Speech!

The Grand Duchess is announced. There is an unenthusiastic smattering of claps and then obstinate silence from the assembled audience of notables. There is an atmosphere in the room: uncooperative; predatory even - the same sort of ambience that might attend an attempt by a penguin to extol the virtues of a vegetarian diet at a polar bears-only cooking club. Catherine clears her throat and then commences speaking.

'In the months since the unfortunate and unknown events that led to the death of my beloved husband ...'
'You had him strangled!' shouts out a voice from the back.
'And where our investigations have sadly still yet to unearth evidence of  the assault upon him ...' perseveres the Grand Duchess.
'You had him strangled here, at breakfast!' shouts someone else. 'We were all there!'
'... by an unknown assailant ...' continues Catherine.
'It was Borisov!' shouts another. 'We saw him do it. You said "Borisov, strangle him. Give that neck a good wringing!"'
'... and where unfounded allegations against me have been spread by unknown persons ...'
'Everyone here!' squawks a voice. 'We saw it! Hello! We were there!'
'... malefactors and miscreants, who will be garrotted as soon as I identify them ...'
'Yes, no one knows anything' says her audience, suddenly nodding. 'Not a thing, At all. It's quite a mystery'.
'... It has become evident that not all here support the new direction in which I wish to take our beloved country'.

'But', says Catherine, softening her voice and making conciliatory gestures with her hands, 'it is time to put the unfortunate events surrounding the manner of my ascension behind us. It is time that I, the first female ruler of Kurland, lead our beloved Grand Duchy into a new age of vigour! With your help, we shall make our country great again, and I shall become the most famous Catherine that Europe will ever know!'

One of the dignitaries puts his hand up. 'There is that other Catherine, my lady - you know, the wife of Czar Peter III of Russia. They do say that she has some metal'.

'Pah!' scoffs the Grand Duchess, bridling. 'Peter will reign for decades, and his witless wife will no doubt die as a nonentity! She will be Catherine the Utterly Mediocre, whereas I shall be Catherine the Great! Anyway, she isn't even a real Catherine - what is her actual name, Borisov?'

'Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst, madame', says Count Borisov.

'Yes, that's right', says Catherine dismissively, 'Sofa of  Anal-Slurps'.

'Madame! Dignity!' cries Borisov. There is some grumbling amongst the audience. No ruler of the duchy has ever before had the temerity to use in public the word 'slurps'.

'Anyway ...' continues the Grand Duchess ...

Grosse Katzick the Fifth!

As the Zentan skirmishing proceeds apace, Nabstrian casualties, like the Burgrave himself after too much to drink, mount slowly. 

(Below) On the Nabstrian right, some dismal rallying does little to improve matters for General von Rumpfler's forces. The Zentan irregular cavalry begins to threaten the flanks of the Nabstrian horsed regiments by crowding forwards into a nearby marsh. Other troops might be disgusted by their journey into its boggy, muddy, foul-smelling depths. But in the Zentan army, the term 'irregular' denotes not just the general indiscipline of many of the troops, but also their bathing habits. As a result, festering cholera-hive though the marsh might be, the irregulars leave cleaner than when they went in.

In front of the centre and left of the Nabstrian line, the Zentan irregular infantry continue gadding about, taking pot shots at any enemy musketeers that appear taller or stouter than average. Being beyond the range of the Nabstrian muskets, the Zentans have little to fear. General von Rumpfler's situation is beginning to get as sticky as being caught stuck to sticky buns, without one's trousers on. 

Rumpfler decides it is time to try and change the dynamic of the battle. In an attempt to seize the initiative - or at least to seize something less floppy than what he has at the present in his hand  - he gives the orders for an advance! He does not wish to close with the enemy, because the enemy irregulars will simply try to evade; rather, he hopes to bring them within range of his own musketry and inflict some losses upon them. To the beat of drums, the Nabstrian line advances!

(Above) A rather lamentable exchange of volleys ensues, distinguishable from a pillow fight only because not all of the Nabstrians are wearing night shirts. The irregulars are unhurt, but several of the Nabstrian regiments are left in various stages of disorder. 

Checking his pocket watch, and worrying about the passage of time, Bulbous decides that it is time to move to a more decisive mode of operation. Seeking to exploit the enemy disorder, and his own special dice, he orders his irregulars to charge! (Below)

He throws his troops forward all across the line. (Below) Even on the Nabstrian right, cheeky Djiveleks, their silly conical yellow hats making them look like gnomes in search of trouble, have a go at the Nabstrian light troops in the wood; and a unit of especially brave mercenary Zentan irregulars decide to ask of Lady Luck the question: 'Why is it that more people don’t order poor quality irregular troops to charge regular enemy infantry positioned in a town'?

Lady Luck can't be bothered to turn up, of course. But Death has, because he has to, and because otherwise he would have to make polite conversation with his apprentice, Cheese. Death eyes up the quality of the mercenary irregulars as they reach the town, and assesses the strength of the defenders' position. Putting aside his scythe, he conjures instead a very large shovel.

Banners!

Pogelswood - capital of the Empire of All the Fenwicks. At one of the gates, troops are parading with the new banners issued to the regiments of the recently re-uniformed army. Emperor George XIII, Minister Werner von Wormer, and Duke Joachim, George's heir, have come down from the council chambers to inspect the troops. For George and Wormer, this activity also has the advantage of  allowing Joachim's codpiece to roam free in the fresh air, making it much less likely that they will in any way come into contact with it.

To the martial sound of drums and flutes, the troops parade the flags of the various new regiments of the army.

All of the nicer banners are taken from Not By Appointment
https://nba-sywtemplates.blogspot.com/

Minister Wormer watches the troops arrive. Joachim seems very excited, and skips forward to direct the troops into line.
Wormer turns to George. 'I don't quite understand', says the minister, observing Joachim, 'given the tedious vulnerability of your Fenwickian subjects to double entendre, how Joachim's codpiece has not caused a lethal tidal wave of salacious fnarring sufficient to destroy the cohesion of the army'.
'Because the duke's accoutrement isn't double entendre', replies the emperor. 'Look at it'. He points at the appendage, waggling in the breeze. 'It's not a double entendre; it's not even a single entendre, or indeed any form that could be placed under the genus 'entendre' at all. It is exactly what it is - an enormous Christmas winkie -  and thus beyond the comprehension of most of the folk of Fenwick. It's too obvious, and so, in a sense, they can't even see it'.
'So if it was less obvious and more of an entendre ...' replies Wormer.
'Quite so - if we were to replace it with a cucumber, or a bent carrot ...'
'Or a long, creamy eclair ...'
'Stop it!' says the emperor horrified. He looks worriedly about. 'You can't even safely mime the words 'long creamy eclair' in Fenwick. Are you mad?'
Wormer frowns. 'So if my wife actually opened her bodice and popped out both her ...'
'Absolutely fine, Wormer'.
'But if she picked up two melons and held them in front of her chest ...'
'Fatal. Just fatal. And, it's important to note Wormer, a capital offence in Fenwick. Bringing melons into proximity with one another, or agitating them in a manner likely to cause a breach of the peace - which, just so that you're clear, Wormer, is any movement whatsoever - will have you locked up for years. Not even I could save you!'

