Читать книгу Breakheart Pass - Alistair MacLean, Alistair MacLean, John Denis - Страница 9

By dusk, the troop train had left Reese City and the level plateau on which it stood So far behind that both were completely lost to sight. The high plain had now given way to the foothills of the true mountain country and the train was climbing gently up a long, wide, pine-wooded valley, the undulations of the track following closely those of the rock-strewn river alongside which it ran. The heavens were dark, there was no trace of the afterglow of sunset that must have been hidden behind those lowering clouds; there would be no stars, that night, and no moon; the leaden sky promised only one thing - snow.

The occupants of the officers’ day compartment, understandably enough, displayed a minimum of concern for the chill bleakness and plainly deteriorating weather in the world beyond their windows. Cocooned as they were in warmth and ease and comfort, it seemed not only pointless but downright wrong to dwell upon the rigours without. Luxury is a pervasive anodyne and, for what was supposed to be an army troop train, the officers’ compartment was unquestionably very luxurious indeed. There were two deep couches with split arm-rests at the front and back, and several scattered armchairs, all splendidly upholstered in buttoned-down brushed green velvet. The embroidered looped-back window curtains, held in place by tasselled silken cords, were made of what appeared to be the same material. The carpet was rust-coloured and deep of pile. There were several highly polished mahogany tables in the vicinity of the couches and chairs. In the right-hand front corner was a liquor cabinet, which was clearly not there for the purposes of display. The entire compartment was bathed in a warm amber glow from the gimballed and gleaming copper oil-lamps.

There were eight occupants of the compartment, seven of them with glasses in their hands. Nathan Pearce, seated beside Marica on the rear couch, had a glass of whisky, while she held a glass of port wine. On the front couch, the Governor and Colonel Claremont, and in two of the three armchairs, Dr Molyneux and Major O’Brien all held whisky glasses. In the third armchair the Rev. Theodore Peabody had a glass of mineral water and an expression of righteous superiority. The only person without a refreshment of any kind was John Deakin. Apart from the fact that it would have been unthinkable to offer hospitality to a criminal of such note, he would in any case have found it physically impossible to raise a glass to his lips as both hands were bound behind his back. His ankles, too, were tied. He was sitting on the floor, most uncomfortably hunched, close by the passageway leading to the night compartments. Apart from Marica, who cast him an occasionally troubled glance, none of the others present appeared to feel that Deakin’s presence there constituted a jarring note. On the frontier, life was cheap and suffering so commonplace as hardly to merit notice, far less sympathy.

Nathan Pearce lifted his glass. ‘Your very good health, gentlemen. My word. Colonel, I never knew the army travelled in such style. No wonder our taxes -’

Claremont was curt. ‘The army, Marshal, does not travel in such style. This is Governor Fairchild’s private coach. Behind your back are the two sleeping compartments normally reserved for the Governor and his wife - in this case the Governor and his niece - and beyond that again their private dining compartment. The Governor has very kindly offered to let us travel and eat with him.’

Pearce raised his glass again. ‘Well, bully for you. Governor.’ He paused and looked quizzically at Fairchild. ‘What’s the matter. Governor? You look a mite worried to me.’

The Governor did, indeed, look a trifle worried. He seemed paler than usual, his face drawn, his lips compressed. He forced a smile, emptied and refilled his glass and attempted to speak lightly.

‘Matters of state, my dear Marshal, matters of state. Life in the legislature is not all receptions and balls, you know.’

‘I’m sure it’s not. Governor.’ Pearce’s pacific tone turned to one of curiosity. ‘Why are you along on this trip, sir? I mean, as a civilian -’

O’Brien interrupted. ‘A governor has full military powers in his own state, Nathan. Surely you know that.’

Fairchild said pontifically: ‘There are certain matters calling for my personal presence and attention in Fort Humboldt.’ He glanced at Claremont, who gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘More I can’t say - not, that is, at the moment.’

