Autumn (3 cont)

Autumn (con.t 4) \

Intendent Bastille had strolled into town to take his morning coffee and there met L’Comte d’Beauphaup. As they walked back out the gates to the Gallian stonghold, d’Beauphaup wondered how the Soweiter League was going to take the violation of Offenbach’s neutrality.
Bastille winced internally and casually asked what violation could the good count mean?
“We’ve intelligence that the 5th Porque Line and the Libbenstal Dragoons intend to use their crossing of the Main to move around the congestion around your depot,” the count answered.
“We’ve no such units in the Gallian Army,” Bastille protested.
“Really?” the count asked. “V. Mack reports than his team has intercepted their advance men in the Offenbach outskirts near our batteries.”
“But, we have no such units!” Bastille protested.
“Interesting,” the count responded nonchalantly. “We thought that they were another batch German recruits as only their officers spoke any French, at it was pretty vile .... Oh! Excuse me, m’Lord, I must intercept those flower carts I promised Madame V. Kern an excellent selection for today.”
Bastille strode purposefully back to his office. As he passed the guards at the door, he caught the eye of an ensign. “Get contact with Maistre Pierre,” he commanded brusquely and climbed up to the chart room, where he began spreading out local charts. Lt. Legume stepped helpfully forward and was handed an hastily scribbled note for Gen. Chevert.

Meanwhile, in the fields northwest of Frankfurter, the parish of St. Gertrude was being swiftly transformed into St. Gertrude of Jesus. Nice new statues were added to the graveyard and the nave. Close inspection might reveal that they’d been painted so swiftly that bugs were stuck on them. The congregation was in an unusual state of excitement. Even though few of them were really Catholics, the presence of the polite and healthy young advanced seminarians undergoing some field work experience under Fr. Umlaut was causing some comment. Even the local Anglerican circuit rider was jealous.
To placate him, Fr. Umlaut promised to take some Protestant men in to study Rubrics too. This may have been a mistake as the local frauleins soon realized the later young seminarians were eligible. The Vespers services and benediction began to attract a small crowd.
Fr. Umlaut let it slip that he was looking for a good Mission team (Revival for Protestants) to better minister to the temporary crowd.
An Italian merchant who happened to overhear him at the inn mentioned that he might soon be meeting with an abbot who would probably gladly provide somebody. Fr. Umlaut was grateful, as the merchants usually pushed on through to Frankfurter. The merchant assured the rustic cleric that it was no problem. The merchant had simply been too tired and a little unwell and didn’t want to have to deal with the Frankfurter gate hassles in the late evening.
“Such an experience is bound to leave a Mark on someone,” the priest agreed.
“Well there’s marks and there’s Marks,” the Italian philosophized. “Some are easier to deal with than others. Most of them you can cover up.”
“Just so long as one doesn’t make a Habit out of it, “ Fr. Umlaut agreed. “Ah well, I hope you have good luck, friend. Alas, I must return to read my office before the light fails.”
The Italian toasted him with his stein and watched the priest amble back to the Rectory. Then he rose and went around to the stables where his servant was caring for the horses. “V. Mark is here,” he told the lad.
“For sure?”
“Yes, the priest tried to warn me. I suspect he’s being watched rather closely.”
“If V. Mark is here, then surely the Apostate is not far away,” the youngster enthused.
“That is quite possible,” the merchant responded. “Anyway,” he continued louder, “you need to take the mare out for some exercise tonight. Steer clear of all these military patrols, won’t you, I need the horse back in the morning, and it would be helpful you came back too.”
“I’ll do my best,” the lad grinned as the merchant returned to the beer garden.

A few moments later, he rode an aging mare out of the paddock and down the road. Soon After the road had turned around the hill, he came on an hussar who was inspecting his saddle straps. “Guten Abend!” he called cheerfully.
“Depends on how and to whom you’re bending,” the hussar joked as he straightened up.
“I’ll drink to that!” the lad responded, to which the hussar quickly produced a flask, took a swig and offered to share with “Proust!”
The lad thanked him and took a drink. As he handed it back, he apologized, “I didn’t mean to drink the whole thing.”
“The whole thing?”
“That’s my guess, I’ve got to find the good merchant’s train to give them their Marks.”
“On your Mark, then,” the Hussar responded. “I’ve to to get back to my billet too.”

As the lad rode on into the dusk, SomeRussian Guyovitch mounted and turned back towards the hunting lodge. Events were developing again.

Mud on the Carpets!

Early morning and drizzly rain, the perfect time for a contingent of exhausted, mud splattered riders to crash through the various carts and stalls, splash across the square, and blunder into the palace grounds. As the guards snap to attention (trying to ignore the horrible splatters on their dress whites), the party squelches to a stop at the steps. They help each other dismount, demonstrating a degree of stiffness one would expect from courtiers and overweight nobles who had just endured a grueling, multi hour dash through increasingly foul weather.
As they clatter and clump (and I do mean clump) through the doors onto the marble floors and priceless carpets (much to the dismay of the maids who had just finished their morning cleaning). loud roars (commands distorted by fatigue) bring a few staff officers hurriedly into the hall.
"Your Grace!" one of the men exclaimed, "You almost beat your courier here, we're still gathering."
"Gathering? This late in the day? When we've troops in the field?" the Hurtshog was NOT pleased.
Another over large uniform came through the door. The soldier wearing it was obviously not as fussed about appearances as the first rush of staff officers. He also seemed to have slept, or perhaps not slept, in his uniform. "Your Grace," he mumbled with a polite reverence.
"Okay, what happened, Oscar?"
"Well, we were on that zombie hunt on the border with Maurice when there was a local mutiny."
"Mutiny!?!"
"Yes, Sire, mutiny. We suspect Stagonian agents of course, but before we could prove anything, our flanking brigade ran into a war in Saxe-Bearstein."
"Saxe-Bearstein? Saxe-Bearstein!! Gut Got, Meine Herr, ve haff to haff SOME friends left in the world!" The Hurtshog's facial color was definitely getting florid.
"Nichts! Nichts!" Gen. Meyer reassured his old friend. "We were able to get in on our old friend's side. Already been some fighting down there. We've got Generals Schwann and Rosenschnauz in command of a good expiditionary force."
"By now," the one rider who somehow managed to still look daper intervened, "Gen. Hottatrot will be in command."
Gen. Meyer gave an inaudible sniff of disdain, but continued, "we have a slightly more serious situation though ..."
"I know, little Rausen Marie," the Hurtshog interjected. "I'm hoping we got here before anything happens."
"Well, we're not sure, ...." the old general seemed at lost for a moment how to continue ...
"The depot supplies may have been sabotaged again," one of the staff officers hesitatingly offered.

Meanwhile, Baron Bastille was angrilly shedding clothes in his quarters while staff gathered around. This being a family friendly forum, his comments on Frankszonian politics will not be shared. As his comments about Generals with Royal Favor being even less discrete and potentially harmful to his health, they will also be quickly smothered under a pillow.

Col. Mirage, however, was even more incensed than everybody else!
"Why .... I mean WHY haven't they been shot for mutiny?" he icily demanded.
"Well, Sir," the worried Major responded, "It's just happened, and honestly they do have a solid point. Besides, the powder is worthless ... it hardly ignites, let alone explodes."
"Okay," Mirage's expression seethed with not okay, "what happened."
"Well, the sergeants refused to make the cartridges because they thought the powder had been poisoned."
"Poisoned?"
"To paraphrase, Sir, they said it smelled like a thousand cats had pissed in it."
"That would be some strong saltpeter," Mirage acknowledged. "Go on."
"Well, we tested a bit, and it just smoked and stank, .... And stank, .... and realy gagged us all, Sir."
"Has a chemist examined it yet?"
"That's in progress, Sir." Mirage interpreted this as a more urgent version of "we'll got on it right away, Sir." The major continued, "but I'd guess somebody took some charcoal kitty litter, ground it up, and mixed up the gunpowder in some of the barrels."
"Just how many is 'some,' Major?"
"About a hundred and thirty five, Sir," the happless officer answered. "We're still checking."
"Out of how many barrels checked, Major?"
"A little over a hundred and fifty, Sir."
*Good God! Merci or Merde, Generals Cheveret and Broglie need to know about this right away!* Col Mirage thought. Then he had an idea as how to spare himself the immediate fireworks. "Major," he ordered, "have your personel report to me. You must go instantly and report this to the generals!"
"Oui, M'sr," the Major managed a disciplined salute and withdrawel.

*Now,* Mirage wondered, *which Frankszonian noble has tons and tons of cats around ....?"

The General is indisposed

Somewhere in the Hessian scramble of states, a great army sits muffled against the winter cold. They are depressed as they seem to have stumbled on the threshold of a complete victory. Hesse-Seewald and Germania with British aid have stopped their advance. The cold, iron logic of the situation requires them to fall back on their ample depot near Frankfurter. Around their fitfully smoking campfires, the men are glad that the ground is firming up from the last winter storm. Marching in frozen mush is horribly uncomfortable, and the damage to their kit has all the sergeants practically incoherent. In their iced tents, they listen to the clatter and rumble of the endless wagon traffic bringing hay for the horses and taking the latest casualties ... most with frostbitten toes through the hills.

A low growl of noise seems unending from the thousands of men and their various implements and animals. Through this constant muted cacophony the sentries’ challenges and the clatter of couriers hooves occasionally places a stronger note in the mix. Tonight, however, some of the men at the fires stand up to watch, and some of the men raise their heads from whatever half frozen knapsack serves as their pillow. There is a rush of couriers, a cavalry horn sounds assemble, and staff officers and Brigadiers are seen hurrying about.

In his commandeered manor, General Chevert is irritably listening to an agitated Intendant Bastille. “This couldn’t have waited until the morning?” the General grumbles peevishly.

“Our own agents confirm the broad outlines of their warning,” Bastille asserts. “There could five or six thousand already mustered and more coming. It would be big enough to lob a lot of bombs into the depot, even if we keep them well out the supplies.”

“Really,” General Chevert replies, “shopkeepers, apprentices, farmhands, and the odd old noble who thinks himself a general!” He snorts disdainfully, “these seem hardly a threat.”

“You spend your summers on campaign, mon General,” one of Bastille’s aides intervenes. “These Frankszonians are weird. They pride themselves on their status as a Free State and as the traditional locale for crowning the Emperor. Their summer cook outs are accompanied by competitions in drill, manual of arms, and even marksmanship.”

“And I suspect that a lot of these wounded and prisoners going into Frankfurt are small units of Germanians or British, heavy on sergeants to provide the nerves for the force,” Bastille continues.

“Wounded and Prisoners to Frankfurter?” The General finally shows alarm. “They were supposed to concentrate on Mainz!”

“And, my agent pointed out another concern, General,” Bastille grabbed his advantage. “Many of the reliable and experienced Frankszonian units are involved in this affair down in Alesgarden. The people of Frankszonia are mostly Protestant and support the Elector against the Emperor. There is a good chance that some of the regiments in Frankfurter will turn coat. If they do, our foes could have twenty thousand men, many veteran regiments within yards of the Depot before any response could be made.”

“And Stagonia?” Chevert required.

