This month at my local wargaming club we were fighting a small Napoleonic skirmish set in Russia, late 1812, during Napoleon's retreat from Moscow.
We were playing it as a three player game with the French (an officer and seven men, all line infantry), Russian Cossacks (eight models armed randomly with a selection of swords, pistols, muskets and a blunderbuss) and my force the British 5/60th rifles (six riflemen and Captain William Frederickson, "Sweet William" of Sharpe fame).
I had been planning to kick of my Napolonic skirmish collection (which I'm building up at the moment) with Sharpe, the 42nd highlanders and the 54th french linge. However at the last reenactment I did with the 42nd highlanders, I found a small packet of twenty riflemen amongst piles of ECW pikemen in a reenactor's stall, all metal and all for £8. So I just had to get them.
Captain Frederickson has to be my favourite character in Sharpe, so this also seemed a perfect way to kick of my Napoleonic skirmish collection.
The story behind today's game -
23rd November 1812, the day preceding the warmest day for the entire grand armee during the Russian winter. The sun has risen on the Russian wastes near Barysau and the snows have begun to melt away. A small band of French troops, having been separated from the Grand armee in a blizzard, are scouring the damp, but still bitterly cold, landscape for any sign of food or supplies to fill their starving bellies.
However unbeknownst to these poor Frenchmen they are not the only men scouring these desolate lands for rations. Not far away a small band of cossacks, who have been tracking the Grand Armee for some way now, have run out of food and have had to kill and eat their horses to stay alive.
You can be sure that both these groups will have no problem in sniffing out supplies, if indeed their are any in Russia, but when they meet the board is set for a blood bath...
Captain William Frederickson and a small section of the 5/60th royal American rifles (as yet Frederickson is not acquainted with Sharpe), having been tracking and sniping at the Grand Armee since the beginning of November - on secret orders from the British Government - are now on their last rounds of ammunition and last rations of food. Frederickson understands well, from his childhood growing up in the Westphalian hills, that this spurt of high(er) temperature will not last long and that, if they are not to starve, he and his men must gather food and ammunition now.
He too is nearing the same spot that has attracted the French and Cossacks. But if it comes to a fight over supplies, Frederickson does not care whether it is Frog or Ruski that his shots fell so long as his men have the provisions they need to live!
We used the following rules:
Each force had a roster sheet for their force (see below) with each model numbered on the base so it could be quickly identified with the correct stats on the chart. Each figure starts the game with four wounds and 2D6 randomly generated round of ammunition (which are crossed off as they are used)
As my men had rifles (and thus a longer range) we decided that i would be one model down compared to my foes.
From top to bottom the men are:
- Captain William Frederickson, rifle, 8 rounds and sabre (A Westphalian from Sharpe Novels)
- Rifleman Antoni Contachowitz, rifle and 10 rounds (A real Polish member of the 60th rifles who served in the Napoleonic war, born in Cracow)
- Rifleman Edward Cuddon, rifle and 4 rounds (A real member of the 60th rifles who served in the Napoleonic war, born in London Middlesex)
- Rifleman Patrick Dunlea, rifle and 8 rounds (A real Irish member of the 60th rifles who served in the Napoleonic war, born in Cork)
- Rifleman Frederick Rath, rifle and 4 rounds (A real Hanoverian member of the 60th rifles who served in the Napoleonic war, born in Einbeck 1791)
- Rifleman Charles William Plant, rifle and 5 rounds (A real member of the 60th rifles who served in the Napoleonic war, born in London Middlesex)
- Rifleman William Moss, rifle and 7 rounds (A real member of the 60th rifles who served in the Napoleonic war, born in Stafford 1788)
As you can see, all the members of my force (apart from Captain William Frederickson) were real people who fought in the 60th royal American rifles during the Napoleonic wars (courtesy of find my past and the national archives)
Captain Frederickson and his half dozen riflemen dashed across the open ground to shelter behind a low dry stone wall, which had once made up part of a livestock pen before the flight of the Russian peasants with the Tsar's scorched earth policy.
