An Beigneid Airgead- The Silver Bayonet in Lochaber

[Iain R]

Warning: preamble incoming.

For some years I've always fancied setting the zombie apocalypse in Regency Britain, the idea of the likes of the rough and ready Major Sharpe and Captain Hornblower showing up to save the fops & dandies from the usual regency novels (and doubtless steal their betrothed...) made me chuckle. Then along came Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and I remarked that that would make a cool game. Of course, as always, Loki was listening, and fast forward a few years and my usual opponent makes me aware of a cool sounding new game, The Silver Bayonet, that sounds right up my street. Into the pre-order it goes.

Now, with said book now arrived and safely squirreled away under the tree (in the vain hope I won't get distracted from my mediaevals), I find myself more interested in using dark British folklore for my inspiration, which is far more relevant to the thinking behind the book.

The idea of the usual Famous Monsters stalking about does nothing for me, zombies, whilst cool, are now somewhat done to death (ahem), and the idea of a giant cosmic horror like Cthulu being in any way an appropriate match for eight blokes with muskets and a magic hat just didn't fly. I'm far more interested in that sort of earthy, local folklore, that spoke of danger lurking just outside the back door, or at the back of the cowshed. The sort of supernatural beings that our ancestors (and the little lead men on our tables) knew were out there...

As such, with a host of beasties from Gaelic folklore already in the stash to chase my mediaevals about in Dragon Rampant, I decided to sketch out my setting initially in the West Highlands, beginning as all good tales do, with some lost visitors...

1810, LOCHABER, NORTH WEST SCOTLAND.
 
The French, advised of lingering Jacobite sentiments in the West Highlands, have dispatched the sloop Jehanne d'Arc to land gold, arms and agents in Lochaber, seeking to sow dissent and division within Great Britain.
 
Unfortunately, the sympathetic chief they have been corresponding with does not exist, at least outwith the imagination of the British spymasters. Neither has the presence of their vessel escaped the notice of the Royal Navy. After a vicious game of cat and mouse among the Hebrides, the French vessel finds itself in Loch Sunart, listing badly and taking on water. Making the decision to salvage what they can, the French make landfall, offload the stores, and fire the boat, still hoping to make contact with the illusory chief, and set off into the wild hinterland of Lochaber.
 
3 weeks later, the few crazed and starved survivors, crying and shrieking at the sky, are discovered by a ghillie in the ruins of an abandoned bothy, the eviscerated remains of their comrades strewn about them. Unable to speak French, the confused ghillie manages to lead the unfortunate Frenchmen to the garrison at Fort William, where their story is eventually coaxed out of them by the incredulous Governor.
 
They tell a tale of being stalked through the misty nights by an unseen... being, which would shriek and howl at them from the darkness, before charging at the group, taking another unfortunate soul off to his doom. This went on for almost three weeks, before they found the ruins of the bothy, and resolved to make their stand.
 
Unfortunately their defended position brought no respite, with their unseen assailant turning out to be both numerous and ethereal, their muskets, swords and pistols having no effect. Those that did see what beset them tried to claw out their own eyes, having to be restrained or knocked unconscious by their terrified comrades until daylight brought respite, and darkness closed again for another night of terror, before they were rescued by the now handsomely rewarded ghillie.
 
Unnerved by the fact that clearly some clan of inbred cannibals (for this was clearly not the work of ghosts) was stalking his area of responsibility, and were now armed with French powder and ball, not to mention enriched with gold and in receipt of useful intelligence, the Governor resolved to tackle the problem and dispatched a patrol from his company of Veteran Battalion men, recently arrived from the Midlands, to resolve the situation, recover what they could, and hang any who they could not return in chains. This was despite the misgivings of the resident Fencible regiment, local men who warned that this sounded like the doings of the slaugh, and that no good would come of provoking them. The patrol, veterans of campaigns in the tropics, India and Flanders, laughed this off as the superstition of backward rustics, and set off in good spirits. They were never heard from again.
 
Annoyed that these wily old campaigners had probably found the gold and taken the opportunity to scarper with it, the Governor dispatched a further patrol, cursing the admonishments of the Fencibles. When this patrol too vanished without a trace (save a report from the crew of a fishing boat of ragged musketry sounding in the glen), the Governor  eventually accepted the council of the Fencibles, and sent word to Edinburgh.
 
Expecting to be reinforced by a battalion of regulars, the Governor was somewhat surprised, and not a little annoyed, instead to find a handful of mismatched troops, seemingly from every possible corps in the army, led by a civilian (and a lawyer and politician at that!) arrive at the fort. If their uniforms were mismatched, their arms and accoutrements were even stranger; axes, stakes, maces, Nock Volley Guns, and each man seemed well decked in crucifixes and other holy symbols. What was this, some sort of Crusade?!
 
However on reading the enigmatic civilian’s letter of introduction, the Governor, a veteran of plenty of bloody conflict, visibly paled and simply told his adjutant that the newcomers were not to be interfered with, and any requests they made were to be met, on pain of the lash or cashiering. The matter was in hand...