The troops begin to form line, the banners waving proudly in the breeze - not unlike Joachim's codpiece.

Wormer peers at the banners. 'Sire, these banners look exactly like the Nabstrian banners, which is to say Prussian banners, but with the central eagle crudely removed and replaced by the insignia of Grand Fenwick'.

George nods. 'This was exactly the look that I was going for'.

'But my lord, won't this, along with having the exact same uniforms as the Nabstrians, which is to say Prussian uniforms, create untold confusion when we fight Nabstria?'

'Not at all. Distinguishing our troops from the Nabstrians, or indeed any other of the collection of the fractious weasels that comprise the other armies of Mittelheim will be easy. Ours will be the troops manoeuvering competently, obeying orders, and delivering volleys in a lethal fashion - whereas they will be the sack of sinuous military invertebrates drooling their way across the battlefield. Our troops are the Spartans of Mittelheim!'

'Aroo!' cries Joachim, helpfully.

'Father', says Joachim. 'Counting the regiments, I think that there's a problem!'

'What?' says George suspiciously.

Day Two: 11.25am!

Hunchmausen's Headquarters: Day Two, 11.25am

At 10.15am Hunchmausen sends a messenger to the Bremse hussars at Redderblau instructing them, if they haven't already, to give the tower a good search. They should then check Flossen, asking any locals if any smugglers have passed by, and offering rewards for information. Scouts should be sent to check the roads to Vill Barrow and Schottinder Farm for any fresh cart tracks.

At 11.20am, the squadron of hussars return from the direction of Redderblau Hill! They have the emperor! Having searched Redderblau tower, which revealed only the horror of what happens in a cellar when Bachscuttel hussars try and relieve themselves in the dark, the squadron moved thence to Flossen. A search of this ruined village revealed the still somnolent form of Emperor George, hidden in the remains of a cellar: one clearly used by carrot smugglers. Huzzah!

At 11.25am, a messenger arrives from Rimmer. The messenger passed 1st bn Ostmarck at 1100am, about a third of a mile east of Widenlau. Rimmer’s message is timed 10.15am. He sends his compliments and reports his position to be on the road northeast of Langenzofft, just short of the border with Rotenburg. At 10.10am, the enemy column crossed the frontier and exited Schrote! Huzzah! He will maintain his position and keep the frontier under observation.

The campaign is complete! All that remains is to drink some of Bishop Baldwin’s wine (or indeed all of it) and write a short report for the emperor, when he wakes! Baron Hunchmausen feels another title coming on!

Day Two: 7.50am!

Ziegler's Headquarters, 7am

The colonel now has all of his forces on the Widenlau road. He commences his move northeastwards along it, heading for a line of hills.

At 7am, Pfannensteil’s hussars arrive at the head of the column. He reports that his force had yesterday followed the enemy cavalry as directed, which rode along the Widenlau road to a point just past the hills. There, the enemy left the road and headed northwards. Contact was lost last night in the dark. However, this morning, before receiving the order to return, scouts reported that the enemy had camped overnight and was that morning setting off, again in a northerly direction.

Hunchmausen's Headquarters, 7am

The baron has begun redeploying his forces. His jager begin a search for a decent ambush position.

From the cathedral spire comes a report that the enemy column is now fully deployed on the Widenlau road, and is now moving northeastwards along it in the direction of Widenlau. They will be completely out of sight imminently.

A messenger arrives from the direction of Hanau-Brancau, dated 6am this morning. Compliments from Major Ranke. He is leading three companies of garrison infantry from the direction of Bad Singen. Depending upon circumstances, he should be at Schrote by 8am. Other reinforcements are being marshalled.

Ziegler's Headquarters, 7.45am

What a lovely morning!

There have been no contacts with enemy forces.

The colonel's force arrives at the village of Widenlau, a settlement consisting of around thirty or so buildings. The village seems largely to have been deserted by most of its inhabitants, but a few of the braver, or more foolhardy, seem to have stayed. Hussars bring one of them, the mayor, to see Hunchmausen. Dressed in his Sunday best, which looks like most of everyone else’s ‘weekday worst’ he says timorously: ‘Welcome, your worship! I am Herr Schwein, the mayor! I come to you in goodwill and friendship! Wherever you are, er, from, may I guarantee that no one here will offer any threat or harm to you and your men! Pass through with our blessing!’

Hunchmausen's Headquarters, 7.45am

The weather is lovely – brisk but sunny.

The enemy column has disappeared northeastwards along the Widenlau road. Scouts indicate that this column of troops must be all of the enemy forces – their positions to the west and southwest have been abandoned, leaving behind merely the expected flotsam and jetsam of a military camp: although some of the piles of jetsam are particularly sticky and unpleasant.

From the cathedral spire, the observer identifies a column of troops at a distance of around a third of a mile, approaching this way from the direction of Hanau-Brancau.

Hunchmausen considers this intelligence carefully.

'What's for breakfast, Fluffy?' he asks.

'It's Czernazmije, sir. I had hoped that the passage of time might lead you to remember: but I think that you are actually getting my name more wrong, the longer you try and use it'.

'Come, come Brenda - don't be like that', says the baron, jovially. 'It looks to me like the enemy are retreating'.

'Or', says Czernazmije, 'redeploying?'

The baron wrinkles his brow and considers this.

'Fair enough, Wendy: let's take some appropriate action. I’d like to send scouts to report accurate enemy numbers, along with a body of hussars to harass the rear end of the enemy column and flanks should the opportunity present itself. Any news from Rimmer’s expedition?'

'Nothing as yet from Rimmer , sir. How many hussars on the harassment mission?'
'Send out the Schmetterling Hussars and Giftschlange Dragoons. And send those jager as back up. They'll just have to run'.

Day Two: 6.50am!

Hunchmausen's Headquarters, 5.40am

For the first half hour it's difficult to tell what's going on. To the southeast and west, there are sounds of activity. After 5.30am, as it begins to get lighter, however, more of a sense of what's happening can be gleaned. It looks like movement rather than an attack. To the southwest, the enemy camp fires seem to be being extinguished. To the west, a vague sense of mustering can be determined. The enemy guns seem to be being withdrawn behind the hill.

Ziegler's Headquarters, 5.50am

Colonel Nockenshoppe and Major Seewurd organise things surprisingly competently, and Ziegler's force is united by 5.50am. It is now just about ready to depart in Ziegler's desired marching order. His dragoons leave to establish a scouting screen.

Herr Dodo seems surprisingly unenthusiastic about his new career, muttering some nonsense about a wife, five children, and rent payments. The six new Nabstrian recruits, nursing bruises from ‘hopping the gauntlet’ (which is a more entertaining Nabstrian form of the usual ‘running the gauntlet’) are with the  Nabstrian musketeer battalion. The bishop and his two minions are in the wagons.

Since the local roads all go through Schrote, Ziegler's route of march will take him cross country: first, from this road to the Tinkel road in a northeasterly direction; and then southeastwards from the Tinkel road down to the Widenlau road. All told, this will be about two thirds of a mile, and, taking into account Ziegler's wagons and guns, should take about forty minutes. This assumes that there are no unforeseen incidents. During this march, Schrote will be about a quarter of a mile to Ziegler's right. From there, Ziegler's force can march to Widenlau.

