Storm the Fortress

by Maxine Trottier

  I could not see how it would do me any good at all, but an order was an order. Our fun lasted for two nights. I would drop a lead-weighted line down, and up I would pull it. Mr. Cook then made a note of the depth for a chart he planned to draw. It was a wet, chilly business, and all the while I never stopped thinking about what might be watching us from the darkness. At any moment I expected Indians or Canadians to come leaping out from the trees.

  I was not disappointed. On the second night, Mr. Cook was finally satisfied that the Traverse could be safely crossed. Just as we were rowing back to Pembroke, unearthly screams came out of the forest. I swear my blood ran as cold as ice. We rowed for our lives, Mr. Cook shouting encouragement. Arrows shot by my head, and one struck the side of the boat. There was a shriek when another slammed into Ben’s shoulder. Back he pitched into the water. When the marines on our ship realized what was happening, musket balls began to whiz through the darkness from Pembroke. The Canadians fell back. We called Ben’s name again and again, but there was no sound from him. Only the terrible war cries of the Indians answered back as we pulled for the ship.

  “Likely drowned,” muttered Baldish when we were back on Pembroke. “And that is a mercy. If he had been captured …”

  “What would they do to him?”

  “Use your imagination, William,” said Gum. “The savages surely will.”

  That night I could not rid myself of the image of Ben falling into the water. I could not rid myself of the idea that we had acted in a cowardly manner to just row away from him. Unable to sleep, I left my hammock near dawn and went up on deck. Mist was rising off the water — the day was going to be very hot. Already men were in the rigging, loosening the sails so that they would dry. Boston Ben will never do that again, I told myself.

  “Thinking about Ben?” asked Mr. Cook. He had come up alongside me. “What we did was necessary. A boat filled with men cannot be sacrificed to save just one. Ben would have known that.”

  “I understand that, sir. Maybe Baldish was right. Maybe drowning was a mercy compared to being captured. Think of the things he would have had to do to survive.”

  “Life is a precious thing,” said Mr. Cook thoughtfully. “But there is also honour. Without honour, life is meaningless, Jenkins. Remember that.”

  “I will, sir.” But I was not so certain Mr. Cook was correct.

  “We must be of good cheer,” he said almost to himself. “The Traverse has been sounded and the buoys set. We may now sail through safely, and the rest of the fleet and the transports will follow. Then General Wolfe’s men may do their duty.”

  Over the next days, up until the end of June, that is what happened. Anyone watching from Québec or from the shore would have seen an almost endless parade of British ships of war. One by one we went through the Traverse as easily as could be. Some of the ships had captured French pilots. These men were forced to help navigate through the dangerous waters. Most of us did perfectly well on our own, and I could not help but feel a bit of pride. After all, I had helped with the sounding.

  The French now had two large floating batteries, sailing barges on which they had placed cannons. One came very close to Pembroke. We could actually hear the men on it talking.

  “What are they saying, William?” asked Tom.

  “Are they praying to heaven that something may save them from us?” laughed Davy.

  “No,” I answered. “They’re not praying at all. I am no gentleman, but I am gentleman enough not to repeat what they’re saying.” For the French were swearing at us most inventively.

  This made everyone laugh. They were laughing still when Captain Wheelock ordered us to run out the great guns. Down we went as fast as we could, our feet pounding on the steps. Each crew heaved on their gun’s tackle to run the cannon out of its port.

  It was not even necessary to load the guns, as it turned out.

  “They’re setting sail!” Davy shouted. “Fare thee well and good riddance, you cowards!”

  Our navy gave me comfort. What had begun as a mere thirteen vessels was now a fearful fleet of almost one hundred and fifty. There were the warships, some carrying as many as ninety cannons. There were smaller fighting vessels of all sizes armed with cannons, as well as short, powerful sea mortars used to attack targets on shore. We had our own fire ships too. I tried to imagine what the French and Canadians were thinking as this floating death came closer and closer to a large island called Île d’Orléans. General Wolfe and our troops would be landed there. Marines, Highlanders and redcoats made up our army. There were Rangers from the American colonies, men who were rumoured to fight as savagely as Indians. Word was that they could barely wait to engage the enemy. Now and again some of our ships opened fire, the great cannons thundering as flames shot from their mouths. The enemy fired back, white puffs of smoke rising from their muskets.

