A Sacrifice of Pawns, page 12
Without French artillery to harass them, the British artillerymen and engineers completed the batteries on Morne Tortenson in two days, and then started fresh redoubts closer to Fort Royal.
“I’ve never known French soldiers run like that,” MacKim said. “They didn’t even bother to spike their guns.”
Kennedy nodded. “We captured a loaded mortar, with nine unspiked cannons, plus all their ammunition and provisions. Now look at them.” He jerked a thumb towards the nearest redoubt, in which the captured guns grinned towards Fort Royal.
“We’re nearly touching the French citadel,” MacKim said. “We can’t be more than four-hundred yards from the walls.”
“Strong walls, though,” Kennedy said. “And I wish we had taken more of their militia and these damned freebooters. The French regulars don’t concern me as they abide by the rules of war; the freebooters could do anything.”
MacKim thought of René Roberval. “You’re right, sir.” We haven’t finished with that pirate yet. He’ll be watching for us, I think.
“The gunners are nearly ready,” Kennedy continued. “It’s best if the French in Fort Royal surrender now before the carnage begins.”
“Aye,” MacKim said. “But they won’t. They’re a stubborn breed.”
As the Rangers on Morne Grenier watched, the British batteries on Morne Tortenson opened fire. With fourteen 24-pounder cannon and two mortars, they should have pounded the citadel, but the cannon were at the limit of their range. By the time the shot reached the walls, the balls were dipping and barely marked the target.
“That’s why we had to capture this hill as well,” Kennedy said comfortably. “We can do more damage from here.”
“And they Frenchies know it,” MacKim said as the French guns replied. “They have sufficient firepower in Fort Royal to withstand a siege. All they have to do is hold out until the French fleet arrives from Brest or the Spaniards from Cadiz, and they can sweep our ships from the sea.”
“If that happens,” Kennedy said, “we’ll be the besieged as their fresh troops along with the militia and the garrison in Fort Royal and St Pierre come out to attack us.”
“We’ve got a bit of work to do yet then,” MacKim agreed.
Ensign Mowat approached, smiling and confident. Now burned by the sun, he trotted up to Kennedy and touched his hat.
“Colonel Scott sends his regards, sir, and could you do him the honour of a meeting at your earliest convenience.”
“That means immediately,” Kennedy said. “Please convey my respects to the colonel and tell him—no, don’t tell him anything, ensign. I’ll come back with you.” He rose. “Look after the men, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” MacKim said.
Kennedy was back within half an hour. “We’re going on patrol, MacKim. Colonel Scott wants us to verify the state of Fort Royal’s defences.”
“Yes, sir.” MacKim expected nothing less. “How many men?”
“You and I. Corporal Parnell can take command here.” Kennedy gave his encouraging smile. “It will be a routine patrol, I hope.”
They left as the light faded, with short muskets, forty rounds of ammunition, the telescope and pen, paper, and ink.
Pen and ink. I still haven’t written to Claudette! Damn my mind. I’ll write the moment we return.
The sky was clouded that night, with no moon to help guide the Rangers as they eased forward over territory the enemy controlled by the sweep of their guns. When they heard the murmur of French voices, Kennedy signalled a halt, and they eased into an area of dead ground, protected by a screen of thorny scrub.
“The citadel that protects Fort Royal is earth-built,” MacKim observed. “That means the walls will absorb our cannon fire better than stone would.”
Kennedy nodded. “If anybody knows about building forts, the French do.” He studied the fort through his telescope. “It’s on a peninsula with the sea on all sides, except a single narrow neck of land.”
“That’ll be murder to assault.” MacKim painstakingly wrote notes. “The entrance is barely over a hundred feet wide. All the French have to do is concentrate their cannon on that, and they’ll sweep any attacking force away. We’ll lose hundreds of men.”
“We’re already losing too many from yellow jack,” Kennedy said. “The sooner we take this damned island, the better.”
