by Chris Durbin
‘I want for nothing except wood and water, sir, and whatever spare sails I can get,’ he said, knowing that he was opening the door for Hardy to order him to join the squadron and beat back to Louisbourg.
Hardy barely paused.
‘Then you must go into Halifax. I can’t have one of my frigates running out of wood for the galley fire in this weather, and who knows when we’ll be able to refill our water butts? I wish you good fortune with the sails; there were none in the yard yesterday, but a storeship from Boston came in a couple of hours ago so you may be in luck. Join me off Louisbourg as soon as you can.’
‘Then, with your permission, I’ll return to my ship, sir, and I wish you a good passage.’
‘As you walk out, Carlisle, tell Captain Wallis what he should expect off Louisbourg. I’m sending Port Mahon on ahead; he should meet Falkingham a day before we can get there with these old tubs of sixties trailing along. You have ten minutes, gentlemen,’ he said, looking pointedly at his pocket watch, ‘then the squadron will be filling and standing on.’
***
Medina anchored off the familiar makeshift navy yard. The Boston storeship had warped alongside the jetty and was disgorging her stores in a steady stream of bundles, casks and spars. Swinton had borrowed the master’s telescope and was studying some long sausage-shaped masses of canvas being carried ashore on the shoulders of a dozen men.
‘Sails!’ he said. ‘New sails, and some of them look about right for a frigate’s tops’ls. We’ll have our share of those or I’m no warranted bosun.’
Swinton ran down to the waist, hailing for the gig’s crew and the sailmaker as he went. He was going to squander no time in staking his claim to the best of those sails, he well knew how weak their mended sails were and how difficult it was to make new ones from bolts of canvas while at sea.
Carlisle stepped into their stolen yawl as Enrico held onto a port-lid to keep the boat steady. At any other time, in any other naval port, he’d have insisted on the longboat to support the dignity of his rank. However, in Halifax, in April, with the admiral having just left and the longboat urgently needed to embark wood and water, a French-built yawl would have to do.
‘To the town quay, Souter,’ he said as the boat shot away from the frigate’s side.
The boat’s crew were in high spirits; they were still dressed in their best rig and they were getting out of the hard labour of embarking wood and water. All they had to do was to row dry for a few hundred yards then wait for their captain to return. They may even get a wet in the tavern close by the quay if Jack Souter could be persuaded to let them go.
Carlisle shook hands with the master attendant. There was no port commissioner in this new naval yard and the master attendant, a superannuated bosun, carried the burden of the station. He looked like a man from whose shoulders a great weight had been lifted. He’d had a trying winter, satisfying Commodore Colville’s demands to keep eight ships-of-the-line, a frigate and a couple of sloops from deteriorating, then getting them ready for sea so early in the season. The evidence of his success was easy to see. The anchorage was empty, except for Medina and Arc-en-Ciel, a fifty-gun fourth rate captured from the French and bought into the service in fifty-six. She’d proved too rotten for the meagre shipwright resources of Halifax to deal with, and now she swung to her anchor awaiting her fate. Her captain, John Rous, was a follower of Hardy’s and had sailed with him in the flagship. There was a strong suspicion that Hardy would soon find an excuse to place Rous in one of the other of his ships, at the expense of its present captain.
‘Captain Rous will be in Sutherland within the month,’ said the master attendant with a sly look. ‘It was evil fate that made Falkingham’s ship the first to be ready to sail, but she was the easiest to get ready, being the only fifty apart from the rotten old hulk over there,’ he waved towards Arc-en-Ciel. ‘He and Hardy don’t see eye-to-eye and his reluctance to sail didn’t endear him to the admiral.’
Carlisle was less interested than he’d usually have been, even though this talk of who commanded what was the very lifeblood of all post captains.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he replied. ‘However, what I need is wood and water, and I must be away tomorrow afternoon at the very latest.’
Carlisle had already decided that he wanted to catch the squadron before it reached Louisbourg, as a way of displaying his zeal to his new commander. If they sailed tomorrow and if this northeasterly wind held, he’d every expectation of doing so.
