The idea of one man taking on an entire army single-handed is as old as war itself. From Samson to Horatius, to Hereward the Wake; tales of ‘one against all!’ have inspired those who heard FC College Foundation. It’s more difficult for a single soldier alone in modern war of course, even though Clint Eastwood and Rambo make it look so easy.
Over the past few years, due to the “Sharpe” series on TV, a great deal of interest has been aroused in individualism of riflemen at war, their role in the victory over Bonaparte and in their weapon, the magnificent Baker rifle, designed by Eziekel Baker at Whitechapel at the turn of the l9th Century. Its 30” rifled barrel fired ball of 20 to the pound weight, and itself weighed in at a little under ten pounds. Incredibly accurate, a true marksman’s weapon, it had its origins in the American wars, in the German Jager rifles and a little remembered, but exquisite breech—loading rifle used in small numbers by the British against the colonial rebels, the ‘Ferguson.68’. The Baker went on to be used for decades into the 19th Century, only being edged out by the “Brunswick” in the late 1830’s. Without a doubt the Baker was the finest weapon of the War in Spain and Portugal, rightly feared by the French and truly envied by their own “light bobs”.
The “Sharpe” books and programmes feature the 95th (Rifle) Regiment of Foot, part of Craufurd’s legendary Light Division; as indeed did the earlier and remarkably similar “Byrd of the 95th” novels written by Showell Styles. For some reason the equally skilled 60th Rifles and the sharpshooters of the King’s German Legion who also used the “Whitechapel Wonder Weapon” and achieved much success with it, are generally overlooked on page and screen.
The first fictional attempt to describe and record the potential and power of a rifle armed soldier of the 95th Foot was published as long ago as l933 and is still in print. It remains the best and sixty years on has no equal in Napoleonic fiction, being as good as many of the diaries written by riflemen who served in Spain. Death to the French by C.S. Forrester relates the story of Rifleman Matthew Dodd, cut off on picket duty during Wellington’s withdrawal to the lines of Torres Vedras. The research behind this veteran book and the background detail, which Forrester provides, make Death to the French (despite its ever so slightly euro-sceptic title), a masterpiece of military fiction, which is also immensely valuable to the wargamer.
Rifleman Dodd’s adventures begin when he finds himself cut off by ‘blues’ of the 4th battalion, 46th Infanterie de Ligne; in particular the section of one Sergeant Godinot. Dodd escapes their encirclement, and embarks unwittingly upon a one-man private war against Boney’s army. His survival and success depend upon a number of factors. The highly trained individuality of the Rifle Brigade, the superb marksmanship - possible and achieved - with Eziekel Baker’s rifle, and not least the fact that he is a “Green Englishman”, not advertising his presence with a scarlet coat and pretty facings.
After a time Dodd falls in with a Portuguese Guerrilla hand and persuades their Commander, the “Capitao Mor” (Great Captain) to provide him with an escort to reach the British lines around Lisbon via the Tagus; but the French have closed the ring. Without realizing it Matthew Dodd has become a local Guerrilla leader and universally respected because of his ability to kill Frenchmen with impunity. He acquires an entire Portuguese village, Punhete, as his temporary domain. The story becomes one of numerous small actions, of futile French sweeps to clear hills and scrub of a dozen elusive Portuguese muskets and a single lethal rifle. It’s a war of sniping and ambush, of the desperate French fight for forage when their ‘cash’ bread rations run out; and of the Portuguese protection of flocks and food stores. Dodd, the ‘Green Inglez’ and his Baker Rifle are the key to the entire campaign.
The 4th battalion of the 46th occupy the village of Punhete, but Sgt Godinot and his section are sent off to the nearby walled town of Santarem to help build a pontoon bridge to cross the Tagus. Before long, the regular boom of British artillery and the swish of Congreve rockets attempting to destroy Godinot’s pontoons and burn Santarem fills the valley. Dodd is persuaded to march to the sound of gunfire. Even a green rifleman could not gain entry to a French garrisoned town, and Dodd contemplates withdrawal to his Guerrilla encampment, a cave, when the French suddenly begin to move their pontoons out of Santarem along the road to Punhete.
Dodd, with only two Portuguese guerrillas presses a strong effective attack upon the convoy, halting its progress as it passes through a wooded defile, and causing several French regiments to be brought up to reinforce the exhausted escort. To the ragged, dysentery ridden, hungry Frenchmen, the British rifleman, with the distinctive sound of his “Whitechapel Wonder Weapon”, has rapidly attained supernatural capabilities. Dodd and his two companions extricate themselves with nightfall and return to the guerrilla cave, to find it deserted, its defenders dead and the supplies captured. A French picquet takes the small band by surprise, and Dodd is alone again, sweeping around in a vast circle he returns to the village of Punhete.
Marshall Massena’s precious pontoons are there before him. Sgt.Godinot and the ‘Blues’ of the 46th Ligne are completing their bridges, on the banks of the Tagus far away from the threat of British guns and rocketry. Having cleaned out the cave harbouring Dodd’s guerrillas, they feel safe from all possible attack. Not quite so.
Matthew Dodd, the ‘Green Inglez’ watches and notes their frantic work and observes the posting of the guards. After two nights, Dodd hides his precious rifle and slips down from his empty hill high above the village. He makes short work of both sentries with his sword bayonet, and burns the bone-dry boats, ropes, paint and roadways using his tinder box to set scores of fires. As the alarm drums beat out and the camp is roused, Dodd is back on the hill.
At dawn the weary French conscripts are still fighting the fires and the rifleman watches with intent as their general officer rides up. The order is clear. Retreat. The rest of the bridge is burned and the Emperor’s army begins it’s withdrawal; weak, footsore and utterly dispirited. Sergeant Godinot, crippled by his own mutinous men, is finished off by Portuguese Guerrillas creeping in the wake of the French rearguards. Portugal is no place for a straggler.
As the French columns shamble off Northwards, Dodd shoulders his Baker rifle and marches down towards Santarem. Here he meets the British Army, Wellington’s light dragoons pressing hard on the barefoot heels of Massena’s Frenchmen. By nightfall, having presented himself to an incredulous colonel, Dodd is back in the ranks of the 95th, munching his bread and salt, and no doubt telling his story to one of the many peninsula diarists to be found in the ranks of the Light Division.
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