The Veteran's Legacy

5. Louisbourg, 8th June 1758-1

They filed into the flat-bottomed boats, so tightly packed that MacKim could scarcely breathe. The tension was palpable as men looked to their front, aware that after months of training, they were finally going to war. Fraser’s Highlanders, more than a thousand untried men, would soon be facing veteran French battalions waiting behind entrenchments and stone walls. The raw young lads from the Highland glens would have to prove their worth to King George, or the stigma of the Jacobite Rising would continue.

“Keep your head down, MacKim. Don’t try to be a hero,” Chisholm advised. “A good soldier is a live soldier.”

The British landing force fought sea-sickness and apprehension as they looked over to Louisbourg, where the black-mouthed muzzles of cannon waited in silent menace.

“The Frenchies can’t fail to see us,” Cumming said. “They’ll hammer the boats long before we get ashore.”

“Look around,” Chisholm said. “We’re in three divisions, Lawrence on the left, Wolfe in the centre and Whitmore on the right, so the French defences are spread thin. Even the French can’t be everywhere and won’t know where to concentrate their fire.”

“I see the officers are sitting comfortably.” Cumming jerked his head towards the stern, where young Ensign MacDonnell and Lieutenant Murray sat side by side, with Sergeant Dingwall one rank in front.

Chisholm grunted. “Don’t they always get the best of everything? That bastard Dingwall is with them, I see.” He tapped the lock of his musket. “If I get him in front of me, I might forget that he’s on our side.”

MacKim was pressed even closer to Cumming as more men jammed into the boat. “I’m not sure he is on our side. I think he’s a Frenchman in disguise, planted here to make us suffer all the more.” He grunted as a rogue wave exploded against the bow, splashing cold water onto the first three ranks inside.

“Where are we?” Private Cattanach asked plaintively.

“Freshwater Cove, near Gabarus Bay,” Lieutenant Murray replied from the stern. “We’re only a few miles from Louisbourg, my man.” He spread his arms to indicate the fleet. “Now look to your front and do your duty. We have Admiral Boscawen and half the Royal Navy with us, so this is the day we teach the French a lesson.”

Catching MacKim’s eye, Chisholm winked before resuming his expressionless demeanour. MacKim tried to concentrate on Murray’s words as he stared at the shore, where the French waited with artillery and massed muskets.

“The enemy has a chain of defensive posts all along this coast,” Lieutenant Murray said. “He also has thrown up some defensive works to protect the most likely places for us to land, and armed them with artillery.” Although he spoke casually, it was evident that Murray was warning the men that the landing would not be easy.

MacKim glanced at Chisholm, who winked.

“Keep your head down, MacKim.”

A Navy longboat pulled beside the barge, and an agile seaman attached a line to the bow. “We’ll soon have you ashore, ladies. Oh, I do like your skirts!” Blowing a kiss, he leapt back to his boat and a moment later, a dozen seamen bent to their oars to tow the Highlanders to shore. MacKim swallowed hard to rid his throat of a sudden lump as his legs began to shake from either fear or excitement, or both. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, trying to calm his nerves.

“Here we go,” Chisholm said as the battery on the heights opened up. MacKim saw the gush of greasy white smoke an instant before he heard the roar of the cannon. “The French don’t like us very much.”

“They can’t know that their man Dingwall is on board.” MacKim could not help ducking as the French canister shot whistled above him. The knowledge that some faceless Frenchman was trying to kill him was disturbing, yet also strangely exhilarating. For the first time, MacKim felt like a real soldier.

As the British crept closer to shore, the French fire became more accurate. Cannonballs crashed into the crowded boats, killing, wounding and maiming. MacKim saw a shot smash into one vessel, raising a thin curtain of blood and pieces of flesh and bone, while screams sounded across the water. Another boat was sinking, with men struggling to swim as their heavy equipment dragged them down. MacKim stared, unable to help as a huge-eyed corporal raised his hands in a frantic appeal for assistance. Pieces of equipment and fragments of wood bobbed on the surface, and then they surged past, with the seamen digging deep at their oars.

Grapeshot slammed into the bulwark of MacKim’s boat, spreading an arc of vicious wood splinters. A young private yelped and stared at his arm, from which a length of wood protruded, soon discoloured by pumping blood. The French fired again, the deeper boom of a twenty-four-pounder accompanied by the usual blast of white smoke. Scores of musket balls spattered onto the landing flotilla.

“Jesus save us!” Cumming shouted.

“It’s getting hot,” Chisholm said. He raised his voice. “Steady the 63rd!”

“We’re the 78th now,” Dingwall growled. “They’ve changed our number.”

“So we are,” Chisholm said. “Steady the 78th!”

“Silence in the boat!” Lieutenant Murray roared. “You are soldiers! Keep silent!”

Case shot churned the water to creamy froth as the oarsmen ducked their heads and towed the boats ashore. MacKim watched one stocky seaman with a tarred pigtail that extended nearly to his waist. He bent and pulled in a constant rhythm, ignoring the musket balls that pattered only a few feet away.

If he can do that, I can stand still. Be a man, Hugh Beg MacKim.

