angry at having
been awakened. Someone had killed a rat or squirrel, and might soon wish that he'd let the creature live
to gnaw another day. These once-gentleMissouri farmboys had become as mean as bobcats. They
generally saved their bullets for Bluebellies, but didn't mind using their fists and boots on each other.

The dream seems more pertinent, Sam continued, on those nights when the man's face is that of Orion.
Orion was as intolerable a scold as any embittered crone, and a Republican crone at that -- but he was
my brother, and it might have been in my power to save him.

Sam paused, rolling the pen between his fingers. He looked up from the paper and stared at the
brightening eastern sky until his eyes stung. Then he dipped the pen and resumed writing.

It is as fresh and awful in my memory as if it had happened not two years ago, but two days ago.

I could have fought the Red Legs, as Orion and our companions tried to do. I had a Smith & Wesson
seven-shooter. If I had used it, I would have either preserved Orion's life, or fallen beside him. Either
result would have been honorable.
 But I faltered. When the moment came, I chose to surrender, and handed over my pistol -- which one of
the Red Legs laughed at, saying he was glad I had not fired the weapon, for to be struck with a ball from
its barrel might give one a nasty welt.

Then, as if to prove his point, he turned it on the driver, and on the conductor, and on Mr. Bemis, and