On the 16th of March I had permission to accompany my brother to his regiment, which was then at Olivença, in Spain, covering the siege of Badajoz. Our route to the army was the same as before, through the Alemtejo to Elvas; we crossed the river Guadiana by the ford of Xerumaha to Olivença, in Estramadura, where the regiment remained until the 4th of April. Marshal Soult having advanced towards Badajoz to try and raise the siege, the cavalry, both heavy and light, were sent forward as far as Villaloa, Almandralajo, and Villa Franca, to oppose him; some brigades of infantry occupying Albuera on nearly the same spot where Lord Beresford fought the battle. I remained behind to see the siege, and pay a visit to my old friends of the 7th Fusiliers, with a Captain Daniel Capel, of the 14th. On the 5th of April I went with them to look at the breaching batteries, and to visit an old acquaintance, who had been wounded the day before by a musket-ball through the side, while doing duty as an engineer in the trenches. Poor fellow! he was afterwards killed on the Pyrenees by lightning; he belonged to the 37th Regiment. I spent a very pleasant day with the Fusiliers, but it was doomed alas! to be the last with several of my gallant friends, and amongst others, poor Saint Pol, who the next night was mortally wounded at the storming of the large breach. On my return, late in the evening, to my quarters at Olivença, what with the haze in my head, occasioned by wine, the foggy state of the evening, the smoke from the fire of the different batteries, the captain of dragoons and myself lost each other, and our way. By mistake my horse, who had been taken from the enemy, took the wrong road, and instead of going to the left, towards a ford that we had to cross at some distance in rear of the camp, he chose to take me to the foot of the bridge leading to Badajoz, where the enemy had a cavalry picket; fortunately for me, we had a strong covering party of the 43rd Regiment lying down on the ground. Being unable to give the countersign, these were going to shoot me for a French officer. They seized my steed, and knocked me off his back with the butt end of a musket. I was dragged on the ground back to the camp, where I had to encounter the jokes of my friends, softened it is true by sincere congratulations on my escape. My horse, whose head had been turned from Badajoz, got loose, and managed to find his way back to Olivença, where I was _lucky_ enough to find him the next day; for sometimes lost horses were borrowed to carry baggage, commissary stores, or other articles, and they undergoing various metamorphoses, such as cropping the ears and tails, with other little changes in their appearances, the lawful owners could with great difficulty recognise their own steeds.