Major Seewurd presents himself at Ziegler's position near the rearguard. ‘Any final instructions, sir, before we leave?’

'Yes', says the colonel. 'Screen the march column with the rearguard - the Bachscuttel Light infantry and the hussars - to prevent any interference from Schrote'.

At 6am, and unknown at this stage to both commanders, Gelderland reinforcements begin to arrive in Schrote from the south.

Hunchmausen's Headquarters, 6.10am

Picquets to the southwest report that the enemy outposts seem to have gone, although they don’t seem to have much more information than that. From the observer in the cathedral spire, the enemy force seems to have concentrated at their positions to the west. The enemy force there has formed up into marching order out of cannon range and seems to be heading in a northeasterly direction, cross country towards the Tinkel road. Enemy cavalry, supported by some infantry can be seen forming a screen of outposts between the column and Schrote.

Hunchmausen orders the shifting of troops from the South/South West to cover the West of Schrote better, with his dragoons moving to take up position in the northeast of Schrote.

Ziegler's Headquarters, 6.50am

It’s a lovely morning, and the weather is fine.

At 6.20am, and unknown to Ziegler, Pfannensteil receives his orders to return to the main column.

The colonel's force reaches the Widenlau road. En route, the column re-absorbs the dragon picquet on the Tinkel road. The journey takes longer than expected – one of the wagons gets stuck and takes a while to free.

There has been no interference from the enemy, who seem content at this stage to observe Ziegler's force.

There is no sign of the dragoon picquet that Ziegler sent out yesterday to this road. There is no sign as yet of Pfannensteil and his hussars.

From here, it should be under an hour to Widenlau.

Hunchmausen's Headquarters, 6.50am

The barons's dragoons move to redeploy in the northeast of Schrote in Rimmer’s previous position.

Trees and intervening terrain make it difficult to keep a constant eye on the enemy column, as it were. However, it seems clear that they are skirting Schrote and heading to the Widenlau road. From the cathedral spire, it seems that the head of the enemy column reaches the Widenlau road at 6.50am.

Hunchmausen sends out a couple of scouts westwards to check that the enemy have vacated their positions. Meanwhile he begins shifting troops to garrison buildings facing the known enemy positions toward Widenlau as well as moving the guns, gabions and other defensive barricades. He orders some jägers to find a good position on the edge of the town or in nearby woods. At this stage, Ziegler's intentions are difficult to discern. Perhaps he is shifting his force in order to attack from the north?

Advance!

Ziegler's Headquarters: Day One, 4.40pm

Just after 4.30pm Kugel commences his furious fire. The rapidity required of the Nabstrian cannon-fire requires a switch to normal munitions. In parallel, there is vigorous drumming, shouts, and the clattering of equipment. Colonel Toplitz-Hande begins forming up his Bachscuttel battalion.

At 4.35pm, a messenger arrives from Pfannensteil reporting the movement of enemy cavalry from Schrote. He will shadow them and determine where they are going.

Toplitz-Hande sits on his horse, surveying his troops as they form up.

‘Isn’t this going to be a tad dangerous, my good Colonel?’ he asks of Ziegler.

‘What?’ replies Ziegler, applying soot to his face. ‘Forming into attack column and then conducting an extended advance in the open against enemy muskets and artillery? Well, I suppose it carries certain dangers. But I wouldn’t worry about it. It’ll be dark soon – you’ll probably get lost long before you take really heavy casualties’.

‘Well’, says Toplitz-Hande, ‘that’s a relief, then’.

‘Come on my fellows, let’s be having you!’ shouts Toplitz-Hande. In deference to the presence of artillery, the colonel forms his five companies into an open column.

At 4.40pm, as the dusk deepens, Toplitz-Hande salutes and then gives the order to advance.

At 4.40pm, in response to Pfannenstiel's intelligence, a picquet of dragoons is despatched to cover the Tinkel road and another to cover the Widenlau road. Given the gathering darkness, who knows where they will end up: the roads, possibly; or perhaps Sweden.


Hunchmausen's Headquarters: Day One, 4.40pm

Judging that the enemy have pre-empted his own attempts at a night attack, Baron Hunchmausen orders his grenadiers out of the remaining houses and into a position behind the hills. This turns out to be a wise move: between the existing fires and the renewed bombardment, the remaining dwellings are in the process of being turned into some serious fixer-uppers.

It will be dark at 5pm. In the deepening gloom, the troops in Schrote can just make out what appears to be a single battalion of enemy troops formed into column. They are probably Bachscuttelers because, helpfully, they are dressed in white. They have formed up just to the right of the western road, presumably so that they can use the road as a guide for their advance.

The column begins its march towards Schrote. The baron orders his guns to wait until the enemy column comes within medium range before they open fire. In the meantime the Ostmarck grenadier company and the other line company, both currently in reserve, are ordered to  move to support the Liebgrenadiers and guns.

The enemy column continues to advance, following the road. The defending guns get two turns of fire in before the column disappears into the inky blackness. The cannons roar, and the artillery scores some definite hits, the balls heartwarmingly skipping through the enemy ranks. The fire, however, does not appear to halt the enemy advance.

Friar When Ready!

'Right', says Bishop Baldwin, 'let's get things straight'.
The bishop and his two minions stand on the threshold of Schrote cathedral. In front of them is a scene of chaos. Local townsfolk run hither and thither, torn between the fear that unknown enemy raiders might burn the town down, and the hope that unknown enemy raiders might burn the town down. Gelderland guardsmen run around in panic; which is to say, as progeny of the landed nobility, they are running around looking for social inferiors to panic on their behalf.

The bishop points to the distant sky. Black smoke arises from the west, a sure sign that portions of Schrote have been looted and pillaged by enemy interlopers; or that locals have tried baking some pies; or that enemy interlopers, more creative than your average looters and pillagers, have instead tried to bake some pies.
'Things aren't going well' continues the bishop. 'The Bachscuttlers and Nabstrians should already be here; and yet they still seem to be somewhere around Hanau-Brancau, burning local houses'.

'They might be making pies', suggests Friar Knowledge.

'No sane raiding force is going to stop and make pies', says the bishop. He pauses briefly to think. 'Which, yes, to be fair means that the Bachscuttlers could theoretically indeed be making pies. But whatever; one of you two needs to get themselves ready to hunt down the emperor and send his whereabouts to the Bachscuttel raiders'.

'Because', continues Baldwin, 'If the raiding force don't get emperor George, then I'm going to be up to my ears in Jesuit Inquisitors'.
Friar Conviction nods sympathetically. 'Holiness, That's surely more spanish than any sane man can take'.
'Oh, the Spanish Inquisition doesn't speak spanish'.
'They don't speak spanish, Holiness? Then how do they question suspects?'
'Oh, they don't question suspects - that slows the process down. They don't need to question "suspects", because they don't have "suspects" either: there's just "the condemned'"'.
'That seems unfair', says Friar Conviction.
'Yes, but it is very efficient, and it cuts down on the paperwork: except, of course, the paper that they use for kindling. There's lots of that'.

