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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 2-Book 4

The Contenders by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One -- Conflict

Louisbourg, Acadia

    François-Louis Marin lifted his eyes from the faience plate to the tow-headed woman who sat across the polished oak table from him.  He smiled at her, his eyes glowing as he surveyed her compact form and ample upper body.  She had gained a little weight, but, to him, it made her more beautiful.  Her bosom, full and firm, pressed tightly against the satin bodice of her azure gown.
    Her large sapphire-blue eyes caught his and held; her ruby lips curved into a wide smile.
    "My darling, you get more beautiful every day.  Bearing a child agrees with you.  We must have many more.  We must fill this house with many little Marins."
    She nodded slowly.  "I'd love that.  If every pregnancy is like this one, it would be a pleasure."
    "Darling," he teased, "you're built for having babies."
    She wrinkled her nose in mock anger, then she smiled.  She knew that François was right.  Although she was petite, she had liberal hips and a wide pelvic, appropriate for bearing children.
    François-Louis frowned.  "But I'm not so sure the times are right for having children."
    Her smile faded.  "Why's that?"
    "If France and England go to war...and there's a good possibility of that...Bigot was telling me only last week that he was sure war would be declared soon.  The situation in Europe is not good."
    "What'll happen here?"  Anxiety strained her voice.
    He frowned again.  "We'll no longer be able to trade with Boston or the New England colonies."
    "What does that mean, François?"  She rolled his name off her tongue giving it a meaning that thrilled him.
    "My business'll be ruined.  Times'll be tough.  Supplies'll be short...food'll be scarce, lumber won't be available.  We depend on those colonies more than on Canada or France.  They keep us supplied with the necessities.  My ship'll be idle...I'll no longer make the profits I do now."
    "But you can go back to fishing?"
    He nodded his head slowly, reflectively.  He looked down at the plate of mutton chops and mashed turnips.  He picked up his fork.  "We won't be eating as well as we do today."
    "We'll manage," she half-joked.
    "I don't want my children to live as I did when I was growing up...work, work, work, nothing but work.  I want my sons to be respected...and...happy."
    She smiled.  "François, you don't have to be wealthy to be happy."
    He smiled grimly.  "That's true, my darling, but it doesn't hurt.  I know the wealthy are not always happy, but at least they suffer in comfort."  He looked about the room with its shining floors and polished oak furniture...the dining table with its faience chinaware and the crystal goblets filled with amber wine.
    He glanced down to his velvet knee breeches, his white silk stockings, and his lawn shirt with its ruffled cuffs.  Then he pointed to his wife's satin gown, "Wouldn't you miss your fine gowns?"
    "Yes, I would...but I'd miss you more...and the child."  She patted her extended stomach.  She laughed, "It just kicked."  Then she grimaced.
    In the dim light of the candles, François-Louis noticed the change in her face.  "What is it, Louise?"
    She smiled again.  "That was a hard kick."  Then she stiffened slightly, drawing her breath in sharply.
    "Is it time?" he asked anxiously.
    She smiled again.  "It may be.  A Saturday child is always a happy child.  You knew that, didn't you?"
    He laughed.  "My mother always told me that a spring child was a happy child."
    "Well, if it's born today, then it'll have a double advantage...spring and Saturday."
    François-Louis knew that everything was ready for the birth of his son.  He was sure it would be a son; he was so sure that all the clothing was blue, for a boy.
    At that moment, a dark-skinned young woman entered the room carrying a tray with two steaming bowls.  She moved toward Louise and set the tray on the edge of the table.  "Madame is ready for her dessert now?"
    The aroma of steamed prunes wafted from the bowls and drifted toward Louise.  She wrinkled her nose as if the odor offended her; then she tensed and grasped her stomach with both hands.  Her body stiffened, and her mouth opened slightly as she suppressed a groan.
    He rose and hurried to the other end of the table.  "Maybe I'd better send for Madame Gauthier."  He turned toward the coloured girl.  "Chloe, take that back to the kitchen.  We won't want dessert tonight."
