Power of the Sword - Smith Wilbur (электронная книга TXT) 📗

You are conducting a vendetta against me. He came towards her. His lips were icy pale against the dark mahogany tan.

You are hounding me for some fancied offence committed long ago. You are punishing me. The offence was real! She stepped back from his advance, but she held his gaze and her voice though low-pitched was bleak and hard. It was monstrous and cruel and unforgivable, but there is no punishment I could deal out to you which would fit that crime. If there is a God, he will demand retribution. The child, he started.

The child you bore me in the wilderness, For the first time he penetrated the armour of her composure.

You'll not mention your bastard to me. She clasped one hand with the other to prevent them trembling. That was our-bargain. He's our son. You cannot avoid that fact. Are you content to destroy him also? He's your son, she denied. I have no part of him. He does not affect me or my decision. Your factory is insolvent, hopelessly, irredeemably insolvent. I cannot expect to recover my investment, I can only hope to retrieve a part. Through the open window there came the sound of men's voices, even at a distance they sounded excited and lustful, baying like hounds as they take the scent. Neither of them glanced in that direction; all their attention was concentrated on each other.

Give me a chance, Centaine. He heard the pleading timbre in his own voice and it disgusted him. He had never begged before, not with anybody, not once in his life, but now he could not bear the prospect of having to begin all over again. It would not be the first time. Twice before he had been rendered destitute, stripped of everything but pride and courage and determination by war and the fortunes of war. Always it had been the same enemy, the British and their aspirations of empire. Each time he had started again from the beginning and laboriously rebuilt his fortune.

This time the prospect appalled him. To be struck down by the mother of his child, the woman he had loved, and, God forgive him, the woman he loved still against all probabilities. He felt the exhaustion of his spirit and his body.

He was forty-six years old; he no longer had a young man's store of energy on which to draw, and he thought he glimpsed a softening in her eyes as though she was moved by his plea, wavering at the point of relenting.

Give me a week, just one week, Centaine, that's all I ask, he abased himself, and immediately realized that he had misread her.

She did not alter her expression, but in her eyes he could see that what he had mistaken for compassion was instead the shine of deep satisfaction. He was where she had wanted him all these years.

I have told you never to use my Christian name, she said. I told you that when I first learned that you had murdered two people whom I loved as dearly as I have ever loved anyone. I tell you that again. A week. just one week. I have already given you two years. Now she turned her head towards the window, no longer able to ignore the sound of harsh voices, like the blood roar of a bullfight heard at a distance.

Another week will only get you deeper into my debt and force heavier loss on me. She shook her head, but he was staring out the window and now her voice sharpened. What is happening down there on the jetty? She leaned her hands on the sill and peered down the beach.

He stepped up beside her. There was a dense knot of humanity halfway down the jetty, and from the factory all the idle packers were running down to join it.

Shasa! Centaine cried with an intuitive surge of maternal concern. Where's Shasa? Lothar vaulted lightly over the sill and raced for the jetty, overhauling the stragglers and then shouldering his way through the circle of yelling, howling trawler-men just as the two boys teetered on the edge of the jetty.

Manfred! he roared. Stop that! Let him go! His son had the lighter boy in a vicious headlock, and he was swinging overhand punches at his trapped head. Lothar heard one crack against the bone of Shasa's skull.

You fool! Lothar started towards them. They had not heard his voice above the din of the crowd, and Lothar felt a slide of dread, a real concern for the child and a realization of what Centaine's reaction would be if he were injured.

Leave him! Before he could reach the wildly struggling pair, they reeled backwards and tumbled over the edge of the jetty. Oh my God! He heard them hit the deck of the trawler below, and by the time he reached the side and looked down they were half buried in the deck-load of glittering pilchards.

Lothar tried to reach the ladder head, impeded by the press of coloured trawler-men who crowded forward to the edge so as not to miss a moment of the contest. He struck out with both fists, clearing his way, shoving his men aside, and then clambered down to the deck of the trawler.

Manfred was lying on top of the other boy, forcing his head and shoulders beneath the mass of pilchards. His own face was contorted with rage, and lumped and discoloured with bruises. He was mouthing incoherent threats through blood-smeared and puffed lips, and Shasa was no longer struggling. His head and shoulders had disappeared but his trunk and his legs twitched and shuddered in the spontaneous nerveless movements of a man shot through the head.

Lothar seized his son by the shoulders and tried to drag him off. It was like trying to separate a pair of mastiffs and he had to use all his strength. He lifted Manfred bodily and threw him against the wheelhouse with a force that knocked the belligerence out of him and then grabbed Shasa's legs and pulled him out of the engulfing quicksilver of dead pilchards. He came slithering free, wet and slippery.

His eyes were open and rolled back into his skull exposing the whites.

You've killed him, Lothar snarled at his son, and the furious tide of blood receded from Manfred's face leaving him white and shivering., with shock.

I didn't mean it, Pa! didn't, I There was a dead fish jammed into Shasa's slack mouth, choking him, and fish slime bubbled out of his nostrils.

You fool, you little fool! Lothar thrust his finger into the corners of the child's slack mouth and prised the pilchard out.

I'm sorry, Pa. I didn't mean it, Manfred whispered.

if you've killed him, you've committed a terrible offence in the sight of God. Lothar lifted Shasa's limp body in his arms. You'll have killed your own, He did not say the fateful word, but bit down hard on it and turned to the ladder.

I haven't killed him? Manfred pleaded for assurance. He's not dead. it will be all right, won't it, Pa? No. Lothar shook his head grimly. It won't be all right, not ever. Carrying the unconscious boy, he climbed up onto the jetty.

The crowd opened silently for Lothar. Like Manfred, they were appalled and guilty, unable to meet his eyes as he shouldered past them.

Swart Hendrick, Lothar called over their heads to the tall black man. You should have known better. You should have stopped them. Lothar strode away up the jetty, and none of them followed him.

Halfway up the beach path to the factory Centaine Courtney waited for him. Lothar stopped in front of her with the boy hanging limply in his arms.

He's dead, Centaine whispered hopelessly.

No, Lothar denied with passion. It was too horrible to think about, and as though in response Shasa moaned and vomited from the corner of his mouth.

Quickly. Centaine stepped forward. Turn him over your shoulder before he chokes on his own vomit. with Shasa hanging limply over his shoulder like a haversack, Lothar ran the last few yards to the office and Centaine swept the desktop clear.

Lay him here, she ordered, but Shasa was struggling weakly and trying to sit up. Centaine supported his shoulders and wiped his mouth and nostrils with the fine cloth of her sleeve.

It was your bastard. She glared across the desk at Lothar.