Your Holiness!', says Friar Knowledge, 'I am ready! I shall track down the emperor!'

'A kind offer, but no: you cannot be trusted: I have already seen your negligence, Friar Knowledge!'
'But I don't own any ladies' undergarments!' replies the fiar, rather too quickly. 'I mean, Your Holiness, I wouldn't know what a lady wears under her outer things. Not at all. No. Never'.
'Negligence, friar', says the bishop raising an eyebrow, 'not negligee'.
'Although', says Friar Conviction, who is clearly in a philosophical mood, 'hypothetically, it would surely be possible to be negligent with a negligee'.
'Indeed', replies Baldwin, looking pointedly at Friar Knowldege. 'One could, for example, leave it lying around in the cathedral library. Hypothetically. But anyway. You, Friar Conviction, must use your intuition and wiles - and by that I mean your big hammer - to get the information that I need! So go! And quickly - the commander of the guard company has already sent a messenger pigeon calling for Gelderland reinforcements!'
'What will happen when the bird gets there?'

'Well, if we're lucky, the Gelderland recipients will just eat it. But things are looking tricky: if the Nabstrians and Bachscuttlers don't get a move on soon, then things for us here are going to get stickier than a bear in a hot honey bath!'

'That's quite sticky', acknowledges Friar Knowledge ruefully.

Friar in the Hole!

'Fine', says Bishop Baldwin looking around at the small hallway that they are now standing in. 'Where is he?'

'No, Your Holiness' replies Friar Conviction, 'he's not here - I just thought that it would be more expedient to move somewhere more secluded'.
'Secluded?' asks the bishop. 'Friar, we are literally ten feet from where we were fifteen seconds ago. There isn't even a door. I'll wager that, whatever the definition is of the word "secluded", this, where we are right now, would be the antonym'.

'Holiness, no, I think that this is the hallway'.

'Yes, friar, I ...', the bishop sighs wearily. 'Look, let us leave issues pertaining to the differences between architecture and a thesaurus, and focus on the matter in hand. Now, yes or no - and bear in mind the consequences of the wrong answer - have you sent Emperor George off in secret to be hidden?'

'Yes'
'Excllent - that, I would say, is the right answer. So, where is he being hidden? I need to send a missive to Bachscuttel so that they can pick him up'.
'Well I don't know, my lord - you said to keep it secret'.

The bishop's face turns a shade that matches quite nicely his vestments, and contorts into the sort of shape that it would normally make if, say, hit repeatedly with a medium-sized Thuringian sausage.



'Secret from the enemy - not from us! Why would you want to keep it secret from us! Why?'
'Well, you know, to avoid temptation: as good Christians we should do that. We might have been tempted'.
'Tempted to do what? Covet his ox?'
'I don't know, Your Holiness - you seemed quite clear on the need for secrecy, so I though it best to send the peasants off and let them decide where to hide him'.
'You let them decide?'
'Yes - I told them to use their initiative'. The friar begins to sense that there might be opening up in front of him quite a deep metaphorical hole.
'You told Mittelheim peasants to use their initiative?'
'Yes', says the friar, beginning to feel a large metaphorical hand guiding him enegetically to the edge of the hole. 'Yes, I did'.
'Their initiative?' repeats the Bishop. 'They are Mittelheim peasants - they don't have any initiative!' They have fleas, they have smells, but absolutely no initiative!'
'But what do they do, then, Holiness, when they aren't being told exactly what to do?' The friar can feel the metaphorical hand tying his boots together, and limbering up for a really good shove.
'They don't have any initiative! They just have base desires! They eat; they sleep; they bonk; and they go to the privy! Mostly in that order! There's no telling where on the list they've got to with the emperor!'

The friar waits in embarrassed silence. Finally, the bishop speaks.

'Right - go and get Friar Knowledge and I'll meet you outside. I'll have to send a message right now - the invasion force is going to have to search every cottage, hamlet, village, barrel, and substantial pocket in Schrote in order to track the emperor down!'

Friar Alarm!

Back inside the cathedral, the bishop finds Friar Knowledge in conversation with Friar Conviction. In a fiery mood, Baldwin rounds on the former.
'What did I tell you - no talking to anyone unless I'm also present!'

'I felt sorry for the captain', says Friar Knowledge, sadly. 'He looked so distraught. I wondered if I could help him'.

'Well of course you could help him - you're the one that drugged the emperor! But I think that we could all agree that it would probably improve the chances of the success of our plan to hide the emperor, if you didn't tell his guards that we were the ones who abducted him!'

The two friars nod - to be fair, the bishop has a point.

'Anyway', continues Baldwin, 'did it all go to plan? When you slipped the medication into his mulled wine, did he succumb quickly?'

'How strong was the sleeping draught?' asks Friar Knowledge, fiddling with the pages of his book of records.
'Why do you ask', replies the bishop suspiciously. 'You did give him the right amount? That flask had a pint of super-strong sleeping draught, and I said, quite specifically, that you shouldn't give him very much.'
Friar Knowledge holds his thumb and fore-finger just apart, indicating a tiny amount.
'Excellent ...' says the bishop with relief.
'Yes', replies the friar, 'there was that much left'.
'Jumping Jesus', blasphemes the bishop. 'What have you done?'
'Will he sleep in late?' asks Friar Conviction in alarm.
'Late! late!' cries the bishop. 'He'll wake up in the nineteenth century!' You gave him a dose that would be dangerous for an insomniac rhinoceros!'

'What's a rhinoceros?' asks Friar Conviction.

'Well', replies Baldwin, tweaking painfully the friar's nose, 'a key part of a definition would that it is a creature that shouldn't on any account be given a probably lethal dose of sleeping potion'. The bishop rubs his eyes wearily. 'Right, very well. It's done. So, Friar Knowledge, you need to stay out of trouble - go to the library and reorganise the books on heresy according to size'.

'Size of book or size of heresy, Your Holiness?'

'Both - now go. And so, Brother Conviction, we turn to the next question - where have you hidden the emperor?'

'Well, come this way, Your Holiness ...'

Pummel the Priest!

'See here, my lord!' cries Fecklenburg theatrically. 'See here, the litany of calumnies, aspersions, and villification within this pamphlet that are laid against you!'

'Well', says Rupprecht nodding. 'I don't know what those words mean, but it sounds bad'.

'Indeed, my prince! For within these pages the bishop has accused you of being a fat, sluggardly glutton!'

Rupprecht nods. 'Hurtful words though they are, Fecklenburg - I have to say he's probably got me on those'. 

'And, sire, he is most critical of your sojourn as Bishop of Schrote'.

Rupprecht looks annoyed. 'What! I made a splendid Catholic bishop - what is he complaining about?'

'Well, my lord, you're a Protestant'.

'Protestant, Catholic -  it's really all the same'.

'Not everyone would agree, sire. There was, after all, that Thirty Years War thing'. 

Rupprecht frowns. 'Bishop Baldwin must have a lot of time on his hands - that pamphlet is quite thick'.

'No, no, my lord', says the chamberlain. 'He didn't actually write the pamphlet - I had it written'.

