"The St.Custard's Day Massacre"
by
(alphabetically)
Howard Burnham
Holley B. Calmes
Marianne McLeod Gilchrist
Max A. Lindenman
Nikki Palumbo
edited by M. M. Gilchrist
Preface:
This was a collective effort, into the seriously farcical. We e-mail
'Musketeers' wrote bits each and I edited it together, as a fancy of
what would happen if *we* (thinly disguised) intervened in the plot...
I should first explain the Molesworth references: It's a spoof of
boys' prep-school stories. Nigel Molesworth is a malevolently comic
and rebellious pupil at St. Custard's School, whose work the
hilariously mispelled books (e.g. 'Down With Skool') are meant to be.
His foes include the blond-curled goody-goody Basil Fotherington
Thomas ("he is a girlie and a wet and a weed"), given to
pronouncements such as "Hullo sun, hullo sky, hullo flowers".
See http://www.ibmpcug.co.uk/~owls/moleswor.htm
Howard and another friend, Jane Ann, both spotted early on the
physical resemblance between Gabriel Martin and Fotherington Thomas,
and thus a whole vein of humour was engendered...
Sharp eyes may spot in Max's contribution allusions to earlier parts
of Mel's career...
A 'Banana Tarleton' is our invention: it's a Banana Daiquiri made
with Midori or Blue Bols to turn it green...
All participants have given their permission for their efforts to
reach a wider audience...
Cheers,
Doc M
######
The St.Custard's Day Massacre
Howard:
I have a fantasy of Mel getting his comeuppance at a Yorktown
victory banquet by a St Custard's 'Revolt of the Prunes' in authentic
Green Dragoon uniforms (a sort of "Wax Yours!" Massacre - death by
the trots for all the crap he threw at our boys!).
Doc:
In other words, "cuisine à la Horatio Gates" - 'Camden Revisited'?!!!
But *who* could have committed such an act of sabotage?
Do we know a Southern lady whose excellent reputation as a
Cajun cook would give her opportunity to infiltrate the enemy
kitchens, with a few well-motivated 'little helpers'...? And who,
pray, is behind this charming scheme...?
- Shortly before the debacle, a gathering takes place of an
officer of the 17th Light Dragoons and a bevy of several Loyalist
belles of disturbingly familiar appearance, including a Georgia
brunette (cuddling a black-and-white cat on her knee, and a book
labelled 'Mean Cuisine: Voodoo-Poisoning for Beginners'), a quiet
novelist from the frontier, and a sardonic Scots 'doctor'. Smirkingly
they clink glasses with an *even more* alarmingly familiar young
gentleman - a convalescent cavalry officer... He is of dashing though
still slightly drawn and pale appearance, and reclines on a couch
while wrapped in a dressing gown and the arms of a petite New York
lady...
Thus the tale of the 'St. Custard's Day Massacre' unfolds...
Holley:
CNN (Colonial News Network) bulletin, live at the scene of a
despicable (to Rebel eyes, at least) crime. Militia are trying to
keep order. One Benjamin Martin has been found dead in a roadside
tavern near Yorktown, covered in chicken feathers. He was dressed as,
and evidently been recently impersonating, a prominent Patriot
officer Dan Morgan.....Evidence suggests he ingested a quantity of
green corn and molasses gumbo. They're calling it 'GumboGate(s)'.
Evidently several society belles, a Scots Physician, etc.
etc. "saw everything". One Southern Lady was traumatised by the
occurrence and gives an hysterical rendition of what happened... "It
was just so dreadful...he ran around in circles clucking and clucking
before he yelled out 'It isn't blood! It's Tabasco!'" Is her emotion
feigned? Or is she a real witness? Why is she wearing an apron?
Doc:
Since the surrender, there has been considerable ill-feeling
among the British and Loyalist personnel being evacuated from the
area, so fowl play cannot be entirely ruled out. However, Dr.
G________, a Scots emigrant in somewhat masculine garb of black
breeches, boots, frilled shirt and embroidered waistcoat, serving as
surgeon to some of the Provincial units, says: "It's my opinion that
this gentleman was suffering from a rare form of *fowl pest* hitherto
unseen in human beings. Trust me, I'm a doctor."
