The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  ‘Mister Moxon,’ said Carlisle from the darkness behind the wheel, ‘perhaps before you turn in, you’d ask the purser to serve out a measure of spirits to the boat crews. I believe we could break into the Jamaica rum on this occasion. And then they are to turn in.’

  There was a ragged cheer from the boats as the news was passed down to them. Medina had been on beer since they left Williamsburg, and not very strong beer at that. The navy’s policy was quite firm; beer was to be drunk for as long as it lasted, then whatever spirit was available could be issued – rum in the West Indies, Brandy off Spain or Portugal – or wine in the Mediterranean. For many of the crew, this was their first time out of the Caribbean for years, and they sorely missed their daily tot of rum.

  ***

  Even the worst nightmares end, yet sometimes they are just replaced by a different quality of nightmare. The ironbound coast of Nova Scotia was replaced by the biting cold and persistent fogs of Île Royale.

  Carlisle stood immobile on the quarterdeck of Medina. He was bundled in layers of clothing: two wool waistcoats, an overcoat, a boat-cloak and a tarpaulin over all, with numerous mufflers and a thick pair of mittens. Yet still the cold seeped through. It appeared that there were two types of weather off Île Royale at this time of year: a howling, gale that whipped the sea into dangerously steep, curling waves, but with the advantage of crystal clear visibility; or light winds that allowed a thick fog to form, reducing visibility to less than the length of the ship. Either way, it was bitterly cold; of the two Carlisle would have preferred the howling gale for this introduction to Louisbourg. In heavy weather, he at least could see dangers – the surf on the rocky shore, the enemy sail – but in the sort of fog they were experiencing today, it was just blind man’s bluff, not unlike his childhood games but with higher stakes.

  ‘Mister Angelini,’ he whispered, ‘run aloft and tell that damned lookout that he’s to cease stamping on the boards of the maintop immediately. If I hear him again, he’ll be keeping his watch at the topmast head.’

  Enrico disappeared for’rard into the fog. It was a genuine pea-souper, and the foremast couldn’t be seen from the quarterdeck, just the shifting outline of the fore tops’l. Carlisle had ordered silence on the deck, not only so that he could hear any sounds from outside the ship – breakers, the creaking of an oar – but also so that no other vessel should hear Medina. Carlisle knew that the French, despite the weather, regularly ran supplies into Louisbourg, and it was to be assumed that with the first hints of spring – late though they were in this God-forsaken land – they would re-double their efforts. The failed expedition of last year had taught a painful lesson that had not been lost on the British planners. Admiral Hardy had confided his greatest fear; that a powerful French squadron and reinforcing regiments would make it into Louisbourg before a regular blockade could be mounted.

  The British navy’s problems were quite different to the French. Every sea-officer knew how difficult it was to maintain a blockading squadron for any length of time in even the most benign weather. Yet to maintain a tight blockade off Louisbourg, they had to keep a squadron on station through all weathers, week in, week out, exposed to the worst of winds from the north and the east.

  Hardy’s ships, when they all arrived, would carry over three thousand men. The dry provisions – salt beef and pork, bread and peas – weren’t the problem, it was water and beer and, in this weather, firewood, that were the critical commodities. Men who came off watch wet and freezing must be able to get warm and dry. Otherwise, fevers set in. And men must have fresh food to supplement the dry, or else the dreaded scurvy took hold of a ship. In more benign conditions, a ship could be expected to stay disease free for six weeks, but off Île Royale before spring had broken the bonds of winter, four weeks could see a ship’s company decimated.

  That was why Hardy was holding his squadron back in Halifax. Nevertheless, he needed eyes and ears – and a ship that could fight – to watch the French fortress, because he knew that a fast run across the Atlantic for a few transports or frigates armed en flute was well within the capability of the French navy.

  ‘Let’s go below and have another look at the chart, Mister Hosking, it’s a long time since we saw Cape Canso. What I’d give for a landfall now!’

  Carlisle took one last hopeful look around the compass, but the fog was giving nothing away. If anything, it had thickened and now the fore tops’l was entirely hidden.

