The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  26: Cutting Out

  Tuesday, Twenty-Fifth of July 1758.

  Medina’s Longboat. Louisbourg Harbour, Île Royale.

  When Boscawen’s squadron arrived, Sir Charles Hardy shifted his flag from Captain to the much larger Royal William. The three-decked second rate had been rebuilt from a first rate only the previous year at Portsmouth and fitted out for an admiral and his staff. It was from Royal William’s lofty poop deck that Sir Charles looked down on the boats of the squadron mustering on its seaward side, away from prying French eyes.

  Balfour and Laforey had already taken their leave, each rowing over to the anchored third rates where their own divisions were forming.

  ‘Well, Captain Carlisle, I wish you the best of fortune,’ said Sir Charles as they walked together towards the entry-port, ‘you have the weather for it.’

  Even Hardy was nervous. There was something cold-blooded about setting off on an expedition such as this. There was no knowing whether their plans were known to the enemy, and it would be a bloody business if the French crews were alerted. Grapeshot would sink the boats at four hundred yards and canister would decimate the crews at a hundred. Cold shot dropped into a boat from a two-decker would complete the carnage and those few men who survived and found a foothold on the tall sides of the ships would be met by swivel-guns and boarding nets, pikes and muskets. It would be surprising if half of the force returned to the squadron.

  Carlisle looked out at the dark water. There was a light westerly wind and wisps of mist flitted across the surface of the sea. Only the closest ships of the anchored squadron were visible; the rest were lost in the darkness. He knew that the moon would rise in an hour – a moon just five days past the full – and by midnight, if it could penetrate the mist, it would start to illuminate the flotilla. Carlisle looked at his watch. Ten o’clock, they should be away.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied and felt Hardy’s hand reaching for his.

  The pipes wailed as Carlisle caught hold of the manropes and descended to his boat. Souter ordered the bow shoved off and the longboat moved away from the ship’s side and soon disappeared into the blackness.

  ‘Prince Frederick, Souter,’ said Enrico from the other side of the coxswain. His main job was to manage the communications with the flotilla. He had three shuttered lanterns: a white for signalling, a red-over-green to show at the stern and a spare in case either of the first two failed.

  Enrico also had under his nominal control the means of communicating with the flagship. In the for’rard part of the longboat, resting on baulks of timber that lay directly on the keelson, there sat a short, squat twelve-pound coehorn mortar, the least of its very ugly tribe, attended by two artillerymen in their blue uniforms. It had only six shells and six charges. Each shell was fused for three seconds so that at maximum elevation it would burst high in the air and be seen by the flagship in Gabarus Bay. A single burst would indicate success while two bursts would tell the admiral that they had failed and were withdrawing. The whole apparatus, including the shells, weighed less than four hundred and pounds and a short trial had confirmed that it wouldn’t immediately break the back of a longboat, nor would it drive the boat bodily underwater. Carlisle was sceptical. How would the shell-burst be distinguished from all the others that were being lobbed into the fortress? It was all very well to say that the other mortars were fused to burst close to the ground, but Carlisle had seen many bursts well above their targets. The boat’s crew, moreover, were frankly alarmed. They eyed the mortar and its uniformed attendants with dislike and suspicion.

  They rowed the few hundred yards to where three vertical top-lights showed the position of the two-decker. The twenty-five boats were clustered in the darkness on the seaward side of the ship, and Balfour’s boat was immediately visible holding water on the outer edge of the cluster.

  ‘Give him two flashes, Mister Angelini’, said Carlisle.

  Enrico held up the white lantern and opened and closed the shutter twice. There was an answering light and as Carlisle’s boat crept slowly past, Balfour’s moved into position on the longboat’s starboard side. Balfour waved at Carlisle and turned to adjust his own shuttered lantern, a green light for his own division. Carlisle could see the whole mass of boats dissolving now and organising themselves into two columns following their leader.

  ‘Invincible, Souter,’ murmured Carlisle. Laforey’s division was waiting for them to seaward of the seventy-four and they moved onto Carlisle’s larboard side, following the red stern light of their leader.

