Louisbourg Harbour on Sunday, June 6, 1745

The War: A short story

At one moment they were singing a song to King George as they pushed the twenty-two pound shot into the cannon and carelessly over packed it with gunpowder at the Rabasse Battery.  The next minute they were lying on the cold earth, dead and dying; one man's leg detached from the rest of him.  The cannon had split and exploded, sending its shattered pieces into the New Englanders that had volunteered for the risky job of firing the old and decrepit cannon at the French Fortress's walls. 

                The sight of the man's leg was all that Samuel Jenkins could think about now as he pulled at the oars of the huge whale boats toward the tiny island at the mouth of Louisbourg harbour.  Two muskets, loaded and ready, rested at his feet.  He couldn't see the Island Battery as he pulled at the oars.  This was for the best, he thought: there'd be less panic this way.

                What had begun as a glorious adventure for the young eighteen year old from Massachusetts had turned into a battle over fear and cowardice.  That was why he, and perhaps the other 400, had volunteered to attack the island battery in the dead of night.  After a month of seige they were all sick of the smell of gunpowder and wanted the fighting to end one way or another.  The 500 pounds that the British Naval Commander, Peter Warren, offered to each volunteer was no longer Jenkins sole incentive for this night's attack.  He hated the British now almost as much as he hated the enemy behind the walls.  The money, if it still meant anything, would contribute to his wedding the following year to the daughter of a local aristocrat.  But more than anything he just wanted to get home to Massachusetts  and away from the cold and fog of Cape Breton.

                Jenkins could still see his fellow New Englanders milling about the Grand Battery.  Their rambunctious talking carried upon the still waters between the blasts of artillery.  As a diversion, an hour before, the western end of Louisbourg harbour had exploded with cannon and mortar fire from the batteries that Commander Pepperell insisted on moving closer to the Dauphin Gate.  Captain Joseph Sherburne, now in command of the Advanced Battery, added round and grape shot to make the diversion complete for the men rowing towards the island.  A slight mist hid the whale boats from view; muffled oarlocks deadened the sounds of rowing.  " It's the Providence of God shining over us once again, "  the elected leader of the expedition, Captain Brooks, said just loud enough for his men to hear.  The fact it was Sunday made it all that much more clear to him.  Why else had all other plans to attack the island met with failure at every turn, and for all reasons?  God had guided them to a Sunday attack.

                The providence of God?  Jenkins was as unsure of the guidance of God any longer as he was of his safe return to Boston.  Everything had gone the New Englanders way when they first landed: little opposition at Gabarus, the desertion of the Royal Battery, and the improperly spiked guns made the surrender of the French seem imminent.  Since those initial victories, however, disaster, and poorly executed expeditions afflicted the Americans.  It lead to talk of traitors.  Even John Bradstreet - one of the driving forces behind the seige of Louisbourg - was suspect.  Then the butchery of twenty New Englanders at the Northeast end of the harbour sobered the New Englanders from the party like atmosphere.  Some even thought it was God's punishment for the bodies of French left throughout the harbour by the New Englanders in the frenzied days after the landing at Gabarus.  Some of the killings, by a few overzealous individuals, were nothing less than murder.  The killings had disgusted Jenkins.

                " War is an unpleasant thing, " Peperrell told the members of his war council after the slaughter.  Capt. Brooks repeated this message to his small force before they slid their whale boats into the harbour and headed for an uncertain fate a mile away.  There had to be complete surprise.  If the French force on the island got any warning of their presence before the New Englanders put their ladders against the Battery's walls, many of them would not see the light of day.  "  It could be very unpleasant, indeed, "  Jenkins thought to himself, as he silently pushed his oar through the cool June waters of Louisbourg Harbour. 

                The flotilla of whale boats moved slowly to make up the distance to the island battery.  Sound carried easily on the waters this night.  They were now well within range of the cannon from the French batteries at the fortress, and on the island.  If it were daylight, they would be blown out of the water by the skilled Swiss gunners employed by the French.  As it was, even with the lack of visibility, thirty boats huddled together presented a vulnerable target.  " A blind man could strike us with a forty-two pounder, if they had any idea,"  Theophilus Townsend, sitting next to Jenkins, quietly said.  " Just a smell of something in the air, and we're all dead, " he continued.

                A month before, Townsend was one of the first New Englanders to spill French blood with the landing at Gabarus.  The sight of blood had sickened him then.  He had no choice but become accustomed to it since. 

                " Maybe they know, and they're just waiting for us to land our boats, "  Jenkins said.  Anxious pessimism dripped from his voice.

                "  So, you still think a traitor, hey boy? "  Townsend asked.

                "  We're all thinking it, and you are too, if you had to ask."

                "  But there are some things that should never be thought in such instances,  "  Townsend said as he checked his muskets for moisture in the powder.  Jenkins stayed quiet.  Townsend quickly turned and grabbed the eighteen year old by the arm.  Jenkins lost his grip on the oar as a powerful hand  squeezed his bicep. "  Don't even think it, boy!  Understand?  If we don't all get out of these boats, we're dead."

                "  I'm no coward, sir,  "  Jenkins said, " And I'll ask you just once to remove your hand, or risk losing it. "  Townsend removed his hand and laughed.  " Well, we know who isn't a traitor, " he deduced.  " Stay with me boy when we land.  I'll see that you make it back to Massachusetts."  Jenkins rubbed his arm and gave a quiet nod to Townsend.  He picked up his oar and continued rowing.   

