Chuck's Books

Jones Beach, RR 1, Evansburg, AB, T0E 0T0
http://www.telusplanet.net/public/ go1c
Telephone: 1-780-727-2989

The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 3-Book 1

The Vanquished by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One--Fort Beauséjour -- 1755

    The spring sunshine streamed through the paned windows of the upper room, its rays flashing on the particles of dust that floated through them giving the sunlight an air of mystery.
    François-Louis Marin stretched his silk-stockinged legs into the beam and enjoyed the warmth that it emitted.  He wriggled his right foot so the light sparkled off the black polished leather, and he smiled up at his host as he lifted the small goblet of amber brandy.
    "Louis, its enjoyable to be alive in this day and age."  He lifted the glass slightly, almost in toast.  "Good French brandy is hard to beat."
    The man sitting across from him, in the uniform of an officer of the Troupes de la Marine--the military force that had jurisdiction over most of the forts in New France: Acadia, Canada, and the West--returned the smile and lifted his glass.  "To us, François-Louis.  May we always be as successful as we are today."
    François-Louis reached across the space between the two upholstered chairs and clinked their glasses.  He nodded his head confidently.  "Louis, you'll never make a better deal."
    Captain Louis Du Pont Duchambon, Sieur de Vergor, was the commandant of the small strategic French fort of Beauséjour on the left bank of the Missaquash River that flowed into Missaquash Basin and then into Chignecto Bay.  At forty-three years old he was a solidly built portly man with a round face and a ruddy complexion, well known for his love of good food and French brandy.
    François-Louis Marin met the him in 1751 at Louisbourg when the captain was assigned there.  Through him, François-Louis obtained several contracts to supply the garrison with produce and supplies, and slowly their relationship had developed-- profitable to both men.
    "I know that, François-Louis, but with the situation as it is, I'm not so sure that I should be dealing with you at this time."  He paused, and looked at François-Louis intently.
    "What do you mean, Louis?"
    "The English are making moves, my good man.  They want war.  And so do some of the colonies.  Shirley's a war monger.  Ever since he's returned to Boston, he's been trying to promote war against us."  He was referring to William Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts who had planned the 1745 expedition against Louisbourg and who, since his return from England in 1753, wanted the French out of North America.
    "Yes, but the other colonies will keep him in check, particularly New York and Pennsylvania.  They don't want war; they're making too much money in the western trade with us...and the Indians; and most of the merchants of Boston don't want war either."
    "But, François-Louis, there are some that do.  War always brings huge profits to some people."
    François-Louis winked.  "Yes, my friend, to you and I.  If war comes, my good man, we can both become wealthy.  Think of it.  I can provide you with goods--foodstuffs, wines, liquors, clothes--why even munitions; balls and powder at a good price, and you can sell it to the garrison and to the farmers and fishermen at a good profit.  War will help both of us."  He lifted the delicate glass to his lips and sipped the amber liquid, savoring its fruity, acid taste.
    The captain shook his head.  "François-Louis, but I'll be taking all the chances.  If Governor Drucour finds out, I'll lose my commission."
    François-Louis shook his head and laughed.  "That never worried you before.  And furthermore this post is the perfect situation.  You're far enough away from Louisbourg and Quebec.  They'll never know what's going on."
    "What about the Acadians?"
    "You've convince most of them to move here, to join you and rebuild their lives here.  They'll need what you and I can provide more than ever before.  And if we can provide what they need, they'll be willing to pay well."
    Louis Du Pont Duchambon nodded his head slowly.  It was true; over a thousand Acadians moved from the English territories of Minas, Grand Pre, and Cobequid to the marshes around the Missaquash River.  Many built new homes and new farms along the banks of the river and near the marshes at its mouth, but it was also true that many wanted to return to their old homes.
    "They're not dependable, François-Louis.  They don't want war.  They don't want to be here...many of them.  Father Jean has a difficult time convincing them to stay.  In fact, he has less trouble with the Indians."
    François-Louis laughed again.  "Yes, that's true, but Father Le Loutre holds out the prospect of heaven to his flock if they overcome the heretics."
