On the March

Harris grinned at Perkins. "We'll be showing all that lot" he jerked his head towards the three battalions standing in the square "the way to go. So don't start wandering off in the wrong direction. Even if you do see a butterfly or something."

Perkins smirked back at him - a friendly smirk, but a smirk nonetheless. He had a headache. Why didn't Harris? Harris had had more to drink last night than he had. It didn't quite seem fair.

An infantry marching pace - well, it would not do for the Rifles to leave the redcoats too far behind! And out towards the city gates, along one of the elegant avenues that skirted the hill with the Cathedral perched on it, with three battalions following them.

He glanced down at Perkins - once they were through the gate and out beyond the houses, they would quicken their pace until they were a proper point patrol. And he'd make sure the lad knew how important that was. But he was shaping up very well.

Edrington watched the battalion march past, following the two Rifle companies, and their own colours. Too many inexperienced recruits, of course, but well trained, and in good spirits. Showing even less signs of nerves about marching to meet the French than they had shown marching down to Plymouth. The officers seemed on the whole to be a good group, with only one Captain who had no battle experience, tranferring into the 62nd in the hope of remedying that deficiency. There were one or two of the others he would need to keep an eye on. And he could do that, now he was back with his regiment.

Bauernbrot, a dark roan, shifted beneath him as the companies turned in formation and marched out of the square. Finally he fell in at the rear with Major Vereker, as the 27th brought their colours in behind them.

[Please let me know if there is anything wrong with this. Help always appreciated]

The Rifles had automatically trailed arms as they marched off. It was a much more comfortable way of carrying them, and allowed the soldiers to march comfortably.

Vickery was riding for once, although he often marched on foot, like his men. This way, he could be easily seen by those who needed to see him. If they encountered any French, he could always dismount and leave Brandy in the care of one of the Riflemen.

He watched Sharpe's men of the 95th. They marched easily, much like his own men. They seemed capable enough, and he was glad he had asked Sharpe to have some of his own men take point. He wanted to show the Lieutenant that he valued him as a commander of his own men in his own right, not as a subordinate officer to himself. And the way to show that was in giving the man responsibility.

With the 27th

"Nice day for a march," Williams spoke in a low voice to Dougie, under cover of the cheerful band-music that turned the whole thing into a parade, put on to amuse the locals. "But the boys with the thick heads must be cursing their luck this morning. And crying out for another drink."

He was rather glad now that he had ended the night early. That had been strange. A drink, a girl, and that would have been goodbye to Lisbon. But he had found Cotton and then that girl. He wouldn't say she was pretty, but seeing her facing down those bastards of the 33rd... He had been struck by her then, but Cotton had been the one to take her fancy, so... Well, Cotton was a friend, and you didn't steal your friend's girl. But he wouldn't mind seeing her again.

And now they had left the square. If it hadn't been for the riflemen, they wouldn't have been following the 62nd, who should by rights have been at the back. But it might be worth it later, having riflemen with them. Provided the 62nd didn't keep them all to themselves of course. He'd have to ask Cotton about that.

It was good to get out, away from the city. Cotton had never been fond of towns, and, until he'd 'listed, the biggest place he'd been to was Faversham, and he'd only been there once before the day he took the shilling, never mind that it was only four or five miles from his home village.

He marched easy, with a spring in his step, and even before they'd properly left Lisbon, he'd started whistling.

He grinned and nodded when Vickery detailed him as one of the scouts off on the flank. Out here, on a lovely sunny spring day, away from the reek of the city, life couldn't be better.

"You're awful cheery today, Gabriel," muttered Rifleman Jacklin, scowling against the sunlight.



[ooc - hope you don't mind. ]

Charged with the honour of the 95th, Harris and Perkins could not afford to relax, nor to forget the primary duty of their task acting as point for the Division. But on a road where donkeys loaded with sacks and boxes were pulled to one side as the column approached, and old women, dressed in black, marched passed the two Riflemen as if they intended to contest the road with the soldiers, the mind could wander, and contemplate how pleasant the day was. Not that the landscape was a patch on England.

