The Cursed Fortress

by Chris Durbin

  ‘I believe Captain Laforey has something to show you, sir,’ said Carlisle, looking meaningfully at the startled younger man.

  ‘Indeed, I have, sir,’ said Laforey. Carlisle realised that in his confusion Laforey may really have forgotten.

  The secretary opened the cabin door and Souter and two of his boat’s crew proudly brought in the canvas-wrapped bundle. The light started to dawn on Hardy. They unwrapped it and spread out – as far as it would go within the confines of the cabin – the huge French royal ensign.

  ‘Now that is magnificent,’ said Hardy, his austere face breaking into a delighted smile. He stroked the fabric, examined the gold fleur-de-lis and measured the breadth with his outstretched hands. Laforey held his breath.

  ‘Pass the word for Captain Evans and the bosun. I shall have this flown from the maintop underneath one of ours. That’ll show the soldiers! What do you think Carlisle, is that legal and decent?’

  ‘Decent? certainly, sir. Legal? who knows? but as there are no admiralty clerks for a clear two thousand miles, I believe we can do as we choose.’

  ***

  Drucour and his officers had hoped that they may enjoy the same generous terms of surrender as had been offered to the British garrison of Fort St. Philip in Minorca. However, Amherst and Boscawen – and most of the population of Britain – were more influenced by the previous year’s massacre at Fort William Henry at the south end of Lake George, where the surrendered British garrison had been attacked by the Indian allies of the victorious French. It was being called the massacre at William Henry and the name of Montcalm, the French commander of the siege, was anathema.

  The British general and the admiral were in no mood to compromise. They knew that Louisbourg couldn’t survive a direct assault and that is what it would be subjected to in the next day or two if the French governor didn’t accept terms. It was late in the afternoon, and then only with the intervention of the civilian controller of finance that the French military men were persuaded to accept the terms that amounted to an unconditional surrender.

  The next day, thirty minutes later than the appointed time of eight o’clock in the morning, because the French had difficulty in clearing the rubble, three companies of grenadiers entered the fortress of Louisbourg through the Dauphin Gate and took possession.

  At midday Drucour surrendered the fortress, to the sound of the French drummers beating the générale. The terms of the surrender were indeed onerous. The soldiers all had to surrender their weapons and were considered prisoners-of-war, to be transported to Britain until the peace. Any civilian who had taken up arms was similarly treated. The remainder of the civilian population was to be taken to France. The whole of Île Royale and Île Saint-Jean were handed over to British rule.

  The men of the Cambis Regiment, regular soldiers of the French army who had only arrived in Louisbourg in early June, smashed their muskets and burned their colours in disgust.

  Well may the inhabitants of New France have quaked, because this was undoubtedly the beginning of the end.

  ***

  28: News from the South

  Saturday, Nineteenth of August 1758.

  Medina, at Anchor. Halifax, Nova Scotia.

  Carlisle breathed deeply of the clean air. Even after two days at sea, he hadn’t grown used to the sheer joy of being away from Île Royale and Louisbourg. If anything, the frigate’s life had grown worse since the capitulation. Before, there had been a sense of purpose. Afterwards, it was the anti-climax of a battle won, the day after a marriage feast with the house to be put straight.

  Since the capitulation his ship had been employed on errands, and much of the time he was short-handed having been mulcted of men for working parties ashore. It hadn’t taken Amherst and Boscawen long to determine that the season was too far advanced to risk an ascent of the St. Lawrence; Quebec and Montreal would have to wait another year. They had settled down to the task of making Louisbourg defensible and habitable for the garrison that would have to stay there over the winter. Ships and marching columns had been sent the length and breadth of Île Royale and Île St-Jean to round up the French and Acadian inhabitants for evacuation, some to France and some to French Louisiana. Carlisle wanted none of it. His thoughts were only on Chiara and Williamsburg.