“They definitely were involved in both the zombie affairs and in this recent mutiny which drew reliable forces out of town through the Stadt Wald ... and possibly in getting them mixed in with this Alesgarden Affair with the Reich Duchy of Beerstein.”

All of the aides now looked worried. Stagonia had the forces and the position to endanger all communications with Vienna and also would be a cancer in any defense of Bohemia. Since Aftschaftenberg was also in turmoil, the entire Gallian position could be fractured.

“What have you done already?” The General asked Bastille. Bastille was an excellent staff officer, and he had not shirked the firing line when his turn had come. The General was sure that the Baron had used his position to start some response already.

“I’ve sent the Marquis Hottatrot on with an escort of Hussars and Dragoons under Col. Mirage,” Bastille began, and defended his impertinence (which had already irritated the General), “ .... his men move fastest and the risk of a preplanned ambush could be best met his alert gifts for this sort of thing.”

“What’s done is done. What else?”

“The rest of the Frankszonian Nobles will be sent on back tomorrow with a flying wing of cavalry, light guns, and some freikorps.”

“I assume that you will accompany them, my Lord,” Chevert nodded.

“I suspect that the Hurtshog would cheerfully reinforce our depot guards with his own Lieb Garde and Cuirassiers in my absence, “ the Intendant acknowledged wryly. “It would be more efficient to steal our depot in one coup rather than the blood sucking they’ve used so far.”

“I am sure that his pet fop will write glowing reports of his sacrifice, energy, and dedication in service to our King and his Empress,” Chevert reflected. “I wonder what his real goal is?”

“Stagonia,” Bastille asserted.

Chevert looked at him for a moment and then back to the map table. “No, my lord Intendant,” he mused. “Stagonia is too far, too strong, and he knows we’d stop it until Stagonia stops sending us men, money, and supplies. Also, this whole thing stinks of that cabal’s little schemes. They’re trying to flush somebody out.”

There was a moment’s pause while everyone considered the irritations of the grating effect of the petty games of petty German princelings. One of the Intendant’s aides wondered aloud, “and where is Roquefort now?”

.....

Le Affair Dishabille

Le Affair Dishabille

SUMMONS!?!
Summons ME?!?
Merde! That @#&*’! Insignificant, flatulent petty princeling!!!
Summons Me!!
The rest of the thoughts of the Baron Bastille are untranslatable, gutter French as he storms up the stairs of a country inn in Hesse Seewald. His aides and l’Comte d’Beauphaup try to remonstrate with him as he storms towards a door slightly more ornate than others in the hall.
Hesse Seewald manages to barely, BARELY, repulse us at their own gates, and this (lost in translation) cleaner of foul orifices DARES to SUMMON me! the Baron rages internally. He bursts through the door.
For a moment of a shattered microsecond, the Baron sees a large room. On one table, there is a steaming samovar and the rich odor of fresh coffee fills the room. Just beyond it, a tall uniform is talking with some rumpled evening clothes. Then time slams on its brakes.
Four large pistol muzzles facing him do not frighten the Baron, but the huge jump in his anger litterally freezes him incoherent on the spot. Indeed, he barely notices the impact of his aides who chase blindly after him.
Before the Baron can find his voice again, the guns are lowered and the dressing coat admonishes, “Have a care, m’Lord Baron! The danger is great and the threat is close upon us!”

to be continued ...

Ingredients added to the stew ...

Events Speeding Up?

Scene I: In the Tannes Mountains near Ausfhart:

Inside the hut, the other woman picks up a sewing basket and starts stitching on some cloth while the men argue about possible routes from the various Resistance camps onto the Frankfurter plan. The forces covering Russelheim are clearly a threat in the field. Should they be bypassed or struck first. Hans argues that the over all strength of Frankszonia must be conserved, and a mere demonstration might keep them in place long enough for depot strike to succeed. Lord Bleah disagrees as his Cheezer forces will have to march past the Frankszonian posts to join in the strike and on their withdrawal.
“Not if you come through this valley and turn towards Hesse Fedora,” Rausen Mariah responded. “The Alte Vater will keep the men in this pass out of the action either way.”
“A friendly neutral?” Emil wonders.
“Nein, Miene Herr,” the unamed man responds. “Even more than the Hurtshog, the Alte Vater has no desire to see Fhartzen hurt in strangers’ quarrels.”
“And,” the seamstress intrudes, “the gold that the Crown of the Britscherwurst will contribute to ameliorate the damage caused by the passing armies will be a great incentive to behave.”
“I thought so!” Emil exclaimed. “We were sure that this invitation would be a request for subsidies for your Resistance forces. Good, we’re prepared to offer ...”
“Nein! Nein!” almost all of the Frankszonians exclaim. “The funds really will be directed to the restoration of the old family seat and for the family reunion.”
Bleah and Emil exchange disbelieving but puzzled glances.
“Germania and the OysterReich are struggling to dominate Deutschland,” the nameless man begins to explain. “The Fhartzen favor the OysterReich and the Merry Teaser, but there are much greater issues which this struggle will pull into the fire.”
“Already, Russian Cossacks and Swedish pirates are moving into Poland,” the seamstress continues, “and the Porte is mobilizing forces. Whether the Trucks go after the Carzina or the Merry Teaser is really a moot point right now. The Merry Teaser will be forced to divert the Hungryones away from Germania and Hesse Seewald.”
“I hardly see how that would motivate we Britischerwurst to worry,” Emil complained.
“Where do you think the armies to hold Bohemia and Prague will come from then?” Rausen Mariah snapped. “The Gallians have already intervened there twice. Do you want a de facto Gallian province to appear all along your southern border?”
“So, you want our help to strike the Frankfurter depot,” Lord Bleah nods.
“And our money and perhaps a little activity to give you a place to run too,” Emil concludes.
“And confusion to the Gallians!” the nameless man exclaims.

Scene 2: a suite in a quality hotel in Frankfurter:

A merchant stands by a table on which he is examining several very fancifully dressed dolls. A valet enters and says, “A person to see you, Meine Herr.”
“A person?”
“I cannot rightly call him a gentleman, Meine Herr.”
“Oh, very well, but give me enough time to put these away first.”
“Sehr gut, meine Herr.” The Valet leaves, and the merchant swiftly places the large dolls in a well padded trunk and locks it. After a minute, a dirty, stinking, ragged relic shambles into the room.
“Teuffel!” the merchant exclaims. “Don’t sit down on these fancy chairs! You’d double the rates we have to pay for this dump. By Wotan’s blind eye, what have you gotten into?”
“Und eine Guten Abend to you, Graf Putzenhoel,” the human wreck responds with a surprisingly well inflected baritone. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything “vile” to drink around would you?”
“Nor to smoke,” the Graf grunts. “You know I have to smuggle these play pretties past the Germanian outposts. Getting caught with them would be expensive enough!”
“Ah yes, the Parisan fashion doll gimmick again?”
“Jah. They provide a nice introduction to Mistress Ewewarp and some of M’Lady’s entourage.”
(For the incognosci, they used to make big dolls with the latest Paris fashions and ship them around Germany so that the local ladies could copy the outfits ... the more anti-French potentates always tried to prevent this).
“Mistress Ewewarp? I know you’re a lecher, but fat old ladies are hardly my cup of tea,” the tramp laughs.
“You’ve not been in the service long, have you, Gummibaher?”
“Just since I made the mistake of playing with that vixen from the Baltic.”
“Playing?” Putzenhoel laughs. “The way I heard it, it was more like being eaten alive.”
“It was okay until one of the king’s girls came in without knocking,” Gummibaher grinned.
“Ha! Was gibts?”
“First of all, as you probably already known, Frau Ewewarp is absent from the city.”
“Humph!”
“And a carriage from the Margravate of Raubenstein has been recieved at the palace.”
“Raubenstein?”
“Jah, und there is a strange cavalry officer in their entourage.”
“The Kerns! Have they asked any questions yet?”
“Nein, but I’ve never heard of the officer before some affair in the Balkans last year.”
“Well, well,” Putzenhoel muses. “I may have to delay my urgent trip to the Bar Line for a bit ...”

Scene Three: A country inn somewhere in Hesse Seewald ....

M/Lord Bastille steps out of the common room into the courtyard and lights a pipe. He looks up at the clouds and the light snow falling with a smirk. He had that scheming petty Frankszonian Duke wrapped up nice and tight and away from making any trouble! His pleasant reveries are interrupted when a tipsy teamster bumps into the shrubbery and shakes some snow onto Bastille’s fine coat.
“Be careful, man!” the Intendant complains.
“Your pardon, m’Lord,” the teamster apologizes. “I seem to be a little dizzy,” he laughs and turns to look up into Bastille’s face.
“Mon Dieu!” Bastille swivels around quickly to be sure no one is watching. “What are you doing here, Master Peter?”
“Working overtime,” Peter answers. “This is a tough gig when all the apprentices and journeymen suddenly leave town.”
“Eh?”
“And I asked for charity from the Anglericans, but they’ve suddenly gone to all short form services and are buttoned up for the cold.”
“Ah,” Bastille nods knowingly, “So the Germanian tyrant is finally playing the religion card.”
“Perhaps,” Peter nodded, “but one of the Frankszonian generals who deserted to Germania was seen talking with Mistress Ewewarp, and she’s missing now too.”
“What is that silly Boche doing now?” Bastille was beginning to get irritated.
“Possibly nothing,” Peter responded. The Intendent waved that off angrily, but Peter pressed on, “the only dispatch rider I saw was coming here, and I’ve not spotted much traffic back to Frankfurter other than wounded and prisoners.”
“Wounded and prisoners?” Bastille’s eyebrows merged with his feathery hat. “Just how many wounded and prisoners and in what size groups?”

Scene Four: A chilly vault under the Frankfurter Cathedral:

A Cathedral Cannon is carefully sorting candles when another priest enters the room.
“Monsignor Virtu!” the Cannon greets him cheerfully, “What brings you here?”
“We need to get the lay brothers together,” the visitor responds with a heavy Italian accent.
The Cannon crosses himself anxiously. “Are you sure? They can be hard to control and can cause some terrible trouble when they’re set loose.”
The Italian is silent for a moment, casting a grave look outside the room. He returns to the Cannon and whispers in his ear, “The Apostate Prince Returns.”

Scene Five: A comfortable suite in a country inn in Hesse Seewald.

The Hurtshog and Beauphaup play chess beside a cheerful fire while General Hottatrot watches the snow fall outside.
“Close that window!” the Hurtshog cheerily orders the General. “Do you want to give your sovereign pneumonia?”
“Not really,” the general responds. “I just thought I heard the sign of a Frankszonian Ritter.”
The chess players both look at him and fall quiet. Outside, the steady clump of heavy boots rapidly approaches the door. At the knock, Hottatrot challenges, “Who goes there?”
“Hauptman MooseHunter, mein Herr.”
The chess players quickly rise while Hottatrot hustles the officer into the room swiftly.
“What’s happening?” the Hurtshog demands bruskly.
“Rose Marie has another crazy scheme going, Sir,” the copper skinned giant responded. “And with most of our reliable forces out of town and going in different directions, this could prove very embarrassing.”
“Does the Intendant know yet?”
“I passed one of his agents just outside of town, and stalled long enough to let him go in ahead of me.”
“Good.”
“But ...”
“Well?”
“Roquefort has gone to ground, Sir,” the Indian said. “We’ve lost track of him.”
“Perhaps the Gallian court has finally decided to reign him in,” Beauphaup suggested.
“They have, but he appears to have skipped even before his assassination scheme went sour,” Moosehunter cautioned.
“And we saw some Cheezer officers posing as wounded being “taken” south after the battle,” Hottatrot noted.
The Hurtshog made an abrupt gesture and walked to the window. He opens it and watches the snow for a minute. “Comte Beauphaup.” he said.
“Oui, your Highness?”
“Please find m’Lord Bastille. Inform him that he is summoned to an immediate conference with the Hurtshog Fhartz von Frankfurter.”
The other men stiffen at the tone and the word “summoned.”
“At once, your Highness,” Beauphaup responds and leaves.

