"William Tenn - Eastward Ho!" - читать интересную книгу автора (William Tenn)
Chief Three Hydrogen Bombs glared his son into silence. Then he turned to Jerry Franklin. "Your message and your gifts. First your message."
"No, Chief," Bright Book Jacket told him respectfully but definitely. "First the gifts. Then the message. That's the way it was done."
"I'll have to get them. Be right back." Jerry walked out of the tent backwards and ran to where Sam Rutherford had tethered the horses. "The presents," he said urgently. "The presents for the chief."
The two of them tore at the pack straps. With his arms loaded, Jerry returned through the warriors who had assembled to watch their activity with quiet arrogance. He entered the tent, set the gifts on the ground and bowed low again.
"Bright beads for the chief," he said, handing over two star sapphires and a large white diamond, the best that the engineers had evacuated from the ruins of New York in the past ten years.
"Cloth for the chief," he said, handing over a bolt of linen and a bolt of wool, spun and loomed in New Hampshire especially for this occasion and painfully, expenнsively carted to New York.
"Pretty toys for the chief," he said, handing over a large, only slightly rusty alarm clock and a precious typewriter, both of them put in operating order by batteries of engineers and artisans working in tandem (the engineers interpreting the brittle old documents to the artisans) for two and a half months.
"Weapons for the chief," he said, handing over a beautifully decorated cavalry saнber, the prized hereditary possession of the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force, who had protested its requisitioning most bitterly ("Damn it all, Mr. President, do you expect me to fight these Indians with my bare hands?" "No, I don't, Johnny, but I'm sure you can pick up one just as good from one of your eager junior officers").
Three Hydrogen Bombs examined the gifts, particularly the typewriter, with some interest. Then he solemnly distributed them among the members of his council, keeping only the typewriter and one of the sapphires for himself. The sword he gave to his son.
Makes Much Radiation tapped the steel with his fingernail. "Not so much," he stated. "Not-so-much. Mr. Thomas came up with better stuff than this from the Confederate States of America for my sister's puberty ceremony." He tossed the saber negligently to the ground. "But what can you expect from a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing whiteskin stinkards?"
When he heard the last word, Jerry Franklin went rigid. That meant he'd have to fight Makes Much RadiationЧand the prospect scared him right down to the wet hairs on his legs. The alternative was losing face completely among the Sioux.
"Stinkard" was a term from the Natchez system and was applied these days indisнcriminately to all white men bound to field or factory under their aristocratic Indian overlords. A "stinkard" was something lower than a serf, whose one value was that his toil gave his masters the leisure to engage in the activities of full manhood: hunting, fighting, thinking.
If you let someone call you a stinkard and didn't kill him, why, then you were a stinkardЧand that was all there was to it.
"I am an accredited representative of the United States of America," Jerry said slowly and distinctly, "and the oldest son of the Senator from Idaho. When my father dies, I will sit in the Senate in his place. I am a free-born man, high in the councils of my nation, and anyone who calls me a stinkard is a rotten, no-good, foul-mouthed liar!"
ThereЧit was done. He waited as Makes Much Radiation rose to his feet. He noted with dismay the well-fed, well-muscled sleekness of the young warrior. He wouldn't have a chance against him. Not in hand-to-hand combatЧwhich was the way it would be.
Makes Much Radiation picked up the sword and pointed it at Jerry Franklin. "I could chop you in half right now like a fat onion," he observed. "Or I could go into a ring with you, knife to knife, and cut your belly open. I've fought and killed Seminole, I've fought Apache, I've even fought and killed Comanche. But I've never dirtнied my hands with paleface blood, and I don't intend to start now. I leave such simple butchery to the overseers of our estates. Father, I'll be outside until the lodge is clean again." Then he threw the sword ringingly at Jerry's feet and walked out.
Just before he left, he stopped, and remarked over his shoulder: "The oldest son of the Senator from Idaho! Idaho has been part of the estates of my mother's family for the past forty-five years! When will these romantic children stop playing games and start living in the world as it is now?"
"My son," the old chief murmured. "Younger generation. A bit wild. Highly intolнerant. But he means well. Really does. Means well."
He signaled to the white serfs, who brought over a large chest covered with great splashes of color.
While the chief rummaged in the chest, Jerry Franklin relaxed inch by inch. It was almost too good to be true: he wouldn't have to fight Makes Much Radiation, and he hadn't lost face. All things considered, the whole business had turned out very well indeed.
