Napoleonic Wargame Club (NWC)

The stable boy’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the approaching, British horseman. Although one of the most frequent visitors at the tavern, this officer’s new mount was, to say the least, most imposing. Unlike the other mounts commonly used by the British dragoons, this officer chose to ride a Hanoverian stallion. And what a stallion he was. At 17.2 hands, this magnificent animal dwarfed most of the others employed by the British cavalry, and even bested the mounts of the French Cuirassier that were generally a bit larger than their British adversaries. The stallion’s chestnut coat glistened in the sunlight, a tribute to the excellent care to which he was afforded. Supple muscles rippled as he walked, leaving no doubt as to the power that would be contained in the charge of so magnificent an animal. Having tended many horses in his young career, the stable boy immediately recognized the fact that the horse’s tail was undocked. Definitely a violation of regulations for the British cavalry, but one on which the horse’s rider would not compromise. His rider, you see, was not British at all. Like the magnificent animal himself, his rider was Hanoverian.

The Hanoverian Guardsman reigned in his horse beside the wide eyed, stable boy. With a kind smile at the lad, the dragoon dismounted. Gripping the reins under the horse’s muzzle, he spoke to the animal in German. “Jetzt warden Sie ein suter Kerl und geben Sie nicht diese jungen Burschen Probleme heute”, said the cavalry officer. The horse turned his muzzle toward his rider’s face and snuffled, seemingly understanding and agreeing to the stated rules of engagement. The Hanoverian officer smiled and scratched the horse’s nose before turning to face the young lad. In very good English, with only a hint of a German accent, he said, “I trust you will take very good care of him as usual?”

Smiling back at one of his favorite officers, the young boy replied, “Yes, sir, Brigadier. You know I will.”

The Hanoverian officer reached out and tousled the young man’s hair, “Yes, I know you will. You always do.”

Reaching into his pouch, the Hanoverian Brigadier pulled out two schillings, twice the going rate for a stable fee, and handed them to the young lad. “I shall give you another when I return, if you have done your job well.”

The boy’s grin widened as he accepted the coins. Perhaps it is a privilege of rank, but this particular officer had always paid him well for his services. “I will have him groomed and brushed upon your return, sir; the most excellent treatment befitting his status.”

“Very good”, said the Hanoverian officer as he stepped beside the horse’s saddle. Although he was carrying his own broadsword on his waist, the cavalryman retrieved a similar weapon that had been strapped to his saddle. The boy had seen this action performed many times by this particular officer who often entered the tavern with two swords, and typically departed with only the one.

As the officer started toward the Rhine Tavern carrying the second sword in his left hand, the boy suddenly realized that he had never asked the horse's name. “Sir”, he called after the red coated officer, “what is his name”, he asked as he nodded toward the fine stallion.

“His name”, replied the Hanoverian Brigadier, “is Teddy‘s kleine Tänzerin. I, however, simply call him Ted.“

With a final grin at the young lad, the Hanoverian officer turned and entered the Rhine Tavern carrying the second sword.

Finishing his wine Lt Colonel Kling rises to leave and bidding his fellow officers of the Tiraillers et Dragons a good day. He then turns to find his sword has been stolen, curses and says that smiling but dastardly Hanoverian Brigadier Jones has run off with my sword.

The group rises and begins to search for the Hanoverian!

Mark never needs to steal swords - he just takes them in battle!

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Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Prinz Peters von Dennewitz

3. Husaren-Regiment, Reserve-Kavallerie, Preußischen Armee-Korps

Honarary CO of Garde-Ulanen Regiment, Garde-Grenadier Kavallerie

NWC Founding Member

For Club Games: I prefer the Single Phase mode of play. I prefer to play with the following options OFF:

MDF, VP4LC, NRO, MTD, CMR, PR, MIM, NDM, OMR (ver 4.07)

Yes he does and has collected a couple from me, but I like to fire him up and always enjoy his quick and imaginative repartie.

Hearing the discussion at the table the commander of the Emperor's bodyguard walks over to the table dragging a large heavy sack.

He opens the top of it so that a the hilts of numerous swords are visible.

'hmmm yes where is it....it's in here somewhere....oh dear perhaps I left it at the camp, oh well hopefully I can add some new ones soon, I rather rather fancy a Prussian sword but we shall see on that front...'

