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
For what the men said gave us little concern; but to be taxed and
taunted for cowardice by the Spanish ladies was most galling. Even my
handsome dark-eyed Clementeria, sister to the Guerilla lover, who seemed
so much attached to me, and with whom I spent many a moonlight night
serenading to the Spanish guitar, and who first taught me to use the
castanets in the Spanish dance—even she, with all her pretended love,
refused me a buss at our last moment of parting, though I used all my
eloquence, welding the Spanish, French, and English together in pleading
my cause. All had no effect on the hard-hearted _Mosa_. Her last words
were: “Begone, you cowardly English, you have not the courage to fight
the enemy of our country: those who have butchered my dear father and
brother,” were her last words. After a harassing march through a
mountainous country we joined the remainder of our army at Salamanca.
There we took up our quarters for a few days in a convent, which
exhibited such a loathsome picture of filth as to be almost unendurable.
In consequence of our men having torn up a part of the balustrades for
firing, a young officer of the third battalion fell down a height of
fifty feet, and was killed on the spot.
On the second morning after our arrival we again proceeded towards
Rodrigo. The rain fell in torrents, and from the heaviness of the roads,
which were in many places a foot deep in mud, most of our men lost their
shoes, and were obliged to march barefooted. Among this number I was
unfortunately included. When we had reached our halting-ground for the
night, our prospect was most desolate. Wet to the skin—without fire or
shelter—and at the same time possessed of a ravenous appetite, with
nothing to satisfy it, formed one of the _disagreeables_ so often
attendant upon our life in the Peninsula—to say nothing of incessant
duty and fatigue. It was these sufferings, in fact, I am convinced, that
oftentimes rendered our men so callous about death, at different periods
during the war, as some men, from the privations they endured, wished to
be shot, and exposed themselves in action purposely.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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