We commenced our slow and painful march, and by the help of a couple of rifles that served as crutches, I managed to reach the first village where the Juiz or chief magistrate selected, and put the worst of our wounded into bullock-carts. Amongst those I fortunately was one; and although crammed with six others into a wretched little vehicle, scarcely capable of accommodating more than two, I thought it a blessing for which I could not feel sufficiently thankful. In this manner, we were dragged along all night, and by the following daylight we halted at another village, where I felt so dreadfully faint from loss of blood and my confined position, that I could not move at all. While refreshing our parched lips with some water that had been eagerly demanded, Lord Wellington and some of his staff galloped up. Glancing his eye at us for a moment, and seeing our crowded condition in the carts, he instantly gave an order to one of his aides-de-camp to obtain additional conveyance from the Juiz de Fora, and also bread and wine. His Lordship then rode off towards Almeida. Although neither bread nor wine made their appearance, a few additional carts were procured, into one of which I was transferred with four other men. We again continued our march, until we came into a stream of water where we halted; here we lost a most excellent officer, a Lieutenant Pratt,[6] who was wounded through the neck, and at first appeared to be doing very well. He was seated on one of the men’s knapsacks conversing with some of his wounded brother officers, when he was suddenly seized with a violent fit of coughing, and almost instantly began pumping a quantity of blood from the wound. I never before saw so much come from any man.