The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  Carlisle took two more turns the length of the quarterdeck then stared hard to the east hoping for another glimpse of the frigate, but the visibility was down to less than a mile, and the wind was still dropping. The Frenchman’s last sight of Medina would have suggested that the British frigate was holding its position off the entrance to the harbour. He turned sharply; his decision made.

  ‘Mister Hosking,’ he said in a loud voice so that his officers could hear. They had crept, one-by-one, onto the quarterdeck to be nearby at this critical decision point, ‘set the t’gallants, and lay off a course to pass eight miles off Cape Breton. I want to be off East Point before our friend over there. I’ll be in your cabin with the charts.’

  It was done, the decision was made. If he was correct, then he’d be in the ideal position to intercept the French convoy before it could make Spaniard’s Bay or Port Dauphin. If the fog persisted, he would have to think again. If he was completely wrong, then there’d be three more sets of masts in Louisbourg harbour.

  ***

  16: The Trap

  Wednesday, Twenty-Ninth of March 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Off Île Royale. East Point, West 2 leagues.

  The master’s chart of the east side of Île Royale was in French, of course. Carlisle had studied it before, and he knew the general layout of the coast that trended north-northwest from the small, rocky island known as Scatari that lay off Cape Breton. East Point was the furthest extremity of Scatari Island and thus the ultimate eastern extremity of the French possessions on Île Royale. From there a heavily indented coast ran sixty-six nautical miles up to North Cape.

  If his theory was correct and the Frenchman had decided that it was too dangerous to make for Louisbourg with Medina guarding the entrance, then he had two real options. The first was to land his soldiers – if that was indeed his cargo – at Spanish Bay, sixty nautical miles from his last position before the fog enveloped him. The second was to continue a further fifteen miles up the coast to Port Dauphin. Spanish Bay had no port facilities; that fact had been confirmed by an audacious incursion by the sloop Hawke a month ago. At Port Dauphin, however, there was a fort, wharves and facilities for unloading troops and cargo.

  How many men would the transports carry? They looked like good-sized, ship-rigged vessels capable of a fast passage from Brest, La Rochelle or Rochefort. The limiting factor in carrying troops was always food and water. The men themselves could be fitted into any spare space for a three or four-week passage, but their provisions for the voyage were bulky and liable to spoil. Probably each ship could carry three hundred soldiers, a whole battalion between them, with the battalion staff in the frigate. That almost certainly ruled out Spanish Bay; they would need the facilities of a regular port to disembark that many soldiers and their equipment.

  On his own in the master’s cabin, Carlisle stared at the flickering candle that illuminated the chart, trying to put himself into the mind of the French captain. What would he do? Or, perhaps more importantly, what would the colonel in command of that battalion demand that he did? Both men would want to disembark the men as soon as possible. They were vulnerable every day they were at sea, and one British frigate that they’d seen may mean a whole squadron lurking somewhere in the fog. Without a doubt, the colonel would prefer to be put ashore in Louisbourg, but he wouldn’t want to fight to reach the harbour. On land, he’d face anything, but at sea he was helpless, and a single broadside could destroy half his force. If not Louisbourg, then would he demand to be landed at Spanish Bay? It was a lot closer to the town and would save at least a day’s march, more likely two.

  Carlisle looked more closely at the chart and the pencil notes that Hosking had made in the margin. The entrance to Spanish Bay held deep water and was over a mile wide. It was almost made for a frigate such as Medina to sail in and destroy the anchored transports. Of course, the French frigate would probably hold the entrance. Yet it wasn’t a very reassuring place to disembark a battalion. And when they were ashore, there was no fort, no protected area that could be used to marshal the companies and form them into their marching order. Probably there were few boats, and to disembark a battalion and its baggage would take several boat trips, perhaps more than the ships’ boats could achieve in a day. Carlisle instinctively felt that the unknown colonel wouldn’t like the look of Spanish Bay, not with Medina ready to interfere.

  He turned his attention to Port Dauphin. It was, he knew, the second most important French settlement on Île Royale. The gap between the solid land on either side of the entrance was again nearly a mile wide, but a long sand-spit projecting from the north shore constricted the passage to barely a cable wide, and that narrow channel was dominated by a fort. Once through the gut, the transports could anchor in perfect safety, undisturbed by anything less than a determined attack by a moderate squadron. For security, it would be attractive to both the French captain and the colonel. The question was whether the soldier was willing to trade the shorter distance from Louisbourg that Spanish Bay offered against the superior security and facilities of Port Dauphin. He was sure it would be Port Dauphin.

  Of course he could be entirely wrong about the French intentions, but he wasn’t expecting Hardy and his squadron for two weeks yet, and if he was wrong, his absence from Louisbourg would probably not be noticed, even if he felt it necessary to mention it in his report. If he failed to find the French, there would be no engagement, and no harm done.

  ‘Pass the word for the first lieutenant and the master,’ Carlisle called to the marine sentry.

