by Gary Yee
Whitelocke’s reinforcements of four companies of the 1/95 were united with the three companies of the 2/95 and placed under the command of Major McLeod as a provisional battalion. Along with the army, they pushed onto Buenos Aires and stormed the town. However, poor leadership failed to consolidate the victory and the Spaniards rallied, and isolating the scattered British units, successively forced them to surrender. In one of the isolated British units was Tom Plunkett, who was kept very active:
In an action to retake Buenos Aires, he and Fisher, another rifleman, were hoisted onto the roof of a low building to act as sharpshooters. Some years later, when asked by an officer of the 95th how many men he had killed from this position, Plunkett replied: “Twenty, sir,” then added: “I shot a gentleman with a flag of truce, sir.” Not understanding the situation, that is exactly what he had done, and the man had died of his wounds.
Rifleman of the 95th Regiment, Napoleonic era.
Along with the rest of the army, Plunkett was captured and paroled to England. Rejoining the 1st Battalion, he was sent to the Spanish peninsula under Sir John Moore where Plunkett distinguished himself, as described by Kincaid:
The regiment was formed in front of Calcabellos covering the rear of the infantry, and on the first appearance of the enemy they had been ordered to withdraw behind the town. Three parts of them had already passed the bridge, and the remainder were upon it, or in the act of filing through the street with the careless confidence which might be expected from their knowledge that the British cavalry still stood between them and the enemy; but in an instant our own cavalry, without the slightest notice, galloped through and over them, and the same instant saw a French sabre flourishing over the head of every man who remained beyond the bridge—many were cut down in the streets, and a great portion of the rear company were taken prisoners.
The remainder of the regiment, seeing the unexpected attack, quickly drew off among the vineyards to the right and left of the road, where they coolly awaited the approaching assaults. The dismounted voltigeurs first swarmed over the river, assailing the riflemen on all sides, but they were met by a galling fire which effectively stopped them. General Colbert next advanced to dislodge them, and passing the river at the head of his dragoons, he charged furiously up the road; but, when within a few yards of our own men, he was received with such a deadly fire, that scarcely a Frenchman remained in the saddle, and the general himself was among the slain. The voltigeurs persevered in their unsuccessful endeavors to force the post, and a furious fight continued to be waged, until darkness put an end to it, both sides having suffered severely …
General Colbert (the enemy’s hero of the day), was, by all accounts, (if I may be permitted the expression,) splendid as a man, and not less so as a soldier. From the commencement of the retreat of our army he had led the advance, and been conspicuous for his daring: his gallant bearing had, in fact, excited the admiration of his enemies; but on this day, the last of his brilliant earthly career, he was mounted on a white charger, and had been a prominent figure in the attack of our men in the street the instant before, and it is not, therefore, to be wondered at if the admiration for the soldier was for a space drowned in the feeling for the fallen comrades which his bravery had consigned to death; a rifleman, therefore, of the name of Plunkett, exclaiming, “thou too shalt surely die!” took up an advanced position, for the purpose of singling him out, and by his hand he no doubt fell.
1/95 Rifleman Costello places the location at Astorga and elaborated:
[A] French General named Colbert, conspicuous on a grey horse, was remarkably active. Although frequently aimed at by our men, he seemed to bear a charmed life, and invariably escaped. In one of the French charges headed by this daring officer, General Sir Edward Paget rode up to the rifles and offered his purse to any man who would shoot him. Plunkett immediately started from his company. He ran about a hundred yards nearer to the enemy, threw himself on his back on the road (which was covered with snow), placed his foot in the sling of his rifle, and taking deliberate aim, shot General Colbert. Colbert’s Trumpet-Major, who rode up to him, shared the same fate from Tom’s unerring rifle. Our men, who had been anxiously watching, cheered, and Tom began running in upon the rearmost sections. He was just in time to escape some dozen troopers who had chased after him.
Our General immediately gave Tom the purse he had promised with encomiums upon his gallantry. He promised to recommend him to his Colonel, which he did in high terms to Colonel Beckwith. A few days afterwards, when the French attacked Sir John Moore’s position at Corunna, Plunkett was again noted for his cool bravery and daring, especially in making admirable shots, by which they lost many officers.
