ringing cheer broke from the English ranks, mingled with the yell
of the Highlanders beyond. The ground was covered with dead and
wounded; the ranks of the oncoming foe were shattered and broken.
The Canadians had turned, and were flying hither and thither, only
caring to escape the terrible fire, which in open country they
could never stand. In a few more seconds, as soon as the regulars
saw that the red-coats were preparing to charge, they too flung
down their muskets and joined the rout.
"Charge them, men, charge them!"
Wolfe's voice rang like a clarion note over the field. He placed
himself at the head of one of the columns. Julian and Humphrey were
on either side of him. The yell of the Highlanders was in their
ears, and the huzzah of the English soldiers, as they dashed upon
the retreating foe.
Their line had been a little broken here by the fire of the foe,
and still from ambushed sharpshooters hidden upon the plain a more
or less deadly fire was kept up. Wolfe led where the danger was
greatest and the firing most galling and persistent.
"Dislodge those men!" was the order which had just passed his lips,
when Julian noticed that he seemed to pause and stagger for a
moment.
"You are hurt!" he exclaimed anxiously, springing to his side; but
Wolfe kept steadily on his way, wrapping his handkerchief round his
wrist the while. The blood was welling from it. Julian insisted
upon tying the bandage, finding that the wrist was shattered.
"You are wounded--you will surely go back!" he said anxiously; but
Wolfe seemed scarcely to hear.
The next moment he was off again with his men, directing their
movements with all his accustomed skill and acumen. Once again he
staggered. Julian dashed to his side; but he spoke no word. If he
would but think of himself! But no; his soul was in the battle. He
had no care save for the issue of the day.
A sudden volley seemed to open upon them from a little unseen dip
in the ground, masked by thick underwood. Julian felt a bullet whiz
so near to his ear that the skin was grazed and the hair singed.
For a moment he was dizzy with the deafening sound. Then a low cry
from Humphrey reached him.
"The General! the General!" he said.
Julian dashed his hand across his eyes and looked. Wolfe was
sitting upon the ground. He was still gazing earnestly at the
battle rushing onward, but there had come into his eyes a strange
dimness.
"He is struck--he is wounded!" said Humphrey in a low voice,
bending over him. "Help, Julian; we must carry him to the rear."
Julian half expected resistance on the part of Wolfe; but no word
passed his lips. They were growing ashy white.
With a groan of anguish--for he felt as though he knew what was
coming--Julian bent to the task, and the pair conveyed the light,
frail form through the melee of the battlefield towards the place
where the wounded had been carried, and where Fritz still lay. A
surgeon came hastily forward, and seeing who it was, uttered an
exclamation of dismay.
Wolfe opened his dim eyes. He saw Julian's face, but all the rest
was blotted out in a haze.
"Lay me down," he said faintly; "I want nothing."
"The surgeons are here," said Julian anxiously as they put him out
of the hot rays of the sun, which was now shining over heights and
plains.
"They can do nothing for me," said Wolfe, in the same faint, dreamy
way; "let them look to those whom they can help."
A death-like faintness was creeping over him. The surgeon put a
stimulating draught to his lips; and when a part had been
swallowed, proceeded to make a partial examination of the injuries
sustained. But when he had opened the breast of his coat and saw
two orifices in the neighbourhood of the heart, he shook his head,
and laid the wounded man down to rest.
Julian felt a spasm of pain shoot through his heart, like a thrust
from a bayonet.
"Can you do nothing?" he asked in a whisper.
"Nothing," was the reply. "He has not an hour to live."
"To be cut off in the very hour of victory!" exclaimed Humphrey,
with a burst of sorrow. "It is too hard--too hard!"
"Yet it is what he desired for himself," said Julian, in a low
voice. I think it is what he himself would have chosen."
"He has suffered more than any of us can well imagine," said the
surgeon gravely. "We can scarcely grudge to him the rest and peace
of the long, last sleep."
Humphrey turned away to dash the tears from his eyes. In his
silent, dog-like fashion, he had loved their young General with a
great and ardent love, and it cut him to the heart to see him lying
there white and pulseless, his life ebbing slowly away, without
hope of a rally.
A sign from somebody at a little distance attracted his attention.
He crossed the open space of ground, and bent over Fritz, who lay
bandaged and partially helpless amongst the wounded, but with all
his faculties clear.
"What is it they are saying all around?" he asked anxiously. "How
goes the battle? how is it with our General?"
"The battle truly is won--or so I believe," answered Humphrey, in a
husky voice. "God grant that the gallant Wolfe may live to know
that success has crowned his efforts--that the laurel wreath will
be his, even though it be only laid upon his tomb!"
"Is he then wounded?"
"Mortally, they say."
A spasm of pain contracted Fritz's face.
"Then Quebec will be dearly purchased," he said. "Humphrey, help me
to move; I would look upon his face once again!"
Humphrey gave the desired assistance. They were bringing in the
wounded, French and English both, to this place of shelter; but the
spot where Wolfe lay was regarded as sacred ground. It was still
and quiet there, though in the distance the din of battle sounded,
and the sharp rattle of musketry or the booming of artillery could
be heard at this side and that.
Fritz limped slowly across the open space, and halted a dozen paces
from where Wolfe lay; half supported in the arms of Julian, whose
face was stern with repressed grief.
The ashen shadow had deepened upon the face of the dying man. He
seemed to be sinking away out of life. The long lashes lay upon the
waxen cheek; the deep repose of the long, last sleep seemed to be
falling upon the wasted features. Fritz felt an unaccustomed mist
rising before his eyes. He thought he had never before seen a
nobler countenance.
The few standing about the wounded General looked from him to the
distant plain, where the battle tide was rolling farther away, and
from which, from time to time, arose outbursts of sudden sound--the
wild screech of the Highlanders, the answering cheer of the
English, the spattering, diminishing shots, and now and again a
sharp volley that told of some more determined struggle in one
place or another.
"Look how they run! look, look--they run like sheep!" cried
Humphrey, breaking into sudden excitement, as his trained sight,
without the aid of glasses, took in the meaning of that confused
mass of men.
Julian felt a thrill run through the prostrate form he was holding.
The eyes he had never thought to look upon again opened wide. Wolfe
raised his head, and asked, with something of the old ring in his
voice:
"Who run?"
"The enemy, sir," eagerly replied those who stood by. "They are
melting away like smoke. They give way everywhere. The day is
ours!"
The young General half raised himself, as though he would fain have
seen the sight; but his dim eyes took in nothing.
"Tell Colonel Burton," he said, speaking with his old decision, "to
march Webb's regiment down to the St. Charles, and cut off their
retreat from the bridge."
Humphrey was off almost before the words had left his lips. He
would be the one to carry the General's last message. Wolfe heard
him go, and smiled. He knew that Humphrey was the trustiest of
messengers. He looked up into Julian's face.
"Now lay me down again," he said faintly. "Farewell, my trusty
friend and comrade. Take my love to those at home; remember my last
messages. God be thanked; He has given us the victory. I can die in
peace."
