I transmigrated as a french soldier during XVIIIth century

Summer.

For many, it was the most important season, as numerous crops were harvested during this time of year. For politicians and military leaders, however, it was the season of war.

As His Majesty Louis XV feared, Louisbourg was under attack by the formidable British army, backed by the Royal Navy. This was the second time since the start of the war.

The previous year, the fortified town had been saved just in time, but this time, the situation looked truly grim.

The King of England, George II, had sent an impressive force across the vast Atlantic Ocean, led by Major General Jeffery Amherst. He was a talented 41-year-old officer who had fought in the previous war as well as at the Battle of Hastenbeck alongside His Highness, the Duke of Cumberland.

His mission was clear: capture Louisbourg, then move on to Quebec and Montreal. Without these three cities, all of northern New France would fall under British control, partially freeing their thirteen American colonies from a significant threat.

This, of course, would allow them to expand further westward.

For the British, the current situation was intolerable. Their destiny was to grow until they could rival the Spanish Empire. New France was the only obstacle in their path.

To help him accomplish his mission, Major General Amherst was supported by numerous promising officers. Among them, though not without his flaws, was the brilliant young James Wolfe.

Wolfe had not been convinced by the general’s plan. Along with the other brigadier generals and Admiral Edward Boscawen, he had worked on a plan to land troops east of Louisbourg to swiftly and efficiently take the town. Unfortunately, this plan had not been adopted by the major general, who decided to land west of the city instead.

Despite his opposition, James Wolfe did everything in his power to ensure the success of this plan. It went without saying, as it was in the higher and supreme interest of the Crown.

The siege began with a swift attack from three different directions: the first came from the west via Comorandière Bay, led by James Wolfe, Major George Scott, and Fraser’s Highlanders; the second came from Pointe Plate, led by General and Governor of Nova Scotia, Charles Lawrence; and a third came from Pointe Blanche, near the town, led by Brigadier General Edward Whitmore.

There had been a few skirmishes at sea, but the hostilities truly began on June 8, 1758.

James Wolfe had landed on the first day with three barges carrying about a hundred sharpshooters. True to his reputation, he was the first to set foot on shore.

That day, the waves crashed deafeningly against the black rocks, made as slippery as they were sharp by the weather and the relentless ocean. Despite this, encouraged by the boldness of their young commander, his men managed to cling to the rocks and climb them.

A little further down, things had not gone as well. As not all had yet landed at Anse au Sable, an unbelievable deluge of lead rained down on them.

The British generals quickly realized that the French were firmly waiting for them with a strong force, and that persisting at that location was futile. It risked becoming their graveyard. They then sought another landing point, choosing unguarded rocks considered inaccessible.

Just to reach Louisbourg, proud England had paid a heavy toll: nearly four hundred British casualties versus two hundred French. However, all agreed that the first day could have been much worse if the French hadn’t retreated so quickly for fear of being cut off from their withdrawal route to Louisbourg, or if they had waited a little longer before revealing themselves at Anse au Sable.

There were no further attacks until June 12. The British took advantage of this lull to land a battery of ten mortars during the night of June 9 to 10, allowing them to bombard the town and its small harbor, which was perfect for sheltering a fleet, though incomparable to Brest’s.

“General! Our scouts have returned from the Royal Battery! The French have abandoned it!”

Major General Amherst, dressed in his fine scarlet uniform trimmed with gold, was inside his tent at that moment, surrounded by his officers. They hastened to locate the battery’s position on an enormous map spread out over a large, dark wooden table belonging to the general.

“The Royal Battery? Ah yes, that one. The French also call it ‘the Grand Battery.’ A fitting name. How many guns does it have?” asked Charles Lawrence, stroking his freshly shaved chin.

“About ten, it seems. Maybe a dozen.”

“Well, gentlemen, it’s fortunate our enemies decided to leave it for us. Perhaps we can turn their guns against them?”

“Don’t dream, General Whitmore,” said Wolfe coldly, frowning. “They’ve surely sabotaged them or thrown them into the sea.”

