McDonnell used a long leg to pull the boat closer to the transport, then leapt, landing on both feet. He pitched forward onto his hands and steadied himself. Johann followed, relying on McDonnell to catch him.
For eight days, the British fleet had loitered off the beaches of Isle Royale, miles from the Louisbourg fortress, leery of landing through heavy surf. Whenever the fog lifted enough to reveal the shore, the French fortifications seemed wider and deeper. The enemy kept digging trenches, throwing up protective embankments. They would be ready.
The Broad Bay men soon drowsed in the boat, their coats pulled tight in the damp air. It was early, barely past midnight. After so much waiting and so many false starts, they felt little of the pre-battle anxiety that steals into a soldier’s heart. They carried two days’ worth of bread and cheese. Each held his musket. Johann hoped they would sleep now. He allowed himself to think of Broad Bay. Not the stockade, but Mayflower Hof, with Walther and Hanna running and shouting. Franklin soon would run behind them, moving from his brother and sister to his mother and back again.
“From this godforsaken spot, a man’s thoughts can travel all the way home, eh?”
McDonnell’s voice was soft. He smiled in the shifting light of the boat’s lantern. Johann smiled back. “Robert, you’ll look after them all?”
“Like hell I will. I’ll be telling the story of how the sergeant major made the French swim back to France. And you’ll be bothering that skinny woman again.”
Johann nodded. “I think we’re going in this time.” McDonnell looked the question at him. “The Squirrel, it’s gone. So are some others.” McDonnell craned his neck to look beyond Johann. They bobbed among a dozen longboats. Several ships had slipped away.
“So they’ve gone to shell the Frenchies.”
“May they blow them to hell and back.”
After another few minutes, the weak light of morning filtered into the sky. Cannon blasts jerked the rangers awake. The men grabbed for their muskets and shifted in their seats, straining to see the rocky shore. The two sailors who manned the boat’s oars set to work.
The man on the tiller pointed to a rocky headland that peeked through morning mist. “We’ll pull around that,” he shouted to Johann. “Then straight on in. Have your men hang on. This could be dicey.”
Johann crab-walked through the boat, passing the word, gripping each man by the arm or shoulder. This would be the worst, at the mercy of the sea and the French guns, able to do nothing but pray for luck. The cannon roars merged into a steady thunder, each blast swallowed by others. The wind picked up as the flotilla, dozens and dozens of boats, rounded the headland. Broad Bay’s boat bounced in the surf, which flung them headlong into the bay and on toward the shore. They were near the front of the flotilla, the rockiness of the shore coming into focus.
McDonnell nudged Johann and pointed at the boat in front of them. It was the Highlanders. The sergeant who had fought with McDonnell was shouting fiercely, his beard pointed defiantly at the foreign shore. Johann was glad they wouldn’t have to fight those men.
Suddenly the explosions were closer. Stabs of fire came from the land as the French opened up. The shelling from the British ships had done little good.
A cannonball splashed to their left. Another, farther over, took the head off a man, knocking his trunk back into his boat. Johann looked away. “Get down,” he shouted, repeating himself in German. “Flat as you can.” He tried to relax his jaw, to breathe steadily, then gave up trying. He felt the savagery of the moment. Those men were trying to kill him and his friends. They must be killed.
On an upswell, a shell plowed into the water beneath them. The boat plunged down, and a second shell whistled overhead. A man, off-balance, fell from the Highlanders’ boat. No one looked for him. The boats drove on.
“Jesus,” the man at the tiller shouted, “it’s naught but stones ahead! Avast your rowing! Sweet Jesus, what are they thinking?” The beach was studded with rocks large and small. Johann could see nowhere to land.
The French cannon blasted as other boats slowed. The sound was like hailstones hitting the water. “Stay down,” he shouted. The French had switched to grape shot, spraying the boats with scraps of fiery metal.
“Look over there,” the helmsman called, slapping him on the shoulder. General Wolfe was standing in a boat two hundred yards away, waving a cane and pointing back out to sea.
