Battle Report: Muskets & Tomahawks – The Skirmish at the Lippe Bridge

Battle Report: Muskets & Tomahawks – The Skirmish at the Lippe Bridge
A report by Capitaine Louis de Blazac (Many thanks to Peter for writing the report).

Yesterday, we finally managed to gather again for a game of Muskets & Tomahawks – this time with five players. I had the pleasure of designing a custom scenario and acting as the game master. But let’s hear it from Capitaine Blazac himself…

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The Waning Confidence of Capitaine Blazac

“Mon Dieu! They’re going to blow the bridge!”

“Excuse me, Monsieur? What did you say?”
Capitaine Louis de Blazac chastised himself for speaking out loud. He stowed away his spyglass and turned calmly to his sergeant.
“The Prussians are occupying the bridge. And if I’m seeing correctly, they’re already placing explosives. We must stop them. Move your men forward!”

The sergeant nodded and ordered the line infantry to advance in marching columns toward the bridge. Even without the spyglass, the hurried activity of the Prussian troops around the crossing was clearly visible. Blazac was annoyed. The mission had sounded so simple: finally his own command, operating independently from the general staff – secure the bridge over the Lippe to ensure the fastest route for the French army’s wagons and artillery into Westphalia.

Resistance was deemed unlikely; only a few Prussian partisans might disrupt the operation. And now this.
But all was not yet lost. So far, aside from a bit of light cavalry and a few infantrymen, Louis had seen no enemy troops capable of halting his advance – the Prussians were hopelessly outnumbered.

Soon after his columns began to move, Lieutenant Richard arrived on the eastern flank with his voltigeurs. A capable officer – he needed no instructions. He pushed his skirmishers toward a small wooded area near the bridge, preparing to harass the Prussian infantry with musket fire. Everything was going according to plan.
For a moment, Prussian light cavalry threatened Louis’ left flank, but before they could become a true danger, the voltigeurs opened fire and drove them off.

Louis knew his dragoons wouldn’t miss the chance to pursue.
“Foolish, vain men,” he muttered. They would have been far more useful supporting his center, but now they were chasing riders across the countryside.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Lefèvre had deployed his fusiliers from column into line, and their muskets thundered toward the Prussians on the bridge.
“You idiots! You’re aiming too low!” Louis heard Lefèvre bellow at his men.

The fight was becoming chaotic, but his troops seemed to hold the advantage. The Prussian infantry would soon be driven off, and then the sappers could disarm the charges.

Just as he had that thought, a distant drumming echoed across the field.
“Those aren’t Prussians,” his adjutant observed.
“Of course not. Clearly British. Ride east and find out what’s coming.”
“Oui, Monsieur!” The adjutant spurred his horse and vanished.

The Prussians had meanwhile formed up and, on their officer’s command, delivered a devastating volley. The bridge vanished in smoke. Cries of wounded Frenchmen rang out.
“Hold the line!” Louis shouted – and to his pride, they did.

Just as he was about to order an assault, his adjutant returned, filthy, breathless, disheveled:
“Richard is gone! His men too!”
“What do you mean, gone?! Speak clearly!”
“British grenadiers, across the Lippe. As soon as they were in range, they fired a concentrated volley. I had to take cover. The voltigeurs scattered—and I couldn’t find Richard.”

Without a word, Louis turned back to the fight. It had to be decided here. If they could take the bridge, the British would be dealt with later.

Sergeant Lefèvre had already ordered the charge. With cries of “Vive la République!”, the fusiliers surged forward, bayonets fixed. The clash was brief. The first Prussians fell, and the rest fled.
Lefèvre held the line and sent his sapper under the bridge to remove the charges.

Suddenly, a Prussian officer, seeing his chance, spurred his horse and dashed across the bridge—straight at Louis.
Suicide? A surrender?

Then Louis understood the shouted words—broken French, but unmistakable: a challenge to duel.

Now was not the time… but honor demanded it.
With sabres raised, the two men galloped toward each other. The fight lasted mere moments. After a few swift blows, Louis feinted, leaving the Prussian exposed. He struck from above, his blade cutting into the man’s neck. Without a sound, the Prussian toppled from his saddle, taking Louis’ sword with him—lodged in bone.

Louis dismounted to retrieve it, but at that moment he noticed another explosive charge—this one on the far side of the bridge.
He galloped toward the bank, shouting to his men on the bridge to intervene.

“Monsieur, we are too late!” Lefèvre cried out in despair.
“No! We are not too late!” Louis shouted back, his voice rising.

He swung down from the saddle, scrambling toward the riverbank—
A blinding flash. A deafening roar.

“We are too late. The general will kill me.”

These were his final thoughts as the blast tore through him and brought the bridge down in flames.