The prince's eyes bulge and he goes red; he looks, ironically given the general tone of things, like a chicken being choked. 'Fool!', he cries. 'Treacherous dog! How dare you write such things - even the things that are probably broadly true! I shall have you executed!' He pauses. 'Right after you fetch me another pie!'

'No, no, no, no, no, no, my dear prince!' squeaks Fecklenburg hurriedly. 'What I mean is that I have taken up the services of the noted propagandist Oskar Siber, and had this attack upon you manufactured as the excuse for our intervention!'

A candle, albeit quite a small one, evidently lights in the attic of Rupprecht's mind. 'Oh! Oh, I seeeeeee. But how will people believe that these insults have indeed come from the bishop?'

'See, sire - Siber has forged Baldwin's name and seal here; and also, just for good measure, added his age and postal address'.

Rupprecht reflects on all of this. 'Are the Nabstrians in as well?'

'Yes, my lord - they want Nottelbad and Bahnsee-Kassell back. And also Rotenburg will help'.

'Really? Don't they own a chunk of my princedom?'

'Only the bits that you don't like. It would seem that Landgrave Choldwig is nervous'.

'So he should be, given how little he wears when he's near his terrapins'.

'No sir - it would seem that Emperor George has been making overtures towards the Kurlandians?'

'Why is he playing them music?'

'I mean diplomatic overtures, my lord. It would seem that he has floated the idea of some kind of accomodation with them'.

'He wants to share a house?'

'No ... a diplomatic accomodation.  Fenwick-Gelenderland and Kurland together would pose a terrible threat to Rotenburg's borders'. 

'Good work, Fecklenburg!' Rupprecht nods, seemingly genuinely impressed. 'But, won't I still be held responsible for the invasion?'

The chamberlain shakes his head. 'No, no, my lord - the troops will spontaneously cross into Schrote to punish the bishop. You, my lord, will have been guilty of nothing but saying in anger, and who could blame you given Bishop Baldwin's flagrant provocations, "who will rid me of this turbulent priest'. You surely cannot be blamed if hot-headed officers and men hear this call and take it upon themselves to act!'

Rupprecht considers this. 'Hmmm, fair enough. Although, "Who will rid me of this turbulent priest" - that doesn't really sound like something that I would say'.

Fecklenburg considers this. 'Sire, that is probably true. On reflection, perhaps the word "turbulent" isn't something that normally features in your vocabulary. It's probably too long',

'And also I don't know what it means'.

'Yes, sire, there is also that. Well, perhaps ...' he takes up a quill, 'perhaps the word "terrible"?'

'Or', says the prince,enthusiastically, "pimply"'.

'Or " terrible"'.

'"Pimply " it is. And of course "pimply priest" has ...ah ... it has ... uh'.

'It is alliterative?'

'Who knows, Fecklenburg, but the words certainly start with the same letter'.

'So, "Who will rid me of this pimply priest"'.

'Yes, Fecklenburg. Although, is "rid" also the sort of word that I would use?'

Fecklenburg sighs, and readies his quill. 'So, my lord - what would you say was a more likely outburst from you?'

xXx

'So', says the chamberlain, after some time '"Can't anyone just stick some rhubarb up that pimply priest's jacksy" it is. I'll have the news printed directly sir, and then distributed throughout the land'.

'Excellent', says Rupprecht happily. 'I feel splendidly about this'.

Fecklenburg bows. 'As, no doubt, will the purveyors of rhubarb'.

The Bishopric of Schrote!

Schrote is a tiny political entity, nestled uncomfortably between Bachscuttel, Rotenburg, and Gelderland. Since these, therefore, are the only possible destinations upon leaving Schrote, this alone would be sufficient to make the bishopric a very disappointing place to live. Sadly, however, there are so many other reasons why one might wish to avoid a visit there that listing them would be dull, pointless, and self-defeating - not unlike a night out in the bishopric itself. The most notable thing about the bishopric is that it is, rather surprisingly, the sight of the most significant cathedral in Mittelheim.

Schrote had been a bishop's seat since the 6th century; although, as seats go, it was rather an uncomfortable one. The bishop's dwelling in Schrote was at the time a quite modest manor house, with the village of Schrote, a dismal collection of damp dwellings, clustered, or perhaps festered, around it. That this manor was replaced by a somewhat incongruous cathedral can be explained by Bishop Baldwin the XII  and his submission in 1599 for funds to expand his home into a dwelling 'more suitable to his standing'. As it turned out, he must have been standing quite high, because, having received agreement for the provision of inital funding for a roof that didn't leak and an indoor privy, the subsequent alterations to his house were really rather more extensive. Arguing that he needed to be closer to God - about 200 feet closer, as it turned out - Baldwin turned his living quarters into a spire. The expansion of his kitchen into a nave, and his outside watercloset into a transept he explained away in terms of the need to keep the new building  'in keeping with the character of the surrounding village', a process that seemed to involve demolishing the surrounding village and building more cathedral.

The bishop's hope that the cathedral would lead to a significant, and indeed lucrative, expansion of Schrote itself came to nothing. Anyone actively searching for a dwelling in an area as wretched as Schrote, whose main selling point was that it wasn't actually on fire, already had a vast range of choices in every other area of Mittelheim. The only really significant developments in Schrote at this time resulted from the bishop's attempts to sponsor a variety of seats of learning. The fruits of this were two universities: a small two-room cottage in the hamlet of Uxfurt devoted to the study of philosophy; and a rival institution set up just opposite and across a stream, in the hamlet of Kambritz, devoted to the study of piles. The latter, of course, was by far the most popular.

Schrote was for most of its history actually part of the Kingdom of Gelderland. This state of affairs continued until 1678, when its tranformation into a nominally independent bishopric was decreed by King Oskar IV. Oskar, known by his quite judgemental subjects as Oskar the Not Really Tall Enough, was tired of being lectured every Sunday by the bishop. To solve this problem, Oskar gave the bishop his own temporal state. This had at least two advantages. First, the bishop’s ability to get back into Gelderland and lecture the king was impeded by the activities of a Gelderland customs post that suddenly sprang up on the new border. The bishop then had to spend quite large amounts of time filling in forms in triplicate, and being frisked down to his hessian undergarments. Second, the bishop, who in private had often thought how fun it might be to be ruler of his very own kingdom, suddenly found that temporal power carried with it a range of tedious and time-consuming commitments - dealing with complaints about drains, for example, and pot holes; and also having to mitigate the consequences of events such as plagues, famines, and apocalyptic fires; events which he had previously been able to wash his hands of by claiming that they were simply the ineffable will of God, the solution to which was just to pray a lot harder.

 We turn our attention now, dear reader, to the inside of the cathedral. Here we can see three priestly figures deep in conversation ... 

All Hail Hunchmausen!

The Tipsy Kitten is a small inn in Gelderland, standing upon the road to Fenwick. It is an unremarkable place: even the kitten in question isn't actually an alchoholic, but is instead just a bad-tempered feline with a thing against balls of wool. In a corner by the window, three strangers sit deep in conversation. Moving closer, we can see that the three consist of Graf Petr Peiper-Pickderpeck, Lord of Pickelpeipers, the Gelderland Royal Chamberlain; Count Matthias von Sachsenblaus: Gelderland's Minister for War and Strudels; and Graf Wernar von Wormer. The last of these was once the Gelderland royal treasurer under King Wilhelm's predecessor, Vlad. He has now been appointed by King and Emperor George as a Fenwickian minister, George believing that Wormer's experience will make him a valuable advisor in the coming months.

