Siege!

Four days have passed since the successful Imperial defence of the outer bastion of Fort Pippin. Finally, two evenings ago, this outer work necessarily was abandoned by its garrison after the arrival of a Nabstrian siege train, with its selection of impressively large mortars. Still, the failure of the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction on the first night to storm  the bastion has lengthened the siege by days, increasing the chances of the arrival of a relief force. The investing army must now work much faster to dig its parallels and approach trenches.

On the battlements of Fort Pippin, Captain-Governor Schroedinger-Skatt surveys the growing web of enemy entrenchments in front of the Imperial positions. Major Gordon Sanitaire, an engineer in the employ of Imperial Fenwick, is with him. They survey the siege works completed by the enemy during the night.
'The enemy are improving.' says the governor.
'Aye, indeed, my lord, they are,' says Sanitaire. 'They seem tae have stopped making yon little castles of sand wie the small flags sticking out them.'
'I did wonder they got the sea shells from,' nods Schroedinger. 'And their artillery redoubts?'
'Facing towards us this time. They even seem finally tae be getting the hang of right angles. Our defensive fire last night was only able tae inflict limited casualties.'
The governor points. 'What's that tall thing over there on the left?'
'Och, sir, that wud be the head of a mine.'
'Should we not be taking counter measures?' asks Schroedinger. 'Is this not the time to be digging a counter-mine?'
'Och, no need , sir. The mine shaft broke surface yesterday.'
'Short of our defences?'
'Aye, sir. Under a tavern aboot a quarter o' a mile behind their lines.'
'The locals must have been surprised,' says the governor.
'Aye, sir,' says the major. 'And angry. When the enemy engineer detonated the mine, apparently the blast made all of the ale frothy. And, of course, it killed everybody.'

The two men turn to face one another. The engineer purses his lips with concern. 'How stands the supply situation, my lord? With the arrival lately of that supply column, I cannae think but that we're well provisioned?'
'Indeed, my good major. In terms of ammunition and powder, we are plentifully supplied. But in relation to our provender there are some worrying shortages.'
'But,' says Sanitaire, 'There seems tae be no shortage of food!'
The governor nods. 'No shortage of bread, mutton, or wine, yes. But,' he shakes his head. 'What about the condiments? At full ration we have only a few days supply of mustard, and not much more in the way of gherkins or pickled leeches. And napkins,' he shakes his head sadly, 'I just don't see how they can be made to last.'
Sanitaire grimaces. 'And food wi' out mustard and napkins ...' his brow furrows sorrowfully. 'Barbarism.'
The governor nods in agreement. 'Indeed, yes major. One minute it's doing without mustard and napkins, and the next ...'
'Chaos,' says the major. 'Ruin. Anarchy. We might be forced tae ration out the condiments equally; and that can only lead tae ...'
'Democracy,' agrees Schroedinger. 'Or at the very least some form of dangerously representative government.'
'Hoots, noots, and porridge oots!' blasphemes the major. 'But, is it nae said that nae enemy has taken Fort Pippin while there were men left tae defend it?'
'No it isn't,' says the governor. 'It fell a few years ago when the garrison was driven out by some nuns who had been hammering the communion wine. And then a time before that, the garrison quit the fortress when night fell because they were scared of the dark. Both of those instances were better, though, than the time the garrison musketeers routed when, after inadvertently watching a troupe of mime artists, they thought that they had all gone deaf.'
'Well, my lord,' says the major. 'Then we must hope to be rescued sooner rather than later.' He scans the horizon. 'Where is our relief force?'

Well Fort Of(f)!

In the darkness, the confused fight begins to reach its messy climax. Or it would do, if such words as 'climax' could legally be used in Imperial Fenwick, which they can't. So, dear reader, we must confine ourselves to noting that the armed disputation over this outer bastion has reached a stage of concerted activity  noticeably higher according to commonly held military criteria than that which pertained to the period preceding it. Captain Andreas Dreihumpe returns to his central position on top of the fortifications. To his right, the enemy Pandurs leap up their ladders and engage the Fenwickian garrison troops. The night air is filled with the sound of musket shots, the clash of metal, and then the fierce cries, shouts, strange gurglings, farmyard honks, and kitten-like mewling that signal a bout of Mittelheim hand-to-hand (or in this case 'hand-to-wobbly ladder') combat.

