Читать книгу The Book of Duels - Michael Garriga - Страница 27

“General” Wiley Thompson, 53,

Former Congressman & Current Indian Agent

Nostalgic this morning for my wife’s milk gravy thick with loose sausage slathered in a heap on her fluffy white biscuits and me in my robe with little else to cover my modesty—coffee percolating in the fire and bacon popping in the skillet and she is happy and breaks two eggs to sizzle in the fat and the sunlight comes through her lace curtains and she is glowing and humming a tune I do not know, something from the hymnal I suppose, and this is the life we always promised one another—soon as the children were grown and gone, I came home from DC and the madness of the House—we were both surrounded by babies—but my pipes stood cold in the pewter tray and the bourbon canter was empty as she demanded it be so at first chance I cut out for this detail. What would you have me do, dear? The heathen ambuscade the white farmers, snipe them as they try to put order into that wild earth and master it through will and toil and sweat. It is my Christian duty, I lied—so I repaired to this land, where even after Christmas it is boggy as hell, the bugs ambitious about my eyes and ears, but at least here I can smoke in peace—Erastus keeps his store chock-full of my cigars, and when Jackson makes me general for crushing this Osceola and his band of savages, I will keep a team of islanders to roll them for me at my leisure—and too my wife got me going to church where, despite my best raiments, I never felt comfort—here I am sated and sweating in my wool uniform, the stink of four days’ worth of rye rising into my nostrils—my belly full from the cracklin’ cornbread and venison and beans—yet I hum her tune and think how good tobacco always tasted right after a good morning romp in the—

A crazed screech splits the air and the scrub brush comes alive with a rush of the ungodly red devils—they are everywhere, like ants, over the ramparts of the fort and into the general store—poor Erastus and all my cigars—I spy Osceola across the field—he stands tall with that rifle Jackson gave me, and I reach for my pistols but only too late: ah, the wasted time, the indecision, the bargains and compromises, and the pains in this life too brief.