Happy Christmas!

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring not even a mouse'

In Mittelheim, of course, this isn't strictly true. Generally, any self-respecting mouse keen on enjoying this season of good cheer and goodwill to all, packs up his cheese and leaves Mittelheim entirely, heading for places where the locals are friendlier - which, of course, is anywhere else. Not that a Mittelheim Christmas is entirely lacking in Yuletide japery. In the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, the well-to-do are busy smearing lard over their Christmas monkeys, a strange festive ritual usually accompanied by strong alcoholic beverages, some of which are drunk and the rest of which are poured over the proliferation of bites that inevitably result. Poorer folk cannot, of course, afford the luxury of their own monkey, an exotic and expensive import at the best of times, and must instead make do with small dogs or the youngest of their children. For Prince Rupprecht, Christmas is his favourite time: a time when he can legitimately enjoy pigs in blankets - indeed, he never tires of snuggling down for the night with his porcine obsessions. In the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst, the gentlefolk prepare the largest of their jellied seagulls. These are dressed lavishly with tinsel and assortments of gaudy accoutrements, before, to much acclaim, being paraded into dining rooms with a musical accompaniment. Then, the head of the household usually makes a traditional 'address to the seagull' entitled "Tis the Season to be Jelly": this address has a range of local variations, but generally the gist of it is 'Dammit, I'm not eating this - bring out the ham'. In the Empire of Grand Fenwick, Christmas day is the scene normally of an extensive repast - except for the dessert, of which there is only ever one: it being legally impossible in the empire's markets, irrespective of the numbers being fed, to get one's hands on a lovely pair of  puddings.

Wurstburp carol rioting: 'Good kindlings we bring,
To you and your King'

In the Burgravate of Nabstria, on the other hand, Christmas is a more complex time. Most there are Catholic, and so spend the period of Advent preparing themselves, attending sacraments and then going to Holy Mass. Then, they get massively hammered on leech brandy and punch one another. Some, however, are rumoured to worship older, darker beings: the Ancient Ones, or Elder Gods. In practice, their Christmas is much like that of Catholics but replaces the turkey as the centre-piece of the Christmas feast with an octopus, which they think better creates for Christmas Day a suitable theme of 'tentacled horror' .

Vulgaria: The True Spirit of Christmas

In the Margravate of Badwurst-Wurstburp. Christmas is invariably a lively event. Locals engage in the traditional pastime of carol rioting, an activity of the same ilk as carol singing, but with a bit less singing and a bit more lighting of fires in other people's houses. In contrast to this jolly festival of frivolity, Christmas in the Jacobite households of the margravate is rather less exuberant; not surprising, since the only real concession made to Christmas by the dour Episcopalians is to add holly to their porridge. For those less enamoured with this most wonderful time of year, Vulgaria is by far the best bet. There, in drafty mountainside castles, emaciated, ancient lords lie in their cellars, thirsting for life: or at least, a bit more life than comprises the average Christmas eve in Vulgaria.

We hope here that your Christmas jollity is more ordered than that of Mittelheim; and that, in a world that seems increasingly to be going mad, your gods (tentacled or otherwise) keep you and yours safe in the coming year.

Dark Side of the Loon!

Wilhelm, the Baron Woffeltop, Choldwig III's shrewd Austrian-born diplomat coughs politely.
In front of him, the landgrave of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst looks up miserably from his seat. Woffeltop is taken aback by the look of unhappiness upon his master's visage.
'My lord - what could be wrong? Have we not found ourselves in an era of unprecedented success, what with our victory at Jangthof and the seizure of the Bachscuttel lickspittle herr Agorn? What could possibly dampen your spirits at so happy a time?'
'I'm suffering', says the landgrave sadly, 'from a reptile dysfunction'.
'Oh', says the baron, looking rather embarrassed. 'Oh'. Woffeltop pauses a moment and then continues delicately, 'Doesn't this sort of thing happen to every man, once in a while? Perhaps if we were to procure you the services of one of those ... especially qualified ladies from Plump Street: I understand that they are very broad-minded ...'
'No, no, no', says the landgrave crossly. 'A reptile dysfunction. My terrapins ... they aren't working'. Choldwig points to the wriggling sack upon which he sits. 'I've put Agorn into this sack with my horde of voracious terrapins. But he seems as yet entirely uninjured'.
'Aren't we supposed to be handing him over to the Vulgarian ambassador?' asks Woffeltop.
'Oh yes', says the landgrave. 'But I wanted first to extract some useful information from this traitorous dog!'
The sack begins to wriggle even harder.
'Oh yes', gloats Choldwig, 'the truth hurts doesn't it, you villain!'
'No', replies Agorn's muffled voice. 'The fact that you’re sitting on my head is what hurts. Let me go!'
'Are you sure that your amphibian friends aren't working?' asks the baron. 'Agorn really doesn't smell very good. I think I smell the odour of success!'

'No', replies the landgrave. 'That is probably in actuality my feet'. Choldwig looks down at his unbooted feet and wiggles his toes in his stockings. The smell that emanates from them might make one unused to the landgrave's rather low standards of bodily hygiene believe that his appendages were in the process of rotting off.
Choldwig sniffs guardedly. 'They are quite ... savoury, I must confess'.
'Biscuits are savoury, my lord,' replies the baron. 'Your feet, I fear, seem to have developed a whiff that would defy normal methods of categorisation. One could, perhaps, class them as "cheesy" except that I suspect that the smell drifting from your feet might actually induce even a stilton to dry heave'.
'Should I wash them, do you think?' asks Choldwig.
'Burning them might be better', reflects Woffeltop seriously.
'Well, this is a problem', says the landgrave. 'For tonight I am going to the opera with the lady Theresa-Anna.'
'What of the lady Eugenie, my lord?
'Too powerful a right hook, Woffeltop. My testicles just couldn't take any more. So, what am I to do? The lovely Theresa-Anna is unlikely to want to get terribly close to me with my feet in this state'.
'But you're going to the opera, my lord. It shouldn't be a problem'.
The landgrave sighs. '"Going to the opera" is a euphemism, Woffeltop. For my activities with the ladies'.
'Oh,' says the baron. 'What sorts of activities?'
'Well, as it turns out, mainly actually going to the opera; but my chances of getting anything else smelling like this are lower than a badger's belly button'.
'Quite so, my lord. In the interim, whilst we consider this knotty issue of state, we might also consider the missive that arrived this morning. The one relating to the most concerning events along the coast'.
'Bah!' says Choldwig. 'Very well'. He stands and then kicks the sack back towards his terrapin pool.

Woffeltop gestures to the urgent message sent from the coast regarding the activities of the Burberry pirates. 'See, my lord', says Woffeltop, pointing to the letter.
Choldwig peers down and begins to read out loud. '"The suffering of your people is really very great, dear landgrave. The enemy has applied its terrible depredations not just to our villages but has also taken an especial delight in attacking the symbols of our Christian faith. The local Priory has been attacked, all the inhabitants slaughtered, and the buildings then decorated in a terrible hint of wicker." Hint of wicker? How unspeakably banal, the cads'.
'No sire -  that's a 'V.' It's hint of vicar. And what they did to the bishop, sir, is unspeakable, even if the Bishop was able to speak about it; which he isn't, on account of the heathens cutting off his tongue and sticking it up his ...'
'Oh', grimaces the landgrave. 'How very unpleasant. But still, at least 'vicar' is an artistic statement: unlike wicker - that's not even a colour, it's a stain.'
The baron nods placatingly. 'Yes sir, but artistic merit or not, we can't have these fellows slaughtering every peasant and religious representative in the vicinity and then spreading their innards over local landmarks.  People will begin to ask questions, sir: like "what is the point of paying taxes to a landgrave if he cannot defend us"; or "representative government - wouldn't more transparent and accountable forms of governance increase the chance of us receiving a measure of protection from plunder and murder?"'

'Colonel von Schillingspferde: despite his stature, he has a surprisingly small column'.

