Christine Blashford
speaker
728 appearances
1 recordings
1 series
first heard Jul 2026
last heard 21 Jul
Christine Blashford’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.
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recordings per month · last 12 monthsRecordings per month over the last 12 months — 1 in all, peaking in Jul 2026 with 1.
Appearances
Returning that eventful morning from his office at first call for reveil, after seeing the last of Ray's gallant troop as it moved away across the dim vista of the northward prairie, Webb had been concerned to find his decanter of Monon Gehala half empty on the pantry table, and the debris of a hurried feast on every side.
Kennedy, who had begun in moderation, must have felt the need of further creature comfort after his bout with the stalwart Sioux, and had availed himself to the limit of his capacity of the Major's invitation.
Webb's first thought was to partially remove the traces of that single handed spree, then refilling the decanter from the big five gallon demijon, kept under lock and key in the cupboard, for Michael, too, had at long intervals weaknesses of his own, he was thinking how best to protect Kennedy from the consequences of his Webb's rash invitation when Schriber's knock was heard.
Ten minutes more and the sergeant was back again.
Sir, I have to report that Trooper Kennedy has not been seen about the quarters, said he.
Then try the stables, sergeant, answered the veteran campaigner, and thither would Shriber next have gone even had he not been sent.
And sure enough there was Kennedy, with rueful face and a maudlin remont about a moonlit meeting with a swarm of painted Sioux, over which the stable guard were making merry, and stirring the trooper's soul to wrath ungovernable.
I can prove it, he howled, to the accompaniment of clinching fists and bellicose lunges at the laughing tormentors nearest him.
I can whip the hide off in the skirt that says I didn't.
Ask Lutant Field Bajabers.
He saw it.
Ask oh mother of God, what's this I'm saying?
And there, with stern rebuking gaze, stood the man they knew and feared, every soul of them, as they did no commissioned soldier, Sergeant Schreiber, the redoubtable, and Schreiber had heard the insane and damaging boast.
Come with me, Kennedy, was all he said, and Kennedy snatched his battered felt headgear down over his eyes and tacked woefully after his swift striding master, without ever another word.
But it was to his own room Schreiber took the unhappy Irishman, not to the quarters of Company F.
He had heard words that, coupled with others that fell through the darkness on his keenly listening ears some two hours earlier, had given him cause for painful thought.
Lie down here, Kennedy, pull off your boots, said he, and if you open your full head to any living soul until I give you leave, pie got I'll kill ya.
It was Schreiber's way, like Marriott's famous boatswain, to begin his admonitions in exact English, and then as wrath overcame him, to lapse into dialect.
It was but a few minutes after seven when Major Webb, having previously dispatched a messenger to the post traders to say he had need to see Mr Hay as soon as possible, mounted his horse, and
And followed by Sergeant Schreiber and an orderly, rode quietly past the guard house, touching his hat to the shouted, Turn out the guard, commanding officer of the sentry on number one.
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