The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  ‘Bear away two points, Quartermaster.’

  The steersman eased the wheel to leeward, and the French frigate appeared as a spectral shape on the starboard bow. Hathorn could see the enemy but not well enough. He was caught in that age-old dilemma of the stern-chase, whether to bear away and try a few broadsides to slow the enemy down or to wait for the chase to be so close that he could finish it out of hand. In this case, the dilemma was even more acute because the frigates home port was less than a league to leeward. If he waited, the frigate could make the safety of the port before he was close enough for a decisive stroke.

  ‘Captain, sir! I hear breakers to leeward!’

  That ended the dilemma, he needed to risk everything on a crippling blow at long range. He couldn’t follow the chase into the surf.

  ‘Stand by the starboard broadside,’ he called to the first lieutenant. ‘Two more points, Quartermaster.’

  Now the frigate could be seen by the whole starboard battery.

  ‘Fire when you’re ready,’ Hathorn shouted.

  The guns erupted in smoke and flame. Hawke’s broadside of three-pounders wasn’t meant to take on the heavy timbers of a frigate, but nevertheless, at only a few cables range the destruction to the stern gallery and the taffrail was impressive. There would be casualties on the quarterdeck, but fewer on the upper deck than would normally be expected, with a bare minimum of men at the guns.

  Veering ship would take too long, so Hathorn held his course while the gun crews were worked feverishly to reload.

  ‘We’ll have the devil’s own job clawing off this shore if we stand in any further,’ said the old quartermaster who had taken upon himself the role of sailing master. ‘Even I can hear that surf now.’

  ‘Mind your damned business!’ snapped Hathorn.

  He knew well enough the peril of becoming embayed off Louisbourg in an easterly wind with visibility down to two cables. He knew the peril, but so desperately wanted to distinguish himself that he was prepared to accept it. There was almost no chance of taking the Frenchman. If a lucky shot should dismast her, she’d drift inshore under the guns of the island at the entrance of the harbour. Even if she was grounded, there was nothing Hawke could do to complete her destruction, so close to the French batteries. However, a report that he’d driven a French frigate ashore was a long way better than nothing.

  ‘One more broadside, First Lieutenant,’ he called.

  The starboard battery fired again. This time the range was greater, and the frigate had almost disappeared in the fog. Hathorn would never know the effect of his last broadside, which was perhaps just as well because every ball fell harmlessly in L’Aigle’s wake.

  It was a nervous forty minutes before Hawke was clear of Goat Island and White Point. With Gabarus Bay under her lee, Hathorn breathed easily again, and the easterly wind allowed him to set a course south-southwest for Halifax.

  ***

  1: Chiara’s Secret

  Wednesday, Fifteenth of February 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Grand Cayman East-Southeast 22 leagues.

  With the trade wind broad on her starboard beam and under tops’ls alone, Medina made her pedestrian way northwest-by-west towards the Yucatan Channel. There was no need – in fact, no possibility – of haste, as she was convoying a mixed bag of twenty merchantmen from Jamaica towards the American colonies. With all sail spread they barely reached the speed that the frigate achieved with her much reduced canvas.

  Carlisle had stationed himself at the rear of the convoy – to windward – so that he could rapidly intervene if the merchantmen were threatened or if there was an emergency that needed his intervention. The snow-rigged sloop Shark, John Anderson in command, was at the head of the convoy, to starboard, so that she too had the advantage of a windward position. Carlisle had disposed his escorts in the most scientific manner, to foil any attack by French privateers. Although the seas west of the Caymans were Spanish and Spain was – so far – neutral in this war, there was still a distinct possibility of French incursions from St. Domingue or their colony of Louisiana in the Gulf of Mexico.

  Carlisle stared intently at his convoy as the sun rose over his right shoulder. They were behaving well so far, even keeping in close company with each on the three nights since they’d sailed from Kingston. He counted them, out of habit rather in the fear that any had gone astray. An even twenty, principally carrying sugar and molasses to the colonies to feed the growing demand for luxury foods and to be turned into the rum that fueled the budding industries of these new lands.