- "But what were you doing at the time of this dreadful calamity?"
- "I was occupied in tending the wounded."
The reporter notices a suspicious stain on her shirt's
frilled cuff: "Tabasco?"
"- No."
"- Blood?"
"- No. Claret, actually."
"- But you said you were tending the wounded?"
She nods. "So I was! One of my convalescent patients, his
lady, myself and several friends were having a celebratory drink
together."
"- But you've been defeated!"
"Yes, which means we can all go home! - Besides, red wine is
good for the blood! And our poor young Colonel has been extremely
anaemic! He haemorrhaged badly after that dreadful mauling he
suffered at Cowpens. He's much better now, of course, but it's taken
several months, what with that deep shoulder-wound, and the torn
muscles in the flank, and all... He already had a gashed and cracked
rib, too, poor dear boy: badly knocked about the side...
"- But you know what it's like: you sew 'em up once, then
they gallop off and not only manage to break their stitches, but come
back perforated like a tea-strainer... *Dragoons*! They're not safe
to be let out on their own! Some of them won't even give up when
they're half-crippled..."
There is a catch in her voice as it trails off, but, after
looking wistful for a moment, she continues briskly: "At least we
managed to reach *this* one in time: young Captain Lindenman of the
17th brought him off the field over his horse - earned himself a
mention! The lavender and yarrow poultices seem to have done the
trick, but he still needs plenty of beef tea to get his strength
back... His lady, Miss Nikki, has been nursing him with the tenderest
care!"
" - May I interview your patient?"
" - Of course! The Colonel's such a brave young man, and very
helpful by nature! He and Miss Nikki are already aboard the ship. I
suggest you knock first, as she may be giving him, ahem!...
*physiotherapy*..."
On entering the cabin unannounced, the intrepid CNN reporter
fears he has come too late, and that his quarry may have expired from
shock. He sees a handsome young man lying on a couch, being pinned
down by an elegantly-dressed lady who at first glance appears to be
giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. However, on noticing that
their tongues are involved, he interrupts with a cough.
[As the Colonel's lady, Miss Nikki, later observes: "Naughty,
naughty! But true. A pity we couldn't get married first, but there
seems to have been a *fire* at the local church. And wouldn't ya
know, the Minister turned out to be a damn Rebel anyway! Oh well, I'm
sure there are lots of lovely old churches in England."]
Our convalescent Colonel, disengaging himself, sits up,
looking startled and rather dishevelled. He hastily pulls his brocade
dressing-gown more closely about his chest (covering an ugly scar
where his right collarbone meets his breastbone) and pushes his long
dark hair out of his eyes. For reasons of military confidentiality he
gives his name only as "William", but is forthright and eager to
assist in answering questions:
"- I didn't witness this unfortunate mishap myself, but I
confess I *deeply* regret not being able to say 'goodbye' to Mr.
Martin face-to-face. It would have meant a *great* deal to me to be
able to tell him frankly of my... *regard* for him in his final
moments."
"- You were acquainted with the deceased, then?"
"- Indeed. And several of his family also."
"- So you were friends, despite being on opposite sides?"
The Colonel smiles sweetly, his large grey-green eyes wide
and innocent: "'Friends' may be putting it a *little* strongly, but
on more than one occasion, I arranged *house-warmings* for him and
his family."
"- That's highly generous of you, sir."
"- He wasn't always very appreciative, but... such is life!
However, I must say my acquaintance with him nevertheless marked me
for life."
" - When did you last see him alive?"
"- Nine months ago. Place called 'the Cow-Pens', although I
can't say I noticed an abundance of cows... Mind, I have my doubts
about some of the Rebels' so-called 'horse'...."
"- Did you talk to Colonel Martin?"
"- Only very briefly: we exchanged some brief *pleasantries*
about his sons, as I recall... Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to
rest: my health has been none too robust since then" - he gives a
little cough - "and I'm still on light duty."
And, looking very contented, he sinks back on to the couch,
his head in his lady's lap.
Nikki:
The reporter somewhat reluctantly pulls his gaze away from
William's lady's ample bosom, well displayed by her fashionable
deep-green silk gown as she leans over her patient. She looks up,
vaguely in the reporter's direction.
