The Veteran's Legacy

6. Louisbourg, June 1758

“I thought we had lost you, MacDonnell,” Captain Simon Fraser addressed the ensign. “I am glad you brought your men here. Well done.”

Ensign MacDonnell gave a small smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“You men, join your colleagues,” Captain Fraser said.

“No appreciation for the sergeant, then,” MacKim observed.

“Did you expect there to be?” Chisholm shook his head. “Don’t worry about that, Hugh. It will never change. The men get the hard knocks, the officers gain the glory.” He nodded to the left, where a knot of senior officers had gathered together. “There’s Brigadier Wolfe himself, our own Pikestaff.”

Close to, Wolfe was tall and thin, with a weak chin. MacKim grunted. “He doesn’t look like much.”

“Wolfe is a b****y man,” Chisholm warned. “He’ll go for the French throat, that I know.” He pointed to a series of stone-and-earth fortifications that overlooked the beach. “We’ll see in a few moments.”

“Are the French up there?”

“They’re watching everything we do,” Chisholm said. “They’re probably wondering what we are – soldiers in kilts and soldiers dressed in green. They won’t have seen anything like it before.”

MacKim forced a smile, although he felt very uncomfortable standing with French soldiers watching him.

“Lachie MacLachlan of Fraser’s was first on shore.” Chisholm sounded as relaxed as if he was in an Inverness tavern. “Pikestaff gave him a guinea, I heard.”

MacKim grunted. “That’s something.”

“That’s a lot more than Colonel Fraser gave Dingwall.” Chisholm ducked as the French battery eventually opened up, spraying the beach with grapeshot. Two Grenadiers fell, one to lie still, the other kicking and twisting on the pebbles. Sparing them only a glance, Chisholm continued, “We’ll show the king that we’re the best soldiers in the army.”

MacKim picked himself up from the beach. He did not remember having dived down. Chisholm winked at him.

“You’ll get used to it, MacKim. The first few times are always bad. Then it gets worse, but you learn when to duck and when not to.” He grinned. “They say you never hear the shot that hits you, so that might help.”

“It doesn’t help in the slightest.”

MacKim was surprised how leisurely this business of war seemed to be. He had expected an immediate advance on Louisbourg, with a b****y assault, the thrill of drums and pipes, and bayonets flashing in the sun. Instead, the officers seemed more concerned with getting the men in proper ranks as the French continued a desultory fire that knocked down a man here and there without impeding the landing. The weather was more disrupting as it deteriorated during the day, capsizing boats and making each seaman sweat. However, the invading force was finally all on the beach.

“The Frenchies lost their opportunity there,” Chisholm spoke around the stem of his pipe. “If they had even sent one regiment to oppose us, they could have caused serious damage.”

“Let’s pray they remain so indolent,” MacKim said.

With Wolfe in charge of the Brigade and Brigadier General Lawrence landing to the left of Wolfe’s force, the British dressed their line, the drums sounded the advance, eager ensigns held the Colours aloft, and the invasion force moved upwards toward the French.

Here we go, into battle at last. MacKim tried to moisten his suddenly dry throat. Dear God, let me survive this day.

Here we go, into battle at last.Dear God, let me survive this day.Dingwall looked over his platoon. “Stay in formation, you scoundrels of the 78th. I want no stragglers and nobody bounding forward. Remember that you are soldiers, not warriors.”

“I still preferred us as the 63rd,” Chisholm said. “We were higher up the army list.”

“They can give us any number they like, Ugly,” Dingwall had the sergeant’s ability to hear even the smallest sound from the ranks, “but they can’t alter what we are. We are Fraser’s Highlanders.”

MacKim looked around at the kilted Gaels that surrounded him. For a moment, he was back at Drummossie Moor, with the piles of shattered bodies as laughing, red-coated soldiers paddled in Highland blood. He might be fighting in one of King George’s regiments, but he would never forget that day. He would never forget his oath.

Concentrate on today. Win this battle. Gain experience. Survive.

Concentrate on today. Win this battle. Gain experience. Survive.Straightening his back, MacKim faced his front and prayed as they marched towards the waiting French outposts. The crackle of musketry and spurts of white smoke seemed muted, strangely unwarlike, as if events were happening to somebody else, and not him, and then MacKim ducked as something whined past his head.

“You’re nearly a real soldier now, Hugh,” Chisholm said, out of the corner of his mouth.

“When will I be a real soldier?”

“When you’ve tasted the enemy’s powder smoke,” Chisholm said. “Now keep in step and ignore the noise.”

The spatter of musketry continued, and then MacKim saw a score of white-uniformed figures scrambling out of the closest earthwork. Frenchmen! I can see the enemy! MacKim readied his musket, only to see the French retreating before the British closed.

Frenchmen! I can see the enemy!“Hold your fire!” Colonel Fraser ordered.

