“A man must do something these hard times for bread,” replied Tom, as he passed his hand thoughtfully across the furrow made by the bullet at Waterloo. Poor Tom! I felt for him. I was sorry to see him neglected; others, whose service were many days march behind his, were taken better care of. But Tom’s incorrigible failing was his own stumbling-block. I did not, however, leave him my mere reflection, but giving him a portion of that coin, he so well knew how to get rid of, I wished him success in his new business, and went my way, musing on the strange vicissitudes of a soldier’s life.[1] Alas! the brave too oft are doom’d to bear, The gripes of poverty, the stings of care. But after this digressive sketch, it is high time to return to my own career in the field that was just now commencing. Returning to ship-board, from whence I conducted the peruser of this veritable narrative, allow me to say, that after a tolerably pleasant voyage we anchored off Lisbon. From thence, in a few days, we proceeded in open boats up the river Tagus, and landed about four miles from Santarem, where we encamped for the night. On the following morning, we marched into the city of Santarem amid the cheers of its inhabitants, who welcomed us with loud cries of “_Viva os Ingleses valerosos!_” Long live the brave English! Here we immediately became brigaded with the 43rd and 52nd regiments of Light Infantry, under the command of Major-General Crauford. CHAPTER IV. Arrival in Portugal—Crauford’s forced marches—Teetotalism with a vengeance—The effect of the opposite extreme—Spanish mode of keeping a man from stealing wine—False reports—Talavera—We arrive the day after the fight—A battle scene—Sir Arthur Wellesley—General Cuesta—Dough Boy Hill—The fever—I am taken ill—Elvas hospital—How to cure a fever—Convalescence—Burial scenes—Our Sextons—March to my regiment—The Germans—Pig-skins in danger, our own also—Captain Pakenham—Hanging matters—Two dozen of each—Not sham pain—German discipline. ON the third day after our arrival at Santarem, we commenced a series of forced marches to join the main army under Sir Arthur Wellesley, at Talavera, then almost hourly expecting an engagement with the French corps commanded by Marshal Victor. Our men suffered dreadfully on the route, chiefly from excessive fatigue and the heat of the weather, it being the melting month of July. The brain fever soon commenced, making fearful ravages in our ranks, and many men dropped by the road-side and died. One day I saw two men of the 52nd, unable to bear their sufferings, actually put a period to their existence by shooting themselves.[2]