Speed Bonnie Bloat!

'No! This cannot be! King Wilhelm is alive?' says General Antonin Unpronunski incredulously. Unpronunski stands in a corridor of the palace of the margave of Badwurst-Wurstburp. With him are two other individuals.

'Even so' replies Lord Duncan de Sordelay. Lord Duncan is one of the chief representatives of the Jacobite emigres that reside in Wurstburp.

'I have myself seen him this day', says Duncan's compatriot, a young lady of noble demeanor.

'And who might you be?' asks the general.

'Why, I am Lady Flora Spreadswell, Wilhelm's companion, who helped him escape from Gelderland in a boat'.

The general frowns. 'I find that hard to believe young lady. First, he was imprisoned in Gelderland, which is landlocked: so unless the boat was shaped and acted a lot like a horse, I can't see that it would have improved his mobility much. Second, no boat with Wilhelm in it would ever float'.

'It did sink quite quickly', admits lady Spreadswell. 'But it turned out that the prison moat was quite shallow. From there I was able to spirit him away'.

'The phrase "spirit him away" implies a turn of speed, my lady, that would defy most expectations of Wilhelm - unless, of course, you put some wheels on him'.

Flora nods. 'In truth, sir, it was more "roll" than "spirit" - but the effect was much the same'.

'But ... but ...' says Unpronunski. 'But ... Wilhelm died! Everyone knows that! Inexplicably, he managed to put a door upon himself and then cover it with very, very heavy stones! He was crushed to death!'

'He was indeed somewhat taller and flatter than I had been led to expect', acknowledges Lady Flora. 'But otherwise, he was certainly King Wilhelm Penwick-Fuppet of Gelderland. He bore all the hallmarks!'

'But this is ... this is a disaster!' Unpronunski groans and holds his head in his hands. He wishes that the margrave's nephew Karl von Porckenstauffen, known as 'Bunnie Prince Karlie' because of his buck teeth, were here: at least he could then push some of the responsibility for dealing with this nonsense onto him. Karl, however, is indisposed. In continuing to embrace Jacobite fashion, he has suffered a common Jacobite injury and been bitten by his sporran. 'This Wilhelm ... if he is indeed Wilhelm ... is a dolt! He cannot help our cause! Unless the key strategic problem that we face is that we have too many scones, then this man cannot help us in the current war!' The general shakes his head. 'Have you told the margrave yet?'

'No, no, general', replies Lord Duncan, softly. 'I wished to speak to you in private first, which is why I have asked you to come here'. Duncan begins to speak in urgent tones. 'General, our latest military defeat, this time at the hands of the sodden serfs of Kurland, is proof of a truth that is making itself clearer by the day - our Jacobite troops are losing their commitment! And they are losing their commitment because they are losing their faith in their Scottish heritage. They are too long in Mittelheim. Can you not see it? The signs are there. Clansmen scorning their kilts in favour of lederhosen; respectable highlanders urinating in chamber pots instead of shop doorways. Who now amongst them has ever experienced clootie dumplings!' 

'Clootie dumplings?'

'It is a dessert, sir'.

'Are you sure? Because it sounds like a medical condition involving painfully swollen gonads'.

'No, sir - it is very much a dessert. Probably. But Wilhelm's return as a pretender to the throne will surely evoke parallels with our dear and lamented Bonnie Prince Charlie! This is just what is needed to galvanise our Jacobite troops - a powerful narrative of unfulfilled royal destiny! All we need to do is to create around Wilhelm an aura of mystique!'

The general frowns. 'That's not going to be easy. As far as I remember, the only thing that was around him in any quantities were biscuit crumbs'.

'We have had an idea of where to start', says Lady Flora.

'Yes', says Lord Duncan. 'Now, general, come with me through these doors: I have something to show you'.

'It's not your clootie dumplings is it?' replies Unpronunski morosely.

'Not nearly so swollen', says Lady Flora, 'but quite as large ...'

Foursome!