He drew a long sigh, and his eyes closed. A little thrill ran
through the worn frame.
Julian laid it down, and reverently covered the peaceful face;
whilst a stifled sob went up from those who saw the action.
James Wolfe had gone to his rest--had died the death of a hero upon
the victorious battlefield.
Book 7: English Victors.
Chapter 1: A Panic-Stricken City.
It had come at last! The long delay and suspense were over. The
English had stormed the Heights of Abraham. Their long red lines
had been seen by terrified citizens, who came rushing into the town
at dawn of day. The supposed attack at Beauport had been nothing
but a blind. Whilst Montcalm and Vaudreuil were massing the troops
to repel the enemy here, the real assault had been made behind the
city, and the English foe was almost upon them.
Colin had dashed out when the first grey of the dawn had stolen in
at their windows. There had been no sleep for Quebec that night.
The whole city was in a state of tense excitement. Confidently had
the Generals declared that the enemy were bent upon their own
destruction; that they were about to tempt fate, and would be
driven back with ignominy and loss.
"Let them come! Let them taste of the welcome we have to offer
them! Let them see what Quebec has to give them when they reach her
strand!"
These words, and many similar to them, were passed from mouth to
mouth by the garrison and townsfolk of Quebec. None would admit
that disaster was possible to "the impregnable city;" and yet its
shattered walls and ruined houses, the crowded hospital and the
deserted buildings, all told a terrible tale. The upper town had
suffered lately almost as severely as the lower had done at the
commencement of the bombardment. It was a problem now where to find
safe shelter for the citizens. Great numbers of them had fled to
the country beyond, or to other Canadian settlements; for not only
was this terrible bombardment destroying their homes, and
inflicting fearful hurt upon those exposed to it, but provisions
were becoming very scarce; and if the English once got foothold on
the west side of the town, they would be able to cut off Quebec
from her source of supply.
Colin dashed out for tidings so soon as the dawn crept into the
sky; and Madame Drucour and Corinne sat very close together, so
absorbed in listening that they could scarce find words in which to
reassure each other.
They were no longer in the little narrow house where once they had
dwelt. That had been shattered at last by some of the heavier guns
which the enemy had brought to Point Levi, and they had been forced
to abandon it. They were in a house which so far had not been
touched, sheltered as it was behind some of the fortifications. It
belonged to Surgeon Arnoux, a clever and competent man, who was at
present with the army of Bourlemaque; but his younger brother,
Victor, also a surgeon, was still in the city, and he had
generously opened his house to several of the unfortunate citizens
who had been rendered homeless by the bombardment.
At present the house contained as its residents Madame Drucour,
with her brother the Abbe, and Colin and Corinne. The Bishop,
Pontbriand, who was dying himself of a mortal disease, but was
still able to go about amongst the sick and wounded, was another
inmate, beloved of all. The party was waited on sedulously by an
old servant of the Ursulines, Bonnehomme Michel, as she was called,
who was the most faithful, hard-working, and devoted of creatures,
and displayed the greatest ingenuity in contriving, out of the
scantiest of materials, such dishes as should tempt the appetite of
the sick Bishop, and make the rest forget that they were in a
beleaguered city.
Corinne had learned by this time what the horrors of war were like.
Her fair face was both thinner and graver than it had been in past
days. She had known the terrible experience that leaves its mark
upon the witnesses: she had been one of more than one company when
a bursting shell in their midst had brought death to some amongst
those with whom she was sitting. She had seen men--yes, and women
too--struck down in the streets by shot or splinters. She had
worked side by side with Madame Drucour amid the sick and wounded,
and had seen sights of horror and suffering which had branded
themselves deeply into her soul.
She could never again be the careless, laughing Corinne of old; and
yet the soldier spirit in her burned stronger and ever more strong.
If war was a fearful and terrible thing, it had its glorious side
too. She heard, with a strange thrill of mingled pain and pride, of
the gallant doings of the English troops. She regarded the cautious
policy of the French with something like contempt. She and Colin
would sometimes steal down to the margin of the water, and look at
the English vessels which had braved the guns of the town, and were
riding safely at anchor in the upper basin; and would feel a thrill
of admiration at the dauntless bravery of the British sailors and
soldiers. After all, if Quebec were to fall to such gallant foes,
would she suffer much after the first shock was over?
They had lost their three merry midshipmen. When General Wolfe had
sent over several boatloads of prisoners taken in the unguarded
villages of the upper river, it had been agreed that any English
prisoners in the town should be given in exchange; and the lads,
cheering lustily the while, had been rowed away by the returning
boats.
Colin and Corinne had missed their companionship, but had been
assured of a meeting before so very long. They knew what that had
meant, yet they could not resent the suggestion. Constant
companionship with the English middies had intensified their
interest in the English cause. They did not speak of it much except
to one another, but in secret they had no fear of the unknown foe.
They felt a certain exultation and triumph in the stories they were
always hearing of English prowess and valour.
And now it was known to all that the crucial moment had come. The
English had made a great coup. They had landed; they had stormed
the heights; they were said to be intrenching themselves and
bringing up their guns; and although this was not true at the
moment, the very thought struck terror into the hearts of the
citizens and soldiers.
Unless they could be dislodged from their present commanding
position, the town was lost. That was the word in the mouths of
all. A mounted messenger, followed by others, had been sent flying
to Montcalm and Vaudreuil. It was certain that the General would be
quickly on the spot, and surely he and his army together would
suffice to drive back or annihilate this audacious intruder!
So said the people; yet none dared to make light of the peril.
Madame Drucour's face was very grave as she sat looking out into
the street, her arm about Corinne. It was not even safe for them to
try to go out to the hospital that morning--the hospital which had
been moved out of the town and erected upon the plain of the St.
Charles, out of reach of the enemy's guns. Hitherto the Heights of
Abraham had been like a rampart of defence; now they were alive
with the battalions of the foe. The plain might at any time become
the scene of a battle or a rout.
"Here is Colin back!" cried Corinne, suddenly starting to her feet.
"Now he will tell us!"
"It is all true!" cried the lad, bursting into the room. "It is
wonderful to see them; it is marvellous what they have done. They
must have scaled the cliffs at almost impossible places; and now
they are forming up in a splendid way! The whole plateau is alive
with them!"
"The first rays of the sun striking across it were dyed red with
the scarlet uniforms. It was magnificent to see them. I cannot tell
whether they have any guns there. I saw none. But it is not easy to
get a good view of the plain; the ridge above the town hides it."
"But what is our General doing?" asked Madame Drucour, with clasped
hands.
"They say he is coming; they say he is on his way from the Beauport
camp with the whole army at his back. If he has also sent a message
directing Bougainville to advance at the same time from Cap Rouge
and fall upon the English rear, it might well be that the invaders
would be cut to pieces. But no one here knows what is ordered. Some
say one thing and some another. One thing alone is certain--the
Marquis is on his way."
