Horse in History
Disclaimer 1: This is fanfic. That means I do not own any of it. I just borrow it to play with for a little while and let people see the pathetic
results if they really want to.
Disclaimer 2: I'm not making any money from it. It's just for fun.
Disclaimer 3: What isn't borrowed is all made up. None of this is real or most likely at all realistic. Please don't trust any of the information in here.
Most likely you know more about whatever I'm writing about than I do.
Disclaimer 4: Attitudes, views and opinions expressed by the characters or in the story are not necessarily those of the author. Even when writing Science
Fiction or Fantasy I do not tend to attempt to create perfect/better worlds in which everybody gets a happy end ... or whatever is best for them. Please
accept that some characters will have a bad ending or be unhappy.
Disclaimer 5: I intend no insult to anyone. If I offend anyone I'm very sorry. Please understand that it was an accident as I tend to be very clumsy in these
Disclaimer 6: If my characters' conversations seem odd or they appear to be talking past each other the latter might occasionally be intentional, but most
likely it is an accident and I'm not aware that they are. It's just my bad communication skills.
Yaaaawwn! Say it is wet and muddy outside today!
And way to early. Are you sure the boss wants to go for a ride?
Hey, don't brush there, that tickles! *kick*
What, you're still not done cleaning that hoof? Give it back now! *pull*
And take your hands off the saddle-belt. It's tight enough! *snap*
And just what do you readers want here this early in the morning? What do you mean who's the ugly horse? My name's Copenhagen, if you have to know. That's the name of a great battle. My Mum would have been there, if she hadn't had me, but they sent her home when they noticed.
It doesn't really matter, though. I've been in more great battles in my day than you've ever dreamed of, all over the peninsula. That's where there are places called Spain and Portugal and Ciudad Rodrigo and Salamanca and Estremadura. I'm not quite sure what those are to be honest, but I've been there. I've heard the canons and the musket salvoes and the screams of the wounded and dying, the noise of an oncoming cavalry charge ... and the drums, of course. I've seen it all. I know the drums and the shouting, the chaos and noise of the baggage train, the order and colourful uniforms and glistening metal at a grand review as we inspect them all. Yep, I know everything there is to know and I'll kick anybody who says I don't.
Ah, but here comes the boss. I'm not really sure what his name is actually. They call him Wellesley sometimes, and our Arty, and then again he's Nosey or Douro, or Field Marshal, or the Beau, or the Duke ... or Wellington. Sometimes they call him Wellington.
I think maybe I actually like him. Or maybe I don't. I'm not really in the habit of liking anyone and he gets damn heavy on my back after a long day of wading through mud like this or galloping back and forth across battlefields with the balls and shells falling left and right until you really don't know where the next bang will come from anymore.
But of course if we are going for a ride. ...
Why hello! That looks like a battle line! What's this place called again? Waterloo? Never heard of it, but whatever, it looks like we're going to have a big one today and I haven't seen one of those in a while. Heyho, and here we go!