Romance. Джозеф Конрад

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      There was a moment of hoarse whispering; a sudden gruff sound. A shaft of blazing yellow light darted from the level of the ground into my dazed eyes. A man sprang at me and thrust something cold and knobby into my neckcloth. The light continued to blaze into my eyes; it moved upwards and shone on a red waistcoat dashed with gilt buttons. I was being arrested. … “In the King's name. …” It was a most sudden catastrophe. A hand was clutching my windpipe.

      “Don't you so much as squeak, Mr. Castro,” a voice whispered in my ear.

      The lanthorn light suddenly died out, and I heard whispers.

      “Get him out on to the road. … I'll tackle the other … Darbies. … Mind his knife.”

      I was like a confounded rabbit in their hands. One of them had his fist on my collar and jerked me out upon the hard road. We rolled down the embankment, but he was on the top. It seemed an abominable episode, a piece of bad faith on the part of fate. I ought to have been exempt from these sordid haps, but the man's hot leathery hand on my throat was like a foretaste of the other collar. And I was horribly afraid—horribly—of the sort of mysterious potency of the laws that these men represented, and I could think of nothing to do.

      We stood in a little slanting cutting in the shadow. A watery light before the moon's rising slanted downwards from the hilltop along the opposite bank. We stood in utter silence.

      “If you stir a hair,” my captor said coolly, “I'll squeeze the blood out of your throat, like a rotten orange.”

      He had the calmness of one dealing with an everyday incident; yet the incident was—it should have been—tremendous. We stood waiting silently for an eternity, as one waits for a hare to break covert before the beaters. From down the long hill came a small sound of horses' hoofs—a sound like the beating of the heart, intermittent—a muffled thud on turf, and a faint clink of iron. It seemed to die away unheard by the runner beside me. Presently there was a crackling of the short pine branches, a rustle, and a hoarse whisper said from above:

      “Other's cleared, Thorns. Got that one safe?”

      “All serene.”

      The man from above dropped down into the road, a clumsy, cloaked figure. He turned his lanthorn upon me, in a painful yellow glare.

      “What! 'Tis the young 'un,” he grunted, after a moment. “Read the warrant, Thorns.”

      My captor began to fumble in his pocket, pulled out a paper, and bent down into the light. Suddenly he paused and looked up at me.

      “This ain't———Mr. Lilly white, I don't believe this ain't a Jack Spaniard.”

      The clinks of bits and stirrup-irons came down in a waft again.

      “That be hanged for a tale, Thorns,” the man with the lanthorn said sharply. “If this here ain't Riego—or the other—I'll …”

      I began to come out of my stupor.

      “My name's John Kemp,” I said.

      The other grunted. “Hurry up, Thorns.”

      “But, Mr. Lillywhite,” Thorns reasoned, “he don't speak like a Dago. Split me if he do! And we ain't in a friendly country either, you know that. We can't afford to rile the gentry!”

      I plucked up courage.

      “You'll get your heads broke,” I said, “if you wait much longer. Hark to that!”

      The approaching horses had turned off the turf on to the hard road; the steps of first one and then another sounded out down the silent hill. I knew it was the Free Traders from that; for except between banks they kept to the soft roadsides as if it were an article of faith. The noise of hoofs became that of an army.

      The runners began to consult. The shadow called Thorns was for bolting across country; but Lilly white was not built for speed. Besides he did not know the lie of the land, and believed the Free Traders were mere bogeys.

      “They'll never touch us,” Lillywhite grumbled. “We've a warrant … King's name. …” He was flashing his lanthorn aimlessly up the hill.

      “Besides,” he began again, “we've got this gallus bird. If he's not a Spaniard, he knows all about them. I heard him. Kemp he may be, but he spoke Spanish up there … and we've got something for our trouble. He'll swing, I'll lay you a———”

      From far above us came a shout, then a confused noise of voices. The moon began to get up; above the cutting the clouds had a fringe of sudden silver. A horseman, cloaked and muffled to the ears, trotted warily towards us.

      “What's up?” he hailed from a matter of ten yards. “What are you showing that glim for? Anything wrong below?”

      The runners kept silence; we heard the click of a pistol lock.

      “In the King's name,” Lillywhite shouted, “get off that nag and lend a hand! We've a prisoner.”

      The horseman gave an incredulous whistle, and then began to shout, his voice winding mournfully uphill, “Hallo! Hallo—o—o.” An echo stole back, “Hallo! Hallo—o—o”; then a number of voices. The horse stood, drooping its head, and the man turned in his saddle. “Runners,” he shouted, “Bow Street runners! Come along, come along, boys! We'll roast 'em. … Runners! Runners!”

      The sound of heavy horses at a jolting trot came to our ears.

      “We're in for it,” Lillywhite grunted. “D———n this county of Kent.”

      Thorns never loosed his hold of my collar. At the steep of the hill the men and horses came into sight against the white sky, a confused crowd of ominous things.

      “Turn that lanthorn off'n me,” the horseman said. “Don't you see you frighten my horse? Now, boys, get round them. …”

      The great horses formed an irregular half-circle round us; men descended clumsily, like sacks of corn. The lanthorn was seized and flashed upon us; there was a confused hubbub. I caught my own name.

      “Yes, I'm Kemp … John Kemp,” I called. “I'm true blue.”

      “Blue be hanged!” a voice shouted back. “What be you a-doing with runners?”

      The riot went on—forty or fifty voices. The runners were seized; several hands caught at me. It was impossible to make myself heard; a fist struck me on the cheek.

      “Gibbet 'em,” somebody shrieked; “they hung my nephew! Gibbet 'em all the three. Young Kemp's mother's a bad 'un. An informer he is. Up with 'em!”

      I was pulled down on my knees, then thrust forward, and then left to myself while they rushed to bonnet Lillywhite. I stumbled against a great, quiet farm horse.

      A continuous scuffling went on; an imperious voice cried: “Hold your tongues, you fools! Hold your tongues! …” Someone else called: “Hear to Jack Rangsley. Hear to him!”

      There was a silence. I saw a hand light a torch at the lanthorn, and the crowd of faces, the muddle of limbs, СКАЧАТЬ