by Don Aker
Ahead of us, Captain Boudier froze and his right arm shot into the air. Each of the men in the sortie halted in mid-step behind him. A moment passed before I realized that I was holding my breath, waiting for whatever sign he would give us. Another moment passed, then he motioned us forward once again.
I glanced to my left to see Christophe and Édouard moving almost as one, their expressions as grim as my own. All of the men under Boudier’s command understood the importance of today’s mission. It was as vital as the battle nearly three weeks earlier when we had tried to keep the enemy from making landfall. The failure of that mission had brought us to this very moment. If the British established themselves on this hill overlooking the town, they could fire upon us at will. It would be the beginning of the end for Louisbourg and for everyone who called the port home.
Conscious now of Édouard’s sure-footed movements beside me, I recalled my surprise when he had returned to the barracks last night with good news. I usually expected him to appear in the doorway reeling and reeking of rum but, in fact, he had spent his off-duty time accompanying Christophe to the garrison hospital, where they had visited Jacques Legrand. Still recovering from his stomach wound, l’Enfant was no longer at death’s door. That good news had cheered everyone in our company.
Guillaume, too, would have been happy that Jacques survived. I thought of him carrying the boy to safety in those final minutes of our retreat from Anse de la Cormorandière. That memory, in turn, led me to think of Guillaume staggering under Renard’s weight as he had headed toward the Porte Dauphine, only to be cut down by a British musket.
I wondered if Édouard was thinking now about his last time beyond the town’s walls, and I turned toward him just as the first rays of sunshine touched the hillside. In that moment, Édouard’s eyes met my own and he nodded as if he knew what I was thinking.
And then a musket ball smashed through his forehead, driving his body to the ground.
The hillside echoed with weapon fire from both sides as we dove for cover, Captain Boudier shouting orders above the din. Judging from the number of muskets now shooting at us, we were facing hundreds of enemy fusiliers, even more than had been predicted. Clearly the British had every intention of maintaining control of the hill we had sworn to wrench from their grasp. I took aim at an enemy soldier whose uniform had become a red beacon in the sudden sunshine. I pulled the trigger and prayed my aim would be true. It was. The redcoat crumpled to the ground.
I reloaded and squeezed the trigger again, repeating the process over and over, even as I heard comrades along the hillside being struck by musket fire.
Our position on higher ground began to work to our advantage. Despite being outnumbered, those of us remaining drew beads on enemy soldiers again and again. Few of our shots missed their mark, and the British began to draw back, regrouping farther down the hillside. One redcoat struggled to carry another who had been wounded, and I knew I could easily take the life of either. Thinking of Guillaume, I clenched my jaw and aimed my musket first at one and then the other, and I touched the trigger. But I could not bring myself to squeeze it. Instead, I looked for other targets.
“Attention!” Captain Boudier shouted above the blasts of muskets on both sides. He clasped his right arm with his left hand, blood seeping between his fingers. “Attention!” he called again. “They will try to outflank us on —”
A hole suddenly appeared in his uniform above his waist-belt. Dropping his musket, he clutched his stomach with his free hand. Even amid the clamour, I could hear him gasp, yet he struggled to continue speaking. “You must —” he began again, blood bubbling from his mouth “— keep them from approaching from —”
Another shot caught him in the throat and he staggered backwards before dropping to the ground.
It was only then that I saw what he had been trying to tell us — a wave of redcoats was surging over the hill. I struggled to remain calm as I reloaded, struggled to keep my hands steady as shots whizzed past my head. Drawing my musket up to fire again, I took aim and squeezed the trigger. But I was the one who fell.
Chapter 14
June 28, 1758
Even with my eyes closed, I knew the hands holding my own were Marie-Claire’s, warm and soft against my rough skin. I could feel their gentle pressure as she held my left hand between both of hers. I opened my eyes.
“Sébastien,” she whispered, reaching forward and stroking my cheek as tears rolled down her own. “I feared you would never waken.”
