Read Online Black Ajax by George MacDonald Fraser - Free Book Online
Authors: George MacDonald Fraser
Tags: Historical fiction
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– but was holding my own till my poor little grey went down and some blasted Pole put a bullet through my sword-arm.
Time's up, Flash, thinks I, you won't make scratch this time, for what was left of us was being trampled underfoot, but they took me prisoner, along with a few others, and I was exchanged next day, leaking like a cracked pot. But they hadn't turned our flank, bigod, and our centre held, Froggy drew off with his bellyful, leaving seven thousand dead to our five thousand, Old Hooky ceased to be Wellesley and became Lord Wellington … and that was Talavera.
You know what came of it … we lived to fight another day, Hooky withdrew to Portugal, foxed Massena with Torres Vedras, and held French armies in Spain that Boney could have used in Russia where he froze to death, France was beat – and all because the Light Brigade crossed that gully, perhaps. I like to think so, at all events; worth being skewered and trampled, what? In the meantime, I came home … now,where the devil was I, before you reminded me of the Peninsula?
Ah, yes, I was asking what you supposed the buzz was in Town that autumn of '09? The war? The King's madness? The Cabinet? No such thing. The name on every lip wasn't Talavera or Hooky or Boney, but Mary Clarke – and I'll lay a million to a mag you never heard of her, eh? I thought not.
Ah, Mary! She was the sweetest little nesting-bird, and my first love 'fore I went to Spain – well, one of 'em. Shape of Aphrodite, sassy as a robin, and devoted to the study of cavalry subalterns – when she wasn't accommodating the Duke of York, that is. She was his prize pullet, you see, and we lesser lights (I was a mere cornet of horse then, but she was nuts on me) had to slip in at her back door in Gloucester Place like so many area sneaks . Gad, she was the bang-up Cyprian , though! Ten horses, three cooks, twenty servants, dined off a French duke's plate, and entertained like a bashaw's niece – York gave her a thousand a month, and you may believe 'twasn't enough. So dear Mary set up shop selling Army promotions, slipping the tickets for York to sign when he was too lushy or baked with her fond attentions to notice, I dare say. Oh, a prime racket she had, until some parliamentary pimp blew the gaff.
There was the devil to pay, York had to resign command of the Army, Mary was called to the Bar of the House and had 'em in fits with her sauce and sharp answers, and to crown all she threatened to publish York's love-letters. I saw some of 'em, and they were hot-house stuff, I can tell you. Cost the old calf's head ten thou' and a pension of four hundred a year to buy 'em back.
D'ye wonder that Mary Clarke was all the chat from St James's to St Giles? Mere wars and Commons votes weren't in it with her – or with Moll Douglas, the bird of paradise whom Mornington, Hooky's brother, had in tow when he went out as Minister to Spain. That set the tongues wagging at Almack's, for what made it worse was that Mornington's lawful blanket wouldn't divorce him or clear out of Apsley House. She'd been another bareback rider until Mornington married her; French piece, Gabrielle Hyacinthe de Something. Shocking taste in women he had. Whores, the lot o' them.
What's this to do with Molineaux? Why, to impress upon you what a light-minded crew of sensation-seekers Society was, ripe for anynovelty – female, criminal or sporting for choice – and because it pleases me to hold forth at length while sampling this excellent drop o' short. So don't dam' well interrupt. We'll come to the Dusky Miller presently.
Speaking of sport, there was a mighty stink at Newmarket about that time, when two touts called Bishop and Dan Dawson were bribed to see that certain horses didn't start, so they blew arsenic into the water troughs, poisoned I don't know how many runners. They were grabbed, Bishop peached to save his neck, but it was the Paddington frisk for Danny, and half the turf set went down to Cambridge to see him
Time's up, Flash, thinks I, you won't make scratch this time, for what was left of us was being trampled underfoot, but they took me prisoner, along with a few others, and I was exchanged next day, leaking like a cracked pot. But they hadn't turned our flank, bigod, and our centre held, Froggy drew off with his bellyful, leaving seven thousand dead to our five thousand, Old Hooky ceased to be Wellesley and became Lord Wellington … and that was Talavera.
You know what came of it … we lived to fight another day, Hooky withdrew to Portugal, foxed Massena with Torres Vedras, and held French armies in Spain that Boney could have used in Russia where he froze to death, France was beat – and all because the Light Brigade crossed that gully, perhaps. I like to think so, at all events; worth being skewered and trampled, what? In the meantime, I came home … now,where the devil was I, before you reminded me of the Peninsula?
Ah, yes, I was asking what you supposed the buzz was in Town that autumn of '09? The war? The King's madness? The Cabinet? No such thing. The name on every lip wasn't Talavera or Hooky or Boney, but Mary Clarke – and I'll lay a million to a mag you never heard of her, eh? I thought not.
Ah, Mary! She was the sweetest little nesting-bird, and my first love 'fore I went to Spain – well, one of 'em. Shape of Aphrodite, sassy as a robin, and devoted to the study of cavalry subalterns – when she wasn't accommodating the Duke of York, that is. She was his prize pullet, you see, and we lesser lights (I was a mere cornet of horse then, but she was nuts on me) had to slip in at her back door in Gloucester Place like so many area sneaks . Gad, she was the bang-up Cyprian , though! Ten horses, three cooks, twenty servants, dined off a French duke's plate, and entertained like a bashaw's niece – York gave her a thousand a month, and you may believe 'twasn't enough. So dear Mary set up shop selling Army promotions, slipping the tickets for York to sign when he was too lushy or baked with her fond attentions to notice, I dare say. Oh, a prime racket she had, until some parliamentary pimp blew the gaff.
There was the devil to pay, York had to resign command of the Army, Mary was called to the Bar of the House and had 'em in fits with her sauce and sharp answers, and to crown all she threatened to publish York's love-letters. I saw some of 'em, and they were hot-house stuff, I can tell you. Cost the old calf's head ten thou' and a pension of four hundred a year to buy 'em back.
D'ye wonder that Mary Clarke was all the chat from St James's to St Giles? Mere wars and Commons votes weren't in it with her – or with Moll Douglas, the bird of paradise whom Mornington, Hooky's brother, had in tow when he went out as Minister to Spain. That set the tongues wagging at Almack's, for what made it worse was that Mornington's lawful blanket wouldn't divorce him or clear out of Apsley House. She'd been another bareback rider until Mornington married her; French piece, Gabrielle Hyacinthe de Something. Shocking taste in women he had. Whores, the lot o' them.
What's this to do with Molineaux? Why, to impress upon you what a light-minded crew of sensation-seekers Society was, ripe for anynovelty – female, criminal or sporting for choice – and because it pleases me to hold forth at length while sampling this excellent drop o' short. So don't dam' well interrupt. We'll come to the Dusky Miller presently.
Speaking of sport, there was a mighty stink at Newmarket about that time, when two touts called Bishop and Dan Dawson were bribed to see that certain horses didn't start, so they blew arsenic into the water troughs, poisoned I don't know how many runners. They were grabbed, Bishop peached to save his neck, but it was the Paddington frisk for Danny, and half the turf set went down to Cambridge to see him
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