Again he nodded, and replied, "Well, well, you got us into trouble;
you must show us the way out," and he looked at the passage I had
traced upon the chart. "You will remain with me until we meet our
enemy on these heights." He pointed to the plains of Maitre Abraham.
Then he turned away, and began walking up and down again. "It is
the last chance!" he said to himself in a tone despairing and yet
heroic. "Please God, please God!" he added.
"You will speak nothing of these plans," he said to me at last,
half mechanically. "We must make feints of landing at Cap
Rouge--feints of landing everywhere save at the one possible place;
confuse both Bougainville and Montcalm; tire out their armies with
watchings and want of sleep; and then, on the auspicious night,
make the great trial."
I had remained respectfully standing at a little distance from
him. Now he suddenly came to me, and, pressing my hand, said
quickly, "You have trouble, Mr. Moray. I am sorry for you. But
maybe it is for better things to come."
I thanked him stumblingly, and a moment later left him, to serve
him on the morrow, and so on through many days, till, in divers
perils, the camp at Montmorenci was abandoned, the troops were got
aboard the ships, and the general took up his quarters on the
Sutherland; from which, one notable day, I sallied forth with him
to a point at the south shore opposite the Anse du Foulon, where he
saw the thin crack in the cliff side. From that moment instant and
final attack was his purpose.
The great night came, starlit and serene. The camp-fires of two
armies spotted the shores of the wide river, and the ships lay like
wild fowl in convoys above the town from where the arrow of fate
should be sped. Darkness upon the river, and fireflies upon the
shore. At Beauport, an untiring general, who for a hundred days had
snatched sleep, booted and spurred, and in the ebb of a losing game,
longed for his adored Candiac, grieved for a beloved daughter's
death, sent cheerful messages to his aged mother and to his wife,
and by the deeper protests of his love foreshadowed his own doom.
At Cap Rouge, a dying commander, unperturbed and valiant, reached
out a finger to trace the last movements in a desperate campaign of
life that opened in Flanders at sixteen; of which the end began
when he took from his bosom the portrait of his affianced wife,
and said to his old schoolfellow, "Give this to her, Jervis, for
we shall meet no more."
Then, passing to the deck, silent and steady, no signs of pain
upon his face, so had the calm come to him, as to Nature and this
beleaguered city, before the whirlwind, he looked out upon the
clustered groups of boats filled with the flower of his army,
settled in a menacing tranquillity. There lay the Light Infantry,
Bragg's, Kennedy's, Lascelles's, Anstruther's Regiment, Fraser's
Highlanders, and the much-loved, much-blamed, and impetuous
Louisburg Grenadiers. Steady, indomitable, silent as cats, precise
as mathematicians, he could trust them, as they loved his awkward
pain-twisted body and ugly red hair. "Damme, Jack, didst thee ever
take hell in tow before?" said a sailor from the Terror of France
to his fellow once, as the marines grappled with a flotilla of
French fire-ships, and dragged them, spitting destruction, clear
of the fleet, to the shore. "Nay, but I've been in tow of Jimmy
Wolfe's red head; that's hell-fire, lad!" was the reply.
From boat to boat the General's eye passed, then shifted to the
ships--the Squirrel, the Leostaff, the Seahorse, and the rest--and
lastly to where the army of Bougainville lay. Then there came
towards him an officer, who said quietly, "The tide has turned,
sir." For reply the general made a swift motion towards the
maintop shrouds, and almost instantly lanterns showed in them. In
response the crowded boats began to cast away, and, immediately
descending, the General passed into his own boat, drew to the
front, and drifted in the current ahead of his gallant men, the
ships following after.
It was two by the clock when the boats began to move, and slowly
we ranged down the stream, silently steered, carried by the
current. No paddle, no creaking oarlock, broke the stillness. I was
in the next boat to the General's, for, with Clark and twenty-two
other volunteers to the forlorn hope, I was to show the way up the
heights, and we were near to his person for over two hours that
night. No moon was shining, but I could see the General plainly;
and once, when our boats almost touched, he saw me, and said
graciously, "If they get up, Mr. Moray, you are free to serve
yourself."
