Читать книгу Phantom Ships - Susan Ouriou - Страница 27

Further to complaints that a few individuals are not locking up their pigs, which then do harm to the cod and hens and even endanger small children because of their voraciousness, it is hereby ordered that all those who own pigs enclose them in their yard or take them to the country. Failing that, any person who finds pigs eating cod or hens or running free is hereby entitled to kill such swine.

– Le Norman de Mézy, ordnance officer at Louisbourg

Properly speaking, they have but two seasons, winter and autumn…

– Thomas Pichón, Genuine Letters and Memoirs (1760)

On May 2, 1744, the day after Joseph’s arrival in Louisbourg, a French sail appeared on the horizon, and a crowd gathered on the docks.

Peace or war? The question was on everyone’s lips. The answer was quick in coming. Copies of the March 15, 1744 decree posted throughout the city announced that Louis XV had declared war on England. Excitement reigned. Officers dreamt of possible promotions, and merchants speculated about the profits to be had by arming privateers’ ships. As for the inhabitants, they worried about food supplies. Joseph was very tempted to become a privateer; the prospect of capturing English ships and protecting the Acadian supply routes of Grand’Pré and Port-Royal, which, alone, could feed Louisbourg, was increasingly attractive. Adventure! It would be easy enough to do since Maurepas, Minister of the Navy, had sent undesignated commissions to allow for the arming of ships and the privateers’ war. But Gauthier, who said he had a choice position lined up for Joseph, advised him to wait.

Life in Louisbourg was far from easy. The barracks were dirty and infested with vermin. The straw mattresses, which were only changed once a year, were home to many an undesirable guest. Weather permitting, Joseph was not alone in choosing to sleep outside on the ramparts. The vile food took its toll on him: insipid seabiscuits, putrid-tasting raw pork fat or corned beef, and five pounds of molasses per month. Since the city was threatened with famine, there was no flour left with which to make six-pound loaves of bread, each soldier’s ration for four days. A riot was brewing among the fishermen. Those from Louisbourg and the De la Baleine and De Lorembec posts spoke of raiding the king’s stores. On Saturday, May 23rd, the pent-up frustration culminated in a public frenzy during the departure of the Dupont-Duvivier squadron, whose mission was to take the Canso post and thus protect the supply routes linking Louisbourg and Acadia.

But his day-to-day occupations brought home other realities to Joseph. Like all the other mercenaries, to supplement his pay he had to work on the fortifications repairing thirty-foot walls that were disintegrating from the effects of frost and humidity. It was hard work that led to many a hernia and fracture. Joseph was assigned to a group working on the batteries on Ile de l’Entrée, not far from the harbour. Fourteen hours a day of inhumane labour. From five o’clock in the morning until seven o’clock at night, in the cold and the fog, digging down to the rock (three cubic toises¹ worth by eight men in ten days), transporting from Port-Toulouse the earth used to make bricks, preparing stones to be carved to fit the bastion’s angles, and cooking limestone in the ovens where the mercenaries’ rage crackled with as much fire as the flames.

In search of oblivion, Joseph gambled, playing hoc mostly, which was introduced to France in Mazarin’s time. Gambling fever was everywhere; people vied to predict when the next ship would arrive or whether the newborn would be a boy or girl. In taverns, gambling incited people to drink tafia, and alcoholism ran rampant. When they weren’t drinking, the men chased after native women. Alcohol and women were their only outlets. After their wages were distributed, soldiers disappeared into taverns to drown their sorrows and rake up gambling debts. In the public square, it was not uncommon to see a soldier collapsed over a wooden horse, his back red from the lashing he’d received for damage he’d caused while drunk. Joseph was drawn to all kinds of games: cards, dice, and games of chance. To him, risk-taking was one way of influencing fate and resisting the inescapable.

But Louisbourg did not have much to offer in the way of risks. So boredom began to gnaw at him. During his days on the ramparts, his eyes strayed to the bouquets of what looked like white umbrellas that carved up the fields – angelica, the lovely aromatic plant with medicinal properties that was also used in sweets. The flower’s name reminded him of his Angélique, whose scent and taste were every bit as captivating. Nights on the ramparts, when he was alone under the stars, were worst of all. Surrounded by scaffolding and unfinished fortifications, lit by the diffuse light of the lantern in the tower that guided ships within the basin, he could not get warm under his heavy pea jacket and leather cape. He remembered Angélique’s warmth, Membertous affection, Geneviève and Josette’s pink cheeks and fresh scent, and old Saint-Jean’s good spirits. Sometimes he woke up perspiring and anxious, as though afraid he’d be forced to live forever parted from his loved ones, wondering what had gotten into him to leave all that for this godforsaken place. Other nights, memories of Emilie came to him, especially once the tall ships departed for Europe. At times like those, he was tormented by the desire to see her again. Even moreso when he read or reread her letter, remembered her features, and stroked her portrait, which he placed religiously in his little chest after each session. Sometimes Angéliques features were superimposed on Emilie’s portrait and the battle began again, one image chasing the other then fading away, leaving him with the first image.

