Storming of Badajoz—I join the Forlorn-Hope again—Presentiments of Major
O’Hare and Captain Jones—Their deaths—The stormers—The Ladder-men—I am
wounded—The French prisoner—O’Brien—Sacking of the town—Scene of
horror—Reflections—The Duke of Wellington and his men—Johnny Castles
introduced with a rope round his neck—The drummer-boy—A firelock goes
off, and so does a Corporal—I return to the camp—Casualties at
Badajoz—The French prisoner and a new acquaintance—His account of the
evacuation of Almeida—His opinion of the British soldiers.
I AM now about entering into a personal narrative of one of the most
sanguinary and awful engagements on the records of any country. For the
second time I volunteered on the forlorn-hope. After having received a
double allowance of grog, we fell in about eight o’clock in the evening,
6th April, 1812. The stormers were composed of men from the different
regiments of the light division. I happened to be on the right of the
front section when my old Captain, Major O’Hare, who commanded the wing
to which my company belonged, came up with Captain Jones of the 52nd
regiment, both in command of the storming party. A pair of uglier men
never walked together, but a brace of better soldiers never stood before
the muzzle of a Frenchman’s gun.
“Well, O’Hare,” said the Captain, “what do you think of to-night’s
work?”
“I don’t know,” replied the Major, who seemed, as I thought, in rather
low spirits. “To-night, I think, will be my last.”
“Tut, tut, man! I have the same sort of feeling, but I keep it down with
a drop of the _cratur_,” answered the Captain, as he handed his calabash
to the Major.
A Sergeant Fleming, a brave soldier, before mentioned in these Memoirs,
coming up, informed Major O’Hare that a ladder-party was wanted. “Take
the right files of the leading sections,” was the prompt order of the
Major. No sooner said than done. I and my front-rank men were
immediately tapped on the shoulder for the ladder-party. I now gave up
all hope of ever returning. At Rodrigo, as before stated, we had fatigue
parties for the ladders, but now the case was altered; besides which the
ladders, now in preparation, were much longer than those employed at
that fortress.
I may just mention, that whatever were my own forebodings on the
occasion, the presentiments of our brave old Major O’Hare and those of
Captain Jones were fatally realized, for in less than twenty minutes
after the above conversation, both fell riddled with balls.
The word was now given to the ladder-party to move forward. We were
accompanied at each side by two men with hatchets to cut down any
obstacle that might oppose them, such as _chevaux-de-frise_. There were
six of us supporting the ladder allotted to me, and I contrived to carry
my grass-bag before me.[13] We had proceeded but a short distance when
we heard the sound of voices on our right, upon which we halted, and
supposing they might be enemies, I disengaged myself from the ladder,
and cocking my rifle, prepared for action. Luckily we soon discovered
our mistake, as one of our party cried—“Take care! ’Tis the stormers of
the fourth division coming to join us.” This proved to be the case. This
brief alarm over, we continued advancing towards the walls, the Rifles,
as before, keeping in front. We had to pass Fort St. Roche on our left,
near to the town, and as we approached it the French sentry challenged.
This was instantly followed by a shot from the fort and another from the
walls of the town. A moment afterwards, a fire-ball was thrown out,
which threw a bright red glare of light around us, and instantly a
volley of grape-shot, canister, and small arms poured in among us, as we
stood on the glacis, at a distance of about thirty yards from the walls.