  ‘Mister Moxon, you have the deck.’

  The master had two charts, one covering the whole of the Nova Scotia coast and Île Royale, and another showing the detail of the harbour and fortress of Louisbourg. They were good charts, but what he really needed was a survey of the approaches to Louisbourg, preferably showing lines of soundings. Without that he was really groping blindly in this fog. The lead-line was of some use, giving them a general impression of their distance off the land, and they’d agreed that thirty fathoms should be their minimum while the wind was anywhere in the west. If the wind backed or veered into the east, then they would stand off and give themselves plenty of sea-room. Of course, they had no real idea of the currents this close to the land. It was well known that the Atlantic drift turned towards the east in these parts, and that was what brought the fog when it met the cold winds from the north, but its effect was weak and uncertain. Really, until the fog lifted, their best navigation aid was their ears. In these conditions, they should be able to hear breakers at a mile if there was no extraneous noise on the deck, but even then, a mile was dangerously close in the fog, and this easterly wind could have them on the rocks in no time.

  ‘The last heave of the lead found no bottom at a hundred fathoms, sir,’ said Hosking, ‘we should be at least five miles clear of the land. Other than that, I can say that we’re somewhere to the south and east of Louisbourg.’

  ‘If the soundings on the chart are accurate,’ Carlisle added, ‘if there’s not a stretch of deep water running right up to White Head.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. I’ve only been here once before and had no time for surveying on that occasion, but the Halifax pilot was here in forty-five and has been here since, in the peace. He told me there’s nothing more than thirty fathoms within five miles of the shore.’

  ‘Hmph,’ said Carlisle. He hadn’t yet forgiven Hosking for running his ship dangerously close to Cape Liscomb. It was all very well the master toying with the safety of his frigate, but courts-martial had a habit of blaming the captain for the loss of his ship, while the master escaped with only his reputation damaged.

  ‘The wind seems set in the east-nor’east,’ continued Hosking, ‘what there is of it.’

  They pored over the charts, committing the details to memory for the hundredth time. When the fog lifted – if it lifted – they both knew they would be able to determine their position by reference to the features of the land. With a bit of luck, the first thing they would see would be the tall lighthouse on the eastern side of the harbour, or the spires and towers of the hospital and the King’s Bastion inside the fortress. If neither of those was visible, then the broad Gabarus Bay beyond White Point in the west was quite distinctive, as were the cliffs and coves running away to the east, towards the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

  ‘Then we’ll put her about and stand to the south. At this time of year, I expect any Frenchman to be riding the drift like our friend off the Capes. I hardly expect they’ll take the northerly route. Perhaps five miles off Gabarus Bay would be about right; that should allow us to beat up to Louisbourg if the fog lifts.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied Hosking rolling up his charts.

  ***

  The morning watch wore on. The usual routines of the ship had been halted to reduce the noise on deck, and if it hadn’t been for the biting cold, the Medina’s would have been in a holiday spirit. Half of them were enjoying an unexpected make-and-mend, and the other half were looking forward to the same in the afternoon.

  Carlisle was in his cabin, going over the book
s with the purser. It required all his concentration to follow the purser’s smooth chatter and to determine where he should probe a little deeper; a cask of beef condemned here, was that properly surveyed by his officers? The sale of tobacco, did that figure look correct for his two hundred men? He realised that he’d never queried the amount. It wasn’t unknown for pursers to sell tobacco ashore, in places where it fetched a better price than the victualling board’s standard rate. That was all very well and typical of the way that pursers managed to balance their books and turn a profit from their business; all very well until the illicit trade left the ship short of tobacco. The men would stand for many impositions on their way of life, but the loss of tobacco or alcohol, when they knew the purser’s tricks better than the captain did, could lead to real trouble.

  Carlisle had just determined that he’d personally inspect the tobacco stocks when there was an urgent knock on the door, and Midshipman Angelini burst into the cabin. He saw the start of his captain’s frown and had just enough sense to remove his hat, catch his breath and make something approaching a proper report.

