The Hetzenberg Chronicles

Stylish Blogger Award

2011-05-07T11:06:00.000-07:00

Well! As the late, great Frankie Howerd used to say "I'm flabbergasted! My flabber has never been so gasted!"

Jiminho of Syldavia has nominated The Hetzenberg Chronicles for the Stylish Blogger Award. It's quite an honor, and I'm pleased my work has gained recognition. I'm busy with real life stuff for a while, but more episodes of the Chronicles will be written soon.

In the meantime, as part of the Award, I have to relate seven things folks don't know about me. Hmm, what to say..?

1/. My first wargames figures were Airfix, both 1/72nd and 1/32nd.

2/. I got badly sunburned tracking unit positions all over the battlefield of Québec one day in May in 1987. The things we suffer for our hobby...

3/. Both times I was in Paris (France) I got run over by cyclists, the second time in the doorway to a store.

4/. I had a spooky encounter in a passageway near the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles.

5/. I had an extremely spooky encounter in a chateau near Budapest.

6/. I'm descended from 18th century pottery maestro Josiah Wedgewood.

7/. Mary Amadeus exists - in the guise of a computer tutor I once had some years back. Ursula exists - in the guise of a re-enactor. 'Nuf said. ;)

So, to my nominations. First up is Adventures in Lead by that gifted gamer, "Furt." IMHO, his Indostan blog is a masterpiece of all a gaming blog should be.

Second up - and not gaming-related - Confessions of a Blonde Writer, by my better half. A witty and informative blog on the life, times, trials and tribulations of an author!

In the siege lines, Randstadt

2011-04-02T17:23:00.000-07:00

‘Sister? Sister!’

Mary Amadeus paused in her work and looked around. Nobody in the siege lines had ever called her by her old title. A man stood hesitating at the entrance to the gun park, a smile on his face as he looked at her. He held his hat in both hands and made a presentable figure in well-made traveling clothes.

‘Do I know you?’ she asked, walking over and then stopped in surprise. ‘Bruno!’

The former misérable broke into a grin as she recognized him. ‘I look rather different these days, sister!’

‘I should say you do!’ Mary said, walking over to shake hands. ‘But then, so do I. How are you?’

‘Well settled-in, thanks,’ he replied. ‘The archbishop gave me a place as a general handyman on one of his estates and my wife works in the scullery. It pays a decent wage and we’re treated well.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

Bruno bobbed his head. ‘It’s all thanks to you and Grafin Ursula.’

‘It’s the least we could do. I trust your family is well?’

‘All well.’ Bruno ducked quickly as the main siege battery let fly a deafening salvo. Mary hid a smile. She had long grown accustomed to the noise, albeit a trifle deaf. Bruno looked keenly at the distant shape of Randstadt’s ramparts. Dust from pulverized stone hung in the air as the salvo struck home. ‘I never thought I’d get so close to my old home again,’ he said. ‘Our hut used to be just over there.’

‘Any regrets?’ Mary asked.

He scowled and shook his head. ‘No. It was a horrible life.’ Glaring at the town he went on, ‘you can burn it all to the ground as far as I’m concerned!’

‘I don’t think we’ll go that far,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘Come to my quarters and take a sup of wine.’

She led him to her tent. Her servant had turned back the fly to allow the interior to air in the warm April day, and bedding hung over a line nearby. The woman hurried to fetch a bottle of wine and goblets as Mary invited Bruno to sit with her at the camp table set up outside. ‘Not that I’m displeased to see you, old friend,’ she said as the servant poured the wine, ‘but I’m curious as to why you’re here.’

Bruno waited until the servant went about other business before leaning close. ‘We’ve all been reading about the siege and battles and so on,’ he said. ‘Last week I remembered something which might be useful. My wife and I talked it over and decided you should be told. ‘

‘You came instead of sending a letter?’ Mary asked. ‘It’s a long way from the archbishop’s estates.’
Bruno looked around. The camp bustled with activity but none paid them any attention. ‘We thought it too sensitive,’ he said, leaning close.

‘Now I’m really curious!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘What have you to share?’

Bruno gestured toward the distant gun line. ‘There’s a way into the town from outside. A way few know of.’ He leaned closer. ‘A secret way.’

‘A secret way.’ Mary gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘Do you mean a secret passage?’

‘Not a man-made one, sister.’ Bruno sat back. ‘They’re more in the nature of caves under the town. They run back from the river bluffs.’

‘Interesting,’ she murmured. ‘How do you know of them?’

Bruno sipped his wine. ‘Two years ago I worked on the docks. A pal of mine fell into the river and got swept away. He couldn’t swim. I can only dog paddle a bit but I grabbed a keg and jumped in after him. I soon caught him but we were carried downstream about a quarter mile beyond the walls. Somehow I managed to push against the flow and guide us to the bank. It’s rocky there, with plenty of hand and footholds. I got us ashore and made sure my pal was safe, then looked around.’
‘There’s an overhang. I couldn’t see any way up from the river, but I could see a small cave opening screened by bushes a few feet above where we perched. I doubt it can be seen at all from the river unless a boat gets up close to the bank. My pal seemed half-dead and wasn’t able to move with the fright he’d gotten, so I climbed up and took a closer look at the cave.’ He shrugged and looked grim for a moment. ‘There seemed no hurry to send a boat after us from the docks. After all, we were just a couple of laborers.’
‘The opening was big enough for me to wriggle through and so I did. After a few yards I found a place big enough to stand in.’ He struck the ground with his boot heel. ‘There’s a whole series of tunnels and caves under this soil.’

Mary felt her pulse quicken as possibilities flowed through her mind. ‘You explored them?’

‘I explored a few later. Not at that time. My pal needed help and I wanted to be with him when the rescue boat arrived and took us back to town. I told no one but my wife of my find. It took a few days but I went back in secret with rope and a lantern. Those caves run for quite a way. One heads toward the town and under the walls.’

‘You know this for sure?’

‘Yes.’ Bruno grinned, his teeth brown and jagged. ‘I found a disused well shaft sunk into a small water-filled cave. It took some doing but I climbed up to the top. It’s covered with planks and rubble, but I saw enough through the gaps to make out a familiar neighborhood.’

Mary thought for a moment then stood. ‘Bruno, you need to come with me. The general should hear this!’

Some news!

2011-03-17T09:32:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the long absence in posting here, but I've been rather busy with an exciting new development.

The Hetzenberg Chronicles has been accepted by Summerhouse Publishing for worldwide release in eformat!

Not only that, as seen above, the cover art for the first volume of the Chronicles, Prelude to War gets a spiffy new makeover! The original version is still available through Amazon subsidiary CreateSpace.

The second volume, The Heat of Battle is now going through pre-production and will appear in print sometime this spring.

Meanwhile, the adventures of Mary Amadeus et al will continue here as I find time.

Watch this space!

In Seinfeld

2011-01-22T19:38:00.001-08:00

Bartolomeo Gundaker threaded his way through the crowds packing the market square. Although a war raged it occurred many miles away and the battle lines were currently stable. The good folk of Seinfeld went about their everyday business in the bright sunshine with little apparent concern for powers and politics. Nor should they, Gundaker thought. What concern is it of theirs what their betters do? Smells, of goods and humanity in their wide variety assaulted his nose and he tried not to show his distaste as he walked. He passed from the square into a narrow side road, feeling relief at escaping the press even though he regretted having to leave the sunlight. This damn country is never warm enough!

A hundred yards along the narrow way divided, the V shaped peninsula formed by the two lanes occupied by a tall half-timbered building in the local style. Bartolomeo used his field craft to ensure he’d not been followed then ducked into the doorway and pulled the bell handle. Almost instantly his ring was answered by a servant, who showed him up a set of wooden stairs to a small chamber overlooking the lane down which he’d come.

A handsome woman of middling years and plain but finely-wrought clothing sat there by the window, peacefully engaged in embroidery. Two large mastiffs lay on the plain floorboards, their black eyes fixed firmly on him. Their noses twitched as they took in his scent. The musty scent of the dogs made Bartolomeo’s nose also twitch in irritation but he had no recourse but to endure the reek. He knew better than to annoy the woman who awaited him. She didn’t speak as he entered, merely raising her head from her sewing to look Bartolomeo in the eye. Her eyebrow rose in interrogation.

“The Professore is dead,” Bartolomeo began without preamble. “I had the opportunity to substitute a forged letter for one written by him in reply to an inquiry by the Grafin Ursula. She sought to discover the validity of any marriage prospects between her friend and the heir to the Hetzenberg throne. It appeared a good means to sow discord in your enemy’s hierarchy. I forged the reply to the negative before killing the professore by cunning poison.”

The woman studied her embroidery. From where he stood by the door it appeared to Bartolomeo to be some kind of sampler. After a moment she nodded, and a fine hand gestured for him to continue. “From all I have learned the Graf Phillip is quite devoted to Fraulein Mary Amadeus. I intend to enter the Hetzenberg siege lines disguised as a visiting military observer and gain the confidence of the Graf. When opportunity presents itself I shall place forged correspondence of a most intimate nature in the quarters of both the Graf and Fraulein Amadeus. An anonymous tip-off to the Grand Duke will uncover this reprehensible communication, resulting in a crisis between father and son.”

The woman laid her embroidery in her lap and gazed out the window for several minutes. Bartolomeo waited in silence, very much aware the huge dogs’ eyes had not left him for an instant.

“It is a good plan, Herr Gundaker,” the woman said eventually. For the first time she met his eyes and he fought the impulse to step back, so cold and calculating were they. She gestured to a satchel which lay upon a stool a few feet to his right. “Your payment is in there. The rest you shall receive one discord has been sown in the enemy’s command. That is all.”

Bartolomeo bowed, and sidestepped to pick up the satchel. The dogs followed his movements. One growled; the sound seemed to rise from the basement. Bartolomeo swallowed and carefully stepped back to the doorway, the satchel making a nice heavy weight in his hand. “Farewell, lady. Until next time.”

The woman nodded, her attention focusing on the embroidery once more. Bartolomeo backed out of the room and found the servant waiting silently to escort him from the premises. He exited by the same door he’d come in by, and walked back to the market place.

*
The Dowager Margrafin watched him go from her window. Her servant entered the room. “Prepare for my departure to Schwebende Mühe, Walter,” she said. “We shall be leaving within the hour.”

Happy New Year!

2011-01-01T10:01:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! The last day of the old year closed with a whoosh. A tornado touched down about a mile west of us a little after noon and tore up a city block's worth of damage. No-one was killed, thankfully; some minor injuries is all, but a number of houses were destroyed and a church roof torn off. We were lucky and had nothing more than a strong wind and heavy rain for a spell. Let's spare a moment of sympathy for those who suffered and had their celebrations spoiled, and hope the New Year is less dramatic!

On a more pleasant note, the manuscript of my novel Rebel Hearts has just been accepted by eXstasy Books! Updates as they happen can be found over at my website.

So, the New Year is less than a day old here in the United States. What of the future, gaming-wise?

I hope to complete the army of the Margraf of Dunkeldorf-Pfühl, which lacks two cavalry regiments and its artillery. I do have a couple of guns and crew, which I'll paint when I find time. The main problem is most of my collection is still in the UK, and it costs a wheelbarrow full of cash to mail anything of any weight across the Pond. Add to that the fact that no less than three parcels mailed to me from the UK failed to arrive in the last year, and you can see my concern. Hopefully I'll find some way around the problem.

My Africa Station project is advancing slowly. I have found inspiration for a couple of useful buildings, which I'll make one of these days. Writing-wise, I aim to have the next volume of the Chronicles out within a couple months, plus some new adventures of Mary Amadeus, et al. Watch this space...

The Raid on Lehmangraz - part four

2010-12-26T13:27:00.000-08:00

The fighting along the waterfront engulfed the Cocytus. Her crew had boarded her but moments before. Now they fought for their lives against a determined surge of jagers. Lieutenant Weissmuller urged his men on, the time to accomplish the mission and get away before the jager were cut off receding by the second. “One more charge, boys!” he shouted over the crack of muskets and the screams of desperate men. “Just one and she’s ours!”

His men responded with a will, pressing up to the gunboat and onto her deck, her crew falling back or down as bayonets probed and muzzle flashes split the murky smoke. Weissmuller followed, waving his sword clumsily as his shoes slipped on spilled blood. He stood poised to board, but took time for a swift glance around. His men closed up, running out of the smoke from the blazing vessel close by. He nodded, turned, saw the dark shape of a vessel close by on the river…

Horatio peered along the stubby barrel of the six-pounder, nodded as it came to bear upon the figures clustering on the dock then stepped back. He raised his sword. “Fire!”

The gun captain brought the linstock down on the touchhole and the gun barked, jerking back on its breechings until they snapped twanging-taut. Horatio leapt into the shrouds to look beyond the muzzle smoke. Figures danced and fell on the dock but the enemy came on again. Two stooped to drag a fallen man aboard Cocytus. Horatio gritted his teeth; her crewmen were dead, surrendering or fleeing. The enemy would take her!

Acheron rocked a trifle and Horatio glanced down at the water to see a current had taken her and was pushing them downstream. When he looked up a jager knelt on Cocytus’ small quarterdeck, his firelock leveled directly at him. Horatio had time to gulp before the man fired. Something plucked at his right sleeve and a white-hot pain shot through his arm. Horatio swayed but remained on his feet, glaring across the increasing gap between the gunboats. An enemy officer appeared, staring back at Horatio, sword dangling in his grasp, a livid splash of red covering his brow. Horatio narrowed his eyes and ignored the pain in his arm. “Reload!” he snapped.

Weissmuller wiped blood from his eyes and glanced around the deck at his surviving jager. How few they are! He thought. The enemy gunboat crew had fled or was prisoner. The blaze aboard the vessel in the neighboring berth threatened to spread to the captured prize. Time we weren’t here! Weissmuller thought through the pain in his head. “Get this thing out onto the river!” he shouted, pointing to the long oars stacked in rails along the middle of the deck. “Use those!”

His men sprang into action, removing the oars and passing them out the sides of the boat. Weissmuller grasped a halyard and fought a wave of dizziness. It won’t do to pass out now. He gritted his teeth and gestured to the six-pounder cannon. “Sergeant, get that cannon loaded and pointed at the enemy vessel!”

The strength of desperate men sufficed to push the gunboat away from the dock and the threat of burning. Clear water began to appear between shore and hull as the sergeant and his chosen men worked feverishly on the unfamiliar gun. Finally, as the gunboat slid clear of her berth, the NCO stood away from the gun and looked to Weissmuller. He glanced in the direction of the enemy vessel out there on the river. The gun looked to be pointing true. Weissmuller nodded and the sergeant dashed the linstock down on the touchhole.

Horatio grimaced as Cocytus’ six-pounder roared. A piece of blazing wad flew past his head with the stench of burning hemp, but he grinned with deep satisfaction as the roundshot missed by a country mile. The range had opened but was not great by any means. Alongside him Acheron’s chief gunner shook his head at the poor gunnery, a derisive expression on his weather-beaten face. “All ready, sir,” the man said calmly.

“As she bears, Master Gunner,” Horatio said crisply.

The six-pounder fired. This time the grape spread wide and to immediate effect. Horatio saw men fall over on Cocytus’ deck and hoped to God none of his men were among them.

Midshipman Steiner appeared on deck, a bloodied bandage around his thigh, and limped up to Horatio. “Reporting for duty sir!” the youth said, touching the brim of his hat.

“Ah, Steiner,” Horatio said with a smile. “You’re well enough to join us. I’m glad.”

“So am I, sir.” Steiner’s gaze fell on Horatio’s arm. “But sir, you’re wounded!”

“Not enough to matter,” Horatio said dismissively. The wound felt hot and aching but he could ignore it; too much else remained to do. “Here’s the situation.” He pointed at the Cocytus, and Steiner, veteran that he was, nodded as he took in the scene.

In spite of casualties and for all their obvious lack of ability, the enemy soldiers had succeeded in winning clear of the berth. Someone gained enough control over Cocytus’s tiller to point her downstream. A few men had managed to spread some canvas abroad to capture the morning breeze. Horatio sucked his teeth thoughtfully, acknowledging in his mind the enemy’s bravery and daring. But this will not do. “As I suspected, gentlemen,” Horatio said, addressing his crew in a loud voice. “The enemy wishes to steal one of our boats. Are we to allow this?” A resounding roar of “NO!” sprang from the lips of every man aboard. “Very well!”

Horatio glanced upward at Acheron’s masts. “Steiner, spread enough canvas to enable us to heave-to. Helm, hard to starboard until she bears, then hold her!” Horatio snapped.

The helmsman nodded, appearing quite calm and composed. “Aye aye, sir!”

Horatio strode forward until he stood by the main gun, and reached out to pat the breech. “Let’s give Old Gertie her chance to speak!”

The crew grinned, expressions fierce. Horatio felt his heart lift as Acheron’s bows swung to point at the unfortunate Cocytus. Through all the alarums and excursions of the morning, from the moment the alarm was raised to the instant he realized he’d survived being shot at, he’d not had a chance to think clearly. Everything he’d done to this instant had been in reaction to the enemy’s movements. Now they will dance to our tune!

Acheron’s bows swung and steadied on a direct line of bearing to the oncoming Cocytus. Horatio squinted along Old Gertie’s length then stepped back. “Fire!”

The massive cannon roared and flung herself against the restraint of her breechings, impelled by a triple charge of grapeshot. As the dun colored cloud drifted away Horatio sprang into the shrouds and peered ahead.

Cocytus looked in a dreadful way. Her shrouds and furled canvas hung in tatters, her bulwarks and scantlings showed great patches of white wood where the heavy lead shot had torn at them. Most of the enemy soldiers lay scattered upon her decks, clearly out of the fight.

“Reload, sir?” asked the gun captain. Horatio opened his mouth to reply then paused as a man staggered to his feet aboard Cocytus, a piece of torn sailcloth in his hand. The man lurched to Cocytus’ larboard bow and waved his scrap frantically. “We yield! In the name of God, don’t shoot! We yield!”

“No, thank you, Master Gunner,” Horatio said crisply as his crew began to cheer. “Secure the guns and stand down.” He stared across at Cocytus. “Helmsman, lay us alongside!”

2010-12-24T12:45:00.000-08:00

As Grand Duke Karl of Hetzenberg contemplates the world of 1756, may I wish all of you a happy holiday season.

The Chronicles will resume before too long!

The Raid on Lehmangraz - part three

2010-12-02T10:55:00.000-08:00

Up on the high road from the village the Marines suffered hideous torment under the guns of the Sobelsburg jager. Lieutenant Horst fell badly wounded with three bullets through his coat before he was quite aware what happened. Around him his NCOs and junior officers strived to restore order but it proved useless. With their leader fallen, the Marines turned tail and fled back whence they came.

Captain Schnoedt watched events unfold and sucked his teeth as the supposedly superior troops ran toward him. He cleared his throat and glanced around at his men, seeing their wide eyes and sensing their unease. “Steady, my lads. It seems we shall have to do the work instead.” He pointed to the distant dockyard. “Our friends and kin are in peril. We needs beat this ambush to reach them.” Without giving the militia pause to think, Schnoedt drew his sword and waved it over his head. “Onward, in the Grand Duke’s name!”

His men followed, as Schnoedt felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest. The last of the Marines streamed past; the braver ones – or those more ashamed – took up the rear to help wounded comrades.

Enemy bullets began to sing overhead. Schnoedt peered at the cloud of smoke lining a hedgerow behind which the ambushers lurked. Step by step the militia advanced, and the enemy fire began to find marks in his ranks, but still they stepped out with grim expressions. “Good lads, good lads,” Schoedt called as he directed them into line. A bullet plucked his hat and he reached up to straighten it. Casting an eye along the line he nodded. “Now, let's give those bastards a volley!”

The NCOs translated his orders. Muskets came up to the present, leveled on the hedgerow – and at Schnoedt’s shout of “Fire!” spurted mustard colored smoke shot through with flame.

Almost immediately the enemy fire slackened. Schoedt nodded with satisfaction as his men reloaded. There can’t be that many of them behind that hedge, he thought. He glanced at the dockyard, where the fighting still seemed intense. Smoke rose above it now, thickening even as he watched. There’s the real fight. We’ll see these bastards off the premises soon, I feel.

His men presented arms again and again a volley crashed out. The enemy’s return fire slackened then dropped to an occasional pop and bang. Figures moved beyond the hedge, and Schoedt realized the ambushers were retreating. His blood was up, and for an instant he felt tempted to order a charge; but cooler intellect prevailed. They had to reach the dockyard.

Hetzenberg Special!

2010-11-13T08:28:00.000-08:00

A holiday special announcement!

The print version of the Hetzenberg Chronicles, Volume One: Prelude to War
is now available worldwide at Amazon for just $12.95!

Limited time offer to midnight December 31, 2010!

The Raid on Lehmangraz - part two

2010-11-02T13:18:00.000-07:00

The bulk of the new gunboat lying on the slipway concealed much of the compound from Horatio’s eyes as he emerged onto the parade ground. The militia platoon charged with guarding the dockyard was forming-up under fire – but the musketry came not from the road but from a number of enemy troops already in the compound. In the growing light Horatio recognized the enemy uniform, one he had last seen crossing the bridge at Wentwitz. “Jagers, by God!” He turned. “Bosun?”

