Northwest Passive!

Colonel Jorg Walter von Freud und Slepp looks on from the safety of his infantry line as his native allies advance cautiously to the edge of the small wood in which they are deployed. As it turns out, in the "bold move versus military nincompoopery" debate regarding Freud und Slepp's orders, events provide fairly definitive evidence for the latter. The small party of Fenwickian natives are left isolated and out on a limb like, well, a small party of indians deployed isolated, out on a limb, and far too close to an overwhelming enemy force. Glosgau's Rangers aren't men to look a gift-horse in the mouth, especially a horse that looks, metaphorically, like quite a small one with teeny tiny teeth. (Below) The rangers fire one loud and inevitably wholly ineffectual volley. They then follow up with a barrage of tomahawks, knives, loose change, army biscuits and other sharp impedimentae that are close to hand. Finally, unable to put it off any longer, the Nabstrians charge from the woods!

(Below) Luckily for the natives, the actual odds are well beyond their capacity to calculate. The Wappesdoo have a system for counting that goes 'One', 'Somewhat More Than One', 'A Lot More Than One, But Not Surpringly So', and then 'More Than One Could Comfortably Stuff into One's Breech-Cloth And Still Ride at the Gallop'. Being unable accurately to calculate the odds, there is little reason for them to feel worried about the large enemy numbers: consequently, they are finished off before they have time to actually register fear, merely feeling slight alarm and then a terminal whack on the head.

The Fenwickian native allies are entirely wiped out. One of the ranger platoons then withdraws back to their original position. The second hangs arounds to bother the corpses of their adversaries. There are some half-hearted attempts to scalp their dead opponents, but the Wappesdoo tend to be close-cropped, with pony tails that aren't much fun to remove and which are only good for turning into disappointingly silly goatees.

A panicked messenger arrives to tell Freud und Slepp the doleful news of the defeat of his native vanguard. 'Defeat! The enemy are without number!' cries the messenger.
Freud und Slepp sighs. 'So what - five? Six?'
'No sir, a multitude more!'
'Eight? Nine?'
'No sir, I mean, there is a horde of them! Our attack has been thrown back! We need reinforcements!'
Freud und Slepp pulls an unhappy face. 'Cobblers! This is really undermining my chances of survival'. He catches himself.  'I mean, "our chances of success in this battle", of course'.
'Shall I order our provincials to advance, sir, and throw back the enemy?' asks the messenger.
'Why yes' replies the colonel. 'Order them to advance to that position over there', he points.
The messenger pauses. 'Given, sir, that that point is actually further behind the hill and that it increases the distance between ourselves and the enemy, isn't that position actually', he pauses, considering his words carefully ', a retreat?'
'Only in a physical sense', says Freud und Slepp. 'Now be a good fellow and deliver my orders'.

(Above) To worsen the situation for the attackers, finally the two remaining platoons of Gelderland regulars arrive back at the trading post ready to boost the defences. But where to send them? Forwards, to reinforce Colonel Richter Fuhrporer and the light infantry platoon in the wood to their front? Or perhaps they should turn left and reinforce the defences of the trading station itself? Whatever choice is made,  at the moment the Spasmodic Sanction position looks secure, and the chances of the enemy breaking through to the civilians in the buildings seems smaller than something that was already quite small but that then, for a variety of reasons, suddenly shrank considerably.

(Below, left) Having expended his natives, Freud und Slepp redeploys his remaining troops. There is, it has to be said, a strange passivity surrounding the Fenwickian approach to this battle. The Fenwickian trappers deploy at a safe distance from the enemy rangers and begin to take some pot-shots at those that they can see. The colonel's platoon of provincial infantry (top left) continue to advance in a way that somehow leaves them further away from the enemy.

Sea Captain Viktor von Blofeldt, commander of the Vulgarian troops, is beginning to detect a certain lack of commitment on the part of his Fenwickian ally: a definable lack of willingness by the Fenwickians to engage in the sorts of activities usually associated with a battle - such as advancing, or fighting. At least, that is what his subalterns can surmise of the captain's views. His precise comments are difficult to discern, since they comprise mainly of baffled snarls, angry roars, and great quantities of phlegm. (Above right) The captain moves forward his blue-coated marines but orders them to hold their fire so that they do not give away their position.

(Below) Blofeldt decides now is the time to commit his native allies. The Wappesdoo have been saving themselves for a quick burst of activity. The captain orders them to commence a rapid attack against Colonel Fuhrporer's light platoon in the woods far to their front.

With a whoop, the natives sprint forwards, weapons dangling dangerously and tomahawks at the ready. They rush again.

'Someone should fire at those attacking Indians', says Colonel Fuhrporer, reasonably.

The Wappesdoo advance again.
'I mean that: really, someone should fire', says the colonel, more emphatically. 'No need to wait for the "whites of the eyes" and all that. Shooting 'em at a nice, safe distance might be best.'
'Any time now would be spendid', he continues, as the enemy begin to close. 'Yes, any time now before they get close enough to AAAAAAAAAARGH!'