Showing posts with label honour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label honour. Show all posts

Thursday, 10 January 2013

Incredible delusion



There followed a brief silence during which I kept a straight face. Suddenly it became plain that they were under the incredible delusion that I shot Theodore, but they didn’t care to say so in as many words, which was vastly diverting. Of course it was what they’d wanted, and had hinted to me through Prideaux, and Speedy, having seen the pistol in my hand and Theodore stark and stiff, had concluded that I’d done the dirty deed to save H.M.G. the painful embarrassment of having to try and possibly hang the black bugger. (“But no one must ever know, Sir Robert . . . controversy . . . press gang, scoundrel Stanley . . . questions in the house . . . uproar . . . regicide . . . scandalum magnatum . . . honour of the Army . . . “)


Flashman on the March, p.273, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2005.


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Tuesday, 29 May 2012

A pint of port



So there he was, reputation blasted, and nothing for it, you’d have thought, but to order a pint of port and a pistol for breakfast or join the Foreign Legion.


Flashman and the Tiger, p.247, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.



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Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Word of a gentleman



I’ve also known from the age of three that “honour” and “solemn oath” and “word of a gentleman” are mere piss in the wind of greed, ambition, and fear.


Flashman and the Tiger, p.227, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Monday, 26 April 2010

Cricket, the Flashman way



It may strike you that old Flashy’s approach to our great summer game wasn’t quite that of you school-storybook hero, apple-cheeked and manly, playing up unselfishly for the honour of the side and love of his gallant captain, revelling in the jolly rivalry of bat and ball while his carefree laughter rings across the green sward. No, not exactly; personal glory and cheap wickets however you could get ’em, and d--n the honour of the side, that was my style, with a few quid picked up in side-bets and plenty of skirt-chasing afterwards among the sporting ladies who used to ogle us big hairy fielders over their parasols at Canterbury Week.

Flashman's Lady, p.12, Pan edition, 1979.




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Monday, 19 April 2010

Sudden keen pain



He reached up, and I felt a sudden keen pain in my left tit as he stuck the pin in – I gasped and looked down, and there it was, on its ribbon, the shabby looking little bronze cross against my jacket…



Flashman in the Great Game, p.330, Pan edition, 4th printing, 1979.




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Monday, 6 April 2009

bristle up the courage



…a strange recklessness had come over me. I was beyond caring, I suppose, but I remember I stood muttering to myself before a mirror as I brushed my hair: ‘Come on, Flashy, my boy, they haven’t got you yet…. you’re still here ain’t you? Your backside is better enough for you to run again, if need be – bristle up the courage of the cornered rat, put on a bold front, and to hell with them. Bluff my boy – bluff, shift and lie for the sake of your neck and the honour of Old England.



Flash For Freedom!, p.257, Pan edition, 8th printing, 1980.




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Sunday, 26 October 2008

Stern stuff



These royal wenches are made of stern stuff, of course; tell ’em it’s for their country’s sake and they become all proudly dutiful and think they’re Joan of Arc.



Royal Flash, p.245, Pan edition, 8th printing, 1978.




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Sunday, 29 June 2008

The highest honour

We shook hands, and he drove off. I never spoke to him again. Years later, though, I told the American general, Robert Lee, of the incident, and he said Wellington was right – I had received the highest honour any soldier could hope for. But it wasn’t the medal; for Lee’s money it was Wellington’s hand.
  Neither, I may point out, had any intrinsic value.



Flashman, p.276, Pan edition, 12th printing, 1979.




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Saturday, 17 May 2008

British-officer-like


‘My person is my affair,’ says I, very British-officer-like, ‘and your honour is yours. I accept your apology.’



Flashman, p.103, Pan edition, 12th printing, 1979.



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Tuesday, 13 May 2008

The field of honour

'…don’t wait to die on the field of honour.’ He said it without a sneer. ‘Heroes draw no higher wages than the others, boy. Sleep well.’



Flashman, p.83, Pan edition, 12th printing, 1979.



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