Muster in the Morning, 6th July

It was about time that Vickery took the morning's roll call for himself, and so he had asked Sergeant Müller to parade the men for him. Once they were ready, he stepped out of his tent with the muster book under his arm.

"Rifles!" The parade came smartly to attention, the Rifles' way, without unnecessary words of command.

He returned the Sergeant's salute. "Guten Morgen, Feldwebel," he said, in reply to Müller's gruff "Guten Morgen Herr Hauptmann!"

He took the muster book from under his arm and told the Sergeant to stand the men at ease, and commenced with taking the muster. "Corporal Becker."

The corporal came to attention. "Jawohl, mein Herr."

"Corporal Corves."

"Mein Herr!"

What he should have done was report last night's fight immediately. Duty had required it. Yet he'd held off, choosing instead to put word out amongst his colleagues to be alert for a redcoat with a slash across his ribs.

Then Todd's attention had been demanded by a dispute near his wagon and any thought of making a report to Captain Vickery had been lost until this morning. His negligence would no doubt earn him a reprimand - which he knew he deserved.

Speaking to the captain would have to wait, however. He had just begun taking muster, if the neat lines of a company on parade were any sign. Well. Todd could wait. It would not hurt his own subordinates to have to manage on their own for a few minutes anyway.

There was the Rifles company. At last. It was an irritation to Major Edmondson that he had to be on this errand at all, without having to search for the company he had to have dealings with. He'd been against the idea of attaching any Riflemen to the regiment, never mind a whole company of them, and his objections were turning out to have some merit, clearly.

With an internal sigh, he trotted his horse closer before drawing rein. This particular piece of business could be resolved quickly. If he was lucky. He was not destined to be lucky either, since it seemed the Rifles were having some sort of parade. What a sloppy display, he thought derisively. But what else could you expect from the likes of them?

"This is the Rifles, I assume?" The Coldstream's adjutant asked of a plainly-dressed man standing near the paraded greenjackets. It was impossible to keep the disdain from his voice, but for form's sake, he tried.

The man glanced up at him without expression. "It is, sir. They are calling the roll at the moment."

Well. Wasn't that just splendid. He'd have to wait till that was over. Edmondson rested his gloved hands on the saddle bows and resigned himself to a considerable wait.

He had gone through the Corporals and most of the way through the Chosen Men by now.

"Roper."

"Here, sir."

On to the Riflemen themselves... "Bachmeier."

"Ja, mein Herr." He had answered quick and as always, without hesitation. But having been present and merely waiting for his name to be called was probably not hard to do anyway.

And now there was a mounted Guards officer as well as the surgeon waiting to speak to the Captain. Cotton wondered what on earth was going on.

"Bergmann."

"Mein Herr."

"Burke.

"Sir."

"Cotton."

He came to attention on hearing his own name. "Sir!"

The Captain called the next name and Cotton relaxed to 'at ease' again. "Fuhrmann."

Good Christ, Edmondson thought. Didn't any of these men shave? And that wasn't English most of them were speaking. He realised also that, to a man, none of the Riflemen wore an article clothing of any one solid colour. Patchwork was rife amongst them, right alongside the filthy state of their jackets. This was no proper British regiment, then, but a motley collection of foreigners in British service.

Next time, he promised himself, he would send Captain Royce on any errand that involved the Rifles.

They were down to the next English name now. "Jacklin."

"Sir."

"Jestel."

"Mein Herr."

"Koch."

Newbury's name was crossed out; he had gone back to the main Army hospital at Belem, so that meant their newest Rifleman was next on the list. "Pye."

After a moment of silence a rather hasty. "Here, sir!" Followed. The lad had expected a few more names ahead of him and had only been only half listening. But he was there and not a lost soul, which was quite right. Koch had been ahead of him, and also responded with a simple Mein Herr.

There was something not right about this parade, Todd realised as he quietly scanned the faces of the assembled Riflemen. He knew nearly every man in the company, at least by sight, and that knowledge left him with the distinct impression of something being amiss.

Frustratingly, he could not put his finger on it, however. There was no use asking the redcoat officer beside him for input either. It was blindingly obvious that the man had no liking for being here. Anyway. He was a Guardsman.

Rahn and Rosenbaum were both present. "Rottländer."

"What a rabble," Edmondson muttered in unconcealed distaste. The more he studied the paraded Rifle company, the less impressed he became. Tattered uniforms, unshaven faces, only a handful of Englishmen amongst them... it did his own regiment no honour to have such a sorry, motley pack of rogues as this attached to it.