May was not yet over when the Duvivier expedition returned to Louisbourg and announced the capture of Canso and several English ships, seven hundred head of livestock, and two thousand sheep. The city rejoiced; pride, excitement, and tales of adventure were in the air. Joseph’s impatience grew as he watched the English prisoners file by. François Bauchet de Saint-Martin, captain of the Signe, was responsible for several captures as were Pierre Detcheverry and Jean Fougère, although the latter had a surprise in store for him since his captures didn’t count because he didn’t have a proper commission as a privateer. In a flagrant case of conflict of interest, knowing what side their bread was buttered on, Bigot, Duquesnel, and Duvivier had armed the Cantabre with cannons and swivel guns.

Gauthier finally found a choice spot for Joseph on the schooner Le Succès, with the famous Pierre Morpain, captain of the Louisbourg port. Morpain was a strapping fellow who had chalked up all kinds of exploits along the coasts of the American colonies. Before the fall of Acadia – Grand’Pré, Port-Royal, and the others – he had been part of a privateers’ war some thirty years earlier, and the sea held no secrets for him.

Joseph went to fetch his privateer’s sabre in the barracks located behind the king’s bastion, the largest building in New France and probably in all of North America. It measured 375 feet long. Behind the Bourbons’ coat of arms engraved in the stone, he heard voices raised and a heated discussion on the famine and English prisoners. Some fishermen were cursing the merchants, accusing them of depriving the locals of needed goods because of their traffic with the prisoners. It was true there had never been so many English prisoners in the city before – between those on the ships at anchor and those in individuals’ homes – and their slightest actions fed the rumour mill. The problem should be solved soon, Joseph thought, since they’ll be exchanged for the French prisoners held in Boston.

As the huge bell in the clocktower above the chapel rang out the angelus, Joseph joined Morpain’s crew and entered the privateers’ world. Much more of an adventure than mending his uniform, cleaning his musket, or cobbling his shoes. No more soldier’s work! This was a different world. A people apart, whose code of solidarity was inspired by the law of the sea. With the help of the first mate Robichaud, Joseph learned to read the portolans, the charts that showed navigational routes as black dots on blue seas. They also showed drawings of blazons, frigates, and strange animals; monsters or winged mermaids for mysterious or mythical locations. He discovered how to wield a sabre, learned how to run across the deck, and climb the rigging. After some time spent scanning the horizon for sails or potential catches, aiming cannons at targets, and preparing to board, Joseph considered himself a match for the privateer Jean Bart – and Sinbad. His universe revolved around the space between the bow and the stern post, between port and starboard, a world bristling with masts – foresails, topmast, mizzens, bowsprits – and an empire dotted with guy ropes, yards, and sails, where the lug sail had to be furled, the jib brought in, and the topsails and mainsail brailed when the captain luffed in the wind.

In mid-August, Le Succès returned to Louisbourg with two catches: the Nancy and the Kingsbury. Other ships had also been captured, including the William and Mary, transporting Irishmen and coal. Morpain and his crew had a surprise waiting for them. Morpain was made commander of the Caribou, a king’s ship armed with fifty-two cannons. There was also bad news. The Cantabre had been captured near Cape Cod, as had eight fishing boats off Newfoundland. That made Joseph think twice. He thought about his future, especially since the regularity with which they were capturing English ships made it clear that a blockade was to be expected. He took advantage of his few days off to find out the latest news.

A crowd had gathered by the docks – high society ladies, filles de joie, fishermen, gunners, soldiers as well as seamen from Portugal, Martinique, and Louisiana – in front of an auction tribune on which a black slave stood. This city is more diversified and colourful than Quebec, he thought. The harbour was congested with six ships from the Compagnie des Indes, the largest ships ever seen in Louisbourg, their holds full of exotic products (tea, coffee, spices, porcelain, silk) for the European market. Joseph admired the giants of the sea for a minute, then the heat convinced him to go inside for some refreshment. The taverns were packed because of all the sailors in town, and Joseph spent the afternoon playing cards and backgammon among pitchers of rum, raunchy stories, smoke, and a general hubbub, paying particular attention to tales from the strange worlds of the Orient mixed with more day-to-day concerns. Some people feared a blockade, “The Basque and French fleets haven’t showed up, that means one hundred and fifty fewer ships for trade!” Others were worried about food shortages, “There isn’t even enough food for us, and now we have to feed all the sailors from the Compagnie des Indes’ ships… there’ll be a famine this winter.”

Still others discussed the privateers’ war, which the English were winning. Joseph realized he had to be careful. So he decided not to return to Le Succès.