'Helga wine please for these men of war'

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Marechal Knox

Prince d'Austerlitz et Comte d'Argentan
Ordre national de la Légion d'honneur

"What is history but a fable agreed upon"

The fine, French officers of the Tirailleurs et Dragons do not have to search very far, for as they are rising from their seats, the Hanoverian officer which is the object of their ire confidently walks through the tavern door. Overhearing the words of the good Colonel Kling, and the retort by the inimitable General Peters, the Hanoverian’s smile broadens. “No, my good Colonel Kling, I did not in fact steal your weapon”, says the grinning Hanoverian. “I merely gave your third sword that I had captured to Helga for safe keeping. She is storing it behind the bar where you recently retrieved your second.”

Slightly chagrined, but maintaining the morale of one of the most elite units in La Grande Armee, Colonel Kling walks over to the bar to retrieve his most recently misplaced weapon. The remaining Tirraileurs et Dragons visibly relax, the crisis of the moment having passed.

One man, however, does not relax. He is a French Legere Capitaine who is seated at a table with two of his junior Lieutenants. No, he does not relax at all. He hates the Hanoverian for what he has done to him in the past, the fire of revenge burning brightly in his eyes as he stares at the impudent, German mercenary puppet of the malevolent English Lords. Seeing the sword that the Hanoverian is carrying in his left hand, one of the Lieutenants begins to cry. “Mon dieu, the German fiend has felled yet another of our fine officers!” The second Lieutenant puts his arm around his comrade’s neck, allowing him to cry on his shoulder as his own eyes tear up as well. The Capitaine looks at the anguish caused his men by this prancing, Hanoverian fool, as his blood begins to reach a new boiling point.

The Hanoverian Guardsman pays these officers no mind, as the bag held by the grand General Knox of the Vieille Garde draws his attention. “Yes, there are some very fine swords in that bag. My interest lies particularly with the one in there which is engraved with my name”, sighs the Dragoon. “One day, I do harbor the hope of returning it to its rightful place. Always good to see you, sir”, he says as he touches the brim of his visor with his right hand.

“And you as well, General Peters”, says the Hanoverian as he walks past the Prussian’s regular table before finding a comfortable seat at his own. Placing the broadsword he was carrying on the table, he draws a soft cloth from his pouch and unsheathes the heavy weapon.

The French Legere Capitaine can take it no longer. Now this despicable piece of Hanoverian trash has drawn a sword in the Rhine Tavern! Enraged by the past affronts on his person, and subjected to the soft sobbing of his young Lieutnant, which is quickly rising to a crescendo of outright wailing, the French Capitaine draws his own sword and charges his most hated foe, crying “Vive le Emperor!”

Rapidly closing the distance, the deranged Capitaine blocks out all else but the single thought of forcibly skewering the German upstart on impact. So focused is he on his target, that he fails to discern the rather loud screech of a large, oak chair rapidly sliding across the tavern's wooden floor. With impeccable timing, the chair crosses the path of the charging Frenchman just as he arrives at the very same location. Painfully impacting his shins, the French Capitaine falls forward, his sword clattering to the floor and skidding to the far wall, as he continues to slide, unarmed, toward his intended victim. The French officer’s eyes widen in horror as he realizes that the Hanoverian has now leveled the great broadsword he was holding, pointing it directly at the space between the hapless Frenchman’s eyes. Knowing this is going to hurt a lot, the French Capitaine closes his eyes and resolves himself to certain death. Finally skidding to a halt in front of the Hanoverian Guardsman, the Legere Capitain feels the point of a very sharp sword gently come to rest on the bridge of his nose, directly between his eyes. When he is not immediately skewered, he gathers his courage and opens his eyes to see the Hanoverian looking down the blade with a most deadly concentration.

“Ooopps, so sorry about that”, says a familiar voice from a table in the corner. “I simply meant to stretch my legs and must have accidentally hit one of the chairs in my haste to forestall what I thought would be a very painful cramp.” With his muddy cavalry boots now stretched out full length under the table, the red coated Field Marshall of the British Life Guards takes a long draw from his frosty flagon of fine, English ale.

“You do realize”, says the Hanoverian Guardsman to the Legere Capitaine as he continues his deadly stare, “that if you persist in such actions against me, you are most likely to get hurt.”

“Well, what do you expect”, stammers the French officer. “You cart the weapons of our defeated officers into this tavern and parade them around in a most disrespectful manner. Someone must put an end to your perpetual mockery!”

“French weapons”, says the Hanoverian in a puzzled tone. “Oh, you thought this sword was a French weapon!” The Hanoverian grins as he withdraws the blade from the Frenchman’s forehead. “No, my thoroughly deluded adversary, this is not a French weapon at all. It is a German broadsword made by Sir Muddy’s favorite smith specifically for me, and is nearly identical to the one I carry on my belt. No, sir, I did not bring this weapon in the tavern to mock you. I brought this weapon in the tavern to clean it. I find myself opposed to your most formidable Marechal Bardon at the moment, and I wanted to be certain that I had a replacement in the unthinkable event that I was actually defeated on the field of battle. It just would not do to present so fine an officer with a rusty piece of metal. No honor in that whatsoever. By the same token, I have faith that he is retaining his Marechal’s Baton in prime condition as well”, grins the Hanoverian, “just to cover the very remote possibility that he must relinquish it to me at the end of our present engagement.”