[Gun bunny]

  sounds great 

[Chief Lackey Rich]

Good foundation there.

[Emir of Askaristan]

Great background. Pictures please!

Though not in Lochaber you may want to think of Am Fear Liath Mòr - the great grey man of Ben Macdui. My father and I encountered the spectre near the summit of that mountain 35 years ago. I have not returned to the hills since then.

😉

[tikitang]

Regency Britain

earthy, local folklore

I'm with you there!

Nice idea. The French must have been pretty gullible to believe there was still a credible Jacobite presence in Britain in 1810!

[Bearwoodman]

Excellent! I enjoyed that!

It sounds as though it will be a solo campaign, is that right? Unless perhaps the French are sending a follow up expedition to find out what became of the Jehanne D'Arc and her gold? And perhaps there are representatives from other Continental powers drawn to the stories of strange goings on in the Highlands...

Appetite whetted, I look forward to seeing the miniatures!

[Bloggard]

fantastic scene-setting

[Grumpy Gnome]

Great setting, ripe with narrative richness!

[Michi]

Great idea to use local/regional folklore. I will thouroughly think about having the infamous franconian Nachtgiger in one of our games...

[has.been]

Good background.

The French must have been pretty gullible to believe there was still a credible Jacobite presence in Britain in 1810!

If not Jacobite, anti-English is possible.

History, even very recent History, is littered with
(even more) examples of  credulity.
 

[Sterling Moose]

Most excellent.  I look forward to reading the AARs.

[Iain R]

Thanks all, glad it was vaguely interesting!

Though not in Lochaber you may want to think of Am Fear Liath Mòr – the great grey man of Ben Macdui. My father and I encountered the spectre near the summit of that mountain 35 years ago. I have not returned to the hills since then.

Oddly enough, I have! There's also a similar sort of beastie on Skye, Baisd Bheulach, between the two I'm working on finding something appropriate to the locality...

 

Nice idea. The French must have been pretty gullible to believe there was still a credible Jacobite presence in Britain in 1810!

 A desperate enemy will believe what he wants to believe, look at some of the stuff we convinced the Germans of in WWII...

It sounds as though it will be a solo campaign, is that right? Unless perhaps the French are sending a follow up expedition to find out what became of the Jehanne D’Arc and her gold? And perhaps there are representatives from other Continental powers drawn to the stories of strange goings on in the Highlands...

 No, I was working on the assumption that my usual opponent John will be doing a French band (he’s been looking for an excuse to buy the Perry Retreat from Moscow stuff, and already has a sizeable French force anyway... he’s also not pleased that I’ve used The Maid’s name for a boat...), however on meeting for a blether yesterday, seems he’s also considering Russians or Austrians...

The Companions of St Jude

Full disclosure, I am not at all impressed with the official British unit (less the supernatural investigator and maybe the veteran hunter), though the French and Russian units look better, but even before seeing them had already decided I’d probably just use Perry stuff anyway, as in terms of scope, aesthetics and price, they’re hard to beat, and I already had loads lying about anyway.

 

... aka the Society of Dodgy Bastards. A collection of misfits, mongrels and oddfellows from across the British Army and beyond, united by their experiences of the supernatural and unexplainable. Formed under the name of the patron saint of lost causes by Investigator Stanforth Rowley-Birkin to meet the threat of the Harvestmen, and defeat it by whatever means necessary.

 First off the bench was my officer, mainly because I had the perfect candidate in mind, figure-wise, in my pile of unpainted shame...

Captain Tristram Fazakerly-Butterworth-Toast
(Officer)
Expelled from Oxford for duelling, young Tristram found himself packed off to the army with an Ensign’s commission, his fiancée’s tears and his father’s old sword. There, a conventional, if eventful, career seemed to be his destiny until a brush with the supernatural in the Peninsula spirited him away from the officers’ mess of the 52nd Foot, and into the shadowy world of the Companions of St Jude.

Now a captain, the affable and brave officer serves as the right-hand man to Rowley-Birkin, an advisor in matters requiring conventional military tactics, and an invaluable liaison between the secretive and unconventional Investigator and the local military leadership they often find themselves assisting, who find it much easier to just work on the assumption that the young officer is the one actually in charge...

 


 Uniform-wise, he’s made the practical choice of swapping his regulation buff breeches for hard-wearing leather-reinforced overalls, and adopted a buff pelisse against the cold (and all the ladies like a Hussar, so...) and I stuck a skull on his base. That's how you know it's a horror game, see? The face isn't one of my better efforts, in all honesty, but equally I don't think it's one of the bothers' better sculpted ones, either.

[Cat]

'They will rise to join our cause' beliefs influenced decisions numerous times over the course of the Napoleonic Wars.
 
Jacobites is a great one to add to the list!

[Iain R]

'They will rise to join our cause' beliefs influenced decisions numerous times over the course of the Napoleonic Wars.
 
Jacobites is a great one to add to the list!

Yep, on both sides, I don't doubt!

Jacobite holdouts might also form the foundation of the cultists, as at the moment I've got nothing better...

[tikitang]

That's one excellent paint-job! Well done!