Mountain Dew (the plot thickens)

A get - together Scramble: part two

A few people came out of the house, but they did not come to greet the hikers. Instead, the girl placed her and on Emil’s sleeve, gave him a serious look and said, formally, “Welcome, von Reisling, to one of Frankszonia’s most sacred secrets, The Bock Spring.”
The people from the cottage doffed their hats, and as Emil followed suit, he saw that Hans had grounded his rifle in a veteran’s stance of attention. “Honored, I’m sure,” Emil said, “but why is it so sacred?”
“From here, Frankszonia arose,” the girl responded.
“Ja,” Hans continued. “Once, long ago, when the Electors came to crown a new Emperor, the best beer in the world was brewed from this water. The brewmaster Fhartz sent an entire wagon to them.”
“From that time,” one of the men from the cottage noted, “we Fhartzen have been enobled.”
“We Fhartzen?!?” Emil and one of the strangers exclaimed together. Even as they snatched for their pistols, however, the others reassured them.
“Do not fear, mein Herren,” the first speaker chuckled. “We are truly of the Resistance.”
“The dream of truly free Freistadt derived from the Imperial Receipt is not confined to just .my uncle,” the girl assured them.
“Your uncle?”
“The Hurtshog Stanken Fhartz zu Frankfurter,” she replied impishly.
“Ja,” chuckled Hans, “Our Rausen Marie, the Rose of the Resistance, is a Granddaughter of der Alte Hurtshog.”
“But,” Emil protested, “I know that his agents communicate regularly with the Gallians, and in spite of the hassles he’s caused other Gallian allies, he has provided troops and fought himself to protect Gallian supply routes.”
“The Hurtshog favors the Merry Teaser,” the speaker responded. “As long as there’s no hope of a Germanian nor an Imperial rescue, there’s no point in sacrificing Frankszonians.”
“Besides,” a lady smirked, “the Gallian depot is the best source of Gallian wines.”
“So, the Hurtshog pretends alliance to plunder the Frogs?” Emil asked.
“No, no,” the speaker grinned. “We replace the Gallian kegs with good Rhine wines, locally grown and legally paid for!”
“Of course,” Rose Marie laughs, “we’re careful that the gentlemen who drink their own estates vintages will get their own stuff.”
“Then the Resistance is a sham!” the other stranger shouted angrily.
“Hardly,” the speaker responded soberly, “and that’s why this meeting is necessary.”
“Most of our people hate an alliance with the Catholics,” the other woman said. “And most of the nobles resent the Gallian presence visciously. Now that the imbecile Bastille has removed the Hurtshog, they’re getting ready to act.”
“Without Stanken, we doubt that Broderick Woad will commit his men to the field,” the speaker continued, “and without Hottatrot, a lot of the Frankfurters will drag their heels in fighting their own cousins. We won’t be able to take Frankfurter, nor would we have nearly enough people to actually capture the depot.”
“But we can probably burn a lot of it,” Rose Marie eagerly suggested, “and we can drive the Gallian lapdogs back into their master’s boudior!”
“Then the Gallians would be forced to pull back from Hesse Seewald,” the other stranger realized.
“And then,” Hans contributed, “the Resistance will need a clear path to run!”
“And that,” the speaker continued, “is where you two come in. The Mayor of Ausfhart needs to know that you can clear a quick route out of the valley into Hesse Fedora or even further north.”
“And what,” the other stranger asked, “is the Mayor’s role in this?”
“My Lord Bleah,” the speaker replied, “Stanken may be Hurtshog, but the real head of the family is always the Lord Mayor. Surely you Cheezers knew that!”
“I doubt,” Emil responded, “that our Britischerwurst can get any real strength this far behind enemy lines. Why even involve us?”
“Because Stagonia and the Kerns are about to relaunch their feud on our turf,” the other woman responded. “Neither the Alte Vater nor the Hurtshog care to risk the fall out taking out too many of our cousins. This is a rather pretty dance we’re trying to make here.”
“This stinks worse than Frog Cheese,” Lord Bleah complained. “The Frankszonians would still put nearly 15,000 men into the field if you tried to concentrate for a real strike.”
“Hardly, they’ve got nearly 4000 already committed to the Altenburg affair,” the speaker commented.
“And our agents don’t report to General Mayer,” the other woman continued. “They won’t have time to get their full strength into the field, even if they knew what was going to happen by tonight! Stagonia has some usefulness, it seems.”
“So,” Emil asks, “what is going to happen?”
“These are mountains, Captain,” the speaker responded. “They hide a lot, and city troops won’t be trying to patrol them when a hard freeze hits.”
“And the morning after,” Rose Marie exulted, “my beautiful bronze guns and their friends will be skating across the fields!”
“There is a big risk in that,” Emil cautioned, “Your heat, my lady, just might melt those fields and freeze the guns!”
She laughs as the men turn back to the cottage to begin more detailed planning.

A Hunting we will go ....

The time approaches for the annual visit to Ausfhart by the Hurtshog, Stanken Fhartz.
The old castle of Einfhart has been renovated, and there's a family reunion scheduled for the annual late grape harvest (okay, it's probably later than that in real Germany, but I always liked Reisling Spatlaze Rhine wines).

Since the family is as politically united as Frankfurter itself, this is going to take some ticklish diplomacy ....

Intendent Bastille pours himself a solid cup of Benedictine (Chevert Wine is for more delicate occasions) as he sees L'Comte Beauphaup sashaying towards his office.
I'll have to paraphrase their conversation as I don't speak a word of French ...

Bastille gulps it down and turns toward the door to greet his visitor:
Bastille: Good afternoon, m'Lord. What is the occasion of the honor of your visit?
Beauphaup (taking a sniff from his pomander): Nothing especial, your Excellency ... we just require a few notes of safe passage through the lines.
Bastille: Through the lines?
Beauphaup: Well, there's the Hurtshog cousin, who's declared himself the true Hurtshog and attached himself to Hesse Cassel and his entourage;
Bastille: Permit hostile officers through the lines?!?
Beauphaup (ignoring Bastille's irritation and shock): and the Ritter Frazlewitz, the Hurtshog's illigitimate half brother ...
Bastille: Ah, the old Duke did have a reputation!
Beauphaup: NO, no. That crowd would be too dangerous, somebody might decide to attempt a radical form of legitimization, if you follow my meaning ...
Bastille (even more shocked): So, this "half brother" is not his father's child?
Beauphaup: Of course not, and there is also Bombastus Fhartz, though he'll be a special problem ...
Bastille (a little rocky): a (his voice rises an octave)"special" problem?
Beauphaup: Oh yes, he's a renegade. Casts cannons for the Turk, you know. The Papal agents will be trying to catch him, and Stagonia will be trying to buy him ...
Bastille (with heavy sarcasm): and what is the purpose of these "little requests"?
Beauphaup: Well, the old family castle has been renovated, you know: Nice French style gardens with clear fields of fire and so forth. The Hurtshog feels that a grand family reunion amid the wine fest would help him with the people outside of the city where the Resistance hides out.
Bastille: So he's throwing ANOTHER ball?
Beauphaup: Oh yes. It'll be all local girls except for whomever you and the other foreign notables bring.
Bastille: You expect ME to attend another of the Hurtshog's balls? (His voice rising and trembling)
Beauphaup: Of course! How could we hold a state ball without bringing such powers as yourself? The official invitations probably won't go out for a few weeks yet ...
Bastille: Excuse me, m'lord Count, but I feel some indigestion ...
Beauphaup: So sorry. I'll leave these documents with you ... perhaps some Fraumilch might help?

Bastille lurches abruptly for the closet, waving Beauphaup away.
Beauphaup shrugs, does an about face, and hands a portfolio to Bastille's aide as he minces out ....

A Quiet Fry Up, just a little fishy?

(Apologies for any misspellings of character names here ... a little discomfort healthwise, nothing serious, but I don’t feel like making all the corrections for my bad typing tonight) :_(

