The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  ***

  ‘A sad story,’ said Carlisle when he’d heard Moxon’s report. ‘It appears that young Gilbert, God rest his soul, was out of his depth as soon the yawl left the ship’s side, and when he could no longer see your longboat, he lost his head entirely.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Wishart is being protective, of course,’ Carlisle nodded, ‘but the coxswain of the yawl, who’s a steady hand, says that Wishart tried to persuade him to close the longboat, but he was happy where he was. Apparently, he became confused when he had nothing to follow and mistook the surf on Flat Point for the headland past Cormorant Cove.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He’d started moving for’rard to encourage the marines to fire faster,’ replied Moxon. ‘He was just amidships when the ball struck. All the casualties were in the centre part of the boat, those in the bows and stern were flung into the water uninjured. The wounded survived only a few seconds and one of the marines, who wasn’t touched, died as well, even though there was plenty of oars and planks to hold onto. The freezing water and the shock I suppose. The doctor says all the survivors will do well; he has them wrapped in worsted in front of the galley fire.’

  ‘I’ll see Wishart in the morning. But I’ve entirely forgotten. Did you learn anything?’

  ‘Yes, we did, sir. We know the location of two batteries between White Point and Flat Point, and we have some idea of the soundings. The batteries are six-pounders, for sure, and well served. Their rate of fire was good and, of course, they were accurate.’

  ‘Then tomorrow we’ll consider how we investigate the western part of the area. But you should get some sleep, Mister Moxon. The master will take your watch.’

  ***

  14: Under Fire

  Tuesday, Twenty-Eighth of March 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Off Cormorant Cove, Île Royale.

  Carlisle woke to the sound of a knock on his cabin door; he could see that it was pitch dark still. Even when he was sound asleep, he was conscious of the change of the watch, the striking bell registered in his brain but didn’t wake him. He knew that the morning watch hadn’t yet been called, so it was between half-past three and four o’clock. Before the door opened, he was aware of a change in the weather. Medina’s motion had altered. No longer was her stern rising to the long, lazy swell from the east, but she was now rolling more, and leaning to larboard, so the wind must have shifted to the north. His heart beat a little faster; was this the weather window he was looking for?

  ‘Mister Moxon’s respects, sir, and I’m to inform you that the wind has backed into the north with just a hint of west in it. The fog’s dispersing. The ship’s under single reefed fore tops’l, jib and mizzen.’

  This was Atwater, the newly promoted master’s mate. With the loss of Gilbert when the yawl was sunk, Carlisle had a difficult decision to make. There was a vacancy for a master’s mate that must be filled from within the ranks of Medina’s young gentlemen. Without a doubt the most suitable candidate was Enrico Angelini, he was older and more mature than the other midshipmen, and he’d picked up enough seamanship over the last year to allow him to discharge the duties. However, there was another factor that had to be considered. Promotion to master’s mate implied that the man was a suitable candidate for a commission or if not, to become a warranted sailing master. Enrico Angelini was neither. It was understood that the young Sardinian was serving in the British navy as a temporary measure and that at some point he’d return to his Mediterranean home and take up his commission in the army of his own country. In principle, that was not a bar to him being a master’s mate, but it was unfair on the other midshipmen to squander the opportunity. For Enrico, it would be a welcome recognition of his growing nautical skills and no more. For the other midshipmen, it was a vital step on the promotion ladder.

  Carlisle had conducted a short service for Gilbert, the four seamen and the marine who had been lost. There were no bodies to bury; Moxon had quite rightly wasted no time after rescuing the living, and in any case, the bodies had almost certainly sunk under the weight of their clothes.

  After the service he’d called Enrico into his cabin to discuss his future. As he’d expected, Enrico understood that his Sardinian commission and his religion prevented him being commissioned a lieutenant in the British navy, and he was sensible to the ambitions of his friends in the midshipmen’s berth. It was agreed that Enrico would continue to serve as a midshipman.

  ‘Very well, Mister Angelini. My compliments to the first lieutenant and I’ll come on deck.’