The Abbe, who had been out to gather news, came back now with much
the same tale that Colin had to tell. There was no manner of doubt
about it. The English army had, as by magic, appeared upon the
Heights of Abraham, and had set themselves in battle array upon the
best piece of ground for their purpose. The sight of the compact
red lines filled the French with dismay and fear. If an enemy could
do this in a single night, what might they not have the power of
achieving?
"We are in God's hands," said the Abbe to his sister, as they
hastily, and without much appetite, partook of the meal which
Bonnehomme Michel spread for them; "but truly I fear me that
disaster is in store for the arms of France. There seems no reason
why we should lack power to drive back the English to their ships;
yet I have that within me which speaks of calamity and disaster.
Canada has become helpless and corrupt. When that has befallen a
country or a community, it has always fallen. I fear me that the
days of French rule are numbered. I only pray that if the English
reign here in our stead, they may prove themselves merciful
masters, and keep their promise not to interfere with the exercise
of the true faith in which the people have been brought up."
"If the English have pledged their word to that, they will keep
it," answered Madame Drucour; "and if Canada must fall, we may
rejoice that it should fall into hands as merciful as those of our
English rivals."
"That is true," said her brother: "they have set us many a noble
example of clemency and honour. Yet their hands are not altogether
free from blood guiltiness. There have been acts of violence and
cruelty committed even during these past weeks along the shores of
the river."
"Yes," answered Madame Drucour: "houses have been burned and
families turned adrift, and much suffering has resulted therefrom.
War is ever cruel, and the track of it is marked with fire and
blood. Yet we must remember that the persons thus molested had fair
warning given them. They might have remained in safety had they
submitted to the conditions imposed by General Wolfe. Perhaps they
showed more spirit by resistance; but they drew down their fate
upon themselves. And no woman or child has been hurt; no cruelties
have been inflicted upon prisoners. No Indians have been suffered
to molest them. Would we have been as forbearing--as stern in the
maintenance of order and discipline? The only acts of cruelty
committed on the English side have been by Rangers not belonging to
the regular army, and those only upon Indians or those degraded
Canadians who go about with them, painted and disguised to resemble
their dusky allies. For my part, I think that men who thus degrade
themselves deserve all that they get."
"It is well to seek to find consolation in time of extremity," said
the Abbe, "and I do rejoice very heartily in the knowledge that we
have a merciful foe to deal with. If this city is forced to open
her gates to the English, I verily believe that no scenes of
outrage will disgrace the page of history upon which this day's
doings shall be recorded. There is help in that thought at least."
But it was impossible for either Colin or his uncle to remain
within doors upon such a day. He insisted that Madame Drucour and
Corinne should not adventure themselves beyond the city walls,
though he did not condemn them to remain within doors. But he, for
his own part, must go forth and see what was befalling without; for
the Abbe, in spite of his vows, was half a soldier at heart, and
had done some fighting in his young life, and knew the sound of the
clash of arms.
He was not going to adventure himself into the battle, or to suffer
Colin to do so either; that would be useless. Indeed the boy had no
desire to enter the lists against the English, being more than half
on their side as it was, although the infection of the feelings of
the townspeople rendered it difficult for him exactly to know his
own mind.
He and Corinne were alike consumed with an overpowering sense of
excitement. It was the thought of the battle about to be waged that
filled the minds of both--the imminence of the coming struggle. As
for the result, that was less a matter of concern to them. The
crisis was the overwhelming consideration in their minds.
The Abbe and Colin had gone. The streets were beginning to fill
with excited people. The storm of shot and shell was not falling
upon Quebec today. The guns had been directed upon the Beauport
camp, to cover the real enterprise being carried on above. Also the
river had to be watched and guarded. Everything spoke of a change
in tactics. There was a tense feeling in the air as though an
electric cloud hung low over the city.
Then came a burst of cheering. Montcalm had been seen spurring on
with only a small band of followers over the bridge of the St.
Charles towards the scene of danger; and now the army itself was in
sight, making its way after him across the bridge and towards the
city, through whose streets they must pass to gain unmolested those
heights where the English were awaiting them, drawn up in close
array.
Montcalm's face was full of anxiety, and yet full of courage, as he
returned the plaudits of the citizens. He knew that affairs were
serious, but he hoped and believed that he should find but a small
detachment of the enemy waiting to receive him. He could not
believe that very much had been accomplished in one night. A little
resolution and courage and military address, and the foe would be
dislodged and driven ignominiously down those precipitous heights
which they had scaled with such boldness a few hours before.
It was a fine sight to see the troops pouring in by the Palace
Gate, and out again by the gates of St. Louis and St. John--the
white uniforms and gleaming bayonets of the battalions of old
France, the Canadian militia, and the troops of painted Indians
following, cheered by the citizens, reinforced by the garrison,
their hearts animated by lust of conquest and an assurance of
victory, which assurance was not altogether shared by the citizens
themselves, whose scouts had brought in alarming tidings concerning
the strength of the English position.
And now the soldiers had all marched through; the last of the bands
had disappeared from the streets; the garrison had taken themselves
to their own quarters; the men of the town had flocked out of the
city in the hope of seeing something of the fight; and the streets
were chiefly thronged by anxious women and wondering, wide-eyed
children--all crowding together in groups, their faces turned
towards those heights above where they knew the struggle was to be
fought out.
"Hark to the firing!"
A deep silence fell upon the crowds in the streets--the hush of a
breathless expectancy. The rattle of musketry fell upon their ears,
and then a sound almost like a cannon shot. It was the volley of
the English, delivered with such admirable precision. An
involuntary scream arose from many as that sound was heard. Had the
English got their artillery up to those inaccessible heights?
But no; there was no further sound of cannonading, only a fierce
and continuous fusillade, which told of the battle raging so
fiercely up yonder on the heights.
Some women crowded into the churches to offer prayers at the
shrines of saint or Virgin; but the majority could not tear
themselves away from the streets, nor from the open space near to
the gate of St. Louis, by which gate news would most likely enter.
And it did.
How the time went none could say, but it seemed only a short time
after the firing had commenced before white-faced scouts from the
town, who had gone forth to see the battle, came running back with
gestures of terror and despair.
"The English are shooting us down like sheep. The French give way
on every side. Their terrible fire mows down our ranks like grass
before the scythe! They are charging upon us now! We are scattered
and fleeing every way! Alas, alas! the day is lost. Quebec will
fall!"
"Lost! it cannot be lost in this time," cried pale-faced women,
unable and unwilling to believe. "Where is the Governor? he will
come up with the reserves. Where is Bougainville? surely he will
fall upon the English rear! Have we not twice the force of the
English? We cannot be conquered in this time! it would be a shame
to France forever."
So cried the people--one calling one thing, and another another,
whilst every fresh scout brought in fresh tidings of disaster.
There could be no doubt about it. The French army had been routed
at the first onset. Where the fault lay none could tell, but they
were flying like chaff before the wind.
