There's dirty work afoot!

     And so, dear reader, we find ourselves mid-morning on a lovely summer's day, somewhere in the Kingdom of Gelderland. It is a bucolic scene: lush greenery; the gentle swaying of trees; the twitter of birds; all interrupted only by the irate chattering of a squirrel whose other half has been caught hiding his nuts where he shouldn't. But hang on, what's this? Our reverie is interrupted by the jingling of harness and the creaking of wheels.

(Right) It's a coach! But not any old coach. It's clear from the asthmatic wheezing of the horses that the carriage is heavily burdened, either by an emergency army-sized delivery of lard, or by that globulous wobble-bottom King Wilhelm of Gelderland. Sadly for the locals, the livery on the coach indicates that it is the latter. The King has been hastening eastwards, his passing churning the roads, and quite a few stomachs as well. Few things there are at the moment that can induce Wilhelm to leave the safety of Grosschnitzelring: pies, obviously; rumpy-pumpy; rumpy-pumpy with pies. True to form, Wilhelm is on a promise. Tired of the attentions of his current mistress, the tedious Irish actress Anne O'Dyne, the King has been contacted by the luscious, lewdsome Nora Hindquarters, until lately the paramour of Hieronymous von Rumpfler, commander of the Nabstrian army. Having labelled von Rumpfler dismissively as 'the mole' because of his rather random attempts at blind nocturnal tunnelling, Nora has invited the King to a secret assignation in an inn close to the frontier. After laying mammoth siege to his commode, the King has rushed as fast as he can westwards, bringing with him a small guard of Gelderland troops and a large quantity of 'Mister Stay-Puffed' under-britch plumpers.

(Left) But hang on: what's this! Amidst the greenery, the gentle countryside sounds are interrupted by the soft rattle of military equipment, alongside some suppressed giggles, and a whispered 'Let's do him now!' I spy some Nabstrian scouts!

Stung by defeats at Zorninhaf and Grosse Varnische, and with a military crisis emerging as obviously as King Wilhelm's belly button in a pair of under-britches, Burgrave Falco of Nabstria has hatched a plot to win the war by less direct means: for Miss Hindquarters is a double-agent; the meeting is a trap; and the whole enterprise is a nefarious plot that has as its objective the kidnapping of King Wilhelm! Stoked by enthusiastic hope and the reading of too many romantic novels, the early plans envisage replacing the King with a pliant body-double who can then be instructed to announce an end to the war. This plan is quickly dropped when it becomes obvious that it will take too long to find a talking walrus. Now, the objective is simply to abduct the King, and force him, on pain of death, to order an end to hostilities. What could possibly go wrong?

     

A Grand Review!

An Account by Sir Malileu Fitzbuttress, being His Brittanic Majesty's military representative to the Nabstrian Court.

'There was much excitement and anticipation in Falkensteinstadt when it was announced that the Burggrave had graciously decided to hold a Grand Review.  It was well known that his leading four regiments had just been outfitted in fresh new uniforms of a particularly fine cut.  The Burggrave has been pleased to award the contract for the new  uniforms to the famous  firm of Minden (proprietor Mr Jim Purky and lately Mr Frank Hammond) while the expert finishing touches to the uniforms were provided by Mr H. Jenkins Esq.  The Burggrave has been immensely - and rightly - pleased with the new turnout of his soldiers.  On one occasion, while taking a turn with the Burggrave in the picturesque gardens of Falkeinsteinburg, I made so bold as to suggest that a Grand Review would serve a double purpose by enabling him to put his soldiers through their paces and thus test the rapidity of their drill movements, while also enabling the Burggrave to display his troops in their fine new uniforms to the admiring public of Nabstria.  He at once seized upon the idea and insisted that the Review take place at the earliest opportunity.

The ancient stones of Falkeinstein Castle provided the perfect backdrop for the Grand Review.  Here we see the Burggrave in front of his men with General von Rumpfler and Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire looking on.

The day of the Grand Review dawned clear and fine.  The weather of Mittelheim is notoriously unpredictable and it would have been unfortunate if the soldiers fine new uniforms had been exposed to a downpour - an all too common occurrence in Falkensteinburg.  However, the weather remained clement and the arrangements passed off without a hitch.

