Fifteen Men in a Dead Man's Vest!

Captain Hans Hohenlohe whoops with delight as he stands upon the after-deck of the newly re-christened sloop the Centennial Sparrow. (Below) Salt spray blows across his face and the wind whistles through his wig. The maritime vicissitudes of the last few days have been forgotten in the excitement of a voyage in a marvellously uncrowded ship that goes decisively forwards in the water and not downwards in ways that make his toes all wrinkled. The voyage thus far has been relatively uneventful, the encounters including only a fishing vessel and a small basket of very sea-sick rats.

Quartermaster Crispin Drei joins Hohenlohe and first mate Lars Yerda on the after-deck. 'You called for me, sir. Aaaar!' he says above the sound of the wind. 

'Indeed! Indeed!' says Hohenlohe. 'It is time herr gentlemen to reveal to you our mission!' Yerda and Drei lean in.

'It would seem, apparently, that the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel intends to destabilise Vulgaria. They have their hands on a Vulgarian pretender!'

'A pretender?' asks Drei quizzically. 'Why on earth would they be needing a mime artist?'

'No', interjects Yerda, 'a pretender to the throne he is'.
Drei frowns. 'Oh. Aaaaar! But don't the prince of Vulgaria already be a pretender? Dimitri, he seems certainly only to pretend to be a decent ruler'.

'That is as may be, mister Drei', replies the captain, 'but we are tasked with interfering with this Bachscuttel plan. The Bachscuttelers have the pretender  in a small bay on their coast. He will soon be taken by sea, and then the river Strudel, to Vulgaria itself. We are to sail to Rotenburg; pick up landgravial troops awaiting there; and then land them  near to where the pretender is being held. Once these troops have seized the fellow, we shall sail him off to a future comprising of imprisonment, poor cuisine, and an unwelcome introduction to metal implements that are sharp, hot, heavy, or some uncomfortable combination of the three!'

'Aaaar!', replies Drei reflectively, 'but should we be doing that cap'n? I mean to say, sir, Dimitri - he ain't a good ruler. I'd like to think that a ruler had the best interests of his people at heart. It be important to do what's right'.

Hohenlohe raises his eyebrows. 'Do what's ...? But you're a pirate! Scourge of the seas!  Blood, plunder, "yo-ho-ho and a bottle of some readily available alcoholic beverage!"'

Drei shrugs. 'Well, in my time as a vicar ...'

'You were a vicar before you joined the ship?' asks Hohenlohe incredulously.

'Worked in a church you did?' adds Yerda questioningly.

'But', adds the captain, 'you don't seem very, you know ... religious'.

'Well cap'n - I wasn't a very good vicar. I couldn't get the hang of the tricky bits'.

'The tricky bits?'

'Aaaar, yes. You know: being meek; turning the other cheek, especially to meek people; helping others; believing in God'.

'So ... so ... what did you spend your time doing?'

'Aaaar, well: you know, the other things that priests be doing'.

'What?'

'Eating and drinking, sir; sleeping, of course. Collecting tithes. Inappropriate touching; more drinking. Sermons, hypocrisy, that sort of thing. But mainly drinking. Or at least, that's what I mainly remembers doing. Aaaar!'

'Oh'.

'Yes, but the touching - it was all taken out of context, sir. And I like to think that some of it rubbed off.'

'What, when you were touching?'

'No, sir. I means the general vicar atmosphere of being supposed to be doing good things and wanting life to be, well nice. For poor people, sir. And, er, the meek. And samaritans. The good ones. Aaaar!'

'No! No! No!' replies Hohenlohe adamantly. 'We complete our mission. Damn it, Drei - you're a pirate now and not a vicar: a life of carefree violence and alcoholism, unfettered by such petty concerns as laws and morals'.
'There be more overlap with a vicar's life than yer might think, cap'n. Aaaar!'
Bemused, Hohenlohe orders the crew to set a course for Rotenburg!

'Good progress, we're making, captain', says Yerda later, as Hohenlohe scans the coast.
'Yes indeed', he replies. But the captain's concentration is broken by a terrible cacophonous noise emanating from the ship: a sound that seems to comprise of a blend simultaneously of a tedious drone, the sound made by nails being drawn down some form of chalkboard, an ex-wife or elderly relative asking loudly and repeatedly for some form of extended financial support, and a group of parrots singing their favourite selection of Welsh folk songs.
'Mister Drei', shouts Hohenlohe. 'Mister Drei, what in the name of Beelzebub is that terrible noise!'
Drei returns to the after-deck. 'The men be amusing themselves with a song, sir. Aaaar!'

Yerda nods in agreement. 'Singing sea shities they are'.

'Shanties, mister Yerda', corrects Drei. 'They be sea shanties'.

Hohenlohe grimaces. 'No, I think mister Yerda has it right'.
'15 men on a dead man's chest', says Drei. 'It be traditional'.
'Is it traditional to sing it so badly?' asks Hohenohe morosely. 'And anyway, it seems an odd song'.
'Why be that, sir?'
'Well, it seems quite specific. Why 15? I mean, I think having about three men on my chest would probably kill me. The other 12 seems quite unnecessary.
'Perhaps, they just all be needing a hug, sir. Aaaar! Pirating can be quite stressful. Or, perhaps it's not "on his chest". Perhaps it's "in a dead man's vest"'. 

'"15 men in a dead man's vest"? That doesn't seem practical. It would be too crowded, surely'.

Drei contemplates this. 'Perhaps, sir, they wears it one after another?'

(Below) 'Bring her about, mister Yerda!' shouts Hohenlohe as dusk begins to arrive.
'Sir, aye, aye!' says the first mate.

As the Centennial Sparrow wears, the captain and quartermaster look down at the plates of food that both hold, carefully trying to avoid spilling the contents as the deck shifts beneath them. They both stare at their dinner. The cook has tried some innovative approaches to cooking the salt pork.
'You haven't eaten your supper, sir. Aaaar!' says Drei.
Hohenlohe pulls a face. 'In truth mister Drei, I cannot. It's awful. I love a good weevil as much as the next man, but the cook's ruined them too. Look at them'.
'What be those weevils doing, sir?'
Hohenlohe peers at his plate. 'I think, Drei, that they're trying to surrender. It's no surprise to me that the cook also doubles as the carpenter. This doesn't taste very nice at all'.

