Work Text:
This diary was found relatively undamaged in the wreck of the HMS Undaunted near the town of San Sebastian. Its owner, Barry Smith, was a member of the 5th Regiment of Foot of the British Army, which had been deployed to assist in the Siege of San Sebastian. All attempts to locate Smith have failed, and his status is currently unknown. All spelling and grammatical errors have been transcribed faithfully.
6 July, 1813
My regiment has tried everything under the sun to make me a better soldier. Recently, my officer has recommended that I write to soothe my nerves and gave me this journal as a gift for surviving last month’s battle (and for being one of the few learned men in the regiment). I have delayed my writing in this journal until now, as nothing that I wish to remember has happened to me in those weeks.
10 July, 1813
We have been marching through Spanish farmland for a few days, and there are rumors running around my regiment from other British men of the dead consuming the living. We have not encountered these beasts, and if my officer is to be believed, this cannibalistic disease seems to only afflict the Jews, Moslems, and Pagans, which are few in Spain. Still, the thought of these beasts has cost me some sleep.
15 July, 1813
My regiment has finally arrived near San Sebastian, but much to their dismay, we have been assigned to digging emplacements for the artillery. I, however, am rather grateful that the fighting can be delayed, even if only for a few days. The soldiers from the other regiments tell stories of Spanish guerillas sending out feral dogs to attack the French supply convoys, but it seems to just be a standard affair of banter among men.
17 July, 1813
I can hardly gather the peace to get some sleep during the night. Every hour, there seems to be another cry of “murder” from the locals, and we are dragged from our barracks to the town to discover the defiled corpse of some poor soul. The locals say that they have seen men with red eyes feasting on the corpses, but most of the soldiers have laughed them off.
On some perhaps better news, the French resistance at the San Sebastian fortress appears to be dwindling. At this rate, my officer says, we will not have to do any kind of fighting before the French flee.
18 July 1813
Some of the British and Portuguese soldiers have not returned from an attack earlier today, not even their bodies. I believe that the Frenchmen have captured them, and we will probably see their bodies hanging from the gallows of their fortress by tomorrow.
19 July 1813
A few Frenchmen came to our camp today bearing a white flag. They were without ammunition, and one of them had a foul bite along his face. We have taken them prisoner for now, but our officer can hardly get anything out of them. They are supposedly delirious, telling of how their own men were turned savage and could no longer tell their brothers from their enemies. My officer says that it is nothing more than a trick to scare us, but I am not so sure of him anymore. The one with the bite has done nothing but beg for a chaplain (Protestant or Catholic, he did not seem to care) to read him his last rites, and the other prisoners seem petrified by every movement he makes.
20 July 1813
My officer is dead. I have finally seen the cannibals first hand. The Frenchman with the bite on his face was writhing in pain on the ground, and my officer thought that it was an act. He was kicking the man in the stomach and yelling at him with the little French he knew to get up. A few of my fellow soldiers and I had followed the officer in, perhaps out of annoyance or amusement. Suddenly, the Frenchman got up and slammed the officer into the wall, his eyes glowing a bloody red. He must’ve taken at least ten bites out of him before one of the prisoners seized my saber and slashed the heads off the both of them.
My fellow soldiers had the men lined up by the afternoon, ready to be shot. I have no idea what came over my regiment as they lined up the final Frenchman. Perhaps it was the man’s promise of sanctuary at the coastal fortress if they let us live that deceived us, but around a fourth of our unit (and for some foolish reason, myself) were standing between our brothers and our enemy. Our regiment has been nothing but argument since then over whether to believe the Frenchman (and even whether the cannibals existed or were a clever Napoleonic ruse). I pers
[The final stroke of ink stretches across the page.]
21 July 1813
There can be no denial now. An entire herd of cannibals beared down on us at midnight as I was writing, and we must’ve lost half of our men before we had the last of them put down. Our training and tactics meant nothing against such a mindless foe. Before, we could’ve at least counted on the sense of the enemy not to attack a heavily fortified position, but nothing seems to scare the cannibals.
We held a vote at first light. It was unanimous. We must trust the French. We will be taking off once we bury our dead.
22 July 1813
The men at the fortress let us in without a second thought once they saw the Frenchmen. It was strange, being helped off a lift by a French soldier who my comrades would’ve shot without a second thought just a few days ago.
The barracks are crowded and dirty, but the soldiers are mostly too tired to fight with each other. Our officer probably would’ve given us a lengthy lecture about fraternizing with the enemy if he was still around. I will be assigned to help the locals downstairs.
One of the Frenchmen noticed a British ship, and they have been trying to flag it down all day. Hopefully, they are as friendly to the Frenchmen as they have been to us British.
25 July
[The writing becomes significantly more frantic and messy.]
Barrel at wall blew door up. Must’ve been hundreds in the walls after. Too much blood. Firing line did nothing. Brot more in from town. Hiding in storage closet
25 July
5 of us, 2 French, 2 Portuguese, and me. Tried to climb up to roof. Lost Portuguese whle scaling wall. First one up was going to help Frenchmen up. Ran over, chests ripped open before I could blink. Was going to go down to help but soldier shoved me back up
[The following entry is presumed to be from the following day due to an alteration in the stroke of the writing instrument, but the hasty handwriting renders the date uncertain.]
26 July
It ought to be me
28 July
If my officer had wished to ease my nerves, he ought to have given me this! I can hardly read the text on the botttle, and it feels like I could wander off the roof at any moment but my heart is calm for the first time in months.
30 July 1813
[The writing quality seems to recover somewhat.]
Ran out of the wine in the bottle, and my head feels like it has been split into a thousand pieces. Got good sleep, but the beasts downstairs growl all night. Probably won’t get any more sleep here.
31 July 1813
No more breadcrumbs up here anymore. Only one bucket of water left. It takes all my willpower to prevent me from parting with my bloody uniform or throwing the bucket on myself. The beasts don’t swim, but neither can I. Drowning may be a more peaceful death than throwing myself to the devils downstairs or praying that my skull splits open when I hit the ground.
1 August 1813
Saw some movement at the hill fort. Too soldier-like to be cannibals, but I must be seeing things. Maybe they will come to relieve my suffering.
1 August 1813
They came further down the hill, and I can just make out their uniforms. Frenchmen, Portuguese, and British. It has filled me with a modicum of joy, to see other men braver than me taking on the cannibals. I may be able to die peacefully today, even if those men depart away from me.
1 August 1813
The men have entered the fort now, and their number seems to have grown significantly. This has comforted me somewhat, to know I am not the only man to have survived the slaughter. Maybe if I still had some French wine on hand, I may believe myself to be Moses, delivering the Israelites from their servitude to the Egyptians. While I am not quite so delusional yet, I have managed to grab a rocket from one of the cannibals below to signal the ship so that those men can find their way home.
1 August 1813
[This page is soaked in blood.]
They are here!