Three of the men carrying the ladder with me were shot dead in a breath,
and its weight falling upon me, I fell backwards with the grass-bag on
my breast. The remainder of the stormers rushed up, regardless of my
cries, or those of the wounded men around me, for by this time our men
were falling fast. Many in passing were shot and fell upon me, so that I
was actually drenched in blood. The weight I had to sustain became
intolerable, and had it not been for the grass-bag which in some measure
protected me, I must have been suffocated. At length, by a strong
effort, I managed to extricate myself, in doing which I left my rifle
behind me, and drawing my sword, rushed towards the breach. There I
found four men putting a ladder down the ditch; and not daring to pause,
fresh lights being still thrown out of the town, with a continual
discharge of musketry, I slid quickly down the ladder, but before I
could recover my footing, was knocked down again by the bodies of men
who were shot in attempting the descent. I, however, succeeded in
extricating myself from underneath the dead, and rushing forward to the
right, to my surprise and fear I found myself emerged to my neck in
water. Until then I was tolerably composed, but now all reflection left
me, and diving through the water, being a good swimmer, gained the other
side, but lost my sword; I now attempted to make to the breach, which
the blaze of musketry from the walls clearly showed me. Without rifle,
sword, or any other weapon, I succeeded in clambering up a part of the
breach, and came near to a _chevaux-de-frise_, consisting of a piece of
heavy timber studded with sword-blades, turning on an axis: but just
before reaching it I received a stroke on the breast, whether from a
grenade or a stone, or by the butt-end of a musket, I cannot say, but
down I rolled senseless, and drenched with water and human gore. I could
not have laid long in this plight, for when my senses had in some
measure returned, I perceived our gallant fellows still rushing forward,
each seeming to share a fate more deadly than my own. The fire continued
in one horrible and incessant peal, as if the mouth of the infernal
regions had opened to vomit forth destruction upon all around us, and
this was rendered still more appalling by the fearful shouts of the
combatants and cries of the wounded that mingled in the uproar.
I now, strange to say, began to feel if my arms and legs were entire:
for at such moments a man, I believe, is not always aware of his wounds.
I had now, indeed, lost all the frenzy of courage that had first
possessed me, and actually felt all weakness and prostration of spirit,
while I endeavoured, among the dead and wounded bodies around me, to
screen myself from the enemy’s shot; but while I lay in this position,
the fire still continued blazing over me in all its horrors, accompanied
by screams, groans, and shouts, and the crashing of stones and falling
of timbers. I now, for the first time for many years, uttered something
like a prayer.
After the horrible and well-known scene of carnage had lasted some time,
the fire gradually slackened from the breach, I heard a cheering which I
knew to proceed from within the town, and shortly afterwards a cry of
“Blood and ’ounds! where’s the Light Division?—the town’s our
own—hurrah!” This proceeded, no doubt, from some of the third division.
I now attempted to rise, but, from a wound which I had received, but at
what time I know not, found myself unable to stand. A musket-ball had
passed through the lower part of my right leg—two others had perforated
my cap, which I should have lost had I not taken the precaution to
secure it with a cord under my chin before starting. At the moment of
this discovery I saw two or three men moving towards me, who I was glad
to find belonged to the Rifles. One of them, named O’Brien, of the same
company as myself, immediately exclaimed, “What! is that you, Ned?—we
thought you ladder-men all done for.” He then assisted me to rise.
In consequence of the _chevaux-de-frise_ still remaining above the
breach, we could not proceed over it until more men arrived to remove
its fastenings. The third division meanwhile had entered the town on our
right by the castle where there was no breach. We proceeded onwards, I
moving with great difficulty, though partly supported by O’Brien. At the
top of the breach we found another trench with a plank of wood lain
across, leading into the town. Not until then I felt drops of blood
trickling down my face, and found that one of the balls, in passing
through my cap, had torn the skin on my head.
In this crippled state, leaning upon my comrade, and using his rifle as
a crutch, accompanied by a few of our riflemen, I entered the town that
had been so gloriously won. We hurried from the breach as quick as
possible, lest the enemy should spring a mine, as they did at Ciudad
Rodrigo. We still however heard occasional firing and cheering from the
one end of the town, and imagined the fire was still raging, although,
as we soon afterwards learnt, the chief part of the French had retired
to the citadel or fort, where they surrendered on the following morning.
