Descending from the mountains we pursued our march till we came to the bridge that crosses the Bidassoa, where we beheld the French moving along on the other side of the river. The poor fellows, like ourselves, seemed dreadfully harassed. Part of our battalion commenced firing upon them across the river, every shot telling as they retreated. To the honour of the British soldiers, however, I am happy to say, that many of our men knowing the sufferings of the French from what they had themselves endured, declined firing, while they called out to the others to spare them, as it was little better than murder. We remained encamped here this night, and the next morning marched back to the heights of Santa Barbara. As soon as we had arrived on the hill, and were anticipating a little rest, the assembly sounded, and we were ordered to drive the enemy from a high mountain which they occupied on our right. This was a heavy task at the time; but to it we went, and in extended order mounted the hill, on the summit of which the enemy were clustered as thick as bees on a hive. After some very hard fighting we carried their position, but not before we had lost many men. While engaged I lost a friend to whom I was much attached, a sergeant named Kelly. He had just invited me to take a draught of wine out of his canteen, and was in the act of handing it to me, when he received a shot through the right temple that came out at the eye. I never before saw a man die so hard. He writhed about, poor fellow, in the greatest agony, without it being in my power to afford him the slightest relief. Some of our men raising a shout that the enemy were flying, I was obliged to leave him for a time. On my return I found him quite dead. This was a bad day’s work. Another regiment was left in charge of the hill, and we returned to our camp ground by the river-side.