'Accountable?' says Choldwig worriedly. 'Transparent?' He gulps. 'Well, we must deal with these pirate interlopers quickly and decisively!'
'I have taken the liberty, my landgrave, of already ordering a number of columns of troops to converge upon the affected areas. Colonel von Schillingspferde commands one; colonel von Hunchmausen is another'.
'Von Hunchmausen?' enquires Choldwig. 'That name sounds vaguely familiar'.
'A soldier of fortune, my lord', replies Woffeltop. 'He has changed sides'.
'Excellent', says the landgrave nodding. 'Just the sort of fellow we need. I trust that our success against these vile pirates is guaranteed?'
'Absolutely', replies Woffeltop. 'Or, at least within the usual margin of error', he adds.

The Bridge Over the River Zwei!

Whilst the forces of Vulgaria and Bachscuttel clash upon the sea, the coastal areas of Rotenburg have been subjected to their own peculiar form of unpleasantness -  the depredations of a squadron of the expensively caparisoned Burberry pirates. With the attentions of most of Mittelheim being on the movements of major armies (in which their movements, given their limited diets, can often be a terrifying encounter for those along their lines of march, especially for those without shoes), these cut-throat infidel raiders thus far have largely been ignored. The lack of organised resistance to the foreign pirates can be explained by the fact that it was presumed that the foreign interlopers, on account of their rudeness, pointless bellicosity and unwillingness to speak the local language, were probably just English tourists who would soon get bored and head to Spain. Unmolested by Rotenburg regular troops, the corsairs have spent their time doing what they do best: upsetting the local peasantry by rummaging through their things and then carrying them off to their ships in preparation for a life of slavery in the hot and hellish climes of North Africa. Given conditions in Mittelheim, of course, the latter tends to be less of a problem for the peasants than the former: the pirate enclaves of the Burberry Coast having much stricter regulations than Mittelheim on the size of objects used for the infliction of beatings, and also being home to a better class of flea.

But this restful period of pillage and debauchery seems unlikely to last. Though the routinely decrepit state of the Rotenburg economy makes it quite difficult to determine the difference between periods of boom and those of depression, the activities of the pirates have created signs clear even to local administrative officials that all is not well. Tax revenues are down; decapitations are up; and vigorous protests over the lack of safety in pubic places have been launched by local rats. Rumours also have emerged that some peasants have actually been applying to the pirates to be carried off, and that others have been "turning Turk": embracing Islam, for the purposes, no doubt, of having Fridays off and not having to shave. It seems unlikely that Rotenburg can continue to ignore this deteriorating situation.

'Do a trick, my furry friend,
 and I'll give you a banana.'
'I'm not in the mood, Binkey.'

Emir Rhoddri Pasha, captain of the pirates, stands in Rotenburg upon the banks of the River Zwei. Binkey, his pet monkey, chatters happily. As noted in an earlier account the emir is a one-time Welsh nationalist from Borth in mid-Wales who has turned Turk and led his forces here from the baking shores of North Africa in search of fame and fortune. The emir sniffs the water suspiciously. For most of its length, the Zwei flows in ways reminiscent of Landgrave Choldwig making use of his chamber pot: a long though intermittent stream punctuated by strange noises. It also smells quite similar. Near the sea, however, the river flows wider and more quickly, possibly because, like many things, it hurries to quit Mittelheim as quickly as possible. The local villagers are fisherman, if fishermen is the right word for those whose main occupation is collecting from the sides of the Zwei fish so depressed that they throw themselves onto the banks in the hope of ending it all. But there are no fishermen now in the vicinity of this part of the Landgravate.

The emir turns to his second-in-command, Kujuk Huseyin. 'Where are the locals, Huseyin? Where have they gone?'

'Dread lord', replies Huseyin. 'They have fled because of the rumour of battle. It is said that a force of infidel troops are being mustered for the purposes of driving us from the coast'.
The emir sighs. 'Would it be so bad to be driven from this coast? Although I suppose it's certainly better here than Iceland, I'll grant you'.
'At least here they leave their sharks buried', agrees Huseyin.
'And it's better also than Grimsby'.
'Ashesses and dusts, my precious', comments Huseyin.
'But I miss home - the heat; the exotic food; the mysterious and romantic history ...'
'Wales?' asks his second-in-command, impressed.
'No, North Africa; I mean in North Africa. And the women ... the luscious dancing girls!'
'Oh yes, dread lord', nods Huseyin enthusiastically. 'North African dancing girls - they're so more-ish'.
'When are these troops supposed to arrive?'
'Our scouts, dread lord, have reported that they will arrive in a day or so. Perhaps we should begin to prepare ourselves. There is a small village to the south of here that commands the bridge across this river. It might make a clever place at which to confront our enemies.'
The emir wrinkles his nose in distaste. 'Do we need to be clever? Why do we need to be clever? The enemy are nothing more than bum-faced infidel weasels'.
'But weasels can be wily creatures I've been told, my lord - tricksy, and with a nasty bite'.
'Not when their faces are bums they aren't. No room for mouths. Or noses'.
'How then do they smell, dread lord?'
'Probably badly - they have a bum instead of a face, remember'. The emir sighs. 'Very well. Gather in the men. Prepare them for a march southwards. I suppose a proper fight might do them good. We've fought nothing thus far but the elderly and some chickens'.
'They weren't always easy fights, though, my lord. Some of those chickens were tough.'
The emir nods. 'Yes they were - and the language! You don't expect that from poultry.'

Orders are shouted, and there are the sounds of running feet and hooves as the pirates begin to assemble.
'Hooves?' asks Emir Rhoddri. 'How is it that we have cavalry?'
'We have captured some horses, my lord', replies Huseyin, 'and mounted some of our men upon them. You should command them personally, emir - they can be your bodyguard'.
'But none of the men can ride'.
Huseyin shrugs. 'How difficult can it be?'
The emir raises an eyebrow. 'No, no - I think on balance that you should command them. I look forward to seeing your contribution to the coming fight ...'

Rum, Botany, and the Lash!

The Shrimp's crew pile onto the Maverick, and a vicious fight ensues: pistols are discharged; lunges made with cutlasses; wooden legs are torn off and shoved  painfully into places where they can't reasonably be made to fit. Truthfully though, for all its violence this is not a combat likely to be much remembered in song or legend - there is rather too much eye-gouging and hair pulling for it to be classified strictly as an heroic encounter. Any budding minstrel or wandering musician is likely to have ready access to tales embodying a range of much more heroic activities than this melee: an encounter with some fractious ducks, for example; or a difficult conversation with a combative purveyor of pies. (Below) Slowly, though, the Bachscuttel sailors gain the advantage, the commitment of the Maverick's crew undermined by their growing casualties, and the loud weeping from their captain behind his locked door. 

The 'No Quarter' flag upon the Centennial Sparrow flaps vigorously in the wind, imbuing the untrousered caricature of the pirate upon it with an alarming energy in his interaction with the socket of the skull. True to the spirit of this signal, the Bachscuttlers demonstrate more even than the usual lack of empathy for enemy wounded and prisoners. Some are killed out of hand. Others are thrown overboard having been first weighted with cannon balls, large pies, and any kittens that can be found to hand. 

(Below) Soon the Maverick's crew are completely subdued. Wugposch addresses his men triumphantly.

'A splendid victory, men! A splendid and, given my low expectations regarding your competence, rather surprising success! If I had known that you weren't quite as bad as I expected, I would have confided more trust in you! Well done!' 

'A moving speech sir', replies his first mate, drying his eyes with his neckerchief.  'If a trifle insulting'.