After some heated discussions, mostly involving who would be safest where, the whole party removes to the Redan Bastille (a reinforcement of the Frankfurter defenses obtained as a sop to local feelings during the construction of the nearby Gallian prison, both outside the main walls). Not only did all concede that it would be easier to intercept any attacks there, but also there were several crack units already deployed there in preparation for a grand review.
Gen. Broglie was puzzled, however, that the Sage Guard from Frankszonia would not be in the review. Not only was it a Guard unit, and thus usually a part of any formal visit, but also it contained some of the best drilled professionals in the area. Gen. Oscar Meyer grinned wryly and responded, “this week, a lot of the men in the Sage Guard Uniform are better drilled for hunting than for a parade.” The comment confirmed the suspicions that the military members of the party had already entertained about their local honor guard. The presence of squadrons of their own escort was comforting.
In spite of the terror of the previous hour, the Frankfurters cheerfully lined the streets and cheered from their decorated houses as the party paraded through the town under the brightly dyed fabric arches. Cuirassiers following the party scattered silver pennies among the crowd, and a large beer wagon stopped at each corner to hand out a keg. In the side streets, outdoor grills filled the air with enticing smells, promising a flavorful evening to partying throng.
“They seem awful cheerful,” young King Basil commented.
“I’ll drink to that!” The Hurtshog, who was riding with the other sovereigns, responded. “We take celebration as a serious commitment here.”
“So we’ve heard,” laughs Duke Wilhelm. “I wonder how the vivandiers are making out?”
“Fairly often, I hope,” Princes Stuftliana giggles.
“I’m sure,” Princess Alisona said with mock primness, “that their contributions to the general festivities are widely appreciated!”
—
When the party arrives at the redan and takes its place in a pavilion placed on the works, the Hurtshog convenes a quick council. “We have things to consider together,” he comments to his guests, and carefully chooses a spot downwind.
“Your security,” Col. Enigma complained, “seems rather like a sieve. I’d hoped for better after last time!”
“We don’t have the resources of Gallia,” Gen. Meyer snapped. “But we have more than our share of enemies who specialize in secret agents.”
“Gentlemen,” Gen. Broglie intervenes, “there is too much here to indulge ourselves. What information do we have?”
“First of all,” Gen. Meyer responds, “those guns at the Cathedral were northern made.”
“Northern?” Ritter Andrew asks. “I thought they would be Stagonian and from the southern forests!”
“We must consider,” Herr Kunnegunde (Frankszonian Chief Watchman), “that the guns were left behind. They may be a deliberate decoy.”
“But,” the Hurtshog continues, “there is also strong evidence of collusion among our many enemies. We’ve been on alert ever since we found out that Lady Pettygree was coming.”
“I’m hardly an enemy,” Diana protests.
“Indeed not, my Lady,” the Hurtshog responds. “Indeed, we have one regiment that would rather be here to defend you than our southern woods! However, is it not true that when you come this far into Germania, there is a Germanian agent of incredible skill who seems drawn to oppose you? After all, Comte Bastille, we have still received no word on what that little affair near here a couple of days ago was all about!”
Bastille and Broglie look at each other but say nothing.
“Right,” the Hurtshog continues, “and what information did your mother send you, Ritter Andrew?”
“She warns of ambushes, possible sabotage of the powder supplies, and the usual Stagonian poisonous wine.” The young man answered.
“Aha!” Kunegunde exclaimed, “We thought that was Roquefort again!”
“You knew about sabotaged powder and poison?” Bastille demanded indignantly.
“No, M’sr l’Intendant,” Kunegunde answered, “but you must ask the Hurtshog.”
As the group’s attention returns to the portly notable, he calls, “Baddmann! Bring in a keg.”
“So we can drink to it?” Gen. Broglie asked sardonically.
A well suited, middle aged man whom they had seen dancing with each of the ladies on the previous evening enters with another gentleman carrying a small wine barrel. A quick glance passes between Ritter Andrew and the second gentleman as the pair very carefully set the keg on a table.
“I’ve heard of your reverence for wines, your Highness,” King Basil comments, “but this is a tad extreme isn’t it?”
“Gen. v. Pilsner?” Gen. Meyer bows slightly, “if you would be so good as to step to the table to witness, please? Meanwhile, could the rest of you please step into the embrasures to enjoy the bands and the drills out in the drill field for a moment?”
The ladies and their men exchange worried glances ... what new fright is Frankfurter going to reveal? Lady Pettygree, however, pulls loose from Catherine’s worried grasp and steps forward with Cherish Masquerade. “We should probably also observe, General,” Diana insists.
Col, Enigma quickly offers to take her place, but she firmly places her hand on his chest and steps forward. Meanwhile, a double file of large grenadiers forms a solid wall between King Basil and Duke Wilhelm and the military clustered around the table. Baddmann and v. Mack are carefully and slowly working the top off of the keg.
“You will observe,” the Hurtshog begins, “that the keg bears the markings of the Chevert Estate and Vinyards.”
“But! ...” both Broglie and Bastille begin.
The Hurtshog stops them with a sharply upraised hand. “We know,” he nods his head. “Chevert is never shipped in barrels, the estate is very and properly proud of its glass works and its bottling process. An alert shipper brought this to our attention.”
“So that’s why you’ve been burgling the wine stores!” Bastille exclaims. “What is the poison?”
“You’ll be pleased to know, m’lord Comte,” Hzg. Fahrtz replied, “there’s not one drop of poison in the barrel.” He grimaces, “indeed, there’s not one drop of anything in the barrel.”
The collective puzzlement of the party is caught as Baddmann carefully lifts out a small spoonful of black and silvery powder. He flicks the powder onto the floor where it snaps, sparks, and smokes brightly!
“Mon Dieu!” Broglie exclaims. “We could all have small kegs in our quarters!”
“Which is why,” the Hurtshog answered grimly, “why we’ve planned for the fireworks and ball to be an affair in the park. I trust my Grenz and my Jaegers to catch assassins before they get too close out there.”
“May our own light infantry join yours, your Highness?” Gen. Broglie is polite enough to ask.
“We’d appreciate it, but be sure that the sergeants and officers know each and every face.”
“Of course!”
“And, your Majesty and your Highness,” the Duke turns to his guests, “if your escorts could also attend, with swords and whatever, I believe that my Chamberlain, l’Comte Beauphaup has managed to locate enough young ladies to partner them ... it will be a wonderful ball, hosted by the Guilds in your honor, Duchess Lynda. Unfortunately, there will be no masques or costumed waiters.”
“We must be honest with you,” Gen Meyer interjects. “We do expect some more ... ah ... interesting intrusions. But we are quite confident that they will be resolved as thoroughly as the affair Pettygree recently, no?”
The party smile rather nervously, and the ladies press their gentlemen with worried looks. At this, Princess Stuftliana, who had been acting as if a star struck girl to this point, stepped forward. “Dears, your presence would be very, very helpful,” she pleaded. “Besides, the Frankszonian people really have looked forward to seeing you at the ball. We have a wonderful seamstress here, and her girls can create and equip wonderful gowns with interesting features ... like this!” She suddenly displays an expensive pistol, seemingly from thin air. As the group’s collective shock settles, Stuftliana continues, “Alisonia, Diana, no whimpering. I’ve seen the reports on how well you handle pistols. I suspect that the vivandiers are no less qualified also. They are from Monte Cristo after all.” She grinned mischievously, “come, come, girls. Isn’t it time we demonstrated why we demand so much from our guys?” She looked out at the field where a Frankszonian militia unit and some Gallian musketeers were performing an “X” march through drill to the music of drums, trumpets, bugles, and a lot of tubas. “Let’s see if we can bore them as much as they do us!” Stuftliana concludes, laughing.

A Morning's Entertainment

Imagine Johannes surprise when Erwin says in response to his question, "I brought four of my 'fancy' pistols. Would you care for a pair? And when did you ever know me to have an unloaded one about?!" Baddmann gave an approving grunt as the two double barreled pistols disappeared under his cloak.
Mack continued, "I learned this trick when I was in Canada. Buck and ball with a large charge of powder is the key. Makes a hell of a loud noise, you can hit almost everyone in a small room with at least a pellet or two, the cloud of smoke comes in handy if you have to retreat, and by the third shot most crowds have found better places to be, leaving one shot in reserve. Tonight, my friend, I am loaded for bear. Although I'll settle for stag!"
“More like a filthy old goat, I’m afraid,” Johannes responded. “We suspect that Roquefort and M’Lady are involved too.”
“No wonder every time I look around, I see an alert soldier of some type!” Erwin responded. “Looks like you’re going to try to swat flies with cannon balls!”
“That’s the general idea,” Johannes responded. “Hesse Cassel armies are too close to overlook the chance that either the guilds or the Resistance will make a serious effort ... and with all these agents in town, it’s likely that some of them are suggesting it.”
Even though, Johannes sounded like he was just grousing, v.Mack’s watchfulness had been suddenly amplified by what he’d heard. His eyes were moving from one deep shadow in the night bound street when he chanced on a face moving through a light, “Rottenbrat!” he hissed to Baddmann and quickly gestured at an otherwise nondescript laborer still putting up bunting.
In moments, their two horses were at the foot of the man’s ladder and four pistols were held close to some very sensitive areas. “Okay, Hans,” Baddmann growled, “come down very slowly and lean on the wall.
“Private!” he gestured to a nearby soldier, “call for the sergeant of the guard.”
As the soldiers clustered around him and thoroughly searched him, Hans Rottenbrat protested his innocence and productivity. V. Mack had already climbed the ladder for himself, however, and found a smelly, black rag in the folds of the bunting lying under a glass ball.
“So, Stagonia plans on Frankszonia having a hot time tomorrow?” he challenges the now silent and surly agent.
“Ver*%&#!!” Baddmann exclaims. “We’ve got miles of very expensive and brightly died cloth hanging on every house! It will all have to be checked tonight!”
“No need,” Rottenbrat asserts, “I just had time to put up one.”

After the prisoner is removed and handed over to the Gallians for deposit in the Bastille, Johannes and v. Mack hasten to the palace to spread the alarm. As. V. Mack delivers the letter to Andrew, Herr Kunegunde orders the town criers out while the tour party is still happily entertained inside the palace grounds. Several more incendiary devices are found in a couple of hours, and the city returns to its uneasy slumber.
___

In spite of Frankfurter’s fears, the night passed peacefully. The gathering at the palace, aided by the glittering presence of Princess Alisonia, Lady Pettygree, and Lady Masquerade is a social triumph. Princess Stuftliana choose the auspicious moment to make her reentry into the social whirl, looking exotically lovely in a simple gown from Frau Ewewarp. In recognition of the exhaustion of the day’s travel, the party breaks up at midnight.
In the hazy morning, Duchess Lynda and her ladies are awakened by sweet flute music being played by a quartet in the courtyard of the Beerstein embassy. After a breakfast featuring a selection of Frankszonia’s sausages, the ladies are especially delighted by the tour of the porcelain industry. Excellent Delft ware and brightly painted ceramics are displayed for their pleasure. They each get to select a set of some design that they personally find pleasing. After a short coffee with the other high level guests of the Duchy, they get a brief tour of the sausage factory. L’Comte Beauphaup apologizes for the shortness of the tour, but the factory in full production is hot, smelly, and very noisy.
To compensate for the chaotic racket of the sausage factory, the party is led to view the Frankfurter cathedral and the materials used in the coronation and annointing of the Holy Roman Emperor. While they tour the building, choirs take turns singing various hymns and historic songs from the choir stalls.
As they wander through the dusky corners of the Gothic edifice, a gentleman passes Lady Pettygree and whispers, “God save King Charles. Watch the wine.” Before she or Cherish can respond, the man is lost in the shadows. They step behind a pillar to discuss the incident with Catherine when an old woman brushes by who says, “Why do you tempt fate? Germania, though it gives you admirers also gives you deadly greetings. Look high and low!” Then, as a puff of incense causes the ladies to blink and sneeze, the old woman also is gone from sight.
Now thoroughly alarmed, the ladies seek out Col. Enigma who has so often protected them in the past. The whole party, however, is led out to the square, where in one corner a luncheon pavilion has been erected. There, brass bands of school children serenade them, one group presenting “The Tuba Sonnata”. The luncheon is lively ... exquistely grilled fish, bratwurst, and other items blend with the best beverages, laughter and chatter as the ladies and lords flirt and the children from the bands march by, red faced with pride.
Suddenly, the happy noise is shattered by the loud staccato of musket fire! As bullets smash into the crystal and china on the tables by Pettygree and Duke Wilhelm, the ever present guards spot the smoke from the roof of the Cathedral. Gallian and Frankszonian troops return fire, though the professional ear of the officers in the party notice that some of the Frankszonian “Guards” are equipped with rifles. Other soldiers dash into the building to try to catch these dastardly assasins.
The party members begin to scatter as the ladies scream and the men curse, but Col. Enigma catches a glimpse of an old lady beckoning by the Rectory. With loud commands he manages to herd the notables into the house and to get soldiers stationed at some of the windows. Ritter von Meltzer and Ambassador Sgnori Vittorio Moretti demand why they’ve been brought into this building with its large windows when the already garrisoned inn on the square had been closer. Even as the normally imperturbable colonel hunts for a good excuse, a loud, bright explosion tears out of the inn’s basement.
“I knew it!” Enigma exclaims and dashes off to find Lady Pettygree.
For about an half hour, the square is filled with competing troops ... cavalrymen from the Grand Tour, Frankszonian guards, and Gallian Grenadiers. As the confusion and furor die down, and as the smoke from the badly damaged inn settles, the Archbishop reports that the assassins seem to have escaped! “There are just too many hidden passages and acloves in the cathedral,” he explains. “Given the all the confusion outside, if the evil men had the foresight to dress in uniforms, they probably had an easy time making their withdrawal. We did, at least, find the three weapons they were using.”

