"Barbara Hambly - Benjamin January 07 - Days of the Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hambly Barbara)

don't really like to ask.



Benjamin January folded up his friend's letter after its per-haps seventy-fifth reading in the three weeks
since its ar-rival on the morning of his wedding, settled back against the jolting seat of the Vera Cruz
diligencia, and won-dered-again-if he was going to make it to Mexico City alive, and if he did whether
Hannibal would still be alive when he got there.

At every inn enroute, the innkeepers had whispered darkly about "bandits in the mountains," prompting
the passengers of the diligencia to ride with rifles cradled in their arms and pistols at their belts: their
fellow-passenger
 Mr. Dillard of Tennessee seemed to take January going armed as a personal affront. But then, Mr.
Dillard had not ceased glaring at January since the coach had pulled out of the baking, vulture-haunted
streets of Vera Cruz. "You're not gonna let nigras ride inside, are you?" Dillard had de-manded of the
driver.

"He paid for his ticket like everybody else," the driver had retorted in a nasal Yankee twang.
"Something he's per-mitted to do in this country, which has had the courage to strike down the foul
abomination of slavery... unlike some nations which purport to be free."

"Damn Whig abolitionist," had snarled Dillard.

"Godless fleshmongering Democrat," the driver had replied.

It had not been an auspicious beginning to a journey that rapidly got worse. In addition to the threat of
ban-dits-which had not, in four days of travel, so far manifested itself-there was the more clearly present
threat of the inns themselves, ancient, filthy structures of adobe--brick, primitive beyond belief and
inhabited by nests of scorpions and centipedes as well as the more usual fauna of chickens, pigs, and
village dogs. There was the food--mostly greasy tamales, inadequately cooked beans, and the national
staple of tortillas, unleavened corncakes cooked on an open grill. Born in the slave-quarters of a cane
plan-tation upriver from New Orleans, January had eaten worse, but not recently.

Most deadly of all, there was the Yankee coachman's driving, as he lashed his team of four skittery
little mus-tangs at crazy speed over the high yellow passes of the Sierra

Madre Orientale, causing the diligencia to sway and jolt and causing January to wonder if he shouldn't
have damned his friend Hannibal to whatever penalty the gov-ernment of New Spain- Pardon me, he
corrected himself, MEXICO-thought fit to dole out, and stayed at home to enjoy the wonderful state of
having actually, finally, against all odds, married Rose Vitrac.

A particularly savage rut hurled the coach nearly side-ways and precipitated his new bride nearly into
his lap. Covered with yellow dust, sweating in the crystalline heat of these parched gray peaks, her soft
snuff-colored curls skinned back tight into unflattering braids for travel ... it took everything in him not to
seize her in his arms and cover her with kisses.

That would really give Mr. Dillard something to complain about, he thought. And it would shock
the other pas-sengers-two German merchants, their doddering Swiss valet, and a young
priest-speechless. Instead, he re-marked, "At least, at this rate, we'll get there soon, and learn what
actually happened." He gestured with Hannibal's letter and tucked it back into his pocket.