“The lunatics are saying to go back.”
Johann frantically scanned the shore. “There!” McDonnell shouted. “Over there!” He pointed at the Highlanders’ boat and another one. They were veering right, toward the side of the headland. The shore there, below a sharp rise, seemed to have smaller rocks. Even better, it looked to be sheltered from the French lines.
Johann pointed to that place. “Follow them!” he yelled to the helmsman. “All the way in.”
“Hang on,” the sailor called. He swung the tiller and screamed at the men on the oars. “Pull, you worthless bastards! Pull for your lives!”
The boat rushed heedlessly at the shore, banging the men over waves that were no longer regular. One came from the right, the next from the left. The boat skidded on a crest. Johann took no notice of the cannon and rifle fire. No one could aim at them; they were moving too fast.
The sea tossed the boat forward, took a breath, then did it again. “Avast! Avast!” the helmsman called. “Ship oars.”
The two boats ahead of them had crashed onto the stony shore, their soldiers clambering into calf-high water. Some used their muskets to gain their feet. Those wet weapons would be useless for hours to come. Johann gripped the gunwale with one hand and the seat with the other. He could smell the French powder smoke.
“Sweet Jesus,” the helmsman shouted again as the sea heaved the boat a last time, smashing it into the Highlanders’ craft. The bow stove in. The boat crumpled behind it. Rangers flew up like leaves in a hurricane. Some pitched headfirst into the water. Others became hopelessly tangled, shoved aside by splintering boards. A wave fell on the boat, drenching Johann and tilting him out the side. The cold water took his breath. His feet hit the bottom farther down than he expected. It was waist deep when the surf retreated. Shoulder height when it surged in.
“Move, you sons of Satan!” It was McDonnell’s voice, rising above the clatter of musketry and booming cannon. “I’ll kill anyone who’s in this water five seconds from now!” He had Wilhelm Koch by the waist, holding him like a doll. Blood had drained from Koch’s face. Likely a blow to the head.
Highlanders waded into the sea to pull drenched rangers onshore. Captain Grant pointed to the overhang of the rise. Johann herded the rangers to the spot, where others were sheltering. They had to climb over and through sharply pointed wooden abatis, but since French fire couldn’t reach them, the men advanced.
More boats slammed onto the narrow beach. Wolfe stood in the bow of his boat and waved his cane for others to follow. He couldn’t be a better target for enemy sharpshooters.
After a word with Captain Grant, Johann ordered his rangers to the right of the Highlanders and others. Officers and sergeants shouted for bayonets. The men fitted them on the end of their muskets. Muskets, cartridge boxes, powder—all were drenched. Only cold steel would work now. Since McDonnell’s rifle wouldn’t take a bayonet, he would have to use it as a club, then move on to the tomahawk. Not waiting for Johann’s command, the rangers started up the slope.
Johann leapt up the hill, overtaking the others, using his free hand to grab anything that would propel him more quickly. Speed was key. The attackers had to keep the momentum. They had to rattle the enemy. The cannon fire was slackening. He looked back. The rangers were following, McDonnell roaring at them. More boats slammed ashore, spilling more soldiers into the sea to stagger onto land. Stinging powder smoke hung in the wet air. Wind gusts parted the smoke to allow glimpses of the defenders.
Johann didn’t notice his soggy clothes or the swirling wind. He didn’t hear the cannons that wer
e pounding missiles of death in both directions. All he knew was fury. He had to get to the French lines and stop them.
He hurried the rangers to the right side of the British line that was forming on level ground. The French were trying to turn their cannon to meet the attack. Enemy soldiers ran to face the British. Time was slipping away. Finally a colonel strode before the attackers and raised his sword. Johann couldn’t hear his order but understood the sword’s downward slash.