Pearce nodded, as if satisfied, and did not pursue the topic. A silence, not wholly comfortable, fell over the compartment, and was interrupted only twice by the entrance of Henry, the tall, immensely thin and almost cadaverous steward, once to top up glasses, once to replenish the cordwood-burning stove. Deakin’s head had fallen forward on to his chest and his eyes were closed: he was either shutting out the world around him or had genuinely fallen asleep, which would have been no mean feat for a man trussed as uncomfortably as he was and having to brace himself, however unconsciously, against the increasingly erratic movements of the coach. The train, having reached a comparatively level stretch, had picked up speed and was beginning to sway from side to side. Even in those plushly upholstered seats, the motion was becoming distinctly uncomfortable.

Marica said uneasily to the Governor: ‘Must we go so fast. Uncle Charles? Why all the fearful hurry?’

Claremont answered for the Governor. ‘Because the engineer. Miss Fairchild, is under orders to make the best speed possible. And because this is an army relief train, and we’re late. The United States Cavalry does not like to be late - and we’re already two days behind schedule.’ He lifted his eyes as Henry entered a third time and loomed there, the very image of the melancholy dyspeptic to whom, apparently, life was an intolerable burden.

‘Governor, Colonel. Dinner is served.’

The dining-room was small, holding only two four-seater tables, but was furnished to the same luxurious standards as the day saloon. The Governor, his niece, Claremont and O’Brien were seated at one table, Pearce, Dr Molyneux and the Rev. Peabody at the other. There were some bottles of both red and white wines on the table and, by some legerdemain known only to Henry, the white wine was actually chilled. Henry himself moved around with a quiet if lugubrious efficiency.

Peabody lifted an austere hand against Henry’s offer of wine, turned his glass, in what was clearly intended to be a significant gesture, upside down on the tablecloth, then resumed gazing at Pearce with an expression of mingled awe and horrified fascination.

Peabody said: ‘By coincidence. Marshal, both the doctor and I come from Ohio, but even in those distant parts everyone has heard of you. My word, it is an odd sensation. Peculiar, most peculiar. I mean, to be sitting here, in person, so to speak, with the most famous - ah - lawman in the West.’

Pearce smiled. ‘Notorious, you mean, Reverend.’

‘No, no, no! Famous, I assure you.’ Peabody’s assurances were made in a very hasty fashion. ‘A man of peace, of God, if you want, but I do clearly appreciate that it was in the line of duty that you had to kill all those scores of Indians -’

Pearce said protestingly : ‘Easy on. Reverend, easy on. Not scores, just a handful and even then only when I had to. And there was hardly an Indian among them, mostly white renegades and outlaws - and that was years ago. Today, I’m like you - I’m a man of peace. Ask the Governor -he’ll bear me out.’

Peabody steeled himself. ‘Then why do you carry two guns. Marshal?’

‘Because if I don’t, I’m dead. There are at least a dozen men, most of them recently released from the prisons to which I sent them, who would dearly love to have my head on a platter. None of them will pull a gun on me, because I have acquired a certain reputation in the use of a hand gun. But my reputation would offer me as much protection as a sheet of paper if any of them ever found me without a gun.’ Pearce tapped his guns. ‘Those aren’t offensive weapons. Reverend. Those are my insurance policies.’

Peabody carefully hid his disbelief. ‘A man of peace?’

‘Now? Yes. I was an army scout once, an Indian fighter, if you like. There are still plenty around. But a man gets sick of killing.’

‘A man?’ Despite what he probably imagined as his poker face, the preacher was manifestly still unconvinced. ‘You?’

‘There are more ways of pacifying Indians than shooting holes in them. I asked the Governor here to appoint me Indian agent for the territory. I settle differences between Indians and whites, allocate reservations, try and stop the traffic in guns and whisky and see to it that the undesirable whites are removed from the territory’ He smiled. ‘Which is part of my job as Marshal anyway. It’s slow work, but I’m making a little progress. I think the Paiutes almost trust me now. Which reminds me.’ He looked at the other table. Colonel.’

Claremont lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

‘Might be a good idea to have the curtains pulled about now, sir. We’re running into hostile territory, and there’s no point in drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves.’

‘So soon? Well, you should know. Henry! You heard? Then go tell Sergeant Bellew to do the same.’