The new Nabstrian standards, recently blessed by Bishop Munschrugge, looked very well on parade.

The four regiments marched onto the commodious parade ground, which lies hard by the romantic and gothick stones of Castle Falkenstein, in perfect order with their standards uncased.  Every soldier on parade was smartly turned out and performed every movement flawlessly.  The regiments made a fine military spectacle in front of their admiring Burggrave.  General von Rumpfler and Paul, Duke of Clarkeshire accompanied the Burggrave as he reviewed each regiment in turn.  All was to his satisfaction.  People from every rank, station and condition of Nabstria were present and the effect on the multitudes present was inspiring.  Their enthusiasm was demonstrated by their tumultuous cheers for the Burggrave and his brave men.  It would also appear that the crowds provided ready business for many street traders who moved their operations from Falkensteinstadt for the day.  I have heard that, by the end of the day, there was not a single crispy fried leech to be found and that the stock of ornamental souvenir cod-pieces specially produced for the day had sold out.

The Nabstrian General Staff, resplendent in their red trousers (an unfortunate French affectation), took a full part in organising the parade

While there have been some rumours of a certain weariness towards the constant wars of Mittelheim amongst the Nabstrian population of late, the Grand Review has done much to re-invigorate the martial spirit of the Burggraviate.  I have also heard that the army has recently tapped new sources of impressed foreigners through a clever ruse involving a haystack, a bottle of beer and a drill sergeant dressed as a maiden.  While this has brought in many fresh recruits, it is very unpopular with the drill sergeants who have to shave off their fine moustachios.  Nonetheless, the numbers of new recruits are such that the ranks of the army should be filled for some time and while the methods of the Nabstrian drill masters may be brutal, the Grand Review proved that they are fully effective.'

Nurkibahoo!

Lurking suspiciously near the headwaters of the Timpopo river, Nurkibahoo is a land of dark and fearsome reputation. If the tribes of the Leech Coast dare to mention the word ‘Nurkibahoo’ it is only in terrified whispers accompanied by vigorous, and not always successful, attempts to avoid soiling themselves. Once, so legend has it, Nurkibahoo was an earthly paradise, home to the Great Mountain Gods and an assortment of lesser deities that did their cleaning and looked after the garden. But these gods long ago disappeared and what crept into the void to replace them were, so stories tell, malignant spirits of terrible evil: fell creatures that would make even the Nazgul shift nervously. The archaeological evidence does not fully support this story: ancient inscriptions tell of the presence in early Nurkibahoo of a proto-Egyptian civilisation known as the Clunj. The Clunj seem to have adopted Egyptian tomb building techniques but their civilisation appears to have ended after rampant speculation led to the collapse of the world’s first pyramid selling scheme. Now, Nurkibahoo is the land that the land that time forgot has forgotten. Tales abound of a wilderness filled with strange ruins and impenetrable jungles; of dismal swamps and noisome smells. English explorers reputedly reached a small part of it in 1678 and established a small settlement named New Grimsby. But even if this were true, nothing more since has been heard from them. Either they died of disease, probably through the filthy conditions; or were reduced to cannibalism, probably through boredom.

Mussihonki!

This mountainous province provides the watery source of the Dongo river. Populated by the surprisingly numerous Wattamassa tribe, Mussihonki is a site of restless, fiery, geological activity much of which seems to take pace in the loincloth of the local potentate Chief Harharbonk, the so-called ‘Lord Goat with a Thousand Young.’ Embarrassed Christian missionaries have sought to curb the Chief’s extravagant, and rather public, humping by introducing him to the usual array of European prophylactics such as jigsaws, sock puppetry, and monogamy. Sadly, however, a fertile combination of long drinking sessions and short attention span have rendered Chief Harharbonk largely immune to these efforts, though he has managed to develop some unexpected uses for the sock.

Dangla!