'Arrr! No, sir, but the pork does have a lovely set of dovetail joints'.

'We should just throw it overboard: perhaps the dolphins would like it'.
'No, sir - I be thinking that the pork ain't even good enough for them. In fact, you might say that it's just "not fit for porpoise"'.
Hohenlohe looks at Drei. Drie shrugs and mimes a small drum roll.

Suddenly, from above comes a loud cry of 'Ship ho!'
Hohenlohe quickly has his spyglass to his eye, searching the horizon.
Behind them there is a curse and then a terrible splintering sound. Looking around, Yerda seems to have in his hands a length of broken wood that looks depressingly like the tiller.
'Just came off in my hands, it did' cries Yerda.
'No tiller! We can't turn!' cries Drei. 'We be fine, though', he says, recovering his equilibrium. 'I'll have the men do some repairs. That ship'll be able to turn and avoid us!'
Hohenlohe turns wearily. 'I think, gentlemen, that that ship is going to cause us more trouble than you think'.
'Aaaar! Why sir - has the other ship got a pirate flag on it?'
'No Drei, the other "ship" has a lighthouse on it'.
There is a moment of silence.
'Shafted we are', says Yerda.

Bloke on the Water!

'Aagh! A whale! A whale!' screams Captain Hans Hohenlohe pointing wildly from his position at the stern of the newly re-christened Centennial Sparrow.
'No sir', interjects the ship's freshly appointed quartermaster, Crispin Drei. 'That'd be a boat'. He pauses, and then, since he is now a pirate, adds an 'Aaaar!' to create the right sort of ambience.
'A boat? A boat?' says Hohenlohe looking confused.
'A pirate boat it is', says Lars Yerda, the first mate, in his appalling German.
'How do you know that it's a pirate boat?' asks Hohenlohe.
'Because, sir, it be our boat. Aaaar!' comments the quartermaster.
'Ooooh' says Hohenlohe peering ahead. 'So it is. How did I make such a silly mistake?'
'Well, sir', says Drei, 'I'm thinking that yer consumption of two bottles of rum might have been at least loosely connected to yer error'.
Yerda nods. 'Tipped to the rits you are', he comments with his garbled vocabulary.
'And also', continues Drei, 'it's quite difficult to see ahead given how crowded our ship be. Aaaaar!'

(Below) And in truth, the boat is indeed quite crowded. Hohenlohe's choice of such a diminutive vessel had at its core a perfectly reasonable supposition: that, for a crew whose lives had been spent as vagrants, vagabonds, draft animals, or professional spitoons, the intricacies of sailing a sea vessel were likely to be skills best developed from practice on a simpler ship. In actuality, the ship's rats were professionally more qualified for a life at sea than his crew, and they certainly had better table manners. Alas, Hohenlohe had neglected to consider some of the practical implications of trying to squeeze a crew suitable for a sloop or brigantine onto a boat so small that the only reason it can't be labelled a bath tub is that no one in it has any soap.

The rather overloaded condition of the vessel was one of the early problems discovered on this maiden voyage. But other unwelcome discoveries soon followed. The command 'Hoist the main sail', for example, proved difficult to execute when it was concluded that there was in fact no main sail. Or top sail. Or indeed any sail. Or, on that theme, a mast. Morale lowered further when, after spending a short time watching the crew at work, the small family of rats that lived in one corner of the vessel were seen constructing from a fruit basket, stick and handkerchief, a small life boat, which they then launched, in a commendably calm and disciplined process of abandoning ship. Even what should have been the fairly reasonable order, in what was after all basically a large rowing boat, to 'row the boat', foundered like an ill-manned and ill-equipped Vulgarian war boat, on the sharp rocks of the problem that no oars could be found. In addition, it turned out that one of the crew was actually Fenwickian, so that Hohenlohe's command that the crew should 'find some oars and damn well use them' resulted in the crewman fnarring himself overboard.

'Motive power there seems no obvious means to be', comments Yerda.
'What?' replies Hohenlohe.
'Boat not move', says Drei.
'Well, this seems like it is going to be a long voyage', says the captain, gloomily. 'How are we doing?'
'I think', says Drei, 'there be a reason, sir, why row boats use oars and not, as we be doing, spoons'.
'Desert spoons?' asks Hohenlohe hopefully.
'Arrrr, tea spoons they be, sir...'
'Of course. Of bloody course'. The captain pauses. 'Now, I need to bring something up', he continues.
'Our orders and plan this might be?' enquires Yerda with interest.
'No', replies Hohenlohe, 'it's the rum'. He heaves loudly over the side of the ship. In between chunders, he orders everyone below except Yerda.

(Below) 'Thank goodness', says Hohenlohe. 'A bit of space at last. Now, mister Yerda, I can reveal our orders ...'

'Hmmm', interjects Yerda. 'Wet my stockings are'.
'What?' says the captain with cold alarm. 'Have we sprung a leak? Call the men!'
'Below you sent the men', points out Yerda reasonably.
'Yes, I told the men to go below'.
'On this reflecting I am. Boat this is and not a ship. A below I don't think we have'.
'Oh', says Hohenlohe wearily. 'Which, on reflection would explain why they had to saw through the deck ...'
Yerda shrugs. 'Moving we are now'.
'Yes', the captain, 'but I can't help noticing that it's not the required direction'.
'What?' asks Yerda, over the lazy gurgle of water.
'We're moving downwards instead of along'.
'What?'
'Well, Yerda, applying my accumulated experience as a sea captain, I must conclude that, since the boat is getting lower in the water and the water is getting higher, then technically at least, our condition could be coded most accurately as "sinking"'.
'What?'
'Boat sink'.
Yerda lifts one sodden leg, before plunking it back into the water and examining the other. He looks at Hohenlohe and shrugs. 'Soup?'
Hohenlohe rubs his eyes, looking very tired. 'Yes mister Yerda. Let's get the sloop. Break out the spoons and head for the coast ...'