    The captain grinned.  "Well, I don't know if he goes that far, but the English certainly believe that, or why would they place a price on his head?"
    It was well known that the English authorities in Halifax, the capital of Nova Scotia, had a bounty for the capture of the popular missionary who had great influence with the Micmac Indians and many of the French Acadians in the English territory.
    François-Louis knew the affable and patriotic priest who led his flock not only spiritually, but also politically.  He did preached against the English, against their heretical religion, their anti-papist king, and their anti-Catholic laws.  And his people followed him.  At the present time he was a visitor at the fort with a large contingent of Micmac families, many of them armed and prepared to attack the English.
    The two men sat in silence for a few moments, each engrossed in his own thoughts.
    François-Louis lifted his head.  "Well, Louis, are you with me or not?"
    "Marin, you'll have to give me more time to think about it.  I know it's a good deal; I know the goods are of good quality, but they are English goods...and you know the law."  He winked at François-Louis.
    The French laws, as well as the English laws, forbade the sale of goods in each other's colonies without special permission and licences, but both men knew that these laws were ignored.  Contraband of all sorts flowed between the English colonies to the south and the French colonies to the north.  It was a well known fact that the Acadians in Nova Scotia supplied most of the supplies to the French forts on Ile Royale, Ile St. Jean, and the mainland part of Acadia as it was known that the French Acadians preferred the manufactured goods from the English colonies because they were cheaper and of better quality.
    François-Louis Marin was one of the principals of the firm Mason Merchants & Co. of Boston.  Everyone knew that his partner was a beautiful Bostonian widow who inherited the company when her husband died, and who invited the Acadian from Louisbourg to be her partner.
    The arrangement was a good one because it allowed him to register some of their ships in Louisbourg while she registered others in Boston, and thus they could trade semi-legally between the colonies. Since 1749 when Louisbourg was returned to France by the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle following the war of the Austrian Succession, Mason Merchants flourished, and François-Louis was one of the wealthiest men of Louisbourg.
    At forty-eight years of age, he was a handsome man with dusky light brown hair, just a trace of gray in his neat sideburns.  His piercing blue eyes were the most prominent feature of his smooth tanned face.  His firm chin and solid jaw made him appear assured and confident.
    His blue eyes lifted to his companion and glittered coldly.  "Louis, this deal is good for you and for France.  If there is a war, it will help make this fort one of the strongest in New France."
    Fort Beausejour was constructed on the north bank of the Missaquash River which was considered the unofficial boundary between Nova Scotia and Acadia, the French held portion of eastern North America.
    Several leagues away, on the south bank, the English built Fort Lawrence, and the two fort stood facing each other across the muddy river.  Although the forces eyed each other suspiciously, they fraternize considerably, and to the east an enterprising Acadian established a tavern where off-duty soldiers and officers congregated and relaxed.  Occasionally, both commandants, Captain George Scott of Fort Lawrence and Captain Louis Dupont du Chambon, Sieur de Vergor, met to iron out, unofficially, troubles between the two groups.
    This first day of June, 1755, the small fort of Beausejour was crowded as Father Le Loutre arrived with a large contingent of Micmac families to augment the many Acadians who recently moved to the lands around the fort from Minas, Grandpré, and Cobequid, because the English authorities resurrected the notorious oath of allegiance and the new lieutenant-governor, Charles Lawrence, intended to enforce it.
    "Louis, I can have a shipload of rum, cotton, sugar, clothes, pots, pans, whatever...here by next week.  Le Loutre's Micmacs will pay you a good price for all that.  They must have plenty of furs from the winter trappings, and the Acadians have more money than they know what to do with.  The English pay them well for their animals and produce."  He laughed.  "They're ready for some good English rum."
    The other shook his head slowly, indecisively.  "I know all that, François-Louis, but if it comes to war...and it doesn't look good in Europe, England has joined the Prussians and Louis is favouring the Austrians.  Any day now they may declare war.  Then you won't be able to get your supplies."
