WOLFE’S VICTORY AND DEATH
A SLIGHT shower of rain was falling when Henry and Silvers, still
panting for breath, followed the grenadiers and Highlanders to the
Plains of Abraham, so called after Abraham Martin, a Canadian pilot who
had once owned a stretch of land in that locality. The plains were
tolerably level, covered here and there with grass and brushwood. To the
southward stretched the St. Lawrence, and to the north and east the
River St. Charles. Quebec stood at the extreme southeast point, hidden
from view by a series of rocks and low hills, and partly protected by
the city wall.
“This is surely a surprise to the French,” remarked Henry, as a distant
cannon roared forth a warning. “Outside of the guard that was routed not
a soldier has come into view.”
But it was not long before a detachment of the French appeared on the
ridge before the city. They were a battalion sent forward from an
encampment on the St. Charles. The soldiers were in their showy white
uniforms, in strong contrast to the red of the British. Drums beat, the
Highlanders piped bravely on their pipes, and a skirmish ensued which
quickly forced the French to retire for consultation. An attack was also
made on the rear, by Bougainville’s forces, but this was likewise
repulsed.
Hearing the distant firing, Montcalm rode forward in hot haste to learn
what it meant. He still imagined it might be a ruse, and that the main
attack would be at Beauport, but one glance at the long and solid ranks
of the English made him realize the bitter truth—that Wolfe had
outwitted him, and that the English were now between him and his
supplies. He must either fight and win or surrender.
The French commander knew that he must act quickly, for the English
might start to intrench themselves, or, worse yet, march on the city, at
any moment. Orders were rushed furiously in all directions, and the
troops came up pell-mell, some over the plains, some by the St. Charles
bridge, and some by way of the city’s gates, the regulars in white, the
French Colonials in their nondescript tatters, and the Indians in their
savage warpaint. Drums beat, trumpets blared defiance, and proud banners
waved through the rainy air. But the English ranks stood silent, the
grim look on the men’s faces telling how they were prepared to meet any
shock that might come.
The battle was not long in starting. The French took possession of
several rises of ground and of some cornfields, and a scattering fire
began, gradually growing stronger and stronger.
“Be calm, men!” cried Wolfe, riding up and down, in front and beyond his
men. A short while later a bullet struck him in the wrist, but he bound
the wound up with a handkerchief, and refused to quit the field.
Henry and Silvers were firing with the rest. Soon the fight caused them
to drift apart. Henry was with some grenadiers, tall, strong-looking
soldiers, who fought with a rare courage that nothing could daunt. With
Henry were fifteen or twenty Royal Americans, who had been at first
guarding the boats at the landing, but who had now come up to do their
share of the fighting.
There was a constant rattle of musketry, punctuated occasionally by
heavy artillery. Montcalm’s army was now at hand, and a fierce onslaught
ensued, the French general himself leading his men and urging them to do
their best.
“Forward!” was the cry on the English side, and the soldiers advanced a
couple of hundred feet. Then the French rushed to the front, while the
English reloaded their pieces. A solid volley was delivered which
created terrific havoc in the ranks of the wearers of the white uniform,
who were seen to pitch in all directions, dead and dying.
“The day is ours!” was the British cry. “At them! At them, Britons! At
them!” And another advance was made.
Begrimed with dirt and smoke, and perspiring freely, Henry went on with
the rest. He had fired his musket several times, and now came the order
to fix bayonets. Bullets were whistling in all directions, and the young
soldier saw more than one companion go down, several to their death. He
himself was “scotched” in the arm, but did not notice the hurt until
long afterward.
Slowly the French gave way, first in one direction and then another.
Then came the order to charge, and a mighty yell went up as the
grenadiers and others ran over the field on the very heels of the
retreating French. To one side was a field in which were stationed a
number of French sharpshooters.
“They must be dislodged,” cried Wolfe, and led the charge. Back of him
came the Louisburg Grenadiers, those men who had made such a record for
themselves in other campaigns. With these grenadiers was Louis Silvers,
running with many others into the very jaws of death.
Again the bullets whistled around them, and again General Wolfe was hit.
He was seen to stagger, but kept on, when a third bullet took him in the
breast.
“The general is killed!” was the cry, and Silvers ran to support him.
But ere the brave sharpshooter who had been Henry’s companion through so
much of peril could gain the general’s side, a bullet hit him in the
side of the head, and he fell over on his face, dead.
