The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  ***

  ‘The sky’s just starting to lighten, sir,’ said Hosking, looking over the anchored fleet to the southeast.

  It was, Carlisle realised as he followed the master’s gaze, and it revealed an awe-inspiring sight. Something approaching two hundred vessels were anchored to seaward of Medina, creating a forest of masts that obliterated the horizon. But that wasn’t the most impressive feature. There were hundreds of boats upon the water. Longboats and yawls, whaleboats and flat-bottomed bateaux from New England and hired fishing boats, every kind of waterborne craft that could be scraped together to support the expedition. Carlisle was aware that specialised flat-bottomed landing barges were being built in England after the difficulties experienced at Rochefort the previous year, but they hadn’t been ready for Louisbourg. It was indeed a makeshift flotilla, but nonetheless, its sheer size was impressive. There were boats under oars and boats so stuffed with soldiers that they had to be towed, boats flying the flags of company commanders and boats in which the soldiers were all standing for want of space on the thwarts.

  Carlisle looked at the western end of the anchorage. He could see the transport Neptune half a mile offshore; she was the closest ship to Medina and Halifax. Neptune should be showing a single lantern on her seaward side. It was invisible to Carlisle, of course, but more importantly invisible to the French at Cormorant Bay. That was where Wolfe’s brigade would be gathering in about a hundred boats. Wolfe’s force was deliberately the smallest of the three, to complete the deception and buy the vital minutes that would be needed to put the brigade ashore.

  ***

  It was growing lighter as each minute passed. On Medina’s quarterdeck they heard a burst of cannon fire over to the east, from the area of Flat Point, and a few moments later they saw Durell’s longboat racing towards the flagship from the shore. The commodore and his boat crew had suffered an exhausting night, being sent back for another look at the beaches before Amherst would consent to the landing. That cannon fire, now ceased, must have alerted the whole coast.

  ‘It’s five minutes to four, sir,’ reported Moxon. ‘The spring’s holding us well, and our larboard broadside’s ready to engage the French guns.’

  Medina well knew the position of those French guns, if they hadn’t been relocated since their first visit in March.

  ‘Very well, Mister Moxon. When I blow my whistle, you may commence the bombardment.’

  Carlisle looked at his watch in the dim and covert light from the binnacle. Two minutes to go.

  Suddenly, there was a crash of gunfire from their larboard quarter. Halifax was warming the bell, or more likely, her commander’s watch told a different story to Carlisle’s. Well, the cat was out of the bag now. Carlisle lifted his silver whistle to his lips and blew a single blast.

  The larboard broadside erupted in fire and thunder. This was no hasty broadside, but the fruit of an agonising middle watch as the gun captains obsessively adjusted the quoins so that their first shots should reach the French battery on the low cliffs to the south of Cormorant Cove. In the growing light the fall of shot could be easily observed as the earth was torn up around the supposed position of the battery. Fifteen minutes they had been given to bombard the shore before the boats started their assault. Medina was to silence the battery while Halifax, closer to shore, was to break up the abatis, the jumble of felled tree and implanted stakes that lined the beaches.

  Carlisle spared a moment from watching Medina’s fall of shot to assess the effectiveness of the snow’s fire. As ordered, she was firing grapeshot to break up the obstacles on the beach and appeared to be having some success. Great rents were appearing in the abatis, and some of the roundshot was reaching the earthworks behind. It must be uncomfortable for the French defenders, waiting for the assault while being bombarded from close range.

  Still, there was no answer from the French battery, even though the ground in front of its presumed position was being churned up again and again. With only one broadside being able to bear on the target and no need for sail handling, Moxon had as many extra hands for the larboard battery as he could ever wish for. The rate of fire was superb, and the starboard battery gun crews were heaving with a will to help their opposite numbers.

  ‘The boats are starting to move,’ said Hosking. It was a measure of his tension that he omitted the normal sir that he invariably used when addressing his captain.

