An Unexpected Visit

"Mein Herr!" Vickery looked up from the mug of tea thoughtfully provided by Rifleman Roper, to see who was calling to him. It was one of the Scheringer twins. He still couldn't tell the difference between them, and wondered if he ever would. He scrambled to his feet. If something was enough to get one of the usually staid and sensible Scheringer brothers flustered, it was obviously of some vital importance.

He couldn't quite believe his eyes when he recognised the man on the horse. What in the world was General Sir Arthur Wellesley doing this far forward? Thankfully, Sergeant Fischer had managed to grab half a dozen or so Riflemen to give him the correct salute as the General came up the road towards where the Riflemen had paused for a break, and he grabbed his shako and went forward to meet their visitor.

Though the column had paused for half an hour Sir Arthur was restless. They were still pursuing the French, but they were not moving fast enough, not by half! He had hardly left his saddle these last few days, as if by his own personal exertion he could will the men on faster. It was a vain hope, but it made him feel better.

It this restlessness that made him feel a ride up to the front of the column necessary, beyond the skirmishers and the cavalry screen even perhaps. He managed to contrive to leave his Staff behind and made it as far up as the skirmishers without more than astonished looks as he cantered past men on the road. However, now when he was coming up to the skirmishers he saw a hasty guard of honour being drawn together by a German sergeant with an excellent pair of lungs, along with their officer coming forward to greet him, almost dropping the mug of tea he'd been drinking a moment beforehand and cramming his shako on his head in his haste. One of their picquets must have seen him coming - well, what else could he expect from a well-appointed and alert picquet? That they had presented a guard meant that he would have to stop and talk to the officer at least; it would be doing the Rifles a dishonour were he not to.

He slowed Hercules to a trot, then a walk as he came level with the guard, giving them a curt nod of approval to them before turning his attention to their captain. The face seemed somewhat familiar.

"Good day. Captain Vickery, is it not?"

"Good afternoon, sir," Vickery replied, saluting the General. "At your service, sir."

Quite what Sir Arthur was doing up here, Vickery couldn't think. He was alone, as well, which meant that there would doubtless be a herd of worried and confused Staff officers descending on them at some point. "Could I press you into accepting a cup of tea, sir? It is rather a warm day, after all."

Vickery was right; it was hot, and tea sounded appealing.

"Thank you, I shall."

He dismounted and handed Hercules' reigns to the corporal that hurried forward to take them.

Vickery turned to tell Roper to fetch a cup for the General, but he'd barely opened his mouth before the Rifleman was there, the red twill tape of his status bright on the sleeve of his jacket at he offered a steaming mug to the General. He was nearly as good as Cotton, Vickery thought, as he stepped back.

"There has been no sign of the French, sir, apart from a few scattered signs which we came across the other day, and what you can see in the road ahead." He indicated the road, which was littered with things that the French had abandoned to speed their flight.

Sir Arthur nodded his thanks to the rifleman that handed him the tea, and cupped his hands around the mug gratefully.

"So it appears," he said. Vickery was certainly eager, and not unduly cowed by the presence of vastly senior officers; the last demonstrated by the answering of the question about contact with the enemy, which had very nearly been on the general's lips to ask next, without being prompted to do so. It indicated the man was steady and had some backbone, which pleased Sir Arthur. Some officers could be such a disappointment.

Next to his right boot was a what looked like the remains of a French bridle, stripped of what cheap metal componants it had possed - either by the French or his advancing men - so that all that was left was a sad heap of twisted leather straps. He nudged it idly with the toe of his boot. He imagined the horse had been butchered and was currently heading north in the packs of several Frenchmen.

"Have you come up at all with our screen?"

If the French were still in retreat the answer would be 'no', but should they slow down and make a fight of it, even for a couple of skirmishes, Vickery would be the first to know from them.

Vickery watched as the General sipped his tea, observing him. He looked fairly unprepossessing, apart from that great hooked nose. You wouldn't look at him twice - nobody would think that the commander of the British army, such as it was, would wear only a plain blue coat with no sign of rank other than the star of the Garter.

Yet there was something about his bearing, some inner confidence that caught Vickery's attention. After all, this was the man who had commanded the British forces last year at Rolica and Vimeiro and seen them break a French column, the first time Bonaparte's army had been defeated - even if Boney wasn't there in person, that was something no other army could boast of doing. It was no wonder that Sharpe had such confidence in this man.