                Jenkins felt that if they were successful this night, it would only be a matter of days before the Fortress fell. Warren's British fleet would be able to sail into the harbour unscathed to blast the French at will.  The thought boosted him, raised him up from the pessimism he recently experienced.  Every man who had volunteered for the assault was going through the same turmoil.  All of them were afraid of dying - Jenkins was. But he never backed down from a fight in his life.  The only thing that would stop him this night was an order from Captain Brooks to turn back.  It was a scenario repeated a few weeks before when an enthusiastic force under the tutelage of Lieutenant John Gorham retreated because of unfavourable conditions.  " My fate is in Brook's hands, " Jenkins thought, as he and the rest of the 400 neared the island.

                Jenkins lifted his oars from the water as his boat rode the crest of a small wave onto the island.  The boat scraped the gently sloped bottom and came to an abrupt stop meters from shore.  The boat rocked in the surf.  Jenkins picked up his muskets, held them above his head with one hand, and jumped into the water.  His feet found a rocky bottom difficult to stand on. The water came almost up to his knees.  He gasped when the cold water penetrated his clothes.  " No splashing, " Jenkins said to himself.  "  Can't let them know we're here. " He reached into the boat with his free hand and grabbed the leg of a ladder.

                "  They'll never know what hit them, "  Townsend said as he helped Jenkins haul the ladder from the boat.  Jenkins smiled and moved quickly with the man who promised to get him back to Massachusetts.

                The French were still unaware of the presence of the New Englanders.  Then the unthinkable happenned!  A few New Englanders, thrilled at having made it across the harbour undetected, cried out.  Captain D'Aillebout, the commanding officer of the battery was the first to hear the shouts. 

                Pacing nervously at the top of the ramparts all evening, D'Aillebout, was acutely and frightingly aware of the display at the Dauphin Gate.  As the night grew eerily black, he wondered if the English might be planning something, but until the shouts he was completely unaware of an assault.  The dark moonless night had shrouded the harbour from the approaching danger.  Now the cries aroused the captain’s worst fears.

                The shouts stopped Jenkins and Townsend at the base of the battery's walls, feet from shore.  Jenkins heart went still and Towsend cursed.  Some of the boats had given up on the assault even before the cries of exhaltation, never intending to land. In seconds, cannon, musket, and lantrell fire rained down upon the New Englanders, cutting men and boats to pieces.  Boats that still dared to attempt a landing were blown from the water. Those who weren't killed by the initial shot drowned quickly, unable to swim.  Those that could tried to swim the length of the harbour back to the Grand Battery.  They wouldn't make it.

                When Townsend moved, Jenkins felt his heart beat again and moved with him, and they placed the ladder against the Battery walls.  There was no turning back for them now.  Eleven other ladders managed to find a place against the wall despite the murderous fire pouring down from atop the battery. 

                Townsend stepped on the bottom rung of the ladder and climbed; Jenkins followed - he would have followed Townsend anywhere at this point, so enraptured he was by the older man's courage.  A French soldier, seeing the ladder against the wall, aimed his musket down the ladder and fired.   Townsend was struck through the top of the head by the shot and fell backward and on Jenkins.  They were both thrown to the bottom of the ladder, and into the water.  Jenkins, knowing that Townsend was beyond help, strained beneath the weight.  As he struggled, he suddenly felt a slap at the side of his neck.  It burned.  Touching the irritant he felt something thick and wet pour onto his hand.  He pulled it back and saw that his fingers were covered with blood.  An errant shot from the top of the battery had caught Jenkins in the neck. He immediately began to feel dizzy and weak, stopped his struggle with Townsend, and laid back in the water.

                New Englanders were dying all around the battery by this time.  Jenkins could hear the screams of men as life was pumped from him, too weak now to lift his head from the water that lapped against his head.  It was just as well, he wouldn't have liked what he saw.  The surprise gone, the New Englanders were being cut to ribbons,  at the mercy of an aware and fortified battery.  There was no place to hide, or run.  It was a desperate, disastrous night! 

                Jenkins felt two more musket shots rip into the lifeless body of Townsend.  He reached up and caressed Townsend's head with his bloodied hand.  " I won't hold you to your promise, " he said feebly, not caring anymore.  Surprisingly, there was no pain, no fear.  He thought it might be different; this part.  He was glad that it wasn't.  Sad that there would be no wedding. He hoped his betrothed would learn of his fate.  Waves gently rocked his head, contrasting the violence and death taking place.

                The fighting continued until dawn.  The New Englanders that were still alive surrendered.  There was nothing left for them to do.  Lifeless bodies dotted the sea like logs set adrift by children at play.  Seagulls soared effortlessly above the carnage. 

                D'Aillebout allowed the English to gather their dead.  Townsend was found in the place he had fallen.  Jenkins was no where to be seen.  His body was pried loose as dawn approached and was now being moved by currents along the bottom of the harbour, weighted down by his heavy clothes and ammunition.

                Of those who had landed at the island sixty had died with 116 taken prisoner.  It was the blackest day in the 1745 seige of Louisbourg for the New Englanders.  Their camp was greatly demoralized on June 7. 

                Twenty-one days later the New Englanders would finally force the French to surrender the Fortress.