“Sir?” the man shouted.

“We can’t get to the magazine. The enemy’s already in the compound.” He gripped the man’s shoulder. “Their aim must be to destroy the gunboats. Take the crews to the boats and cast off, quick as you like!”

The Bosun nodded and began shouting orders. Without hesitation the well-trained crews began to rush around the foot of the slipway, heading for the gunboats berthed snugly to their jetties. Horatio turned as a militia sergeant ran up and saluted. “Sir, the lieutenant’s compliments and we’ll do what we can.” He gestured toward the road. The jagers there had opened a brisk fire, but the militia was mostly screened by the palisade. Chips of wood flew from the fence as bullets struck it. “We’re under pressure sir, but we’ll hold!”

“Good man! My thanks to your lieutenant.”

The sergeant saluted and ran back to his unit. Horatio turned away, gripped the hilt of his sword and ran alongside his men. I don’t even know the lieutenant’s name, he thought. It’s something I’ll have to rectify. The snap and flare of musket fire from the farthest boat, Phlegethon, drew him onward. Those jagers have penetrated deep into our defenses! He felt a stab of agony in his heart. The boat guards will be overwhelmed! Will we be in time?

Their feet thundered on the dock planking. Horatio saw a crowd of jagers rushing toward the hapless Phlegethon. All fire from her deck had ceased.

At the farm Lieutenant Horst and his NCOs finally got his men into some semblance of order, after a flurry of confusion over dropped muskets, hats, pouches. All the while the sound of increasingly furious musket fire came from the east, the constant rattle interspersed with crashing volleys.

It’s like bloody Viehdorf all over again, Horst thought. Only now I’m the one in command. He looked back from his position at the head of the company column. Raw recruits, God help us! He hesitated, on the verge of giving a speech, but a fresh blast of musketry persuaded him not to. Instead, he drew his sword and pointed it to the east. “Marines, by the left, forward!”

The new Marine company stumbled into motion, some of the new recruits still having only a hazy idea about which foot was their left. Lieutenant Serle, a fresh-faced boy with some pretensions of military learning strode by Horst’s side. “Should we not put out flank guards?” he asked eagerly.

“We haven’t time for that nonsense,” Horst growled, leading his men down the farm track and onto the road. “The dockyard’s under attack. Speed is of the essence!”

The youth touched his hat and stepped back. “Very good, sir,”

Horst turned his attention back to the road. Speed is of the essence. I just hope we’re in time to foil whatever deviltry’s afoot!
*

Similar thoughts were passing through Schnoedt’s mind as the Lehmangraz militia began to form up in the street. Few men had bothered to pull on even the regulation militia coat. Most stood now in whichever garments they had to hand upon the summons being sounded. Schnoedt regarded them all, nodding thoughtfully. Raw troops, with a little training and a few superannuated veterans. Thank goodness we’ve had some recent experience of soldiering through guarding the dockyard. The now-constant crackle of gunfire drew his attention to the east. Clearing his throat, he raised his voice.

“Men! Our fellow citizens are engaged in battle even as I speak. It is our bounden duty to go to their aid.” He looked over the assembled ranks. “Look to the commands given to you and obey smartly. Good luck and may God favor us all!”

A militiaman stepped forward leading Umbrage, Schnoedt’s horse. Schnoedt swung up into the saddle, and drew his sword. “Forward, Lehmangraz!” he shouted, and urged the mount into motion.

As the militia headed out on the main road Schnoedt saw the Marine company issuing forth from the farm. New troops, and very raw, he thought not for the first time, yet they have a touch of arrogance about them more suited to a veteran unit. The Marine officer stumped along at the head of his men, a set and lowering expression on his face. Schnoedt thought of the few occasions he’d encountered Lieutenant Horst. That one might benefit from being lowered a peg or two. Let’s hope it’s not to all our cost.

The Marines swung onto the road, beating the militia to the junction by a short head. Schnoedt raised a hand to halt his men, allowing the last of the Marines to file by, noticing as he did so that some were out of step. A split second later a crashing volley ripped into the Marines, sending men falling like leaves. Within moments the reasonably ordered formation disintegrated.

Horatio’s feet thundered on the planking as he headed for Acheron. Her boat guards were firing as and when they could see a target, no easy task given the clutter of buildings and dockyard impedimenta in their line of sight. The firing from Phlegethon’s direction ceased even as Horatio reached Acheron’s entry port. He rushed aboard, his thoughts grim. “Let go all!” he roared as his men found their stations. “Helm amidships. Pole her out, don’t wait for anything or anyone!”

Propelled by sheer brawn Acheron began to move, the men detailed to the task sweating. Horatio looked to his left, across Cocytus and saw smoke beginning to rise from Phlegethon’s deck. A second later the first flames appeared, staining the darkening cload with yellow and orange. He felt his heart seized by a brief moment of sadness. His men exchanged shots with the smoke-wreathed enemy, but there would be no saving the veteran gunboat. He felt thankful his own dear Acheron lay in the berth nearest the barracks. And now enemy soldiers were appearing on Cocytus’ deck too!

“Heave!” he roared. Within seconds Acheron slipped free of her confining berth and onto the broad waters of the Adse. With maneuvering room opening up around his command, Horatio breathed a little easier. He glared at Cocytus. “Make ready the main gun!”

The Raid on Lehmangraz - part one

2010-10-20T14:16:00.000-07:00

The dawn peace over Lehmangraz - soon to be shattered...
*

The birds had yet to stir in the trees as the jägers filed silently down the slope to the edge of the woodland. Lieutenant Weismuller waited for them in a spot where the trees thinned and the pastureland began, sucking on a straw as he gazed from beneath lowered brows at the distant target. As the jäger platoons came up they were directed into position by the NCOs. Weismuller listened with half an ear, his eye measuring the ground anew, confident his men would follow orders with the minimum of fuss and noise. I’m less confident about what faces us this morning! he thought.

Jagers in the woods

A thin pre-dawn mist filled the Adse Valley but it had already begun to disperse at the touch of a rising wind from the west. The rooftops of the naval dockyard showed indistinct but recognizable in the growing light. Three sets of masts rose above the line of the riverbank, marking the presence of the enemy’s hated gunboats. Weismuller cocked an eye at the eastern horizon where the light grew stronger every moment. Looking to the west he saw his first platoon trotting down the slope and across the field beneath the hill, en route to their ambush position. Thankfully their shadowy figures were unlikely to be seen by any dozy sentry in the dockyard or the village of Lehmangraz away to the west.

The second platoon stood ready alongside him, its sergeant watching for the signal to move. Weismuller nodded, the sergeant saluted, whispered an order and the platoon moved out, heading directly for the hedgerow overlooking the highway and the dockyard beyond. Once the second platoon had moved out the third took their place.

Jagers creep steathily into position, unnoticed by the sentries at the gate.

By now the light had grown to the point where Weismuller could discern the logs of the rudimentary palisade surrounding the dockyard. He could make out the gate with two sentries boxes positioned one either side. Sentries patrolled there, as he’d seen the previous day on reconnoitering the target. Two men only, and local militia to boot. Not much of a threat. Behind him in the woods birds began to chirp the dawn chorus. Time presses; I cannot wait any longer. He drew a deep breath, raised his arm and jerked it forward. With a regular step he moved out, the steady, soft tramp of feet behind and to either side telling him the men of the third platoon followed.

He aimed for the hedgerow about a hundred yards further along the highway from where his second platoon now moved stealthily into position. The line of advance would bring him opposite the south-eastern corner of the dockyard enclosure. Closer-to, the palisade looked even less like a military obstacle than before. It was little more than a sturdy fence, there to deter pilfering of supplies from the dockyard stores. The ‘Bergers will pay for such laxness! Weismuller thought, feeling his spirits lift higher with the prospect of action.

Dew from the long meadow grass soaked his gaiters but he didn’t heed it. The hedgerow loomed up and he saw the gate which let out to the road beyond. Weismuller stopped there, his hand resting on the top bar, and looked around as the men of the third platoon formed up into a rough column. Once they were ready he unfastened the iron hook holding the gate closed and pushed at the bar. The gate swung open, sped on its way by a further push from the platoon NCO. Weismuller drew his hangar and led the way with a rush onto the road.

They crossed the uneven rutted surface at speed, reaching the palisade within three heartbeats. The first jagers begun to tumble over the barrier. A shouted challenge rang out. Weismuller, reaching up to grip the wooden stakes glanced toward the gate. A scant second later the dawn peace shattered completely as a volley of musketry split the air.

The Sobelsburg Jager begin to fire...

Horatio tumbled out of bed, nightshirt flapping. Erotic dreams of Ursula vanished in an instant amid the blast of musket fire. Experience and hard-won instinct guided his hand to the hilt of his hanger where it hung in its scabbard on the bedside chair. Shouts and yells sounded throughout the barrack block where the crews of the gunboats slept when ashore. Even as his sleep-fuddled mind focused Horatio heard a renewed burst of musketry from the direction of the road.

Stumbling to the window of his chamber he peered out into the dawn light. The sun rose at that moment, yellow rays spreading across the land. A thin mist, pushed along by the breeze failed to hide the shadowy forms of men emerging from the hedgerow the other side of the road by the dockyard. A militia sentry sheltered behind his box, hands busy with reloading. His fellow measured his length on the road nearby. A broad strip of wasteland separated the hedge from the road. It would take some moments for the evident attack to reach the gate. The lone sentry could not hope to hold it. Should the gate be lost… quite!

Cursing, Horatio threw his sword aside and fought his way into his britches. Some alert soul began ringing the alarm bell by the main door for all he was worth. Finally wrestling his britches on over his nightshirt, Horatio clapped his tricorn to his head, thundered out of his room and down the stairs.

In the main barracks below the men tumbled out in reasonable discipline. Most had cutlasses, dirks and a pistol or two. Petty officers barked orders, and their eyes turned to Horatio for further guidance. “We’re under attack from the road,” he rasped from the stairs. “Break out long arms and ammunition from the magazine then fall-in on the parade ground.”

The petty officers saluted briskly and began to shout new orders. Horatio headed out the main door and saw the local militia platoon appointed to guard the dockyard had begun to form up on the parade ground. They wouldn’t be a moment too soon. A glance toward the gate showed the shadowy forms of enemy soldiers running toward the dockyard.

Captain Schnoedt of the Lehmangraz militia company awoke in mid-snore and gazed up at the ceiling of his bedroom. Warm early sunlight lit the room, and musketry sounded somewhere in the distance. It was not uncommon for hunters to be out early in the season, potting wildfowl on the river and marshes round about; but the noises greeting his ears now had a much different sound. Beside him his wife slumbered on. Pausing only to give her a soft peck on the brow, Schnoedt rolled carefully out of bed, rubbed his bleary eyes and padded barefoot to the window overlooking the main road. Wilhelm the carter and a milkmaid stood below, staring eastward into the rising sun, hands shading their eyes. Schnoedt raised the sash and leaned out the window. “Good morning! What’s amiss?” he called to them.

“It’s gunfire, Mr. Schnoedt!” the milkmaid called, bobbing him a quick curtsey. She pointed. “It’s coming from the dockyard!”

“I see smoke over there, Captain!” Wilhelm said. “It looks and sounds like musketry!”
The carter was a military veteran and a militiaman. If he says musketry is on the wind, then musketry it has to be. Schnoedt nodded. “Call out the militia, I’ll be down directly.”

His wife sat up in bed as he turned away from the window. “What is it, dearest?” she asked.

Schnoedt smiled. “A little contretemps down at the dockyard, my darling.” He began to dress. “It seems the militia may have to fight this day.”

She nodded. “I’ll get your pistols and sword.”

Bless her, he thought, tying his cravat. The Knell of Doom could sound and she’d say the same thing...

In a farm on the southern outskirts of Lehmangraz, Lieutenant Horst of the newly-formed Riverine Marines urinated copiously into the chamber pot, yawning and smacking his lips as he gazed out the window. Dear God! he thought. What did I drink last night? My mouth tastes like I’ve been licking cow chips!

He still wore his shirt and britches from the previous day. His room stood high in the turret situated in the northeast corner of the farm’s boundary wall. It offered a good view, although it was little compensation for dwelling in the farmhouse proper, his first inclination. The farmer possessed two beautiful daughters, a shotgun and a nasty gleam in his eye. Horst lacked the nerve to attempt seduction – but wouldn’t it be nice?

As he daydreamed a shaft of sunlight pierced the horizon and struck Horst full in the face. He winced and turned away, sending a jet of piss across the floor. Cursing, he finished his business then contemplated the damp floorboards. “Bernhard!” he bellowed in the direction of the door. A scuffling sound came from beyond and a few moments later Horst’s orderly appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Before Horst could direct the man to spread sand on the damp floor the sound of distant musketry resounded from outside.

“What the hell?” Horst exclaimed, turning to the window again.

From his vantage point he could see smoke rising from the area of the dockyard. Even as he watched the stab of yellow musket fire competed with the rising sun. Dumbfounded he continued to stare until his orderly coughed loudly. “Turn out the men, sir?”

“Yes, yes, dammit!” Horst roared. The man sped off, clattering down the spiral stairway to the farmyard. Horst reached for his sword, and realized his hands were shaking the way they had at Viehdorf. “Dear Lord, don’t let me foul up now!” he prayed, buckling the baldric about his waist.

To be continued. My thanks once again to "LittleJohn" of the Lead Gardens, who kindly fought out the action at Lehmangraz and supplied the excellent photos.

Moving on...

2010-10-19T14:33:00.000-07:00

As a professional writer, under contract to two publishing houses, with six full-length novels and one novella published, believe me, I am fully prepared to accept either bouquets or brickbats when I send my work into the world. I'm fortunate in that my writing has attracted far more of the former than the latter. When a review of my work is negative, it is usually done in a considered and professional manner, and concentrates on the book and not the author's personal life. Even so, I can absorb the criticism.

I've accepted the review process as outlined in Battlegames magazine is as it is. Apart from one important issue connected to the review of the Hetzenberg Chronicles which I've raised with the editor directly, I'm going to move on from here.

My heartfelt thanks to all who support me in this matter. Rest assured, the Chronicles will continue! Even as we speak, the mighty engines of creativity are turning. We hope to have Volume 2: The Heat of War out in time for Christmas. Watch this space...

A disappointing review...

2010-10-17T12:31:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the middle of the night my name must have changed. This from the book review of The Hetzenberg Chronicles, vol. 1, as printed in issue 23 of Battlegames magazine.

"...Mr Mitchell clearly had enormous fun writing this book and his enthusiasm for his characters is obvious, but alas, not contagious. The lack of either any wargames background or historical verisimilitude make it hard to think of anyone to whom I could honestly recommend this book." --John Preece

Hello? Excuse me? Mr. Mitchell? Who he?

A writing friend, an award-winning book reviewer for print and online publications, and who has been quoted in Publisher's Review on more than one occasion, upon reading this review states:

It appears that the editor of this publication doesn't proof his book reviewers' articles--as seen by the reviewer calling you by a different last name. What is more troubling, is it is obvious that the "reviewer" didn't read your book at all or at least not in its entirety. He seems to be copying details from the blurb on the back cover and possibly picked up something from your blog, but he doesn't authoratively discuss the plot, the characterizations or the over-all tone of the piece. (He does seem to have an ax to grind against "historical romance" or novels in general. Where did he come up with this idea your book is a romance anyhow? I'd classify it as "historical fiction" since Imaginations are a "fictional" concept as you explained it to me.) I find this "review" very sloppy journalism, and paints all of us who write professional book reviews as incompetents. I mean, how can you trust this person's opinion (and by extension, the magazine's) on anything if they can't 1) bother to proofread articles for inaccuracies before publication, and 2) they don't insist on their "reviewers" reading the entire book before reviewing it. Very disappointing on the whole.

So what would you do in my place? As the quote above says, it's very disappointing. I had hoped to receive an honest review from someone who would see this as a novel and not a dedicated wargames publication full of rules, background data etc. How do you feel if you've read the review -- do you think this reviewer has 1) read the book 2) has an axe to grind against novels in general and romance in particular (and why did he assume the book is an historical romance? Anyone who has read the book would know it isn't). 3) I can understand publisher Henry Hyde had some personal troubles to deal with recently, but why did Battlegames magazine let this pass un-copyedited?

I am rather hurt by this, and don't know if I should pursue the matters outlined above with Battlegames or not. At the moment I'm working on the next volume of The Hetzenberg Chronicles - The Heat of Battle - but such a "review" from a respected magazine doesn't make it easy to continue. Any help or advice you fans of the Hetzenberg Chronicles can give will be appreciated.

Thanks for reading and for your support,

A J Matthews - not Mitchell!

A busy few weeks

2010-10-12T18:18:00.000-07:00

It's often said no plan survives contact with reality. We've both had a busy few weeks, not least of which has been a recent road trip to North Dakota for a friend's wedding. Five days on the road may be scenic, but it's tiring! Even so I plan to write up the battle report of the Lehmangraz Raid soon. I hope also to get going on Volume Two of the Chronicles - The Heat of Battle - before the month is out.

Cindy is recovering from her injury, thanks to her wonderful chiropractor. She's hoping to get back to writing her own works soon.

Koh Koh Mah 2010

2010-09-13T08:40:00.001-07:00

I'd like to invite anyone who's in Indiana next weekend to come visit the

Koh Koh Mah 2010 French-Indian War re-enactment event.

It's one of the most popular and best organized events of its kind in the Midwest, with plenty of 18th century goodness to see and do. Cindy and I will be heading that way to rejoin the ranks of the 78th (Frazier) Highlanders and take up muskets against the perfidious French.

God Save the King!

The Grand Duchy of Hetzenberg will be on hold for a few weeks. Cindy injured her arm on Friday 13th last month (I know!), and needs help to do even minor chores for a while. She's recovering but the medical process takes time to negotiate.

I'm also preparing for the Archon 34 sci-fi convention in October, where I'll be exhibiting in the art hall. Worry not - Mary Amadeus and Ursula shall return!

A (hopefully) brief downtime

2010-08-10T06:25:00.000-07:00

Just a word to say I'm still around, but very busy with a couple of commissions. The enervating heat prevailing here in the Midwest isn't exactly helping matters either. I'll post the action report of the Skirmish at Lehmangraz sometime before the end of this month, and post the occasional non-18th century piece over on my other blog.

The Rumtopft Dragoons on parade

2010-07-27T06:33:00.000-07:00

Presenting Hetzenberg Dragoon Regiment 1, Rumtopft. These fellows are fresh off the painting block, all varnished with Pledge/Klear/Future. I decided to leave them somewhat shiny as I like the effect.

At the moment I have no plans to expand the Grand Duchy's army beyond this regiment, two more of line infantry (IR 3 Brabenachel and IR 4 Kranke), and a light infantry battalion. The Margraf's army needs a two-regiment cavalry brigade, two batteries of artillery and perhaps another regiment of foot. All the above with time and funds permitting...

Classic Wargaming Journal

2010-07-26T08:53:00.000-07:00

Due to recent commitments I'm running a bit behind the times here, but I'm pleased to see a new publication has entered the hobby in the shape of the

Classic Wargaming Journal.

Harking back to the original home-produced publications produced by wargamers some forty years ago, CWJ is born of editor Phil Olley's desire to put something back into the hobby. Very much a labor of love, this little publication has a lot to offer the gamer, especially those of the Old School persuasion. The contributors for this pilot edition are well-known from their various blogs and websites, and they provide some excellent articles here. I hope you'll join with me in subscribing to a worthwhile effort, and in wishing Phil well in his endeavor!

The Rumtopft Dragoons 2

2010-07-23T09:09:00.001-07:00

An update on progress painting the Rumtopft Dragoon regiment. The main colors are blocked in. Next up is the finer detail of off-white crossbelts, gauntlets, buttons, trimming, etc. I'll add some red piping to the lapels and turnbacks to make it stand out a little more.

At the moment they're coming along nicely, although to my eye the regiment is looking more like a jäger zu pferd or chevauleger regiment than one of dragoons. Maybe toward the Napoleonic era they'll undergo transformation into something of the kind. Those tricorns would be replaced by helmets. The tunic will change too. Hmm..! ;)

On the painting block - the Rumtopft Dragoons

2010-07-22T08:25:00.001-07:00

On now to the next project on my painting block - the Rumtopft Dragoon Regiment. These stalwart lads covered themselves in glory during the Battle of Viehdorf, where they earned battle honors by defeating the Margraf of Dunkeldorf-Pfühl's cavalry.

Of course for that action they were represented in proxy, through Will's good offices. I thought it high time I painted the regiment and got them on strength, using the RSM95 figures bought for me by my lady wife last Xmas.

The above image gives an idea of what I'm aiming for. Since the regiment won battle honors they are allowed to wear a cockade in the Hetzenberg national colors. The cockade design later became the basis for the roundel displayed on the Grand Duchy's aircraft during WW1, but that's another story...

Now, I'm no great enthusiast for painting cavalry. Something about the acres of horseflesh that needs covering in pigment vaguely depresses me! Even so, I find my painting block makes the chore easier. I've secured the riders to their mounts using super/crazy glue, and placed the musketoons in their hands the same way. Painting the whole figure as one unit will make things easier still - I hope! Next up is the black undercoat, a mix of Vallejo black and a drop or two from the Pledge bottle, and I'm away. Watch this space...