  ‘Mister Moxon’s respects, sir. He can hear a vessel to windward. The hands are going to their quarters.’

  Now that he wasn’t concentrating on the tobacco issue book, Carlisle could hear the almost stealthy sounds of men moving about the ship. The first lieutenant must have passed the word to the watch below at the same time as he dispatched Enrico to alert the captain. That was sensible. If there was a ship that near to them, then they needed to be at quarters, but a beating drum would only reveal their presence, and the knocking down of bulkheads that was part of clearing for action was hardly any quieter. Having the hands at quarters allowed Carlisle to strike a blow – if that was needed – as soon as this strange ship came in sight.

  ‘Thank you, Mister Angelini, you may tell Mister Moxon that I’ll be on deck immediately.’

  He was deliberately not rushing. The ship took its pace from the captain and he judged that the sound of a ship to windward would be heard at a much greater distance than it could possibly be seen. The stranger, with the wind blowing from her to Medina, would hear the frigate much later. He had time to adopt a measured pace.

  Carlisle walked steadily out of his cabin. The crowd at his door had been kept back by the marine sentry; there were the crews for the four nine-pounders that shared his living space and a carpenter’s mate, anticipating an order to clear for action, when he’d knock away the bulkheads to the cabin, leaving a clean sweep of deck for the upper deck batteries.

  ‘Where away, Mister Moxon?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell, sir. It’s definitely to windward, somewhere abaft the larboard beam.’

  After the muted bustle of the crew moving to their stations, there was an unnatural stillness on the deck. Not a man stirred. There was just enough wind for the tops’ls to keep pressing the yards forward, and only the faintest creaking escaped from their junction with the tops of the masts. The men at the guns, those that he could see abaft the foremast, were all looking up at the quarterdeck, poised like statues. Moxon’s order for silence had penetrated even the few landsmen that were left among the people.

  ‘There it is, sir,’ whispered Moxon, ‘nearer the quarter than the beam.’

  Carlisle had heard it, the same sort of sounds that Medina was making, only these were carried down on the wind to his waiting ears. He nodded in response.

  ‘Mister Moxon, you may turn over the deck to the master. I need you to have the guns ready for instant action. They’re not to be run out, that’ll create too much noise, but everything else is to be at immediate readiness.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ he replied and moved soundlessly down the quarterdeck ladder, quickly disappearing into the gloom.

  ‘Do you hear it now, Mister Hosking?’

  ‘Aye I do, sir, but it seems to me to be moving forward somewhat, as though she’s under more sail than we are.’

  Carlisle held up his hand again for silence. He stood still; his head cocked to one side to catch the sound. There it was, the sound of a bow-wave and the creaking of rigging. The master was probably correct; whatever it was appeared to be to seaward and moving south faster than Medina.

  ‘Come up two points, Master, let’s close and see what we’ve got.’

  ‘Larboard broadside ready, sir,’ said Moxon almost in his ear, ‘we can run out in a trice as soon as you give the word.’

  ‘Thank you, Mister Moxon. Nobody is to fire until I blow my whistle,’ he said, holding the silver instrument in his left hand. ‘Whatever’s out there is neither going to nor coming from Louisbourg. My guess is she’s either a Frenchman coming from the St. Lawrence, homeward bound, or we’ve made our rendezvous with Hawke.’

  Moxon nodded. He knew that Hawke was on station and waiting to be relieved and he’d guessed that Carlisle was ordered to be the relief. It was slightly annoying that his captain hadn’t confided his orders in his first lieutenant, but that was perfectly normal. Most captains preferred it that way.

  With the wind only just abaft the beam, Medina was making more noise as the north-easterly swell slapped against her bow and sides. Carlisle knew that it was only a matter of moments before they were detected. By the increasing level of sound coming from the stranger, less than five cables were separating the two ships.