She was sitting in a chair beside the bed where I lay. But not in the barracks. I was in a large room, its many beds filled with bandages. And then I realized there were men beneath those bandages. I was in the King’s Hospital. Beyond it, sounds of artillery fire punched the air.
I tried raising my free hand to wipe away her tears, but pain seared my chest, drawing the breath from my lungs in a sudden gasp.
“Attention,” she whispered. “You must not try to move.”
“How long —” I began, but words would not come easily.
Marie-Claire, however, could guess my meaning. “Deux jours,” she said.
“Deux?” I croaked. Surely it was not possible. Had I really lain unconscious for two days? How had I gotten here? And what had happened to my comrades?
My last moment suddenly swam into memory. I saw again the redcoats flanking us, flowing like a red tide over the top of that hill, cutting down all in their path — Captain Boudier, Édouard and so many others falling around me. Corporal Grimaud took three hits, one to a leg and two to his chest, yet he continued to fire before being brought down finally by a fourth. Had any of them survived? There was so much I wanted to ask her, so much I wanted to know, but already I could feel consciousness slipping from me like water through my fingers. I tried to summon the strength to voice my thoughts, but my vision clouded …
Chapter 15
June 30, 1758
“S’il te plaît, Sébastien, you must try to eat more,” Marie-Claire urged as she held the spoon to my lips. “You need to rebuild your strength.”
When I had regained consciousness two days earlier, the surgeon-major told me I had lost considerable blood, both from my wound and the surgery that had repaired it. But I chafed at the thought of lying in bed while my comrades continued to die at the hands of our enemies.
Marceau Lafontaine, a wounded comrade who had been brought into the hospital after me, confirmed what I feared — the British now controlled the hill, and the constant artillery fire we heard came from our cannons repeatedly bombarding their position. Our leaders hoped the barrage would prevent the enemy from establishing their battery atop the hill, so every available man was needed to maintain the assault. For this reason I believed I should be on the western rampart loading our twenty-four-pounders, a thought I had already shared with the surgeon-major. He had not agreed, and so I was forced to remain in bed, forced to listen to the boom of artillery as I drank the broth that Marie-Claire spooned into me.
Musket shot had torn through my chest just below my right collarbone, and I could barely move without pain knifing through me. If not for the tincture of opium given me four times each day, I doubt I would have been able to move at all. At least the musket ball had struck no vital organs and had passed cleanly through my body. I would recover fully and in less time than others such as Jacques, who had twice been struck with fever when his wound became infected. However, the surgeon-major had recently told him that he should finally be well enough to leave the hospital, perhaps within the week.
Marie-Claire had been at my bedside every day since I’d been carried back inside the wall. Christophe, one of the few from our company to escape injury, had slung my unconscious body over his shoulder before making his way back to the Porte Dauphine, refusing to put me down even as enemy musket fire increased. This I had learned from Marceau, who’d managed to limp back from the hill with a musket ball in his thigh. He told me it was surely rage that had given Christophe the strength to carry me
so far, rage that had arisen from seeing his friend Édouard brutally killed an arm’s length from him. I had not yet seen Christophe to thank him — others said that he now spent every free moment in the Hôtel de la Marine. However, it would be my first act as soon as I was permitted to leave my bed.
Each day Marie-Claire brought with her further accounts of the siege. None of what she shared was good, especially the news of the Capricieux receiving a direct hit from British cannon fire last night. The loss had devastated Louisbourg’s already crumbling morale. Even worse than the warship’s loss was what it now meant. The Capricieux and other vessels had been moved to the far end of the harbour, yet still she had been hit. It was only a matter of time before the other ships would be destroyed by enemy artillery, leaving us with no naval defence whatsoever.
