THE night previous to the morn that ushered in the day of battle, viz., the 22nd of July, 1812, was the most stormy, I think, I ever witnessed. The thunder, lightning, and rain seemed striving which should excel, while their united effect was terrible. We lay, without covering, in an open field close to the river Tormes. It is needless to say, not a man that night had on a dry shred. It has, I believe, been previously remarked, by military and other writers, that rain has been the forerunner of almost all our general battles. From my own recollection, the truth of this assertion is singularly supported by facts. The battle of Salamanca commenced about ten or twelve o’clock, upon our right, on a rising ground. Our position was first disturbed by some cannon-shot of the enemy that fell very near, but fortunately without doing any harm. Although every moment expecting to be sent into the thick of it, we kept undisturbed possession of our ground, from whence we could see the column of the enemy on the heights engaged in attempting to repel the advance of our troops. When the “glad sounds of victory” reached us, a general feeling of pleasure pervaded our ranks, mixed perhaps with some regret that we had not taken a more active share in the battle. But all we could do we did, which was to pepper the French well in their hurried retreat from the field. In fact, it seemed to me as if the whole French army might have been cut off by a little promptitude. We halted at Huerta. The following morning our division crossed the river Tormes in pursuit of the enemy. We came up with their rear strongly posted on the side of a hill on the left of the road. Here we beheld one of those few charges that so seldom succeed against well-trained infantry: this was the celebrated charge of Major-General Bock, who, at the head of his heavy German cavalry, broke the French squares, taking them prisoners almost to a man. It was the most gallant dash of cavalry that ever was witnessed.