My heart was full of love of country then, and I answered, "I
hope, sir, to serve you till your flag is hoisted in the citadel."
He turned to a young midshipman beside him, and said, "How old
are you, sir?"
"Seventeen, sir," was the reply.
"It is the most lasting passion," he said, musing.
It seemed to me then, and I still think it, that the passion he
meant was love of country. A moment afterwards I heard him recite
to the officers about him, in a low clear tone, some verses by Mr.
Gray, the poet, which I had never then read, though I have prized
them since. Under those frowning heights, and the smell from our
roaring thirty-two-pounders in the air, I heard him say:
"The curfew tolls, the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me."
I have heard finer voices than his--it was as tin beside
Doltaire's--but something in it pierced me that night, and I
felt the man, the perfect hero, when he said:
"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour--
The paths of glory lead but to the grave."
Soon afterwards we neared the end of our quest, the tide carrying
us in to shore; and down from the dark heights there came a
challenge, satisfied by an officer who said in French that we were
provision-boats for Montcalm: these, we knew, had been expected!
Then came the batteries of Samos. Again we passed with the same
excuse, and we rounded a headland, and the great work was begun.
The boats of the Light Infantry swung in to shore. No sentry
challenged, but I knew that at the top Lancy's tents were set. When
the Light Infantry had landed, we twenty-four volunteers stood
still for a moment, and I pointed out the way. Before we started,
we stooped beside a brook that leaped lightly down the ravine, and
drank a little rum and water. Then I led the way, Clark at one side
of me, and a soldier of the Light Infantry at the other. It was
hard climbing, but, following in our careful steps as silently as
they might, the good fellows came eagerly after. Once a rock broke
loose and came tumbling down, but plunged into a thicket, where it
stayed; else it might have done for us entirely. I breathed freely
when it stopped. Once, too, a branch cracked loudly, and we lay
still; but hearing nothing above, we pushed on, and, sweating
greatly, came close to the top.
Here I drew back with Clark, for such honour as there might be
in gaining the heights first I wished to go to these soldiers who
had trusted their lives to my guidance. I let six go by and reach
the heights, and then I drew myself up. We did not stir till all
twenty-four were safe; then we made a dash for the tents of Lancy,
which now showed in the first gray light of morning. We made a dash
for them, were discovered, and shots greeted us; but we were on
them instantly, and in a moment I had the pleasure of putting a
bullet in Lancy's heel, and brought him down. Our cheers told the
general the news, and soon hundreds of soldiers were climbing the
hard way that we had come.
And now while an army climbed to the heights of Maitre Abraham,
Admiral Saunders in the gray dawn was bombarding Montcalm's
encampment, and boats filled with marines and soldiers drew to the
Beauport flats, as if to land there; while shots, bombs, shells,
and carcasses were hurled from Levis upon the town, deceiving
Montcalm. At last, however, suspecting, he rode towards the town
at six o'clock, and saw our scarlet ranks spread across the plains
between him and Bougainville, and on the crest, nearer to him,
eying us in amazement, the white-coated battalion of Guienne,
which should the day before have occupied the very ground held by
Lancy. A slight rain falling added to their gloom, but cheered us.
It gave us a better light to fight by, for in the clear September
air, the bright sun shining in our faces, they would have had us
at advantage.
In another hour the gates of St. John and St. Louis emptied out
upon this battlefield a warring flood of our foes. It was a
handsome sight: the white uniforms of the brave regiments,
Roussillon, La Sarre, Guienne, Languedoc, Bearn, mixed with
the dark, excitable militia, the sturdy burghers of the town, a
band of coureurs de bois in their rough hunter's costume, and
whooping Indians, painted and furious, ready to eat us. At last
here was to be a test of fighting in open field, though the
French had in their whole army twice the number of our men, a
walled and provisioned city behind them, and field-pieces in
great number to bring against us.