Peabody tugged Pearce’s sleeve. His face was a mask of apprehension. ‘Hostile territory did you say? Hostile Indians?’

‘Mainly we just call them hostiles.’

Pearce’s indifference served only to deepen Peabody’s fears. ‘But - but you said they trusted you!’

‘That’s right. They trust me.’

‘Ah!’ What this meant was not clear, nor did Peabody care to elaborate. He just swallowed several times in rapid succession and lapsed into silence.

Henry served them coffee in the day compartment while O’Brien displayed considerable efficiency in dispensing brandy and liqueurs from the liquor cabinet. With all windows tightly closed and the top of the stove beginning to glow a dull red, the temperature in the compartment had risen into the eighties, but no one seemed unduly perturbed about this. On the frontier, extremes of heat and cold were an inevitable part of the way of life and phlegmatically accepted as such. The green velvet curtains were closely drawn. Deakin had his eyes open and, propped on one elbow, seemed more uncomfortable than ever, but because discomfort, like heat and cold, was also an integral part of the frontier, he received, apart from the occasional vexed glance from Marica, scant attention and even less sympathy. After some desultory small-talk, Dr Molyneux put his glass on the table, rose, stretched his arms and patted a yawn to discreet extinction.

He said: ‘If you will excuse me. I have a hard day ahead tomorrow and an oldster like me needs his sleep.’

Marica said politely: ‘A hard day, Dr Molyneux?’

‘I’m afraid so. Most of our medical stores in the supply wagon were loaded at Ogden only yesterday. Must have them all checked before we get to Fort Humboldt.’

Marica looked at him in amused curiosity. ‘Why all the great hurry, Dr Molyneux? Couldn’t it wait till you get there?’ When he made no immediate answer she said smilingly: ‘Or is this epidemic at Fort Humboldt, influenza or gastric influenza or whatever you said it was, already out of control?’

Molyneux did not return her smile. ‘The epidemic at Fort Humboldt -’ He broke off, eyed Marica speculatively, then swung round to look at Colonel Claremont. ‘I suggest that any further concealment is not only pointless and childish but downright insulting to a group of supposedly intelligent adults. There was, I admit, a need for secrecy to allay unnecessary fear - well, if you like, understandable fear - but all those aboard the train are now cut off from the rest of the world, and will remain that way, until we arrive at the Fort where they’re bound to find out -’

Claremont raised a weary hand to dam the flow of words. ‘I take your point. Doctor, I take your point. I suppose we may as well tell. Dr Molyneux here is not an Army doctor and never will be. And, by the same coin, he’s not any ordinary run-of-the-mill general practitioner - he is a leading specialist in tropical diseases. The troops aboard this train are not relief troops - they are replacement troops for the many soldiers who have died in Fort Humboldt.’

The puzzlement on Marica’s face shaded quickly into fear. Her voice, now, was little more than a whisper. The soldiers - the many soldiers who have died -’

I wish to God, Miss Fairchild, that we didn’t have to answer your questions as to why the train is in such a hurry or why Dr Molyneux is in such a hurry or the Marshal’s question as to why the Governor is so anxious.’ He squeezed his eyes with his hand, then shook his head. ‘Fort Humboldt is in the grip of a deadly cholera epidemic’

Of the Colonel’s seven listeners, only two registered anything more than a minimal reaction. The Governor, Molyneux and O’Brien were already aware of the existence of the epidemic. Pearce lifted only one eyebrow, and fractionally at that;the semi-recumbent Deakin merely looked thoughtful; apparently he was even less given than Pearce to untoward displays of emotional reaction. To an outside observer the lack of response on the part of those five might have appeared disappointing: but this lack was over-compensated for by Marica and the Rev. Peabody: fear and horror showed in the former’s face, a stunned and disbelieving shock in the latter’s. Marica was the first to speak.

‘Cholera! Cholera! My father -’

‘I know, my child, I know.’ The Governor rose, crossed to her seat and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘I would have spared you this, Marica, but I thought that if - well, if your father were ill, you might like -’

The Rev. Peabody’s recovery from his state of shock was spectacularly swift. From the depths of his armchair he propelled himself to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, his face a mask of incredulous outrage. His voice had moved into the falsetto register.