The Guns of July

2010-07-20T07:12:00.000-07:00

As promised, some shots of the Grand Duchy of Hetzenberg's artillery arm. On the left we have the Line battery of 6-pounders; on the right the heavier metal of the Guard with their 12-pounders. All figures and models are RSM95 by Dayton Painting Consortium.

Normally under the Shako rules I'd mount the guns and crew on rectangular bases. In this instance I may set them up on old CDs, which will give ample space to fit the crew around the gun. My thought is that a gun crew caught by infantry or cavalry is in a world of hurt anyway; having a rectangular base matching the frontage of the other arms isn't going to make a whit of difference. Any thoughts and opinions? Please leave a comment!

Back from the French-Indian War

2010-07-19T06:37:00.000-07:00

It's me - we're back from the wars after a hellishly hot weekend in eastern Illinois. We're both feeling a bit battle-worn and frazzled today, so this is only a brief update. I'll post a few pictures of Muster at Forest Glen sometime in the week.

On the painting block - 2

2010-07-14T12:02:00.000-07:00

Packing for Muster is all but done, and I've had time to begin a long-delayed addition to the Grand Duchy of Hetzenberg army - the artillery arm! The stalwart fellows below are RSM95 Prussians from Dayton Painting Consortium, a Xmas gift from my lovely wife. They've languished these many months while other projects needed my attention. They languish no more!

Two crews populate my painting block. Those in light blue will form the battery attached to the line foot brigade: those in the fetching shade of purple will be the Guard artillery battery, graced by one Lt. Mary Amadeus. The two chaps in the Prussian blue weskit are common to both batteries, so I'll differentiate between them by some crimson piping on the guard gunner. The images below give the general impression of what I'm aiming for.

One of these days I will get the fusiliers...

The Ral Partha Indian artillery crew seen in front of the painting block are undergoing conversion before becoming a screw-gun detachment for my Daftest Africa project. Lurking alongside the tub in the middle-ground is one of the creatures they may just meet...

Off to Muster!

2010-07-13T09:35:00.000-07:00

78th (Simon Frasier's Regiment) Highlanders

prepare to give the French a good roasting at Koh-Koh-Mah, 2009.

Cindy and I are off back to the 18th century for a few days beginning Thursday. We'll be participating in the Muster at Forest Glen event in Vermillion County, Illinois. Sometime from Monday onwards I hope to give an account with pictures of our activities there. After that, there's the small matter of the Action at Lehmangraz to relate along with the further adventures of Ursula. Watch this space!

Ursula and the Baron

2010-07-09T09:06:00.000-07:00

“Such a charming town,” Paul Ehrgeiziger remarked to his companion as they strolled along the promenade.

“Isn’t it?” Lady Amelia sighed, clinging to his arm as she gazed out over the lake. “The air here is so very refreshing.”

The summer season was getting into its stride. Bolschen thronged with the wealthy and merely well-to-do, come to take the air and sample the restorative waters of the spa. The promenade made a gay and colorful picture as folks took constitutional walks and the chance to show off their finery.

Paul felt better than he’d done for many months. Indeed, years, he thought. The wound suffered in the messy naval engagement on the river had healed and troubled him no more. He glanced at Lady Amelia and met her warm smile with one of his own. And with a charming companion to help me forget all my previous woes! What could be finer?

“There is a particularly beautiful young lady,” Amelia remarked, gesturing along the promenade with a discrete tilt of her head. “Yet I wonder why she walks unaccompanied?”

Paul glanced in the direction Amelia indicated. His heart lurched. Only long habit and experience in the school of espionage saved him from stumbling in shock. Dear God! Ursula!

The young woman wore a rich day dress in dark green, trimmed with lace and fine silk, along with a matching be-ribboned straw hat with a broad brim. A lacy parasol twirled in her hands in an insouciant manner as she strolled toward them. Paul saw she had him fixed firmly in her gaze.

“It appears she’s coming this way,” Amelia murmured. “Do you know her?” The undertones in her voice spoke of doubt and suspicion.

Paul cleared his throat. “I have that honor. She is the Grafin Ursula von Hetzenberg-Pfalb, niece of the Grand Duke.”

“The Grafin!” Amelia exclaimed. “I’ve heard much about her. Is she truly as… reckless as they say?”

“Bold would be a better description, my dear,” he said softly, for Ursula had closed the distance between them. Paul bowed and Amelia curtseyed. “My dear Grafin, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you, Herr Baron,” Ursula replied.

“Allow me to present Lady Amelia Davenport, an English friend of mine, visiting this town for the waters.”

The women exchanged courteous nods. “Charmed, I’m sure,” Ursula murmured. “Herr Baron, I trust I see you recovered from your wound?”

“Fully so, Excellency. The spa waters are most restorative.” He smiled, although the pain in his heart still fluttered. “I must congratulate you on your wedding. Is your husband here with you?”

“Thank you, and no; Horatio is elsewhere, on duty.”

Paul sighed inwardly. Leading his devilish gunboats against my nation, no doubt.

“I wish to consult you on a matter of some delicacy, Herr Baron,” Ursula went on, glancing at Amelia. “It concerns two friends of mine.”

Paul blinked in surprise. Lady Amelia cast a curious glance at him. “I shall walk a little further, to the bandstand on the point, and leave you to your discussion in peace.”

“Thank you, Lady Amelia,” Ursula said. “I hope not to trouble the Baron very long.”

As Amelia strolled away, Ursula turned to Paul. “I won’t beat around the bush, Herr Baron. The future happiness of my friends may well depend on your advice.”

He spread his hands. “I am your servant, madam. Command me.”

Ursula extracted two documents from a fold in her dress. “You remember Mary Amadeus, of course.

“That’s a rhetorical question,” Paul smiled. “How could anyone forget her?”

Ursula chuckled then grew serious. “Quite! She and my cousin Philip are very much in love.”

“Ah.” Paul pursed his lips. “I see.”

“You know the kind of problems that would create. Neither of them wished to follow the traditional route of Mary becoming Philip’s mistress. I sought to remedy the situation with some legal advice from Professor Knappenberger.” She passed Paul a letter. “This is what came in return.”

Paul scanned the writing then examined it in closer detail. “There seems little doubt here. Your friend and your cousin cannot marry.”

“I think there’s plenty of doubt, Herr Baron”

“Professor Knappenberger’s legal acumen was known throughout Europe. If he stated a point, is there not reason to think he would be right in his judgment?”

“Normally, yes. In this case, no,” Ursula said crisply. “Please cast your eye over this.” She handed Paul the second document.

He examined it and furrowed his brow. “This is a deed to land near your capital?”

“The content isn’t important,” Ursula said, waving a hand. “What’s relevant is the fact it’s the most recent authenticated document I could find written by Professor Knappenberger before he left the Duchy.”

Paul looked closely at it then re-examined the letter. After a minute he nodded. Amid the tangle of emotions he felt professional curiosity rising once more. “Hmm! This letter’s a forgery. Clever, subtle work, but a forgery nevertheless.” He looked up and gazed at her for a long moment. “This implies Professor Knappenberger’s legal opinion was other than stated here.”

Ursula sighed. “That’s my opinion also. Someone is attempting to prevent my friends from marrying; but who, and why?”

Paul handed back the documents. “There is a war on between my nation and yours. I’m of the opinion the mysterious someone is seeking to cause disharmony at the highest levels in your government for the purpose of impeding Hetzenberg’s prosecution of the war.”

Ursula stared at him, and he felt struck anew by the pangs of unrequited love. Beyond her in the middle distance he could see Lady Amelia strolling near the bandstand. Every now and then her gaze would come his way. He sighed heavily.

“It’s a pretty low, underhanded scheme to enact, don’t you think?” Ursula said.

“Did not Shakespeare say all’s fair in love and war?”

“No, that quote is from John Lyly’s work Euphues.” Ursula said distantly as she appeared to be thinking hard. “He was a slightly earlier playwright than Shakespeare. He said the rules of fair play do not apply in love and war.” Paul blinked. “I shall have to present this evidence to my uncle the Grand Duke,” Ursula went on. “If nothing else it’ll cast doubt and uncertainty over any ban against Mary and Philip marrying.”

“I think I recognize the hand of the forger,” Paul said slowly.

Ursula cocked her head. “You do?”

“I believe so. It’s a man by the name of Bartolomeo Gundaker, a freelance agent for hire to the courts of Europe.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Few do. He’s a low-level wretch with a propensity for murder.” Paul grimaced with distaste. “All that can be said in his favor is that he’s good at what he does.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Herr Baron, but would Dunkeldorf-Pfühl not employ its own agents for espionage work?”

“In the normal course of things, yes.” Paul frowned. “I’m inclined to believe the murder of Professor Knappenberger and the forgery were commissioned by someone operating outside the normal bounds of my bureau.”

“Would you look into the matter for me?” Paul looked at her askance. Ursula all but batted her eyelashes. “I would consider it an immense favor, for the sake of my friends’ happiness.”

He opened his mouth to reply when a distant commotion drew their attention. An excited buzz flowed along the promenade, moving as fast as feet would carry it as people dashed from one group to another. “Why, what’s amiss?” Ursula exclaimed.

“There’s been a battle!” someone gasped, running along the promenade. “The enemy attacked the gunboat base at Lehmangraz!”

“Oh schieße! Horatio’s there!” Ursula cried.

“Go, Ursula!” Paul said urgently, touching her arm. Even in the midst of the crisis he felt a tingle at just touching her so. “I shall find out what I can. You have my word. Now go find your husband!”

Ursula lifted her skirts and hurried away, all but running back the way she’d come. Lady Amelia walked up to him. “Paul? I heard there’s been a battle?”

“Yes. It seems forces from Dunkeldorf-Pfühl attacked the Hetzenberg naval base, and the Grafin’s husband may have been involved.”

She laid a consoling hand on his arm. “It must be so very difficult, living in the midst of a nation with whom yours is at war.”

He laid his hand over Amelia’s and gave her a wan smile. “You have no idea,” he said, casting a glance at Ursula’s retreating figure.

Ursula on the trail

2010-06-22T09:51:00.000-07:00

Eschewing the carriage and escort her new status required, Ursula rode to Hetzenberg alone. The journey took a week of moderately fast riding, through weather that grew increasingly warm as she progressed. In the capital she spared time to visit her foster-parents before heading for the State Archives. Luckily they were kept in a wing of the palace well away from the Ducal domestic quarters, where her presence would have been remarked upon, with all the loss of secrecy and freedom it entailed.

The Archivist had been surprised when Ursula requested a packet of secret intelligence documents. Such papers were off limits to all but the most senior staff, especially those documents pertaining to current affairs and operations. However, Ursula had the noble rank and determination to brush aside any restrictions. She spent a fruitful morning perusing a number of papers, both secret and mundane, before taking her leave of the archives and making a brief visit to the university. The next day she departed the capital and headed north, again alone and unescorted.

She rode into the spa town of Bolschen an hour before noon four days later. Wedding bells rang from a church as she passed by, and the wedding party emerged blinking and happy into the bright sunshine. The sight and sound brought fond memories of her recent nuptials with Horatio. Lehmangraz laid not three leagues from Bolschen. I’ll surprise Horatio there! She thought.

It didn’t take long for Ursula to find the address she sought, an auberge located in a quiet street off the main drag. The innkeeper took in the richness of her attire and with many an obsequious bow showed her up to the suite of rooms where Konrad and Liserl Beckenbaur resided. They were surprised to see her.

“Ursula!” Konrad exclaimed, rising from the day-bed in the bay window, where he’d been reading. Liserl dropped her embroidery, jumped to her feet and executed a deep curtsey.

“Good morning!” Ursula said, moving swiftly to embrace first Konrad then his wife. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony. Be comfortable, I beg you.”

“Not that we’re very pleased to see you, my dear girl,” Konrad said, sitting on the edge of the day bed with barely a wince of pain, “But what do you here?”

“I’ll tell all in a moment,” Ursula replied, looking closely at her old friend. “First, tell me how you do.”

“I’m getting better by the day,” he replied with a smile, and indeed she saw his color had improved markedly since she had seen him last in Kimmelsbrücke.

“And he grows more fractious by the day too!” his wife interposed, giving Konrad a look of fond exasperation.

“I grow tired of doing nothing but visiting the baths and walking the promenade.” He gestured to the book lying open on the bed. “I think I’ve read every book worth reading in this town, too.”

“You’re here to get better, my friend,” Ursula said. “From your appearance I’d say that day is not far off.”

“It’ll be good to return to work.” Konrad blinked and cast Liserl a guilty look. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed your company, my love!”

“As I enjoy yours.” Liserl folded her hands in her lap and shook her head with a sad little smile that hid a wealth of meaning. “It’s been rare enough we’ve had time together these last few years, Konrad, the good Lord knows. It’s a treat to have you with me for this long.” She sighed. “Even so, I know you long to be back in action. I won’t stand in your way.”

“I have a hunch that day may be sooner than either of us expected,” Konrad said softly, looking at Ursula with speculation.

She held up her hand. “This is a social call, first and foremost, Konrad. I wanted to know how you fare. Now I’ve happily seen you’re increasing in health, I will concede there is a minor matter of intelligence you may be able to help me with.”

“Name it,” he said, spreading his hands.

“Do you know the whereabouts of Paul Ehrgeiziger?”

Action at Lehmangraz!

2010-06-18T06:35:00.000-07:00

Dawn over Lehmangraz - but the peace is soon to be disturbed...

Battle has indeed been joined in and around the flotilla base at Lehmangraz! Full report on the action up to the current time can be found in the Lead Gardens blog, courtesy of David Dugas.

David and his friend Eric kindly stepped in as proxies to fight out this engagement. The superb set-up can be seen in the photo above. His attention to detail is such, the gunboats even fly Hetzenberg pennants!

* * *

Once the dust has settled I'll write it up in dramatized form for the Chronicles, for later posting here. Oh, happy Waterloo Day! ;)

Skirmish at Lehmangraz

2010-06-16T12:50:00.000-07:00

Reports of a skirmish in and around the riverine naval base at Lehmangraz have reached Hetzenberg army HQ outside Randstadt. Initial details are sketchy but the attackers are believed to be jagers striking from Dunkeldorf-Pfühl. The river flotilla is currently undergoing refit at the Lehmangraz base. Heroic riverine naval officer Commander Horatio Horngebläse is said to be on the scene. More news reports with pictures to follow.

Upcoming skirmish

2010-06-03T06:02:00.000-07:00

David Dugas has stepped up and volunteered to fight out the skirmish at Lehmangraz. He anticipates gaming the action within the next few weeks, and it's shaping up to be quite an action! Full report here when it comes in. My thanks also to Steve, and Jeffrey who also volunteered.

A proxy skirmish?

2010-05-27T07:33:00.000-07:00

Gentlemen, would anyone be interested in fighting a proxy skirmish for me? A situation has arisen where light forces of Hetzenberg and Dunkeldorf-Pfühl have clashed during a raid far from the main battle front. In terms of numbers the forces concerned amount to no more than three companies, one of which is militia, and a representation of four gunboats. A bit of a clue, there!

It's a scenario that could have a sizable impact on the war - and certain characters featured in the Chronicles. The results will be written up and posted on my blog, and published later in the third volume of the Chronicles with a full acknowledgement for the player(s) concerned. First come, first served.

Ursula hatches a plan

2010-05-12T08:19:00.000-07:00

Rain fell in torrents, but the siege of Randstadt continued. As Lieutenant Mary Amadeus trudged back to the artillery park through mud and puddles, the air shook with both thunder and the concussion of heavy guns. She heeded it not. Feeling wet-through and miserable, her only desire now was to reach her tent and rest – and mope over the ruin of her hopes. A particularly vivid sheet of lightning surged through the heavy cloud above, triggering Mary’s latent sense of scientific inquiry. She tipped her head to regard the cloud and was rewarded by a stream of water trickling out the folds of her tricorn and down her back. She huddled into her cloak, thinking but not voicing one of Ursula’s choice curses. The memory of happier if wilder days with her friend buoyed Mary for a while, until the general sense of gloom descended once more.

It lasted until she reached Officers’ Row in the artillery park, at which point she stopped dead in her tracks with surprise. A full-sized officer’s pavilion stood where her small but adequate tent had been. The board announcing her name and rank had been hammered into the ground to one side of the entrance. A thin stream of smoke emerged from a tin chimney pipe extending above the roof. The rain cascaded off the sloping canvas roof into a broad drainage channel, keeping the area under the pavilion dry. It looked like an abode fit for a colonel.

Wide-eyed and curious, Mary splashed her way over to the pavilion and cautiously drew back the fly, to see Ursula and Philip comfortably ensconced on padded camp stools by a pot-bellied stove.

“Ah! There you are!” Philip exclaimed, rising to his feet. Ursula grinned and raised a tankard in greeting. An enameled pot sat on top of the stove, and Mary realized the air inside the pavilion resonated with the delightful aroma of coffee.

She stepped inside, into delightful warmth, and allowed the fly to fall. Philip came up and took her in his arms. “Welcome to your new premises, my dear,” he said tenderly. Over his shoulder Mary saw Ursula smile and look away from their intimacy. She busied herself with pouring a third tankard of coffee.

“Philip, where did this all come from?” Mary asked, amazed. She looked at the stove, and a new camp cot, set within its own screened-off area. The ground underfoot was dry and covered with a mat of closely-woven rushes.

He drew back and held her gently by the shoulders. “It’s my gift to you. A small compensation for the bitter disappointment we suffered.”

“You’re too kind,” she murmured.

Ursula stood and handed her a tankard. “Here you are, get the right side of this.”

Mary smiled her thanks and cupped cold hands around the heavenly warmth seeping through the pewter. “You worked quickly. I was only at the gun lines for half an hour.”

“We had help,” Ursula said with a wink, taking her seat once more.

“How goes it up there?” Philip asked, guiding her to a stool.

“We’re making progress.” Mary sipped the scalding brew. “The Neuburg battery’s taking a pounding from our guns. We should silence it in another day’s work, two at most.”

“My father hopes to have Randstadt in our possession within the month.”

“It may be sooner,” Mary said tersely. Since the confrontation over Professor Knappenberger’s letter, she found it hard to think kindly of her liege lord, Grand Duke Karl.

Ursula must’ve sensed her thoughts, for she set aside her tankard and leaned forward. “What happened is not my uncle’s fault, Mary,” she said earnestly. “He has to be guided by protocol.”

“He didn’t help matters,” Mary replied, giving Philip a sidelong glance. “I’m sorry, Philip. I know he’s your father, but he dealt me – us – a cruel blow.”

“So he did,” Philip sighed, rubbing his furrowed brow.

“And you’re a fine one to talk about protocol, Ursula,” Mary went on, giving her friend a hot look.

“Touché,” Ursula murmured.

“I’m sorry you sent that letter to Professor Knappenberger.”

“Call it another brick in the road to hell.” Ursula gazed at her for a long moment. “I did so with the best of intentions.”

Mary shrugged, sipped coffee as her emotions threatened to rise up and cause a scene it would be hard to retract. “You’re my best friend. I really do believe you,” she managed to say.

“I’m glad of that, Mary A,” Ursula said, reached over to clasp her hand. “And, it so happens I may be able to fix things.”

“How so?”

Ursula took a sheet of parchment from a fold of her dress and held it up. Philip peered at it and blinked. “Isn’t that the reply from Professor Knappenberger?”

“Yes. I filched it from your father’s bureau the last time I went to headquarters.” Philip’s jaw dropped and Ursula clicked her tongue. “Oh, don’t look such an idiot! It needed to be done.” She waved the letter. “This damned thing has already caused my best friend and you a lot of damage. Now I think it’ll help undo it.”

“You stole it from my father’s bureau?”

Ursula gave her cousin a scathing look and addressed Mary. “I asked the Professor to reply to me, so this letter should’ve come to me anyway. Somehow it got addressed to my uncle. Why?”

Mary frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Because somebody wanted to cause mischief.”

“They certainly succeeded!” Philip said.

“Yes.”

“You think this mysterious somebody knew about your inquiry to the Professor?” Mary asked.

“I’m almost certain of it.”

Ursula’s eyes sparkled in a way Mary knew of old. Her spirits began to revive. “What are you planning to do?”

Ursula glanced around at the canvas walls of the tent. “I’m pretty sure no one’s outside snooping on our conversation in this weather,” she said, pitching her voice low. “Even so, I’m keeping my plan to myself for now. I’ll be heading back to Hetzenberg in the morning, then up to Bolschen.”

“Bolschen?” Mary cocked her head. “Why there?”

“I may take the waters,” Ursula replied with a wink.

Back from an excellent weekend

2010-05-10T16:19:00.001-07:00

My wife and I are back in town after she took part in the regional Sweet Adelines contest up in Peoria, Illinois. Her chorus, The River Blenders of Chesterfield, MO won! They go through to the international finals to be held in Houston, Texas next year. It couldn't happen to a nicer band of ladies!

We're kinda excited!

