MacKim knew this was the moment of truth, for as soon as the defenders realised how few Rangers there were, they would rally and repel them by sheer numbers. Kennedy had to rely on confusion and momentum to keep the French unbalanced, for panicking men cannot reason.
Stepping over a writhing regular, MacKim chased after the fleeing French and into the shipbuilding yard. His section followed, cheering like madmen as they spread out.
The officer in command of the yard had not wasted his time. A company of French regulars formed up in two lines, their white uniforms gleaming, their tricorn hats all at an identical angle, and their muskets aligned in perfect symmetry.
“Jesus!” Waite blasphemed, as the French officer rapped a command and every musket lowered to aim at MacKim’s oncoming Rangers.
“Down!” MacKim ordered. “Everybody lie down!” He had a memory from his youth, a recollection that the old Scottish Highlanders used to throw themselves down when the redcoats fired a volley, then jump up and attack with the sword. If it worked with British regulars, it would work with the equally precisely-trained French.
The Rangers under MacKim’s command obeyed at once, with a few of Kennedy’s wing also dropping to the ground. Others continued to advance when the French officer barked the order to fire.
Eighty French muskets fired, with muzzles flaring and spurting smoke. Four of the scattered Rangers fell, and then MacKim was on his feet, roaring an old Gaelic battle cry as he charged. He knew his Rangers were following; knew they were also shouting and yelling, wielding their muskets and hatchets, but he could neither see nor hear them. In his mind, he was a Highland warrior, charging with his broadsword in his hand. He was Angus Og MacDonald at Bannockburn; he was Somerled fighting the Norse; he was the legendary Ossian, and then he was wee Hughie MacKim fighting to avenge Tayanita.
“Tayanita!” he roared as he crashed into the French lines. Struggling to reload, the white-coated infantrymen staggered under the Rangers’ charge.
MacKim had a momentary glance of a startled French face as he ran at him, bayonet poised, and then the French line broke in sudden panic. Chisholm had informed him that few troops stood up to a bayonet charge, and there were very few occasions when masses of infantry fought bayonet-to-bayonet. The Rangers’ success proved the truth of Chisholm’s words as the French fled from less than half their number of Rangers.
“We’ve got them beat!” Kennedy exulted, firing a pistol at the retreating French regulars. “MacKim, keep the Frenchies on the run with your men. I’ll fire the boats.”
“Yes, sir!” MacKim had no idea how he and his twenty men could chase an entire company of French regulars, plus however many Indians and Canadians might appear.
“Keep them moving,” MacKim shouted. He stopped behind a stack of cut timber, reloaded and fired into the retreating mob of white-coated French. “Marksmen! To me!”
Parnell, MacRae, Waite and Dickert joined him, all panting, wild-eyed with the activity. They slumped behind the timber-stack, each man holding his long rifle with infinite care.
“Look for French officers and NCOs,” MacKim ordered. “Without leaders, the French won’t rally. As soon as you see an officer or NCO, shoot them.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” MacRae calmed himself down with a deep breath. He took up position behind the pile of logs as the other marksmen found their own niches. “I can see an officer,” he said, cocked his rifle and took careful aim.
“Be careful not to shoot any of our men,” MacKim warned and ran forward as the remainder of his men followed the French, loading and firing as fast as they could.
One middle-aged French officer appeared, shouting to his men. MacKim saw a dozen infantry pause and gather around him until a shot rang out. It was different from the report of the Brown Bess, sharper, and MacKim knew without looking that it was MacRae’s long rifle. The French officer looked at the spreading red stain on his coat, and then a second rifle shot sounded; the officer jerked back and crumpled to the ground.
At the sight of their officer down, the French soldiers scattered again, with only a young corporal attempting to rally them. When one of MacKim’s riflemen shot the corporal, MacKim led a charge, and the French broke and fled without firing a shot.
“We’re winning,” Ranald MacDonald said, stopping in the shelter of a warehouse wall as he reloaded.