'Now, bring me the enemy captain!' cries Wugposch happily.
'Well, sir - there isn't one', replies the first mate. 'He's quite adamant that he isn't here'.
Wugposch narrows his eyes. 'So, he is here, then'.
The first mate shakes his head, 'But he says he isn't.
'Is it not possible that he's lying?' asks the captain.
'It would be a crap lie, though' says the mate.
'He's a pirate' says Wugposch drily.
Physical attempts to winkle Miguel out from his cabin fail. However, he is finally tempted out by the news that he has won a parrot in a competition. Which, if there were one for gullible pirate captains, he certainly would have done.
'I was expecting someone taller', says Wugposch, as Miguel is tied up and forced to walk the plank. This isn't as dangerous as it might be in the Caribbean, since the inexperienced sailors of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel have yet to realise that the plank should be balanced over the side of the ship. After Miguel has fallen off the plank a couple of times onto the deck, Wugposch gets bored, and orders a prize crew left upon the Maverick as he returns to his own ship.
'Hurrah!' says Wugposch. 'What a splendid victory. Nothing at all could possibly interrupt my positive feeling about the signal success that we have achieved in this mighty maritime melee!' .
His first mate winces. 'There is, sir, one fly in our ointment; one grain of grit in our oyster; one catholic bishop in our Orangeman parade.
'What could this be?' says the captain sourly. 'Who would ruin the fruits of our fabulous floating fisticuffs?'

'Help!' cries Admiral Doenutz plaintively, 'Help!' (Below) On the deck of the Sausage, it is evident that the fight has not gone so well here for Bachscuttel as it has on the Maverick. The bodies of the admiral's sailors lie strewn across the deck, along with quantities of blood, gore, and mashed banana; the last the result of a futile effort by Clive to intervene in events.

(Below) Upon the rear deck of the Sausage, only the admiral and his first mate remain. They confront a horde of leering, vicious Vulgarian pirates, whose faces gurn like especially uncomely bulldogs licking thistles.
The admiral sighs. He understands that fate has marked this point in time; that destiny demands that he fight the enemy captain in hand to hand combat in a disputation unto death. Doenutz breathes deeply to calm himself for the coming exertions, before addressing his companion. 'Well, my fellow, this is a terrible situation. But in situations like this, men of quality must make the final sacrifice without complaint'.
'Yes, sir'.
'Bring me my sword'.
'Here it is sir: the sword of your father and your grandfather before him; carried by them with honour in a hundred duels'.
'Marvellous', says Doenutz, bracing himself.  'Now you take it and go and fight the enemy while I jump over the side'. Doenutz jumps.
As the admiral begins a weak breast stroke towards the shore, the fight for the Sausage ends swiftly. The first mate is barely able to cry out 'but this isn't my swor ...' before he is brutally cut down.
The ship, and so also Herr Agorn the pretend pretender, are in Vulgarian hands!

(Below) A prize crew is left upon the Sausage. Sails are quickly raised, and the two sloops begin to head for the Rotenburg coast.
'Aaaar, sir!', cries Hohenlohe's quartermaster, herr Crispin Drei, 'but we be leaving the Maverick behind sir! Miguel will be captured!'
'Yes, it's a terrible shame', says Hohenlohe smiling broadly, 'a terrible, terrible shame', he repeats, breaking out into a jig.

As the Maverick and Shrimp begin to disappear into the horizon, Hohenlohe orders rum all round and then commands that Agorn be found and bound.
The first mate, Lars Yerda, shrugs. 'Find him I cannot' he says in his execrable German. 'Hid in the hold somewhere he is; a shrub he is pretending to be'.
'You can't find him?' asks the captain, much displeased. 'He's pretending to be a shrub. In a ship's hold. It's not ...', the captain searches for a parallel, 'hot air balloon science'.
'Good with plants I'm not', says Yerda defensively. 'That shrubs don't grow in ships' holds, how was I expected to guess?'
'Aaaar, he might be pretending to be Lonicera nitida', says Drei helpfully.  '"Baggesen's Gold" - that's a shrub that be liking some shade'.
'But he is not Baggesen's Gold' says the captain.
'Or Prunus Laurocerasus - "Otto Luyken"', adds Drei, 'they like shade too'.
'Drei', says Hohenlohe firmly, 'Agorn's relative proclivity for shade may be a matter of debate: what is not such a matter, however, is that he is not in fact a shrub: he is a sad, middle-aged fantasist. On that basis, a key clue that might help you to see through his attempt to pretend to be a shrub is that he is not, in fact, a shrub. Now find him, lash him to any conveniently heavy object, and let us be on our way!'
Suitably alerted, Hohenlohe's crew quickly find Agorn, and before one can say "Ooooh, that's a bit tight", the pretender to the pretender of the Vulgarian throne is securely strapped to a barrel.

(Above) 'Now, straight on!', says Hohnelohe, pointing. 'Straight on! Back to port, and back to glory!'
'What about the wounded, sir - aaar, they be in a pickle!'
'Diced and sliced they are!' adds Yerda. 'Or they be. Or whatever.'
Hohenlohe looks troubled. 'You've pickled the wounded?'
'Aaaar, no cap'n. I means we've a fair few of the lads who're a bit poorly'. He points to body lying slumped. 'Like this fellow - a nasty wound, what with it bleeding and all'.
Hohenlohe seems unmoved. 'Just amputate and then cauterise the stump'.
'Aaaar, but it's his head'.
'I'm not saying he won't suffer some complications, Drei'.
'Without his head, sir?'
'But you know, they can carve some marvellous prosthetics these days from new materials - balsa, for example'.
'But sir, isn't having a wooden head likely to be ... I be searching for the right word ...'
'"Life-limiting"?'
'No, cap'n ... "terminal"; "terminal" be the word I'm looking for'.
'Look, Drei, with the right care I don't see that he won't be able to live a rewarding and fruitful pirate life, given some substantial help for the rest of his days'.
'Substantial help for the rest of his days?' asks the quartermaster.
'Yes'. Hohenlohe then stops and considers this for a moment. 'Fair enough. You, sailor. Help this wounded man to get up'.
'Yes sir'.
'And then push him over the side', adds the captain.
Drei seems about to say something.
The captain raises a quizzical, and yet still vaguely threatening eyebrow. 'Any additional medical advice, herr Drei?' he asks.
The quartermaster shrugs and then points to some floats. 'Aaaar, sir - I recommend he takes two of these immediately and then comes back tomorrow if things haven't improved'.
'Excellent advice, I'm sure', nods Hohenlohe, approvingly. 'Now - full sails, mister Drei: herr Agorn has a date in Rotenburg with destiny: or rather, with a pool of hungry terrapins!'

Hoist the Rogered Jolly!

'Do the men seem invigorated by my message?' asks Captain Hans Hohenlohe.
'Aaaar! It be difficult to tell, sir', replies his quartermaster herr Crispin Drei. 'Pirates be known for many things - heavy drinking; excessive violence; fondness for pets; and a commendable openness to amputees, sir. But they be not so well known for their vocabulary'.
'Well, what sorts of words aren't they familiar with?' asks Hohenlohe.
'Well, "vocabulary" be one, sir; aaaar! And "pecuniary" - that probably be another. Most I suspects thinks it might be a drink. Others, I thinks they hopes it be a monkey'.
'They'd like a modest monkey as a reward?'
'Nothing so tricky, sir, as a monkey with ideas above its station'.
'Yes', nods Hohenlohe thoughtfully, 'I suppose so. In truth, I was surprised to find that we had a flag for the word "pecuniary". Indeed, there seemed to a whole set of flags covering some words that one wouldn't normally expect in maritime communications'.
'Aaar, sir. Such as?'
'Well, "strobate", was one. And I felt that "transmogrify" was another interesting inclusion'. Hohenlohe looks at the rather large pile of neatly folded signal flags that rest in baskets on the deck. 'It would seem that the previous crew certainly were rather better educated than our fellows; and also' he says, looking at the crisp piles, 'rather more enthusiastic about ironing. Now', he says more determinedly, 'let's catch hold of that pretender fellow'.

Wisely dispensing with the notion of relying upon firepower, Hohenlohe directs his vessel to close with the enemy flagship. (Above, left) As his ship passes near the bow of the enemy, Hohenlohe commands his crew to grapple the Sausage.  Drei looks at the first mate, Lars Yerda; Yerda looks back.
'Aaaar, sir - there be no time for that really, I'm thinking'.
'A time and a place there is' adds Yerda in agreement.
'Use the grapples on the enemy ship!' shouts Hohenlohe urgently.
Drei and Yerda nod enthusiastically. 'A better use of our time that is' says the latter, and gives the order.
(Below) Success! The two ships are locked together.

