The Veteran's Legacy

8. Louisbourg, July 1758-1

“They’re surrendering!” Chisholm pointed to the battered walls of Louisbourg. The French flag was fluttering down over the shattered houses.

“About time!” Sergeant Dingwall puffed at a black pipe. “I didn’t want to go through a storming. That would be a b****y business.” He shook his head. “The French governor, Drucor, virtually demanded that we accord him the Honours of War, so they keep their standards and weapons.” He shook his head. “Amherst gave him his marching orders.”

“Why was that?” MacKim asked.

“The French lost their honour after what they did to our lads at Fort William Henry.” Dingwall blew out a long ribbon of tobacco smoke. “You’ll remember the French captured the fort, then allowed the Canadians and Indians to t*****e, murder and scalp our boys. I’m glad that Amherst turned him down. We’ll have the Frenchie’s flags and weapons as souvenirs.”

MacKim watched the white Bourbon flag finally vanish from above the battered skyline of Louisbourg. He would not have to help storm the place. His first campaign as a soldier was over, and he had not received so much as a scratch.

I’m a soldier now, he told himself. Yet I am not one inch further forward in fulfilling my oath. I have never seen Hayes or the other Grenadiers who murdered Ewan.

I’m a soldier now,Yet I am not one inch further forward in fulfilling my oath. I have never seen Hayes or the other Grenadiers who murdered EwanAt eight in the morning of 27th July 1758, the Grenadier companies of the Royal Scots, Amherst’s and Hopson’s Regiment marched to the open gate known as Porte Dauphine. With the bands playing and the Grenadiers marching at attention, MacKim thought it seemed more like a parade than an occupation, except for the backdrop. Although the wind had blown away the powder smoke, there was no mistaking the acrid reek of fire-damaged buildings, the dozen or so still burning buildings and the depression that sat on the faces of the defeated garrison.

At noon that day, the French drew up on the esplanade, with the rigours of the siege rending the white uniforms less splendid than they should have been.

“It’s all very formal,” MacKim said. “I thought we would be scaling the walls with fire and sword and fighting our way in through streets awash with blood.”

“Oh, very poetic,” Chisholm said.

The two sides, British and French, faced each other in ordered ranks across the cobbled ground of the esplanade. At a signal that MacKim did not see, four of the five French regiments laid down their colours and arms and then marched out of the fortress and down to the ships, to be carried away as prisoners. There was no cheering from the British, and no jubilation at having captured what was said to be the strongest fortress in North America.

“What the devil?” Chisholm said, as the men of the fifth French regiment, the Cambis, smashed their muskets on the ground and set fire to their regimental colours. Having made their protest, they marched away to captivity.

Cambis“Cheeky buggers!” Chisholm shook his head. He smiled. “We’ve taken thousands of prisoners, and the strongest fortress in the Americas. Nobody can blame the Frasers for disloyalty now, Hugh. We proved ourselves in this campaign.”

“Did you hear what some of the Frenchies were saying?” Urquhart was a freckle-faced youngster with wide, clear eyes. “They said they would have surrendered sooner except they were scared of Frasers. They thought the Rangers and the Highlanders would have scalped them and then cut their throats.”

“They must think we are all savages,” MacKim said.

“Aye, maybe so,” Urquhart said. “And maybe the enemy are the savages. Corporal Gunn was after telling me that some of the French officers were German, and as soon as they surrendered, they broke open the military chests and stole the gold.”

“Thieving buggers,” Chisholm said, with another smile. “I wanted to do that.”

“Corporal Gunn said we’ve not to be too hard on them,” Urquhart said. “He said the Frenchies claimed we fought like lions.”

“Roar!” Chisholm responded, looking at the ranks of the 78th. “Some lions. More like tabby cats.”

As Brigadier General Whitmore became governor of Louisbourg and with the French garrison safely out of the way, the British had liberty to explore the town that had defied them for so many weeks. As Chisholm had said, with the restraints of discipline loosened, men crowded into the taverns.

“Stay close,” Chisholm advised. “Some of the French civilians might seek revenge on stray British soldiers. Don’t go wandering around alone.”

MacKim nodded. “I’m a soldier, James, not a child.”

“I know that,” Chisholm said. “Come on then. We’ll see if the artillery’s left a grog shop standing.”

The architecture of Louisbourg would have been more in place in France than on the shores of the Americas, with shutters, flared roofs, dormer windows and a profusion of carved fleur-de-lis. Apart from that, the place was all stone and austerity, with no public spaces.

“It’s a bit stark,” MacKim said.

“It’s a military fort,” Chisholm reminded him.

There were no flowers; the French had used every patch of earth to grow vegetables or herbs. Any animal was there to work; there were no pets. “The civilians were subsidiary to the military,” MacKim said. “What a strange way of living.”

“We’ll be in there soon.” Chisholm nodded to the very heart of Louisbourg, the King’s Bastion Barracks, a vast building by North American standards if bearing the scars of British artillery. “The French governor’s quarters are in there, as well as a chapel and barracks for hundreds of men.” He shook his head. “If we had taken this place by storm, MacKim, we could have looted it from Monday to Christmas. As it is,” he screwed up his face, “we get our pay and live another day.”