The general remained silent for a moment, studying the map of the region, which was so detailed one could easily believe it had been stolen from the French. Everything was meticulously noted to allow the officers to make the best decisions.

Louisbourg was built on a sort of rocky promontory. To the north lay the harbor, which could easily be defended.

Although its entrance was wide, it was very dangerous near the fortified town due to the presence of numerous islands, sandbanks, and rocks. On the central island, Battery Island, they had built a fortification and placed several large-caliber artillery pieces, which were very troublesome.

To enter the harbor, one had to pass north of this island, the only place where the water was deep enough to navigate without the risk of running aground. But there were so many cannons and mortars there that it was practically suicide.

Between the guns on Battery Island, the Grand Battery, and those of the few warships entrenched in the harbor, it was impossible to force a passage. That’s why Admiral Edward Boscawen was content to impose a blockade.

“If the Royal Battery has indeed been abandoned by the French,” said Major General Amherst calmly, “we have a fine opportunity to take control of the harbor. Brigadier General Wolfe?”

“Yes, General?”

"You will take two thousand men and head to the Royal Battery to seize it. See what can be done to repair it. If that's not possible, I will send you a few cannons."

"I am at your command!" responded the young man with the sickly face and hair redder than a pure-blooded Scot.

"I’m not finished, the commander said, noticing the young officer already about to leave. You will then go to the lighthouse, across from Louisbourg, and establish a strong battery there. I want that port in our hands as quickly as possible. Your primary targets will be the warships in the harbor. Do you think you can do it, sir?"

"Yes, General! Two thousand men will be more than enough!"

Jeffery Amherst couldn’t help but harbor some doubts. Despite his enthusiasm, James Wolfe was still quite young, only thirty-one years old. It was almost out of necessity that he had been given his rank of brigadier general. He knew well that Minister William Pitt greatly appreciated his impetuous temperament.

Had it been up to him, Amherst would have chosen someone more experienced.

"Very well. In that case, you may go."

James Wolfe stiffly saluted and exited the large white tent of the general, greeted by a dazzling sun.

A wide, fox-like grin spread across his narrow face.

This will be easy, the young man thought. That must be why the general entrusted me with this mission. He knows I can’t fail. If the French abandoned that beautiful battery facing the entrance to the port, it means they have no intention of defending it.

The young Wolfe adjusted his blood-red coat and his black tricorn hat before turning toward the besieged town. His smile subtly changed. Rather than a fox’s grin, one might now see the smile of a fierce wolf, full of impatience, watching with amusement as a prey slowly succumbed.

This town is already lost. No matter how hard they fight, there’s nothing they can do to save it. The defenders are only retreating, but soon enough, they’ll have nowhere left to run. In a way, I’m a bit disappointed. I expected more from them.

As he expected, he encountered no resistance, and the Royal Battery fell into their hands. Unfortunately, the cannons there were completely unusable. A bit later, the lighthouse too came under their control.

Two days later, on June 14th, a violent encounter occurred—too large to be called a skirmish, yet too small to be called a battle. Unfortunately for Wolfe, he was not involved as he was stationed on the wrong side of the port.

He was simply informed that several French officers had been wounded, one of them severely. To Wolfe, this was a sign that the French had realized that doing nothing was deciding to die in silence. However, in his opinion, it was still a futile effort.

The British, though not as familiar with the area as the French, had a significant advantage over them—time.

They could blockade the besieged for weeks, bombarding them without being disturbed. Since their arrival, the British had comfortably settled in the region and taken control.

The day had thus passed peacefully on his side, and that evening, a thick fog descended around Louisbourg. It quickly became so dense that one couldn’t see anything just a few steps ahead.

"Stay vigilant!" he ordered his men. "Increase the patrols and keep your eyes wide open! The French might use this to launch an attack!"

"At your command!"

"I want five extra men stationed to the west and just as many to the north. Make sure the lanterns are always lit!"

James Wolfe had good reason to fear a night attack, especially with such fog. The reason was simple: he wouldn’t have hesitated to use these two elements to strike his enemy’s throat by surprise.