The King is Coming, The King is Coming!

The ladies gather chattering in Capitaine Malecki's residence. After their adventure and the excitement, the conversation is perhaps a little louder than usual. Even the fine vintages, including some fine old bottles of Chevert don’t seem to calm them. Some of the local battalion’s musicians gather outside to play a few pieces ... and to practice their regimental music. In all the noise, the clatter of hooves from a hard ridden horse and the challenges of the sentries are almost missed. Col. Enigma, who had been inside the house with the Princess Allisonia, however, has learned to always be on his guard when the Lady Pettygree is in the area.
Quickly pulling a pistol from his waistcoat, he steps beside a window and looks out past the drapes.
“Something’s happening,” Diana warns her friends, and in a moment, the cheerful party falls silent and alert ... a surprising number of other pistols appear from the voluminous folds of the ladies’ riding gear. The sound of the guards snapping to attention, and the command “Present ... Harms!” from outside, however, reassure them. Thus, when the door is opened, the young rider is not shocked by the sight of an unseemly number of gun barrels pointed at him. Rather, he minces inside in his silken brocade uniform, fluttering more lace than a rose bush has blooms. He pouts in attempt to appear serious, and bows to the assembled party.
“M’Lords and M’Ladies” (except it should be in stilted school French) the youngster proclaims, “I have the honor a message for Her Highness, the Princess Alisonia, and the Ladies Pettygree and Masquerade to be carrying.”
Even as the Princess begins a gracious reply, Lady Pettygree asks, “From whom does this missive come?”
“It is an urgent note from my Lord, L’Comte de Beauphaup, m’Lady.”
“The old fart’s private diplomat,” the captain declares. “What’s up, lad?”
“If my Ladies will read this missive,” the youngster responds, “I’m sure all will be made clear.”
Lady Cherish Masquerade quickly accepts the proffered envelope, breaks the seal and unfolds the stiff parchment. “Diana,” she exclaims, “King Basil could be here any moment!”

—
In Frankfurter, adjutants and notables are scurrying about in haste. L’Comte Bastille is interrupted in his interrogation of the new prisoners by an harried looking aide. The would be assassins are hurriedly stripped and locked away while the Gallians send their own swarms of messengers into the countryside and to the nearby encampment. Cloth merchants are raided for bolts of cloth to be used as bunting which swarms of apprentices and mechanics quickly nail over the main intersections.
At the palace, Moosart scrambles to get his little orchestra together while the Hurtshog consults with his diplomatic advisors and the StadtRadt leaders. “Can we put together a quick agenda?” is the question on everybody’s mind.
The consensus is that the presence of the lovely and widely admired foreigner noblewomen is a real boon, even if their presence was part of another nefarious plot by the occupying forces of Gallia. If they will participate, a reception and informal fete would give the city a night to spruce up. In the morning, a quick formal inspection of some show troops followed by the mandatory tours of the excellent ceramic works (and a good source of exquisite gifts for all the visitors) and the famous sausage works, followed by a tuba concert. Then a real ball to the music of Moosart’s musicians.
The guild syndics, of course, hope to corral the various diplomats with the party and obtain good contracts for the long lasting Frankfurter field sausages, artillery from the foundry shared with Offenbach, and similar condiments. Their primary anxiety is that the Hurtshog is going to try to intervene to make these contracts very favorable for the young King Basil, as his opposition to the Turkish hordes may open up new products for pork based products.

=—
As the afternoon wears on, the convoy of the Grand Tour is delayed by numerous check points. The closeness of major armies for Gallia and Hesse Seewald involves numerous little challenges for the diplomats riding with the party. Finally, a couple of chivalrous generals from the opposing sides generate special passes and each contributes a ceremonial escort ... a fact grimly noted by some nondescript shepherds as the party passes through one of the many woods near Frankfurt.
As the now enlarged party exits the hills overlooking the fortress town and its surrounding encampments, two squadrons of cavalry approach. The first to arrive is a somewhat dusty but otherwise impecable Col. Enigma and a troop of hussars. With a lovely caracole, he brings his troop into the double file reception lines along the road. Riding up to the royal coach, he makes is bow and politely welcomes King Basil and Reich Duke William on behalf of l’Comte Bastille, Intendant of Frankfurter, and General Broglie of the nearby Gallian army.
While the hussars, whose escorting troops seem to gravitate towards the vivandiers from Monte Cristo, squeeze in beside the considerable force already present, a glittering troop of Frankfurter Guard Cuirassiers arrives at a more sedate pace. General Hottatrot rides forward to deliver a somewhat florid greeting, but winks at the ladies as he delivers it. Ritter von Meltzer, in command of the convoy’s escorting cavalry, however, notes that a considerable number of dragoons had peeled away from the Cuirassiers during their approach march and seemed to be carefully searching the fields and copses off the road.
“Is there some problem?” he inquires of General Hottatrot ... indicating one of these hunting parties.
“Rumors, my man, rumors only,” the genial general responds. “Just taking precautions against any eventuality ... we are rather close to some angry folks here!” he laughs.
*Ja,* King Basil thinks, *rumors, Das is richtig ... und rumors in Morea wenn Ich comt also*

A Very Dry Vintage

A Very Dry Vintage

It was a dark and very quiet night (okay, I couldn’t resist). With no moon, the stars over Frankfurter sprinkled back from the wavelets on the Main. Along the unloading piers for the Gallian depot, the sentry marches tiredly on. Quietly, after the sentry has passed, two figures suddenly appear on one of the barges and step quickly across to the pier to one of the ramshackle sheds thrown up by the Gallian suppliers. The smaller fiddles with the door for a second, steps through and then back out and nods to the larger. The large man, who even in this dim light looks like an old copper statue, ducks under the lintel and a moment later steps back out carrying a barrel. The two step back onto the barge and disappear. The whole action taking less than a few seconds.
In the dark, sentries exchange the sign and countersign, and the local private wearily plods back the wier to the other end of his beat. As he passes, a strange, long boat with both ends curved up and together slips silently out into the river. The two passengers steadily and stealthily dip their paddles into the water and cross over towards Saxenhousen.
“That was quick, Moose Hunter,” the short man in the front of the canoe whispered. “Are you sure you got one?”
“Third one I picked up, Johannes,” Moose Hunter replied. “It’s full, but there’s no liquid in it.”
They quietly finish their voayage and get pulled through the muck on the south shore by a couple of soldiers. The barrel is lifted onto a small cart, and the soldiers led by a young Fahenjunker and an Hauptman hurry through the dark streets followed by Johannes and Moose Hunter. They stop at what appears to be a run down boarding house and carry the barrel inside. The soldiers step outside again and march away except for the two officers who move slowly towards a darkened inn.
“So! Our little Gallian lap dog is stealing from his master again!” the Fahenjunker cheerfully commented.
“Hush!” the Hauptman answered quickly. Then he looked carefully around and lowered his voice. “It’s time you started to pay attention to things that a nobleman should notice. And it’s time you learned to keep your mouth shut too, now that Kunegunde has Bastille’s little house to take the blame for his actions.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” the youngster apologized. “What is it that you want me to notice?”
“Frankszonia has fought four wars with other Gallian allies ....”
“And the Hurtshog has carefully held back the best troops at the last moment to ensure that they win!”
“... But under the cover of those little squabbles, the Hurtshog has eliminated the pockets of territory cutting up out Stadtholdings and more than doubled our territory and resources.”
“So he’s a good little Hurtshog who is nicely improving his claim,” the youngster snorted.
“Wake up, Son! The Hurtshog and his councilors are quite serious about Deutschland vor Deutsche Volk. They’ve got this impossible dream of some sort of confederation of little states that can keep the big boys from tearing up our towns for their playground.”
“Isn’t that what the Wieners and their Reich are supposed to be doing?”
“Ja, and you can see for yourself how wonderfully well THAT is working.”
“So what? If our tiny army sneezes, Bastille and Broglie will impress whoever is unlucky enough to survive “
”If Germania and Hesse Seewald win another big one nearby, where will all those Gallian troops be? With the Resistance fighters who always seem to get away, the supposed deserters under Pepperoni and Braunsweiger, and few other friends like Hesse Fedora, I suspect that the Hurtshog will have enough to hold Frankfurter until relieved.”
“So we’re going to double cross the frogs?”
“Only if we have to. We are quite aware that neither Germania nor Hesse Seewald are really all that interested in having a lot of little autonomous duchies to deal with. Now hush. Not a word of this even to Mother or you sister and especially not to Fraulein Busch!” At this point, they open a dark door from which light and laughter spilled.

Back at the rooming house, two nobles carry lamps into the dark sitting room. They are accompanied by a scholar. One of them reveals a prybar and starts to open the barrel.
“Careful, Your Highness!” Johannes urges.
“Somebody has to, and too many have to be hurt for me these days,” the stout man answered.
As the lid rises, a dark powder is revealed. All turn to the scholar who comes forward, lifts a small pinch out and carries it to a lamp where he studies it with a magnifying glass.
“Well, Rabbi?” the other nobleman demands.
“You were right, General,” the scholar answers. “It’s not gunpowder. This looks more like the flash powder they put into fireworks to make the loud noises. Frankly, it could dangerous if somebody charged his piece with a normal measure.”
“Are you positive, Badmann, that the Gallians don’t know about this yet?” the Hurtshog asked.
“I’m not sure,” Badmann responded. “This barrel is marked the same as that spoiled juice that Bastille and all the Gallian peers drink.”
“Then there should barrels like this in the private quarters of almost every Gallian notable around here,” Moose Hunter grunted.
“Do we tell them?” the general asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” the Hurtshog mused. “We do brief our cleaning ladies and so forth right away ... let’s see if we can get this stuff before it goes off. This could be M’Lady’s or Stagonia’s handiwork, but Roquefort has his own nefarious agenda, and we’ve put a monkey wrench in it. He may be looking for some sudden job opportunities for his own agents.”
There was a moment’s silence, and the Hurtshog turned to the scholar. “I’m a bit thin right now, Rabbi,” he said, “but I think that boatman friend of yours and his family ought to spend the next Passover in Jerusalem on a small stipend. Otherwise, let’s get this to a more useful spot. Moose Hunter, Lady Pettygree is nearby. That means M’Lady is too. Hunt her and see if any threads come loose. Guten Nacht!”
The noblemen both walk quickly out of the room and disappear down the hall towards the back of the house.

An interview with Intendant Bastille

Once again, the enigmatic Master Peter has come to see the Intendant. This time, he is accompanied by a tall, grey haired man with obvious military bearing and a pretty young woman with red-gold hair. Even though the spring thaw has turned the roads into muddy streams, their clean clothing speaks of traveling in a closed coach.

