The Story of a Peninsular Veteran: Sergeant in the Forty-Third Light Infantry, during the Peninsular War — John Shaqi
The Story of a Peninsular Veteran: Sergeant in the Forty-Third Light Infantry, during the Peninsular WarAnonymous
History
The Story of a Peninsular Veteran: Sergeant in the Forty-Third Light Infantry, during the Peninsular War
Anonymous
Peninsular War, 1807-1814 -- Personal narratives, British
Habits of dissipation may be contracted at pleasure;
but when once confirmed by repetition, they are not so easily
dismissed. This is especially true in youth; and I soon
found that though I had retired beneath the roof of an
excellent parent, my disposition to wander wide was still
the same. Contentedness of mind I found was a state, not
a place. The roll of the spirit-stirring drum, the glittering
file of bayonets, with the pomp and circumstance of military
parade, not unmingled perhaps with undefined thoughts of
ultimate promotion, passed in review before my imagination,
in colours vividly charming: resistance was vain. To this
alluring panorama was added the consideration that, though
only seventeen, I had reached the height of persons required
by regimental rule. In fact, on the 6th of April, 1806, I
enlisted in the 43rd Regiment of the line, and in company
with several other recruits proceeded to Cork, where we
embarked for Bristol, at which place, after a rough passage,
we safely landed; and in a few days reached the town of
Ashford, in Kent, where the regiment was quartered.
Events and shifting scenes had crowded one after another
with such rapidity since I left home, that reflection was
drowned; but the first night in which I lay down in the
barracks, memory began to be busy. I could not help thinking
of the peaceful fireside I had left; and in despite of
my most vigorous effort to shake off the intrusion, conscience
would not be denied, and the image of my mother,
deserted at her utmost need, and pinched perhaps by want,
21was a source of great uneasiness. But having passed the
Rubicon, retreat I knew was out of the question. Independently
of the conflict within, my situation in the barrack
was not adapted to afford much present consolation. The
sleeping-room of which I was an inmate was an oblong
building of unusually large dimensions, and was occupied
by three companies of a hundred men each. They were
chiefly volunteers, and of course young soldiers. Many
were Irish, many more were English, several Welshmen
were intermingled, and a few Scotchmen came in to complete
the whole. Most of these, and that was the only point
of general resemblance, had indulged in excessive drinking.
Some were uproariously merry; on others the effect was
directly the reverse, and nothing less than a fight, it mattered
not with whom, would satisfy. Meantime, as they
were unable to abuse each other in language mutually intelligible,
exclamations profanely jocular or absurdly rancorous
rang through the building: altogether, the coalition
of discordant verbiage was such as to beggar all description,
and can be likened to nothing of which I ever heard or read,
except the confusion on the plains of Babel. Never will the
occurrence of that night be effaced from my mind. Surely,
thought I, hell from beneath is moved to engulf us all.
These disorderly proceedings, thank God! were of short continuance.
In a few weeks we marched to more convenient
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