Northwest Damage!

Trapped in the buildings that make up the Gelderland trading post, the civilian employees of the Gelderland New Mittelheim Trading Company huddle in the gloomy interiors listening to the sounds of battle. If they feel regret now at taking up employment in such a wild land, then this regret is hardly new. The particular regret that they might feel at being embroiled in the immediate danger of an enemy raid is, as it were, merely the first story of a whole house of regret, this story of which is built above a very roomy ground floor of dismay and disenchantment, the foundations being laid as soon as they stepped onto the shores of New Mittelheim and discovered what passed here as indoor plumbing. All had been promised that employment in New Mittleheim's American colonies would open new doors; but this was a lie - it involved opening only one door: the one that led outside to back breaking work; which, coincidently, was exactly the same door through which in the evening they were then chased back through and then locked up.

In the first floor of the warehouse, Herr Plugholl and his fellow civilians can agree that they now more fully appreciate the horrors of warfare on this uncivilised and barbaric frontier. These horrors include the prospect of death, scalping, and and the flatulent consequences of having to subsist for the whole morning on nothing more than beer and leather loincloths. As they contemplate even more ways in which to make themselves the smallest possible target, one of Plugholl's subordinates then makes this already quite trying morning even less enjoyable by uttering words guaranteed to cause concern to even the bravest occupant of a structure composed predominantly of wood: 'Can anyone else smell burning?'

One of the key reasons why he can smell burning is, of course, because the warehouse is on fire (above). In the storage area of the ground floor, Vulgarian allied natives look with a measure of pride upon the really quite impressive conflagration that they have managed to start. Not well acquainted with such European concepts as 'health and safety', however, they have been rather lax in their risk assessment: an assessment of the risk, for example, associated with setting light to a building that they are standing in.  As they hang around on the ground floor, congratulating themselves on a job well done and complaining to one another that the smoke and heat seems to be getting worse, (above, right) a second band of native pyromaniacs approaches a nearby building with a gleam in their eyes and several torches in their hands.

This new group of Indians also gets into the swing of this exercise in thermal remodelling. As the Vulgarian native auxiliaries stand back and admire the growing damage caused by their handiwork, manifest in the lovely glow of a real fire, Major Schwim und der Vasser realises that he needs to take some dramatic action before the twisted Vulgarian firestarters succeed in burning everything down. (Above) The remains of both ranger platoons sprint from their forest hideaway and head around the back of smouldering building, intent on instilling into the Indians some painful lessons in fire safety.

(Above) With a roar, if that is the right way to describe a barrage of high pitch squealing, the lead elements of Glosgau's Rangers hurl themselves at the natives. The latter are up for it, fired by blood lust and a very long and detailed list  of grudges (with footnotes and appendices) against their colonial oppressors. (Below) The ensuing fight is savage, and initially very balanced; but a sudden rain of lucky blows dispatches the indians, wiping them out entirely.

(Below, centre) With only a slight pause to admire the consequences of another productive exercise in settler/native interactions, the rangers regroup to face the indian war party that is still admiring its work in the warehouse. (Below, right) Sadly for the trading post, though the rangers may have killed the indians, their legacy lives on, not least in the form of orangey flames that begin to billow from the house. Life, of course, poses many questions of significance for a man. But for the civilians cowering in this building, none is more significant than a question that seems to be on many people's lips this morning: 'Can anyone else smell something burning?'

(Above, bottom) As the alfresco barbeque that is this battle really begins to get underway, the Gelderland regular troops, following the Vulgarian Indians, have started to arrive at the trading post itself. (Above, left) Discretion being the better part of not being burnt alive, Herr Plugholl leads his employees in the fine art of fleeing the warehouse. Sadly for Plugholl, one of his subordinates then makes the fatal mistake of uttering the words: 'Surely, this just can't get any worse.'

Northwest Cabbage!

For Colonel Richter Fuhrporer, events in this battle take a turn for the worse: indeed, not just a turn, but something approximating a vigorous double twist with a passable tuck and pike. His platoon of light troops are suddenly submerged by a mass of hacking, whooping natives. There is nothing the natives like more than a chance to give sallow-faced Europeans some well-deserved payback for all of the diseased blankets, 'unbreakable' treaties, and poorly manufactured glass baubles. The European troops evince no such enthusiasm. Indeed, the performance of the colonel's troops might be described as 'mediocre' except that, really, there is no 'medi' about it: the light troops are lamentably 'fullyocre', inflicting no casualties at all upon the Indians. The morale of the light troops is tested by this situation and naturally is found wanting. With all of the enthusiastic energy of a family-sized basket of leafy green winter vegetables, they fall back further into the woods. However, this leaves Colonel Fuhrpurer not just as the point-man in the Gelderland fighting line, but actually the only man (below).

