Capt. Ball. Poor lad! he was made a riddle of. I counted sixteen ball-wounds in his body.
Capt. Killdragon. Rashness is very often the bane of courage. There was a countryman of mine at Badajoz, a young Ensign; he, with the men, was ordered to lie down, so as to conceal themselves from the view of the batteries on the ramparts. The young fellow was rash enough to put up the colours which he carried, in order (as he says himself) that it might receive a ball or two, and thus afford evidence of his danger. The consequence was, that a tremendous shower of cannon-ball was directed to the spot where the fool-hardy Ensign was: one struck him on the hip, and carried away the whole of the fleshy part of the thigh: then a musket-ball hit him in the breast. The rashness of this officer is greatly to be regretted, for many men fell beside him, from the fire in which he himself was mutilated. He is still alive, and on the half-pay of the Queen's Germans. I saw him in town a few weeks ago.
Col. Shell. This was not true courage, but hair-brained folly. Mr. Steel, I'll give you an instance of steady bravery:—When Colonel Higgins was a cornet (I think in the 18th), and in Holland, the Duke of Cambridge wished to send a despatch to a certain point, the way to which was cannonaded heavily by grape-shot. His Royal Highness asked, if there was any dragoon officer near him who would volunteer for the duty? Young Higgins immediately presented himself—he took the despatch—gallopped off: the Duke could see him from where he stood, the whole of the distance. When about half way, and in the thick of the fire, Higgins dropped his helmet: he coolly pulled up his horse, alighted, put his helmet upon his head, mounted again, and continued his course. The young officer returned through the same danger safely, and his Royal Highness was so pleased with his steady courage, that he appointed him to his personal staff, and he is his Royal Highness's private secretary at this day.
Ensign Steel. That I think, certainly, of different character from the conduct of the Ensign, although both might be equally brave. What regiment did Mr. O'Connel belong to, Captain Ball?
Capt. Ball. The 59th.
Major Swordly. That regiment had a vast deal to do on the last campaign in Spain.
Capt. Killdragon. It behaved nobly at Vittoria, although a great part of it were very young soldiers. At a little village on the left of the town, the French made a most desperate effort to prevent our troops crossing the little river. (I was Brigade Major at the time, and so could see those things.) They had two field-pieces planted close to the bridge, which was not wide enough to permit two carts to pass abreast, and their infantry defended this pass for a long time. The men were butting each other in a dense mass on the bridge, after they had been tired of the bayonet; and caps, and muskets, and bodies were heaved over the sides into the stream, till they almost choked the arches beneath. The 59th came up to the bridge, after a repulse, commanded by Colonels Fane and Weare, and the fire upon them was thick and destructive—grape and musketry. The young fellows began to dip their heads and straggle, when Colonel Weare rode back to them, and cried out,—“59th! for shame, for shame!” This was like magic; the men dashed on steadily, but at the instant he received a ball in the spine. Colonel Fane, who headed the battalion, now rode up to Colonel Weare; and perceiving his state, shook hands with him, and then gave directions for his removal: there was not an instant to lose—the men were advancing like lions to the bridge—“God bless you, Weare!” was all that the Colonel had time to say, and he then rode on with the regiment; but in the next minute he received a shot himself in the groin, and was obliged to leave the men to themselves. They did their duty, and carried the bridge. Poor Fane was dead before his friend Weare, with whom he shook hands, in the belief that he would not be an hour alive. Both died of their wounds in a few days, and I attended both their funerals in the town of Vittoria. A finer picture of a hero in death, than the naked body of Weare on his cold bed was, no man ever beheld—noble fellow! A letter just arrived at the regiment the day after he died, to say that his wife and family had landed at Lisbon with the view of joining him: sad was the answer to that letter!... Colonel Fane was the brother of General Fane, you know, and a finer or more gallant fellow never fought. Both these leaders were buried in a yard behind the Hospital, while a French General was, at the same time, entombed within the walls of the principal Church; but this was because the Frenchman was a Roman Christian, and the others English Christians. It grieved me to see it; and never did I feel the folly and absurdity of such religious differences so forcibly as on that melancholy occasion. The Spanish priests regretted (and sincerely too) that they had it not in their power to honour the remains of their allies as they, from Christian charity, did the remains of their enemy.
Col. Shell. I knew both Fane and Weare well, and better officers could not be.
Ensign Young. Captain Killdragon, was it Colonel Fane's horse that gallopped into the enemy's ranks, as you were telling us the other evening?
Capt. Killdragon. No, no. That was at the battle of Salamanca. It occurred with the 5th Dragoon Guards.