"Smith, Wilbur - Courtney 03 - A Sparrow Falls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

Bombata's ravaging Zulu impis at the gorge and then driven them on to
the waiting Maxims, who had planned with his erstwhile enemy Leroux and
helped build the Charter of Union which united the four independent
states of Southern Africa into a single mighty whole, who had built
another vast personal fortune in land and cattle and timber, who had
given up his position in Louis Botha's Cabinet and at the head of the
Natal Legislative Council to bring the regiment out to France, it was
natural the boy's eyes should shine that way and his tongue trip, but
still it annoyed Sean. At fifty-nine I'm too old to play the hero now,
he thought wryly, and the flare went down, plunging them back into the
darkness. If there's another mug of that coffee, said Sean. It's
bloody cold tonight. Sean accepted the chipped enamel mug and hunkered
down close to the brazier, cupped the mug between his hands, blowing on
the steaming liquid and sipping noisily, and after a moment the others
followed his example hesitantly. It was strange to be squatting like
old mates with a General and the silence was profound. You're from
Zululand? Sean asked the boy suddenly, his ear had picked up the
accent, and without waiting for a reply went on in the Zulu tongue,
Velapi wena? Where are you from? The Zulu language came naturally and
easily to Mark's lips though he had not spoken it for two years. From
the north beyond Eshowe, on the Umfolosi River. Yes. I know it well. I
have hunted there. Sean changed back to English. Anders? I knew
another Anders. He rode transport from Delagoa Bay back in 89. John?
Yes, that's it. Old Johnny Anders. Any relation? Your father? My
grandfather. My father's dead. My grandfather has land on the
Umfolosi. That's where I live. The boy was relaxing now. In the
brazier glow, Sean thought he saw the lines of strain around his mouth
ironing out. I didn't think you'd know poor folk, like us, sir. Fergus
MacDonald spoke with cutting edge in his voice, leaning forward towards
the brazier with his head turned towards him so that Sean could see the
bitter line of his mouth.

Sean nodded slowly. MacDonald was one of them then.

One of those who were intent on the new order, trade unions and Karl
Marx, Bolsheviks who threw bombs and called themselves comrades.
Irrelevantly he noticed for the first time that MacDonald had ginger
hair, and big golden freckles on the backs of his hands. He turned back
to Mark Anders. He taught you to shoot? Yes, sir. The lad grinned for
the first time, warmed by the memory. He gave me my first rifle, a
Martini Hendry that blew a cloud of gunsmoke like a bush fire but would
throw dead true at a hundred and fifty yards. I've hunted elephant with
it. A great rifle, Sean agreed, and suddenly across an age difference
of forty years they were friends.

Perhaps, for Sean, the recent death of that other bright young man, Nick
van der Heever, had left an aching gap in his life, for now he felt a
flood of paternal protection for the youngster. Fergus MacDonald seemed
to sense it also, for he cut in like a jealous woman. You'd best be
getting ready now, lad The smile was gone from Mark's lips, the eyes