While Rifle Brigade historian Sir William Cope doubted whether Paget would order a rifleman to deliberately shoot down an enemy officer, Marshal Soult complained that it was British policy to shoot officers. If Paget had indeed bartered for Colbert’s death, he certainly was not alone. Incentive to shoot officers also arose from the desire to gain plunder which came from purse, jewelry and the lace that adorned their uniforms—lace was useful for barter.
The retreat to Corunna saw the Rifle Brigade and Tom Plunkett return to England in early 1809. The campaign had been difficult and many suffered from starvation during the retreat. Weapons were rusted and needed repairs or replacement. Their lice-infested clothes were thrown in a pile and burned. Plunkett was recognized by being promoted to corporal by Colonel Beckwith. Having been depleted, the regiment needed to recruit and Plunkett was among those chosen for this task. One stunt he demonstrated was the ease with which his green uniform could be kept, unlike the redcoat worn by most British infantry with its white crossbelts that were difficult to keep spotless. Plunkett would descend a chimney, brush himself off and present himself ready for inspection by his recruits. The regiment’s recruitment efforts not only filled the existing two battalions but also raised enough for a third. All three accompanied Wellington back to the peninsula.
Plunkett rose to sergeant but, falling victim to drink, defied the order of a more senior sergeant. Captain James H. K. Stewart (1st Company, 1/95), confined Plunkett to his quarters under arrest. Angered, Plunkett loaded about a dozen rifles and placing himself at a window, waited for Captain Stewart. Another officer intervened and convinced Plunkett to surrender. Sobered, Plunkett expressed his regrets. However, the gravity of his crime could not go unpunished and sentencing included demotion and three hundred lashes (he received only thirty-five before Colonel Beckwith stopped administration). Plunkett recovered soon enough and regained his status as a favorite of the officers and became a corporal again. Plunkett survived the Peninsular campaign and fought at Waterloo where he was injured on the forehead. Discharged on November 10, 1817 for “bad character,” he purportedly enlisted in a redcoat regiment and came across his old colonel, now General, Sir Sidney Beckwith. Plunkett emigrated to Canada where the government settled some pensioners, but finding it not to his liking, returned to England where he died in 1850.
The Baker rifle was used by British rifle regiments during the Napoleonic Wars.
The King’s German Legion
During the Napoleonic Wars (1803–15), Hanover was still a British possession and when England was at war with Napoleon, it naturally drew on its German subjects. Some of these units were partially armed with rifles, such as the King’s German Legion or the Brunswicks Oels. Serving in the 2nd Battalion of the King’s German Legion was Friedrich Lindau. A weaver’s son, he was apprenticed to a shoemaker and at age twenty-one ran away from his home in Hamelin, Hanover, to England where he enlisted as a rifleman. Lindau was quite a rogue but this did not impair his fighting qualities. In 1811, he left with his battalion to fight under Wellington in the Peninsular campaign. Having looted and fought his way during the Spanish peninsula, he was part of Wellington’s army that invaded France in 1813–14. During the siege of Bayonne, he had the opportunity to shoot a French officer:
Recruitment poster for the 95
th Regiment.
One morning I stood at this outpost and conversed with the French opposite and went into the garden to pick some flowers, which the French did not stop me from doing. About three of them, who had crept up, immediately fired, the bullets whistled over me, but with one bound I was out of the garden and standing in front of the house, just as an English officer stepped out and gave me a strong rebuke.
At midday on the same day (my anger at the reprimand I got and the cunning of the French was still fresh in my mind) I said to Captain Lindam [his company commander], who was at the outpost: “It is not fair that we are not allowed to shoot at all and the French constantly fire on us if we put in an appearance.”
“It must not happen,” he said, “it is strictly forbidden.”
“I will not refrain from shooting if I surprise one,” was my answer. The captain turned round and went away without answering me. So I believed I had a half “Yes”, took my rifle and crawled into the trench nearest the fortress; one detached house in front of it was occupied by the French. A French officer had shot at us from it from time to time for some days with a long rifle; I aimed at him. I had removed the round from my rifle, taken double powder, put a ball with a patch on, and I lay down at the lookout after I had crawled a certain distance nearer behind a little mound.
