Well Fort Of(f)!

In the darkness, the confused fight begins to reach its messy climax. Or it would do, if such words as 'climax' could legally be used in Imperial Fenwick, which they can't. So, dear reader, we must confine ourselves to noting that the armed disputation over this outer bastion has reached a stage of concerted activity  noticeably higher according to commonly held military criteria than that which pertained to the period preceding it. Captain Andreas Dreihumpe returns to his central position on top of the fortifications. To his right, the enemy Pandurs leap up their ladders and engage the Fenwickian garrison troops. The night air is filled with the sound of musket shots, the clash of metal, and then the fierce cries, shouts, strange gurglings, farmyard honks, and kitten-like mewling that signal a bout of Mittelheim hand-to-hand (or in this case 'hand-to-wobbly ladder') combat.

The fight that takes place is rather closer in outcome than a casual spectator might suppose, given that the Pandurs are attacking in single file, up ladders, and against an enemy in elevated hard cover. The irregulars manage to demonstrate a tenacity and vigour rarely seen in Mittleheim outside of local pie eating contests. The Pandurs nevertheless are thrown back in a confusion as severe as if they had been subjected to a surprise test on 'capitals of the world' (above). The Pandurs blame the new-fangled modern technology that comprise their ladders, which they claim haven't worked as they should. Having then refused Colonel Rheinfunkt's helpful advice that in order to restore function to their elongated equipment they should try  'pushing them on and then pushing them off again', the Pandurs confine their attack on the bastion to taking pot shots with their muskets. Since the irregulars are about as accurate as an English referendum forecast, the Imperial garrison are  able easily to hold them off.

Colonel Rheinfunkt now has only one opportunity for success left. Blundering forwards into the dark, he joins his last column of troops - three companies of musketeers. He orders the troops to change formation into open column, and then hurries them on in a desperate attempt to reach the unprotected rear of the fort (right). Nearby sheep shuffle nervously away. Though they can't see the Gelderland musketeers, the animals have a beast's sensitivity to the presence of danger and poorly executed drill.

Rheinfunkt's manoeuvre is soon spotted, even in this gloomy night. As Dreihumpe rushes to the rear of the bastion, an excited artilleryman hops up and down, babbling.
'They're to our rear, sir! Our gun has no arc of fire! We'll have to turn the bastion around!'
Dreihumpe rubs his chin slowly. 'Hmm. The enemy will be to our rear in a few moments. I'm just wondering - will turning around the bastion take more time than that?' he asks.
'I'm certain of it, sir. The time taken to disassemble this fort and then reassemble it facing in the other direction would be ... considerable. I think.'
'So,' says the captain drily. 'Five minutes; ten, perhaps.'
The artilleryman nods vigorously. 'Or maybe an hour, at least!'
Dreihumpe nods. 'Depending, presumably, upon whether we also need to move the skittle alley and the tavern.'
'We might be able to do without those sir. It's possible', the soldier says worriedly. 'If we had to and all.'
'Yes, yes', says Dreihumpe, nodding solicitously. 'But, well, here's a thought - as a desperate alternative, we could, though it's obviously a long shot, just turn the cannon around and then fire it.'
The artilleryman pauses. 'Well. Yes, sir. That's possible. I suppose.'
'Indeed', nods the captain. 'And the irony would be that, for a long shot, the target would actually be at short range. Within grapeshot, I should think. Now obviously, I can't order you to turn around the cannon, but I think that, if you don't, your chances of remaining in the Imperial army, or indeed this bastion, are likely to be slimmer than a French book on chastity.'

The artilleryman nods. In a trice, the cannon is turned and trained on the approaching enemy. Sadly for Colonel Rheinfunkt, it turns out that this column, like the other, is just within visibility of the bastion and so, indeed is in range. There is a thunderous explosion, and grape shot flies into the Gelderland musketeers. It is too much for them (left). One company is driven off, and the two others dissolve into stationary confusion, too disordered to continue. Gnashing his teeth, the colonel realises that his attack is at an end. He quickly orders the withdrawal to be sounded and his troops, with much relief, quit the field. With the Fenwickian bastion now as safe as a robustly constructed cabinet with a fancy three point lock designed for the purpose of storing money, Fort Pippin is surely in a much improved position to survive the looming Gelderland siege. 

xXx

In the darkness, Governor Schroednger-Skatt grimaces: he can hear from the direction of the bastion the cheering of Fenwickian troops, a sound that can only signal that they have surrendered. Soon, however, remarkable news arrives - a victory! The outer positions have been defended successfully!

With relief, Schroedinger turns to a portly matron next to him. She sports some crude armour, a pair of pistols, and an expression that manages to blend fear, confusion, and a certain amount of reluctant determination.

The governor pats her arm. 'It's fine Sally, you won't be needed after all.'