  Was that a break in the fog bank? No, it was gone, just a shifting of the play of light. Carlisle peered eagerly to larboard. The fog was still impenetrable, a thick, moisture-laden blanket that blocked the sight and muffled the sounds, making it difficult to accurately determine the direction. There it was again. A definite break this time, a thinning of the fog. Now he could hear the clanking of a pump, the dull, monotonous sound of the iron cranks being turned. If a ship had been on station for some time and endured a few gales, then her caulked seams would have opened, and she’d have to pump, regardless of the need for stealth as she groped her way through the fog. Thank heaven Medina was a dry ship!

  ‘I see him, sir,’ said the quarter gunner, standing beside the larboard three-pounder, still speaking softly. ‘Two points abaft the beam. Gone now, but I’d swear I saw a main yard.’

  Not a schooner then, nor a cutter, but something bigger, brig or ship-rigged.

  ‘How many decks?’ asked Carlisle.

  ‘Just one that I could see, sir.’

  Carlisle spared a moment to look at the petty officer who had made the report. He wasn’t looking at his captain; he was staring again to larboard, hoping for a second glimpse. Carlisle’s inspection took less than two seconds, but what he saw reassured him. The man was probably right. There was a frigate out there to windward, or perhaps a sloop. It didn’t help with identification. If it was a frigate then it was almost certainly French; there were no British fifth or sixth rates at sea to the north of Halifax except Medina. If it was a sloop, then it must be Hawke. She was a brig, and a brief glimpse of a main yard could easily be that of a brig-sloop.

  Whatever it was, in a moment Medina would be visible from the stranger’s deck, and Carlisle was determined to take the initiative.

  ‘Run out the larboard guns, Mister Moxon,’ he called in a low voice. No doubt the sound of the gun trucks would be heard and recognised, but there was nothing to be gained in announcing Medina’s nationality by a loud shout in English.

  ***

  Occasionally nature shows a sense of the theatrical that quite takes the breath away. Carlisle had suffered hurricanes at sea that left humanity humbled, he’d heard that the great falls at Niagara were a sight of almost unimaginable sublimity, but neither, he was sure, could match the dramatic way that the fog bank lifted, as though it were the curtain of a stage. One moment they were staring into an impermeable airborne soup, the next moment a gust of wind had blown it away to leeward leaving a watery sun illuminating their little patch of sea.

  There, not two cables distant, was a two-masted brig, her guns run out and an ensign floating lazily at her gaff – a white ensign, St. G
eorge’s cross with a union flag in the canton – in anticipation of coming under Rear Admiral Hardy’s command.

  Carlisle glanced at Moxon. The first lieutenant had seen it also, and he waved and smiled in acknowledgement. A white ensign and the unmistakable rig of a British brig-sloop. Hawke without a doubt.

  ‘We’re flying our ensign,’ said Hosking, anticipating Carlisle’s next thought. It was all very well Medina recognising Hawke, but it was entirely possible that they’d take the frigate for a Frenchman, and the sloop looked aggressive and determined, ready for a fight.

  ‘Make the signal for the captain to come aboard,’ said Carlisle to Midshipman Angelini.

  ‘Mister Moxon, you may secure the guns.’

  ***

  12: The Mission

  Sunday, Twenty-Sixth of March 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Off Louisbourg, Île Royale.

  Just a few hours after they had met, Hawke stretched away to the southwest, bound for Halifax and a relief from the constant watch over Louisbourg; Medina was alone on the Île Royale coast. The first part of Carlisle’s orders told him to guard the most likely route for French reinforcements and supplies to reach the fortress, and that meant patrolling a line from Cape Breton to the northeast to Anse de la Cormorandière to the southwest. As patrol lines went, it was short, just fifteen nautical miles from cape to cape, and the harbour of Louisbourg lay right in the centre.

  However, here off Île Royale, the weather determined everything. From the north and east came fog; from all other points of the compass came gales in a never-ending parade of misery, but always, always it was wet and cold. When sails had to be handed or reefed, when the lead had to be heaved, when the sheets and tacks had to be hauled, the men were left soaked by seawater, rain or fog. It didn’t matter where the water came from: it was always cold.

  ***

  ‘Well Doctor, what’s the tally today?’ asked Carlisle, trying to disguise his own fatigue.