The Veteran's Legacy

5. Louisbourg, 8th June 1758-2

“Too late.” MacKim pointed to the two small boats that the frigate had launched. “They’ve already seen us.”

Four men rowed each boat, ignoring the French fire as they steered beside the stricken barge. A very youthful midshipman stood in the stern, grinning. “In you come, Sawnies! We’ll take you ashore.”

“We’ve to board the boats,” MacKim told Dingwall.

“I know! I heard him!” Dingwall spat out a mouthful of blood and tried to speak louder. “Come on, lads! Into the longboats!” He put a hand on MacKim’s shoulder. “Not you yet, MacKim.” He dropped his voice as the Highlanders transferred to the longboats, with grinning sailors helping their kilted passengers.

“Come on, ladies,” one of the sailors shouted. “Mind your petticoats now.”

About to retaliate, MacKim closed his mouth, recognising the words as banter rather than anything more serious. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“I didn’t know you spoke English, MacKim.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“How did you manage that?”

MacKim grunted. “I thought it might be useful sometime, so I learned.”

“I see.” Dingwall helped the shaken ensign onto a longboat and watched as he sat in the stern. “I’ll keep my eye on you, MacKim. Rankers who speak English are not common in Fraser’s Highlanders.”

MacKim said nothing. He did not like the idea of Sergeant Dingwall singling him out.

When the Highlanders removed their plaids from the shot holes, water surged in.

“Get off, you scoundrels!” Dingwall shoved the Highlanders into the longboats. “We’re sinking!”

MacKim ducked as the French fired again, with roundshot crashing into the hull of the nearby frigate. Tall fountains of water rose around them, to hover a second and then slowly patter downward.

“On we go, ladies!” Ignoring the plunging roundshot, the seamen pulled mightily for the shore.

“We’re well behind the rest now,” Dingwall said. “We’ll miss the ball.”

“Come on, lads!” the midshipman, all of fifteen years old, piped up. “Get these ladies ashore!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” The seamen put all their muscle into trying to catch up.

“Don’t you fret, girls,” a gap-toothed seaman shouted. “We’ll soon have you on land, all safe and sound!”

“There’s heavy surf ahead.” The midshipman in charge of MacKim’s boat looked to MacKim to translate. “It will be a rough landing.”

MacKim could hear the hollow crash of the surf and see great silver-white breakers splintering on the coast. The midshipman narrowed his eyes as he steered them through the long rollers. “Hold onto your petticoats, girls!”

MacKim did not translate as the Highlanders grabbed the gunwales.

“What a way to start a campaign,” Chisholm said, as they tipped to the left, then the right. The boat rocked so violently that MacKim thought they would capsize until they roared onto the beach with the gravel crunching under their keel and the seamen lifting their oars at the final moment. MacKim was so intent on the landing that he hardly heard the constant hammer of the Royal Navy guns, responding to the defensive fire from the French.

“Out, lads!” Dingwall croaked. “Come on, sir, we have to go now.” Once again, he helped the young ensign.

As the Highlanders scrambled ashore, the midshipman doffed his hat. “Best of luck, Sawnies! Sorry we couldn’t land you any closer, but Louisbourg is that way!” Waving a cheery farewell, he had his men row back out to sea.

Watching the boats disappear, MacKim felt a sudden sense of abandonment. He and his small detachment of untried soldiers were in French North America, with no clear idea where the enemy, or the remainder of the British Army, might be.

Standing to attention beside the ensign, Dingwall produced a splendid salute. “What are your orders, sir?”

“My orders?” MacDonnell could not have been more than seventeen, a young boy out of his depth.

“Yes, sir. With Lieutenant Murray gone, you’re in charge now.” Dingwall’s voice was slowly returning. He pointed to the men who stood in small clumps, staring around them at their pebble beach and the rising ground that dominated the beach. “Do you want us to join the rest of the army, sir? We’re a bit away from them.”

MacDonnell picked at the lieutenant’s blood that was spattered on his uniform. “Where are we, Sergeant?”

“We’re somewhere to the west of Louisbourg, sir.” Dingwall coughed and spat up blood. “The rest of the army is that way.” He pointed towards the town. “I believe that the Light Bobs landed, with General Wolfe.”

“We’d better get to the general, then.” MacDonnell was shaking so hard he could hardly speak. “You lead the way, Sergeant.”

“We’re lucky there’s not a French piquet here,” Chisholm said. “Check your flints, boys, make sure they’re still dry, and that goes for the powder in your pans, too.”

Dingwall nodded. “Do as Chisholm says,” he croaked. “Follow me.”

Climbing up the range of scrubby heights that backed onto the beach, they had only advanced a hundred yards when they found a barrier blocking their path. MacKim stared at the long, deep construction of cut and sharpened logs, thorns and brushwood. “What the devil is that?”

“It’s known as an abattis,” Chisholm said. “That’s the polite term. We also call it a right bastard.”

abattisDingwall hawked and spat blood before speaking. “Thank God there’s no Frenchies guarding it or we’d all be dead by now.”

