The Magic of Morgans Twas new-borne day, misty still, twixt yon soft tor, called by most for Erseman Clan O'sark, near onto great brown river-track, countless rides from her birthing place hard by great eye-to-sky and majik of ring of stone Yet, she knew not fear, for in heart and bone lay strength of Triumph and stout Anglic oak. Run hard and long, swerve quick, stop short and to speed of wind again. Hard work,this battle, but she was equal to the test, for she was borne thus. Of equal parts fine dicotomy; soft smooth hide of gentle crofter's beast and hard as deep-mined iron. Her sinews knew consecration in soot -dark smithy's hut. 'Pon forges hell where anvils bell, 'mid show'ring stars of steel, well-worked by mighty Thor-like hammers flung full force by gnarled muscled craftsman's arm. At birthing, ere first gentle kiss of breath, nor flutt'ring beat of heart, newborne splendor tender-stroked by adoring labor's art. A not unfit beatitude for such a one as she. Amazonian Bodacia, battle-chosen war queen of staunchest Angles-land. Now not in half her second year, she faced her gravest test. A foe in fess, not enemy, for contest was not to challange vile, twas chosen from afar, it came upon owl-soft wings, a serpant tucked abed. Far best an honest gauntlet throwed by gash-faced sneering villian vile. In truth, the foe could not be devined, the insult came, seems, from air. Still the frailish queen had no fear. Her mettle tested well, her passage marked most generously with crushed and ravaged foe. She felt not sorrow nor sympathy, waste tear nor mourn for fools. Twas squires that wrenched her head and heart. Poor foolish men strapped 'thout mercy to battlepost serving masters caring for naught. She thought fondly of her own man, Lew. For mortal mighty art, though fragile full of weakness as any man was wont. The thought was passing prideful. He would do his best. Competant was he through battles hell, yes she had chosen wisely for one not yet fully ripe. Hush, you! Things afoot! Mortal voices at paddock gate. Ah, was well, good Squire Lew come to serve her 'fore the fray. Good Squire, good man most dear to her. Bounden tasks his fondest love. Respectful ministrations in fain of mortal flesh. Large hands full gentle as no maidens, he kenned her secret places, and in care of circumspection, made her close again. No paltry uncouth servant, she was nutured as her need, and in prideful familiarity cleansed her oerall. Then came he close unto her, full-bowed head, humble in extreme. In voice soft with defferance he begged her boon. She knew he spoke not with hidden guile, and close attended his sinful words. His voice dead as lead. "We must mark thee, beyond lists full-moon badge." then turned to make it so. Quickly done, then lurched aside to not acknowlege the noisome desecration he knew full well she would despise There skriven full profane on pristine flank, a smirch on flawless beauty, timeless cloak of Napier's Green reduced to field for jest. What this common label? By who's leave, uncouth varlet? Be ever mindful of hated Roman and what became his fate. Et tu, my favored man? A strumpet's badge, a harlot's cloak. What be, my faithful Squire? Must thee my mortal love? 'Blazoned on untainted side as if a common wench, lewd scribbles burned as hob-coal's flame, "Baby Doll IV". besotted tavern name! Young Lew quoth soft, as unto midnight mist, in desp'rit consolation, "Confusion to thine enemy, lest they too soon quit the field." Dev'ous information! "So! Stripling 'comes tactician! Though words were frought with merit, they pleased her not, then 'pon re'prochment fin, she sought not dissemulation. 'Tis unwise to be quarrelsome when Dragons be in the lists, and the battle art incumbant. Confusion 'mongst the paddock pack did soon begin to quicken, and she heard one monster cough, spit, come to life and roar. Snakes kin, full with anger. Soon joined by over-much fellows. 