(Above) Hohenlohe gestures forwards. 'At them men! Take the ship! Board them! Rest assured that I shall be supporting you from a command position best situated to give me a full overview of the fight; which, sadly, means that I must stay somewhat to the rear'.
Herr Drei hefts a cudgel and sucks his teeth. There's a shout from the crew and they then begin to hop over the bow and into the enemy vessel.
'It be tricky, sir', says Drei. 'There be quite a few of the enemy over there'.
'Well', says Hohenlohe, 'I always feel that it's good to stretch oneself'.
'Unless yer be on a rack,'says Drei reflectively, 'being tortured'.
The captain nods, watching his men pile across. 'Yes, yes - good point. Although I expect under those conditions that someone would do it for you'.
Gunfire erupts on the deck of the enemy ship, and the sounds emerge of cutlasses clashing.
'Excellent!' cries Hohenlohe 'Fly the flag for no quarter, mister Drei!'

(Above) With a display of "alacrity", "puissance", and "ardour" not seen since the sailors last glanced at a dictionary, the crew of the Centennial Sparrow fights its way onto the main deck of the Sausage.

(Below) On the rear deck, the Bachscuttel commander, Admiral Doenutz, looks up to see a black and white flag being unfurled on the main mast of Hohenlohe's ship.
'It's a skull and cross-bones!' cries out his wheelman.
'No, no: it's certainly a skull, granted', replies the admiral peering up into the enemy shrouds. 'But it seems to have a small caricature of a pirate fellow next to it. He's got his trousers down, and he seems to be thrusting something into the left eye socket of the ... Well, I find that simply disrespectful!'

(Above, right) To the stern (or whatever the back end bit is known as) of the Sausage, the Maverick can be seen sailing straight towards the Bachscuttel flag ship. On the Shrimp, however, the captain has other ideas.

The captain of the Shrimp is one Luther von Wugposch. Wugposch, accompanied by his pet monkey, Clive, were early volunteers for the navy of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel. The personnel shortages experienced by the navy had led at that time to a short-lived experiment in which the Bachscuttel admiralty permitted monkeys (of a good character) to serve aboard ship. In some respects this had worked out very well, since it turned out that their biting, incessant chatter, and penchant for relieving themselves in public places made them quite reserved by pirate standards. It also helped, of course, that monkeys would work, quite literally, for peanuts. In the longer term, however, things worked out less well, since there arose amongst the human crew a considerable ill-feeling towards their better behaved primate ship mates. A mutiny occurred prompted by resentment of the fact that, being fed fresh fruit regularly and having their own cages, the monkeys lived in much better conditions. Also, they tended to be promoted faster. Now, only Clive remains upon the Shrimp.

Seeing the Maverick heading straight for the Sausage, Wugposch piles on the sail and orders his vessel to interpose itself. As he stands upon the deck, he searches for his first mate and fails to find him.
'Where's the first mate?' he asks a sailor.
'He's eating fruit in Clive's cage', is the reply.
Wugposch frowns. 'So where's my monkey?'
The ship suddenly lurches drunkenly accompanied by some excited 'eeek! eeeks!'.
It collides with the Maverick (above)

Bachscuttel grapples soon secure the two ships together.

From the stern of the Sausage, Doenutz shouts to Wugposch.
'Save my ship! Order your men to board the enemy!'
Wugposch nods. 'That shouldn't be difficult, sir', he shouts back, 'our men really have very little in the way of interesting conversation, unless one has a special interest in weevils or rum; or weevils in rum. Or parrots'.
'Board', shouts Doenutz over the combat, '"board" - not "bored"'.
(Above) Wugposch barks out his orders: 'Get the men up: cutlasses ready! Board the enemy ship! Let's take the fight to them!''

Seaway to the Danger Zone!

'Vulgaria Expects Every Man To Do His Duty', says the Maverick's first mate slowly, 'Or I Shall Inflict a Modest Pecuniary Penalty'.

Pedro Miguel, captain of the ship, hawks loudly and spits over the side of the vessel. 'Does it now, and will he', he says, clearly unimpressed. He follows with a range of comments in his native Spanish; since these comments include wide-ranging references to clowns, the nether portions of horses, and activities pursuant to the production of children, they are probably not as supportive as Miguel's commander, captain Hans Hohenlohe, might have liked.

Miguel was not Hohenlohe's first choice as officer for the Maverick, and their relationship is frosty enough for those in their vicinity to benefit from some warm outer garments. But there was, in Bestwestung, no other sufficiently qualified seafarers at the the time of Hohenlohe's necessary departure except a small colony of grey seals; and the seals smelt even more badly of fish.

(Above) Suitably stimulated by Hohenlohe's message, Miguel orders the Maverick to turn. Certain that Herr Michael Agorn, the pretender to the pretender of the Vulgarian throne, is probably on the larger of the enemy vessels, he determines that he will close with the stern of the Bachscuttel sloop, the Sausage. 

Miguel began his career in the Spanish navy, and he seemed set for great things. Thanks to his possession of some compromising woodcuts of one of his superiors, he was able to enter the elite naval academy for Spanish officers, known as the canon superior or 'top cannon' school. But Miguel's fall from grace was rapid. There, he began a torrid affair with one Carlotta Madera Negra, a woman who claimed to be a highly paid civilian contractor but turned out just to be a well-paid washer-woman. Against the orders of his commanding officer, Miguel continued the affair, unable to resist her intelligence, physical flexibility and remarkably reasonable rates. Further difficulties followed as Miguel's brash self-confidence and inability to follow rules led to further run-ins with authority. Caught drunk and unclothed at the commandant's ball, Miguel then fell into a quantity of raw vegetables and dips - this full frontal crudites led to a brief suspension. Eventually, it became clear that Miguel was writing banker's drafts that his body couldn't cash; in fact, that no one could cash, because they were fraudulently obtained. This, and a terrible accident involving a goose, led to his suspension from the 'top cannon' academy. 

Later reinstated, Miguel's journey to the ports of Mittelheim began when, on the occasion of his officer sea examination, his crew, tired of obeying the orders of a cadet for whom the word 'personal growth' clearly meant just getting a larger wart, abandoned him on the desolation of Les Islas de Muertas, 'The Island of Death'.* Managing to escape his enforced isolation by eating the local cannibals, he was also helped, no doubt, by the cannibals' god, Chupachup, who liked a good bit of irony as much as the next deity. Since then, Miguel has managed to work his way to the only place where familiarity with the sea is, for a captain, merely a 'nice to have': Mittelheim.

(Above, top) The Sausage and the Centennial Sparrow begin to close with one another. (Above, bottom) As the Maverick begins to manoeuvre towards the stern of the Sausage, the other enemy ship, the Shrimp, runs out its guns in preparation to fire.

'Men', says Miguel loudly. 'Men, I have full confidence in your abilities in the coming battle. Indeed, such is my confidence in you, that I shall retire below. Do not disturb me unless the situation really merits it'. He pauses. 'And by "really merits it" I think that I mean that you should really be in need of my help. So, considering the range of possible scenarios, I'm thinking that "really merits it" might include circumstances not less than heavy damage to the ship; or a sustained enemy attempt to board us'. The captain starts to head below. Before he reaches the doorway, he pauses and turns.

'To be honest, lads, you should probably only come and get me for activities that really require the presence of the captain, such as surrendering this ship'.

(Below) As he finishes, the Shrimp fires both guns of its broadside at the Maverick.

The crew duck and then look up as both cannonballs whistle over the Maverick. When they look back, the captain has already gone. The door slams, and there can then be heard the sound of heavy furniture being dragged against it. Inspired by Miguel's leadership, the crew of the Maverick ignore the enemy fire and continue towards the Sausage ...

* Soon after naming this island, the Spanish discovered nearby an island that was even more unpleasant, which then had to be called 'The Island of More Death than the Island of Death'. A third, discovered later, wasn't quite as bad as the other two, and so was called 'The Island of Less Death than the Island of Death, but Watch out for the Snakes'. All of which illustrates the knotty problems caused by naming an island too soon. 

Battenburg Down the Hatches!