These lands encompass the heartlands of the Handzande tribes of the southern Leech Coast. The principal settlement of the Chiefdom of Handzande is known as Umflopi, and comprises an extensive settlement of Handzande huts, paddocks, and storerooms surrounded by a stockade. Rather like the Handzande Chief, M’Wahaha, Umflopi varies in size depending upon the season. In summer, in particular, Handzande tribesmen flock to Umflopi in preparation for annual expeditions against their neighbours. At this time, important tribal celebrations take place. First to occur is the ‘Roger the Small Boy’ festival: named after an incident in which one of Handzande tribes rescued a small European boy, named Roger, whose explorer parents had been eaten by hippos, this is a charming cornucopia of dance and frolicsome behaviour. It is followed soon after by the ‘Roger the Cow’ festival in which Handzande warriors get it on with their livestock.

Ahoy, and such like!

     Though bounded to the north by the Baltic Sea, it would not be inaccurate to describe the states of Mittelheim traditionally as continental powers. Taking for granted the trading incomes derived from the sales of slaves, wine, leeches and nasal hair, the states of Mittelheim have rarely been encouraged to see the sea as a medium for conflict. True, there were some isolated coastal slave raids in the 17th century by the North African based but London clothed privateers known as the Burberry pirates. Moreover, during the War of Otto's Kneecap in the 1720s, Nabstria had used two impressed merchantmen to deliver an amphibious assault upon the coastal villages of Bachscuttel. In fact, as it transpired, neither of the merchantmen were really that impressed: the troops that were landed being about as well disciplined as a ship-full of Siamese cats (and rather less house-trained), they rampaged across the beach fronts for twenty minutes or so, frightening children and setting fire to some Protestants before being dealt with brutally by a local band of wandering taxidermists. But the possibilities inherent in maritime power, its poise, mobility, access, versatility, flexibility, indeed its strategic leverage as a whole, had not in general been appreciated by those responsible for the formulation of state strategy in Mittelheim .

     But this has now begun to change in a decisive way. As the states of Mittelheim continue to contest upon land the question of the succession to the throne of Gelderland, in the capital of Bachscuttel Prince Rupprecht's advisers have begun to devise a new stratagem to enhance the Palatinate's capabilities: sea power! Under the auspices of Rupprecht's new Grand Chamberlain, Leopold Von Fecklenburg, Bachscuttel has begun the first steps towards a new grand strategy designed to control the sea-lanes between Mittelheim, New Mittelheim, and the Leech Coast. Two lines of development are now reportedly underway! Unable entirely to rid Prince Rupprecht of the malign, bone-headed influence of Baron Albrecht Von Steinhagen, pig-fancier and royal advisor, the first involves investigation into whether pigs can be made to float, and, if so, what kind of ordnance they can be equipped with for the purposes of maritime combat. Thus far, the answer to the first question seems to be 'not through any morally acceptable method', and to the second 'some form of modified cutlery'. The second line of development is the decision to procure in the boatyard of Bestwestung the building of a dedicated vessel of war, designed in secret by the British naval architect Sir Hubert Lyme-Pickle.

     The building of the warship commences to the sound of such sawing of wood and banging of nails that it might be mistaken for surgery on Prince Rupprecht's head. Needless to say, the news of the ship's construction cannot be kept secret: Bachscuttel security leaks like Landgrave Choldwig's loincloth after a heavy night of frolics. Even as the land campaign continues, the news that Bachscuttel is now striving to become the dominant sea power in Mittelheim creates consternation in its neighbours and mild amusement amongst foreign ambassadors. For some states in Mittelheim, the news is worrying, but there is little directly that they can do to respond. For example, the Fenwickian capacity to generate maritime power is inhibited a tad by their lack of a coastline and also by their inability to say the words 'poop deck' without a catatonic attack of 'Fnars!' But others, notably both Nabstria and Rotenburg, do have the geography to contest Bachscuttel's ambitious bid for power.