    The young slave girl nodded her head affirmatively, and her large dark eyes, the whites showing, looked in awe toward her mistress.  "Ma'am is ready?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
    "Chloe, run over to Madame Gauthier's and tell her that Madame is due.  Then hurry back and get things ready."  Louise spewed the words out with effort, and then she relaxed.
    "Do you think you can make it to the bedroom, my darling,"  François-Louis asked as he grasped her left elbow to help her.

    François-Louis Marin was proud of his new son.  The birth was an easy one, and the next day, April 25, 1744, after the Sunday Mass, the child was baptized in the chapel of the King's Bastion by the Recollet curé, Athanase Guegot.
    Today, a week later, he and Louise strolled north along the Quay greeting the many people who were enjoying the bright, warm, spring afternoon, and anticipating the arrival of the first ship from France.  Rumors flew through the large congregation that attended Mass in the only church of the colony--the chapel in the King's Bastion.  Although land had been set aside--a piece of property on the quay across from the Ordonnateur's residence--the necessary funds to build a parish church had not yet been acquired, so the chapel was used instead.
    François-Louis carried his son tenderly, and peeked often under the knitted shawl that his mother made.  The child's rosy complexion and fuzzy light brown hair intrigued him.  Each time he studied the baby, he tried to see some family resemblance, but each time he thought he saw a feature of his father or his mother or his wife, it was fleeting, and he finally decided that the child looked like no one that he knew.
    The child wrinkled his nose, stretched, clenched his tiny hands, and yawned.
    "Look, Louise, he wrinkles his nose the way you do!"
    She squeezed his right arm, the one she clung to.  "Darling, all babies wrinkle their nose."
    He pressed her hand against his side, dropped the shawl onto the small bundle, and smiled at his wife.  "Darling, maybe all babies wrinkle their nose, but none do it the way my son does.  Michel Joseph Pierre wrinkles his nose like his mother," he exclaimed with a certitude that Louise found impossible to refute, so she smiled to herself and moved beside her husband.
    The crowd on the quay was a happy one.  They anticipated with gaiety and exuberance the arrival from France the first ship of the new season.  Whole families moved back and forth along the quay stopping frequently to exchange greetings and gossip with friends and acquaintances, but most were waiting for the bark, Paris, which they knew was making its slow way toward the Louisbourg harbour.
    Already several fishing schooners and shallops made their way to the harbour mouth to escort the first vessel of this year into the port.
    François glanced out over the placid waters of the harbour that he knew so well. Numerous ships moved over the quiet waters pushed by a slight breeze from the north-east, perfect for entry into the narrow strait that led into the land-enclosed and protected harbour.
    Directly across the harbour he made out the careening wharf, which on this day of rest, was quiet and peaceful; not even the black smoke, that usually billowed from the heating of pitch to seal the crevices and cracks of the ships being outfitted, marred the crystal skies.  Farther east, toward the Atlantic, the lighthouse with its perpetual fire beckoned like a jewel-crowned woman to the ships beyond, and in the foreground Battery Island with its walls and armaments stood like a sentinel welcoming friends but repelling foes.
    At that moment, François-Louis's sailor eyes spotted a dun sail on the horizon just beyond the entrance, larger than the escort boats, but small in comparison to a man-of-war.  He raised his left hand and pointed seaward.  "See, Louise, it's there.  It's entering the harbour."
    Everyone rushed to the edge of the quay to see better.  François-Louis moved with the crowd, but carefully, so that the precious bundle in his right arm would not be jostled.  Louise clung to his arm also acting as a buffer between him, the child, and the elbowing crowd.
    Slowly the sails advanced, and François-Louis could identify the ship as a bark, a small merchant ship which carried the king's colours.  He hoped that it carried a supply of food because he knew that stocks in the King's Storehouse, in the warehouses of the other town merchants, and his own storehouse were almost depleted.
    A shallop with four men at the oars moved quickly through the main body of the harbour toward the recently completed Frederic Gate with its sloping wharf.
    François-Louis handed the child to Louise and said, "Darling, take the child and move back a bit, away from this mob...I must find out the news...if there's war."
    Louise took the child carefully and her large eyes looked solemnly into her husband's.  "Darling, I hope the news is good."
