Читать книгу There Go the Ships - Archibald McKellar MacMechan - Страница 5

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New France had fallen. The Battle of the Plains had been lost and won. The victory of Ste Foy was illusory, for no aid or reinforcement came from France. British hosts had moved up the River of Canada from Quebec and down the River from Oswego, and penned up the gallant remnant of Montcalm’s army in the little fortified town of Montreal. There it had been forced to surrender without the honours of war; but the battalions had burnt their flags. The toast of the British Army had been fulfilled. The Golden Lilies were hauled down for the last time and British colours flew over every fort, post and garrison in America.

The new British possession was no place for any loyal Frenchman. As soon as the articles of the capitulation were signed, the British began to send their prisoners back to France, with the hard obligation not to serve again in the present war. In the first flight were Vaudreuil, Lévis, gallant Bougainville, who was to give his name to an island in the Solomons, the infamous Bigot and his gang of profiteers. Soldiers and civilians, rank and file, great and small followed as quickly as might be, but the war was still raging, transport was scarce, and the work of evacuation was necessarily slow. A year after the capitulation there were still French soldiers remaining in New France. Almost the last company to be dispatched sailed in the autumn of 1761. How they fared in the memorable adventure of their voyage is told by one of their number.

On September 27, 1761, the Chevalier La Corne took passage from Montreal for Quebec in the schooner Catiche. He was no ordinary personage. His family name is writ large in the early annals of New France. A La Corne was joint seigneur of Contrecoeur from the seventeenth century. He came of a line of soldiers. His father was town-major of Quebec. He himself had been a man of war from his youth. At nine he was enseigne en second; at twenty-two he was lieutenant; at forty he was captain and had won the coveted Cross of St. Louis. He was a renowned partizan leader, adept in Indian warfare, whether fighting with the savages or against them. He had taken part in the midwinter Deerfield massacre, he had seen unmoved the English sick dragged out of their tents and butchered by the savages at Fort William Henry. He had led in the bloody surprise of Noble at Grand Pré, in February, 1747; he had shared in the great victory of Montcalm over Abercromby at Carillon. He had watched from the shore, Amherst’s flotilla bearing ten thousand men shoot the rapids on their victorious way to Montreal. He had served with distinction through the late disastrous campaign; he had been twice wounded; and now, with his two sons, he was on his way to France. In his correspondence, Montcalm calls him “a prattling boaster,” but he was undoubtedly the first partizan leader of his time.

Though not so distinguished as his elder brother, M. de Saint Luc de La Corne, écuyer was also a man of mark. An explorer and a fur-trader, he was amongst the very first white men to penetrate the perilous interior of the continent and to see the limitless prairies alive with moving seas of buffalo. He had established a post, presumably at the forks of the Saskatchewan as early as 1747. Hendry visited him there in 1755, approved of his appearance and praised his hospitality. La Corne had taken part in the late campaign, commanding parties of Indians, for no one knew them better. He could speak the language of all the nations from Sioux to Micmac. He was, in fact, chief interpreter for the government. He was famous, or infamous, for another reason. The author of the Mémoire du Canada names him in the scandalous list of the nineteen millionaires, who fattened on the plunder of the dying colony, and sets his fortune at 1,200,000 livres. He is pilloried with Vaudreuil, Bigot, Cadet. He also has two sons with him, and details of famous regiments like Béarn and Royal-Roussillon, married men with their wives and children. This La Corne becomes the historian of the voyage; for he was methodical and kept a journal.

In two days the Catiche ran down the river and anchored in the Basin below Cape Diamond. The brothers La Corne went ashore to pay their respects to the Governor, General James Murray, the keen-faced, fiery, Scottish aristocrat who received them at Castle St. Louis with all imaginable courtesy. He spared no pains to make the projected voyage pleasant for his late enemies, for he was fond of the French, too fond, thought the English traders at Quebec. Two small vessels had been appointed to convey the large party of refugees, but they were quite inadequate. La Corne, the younger, to be named henceforth Saint-Luc, wanted to hire or buy outright a suitable ship. Murray would not hear of such a plan. In his generosity, he placed at their disposal the full-rigged ship Auguste, all ready for sea. She was to go armed en cartel, which means that she sailed under a white flag and she was allowed only one gun, for signals. She had already been used for this purpose in 1757.

