30th June; Inspection

Dressing in the dark was a skill gained by experience and honed through practise. Sergeant McCarthy had become proficient at this over the years. It was a mark of a steady campaigner, he felt. His nimble fingers tied his sash so the tasseled ends fell neatly against his hip, then he reached for his helmet. There was the barest hint of grey on the horizon, hinting that dawn was drawing on. Not that he needed any light to see by yet.

He nudged some strategically-placed sticks onto the faintly-glowing embers of the previous night's fire and crouched to gently blow on those embers to coax them back to life. A kettle waited nearby, needing only a fire to heat the water it held. Tea was the first order of the day's business, after all.

McCarthy held his steaming mug in both hands, after the kettle had boiled, and watched the shifting shadows of other early-risers as they went about similar tasks as he. The sky was beginning to lighten noticeably, the first pale streaks of dawn slashing through the heavy blanket of darkness. It was not light enough to make out finer details but the sergeant could recognise many of the earlier-risers by their builds and carriage.

The troop's trumpeter was stirring now too, pulling on his jacket and reaching for his instrument. McCarthy watched the lad's dim outline as he marched to stand roughly in the centre of the troop's camp. A moment later, the trumpet was blaring Reveille, summoning the troop's laggards out of their bedrolls and into wakefulness. The sergeant smirked into his tin mug. It would be the usual fellows trying to snatch a few extra minutes of sleep, he suspected. But the corporals would sort those rogues out soon enough.

At least the lads all knew what was in store this morning. They'd been preparing for it late into the night. McCarthy was confident there would be little, if any, fault found in the troop's turnout. These lads knew their business, right enough - but they were Horse Artillery, weren't they? Only the best in this lot.

He took a swallow of tea and glanced toward the officers' tents. They'd be appearing shortly. It was a wonder they hadn't done yet, in fact. Officers.

Having been in the army for many years, one gets used to short nights and long days. As Fraser left the warmth of his field bed (Being an officer gave some small privileges), he tried to remember the date, then all his battles, and then how many days he had been in Portugal. As always, those small braintasks helped him to wake up better then a cup of coffee. All trough, a cup of coffee would also be appreciated...

Most officers in the army had a servant, sometimes even multiple to help them get dressed. Fraser had, off course, his trusted batman, but no servants. Not that he wanted any; only women and old men and children needed help getting dressed, in his opinion. His full uniform had been put carefully into a small box, and Fraser inspected his dolman and pelisse. As always, it was clean, with none of the shiny buttons missing. Perfect for today's inspection. Thank god for O'Muraille.

Fraser had some difficulty getting dressed, as it was still rather dark, and at one point he almost wished he had a servant, but eventually he managed.
His red silk sash was very new, a gift from his old captain, and Fraser wished he had a mirror to see how it looked on him. His tarleton had the old white plume, to be worn only for parade, and he didn't like the thing at all - But there were rules, even for officers.

He left his tent, carefully holding the end of the scabbard with his right hand to not trip over. He looked around and tried to spot any of his junior officers, but it seemed they were all still in their tents. He did, thank God, he spotted McCarthy. He walked to him and saluted with his right hand, as his left hand was obstructed by the pelisse. His sword clanged a little as it touched the ground.
"Good morning, Staff Sergeant. How are you this morning? Is everything ready?" he inquired politly. He would be surprised if things weren't ready, for McCarthy accepting nothing but perfection.

It was no great surprise to see Captain Fraser was the first to emerge and come across to join the world. He'd always been a conscientious sort, McCarthy thought and stood so he could salute.

"Mornin', sir," he greeted. "The lads are still sortin' themselves out, but they'll be ready when it's time."

If anything, McCarthy suspected the troop was keen to show it could perform well both in battle and in presentation. That was a good thing to be successful at, certainly.

"Good, good!" Fraser said, as enthusiastically someone who has recently left the comfort of his bed could manage. Damn, it was the middle of summer, yet still rather cold.

"You wouldn't have a spare cup of fine British tea, Sergeant?"

The captain was making an effort to sound cheerful despite the early hour, which was something. McCarthy nodded and glanced down at his pack, which lay near his feet. He had a spare mug stowed away in it. A moment later, that mug was fetched out and being filled from the sergeant's kettle.

"It's just off the boil, sir," he cautioned as he held the steaming mug out to the captain.