The Pitter Patter of Tiny Fleets!

The Freistadt of Bestwestung - a modest port at the mouth of the River Strudel, whose fortunes rely primarily on fishing and shipbuilding. It is Mittelheim's nearest equivalent to the thievery, filth and inequity that marks out a pirate den: if the pirate den had really let itself go, that is. In Bestwestung, such traditional piratical activities as smuggling, fighting, swearing, drinking, and the wearing of parrots and wooden prosthetics are usually reserved for the quiet of an after-church Sunday. For the remainder of the week, the population really let it all hang out.

(Below) At the docks, the usual hustle and bustle is interrupted by the raucous arrival of a ripe band of cut-throats. These seem to be actual pirates, as can be determined by the quantities of  rum being consumed and the numbers of 'Aaars!' being uttered. At their head is a tall fellow, flamboyantly dressed, with a large gold-laced hat. This is none other than the sailor of fortune Captain Hans Hohenlohe, one time captain of the Centennial Sparrow but now, after his costly exploits in pursuit of the lovely Princess Freya, in need of a new ship and crew. The urgency with which he has sought to procure a new source of both is explained by the fact that he has lately been issued with letters of marque by Prince Dimitri of Vulgaria. An extended rummage through the dingy dockland dives of Bestwestung has turned up a collection of likely lads eager for adventure, plunder, and an opportunity to escape being chastised by their mothers for failing to tidy their rooms. Next to the captain stands his first mate, the Swedishman Lars Yerda. Nature has prepared Yerda well for his new role, the first mate having eyes like a ferret, a nose like a weasel, and knees shaped like an amusingly formed Welshman.

(Above) 'What about dis vessel, sir - just the ticket it looks!', says Yerda to Hohenlohe in his abominable German, pointing at a ship in front of them.
'Hmm, no', replies Hohenlohe. He points to his left. 'This is the vessel that we need!'
'But sir - perfect this one seems!' insists the first mate.
(Below) And indeed, it does seem to be exactly the sort of vessel that any self-respecting maritime cut-throat would like to have: a compact but roomy ship; fast; manoeuverable; and with adequate armament comprising of both light cannon and swivel guns.
'Most useful a soup would be, sir', insists Yerda.
'It's a sloop, herr first mate: S-L-O-O-P. Sloop. And I'm not convinced that we do need it', says the captain. 'Unless, of course, you actually meant "soup", in which case, given my hunger, I could be tempted'.
'Sloop schmoop, I'm thinking. Spelling overrated he is', retorts the first mate snappily.
Hohenlohe sighs. 'You are too dismissive of the importance of good grammar and spelling, herr Yerda. For example, recent rumours tell of a nasty incident resulting from King Wilhelm of Gelderland's attempt to write a message to his servants declaring that he was thirsty and ordering that he be sent a large quantity of beers'.
Yerda shrugs. 'A problem that is?'
'Well, herr Yerda - yes it is, if you're a king in an autocratic political system and you spell beer "B-E-A-R"'.
'Oh dear', admits Yerda. 'Fat problem'.
'Yes', says Hohenlohe ruefully, 'a very big problem indeed. Apparently they were washing honey out of the palace carpets for weeks'.
Yerda nods.
'And not just honey', continues the captain. 'You know, it turns out that they don't just go in the woods.'

Hohenlohe turns to his crew.
'Men, I have chosen our ship! I shall purchase it at once. Soon, your next stop will be a life of furious adventure!' he cries.
'Oooh, lovely!', shouts one. 'I'm looking forward to some healthy exercise'.
'Exercise?' replies the captain suspiciously. 'What is it that you think that you have signed up for, my man? You are now all pirates!' Hohenlohe takes from inside his coat one of the recruitment posters that he has had distributed around the town. 'Pirates!' he repeats, pointing to the word "pirates" laid out in large, bold letters at the top of the missive.
'Ahhhh, I see', replies the recruit. 'I been and misread it, sir. I mistook the "R" for an "L". Still, my mistake. I expects there'll still be plenty of healthful aerobic activity to be had on the high seas'.
As the men break out into a sustained barrage of 'Aaars!', the Captain winces, but then perseveres, shouting 'Glory awaits, my men. We have merely to creep up on it when its asleep and grab it! It's time to terrify our foes!'
There are cheers.
'It's time to shiver their timbers!'
'Aaaar!' and more cheers
'Splice their mainbraces!'
Wild cheering, and a barrage of 'Aaars!'
'Poop their decks!'
Sudden silence.
One voice pipes up. 'We gets paid extra for that, right sir?'

'I'm not sure about this new crew, herr Yerda', says Hohenlohe quietly, turning to his first mate. 'Are you sure they have the right qualities for a short and brutal life on the ocean? I asked you to get for me men of the right calibre: by which I meant, of course, men that would be of the wrong calibre for just about every other activity.'
'Scurvy dogs you asked me to get', says Yerda.
'Yes, herr Yerda. I thought we'd cleared that up. I think we lost something in the translation. You got me an actual dog - with rickets' replies the captain. 'I meant the men themselves. Being a pirate requires certain qualities. A certain ... outlook on life. For example, last night the whole lot of them got wasted on rum and port. One might expect that any self-respecting pirate crew might use that condition as the useful foundation for some riot and arson'.
'A bit naughty they jolly well were', says Yerda defensively.
'"Naughty" isn't a quality I'm trying to develop in them. Last night's antics were less a riot and more a sort of frolic'.

'The difference is what?' asks Yerda.

'Well, I suppose that one would expect more violence and less accordion music'.

The first mate shrugs. 'Off they can bugger'. He then turns back to the ship directly in front. 'Soup?'

(Above) 'No', says Hohenlohe, decisively pointing to the left - that's the ship we're going to take! It's smaller and more easy to handle with inexperienced sailors.' He turns again to his assembled crew.