"Who?" she says, squinting. "Will, what did you do with my glasses?"
Her fiancé smirks slyly.
- "Madam, have you any comment on this terrible tragedy?"
- "Yes, (sniff) terrible. Such a *handsome* fellow..." -
putting handkerchief to mouth to conceal a snicker - "Sniff -"
- "Were you acquainted with the deceased also?"
- "Only by reputation -- and quite a reputation, too..."
The young man in her lap glowers at her. She strokes his hair
reassuringly.
"You see why I hide her spectacles?" he quips.
- "Oh?" the reporter continues.
- "Well, a *lady* shouldn't repeat rumours. (Giggle) But a
wealthy man like Mr. Martin could hardly be expected to remain
entirely without company since his poor wife's untimely death, God
rest her soul! And you know what Congreve wrote: "Hell hath no fury
like a woman scorn'd..."
- "You wouldn't happen to know such a woman, would you?"
- "Heavens, no! I came from New York with the army, and have
not made a large acquaintance outside our own circles."
- "And might I inquire as to your whereabouts at the time of
the incident?"
- (Indignantly) "Sir, I do not like your implication. Be that
as it may, I was right here, tending my poor wounded darling!"
Both of the happy couple smile.
William interjects: "- And I've been teaching her how to
speak the King's English with proper inflection. Damn, they can teach
her to speak Japanese, but they can't teach her to speak her own
language..."
- "Is that so?"
- "Hai, so desu," Miss Nikki chirps. "Hesuitto kara
benkyoshimashita kedo... amari hanashitoki wa arimasen, ima..."
["Yes, I learned it from a Jesuit. I don't have many opportunities to
speak it nowadays, though..."]
- "Uh, I'm sure, ma'am...."
"She has a...most agile tongue," William says with a wink.
The reporter blushes: "So I see... - So you have no idea who
might have committed such a nefarious crime?"
The Colonel's lady appears pensive for a moment, biting her
lip. Finally, she speaks. - "Well, there is the possibility that he
may have, ah, done it to *himself*. You see, I have it on good
authority" (she and her patient exchange winks) "that he and his
militiamen previously captured a shipment of supplies intended for
the Lord General's camp. The camp had been having this terrible
problem with rats, and there was poison included in the shipment. If
Mr. Martin's people weren't careful when they sold the supplies to
the local merchants...."
- "I see."
- "So there you have it. Now I'm afraid I must ask you to
leave. As William said, he needs rest."
Having thus been slapped in the face by a shoal of red
herrings, the CNN reporter exits hastily, pausing only to notice a
fluffy black Persian cat perched dozing on the Colonel's
helmet-stand, and a saucer of milk set on the floor in front of his
dragoon helmet... Clearly a consequence of the lady's hidden
spectacles.
The intrepid journalist then makes his way to the crime
scene, where he interrogates the other ladies:
Holley:
"Madam, you appear to be nervous. Is there any connection
between your state of nerves and the deceased here?" asks the
reporter.
"Why no, Sir, Ah'm always like this. Just high strung, my
Daddy says. Besides, ah you sure he'd dead? He don't look so dead.
Maybe Ah'd better take a closer look..." This Georgia Belle flutters
over to the fallen man, whose tongue, slightly green, hangs out the
side of his open mouth. "He certainly doesn't smell too good,
either...."she exclaims. "Why, Ah think he's been imbibin'!"
"Bring the corpse in for an autopsy! Madam, you follow me.
Bring your friends!"
The Belle follows, with her companions, who include the
Doctor, the shy lady novelist, and a dashing young man of intense but
boyish visage and with his right hand in a bandage. He is dressed
quietly in the everyday togs of a common gentleman.
"Ban!" the Belle hisses, "Look smart! You're way too arrogant
and you're supposed to be in disguise! What if they decide you aren't
just some nice Southern Gentleman! They'd string you up so
fast.....and then we'd all cry!"
The young man swaggers even more and a slight frown appears
on his gentle and genteel face. "Madam, these clothes are an outrage!
There is no lace, but I swear to vermin! I shall have to sit in a
large hot bath for hours to undo the damage...."
"Now, we can arrange that!" simpers the Belle. "Can't we, ladies?"
Sweet little "Uh huhs" tinkle in the air like butterflies.
