Actually, I've Seen More Impressive Specimens!

With loud cheers, the remaining two squadrons of Hott's Horse canter from the woods, intent on wreaking havoc in the artillery park itself. Sadly, the escapades of the first squadron have created more than enough noise to alert the Gelderland pioneers and the Nabstran artillerymen. The foot soldiers quickly arm themselves with muskets and deploy.

Even as the Fenwickian cavalry advance, they seem to have about them a faint whiff of rubbishness: that gentle odour of deeply ingrained crapness one normally associates with such things as English cooks or Prussian comedians.
'Are you sure that those fellows are attacking us?' asks one Nabstrian to another. 'They just look a bit too ... well, genial and hopeless.'
'They've got their sabres out', replies his comrade. 'And they're riding towards us, shouting "Death to Nabstria" and such things as that. That's usually a sign of an attack'.
His comrade nods and primes his musket. 'They just don't really seem to be up for it, though', he says pointing at the slack horsemanship and general lack of vim and vigour on the part of the attacking cavalry. 'They might be just delivering flowers'.
'You got me flowers?' asks his friend.
'Well, no', replies his friend. 'I mean, I didn't want to rush things ...'

(Above) To the left of the woodcut, and just out of sight, the Nabstrian artillery crew fire off a ragged volley. One hussar falls from his saddle and a measure of disorder is inflicted upon the rest of the squadron. This isn't how it was supposed to be: this raid was supposed to be a devastating blow against the besieging forces - a dashing action that would scatter, burn, cut, scribble on, or roll over gently, all of the enemy personnel and equipment in this encampment.

(Above) Forming a ragged line, the pioneers fire into the flanks of the third Fenwickian squadron, emptying many saddles. It is clear that this cavalry raid is an especially incompetent one, with all the energy and action of a Spanish siesta. Decisive action is needed to restore the situation! To this end, both the Fenwickian squadrons launche a charge straight down the track to their front with the firm intention of giving the Nabstrian gunners an instructive drubbing with their sabres. At least, it has the outward signs of a cavalry charge - horsemen, the waving of sabres, a modicum of robust shouting. But the results are, to say the least, disappointing; a fact that just goes to prove the old adage "Never send a Mittelheim cavalryman to do a cavalryman's job". Or any job, really except perhaps those that require a lot of sitting around and being rather ineffective - being British prime minister, for example.

(Above, bottom) Thus, although more than half of the artillerymen are cut down, and the remainder are left heavily disordered, the artillerymen are not routed. Moreover, their numbers are replenished by the handy arrival of the jager, who mill menacingly around the crossroads. (Above, top) In addition, the Fenwickian cavalry have been reduced in the fight to a number that could be counted on the fingers of one hand: a hand, moreover, that had suffered a freak accident with some nasty agricultural implement such as a scythe or a brush and that had been left severely digitally challenged.

Hott surveys the wreckage of his forces and orders a retreat. His few remaining troops flee the battle leaving a trail of corpses and broken smells. The Spasmodic Sanction artillery park is safe, and the siege can continue apace! The surviving Gelderland and Nabstrian soldiers raise a loud cheer: 'Hurrah!' they shout excitedly 'It's coming home! It's coming home! It's coming! Eighteenth century linear warfare's coming home!' 

In Fort Pippin, things are rather more gloomy. Reading the message of defeat brought by a nervous looking carrier-seagull, Governor Schroedinger-Skatt curses loudly. 'Damn and blast!' he expectorates. 'Goblin's kneecaps! Nun's wobblers!' he continues. ' Hedgehogs' jiggley bits!' After a short while, he manages to compose himself. 'There's nothing for it' says the governor. 'We have to slow down the enemy seige activities. We must prepare a sally!'

So, Just a Siege Mortar, Then!

