preceded the battle of Salamanca. The army, as the campaign began, was in the most splendid order. "I love to remember the appearance of that army," says Harris, "as we moved along at this time. It was a glorious sight to see our colours spread on these fields, the men seemed invincible; nothing, I thought, could have beaten them." The dreadful marches against the light-footed French, urged by Marmont's vehement strategy, which followed, sorely tried the endurance of the British regiments. "The load we carried," says Harris, “was too great, and we staggered on, looking neither to the right nor to the left." Harris himself fell as the exhausted Rifles reached the streets of Zamora; "the sight left my eyes, my brain reeled, and I came down like a dead man."

The sternest experience of war, however, which Harris had, occurred when the 95th were caught in the backward rush of Sir John Moore's retreat on Corunna. The detachment joined Moore's forces at Sahagun. The 95th had seen much service in the south, and when they marched into the camp of Moore's freshfaced regiments, they were gaunt, ragged, sunburnt ; many of them were shoeless; there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh in the whole detachment. The grim, war-hardened veterans, it may be added, were welcomed with a tempest of cheers by their comrades. Two days afterwards these four companies joined the headquarters of their regiment, which had come with Moore from England, and were made pets and heroes of at once.

Moore, it will be remembered, had pushed forward on Napoleon's flank, pricking his communications to

the quick, until the French Emperor, arresting his southward march, swung round in tempestuous energy upon the tiny force threatening his flank. Moore instantly fell back, and then commenced the terrible retreat which ended at Corunna. Harris marks, with his usual minuteness, the exact moment when the retreat began. "General Craufurd was in command of the brigade, and riding in front, when I observed a dragoon come spurring furiously along the road to meet us. He delivered a letter to the General, who turned round in his saddle the moment he had read a few lines, and thundered out the word 'Halt!' A few minutes more, and we were all turned to the right about, and retracing our steps of the night before;— the contents of that epistle serving to furnish our men with many a surmise during the retrograde movement."

There was no pause nor rest in that march. Napoleon, with an overwhelming host, was thundering on their rear: great mountain-ranges, snow-capped, windswept, desolate, and seamed with a hundred angry mountain torrents, lay betwixt the British and their ships, and the retreat was urged with iron resolution. The close of the first day's march brought the British again into Sahagun, but there was no rest possible.

"We remained enranked in the convent's apartments and passages, no man being allowed to quit his arms or lie down. We stood leaning upon the muzzles of our rifles, and dozed as we stood. After remaining thus for about an hour, we were then ordered out of the convent, and the word was again given to march. There was a sort of thaw on this day, and the rain fell

fast. As we passed the walls of the convent, I observed our General (Craufurd), as he sat upon his horse, looking at us on the march, and remarked the peculiar sternness of his features; he did not like to see us going rearwards at all; and many of us judged there must be something wrong, by his severe look and scowling eye.

Keep your ranks there, men!' he said, spurring his horse towards some Riflemen who were avoiding a small rivulet. Keep your ranks and move on,-no straggling from the main body.'”

All that day the tiny army pushed on. The commissariat waggons were abandoned. "A sergeant of the 92nd Highlanders, just about this time, fell dead with fatigue, and no one stopped, as we passed, to offer him any assistance. Night came down upon us, without our having tasted food, or halted—I speak for myself, and those around me--and all night long we continued this dreadful march. Men began to look into each other's faces, and ask the question, ‘Are we ever to be halted again?' and many of the weaker sort were now seen to stagger, make a few desperate efforts, and then fall, perhaps to rise no more. Most of us had devoured all we carried in our haversacks, and endeavoured to catch up anything we could snatch from hut or cottage in our route. Many, even at this period, would have straggled from the ranks, and perished, had not Craufurd held them together with a firm rein."

For four days the force marched at this terrific rate, the men being in total ignorance of their goal. "Where are you taking us to?" a Rifleman asked his officer.

"To England," was the answer, "if we can get there." The soldiers then learned for the first time the real reason of their terrific marches, and, says Harris, “the men began to murmur at not being permitted to turn and stand at bay,-cursing the French, and swearing they would rather die ten thousand deaths, with their rifles in their hands in opposition, than endure the present toil."

But the march was pushed relentlessly on. Sometimes the tumult of the pursuing French would sound so near that it seemed as if a fight was inevitable; "then, indeed," says Harris, "every poor fellow clutched his rifle more firmly, and wished for a sight of the enemy." Craufurd, who commanded the rearguard, and maintained an iron discipline over it, shared to the full the fighting eagerness of his men. When the distant clamour became more distinct, says Harris, "his face would turn towards the sound, and seem to become less stern;" a gleam of delight swept over his rugged features. But the business of the English was not to fight, but to march; and march they did, as perhaps no soldiers ever marched before or since. Sometimes the hard-riding French cavalry overtook the dogged British rearguard, and then there was a fiery wrestle of horsemen and footmen. Here is a sample of one of these rearguard fights :-

"The enemy's cavalry were on our skirts that night; and as we rushed out of a small village, the name of which I cannot now recollect, we turned to bay. Behind broken-down carts and tumbrils, huge trunks of trees, and everything we could scrape together, the Rifles lay and blazed away at the advancing cavalry.

"We passed the night thus engaged, holding our own as well as we could. Towards morning we moved down towards a small bridge, still followed by the enemy, whom, however, we had sharply galled, and obliged to be more wary in their efforts. The rain was pouring down in torrents on this morning, I recollect, and we remained many hours with our arms ported, standing in this manner, and staring the French cavalry in the face, the water actually running out of the muzzles of our rifles. I do not recollect seeing a single regiment of infantry amongst the French force on this day; it seemed to me a tremendous body of cavalry-some said nine or ten thousand strong-commanded, as I heard, by General Lefebvre.

Whilst we stood thus, face to face, I remember the horsemen of the enemy sat watching us very intently, as if waiting for a favourable moment to dash upon us like beasts of prey; and every now and then their trumpets would ring out a lively strain of music, as if to encourage them."

Once a party of British cavalry—some squadrons of the 15th Dragoons, the 10th Hussars, and the German Legion-charged the French cavalry with furious

valour.

The shock of that encounter was tremendous to look upon, and we stood for some time enranked, watching the combatants. The horsemen had it all to themselves; our Dragoons fought like tigers, and, although greatly overmatched, drove the enemy back like a torrent, and forced them again into the rear. A private of the 10th Hussars-his name, I think, was Franklin-dashed into the stream after their general