“The evening of the evacuation, the whole garrison, to the number of seven or eight hundred men, after destroying the stores and spiking the guns, assembled in one of the squares and at about midnight slowly moved through the gates. The first to oppose our progress was a picquet of Portuguese, whom we bayoneted in an instant, and just as the mines commenced exploding—a low grumbling, as if of an earthquake, followed, and in a few seconds the whole citadel rose, as it were, in the air, and descended in shivered and blackened masses. The noise of the explosion brought the whole British division to their arms, and our forlorn body dashed through your closing columns. The moment was desperate, but starved as we were, the French soldiers gained new strength from each reverse, and despite the well-fed numbers of the British, cut their way through the living wall, and gained the approach to San Felice. Here the inequalities of the ground fortunately and effectually kept off your cavalry, and after a few more trifling encounters, we reached the grand army. We had no sooner arrived within hail of our comrades than the whole locality rung with one universal shout of enthusiasm. Our General was carried about on the men’s shoulders, and the day became one of joy throughout the camp.” The relation was given in the most spirited manner, just as we might expect it from a soldier of the Emperor, whose very name took the place of every other feeling. He spoke also of Marshal Ney, who in his estimation was second only to Napoleon. The foregoing, and many others equally entertaining, but which the lapse of years have blotted from my memory, he would relate to me, generally finishing his relations with, “Eh bien, c’est égal, les écoliers sont dignes de leurs maîtres. Les Français vous ont enseignés de terribles leçons, et vous comprenez enfin l’art de faire la guerre comme il faut.” Well, well, it is all the same; the pupils are worthy of their teachers. The French have taught you some terrible lessons, and you understand, at length, the art of making war as it is—as it should be. CHAPTER XVI. I recover from my wounds and rejoin my regiment at Ituera—“Nine holes”—March for Salamanca—Sergeant Battersby—The grenadier and the murder of his wife, &c., &c.—Marmont out-manœuvred—Assault of Fort St. Vincent—Retreat of the enemy—We arrive at Rueda—The wine-vaults—My descent into one—Fright, &c.—Manœuvring of the two armies—Skirmishing—A gallant Frenchman—Pratt and his prisoner.