'What are you doing here?' demands Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, hastily adjusting his clothes. 'I want to be alone so that I can reverberate'.
'Urgent news, my lord', says his chamberlain, Count Leopold von Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht's sojourn at Schloss Tanvaund has now ended, and he is back in his palace in Pfeildorf. In the light of the terrible fire that required the prince to change abodes in the first place, many alterations have been made to his palace: not least, the use of more brick and stone in its construction, in case Rupprecht again decides to try and smoke some mangos. Alas, this is not a euphemism.

'What news could possibly be so urgent as to interrupt my executive alone time, chamberlain? I've had my lunch', so you can't be announcing that'. He pulls a face. 'It's not something linked to ruling is it? Or ... what is it called - strology or pategy or sandwich, or something.' Rupprecht is not wholly comfortable with exercising the reins of government. Indeed, as a ruler, he has the same dynamism, intellect, and incisive problem-solving qualities as a family pork pie (although the latter has a rather lower fat content). Becuse of his desire to avoid having to make decisions, or do anything really, he has long opined on the desirability of more democratic forms of government, as long as they can fitted within the broad parameters of brutal, arbitrary, and uninformed authoritarianism. 
'Policy and strategy, my lord', says the chamberlain. 'The sandwich is probably for after'. Fecklenburg is suddenly struck by an observation. 'My lord - is there something different about you?'
Rupprecht nods.

'I have fallen off my base, Fecklenburg'.
'That is terrible news sir - are you hurt?''
'No, not really: I fell onto the carpet. But you know, I'm not so sure now that's it's all bad. Without my base, I have discovered a new and pleasing flexibility'.
'In a physical sense, sir?' asks the chamberlain. 'Because I should think that not having a base increases your ability to squeeze yourself into smaller places'.
'Yes, yes', agrees the prince. 'But also in a moral sense as well, which, like physical flexibility, enables me to squeeze myself into smaller places - though of a different kind'.
'Is it actually possible, sir, for your morals to be more flexible? Much more flexing, my lord, and they are surely likely to fall off completely'.

'But anyway, sir, I feel it is necessary to draw your attention to my news'.

Rupprecht rolls his eyes. 'Well, be quick about it!'

'Sir, intelligence has arrived of a most undesirable sort. Kurland has invaded Wurstburp!'

Rupprecht shrugs. 'But I like it when little people hurt one another'.

'My lord - Kurland has declared their support for the cause of Fenwick-Gelderland. In response, Wurstburp has declared war on all of our enemies and announced that they are our allies!'

Rupprecht shrugs again. 'You've said that in italics, Fecklenburg, but I don't see why it is a problem'.

'Because, sir, it means that Wursburp is on our side!'

The prince blanches. 'But we don't want them!' says the prince with concern. 'They're rubbish. They always lose, dragging their allies down with them!'

'Quite so, my prince!'.
'Can't we just ignore them? Hide behind the chaise longue when they turn up for meetings and pretend not to be in?'
'It's done, my lord - our adversaries think we are now all part of a Quadruple Alliance! A foursome is no good!'
'Well that really depends upon the circumstances', says Rupprecht wistfully. 'But couldn't we just be the Triple Alliance With One Other That We Don't Want'.
'It doesn't really have a ring to it', says Fecklenburg sadly.
'Well', says Rupprecht, 'then we should declare war on Wurstburp!'
'Sir, then we'd be at war with four other powers; allied to two; and both allied and at war with another: it's just too complicated, even for Mittelheim'.

'Gads, Fecklenburg - allied to Wurstburp: this is dark news indeed for our cause. Still, on a positive note, it surely means that things can't get any worse'.

Meanwhile, in Wurstburp ...

Merkenwig, the Final!

Alas, in Mittelheim, the choice of victory or death is so often weighted towards the latter; except in cases where 'run' or 'copiously piddle oneself' is also an option. The Wurstburp clansman crash into their Kurlandian adversaries. They bleat as they beat as they dice and they slice. The results, however,  are terribly disappointing. (Below) They fail to break a single enemy unit and they are thus forced to fall back. 