     In Falkensteinburg, Burgrave Falco calls an emergency meeting of his Inner Council. With possession of a warship, Bachscuttel will be able to utilise all the benefits of contingent maritime operations: this cannot be allowed to pass! The meeting is conducted in a gloomy ante-chamber in Falkensteinburg castle. Chief among those pressing for the Burgrave to procure vessels of war is the Second Chancellor, Heinrich, Graf Deckscluder who moots the possibility of a new round of tax increases to fund some nautical enterprises. Afraid for the welfare of Nabstria's citizenry, Bishop Munschrugge chastises the Graf citing the Good Lord's warnings against sin:
'My Lord, think of your people: is this desire for a ship a reflection of wise statecraft or is it merely envy'
'Envy, Munschrugge?'
'Indeed my Lord: a great sin - for did not the Good Lord admonish us against coveting our neighbour's oxes?'
'But I don't want their oxes - I want a ship.'
'I think, my Lord, that the oxes are probably metaphorical.'
'I don't care where they come from: I don't want them.'
And so the debate continues. Munschrugge leads those opposed to the expense of a navy; the Graf continues to advocate the instrumental advantages of seapower. Who will win out?

     In Rotenburg, the situation is more complex. Since the Landgravate is allied to Bachscuttel, there is surely no immediate reason why cash-strapped Choldwig should need to procure his own maritime capabilities. But the Landgrave's honour is piqued: had not Alexander been master both on land and sea? Levying new taxes, Choldwig commands  Ludovico Angelmiccolo, an Italian maestro at the working of wood, to build him a ship! The conversation in Choldwig's palace is not an easy one for the Italian:
'Behold, Herr Ludovico, ' cries Choldwig, 'You have built many things of wood for me; now build me a ship!
'Ah, mainly furniture, my Lord: it's mainly furniture that I build for you. I made you a lovely wardrobe'
'And now I need a ship!' Not an ugly ship ruined by gun ports and covered with fiddly sails but a sleek, dare I say, Alexandrian, warship: a wooden shark to prowl the Baltic!
'It'll be quite a small shark, my Lord: that wardrobe was six feet'.
'Think bigger! The ship should remind all onlookers of me: it should be powerful, majestic and have an enormous ram at the front.'
'I'm thinking, my Lord, of that lovely chaise-longue that I designed for you: wouldn't you just rather I made you one of those?'
'Make me a ship, Ludovico, or I'll have so many holes drilled into your thingie that you'll be able to play it like a flute. Improvise!
Ludovico gulps, and bows: 'Your will be done, my Lord. A ship it will be. I suppose I could put some nice handles on it.'

Six feet of potent maritime power projection

And so, in Mittelheim, the Wars of the Gelderland Succession roll up their metaphorical britches and dip their toes in the complexities of maritime combat. In a place where even having a bath can be a complex and traumatic experience, the militaries of the respective belligerents are likely to take to this new medium of warfare like a duck to trampolining.

Grosse Varnische!

     A seagull cries mournfully in the air; a salt-tanged breeze drifts gently across the open grassland. Around the village of Grosse Varnische, hundreds of small bodies, wrapped pathetically in over-large uniforms lie huddled around smoking campfires. Furst Augustus Saxe-Peste, Knight Commander of the Rotenburg Order of the Golden Fleas, General-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Landgravate of Hesse-Rotenburg-Schillingsfurst shifts uncomfortably in his saddle and ponders sadly on the assembled troops in front of him.

     The past few days have been very, very trying. After extricating the remains of his forces from the carnage at Chestwig, the Furst has had to resort to extraordinary measures to bring his army back up to strength. Having already lost so many men to the bratwurst machine that is Rotenburg war craft, the Landgravate has long ago emptied the farms and even prisons of its able-bodied men to provide the manpower for its regiments. Only the youngest potential recruits are left. Now, seven of his nine regiments have been filled with the sweepings from the worst nurseries and naughty-steps of Rotenburg. Most seem capable of nothing more than sucking their thumbs; the remainder would probably join them if only they could find their thumbs in their ludicrously voluminous coats. Moreover, his army is mutinous. Whilst his two regular regiments spend their time preparing themselves for the next battle, the new troops have distinguished themselves by their stubborn refusal either to drill properly or to eat their greens. The conscripts are also very tired, having refused to go to bed early; and with the lack of any bedrooms to send them to, the Furst has few means of imposing discipline on them, it being a accepted, even in Rotenburg, that to tie infants to a cannon wheel and flog them to death is probably in most circumstances morally wrong and at the very least bad parenting.