  ‘I believe I’ll take breakfast with Lady Chiara, Mister Moxon. Call me if any sails are sighted,’ he said to the first lieutenant.

  Taking one last look around the horizon, letting the sheer beauty of the Caribbean on this crystal-clear morning sink into his soul, he turned away for the cool of his cabin. The sun wouldn’t have heated it yet, but its early rays would already be dispelling the overnight gloom and twinkling on the silverware that Black Rod had laid out. His personal servant had been burned in an accident the previous year and repatriated to England. So, after a fruitless search for a replacement in Kingston, his wife Chiara had offered the Angelini family chief-of-household as a substitute, the enigmatic Black Rod. To this day, Carlisle didn’t know the man’s real name. Even the ship’s muster book didn’t help; the Purser was utterly intimidated by the tall, forbidding Italian and rather than quiz him had merely entered his surname as Black and his Christian name as Rod. Carlisle could imagine all kinds of trouble when the clerks at the navy board saw that. But they were used to captains acquiring crew members from all corners of the globe, and his nationality would probably reassure them. For generations they’d been forced to accept the sometimes-bizarre attempts to anglicise names that really didn’t lend themselves to translation. No, on reflection, Black Rod may raise an eyebrow but no more.

  ***

  The cabin was indeed cool, and Black Rod had laid out a substantial breakfast that would have satisfied half a dozen men. Only three days out of Port Royal and all the luxuries of the shore were still available. Fresh eggs and ham of course, but also soft, white bread and cow’s milk. Carlisle had spent half his life at sea, so the prospect of a lack of fresh cow’s milk disturbed him not at all, but it was a real delight while it was available. It would be goat’s milk for the next three or four weeks until they reached Hampton in his home colony of Virginia.

  Carlisle had grown used to waiting for his wife. It seemed that time moved at a different pace for Chiara – perhaps it was the same for all wives – and nothing in this world would cause her to hasten her preparations to face the day. He was used to it, but he still wondered how she could be so unhurried in domestic matters and yet, as he’d seen for himself, so rapid and decisive when the need arose. Carlisle paced the few yards across the spread of the cabin windows, trying not to look longingly at the dining table while attempting to assume the air of a man who was entirely at his leisure. He’d been on deck since before dawn some three hours before, and his stomach was reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since supper the night before. Black Rod, like the polished servant that he was, busied himself in the tiny scullery until his mistress should appear.

  The minutes passed. Carlisle was on the point of committing the cardinal sin of sending a message to ask when his wife may be ready to join him when her maid pushed open the door from the sleeping cabin and Chiara made her entrance. Medina may have been a mere frigate, but Lady Chiara’s presence in the great cabin lent an air of grace and nobility that would have flattered a flagship. Chiara looked radiant in a silver-grey dress that combined style with practicality. Even her maid looked well turned-out.

  ‘Good morning, my dear,’ said Chiara, not waiting for Carlisle to speak first. ‘I trust all is well with the ship and the convoy. You were about long before dawn; I wonder that you look so spruce.’

  Now, wasn’t that just like her to get her compliment in first, before he’d recovered from seeing her enter th
e cabin? Carlisle stammered a conventional response as he held a chair for his wife.

  Breakfast was much quieter than usual. On most mornings, Carlisle invited the off-going officer-of-the-watch and midshipman to join them, and often the first lieutenant even if he’d not had the watch. But yesterday at supper Chiara had particularly asked that they breakfast alone, ‘so that she could enjoy his company,’ she’d said. Carlisle was happy to agree; there would be plenty of time to socialise with his new officers on this long passage north.

  Chiara picked at her breakfast while Carlisle demolished eggs, toast, buttered rolls and spread the hot English mustard liberally on his ham. The coffee was excellent. Jamaican coffee cultivation had only been started a generation before, yet the beans from the Blue Mountain region, between Kingston and the north coast, were truly superb. In the hands of Black Rod, they produced coffee with a mild flavour entirely lacking the bitterness that he was used to. Chiara had laid in enough of the Blue Mountain coffee to last for an extended cruise.

