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

by Don Aker

  Christophe looked now toward the Porte Dauphine. “Do you think that’s the reason for the sortie’s delay?” he asked, nodding toward the two ruined batteries beyond it.

  “Je ne sais pas,” I replied, but I suspected as much. The loss of those batteries was another major blow to our defences.

  He scowled. “Surely it will go ahead as planned,” he said.

  I shared that desire. With our situation growing ever grimmer, Governor Drucour and his war council had ordered a major offensive against the enemy today. Covered by weapon fire from our anchored ships and those two Porte Dauphine batteries, twelve hundred men were to leave the town at dawn to drive the British back from their entrenchments. It was a bold plan, and a desperate one considering the extent of our losses so far. But the council was right. We could not continue to focus all of our efforts on Louisbourg’s defence. Soon we would exhaust those resources, making us completely vulnerable to an all-out attack. The only possible solution at this point was to move against the enemy.

  Now under the command of the Chevalier de Queue, I was expected to follow him into battle, but I would have gone regardless of my duty. And eyeing Christophe’s ragged appearance, I suspected his reasons for wishing to take part in the sortie were the same as my own. He, too, had lost people he cared for. He, too, was tired of watching the British draw closer each day. He, too, had grown weary waiting for what could only be the inevitable. Rather than perishing in a full-fledged assault that would surely come before long, he would die fighting the enemy now, and he would take as many of those British dogs with him as he could. Both of us would.

  But the sortie had not yet happened.

  The British had increased their weapon fire yesterday, bombarding and destroying the two batteries near the Porte Dauphine that would have provided the sortie necessary protection. Without them, the offensive would surely suffer casualties, and the loss of so many lives would be grave, especially in light of our diminishing garrison. I suspected the council was now considering this, which no doubt explained why the offensive had not yet taken place.

  Besides the ruined batteries, we had sustained a second crippling loss. During their recent barrage, the British had struck a warship as well, further reducing our weaponry. Christophe gestured toward the ruined vessel, which now lay swamped in shallow water. “Such a waste,” he said.

  I was about to agree when an enormous explosion drowned out my words. A British mortar bomb struck Célèbre, which was anchored near four other warships close to the quay.

  “Mon Dieu!” I cried as flames from the explosion already soared into the rigging. Obviously the bomb had landed on powder cartridges stored on the deck. Christophe and I watched helplessly as the fire spread, driven by the wind. Despite their dampness, both wood and sails seemed to ignite easily, and that wind carried sparks toward the sails of two other warships. Worse, the unmoored Célèbre was now adrift, moving perilously toward the others. In moments both Entreprenant and Capricieux were ablaze, stores of gunpowder on their decks exploding almost simultaneously.

  All the men on our rampart were now staring at the ships, some murmuring prayers for the safety of Bienfaisant and Prudent, the two remaining ships. Fortunately, Prudent was upwind of the fires, and the quick-thinking crew of Bienfaisant was able to manoeuvre the ship out of reach of the flames just in time.

  Along with sparks and smoke, the wind blowing across the harbour brought with it something else — the jubilant cheers of British soldiers revelling in our loss. To them, the display must have seemed like fireworks launched in celebration of their superior might.

  I turned and ran toward the waterfront with Christophe and others at my heels, intending to help in whatever way I could. A part of me expected even the British to show some sense of humanity. Surely they would reduce their bombardment in the face of so many men lost. But I was wrong. Before I could get to the quay, multiple explosions from the British cannons blocked us from reaching it.

  I shouted a wordless cry that was lost in the pandemonium before us.

  But there were more horrors awaiting. Many more.

  Chapter 21

  July 22, 1758

  I lay awake in my barracks bed listening to a clock chiming the fourth hour. Despite my weariness, I had been unable to sleep as my mind recalled images of the horrors I had witnessed the day before. The worst was my memory of sailors engulfed in flames aboard all three ships, some scuttling madly in circles on the decks as they burned. As I’d approached the quay, I thought I could smell burning flesh. My stomach heaved and I vomited helplessly in the street, gagging again and again until I thought my guts would cover my boots. Even now, as I lay in the darkness, I could taste bile in my throat.