Graf Petr seems to be finishing a long speech of some kind.

' .. and so we are now allies: your friends are our friends; your enemies are our enemies; your awkward social encounters are our awkward social encounters; your embarrassing blackouts or painfully swollen private par ...'
'Well', says Wormer, 'that's all very nice gentlemen; I think I get the picture. Now, I have called you here incognito to resolve a number of questions informally that have a bearing on future Fenwick-Gelderland relations. Since my master George is not yet officially crowned as king of Gelderland, I'm relying on you both to resolve some immediate issues in ways that suit our, ah, mutual interests. Unless you have a problem with that?'

'No, no, no, no' says Petr quickly.

'That's a big "nope" from me, as well' says Count Matthias.

'Excellent', says Wormer. 'By the way, how did King ... that is, ex-King, Wilhelm take it when it was announced that he was deposed?'
Graf Petr looks at Count Matthias, and then says 'He was very sad. He was moved, indeed, to declare a month of national morning'.
'You mean "mourning"', says Wormer.
'No, "morning". - he just wanted to eat breakfast all day. And then came the problem of dessertification'.

Wormer nods. 'Well, yes - they do say that over-intensive agricultural production is in danger of ...'
'No, no -  "dessertification": the process by which more and more of Wilhelm's diet comprised of puddings'.
'Did he put on more weight?'
'Putting on weight, sir?' interjects Count Matthias. 'The phrase "putting on weight" is appropriate to a matron that has perhaps been consuming a slice of two more cake than is good for her. Wilhelm underwent something altogether more significant. Not so much gaining weight as ... transforming ... metamorphosing ...'
Wormer shrugs. 'But it's not size that matters, it's what's within'.
'Well, believe me, Wormer - it was really quite far within, then'.

'Well, it could have been worse', says Wormer, philosophically.

'It did get worse, remember: he died, after accidently becoming trapped under a door that then accidentally became covered with some really very heavy boulders'.

'Yes', says Graf Petr sadly, 'who'd have thought that such a thing was possible?'

 'And Adolpho, Don Pajero de Penguino: Wilhelm's confidante?' asks Wormer.

'Fled', replies Graf Petr. 'Although he left his trousers behind'.



Wormer nods and then waggles his finger. 'So, gentlemen, we must tackle the main reason for  my calling you to this little exchange of views. We must start embedding a sympathetic post-war peace. The first item - Duke Baltazar of Nussholz-Pomme-Lesia died in the recent war. Since he was childless, we must replace him with someone conducive to our now joint Fenwickian-Gelderland interests'.

'Childless?' says Petr. 'Didn't his wife have nine children by him? Wasn't he known widely as "Big, Bonking Baltazar, Baron of the Boudoir"'? 

Wormer pulls a sad face. 'Alas, sadly, all of his offspring are too tall to be considered legitimate issue'.

'Too tall? Is that really a thing?'

'Oh, yes', says Matthias, catching Wormer's eye. 'I definitely remember seeing official documents with that in. I can certainly find them. I'll just need some time. And some ink'.

Wormer nods. 'Good man. So we need a new duke. We need someone pliable. So we also need someone lazy, greedy, and amoral: someone who deals with the ethical quandries involved with getting blood on their hands by deciding to wear bigger gloves'.
'This is Mittelheim' replies Graf Petr. 'Mostly everyone that we know would fit that description'.
'Yes, but I mean even more so. And also, and this is particularly important, we need someone of low intellect. And when I say "low intellect", I don't just mean someone who isn't that quick on the uptake: I mean someone who is genuinely as thick as an Albanian moustache; someone, for example, who thinks that the phrase "low intellect" just refers to thinking done by short people. Some one, dare I say, who literally doesn't know his arse from his elbow'.



The three men stare out of the window as a horseman stops in front of the inn. The fellow halts his horse and then emits a mighty groan. 

'Bloody hell!' the rider says painfully to no one in particular. 'What a long, long journey!' He rubs his backside gingerly. 'Oooh, my elbow is in agony!'
The three ministers look at each other slowly. Wormer raises an eyebrow.

Flee!

'Sir, we have to go!' says a sergeant of Croats to Governor Schroedinger-Skatt. 'We must leave at once! The enemy have broken into the fortress!'

'The sergeant is right!' says Captain Andreas Dreihumpe, entering the room breathlessly. 'Despite my best efforts, the enemy has worsted us!'

'I didn't notice you in the fight', says the governor.

'I took up a supervisory role, sir. Facilitating. Scaffolding positive learning outcomes. That sort of thing. But now I might well be in trouble, what with me being parolled and not actually supposed to be in the vicinity of any fighting. I too must leave and flee expeditiously through the enemy lines!'

Schroedinger-Skatt sighs and takes one last look at the room. 'I've had some good times here. When the doors were locked. Well, we should indeed be away'.

(Below) 'Sir, sir!' Suddenly, Colonel Dougal Entendre and Major Gordon Sanitaire, the Scottish mercenary engineering officers of French extraction, also now rush into the room.

The governor nods approvingly. 'Ah gentlemen  - I see that you are burdened with papers and packets - secret information, no doubt, that you wish spirited out of the fortress so that we can better continue the fight against the forces of the Spasmodic Sanction!'

(Below) The two Scots shake their heads. 'Nay sir - tis other purposes we have. Since the fortress is about tae fall, I thought it prudent tae make sure ye had our invoices and receipts. These are for engineering work rendered', says Entendre. 

'And these, sir,' says Sanitaire, handing over an even larger quantity of papers, 'are for our expenses. The items on page three might seem to be surprising - but military necessity required the presence of every one of those actresses'.

'What?' says the governor, looking surprised and concerned. 'You're not coming with us? You aren't seeking to escape in order that we can continue the war?'

Entendre looks slightly furtive. 'Nay, my lord. In such desperate circumstances as those that we find ourselves in, the major and I have developed an alternative strategy'.

The governor looks surprised. 'You intend, like true professionals to die at your posts?'

'Och no, we're going to change sides'.

Schroedinger splutters. 'But - what about all that we have been through together? What about loyalty? Fidelity? Comradeship? Do they mean nothing? Have I had to put up with your suspiciously variable Scottish accents for nothing?''

'Aye sir', says the colonel. 'Noble qualities; but not, I have tae say, absolute requirements for mercenary engineers such as ourselves. We prize qualities from a rather different dictionary: one that contains rather more synonyms for such words as 'caution', and 'self-preservation'. Let's have no hard feelings, sir.  And we did give you a bit of a discount. See here ...' he points to a line in a very long column of expenses. 'We only charged you half for the rulers'.

'But', says the governor, looking carefully at the figures, 'I don't remember you building a wooden horse'.

The colonel shrugs. 'Oh no, sir - we didnae actually bother - it never works. But if we had bothered, it would have cost you much more - so, charging you this amount for not building it actually has saved you quite a lot of money'.

