"When we leave the encampment, all is shrouded in darkness, and everyone naturally feels a little grumpy; but when the first streaks of dawn appear, and we have been an hour on the road, the welcome note is heard in the distance of the bugles sounding the `halt.' With great rapidity it passes from regiment to regiment, and dies away in the rear. Cavalry dismount, infantry pile arms in the middle of the road, and for a few minutes the whole army disperses on each side of it. The favourite refreshment of officers is bread, cold tongue, and `brandy pawnee,' which find their way out of innocent-looking holsters. And now we take off overcoats and monkey-jackets, which were needed when we started in the cold and damp night; the bluejackets fasten theirs over their shoulders, and the officers strap theirs to their saddles. The brief halt is too quickly at an end, and after a ten minutes' rest the advance again sounds down the line from bugler to bugler. All at once fall in, arms are unpiled, and, enlivened by our band, we again step out; now feet begin to ache, and boots to chafe; but the cheery music of the bands, bugles, or drums and fifes of the regiments marching next to us, generally the Rifles, infuses energy into the most footsore. We make three halts in a march of thirteen or fourteen miles, of which the last is the longest, to allow the quartermaster-general and his staff to ride on and mark out the camp. As the sun rises, the heat rapidly increases, and the camels and elephants are seen making short cuts across the fields, and keeping always clear of the road. When our bands have blown as much wind as they can spare into their instruments, our men strike up a song; and old windlass tunes, forecastle ditties, and many a well-known old ballad resound through the jungles and across the fertile plains of Bengal, and serve to animate our sailors and astonish the natives."