The uproar of a falling and skidding figure, swords drawn, chairs thrown back, "O' my!" exclaims the Scottish scribe, as he hastily gathers up his journal, quill feather pen, ink jar, and most importantly, the glass of fine whiskey he has been sipping.
Even Josephine the cat has leapt into the protective embrace of her kind friend, the Chef de Battalion of the Tirailleurs. He remains seated through all the commotion, but keeping watchful eyes upon all the characters involved.
He realizes that the environment of the tavern can become at times like that of a tea kettle before the whistling boil... Such are the passions of soldiers who are commonly engaged in the deadly business of war with one another, only to come here for rest and relaxation, and the war of words.
Reassured that there will be no blood spilled in the confines of this neutral ground, the Tirailleur returns his attention to what he was doing before the commotion began.
On the table before him was a long slender box. It bore the Imperial Eagle embossed upon the lid.
The scribe, now settled down himself, also glanced at the box as he joined his friend. "What is that my good fellow?" he inquired.
"This is the symbol of my new appointment," the Chef answered, as he opened the box and drew forth, a long golden braid.
"Ah," the scribe remarked with admiration, "the aiguillettes. I see, the mark of your posting to La Grande-Etat General."
The Tirailleur was staring down at the braid, running it through his hands. "I had always hoped..." he said softly.
"Wot?" the scribe asked, not quite able to make out the words of the Chef over the tavern's boisterous patrons.
"... she would be here on this day."

The Hanoverian officer keeps a wary eye on the Legere Capitaine as he picks himself up, retrieves and sheathes his sword, and returns to the table with his sobbing Lieutenants. The young infantry officers seem to recover their composure a bit when they overhear that the sword in the Hanoverian’s possession is actually German this time, rather than French. Once he is satisfied that these pesky Legere officers will cause no more trouble today, the Hanoverian Brigadier allows his attention to be drawn to Chef Schmidgall’s recent promotion.

“Well, congratulations young sir!” beams the German Brigadier. “I, for one, am quite pleased by the sensibility shown by the commanders of your fine army in promoting you to such a post. Helga, please serve a round of whatever the fine Chef desires and, of course, the usual for me.”

Helga retrieves a fine bottle of French wine and delivers it to the table where the newest staff officer of La Grande Armee is seated. Gracing the young man with a gorgeous smile, she hugs him around the neck, kisses him on the check, and congratulates him on his latest achievement. Returning to the bar, she retrieves a clean shot glass, fills it, and delivers it to the Hanoverian table.

The Hanoverian raises the glass and says, “To Chef Schmidgall, one of the finest young officers to ever serve such a losing cause. He would have made a most excellent Hanoverian. Seriously though, sir, you have my heartfelt congratulations on an honor that is so richly deserved.” With that, the Hanoverian Brigadier consumes the contents of the glass in one, smooth motion……and nearly chokes to death!

Sputtering and coughing, he looks at the empty glass as if he has been attacked. Recovering a bit, he casts a wary glance at Helga to find her frowning at him. Between coughs, he manages to say, “That was…”

“Water”, Helga says as she finishes the sentence for him. “Given your violent actions in my tavern today, I don’t trust you with any liquid stronger than water.”

“What did I do?” asks the Hanoverian officer. “I merely acted in self defense!”

“You are an instigator” replies the beautiful barmaid, her frown visibly softening now.

“Perhaps so”, replies the Hanoverian officer with a grin, “but I actually prefer to think of myself as more of a catalyst. Since you seem to be firmly set in your resolve to deny me my favorite libation today, and relegate me to drinking only water, would you please be so kind as to send a bucket of Jager to my horse? After all”, he says with a wink, “he’s a Hanoverian too.”

FM Sir Muddy Jones couldn't help but chuckle at the antics of the Hanovarian officers. Sir Muddy had always enjoyed a good heckling at the expense of the French Tavern-goers. But his smile turned to a frown when Gen. Knox interupted. The French General was in the process of thrashing Sir Muddy's forces at Waterloo-Wavre and it was not going down well with the English Field Marshal. Well, the ale helped but still his ego was a bit bruised. Disgusted with himself, Sir Muddy eased himself from his corner table and left the Tavern.