However, he made a slight mistake.

While the French did take advantage of the fog, it wasn’t to attack the besieging army but to slip through its grasp and call for reinforcements.

In the darkest hour, L’Aréthuse, a humble frigate, sneaked silently between the British ships without making a sound and managed to escape from Louisbourg’s harbor. It wasn’t the first time the besieged had attempted to flee, but unlike previous attempts, this time, the conditions were perfect.

Furious, James Wolfe erupted with anger and frustration at dawn when he realized one of his prey had escaped. Unfortunately, it was far too late to have any regrets.

The next two days were eerily quiet.

You could feel a tension in the air, like the calm before a storm. Each army was preparing for a fierce battle.

A little after dawn on June 16th, the situation in this remote corner of the globe changed entirely.

"Attention! French ships approaching!" shouted a young English sailor at the top of the HMS Centurion’s mast.

"What?! How many are there?!"

"T-twenty ships of the line and many armed flutes and barges, Captain! They’re coming from the northeast!

Immediately, bells rang aboard all of Admiral Boscawen’s ships and soon throughout Louisbourg. Some sounded urgent, while others rang joyfully."

***

It didn’t take long for the great news to reach the officers aboard the French ships trapped in Louisbourg’s harbor. There were six warships and ten frigates stationed there.

"Raise the anchor! This is our moment! Hoist the sails, open all the gunports, and load those damn cannons!"

"Vengeance!"

"Death to the English!"

With great agility, the sailors climbed into the rigging and got to work. Meanwhile, the gunners opened the gunports one by one, revealing the menacing muzzles of the formidable French cannons.

"Load those cannons, and faster! Everyone to their stations!"

On the deck of each ship, the sails unfurled majestically and billowed in the wind. Slowly, they began to gain speed and moved into formation.

All of these ships then surged out of the harbor.

They seemed so proud and joyful to be leaving their shelter at that moment! With the French ships that had just arrived, they now had more than enough to crush the few enemy vessels blockading the port.

"Captain, where are all these ships coming from?"

"Who cares! They’re our comrades! More sail! Ahah! Today, the fish will feast on Englishmen!"

"Poor bastards, hehe!"

***

The new arrivals, led by the Foudroyant, sped ahead with a favorable wind at their backs.

The English ships forming Vice Admiral Hardy’s division, positioned to isolate Louisbourg and attack the vessels trapped there, suddenly found themselves caught between two enemies.

“Damn it! Do something! Tack the ship! Quickly!” cried the commander of the HMS Centurion, turning sharply to his subordinates.

The HMS Centurion, a fifty-four-gun ship, was the first to come under fire.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

The line led by the Foudroyant presented its cannons to the enemy while the Comète did the same from the entrance of the port.

An infernal noise erupted, accompanied by the powerful stench of burning powder that lingered around the ships like an acrid fog. Through the thick gray smoke, faint orange flashes could be seen where the enemy’s cannons fired.

The air trembled, the wood creaked, the crew bled, and the ropes snapped in a strange harmony amidst thousands of flying splinters.

The frigate Comète and its twenty-four guns didn’t do much damage to the hull of the HMS Centurion, but one of its cannonballs struck a mast, weakening it significantly. It seemed to stay up by sheer miracle.

The cannonball had bounced off the solid wood and veered in a strange direction, punching a clean hole through the mainsail.

The Foudroyant then turned toward the HMS Vanguard, a superb seventy-gun ship, and unleashed a devastating broadside, this time causing significant damage and killing many sailors aboard, including its captain, Mr. Gramon, whose head was cleanly blown off.

The Océan, following behind, finished it off with a perfect broadside. In less than an hour, the few ships in the British vice-admiral's squadron were either heavily damaged or sunk.

All that remained of this squadron was Vice Admiral Hardy’s flagship, the imposing HMS Royal William, which had stayed slightly further back.

The rest of the British fleet, though large, was far off to the west, sheltered in Gabarus Bay.