On the wargaming front I'm busy with a new commission to paint some more Plains Wars figures for a fellow gamer. I find myself casting longing glances at the Rumtopft Dragoons and Hetzenberg artillery languishing in storage, waiting for me to clear the painting decks and get cracking on them. Hopefully, I'll be able to do something with them next month. In the meantime, I'm working on the next post in the Chronicles. As always, watch this space...

Proper Old School wargaming footage

2010-05-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

Some interesting footage here of the late, great actor Peter Cushing, indulging in his hobby of wargaming. Using H G Well's Little Wars rules and fought out on his study floor, you can't get more old school than this!

An idle question

2010-04-29T12:28:00.000-07:00

My current project is painting up some Plains Wars US cavalry for a fellow gamer. Pics of the completed mounted troops can be found here, at A J's Wargames Table.

In between times, I was talking over TV and media with my wife, and got to wondering. With all the TV coverage of sports, hobbies and so on out there, why is there no dedicated TV wargaming channel? Surely with many thousands of gamers all over the country and beyond, there's room for such a channel. Thoughts? Opinions?

Into the night

2010-04-27T08:24:00.001-07:00

The company of Sobelsburg Jager swam across the Eisenwasser in the dead of night. Two miles upstream stood the small town of Wentwitz. Almost of one mind the company decided to avoid going anywhere near the scene of their rough handling by the Hetzenberg army and riverine flotilla. Enemy troops still patrolled the area, but the agent had said the riverbank here seemed unwatched.

Lieutenant Weismuller led the way across with a powerful over arm crawl, towing a sealed keg behind him by means of a length of yarn. It contained a dark lantern and a tinderbox, along with a dry white kerchief and spare cartridges for his firelock Experience had taught him long ago to be prepared for every eventuality.

Not far behind Private Träger swam like a trout. Kleiner’s massive frame bulled through the water in the manner of a ship of the line, raising a white wake and earning a hissed rebuke from the Old Man. “Yes sergeant, sorry sergeant,” Kleiner burbled, water slapping in his face. The Old Man raised his eyes to heaven and wondered quite what he’d done to deserve to be stuck with such a lumbering brute.

Before long the first swimmers entered the reed beds and set their feet down on the muddy bank. Drawing bayonets blackened with soot and lamp-black, they crept forward, eyes searching the darkness intently for signs of the enemy. The small sounds of night creatures filled the air. An owl hooted somewhere in a copse of trees close to the bank. Waving their fellows on the lead jagers climbed the low rise into the water meadow.

Lieutenant Weismuller shook water out of his ears and gestured to the senior NCOs to gather around. He pitched his voice low. “Our contact should be here. Ensure the men have unloaded firelocks; I don’t want anything giving the alarm, do you understand?” A chorus of assent showed they did. “Good, return to your men.”

“Sir!” a jager cried softly, and pointed toward the copse. A light flickered there, once, twice, once, twice more. The owl had fallen silent.

“That’s the signal. Stand easy, men.” Weismuller unsealed the keg and took out the kerchief. He waved it in the direction of the light, knowing the white cloth would be easily visible in the starlight. The light flickered once then twice in response and went out. Moments later a man could be seen emerging from the darkness under the trees. Stuffing the kerchief into a pocket Weismuller went forward to greet him.

“You’re late,” the man said gruffly.

“And you’re impatient, but this is getting us nowhere.” Weismuller couldn’t make out the man’s features then realized the lower half of his face was swathed in a black scarf. “Is the way clear?”

“Yes. There’s a farm track leading out of this meadow fifty paces in that direction.” The man gestured. “The high road’s half a mile further along. Cross that and head roughly northwest, you’ll come to the wooded hills on the other side of the valley. Skirt around those, keeping northwest for ten miles. You’ll come to a burnt-out windmill. When you reach that, head north. Your target lies nine miles further on.” He drew a folded sheet of paper out of his cloak and passed it to Weismuller. “Here’s the best plan I could obtain of your objective. It’s not well guarded. Good luck.”

Without another word the man walked away, swinging his lantern, heading north along the edge of the meadow. Weismuller watched him go and sighed inwardly. I hate skulking around like this. Give me an honest ambush any day of the week.

He clapped his hands softly. “All right, let’s get going. First platoon, out front, form skirmish order. You others, form on me. Keep your eyes peeled! Move out.”

“What’re we doin’ here anyway?” Kleiner rumbled.

“We’re on a secret mission, is what,” Träger whispered with a sniff. "Or 'ave you forgotten?"

“And you two will find my not-so-secret boot up your butts if you don’t shut it!” the Old Man snarled right behind them. “Now face front and march!”

Both men stiffened and did as they were told.

The owl watched the line of humans until they passed out of sight. If it could sigh, it would have done so. Gradually the noise of human movement faded, and the small scurrying creatures began to emerge from hiding. The owl forgot the intruders and turned its mind back to the matter of hunting.

The Few, the Proud...

2010-04-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

The increased importance of river warfare has been demonstrated clearly by recent actions along the Eisenwasser. Under the able command of first Captain Creighton then Commander Hornegeblase, the Hetzenberg riverine flotilla has given the forces of Dunkeldorf-Pfuhl a bloody nose on several occasions.

The Hetzenberg Army Council scrutinised the after action reports submitted by the commanders and identified a means of enhancing the flotilla's capabilities. To this end a general order has been issued commissioning the raising of a company-size Marine contingent for service aboard the flotilla vessels. A platoon-size force will be assigned to each vessel, including the new pennant craft once it is commissioned. This will give the riverine navy a raiding force to strike land targets, something it sorely lacked - until now.

The picture above shows the prescribed uniform for the Marines, a fusilier-pattern rig in royal blue over Prussian blue weskit and britches in similar fashion to the army issue. White gaiters are issued for parade dress only. All buttons are of spelter. The low-crowned fusilier cap has been adopted, and a carbine issued as standard firearm due to the confined space aboard ship. In keeping with Marine tradition, all personnel wear cutlasses.

With thanks again to David Linienblatt for use of the uniform template.

Does anyone know...

2010-04-19T13:51:00.000-07:00

...of a US source of 25mm horses, compatable with the Dixon's Miniatures Plains Wars range? I've tried Wargamesminis.com but they've sold out. Any guidance will be appreciated.

A new blog

2010-04-15T11:48:00.000-07:00

After some thought I've decided to open another wargaming blog.

A J's Wargames Table.

This will be a home for all my non-SYW/ImagiNations gaming and modelling projects, plus odds and ends that take my gaming interest. My first post is a brief but picture-packed note on the Victorian sci-fi GASLIGHT vehicles I built. Take a look and I hope you enjoy!

In the siege lines.

2010-04-13T08:11:00.001-07:00

Colonel Wilhelm Schmutzgräber cursed as a young sapper dropped his end of a fascine. “Pick it up, lad! The enemy won’t dawdle if they see you in their sights!”

As if on cue the Neuburg battery fired, blossoms of yellow fire erupting all along the distant embrasures. Lieutenant Mary Amadeus ducked low in the trench as the shot howled overhead. A gabion shuddered and slipped under the impact of a shrewdly-aimed shot. Before the shriek and howl of the salvo faded sappers were already pushing the huge earth-filled basket back into place.

Schmutzgräber slapped his tricorn against his arm to rid it of dust and dirt. He jammed the battered hat back on his head and regarded Mary with calm detachment. “How’re you bearing up, girl?” he asked, pitching his voice low so only she could hear it.

“Well enough, Colonel.” Even though their acquaintance only measured days, she already liked the lanky engineering officer, and could tolerate his use of the word girl in addressing her. “How long will it be before the battery is ready, sir?”

“You don’t like being under fire without the chance to pay the enemy back for his favors.” Schmutzgräber nodded with a glint on his eye. “A day, no more.”

“Good.”

He rubbed his jaw. “You’ll command the new battery, I collect?”

“I will.”

“And what of His Excellency, the Graf?”

“Philip will – uh, he’ll be in overall command of the siege guns.”

Schmutzgräber nodded again. “Good. Between the two of you they’ll be in safe hands.”

Mary felt her face grow warm as she blushed at the compliment. “Thank you, sir.”

The Neuburg battery fired again. They ducked lower in the trench as the shot hummed and whistled overhead. A sound like a butcher’s cleaver crunching into a joint came from close by. Mary clapped her hand to her hat and stared around. The clumsy young sapper now lay on the reverse face of the trench, minus his head. Bile rose in her throat and she turned aside and retched.

A firm hand took her by the shoulder and she felt herself being led along the communication trench, away from the first parallel. “Go back to the artillery park, lieutenant,” Schmutzgräber said kindly. “We’ll call you when we’re ready for your guns.”

Mary felt a mixture of shame and relief. The shame began to burn hotter when she saw the pity and even contempt in the eyes and faces of the men she passed. I know what you’re thinking, she thought as she headed for the park. Warfare is no place for a woman. Well, I’ll show you!

Philip was standing outside the tent he’d had erected for his use when visiting the artillery park. His place was properly with the headquarters, but he spent an inordinate amount of time around the new siege guns. Mary’s heart gave a pleasant lurch in her breast as she saw him. The smile he gave her filled her world.

That smile slipped somewhat when he looked closely at her. “What’s wrong, my dear?”

“A casualty. In the trench. A young man lost his life.” She closed her eyes and the image of his corpse rose again in her mind’s eye.

“Come inside, please.” His voice sounded so gentle.

She preceded him into the tent. The aroma of canvas, coffee and a plate of fried bacon and potatoes filled the space. Oddly, the combination of scents contrived to settle her queasy stomach.

Philip dropped the canvas fly and took her into his arms. “You’re worried about how you’ll appear to the men.”

“You know me so well,” she said, pressing her hand to his chest.

“I like to think that. I’d like to know much more about you, dearest Mary.”

She managed a smile. “One day.”

“One day.” His smile returned but his expression took on a serious mien. “You’re a capable officer of my uncle’s army. You’re the first of what I’m sure will be many women who’ll follow a military calling. It’s easy to say be strong, but much harder to do.” A tear trickled down her cheek. Philip wiped it away tenderly with his thumb. “It’s a certainty that the vast majority of the men in the siege lines are terrified. Death lies around every corner of every trench, and here in the camps. It lies in wait for us all after our allotted span. The trick is not to show your fear.”

“Are you afraid, Philip?” she asked. “You seem so calm.”

“I’m petrified!” He chuckled ruefully. “Bullet or cannonball or disease cares not for rank or title. As I said, the trick is not to show your fear.”

“Then I shall be calm, too.” I do feel so much better!

“That’s the spirit.” He took her face between the palms of his hand and kissed her. “You’ll be fine. Do your duty and all will be well.”

“I’m sure.”

“Have you heard from Ursula?” he asked, turning to the camp table and pouring two tankards of coffee.

Thankful for the chance to think of more pleasant things Mary sat on one of the folding stools. “I had a letter last night. She and Horatio reached Lehmangraz three days ago. He’s to oversee the repairs to the flotilla and the construction of a new vessel to replace the Styx.”

Philip handed her a tankard. “I hope it won’t take too long. The gunboats will be needed to threaten Randstadt from the river.”

“The new boat will be larger, and broader in the beam. She’s to carry two twenty-four pounders in the bows.”

“Will she carry a mortar?”

Mary sipped her coffee, savoring the brew as it overcame the lingering taste of bile in her mouth and throat. “I think there’s provision for a howitzer.”

Philip shook his head. “A howitzer won’t answer in a siege. The ten inch mortars the other boats carry would be far more effective.”

“I agree. Perhaps we could do something with rockets…”

She let the thought hang in the air. Philip stared into space, his tankard halfway to his lips. “Hmm!”

A polite cough sounded beyond the tent fly. “Your Excellency?”

Philip glanced in the direction of the voice. “Yes, Gideon?”

“A communication has arrived from the Grand Duke, sir. He requires the presence of yourself and Lieutenant Amadeus at once.”

With a puzzled look Philip opened the fly. His aide clicked his heels and came to attention, presenting the message with clean aplomb. Philip read it and looked blank. “It seems we’re wanted at headquarters, my… ah, lieutenant. My father is particularly insistent you should accompany me.”

Mary stood and tugged the hem of her coat straight. Her heart began to pound as a nameless dread stole through her. This can’t be good news…

Headquarters had been set up in an inn back along the road to Kimmelsbrücke. They rode there together and were shown up to the Ducal suite. Grand Duke Karl waited for them, his Chancellor Count Ostenberg by his side. The Duke turned from gazing out the window at the passing scene as they entered. “Good morning, Philip, Lieutenant Amadeus.” They responded. Mary took care not to stare questioningly at her sovereign.

“We have received word that Dr. Knappenburger, guest Professor of International Law at the University of Bearstein, has died.”

“I remember Dr. Knappenburger,” Philip said, sounding puzzled. “He was a most erudite gentleman.”

“It appears the Professor suffered an apoplexy. We do not know for sure. His servant decamped with a sum of money and a number of the Professor’s personal effects. That, however, is beside the point.” Duke Karl’s expression was cold but Mary sensed he was fuming inside. “Apart from being an expert in international law, Dr. Knappenburger also served the Grand Duchy as a legal advisor.”

He crossed to the table and picket up a document. “This was found among the late Professor’s effects. It appears he was working on the case just before he died. I’d like both of you to give an explanation for it.” He set the document on the table where they could read it.

Philip stooped to examine it. Mary followed suit and felt the blood drain from her face as the words sprang out at her. “Oh no!”

With reference to your inquiry as to the validity of a marriage between your cousin Graf Philip von Hetzenberg and a woman of common birth, to whit, one Mary Amadeus.

I’m afraid it is entirely out of the question. Laws on the statute books governing Ducal marriages dating back over two hundred years clearly forbid such a formal union. Matters of breeding and bloodline have to be preserved for the sake of stability in the realm. However, there is no legality preventing the relationship developing along more, shall we say, informal lines.

I remain, Grafin, your humble, obedient servant, I. Knappenburger.

Karl gestured at the document. “It seems my niece is meddling in affairs that do not properly concern her. Even so, Professor Knappenburger’s response to her question is quite clear.” His gaze bored into them. “You are not permitted to marry!”

* * *

As an aside, a friend of mine in England has asked for my help in gathering uniform and organization info connected to the Revolutionary War/War of Independence. There seems to be a dearth of such in the UK. Can anyone point me in the direction of some useful material on the war?

A moment of peace and quiet

2010-04-06T08:02:00.000-07:00

“It’s not a bad life.”

Private Träger looked up from cleaning his musket. “What are you talking about?”

Kleiner shrugged. He sprawled on the ground in the sunshine, hands behind his head, gazing peacefully up at the passing clouds; the very picture of indolence. “What I’m saying is, it could be a lot worse.” Without getting up he gestured around them at the hill and the farm in the dell below. “This is a nice billet, no?”

Träger screwed up his nose. Being of a naturally vinegary disposition he was inclined to find fault in anything, however pleasant. In this case he found it hard to disagree, especially when Ingrid, the farmer’s eldest daughter came into view down by the stream, a basket of laundry balanced on her hip. He gazed thoughtfully at her buxom form, the coquettish smile she sent in his direction. “’S not bad, I suppose.”

Kleiner raised his head, followed the direction of his comrade’s gaze and grinned. “Yeah, ‘snot bad, not bad at all.”

“I saw her first!”

“Did not!” Kleiner rolled onto one elbow the better to follow the sway of Ingrid’s hips until she disappeared into the farmyard. “Anyway, you still stink of powder smoke. A fellow’s got to be fresher than that to attract the likes o’ her.”

“Fresh? A bit of powder smoke would make a nice change for a girl who smells nothing but cow shit all day – gah!” Moments after Ingrid passed from sight another, far less welcome sight appeared in the arched gateway to the farm. “Heads up! It’s the Old Man!”

“Oh, fu…” Kleiner scrambled to his feet, groping for musket and cleaning gear as he did so. It was too late; the Old Man had seen them.

Both men stood and waited as the sergeant climbed the gentle slope, his dark eyes glittering with the special malice reserved for senior NCO’s. He came to a stop in front of them, and looked them over with evident displeasure. “You’re a couple of lazy dogs, hiding away up here! If you two don’t sharpen up, I’ll kick you so bleedin’ high when you come down your uniforms will be out of date!”

“Yessergeant!” they chorused, stiffening to attention.

But the Old Man seemed disinclined to push the matter. He let them stew, his hands on his hips as he looked them over. Finally, with a sniff of disdain, he got to the point. “Get down to the billet and gather your stuff. We’re moving up.”

“What?” Träger exclaimed. “Where to, sarge?”

The Old Man gave a sour grin. “The war misses us so much it’s got a little treat in store.” Their hearts began to sink. “There’s a special operation forming up. We’re going back into the Grand Duchy.”

“Oh, bleedin’ ‘ell!” Kleiner groaned.

“Enough of that! If you’d wanted a quiet life you should’ve avoided the draft.” The Old Man jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the farm. “Get your stuff and parade in the yard. There’ll be no bugle calls. This is going to be quick and quiet, understand?”

“Yes, sarge.”

He nodded, spun on his heel and walked away down the slope. Kleiner gazed mournfully after him. Träger sighed. “No peace for the wicked, and that’s us.”

* * *

A short post today, as certain computer problems have to be addressed. Meanwhile, I've noticed that Wargamesminis has Dixon's miniatures on sale at around 75c each. I'm heading over to browse and buy in a while. The call of shiny new metal figures is strong today...

Indian interlude

2010-03-30T08:12:00.000-07:00

If pressed Captain Gustav Adolphus Horngebläse would confess to few romantic feelings, yet even he admitted the scene before him was breathtakingly beautiful.

He stood on the low sandy shore gazing out at the ocean, the wind ruffling his hair, listening to the loud hiss and rattle of surf in the stillness of the night. Moonlight shone on the Bay of Bengal, etching the waves in pure silver and lapis all the way to the far horizon where the full moon hung low. Away across the sea a ship sailed, the Clomer, one of his, heading for port, her sails filled to the gentle breeze under her coat-tails. The moonlight picked out every little detail of sail and rigging, and Gustav could almost fancy he made out the fine buff color of her hull. As he watched her tranquil path, his heart felt full of a mélange of emotions ranging from homesickness to humility. Even the name of the place where he stood had a special ring to it that spoke of the Orient: The Coromandel Coast: A long way from home.

A soft cough sounded from behind him. Gustav brought his mind back to the present, regret for the lost moment of peace filling his soul even as his active mind returned to more worldly matters. He turned and regarded the man walking toward him. The stranger, clad in the lungi and angavastra of the region stopped a few feet away, pressed his palms together and bowed. “Good evening, Ganan,” Gustav said in the Tamil of the country as he responded in kind. “You have a message for me?”

The man nodded, his fine dark features lit by the moon over Gustav’s shoulder. “Yes, Gustav sahib. My master will see you now. He waits by the old pagoda in the casuarinas grove but one kaadham from here.”

About half a mile, Gustav translated. Not a great distance to walk on such a pleasant night. Yet much rests on what I’ll find there. “Will you guide me?”

“I shall, sahib.” Ganan gestured. “This way, please.”

Gustav followed, after casting a last longing glance back at the shining sea.

The dunes along this part of the coast were not high but they soon blocked the sound of the sea. Only the wind sighing in the palms could be heard above the soft tread of his booted feet as Gustav followed the guide. Ganan was barefoot: He trod as lightly as a ghost. In a moment of whimsy to distract him from his darker thoughts Gustav swore the man could’ve been a spirit, flitting ahead in the moonlight.

After a while the dunes grew lower before disappearing into level ground. They came to a fishermen’s trail that ran inland for about a hundred paces before joining a broader track. Ganan crossed it without glancing back, plunging with single-minded purpose through a strand of coconut trees. Beyond came a millet field and beyond that Gustav’s first glimpse of the casuarinas grove and the stumpy tower of the pagoda. A glint of water in the far distance betrayed the presence of the Paler River.

Together they skirted the edge of the field. Even the comparatively short distance from the sea made a difference to the air. The humidity seemed to increase with every step, although the soil beneath his feet was parched and dry. Gustav could taste the dust and feel the grittiness between his teeth. He plucked at his shirt, the workaday garment sticking to him like a second skin with the sweat streaming from his pores. Ganan forged on, untroubled by his native clime.

A soft nickering sound came from somewhere in the grove and Gustav heard the tread of a restless horse. Someone spoke softly in liquid vowels and the tread quieted. “Who goes there?” someone demanded in Tamil, the challenger’s voice firm but not alarmed.

Ganan stopped. “It is I, Ganan. I have brought the ferengi sahib.”

“You may advance.”

Gustav followed Ganan into the grove, and became aware of the presence of a number of men around them. A veritable retinue, in fact, for moonlight shone through the trees to gleam off armor and weapons, and eyes shining in dark, warlike faces. The great sugarloaf hump of the pagoda rose up from a clearing ahead. His eyes thoroughly adjusted to the gloom, Gustav could pick out the carvings that covered it, most of which seemed erotic in some ill-defined but uncomfortable way.

Lights shone near the base of the structure, showing a sizable party of warriors gathered there near a broad cloth spread upon the ground and surrounded by low cushions. One man stood almost alone, his form picked out by rich robes of pale silk over a dhoti. Ganan stopped before him and bowed. “The ferengi, Maraan-sahib.”

“Thank you, Ganan. You may go.” The man’s chin lifted as he regarded Gustav. “Welcome, Gustav-sahib. Please, be seated and take refreshment.”