This Auguste was not the only vessel of that name. There is record of a fishing smack also so christened in compliment to the King of France. The cartel ship had been plying between Quebec and France for at least fifteen years. Her name was known to the King’s ministers and her comings and goings were noted at Versailles. So far she had proceeded on her lawful occasions without mishap. Now, as prize of war, she obeyed an English master, one Joseph Knowles, and was once more to turn her bow eastward across the Atlantic. She was the best transport Murray had at hand. In spite of her age, she seems to have been thoroughly seaworthy, for Saint-Luc’s log says nothing of the almost inevitable hard labour at the pumps; but she could hardly be reckoned well found. The only charts on board were of the French coast, and there was no pilot to take her safely through the many dangers of the lower St. Lawrence. When the two La Cornes pointed out this serious defect, Murray rejoined that all vessels leaving port at that time were in the same case; and he met the difficulty in his own way. Murray and Saint-Luc were destined to meet again and sooner than they thought.

At Quebec other distinguished Canadians joined the La Corne party. One was Lieutenant Pierre La Vérendrye of the famous family of explorers. His high-souled father had trained himself and his sons for the great exploit of finding the Western Ocean; he himself had toiled heroically, but he had failed through no fault of his own. Thirteen years before, he had died in Montreal. Jean Baptiste, the eldest brother, had been murdered by the Sioux on the far western plains, François, the youngest, had fallen in the defence of Quebec. Pierre was the last of his ill-fated family. He had one servant with him, named Etienne.

The seigneury of Senneville covered the end of the Island of Montreal, where the ruins of the old château may still be seen. The original Jacques Le Ber de Senneville hoped to found a family in the old feudal fashion. A daughter of the house became a saint. His descendant, Jean Baptiste Le Ber Saint-Paul was one of the Canadian noblesse who had sold his estate at a great sacrifice rather than retain it by becoming a British subject. He joined the ship with his wife, his sister-in-law and his two young sons, who had already entered the army as cadets à l’aiguillette. The passenger list included Captain Bécancourt Portneuf, Lieutenants Varennes, Saint-Paul, Saint-Blain, Pécaudi de Contrecoeur, and other bearers of historic names, the flower of the native noblesse leaving for ever the land of their birth.

And there were seven ladies of quality in the party, dames and damosels, who had graced the salons of the Rue St. Louis as well as the picnics and balls and suppers of the polite and hospitable Intendant Bigot. Even in the crisis of the war, Quebec had been a little Paris, with the charming Mme. Péan for Pompadour. Now they came off in boats to the anchored Auguste in their manteaus and cloaks and hoods, bringing with them numberless trunks, valises and strong-boxes containing their wardrobes, as well as provisions, eatable and drinkable, and household goods. There were mirth and jests of Gallic quality, little shrieks and giggles as the ladies were swayed up the side in their billowing hoop-skirts. The cluttered decks and low-ceiled cabins resounded with voluble French; and there were greetings and salutations, bows and low curtsies as the ladies and gentlemen encountered and recognized the fellow passengers. Friendships are quickly formed on board ship. Severe Abbé Faillon more than hints at conduct unbecoming Christians, and levity in leaving their native land which seems to him out of place and ominous. No doubt there was much gallantry, as indeed how could there fail to be whenever French men and French women met in the age of gallantry? The last of the Canadian noblesse were quitting Canada as exiles and refugees, and they faced the unknown not with sighs or tears, but with laughter and a high heart. It was another “Embarkation for Cythera,” but dearly did they pay for amorous dalliance.

