"Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Mitchell)

"Oh" — she patted its hide — "we make these... Persons from beginning babies, inside
tribeswomen, or New England ladies who won't be responsible, fall into bad habits, and don't pay their
debts." She tugged a second strap loose, then stepped aside so Sam could lift two heavy duffels and a
shrouded wicker basket down from the thing's hunched back.
Something rustled in the basket.
"Weather be kind..." Michael Sergeant-Major came and shouldered Sam aside, bent to pick up the
baggage. "Sir, where do you want these?" There was sweat on the sergeant-major's forehead.
"Set a tent for the lady. East camp, beside Neckless Peter's, I think. Tent and marquee, camp
furniture."
"Canvased tub-bath," Margaret said. "Canvased toilet pit."
Sam turned away, and the Boston girl came with him in quick little steps alongside, the long blue
coat whispering. She smelled of nothing but the stone and ice of the high mountain air she'd walked
through.
"How are we to keep that sad thing, lady?"
"Call me Patience, please, Lord Monroe; since we'll be camp-mates. I don't keep her; I send her
home."
"Home… And it goes all that distance back?"
"Oh, yes. Its mother is there. It will wander a few weeks… but get to home hutch at last."
"Its mother?"
"Occas always rest in their mothers' care."
"Nailed Jesus…"
"May I change the subject — and ask, are you always so sad at your soldiers' dying?"
Sam stopped. "What did you say?"
The girl smiled up at him, her right hand resting at her side, casually on the grip of her scimitar. "I
thought you must be sad for the soldiers I saw being buried below me, to be drunk so early in the day. It
proves a tender heart."
Margaret had come up behind them. "You mind your fucking manners," she said to the Boston girl,
"or we'll kick your ass right out of here. Who are you to dare — "
"Let it go, Margaret," Sam said. Then, to the girl:
"Still, not a bad idea to mind your manners, Patience... or I will kick your ass right out of here."
"Oh, dear. I apologize." The girl curtsied first to him, then to Margaret. "It will take us a while to
learn to know each other better." She snapped her fingers at Michael Sergeant-Major, and he led her
away, bent beneath the weight of her baggage and basket.
When she was a distance gone, Sam began to laugh. It hurt his head, but was worth it for the
pleasure of first laughter since coming down to This'll Do.
"Nothing funny there," Margaret Mosten said.
"Wouldn't want her for a daughter, Margaret?"
"Sir, I would take a quirt to her if she were."
"Mmm… It's interesting that the New England people sent us such a distraction. I wonder, to
distract us from what?"
"If necessary," Margaret said, " 'distractions' can have regrettable accidents. And that blood on the
coat — 'travel stains.' "
"Yes… See that people are careful with her. She carries to fight left-handed or with both hands.
And there're parry-marks on the hilt of that scimitar — but no scars on her face, no scars on her sword
arm when she reached up to undo the thing's harness." Salutes from the two cavalrymen guarding his tent.
One of them had eased the chain catches on his breastplate slightly.
"Johnson Fass."
"Sir!" A more rigid attention by Corporal Fass.
"Getting too fat for that cuirass?"
"No, sir." Hurried fumbling to tighten the catches.