The Garde Zu Fuß officer stood next to the infected marshal, Blücher, tending to his needs.

The field marshal insisted on drinking tea and spiritual aid. The officer thought it was stupid. How could herbal tea and necklaces fend off a disease? Bullshit.

When, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs of the burg.

“Wer ist da?”

He turned his head, yelling out those three words. The officers hand reaching toward his holstered flintlock.

Then he thought, could it be reinforcements? Or the damned French!?