Rocks and shoals, p.25
Rocks and Shoals, page 25
‘Yes, sir, and canister. Mister Wishart will take your orders; I’ll be with the general.’
Murray made no reply but continued to study Montcalm’s movements through the telescope.
A band of sailors brought cartridges in canvas buckets, then more canvas containers filled with ball and grape. They were Carlisle’s innovation. He’d foreseen how difficult it would be to carry heavy, awkward objects up the cliff path and had given a design to the sailmakers for bags of a size that could be managed by one man or two, with straps that could be looped over the shoulders. The rammer, sponge, worm, and handspike followed. The hoary old quarter gunner applied flint to steel, and a minute later, the linstock was glowing and a thin trail of smoke drifted away on the lazy breeze.
It was well done. In less than fifteen minutes after the first muzzle had appeared over the rim, Wolfe’s guns were ready for action. Carlisle doubted whether horse artillery could have done better. Admittedly there were only two, but well-handled artillery could influence a battle out of proportion to the weight of shot. The six-pounders looked small to the naval eye, but he knew that they were the standard size for field guns in both armies. Twelve pounders were starting to be used in the European theatre, but here in the colonies the six-pounder was still the queen of the battlefield.
The battalions were taking their positions. Each company marched into its place as the sergeants placed the flank markers to ensure that they took up their allotted space, no more and no less. It was easy to forget the precision with which companies and battalions had to take their places in the line. If they took up too much space their flanking units would be squeezed; too little, then gaps would emerge, gaps that an enemy could exploit.
The contrast between the rigid discipline of the British line and that of the French was stark. Montcalm’s army was a mixture of regular infantry in the centre and militia on the flanks. Their drills were different, and their arms were different, and not all the months spent in static positions behind the Beauport lines had made them into a coherent fighting force. And they were tired. They’d been under arms for most of the previous night, with constant alarms as Saunders’ sloops and boats manoeuvred in the North Channel, threatening a landing at the very point where Montcalm had always expected it.
◆◆◆
‘They pause, you see, Carlisle. Monsieur Montcalm is waiting to see whether Bougainville can arrive in time.’
Wolfe looked over his shoulder. Away to the west, his light infantry was holding the road to Cap Rouge.
‘What Montcalm doesn’t know, and I have just heard, is that Bougainville is far away, nearly at Cap Rouge. If he comes, then the light infantry will give me warning and hold him for a while. I can wait, but for Montcalm time is running out. Now he cannot even withdraw to the city walls because he knows that I’ll advance if he does and engage him before he can reach safety. No general relishes a fighting retreat. Sooner or later he’ll realise that Bougainville is too far away to help him and then he has no alternative but to attack.’
‘They’re advancing, sir,’ said a major.
‘Yes, they’re moving their line to that ridge,’ Wolfe replied. ‘Let’s see what they do when they reach it.’
Crack! Wishart’s gun started firing ball on the left; the range was too great for grape or canister. Then Fulling’s gun on the right joined in. It was long range even for ball, but Frenchmen were falling as they formed their lines on the ridge. British soldiers were falling too, from the Canadians and Indians firing from the high corn on the left of the British line. Now the French artillery joined in. They had hardly any more guns than Wolfe, but here and there their cannonballs found targets along the British line.
‘Have your men lie down, colonel,’ Wolfe said. ‘The other battalions will soon follow when they see what you’re doing. No need to offer targets for those Canadians; they’re good enough marksmen without our help.’
Cannonballs were skipping across the battlefield now. Wolfe’s army was suffering steady attrition, and only his two six-pounders were replying.
‘Here come the other guns, sir,’ said Carlisle.
A gang of sailors appeared at the top of the path in the army’s rear, dragging the two guns. At the same time, a company of red-coated soldiers streamed up onto the plain from a boat that had missed the landing place and had spent a hard hour rowing back against the ebb.
‘Ah. He’s seen that,’ said Wolfe. ‘It must look like a third wave of landings. That will make him think. Now Monsieur, advance or retreat, what’s it to be?’
A drum rolled from the French side, followed by others until all along the French line the drums were beating their thrilling tattoo.