“We are, as long as the Frenchies don’t realise how few we are,” MacKim said. He smelled smoke from behind him, glanced over his shoulder and saw one of the gun platforms ablaze, with the smoke coiling upwards.
“Lieutenant Kennedy’s got started.” Chisholm sounded laconic.
“Thank God. We can’t stay here much longer,” MacKim said. “It won’t be long before the French officers gather their men.”
Chisholm knelt, fired and reloaded. “Somebody’s shouting orders already,” he said.
The voices were hoarse, half-heard above the irregular musketry and the crackle of flames as Kennedy’s party worked on the gun-platforms.
Despite the marksmen’s work, the French were again rallying, with officers and NCOs gathering small groups in the shelter of various buildings. They began to return the Rangers’ fire, at first in single shots, then in irregular volleys, as the officers collected more men.
A musket ball hummed past MacKim; another burrowed into the snow beside his right foot, forcing him to jump away.
“We can’t advance any further.” MacKim withdrew to the shelter of some cut timber. “Find some cover, lads, and keep the French away until the Lieutenant has the gun-platforms ablaze.”
Although the volume of smoke had increased, showing Kennedy was setting more of the gun-platforms on fire, the French resistance was stiffening. MacKim knew that his handful of Rangers could not daunt such doughty fighters as the Canadians and Indians for long. Already, the French were pushing at the flanks, creeping forward inch by inch.
“Hold them!” MacKim shouted. He crouched behind the stack, fired at a group of Canadians, and was frantically loading when he saw an Indian crawling over the top of the logs. Dropping his musket, MacKim drew his pistol, fired, saw the Indian grab hold of his leg, and tucked his pistol away. He was faster loading a musket than a pistol. Something thudded against the corner of the stack, scattering wood splinters past MacKim’s face.
“They’re on the left flank, Sergeant!” Chisholm shouted, firing and loading like a man possessed.
“Keep them back!”
“They’re outflanking us!” Chisholm warned.
MacKim swore, glanced behind him to see the progress of Kennedy’s arsonists, and nodded. Most of the gun-platforms were ablaze, with smoke coiling aloft and spreading across the shipyard.
“Pull back!” MacKim pointed to the log-stack where his marksmen were holding out. “Form a stronghold at that stack!”
The Rangers pulled back, each man covering the next until they reformed behind and beside the log stack. Seeing their enemy retreat, the French advanced, opening a heavy musketry on the logs so that chips of wood flew through the air.
The French officers were shouting orders, their voices hoarse but the meaning clear as the French pushed forward.
“It’s getting hot, Sergeant!” MacDonald said, taking a snapshot and then ducking behind the logs to reload. “And I don’t mean because of the flames.”
“We’ll hold them as long as we can,” MacKim said, “and give the lieutenant time to destroy as much as possible.” He coughed in the smoke. “And let’s hope we can get out before we’re burned as well.”
“Got me another one,” Dickert said. “A sergeant that time.” He reloaded with care, whisking his ramrod up and down the long barrel of his rifle. “I like to shoot sergeants; they are such harassing people.”
MacKim nodded. “I’ll be harassing you if you don’t stop talking and get on with the firing.”
Dickert gave a low laugh. “Yes, Sergeant. That’s four so far, MacRae. How many for you?”
“Three stone-dead,” MacRae said. “One possible.”
“Sergeant,” Ranger Hackett was nearly black with soot and smoke as he approached MacKim, “Lieutenant Kennedy says it’s time to get out!”
“Thank you, Hackett,” MacKim said. “Pray to inform the lieutenant that we’ll be back directly.” He raised his voice. “Right, boys, we’ve done our duty here. Move out in pairs, each covering the other.” MacKim was surprised how easily authority came to him. He did not consider himself a natural soldier; he did not wish to be in the army, but years of campaigning had taught him the difference between a good and a bad NCO.
“I’ll cover you, Sergeant.” Chisholm aimed, fired and reloaded as calmly as if he were on the parade ground in Quebec.
“Come on, lads,” MacKim said, watching the progress of his men and ensuring the marksmen left first so their longer-range rifles could cover the rest.
