THE FALL OF MONTREAL
IN his career as a soldier Dave had been in many positions of peril, yet
scarcely one had been as dire as that which now confronted him.
The shock came so quickly that he hardly realized what was happening
before he was under water, and somebody seemed to be doing his best to
stand on the young soldier’s shoulders.
Flinging the feet above to one side, Dave tried to reach the surface of
the river. In doing this he slid past two more soldiers, both of whom
clutched at him, one catching him by the coat, and the other by the
neck.
To be held by the coat was of small importance in comparison to being
deprived of one’s wind, and Dave lost no time in fighting off the fellow
who had him by the neck. The hold was a strong one, and the youth feared
he would be choked unless he broke it without delay.
There was a wild floundering on all sides, and in the mêlée somebody
above kicked out sharply with his heavy boots. One boot struck the man
who held Dave by the throat, and the grip was broken just when the youth
was about to give up in despair. Then the young soldier felt his coat
also freed, and he came up with a rush, to get a badly needed breath of
air.
The majority of the soldiers were struggling madly to hold fast to the
bits of wreckage floating around. Yells and groans rent the air, with an
occasional prayer for assistance. Some had already gone down to their
death, and others were fast losing what little strength was left to
them.
“It’s no use trying to get hold of a board, or anything,” thought Dave.
“They are all fighting like so many cats and dogs. I’ll save my
strength, and strike out for shore.”
But striking out with his clothing on was by no means easy, and Dave had
hardly covered a hundred feet when he found himself well-nigh exhausted.
He tried to pull off his coat, but as he was doing this another boat
hove into sight, coming straight for him.
“Hi! don’t run me down!” he screamed, and then, as the boat swerved to
one side, he made a clutch at one of the oars. Willing hands were
out-stretched to him, and in a moment more he was on board, where he
sank to the bottom, panting for breath. Two others were picked up in
similar fashion, and then the boat swept on to its destination.
The shooting of the St. Lawrence rapids by the army under General
Amherst was never forgotten by those who participated in it. During that
reckless ride over sixty boats were either totally wrecked or greatly
damaged, and more than eighty soldiers lost their lives through
drowning. As one boat after another shot through the swirling waters the
French gathered on the upper bank of the river, fully expecting to see
every one of their enemy go down to destruction.
The rapids passed, the boats, or what was left of them, sailed down Lake
St. Louis, and landed at Isle Perrot, at a point about twenty miles
above Montreal. Here many of the half-drowned ones were cared for, and
some of the boats were temporarily repaired.
“We are well out of that,” said Dave, when on land once more. “I shall
never attempt to shoot those rapids again;” and he never did.
It had taken three weeks to reach Isle Perrot, and now word came in by
Indian messengers that General Murray was also advancing on Montreal
from the northeastward, and that General Haviland was ready to strike
whenever required.
“We now have the French as in a vise,” said General Amherst. “They
cannot get away from us.” The next day, early in the morning, the army
left Isle Perrot again, and landed on the north bank of the river at La
Chine. Here there was some slight show of opposition, but soon the
French outposts, and also a number of the inhabitants of La Chine, fled
towards Montreal, leaving the English army to land its guns and stores
at its leisure.
“On to Montreal!” was now the cry on all sides, and the spirits of the
soldiers revived wonderfully, for all felt that a deathblow was soon to
be struck to the war which had now lasted for five long years.
It was a beautiful day in early September, and had Dave not been
troubled by thoughts of Henry and Barringford, he would have enjoyed the
march along the river bank. A regimental band played the liveliest of
military airs, and when the band did not play a Colonial drummer and a
fifer kept the Royal Americans in step.
Yet it must be confessed that the soldiers were a motley collection.
Even the showy uniforms of the grenadiers, and the Royal Artillery, were
sadly in need of repairs, while the so-called uniforms of the Royal
Americans, never very good, and of a dozen different designs, were
practically in tatters. Dave’s uniform confessed to half a dozen rents,
and twice as many patches, and his gun, a flint-lock dating back to the
war in Scotland, was a clumsy affair that looked as if it was in danger
of exploding every time he discharged it.
The next day found Amherst’s army encamped almost under the walls of
Montreal, to which city the French had flocked from all directions,
pleading for protection at the hands of Governor-General Vaudreuil. As
Amherst drew near from one direction, Murray and his army came up from
the other, while Haviland encamped on the south shore of the St.
Lawrence, immediately in front of Montreal.
The city was now in a state of siege, and the French well knew that if
they opened fire on the English the enemy would retaliate by bombarding
houses, public buildings, and churches, with a great loss of life and
property. Many of the Canadians had gone home to their farms, and some
of the French regulars had also deserted, so that the army in the city
did not number over twenty-five hundred men.
“We cannot fight them,” said Vaudreuil. “They have not less than
seventeen thousand soldiers, and hundreds of cannon, and large
quantities of ammunition. If we fight, the city will be laid low from
end to end; and men, women, and children ruthlessly slaughtered.”
Lévis, a born fighter, demurred at first, but soon saw the wisdom of the
advice; and a council of war was held. It was a stormy scene, and it
took many hours to draw up a form of capitulation. The French officers
wished to march out of Montreal with the honors of war, and wished many
other things; and these were all put into the paper which was sent to
General Amherst the next morning.
“I cannot grant this form of capitulation,” said Amherst, on looking the
paper over. “I will grant some conditions, but not others. The whole
force must lay down its arms, and not serve again during the present
war.”
When this answer was brought back, Vaudreuil merely shrugged his
shoulders, but Lévis went into a rage, and vowed he would never submit.
“I will myself send a note to General Amherst to show him that he is
asking too much,” said Lévis, and sent the note without delay. In return
Amherst stated that he was fully resolved to make the army lay down its
arms. He was horrified over the way the French Indians had been allowed
to massacre wounded and helpless English soldiers, and he considered
that the enemy must be taught a stern lesson in retaliation.