I had lain there a good hour when the officer came to the window. He put his rifle in place and took aim; I pulled my trigger and in a moment saw, with indescribable joy, my man fall out of the window. I hurried back, but remained lying in the trench because I saw that our company had to form up. Immediately Adjutant Riefkugel and the brigade major came and held an inquiry, but they went away again when our captain told them nothing had happened. When they had gone away I crawled out of the trench and got a reprimand from the captain. But when I looked at him and saw how glad he was that he had seen the officer fall from the window, I replied, “That fellow will never shoot again.” After the surrender of Bayonne some Germans from the garrison came into our camp and asked who had fired at this officer; I was called in and then they told me that they had just sat down at the table in the barrack room, my bullet had pierced the dish and all their soup spilt upon the table.
Lindau fought at Waterloo and was among the defenders of La Haye Sainte: “New regiments were continually brought up but regularly beaten back. An enemy officer fell to me nearby; he had been constantly riding round the battlefield in front of us and showing the way to the advancing columns. For some time I had him in my sights—at last, just as he was leading up new troops, he came into my fire. His horse made a bound, reared up and fell with the rider beneath it.” During a counterattack, Lindau looted the officer. Subsequently, Lindau was shot in the head but had a comrade pour rum on a handkerchief and tie it around his head. An officer ordered him to retire but he replied, “No, so long as I can stand I stay at my post.” He continued fighting until he was captured (and relieved of his loot). For his bravery exhibited in the Peninsular campaign and at Waterloo, Lindau received the Guelphic Medal. He was discharged for his injuries on October 24, 1816.
The War of 1812
After the two (1812) failed American attempts to invade Canada, American General William Harrison began building Fort Meigs on the east bank of the Maumee River in Ohio. It was incomplete when it was besieged by British General Henry Proctor and a large force of Indians under Tecumseh. Proctor’s men erected a battery and commenced shelling the fort. Meanwhile Tecumseh’s Indians surrounded the other three sides of the fort to contain the defenders.
From the west bank of the Maumee, one Indian sharpshooter climbed an elm tree and began annoying the defenders. As the fort was unfinished and the wells weren’t dug, the men had to go 100 yards to the river for water. Since the Indian was shooting at 600 yards distance, the defenders joked about it. The common belief was that he was too far to be a serious threat and it was not worth the powder to reply. After a few days’ practice, the Indian figured out the hold and injured two men. All joking stopped and Elijah Kirk of William Sebree’s Co. of Boswell’s Regiment, Kentucky Detached Militia, requested permission to retaliate. His officer insisted it was too far and a waste of powder. After a third soldier was injured, Kirk was granted permission.
Finding a rest in a blockhouse, Kirk observed the tree and waited for his opportunity. A discharge of smoke from the tree announced that the Indian had fired again. Observing the smoke, Kirk determined the wind’s drift and fired. Eyes riveted to the tree in suspense. Then, a rifle dropped, soon followed by the Indian himself. The besieging force had lost its finest marksman. Both the unnamed Indian and Kirk were remarkable marksmen and their shots exceeded all prior records. Fort Meigs held and the British invasion was thwarted.
Revolutionary War British Colonel George Hanger discusses hitting targets at that distance: “Reader, do not be surprised at my speaking of 600 yards practice,—for I do not mean to say, that I can hit a horse or an elephant at that distance; but I will prove to you, that I can throw a ball into a piece of canvas six feet high by fifteen feet long; and this will prove that a ball may be thrown, at that distance, into a column of troops on their line of march.” Skeptics may balk but in the 1930s Walter Cline proved it possible. Cline used a rifle rebored to about .53 caliber. The first shot at 600 yards went one foot below the target and out of ten shots, four struck with the six misses being close.
