Genappe, also, was literally crowded with the wounded, who were conveyed with every possible dispatch to Brussels. Feeling most anxious to know the fate of our regiment, I stood on a hedgerow, on the skirts of the village, when I descried the division retreating towards us, the rain at the time coming down in torrents. I remained until some of the regiments entered the village, together with many of our wounded, who gave me information that our regiment, with the cavalry, formed the rear-guard. I now retraced my steps the same road I had advanced, and once more arrived at the little village of Waterloo, which many of our men never saw again, as our battalion lost more on the 16th than on the 18th of June. Here I stopped for the night. The cries of the wounded on their way, in cart-loads, to Brussels, were most distressing, and many carts broke down through being overloaded, and through their haste to get forward. It is curious to observe the confusion and uproar that generally exists in the rear of an army in battle, while all in front is order and regularity. Many people imagine the reverse. This, however, is generally to be imputed to the soldiers’ wives and camp followers of all descriptions, who crowd in great numbers, making inquiries after their husbands, friends, &c., for whom they generally are prepared with liquors, and other refreshments. I had no such ties, save my comrades, who now were too busily occupied watching their enemies, and with their own personal considerations, to have either time or opportunity to inquire after mine. The crowds of carts, horses, &c., which thickly thronged the roadway, were greeted on all sides by anxious faces and earnest inquiries. But now and then as one of the vehicles hurried along, a burst of laughter hailed it, and indeed, it seemed to bear a load of a more enlivening nature than that which characterized the others. My sound legs, for my arm only was wounded, and hung suspended in a sling, enabled me to approach the cart, and scrutinise its contents. My surprise was soon dissipated, and wounds almost forgotten, in the merry features of my old friend, Josh Hetherington, who, having received a flesh wound in the leg, was now being borne to the hospital with other fellow-sufferers. Josh, like myself, had no ties—no one to bring him brandy, &c.; but wider awake, and better acquainted with the world, in the bustle of a dark night, he had laid himself at his length on the inside of a cart, and there awaited the current of fortune.