"No, sir, not since two days ago when we came across what appeared to have been a small group of French trying to get back to their main force. They had rather mistreated some Portuguese civilians, who were thankfully mostly unharmed, though they were a great deal shaken up." Vickery had sent a full report back with the Riflemen who had escorted the surviving Frenchman back to the column, but it couldn't hurt to reiterate things.

"Mister Sharpe is up ahead with his men of the 95th, sir. If they run into anything, I shall no doubt hear about it, and will send word before reinforcing him." Vickery expected that Sharpe would fall back to meet up with Vickery's greater number of men, but he would not be caught idling if his fellow Riflemen needed support.

Sir Arthur vaguely recalled the report of the incident, one of the many similar pieces of paper that had passed his way in the last couple of days. It was news to him that Sharpe was about - but of course, as he was attached to Vickery's company it was only logical. He nodded again, the subject of amalgamated units bringing a similar thought to mind.

"Tell me, how are you getting on with your new regiment?"

Vickery laced his fingers around his own tin mug as he considered the question. "Well, sir, of all the regiments in the army, I would have thought, had I been asked a month ago, that the Guards would be among the least... adaptable to having Riflemen assigned to working alongside them. Captain Blackwood of the Light Company seems to be interested in what we do and in learning from what we do with an eye on maybe adapting some of our tactics."

He wasn't quite so sure the Colonel appreciated the idea of the rifles and their ability to aim at a specific target, but surely that attitude was understandable, for Guards officers and didn't need to be pointed out, especially to General Wellesley.

Vickery's answer was interesting. After Lord Edrington and the 62nd had marched away on other orders (taking with them also Dr. Maturin, a valuable intelligence officer and Wellesley's personal physician, having been recalled by his naval masters) the choice of placing Vickery's company of the 5/60th with the Guards had been... Wellesley hardly liked to call it an 'inspired' choice, but it was certainly a fantastic way to see how well the idea of interchangeable groups of Light troops worked - for who in the Line infantry were more proud of their traditions and status than the Guards?

"I can imagine it has been interesting for you," he said mildly, taking another sip from his mug. The tea wasn't half bad.

"'Interesting' is certainly one way of putting it, sir," Vickery replied dryly. "Especially considering how fond the Guards are of their spit and polish and, well, we're hardly up to their level in that respect. Although heaven help the man whose rifle and sword are not up to scratch."

The Riflemen taking their ease around them proved the truth of his words, sitting relaxing by the roadside, their packs off. There was more than one small fire being tended by a moustached German rifleman.

The somewhat unkempt appearance of the Rifles spoke for itself. Wellesley did like a decent turnout from his troops; he had always believed that some pride ought to be taken in appearance - but when it came down to it, so long as the men were steady and their weapons in good order he would let appearances go to the wind. Besides, he knew from firsthand experience how difficult it was to keep uniforms looking remotely fine on campaign, and it was a fool of an officer that would reprimand troops that fought well simply for a poor appearance. Some of these men had been out here since Corunna, and the wear and tear of that campaign was conspicious still even in the redcoat regiments.

He furnished Vickery with a brief smile over the rim of his mug.

"The Guards have their own set of standards, Vickery. As I am sure you do."

If Vickery hadn't been watching the General, he would have missed seeing that quick smile. "It is one of the hazards of outpost duty, sir. There is not so much time to tend to personal appearance when on picquet. And as long as the men look after their rifles properly, I have no complaints." He smiled. "You are more than likely aware that we have a similar outlook to the cavalry, in that the men tend to their rifles before themselves, sir."

Sir Arthur, for a brief while in his much misguided youth, had been for a few months an officer of dragoons. He had gained little from the experience save a marginally better rate of pay, an idea of the shocking amount of fodder a horse needed to be sustained on campaign and a determination to have his riding boots cut to specification in later life.

Vickery had taken the comment in the light in which it was meant, which was something of a disappointment in that he had not been able to wind up the young captain, but it also meant that Vickery had recognised a small jest at his expense. There were several jests at the expense of the Rifles continually flying about the rest of the army, which they returned in kind.