After Napoleon abdicated in 1814, veteran British troops were freed for offensive operations in America. British strategy was no different from that of the American Revolution. Basically, it called for dividing the states. One army was to follow Burgoyne’s plan of isolating the New England states by seizing Lake Champlain and the Hudson Valley region. The advance along Lake Champlain ended when the American flotilla defeated the British naval squadron. Without command of the lake, the British withdrew. A second army, serving as a diversion from Canada, was to sail up the Chesapeake and attack Washington, D.C. They quickly scattered the militia forces at the battle of Bladensburg and burned Washington. After the unsuccessful siege of Fort McHenry, the offensive faltered when, during a march to capture Baltimore, Major General Robert Ross was shot on September 12, 1814, by sharpshooters. At dispute is whether Ross was shot by sharpshooters Daniel Wells and Henry McComas, both of whom were killed in the skirmish before the battle of North Point (September 12, 1814), or by the Fifth Regiment’s Independent Blues or the Mechanical Volunteers. Most British sources credit Ross’ death to riflemen and one British newspaper called Ross’ death: “the assassin-like manoeuver of marking their man, under the security of their impenetrable forests.” What is significant is that Ross’ death left the British land forces without energetic leadership to capture Baltimore, thus sparing that city. The third army, led by Peninsular War veteran Sir Edward Pakenham, was to capture New Orleans and isolate the interior.
Sir Edward Pakenham arrived from Jamaica with his army on December 13, 1815. While surveying the American positions at New Orleans, Pakenham nearly had an encounter with the American rifleman and, but for the quick eye of one of his aides, could have succumbed before the battle. Sir Harry Smith was assigned to Sir Edward as assistant adjutant general and observed: “The Staff were very near the enemy’s line, when I saw some riflemen evidently creeping down and not farther off than a hundred yards, and so I very abruptly said, ‘Ride away, Sir Edward, behind this bank or you will be shot in a second. By your action you will be recognized as the Commander in Chief, and some riflemen are now going to fire.’” Sir Harry saved his commander but not for long. Attesting to the skill of the American frontier rifleman, we have this account by an anonymous British officer who fought there:
“We marched,” said this officer, “in solid column in a direct line, upon the American defenses. I belonging to the staff; and as we advanced, we watched through our glasses, the position of the enemy, with that intensity an officer only feels when marching into the jaws of death. It was a strange sight, that breastwork, with the crowds of beings behind,
their heads only visible above the line of defense. We could distinctly see the long rifles lying on the works, and the batteries in our front with their great mouths gaping towards us. We could see the position of General Jackson, with his staff around him. But what attracted our attention most was the figure of a tall man standing on the breastworks dressed in linsey-woolsey, with buckskin leggins and a broad-brimmed hat that fell around his face almost concealing his features. He was standing in one of those picturesque graceful attitudes peculiar to those natural men dwelling in forests. The body rested on the left leg and swayed with a curved line upward. The right arm was extended, the hand grasping the rifle near the muzzle, the butt of which rested near the toe of his right foot. With his left hand he raised the rim of his hat from his eyes and seemed gazing intently on our advancing column. The cannon of the enemy had opened up on us and tore through our ranks with dreadful slaughter; but we continued to advance unwavering and cool, as if nothing threatened our program.
“The roar of the cannon had no effect upon the figure before us; he seemed fixed and motionless as a statute. At last he moved, threw back his hat rim over the crown with his left hand, raised his rifle and took aim at our group. At whom had he leveled his piece? But the distance was so great that we looked at each other and smiled. We saw the rifle flash and very rightly conjectured that his aim was in the direction of our party. My right hand companion, as noble a fellow as ever rode at the head of a regiment, fell from his saddle. The hunter paused a few moments without moving the gun from his shoulder. Then he reloaded and resumed his former attitude. Throwing the hat rim over his eyes and again holding it up with the left hand, he fixed his piercing gaze upon us, as if hunting out another victim. Once more, the hat rim was thrown back, and the gun raised to his shoulder. This time we did not smile, but cast our glances at each other, to see which of us must die. When again the rifle flashed another of our party dropped to the earth. There was something most awful in this marching to certain death. The cannon and thousands of musket balls played upon our ranks, we cared not for; for there was a chance of escaping them. Most of us had walked as coolly upon batteries more destructive without quailing, but to know that every time that rifle was leveled toward us that one of us must surely fall; to see it rest motionless as if poised on a rack, and know when the hammer came down that the messenger of death drove unerringly to its goal, to know this and still march on, was awful.
