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

by Don Aker

  The two had chuckled and I forced myself to join in their laughter before bidding them farewell.

  But standing now at Pointe à Rochefort preparing the cannon for firing again, I had that same sense of misgiving. I shrugged it off, telling myself it was only because the British had surprised us at every turn. Rather than worrying about the future, I needed to concentrate on blasting the enemy at Pointe à la Phare into oblivion. Had I not promised Guillaume to make every shot true?

  As I’d done all morning and afternoon, I picked up the sponge, a long staff with one end wrapped in lambskin, and repeatedly rammed it down the cannon’s barrel. After scouring away dirt and smothering any sparks that might remain after the previous shot, I stood back as a comrade ladled powder down the barrel and added a wad of paper. Then I dropped in the cannonball and reached for the rammer, using it to drive the ball and the powder into the breech before nodding to the officer of the artillery.

  Sergeant Gerard Fournier checked both the cannon’s aim and its elevation. Satisfied, he lit the fuse, and the explosion that followed made the earth shudder. As the cannonball arced through the air toward Pointe à la Phare, I wondered how long the mortar in our battery’s walls could withstand those vibrations. The masonry closest to the sea weakened even more quickly than the rest, and the battery at Pointe à Rochefort took the brunt of every storm from the northeast, the waves often crashing against the mortared stones.

  As I did after every tenth shot, I took a moment to cool the cannon by dipping the lambskin into a pail of water before sponging the barrel clean. While I worked, I imagined Guillaume returning from the day’s sortie, the usual grin on his face. Regardless of whatever danger he had encountered, he would no doubt weave it into a humorous tale as he had with our experience at Pointe Platte. No one realized how close we had come to death or capture that day, because Guillaume had exaggerated the size of the snake tenfold, along with his reaction to it, his face contorting with the telling. Even Renard, who seldom spoke, had begged him to tell the story again.

  “Cease firing!” barked Captain Boudier.

  Never had I welcomed two words more. The muscles in my back throbbed, but I ignored them. What mattered was that our offensive was over. Little could be seen across the harbour because of the smoke from the many guns we had fired from the island and Pointe à Rochefort batteries, as well as from our warships. However, even if only a portion of our shots had met their mark, Pointe à la Phare surely would be a threat no longer.

  “Good work,” said Captain Boudier to Sergeant Fournier, then extended the same praise to the rest of us. “All Louisbourg will be grateful for your efforts today.”

  After my comrades and I had cleaned the cannons and restocked the battery’s supply of ammunition, Boudier selected four men to take the first watch, and then dismissed the rest of us. Most made their way toward the barracks, eager to fill their bellies or to sleep, but I hurried in a different direction.

  Some minutes later, I reached the Porte Dauphine at the western end of the town and asked the guards on duty if the men from today’s sortie had returned. They told me the group had yet to appear. I glanced at the lowering sun. Guillaume and the others should have been back by now. It would not be wise for them to remain beyond the town’s walls after dark. I settled myself on a bench to wait.

  I must have dozed, because I awoke with a start to the sounds of musket fire and shouts. The sun had all but disappeared, and the lengthening shadows had cast everything in a deep gloom. I leaped up, reaching for my musket as the sound of running feet approached the gate.

  “Ouvrez la porte!” came panicked voices on the other side. “Ouvrez la porte!”

  The guards at the gate looked toward the sentry for confirmation, then raised the bar that held the gate closed. Easing it open partway, they stood back to allow nine soldiers to rush through before swinging it shut again. The arrivals’ uniforms were nearly unrecognizable, all of them slick with what looked like mud. Some men bleeding freely from wounds collapsed on the ground. Others stood bent over, gasping, their hands on their knees.

  Twenty-five soldiers had left Louisbourg that morning. Of the nine who had returned, none was Guillaume.

  I spied Christophe Gilbert among the group and ran to him. “Christophe! What happened?”

  Still wheezing, he drew himself up and turned to me. Blood streaming from a gash on his forehead covered much of his face. “We were driven into hiding.” He gulped for air. “Shortly after we left.”