  My heart blazed again with hatred for the British, who had cheered as our sailors burned to death. I wanted nothing more than to be first out of the Porte Dauphine as our troops swept over the enemy entrenchments, but the sortie was not to happen. With Célèbre, Entreprenant and Capricieux now destroyed, the council’s plans for an assault were cancelled. The elimination of the two Porte Dauphine batteries would have made the sortie difficult, but without support from our warships, it would be impossible to overpower the enemy. There could be no thought now of risking more lives on a mission that was doomed to fail — our garrison could not sustain further losses.

  I swung my feet off the bed and sat up, certain now that sleep would not come. British cannons had fired sporadically throughout the night, leaving me wondering where the next bombs might fall. So far, the sound of explosions had seemed to come from the area around the Bastion Dauphin, but I still could not suppress a sense of dread.

  I stood up, my boots already on my feet, and paced the room, listening to the snores of the men who, like myself, were off duty. I envied them their ability to sleep. I had slept through mortar fire before, but this felt different somehow.

  I recalled my uneasiness the day Guillaume was killed, which led me to think once more of my fallen friend. Would he mock me if he were here now? Taunt me for my restlessness? I tried to imagine his jibes, which had always lifted my spirits. But no. Guillaume would not ridicule me. In fact, I almost felt as if he were responsible for my anxiety in some way.

  I shook my head at the absurdity of that thought, but I could not ignore the feeling that something was not right and that Guillaume would have agreed with me. I moved to my bed and reached for my coat.

  “Sébastien?” Christophe was looking up at me from his own bed.

  “Oui?” I whispered.

  “Is something wrong?”

  I shrugged. “Je ne sais pas.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “That I don’t know, either,” I replied. Suddenly I feared that Christophe might think me a deserter, but I needn’t have worried.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and pulling on his coat.

  I nodded. Perhaps together we could determine what was bothering me. Threading through the rows of beds, we made our way toward the doorway and stepped outside.

  Without warning, several explosions ripped the air, none of them from our cannons. The British were now firing upon us with an intensity we’d never seen, shots coming from both their left and right fronts. I couldn’t be sure of the number of weapons discharging, because the cannon fire echoed as it rolled into the distance, but there had to be at least forty guns bombarding us. Perhaps more.

  Mortar bombs screamed overhead as Christophe and I ran toward our post on the rampart. But before we reached the wall, an explosion behind us shook the ground and threw us to our knees. The barracks we’d just left had taken a direct hit. Fire already engulfed the roof and was spreading quickly.

  My comrades and I ran for buckets, but there was little we could do. The water we carried to douse the fire was useless against the blaze. A handful of men burst from the barracks, rolling on the ground to smother flames licking at their clothing and their hair, but others trapped inside could only scream as t
he blaze overtook them. Staring helplessly at the flames that devoured friends and the only home I had known for two years, I felt as if I were peering into the fiery pit of hell. Nothing could be worse.

  But I was wrong. Explosions ripped the air to the east of us as several of the bombs targeting the Bastions du Roi, de la Reine and Dauphin overshot their marks and landed in the centre of town, setting civilian buildings ablaze. I felt my heart stagger as a new Hades erupted behind us.

  Mercifully, the screams inside the barracks had ceased. I could do nothing more for our comrades there, nor could the structure be saved, so I ran toward this new horror, other soldiers right behind me. The homes and businesses that had been struck were already fully engulfed.

  My feet pounded over the cobblestones past townsmen struggling to keep the fire from spreading, but I ignored them as I raced toward Rue de l’Étang. Marie-Claire would want news of her father, who had remained in their home, and I prayed the street had escaped mortar fire.