Frederickson looked down the line of sheltering Green jackets. Their breath could be seen rising in clouds of mist in the bitterly cold air. The riflemen pulled their scarves tighter around their necks and rubbed their woollen coated hands together, looking down the wall towards their Captain. Frederickson looked back at his band and nodded.
The men leaped to their feet, vaulting over the walls of the ruined enclosure and running towards a dirt track which ran between the nearby abandoned farm house and the ruined church (A relic of the Mongol invasion which had also swept through Russia as Napoleon had done not too many months earlier) in the distance. Lying on the far side of the road, at the bottom of the chapel walls, lay an abandoned waggon, seemingly full of powder, ammunition and food supplies. It was this that the 60th rifles were heading for now, but Frederickson was on the alert and took comfort in knowing his and his men's rifles were loaded and ready; it seemed just too good to be true that the French and Cossacks flooding through the lands had left this waggon un-noticed. Sweet William smelled a trap.
The riflemen had split into two wings, each heading down either side of the abandoned pen, closing in upon the waggon. Riflemen Moss, Plant, Rath and Contachowitz scuttled down the side of the empty barn, sheltering in the shadows cast by the rotting thatch covering the wooden roof frame.
On the other side of the walled pen, Captain Frederickson and Riflemen Cuddon and Dunlea sprinted across the relative openness on the other side of the enclosure, their backs bent over and their rifles out and cocked.
Moss and Contachowitz darted across the open dirt track, diving into the shade cast by two great trees. Polish emigre, Antoni Contachowitz, crawled forwards to the tree closest to the waggon. He slowly raised himself on one knee, scanning the horizon down the barrel of his rifle and straightening his shako. In the tree cover on the horizon he could see shapes moving but could not make out whether they were caused by animals or men. Beside him Rifleman William Moss slid his back up the same tree, his rifle in hand and his fingers resting on the cocking hammer.
Across the dirt track, Frederick Rath crawled along the side of the overgrown stone wall on his belly, rifle loaded and in hand. The Hanoverian peered around the wall and down the frozen dirt road to where the shapes spotted by Contachowitz began growing in size, coming nearer towards the riflemen.
In the undergrowth the other side of the laden cart, Captain Frederickson crouched against the trunk of a tree, letting the wet branches envelope him as he swung his baker rifle from his back and into his hands. As he began to pull back the hammer to half cock, he caught sight of Rifleman Patrick Dunlea clambering up the raised ground to his right, the rifleman's pack (one of the only two still in his men's possession) protruded from his low lying green coated back whilst his mop of brown hair blew in the wind from his Shakoless head.
Covering him was rifleman Edward Cuddon. His rifle darted hither and dither as he looked across the area surrounding the waggon for movements from frogs or cossacks.
Looking cautiously around them for signs of opposition, Contachowitz and Moss dashed right up to the isolated waggon. They slumped down on either side of the wooden cart, congratulating each other on their success, Contachowitz in his thick Polish accent, whilst aiming around them into the shadowy recesses around them in case of possible ambush.
In the heavily wooded area surrounding the high ground; Frederickson and Cuddon crept carefully along, pressed up in the cover from the wooded ridge, their baker rifles at half cock with slings blowing in the breeze. Looking out between the branches of the trees, Captain Frederickson could quiet clearly make out the shapes of three Cossacks trotting from out of the tree line and into the ruins of the stone church. To his right he also believed he could make out the shapes of more cossacks wandering through the densely wooded hummocks of hard earth.
He looked poignantly at Irish Rifleman Dunlea. Dunlea shook his shaggy hair, swung his rifle onto his shoulder and ran to the lone tree protruding from the tree line, all the while keeping low down and carefully avoiding dry twigs and dead leaves. But the cossacks continued their into the ruins, appearing not to see the green jacket. As he reached the tree he dropped to one knee and aimed his rifle towards the shapes approaching the three riflemen from the woods.
