18th Century Historical War Fiction Series
Warrior’s Path by Malcolm Archibald
Series Excerpt
Louisbourg, July 1758
“They’re surrendering!” Chisholm pointed to the battered walls of Louisbourg. The French flag was fluttering down over the shattered houses.
“About time!” Sergeant Dingwall puffed at a black pipe. “I didn’t want to go through a storming. That would be a bloody business.” He shook his head. “The French governor, Drucor, virtually demanded that we accord him the Honours of War, so they keep their standards and weapons.” He shook his head. “Amherst gave him his marching orders.”
“Why was that?” MacKim asked.
“The French lost their honour after what they did to our lads at Fort William Henry.” Dingwall blew out a long ribbon of tobacco smoke. “You’ll remember the French captured the fort, then allowed the Canadians and Indians to torture, murder and scalp our boys. I’m glad that Amherst turned him down. We’ll have the Frenchie’s flags and weapons as souvenirs.”
MacKim watched the white Bourbon flag finally vanish from above the battered skyline of Louisbourg. He would not have to help storm the place. His first campaign as a soldier was over, and he had not received so much as a scratch.
I’m a soldier now, he told himself. Yet I am not one inch further forward in fulfilling my oath. I have never seen Hayes or the other Grenadiers who murdered Ewan.
At eight in the morning of 27th July 1758, the Grenadier companies of the Royal Scots, Amherst’s and Hopson’s Regiment marched to the open gate known as Porte Dauphine. With the bands playing and the Grenadiers marching at attention, MacKim thought it seemed more like a parade than an occupation, except for the backdrop. Although the wind had blown away the powder smoke, there was no mistaking the acrid reek of fire-damaged buildings, the dozen or so still burning buildings and the depression that sat on the faces of the defeated garrison.
At noon that day, the French drew up on the esplanade, with the rigours of the siege rending the white uniforms less splendid than they should have been.
“It’s all very formal,” MacKim said. “I thought we would be scaling the walls with fire and sword and fighting our way in through streets awash with blood.”
“Oh, very poetic,” Chisholm said.
The two sides, British and French, faced each other in ordered ranks across the cobbled ground of the esplanade. At a signal that MacKim did not see, four of the five French regiments laid down their colours and arms and then marched out of the fortress and down to the ships, to be carried away as prisoners. There was no cheering from the British, and no jubilation at having captured what was said to be the strongest fortress in North America.
“What the devil?” Chisholm said, as the men of the fifth French regiment, the Cambis, smashed their muskets on the ground and set fire to their regimental colours. Having made their protest, they marched away to captivity.
“Cheeky buggers!” Chisholm shook his head. He smiled. “We’ve taken thousands of prisoners, and the strongest fortress in the Americas. Nobody can blame the Frasers for disloyalty now, Hugh. We proved ourselves in this campaign.”
“Did you hear what some of the Frenchies were saying?” Urquhart was a freckle-faced youngster with wide, clear eyes. “They said they would have surrendered sooner except they were scared of Frasers. They thought the Rangers and the Highlanders would have scalped them and then cut their throats.”
“They must think we are all savages,” MacKim said.
“Aye, maybe so,” Urquhart said. “And maybe the enemy are the savages. Corporal Gunn was after telling me that some of the French officers were German, and as soon as they surrendered, they broke open the military chests and stole the gold.”
“Thieving buggers,” Chisholm said, with another smile. “I wanted to do that.”
“Corporal Gunn said we’ve not to be too hard on them,” Urquhart said. “He said the Frenchies claimed we fought like lions.”
“Roar!” Chisholm responded, looking at the ranks of the 78th. “Some lions. More like tabby cats.”
As Brigadier General Whitmore became governor of Louisbourg and with the French garrison safely out of the way, the British had liberty to explore the town that had defied them for so many weeks. As Chisholm had said, with the restraints of discipline loosened, men crowded into the taverns.
“Stay close,” Chisholm advised. “Some of the French civilians might seek revenge on stray British soldiers. Don’t go wandering around alone.”
MacKim nodded. “I’m a soldier, James, not a child.”