  The vast fleet was ready to sail back to Britain by the middle of August. The British soldiers – those that were not remaining in Louisbourg – had been embarked; so too had the French prisoners and the civilians. Carlisle made a farewell call on Sir Charles, who had said good things and made vague promises for the future. In truth, there was little that Carlisle needed. He could be moved into a ship-of-the-line, but he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted that, not yet. He found that he valued his independence too highly and, in any case, he’d not yet made enough in prize money. Sometime, for sure, and it would be better to make the move before this war ended and ships became scarce.

  He’d also called on Lord Colville who for a short while, as a commodore, had been his superior. But Colville was now substantially the same rank as Carlisle although significantly senior. He found Colville’s ship, Northumberland in a sad state. His crew had never recovered from the fevers and scurvy that had afflicted them after a winter in Halifax. Since he’d sailed from there in April, he’d buried a hundred and fifty men out of a complement of five hundred and twenty, and they’d left behind at Louisbourg another sixty who were too sick for the transatlantic passage.

  Carlisle had always known that Medina should be sent back to Jamaica when he was no longer needed at Louisbourg, but he still thought it a stroke of luck when his orders arrived, signed by Boscawen himself. It was always possible that a man of Boscawen’s seniority could justify keeping Medina. After all, he was the senior naval lord on the Admiralty Board, and a member of parliament to boot, and every admiral was perennially short of frigates. In the end, it was the rumour of a French frigate patrolling off the Carolinas to pick up the tobacco trade that swung the balance, or so Carlisle guessed.

  Medina had been ordered to Halifax, to take on stores, wood and water and then to escort some transports and supply ships to New York. Then on to Hampton to pick up a convoy for ports in the southern Colonies and the West Indies. That was the second stroke of luck. With fair winds and no diversions, he could be in Hampton for the birth of his child. Once there and so remote from naval authority, nothing would cause him to sail before the birth, convoy or no convoy.

  ***

  The same pilot boarded Medina off Cornwallis Island. Carlisle was pleased to see him, his air of friendly competence put the whole quarterdeck in a cheerful mood.

  ‘There’s your convoy, Captain,’ he said as Medina approached her anchor berth.

  Carlisle tried to count them, but the confusion of masts in such a small space made it impossible. There were at least twenty store ships and troop transports, all substantial vessels and each a tempting prize for any French privateer. But there were no French ships off Nova Scotia now; the overwhelming concentration of British naval power had persuaded them to make their living elsewhere. It should be an easy passage, at least as far as New York.

  ‘Let go!’ shouted Hosking. The best bower plunged down to the muddy bottom and Medina swung with her bows to the westerly wind.

  ‘Away the captain’s crew,’ shouted the first lieutenant, ‘away the gig.’

  Carlisle was in a tearing hurry to be on his way south, so he’d given up the longboat and the yawl to speed the embarkation of the necessary stores for their long journey to Jamaica. The gig, small as it was, would do for this most informal of naval ports. In any case, he was calling on his old and rustic friend the master attendant, and he wouldn’t recognise formality if he saw it.

  ***

  ‘There’s mail for you, Captain,’ said the master attendant. ‘I’ve already sent it over to your ship, not knowing that you’d come ashore so quickly. You must have passed my boat on the way.’

  He saw the look on Carlisle’s face. The Lo
uisbourg ships hadn’t had mail for months and to hear that the mail was now on his ship, waiting for him to return, was clearly infuriating.

  ‘We can keep this short, sir, as I’m sure you’re busy,’ he continued tactfully. ‘You can see your convoy; there are twenty-four of them, all ready for sea whenever you’re stored. The masters know to look for your signal to call on you. You’re first in line for victualling stores, wood and water and anything that we have in the naval line. There’s fresh food too, and they know to expect your purser. Can I help you in any other way?’

  Carlisle tried unsuccessfully to hide his haste, but he simply couldn’t just turn around and leave. It was undignified, and in any case, he had his own news to give.

  ‘You remember that we spoke about the Pilot from Boston, who fled after he was suspended?’