  They were indeed. Wolfe’s boats were pulling hard towards the shore; the brigadier’s own boat was in the lead with its distinguishing banner flying bravely. Surely now the battery would unmask, thought Carlisle.

  Closer and closer the boats drew to the shore. The first wave had already pulled past Medina, ignoring her entirely in their haste to reach the beaches. The soldiers looked fixedly ahead, each cradling his musket and lost in his own thoughts. The tension was palpable. Amherst had issued a general order that no musket was to be discharged from a boat. Each soldier was to set foot on land with a loaded weapon ready to charge the enemy, and so far, the discipline was holding.

  The boats were in the first line of surf before the French guns opened a murderous fire from the cliffs. Carlisle thought that if he’d been the French battery commander, he’d have left it a little longer until they were committed and had no means of escape.

  Halifax shifted target to the heights to avoid firing on Wolfe’s men and the two vessels kept up a hot fire on the battery that had now been unmasked. This was more-or-less as Carlisle had imagined it. The battery had preserved itself intact to pour down its fire on the boats; Medina and Halifax hadn’t been fired upon – yet.

  The boats were well into the surf and making hard work of it. Carlisle watched helplessly as one boat, poorly handled or just unlucky, was overturned fifty yards from the shore. Then a second boat broached and rolled over. He could see red-coated soldiers struggling in the sea. There would be bodies washed ashore when the tide turned.

  He could still see Wolfe’s boat and could even make out the brigadier, waving his cane and urging the rowers on. He was heading for the centre of the beach just below the French battery and was in grapeshot range. Soldiers were falling in the boats; there were missed strokes among the oarsmen as the French fire took effect.

  Medina and Halifax were engaged in a bizarre three-way engagement, pouring their own fire into the French battery, which was, in turn, hammering the boats, from whom not a shot had been fired in reply. Inevitably it was the soldiers who were taking the brunt of the casualties.

  This was a critical moment. Carlisle knew from his meeting with Wolfe that the brigadier had been given the authority to withdraw if the landing didn’t look feasible. Carlisle could see the danger posed by a well-organised defence, a dangerous surf and growing British casualties. Would Wolfe keep going?

  ‘Hammer them, Moxon,’ shouted Carlisle, pointing at the French battery. It had evidently been reinforced since March, and there were now at least four guns firing on the boats. They were nine or twelve pounders, not the six-pounders that Medina had silenced before.

  Wolfe’s boat had a signal staff, and Carlisle knew the signal for a withdrawal. It was a red flag replacing the brigade colours, and he saw it now as the boat slewed awkwardly around and started heading back out to sea. The others followed. Those that had not reached the surf managed the manoeuvre with ease, but those that had almost reached the beach were in trouble. Another boat, timing the turn badly, overturned. There was no saving the soldiers, not in that surf and under that fire. Those that weren’t drowned would struggle ashore, and if they were lucky, they’d be taken by regular French soldiers. If they were unlucky the French allies, the native Miꞌkmaq and the Abenakis, would find them first.

  The whole flotilla had turned. Carlisle couldn’t imagine the anguish that Wolfe must be feeling at this first reversal. He’d liked the brigadier-general when he’d met him a few days ago. He’d been impressed by his enthusiasm and his humanity and was distressed to witness his failure. Presumably, with t
he landing at Cormorant Bay abandoned, the plan to land the army along the Mira River would be revived, with all its attendant delays.

  ***

  Medina’s guns were still firing and having an effect, as the French fire seemed to have slackened, although they were still harassing the retreating boats.

  ‘Sir, can you see those three boats over to the right?’ asked Enrico, breaking in on his captain’s thoughts. ‘They’ve turned back again, towards that small beach just on the starboard bow.’

  Carlisle looked through his telescope. Enrico was right. Three of the boats had indeed turned around again. It was difficult to see, but it looked as though they were filled with the irregulars and rangers, the troops who were supposed to spearhead the storming of the beaches. Now that he looked more closely, it appeared that the tiny cove – it was only a hundred yards wide – was not covered by the battery on the bluffs, nor by the smaller gun emplacements to the east. He could see an officer standing on a gunwale, waving frantically towards Wolfe’s boat, but the brigadier hadn’t yet seen him, and the whole force was pulling lustily back towards the ships.

