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.