Moss got to his feet fed up with scanning the horizon for an unseen foe. No frogs were watching them and they needed to get to work moving the cart, so as to build their fire before night fell. He leaned over the cart and called out to the Pole who was still diligently wandering his gun over the terrain in front of him. Contachowitz swore at Moss, but as the Staffordshire rifleman turned round to see where Riflemen Rath and Plant had got to, the sound of a pistol rang out through the silent frozen landscape.
Moss felt the pistol ball scythe its way through his dirty red epaulet, sweeping its way through the flesh in his shoulder, clipping the bone, and bursting out through the front of his green uniform. He let his rifle drop as he fell to the floor, but managed to catch himself before his chest touched the ground. The pain sheered through his whole being and it was a while before he realised the blood dripping onto the frosted ground was falling from his own shoulder.
Meanwhile at the tree line; Patrick Dunlea caught a glimpse of movement in between the trees and turned to see a dismounted Cossack brandishing a huge curved sword and running straight at him. Dunlea pulled the trigger with his baker rifle pointing vaguely in the direction of the Ruski, but the shot only ricocheted from off the thick trunk of a tree close to the Cossack. Dunlea cursed his foolishness at not aiming for his target before he fired and began the long process of reloading his rifled musket.
Back at the cart; the wounded Moss raised himself from the floor, rested the rifle on his injured arm, aimed it in the direction of the smoke and fired. The French firer dodged and the small lead ball bounced harmlessly off a wall of the ruined church, the Frog leaped to his feet and began shouting and gesturing at the other greatcoated men. Moss saw from the man's greatcoat and the braid covering his Shako that he was an Officer of the line and no doubt these were his starving men, streaming from the forest, who had been cut off from the main French army.
As Moss pulled himself up the side of the waggon, rifle over shoulder, the lead Frenchman charged towards him with bayonet fixed, but the Frog halted half a dozen feet from the cart with a confused look on his face and Contachowitz's rifle pointing straight at him.
Captain Frederickson sprinted across the clearing from the shelter of the ridge, diving into the undergrowth where Riflemen Plant and Rath were priming their baker rifles, having just fired on the Frenchmen with little result. He quickly got a grip of the situation around the waggon, despite the smoke blowing through the air, and made ready his rifle.
Frederickson aimed and fired on the Frenchman nearest Moss, but either the Frog shrugged off the rifle wound or it failed to wound him at all. Frederickson ripped out his false teeth and stuffed them into his Cartridge pouch, spitting in the crystallised dirt on the ground.
Back over by the tree line more Cossacks were charging out from the woods towards where Dunlea and Cuddon had their positions. The two riflemen, after dispatching a rather hasty volley on the Ruskis, hastily reloaded their baker rifles with two taps of the stocks against the hard earth. However the bearded savages were now almost on top of the green jackets with their swords and pistols drawn and ready.
The confused Frenchman, brushed into action by Captain Frederickson's pot shot, now raised his musket, aiming it straight at Rifleman Moss' back. Moss and Contachowitz were at that moment hurriedly rummaging through the supplies in the waggon and had both retrieved a heavy barrel (they had not waited to see whether they contained powder or food) when suddenly a crashing shot heralded that the Frenchman had pulled the trigger of his gun. The Polish Rifleman hit the ground, dropping his barrel as he fell to his hands and knees. He peered under the cart, looking for the Frog who had just fired. But as he stared he saw Rifleman Moss lying motionless in the muddy ruts, which had been caused by the cart as it was dragged across the thawing by who ever had abandoned it, with blood seeping through the back of his green uniform.
Contachowitz staggered back up, on to his feet, swore at the Frenchman and fired. The Greatcoated Frenchman staggered backwards, wounded, and Contachowitz picked up his baker rifle and wooden barrel.
Captain Frederickson and Hanoverian rifleman Frederick Rath, leaped out from their cover in the trees and began to run towards the motionless body of William Moss.
