Northwest Crappage!

'Where is my damned hat?' cries Colonel Richter Fuhrporer to his subaltern. 'Go and find it!'

'Righto, sir', says the fellow.

'And also', adds the colonel, 'make sure that the civilians are safely locked in their rooms!'

'At once, sir' replies the subaltern, trotting off.

Civilians? What sorts of fellows volunteer to move to a new life in New Mittelheim? Those moving to America necessarily are probably those with adventure in their blood; or at least quite a lot of schnapps. There are three groups of civilian workers at this Gelderland trading post, each of which is currently hiding in one of the buildings. They are led by one Herr Rudolph Plugholl. These civilians are mainly indentured workers: workers whose costs of travelling to New Mittelheim are paid by their employers but who must then work for seven years for them in order to pay off their debt. The more suspicious might, of course, argue that this is simply a form of slavery; but this isn't true - slaves are beaten slightly less often. Nevertheless, such are the opportunities provided by the New World that peasants constantly are willing to take the risks and travel here. These opportunities include the opportunity to run off when no one is looking. 

(Below) In the meantime, the raiding force begins to advance. (Below, top left) Blofeldt's Indian allies begin to move across the hill to their front. Native Americans often form a significant contingent in the forces of New Mittelheim. Most Mittelheimers view their relationshsip with the local tribes as paternalistic in nature: they are the fathers to the innocent native children - violent, alcholic ones, to be accurate. For the Europeans, there is a strong sense that they have a duty to civilise the locals and to bring them into the presence of God. The latter seems to the local tribes to have quite a steep entrance fee, not least because the former seems to comprise of being forced to wear wigs and then dying of disease at some later date. To the right of the natives, the blue coated Vulagarian marines stalk menacingly towards the cover of a wood.

(Above, middle) Freud und Slepp's small party of Fenwickian hunters line one copse. To their right, the Indian war party hangs around uncomfortably behind a wood. Out of the woodcut, the provincial troops hang back, with Freud und Slepp safely ensconced behind them. This reticence soon develops form a temporary feature into a condition; then a theme; before becoming a full blown set of subtitles for the battle.

Suddenly, and randomly, a strange development occurs. The group of civilians occupying the first floor of the warehouse panics. In their terror, they start to leave the safety of the building and head for somewhere safer - Canada, possibly. Luckily for Gelderland, the general slowness of their running and the challenge of operating the door handle mean that the fleeing civilians don't get far. (Above) Herr Plugholl makes it to the top of the stairs before the civilians begin to rally and then head back inside.

It doesn't take a hot air balloon scientist to work out why Freud und Slepp's Indian troops are playing things safe. (Above) The Nabstrian troops, that is, the war party of Indians and two platoons of rangers, have deployed into the nearest wood to the trading post. It's all  a rather tight fit, but the troops gain adiditional benefit from the cover. They hunker down, waiting for their Fenwickian enemy to expose themselves: in normal circumstances, this would happen after a few pints of ale.  (Above, top left), Freud und Slepp's provincials, with the colonel himself, can just be seen, having taken up a position so far from any actual likely fighting that it would not be possible to be further from the battle, short of taking a long sea voyage to another continent.

(Below) Freud und Slepp tentatively orders his Indian allies forwards into the copse, placing them opposite the rangers. This is a bold move. A move is "bold", of course, if it turns out to work. If it leads to disaster, then it becomes transformed instantly into an insane act of "military nincompoopery".

(Below) As this woodcut indicates, the early stages of this encounter are marked by an unusual sophistication in approach by both sides. Circumspection, concern for exploiting the advantages of the terrain, and a careful consideration of possible second and third-order effects mark the manoeuvres of all the protagonists. This could be down to an outbreak of tactical subtlety. Or it could just be an unmanly reluctance to get to grips with one another. Given that the word "Tactical" doesn't appear in the Mittelheim military lexicon (which generally skips straight from "Tacky" to "Tactless"), and that the word "Subtle" doesn't appear at all (the nearest applicable word is "Cheat"), unmanliness seems to be the most likely expanation.

