Brothers in Arms: The Siege of Louisbourg, Sébastien deL'Espérance, New France, 1758 Page 4

  Sitting beside Marie-Claire now, I longed to have her understand that nothing was more important to me than the life the two of us planned to build together. I had no desire to put myself in harm’s way. But if doing so might ensure that we would get to live that life together, I could do nothing else.

  As the thin grey light of early morning began to seep into the parlour, I knew no words would truly serve my purpose. All I could do was squeeze her hands and repeat my promise: “Nothing will stop me from returning to you.”

  And I silently prayed that it was a promise I would be able to keep.

  * * *

  I found Guillaume waiting for me at the gate, studying the black marble plaque mounted on the inside, its gilded letters spelling Porte Dauphine. Of course, the letters held no meaning for him. Guillaume had never learned to read. What attracted him to the plaque was its craftsmanship, which he once told me reminded him of the work of his father, who was a carver.

  Hearing my footsteps, he turned to greet me. “Was she very upset?” he asked.

  I nodded. “She wanted me to assure you that you, too, will be in her prayers.”

  “Ah, it’s those redcoats who are in need of her prayers,” he jested. But he knew as well as I how dangerous our mission would be.

  “De l’Espérance! Rousseau!”

  Captain Boudier strode in our direction. As he reached us, he extended his hands, a fresh leather cartridge box in each. “This cursed damp weather plays havoc with gunpowder,” he said. “It will not hurt to have additional ammunition.”

  Guillaume and I took the cartridge boxes from him, attaching them to our waist belts. Boudier knew we always took great pains to keep our cartridges dry, so the reason he had come to the Porte Dauphine surely had little to do with ammunition.

  He cleared his throat. “You will be careful, oui?”

  “Oui, capitaine,” we chorused.

  “Bonne chance,” he said, saluting us before nodding at the guards, who raised the bar and swung the gate wide.

  Leaving the town’s walls behind us, Guillaume and I passed the remains of the first buildings we had razed. The hard rain of the day before had lessened to a steady drizzle, but a few tendrils of smoke still rose from the scorched timbers.

  Guillaume and I walked in silence. We thought it safer not to travel the route the company had taken to Anse de la Cormorandière. Instead we threaded our way across terrain dotted with stumps of trees that had been felled for construction and to provide unobstructed views from the town. Our feet scarcely made a sound as we moved forward.

  I thought of the last time we had ventured beyond the walls before the British arrived. We had been tracking a stag with hoofprints the size of small platters, and we finally came upon it feeding near a stream. Guillaume halted and was raising his musket to fire when a large brown snake emerged from the undergrowth and slithered across his boot. As brave a man as I knew Guillaume to be, he had a morbid fear of snakes, and he leaped back, shouting and startling the stag. With a flick of its tail, it bounded away before we could even raise our muskets. I began to chuckle, as much at Guillaume’s embarrassment as the distance he had leaped, which was considerable, and before long he was laughing, too. I longed to have reason to do the same now, but laughter was a part of our lives no longer. Death lurked everywhere.

  Boudier had suggested that we focus our attention on Pointe Platte. Since our leaders already knew that Pointe Blanche was occupied by the British, they were interested in other areas along the coast where our enemy might be established, so we travelled in a southwest direction toward that stretch of shore.

  As we continued, I thought of other members of our company who would also find themselves beyond the walls of the town that day. Some had previously been assigned to fill bags with dirt that would be used to strengthen the casemates within the walls of the Bastion du Roi. Because an attack was now a certainty, Governor Drucour wanted to provide shelter for women and children during the coming bombardment. The stone vaults would be as safe as anything could be in the face of British mortars. As I walked, I thought of my comrades shovelling wet earth yesterday, and in my imagination I saw myself turning the soil on my own land, Marie-Claire watching me from the doorway of our snug Île Royale home. As my mind played with that image, it added two small children, a boy and a girl, their colouring that of their mother. They played at her side, and Marie-Claire laughed at their antics as they —

  “Did you hear that?” Guillaume hissed. He had frozen in mid-step, his left arm raised in warning.

  I silently chided myself. Inattention could cost a soldier his life. “I heard nothing,” I whispered after a moment. “What did it sound like?”

  “A voice,” he replied softly. “Someone speaking at a distance.” He listened a moment longer, then shook his head. “Perhaps I imagined it.”

  “Perhaps,” I allowed. “It may have been the wind. It sometimes seems to moan.”

  He shrugged. “Excusez-moi. My nerves are as taut as bowstrings.”

  I waved his apology away. It was better that his senses were overly keen than for mine to wander as they had. Drawing a deep breath, I resumed my pace, this time focusing on every movement and sound around us.

  * * *

  “Mon Dieu!” Guillaume breathed.

  We had been walking for nearly two hours, stopping frequently to listen for signs of the enemy. Twice we’d been forced to take cover in the long grass as British soldiers scoured the area, clearly performing their own reconnaissance. But we had reached our destination undetected, and we now peered over a rise just above the expanse of Pointe Platte.

