THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM.
Il est des occasions dans la guerre où le plus brave doit fuir.
+Cervantes.+
_Vae victis!_ says the wisdom of the nations. Woe to the
conquered!--not only because of the ruin which follows defeat, but
because the vanquished are always in the wrong. They suffer materially,
they suffer in their wounded self-love, they suffer in their reputation
as soldiers. Let them have fought one against twenty, let them have
performed prodigies of heroism, they are nevertheless and always the
vanquished. Even their fellow-countrymen forgive them hardly. History
records but their defeat. Here and there they get a word of approval
from some writer of their race; but the praise is almost always mixed
with reproach. Pen and compass in hand, we fight the battle over again.
We teach the generals, whose bodies rest on the well-fought field, how
they might have managed affairs much better. Seated in a well-stuffed
arm-chair, we proudly demonstrate the skillful man[oe]uvres by which
they might have snatched the victory; and bitterly we reproach them
with their defeat. They have deserved a more generous treatment. A
great general, who has equaled in our own day the exploits of Alexander
and of Cæsar, has said: "Who is he that has never made a mistake in
battle?" _Vae victis!_
It was the 13th day of September, 1759, a day accursed in the annals
of France. The English army, under General Wolfe, after having eluded
the vigilance of the French sentinels and surprised the pickets under
cover of the darkness, were discovered at daybreak on the Plains of
Abraham, where they were beginning to entrench themselves. Montcalm was
either carried away by his chivalrous courage, or he concluded that the
work of entrenchment had to be at once interrupted; for he attacked
the English with only a portion of his troops, and was defeated, as
he might have foreseen, by the overwhelming numbers of the enemy. On
this memorable battle field both generals laid down their lives--Wolfe
bestowing upon his country a colony half as large as Europe, Montcalm
losing to France a vast territory which the King and his improvident
ministers knew not how to appreciate.
Woe to the vanquished! Had Montcalm been victorious he would have been
lauded to the skies, instead of being heaped with reproaches for not
awaiting the re-enforcements which would have come from De Vaudreuil
and De Bougainville. We would have praised his tactics in hurling
himself upon the enemy before the latter had had time to establish
himself. We would have said that a hundred men behind cover were equal
to a thousand in the open. We would never have imputed to General
Montcalm any jealous and unworthy motives. His shining laurels, gained
on so many glorious fields, would have shielded him from any such
suspicions.
_Vae victis!_ After the fatal battle of the 13th the city of Quebec was
little more than a heap of ruins. Not even the fortifications furnished
shelter, for a portion of the ramparts had been shattered to fragments.
The magazines were empty of ammunition, and the gunners, rather to
conceal their distress than with any hope of injuring the enemy,
answered the English batteries only with an occasional cannon-shot.
There were no provisions left. Yet they bring the charge of cowardice
against the brave garrison which endured so much and defended itself
so valiantly. If the governor, a new Nostradamus, had known that the
Chevalier de Lévis was bringing succor to the city, and, instead of
capitulating, had awaited the arrival of the French troops, it is
certain that the garrison would have been lavishly applauded for its
courage. To be sure the garrison showed itself most pusillanimous in
giving up a city which it was no longer able to defend! To be sure it
should rather have put its trust in the humanity of an enemy who had
already carried fire and sword through all the peaceful villages, and
should have refused to consider the lives of the citizens, the honor of
their wives and daughters, exposed to all the horrors of a capture by
assault! Assuredly this unhappy garrison was very pusillanimous! Woe to
the vanquished!
After the capitulation the English left nothing undone to secure
themselves in the possession of a place so important. The walls
were rebuilt, new fortifications added, and the batteries immensely
strengthened. It was conceivable that the besiegers might become the
besieged. This foresight was justified, for in the following spring
General Lévis took the offensive with an army of eight thousand men,
made up of regulars and militia in about equal numbers.
At eight o'clock in the morning, April 28, 1760, the English army was
drawn up in order of battle on the same field where it had moved to
victory seven months before. General Murray, with this army of six
thousand men and twenty guns, held a very strong position, while the
French army, a little more numerous, but supported by only two guns,
occupied the heights of St. Foy. The French were wearied with their
painful march over the marshes of La Suède, but they burned to wipe out
the memory of their defeat. The hate of centuries stirred the bosoms
of both armies. The courage of both was beyond question, and fifteen
thousand of the best troops in the world only awaited the word of their
commanders to spring at each other's throats.