‘How dare you! Governor Fairchild, how dare you! To expose this poor child to the risks, the awful risks, of this - this dreadful pestilence. Words fail me. I insist that we return immediately to Reese City and - and -’

‘Return how?’ O’Brien maintained a carefully neutral tone and expression. ‘It’s no easy feat, Reverend, to turn a train on a single track railway.’

‘For heaven’s sake, padre, what do you take us for?’ Claremont’s surging irritability couldn’t have been more clearly demonstrated by the waving of a red flag. ‘Assassins? Would-be suicides? Or just plain fools? We have provisions aboard this train to last a month. And aboard this train we will remain, all of us, until Dr Molyneux pronounces the camp free from the epidemic’

‘But you can’t, you can’t!’ Marica rose, clutched Dr Molyneux by the arm and said almost desperately: ‘I know you’re a doctor, but doctors have as much chance - more chance - of catching cholera than anyone else.’

Molyneux gently patted the anxious hand. ‘Not this doctor. I’ve had cholera - and survived. I’m immune. Good night.’

From his semi-recumbent position on the floor Deakin said: ‘Where did you catch it. Doctor?’

Everyone stared at him in surprise. Felons, like little children, were supposed to be seen and not heard. Pearce pushed himself halfway to his feet, but Molyneux waved him down.

‘In India,’ Molyneux said. ‘Where I studied the disease.’ He smiled without much humour. ‘At very, very close quarters. Why?’

‘Curiosity. When?’

‘Eight, ten years ago. Again why?’

‘You heard the Marshal read out my wanted notice. I know a little about medicine. Just interested, that’s all.’

For a few moments Molyneux, his face oddly intent, studied Deakin. Then he nodded briefly to the company and left.

This,’ Pearce said thoughtfully, ‘isn’t nice. The news, I mean. How many at the last count, Colonel? Of the garrison, I mean. The dead.’

Claremont glanced interrogatively at O’Brien, who was his usual prompt and authoritative self. ‘At the last count - that was about six hours ago - there were fifteen. That is out of a garrison of seventy-six. We don’t have figures as to the numbers stricken but still alive but Molyneux, who is very experienced in such matters, estimates, on the basis of the number of the dead, that anything between two-thirds and three-quarters of the remainder must be affected.’

Pearce said: ‘So possibly there are no more than fifteen fit soldiers left to defend the Fort?’

‘Possibly’

‘What a chance for White Hand. If he knew about this.’

‘White Hand? Your bloodthirsty chief of the Paiutes?’ Pearce nodded his head and O’Brien shook his. ‘We’ve thought of this possibility and discounted it. We all know about White Hand’s obsessive hatred of the white man in general and the United States Cavalry in particular, but we also know that he’s very, very far from being a fool. If he weren’t, the Army or -’ O’Brien permitted himself a slight smile - ‘our intrepid lawmen of the West would have nabbed him quite some time ago. If White Hand knows that Fort Humboldt is so desperately under-manned, then he’ll know why and will avoid the Fort like the plague.’ Another smile, but wintry this time. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t meant to be clever.’

Marica said shakily: ‘My father?’

‘No. Clear so far.’

‘You mean -’

‘I’m sorry.’ O’Brien touched her arm lightly. ‘All I mean is that I know no more about it than you do.’

‘Fifteen of God’s children taken to their rest.’ Peabody’s voice emerged from the depths of the sepulchre. ‘I wonder how many more of those poor souls will have been taken from us come the dawn.’

‘Come the dawn,’ Claremont said shortly ‘we’ll find out.’ Claremont, clearly, was increasingly of the opinion that the padre was a less than desirable person to have around in circumstances such as these.

‘You’ll find out?’ Again the millimetric raising of Pearce’s right eyebrow. ‘How?’

There’s no magic. We have a portable telegraph transmitter aboard. We clamp a long lead on to the railroad telegraph wires: that way we contact the fort to the west of Reese City - even Ogden - to the east.’ He looked at Marica, who had turned away. ‘You are leaving us, Miss Fairchild.’