The Doctor peers hard at the disguised officer. "Ban - after
we administered the Gates potion, you took Martin down the pub, eh?
Just as we told you?"
He smiles roguishly. "Yes Madam Doctor, I did indeed. He was
already beginning to feel the effects......turnin' a bit off-colour,
then."
Doc closes one eye and give him the once-over with her open
eye, "But you didn't dispose of him in the men's watercloset as we
told you, *did* you?"
"Ah," he glances down, "well, ladies, he wasn't *quite* dead,
and he challenged me to a game. Had to lighten him of a little of his
money, or so I thought. The Gates potion was slow going-he did admit
to eating a large breakfast of something called 'grits' and the jowls
of a pig....disgusting stuff! So after our little game, I treated him
to a few of my *own speciality*..."
The ladies gasp in unison at the horror of this idea. Their
imaginations whirl at the deviousness, the cruelty... "Well," says
the Doctor in sardonic tones (although she was immensely pleased),
"They don't call you 'The Butcher' for nothing! 'Banana Tarletons' on
top of Gates potion? The combination alone would knock out an
elephant!" She snurks fiendishly.
"Yes....you know my family's plantations are overrun with the
fruit, and I always keep a few drams of the liquor our slaves
produce. Martin actually adored the stuff - drank four of em."
Everyone is hushed with the news. No one can drink four
'Banana Tarletons' (except a Tarleton) and live. Let alone a man who
had been pumped with ounces of 'Gates potion': the essence of green
corn and molasses. The combination could have caused an explosion to
level Yorktown.
"We'd better get out of here before they do that autopsy,"
whispers the Belle. "It took us days to cook down that corn to the
right intensity. And I had to wear this damned apron! It's ugly!" She
throws it into a convenient privy, letting loose the bounteous folds
of jade green silk. "Where shall we go? Whatever shall become of us?"
"Not to worry, little Madam!" Ban has a smugness about him
that is both infuriating and endearing. "I think I've got a solution,
temporarily." His left hand produces a rolled set of papers which the
Doc quickly unrolls.
"A deed! Indeedski! It's Martin's plantation! Let me guess
how this happened..."
Now he looks sheepish, "The Gods of Play have been kind..."
"You mean, *you won his plantation from him before he
died*?!! How delightful!"
"Yes, since everyone will probably suspect my worthy henchman
Tavington, I thought we'd toddle down there for the cool months.
Belle, you can be our interpreter."
"Now Ban, promise you won't sell off the slaves?"
"They might enjoy Grenada!"
However, the Colonel's lady has successfully shifted
suspicion away from her beloved William. Because of her hints about a
'woman scorned', Mr. Martin's black 'housekeeper', Abigale, is
brought in for questioning:
Max:
"You were an employee of the deceased?" the magistrate asks.
- "Lord, ain't that the truth: he used to 'employ' me
put-near every night, 'cept when I got my curse, an't please Your
Honor!"
After a few minutes of throat-clearing and wig-adjusting, the
court rules Benjamin Martin's a death by misadventure.
The Doctor receives a letter, some months later, from her old
friend Captain Lindenman, who is now serving in Bengal:
Midnapore, April 5, 1782
My Dear Gilchrist,
Right after my parole, you joked about the mighty
having fallen, about my having belied the regiment's promise of Death
or Glory. Let Wolfe's denuded skull haunt my dreams if it likes; I am
content to be humbly alive and commanding a squadron of the native
light horse. Damn the éclat of a Guards billet, too: heat, dust and
elephant-dung are more agreeable to my coarse Colonial nature than a
rapid ruin at the Mess and the Cocoa Tree and a long languish in the
Fleet. Besides, Bengali Mussulmans take well so well to soldiering,
we officers are well spoilt: they are hardy and brave; they like a
fellow more for being a bit of a Jew; and they rarely turn up drunk
for parade. I'll forbear from enumerating the vices they do pursue:
suffice it to say I quite expect to enter, "Morning parade cancelled;
all ranks transformed into pillars of salt." in the orderly-book.
