Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Twenty: "You Have Ten Seconds to Make a
First Impression"
"Very, very impressive!"
Gen. William Tavington looked up, his gaze meeting that of a mysterious Frenchman who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere to stand beside the arena. He was dressed in one of those French uniforms that the dragoons had poked fun at while stationed in America. It was light blue with navy cuffs and silver ornamentation. A wide-brimmed Musketeer style hat was perched atop a mass of carefully powdered curls. He spoke English admirably well, but with a distinct French accent.
Tavington could tell from the way the man carried himself that he was a statesman not a soldier. The impressively ornate rapier hanging from his belt seemed almost out of place. It was the sort of weapon used for show, not war.
"So you are General William Tavington?" the Frenchman asked.
"He is," Mooreville answered, coming up from behind. His hand rested on the hilt of his saber. A French assassin was exactly the sort of thing one would expect from a Carrenworth. "And who are you?"
Much to the old dragoon's surprise, the Frenchman turned to him, removed his comically large hat, and bowed.
"I am Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord."
Mooreville and O'Hara were stunned by the response. The stood frozen for a few seconds before bowing themselves. The majority of the crowd did likewise.
"Uh. Gen. Tavington," O'Hara whispered, noticing the dragoon's breech of etiquette.
"Who is he?" Tavington asked indifferently. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the remaining blood from his saber.
"He's Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord!" O'Hara exclaimed in shock.
"And he's king of France or something?"
O'Hara was dumbfounded. "He might as well be. Damn it man."
"All this formality really isn't necessary," Talleyrand sighed, reminding himself that the British were of a lower class and therefore their idiocies had to be tolerated. Replacing his hat, he turned to Tavington. "May I congratulate you on your victory? That was a most impressive display! I had the pleasure of attending one of those little tournaments that the Ecole Militaire performs in the winter. I was quite impressed by the skill of Carrenworth. but that. that was glorious!"
Truth be told, Talleyrand found it rather bloody, but like anyone who frequented the Palace of Versailles he had achieved a respectable level in the art of flattery.
"Thank you," Tavington replied. He turned to Bernard Duel. The proprietor had grown very pail and was mopping his face with an oversized checkered handkerchief. "My reward, sir?"
"R-reward?" the fat man stammered.
In half a second the point of Tavington's saber was tickling his quivering double chin.
"My reward?"
"Yes, of course, your reward." Duel reached into his pocket, seeming reaching for the money. What emerged was a flintlock pistol, cocked and ready. Duel leveled it at Tavington. "Here's your filthy reward!"
The gun exploded with a deafening crack. Talleyrand dove for cover behind Mooreville and O'Hara. Fortunately for Tavington, Mr. Duel had terrible aim. Unfortunately for Mr. Duel, Tavington happened to be armed. The dust stirred up by the gunshot settled as the dragoon pulled his once again bloody weapon from the man's enormous gut.
The crowd stood in dumbstruck silence as the three dragoons mounded their horses. Mooreville gave Tavington a disapproving look, which he ignored. O'Hara tried to prevent his gaze from wandering toward the two bodies, meat cooking in the Indian sun.
"I would like a word with you, Gen. Tavington!" the voice of the strangely dressed Frenchman called out.
Talleyrand's ego was stinging from his recent display of cowardice, but he wasn't the sort to give up easily.
"What is it, already?!" Tavington snapped.
The words did not have their desired effect of scaring the meddling foreigner away, however.
"I have something very important I wish to discuss with you. It concerns a certain Victor Alexander Carrenworth."
* * *
Victor Alexander Carrenworth sipped his cup of cream slightly flavored with tea while watching Lord Cornwallis pace nervously back and forth across his office in Government House. He wondered what it was about this Tavington that made the Governor-General so damned nervous. Having met the man himself, he had been decidedly unimpressed. He remembered the conversation between Cornwallis and his father. That would explain the dislike, but there was something about Cornwallis' manner that indicated fear.
"Afraid, my dear Cornwallis?" Victor had risked it. The question hung in the air. Neither man spoke.
* * *
Tavington shut the door, trapping the Frenchman. Talleyrand couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. He was trapped in a room with a man he knew was capable of beheading someone over twice his size. There was also the fact that this man did not seem to like him very much. Still, this was it.
"Now or never," Talleyrand told himself.
"What do you want, Frenchman?" Tavington asked idly, flipping through a book that happened to be nearby. It was an observation of various native religious customs, the sort of book one might expect to find in an out of the way Calcutta inn. The content didn't interest the dragoon, not nearly as much as the Frenchman who seemed so interested in Carrenworth. It wouldn't do to appear eager.
"As I said earlier, it concerns the Duke of Fairenvail."
"Call him Vic," Tavington commented without looking up. "We all do." By all he meant the other Green Dragoons.
"Very well then, it concerns," used to titles, Talleyrand nearly stumbled over the little name that had been put in his path, "Vic."
