by Chris Durbin
Hosking watched the sails for an infuriating moment.
‘No, sir, we’ll be in irons if we try that, but she’ll veer well enough.’
‘Then veer ship!’
Carlisle knew that he’d lost the first round, not by a knockout blow but by failing to achieve his own aim of bringing down the Frenchman’s foremast.
‘It’ll be the larboard broadside, Mister Moxon.’
He’d have to parallel the Frenchman’s course, and all his fancy tactics would be reduced to an old-fashioned slogging match as the two ships fought it out broadside to broadside.
‘Starboard battery fire!’ shouted Moxon, catching Carlisle unaware. Starboard battery! That was a gross breach of discipline, firing without the captain’s word, and Carlisle was momentarily angry.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said Moxon, removing his hat and glancing away on the quarter. Carlisle’s anger evaporated. When his larboard broadside captains had started holding up their hands to indicate their guns were ready, and they were intelligently training aft as Medina swung off the wind, Moxon had seen the opportunity for another attempt at the Frenchman’s masts. Only half of the guns had fired, those belonging to the crews that were faster at reloading and levering the great guns around, but those few had done the business. The fore topmast was swaying dangerously, and, in a moment, it was gone, hauled over the starboard bow with the force of the quartering wind, taking the main yard with it, fractured in the slings. If the Frenchman hadn’t already lost his fore stays’l, the situation could have been retrieved, but with the fore topmast went the fore tops’l and the fore topmast stays’l. He was left with no sails for’rard of the mainmast. In seconds the French frigate’s bows started to swing inexorably to starboard, into the wind. Faster and faster she turned, her intact jibboom barely missing Medina’s quarterdeck. And still, the Frenchman hadn’t fired a shot.
‘Where are the transports?’ yelled Carlisle to the quarterdeck at large.
‘They’re almost in the passage,’ replied Enrico, the only officer on the quarterdeck not watching the agony of the French frigate. ‘They’ve come too far to turn back now.’
Carlisle staggered as a blow hit Medina’s quarter. At least one gun had been fired by the Frenchman; a single shot had hit Medina, where he couldn’t tell, but there had been no cries of pain.
‘Make your course to catch those transports, Mister Hosking.’
‘They’re hauling their wind, sir,’ shouted Enrico. ‘They’re trying to veer and make the Labrador Inlet.’
‘They’ll never do it, said the master, ‘They’ll fetch up on the cape if they’re not careful.’
Medina settled on her downwind course and spread her courses. Carlisle watched as the two transports put their sterns through the wind. Whatever Hosking and Enrico thought, it appeared that they’d make it into the Labrador Inlet. They must have an exceptional pilot, thought Carlisle, to so confidently reverse their course off that lee shore. Nevertheless, there they were, long before Medina had reached the southwestern point of the islands, running into the narrows under tops’ls, as though they didn’t have a care in the world.
***
18: Poor Bloody Soldiers
Thursday, Thirtieth of March 1758.
Medina, at Sea. Off Cape Dauphin, Île Royale.
There was a sense of anticlimax on Medina’s quarterdeck. The wind had dropped to a whisper but if anything, it was even colder. The gun crews, sweating in their shirts an hour ago with the exertion of combat, were now hurriedly pulling on Guernsey sweaters and oiled gregos.
‘She’s ours for the taking,’ said Hosking, gesturing towards the stricken French frigate, a mile to windward now and with her stern to Medina. ‘She’ll be unmanageable for at least an hour until they rig a headsail from the remains of the foremast, and even then, she’ll be slow in stays, if she can tack at all.’
Carlisle wasted no more than a glance on the frigate. She was no threat and couldn’t be until she had a new fore topmast. That would take days to achieve at sea, or more realistically it would require a trip to a harbour with spare spars and the facility to rig them.
‘What do you know about the Labrador Inlet?’ he asked Hosking, ignoring the master’s remark.
