The Review, 5/60th Rifles

Vickery's watch had woken him early this morning, chiming softly at six o'clock. He'd been pleasantly surprised when Cotton appeared soon afterwards with a steaming cup of tea and a clean shirt.

The Company had had plenty of time to get ready, have breakfast and give their rifles a last-minute rub-down before the Captain and his sergeants got them formed up on parade to march down to the field where the training had taken place the day before.

He stood them easy, waiting for the General and his staff to arrive.

Cotton fought back a yawn as he fell into his place. He was as well turned out as he could be, seeing as his uniform was the best part of a year old and starting to get worn. His rifle was as clean as he could get it, with a new flint, polished and oiled, and he honestly doubted anyone could find a fault with it.

He'd patched up Vickery's jacket where the left elbow had gained a hole - well, if the Captain would keep resting his elbow on his table when he was reading or writing, what could he expect? He'd tightened all the loose buttons on his jacket and Vickery's, though he'd had to wait for the Captain to go to bed before he could get hold of his jacket to work on, and he'd also sewn up a couple of loops of lace that had torn and were coming loose. He hadn't minded sitting by Maggie, working as she slept, in fact, he'd liked being able to glance across at her every so often.

If anything went wrong with this review, Cotton was sure it would not be because he hadn't done his best.

Vickery had been a little surprised to receive a letter from the officer of the 33rd's Light Company, telling him that one of his men had asked about transferring to the Rifles. The letter was sitting on his desk at this very moment, and he had drafted a rough reply which he needed to write out fair. It seemed that the 33rd's officer would like the transfer to be done quickly, not because the man was a troublemaker but because it would be easier on him and the officers concerned if it wasn't dragged out, a thought Vickery agreed with whole-heartedly.

He found himself wondering about the man concerned and had to shake himself out of his reverie. Being distracted while waiting for the General to come and inspect you and your men was not a good idea, after all.

The Rifles were next, parading with the 62nd along with the splinter of 95th that were under Sharpe. The General's mouth tightened unconsciously into a thinner line as he thought of Sharpe, a typical reaction. He did not think of Sharpe from one day to the next, but the man kept coming back to haunt him. Thank God this was a general review, and not specific, so at least if he would not be spared the sight of his scruffy rogue he would not be required to speak to him.

Yet the 60th were first to come under his scrutiny, and so he led the Staff party on to the green jackets with the red collars. Hercules had been behaving well this morning, which made a pleasant change from his usual cross-grained self, and by way of which the General's own mood had been somewhat lighter, the prospect of speaking to Hunter by now buried in his mind in favour of the job in hand.

The Rifles had finished with their last-minute checks and things before the General rode onto the field and as he finished with the 62nd, Vickery brought them to attention, then the shoulder arms. As the General and his Staff approached, he drew his sabre.

"Rifles! General salute! Present... arms!"

Three precise movements followed, crisp and clean and the rifles dropped into the present arms as he brought his sword down smartly to the salute as the General came up to them.

Three neat, precise movements brought his rifle from the shoulder to the general salute, and Cotton cursed inwardly. Why, out of him and Tom Roper, did he have to be the front-rank man? Especially as he had two lots of kit to look after. He kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance and just wished the whole thing were over with already.

Fortunately from Cotton's point of view the front rank escaped the worst of the General's gaze as he watched the crisp movements that brought the Rifles to attention. He acknowledged the salute, waiting for Vickery to fall in behind him, and moved off slowly down the line.

Brandy, the Captain's horse, was on his best behaviour today, as Vickery reined in to follow the General along the line of men. Most of them were moustached Germans, and among them, the clean-shaven faces of the few Englishmen looked somewhat out of place.

He had held a brief inspection of his own earlier this morning and knew there was nothing out of place - or if there was, he hadn't spotted it, and nor had any of his Sergeants.

A fine turnout it seemed as well. The uniforms were perhaps a little faded and patched - the same could be said for every regiment that had stayed out here since Corunna - yet with access to some replacement equipment they appeared somewhat better than potentially they might have.

Wellesley rode close to the front rank as he tended to do with more compact units, a yard away at the most, and could see quite clearly that all weaponry and equipment seemed to be generally in order - yet Wellesley had come to expect such an outcome from the German troops, and seeing as the 60th was largely composed of Germans he was glad to see that they upheld his impression.

Could the General get any closer to the front rank? Probably not without riding them all down. Cotton was standing as stiff and upright as a Guardsman, hoping that the General was too close to actually see him properly.

He hated these occasions, he always had, and the fact that it was the Commander in Chief of the British army here in Portugal just made it worse.

Vickery rode just behind Wellesley. He was pleased with his men's turn-out, even if Cotton's expression did look unnaturally set.

General Wellesley was one of the few senior army officers who approved of Riflemen and their innovative method of fighting, and Vickery hoped that, despite the slightly worn appearance of many of his men's jackets, the General would be pleased with them.