   

     To compound matters, the general military situation is an urgent one. After their minor reverse at Zorninhaf, the Imperial Army of Grand Fenwick has recovered quickly and forced march towards Alexandopolis, hoping, no doubt, to occupy the Landgravate's capital before the Furst can raise a new army. The Furst has made the decision to retreat towards the coast, a decision informed by two assumptions: first, it might draw the Imperials away from the Rotenburg capital. Second, since the Furst's infantry now has an average age of about eleven, the prospect of a trip to the beach, with a paddle and some ice cream, seems like a useful way to prop up the troops' morale.

     Even worse, his headquarters is now host to the Landgrave himself. Mercifully, Landgrave Choldwig has put on a uniform, having learnt from his last chafe-ridden trip to the seaside that loin clothes, olive oil, and vigorous exercise don't mix well with sand. In part Choldwig has arrived to boost the morale of his weary and frightened troops; in part, it is also a chance for him to see if the Imperial troops, the 'Spartans of Mittelheim' are as toned and oiled as their ancient name-sakes. For the most part, Choldwig confines his contribution to the Furst's orders group to complaints about the confining nature of his undergarments and a number of excited 'Arroos!'

     And so, like a Mittelheim Pied Piper, Saxe-Peste has led his army of children towards Grosse Varnische, a small village a mile or so from the Baltic coast. The only positive development has been the presence in the village of a passing Zentan circus which, with the promise of gold and an opportunity later to spank his conscripts, he is able to press into service as mercenaries. Whilst the bearded ladies seem a little rusty in the handling of their weapons, the midgets do look like a tough lot.

     (Above) The Imperial Fenwickian army arrives on the battlefield. Sitting manfully astride his horse, Keith, Marshal Cavandish assesses the situation. Having caught up on his sleep during the battle of Zorninhaf, the Marshal is curiously perky. Around him, his headquarters staff laugh and joke: tales of the slaughter of the Rotenburg forces at Chestwig leave the Imperials in no doubt that this is likely hardly to be a battle at all. Cavandish calls for his telescope: 'Let's take a look at this army of children', quips the Marshal, raising his spy glass, 'by looking through the round window'. There is movement in the Rotenburg ranks: it looks like Furst Augustus intends to attack! Cavandish arrays his troops in a strong defensive position centred on the key ground: a small hill that covers his line of retreat. With his front split by a small watercourse, known locally as the Appisch, he deploys his four batteries of skilled artillery adjacent to it, supported by all but one of his infantry battalions. (Above, top) On his left, he deploys a single unit of infantry conscripts on the hill behind the marsh; his three cavalry regiments he places in line covering the rest of his left wing.

     (Above) Furst Augustus cannot guess for certain what the likely outcome of this battle will be, but, like King Richard III, he has a good hunch. Recognising that the odds are against him, Augustus stakes his chances of victory on a high risk gambit. He masses his entire force on his right wing. To the front, he places his cavalry, his intention being to overwhelm the Imperial horse with a brisk cavalry charge, and then swing left to take the enemy guns and infantry from the flank. But it's all or nothing - the left of his infantry line, including the Zentan mercenaries (in blue, red flag), are in range of the Imperial artillery: four batteries with Artillery Academy training are likely to do great execution, especially if they hit conscripts.

     Seeing the Rotenburg troops deploy, the Imperial morale is raised further: surely the Rotenburg cavalry attack is doomed? Cavandish has a supply of stirrups that his cavalry can throw against the enemy, and there is some bad terrain out there that is certainly not on any map. Captain Nitzwitz, the Marshal's aide-de-campe, laughs loudly:

'A single roar from my pet lion will see those rascals off', he comments

Cavandish looks round slowly, 'Your lion, Nitzwitz?'

'Yes my lord', he replies jingling a lead that he holds in his hand, and pointing to his pet.

Cavandish's brow creases: 'Captain, I'm not sure that that's a lion. I think it's a ..ur .. someone help me here...'

Baumgartner, his orderly, chips in: 'I think it's a stoat, Nitzwitz. If it's a lion, it's a very small one.'

'Christ in a sedan chair', growls Nitzwitz. 'I've been fleeced'. Mumbling something, he picks up a chicken and runs back towards the baggage train.

Cavandish looks at his orderly: 'What did he say?'

Baumgartner shrugs: 'I think my Lord, that he also wants his money back on his elephant.'

