The Four Ton Mortar

The Mortar

This Mortar was produced from 1750-1756. Its time ended in 1758 after a war between the French and British. It was then transported to Halifax were it remained until it was brought into a museum nearly half a century ago. After some digging, I found out that this Mortar was used as protection in the ramparts of the fortress of Louisbourg until the fall of the port town a couple years later. After resting in Halifax, it was found and taken to the Canadian War Museum. This Mortar was used in the Seven year battle between Britain and France. Due to its extreme wait, it stayed in one place and was the main defence. The Mortar was positioned at a 45 degree angle, allowing it to have a longer range than most artillery at the time. It was said to be able to propel a 60-kilogram shell for up to four kilometres. Exploding mortar shells could shatter ships and buildings. Flying shell fragments could kill or wound anyone standing nearby. Being 100% iron made it extremely heavy and hard to move. I found it very interesting how the Mortar was built and what it was made out of. It made me think how far modern cavalry has come since then and how difficult it would have been to be a soldier. Although the mortar hasn’t written history as we know it, the impact it had on the war should be recognized. The story you are about to read was inspired by this artifact from the time of New France.

The Four Ton Mortar

It was mid winter in New France. The new year had dawned just weeks ago and I knew that 1759 was going to be a year to remember. This morning I woke up to the icy rain pelting the cedar that made up my dwelling. I did not have to start work for a few hours, so I decide to take a stroll around the fort. Although the sky had not woken, the campus was filled with our French soldiers. I walked by the cannons and noticed cobwebs and rust forming. The defence at the fortress has been quite unused since we claimed this fort in 1757. I guess you can say that life at Louisbourg has almost been dull in a way. The tall stone tower cast ghostly shadows on the cobblestone pathway. It was such a majestic building for such a harsh purpose.

The sky had begun to turn from the deep black of night to the gentle blue of the incoming dawn. As I headed back, the rain started to change from an ugly downpour to a soft drizzle. By the time I had reached my abode, the seagulls had started at their morning songs.

Once I gathered my gear, I set off to the other side of the fort where I would begin my day of work. Although we’ve had no invaders, all cavalry workers were required to stay at there posts from sunrise to sundown. Once again, I walked past the decaying cannons, past the solemn towers, and all the way to where the sea lapped against the retaining wall. A few yards ahead and I would reach my final destination. I had to dry the mortar from the previous night of rainfall. The hunk of metal rested at a forty-five degree angle, bolted to the stone below. It was only about waist high, but it was said to weigh nearly four tons. The mortar was made purely from cast iron which always seemed to glimmer in the morning light.

As I sat at my post, I noticed that blades of sunlight had escaped the blanket of overlaying clouds. The pale rays reminded me that it was still winter and even though the sun had granted us it’s light, there was no heat where it shined. It was very peaceful here in New France, much unlike the land that we left years ago. That night, as I left my post, a sudden panic filled the air. There was no commotion or voices to be heard, but that was the problem. The night had turned silent and not a sound was heard in the entire fortress. Suddenly, loud foot steps broke the silence. Two messengers from sea reported British ships leaving Britain. They said that they were headed our way with more than a thousand men onboard.

It had been a long winter and the entire fortress of Louisbourg had gone on mute. Today the smooth water was blanketed with a thick layer of fog. The ice on the stone pathway had finally thawed, and it seemed as though the winter months had come to an end.

I sat at my post just like any other day, staring out into the ocean abyss. I’ve seen some interesting things while working the mortar. Many seagulls and seals, a few jumping fish, and I even spotted a whale one winters day. All of the sudden, something else seemed to breach the water surface. The fog made it very hard to see, but I definitely saw an object somewhere on the horizon. Before I could gather my thoughts, a bone chilling wind tore through the fog. My jaw dropped. Without consciousness, my knees buckled and I fell to the ground. At least a dozen British war ships had entered our bay, carrying a colony worth of men in red uniforms. I must not have been the only one in shock because the entire fortress froze for a couple of minutes.