The Intendant examines them curiously. All Master Peter had told him was that these people had requested a private meeting to occur before the Hurtshog returned from the conflict with St. Maurice.
M. Peter: M'Lord, may a I present to you the Baron Grey and the Lady Rose?
Bastille: Nommes d'guerre?
Grey: (with a wry smile) sort of, my Lord. Sort of.
Bastille: (irritated grunt) Very well, if it must be so. What is it that you wish to speak about?
Rose: Your captives.
Bastille: My captives?
Grey: Yes, my lord. We wish to negotiate a prisoner exchange for our heroes in your dungeon.
Bastille: Prisoner exchange? (angrily) that's for soldiers, not treacherous plotters!
Rose: (angrily) Treacherous to who? We are not Gallians!! You ...
Grey: (Interrupting and placing a hand on Roses' shoulder) These people are captives taken because they've resisted an alien occupation of their homeland. They are not thieves, they did not try to overthrow your king. They thus share the same status as the musketeers in Hesse Seewald's line.
Bastille: (sardonic) I doubt that the Hurtshog would take such a view.
Rose: Then let them be held in a Frankfurter house and tried by a Frankfurter court, not immured in a Gallian cell.
Bastille: These people were found to be a threat to our lines and to our troops. We can't just let them go.
Grey: But what did any of them actually do? Not as much as a single battalion of Grenz or a squadron Hussars! And those men would be eligible for prisoner exchange.
Bastille: I do not have the authority to actually conduct such negotiation. I will however speak with Gen. Broglie concerning this, and I'm sure M. Peter will be glad to communicate anything further to you.
Rose: May we at least see the prisoners and do what we can to comfort them?
Bastille: A natural request (assumes stern stance) but at the present moment, out of the question.
Grey: We may not even see them?
Bastille: M. Peter will communicate with you. The question is not closed, I assure you; but at this time I cannot continue this conversation.
Rose: But ...
Bastille: You are dismissed, my lady!
Bastille rings a bell and guards enter the room, they escort M. Peter and his party out.
Bastille: (pacing) now here's a pretty kettle of fish. I wonder how the Hurtshog's court will take this complication. His spies are as pernicious as fleas!

Frankfurters on the Boil, Again!

Frankfurters on the Boil Again!

After a muted celebration of the minor victory at Ginnheim, the Burger Masters are concerned with the closeness of the Hesse Seewald army. While Marshal Broglie’s forces are still extremely strong, there is no escaping the fact that the Seewald generals have had a string of successes. Given the strong anti-Gallian and anti-Imperial sentiments among parts of the population (especially the Anglericans), the situation is very unstable. The town leaders are grateful that the anti-Gallian resistance and the odiferous Cheezers are retreating!

An angry deputation, however, has come to the Intendant Bastille. They are supported by an irate crowd in the streets. Ragged refugees have arrived in Sachsenhausen across the bridge. Raiders from St. Maurice are ravaging farmsteads in the southern forests! The Frankszonian landholders demand Gallian action to control this insidious backstabbing which is so similar to the Stagonian vileness!

Once again, the Militia drums are beating and forces are being led south by the flamboyant Marquis d’ Hottatrot. The Hurtshog is racing back to the city with his Guard corps and some other troops.

While Col. Brattman is dispatched to the Kingdom of St. Maurice with an angry protest, l’Comte d’Beauphaup has all merchants from St. Maurice called into the palace. “Due to the current outrages, murders, and devastation occurring in the Teuische Heeren Waldt,” he announces, “all assets of subjects of the Kingdom of St. Maurice are being appropriated at this time.”
After the outraged protests of the merchants have been somewhat stilled by the cocking of the gendarmes’ carbines, he continues, “your property may be redeemed by ransom, and anything not dispersed during this emergency will be returned when proper reparations are obtained from your King. In the meantime, it is highly advised that you depart Frankszonian territory by nightfall.”

This brings more protests, as the roads south are now closed by Frankszonian troops. Beauphaup, however, points out that Offenbach is but a few hours ride away on the south bank of the Main and would be an excellent refuge. The skeptics in the group are also grimly aware that the Soweiter League and Frankszonia have become very friendly since the Tipple Bruder affair.

The farsighted in Frankfurter’s church steeples can discern plumes of smoke rising above the wooded hills a long way to the south .....

(Note: by and large, the place names used here are actual places near Frankfurt ... we’re hoping to generate a new proxy game ... arising from the fact that the zombie outbreak in St. Maurice is in an area close to the Frankszonian territory).

Interceptions

A courier arrives in Frankfurter for Intendant Bastille from Gen. Broglie:

Among other trivia about supply trains, depredations from desperadoes, and the piccadillos of German subordinate allies, a copy of an intercepted letter found on a Britischerwurst dragoon officer:

"To: My Lord, the Duke of Hesse-Seewald;
From: Shtille Fhartz
Re: Proposed cooperation

"Sire:

"We are eager to accede to your suggestion that we engage the forces along the Main from their rear while you operate on their front.
"Indeed, such an opportunity would be an answer to our constant petitions to the Divine to liberate our beloved Frankszonia from the odious occupation by the degenerate Gallians and their effete puppet, the Hurtshog v. Frankfurter.

"Unfortunately, even though we were able to divert the Empress's largess to Hesse Homburg to bring Prince Pepperoni's battalions and squadrons up to strength, the Cheezers are reluctant to engage the Gallian engorged forces of the Hurtshog. Especially because their usual provocateur and supporter, the Marquis de Roquefort is hesitant to come too close to the attention of M,sr. Le Charade at the moment.

"However, should you be able to dispatch a cadre of good officers and sergeants to the encampments between Limburger and Russelville, we expect that we will be able to raise sufficient battalions to make at least a credible diversion in cooperation with your actions.
The inclusion of good artillerists and their guns would be especially appreciated due to our losses at Bischof.

"Failing the dispatch of such a cadre, could your beneficence at least provide us with sufficient resources to sustain our forces and to recruit qualified mercenaries?

"Sincerely,
". Fhartz, Landgraf zu Beerfranks "


The Baron Bastille rings for his secretary as he considers the fact that Shtille Fhartz is rumored to employ silent but deadly assassins ....

The Frankfurters are boiling ....

Let's see:
Johannes Baddman will suureptiously leave a file in Broglie's tent which claims that Hesse Homburg has indiscriminately recruited forces and leaders which bear The Empire no good will and Gallia even less ...

A clerk from one of the BurgerMasters of Frankfurter will approach either Broglie and / or Intendant Bastille to point out that the Hurtshog's activities have been serious problems for Gallia's other minor allies, and perhaps is overdue for replacement ...

Phillipe reports to the Intendent that the malcontents have recruited Dutchmen and coming down from Limburger to Russelville form a serious challenge to the Hurthog's forces in that area, and if victorious would be able to march into Mainz and cut the supply lines for both Broglie and Chevert ... that later, btw, looks good for a proxy fight ...

:)

Frankszonia on th e move again?

Battle of Ginnheim ... opening moves ....

Since I fully agree with Otto that the fun in the 18th century comes from the interplay of dances, balls, affairs, and intrigue, I’d planned a lovely scene in which L’ Intendant, while attending a low key dinner = dance honoring Granny Loomis, is whisked off by Madame Rosenschnauz “to be measured by Mistress Ewarp again for a fancy dress outfit (the Madame is VERY dedicated to her husbands career),” courtesy of Granny Loomis, of course.

Unfortunately, a minor health setback has resulted in me dumping two attempts at writing a nice baroque flirtation ... and one attempt at believable dialogue between officers. So, here’s to just the setting and plan .... fill in your own imaginary giggles, winks, sashaying, chamber music, and illicit cuddles ....

Once in the side chamber, however, Bastille is secretly met by the Hurtshog and some key advisors to request the loan of a few siege guns and engineers to compel Russleheim to behave. As Russelheim is but a small town that happens to be strongly posted, they doubt that Gallia will want to undertake a real siege .... but it has proven to be an irritating entre pot for Cheezers, Germanians, and opposition Frankfurters. So a few guns to smash a few warehouses and to start some other fires ought to be enough to get Russelheim to promise to be more circumspect in the future.

Bastille hears this, and promises to consider it, but he is also aware (thanks to Master Philippe) of some other factors:
A: the immediate threat from Stagonia is eliminated, and there has been a steady movement of Frankszonia forces to good semi-permanent barracks north of Frankfurt ... near the roads leading to the Gallian depot.
B: Frankszonian troops have been engaged in extensive drill work, in spite of the inclement weather (okay, cold, wind, sleet .... not the tornadoes, hail, and floods I’ve been dealing with lately!).
C: General Meyer has twice conducted “assembly drills” to train the natives to muster quickly (like most German states, Frankszonian native troops get extensive furloughs in winter and in peacetime to practice civilian crafts and business).
D: Discontented former Frankszonian officers have collected units in Hesse Homburg, in spite of their alleged opposition to Gallia .... but that these units have not been fielded during the recent Homburg / Fedora clash.
E: Thanks to his New Year’s clemency, the Frankfurter countryside is seething with intrigue again.

Now does he grant the Hurtshog’s polite request?
After all, a couple of 24 pounders and a few mortars with their crews and engineering officers would provide him with a good lodgement within the Frankszonian ranks to obtain more detailed intelligence and influence.
On the other hand, there’s rumors that the conflict in the north is heating up, and these units may be requested anytime by Broglie or Chevert ....
And ...
does Bastille really want to move heavy armaments out of their protected position into the Frankszonian forces???

If he refuses, what might the Frankszonian reaction be??

:)
* Francios l'Marquise de Hottatrot:

Update, blind date?

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

Apologies, dear reader, for this Lo-o-0-ong post ...
I've been down medically lately, and just now am getting around to updating stuff ...
This is the key political exchange and contains just a hint of a possible event at Tipple Bruder, where the battle approaches ...
Arthur


l'Prince de Charade and the Frankzonians, cont.

I was going to post this as a comment, but alas, it would have been buried.

The Margravaine Rhabbidiers, in her exquisite gown and lace, tends to speak lowly and quietly to an "interpreter." While her French is actually quite fluent, her voice is quite ... ah ... non-diplomatic, so speaking quietly behind her fan, the Prince is not subjected to the normal screeching drill effect of her conversation.
Besides, it gives her an excuse to enjoy the wine she first tasted in the General's tent last year ... in rather late affair of state ...

"Your Highness, I must warn you first that this is an official "Note of Protest." It's a necessary maneuver, as I am glad to explain.
We've communicated several times in the past for the need for some sort of formal accord between Frankszonia and Gallia, and now the situation has reached a crisis point.
"Please understand, our court would be horrified if Gallia actually followed the requirements of this protest. Most of our army, including the foreigners, are afield against Stagonia. Our Duke is ill and his heir is but an unweaned piglet. There remain at least two strong factions which would love to include the Ducal family in their sausage recipes, not to mention the many enemies we've made for ourselves while struggling on Gallia's behalf. The simple solution, for which Frankszonia earnestly hopes, is the creation of a formal accord between the Gallian monarch and its representatives and the Hurtshog and his representatives.
"Now, if you'll permit my strong voiced friend here his unpleasant duty."

From: The Hurtshog Stanken Fahrtz von Frankfurter
To: His Sublime Majesty, King Louis XV, monarch of Gallia.

