The greatest efforts possible were made by Major-General Crauford to arrive in time to join the Commander-in-chief, previously to a battle being fought. The excellent orders our brigadier issued for maintaining order and discipline on the line of march on this occasion, though exceedingly unpopular at first, have since become justly celebrated in the service. No man, on any pretext whatever, was allowed to fall out of the ranks without a pass from the officer of his company, and then only on indispensable occasions. This pass, however, was not a complete security, for on the return of the stragglers to camp, the orderly sergeants were compelled to parade them before their regimental-surgeons, when, if pronounced as skulkers, they were instantly tried by a drum-head court martial, and punished accordingly; thus, frequently, when almost dying with thirst, we were obliged to pass springs of the finest water by the road-side untasted. But all this apparent severity, as we afterwards learnt, was considered as absolutely essential to the great purpose General Crauford had in view—dispatch. If the General found a man fall out without a pass, his plan was to take his ramrod and ride off. It was not unfrequently you might see him ride into camp with a dozen ramrods, when the adjutant of each regiment was ordered to find those that had no ramrods, each of which received two dozen lashes. Fortunately for us, our longest halt took place during the heat of the day, and our longest marches were made at night, at this time, therefore, it was a usual scene to see a number of men who had been flogged, with their knapsacks on their heads, and their bodies enveloped in the loose great coats—to ease the wounds inflicted by the lash. But yet with all this, strange as it may appear, Crauford maintained a popularity among the men, who, on every other occasion, always found him to be their best friend. A few days before we came to Malpartida de Placentia, we were going through a small town, the name of which I forget, when in passing the gaol, a man looking through one of the high barred windows of the building, vociferated, in accents not to be mistaken— “Od’s blood and ’ounds, boys, are you English?” On several of our men answering in the affirmative, the prisoner exclaimed, in a tone that set our men in a roar of laughter— “Oh! by Jasus, the Spaniards have poked me into this hole for getting a drop of wine, boys;—get me out, pray.” When we halted about half a mile on the other side, Colonel Beckwith sent, and obtained the man’s release. He proved to be one of the 23rd Light Dragoons, who had been taken prisoner by the French, but had made his escape in the dress of a peasant; when, in passing through this place, he had been incarcerated on a charge of taking some wine from a man without paying for it. Much merriment was excited by his appearance, and the droll and earnest manner in which he narrated his adventures.