Angry and irritated from the pain occasioned by the wound, we had just
turned the corner of a street, when we observed some men, and, from the
light that shone from a window opposite, we could see from their
uniforms they were evidently Frenchmen. The moment they saw us they
disappeared, with the exception of one man, who seemed to make a rush at
us with his musket. O’Brien sprang forward and wrested the firelock from
his grasp. A feeling of revenge, prompted by the suffering I endured
from my wounds, actuated my feelings, and I exclaimed, “O’Brien, let me
have the pleasure of shooting this rascal, for he may be the man who has
brought me to the state I am now in!” I then presented the rifle close
to his breast, with the full intention of shooting him through the body,
but as my finger was about to press the trigger he fell upon his knees
and implored mercy. The next moment the rifle dropped from my hand, and
I felt a degree of shame that a feeling of irritation should have nearly
betrayed me into the commission of a crime for which I could never have
forgiven myself.
As soon as the Frenchman perceived me desist, he immediately started
from his knees, and, by way of showing his gratitude, threw his arms
round my neck, and kissed my cheek. He instantly followed me, and I for
the time took him under my protection.
We now looked anxiously around for a house where we could obtain
refreshment, and, if truth must be told, a little money. For even
wounded as I was, I had made up my mind to be a gainer by our victory.
At the first house we knocked at, no notice being taken of the summons,
we fired a rifle-ball at the key-hole, which sent the door flying open.
This, indeed, was our usual method of forcing locks. As soon as we
entered the house we found a young Spanish woman crying bitterly, and
praying for mercy. She informed us that she was the wife of a French
officer; and to the demand of my companion, O’Brien, for refreshment,
replied there was nothing but her poor self in the house. She, however,
produced some spirits and chocolate, both of which, being very hungry
and faint, I partook of with much relish.
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.
As soon as I had resumed my seat at the fire, a number of Portuguese
soldiers entered, one of whom, taking me for a Frenchman, for I had the
French soldier’s jacket on, my own being wet, snapped his piece at me,
which luckily hung fire. Forgetful of my wounds, I instantly rushed at
him, and a regular scuffle ensued between our men and the Portuguese,
until one of the latter being stabbed by a bayonet, the rest retired,
dragging the wounded man with them. After thus ejecting the Portuguese,
the victors, who had by this time got tolerably drunk, proceeded to
ransack the house. Unhappily they discovered the two daughters of the
old patrone, who had concealed themselves up stairs. They both were
young and very pretty. The mother, too, was shortly afterwards dragged
from her hiding-place.
Without dwelling on the frightful scene that followed, it may be
sufficient to add, that our men, more infuriated by drink than before,
again seized upon the old man, and insisted upon a fresh supply of
liquor. And his protestations that he possessed no more were as vain as
were all attempts to restrain them from ill-using him.
It is to be lamented that the memory of an old soldier should be
disturbed by such painful reflections as the foregoing scenes must give
rise to: but it is to be considered that the men who besiege a town in
the face of such dangers, generally become desperate from their own
privations and sufferings; and when once they get a footing within its
walls—flushed by victory, hurried on by the desire of liquor, and
maddened by drink, they stop at nothing: they are literally mad, and
hardly conscious of what they do in such a state of excitement. I do not
state this in justification; I only remark what I have observed human
nature to be on these occasions.
Sick of the scene of horrors that had been enacted, and attended by my
French prisoner, I left the house for one on the other side of the
street. This was found occupied by men of the third division, who were
drinking chocolate, not made with water, but wine. They seemed rather
more sober and peaceable than those we had just left; but here, also, as
in most of the houses in Badajoz, the greatest outrages were being
committed.