Desperate to keep the British from sailing into the harbour, Governor Drucour had apparently revisited the Marquis de Gouttes’s recommendation to sink some of our remaining ships in the channel. The previous day he had ordered the captains of the Apollon, the Fidèle, the Chèvre and the Ville de Saint Malo to scuttle their vessels. Their crews were reassigned to the garrison, but Marie-Claire had heard rumours that many of them were drinking heavily, rumours that worried many of the townspeople, who were already concerned for Louisbourg’s defence.
As Marie-Claire told me this news, I could see that my efforts to shield her from the hopelessness of Louisbourg’s situation had been useless. No one could ignore the despair that grew stronger each day. Marie-Claire knew as well as I that the town was doomed. Yet neither of us put that thought into words. Each of us would continue to pretend for the other that our forces would still prevail. We would cling to this pretense for as long as we could. The alternative, to admit to the certainty of our deaths at the hands of our enemies, served no purpose.
I reached for her hand, grimacing at the pain this movement caused me, and squeezed it. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “We shall yet be saved.”
“I know,” she lied in return.
Chapter 16
July 6, 1758
I sat on the edge of my bed, waiting restlessly for Marie-Claire to arrive. The surgeon-major had reluctantly given me permission to leave the hospital that evening, and I was eager to return to whatever duty would be assigned me, but not before I shared this news with her. Even if I was still too weak to arm the cannons, I could keep watch, could I not? I could sound the alarm. My wound was far from healed, but I was a soldier in the Compagnies Franches de la Marine, and I would serve as best I could. Truthfully, I did not welcome the command of another officer, but I suspected I would not be in his service for long. The British noose was tightening around the town. The redcoats had nearly completed construction of their battery on the hill to the west, despite our continual bombardment. Surely the enemy assault from that position was not far off.
I shrugged aside that gloomy prediction as Marie-Claire came through the doorway. She had refused to let the siege keep her from me, coming twice daily to the hospital despite the ever-present sounds of artillery fire. Like so many times before, I felt my heart swell at the sight of her moving toward me, pausing briefly at several of the beds to greet the wounded she had come to know. One was Jacques, who seemed to look forward to her arrival as much as I.
Her face fell the moment she noticed my uniform. Although she had said nothing about it, I knew she had dreaded the prospect of my release.
She forced a smile. “You are well at last, Sébastien,” she said.
I took her hands in mine, ignoring the sudden twinge in my chest. “Oui,” I told her, “well at last.” I reached for my tricorne, then held out my arm for her to take. “May I accompany you to your door?” I asked gallantly. It was the first request I had made of her two years earlier, a request Guillaume had suggested.
A sudden blast of mortar fire halted us in our steps, and a moment later a nearby explosion shook the room. Plaster fell from the ceiling, and I drew Marie-Claire toward me to shield her. “They must fire from the new battery!” I shouted above a second explosion that seemed even closer. More plaster fell, this time in chunks, and a soldier lying on a bed to my left screamed in pain. “Out!” I shouted.
I tugged Marie-Claire’s hand and together we hurried past the wounded, who now struggled to rise from their beds. I would return to assist them, but first I would take Marie-Claire to safety. Despite the pain in my chest, I continued to urge her forward, and we made it outside in moments. “To the Bastion du Roi!” I said. “You’ll be safe in the casemates.” Looking at the burning ruin of a building that had just been struck, I did not believe my own words, but there was no other option.
Another blast of mortar fire tore the air, and an incoming bomb whistled toward us. I gripped Marie-Claire’s hand ever harder, pulling her with me, and then an explosion knocked us both to the ground.
I lay there trying to gather my senses, my ears ringing. The wound in my chest blazed with pain, but I had not been struck. I rolled slightly to see that Marie-Claire was unharmed, but she was equally dazed.
“Marie-Claire!” I moaned. “Get up!” I pushed myself to my feet, my chest afire with fresh agony as I drew her up beside me. She swayed unsteadily, but I could give her no time to get her bearings. I pulled her in the direction of the Bastion du Roi, with one look behind to see where the mortar bomb had struck. The hospital was in ruins.