  The fog was indeed lifting, enough to allow the moon to cast a feeble light over the sea. The bowsprit was clearly visible as were the t’gallant masts reaching skywards above the reefed tops’ls.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Moxon, touching his hat. ‘The wind’s north by west and as you can see it’s picked up a little. White Point’s on our beam, maybe five miles.’

  Carlisle picked up the traverse board and studied the log readings and compass courses. The frigate had been patrolling five miles off the land heading southwest from Cape Bretton as he’d ordered. The log showed speeds of four, five and six knots and a steady course. The first lieutenant’s estimate of the position was probably correct, at least the distance from land would be reasonably accurate even if the variable currents had set the frigate further to the south than expected.

  It was cold. The northerly wind was bringing a stream of frigid air down from the Labrador regions. As Carlisle studied the traverse board, he felt the first drops of hard rain spatter on his hat. It would be sleet, then hail before the morning watch was called, the worst of all weather for men coming on deck after no more than four hours in their hammocks. On the other hand, Carlisle knew that the sleet and hail were the precursors to the fog lifting.

  ‘I believe this wind will serve, Mister Moxon. What time’s sunrise?’

  ‘Five forty-seven, sir,’ replied Moxon. All of Carlisle’s officers knew by now that it was best for them to have the times of the rising and setting of the sun and moon at their fingertips.

  ‘Then we should see the first of the dawn just before two bells. I wish to be two miles southeast of Cormorant Cove at one bell in the morning. Shake the cook and arrange for the men to have breakfast at the change of the watch, then we’ll go quietly to quarters at one bell, and clear for action.’

  Carlisle had discussed his plan with the first lieutenant immediately after the longboat had been picked up from Gabarus Bay. It was clearly too dangerous to send a boat in to sound the bay, particularly now that the French had been alerted. The artillerymen in those batteries would be aware of their success. Probably some of the bodies had drifted ashore; wreckage from the yawl would undoubtedly have done so. Yes, they would be ready for a second attempt. What they perhaps wouldn’t expect is for Medina to enter the bay and run the lines of soundings. It was a dangerous plan, but Carlisle had two critical advantages: he knew the positions of at least two of the batteries, and he out-gunned them by a considerable margin. He’d oppose his broadside of twelve nine-pounders and two three-pounders against the French six-pounders. The French had the advantage of firing from fixed positions, and they had presumably thrown up earthworks to protect their guns, but still, Carlisle felt confident that he could hold his own while the work of sounding was carried forward. He’d been waiting for the right weather condition. Daylight and good visibility were essential as was a moderate offshore wind so that if Medina should suffer damage to her masts and sails, she’d be carried out to sea rather than onto the shore.

  ***

  Back in England, or in Virginia, the children would be playing outdoors with marbles later in the day. But it was no fine spring day here off Île Royale. The sleet had come and then the hail, with great balls of ice the size of the children’s marbles, stinging and bruising where they struck exposed flesh. At one bell the people had trooped wearily to quarters while throughout the ship the sounds of clearing for action competed with the beat of the hailstones on th
e deck. In all other circumstances, the gun crews stationed under the fo’c’sle and in the great cabin reckoned themselves unfortunate and envied their shipmates in the open air of the waist where the noise of the discharge was less, and the smoke dispersed more quickly. But today they were snug and relatively warm under the shelter of the decks above.

  ‘Stand on, Mister Hosking, and close to a mile off the point. You may start the soundings now.’

  This was the master’s favourite occupation, surveying an otherwise unrecorded coast. He had an eager accomplice in Mister Angelini, who not only had a masterful hand at sketching a shoreline but had a meticulous mind for recording bearings and soundings and turning them into a two-dimensional representation of the area that they covered. That was what mariners needed, an outline of the coast accurately referenced to a good latitude and longitude, lines of soundings related to conspicuous points on the shore and a view of what the mariner may see when looking towards the land. Of those, the longitude was still uncertain. Hosking was deeply suspicious of the way that the position of Louisbourg had been laid down and he was determined, once the fortress was in British hands, to spend some time on White Point, fixing the longitude by observation.