More soldiers with their wives and children came on board, some civilians and one English merchant. The crew consisted of fifteen officers and men. Altogether the Auguste had one hundred and twenty-one souls on board. Saint-Luc engaged the captain’s cabin for his party, paying Knowles five hundred Spanish dollars for the accommodation, a rich man’s price, but he wanted the best the ship afforded.

By October 12, the Auguste was ready for sea, with passengers on board, provisions stored, trunks and strong-boxes lashed securely to cleats in the cabins. Murray arranged that she should sail in company with the other two packets and that a little English tender in charge of a British officer should guide them through the difficult navigation to the last anchorage in the river. One pilot would thus serve all three. Guards were placed on them as a natural precaution. For three days they were wind-bound in the Basin, but on the 15th, the tiny squadron of four sail made a start, but they got only as far as St. Patrick’s Hole. The next day the furious currents nearly wrecked them on reefs a league above Isle aux Coudres. They anchored, but their anchors dragged and they were within an ace of running aground. Afterwards Saint-Luc came to think that being wrecked here would have been preferable to what did happen.

On the 17th the four vessels reached Isle aux Coudres on the north bank and found a safe anchorage. Here again they were wind-bound for ten whole days until the 27th of the month. But being wind-bound in a river is no great hardship if you are not in haste and have agreeable company. The cabin of the Auguste was a Paris salon full of amusing people who aimed at pleasing and understood the art. Here, if anywhere, was opportunity for conduct unpleasing to severe Abbé Faillon. Certainly Saint-Luc makes a curious admission in his narrative. During that ten days wait, “We consumed a great part of our provisions and were obliged to purchase more at great expense.” Plainly he refers to his own party, for passengers in those days brought their food with them. There must have been great extravagance, and ill husbandry. As there were no shops at Isle aux Coudres, Saint-Luc must have bought his provisions from the other passengers. Naturally he would have to pay high for them. On the 27th the wind blew from the southwest and took the four vessels as far as Kamouraska on the southern bank, where they anchored for the night.

The morning of October 28th saw the exiles’ final severance with Canada. As the wind held steady from the south-west, the officer detailed to escort the cartel ships withdrew his guards and returned to Quebec. For some time, the three vessels under the white flag kept together down towards the Gulf before the favourable wind, but at length the Auguste parted company with the other two and never saw them again.

There was every promise of a pleasant crossing for the time of year, until November 4th, when the wind shifted into the north-west and blew a gale for three days. Throughout the 4th, 5th and 6th of November the Auguste with close-reefed sails and lashed helm was hove-to in a furious tempest. To Saint-Luc the hollows of the waves seemed open graves gaping for the luckless passengers and crew. It seemed every moment as if they would swallow up the ship. The terrific pitching and tossing wrenched trunks, strong-boxes and luggage generally free from their lashings, even taking the cleats with them. These heavy objects were flung about the cabins in terrible and dangerous confusion. Several persons were badly hurt by the careering boxes, and the terror of the passengers almost reached delirium. The cabins resounded with agonized prayers to the “Supreme Being,” with promises of reformation, and, Saint-Luc adds, with perjuries. This time the “Supreme Being” heard the prayers of the faithful and spared the penitents. The gale blew itself out, and a lull followed during which all hands laboured to repair the damage which the ship had sustained.

“Then,” continues Saint-Luc, “a new danger appalled us.” It was the supreme terror of sailors, fire at sea. While all available hands were hardest at work, the cook was labouring also, preparing extra dishes for the toiling men. Perhaps he was in too great a hurry, but, whatever the reason, he set the galley alight for the third time. Flames shot up, fanned by the wind, and black smoke shrouded the deck. Twice before the same thing had happened, but the flames had been easily put out. This time the task was much harder. Confusion reigned on board; the screams of the terror-stricken women filled the air; even some of the men broke down. Only after hours of severest labour with buckets and whatever would hold water was the fire mastered. There ensued for the ill-starred ship’s company a brief respite from toil and heart-shaking fear; but the galley was burnt beyond repair. It could not be used again; and all on board, passengers and crew, soldiers and civilians, dainty ladies and rough spouses of the barrack-room, rich profiteer and poor cabin-boy were reduced to munching dry ship’s biscuit. Such food barely kept body and soul together, and seasickness prostrated the passengers in their berths. Dalliance must have been over for good and all, in that ship of misery.