     (Below) With a loud shout of 'huzzah!' from his regular troops, and a cry of 'where?' from his conscript hussars, Augustus orders forward his entire cavalry force in a hell-for-leather charge on the Imperial Fenwick left. His troops head forward, following their officers more from a sense of curiosity than from any real belief that success will follow.

    

     (Above) But fate has better things in store for the Rotenburg horse. Through his telescope, Cavandish can see the unfolding drama on his left: with rising consternation, the Marshal realises that things are not going to plan. The sudden appearance of an unmapped marsh slows down the yelling Rotenburg cavalry not at all, and they 'find their way' across without disorder. Worse for the Imperials, their firm belief that they would have a hefty set of stirrups to throw into the impending melee turns out to be a mistaken one - instead, some crafty espionage has delivered said stirrups into the hands of their adversaries! Could the Rotenburg cavalry succeed? Could the Furst win his rapid victory?

     (Above) Augustus' need for a rapid victory to his front is reinforced by the unfolding events elsewhere. With thunderous roars, the Academy-trained Imperial artillery opens fire upon the static Rotenburg infantry. Pausing only to snicker at Cavandish's compliment that they are 'bouncing their balls most effectively', the Imperial artillery fires another volley and the Rotenburg left takes a thrashing. First in line are the Zentans: their commander sees the Imperial guns trained on his troops and gulps - the first thing that goes through his mind is how accurate the enemy fire seems; the second thing that goes through his mind is a 12lb cannon ball. Behind him, the bearded ladies get rather more trimmed off the top than they expect and the mercenary battalion collapses quickly. Then a second unit, this time of conscripts, are crushed by the weight of Imperial cannon-fire. Behind them, there is consternation and tears as the raw Rotenburg infantry realises what's in store for them if the Furst's plan goes awry.

     The clash of cavalry! Furst Augustus cheers as his troops fight magnificently! In truth, the combat is already stacked in the Rotenburg favour: two units of the Fenwickian horsemen are raw, much like their backsides, and they are outnumbered and out-stirrupped. Worse, having looked at the map, the Fenwickian cavalry have realised the name of the watercourse to their right. Any way they slice it, 'Appisch Stream' or the 'Stream of Appisch' sounds very, very rude, and the bulk of the cavalry 'Fnar' their way into disorder. (Above) One Fenwickian regiment routs on contact. As the process of charge and counter-charge continues, one further Imperial and two Rotenburg regiments are rendered hors de combat, though none of them are quite clear what thet means. (Below) Despite heroic resistance, the last exhausted Fenwickian cavalry unit succumbs to an attack from both front and flank.

     Could this be the breakthrough that Augustus needs? (Above, top) The Imperial flank consists now of a single regiment of conscripts perched on the hill. But all is not at is is seems. (Below) In the interim, Cavandish has redeployed his artillery to cover his flank. Though Augustus begins to order his infantry up to support his cavalry (below, top right) they have a long way to march.

This is a critical moment. Furst Augustus pauses to the accept the advice offered by Landgrave Choldwig. Contemplating the situation for a moment he then makes his decision: the Imperial flank, with its stream and guns, is too strong. Politely rejecting the Landgrave's plan on the basis that logistic difficulties had left him without the olive oil necessary to lubricate his musketeers, the Furst the now stakes everything on a reorientation of his line of attack. (Below, top) Using oblique manoeuvres, his infantry swings around and, buoyed by their ignorance of war and the prospect of jelly for tea, the Rotenburg line toddles forward towards the Imperial line. 

     (Above, bottom) Cavandish smiles grimly and accepts the challenge. With regular troops, lethal volleys, and a predominantly conscript enemy, he fancies his chances in a clash of infantry lines. He orders his troops to swing out into a battle line to meet the advancing Rotenburg troops. The whole axis of the battle has turned ninety degrees! Cavandish's manoeuvres, though, are subject to some sudden confusion, and there is an almost religious aspect to the deployment of the Imperial troops, as they proceed, like the Good Lord Himself, to move in mysterious ways. Furst Augustus surveys the Imperial line as it moves rather randomly into battle order. His assessment is interrupted by the sight of a small fellow sprinting across the front of their lines: a corpulent chap dressed in an overlarge black robe trailing a scythe that wobbles dangerously. The fellow appears to be saying 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!'. The Furst turns to his orderly. Captain Sebastian Wankrat.