Corinne stood close beside her aunt, silent, with dilated eyes, her
heart beating almost to suffocation as she sought to hear what was
said, and to make out the truth of the thousand wild rumours flying
about.
Colin came dashing through the gate. His face was flushed; he had
lost his hat; he was too breathless to speak. But he saw Corinne's
signal, and came dashing up to them. He flung himself down upon the
ground, and struggled for breath.
"O Colin, what have you seen?"
In a few moments more he was able to speak.
"I have seen the battle!" he gasped; "I have seen it all. I could
not have believed it would have been fought so soon. I have seen
something that these people would rejoice to know, but I shall not
tell them. I have seen the fall of General Wolfe!"
Madame Drucour uttered a short exclamation of dismay.
"General Wolfe killed! Colin, art thou sure?"
"Not sure that he is dead, only that he fell, and was carried away
by his men. He was heading the charge, as a brave General should.
Oh, had you seen how that battle was directed, you could not but
have admired him, whether friend or foe! It teaches one what war
can be to see such generalship as that."
"He is a great man," said Madame Drucour softly; "I have always
maintained that. Pray Heaven his life be spared, for he will be a
merciful and gallant victor; and if he fall, we may not meet such
generous, chivalrous kindness from others."
"Here come the soldiers!" cried Corinne, who from a little vantage
ground could see over the battlements. "Ah, how they run! as though
the enemy were at their heels.
"Are you men? are you soldiers? For shame! for shame! To run like
sheep when none pursues! Now indeed will I call myself French no
longer; I will be a British subject like my mother. It is not
willingly that I desert a losing cause; but I cannot bear such
poltroonery. When have the English ever fled like this before us?
Oh, it is a shame! it is a disgrace!"
"Ah, if you could have seen the English soldiers!" cried Colin,
with eager enthusiasm; "I never heard a volley delivered as theirs
was! They never wasted a shot. They stood like a rock whilst the
French charged across to them, firing all the time. And when they
did fire, it was like a cannon shot; and after that, our men seemed
to have no spirit left in them. When the smoke of the second volley
cleared off, I could scarce believe my eyes. The dead seemed to
outnumber the living; and these were flying helter-skelter this way
and that!"
"But did not the General strive to rally them?"
"Doubtless he did. Our Marquis is a brave soldier and an able
General; but what can one man do? Panic had seized the troops; and
if you had heard the sound of cheering from the ranks of the
English, and that strange yell from those wild Highlanders as they
dashed in pursuit, you would have understood better what the
soldiers felt like. They ran like sheep--they are running still. I
saw that if I were to have a chance of bringing you the news, I
must use all my powers, or I should be jammed in the mass of flying
humanity making for the city; and since the English are not very
far behind, I had need to make good my retreat."
It was plain that Colin was only a little in advance of a portion
of the defeated army, whose soldiers were now flocking back to the
city, spreading panic everywhere.
Suddenly there ran through the assembled crowd a murmur which
gathered in volume and intensity, and changed to a strange sound as
of wailing. Corinne, who had the best view, leaned eagerly forward
to see, and her face blanched instantly.
A horseman was coming through the gate, supported on either side by
a soldier; his face was deadly white, and blood was streaming from
a wound in his breast.
Madame Drucour looked also and uttered a cry:
"Monsieur le Marquis est tue!"
It was indeed Montcalm, shot right through the body, but not
absolutely unconscious, though dazed and helpless.
Instantly Madame Drucour had forced a passage through the crowd,
and was at his side.
"Bring him this way," she said to those who supported him and led
the horse; "he will have the best attention here."
Montcalm seemed to hear the words, and the wail of sorrow which
went up from the bystanders. He roused himself, and spoke a few
words, faintly and with difficulty.
"It is nothing. You must not be troubled for me, my good friends.
It is as it should be--as I would have it."
Then his head drooped forward, and Madame Drucour hurried the
soldiers onward to the house where she now lived; Colin running on
in advance to give notice of their approach, and if possible to
find Victor Arnoux, that the wounded man might receive immediate
attention.
The surgeon was luckily on the spot almost at once, and directed
the carrying of the Marquis into one of the lower rooms, where they
laid him on a couch and brought some stimulant for him to swallow.
He was now quite unconscious; and the young surgeon, after looking
at the wound, bit his lip and stood in silent thought whilst the
necessary things were brought to him.
"Is it dangerous?" asked Madame Drucour, in an anxious whisper, as
she looked down at the well-known face.
"It is mortal!" answered Victor, in the same low tone. "He has not
twelve hours of life left in him."
Chapter 2: Surrender.
"Is the General yet living?" asked the Abbe an hour or two later,
entering the house to which he knew his friend had been carried, a
look of concentrated anxiety upon his face.
Madame Drucour had heard his step even before she heard his voice.
She was already beside him, her face pale and her eyes red with
weeping.
"Ah, my brother," she cried, "thou art come to tell us that all is
lost!"
"All would not be lost if the army had a head!" answered the Abbe,
with subdued energy. "We could outnumber the enemy yet if we had a
soldier fit to take command. But the Marquis--how goes it with
him?"
"He lives yet, but he is sinking fast. He will never see the light
of another day!" and the tears which had gathered in Madame
Drucour's eyes fell over her cheeks.
"My poor friend!" sighed the Abbe; and after a pause of musing he
added, "Is he conscious?"
"Yes; he came to himself a short while ago, and insisted upon
knowing how it was with him."
"He knows, then?"
"Yes--Victor Arnoux told him the truth: but I think he knew it
before."
"And what said he?"
"That it was well; that he should not live to see the surrender of
Quebec; that his work was done on earth, and he ready to depart."
"Then he thinks the cause is lost?"
"Those are the words he used. Perchance he knows that there is no
one now to lead or direct them. You know, my brother, that the
brave Senezergues lies mortally wounded. He might have taken the
command; but now we have none fit for it. You have seen what is
passing without the city; tell me of it! What does the Governor?
They say that when the battle was fought he had not yet appeared
upon the scene of action."
"No," answered the Abbe bitterly, "he had not. Yet he had had notice
four hours before the fighting commenced, and was nearer than the
Marquis, who brought the army up. He came too late to do anything.
He is always late. He comes up at the end of everything--to claim
credit if the day is won, to throw the blame upon others if fortune
frowns. He is saying now that it was a deplorable mistake on
Montcalm's part to attack before he had joined issues with him; as
though his raw Canadians had ever done any good in the open field!"
"You have seen him, then?"
"Yes; he and a part of the routed army have taken possession of the
redoubt at the head of the bridge of boats across the St. Charles,
and so completely are they cowed and terrified that it was all that
a few of the cooler-headed ones of us could do to prevent the men
from cutting in pieces the bridge itself, and thus cutting off the
retreat of half the army, who are still pouring back over it,
pursued by the English."
"Then the fight is not yet over?"
