The Papacy - An Alternative History

[Lord Durham]

The French Camp - A Two Day March

General Vincennes toasted the King, and downed his glass of Chardonney. His officers followed suit.

The French army lay encamped in a valley, waiting for word about any movement of their Spanish counterparts. They had received news earlier in the week that the Genoese bastard, Spinola, had marched north and west. The only question was where. Scouts had been dispatched in force to try and answer that question.

The officers greedily dug into their evening meal, enjoying the local game, which was courtesy of the peasants, who really had no choice in the matter.

The meal was interrupted when a scout was led into the spacious tent. He was out of breath after an arduous ride. General Vincennes flicked his wrist. and a servant provided the man with a glass of water.

The scout downed the contents, and took a deep breath.

The General raised an eyebrow, "The news had better be important, sir. You have disturbed our evening meal."

The scout nodded, and pointed in a westerly direction, "I have returned from the vicinity of Bordeaux, General."

Vincennes tilted his head in acknowledgement, "And how was that fine city, sir?"

"I could not tell, General Vincennes."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"It is under siege, my General. It is the Spaniards, though I could not get close enough to gather their numbers."

General Vincennes rose from his chair, a drumstick hanging forgotten in his hand, "You said the Spanish are besieging Bordeaux?"

"Yes, General."

"Merde!" He dropped the drumstick with an audible plop. "Gentlemen, rouse the army. We march on Bordeaux. It is high time we teach these low born Spaniards a lesson in warfare."

The officers rushed from the tent, the meal forgotten.

Quietly, the scout grabbed a breast of pheasant, an untouched glass of wine, and a chair. For a moment, he felt like a general.

 

[Forster]

Cpl Robert Forster watched the new-comer till he banked his fire and retired to his tent. He was obviously from the East, and this held a certain mistery for young Robert. He always wondered what the people were like that had managed to kill his father. He only vaguely remembered his father. He had been ten when his father left on that fateful campaign.

He grew up listening to the stories of his father and the free company. He often wondered what he would be like if he were still alive today. Even Cpt Bloomfield said if he were still alive, he might have become the leader of the free company. Now, he had to live up such stories, and he was afraid he might not be the same man his father was. He truly did not relish the thought of killing anybody.
He wished he knew what his father would think.

He also wondered if he should talk to the Captain. When Robert had joined, the Captain had said he was proud to have Forster's son join the company, and if he ever needed any advice Robert should come and talk to him.

 

[Lord Durham]

The French scouting force rode through the hills toward Bordeaux, staying parallel to the main road.

They had successfully dodged the enemy pickets to this point. They had been lucky, so far.

The cavalry crested a hill and their sergeant, a short, stocky veteran, raised his hand. They halted.

In the distance they could see a bridge. The bridge was heavily guarded, and beyond the bridge was an encampment. The sergeant tried to estimate the numbers on the other side by counting tents. After several moments he grunted in satisfaction. Maybe 5000 men, tops.

One of his men pointed, and said, "The large tent over there, Sergeant Riel, do you see it?"

The sergeant peered intently. It was slightly blurry. He knew his eyes were drying with age, but he would never tell his men that. "Oui? What of it?"

"The flag planted there, Sergeant. It is as black as night."

"So? What of it? Can you read it?"

"Non, Sergeant Riel. There is no wind to rouse it."

The sergeant mounted his horse. He would ride back to General Vincennes and tell him about this bridge, and the 5000 men that guarded it. Surely they would be no match for a French army of 60000 men, and 50 guns.

The banner, though, was unfamiliar. It was probably a contingent of mercenaries. Sergeant Riel smiled. That would make General Vincennes job so much easier.

Everyone knew that mercenaries were cowards.

 

[Forster]

Say what?!!

 

[Lord Durham]

[foghorn leghorn] It's a joke son, I say, it's a joke. [/foghorn leghorn]

It just means they're in for a rude surprise.

 

[Forster]

I know LD, that was meant to be rhetorical.

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

So are we cowards or not?

 

[unmerged(3525)]

Lieutenant Rictus arrived to see that the Captain and the Lieutenants were already at work discussing plans. The French were out there somewhere and it was well to be prepared.

"What news of the French?" he asked as he approached the large makeshift table that supported an array of charts.

"News is filtering back from the scouting parties which General Spinola has sent out that there is a large army heading our way." Bloomfield replied. "Probably ten of thousands of them from the baggage they seem to be carrying". He was often brief and to the point.

Since the French had been seen a few days earlier, preparations had been set in place to give them the warmest of welcomes. The Spanish general had increased the mounted patrols, occasionally using Company horsemen for the task, in order to ascertain the strength of his opponent. This was one fight that it would be difficult to avoid. But as things stood at the moment, he had no wish to avoid it. The siege was progressing well and his forces were well positioned to repel the attack.