"It is my intention to keep marching until twilight," he said, changing the subject back again. "Make the most of the daylight whilst we have it. Should you come across the Enemy you will send a messenger back down the column and will receive orders accordingly. I shall be going forward to say as much to the cavalry." he smiled ruefully at Vickery again. "I trust that you shall not be in need of written confirmation of these orders."

Vickery nodded at the confirmation of his orders. "No, sir, I shall not require that in written form. It would merely waste everybody's time, after all." And General Wellesley's time was far too valuable, besides which Rifle officers were supposed to be intelligent; it was one of the pre-requisites for joining either of the Rifle regiments.

It was rumoured, however, that Wellesley was unforgiving of those who took the initiative if it meant disobeying his orders. "I was given to understand sir," he said, speaking carefully, "that if the advance party came under fire, they would fall back to us so that we could move up in support of them, having sent to inform you of the situation."

Sir Arthur's eyes narrowed fractionally over the rim of his mug.

"Your orders have not changed in that respect, Vickery," he said, before swallowing another mouthful of tea. He'd drunk about half the mug, taking his time for decency's sake. For politeness' sake this conversation would last for as long as he had tea in his mug. Once emptied there would be no reason - save some unexpected catastrophe - for him not to continue his moving up to the cavalry screen.

"Well, that seems to be clear enough, at least, sir." It was Vickery's opinion that there was nothing worse than having orders changed at the last minute, or not receiving some change of plan and being hauled over the coals for following the original orders one had.

"So I should hope."

Wellesley took another gulp of tea, grateful once again for the hot liquid running down the inside of his throat. He really would perish, he thought, if the army ever ran short of tea - and then where would they all be?

"I daresay we shall persevere, Vickery," he said, changing the conversation abruptly again. "We are close on their heels, and if you can bring me closer still then we shall have 'em before they reach the border."

He gave a short laugh, more for the sake of the riflemen listening in than for Vickery's or his own.

"Imagine it! Catch 'em that quickly and we might well be in Paris before the end of the year, tipping Bonaparte off his throne in person."

The General's harsh, quick bark of laughter made Vickery chuckle in turn. "Now, that would be a sight worth seeing, sir," the Rifles officer replied. "We shall do our very best. I have my best men out scouting, sir, and should the French show even a whisker, they will know of it."

"I do not doubt it."

The general swallowed the last mouthful of tea, and tipped the mug upside down to get rid of the dregs.

"Thank you for the tea again, Vickery. It was most gratefully received."

The dregs dripped onto the grass and Vickery held his hand out to take the mug back. "You are most welcome, sir." That the General of the British Army had accepted a cup of tea with him would doubtless be the talk of the Company for some time.

He looked for Corporal Corves, who was holding the reins of Sir Arthur's horse. The man noticed Vickery's look and brought the horse up to them, preparing to hold his reins for the General to mount, or even give him a hand up, should it be necessary.

Hercules snorted in minor annoyance as he was led forward, and Wellesley patted him absently on the nose.

"I will be going forward to catch up with cavalry next. Should any one of my staff come looking for me you may inform them of that, and also of my intention of seeing if I can catch a sight of the enemy rearguard."

Because sooner or later there would probably be a staff officer coming in search of him. He probably should have taken one with him, but one could travel faster than two.

Vickery reflected that the General's family would have a fit when they found he'd gone riding off on his own, and would probably go apoplectic when they learned he intended to do his best to get a visual on the French rear-guard. However, if that was what he wanted, Vickery was not about to stop him.

"I will certainly inform them of your intentions, sir, should they enquire," he said. He kept to himself the thought that such scouting was best left to the Riflemen and the cavalry. Of course the General would like to see the lie of the land for himself, and Vickery had no intention of trying to prevent him, even though the General's sudden appearance might well startle even the Riflemen who were scouting ahead.

Wellesley took the reigns from the waiting rifleman.

"Very good."

He placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into Hercules' sadle, ignoring the sharp protest from his aching thighs as they were made to work again.

"What password have you set with your picquets?"

Corves shifted his hands to the horse's bridle to hold him still, stepping back when the General was in the saddle.

"The password is Trafalgar and the countersign is Nelson, sir," Vickery said, shifting his own empty mug to his other hand so he could salute.