  “Do you think we will go ashore to fight?” I asked Tom. Once again he had guided me up into the ship’s rigging.

  “We are sailors, and sailors fight on a ship. Leave the land battles to the redcoats and the others,” he said, passing me a spyglass.

  Québec was in the distance, less than 4 miles from where we lay at anchor. Through my spyglass I could see that the city was composed of a walled upper section and lower section. With its spires and large buildings, the upper part of the town was certainly the finer. It was also much larger. There were a few French ships in the water below it, but nothing that could challenge us. On the other hand, all along the shoreline were camps with hundreds of their soldiers and militia. There were also batteries of cannons. The French had been busy.

  But so had we. During the next few weeks, Pembroke’s boats helped carry soldiers to Île d’Orléans, where General Wolfe had decided to set up his first camp. Then we helped bring ashore the guns and carriages they rode upon. These were not like ships’ cannons, really, but short, stout siege mortars. They fired 13-inch shells that each weighed 200 pounds.

  * * *

  “How can we ever take the city? It is on the side of a cliff,” I muttered one night in my hammock. We had been at anchor for weeks. As I spoke, I scratched King Louis’s chin. The dog no longer hid himself now that Ben was gone.

  “The mortars will do the job,” said Sam. “I hear their shells can fly more than five thousand yards.”

  “Québec has no hope. And failing that, we starve them out,” laughed Baldish. Hunger was not a problem here. Supplies were brought on board every few days. We received fresh beef, pork, beer and bread, so not a man among us was ever hungry. “The first time their stomachs rumble they will surrender,” he added.

  “And remember that they cannot get their supply ships up the river,” Tom said. “When some of our ships are anchored upriver from the town, they will not be able to get anything down from Montréal either.”

  “They’ll have to walk,” Baldish snorted.

  Time would tell, I supposed, as I shut my eyes. I dreamed of rumbling, or at least I imagined it was a dream, until someone screamed, “All hands! All hands on deck!” The rumbling was the pounding of men’s feet as they rushed to their stations. My feet joined in, but once I was on deck I could barely take another step. I stared in horror at what was coming towards Pembroke. It was as though the entire river was on fire, and it was flowing right at us!

  “To the boats! Bring lines and grappling hooks!” shouted an officer. All around the ship the same orders were being given. We struggled to launch the boats and arm ourselves to do battle with these monstrous things.

  “Curse the French and their fire ships,” Tom grumbled. “Now we must go out and tow the wretched things. Can a man get no rest here?”

  Five of the fire ships floated past us, sparks rising into the wind and threatening to catch our warships on fire. There were dozens of other small boats in the water besides mine, all trying to defeat the French attack by capturing the fire ships and towing them to shore. The smoke stung my eyes and I could feel the tremendous heat from the flames that r
ose up into the sky. It was a hellish scene.

  We had to get as close as we could to the fire ships before we tossed grapnels to snare them. With the wind and powerful current, I did not know if I could do my part. Standing in the bow of the boat with a grapnel in my hands, I felt the weight of responsibility upon my shoulders. If I missed and the fire ships reached our warships, men might burn to death.

  It all brought to mind that fire back in Halifax, the night I’d saved Baldish. But by some miracle, I did not miss. How far I had come since that night.

  One or two of us suffered burns and singes, but not a single one of our ships was damaged. We later agreed that the French had made a mess of it. Though fire ships could be deadly, the enemy had set these ones on fire too soon. The burning hulks had either sunk or had been towed to shore.

  “We did it! I cannot believe we were so lucky,” I said afterwards. Ben and his fate popped unwelcome into my mind. He had been an unpleasant fellow, but to be shot and killed … no one deserved that.

