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

by Don Aker

  Once all were beyond the wall, I closed the gate and took my position atop the rampart, straining to follow their progress toward the British battery. The new moon had barely begun to wax, casting very little light, but the stars provided just enough for me to distinguish the two columns of men from the landscape that stretched dark and silent around them. After a moment the columns split and then split again as individual groups targeted different entrenchments on the hillside.

  Watching them move toward the enemy, I thought of the separation that had so distressed Marie-Claire during the past three days. She had gone willingly to the casemates of the Bastion du Roi, where her mother and sister had joined her, and she had done her best to make them comfortable even as mortar bombs continued to fall on the town. But she’d grown increasingly worried for her father’s safety, since Monsieur Desbarats could not join them there — only the town’s women and children took refuge in the casemates. Able-bodied civilians like Monsieur Desbarats were called upon to assist soldiers in defending the town. Although he visited his family as often as he could, his wife and daughters feared for his safety each time he left.

  Before leaving Marie-Claire at the Bastion du Roi and reporting for duty, I promised her I would check on her father, something I had done at the end of my watch during each of the past three days. Although Monsieur Desbarats was clearly unaccustomed to military service, he was in good spirits and eager to support the garrison in any way he could. I conveyed his best wishes to his wife and daughters each time I visited Marie-Claire, yet the worry lines on her face deepened with each passing day. I longed to erase them, but that would only happen when the British no longer posed a threat. I looked once more toward the hillside and offered a second silent prayer that Lieutenant Colonel Marin’s sortie would be able to eliminate that threat, at least for the time being.

  Somewhere in the distance, a muffled cry arose from the darkness, followed by another. I could see nothing, but I knew the meaning of those cries. Marin and his men had begun their grim work.

  The element of surprise appeared to work in our favour. For one hour. Shortly after that, however, musket fire shattered the air as the British grew aware of the attack and retaliated. Amid the flare of gunpowder on both sides, I could see Marin’s men returning en masse from the hill, the British at their heels. The soldiers on the wall began firing over our comrades’ heads to give them cover, allowing them to pour through the gate, many of them limping, while others were supported by their brothers in arms. And among them were more than two dozen prisoners.

  Once all were inside and the gate closed, I offered what help I could to the wounded. One of them, Bouchard, a soldier from another company, had been shot in the leg. As I wrapped it in a makeshift bandage to halt the flow of blood, I asked him if the sortie had been successful.

  “We held the hill for an hour,” he explained, pain lining his face. “They were not expecting so bold a move. Our bayonets took several of their soldiers before their leaders discovered what was happening.”

  “Were our labourers able to destroy their entrenchments?”

  “Those we reached.” He winced as I tightened the bandage. “But when the alarm was raised, we were no match for their greater numbers. More than a dozen of our men were cut down before Marin ordered the retreat.”

  Success, it seemed, had been snatched from our grasp once again.

  I worked through the night tending to wounds as best I could. When dawn arrived, I watched as men, dispatched by Governor Drucour, left the town to request a truce so that we might bury our dead, whose bodies dotted the hillside. The British granted that request and, despite numbing weariness, I volunteered to go with them. If I couldn’t fight, I could at least accompany those sent to collect the fallen.

  It was I who found Sergeant Fournier. His hands still gripping his musket, he lay face up, his eyes open toward the sky as if he were contemplating the shapes of clouds. It was only when my comrades lifted him into the wagon that I saw the back of his head was gone. Weeks earlier, such a sight would have left me retching. Now, all I felt was loss. And an overwhelming hopelessness.

  Chapter 18

  July 16, 1758

  Rain battered the rampart where I stood watch, and from time to time I thought I heard thunder roll overhead. But I could not be certain, because the sound so closely resembled the boom of cannons that had continued to fire upon us since Marin’s battalion had attacked the British entrenchments a week ago.

  An explosion to my left nearly knocked me from my feet. Turning, I could see a huge cavity now carved in the massive west wall, a section Guillaume and I had repaired months earlier. But now all that work was for naught. Another strike would surely breach the wall and allow the enemy in.

  I was grateful for the rain that had drummed Louisbourg for days because it hindered the British in their ability to target specific sites. This last strike had no doubt been the result of luck rather than keen marksmanship, and I was confident the enemy could not duplicate it easily. Of course, that same bad weather also made our defence of the town more challenging. Like the enemy, our artillerymen found it difficult to aim our guns accurately in driving rain. Worse, the rain often soaked our fuses, making it impossible to light them. And it had become a constant struggle to keep our gunpowder dry.

  One thing the rain had not done was keep the British from repairing the entrenchments that Marin’s labourers had destroyed. Nor had the rain stopped them from building new ones. Our artillery engineer, Grillot de Poilly, reported to Governor Drucour that he had heard sounds of men working in the darkness, and he feared the British were constructing entrenchments even closer to the town. His fears were realized the following day when the enemy began firing from new batteries nearer the wall. Only the continued rain limited the accuracy of those new British guns. But the rain would not last forever.