‘Water we can do easily, it comes down from the hills in torrents, fresh and cold as you like. There’s a good watering place in a cove just to the north of the yard. You’ll have to supply your own butts if you want it today, Mister Hardy took all that we had. The storeship has a fresh supply, but they’re in the ground tier and won’t come out until tomorrow or perhaps Saturday,’
That would be extra labour for the frigate’s people, but it would be worth it to get back to sea.
‘Then so be it,’ replied Carlisle, ‘and the wood?’
‘Now that we can also do for you, there’s as much firewood as you could ever need stacked in the yard, it’s even split and trimmed. Is there anything else you need, Captain?’
‘My purser and the bosun and carpenter will no doubt be ashore by now. Were those frigate sails that I saw coming ashore?’
‘I really don’t know yet, but I’ll send word to the storekeeper to let you have whatever you need. I remember you were short of a spare suit when you were last in here.’
‘Mister Angelini,’ said Carlisle, turning to Enrico, ‘take the yawl back to the frigate and tell the first lieutenant what you just heard. I want the wood and water complete before dark. You may also tell him that we’ll sail before dinner tomorrow and that the hands may have a run ashore tonight.’
Enrico bounded away; there was indeed no time to lose.
‘Now Captain, I have some news for you that you may or may not like,’ said the master attendant.
Carlisle froze, his fear must have shown on his face, and the master attendant had evidently heard about his expectant wife in Williamsburg because he hastily continued.
‘No, never fear, Captain, there’s been no mail, no news for you personally unless there’s some in that storeship.’
Carlisle relaxed. If it didn’t concern Chiara, it couldn’t be too bad.
‘When you were here last month, we spoke about that rascal of a pilot in Boston.’
So that was it. Carlisle had barely thought about that incident since he’d sailed from Halifax three weeks ago.
‘Well, the captain of the port in Boston suspended him from his duties for six months. It seems that he didn’t take kindly to that and spent the next week cursing your name high and low,’ he said, easing himself back in his chair.
Carlisle had expected nothing less; there must be more to tell. The master attendant made a wry smile that had nothing of humour in it.
‘And then he disappeared! One day he was walking the dockside stirring up trouble, the next he was gone. The rumour is that he took one of the smuggling boats and sailed away. Some say he headed this way, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.’
The master attendant looked furtive and lowered his voice.
‘Some say he went over to the French.’
Carlisle remained impassive. It was possible, of course. A smuggler would have been able to get into Louisbourg at almost any time, and there was nothing that a frigate or a fifty-gun ship could do to prevent it. But why would he do that? It was commonly believed that the French possession of Île Royale wouldn’t last the year, and it would go hard with a New Englander who was caught in the collapse of the French capital of the island.
The master attendant eyed Carlisle carefully. ‘Did you know that he’d been a Louisbourg pilot from forty-five to forty-eight? I didn’t, but the pilot who brought you in the last time told me.’
‘I’d heard it,’ replied Carlisle, without mentioning that he’d complete
ly forgotten that fact until now. ‘I’ll look out for him and bring him to justice if I can.’
He realised how pompous that sounded, but he was keen to end the conversation, unless there was anything else that he should know. The chances of him ever crossing paths with the Boston pilot were slim in the extreme. This talk of deserting to the French was sheer gossip. He’d probably gone somewhere completely different, if he’d left Boston at all.
***
Carlisle had been forced to endure more of the same sort of speculative gossip before he could decently get away from the master attendant’s office. When he did, he found that Souter had returned with the yawl, Enrico having been conscripted by the first lieutenant to take the longboat to the watering place. He was just about to order the boat to push off and return to the frigate when he saw two figures running along the shore from the navy yard, carrying a moderate sailcloth sack each. Carlisle recognised those sacks.
‘Hold on, Souter.’
The two men were gasping when they arrived at the yawl.
‘Mail, sir, letters and suchlike,’ the older of the two elaborated, in case his meaning wasn’t clear, ‘for Medina.’
Carlisle gave the men a coin each but didn’t wait long enough to see them both, with a knowing glance at each other, turn in the direction of the tavern rather than back to the navy yard.