My dear cousin,
Sad necessity requires that we protest most vigorously against the illegal presence of Gallian forces in Frankszonian territory.
Your precipitous invasion of our admittedly small land was previously unopposed as at that time you were in alliance with her Supreme August, the Empress. Unfortunately, however, the Imperium and Hesse-Seewald / Gemania appear to have arrived at some sort of accommodation.
As a loyal component of the Upper Frankonian Kreis, we also, in the absence of any other authorizing conjunctions, must therefore withdraw from the forces opposed to the Germanian aggressions.
This creates a series of unpleasant complications:
First of all, the Bastille which now stands just outside our walls must be given over to Frankszonian forces and the prisoners within, whose incarceration was necessitated by the conflict, be released

(The Margravaine giggles ... and whispers, "Certament! With nothing but a palace guard and children to hold it and to face all those virulent foes of the Hurtshog! Even the Intendent Bastille the sour face must laugh at this!")

Secondarily, the magazine and arsenal assembled by Gallia within Frankfurt must be evacuated and Gallian forces remove themselves from the city and its environ.

(The baron himself, winces at this, "that will leave us a nice raw casing for somebody to stuff, no?")

Thirdly, as ;'Intendant Bastille has shown himself an industrious and patriotic Gallian commander, we will not act upon these demands until adequate communication between our courts has occurred, however, these demand will be posted soon within the city and copies of this note provided to the Imperial court..

(the Margravaine: "Those Wienies!)

Interim, the Hurtshog sincerely hopes that the admirable offices of the brilliant Gallian ministers will provide a suitable solution for our contretemps.

Regretfully,
Your Cousin, the Hurtshog Stanken


Sunday, December 16, 2007
Gallian News

GALLIAN NEWS

Port Of Le Havre:
A powerful squadron has entered the roadstead. Some think ice remnants aboard all vessels tells of a return journey from near Arctic climates. The Shetlands? Surely yes because little Alerte, the dispatch vessel for l’Chevalier du Nord whose route was between Le Havre and The Shetlands is with the squadron. We note some of the Gallian vessels are en-flute and riding higher in the water than previously. The Chevalier du Nord boards a river galley for a voyage up the Seine to Versailles to report to The Foreign Ministry about events far to the north.


Channel Isle de Pettygree:
Shrouded in wintry winds and snow squalls, news is nil. We only know that General Pettygree (forced to retire by Parliament) remains ill but is recovering. His decade long exile to Rose Manor remains in effect given his sympathy for the Jacobites in the ’45. He is reconciling himself to the status quo and the fait accompli of Cumberland’s victory. His children, Lady Diana, for one, remain vexed by their father’s exile. This accounts for their meanderings on the continent within and without Gallian events and personalities.

Fortress of Louisbourg In The New World:
No news. Blockaded no doubt by Britannian ships of war. But winter will break the blockade.

Germania (See the “Friedrich” board game map, if you please):
Marshall de Broglie left Minden and the Britannian Army of the Marquis of Granby there for the magazine at Koblenz. A garrison of 10,000 men was left there while the rest of the Army removed itself to the west of the Rhine to rest and recuperate.

L’Duc De Poyanne formerly at Frankfurt Am Main marched to the westward of the Rhine River taking 10,000 Gallians with him to join Marshall de Broglie. De Poyanne left 10,000 men under the command of Intendant Bastille at the magazine at Frankfurt Am Main and sent 2,000 to reinforce Lt. General Chevert.

Lt. General Chevert has encamped his entire Army at the fortress of Gemünden where refitting continues in preparation for the Spring Campaign. Some think he will be ordered into Bohemia (Saxe-Bearstein) when the Armistice between The Imperium and Germania falls to pieces. Should there be trouble in Frankzonia he is within two days march of Frankfurt Am Main.

Intendant Bastille in charge of the Gallian magazine at Frankfurt Am Main has accepted the withdrawal of so many Gallian soldiers with an ulcer or stomach ailment of some kind. Still, he does command 15,000 Gallians in the town, has trebled the guard and locks the gates every night. He has allowed a small number of partisans and malcontented prisoners out of the jail to return to their families for Christmas. The worst remain under lock and key. On his mind, if peace remains in the city, he will release more. He awaits fate.

Versailles:
Foreign Minister Prince de Charade has informed the Frankzonian delegation that Gallian forces have initiated a first step in satisfying two Frankzonian demands. #1 Gallian military forces in the region are reduced. #2 Gallian military forces remain near in case the Hurtshog finds himself in some trouble for his support of Gallian interests. The Hurtshog plays a dual role and perhaps a dangerous one with his subjects so contrarily divided between support of Gallia on the one hand and the Marquis of Brandenburg (Frederick II) on the other. Charade has also informed the delegation that Intendant Bastille has been ordered to release some prisoners as a gesture of good faith with the hope nothing further will affect peaceful relations between Frankzonia and Gallia.

Lady Diana Pettygree, her particular friend Lady Cherish Masquerade and her confidant Lady Belle Silhouette just back from the Channel are rehoused in their apartments in Versailles.

Lt Gardier of the de Saxe Lancers has returned to Versailles as well to resume guarding Lady Diana there. He has companioably welcomed the supernumerary Monsieur Briege into the unit. Tonight they dine to get to know each other and from there discuss the rules of engagement.

That Woman:
No sign of her. All must be well.

Dunkettle Castle (Two weeks ago):
L’Comte de Albany now ashore in his homeland briefly addressed the assemblage of warriors aforrrrrrrre him.

“My brothers. Today I have returned to my homeland and my birthright that you have so gallantly and loyally supported this past decade. You see behind me the Royal Standard raised once more for my restoration and for the return of your rights. I have. We have powerful allies in Tradgardland and King Louis of Gallia. As proof my people, you see my Royal Écossais being rowed ashore from the Gallian squadron thither.” [He turns pointing to seaward. The crowd loudly shout their approval tossing bonnets high into the air. When the din subsides the speaker continues.]

“Now my brothers, let us welcome home your exiled soldiers and friends. We shall feast tonight and tomorrow we will speak of the future and what is next." [l’Comte de Albany raises his bonnet, turns to bow momentarily to Gallian l'Chevalier du Nord and sweeps his eyes left and right at his subjects as the assemblage resumes it accolades and applause amidst deafening shouts of Long Live Charles Edward Stuart!]
-------------

Posted by Gallia at 8:53 PM

1 comments:

Frankfurter said...

At the offices of the Intendant:

The Intendant stands by the fire, observing the work of his shivering staff. A guard enters and presents a small note to the Intendant:
Intendant: (reading the note), so, a merchant wants to sell us something? At least this might be useful, he swears that we will be kept much warmer. Admit him. Watchfully.

The guard steps out and returns soon with another guard, a merchant, and some laborers carrying a large crate. They place it on the floor with care, as the item is obviously heavy. The Intendant recognizes Philippe as one of the laborers.

merchant: My Lord, Gentlemen, have you perhaps heard of that young American genius, Franklin?
(A very few of the men look interested as the laborers open the crate. )
Behold! the Franklin Stove! With this item, one need no longer suffer with a frigid room where only the tiny space near the fire is liveable. With this marvelous innovation, the fire and its heat can be safely brought into the middle of the room and its generous warmth enjoyed by all! If you would graciously allow my stout fellows here to install this device, within the hour, you will be able to work with only one set of gloves and your mufflers can hang on the wall! I promise that if you are not pleased with this product, its very nature means that I can soon remove it and place elsewhere at your convenience!
Intendant: Perhaps this experiment would be worthwhile gentlemen. If you all would withdraw to the outer rooms, perhaps you would enjoy a pipe and a goblet of mulled ale while these men do their work.
(the staff rises to leave, while the merchant beams excitedly)
Master, perhaps you’d care to join my staff? I’m sure your crew knows what it’s doing, and I’d like to observe.
(Merchant follows staff outside, as the black iron pieces, bricks, and sand of the stove pile up on the floor)
Intendant to Philippe: Come, good fellow, and explain what your compatriots are doing to me.
(both go aside)
Intendant: Well?
Philippe: At least you still outnumber the Frankszonians, my Lord ... and you’re even stronger locally than your staff reports.
Intendant: What? Has the mercantile party finally named its price?
Philippe: Well, that Frankszonian army to your south ...
Intendant: Yes?
Philippe: It’s well sited, has more artillery than Frankfurter is supposed to own, and quite ready to slog down on Offenbach whenever the cavalry returns.
Intendant: Returns?
Philippe: The Frangipani Hussars and the noble Reiters aren’t in their camp. Nor are any of their light carts.
Intendant: A flying column, but where?
Philippe: I suspect that they are going to try to intercept any Stagonian attempt to interfer, but I’ve not found any evidence that they turned back to the Main once they slipped south yet.
Intendant: Those reiters don’t like us.
Philippe: Neither are they excessively fond of the Hurtshog, but Frangipani has a good reputation, and his force is the stronger element.
Intendant: None the less, I shall alert Gen. Chevert immediately. I think he has special orders regarding this Stagonian / Frankfurter affair.
Philippe: Another thing ...
Intendant: yes?
Philippe: This merchant tells me that the Hurtshog has ordered several of these stoves for the new barracks just north of the town.
Intendant: New barracks?
Philippe: If you’ll excuse me, m’Lord, they need my help now in assembling this thing and putting its iron chimney in place.
December 17, 2007 4:35 PM

Note from the Hurtshog Fahrtz to l'Intendant Bastille

Sire,
We apologize for recent impressment of several of your Gallian laborers into the forces of Frankszonia. After interviewing your straw bosses, however, it seems that the number so encumbered is only about a hundred or so, barely 20% of your work force. Since we have a sufficient number of skilled personnel in our debtor's prison, we would gladly permit them to be dragooned into your service for your projects in this area.

Please understand that this was not an intentional intervention, the press gangs were looking for mechanics and laborers, and in the low class inns at night, such distinctions are quite easy to ignore. Our own native labor pool has suffered much higher stress from the current crisis also. So the employment of these artisans by your foremen would ease a number of local political stresses.

Surely you are pleased with the quiet redeployment of Frankszonian main forces to the south. While we've retained some key units for our personal and urban security, we feeel that the Gallian muster in the area is sufficient to sustain order on the right bank of the Main.
\Our scouts have gathered information that implies that the Vile Stagonian force which recently struck us at Offenbach has redeployed to the south east, apparently planning to join in the Stagonian violation of peaceful Tipple=Bruder. In spite of the treacherous acquiesence of the Offenbach leaders in the Vile Stagonian duplicity, we feel that to support the Soweiter League and its associates is the best policy for an Imperial Frei Stadt. Therefore, our forces will again advance on Offenbach to see if this might draw back the Stagonian Brigade from their depredations in the Odin Wald.

Meanwhile, the battalions which so bravely held the Hesse-Sewald assault are being rebuilt at our outpost across the Main from Offenbach. While there, they are constructing earthworks sufficient for a battery of heavy artillery sufficient to reach across the river to the Offenbach docks.

While our officers are dismayed over the recent turn of international diplomacy, as an Imperial Frei Stadt not holding a distinct and explicit treaty of alliance with Gallia, we are compelled for the time being to withhold further direct assistance of your brave heroes. By the Imperial agreement, Frankszonia is no longer an enemy of Hesse Seewald. It is our sincere hope, however, that the Gallian Foreign Minister will soon rectify this rather embarrassing encumbrance with a sufficient instrument of friendship which acknowledges us as an autonomous entity.

