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'.