"And the bridge?", the Captain questioned Rictus.

"All going well." the Lieutenant answered. "We've set a few charges half way across. It's a pretty sturdy structure so will take a lot of damage before it can be broken. But as with all of these things, there is a weaker point, where we can blow a sufficiently large hole to stop the French crossing."

"Hold the French back?", cried Bloomfield. "Is that what you think we are trying to do? Good lord, not at all. If the bridge is destroyed, the French will be able to withstand the siege and ferry troops into the city from the right bank. The French know that we want to keep that bridge to maintain the siege. We are to make them believe that but we shall also allow them to capture the bridge and get sufficient men across before we play our little party trick."

"And then we push them back into the Garonne (oops SB)", De Lyon smiled.

"It was an idea of Spinola's actually", the Captain admitted. "The plan is simple. When battle is joined, he will despatch a large force of cavalry to join some of the Spanish waiting downstream where they will cross and attempt to catch the French from behind. There'll be infantry and artillery to support us of course but the idea is to trap the main French army between the two rivers"

"But how do we plan to damage the bridge while the French have it?" Rictus asked.

"Why, my cannon of course", Da Silva joined in. "It seems our new colleague from the east has some particular skill in this regard and he's been explaining to me some principles of trajectories that I never would have believed if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. It's why, you've noticed that some of the artillery has already been moved to positions overlooking the bridge."

"But what if the weather is against us?" Rictus continued.

"We will just have to adjust for the wind using some of the man's help." Da Silva said.

"Of course", said Bloomfield, "but Lieutenant Rictus does have a point. We can never be entirely accurate with our cannon shot. But there are contingency plans of course. Young Private Felipe Barkdreg has volunteered his services for dangerous missions so you will need to brief him of the task he must carry out if all else fails"

 

[unmerged(5185)]

Morning in the South of France

Corwyn awoke only shortly after the sun began to peek over the western horizon. He hadn't slept well, but this was expected as a matter of course, the strong liquor notwithstanding. He sat for a moment, a brief meditation on the universe, almost a prayer, then stood, looking almost a different man.

He dressed himself in his customary loose white clothing, fixed with the crimson sash that's been in his family in one form or another since they moved to Grenada generations before. He paused for a moment, retreiving the wicked knife from where he stashed it while he slept and sliding it into the folds of his clothing, almsot invisible. Stepping outside to take a breath of the crisp morning air, he began going through a series of stylized graceful steps that helped move the blood and channel the power of God. He could understand the part about the blood - he always felt better after about five minutes of the graceful exercises, more at ease, more awake and aware. But he'd always thought the strange Afghani a little daft for claiming that it was both a form of prayer and a combat art. He said it came from the "Darwishim", whoever they were. No matter - it helped him focus for what promised to be a grueling day.

It was only a moment of stoking to bring his campfire back to life, boiling water for his customary cup of tea. He didn't have much of it left - it might last him a month, maybe two. The coffee would last him longer - unless, of course, the Captain realy was as fond of it as he'd seemed last night. Then he'd expect that the officers, or at least the young scribe, would be by to sample this "strange elixir".

he wanted something special for breakfast - something to celebrate the day. Deciding on something full of exotic scents and tastes, he settled on more water, putting a small handful of specially ground wheat. He stirred in some jasmine and honey for sweetness, cinnamon and clove for spice, and anise for a little something special. He made enough of this wheat pudding for two or three - it kept well so he could have it for dinner, or he could share if anyone was curious. He loved how it smelled - and it didn't irritate the eyes like incense.

While this cooked he moved the large bin of water he'd distilled overnight back towards the shadow of his tent, filling a number of waterskins with it. He still had to see the cook about how to keep the dysentery down - he'd seen a number of men spending too much time in the latrines. He also began to prepare some lotions - beeswax, comfrey, olive oil, and some other things - for those with sores and blisters and small burns.

Then there was the matter of finding his place in the Company. Judging by the bustle by the Captain's tent, his skills might be needed soon. And from the older gentleman approaching him, he suspected his comments about algebra have gotten him assigned to the artillery. He noticed attention focussed on the bridge, and slowly a smile spread across his boyish features.

He picked up a small pad and began to scribble down his idea. It was foolish, but then again what wasn't?

"Take out every third support - aqua regia, 1 large kettle per support should do. It will still safely a gun with horse and crew, a small group of men, no more than 16, or 4 horse with rider. Any more could bring it down. Local stone is limestone - aqua regia will do nicely, and take only an hour or two to bring it down. Maybe a last resort, if it can be done from afar. Not sure how..."