Frederickson skipped over a tree root, sabre drawn, and screamed at the Frenchman who stood petrified, musket smoking. At Frederickson's side, leaping like a faithful gun dog, Rath held his rifle high like a great quarter staff and he too yelled his war cry. But as the two neared the cart, a volley from the rest of the approaching Frenchmen sent earth flying around them, the musket balls missing them by inches and spraying earth into the air. Fredrickson had not realised quite how many Frenchmen there were emerging from the trees when he set out with Rath to help secure the cart and so, terrified by the volley that had so nearly done for them, the pair redirected their charge. They ran right out of range of the Frenchmen's muskets, coming to sit down sharply beside Rifleman Cuddon.
However even as Frederickson leaned over to him, he heard the blast of a pistol and saw Cuddon roll down from his knees and onto his bottom before keeling over backwards to land with a thud on the hard earth, his face up to the cold white sky. He was shaking and blood was dribbling from the corner of his mouth, Frederickson could see where the small pistol ball had penetrated his chest. Sweet William was on his knees looking into the face of the Staffordshireman he had come to know so well over the course of the mission. Frederickson looked up from Cuddon's now still and lifeless body. As he blinked away his tears he could see a great moustached Cossack shoving his unloaded pistol into his belt and drawing a great sabre. The Westphalian officer raised his baker rifle shakily to point straight at the Cossack and fired before falling back onto the frozen bank of the raised ground. The Cossack roared with rage and Frederickson realised with dismay that his shot had failed to kill the great Ruski.
But before Frederickson could flee another Cossack with a musket in hand was upon him, leaping from behind where the high ground had obscured him to Frederickson's left. Frederickson drew his delicate curved cavalry sabre and lashed out at the warrior in one fluid move, but the cossack blocked this attack with the wood of his ancient musket. He then brought the musket up, wielding it like a great axe about to chop straight down on Frederickson's head. However Frederickson, with his agile weapon, hit first. He slashed out at the Cossack's belt and felt it cut cleanly through the Russian's thick coat before entering his great belly and coming cleanly out above his cartridge pouch. The Cossack's musket slipped from his hands as he stared, shocked, at the perpetually smug look on Frederickson's face. Then he keeled over backwards and lay motionless, disemboweled by Frederickson's sabre.
During the seconds that had followed Moss' death (in which Cudon had been shot dead and Frederickson had killed the Cossack); the nearby French had been quick to take his barrel for their own and strip his body of his own personal equipment, whilst Contachowitz and the other riflemen were otherwise occupied.
At the same time as his men were setting about the morbid task; the French officer, who had first wounded Moss and had since reloaded, drew his sword and rushed Contachowitz as the Polish Rifleman was shouldering his barrel.
The Frenchman skidded to a halt as the Rifleman turned to face him, and suddenly lunged out as he had been taught by his fencing tutor in Florence. But he struck out as only a man crazed by hunger, cold and the despair if defeat can do, in a cruel and savage mockery of fencing technique. Contachowitz threw down the barrel, knocking the sword from the officer's hand.
But before Contachowitz could follow up on the officer with his rifle butt; another Frog, in a huge shako and greatcoat, was charging towards him with his bayonet fixed and levelled. Contachowitz knocked aside the bayonet with a hefty parry from his rifle stock before bringing it crashing down on the Frenchie, sending him sprawling to the ground on all fours. Contachowitz swung his empty baker rifle onto his shoulder by its sling before grabbing hold of the iron bands around the barrel on the floor and swinging it up into the face of the French officer, who had been preparing for a second lunge.
Meanwhile Rifleman Charles Plant had been observing the movements of the other Frenchmen from the safety of his concealed position in the shade of two trees. He had seen the bands of greatcoated men hurrying towards the waggon, bayonets fixed, and had fired at a pair of them.
His shot missed, ricocheting from the stone walls of what had been the entrance to the now ruined church. Plant quickly wafted away the smoke that might give away his position, even though he was sure the French had much better things (ie their stomachs) on their minds, before starting the laborious task of reloading a baker rifle.
Having beaten off the two Frenchmen, Antoni Contachowitz leaped over the waggon's shaft and sprinted as fast as he could towards the shelter of the nearest tree. He looked back over his shoulder.
