"Courtney 19th Century 02 - The Sound of Thunder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

"Spoedige terugkonts. " And the commandos laughed and shouted back. Sean stooped to a pretty girl who stood beside his horse. She was waving a red scarf and suddenly Sean saw that though she smiled her eyelashes were loaded with tears like dew on a blade of grass.

"Where are they going?" Sean raised his voice above the uproar.

She lifted her head and the movement loosed a tear; it dropped down her cheek, slid from her chin and left a tiny damp spot on her blouse.

"To the train, of course."

"The train? Which train?"

"Look, here come the guns."

In consternation Sean looked up as the guns rumbled past, two of them. Uniformed gunners in blue, frogged with gold, sitting stiffly to attention on the carriages, the horses leaning forward against the immense weight of the guns. Tall wheels shod with steel, bronze glittering on the breeches in contrast to the sombre grey of the barrels.

"My God!" breathed Sean. Then turning back to the girl he grasped her shoulder and shook it in his agitation. "Where are they going? "Tell me quickly-where? " "Menheer!" She bridled at his touch and wriggled away from it.

"Please. I'm sorry-you must tell me." Sean called after her as she disappeared into the crowd.

A minute longer Sean sat stupefied, then Ins brain began to work again.

It was war, then. But where and against whom?

Surely no tribal rising would call out this array of strength.

Those guns were the most modern weapons Sean could conceive.

No, this was a white man's war.

Against the Orange Republic? Impossible, they were brothers.

Against the British, then? The idea appalled him. And yet and yet five years ago there had been rumours. It had happened before. He remembered 1895, and the Jameson Raid. Anything could have happened during the years he had been cut off from civilization-and now he had stumbled innocently into the midst Of it.

Quickly he considered his own position. He was British. born in Natal under the Union Jack. He looked like a burgher, spoke like one, rode like one, he was born in Africa and had never left it-but technically he was just as much an Englishman as if he had been born within sound of Bow bells.

Just supposing it was war between the Republic and Britain, and just supposing the Boers caught him-what would they do with him?

Confiscate his wagons and his ivory certainly, throw him into prison perhaps, shoot him as a spy possibly!

"I've got to get to hell out of here, he mumbled, and then to Mbejane,

"Come on. Back to the wagons, quickly." Before they reached the bridge he changed his mind. He had to learn with certainty what was happening. There was one person he could go to, and he must take the risk.

"Mbejane, go back to the camp. Find Nkosizana Dirk and keep him there-even if you have to tie him. Speak to no man and, as you value your life, let Dirk speak with no man. It is understood? " "It is understood, Nkosi.

And Sean, to all appearances another burgher among thousands of burghers, worked his way slowly through the crowds and the press of wagons towards a general dealer's store at the top end of the town near the railway station.

Since Sean had last seen it the sign above the entrance had been freshly painted in red and gold. "I. Goldberg. Importer & Exporter, Dealing in Mining Machinery, Merchant & Whole Purchasing Agent: gold, precious stones, hides and skins, saler ivory and natural produce.

Despite this war, or because of it, Mr. Goldberg's emporium was doing good business. It was crowded and Sean drifted unnoticed among the customers, searching quietly for the proprietor.