'Prepare yourselves, my hearties!' he bellows. 'For you are about to leave behind your old lives!'
The men cheer.
'Yes', continues the captain. 'It is time to wave farewell to your sweethearts', he looks at the dirty, foul-smelling specimens in front of him, 'or possibly more likely, say goodbye to your collection of bodily parasites, and prepare yourselves for a pirate life of adventure!'
'To the Caribbean, sir? To the Spanish Main?' they shout.
'Well', says Hohenlohe, 'let's work up to that, eh? First stop - the coast of Rotenburg!'
'Is that near the Caribbean, sir?' ask the men.
Hohenlohe pauses for a moment, reflecting, and then says 'Yes! Why not!' He continues: 'We sail at the turn of the tide!' cries the captain.
'Ham the beach is!' says Yerda loudly.
'That's easy for you to say', replies Hohenlohe.

Jangthof, the Final!

General Unpronunski shakes his head. 'No Prince Karl, we are not exchanging clothes with local peasants, slipping away from the battlefield, and then joining a circus'.

Karl shrugs. 'It is by far the best option'.

'It is morally wrong', replies the general. 'It is cowardly and unprofessional. Also, look at those peasants - I am not wearing that skirt'. 

Prince Karl scowls. 'Well then general, the most immediate threat is that of further enemy musketry applied to our massed attack columns. We must commit our infantry now before they are destroyed by the enemy's lethal volleys'.

'Very well', nods Unpronunski. 'Adjutant, issue the orders. Prepare the men for the advance - or at least those few of our musketeers that are indeed real men: the rest will just have to follow'.

Looking on, general Unpronunski realises that this is the decisive combat of this battle and that he must make use of every advantage available to him. Calling forwards adjutant von Hardtpumping, the general instructs him to find the last of the Wurstburp clerics and to send him in support of this attack.

'Herr cleric!' says Hardtpumping, reining in his horse. 'You are commanded to advance in support of this attack! Go hence! Inspire our men to prodigies!'
'Uhhhh', says the startled cleric uncertainly, hurriedly pulling on his vestments. 'Uhhhh, but I'm rather new at this! I've never done this sort of thing before. Actually, I haven't even finished reading the manual', he says, pointing at his copy of the bible. 'I really haven't got much beyond chapter two. You know, the, uh, creating and resting bits; and then the bits with the garden, and the nakedness, and the, uh, fruit'.
'Forwards, sir!' shouts the adjutant urgently. 'No shilly-shallying! Our need is both pressing and immediate!'
Hurrying towards the sounds of battle, the cleric prepares himself for this make or break Wurstburp combat ....

(Above) Three Wurstburp battalions advance forward into the assault. One confronts the Rotenburg Legion Britannique; two others are thrown against a unit to its flank. Though the situation is serious for the Rotenburg troops, their position improves when their grenadiers are called forwards, tipping the balance of the combat in their favour. In the distance, however, the Rotenburgers espy the Wurstburp cleric. Fearing that a wrathful God might turn them into pillars of salt, or peanut butter, or some other unwelcome condiment, there are cries of fear from the Rotenburg troops, and a great wailing, and the uttering of a very great quantity of colourful metaphors.

'Just to clarify, sir', says one of the Wurstburp subalterns to the cleric whilst simultaneously pushing some of his soldiers back into line. 'Just to clarify - so, Cain was in a forest on the way to see his grandmother and he was wearing a red hooded cloak?'
'Oh yes' says the cleric, hunched slightly to make the smallest possible target for musket balls. 'And then Cain says "But what big eyes you've got grandmother ..."'
'Um', says the officer. 'I'm not entirely sure that that is a story from the bible ...'
'Who's the cleric here?' says the cleric, loudly. 'Who's the expert?'
'And the trail of breadcrumbs and the gingerbread house?'
'It's all in there, soldier', says the cleric, tapping his bible.' Perhaps,' says the cleric pointedly, 'you aren't a real Catholic.'
'But I am sir; I promise you ...'
'Perhaps, you're a Lutheran ...'
The subaltern blanches. 'No, no, sir ...'
'Or ... a Calvinist ...'
'Upon my honour, sir ...' splutters the officer in rising panic.
'Or English ...'
'No, no, no - I just didn't know that the story of Cain and Abel had three little pigs and a fairy godmother ...'
'Burn the witch!' howls the cleric.

Inspired by the cleric, perhaps, and certainly aided by the fact that they outnumber their adversaries two-to-one, the right-most Wurstburp attack is successful, the Rotenburg regiment being driven from the field in rout. Alas for Unpronunski, the other combat is less successful. The Legion Britannique put up a great fight.
'Steady, men!' shouts their commanding officer, Colonel 'Kevin', as the Wurstburp regiment advances towards them.
'Righto, sir!' shout the men. 'You know', adds one, 'your voice is quite high for an infantry officer, sir'.
'Is it?' replies the colonel, suddenly lowering his voice three octaves. 'Is it?'
'Also, sir, is that ... mascara you're wearing?'
'No, no, no' replies the colonel, his voice lowering a further two octaves and sounding now like a Yorkshireman with a sore throat gargling with some particularly husky gravel.
Already somewhat disordered before the assault, the Wurstburp attackers are driven back and break. (Below) With losses equal, this is not the success that Unpronunski hoped for or needs. The margravial infantry are now in an even more weakened state, and are lashed again by lethal Rotenburg volleys.

The remaining Wurstburp infantry begin to buckle. With the officers and NCO's dead or wounded, the rank and file begin to contemplate a speedy exit.
'I'm off', says one musketeer.
'What about the rest of us?' says a second.
'Yes', says a third. 'We're comrades - you can't leave us behind. There's no "I" in rout.'
'There could be', says a fourth. 'I mean, we're all illiterate. So there could be an "I" in it.'
'That's right', says the second. 'And a "D" and a "T" and a.. a.. "£"'.
'A "£"'? Now you're just showing off'.
'Look', says the first. 'Look around us. We're finished. It's time to go - none of us asked for this; none of us are volunteers. We've all been conscripted unwillingly'.
Another nods. 'I'd just nipped out for a quick piglet'.
'I'm Vulgarian', says another.
'I'm a barmaid', says a third.
'Actually, I volunteered', says a fourth.
'Volunteered?' say the others. 'Are you an idiot?'
'In a literal sense - yes. For I am the village idiot of the small hamlet of Kleine Popthardt'.
'Well', says the first, 'you've certainly confirmed your cretinous credentials'.
'Written them in big letters', says the second. 'A "D" ... a "T" ... and a "£"'.

