The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  ‘That’s the deserter, sir,’ he said.

  Carlisle looked at the man who was staring sullenly at the deck. At that moment, the deserter looked up, and a flash of recognition passed between them. The prisoner roared and smashed his fist into the seaman’s face. The seaman’s pistol went off with a bang and a flash, the ball harmlessly embedding itself into the deck, but his cutlass was snatched by the deserter. He ran at Carlisle, intent only on killing. Carlisle just had time to raise his sword against the inexpert but overwhelmingly powerful overhead stroke. Their blades clashed and Carlisle’s was forced downwards. The man raised his arm again for the killing blow, his face a mask of hate. The cutlass quivered slightly at the top of its arc, then the man’s eyes opened wide in a surprised stare. He still looked amazed as he was forced to the ground by the power of Sergeant Wilson’s bayonet through his chest.

  The sergeant pulled the dying man onto his back.

  ‘An old friend of ours, sir,’ he remarked without emotion as he wiped his bayonet on the man’s shirt.

  Carlisle was shaking. It took all his self-control to master himself. Yes, he knew the dying man; it was the pilot from Boston. So it was true. He had deserted to the French. After all, he was a pilot for the whole of this coast from Boston to Newfoundland; he’d have been greeted with open arms. When Prudent was taken, he must have realised that only a noose awaited him when he was recognised, and the thought of killing the man whose actions had brought him to this pass was too attractive to ignore.

  ‘Où est le maître du vaisseau de guerre?’ Where is the ship’s master? asked Carlisle, scanning the crowd of prisoners.

  A middle-aged man in a blue frock uniform stepped forward, looking concerned at being singled out, yet defiant in the face of his captor. He was so much like a master in the King’s service that Carlisle wondered how he hadn’t already picked him out. Hosking in a French uniform.

  ‘This man,’ he said, indicating the dead pilot, ‘where did he come from?’

  The master looked scornfully at the body.

  ‘De Port Dauphin, en avril,’ he replied. ‘un anglais, mais il connaissait bien la côte.’

  He’d come from Port Dauphin in April! So that was why the frigate captain was so confident in altering course away from Louisbourg when he found it guarded. That was how the French transports knew the Siboux islands so well and were able so easily to evade Medina. The pilot must have persuaded the Boston smuggler to take him to meet the French convoy, probably at Sable Island. Most likely he’d been planning for some time to defect, his brush with Carlisle must have merely precipitated his flight.

  ***

  Carlisle took a few moments to recover, but there was too much requiring his attention to dwell on his narrow escape. He saw that the destruction of Prudent was in good hands. There were already wisps of smoking curling up from below decks and an intrepid group of Frenchmen were jumping into the water from the main chains, clutching anything handy that would float. The remainder were being herded into the largest of the boats and put to the oars by the marines. Sergeant Wilson, apparently unconcerned by having only minutes before saved his captain’s life, oversaw the proceedings with a magisterial detachment.

  ‘Captain Laforey, you don’t need all your men now. Any that aren’t engaged in burning the ship or securing prisoners are to row over to assist Captain Balfour. It’s getting too dangerous on this deck anyway,’ he said as another shot from the battery smashed into the ship.

  They both looked over to the northwest, past the shattered remnants of de Gouttes’ squadron. The moon was now bright enough to show that Bienfaisant was underway and would pass close to the north of Prudent. However, the slight breeze barely gave her steerage way, and the few men that could be spared from working the ship were insufficient to make much progress towing.

  ‘Aye-aye sir,’ replied Laforey. ‘The last prisoners are going now. Any that have hidden below decks will have to shift for themselves.’

  Carlisle didn’t wait to see his orders carried out. He found a spare halyard hanging over the stern and lowered himself down into the longboat.

  ‘Mister Angelini. When we’re clear of the ship, I believe we can bring the boat’s crew aft and fire a single shell from the mortar.’

  ***

  27: Louisbourg’s Fall

  Wednesday, Twenty-Sixth of July 1758.

  Bienfaisant. Aground. Louisbourg Harbour, Île Royale.