    François-Louis laughed.  "Never fear, Louis, there are always ways and means.  After all, the English here in the colonies don't care much about what happens in Europe.  The ordinary man is more concerned about improving his lot.  It's only the officials and landlords from England that are concerned about war."
    "You're right.  But if war is declared in Europe, we won't be far behind.  Even now the English are trying to cause trouble.  They claim that all the mainland belongs to them.  They insist that this fort is on their territory.  Why, any day soon they may attack us."
    François-Louis shook his head slowly.  On his last trip to Boston, three weeks ago, he heard rumours that Shirley, the Massachusetts governor, was trying to raise a force to fortify the boundary.  He also heard that Lieutenant-Colonel Monckton, the original commandant of Fort Lawrence, now stationed in Boston, was preparing a large force, but he dismissed it as idle speculation.
    He looked around the room.  It was a long, well furnished room with a large fireplace along the north wall.  The hewn timbers of the structure gave it a solid, secure feeling.  Through the glass windows he could see the earth and log ramparts and beyond the log palisade that encircled the bastions and ramparts, the entire fort.  Beausejour was a sturdy, well-built fort.  It would take a large force to overcome it.
    A sharp knock at the solid plank door, startled him, and he swung his head toward it.  Vergor rose from his chair and hurried toward the door.  Before he reached it, another sharp knock tattooed against it.
    Vergor lifted the wrought iron latch and swung the door inward.  A young soldier dressed in the grey waistcoat of a ordinary soldier of the Troupes de la Marin stood erect and stiff.  "Sir, I have an important message for you."
    "Well...well...what is it?"
    The young soldier handed him a folded sheet of heavy cream-coloured paper.  The commandant took the paper and opened it quickly.  His eyes scanned it, and he exclaimed, "Damn!"
    With a nod of his head he dismissed the soldier, and closed the door.
    "What is it, Louis?  You looked shocked."
    "An English fleet has arrived in the bay."

    The next day was a hectic one in the fort.  Vergor knew that the English intended to capture his fort.  His scouts informed him that the English fleet consisted of thirty-eight vessels including the twenty-one gun frigate, Success, the schooner, Lawrence, the sloop, Vulture, two other frigates, some snows, sloops, brigantines, schooners, and six small troop transports.  As he watched the troops disembark, he estimated that there were about 2000  mostly colonials, and about 200 regulars.
    When he considered his small garrison of 175 colonial regulars from the Troupes de la Marine, 300 Acadians that he convinced to join him, and Father Le Loutre and his Micmacs, he realized his force was small, yet he knew the fort was strong and well supplied.
    The following morning, Vergor sent a small force to destroy the wooden bridge across the Missaquash River about three leagues east of the fort.  While the men worked on the bridge, a small skirmish took place between an English patrol and two of his scouts and a dozen Indians, but no one was injured.  Later that day, a small force in a log and earth redoubt half a league west of the destroyed bridge was attacked when the English fired on it with two 6-pounders that they dragged into position.  Vergor ordered them to abandon it, destroy it, and return to the fort.
    That evening François-Louis joined Vergor in his quarters.  Louis looked nervous and upset.  "How does it look, Louis?"
    Louis shook his head.  "I don't know.  As long as the English stay on the other side of the river, we're safe."
    "Do you think they will?"
    "Well, we destroyed the bridge today, and we abandoned the redoubt by it.  We burned down the houses around it so the English couldn't use them for cover.  I think we're safe here in the fort."
    "What about my ship?"  François-Louis's ship, a small bark, the Venture, was anchored in the basin of the river along the north shore.  It carried a Boston registry, yet he worried that since he was at the French fort, it might be attacked.
    "They've not bothered it yet...so my scouts tell me."
    "Oh, I don't think they will.  Mason Merchants would be sorely grieved if they did."  He smiled.
    Louis shrugged his shoulders.  "Do you remember how to use a musket?"
    "Of course."
    "If worse comes to worse, every man will have to take a position at the walls.  Will you do that?"
    "Of course, I will.  I'm a loyal Frenchman.  I'll fight for my country."