Jules D'Haberville, who had distinguished himself in the first battle
on the Plains of Abraham, was with a detachment commanded by Captain
d'Aiguebelle. By order of General de Lévis, this detachment had at
first abandoned Dumont's mill under the attack of a much superior
force. Jules was severely wounded by the explosion of a shell,
which had shattered his left arm, but he refused to go to the rear.
Presently the general concluded that the mill was a position of supreme
importance, and, when he gave the order to recapture it, Jules led his
company to the charge, carrying his arm in a sling.
Almost all Murray's artillery was directed to the maintenance of
this position. The French grenadiers charged on the run. The bullets
and grape decimated their ranks, but they closed up as accurately
as if they were on parade. The mill was taken and retaken several
times during this memorable struggle. Jules D'Haberville, "the little
grenadier," as the soldiers called him, had hurled himself, sword
in hand, into the very midst of the enemy, who yielded ground for a
moment; but scarcely had the French established themselves, when the
English returned to the attack in overwhelming numbers, and took the
position after a most bloody struggle.
The French grenadiers, thrown for a moment into disorder, reformed at
a little distance under a scathing fire; then, charging for the third
time, they carried the position at the point of the bayonet, and held
it.
One would have thought, during this last charge, that the love of
life was extinct in the soul of Jules, who, his heart torn by what he
thought the treason of his friend, and by the total ruin of his family,
appeared to seek death as a blessing. As soon as the order for that
third charge was given he sprang forward like a tiger with the cry
of, "_À moi grenadiers!_" and hurled himself single handed upon the
English. When the French found themselves masters of the position they
drew Jules from under a heap of dead and wounded. Seeing that he was
yet alive, two grenadiers carried him to a little brook near the mill,
where he soon returned to consciousness. It was rather loss of blood
than the severity of his hurt that had caused the swoon. A blow from a
saber had split his helmet and gashed his head without fracturing the
skull. Jules wished to return to the fight, but one of the grenadiers
said to him:
"Not for a little while, my officer. You have had enough for the
present, and the sun beats like the devil out there, which is very
dangerous for a wound on the head. We are going to leave you in the
shade of these trees." D'Haberville, too weak to oppose them further,
soon found himself lying among a number of the wounded, who had had
strength enough to drag themselves into the grove. Every one knows
its result, this second battle of the Plains of Abraham. The victory
was dear bought by the French and the Canadians, who suffered no less
severely than their enemies. It was a useless bloodshed. New France,
abandoned by the mother country, was ceded to England by the careless
Louis three years after the battle.
Lochiel had cleared himself nobly of the suspicions which his foe,
Montgomery, had sought to fix upon him. His wide knowledge, his zeal
in the study of his profession, his skill in all military exercises,
his sobriety, his vigilance when in guard of a post, all these had put
him high in esteem. His dashing courage tempered with prudence in the
attack on the French lines at Montmorency and on the field of the first
Battle of the Plains had been noticed by General Murray, who commended
him publicly.
On the defeat of the English army at this second battle, Lochiel,
after tremendous fighting at the head of his Highlanders, was the
last to yield a position which he had defended inch by inch. Instead
of following the throng of fugitives toward Quebec, he noticed that
Dumont's Mill was now evacuated by the French, who were pursuing their
enemies with great slaughter. To conceal his route from the enemy,
Archie led his men between the mill and the adjoining wood. Just then
he heard some one calling his name; and turning, he saw an officer, his
arm in a sling, his uniform in tatters, his head wrapped in a bloody
cloth, staggering to meet him sword in hand.
"What are you doing, brave Cameron of Lochiel?" cried the unknown.
"The mill has been evacuated by our brave soldiers, and is no longer
defended by women and children and feeble old men. Return, valorous
Cameron, and crown your exploits by burning it down."
It was impossible to mistake the mocking voice of Jules D'Haberville,
although his face was unrecognizable for blood and powder.
On hearing these insulting words, Archie felt nothing but tenderest
loving pity for the friend of his youth. His heart beat as if to break;
a sob labored from his bosom, and again he seemed to hear the witch of
the manor crying ominously: "Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de
Lochiel. You will have need of it all on that day when you shall carry
in your arms the bleeding body of him you now call your brother!"