Gustav bowed and followed his host’s gesture to sit upon one of the cushions. Maraan followed suit, crossing his legs into the lotus position with effortless ease. He waved a hand and a servant set a European-style lantern in the middle of the cloth to illuminate the faces of those sitting around it. A young woman bearing a ewer emerged from amongst the warriors followed by another with a tray of fine cups and goblets. Gustav was offered a goblet, which the young ewer-bearer filled with sparkling liquid. He inhaled the aroma softly, trying not to sniff and cause offense. To his relief the scent of sandalwood sharbat met his nose. Raising his cup in salutation to his host, Gustav drank one mouthful of the sweet liquid and set the cup aside.

“You have come far, Gustav-sahib,” Maraan said.

Gustav studied the man, placing his age at somewhere in the mid-forties. Fine dark eyes shone from a handsome visage dominated by a hawkish nose, and the hair beneath the close-fitting turban he wore showed wings of gray. The Rajah of Sadras-Patnam had a presence that more than hinted at his power. “Indeed, I have traveled many thousands of leagues to be here, Maraan-sahib,”

Maraan gestured to Gustav’s attire of shirt, britches, stockings and buckled shoes. “You do not wear a coat like many of the ferengi here.”

Gustav smiled. “I mean no disrespect, sahib: it’s just that I prefer not to boil alive.”

Maraan chuckled. “You’re a practical man! I like that. Your Tamil is also very good.”

“I had occasion to learn from a young age, sahib.”

“How so?”

“My father traded along this coast when I was apprenticed to him, many years ago.”

“You spent your time well.” Gustav nodded. Maraan leaned back and placed his hands on his knees, regarding Gustav squarely. “Now I am told you seek an accommodation with us on your own account?”

“Yes, sahib; mine – and my Rajah’s.”

“Your Grand Duke.” Maraan’s mouth worked as if he savored the strange feel of the German term in his mouth.

“Yes, Maraan-sahib.”

Maraan’s eyes glittered. “There are many ferengi making their presence felt along the Coromandel Coast. The French down in Pudacheri; the Dutch: the Danes further north. I learn the British are striving to expand their influence in the west, that Tradgardland have a presence on some of the islands.” He reached for his goblet, drank, set it aside. “Why should we tolerate any more interference in our affairs from ferengi?” His tone was light but the steel lay there in his words.

“Why indeed?” Gustav spread his hands, noting the watchfulness in the visages of the warriors. One word from them and poor Gustav will be no more… “Yet with respect, Maraan-sahib, I feel you will have no choice.” The on-looking warriors shifted and stirred at this, and a growl of disapproval rose from over a dozen throats. Gustav plunged on. “The western nations are powerful and any one of them is far better organized than the disparate states and princedoms of India. They will seek to divide and conquer. We of Hetzenberg do not.”

“No?” Maraan’s eyebrows rose.

“No, sahib. My sahib commissioned me to seek nothing more than a trade agreement and the right to set up a factory in your territory through which goods may flow.”

A silence fell. Maraan regarded Gustav thoughtfully. “I’ve no doubt your exact words were said to other lords around India by those ferengi seeking entrance to our lands and possessions.”

“I don’t doubt it either,” Gustav said in an equable tone.

“So tell me; why should your Hetzenberg be any different?”

Gustav had rehearsed his answer to this inevitable question from the moment he heard a covert audience with the Rajah would be granted. “Hetzenberg is not a large nation, Maaran-sahib. In size we are on a par with your own lands. Furthermore, I received news but recently that my nation is now at war with a jealous rival.”

“So your nation has not the capacity to project a quest for colonies – at the moment.”

Gustav spread his hands. “Not at the moment, nor do I doubt it will always be so. We have no desire for military adventures on far foreign shores.”

“Then what do you offer us?”

“We offer you fair trade, Maaran-sahib; our goods and products in exchange for yours.” Gustav glanced around until he spotted his guide, watching quietly from the sidelines. “Ganan there will tell you a ship is currently sailing north, bound for Sadras-Patnam. That ship is one of mine. In her hold is a quantity of muskets of the latest make, along with associated accoutrements. There are also six field cannon of French manufacture with associated limbers and a caisson.” As a stir ran through those present at this news he went on. “All of which will be yours in exchange for a perpetual trade treaty and the right to establish a factory in Sadras-Patnam.”

Maaran stared at him while his retinue chattered excitedly. Gustav watched and waited. The moments passed. Finally Maaran’s eyes narrowed. “How many muskets are there?”

“There are enough to equip a battalion on the European model. The cannon can equip one battery.”

“Do you have anyone aboard your vessel who can train men to use such weapons?”

Gustav nodded. “An experienced infantry drill sergeant of the Hetzenberg army is aboard. My own gunners can teach your men to point the artillery where it’ll do most harm to the enemy.”
He waited then whilst Maaran chewed this over. Excited chatter among his men was reaching fever pitch before the Rajah spoke again. “I will agree to your terms, subject to safe delivery and prior inspection of the goods.”

Gustav breathed easier. “That is most kind of you, Maaran-sahib.”

RECRUITS con report

2010-03-29T07:45:00.000-07:00

In search of trouble...

Major Hardleigh-Worthitt & Party aboard the prototype

Spottiswood-Gallant Mk 2 steam tank.

We had an interesting weekend, in more ways than one. The Recruits convention in Lee's Summit, MO was a very good experience on the whole, marred only by a contretemps at the silent auction where a guy attempted to put the CON in convention. The matter is now settled to my satisfaction so no names, no pack drill.

I hoped to take pictures of the event to post here but the batteries for our camera died. Such is the way of the damned things...

Flames of War had a good showing, with around a dozen tables all busy with 15mm games. They're not my favorite WW2 set by a long chalk, but the figures, models and scenery in use looked very good. Warhamster 40k had a good turn out too, although I was less than impressed by the presence of so many unpainted figures and models on the table. C'mon, people! If you're setting out to impress and recruit others to the hobby, at least put some effort into applying the pigments!

Other games included sci-fi, naval warfare in various eras and scales, and plenty of Napoleonic, including some superb 10mm figures. My hat goes off to whoever painted them for their skill and sharp eyesight.

Baron J of Unterklant and his fellow Basement Generals put on a Wild West skirmish game, followed by an excellent little scrap to GASLIGHT rules. Cindy and I arrived late and had too much else to think about to take part. Even so it was great to watch as the youngsters had a ball with steam tank and gatling gun in search of Professor Archibald Standpipe and his hidden treasures.

Plenty of traders attended, with heaps of figures, artwork, models and even clothing in evidence. I was able to restrain myself to buying a pack of Victorian-era figures in 28mm for a GASLIGHT/steampunk project. Baron J, you have a convert!

* * *

On Sunday morning Cindy and I headed into Kansas City itself in search of the steamboat Arabia museum. In the event they only open at 12 noon on Sundays, so we opted for plan B - the National World War One Memorial and museum. Baron J recommended this place highly and we could immediately see why. It's excellent! There's really too much to describe in this one post, so I'll put some pictures and a report up soon.

Off to Recruit!

2010-03-26T05:46:00.001-07:00

Today my wife and I are heading over to Kansas City, where they're really up-to-date (a brownie point for whoever gets the movie reference!). Our first stop this weekend will be at the Recruits convention in Lee's Summit, MO. I'll hook up with Baron J of the EvE blog for a western skirmish game, and hopefully trade some painted "Pony Wars" figures in 25mm at the silent auction. Recruits is a popular convention, drawing folks from as far afield as Texas and Minnesota. This will be our first time there and I'm looking forward to a good time. Afterwards, we'll be heading into Kansas City itself and a trip to the Arabia steamboat museum.

A classic riverboat of pre-Civil War days, her career on the Missouri River came to an inglorious end in August 1856 when she struck a submerged tree and sank. Over time the river shifted course by a half-mile and her grave became a cornfield. It was located and excavated not long ago, and the wreck proved to be a time capsule of Victoriana.

Bundles of goods belonging to pioneers on their way out west were found. Far from the drab image generated from black and white photos of the era, their clothing – especially that of the ladies – proved colorful and delightfully delicate. Boots, tools, equipment of all kinds, all wonderfully preserved. Several crates of sweet pickles in sealed glass bottles were also recovered – and they proved edible!

Doesn’t the wreck paint a poignant picture? Imagine those poor pioneer folks of so long ago, keyed up with the excitement and anxiety of starting a new life. What stories they could tell us today, stories full of hardship and danger, but success too. They lost their belongings in the wreck, but at least their lives were preserved. Who knows, someone among the passengers of the Arabia may be an ancestor of yours.

Outside Randstadt

2010-03-23T08:51:00.000-07:00

The third squadron, Guard Horse Grenadiers filled the view in the telescope. They were fresh: Grand Duke Karl could tell from the swift way they maneuvered. Each squadron took turn and turn-about to fulfill their duties, keeping the heavy troopers and mounts fit for longer.

For the past week the regiment had assisted in pressing the retreating remnants of the Margraf’s blocking force back from the border with Hetzenberg. Although never profligate with the lives of men, Karl regretted the necessity of preserving his meager cavalry resources. It made the task of pressing the enemy that much harder and meant fewer resources elsewhere.

Their immediate opponents wore the green uniform of Dummebettler's Regiment of Dragoons. All that day had been a case of advance and retreat, advance and retreat, both sides’ cavalry matching the moves of the other with precision. Now the enemy had their backs to the town of Randstadt. Here they could no longer stand, so they must by necessity withdraw into the town or ride away, refusing battle. It was that or face annihilation at the hands of superior forces.

He lifted the instrument to gaze at the distant town, ignoring the charming spires and towers to focus on the gray line of the ramparts stretched around its circumference. Men moved there, and cannon showed in embrasures sited at intervals. He gauged the distance between the leading troop of his cavalry to the edge of the defense works.

“There goes their cavalry,” Count Ostenberg murmured as the line of enemy dragoons peeled away into column of twos and rode fast for the nearest town gate. “Any moment now…”

Karl glanced at the Chancellor, gazing through his own instrument with rapt attention. “That’s the Neuburg battery, is it not?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Karl nodded thoughtfully. “If I recall correctly, that young scamp Ursula reported six eighteen-pounders there.”

“Just so. Ah!”

Karl saw it at the same moment, a big puff of dirty white smoke erupting from one of the dark dots that marked the enemy guns. He counted the seconds under his breath. At the count of six a gush of earth sprang from the ground about a hundred yards in front of the Horse Grenadiers. Two of the men hurriedly guided their mounts to one side before the heavy ball bounded between them. The signal was plain: thus far and no further.

“It didn’t bounce far,” Ostenberg commented, closing his telescope with a snap. “The soil is damp from the thaw.”

“It’s just as well. It’ll be easier to entrench.” Karl watched the captain commanding the troop ride toward the town, leaving his men behind. With an elegant sweep of his tricorn he saluted the distant enemy gunners. A few seconds later the flag above the battery dipped in acknowledgement.

“Easier to entrench, but we must beware of the miasma that can rise from wet ground. Disease has carried off more soldiers in a siege than ever cannon did.”

“You’re quite correct.” Karl refused to dwell upon such practical but gloomy thoughts. Instead he directed his attention to the rest of his army.

In accordance with orders they proceeded to shake out of column of march into column of divisions, colors flying at the head of each regiment. Every step of the process passed in measured and stately fashion until the army marched parallel to the defenses of Randstadt. Karl admired the maneuver even as he nodded approval of the way his officers directed their commands. All that remains now is for us to seal off the town. Everything else will follow in due order.

Almost as if following a cue Colonel Wilhelm Schmutzgräber walked up to the command party. He carried a yardstick under his left arm and the end of a measuring tape poked out of a coat pocket. Drawing his lanky form up to its full height, he saluted. “My boys are ready to proceed on your command, Your Grace.”

Karl returned the salute and cast a glance back at where the army was deploying off the Kimmelsbrücke road. Sure enough the engineering train was parking in a field alongside the road. The lumbering flat-bed wagons were laden with tools, and enough duckboards, gabions and fascines to make a start on siege works.

Beyond those lay the pride of the siege train. “Ah!” Karl said, turning his horse and galloping over to view the passing guns. Oxen lowed mournfully as their drivers goaded them onwards, following directions from a harassed-looking major. Standing close by him was a young woman in the crimson coat of the new Guard artillery. Karl checked his mount by the side of the road and regarded her thoughtfully. “Good morning Major Thom, Lieutenant Amadeus.”

The pair saluted. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Please continue with your work.”

Karl watched for a while as they guided the guns through a gate and into a broad field that would serve as the artillery park for the siege. In truth, he was still uncomfortable in the presence of Lieutenant Amadeus. So was Major Thom, judging by the stiffness in his bearing. Had he known what his son proposed, Karl would’ve forbidden the granting of her commission. Now the act was a fait accompli and he could not rescind the order without making Philip look foolish. The only saving grace in the whole affair lay in the young woman’s competence. Her work on the wedding fireworks for Grafin Ursula had been the talk of Europe. She bore watching – especially if, as some sources had it, there was something else in the relationship between Graf Philip and his protégé.

Karl found a genuine distraction in the shape of his guns, shiny new twenty-four pounder castings from the ironworks at Wöhl. Each bore the legend Ultima Ratio Regum, Latin for ‘The Last Argument (literally ‘reason’) of Kings.’

Once the town is encircled and all threat of interference removed, we shall begin the siege, he thought. Those little beauties will have their say in the matter. He gave the new lieutenant a courteous nod. And give this young lady her due; she’s more than competent to direct their fire. We shall prevail here at Randstadt, and the Eisenwasser Valley will be ours!

A Study in Bearstein

2010-03-16T12:28:00.001-07:00

Professor Iago Knappenberger entered his chambers, situated high in the Baroque New House on the University of Bearstein campus. Ordinarily a sense of repose would come over him as he entered the study-cum-sitting room, a charming room with a south facing view over the university lawns and gardens to the river beyond. After a busy day of tutorials and lectures, he welcomed the calm surroundings. This afternoon, however, he had a knotty conundrum to consider, a problem of the utmost political delicacy.

It had arrived in the form of a simple missive, apparently written in haste by a surprising correspondent - to whit, Grafin Ursula von Hetzenberg-Pfalb. He picked the document up from his cluttered desk and read it again.

‘I have a dear friend who is what is known as a commoner. She is of age, and wishes to marry my cousin Graf Philip, heir to the Grand Duchy. There is no family or blood tie between them. Would their marriage be legal?

‘All correspondence will reach me if directed to:- the Grand Ducal Army in the Field, Somewhere inside the Margravate of Dunkeldorf-Pfühl. Hopeful in your reply being yes, yours sincerely, Ursula von H-P.’

As an authority on international law Knappenberger had handled the matter of the Grafin’s claim to the Grand Ducal throne via Sacro Illiac law. He little expected correspondence from the young woman herself, let alone on such a subject. “And with so little data to go on!” he expostulated, setting the letter aside. As an afterthought he weighed it down with a wineglass then went to stand before the window. “What to do, what to do…” he muttered.

The door opened behind him and his servant entered the room with a soft tread. Knappenberger turned to regard the newcomer with some irritation. “You’re late, man!”

His servant bowed, holding the tray he bore tightly so as not to spill the tankard of small beer upon it along with a platter of soft bread and überreifem cheese. “My apologies, Professor,” he mumbled and carried the tray to the desk. Knappenberger shook his head. The man spoke with an atrocious form of the local dialect, something his ear had difficulty attuning to even after several months residence in Bearstein. “Would that the cretin spoke French!” he sighed in that language, returning his attention to the view. “You may go,” he said in German, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand.

The servant bowed and departed the room. Knappenberger stared out at the sunset, his mind returning to the problem posed by the Grafin. “So very difficult, and yet I think there is precedence.” His stomach rumbled and he sighed. “But first to feed the inner man.”

He sat at his desk, folded the napkin across his lap and proceeded to devour the meal. Even as his teeth worked on the crusty bread his mind kept working on the problem, until at the end of the meal the solution was clear. Picking up pen and parchment he wrote.

‘To Her Excellency the Grafin, greetings.

‘My dear Excellency. With reference to your communication of the third instance: I thank you for the generous payment received and give you this advice subject to further research on my part, and upon the presumption both parties in the relationship are agreeable to a match.

As my awareness of Ducal law stands there is no inhibiting factor to such a marriage between His Excellency the Graf and your friend. Social and traditional constraints exist in plenty, of course, and your friend will doubtless be aware of this. To summarize, my answer to your query is a provisional yes.

Please advise your friend to await further instructions from myself before undertaking any moves toward her nuptials.

Your humble, obedient servant, I. Knappenberger.’

“There!” He laid his pen aside, sanded the document, yawned and sat back in his chair. “An answer, I feel, that will satisfy the presumptuous young lady whilst allowing me time to consult with her elders – in particular, His Grace.” He yawned again, removed his wig and scratched his scalp. “Bless me! I feel quite fatigued. Now, uh. Uhhhhh…”

Bartolomeo Gundaker stood patiently the other side of the door, listening to the Professor as he talked to himself. His cue came when he heard the solid thud of a body hitting the floor in the study. With a quick glance around to ensure privacy Bartolomeo entered the room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Professor Knappenberger lay prostrate on the floor alongside his desk, his wig resting near an outstretched hand like a strange birds nest. Bartolomeo knelt alongside the fallen academic and tested for a pulse. Nothing.

“A cretin, am I, Monsieur le professeur?” he said quietly in French. He patted the cooling cheek in a familiar manner. “At least I’m not the one now taking up residency in that special circle of Hell reserved for lawyers!”

Rising, Batolomeo quickly scanned the desk. Locating the recently written note he shook the blotting sand onto a spare sheet of paper and replaced the document with a carefully-forged note of his own composition. The original he stuffed into his jerkin. Pausing only to scatter the ink-stained sand onto the forgery he departed the room, locking the door behind him.

By the time a porter summoned by an anxious colleague had battered down the Professor’s study door, Bartolomeo was already across the Bearstein border and bound for home.

* * *

So begins a new Hetzenberg Chronicle. As things stand such excerpts may appear at least once a week, if not more often. It all depends on what time I have among other projects. Watch this space...

On Sale Now!

2010-03-01T06:00:00.000-08:00

The Hetzenberg Chronicles, volume 1: Prelude to War is out now at Amazon!
Buy it here!

The year is Seventeen-hundred and frozen-stiff...

In the space between European empires two small nations hover on the brink of war. As great men on both sides ponder the future, a secret agent and two unconventional women are about to make their mark.

The Convent of St. Ungulant is home to Sister Mary Amadeus, a nun with a passion for blowing things up, and her best friend Ursula Reitzell, a bold and beautiful novice. Little does Mary A suspect her friend is a spy in the employ of Hetzenberg secret agent Konrad Beckenbaur. Little does Konrad suspect Ursula hides a secret that will light the fuse for war.

When fate calls the three are swept up in events that lead them through moments of high terror and drama, comedy and pathos. Will their combined talents for explosives and mayhem see them through?

The Hetzenberg Chronicles Volume 1:

Prelude to War

Coming soon!

2010-02-28T11:57:00.001-08:00

The print version of
the Hetzenberg Chronicles, vol 1: Prelude to War
will be on sale from tomorrow!

STOP PRESS!

2010-02-19T13:38:00.000-08:00

Or rather, Start press! I'm happy to say the final proof copy of the Hetzenberg Chronicles arrived today and I approved it only minutes ago!

As you can see above it all looks very spiffy, and will be on sale in approx. fifteen days time. I'll post a link to Amazon's CreateSpace site when it's ready to go! Thank you one and all for your patience while the creative process was underway.

Trials and tribulations overcome!

2010-02-12T13:57:00.000-08:00

I think I may have mentioned working to produce a book in print form is no picnic. If my recent experience is anything to go by, if it was a picnic it'd be one well-visited by ants, wasps and other creepy-crawlies!

Still, the proofing is done and submitted to the printers. I just have to wait now for the next stage.

Have a happy Presidents' Day weekend, everybody!

Proofs!

2010-02-09T06:43:00.000-08:00

So here we have them - two print copies of the Hetzenberg Chronicles, volume 1 - Prelude to War. There's a wonderfully tactile sensation associated with handling print copies of your own work, and these are no different. However, proof copies are intended as a final check on quality before going into full production, and these have shown up some internal errors which I'll have to correct before giving the okay. At the current rate I'm looking at a release date sometime in early March, if not sooner. Watch this space!

On the way!

2010-02-01T19:04:00.000-08:00

Finally! All the problems with the cover art have been solved (my thanks to Elaine Lanmon for her help and advice!). A proof copy of the Hetzenberg Chronicles, volume one is on order. I'll post a photo of the glorious tome when it arrives! Watch this space...

In a holding pattern

2010-01-29T09:04:00.000-08:00

The manuscript for the Chronicles print version is complete and accepted by the printer. At the moment things are hanging fire over the cover art. I'm working with a cranky program - Microsoft Photo Standard 9 - and a cranky slow PC. Still, I'm persevering! I'd like to get this out the door soonest so I can return to some wargaming projects for a change.

Not forgotten...

2010-01-19T10:48:00.000-08:00

Let no one tell you producing a print book is ever easy. The Chronicles will see the light of day, but certain problems arose in formatting them for print publication. I'm addressing these, and will post an update soon.