'Twas seen most readily why the humble folk quailed and groveled before their onslaugts roar. Their very sound of waking boded evil intimidation and death, and more. They were the fav'rits of the mortals in their native land. Singularly dangerous foe. Their Squires, though be mortal, were alone enough for deadly chill in many brave true hearts. Then babble of the rabble, the lesser foes in melee soon to be, was swept aside by battle trump... the awful time was 'pon them all. Her Squire stood near and shyly touched, not seeking leave. There had been too many battles for needless ceremony. Battle-helm 'neath mail clad arm. he smiled a half-way smile. "Time, gal." The only man to name her thus and still mayhap to live. The simple words belied the task which closely lay ahead. He mounted, girded, and thrice checked belts and straps. Not a word was said. Not gaudy ostentation, that gear, it saved many a mortal's life, She saw him fitted, helm tight cinched, gauntlets tight-drawn 'pon battle ready hands. She moved them out, now protected not be een paddock's megre fence Then to parade en masse for townsfolk's wond'rous enlightenment. Before her was no great surprise, proud Kraken, Battle Dragons lay. A full pentad... evil, spiteful things, snorted, roared, belched blue-cloud smoke to cheering mortal mob. Ah, mortals, so ease impress'd by by barging sound and fury. Unschooled heathens... no feeling for skill nor grace nor beauty. Near unto her, more fulsome kind, armor silv'ry all. Muttering dark incantaions Gothic-Grand. Deep-Voice, Cleave-to-Earth, Lover of Long Run, but Teutonic True, Murderer-of-Unschooled-Squires. Borne not of quick-thought desperation, but of finely crafted pride, Hail Paragon of Reliance, Foal of Portia. Though far from swiftest, oftimes carried through their proud banner to the end, when Berserkers quick, hot fire flared out, all fuel consumed, and the mightiest faltered, and fell short the precious goal. To rear came bray and keen of rabble, with mob's lust for high-borne blood. Een a half-heard bugle of her own weaker kin. Good on you, o trusted sister, The maker's wish well sent. She wouldst guard the queenly back, while the Royal did shirk not. DEATH TO SNAKES! DOWN DRAGONS! her blood did boil that hot! A sudden blast, insane, at rear. uncouth noise! Who dares to make it so? With warning naught, whilst on parade... what low-borne knavish churl? Then she saw, close behind, French-dubbed, but crude native borne. Though whelped in lowly squalor, was blest by Romish Prince, and nutured by unbowed General, who in stiff-necked pride, ruled this untamed land. Rude beast! Quick-start, slow-stop. Pond'rous, clumsy things. Yet for all ill-conceived lack of grace, a much feared adversary, well-known for crushing body blows. She called her first quick battle order: "Lew, my strong left arm, ''ware the ships arear." He nodded his answer quick, as she knew full- well he would. For her? Hers an overweaning hunger for Dragon's hot black blood. She listened more intently, kenned not a few stout yoemen in the van. Yon was Tigerish scion of new-made Lord with Roots in her own native land. And here and there a commoner, though no less competant, heirs to Morris of Abbington. Slow, but stout fellows, to a man. Not to leave brave Triumph cry. The sound was to rejoice, for Triumph was ere in heart. A voice of old, and distant clan, though hardly kith and kin. The rest were by herd wash'd oer, no foreign voice was heard, save for distant wail of Roman. A plaint of empires gone. All was well, on battle day. Well...? Was it really so? She had a passing ghostly thought, of a great trav'ler recent met, Who spoke of wondrous miracles in lands in distant east. Of suns rising from the sea and grand emperors, and the mighty black belted worriors who served him there. She shed the thought as mortal foolishness. Tales told by travling bards. To 'muse the high-borne Ladies and their men and to fright the common folk. Then, sudden as the blink of eye the bright green standard fell! No time for further idle thought, the battle was begun! Ahead in surge with scarce a pause, left ships, Tuetons, and Dragons gyre, and shriek. The field ahead was free of foe. Room to make war! Twas meet. Fie! they were so quick upon. She deftly danced aside. Five great, howling Beasties thrust past to gain 'vantage, 'fore field bacame a lane. A narrow pass beset with kinks and curls to trip up snake and ship. 