After a very short calm, a westerly gale arose and drove the Auguste back to Brion Island north of the Magdalens, just missing the Bird Rocks. The gale continued until the morning of the 11th, at 9 o’clock in the morning, when land appeared. It was the west coast of Newfoundland; and, on sounding, the Auguste was found to be directly over the Orphans’ Bank. Saint-Luc says “we” suggested to the captain the use of the lead. Then ensued an incident illustrating the swift resilience of the French spirit. All hands began to fish and soon they had two hundred cod flopping about the deck. These they salted and laid down as provisions, with the feeling that now at least they could not starve. The clouds had opened for a moment to let a gleam of sunshine through, and then closed down again in utter blackness.

Then the easterly gale sprang up once more with heavy rain, and drove the Auguste toward the west coast of Cape Breton. Here she was embayed and narrowly escaped being driven on shore. In the night of the 12th-13th, the wind shifted into the west and drove the ship beyond Cape North. For several hours, she continued on a long stretch to the northward; then she put about and during the night of the 13th-14th made a long tack to the southeast. No one had any idea of the ship’s position for the sky was always overcast and the rain poured. No observation could be made, though those on board saw the land, they could not identify it, for they had no charts except for the coast of Europe. And so the last day dawned for the ill-starred Auguste.

On the north-eastern side of Cape Breton is a great semi-circular inlet, ten miles across, known as Aspy Bay. Behind it a great tableland rises up steeply from the sea, a thousand feet high. The scene is unsurpassed for grandeur even in Cape Breton. At one end towers Cape North, and at the other, White Head.

On November 15th, 1761, about two in the afternoon, in a raging storm and torrents of sweeping rain, these capes saw a full-rigged ship in distress with sails blown to ribbons, hopelessly embayed and driven straight on shore. It was the luckless cartel Auguste.

On her reeling, wave-washed quarter-deck clung a small group of men, the master Joseph Knowles, the man at the tiller, a servant, and Saint-Luc, seasoned to many perils, clear-eyed, steady, master of himself. A landsman, not a sailor, he did not realize their deadly peril. Passengers were in their cabins, out of the rain; the worn out sailors had taken to their hammocks; they could do no more. Hunger, labour, loss of sleep had done their work. Neither the arguments of the captain nor the blows of the mate could arouse them. Now he came aft from the forecastle and swiftly ran up the poop, tossing overboard a stout rope’s end he held in his hand.

“We cannot work the ship, sir,” he said. “Our mizzen mast is sprung, the sails cannot be lowered or furled; the men are as good as dead already. I cannot rouse them. Whatever we do, we cannot weather that point. We must run her ashore.”

“We saw land on both sides of us,” reports Saint-Luc, “and fancied we saw a river half a cannon-shot away.”

The description fits Aspy Bay with its long aboiteau; the river is the inlet at Dingwall. Captain and mate turned hopeless eyes upon Saint-Luc, and without a word, put their hands together as if in prayer. Then he understood for the first time.

“There is no time to lose,” said the mate. “We must run her ashore, to port.”

There was the bare possibility of steering her through the white wall of thundering combers into the mouth of the so-called “river.” But as the doomed ship swept swiftly towards the shore, they saw that there was no water in it. Saint-Luc made his way into the great cabin to tell his fellow passengers that the end had come. Wails and shrieks, useless questions and vain prayers broke forth, and all hurried on deck. At that moment, the vessel struck with a terrific grinding crash and careened almost on her beam ends. The waves leapt over her. Knowles and the mate did what they could; they cut away the shrouds on the weather side; the masts crashed down, the Auguste righted, drove heavily on within a hundred and fifty yards of the shore, struck again, and broached to in the combers. She was half full of water. Men and women were clinging to the mizzen-shrouds and back-stays. Some flung themselves into the breakers, in the vain hope of reaching the shore by swimming.