"The battle is, but not the rout. And yet there is a sort of
fighting going on. The Canadians, who in the open field show
themselves so useless, are redeeming their character now. They have
spread themselves over the low-lying lands by the river, hiding in
bushes and coverts, and shooting down the English in a fashion
which they little relish. Those fierce Highlanders suffer the most
from this sort of warfare, for they always throw away their muskets
before they charge, and so they have no weapon that is of any
service against a hidden marksman in the bushes. But all this,
though it may harass the English, does not affect the issue of the
day. We have suffered a crushing defeat, although the number of the
slain is not excessive. It remains now to be settled whether we
accept this defeat as final, or whether we yet try to make a stand
for the honour of our country and the salvation of Canada."
"Ah, my brother, if Quebec goes, Canada goes!"
"That is so; but there are many of us who say that Quebec is not
yet lost. It is not lost; it might well be saved. And yet what
think you of this? They say that within the hornwork the Governor
and the Intendant were closeted together drafting the terms of
capitulation of the whole colony, ready to submit to the English
General!"
"So soon?"
"So they say. I know not if it be altogether true, but all is
confusion worse confounded yonder. The soldiers are pouring back to
their camp at Beauport in a perfect fever of panic. I heard that
Bigot would have tried to muster and lead them against the enemy
once more, and that the Governor gave his sanction, but that the
officers would not second the suggestion. I think all feel that
with only Vaudreuil to lead fighting is hopeless. He knows not his
own mind two minutes together; he agrees always with the last
speaker. He is always terrified in the moment of real crisis and
peril. His bluster and gasconade desert him, and leave him in
pitiful case."
"What, then, is to be done?"
"That I cannot tell. I have come with a message from the Governor
to the Marquis. He sent me to ascertain his condition, and if
possible to ask counsel of him. His word would still carry weight.
If he is sufficiently himself to listen for a few minutes to what I
have to say, I would then put the case and ask his opinion upon
it."
Madame Drucour drew the Abbe softly into the room where the dying
man lay. Montcalm's eyes opened as he heard them approach. At the
sight of the Abbe he seemed to try to rouse himself.
"You have brought news! Tell me, how goes it?"
The Abbe repeated in some detail the after events of the battle and
rout, Montcalm listening to every word with the keenest interest
and attention.
"Where is the Governor?" he asked at the conclusion of the
narrative.
"He was still at the hornwork when I left," answered the Abbe; "but
many were clamouring around him, declaring that the place would be
carried by assault almost immediately, and all of them cut to
pieces without quarter; and that they had better surrender the city
and colony at once than lose all their lives in an unavailing
struggle."
Montcalm's face, upon which death had already set its seal,
remained immovably calm and tranquil.
"What said the Governor?" he asked.
"He appeared to agree with this view of the case. He is much
alarmed and disturbed. He is preparing to return to his own
quarters upon the Beauport road, and will there hold a council as
to the next step to be taken. It was he who asked me to go back to
the city and see you, my General, and ask what advice you have for
us. We are in a sore strait, and there seems none to advise us; but
any word that comes from you will have its weight with the army."
Montcalm lay silent a long while. Physical weakness made speaking
difficult, and his mind no longer worked with the lightning
quickness of old days. He seemed to find some slight difficulty in
bringing it down to the affairs of earthly battles and struggles.
"Tell the Governor," he said at last, speaking faint and low, "that
there is a threefold choice before him; and that though were I at
the head of the army, I should say, Fight, I do not offer him
counsel to do so; I only tell him the alternatives. The first of
these is to fight--to join forces with Ramesay's garrison and the
sailors from the batteries here, and to gather in all the outlying
Canadians and Indians of the neighbourhood. With such an army as
could be quickly gathered, and by acting in concert with
Bougainville from Cap Rouge, there is at least a very fair chance
of vanquishing the foe in open fight. The next alternative is for
him to retire upon Jacques Cartier, leaving Quebec with an
efficient garrison, and from there to harass the enemy, cut off
supplies, and otherwise prolong the siege till the approach of
winter forces them to take to their ships and go. The third is to
give up the colony to English rule. Let the Governor and his
council take their choice of these three plans, for there is no
other."
"I will take the message myself," said the Abbe, pressing the hand
of his friend, and stooping to imprint a kiss on the pale brow.
"God be with you, my friend, in the hour of trial; and may He
receive your soul when He shall have called it! I shall pray for
the repose of your gallant spirit. Peace be with you. Farewell."
Montcalm was too much exhausted for further speech, but he made a
slight gesture with his hand, and the Abbe left him, Madame Drucour
stealing after him for a last word.
"You will not run into peril yourself, my brother?"
"Nay," he answered, with a touch of bitterness in his tone; "I
shall be safe enough, since my errand is to the Governor. Monsieur
de Vaudreuil is never known to put himself into danger. Oh that we
had a Governor who thought first of the honour of France and second
of his own safety!"
"But surely they will fight! they will not give up Quebec without a
struggle? Look at the walls and ramparts, untouched and impregnable
as ever! Our town is shattered, it is true, but that has long been
done. Why should we give up the city because a few hundred soldiers
have been slain upon the Plains of Abraham? We have still a great
army to fight with."
"We have; but where is the General to lead us? Nevertheless, we may
still show ourselves men.
"Colin, my boy, is that thou? What, dost thou want to come with me?
So be it, then. Thou shalt do so, and take back word to thy aunt
here as to what the council decides.
"I may find work over yonder with the sick and wounded. I may not
return tonight. But Colin shall come back with news, and you will
know that all is well with me."
They went together, and Madame Drucour returned to her watch beside
the sick and dying man. The surgeon stole in and out as his other
duties permitted him, and Corinne shared the watch beside the couch
where Montcalm lay.
The Bishop, who in spite of his feebleness had been abroad in the
city, seeking to console the dying and to cheer up the garrison,
depressed by rumours of the flight of the army, came in at dusk,
exhausted and depressed himself, to find another dying soldier in
need of the last rites of the Church.
It was a solemn scene which that dim room witnessed as the night
waned and the approach of dawn came on. Without all was confusion,
hurry, anxiety, and distress, none seeking sleep in their beds, all
eagerly awaiting tidings from the army--the news which should tell
them whether they were to be gallantly supported or left to their
fate. Within there was the deep hush which the approach of death
seems ever to bring. The short, gasping confession had been made;
the Bishop stood over the dying man, making the sign and speaking
the words of absolution. A young priest from the Seminary and an
acolyte had been found to assist at the solemn rite; and Madame
Drucour, with Corinne and the faithful old servant, knelt at the
farther end of the room, striving to keep back their tears.
It was over at last. The words of commendation had been spoken; the
last labouring breath had been drawn. Corinne, half choking with
her emotion, and feeling as though she would be stifled if she were
to remain longer in that chamber of death, silently glided away out
of the room into the open air; and once there, she broke into wild
weeping, the result of the long tension of her pent-up emotion.
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle! Corinne!" cried a familiar voice in a
subdued tone from some place not far distant. "Is it indeed you?
Nay, do not weep; there is not need. We shall not harm you; you and
yours shall be safe whatever comes to pass in Quebec."