Just after Helga had restored order amongst the Tavern's occupants, there was a loud clomping at the door. As everyone turned to look, a large warhorse thrust through the Tavern door filling the entire wooden frame with his body. Holding onto his back for dear life was an officer in red - the good Sir Muddy. Helga began immediately to protest the intrusion of a horse into her Tavern but a stern look from the steed was enough to quiet her temporarily. Once through the Tavern door, Sir Muddy regained his composure and sat erect on his mount.

With his horse occupying the center of the room, Sir Muddy quickly addressed the French officers present, "Good Sirs, my apologies; it seems my horse is not taking Gen. Knox's drubbing at Waterloo very well. Indeed, he has insisted that I demand satisfaction in order to preserve my honor (and his). Since I seem to have little choice in the matter, I issue a challenge to any pair of French officers brave enough to meet us on the field."

A French Capitaine in the corner of the room shouted, "Who is us? I see only a muddied and wornout old English cavalry officer on a decrepit swayback of a horse! Do you intend to fight two of his Emperor's finest by yourself?" As his horse turned to confront the French Capitaine, Sir Muddy replied, "Why yes, I presumed that two Frenchmen against one Allied officer would only be fair. But if you insist on me having a second, then I would offer up the brash Hanoverian, BG Jones. I think I could persuade him to accompany me to the thrashing that I have planned for any Emperor's sons that might show up."

No sooner had he issued those challenging words when a piercing whistle was heard at the Tavern door. Everyone turned to look. There, in the doorway, stood Helga with a look that could kill and a bucket filled to the brim with a nutty-brown ale. Sir Muddy was nearly thrown from his horse as his steed broke for the door to pursue the rapidly retreating Helga into the street. And, impossibly, both horse and rider cleared the header of the Tavern door and disappeared.

Inside, the Tavern was immediately filled with animated conversations among both the French and the Allies alike. Some blasted Sir Muddy for the mess he left on the floor and the disrespect that had been shown by his horse. Others found the whole thing amusing and quickly returned to their drinking. But Sir Muddy's challenge seemed to hang in the air. It was clearly heard by all in attendance and could not go unanswered. Surely, two Frenchmen would have to pick up the glove and try to take the Field Marshal's sword. If not, the Grande Armee would be shamed and slandered as cowards.

Helga looked none too happy when she returned with the empty bucket but smiled as she flipped the small bag of coins onto the bar.

_________________
FM Sir 'Muddy' Jones, KG
2nd Life Guards, 1st Squadron, Household Cavalry
1st Duke of Uxbridge & Anglesey K.G.

The door to the tavern is kicked open with such a start that the smelly cat sank her claws into her French lackeys thigh and all turned their heads to see the cause of such a spectical. They had not long to wait as the battle stained form of a Hanoverian Jager strode in bellowing, "Helga, Helga mein Schotzie! Vodka! Vodka for all!" He was somewhat bewildered by the looks coming from all of the tables, squinting about, he asked, "Are there any Russians in here? By gosh if there are, a double ration for them!"
"Ach, Herr General, you look out of sorts, Helga, Helga some Bratwurst and Kartoffle salat for the General, he must keep his strength up." Turning to the watching officer of the tavern, he remarks, "You must say that 50 Russian cossacks are a formidible force against the French when they can overrun three batteries of artillery." "I must say that the Russians have performed very bravely for me, time and again".
Oh, but I am being such a bore, why is it so quiet? Ach, ja, I have been away, So, maybe a song is in order to brighten things up .....

Argonnerwald um Mitternacht,
ein Pioneer stand auf der Wacht.
Ein Sternlein hoch am Himmel stand,
bringt ihm ein'n Gruss aus fernem Heinmatland.

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Lt Colonel Kling upon hearing Lt Peccolo's bragging comments to his fellow Tirailleurs et Dragons: "I know most of the stories Hanoverians come up with are fiction, but Science Fiction does not happen till the end of the century! And 50 Cossacks overrunning 3 French Batteries! Not bloody likely in this century!"

“Ach, Herr Leutnant! So good to see you well and happy as usual”, said the Commander of the Hanoverian Brigade. “It certainly does sound like you have had a most interesting engagement with our blue clad foes. In your absence, however, you have also missed a rather great deal of commotion here in the Tavern today.”

Helga’s frown returns at the reminder.

“Let us have another round here, Helga, to celebrate Der Wurger’s return and Sir Muddy’s grand entrance and most eloquent departure!”

“Certainly”, replies the beautiful barmaid.