  Carlisle looked over the starboard bow. He could see the sky clearing, and even now the hail was slackening. It would soon turn to sleet, then to big, fat drops of freezing rain and finally, with no warning, it would cease. This was his weather window, and he was determined to make the most of it.

  ‘No bottom on this line,’ called the leadsman in the starboard main chains. That wasn’t surprising; the hand lead line was only twenty fathoms long, and he wasn’t interested in soundings greater than that.

  ‘The ship’s at quarters and cleared for action, sir,’ reported Moxon formally, removing his hat. ‘Larboard battery’s loaded with ball and run out.’

  ‘Very well, Mister Moxon. I expect we’ll come under fire as soon as we close to less than a mile from the shore. Simmonds will record the positions of the batteries. I’ll leave the engagement to you. Use single guns, divisions or the whole broadside as you see fit.’

  ‘You think they’ll unmask, sir?’

  ‘I believe they will. It’ll be hard for any artilleryman to resist the temptation of an enemy frigate within range of his guns. If they don’t, then we’ll bombard them anyway. We know where the easterly batteries are, and it will be odd if we can’t spot the batteries to the west of Flat Point at five cables.’

  ‘We’re just a mile off Cormorant Cove now, sir,’ reported Hosking. ‘You can see the little group of rocks off the point, Grande Cormorandière, they’re called.’

  ‘Very well, stand on. You may bring her about on ten fathoms and we’ll start our first line of soundings.’

  ‘Deck there,’ shouted the lookout from the mainmast head. ‘There’s something on shore on those low cliffs on the point.’

  That was Whittle, enjoying his self-appointed role as the chief lookout. Carlisle wondered how he’d felt in that exposed position when the hail had been pelting down. He’d forgotten that he’d ordered a lookout at the masthead, rather than at the more protected position in the main top.

  He levelled his telescope at the cliffs. Surely that was too obvious a position for a battery. Obvious, but still the best, he decided. A few guns there could dominate Cormorant Cove and the western quarter of the bay, and in any case, once they had unmasked, it didn’t matter how obvious the position was. He looked at Moxon who was studying the same point through his own telescope. The first lieutenant bent to speak to a quarter gunner, calling him to the fo’c’sle to point out his first target. Medina was pointing directly at the battery so there would be no opportunity to fire yet. Carlisle had a momentary temptation to interfere, to confirm that he wished the target to be engaged, but he thought better of it. He’d told Moxon to carry on with the counter-battery fire; there were plenty of other concerns to engage a captain’s attention.

  ‘They’ve opened fire, sir,’ said Enrico.

  A spout of water appeared a cable off Medina’s quarter, and a puff of smoke could be seen over Cormorant Cove. A second gun fired, then there was a pause. Just a two-gun battery thought Carlisle. It’s there to disrupt a landing in boats, not to conduct a duel with a man-of-war. What was that artillery commander thinking about, giving away his position so readily?

  ‘By the deep, sixteen.’

  Two lead lines were going on the starboard side, but only one was calling the depth, the other was taking a sample of the seabed. A midshipman was recording the result on a slate.

  ‘By the mark, thirteen.’

  The ground was shoaling fast. Carlisle glanced at Hosking, who nodded in acknowledgement. They’d already determined that they’d attempt to run along the ten-fathom line. That would give them a margin for error; in her present trim Medina drew a touch less than three fathoms.

  The French guns were firing rapidly, but there were only two of them, and they evidently had difficulty following a moving target. Probably they were on a rough-hewn platform of logs that shifted at every firing. If so, then fine adjustment would be difficult.

  ‘By the mark, ten.’

  ‘May I bring her about, sir?’ asked Hosking.

  ‘Make it so, master, keep to the ten-fathom line.’

  Medina came about quickly under her reduced headsails. Now the land was on the larboard side with Cormorant Cove just abaft the beam.

  ‘Fire!’ shouted the first lieutenant, and the larboard after division of guns made a ragged reply.

