Tom might indeed have been accused of that, for those wretchedly wet days in March, 1812, found him frequently in the trenches, watching as parallels were dug, eagerly measuring the advance of the busy army of sappers digging their way closer to the fortress. Or he would lie behind one of the batteries by day and by night, and would listen to the thunder of the guns, and would watch for the tell-tale spout of dust which shot into the air as the huge iron ball struck the bastion. Then would come the clatter of falling masonry, followed perhaps by a cheer from the gunners. More often the shot would be answered by a terrific hail of grape, which pattered overhead, swept the entire face of the batteries--and but for the fascines erected to give cover every one of the gunners would have been killed--then whizzed across the open, splashing into the many pools of water which had been left by the heavy and almost continuous rain. It seemed, indeed, slow work this siege operation; slow and perhaps not too sure. "For even when the breaches are practicable there are the defenders to be dealt with," thought Tom. "There will be mines to blow us up, obstructions of every sort, and grape and shot showered down upon us. But take the place we will; I mean to be one of the very first inside the fortress." Any doubts Tom may have had as to the determination of Lord Wellington were soon set at rest; for, the weather still continuing atrocious, and the trenches being flooded and almost uninhabitable, an assault of the Picurina was ordered, and the fort carried with brilliant dash by 500 men of the 3rd Division. The storm of shot and shell poured into the fort after we had gained possession of it was such that one wondered how the new garrison could live, for Phillipon, the commander of the French, did his utmost to drive us out. But our men stuck grimly to the task, and again plying their busy spades, soon had advanced to a point where batteries could be erected. And then began a trial of skill and endurance between the gunners of France and those of England. By day and by night the neighbourhood echoed to the roar. A pall of smoke hung over fortress and encampment, while in the depths of night guns flashed redly, and spluttering portfires hovered here and there as the gunners stood to their pieces. At length the work was done; the breaches were declared practicable, though to view them and the grim lines hovering in rear, prepared to defend every inch of the steeply-sloping rubbish, would have caused any but brave men to shiver. But Wellington's men were as determined as he; they had set their hearts on gaining the fortress. The call for a forlorn hope, as ever, produced a swarm of volunteers. That night of 6 April, a night the anniversary of which is ever kept with loving memory by those who now serve in the regiments then present at Badajoz, found 18,000 bold fellows craving for the signal which should launch them to the attack, craving for