Ehrwig, the Fourth!

Alas for the Furst, the confusion suffered by his enemy is easily remedied. Being out of musket range, the imperial troops have the time to halt and wait as their errant companions are berated for their mistake and then beaten back into the line.  Exiting the 'forested area' (any mention of 'wood' being a dangerous thing in the presence of Fenwickians, given their sensitivity to double entendre), the imperial formation is restored and the troops re-commence their advance. 

Just to show proper contempt for his enemy, the Furst orders his artillery to fire at the enemy regiment in front of the village. (Above right) Suitably enraged by the insult of being made the subject of an artillery attack, the regiment falls into a measure of disorder. These troops are mercenaries, though, so no one cares.

(Below) Meanwhile, Marshall Cavendish contemplates the optimum distance from which to command his troops. This may not be it. He is, truth be told, a little disappointed that professional military education has so little to say regarding the most efficient use of  beds in a command and control context. At this distance, the marshal can't really see anything or exercise much control over the battle except with enormous exertion. But prior experience has demonstrated that the marshal is not, by nature, a dynamic commander or, except in matters of the chamber pot, a man who can be induced to move himself quickly. 

Nor is the marshal a man who is generally over-worried by such trifles as having no information on the development of his battle, or not actually being able to see it. For Cavendish, fresh information is a dangerous thing: something likely to induce unhelpful uncertainty in victory by indicating when things aren't going right or where he has made a mistake. But even he begins to conclude that he might be little far from the action.

(Below) There's nothing for it. Ordering up some aides, he has them drag his bed closer to the front line. This also puts him near Sir Thomas Burgess, though the marshal pretends not to notice: Burgess'  long monologues on his teenage exploits with vulnerable saplings tend to give Cavendish very bad treems. In the meantime, having advanced into musketry range, the infantry of both sides have commenced firing volleys at one another.

(Below) Furst Augustus has, in the interim, tried to reorganise his infantry line. Though in practical terms this just means that the original wiggle is now a longer w-i-g-g-l-e, it does mean that more of his infantry are now able to fire, and it has allowed him to cover his otherwise quite vulnerable cavalry.

(Above) But the Furst recognises that his troops are still disadvantaged. The imperials have more troops in their line. Moreover Lady Luck seems to favour the attacking Fenwickians, tipping them a saucy wink every time that they cast their eyes longingly in her direction. The Furst curses under his breath, uttering phrases difficult to decipher but which seem to rhyme with 'deighted wice', 'rodgy dolls', and 'deating chastard'.

Another lethal volley crashes into his infantry line, and one of the Rotenburg infantry regiments collapses and flees! The Furst turns now to his cavalry for a solution - a desperate measure indeed ...