My father was much moved at beholding me return in so miserable a plight, as were also my stepmother and my brother. I remained with them eight months, six of which I lay in a hopeless state in bed, certificates being sent every month to Hythe, stating my inability to move; and during which time Captain Hart sent four letters to the commanding officer, desiring I might be drafted out, if possible, to Spain, as, being a handicraft, I was much wanted there.
The medical men round the neighbourhood hearing of my state, many of them came to see me, in order to observe the nature of a complaint that had proved so fatal to our soldiers.
At the end of the eighth month (being once more somewhat recovered, and able to crawl about, with the aid of a stick, a few yards from our cottage door), as my mother-in-law had once or twice expressed herself burthened by this long illness, I resolved to attempt to return to my regiment. I was therefore transported in a cart to the King's Arms Inn, at Dorchester, my body being swollen up hard as a barrel, and my limbs covered with ulcers. Here the surgeons of the 9th and 11th Dragoons made an examination of me, and ordered me into Dorchester hospital, where I remained seven weeks; and here my case completely puzzled the faculty.
At length Dr. Burroughs, on making his rounds, caught sight of me as I sat on my bed, dressed in my green uniform.
"Hallo! Rifleman," he said, "how came you here?"
Being told, he looked very sharply at me, and seemed to consider.
"Walcheren," he inquired, "eh?"
"Yes, sir," I said, "and it has not done with me yet."
"Strip, my man," he said, "and lie on your back. What have you done for him?" he asked sharply of the doctor.
The doctor told him.