Brothers in Arms: The Siege of Louisbourg, Sébastien deL'Espérance, New France, 1758

by Don Aker

  “Our orders have changed,” he said when he reached us. “Suivez-moi.”

  Shouldering our muskets, we followed him as he led us toward the Porte Maurepas, where the rest of our comrades had already assembled before Captain Boudier.

  “Compagnie,” Boudier began. “I expect you heard the explosion last evening.”

  Nods and murmurs from my comrades confirmed this.

  “Yesterday, British guns began bombarding our comrades at Anse de la Cormorandière. One of them struck a supply of our gunpowder and there were casualties.”

  I shook my head at this news, as did Guillaume. But we had no time to worry about which soldiers had been injured. Or killed.

  “Gouverneur Drucour has ordered reinforcements and additional cannons be sent to the area,” explained Boudier. “Prepare to leave for Anse de la Cormorandière within the quarter hour.”

  My thoughts turned to Marie-Claire. I longed to see her before the company’s march to the cove, longed to hold her in my arms and tell her au revoir, but I knew this was not possible. We had to move quickly if we were to keep the enemy at bay.

  * * *

  A handful of British masts poked through the thick fog along the shoreline. Guillaume spotted them, too, and turned to grin at me. This was surely the moment we had trained for.

  Ahead of us, Captain Boudier raised his arm and all fifty men halted. He began barking commands, and we immediately broke formation and poured over the ridge, past the cannons and swivel guns. The trees that had once grown here had been felled and rolled to the water’s edge, their trunks and tangled roots and branches blocking access to the cove’s two main beaches. With little natural protection on the hillside that sloped toward the water, we set to work carving shallow trenches to give us cover.

  Moments later, Guillaume elbowed me. “Sébastien! Do you see?”

  I looked to where he was pointing — a gaping hole far to our right. It was all that remained after British gunners had blown up that supply of gunpowder. At least the fog and high surf during the last few days had kept the British from attempting a landing, but we all knew this reprieve would not last.

  “Hopefully,” I said, nodding toward the damage, “that strike was British luck, not skill.”

  Guillaume nodded. “Those redcoats will quiver in their boots when they see Guillaume Rousseau firing at them.”

  I grinned at his confidence, and we set to work on our trenches again.

  As we dug, Boudier moved across the hillside, stopping momentarily to speak to my comrades. From time to time, the wind brought snatches of his comments to my ears, some of them offering advice, many of them encouragement. Finally he reached Guillaume and me. Surveying our work, he nodded approvingly. “This weather will break soon,” he warned. “When it does, the British will be upon us. We cannot allow them to make landfall here.”

  An hour later, having finished our trench, Guillaume and I lowered ourselves into position to await the assault. I lay there, my eyes trained on the water’s edge, because I could see no farther. The fog had continued to thicken, masking even the waves that crashed against the shore.

  My musket gripped in my hands, my thoughts turned again to Marie-Claire. Yes, I would soon be fighting to defend French rule in the New World, but I would also be fighting for the woman I loved. The woman who, God willing, would soon be my wife.

  Chapter 4

  June 8, 1758

  Boudier was wrong about one thing. Four days had passed, yet the British still had not attempted a landing. While the weather had improved somewhat, fog continued to shroud the coast as the surf pounded relentlessly against the shore. Lying now in the pre-dawn darkness of our trench, I could hear enormous waves shatter on the rocky beach, and I began to wonder whether the British might abandon their plans to attack.

  Three days earlier, Governor Drucour himself had ridden to Anse de la Cormorandière to tell our leaders that half of the Cambis Regiment was waiting for small boats to take them to Baie des Espagnols, where they would begin their march to the town. Captain Boudier’s voice betrayed his frustration when he shared this information with us, but he encouraged all of us to remain strong and prepared.