  Our labourers worked continuously to repair the damage, and our artillerymen, both on the ramparts and on our vessels in the harbour, continued to fire upon the enemy in the hope of disrupting their advance. But the British noose was tightening even further.

  My comrades talked at length about what needed to be done. All agreed that we desperately required additional support, but there still had been no word from Boishébert and his battalion, and many began to doubt they would ever arrive. With the British surrounding us, there was no way for us to determine if help would be coming from elsewhere.

  It became clear last night that Governor Drucour and his war council had arrived at the same conclusion and were willing to undertake drastic measures to obtain support. Still under the command of Jean Vauquelin, the frigate Aréthuse hauled anchor at ten o’clock and made its way under cover of darkness toward the harbour entrance, skirting the vessels lying submerged on the channel floor. Unlike the other naval commanders who had wanted merely to escape Louisbourg to continue the fight for King Louis elsewhere, Vauquelin carried letters to the Minister of the Marine, written by Drucour and others on the war council, describing our situation. Should those letters reach their destination in time, they surely could not be ignored.

  I was at my post on the rampart overlooking the harbour when Aréthuse began her run for the sea. As I peered into the darkness, watching her dim shape move past the quay toward the harbour entrance, I prayed she would be successful. Neither I nor the surviving members of my company truly believed it possible for us to fend off the British for the time it would take help to arrive, but what little hope remained was suddenly pinned to that single ship. My lips moved in silent prayer for its success.

  Suddenly cannon fire erupted from Pointe à la Phare — the British sentries had no doubt spotted Aréthuse moving toward the ocean. Those of us standing watch on the rampart made the sign of the cross as the water around our frigate exploded again and again.

  “Mon Dieu!” cursed a man beside me when a shot struck her stern.

  I barely knew him, but I shared his apprehension. Would Aréthuse be lost as Echo had been? I made
the sign of the cross and watched as our frigate continued toward the ocean. We could see her more easily now as men on her deck fought to extinguish a blaze, but this meant that the enemy could see her more easily, too.

  Vauquelin was surely a skilled captain. Despite the cannon fire that followed her, he navigated Aréthuse smoothly among the masts and spars of the sunken ships before finally reaching open water. A cheer rose up along the rampart as she sailed off, every sentry giving voice, and the loudest of all belonged to the man beside me. “Elle va nous sauver!” he shouted, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight.

  I, too, hoped that Aréthuse would save us, but she still had to run the blockade beyond the harbour. One thing in her favour, though, was her size. Smaller and faster than the warships in her path, she could manoeuvre more easily, and possibly avoid being targeted by their cannons. After suffering so many losses, surely we would be permitted this one success.

  Standing on the rampart now, I could not help but wonder if that success had been achieved. I glanced again at the cavity in the wall that yawned toward the sky like the mouth of a beast demanding to be fed. And fed it would be when labourers began the task of filling it in, racing the rain-driven erosion that threatened to crumble the edges and widen the hole.

  “De l’Espérance!”

  Chevalier de Queue was approaching along the rampart.

  “Oui, mon commandant?” I replied.

  Formerly the second officer aboard the Apollon, the chevalier was now in charge of the Pointe à Rochefort battery, where I had served numerous times during the siege. He had an abrupt manner and he drove his men hard, but he achieved the results he desired, and it was rumoured among the garrison that he had attracted the favour of the governor. To my mind, no officer would ever command the respect of his men as Captain Boudier had done, but the chevalier seemed a fair man, never asking more of one soldier than another. And he appeared to have taken an interest in my service because of my detailed knowledge of the surrounding area. Twice during the past week he had sought me out to ask advice regarding the terrain, and I suspected that was what he wanted now. But I was wrong.

  “My sergeant was killed this morning,” he said as he reached me. He wiped at the water streaming down his face and cursed the rain.

  “Je suis désolé,” I said, but my response was mechanical. While the death of every French soldier was regrettable, Sergeant Arnaud Tremblay, a man who seemed to work far harder at shirking his duty than performing it, would not be mourned long.

  The chevalier waved aside my sympathy. “I would like you to assume his duties,” he said.

  Surprised, I groped for words. “Surely there are others who are better suited —”

  “I require a soldier who is both intelligent and skilled,” he said. “You have proven to be both.”

  “Merci —” I began, but again he waved my words aside.

  “Come with me,” he ordered.

  My boots sloshing, I fell into step beside him. I wanted to ask him where we were going, but his curt manner did not invite questions. It took only moments, though, for me to guess our destination — the governor’s apartments.

  Once there, we removed our sopping outerwear, and I accompanied him into a large room already filled with officers seated at a table — the war council who had guided the garrison’s defence since the beginning of the siege. Silently cursing the coarseness of my livery, I felt my face burn as I stood tongue-tied in their presence. When the chevalier drew up a chair and sat at the table, I moved toward the wall behind him and stood in silence.

