French and English: A Story of the Struggle in America

The smoke rolled slowly away, and as the pall lifted, a wild, ringing cheer broke from the English ranks, mingled with the yell of the Highlanders beyond. The ground was covered with dead and wounded; the ranks of the oncoming foe were shattered and broken. The Canadians had turned, and were flying hither and thither, only caring to escape the terrible fire, which in open country they could never stand. In a few more seconds, as soon as the regulars saw that the red-coats were preparing to charge, they too flung down their muskets and joined the rout.

"Charge them, men, charge them!"

Wolfe's voice rang like a clarion note over the field. He placed himself at the head of one of the columns. Julian and Humphrey were on either side of him. The yell of the Highlanders was in their ears, and the huzzah of the English soldiers, as they dashed upon the retreating foe.

Their line had been a little broken here by the fire of the foe, and still from ambushed sharpshooters hidden upon the plain a more or less deadly fire was kept up. Wolfe led where the danger was greatest and the firing most galling and persistent.

"Dislodge those men!" was the order which had just passed his lips, when Julian noticed that he seemed to pause and stagger for a moment.

"You are hurt!" he exclaimed anxiously, springing to his side; but Wolfe kept steadily on his way, wrapping his handkerchief round his wrist the while. The blood was welling from it. Julian insisted upon tying the bandage, finding that the wrist was shattered.

"You are wounded-you will surely go back!" he said anxiously; but Wolfe seemed scarcely to hear.

The next moment he was off again with his men, directing their movements with all his accustomed skill and acumen. Once again he staggered. Julian dashed to his side; but he spoke no word. If he would but think of himself! But no; his soul was in the battle. He had no care save for the issue of the day.

A sudden volley seemed to open upon them from a little unseen dip in the ground, masked by thick underwood. Julian felt a bullet whiz so near to his ear that the skin was grazed and the hair singed. For a moment he was dizzy with the deafening sound. Then a low cry from Humphrey reached him.

"The General! the General!" he said.

Julian dashed his hand across his eyes and looked. Wolfe was sitting upon the ground. He was still gazing earnestly at the battle rushing onward, but there had come into his eyes a strange dimness.

"He is struck-he is wounded!" said Humphrey in a low voice, bending over him. "Help, Julian; we must carry him to the rear."

Julian half expected resistance on the part of Wolfe; but no word passed his lips. They were growing ashy white.

With a groan of anguish-for he felt as though he knew what was coming-Julian bent to the task, and the pair conveyed the light, frail form through the melee of the battlefield towards the place where the wounded had been carried, and where Fritz still lay. A surgeon came hastily forward, and seeing who it was, uttered an exclamation of dismay.

Wolfe opened his dim eyes. He saw Julian's face, but all the rest was blotted out in a haze.

"Lay me down," he said faintly; "I want nothing."

"The surgeons are here," said Julian anxiously as they put him out of the hot rays of the sun, which was now shining over heights and plains.

"They can do nothing for me," said Wolfe, in the same faint, dreamy way; "let them look to those whom they can help."

A death-like faintness was creeping over him. The surgeon put a stimulating draught to his lips; and when a part had been swallowed, proceeded to make a partial examination of the injuries sustained. But when he had opened the breast of his coat and saw two orifices in the neighbourhood of the heart, he shook his head, and laid the wounded man down to rest.

Julian felt a spasm of pain shoot through his heart, like a thrust from a bayonet.

"Can you do nothing?" he asked in a whisper.

"Nothing," was the reply. "He has not an hour to live."

"To be cut off in the very hour of victory!" exclaimed Humphrey, with a burst of sorrow. "It is too hard-too hard!"

"Yet it is what he desired for himself," said Julian, in a low voice. I think it is what he himself would have chosen."

"He has suffered more than any of us can well imagine," said the surgeon gravely. "We can scarcely grudge to him the rest and peace of the long, last sleep."

Humphrey turned away to dash the tears from his eyes. In his silent, dog-like fashion, he had loved their young General with a great and ardent love, and it cut him to the heart to see him lying there white and pulseless, his life ebbing slowly away, without hope of a rally.