'The elephants! The elephants!' cries Horace de Saxe in alarm. 'I shall rally the troops in an attempt to prevent a pachyderm panic!'

(Below) Indeed, one of the Wurstburp units disintegrates, the challenge of charging whilst also retreating backwards being too much for it.  The remainder of Pronunski's infantry are left in a bad way: more disorganised and confused even than normal.

With Pronunski trailing behind trying to limit the damage, de Saxe tries to bolster the spirits of his depressed infantrymen.

'Fear not brave soldiers!' cries de Saxe. 'Just pop your hands under my blanket and see what I've got for you'. 

(Above, top left). Grand Duchess Catherine surveys the developments on the battlefield. Generalship is even easier than she had anticipated.

'Dammit Savvinos: if I'd known how straightforward this was all going to be, I'd have ordered Borisov to give my husband a two-handed divorce a lot earlier'.

'A two handed ...? Oh ...' says Savvinos, idly rubbing his neck. 'I see'.

'Because it seems' continues Catherine, 'that battle involves very little danger to me; and I can also piddle how I like'.

'Both important points, ma'am' nods her chef of staff sagely.

The Kurlandians continue with an exchange of musketry. Whilst one of Grand Duchess Catherine's regiments routs, the target, no doubt, of some particularly hurtful language, two more Wurstburp units fall apart (below). The Wurstburp line is now divided into multiple portions. This is always a bad sign and makes it almost impossible now for Pronunski to restore order to his force.

Pronunski surveys the remains of his forces. (Above) His infantry have shot their bolt; the bolt, indeed has been propelled far beyond any useful hope of recovery and lies, no doubt, in a piece of rough ground never to be found again. (Below) His cavalry is also in poor shape, the physical damage inflicted by their defeat at the hands of mere irregulars compounded by the shame; and also, no doubt, the loss of many small but valuable items lifted from their persons by their Cassock adversaries during the melees.

Pronunski didn't get where he is today by idleness - no, it required an altogether more focused lack of perseverance. Not wishing to have more pain inflicted upon his army; not, at least, until he himself can inflict that pain through a post-battle 'hot washup' (which is usually that most horrifying of Wurstburp experiences - a bath), the general offers his enemy the Honours of War. With a measured and stateswoman-like utterance of  'Cowards! Cravens! Suck defeat with both cheeks you tartan-arsed thistle-lickers!', the Grand Duchess accepts.

The Kurlanders win with a Marginal Victory, but benefit from having accepted Honours of War. They have also inflicted Carnage upon the enemy. One Kurlandian regiment has been broken. Both units of conscripts have gained sufficient experience that they now count as Trained. Three Wurstburp regiments have been broken, but, thanks to the special training regime adopted by Pronunski's troops (extensive bar fights in their depots), they will be reconstituted with no loss in their fighting capabilities. One Wurstburp infantry unit is promoted to Elite, as is one cavalry regiment.

However, the consequences of this battle reverberate far and wide; even to such places as the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, where words such as 'reverberate' are seldom used, and only accidentally and in contextually inappropriate ways.

Merkenwig, the Seventh!

With some skillful manoeuvering, the Wurstburp cavalry sweep past the newly discovered bog and head towards the Cassock irregulars. (Below) One of the Kurlandian regiments is on a hill; nevertheless, going full tilt and stirrups in, Pronounski is confident of victory! With the irregulars swept out of the way, the flank of the enemy infantry will be dreadfully exposed!

(Below) Despite their many advantages, and to Pronounski's great ire, the Wurstburpers are wursted! Both Margravial regiments fall back, the Kurlandian Cassock irregulars silent in amazement at their own performance. Grand Duchess Catherine, however, more than makes up for this, engaging in a strange dance, and cries of 'Yeah, you know it!', designed to goad the enemy commander. These efforts are really quite successful. 

(Below) There remains one last chance for Pronounski: a frontal assault upon the Kurlandian infantry line! The Wurstburp troops inch forwards to within musket range. Surely the Grand Duchy's infantry will fire a preliminary volley. But no! Due to a stratagem of Unpronounski, there is no firefight! The Wurstburp troops begin limbering up for their charge.