“‘A lot of our army won’t be getting any more pay again,”’ MacKim said. “Nearly two hundred men are dead and over three hundred and fifty wounded.”

“Aye,” Chisholm said. “The king and generals will say that’s a cheap price to pay to capture the strongest fortress in North America.”

“The wives and mothers won’t agree.” Cattanach showed a side that MacKim had not expected.

“They don’t count.” Chisholm touched his scarred face. “Ordinary soldiers may be the pawns in the King’s game of chess, but women are not even dust. Not even Pikestaff has any time for them.” He glanced at MacKim. “Nor has MacKim, I think.”

MacKim grunted. “Someday,” he said. “When I’m ready.”

“You’re strange, you are,” Cumming began to sneer, until MacKim put a hand on his bayonet.

“Come on, Hugh!” Chisholm nudged MacKim. “Never mind him. We’re off to taste the delights of Louisbourg.”

“You’re strange,” Cumming repeated. “I’ll not be turning my back on you, MacKim.”

The taverns were roaring with British infantry and Colonial Rangers, while others roamed the streets, celebrating the victory or, as MacKim cynically thought, celebrating their relief at still being alive. Not a drinking man, MacKim allowed Chisholm to steer him into a small tavern where a group of seamen were arguing with a pair of artillerymen, while a Ranger watched from a distance, smoking a long-stemmed pipe.

“In we go, MacKim.” Ignoring the men who stared at his malformed face, Chisholm ordered rum for them both, squeezed onto an already crowded bench, stretched out his legs and sighed. “Here we are, then. We have one victory under our belts and the door to Canada in our hands.”

MacKim tasted the rum and looked around. Knots of men of all regiments filled the small room, with each group seeming in competition to boast the loudest. MacKim ran his gaze from man to man, searching for the buff facings of Webb’s 48th. He saw three of that regiment, but none had the broad shoulders of Grenadiers. The only Grenadiers he saw carried the motto Nec aspra terrent – difficulties be damned – on their mitre caps, the motto of the 43rd foot.

Nec aspra terrent“What’s next?” MacKim asked.

“Up the St Lawrence to Quebec,” Chisholm said. “We’ve made a start, nothing more. We were lucky that the Frenchies surrendered. I heard the Royal Highlanders had it hard at Ticonderoga. They lost hundreds of men when General Montgomery threw them in a frontal attack.”

MacKim nodded. “Highlanders always go forward with great bravery, and often get slaughtered.”

“One day we’ll learn to temper our courage with caution.” Chisholm immediately caught MacKim’s drift. He looked up and smiled. “Halloa, there. That’s worth looking at.”

The woman was tall, dark-haired and wore a dress cut deliberately low to show the cleavage of her breasts to best advantage. She stopped inside the doorway and ran her gaze around every man in the room before approaching the table where MacKim sat.

“You have an interesting face.” Her voice was low, nearly husky. “May I sit here?”

MacKim’s voice dried up until he realised that the woman was addressing Chisholm.

“I have an interesting face? I have a face that looks like a lion chewed it and spat it out again.” It was the first time MacKim had heard Chisholm speaking in English.

“It is a face that speaks of experience and battle.”

MacKim made way as the woman squeezed onto the crowded bench. Rewarding him with a smile, she took hold of Chisholm’s arm. ‘I’m Michelle.” She spoke with the most delightful accent MacKim had ever heard, part French, part North American.

“I’m James Chisholm, and my companion is Hugh MacKim.”

Michelle threw another brief smile at MacKim before returning her attention to Chisholm. “Tell me about yourself, James.”

“There’s not much to tell, Michelle, except I am the ugliest man in the army. I got myself wounded at Fontenoy, you see.”

Michelle widened her eyes. “I’ve heard of that battle,” she said, with every breath exhaling a whiff of perfume. “You are an old soldier then, a veteran.”

Realising he was one man too many in the present company, MacKim rose from the table. “Good luck, James,” he said, lifting a hand in farewell as he slipped out of the tavern to breathe fresh Atlantic air, albeit still tinged with smoke. So James Chisholm speaks English, too. That man is full of surprises and secrets.

So James Chisholm speaks English, too. That man is full of surprises and secrets.Soldiers crowded the streets, some already the worse for drink, others enthusiastically attempting to reach that state. A few were singing, others challenging the residents of the town to a fight, while a lucky half-dozen paraded the women who clung to their arms.

When the group of burly veterans reeled from a corner tavern, the face jolted MacKim back to his childhood. The years had not been kind to the Grenadier, deepening the lines that seamed his features. The dark hair was thinner and greyer than MacKim remembered, the face broader but still leering, while the broken, twisted nose was red-tinged with drink. Even so, MacKim recognised him at once. Hayes. MacKim felt his stomach churning with a mixture of hatred and fear as memories of that day, twelve years ago, resurfaced.