“Tommy’s” first feat was something after the lessons he had received under the immortal Nelson. He had been accustomed hitherto to meet his enemies “muzzle to muzzle,” and, consequently, whenever the least intimation was given of the presence of the French, would imagine them almost passing through the loopholes, or as he termed them, our “ports.” On one occasion he bawled aloud, “to quarters,” and seizing hold of a rope, suspended outside the church of the village, to one of the bells in the belfry; to our surprise, and that of the inhabitants also, ran up it like a cat, to keep the “look-out” for the enemy. We, however, were some distance from them. The officers, for want of better employment, occupied their own and our time erecting sham fortifications in the woods, &c., and thus turned “Tom’s” peculiarities to their amusement. Searchfield, however, got “awake” to them, and his original good-natured simplicity giving way to experience, he gently informed his tormentors that he kept “a clean brace of pistols” about him, “at any time at their sarvice.” This unexpected show of pluck made his “teazers” less gibing, and “Tommy” took his proper position; and, I believe, became as respectable as any of them. At Atalaya we were very much in the advance of the main army: the distance made it difficult for the commissariat to forward our rations regularly, and we, consequently, suffered dreadfully through want; and, I may say, underwent more privations than at any other place in Spain, excepting at Dough Boy Hill. The deficiency of bread we had been obliged to make up with roasted or boiled chesnuts, of which we were always allowed a quart a day each. At length we found it necessary to make an incursion into the mountains, to press the Alcaldes of the different villages to supply us. On one of these expeditions, under charge of a quarter-master, we observed two persons mounted on mules, riding towards us. On their approach we remarked to one another the light-haired appearance of one, and the singularity of a “fair-complexioned Spaniard,” when the fellow suddenly stopped his mule, and jumping toward us exclaimed, “Oh, by the merciful God, are ye English?” He was immediately answered from a dozen voices in the affirmative, and we discovered him to be one of our cavalry men, who having been made a prisoner by the French at Talavera, had since escaped. His short stay among the Spaniards had not spoilt his “brogue,” and he gave us in the real Irish accent, a full account of his adventures.