'And, this ... haggis ... is it really so costly?'

'Aye - a luxury item, I'm afraid', says Entendre. 'But without haggis, no engineering work stands a serious chance of succeeding. Marshal Vauban himself was quite particular about it. It was his fourth rule of military engineering. Probably'.

'We really must go, my lord!' says Dreihumpe urgently.

'Very well', says the governor. He then looks up, his eyes glinting. 'But first, let us reward our faithful engineers!'

Soon, the party is fleeing from the front of the governor's residence (above). 'Entendre and Sanitaire didn't seem pleased', says Dreihumpe, puffing. 'I'll wager that it will take them some time to recover their expenses!'
The governor nods. 'Yes, well I had the sergeant stuff the paperwork quite far up their ... '
'Here we are, my lords!' interrupts the sergeant, pointing. Schroedinger looks.
'What? Where's my carriage? What's this?'
'A sedan chair', replies the sergeant (below).
'Yes, I can see that it's a sedan chair. But look at it. It's royally knackered. It doesn't fit together properly. Whoever constructed this sedan chair was blind, missing both hands, and really, really liked the colour brown. Get my carriage at once!'
'My lord, alas your carriage has no horses - they were eaten during the siege. There is nothing therefore to pull it. This sedan chair is the only remaining transport!'
The governor waves dismissively. 'Even without horses I think that my carriage would be faster than this! This escape will be rubbish. Look at those two men: there are dead badgers that look more energetic!'

'There's nothing else available, sir' says the Croat. 'We must hurry. Gelderland troops are pouring into the town. And even if we escape the town, sir, it is not clear that we will manage to pass through the enemy siege lines. They will never believe that we are civilians'.
'It might already be too late', says Dreihumpe. 'Rumour has it that the Gelderland troops are already looking for a govenor named Schroediner-Skatt and a certain Captain Dreihumpe'.
'There is still hope then', says the sergeant. 'Luckily, you, Governor, aren't Captain Dreihumpe; and you Captain Dreihumpe aren't Governor Schroedinger-Skatt'.
The captain looks askance at the sergeant. 'I don't think it work likes that', he says. 'We need a disguise', he adds.
'Quite', replies the governor. 'And I've had a thought - see over there? Sergeant, bring them to me!'

(Above) 'No - no XXXXXXX way!' says the sister. In case the governor misinterprets this as some form of assent, the nun adds a hand gesture to reinforce her point.
'Sister, if you but lend us your habits! Think of your country!' says the governor.
'We're xxxxxxx nuns! Swapping clothes must be morally wrong - it is certainly an activity of which the Devil would approve. He might even join in'.
Schroedinger dangles a key in front of her. 'If you're thirsty, I know where you can  get your hands on plenty of strong perfume'.
'Just the habits', replies the sister quickly, taking off her belt, 'or all the way down to our scanties?'
'Just, er, just the habits ...'
'Just joking!', says the sister, whipping off her habit: 'we don't actually wear anything underneath'.
'Gargh!' croaks the governor.

Crammed into the sedan chair, Dreihumpe adjusts his wimple and looks back awkwardly at the governor's house.
'That's quite an impressive conflagration, sir', he says.
'Yes', says the governor. 'I set fire to all the important things that I didn't want to fall into enemy hands'.
Dreihumpe nods. 'Our plans, stratagems and intelligence?'
'Oh no - that's all here',  says the governor, pulling a tiny folio from the folds of his habit. 'No, I set fire to my copies of Plump Milkmaids, which I acquired obviously for the illuminating articles'.
The captain nods. 'Well, they certainly burn impressively'.
'Well, some of the woodcuts in them are rather incendiary'.
 As the governor flees from Fort Pippin, the Gelderland troops begin sacking the town: except those that are set upon and beaten up by some surprisingly underdressed nuns.

Meanwhile, other events are occurring that, thank goodness, herald the final end to the war.

No, No - That's the Beach: I Said "Breach", Dear Friends!

At the bastion, the victorious Fenwickian musketeers advance after combat, once again blocking this key point of entry against the attacking Gelderlanders. There is, for the attacking troops, no clever way out of this problem. Even if there were a clever way out, one wouldn't bet on them being the troops to find it, unless this clever way was printed in large letters onto a poster and then read out to the troops thrice daily for a period of not less than a week. So, yet again, the grenadiers advance up the gap in the bastion and launch a frontal assault upon the defenders (below).

Finally, by the power of their training and the application of the law of averages, the attacking column succeeds in breaking in. The defending imperials suddenly remember some urgent tasks or other that need performing far, far away from the site of this immediate danger. They rout (below) joining the other collection of flotsam and jetsam that have accumulated at the bottom of the wall's approach ramp. This is not good news for the defenders. It is, in fact, quite bad news: news that would sit somewhere between, on the one hand, discovering that one's trousers were on fire, and, on the other, discovering that said trousers for some reason were being worn as a hat.

The situation, however, remains dynamic. The Gelderland grenadiers, their blood up, and never happier in their military careers than when they are taking free stabs at enemy troops that are running away, vigorously pursue their defeated adversaries. In doing so (below, top), they expose their left flank to the Fenwickian grenadiers. Moreover, (below, bottom) the routing imperials on the parapet have now rallied, probably as a consequence of having been lied to about improvements in their pay and conditions and the introduction of a form of 360 degree reporting, and now stand ready to return to the fray.

(Below) With the situation deteriorating, and more supporting Gelderland troops pushing up behind the lead company, the imperial grenadiers charge forwards into the flank of their enemy. They are supported by musket fire into the other enemy flank from the head of the column of rallied troops.

As these dramatic and potentially decisive moves unfold in the vicinity of the bastion, other events equally distasteful and unmanly, are unfolding. In the safety of the second parallel, the contribution to the battle made by the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel continues in full swing. It is almost certain, though, that rarely has the phrase "full swing" been accompanied by activity so slack and lacklustre. The Bachscuttlers have continued to fire their tiny mortar, activity interspersed with very long breaks for sausage, beer and colourful jokes involving salaciously tempting beer-flavoured sausage.

That their fire has been so ineffective in the battle is unsurprising given their penchant for firing from their mortar things other than shells, just to see what happens. Thus far, their experiments, of which the Nabstrian scientist Faltaire would no doubt be proud, have demonstrated conclusively that chairs, bratwursts, brass chamber pots, apple strudel, boots, and an unpopular bombardier named Fritz, all demonstrate inferior aerodynamic qualities relative to a mortar shell; although Fritz cartwheeled so fast that he did exhibit some of the properties of rifling.

(Above) In the approach trench linking the third parallel to the second, Horace de Saxe has intervened in an attempt to rally the remains of the two companies of Gelderland grenadiers that were broken in the initial assaults on the bastion. Foolishly, Saxe appeals to their sense of duty and honour, an attempt that only slows the running troops because they find it difficult to run and laugh at the same time. Saxe switches to menacing threats. However, this also fails - it is difficult to take seriously threats from a man sitting in a giant pram.

(Below)  At the other point of attack, the Gelderland ladder companies have continued with their surprising run of success. One company, along with the commander of the force, have found an undefended portion of the wall and manage to climb to the top without significant problems.