Having passed a wretched night, the next morning I determined to rejoin
what remained of my regiment—for at this time I did not know what number
we had lost. I left the house, and proceeded to trace my road through
the crowds, accompanied by my Frenchman, who rendered me every
assistance in his power. The town was still in great confusion and
uproar, although every available means had been taken to suppress it. In
one of the streets I saw the Duke of Wellington, surrounded by a number
of British soldiers, who, holding up bottles with the heads knocked off,
containing wine and spirits, cried out to him, a phrase then familiarly
applied to him by the men of the army, “Old boy! will you drink? The
town’s our own—hurrah!” In another street I observed a sort of gallows
erected, with three nooses hanging from them, ready for service. Johnny
Castles, a man of our company, and as quiet and inoffensive a little
fellow as could be, but rather fond of a drop, but not that distilled by
Jack Ketch & Co., had a near escape. He was actually brought under the
gallows in a cart, and the rope placed round his neck, but his life was
spared. Whether this was done to frighten him or not I cannot say; but
the circumstance had such an effect on him, that he took ill, and was a
little deranged for some time after. I am not aware that a single
execution took place, notwithstanding the known severity of the Duke in
matters of plunder and outrage. I feel bound to say, that a prejudice
existed on the part of our men against the inhabitants of Badajoz, owing
to their having submitted so tamely to the French. It was different at
Ciudad Rodrigo, where the Spaniards had defended themselves gallantly.
Feeling fatigued on my way to join the camp, I sat down with my prisoner
on a bench, opposite the bridge which leads to Fort St. Christoval. We
not had been long seated when I was amused by a large baboon, surrounded
by a number of soldiers, who were tormenting him. The poor animal had
been wounded in the foot, probably by one of our men, and by his
chattering, grinning, and droll gesticulations, he showed as much
aversion to the red coats as any of the French could possibly have done.
While the men continued teasing the animal, a servant, stating that it
belonged to a Colonel of the 4th regiment, who he said was wounded,
attempted to take the beast away, whereupon the party being divided in
their sentiments, a scuffle ensued, in which several men were wounded
with bayonets.
As we got up to proceed, we saw a number of Frenchmen guarded by our
soldiers, coming over the bridge. They were the prisoners taken in Fort
St. Christoval, which but an hour or two previously had surrendered.
These were soon surrounded by our men, who began examining their
knapsacks, from whence a number of watches, dollars, &c., were quickly
extracted. A short distance further on we came up with a mule, tied to a
door, which, in my crippled state, and wishing to relieve my poor
prisoner, I immediately appropriated for my own use, but I afterwards
sold it to Lieutenant Jackson, of the 83rd regiment. Mounted on the
animal, led by the Frenchman, we pursued our way until near the gates
that led to the camp, when rather an affecting scene came under my eye.
A little fellow, a drummer-boy, belonging to the 88th regiment, was
lying wounded and crying bitterly, his leg being broken by a shot. On
telling him I would get him carried by the Frenchman if he wished, “Oh
no!—oh no!” said the boy; “I don’t care for myself. Look at my poor
father, where he lies!” pointing to a man shot through the head, lying
weltering in a gore of blood. Poor little fellow! I gave him a couple of
dollars, and called some men to his assistance, when I was compelled to
leave him. We soon arrived at the camp ground of the third division. I
dismounted, and while sitting on one of the men’s knapsacks, a soldier
of the 83rd regiment was engaged in cleaning his firelock, when the
piece went off and shot a corporal through the head, wounding also the
hand of another man. The Frenchman seemed dreadfully frightened: he
turned pale as marble, perhaps thinking the shot was aimed at him, as
the corporal fell dead at his side. This accident struck me as a
forcible instance of the casualties that attend a soldier’s life. I
could not, indeed, help feeling for the poor corporal, who after
surviving the dangers of the preceding night, had lost his life by a
clumsy hand cleaning a firelock.
It may appear strange that I did not wish to remain in Badajoz, but I
was suffering from my wound, and preferred the quiet of the camp. We had
no sooner arrived there than I was obliged to part with my faithful
Frenchman, who was sent to join the other prisoners. I gave him a few
dollars, which most likely he was deprived of before he got many yards.