Forgetting the critical position in which he was keeping his men,
Archie halted his company and went forward to meet Jules. For one
moment all the young Frenchman's love for his adopted brother seemed to
revive, but, restraining himself sternly, he cried in a bitter voice:
"Defend yourself, M. de Lochiel; you, who love easy triumphs, defend
yourself, traitor!"
At this new insult, Archie folded his arms and answered, in a tone of
tender reproach:
"Thou, too, my brother Jules, even thou, too, hast thou condemned me
unheard?"
At these words a nervous shock seemed to paralyze the little remaining
strength of poor Jules. The sword dropped from his hand and he fell
forward on his face. Archie sent one of his men to the brook for water,
and, without thinking of the danger to which he exposed himself, took
his friend in his arms and carried him to the edge of the woods, where
some of the wounded Canadians, touched at the sight of an Englishman
bestowing so much care on their young officer, made no move to injure
him, although they had reloaded their guns at the approach of his men.
Archie examined his friend's wounds, and saw that he had fainted from
loss of blood. A little cold water in his face soon brought him back
to consciousness. He opened his eyes and looked at Archie, but made no
attempt to speak. The latter clasped his hand, which seemed to return a
gentle pressure.
"Farewell, Jules," said Archie. "Farewell, my brother. Harsh duty
forces me to leave you; but we shall meet again, in better days." And
he turned back sorrowfully to his troop.
"Now, my boys," said Lochiel, after throwing a rapid glance over the
plain and listening to the confused noises of the distant flight, "now,
my boys, no false delicacy, for the battle is hopelessly lost. We must
now display the agility of our Highland legs, if we want to take a hand
in future battles. Forward now, and do not lose sight of me."
Taking advantage of every inequality of the ground, lending heedful ear
to the shouts of the French, who were endeavoring to crowd the English
into the St. Charles, Lochiel led his men into Quebec without further
loss. This valiant company had already suffered enough. Half its men
had been left on the field of battle, and of its officers Lochiel was
the sole survivor.
All honor to vanquished heroism! Honor to the English dead, whose
bodies were buried in confusion with those of their enemies on the
twenty-eighth day of April, 1760! Honor to the soldiers of France, over
whose bodies grows green, with every succeeding spring, the turf of
the Plains of Abraham! When the last trump shall sound, and these foes
shall rise from their last sleep side by side, will they have forgotten
their ancient hate, or will they spring once more at each other's
throats?
Honor to the vanquished brave! Among the soldiers whose names are
bright on the pages of history there is but one who, on the morrow of
a glorious triumph, uncovered his head before his captives and cried,
"All honor to the vanquished brave!" He knew that his words would last
forever, graven on the heart of France. Great soldiers there are many;
but niggard Nature takes centuries to frame a hero.
The field of battle after the victory presented a ghastly sight.
Men and horses, the wounded and the dead, were frozen into the mire
of blood and water, and could be extricated only with pain and
difficulty. The wounded of both nations were treated by the Chevalier
de Lévis with the same tender care. Most of them were carried to the
Convent of the Hospital Nuns. The convent and all its outbuildings were
crowded. All the linen, all the clothing of the inmates was torn up for
bandages, and the good nuns had nothing left for themselves but the
clothes they were wearing upon the day of battle.
Taking refuge after his defeat behind the ramparts of Quebec, General
Murray made a vigorous resistance. As they had but twenty guns with
which to arm their siege-batteries, the French could do little more
than blockade the city and wait for the re-enforcements which never
came. The English general requested permission to send an officer
three times a week to visit his wounded in the hospital. This request
was readily granted by the humane De Lévis. Lochiel knew that his
friend must be lying in the hospital, but he could get no news of him.
Although consumed with anxiety, he dreaded to put himself in a false
position by inquiries too minute. It might have been considered natural
that he would wish to visit his wounded countrymen, but with true
Scotch caution he let none of his anxiety appear. It was not till the
tenth day after the battle, when his regular turn came, that he found
himself approaching the hospital under the escort of a French officer.
"I wonder," said Lochiel, "if you would consider it an indiscretion on
my part were I to ask for a private interview with the lady superior?"
"I see no indiscretion in it," answered the Frenchman," but I fear I
would be exceeding my orders were I to permit it. I am ordered to lead
you to your countrymen and nothing more."