As soon as the Rangers began to withdraw, the French increased their firing, pushing forward on each flank.
MacKim shot at a Canadian on his left, saw his ball spread splinters from a pile of logs and reloaded. In front, a detachment of French regulars was forming in open order, preparing to advance.
“Time to go, boys,” MacKim said. “There’s only five of us remaining here, too few to hold them.” He ducked as a ball whined past his head.
Chisholm loaded and glanced at Ranald MacDonald, who nodded. “We’re ready, sir.”
“Go!” MacKim ordered and fired at the regulars in front. Without waiting to see if his ball took effect, he lowered his head and followed his Rangers, running fast and jinking to spoil the enemy’s aim. He knew that the French muskets were every bit as inaccurate as the British, but it was possible that one or more of the enemy owned a rifle and would love to shoot a sergeant. Dickert’s words echoed in MacKim’s head: “I like to shoot sergeants; they are such harassing people.” No doubt, the French and Canadians shared Dickert’s opinion.
“Sergeant!” Chisholm skidded towards a stack of barrels and made room for MacKim. “In here!”
MacKim rolled behind the barrels, with little spouts of snow and dirt showing where French musket-balls were landing behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see flames leaping skyward while thick, acrid smoke concealed the gate to the yard. For a moment he saw Tayanita, shaking her head as if to warn him of something, but he pushed the image away.
“Where’s the lieutenant?”
“I don’t know!” Chisholm had to shout above the increasing crackle of the flames and sound of musketry.
MacKim nodded and loaded his musket, glancing around to check on his men. Miraculously, only one was missing, despite the volume of fire coming from the French. “Where’s Hackett?”
“Dead, Sergeant,” Parnell said. “Shot clean through the heart.”
“At least it was quick. Right, lads,” MacKim shouted. “Each man fire another round and reload. When we’re all ready, we’re heading for the gate, somewhere in the smoke.”
One by one, the Rangers acknowledged with a lift of their hand or a word. Their eyes were huge in smoke-blackened, sweat-streaked faces.
“Seek a target and fire,” MacKim ordered and watched as the Rangers fired. Veterans all, the Rangers did not rush but found their targets, aimed and squeezed the trigger, with each shot a flat crack amidst the bedlam of battle. After they fired, the men loaded, working with speed yet no haste, not dropping a grain of powder and ramming home the ball with methodical efficiency.
These are good men, MacKim thought; they are as good as any soldiers in the world.
“Two at a time,” MacKim said. “Run for the gate. Chisholm, you and MacDonald first. Move!”
He watched each pair disappear in the smoke, wondered briefly if he would see them again, and then named the next couple. The men moved on his order, with nobody questioning his authority.
These men trust me, MacKim thought.
“Parnell and Dickert, you’re last! Go!”
“How about you, Sergeant?” Dickert asked.
“Go!” MacKim shouted again.
With the last of the Rangers gone, MacKim knew he could do no more. He was alone, the most forward British soldier in New France. For one betraying moment, he considered standing up to give the French a clear shot so he could join Tayanita, but shook the idea away. No, he would not allow that tattooed Canadian the satisfaction of victory, the pleasure of another death.
Was that tattooed man in the yard somewhere, with his dead-eyed renegade companion? Or had he escaped to Jacques Cartier, or even Montreal? MacKim pushed the thought away. It hardly mattered now.
The smoke was thicker than ever, with the crackle of burning timber so loud that MacKim could barely hear the hoarse shouts of men, although the hammer of musketry was plain. At that stage, only the muzzle-flashes revealed the musket men’s position, and MacKim could only guess who was firing, Canadians or regulars.
Taking a deep breath, MacKim peered into the smoke, hefted his musket and ran, jinking again, clumsy in his snowshoes. No sooner had he left his sanctuary than he saw two Canadians crawl over the top of the barrels.
“Thank you, Lord,” MacKim said as he fled into the smoke, gasped as a ball ploughed into the ground a yard to his left and searched frantically for cover.
“Over here!” Chisholm shouted, and MacKim dashed towards his voice.