  The flotilla had a long row ahead of it, along the eastern end of Gabarus Bay and past White Point. Then they would have to row past the French batteries on the seaward side of the fortress and the remaining guns on Goat Island before they could turn north and then west past the sunken blockships and into the harbour. The French positions on Battery Island had been suppressed by Wolfe’s guns on Lighthouse Point. Otherwise, the expedition would hardly have been possible.

  Navigation was easy while the British batteries continued to throw mortar shells into the fortress. The glow of individual burning buildings enhanced by the flashes of exploding shells were the simplest possible landmarks, showing through the thin veil of mist that covered the water. At eleven o’clock, just as the flotilla was approaching Goat Island, the three-quarters moon showed briefly and indistinctly between the eastern horizon and the base of the low cloud before rising further and losing itself in the mist.

  Their next head mark was Lighthouse Point. They had just made the turn to steer northwest towards the flashes when the steady tempo of its cannon, howitzers and mortars increased to a furious rate. This was the diversionary bombardment that Amherst had promised. Looking west across the burning town, Carlisle could see the batteries on the hills above Louisbourg contributing to the display. With all that light and flame, it would be almost impossible for the French defenders to see this stealthy attack from the mist-shrouded sea.

  The flotilla rowed steadily through the masts of the sunken blockships. They were intended to be an obstacle to ships-of-the-line, not shallow draft boats, and with only a few scrapes and bumps both divisions followed Carlisle’s longboat through into the harbour itself. It was inevitable that his force would lose some of its cohesion as it negotiated the blockships, but Carlisle had emphasised the need for the boats to return to their stations as they made the turn towards the west. Carlisle’s greatest fear was that one division would reach its objective minutes before the other. The noise of boarding would inevitably alert the second ship with potentially fatal consequences for the attackers.

  Laforey’s boat was starting to pull ahead. He was between Carlisle and the French ships, and this was no time to be flashing lights in that direction. However, there was so much noise in the background that Carlisle risked a hail.

  ‘Captain Laforey! Your Station,’ he shouted. There was an answering wave from Laforey’s barge which was close enough for Carlisle to see the rowers rest on their oars while it dropped back. The boats following Laforey started to bunch up, but that didn’t matter. All that concerned Carlisle was that he should throw his force at the two French ships simultaneously.

  Laforey was back in his proper station now. The Grand Battery on the north shore was the next head mark.

  ‘Easy to larboard, Souter,’ said Carlisle. ‘Use the battery as your leading-mark.’

  The longboat started to turn. Carlisle could see that Laforey had anticipated the manoeuvre and had, in fact, dropped a little abaft the flotilla leader’s beam so that he wouldn’t shoot ahead again.

  ‘There they are, sir,’ whispered Enrico, pointing away on the larboard bow.

  It was difficult to make out the ships against the glow of burning buildings and the flash of guns and mortars, but now that he knew where to look, Carlisle could see the two hulls silhouetted against the background lights. He’d have to stand on for another cable before he could be confident of passing to the north of the shallows around Battery Island.


  ‘Come to larboard again,’ Carlisle said, and Souter pushed the tiller away from him to bring the longboat on its final approach.

  Balfour’s division was having to pull heartily now to hold their position on Carlisle’s flank, while Laforey’s oarsmen again rested on their oars.

  ‘There’s something in the water ahead, sir,’ said Souter, peering into the darkness. ‘Boxes or bales perhaps.’

  There was a bump as the longboat shouldered aside something heavy and soft. Souter pushed his hand into the water and brought up a mass of dark vegetation. He sniffed it, then tasted it.

  ‘Tobacco, sir,’ he grinned. ‘The harbour’s full of bales of ‘baccy, and some of ‘em have split open. It’s like the Sargasso Sea in there!’

  This must be flotsam from the ships that had burned in the harbour, thought Carlisle. Well, it was no real obstacle to the boats.

