The enemy advanced at daylight in great force. Lord Wellington reconnoitred the enemy's movements. Some French Dragoons dashed forward and, being numerous, rather intimidated the small escort with his Lordship. Marshal Beresford and some of the staff soon rallied them, and they charged the advanced men of the enemy and checked their progress. The enemy had crossed the Douro by a ford so rapidly that our piquets were obliged to retire after exchanging a few shots. A partial cannonade commenced upon our encampment. The whole British army were in full retreat, the country all round was one vast plain, and the soldiers were moving across it in column of companies at quarter distance, ready by regiments to form square if the enemy's cavalry should charge; the march was taken up literally as coolly as if it had been a field day, taking distant points to march upon, and avoiding the villages in order not to lose time by passing through them. Upon our right as we then faced, and frequently not more than five hundred yards distant from us, was a dense mass of Frenchmen moving in the same order, horse, foot, and artillery. It was quite ridiculous to see two hostile armies so close without coming to blows, but the two chiefs were trying to out-manœuvre each other—the sequel will show who succeeded. Our brigade of Horse Artillery fired a few rounds at the enemy. Some cavalry made a dash at them, and for a moment had possession of their guns. In passing a small river named the Guareña in order to get possession of some heights that both armies were moving towards as the immediate bone of contention, the enemy began to cannonade our columns, and towards evening, in the pursuit of the French Marshal's favourite object during this day to turn our left, they pressed too hard upon that part of our line. Lord Wellington directed the 27th and 40th British Regiments to receive their attack, and then charge them, which was done handsomely, and their career terminated for the night, leaving us upon the high ground we wished to occupy. My servant brought up my baggage, but a fine young mule, with a canteen and a variety of comforts that could not be replaced in a hurry, was lost to me for ever. A stallion had broken my mule's thigh on the line of march. There was no time to lose, so the man was obliged to unloose the halter from the one that he led and move on. This was a sad grievance. [Sidenote: 19th] Lord Wellington reconnoitred the enemy, and found the French in great force and seemingly upon the move. For annoyance, the enemy threw a few shot and shell at our columns. One shot knocked off the head of a Rifle Man who had just joined us for the first time. Things of this kind seem droll. Why this poor fellow's head should have been singled out amongst many thousand others and given the preference to, I cannot say. Remained here for the night. [Sidenote: 20th]