If he can do that, I can stand still. Be a man, Hugh Beg MacKim.Behind them, the warships replied to the French guns, heeling under the weight of their broadsides, so that at any given moment there might be a hundred cannonballs crossing each other above the heads of the landing barges. Besides the Highlanders, boats held the Grenadier companies of various regiments and the American Rangers, men that intrigued MacKim by their green uniforms and casual, confident attitudes, although he had never spoken to any of them. Ahead of them, the French continued to fire, with the muzzle-flashes now the only thing to be seen. As a vast blanket of powder-smoke thickened across the surface of the water, MacKim’s vision was limited to the barge he was in and a few square yards of water, with the occasional glimpse of another boat as gusts of wind temporarily eased a gap in the smoke.

“Back!” Bellowed through a speaking- trumpet, the words came faintly over the hammer of the cannon. “Return to the ships! We’re losing too many men!” Accompanying the words was the rattle of a drum sounding the retreat.

“They’ve repelled us; God damn them!” Chisholm muttered. “The damned Frenchies have forced us back!”

“That’s the fortunes of war, my good man,” Lieutenant Murray said. “Calm yourself. There will be other times.”

The landing force faltered as some boats continued to steer for the land while others obediently turned back to the fleet.

“Look!” Wrestling his left arm free, Chisholm pointed ahead. “The Light Infantry has got ashore.”

Peering through the smoke, MacKim saw the kilts and red jackets of the 78th Light Company, together with the green uniforms of the Rangers, crowding onto a tiny pebble beach. A succession of muzzle flares showed that the French were resisting.

“That’s Cormorandiere Cove,” Murray was poring over a map until a wave soaked him and washed the map overboard. He looked up, laughing. “And that’s all we’ll know about that until this business is complete!”

“There goes Pikestaff,” Chisholm said.

Using the powder smoke as cover, General Wolfe stood in the stern of his boat, tall, angular and erect as he steered for Cormorandiere Cove

MacKim had a momentary glimpse of a roundshot screaming from Louisbourg before it took the head clean off one soldier, cut the man at the tiller in two, crushed Lieutenant Murray into b****y pulp and smashed into the boat. Ensign MacDonnell stared, open-mouthed, at the mess that had been his superior officer. With the helmsman dead, the barge began to veer to one side, leaving it broadside on to the French. Musketry began to target such an inviting target. Fortunately, the range was so long that most shots fell short, although sufficient cracked onto the boat to make life distinctly uncomfortable.

The noise of cannon and musketry was deafening, while the smoke stung MacKim’s eyes and dried his mouth. He no longer tried to speak, but Chisholm put his mouth to MacKim’s ear and shouted.

“We’re taking in water.”

Until that moment, MacKim had been too preoccupied with events to realise that something had holed the boat. Now, he became aware of water lapping over his feet and up to his ankles.

Ensign MacDonnell shouted something, with the batter of cannon masking the words. Sergeant Dingwall spoke in the ensign’s ear and raised his voice to a roar. “The French have holed our boat! Search for the damage and tell me where it is!”

MacKim stared at the planking beneath his feet. Unable to even crouch because of the press of bodies, he could do no more.

“Over here!” The voice came from behind MacKim.

“Take your plaid off,” Dingwall took command. “Plug the leak!”

Men shrugged off their tartan plaids and tramped them into the hole, through which the water was bubbling.

“Now, bail!” Dingwall shouted. “Use your bonnets or your hands. Bail out the water, lads!”

For the first time, MacKim appreciated Dingwall. After months of training, the men responded to the sergeant’s commands without thought. Although their efforts did not seem to diminish the level of water within the boat, they remained afloat, still slowly moving towards the contested coast.

When more musket balls pattered around the boat, Dingwall crumpled, with one hand to his throat.

“They’ve killed the sergeant,” Cumming said.

“No,” Chisholm shook his head, “look again.”

Dingwall struggled upright, gasping. “A spent ball,” he croaked. “I’ll be all right in a few hours.” Gasping, he ripped open the top of his uniform, revealing the pink and white mess of an old burn mark that spread right across his chest. “Are there any more wounds? I can’t feel. I’m numb!”

MacKim looked. “Only an old scar,” he said.

“Aye, that was a long time ago. Is there anything new?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Look!” Chisholm pointed over the side, where the rope that should connect them to the longboat bobbed in the water. The barge was adrift, an even easier target for the guns of Louisbourg.

“Oh, God, help us!” Ensign MacDonnell shrieked.

Glancing at the ensign, Dingwall fastened his jacket and took charge. “Hail that frigate!” His voice was hoarse. “Does anybody here speak English?” He glanced at the ensign hopefully, and looked away, shaking his head. “The officer’s out of things.”

“I do!” MacKim shouted.

“Get up here, MacKim!” Dingwall waved him closer. “The officer is useless just now, and I’ve no voice left.”

Willing hands helped MacKim squeeze to the stern.

“Here.” Dingwall lifted a speaking trumpet from the deck and handed it to MacKim. “Shout out to that frigate,” he indicated the nearest Royal Naval ship. “Say ‘ahoy there, we need help’.”