They were marching north, setting out on the road they had taken only a couple of days earlier. Harris wondered where, if anywhere, the route would diverge. And where the remains of the Hussar Company were now. It seemed unlikely that they would have come any closer to Lisbon, but if they had, two rilflemen on their own would be a safer target than a Company or Battalion. Still, better here than in the middle of the column, breathing in nothing but dust and the smell of everyone else's sweat and unwashed bodies.

"An' why shouldn't I be, Ben?" Cotton returned, breaking off whistling to look at his friend. "It's a pleasant day and we'm out of the stink o' that place." He gestured with his thumb in the general direction of Lisbon.

(OOC - And should I mention Maggie? Did she decide to come after all, or is Cotton hiding the fact he feels miserable that she stayed behind?)

Vickery smiled as he heard someone - probably Cotton - start whistling somewhere behind him. It was a nice day, and all the grumbling that he's overheard would have been so much worse if they'd had to march in the rain.

He still needed to have a proper discussion with Sharpe, and resolved to do so during the first break, if he could. But for now, he'd enjoy the sunshine, and trust his men to ensure the road was clear. Although he wouldn't become complacent, of course. He'd go and patrol with some of them in a while, even if others would say it was unbecoming of an officer.

Edrington rode back to the front of the 62nd. He was, on the whole, pleased with the battalion. The men were well trained, marching along this easy road in proper fashion. Now he had the chance to see officers and their men working together, rather than separately. He was satisfied with most of the officers. Some of the younger ones needed more experience and the confidence that would give them, but he thought most had potential. He remembered Padstowe's comment about Sharpe's - requirements? - that he should rid himself of any incompetent officers. But he would that for the good of the regiment, not to please a lieutenant of rifles!

He rode alongside the colours for a while, looking at his rifle companies - not quite his, yet. They marched at ease, the difference quite marked. But that was the rifles. Casual and unorthodox. Time was coming for the first break of the day.

Sharpe marched easily, carrying his rifle like a veteran, which he was. It might be unorthodox for an officer to carry a long-arm like his men, but he liked the solid weight of a rifle, and appreciated being of some use during battle. He could no more rid himself of his rifle than he could the long, straight-bladed Heavy Cavalry sword he wore at his side. Killing weapons, for a soldier.

And there was an order passed for a break. Ten minutes would probably be all they would get, but it was enough to take the weight off their feet and wet their mouths. He sat on the grass by the side of the road and unfastened his pack, glancing up as a shadow fell over him.

"Captain Vickery."

Vickery heard the wariness in Sharpe's voice. "Mind if I join you?" he asked. Receiving a brusque nod and a curious look, he sat down.

"I'm not sure quite how to say this, Lieutenant, but I would like to reassure you that your men are still your men, and 95th."

That got a frown.

"And you are still in command of your men. I want your men and mine to work together, and they will only do that if you and I can work together."

Vickery was trying to... what? Make things easy for him? Sharpe felt things were slipping out of his control, he was losing command of his men. Only, he wasn't. He let the 60th Captain continue.

"I want... I would like for my Company and yours to work together, you in charge of your men, and I in charge of mine, but as senior officer in command of both." The younger man sighed and picked up a pebble.

"We are both Rifles officers. I know how your men work on the battlefield, and I will not ask them to do anything I and my men won't do. I may ask you to do something, but I will leave it up to you how you do it." He shied the pebble into the road. "You may discipline your men as you see fit, and I will not interfere. But I would ask that if you have any problems with officers or men outside of your own Riflemen, you would tell me. Please."

It couldn't be easy, being put in charge of a group of men from another Regiment. And hadn't Vickery only recently been promoted Captain?

"Yes, sir, I'll do that. Though I reckon it might not be so easy as all that."

As the signal for the break came, Edrington watched as the column broke up, muskets lowered and canteens produced. Pipes too among some of the old hands.