  ‘Mister Moxon,’ Carlisle called urgently, ‘your starboard broadside can see that beach, I believe. Start bombarding it immediately.’

  There was a disciplined rush to the starboard guns. It was at times like this that Moxon thanked God that he’d spent so many hours drilling his gun crews. The starboard guns were already loaded and run out; it was a matter of moments for the train tackles to be freed and the guns pointed.

  ‘Fire!’ shouted Moxon, as soon as he saw the gun captains’ hands go up.

  The soldiers in the three boats hardly flinched as the nine-pounder balls flew over their heads to embed themselves in the sparse abatis and earthworks. Amazingly, the French defenders appeared to have ignored this small beach. It was almost entirely undefended – the earthworks were unmanned, and no French guns swept the landing.

  Carlisle trained his telescope at Wolfe’s boat which was between the frigate and the small cove. He saw the brigadier turn angrily towards him as Medina’s balls flew over his head, then he saw him turn again to look in the direction that the balls were travelling. In an instant, Wolfe realised what was happening. He waved acknowledgement at the officer who was trying to attract his attention, then he spoke to someone in the boat. The red flag came down with a rush, and the brigade colours flew proudly again as Wolfe’s boat turned towards the smaller cove. Brandishing his cane, Wolfe turned his face once again to the shore.

  One by one, the other boats realised what was happening. Soon nearly a hundred boats were surging towards that tiny space of sand and shingle wedged between two bold cliffs, that one place that the French had failed to adequately defend.

  ‘Mister Moxon, fire at the heights above that cove. Haul in the spring to bring your broadside to bear properly.’

  The starboard guns had been trained as far for’rard as they would go to reach the cove. Now, to reach the heights to the west, the frigate would have to be turned.

  The scene was one of utter confusion. The shape of the attack, the boats organised by battalion and company, each following its own flag, had been irretrievably lost. Now it was a free-for-all with every boat racing its neighbour to reach the new landing site. The surf was less than on the larger beach, but Carlisle could see that the landing had other equally severe problems to overcome. As the first boats ran ashore, the others behind them had to force their way between the earlier boats to find water shallow enough to disembark. The latest boats had no hope of reaching the beach, and they just secured to those that were before them while the soldiers leaped from boat to boat to make the shore. This was the result of all the training that Wolfe and the other brigadiers had insisted upon while they were waiting in Halifax for Amherst to arrive. They’d spent many hours – no, days – drilling the companies in embarking and disembarking from boats in all conditions. Now, in the chaos of this tiny landing area, the soldiers arrived ashore mostly dry, mostly with a loaded musket ready to fire and all eager to get at the enemy that had been firing at them so far without them being able to respond.

  Historians would say that Wolfe was lucky, Carlisle guessed, but it wasn’t luck that gave Wolfe’s brigade the confidence to seize this opportunity when it was presented. That was the result of careful preparation and training. Ultimately, a man makes his own fortune.

  ***

  Medina’s starboard battery was shooting well. No stray shots were landing on the beach; each ball was carrying to the cliffs above. Carlisle saw the first soldiers start to climb the path leading to the summit and blew a long blast on his whistle – cease firing – and the starboard battery fell silent. He wasn’t actively aware that through all this the larboard guns had continued to pound the French battery on the southern side of Cormorant Cove. Wishart was commanding to larboard while Moxon was engaged to starboard, and he appeared to be making an excellent job of it.

  Crash! Carlisle turned to see a large portion of the taffrail fly up in splinters. The battery must have realised that it could do nothing useful against the soldiers that were shielded from its fire and had turned its fury on Medina and Halifax. Now it was a real duel, the sort that the Medina understood. Many of the men on the upper deck – the gun crews, the quartermaster, the steersmen – had stood with Carlisle as he’d bombarded Fort Royal at Grenada and knew that this was a much less dangerous situation.