The fight that takes place is rather closer in outcome than a casual spectator might suppose, given that the Pandurs are attacking in single file, up ladders, and against an enemy in elevated hard cover. The irregulars manage to demonstrate a tenacity and vigour rarely seen in Mittleheim outside of local pie eating contests. The Pandurs nevertheless are thrown back in a confusion as severe as if they had been subjected to a surprise test on 'capitals of the world' (above). The Pandurs blame the new-fangled modern technology that comprise their ladders, which they claim haven't worked as they should. Having then refused Colonel Rheinfunkt's helpful advice that in order to restore function to their elongated equipment they should try  'pushing them on and then pushing them off again', the Pandurs confine their attack on the bastion to taking pot shots with their muskets. Since the irregulars are about as accurate as an English referendum forecast, the Imperial garrison are  able easily to hold them off.

Colonel Rheinfunkt now has only one opportunity for success left. Blundering forwards into the dark, he joins his last column of troops - three companies of musketeers. He orders the troops to change formation into open column, and then hurries them on in a desperate attempt to reach the unprotected rear of the fort (right). Nearby sheep shuffle nervously away. Though they can't see the Gelderland musketeers, the animals have a beast's sensitivity to the presence of danger and poorly executed drill.

Rheinfunkt's manoeuvre is soon spotted, even in this gloomy night. As Dreihumpe rushes to the rear of the bastion, an excited artilleryman hops up and down, babbling.
'They're to our rear, sir! Our gun has no arc of fire! We'll have to turn the bastion around!'
Dreihumpe rubs his chin slowly. 'Hmm. The enemy will be to our rear in a few moments. I'm just wondering - will turning around the bastion take more time than that?' he asks.
'I'm certain of it, sir. The time taken to disassemble this fort and then reassemble it facing in the other direction would be ... considerable. I think.'
'So,' says the captain drily. 'Five minutes; ten, perhaps.'
The artilleryman nods vigorously. 'Or maybe an hour, at least!'
Dreihumpe nods. 'Depending, presumably, upon whether we also need to move the skittle alley and the tavern.'
'We might be able to do without those sir. It's possible', the soldier says worriedly. 'If we had to and all.'
'Yes, yes', says Dreihumpe, nodding solicitously. 'But, well, here's a thought - as a desperate alternative, we could, though it's obviously a long shot, just turn the cannon around and then fire it.'
The artilleryman pauses. 'Well. Yes, sir. That's possible. I suppose.'
'Indeed', nods the captain. 'And the irony would be that, for a long shot, the target would actually be at short range. Within grapeshot, I should think. Now obviously, I can't order you to turn around the cannon, but I think that, if you don't, your chances of remaining in the Imperial army, or indeed this bastion, are likely to be slimmer than a French book on chastity.'

The artilleryman nods. In a trice, the cannon is turned and trained on the approaching enemy. Sadly for Colonel Rheinfunkt, it turns out that this column, like the other, is just within visibility of the bastion and so, indeed is in range. There is a thunderous explosion, and grape shot flies into the Gelderland musketeers. It is too much for them (left). One company is driven off, and the two others dissolve into stationary confusion, too disordered to continue. Gnashing his teeth, the colonel realises that his attack is at an end. He quickly orders the withdrawal to be sounded and his troops, with much relief, quit the field. With the Fenwickian bastion now as safe as a robustly constructed cabinet with a fancy three point lock designed for the purpose of storing money, Fort Pippin is surely in a much improved position to survive the looming Gelderland siege. 

xXx

In the darkness, Governor Schroednger-Skatt grimaces: he can hear from the direction of the bastion the cheering of Fenwickian troops, a sound that can only signal that they have surrendered. Soon, however, remarkable news arrives - a victory! The outer positions have been defended successfully!

With relief, Schroedinger turns to a portly matron next to him. She sports some crude armour, a pair of pistols, and an expression that manages to blend fear, confusion, and a certain amount of reluctant determination.

The governor pats her arm. 'It's fine Sally, you won't be needed after all.'

Well Fort Through!