Corinne gazed about her in astonishment. Who was speaking to her?
The next house to theirs was deserted, because the roof had been
blown off, and a shell had fallen through, breaking almost every
floor. Yet the voice seemed to come from a window within that
house, and in the dim and uncertain moonlight she saw a head--two
heads--protruding from a first-floor window. Next minute she was
further astonished by the rapid descent of three figures, who
seemed to clamber like monkeys down the shattered wall; and behold
the three merry midshipmen were grouped around her, holding her
hands and seeking to cheer her.
"Peter--Paul--Arthur! How came you here? Surely Quebec is not taken
yet!"
"No, but so nearly taken that we thought to steal a march. We have
been working since evening in dragging up cannon upon the plain
yonder, where the army is intrenching itself; and when our task was
done, we felt a great wish to see what was passing in the city
where we had many friends, and which we knew so well. In the
confusion it was not difficult to get in under cover of the dusk;
but we found we could not get out again--at least not when we
tried. But we cared little for that. There are plenty of empty
houses to hide in, and we had bread in our pockets. We heard of you
and Madame Drucour, and have been watching and waiting in hopes of
seeing you. But, Corinne, are you weeping because the English are
about to take Quebec? We looked upon you as an ally and a
compatriot."
"I am weeping because our good General, the Marquis of Montcalm, is
just dead," answered Corinne, wiping her eyes. "He lies within
those walls, sleeping the last sleep. He will never see his wife
and his mother and his mill at Candiac again. And he has talked so
much to us of all those things, and of the children he loved so
well. Oh, war is a cruel thing! Pray Heaven it may come to a speedy
end!"
The sound of flying footsteps up the street caused the midshipmen
to look at one another, and meditate a return to their hiding
place; but Corinne said:
"That is Colin's step; he comes back with news."
And, in truth, the next moment Colin stood amongst them, so full of
excitement himself that the sudden appearance of the midshipmen,
whom he instantly recognized, did not at once strike him with
astonishment.
"I will never call myself a Frenchman again!" he panted, his eyes
gleaming with wrath. "What think you, Corinne? They are flying from
the camp at Beauport as sheep fly before wolves. It is no retreat,
it is a rout--a disgraceful, abominable, causeless rout. There is
no enemy near. The English are up on the heights, intrenching
themselves no doubt, and resting after their gallant enterprise.
Our uncle has exhausted his powers of persuasion. He has shown them
again and again how strong is their position still, how little it
would even now take of courage and resolution to save Quebec and
the colony. They will not listen--they will not hear. They are
flying like chaff before the wind. They are leaving everything
behind in their mad haste to be gone! And the Indians will swoop
down directly the camp is empty, and take everything. Oh, it is a
disgrace, a disgrace! Not even to take a night to think it over. If
the English did but know, and sent out a few hundred soldiers upon
them, they might cut the whole army to pieces in a few hours!"
Colin, Colin! oh, is it so?"
"It is indeed; and all that the men say when one speaks to them is
that Wolfe and his soldiers are too much for them. They will not
stay to be hacked to pieces."
"Alas!" said Paul gravely, "the gallant Wolfe is no more. If you
have lost your General, so have we. Wolfe fell early in the battle,
and Moncton is dangerously wounded. We are robbed of our two first
officers; but for all that we will have Quebec and Canada."
"And you deserve it!" answered Colin, fired with generous
enthusiasm. "If our French soldiers and officers fling away their
courage and their honour, let us welcome those who have both, and
who are masters worthy to be served and loved."
It was a strange, sad day. The confusion and despair in the town
were pitiful to behold. With the first light of day it was seen
that the camp at Beauport was still standing, and hope sprang up in
the hearts of the townsfolk. But when, shortly after, it was known
that though standing it had been abandoned, and that the night had
seen the indiscriminate flight of the whole army, the deepest
despondency fell upon the town. This feeling was not lessened when
it began to be whispered that the Chevalier Ramesay had received
instructions from the Governor not to attempt to hold the town in
face of a threatened assault, but to wait till the scanty
provisions had been exhausted, and then raise the white flag and
obtain the best terms he could.
The Abbe had stayed to bring this last letter from the flying
Governor. His own soul was stirred to the depths by indignation and
sorrow. It seemed to him the crowning disgrace in a disgraceful
flight. Ramesay had sought speech with the Marquis a few hours
before his death, but could obtain no advice from him. He had done
with worldly things, and could only wish well to those who were
left behind. It was a desperate state of affairs, and all the town
knew it.
So great was the confusion that no workman could be found to make a
coffin for the body of the dead General. The old servant of the
Ursulines, faithful to the last, went hither and thither and
collected a few planks and nails, and the midshipmen and Colin
assisted her to nail together a rude coffin in which the body was
presently laid. It must be buried that same evening, for none knew
from hour to hour what was in store for the city. But no pomp or
circumstance could attend the funeral; and indeed no one could be
found to dig a grave.
Yet a fitting grave was found in the chapel of the Ursuline
convent, now little more than a ruin. An exploding shell had made a
deep cavity in the floor not far from the altar, and this hollow
was soon shaped into the similitude of a grave.
No bells tolled or cannon fired as the mournful procession filed
through the streets; yet it did not lack a certain sombre dignity.
The Bishop and the Abbe headed it, with a few priests from the
Cathedral in attendance. Ramesay was there with his officers, and
Madame Drucour, with Colin and Corinne, the three midshipmen (who
no longer feared to show themselves), and the old servant, brought
up the rear. As the cortege passed through the streets, numbers of
citizens fell in behind, together with women and children, weeping
for one whose name was dear, and who they all averred would have
saved their city had he lived.
Torches were lit before the procession filed into the ruined
church, and sobs mingled with the chants that were rehearsed over
the grave.
"Alas, alas!" sobbed the women; "we have buried our hopes in that
grave. We have lost our General; we shall lose our city, and all
Canada will follow."
"It is no wonder they feel so," said the Abbe to his sister that
night; "we are abandoned by the army that might have saved us. We
have scarce provision to last a week, even on half rations--so I
heard today--and all the merchants and townspeople are for
immediate capitulation. It is possible that when our army finds
itself at Jacques Cartier, thirty miles from the scene of danger,
and in an impregnable position, they may rally their courage and
reconsider the situation; but unless I am greatly mistaken, that
resolution will come too late--Quebec will have already
surrendered."
Things had come to a desperate pass. Only one out of all the
officers was in favour of resistance; the rest declared it
impossible. The English on the heights were intrenched, and were
pushing their trenches nearer and nearer. Though Wolfe was dead and
Moncton disabled, Townshend, the third in command, was acting with
the energy and resolve which had characterized the expedition all
along.
Three days after Montcalm's death matters reached a crisis. Troops
were seen approaching the Palace Gate from the St. Charles meadows,
and the ships of war were slowly nearing the town with evident
intention of opening fire.
All the city was in a state of uncontrollable fright and agitation.