  “Driven?” I asked.

  He nodded. “The hills beyond the town. They teem with the enemy.” He wheezed again as he wiped blood from his eyes. “Twice we were nearly discovered. We hid in a marsh. Waited until the sun was setting. We hoped the shadows would mask our return.”

  “Where is Guillaume?”

  Christophe’s face crumpled. “As we made our way back —” He coughed, drew a ragged breath. “A scouting party attacked. Killed six of our number outright.” He paused, as if remembering the horror of those moments, then forced himself to continue. “Others were wounded. We fought hand-to-hand. I struggled with the one who gave me this.” He pointed to the gash on his forehead. “Guillaume shot him before —” He coughed again. “Before he could finish the job.”

  “Where is Guillaume?” I repeated.

  Christophe grimaced. “We dared not risk fighting longer. We ran, but Renard …” He looked away as if unable to continue.

  Édouard Villeneuve stepped toward us and took up the story. “Renard was shot. Guillaume went back to hoist him up. I turned to help, but Guillaume waved me on.”

  “But where —”

  “Guillaume shouted that we must keep going,” Édouard explained. “We had to let our leaders know what we’d seen. He wouldn’t let himself and Renard slow us down.” Édouard looked at his muddy boots.

  Christophe managed to speak again, his voice a little stronger. “The British kept firing. Men on either side of me fell. I ran, sure that at any moment a shot would take me too. When I was almost to the gate, I turned back. Guillaume lagged far behind, carrying Renard in his arms. I started back to help him, but he shouted for me to get inside. Then more muskets fired and he went down.”

  “We must go to him!” I cried, turning toward the gate. “He may still be —”

  A hand grabbed my arm. “Sébastien,” said Christophe, “it is no use. Guillaume is dead.”

  Interlude

  July 26, 1758

  9:42 a.m.

  Marching at Major Loppinot’s side, I nod at my comrades standing at their posts, their faces every bit as grim as my own. Every soldier within Louisbourg’s now shattered walls is preparing for the final onslaught, yet each surely knows there can be only one outcome. Each understands that the breath he draws now is among the last he will ever take. Even the flag I hold seems to reflect the futility of our struggle. It hangs nearly motionless, its only movement the result of my footsteps on what remains of this cobblestone street. Living as we do by the sea, we are accustomed to winds driving the surf onto the rocks, but today there is none. It is as if the elements, too, have suffered defeat at British hands.

  The face of every soldier we meet turns toward the flag I carry, eyes following it intently as we pass. I cannot help but wonder what my comrades now see in that rectangular field of white. Is it a memory of home? A life before Louisbourg? Or is it the afterlife they focus on now, imagining Paradise as an endless expanse of sun-washed clouds? Thoughts of the afterlife must surely have passed through each of their minds since the British made landfall seven weeks ago. They have witnessed enough deaths by now to remind them of their own mortality.

  My fellow soldiers and I have fought valiantly, but all of our efforts to defend Louisbourg have been for naught. All of the men who have given their lives have done so in vain. As I walk beside the major now, the letter in his hand an impossible burden, I cannot help but think of Captain Boudier, Jacques Legrand, Renard Gaston, Édouard Villeneuve, Pierre Grimaud, G
erard Fournier and the many others like them who died in their service to King Louis. Most of all, though, I think of Guillaume, whose body lies somewhere beyond these ruined walls. No better friend could a man have had. No better comrade could a soldier have fought beside. Christophe Gilbert, who now bears a jagged scar on his forehead from that day, knows this. Yet his physical scar is no more real, no more painful than the one I carry in my heart as I think of my closest friend lost forever. There is one consolation in knowing that my own death will surely follow the delivery of Drucour’s letter — my soul will soon accompany Guillaume’s.

  That consolation, however, offers me little comfort when I think of the civilians who will join us. I struggle against tears at the thought of Marie-Claire being killed in the coming barrage, her body mangled by mortars. The idea that one so innocent, so filled with life, should have it stolen from her in so brutal a manner fills me with fury. But there is nothing I can do to prevent it. The die has been cast. I can only hold on to the memory of my last moments with her and pray that both our ends will be swift.