    Little happened the next day.  The fort maintained its readiness, and Vergor sent out scouting parties to keep track of the English forces.
    On the second day a group of French soldiers and Indians ambushed a small British force killing the sergeant and ten privates while three French regular soldiers and one Indian were killed.
    That evening Vergor reported the incident to François-Louis.  "Well, if the siege continues like this, they'll have to withdraw."
    "Whose commanding the English?"
    "I'm told it's Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Moncton, the same one who was at Lawrence a few year ago."
    François-Louis nodded his head.  The rumors he heard in Boston appeared to be true.  "Do you know what this is all about?"
    Vergor shook his head.  "I think the English want us off the mainland.  They're worried about the French Acadians here and at Port Royal, and especially Le Loutre and his Micmacs."
    "What are your orders?"
    "This is French territory.  It's always been French, and I intend to keep it French."
    "Can you?"

    The days passed slowly.  Vergor's scouts reported that Monckton crossed the river several leagues to the north-east, and that he was dragging his cannons with him.  Several times François-Louis accompanied Vergor as he studied the movements of the English forces.  He could see the English intent, and  he knew that Vergor did not have the resources to stop them.  He tried to slow them down by bombarding them with the fort cannons, but the English dug entrenchments and moved forward.
    Monckton's forces were following the crest of the ridge that paralleled the river running north-east of the fort.  Each day he moved his cannons a little closer to the fort; soon they would be in position to bombard it.
    François-Louis watched as the English forces slowly encircled the fort.  From the ramparts he followed their progress.  Soon the fort would be completely encircled; he could see the soldiers working on entrenchments to the west and south of the walls on the plains, and he could see activity on the ridge to the north.  The movement to the north worried him;  he was sure the English were bringing up their cannons, and once they were in position, the bombardment of the fort would begin.
    That evening he expressed his fears to the commandant.  "Louis, Monckton seems to know exactly what he's doing.  It's almost as if he knows what's happening here...what forces you have..."
    "That's no surprise, François-Louis.  We've never tried to hide our forces, just as Fort Lawrence has always been open to us.  That's not the problem.  We don't have enough men...soldiers.  We should have attacked them first.  Now we're under siege."
    "Can you hold out?  Do you want to?"
    "Once they get their guns in position, we won't be able to defend against them."
    "You could attack their positions."
    "And get killed.  That would be foolish."

    June 16 dawned dull and overcast, but visibility was still good.  François-Louis slept well in his room and bed in the officers' quarters.  Since the English attack on the fort he was confined to the fort although every day he indicated that he wished to leave; Vergor was adamant and would not let him go.  He also felt that the English would not allow him to depart either.
    François-Louis could see little hope for the fort if reinforcements did not come from Fort Gaspereau on the east side of the isthmus on Baie Verte, and he knew that it had a smaller force than here so that was unlikely.  Their only hope was a contingent from Louisbourg, which was too far away.
    He drew his light cape about his body as he walked up the ramp leading to the north-east bastion.  Soldiers were strung along the embrasure walls, their muskets primed and ready, but there was no enemy to shoot at.  Even in the dull light, François-Louis could see the distinctive redcoats of the British regulars scattered through the motley coats of the English colonials just out of musket range.  He thought he could see the dark muzzles of cannons sticking through the earth and log entrenchments they worked on for several days.
    He leaned against the earthen wall and shaded his eyes from the dull glow of the cloud-covered sun.  A young soldier, his black tricorn at a jaunty angle, moved to make room for him.
    He smiled at the soldier.  "Well, soldier, do you think we can hold them off?"
    The lad, who François-Louis guessed to be about eighteen years old, raised his musket and shook it.  "Sir, we're ready for them."  But his voice did not support the confidence of his action.
    François-Louis glanced along the wall at the small cannons that pointed at the heights where the English were entrenched.  The English were just beyond their range, but the English who were on the crest of the ridge would be able to fire into the fort.  Any bombardment would destroy the fort, the defenders, and anyone in the fort.  It looked like a hopeless situation.
