Napoleonic Wargame Club (NWC)

The Staff Adjutant of the Anglo-Allied Army sat quietly at his usual table in the Rhine Tavern, his quill busily scratching out the orders that would ensure the provisioning of the army this week. He had nearly completed the Quartermaster’s orders for the I Corps, when he abruptly stopped writing in mid stroke, his quill poised and ready to complete the thought. His mind, however, lay far beyond the parchment that only moments ago had occupied his full attention. Odd, he thought to himself as he scanned the occupants of the tavern. Nothing seemed to have changed, but somehow he knew beyond any doubt that it certainly had. Laying down his quill, he kept a wary eye on the other Tavernier’s while carefully pouring another shot of Jager. Just as he was raising the glass to his lips, the door to the tavern burst open and an officer of the Cumberland Hussars entered the room. Knowing exactly where his Commander would be, the man crossed the room in a hurried rush and extended a note toward the Hanoverian Brigadier.

The wide grin on the messenger’s face was unmistakeable. “Sir”, he beamed, “Der Falke and Der Wurger send news from the front.”

Still holding the glass of Jager in his right hand, the Hanoverian Commander took the parchment from his dispatch rider with his left, unfolding it with the practiced experience of a field commander whose weapon hand is so often occupied. A brief scan of the contents of the dispatch caused the Guardsman’s eyes to widen even as the glass of Jagermeister slipped from his grip and shattered on the tavern floor. Totally oblivious to the loss of his favored libation, the Hanoverian Brigadier gripped the note with both hands now, as he read its contents yet again. Looking up at the dispatch rider, he asked, “Could this really be true?”

Russian general enters the Tavern the very moment dispatch is delivered. He observes the fall of the glass, the spill of the jagermeister, Helga running with a swab to clear the mess.

"Poor thing! He could never hold his jagermeister, the creature" he muses while going to the usual quiet place in the corner.

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Outside the Tavern and amusing event was occuring. Josephine the cat was once again on the hunt for the poor little Shrike. The cat lay behind the watering trough, intently watching the little bird as it flitted amongst the branches of a Lemon tree. The Lemon tree, with it's numerous spikes, was a favorite place for the little bird which was searching for a suitable spot to impale its most recent victim currently held in its beak. Overhead, the scene was broke by the cry of a Falcon circling above.
The cats attention was only broken away from the Shrike as a large horse approached at the gallop. It was a big horse, not the refined, danty, ones for ladies. No, it was a brute of an animal, a war horse. The cats attention was focused on the horse as it staggered to a stop, gasping for breath, covered in lather and grime. But, the grime was not just from the road, it was also the grime of battle. It's body showed cuts and scrapes, a bullet hole thru the saddle. The rider, who had dismounted, looked as bad as the horse, as far as the cat was concerned. As the rider moved off towards the door to the tavern the cat turned her attention back to the little bird. Yes, it was down in the lower branches, oooh so vunerable for the cat to catch...

The rider was no mere courier, he wore the uniform of the 5th Russian Cuirassier. His uniform was a mess and he had lost his helmet, but, he continued to clutch the package under his arm. He paused for only a moment to try and straighten his tunic before entering the tavern. As he entered, his eyes were first drawn to the corner where a Senior Russian General sat and who, as he looked at the door poised a curious look. But, this was not the man he had been ordered to deliver the package too. His attention was then drawn to a General Officer wearing red who had a barmaid fussing at his feet cleaning up broken glass. The officer appear to be a bit flustered at the barmaid, offering some sort of apology for being clumsy. This was the man the package was for. Striding forward, the trooper spoke: "Sir, I have been instructed to deliever this to you, personally, at the cost of my life, if required. I deliver it with the complements of General Barclay and General Helfrich of the Russian Army". The trooper set the parcel on the table before the officer.
General Jones stared at the package, looked at the trooper, "Is it true?" he asked as he reached for the string to untie the parcel and view the content. The tavern was quiet, all there had their attention drawn to the little drama playing out. As the string untied, the trooper replied, "I was there, Sir, saw with my own eyes." The paper fell away from the wrapped item..........