“Welcome back, Hugh.” Chisholm lay prone behind a length of dressed timber. “I thought the Frenchies had got you. Harriette would be so disappointed. She would have to choose a new replacement when I get killed.”
“They nearly did,” MacKim said, slumping beside Chisholm. “Where are the others?” He peered into the smoke, blinking his eyes at the sting.
“They’re all behind us.” Chisholm sounded nonchalant. “Ranald and MacRae are over there,” he indicated his right, “and the others scattered to the left. Are you ready for the next hop? The French are getting bolder as we retreat.”
“Ready,” MacKim said and shouted. “On my word, Rangers; all the way to the gate. Ready?”
The acknowledgements came in amidst a splutter of coughing.
“Go!” MacKim said and held his musket ready to fire. He heard the Rangers moving, their feet sliding on the snow, some slipping, others crisp. One man swore in a low monotone – that would be Butler, MacKim thought, and another prayed openly – that was Ramsay. My men, MacKim thought. I am responsible for them all. How could I possible contemplate allowing the French to kill me when I have such men at my side?
“Move, you useless bastards!” MacKim roared. “Stop dawdling!”
He counted to ten, slowly, allowing his men time to escape, watching all the time for the French. When he saw movement in the smoke, he aimed and fired, fully aware that his chances of hitting anything were remote and reloaded.
“Sergeant!” That was Chisholm’s voice. “Come on!”
Rising at once, MacKim had only taken three steps when he felt something like a hammer crash into his right foot. He knew at once that he had been hit, although there was no pain, only the sensation of shock. He lay on the ground, momentarily stunned.
“MacKim!” That was Chisholm again. “Hugh!”
“I’m all right!” MacKim scrabbled for the musket that lay beside him. “Get to safety!” He held the weapon close, determined to blow his brains out rather than allow the Indians to torture him. He laughed out loud, thinking at least they can’t scalp me; that’s been done already, heard the hysteria in his voice and took a deep breath.
Where am I?
I am near the gate of the boatbuilding yard.
Where is the enemy?
All around, waiting to kill me.
Where are my men?
They are hidden in the smoke, waiting to save me.
Can I walk?
I don’t know.
Then find out, Sergeant MacKim! Don’t just lie here.
MacKim tested his leg. It was still intact, if numb. He had no feeling below the knee, but one glance assured him that everything was in place. His foot was there, with no blood, and the musket ball had only shattered his snowshoe.
Dear God! I’m not wounded at all. The French ball hit my snowshoe, that’s all.
“I’m coming for you, Hugh,” Chisholm shouted. “Cover us, Ranald!”
“I’m all right,” MacKim said and tried to rise, but his right leg was too numb to take his weight, and he staggered to one side. Chisholm grinned at him, making his scarred face even uglier.
“I can see you’re all right,” Chisholm said. “Lean on me, Sergeant. Imagine what Harriette would say if I left her favourite prospective husband for the Indians!” He laughed, supporting MacKim on his broad shoulders. “I could always bring back your head, although I think it’s another part of you she wants.”
“Stop talking nonsense, James,” MacKim said. “You’ll shock the French.”
Rangers loomed from the smoke, some looking concerned, others aiming and firing at Frenchmen that MacKim could not see.
“Get back to the gate, boys,” MacKim said. “Don’t wait for me.”
“Sergeant,” Kennedy had a musket in his hands and a thin trail of blood down the side of his face, “are you badly hurt?”
“No, sir,” MacKim said. “I’ll be all right in a few minutes. A ball hit my snowshoe and numbed my leg.”
“Can you carry on?”
“Yes, sir, as soon as I get feeling back in my leg.”
The Rangers formed a diamond shape as they withdrew through the gate, with the fire throwing up huge flames and providing a providential smoke screen.
“Follow me, boys!” Kennedy sounded almost light-hearted as he led them through the abandoned French outposts.
The first bullet took them by surprise, and the irregular volley felled two men.
“They’re waiting for us!” Butler shouted. “We’re trapped!”