Serendipity II

2010-01-16T13:46:00.001-08:00

When my wife and I were out for a walk in summer last year we came across this table. Someone in the neighborhood had put it out for garbage collection. Since local policy is "if you want it - take it" we took it. As you can see it's a pretty sturdy affair and must've cost a chunk of change when new. Sadly, whoever owned it didn't treat it very well. The decorative painted spandrels in the corners are worn, and there's a slight warping of the wood on one edge. A large right-angled strip of white paint and several paint-pot rings mar the fine wooden surface. It once had a separate leaf that could be inserted in the middle, but it's missing.

Even so, we can find a use for this! This morning I brought it up from storage and I now have a table free for wargaming purposes. My wife can also use it for her sewing machine. The figures currently gracing the table are RSM95 Prussian Dragoons (the Rumtopft Dragoons to be), now flash-free and soaking in their detergent wash.

The Print Version - work in progress

2010-01-09T16:50:00.001-08:00

Having explored several options, I decided on a printer for the Hetzenberg Chronicles. The first steps are complete. All being well the print version should be out soon! Check here for details on release dates. Meantime, here's another great - if slightly tongue-in-cheek - review of the Chronicles.

"Stirring, non-stop action! With the mustached rogues, 10 inch mortars and naughty nuns, you won't be able to put this book down. I changed rules sets straight away!"

James, Québec, Canada

Thank you, James!

The pdf version is available now at just $5.95. PayPal accepted only.
Contact: asap.productions3(AT)gmail.com
(Substitute @ for (AT))
A copy will be dispatched within 24 hours.

Developments and designs.

2010-01-06T06:09:00.000-08:00

It's Twelfth Night and a slow-ish start to the new year here in St. Louis. A severe winter weather warning is going out on TV, with three-four inches of snow expected in pretty short order. It's nothing to get excised about but I'm not looking forward to driving in it. The way some people drive in good weather around these here parts doesn't exactly fill me with confidence!

I'm still looking into options for publishing the Chronicles in paperback form. Obviously I want the book to be available to readers for a reasonable price. Finding a printer who will produce books without them costing an arm and a leg is proving tricky. However, I've a number of avenues to explore, and I'm sure the book will appear soon. In the meantime I'm pressing ahead with revisions and writing new material for Volume Two: The Heat of Battle. I even have a new source for photographs to go with the text. Watch this space...

On the conventional wargaming front I expect to return to my painting desk from next week onwards. I have a regiment of dragoons and two artillery batteries to prep and paint. I'm going to make up a jar of Future/Klear polish with some sepia and black ink added for dipping purposes. Making it up in small doses then brushing it on is good but a little time-consuming, and the dip method has the advantages of consistency and handiness.

I was sad to note the sudden and unexpected demise of the Blasthof Blog, a site dedicated to the originators of the Old School wargaming style. John Preece, one of the contributors stated it has been decided to wrap up the blog in its current form. I guess we can hope it'll reappear in another guise.

A Happy New Year!

2010-01-01T12:04:00.000-08:00

Another New Year upon us - where does the time go? I've had a few thoughts on future wargames projects in spare moments amongst all the jollifications.

* Work toward completing at least the nucleus of the Hetzenberg and Dunkeldorf-Pfuhlian armies. This will be a regiment of dragoons, two of infantry, one of light infantry and two artillery batteries for Hetzenberg: Two regiments of cavalry, one of guard infantry and two batteries for Dunkeldorf-Pfuhl. Anything else will come over the course of time.
* Set up a blog dealing with my wargames projects in eras away from the 18th century.
* Model more Victorian sci-fi/steampunk stuff.
* Continue publishing the Chronicles in paperback and .pdf.

No doubt I'll stray down various highways and byways over the course of the year. In the meantime I wish all of you a Peaceful and Prosperous New Year!

Serendipity

2009-12-30T09:59:00.000-08:00

The Spanish royal cypher
Lettering around the breech, showing place and date of castingThe gun in place
*

On Monday Cindy and I took a trip over to Missouri's state capital of Jefferson City. We had a little time to spare after concluding our business so we took a walk along the Missouri Veterans' memorial on the north side of the Capitol building. Much to my delight we found the cannon shown in the photos above, mounted at the east end of the sidewalk. It's a Spanish gun, cast in Barcelona on 4th March 1769, and captured in the Spanish-American War of 1898. I'm a bit hazy as to its caliber, but suspect it threw a 24 pound ball. Unfortunately I forgot to take a photo of the muzzle, but I can say it had a rather irregular bore. Firing it must have been an adventure every time!

A Merry Christmas!

2009-12-25T18:42:00.001-08:00

It has been a really good day, with my new wife and I spending our first Christmas season together as a married couple. To complete the festive mood, for the first time in many years I'm experiencing a white Christmas! We had an excellent dinner in company with my step-daughters, with a nice big turkey cooked to perfection. To add to the occasion, I got to watch A Christmas Story on TV, a seminal American Xmas movie and one my wife has enthused about for ages. Now I know what those references to Ralphie and "You'll shoot your eye out!" mean!

As for presents, well..! Where I was half-expecting a nice parcel of dragoons from Dayton Painting Consortium, I actually got those and an artillery battery, as well as two extra 6-pounder guns. Once the holidays are over, I'll pitch into painting them up.

Just a reminder, the first volume of The Hetzenberg Chronicles are available in .pdf format. The paperback version will be released in the New Year.

In the meantime, a Merry Christmas and a peaceful and prosperous New Year to you all!

A busy little Xmas.

2009-12-22T08:38:00.000-08:00

It has been a busy few days here helping my step-daughter come over from Denmark to spend Christmas with us. She got caught in the delays due to the bad weather both sides of the Atlantic and has spent more days in airport terminals than any sane individual would care for. Thankfully she's made it to St. Louis at last and is sleeping-off the jet lag.

I can now turn my thoughts to Hetzenberg matters. A box from those charming chaps at Dayton Painting Consortium arrived on Monday in the middle of the hustle and bustle. On the threat of dire punishment from the Duchess I've had to leave it well alone until Xmas Day, but I suspect it contains the future Rumtopft Dragoons! With a bit of holiday money to hand I can also contemplate buying some DPC Hanoverian infantry and artillery to make up IR 3 Brabenachel and IR 4 Kranke, and a couple of batteries. This will finish off the nucleus of the Hetzenberg army, with two regiments of cavalry, four of line infantry and one of guard, one line and one guard artillery batteries. Even further good news, my family in the UK have discovered a courier company that can ship items overseas for about 1/4 of what others charge, so I may well get the army of Dunkeldorf-Pfühl over here at last!

For those awaiting the release of the Chronicles print version, various Xmas matters have delayed things until just after the holidays, but they will appear! Watch this space...

On sale now!

2009-12-15T06:46:00.000-08:00

So here it is, Volume One of the Hetzenberg Chronicles! It contains new material, is professionally copy-edited, and comes in Adobe .pdf format. A print version will appear soon!

To order a copy of the .pdf just send payment of $5.95 via PayPal to:-

asap.productions3(AT)gmail.com
(replace (AT) with @ )

Please note: This is not an automated system. The copy will be sent to you within 24 hours.

Watch this space or www.smilingassassin.com for further details of releases!

On sale from tomorrow!

2009-12-14T10:43:00.000-08:00

The year is seventeen-hundred-and-frozen-stiff...

The Hetzenberg Chronicles Volume 1:

Prelude to War

With great pleasure I announce the .pdf version of The Hetzenberg Chronicles will go on sale tomorrow, priced at $5.95! Orders will be taken from 9am central time onward, and a zip file of the Chronicles sent by return email. Watch this space for further ordering details tomorrow!

New recruits

2009-12-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

Back in summer the Battle of Viehdorf was fought between the armies of Hetzenberg and Dunkeldorf-Pfühl. It was a sanguinary affair that saw much bravery on both sides, not least of which was displayed by the Rumtopft Dragoons in a sterling performance when they stemmed the advance of the Margraf's cavalry.

Will fought the battle by proxy for me as I was in the middle of immigration matters at the time. My thanks again to him. Now Xmas is drawing near, my lady wife has offered to buy me a unit for the Hetzenberg army. I have asked for some dragoon figures from Dayton Painting Consortium's RSM95 range so I can create the bold Rumtopft regiment for myself.

I show their planned uniform above, although I may add a little yellow trim around cuffs and facings. Of course, the battle honor of Viehdorf will be appended to their flag! The colors and heraldic insignia are satisfactory but I'm not sure about the shape. It strikes me as being more of a cavalry design than dragoon. Any thoughts?

Work is still underway in completing the Chronicles. We've both been slowed up by post-Thanksgiving bugs these last two weeks but we should get the .pdf version out in time for Xmas - possibly the paperback version too.

One of the websites I follow is that of the Edinburgh wargames club. A nice after action report of a SYW game fought by them can be found in their journal.

A (belated) Happy Thanksgiving!

2009-12-02T06:12:00.000-08:00

I hope everyone had a good holiday! It was a busy few days for us, with me and Cindy driving over to Ohio ("round at both ends with a Hi! in the middle") last Wednesday to spend time with her family. It was my first encounter with them and it passed off peacefully, although my poor wife went down with some kind of bug on Sunday and it's still bothering her today. I don't think we ate too much, and it was interesting to drive around Cindy's peaceful little hometown of Findlay. On Monday I took and passed my driving test here in Missouri. It was nowhere near as comprehensive as the UK version - which explains a lot about the way some folks drive here in St. Louis...

The copy-editing of the Hetzenberg Chronicles is now complete! All that remains is to format it to the publishing template. The .pdf version will probably be first to step up to the plate. Watch this space...

Poll closed.

2009-11-15T12:30:00.000-08:00

The poll for the published form of the Chronicles is now closed. You the people have spoken and we have listened! ;)

There's a decisive result for paperback and pdf versions, so we're going to publish both forms. They'll be published under the Smiling Assassin Publications umbrella. This is a new creative endeavor intended to produce quality materials for wargamers and like-minded individuals. First out of the gate will be the Hetzenberg Chronicles in three volumes, featuring the life and times of two imaginary nations somewhere in 18th century Europe. Upcoming projects include a set of naval wargames rules for World War Two.

Meantime, here's a brief excerpt from Chapter One of Volume One, the Hetzenberg Chronicles...

* * *

“Boooooom!”

Ursula stumbled to a halt in the lane and stared aghast as the old barn at the edge of the field flew apart like a bursting bubble. A white mushroom cloud speckled with debris lofted high into the frigid air and blotted out the early morning sun that hung low over the mountain.

“Oh! Mary A!” she yelled. A wave of hot air washed over her, plucking at her habit and wimple and filling her eyes with dust. Ursula flung up her arms to protect her face as something large and black hurtled close overhead. She dropped flat on the frosty ground. Whatever it was plunged into the flooded ditch alongside the lane and showered her with icy water. Ursula cringed from the drenching cold and flinched as more debris rained down. The ground shuddered under some close impacts. By a miracle she was untouched. Finally the rain of debris ceased. Ursula rolled over and stared at the plump legs sticking out of the water. They moved feebly, showing glimpses of thick winter-weight stockings and a flash of sky-blue habit. A sensible black shoe dangled from one foot then dropped onto the broken ice and sank slowly out of sight.

Ursula scrambled to the edge of the ditch and slithered down the bank to the water. Dimly aware of other nuns approaching at a run, her priority was to rescue her friend. She reached out and seized Mary A’s legs and tugged with all her strength until her head emerged from the water.

“What happened?” an educated voice called anxiously from above. “Who’s in there?”

Ursula recognized the voice and looked up to see Abbess Hilda, the Mother Superior of the House standing on the edge of the ditch. “It’s Sister Mary Amadeus, Reverend Mother!”

“Why am I not surprised?”

* * *

Watch this space for publication dates!

A new poll.

2009-11-08T12:03:00.000-08:00

Cover art © 2009 Cindy & A J Matthews.
*

The year is Seventeen-hundred and frozen-stiff. In the space between European empires two small nations hover on the brink of war. As great men on both sides ponder the future, a secret agent and two unconventional women are about to make their mark...

The Convent of St. Ungulant is home to Sister Mary Amadeus (a nun with a passion for blowing things up), and her best friend Ursula Reitzell (a bold and beautiful novice). Little does Mary suspect her friend is a spy in the employ of Hetzenberg secret agent Konrad Beckenbaur. Little does Konrad suspect Ursula also hides a secret that will light the fuze for war!

When fate calls at the convent the three are swept up in events that will lead them through moments of high terror and drama, comedy and pathos. Will their combined talents for explosives and mayhem see them through? All will be revealed in -

The Hetzenberg Chronicles -
Volume 1: Prelude to War.

* * *

Final preparations to publish the Chronicles are in hand. Such is the flexibility of modern publishing I can now ask for the format readers would like to see. Check out the poll on the left. Feel free to leave me comments on the price you'd be willing to pay, and any other ideas or suggestions you may have. Any short reviews or blurbs you'd like to give on the Chronicles as they were published here are welcome.

A welcome surprise!

2009-11-04T07:45:00.000-08:00

BREAKING NEWS... Some of the pioneering names of our hobby have joined forces to create a blogspot of their own. Entitled The Blasthof Blog it is dedicated to the classic Charge! rules by Brigadier Peter Young.

Featuring such luminaries as Stuart Asquith, Steve Gill, Phil Olley and John Preece, the aim is to explore the book, depict units in the old school style and play out the occasional game. Please join with me in wishing them well!

Steampunk-ish exploration vehicle

2009-11-03T08:48:00.001-08:00

A new offering over at my Smiling Assassin blog...

Plastic Fantastic..?

2009-10-30T08:27:00.000-07:00

Zvezda's Great Northern War Swedish infantry.
*

I'm hugely tempted to buy some Zvezda plastic figures! Stokes Schwartz's excellent accounts of their use on the Stollen blog, plus recent postings on Sir William's blog have tipped my hand somewhat. Economically it makes sense. For instance, two boxes of the above set of figures gets:-

18 Hat company, marching.
12 ditto, loading.
24 ditto advancing (two poses)
12 firing
6 pikemen (convertible to standard bearers)
2 standard bearers
2 drummers
4 officers
6 grenadiers.

86 figures in total for $14.58 + shipping & handling.

Since I form regiments into 24 figures, that makes three whole units for the table, plus a few left over for use as skirmishers, vignettes, conversions, etc. True, the uniforms are of the Great Northern War, hence somewhat dated by the time of the War on the Eisenwasser, but hey, it's my imagination! In matters of scale, the figures are somewhat smaller than the metal ones I have, but since the different types will be in discrete units it won't be a factor.

Three regiments would complete the bulk of the infantry for my armies, leaving three cavalry regiments (Rumtopft's Dragoons for the Grand Duchy of Hetzenberg, the Tuhellenbach Hussars and the Seinfeld Kurassiers for the Margravate of Dunkeldorf-Pfühl) and an artillery battery apiece. As has been pointed out elsewhere, kürassiers can be modified to SYW standard from Zvezda's 1812 Saxon Kürassiers by using head swaps from excess infantry figures. The hussars, dragoons and everything else can be made up from metal figures.

Am I tempted? You bet!

Work is progressing on the copyedits for the Chronicles. Due to work and other commitments publishing date has been postponed for a couple weeks later than I expected. They should be out in time for Xmas, so watch this space!

DPC update and a useful ink.

2009-10-26T06:16:00.000-07:00

This weekend I got an email with some excellent news from Richard Masse at Dayton Painting Consortium. Some of you may know of the sad demise of the London War Room, which had an excellent range of 25-28mm Spanish for the SYW. DPC has acquired the molds for these and are already producing figures. It's early days, but the range is shown on DPC's newly-refurbished website. It includes grenadiers, fusiliers, and dragoons, along with useful miners for siege work. An interesting group for amphibious operations includes oarsmen, steersman, seated officers and fusiliers - something I'm taking note of for future scenarios involving the Hetzenberg riverine flotilla.

As a member of the Too Fat Lardies wargames rules group pointed out, there's a dearth of 17th-19th century buildings suitable for middle Europe. He went on to provide this link to a German site, Pretzschendorfer Weihnachtsberg which has a useful range of free to download printable buildings. The scale appears to be in the 10mm-15mm range, but with a bit of computer printer or copier adjustment it can be altered upwards.

On a personal note my status over here has been formally confirmed. I am now officially a resident alien! Must go now as I have to inform the mother ship and polish my ray gun...

Dayton Painting Consortium

2009-10-18T14:16:00.001-07:00

Does anyone know what's happening to DPC? I checked their website with a view to buying a few figures and found it's not functioning. The only page showing is for their Colonial 20mm range.

Busy busy busy...

2009-10-01T07:20:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be busy for a few weeks! The publication of The Hetzenberg Chronicles, Volume One is coming up. Also, a new publisher has expressed interested in the manuscript for a novel I submitted, so there's that to take care of too. Tomorrow I'm off to the annual Archon sci-fi convention near St. Louis. There'll be lots of fellow nerds plus a dash of real science this weekend - Marvelous! If that wasn't enough, Cindy and I are in the early stages of creating the screenplay for a movie. Even with all this going on, I hope to buy some more figures for Hetzenberg and write the early stages of the third volume of the Chronicles. Busy busy busy! Watch this space...

An emissary arrives.

2009-09-29T06:39:00.000-07:00

Here's a brief excerpt from the next volume of the Hetzenberg Chronicles, occasioned by the entrance of the Kingdom of Syldavia upon the European scene...

The Syldavian Order of the Black Pelican.
*

Grand Duke Karl leaned on the table in the inn's principal upstairs parlor, studying the map and listening with half an ear to the sound of his army on the march. Every footfall passing beneath the window was a measure of success. Randstadt lay just three miles away from the commandeered inn. Occasional gusts of the mountain breeze carried the sound of musket volleys and artillery fire as the army's advance guard skirmished with the town's defenders. All in accordance with his plans. Now he could turn his attention to a pressing matter of diplomacy.

As if sensing his cue Count Ostenberg entered the room and the assembled aides and messengers made room for him. Karl looked up at his Chancellor and nodded. "What news?"

Ostenberg bowed. "Excellency, the King of Syldavia's messenger awaits outside to pay his respects and to convey a gift."

"The Kingdom of Syldavia..." Karl muttered. "Close by Morea, yes?"

"Just so, Your Excellency. The country is ruled by the Almazoutian dynasty. Their regime is conservative but friendly to the Imperial court."

Karl straightened up, wincing from a twinge in his back. "That's good news. Apart from the Principality of Morea we have scant representation in that region of Europe. Send the gentleman in."

Ostenberg went to the door and spoke to someone waiting outside. A short, swarthy man entered. He wore a uniform of exotic cut comprising baggy white pantaloons and gold- embroidered scarlet waistcoat over a tunic of peacock blue. A white silk turban fitted neatly on his close cropped black hair, and a saber in a bejewelled scabbard hung by his side. Black brogues of shiny leather clad his feet. He was followed by a slender youth in only slightly less fine apparel, bearing a red Morocco leather case.

As the man executed a bow a sparkling chelengk fixed to the turban threw shards of light around the room. Count Ostenberg, the model of polite diplomacy was nonplussed at the Syldavian emissary's Oriental splendour; but only one who knew him well could see it. Karl hid a smile as introductions were made.

"Your Excellency, may I present Colonel Gavrilio Aliolikos, the plenipotentiary of His Majesty the King of Syldavia."

Aliolikos executed another bow with his hand on his heart. "Most Excellent, I am honored by your reception of me at such a busy time for you."

He had a strong accent but his German was comprehensible. "Not at all, my dear sir," Karl said, inclining his head. "You are most welcome, and I'm sorry you had to seek me out here instead of finding me at my palace."

"I am not sorry to have such a chance to see your magnificent army on the march!" Aliolikos' face flushed and his eyes sparkled as he gestured to the window. "It is a glorious sight, and no soldier would wish to be anywhere else than with an army!"

"You are too kind," Karl murmured. Aliolikos is a most enthusiastic gentleman, it seems.

"Excuse my enthusiasm, Most Excellent," Aliolikos continued, again with that odd flush. "It is a pleasure to see real soldiering for a change." He did not expand on the comment, gesturing instead to his aide. The youth stepped forward with a bow and presented the case. Aliolikos opened the lid and drew out a splendid medallion hung upon a thick red ribbon. "My King has commanded me to award you with our Order of the Black Pelican as a gesture of friendship and peace."

Karl looked at the golden device emblazoned upon the black enamelled Maltese cross. "Thank you for this most exotic and regal Order, my dear sir. Allow me to reciprocate." On cue one of Karl's aides stepped forward with a case clad in black velvet. Karl took it and opened the lid. "Please present this award of our Freundshaft Order on my behalf to your gracious King as a gesture of amity and goodwill between our nations."

With the formalities over Karl decided it was time to cut to the chase. "My dear sir, you may inform your King that Hetzenberg will receive with the utmost pleasure any ambassador he chooses to appoint. We will appoint an ambassador to his court within the next few days, and perhaps you can make the journey to Syldavia together." He gestured to the window as an ammunition caisson rumbled by, shaking the floor. "With Europe in such turmoil at present there is safety to be had in numbers, even for diplomats."