In the courtyard there was a heavy thud, followed by an unearthly scream........

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Braggarts' sooner or later pay the price.....

General Savary, of the La Grande Armee Intelligence Section (please, no oxymoron jokes ) is slowly winding his way along the road leading to the tavern.
He too has been travelling a long ways upon his journey.
From the distant fields of Dennewitz to the even further steppes of Russia.

It was the General who had brought tidings from Dennewtiz to L'Empereur at his battle quarters in the lands of the Tartars.

There, he was face to face with those icy grey eyes. They had held him transfixed and seemed to expound within his very skull the torrents of the battlefield.

Now, Savary was looking forward to a seat and table with drink and food.

What was that? Oh, he thought, Josephine, in the trees.... hunting...

The crate was heavy, almost impossibly so for the workmen trying to unload it from the wagon. "No, no, you idiot's!" cried a little French Sergeant, "Careful you fools! Careful, careful, the oofizers will string moi up if it is damaged." Grunting and groaning the men got the crate to the end of the wagon. One spoke, "It might be a bit easier if oui used a block and tackle, eh?" The little sergeant replied, "Fool! Imbicle! That will take too much time! This must be unloaded tootsweet, it is of the most urgent need for preparations for tonights affair at Pierre's Tavern. Now, do as I say, we French will lead you to the impossible! Now, pick it up and set it down over there by the door." The workers looked at each other "as you desire monsewer". With a collective grunt the men heaved and hauled the crate free of the wagon.

Josephine was ignoring all of this, as she tensed her body, again and again, focused on the little bird in the tree. Just a little bit more, closer, closer.....

The poor exhausted horse just stood wearily at the hitching rail, only expending the effort to turn its ears to the sounds of the men working.

"Careful, fool, careful! We're you born an ape! You are lucky the French have brought order to the world..." . One of the straining workers looked to his foreman, who in turn looked at him fed up with the toady French Sergeant. The worker tripped, his grip slipped and the crate started to tumble...... The words flowing in a continuous stream from the Sergeants mouth stopped mid sentence.

The cat leaped

The Shrike turned

A shadow moved

The horses head came up

and the large crate hit the ground.

and the sound started..... it was faint yet primal... it escalated in the blink of and eye to the most ungodly cry ever heard by man. It was the kind of sound that even made the shreek of injured horses sound mild. The little French Sergeant stood with hands to either side of his face, his mouth making an all to round hole from which the sound came from. His eyes fixed at the leaking contents of the crate, a mixture of the finest French perfume and rouge. Visions of a Penal Battalion were racing thru his mind, the General Officers would not be pleased.

Josephine, sat in the tree, with only a tail feather in her paw. She was perplexed as to where the little bird had gone.

The Shrike found itself placed upon the saddle of the tired horse, nabbed out of the tree by the Falcon and brought to this location. A location next to a bullet hole that went thru the saddle tree, leaving a truely impressive splinter poking out. The Shrike looked at the Falcon, who nodded, then back to the splinter where he impaled the bug in his beak, a cockroach, a rather large one at that.

With the comotion of the courtyard calmed down all eyes returned to the parcel on the table......

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…from which the Hanoverian Brigadier removed the hat previously worn by the recently deceased Emperor of France.

Eh, Lieutenatnt - Lieutenant... Do not you know one should use aspen stake? Othervise he tends to rise.
viewtopic.php?f=5&t=8040


BTW, let me know about the game number and the result you achieve.

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And Rise he shall to strike fear wherever appears and he shall be avenged on the battlefields of Europe!

The battle is far from over and so far the only achievement was a costly cheap shot that lost many cavalry with the net gain for the French! The Battle continues and we fight for the Emperor Napoleon all the more.