“Herr Wurger, Field Marshall Sir Muddy Jones has just issued a challenge to any two brave Frenchmen that would dare to take the field against him. He is one of the finest officers in our entire army, and even offered that I may second him in the contest and, by jove, I believe I will! It would be a high honor indeed to fight by his side.”

Helga returns to the Hanoverian table with another full shot glass for the Brigadier and a glass of Vodka for Der Wurger.

“A toast to Sir Muddy’s challenge” says the Hanoverian as he picks up the proffered shot glass, “and our upcoming engagement, and the fine Russian Cossacks who have so thoroughly bested, and embarrassed, Bonaparte’s artillerists this day!” Tipping the glass, he empties it of its contents in one, well practiced motion………and immediately begins to choke.

Der Wurger pounds his superior officer on the back and asks, “Are you OK, sir? I have never seen you have that problem with a shot of Jager before.”

Meanwhile the beautiful barmaid busies herself with her other duties, her ravishing smile growing ever wider with every sputtering cough of her Hanoverian friend.

Lt. Colonel Kling has set word to his friend and compatriot Chef de Battlion Schmidgall and waiting the reply concerning the challenge of Hanoverian General and Sir Muddy. He is ready and willing to take the challenge to silence the braggarts', but win or loose he is sure they can give these experience generals a good fight, besides eventually the Happy Hanoverian will give them their swords back with a minimal amount of verbal guff!

Gingerly the Chef de Battalion picked Josephine and her claws off of his lap and deposited her on the floor. She quickly busied herself with cleaning her paws, ignoring the brief but hard stare the Tirailleur gave her.
Then, the officer turned his attention to the latest conversation boiler in the room. An English Field Marshall has challenged two of La Grande Armee's officers to do battle with him. No, not just him, but the renowned Brigadier Jones of the contingent from the King's Hanover would be seconding Sir Muddy.
Lt Col Kling, perhaps steeped in the cups, had jumped at the notion of engaging two of the Coalition's finest officers in battle.
Hmm, the Tirailleur thought to himself. It is always my aim, to engage the best of the opposition, for that is the best way to improve oneself. And, as usual, there appears to be an absence of any other more senior officers of La Grande Armee in attendance at the tavern this fine evening. Usually the good General Knox can be counted on, but that fine commander is currently engaged in combat with the dreaded Prinz von Dennewitz. I wonder, how goes the battle of Austerlitz between those two?
Now, what battle could be found that would interest the others? As for myself, I am the proud owner of Jena-Auerstadt, but that would probably not do, as Sir Muddy was, I recall, recently defeated upon that battle map, and as this present challenge involves an effort clearly stated at salvaging his bruised ego, no need to return to that field. (?)
Then there is Napoleon's Russian Campaign, would that do? Or, Austerlitz, maybe Leipzig ? Hmm, the Tirailleur has lost to the Happy Hanoverian himself in that one, but also squeezed a Draw from a Brunswicker... What about Eckmuhl? I have only just become the eager owner of that game.
As you can see, I don't have Waterloo, nor Wagram, nor the new 1814.
My proffer is for a battle in either NRC or Eckmuhl, but am willing to listen to what others have to say.
Now, why don't we all share a drink, and discuss this matter. Wine for myself, ale for the Field Marshall, apparently it is water for the Brigadier, and Lt Col Kling?
Regards,

Indeed Chef Smidgall I would pick up this challenge if I was not preoccupied with finishing off Sir Muddy's forces in the fields of honour at Waterloo Wavre. Also I have my eye on Brigadier Jones sword I would like a second one to go with my earlier prize. To his credit when he was a lowly rank he challenged me.
It is the only challenge I have ever accepted from a junior officer. It could be the endless compliments he poured on the peacocks vanity that got him the battle. Hmmm yes it probably was.

If you plan to take up the challenge with these fine gentlemen of martial renown, and let me assure you they both are, please consult with me in Pierre's once your game title and scenario is settled and I will do what I can to assist in the planning of operations.

You may of course choose to ignore this offer and the more honour for you if you do, however you will find both of these allied officers among the finest who serve the king. Sir Muddy I personally rank as one of the most famous allied officers.
To win his sword is to me a great honour.

Now at Austerltiz General Peters and I have reached turn 9. Not much to report yet. I will lodge some reports in Pierre's once the action is joined. I will say this General Peters has breached the Goldbach line.

Helga a round for Sir Muddy, his horse and our middle ranked officers not to mention my friend and rival Brigadier Jones!
Now sir Muddy we need to discuss your bravado. I must say even I would not put on such a show! Your dander is clearly raised.

_________________
Marechal Knox

Prince d'Austerlitz et Comte d'Argentan
Ordre national de la Légion d'honneur

"What is history but a fable agreed upon"