'Orders, sir?' ask the musketeers, reforming on the battlements.

(Above) The commander discharges his pistol and then strikes a pose.
'Men', he says, blowing the smoke from the barrel of the pistol, 'I've come here to powder wigs and kill Fenwickians - and I'm all out of wig powder'.
There is a short pause. A musketeer then says. 'I've got some wig powder, sir. Here, you can have it if you ...'.
'No! No!' says the officer in annoyance. 'I was just trying to introduce some dramatic effect ... Never mind. You've ruined it. Form up! Let's do this the undramatic way'.

In the other bastion itself, defending volleys decimate one of the ladder companies, driving it back to the foot of the wall. (Above) But another attacking company reaches the top and finds itself on the flank of some of the defenders. As at the other bastion, the fight here is reaching its decisive point!

That's a Lovely Breach: I Shall Inform My Dear Friends!

At the breach, the Gelderland attackers make a breakthrough! Implausibly fumbling the combat, the defending Fenwickians are broken faster than King Wilhelm of Gelderland's will power in a shop full of bosom-shaped custards. Blubbering and flubbering, they stream down the nearby access ramp. The other group of routing Fenwickians can now add self-righteous certainty to their emotional mix of stupifying terror and cowardice - seeing a unit of comrades also doing a runner, they no-doubt feel validated in their decision to shift into some spineless sprinting.

Spineless sprinting, of course, should be physiologically quite difficult, but one can always trust troops from the region of Mittelheim to make sure that such impediments as the laws of biology and physics bend to the necessity of a good rout. (Above, bottom) The rout thrusts into the zone of danger yet another Fenwickian company of musketeers. Recognising that now is the best chance to utilise the disorder of the victorious enemy grenadiers, this company also lowers bayonets and charges forwards (below). Behind them, a column of Fenwickian grenadiers moves smartly up. Or rather, not just a company, but the company of Fenwickian grenadiers. Importantly, these are last unbroken Fenwickian troops available to defend this part of the fortress.

(Below) Huzzah! Compensating for the cowardice of their craven cronies, the Fenwickian musketeers drive the enemy grenadiers before them. Bleating and wailing, the Gelderlanders throw aside their muskets and pour back down the breach and into the covered way. Behind them, the first lot of Gelderland routers have continued their gutless gallop, and head in the direction of the second parallel. Lady Luck, who has already swung drunkenly from the arms of the Fenwickians and into those of the Gelderlanders, now waltzes back again.

Death, watching from nearby, takes a few steps back. Lady Luck, booze, and excessive dancing is a mix that hard experience tells him will have a range of predictable outcomes. There will be excessive swings of fate, implausible incidents, far-fetched feats, copious tears, probably finishing in an excessive quantity of non-corporeal chunder. On the subject of events unlikely and implausible, somehow all four of the ladder companies have reached the walls. Such a circumstance can be explained only by the miraculously poor shooting of the defending troops, and the continued advance of an attacking force almost too stupid to feel fear.

(Above) The ladders are placed against the walls and the troops prepare to climb. This process takes longer than might be expected. Unfortunately, the troops being merely almost too stupid to feel fear means that some glimmers of alarm and uncertainty do begin to force their way to the front of the bovine minds of the Gelderland musketeers. There is an awkward pause. Luckily, a poor sense of direction means that most of these concerns eventually get lost on the way. There is a minor outbreak of sudden politeness in some quarters, with a bit of "After you"; "Oh no - I insist, after you"; but soon, the troops begin to climb.

(Above) To the left of the Gelderland line, one of the companies even manages to find a bit of wall that is undefended. Of course, the ladder itself is quite a considerable adversary, what with the troops needing to remember that, once on them, one should face upwards; that the options available for travel should probably be limited to up, and not sideways; and that one might need to use one foot at a time when climbing them, and not, say, both. Still, the officer is quickly standing unopposed on the battlements, motivated by glory or perhaps an earlier chance to change sides. Lady Luck, it seems, may well be flopping back into the arms of the forces of Gelderland. Or is she ... ?

Thrice Unto the Breach - And Stop Bloody Complaining About It, Dear Friends!

The situation in the bastion now certainly favours the defenders. (Below) The attacking Gelderland assault troops are backed up behind the lead companies. But these companies are trapped at the top of the breach, their exit blocked by the arrival of more companies of defending Fenwickian infantry. The spineless Fenwickians, realising that the status quo suits them, maintain their position and, rather than charging their adversaries, content themselves with some musketry and some light mockery. Musket balls, jibes, ribaldry, and some inflammatory thigh slapping are thrown at the enemy. For the Gelderland grenadiers, the physical wounds inflicted by the shooting are as nothing compared to the injuries to their pride caused by the Fenwickian ridicule; not suprising given that none of the nusketry actually hits.

(Below) Realising that risks must be taken if the attack is to succeed, the forward Gelderland companies charge. These risks, of course, are rather unequally distributed. The officers, at the rear, are firmly of the opinion that such risks need to be taken in the service of victory. The frontline troops, on the other hand, view risk as something to be mitigated by such necessary expedients as ducking, fainting, and changing sides. The Gelderlanders hope is to batter their way through the Fenwickian troops and so allow the following infantry into Fort Pippin. The attackers rely upon their steely Grenadier experience and morale to give them sufficient advantage; that, and their propensity for cheating.

(Below) Though they have the advantage in quality and numbers, it takes no time at all for the attacking troops to throw it all away. Less cut and thrust and more slap and tickle, the grenadiers make a mockery of their elite status. In the ensuing melee, the Fenwickians show decidedly more vim, vigour, vavoom and v-word commitment, and the attacking troops are soon broken.

(Above) The grenadiers stream away from fight, routing back down into the covered way. There are plenty more where they came from, however. Girding their loins, or doing other loin-related activities that are mercifully obscured by the bad light, more attacking troops rush up the debris and rubble of the breach. Musktery is exchanged, because why not, though it has the predictable results: a few men are rendered temporarily deaf; one or two are shot with ramrods; but the main effect is simply to improve everyone's morale by hiding the enemy from sight.

Clearly firm believers in the longstanding military principles of mass and maintenance of the aim (though also adherents to less well-known principles as "hit the small ones first" and "hide if things look dangerous"), the grenadiers press forward with the bayonet and attempt once again to break through the defending troops (below). There can be no doubt that this is a critical moment. Probably as critical as the last critical moment; and certainly a lot sweatier.

(Below) Meanwhile, at the other bastion, the assaulting ladder parties have already achieved miracles - it being miraculous, that is, that they seem actually to have reached the walls. Casualties on the advancing troops have been much lighter than expected, thanks to the bad light and risible boggle-eyed shooting of the defending artillery. How hard can it be to hit enemy troops advancing in line, especially when they are advancing across an open field, and waving ladders that, in addition to slowing them down, also provide the same sort of camouflage as carrying large flags emblazoned with the motto "Here I Am - Shoot Me"?

Nevertheless, supporting Fenwickian infantry are also moving up to this bastion as well. Things don't look good for the Gelderlanders - only extraordinary luck, or a sudden catastrophic double entendre,  seem likely to unravel the defences now!