Captain Hans Hohenlohe looks over the decks of the Centennial Sparrow. The ship is in chaos - the crew lie exhausted or injured; small conflagrations burn perilously upon the deck; rigging, yards, and other maritime paraphernalia lie strewn everywhere.
'That', says Hohenlohe to first mate, Lars Yerda, 'is the last fire drill that I think we'll ever be trying. What a farce!'
Yerda nods in agreement. 'With us the farce is'.

The Centennial Sparrow is bearing down on two enemy ships, the latter having picked up Herr Michael Agorn, pretender to the Vulgarian throne. This is the fourth ship to bear the proud name of Centennial Sparrow. The third, a fine sloop, alas had to be abandoned, when, after its tiller broke, it lost a game of chicken with a lighthouse. That the lighthouse was on land, of course, certainly didn't help matters. Though the sloop was a fast vessel with sleek lines, its sailing qualities were compromised somewhat by the colossal rocks embedded in its hull, and its rapid switch, thereafter, into a one-use-only submersible. Surviving the wreck through the expedient of abandoning ship an hour or so before the crash, Hohenlohe and his crew made their way back to Bestwestung, and purchased another vessel. Receiving more money from his Vulgarian sponsors, Hohenlohe was able to recruit a second ship, the Maverick (of which more next time). These new ships have proven to be effective. Making good time, both ships made their way to Rotenburg; embarked the required troops; dropped them off on the coast of Bachscuttel; and since then have been waiting off shore to re-embark the Rotenburg expeditionary force and their expected captive, or to deal with any Bachscuttel interlopers.

'Enemy ships in sight!' comes the shout from above.
'Not unexpected', comments Hohenlohe, 'given that they are right in front of us'. Rousing the crew, he makes his way to the front of the Centennial Sparrow (below).

'Prepare the ship for action!' shouts the captain to his quartermaster Crispin Drei.
'Aaaar, sir. Any particular sort of action?' enquires Drei. 'Should I tell the men to dress for dinner, sir, or might there be some form of dancing?'
'Those are enemy warships, mister Drei, and I hardly think that we shall drive them off with the vigour of our jigs'.
'Aaaar, aye aye sir!', replies Drei. He turns to the crew. 'Mister Skorbutthunde, drop the top sail ... No! No! The top sail! ... The top sail is the sail at the top! Those are your trousers!'
'Why hasn't he got any trousers on?' enquires Hohenlohe to the quartermaster. 'I don't like the cut of his jib'.
'Aaaar, it be his jib that's the problem, sir. I think we be seeing altogether too much of it!'
As his crew scurry across the deck of his ship, like chickens that, just prior to losing their heads, were also forced into sets of roller skates, Hohenlohe can't help feeling that his men seem to lack some of the enthusiasm necessary for the coming fight.
'The men seem strangely mutinous, mister Drei' says Hohenlohe. 'The fire drill was lamentable. An actual drill would have done less damage to the ship. Are they still annoyed by that thing about the grog?'
'Aaaar, it don't play well, sir', replies Drei.
'Look, I've been over this already many times. I ordered Yerda to procure six barrels of grog. I cannot be held responsible if he cannot read properly. I cannot conceive of how he mistook the first 'g' for an 'f'.'
'Bollocksed it up, I did', admits Yerda sheepishly.
'Aaaar, sir, I ain't blaming you - but a mug of amphibians just don't refresh a man like rum. And then there was that thing with the provender, sir'.
'You mean the Battenburg - who doesn't like Battenburg?'
'Aaaar, sir - but salted Battenburg?'
'Yes, but now it will last on a long voyage'.
'Aye sir, it will: because no one will eat it. Even the weevils won't touch it - and they like marmite'.
Hohenlohe nods. 'Well, here's a thing, then: I shall improve the men's morale with a moving pre-battle signal. Drei, take this down ...'

(Above) Action is imminent as the two fleets manoeuvre. (Above, top) The Centennial Sparrow heels to port (or whatever direction right might be when one is floating about on water); behind, the Maverick starts to turn as well. (Above, bottom) Fresh from the Bachscuttel coast sail the two vessels of the Palatinate's navy. In theory, Prince Rupprecht fields the most powerful maritime forces in Mittelheim, thanks to the launch of the twenty gun Princess Caroline. However, as has been noted in a previous account, this ship has yet to receive a trained crew. Instead, Prince Rupprecht must rely on two smaller vessels hastily procured from local merchants: a sloop, the Sausage, and a bark, the Shrimp.

(Below) The sloop Sausage fires all three guns of its mighty broadside. Sadly, however, as with its land-based counterparts, it seems that maritime artillery too is concerned mainly with making smoke and a loud noise, and only secondarily with inflicting physical damage upon the enemy. On the Centennial Sparrow the only impact of the attack is to cure one of Hohenlohe's sailors of his hiccups.

On the Centennial Sparrow. mister Drei reads Hohenlohe's planned signal and nods.
'Aaaar, sir! I be very moved. "Vulgaria Expects That Every Man Will Do" - fine sentiments indeed, sir. I just wonders if the end part might be changed a little'.
Hohenlohe narrows his eyes.
'Aaaar, sir. I just wonders if "His Duty" might be a better ending than "His Trousers Up'.
'Do you not think, Drei, that firmly secured britches are an important health and safety concern,especially in battle?' Hohenlohe then sighs. 'Very well - "Duty" it is - make the necessary changes to the signal. But I shall hold you personally responsible for every trouser-related accident on this ship'.
'Aaaar, sir: but since I be on the subject: I also wonders about the second part'.
'You mean the "Or I Shall Have You All Hanged Liked Dogs" part?' replies the captain.
'Yes, sir' says Drei, 'that part'.
'Well, mister Drei: what do you suggest?'
'Aaaar, sir: something less ... confrontational. Something more ... supportive. Empowering, dare I say it!'
Hohenlohe pauses to consider this. The enemy flagship looms through the smoke.
'Very well' he says finally, and orders set the requisite signal flags.

On the Maverick, the first mate reads out the message slowly ...

Chaptliptz, the Final!

Major Nicklaus-Maria von Richter-Mortis of the Rotenburg army gestures to the company of regular troops in front of him.
'Fix bayonets!' he orders.
There is a rippling clatter as the steel accouterments are appended to the ends of muskets, along with several exclamations of 'Ow!', 'Ooh, that stings!', and 'What's a bayonet?'
'Men!' shouts Richter-Mortis. 'Men (though I use the term rather loosely and in that general sense that would encompass all in humanity not explicitly dressed in skirts, and also some of the more intelligent of the great apes)! There is the hill upon which stands our objective! There at the foot of it are those enemy who would stand in the way of our glory!'
The men peer at the hill.
'Sir, I can't see our objective', says one firmly. 'I can't see that fellow anywhere'.
'Look', replies the major, waving his sword, 'you'll just have to trust me. He's up there in the largest of the bushes. Just head in the direction of the least convincing-sounding bird'.
'But if he's hiding, sir, how will we find him?' says another musketeer.
'It's not that large a hill top', says Richter-Mortis with exasperation. 'It really isn't. Just search the bushes until you find a bird that's about five feet seven inches tall and wears a wig and a pair of boots. It's not that challenging - you won't need to look hard and I guarantee there will be no need for a line-up of suspects'.

(Above) Seemingly satisfied, with a whoop one of the Rotenburg platoons charges forwards. Outnumbered, and roughly handled in all the wrong places, the defenders are driven backwards to the foot of the hill (below) The Bachscuttelers do not rout, however, and the attacking troops are now locked in combat. There is a cacophony of urgent shouts and despairing screams; bayonets flash; and the fight descends into a free-for-all redolent with all of the usual themes associated with war in Mittelheim: violence; tragedy; painful self-inflicted wounds; the particular persecution of any who seem different (smaller, for example; or foreign; or who seem better at using cutlery); a preference for attacking the already wounded; and a morally questionable use of sausages.

(Above) The second platoon of Bachscuttel musketeers can lend no aid. To their front (though out of shot of this wood cut), the remaining two platoons of Rotenburg regulars prepare themselves to attack.