‘Nothing whatsoever, sir,’ Hosking replied. ‘Its name is mentioned on my chart but nothing more. It appears to have a narrow entrance, and it probably has steep sides and deep water if it follows the normal pattern in this country, but that’s just conjecture.’
‘They seem to think they can get in there,’ said Carlisle gesturing at the two transports, now well clear of the passage between the islands and Cape Dauphin. They were sailing serenely into what would have looked like the certainty of grounding on a rocky shore if the chart hadn’t exposed the concealed entrance to the Labrador Inlet.
‘Aye sir, but will they get out again? They’ll need a southerly wind and not too strong, and clear weather too. We haven’t seen anything of that nature yet.’
‘They don’t need to get out again,’ replied Carlisle. ‘That battalion of soldiers, or whatever number there may be, is worth a dozen transports,’ he said, looking away from the master.
He was tired of Hosking’s attitude and dismayed at his inability to answer simple questions about this coast. He knew he was unreasonable; there were no useful British charts of this area. Once they had rounded Cape Breton, they were into French territory, French for the last hundred and fifty years, and even in the short periods when England or Britain had controlled parts of it, no accurate surveys of the coast were made. Really, he was lucky that they knew the general outline and the names of the capes, bays and islands; most British men-of-war would have no clue.
‘I know one thing,’ said Carlisle without thinking, ‘I’d give a year’s pay to have that pilot on my deck.’
Hosking made a huffing noise deep in his throat and busied himself at the binnacle.
To Carlisle, his duty was plain and unlike his sailing master, he understood that Medina must influence the land battle if she was to be of any value at all. A French frigate more-or-less was of no consequence to the taking of Louisbourg, whereas a battalion of French infantry, still probably the best trained and best-led soldiers in the world, could make the difference between success and failure. He could see the strategic situation with a clarity that perhaps only Moxon of all the other officers shared. Moxon and perhaps Enrico, who had been brought up in a family that discussed and participated in world affairs. The French frigate – he still didn’t know its name despite their two weeks’ acquaintance – could run carefully into Port Dauphin or she could keep the sea and make a jury rig as best she could, but either way, she wouldn’t be bothering Medina for a few days at least. His duty was to make life as difficult as he could for those soldiers.
‘Mister Hosking,’ he said, not caring to acknowledge the sailing master’s mood, ‘you may lie-to and warn the cook that dinner will be piped in thirty minutes. Keep a mile clear of the islands and Cape Dauphin and call me if you need to make sail to do so, if the weather closes in or if that Frenchman makes a move towards us. I’ll be in my cabin.’
Carlisle motioned to the first lieutenant.
‘Mister Moxon, will you join me?’
***
Down in the cabin, Carlisle spread out Hosking’s chart of Île Royale. It lacked the detail of the features of the land, but it did show the general route that the battalion would have to take to reinforce Louisbourg.
‘You’ll leave the frigate be then, sir,’ said Moxon. It was a statement rather than a question.
‘Yes, unless we determine that we can do nothing against the soldiers, then we can think about making a prize of her. I have to say that it goes against the grain just leaving her unmolested.’
‘I’ll bet her captain is wondering what we’re about,’ replied Moxon, chuckling.
The first lieutenant’s face and hands were covered in the black residue of powder smoke, and it made his smile appear comica
l.
‘Well, be that as it may, we must do whatever we can to impede those soldiers. Now, what does this chart tell us?’
Even the worst, most minimalistic chart will reveal its secrets if studied with a set purpose, and the master’s chart of Île Royale was no exception. Moxon stepped off the distances using his outstretched fingers as dividers.
‘It’s a good forty-mile march to Louisbourg from the eastern side of this inlet, this Labrador Inlet, as they call it.’
‘Yes, Labrador must be their name for this whole lake system at the centre of Île Royale,’ added Carlisle. ‘Look, from here they could make their way by water deep into the heart of the territory.’