‘Here they come,’ said the major.
‘Get the men on their feet.’
The sky was cloudy now, and it threatened to rain. Yet the colours of the British line stood out against the browns, greens and golds of the farmland. Four thousand regular British soldiers were now facing an equal number of French who were advancing at a walking pace.
‘Here it comes,’ said Wolfe who was standing tall, an easy target for a marksman, ‘too soon, Monsieur, too soon.’
Crash! It was an irregular volley and fired at too great a range. Here and there a British soldier fell. The major who stood beside Wolfe dropped noiselessly to the ground.
The French Regulars stood to reload while the militia and the Canadians on the flanks dropped to the ground to perform the difficult task from a prone position, as though they were fighting a woodland skirmish. The regulars reloaded fastest and immediately started forward again while the others were still struggling with their ramrods. The French line was fast disintegrating as the better-drilled line regiments advanced faster than their fellows.
Crash! This volley was even more ragged than the first, and although fired at closer range this time, there were fewer casualties in the British line.
‘Steady, boys, hold your fire, hold the line.’ Officers and sergeants were restraining the men, tapping muskets barrels up and down with their pikes and halberds. There were always a few for whom aiming was the last thing on their minds, and the easiest item to forget entirely in their excitement.
‘Now!’ shouted Wolfe.
A trumpet sounded behind the general and almost as one the British line fired. The French were close, awfully close, and they appeared to sway backwards as the hail of lead bullets whistled through them. Like a sudden gust of wind through a wheat field, Carlisle thought.
Crash! Another volley. They were firing by companies to Wolfe’s improved plan, which meant that there was no long gap between volleys. To the French, it must have felt as though they were under near-continuous fire.
Now parts of the French line were withdrawing, backing away from the awful savagery of the British muskets. A third volley just as disciplined as the first two, and now the enemy was in general retreat, leaving their dead and wounded on the field. Carlisle looked at his watch, less than ten minutes from the first volley to the retreat.
Over in the centre, the highlanders had drawn their claymores and were charging forward at the French. Everywhere officers were trying to control their men. There was still a chance that Bougainville could appear in their rear, or that Montcalm’s reserves could come pouring across the Saint Charles River. Let the French run; the victory had already been won.
The spectacle fascinated Carlisle, and he was surprised that he’d felt no fear in this his first taste of a land battle. He’d lost contact with Wolfe as the general had strode from place to place giving orders and encouraging his men. Now he was nowhere to be seen, but a cluster of his staff officers twenty yards away brought Carlisle running. His fears were confirmed, Wolfe was lying on the ground, evidently gravely wounded. One of the colonels looked back at Carlisle and shook his head; there was no hope.
◆◆◆
24: A Ship of the Line
Wednesday, Nineteenth of September 1759.
The Upper Town, Quebec.
‘We have a ship!’
The door flung open and Carlisle strode in, catching Wishart and Enrico in the very act of rolling dice for who would have the bed and who would have the cold stone floor. Wishart was an incorrigible gambler, and he knew that his captain disapproved. Nevertheless, he was never parted from his dice, even when he had to face the French guns in the open. For the last week they’d rested unused in his pocket as they’d dug the siege artillery into the good earth of the Plains of Abraham, expecting a hard fight to take the city. Then the French, leaderless when Montcalm died after the battle, had capitulated. It was all over.
Without a ship to call their own, they’d been making the best of their situation in the gatehouse of the Ursuline convent. A room for the captain, a room for the two officers and a room for Sergeant Wilson and Souter and the others. They’d scrawled a sign in chalk to keep the soldiers away; Naval Headquarters Quebec – No entry .
‘We have a ship!’ Carlisle repeated to their astonished faces. ‘You can clear all this away, I want to read myself in before eight bells,’ he said sweeping his arm around the accumulated spoils that cluttered the rooms. ‘There are two boats waiting at the customs wharf in the lower town. I’m off to pay my respects to General Townshend. Mister Angelini, you’ll come with me. We’ll meet you at the wharf in an hour Mister Wishart. There are berths for Sergeant Wilson and the rest of my people. You’d better take what you most want of this stuff; there’s not the slightest chance of seeing it again if you leave it with the army.’
