Rifleman Costello

Meet the ever resourceful Ned Costello, a real life example of one of ‘Sharpe’s chosen men’ For those with an interest in Wellingtons sharpshooters - the famous 95th Rifles - there are few more engaging accounts than Costello’s. Told in his own words, he takes the reader through vibrant images of Napoleonic battlefields, of officers, soldiers, comrades and camp followers as well as his constant enemies - Napoleons French Army This book has been previously publised under the title 'Rifleman Costello the Adventures of a Soldier of the 95th(Rifles) in the Peninsular & Waterloo Campaigns of the Napoleonic Wars'

Having cleared the houses “a way,” we proceeded to Casal Nova, where we came up with the incendiaries, whom we found perfectly prepared to receive us. The country all about was greatly intercepted by old walls, and afforded excellent facilities for skirmishing. In a few seconds some of our division was observed moving upon our right, and we were ordered instantly to extend, and at it we went. After several hours’ hard fighting, kept up with great spirit on both sides, we compelled the enemy to retire, but not before we had lost an excellent officer in the person of Major Stewart, who received, a shot through the body. I was close at hand and just in time by catching the reins of his horse, to prevent him from falling, blood and foam oozing from his mouth. He was led by two buglers to the rear, where he died shortly after. The death of this officer gave a step to my old Captain O’Hare, who obtained the majority.

In this skirmish Lieutenant Stroud also received a severe wound. This officer in action, always carried a rifle, for the skilful use of which he was celebrated. A man of our company named Pat Mahon, received three balls on the hip at the same instant, and so close together that a dollar might have covered the three holes they made. The enemy still continued the retreat, their skirmishers, at times, making short stands to keep our rifles in check, and a few of their rear sections occasionally pouring a running fire into us.

We drove them, however, through the village of Casal Nova. Some of the French for a few minutes here availed themselves of pieces of dilapidated walls, but as soon as we commenced outflanking them, they all retreated, with the exception of one man, who, to our surprize remained loading and firing, as if he had a whole division to back him. I scarcely know what could have induced me to fire at this poor fellow alone, and exposed as he was, to at least twenty other shots; but my blood was up, through his having once aimed at me, his ball whizzing close by as I approached. Be that as it may, I had approached within fifty yards when I fired. In an instant I was beside him, the shot had entered his head, and he had fallen in the act of loading, the fusil lightly grasped in his left hand, while his right clutched the ramrod. A few quick turns of the eye as it rolled its dying glances on mine, turned my whole blood within me, and I reproached myself as his destroyer.About the beginning of January 1814, the enemy were seen advancing, as we understood, to straighten our lines, that were in a half circle. With three or four others, I was ordered to hold possession of a small farmhouse that communicated with some cross roads, and to keep up a brisk fire until the assemblee sounded, in which case we were to retreat upon the company, who occupied another, and a larger house about two hundred yards in our rear. On our right was a high stone wall, and on our left, in parallel was a hedge that served as a cover for the French who, by this time, had possession of it. Between was an open field, our only passage. As soon as the assemblee was heard, we of course, were on the alert to retreat, but this was to be accomplished only at very imminent risk, for the moment we showed our noses we were saluted with a regular hailstorm of bullets, which put us all in rather moody condition. It was proposed, however, to retire by independent files.
The first to “run the gauntlet” was a tall, gaunt Irishman, and such a shower whizzed about him as almost unnerved the rest of us. Johnny Castles, who had figured at Badajos with a rope round his neck, and yet had escaped, was particularly at a stand still; since the “hanging business” he made up his mind to live for ever, and had grown fat on it; but his corpulency now threatened to march him out. “Oh, dom your limbs,” growled Johnny, in the true Caledonian dialect, with an awful grin, “ye are the rascals to drink and carouse with as ye did yesterday. Eh, look at ‘em! Dom their eyes, they are sure to hit me!” and away he bolted, ducking his head, his face half averted and covered by his hands, yelling and screaming all the way. Johnny, however, was spherical, and puffed and blowed like a whale, while the French peppered away at him in prime style, the dust rising from the balls in every direction. Johnny however, escaped, with a brace of samples through his knapsack and mess-tin, and rolled over the hedge.