“Rangers, advance,” he shouted. They started at a double pace, muskets across their chests, bayonets reaching above their shoulders. The French prepared to fire a volley. The troops facing the Broad Bay men began to backpedal, trying to move at the same speed as the attackers. Emboldened, the rangers picked up their pace. Johann found himself shouting, a deep guttural roar. The other rangers picked up the shout as they reached a trot. A few French stumbled and fell, others turned and ran. The rest of the French line, now exposed on their flank, fell back as well. The British attack, sweeping up the fallen as prisoners, didn’t pause until the edge of the woods.
Fire still burned inside Johann. He paced before his men, not out of breath, eager to pursue. They were getting away. The beach behind them was a jumble of boats, soldiers wading through the surf and climbing over the wooden abatis. Wolfe, shouting, red-faced, was forming up another contingent to attack the length of the French line, but they would be too late. The French, as many as two thousand, were streaming back into the woods, back to their fortress. If they had found their courage and turned at the edge of the woods, they would have had a heavy advantage, but now they were lost. Johann felt the fire inside begin to flicker and die.
“What are they waiting for?” McDonnell called.
Johann shook his head. The attack had won the day, but not the campaign. The siege would be a long one.
Johann looked over the rangers. Most were sopping wet, with the jangled look of men who recently feared for the lives. He didn’t see Wilhelm Koch. He walked over to McDonnell, who was pointing at the fleeing enemy and laughing with two of the men. He drew his sergeant aside.
“Koch?” Johann asked.
McDonnell shook his head.
CHAPTER TWELVE
†
The sun warmed Christiane as she sat at the edge of the river, knitting a mitten and keeping an eye on Franklin. It had already been a long day. The baby, getting new teeth, was crying off and on. Not as bad as before, but he was hard to calm. They had walked to Mayflower Hof with two guards, but the hoe handle broke as she worked the potato plants, so she had to lean far over, which made her back ache. The children had quarreled, and there was only cabbage for dinner. The little ones didn’t complain, but she could see they wanted more. She did too. She sighed. She must enjoy this bright summer evening, she told herself. It was early July, so the flies were mostly gone.
The baby had spent recent days hauling himself upright and staggering forward, then stopping and looking around with wonder. For this moment, he seemed happy to pick apart an old doll made from straw and cloth that his sister gave him. Hanna had judged it too old and tattered to retain. Christiane could hear the two older children behind her, screaming with a half-dozen others in a frenzied game of tag.
Walther, face flushed bright red, threw himself on the ground next to her. “No one can catch me,” he announced.
Christiane smiled at him. He was still on the small side, but well put together. “Are you so fast?”
He scrunched up his face, thinking. “Not so fast, but I twist and turn a lot.” He watched his mother’s fingers move, quick and sure with the blue yarn. “Who are those for?”
“Papa.”
“The last ones you made were for him.”
“Your papa works hard. He goes through a great many mittens, all through the winter.”
Walther picked up a rock and tossed it toward the river, but it fell short. “Can the next ones be for me?”
Christiane put her needles down and ran to the edge of the water, grabbing Franklin’s arm and spinning him around on one foot before he reached the river. He looked up and laughed. She pointed him toward Walther. He took the suggestion and set off in that direction. Christiane followed and resettled herself.
“Can they?” Walther said. “Can the next ones be for me? I work hard too.”
“Yes, the next ones will be for Walther.”
Hanna ran to her mother and grabbed her neck, falling against her shoulder and crying. Christiane stroked the girl’s hair with her free hand and asked what the problem was.
“It’s my whistle, the one Herr Leichter made for me,” Hanna said over her shoulder. “It’s gone.”
“Where have you looked for it?”
“I had a special hiding place, where Papa works. It’s not there!” Hanna wailed.
“Let’s go and look again,” Christiane said, setting Hanna up on her own. The girl wiped her forearm over her eyes as her mother gathered up the knitting and picked up the baby.
They searched the room where the family lived and the one Johann used for carpentry, including Hanna’s hiding hole under a piece of wood. The whistle was gone. “You didn’t leave it outside, did you?” Christiane asked.
“No,” Hanna insisted, “I put it in my hiding place. I always do. Herr Leichter said I should blow it if the Indians come. Now I won’t be able to stop them, and they’ll come and take us all.”