“I know that,” Chisholm said. “Come on then. We’ll see if the artillery’s left a grog shop standing.”
The architecture of Louisbourg would have been more in place in France than on the shores of the Americas, with shutters, flared roofs, dormer windows and a profusion of carved fleur-de-lis. Apart from that, the place was all stone and austerity, with no public spaces.
“It’s a bit stark,” MacKim said.
“It’s a military fort,” Chisholm reminded him.
There were no flowers; the French had used every patch of earth to grow vegetables or herbs. Any animal was there to work; there were no pets. “The civilians were subsidiary to the military,” MacKim said. “What a strange way of living.”
“We’ll be in there soon.” Chisholm nodded to the very heart of Louisbourg, the King’s Bastion Barracks, a vast building by North American standards if bearing the scars of British artillery. “The French governor’s quarters are in there, as well as a chapel and barracks for hundreds of men.” He shook his head. “If we had taken this place by storm, MacKim, we could have looted it from Monday to Christmas. As it is,” he screwed up his face, “we get our pay and live another day.”
“‘A lot of our army won’t be getting any more pay again,”’ MacKim said. “Nearly two hundred men are dead and over three hundred and fifty wounded.”
“Aye,” Chisholm said. “The king and generals will say that’s a cheap price to pay to capture the strongest fortress in North America.”
“The wives and mothers won’t agree.” Cattanach showed a side that MacKim had not expected.
“They don’t count.” Chisholm touched his scarred face. “Ordinary soldiers may be the pawns in the King’s game of chess, but women are not even dust. Not even Pikestaff has any time for them.” He glanced at MacKim. “Nor has MacKim, I think.”
MacKim grunted. “Someday,” he said. “When I’m ready.”
“You’re strange, you are,” Cumming began to sneer, until MacKim put a hand on his bayonet.
“Come on, Hugh!” Chisholm nudged MacKim. “Never mind him. We’re off to taste the delights of Louisbourg.”
“You’re strange,” Cumming repeated. “I’ll not be turning my back on you, MacKim.”
The taverns were roaring with British infantry and Colonial Rangers, while others roamed the streets, celebrating the victory or, as MacKim cynically thought, celebrating their relief at still being alive. Not a drinking man, MacKim allowed Chisholm to steer him into a small tavern where a group of seamen were arguing with a pair of artillerymen, while a Ranger watched from a distance, smoking a long-stemmed pipe.
“In we go, MacKim.” Ignoring the men who stared at his malformed face, Chisholm ordered rum for them both, squeezed onto an already crowded bench, stretched out his legs and sighed. “Here we are, then. We have one victory under our belts and the door to Canada in our hands.”
MacKim tasted the rum and looked around. Knots of men of all regiments filled the small room, with each group seeming in competition to boast the loudest. MacKim ran his gaze from man to man, searching for the buff facings of Webb’s 48th. He saw three of that regiment, but none had the broad shoulders of Grenadiers. The only Grenadiers he saw carried the motto Nec aspra terrent – difficulties be damned – on their mitre caps, the motto of the 43rd foot.
“What’s next?” MacKim asked.
“Up the St Lawrence to Quebec,” Chisholm said. “We’ve made a start, nothing more. We were lucky that the Frenchies surrendered. I heard the Royal Highlanders had it hard at Ticonderoga. They lost hundreds of men when General Montgomery threw them in a frontal attack.”
MacKim nodded. “Highlanders always go forward with great bravery, and often get slaughtered.”
“One day we’ll learn to temper our courage with caution.” Chisholm immediately caught MacKim’s drift. He looked up and smiled. “Halloa, there. That’s worth looking at.”
The woman was tall, dark-haired and wore a dress cut deliberately low to show the cleavage of her breasts to best advantage. She stopped inside the doorway and ran her gaze around every man in the room before approaching the table where MacKim sat.
“You have an interesting face.” Her voice was low, nearly husky. “May I sit here?”
MacKim’s voice dried up until he realised that the woman was addressing Chisholm.