The sooner he had the necessary conversation with that greenjacket officer and got shot of this lot, the better. He was beginning to feel that bathing would be in order once he was back in his own regiment's camp.

Nice and clean. Just the way Jean liked his uniform. And his person. He opened the flap of his tent and stepped outside. Squinting in the morning sun. After a moment of orientating himself, roll-call, Vickery, Coldstream officer, the smart looking Lieutenant strolled over to stand next to Captain Vickery. "Well, good morning monsieur." Allowing the French word to slip out, Vickery knew he was French after-all. "That chap over there, the guardsman, looks as if he's in need of something." He added, keeping his voice low. "Perhaps I should go over and see what he wants, while you're doing the roll."

Without waiting for a reply, Jean walked over to the Coldstream officer. "Good morning sir, is there something you need?" He said, attempting to sound as English as possible, as he did with all unfamiliar people.

Freddie, half asleep, was brought to attention by a sharp nudge in the ribs. With a startled yelp, he straightened.

"Hier, Sir! Anwesend!"

His spluttering answer did poorly hide his embarrassment, but he was very, very grateful that somebody next to him - probably Pye - had taken pity on him. Even so, he was ready to sink into the ground. Getting caught sleeping on parade! He blushed a vivid red.

Vickery couldn't help twitching an eyebrow at Rottländer's stumbling reply. The last few names of his original list were all replied to, of course. And then came the handful of 95th who'd been assigned to his company recently.

"Kirridge."

Finally. An acknowledgment from a Rifles officer - though Edmondson quickly realised, to his great dismay, that the fellow who approached him was not an Englishman. Sweet God, it was a Frog.

"Sir," the major said curtly, striving to keep his feelings in check. "Is it not your custom to salute your superiors?" Not that he could expect this to be so, considering.

"I am here on account of one of my men, who has lately been roughly used by your... Riflemen. They are in possession of one of his belongings still, having stolen it from him. A shako, in point of fact. I trust it is something you are aware of?"

~

There was no response to Captain Vickery's call. The undersized Rifleman did not appear to be present.

"Kirridge?" Interesting. He pencilled in an 'A' by the man's name. "Mayden."

Again, no response.

A couple of the English Riflemen of the 60th exchanged surreptitious glances but no one spoke up or moved.

Vickery closed the muster book with a decisive snap. "Does anybody know where either of these men are?" he asked coolly, looking at the men paraded in front of him.

The silence was complete enough to have heard a blade of grass bending.

Wonderful. Vickery considered his options for a brief moment. They were pretty much non-existent, and he sighed quietly to himself. "Sergeant Mueller, dismiss the men."

He himself turned to see the two officers - one Guardsman and the 60th's surgeon - who were waiting for him. The Guardsman was a major, from all appearances, and Vickery saluted, wondering what had brought a full Major of the Second Guards to the Rifles.

"Sir? How may I be of service?"

"Hm, yes." Jean mused. "A right bunch of villeins they are." He paused, looking at the formation, waiting to see if the two missing men would announce their presence. Apparently not. "Well, seems we have missing rifleman, perhaps that has something to with your missing shako!" He laughed. "Ah-ha! Here comes Vickery now." Jean announced. Needlessly. "I say Vickery," Jean said as the Captain walked-up. "This fellow here, Captain of the Guards, says that one his boys was roughed-up by one ours, says he lost a shako too, wants to know if we know anything about it. Do we?"

Was that a reference to the lieutenant's own men? If it was, Edmondson's already low opinion of Rifles officers in general - and this one in particular - sank even further.

"Major," he corrected tartly. This was hardly a matter for levity, whatever this Frog thought! "Is this your company, sir?" He addressed the question to the second officer, who seemed more marginally more respectable than the first.

Nearby, the plainly-clothed surgeon waited with quiet patience.

Vickery could not help a brief wince flashing across his face at Delacroix's words. Really - he was going to have to take the man aside and explain that, simply because they were in Portugal (or was it Spain now?), it did not mean that all rules of polite society were thrown aside.

"Major," he said, and frowned, thinking. "I do not believe that any of your men have been here." Of course, the men didn't tell their officers everything, and so it was entirely possible that a Guardsman had, indeed, been in the Rifles' camp recently.

He turned to look at the erstwhile parade, where the Riflemen were good-naturedly returning to whatever chores they had. "Cotton!"

Oh no, of course not. Certainly none of his right-minded lads would have come round here for some slumming. Only that irritating wastrel of a drummer...

"Mhm," said Edmondson noncommittally.