    He squeezed her hand gently, and smiled woodenly.  "I hope so too."  Then he turned away and hurried toward the people that milled around the ornate arch through which most of the important people, news, and merchandise of the town passed.
    As the shallop approached within shouting distance, questions drifted out over the water.  "What's the news?"  "Do they have supplies?"  "Are the fishermen coming?"  "Where's the fishing fleet?"  "Where are the other ships?"  A cheer went up as the boat pulled into the wharf.  Hands reached for the men to help them disembark.
    François-Louis walked slowly toward the gate wriggling his way through the press of women and children until he joined several other merchants who stood along the right side of the wharf.
    "Is it the king's ship?"  he asked a small, wiry, middle-aged man in a brown justaucorp coat and a green tricorn trimmed with purple braid.  Andre Carrerot nodded his head in greeting and answered, "It better be.  We need supplies desperately."  Carrerot supervised the royal storehouse, so he knew the extent of the inventory of the fortress.
    François-Louis nodded his head in agreement.
    A shout came from the wharf, but neither man could understand its message.
    François-Louis smiled.  "Is that bad or good?"
    The four men from the shallop, surrounded by a motley group of fishermen, sailors, and three soldiers, moved toward a small group of soldiers who stood at attention accompanying Commandant Duquesnel and Ordonnateur  Bigot.  One of the four men from the shallop waved his hand excitedly and shouted in a high pitched voice, "We're at war.  The king has declared war on the English."

    François-Louis felt older than his thirty-seven years.  The past ten days were difficult for him.  All ships were confined to the harbour, including the fishing fleet.  François-Louis heard rumors that the colony was to make war on the English immediately, especially the settlements in Nova Scotia.  He heard that the military was planning an expedition against Canso, and maybe even Annapolis Royal, the capital of English Acadia which they now called Nova Scotia.  Commandant Duquesnel wanted to take advantage of the unprepared English settlements; he wanted to surprise them, to attack them before they knew that France and England were at war.
    The scuttlebutt around the taverns and inns was that François Du Pont Duvivier was to lead the expedition.  François-Louis thought that was a good choice because Duvivier had been born at Port Royal and knew the region well.
    Thursday, May 14, was Ascension Day, a holy day of obligation which required it to be treated like a Sunday, so François-Louis, Louise, little Michel, and a great crowd of inhabitants from the town attended the High Mass in the King's Bastion chapel.
    As François-Louis listened to the last notes of the recessional hymn, he glanced around the small room.  Bright sunshine streamed through the south windows flooding the altar, bathing it so that the white paint of the walls reflected the light onto the altar with its gold trimmed clothes, its six tall candles, and the small tabernacle at the centre.  Behind the tabernacle the full-size portrait of St. Louis, who ruled France from 1226 to 1270, looked benignly down on the faithful.  The gilt ornamentation of the panels and the Corinthian columns on each side of the altar lent it a regal air.
    The oak altar rail separated the sanctuary from the main body of the church.  Now, Father Athanase Guegot, the curé, turned to give the final blessing to his congregation.  First, he turned to Commandant Duquesnel, who as the highest ranking official, received the privileged blessing.  Then he turned to the opposite side and blessed the ordonnateur, the second highest ranking official, François Bigot.  Bigot bowed slightly in acknowledgement and accepted it solemnly.  Then the priest turned to the rest of the assemblage who stood packed closely in the small remaining space, and intoned  in Latin, "Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus."
    And the choir answered, its voice swelling in volume, the music reverberating to the high ceiling.
    As the people straggled out of the chapel, the rumble of their voices greeting each other and exchanging the latest gossip of the settlement echoed through the stairwell.  François-Louis moved with them but kept his eyes on François Bigot.  For the past week he was trying to get an appointment with the ordonnateur, but unsuccessfully.  He knew that the ordonnateur was issuing commissions to various boat owners to become privateers.
    François-Louis knew that his boat, the "Emeretienne", was well suited for that.  When it was built, gunports had been provided for small cannons, and its sloop-rig made it fast and manoeuvrable.  It seemed that everyone else was getting a commission but he, and he wondered about that.