Chapter 17
July 9, 1758
I scanned the troops lined up before the Porte de la Reine, impressed that nearly seven hundred men could wait so quietly for the order to leave. Although midnight had passed only an hour earlier, all of the men looked surprisingly alert, eager to accomplish their mission. They had to be. This was unlike any other sortie we’d undertaken.
Once more I wished I were accompanying them. I longed to strike a blow against the British that might avenge the deaths of Renard, Édouard, Captain Boudier, Corporal Grimaud and so many others. But mostly I longed to make our attackers pay for the killing of Guillaume. However, the officer leading the sortie, Lieutenant Colonel Marin, had denied my request to take part. The success of this mission depended on the element of surprise and the ability of each man to move quickly and to inflict maximum damage. My comrades would not be engaging the British with weapon fire. Instead, they would strike with bayonets. Marin hoped that, by killing in silence, our men would be able to attack several of the enemy camps dug in along the hillside before the British were even aware our troops had left the town. It was a bold plan, but boldness was required if we were to survive this siege.
Although I yearned to drive my own bayonet into the hearts of British soldiers, I could not. When the explosion at the hospital had thrown me to the ground, my wound had opened up again. Even now it continued to bleed sporadically.
I allowed my thoughts to turn to that moment. It was the people nearest the hospital’s far end, where the bomb had struck, who’d been most vulnerable. Two were badly injured in the blast and two had died instantly, one of them Jacques. He had survived a life-threatening wound only to die in the very building where his life had been saved. And the man who had saved it, the surgeon-major, had died along with him. Even now, the bitter irony of it threatened to choke me, and once more I burned to strike back at the enemy.
I was disappointed by Marin’s refusal to let me take part in tonight’s attack, but I knew he was right. Yes, I had proven my skills as a marksman many times, but the success of tonight’s mission hinged on strength and speed. And it was crucial that tonight’s sortie be successful.
As our leaders had feared, the new British battery had provided them the very cover they needed to begin building entrenchments closer to the wall surrounding the town. Every man now standing before me at the Porte de la Reine knew that if those were completed, the British artillery would be able to target our remaining ships anchored in shallow water. The British needed these entrenchments even more now because the ships we had sunk in the channel blocked their own from entering
the harbour. As a result, the enemy was focusing every resource on preparing for a sweeping attack from the landward side.
While morale had continued to flag in every company and battalion during the previous weeks, everyone had been encouraged by the success of Aréthuse, the ship under the command of Jean Vauquelin. In one night, the crew of Aréthuse had fired a hundred rounds from the harbour at the hill battery, severely disrupting work on their entrenchments. This welcome turn of events had given many of my comrades hope that the British could be stopped after all, and this was the task awaiting the men standing before me now.
The glow from torches mounted near the Porte de la Reine illuminated Lieutenant Colonel Marin as he moved to the front of the battalion. The group was comprised of men from every unit in Louisbourg. Once the soldiers had eliminated the enemy at each entrenchment, our labourers would destroy what the British had built.
It was important that no British scout who might be hidden near the Porte de la Reine overhear what was about to happen. Rather than speaking, Marin raised his arm and saluted the men. Each raised a silent salute in return. He turned to me and nodded. I raised the bar and drew open the gate, watching as he and his troops filed past, their boots treading softly on the damp ground. Among them was Sergeant Fournier, who had served in Captain Boudier’s company long before Guillaume and I arrived in Louisbourg. He tipped his tricorne toward me as he passed, and I wondered if he was thinking of Boudier now, wondered if he wished he were following Boudier instead of Marin into the darkness. I had heard that the lieutenant colonel was a good leader, but none could compare with the captain, whose final thoughts had been not for himself but for the safety of his men. I nodded to Sergeant Fournier in return, all the while praying that he and the others would succeed in their mission.