He turned to go then paused on the threshold. He spared a disparaging glance for the ornate sword that Enrico had tucked into his belt; its original owner presumably had kept the scabbard when he fled the field of battle a week ago.
‘You’d better leave that with Mister Wishart,’ he said.
‘By the way, Mister Wishart, you’re to have an acting commission, you’ll be third.’
And with that he was gone, leaving an astonished Wishart to stare dumbly at the door swinging loosely on its ruined hinges.
‘My congratulations, sir,’ said Enrico quickly but with all the formality that he could muster for his berth-mate of the last two years, ‘but what ship?’ he whispered, his eyes wide with wonder, and then he too was gone.
Wishart was overcome with emotion, rooted to the spot. He’d been a volunteer, a midshipman and master’s mate under Carlisle since before the war. He’d been waiting a year for the opportunity to take his lieutenant’s examination, but Medina hadn’t been back to England in all that time. At this stage of the war when the balance between the number of ships and the number of sea officers had settled down into equilibrium, there had been no hope of a board meeting anywhere other than the Navy Board offices in Seething Lane. Now his promotion was gifted to him. He’d still have to take the examination, eventually, but there was no hurry anymore, their Lordships were unlikely to overturn acting promotions made by a commander-in-chief at the end of a successful campaign. But what ship did Carlisle have? Clearly a fifth-rate at least if it had three lieutenants or more, but could it be a fourth-rate or a third? That was an important point – nay, a vital point. It had been clear for a year that Carlisle’s time in frigates was ending. If he’d been given a frigate – even a big fifth-rate frigate – as a temporary command to take home, then Wishart would likely be looking for another ship in a few months. But if it was a ship-of-the-line…
‘What ship indeed?’ he muttered to himself. ‘But one thing’s for certain, I’d better get shifting. I must tell Sergeant Wilson sharpish and get all this clutter down the hill.’
There had been spoils of war aplenty left on the battlefield. Anything larger than a pistol was the property of King George, but Wishart and Enrico had collected swords, pistols, hats and halberds, all of which were classed as personal plunder. Now they had to get them down to the lower town along with their own meagre possessions. Yet not all the cares in the world could spoil Wishart’s day. He was a lieutenant! He didn’t yet have a commission in his pocket, but his captain had said he was promoted, and that was enough for him. He didn’t even have to deal with the envy of his friend. Enrico couldn’t take the oath that went with King George’s commission; he was a naval anomaly and served by the grace and favour of Edward Carlisle, his cousin’s husband.
◆◆◆
Sergeant Wilson saved the day with a hand-cart that he’d commandeered. Nevertheless, it was a steep road from the upper to the lower city, and the cart tended to run away if they didn’t restrain it. The little band was hot a flustered by the time they reached the customs wharf.
Wishart pulled off his hat and fanned his face. There were perhaps a hundred boats drawn up to the wharf, longboats and yawls, jolly boats and luggers, bateaux and flatboats with, at the far western end, a gaggle of cats and transports. He started to feel foolish; he had no idea which boats he was looking for. He didn’t even know which ship to ask for.
‘We could try…’
Wishart’s sentence was drowned out by a stentorian bellow from Sergeant Wilson.
‘Boat for Captain Carlisle! Boat for Captain Carlisle! Sing out there! Which boats are for Captain Carlisle?’
He stared around in the stunned silence that had descended over the wharf.
‘Would that be Captain Carlisle of Dartmouth ?’ asked an extremely small person dressed in the fashion of a midshipman, removing his hat as a precaution, just in case this man in naval uniform standing beside the large marine was his new third lieutenant.
Dartmouth ! A fifty-gun fourth-rate. Wishart’s heart skipped a beat. He was just quick enough to forestall Sergeant Wilson.
‘It is, and he’ll be here momentarily, Mister…’
‘Horace Young, Midshipman…’
‘You call me sir,’ said Wishart firmly, ‘or are manners different in Dartmouth ? Now have all this put in the boats before Captain Carlisle arrives.’