  We were grateful to learn yesterday that the first contingent of the Cambis troops had marched into Louisbourg, followed by thirty Micmac warriors. My comrades cheered the news. It was exactly what we needed after days of lying cold and cramped in our trenches. Beside me now, Guillaume snored. We took turns keeping watch, and I chose to remain awake in the hour before dawn. During the night I had sensed a change in the air. The crash of the waves told me that the surf still ran high, but the dampness of the past three days had lessened, suggesting that the fog might at last begin to lift. I kept my face turned to the east, my eyes watching for the first rays of light to confirm what I suspected.

  “Guillaume!” I hissed minutes later.

  He jolted awake. “Oui, Sébastien?”

  I pointed toward the water. The fog had pulled away from the shore, exposing the dark silhouettes of enemy ships on the sea. Beside them, smaller shapes bobbed on the water, flat-bottomed longboats already filled with enemy soldiers, some packed so tightly the men were forced to stand. Astonishingly, the British had launched them under cover of darkness without making a sound. One group now made its way in the direction of Pointe Platte, another headed toward Pointe Blanche, while a third flotilla rowed toward us.

  Sounds of muskets being readied in the trenches on either side told us our comrades had arrived at the same realization. The invasion had begun.

  Guillaume clapped a hand on my shoulder. “At last,” he breathed.

  I shared his excitement. For the very first time, we would not be using our muskets in practice or for hunting. We would be firing our weapons as soldiers in defence of our king and our country.

  And Marie-Claire.

  Explosions ripped through the calm as cannons aboard the closest ships now began to fire. Water sprayed in all directions as cannonballs fell short of us and struck its churning surface. But it would not be long before the British artillerymen found their range. I raised my musket, aiming it toward the boats already approaching the shore.

  “Compagnie!” shouted Boudier, and every man under his command turned toward the captain. “I have an order from Lieutenant Colonel Mascle de Saint-Julhien.”

  Beside me, Guillaume swore under his breath. Our first day here, a few of us had failed to suppress groans at learning that Saint-Julhien was in command, yet Captain Boudier had been quick to show his annoyance at our response. We would not make that mistake again.

  “You are to withhold fire until the boats are within close range,” called Boudier. “No one is to shoot until given the order.”

  I scanned the British longboats. While most of our attackers wore the red coats I expected to see, others wore a variety of uniforms, among them bold Highland tartans. All of the men not busy rowing clung fast to the gunwales as the boats bobbed like corks in the high waves.

  Artillery fire from the ships continued to punch the air. I suppressed a shudder at each explosion. Yet still we waited, our weapons trained on the approaching flotilla. A huge wave capsized two of the boats, men and muskets suddenly disappearing from sight. Within moments a few heads broke the surface as men flailed in the pounding surf. Only two of the invaders managed to reach an overturned boat before their sodden uniforms pulled them under.

  I looked at Guillaume, his eyes reflecting the same dismay that was washing over me now. Despite wanting to rout the British, neither of us was eager to watch men drown. To be killed in battle was one thing, but to die from waves instead of wounds seemed a mockery.

  A third boat capsized and more British soldiers vanished beneath the waves. But the remaining boats kept closing the distance between them and the shoreline, making me wonder if we would ever hear the order to fire. Finally, just as the keels of the first boats dragged on the bottom, it came. “Feu!”

  The cove erupted with gunfire as our m
uskets, cannons and swivel guns bombarded the enemy. Musket shot tore through red coats suddenly darkened with blood, their wearers spun like tops or thrown backwards into the waves. Fragments of boats shattered by artillery fire flew in all directions, piercing men like jagged spears. Most horrifying of all was the sight of a man cut in half by a cannonball that tore through his body and then through the boat he and his comrades were struggling to beach.

  Riddled with holes, other boats quickly filled with water and sank. Soldiers’ cries were lost amid the crash of the surf and the roar of gunfire. This was more slaughter than skirmish, more like shooting pigs in a pen than defending a stretch of beach.

  My ears ringing from weapon fire and my eyes smarting from the flare of gunpowder, I concentrated on loading, shooting and reloading, trying to make every shot count despite the revulsion I felt each time musket shot smashed through flesh and bone. Beside me Guillaume was doing the same, focusing on driving the enemy back, keeping the British from gaining the foothold they desired. “Mon Dieu!” he muttered, shaking his head as he reloaded.