'Twas mightily akin to uncoiling bullock whip. And ungainly oxen that they were couldst not finesse the curve, while she went by in full cry and nicked them one, by one. She nimbly dodged to her right, more apt than any snake, and while they writhed in massed confusion, she quickly sped away. And so it went all battle, Slice! Whirl 'way to spin and parry, to turn and thrust again, to slip the snare and thrust again and speed beyond reach of uncouth enemy. Her passage marked by naught but wounded foe, and sweet soprano song. The Dragons lusted for her blood, For their master fed them not. She vowed they'd not gnaw her bones, she kept her peace, but sword spoke keenly, as it should. Soon Dragon, Squire and master grew full surly at the game and feeling muchly overtwarted did fight amongst themselves in vain. Master of the Snake-Beasts, tall, lean, wearer of broad black hat. Landsman garbed, Consumer of flame-licked red food, as befits a Dragon Sire. Once lowly Squire, now feared Master of Dragon-Snakes, traced grim-faced track before wall of Snake Pit. Blue -cold fire filled slitted eye, he swore a scaulding white-hot oath till not a single mortal could stand before him. Why had his invincible Dragon- Snakes failed him? Why had they not slain the insignificant little gnat? Truth be told? They could not tree her. The Great Man could but pace and curse. He had never seen it so. The battle lines grew thinner, she had now but TWO snakes to strike at her ere twisty parts be reached. and all the while she did them ill, thrusting sabre 'gainst broad battle-axe. Then sudden in the melee... struth she was sore amazed. She came 'pon Squire and Dragon, drawn quite apart from war. The beast was quiet. Curl-smoke round its broad head. The Squire sat slumped , hard depressed. Was the Battle-Beast dying... was it truely dead? LOKI !!! A moment's inattention! She was near undone. The field made ice-slick by coal-black dragon blood, and no one marked it so. She trod upon disgusting slime, she somewise stayed afoot, it took a devils dance. She'd fight yet more that battle day, a fitting happenstance. Eternity soon whirled away, the dance was near to done. Of the phalanx of night-blue dragons, she now faced aught but one. He could still catch her in the open field, but soon she'd twist away. Indeed he surely seemed to need more room the stop a charge. GOOD! Perhaps...yes, mayso juuuust perhaps. She fair flew from final corner, straining every nerve. Saw the bicolored banner being offered so close ahead. Had she the strength for one final burst to see the long day through? Then heard the scrabbling Dragon as it burst upon the field. Listen NOT! He still scrambles for a purchase. He'll NOT make up the lead. The FLAG, the FLAG.! It's what's before you, not behind that counts. Then she was THERE! not half length away, when with beserker Viking's deathly scream and thund'ring hammer's beat the Serpant reared 'longside her to snatch the prize away. BEATEN!!! BEATEN!!! Bested by half a length! Half a thousand horses with a thousand blood-lust eyes, but slimly took her rightful due. Had snatched away her prize! Then In uncaring vict'ry thrill, spared her not a sidelong glance. She had lost. It couldn't BE! She had run the run, fought the fight. The vict'ry belonged to HER! She slowed, stopped, and youngish cried. Soft, sad "pinking" sounds the only sign. Dark mis'ry crashed to earth. Doubts brought her low. Her storm 'tosst being was in small smoothed of wave, when good-Squire Lew touched with hand still battle-hot. "Well, m'lady, they want us in the winner's circle, now." "Sayest thou?. But why? Are they to mock me still?" Doubts flowered spring-like, She acquesed, but with dreading. The sea of folk were parted when they heard her voice come nigh. She moved yet more slowly... felt penned by the sea of unknown mortals. Then like a stroke of lightning, she was there. IT was there. Foul Dragon! The triumphant snake! At rest 'twas somehow smaller. It's smell permeated air, and war heat was felt afar. She was singularly ill at ease pent so close with the beast. twas feeling much resented. Unseemly for a queen. She studied close the Dragon's Squire. Bould chin, hair shock of wheat. Lo! It was he! Walter! son of Hansgen! Truely stalwart, for a mortal. She felt muchly less shamed. But for being mortal Walter wouldst be a mighty warrior unto himself. This and her paltry fifty and one hundred horses against a stable full five? She felt shamed again. Had her sweet Lew done for naught? But Walter. A giant een amongst the g... Hold. A voice of import speaks. "...and now for the REAL winner! Bob Spencer, and his giant killer Morgan Super Sport. They cracked the Cobra steam-roller for second, and first in under 2-liter! That's 120 cubic inches against 289, folks. Put your hands together for a fine team." The applause made her feel renewed. Twas the first of many times. And then a great silv'ry cup. Larger yet than any drinking vessel, and foaming grape to fill, pass'd hand by hand to Lew who quaffed to slake his battle-thirst. 