  As the first edge of his hunger was satisfied, and he was able to give more of his attention to his wife, Carlisle noticed that she was watching him with peculiar intensity as she talked away about domestic affairs. When he’d removed his napkin, and Black Rod had refilled his coffee cup, Chiara paused in her flow of conversation.

  ‘Would you leave us, please?’ Chiara asked Black Rod and cast a meaningful glance at Susan her maid, who also left the cabin.

  ***

  Carlisle was mystified. In this much, they had completely different attitudes: Chiara, having been bred into a noble Sardinian family, was perfectly comfortable with discussing almost anything in front of the servants. Carlisle was more reticent and would generally only discuss innocuous domestic matters unless they were alone. It was unprecedented for Chiara to ask the servants to withdraw, particularly Black Rod who knew all the Angelini family secrets.

  ‘Edward, I have something to tell you,’ Chiara started, ‘although I expect you may have guessed it already.’

  Carlisle had guessed nothing, but his concern showed immediately. It could only be some illness that his wife had discovered and was now ready to reveal.

  Chiara looked at him with an amused expression.

  ‘I am expecting our child,’ she said with typical abruptness, now smiling broadly.

  Carlisle froze, his cup halfway between saucer and lip. Chiara almost laughed out loud, his expression of astonishment was so comical. Clearly, he hadn’t suspected anything. How could a person who shared her bed have been so unobservant?

  ‘Are you not happy, husband?’ she asked when a full two seconds had passed without any sound leaving Carlisle’s mouth.

  ‘I … I’m delighted,’ he eventually managed to stammer, looking more confused than entirely happy. Edward Carlisle may have been decisive in seamanship and in battle, but after less than a year of marriage, he was still unsure of himself in domestic matters, and more particularly anything that involved his headstrong wife. However, he recovered quickly and had just enough presence of mind to push back his chair and walk around the table to hold his wife’s hand.

  ‘Nothing, nothing could give me more pleasure,’ he said, feeling more confident now and managing to smile. For he was delighted but caught off his guard. His mind was already starting to turn over the practicalities of an expectant woman committed to a long sea passage.

  ‘How do you feel,’ he asked lamely, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘Oh, I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ replied Chiara. Many women would have taken offence at Carlisle’s awkward manner, but Chiara knew her husband much better than he knew her. She’d expected a much lengthier period of dumb astonishment, which is why she’d dismissed the servants. From her close study of Edward Carlisle over the past year, Chiara thought it quite likely that he hadn’t really considered that a child may be a consequence of marriage. A man’s mind worked in a different way she’d concluded.

  ‘May I ask when we can expect the happy event,’ he asked.

  It was curious, thought Chiara, how he found ways to refer to her pregnancy in indirect terms. She knew very well that he’d never utter the words pregnancy or birth, and definitely no words that could be construed to refer to the medical issues around her confinement. The Happy Event, it would be between them, she knew, and all-in-all she was content with that. Chiara had her maid to share the more intimate details.

  ‘During September I expect,’ Chiara replied, turning to watch the range of expressions on her husband’s face as he digested this information. She wouldn’t miss this for the world, and Carlisle didn’t disappoint as he mentally calculated the months that had passed and those to come. He reached the conclusion that his child must have been conceived in December, while Medina was being repaired after the action off Cape François.

  ‘I have, of course, known for a few weeks,’ Chiara added, still observing her husband carefully.

  ‘But … you need never have come on this voyage! You could have been safe in Kingston with doctors who are used to…to this sort of thing. Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me before?’ Carlisle realised he was in danger of becoming angry when the occasion called for tenderness. But all the same, to wilfully embark on a man-of-war in Chiara’s condition! It beggared belief.

  ‘I didn’t tell you, Edward, because I knew this would be your reaction. I intend to follow you to the ship’s new station at Halifax and to find accommodation ashore. I assume we will be there in good time, won’t we?’

