The Reavers by George MacDonald
Fraser
"It Was A Dark And Stormy Night...."
After twelve gloriously scandalous Flashman novels, the incomparable
George MacDonald Fraser gives us a totally hilarious tale of derring-do
from a different era.
Its the turn of the seventeenth century (sort of) in the wild Borderlands of
Scotland. The irresistible Lady Godiva Dacre and her chocolate-box pretty
companion Mistress Kylie Delishe find themselves caught between the
dashing Bonny Gilderoy (think Johnny Depp on a horse in a tunic) and
Archie Noble (Steve McQueen in Elizabethan garb). A casket of jewels, an
accidental murder, and an estate at risk are the order of the day. Amidst
preposterous alliances and ridiculous complications of the heart, our
heroines discover a fiendish Spanish plot to overthrow the king. What
ensues is an utterly uproarious thrill ride filled with lecherous mischief,

diabolical intrigue, and a cast of supporting characters that only George
Fraser could deliver.
Personal Review: The Reavers by George MacDonald Fraser
. . . and a volume of SJ Perelman smashes through the collected works of
Sir Walter Scott and takes a corner off a Harry Potter tome before plunging
into a history of Hollywood swashbucklers. That will give you a flavor of the
late great George MacDonald Fraser's last work.
Fraser wrote five kinds of books in his illustrious career. There were his
peerless Flashman books, of course. There were his solid histories - A
Hollywood History of the World remains the best and most engaging study
of the subject matter ever written. There were his two volumes of memoirs
- Quartered Safe Out Here is easily one of the five best firsthand accounts
of World War II, a classic which should be on every shelf of military history
for the next millenium. There was Fraser's other fiction, ranging from the
comic McAuslan novels to the dark and brooding Candlemass Road. Then
there were his two nonsense novels: Pyrates and this, his valedictory
novel.
Personally, I've never cared for this sort of humor. It is too loose, too many
word plays, no structure to hold on to. I've never seen the point of the Marx
Brothers or Perelman. Nevertheless, this is a superior example of this sort
of fiction and I found myself laughing out loud far more often than I ever
had while watching Duck Soup or reading Westward Ho!
And as someone who read the first, newly published Flashman in high
school, I have received a lifetime of enjoyment from the author. If as his
last work, he chose to write a book which gave him the undoubted
pleasure The Reavers gave him, then I say, bravo, Mr. Fraser.
Now if only his publisher can convince Fraser's daughter - a fine writer in
her own right - to resume the Flashman novels, all will be well in the world.
The literary world, at any rate.
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