The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  There was no resupply off Louisbourg, and Sir Charles had issued a general order to forbid foraging parties, for fear of the Native Indian allies of the French. When wood ran short, the men suffered the cold even more. The fresh food was quickly consumed and by early May, the first signs of scurvy started to be seen in the squadron. Northumberland suffered the worst, a cruel reward for Lord Colville’s diligence through the winter, but all the ships were affected.

  A sloop brought the news that Boscawen had arrived in Halifax in early May, having taken 11 weeks from Portsmouth via Madeira, the Canaries, Bermuda and Sable Island. However, there was no sign of the land forces commander, General Amherst, even though his brigadier-generals and their regiments were assembling in Halifax and had started training for the harsh environment that they were soon to be thrown into.

  Then, flying before a westerly gale, the same sloop brought the news to Hardy that Boscawen had sailed on the twenty-eighth of May. He’d waited for Amherst but eventually decided that he must proceed to Louisbourg without him. The fleet had been delayed by contrary winds, but overnight the wind backed allowing them to sail the next day. Miraculously, Amherst arrived that morning. A hundred and forty-three transports, twenty-one ships of the line, two fifty-gun ships and nineteen smaller vessels sailed with three brigades embarked, a battering train of eighty-eight guns and fifty-two mortars. In total, the French defenders of Louisbourg would face some fifteen thousand soldiers – almost all regulars with the addition of four companies of American Rangers – and twelve thousand sailors and marines. It was the largest joint expedition that Britain had ever mounted and a testament to Pitt’s determination that the critical theatre of this war would be America; not Europe, not the West or East Indies, and not West Africa.

  ***

  On the second of June the watchers in the batteries and entrenchments around Gabarus Bay awoke to the awesome sight of nearly two hundred vessels making their stately progress to anchor barely more than a mile from the French positions. It seemed like the end of the world had come. Companies of soldiers were rushed hither and thither as the French commanders tried to guess where the British would make their landing. In 1745 it had been Gabarus Bay; that seemed the obvious choice again, despite its exposure to the sea. It was only a few miles from the fortress and allowed the British artillery to quickly take advantage of that fatal flaw in Louisbourg’s defences, the high land that overlooked the fortress to the west. And yet there was a persistent rumour that the British army would be landed along the Mira River to advance from the north. True, the Mira River allowed the troops to be landed in a place free from the persistent Atlantic swells that broke along the shoreline, but it was an indirect attack and carried the risk of losing momentum among the rocks, streams and bogs of the inland Île Royale. And then it would play into the hands of the French Indian allies and the force of irregulars that the French hero Charles Deschamps de Boishébert was gathering in Quebec, experts in the very type of warfare that the terrain was well suited to.

  ***

  It was a young colonel, temporarily promoted to brigadier-general for this expedition only, who persuaded Boscawen and Amherst to make the landings in Gabarus Bay. James Wolfe was afire with enthusiasm and energy, and he felt that a landing on the Mira River would take too long. After all, both the admiral and the general had orders from Pitt that as soon as Louisbourg fell, the force was to re-embark and move on to Quebec. Pitt felt that both objectives were achievable in one year, even in the short campaigning season that this far northern part of America offered.

  Despite Wolfe’s enthusiasm, the French fears of an immediate British landing were alleviated by the weather. It blew strongly for the week after Boscawen and Amherst arrived, and every planned date was abandoned as each morning revealed the proposed landing beaches being pounded by the swell.

  ***

  Medina’s longboat ploughed through the disturbed waters of the bay in response to a signal hung out in Namur, Boscawen’s flagship: Captains report on board. Carlisle had been lucky so far; he had a full sickbay but still no infectious diseases, unlike Colville’s Northumberland where they were dying by the day. It was an unlucky ship. Commodore Colville had performed extraordinary acts of determination in preserving the squadron in Halifax over the winter, but when Boscawen arrived, he’d been stripped of his broad pennant and reduced to his substantive rank of post-captain on the dubious grounds that Boscawen had brought post-captains with him who were senior to Colville. Perhaps his depression had been transmitted to his people, but whatever the cause the ship was barely a functioning part of Hardy’s squadron, so sickly were its people. It was well known that Lord Colville was entirely dependent upon his naval pay and regarded his followers in Northumberland – his officers and his servants – as his family, and yet they were dying as fast as the seamen.