“I have an interesting face? I have a face that looks like a lion chewed it and spat it out again.” It was the first time MacKim had heard Chisholm speaking in English.
“It is a face that speaks of experience and battle.”
MacKim made way as the woman squeezed onto the crowded bench. Rewarding him with a smile, she took hold of Chisholm’s arm. ‘I’m Michelle.” She spoke with the most delightful accent MacKim had ever heard, part French, part North American.
“I’m James Chisholm, and my companion is Hugh MacKim.”
Michelle threw another brief smile at MacKim before returning her attention to Chisholm. “Tell me about yourself, James.”
“There’s not much to tell, Michelle, except I am the ugliest man in the army. I got myself wounded at Fontenoy, you see.”
Michelle widened her eyes. “I’ve heard of that battle,” she said, with every breath exhaling a whiff of perfume. “You are an old soldier then, a veteran.”
Realising he was one man too many in the present company, MacKim rose from the table. “Good luck, James,” he said, lifting a hand in farewell as he slipped out of the tavern to breathe fresh Atlantic air, albeit still tinged with smoke. So James Chisholm speaks English, too. That man is full of surprises and secrets.
Soldiers crowded the streets, some already the worse for drink, others enthusiastically attempting to reach that state. A few were singing, others challenging the residents of the town to a fight, while a lucky half-dozen paraded the women who clung to their arms.
When the group of burly veterans reeled from a corner tavern, the face jolted MacKim back to his childhood. The years had not been kind to the Grenadier, deepening the lines that seamed his features. The dark hair was thinner and greyer than MacKim remembered, the face broader but still leering, while the broken, twisted nose was red-tinged with drink. Even so, MacKim recognised him at once. Hayes. MacKim felt his stomach churning with a mixture of hatred and fear as memories of that day, twelve years ago, resurfaced.
The Grenadier was singing an obscene song, with the coarse words spewing from his mouth as he swayed into the street.
MacKim’s fist curled around his bayonet. A scrutiny of Hayes’ three companions told him they were strangers. They had not been with Hayes at Drummossie.
“You’re doing it again, Hugh.” Chisholm’s voice sounded in MacKim’s ear.
MacKim started. “What? Where did you spring from? I left you with Michelle!”
“Michelle’s a whore,” Chisholm said. “She’s probably riddled with every kind of pox you can imagine.” He shook his head. “A woman who looks for the ugliest man is to be trusted as much as a woman who seeks out the richest. Michelle was hiding something, as are you. You’re doing it again.”
MacKim immediately became defensive. “Doing what again?”
“Watching people.” Chisholm pulled MacKim away. “Come on, Hugh, and we’ll find some rum and maybe a real woman for you, not some poxed-up jezebel.”
MacKim jerked himself free of Chisholm’s grasp. “Sorry, James. I’ll have to leave you to drink alone.”
“Cumming was right; you’re a strange man, Hugh. What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have.” MacKim watched the Grenadiers roll along the street, shouting, abusing everybody they passed and kicking at doors just for the sport of it.
“Ah.” Chisholm began to stuff tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. “You’ve found your Webb’s Grenadier, have you?”
“He’s one of these four.” MacKim nodded to the Grenadiers.
“Who is he, Hugh?” Chisholm asked quietly. “You’ve been looking for him for months. Who is he?”
“Nobody. He’s not important.” MacKim wished that Chisholm would leave him in peace so he could follow Hayes.
“That’s not true. I’ve seen you examine every lobster that passes,” Chisholm said. “You look at them and then shake your head. When you saw these Grenadiers, you looked as if you’d seen your dead granny. Which one is it?”
“The one in the middle,” MacKim said.
Chisholm grunted. “What’s he done to you?”
MacKim stepped away. “I can’t tell you.”
“As I said before, boy, there are no secrets in the regiment. We’ve fought together, you and I, we’ve faced the French and survived Sergeant Dingwall. Tell me.”
MacKim took a deep breath. “It’s something I have to put right myself.”
