"Naomi Novik - Temeraire 1 - His Majesty's Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Novik Naomi)

frigate, he almost certainly would be made post, a captain himself. Laurence was only mildly pleased;
though Gibbs had done his duty reasonably, the man had been imposed on him by the Admiralty and
they had not become intimates. He had wanted Riley in the first lieutenant’s place, and if he had been
given his way, Riley would now be the one getting his step. That was the nature of the service, and he
did not begrudge Gibbs the good fortune; still, he did not rejoice quite so wholeheartedly as he would
have to see Tom get his own ship.

“Very well; what’s all this, then?” Laurence said now; the hands were clustered about an oddly placed
bulkhead towards the stern area of the hold, neglecting the work of cataloguing the captured ship’s
stores.

“Sir, if you will step this way,” Gibbs said. “Make way there,” he ordered, and the hands backed away
from what Laurence now saw was a doorway set inside a wall that had been built across the back of the
hold; recently, for the lumber was markedly lighter than the surrounding planks.

Ducking through the low door, he found himself in a small chamber with a strange appearance. The
walls had been reinforced with actual metal, which must have added a great deal of unnecessary weight
to the ship, and the floor was padded with old sailcloth; in addition, there was a small coal-stove in the
corner, though this was not presently in use. The only object stored within the room was a large crate,
roughly the height of a man’s waist and as wide, and this was made fast to the floor and walls by means
of thick hawsers attached to metal rings.

Laurence could not help feeling the liveliest curiosity, and after a moment’s struggle he yielded to it.
“Mr. Gibbs, I think we shall have a look inside,” he said, stepping out of the way. The top of the crate
was thoroughly nailed down, but eventually yielded to the many willing hands; they pried it off and
lifted out the top layer of packing, and many heads craned forward at the same time to see.

No one spoke, and in silence Laurence stared at the shining curve of eggshell rising out of the heaped
straw; it was scarcely possible to believe. “Pass the word for Mr. Pollitt,” he said at last; his voice
sounded only a little strained. “Mr. Riley, pray be sure those lashings are quite secure.”

Riley did not immediately answer, too busy staring; then he jerked to attention and said, hastily, “Yes,
sir,” and bent to check the bindings.

Laurence stepped closer and gazed down at the egg. There could hardly be any doubt as to its nature,
though he could not say for sure from his own experience. The first amazement passing, he tentatively
reached out and touched the surface, very cautiously: it was smooth and hard to the touch. He withdrew
almost at once, not wanting to risk doing it some harm.

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Mr. Pollitt came down into the hold in his awkward way, clinging to the ladder edges with both hands
and leaving bloody prints upon it; he was no kind of a sailor, having become a naval surgeon only at the
late age of thirty, after some unspecified disappointments on land. He was nevertheless a genial man,
well liked by the crew, even if his hand was not always the steadiest at the operating table. “Yes, sir?” he
said, then saw the egg. “Good Lord above.”