    François-Louis could see Bigot ahead of him so he hurried through the crowd trying not to jostle too many people or to show his haste.  Finally he caught up to the short, stocky man, and called softly, "Monsieur Intendant."  He used the more important title because he heard that Bigot had aspiration to that post, if not in New France, then in one of the provinces of France.
    Bigot swung around sharply, the curls of his long ceremonial wig swinging around his ears.  "Ah, Monsieur Marin, you called."
    François-Louis bowed his head deferentially.  "Yes, sir.  I'd like a word with you if I may."
    The ordonnateur waved his white gloved hand toward an open spot on the glacis before the entrance to the citadel.  François-Louis followed him as he moved away from the chattering crowd.
    "Sir, I've been trying to see you for the past week, but your clerks put me off."
    "Ah, Monsieur Marin, I've been very busy...preparing...for war."
    "Sir, that's exactly what I'd like to talk about.  As you're aware, I own a sturdy, well-equipped sloop that could be easily armed to help in the war effort."
    "So I've heard, Monsieur Marin, but we have no need for it at the present time."
    François-Louis started.  Why wouldn't they need all the ships that could be obtained: to guard the coast, to guard the fishing fleet, to attack the English shipping.  "Sir, if you gave me a commission, maybe it could be profitable for both of us."  He stopped.
    Bigot cocked his head quizzically.  He waited.
    "Sir, if you helped me arm my boat, I'm sure I could take many prizes between here and Boston.  I know the way well.  I know the ships well, and the lanes."
    Bigot smiled wryly.  "Yes, I've heard that you're an English lover."
    François-Louis's face blanched.  What had the ordonnateur heard about him?  Did he know about him and Shirley Mason?  Or was he being more general in his meaning?
    "John Mason is your partner.  Isn't he?"
    "Was my partner.  I dissolved the partnership when I got married.  My wife didn't like me to be involved with the English.  She felt it was traitorous."
    "And you.  What did you think?"
    "Sir, it was a business arrangement, nothing more."
    "Marin, I've heard rumors...that you passed information to the English at Boston...who in turn passed it to the English in London...about our armaments...our garrison...our situation."
    François-Louis tensed.  Had Shirley Mason succeeded in her threat to denounce him?

    François-Louis was annoyed that Ordonnateur Bigot dismissed his request for a commission so peremptorily.  His anger made him irritable and difficult, so Louise said.  It was already the first week in June and his ship had not left the harbour although it was ready, fitted, and maintained.  Ships no longer sailed between Boston and Louisbourg; the war was on.
    The last week in May, Duvivier returned from a successful assault on the English fishing port of Canso where he had captured the entire population and filled his ships with booty.
    Several other privateers left the harbour and were on the high seas searching for British ships.  François-Louis heard that the Signe, commanded by François Bauchet de Saint-Martin, captured a prize near Canso.  Now was the time to be seeking such vessels, before the English were prepared, before their ships were armed and ready.  But all he could do was fret and become angry because Bigot would not give him a commission.
    He climbed the stairs to Commandant Dusquesnel's quarters slowly, almost reluctantly.  Would Duquesnel be interested in his proposition?  The young soldier standing guard at the door lounged indifferently, his musket slung over his left shoulder by its leather sling.  He straightened up as François-Louis approached.  "Halt!  Who goes?"
    "François-Louis Marin to see the commandant."
    The soldier turned, opened the heavy oak door, and inquired, "Monsieur Marin to see you, sir."
    François-Louis heard a gruff voice answer, and the soldier motioned him forward with his head.
    The commandant, Jean-Baptiste-Louis Le Prevost Duquesnel, who arrived the spring before, was a tall thin man with sunken cheeks and sparse white hair.  His eyes sparkled from deepset sockets, so deep that it was impossible to judge their colour.
    He did not rise from his upholstered chair behind the ornate cherrywood desk with its curved graceful legs.  François-Louis grasped that this man, who had lost a leg to the wars of France, found it difficult to move with his pegleg.
    The commandant waved to another chair that stood at an angle before his desk.