In that quick turn of his head, Contachowitz took full stock of the scene behind him: The enraged French officer was gesturing violently at him with his sword and shouting something at his soldiers. The fellow whom Contachowitz had clubbed to the floor was now standing upright and aiming straight down his musket at the Polish green jacket. Bang! Contachowitz lay prostrate on the cold earth as pain shot through his right side. The Frenchman's lead ball had struck him in the side, just above his pelvis, and was no embedded there in Contachowitz's torso.
Whilst the waggon was turning into a battlefield; Captain Frederickson dashed away from where Rath and Dunlea were holding off the emerging Cossacks. He crouched down as he ran, sabre still drawn and shouted at rifleman Plant to cover him. But before they could react the French had let off a volley at the officer presenting them with such a good target.
As Frederickson neared the trees, he heard the crash of the volley and was suddenly thrown to the floor. He dragged himself along the floor by his right hand, which was still carrying the bloodied sabre. He finally reached the tree and pulled himself up to a sitting position with his back resting against the bark covered trunk.
Rifleman Plant kneeled beside his officer and looked him over. Frederickson had had a big chunk ripped out from his left hand by one of the shots whilst another musket ball had contacted his right ear and blood now poured from it. He forced himself to his feet just in time to see rifleman Contachowitz leap into the safety of the trees where Plant and the wounded Frederickson sheltered, as musket balls whizzed past him. The Pole was placed down a great wooden barrel and proceeded to sit upon it and begin reloading his rifle.
"Excellent work Contachowitz" Frederickson managed to say through his clenched gums (his teeth still being in his cartridge pouch), nodding to the rifleman.
As the three of them watched on; Hanoverian rifleman Frederick Rath bounded away from his previous position, as yet more Cossacks burst from the forests, making for another tree only a short distance from where most of the riflemen now hid. He took too great running leaps before diving forwards, sliding along the icy ground on his chest, and coming to rest amongst the roots of the lone tree. His rifle fully cocked, loaded and ready to fire.
But all of a sudden the Cossack who had hacked down rifleman Cudon, the blood still fresh on his great cutlass, appeared to the Hanoverian's left. The Russian was belting straight past Rath, carried forwards at some pace by his powerful legs, and heading straight for the cart surrounded by rummaging Frenchmen. As the Cossack appeared not to have noticed him, Rath decided to wait and watch before he picked a target to fire on.
As Rath looked on he could see one of the Frenchmen still rummaging through rifleman Moss' equipment, clearly oblivious of the huge man charging straight for him. However the Cossack now seemed to be trying to slow and Rath realised that the Russian couldn't stop himself. He grabbed out for the side of the waggon and missed. However before he crashed into the Frenchman, the Frog looked up and on seeing the immense Cossack lashed out at him with the Englishman's limp body. The Cossack was winded by the blow giving the Frenchman time to grab his musket, but before the he could strike the Cossack with his bayonet, the warrior was smashing and hacking at him with his sword.
Plant watched on as the Cossack and French Infantryman battled on. Both were tough men, though the Russian had the advantage over his opponent in size and strength, and neither appeared to be able to pin his opponent down. The Frenchman blocked with his musket, using it like a quarter staff, whilst all the time trying to get a hit on the Cossack with the bayonet at the end. The Cossack on the other hand was simply trying to bash the living daylights out of the foreigner, smashing at his musket with his sword in one hand and attempting to land a blow on his shakoed head with the pistol butt in his other.
Hearing the commotion on the other side of the waggon, the French officer leaped up onto its shaft to get a better view of the brawl. However his golden shako braid attracted Rath's eye as it glinted in the winter sun, presenting him with just the target he had been waiting for. Rath pulled the trigger.
Smoke filled the Hanoverian's face, but through it he caught a glimpse of the glinting braid disappearing behind the cart followed immediately by the thud of the falling officer. He had taken a hit to the ribs.