And as for the last commentЧwell, why expect an Indian to understand about things like tradition and the glory that could reside forever in a symbol? When his father stood, up under the cracked roof of Madison Square Garden and roared across to the Vice-President of the United States: "The people of the sovereign state of Idaho will never and can never in all conscience consent to a tax on potatoes. From time immemorial, potatoes have been associated with Idaho, potatoes have been the pride of Idaho. The people of Boise say no to a tax on potatoes, the people of Pocatello say no to a tax on potatoes, the very rolling farmlands of the Gem of the Mountain say no, never, a thousand times no, to a tax on potatoes!"Чwhen his father spoke like that, he was speaking for the people of Boise and Pocatello. Not the crushed Boise or desolate Pocatello of today, true, but the magnificent cities as they had been of yore...and the rich farms on either side of the Snake River...and Sun Valley, Moscow, Idaho Falls, American Falls, Weiser, Grangeville, Twin Falls...
"We did not expect you, so we have not many gifts to offer in return," Three Hyнdrogen Bombs was explaining. "However, there is this one small thing. For you."
Jerry gasped as he took it. It was a pistol, a real, brand-new pistol! And a small box of cartridges. Made in one of the Sioux slave workshops of the Middle West that he had heard about. But to hold it in his hand, and to know that it belonged to him!
It was a Crazy Horse forty-five, and, according to all reports, far superior to the Apache weapon that had so long dominated the West, the Geronimo thirty-two. This was a weapon a General of the Armies, a President of the United States, might never hope to ownЧand it was his!
"That's all right," the chief told him genially. "Really it is. My son would not apнprove of giving firearms to palefaces, but I feel that palefaces are like other peopleЧit's the individual that counts. You look like a responsible man for a paleface; I'm sure you'll use the pistol wisely. Now your message."
Jerry collected his faculties and opened the pouch that hung from his neck. Revнerently, he extracted the precious document and presented it to the chief.
Three Hydrogen Bombs read it quickly and passed it to his warriors. The last one to get it, Bright Book Jacket, wadded it up into a ball and tossed it back at the white man.
"Bad penmanship," he said. "And 'receive' is spelled three different ways. The rule is: 'i before e, except after c.' But what does it have to do with us? It's addressed to the Seminole chief, Osceola VII, requesting him to order his warriors back to the southнern bank of the Delaware River, or to return the hostage given him by the Governнment of the United States as an earnest of good will and peaceful intentions. We're not Seminole: why show it to us?"
As Jerry Franklin smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper with painful care and replaced the document in his pouch, the Confederate ambassador, Sylvester Thomнas, spoke up. "I think I might explain," he suggested, glancing inquiringly from face to face. "If you gentlemen don't mind...? It is obvious that the United States Governнment has heard that an Indian tribe finally crossed the Delaware at this point, and assumed it was the Seminole. The last movement of the Seminole, you will recall, was to Philadelphia, forcing the evacuation of the capital once more and its transfer to New York City. It was a natural mistake; the communications of the American States, whether Confederate or United"Чa small, coughing, diplomatic laugh hereЧ"have not been as good as might have been expected in recent years. It is quite eviнdent that neither this young man, nor the government he represents so ably and so well, had any idea that the Sioux had decided to steal a march on his majesty, Osceola VII, and cross the Delaware at Lambertville."
"That's right," Jerry broke in eagerly. "That's exactly right. And now, as the accredнited emissary of the President of the United States, it is my duty formally to request that the Sioux nation honor the treaty of eleven years ago as well as the treaty of fifteenЧI think it was fifteenЧyears ago, and retire once more behind the banks of the Susquehanna River. I must remind you that when we retired from Pittsburgh, Altoona, and Johnstown, you swore that the Sioux would take no more land from us and would protect us in the little we had left. I am certain that the Sioux want to be known as a nation that keeps its promises."
Three Hydrogen Bombs glanced questioningly at the faces of Bright Book Jacket and Hangs A Tale. Then he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his crossed legs. "You speak well, young man," he commented. "You are a credit to your chief...Now, then. Of course the Sioux want to be known as a nation that honors its treaties and keeps its promises. And so forth and so forth. But we have an expanding population. You don't have an expanding population. We need more land. You don't use most of the land you have. Should we sit by and see the land go to wasteЧworse yet, should we see it acquired by the Seminole, who already rule a domain stretching from Philadelphia to Key West? Be reasonable. You can retire toЧto other places. You have most of New Enнgland left and a large part of New York State. Surely you can afford to give up New Jersey."
