It Was Christmas Eve...
Scenario in 1812 Spain
by Rudolph R.N. Deer, Greenland
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It was Christmas Eve, 1812. Padre Cristos looked over the meagre survivors of his once proud band of guerrillas, reduced now to just 8 men and himself. He shrugged despondently. Nine men. Surely too few to safely get the Golden Icon of the Virgin Mary, complete with Baby Jesus to its rightful resting place at the monastery of the Monks of St. Aclos. The Padre heard his men shivering in their blankets, too afraid of pursuit to light the fires that they needed to warm them through. A number of them looked across faithfully at the white-bearded priest who led them. A man who might take an earnest confession only hours after removing the entrails of a captured French soldier. Yes, he was a Good Man.
The Spaniards had good reason to be scared. More than they knew; for within an hour's easy ride were a small troop of French Chasseurs a Cheval, grim riders who had been tracking the guerrillas for days and who at last were within range to capture the much-prized Golden Icon of the Virgin Mary, complete with Baby Jesus, whose value was enough to keep them in horses for several years. The Frenchmen had lost their pray in the evening mist, just as they had been about to close in. Now they scoured the hills around for a trace of their enemies. As the small column halted, their leader pivoted neatly in his saddle, allowing his men to get a good look at his tailor-made uniform. The Comte de Monie was indeed well dressed. Even in the height of summer he was never without both dolman and pelisse, plus colpack. Passers by would assume that the dandy officer was a noble hussar, until they saw the rag-bag outfit that followed him. They were a rough bunch.
The Comte took the small vanity mirror which he always kept in his saddlebag and studied himself intently. As it was pitch black he could not actually see anything, but he knew that he looked splendid. He twiddled his moustache thoughtfully as his scout, trooper Ragdebeaune approached.
"See anything?" asked the Comte impatiently.
"Nothing," admitted the trooper.
"Nothing, what?" said the Comte, sternly. He was a stickler for discipline.
"Nothing at all," replied Ragdebeaune, who hadn't stickled in years.
The Comte grunted something about the quality of recruits these days, but then noticed the scout was holding something. "What's that?" he demanded.
"Nothing," answered Ragdebeaune. "Just a bit of lead I found.
Another Spanish family would be without a roof over their heads tonight.
Two miles behind the chasseurs, had they but known it, was a sight guaranteed to put the fear of God into any Frenchman. They wore red jackets and had prettier horses than the French. Most of them also had hangovers.
"I say, Quartermaster. Where the bloody hell are we?" The officer asking this perfectly reasonable question was the erstwhile commander of the dragoons, Major Cholmondley.
The Quartermaster took a moment to reel in his 1000 yard stare before replying. "Spain?" he offered, doffing his watering cap to reveal that underneath he was bald as a coot and looked like one to boot.
"Ah, thank you," said the Major, happily enlightened. "How are the lads doing?"
The two men looked behind at the riders who followed.
"None of them are keeping their ruddy spacing!" observed the Quartermaster. "Oi, you lot. Work as pairs!"
He was greeted with a chorus of burps and the column halted whilst a slightly-portly-but-clearly-on-a-diet- corporal got back on his horse. The Quartermaster shook his head sadly. What a bunch of reprobates, he thought to himself. Next to the not--completely-sober-yet-slimming corporal rode another NCO, Corporal Jethro Baxter (from North Cheame) who never spoke to anybody in case he later had to kill them. Behind these two was trooper Clampett, who had lied about his age to join. He was in fact sixty or more, and looked it. Alongside him was what at first appeared to be a riderless horse, but on closer inspection turned out to be a very short dragoon from Coventry. Finally came two dragoons who had such effeminate features that they had their own tent, yet it was a careless man who might call one of them a rubbish rider.
"Hurry up, corporal. Get back on your horse," ordered the Major, gamely.
"I love you, sir," replied the corporal.
It was early dawn, and as the panorama spread out across the Spanish plain a bizarre convoy could be seen from a helicopter. That is if someone had bothered to do a mock up of Da Vinci's homework. In front were the group of Spanish guerrillas, escorting a cart on which rested the Golden Icon of the Virgin Mary, complete with Baby Jesus. Closing in behind them were Comte de Monie and his dreaded chasseurs, eager for loot and with the Spaniards once more in their sights. Then, finally, and unknown to the French, came the penal troop of the British Dragoons, eager for a scrap and with nothing to do until the pubs opened.
So there you have it. The ideal scenario for a Christmas wargaming skirmish. Far better than the usual boring introduction, I'm sure you would agree. Somehow the characters leap out of the page at you, as if they were somehow real people. This scenario, and the accompanying map have been written for the Fire and Steel skirmish rules from WRG, which are currently readily available, and give a fun and exciting game. However, the game will work equally well with any skirmish set.
The aim of the game is simple. Padre Cristos and his desperate band much reach the safety of the monastery ahead of the pursuing French chasseurs, who in turn must keep the Golden Icon of the Virgin Mary, complete with Baby Jesus away from the dragoons who will only melt it down for beer money. Accordingly the Spanish enter at point A four turns before the French, who have a four move advantage over the redcoats, who thus arrive on move 9. The French need to exit at point B with the Golden Icon of the Virgin Mary, complete with Baby Jesus, to win. Only one of the three sides can win. Should you only have two players available, then play the Spanish on automatic, pointing them at the monastery at full speed. They are only cannon fodder after all!
 Back to Table of Contents -- First Empire #38 Back to First Empire List of Issues Back to MagWeb Master Magazine List © Copyright 1997 by First Empire. This article appears in MagWeb (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web. Other military history articles and gaming articles are available at http://www.magweb.com |
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