Sentries patrolled the fort’s walls, with lanterns hanging outside and the light reflecting from musket barrels and accoutrements. The Rangers timed the sentries’ beats and calculated their numbers by the length of the wall, with MacKim writing down the details.
On either side of the neck of land, the guns of a demi-bastion waited to hammer any approaching enemy, with a half-moon battery in support. Beyond this formidable array of artillery, the citadel boasted a curtain wall held by infantry, plus a wet ditch and a sloping glacis. The garrison’s massed musketry would defend everything if the assaulters survived the cannon.
“Even if we hammer the artillery,” Kennedy said, “Fort Royal could still hold out. The longer they hold, the more of our men will die of disease, and we’ll be so weakened that the relieving French fleet will walk all over us.”
“We’ll have to take the damned place quickly then,” MacKim said.
Kennedy nodded. He crawled further up the hill and lay on a slight knoll. “I can see inside the fort from here, or at least see part of it.”
MacKim glanced upwards, where a warm wind was shifting the clouds. “We’re a bit exposed here, sir.”
“I know,” Kennedy said, “but the more information we bring in, the better. I can see a covered way as well, with palisades, and there’s a double wall on the harbour side of the fort, complete with flankers.” He removed the telescope from his eye. “Even if the Navy silence the batteries facing the sea and breach the outer walls, any assaulting party would face a defended wall, with flankers to give crossfire.”
“We’ll lose men that way, too.” MacKim swore as he blotted the paper. “This damned heat is thinning the ink. I think the French have Fort Royal better defended than Quebec or Montreal ever was.”
“Even if the ships get past Pigeon Island,” Kennedy said, “there are guns mounted on a platform overlooking the harbour, and there is more artillery—heavy stuff—behind a parapet facing the sea.”
“I can’t see how we’ll ever take this place before the relieving fleet arrives,” MacKim said gloomily.
“If we try a direct attack on the gate, the French have another gun platform above that,” Kennedy said.
“We’ve three choices then.” MacKim put down his pen. “We use our artillery to silence their batteries one by one, or starve them into submission, or have an all-out direct assault and accept the casualties.”
“We haven’t the time to starve them,” Kennedy said, “and they’ll likely have greater food and water supplies than we have. That also holds for the slow artillery siege.” He shifted backwards. “We’d better get this intelligence back to General Monckton. I’m glad I don’t have to make the decision!”
“Sir!” MacKim said, lifting his head slightly. “I can smell tobacco.”
They lay still, with their eyes probing the darkness for the source of the smell. The drift came to them again, a sure sign that somebody was between the lines.
Kennedy nudged MacKim with his elbow and nodded to their left, where a glimmer of white revealed the presence of a French patrol.
They waited for a long five minutes, and then began to crawl back towards the closest British position. A laugh sounded from the dark, followed by a murmur in French.
“They’re all around us,” Kennedy whispered. “Lie low.”
A French patrol walked past, seemingly casual despite their proximity to the British positions. Kennedy and MacKim withdrew another few yards towards the British lines when they became aware of a commotion behind them. The British challenge “Barbados!” was not met by the countersign “Jamaica!” Instead, a crackle of musketry broke out.
“The French are raiding our pickets!” MacKim said. “They’re behind us.”
Such practices were standard during a siege. The besieged would send out small parties to harass the besiegers and destroy as much siege work as possible. Although sometimes the raiding party would be only a dozen strong, the defenders could also send a large force to disrupt the siege.
The Rangers lay still as the firing spread behind them, interspersed with yells and the occasional scream. After twenty minutes, Kennedy lifted his head. “I think we should make a run for the lines, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” MacKim was not so sure.
“Remember, the parole is Barbados, and the countersign is Jamaica.”