  They were just five cables from the ships now. The bombardment from the British guns had intensified with shot and shell from the Grand Battery and from Lighthouse Point whizzing over the flotilla. Carlisle looked at his watch in the light from the stern lantern. Fifteen minutes past one. They were a few minutes later than he’d hoped, but that didn’t matter.

  ‘Mister Angelini, three flashes to starboard.’

  He was releasing Balfour first as Bienfaisant was further away than Prudent. She was anchored to the northwest of the town, almost into the Barachois, the salt lagoon that extended Louisbourg harbour to the west.

  There was an answering flash from starboard and Balfour’s barge instantly increased its speed. Carlisle had deliberately kept the pace of the whole flotilla down so that at the assault they would be able to increase speed without going so fast that the splashes from the oars would give them away. He watched as Balfour’s twenty-five boats rowed rapidly past, following their leader’s light past the burned-out hulks of the Entreprenant, Célèbre and Capricieux, stark reminders of the vulnerability of even the most potent line-of-battle ships when confined to a restricted harbour.

  ‘Three flashes to larboard, Mister Angelini,’ Carlisle ordered.

  Laforey had clearly been waiting for the signal. He must have seen Balfour’s boats move ahead and was naturally keen to get moving. He knew very well the perils of arriving at his objective after it had been alerted.

  It was a race now. There was no restraining the two divisions as they sped towards the unsuspecting French ships.

  ***

  With the boats on their way, Carlisle could only watch as they pressed home their attacks. He held his position between the two ships, waiting for any indication that he’d have to intervene, to reallocate his force or to lend the weight of his few marines to an attack that was losing momentum.

  There was fighting on the deck of Bienfaisant, that much was clear, but it was impossible to see who was winning. If the attackers were on the deck, then Carlisle was confident that they would carry the day, he knew that getting up the ship’s side was the hardest part.

  There was less noise over to larboard on Prudent. It looked as though Laforey had achieved complete surprise and he could see British seaman swarming unopposed over the gunwales. She looked to be aground, which was hardly surprising as she was close to the north of the Grave Battery, the only substantial defence on the harbour side of the town, and it was low tide.

  ‘Stretch out now, Souter. Put us alongside the ship on the starboard bow,’ he pointed to Bienfaisant.

  It was a strange scene, lit by the fires from the shore. The British batteries were still blazing away, and Carlisle knew that they would do so until he gave the signal. As they drew closer, he could see people running up the masts of the two-decker, loosing the sails. There was a rhythmic thumping sound that he couldn’t place until he realised that it must be a group of seamen chopping at the two colossal anchor cables. A third rate’s anchor was fastened to a twenty-inch hemp cable made up of three separate ropes laid up in opposite directions to the individual strands. The best axeman would take a dozen or so strokes of a sharp, heavy axe to get through. Probably two strong men were working on each of those cables, hewing away from opposite sides.

  ‘Pull us right under the stern, Souter.’

  The side of the ship was festooned with boats secured by painters. A single unattended yawl was drifting away on the wind and tide.

  ‘There are men swimming,’ called Sergeant Wilson, ‘shall we fire at them, sir?’

  ‘Let them go,’ replied Carlisle. Best of luck to them, he thought. They’d be prisoners soon enough and, in any case, the marines needed to preserve their first carefully loaded rounds in case they were required on either of the ships.

  A face appeared over the taffrail, a hand waved and then it disappeared. Ten seconds passed and then Balfour looked over at the boat.

  ‘She’s ours, sir!’ and at that moment Carlisle heard the signal that they had agreed, three loud cheers from the three hundred attackers.

  ‘Then take her over to the east end of the harbour, Captain Balfour,’ Carlisle shouted in reply. ‘You’ll need to tow her in this wind. If you can’t anchor, then put her aground.’

  The wind was indeed dropping, and the mist was lifting; it had never been thick enough to be called fog. The moon appeared briefly between some clouds in the east. It went as quickly as it came, then re-appeared to sit like a pale witness to the battle.

  ‘We’ve lost a few men, sir,’ shouted Balfour.