In the nearby trees, Colonel Jaspar von Hott looks at his second in command, Lt Colonel Krunk. Krunk is creating a rustling and crackling sound as he munches his way through some kind of snack that he draws from a small linen bag.
'Krunk!' says Hott, his moustache bristling. 'Stop that! This is supposed to be an ambush!' The colonel gestures through the foliage to the nearby track upon which can just be seen the flanks of a marching column of Nabstrian troops. To either side of the two officers three squadrons of cavalry are arrayed, a force that, collectively, comprise the Fenwickian volunteer cavalry regiment that is named Hott's Horse.
'Stop eating that snack!' continues Hott. 'You will give our position away before I can choose the perfect moment to attack!'
'Sorry, sir', says Krunk, trying unsuccessfully to chew more quietly. 'But these are so nice!'
Hott peers at the bag. 'What are you eating, anyway?'
Krunk waves the bag in the colonel's direction. 'Well, sir - they haven't really got a name. It is a recipe of my own devising: slices of very thin potato that I have deep fried in oil and then covered in salt and vinegar'.
Hott nods, impressed despite himself. 'They look very crisp. You could call them "crisps", perhaps'.
Krunk looks unconvinced. 'But they also smell so savoury and so tempting, sir: I think a better name might be "smells"'.
Hott considers this. 'A bag of smells? Fair enough, but I think you're missing a trick'.

Hott narrows his eyes and then raises his sabre. He could wait for the enemy column to head off down the road and then sweep into the enemy artillery park behind them. But the target in front is too tempting! 'First squadron, charge!' he roars, 'Charge!'

(Above) In a flurry of twigs, leaves, and spilled smells, the lead squadron of Hott's Horse thunders from the cover of the trees and piles into the flank of the hapless Nabstrian musketeers. Only real men, men of iron or some similarly robust metallurgical substance, could withstand the impetuous onslaught of the imperial cavalry; but the question of whether the musketeers have iron in them becomes rapidly irrelevent as they fail comprehensively to meet the first category of being proper men.

(Below) The cavalry attack drives the infantry back in disorder, though the cavalry do not acquit themselves as well, perhaps, as Hott would have liked. The Nabstrians are disordered, but they do not break. 'You loathsome, lazy hounds!' Hott shouts encouragingly to his men. 'You floppy-sausaged chicken chasers!' he adds supportively. 'Pull on your man pelisses and see this lot off!'

Though the cavalry do some savage work with their sabres, they have lost the momentum of their charge and they face thrice their number of enemy infantry. (Below) The infantry are again driven back with many losses. But Hott's squadron succeeds in losing a third of its men in the melee.

(Above) The commander of the Nabstrian infantry, clearly a saucy fellow, stands well to the front of his troops, brandishing a pistol menacingly. It would be even more menacing if it were loaded. The front company of infantry, sadly for Hott, have not made the same mistake. They level their muskets and fire! Saddles are emptied. Hott recognises that he must keep up the momentum of his attack and charges yet again!

The results are mutual destruction! The Nabstrian musketeers suffer terribly. One company routs; the remainder are left in no condition to fight. For Hott's first squadron, however, circumstances are no better. More horseman are lost in the final melee and the squadron is effectively destroyed. (Above) Local sheep look on warily as the musket-armed monkey boys of the Nabstrian army race past. Not for the first time the sheep thank their lucky stars that they dodged the bullet of developing opposable thumbs. If this is an example of civilisation and development then the sheep can only thank the Good Lord that their ancient antecedents turned down the invitations of their simian neighbours to join them in the trees.

In the meantime, the second and third squadrons of Hott's Horse have been otherwise occupied ...

Is that a Siege Mortar, Or Are You Just Pleased to See Me?

As the Fenwickian army reorganises after its great victory at Wuppenhas and recommences its march to Fort Pippin, our thoughts, dear reader, return once again to the prosecution of the seige of this key Fenwickian fortress. That Fort Pippin holds out is critical to Grand Fenwick if it is to maintain a buffer against the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction: for Fenwick is so small that its idea of strategic depth normally is to just open the windows a bit wider. Without this fortress, all is lost!