‘Little good would it do them, sir. They need to travel southeast to reach Louisbourg. It looks like a decent road and must be well-travelled, probably all these waterways have ferries where they’re too wide for bridges, and they won’t have to beat their way through brush and bog. If they take the way to the lake, they’ll be too far to the west.’ Moxon said, pointing to the Labrador lake. ‘They must strike southeast, it’s the direct route, despite these waterways,’ he indicated the network of fingers of the sea that penetrated the northeast coast.
‘Of course, the people of this country are all French or Acadians, or they’re savages in league with the French,’ said Carlisle. ‘The soldiers will be able to requisition boats and find food and shelter. Looking at the terrain, I would say that two or three days will see them behind the walls of the fortress.’
For just a moment, Carlisle looked forlorn, defeated by the impossibility of doing anything to prevent the French battalion reaching its destination.
‘We could send our boats in tonight, sir. We could burn the transports and any stores that they haven’t managed to unload.’
Carlisle could see that even Moxon had scant faith in his own words. The soldiers may be helpless on a ship, in a sea battle that is fought with great guns at ranges that a musket can’t match, but in a small harbour with a fort at their back, few ship’s boats could pass in, and none would come out again.
‘Perhaps if we trace their likely march, sir.’
That was easy to deduce. The land of Île Royale was so broken up by inlets, rivers and lakes that there were few options for a march from the Labrador Inlet to Louisbourg. Assuming the battalion was landed on the eastern side of the inlet – and surely the colonel would insist on that, even if it meant running the transports aground to achieve it – then they must first strike across the country to Spaniard’s Bay. It looked like a straightforward march of some ten or twelve miles with a second inlet to cross, called the Little Labrador Inlet. If they spent the rest of this day disembarking, and assuming there were local boats to be had, they could be in the small town on Spaniard’s Bay by Friday evening. Again, if there were boats to be had, they could cross the bay and in two more marches – perhaps as little as one – and they’d be in Louisbourg by Sunday evening.
‘Once they’re past Spaniards Bay, there’s nothing that we can do against them, sir,’ Moxon said, ‘so we have to do something today, or tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Yes, then it’s the Labrador Inlet,’ he said, pointing to the inlet that the transports were entering as they spoke, ‘or it’s the Little Labrador Inlet or Spaniard’s Bay.’
‘Spaniards Bay,’ repeated Moxon thoughtfully. ‘The problem here is that it’s almost as quick to march around it as it is to take boats across. If they get even a hint of our presence, they’ll surely take the dry-shod route, don’t you think, sir?’
Carlisle could see just what the first lieutenant meant. There were rivers to be crossed in plenty and what looked like marshland, but Île Royale had been held by the French for one-and-a-half centuries, and the French genius for engineering would surely have provided safe routes across the country. Moxon was right, there was no point in intervening in Spanish Bay; it must be one of the two inlets to the Labrador Lake. After the battalion had crossed those they would be out of reach of the navy.
Both men stared at the chart, deep in thought. Moxon spoke first.
‘As you said, sir, it’s too dangerous to attempt anything against those transports once they’re in that inlet. They’re safe from us there as long as the soldiers are nearby.’
Carlisle nodded. He and his first lieutenant were groping towards the same conclusion.
‘It must be this Little Labrador Inlet. It’s the only place on their march which is within reach of the sea and where they must have boats to cross; they have no alternative. The river looks about four miles long before it widens into the lake. If we can strip that four-mile stretch of boats, we’ll hold them up for days.’
‘Certainly, we can do that. We can send our boats away as soon as it gets dark and sweep that river clean of anything that floats. We may even be able to replace our yawl. But is it worth it? What will be the result? A few days longer on their march, before they construct new boats or haul them overland from Spaniard’s Bay? What would you do, if you were the colonel of that battalion?’
Moxon considered for a moment. Really, the French options were limited. It was no mean undertaking to move a battalion and even its essential baggage over forty miles of rough ground, and that assumed that they’d leave their larger items and camp followers to catch up as they could.
‘I’d send runners overland to Louisbourg and request small boats be sent around, he replied. ‘Louisbourg must have dozens of fishing boats large enough to work the banks. They’d certainly be able to make that passage to the Labrador inlets.’