What happened next must have happened in a few seconds. There were two boats on board. A wave swept away the larger one and smashed it to pieces. A second carried the smaller one overside where it floated for an instant in the lee of the Auguste. Saint-Luc was holding one of his sons in his arms, and had young Héry fastened to his belt. Etienne the servant of La Vérendrye was the first to act on man’s deepest instinct and to leap into the boat. The captain and some others followed him. Saint-Luc had not noticed it until young Héry said,

“Save us! The boat’s in the water.”

Then he seized a rope, slid down to some projection on the vessel’s side, made a violent spring, and flung himself into the boat.

“But,” he adds, “I lost my son and little Héry, who had not the strength to follow me.”

No sooner was Saint-Luc in the boat than a wave well-nigh filled it, a second swept it from the side of the wreck, and a third flung him up on the sand. It was a miraculous escape.

Through the cold driving rain, he could see his friends clinging to the wreck and hear their anguished cries for help, where there was no help possible. Though the wreck lay so close inshore, there was no possibility of rescue.

After a three days’ gale, the combers rolling on the sand must have been monstrous, and struggles in the deadly backwash, which drags the swimmer away from shore as with a giant’s grip, must have ended soon.

Saint-Luc, the much-experienced, practical man, turned to the unconscious forms on the sand. The first was the captain, lying as if dead. Saint-Luc got the water out of him and brought him back to life; but his mind was wandering. He saw five others stretched on the beach but showing signs of consciousness, and slowly he brought them round, for he himself was exhausted. There were seven living men out of the entire ship’s company,—Captain Knowles, Corporal Laforet, of the Royal-Roussillon, Corporal Monier of the regiment Béarn, the servants Etienne and Peter, Laforce, a discharged soldier and Saint-Luc himself. He carried money, both French and English, on his person; and he had his journal, his pipe and tobacco. He had saved some things from the wreck. He mentions his powder-horn, his flint and steel, no doubt parts of his military equipment. These he handed over to the five soaking, exhausted men and directed them to light a fire at the edge of the spruce wood, which grew only a few hundred yards away. He remained within sight of the wreck, in the vague hope of being able to help. So exhausted were the five, that they could not make a fire, and had barely strength enough to tell him so. So he went to their aid. Starting a fire in the pouring rain with green wood, by means of a flint-and-steel is no easy matter; but Saint-Luc succeeded at last after many vain attempts. But for this blazing fire on that tragic beach, which burnt like a beacon all night, they must have perished with the cold. It was about three o’clock when the seven men were cast up by the sea; between five and six in the November dusk they dimly saw what was left of the Auguste crumble and disintegrate in the breakers.

That night, the exhausted survivors huddled around their bonfire, but no one closed an eye. Early on the next morning they went down to the beach to view a piteous spectacle. The shore was strewn with wreckage, scattered and piled and tumbled at the will of the waves, large fragments of planking still holding together, masts and spars tangled in cordage and ragged sails, ship’s stores, casks of provisions, supplies of all kinds, some cast high and dry, others half out of the water. All kinds of flotsam and jetsam were washing to and fro. And among all this confusion were the bodies of one hundred and fourteen persons. There were the thirty-two soldiers, their wives and their sixteen children, the officers and gentlemen, the merchants and the artizans, the youthful enseignes en pied, and cadets à l’aiguillette, whose military career had ended there in Aspy Bay. And there were the fair bodies of the seven gallant ladies, in their draggled finery, who Abbé Faillon judges, were justly punished for their sins. Some of the corpses were naked, as the men had tried to swim ashore. Some had broken limbs and other injuries.

The day was spent in doing what they could to give the bodies Christian burial, but they could not have done much, even with proper tools. One imagines Saint-Luc’s family had his first attention and then the members of the noblesse. The commoners must have been left as they lay.