It not unfrequently happened that parties of men were sent out in independent files to pick up the dismembered legs, arms, &c., which sometimes might be seen scattered about by the bursting shells. This precaution was thought necessary to prevent any ill-effect their appearance might cause on the courage of the Portuguese, who were quite as likely to put the heels in motion as their heads. On one of these occasions I remember observing a party of those gentlemen, after leaving the trenches, carrying across the fields to their camp ground the body of a wounded officer of theirs wrapped in a blanket. They had not proceeded many yards, before a ball fired from the town came bounding, half spent, along the ground. The Portuguese, unconscious of its approach, were just crossing the line of its progress, when the shot glanced between them, and entering the blanket, cut the unlucky officer in two. The bearers, terrified, immediately took to their heels, leaving the blanket behind them, which one of our fellows observing, “That it was an ill wind that did nobody good,” shaking the body out, instantly possessed himself of. The effect of our twenty-four pound shot upon the wall gave notice that the breaches would soon be practicable. On the 5th of April a storming party was selected for the assault on the following night. CHAPTER XV. Storming of Badajoz—I join the Forlorn-Hope again—Presentiments of Major O’Hare and Captain Jones—Their deaths—The stormers—The Ladder-men—I am wounded—The French prisoner—O’Brien—Sacking of the town—Scene of horror—Reflections—The Duke of Wellington and his men—Johnny Castles introduced with a rope round his neck—The drummer-boy—A firelock goes off, and so does a Corporal—I return to the camp—Casualties at Badajoz—The French prisoner and a new acquaintance—His account of the evacuation of Almeida—His opinion of the British soldiers. I AM now about entering into a personal narrative of one of the most sanguinary and awful engagements on the records of any country. For the second time I volunteered on the forlorn-hope. After having received a double allowance of grog, we fell in about eight o’clock in the evening, 6th April, 1812. The stormers were composed of men from the different regiments of the light division. I happened to be on the right of the front section when my old Captain, Major O’Hare, who commanded the wing to which my company belonged, came up with Captain Jones of the 52nd regiment, both in command of the storming party. A pair of uglier men never walked together, but a brace of better soldiers never stood before the muzzle of a Frenchman’s gun. “Well, O’Hare,” said the Captain, “what do you think of to-night’s work?” “I don’t know,” replied the Major, who seemed, as I thought, in rather low spirits. “To-night, I think, will be my last.”