'Fear not!' cries Horace de Saxe to General Unpronounski. 'For I am as excellent a linguist as I am a strategist! I shall inspire the troops for this final climactic charge!'
'Please don't', says the general earnestly.
'But my Scottish vernacular is perfect!' cries de Saxe. 'Jimmy', he adds.
'Dear God, please, no ...' begs the general.
But it is too late - Horace is already off, speeding along in his carriage down the Wurstburp line!

'Men!' cries de Saxe to the Wurstburp troops. 'To be sure, if you fight, you may die, boyo! Run and you'll live, at least a while, sure it is. And dying in your beds many years from now, isn't it, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that, by gum, for one chance, just one chance to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, look you, but they'll never take our freedom!'
There is silence.
Then, one of the Wurstburp clansmen pipes up: 'Well, strictly speaking, when we were still in Scotland, we were tied by both duty and custom to a quasi-feudal system of hierarchy and power in which, as tenant farmers, our freedom actually was substantially curtailed by duties and obligations owed to our lairds and landowners'. 'Jimmy', he adds.
De Saxe considers this for a moment. 'Charge!' he then yells. 'Just ... move on!' he shouts.

(Above) With loud war cries earnestly expressing their desire for greater latitude within what is still likely to remain a top-down compliance-based social and economic system, the Wurstburp clansmen rush forwards to their destiny! Victory or death!

Merkenwig, the Sixth!

As the Wurstburp left-wing wheels in retrograde to try and meet the threat from the enemy, the Kurlandian cavalry receive new orders. These orders are not to their commander Boris Katsonov's liking. This isn't a surprise, because the orders instruct him to wait three days for the arrival of Grigori Savvinos, who will then take him out to lunch. Alas, Savvinos has been multi-tasking in his role as Grand Duchess Catherine's chief of staff. Writing one missive to Katsonov with his new orders, and another to his mother laying out the arrangements for her birthday, he has inadvertently swapped the messages. 

For most other Mittelheim cavalry, an invitation to halt for a couple of days on the battlefield and then have someone else pay for lunch would seem like a perfectly reasonable request from higher command. But Katsonov is having none of it. In the heat of the battle, he wants nothing more than to get to grips with the enemy - even an enemy as dirty as the Wurstburpers. So, he orders one of his units into a rash frontal assault upon the enemy (below)!

As a military enterprise, it is an attack that rates higher for its optimism than it does for its pragmatism. The Wurstburpers actually much prefer hand-to-hand combat to firing (or bathing), and the chance to head-butt some horses just increases the fun from their perspective. 

(Above) The outcome is predictable, and the Kurlandian horsemen are driven back in disorder. They are not happy. Although. on balance, they are probably happier than Grigori Savvinos' mother, who will be receiving a letter from her son instructing her immediately to work her way around the flank of the nearest Wurstburpers and rush on them from behind. This is by anyone's standards a poor way of celebrating one's birthday .

As the Kurlandian cavalry take the opportunity to retrograde even further in order to evade enemy musket fire, General Pronounski decides that it is time to try and seize back the initiative.  The initiative, however, seems to have been frustratingly lubed up by the Kurlandians with the very slippiest of lard. The general orders up his right-flank cavalry. His aim is to thrash the Cassock irregulars off the hill to his front, and then menace the Kurlandian infantry, as preparation for a wild charge by his infantry.

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(Above) Alas, as happens so often during battles in Mittelheim, there manifests suddenly a strange laxity in map reading. A large and hitherto unseen marsh appears suddenly in front of the Kurlandian cavalry. To the sound of unmanly tittering from the Cassocks, the initiative slips with a plop from Unpronounski grasping hands.

(Above) The Kurlandian sniggering is short-lived, however. Displaying a flexibility more often associated with Mittelheim moral scruples than with the manoeuvres of their cavalry arm, the Wurstburp horse form into mass. The tittering amongst the Cassock irregular cavalry stops. Having reduced their frontage, the enemy can now not only pass the bog, but they will be in an even better position to charge in upon the Kurlandian flank!