  The sight before us was astonishing. Beside us, a brook spilled down the slope and meandered toward the ocean, and the enemy had established camps on either side of it. This was no surprise, since the brook was a source of drinking water. What amazed Guillaume and me was the sea of tents pitched before us. Thousands of soldiers were encamped there.

  But it was not just the sheer number of men that astounded us. It was the preparations our enemies were making. Although the surf still ran high, boats had obviously been ferrying supplies almost continuously from the ships to the shore, and we watched now as men unloaded two more. The first carried the weaponry and ammunition we expected. The other was laden with timber and tools, which were being added to large piles of other building materials that had already been beached. The presence of so many men and the growing store of supplies suggested what I had feared from the beginning — the siege we were anticipating would be lengthy and fierce.

  I glanced at Guillaume. His expression told me what I already knew. We needed to get this information back to our leaders as soon as possible.

  A stick cracked somewhere to our right.

  Guillaume and I pulled back into the tall ferns growing alongside the brook as more than a dozen redcoats made their way toward our position, their muskets shouldered. I could hear them chatting as they drew closer, their words as unfamiliar to me as the letters on the Porte Dauphine plaque were to Guillaume.

  Guillaume and I froze. Although our muskets were primed and ready to fire, the two of us would be no match for so many soldiers, and it was crucial that we return to Louisbourg with our report. As the soldiers approached closer still, I controlled my breathing to prevent even the slight movements of my chest from disturbing the ferns and betraying our presence. Guillaume, who lay a hand-width from me, was doing the same.

  When the men were just steps away, I caught a sudden movement. A flick. And then another — the forked tongue of a thick brown snake slithering away from the redcoats’ boots. Coiling beneath the ferns, it was far longer than my arm and thicker than the barrel of my musket. None of the reptiles in Île Royale were poisonous, but that was not what worried me.

  I slowly turned toward Guillaume, hoping he had not spied the snake. But he had, his face now white as parchment. I wanted to reach out to him, to place my hand on his shoulder and reassure him, but I dared not move.

  At
any moment I expected panic to get the better of him and send him fleeing, an expectation that only increased when the snake suddenly glided toward Guillaume’s face. It was as though the creature was unaware of his presence, perhaps mistaking his motionless body for a fallen log. I knew we could not escape discovery now. Guillaume would not be able to contain his terror. He would bolt.

  I gripped the musket that I feared I would shoot for the last time, and I thought of Marie-Claire. I pictured how she had looked when we parted that morning, her eyes dark and tear filled. I thought of her praying for our safety and I waited for the worst.

  The snake continued to slither forward, its scaly surface brushing Guillaume’s chin as it passed. His eyes grew saucer wide and he swallowed thickly, the sound like a too-ripe pear being squeezed in a fist.

  In that final moment, as I prepared to leap from our hiding place to attack the redcoats, I was grateful that at least I would die there with my friend. We had grown up together in France, crossed the ocean together, served our king together. We had begun our new lives together in this unfamiliar land, and together we would end them here.

  But death did not come.

  The snake slithered off through the ferns, and the soldiers walked within an arm’s reach of us and continued on their way, never knowing we were there.

  * * *

  “Are you certain?” asked the governor.

  I felt awkward and tongue-tied in his presence, but Boudier had insisted that Guillaume and I share our findings with the war council in person. “Oui, Gouverneur Drucour,” I said, wishing I had had time to wash before entering his apartments. I was afraid my soiled uniform might brush against his fine furnishings. “There were at least twelve thousand men camped at Pointe Platte. Probably more.”

  “And you agree with his estimate?” Drucour asked Guillaume.

  “Oui, Excellence,” he replied. “At least that many.” While Guillaume had never learned to read, numbers were as real as rocks to him. “And the enemy is landing supplies all the time. Mostly building materials.”

  The governor nodded gravely. He turned to Boudier and the other officers. “The British will launch their attack from the high ground that surrounds us, so they will no doubt build batteries there to provide cover for their weapons.”

  “Their efforts will be wasted,” came a voice from my left. Lieutenant Colonel Saint-Julhien. “Our cannons will blow those batteries to bits.”

  Governor Drucour shook his head. “Unfortunately, the British know the range of our weapons. We showed them the day you retreated from Anse de la Cormorandière when we fired over your soldiers’ heads to keep our enemies from advancing. The British will surely build their batteries safely beyond that distance.”

  Saint-Julhien’s face flushed crimson and he said no more.

  Governor Drucour addressed the council again. “Fortunately, transporting their supplies from the coast will be no small matter, and then our enemies must build whatever batteries and redoubts they hope to use in their assault. That may give us some time before their forces are in place and fully prepared to attack. I have written to our leaders requesting assistance. I am hopeful it will arrive before the offensive begins. Until then, we have only one option open to us.”

  He turned to the map of Île Royale spread across the table in front of him. “Here is what we must do.”

  Chapter 7

  June 12, 1758

  Standing at the Bastion Maurepas overlooking the harbour, I cursed the fog that had drifted in from the sea the previous night and now wrapped around Louisbourg like a shroud.