  Prudent burned all through that short summer night, a stark warning to the Louisbourg defenders that there would be no relief from the sea and that the soft underbelly of their town and fortress was now open to attack by the British navy. As the fire reached her gun decks, thirty-six and eighteen pounders fired randomly into the town and harbour, deterring any French attempts at saving her.

  The westerly wind failed entirely as with the last burst of the oarsmen’s energy Bienfaisant was run aground at the eastern end of the harbour. Her main and foremast went by the board as the soft mud brought her to a halt. She’d be quite safe there, well out of range of the French batteries and covered by the British Grand Battery and the smaller gun emplacements around the eastern shore.

  As the full light of dawn illuminated the decks of the shattered ship, Carlisle surveyed the scene. It was strangely quiet. There seemed no need to man the pumps as the ship was firmly aground, although that would change with the turning of the tide. The batteries had all fallen silent; Carlisle guessed that Amherst was allowing Drucour to consider his predicament, and Prudent’s guns had, at last, ceased their chaotic explosions.

  ‘My glass, Mister Angelini,’ said Carlisle, more in hope than expectation. However, Enrico was nothing if not meticulous, and he’d preserved the essentials through the last half-day of turmoil. With a flourish that was lost on Carlisle, he produced his captain’s telescope from an oilskin bag.

  ‘Prudent’s burned down to her lower deck,’ he observed to Laforey who was standing beside him. The contrast between Laforey and Balfour was almost comical. Each had carried out his duties in an exemplary manner, yet Balfour had been lucky and now commanded – perhaps only temporarily – a third rate ship-of-the-line, while Laforey was reduced to the role of a bystander, a mere provider of manpower and runner of errands to his more fortunate colleague.

  ‘Captain Balfour!’

  ‘Sir?’ he replied, turning from the work of directing his lieutenants to sort through and cut away the tangle of masts, yards and rigging that cluttered the deck. It was important to save anything that could be used as a jury rig to get the ship out of the harbour and back to Halifax. The French – now British – ship had suddenly become very dear to Balfour.

  ‘You will command Bienfaisant until you’re given new orders by Mister Boscawen. I regret that I can’t put that in writing, but Captain Laforey, I’m sure, will stand witness to your orders.’

  Balfour positively beamed. It wasn’t a promotion – Carlisle didn’t have that in his gift – but it was a positive step in the right direction.

  ‘You’re to endeavour to make the ship tight and to move her out to an anchor berth, that is to be your first concern. I’ll leave you with all the officers and men that were in your division.’

  ‘Aye-aye sir.’

  ‘Mister Laforey, you’ll send your division back to Gabarus Bay. They may follow my longboat out of the harbour. I don’t expect we’ll be bothered by the enemy; they have other things on their minds. I hope you’ll join me in my longboat, and we can report to Admiral Hardy together.’

  That cheered up Laforey. He didn’t have a captured ship to command, but he knew that he’d done well, and he was being allowed to carry the good news to the man who could most influence the next step in his career.

  ‘Your division will take all the wounded and as many of the prisoners as they can fit into the boats. We’ll leave in an hour. Pass the word for my coxswain.’

  ‘Here, sir,’ said Souter from close behind Carlisle. He had a drawn cutlass in his hand and two pis
tols in his belt. In truth, he’d barely left his captain’s side since the incident with the deserter. He felt that it should have been his role to save his captain from a cutlass blow, not Sergeant Wilson’s, and he was determined that it wouldn’t happen again. Two of the boat’s crew stood behind Souter cradling a large bundle of stained white cloth and grinning broadly.

  ‘What’s that, Souter?’ asked Carlisle, pointing at the bundle.

  Souter nodded at the two men who, with a flourish, unrolled a huge white flag adorned with gold fleur-de-lis.

  ‘Prudent’s ensign, sir,’ said Souter, ‘it didn’t seem right that it should be still flying, her having become a prize, if only for a while.’ Souter knew very well that he and his men deserved a reward for capturing an ensign.