‘You may stretch out for the frigate now, Souter,’ said Carlisle.
It’s certain that in its whole life on the Little Labrador Inlet, the French yawl had never been propelled so fast. Medina’s people knew the Captain’s wife’s situation, and they all loved her dearly. Mail for Medina would almost certainly mean news from Williamsburg, and it was only right that they should get their captain back to his ship as fast as possible so that he could read his letters in peace. Besides, he was an open-handed captain, and they firmly expected to be rewarded for making the yawl fly across the smooth water of the harbour. And there was a run ashore tonight!
***
For the first time since he’d been in command of a man-of-war, Carlisle ignored the official letters, dismissed the correspondence for his officers and men with a cursory wave to his clerk, and retired to the cabin window seat with the letter that was in his wife’s unmistakable hand.
‘My dearest Edward,’ it began. Apparently, Chiara’s confinement was progressing well, and all the right signs and indications – thankfully not explained in detail – were in order. Chiara was well looked after by Barbara and her husband, and the governor’s physician visited regularly. All this was a great relief to Carlisle, who was suffering all the usual anxiety of a prospective father; the fear and the guilt of being at sea during this critical time for his wife. He read on.
‘I have some other news. The first will not surprise you, the second perhaps may. I have seen your brother on three occasions in the city, each time while I was escorted by Barbara or Cranmer. The first time he just looked furious and the second and third he cut me dead. Cranmer did not like the look of him at all and has forbidden me to go out alone. You will know how changed I am when I tell you that I am willingly complying with his wish in this regard. There is something about your brother that I just do not trust.
The second concerns your father. He sent a note to Cranmer, asking – requesting permission, mark you – that he may visit me. We discussed the matter and decided that it could do no harm, so long as Cranmer and Barbara were at home. We spoke to the lawyer and agreed that he did not need to attend.’
Carlisle’s heart was racing strangely. He trusted neither his father nor his brother, but of the two, it was his brother Charles that he feared.
Charles had no wife, no legitimate heir and no apparent prospect of obtaining either. When Charles should die, by law the family estate would pass to Carlisle or this child who was yet to be born. It was illogical, for sure, but his brother apparently wanted none of that. As far as Carlisle could tell, Charles would prefer to see the estate became an escheat and pass into the ownership of the colonial government. That degree of irrationality could lead his brother to desperate measures.
His father, on the other hand, must surely have a change of heart at some point as he came towards the end of his life. He couldn’t possibly relish the thought of his hard-earned estate passing out of the family.
Carlisle read on.
‘He visited yesterday. I would not go so far as to say that it was a pleasant social call, there is too much in the past that must be mended, but it was certainly a step in the right direction. He offered me any help that I might need, he pressed me to accept money, and he offered to deal with any issues that may arise to cause me concern, which I took to mean your brother. After fifteen minutes of this, I claimed fatigue and retired, as I had agreed with Cranmer, and left him and Barbara to talk to your father. They believe he is ready to bury the hatchet, as they say in these parts, and to acknowledge his grandchild when it should be born. It was too early for a really frank discussion, but he will visit again next week, and Cranmer agrees that we should raise the subject of your brother’s antagonism.’
Carlisle realised that he was sweating, even trembling slightly. He read the rest of the letter with only half his concentration because all else was merely chatter. Very amiable chatter and much appreciated, but it paled into inconsequence beside this news.
His brother’s attitude continued to worry him. However, if his father was willing to use his influence – after all, he still owned the estate outright until he should die – then perhaps his brother could be brought to some sense.
Then, of course, it raised the exciting possibility of Carlisle himself inheriting, or his child doing so. His brother didn’t look well, and he was ten years older than Carlisle. Perhaps …
***
22: Boscawen
Wednesday, Seventh of June 1758.
Medina, at Sea. Off Louisbourg, Île Royale.
