"Shape main-well," a grudging commentator allowed.
For all the little that Lewrie knew of drill and marching, they did, indeed, seem to know what they were doing, as good or better than the Anglesgreen yeomanry that his father drilled on the village commons on Muster Days. For a mob of the usual drunks, failures, ne'er-do-wells, and no-hopers that armies tended to recruit, and given the smaller and "scummier" pool of volunteers to be found in the islands, they marched in straight lines, with no one staggering; all in step, and all their muskets sloped at the same exact angle.
They wore ankle-high shoes, well blacked, with tan cloth gaiters, or "spatterdashes," buttoned up to mid-thigh over dark tan breeches, not the usual white, with matching waistcoats beneath the usual red tunics, though Lewrie thought their red was more wine-red than scarlet; with buff turn-backs at the rear hems, and buff coat facings, trimmed with yellow-outlined buttonholes of red and blue. And their hats were not cocked hats, newfangled shakoes, or narrow-brim civilian hats, but were wide-brimmed, soft slouch hats, turned up on one side.
He grinned in recognition; hats like those had adorned the Loyalist Volunteer North Carolina regiment in which his future brothers-in-law, Burgess and Governour Chiswick, had served in the Revolution. He had discovered the practicality of slouch hats for keeping off both sun and rain at Yorktown, during the Franco-American siege.
Lewrie also suspected that hats like those were much easier to "sneak" through brush and jungle, making less noise, did Cashman really mean to "hunt men" on Saint Domingue in bushwhacking fashion, matching stealth-for-stealth with the rebel slave soldiers under L'Ouverture.
And their arms; a private soldier stood guard near the rope line by the reviewing stand, and Lewrie sidled over to study it and enquire, in a whisper, from the soldier's right-hand side.
"Fusil, sir… fifty-four-caliber ball," the man muttered back from the corner of his mouth, eyes still rigidly to the front. "They's acc'rate, they is. Colonel Cashman, 'e h'insisted on 'em."
"I would expect nothing less than the best from Colonel Cashman," Lewrie told him, making the soldier stiffen his back a bit more in his pride, and dare to grin, despite the solemnities.
More accurate than Brown Bess, aye, Lewrie thought. Iused one, and I liked it. More range than a plain musket, too. I still have one hangin' on the wall in…
He cringed, wondering how long it had taken Caroline to remove any sign that the smaller side parlour had once been his, and his alone. The captured swords, the ship model that his Jesters had made for him?
The regimental pipes, fife, and drum band struck up a tune, "The Black Bear," and swung out from the far right of the formed companies, with the King's Colour and the Regimental Colour party behind them, to troop the colours before the men, an ancient custom of recognition, so that they would know their colonel's place, and their own, in any battle's confusion. Once the band returned to its place, some orders of the day were posted by the adjutant, before the call came to "Pass In Review"… without the mass mutter of "Up yours, too" that sometimes could be heard from British troops on parade, Lewrie noted.
Company by company, the regiment marched past the reviewing stand, with Ledyard Beauman swiping his sword to his chin in salute to each; band, the grenadier company, then eight line companies, lastly the official light company of skirmishers, though Cashman had trained them all for skirmish order. Finally, a two-gun battery of light horse-drawn artillery pieces, no better than 4-pounders, trotted past, and it was done. The companies drew up at their starting points across that stubbly field, to the cheers and applause of the assembled guests.
"Men!" Ledyard cried, rising in his stirrups. "Men o' the Fifteenth West Indies!" It came out rather thin, and probably didn't carry far, not like a "quarterdeck" bellow, Lewrie could sneer, as he tipped his champagne glass to them. "Creditable showin', I say! Day or two more, and we're off to Saint Domingue! Bash those murderous rebels, haw! Colonel
Cashman, dismiss the troops, sir! And a tot of rum for all! All, d'ye hear, hey?"
' 'Talion…" Cashman said, in a proper baritone roar.
"Comp'ny!" the captains chorused the preparatory order.
'' 'Talion, right wheel to column of companies, at the halt!"
Ledyard Beauman did not wait for his troops to wheel about and march off to their tent lines; he tossed his reins, assuming that some orderly or groom would be there to take them, being the sort who went through life having things there when he needed them. He took several tries at stabbing the tip of his expensive "hundred guinea" sword into its elegantly trimmed scabbard before getting it right, then swung one leg over and sprang down… not without a rub at his fundament, from spending time in the saddle. Rather claw-like, that was.
Maybe his arse itches, Lewrie thought, draining one of his champagne flutes. Making an experiment, Lewrie tossed the glass over his shoulder, and was amazed to see a liveried servant catch it in mid-air.
Hell's Bells, it works! he marvelled.
As if those murderous rebel slaves on Saint Domingue had already been crushed, Ledyard was swarmed by his rich neighbours, hangers-on, toadies, and those who most-like owed him money or favours, and Lewrie had himself another covert sneer, then toddled off for a "reload" of champagne.
Now there was a long set of tables set up as a buffet, inside that vast pavillion, laden with dainties, so far covered with a gauzy material, or fanned to keep the flies off by slave women behind it, all done up in wildly colourful sack-gowns and head cloths, marked by snow-white bib aprons. Once the fawning was done, and the regiment's officers returned, there would be a minor feed, and despite his earlier meal, Lewrie found himself looking forward to "grazing" on fresh and spicy shore food. He was deterred from an anticipatory stroll to see what was to be offered, though.
"Surely you recall Mister Lewrie, Ledyard," he heard Anne gush as she led her brother-in-law over, "just a boy of a lieutenant, then. Captain Lewrie… you remember Ledyard."
"But of course I do, Mistress Beauman," Lewrie answered, having a "gush" of his own of false pleasure. "Ledyard, so good to see you! My congratulations on your regiment, and its performance. Good as the Guards Brigade in London." He extended his hand, forcing Ledyard to take it, though with an involuntary wince. "I'm certain that General Maitland will be pleased to be re-enforced by such a unit… and that jumped-up poseur, General L'Ouverture, will have cause to run away and hide!"
"Well! Yes, haw haw!" Ledyard brayed, after giving it a rather longish think, blinking in un-looked-for delight. "Damn' white o' ye I must say, Lewrie, damn' white. Maul those murd'rin' scum! Go right through 'em like a dose o' salts. Lose their cocky airs, up against British infantry, wot? "
"And pray God soon, sir," Lewrie replied, giving Ledyard his due as his putative senior officer.
"Well, then! Hum… uhm," Ledyard hemmed, having run out of polite conversation, and with his eyes cutting towards the food and drinks. Anne Beauman tossed Lewrie her sympathy, with a weary arching of her brows, and Lewrie responded in like sympathy for her having to tolerate such a boorish clan for so many years.
"The best of fortune attend you and your troops, then, sir," Lewrie said, preparing to free himself. "I'll just look up old Cashman, then."
"Know him, do ye?" Ledyard asked, engaged by Lewrie's presence again, and looking a touch more leery than pleased by that news.
"Oh, for years, sir. Here at his invitation, in fact."
"Talented feller… organised, uhm…" Ledyard Beauman said, musing aloud as if pacing behind an office desk, weighing the benefits and disadvantages of a pending deal. "Unorthodox, o' course, but just what we need, hey? Aggressive, uhm… a fighter, wot?"