You asked, in your letter, which I have only just received,
for my feelings concerning the death of the condottiere Martin. I
shall have to answer: "ennui." A few months ago, I should have felt
astonished; but having just buried an adjutant who exploded after
chasing sherab with ghee, I am become accustomed to view kitchens as
dungeons, and cooks as Torquemadas or Gilles de Rais. A man grows old
quickly in this country.
About Martin himself, I have more to say. It seems our
"Ghost" is less obscure, yet, perversely, less substantial even than
his name suggests. I had occasion to learn this shortly after my ship
had docked in Calcutta, while I was making obeisances to the Company
nabobs. "Damme," laughed a well-fed factor when I told him the story
of Cowpens. "So that canting rascal 'Martin' has a vocation for arms
after all!" Shocked, as you must now be, I stammered that he'd cut
quite a figure in the last war, hadn't he, though? Led the assault on
Ft. Pitt, what? My host began laughing so hard, his punka-wallah
snapped to and stared, as if expecting his master to burst into
flame. "My boy," he cried. "The only thing your Martin--I've known
him by other names, but that's of no moment here--ever led was his
listeners, by the nose! Why, he's the worst gammon-merchant since
Clive himself."
Martin had, the man claimed, worn the King's uniform, but
minus the epaulettes and laurels with which he'd embellished it for
the back-country crackers. During the last war, he'd joined a
provincial regiment of light dragoons and, perhaps, the man
suggested, because he couldn't ride, was assigned to serve as
squadron orderly. While his corps (fighting dismounted) was besieging
some coastal fortress, Martin tarried with a vital dispatch and got
the lot of his comrades slaughtered. Perforce, this left no-one to
accuse our hero: as the debacle's sole survivor, he was hailed a hero
and, in the words of the London dailies, "a rising star!"
My jowly host continued: "Martin then betook himself into
naval service. Cruised down to the South Seas on a brigantine. No use
at all for anything but croaking. They say he pupped some bare-papped
princess on one of yon islands and got quite spoony when the Captain
called him back aboard. Created such a pretty scene (kinsman of mine
who saw it said Martin ranted and raved like a bee-stung John the
Baptist), those blockheaded tars actually mutinied and ordered the
poor Captain off his own ship! This time, as you might expect, sir,
the press and public weren't nearly so kind. Shouldn't wonder he
decided to lose himself in the American desert."
Thinking that one good yarn deserved another, I described
Martin's dramatic end, and even indulged in a brief imitation of the
rogue's death-squawks. "My listener nodded gravely and raised his
glass. "Mind you, young sir: the chicken will always tell in the
end!" I leave that as his epitaph.
I have the honor to remain
Yr most humble, devoted servant
M. A. Lindenman
Lieut.-Col., 5th Bengal Light Horse
& Captn, 17th Light Dragoons.
A Historical Footnote, testifying to the veracity of the
foregoing account:
Howard:
In the offices of the Dictionary of National Biography a
yellowing page of MS was recently discovered concealed in the lining
of Sir Sidney Lee's working portfolio. It shows that an important
entry in the first edition was missing and has curiously remained so.
It reads:
Tavington, William, First Viscount (1747-1844) Soldier, Diplomat,
Philanthropist.
Younger son of Baron 'Hellfire' Tavington of Doomsbury Park,
North Riding of Yorkshire, and his wife Drusilla (née Grimshaw).
Ensign (1765) in 15th Foot, commission purchased by doting Wesleyan
maternal aunt, Semolina, Countess of Seighgoe (Co. Kildare), after
his father's financial ruin at Brooks and subsequent disappearance
with the youngest child's nursemaid.
Lieutenant (1769) of Queen's Dragoons; Captain (1775);
distinguished service in Boston, New York (where, in 1777, he first
made the acquaintance of his future wife, Miss Nicola Palumbo, a
Loyalist in whose house his regiment made its HQ during the battle of
Long Island), New Jersey, and Philadelphia; Major (1778) reputedly
for his dazzling performance in his friend John André's (q.v.)
Meschianza. Indeed, such was his effect on the ladies present that a
brawl occurred between his fiancée and the celebrated Misses Chew and
Shippen, in which the 2 Margarets were knocked unconscious. The
incident was immortalised in a cartoon by André inspired by The
Judgement of Paris, with satirical couplet by Captain (later Major)
Ferguson (q.v.):
Miss Nicky, Venus-like, now claims her Prize -
Her Rivals green with Envy, black of Eyes.
