Northwest Ravage!

The Gelderland civilians in the remaining, and suprisingly unlit, building of the ravaged trading post are, it is fair to say, not quite as confident as to the safety of their position as they were at the beginning of this military fracas (or brouhaha). The battle, for example, has featured rather more screaming than any of them had imagined that a military encounter would involve; and also a lot more hacking, cutting, severing, and arterially spurting. All in all, warfare seems to the Gelderland workers like something that is really quite dangerous and, all things taken into account, quite a significant undertaking - an apt conclusion given the numbers of bodies that will have to be buried.

Never let it be said, however, that a Gelderlander isn't willing in extremis to do the right thing by his king and his country. Of course, such a thing often is said and usually with good reason; the difference in Gelderland between loyalty and disloyalty being related, unsurprisingly, to the difference between the chances of being caught and not caught. Still, one has to admire the bravery of the last group of civilians as they decide, manfully, that it is time to take the fight to the enemy. (Below) With a loud shout they begin to exit the building.

An indication of the likely military utility of this act can perhaps be judged by the fact that the lead civilian is armed with a rake (above). There are reasons why most infantry of the Age of Enlightenment are armed with muskets and not rakes, whisks, mangles, or broad beans; and the reasons for this are likely to be taught to the Gelderlanders repeatedly and terminally, by the Fenwickian trappers that line the edge of a nearby small wood, and the Vulgarian natives that are rushing forwards, tomahawks and torches in hand.

As this is happening, other events of a violent nature are elsewhere also taking place. (Above) The remains of the Vulgarian marines decide to test their mettle against the remnants of Glosgau's Rangers. Their mettle, as it turns out, is really quite bendy, and after the rangers give it a further pull, it snaps. Reduced to a single survivor, this man, faced with the choice of either death or dishonour, makes the choice to act like a man: a Mittelheim man;  which is more or less like a rabbit or small vole in any other country. Before one can say "Flee! Flee! Run for your life!", he flees and runs for his life.

(Above) Major Schwim und der Vasser reforms the rangers and they turn to face the Vulgarian natives that still stand in the burning warehouse admiring their sooty handiwork. He prepares to get them to charge the natives, but notices an air of reluctance around them; the faint of whiff of disinclination leavened with the distinct smell of vacillation and a noseful of "bugger right off". The major stands at the head of his men and berates them.
'Come on, my fellows - just one more push and we'll drive these heathens from the battlefield!'
'But sir', pipes up one of the rangers, 'there aren't many of us left! Can't we leave the remains of the fighting to those approaching red-coated Gelderland provincials over there, and instead remain here, in safety, at the back, undertaking a more, ah, supervisory function?'
The major scowls and then gesticulates. 'No! No! No! We're all men here! We've all faced death, or worse! We've all fought on this frontier! We've all massacred women and children with a blunt hatchet and a billiard cue after drinking heavily and mistaking them for beavers; and then ended up confused when no one would buy the pelts! And after that we've all descended into a drink and opiate-related nightmare, the worst of which wasn't the time we sold ourselves to bearded sailors on the docks of New York; in the process contracting painful afflications that could only be cured by burning our dangley bits with lighted tar!'
The rangers stare at him.
'Hmm', says the major philosophically. 'So - only me then'.

As the horrified rangers content themselves with loosing a volley into the native indians, the Gelderland troops begin to make their presence felt. (Above) on the hill, the platoon of light infantry test their bravery by shooting some fleeing Vulagarians in the back. The provincials themselves approach in two columns, bayonets fixed. They then ready themselves to attack the Indians. By the steps to the warehouse, Herr Plugholl can be seen. With the collapse of the warehouse surely imminent, he has taken it upon himself to exit the building first to ensure that the way is clear for his employees to follow. He seeks to sustain the morale of his civilians with a hearty "Thank God I'm out of that warehouse - everyone behind me is surely going to die'.

(Above) Some way from the trading post and also, not really coincidentally, the fighting, Colonel Freud und Slepp continues to hold his platoon of troops in reserve.
'Have I told you how much I hate New Mittelheim' he says to his subaltern.
'Yes sir', the Lieutenant replies. 'A lot'.
'The cold, and then the heat', continues the colonel, 'The dirt; the danger; the lack of glory; the low pay; the pancakes'.
'So,' replies the subaltern cheerlily, 'the pancakes!'
'I hate this place'.
'Sir - might it be better for your equilibrium if you took a more positive atttitude?'
The colonel nods. 'Well, how about this - I'm positive that I hate this place'.
Taking his telescope, Freud und Slepp then peers towards the sounds of the battle. 'Oooh,' he comments, 'that's not good ...'