  ***

  It was cold here in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Medina was less than forty miles from Louisbourg as the crow might have flown if crows ventured this far out to sea, and the temperature had dropped significantly. Here the waters of the St. Lawrence hadn’t mixed with the warmer Atlantic, and the frigid wind still blew from the north and east. Medina had been at sea for only a week, yet already the watches were reduced by illness. The galley range was running day and night and even with the stock of wood that he’d taken on board at Halifax, he’d need to resupply in a month.

  ‘Masthead, do you see anything?’ called Moxon. It was a measure of the frustration on the quarterdeck that the first lieutenant, usually a man of few words, was induced to make that unnecessary hail.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ came the reply from high above. The lookout was perched at the main topmast crosstree, the highest point that could be achieved while wrapped in enough layers of clothing to prevent him from succumbing to the deadly cold. In warmer weather, a man may climb a dozen feet further, to the t’gallant masthead, but in these conditions, with the feeling leaving a man’s fingers after five minutes exposure, it would be foolhardy in the extreme. As it was the lookout had to be relieved every fifteen minutes, and that was putting a strain on the already undermanned watch on deck.

  ‘Can you still see over the fog bank?’ asked Moxon.

  ‘Aye sir, I can see maybe a league, but there’s nothing in sight.’

  Medina was lying-to four miles off the mouth of Port Dauphin. The fog had persisted off East Point and Carlisle had followed the logic of his hunch. He’d decided to move further west and meet the French off their most likely destination.

  It was an uncomfortable place in this easterly wind. The high land that led towards North Cape was just ten miles under the frigate’s lee, and the fog made navigation merely speculative. The lead-line suggested that they were at least four miles clear of the land, but the surveys weren’t encouraging with blank gaps in the lines of soundings. At least the easterly wind was light and there was a little south in it. They could claw off North Cape if they found themselves set too far to the west.

  ‘There’s another of those growlers,’ said Wishart, the officer-of-the-watch, as a flat chunk of ice the size of the main hatch ground its way down the side.

  ‘You can expect more of the same,’ said Hosking. ‘The thaw’s been late this year and the ice only started coming down last month. There’
ll be ice like that,’ he motioned over the side, ‘aye and larger, until at least May.’

  They lapsed into silence, the only sound being the casting of the lead and the muted call of the soundings. Even the wind was hushed in this cloistered world of fog and ice.

  ‘Here comes the captain,’ said Wishart as he heard the slap of the marine sentry’s musket salute from below the quarterdeck rail.

  ***

  Carlisle chose not to speak. By the master’s calculation, the French convoy could be approaching the bay in an hour or two. Or they could be feeling their way into Louisbourg as he waited here forty miles to leeward. Well, it was worth playing the game through to its end, he thought, even as his conviction that the French were heading for Port Dauphin started to ebb.

  ‘Mister Moxon,’ he said, ‘have the watch on deck and the idlers clear for action if you please. Don’t disturb the watch below.’

  He knew he was taking a risk. If the lookout couldn’t see as far as he believed, if the French frigate and the transports should appear from the fog at just a few cables distance, he’d hardly have time to beat to quarters before they’d be at close range. Nevertheless, he had to carefully husband the strength of his men. There was no doubt that they needed their watch below to recruit themselves for another four hours on deck in this unrelenting cold.

  The carpenter’s crew were removing bulkheads and furniture, making as little noise as possible. That was one of the advantages of a frigate over a ship-of-the-line: the people all berthed on the deck below the guns – perversely still known as the gundeck even though it was entirely innocent of weaponry – and were therefore largely unaffected by clearing for action.

  ‘The ship’s cleared for action, sir,’ reported Moxon removing his hat. ‘The guns are loaded with ball and run out.’

  ‘Very well. Have the watch on deck who aren’t otherwise employed stand by their guns, and then there’s to be silence on deck. I don’t trust this fog, it’s liable to lift at any moment. What do you say, master?’ he asked, turning to Hosking.

  ‘You could be right, sir. Now that we’re losing the Atlantic currents, the water is getting colder and strange things happen to fog when the water or the air changes temperature.’

  There were no bells, just a softly delivered report from the quartermaster each time the glass was turned. It was approaching the end of the morning watch and in the world outside the fog bank, the sun was making its slantwise course into the southern sky. Inside the fog bank, it may as well have been midnight.

  And yet, so gradually that the eye couldn’t perceive it, the fog to the southeast started to change; it was as though some inner light was illuminating it. The visibility was no better, but vague shapes on the frigate’s deck became recognisable as familiar objects. And then the miracle happened. First, there was a flurry in the fog to the east; nothing substantial, just a noticeable burst of illumination breaking through, and then it was gone. The quarterdeck held its breath. The next movement was a definite break in the fog, an uneven rent in the curtain that surrounded Medina.

  ‘Sail Ho!’ came the excited cry from the main topmast head. ‘Three sail on the starboard beam. I can see their topmasts about two miles away, sir,’

  ‘Then I believe you may beat to quarters, Mister Moxon,’ he said with a smile. ‘You can say what you like about a Frenchman, but he’s punctual to the minute, and he’s done the starboard watch the courtesy of allowing them the whole of their watch below.’

  The marine drummer started his tattoo and the quartermaster, taking the hint, nodded to the boy who was huddled in the lee of the binnacle, who ran for’rard, leaping over the train tackles, to strike eight bells.