    He swung away from the wall and moved briskly along the ramparts to the ramp leading into the parade ground.  He made his way through the throng of people circulating in the central area of the fort; men, women and children, dressed in the rough homespun of farmers and fishermen; Indians--warriors in war paint, squaws shepherding children and papooses, and a few soldiers trying to maintain order out of the chaos.  Coupled with the shouts of the men, the hectoring of the women, and the whining of the children, was the bawling of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the grunting of pigs, and above it all, the cackling of hens, and the crowing of roosters.
    What will happen to this babble when the English start shelling?  From what he saw they were almost ready to begin.  It would be a horror.
    He climbed the stairs through the main door of the fort headquarters and entered the lobby.  Two sentries stood on each side of a door in the centre of the lobby.  He approached them.  "Monsieur Marin would like to see the commandant."
    A tall dark-haired sentry to the right of the door spoke.  "I don't think the commandant will see you, sir.  He meeting with his officers."
    "Tell him I'm here."
    The soldier opened the door and disappeared inside.  Soon he returned and motioned François-Louis into the room.
    Five men were in the room.  François-Louis's eyes swept the group: Commandant Vergor sat at the center of a long table, flanked by two sergeants; on the other side of the table was a corporal and a short plump man with a curled powdered wig and dark hard eyes.  François-Louis recognized Thomas Pichon, the chief clerk of stores for the fort.  François-Louis never liked the man; he talked incessantly with an air of superiority and braggadocio.
    They nodded to François-Louis and he murmured, "Gentlemen".
    "Ah, Monsieur Marin, we're just discussing strategy for the defence of the fort.  Won't you join us?  Maybe you can be of some help."
    "If your officers will permit me."
    A murmur of assent followed, not enthusiastic, but assent nonetheless.
    The corporal to the left of Pichon moved a chair for his convenience, and he sat down.
    The commandant continued.  "Our scouts tell us that the English guns are in place and in a short time they will be bombarding us.  It appears our guns cannot reach their positions, but because of their height they will be able to shell the interior of our fort."
    François-Louis nodded his head.  "That's the way I see it, Commandant."
    Pichon interjected, "We're sitting ducks.  They'll bomb us into submission.  They'll destroy us."
    The sergeant to Vergor's left, a stocky, thick-chested man with thin black hair raised his hand as if to restrain the chief clerk.  "That's a possibility, but it's also possible that the English guns'll do little damage.  They're only six-pounders.  If we're under cover they'll not harm us.  And if they try to move their guns closer then they'll be within our range.  We can outwait them...or we can attack them."
    All eyes were riveted on him, and a heavy silence fell over the group.
    "Do we have the forces to attack?"  François-Louis's voice was low and sober.  "Can we get all the men, women, and children under cover, protected from the cannons?"
    Pichon spoke.  "The yard is crowded as it is.  There's little room in the buildings.  I think we should seek a parley."
    François-Louis cleared his throat.  "Monsieur Vergor, I think you have little choice.  If you hold out, the English will decimate you.  There'll be much bloodshed and suffering.  Now's the time to meet with the English commander and get the best terms."

    Fort Lawrence was not as well built as Fort Beausejour.  It was nothing more than a log-palisaded redoubt with log buildings: barracks, storehouses, and a small headquarters.  As the small French contingent of Commandant Vergor, Sergeant Bouvier, Thomas Pichon, and François-Louis with a guard of three ordinary soldiers entered under a white flag, François-Louis studied the area.  Most of the soldiers were bivouacked outside the walls on a height of land north-east of the main fort.
    The red-coated and white breeched foot soldiers marched briskly in two columns on either side of them.  The young drummer leading them seemed to be putting a greater emphasis to his marching rhythms.
    Vergor asked François-Louis to be a part of the party because François-Louis met Monckton in Boston and he could speak English better than anyone else at the fort.
    They approached the main building; it was a square structure of thick planks, one storey with a single large door in the center flanked by two large windows. The door stood open and Colonel Robert Monckton stood waiting, an officer on each side of him.
