Читать книгу The Blackest Bird - Joel Rose - Страница 31
ОглавлениеJohn Colt, in his cell on the Tombs’ death row, his face thickly lathered by his manservant, Dillback, reclines in a fine leather patent chair of his brother’s invention.
Outside, in the prison courtyard, carpenters construct the gallows, what they call the “picture frame.” The basic structure is already complete, the carpenters preparing to test the progress of their work.
John does his very best to ignore the commotion without.
Sam Colt has designed the reclining chair for his youngest brother’s comfort during this, his final confinement. The Colonel has sent the chair over, along with John’s writing desk, his personal library, and custom-made green velvet curtains to give the cell some semblance of warmth and privacy. Lovely fresh flowers stand in a crystal vase on the table.
Eventually John’s annoyance peaks. Dillback is poised over him with a razor. John abruptly pushes him away, leaps to his feet, and hurries to the high iron-barred window.
Standing on his cot in order to be able to see, he peers out, sees the gallows, the workmen in caps and coveralls. He watches as the carpenters attach a heavy sandbag to the thick rope dangling from the crossarm. A counterweight, tethered at the opposite end, comes running down, jerking the sandbag aloft.
A single image occupies John’s head. He pictures himself in the prison courtyard, alone, underneath the gibbet. He sees himself fitted with the hemp necklace, sees his neck jerked sharply at the end of the rope.
He remembers the words of Samuel Johnson, author of the Dictionary of the English Language, subject of the Boswell biography. “The prospect of being hanged,” wrote Johnson, “focuses a man’s mind wonderfully.”
Young John stares out glassy-eyed for some time before Dillback takes him by the arm and leads him back, firmly insisting the lad down into his chair for the resumption of his toilet.
Colt sits but refuses to recline. Head in hands, his eyes closed, a horrible chill runs through him. His jaw quivers. He hugs himself.
The manservant gently pushes him into a more workable position, refreshes the shaving soap with horn-handled, boar-bristled brush, and begins again to meticulously scrape whiskers from chin, cheek, jowl.