“Steady, MacKim!” Dingwall warned, as a couple of men began to surge in front. “Stay in formation!”

The British trampled over the first outpost and marched on to the next, with the French again withdrawing when the British closed.

“I thought the French were good fighters,” MacKim said. “All they do is fire and run.”

“They know that Fraser’s Highlanders are coming,” Urquhart said.

“Follow them. Don’t allow them to regroup,” Colonel Fraser ordered. “Ensigns, fire by platoon if you see a target.”

“We’ll take Louisbourg in one day,” MacKim said. “The Frenchies aren’t going to fight!”

Looking along the length of the British advance, he saw the mitre hats of the Grenadiers standing tall, wondered if Hayes was among them and watched in fascination as a musket ball burrowed into the ground in front of him. Spent ball, he told himself. If the Frenchman were a yard further forward, it would have hit me. The margin between life and death is less than the span of an arm.

Spent ballIf the Frenchman were a yard further forward, it would have hit me. The margin between life and death is less than the span of an arm.“Pikestaff’s doing his job,” Chisholm said. Wolfe’s angular form was prominent, leading from the front as the British pursued the French, exchanging fire whenever they could.

“This is rough country.” Wolfe’s voice was high and surprisingly clear over the sporadic spatter of musketry.

Cumming glanced at MacKim and shook his head. “I thought the general had served in Scotland.”

“He did,” Chisholm said dryly.

“He should know that this is hardly rough country, then,” Cumming said, and added, “Maybe he’s got soft with fighting in Europe.”

“Not our Pikestaff.” Chisholm said. “There’s Louisbourg now.”

MacKim had one glimpse of long grey walls before the French artillery opened up and white powder-smoke obscured his view. The cannonballs fell short of the British advance, ploughing into the hard ground or raising miniature volcanoes of dust and stones.

“Halt, 78th!” Colonel Fraser ordered.

On the word of command, the army stopped, with French infantrymen scurrying away to the shelter of Louisbourg’s guns. When it became apparent that the British were coming no closer, the French artillery ceased fire. The smoke drifted away, giving the men a clear sight of the fortress they had come to capture.

“So that’s Louisbourg,” Chisholm said. “It looks a tough place.”

Sergeant Dingwall nodded. “It’s the lock that secures French North America, lads, and we have to be the key. There are two miles of perimeter walls, with four massive gates, seven bastions and five guardhouses.”

“Bugger that!” Cumming said softly.

MacKim looked along the length of stone walls. Even from this distance, he could see the startlingly bright red tunics of French artillerymen standing by the guns.

“It’s well defended,” Chisholm said.

“A hundred cannon, they say, and over three and a half thousand French soldiers shipped over specially to keep us out.” Dingwall was keen to show off his knowledge. “They have five warships in the harbour, too, bristling with cannon to repel our navy.”

“They’ll need more than five ships to defeat the Royal Navy,” Chisholm murmured.

“There are more than three thousand of us,” MacKim said. “Can we not just go and attack them?”

“On you go, son.” Dingwall said. “You evidently know more about attacking a fortress than all the generals and admirals in the army of King George.” He shook his head. “Let me educate you, MacKim.” Dingwall pointed to the distant stone battlements. “Once the gunner puts in his thirteen pounds of gunpowder, the French cannon can fire its ball for a mile and a half. Now, imagine the power of that shot, and think of its effect on a file of infantry.”

MacKim nodded, suddenly sober. He realised how little he knew about being a soldier. A year’s drill and one day’s skirmishing was not sufficient.

“Now that you are listening,” Dingwall said, “I’ll give you the good news. Most of the fort’s cannon point seaward, toward the harbour. The French did not expect us to land in the face of their infantry and the high surf.”

The invaders stood in disciplined ranks, glowering at the enemy fortification. MacKim searched the length of the stone walls.

“How big is Louisbourg, Sergeant? Is it just a fort?”

Dingwall settled down behind a rock. “It’s not much more than a walled town,” he said. “A very well defended walled town. You can see the fortifications. As well as the cannon, bastions and half bastions, Louisbourg has a ditch and a glacis – that’s the sloping banks we’ll have to climb if we assault the place.”

glacisCumming’s eyes did not stray from Louisbourg’s walls. “Can we take it, Sergeant?”

“Yes,” Dingwall said. “We can take it.”

“If it’s a town,” Cumming sounded interested, “there will be women there as well as men.”

“Some,” Dingwall said. “Maybe a few hundred, but mostly merchants’ wives or officers’ wives.”

“If there are wives,” Cumming said, “there will be daughters as well.”

Dingwall grunted. “Maybe so, Cumming, but we have to get in first, and that won’t be easy.”