    François-Louis took it and said, "I thank you for seeing me, Governor."  As with Bigot, he knew that the commandant wanted to be governor yet Maurepas, the French minister of the Marine, only made him commandant of Louisbourg.  "I know you're very busy with the war effort, but I hope that I can be of some help in that regard."
    The older man cleared his throat, but said nothing.
    François-Louis continued, "Sir, I own a very sturdy sloop, well-suited to fishing, trade...and privateering."
    François-Louis studied the governor carefully, but the commandant betrayed no emotion.
    "Sir, I would like to outfit my ship as a privateer and protect Louisbourg from the English."
    The other man's lips moved in an almost imperceptible smile.  "What would be your reward, Monsieur Marin?"
    "Sir, you know there are many valuable prizes out there waiting to be taken.  We would be well rewarded."
    Duquesnel frowned.  "And you want me to give you a commission?  How, Monsieur Marin, will that help me?"
    "In two ways, sir.  It would help the war effort...it would protect Louisbourg...its fishermen...the ships coming from France.  It would give the people of Louisbourg satisfaction that we can overcome the English."
    The older man raised his right hand to his clean-shaven chin and stroked it with his index finger.  "And the second reason?"
    "We could make some money when we dispose of the prizes...the cargoes...the ships themselves."
    "What is it you want, Monsieur Marin?"
    "Sir, I need a commission.  I need cannons and guns for my ship and crew, and I need supplies."
    "And if I provide these...I will share in the returns?"
    "That's right, sir."
    "But, Monsieur Marin, we are short of cannon...and supplies, although we have a good supply of muskets.  Could you manage with only muskets."
    François-Louis laughed.  "Sir, you can't be serious.  By now the English ships will be arming.  They'll have cannons...and even mortars.  Sir, the English at Boston have plenty of armaments.  I know, sir, I've been there often."
    "Ah, yes, so I've heard.  Can we win the war?"
    François-Louis stared at the man.  He was the military person.  Why was he asking him?  Was he baiting him?  Or was he serious?  "Sir, I think we can hold our own.  We cannot attack Boston and hope to take it...or any of the other towns.  There are too many of them, but we can control them if we command the seas.  That's why we need as many armed ships as possible."
    The commandant smiled.  "Very astute observations, young man.  Yes, we must control the seas.  And Louisbourg is the focal point of such a strategy.  What is your ship?"
    "Sir, it's the Emeretienne, a sloop with place for six cannons...ten-pounders."
    "Will six-pounders do?  I have access to six-pounders.  But we must take a partner."
    François-Louis nodded his head.  He did not like the idea, but it was better than no commission.  Another partner meant that they would have to split the profits three ways.
    "You know Jean-François Eurry?"
    François-Louis knew that Jean-François Eurry de la Perelle was the military administrator of the fortress and mayor of the town, a respected and capable military administrator, well-liked by most citizens of the fortress. François-Louis knew Perelle's tight little frame house on Rue Royale with its glass windows and Boston board siding.
    "He'll be our silent partner."

    The next two weeks were busy ones for François-Louis.  Although he received his commission, obtaining the necessary armaments, supplies for days at sea, and a willing crew were difficult.  And to further complicate these matters he had to keep secret that Dusquesnel and Perelle were his associates.
    The cannons were moved from the Artillery storehouse to the far side of the bay at the careening wharf under the subterfuge that they were to be placed in the Royal Battery on the north shore.  Then they were loaded on the Emeretienne on the pretext that they would be transported to the battery.
    François-Louis found these machinations frustrating and time-consuming.  Although he fretted about these administrative delays to Louise, he seemed the model of patience to the Commandant and the men he chose as his crew.  Three of them were ex-soldiers with naval experience as were many of the soldiers of the Troops of the Marine.  The fourth member was a Spaniard sailor who was left behind when his ship sailed away the fall before.  His father was killed by the English and so he hated anything English passionately.  François-Louis chose his crew carefully.  He wanted men that he could trust, capable sailors, familiar with arms--cannons, mortars, muskets, and even lances.  He felt that he chose wisely.
