"Nick Pollotta - Bureau 13 - Damned Nation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pollotta Nick)

from the window. The war was not his concern tonight, dinner was. With a properly neutral expression,
 the head butler for the Executive Mansion lifted the silver serving tray loaded with foodstuffs and started
along the dimly lighted corridor of the West Wing. The War Department was still in session, and although
nobody had rung for food, it was part of his job to know when such things were needed before being
asked. A good butler always anticipated the needs of his employer. Like putting a kerosene lantern into
the outhouse to warm the seat just after serving a large meal. Or obtaining a wheelbarrow during a night
of heavy drinking to help move the more inebriated guests to their bedrooms.

Or dump them out onto the street, Joshua noted sagely. It all depended upon how badly they had
worn out their welcome during the festivities. Getting drunk and vomiting was considered manly, messy,
but acceptable. But pinch the bottom of a maid and the president would personally heave the
transgressor out the nearest window. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln didn't touch alcohol. However, they didn't
mind drinking, only drunks. If a guest found himself airborne, then he must have committed a serious
breach of etiquette. It was always a shocking discovery.Especially just before crashing into the
rhododendron bushes .

As Joshua walked through the huge mansion, only the creak of the floorboards disturbed the thick
silence. In spite of the late hour, Joshua was neatly dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and matching
bowtie, along with a gay tartan vest he had purchased at a Boston pawn shop. Orphaned at a young age,
Joshua had no idea if his ancestry was Scottish, but he liked the bright mix of colors. Besides, the vest
was a small rebellion against the iron rules of decorum that governed the social elite in DC like invisible
chains.

Unlike the real shackles that others wore in the South, Joshua thought sourly, glancing back at the
curtained window.Wish to Heaven there was something I could do to help them, but I'm just a
butler. If I was to join the Army, they would only assign me to be the aide to some fat general. If
I'm going to be a servant no matter what, then I might as well stay in DC and work for the
president. Besides, what possible difference could a single man make in the outcome of any war?

Moving past the railing at the top of the stairs, Joshua saw a dark shape lunge out of the shadows.

"Halt, and be recognized!тАЭ the private ordered brusquely, then he smiled and lowered the shotgun. тАЬHi,
Joshua."

The butler paused. тАЬPrivate Augustan,тАЭ Joshua replied politely, giving a little nod. Then he looked at the
ceiling and started whistling.

Quickly shouldering the .69 smoothbore Remington, the private gently lifted the linen napkin covering a
plate on the tray, and snaked out a sandwich from the stack of them underneath. Lowering the napkin,
the soldier hid the food behind his back and delicately coughed.

"Good evening, private,тАЭ Joshua said, facing forward again. Giving a wink, he continued into the West
Wing. Oh, it was against orders for the staff to feed any of the soldiers around the mansion. But in
Joshua's opinion, a man could not properly guard the president and his family if the poor fellow was
weak from hunger. Some rules were meant to be adhered to at all costs, and some could tactfully be,
well, bent every now and then. It was all a matter of moderation.Which every man had to decide for
himself .

Turning sideways to squeeze between two large packing crates blocking the hallway, Joshua fervently
hoped that the private was not caught with breadcrumbs on his uniform by Sgt. Montgomery. The wrath