However, in the fortress, conditions have begun to deterioriate. Captain-Governor Schroedinger-Skatt strides purposefully into the chambers of one of his chief engineers, Major Gordon Sanitaire. The governor pauses, horrified by the pathetic sight. The engineer lies weakly upon his bed, his face pale and his frame emaciated. He is surrounded by piles of bread, sausages and onions.
'Mustard!' croaks the major. 'Mustard!'
'Damn and blast!' cries the governor to one of his servants. 'Get this man some condiments - can't you see that he is starving!'
Though supplies of mustard have been exhausted, the governor's servants are able to find some balsemic vinegar and small linen serviettes. With these, Major Sanitaire is able to take some food.
'How much ... how much longer can we hold out, sir?' asks Sanitaire faintly, between bites.
Schroedinger-Skatt frowns seriously. 'We must be relieved soon', he says. 'It would seem that sausage condiments are likely to be exhausted within the week: though this, I think, may be wurst-case thinking. Just as worrying is the rising clamour that the ordinary soldiers should be issued rations equivalent to those of the officers. The bakery guild, in particular, seems to have been infiltrated by such sedition. Some of the men, it would seem, have friends in pie places. But do not fear, major. For one of our messenger seagulls has brought news of a great victory by Marshal Cavandish: help is surely on the way!'

Indeed, dear reader, help may be even closer to hand. To this end, we turn our attention to the beseiging army of the Spasmodic Sanction. Or, to be more precise, to the artillery park that lies some way behind the trenches.

(Above) The artillery park contains a selection of Nabstrian siege artillery. Pride of place is given over to four enormous mortars. Their size, width of mouth, and enormous appetite for gunpowder have led the gunners to name each of these pieces, respectively, as "King Wilhelm", "Still King Wilhelm", "Ah ... King Wilhelm Again" and "Someone Else Who is Really, Really Fat and Greedy - Like King Wilhelm". This artillery is in the hands of a platoon of Nabstrian gunners. The effectiveness of the Nabstrian artillery in this siege has turned out to be inversely proportional to the quantities available of Faltaire's homeopathic gunpowder: peak performance being acheived once the latter had run out and had been replaced by ordinary propellant. Luckily for the Nabstrian gunners, Faltaire has been too busy on other projects to restock his special gunpowder/sand mix. With Burgrave Falco keen to develop the naval capabilities of his state, Faltaire has been focused on a  new and special project the aim of which is to cross a cow with a shark: whatever it produces, no one is likely to be in a hurry to milk it.

(Below) Also in the artillery park are the engineering stores for the Gelderland seige forces. This equipment is being maintained by a platoon of Gelderland pioneers. If these pioneers, and the nearby Nabstrian artillerymen, were to be badly cut up (say, for example, by several squadrons of enemy cavalry rampaging through the camp) then this would be a sore blow to the beseiging forces.

In the distance can be heard the occasional sound of artillery fire. The artillery park is some way from the main siege, a distance dictated by the desire to avoid Fenwickian cannon fire and also to reduce the consequences of a potential powder explosion. As an added benefit, it makes it more difficult for Gelderland musketeers to feed their proclivity for sniffing gun powder. This habit had to be stamped on early on in the seige (though stamped on very carefully, to avoid igniting the powder). The potential dangers of sniffing gunpowder and then lighting their pipes should have been obvious to the wretched Gelderland soldiers. But the musketeers still seemed oblivious even after several had been found off their heads - by which we mean, of course, that they were found with their heads well off (and separated from their bodies by a distance most unconducive to the effective performance of their duties).

(Below) The artillery park, with the the engineers to the left and the guns to the right. To the top left of this woodcut can be seen on the road in column the garrison troops - a unit of Nabstrian musketeers.

(Above, at the bottom) Guarding the bridge that leads to the artillery park is a platoon of Nabstrian jager. As the morning mist lifts they stumble, grumbling, from their billet and prepare to mount guard. The troops begin to assemble ready for inspection. The outcome of this inspection is a forgone conclusion. The troops look, as all Mittelheim troops tend to do, like a collection of lower primates that have just rummaged through a children's dressing-up box.*

(Above) On the road, the main garrison of the artillery park, a battalion of Nabstrian troops, begins to to make its way from the position, its destination the main camp. At this moment, another battalion is marching from the main camp to take their place here at the artillery park. This is, no doubt, a key moment of weakness in the defences; or at least, an even greater moment of weakness that the other pretty weak moments that characterise the defence of this vital encampment. For, if the Fenwickians had managed to organise, say, a few squadrons of volunteer cavalry behind the Spasmodic Sanction lines, then this would be the perfect moment to attack. Actually, this moment probably would not be the perfect moment to attack: probably, it would be better to wait a few more moments for this infantry unit to move much further away from the encampment. Yes, on reflection, this moment might not be the best time to launch a ... ooh hang on - what's this? In the trees to the right of them, there emanates a strange rustling and crackling sound ...