'Wankrat, is that fellow being chased by a small lion?'

'No, my Lord: I think that's a weasel or something.'

     (Below) And so the battle lines meet at last in a clash of flame and steel! To the right is arrayed the Rotenburg front line, four regiments strong. Augustus has his single elite regiment (top, two flags), and regular regiment (middle), with the remainder of his infantry being only conscripts. Four Imperial regiments oppose them. The Furst recognises that this is the decisive moment, and despite much wailing and holding of breath from his conscripts, he refuses to let them halt for some hot milk and a nap.

     Crikey! Muskets roar; orders and screams ring out; smoke rolls heavily across the battle-lines. (Below) As the latter clears, it is evident that the Imperials have come off worse, with one of their units routing under the heavy Rotenburg fire. Cavandish sighs heavily. 'Nitzwitz,' he says, turning to his newly returned aide,'we're going to need a bigger stoat.'

     And so it continues. It becomes evident that, with both sides armed with lethal volleys, the fact that the Rotenburgers are mainly conscripts makes little difference in a fire-fight. Indeed, lacking any experience of combat, the Rotenburg conscripts bring an unusual enthusiasm to the duel of musketry. As they fire-and-load, fire-and-load, most appear now to be having a splendid time: actual war seems much more fun than playing at it: there's no soppy girls, and when you shoot someone, they have to stay dead. Moreover, having now four regiments in their front line against only three Imperials, the weight of Rotenburg fire continues to tell. As the fighting continues, the battle slips quickly and surprisingly from the Imperial grasp.

     Cavandish is desperate: enemy fire has destroyed both the trumpets and drums at his headquarters leaving him unable to exert control over the fighting.

'Nitzwitz,we are at a decisive moment: is there no instrument left through which I can communicate my orders to the troops?'

'I think, my Lord, that there is a horn somewhere. I'll ask.'

And so, before Cavanadish can stop him, disaster strikes the Imperial Fenwickian army as Nitzwitz shouts out loudly through the din of battle to the assembled Fenwickian troops, asking them whether any of them have the horn. Holding his head in his hands, Cavandish watches the disintegration of his troops, his musketeers 'Fnar'-ing and 'Snurk'-ing their way into helpless heaps. He cannot even bring himself to stop Nitzwitz when the captain announces that, although no one apparently has the horn, he vaguely remembers that there might be a clarinet lying around, possibly purple in colour, and that he would be willing to blow it if the Marshal thought that that would help. Slowly, Cavandish dismounts from Keith and walks to his tent.

'I'm off to bed now, 'he says wearily,' wake me up in September.'

     (Above, right) And so, as the casualties mount, it is the Imperials who come off worst: two more of their units rout, leaving Fenwick with a front line of only a single regiment, though they do manage to destroy the Furst's only elite regiment. (Below left) With the morale of both sides low, Nitzwitz orders the Imperial troops forward into a desperate bayonet charge: 'For the King!' cry his troops; 'Grenadiers forward!' cries Furst Augustus.

     (Below) But the Imperial assault proves to be so limp that it might not look out of place nestled in Prince Rupprecht of Bachscuttel's underwear.The Imperial bayonet charge is driven back, and the Fenwickians are now heavily disordered and left vulnerable to Rotenburg musketry, some of which enfilades them.

(Below) And so, with a last Rotenburg volley, most of the remaining Imperial troops rout. The Imperial army can take no more, its morale cracks and the remainder flee. To compound matters, Cavandish later takes ill, the result apparently of an infected stoat bite. Captain Nitzwitz too is wounded, the consequence of being badly pecked by an elephant.

     It is, by any standards, a famous victory for Rotenburg. Furst Augustus has triumphed against long odds. True, it has been a costly victory: he has lost two cavalry regiments, and three Rotenburg infantry regiments, including both of his remaining regular battalions. But the Imperials have had all three of their cavalry units destroyed, along with seven out of their nine infantry regiments. Hurrah for Furst Augustus! God save Hesse-Rotenburg!