'We would fight,' they answered their officers, 'if we could see anybody to fight with.' Some survivors declared that they had not seen a single Indian. Others were not so fortunate. Twelve unhappy persons were tortured and burned alive by the savage allies of the French. Braddock was mortally wounded, and died after a long silence, broken only by the one pathetic question, 'Who would have thought it?'[297] His papers fell into the hands of the French and swelled the indictment with which they declared war.[298] This evil news arrived in England at the end of August, and no doubt precipitated Newcastle's attempt to come to terms with Pitt. Three months after the departure of Braddock, the French in alarm fitted out a fleet of reinforcement, which sailed at the end of April, just as George II. was leaving his kingdom for his electorate, amid the scarce veiled indignation of his British subjects. The moment was critical, the King was old, his heir was young, the French were making great warlike preparations, every circumstance pointed to the grave impropriety of the departure. But the King was obdurate to all remonstrance. Not only was Hanover his home, he was also anxious to negotiate treaties of subsidy for its protection; treaties which were more conveniently signed away from Great Britain; that country being only required to endorse them in order to furnish the necessary supplies. [Sidenote: 1755.] When it was certain that the French fleet was destined for America, Admiral Boscawen was despatched with a squadron to intercept it. Boscawen had eleven ships of the line and one frigate, the French fleet consisted of eighteen ships, eight of which were lightly armed as transports. The two armaments came into collision at the mouth of the St. Lawrence on June 7. Three French ships came into conflict with three British ships under Captain Howe. The French commander sent to ask 'Is it peace or war?' Lord Howe replied that he must ask his admiral, who replied 'War.' Thereupon Howe attacked and captured two of the enemy, but to the mortification of the British the bulk of the French fleet got safely into Louisbourg; then a Gibraltar, now a lonely pasture beaten by the surf.