  Carlisle’s boat crew were still in the best of health. Their combined efforts at the oars brought the longboat to the mighty three-decker’s entry port ahead of the boats of most of the other captains that had been summoned.

  ***

  There were few soldiers in the great cabin of Namur, this was a principally naval meeting, and Carlisle still didn’t know its real purpose. There were insufficient chairs, but it was a sign of Carlisle’s growing seniority – there were captains of third rates who were his juniors now – that he was shown to a seat only a row behind the front rank.

  Admiral Boscawen opened the meeting without any preamble. He offered no refreshments and had the manner of one who wanted to get straight down to business. Carlisle had not met Boscawen or even set eyes on him before, but the admiral was recognisable from his common description. He was a tall man who held his head at an angle, the result of an old neck wound and the cause of his nickname of Wry-Necked Dick. He was also called Old Dreadnought, a name that he’d won in his many engagements through nearly forty years of service.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘after one preliminary comment.’ He looked around the audience of some twelve or so sea-officers. ‘What I am about to tell you is of the utmost secrecy, as you will appreciate in a few moments.’

  He nodded to a lieutenant who unrolled a large chart against the starboard side of the cabin, behind and to the right of Boscawen.

  ‘If the weather serves, which it should, we land tomorrow at Gabarus Bay. You gentlemen will be taking your ships inshore to support the landing with a preliminary bombardment and counter-battery fire.’

  So that was it, thought Carlisle. Medina would have a ringside seat for this historic event. A dangerous ringside seat.

  ‘Captain Rous, you’ll command this division at the east of the landing area. Yes, the landing will be between Cormorant Cove and Flat Point, as you can now see. You’ll have Squirrel to keep you company.’

  Rous was a lucky man, thought Carlisle. He’d commanded Arc-en-Ciel through the Halifax winter and when his ship was found unseaworthy – she was the only one of Colville’s original squadron to be left behind at Halifax – he’d been brought to Louisbourg with Hardy, just waiting for an opportunity for a ship. When Falkingham was taken ill, he’d been posted to Sutherland with indecent haste.

  ‘Captain Medows, you’ll take Diana and Shannon under your wing and anchor off Flat Point.’

  Carlisle tensed; he knew what was coming next.

  ‘Captain Carlisle, I’m giving you the Nova Scotia Province snow Halifax; you’re to cover the west end of the area, right off Cormorant Cove. You know the soundings there, I’m told, and with Medina and Halifax you should be able to get close enough to support the landing.’

  Cormorant Cove! Right under the battery that they’d bombarded back in March. I wonder what changes the French have made in that time, he thought.

  Boscawen continued.

  ‘The landing will be in three divisions. Wolfe’s brigade on the left will land here, at Cormorant Cove. Mister Whitmore’s brigade will land at White Point on the right and Lawrence will land in
the centre, in the area around Flat Point. There will be a diversion to the east of Louisbourg, just to keep the enemy guessing, but the real landing will be here, in Gabarus Bay. That’s where our main force will be employed and it’s where we must prevail.’

  Boscawen paused.

  ‘Now this is the most secret part. It is intended – intended, I say – that the only landing will be at Cormorant Cove. Whitmore and Lawrence will go through all the motions of landing, including sending the boats inshore, but Wolfe’s brigade will be the only ones to land. That said, if Lawrence sees the opportunity, he may land at Flat Point to support Wolfe.’