  His force may have suffered casualties, but he didn’t look unhappy. If there were any justice, Boscawen would give him his step to post-captain within twenty-four hours, and their Lordships would surely confirm it. Cutting-out expeditions were commonplace, but Carlisle couldn’t think of another example of a successful cutting-out of a third rate; merchant ships and sloops were the usual prey.

  At that moment, there was a loud crash overhead. The Grave Battery had realised what was happening and had opened fire, hitting Bienfaisant’s high stern with its first salvo. Probably they hadn’t yet understood that Prudent, anchored right under their guns, was also under attack. Carlisle looked to see what damage it had done, but it was just one more hole in a badly scarred ship. She’d been under the guns of Lighthouse Point and the Grand Battery for weeks, and her battered upper works showed the evidence.

  ‘Get under way as soon as possible, Captain Balfour,’ Carlisle shouted back. ‘I’ll go over to Prudent.’

  Balfour’s face disappeared over the taffrail.

  ‘To the other one,’ he said to Souter, ‘and have those men put their backs into it!’

  It was eerily quiet on board Prudent. Carlisle hadn’t yet heard three cheers from Laforey’s men, but evidently the boarding had taken place.

  The longboat sped across the harbour, pushing aside bales of tobacco and ignoring the French swimmers, some of whom clung to floating bales, resting before continuing towards the shore.

  ‘Take us alongside, Souter,’ said Carlisle. ‘Sergeant Wilson, bring your men and follow me.’

  He entered the ship through a lower deck gunport, sword drawn. The ship may have been in British hands, but it didn’t necessarily follow that all resistance had ceased. There could be pockets of Frenchman determined to fight to the last. He hurried up the ladders to the upper deck.

  The ship was clearly under new ownership, but there was an air of stealth about the way that the seamen moved. Men were climbing the rigging to set the sails, but they did it without haste and in small numbers.

  ‘The ship is ours, sir,’ reported Laforey, saluting.

  Carlisle waited. He wasn’t going to ask the obvious questions: why were they not underway and why had they not given three cheers as a signal?

  ‘Problem is, sir, she’s firmly aground, and there’s a battery only two hundred yards away.’

  Carlisle could see the Grave Battery firing away at Bienfaisant, the shot hurtling close past the ship’s stern. Evidently, the battery commander hadn’t yet realised what was happening under his very no
se.

  Carlisle moved his weight from side to side, testing the level of the deck. The ship was listing a few degrees, and she wasn’t moving the way a vessel with water under her keel would.

  ‘You’re certain, Captain Laforey? She can’t be moved?’

  ‘I’m certain, sir,’ he replied, deferring to Carlisle for the next step.

  ‘Then we’ll burn her. Get your combustibles up from the boats; these marines will help.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir. We have some prisoners, and there’s a British deserter among them,’ he said, pointing at a group of men in the waist. ‘Could your marines guard them? My men know where the combustibles are.’

  ‘Why are there so few?’ asked Carlisle.

  ‘That’s all that were on board, sir,’ said Laforey. ‘No more than a hundred and fifty, and we killed less than a dozen. Some seem to be in hiding below decks.’

  Most likely a large proportion of the French seamen would be manning the walls of the fortress, thought Carlisle. De Gouttes would have been lucky if he’d been left with half of his full crews.

  ‘Sergeant Wilson, guard those prisoners,’ Carlisle said, indicating the group of men clustered against the starboard gunwale.

  ‘Now let’s burn this ship.’

  Laforey was all energy. He sent men to the middle gundeck to set the combustibles. Others he sent to the bases of the masts.

  Crash! The first shot from the Grave Battery tore through the gunwale and passed close to the tightly packed mass of prisoners. Those Frenchmen were going to be a problem, Carlisle thought. A damned nuisance to guard, and a dead weight in the boats; they’d be prisoners in a day or two anyway.

  ‘Those men have the choice of swimming for it or coming with us in the boats,’ said Carlisle, pointing to the Frenchmen. ‘But the deserter comes with us. Which one is he?’

  One of Laforey’s lieutenants pointed to a man standing apart from the other prisoners. He was being guarded by a British seaman with a pistol and a cutlass.