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Zusatztext “Shocking. . . . So exciting. . . . Readers will find themselves simply turning the pages . . . as if they were lost in the exciting adventures of a Victorian James Bond. . . . He is . . . the stuff of legend.”– The Washington Post Book World “A novelistic gallop through history and imagination. . . . Fraser can easily juggle Conan Doyle and Holmes! Fleming and Bond! Wodehouse and Wooster! and Chandler and Marlowe.”– Vanity Fair “Genius. . .one of the literary wonders of the age: historical pastiche raised to such dizzy heights that you forget that it is pastiche and savour it as new-minted fiction.”– The Telegraph “As fine a contribution to history and literature as you could desire. . . .filled with peril! astonishing escapes and sexual escapades. . . brilliant.”– The Boston Globe Informationen zum Autor George MacDonald Fraser was born in England and educated in Scotland. He served in a Highland regiment in India, Africa, and the Middle East. In addition to his books, he has written screenplays, including The Three Musketeers , The Four Musketeers , and the James Bond film Octopussy . He died in 2008. Klappentext It's 1868 and Sir Harry Flashman, V.C., arch-cad, amorist, cold-headed soldier, and reluctant hero, is back! Fleeing a chain of vengeful pursuers that includes Mexican bandits, the French Foreign Legion, and the relatives of an infatuated Austrian beauty, Flashy is desperate for somewhere to take cover. So desperate, in fact, that he embarks on a perilous secret intelligence-gathering mission to help free a group of Britons being held captive by a tyrannical Abyssinian king. Along the way, of course, are nightmare castles, brigands, massacres, rebellions, orgies, and the loveliest and most lethal women in Africa, all of which will test the limits of the great bounder's talents for knavery, amorous intrigue, and survival. Flashman on the March—the twelfth book in George MacDonald Fraser's ever-beloved, always scandalous Flashman Papers series--is Flashman and Fraser at their best.“Half a million in silver, did you say?” “In Maria Theresa dollars. Worth a hundred thou’ in quids.” He held up a gleaming coin, broad as a crown, with the old girl double-chinned on one side and the Austrian arms on t’other. “Dam’ disinheritin’ old bitch, what? Mind, they say she was a plum in her youth, blonde and buxom, just your sort, Flashy—” “Ne’er mind my sort. The cash must reach this place in Africa within four weeks? And the chap who was to have escorted it is laid up in Venice with yellow jack?” “Or the clap, or the sailor’s itch, or heaven knows what.” He spun the coin, grinning foxy-like. “You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you? You’re game to do it yourself! Good old Flash!” “Don’t rush your fences, Speed, my boy. When’s it due to be shipped out?” “Wednesday. Lloyd packet to Alexandria. But with Sturgess comin’ all over yellow in Venice, that won’t do, and there ain’t another Alex boat for a fortnight—far too late, and the Embassy’ll run my guts up the flagpole, as though ’twas my fault, confound ’em—” “Aye, it’s hell in the diplomatic. Well, tell you what, Speed—I’ll ride guard on your dollars to Alex for you, but I ain’t waiting till Wednesday. I want to be clear of this blasted town by dawn tomorrow, so you’d best drum up a steam-launch and crew, and get your precious treasure aboard tonight—where is it just now?” “At the station, the Strada Ferrata—but dammit, Flash, a private charter’ll cost the moon—” “You’ve got Embassy dibs, haven’t you? Then use ’em! The station ain’t spitting distance from the Klutsch mole, and if you get a move on you can have the gelt loaded by midnight. Heavens, man, steam craft and spaghetti sailors are ten a penny in Trieste! If you’re in such a sweat to get the dollars to Africa—” ...