* Just to be clear: by 'primates' here, we mean monkeys and such and not bishops. The latter, of course, are much  better dressed than the former but are more likely to start a fight with one another.

Wuppenhas, the Final!

The battle hangs in the balance. It's not, in all honesty, a very good balance: imagine a particularly porky pig trying to cross over the body of General Barry-Eylund by means of quite a small tight rope whilst Marshal Grace-a-Dieu Cavandish helpfully pelts the porcine acrobat with pies. Still, ever the optimist, or perhaps fatalist, the general searches around for some available manpower to throw into the Wuppenhas bratwurst machine. With a due sense of incipient disappointment, the general orders his nearest regiment, the Schokolade-Feyer Garde to launch a bayonet attack upon the enemy to their front (below).

The Bachscuttel guard unit bring to the fight all of the qualities for which they are justly famous: weak chins; large mess bills; and a frightening dislike of their social inferiors. Utilising the latter, the regiment goes to town on the ordinary working men that comprise their Fenwickian opposition; they shoot, they stab, they roar - if they could, simultaneously, extract from their working class adversaries some kind of regressive tax contribution, they no doubt would. Shocked by this unusual display of autocratic application, the imperial troops break and run!

'Bah!' cries Captain Fabius Nitwitz from a hilltop vantage point. 'We're running out men.'
The imperial Chief of Staff, Giovanni di Tripodi, nods, contemplates briefly, and then produces with his quill another beautifully written missive that is whisked off to one of his regiments'.
'It's time, I think', says Tripodi, 'to commit our mercenaries to a risky enterprise. That enemy guard regiment has its flank to the marsh. We shall order forward our mercenaries!'
'Through the marsh?' asks Nitwitz, surprised.
'Even so', replies Tripodi, the natural born quiller. 'If one must take risks with one's troops, then who better to take them with than Wurstburp mercenaries?'

(Below, top right). The imperial mercenaries, red flags waving gayly, trudge through the marsh and head eagerly for the flanks of the Schokolade-Feyer Guard!

The Wurstburp troops trudge manfully through the marsh. Though their ranks are disordered by the difficult terrain and the resistance of some of the local toads who don't like the way that the Wursburpers lower the tone of their homes, the mercenaries manage to push their way towards the flanks of the enemy regiment. Leaving his remaining guard regiment to its fate, Barry-Eylund uses the time, first, to retreat his cavalry out of the range of the imperial infantry (above, top left). The Fenwickians jeer, noting that Bachscuttelers are doing what they do best: scuttling backwards. Second, Barry-Eylund orders up one of the regiments from his left flank.

Soon, the Wurstburp mercenaries are in position. Their commanding officer prepares them to charge.
'Men!' he shouts. 'It is time to regain our honour! Charge! Charge! Forward and attack all those that deserve it!'
There is a moment of silence. The Wurstburp mercenaries look at the colonel blankly.
'Them! Them over there!' cries the colonel pointing at the flank of the Schokolade-Feyer Garde. 'They deserve it!' With loud howls the Wurstburpers run forwards (Below).

Weighing in favour of the Wurstburp merecenaries, they have their enemy in the flank; and also, of course, their opponents are Bachscuttel elite troops, the very embodiment of military disappointment. Weighing against them, however, they are outnumbered, they are disordered, they are standing in a marsh, and they are Wurstburpers. After a short fight, the 'nays' have it - with a cry of "Hurrah! Last one to collect their pay is a sissy!" the mercenaries break and run.

As the light begins to fade, the last acts of the battle of Wuppenhas begin to be played out. Sir Thomas Burgess eyes the enemy line and notices that sad state of the lead Bachscuttel cavalry regiment, the Hussaren von Kriegwurst, which is as disordered as a badly cut piece of African topiary. Seeing an opportunity to end the battle, Burgess orders his cavalry to attack (below)!