A sign from somebody at a little distance attracted his attention. He crossed the open space of ground, and bent over Fritz, who lay bandaged and partially helpless amongst the wounded, but with all his faculties clear.

"What is it they are saying all around?" he asked anxiously. "How goes the battle? how is it with our General?"

"The battle truly is won-or so I believe," answered Humphrey, in a husky voice. "God grant that the gallant Wolfe may live to know that success has crowned his efforts-that the laurel wreath will be his, even though it be only laid upon his tomb!"

"Is he then wounded?"

"Mortally, they say."

A spasm of pain contracted Fritz's face.

"Then Quebec will be dearly purchased," he said. "Humphrey, help me to move; I would look upon his face once again!"

Humphrey gave the desired assistance. They were bringing in the wounded, French and English both, to this place of shelter; but the spot where Wolfe lay was regarded as sacred ground. It was still and quiet there, though in the distance the din of battle sounded, and the sharp rattle of musketry or the booming of artillery could be heard at this side and that.

Fritz limped slowly across the open space, and halted a dozen paces from where Wolfe lay; half supported in the arms of Julian, whose face was stern with repressed grief.

The ashen shadow had deepened upon the face of the dying man. He seemed to be sinking away out of life. The long lashes lay upon the waxen cheek; the deep repose of the long, last sleep seemed to be falling upon the wasted features. Fritz felt an unaccustomed mist rising before his eyes. He thought he had never before seen a nobler countenance.

The few standing about the wounded General looked from him to the distant plain, where the battle tide was rolling farther away, and from which, from time to time, arose outbursts of sudden sound-the wild screech of the Highlanders, the answering cheer of the English, the spattering, diminishing shots, and now and again a sharp volley that told of some more determined struggle in one place or another.

"Look how they run! look, look-they run like sheep!" cried Humphrey, breaking into sudden excitement, as his trained sight, without the aid of glasses, took in the meaning of that confused mass of men.

Julian felt a thrill run through the prostrate form he was holding. The eyes he had never thought to look upon again opened wide. Wolfe raised his head, and asked, with something of the old ring in his voice:

"Who run?"

"The enemy, sir," eagerly replied those who stood by. "They are melting away like smoke. They give way everywhere. The day is ours!"

The young General half raised himself, as though he would fain have seen the sight; but his dim eyes took in nothing.

"Tell Colonel Burton," he said, speaking with his old decision, "to march Webb's regiment down to the St. Charles, and cut off their retreat from the bridge."

Humphrey was off almost before the words had left his lips. He would be the one to carry the General's last message. Wolfe heard him go, and smiled. He knew that Humphrey was the trustiest of messengers. He looked up into Julian's face.

"Now lay me down again," he said faintly. "Farewell, my trusty friend and comrade. Take my love to those at home; remember my last messages. God be thanked; He has given us the victory. I can die in peace."

He drew a long sigh, and his eyes closed. A little thrill ran through the worn frame.

Julian laid it down, and reverently covered the peaceful face; whilst a stifled sob went up from those who saw the action.

James Wolfe had gone to his rest-had died the death of a hero upon the victorious battlefield.

Book 7: English Victors

Chapter 1: A Panic-Stricken City

It had come at last! The long delay and suspense were over. The English had stormed the Heights of Abraham. Their long red lines had been seen by terrified citizens, who came rushing into the town at dawn of day. The supposed attack at Beauport had been nothing but a blind. Whilst Montcalm and Vaudreuil were massing the troops to repel the enemy here, the real assault had been made behind the city, and the English foe was almost upon them.

Colin had dashed out when the first grey of the dawn had stolen in at their windows. There had been no sleep for Quebec that night. The whole city was in a state of tense excitement. Confidently had the Generals declared that the enemy were bent upon their own destruction; that they were about to tempt fate, and would be driven back with ignominy and loss.

"Let them come! Let them taste of the welcome we have to offer them! Let them see what Quebec has to give them when they reach her strand!"

