The Marquis de Beaujardin and his son had met again, but under
circumstances distressing enough to both of them, and it was with
sorrowful hearts that they now proceeded together to Quebec. As they
passed through the village of Beauport on their way, they became aware
that a large portion of the English fleet had approached the shore, and
was to all appearance making preparations for a repetition of the
attack made on the neighbouring redoubts some weeks before, whilst
other vessels were standing on towards Quebec. Night came on as
Isidore and his father reached the town; there all was bustle and
excitement, and every one was anticipating a fresh attack on the
Montmorency lines before daybreak.
There was an attack indeed, but not in the quarter where Montcalm
expected it. Before daybreak on the following morning the great mass
of the enemy's forces, which had been secretly carried past the town to
a considerable distance up the river during the night, was stealthily
dropping down again, and was then landed on the beach at Le Foullon,
now immortalised by the name of "Wolfe's Cove."
History scarcely contains a more exciting chapter than that which
records this daring plan, and the equally daring manner in which it was
achieved. Leading his troops up by a single narrow and rugged
path--the Highlanders actually climbing up the precipitous face of the
cliff itself--Wolfe had by daybreak arrayed his little army of between
four and five thousand men on the Plains of Abraham, only a mile from
the ramparts of the fortress. A couple of hours later Montcalm had led
out his forces to try the issue of a pitched battle before Quebec.
At first the French outflanked and forced back the English left, but
with a timely reinforcement Townsend stopped their further progress.
There was, at the same time, some desultory fighting on Wolfe's right,
which extended to the lofty banks of the St. Lawrence, but the decisive
conflict took place in the centre, in which Montcalm had placed his few
battalions of French regulars. These advanced with the greatest
gallantry, inflicting serious loss on the English by their rapid and
well-sustained fire, which, however, was not returned, for Wolfe was
riding along the line encouraging his men, and forbidding a single shot
until the word should be given. On came the French with loud shouts,
advancing to within forty or fifty paces of the British line; then with
one tremendous ringing volley the fate of the day was decided. The
hitherto serried and continuous line of the French veterans was simply
broken up into scattered and shapeless fragments, which nevertheless
still tried to advance. They were, however, met with a charge which
soon completed their discomfiture, and the battle was won. De
Bougainville indeed subsequently came up and threatened an attack in
the rear, but the bold front made by the English compelled him to draw
off again without any serious attempt to molest the victors.
The story of Wolfe's last words, and of his death whilst the shout of
victory was sounding in his ears, is an oft-told tale, and needs not to
be repeated here. He had received three wounds, of which the last was
fatal. Carleton and Monckton, too, had been severely wounded, and
Townsend had to take the command. Nor had the French superior officers
been more fortunate. De Senezergues and St. Ours were both struck
down, and at last Montcalm himself was mortally wounded; but he refused
to quit the field until he had seen the shattered remnants of his army
safe within the protecting walls of Quebec.
Montcalm has been accused of infatuation in risking a battle on the
open plain; but the charge savours perhaps of being wise after the
event. With his customary candour he certainly declared, after the
battle, that with such troops as the English had proved themselves he
would have defeated thrice the number of such as he had himself
commanded. But it was only on that day that he had learned how English
troops could fight, and he might well be excused if he remembered how
he had repulsed them at Ticonderoga. His force, moreover, though
chiefly consisting of Canadian militia, on whom he could place no great
reliance, was numerically double that of Wolfe, whilst the new position
of the enemy on the plain before Quebec cut off all his resources, and
any hope of succour from France was out of the question. A battle won
might end the campaign for that year with honour, and his chivalrous
spirit would not decline the challenge. He fought, and though he was
defeated, friend and foe alike admired him and did him justice. After
passing the night in religious exercises, he died on the day after the
battle, and was buried in the garden of the Ursuline Convent, in a
cavity made by the bursting of a shell--a fitting grave for such a
warrior.
Almost the last to retreat within the ramparts of the citadel were a
score or so of veterans belonging to Isidore's former regiment. Not
having yet received any regular appointment, he had fought with his old
corps as a volunteer all the morning, and most of the officers being by
that time killed or wounded, he had tacitly assumed the command of this
little band. They had nearly reached the gate of St. Louis when they
once more heard the terrible war-whoop close in their rear, and as they
faced about for the last time, a body of Indians came sweeping towards
them from some broken ground near the river's bank.
"Stand fast, men, and give those fellows a parting salute," cried
Isidore. The order was obeyed, and with such effect that the Indians
stopped in their wild onset, and then fell back a little. One alone
held his ground. He was their chief, and by the tuft of snowy feathers
and ribbons that fluttered above his head he was recognised at once by
Isidore and by Boulanger, who stood by his side, all begrimed with dust
and smoke, and clutching in his hand the barrel of his broken rifle.
It was White Eagle.
For a few moments faint and dizzy with loss of blood, for he had been
wounded without knowing it, Isidore felt a strange half-conscious
stupor come over him. Was this all a dream about the horrible massacre
at Fort William Henry? There before him stood the very savage who had
struck him down; there were the shouts, the shrieks of wounded men;
there, too, was the dark figure darting swiftly past and placing itself
right in front of him.
"Fire, fire! Be quick!" shouted Boulanger, as the Indian raised his
rifle. It sent forth a flash and a puff of smoke, but the report was
lost in the discharge of a dozen French muskets, which stretched the
Indian dead upon the grass.
It was too late. With a loud cry Amoahmeh dropped down at Isidore's
feet. Flinging away his sword he knelt beside her, and raised her up a
little. She gave him one grateful parting look, murmuring faintly,
"Amoahmeh knows where--it was you who told her." Then she closed her
eyes, and Isidore knew that her brave and loving spirit had fled.
[Illustration: "Flinging away his sword, he knelt beside her."]
Meanwhile the Indians, daunted by the stern reception they had met
with, and by the loss of their chief, had fallen back in disorder, and
the little troop that had discomfited them withdrew within the gates.
Isidore and Boulanger were the last to enter, the Canadian bearing in
his arms, as tenderly as if it had been one of his own sleeping
children, the lifeless body of Amoahmeh.
[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter X]