The splendid elite Fenwickian horseman plough into the shabby ranks of regular Bachscuttlers. The latter have less fight in them than a depressed pacifist who has mistakenly glued his hands to his kneecaps. Barry-Eylund's cavalry regiment is simply swept away. Burgess' troops then rein in:  a single enemy cavalry regiment remains in their way, the Chevauxleger von Blitzenstollen (above left)!

Barry-Eylund views the situation calmly. 'Bohner, it's time to make smoke and then ride off in the confusion. Or run off, in your case'.
Bohner looks aghast. 'But sir, we can still save the situation!'

The general frowns, contemplating the wide panorama of corpses in front of him. 'What with?' he says.
Bohner gesticulates. 'A last desperate charge, my lord: a heroic last enterprise to wrest victory from defeat!'
'But what with?' replies Barry-Eylund, gesturing to the mounds of dead Bachscuttelers.
'Those fellows!' Bohner points to the remaining Bachscuttel cavalry regiment, the chevaux-leger.
Bary-Eylund groans. 'So you want to leave our fate in the hands of a charge of the shite brigade?'
'But surely we must try, sir!'
'Must we?'
'But sir, isn't death better than the disgrace of retreat?'
'Is it, though?' says the general. 'Is it?' Barry-Eylund sighs loudly. 'Very well, Bohner. Let us see what happens!' With that, he orders forward the Blitzenstollen Chevauxleger: with a glitter of drawn swords, they begin a vigorous charge! (Below). This is the decisive moment of the battle, for both armies have no more morale to lose: the next unit that routs from the field will seal the battle's outcome!

For a moment, the two regiments are a swirling mass of cutting, stabbing cavalrymen. Then, to Barry-Eylund's disgust, the chevaux-leger are forced back by their Fenwickian adversaries! The regiment retreats and then reforms a little distance from the enemy. But the chevaux-leger still have some fight left in them. "Cometh the hour, cometh the man" they say: and with the hour growing dark, a hero stands forth - none other than Colonel von Blitzenstollen himself!
'Men', he cries, 'fear not, for this has been only a temporary setback! Let us gird ourselves and throw ourselves once again into the fray! The enemy too is almost broken. One last push! Yes, it is true that we might all perish in the attempt! It is true that we might be hideously mutilated; scorched and maimed, perhaps, beyond the recognition of our own mothers! But that is a small price to pay for glory! One last push, what do you say, my fine ...'
There is the sound of a single pistol shot.
Blitzenstollen looks down at his tunic to see a spreading stain of red. 'But I was only mid-monologue ..' he croaks. 'I've got so much more to give ...'. With that he slides from his horse.
All eyes turn to a small chevaux-leger trooper who holds gingerly a smoking pistol.The trooper shrugs apologetically. 'It, ah ... It, ah, just went off in my hand.'
The other soldiers look at one another and then say 'Fair enough'. With the death of this hero, the Bachscuttel army finally breaks!

(Above) The battle is over, and there is little enough left of either side.
Bohner covers his face, tears in his eyes, before snuffling 'We are lost, my lord. We now face a difficult choice - to stay and fight nobly to the last man or to sully ourselves with a retreat: a terrible choice that requires great ...'
'Retreat!', says the general. 'Let us quit this field right this minute!'
The order is given. What follows is not so much a retreat, as that sort of movement that might take place at a children's birthday party when one of the party goers draws from the lucky dip an unexpected boa constrictor. Though with less cake. Probably.
Barry-Eylund watches resignedly as his force quits the field. He sighs. 'I had anticipated the sweet smell of victory, Bohner; but now I am assailed by the stale sweaty sock smell of defeat'.
Bohner dries his eyes with his kerchief. 'Indeed, sir. Also, my lord, we must in addition consider the terrible defeat that we have caused to our allies, what with our defeat losing the war for the Spasmodic Sanction. They will be terribly disappointed'.
The general considers this point and then says: 'That fact, Bohner, I think in relation to this particular dark cloud, I would place under the heading of "silver linings"'.