“Yes, sir.” MacKim ducked as the French artillery in the fort fired a volley. He saw the muzzle flash first, then heard the roar of the guns. There was a slight pause, then a shrill sound—not quite a whine and nearly a whistle—that increased in volume as the cannonballs passed overhead. The balls landed in front of the British gun emplacements, with the heavy iron shaking the ground on which MacKim lay. When the British guns replied, MacKim was not aware of any individual noise. The sound engulfed him, controlling all his senses, so he felt like a human fly trapped within a military drum, helpless against the noise.
“Ready?” Kennedy had to mouth the words, as the noise was so intense.
MacKim nodded. The firing increased as both sides fired simultaneously, and then fell into painful silence.
“Now,” Kennedy said.
MacKim rose and ran towards the British lines, zig-zagging to confuse any French marksman. The ground was hard and churned with the firing, so he tripped more than once and staggered when his foot caught on a disturbed rock. MacKim swore when he dropped his ink and pen, glanced down, failed to see them in the dark, and ran on. He had his notes safe, and the stationery was replaceable.
A line of fascines loomed ahead, with the heads of defenders protruding. Somebody pointed a musket at him. “Barbados!” he yelled. “For God’s sake, Barbados!”
“Jamaica,” a hoarse voice replied, and MacKim slid over the parapet and lay in the bottom of the trench. “I’m glad to see you, lads,” he said.
“And we’re happy to see you,” said a familiar voice, and Captain René Roberval smiled at him.
12
“You!” MacKim swore and tried to rise, but two freebooters pointed muskets at him as a third shoved him back down. Three British soldiers lay dead in the trench, two with multiple stab wounds and the third with his head cut clean off his shoulders. Half a dozen freebooters stood watching, with Roberval as suave as ever, despite the blood that smeared his face.
“Me,” Roberval said. “I thought I had seen you dancing around in the dark. Sergeant MacKim, isn’t it?” Roberval spoke passable English, with only a hint of a French accent.
MacKim lifted his musket, only for one of the freebooters to wrestle it from his grip.
“We’ll take you back with us, sergeant,” Roberval said. “I want to know what you were doing out there.”
“Trying to get back to the British positions,” MacKim said.
“Barbados,” Roberval said, “and Jamaica. What simple paroles you British create. We listened to your pickets shouting at each other all night.” He smiled again. “Listen, sergeant.” Roberval raised his voice. “Barbados!”
“Jamaica!” a west-country voice replied. “Who’s out there?”
“You see?” Roberval said, grinning.
MacKim did not reply. He only hoped Kennedy had escaped with the information he had gathered.
“Gag him,” Roberval ordered in French, and strong hands tied a strip of cloth over MacKim’s mouth.
The artillery began to fire, with the sound covering all other noises. Roberval nodded, and the freebooters slid over the side of the trench, shoving MacKim in front of them. MacKim glanced behind him, contemplating escape, but with three agile men eager to shoot and stab him, he had no chance.
Pushed, shoved, and occasionally pricked with the point of a sword, MacKim found himself forced towards Fort Royal. Close up, the defences were even more formidable, with the walls higher and the French gunners looking as professional as their British counterparts. Roberval ripped away MacKim’s gag.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see,” Roberval said.
The night was fading as the freebooters pushed MacKim past a pair of watchful guards and through the heavy gates of Fort Royal. The town was already busy with soldiers and civilians, with a platoon of regulars eyeing MacKim curiously.
“A prisoner,” Roberval explained casually, shoving MacKim into a rundown street, where black people were busy making fascines under the watchful eyes of what MacKim assumed to be slave drivers. The atmosphere was oppressive, as if the clean air of the open sea had never penetrated this area, and hopeless faces watched him without interest. MacKim saw a brawny man lift a whip and beat a youth who could not be more than thirteen years old.
“Hey!” MacKim struggled to intervene, but with two guards holding him, he could not get close enough to help. “Leave that child alone!”
“Save your concern for yourself,” one of his guards said. “You’ll need it.”
The second guard laughed as he propelled MacKim into a squat building with small barred windows near the stone roof.
“What is this place? I am a prisoner of war!”