  ‘I do, it’s believed he defected. In fact, I’ve heard rumours that he joined the French squadron in Louisbourg. He didn’t cross your path a second time, did he?’

  Carlisle grimaced. ‘He did, a second and a third time,’ he replied, and told the story, in all its sordid detail.

  ‘Well, that puts an end to that,’ said the master attendant. ‘I’ll send word to Boston so that they can strike him off the pilot’s list. What a curious end for a bad character, and a lucky escape for you.’

  ***

  Carlisle lost no further time in returning to Medina. In his cabin, his clerk had already sorted the mail. There was a pile of official correspondence that he’d already opened, there was a heap of personal letters for the officers, and another smaller pile for the men. It was surprising how many of the seamen corresponded with family or friends. More astonishing still; with no official means of sending personal letters, their correspondents found the means to direct their messages to a specified ship so far from home.

  Carlisle glanced at the official letters. They were all from the Navy Board, except for one from Admiral Cotes in Jamaica. He skimmed it quickly. It was just routine, new orders for anchor berths in Port Royal and Kingston and a reminder to restrict gun salutes to the first arrival on station, nothing that required his immediate attention. He didn’t expect anything from their Lordships. If they felt the need to address a frigate’s captain, they’d do it through the appropriate admiral, unless the frigate was under Admiralty orders.

  ‘Thank you, Simmonds, you may distribute the private letters and leave the official mail for an hour, until after your dinner. There’s nothing there that will change our immediate fate.’

  Simmonds took the hint and left Carlisle alone in his cabin, alone except for a half-dozen letters from Chiara, all neatly dated on the cover so that he knew in what order to read them.

  Impatient for the latest news, Carlisle ripped open the letter with the most recent date, the twenty-fifth of July.

  ‘My dearest Edward. I will start the way I have started each letter since we have been apart, to assure you that I am in good health and that my confinement is progressing well. The physician is pleased and confidently expects the happy event in the second week of September, with the normal caveat that the baby will come when it is ready, not before and not after.’

  That was what Carlisle wanted to hear, and he could feel his pounding heart slowing as the news sank in. The second week in September. Yes, he should be in Hampton by then, if his convoy behaved itself. It was a curious coincidence that this latest letter had been written the day that he’d taken or destroyed the last remnants of the French squadron in Louisbourg Harbour. If he’d failed, would it have given the defenders fresh courage to prolong the siege? Possibly, and if so, he wouldn’t be contemplating arriving in Williamsburg before his child was born. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, he remembered from his Sunday school. He read on.

  ‘You will have followed the development of my relationship with my father-in-law…’

  So, it was father-in-law now, was it? Previously Chiara had only been able to bring herself to refer to him as your father.

  ‘He is a frequent visitor now, although both Dexter and Barbara are careful to be in the house when he calls. I am not at all sure how effective Dexter would be, but Barbara would be a tiger in my defence. She is so protective! I think Joshua is not blind to their concerns, but he has never mentioned it. He refers to his grandchild now. Or when he forgets, he slips into calling it his grandson, a common error for a prospective grandfather, I am told. He is ever so humble whenever he visits. I do believe that he is growing on me (I hope that is an appropriate English expression).’

  Chiara had committed some hilarious errors in English idioms, and more than a few malapropisms. Carlisle could smile at those, but it was her inability to use contractions that made her letters awkward to read. Did they use contractions when writing in Italian? He’d ask Enrico.

  ‘Your brother, however, still scowls whenever he sees me, and Dexter places himself between us when we should chance to pass in the street. However, the physician says that from next week, I should really be confined, and not merely in the conventional use of the word. I will be shut up in this charming house thinking of you and sewing clothes for our child-to-be…’

  Carlisle finished reading the letter then worked his way forward from the oldest. Apart from the lack of contractions, Chiara really was the best of letter writers. She was careful to repeat the news from earlier letters until she’d confirmed that they’d been received, and every letter was dated.