  Now that Wolfe’s men were advancing on the heights the starboard broadside could no longer fire in support and Moxon turned his attention to the larboard battery.

  Carlisle was almost certain that they’d silenced one of the guns, but it seemed that at least three were still firing – all twelve-pounders, he guessed – and they were concentrating their fire on Medina. Halifax had still not been engaged, and she was continuing to fire at the battery. Medina’s gunners’ blood was up, and they were keen to get back to the French battery, to silence them for good.

  ‘Do you see that French column, sir,’ said Enrico, pointing to the ridge that led up from the originally planned landing beach to the heights above the left side of the smaller cove. ‘They’re rushing to counter our landing, sir,’ he said urgently.

  Trust a soldier to recognise a move like that, thought Carlisle, for at heart that’s what Enrico remained, he was only a sailor by courtesy and for want of a war that his own country was engaged in.

  ‘Thank you, Mister Angelini,’ Carlisle replied with studied calmness. He realised that he’d been guilty of losing the bigger picture, of being caught up in this inconsequential duel between his frigate and the French shore battery. Those French soldiers that he could see hurrying up the slope, they were the reason for Medina to be in this position.

  ‘Mister Moxon,’ he shouted above the din. ‘I’m going to spring the head to larboard. Engage that column as soon as the starboard broadside bears. Leave the larboard side to Wishart.’

  The bosun heard Carlisle and needed no further orders; there was a rush of idlers and marines to the windlass. The larboard spring was heaved in, casting the bows further and further to the west. Whether those French soldiers saw their doom, Carlisle would never know, but they were in long grapeshot range and as soon the for’rard guns would bear, they opened a deadly fire upon them. Carlisle was almost sorry for them as he saw the white-coated figures bowled over to lie still upon the rocks and brush.

  There was another crash, from for’rard this time. A French twelve-pound ball, better aimed than the others, had smashed through the capping above the number six gun-port. The gun crew was scattered, the sponger and loader were bleeding from splinter wounds and the train-tackle man had been dashed against the mainmast in a bloody ruin, not moving and unlikely to move again.

  Moxon shouted for idlers to carry away the wounded. Carlisle could see that the man who’d been hit by the shot was still alive and he was carried below also, although it was scarcely believable that it would do him any good.

  The French column
had disappeared behind a fold of the land, and there were no more targets for the starboard battery. Wolfe’s men were pouring up the slope and the low cliffs behind the cove. It was a land battle now and there was little that Medina could do to help except look for French movements within range.

  Carlisle was a mere spectator now as this bloody little duel with the battery continued. Medina was taking hits regularly but still had only one gun out of action. Moxon and Wishart were running from gun to gun, adjusting the training and elevation, leaning on handspikes, knocking the quoins to make every shot tell.

  Then it happened. Carlisle heard the flat sound of an explosion that was shielded by the land. He looked at the battery and could see a column of smoke rising a short distance behind it. Then there was another explosion and an answering cheer from the gun crews. A shot from Medina, or perhaps Halifax, must have reached the powder magazine behind the battery. The firing from the battery stopped abruptly, either for want of powder or for lack of enthusiasm.

  ***

  24: Lighthouse Point

  Wednesday, Fourteenth of June 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Off Louisbourg, Île Royale.

  If it wasn’t summer, it was at least spring, or what passed for spring as winter grudgingly relaxed its icy grip over Île Royale. The light westerly wind brought no fog, no rain and no snow, and the half-moon showed fitfully through the overcast sky.

  ‘Easy, Souter,’ said Carlisle, ‘we need to keep the boats together.’

  Medina’s longboat was rowing along the Lorembec coast, heading southwest towards the entrance to Louisbourg harbour. The details in the boat could be easily seen, but the shore half a mile on the starboard beam was indistinct, a smudged impression of rocks and forest, except when the moon found a gap in the clouds. Then the sea and shore were revealed in a silvery light and Carlisle silently cursed the moon.