  My prayers went unanswered. Two of the homes on Rue de l’Étang had taken direct hits, one of them belonging to Monsieur Desbarats. The explosion was so powerful, the heat so intense, that I felt it even as I turned onto the street. Although there could be no survivors, I forced my feet to carry me closer. I now prayed that I was mistaken, that the flickering shadows cast by the blaze had confused me and the Desbarats’ home still stood. But the toe of my boot kicked something hard. It was an iron ring with the letter D at its centre, the very knocker I had rapped the evening I asked for Marie-Claire’s hand in marriage. Fifty-two days and several lifetimes ago.

  Whatever false hope I clung to vanished. I stood there in the street staring at that iron ring, knowing I must tell Marie-Claire of her father’s death, yet searching for the strength merely to remain standing.

  At some point I was able to shrug off my shock and make my way toward the casemates, often backtracking to avoid debris and craters in the streets. And despite the urgency of my mission, I slowed as I neared my destination, dreading the task before me. But there was no need for me to say the words. Marie-Claire could read them on my face the moment my eyes found hers.

  Holding her tightly as she sobbed, I silently raged at the enemy, fearing that the news I had just delivered would break her. Marie-Claire had been so strong throughout the siege, but a person’s strength is not limitless. Had she not already borne for weeks the threat of death at the hands of the enemy? Had she not been forced to leave her comfortable home and live in the cold, cramped casemates? Had she not helped support me as I reeled from the loss of Guillaume? Had she not coped with the sight of me lying wounded in the hospital, then spent days nursing me back to health? How could her father’s death not shatter her?

  The only consolation I could possibly offer Marie-Claire was that he had surely died the instant the bomb struck. He hadn’t lain broken and trapped beneath burning rubble, writhing in agony. But this I did not share with her. I could not. There was nothing anyone could say that would make her loss less painful.

  Sounds of cannon fire and mortar explosions continued to pierce the air, yet still I held her. Finally, after several shuddering moments, she pulled away and wiped at her tears. “I must go to them,” she said, nodding toward her mother and sister, who clung to each other as though drowning. Their wails made the walls ring.

  I watched, stunned, as Marie-Claire moved toward them, kneeling at their side and whispering gently, her words of no real consequence. In the face of her own anguish, she was still able to offer her compassion and her strength. Both made me love her even more.

  But I could watch no longer — there was much that needed to be done. Despite the futility of our efforts, I would continue to fight. Not because I served at the pleasure of King Louis, but to defend the woman I loved.

  I could do nothing less.

  * * *

  Nearly a hundred people, both soldiers and civilians, had perished in the attack. Fire had taken lives as surely as mortar bombs and musket shot. And more continued to perish as the British began bombarding Louisbourg, bombs crashing into both military and civilian buildings.

  Fear gripped the town, and more and more men had begun slipping over the wall, preferring to live as traitors than die as soldiers. Officers throughout the garrison were losing men, and the Chevalier de Queue repeatedly bemoaned the growing problem. “I shudder to think what information those cowards are giving the enemy,” he snarled now as he lit the fuse on the twenty-four-pounder I had just reloaded.

  I didn’t respond. What information could those men possibly provide that the British didn’t already possess? Hadn’t I just loaded scrap metal into the barrel of this cannon? When hinges and hammerheads began raining down upon the heads of our enemies, would they not realize we had exhausted most of our ammunition? What more was there to know?

  I suddenly thought of my poor father in France, of the chickens he would butcher those rare times when there was money to buy them. He would lay them across a wooden block and cut off their heads with a single swipe of his axe. They died instantly, yet for long moments afterwards their headless bodies would continue to flap their wings and run around the yard, colliding with anything in their path.

  Louisbourg was like those chickens. She was already dead but had not yet realized it.