  The smoke from the guns blew back over the quarterdeck, momentarily blinding the captain, the master and all the rest.

  ‘Too low,’ Moxon called. He’d positioned himself on the fo’c’sle for that first engagement and had a clear view of the fall of shot. ‘Knock those quoins out a touch,’ he said to the quarter gunner for the for’rard division.

  The quarter gunner relayed the order and watched keenly as the gunners tapped the quoins from side to side with their handspikes and the guns rose a few inches. The gun captains squinted along the barrels, lining them up on the battery. Their target was easy to see now that it had been pointed out. The French artillerymen had tried to cover the disturbed earth with scrub and tree branches, but they were a noticeably different shade of brown to their surroundings, and the shock of the first discharge had blown away some of the camouflage revealing the turned earth below.

  Six hands were raised as each gun captain pronounced himself happy with his training and elevation. The quarter gunner paced behind them, checking for himself that they were well-pointed; he raised his own hand.

  Moxon saw the quarter gunner’s signal. He waited for the frigate’s larboard side to start its upward roll and again shouted ‘Fire!’

  That was better. At least two of the balls had landed close enough to the battery to give the artillerymen something to think about. With twelve nine-pounders against two six-pounders, it shouldn’t be long before Medina’s weight of shot started to tell.

  Medina was creeping forward now under the bare minimum of sail. Hosking and the quartermaster were using all their skills in this fresh breeze, spilling wind where necessary, luffing a little to retard their progress.

  ‘Fire!’ shouted Moxon. It was a whole broadside engagement this time, and the range had shortened. As the smoke cleared, Carlisle could see that the French battery had been hit hard. The earth and logs in front of the embrasures had been torn up, and one gun could be seen pointing awkwardly towards the sky.

  ‘And a half, nine.’

  ‘I’ll ease her away another two points, sir,’ said Hosking. He wasn’t asking permission and Carlisle made no response.

  ‘Well done to your gun crews, Mister Moxon,’ he shouted above the din of the guns being run out again. ‘You may get one more broadside, then you must look for a fresh target after we’ve turned.’

  Medina came off the wind and Carlisle noted that Flat Point was now at least two points on their weather bow. E
ach of the three miniature capes in this easterly part of Gabarus Bay held a nasty surprise for the unwary in the form of low rocks lying between one and three cables off the southern extremity. They’d be a problem in the fog, but in this blessed clear weather and with a stiff breeze breaking the sea over them, they showed up easily. Nevertheless, they were the determinant of where the frigate could safely navigate.

  ‘Deck there! There’s a flagstaff on the shore, partly hidden behind a hill, right on our larboard beam.’ Whittle again.

  Carlisle scanned the shoreline. It was a small flagstaff apparently rough-cut from a felled tree. It probably marked nothing more than a platoon position, but it was a fair target.

  ‘Mister Moxon, you see the flagstaff?’

  As Carlisle spoke, the white Bourbon flag climbed laboriously up the staff. There was probably no block at the top, just a cleft in the pole through which the halyard was rove, and it was in imminent danger of jamming.

  Moxon waved back. The target was well in range, just three or four cables, and he could see men moving about beside the flag. There was no sign of artillery.

  Carlisle’s attention was taken by the flag on shore; he jumped as he felt the wind of a shot screaming across the deck. It miraculously passed without causing any damage and plunged into the sea ahead of the frigate.

  ‘I may question that artillery commander’s tactical sense,’ he commented to Hosking, ‘but I can’t fault his devotion to his duty. He’s lost half his force, and yet he persists.’

  ‘Fire!’ shouted Moxon. Medina heeled to the force of the broadside, and again the intoxicating smell of powder invaded the quarterdeck. That was more satisfactory, noted Carlisle. He could see the flagstaff leaning drunkenly to one side, its flag nowhere to be seen, and there were fallen men beside it. He saw the flash of a sword, presumably an officer calling his men into the dead ground on the reverse of the low hill. There was nothing to be gained in standing to be fired upon by nine-pounders, and no glory in the decimation of his command.