Note 10 — Chapter V
Reading edition
It was an Irishman named Welsh who was instrumental in saving my life. It turned out that he had noticed me fall, and when he found that he had to retire from the Redan, he carried me up to the ditch and let me slip in, and then with assistance got me out of it, and carried me across that terrible 200 yards, being shot through both legs in doing so. Before he reached our leading trench, some other good Samaritan picked me up and ran away with me. Poor Welsh died in India, at Ferozepore, in 1865, and, as a mark of respect, I put a stone over his remains. He was a rough diamond, but every inch a soldier and a good loyal subject. I hope I may state now, without egotism, from the day I found out that Welsh had done me such service, I did all that lay in my power for him and for his poor mother.