"I am sorry," said the Scotchman indifferently. "It is a little
disappointing to me; but let us speak no more of it."
The French officer was silent some minutes; he thought to himself that
the Scotchman, speaking French like a Parisian, had probably made the
acquaintance of some Canadian families shut up in Quebec; that he was
perhaps charged with some message from the relations or friends of the
superior, and that it would be cruel to refuse his request. Presently
he said:
"As I am persuaded that neither you nor the lady superior can be
forming any designs against our batteries, I think that perhaps, after
all, I might grant your request without exceeding my duty."
Lochiel, who had been staking all his hopes of a reconciliation with
the D'Habervilles upon this interview, could scarcely conceal his joy;
but he answered quietly:
"Thank you, monsieur, for your courtesy to myself and the good lady.
Your batteries, protected by French valor, might feel reasonably secure
even if we were conspiring against them."
The corridors of the hospital which he had to traverse before reaching
the parlor of the superior were literally thronged with the wounded;
but Archie, seeing none of his own men, hastened on. After ringing the
bell, he walked restlessly up and down the room. It was the same room
in which he and Jules had had so many a dainty lunch in their happy
school days; for the good superior was Jules's aunt.
The superior received him with cold politeness, and said:
"I am very sorry to have kept you waiting, sir; please take a seat."
"I fear," said Archie, "that madam does not recognize me."
"A thousand pardons," replied the superior. "You are Mr. Archibald
Cameron of Lochiel."
"Once you called me Archie," said the young man.
"The times are changed, sir," replied the nun, "and many things have
happened since those days."
Sighing deeply, Lochiel echoed her words:
"The times are indeed changed, and many things have happened since
those days. But at least, madam, tell me how is my brother, Jules
D'Haberville?"
"He whom you once called your brother, sir, is now, I hope, out of
danger."
"Thank God!" answered Lochiel, "now all hope is not utterly dead in my
heart! If I were speaking to an ordinary person there would be nothing
more for me to do but thank you for your condescension and retire;
but I have the honor to address the sister of a brave soldier, the
inheritor of a name made illustrious by many heroic deeds; and if madam
will permit, if she will forget for a moment the ties which bind me to
her family, if she will judge impartially between me and that family,
then I might dare attempt, with some hope of success, to justify myself
before her."
"Speak, M. de Lochiel," replied the superior, "and I will listen, not
as a D'Haberville but as a stranger. It is my duty as a Christian
to hear impartially anything that might palliate your barbarous and
heartless conduct toward a family that loved you so well."
The sudden flush which covered the young man's face was followed by a
pallor so ghastly that the superior thought he was about to faint. He
grasped the grating between them with both hands, and leaned his head
against it for some moments; then, mastering his emotion, he told his
story as the reader already knows it.
Archie went into the most minute details, down to his misgivings when
his regiment was ordered to leave for Canada, down to the hereditary
hatred of the Montgomerys for the Camerons; and he accused himself of
cowardice in not having sacrificed even his honor to the gratitude he
owed the D'Habervilles. From the utterance of Montgomery's barbarous
order he omitted not the smallest incident. He described the anguish of
his despair, his curses, and his vows of vengeance against Montgomery.
In painting the emotions which had tortured his soul, Lochiel had small
need to add anything in the way of justification. What argument could
be more eloquent than the plain story of his despair! Lochiel's judge
was one well fitted to understand him, for she it was who in her youth
had one day said to her brother Captain D'Haberville: "My brother,
you have not the means to worthily sustain the dignity of our house,
except with the help of my share of the patrimony. To-morrow I enter a
convent. Here is the deed wherein I renounce all claim in your favor."
The good woman had heard Archie's story with ever-increasing emotion.
She stretched out her clasped hands to him as he described his
anguished imprecations against Montgomery. The tears flowed down her
cheeks as he described his remorse and his resignation while, bound to
the tree, he awaited a hideous death.
"My dear Archie," exclaimed the holy woman.
"Oh! thank you, thank you a thousand times for those words," cried
Lochiel, clasping his hands.
"My dear Archie," exclaimed the superior, "I absolve you with all my
heart. You have but done your painful duty in obeying your orders.
By any other course you would have destroyed yourself irretrievably
without preventing the ruin of our family. Yes, I forgive you freely,
but I hope that you will now pardon your enemy."