  Carlisle looked with new respect at his coxswain. It must have taken some presence of mind to think of that detail in the turmoil of leaving a burning ship. It was a hugely important trophy of war that would have pride of place in a cathedral back in Britain. He briefly examined the ensign, with its white background torn by shot and stained by smoke, its gold adornments ripped and tattered. Laforey was watching with a wistful look. The French royal ensign was the most tangible evidence of his success, and he was clearly disappointed that his own men hadn’t thought to secure it.

  Carlisle touched the fabric, feeling the material and thinking his own thoughts of the blood and sweat that had been expended for such a trivial thing.

  ‘Be so kind as to present this ensign to Captain Laforey, Souter, and when we’re back in Medina remind me to consider you and the men who secured it.’

  ***

  It was a long and slow pull back to the squadron anchorage at Gabarus Bay, and every yard of it had to be rowed because the sailing rigs had all been left behind in the ships the day before. The crews of the boats were exhausted after their labours, and the boats themselves were encumbered by prisoners and those of the wounded who could be safely moved.

  The marines stood to their muskets as they passed Battery Island and Goat Island, but never a shot came from the French positions and there was no sign of the defenders other than an ensign hanging limply from a staff.

  It was late in the forenoon when they rounded White Point and saw the squadron and all the transports and supply ships, hundreds of vessels – a still mighty armament – spread out before them. It was time for Laforey’s division to disperse, and each boat turned towards its own ship, the crews too tired for even a last cheer.

  ‘Royal William, Souter,’ said Carlisle. ‘Larboard side.’

  As a relatively junior captain, Carlisle would have chosen the starboard side, the less formal entry to a flagship, for day-to-day business, but today he wanted to emphasise the point that he and Laforey were returning in triumph. He guessed that Boscawen and Hardy would already have moved on to planning the next phase in the downfall of Louisbourg and may even now be engaged in surrender negotiations. The mortar shell of last night would have drawn a line under the episode as far as the senior leadership was concerned, and it would be all too easy for the night’s exploits to be understated. Even the taking of a third rate and the burning of another could be overlooked when mighty fortresses fell.

  Carlisle stepped in through the entry port to the full ceremonial that was the right of a post-captain in command. As he was ushered away to meet the admiral, he could see that half the sideboys were being hurried away and the bosun’s calls were being stowed. Laforey, as a commander without a command, was entitled to nothing more than a doffing of hats by the small number of lesser officers that would remain to greet him, and he’d have to wait on deck until Hardy and Carlisle had met. Laforey lingered near the entry port to see his precious trophy brought safely on board. The remaining sideboys stared as Enrico and two of the boat’s crew carried the anonymous canvas-wrapped parcel into the flagship.

  Sir Charles was in a good humour. He offered Carlisle refreshments at the same time as quizzing him on the night’s events.

  ‘So Bienfaisant is safe in the northeast harbour?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, safely aground when I left her, but she’ll be floating by now. Balfour’s men were busy rousing out the two spare bower anchors; there was enough undamaged cable to lay out at least one of them. She wasn’t taking much water, but it would be as well to send him a good carpenter and his mates as soon as possible, and a bosun to sort through the shambles on deck.’

  ‘Dismasted then?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Carlisle. ‘She lost her main and foremast when she took the ground, but they would have had to come down in any case, they were both shot through.’

  ‘And Prudent is burned, I gather.’

  ‘She is, sir. I took a good look as we rowed out of the harbour and she’s burned down to the lower gun deck.’

  ‘Could nothing be done to bring her out?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Carlisle firmly. ‘She was hard aground under the Grave Battery, and we couldn’t have waited for the tide, not with the French guns only a cable away. Laforey did well to board her without being seen, and it was perhaps half an hour before the French on shore realised what had happened. When they did, there was nothing for it but to burn her and withdraw.’

  Carlisle paused.

  ‘I gave Laforey the order to burn her, sir.’

  Hardy nodded thoughtfully. Evidently, he’d have dearly liked to have taken two French third rates rather than taken one and burned another. It seemed such a waste to have four burned-out hulks resting on the Île Royale mud.

  ‘Then perhaps you would give me a general impression of the conduct of the two officers. Commander Balfour first, I think.’