In December 1779, Tavington joined Sir Henry Clinton's (q.v.)
expedition to the South. In April 1780, Clinton created him brevet
Lieutenant Colonel to raise the curious Loyalist crack unit known as
'the Red-Green Dragoons' as a stimulus-alternative to Banastre
Tarleton's (q.v.) better-known Green Dragoons. They took part in the
capture of Charleston, and after Clinton's return to New York,
operated under Lord Cornwallis's (q.v.) overall control. The
Red-Green Dragoons were formed in the belief that inbreeding in rural
parts of the Carolinas had led to a disproportionate percentage of
the male population being afflicted with red-green colour-blindness,
and that they would be easily confused as to which side this unit was
on.
Despite being scoffingly described by Col. Nisbet Balfour of
Dunbog (q.v.) as 'the colour crisis Legion', Tavington and his men
distinguished themselves for their efficient suppression of Rebel
forces following the fall of Charleston, and would have been sent to
relieve Ferguson's command at King's Mountain but for being told off
to rescue a mute child and a black 'employee' from an abusive father
and 'employer' on a sea island. The father, known as Benjamin 'Here's
Johnny' Martin for his prowess with an Indian axe, appears to have
become completely deranged, murdering his children and torching
churches with complete congregations and casting the blame on
Tavington and his Legion. Martin's reputation was such that even the
notorious Col. Cleveland avoided fighting alongside him on the
grounds that "he plays too rough".
On 14 January 1781, Tavington was shot and wounded during a
skirmish in which the youthful Rebel militia Colonel Basil F. Thomas
(known as 'Gabriel' because of his angelic golden curls) was killed.
Only 3 days later, he distinguished himself at Cowpens (mentioned in
dispatches), but at considerable cost. His Dragoons were cut to
pieces. He himself was wounded again, this time severely, by the
lunatic Martin. He owed his life to the skilful ministrations of 'Dr.
Gilchrist' (the 'James Miranda Barry of the American War') and many
months of careful nursing by the devoted Miss Palumbo, who had
accompanied him from New York, and several of her concerned friends.
He saw no further active service in this theatre of war. Still a
convalescent at the time of Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown, he
received with characteristic equanimity the news of his adversary
Martin's mysterious death from delusions of an avian nature and
explosive symptoms following the Rebels' victory banquet.
Returning to England soon after, Tavington married Miss
Palumbo in summer 1782. Both testified to his surgeon's good
character at her trial in November 1783 in which she was suspended
from further practice, having been unmasked as a Miss Polly McLeod,
the impecunious governess cousin of a North Carolina Loyal militia
captain, and former travelling companion of the Inspector of Militia.
Fully recovered, Tavington continued in service under Lord
Cornwallis in India and Ireland, and under the Duke of York in
Flanders (1793). York introduced him to the Prince of Wales' circle,
but the rumour that he cultivated Mrs Robinson (q.v.) is untrue. Mrs
Tavington was too observant, and her reputation from the Meschianza
travelled before her, thanks to George Hanger circulating André's
cartoon under the caption, 'Something to *Chew* On.'
Elected MP for Malton, North Riding (1795-1810), he sided
with Fox (q.v.) against his old comrade Tarleton regarding the
slavery issue, arguing extensively from his first-hand knowledge of
that institution in the Carolinas and the practices of "employers"
such as his adversary Martin. However, the temper of both men was
such that these single-issue disagreements did not sour their
personal and political friendship.
Major-General (1806). Further service under Lord Chatham
(q.v.) (Walcheren 1809).
Raised to a baronetcy by the Regent in 1812.
Advisor to General Brock (q.v.) in Canada (1812) and to
Admiral Gambier (q.v.) at Ghent negotiations in 1814. Thanks of
Parliament and KCB. Military advisor to Washington Embassy after War
of 1812, noted for his great tact and charm. He and his lady
delighted Mrs. Madison by making suggestions for the redecoration of
the White House, although we should not ignore Aaron Burr's famous
caveat: "He is either the most genteel man in politicks, or else the
most damnably sarcastic."
Lieutenant-General and KGCB (1816).
