The same evening, Colonel Colborne, with less than two hundred men, of the 43rd, 52nd, and Rifles, carried in the most gallant manner a strong fort of the enemy. Prior to its being stormed a number of Caçadores had been ordered to take blankets to convey away the wounded French as well as the British. But most of those employed in this duty took advantage of it to strip the prisoners, whom to the number of fifty they left almost as naked as they were born, and exposed to all the rigours of the inclement month of January. I was present near the tent of General Crauford, when a talkative, smart little Frenchman, whom I guessed to be an officer, was brought before him; the poor fellow had nothing on but his trowsers, and bled profusely from the nose and mouth, through the blows he had received. The General was very chagrined at the sight, and lamented his inability to give him clothes, his own baggage being so distant. Tom Crawley, however, who had been actively employed hunting the Portuguese from them, immediately stepped forward, and touching his hat after his own inimitable manner, “Yer honner,” said Tom, his eyes sparkling at being able to assist, “I’ll lend him my great coat, if ye’ll allow me.” Crauford, much pleased at his frank offer, instantly answered, “You are very good, Rifleman; let him have it,” and Tom proceeded to strip. Meanwhile more of the Frenchmen were marched in, many worse off than their officer. One of them, a sergeant, and a smart looking fellow, as soon as he perceived the officer, ran to embrace him, and leaning his head on his shoulder, burst into tears over their mutual misery. Captain Smith, now Sir Harry, the General’s aide-de-camp, being present, generously pulled forth his pocket-handkerchief and wrapped it round the sergeant’s totally naked person, till further covering could be obtained. The night of this occurrence came on remarkably cold, and when expecting to be marched back to our quarters at El Bodon, we were suddenly ordered to break ground by commencing to throw up intrenchments in the face of the city. In executing this task, being unsheltered from the enemy’s shot, their grape and canister occasionally played in among us, so that although it was freezing hard at the time, we had no reason to complain of not having _a good fire_. Now was the time to cure a skulker, or teach a man to work for his “life.” There we were, in twos, each provided with a pick-axe and shovel; now digging with a vengeance into the frozen mould, and then watching the glances of the shot and shell; and again sticking to work like devils, or perhaps pitching ourselves on our bellies to avoid their being “purged” with grape or cannister. CHAPTER XIII.