    The two columns of soldiers halted, the drum stopped, and a silence hung over the assembled group.  Monckton took one step forward and waited.  He was a tall, heavy built man with a florid face.  His powdered white wig with its batwings made his heavy dark eyebrows prominent and emphasized his large dark eyes.  He wore a heavy crimson coat with gold braid and gold frogged button holes; across his chest a soft leather baldric extended from his right shoulder to his left waist from which a thin sword dangled.  He stood erect and imperious.
    Vergor moved toward him, his right white gloved hand extended.  Neither man smiled.
    Monckton reached forward with his right hand, also white-gloved. In precise French he said, "Good day, Monsieur Vergor.  We meet again."
    Their hands clasped.  "Yes, but it's not a happy day for me."
    Without a word Monckton led the French soldier into the building and Pichon, the two sergeants, and François-Louis followed.  A long table was set up with three chairs on either side of it.
    Monckton indicated a chair on the outside, moved around the table, and took one on the opposite side.  He sat down and waved his hand.  The remainder of the party sat down.  The two English officers sat on either side of Monckton.  Vergor sat down and motioned for Pichon and François-Louis to join him.  They did.
    Monckton spoke.  He looked to the officer to his right.  "Sieur de Vergor, you know Captain Scott, and this is Captain Wills."
    Vergor turned to Pichon.  "My secretary, Monsieur Thomas Pichon, and I believe you've met François-Louis Marin."
    Monckton's gaze centred on François-Louis, and his eyes studied him carefully, trying to place him.  Then a smile of revelation covered his face.  "Ah, yes, Monsieur Marin...in Boston...at Madame Mason's...a party."
    François-Louis nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing.
    "Gentlemen, shall we begin?"  It was not a question, but a command.  "You wish to capitulate...to surrender your fort?"  Again it was not a question, but a statement.
    "Sir, I wish to avoid bloodshed.  You have lost some men, and so have I.  If we continue, more will die...soldiers...women...children."
    "That's true, Monsieur Vergor, but they'll be French women and children.  You can avoid that by surrendering unconditionally."
    Vergor blanched.  François-Louis tensed.  Was Monckton to be difficult?  Did he really want an absolute surrender?  Or was there room for negotiation?
    Monckton continued.  "I'm willing to accept your surrender and that of our citizens who're in your fort.  You, sir, are on English lands.  Your fort is an illegitimate one.  Your forces are an invasion.  You must surrender."
    Vergor stiffened.  "Sir, our countries are not at war.  The Missaquash has always been the boundary between our lands.  It's you, sir, who attacked me."
    "No, it's Le Loutre and his Indians who have started this confrontation...and our Acadian citizens who refuse to obey our laws...and who are encouraged by you...and by your superiors at Louisbourg.  Sir, you're in no position to dictate to me.  My guns are ready to destroy you and your fort."
    François-Louis could contain himself no longer.  "Sir, we're here to avoid bloodshed.  But if you make conditions that are impossible to accept there'll be much fighting, to little purpose.  Our countries are not at war.  So we should try to solve this problem amicably.  Monsieur Vergor is willing to accept the honours of war with safe passage for his troops to Louisbourg, and fair treatment for the Acadians who joined him...an amnesty."
    Vergor nodded his head vigorously.  François-Louis thought a little too enthusiastically.
    "With one condition, Monsieur Marin?"
    "What's that, sir?"
    "That L'Abbé Le Loutre is handed over.  I expected him to be with you today."
    François-Louis glanced over to Vergor.  The man's face was now inscrutable, because he now felt in control.   Monckton almost agreed to the conditions that he found acceptable.
    "I can not comply with that condition.  But I'll accept the honors of war and amnesty for the Acadians who joined me...and I must say that they joined me under duress.  They did not want to fight you or your soldiers."
    It was Monckton's turn to look startled.  "Where is L'Abbé Le Loutre?"
    Pichon spoke softly.  "Sir, he escaped.  Last night, under cover of darkness he stole from the fort.  I heard that he was headed for Quebec.  He's gone."
    Vergor interjected, "Sir, I accept your conditions.  You may have my fort."

Email: go1c@telusplanet.net