Darkness lies over the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel. Along the coast, a thin mist hangs in the blackness, lending to everything a soft ethereal glow. In front of us, a small peasant house stands silent. The occupant, a peasant farmer named Horst Hedlessmann, opens the door cautiously. A brooding dread has been forming in his heart all day, interrupting his rest; a dark foreboding; a dire trepidation that could only signal the return of his wife, Agatha, from her regular visit to her mothers. As he looks out into the night, shadows move in the blackness, and the garden gate seems to open of its own accord. Terror washes over him. Standing at the threshold of the hovel trembling, Horst quails and hurriedly shuts the door, locking it. There is the soft sound of feet moving stealthily. Inky shadows swarm forwards towards the little house. For a moment they wait under the eaves: there is a moment of silence; then the crowing of a cock indicates dawn. Suddenly, there is a rasp of drawn weapons and a heavy strike against the door.
'Open in the name of Rotenburg!' cries a voice.
'Er ... there's no one here', replies Horst tremulously, 'no one at all. Except a cat. Er ... meow!' he adds.
Horst can hear muffled voices on the other side of the door.
'Well, sir', says one, 'this house is empty. There's only a cat - and she won't be able to tell us the whereabouts of Herr Agorn'.
'Why not?' replies another voice, clearly that of an officer. 'I mean it's not often one finds a cat that can talk'.
There is a pause. The first voice then says 'I see your point, sir'.
Sudden blows rain upon the door and it gives way. Figures rush swiftly in, flooding the house. But it is already empty. Cold air drifts through the open shutters of the rear window. Out in the night a horn begins to blow, and a voice shouts out the traditional alarm of Bachscuttel: 'Run! The enemy are here! They'll kill us all! Flee! Hide! Piddle your britches!'
Inside the house, the Rotenburg commander kicks a chair in disgust. 'Dammit!' he says, 'where else could that blasted pretender be?'
'Well, sir', replies his sergeant. 'There's another small bay a little way on, apparently. The beach isn't as nice, by all accounts, but he might be there'.
'Fine! Fine!' says the officer, who goes by the name of Major Nicklaus-Maria von Richter-Mortis. 'Order the men to form up! March! March! We must have that damnable Agorn fellow in our clutches before the local militia gets itself organised!'
The sun rises over the horizon, bathing the coast of Saukopf-Bachscuttel in morning light. Most would agree that this is a bad thing. There are few places in Bachscuttel that can't improved in their looks by a bit more darkness, and perhaps also by closing one's eyes and slipping a bag over one's head. Generally, dawn in a place like Mittelheim is rather like opening the curtain's of one's bedroom after a heavy night of frolicking whilst one's parents are away: the feelings of apprehension that the scene revealed might be every bit as bad as one feared the night before when one spotted various guests spilling red wine on the carpets, vomiting in the cupboards, or setting fire to the servants; worry at who might be responsible for tidying things up; relief when one remembers that it's the servants; concern at how many of the servants might have survived the evening's immolation; weary lassitude and the strong feeling that conditions might be improved if one just skipped the coming day and moved straight on to going back to bed.
(Above) One fellow, though, who seems not be suffering from this bleak pessimism is Herr Michael Agorn, pretender to the Vulgarian throne, and latest pawn in the dirty years war. Agorn has shed his worn clothing and is now dressed as befits a man whose claim to fame is that he is more of pretender than the man currently pretending to be the Voivode of Vulgaria. In addition to an ensemble of white silk and a gold-laced tricorne, Agorn has dispensed with his sword, "The Sword That Was Broken and Was Reforged But Then Got Broken Again", and replaced it with a brace of pistols, on the basis that ancient heirlooms, honour, and ancient prophecy were all very well, but nothing says "get dead" like shooting someone in the face.
(Above) Agorn stands upon a small hill above a little bay. This part of Bachscuttel lies to the east of the small fishing port of Chaptliptz. By fishing village, of course, one means that the men occasionally go to sea, mostly in the hope of being carried off by pirates. Usually disappointed by this, they then have to stop off in the local market in order to buy fish in order not to make their wives suspicious. Surrounding the position is a company of the palatinate's troops, led by Colonel Amadeus von Goethe-Nockenshoppes. Dragged from the warm clutches of his winsome Kurlandian mistress, Lady Claudia Pantzov, Nockenshoppes is under strict orders to wait here for the arrival of a force of ships that will take Agorn by sea and river to Vulgaria.
Nockenshoppes will not be unhappy to see the back of Agorn. In the march to this secret rendezvous with the fleet, Agorn had argued that his long years in the wilderness had given him a range of skills that would help the troops along the way. Claiming to have 'some skill at hunting and foraging for food', Agorn had insisted that the column could dispense with supply wagons. Though Nockenshoppes was willing to accept that Bachscuttel was not, perhaps, the easiest place in which to live off the land, he was still of the impression that the activities of hunting and trapping connoted the provision of provender rather more tasty than the plates of leaves and dung beetles that Agorn provided. It also turned out that Agorn was rather unwilling himself to eat the supplies that he was providing, some of his 'hunting expeditions' comprising of excursions to local taverns in which the 'terrible privations' that he described suffering mainly comprised of him skipping the cheese course. After spending even this short time with Agorn, Nockeshoppes could well understand why it was that the Vulgarian pretender needed protection, his list of enemies, Nockenshoppes guessed, probably exhibiting a remarkably high degree of similarity to the list of people that had ever met him.
Nockenshoppes mood is not improved one whit by a sudden commotion that indicates the arrival of a dishevelled peasant. This fellow has disturbing but utterly predictable news: a band of Rotenburg troops, somehow deposited onto the coast of Bachscuttel, is on its way! (Above, top right) As the light improves, the enemy become apparent: three platoons of Rotenburg infantry. Clearly this is a mission of some import for the landgravate of Rotenburg, for the shambling, ragged formations, and the bovine, blank-faced apathy of the musketeers indicates something of an elite force by the landgravate's usual standards. Nockenshoppe grabs the peasant.
'Go at once to Chaplitz and rouse the militia. Only energy, rapidity, and celerity will suffice: go now, and waste no time!'
'Yes, sir - celery, sir: you can rely on me, sir'.
The fellow heads off at a run.
Nockenshoppe watches him for a minute. 'Hmmm', he says to a subaltern. 'Isn't Chaplitz the other way?'
'Yes, sir'.
'What's that way, then?'
'A tavern'.
'So we're going to be waiting for a while for those reinforcements aren't we?'
'Yes sir'.
'About the time the tavern closes tonight'.
'Yes sir. Perhaps a little after if he stops for a pie'.
The situation is worse than the colonel supposes. From the south arrive three more platoons of Rotenburgers. These aren't even regulars: they are light troops, and as desperate a band of thugs, cut-throats, and goat-fondlers as ever pulled on a uniform and tried to pass themselves off as fit for duty.
Nockenshoppe curses - where is the fleet? Ordering his troops to prepare themselves, he declares that they must defend the hill with their lives.
'Sir, the enemy are approaching for their first attack!' cries the subaltern.
'The men seem quite cheerful, under the circumstances', notes the colonel.
'Yes, sir, but I think most of them misheard you. I suspect that they are over-estimating their own chances of surviving this battle because they think that they will be defending the hill with their wives'.
'Their wives might well make better soldiers', comments the colonel, 'They've certainly got more impressive facial hair. Steady men', admonishes Nockenshoppes, 'prepare to fire on my command .....'
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