Thanks of Congress for services to British-American
relations. Ironically, in his memoirs, Remarkable Episodes (1839), he
claimed his greatest success was to earn the respect of Andrew
Jackson while relishing the thought that Jackson had failed to
recognise him as the officer who had ordered his beating as a youth
during the Rebellion! This gave him great personal satisfaction,
since he bitterly regretted being unable to secure Crown protection
for Cherokee former Loyalists from Jackson's punitive policies.
Tavington's last visit to the former Colonies was in 1824-5,
coinciding with that of another aged war veteran, the Marquis de
Lafayette. The Marquis was relieved that the General did not pull his
hand off and claim to have fought under him, and awarded him the
Order of the Holy Spirit as a mark of gratitude, on behalf of His
Majesty Charles X.
The old General became a great favourite of the young Queen
Victoria, who created him the 1st Viscount Tavington in 1839. Full
General and the Garter (same year). Retaining his faculties to the
end, he passed away peacefully at his country home in extreme old
age, leaving no lawful children. There was a rumour of an
illegitimate son from a youthful liaison c. 1765 with a housemaid
named Martha Molesworth, and indeed a substantial bequest was made to
a family of that name in the Viscount's will. His other heir was Miss
Susan Martin-Tavington, the rescued offspring of the maniacal Rebel,
whom he and his wife had adopted. Despite occasional bouts of
muteness, which sometimes lasted for years, and a pathological terror
of rocking chairs, she became a pioneer feminist astronomer and
collaborator with Sir John Herschel.
The devoted Viscountess was not long left bereaved,
succumbing to a fit of pique on being informed that the family's
title would become extinct, the Lords having refused to accept her
argument that it should pass to her black Persian cat, Brandy VI, as
heir male.
Collateral descendants own a pair of portraits of the future
Viscount and his Lady, painted shortly after their marriage in 1782.
They are unsigned, but are strongly suspected to be the work of
Copley, then painting at the height of his powers on 'The Death of
Major Peirson'. The Colonel is depicted in Dragoon uniform, standing
beside his horse, with the proud élan which so characterised him in
his prime; his lady, elegantly attired in a flowing silk gown, holds
one of her beloved cats, and has a smile best described as smug.
Published Works:
Obituary on Major Ferguson (unsigned, Scots Magazine, written Nov.
1780, publ. January 1781); Advice to the Officers of the British Army
(published anon., formerly misattributed to Francis Grose); In
support of Major Hanger's Riposte to Mackenzie, regarding Tarleton's
Campaigns; Campaigns in the Late Rebellion, 1775-81; Riposte to
Mackenzie and Hanger, regarding My Own Account of my Campaigns; The
so-called 'Employment Practices' of the Slave-holding Class, an
account drawn from plantation life in the former Colonies; A Short
Memoir of the late General Brock (1814); Remarkable Episodes in Their
Late Majesties' Service (6 vol. memoirs, 1839); Correspondence and
Military, Diplomatic and Political Papers, 1766-1844 (15 vols., ed.
N. W. Molesworth, 1854-75).
Further Bibliography:
Gilchrist, Dr. M. M., Fowl Pest or Food Poisoning? The curious case
of the Exploding Rebel of Yorktown, paper presented to the Royal
College of Physicians of Edinburgh, 1782; Suggestions regarding the
hygienic treatment of bayonet wounds, notably regarding pulmonary
bruising and the prevention of abcesses, from observations in the
case of Lieut. Col. T________, after the battle of Cowpens, 1781,
paper presented to the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh,
1783. (Recommendations sadly ignored, following the scandal of the
doctor's unmasking as a female.)
Hansard, various (1795-1810).
General Sir Max Arthur Lindenman, Bt. of Phoenix Park: Death or Glory
- Life in the Light Dragoons, 1833; George Hanger as I knew him -
Personal Reminiscences of the Late Lord Coleraine, 1836.
Dowager-Countess of Seighgoe: An English Methodist Lady in Ireland,
Correspondence 1742-87, 3 vols., Dublin, 1868.
Dowager-Viscountess Tavington: Brandy's Plea to the House of Lords
regarding the Disinheritance of Animals under English Statute
(pamphlet, 1844).
[HB; additional information, MMG]
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