"He who was my enemy, madam, has gone to solicit pardon from him who
will judge us all. He was one of the first to fly from the field of
battle which proved so disastrous to our arms. A bullet stretched him
upon the ice, wounded to the death. He had not even a stone on which to
rest his head. A tomahawk ended his sufferings, and his scalp hangs now
at the belt of an Abénaquis warrior. May God pardon him, as I do, with
all my heart!"
A divine light beamed softly in the eyes of the nun. Born as revengeful
as her brother the seigneur, her religion of love and charity had made
her as all charitable as itself. After a moment of rapt meditation, she
said:
"With Jules, I doubt not, you will find reconciliation easy. He has
been at death's door. During his delirium your name was forever on his
lips, sometimes with the fiercest reproaches, but more often with words
of love and tenderest endearment. One must know my nephew well, must
know the sublime self-abnegation of which his soul is capable, in order
to comprehend his love for you. Many a time has he said to me: 'If it
were necessary for me to-morrow to sacrifice my life for Archie, I
would die with a smile on my lips, for I should be giving him the only
worthy proof of my love.' Such love, in a heart so noble as his, is not
soon or easily extinguished. He will rejoice to hear your justification
from my lips, and you may be sure that I will spare no effort to
reunite you. Since recovering from his delirium he has never mentioned
your name; and as he is yet too weak to discuss a subject that would
excite so much emotion, I must wait till he gets stronger. I shall hope
to have good news for you at our next interview. Meanwhile, farewell
till I see you again!"
"Pray for me, madam, for I have great need of it," exclaimed Archie.
"That is what I do daily," answered the nun. "They say, perhaps
wrongly, that people of the world, and young officers particularly,
have more need of prayer than we; but as for you, Archie, you must have
greatly changed if you are not one of those who have least need of it,"
she added, smiling affectionately. "Farewell once more, and God bless
you, my son!"
The superior succeeded in satisfying Jules with Archie's explanation.
About a fortnight after Archie's first visit, Jules was awaiting him,
filled with a nervous anxiety to prove to him that all the old love
was yet warm in his heart. It was understood that there should be no
allusion to certain events, too painful for either to dwell upon.
Archie was ushered into a little chamber which Jules, as nephew of
the lady superior, was occupying in preference to certain officers of
higher rank. Jules stretched out his arms and made a vain effort to
rise from his armchair. Archie threw himself upon his neck, and for a
time neither spoke. D'Haberville, after controlling his emotion with an
effort, was the first to break silence:
"The moments are precious, my dear Archie, and we must endeavor, if
possible, to lift the veil which hangs over our future. We are no
longer children; we are soldiers fighting under glorious banners,
brothers in love but enemies upon the field of battle. I have grown
ten years older during my sickness. I am no longer the broken-hearted
young fool who rushed upon the enemy's battalions seeking death. No, my
dear brother, let us live rather to see better days. Those were your
last words when you handed over my bleeding body to the care of my
grenadiers.
"You know as well as I the precarious condition of this colony; all
depends upon a mere throw of the dice. If France leaves us to our own
resources, as it seems but too probable she will do, and if your
Government, attaching so grand an importance to the conquest of Canada,
send you re-enforcments in the spring, we must raise the siege of
Quebec and leave the country to you. In the opposite contingency we
recapture Quebec and keep the colony. Now, my dear Archie, I want to
know what you will do in the one case or the other."
"In either case," said Lochiel, "as long as the war lasts I can not
honorably resign my commission. But when peace comes, I propose to sell
the poor remnant of my Highland estate and come and establish myself on
this side of the water. My deepest affections are here. I love Canada,
I love the simple and upright manners of your good _habitants_; and
after a quiet but busy life, I would rest my head beneath the same sod
with you, my brother."
"My position is very different from yours," answered Jules. "You are
the master of your actions; I am the slave of circumstance. If we lose
Canada, it is probable that most of the Canadian nobility will move to
France, where they will find protection and friends. If my family is
of this number I can not leave the army. In the contrary case I shall
return after some years of service, to live and die with my own people;
and, like you, to sleep at last in the land I love so well. Everything
leads me to hope, my brother, that after a storm-tossed youth we shall
come to see happier days."
The two friends parted after a long and loving talk, the last they were
to have while the colony remained New France. When the reader meets
them again after some years, the country will have changed both name
and masters.