Merkenwig, the Fifth!

With his infantry in disarray and his flanks under threat, Pronounski orders his infantry to retire beyond enemy musket range hoping, no doubt, to restore some order to them before recommencing the attack. That sound that you can hear is probably the sound of the Wurstburp initiative flouncing noisily out of the room in a huff.

(Above) The infantry lines of the respective armies are now out of the range of small arms: although some of the longer arms on the more monkey-like of the Wurstburp troops could probably reach out and grasp their opponents - those that have opposable thumbs, that is. 

(Below) Though regular combat may not be on the menu now, there remains for those troops that wish to vex their adversaries a choice from a long list of activities that encompass such tried and tested Mittleheim military tactics as taunts, jests, thumb-nosing, ear-waggling, aspersions upon the possession of fathers, suggestions as to the nocturnal proclivities of mothers, ditties implying non-church-sanctioned relationships with various farmyard animals, songs surrounding the surprisingly close relationships between the latter and immediate family members, and various colourful versions of songs concerned with milkmaids or other female agricultural workers that hail from such places as Venus or China.   

Grand Duchess Catherine seems really to be getting the hang of this generalship thing. For the most part, it seems only to require that one makes rational choices and avoids falling asleep. Deciding that following up the retreating Wurstburpers would weaken the strength of her position, she instead orders her regular cavalry to continue their menacing canter and close the distance with the Wurstburp infantry.

(Below) There's nothing that Mittleheim cavalry like more than an exposed enemy flank: unless, that is, the exposed flank also comes with an all-you-can-eat sausage buffet. No sausages on this flank, sadly, but quite a few turnips instead. The Wurstburp infantry look nervously to their left wondering what this is all about. Are these horsemen enemy horsemen? Or are they friendly forces? If they were the latter, of course, then they would be facing in the wrong direction. However, facing in the wrong direction is not, in itself, compelling evidence that they are not Wurstburp cavalry.

 'I think that things are going splendidly for us!' says Horace de Saxe enthusiastically. Pronounski groans: Horace's enthusiastic approval is surely the clearest sign yet of the dangerous precipice of disaster that looms in front of the Margravial forces.

Merkenwig, the Fourth!

A volley of musket fire issues forth from the Kurlandian line! Three of the leading enemy units are roughly handled by musketry. The Wurstburp reply consists of the usual cavalcade of Mittelheim feckery. They inflict some casualties, but no decisive damage is done. Alas, their love of  weapons that chop, maim, and tickle at close quarters means that their effectiveness in a firefight is much reduced. This is not an army that is likely to win a fair exchange of volleys and they are still well out of head-butting range.

Unpronounski realises that he has made a tactical mistake. Much to Horace's surprise this is not any pachyderm-related perils. (Below) He could order his troops to charge and give them what they excel at: bloody violence at close quarters. But because his cavalry has been left so far behind, he would leave his flank exposed to the depredations of the Cassock irregulars. And there's nothing the Cassock's like more than a good flank to sink their teeth into.

Whilst Pronounski cogitates, ruminating upon his options, Horace speeds off along the line in an attempt to rally the disrupted infantry. This has the predictable consequences, since de Saxe lacks any of the things necessary to improve the morale of the obdurate Jacobite porridge-gobblers: whisky; deep-fried confectionary; tales of English sporting failure; or an opportunity to punch one another at someone else's wedding. The Wurstburp lines remain gloomily disrupted.  

(Above) The Grand Duchess Catherine may be inexperienced in war but she is also not burdened by a pudding-brained, four-wheeled waste of space like de Saxe as an advisor. Sensing that the Wurstburpers are faltering she decides to seize the initiative! Orders are despatched, and the Kurlandian regular cavalry begin to move from their position on the hill. Beginning to wheel, their target is obvious: the flank of the advancing enemy line! Surely the Wurstburpers' goose is cooked (a process that in Wurstburp would require stuffing the goose with haggis, boiling it in Iron Brew, and then throwing it away) ...