Medina caught sight of Hardy’s squadron off Cape Canso. They’d made hard going of it against the persistent northeasterly wind. It would be bringing fog to Louisbourg, but here at sea, away from the banks, it merely brought rain, sleet and snow. If this was all the progress that a well-found squadron of men-of-war could make, Carlisle wondered how long Boscawen’s invasion fleet would take to reach Louisbourg; and they weren’t even at Halifax yet. Carlisle had hoped to be sent on ahead of the squadron, but he found that Sir Charles had already dispatched Port Mahon to warn Falkingham of their imminent arrival and he wanted to keep a frigate with the squadron.
***
For two months Hardy’s squadron blockaded Louisbourg; two hard, cruel months when winter seemed reluctant to release its grip on the frozen country. The line of battle, eight ships combatting the elements day after day, patrolled from Cape Breton to Gabarus Bay. Their only relief came when a ship or two was detached to Port Dauphin or further south as far as Cape Canso. However, these were infrequent forays because Hardy knew that his main task was to prevent a French squadron making its way into the harbour. Above all other factors, it was the presence of French line-of-battle ships in Louisbourg harbour that had caused the failure of the 1757 expedition. It was to prevent that happening again that Colville had over-wintered in Halifax.
Hardy’s squadron may have been the point of the spear that Pitt and Anson had thrust towards Louisbourg, but it was nevertheless a small part of the British effort to bring down the French fortress. Hawke was off Brest, Rochefort and La Rochelle, preventing men-of-war and supplies from setting off across the Atlantic, while Osborn was in the Mediterranean, watching Toulon.
In February Osborn had fought a battle off Cartagena to prevent de la Clue and Duquesne combining their forces and breaking through the straits to join the Brest squadron and ultimately to relieve Louisbourg. It was a dramatic affair; Orphee of sixty-four guns was captured by three British ships, and the captain of Oriflamme of fifty-six guns ran his ship aground to avoid capture. The eighty-gun Foudroyant, de La Galissonière’s flagship at Minorca in 1756
and now Duquesne’s flagship, tried to outrun the British but was doggedly pursued by the seventy-gun Monmouth. The chase stretched into the darkness. By the light of the moon, Monmouth caught the French ship and after a bitter battle forced it to surrender. In taking the massive French flagship Monmouth's captain, Arthur Gardiner, wiped out the personal disgrace that he’d felt ever since the battle of Minorca, but at the cost of his own life, as he was killed in the fighting. Later in the year the French commander, de la Clue, made one more effort to break out of the Middle Sea and then abandoned Louisbourg to its fate.
Nevertheless, as Sir Charles Hardy was discovering, even with an overwhelming force off the harbour entrance it was impossible to completely seal off Louisbourg. The Île Royale weather favoured the French, whose pilots knew their way into the harbour in even the worst fog, and if they couldn’t make Louisbourg, then Port Dauphin and Spanish Bay were only a day’s sailing to the northwest. Shortly before Hardy arrived, Sutherland and Boreas chased the French fifty-six, L'Apollon, armed en flute, into the harbour but were unable to catch her. A few days later, the frigate Diane, also armed en flute was less fortunate as she ran into Captain and was taken.
More disturbingly for Hardy, a French squadron of four ships of the line – Enterprenant, a seventy-four, Bienfaisant, Capricieux and Célèbre, of sixty-four guns, with two frigates and two other ships sailed from Brest and slipped into Louisbourg with apparent ease on the twenty-eighth of April. There they joined Prudent of seventy guns, making a squadron that couldn’t challenge Hardy’s but would later have a significant effect on the length of the siege.
***
Yet for those two months, it was always the weather that was the real enemy. Colville and the master attendant had done their best over the winter, but Halifax wasn’t Portsmouth, and the squadron that Hardy commanded was tired before ever it started its long vigil. Even with herculean efforts, it had been difficult to provide enough naval stores at Halifax to ready eight ship-of-the-line for sea, and even now their hulls, masts and rigging showed signs of make-do-and-mend. Seasoned oak was in short supply and twice-laid rope was a common sight. Even pitch, so close to New England where it was sourced, was rationed. Their crews had suffered over the winter and disease set in within days of their arrival off Louisbourg, the same sickness that Medina had experienced a month before but made worse by the winter on board ship that their crews had already endured.