  Sleepy they may have been, but the starboard watch was at its stations in less than two minutes. The men had no need to dress; nobody took off a stitch of clothing when they turned in.

  ‘The ship’s at quarters, cleared for action,’ reported Moxon.

  ‘Very well. I expect it will be half an hour at least before we engage the enemy. Have the cook serve out breakfast to the men. You may dismiss a man from each gun and each station to fetch it.’

  Moxon hurried away to the galley. He knew that the cook had started the breakfast burgoo an hour ago, and it only needed the biscuit and beer to give the men a good, hot meal in their bellies.

  The sailing master was waiting impatiently for orders. Another minute and he was in danger of making an unwanted suggestion.

  ‘Bring the ship about Mister Hosking. I fancy we’ll see the shore soon and I want to be close enough to cut those gentlemen off from their harbour.’

  As though he’d been released by a spring, Hosking bellowed at the bosun, ‘hands to sail-handling stations, prepare to come about.’

  The bosun lifted his call to his lips and sounded a series of notes. Men left the guns to attend to sheets and halyards, while a smaller number scampered up the ratlines to the tops. The process of tacking was carried out principally from the deck, but all hands knew that the next order, once they were settled on the larboard tack, would be to reduce to fighting sail.

  Carlisle studied the unfolding scene. The French must make for the safety of one of the harbours to leeward. If they tried to beat back to Louisbourg, Medina would catch the lumbering transports in a matter of hours, long before they rounded East Point. The frigate may stand and fight, but it would be an act of desperation; they’d already felt Medina’s teeth and knew that she’d be boldly handled. The French were committed, and one way or another there would be an engagement off Port Dauphin today.

  ***

  The fog was thinning fast, and in only a few minutes the enemy ships came into view from the deck. They were huddled close together so that they kept in touch in the fog. Probably they’d been firing muskets or ringing bells to advertise their positions to each other.

  ‘That’s our friend from the Capes,’ said Hosking, watching the ships through his telescope, ‘and those are troop transports, or my name’s not John Hosking.’

  Carlisle felt a glow of pleasure. So far, he’d guessed correctly. Now, what would they do next? To him, the answer was simple. The frigate must throw itself at Medina and lock the British frigate in close combat while the transports made their best speed to Port Dauphin. There was nothing subtle about it, and it would fulfil the mission, in the best French naval tradition. Most likely it would be the end of the frigate, but that would certainly be acceptable to the colonel of the battalion, and probably grudgingly acknowledged as the correct course of action by the frigate captain.

  ‘There’s a boat leaving the frigate, sir,’ said Moxon. ‘It’s stuffed with gold braid; you can almost see it flashing without a telescope.’

  Carlisle nodded; it was just what he expected. The frigate might sacrifice itself, but it would be a hollow gesture if the leadership of the battalion should be separated from the soldiers. Yet they were cutting it fine; in fifteen minutes Medina and the Frenchman would be exchanging broadsides.

  ‘Mister Moxon, a moment of your time, if you please,’ said Carlisle.

  This, he knew, could be a desperate fight and it was his clear duty to ensure that his second-in-command knew his plan in case he should be killed or wounded. It was well-understood that the most dangerous place in a sea-fight was the quarterdeck and that was at least partly why the first lieutenant should be stationed in the waist among the guns, so that he had a better chance of surviving to assume command.

  ‘He’ll expect us to use the normal frigate tactics, to pummel him with roundshot and then when the time is right to close and board. The problem is that by the time we’ve taken him, the transports will be through the narrows into Port Dauphin, and there’s nothing we can do with that fort dominating the entrance.’

  Carlisle paused, watching Moxon’s reaction. They’d come a long way in a short time, earning each other’s trust the hard way; now Carlisle hoped that his first lieutenant would step up to the challenge of command.

  ‘Then we must be Fren
ch in this case, I find, sir,’ Moxon replied. ‘Chain shot?’

  ‘Indeed, Mister Moxon. You have time to draw the ball and re-load with chain. I intend to disable her and have a try at those transports before they slip away for good.’

  Moxon turned away to give the orders, but Carlisle stopped him.

  ‘This will be a desperate affair if we do have to close and board, Mister Moxon. Whatever happens, I wish you well,’ and he grasped his first lieutenant’s hand.

  ***

  17: The Siboux Islands

  Wednesday, Twenty-Ninth of March 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Off Cape Dauphin, Île Royale.

  As Medina sailed south, the fog cleared, and a pallid light pierced the haze. It wasn’t enough to provide any warmth, but it did reveal the scene of the coming action. It looked for all the world like a sandbox; miniature ships upon an ocean painted in shades of grey against a sky of so light a blue as to be almost colourless.

  ‘Yards are chained and puddened,’ reported the bosun. ‘I’ve rigged the boarding nets in case we need them, but I see that’s not your intention,’ he said nodding towards where the crews of the nine-pounders were going through the delicate drill of drawing the round-shot and loading with chain.

  ‘That’s right, Mister Swinton, but best be prepared. I expect he’ll pepper us with chain shot himself, so have your crew ready to knot and splice.’