It was a time of wild excitement in Montreal, for the citizens, and
those who had come into the city for protection, were afraid that the
English might bombard the place at any moment. When a cannon boomed out
as a signal, a hundred cries would ring out. Business had come to a
complete standstill, and many places were boarded and locked up; and in
some instances goods of value, and money, and jewels, were buried.
For the time being those in the various prisons about the city were
practically neglected, and in at least three cases the prisoners almost
starved to death because of this neglect. The keeper of the jail in
which Henry was confined went off one night, and failed to appear during
the next day.
“Something is wrong, that’s sure,” said one of the prisoners. Then he
yelled loudly for water, but nobody came to answer his demand.
Henry was pale and thin, and suffered as much for the want of fresh air
as for proper food. The jail was a vile place, and the conditions there
were steadily growing worse. One prisoner had committed suicide, and
another had gone stark, raving crazy.
“If this keeps on I’ll go crazy myself,” said Henry. “The food is not
fit for a dog to eat.”
Strange to say, he had not seen or heard of Jean Bevoir since the French
trader had threatened him through the bars of the prison door. As a
matter of fact, Bevoir had attempted to have the youth brought before
the military court as a spy, but the French commander had refused to
listen to his plea.
“You are too anxious in this, sir,” said the officer sternly. “I think
you must have a grudge against the young fellow. I have no official
report against him, and in such a prison he is probably suffering as
much as he deserves.” And Jean Bevoir sneaked away from headquarters
feeling very much as if somebody had kicked him.
Truth to tell, the French commander felt that a crisis was at hand, and
that it would not now do to hang or maltreat any of the English
prisoners. He even ordered that the prisoners be given better rations,
but this order, in the case of the jailer at Henry’s jail, was
disobeyed, the jailer selling the extra rations to the outsiders in the
town at a handsome profit.
On the night following the disappearance of the jailer, matters reached
a climax in the prison. There was a fight for some water that still
remained in a keg in one corner, and this quickly changed to a revolt,
in which the jail door was broken down. The prisoners ran forth and
scattered in all directions; and although a French guard soon came on
the scene and shot down two of the men, the others got away.
With the escaping ones went Henry, almost as reckless as were the
leaders. For a while he remained with two of the soldiers who had been
quite friendly, but when the shooting began he ran through a back yard,
leaped over a stone wall, and made his way along a street that was
almost deserted. He was now entirely alone, and, coming to an open
hallway, he slipped into a house. He heard sounds of voices in a lower
room, and, without stopping to think twice, bounded up the stairs to the
second floor.
“Perhaps I’m running into a trap, but I’ve got to risk it,” he told
himself; and after a slight hesitation opened a door near the head of
the stairs. The room was a bedchamber, and in the center stood a large,
square, “four-poster” bed, with the top hangings partly drawn. A man lay
on the bed, tossing uneasily, as if in something of a fever. On a chair
rested a French uniform, showing that the sleeper was an officer.
[Illustration:
“Stand where you are,” ordered the sick man.—_Page 297._
]
“It won’t do for me to stay in such hot quarters as these,” thought
Henry. “I had better get out just as fast as I came in.”
He started back for the hallway, but now came steps on the stairs, and
the rattle of dishes, followed by some talking. Henry glanced around
him, saw a closet in a corner of the room, and dove into it. Just as he
closed the door of the closet he caught a brief glimpse of a woman with
a tray, followed by a girl of about his own age. Both entered the
bedchamber, closing the door tightly behind them.
A murmur of voices followed, and Henry surmised that the sleeping man
had awakened, and that the two women were urging him to partake of the
food they had brought. The talking was in French, so he understood but
little.
Presently the girl moved across the bedchamber, and before Henry
realized what was coming the door of the closet was flung open. As the
young soldier was exposed to view, the girl gave a scream, and then
uttered several words in French:
“A man! An English soldier!”
“What is it you say?” demanded the man in the bed, and, turning over, he
drew a pistol from under his pillow.
“A man—an English soldier,” repeated the girl. “Oh, Louis, what shall we
do?”
“Stand where you are!” ordered the sick man, and sat up in bed with the
pistol pointed at Henry’s head.
“Oh, Louis, my son, have a care!” put in the woman. “He may kill you!”
“I am not afraid, mother,” was the answer. “You forget what risks I have
taken in the past——”
“But you are still weak. The doctor——”
“The doctor doesn’t know me, mother. I am worth a dozen sick men at this
minute. Please let me deal with him, and both of you stand aside, so
that the fellow can’t hide himself behind you.”
The girl and the woman were willing enough to do this, and shrank away
from the closet. Then, struck by a sudden idea, the woman backed herself
up to the door leading to the hallway.
Feeling himself cornered, Henry threw up his hands, and stepped out of
the closet.
“Don’t fire,” he said as quietly as he could, although his heart was
thumping loudly in his breast.
“If you have a pistol throw it on the bed,” said the Frenchman in
excellent English.
“I am totally unarmed,” was Henry’s ready answer.
“Is it possible! Where did you come from?”
Henry began to explain, when the French officer suddenly interrupted
him.
“Am I mistaken, or have we met before?” he said.
“I do not remember you,” returned Henry, puzzled at the unexpected
question.
“Did you come from Quebec?”
“I did.”
“You were on guard duty there?”
“I was.”
“At and near the shop of one Lavelle, a gold and silver smith?”
“Yes, yes! But you—you——” faltered Henry.
At this the French officer gave a chuckle.
“I was there, too,” he said. “It was I who escaped from the cellar that
night. They tried to catch me, but ha! ha! I was too quick for them. I
showed them what a French spy can do when he is put to it!”
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