These words, and many similar to them, were passed from mouth to mouth by the garrison and townsfolk of Quebec. None would admit that disaster was possible to "the impregnable city;" and yet its shattered walls and ruined houses, the crowded hospital and the deserted buildings, all told a terrible tale. The upper town had suffered lately almost as severely as the lower had done at the commencement of the bombardment. It was a problem now where to find safe shelter for the citizens. Great numbers of them had fled to the country beyond, or to other Canadian settlements; for not only was this terrible bombardment destroying their homes, and inflicting fearful hurt upon those exposed to it, but provisions were becoming very scarce; and if the English once got foothold on the west side of the town, they would be able to cut off Quebec from her source of supply.

Colin dashed out for tidings so soon as the dawn crept into the sky; and Madame Drucour and Corinne sat very close together, so absorbed in listening that they could scarce find words in which to reassure each other.

They were no longer in the little narrow house where once they had dwelt. That had been shattered at last by some of the heavier guns which the enemy had brought to Point Levi, and they had been forced to abandon it. They were in a house which so far had not been touched, sheltered as it was behind some of the fortifications. It belonged to Surgeon Arnoux, a clever and competent man, who was at present with the army of Bourlemaque; but his younger brother, Victor, also a surgeon, was still in the city, and he had generously opened his house to several of the unfortunate citizens who had been rendered homeless by the bombardment.

At present the house contained as its residents Madame Drucour, with her brother the Abbe, and Colin and Corinne. The Bishop, Pontbriand, who was dying himself of a mortal disease, but was still able to go about amongst the sick and wounded, was another inmate, beloved of all. The party was waited on sedulously by an old servant of the Ursulines, Bonnehomme Michel, as she was called, who was the most faithful, hard-working, and devoted of creatures, and displayed the greatest ingenuity in contriving, out of the scantiest of materials, such dishes as should tempt the appetite of the sick Bishop, and make the rest forget that they were in a beleaguered city.

Corinne had learned by this time what the horrors of war were like. Her fair face was both thinner and graver than it had been in past days. She had known the terrible experience that leaves its mark upon the witnesses: she had been one of more than one company when a bursting shell in their midst had brought death to some amongst those with whom she was sitting. She had seen men- yes, and women too-struck down in the streets by shot or splinters. She had worked side by side with Madame Drucour amid the sick and wounded, and had seen sights of horror and suffering which had branded themselves deeply into her soul.

She could never again be the careless, laughing Corinne of old; and yet the soldier spirit in her burned stronger and ever more strong. If war was a fearful and terrible thing, it had its glorious side too. She heard, with a strange thrill of mingled pain and pride, of the gallant doings of the English troops. She regarded the cautious policy of the French with something like contempt. She and Colin would sometimes steal down to the margin of the water, and look at the English vessels which had braved the guns of the town, and were riding safely at anchor in the upper basin; and would feel a thrill of admiration at the dauntless bravery of the British sailors and soldiers. After all, if Quebec were to fall to such gallant foes, would she suffer much after the first shock was over?

They had lost their three merry midshipmen. When General Wolfe had sent over several boatloads of prisoners taken in the unguarded villages of the upper river, it had been agreed that any English prisoners in the town should be given in exchange; and the lads, cheering lustily the while, had been rowed away by the returning boats.

Colin and Corinne had missed their companionship, but had been assured of a meeting before so very long. They knew what that had meant, yet they could not resent the suggestion. Constant companionship with the English middies had intensified their interest in the English cause. They did not speak of it much except to one another, but in secret they had no fear of the unknown foe. They felt a certain exultation and triumph in the stories they were always hearing of English prowess and valour.

And now it was known to all that the crucial moment had come. The English had made a great coup. They had landed; they had stormed the heights; they were said to be intrenching themselves and bringing up their guns; and although this was not true at the moment, the very thought struck terror into the hearts of the citizens and soldiers.