Ignoring MacKim’s protests, the guards shoved him into the building and down three stairs to a stone floor. From the little MacKim could see in the gloom, the chamber was bare and bleak, and within a few moments, the guards chained him to the wall.
One kicked him in the ribs. “We’ll be back for you later,” he said, and left, leaving MacKim to his thoughts.
The place was choking hot, with rats and other vermin rustling in the dark. The smell was atrocious, worse than the ‘tween deck of a troop transport, thick with the stench of human waste and the sickly-sweet aroma of death. MacKim hauled at his chains, testing their strength, wondering if he could work them free from the solid stone of the wall.
Even if I did, he told himself, what good would that be? I’d still be locked in this stinking dungeon in the middle of the enemy’s fortification. They would recognise my uniform the second I stepped into the streets.
Even so, MacKim worked at the chain, pulling it back and forward, trying to loosen it.
“It’s no good,” the voice was deep, speaking French with an accent that was unfamiliar to MacKim. “The staples are set deep in the rock.”
“Who are you?” MacKim asked, peering into the gloom.
“I’m known as Benjamin,” the voice sounded again.
“I am Hugh MacKim. Are you a prisoner here, too?”
“I am a slave,” Benjamin said.
MacKim was silent for a few moments. “I’ve never met a slave before.”
“I’ve never seen a white man chained in here before,” Benjamin replied. “What have you done?”
“I’m a prisoner of war, a British soldier,” MacKim said, wrestling with his chains.
“Save your energy,” Benjamin advised. “Why have the French put you in here? The other British prisoners are elsewhere.”
Now that MacKim had something on which to focus, he could make out Benjamin’s shape in the far corner of the dungeon. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Some freebooters captured me. Captain Roberval and his men.”
“The devil’s brother!” Benjamin said. “I know of that man.”
“Are you chained as well?” MacKim had not heard the rattle of any chains except his own.
“No,” Benjamin said. “The French save the chains for special slaves, men who have tried to escape or who have attacked their owners.”
“Has anybody escaped?”
“Some have escaped slavery, but the French recapture most. Martinique—Martinico to you—is a small island.”
MacKim had heard of slave revolts in other islands, usually crushed with terrible brutality. “If you escaped, where would you go?”
There was silence for quite a while as Benjamin considered the question. “Maybe Jamaica. The British have a treaty with the Maroons there and have promised to leave them in peace.”
MacKim was unsure what a Maroon was, but did not ask. “You’d need a boat,” he said. “And a compass.”
Benjamin was quiet again. “These things are hard to find.”
“Could you not go to Africa?” MacKim had only a vague idea of Africa’s location. He knew it was somewhere south of Europe, and was large and hot.
“Africa is too far away,” Benjamin said. “Anyway, where in Africa would I go? The chief of my tribe sold my grandfather into slavery. Would I be welcome there?”
MacKim did not pursue the question. “My chief sent me into the Army to fight the king’s wars.”
“Then we are both exiles, you and I,” Benjamin said.
The door opened then, allowing in a blast of fresher air, followed by a rush of slaves, both men and women, with Frenchmen and Martinico planters urging them in with loud shouts and blows. Within minutes, the incomers filled the dungeon, squabbling over every inch of space and talking in a mixture of French and a language that MacKim did not understand. He lay in his chains, an alien among strangers, with some slaves staring at this white prisoner in their midst.
“He’s a white man,” Benjamin explained. “A prisoner like us. His chief made him a slave of the British Army, and Roberval captured him.”
“I want to kill all white men,” a burly man said, looking at MacKim with loathing in his eyes.
“We all think like that,” Benjamin said. “But best to let them kill each other. Maybe one day there will be none left, and we can live as free men.”
MacKim sat quiet, picking up snippets of conversation. He had seen occasional black slaves in North America and more in the Caribbean. The Rangers even had freed Black men in the ranks, but he had never thought much about them. Now he saw them as people like him.
“If we kill him, nobody would know,” the burly man said.