  It was good news, of course. The only concern was his brother, and Carlisle decided that he’d take firm action when they arrived at Williamsburg. It sounded as though he may count on the backing of his father, and if necessary, he’d instruct the lawyer to apply to the court for an order to prevent his brother contacting his family. It should be easy; his brother wasn’t a man with any notable friends, and his conduct had become notorious.

  ***

  29: Unfinished Business

  Saturday, Second of September 1758.

  Medina, at Sea. Off the Virginia Capes.

  He was a lucky man, Carlisle thought as he tapped the hard oak of the quarterdeck rail and looked covertly around to confirm that nobody had seen him. The set, expressionless face of the quartermaster suggested otherwise.

  He’d delivered his convoy safely to Sandy Hook and the fair summer winds had wafted Medina, alone now, on past New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland until they were only a day’s sail from Cape Henry.

  Eight bells found Carlisle still on the quarterdeck. The men of the last dog had been turned out and were swapping idle banter with their oppos from the first dog. Whittle had just taken his place at the masthead and Carlisle, looking upwards, could see him scanning the horizon. Whittle must be almost as keen to reach Hampton as Carlisle was himself. It appeared that someone had spoken to him about deference to his captain – probably Souter – and since they’d left Halifax, he’d behaved much better, no longer playing on his long, long association with Carlisle. He’d speak to Moxon. Whittle should have some leave while they were in Hampton. He could spend a week at his home and recount tall tales of his exploits.

  Carlisle was still watching Whittle when he saw the able seaman’s body stiffen. He passed his hand across his eyes and then stared fixedly to windward.

  ‘Sail Ho!’ he shouted. ‘Sail right to windward, eight points on the larboard bow.’

  Carlisle grabbed the copper speaking trumpet.

  ‘What do you make of her Whittle?’

  There was a pause. Carlisle thought quickly. On the face of it, the sail could be almost anything. A casual merchant ship from the Caribbean or from Europe; or a slaver, a Guineaman from West Africa. And yet it was unlikely. The war had been raging for over two years; there were few innocent merchant ships sailing the seas alone, particularly here, where the wealth of the Americas was focussed and the hunters congregated. Carlisle waited impatiently for Whittle to respond.

  ‘It’s a ship, sir,’ he shouted. There was another pause as Whittle stared hard to windward. ‘Just one; it could
be a man-of-war.’

  ‘Beat to quarters, Mister Moxon.’ Carlisle didn’t need to look over his shoulder, by now he knew his first lieutenant well enough to be certain that he’d be there. ‘Clear for action.’

  He knew deep in his bones that a French frigate was approaching them fast from windward. How long before the French captain realised that the sail his lookout had sighted wasn’t a fat New York merchantman, bound for the Chesapeake? How long before he hauled his wind and escaped to the east?

  All around he could hear the frigate being prepared for an engagement. Bulkheads were being knocked down, furniture was being struck below, boarding nets were being rigged and yards chained. The people were going to their stations in a disciplined rush. Behind, he could hear the marines forming into ranks under the stern eye of Sergeant Wilson; down in the waist, the nine-pounders were being cast loose and the gun-ports opened.

  ‘She’s a man o’ war for sure, sir,’ shouted Whittle in an almost casual voice. ‘A frigate I’d say.’

  ‘Bring her onto the wind, Mister Hosking, as hard as she’ll go.’

  Medina’s easy motion ended as she came up two points. Now she was butting into the southerly tops’l breeze with the chase five points off her bow.

  ‘Set the t’gallants.’

  She must have seen who we are by now, Carlisle thought. When will she turn away? With the weather gauge and the whole Atlantic to windward, she could easily hold Medina off until dark, then she could make her escape. If that were a Frenchman on the lookout for the tobacco trade, he certainly wouldn’t willingly tangle with a British frigate. This just didn’t make any sense.

  ‘Captain, sir, can I come down?’ shouted Whittle.

  He’d done this before, remembered Carlisle, when he had something to say that couldn’t easily be conveyed in a shouted conversation.