Meanwhile, an anti-Stagonian alliance has arisen all over the continent. Indeed, we expect to hear of a major clash in the region of Tipple-Bruder as soon as the weather clears enough to permit movement.

Meanwhile, let us toast the honor and vigour of our cousin, your Gallian Monarch!

Herr Stanken, Hurtshog Fahrtz von Frankfurter
by the hand of le Comte de Beauphaup ...

Tides on the Main ....

Frankszonian forces continue to assemble in the Saxenhausen area south of Frankfurt. At Offenbach, however, the citizens notice that across and slightly down river from their town, large gun emplacements are under construction.
These do not appear, at the moment, to be Frankszonian units, but rather small units of local Stadtholders ....

In Frankszonia itself, rumors abound that the recent catastrophe at Offenbach was the result of secret collusion between Stagonia and Gallia. Folks around the Hurtshog's court, however, insist that such a conspiracy is "too Cheezy". Somehow this does not reassure the mechanics, who resent the presence of Gallian laborers in their area.

Nonetheless, a force of some four to six thousand men is definitely gathering south of the Main along with its normal gaggle of camp followers.

The Grand Masquerade

In spite of the wind and rain, the grand processions are conducted with suitable pomp and circumstance, though the drum and brass section occasionally seemed out of key and off beat during the lightning and cloudbursts. Armored against the wet by plentiful potions, the people of Frankfurt party. There are, alas, a few regrettable incidents between the German and Gallian participants in the street which bring quick reactions from the dragoons posted at every corner. Arrests of disorderly house parties are also reported, the dark wagons of the constabulary rolling through the streets accompanied by the jeers and thrown empties of reeling revelers to the new jail.
A major break with tradition, however, is that the military, outside of their formal functions and patrol duties, seem to be absent from town ... and a frisson of rumor of great battles nearby runs through the crowds.


Some of the major Foreign notables who are specifically honored with carriages and escorts and participation in the rituals include the following:

Saxe Bearstein:
Consular military attaches, Major Karl von Lager:
who of course will be feted by various ladies, invited to the Council of Knights and other ceremonial functions. In private, the Hurtshog and Gen. Meyer will be interviewing him about a coordinated response to Stagonian irritations. What they are looking for, of course, is acquiescence to the Frankszonian “protection” of Offenbach. He will also be offered a run down farm for the construction of a Saxe-Bearstein consulate near of the city. Le Comte d’Beauphaup assures him that Frankszonia would rather throw a barbecue than a battle!
. For the masquerade, he will be costumed as a fairy knight. He is promised a “noble lady of high estate, breeding, and appearance” for the Masquerade. In the meantime, however, there seems to be a strong likelihood that he will make the acquaintance of Martha, Lady Pettygree’s maid. Who, of course, will be at the Masquerade as one of the many fairy girls in attendance.


Hesse-Engelburg:
Generalmajor Paul von Scheider and wife Roswitha von Scheider are also in the glittering train of nobles and officers at these events. Again, In private, the Hurtshog and Gen. Meyer will be interviewing him about a coordinated response to Stagonian irritations. What they are looking for, of course, is acquiescence to the Frankszonian “protection” of Offenbach. On the other hand, Frankszonia is concerned to preserve the unique nature of the Soweiter League, especially as they provide handy entre-pots to regional markets often under the thumb of more grasping, larger powers.

They are to be costumed as members of Oberon’s (and who IS Oberon?) court.
Helga Freitag, Under-Secretary for Minor Matters on Even Numbered Months, will, of course be closeted with Stuftliana and Professor DuBois discussing ideas for educational establishments (as in military academies). Rumor has it that they will be costumed as the other set of “Lovers in the Forest.”


Fraulein Francine Oppenkopf, if she attends as a Stagonian representative, will be granted a constant bodyguard / protector due to the current tensions vis a vie Stagonia. She is told that Frankszonia simply can’t tolerate interference with the Soweiter League due to vital economic interests. (On the other hand, she’s been offered a deal by some disaffected Frankszonian merchants at terms which, in their words, they would be cutting their own throats).


At the dance, she may be torn between a person with a commanding air who is costumed as the Ducal General of Cuirassiers (Lord Bastille, in half armor and in command of security) and the heroic figure of the Marquis d’Hottatrot, dripping with gaudy medals and enjoying his moment of glory .... playing up his wound for all it’s worth (nor is he adverse to groping groupies).

Lady Rosenschnauz will be playing a fairy godmother near the alcove where the Urpprinz will be nursed and nestled. What as or who with her husband will attend is not known. Rumor has it that he will be unable to participate due to his wound.



Those who know him might recognize Phillipe, either as a waiter with a tray of drinks or dancing with a young girl of the local nobility. The lass is dark haired, animated, and roguish in her behavior, as well as being a good dancer. Alas, she seems deaf to all the various importunes of dubious opportunities with various officers and burgomeisters which will be offered to her.

Sir Tom, the count Saucie: the tall, dark envoy from Duke Alfredo of Bologna ... middle aged but in good shape, having established himself as a decent cavalry officer prior to this appointment, will arrive escorting another of the local debutantes, but will also make a pass at Fraulein Oppenkopf ....

The squire Charade, who is part of Pettygree’s and Masquerade’s entourage, attends as the human slave swiped by Titania from Oberon (and, oh yes, who gets to play Titania?). His costume of decorated ballet leotards displays his youthful and athletic figure much to the distraction of several of the local frauleins.



Naughty gossip has it that the poor Comte l’Beauphaup, having been rebuffed by Lord Charade and by a French officer is not attending. On the other hand, his skill with costume and disquise is legendary. Will anybody spot him before the unmasking?

Prior to the entrance of the Hurtshog and his wife (separately as “the Lovers in the Woods”), the crowd is entertained by the hilarious high jinks of Puck and a rotund fellow wearing the Donkey’s Head.


While this offsets the tension in the crowd caused by rumors of battles approaching Frankfurt, the tension is revived when people notice that the ceremonial guards are not standing to their normal rigid, formal poise, but are instead at arms - ready, and obviously scanning the crowd, the various rooms, and the grounds with martial intensity. There are also rumors of some little outbreaks by mechanics against the Gallian laborers who had, of course, also been included in the festivities.

Meanwhile, Fettucine is happily pairing off with young and old of either sex alike to lead them through a few figures for each new number that Moosart’s musicians bounce through. Tumblers, acrobats, mimes, jugglers, and other entertainers wander through the crowd performing their stunts whenever they hit an open spot. There are even folk dancers and actors imported from a region famous for their arts.



All goes well with the chattering, gay, and glittering company swirling and jumping and bowing through polkas and minuets and waltzes (with a few going off to enjoy some waltzes of the Straws). The colorful costumes above the polished marble floors amid the mirrored walls and sparkling chandeliers make a dizzying whirlpool of color. All of this turbulence of color is framed by the deep, polished wood and plush, velvet drapery (a few which drapes seem occasionally agitated from behind by pairs of brightly polished or beaded shoes).



After midnight, the crowd gathers onto the balconies and into the paved courts (it’s been raining most of the day, after all) to enjoy the fireworks against the dark clouds. The firewheels, sprinkling lights, multi-colored boms and lofty rockets dazzle against their sable backdrop. After a grand finale with Moosart’s most bombastic piece accompnied by fountains of light, flights of rockets, and spreading blasts of golden showers high in the air, everyone bestows their dancing partners and other suitable targets with grand, flourishing, romantic kisses. Oh, embarrassed laughter as the unmasking shows who kissed whom!

Then the frivolity is suddenly shattered by a loud roar! “Hold up there, ye conniving Italian bastard! I’ll carve yooor tripes tae haggis! Ye’ll cozen me lasses nae mair!” There is a sudden flash and clatter of swords rippling in a wave of screams and shouts. As some soldiers push through the crush towards the disturbance, others take quick steps away from the people and cock their pieces alertly ... One reveler tumbles bleeding into the mirrored hall holding a shattered rapier while another breaks through the bewildered guests and vaults a stone wall into the night.

As the officers converge on the wounded man, who sinks into (and promptly ruins) and elaborately embroidered seat, the young stranger looks up and says in clear English (for those who understand that uncouth and disordered tongue), “Fettucine! Ah well, old chap. You know, I was sure you were the one supposed to assassinate me. Pettygree! and that old laird as a lover!” He grimaces for a moment, then asks, “What will poor Georgie say?” As the court physicians try to clear away his finery to reveal a horrible slash through his rib cage, he gives a wry smile, winches, and in best Hollywood tradition, dies.

Among the confused and clamoring guests, the Intendant Bastille finds that the Hurtshog is suddenly standing beside him with a drawn sword and pistol, watching the crowd as if he was the Intendant’s body guard. Then, even before Bastille can frame an appropriate comment or question, another sudden alarm descends on the estate. With loud shouts of challenge and response, a troop of both Frankszonian dragoons and Gallian Hussars gallop into the estate. Their officers fling themselves from their horses and smash through the crowd to the Intendant. One has no hat but a bloody bandage, and another’s arm had been shot.

As the Intendant and his own officers draw their own weapons, the Hurtshog barks, “Vell?!”

The Frankszonian dragoon replies, “You and Moose Hunter were right.”
The Gallian captain interjects, “He committed suicide.”
The Frankszonian agrees, and adds, “Some got away anyway, and they’ve got a few of their damned martyrs now.”

“Pferde Schizen! Bauergraben Mucken! VerDamnt!” roars the Hurtshog. Then he spins on the Intendant angrily. As the Gallians prepare to shoot the Hurtshog down, he tells Bastille, “Ach! Now vill you some Frankszonian marks earn, Mein Herr! Ve were ov dem dumbkopf Stadt Constabulary suspicious. Und! Ve var Ricthig! Diesen Baurenfoofs macht on Sein Bastille an attack. Alle ist aber, nicht kaput. Vir haben diesen Furhren gerumpt, und alle die arsenalen secured.” The Hurtshog gets control of himself, and continues, “it seems that a few of our prisoners did escape anyway. After all, the constables were all veterans. But now, Ich mussen eine Reich von Armee declare ... which makes you, m’Lord, my ranking und most responsible minister as General der Ober Kommander.”

General Schwann steps up to the Intendant and salutes. “General, he asks, “may we secure these nobles here until your command have declared the city safe?”
A lieutenant of the Sage Guards marches up, salutes: “The Princess and the Urpprinz are safe, M’lord. The Rosenschnauzes have put squares about them and the great ladies.”
Two other officers (note, one Gallian and one Frankszonian) ride in from the city. They clomp up to the Intendant, “we are in luck, General. The mob did not riot, thanks to all the rain; and once the constables started shooting, everybody actually fled to their homes. Except for the troopers doing the house to house searches, All seems quiet .”


Stay tuned.
Who was Oberon and Titania?
What happened to Puck and to the donkey?
How will this batter the poor Paranoid Bastille?
Who was the Englishman, and why did he die?
Will the Ducal family and the Noble Ladies be rushed to Gallian safety, or will Frankszonia now be secure, even enough for Bastille?
Meanwhile, how have the Frankszonian Battalions under General Chevert fared?

We wonders, aye, we wonders.

A.
August 20, 2007 (12:06am)