He left me with many expressions of gratitude for the protection I had
afforded him.
I have been in many actions, but I never witnessed such a complication
of horrors as surrounded me on the forlorn-hope at Badajoz.
I remained three days in camp before there was a possibility of my being
conveyed into the hospital at Badajoz, during which I had an opportunity
of hearing of the casualties that occurred. The number of men killed,
wounded, and absent was such, that the company could not muster a dozen
men on parade for three days afterwards. Parties were sent to the
breaches to bury the dead, which now began to smell most dreadfully; but
we could not collect men enough to perform that duty. My poor old
Captain, Major O’Hare, was amongst the slain, and had received not less
than ten or a dozen balls through his body.
While in hospital, here as in other places, we were intermingled with
the French prisoners who, sick and wounded, were placed indiscriminately
in the wards with the British. In that in which I myself lay, and in the
next bed, there was a smart young fellow, a Frenchman, with whom I
became intimately acquainted. Indeed, he could speak a little English,
which he had acquired during a short stay as prisoner in England, whence
he had been exchanged to be again captured. He was recovering fast from
a gun-shot wound he had received in his shoulder.
During one of our evening chats, he gave me an account of his escape
from Almeida, which he had assisted in defending, and afterwards in
blowing up and evacuating.
“A few evenings,” said he, “previous to our determination to evacuate
the fortress, an officer from Massena entered the town, under the
disguise of a peasant, with orders to the Governor to undermine and blow
up the walls, and cut his way with the garrison through the British
lines. The distresses of the besieged had been so excessive, that the
message was received with delight. We had seen and felt innumerable
hardships, and had been so reduced by famine, as to have been obliged,
for food, to slaughter even the horses and mules. On receipt of the
order, General Bernier, who commanded, and who had already escaped from
the British, he having broken his parole while prisoner with the English
some years before, was even more anxious than ourselves, as he well knew
had he been retaken, in all probability he would have been shot. In our
dilemmas, he drew from us an oath to die or effect our purpose. As a
first step, we were for several days employed undermining the walls,
which were soon hollowed and loaded in fourteen different places, all
communicating with each other by trains of gunpowder.
“The evening of the evacuation, the whole garrison, to the number of
seven or eight hundred men, after destroying the stores and spiking the
guns, assembled in one of the squares and at about midnight slowly moved
through the gates. The first to oppose our progress was a picquet of
Portuguese, whom we bayoneted in an instant, and just as the mines
commenced exploding—a low grumbling, as if of an earthquake, followed,
and in a few seconds the whole citadel rose, as it were, in the air, and
descended in shivered and blackened masses. The noise of the explosion
brought the whole British division to their arms, and our forlorn body
dashed through your closing columns. The moment was desperate, but
starved as we were, the French soldiers gained new strength from each
reverse, and despite the well-fed numbers of the British, cut their way
through the living wall, and gained the approach to San Felice. Here the
inequalities of the ground fortunately and effectually kept off your
cavalry, and after a few more trifling encounters, we reached the grand
army. We had no sooner arrived within hail of our comrades than the
whole locality rung with one universal shout of enthusiasm. Our General
was carried about on the men’s shoulders, and the day became one of joy
throughout the camp.”
The relation was given in the most spirited manner, just as we might
expect it from a soldier of the Emperor, whose very name took the place
of every other feeling. He spoke also of Marshal Ney, who in his
estimation was second only to Napoleon.
The foregoing, and many others equally entertaining, but which the lapse
of years have blotted from my memory, he would relate to me, generally
finishing his relations with, “Eh bien, c’est égal, les écoliers sont
dignes de leurs maîtres. Les Français vous ont enseignés de terribles
leçons, et vous comprenez enfin l’art de faire la guerre comme il faut.”
Well, well, it is all the same; the pupils are worthy of their teachers.
The French have taught you some terrible lessons, and you understand, at
length, the art of making war as it is—as it should be.