Adventures of a Soldier, Written by Himself: Being the Memoirs of Edward Costello, K.S.F. Formerly a Non-Commissioned Officer in the Rifle Brigade, Late Captain in the British Legion, and Now One of the Wardens of the Tower of London; Comprising Narratives of the Campaigns in the Peninsula under the Duke of Wellington, and the Subsequent Civil Wars in Spain.Costello, Edward
History
Adventures of a Soldier, Written by Himself: Being the Memoirs of Edward Costello, K.S.F. Formerly a Non-Commissioned Officer in the Rifle Brigade, Late Captain in the British Legion, and Now One of the Wardens of the Tower of London; Comprising Narratives of the Campaigns in the Peninsula under the Duke of Wellington, and the Subsequent Civil Wars in Spain.
Costello, Edward
Peninsular War, 1807-1814 -- Personal narratives, British
As the house looked poor we soon quitted it in quest of a better.
Supported by O’Brien and the Frenchman, we proceeded in the direction of
the market-place. It was a dark night, and the confusion and uproar that
prevailed in the town may be better imagined than described. The shouts
and oaths of drunken soldiers in quest of more liquor, the reports of
fire-arms and crashing in of doors, together with the appalling shrieks
of hapless women, might have induced any one to have believed himself in
the regions of the damned.
When we arrived at the market-place we found a number of Spanish
prisoners rushing out of a gaol: they appeared like a set of savages
suddenly let loose, many still bearing the chains they had not time to
free themselves from, and among these were men of the 5th and 88th
regiments holding lighted candles. We then turned down a street opposite
to the foregoing scene, and entered a house which was occupied by a
number of men of the third division. One of them immediately, on
perceiving me wounded, struck off the neck of a bottle of wine with his
bayonet, and presented it to me, which relieved me for a time from the
faintness I had previously felt. The scenes of wickedness that soldiers
are guilty of on capturing a town are oftentimes truly diabolical, and I
now, in the reflections this subject gives rise to, shudder at the past.
I had not long been seated at the fire which was blazing up the chimney,
fed by mahogany chairs broken up for the purpose, when I heard screams
for mercy from an adjoining room. On hobbling in, I found an old man,
the proprietor of the house, on his knees, imploring mercy of a soldier
who had levelled his musket at him. I with difficulty prevented the man
from shooting him, as he complained that the Spaniard would not give up
his money. I immediately informed the wretched landlord in Spanish, as
well as I was able, that he could only save his life by surrendering his
cash. Upon this he brought out with trembling hands, a large bag of
dollars from under the mattress of the bed. These by common consent were
immediately divided among us. The whole treasure, to the amount of about
one hundred or one hundred and fifty dollars, enveloped in an old
night-cap, was instantly emptied and divided into small heaps on the
table, according to the number of men present, and called out the same
as messes in a barrack-room. I must confess that I participated in the
plunder, and received about twenty-six dollars for my own share.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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