Well Fort Through!

Muskets are discharged into the enemy below. The Gelderland Pandurs are temporarily put into confusion, partly by their casualties but mainly by some weighty philosophical and practical matters concerning their ladders. Unused to having in their possession such advanced technical equipment, the Pandurs are left debating the correct doctrinal approach for their employment. Should the troops, for example, place the ladders with the short pointy sides facing upwards or the long flat sides? If the latter, then won't they need quite a few more of them? And in any case, whatever the answer to the first question, it still isn't clear which of the long or the short sides is the top and which is the bottom. Being from the Balkans, these knotty metaphysical questions normally would lead quite quickly to a sharp bout of inter-communal violence, then religious genocide, and finally a war against the Turks. Under the pressure of immediate enemy activity, however, the Pandurs uncharacteristically pull together and, confining themselves to a few quick punches to one another's faces, they decide to just get on with it and so they set about the first stages of an escalated assault upon the battlements above.

As these events are unfolding, Captain Dreihumpe has now removed himself from his previous position towards the front of the bastion and has sauntered now to the left side of it, keen to determine what other unpleasantness the enemy might be preparing. Since he is a parolled officer, Dreihumpe is willing to swear in a court of law that he is absolutely not in any way in command of the Fenwickian troops in front of him. It is possible, he might later concede, that during the battle he might have given the defending garrison some 'sage mentoring advice', passing on 'in a counselling role only' such important life skills as when it might be best to fire a cannon, or the five best ways to avoid being bayoneted whilst defending a stationary structure. But the real initiative, he maintains, was displayed by the salt of the earth Imperial troops, as wiley as ferrets and with the same proclivity for biting. Of course, as any self-respecting lawyer could have informed Dreihumpe, such a defence would only work with an audience that had never met any soldiers from the Fenwickian military, or, indeed, who had never met a ferret.

(Left) Surveying the darkness in front of him, Dreihumpe discerns movement just at the edge of his vision.
'What's that moving in the darkness?' he asks a nearby artilleryman.
The soldier pauses.
'Um, trees, sir?'
'Tress don't move,' replies Dreihumpe.
'Um, bushes then sir?'
Dreihumpe hits the fellow with his tricorne.
'Dammit fellow, bushes don't move any faster than trees: which is to say that they do not move at all!'
'Begging your pardon sir, but I could swears they does. Why, we race 'em in our village. For money.'
'You wager on the outcome of  a race between bushes?' The captain shakes his head. 'Is there much coin to be made from such a past-time?'
The fellow shrugs. 'Not if yer takes into account the cost of buying a good racing bush.'
Dreihumpe hits the man again with his hat. 'Leaving aside such nonsense,' he says, 'those are enemy troops or I'm a Dutchman. Open fire with the cannon!'

And indeed, it turns out to be so: for on this side of the fort, three companies of Gelderland infantry in close column think that they are circumnavigating the bastion just out of sight of the defenders and therefore just out of range of enemy grapeshot. Unfortunately, however, it turns out that maths is not their strongpoint -  indeed, taking strongpoints is not their strong point. A quick check  leads them suddenly to realise that they are in sight of the enemy! The night erupts with a roar, and enemy shot lashes the Gelderland troops. The column is decimated. The troops stagger. The men then vacillate (an activity which undoubtedly is illegal in Grand Fenwick) and then run! With the attack against this side of the enemy fortification now as fruitless as a harem eunuch, the Gelederland commander, Colonel von Rheinfunkt, must now look to the attack upon the other flank.

(Above) Ladders in the hand, the Pandurs launch their attack, whilst, meanwhile, the other column of Gelderland musketeers continues its advance towards the Fenwickian rear!

xXx

'We must prepare a sally!' cries Captain-Governor Schroedinger-Skatt to the ensign, as the distant sounds of fighting begin to reach a crescendo.
'The men won't leave the fort,' replies the ensign. 'So I don't think it's likely that Sally will go.'
'The men won't go?' replies the Governor. He then sighs. 'Of course they won't. It's dark out there. And the night is long and full of terrors.'
'I don't see any dogs, sir' says the ensign.
''"Terrors", not "terriers". Curs though the enemy might be, I hardly think that we are literally at war with dogs.'
'What about the Spaniels, sir? Haven't we been at war with them?'
'I think that you mean "Spaniards"'
'I'm sure I mean "Spaniels", sir. They have long hairy ears.'
The governor nods. 'Well, then they probably were Spaniels after all. Did they have a wet nose?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Well, there you go. Long hairy ears and a wet nose - Spaniels.'
'And, sir, they tried to hump my leg.'
'Really?' asks Schroedinger, staring disconsolately out towards the sounds of mortal combat. 'So, probably Spaniards after all, then.'