  Chapter 22

  July 25, 1758

  His pale face smudged with soot and gunpowder, Christophe turned to me. “There’s nothing else,” he said, pointing to where we had piled scrap metal scavenged from the town. Our last shot had sent iron from a broken pair of tongs hurtling toward the enemy and, for a brief moment, I almost laughed. I wondered about the chances of that iron striking a British soldier who, in his former civilian life, might have been a blacksmith. Such odd thoughts were commonplace now. Since the British had begun their continuous assault, no one had been able to rest, and I was beyond exhausted, both in body and in spirit.

  Of course, we had no idea if our shots were striking the enemy. In fact, we had no idea if they were striking anywhere close to them. Thick fog had blanketed the area all day and, as the hour now approached midnight, darkness was an equally impenetrable cloak. The chevalier had given up checking the cannon’s aim. Each time I sponged and primed the cannon, he simply lit the fuse with a shrug. At this point, all we could do was return fire and pray our shots hit their mark. Because of the enemy’s far greater numbers and their positions so close to the town, at least some of our volleys would do their work.

  But now, without ammunition, aim was the least of our concerns.

  During the past twenty-four hours, I had left my post only three times, twice to collect scrap metal and once more to help fight fires. The Bastion de la Reine had received a direct hit that ignited a major blaze, which the wind fanned and spread to two nearby buildings. All three quickly became an inferno, which I was certain would spread through the entire town. Thankfully, Providence shone on us — the wind changed direction, allowing the fire to be contained.

  That, however, was our only good fortune. The wall had been breached in at least two places, yet still the enemy pummelled us with mortar bombs and cannonballs. More soldiers had deserted since the latest bombardment began, and increasing numbers had been wounded or killed. We could not hope to hold off the British much longer. More than anything, I longed to go to Marie-Claire, but with our situation so desperate, there was no time. I was grateful that the guns of Prudent and Bienfaisant continued to fire upon the enemy, but I wondered when they, too, would run short of ammunition.

  “De l’Espérance.”

  I turned toward the chevalier, my ears still ringing from the last firing of the cannon. “Oui?”

  He nodded toward Christophe. “Take Gilbert and scour the town for more metal.”

  I knew there was little nearby that would fit inside the barrel of the cannon. Like us, other soldiers had been scavenging for metal, going from building to building and taking whatever they could carry. “We will have to go farther into th
e town,” I said.

  “Allez!” he commanded, then moved off along the rampart to assess the growing damage.

  Christophe and I each took a handle of a large, two-wheeled cart we’d used twice before and eased it from the rampart down the slope toward the parade square. The earth was now heavily cratered and strewn with rubble, which made even walking difficult, so pulling an empty cart was a trial. Pulling that same cart back carrying scrap metal would be much worse.

  “Should we try Rue d’Estrées?” Christophe asked.

  I nodded. Others probably wouldn’t have taken the time to go as far as the street beyond the hospital, so surely there would be scrap metal among the buildings there. I guided us past the parade square toward Rue de France. I had no wish to follow Rue d’Orléans, which would have taken us past the remains of Marie-Claire’s house.

  Enemy fire continued to shatter the air, repeatedly striking the wall and making the ground beneath our feet shake. Screams somewhere behind us rose from the darkness, and then halted abruptly as another explosion shook the earth. Suddenly the whistle of an approaching mortar bomb pierced the air, and Christophe and I dove beneath the cart. The bomb struck less than thirty paces to our left, smashing the ground like Thor’s hammer and throwing cobblestones and earth into the air, a wave of rocky spray covering the floor of the cart above our heads.

  Even in the darkness, I caught the gleam in Christophe’s eyes, the same bizarre anticipation that all of us had begun to feel. Most of the garrison at this point was beyond fear. Not that we didn’t experience it — we’d merely grown numb to its effects. And how could we not? After weeks of constant anxiety and dread, weeks of seeing our comrades writhing in pain and dying in our arms, each of us expected that every moment, every breath, would be our last. In some strange way, that expectation had become a gift, the only thing that made many of us capable of enduring the horror that each day had become — the knowledge that it would soon all be over. After the hell we had endured for so long, death could only be a blessing.