The two rifles officers were sitting together. They had not had much time to come to any sort of agreement about arrangements for working together, as they would clearly need to do. But he too wanted to be part of any such agreement, even if only to confirm it. He rode Bauer past the resting riflemen.

Both officers glanced up as a shadow fell over them. Realising who it was, they scrambled to their feet.

"Sir?"

Vickery hid his irritation at the interruption. He needed to make Sharpe understand that he wasn't going to be fighting against the man and forcibly taking over command of his men. Hell, he had enough men of his own to cause problems - and the majority of his were German, and more disciplined than English soldiers.

Sharpe just stood to attention, not saying anything, feeling a little off-balance by what Vickery had said.

Edrington slid from the horse's back. "Sit down," he said. "I thought it would be useful - to me - to hear how you thought this morning had gone." They had jumped to their feet almost as if they had been surprised in some misdemeanour, but Vickery merely looked attentive: Sharpe had wiped all expression from his face, which appeared to be his natural response to authority - although he had looked lively enough talking to Vickery.

Vickery glanced at Sharpe and realised the man wasn't going to speak first. He probably thought that if he said anything, he was going to sound critical of either his own men - and that in front of a redcoat officer! - or Edrington's men.

"I think it went well enough, sir. Having men off to the flanks means that if we were to be attacked from the side, we'd have fair warning. Though I would like push them a little further from the column. You would like as much warning of a potential threat as possible, after all."

Sharpe nodded. "They don't even need to be seen from the column, really. If owt happens, you can hear rifle fire from a fair distance, and that would be fair warning of anythin' wrong."

Edrington nodded. Provided you had enough men, the chances of their being silently attacked one by one were small. Although it could be done. If the irregulars had been opposing them, it might have been more of a consideration. But Vickery knew that, of course. And Sharpe, whose experience was much broader.

"Do that, then, Captain. As the lie of the land permits, of course."

"Mr Sharpe, your men are on point, I believe. How far forward should they be pushed, do you think? Is there a case for pushing some even further forward to look for danger before we walk into it - to act as scouts rather than a point patrol?"

Sharpe had thought about sending a couple of scouts out. Something made him hesitate, however.

"Scouts would be a good idea, sir. But I reckon they should come fr'm Captain Vickery's men." It was only fair; the Captain had given his men the honour of taking point and he should return the favour.

Vickery raised an eyebrow; recognising the tacit offer Sharpe was making, that they could work together. Or at least, that Sharpe was willing to make the attempt. "A couple of scouts something like half a mile to a mile ahead of the column should give us enough warning of anything untoward, Colonel. With your permission, of course?"

Edrington nodded. "You have it, of course. It might be a trifle early, this close to Lisbon, but we should start putting these precautions into practice. It will not be long before we shall need them in earnest." He recognized the nature of the concession Sharpe was making, and accepted it, but added "You can arrange the duties as you will, as we agreed. But I want your men in whatever role they are best at. Regardless of whose Company they are in."

The two Rifles officers looked at each other, and Sharpe shrugged. Vickery turned to Edrigton. "My lord, our men are Riflemen, no matter what regiment's uniform they wear. They have had the same training and fight the same way. You may be sure, sir, that both Lieutenant Sharpe's men and my own are equally capable, whether you require them to protect your regiment on the march, as now, or on the battlefield."

Sharpe looked a little surprised at Vickery's assertion, especially as they had hardly begun to co-operate and were still finding their way. It seemed, however, that Vickery was a man of his word: he would try to work with Sharpe and would support him. And if Sharpe had his support in this, he could count on it when it really mattered: in the field.

Edrington nodded. Riflemen were defensive against criticism, even when none was intended. "I may accept that all of your men are equally capable, but I doubt it. Who is your best marksman, Mr Sharpe?"

"Dan Hagman." What was the man getting at? Yes, some men were maybe more talented at things than others, but they all - every one, including the officers - had a minimum level of skill they had to achieve in order to be counted as trained Riflemen. And Daniel Hagman was one of several of his men entitled to wear the green cockade of the marksman. Though he wasn't by any means the only one so entitled.