    On the last day of May, they loaded the supplies on board: hardtack biscuits, dried fish, water, and wine.  The following dawn they sailed through the narrow neck of the harbour out onto the open seas.  Although it was overcast, visibility was good, the wind was favourable, and they got off to a good start.
    From his position on the quarter-deck, François-Louis surveyed the horizon as his crew clinched the lines and tightened the sails.  He seldom gave orders because they knew exactly what to do.
    His heartbeat quickened, and he was exhilarated and excited.  He never before was in such a position.  Now he was a corsair out hunting for a prize.  He was armed, his men were armed, his ship was armed, and ready to engage the enemy.  Yet he could not imagine what a meeting would entail.
    He glanced to the three gunports along each gunwale.  The cannons, dull and faded, looked tiny and inadequate.  How would he capture another ship with such puny armament?  His only chance would be if his adversary was unarmed, a fishing boat, or a small unsuspecting merchantman, and there were few of them.  Almost all the merchant ships carried a cannon or two to protected themselves from pirates and privateers on the high seas.
    For five days, they patrolled back and forth between Cape Sable and the southern tip of the Nova Scotia peninsula to several leagues east of Louisbourg, but they did not see a single ship--no French ships or English ships, no fishermen, no merchantmen, nothing.
    The morning of June 11, Thursday, dawned bright and clear; the seas were high and the small sloop pitched and rolled as François-Louis kept it under full sail heading south toward the Atlantic lanes that lead from England to Boston.
    Today would be their lucky day.  He called to Rodriguez, the swarthy Spaniard, "Today we'll meet the English."
    The Spaniard's dark eyes flashed, and he placed his hand on the dirk that rested in a scabbard at his hip.  He spoke in fractured French.  "It'll be my pleasure, Senor."
    A shout from the bow of the ship attracted both men's attention.  Jean Bertier, a young brown-haired sailor from the Havre on the north west coast of France, waved his right hand excitedly finally pointing off the starboard bow.
    François-Louis shielded his eyes with his right hand and squinted to reduce the glare of the rolling waters.  But he could see nothing as the ship rolled, dipping and rising with the swells.
    "Sail ahoy!" another voice, that of Albert Brunelle, a veteran sailor, fisherman, and ex-soldier of the Troops, a man about thirty-five years of age who claimed to have a wife and family in St. Malo, although it was several years since he saw them.
    François-Louis could still not see the ship that was spotted.  He swivelled his eyes along the southern horizon sweeping it from east to west.  As the bow of the ship rose on an exceptionally large wave, he spotted a dark speck on the horizon.  It was a ship, but whose?
    He kept his eyes riveted to the area as his ship moved into the valley of a swell.  As the bow rose he observed that they were heading directly toward the vessel that was spotted.
    He looked at his meagre crew.  Should he engage the vessel if it was an English ship?
    He had to.  "Men, prepare to meet the ship."
    He stared over the waters trying to make out the nature of the vessel, but the distance was still too far.
    "Hold her on course, mate."
    "Prepare the cannons."  Three of the men hurried to insert the powder charges and balls, while the fourth hurried to the bow to light the hempen fuse that would be used to ignite the powder.
    François-Louis kept his eyes glued to the enlarging speck, that now became discernible as a ship under full sail moving southward and away from them, yet they were gaining on it.
    The grey-green water surged whitely against the narrow bow as it dipped and rolled through the waves.  The lines whistled tautly, and the canvas sails billowed tightly as the vessel raced forward.
    Half a league separated the two ships.  Now François-Louis could see that it was bark-rigged fishing boat, its hull deep in the water, probably heavily laden.
    Distance narrowed; the tan sails of the fishing boat marked the horizon as it laboured through the heavy seas.  Now he could see a sailor, a tiny speck on the open deck.
    The ship looked familiar somehow.  He strained to see its flag streaming from the stern.  The colours were English.  His heart thumped against his ribcage.  "Prepare to fire!" he hollered, his voice bursting from his mouth.
    Then he recognized the ship.  It was one of John Mason's fishing boats, the Angelica, a sturdy trawler, wide of beam with large holds and good gear.  Should he take his ex-partner's ship?

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