  Carlisle swallowed nervously. His frigate was being placed at the critical point of the assault. All these months of planning to assemble the most massive naval and military expedition that Britain had ever launched, and he was commanding the very point of the naval spear.

  ‘Wolfe will have the cream of the soldiery under his command, including Major Scott’s band of marksmen and irregulars. It is they who will find a way ashore at Cormorant Cove.’

  Carlisle studied the dispositions. The chart was quite familiar, and the lines of soundings were mostly those that Medina had run in March. It seemed like a year ago when really it was not three months. A master’s mate, four seamen and a marine had died for those lines of figures on a chart; he just hoped they hadn’t died in vain.

  ‘You’ll be issued with your orders before you leave, and later today General Amherst has promised that you’ll be visited by the brigadier-generals you’ll be supporting. That’ll be Whitmore for you, Captain Rous, Lawrence for you Captain Medows and Wolfe for you, Captain Carlisle. I wish you all the best of fortune, for tomorrow is the day.’

  Boscawen left the cabin abruptly, leaving it in no doubt that he wasn’t expecting either suggestions or questions. Perhaps that was his style, thought Carlisle, or possibly this expedition was so complicated that he could spare no more than that bare twenty minutes to brief the covering force. Either way, it was effective, there really was nothing to comment on or to question. The only variable left was the weather.

  ***

  Eight bells sounded at the end of the first watch. A light breeze from the north blew in the face of a moderate swell from the southeast. Medina was moving carefully towards her new anchorage off Cormorant Cove, followed by a distinctly nervous-looking Halifax. The snow’s twelve guns were lightweights but would be vital to cover the final stages of the landing as she could get closer inshore than Medina. She was a provincial vessel and the attitude of her Nova Scotian owners could only be guessed if they had seen where her temporary proprietors were taking her.

  ‘By the deep, nine,’ called the leadsman.

  The master looked questioningly at Carlisle.

  ‘Stand on to seven fathoms, Mister Hosking.’

  Medina crept forward under her tops’ls and headsails. There was dead silence on deck. Everybody remembered the battery above the cliffs and had no doubt that the French had rebuilt it; they wouldn’t have wasted this prime opportunity to dominate the western end of the bay. The question was; had they replaced the guns with six-pounders or had they up-gunned, perhaps to the real ship-smashing twenty-four pounders?

  ‘By the deep, eight.’

  Stillness on the quarterdeck. None of the officers looked at each other, but all concentrated on the soundings and the looming bluffs. It was like being inside a goldfish bowl. Without a doubt the French gunners had seen them, but would they hold their discipline and keep the battery masked until the landing started?

  ‘And a half, seven.’

  ‘You may anchor now, Mister Hosking,’ said Carlisle as calmly as he could.

  Medina’s way carried her on another fifty yards, and she anchored in seven fathoms of water just three hundred yards off the point that protruded south from Cormorant Cove. She lay back on her cable, her head to the north. The ghostly presence of Halifax glided past to anchor half a cable further inshore.

  ‘I’ll pass the spring now, sir,’ said Moxon. ‘A double spring, just in case.’

  Both men knew the danger that Moxon was obliquely referring to. The spring was a stout length of line that was secured to the anchor cable close to the point where it disappeared into the water. The other end was led through the after-most gun-port and for’rard to the capstan. It allowed the frigate to be turned so that its broadside could face in the desired direction. If the ship was lying head or stern to the enemy and the spring was shot through, then she’d be unable to engage. A second spring was a wise precaution.

  ‘They’re holding their fire, sir,’ said Moxon, conversationally.

  ‘Well they may. If they start a duel with us now, they’ll be obliterated before the landing. They’ll be under firm orders not to unmask before the boats are almost on the beach. Our job then is to destroy the battery.’

  ‘I wonder whether they recognise us, or even if there’s a battery there at all. We’ll know when it gets light even if they don’t unmask.’

