“I should have thought, Tom, you had seen enough of firing,” I remarked, “without endeavouring to live by it now.”
“A man must do something these hard times for bread,” replied Tom, as he passed his hand thoughtfully across the furrow made by the bullet at Waterloo.
Poor Tom! I felt for him. I was sorry to see him neglected; others, whose service were many days march behind his, were taken better care of. But Tom’s incorrigible failing was his own stumbling-block.
I did not, however, leave him my mere reflection, but giving him a portion of that coin, he so well knew how to get rid of, I wished him success in his new business, and went my way, musing on the strange vicissitudes of a soldier’s life.[[1]]
Alas! the brave too oft are doom’d to bear,
The gripes of poverty, the stings of care.
But after this digressive sketch, it is high time to return to my own career in the field that was just now commencing. Returning to ship-board, from whence I conducted the peruser of this veritable narrative, allow me to say, that after a tolerably pleasant voyage we anchored off Lisbon. From thence, in a few days, we proceeded in open boats up the river Tagus, and landed about four miles from Santarem, where we encamped for the night.
On the following morning, we marched into the city of Santarem amid the cheers of its inhabitants, who welcomed us with loud cries of “Viva os Ingleses valerosos!” Long live the brave English!
Here we immediately became brigaded with the 43rd and 52nd regiments of Light Infantry, under the command of Major-General Crauford.