“Good.” Chisholm smiled. “You put it right yourself, and I’ll come along with you to make sure nobody else interferes.” He nodded. “You’ll have noticed that there are four of them, four Grenadiers, each one bigger and uglier than you are and undoubtedly more experienced in fighting as well. God in heaven, Hugh, they’re nearly as ugly as me!”
“It’s not your fight.” MacKim ignored Chisholm’s attempt at humour.
“Why is it yours?” Chisholm smiled again. “I’m going to keep asking you until I find out, and dog your footsteps whatever you say.”
“He murdered my brother,” MacKim said sharply. He had not intended to tell anybody, but once the words were out, he continued, telling Chisholm the whole story of Drummossie Moor.
“Aye,” Chisholm said when MacKim finished. “What do you want to do about it?”
“I’m going to kill him,” MacKim said at once.
“You’ll swing if you’re caught.”
“I know.”
Chisholm nodded. “Our concern is to separate your man from his companions.”
“No.” MacKim shook his head. “It’s not our concern. It’s my fight and my concern. You should not get involved, or you could swing, too.”
Chisholm ignored the interruption. “It’s unlikely your man Hayes will recognise you after all this time, Hugh. You were only a boy then.” There was no humour in his grin. “Damn it, man, you’re still only a boy! Do you think you can handle him?”
“Yes.” Hugh touched his bayonet again.
“All right, if you think so.” Chisholm nodded. “Come on then, Hugh. Follow my lead and keep in the shadows so nobody can identify you later.”
Manoeuvring around a carousing group of Rangers, Chisholm raised his voice. “Hey! Grenadiers!”
Two of the Grenadiers turned around, one swaying on his feet. “What do you want?” Alcohol slurred the speaker’s voice.
“There is a woman back there.” Chisholm gestured with his thumb. “She’s looking for a Grenadier. She says men in skirts aren’t good enough for her.”
All four Grenadiers lurched around. Hayes leered at them, his nose looking more twisted than ever. “What sort of woman?”
“A good-looking woman,” Chisholm said. “She said that I’m too ugly for her.”
The youngest of the Grenadiers laughed. “There’s no wonder at that. It must be me she wants.”
“This way, then,” Chisholm ducked into the shadows and stalked away. The Grenadiers followed at once, with two of them supporting each other and the youngest man the most eager. Waiting his moment, MacKim thrust his foot forward and tripped Hayes.
The Grenadier staggered and fell face-first on the ground. Looking around, MacKim stooped and helped him slowly to his feet. The other Grenadiers were already thirty yards away, reeling drunkenly behind Chisholm.
MacKim nodded. He had Hayes to himself, but with this part of the town filled with revelling soldiers, he had to find somewhere quieter.
“Where’s everybody gone?” Hayes’ breath stunk of rum and tobacco. He peered suspiciously at MacKim.
“They’re off to find women,” MacKim reminded.
“Where’s mine?”
“Over here. This way.” MacKim put an arm around the man’s shoulders as if to support him. Hayes was broad, with muscles as hard as granite, yet touching him made MacKim’s skin crawl. “Over there.” He nodded vaguely to a section of the town that British artillery had turned into a rubble-strewn mess.
“I can’t see her.”
“What’s your name, my friend?” MacKim had a sudden fear he had the wrong man.
Hayes drew himself erect. “Private Edmund Hayes,” he said, “a Grenadier of Webb’s Regiment of Foot.”
“I’m Hector MacDonald,” MacKim lied. “We’ve met before, Hayes.” He guided the Grenadier to the darkest part of a ruined building. “Sit down here.”
“Where’s the woman?” Hayes slumped onto an irregular square of masonry.
MacKim checked to ensure they were alone. The voices of drunken soldiers rose in the distance. “There isn’t one.” He leaned closer as Hayes began a foul-mouthed protest. “Don’t you recognise me, Edmund Hayes?”
“What?” Hayes peered closer. “No.”
“Think back.” Leaning forward, MacKim removed the bayonet from Hayes’ belt and threw it far into the ruins. “Think a long way back. Think back to April 1746 and the field of Culloden, when you were with Ligonier’s.”
“We won the battle,” Hayes said. “We crushed the rebel dogs.”