Carlisle looked at his first lieutenant. His reasoning was superb; why hadn’t he previously recognised this quality in the man? He knew why, even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He’d continuously compared Moxon to his friend Holbrooke, and whatever Moxon did, he saw in a negative light. Carlisle shook himself out of his reverie.
A knock at the door revealed Enrico.
‘Mister Hosking’s compliments, sir, and the French frigate has rigged a fore stays’l, of sorts, and she’s before the wind running towards Port Dauphin, well over to the western side of the passage. She’s to leeward of us now.’
‘Thank you, Mister Angelini, how close will she pass to us?’
Enrico thought for a moment.
‘Two miles to the west, sir.’
‘Then my compliments to the master and he’s to let me know if she hauls her wind. The hands are at their quarters still?’
‘Yes, sir, we’re ready for them,’ replied Enrico.
The cabin door closed, and the sound of Enrico’s rapid ascent of the quarterdeck ladder faded.
‘Well, that’s cleared out one variable,’ said Carlisle. ‘That frigate can’t beat up towards us now and soon she’ll be beyond our reach. It goes against the grain to let her go, and she’d be a good prize, but today our duty lies elsewhere.’
‘Yes, sir, there’ll be another day,’ replied Moxon keeping the disappointment from his voice. A successful action would only help in getting him promoted, and unlike Carlisle, he’d made no prize money yet.
‘There may indeed be another day,’ said Carlisle, absent-mindedly. ‘But for today, we have a plan, Mister Moxon. We’ll take or burn everything that floats along that stretch of the lesser inlet,’ he indicated the four-mile river that ran from the sea to the start of the lakes. ‘Then we’ll set a trap for the boats from Louisbourg.’
***
19: Take or Burn
Thursday, Thirtieth of March 1758.
Medina, at Sea. Off Little Labrador Inlet, Île Royale.
The French frigate, relieved of its escorting duties and hugging the western shore, had slipped into Port Dauphin under a jury rig. That removed one option from Carlisle’s planning; there was no chance of attacking her once she was through the narrows and anchored under the guns of the fort, and without the facilities of a navy yard, she’d be in Port Dauphin for days if not weeks.
Half an hour later, with the French frigate now out of sig
ht, Medina had made a show of attempting to pass through the channel between Cape Dauphin and the Siboux Islands. To anyone watching her, it appeared that the frigate’s captain had not liked what he saw, and confronted with an unsurveyed mile-wide passage, a foul, rising wind, and middling visibility, he’d lost his nerve. By four bells Medina was beating up to the northeast, hard on the wind, leaving Port Dauphin and the Siboux Islands behind. Carlisle hoped that any Frenchmen who cared to follow his progress would believe that he was bound for Cape Breton and thence to the approaches to Louisbourg. To reinforce that impression, he kept the frigate hard on the wind until the land had faded into the light mist. When there was no chance of Medina being seen from Cape Dauphin, he tacked and stood in for the Little Labrador Inlet.
The sun had set an hour before and the last glow was fading over the hills of Île Royale. Medina lay off the lesser inlet, her longboat alongside, with its mast stepped and its lugs’l ready to be hoisted. The carpenter was fussing around the mountings for a pair of swivel-guns that Moxon had decided were the best armament for the task, while the gunner was stowing combustible packets in every nook and cranny.
‘I regret the loss of the yawl now,’ said Carlisle to Moxon, ‘It somehow doesn’t feel right sending you in there without support.’
‘After my last experience of keeping two boats together in the dark, I’d almost rather be alone, sir,’ replied the first lieutenant, grinning. ‘They won’t be expecting us, there’s no likelihood of a significant military force on this inlet, and I expect we’ll be in and out before word gets to the soldiers.’
‘Yes, they’ll be wholly engaged in disembarking, and it’s five miles across rough country from the other inlet. Now you, of course, will have to make your decisions on the spot, but I advise that you sail straight through to the lake. It should only take an hour in this easterly wind, and then sail or pull back, burning as you go.’