"Very, very impressive!"
Gen. William Tavington looked up, his gaze meeting that of a mysterious Frenchman who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere to stand beside the arena. He was dressed in one of those French uniforms that the dragoons had poked fun at while stationed in America. It was light blue with navy cuffs and silver ornamentation. A wide-brimmed Musketeer style hat was perched atop a mass of carefully powdered curls. He spoke English admirably well, but with a distinct French accent.
Tavington could tell from the way the man carried himself that he was a statesman not a soldier. The impressively ornate rapier hanging from his belt seemed almost out of place. It was the sort of weapon used for show, not war.
"So you are General William Tavington?" the Frenchman asked.
"He is," Mooreville answered, coming up from behind. His hand rested on the hilt of his saber. A French assassin was exactly the sort of thing one would expect from a Carrenworth. "And who are you?"
Much to the old dragoon's surprise, the Frenchman turned to him, removed his comically large hat, and bowed.
"I am Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord."
Mooreville and O'Hara were stunned by the response. The stood frozen for a few seconds before bowing themselves. The majority of the crowd did likewise.
"Uh. Gen. Tavington," O'Hara whispered, noticing the dragoon's breech of etiquette.
"Who is he?" Tavington asked indifferently. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the remaining blood from his saber.
"He's Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord!" O'Hara exclaimed in shock.
"And he's king of France or something?"
O'Hara was dumbfounded. "He might as well be. Damn it man."
"All this formality really isn't necessary," Talleyrand sighed, reminding himself that the British were of a lower class and therefore their idiocies had to be tolerated. Replacing his hat, he turned to Tavington. "May I congratulate you on your victory? That was a most impressive display! I had the pleasure of attending one of those little tournaments that the Ecole Militaire performs in the winter. I was quite impressed by the skill of Carrenworth. but that. that was glorious!"
Truth be told, Talleyrand found it rather bloody, but like anyone who frequented the Palace of Versailles he had achieved a respectable level in the art of flattery.
"Thank you," Tavington replied. He turned to Bernard Duel. The proprietor had grown very pail and was mopping his face with an oversized checkered handkerchief. "My reward, sir?"
"R-reward?" the fat man stammered.
In half a second the point of Tavington's saber was tickling his quivering double chin.
"My reward?"
"Yes, of course, your reward." Duel reached into his pocket, seeming reaching for the money. What emerged was a flintlock pistol, cocked and ready. Duel leveled it at Tavington. "Here's your filthy reward!"
The gun exploded with a deafening crack. Talleyrand dove for cover behind Mooreville and O'Hara. Fortunately for Tavington, Mr. Duel had terrible aim. Unfortunately for Mr. Duel, Tavington happened to be armed. The dust stirred up by the gunshot settled as the dragoon pulled his once again bloody weapon from the man's enormous gut.
The crowd stood in dumbstruck silence as the three dragoons mounded their horses. Mooreville gave Tavington a disapproving look, which he ignored. O'Hara tried to prevent his gaze from wandering toward the two bodies, meat cooking in the Indian sun.
"I would like a word with you, Gen. Tavington!" the voice of the strangely dressed Frenchman called out.
Talleyrand's ego was stinging from his recent display of cowardice, but he wasn't the sort to give up easily.
"What is it, already?!" Tavington snapped.
The words did not have their desired effect of scaring the meddling foreigner away, however.
"I have something very important I wish to discuss with you. It concerns a certain Victor Alexander Carrenworth."
* * *
Victor Alexander Carrenworth sipped his cup of cream slightly flavored with tea while watching Lord Cornwallis pace nervously back and forth across his office in Government House. He wondered what it was about this Tavington that made the Governor-General so damned nervous. Having met the man himself, he had been decidedly unimpressed. He remembered the conversation between Cornwallis and his father. That would explain the dislike, but there was something about Cornwallis' manner that indicated fear.
"Afraid, my dear Cornwallis?" Victor had risked it. The question hung in the air. Neither man spoke.
* * *
Tavington shut the door, trapping the Frenchman. Talleyrand couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. He was trapped in a room with a man he knew was capable of beheading someone over twice his size. There was also the fact that this man did not seem to like him very much. Still, this was it.
"Now or never," Talleyrand told himself.
"What do you want, Frenchman?" Tavington asked idly, flipping through a book that happened to be nearby. It was an observation of various native religious customs, the sort of book one might expect to find in an out of the way Calcutta inn. The content didn't interest the dragoon, not nearly as much as the Frenchman who seemed so interested in Carrenworth. It wouldn't do to appear eager.
"As I said earlier, it concerns the Duke of Fairenvail."
"Call him Vic," Tavington commented without looking up. "We all do." By all he meant the other Green Dragoons.
"Very well then, it concerns," used to titles, Talleyrand nearly stumbled over the little name that had been put in his path, "Vic."