“You did,” MacKim agreed. “You mowed down the Jacobites before they got close. You shattered them with grapeshot and cannonballs and riddled them with massed musketry.”
“Yes.” Hayes smiled as if at a pleasant memory.
“And afterwards…?” MacKim allowed the words to hang in the air. “Can you remember what happened after the battle?”
“Yes.” Hayes’ smile did not falter. “We bayoneted the scoundrels. We killed the Scotch rebels.” He gave a little laugh.
“That’s right.” MacKim realised that Hayes was too drunk to know what he was admitting. “But you did not bayonet them all, did you? Can you remember one young boy with a shattered leg? Can you remember what you did to him?”
Hayes giggled. “We put a torch up his arse.”
“That’s right.” MacKim fought the nausea that burned the back of his throat. “You burned him alive, slowly.”
Hayes laughed again, swaying on his lump of masonry.
“Who else was with you?” MacKim had to force the words from his throat when his first instinct was to plunge his bayonet into Hayes’ chest. “There were four of you.” MacKim knew he would never forget the faces, but if he matched them with names, his quest would be a lot easier.
“Yes, there were four of us,” Hayes said. “Have you anything to drink? And where is this woman you promised?”
“I’ve nothing to drink,” MacKim said. “Who were your friends?”
Hayes smiled, swayed and seemed to sober up. “There was Corporal Bland. He was the fellow who set a torch to that rebel dog’s skirt.”
Bland. “It’s a kilt, not a skirt,” MacKim corrected softly.
“He got made sergeant after the battle,” Hayes said. “Scarred Sergeant Bland.” He smiled, shaking his head in memory. “He often told people how he had set a rebel on fire after Culloden.”
“I wager he had many a jolly rant.” MacKim tried to control his anger. “Where is the good sergeant now?”
“Dead, I fear,” Hayes said.
MacKim felt a stab of disappointment. Of them all, he had most wished to kill the corporal who had burned his brother alive. “How did he die?”
“We left him down with fever in the Low Countries,” Hayes said. “He never came back. Fever is the worst enemy of the soldier.”
“How about the other two?” MacKim fought to restrain his temper. He gripped his bayonet so hard that his fist shook.
“Hitchins and Osborne? They’re still going around. Hitchins got promoted to corporal, but lost his stripes and gained a hundred lashes for having a crooked queue on parade.”
I hope the drummer laid it on with a will, MacKim thought. So, Bland is dead, but the others are still alive and still in uniform. Hitchins and Osborne. I will remember those names. Hitchins and Osborne.
“Do you remember the even younger boy who was at Culloden?” MacKim kept his voice soft. “Do you remember a ten-year-old child?”
“We held him so he could watch the other one dying,” Hayes laughed again. “He was gibbering in Erse, pleading for the boy’s life, no doubt. We gave no quarter to rebel dogs. The Duke said ‘no quarter’, and we obeyed.”
“That’s right,” MacKim said. “The Duke said ‘no quarter’. That lad had nightmares for years.” He paused, fighting the memory. “That was me, Hayes.”
Hayes looked up, suddenly comprehension in his dazed eyes. “You?”
“Me.” MacKim had dreamed of this moment for twelve years, but now it had arrived, he was not sure what to do. He had thought that his military training and experience would help, but fighting Frenchmen in honest battle was utterly different from killing a man in cold blood. This man laughed as his friends murdered Ewan, and I gave my oath on the Bible.
“You Sawnie bastard!” Drunk as he was, Hayes was a Grenadier, one of the prime soldiers in the army. Without another word, he threw himself forward. Grabbing at MacKim’s throat, Hayes bore him back by sheer weight until MacKim lay on the ground with the older man on top. Hayes’ mouth was open, showing irregular, brown-stained teeth as he snarled his hatred in MacKim’s face.
“I’ll kill you, Sawnie bastard. I’ll squeeze out your breath, rebel dog!”
It was instinct more than anything made MacKim twist his head to one side and bite deep into Hayes’ thumb. Hayes yelled and jerked his hand free, nearly loosening two of MacKim’s teeth in the process. Following up his advantage, MacKim shoved Hayes away and rolled to his feet. He sized up the opposition. Hayes was older and less agile, but stronger and a vastly more experienced brawler.