Unless they could be dislodged from their present commanding position, the town was lost. That was the word in the mouths of all. A mounted messenger, followed by others, had been sent flying to Montcalm and Vaudreuil. It was certain that the General would be quickly on the spot, and surely he and his army together would suffice to drive back or annihilate this audacious intruder!

So said the people; yet none dared to make light of the peril. Madame Drucour's face was very grave as she sat looking out into the street, her arm about Corinne. It was not even safe for them to try to go out to the hospital that morning-the hospital which had been moved out of the town and erected upon the plain of the St. Charles, out of reach of the enemy's guns. Hitherto the Heights of Abraham had been like a rampart of defence; now they were alive with the battalions of the foe. The plain might at any time become the scene of a battle or a rout.

"Here is Colin back!" cried Corinne, suddenly starting to her feet. "Now he will tell us!"

"It is all true!" cried the lad, bursting into the room. "It is wonderful to see them; it is marvellous what they have done. They must have scaled the cliffs at almost impossible places; and now they are forming up in a splendid way! The whole plateau is alive with them!"

"The first rays of the sun striking across it were dyed red with the scarlet uniforms. It was magnificent to see them. I cannot tell whether they have any guns there. I saw none. But it is not easy to get a good view of the plain; the ridge above the town hides it."

"But what is our General doing?" asked Madame Drucour, with clasped hands.

"They say he is coming; they say he is on his way from the Beauport camp with the whole army at his back. If he has also sent a message directing Bougainville to advance at the same time from Cap Rouge and fall upon the English rear, it might well be that the invaders would be cut to pieces. But no one here knows what is ordered. Some say one thing and some another. One thing alone is certain-the Marquis is on his way."

The Abbe, who had been out to gather news, came back now with much the same tale that Colin had to tell. There was no manner of doubt about it. The English army had, as by magic, appeared upon the Heights of Abraham, and had set themselves in battle array upon the best piece of ground for their purpose. The sight of the compact red lines filled the French with dismay and fear. If an enemy could do this in a single night, what might they not have the power of achieving?

"We are in God's hands," said the Abbe to his sister, as they hastily, and without much appetite, partook of the meal which Bonnehomme Michel spread for them; "but truly I fear me that disaster is in store for the arms of France. There seems no reason why we should lack power to drive back the English to their ships; yet I have that within me which speaks of calamity and disaster. Canada has become helpless and corrupt. When that has befallen a country or a community, it has always fallen. I fear me that the days of French rule are numbered. I only pray that if the English reign here in our stead, they may prove themselves merciful masters, and keep their promise not to interfere with the exercise of the true faith in which the people have been brought up."

"If the English have pledged their word to that, they will keep it," answered Madame Drucour; "and if Canada must fall, we may rejoice that it should fall into hands as merciful as those of our English rivals."

"That is true," said her brother: "they have set us many a noble example of clemency and honour. Yet their hands are not altogether free from blood guiltiness. There have been acts of violence and cruelty committed even during these past weeks along the shores of the river."

"Yes," answered Madame Drucour: "houses have been burned and families turned adrift, and much suffering has resulted therefrom. War is ever cruel, and the track of it is marked with fire and blood. Yet we must remember that the persons thus molested had fair warning given them. They might have remained in safety had they submitted to the conditions imposed by General Wolfe. Perhaps they showed more spirit by resistance; but they drew down their fate upon themselves. And no woman or child has been hurt; no cruelties have been inflicted upon prisoners. No Indians have been suffered to molest them. Would we have been as forbearing-as stern in the maintenance of order and discipline? The only acts of cruelty committed on the English side have been by Rangers not belonging to the regular army, and those only upon Indians or those degraded Canadians who go about with them, painted and disguised to resemble their dusky allies. For my part, I think that men who thus degrade themselves deserve all that they get."

"It is well to seek to find consolation in time of extremity," said the Abbe, "and I do rejoice very heartily in the knowledge that we have a merciful foe to deal with. If this city is forced to open her gates to the English, I verily believe that no scenes of outrage will disgrace the page of history upon which this day's doings shall be recorded. There is help in that thought at least."