The officers crowded round Ramesay's quarters declaring that they
could do nothing with their men; that the men said they knew that
orders had been given to avoid assault, and that they were
threatening to carry their guns back to the arsenal, and desert
bodily to the English. So disgusted and disheartened were they by
the action of the Governor and his army that they had no fight left
in them.
"Raise the white flag then!" said the Commander, in brief, stern
tones.
Was it a cheer or a groan which arose from the town as the symbol
of surrender was seen floating above the battlements? Once it was
torn down by some more ardent spirit; but again it floated high,
and the people gazing up at it gesticulated and wept, though
whether for sorrow or joy they could scarce have told themselves.
It was known that a messenger had gone forth to confer with the
English commander, and the negotiations were drawn out hour after
hour, in the hope of some succour from without; till a stern
message came back that if they were not signed within an hour, the
assault would be ordered.
Then Ramesay signed, having secured more favourable terms than he
had dared to hope for. The capitulation of Quebec was an
accomplished fact!
Yet even whilst the people were still thronging the streets and
open places by the gateway, a band of weary horsemen were seen
spurring towards the city. As the foremost entered he cried:
"Courage, good friends, courage! Help is at hand! The army is
marching to your defence! Quebec shall yet be saved!"
Alas! Quebec had fallen. Sobs and groans went up from the women,
and curses from the men. There was a rush for Ramesay's quarters to
tell the news and ask what could be done; but the Chevalier's face
was stern and hard.
"Nothing can be done," he said. "You have had your own will. You
have signed away your city. Honour will not permit me to break my
word. Besides, how can we trust an army which has basely deserted
us once? If they would not attack the foe before he had had time to
intrench and fortify himself, how can we hope that they will have
courage to brave the assault of a formidable intrenched camp
defended by artillery?
"Go back whence you came, sirs, and tell the Governor, if you will,
that his cowardice and desertion have done their work. Quebec is
lost to France for ever, and Canada will follow. He could have
saved it four days ago had he had the heart of a soldier or the
head of a statesman; now it is lost irrevocably!"
Chapter 3: Friendly Foes.
Quebec was taken; it had surrendered without a blow when once the
battle upon the heights above had ended in the overthrow of the
French army.
Julian and Fritz exchanged glances of wonder when it was known
beyond all doubt that the capitulation had been signed. It was
marvellous to them, who knew the full peril of their own position,
that the French should be so blind. A concerted attack from the two
armies of the immediate locality could scarcely have failed to
drive them from their vantage ground back to their ships; and once
there, the Admirals would have had no choice but to put to sea once
more; for already the season was closing, and it would then have
been madness to think of any further operations for that season.
And yet sadness rather than joy was the main feeling in the hearts
of these comrades as they prepared themselves to be of the number
to march into the city.
Fritz was still somewhat lame from the effect of his wound; but his
splendid physique had made light of the injury, and in other
respects he was sound and strong. Humphrey walked beside him,
giving him a little assistance over rough ground, and Julian was on
his other side. They were full of curiosity to behold the city
which it had cost them so much to take, and Fritz was anxious to
find again those friends who had shown him kindness in past days.
Julian, too, was very desirous to meet Madame Drucour once more,
and renew with her those pleasant relations which had commenced
within the fortress of Louisbourg.
Townshend, the Brigadier now in command, had granted easy terms to
the place. He knew too well the peril of his position not to be
thankful for having Quebec almost at any price. The garrison and
the sailors, who formed a considerable portion of the force in the
city, were to march out with the honours of war, and were to be
shipped to France with what speed they might. The promised
protection offered by Wolfe to all peaceable inhabitants was to be
assured to all, together with the free exercise of their own
religion.
To Townshend had been carried upon the very day of the capitulation
a letter written by Montcalm only a few hours before his death, the
feeble penmanship of which showed well how difficult it had been to
him to indite it. In effect it was the last thing he ever wrote,
and the signature was nothing but a faint initial, as though the
failing fingers refused the task before them.
"Monsieur," ran the missive, "the well-known humanity of the
English sets my mind at peace concerning the fate of the French
prisoners and the Canadians. Feel towards them as they have caused
me to feel. Do not let them perceive that they have changed
masters. Be their protector as I have been their father,"
It was probable that Montcalm believed himself addressing Wolfe
when he wrote this last charge. It was not known with any certainty
in Quebec that the English General had fallen, Some had heard he
was wounded, but no certainty prevailed. Indeed it was with no
exultation that Quebec heard of the death of the dreaded Wolfe. If
he were redoubtable in the field of battle, he was known to be a
merciful and generous foe in the hour of victory. Madame Drucour
had shed tears when told for certain of the hero's fall; the Abbe
had sorrowfully shaken his bead, and had told the citizens that
they had nothing to rejoice over in that.
So the garrison marched out with as much bravery and martial show
as they could under the circumstances, and the citizens crowded the
streets and ramparts to cheer them as they went, and watch with
mingled feelings the entrance of the English troops into the town
and the hoisting of the English flag. Sobs broke from many, and a
deep groan rose shudderingly upon the air; and yet there were very
many in the city who cared little for the change of masters, if
only they might be rid of the horrors of war.
Life had long been very difficult under the French rule. So much
official corruption existed, especially in the matter of supplies
of food and other necessaries, that the unhappy people were forced
to pay double and treble value for almost everything, and were
being slowly bled to death, that a few functionaries like Bigot and
Cadet might fatten and grow enormously rich. They had begun to know
that the English colonies were very differently governed; that they
grew in strength and independence, and were encouraged, and not
thwarted and hindered, in their internal development. Although much
smaller in extent than Canada, their population was double that of
the French colony. It was indeed the growing strength and
prosperity of the English provinces which had excited the jealous
animosity of the French, and had quickened their resolve to pen
them in between mountain and sea, and hinder their development. And
this resolve had been followed by the commencement of that border
warfare to which this was the sequel.
England knew better than let herself be penned within narrow
limits. She had broken through the bonds which held her back. Now
she was mistress of the key and capital of Canada. It could only be
a matter of time before the whole colony fell to her.
"It may be better for them in the end," said Madame Drucour,
heaving a long sigh as she watched the departure of the garrison,
and saw the scarlet uniforms of the English flooding the streets of
Quebec, "And yet it is hard to see it. I knew it must come, but my
heart is heavy within me. If only we had made a more gallant fight,
I should have felt it less."
"There he is! there he is!" shouted Colin suddenly; "there is Fritz
Neville!"
"Ah," cried Madame Drucour, with a quick look of pleasure, "and
there is Monsieur Julian Dautray too! Get speech with them if you
can, Colin, and bring them to supper at our house. There is much I
should like to ask them; and if some of the officers are to be
billeted amongst us townsfolk, I would gladly have those two to
care for."
"I'll go and see about it," cried Colin.