Richter-Mortis stands ready to order them to advance. The courier is with him again, having brought more unsurprising news regarding the performance of the remains of the major's force of jagers.

'All dead, you say?' says the major.

'No, sir; not all' replies the messenger. 'Some are merely badly wounded; and many others have simply run off. Others, it seems are cowering in a small copse to the south and are awaiting the arrival of a sedan chair that will allow them to flee the battlefield in more comfort'.

Richter-Mortis expectorates a stream of curses that even a Fenwickian could not mistake for mere double-entendre - these are ripe, full-frontal, metal-bar-to-the-shinbone sorts of oaths, fully indicating that the major is firmly of the opinion that the jager are a gaggle of miserable individuals with a lower than usual chance of having an identifiable father; but who also have a higher than one might expect likelihood of engaging in unusual, and physically as well as morally risky, physical activities with livestock. 

(Below, at the bottom) Major Richer-Mortis gives the orders and, in an effort to break the enemy, the two Rotenburg platoons charge the remaining unengaged unit of Bachscuttel musketeers. The initial charge causes casualties, but doesn't break the defending troops.

(Above, at the top) Worse for the landgravate, the first Rotenburg platoon, temporarily successful, has no time to recover before it is charged by two platoons of Bachscuttelers: one of regulars and the other of irregulars. In the ensuing hand-to-hand combat, several of the Rotenburg troops are killed or wounded. (Below) The battle reaches what in Grand Fenwick couldn't be called its climax. The two Rotenburg platoons overrun their adversaries and then hurl themselves into the remaining fight in order to save their comrades!

(Above) As the melee continues, the platoon of Bachscuttel grenadiers fixes bayonets and prepares to charge.
'Hold, men!' urges Richter-Mortis

Having regained his vantage point upon the hill, Colonel Nockenshoppes prepares to order the grenadiers into the fray.

'Our men will never hold!' pipes up Herr Agorn from behind his bush.

Nockenshoppes seems more optimistic. 'Sometimes people can surprise you', he replies.

'Well yes', says Agorn, reflectively. 'I suppose they can. For example, they can hide in cupboards and then jump out into the room when you don't expect it'.

'No', replies the colonel. 'I mean that they do things that are unexpected'.

Agorn nods. 'Yes, like being married to the woman you're in bed with when they jump out of the cupboard'.

The colonel pulls a face and then turns to the officer commanding the grenadiers.

'Herr lieutenant, are your men up to this?'

'Yes sir; they know their onions'.

'Good, because this needs to be an effective assault'.
'No, sir - I mean that they know about onions. Mostly, they're farmers'.
Nockenshoppes gestures to the melee at the bottom of the hill. 'I am sure, my fellow, that it will be fine: after all, you have grenades'.
'You'd think so, wouldn't you?' answers the officer miserably before giving the order to advance.

(Above) The grenadiers charge into the combat. Though the Rotenburgers still have the numbers, their troops are heavily fatigued.
'They’re throwing cakes at us', they shout. 'The currants hurt!'
'They might have marzipan!' shout others. 'Spare us! Flee! Flee! Call some sedan chairs!'
After the shortest of resistance, the Rotenburgers break and quit the field!
At the same time, to the north sails appear upon the horizon - the navy is here!
'Hurrah!' shouts Nockenshoppes. 'Herr Agorn, the navy is here! We can cease this military pantomime - with our maritime forces present, we shall see some proper discipline, professionalism, and amusingly bandy lower limbs!'
'Hang on', says Agorn, reaching for his telescope (something else that probably couldn't done in Grand Fenwick). 'There are other sails behind them! Enemy ships in sight!'

Chaptliptz, the Third!

'Damn you!' cries Herr Michael Agorn, Pretender to the Pretender of the throne of Vulgaria. 'Back! Back I say!' he discharges both of his pistols at point blank range. Dropping one, he reaches for his sword, only then to remember that the mighty heirloom of his house, "The Sword That Was Broken and Was Reforged But Then Got Broken Again", he has left at home somewhere under his bed. With a terrible cry he begins to pound his attacker with the butt of the other pistol.

'Begone!' cries Agorn, wielding his pistol. 'Begone! *thump* you shall *thump* never thwart *squeltch* my destiny *squeltch*!'
'He's dead', says Colonel Amadeus von Goethe-Nockenshoppes, commander of the detachment of Bachscuttel troops protecting Agron. 'He's really very dead indeed. That', he continues sadly, 'is a very dead sheep'.
 'He had a nasty look in his eye!' growls Agorn. 'I haven't walked hundreds of leagues through the wild and dangerous lands of the world to be laid low so near to my destiny!'
'You haven't walked hundreds of leagues through the wild and dangerous lands of the world at all', says Nockenshoppes. 'We did three miles. And you were in a coach. And in all honesty, Bachscuttel is not really a place that one would describe as "wild and dangerous"; except, perhaps, when there are shortages of leech brandy. Also', he adds, pointing at Agorn's expired assailant, 'I think he just wanted you to pet him'.
Agorn shakes his head. 'You didn't see the little fellow look at me. He could have had my arm off'.
Nockenshoppes tilts his dead, dubiously. 'If, my lord, he had teeth, and was carniverous. Or he had a saw, a measure of determination,  and opposable thumbs'.
Agorn gestures dismissively. 'Bah! Sheep!' he says, 'They're all a bit "meh"'.

Below the hill, the battle rather has begun to heat up. A platoon of Rotenburg jager have moved through the sheep-filled field. The latter have not made the mistake of exhibiting any undue friendliness towards the human interlopers. (Above) a platoon of Bachscuttel regulars fire a heavy volley of musketry against this threat, producing quite a remarkable amount of smoke. To their right Rotenburg musketeers are advancing boldly forwards, threatening the Bachscuttel defensive line.

'Our line is under pressure', says Nockenshoppes to Agorn over the sound of battle. 'Will you not come down the hill - I remember you noting during our journey here that you have "a fell hand and a deadly eye" in combat. We could certainly do with the help'.
Agorn considers this for a moment, then nods and reloads his pistols. 'No, I don't think so'.
'But', says the colonel taken aback, 'if you do not help then your reputation will be in tatters. Surely you will be known as naught but a coward and a poltroon of the very worst kind. Folk will shun you; or laugh at you; or, when you attempt to sit in taverns, pull your chair out quickly from under you'.
'I believe I'll survive', says Agorn. 'Which is more than can be said for what might happen if I go down this hill'.
'But', continues Nockenshoppes, 'without your good name or your honour, how will you rally the folk of Vulgaria to your cause?'
'Pah!' replies Agorn. 'This is political power we're talking about here. And Vulgaria. Honour, bravery, good names - such things matter less in Vulgaria then one's capacity to do amusing impressions of foreigners, and being able to play the national anthem by breaking wind'.
'These are low standards', says the colonel, unimpressed.
'You say that', admonishes Agorn, 'but have you ever tried playing music from your bottom? It takes quite a lot of practice and many changes of britches'.

'But the men need help!' says the colonel gesturing at the Rotenburg attack below, which seems to be gaining momentum. (Above) The Bachscuttel volley has had no effect on the jager.  'Lead them!' continues the colonel. 'Inspire them! They need to believe in something bigger!'

'What about Princess Caroline of Bachscuttel's backside?' suggests Agorn.
Nockenshoppes scowls. 'No, something massive, beyond even human reckoning!'
'Hmmm', says Agorn, 'I can't help thinking that that's still Princess Caroline', he says, shaking his head. 'I fear, my good colonel, that I have little to offer in that department. Though my lineage was great, my family were poor as church mice that had invested with unwise enthusiasm in South Sea related stocks. Not for me the haughty lessons of kingship that would prepare me to lead! My childhood was a strange affair: an uncommon blend of treachery, violence, bloodshed, dwarves, and gratuitous nudity'.
The colonel nods, impressed. 'That does indeed sound like quite a difficult childhood'.
'The dwarves were very nice', replies Agorn. 'Though I wouldn't recommend the combination of nudity and bloodshed'.
Nockenshoppes nods sagely. 'Though I suppose that it would cut down on the washing'.
'I suppose', replies Agorn.

