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
Knowing the French would not resign their liberty without a struggle, I
fully expected a volley to be sent amongst us every minute from the
barracks, and begun to retrace my steps towards the square, and had only
got a short distance when I saw another party with a lighted candle
advancing towards me. On hearing the noise of the first party in their
front, they commenced firing as they advanced. Squeezing myself edgeways
against a door, I waited their arrival and begged them to desist, there
being some of their own men lower down. I then went with them and joined
the first party. The French wounded soldier pointing to a large gateway,
told us there were the barracks. Still having a light we entered, and
mounting a large stone staircase, found ourselves in the midst of a
French hospital full of sick and wounded; those who were able sitting up
in bed supplicating mercy, but they had no occasion to do so, as our
fellows not only kindly tapped them on the shoulder but wrapped the
bed-clothes round them; but this kindness was of short duration, for a
third party coming down seeing a light in our window commenced firing,
and the poor fellow who held the candle was shot through the head, and
one or two others wounded; one more daring than the rest flew to the
window, crying out that they were firing on their own men, the rest
lying down while the firing continued. This panic being over, I came
down stairs, being anxious to meet some of my own company to know how
things were. I found a few outside, and we started in another direction.
The next place was a large white house that had been used as a
commissary’s store by the French: here a crowd had assembled to break it
open, when they were warned off by a sentinel, a German, who was posted
to guard the premises. Not heeding his threat, the throng rushed at the
door. The poor sentry, true to his trust, attempted to oppose their
entrance, and the following minute was run through the body by a
bayonet.
The house contained several puncheons of spirits, which the men present
immediately tapped, by striking in the heads. A number soon became madly
drunk; and several wretches, especially those mounting the steps that
had been placed against the butts, to enable them to obtain the rum,
fell into the liquor head-foremost and perished, unnoticed by the crowd.
Several fights took place, in which drunkenness of the parties alone
prevented mischief; and to crown the whole, a light falling into one of
the barrels of spirits, the place was set on fire, and many poor
wretches, who from the quantity of liquor they had swallowed, were
incapable of moving, were consumed in the flames.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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