Northwest Massage!

As Fenwickian musketeers gather below the walls of Fort Pippin, preparing to sally forth against the besieging troops of the Spasmodic Sanction, other events, no less important (and no better handled) are taking place many, many leagues away.

We turn our attention, dear reader, to a small Gelderland trading post in New Mittelheim. This post is positioned not far from the coast and, as it turns out, not nearly far enough from Grand Fenwick's American colony of New Fort Pippin. The purpose of this trading post is to act as a collection point for the trade in local loin cloths. These, as any astute merchant knows, are  a vital part of the Mittelheim transatlantic triangle trade: the loin cloths are shipped to England for use as napkins, where they are exchanged for false moustaches; the false moustaches are traded to Mittelheim, where they are used as part of the disguises to lure unwary peasants onto ships bound for the Leech Coast; these peasants are then shipped from Mittelheim to the Leech Coast where they are sold into slavery in exchange for gems, leaves, and, especially, hippo knees which are in turn brought to New Mittelheim. In New Mittelheim, the gems are locked away in treasure chests; the soft, luxuriant leaves are hung in local water closets; and the hippo knees are traded to local tribes for use as small uncomfortable seats, large uncomfortable hats, or tiny impractical dwellings.

(Above) The post itself comprises of two small colonial cottages and a warehouse (with the red roof). It is a hive of activity. The commander of this outpost is Colonel Richter Fuhrporer, a recent arrival to the New World. New Mittelheim, understandably, is perceived by many Mittelheimers as a land of opportunity. Mainly, these are opportunities for personal enrichment, achieved by swindling the indigenous inhabitants through the sale of overpriced hippo's knees or the application of newly invented legal instruments based on such long-standing Mittelheim principles as 'What is Thine is Mine'. For Richter Fuhrporer, New Mittelheim also provides a range of other opportunities not normally available to non-nobles such as an officer's commission and access to cutlery.

The frantic activity, shouting, and running hither-and-thither are due to the recent arrival of some very unpleasant news. A messenger has informed Colonel Fuhrporer that a raiding party of troops from the Vulgarian Convention is en route! Fuhrporer has three platoons of Gelderland regulars with him. However, two of these platoons, consisting of ordinary musketeers, have been sent off to the coast guarding the latest shipment of loin cloths. It will take time to recall these forces  (Above) In the mean time, this leaves the colonel with an immediate command of a single platoon of light infantry. The colonel stands with his troops. If he looks somewhat rumpled, it is because he has only just finished being ministered to by a local wench well skilled in muscular manipulation. At least, that seemed to be what was going on; though it seemed to involve less scented oil than he had expected, and more punches to the face. Still, when in Rome ...

'But', says Fuhrporer to the subaltern commanding the light infantry, 'isn't there a local truce in operation? I'm sure that that is the case. We shouldn't open fire on the enemy first'.
The lieutenant frowns. 'Sir, I think that we should assume the worst'.
The colonel blanches. 'What, that my wife in Mittelheim is cheating on me with my own brother and that there is, in fact, no such thing as Santa Clause?'
'No sir, I mean we must assume the worst about the enemy. I shall push my force forwards into the trees to cover the approaches to the warehouse from that direction'.

Luckily for Fuhrporer, there is an allied force also bivouacked at the outpost. This is a Nabstrian force under the command of Major Arnold Von Schwim und der Vasser. Fresh from some gentle constabulary operations against the local Wappesdoo tribe, these troops had stopped off for the night to rest, sharpen their blunted knives and axes, wash off the blood, and sell the spoils of their exercise in community policing: trinkets, furs, orphans, civilian body parts, and such like.

(Above) The major's command includes two platoons of Glosgau's Rangers - tough, grizzled outdoorsmen well used to spending extended periods in the wilderness, not least because they smell so bad their wives rarely let them indoors. The platoons are accompanied by a group of Hardahuron Indian allies. The Hardahurons are here partly because they hate the local Wappesdoo tribe, and partly because they have been promised by the Nabstrians a refund on their hippo knees.

Though they have yet to be measured against their adversaries, there is, even at this early stage, a faint whiff of incompetence about the Spasmodic Sanction force; a strong sense that, if things do go to plan, it is only because the plan wasn't the one that was intended, but was instead some other plan that had been dismissed at the beginning as impossible and/or laughable, but which got remembered at some opportune moment because it fell out of the commander's pocket. Defeat would probably be inevitable if the enemy officers were brave or sane. Which is a bit of luck.