(Above, right) The Rotenburg infantry quickly storms Jangthoff hill. The only defenders are a weakened battery of Wurstburp artillery.
'Drive off the enemy!' shouts adjutant Hardtpumping to the battery.
'Drive off the ... ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh - you're being serious', say the artillerymen.
Whilst it might well be that it takes two years of serious technical study to become an artillery officer, it's clear that these fellows skipped the classes on physics, mathematics, geometry, and firing cannons; and majored instead on falling over, sprinting, and learning how to surrender in eight different languages. They prove to be about as much inconvenience to the attacking infantry as a heavy lunch.

(Above) Though his losses are not great, Unpronunski fears that victory is now beyond his grasp and that further fighting will merely see his remaining infantry slaughtered by superior Rotenburg musketry. Sadly, he orders a withdrawal. Furst Augustus, pleased simply to have achieved a success, is happy to allow his adversary to retire unmolested.

As they watch Prince Karl gallop furiously from the field, Unpronunski and adjutant von Hardtpumping seem surprisingly philosophical about things. Although they have lost two regiments of conscripts, three others seem to have learnt enough from this battle to have been raised to the status of 'trained'. Indeed, one of the regular regiments seems now to have put on sufficient weight that one might consider them to be of 'elite' quality. There is also another, unexpected, benefit from this battle. As the general watches his troops retire, a horseman suddenly gallops into his headquarters, his horse all a-lather.
'I am Robert de Casside' says the notable. 'And I have come to join the victorious Rotenburg army!'

Hardtpumping pulls a face. 'Yes, but you've made a terrible mistake this isn't ... ooof!' he says as Unpronunski digs him painfully in the ribs.

'Welcome, my lord Robert', says Unpronunski. 'Welcome to the Rotenburg army! I think you'll enjoy yourself here tremendously!'

Jangthof, the Third!

'Damn the artillery!' cries Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste. 'To blazes with them, Wankrat! What contribution have the cannon ever made to my army except, perhaps, as unusually large and not very practical paperweights! Let the enemy hack down our guns - it will slow down their cavalry, speed up our rate of march, and also give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside! Continue the advance!'

(Below) The furst pushes forward his infantry again, ignoring the threat to his artillery. This time, however, he does order two regiments to turn to face the cavalry. The front ranks of his infantry are now within volley range of the enemy.

In the Wurstburp headquarters, Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen, known unpopularly as 'Bunnie Prince Karlie' because of his pronounced front teeth, turns in his saddle and gesticulates towards General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski.
'We must advance with our cavalry! Throw them into the attack!'
The general shakes his head. 'I fear that the close presence of our opponent's infantry means that there is too much else to do. Our first task is to fire our volleys against the advancing enemy musketeers, and then  ...' But before the general can finish his sentence, the attacking Rotenburgers fire first!
'What! What!' says Prince Karl. 'How have they fired first?'
'An enemy stratagem has afflicted us', says a breathless Adjutant von Hardtpumping.
'Gah!' expectorates the prince. 'An enemy stratagem. Let me guess - something has been discovered that wasn't on our map?'
'No, no, my lord, not that. Though it usually is, of course', Hardtpumping adds.
'Oh - it's worse is it!' curses Prince Karl. 'Of course it is. Has one of our heroes died? Or have we been struck by confusion! Or the sudden and unexpected advance without orders of one of our regiments in the heat of the battle! No, no! It couldn't be anything as simple as that! Let me guess, adjutant: there's been a "Death of a That's Not on the Heat of the Confusion" has there?'

'Calm yourself, prince', says the general. 'So they have stolen first fire. See - their volley is as ineffectual as the enforcement of Italian tax legislation. Only against our artillery have they had any success. And there, our cannon are surely protected by their gabions'.

'Gabions', says the prince, as if testing the word for the first time. 'Ah'.

(Above) 'No gabions!' says Unpronunski incredulously. 'But even in the armies of Mittelheim, isn't placing defensive bastions for our guns practically an unwritten rule - so, don't talk to strangers; never trust a Sicilian; always dig your guns in'.
'I thought that it was important to maintain the mobility of our guns' replies Karl defensively.
'Mobility?' says the general aghast. 'But I don't understand - why do the guns need to be mobile? What did you intend that the artillery would do? Cross country rallying? Three point reversing? Handbrake turns?'
Bereft of defensive protection, one of the Wurstburp batteries suffers heavy casualties to its crew. Many lie on the ground, or are draped over their pieces, moaning. This is not in itself unusual, of course, but in this case it is indicative of a variety of unpleasant and mortal wounds, not all of them self-inflicted.

The Wurstburp infantry return fire, but it is a weak volley with all the destructive power of a suggestive wink. Perhaps the margravial artillery can disrupt the enemy assault, instead?
The Wurstburp artillerymen look on in some surprise as orders are delivered to load with canister.
'What with what?' asks a cannoneer.
'Load. With canister,' replies Hardtpumping.
'But adjutant', says one fellow. 'Can I recommend that instead of canister, we employ the most modern scientific knowledge to pummel the enemy with our guns?'
'What would that be', asks Hardtpumping suspiciously.
'Phlogisticated gunpowder. I have read the latest works of the noted scientist Faltaire. We must heavily dilute our gunpowder with sand. Lots and lots of sand'.
'And that will crush the enemy infantry, will it?' asks the adjutant
'Scientifically proven', promises the gunner.
'But canister surely will crack their lines', replies Hardtpumping.
'And sand will surely line their cracks', replies the artilleryman. 'It will chafe them terribly. Manoeuvre will be impossible!'
Whilst his intuition screams "No, no, no, no, no - crapness occurring!", Hardtpumping likes to think of himself as a man of the Enlightenment, and so he says instead 'Well, why not?'
The answer to that question is provided by the volley of canister fire propelled by Faltaire's homeopathic gunpowder recipe, which results in a explosion comparable to the sound emitted from a small rabbit breaking wind. The canister itself never sees fit to leave the comforting confines of the gun barrels.