But it was impossible for either Colin or his uncle to remain within doors upon such a day. He insisted that Madame Drucour and Corinne should not adventure themselves beyond the city walls, though he did not condemn them to remain within doors. But he, for his own part, must go forth and see what was befalling without; for the Abbe, in spite of his vows, was half a soldier at heart, and had done some fighting in his young life, and knew the sound of the clash of arms.

He was not going to adventure himself into the battle, or to suffer Colin to do so either; that would be useless. Indeed the boy had no desire to enter the lists against the English, being more than half on their side as it was, although the infection of the feelings of the townspeople rendered it difficult for him exactly to know his own mind.

He and Corinne were alike consumed with an overpowering sense of excitement. It was the thought of the battle about to be waged that filled the minds of both-the imminence of the coming struggle. As for the result, that was less a matter of concern to them. The crisis was the overwhelming consideration in their minds.

The Abbe and Colin had gone. The streets were beginning to fill with excited people. The storm of shot and shell was not falling upon Quebec today. The guns had been directed upon the Beauport camp, to cover the real enterprise being carried on above. Also the river had to be watched and guarded. Everything spoke of a change in tactics. There was a tense feeling in the air as though an electric cloud hung low over the city.

Then came a burst of cheering. Montcalm had been seen spurring on with only a small band of followers over the bridge of the St. Charles towards the scene of danger; and now the army itself was in sight, making its way after him across the bridge and towards the city, through whose streets they must pass to gain unmolested those heights where the English were awaiting them, drawn up in close array.

Montcalm's face was full of anxiety, and yet full of courage, as he returned the plaudits of the citizens. He knew that affairs were serious, but he hoped and believed that he should find but a small detachment of the enemy waiting to receive him. He could not believe that very much had been accomplished in one night. A little resolution and courage and military address, and the foe would be dislodged and driven ignominiously down those precipitous heights which they had scaled with such boldness a few hours before.

It was a fine sight to see the troops pouring in by the Palace Gate, and out again by the gates of St. Louis and St. John-the white uniforms and gleaming bayonets of the battalions of old France, the Canadian militia, and the troops of painted Indians following, cheered by the citizens, reinforced by the garrison, their hearts animated by lust of conquest and an assurance of victory, which assurance was not altogether shared by the citizens themselves, whose scouts had brought in alarming tidings concerning the strength of the English position.

And now the soldiers had all marched through; the last of the bands had disappeared from the streets; the garrison had taken themselves to their own quarters; the men of the town had flocked out of the city in the hope of seeing something of the fight; and the streets were chiefly thronged by anxious women and wondering, wide-eyed children-all crowding together in groups, their faces turned towards those heights above where they knew the struggle was to be fought out.

"Hark to the firing!"

A deep silence fell upon the crowds in the streets-the hush of a breathless expectancy. The rattle of musketry fell upon their ears, and then a sound almost like a cannon shot. It was the volley of the English, delivered with such admirable precision. An involuntary scream arose from many as that sound was heard. Had the English got their artillery up to those inaccessible heights?

But no; there was no further sound of cannonading, only a fierce and continuous fusillade, which told of the battle raging so fiercely up yonder on the heights.

Some women crowded into the churches to offer prayers at the shrines of saint or Virgin; but the majority could not tear themselves away from the streets, nor from the open space near to the gate of St. Louis, by which gate news would most likely enter.

And it did.

How the time went none could say, but it seemed only a short time after the firing had commenced before white-faced scouts from the town, who had gone forth to see the battle, came running back with gestures of terror and despair.

"The English are shooting us down like sheep. The French give way on every side. Their terrible fire mows down our ranks like grass before the scythe! They are charging upon us now! We are scattered and fleeing every way! Alas, alas! the day is lost. Quebec will fall!"

"Lost! it cannot be lost in this time," cried pale-faced women, unable and unwilling to believe. "Where is the Governor? he will come up with the reserves. Where is Bougainville? surely he will fall upon the English rear! Have we not twice the force of the English? We cannot be conquered in this time! it would be a shame to France forever."