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A Hanoverian Lt. Colonel quietly sits, with his feet propped upon his usual table and his chair leaned back against the wall. He slowly enjoys a frosty mug of Belgian Ale as he reads through the latest dispatches of the mighty Anglo-Allied Army. It has been a rough six weeks and, although the end of his intense labors has not yet been reached, it is finally within sight. He smiles at the latest missive from one of his Hanoverian officers.
Sir,
I am very pleased to report that the enemy forces advancing upon the crossroads of Quatre Bras have been defeated by the men under my command. The shattered remnants of La Grande Armee are now fleeing the Belgian countryside in great disorder. I have accepted the sword of the French Colonel who commanded their army and will return it to our headquarters as soon as I can sort out the large mass of prisoners and equipment that we have taken.
I remain your faithful servant,
Ensign Scott “The Rat” Clawson
The good Colonel chuckles to himself, “Hanoverian Ensigns defeating French Colonels in their first encounter. Whatever has become of the once proud, French Army?”
A French officer sits at a respectful distance, flexing his still healing hand and remembering the exact weight of a muddy, British cavalry boot. A second French officer transfixes the Hanoverian with a malevolent gaze, one that he has held for months now, apparently still carrying a grudge for some long forgotten, personal offense.
Well, forgotten by the Hanoverian officer at least.
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