Several officers and solders had seen General Wolfe’s condition, and a
lieutenant and two privates ran to support him and carry him to the
rear.
“Le—let me down, men,” he murmured. “Don’t take me from the field.”
“General, you must have a surgeon,” said one.
“There is no need; it is—is all over with me,” he gasped, and sank as in
a faint.
“Run for a surgeon,” said another, and two privates sped away on the
errand.
At that moment came another yell from the end of the field, some
distance away:
“They run! They run! Hurrah! See them run!”
Breathing heavily, Wolfe raised himself up.
“Who—run?” he murmured.
“The enemy, general; they are giving ground in every direction,”
answered the officer who knelt beside him.
Instantly the face of General Wolfe took on a look of quiet
satisfaction.
“Tell”—he murmured,—“tell Colonel Burton—march regiment—Webb’s—Charles
River—cut off retreat!” He breathed heavily, and then with a long sigh
continued: “Now, God be praised, I will die in peace!”
And but a short time later he expired.
The fall of Wolfe was disheartening to the English, but victory was
already in their grasp, and on the French side General Montcalm had also
been hit, as he was riding in the midst of the soldiers who were
retreating toward the city. A shot passed through his body and he was
supported through the St. Louis gate, now a place of intense excitement.
Those who were in the city became panic-stricken, and many sought to get
together their worldly possessions and fly for their lives.
There was one body of the French soldiery that had not as yet been
defeated. These were the colonists, who had been held at and near the
city. They now went forward and took possession of a hill and a
cornfield, from which they were dislodged only after a heavy loss by the
English.
In the meantime the French general further up the river did his best to
gather together his scattered guards and attack the British from the
rear. But by the time he came up General Wolfe’s army, now under the
command of Townshend, for Monckton had also fallen with Wolfe, was
safely intrenched. From Beauport also came the Governor-General,
Vaudreuil, amazed and bewildered, and able to do little but look on
helplessly. He was met by half of the demoralized French army, who
insisted upon it that all was lost.
In the city the confusion was tinged with a sadness hardly to be
described. Montcalm, the well-beloved, was dying, and his second in
command, Brigadier Senezergues, was also mortally hurt. What was to be
done? Another day would find the English strongly intrenched, for in the
darkness they were already bringing up cannon and training them on the
city walls.
“We must retreat—nothing more is left to us,” said more than one French
officer, and the word swept the rounds with incredible swiftness.
“Retreat! retreat, ere it is too late!” was the French cry, and away
fled regulars and colonists, in a mad rush that was little short of a
panic. The red men, who before the battle had boasted of what they would
do, disappeared as if the ground had opened and swallowed them up.
That night the Marquis de Montcalm, as brave a soldier as ever lived,
breathed his last. There was no coffin at hand in which to bury him, and
his remains were placed in a rude pine box and deposited under the floor
of the Ursuline Convent. As one historian has fitly said, the funeral of
Montcalm was the funeral of New France.
Wolfe and Montcalm! brave, generous soldiers both of them. Is it a
wonder that the people of Canada, French and English combined love their
memory, and that on what was the Plains of Abraham there stands to-day a
pyramid raised in their combined honor?
Ramesey was in command of Quebec, but under the orders of the
Governor-General. From a safe distance Vaudreuil wrote to the commandant
telling him not to let the English carry the place by assault.
“As soon as provisions fail, raise the white flag, and make the best
terms you can,” wrote the Governor-General, and Ramesey prepared to
obey. At one time he hesitated, hoping to be relieved by General Lévis,
who wanted the army to march back. But in a day or two matters grew
worse, and at last the white flag was raised, and Quebec capitulated.
“The city is ours!” cried Henry. “What a victory!”
It was indeed a victory, but one tinged with sadness, for General Wolfe
was loved by all. The remains of the officer were tenderly cared for,
and, later on, sent to England, where another monument to his memory was
erected in Westminster Abbey.
It was a great shock to Henry to find that Silvers had been shot and
killed. The man was comparatively a new acquaintance, yet their mutual
experiences of the past few weeks had made them feel more like old
friends. Silvers was buried in a trench outside of Quebec, along with
many others who had fallen, and Henry was a sincere mourner at the brief
funeral. Later on, the young soldier carved out a rude slab with his
jackknife which he erected over the mound. Fortunately Louis Silvers was
a bachelor, so there remained no wife or children to mourn his loss.
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