'Thank goodness!' says Colonel Fuhrporer, taking his hat from the subaltern, who has just returned.
'But sir, the Nabstrian rangers stole it ...'
'An officer isn't properly dressed for battle without his hat!' says the colonel, plopping it onto his head.
'But sir ...'
'Hats maketh the man ...' continues Fuhrporer, turning to inspect the light platoon in front of him.
'But sir ...'
The colonel stops suddenly. He then wrinkles his nose, and, finally, sighs sadly.
'They crapped in my tricorne, didn't they', he says wearily.
The subaltern nods apologetically. 'It's in their nature'.

Northwest Savage!

As the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction deploy, an activity that looks suspiciously similar to what others might call "eating breakfast", their adversaries begin to arrive in the vicinity of the trading post. First to make themselves known is a force of Fenwickian troops under the command of one Colonel Jorg Walter von Freud und Slepp. The colonel isn't well known as a fighting officer, not least because the only thing that he has fought in his short time in America has been a nasty cough. Freud und Slepp actually is better known for his habit under pressure of uttering strangely relevant malapropisms.

(Below) The colonel's force is as mixed a bag of soldiery as one is ever likely to see outside of a manufacturer of assorted bags for soldiers. To the rear, the largest contingent of troops in this company is a platoon of provincial infantry drawn from the garrison of New Fort Pippin. These troops can at least form line, even if not always a straight one or one that faces the right direction. They do at least also have weapons and uniforms. In front of these, and not uniformed but mercifully at least  clothed, is a small force of volunteer frontiersmen.

These frontiersmen make their living from trapping: local animals, usually, but sometimes their own legs. Technically, they would elsewhere be called 'beaver hunters', except that such a name is impossible to say in any of the lands of Grand Fenwick. For a time, therefore, these men were known as 'thingy hunters', until it was pointed out that, in it's own way, this might be just as bad. So, 'trappers' is how these men must be referred to under Grand Fenwick's New Mittelheim codes for public morality. In the very front of Freud und Slepp's contingent of troops is a party of native American allies drawn from the Wappesdoo tribe.

Arriving to the left of Freud und Slepp's force is an allied contingent in the pay of Vulgaria. This allied force is under the command of Sea Captain Viktor von Blofeldt. Mad, sad, and bad, the captain has only not been labelled as a psychopath because the word hasn't yet been invented; and because, even if it had, it doesn't rhyme with 'mad'. Blofeldt, it's fair to say, would not be at the top of anyone's list of those likely to be invited for a quick pint down at the tavern. On the other hand, if he were invited, one would always be likely to get a seat however busy the local hostelry, given the savage captain's propensity for wielding broken bottles, threatening drinkers in the immediate vicinity, and, by way of attendant small talk, threatening them that, even if they killed him, he would return from the dead to chew off their faces and "shove their cat right up their dog".

The captain has with him a platoon of blue-clad Vulgarian marines from his ship (above right). Use of the term "marine" might normally conjure images of troops that were disciplined, elite even. But one must be aware that these are Vulgarian marines and as like to normal marines as a honey badger is to a pyjama case. Indeed, these troops probably have more in common with sea lice than with sea soldiers, and are about as welcome an addition to any sane military expedition. The rest of the Vulgarian force is comprised of three groups of Wapesdoo Indian allies. In signing up to support the Vulgarians, it's not that the natives are exactly gullible; it's just that they are over-optimistic, trusting that, since Europeans have lied so often about  'unbreakable guarantees" and "the protection of the law", by the law of averages, it must surely be likely that this time they are telling the truth.

(Above) The forces of the Vulgarian Convention begin to advance. Overall, their objective is to find every civilian that might be hiding in the trading post and to give them a painful and permanent early retirement. That should put an end to Gelderland aspirations in this part of New Mittelheim. At a more personal level, Colonel Freud und Slepp's main objective in this regrettably dangerous mission is simply to survive. Captain Blofeldt, being nuttier than a family of workaholic squirrels, is looking forward to the prospect of personally slaying, as messily as possible, at least six of the enemy. It's always good in life to have goals.

Northwest Massage!

As Fenwickian musketeers gather below the walls of Fort Pippin, preparing to sally forth against the besieging troops of the Spasmodic Sanction, other events, no less important (and no better handled) are taking place many, many leagues away.