In spite of himself, in spite of his ambassadorial position, Jerry Franklin began yelling. All of a sudden it was too much. It was one thing to shrug your shoulders unhappily back home in the blunted ruins of New York, but here on the spot where the process was actually taking placeЧno, it was too much.
"What else can we afford to give up? Where else can we retire to? There's nothing left of the United States of America but a handful of square miles, and still we're supposed to move back! In the time of my forefathers, we were a great nation, we stretched from ocean to ocean, so say the legends of my people, and now we are huddled in a miserable corner of our land, starving, filthy, sick, dying, and ashamed. In the North, we are oppressed by the Ojibway and the Cree, we are pushed southward relentlessly by the Montaignais; in the South, the Seminole climb up our land yard by yard; and in the West, the Sioux take a piece more of New Jersey, and the Cheyнenne come up and nibble yet another slice out of Elmira and Buffalo. When will it stopЧwhere are we to go?"
The old man shifted uncomfortably at the agony in his voice. "It is hard; mind you, I don't deny that it is hard. But facts are facts, and weaker peoples always go to the wall...Now, as to the rest of your mission. If we don't retire as you request, you're supposed to ask for the return of your hostage. Sounds reasonable to me. You ought to get something out of it. However, I can't for the life of me remember a hostage. Do we have a hostage from you people?"
His head hanging, his body exhausted, Jerry muttered in misery, "Yes. All the Inнdian nations on our borders have hostages. As earnests of our good will and peaceful intentions."
Bright Book Jacket snapped his fingers. "That girl. Sarah CameronЧCantonЧwhat's-her-name."
Jerry looked up. "Calvin?" he asked. "Could it be Calvin? Sarah Calvin? The Daughнter of the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court?"
"Sarah Calvin. That's the one. Been with us for five, six years. You remember, chief? The girl your son's been playing around with?"
Three Hydrogen Bombs looked amazed. "Is she the hostage? I thought she was some paleface female he had imported from his plantations in southern Ohio. Well, well, well. Makes Much Radiation is just a chip off the old block, no doubt about it." He became suddenly serious. "But that girl will never go back. She rather goes for Indian loving. Goes for it all the way. And she has the idea that my son will eventually marry her. Or some such."
He looked Jerry Franklin over. "Tell you what, my boy. Why don't you wait outside while we talk this over? And take the saber. Take it back with you. My son doesn't seem to want it."
Jerry wearily picked up the saber and trudged out of the wigwam.
Dully, uninterestedly, he noticed the band of Sioux warriors around Sam Rutherнford and his horses. Then the group parted for a moment, and he saw Sam with a bottle in his hand. Tequila! The damned fool had let the Indians give him tequilaЧhe was drunk as a pig.
Didn't he know that white men couldn't drink, didn't dare drink? With every inch of their unthreatened arable land under cultivation for foodstuffs, they were all still on the edge of starvation. There was absolutely no room in their economy for such luxuries as intoxicating beveragesЧand no white man in the usual course of a lifeнtime got close to so much as a glassful of the stuff. Give him a whole bottle of tequila and he was a stinking mess.
As Sam was now. He staggered back and forth in dipping semicircles, holding the bottle by its neck and waving it idiotically. The Sioux chuckled, dug each other in the ribs and pointed. Sam vomited loosely down the rags upon his chest and belly, tried to take one more drink, and fell over backwards. The bottle continued to pour over his face until it was empty. He was snoring loudly. The Sioux shook their heads, made grimaces of distaste, and walked away.
Jerry looked on and nursed the pain in his heart. Where could they go? What could they do? And what difference did it make? Might as well be as drunk as Sammy there. At least you wouldn't be able to feel.
He looked at the saber in one hand, the bright new pistol in the other. Logically, he should throw them away. Wasn't it ridiculous when you came right down to it, wasn't it patheticЧa white man carrying weapons?
Sylvester Thomas came out of the tent. "Get your horses ready, my dear sir," he whispered. "Be prepared to ride as soon as I come back. Hurry!"
The young man slouched over to the horses and followed instructionsЧmight as well do that as anything else. Ride where? Do what?
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