  “A man born to be drowned will never burn to death,” said Gum cheerfully.

  “We will be lucky if we can get a few hours’ sleep,” said Baldish with a great yawn. “Things will be busy tomorrow, now that the French have shown their hand.”

  Before I slept, though, I thought back on the day and wrote about its events in my journal.

  I am not one for daily prayer and such things, but I believe it was a miracle that saved us tonight. Mr. Cook said it was excellent seamanship, plain and simple, but I am certain a miracle was involved.

  Chapter 7

  July 4, 1759

  Baldish was right. It was indeed busy for the next days. There were battles on the shore. Muskets popped and spat and the warm air filled with white smoke. Captain Wheelock ordered us to take out all three of our boats and assist in landing more troops. That done, we landed artillery at a spot called Pointe Lévis, where the army’s main encampment would be. Our army’s camps quickly became like towns themselves. The enemy fired at us, and our warships fired back, cannonball after cannonball hurtling towards the French encampments, trenches and the town. White smoke drifted through the air, as did the distant cries of wounded men and the cheers of sailors when one of their cannonballs struck home and a wall crumbled. We Pembrokes cheered the loudest of all!

  There was one British encampment on the south shore at Lévis, another on the north shore on the other side of a small river that emptied into the St. Lawrence as a waterfall. Montmorency, they called it. Tents stood in rows, with cook fires burning. Laundry hung here and there. Most surprising to me was the number of women. It seemed that the army could not get along very well without women.

  We and several other ships sailed upriver and anchored at the west end of Île d’Orléans. General Wolfe’s army began to bombard Québec in earnest. Our soldiers heated the cannonballs until they were red hot. Only then were they loaded into the cannons. We watched as flames rose into the sky and smoke poured from the buildings. There was little danger to us, even when the French fired back. If their bombs came too close, our ships’ defence was to raise anchors and position themselves a bit farther away.

  Once, when our ships set a small French vessel on fire, some of us were ordered into one of Pembroke’s flat-bottomed boats. Our mission was to tow the French vessel clear of the fleet. There were no men on board, which was a mercy, for the flames were creeping into its rigging and black smoke billowed about the deck.

  “Away you go, Jenkins,” ordered Tom, “for you are the most limber of us.”

  Up I scrambled onto the vessel’s bow, where I secured a stout line. I stood there a moment as flames licked at the ship, and prayed that I would never experience such a thing on Pembroke. What a terrible death it would be. Then I leapt back down, missing our boat entirely and landing in the river with a great splash. When I popped to the surface, everyone was doubled over in laughter.

  “No time to look for mermaids,” someone shouted, while another man made kissing noises.

  I didn’t mind. The water had cooled me, and straining at the oars as we towed the French boat safely away was not so unpleasant. We left the French vessel behind when she ran aground, and left our line behind as well. A piece of rope was worth no one’s life.

  Life continued aboard Pembroke. We were like a floating city. There were our warships and the transports, but there were also the ships’ smaller vessels. Longboats went here and there carrying troops and equipment. Boats rowed out at night to take more soundings very close to Québec. Mr. Cook was among them. I missed out on that excitement, but others did not. The French were fond of firing down from their upper town, even if they couldn’t see what was there.

  Now and again a flag of truce would come from the French or from us. It made no sense to me, since this was a war. Officers, though, saw it differently, and so they had to have their polite conversations.

  The summer days were hot and steamy, but not as hot as life in Québec must have been, with the city suffering from our endless bombing. On and on it went for weeks. And although the French returned our cannon blasts, it was clear from the fires that raged through the city that the damage we were causing was immense. One afternoon in late July, word spread that Québec’s cathedral had burned. This caused a great cheer to rise up from the crew, since most of the sailors distrusted the Catholics.

  On the last day of July, a great battle took place at the Montmorency waterfall not far from the city. A few days before, word had come that we had taken Fort Niagara. Perhaps this would be another victory, I thought, as we watched from up in the rigging, for Pembroke was among a number of ships that were supporting the army.