Battle On.......

Oh no, thought Berthier as the Russian Cuirassiers withdrew, how could this have happened!

Slowly he crawled out from underneath the supply wagon he had used as a refuge from the fury of the Russian assault. His fancy uniform, now stained and muddied from lying prone on the ground, was not befitting his rank as a Marechal of France. Warily looking around, he assured himself that there were no Russian demons lurking about to strike him down. Satisfied as to his own safety, he broke into a panicked sprint toward the prostrate body of his beloved Emperor that was lying face down in the Russian mud.

“Sire”, he cried as he reached the body, “Sire, are you hurt?”

Was it just his imagination, or did he hear a muffled response from beneath the still form? Gently he reached forward and rolled the fallen soldier onto his back. Gazing at the wounds now so exposed, it was very obvious that the soldier was indeed dead. There was a deep gash in his neck and a vicious wound where the sword of a heavy horseman had forcibly penetrated the man’s chest. At this point, there was only one thing for the Marechal to do. He started to search through the dead man’s pockets. Relief swept over La Grande Armee’s Chief of Staff and his apprehension melted away. His beloved Emperor had survived!

Dazed and stunned, Nappy B crawled out of the left, waist pocket of the deceased French officer.



“Sire”, cried a panicked Bertihier, “I thought you had surely been crushed!”

“Imbecile”, screeched Nappy B, “even in his death this moron could not fall in the right direction. I nearly was crushed when he hit the ground. The least the idiot could have done is fall on his right side!”

“He did not have a choice, sire”, replied Berthier. “The attacking horseman impaled him so completely that he was no doubt dead before he ever hit the ground.”

“Do not make excuses for him, Berthier”, screamed Nappy B. “That is why we train them, no? If he had half a brain, he never would have let himself be killed in the first place. And now that he is dead, we are going to have to find another look alike to replace him! Do you realize how hard it is to find someone as dashingly handsome as I?”

“Yes, sire, I do”, replied Berthier. “You are a most handsome bug…..er, I….I ….mean insect, sire.”

“You better mean insect, Berthier”, replied Nappy B as he gave his Chief of Staff icy stares from all of his compound eyes. “Damn Russians! Who would have thought they could have achieved this?”

“Actually, sire, I am not sure that it was the Russians who actually did”, replied Berthier.

“Of course they were Russians, you Dolt”, grumbled Nappy B in obvious displeasure, “Every one of them was clad in a Russian green coat! Are you colorblind as well as stupid?”

“No, sire”, replied a petulant Berthier as he unconsciously rested his hand on the Marechal’s baton that was carefully tucked into his belt, “I am in fact neither of those”.

Nappy B did not fail to notice his subordinate’s unconscious movement toward the Empyreal Bug Masher. “Don’t…even…think it, Berthier!”

Suddenly realizing his mistake, the Marechal of France quickly moved his hand away from the baton. “Sire, you are entirely correct that all of the attacking horsemen wore green coats”, he said in an attempt to direct his Emperor’s attention away from his previous mistake. “The horseman that killed your ‘porter’, sire, was actually a green clad Jager officer from the Kingdom of Hanover”.

“Ha….Han…..Hanover!” screamed Nappy B. “Hanover!! Will I never be rid of those German fools? A Hanoverian did this?” he asked while tapping a foreleg on the chest of the deceased, French soldier.

“I am afraid so, sire” replied Berthier. “I am certain that it was a lone Hanoverian riding in the company of the Russian heavy horsemen."

“Berthier, I am…..I am...” stammered Nappy B.

“Vexed, sire”, offered the Marechal of France.

“VEXED, Berthier!” screamed Nappy B, “My empyreal self is VEXED!!! Now go and fetch me a sugar cube so that I may slowly dissolve it while meditating on what I am going to personally do to every Hanoverian that disrespects the sanctity of my empire. I must feed and replenish my strength. This has been a most trying day.”