"Smith, Wilbur - Courtney 01 - The Burning Shore" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

By this time Michael was so heavily padded that he could not bend to
pull on his own footwear. Biggs knelt in front of him and snugged silk
undersocks over his bare feet, then two pairs of woollen hunting socks,
and finally eased on the tall boots of tanned kudu skin that Michael had
had made inAfrica. Through their soft, pliable soles, Billy Michael had
touch and feel on the rudder bars. When he stood up, his lean muscular
body was dumpy and shapeless under the burden of clothing, and his arms
stuck out like the wings of a penguin. Biggs held the flap of the tent
open, and then lit his way along the duckboards through the orchard
towards the mess.

As they passed the other darkened tents beneath the apple trees Michael
heard little coughs and stirrings from each. They were all awake,
listening to his footsteps pass, fearing for him, perhaps some of them
cherishing their relief that it was not they who were going out against
the balloons this dawn.

Michael paused for a moment as they left the orchard and looked up at
the sky. The dark clouds were rolling back into the north and the stars
were pricking through, but already paling out before the threat of dawn.
These stars were still strange to Michael; though he could at last
recognize their constellations, they were not like his beloved southern
stars, the Great Cross, Achernar, Argus and the others, so he lowered
his gaze and clumped after Biggs and the bobbing lantern.

The squadron mess was a ruined labourers chaurnire which they had
commandeered and repainted, covering the tattered thatch with tarpaulin
so that it was snug and warm.

Biggs stood aside at the doorway. I'll ave your fifteen quid winnings
for you when you get back, sir, he murmured. He would never wish
Michael good luck, for that was the worst of all possible luck.

There was a roaring log fire on the hearth and Major Lord Andrew
Killigerran was seated before it, his booted feet crossed on the lip of
the hearth, while a mess servant cleared the dirty plates.

Porridge, my boy, he removed the amber cigarette holder from between his
even white teeth as he greeted Michael, with melted butter and golden
syrup. Kippers poached in milk- Michael shuddered. I'll eat when we
get back. His stomach, already knotted with tension, quailed at the
rich smell of kippers. With the cooperation of an uncle on the general
staff who arranged priority transport, Andrew kept the squadron supplied
with the finest fare that his family estates in the highlands could
provide, Scotch beef, grouse and salmon and venison in season, eggs and
cheeses and jams, preserved fruits, and a rare and won erful single malt
whisky with an unpronounceable name that came from the family-owned
distillery.

Coffee for Captain Courtney, Andrew called to the mess corporal, and