* * *

While the French artillery reinforced Dingwall’s words that taking Louisbourg would not be easy, the British Army settled down for a formal European-style siege. Wolfe found a suitable spot to land his guns three miles from Louisbourg and ordered them dragged to the British positions.

“We’ve no oxen or horses to pull the artillery,” Cumming pointed out.

“We don’t need them,” Chisholm said. “We’ve got plenty other beasts of burden, Cumming.”

“Where?” Cumming looked around until he realised that Chisholm was pointing directly at him.

“You, Cumming,” Chisholm said. “You and me and all the other rankers in Geordie’s army.”

“Come on, you, men!” Dingwall’s voice had nearly recovered. “We’ve got work to do.”

Sweating, cursing and toiling with the others, MacKim helped to pull the guns around to the landward wall of Louisbourg.

“How come they aren’t helping?” Cumming pointed to a group of Rangers, who stood a hundred yards from the toiling men, searching inland.

“They’re the Colonial scouts, Cumming,” Chisholm said. “They’re guarding the flanks and watching for French or Canadian skirmishers. The Canadians will find a team of men hauling a naval g*n a perfect target.” He pointed to the Rangers. “You’ll thank God for those lads. I’ve heard nothing but good of them.”

“We can guard ourselves,” Cumming said. “I thought we were soldiers, not oxen.”

“Whoever said you were a soldier?” Dingwall kicked Cumming’s leg. “Soldiers obey orders without question, while you complain about everything!”

“I heard that the Colonials are poor soldiers,” Cumming said. “They’re badly disciplined and cowardly.”

Chisholm grunted. “I suspect that one campaign in their company will make you alter your opinion, Cumming.”

“How high are these walls?” MacKim wiped sweat from his forehead and jerked a thumb towards Louisbourg’s fortifications.

“Thirty feet at a guess,” Dingwall said, “and probably just as thick.”

“We’ll never get through them.” Cumming shook his head. “We’re wasting our time. The French must be laughing at us, with their artillery behind stone walls thirty b****y feet thick.”

“They’re sweating as much as we are,” Dingwall said. “The French have two fronts to worry about and have to weaken their seaward defences by moving some guns to counter us.”

Hauling heavy pieces of artillery across the unbroken country was as hard work as fighting. It took time and effort, while all the time, the British were digging in outside the walls of Louisbourg. During the landing, the British had taken about seventy French prisoners, who cheerfully said the garrison consisted of five battalions: Bourgogne, Artois, Royal Marine, Cambise, and Voluntaires Estrainger, plus about 700 Canadian Volunteers.

“Quite a strong garrison then.” MacKim sat outside his tent after a hard shift with the artillery, shaving with his bayonet.

“It’s a bit weaker than it was before we landed.” Chisholm bit on a hunk of tobacco. “We also captured three twenty-four-pounders, seven nine-pounders, fourteen swivels and two mortars. Not a bad start.” He grinned. “We’re chipping away at them bit by bit. The beauty of it is, as long as we’re here, the French can’t get any reinforcements or supplies. Every day that passes, the French will be slightly weaker. Every time they fire a g*n, they lessen their ammunition and every day they have less food.”

“We don’t have time to starve them out,” Cumming said. “We may as well go home now.”

On the 12th June, with fog again rolling in from the sea, General Wolfe led twelve hundred men around the magnificent harbour. “Not us, MacKim,” Dingwall said. “We’re making entrenchments to defend the guns.”

“I’d like to volunteer, Sergeant,” MacKim said.

“Then you’re a fool.” Dingwall glowered at him. “As soon as you joined the army, you made an appointment with death. He’s waiting, somewhere, in some shape or form. Why invite yourself into his parlour? Your time will come.” Dingwall shook his head. “Soldiers seldom die of old age.”

MacKim watched Wolfe’s force march away and later heard the stories, wishing he had been there. He did not care about the glory, but having seen the Grenadiers close up, he had been awed by their professionalism and knew he had to improve his fighting skills if he hoped to kill Hayes.

“We were first to Lighthouse Point,” MacLaughlin of the 78th’s Grenadier company boasted. “We went in with the bayonet before they even knew we were there.” In common with all the Grenadiers, MacLaughlin was taller than average, a robust man with a ready grin and forearms that would put a small man’s thighs to shame. “Some of the lads drew their swords,” MacLaughlin said. “Chop, slice and the Frenchies were no more.”

“Poor buggers,” Chisholm said. “They’re soldiers, just like us.”

“They’re the enemy.” MacLaughlin’s laughter died as quickly as it had started.

“MacLaughlin’s correct,” Dingwall said. “They’re the enemy. We are here to destroy them.”

Nodding, MacKim closed his mouth. He was a soldier now. His occupation was killing the enemy. He could not think of them as people. They had to be faceless, outside the orbit of humanity. He had to consider the French as the epitome of evil, at least until after King George had won his war.