He looked up to Lt. D'Silva, looking over his sketch of the bridge and the notes scribbled all about. Corwyn wasn't sure whether he understood, though he'd made his notes in English (such a barbaric tongue as it is). But either way - it was time for Company business. This flight of fancy with the bridge would have to wait until later. He stood quickly, pulling on his sword-belt, two scimitars in sheaths on the sides, one on each side. He gave a deep, courtly bow - he wasn't sure the customs for honoring superior officers in the Company, and figured it would be safe to err on the side of courtesy and respect.

* * * * * * * *

(If memory serves, the south of France is mosty limestone - so the logical building material for most of the bridges would be the local stone. It's also fairly sturdy and very easy to work. If I'm horribly wrong, we can excise the little flight of fancy. I don't mind. ) Not that I expect it to go anywhere, of course)

(I thought that 'farina' came from the middle east or Africa, but I might be wrong. Does anyone out there know its origin? It's what Corwyn's making for breakfast, basically, and I realized that I didn't know if it was appropriate for him to actually make it or not.)

(Also, a brief note on the bow - it's not the traditional flourishy Rennaisance court bow, nor the stiff-legged, curt bow from the East. It's the sort with the left foot extended, right knee bent, arms to the side, head tucked. If he was wearing a hat it would come off in his left hand as he bowed. Just an odd little character flourish. )

-Corey

 

[unmerged(5185)]

Not quite quick enough...

Oops - someone beat me to meeting Lt. D'Silva. And yes, I'd be explaining a lot about the math, too.

-Corey

 

[Lord Durham]

No problem. We all have to hit the edit button once or twice in the course of events.

 

[Lord Durham]

Young Mortlock sat with Alamber at the Doctor's wagon. They were going over some numbers.

"We have eight battalions of infantry, Corwyn. Each battalion numbers about 500 men. The ratio of arquebusiers to pike is about one to two."

"Yes?" he mumbled as he wrote the numbers down.

Mortlock paused to watch. He sure was one for numbers. "We have two battalions of cavalry, 400 men each. They scout and will attack using the carracole."

"Yes?"

"Our artillery..."

Corwyn's eyes lit up. Mortlock suppressed a smile.

"We have 15 14-pound culverins for field duty. They have a minimum range of..."

"200 paces and an extreme range of 3500 paces. Go on..."

"And 10 old 50 pounders that are on loan to General Spinola."

Corwyn Alamber closed his notebook and sat back. "Thankyou."

Mortlock remained seated, a hesitant look on his face.

"Yes?" Corwyn asked.

"Er, ah... Captain Bloomfield mentioned something about coffee."

"And?"

"Er... what's it like?"

 

[nalivayko]

LD, can you do me a huge favor. I need some help with comprehending the current situation (read: screenshots!) Thanks, and I'll owe you one.

 

[unmerged(5185)]

On a hillock overlooking the bridge

Corwyn grinned at the young scribe. "So the Captain has told you of the finest joy of civilization. It clears the mind, sharpens the reflexes, and the taste is heavenly."

He turnedto the fire, stoking it up again to full, and removed his special pouch with the dust inside. He prepared the coffe properly, then poured two small glasses.

"It can be a shock at first - I've found a hint of honey can blunt the sharp edges." He added a bit of the sweet to the coffee, then passed it to the young scribe.

"It's very hot, and potent, so sip." He took a sip from his own, and let his eyes close in enjoyment. He'd known many pleasures, but few were as sublime as this simple joy.

He smiled at the scribe's first look - that combination of shock, horror, and bliss that seems to hit everyone the first time they experience coffee. Yes, his supply was doomed, but it was well worth it. Perhaps...

"I know a merchant who summers in Genoa, who might be able to get more of this. Perhaps he can provide us with other supplies as well?"

The light in Mortlock's eyes told Corwyn all he needed to know. When this war was over, he knew the scribe would want to know the secrets of making coffee. Truly the Company was full of enlightened - or at least enlightenable - men. Fortune smiled.

"How long before the French get here, do you think? I have some ideas on things we can do to protect the cannon... And I take it the Captain and General Spinoza have decided something to do about the bridge, correct?"

* * * * * * *

Ricardo shook his head as he watched the scribe and the strange new sergeant sipping at coffee. That was Corwyn's third cup today - he'd made some for the Captain and General Spinoza this morning, as well as one for himself and the runner, then another with Lt. D'Silva. Now one with the scribe - was this healthy?

It must make men mad, he decided. Yes, he knew numbers, and he knew arches and parabolas - his father was only one of the finest architects in Toledo. Just shy of his 16th birthday, he'd run off to join the legendary Free Company, and now, two years later, he was seeing battle. But this strange man had him doing insane things with the guns.