Muskets are discharged into the enemy below. The Gelderland Pandurs are temporarily put into confusion, partly by their casualties but mainly by some weighty philosophical and practical matters concerning their ladders. Unused to having in their possession such advanced technical equipment, the Pandurs are left debating the correct doctrinal approach for their employment. Should the troops, for example, place the ladders with the short pointy sides facing upwards or the long flat sides? If the latter, then won't they need quite a few more of them? And in any case, whatever the answer to the first question, it still isn't clear which of the long or the short sides is the top and which is the bottom. Being from the Balkans, these knotty metaphysical questions normally would lead quite quickly to a sharp bout of inter-communal violence, then religious genocide, and finally a war against the Turks. Under the pressure of immediate enemy activity, however, the Pandurs uncharacteristically pull together and, confining themselves to a few quick punches to one another's faces, they decide to just get on with it and so they set about the first stages of an escalated assault upon the battlements above.

As these events are unfolding, Captain Dreihumpe has now removed himself from his previous position towards the front of the bastion and has sauntered now to the left side of it, keen to determine what other unpleasantness the enemy might be preparing. Since he is a parolled officer, Dreihumpe is willing to swear in a court of law that he is absolutely not in any way in command of the Fenwickian troops in front of him. It is possible, he might later concede, that during the battle he might have given the defending garrison some 'sage mentoring advice', passing on 'in a counselling role only' such important life skills as when it might be best to fire a cannon, or the five best ways to avoid being bayoneted whilst defending a stationary structure. But the real initiative, he maintains, was displayed by the salt of the earth Imperial troops, as wiley as ferrets and with the same proclivity for biting. Of course, as any self-respecting lawyer could have informed Dreihumpe, such a defence would only work with an audience that had never met any soldiers from the Fenwickian military, or, indeed, who had never met a ferret.

(Left) Surveying the darkness in front of him, Dreihumpe discerns movement just at the edge of his vision.
'What's that moving in the darkness?' he asks a nearby artilleryman.
The soldier pauses.
'Um, trees, sir?'
'Tress don't move,' replies Dreihumpe.
'Um, bushes then sir?'
Dreihumpe hits the fellow with his tricorne.
'Dammit fellow, bushes don't move any faster than trees: which is to say that they do not move at all!'
'Begging your pardon sir, but I could swears they does. Why, we race 'em in our village. For money.'
'You wager on the outcome of  a race between bushes?' The captain shakes his head. 'Is there much coin to be made from such a past-time?'
The fellow shrugs. 'Not if yer takes into account the cost of buying a good racing bush.'
Dreihumpe hits the man again with his hat. 'Leaving aside such nonsense,' he says, 'those are enemy troops or I'm a Dutchman. Open fire with the cannon!'

And indeed, it turns out to be so: for on this side of the fort, three companies of Gelderland infantry in close column think that they are circumnavigating the bastion just out of sight of the defenders and therefore just out of range of enemy grapeshot. Unfortunately, however, it turns out that maths is not their strongpoint -  indeed, taking strongpoints is not their strong point. A quick check  leads them suddenly to realise that they are in sight of the enemy! The night erupts with a roar, and enemy shot lashes the Gelderland troops. The column is decimated. The troops stagger. The men then vacillate (an activity which undoubtedly is illegal in Grand Fenwick) and then run! With the attack against this side of the enemy fortification now as fruitless as a harem eunuch, the Gelederland commander, Colonel von Rheinfunkt, must now look to the attack upon the other flank.

(Above) Ladders in the hand, the Pandurs launch their attack, whilst, meanwhile, the other column of Gelderland musketeers continues its advance towards the Fenwickian rear!

xXx

'We must prepare a sally!' cries Captain-Governor Schroedinger-Skatt to the ensign, as the distant sounds of fighting begin to reach a crescendo.
'The men won't leave the fort,' replies the ensign. 'So I don't think it's likely that Sally will go.'
'The men won't go?' replies the Governor. He then sighs. 'Of course they won't. It's dark out there. And the night is long and full of terrors.'
'I don't see any dogs, sir' says the ensign.
''"Terrors", not "terriers". Curs though the enemy might be, I hardly think that we are literally at war with dogs.'
'What about the Spaniels, sir? Haven't we been at war with them?'
'I think that you mean "Spaniards"'
'I'm sure I mean "Spaniels", sir. They have long hairy ears.'
The governor nods. 'Well, then they probably were Spaniels after all. Did they have a wet nose?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, there you go. Long hairy ears and a wet nose - Spaniels.'
'And, sir, they tried to hump my leg.'
'Really?' asks Schroedinger, staring disconsolately out towards the sounds of mortal combat. 'So, probably Spaniards after all, then.'