Snarling, Hayes lifted a jagged chunk of masonry and swung at MacKim, who stepped smartly aside. Again they grappled, with Hayes pushing MacKim back down, and clamping his arms around MacKim’s body.
“I’ll kill you, Sawnie!” Hayes promised. “I’ll kick you to death and burn you like we burned your brother.”
The words broke the last of MacKim’s reserve. The memory of Ewan’s screams returned in all their horror. Knowing he was no match for Hayes’ strength, MacKim used his agility to wriggle free and push himself upright before Hayes was on his feet. Without a pause, MacKim swung his nailed shoe hard into Hayes’ groin. When the Grenadier doubled up, gasping, MacKim grabbed Hayes’ head and hauled him down, smashing his face against the masonry again and again, sobbing with a combination of effort, fear and hatred as the Grenadier’s yells muted to moans and then to silence.
“You murdered my brother!” MacKim crashed Hayes’ face against the stone. “You murdered my brother!”
“You can stop now,” Chisholm’s voice sounded.
MacKim looked up. Chisholm sat on a stone block, calmly smoking his clay pipe.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough,” Chisholm said. “Your man’s dead now. You don’t have to waste any more effort on him.”
Panting, MacKim dropped Hayes’ broken body. All his anger had dissipated. He looked at his tunic, now spattered with droplets of Hayes’ blood and fragments of his bone.
“We’d better hide him,” Chisholm said. “We’ll scrape a hole and throw him in.” He considered for a moment. “Take his clothes off, Hugh.”
“Why?”
“If somebody finds him in uniform, people will know what he was and ask questions. If he’s naked, whoever finds him might take him for a Frenchie. We can burn his uniform.”
MacKim nodded. “Have you done this sort of thing before?”
“Not exactly. Come on. Search his pockets first.”
Having taken Hayes’ few shillings, they stripped him naked, dragged him to a depression and pushed him in, piling stones on top until they could no longer see the corpse. Chisholm looked down dispassionately. “With any luck, by the time somebody finds him, the body will be too decomposed for anybody to recognise him.”
With a dozen fires still smouldering in the aftermath of the siege, it was not hard to find the largest. MacKim and Chisholm fed in Hayes’ uniform, piece by piece. As MacKim watched the flames slowly devour the scarlet serge, the memories of his brother were strong inside his head. He could feel Ewan standing close by him, with their mother watching, slowly nodding her head in approval.
Now I am a murderer. I sought out that man and killed him. How do I feel about that? Nothing. I feel nothing. Four men murdered my brother. One, the worst, died of fever. I have killed another. I have two more to kill before his spirit will be at rest.
That night, MacKim begged a scrap of paper and a pen from the stores and wrote down four names. Bland; Hayes; Osborne; Hitchins, and added the date 16th April 1746. He looked at them for a long moment, before he scored out Bland’s name and added, died of fever. Then he scored out Hayes’ name and added the date alongside, 28th July 1758.
Two more, he told himself, two more and I will have redeemed my oath, and I’ll be free to live the life that I wish to live. Two more and then I can return to Scotland.
To do what? I have no land, no money and no skills. MacKim sighed as he contemplated his future, then he shrugged, placed the paper in his pocket and walked away. There was no point in thinking of his future until he had fulfilled his oath, and he might not live that long.
***
“Well, Hugh.” Chisholm sucked at his empty pipe. “We captured Louisbourg, but the French might yet win the war.”
“Why is that?”
“They held Louisbourg long enough, so we don’t have time to capture Quebec this year. That gives the French all winter to strengthen their defences.” Chisholm sighed. “Next campaigning season will be a lot harder than this one, I reckon.”
MacKim nodded, disguising the sudden leap of his heart. Anything can happen in an entire winter. I might find Hitchins and Osborne. ”Well, James, that might not be a bad thing.”
Chisholm threw him a level look. “Cumming’s right about you, Hugh. You are a strange man.”
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