We turn our attention, dear reader, to a small Gelderland trading post in New Mittelheim. This post is positioned not far from the coast and, as it turns out, not nearly far enough from Grand Fenwick's American colony of New Fort Pippin. The purpose of this trading post is to act as a collection point for the trade in local loin cloths. These, as any astute merchant knows, are  a vital part of the Mittelheim transatlantic triangle trade: the loin cloths are shipped to England for use as napkins, where they are exchanged for false moustaches; the false moustaches are traded to Mittelheim, where they are used as part of the disguises to lure unwary peasants onto ships bound for the Leech Coast; these peasants are then shipped from Mittelheim to the Leech Coast where they are sold into slavery in exchange for gems, leaves, and, especially, hippo knees which are in turn brought to New Mittelheim. In New Mittelheim, the gems are locked away in treasure chests; the soft, luxuriant leaves are hung in local water closets; and the hippo knees are traded to local tribes for use as small uncomfortable seats, large uncomfortable hats, or tiny impractical dwellings.

(Above) The post itself comprises of two small colonial cottages and a warehouse (with the red roof). It is a hive of activity. The commander of this outpost is Colonel Richter Fuhrporer, a recent arrival to the New World. New Mittelheim, understandably, is perceived by many Mittelheimers as a land of opportunity. Mainly, these are opportunities for personal enrichment, achieved by swindling the indigenous inhabitants through the sale of overpriced hippo's knees or the application of newly invented legal instruments based on such long-standing Mittelheim principles as 'What is Thine is Mine'. For Richter Fuhrporer, New Mittelheim also provides a range of other opportunities not normally available to non-nobles such as an officer's commission and access to cutlery.

The frantic activity, shouting, and running hither-and-thither are due to the recent arrival of some very unpleasant news. A messenger has informed Colonel Fuhrporer that a raiding party of troops from the Vulgarian Convention is en route! Fuhrporer has three platoons of Gelderland regulars with him. However, two of these platoons, consisting of ordinary musketeers, have been sent off to the coast guarding the latest shipment of loin cloths. It will take time to recall these forces  (Above) In the mean time, this leaves the colonel with an immediate command of a single platoon of light infantry. The colonel stands with his troops. If he looks somewhat rumpled, it is because he has only just finished being ministered to by a local wench well skilled in muscular manipulation. At least, that seemed to be what was going on; though it seemed to involve less scented oil than he had expected, and more punches to the face. Still, when in Rome ...

'But', says Fuhrporer to the subaltern commanding the light infantry, 'isn't there a local truce in operation? I'm sure that that is the case. We shouldn't open fire on the enemy first'.
The lieutenant frowns. 'Sir, I think that we should assume the worst'.
The colonel blanches. 'What, that my wife in Mittelheim is cheating on me with my own brother and that there is, in fact, no such thing as Santa Clause?'
'No sir, I mean we must assume the worst about the enemy. I shall push my force forwards into the trees to cover the approaches to the warehouse from that direction'.

Luckily for Fuhrporer, there is an allied force also bivouacked at the outpost. This is a Nabstrian force under the command of Major Arnold Von Schwim und der Vasser. Fresh from some gentle constabulary operations against the local Wappesdoo tribe, these troops had stopped off for the night to rest, sharpen their blunted knives and axes, wash off the blood, and sell the spoils of their exercise in community policing: trinkets, furs, orphans, civilian body parts, and such like.

(Above) The major's command includes two platoons of Glosgau's Rangers - tough, grizzled outdoorsmen well used to spending extended periods in the wilderness, not least because they smell so bad their wives rarely let them indoors. The platoons are accompanied by a group of Hardahuron Indian allies. The Hardahurons are here partly because they hate the local Wappesdoo tribe, and partly because they have been promised by the Nabstrians a refund on their hippo knees.

Though they have yet to be measured against their adversaries, there is, even at this early stage, a faint whiff of incompetence about the Spasmodic Sanction force; a strong sense that, if things do go to plan, it is only because the plan wasn't the one that was intended, but was instead some other plan that had been dismissed at the beginning as impossible and/or laughable, but which got remembered at some opportune moment because it fell out of the commander's pocket. Defeat would probably be inevitable if the enemy officers were brave or sane. Which is a bit of luck.