* * *

St. Louis Day. Because of the war and the famine, there was little rejoicing. No bonfire or fireworks, no military parade, no salvo of artillery, not even a religious procession. No one rang the hundred-pound bell captured from a British ship. But the lack of an official ceremony did little to change the drunken popular festivities where people celebrated to the point of forgetting their own names. It should be said that the public particularly loved the month of August because of its four holidays, including the feast of the Assumption on the 15th.

Joseph took advantage of the St. Louis holiday to rest in his barracks room not far from the Dauphine demi-bastion next to the gunpowder plant. He shared the room with sixteen soldiers who lived there, knocked about, cooked in the same pot, and slept two to a straw mat. But he forgot his surroundings as he savoured in a moment of idleness the wild raspberries he had gathered at the Cormorandière cove and lovingly polished the gold coin with Louis XIV s likeness on it that he had found lying on the beach. The coin came from the wreck of the Chameau, a royal ship that had gone down off Louisbourg in 1725 with its cargo of 700,000 gold livres – the Quebec garrisons pay. The storm had been so violent that all 310 passengers perished, including the Louisbourg engineer and Governor Ramesay’s son from Montreal. The sea raged so wildly not a single pig that washed up on shore survived.

Joseph was just finishing his raspberries when two soldiers arrived. One was a young man named Jehan from Vendée, who had been involved in salt-smuggling operations and had the makings of a revolutionary. He had just barely escaped the galleys. Thierry was the other soldier: a poor orphan from Paris who thought his ticket out of poverty would be to sign up! Were no freer than the black slaves here, Joseph thought. But his gold coin gave him the illusion of wealth for a fleeting second, and he decided to invite his companions out.

“There’s a new cabaret on Rue Dauphine Bastion. They’ve got good rum and leg of lamb at a reasonable price. It’ll be a nice change from the slop we eat! The drinks are on me.”

Jehan and Thierry eagerly accepted the invitation. They stepped out onto the narrow muddy street under a light drizzle. A pig wallowed in the filth.

“Let’s catch it!” Thierry shouted.

Slightly stunned by the noise of all the festivities, the pig still managed to slip from between their hands several times. They finally cornered it in a dead end.

“I’ll hide it in the barracks,” Thierry offered.

An edict allowed inhabitants to appropriate roaming pigs since they had become such a nuisance in the city and a danger to small children.

“I’ll meet you at the cabaret,” he shouted as he walked off.

Joseph and Jehan entered the noisy, smoke-filled tavern. Unfortunately for Joseph and his companion, the tin porringers were empty; there was no lamb left. But there was still rum and wine, and they didn’t deprive themselves! The gloom and the effects of the famine and blockade were more keenly felt on a holiday. Even the liberation of their friends who had been taken prisoner in Boston brought no joy because it increased the number of mouths to feed. Thierry arrived, but since the curfew was fast approaching, they had to head back to the barracks.

* * *

Joseph began eyeing another job. Gunners were better paid: they got six livres more per month and received bonuses for hitting their targets with the cannonballs. Theirs was an elite unit that had certain privileges, including being excused from working on the fortifications. Joseph’s experience with the cannons on Le Succès helped him get hired on as an assistant gunner. He let his beard grow, polished his sabre, wore a blue coat with red trim and white buttons, and learned to lovingly polish the black cannons mounted on their red wooden frame. He threw himself into his tasks as a way of forgetting his troubles. It got to the point where his cannons became a fetish and every shot he fired sounded like music to his ears.

* * *

September passed, then October. On the 1st of November, the Day of the Dead, the weather was particularly foggy.

“Let’s go to the fishing village to my friend DesRoches’ house. Sometimes he serves meals,” Thierry suggested.

“I can’t,” Joseph replied. “After sunset, the fortress is closed and the Dauphine gate is guarded by thirty soldiers. We risk a flogging or, worse, the dungeon.”

“They’ll never know. We’ll come back at dawn with the merchants and fishermen coming into town.”

Thierry’s suggestion calmed Joseph’s fears, for it was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.

The DesRoches home was a simple fishing hut with a thatched roof. Next to it was a big, sturdy rowboat equipped with a sail. DesRoches used it to fish for cod a few leagues off the coast. Inside on the hardpacked ground, the only furniture was a large table, benches, and a few small empty barrels for seats. Any cooking was done in a huge fireplace, and a big pot of boiled cod sat in the middle. On each side of the fireplace were bunk beds covered in straw. Above the entrance, a rifle hung on two wooden hooks. In an adjoining room were fishing gear and a few barrels of spruce beer made from spruce buds steeped in molasses and brandy. The DesRoches were in their sixties and were a simple, hospitable couple used to housing Basque and Norman seamen as well as evening “escapees” looking to get away from the monotony of the barracks. Jean Lelarge, a ships captain at Louisbourg, and his brother-in-law Télesphore Samson were already there. Sitting next to the fire was Pierre Detcheverry, a Basque privateer paid by the French. He claimed the Basques showed Columbus the route to the New World. Detcheverry embodied the two great Basque virtues: through his physical strength and endurance he represented the first, indorra, and through his strength of character and stoicism in times of hardship, the second, sendorra, a moral counterpart to the first. DesRoches was busy giving the latest news. “Valérien Louis, the one they call ‘the Bourguignon,’ who used to be a soldier and stonecarver, refused to plead guilty to theft during his trial, even after they used a hot poker on him several times.”