  Then the transport carrying the soldiers ran aground some distance from the beach! Our smaller boats began taking hundreds of our soldiers ashore.

  “British Grenadiers,” Tom told us, gazing at the shore through a spyglass. “And Royal American troops. You will see some hot fighting now, my lads.”

  “They had best get to it,” said Gum, gazing at the dark clouds that grumbled above us. “There is weather coming.”

  We passed the glass back and forth as we watched the soldiers leaping from the boats and wading in. Once there, instead of marching in their usual rows, the grenadiers began to rush at the cliff. The cannons of our ship Centurion gave support to them, booming out like thunder, but the French had the advantage. They could pick our men off easily. My heart sank as they fired down from their positions at the top of the cliff, a cliff that was impossible for our troops to climb. Our soldiers fell by the dozens, red coats becoming redder with their own blood. They must retreat, I thought, before every one of them is dead.

  It was then that we were struck by a tremendous storm. Back down to the deck we scrambled. Lightning zigzagged across the black clouds and rain came down sideways. Wind whipped around me, shrieking through Pembroke’s rigging. There was no more sound of cannon fire, though. Both sides’ powder was completely wet. Later we learned that almost 450 of our brave soldiers had been killed or wounded.

  * * *

  “General Wolfe’s officers dislike him,” Davy told us as we were repairing one of the sails a few days later. Now and again squirrels would swim over from the shore and chew holes in the canvas. They were worse than rats!

  “How would you know such a thing?” I asked him.

  “I heard some marines talking,” he said. “His own officers think that we never should have attacked the French near the waterfall. General Wolfe has fallen into disfavour.”

  Perhaps that is why the general turned his attention to the farms and towns along the river in August. The soldiers and some of the sailors were ordered to burn everything, and burn they did. Not a day passed without black smoke rolling into the sky. When the wind was right, we could smell the stink of it. Pembroke’s flat-bottomed boat was ordered out to help with the task. Our mess counted itself lucky that we remained with the ship.

  “Not a job for sailors,” said Gum, shaking his head. �
�No honour in it at all.”

  “They say that there will not be a farmhouse or barn left standing when this is done,” Tom told us at supper. “As for the cattle and such, what they cannot drive along with them, they slaughter and leave to rot.”

  “I hear the Rangers are doing their worst,” said Baldish with a small shudder. “Or maybe their best.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Davy, putting down his spoon.

  “Scalping,” said Tom.

  “But General Wolfe has ordered the men not to scalp,” said Davy. His hand went up to rub his head.

  “Unless the man is an Indian or a Canadian dressed like an Indian,” I explained. “If that is so, the Rangers may scalp as many as they wish.”

  “I do not think it will improve the humour of our enemy,” said Baldish gloomily. “It is enough to make a man wish he had never come.”

  “For once you are right, Baldish,” said Sam in a low voice. “It is enough to make a man think twice about all this. It’s not worth dying for.”

  Sam’s words were gone from my mind as I stood watch that night. All during supper, rumours had circled like flies around rotten meat, rumours about what had happened after Fort Niagara’s surrender. A good number of Canadian men, women, children and French soldiers were sent down to New York. But others were not so lucky. Those were given to the Iroquois, who demanded a large number of captives and scalps.

  The thought made my neck prickle, and every sound seem dangerous. The river was quiet, but I could still hear it rushing along Pembroke’s sides. Now and again water droplets plopped into the St. Lawrence. Plop, plop, plop, and then there came a louder plop and a splash. When I looked over the side, I could see that someone was in the water. I drew in breath to shout out an alarm. That is when Blue Sam turned and looked up at me. It was only for a second, and then he was gone. Had he fallen? I doubted it. His look had told me otherwise. He had thought twice and was willing to desert and take his chances. As for me, I was still the king’s servant, but I had no intention of passing judgement on Blue Sam.