  Before meeting Major Loppinot this morning to perform my duty as flag-bearer, I returned once more to the casemates in the Bastion du Roi where Marie-Claire, her mother and her sister have taken refuge with other women and children. Monsieur Desbarats, who once intimidated me with his feigned gruffness, was killed four days ago when a British mortar bomb struck his home. While Marie-Claire has struggled with this loss, the other two Desbarats women have been consumed by it, wearing their grief like a yoke whose weight grows heavier with each passing hour. But Marie-Claire has drawn from a wellspring of strength I had no idea she possessed. She is no longer a daughter and a sister. She has become nurse and mother to both sister and parent. She takes it upon herself each day to ensure that they eat at least a little, and she does her best to raise their spirits, as much as any can be raised in this rubble-strewn town.

  Marie-Claire and I both know, though, that her efforts will see no return. Like everyone else here, the lives of Louisbourg’s women and children mean nothing to the British dogs. Like everyone else, they are as good as dead.

  In our final moments together this morning, I fought to keep emotion from overwhelming me. I had only one thing left to offer her: my courage. Holding her in my arms, I once more professed my love and promised that soon we would be together forever.

  Like Guillaume and so many others before and after him, we will all be together before night falls again on Île Royale.

  Chapter 9

  June 15, 1758

  War does not recognize grief. It does not offer soldiers the luxury of time to mourn. There is only duty.

  The days following the failed sortie were a blur of activity. There were moments when I almost forgot that Guillaume was gone, moments when the hollowness in my chest felt more like hunger than the grief I knew it to be. Sorrow had become part of the landscape of my life, the backdrop against which everything else unfolded.

  Despite our heavy bombardment of Pointe à la Phare, the British continued to dig in there. Adding to our woes, three columns of enemy soldiers were rumoured to be advancing toward Louisbourg. As a result, every soldier within the town’s walls was on high alert, and yesterday our drummers beat the générale, warning everyone that the British were coming. We lined the ramparts surrounding the town, vigilant for any sound or movement as we waited for the enemy to appear. By eleven o’clock that night, however, they still had not.

  Some of us were allowed to return to our barracks, but no sooner had I drifted into an uneasy sleep than the générale roused me. I leaped from bed and joined my comrades on the wall again but, as before, the enemy was nowhere to be seen. Eventually we returned once more to the barracks, only to hear the générale a third time.

  As we took our positions on the wall yet again, many of our company had begun to question whether the information about the planned attack was reliable. Even our leaders were dubious. One officer speculated that the rumoured invasion was only a ploy on the part of the British to unsettle us. If so, it was achieving its goal. By then our nerves were frayed, and lack of sleep had put all of us on edge.

  Arriving at my post on the wall this morning, I let my tired eyes wander over what remained of our company, struggling not to show the emotion I felt at Guillaume’s absence. I forced myself to direct all my attention on Captain Boudier.

  “I know I speak for all of us,” Boudier began, “when I say that the loss of our comrades two days ago weighs heavy on our hearts.” He glanced at me and I nodded, swallowing around the lump that rose in my throat. “But,” he continued, “we cannot allow their deaths to undermine our resolve. Nor can we allow them to go unavenged.” He scanned the company, allowing his words to hang in the air for a moment. “It’s now more important than ever that we keep the enemy from breaching our walls. We must stand strong and hold firm against them.”

  I understood the captain’s purpose — to rally our spirits in the face of crumbling morale — but his task was unrealistic at best, impossible at worst. Thanks to Édouard, Christophe and others who had survived the failed sortie, all of us knew that the forces now gathering beyond our walls vastly outstripped our own. We could not possibly fend off the British forever.

  “I bring good news,” Captain Boudier went on. “Gouverneur Drucour has received word that the battalion led by Charles Deschamps de Boishébert is now nearing Louisbourg. He brings with him twelve hundred men, and they shall reach the town any day now.”