But there was bungling with them. Vaudreuil hung back or came
tardily from Beauport; Bougainville had not yet arrived; and when
they might have pitted twice our number against us, they had not
many more than we. With Bougainville behind us and Montcalm in
front, we might have been checked, though there was no man in all
our army but believed that we should win the day. I could plainly
see Montcalm, mounted on a dark horse, riding along the lines as
they formed against us, waving his sword, a truly gallant figure.
He was answered by a roar of applause and greeting. On the left
their Indians and burghers overlapped our second line, where
Townsend with Amherst's and the Light Infantry, and Colonel Burton
with the Royal Americans and Light Infantry, guarded our flank,
prepared to meet Bougainville. In vain our foes tried to get
between our right flank and the river; Otway's Regiment, thrown
out, defeated that.
It was my hope that Doltaire was with Montcalm, and that we
might meet and end our quarrel. I came to know afterwards that it
was he who had induced Montcalm to send the battalion of Guienne
to the heights above the Anse du Foulon. The battalion had not
been moved till twenty-four hours after the order was given, or
we should never have gained those heights; stones rolled from the
cliff would have destroyed an army.
We waited, Clark and I, with the Louisburg Grenadiers while
they formed. We made no noise, but stood steady and still, the
bagpipes of the Highlanders shrilly challenging. At eight o'clock
sharpshooters began firing on us from the left, and skirmishers
were thrown out to hold them in check, or dislodge them and drive
them from the houses where they sheltered and galled Townsend's
men. Their field-pieces opened on us, too, and yet we did nothing,
but at nine o'clock, being ordered, lay down and waited still.
There was no restlessness, no anxiety, no show of doubt, for
these men of ours were old fighters, and they trusted their
leaders. From bushes, trees, coverts, and fields of grain there
came that constant hail of fire, and there fell upon our ranks a
doggedness, a quiet anger, which grew into a grisly patience. The
only pleasure we had in two long hours was in watching our two
brass six-pounders play upon the irregular ranks of our foes,
making confusion, and Townsend drive back a detachment of cavalry
from Cap Rouge, which sought to break our left flank and reach
Montcalm.
We had seen the stars go down, the cold, mottled light of dawn
break over the battered city and the heights of Charlesbourg;
we had watched the sun come up, and then steal away behind
slow-travelling clouds and hanging mist; we had looked across over
unreaped cornfields and the dull, slovenly St. Charles, knowing
that endless leagues of country, north and south, east and west,
lay in the balance for the last time. I believed that this day
would see the last of the strife between England and France for
dominion here; of La Pompadour's spite which I had roused to action
against my country; of the struggle between Doltaire and myself.
The public stake was worthy of our army--worthy of the dauntless
soldier, who had begged his physicians to patch him up long enough
to fight this fight, whereon he staked reputation, life, all that a
man loves in the world; the private stake was more than worthy of
my long sufferings. I thought that Montcalm would have waited for
Vaudreuil, but no. At ten o'clock his three columns moved down upon
us briskly, making a wild rattle; two columns moving upon our right
and one upon our left, firing obliquely and constantly as they
marched. Then came the command to rise, and we stood up and waited,
our muskets loaded with an extra ball. I could feel the stern
malice in our ranks, as we stood there and took, without returning
a shot, that damnable fire. Minute after minute passed; then came
the sharp command to advance. We did so, and again halted, and yet
no shot came from us. We stood there, a long palisade of red.
At last I saw our general raise his sword, a command rang down
the long line of battle, and, like one terrible cannon-shot, our
muskets sang together with as perfect a precision as on a private
field of exercise. Then, waiting for the smoke to clear a little,
another volley came with almost the same precision; after which the
firing came in choppy waves of sound, and again in a persistent
clattering. Then a light breeze lifted the smoke and mist well
away, and a wayward sunlight showed us our foe, like a long white
wave retreating from a rocky shore, bending, crumpling, breaking,
and, in a hundred little billows, fleeing seaward.
Thus checked, confounded, the French army trembled and fell back.
