And so, the siege of Fort Pippin reaches its dreadful, drawn-out denouement - or "ending", as it might be known. The Gelderland troops continue to batter against the enemy bastions like small and rather weak children pushing desperately at the door of a confectioners - a door which, in all likelihood, actually opens outwards.
On the Gelderland left, two companies of their ladder troops have been given a pasting by Fenwickian fire. But the other two companies are now up on the walls. Great opportunities present themselves to these troops. Whilst (below, left) one of the Gelderland companies has in front of it the flank of an enemy unit, the other (below, right) is unopposed. This unit could fix bayonets and move to its right in support of its comrades. Or, it could turn left and move towards the other bastion, charging from the rear the recently rallied Fenwickian unit that stands just out of woodcut.
This being Mittelheim, of course, there are a range of other options that the troops are likely to consider carefully before embracing either of these: running off, for example; or, dropping their britches and shouting "Bring out the mustard - the sausage has arrived!"; or, alternatively, shooting their officers and changing sides.
(Below) In the interim, the Fenwickian defenders turn to face the enemy. The imperial artilleryman determine to man their guns for as long as possible - "as long as possible" being a euphemism in any Mittelheim military for whatever constitutes the smallest temporal subdivision of the word "momentary". As they gather their things, the fight for the bastion commences with an exchange of musketry. Despite balancing precariously on the battlements, the Gelderland troops discharge a surprisingly effective volley. The imperial musketeers' return fire is slacker than a fourteen year old "tidying" their room - and does no damage, except to the self-esteem of the few who view themselves as professionals.
It is not impossible that the dangerously free use of the word "discharge" might have upset the aim of some of the Fenwickian troops. Even under the pressure of combat, the imperials still suffer from their wearisome sensitivity to double entendre. This sensitivity is made worse by the lamentably low standards of education possessed by the rank and file in the army (which makes most somewhat better educated than their officers). Thus, whilst many genuinely rude words can be said in front of them without causing any problems at all simply because the troops don't understand them - words like "fornication" and 'belgium" - other, perfectly normal words, can cause terrible problems because the Fenwickians think that they sound rude - words like "tankard" and "handle".
Meanwhile at the breach, (below) the Gelderland attackers, sensing blood, or at least some liquid that isn't dribble, press eagerly towards the town itself. Their artillery support, like artillerymen throughout the ages, sips coffee, polishes their cannon, and thanks God that they never joined the infantry.
The critical juncture. The Fenwickian defenders are much depleted. (Below, left) The routing troops at the base of the ramp have continued their rearward movement. The rallied company on the ramparts has been hit in the rear by one of the Gelderland ladder companies (blue flag) and has broken irrevocably. The Fenwickian grenadiers are the last defenders remaining at this position. Whilst launching a flank assault upon the enemy to the front would be satisfying, it would leave them, in turn, open to being charged in the flank. As a consequence, (below) they have wheeled and, with a 'hurrah!' (or an 'aaargh!' it's difficult to tell), they engage in the more difficult enterprise of a frontal assault upon the nearest enemy.
(Above, top) General Rheinfunkt has moved up to a position just behind the front line of his troops. This is brave - any more damage to his head and it just might completely fall off. In the smoke and confusion, he directs his troops for the final battle. He feels a vague sense that he is missing something - the opportunity to contribute a "For the King!", perhaps; or "Grenadiers Forward!"; or that special sense of satisfaction that comes from determining that the enemy has found something soft and squelchy that wasn't on their map (hopefully a marsh). Both the attackers and defenders have the advantage of being grenadiers; both, of course, suffer the disadvange of being from Mittelheim.
(Below) At the other bastion, the remaining ladder company gives a loud whoop (or 'poop!' it's difficult to tell) and closes upon the defenders. The artillerymen have already decided that discretion, or indeed anything else, is the better part of valour and are now withdrawing at running speed into the interior of the town. Upon this combat, and that at the other bastion, stand the outcome of the siege!
Lady Luck spins giddily. Commanders peer forward into the smoke of battle, trying to determine the outcome of events. Sadly, in scenes so distressing that they are recorded in unusably blurry woodcuts, the Fenwickians lose both combats! Disaster! Woe! Triumph! Victory! The Gelderland commander laughs uproariously from his distant position, making obscene comments; and then making an "L" shape from the fingers of his right hand, which he then holds to his forehead. The Fenwickian command slumps. The 'Spartans of Mittelheim' have lost! In the town, there are scenes of panic not seen since the last inspection of the governor's financial accounts ...
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