Following the mutual exchange of volley-fire, efforts on both sides are made to rally the troops, using the usual array of carrots and sticks: that is, threats are made to stick carrots in places that one wouldn't normally store them for the winter.

(Above) However, the Wurstburp discomfort gets progressively more intense. More Rotenburg musketry rolls along the line. The crew of one Wurstburp battery are cut to pieces and flee. The conscript battalions, formed in mass, are especially vulnerable to the lethal volleys of their enemy and take heavy casualties. When the Wurstburp infantry returns the volley fire, the results are limper than a one-legged triple-jumper.

To try and rectify matters, a Wurstburp cleric is called forward and deployed.
'Have another go, my fine fellows!' cries the cleric. 'For did not David, when confronted by the Philistine Goliath, launch an initial volley of sling stones; but then cry "Dammit, snakes eyes: I've missed them all". And did not Goliath then laugh and say unto David: "Verily, you have missed with some quite dismal hit rolls, and now I shall leap upon you and tear off your ears and shove them up your bottom; so that you will no longer here the sounds of birds, or music, but will instead hear only the sounds of your rear end". And did not David then fall to his knees and pray really hard to God, saying something like: "Dear God - please do not let my initial missed attacks stand; let me have another go". And God, surveying the combat looked upon David; and then he sayeth, or did sayeth, or whatever worked grammatically in those days: "David, verily, I have considered your request; and I have seen your ears; and I consider them good; and do not wish them to be pushed up your bottom; for then you will hear only your backside and not the words of God. Have another goeth at your attack".
'And then Goliath did wail, and gnash his teeth, and sayeth or whatever, rude things about God; saying that God was a false god, and not a true god; and that besides, God was much too fat to be the proper object of a monotheistic religion. And God then pointed out to Goliath that he might regretteth those badly chosen insults; and that he was the One True God; and that he was in any case considering going on a diet; and he blessed David's sling.'
'And David did pick up his sling and launched another volley; and all of these hit; and Goliath was slain. And David then did say in joy "Yay!" and he praised the name of God; and then asked, since God was here, if he would give him a better looking wife.'
Inspired by this rather loose interpretation of events in the bible, the Wurstburp musketeers launch another fusillade at their enemy. When the smoke clears, however, the results, if anything, are worse than their original attack. The cleric pulls a face and then tip-toes off quietly.

'We must advance the cavalry!' says Karl urgently, surveying the situation through his telescope.
'There is no time, my lord. There are other things to do!' says Hardtpumping.
'But the battle hangs in the balance!' replies Karl. 'I can see the enemy infantry preparing to ... oooh, those are nice uniforms', he says, his attention alighting upon the Rotenburg Legion Britannique. 'Yes, a lovely shade of ... teal, I think. Very fetching. And I can see their commanding officer. What a splendid looking fellow. What a fetching moustache, and tiny button nose. How shapely his legs are. How well he fills out the top half of his coat. What an usually seductive way of marching ...'. The prince suddenly turns to Unpronunski. 'My, er, my spyglass is dirty. I need, er, I need to go to my tent and polish my telescope'. But before Karl can turn his horse, the general grabs his reins.
'No, no, Prince Karl! You cannot leave again at the critical point of a battle! Our choices are to advance with our cavalry, or to launch a bayonet charge with our infantry! What do you advise?'
Karl says hastily, 'General, there is only one sensible option ...'

Jangthoff, the Second!

Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen and General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski watch from their headquarters the progression of the Rotenburg infantry. The advance of the enemy musketeers is well-organised, precise, determined, and also, therefore, rather surprising.

'They won't just keep coming straight on like that, will they?' asks the general.

'No, no general', replies the prince, surveying the attack. 'I cannot believe that the Rotenburg plan would simply entail just marching straight up to us and firing. I should imagine at some stage that there will be some attempt at a clever manoeuvre - perhaps they will suddenly wheel, or, their cavalry perhaps will quickly dash up and threaten us with combined arms'.

'Possibly', answers the general, clearly sceptical, 'Although they seem usually to struggle with using just one arm'.

Adjutant von Hardtpumping then adds, 'Or, perhaps this infantry advance is just a feint before their artillery begins to fire for effect'.

There is a round of dismissive noises from the headquarters staff.

'Artillery - really?' chuckles the general. 

'What, you mean turning on their smoke machines?' chortles Prince Karl. 'I've never quite understood the purpose of artillery'.

'Well', says Unpronunski, 'Where would one put those intelligent, educated, non-noble officers?'

'We could incorporate them into our officer corps and so increase its professionalism and technical expertise' replies the adjutant.

There is much laughter.

'War isn't won by professionalism and expertise, adjutant', scoffs the prince.

'Although in our case', adds the general sadly, 'it really doesn't seem to be won at all.'

(Above) 'Well, well', concludes Prince Karl after a further examination of the Rotenburg lines. 'It really does look as if the Rotenburgers are engaged in executing a crude frontal assault. Probably, it's their failed attempt at a clever flank attack.'
'That's probably it', says the general, unconvinced.
Karl nods: 'Yes, thank goodness that they didn't actually plan a frontal assault, because no doubt that would have appeared on our flanks in no time at all. Surely a frontal assault plays to out strengths.'
'Our entire battle line is comprised of conscripts, Prince Karl', says Unpronunski wearily. 'I'm not sure that they really have any strengths to play to'.
Karl snorts. 'Give them time, general: give them a little time to get used to the sight of the enemy and I guarantee that they will become more composed'.
'More composted is more likely' whispers the general under his breath.

Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste nods grimly as he watches his infantry advance. The resonant sound of flutes and drums wafts back to his position. To his left, however, the reassuring din of the movement of his infantry is suddenly drowned out by the thunder of massed "clippety clops". Is his cavalry now going forwards?
 'Beelzebub's barnacled bottom!' cries the Furst in ire. 'Wankrat - is that the sound of my cavalry advancing? I expressly ordered them not to advance; not, in fact, to do anything at all!'.
'I think, my lord, that your officers of horse have been innovating in order to overcome the inexperience of your conscript cavalrymen and their problems in controlling their mounts'.
The furst peers through his spyglass into the distant mass of his cavalry from which the clamorous noise emanates. 'What?' he shouts. The furst slumps. 'Bloody hell, Wankrat - please tell me that those aren't coconut shells'.

Prince Karl turns to General Unpronunski. 'Now is the time, general. I advised you to deploy our cavalry aggressively so that we might remove the pressure from our weak infantry with a carefully timed counter-blow. The enemy have kept their foot in close formation, but that leaves their sides exposed; especially that to our left, which is covered only by artillery. Launch a frontal assault with our cavalry. We'll soon be upon their vulnerable flank!'
Unpronunski nods in assent.

(Above)  'Forwards!' cries Prince Karl.
'By which', adds the adjutant to the courier, 'Our dear prince means wheel to the left, then go forwards, then wheel to the right and prepare to charge!'
Prince Karl scowls. 'I think that that was implicit in my order'.
'This is Mittelheim, my lord', replies the adjutant evenly. 'Nothing is implicit - except perhaps for the poverty in the quality of government, the unhappiness of the peasantry, and the gluttony of King Wilhelm of Gelderland'.
'Well', replies Karl, 'There you are wrong, my man. I also have some quite implicit French illustrated pamphlets in my tent'.
'I expect that you mean, sir, that they are "explicit"'.
'No, no. I still think that behind the obvious messages explored by the heaving plumpies and dimpled buttocks of the undressed actresses, there are in fact some quite weighty subtexts'.
'You mean, sir, that the actresses are fat?'
'No. No. No. Well, yes they are. But what I mean - or what I think that I'm implying that I mean, is that these pictures of French actresses artistically undressing say something quite profound about the condition of man'.
'You mean your condition?' says the general.
'No, no, no. Well, yes. But beyond my obvious sans britches condition in the presence of these pamphlets, I feel that the dear French ladies disrobing says something about, well, freedom'.
The general nods. 'The freedom that comes with not having one's britches on?'
'No, no, no. Actually,' ponders Karl, 'Yes - you might be right. Well, well, well. So that's what radical philosophers are talking about when they bang on about freedom and the rights of man'.
'Exactly sir', says Hardtpumping, 'It's all about one's rights as a man to be free of one's trousers'.
The prince nods. 'Well. What a surprising morning. It turns out that I am a philosopher as well as a general'.
'Steady on, sir' says the adjutant.
'Your're right, it's too early to say I'm a philosopher ...'
'I think', says Unpronunski, 'That he meant the element relevant to the general ...'
'I think therefore I am', declaims Prince Karl.
'You are what, sir?' asks the adjutant.
'Well', says Karl, reflecting philosophically as hard as he can, 'I would say at the moment that I am mostly hungry. Well, there I go again. I am, it seems, a philosopher'.
'Or are you?' replies the general archly.
Karl is about to answer before he cottons on. 'Ah, clever, clever. Excellent. What better thing is there on a bright morning than some learned philosophical discourse'.
'Issuing orders', says the general, 'And directing the battle?'
The prince blows a raspberry. 'You know what, Unpronunski, you're always spoiling my fun'.

Through his telescope, Saxe-Peste sees the enemy cavalry, all three regiments of it, ride swiflty across the face of his infantry line heading for his right flank. A choice now faces the furst - he can halt the advance of his infantry and wheel his troops to face the cavalry; or he can damn their eyes, curse them to do their worst and push on regardless. The furst, however, is a learner. A slow one, to be sure, but nevertheless, here he is able to draw upon his previous experiences at the battle of  Nottelbad. There, faced with the threat of a cavalry envelopment, he halted his infantry and turned to face them, an action which effectively ended his attack and handed the initiative to his adversary. The furst is not a man to be caught out twice - except of course, when he is. (Above) he chooses his second option and ignores the cavalry. Using the advantages of oblique manoeuvre, he shifts his infantry so that they can pass the enemy horse.

(Below) The Wurstburp cavalry continue their frontal assault around the flank of the Rotenburg infantry line.
'Excellent!' says Furst Augustus to Captain Wankrat, 'Our advancing infantry have avoided becoming entangled in the enemy cavalry and are pushing on towards Jangthof hill. Hah! The feeble enemy horsed regiments have been left in the air with nothing to attack but our flanks and rear'. The furst pauses. 'Hmmm, hang on ...'

(Above) The margravate's cavalry are now in a position to, as it were, 'do their wurst'. The Rotenburg artillery have prepared well for their allocated role in the battle. That is, they have arranged some chairs from which they can watch the battle and broached a barrel of fermented leech ale. As they watch from their repose the progress of the Wurstburp horseman, a small niggle begins to develop in their minds; a niggle that, as the enemy cavalry continue their manoeuvre, expands first to a concern; and then to a major consideration; before escalating into a condition that might legitimately require the wetting of their underpants.
Furst Augustus looks on through his telescope. 'Oh dear', he says quietly.
Wankrat nods. 'Shall I get your spoons ready, my lord?'

Jangthof, the First!

Wherein the army of the Landgravate of Rotenburg commanded by Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste encounters the army of the Margarvate of Wurstburp under the command of General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski

'You utter, utter bastards', says Prince Karl von Porckenstauffen. 'You miserable pot-bellied, left-footed, badger-faced frauds.' He pauses, expectantly.
'Well', replies General Bazyli Antonin Unpronunski finally. 'It's not the pre-battle speech that I would choose to deliver but who knows, it might inspire the men - if they've had particularly difficult childhoods; or a problematic relationship with their parents'.
Prince Karl frowns. The prince's protuberant teeth, bulging eyes, and bulbous lips give him the look of  an ill-favoured rabbit of a sort so ugly that the phrase 'breed like rabbits' would be unlikely ever to apply to him, unless the other rabbit was blind, tied up, or charging carrots by the hour.
'Perhaps some references to porridge to tie into their wild Gaelic heritage?' suggests Adjutant von Hardtpumping.
'Perhaps casting fewer aspersions on their parentage and masculinity might be in order, my prince. Try and appeal to their better nature', counters the general.
Prince Karl scoffs dismissively. 'They don't have a better nature. What you think is their better nature is just alcoholism'.