Then I heard the order to charge, and from near four thousand
throats there came for the first time our exultant British cheer,
and high over all rang the slogan of Fraser's Highlanders. To my
left I saw the flashing broadswords of the clansmen, ahead of all
the rest. Those sickles of death clove through and broke the
battalions of La Sarre, and Lascelles scattered the good soldiers
of Languedoc into flying columns. We on the right, led by Wolfe,
charged the desperate and valiant men of Roussillon and Guienne
and the impetuous sharpshooters of the militia. As we came on, I
observed the general sway and push forward again, and then I lost
sight of him, for I saw what gave the battle a new interest to me:
Doltaire, cool and deliberate, animating and encouraging the
French troops.
I moved in a shaking hedge of bayonets, keeping my eye on him;
and presently there was a hand-to-hand melee, out of which I fought
to reach him. I was making for him, where he now sought to rally
the retreating columns, when I noticed, not far away, Gabord,
mounted, and attacked by three grenadiers. Looking back now, I see
him, with his sabre cutting right and left, as he drove his horse
at one grenadier, who slipped and fell on the slippery ground,
while the horse rode on him, battering him. Obliquely down swept
the sabre, and drove through the cheek and chin of one foe;
another sweep, and the bayonet of the other was struck aside;
and another, which was turned aside as Gabord's horse came down,
bayoneted by the fallen grenadier. But Gabord was on his feet
again, roaring like a bull, with a wild grin on his face, as
he partly struck aside the bayonet of the last grenadier. It caught
him in the flesh of the left side. He grasped the musket-barrel,
and swung his sabre with fierce precision. The man's head dropped
back like the lid of a pot, and he tumbled into a heap of the faded
golden-rod flower which spattered the field.
It was at this moment I saw Juste Duvarney making towards me,
hatred and deadly purpose in his eyes. I had will enough to meet
him, and to kill him too, yet I could not help but think of Alixe.
Gabord saw him, also, and, being nearer, made for me as well.
For that act I cherish his memory. The thought was worthy of a
gentleman of breeding; he had the true thing in his heart. He
would save us--two brothers--from fighting, by fighting me himself.
He reached me first, and with an "Au diable!" made a stroke at
me. It was a matter of sword and sabre now. Clark met Juste
Duvarney's rush; and there we were, at as fine a game of
cross-purposes as you can think: Clark hungering for Gabord's life
(Gabord had once been his jailer, too), and Juste Duvarney for
mine; the battle faring on ahead of us. Soon the two were clean
cut off from the French army, and must fight to the death or
surrender.
Juste Duvarney spoke only once, and then it was but the
rancorous word "Renegade!" nor did I speak at all; but Clark
was blasphemous, and Gabord, bleeding, fought with a sputtering
relish.
"Fair fight and fowl for spitting," he cried. "Go home to heaven,
dickey-bird."
Between phrases of this kind we cut and thrust for life, an odd
sort of fighting. I fought with a desperate alertness, and
presently my sword passed through his body, drew out, and he
shivered--fell--where he stood, collapsing suddenly like a bag. I
knelt beside him, and lifted up his head. His eyes were glazing
fast.
"Gabord! Gabord!" I called, grief-stricken, for that work was
the worst I ever did in this world.
He started, stared, and fumbled at his waistcoat. I quickly put
my hand in, and drew out--one of Mathilde's wooden crosses.
"To cheat--the devil--yet--aho!" he whispered, kissed the cross,
and so was done with life.
When I turned from him, Clark stood beside me. Dazed as I was, I
did not at first grasp the significance of that fact. I looked
towards the town, and saw the French army hustling into the St.
Louis Gate; saw the Highlanders charging the bushes at the
Cote Ste. Genevieve, where the brave Canadians made their last
stand; saw, not fifty feet away, the noblest soldier of our time,
even General Wolfe, dead in the arms of Mr. Henderson, a volunteer
in the Twenty-Second; and then, almost at my feet, stretched out
as I had seen him lie in the Palace courtyard two years before,
Juste Duvarney.
But now he was beyond all friendship or
reconciliation--forever.