"Your wisdom is unassailable, Most Excellent," Aliolikos murmured. "I shall heed your advice." Thinking the audience to be at an end Karl began to turn his mind to other matters but the emissary spread his hands. "There is one other matter I have been commanded to raise, Most Excellent."

Karl waved his hand. "Please, sir, speak your mind. If it's within our power to address your concern, rest assured we shall do so."

"You are most kind. It is this: Syldavia has limited access to the sea, and our maritime trade is valuable to us. My King has grave concerns over the activities of pirates and privateers that harass our merchantmen. He asks Your Excellency that if a suitable officer of experience within your service can be seconded to our humble navy, it would be deeply appreciated."

"A naval officer?" Karl exclaimed. "Forgive my surprise, sir, but I would think His Syldavian Majesty would find more fertile grounds for recruitment amongst the navies of Britain and Gallica." He frowned. "We have a small, efficient navy, but it is a riverine force only."

Aliolikos bowed. "It is that splendid force to which my King looks, Most Excellent. He has heard of the prowess shown by a young officer of promise, one Commander Horngebläse."

"Good Lord!" Ostenberg exclaimed. "Young Horatio!"

"Just so, Count Ostenberg. News of his exploits was received with deep interest in Syldavia. May I have your permission to approach him, Most Excellent?"

Karl thought briefly. "You may, sir, but please be advised; Commander Horngebläse is recently married. He may not wish to take employment outside of his current duties."

"I thank you, Most Excellent, and shall be sensible of your advice."

An aide entered the room bearing a dispatch and a strong whiff of burnt gunpowder. Aliolikos took the hint and bowed. "I shall not trespass upon your valuable time any longer, Most Excellent. With your permission, I shall withdraw."

Karl and the emissary exchanged bows and Aliolikos departed. As the door closed Karl turned to his Chancellor. "Well, Ostenberg, that's a turn-up for the books, as the late Captain Creighton used to say."

"Horatio's a sound fellow, Your Excellency. If he has any sense he'll consult with Grafin Ursula first."

Karl grimaced. "If he does go, I hope he can persuade that young spitfire to stay here! The Good Lord knows what Ursula could do if she gets loose in the Balkans!"

"Amen!" Ostenberg said then frowned. "The situation regarding Morea is very uncertain these days, Excellency."

"Indeed. It will stand us in good stead to appoint an ambassador with plenipotentiary powers to Syldavia. I still remember the unease caused by that wretched Vizier Evidya's saber rattling. Although the threat to us is slight the Sublime Porte needs to be watched." Karl paused. "No doubt you've already selected a list of suitable candidates. Please make time this evening for us to review it."

Ostenberg bowed. "Of course, Most Ex... Your Excellency."

Karl grinned. The slip was deliberate, the humor it generated welcome. A louder than normal salvo of gunfire sounded and Karl sighed. "Now, gentlemen, let us return to the war."

* * *

More of Volume Three will follow in the fullness of time once a few other projects are cleared. The cover art for Volume One is complete and the final copy-editing underway. I expect to go to press toward the end of October. Watch this space!

Koh Koh Mah 2009 - full report with pictures!

2009-09-22T08:40:00.001-07:00

The 78th Frazer Highlanders on the march.

Advancing by fire. Spot the Hessian flag in the background.

The Koh Koh Mah re-enactment event is full of things to see and do. There’s plenty for the whole family to enjoy and a wonderful opportunity to learn about a time when the American Colonies began to coalesce into the United States. There are traders a’ plenty dealing in everything of the period, from candles through woven goods to fine leather and metalwork. Entertainers sing period songs and there are numerous displays and demonstrations of 1750’s fashions and way of life, both Native American and Colonial.

Then of course there are the battle re-enactments - which y'all as wargamers really want to know about…

For Great Britain, Koh Koh Mah saw attendance by the 77th Highlanders, 78th (Frazer's) Highlanders, Colonial militia, Rangers, even a few dragoons. I was particularly impressed by the smart turn-out of the Hessian company that fought alongside us. For the French there were the marines, militia, coureurs du bois. Both sides had artillery, and each had its own contingent of Native allies.

Events begin around 10 am with the Colors parade. All the units taking part parade around the site in march-step before assembling on the central parade ground. Here they salute the flags of the United States and those of the combatant nations of Great Britain and France. A break of an hour or so follows before the units assemble again, ready to march to the scene of battle.

The battleground at Koh Koh Mah comprises a dell of about an acre of wooded, level ground through which a creek loops, all surrounded by steep wooded slopes of roughly 1-in-2 gradient. Some parts of the dell have pre-made abatis formed from plashed branches, piled debris and foliage. The slope to the north-east rises to a fortified angled spur projecting out from the line of the slopes: This is Fort Richardville. The eastern slope is given over to public seating. Three wooden bridges of varying widths cross the creek which averages ten feet wide and a foot deep, with a rocky bed.

As Martin commented on the earlier post the scarlet coats of the British infantry show up quite clearly against the greens and browns of the woodlands. This changes in the fall when red becomes an excellent camouflage color!

The battles that took place over the weekend were “opportunity” encounters. Both sides had definite objectives. Ours was to push the French back from the bridges over the creek and take the fort. The French had to defend the fort and, if possible, to push us back from the creek and prevent our return. Each side seeks to accomplish their objectives by firing then maneuvering into the safety zone of 30 feet between combatant units. Safety is paramount, so once a formed unit enters that zone the unit they’re opposing has to give ground until the safety zone has opened again. Of course, when firing muskets anywhere both sides aim high. This is crucial, as even blank charges of 71 grains black powder can seriously hurt someone and, in certain circumstances even kill.

There were two actions on Saturday, the first of which saw the flint in my Brown Bess fail twice. Lacking the means to replace it I had to ‘take a wound,’ dropping dead or wounded at the next French volley to decorate the battlefield with my handsome corpse. As luck would have it, my company of the Frazer Highlanders were pushed back a ways, and I had the unique experience of lying between the two sides as they fired volleys of musketry over me! As I was only wounded I had the pleasure of being captured by a friendly French soldat. Like many re-enactors he had come up with an interpretation of his “character’s” life, that of a French-Irish soldier seeking a new life in the French colonies in Canada.

The afternoon battle was the most intense I’d taken part in to date. By now I’d bought new flints, musket tools and topped up the cartridges in my belly-box. Eighteen rounds and boy! Was I ready to burn those suckers!

That fort still needed taking, so once more we were on the attack. This time we pressed forward hard in classic fire and maneuver fashion, and I fired off half my ammunition on the way. We forced the French back across the bridge and occupied the loop of the creek, filling the air with powder smoke and the roar of gunfire. Still the French held on, although I think we had them beat. We had just taken a line of abatis when the call for Parlay followed and the encounter was held to be a draw. I stood with my comrades, chugging down most of the contents of my canteen (water only, I hasten to add!), thinking the French had gotten away lightly.

The battle on Sunday was constrained. Due to the threat of rain the powers that be had decided the action would be a timed encounter of only thirty minutes. Whoever had achieved most of their objectives when time was called would win.

The Frazer Highlanders formed up high on the hill with a good view through the trees down into the arena, and here we awaited the call to battle. It wasn’t long coming. The guns of the Royal Artillery were lining the ridge-top on our side. They opened the action with a roaring salvo and the commanding officer gave us the order to advance.

We dropped down the steep slope in column of fours, skidding in the deep layers of dust that covered the hard ground. Our shoes rolled on fragments of twigs and many a fallen chestnut yet somehow we kept our footing in spite of the weight of man, musket and accoutrements. Before long we were closing on the level ground at the bottom of the dell. The French fusiliers de la marine were waiting for us inside the loop formed by the creek, aided and abetted by militia scouts. It appeared their commander’s plan was to straight-arm us and prevent our nearing the palisades of the fort.

Ahead of me the front ranks of the Frazer’s and our Ranger flank guards began exchanging shots with the enemy. Before the battle our Captain had given the order – bring as much fire to bear as often as possible and this we did. The Frazer’s began to advance by fire, pressing forward under command. I was in the forth rank and soon found myself advancing to the line of an abatis where we gave fire at the dimly-seen white figures across the creek. We kept up a hot fire, some five or six shots as I recall, and then advanced from our position. Shot up by us and the Rangers the French began to give ground, falling back from the bridge they had been defending, and the Frazer’s pressed them closely.

Then a hissing noise made itself heard high in the trees above, the sound audible over the rattle of musketry, the booming of cannon and the war-whoops of native allies. Someone shouted “here it comes!” and within a second a downpour descended on our heads!

We were soon struggling to keep our powder dry! Our lieutenant shouted “get those muskets good and hot, gentlemen!” He had a point. Firing a dozen rounds in quick succession renders a musket barrel hot enough to evaporate rainwater in moments. Unfortunately my musket was nowhere near hot enough yet. Soon a nasty black sludge of burnt gunpowder began to clog frizzen-pan and touchhole in spite of my best efforts to cover the pan during the loading process. I reached for my whisk-and-pick hanging on a button of my coat, only to discover the copper pick had disappeared! Without it I could no longer clear the touch-hole of my musket and had to drop out of the line.

Technically I should have ‘taken a wound’ and dropped, or borrowed a whisk-and-pick off one of the ‘dead’ men now littering the trail so I could get back into action. Taking stock I saw the action had moved on, the French were giving ground, so since I was wet through and feeling pretty fed-up, I decided to drop back and watch as your war correspondent.

That first shower lasted a few minutes, but although we left some dead on the ground they indicated a clear advance upon the enemy. Our fire was as brisk as ever in spite of the rain. I watched through the drifting powder-smoke as the Frazer’s marched forward again and again, keeping up a heavy fire in spite of another brief downpour. On crossing the bridge they formed up three-deep, executed a wheel to the left and lined an abatis facing the French. From here Frazer’s and Rangers began to unleash rolling volleys that lit up the darkness under the trees to eerie effect. The Royal Artillery seemed unaffected by the rain too, as the fire from the ridge never wavered. In the confines of the dell the noise was incredible!

The firefight continued longer than I would have expected. Our French opponents could not match the sheer volume of fire we gave them, but then we heard them shout for a parlay. Ceasefire was called and the commanding officers advanced to discuss terms. There was little to debate. We held the field, the fort was directly threatened and the French no longer in good enough shape to dispute matters. With courteous bows on both sides they withdrew, allowing us uncontested entry to the fort. The grenadiers marched up and into the fort compound, British ‘Huzzahs!’ rang out, and with the traditional cry of ‘the dead shall rise!’ the battle was over.

So what did I learn from this that would be of use in understanding more of what our ancestors may have experienced? What did I pick up that could be used in gaming?

Firstly, I learned just how limited a view the average soldier had of his surroundings, especially in wooded terrain. For instance, at one point during the Saturday afternoon action the Hessian company was moving up to the left of the Frazer Highlanders. I know this as Cindy took a photo that clearly shows their standard not far from where I stood; yet I don’t remember them being there! All I was concerned with was hearing and following the orders shouted by my section commander over the roar of battle, looking to my firelock and keeping in step with my comrades. Very occasionally there was a pause where I was able to look around and take in the wider picture, but even then I could only see so far. I could see formed bodies of French marines and scouts and militia over the way; I could see the dead of both sides, the Highlanders clear in their scarlet coats. I could hear musketry, cannon fire and the war-whoops of natives on both sides. It was very hard to make out the course of battle outside our immediate area.

Second, I learned the impact a dysfunctional firelock can have. I’m not that experienced at firearms, being equivalent to a fairly recent recruit; so the wonky flint of Saturday and Sunday’s heavy rain put me out of commission quite quickly. A much more experienced soldier such as our own Captain can do much better. On one occasion he fired seventeen rounds in succession using a Brown Bess during a heavy downpour. ‘Get those muskets hot, gentlemen!’ and the problem of wet powder is much reduced. Something to ponder on when writing those rules covering the effect of rain in horse and musket era wargames.

The third phenomenon I encountered was the treacherous ground underfoot in the battle arena. As it’s a demonstration area the undergrowth is kept clear so the public can view the re-enactments unhindered. Perhaps it would be typical of the terrain found in the vicinity of forts and settlements in the historical locales fought over during the French-Indian War rather than the deep forests. In any case, the ground is littered with broken twigs and small branches, some as thick as a thumb; in some places there are fallen chestnuts (similar to the British conker or horse chestnut). The gradient is roughly 1-in-2 over much of the sides. Add to that a layer of dust one or two inches deep, often over hard-packed ground, dust that developed a layer of mud after the rain, and you can see it can be a hazard to cross. Dust, twigs, chestnuts like big ball bearings; all of these are murderous to step on, especially in military shoes with hard leather soles. And yet, we moved and operated as a unit over those slopes. Our only casualty was our piper, who had to retire after spraining his ankle.

Fourthly, there’s thirst. Since we were fighting for only short periods of time we weren’t burdened with packs containing rations, but no-one, no-one goes out onto a re-enactment field without a canteen full of water. That’s the rule and it’s a necessary one. The greater part of the weekend was fine, really pleasant weather, yet after carrying 10-11 lbs of musket plus kit over difficult terrain while wearing a red coat I was quite happy to swallow down a pint or two of cool-ish water. Think on what it would’ve been like at the height of summer for those soldiers of long ago.

Fifth, and certainly not last, there’s the comradeship found in a unit, even one that only meets for re-enactments at certain times during the year. You’re with a bunch of guys who know what they’re doing, led by competent officers. Look to your fellows and follow orders and you can’t go wrong.

So that’s our first experience of Koh Koh Mah, and Cindy's first experience at re-enacting. I believe she's going to post something of her experiences on her blog, so I'll leave that to her. Due to leave constraints Cindy and I won’t be fielding again until the Massac event at Paducah, TN next May, but we’ll be up at Koh Koh Mah again for the tenth anniversary, I’m sure. Maybe we’ll see you there.

Back in the 21st Century

2009-09-21T07:47:00.001-07:00

And so we are, after an exhausting but very satisfying weekend spent at Koh Koh Mah, Indiana. I'll post an account of the events that took place, along with photos, over the next couple of days. For further information on re-enactment events in the USA/Canada, go to the Montcalm & Wolfe site.

Off to Koh Koh Mah 2009

2009-09-18T07:25:00.000-07:00

Me and Cindy will be heading back to the 18th Century at Koh Koh Mah 2009 in just a few hours. At least a dozen members of the 78th (Frazer's) Highlanders will be there along with a contingent of the 1st Foot (Royal Scots), Rangers, Native allies and many others. We'll be ready to take on the might of King Louis' French army with staunch support from the Royal Artillery on Saturday and Sunday. Pictures will follow after this weekend.

A useful mold.

2009-09-15T06:53:00.001-07:00

I'll indulge in a bit of a plug here for Hirst Arts, if I may. The picture above shows a useful mold I bought recently from that company - #85 Dungeon Accessories. It was bought with the aim of furnishing a modular dungeon complex I've built for fantasy RPG's; but looking at the results I can also see endless applications for dressing up wargaming scenery and buildings in any period. They would make a great addition to barricades, for instance.

The mold produces sealed, open and broken barrels, and a large wine-cellar type barrel (very useful for those ImagiNations that produce "happy grapes" in all their charming variety!); buckets and large ceramic-style pots; a fountain/font/bird bath; open sacks and closed sacks both individual and piled; a treasure chest (suitable for any 17th to early 19th century game, especially those involving pirates!); three types of wooden crate (the largest size is open with an optional lid, the other two are molded in sealed configuration). There are a few items specifically for fantasy/sci-fi games such as crystals and stone formations, and a rough stone slab which can be used as a door or the back of a fountain and so on. These can also be adapted for wargaming purposes.

I use Merlin's Magic, a hard molding plaster from Clint Sales produced specifically for the hobby and it produces good results as seen above. Another cheaper type perhaps more readily available in hobby outlets or online is Hydrostone. Both plasters are durable and take inks and paint easily, especially the cheap acrylics sold in most hobby stores. I don't recommend plaster of Paris as it's too soft for the molding process.

The mold retails at $34, and lasts for years. Anyone can produce good casting results by following the simple advice given on the Hirst website. I think one would be of most use to a gaming group or club, who can spread the expense of buying the mold and plaster and share all the products therefrom. For a big gaming project that requires a lot of scenic items of this kind, I think it's more economical to produce them this way than to buy retail. Although it does take time to make castings in worthwhile amounts, there's a certain satisfaction gained from the process.

For the record I have no connection with the Hirst Arts company other than as a very satisfied customer. The opinions above are just my 2 cents worth of contribution to my favorite hobby of wargaming.

Fort des Chartres, Illinois

2009-09-14T08:08:00.001-07:00

The main gate.

Along the rampart to the magazine.

Inside the magazine. My wife shows the scale of the place. Note the fleur de lis brand mark on the barrels.

A few more shots of Fort des Chartres in southern Illinois. I would like to post more photos of this interesting site but the blog doesn't seem to like it. I did get quite a few good pictures here, and some I'll use to illustrate future issues of the Hetzenberg Chronicles.

The Boy is Back in Town

2009-09-08T08:03:00.000-07:00

Fort des Chartres - Cindy and the gatehouse.
*

Cindy and I spent the afternoon of Labor Day touring a couple of French-Indian War sites over in southern Illinois. The first was Fort des Chartres, built by the French in 1720 to guard their possessions in North America. It was constructed first of wood, then rebuilt in stone in 1752, making it one of the most formidable colonial fortifications of its day. Fort des Chartres was ceded to Britain by the Treaty of Paris in 1763, although the French occupied the fort until it was formally taken over by the British army in 1765. Renamed Fort Cavendish it was held by Britain until 1772, when it was abandoned and destroyed. The site is now a venue for re-enactment events.

The above photo shows the reconstructed gatehouse to the fort, located on the north wall. Only this wall and two bastions have been reconstructed, none of which have parapets, although it is possible to enter one of the sentry "pepperpot" turrets via a very narrow handrail-free stair. Cindy thinks the gatehouse may originally have been on the south side of the fort facing the Mississippi - the highway of the day - but was "flipped" to the other side when reconstruction was done for the sake of access to the modern road. I've several photos of the walls and interior buildings which I'll post another time.

* * *

Our other visit that afternoon was to the site of Fort Kaskaskia, some miles south along the river from des Chartres. Only the earthworks from the walls and bastions remain and the site is surrounded by trees, so it's not really possible to picture the place as it once was. The fort was another French construction, built to protect the important settlement of Kaskaskia on the other side of the Kaskasia River, which then ran at the foot of the bluff.

Occupied by the British following the Treaty of Paris, Fort Kaskaskia was held until July 4th 1778 when it was successfully stormed by US troops led by one George Clark. The US army garrisoned the fort and it was a source of twelve recruits for the Lewis and Clark expedition when it stopped here in 1803. Deserted for a while soon thereafter Fort Kaskaskia was reoccupied and garrisoned during the War of 1812, after which it was abandoned for good.

The settlement of Kaskaskia itself, briefly the state capital of Illinois, no longer exists. In the late 1800's a flood surge broke through the narrow strip of land dividing the Mississippi from the Kaskaskia River, overwhelming the latter channel and directly menacing the town. The citizens were determined the bodies of former inhabitants lying in the town graveyards would not be left to the river. In a rather frantic and macabre operation the remains were taken up and re-interred in a new cemetery further up the bluff and the town was then abandoned to the waters. The Mississippi now flows over the site of the town and the old course of the river dried up. A curious souvenir of that long-ago crisis remains in the large loop of Illinois that lies on the Missouri shore.

* * *

Before this we had a nice couple of days in Hannibal, Missouri. The Mark Twain caves and the nearby Cameron caves are well worth a visit. Sam Clements explored the Mark Twain caves as a boy and used them as the model for those Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher were lost in during the school picnic. The town museum has a nice selection of original Norman Rockwell illustrations showing scenes from the books, along with lots of other memorabilia, and Twain's boyhood home is open to the public.

One of the highlights of our stay came at the Planters Barn Theater where actor Richard Garey put on a superb performance as Mark Twain, delivering homilies and anecdotes taken directly from the great man's life and writings. I've always wished I could meet Mark Twain. After that afternoon I can almost believe I have!

I would also recommend Lulubelle's Restaurant-cum-B&B. Based in a former purpose-built brothel (!) it has a very nice selection of delicious food for a reasonable price, and good service.

We stayed at the "Heaven Sent" B&B on Fifth St. It's an interesting Victorian-era house and a relic of the town's "Millionaires' Row," but as a B&B it's not recommended, I'm afraid. Although it has period charm, the bed in our room was too small, there were no tea & coffee facilities in the room itself, instead refreshments were stored in a rather grubby refrigerator down two flights of stairs. The breakfast food was indifferent and the less said about the coffee, the better...

Beware of staying in Hannibal overnight - the main railroad to St. Louis is just the other side of the levee and loops around the south edge of the town. Coal trains rumble through day and night, and they sound their horns at all of the many crossing points, no matter the hour! Those trains can be heard all over town, as I found to my cost on Saturday night and Sunday morning...