Agorn stares down at the battle below. 'What are our chances, colonel? Are we on track to win?'
'More or less', says Nockenshoppes.  'Though I should admit, in the name of full transparency, that things probably err more towards the latter than the former'.
'So are we mainly likely to win, or do we just have some chance of success?'
'Well, "some" - more or less?'
'Tending towards "more"?
'Well, "less" I suppose'.
'So you mean "some" as in?'
'"None", truthfully', admits the colonel.

Agorn exhales. He is silent for a moment before announcing wearily, 'Very well, colonel. I shall give a speech to the men'.

Moments later, he is at the bottom of the hill. Above the sounds of fighting, his voice booms out.

'Sons of Bachscuttel! Of the Palatinate! My brothers! Or at least some relative of a nature sufficiently close that I might send you birthday greetings or a hearty missive at Christmas! I see in yours eyes the same fear that would make me mess my britches. A day may come when your courage fails; when we forsake our friends, and report them to the secret police for some unspecified but unpleasant indiscretion that we knew about but held back revealing in case some day it might prove useful; but it is not this day! An hour of angry sheep and somewhat bent swords when the age of Mittelheim comes crashing down; but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of Bachscuttel!'

'Hurrah!' shout the troops. (Above) Suitably inspired, Bachscuttel Croats fire an effective volley against the Rotenburg jager, driving them from the nearby field.

'Attack!' cries Agorn. 'Charge!' he shouts and breaks into a run.
Sadly, much of the impact of his speech dissipates as the troops watch Agorn sprint back up the hill. The rest of the impact disappears as they see him search for the largest shrubbery on the crown of the hill, and then crouch behind it, making noises like a small nesting bird.

(Above) Through the really quite extraordinary amounts of smoke that seems to have been generated by this battle, Colonel Nockenshoppes can see the advance of the Rotenburg regulars. Though, in relation to the soldierly principles of fire and movement, Rotenburg troops normally tend to focus on the latter (in general comprising by them of a range of vigorous movements both away from the enemy and in their own britches) these troops seem actually to be generating some meaningful forward momentum. The regulars of both sides begin to square up, bayonets fixed: an assault is in the offing and not the usual kind practised by the Rotenburgers in local taverns: this one threatens more in the way of bayonets and desperate hand-to-hand combat, and less in the way of kicking people in their potatoes and then stealing their drinks. Probably.

Chaptliptz, the Second!

As Herr Agorn stands ruminating upon Chaptliptz hill, the Rotenburg attack gets quickly underway, their commander, Major Nicklaus-Maria von Richter-Mortis, cognisant of the threat of the imminent arrival of a Bachscuttel naval force intent upon whisking Agorn from the coast here and depositing him in Vulgaria. To the south the three platoons of Rotenburg jager begin to move forwards. One platoon stays in reserve. A second moves left, intending to cross a small sheep-filled field and lay fire upon the Bachscuttel regulars. The third platoon, however, moves right. As a manoeuvre, this is something that might be termed 'optimistic'; or perhaps 'unrealistic'; or even by some as 'bull-wrestlingly mad'. Their adversaries (below) consist of two Bachscuttel platoons, including one of grenadiers. The jagers, however, seem optimistic. And who, indeed, would question them? Or rather, who could be bothered to question them, given the very small chance of getting  an answer that is even remotely intelligible?

In European armies at this time, jager tend to be comprised of irregulars made up of those already skilled in the use of muskets - gamekeepers, for example, or very angry wives. In Rotenburg, different standards are applied; and by 'different', of course, we mean standards that are much, much lower; standards that, if they were indeed standard, would indicate a level of attainment so low, that even those lizards mocked by their fellow reptiles for being a bit of a short-arse would have difficulty in squeezing themselves under them. In the case of these Rotenburg jager, the appellation 'irregular' actually would best be used to describe the frequency with which they turned up to train. Moreover, recognising the general level of popularity of Landgrave Choldwig in his kingdom, a level that our vertically-challenged lizard would in all honesty be able to step over with some ease, it has been deemed better in Rotenburg to ensure that firearms are kept out of the hands of anyone not in uniform and paid directly by Choldwig. As a result, in Rotenburg, the choice of men who are the finest shots is limited to a selection of billiard players. (Below) The jager advance forwards with the stealth of an obese giraffe in some form of tap-dancing footwear that has also, just that moment, discovered that it is on fire.

Alerted to the advance of the jager by the jager's advance in broad daylight across open ground, the grenadiers begin the combat by hurling their grenades. The effects of this are a little disappointing, a fact that causes some consternation in their ranks.

'Nothing!' says a lieutenant. 'And I hit one of those scoundrels right on the head!'
'I'm unsurprised', says a private. 'It was always unclear to me how it was that throwing cakes at the enemy would produce explosions'.
'They're not cakes - they're grenades!' replies the officer.
'No, no, sir - I'm strongly of the opinion that they're cakes', replies his compatriot.
'They're not cakes - they're dangerous pieces of cutting-edge military firepower'.
'I can see the currants'.
'No you can't see ... oh, actually you're right  But isn't this some canister balls?'
'Dried cherries'.
'Why are we throwing cakes?' asks the officer.
'I thought perhaps it's because we didn't like them - that they might have had marzipan in them'.
The officer collars his sergeant.
'Sergeant, I told you to get the necessaries from the armoury!'
The sergeant looks suddenly worried. 'Oh, armoury; I could have sworn that you said bakery'.
'Why would I order you to go to the bakery?'
'It did seem odd. But anyway, since I'd got the cakes, I told the cook that he may as well go to the armoury because we'd probably also need some grenades'.
The officer growls. 'So we've got the cakes and the cook's got ...'
'... the grenades' admits the sergeant. 'Yes, on reflection I can see how that might seem to be a bad idea'.
'We're in a life-and-death struggle armed with a selection of pastries, sergeant' says the officer slowly. 'and the cook has a box of grenades in a kitchen full of open fires; no I can't see a problem there'.
'It'll certainly add a frisson at dinner', admits the sergeant.

(Above) Switching from grenades to their muskets, the grenadiers fire a well-aimed volley at the enemy jager. (Below) The accurate fire scythes down half of the jagers' number. The Rotnburg attack is halted in its tracks. Not even in the toughest tavern dives of Alexandopolis had the billiard players suffered such casualties. Their counter-fire is wildly inaccurate and has no effect - no amount of trying to bounce one in off the cushion, or ricocheting one musket ball off of another seems to have an effect. 'Ooooh, that's a bad miss' comments their commander ruefully.

Richter-Mortis doesn't take the news of this early set-back very well.

'The first attack by the jager has failed, sir' reports a messenger. 'There's blood and dried fruit everywhere'.

'Pah!,' replies Richter-Mortis dismissively. 'You reach too early and too definitive a conclusion. As any experienced officer knows, it is inherently difficult in war to determine the conditions for success or failure: because over what time scale should one choose to measure the outcome? Or, to what extent are these conditions merely matters of perception? And by what metrics should one measure the outcomes of battle?'

'Well, sir', interrupts the messenger, 'in my time spent perceiving the jager, I think the key metric that might be of relevance is that they are all dead. Secondary benchmarks to measure the outcome of our attack could be that the enemy seem to be laughing a great deal, and also that they seem to be frisking the corpses of our troops and removing any objects of value'.

Richter-Mortis pauses. 'Hmmm ... Well ... Indeed.' He nods slowly. 'I think, then, that on the basis of your report I am willing to accept that we have certainly sustained a setback, but in relation to the longer-term circumstances ...'

'Sir, the longer term circumstances of those jager', interrupts the messenger again, 'is that they will no doubt end up in an unmarked grave without their boots and gold teeth. Later, one could probably say with some certainty that they will spend much of their time being mulched down by worms. By any metrics that one cares to choose, that would count as a bad day for them'.

'Bah!' replies the colonel. 'Fine. In the light of this ... incident'.

'Massacre' says the messenger.

'Reversal', says the major.

Size twenty shoe-ing'.

'Misfortune'.

'Sir, I would say that our troops have been "creamed" but that would be too narrow a selection of dairy products to reflect the quite gigantic spankage that has been unloaded on that platoon of light troops'.