Seeing the Froggy officer fall from the cart shaft, his greatcoat torn and blood stained, Captain Frederickson dashed from the safety of his position determined to finish off the opposing officer. Frederickson's left hand hung limp and useless while his right ear rang and blood covered his face. With his toothless lear, his nerve damaged face, his missing left eye and his blood stained skin "sweet William" looked like a daemon fresh from hell. With his sabre extended ahead of him, Frederickson ran straight past the main body of Frenchmen. Not a shot was fired. He leaped round the fighting Cossack and Frenchman and was almost upon the officer, who still lay wounded on the floor, when another Greatcoated infantryman appeared in front of him. He jumped down from the cart with a barrel under each arm, seeming not to notice the wild Westphalian from Dante's inferno. Frederickson slashed at the Frenchman with his curved blade and, too late, the infantryman turned to see him. The sabre made contact with the Frenchman's neck. And then it was out and the man crumpled to the floor, the barrels slipping from under his arms as the blood gushed from his neck.
Back over by the riflemen's only barrel; Rifleman Contachowitz finished ramming the shot down His rifle barrel. He tossed the rifle up, caught it and cocked it, then he aimed down it for one of the Frenchmen. He pulled the cold steel trigger and the ball shot through the air, spinning as it spat out of the barrel. The Frenchman let go of his musket, falling to the ground and clutching at his foot in pain. Contachowitz's shot had gone low and torn through the infantryman's boot and into his foot. But he would live, worse luck!
Meanwhile, over by the cart; Captain Frederickson, his sabre still wet from where it had torn out the Frenchie's throat, hefted up one of the big barrels that his dead enemy had been carrying as he jumped from the top of the cart to his doom.
The French Officer stared at the British officer, terrified and pointing both his sword and loaded pistol straight at him. Frederickson raised his sabre and leaped forwards to strike down the Frog!
However his enemy was quicker and darted to Frederickson's left, his back up against the ruined church wall. Frederickson followed through his slash so that it came down upon the French officer. But again he was quicker and parried Frederickson's savage blow, causing a dent in the fine blades of both weapons. The infantry officer lunged back at Frederickson with the hilt of his sword, knocking the rifleman's blade aside and smacking him a blow across the face. With the rifleman dazed, the French officer took his opportunity to flee. He grabbed a couple of barrels that were lying around, having been dropped previously that evening, and made good his escape, scrambling round the corner and away past his men into the forest.
Frederickson looked wildly around him. The French officer had fled from him and now he was surrounded by Cossacks and Frenchmen, terribly wounded and with a stone wall to his back and a wooden cart to his front. There seemed little left to do but to get back to the other Rifles with this barrel and harrow the French right back to the grand armee.
But then he looked up. He saw the Cossack standing on the remnants of the church's second floor, his musket pointing straight at him. He heard the click of the hammer being cocked followed by the bang of the weapon firing. Felt the ball hit him in the chest. And as he crumpled over his barrel he knew that this was not how it should end, in the frozen Russian forests. But it did.
Frederick Rath heard the shot, he saw his Captain fall to the ground limp and motionless. He knew the shot had been fired by a Russian and even as he saw the Cossack closest to him's sword hew its French opponent in half he knew what he had to do. Rifleman Rath, born and bred in Hanover, charged the great Cossack the no man so far had been able to fell. Still guffawing horribly over the corpse of his latest victim, the Cossack did not notice the Hanoverian rifleman behind him nor did he hear him as Rath brought down the stock of his rifle on top of the huge warrior.
At the same time Rifleman Plant was advancing from tree to tree, closing in with Rath on the Cossacks rummaging through the cart. Finally, in the last tree before reaching the cart, Plant made ready his baker rifle before taking aim and firing on the nearest Cossack. But the shot thudded harmlessly into the cart's wooden shaft. Plant cursed and began reloading for a second attempt
Rifleman Dunlea retired from his position, falling back to where Contachowitz guarded their single barrel of supplies. But as the Irish rifleman ran across the open ground, his rifle trained on the Frenchmen and the Cossacks surrounding the waggon. However he had not spotted the Cossack emerging from the woods behind him. The Cossack raised his musket and fired, felling the green jacket in a single shot through the thigh.