  By now, many of the boats remaining on the water were retreating, but the heavy surf, much of it crimson with blood, was still taking its toll. Through the smoke-filled air, Guillaume and I watched, mystified, as one boat, its sides now looking more like cheesecloth than wood, somehow managed to remain afloat. A gust of wind blew some of the smoke aside. The occupants of the boat, brawny Highlanders, had stuffed the holes with the thick wool of their tartans. I wondered if they would as easily be able to stop the blood flowing from their wounds.

  The barrage continued for fifteen minutes until, above the tumult, drums signalled the companies to cease firing.

  Guillaume grasped my shoulder. “Nous sommes vainqueurs!” he shouted.

  But after what I had just seen, I was less certain of our victory. While others cheered our success, I rose and made my way toward Captain Boudier.

  Guillaume followed. “Is there something wrong, Sébastien?” he asked.

  “Je ne sais pas.”

  When I reached Boudier and Saint-Julhien, I saluted them both. “Capitaine,” I said, “I request permission to scout the area to the east.”

  “For what reason?” asked Boudier.

  I told him of three boats I had watched among the others that had retreated. “They disappeared while rounding that outcropping,” I explained, pointing to where I had last seen them. “They never reappeared, so they may have beached on the other side with the intent to attack us from behind. Higher ground would give them the advantage.”

  “No one could scale the cliffs on either side of this cove,” Saint-Julhien scoffed, “and certainly not with weapons in hand. If the soldiers you saw in those boats survived,” he continued, “they are surely trapped on the spit of land beneath those cliffs.”

  Boudier seemed less certain of that fact. Turning to Saint-Julhien, he said, “I respectfully ask your permission, as a precautionary measure, to send these two men to scout the area.”

  “As you wish,” Saint-Julhien muttered, already moving off to survey the damage the British guns had wrought.

  Boudier turned to us. “Report what you learn directly to me,” he said.

  * * *

  “You think I am being too cautious,” I said to Guillaume as we crept toward the bluff above Anse de la Cormorandière. It was the first either of us had spoken since leaving the shore below. Now and then the breeze brought faint cheers from our comrades.

  Guillaume turned a grave face toward me. His eyes held a haunted look. “Non,” he replied. “It is better that we check.”

  I nodded, now understanding the reason for his silence. My own mind still reeled from the gore we had witnessed earlier, and I suspected Guillaume was struggling with those same gruesome images.

  We continued in silence through the bushes and tall grass, the only vegetation that remained, since the forest had fallen to French axes. At last we reached the outcropping. Dropping to the ground, we crawled toward its edge, peering through the grass that screened us. Far below on a fingernail of beach were the three boats. They had been joined by two others, and more than eighty British soldiers had begun to make their way up the cliff toward us, their muskets strapped to their backs. Although the pounding of the surf masked their voices, I could well imagine their satisfaction at having made landfall after so disastrous an attempt in the cove. And their slow but determined progress up the rock face suggested that nothing would keep them from scaling it. Except Guillaume and me.

  I slipped my musket off my shoulder, but a hand gripped my arm. “Non!” hissed Guillaume.

  “But we must,” I breathed.

  “Against such numbers?” He shook his head. “We lack enough shot to keep all of them from reaching the summit. And what if more boats arrive?”

  Peering again at the enemy climbing toward us, I was overwhelmed by the sight of these British invaders advancing on French soil. My mind filled with images of Marie-Claire, and I wanted nothing more than to take aim at the nearest redcoat. But Guillaume was right. We needed to warn our comrades.

  * * *

  “Capitaine!” we shouted in unison as we ran down the slope toward Boudier, who was inspecting a cannon.

  Boudier’s face darkened as we approached.

  “The British are ashore!” called Guillaume.

  “How many?” he demanded.