  Balfour is Hardy’s protégé, Carlisle remembered. The admiral would be looking for the strongest possible recommendation of his conduct so that he could apply to Boscawen for Balfour to be posted, perhaps to the immediate command of Bienfaisant. Laforey was Boscawen’s man, and it probably mattered little what Carlisle had to say. A French third rate burned under the guns of a battery was enough evidence on its own to warrant any reward that was in the commander-in-chief’s gift.

  ‘Captain Balfour performed to my highest expectations, sir,’ he replied formally. ‘He overcame stiff opposition in boarding Bienfaisant, which he accomplished with only a handful of killed and wounded.’

  Hardy said nothing and Carlisle realised that he was expected to elaborate. The admiral’s secretary’s pen was poised in anticipation.

  ‘In my opinion,’ said Carlisle tentatively and saw the answering look of approval, ‘and on the strength of his performance in cutting out a French third rate under fire,’ he continued more confidently, ‘Captain Balfour is ready to be promoted to post-captain.’

  Sir Charles allowed himself a brief smile.

  ‘Let the record show Captain Carlisle’s comments,’ he said to his secretary, who’s scratching pen could be clearly heard in the stillness of the cabin.

  So that’s how it’s done, thought Carlisle, that’s how a commander-in-chief is manoeuvred into transforming a commander into a post-captain. No doubt Balfour would hear the word from Boscawen within the day, and his promotion would be confirmed by their Lordships within a couple of months, as soon as a letter could reach Whitehall, and a reply could be received. He had himself been manoeuvred, of course, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that the promotion was well deserved.

  ‘Now, your opinion on Commander Laforey,’ said Sir Charles. It was evident by the careless way that he said it, that Hardy understood this next report was a mere formality. Boscawen had brought Laforey on this expedition – shipless as he was – specifically so that he was on hand when an opportunity such as this arose. He may not have taken his ship, but he’d destroyed an enemy third rate, again under fire, and even without his connection to Boscawen he’d have stood a good chance of being promoted.

  His secretary turned over a leaf in his notebook and dipped his quill, ready to record Carlisle’s words.

  ‘Comm
ander Laforey displayed great skill in boarding Prudent unobserved and good judgement in setting her on fire when it was clear that she was fast aground.’

  Carlisle knew the form of words now.

  ‘In my opinion, Commander Laforey is ready to be promoted to post-captain.’

  ‘Very well, Captain,’ Hardy looked over his shoulder to ensure that his secretary was recording the conversation, ‘I’ll expect your report tomorrow, which will no doubt include the form of words that you used today. My secretary will give you a transcript for your convenience. Meanwhile, I’ll send these notes over to Mister Boscawen immediately. He’s busy negotiating a surrender and I wouldn’t want this recent gallant action to slip his mind.’

  ‘Commander Balfour, of course, is still in Bienfaisant, but Laforey came on board with me. May I present him, Sir Charles?’

  Hardy looked as though he had better things to do with his time. He’d spoken to the expedition’s leader, why would he need to speak to a subordinate in whom he had no interest?

  ‘Yes, please,’ he replied with all the grace he could muster, ‘I’d be delighted.’

  The secretary went to the cabin door and a few seconds later, the cry of ‘Pass the word for Captain Laforey,’ could be heard echoing along the decks.

  In fact, Laforey was only a few steps away, nervously waiting in the hope of a meeting with the admiral. Hardy and Carlisle may have been convinced of his imminent elevation, but as a junior commander with no ship, he needed all the reassurance he could get.

  Hardy meant to keep this short.

  ‘Welcome Captain Laforey. I’ve heard all about your exploits, so there’s no need to elaborate. My sincere congratulations on destroying Prudent. It’s a pity you couldn’t have taken her, but at least she’s burned.’ Hardy was not the most empathetic of people, and Laforey turned a shade paler at the last sentence.

  ‘However, as I said, my sincere congratulations,’ Hardy continued. Even he knew when he’d been insensitive, albeit usually after the event. ‘I shall mention you appropriately in my report.’