“You couldn’t stop them anyway,” Walther said. He had tagged along during the search. “You’re just a girl.”
Christiane turned to him. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No,” he said emphatically, folding his arms over his chest.
“My sweet,” she said to Hanna, stroking her hair. “If there’s an Indian attack, I know you can scream just as loud as any whistle.” The girl wasn’t mollified. Christiane announced it was time for tired children to get ready for bed.
Inside their room, she supervised the washing up and using of the pot, then had them say their prayers.
“Can I do it, Mama?” Walther asked. Christiane nodded.
Hanna started to cry. “I want to do it,” she sniffled.
“You can choose the story,” Christiane said.
The two older children knelt and put their hands together. Christiane lit a candle next to the bed. She pulled Franklin into her lap and rocked him.
“Thank you, Lord, for the blessings of this day,” Walther began. “And please God, bless Papa and the other soldiers. And please God, care for the souls of Peter and Richard and Freya.”
“Can I pick the story now, Mama?” Hanna asked. Christiane nodded. Hanna picked the story of the little tailor, her favorite. Walther flounced down on a far corner of the bed in protest.
“One day,” Christiane began, “the little tailor fixed himself a meal of bread and jam, only to find his meal covered with hungry flies. He told the flies to leave. When they didn’t, he attacked them with a cloth, killing seven at once. Proud of his triumph, he printed a sash for himself proclaiming, ‘Seven with one blow!’ and set off to tell the king.”
“But he only killed flies,” Hanna said.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” Christiane said, “to kill so many of our flies like that?”
Christiane told how the king was impressed with the tailor’s exploits and promised that if he could also kill two giants who were terrifying the people, he could marry the king’s beautiful daughter.
“He’s going to trick the king,” Hanna said.
Christiane shushed her, then said, “So the little tailor found the giants asleep in a forest. He climbed a tree and dropped rocks on each of them until they woke up, then he hid so each blamed the other. After they went back to sleep, he did it again. And they blamed each other again. And then a third time. That time, the giants got so angry that they began to fight. They ripped trees up from the ground and smashed each other with them. Finally, they killed each other. So the tailor married the king’s daughter and became king himself.�
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Hanna was almost asleep when the story was finished. “Papa tells it better,” Walther complained. “He tells about all the fighting.”
Christiane hummed until Hanna was asleep and Franklin was nearly so. She lay the baby down and went to Walther. His eyes were wide open, his hands gripping something. Christiane forced his fingers open. Hanna’s whistle. During their search, through all of Hanna’s tears, he had said nothing.
“Why you bad boy,” she whispered to him harshly. “How could you do that to your sister? You know how much she cared about that whistle?”
He pushed his lips out in defiance and stared back at her. “I’m not sorry.”
Christiane’s hand flashed out and took his ear between finger and thumb. She pressed her thumbnail into the flesh, knowing how that hurt. Her mother had done it to her. Walther hunched his shoulder toward her hand, a useless act of self-defense. Pain screwed up his face, and tears ran from his eyes, but he made no sound.
Christiane let go. “Why?” she whispered. “Why do such a mean thing to your sister?”
Walther looked at her. “Papa told me,” his voice caught with a small sob. “He said I should take care of you. It should’ve been my whistle.” He sobbed again. “Papa didn’t tell Hanna to take care of you.”
Christiane held him until he stopped crying. “That was a mean trick, Walther. You must give the whistle back to your sister and ask her forgiveness, and also ask God to forgive you. And you must be sorry or God can’t forgive you.”
The little boy nodded. Then he hugged her fiercely and said he was really truly sorry. She helped him move over next to Hanna. She whispered to him that she would ask Herr Leichter to carve another whistle for him.
His eyes grew wide. “But Mama—”
“Yes?”
“Will you kiss Herr Leichter to get it?”
“Why would you ask that, my little lamb?”
“Aunt Ursula does, I saw her, and Sigrid’s papa is away, like our papa.”
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