He set up not one, but two platforms for the guns - one atop the hill, the traditional position for the pieces, but another was set further behind, where they would be firing blind over the hill. The guns themselves were scored with chalk in several places, marking certain key targets. They were matched with scores in the dirt, showing where the guns had to be wheeled for maximum effect. Apparently the mad Arab (no, he wasn't an Arab, but the gunners thought it funny anyway) wanted to be able to hit the bridge from behind the hill, and to be able to hit 30 and 80 paces beyond without seeing what they were firing at.

Of course, this meant that Ricardo would have to lay out on the hill, and shout refinements to the gunners if they fell back. The sergeant had said the places just beyond the bridge were where the French would likely bring their guns up to menace the hill positions - but firing blind like this was stupid.

And then those flags. Silly yellow things with big black dots on them in diagonal patterns. When the wind opened the flags he was supposed to yell which way the flag unfurled, and how many dots. Again, it made a certain kind of mad sense. But wouldn't the French realize it immediately, too?

he shook his head and continued with the preparations. After seeing what the Doctor did with the cannons, he wasn't sure he wanted to see what he'd do to a pike wound.

 

[Lord Durham]

Nalivayko: I took the liberty of introducing one of your many sons (you old devil) The original Nalivayko returned east years past (I have a website that has a little bio on your character)

I didn't name the lad, but he should be around the same age as Felipe Barkdreg (yeah, you heard right), Jess (adoptive son of Chingakook... er Bloomfield) and a younger, more revitalized Misha. They are 28, 28 and 23 respectively. They all hold the rank of Corporal, so become one if you want. Lionheart is your Lt. and Bloomfield is the Captain.

As for a map, all I can come up with so far is modern stuff. I'll see what I can do.

Corwyn: Great piece of writing. Due to the slow tech tree in this game, we're still using arquebus. I did research the cannon of the era and they apparently fired shot and a rudimentary form of grapeshot. As for indirect fire, I suppose Arthur Currie and the Canadians at Vimy Ridge in WWI would have something to say about that

 

[unmerged(3525)]

Zer eez eu Lieutenant Lion'eart 'ere. Mais non! C'est moi De Lyon auquel you speak.

One question though. Which battalion is Barkdreg Jr. assigned to? I heard plenty of tales from my father of their antics while in Austria.

OK I didn't since he never returned. I never did find out where he got that food-poisoning from.

Cpt: Have a word with Da Silva about the firing blind, could you? Needs a few "weeks" training at least before I'd be happy having the men running around with cannon balls dropping randomly from the sky.

LD: Didn't quite understand the remark about Vimy Ridge.

 

[Lord Durham]

Lionheart: Barkdreg would be under your command. I just realized in all the haste to intro younger characters that we have no infantry sergeants. I wonder if Misha or someone wants to step up and do something heroic begore the battle, or we can create an NPC.

Vimy Ridge - It was a German held position that Britain and France wasted thousands of soldiers trying to take. The Canadians came along and used radical (at the time) ideas. They originated the idea of using artillery in a creeping barrage, so their troops could advance behind it, and they used machine guns for supressing fire. That was a first, too.

Needless to say, they took the ridge. That battle is considered a defining moment in the Canadian identity. (as opposed to being thought of as a British colony only)

The British were so impressed, they were going to make the Canadian general, Arthur Currie, commander in chief of the allied forces. Then the war ended.

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

Originally posted by Lord Durham
The British were so impressed, they were going to make the Canadian general, Arthur Currie, commander in chief of the allied forces. Then the war ended.

Well, but they did name that dish after him, you know, that spicy yellow stuff.

 

[Lord Durham]

Well, but they did name that dish after him, you know, that spicy yellow stuff.

Why do I bother...

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

Captain Bloomfield stood on the ridge above the river valley with his lieutenants and sergeants. Even some corporals were there. To his left, five Spanish officers stood. Bloomfield knew that in this kind of action, everything depended on efficiency and timing. The Company must function smoothly and every man must know where he belonged always. Patiently, he pointed out the features of the land again: The River, the Bridge, the slope up which the French that crossed the bridge must advance, the two heavy farmhouses on the outskirts of the village.

"What are those farmhouses called, Mortlock?" Bloomfield asked.

"The one on the left," replied the eager young scribe, "is Hougemont. The one forward and on the right, is called La Isle Sainte."

"Very well. Any questions?"

But before anyone could answer, Jess Bloomfield called out: "Sir!" and he pointed.

And suddenly they all saw it: a cloud of dust on the northern horizon. The French were coming.