'"Mishap". I am willing to admit to there having been quite a mishap on that flank. But still, the day is young. Order forwards the remainder of out troops!'

(Above, left) The second platoon of jager push forwards into the field of sheep.
(Above, top) the company of Rotenburg regulars also begin to push forwards.
Richter-Mortis sends the messenger off with one final comment: 'Do not concede defeat too soon', says the major, 'for is it not said that "The art of victory is learned in defeat"?'.
'Then', adds the courier under his breathe, 'I can only conclude that we must have a truly enormous success in the offing, because we seem to be getting a very extensive learning'.

Chaptliptz, the First!

Darkness lies over the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel. Along the coast, a thin mist hangs in the blackness, lending to everything a soft ethereal glow. In front of us, a small peasant house stands silent. The occupant, a peasant farmer named Horst Hedlessmann, opens the door cautiously. A brooding dread has been forming in his heart all day, interrupting his rest; a dark foreboding; a dire trepidation that could only signal the return of his wife, Agatha, from her regular visit to her mothers. As he looks out into the night, shadows move in the blackness, and the garden gate seems to open of its own accord. Terror washes over him. Standing at the threshold of the hovel trembling, Horst quails and hurriedly shuts the door, locking it. There is the soft sound of feet moving stealthily. Inky shadows swarm forwards towards the little house. For a moment they wait under the eaves: there is a moment of silence; then the crowing of a cock indicates dawn. Suddenly, there is a rasp of drawn weapons and a heavy strike against the door.

'Open in the name of Rotenburg!' cries a voice.

'Er ... there's no one here', replies Horst tremulously, 'no one at all. Except a cat. Er ... meow!' he adds.

Horst can hear muffled voices on the other side of the door.

'Well, sir', says one, 'this house is empty. There's only a cat - and she won't be able to tell us the whereabouts of Herr Agorn'.

'Why not?' replies another voice, clearly that of an officer. 'I mean it's not often one finds a cat that can talk'.

There is a pause. The first voice then says 'I see your point, sir'.

Sudden blows rain upon the door and it gives way. Figures rush swiftly in, flooding the house. But it is already empty. Cold air drifts through the open shutters of the rear window. Out in the night a horn begins to blow, and a voice shouts out the traditional alarm of Bachscuttel: 'Run! The enemy are here! They'll kill us all! Flee! Hide! Piddle your britches!'

Inside the house, the Rotenburg commander kicks a chair in disgust. 'Dammit!' he says, 'where else could that blasted pretender be?'

'Well, sir', replies his sergeant. 'There's another small bay a little way on, apparently. The beach isn't as nice, by all accounts, but he might be there'.

'Fine! Fine!' says the officer, who goes by the name of Major Nicklaus-Maria von Richter-Mortis. 'Order the men to form up! March! March! We must have that damnable Agorn fellow in our clutches before the local militia gets itself organised!'

The sun rises over the horizon, bathing the coast of Saukopf-Bachscuttel in morning light. Most would agree that this is a bad thing. There are few places in Bachscuttel that can't improved in their looks by a bit more darkness, and perhaps also by closing one's eyes and slipping a bag over one's head. Generally, dawn in a place like Mittelheim is rather like opening the curtain's of one's bedroom after a heavy night of frolicking whilst one's parents are away: the feelings of apprehension that the scene revealed might be every bit as bad as one feared the night before when one spotted various guests spilling red wine on the carpets, vomiting in the cupboards, or setting fire to the servants; worry at who might be responsible for tidying things up; relief when one remembers that it's the servants; concern at how many of the servants might have survived the evening's immolation; weary lassitude and the strong feeling that conditions might be improved if one just skipped the coming day and moved straight on to going back to bed.

(Above) One fellow, though, who seems not be suffering from this bleak pessimism is Herr Michael Agorn, pretender to the Vulgarian throne, and latest pawn in the dirty years war. Agorn has shed his worn clothing and is now dressed as befits a man whose claim to fame is that he is more of pretender than the man currently pretending to be the Voivode of Vulgaria. In addition to an ensemble of white silk and a gold-laced tricorne, Agorn has dispensed with his sword, "The Sword That Was Broken and Was Reforged But Then Got Broken Again", and replaced it with a brace of pistols, on the basis that ancient heirlooms, honour, and ancient prophecy were all very well, but nothing says "get dead" like shooting someone in the face.

(Above) Agorn stands upon a small hill above a little bay. This part of Bachscuttel lies to the east of the small fishing port of Chaptliptz. By fishing village, of course, one means that the men occasionally go to sea, mostly in the hope of being carried off by pirates. Usually disappointed by this, they then have to stop off in the local market in order to buy fish in order not to make their wives suspicious. Surrounding the position is a company of the palatinate's troops, led by Colonel Amadeus von Goethe-Nockenshoppes. Dragged from the warm clutches of his winsome Kurlandian mistress, Lady Claudia Pantzov, Nockenshoppes is under strict orders to wait here for the arrival of a force of ships that will take Agorn by sea and river to Vulgaria.

Nockenshoppes will not be unhappy to see the back of Agorn. In the march to this secret rendezvous with the fleet, Agorn had argued that his long years in the wilderness had given him a range of skills that would help the troops along the way. Claiming to have 'some skill at hunting and foraging for food', Agorn had insisted that the column could dispense with supply wagons. Though Nockenshoppes was willing to accept that Bachscuttel was not, perhaps, the easiest place in which to live off the land, he was still of the impression that the activities of hunting and trapping connoted the provision of provender rather more tasty than the plates of leaves and dung beetles that Agorn provided. It also turned out that Agorn was rather unwilling himself to eat the supplies that he was providing, some of his 'hunting expeditions' comprising of excursions to local taverns in which the 'terrible privations' that he described suffering mainly comprised of him skipping the cheese course. After spending even this short time with Agorn, Nockeshoppes could well understand why it was that the Vulgarian pretender needed protection, his list of enemies, Nockenshoppes guessed, probably exhibiting a remarkably high degree of similarity to the list of people that had ever met him.

Nockenshoppes mood is not improved one whit by a sudden commotion that indicates the arrival of a dishevelled peasant. This fellow has disturbing but utterly predictable news: a band of Rotenburg troops, somehow deposited onto the coast of Bachscuttel, is on its way! (Above, top right) As the light improves, the enemy become apparent: three platoons of Rotenburg infantry. Clearly this is a mission of some import for the landgravate of Rotenburg, for the shambling, ragged formations, and the bovine, blank-faced apathy of the musketeers indicates something of an elite force by the landgravate's usual standards. Nockenshoppe grabs the peasant.

'Go at once to Chaplitz and rouse the militia. Only energy, rapidity, and celerity will suffice: go now, and waste no time!'

'Yes, sir - celery, sir: you can rely on me, sir'.

The fellow heads off at a run.

Nockenshoppe watches him for a minute. 'Hmmm', he says to a subaltern. 'Isn't Chaplitz the other way?'

'Yes, sir'.

'What's that way, then?'

'A tavern'.

'So we're going to be waiting for a while for those reinforcements aren't we?'

'Yes sir'.

'About the time the tavern closes tonight'.

'Yes sir. Perhaps a little after if he stops for a pie'.

The situation is worse than the colonel supposes. From the south arrive three more platoons of Rotenburgers. These aren't even regulars: they are light troops, and as desperate a band of thugs, cut-throats, and goat-fondlers as ever pulled on a uniform and tried to pass themselves off as fit for duty.

Nockenshoppe curses - where is the fleet? Ordering his troops to prepare themselves, he declares that they must defend the hill with their lives. 

'Sir, the enemy are approaching for their first attack!' cries the subaltern.

'The men seem quite cheerful, under the circumstances', notes the colonel.

'Yes, sir, but I think most of them misheard you. I suspect that they are over-estimating their own chances of surviving this battle because they think that they will be defending the hill with their wives'.

'Their wives might well make better soldiers', comments the colonel, 'They've certainly got more impressive facial hair. Steady men', admonishes Nockenshoppes, 'prepare to fire on my command .....'