Heavily outnumbered, success in such circumstances  would require the efforts of a man of the heroic stamp. Fuhrpurer, however, has more of the character of an actual stamp - small, thin, and odd-tasting when licked. He has barely enough time to finish his warcry of "Ah, I'm sure we could just sit down and talk this through: I've got a nice blanket and some beads in my baggage", before he is struck unconscious by the butt of an enemy musket (below). Carried of as a prisoner of the Vulgarians, he surely faces a fate worse than death.*

Seeing the success of his native auxiliaries, Sea Captain Blofeldt, grizzled and hard-bitten (a result, amongst other things of having been in his early career bitten hard by a grizzly) is quick to understand the need to sustain the momentum of his attack. Or, he is just very, very angry. Either way, his marines are ordered to advance from their cover, the captain shouting wildly from behind. Or about behinds. In truth it is difficult to discern his actual meaning, what with all the roaring, spitting, and eye-watering maritime-themed swearing (the latter featuring imaginative combinations of mermaids, pilchards, and whale blubber). (Below) His marines, considerably more frightened of Blofeldt than they are of the enemy, advance towards the Gelderland trading post. Sadly, no matter how fast they move, Blofeldt remains right behind them, gesticulating and gurgling like a drunkard drowning in treacle.

(Above) The marines begin trading volleys with Major Schwim und der Vasser's small Nabstrian force of natives indians and rangers. With the Nabstrians safely ensconced in cover, it turns out to be a poor trade: like, say, trading beads for large chunks of eastern continental America. Several of the marines become casualties. Then, siezing their moment, one of the ranger platoons gives a blood-curdling cry and charges Blofeldt's marines (below).

(Above) There is a bloody melee, with much cutting, thrusting, and flicking of tender bits. Within a little time, however, the rangers are driven off and run back into the woods. However, as the marines redeploy, someone notices that Captain Blofeldt has disappeared!

Further across the battlefield, a Vulgarian messenger soon rushes into the presence of Colonel Freud und Slepp, commander of the Fenwickian allied contingent.
'Sir! Sir!' cries the messenger, 'calamitous news!'
'What is it?' says the colonel, adjusting the position of his provincial troops to provide himself with even more effective cover from enemy fire. 'What is the matter?'
'Sir, Captain Blofeldt has been involved in a melee and is now missing! Possibly dead, even!'
'Missing?' muses the colonel. 'Dead? Well, did it look like a dangerous melee? Or was it just, say, something of a disagreement?'
The messenger for a moment considers this. 'It was definitely a melee, sir, with weapons, shouting,  upsetting altercations and such.'
'Are you sure?' says the colonel, looking sternly at the messenger. 'because you know how things can get exaggerated in military reports. Perhaps it wasn't actually a melee. It might just have been a  fracas. Or a brouhaha. Either of which, I have to say, are eminently survivable.'
The messenger frowns in confusion. 'I'm not entirely certain of the difference, sir'.
'A fracas is like a melee, but with more Italians'.
'And a brouhaha, sir?'
'Fewer Italians and more soft furnishings'.
'No sir!' says the messenger determinedly, 'it was a properly dangerous melee, sir! The captain was in the thick of it: his blood was up and, dare I say it, the red mist had descended! He was uncontrollable.!' He pauses. 'More uncontrollable, that is!'
Colonel Freud und Slepp, whose nearest encounter with a red mist is having once fallen unconscious face first into a bowl of tomato soup, looks on with alarm.
'Blofeldt had his blood up!' the colonel notes disapprovingly. 'Hmmm, this is all beginning to look rather risky!' With that, his gives orders to deploy his provincial troops 'even more firmly in support' of his Vulgarian ally, an action that seems to involve them retreating again and placing themselves even more resolutely between Freud und Slepp and the enemy.

Though Blofeldt is missing, presumed mad, his troops continue with their attack. (Above) The remaining marines are now covering the advance of another of the groups of Vulgarian allied natives. The Indians have got hold hold of some flints and tinder, and are now moving purposely towards the delightfully ignitable Gelderland trading post. Excited natives, a source of fire, and a proliferation of flammable material - what could possibly go wrong?


* Actually, though, Death would admit to really rather enjoying is lot in unlife, so perhaps that sort of fate isn't so bad. Cheese, on the other hand, is really very disatisfied with things. So perhaps the fate worse than the fate worse than Death would be a fate worse than Cheese.