  ‘Why, yes, I suppose we will, but a man-of-war is no place for you. I can’t turn the convoy around, but I can put into Savannah or Charleston and put you ashore there.’

  ‘No, sir. I will not be left behind nor put ashore like so much baggage,’ Chiara replied, becoming heated herself. ‘My place is with my husband. Who knows when you will come back to Georgia or Carolina? This war leaves you without the ability to control your own destiny, and I will not be left behind to await your coming at the damned Admiralty’s pleasure.’

  Carlisle was shocked. Chiara rarely if ever swore and her use of profane language now showed the depth of her feeling and the extent of her determination like nothing else could. He was tempted to walk over to the stern windows where he could think clearly, but in a flash of intuition realised how that would be taken. Instead, he moved his chair beside Chiara’s and held her hand tightly.

  ‘Well, we have some practicalities to consider,’ he said as gently as he could. ‘Does the doctor know of this?’

  Carlisle was in an awkward position to look at his wife’s face, and it was with surprise and concern that he saw that she was crying, a thin trickle of tears running down the cheek which she now turned to him.

  ‘Only Susan knows, Edward. It’s difficult to keep these things from one’s maid. But I’m certain of the facts. You wouldn’t want me to go into the details, I believe.’

  Carlisle most certainly would not. He suppressed a shudder at the very thought.

  ‘Will you then allow Carlton to examine you? I’m afraid he’s the best professional advice that you’ll have until we reach Hampton, and that could be three weeks, perhaps a month if the winds turn foul.’

  ‘If it will set your mind at rest, Edward. Yes, Carlton may examine me, but I’d assumed that you would prefer to keep this information secret until – until it can no longer be hidden.’

  ‘Carlton will keep the secret, or he’ll answer to me,’ Carlisle replied with an I’m in command of this ship, if not of my wife look in his eye. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to muster at the foremast when the loblolly boy strikes his triangle. I assume it won’t, er, show, for a month or so.’

  ‘Oh, I can keep it hidden for a long time yet. The modern styles can hide anything, you know,’ Chiara said, regaining some of her spirit, ‘and I’m sure Carlton will agree that I’m quite safe until we reach Halifax. When will that be, dear?’

  ‘Well, I have to call at Hampton and Boston before Halifax. We’ll have
to brave my family at Hampton, but I’m sure we’ll manage.’

  Chiara hadn’t failed to notice the way that Carlisle was starting to us we rather than you. He was taking a share in this partnership and she was grateful, too grateful to let it show.

  ‘I expect we’ll be in Hampton in early March and Boston in the middle of March. Halifax depends on how much we’re delayed at Boston. I’ll be master of our destiny at Hampton, but there’ll be an admiral at Boston, I expect, and he’ll say when we make the last leg to Halifax, or whether he sends us somewhere else entirely. I’m afraid we’ll need to be somewhat flexible in our planning.’

  ‘Well, Halifax in April won’t be too bad. I’ll still have five months to go, and spring will be in the air,’ she said brightly.

  Carlisle looked thoughtful. Spring would hardly have touched Halifax in April; the inhabitants didn’t rely upon good weather until June. In fact, where Medina was going, the forbidding fortress of Louisbourg on Île Royale, they would probably still be contending with ice and freezing fogs well into May.

  ‘Then it’s settled. Tell me when you’re ready for Carlton to come to the cabin and I’ll call him. The secret will be ours until you are safely ashore in Halifax.’

  ***

  Carlisle didn’t escape from the cabin until the forenoon watch was half over and the quartermaster was watching the glass to strike four bells. He had some thinking to do. Chiara’s motives were admirable in wishing to say close to her husband for as long as possible, but she really hadn’t taken the conditions in Halifax into account. The town had been established less than ten years and its facilities were little better than a makeshift border settlement. In fact, a long-running war with the Miꞌkmaq tribe had only ended in 1755 when Monckton defeated the French and their native allies at Fort Beausejour. The whole Nova Scotia area was unstable and hardly the place for a member of Sardinian nobility – and the wife of a post-captain – to be giving birth.