Forward, then, was the order, and 21st July, 1812, found Wellington and his army north of the Tagus, close to Salamanca and to the Rivers Tormes and Huebra, having meanwhile cleared the intervening country and besieged the Salamanca forts. Marmont, with his French battalions, now lay before him; for they had crossed the river between Huerta and Tormes, and were endeavouring to secure the road to Ciudad Rodrigo. However, if Wellington, as a clever tactician, as he undoubtedly was, had as his object the division of the enemy's forces, with a view of beating them in detail, Marmont also was not unskilful. Remembering the comparative paucity of the British troops, and the fact that they had, as it were, burned their boats behind them, he hoped to throw his troops between our regiments and the fortress of Ciudad Rodrigo, then garrisoned by British, thus not only cutting communication between Wellington and the fortress, but also drawing a line of fire and steel between the British and Portugal, to which country they would naturally retreat in case of defeat or in the event of huge odds being concentrated against them. Thus, having brought our gallant fellows face to face with an equally gallant enemy in the open, and having reviewed the movements of this difficult and complex campaign, we can leave the two rival armies in position for battle, and can once more seek out Tom Clifford, commander of the composite force of Portuguese and Spanish guerrillas, which, amidst a host of irregular British allies--some good, some indifferent, and some altogether useless and even dangerous--had already earned a name for energy and a patriotic spirit worthy of emulation amongst many chicken-hearted countrymen. Back, then, to Badajoz, let us retrace our steps, and, accepting the salutes of the Spanish and Portuguese sentries--smart fellows both--hammer on the door of the courtyard and enter, there to be greeted by the faithful Howeley and Andrews. Some weeks had passed since Tom had joined the forlorn hope, and had been blown like a stone down the steep scarp of the breach effected by our gunners. He sat in an armchair, his feet on a stool, Jack Barwood discussing matters with him, and at the same time smoking a pipe which he had secured in the dwelling. "Of course," Tom was saying in his business-like way, "orders are orders. But----" "They're a beastly nuisance for all that. Granted," was Jack's interruption. "Well?" "And, equally of course, must be obeyed. 'Pon my word, Jack, you seem to be as keen as I am on this quest. What's it to do with you, anyway?" "Nothing; everything." Jack took a heavy pull at his pipe, choked suddenly, and then glared at the pipe as if it had done him a mischief.