Wishart almost regretted his brusqueness. There were important things that Young could have told him about his new ship, things that he now could hardly ask. But it was better to start by establishing the immeasurable chasm between a midshipman and a lieutenant, even if only an acting one. He could always mellow his tone later. In any case, midshipmen expected little else of new lieutenants. He strode along the wharf waiting for Carlisle and Enrico while the captain’s followers settled into the yawl and Sergeant Wilson and Souter stood officiously beside the longboat, daring any other ship’s boat to block its way out into the river.
The wharf was a hive of activity. When the terms of the capitulation had been agreed, the army had quickly taken possession of the upper town while the navy had taken the lower town. The campaign for Quebec was over, but the war wasn’t yet won, and the British army would have to survive a winter in the devastated city while Vaudreuil’s still-considerable army threatened them from upstream in Montreal. It was a race against the seasons to get enough stores ashore before Saunders and the bulk of the storeships and transports would have to leave the river. Only a few frigates were to remain to counter the French men-o’-war further up the river, but food and other supplies for four thousand men must be landed quickly. Wishart nodded to acquaintances from other ships, each one of them employed in getting the stores ashore. They thought him a master’s mate without a ship, a nobody without even a patron, Carlisle being also without a ship as far as they were aware. None of them yet knew of his elevation. None knew that he was the third lieutenant of a fourth-rate, and he hugged the knowledge to himself like a warm blanket. And now that he came to think of it, Dartmouth was a fine ship. From what he could remember she’d been commissioned between the wars, with twenty-four pounders on her lower deck and twelves on her upper. She had a proper poop-deck, too. At fifty guns she was too small for the line of battle, but that was perhaps a good thing, as the fourth-rates were used where a battle fleet wasn’t needed, like a frigate only vastly more powerful. He’d have the upper gun deck, he imagined; twenty-two guns, all his own.
◆◆◆
‘Lieutenant Wishart!’
Carlisle’s call broke into his reverie. He was heading a small procession down the last slope from the upper town and onto the wharf. He and Enrico were unencumbered, but the soldiers behind him carried or dragged bundles and boxes, bales and casks.
‘Get these into the boats, Mister Wishart. Who’s this? Midshipman Young? Then make space for General Murray’s goods.’
Sergeant Wilson took charge. The soldiers passed the goods across into the boats, which sank deeper and deeper under the burden.
‘We’ll have to get it all in,’ Carlisle said, ‘We sail with the morning ebb, and these are the items that the general wishes to be taken to England. He’ll be wintering in Quebec.’
It was fortunate that the day was fine with only the lightest of westerly winds, otherwise those sorely overburdened boats would surely not have reached the ship. Wishart was burning with a hundred questions, but all Carlisle would say was that Dartmouth’s previous captain was removed into Commodore Colville’s flagship to spend the winter in Halifax, and her first lieutenant had been given an armed sloop to remain in the river. It seemed that Colville had been granted a broad pennant and a post-captain under him, which was a long-overdue compliment to his years on the American station.
It was a long pull to the eastern end of the Basin. The boats didn’t dare take advantage of the fair wind to set a sail; their freeboard was dangerously low even for steady, careful pulling and a sail would have been foolhardy. They rowed past ship after ship; grand third-rates and fourth-rates, frigates, cats, storeships and sloops. Far over on the northern shore, they could see the burned remains of Russell . There was no sign of Three Sisters , she’d been burned to the bilge. At this state of the tide, the waters covered her nakedness.
Now, at last, Dartmouth came into view. It was something of a shock for Carlisle to see a ship looking so pristine, so untouched by war and weather. He’d left Russell a burned and dismasted hulk and Medina a bilged wreck. While the frigates and sloops and cats had braved the fire of the enemy, the ships-of-the-line for the most part had stayed safely at anchor, unable to bring their firepower to bear on an enemy that wouldn’t stir from his defences. Yet they hadn’t been idle, and every ship had provided men and guns for Wolfe’s final effort. Even now, those twenty-four pounders that weren’t needed to defend the walls through the winter and into the next spring were being brought down from heights to be replaced in the ships before they sailed.