“It can’t be easy to keep protesting your innocence under that kind of treatment,” Joseph broke in.

“And his troubles are only beginning. The bailiwicks attorney ordered him flogged at the four corners of the city, then tied to the stake and branded with a hot iron: a fleur-de-lys on his shoulder. As if that weren’t enough, he’ll be sentenced for life to the king’s galleys.”

Joseph shivered at the thought of such barbaric treatment. There was no mercy when thieves were poor!

“Don’t you have any better news for us than that?” asked Jehan, who hadn’t lost his sense of humour.

“Not really,” DesRoches continued. “Other than the fact that Abbot Leloutre’s Mi’kmaq weren’t able to recapture Port-Royal.”

Captain Lelarge exploded, “How do you expect Indians to succeed with their tomahawks where Duvivier’s troops failed with their rifles… We promised to send Louisbourg our warships Caribou and L’Ardent, but we never did… We missed our chance to take back Acadia.”

The privateer Detcheverry was equally furious, “It’s the governor who’s at fault; he’s too frightened by the English blockade. We could have won the battle with a few cannons. With my ship, if I’d been asked, I would have succeeded,” he bragged.

“What about the Acadians from Grand’Pré and Port-Royal?” Joseph asked.

“I think they’re going to wait to see which way the wind is blowing,” said Lelarge. “René LeBlanc has a lot of influence over there and he’s in favour of collaborating with the British.”

“That’s understandable. He has contracts with them,” Samson said.

Mrs. DesRoches, a woman who never minced her words, put in her two bits’ worth, “Patriotism is just another word for money and self-interest!”

Joseph disagreed. He thought, Gauthier helped the French. Its true he has contracts in Louisbourg and that his daughter is married to a garrison officer, but he runs the risk of imprisonment and ruin if he’s caught. He puts his honour before money.

The discussion turned to the fortress.

“Louisbourg’s walls will collapse at the first cannon shot,” Thierry predicted. “Any fool knows you can’t make mortar with sea sand.”

Joseph let his thoughts on the art of war be known. “The engineers De Verville and De Verrier implemented principles of defence established by the French military engineer and marshal, the Marquis de Vauban, by building a fortress reputed to be a chef d’oeuvre where fortifications are concerned. But I don’t see the logic in building a fortress that’s surrounded by hills. If the British installed cannons on land, we couldn’t defend ourselves since most of our cannons, the biggest ones, are placed so as to counter an attack coming from the sea.”

“We’re wasting money on the fortress instead of sending colonists. To think that rivers of blood are flowing in Europe when a few thousand French soldiers would be enough to ensure a victory,” Samson said.

Detcheverry intervened, “The cost of Louisbourg is a carefully tended fiction. Don’t forget the fortunes made in the cod trade, which has helped fill the Bourbons’ coffers. There’s also the need to protect New France and the fur trade. It never cost more to build the fortress, even in the free-spending years, than it costs every year to arm and send a large warship here. At little expense, France has a navy base and a trading port to enrich the mother country.”

“Speaking of money,” Thierry said, “you know the proverb ‘No Switzerland without money’ Well, the Swiss in the Karrer regiment are unhappy. They’re Lutherans and are only defending the fortress for the money. Now they’re not being paid for their work on the fortifications. I’m afraid a mutiny is in the works.”

A feeling of malaise blew through the hut. Hunger, war, mutiny, what next! Lelarge, who’d been planning to arm the Brasdor, a ship belonging to the entrepreneur Maillet, with cannons, muskets, sabres, axes, and a hundred-man crew, began wondering how sound his project was; it seemed he could well be up against forces stronger than he was. Like any good hostess, Mrs. DesRoches knew when a change was needed. She fetched a pitcher of rum that she set down on the table next to the steaming pot. “It’s the best cod in all America,” she explained. “My husband only kept the lingcod. He’s been fishing here for fifty years and, when we lived in France, he made the crossing every spring.”

“How long has there been fishing around Louisbourg?” Joseph asked.

“To give you an idea,” Detcheverry answered, “when the writer Marc Lescarbot came to Canso in 1607 and met an old Basque fisherman, Captain Savalette from San Juan de Luz, the Basque was on his forty-second Atlantic crossing. And others had been coming long before that!”