But all in all, it was a good weekend, and I found several ideas for a new novel, a little something in the Steampunk line. =)

One great writer meets another... Me with "Mark Twain" (actor Richard Garey).
*

Chronicles update

2009-09-04T07:54:00.000-07:00

Progress has been made as my old driving instructor used to say! The first edition of the Hetzenberg Chronicles is tidier and features new material. The whole is shaping up into a trilogy, with the first book covering events up to the rescue of Ursula and Mary Amadeus and their landing in Kimmelsbrucke. The second book relates the events thereafter through the Battle of Viehdorf and the Battle of Wentwitz Bridge. The third will cover the Seige of Randstadt, the peculiar adventures that befall Mary Amadeus, and the conclusion of the War on the Eisenwasser. My beloved will cast a final copy-editor's eye over all while I create cover art. With luck and a following wind everything will stay on schedule.

* * *

Tomorrow is Labor Day weekend here in the USA. Cindy and I will be heading up to Hannibal, Missouri, birthplace of Mark Twain, for a brief honeymoon. We'll be out and about, and no doubt we'll visit the caves that inspired those Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher got lost in.

* * *

Two weekends after that we're heading over to Kokomo, Indiana for the Koh-Koh-Mah 2009 re-enactment meeting on 19-20 September. The venue is particularly well-suited to public viewing as the battles take place in a natural amphitheater and features a reproduction of a fort from the French-Indian War period. It's the first time there for both of us and it promises to be a great event! If you're in the area come over to the Frazer Highlanders' camp and say hi!

Chronicle to come.

2009-08-14T06:39:00.000-07:00

Things are moving on in the Grand Duchy! I'm copy-editing previous chapters of the Chronicles detailing the adventures of Ursula and Mary Amadeus et al, and adding all-new material to expand points in the storyline. Next month I'll be working on cover art, with a view to publishing the Chronicles in e-format sometime in October/November. I hope also to be able to offer paperback versions at some point. Watch this space!

Pootling onwards and upwards

2009-07-29T07:56:00.001-07:00

Thanks, gentlemen! The visa process is slow and the USCIS website info is as clear as the Mississippi. As my wife says, everything got so much more expensive and complex post 9/11. The green card should come once I get the next visa interview stage over with. And yes, I will apply for citizenship at some point.

Geoffrey, one of the guys I contacted is Blake Walker. He runs games at a local store (which stocks a nice line of Vallejo paints and other goodies, BTW =). As far as I know there's no particular scenario in mind for the upcoming game. Blake said he's in the middle of a painting frenzy and should have some British good to go for the game.

* * *

Spearhead 2009 is coming up on 8/8/09 at the St. Louis Mills Mall. A one-day event it has games ranging from Napoleonic through to sci-fi. That Saturday looks clear so I think I'll trot along.

Pootling onwards

2009-07-28T13:43:00.000-07:00

Nothing much is happening on the wargames front right now, although I've made contact with a couple of local gamers and have a SYW game in 15mm coming up in August. My primary occupation this last month involved figuring out the labyrinthine matter of "stopping the clock" on my visa so I can actually stay here with my wife.

It seems from the pictures I've seen of the Perry plastics Napoleonic French hussars that these could be an interesting set. Due to be released early next year, the set apparently includes a head wearing the mirleton. Possibilities for conversion abound!

Wedding Daze

2009-07-06T08:38:00.001-07:00

The Happy Couple.
*

Your host and his lovely bride were married in Kirkwood, MO at 5.30pm on July 3rd. Luckily the beautiful dress did arrive in time for the wedding! A good time was had by all, and we'll be honeymooning sometime in the fall, possibly in Pennsylvania.

My kilt is the Black Watch (modern) tartan, as worn by The 78th (Fraser's) Highlanders during the French-Indian War. As you may know I'm a member of a reenactment group that recreates the Grenadier Company of the regiment. The stockings are black rather than the usual red to avoid clashing with the bride's dress (women do think of these things!). The tan belt holds my sword, "peace tied" for the occasion, and the buckled shoes are surprisingly comfortable.

A bit of a hitch...

2009-07-02T06:29:00.000-07:00

Members of my regiment "78th Fraser's Highlanders" with their 'musket faces' on.
*

Thanks for your good wishes, gentlemen! Yes, 3rd July should help me remember our anniversary. Being an absent-minded professor at times, I need all the help I can get! Even so, I've already mastered the two little words every wife wants to hear from her husband -

"Yes, dear..."

If I forget, then there will be fireworks! ;)

And now a word from our "Everything was going so well!" department.

After a long delay that was already cutting things too fine the dressmaker dispatched my fiancee's wedding dress to us by the wrong service. The consequence is, it won't be here until next week! Needless to say Cindy is most upset! Luckily her eldest daughter is back in town. An expert dressmaker, she's risen to the occasion and we're going all-out to find an alternative in keeping with our 18th century theme. With luck and a following wind, we'll have something ready by tonight. Even my famous sang froid has taken a bit of a pasting over this...

GenCon. I've heard so much about it and would like to go. I have friends in the Indy area who'll give me a bed for the night. I'm not sure I can make it this year but I'll aim to attend next year for sure.

We're both going to be at the Koh-Koh-Mah reenactment event September 19 & 20, 10 miles west of Kokomo, Indiana. It's the meeting of the year as far as the French-Indian War reenactment groups are concerned. I've wanted to go for years and now I can! The link above takes you to the title page.

Reality & Fantasy

2009-07-01T07:26:00.000-07:00

Just about everything is in hand for my upcoming wedding on Friday. We're planning a dress rehearsal this evening to iron out costume matters and so on. I've been amazingly relaxed about everything, possibly because I've not been entirely idle in my hobbies. They serve as a welcome distraction from planning venues, celebrants and reception menus and so on.

Jeff Bluebear's new project Mythic Fangarm Quest reminds me of happy times spent playing D&D in the 80's and 90's. My old group split up long ago and of course I'm in another country now; but even so I still have a liking for the fantasy genre. I'm in the early stages of planning a modular dungeon complex scaled to 25/28mm using the Hirst Arts system of molds. The Merlin's Magic casting plaster (appropriate name!) is on order.

Once the whole set-up is built and painted I hope to arrange a play session or two in a local games store. Then if I find a willing customer I'll sell the dungeon and begin anew. That's one of the beauties of the molding system. It helps fund further projects, be they more Hirst Arts molds, wargames figures - or even mundane real-life matters.

2009-06-15T13:19:00.000-07:00

To the east the guns fell silent. The last clouds of powder-smoke drifted away on the late afternoon breeze. General Rauppen-Schlepper rode slowly down the main street of Wentwitz, accompanied by his staff, their ears assailed now by the cries of the wounded. They had to ride carefully, to allow their mounts to pick their way with equine delicacy among the bodies. His experienced eye took in the scope of war damage suffered by the town, the dead and wounded laying in clumps here and there, the abandoned wagons of the enemy’s train. For the first few hundred yards the blue coats of Hetzenberg were in equal numbers to the black of the Margraf’s army. But as he rode nearer to the bridge the ground was exclusively black. Men from the hospital train already moved here and there, finding those who yet lived and giving them what succor they could. Here the General paused and leaned on his saddle bow as he gazed at the bloody and bullet-scoured stonework of the bridge. “Dear God, but this was an awful business!”

“Pure slaughter, sir,” Captain Scharfe said with feeling, his face screwed up in repugnance. “There must be an entire regiment lying dead here!”

“Very close.” Rauppen-Schlepper looked at the source of the destruction. “Hullo! What’s amiss there?”

As one the gunboats were lowering their colors to half-staff. As the headquarters party watched a hand aboard the Acheron raised a black pennon in place of the commission pennant. “It seems Captain Creighton fell at his post, gentlemen,” Rauppen-Schlepper said sadly, doffing his hat in salute. His party did likewise. After the appropriate interval he replaced his hat and beckoned to a galloper. “Hail the Acheron and ask her to come to the wharf. I would like to speak with whoever commands now.”

The man saluted and trotted about his errand. Within minutes the gunboat’s oars emerged and stirred her into motion. Rauppen-Schlepper dismounted and walked down to the wharf. He waited quietly until Acheron was made fast to the bollards and the brow run out. Commander Horngebläse came slowly across the brow and saluted, his face tired and showing dark powder stains. “Give you joy of the victory, sir.”

“Thank you, Commander.” Rauppen-Schlepper shook his hand. “It seems it was not without cost to you, however,” he added, gesturing to the black pennon and the bullet-pierced fabric of the boat.

“I’m afraid not, sir. Captain Creighton died early in the encounter.” He spread his hands. “At least was quick,” he said sadly.

“I suppose that’s all we can ever ask for. The command of the flotilla devolves to you, I gather.”

Horatio nodded. “By virtue of my new rank, sir.”

“What do you intend to do next, young fellow?” Rauppen-Schlepper asked kindly.

“We shall drop downriver to our depot at Lehmangraz as soon as possible, sir. We need to bury our dead. Our ammunition is low, too and we must effect repairs and make up our losses.” He wiped his hand over his face. Rauppen-Schlepper noticed the young officer didn’t glance once in the direction of the bridge, where his guns had made such slaughter.

“No doubt His Grace will require your services for the upcoming siege of Randstadt.”

“I think so, sir. Once we have made good we shall head back upriver with all dispatch and seek further orders.”

“What you propose sounds reasonable to me, Commander. Before you depart you will need to write a full report and casualty list. I shall delay sending off my own report until you have finished yours. In that fashion they may be sent together.”

“I thank you for your consideration, General. You shall have my report delivered to your headquarters within the hour.” Horatio saluted. “If I may be excused?”

“Certainly, certainly. And thank you for all you and your crews’ efforts this day.”

“Sir.” Horatio returned aboard the Acheron. Rauppen-Schlepper refrained from shaking his head and returned to his horse. We ask so much of our young men and expect them to bear our demands. Yet how long can even the strongest stand when presented with the evidence of his effectiveness such as this?

* * *

Colonels Babbington and Brabenachel sat in the courtyard of an inn off the main street. It had escaped damage and the staff returned once they were sure the fighting was over. Colonel Brabenachel had ensured his wounded were being taken care of. His report had been made to General Rauppen-Schlepper and now his recombined regiment was going into billets close by. Although tired he felt secure in having done his duty and was content to relax. He could afford to indulge his curiosity. “What do you propose to do now, Colonel?” he inquired of the mercenary.

Babbington put down his teacup and carefully dabbed his lips before replying. “We have no further interest in this war, my dear fellow. The moment your general gives the word we shall march for the Free City of Cottbus.”

“Cotbuss.” Brabenachel nodded sagely. “Were you not employed there until you took the Margraf’s ticket?”

“Yes, but I don’t think we shall be turned away.” Babbington waved his hand languidly. “The last I heard the City Fathers had failed to employ any white company to replace mine. I’ll apply a suitable request for employment, perhaps at a reduced rate.” His smile didn’t quite hide his pain. “Wild Geese must soon learn to swallow their pride.”

“I see.” Brabenachel raised his wineglass. “I wish you success, dear sir. You were a worthy opponent and I hope we shall not meet again on the field of battle.”

“I thank you, sir.” Babbington raised his teacup. “Happy trails to you too!”

* * *

General Kuchler stood by his horse atop the knoll and watched as the remnant of his army trudged by. No colors flew, no band played. What fight had remained in them during the retreat had been scourged by the last battle amid the streets and especially on the bridge at Wentwitz. They’re beaten, and beaten hard, he thought, grim-faced. At least old Rauppen-Schlepper does not seem inclined to pursue. For that mercy let us give thanks.

Not far away stood the customs post that marked the border between the two realms. The douanier and his two assistants stood in front of the small building, watching wide-eyed as the shattered hopes and dreams of their master flowed by. And what of me? Kuchler pondered, returning the salute of a wounded officer who passed by, his head swathed in a bandage. Dare I show my face at Schloss Bagelwein again? He touched his breast where a locket hung next to his skin. Perhaps there is at least one to intercede for me.

* * * * *

So ends the aftermath to the Battle of Viehdorf. I shall return to Hetzenberg soon, but for now I have my wedding to plan and arrangements to make. Our happy event is to take place on 3rd July (which is one way of remembering our anniversary!). After that, I hope to present the Siege of Randstadt, and the continuing adventures of Mary Amadeus and Ursula...

The Bridge at Wentwitz

2009-06-12T10:53:00.000-07:00

As the jagers withdrew from the riverside and the firing died away in the town a lull fell upon the flotilla. The gunboat crews had time to pay proper attention to the numerous wounded and to drink from the scuttlebutts and wash the grime of battle from their faces. For Horatio it was a time to take stock of the situation.

He leaned on the bullet-splintered quarterdeck rail and glared at the destruction wrought by the flotilla’s guns on the riverfront houses. A plume of smoke had begun to rise over one, and he wasn’t comforted by the fact the adjoining houses were mere piles of rubble and so acted as a firebreak. All this death and destruction, caused by the Margraf’s greed!

Midshipman Steiner came up and silently offered him a cup of water. Horatio took a sip, swilled it around and spat it into the river before drinking. “Thanks,” he said, handing back the cup and turning his mind back to practicalities. “Where did you put the Captain?”

“He’s in the main cabin, sir. We covered him with his coat.”

“Well done, lad.”

Steiner shrugged sadly. “He was a fine officer, sir. We’ll miss him.”

“Yes, we shall. Once this is over I’ll write to his family.” He looked at Steiner. “It’s one of the hardest duties to befall an officer, Mr. Steiner. I hope it doesn’t come your way too often when you rise to your own command.”

“Yes, sir,” Steiner replied, looking somber.

“Carry on.”

“Sir.”

The midshipman walked forward. “Deck there!” cried the port side lookout. “Flag of truce approaching on the wharf!”

Horatio stared at the three black-clad figures as they approached. Two were officers, a brigadier-general and a captain who held a stick with a white flag. The third was a stocky drummer boy who, as Horatio watched, launched into a flurry of beats that became the recognized rhythm of the parlay.

“Dip our colors in acknowledgement,” he snapped to the bosun. With that signal the deputation walked up to the shot-torn wharf-side and the drumbeat stopped.

“Do I have the honor of addressing the commander of this flotilla?” the general called across the water.

Horatio thought ruefully of Captain Creighton, lying dead below. Dead men's shoes…“You do, sir.”

“I am General Kaffe-Klatch, commanding the infantry contingent of His Excellency the Margraf’s army.”

“What can I do for you, general?” Horatio asked.

“We acknowledge our defeat in the recent action at Viehdorf. The army of Hetzenberg is pressing us closely but we do not seek to prolong this confrontation. Our army seeks passage across the Wentwitz bridge in order to leave your soil. Will you permit us to cross unmolested, sir?”

Horatio looked at the destruction along the riverside and thought of the men who’d fallen in action that day and in all the long days since the invasion began. The crew was looking at him, and he sensed their mood. He shook his head slowly. “General, your Margraf sent you onto our soil in an act of pure conquest and destruction. You were defeated, but not enough to match the damage you’ve done, I feel. You seek to escape across this bridge? Then you must take your chances, sir!”

The general drew himself up, outrage plain on his face. No doubt a sharp retort formed on his lips but he contented himself with saying “Then nothing more remains to be said,” and sketching a bow.

Horatio watched the trio walk back the way they’d come. “Crew to general quarters!” he roared. “Prepare for action! Clear away the mortars!”

* * *

On the street near the church General Kuchler received the bad news from his subordinate with regret. “It is much as I feared, General,” he told Kaffe-Klatch. “We must run the gauntlet, it seems. Even so, I think the damage inflicted on this army can be kept to a minimum if we make haste.”

Some of the assembled regimental officers stiffened at this. Their collective thoughts were as one. Make haste? Are we to run across the bridge as if we’re rabbits afraid of the hunter?

Lieutenant Weissmuller was uncomfortable in such exalted company but as the de-facto commander of the jager contingent on the west bank he had to be there. All bar one of the other officers treated him with a degree of condescension. The exception was Colonel Babbington, who shot him a look of sympathy. When the orders group broke up Weissmuller found the mercenary colonel walking by his side. “I don’t know about you, lieutenant,” the Colonel said, “but I, for one, am going to lead my boys hell for leather across that bridge.”

Weissmuller shot him a look then nodded. “I shall do the same.” He shuddered. “I’ve seen what those gunboats can do with their quarterdeck guns alone. I’m dreading the execution they’ll exact on us with their main armament!”

“Justifiably so.” Babbington paused to fill his clay pipe and Weissmuller stopped politely. A sputter of musket fire from the rear of the column announced the Hetzenberg army was closing in on the rearguard. Babbington cocked his eye in that direction. “At the moment I’m seriously reconsidering my legion’s employment by the Margraf,” he said. “Times like this tend to focus one’s mind wonderfully, don’t you find?”

Without waiting for a reply Babbington saluted him and walked away whistling The Black Joke. Weissmuller stared after him then turned and sought out his own troops, his thoughts grim.

* * *

The Tuhellenbach Hussars led the way. Their coming was announced by a rumble of hooves that raised the echoes in the street. Horatio watched as the gaudy horsemen surged into the open and rode hard for the bridge, their rudimentary guidon fluttering. From his place by the main gun Steiner looked at him, the query plain on his face. Horatio shook his head. He liked horses and saw no reason whatsoever to slaughter the poor creatures. “Let them pass,” he called. “There’ll be other targets yet.”

The crew watched stone-faced as the stream of cavalry flowed across, their passage like a continuous rumble of thunder. Some of the horsemen looked across at the gunboats, waiting patiently on the river like huge menacing water beetles. They can’t believe their luck, it seems! Horatio thought. Ride on, gentlemen! You won’t die this day!

On the hooves of the hussars came the jagers, scuttling green-clad figures utilizing every scrap of cover they could find. They too moved at speed. Horatio pursed his lips then nodded to Steiner. Time for some serious payback…

* * *

“Whose bright idea was this?” Kleiner shouted, running hard for cover against the bridge parapet.

“Shut up and keep moving!” Träger bawled pushing at his friend’s back. He cast one terrified glance at the gunboats and saw the figures working around the huge guns behind the bulwarks. “Oh shi -!”

He dived, landed on top of Kleiner who roared as if a cannonball had struck him.

The world around them disintegrated in a welter of sheer noise. Grapeshot smashed into the ancient stonework or howled through the air with a diminuendo whine. The ground shook beneath them and Träger stared horror-struck as a jager who’d moved too slowly vanished in a cloud of red gore.

“Come on!” The Old Man was suddenly there and grabbing their arms. “They’ll take time to reload those brutes. Move!”

* * *

“Shall we fire the mortar, sir?” Steiner called eagerly.

Horatio shook his head. “No, wait for a denser target!” he shouted back. “And make sure those fuses are cut short!”

He watched coolly as the jager scuttled across the bridge to join their fellows on the other side. We got some of them! Even skirmishers can’t dodge a double hatful of grape from three big guns!

A rattle of drums and squeaking of fifes announced the next candidate for destruction. Close on the heels of the last jager came a line infantry regiment, colors flying proudly, each man stepping out at the regulation pace. Horatio nodded. “All squared away there, Mr. Steiner?”

“Ready, aye, ready, sir!”

“Fire the main guns on my command!” Horatio shouted, making sure his voice carried to the other waiting gunboats. The regiment marched onto the bridge. Not a man looked over the parapet at the deadly menace on the river. “Fire!”

The great guns roared, Acheron bucked and the deadly grapeshot expanded outward in a cone-shaped cloud to tear into the marching ranks. Cocytus and Phlegethon added their quota of destruction and screams and cries rose above the ringing in Horatio’s ears as he waved to Steiner. “Gun crews clear! Stand by the mortars!” The men ran to their places. Steiner bent over the squat brutish mortar to light the fuse then stepped back. “Fire!”

Acheron shuddered again, snubbing at her anchor cables as the huge weapons belched flame into the sky. Horatio watched anxiously. Fuse-cutting was a fine art and even experts got it wrong sometimes. The great bomb rose, a black blur in the sky, the fuse a red sparkling streak. It rose then descended to burst directly over the head of the shattered column. Cocytus’ bomb fell short, dropping harmlessly into the river but Phlegethon’s fell plumb on the bridge itself. Men were flung into bloody red rags and what discipline remained was lost as the ranks broke apart and fled across the bridge. “Reload!” Horatio snapped feeling sickened at the slaughter. Streams of blood flowed through gaps in the parapet to trickle into the river. This is sheer butchery! But none of us chose it!

* * *

Colonel Babbington watched sadly as the next regiment took its place at the entrance to the bridge, colors flying defiantly. General Kuchler was engaged in earnest discourse with Kaffe-Klatch. There seemed to be some kind of argument going on there. He turned and looked up the road. The Seinfeld Cuirassiers were coming in, the big troopers and their mounts picking their way past the abandoned wagons of the train. Their colonel saw him watching and raised his sword in salute as he passed by, his face a smudged blank, left arm tied in a sling. Babbington returned the salute. Just my legion between what’s left of the army and the ‘Bergers now, it seems.

The sound of fifes and drums made him glance back toward the bridge but he hurriedly turned away as the guns roared from the river. Hardening his heart to the sounds of carnage he walked steadily toward his shrunken band where it was drawn up in line and facing up the road out of town. “Captain Tobermory!” he called as he walked up to the command group. “We shall go light. Pray remove the Margraf’s colors from the staff and order the men to reverse arms.”

Tobermory saluted his features grave as he gave the order. Babbington watched, peacefully puffing on his pipe. “There’s a time and place for everything,” he murmured.