  “Quatre-vingts,” I gasped. “Maybe more.”

  “Come with me!” he ordered.

  We followed him across the hillside toward Saint-Julhien, who stood looking toward the sea, his hands clasped behind his back. Hearing footsteps hurrying toward him, he turned. The self-satisfied smile on his lips vanished.

  “Sir!” said Boudier when we reached him. “My men have something to report.”

  “Oui?” he snapped.

  As quickly as we could, we told him about the boats that had beached beneath the bluff, and our fear that others would soon join them.

  He raised his eyes heavenward and sighed. “They may have reached the shore, but their landing affords them no advantage. The British cannot possibly scale that cliff with weapons in hand.”

  “But, sir,” said Guillaume, “they are doing that very thing. Sébastien and I saw them.”

  “I am sure you saw them try,” he said, “but did any reach the summit?”

  “Non,” Guillaume muttered.

  “We didn’t stay to watch them succeed,” I said. “We thought it better to report the news to you at once.”

  Saint-Julhien nodded toward the surf and I reluctantly followed his gaze. Shattered bodies continued to roll in waves that still ran red, and I swallowed sudden nausea. I focused my attention once more on Saint-Julhien as he spoke again. “We have driven the British back. Any efforts to outflank us from that beach will be useless.”

  “Sir,” said Boudier, clipping each word. “With your permission, I would like to reposition my company on our left flank as a defensive measure.”

  Saint-Julhien waved a hand as though brushing aside a fly, then seemed to notice the intensity in Boudier’s words. He nodded curtly.

  Saluting him, Boudier turned and strode past us, Guillaume and I falling into step behind. Once more, I was proud to be in his command.

  After quickly sharing with our comrades the news of our discovery, Boudier barked orders that each of us followed to the letter. Within moments everyone in our company had taken up new positions above the cove, prepared to repel any enemy soldiers who might attack our left flank.

  Lying in wait, I should have felt heartened that our vastly outnumbered garrison had been able to turn back the enemy with so few casualties. But I was not. The only thought in my head was the sight of those British soldiers making their way up the rock face.

  * * *

  “Do you see him?” Guillaume whispered beside me. His words were barely audible above the musket fire that repeatedly cracked the air.

  “Oui,” I replied, my eyes following the figure mov
ing furtively through the bushes ahead of us. If not for his bright red coat, I might have missed him, so I was once more grateful to the British for their choice of uniform. The dark blue livery that my comrades and I wore was much more difficult to detect.

  Kneeling, I drew a cartridge from my belt and bit off the paper end to expose the black powder. My movements were mere reflexes, routines drilled into us again and again to prepare our muskets for firing — half-cock the hammer, pour gunpowder into the priming pan, close the frizzen, place the butt of the musket against my left calf, pour more powder down the muzzle, insert the cartridge, plunge the ramrod into the barrel, tamp down the lead ball and powder. The whole process took scant moments, as instinctive to me as breathing. And why not? I had been doing it without interruption since the enemy had appeared on our left flank.

  I raised my musket and sighted down the barrel at the soldier, anticipating his next movement. I waited, holding my breath, and then squeezed the trigger. The sharp report of my musket joined others around me as the redcoat fell back, a lead ball now deep in his chest.

  The British soldiers had scaled the cliff before we could stop them, a feat that seemed to have made them even bolder than they had appeared that morning. And others had clearly joined those we’d seen on the beach beyond the outcropping. Eager to rout us, they had made their way stealthily yet swiftly toward our position. Had we not been expecting them, we might well have been overpowered because, as I had feared, their position on higher ground gave them the advantage. As it was, several of our comrades had been wounded and at least two were feared dead. But the enemy, too, had suffered casualties, which had kept them from advancing farther. And we’d received word that Saint-Julhien had ordered the Artois and Bourgogne soldiers to reinforce our numbers, so we were confident we could hold the enemy back. After all, what could a few boatloads of British accomplish in the face of a thousand French soldiers and Micmac warriors?

  “De l’Espérance! Rousseau!”