As the ships let out war cries, the fort’s defence shot at the incoming ships. In the matter of minutes, the British army had entered dry land, untouched. It took the entire beach to hold the amount of soldiers. Once the army came into the mortar’s four kilometre range, I began the gruelling process to fire the weapon. In a steel box next to the mortar was the bag of gun powder. The black powder was a bit damp from the morning dew, but it should still be functional. After I packed the gun powder into to the barrel with a rotting press that had been unused for almost a year, I added the same gun powder into the shell of the cannon ball. Finally, after I loaded the ball into the mortar, it was time to light the fuse. I lit the match and placed it next to the wick, just as my years of training had taught me, but nothing happened. It then dawned on me that the string must be wet from last night’s rainfall.

The first boom of the British artillery deafened my ears. Bright orange explosions brightened the entire fort. The growing cries of our French soldiers grew louder as the opposing side obliterated our cannons with theirs.

I felt lonely at that moment, helpless with no control of our future. I had enjoyed my life in New France until this moment. Time here had seemed so peaceful and fresh compared to our homeland. The sky had become alit as they caught fire to the fortress using some kind of flammable liquid. The British had set up smaller and more portable mortars and cannons at the beach which seemed much more reasonable than what I was dealing with. At that moment, I came back into reality and escaped my solemn dreams.

I knew that I had a part in this war, and that as helpless as I felt, I would do my part. Instantly, I decided that instead of the soaked wick, I would use some of the gun powder to set off the mortar. It seemed as though the other French soldiers working the mortars had run into the same problem, and had left their post and retreated inland. I carefully pored the powder into the hole where the wick once was and lit it without hesitation. It worked. The steel ball soared high into the air, over the the wall and past the first line of soldiers. With a boom that shook New France itself, the shell exploded into many sharp fragments. The blades rained down on the British army, striking at least a hundred of their men. I repeated this process until I stood alone in the smoke covered battlefield. The smell of gunpowder filled my lungs, making me cough.

I was out of gunpowder and shells, but the amount of soldiers seemed limitless. I quickly ran into the smoke to take some gun powder from a neighbouring mortar. I suddenly felt a strong hand on my shoulder. Deep down, I knew that I was only going to last so long in this war, but I decided that I didn’t want to finish just yet. I quickly stood up and threw the gun powder that I had in my hands directly in his face. The red uniform trembled for a bit but somehow the soldier remained standing. With no effort, he struck me straight across my face, sending me into a painless sleep.

I woke in a bed with uneasy, pale faces surrounding me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but I could tell there was no kindness in their words. It had taken me a while to realize that I had been taken prisoner to the British. I stayed in that ship, not knowing where I was headed for quite a while. In fact, that’s where I am writing about my short life as a soldier in New France. I guess I could say that I am lucky that the British spared me, although I had always wanted to experience the feeling of winning a war.

About The Author

Ryder Oliver-Green is a grade 8 student in the Performance Learning Program at Seycove Secondary. After his move from California to Canada in 2012, Ryder’s curiosity of the history of where he now lives has grown immensely. He had always been fascinated with the rich history of canada and the many story’s that he had never heard before. Coming from California, First Nations peoples were very rarely mentioned. As he grew older he began to learn the true history of Canada and what the settlers did when they came. Just this year Ryder became aware of New France and how discovering the New World impacted the age of Exploration. Although Ryder had never worked with weapons of that time period, he had always been interested in the history of modern artillery of Canada. After stumbling apon an artical about the mortars that settlers in New France used at war, Ryder could not stop reading.

Even though the mortar was nearly 300 years old, he saw incredible similarities with todays weapons. After learning all about the history of New France and the Mortar, Ryder decide to construct a creative and descriptive story of what life might look like for mortar worker during The 7 Years War. In his free time Ryder loves to play sports and spend time on the water. Currently you will find Ryder at his home, nestled into the forest of wild British Columbia.