  Boudier’s news was indeed heartening for many. Some men cheered while others raised their muskets in the air. I, too, welcomed this information, but I could not help but wonder how Boishébert and his men were going to avoid detection or capture with thousands of British soldiers occupying the vicinity. And even if they did make it this far, how could they penetrate the stranglehold the British now had on Louisbourg? Even assuming that those twelve hundred men made it safely through our gates, would they be enough to turn the tide in our favour? For every Frenchman who fell, there seemed to be ten enemy soldiers wading into the breach.

  No, I was not cheered by Boudier’s report. But many of my comrades grasped this information like a lifeline, drawing strength from it and, more importantly, hope. Having no wish to take that from them, I kept my doubts to myself.

  But someone had noticed nonetheless.

  * * *

  “You don’t seem encouraged by Boudier’s news,” said Christophe, the bandage on his forehead covering an angry slash of puckered red flesh.

  We brought the wagon to a halt. Along with several others in our company, we had been assigned to remove more gunpowder from the casemates of the Bastion du Roi, this time taking it to the ice house. Others had already been making some structures bombproof by stacking bags of dirt to reinforce them. While those efforts would no doubt make them safer, nothing would withstand a direct hit from enemy mortar fire. Nothing.

  I shrugged in response to Christophe’s comment as, together, we hoisted a barrel of gunpowder from the wagon and set it carefully on the ground. I had no wish to share my misgivings. “Twelve hundred reinforcements will surely be welcome, will they not?” I asked.

  “If they reach us,” he muttered. He sounded skeptical, and why wouldn’t he be? Had he not seen first-hand the extent of the enemy’s advance? Seen comrades cut down while obtaining that information? Watched Guillaume die?

  I suddenly wanted to give in to hopelessness, wanted to toss aside my musket and waist-belt, watch my cartridge boxes fall where they might as I walked away from my duty. More than anything, I wanted to spend whatever days or hours or minutes remained with Marie-Claire.

  I paused, actually considering this mutiny as I leaned against the barrel of gunpowder.

  And then I thought of the casemates at the Bastion du Roi and the people they would shelter when the British finally launched their attack — the women and children of Louisbourg. My Marie-Claire would be among them. Perhaps she would be fortunate enough to survive th
e days ahead, but only if I and others like me did our part.

  I glanced sharply at Christophe. “Only God knows if Boishébert and his battalion will reach us,” I said. “But even if they don’t, we must do everything in our power to be ready for the enemy when they come.”

  “But what if everything in our power isn’t enough?” asked Christophe.

  “It has to be,” I said simply, then repeated those words as much for myself and Marie-Claire as for Christophe. “It has to be.”

  Chapter 10

  June 18, 1758

  “Is it true, you worthless scoundrel?” roared a voice ahead of me on Rue de l’Étang.

  “Please, sir, I —”

  “Answer me!” the voice roared again. “Is it true?”

  I had just finished my watch and was stiff from having stood at my post in the damp June air, cold fog swirling about me. The summer solstice was almost upon us, yet the weather continued to feel more like that of early spring. I felt chilled to the bone and looked forward to a hot bowl of stew and then taking to my bed, but not before seeing Marie-Claire. With the garrison on high alert, one watch now seemed to blur into the next and then the next, and it was difficult to steal more than a few moments to spend with her. But it was those moments that filled me with a sense of purpose, gave me the strength I needed in the face of the massive forces gathering beyond our walls. And during those few moments with her, I was able to ignore the sorrow that hung on me like shackles each time I thought of Guillaume.

  It was her father’s house that I was approaching when the raised voices on the street ahead of me caught my attention. Édouard stood outside the Hôtel de la Marine, an inn where many of the garrison’s soldiers had spent their off-duty time in the past. Even now, under threat of imminent attack, some managed to slip into the inn to drown their troubles with drink. Édouard was one of those. Since his participation in the failed sortie five days earlier, he had often stumbled back to the barracks, his eyes red, his manner surly. Judging from his appearance now, I suspected that this evening would be no different.