The prince's desire to stimulate the morale of his troops is understandable given the context. Thoroughly defeated by the Vulgarians at the battle of Wackdorf, the Wurstburpers should at least have been entitled to a relaxing rout all the way back to their margravate. However, their well-deserved opportunity for a restful period of desertion, pillage, disease, and internecine squabbling has been stolen from them, thanks to the sudden and unexpected arrival of an army from the landgravate of Rotenburg. Caught near the river Procksi in the vicinity of the village of Jangthof, Unpronunski has been forced to deploy his army for battle.

(Above) Taking advice from Prince Karl, the general has formed his infantry into battalion masses; the musketeers are then deployed into two unequal lines - five regiments in the first and two in the second. These troops comprise entirely of conscripts.  Behind them, in reserve, he holds his two trained units. The conscripts have been recruited on the march, and a sorry lot they are too. Enemy deserters, Gelderlanders, Vulgarian peasants with a poor grasp of geography and politics - all have been issued with a musket and a uniform and pressed into the ranks. As unfamiliar with battle as they are with soap or napkins, these troops will have to be skilfully handled if they are to avoid destruction at the hands of enemy volley fire. The artillery and cavalry are aggressively positioned upon Jangthof hill, the possession of which is critical for success in this battle.

Of the general's two trained infantry regiments, one in particular is worthy of note. Sent forwards from the Wurstburp regimental depots is a unit comprised mainly of old Jacobite Scots (below), lured into the army by the promise of a lovely new uniform, a pint of iron brew, and the sort of campaign for which their experiences in the '45 rebellion have made them familiar: a romantic cause;  grandiose promises of success; passable folk-songs; poorly organised logistics; dithering leadership; and, if required, abandonment by their commander for a damp bint on a boat.

Despite their inexperience these are tough troops, their resilience shaped by a traditional Scottish life based upon embracing adventure and avoiding vegetables. Their one concession to the climes of Mittelheim has been to eschew the wearing amongst the rank and file of kilts, the traditional attire worn without undergarments, and to instead embrace the safely supportive warmth of a good pair of military britches. Officers, however, are still allowed to wear kilts, on condition that they never, in a public place, climb up a ladder; and that they do not, in the presence of ladies, stroke their sporrans.

Across the meadow, Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste, Knight Commander of the Rotenburg Order of the Golden Fleas and General-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst looks on through his spyglass at the Wurstburpers as they deploy their forces. Thanks to his heavy defeat at the hands of the Nabstrians at the battle of Putschdorf, the Furst's army is also in poor shape. Four of his infantry regiments are made up of conscripts, as are three of his four cavalry regiments. The Furst needs a victory. In the court of Rotenburg, his enemies are whispering against him, and Landgrave Choldwig has been really very specific as to the necessity for a success. 'Come back with your shield or upon it', was Choldwig's exact comment.
'But I haven't got a shield', replied the Furst.
'Well, get one then. So that you can bring it back or return upon it'.
'But, my lord: a shield is really quite superfluous to my role as commander of the army. And it's quite heavy. Couldn't I just take something else with me that was, well, a bit handier'.
'Such as?'
'Well, uh ... a spoon perhaps?'

The landgrave frowned. 'Is it a big spoon?'
'Ah, uh ... I could procure quite a large one, my lord. Two, if you like'.
Choldwig paused, and then shrugged. 'Very well. But you'd better make it quite a big spoon. "Come back with your spoon or on it". Or else. Hmm, as a threat, I think that it lacks a certain something. But anyway, I think that it goes without saying that, if you lose this battle, Furst, then whatever the state of your cutlery, it's likely to result in you being relieved of an assortment of appendages, the selection of which I think that in the spirit of the open-mindedness and flexibility for which I am famous, we should leave until the required moment. Now - off you go!'

Clutching his spoons tightly, through his orderly, Captain Sebastian Wankrat, Furst Augustus quickly begins to issue orders for the deployment of his troops. (Above) Augustus deploys all of his cavalry to his left; if 'deploy' is the right word to use for a force as familiar with riding horses as they are with riding turtles or wrestling mermaids. 'Milling' might be just as appropriate a description; as might 'falling off'. Still, his cavalry is at least well out of the way, as is his artillery, both batteries of which are positioned on the extreme right. The Furst's plan is clear from his deployment: he intends a bold frontal assault with his infantry, which is deployed in three lines, closely supporting one another. Included in this force are units of the newly formed Legion Britannique.

At the Wurstburp headquarters, Prince Karl seems to have arrived at a rather different conclusion as to the value of mounted troops. (Below) Jangthoff hill is the key position for this battle. Prince Karl has convinced Unpronunski that the route to success in this desperate encounter lies in a focus on artillery preparation and then a decisive intervention by the Wurstburp cavalry.

'Our cavalry?' enquires the general dubiously. 'Though I cannot claim to be an experienced general officer,' notes Unpronunski thoughtfully, 'it has certainly not escaped my attention that, upon observing the previous experiences of encounters in the Wars of the Gelderland Succession, relying upon cavalry to deliver decisive results on the battlefield is something that seems bound to deliver disappointment. As an instrument they seem to be ... unreliable'.

'Undependable', agrees Adjutant von Hardtpumping.

'Untrustworthy', adds Unpronunski.

'A big bag of shite', says the adjutant.

'Enough!' shouts the prince. 'As the margrave's nephew and heir, my strong recommendation is that you do as I say, general.'

The general sighs. 'As you wish, my prince. But betting upon horses: it rarely goes well ...'