  Carlisle didn’t reply; he was thinking his own thoughts. It was an uncomfortable position, to be anchored within range of the battery, waiting for the dawn. In any other circumstances, the French would have opened the engagement as soon as Medina came within range, but frigates weren’t their target today. The French commander was also waiting for the dawn and preserving his precious guns until they could do the most damage to the boats.

  ‘Boat approaching from astern, sir,’ reported the quartermaster.

  ‘That’ll be Commodore Durell,’ said Carlisle hastily before an alarm could be given. ‘He has to give Boscawen his assessment of the surf on the beaches before the assault can go ahead. He’s delayed it twice already.’

  The boat pulled strongly past Halifax without any kind of greeting. Carlisle could just make out the lean figure of Durrell sitting tensely in the stern sheets and looking fixedly ahead. He passed down Medina’s starboard side and disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘What time will it be light, Master?’ Carlisle already knew the answer, but he wanted to engage Hosking who was becoming withdrawn. The master, like everybody else, knew that a well-aimed salvo of grape or canister would clear Medina’s quarterdeck like a broom sweeping dead leaves, and they were within range of grape, if a little distant for canister.

  ‘Nine minutes past four, sir, but it’ll start to get light at five bells in the middle.’

  ‘Then send the hands to their quarters at three bells, Mister Moxon, and ensure that the frigate remains cleared for action until then. The hammocks must remain stowed; the men will have to sleep on the deck.’

  Hosking patted the stout barricade of hammocks in their netting above the gunwale. They were proof against canister but at that range grapeshot would go straight through.

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied Moxon. ‘The guns are run out. The men prefer to stay at their stations rather than go below.’

  ‘Then I believe I’ll try to catch some sleep,’ said Carlisle, carefully positioning himself in the chair that had been lashed to the taffrail. His cabin, of course, was an extension of the upper deck and with the bulkheads removed it was nothing more than the aftermost part of the nine-pounder broadside, with no trace left of its more peaceful function.

  The north wind blew gently over the deck raising barely a whisper in the rigging. The swell lifted Medina rhythmically as it passed under her on its way to break on the rocks and sand of Gabarus Bay. Neither disturbed Carlisle as his exhausted body surrendered to the sleep that it craved.

  ***

  23: Wolfe’s Gamble

  Thursday, Eighth of June 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Off Louisbourg, Île Royale.

  That would be a story to be told around the mess-deck tables in future commissions; the captain of Medina sleeping soundly under the very noses of the French guns.

  ‘Three bells in a few minutes, sir. The first lieutenant thought you’d like to know,’ said Enrico as he gently shook his captain’s shoulder. Some kind soul had sp
read a blanket over Carlisle during the night, and it was wet with dew, but at least he was reasonably dry underneath.

  Carlisle instinctively looked over to the southeast, but there was no hint of the dawn yet, and the anchored invasion fleet was still invisible.

  ‘Send the men to their stations, Mister Moxon.’

  ‘The ship is cleared for action, sir, and the quarters are manned, guns run out, loaded with ball.’

  Carlisle looked questioningly at Moxon; that report was almost too glib.

  ‘The men have been at their quarters for the past hour, sir. Nobody fancied sleeping below so they’ve been dozing beside their guns.’

  Carlisle walked for’rard to the quarterdeck rail and was met with a crowd of upturned faces. Not a word was said; the men didn’t need telling that the French were only a couple of cables away.

  ‘Very well, Mister Moxon. It’s a little early, but you may hoist our largest ensign on the staff, and we’ll have a couple of union flag at the mastheads.’

  The largest ensign was enormous, its hoist was the length of the ensign staff, and its fly reached almost to the waterline. Medina hadn’t broken it out since their visit to Boston, the makeshift nature of Halifax had seemed an inappropriate place for such ostentation. In any case, it was a horribly expensive piece of adornment and not to be exposed lightly to the elements. There was a visible stirring on the main deck as it flew proudly from its staff above the taffrail.