  As a door opened and the governor entered, conversations around the table ceased. “It appears we are all assembled,” he said, seating himself. His face drawn and grey, Drucour looked old beyond his years. “I bring good news,” he said. “It would seem that Aréthuse has managed to elude the blockade.”

  All the officers around the table nodded and voiced their approval.

  “One of our scouts returned an hour ago,” Drucour continued. “This cursed rain allowed him to slip between enemy entrenchments and approach the Porte Dauphine unseen. He was north of Pointe à la Phare this morning and saw no sign of Aréthuse, nor did he see any wreckage to suggest she was destroyed. My dispatches to the Minister of the Marine are now en route.”

  More murmurs of approval circulated around the table, but I ignored them. Instead I focused on the governor, who did not seem as buoyed by this news as the other council members were. When he spoke again, my suspicions were confirmed.

  “Unfortunately, the scout brought other news that is not so welcome.” He drew a breath. “Like the rest of you here, I have anxiously awaited news of Charles Deschamps de Boishébert’s arrival. Given the size of the enemy force surrounding us, I had no illusions that all twelve hundred of his men would reach Louisbourg, but even half that number would be welcome support.”

  The men listening murmured agreement. Six hundred men would surely strengthen our garrison, which daily lost soldiers to British artillery.

  “Unfortunately,” said the governor, “skirmishes with the British, combined with illness and fatigue, have taken their toll on Boishébert’s men, and others have chosen to desert.” He held up a piece of paper, which I assumed was a note from Boishébert. “He has barely one hundred forty men remaining, far too few to carry out the mission he was assigned.” Drucour laid the paper on the table, and there was no need for him to state the obvious. Each man in the room understood perfectly the words that had gone unsaid.

  Boishébert and his men would not be coming.

  We were on our own.

  Chapter 19

  July 17, 1758

  I raised my hand to Marie-Claire’s face, brushing aside a lock of her hair. She looked away, no doubt mortified by her appearance, but there was no reason for her to be — the casemates offered protection, but little else. Besides, my own uniform was mottled with mud, for which I was grateful. It masked the blood and gore of comrades who had died beside me that morning.

  “Mon amour,” I murmured, gently taking her hand in mine, “je t’aime.”

  She smiled, but her eyes revealed a weariness that hadn’t been there before. Yes, this siege was taking a heavy toll on the soldiers, but it was having the same effect on the civilians sheltered in the Bastion du Roi. These women and their children might not be dodging weapon fire on the ramparts, but they were terrified each time they heard a mortar bomb or cannonball hit, no doubt fearing for husbands or fathers or brothers or sons amid those explosions.

  “I spoke to your father this morning,” I told Marie-Claire now. “He is doing well.” This was, at best, an exaggeration. At worst, it was a lie, since no one in Louisbourg could truthfully be described as doing well. But Monsieur Desbarats had managed a smile as I greeted him on the wall.

  My words seemed to have their desired effect, and her face brightened. “When will I see him again?” she asked.

  I understood the true intent of her question. Yes, she wanted to know when she might once more go to her father. But beneath her query was another that was far more crucial: When would the siege finally be over?

  Developments beyond the town’s walls suggested that the answer to this second question was Soon. At first light, Chevalier de Queue and I had walked the western ramparts to assess the enemy’s movements. To our dismay, the British had dug entrenchments three hundred paces from the walls during the night.

  The chevalier had immediately ordered our men to begin bombarding these new batteries, and the enemy had retaliated with weapon fire of their own, each side suffering heavy losses. It was, in fact, the blood of two of those men firing on the rampart beside me that lay hidden beneath the mud on my uniform.

  I looked at Marie-Claire and answered her question the only way I knew how. “Soon,” I whispered.

  Chapter 20

  July 21, 1758

  Three more of our comrades deserted in the night, one of them Marceau, who had been in the hospital with me.

  “A
re you surprised?” asked Christophe when he told me.

  I had seen Christophe only briefly during the month since he had saved my life. When he was not at his post, he was either in the Hôtel de la Marine or his barracks bed recovering from the effects of the rum he had swilled. Today I had nearly passed him on the rampart without recognizing him. His uniform hung on his frame like rags on a scarecrow, and in place of his ruddy complexion was a ghastly, pale hue, his scarred forehead and bloodshot eyes making him look more demonic than human.

  “Non,” I replied, “I’m not surprised.” And I wasn’t. I had already heard news of the desertions. Marceau had simply joined the growing band of those who had chosen to flee Louisbourg.

  While I cursed the loss of yet another comrade, a part of me could understand Marceau’s decision. There were times as I viewed the shattered landscape around us that I felt a similar desire. Two things, however, always kept me from leaving. The first was Marie-Claire, whom I could never abandon. The other was my continued desire to avenge Guillaume. Far more British soldiers would die by my hand before I was satisfied the enemy had paid the price of his death.