  “Pea soup could not be thicker,” Guillaume growled.

  He was right. Anything beyond a few steps from us was swallowed by the dense mist blanketing the town. It was more than a mere nuisance. It was a benefit to the British because it meant further delay in carrying out our orders.

  Governor Drucour had asked his officers to form five special forces made up of volunteers from the Troupes de Terre battalions and the Compagnies Franches de la Marine. They were to make frequent sorties into the area surrounding Louisbourg to monitor enemy movements and, whenever possible, take prisoners who could be questioned for information. Guillaume and I had immediately volunteered, and our detachment had been assigned to learn how advanced the British were in their efforts to prepare the hills beyond the town for attack. However, lacking sufficient visibility to move safely beyond Louisbourg’s walls, we had been assigned other duties. Earlier that day, we had moved gunpowder from the Bastion du Roi to lime kilns near the Porte Maurepas. While this work was necessary to safeguard the powder from mortar fire, Guillaume and I were eager to discover what the British were accomplishing beyond the walls, and impatient to pass along any crucial information.

  Because the higher ground west of the town made us vulnerable to attack, the governor had also requested that a frigate be anchored strategically in the harbour so it could fire upon the hillsides. Its guns would be able to target the areas beyond the reach of the bastions’ cannons, thereby increasing our range. The Aréthuse, commanded by Jean Vauquelin, had already moved into position. Try as I might, though, I failed to see the ship through the fog in the harbour. Standing there with the mist swirling around us, I suddenly felt uneasy.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Guillaume.

  I cocked my head to one side, listening. “Do you hear anything?”

  He, too, listened for a moment. “Only the creak of our ships at anchor. Why?”

  I pointed toward the northeast. “I thought I heard movement out there.”

  “Just now?”

  “Earlier, too.”

  He scowled. “Even British fools wouldn’t try sailing into this harbour with the fog so thick.”

  I shook my head. “The sounds were more like movement on land. And digging.”

  Guillaume shrugged, turning to look where I had pointed. “Perhaps you heard the men posted on the island battery.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but the sounds seemed more distant than that.”

  “Who can tell anything accurately in this murk?” he asked.

  “Touché,” I nodded. “It was probably our comrades on the island.”

  A moment passed as we stood peering into the fog, listening. But the only sounds were the wash of waves against the shore and the creaking of our ships’ rigging as they rose and fell. Yet still I felt uneasy.

  Chapter 8

  June 13, 1758

  I worked feverishly beside the cannon at Pointe à Rochefort, my tired arms like lead, my ears ringing from the repeated blasts of the huge gun. Captain Boudier had once said that a twenty-four-pounder could be fired ninety to a hundred times a day, but surely this one had already surpassed that. I was exhausted, but there was no time to rest. Like my comrades beside me, I pressed on. We had no choice.

  The previous afternoon, when the fog had finally lifted, I saw that my unease had been justified. The British had occupied Pointe à la Phare, the fist of land beyond the island battery that my comrades had abandoned days before. Given their positions, the British must have moved quietly to avoid detection.

  When Drucour’s war council learned what was happening, they issued orders for the gunners at Pointe à Rochefort to fire upon the British. It was crucial that they not be allowed to erect their own battery, since from there they could easily bombard both the island battery and our ships in the harbour, leaving us defenceless. By early evening our leaders were confident that the Rochefort guns had halted British efforts to establish themselves there.

  But despite our barrage, dawn revealed that the British had continued working throughout the night, prompting Drucour to call for an all-out offensive against Pointe à la Phare. The cannons aboard our warships and those of the island battery had joined the Rochefort twenty-four-pounders in a massive assault.

  With so many men required for such a large-scale bombardment, I had been reassigned to the Pointe à Rochefort battery to assist in supplying and arming the cannons. But
I would rather have been accompanying Guillaume on the sortie that had been delayed by fog the previous day.

  “I wish I were going with you,” I had told him earlier that morning.

  He’d nodded. “Just be sure that each of your shots finds it mark.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, forcing a grin. As he attached fresh cartridge boxes to his waist-belt, a chill swept over me, as though a cloud had momentarily blocked the sun. “Guillaume,” I said, “you will take no chances, oui?”

  He shrugged. “Wars are not won by careful men,” he said.

  I understood his meaning. And I knew that he would have the support of two dozen others, like Renard Gaston, who had stood waiting for Guillaume. Yet still I could not shake the feeling that something was amiss.

  Guillaume laid a hand on my shoulder. “Ah, Sébastien,” he had said, “who was it that forced you to finally speak to Marie-Claire two years ago?”

  “You,” I replied.

  “And who accompanied you when you asked her father for her hand two weeks ago?”

  “You,” I repeated.

  “And it is I who will be toasting you when you finally marry.” He had hoisted his musket and touched his tricorne in a mock salute before turning to Renard. “Come, Renard. You and I must rout the British before Sébastien has second thoughts and withdraws his proposal.”