'Twas one of those rare times when she wisht she were heir to mortal weakness in kind. Then proud helm tosst on high, great whooping cry. "WE DID IT, BABE!" Far from giving insult, familiarity stronger forged the link of warmth between. For did it they had, indeed. She gauged once more the strength of the THING that won. Studied it's badge. What-o! Familiarity there! AC!...AC! Enclasped in graven cirque! AC, cousin unto proud Bristol. Good name fallen upon hard times of late. And another escution spied. Ford on boat-shaped field. A crofter, this Ford of Fremont. Wouldst these strange mortals in this wild place breath new life into proud house of AC? Would wonderment cease? The snake was scion of good stout Anglic stock. A whelping good as she! A Dragon true unto its blood a good ancestrial line, and Dragon being Dragon is not to be despised. Blood breeds true, as true as she was made in her mother's mould, and she to mother hers, and mother's mother's mother in honored iteration. Snake begets snake, and oak acorn oak, with nere a transformation. At last she bathed in happy warmth, tis an honorable thing and good, to fall to a stronger and kindred foe and not to fiend nor god. But O, to have been but one length swifter, the stories that might be told. But then as mortals were wont to say, "If wishes were but gold." Then if thou but to listen, from alabaster castles high, beyond yon hill. wouldst hear soft sighings and rumblings deep borne 'pon the scented wind be, as the mortals say, sign of summer's storm, but those art 'ware ancient portents rare now 'most lost... unknown. Yon clamor be not wind nor torrent, but great beings at their play, with white Skaal goblets raised in sword-scarred hands in honor of that day. The struggle past, no mortal wound, no seeping corpse pon crimson shield. Valhalla's hall would be needed not, War Maidens would not ride. Great grey stallions stay astabled. For Valkyries there was aught but to drink, and laugh and sing, and play. And THAT be what split the air that glor'ous battle day. Then the mortals were agone to where such do bide, and she was taken to the great bronze whale that was her castle twixt the battles ride. A majik thing it was. Once in its belly, she could sleep, and upon 'waking be in an altogether different land. It was good. To be a War- Queen who could make but war. No silly mortals to administrate. Only the glorious thunder of the battlefield. Then inside. The great gleaming ribs protected her. Her Squire caressed gently. "Good job m'lady." Twas the only time she thrilled to touch of man. But JOB? Only mortal would say such. It was GLORIOUS!!!... almost overmuch. Life was good. The light dimmed, darkened, and she slept. -FIN- NEWS RELEASE to Road & Track Magazine August 1963 STUTTGART ARKANSAS. To the huge amusement of the crowd, driver Lew Spencer split the Factory Cobra Team with it's first real competition since it's inception over a year ago. Spencer took every advantage of his Morgan Super Sport's superior braking, impressive cornering and blinding acceleration to finish only hundreths of a second behind Cobra Team driver Walt Hansgen. The previously all but invencible Cobras were humbled at every turn, as the lightweight 2-liter would dive yards deeper into each corner before braking, drive around Cobras cluttering the roadway like so many mobile chicanes, and as impossible as it seems, OUTACCELERATE the big 289s for half the length of the straighaway, where the Cobras would reel him in again, only to have the whole game repeated at the next bend Mr. Shelby was pacing the pit wall, looking highly unamused. Had it not been for Hansgens heroic efforts on the final turn, Spencer would have gone on to an overall win. As it was, second place was only by half a length, 2/100ths of a second. 120 cubic inches against 289! Some driving, Mr. Spencer. Some car, Mr. Morgan. SOME RACE! A true story. I know. I was there. Right behind the leaders at that spectacular finish. Only I was in my Morgan 4/4... two laps back... doing my best to stay out of the way. A Jester 'mongst the Royalty! Good seat for the finish, though. Ol ' Unca Shel (Caroll Shelby, "inventor" of the Cobra), was so pissed that: #1, There was not the usual "Five Alarm Chili" cookout behind his pits that night, and #2, He went straight home to the "Snake Farm" and started on the unltimate horror weapon. The Cobra 427! What do you suppose he would have thought of a Plus 8 turbo?