MacDonnell looked as if he was about to break into tears. “We’ll have to go back.”

“No, sir,” Dingwall said. “There’s nowhere for us to go. We have to press on.”

Chisholm’s voice was too low for the ensign to hear. “That’s a savage barrier to our progress, MacKim.” He raised his voice slightly. “Our axemen will have to cut through, if the ensign gives the order.”

Dingwall threw another salute. “Sir, shall I order the axemen to cut our way through?”

MacDonnell nodded as if he had just witnessed salvation. “Oh, yes please, Sergeant. Do that.”

The axemen rushed forward. Among the brawniest of the company, they swung their axes with enthusiasm, hacking a slow path through the tangle.

“Ugly, you and MacKim stand piquet at the top of the rise. Watch for Frenchies.”

Aware of the increased hammer of his heart as he scrambled up the ridge, MacKim glanced at Chisholm and felt reassurance at the sight of that twisted, ruined face.

“Keep six feet apart,” Chisholm said. “If we’re closer, one ball can hit both of us, yet we need to be able to support each other, and for God’s sake, don’t stand on the skyline.”

From up here, the abattis stretched away into the distance, a barrier between them and the rest of the British force but also a protection from French scouts. MacKim hardly noticed the hammer of artillery as the Royal Navy exchanged fire with Louisbourg; it was already part of life.

“Thank God the French haven’t got piquets to defend the abattis,” Chisholm repeated. “Imagine having to hack our way through that under fire! The French commander should be ashamed of himself, leaving this flank unguarded.”

MacKim nodded. So far, his introduction to war had not been as he expected. No glorious charge against a brave enemy, no noble officers waving swords as the regiment’s colours flapped in the wind, only gunfire, a damaged boat and this lonely shore.

“We’re through, Sergeant.” The leading axeman wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Report to the officer,” Dingwall commanded and waited for the ensign’s word before he led the men through the gap. Once the 78th had formed a defensive line on the far side of the abattis, Dingwall signalled for Chisholm and MacKim to join them.

“Take the rearguard, you two.”

Again, there were no Frenchmen as the 78th climbed the ridge and advanced towards Louisbourg, muskets ready and throats dry.

“MacKim,” Dingwall waved across the straggling column, “come here.” His hard, suspicious eyes glowered at MacKim. “You speak English then, so you’ll think you’re better than us mere mortals.”

“I don’t think that, Sergeant.” MacKim expected a trap.

Dingwall grunted. “Tell me then, if you’re so clever, why we are here?”

“Why, to capture Louisbourg, of course,” MacKim said.

“Aye, and why do we wish to capture Louisbourg?”

“Because it’s French,” MacKim said.

“It is that.” Dingwall’s voice was recovering although it would be some time until he regained his roar. “You see, Louisbourg’s at the northernmost point of Île-Royale, or Cape Breton Island, if you prefer, and the French fortress here is above a harbour, where our navy is.”

MacKim glanced over his shoulder, seeing the British fleet dominating the large harbour, the flare of their broadsides intermittent behind banks of powder smoke.

Dingwall fingered his throat. “Whoever has this fort and harbour, can control the entrance of the St Lawrence River, and whoever controls the river controls Canada.”

MacKim frowned, taking in these concepts. He had never considered strategy before. “Why is that, Sergeant?” More importantly, why are you telling me?

More importantly, why are you telling me?“The St Lawrence river flows by Quebec and Montreal, Canada’s two major cities. Ships bring supplies to both. If the French hold Louisbourg, they can deny us access to the river, so their grip on the country is secure. If we hold Louisbourg, we can deny the French supplies and bring in our army to capture Quebec.”

“We’d better capture Louisbourg then,” MacKim said.

“Aye, we’d better.” Dingwall’s eyes were never still as he surveyed the surrounding country. “Not only will we be striking a blow against France, we’ll also show King George that his Highlanders are loyal.”

MacKim pointed ahead, where the coast curved into a deep bay, marked by the silver-white of splintering surf. Hundreds of red-coated men crowded onto the beach, while the popping of musketry told its own story. “Is that not the main force, Sergeant?”

“Some of them at least. Others did not make it.” Dingwall indicated the capsized boats in the breakers. He waved the men on and spoke to the ensign. “With your permission, sir, we will join these others.”

“Oh, yes.” MacDonnell still looked shocked. “Carry on, Sergeant.”

“Urquhart, Cattanach, out on the flank and watch for Frenchies. The rest, follow the ensign and me.” The 78th marched on, faster now that they knew they were joining the main landing party.

Men were still splashing ashore from the madly rocking boats; Highlanders in kilts, Grenadiers in tall mitre hats and with distinctive ornamental wings protruding from their shoulders, and the long, lean Rangers with weathered faces and a variety of headgear above their green uniforms. Officers and sergeants shouted in near apoplexy as they tried to instil some order into the mixed units.

Dingwall waved his hand. “Come on, lads!” He marched his small force toward the bulk of the 78th.