Rath's rifle butt came down on the back of the immense Cossack's shoulders and he went flying, landing flat a back on the floor, outraged and screaming for the rifleman's blood. Hearing the shouts of his comrade, another Cossack armed with a blunderbuss emerged round the corner of the waggon. He levelled his weapon and fired it off at Contachowitz, but the Pole dived down behind his barrel as the shrapnel sprayed through the trees. As soon as he heard the thud of shot in the wood of the barrel he leaped back to his feet and fired his rifle off at the Cossack. The rifleman's bullet missed the Russian by inches, ricocheting off the cart's back wheel. However it did the trick and the terrified warrior fled for his life back inside the ruined church.
The large Cossack, who seemed more than thick skinned enough to survive the horrors of battle unscathed, was now on his feet and duelling Rifleman Rath. The Cossack smashed a blow down at the Rath's head, but the Hanoverian dodged and swung his rifle like a cricket bat at the Cossack's legs. He caught the Russian behind the knee and he fell to his knees on impulse, however he was up in no time and battering at Rath with all his weapons, arms, hands and body.
Rifleman Plant was now reloaded with his last round of ammunition and again aiming at the redcoated Cossack who seemed to be in command of the venture. The shot served to dis-cap the Ruski, his fur trimmed hat flying up into the air, a perfectly circular hole punched through it. The Cossack was un harmed by the shot but in a terrible fright, and he too bolted for the safety of the church ruins.
Contachowitz levelled his rifle towards the redcoated Cossack scrambling for the ruins. He fired but the Cossack was moving too fast, and his shot impacted the solid stone wall instead. By the waggon rifleman Rath threw off the Cossack with his rifle, and ran over too Captain Frederickson. He lifted the Westphalian onto his shoulder and ran, blowing his Captain's tin whistle to signal the retreat.
More Cossacks were flooding into the ruined church and the three remaining green jackets knew it was futile to stay any longer. They had one barrel, possibly enough food to last them until they had another opportunity to scavenge more.
The last of the Frenchmen could just be seen disappearing into the forests in the distance. They had hauled off nearly ten barrels and smoke could be seen rising in the distance where the infantrymen were burning a deserted barn to keep them warm as night fell.
The battle had been a tragic defeat for the British, even with the advantage of the baker rifles. Frederickson had been knocked down wound by wound until he was slain. The other three dead had been killed outright by perfectly aimed shots. Of all four green jackets killed (immobilised) three had been slain by the Russian Cossacks who made the pretence of being Britain's allies, whilst only one green jacket had been killed by the well trained French line infantry. Both the French and Cossacks had only lost two men in the entire engagement, the majority of the French force escaping off the table with their ill gotten plunder.
(For each barrel captured a playing card was awarded to the force that captured it. The number symbolising how many days the supplies would last.)
Riflemen Antoni Contachowitz (of Poland), Frederick Rath (of Hanover) and Charles William Plant (of London) escaped into the woods with but one barrel and the stricken bodies of Captain Frederickson (of Westphalia) and Rifleman Patrick Dunlea (of Ireland). Dunlea died during the night, bleeding to death from his thigh wound despite the efforts of his comrades to stench the flow. Captain Frederickson recovered and, that December, was reposted to the Peninsula where he commanded the 60th rifles in the attack on Adrados. The one rescued barrel turned out to contain six days worth of food supplies, which lasted the three and their wounded officer until they were picked up by a battalion of Russian line infantry.
The French found enough supplies in their barrels to last them till the 17th of December when they met up with Napoleon and the French Vanguard. They were some of the few men to escape Russia and after returning to France they were promoted to the guard.
The Cossacks discovered in the remaining barrels, which had been left in the waggon, enough food to last them eighteen days. They continued to harrow the French rearguard, but history does not record their story any more than this.
I have kicked off my Napoleonic skirmish collection with a platoon (undersized Company) of 5/60th riflemen and a band of dismounted Polish Guard Lancers armed with carbines. So expect to see these rules used in the future