"Take us with you," cried the midshipmen, who had viewed the
procession with swelling hearts, uttering now and then a British
cheer, which mingled oddly with the sighs of the people. However,
since they had cheered the retiring troops as lustily as their own
countrymen, no one took this amiss. Indeed the young middies had
made themselves popular in the town by this time, and had done
something to promote a feeling of confidence in the goodwill and
clemency of the victors.
Corinne and her aunt returned homeward. The girl was in a state of
great excitement, sorrow for the regret of others mingling with her
own secret triumph and joy in the victory of the English.
It was no use trying to disguise from herself that she was glad the
English had prevailed. She had come to have a contempt and distrust
of the French and their ways and their rule. She admired the
English, and believed in them. They had shown courage and
resolution and heroism--had accomplished a feat which had hitherto
been deemed impossible. She was proud of the British blood running
in her veins, and was ready to welcome the victors with all her
heart.
So she decked the supper table with green leaves and grasses, and a
few flowers culled from the convent garden, where it had not been
torn to pieces by shot and shell. The viands were not very
plentiful, it is true, since scarcity still prevailed in the city;
but that would come to an end now, for the English were already
making arrangements for throwing in ample supplies.
Then she ran upstairs to don her best holiday gown, feeling a
wonderful rebound of spirit after the depression and anxiety and
horror of the past days. She sang a little to herself as she
flitted about her room, and was only just ready when she heard
Colin's voice from below summoning her to come.
She ran down the staircase and glided into the supper room, to find
it (as it seemed) quite full of company. It was too dusk to
distinguish faces by that time, but Bonnehomme Michel appeared at
the moment, bringing in two lamps, and the faces of the guests were
instantly revealed to her.
Her face lighted as she met the friendly glance of Fritz Neville,
and she extended her hand with a pretty welcoming grace. The next
minute she found herself exchanging greetings with an officer in
British uniform, a dark-eyed, dark-haired man, with a very
clear-cut, handsome face. Nor did it surprise her to hear that this
was Captain Dautray, who had played a romantic part in the siege of
Louisbourg.
"My aunt, Madame Drucour, has often spoken of you, sir," she said,
"and told us how you disguised yourself and adventured yourself
into the heart of the enemy's fortress. In sooth, I wonder you
could ever dare such a deed. Suppose you had been found out?"
"Then I should have been shot as a spy, I do not doubt," answered
Julian, "and should never have known the pleasure of making the
acquaintance of the brave Madame Drucour--'Madame le General,' as
she was called in Louisbourg--nor of being presented in Quebec to
Mademoiselle her niece."
And as he spoke he bowed over Corinne's hand and raised it to his
lips.
The girl blushed and smiled. Such a salute was not uncommon in
those days, and there was nothing free in Julian's manner; indeed
there was a grave dignity about him which distinguished him in
whatever company he found himself, and his recent military training
had done much to increase the natural advantages which had always
been his.
The remaining guest, who was a stranger to her, was presented as
Humphrey Angell, and she looked with quick interest at him,
recollecting how Fritz had told her the tale of that terrible
Indian raid, and how he had found the two brothers, almost
distracted by anguish and despair, amid the blackened ruins of
their once prosperous settlement. This was the brother of the
strange, wild-looking man whom she and Colin had seen in the forest
long, long ago, and who had perished in the hour of vengeance. How
interesting it was, she thought, to see all these men of whom she
had heard and thought so much! She let her glance wander from one
face to the other, and she was not ashamed of the feeling of keen
admiration which awoke within her.
The three midshipmen were also of the company. Discipline had been
somewhat relaxed in the hour of battle and victory, and they had
obtained leave of absence from their ship for a while. Colin had
brought them back for a farewell repast. They seemed almost like
sons of the house by this time; and they had brought with them,
from one of the provision transports, a supply of good victuals
which had made Bonnehomme Michel's eyes shine and her wrinkled
visage beam.
The scent of coffee pervaded the house, and soon a savoury mess
such as had not been seen for long upon that table was set down,
and the guests, in excellent spirits, took their places. Corinne
found herself seated next to Julian, with Arthur on her other side.
The Abbe took the foot of the table, and Madame Drucour the head.
She looked pale and grave, but showed a gentle dignity and courtesy
of bearing which was very impressive; and everyone showed her all
possible deference.
Corinne spoke to Julian in a low voice.
"I want to ask of your General, the great Wolfe. Were you with him
when he died?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle; he died in my arms. I have had the honour of
calling myself his friend for above a year."
At that word Madame Drucour looked up and said:
"Ah, let me hear of Monsieur Wolfe! I had hoped to see him again
myself. Such a hero, such a sweet and courteous gentleman!
Frenchwoman though I be, I could have welcomed him as the victor of
Quebec!"
All listened with deep attention as Julian related in considerable
detail the story of the last hours of Wolfe, and Madame Drucour
wiped her eyes many times during the recital.
"Ah! if he had but lived to see the city of his hopes, I would
myself have been his nurse, and would have brought him back to
health and strength.
"You smile, sir; but yet I have seen much of sickness. You will
hear that the doctors themselves give me the credit for saving many
lives."
"I can believe it, Madame; indeed I have seen something of that
skill with mine own eyes. But, alas! I fear that the case of our
friend was beyond human skill. I think that, had he had the choice,
he would have chosen to die as he did in the hour of victory. To
wear out a life of suffering in uncongenial inactivity would have
been sorely irksome to his unquenchable spirit; and yet, after the
hardships through which he had passed, I misdoubt me if he could
ever have taken the field again. He would have endured the peril
and pain of another long voyage only to die upon shipboard, or at
his home if he lived to reach it. The hand of death was surely upon
him."
"And to die in the hour of a glorious victory is surely a fitting
close to a hero's life," said Corinne softly to Julian, when the
tide of talk had recommenced to flow in other quarters. "But tell
me, does he leave behind many to mourn him? Has he parents living,
or sisters and brothers, or one nearer and dearer still? Has he a
wife in England?"
"Not a wife, Mademoiselle, but one who was to have been his wife
had he lived to return, and a mother who loves him as the apple of
the eye. I shall have a sad task before me when I return to tell
them of him whom they have loved and lost."
"Are you then going back to England?" asked Corinne; "are you not
born in these lands of the West?"
"Yes; and I think that my home will be here when my duties to my
friend are done. But first I must return to his home and his
mother, and give to them there his last loving messages, and those
things he wished them to possess of his. Indeed, his body is to be
taken back, embalmed; the officers have decided upon that. I must
see his mother and Miss Lowther again; then I think I shall return
to these Western shores once again, and make my home upon Canadian
soil."
"Tell me more about Mrs. Wolfe and Miss Lowther," said Corinne,
with keen interest in her eyes and voice.
So Julian told her much of the events of those months which he
spent in England by the side of Wolfe, and at last he drew forth
the double miniature containing the likeness of the two who loved
the hero so well, and gave it to Corinne to look at.
The tears came into her eyes as she gazed at the two faces. He saw
the sparkle on her long lashes as she returned him the case, and he
loved her for them.
"It is a beautiful face; both are beautiful faces," she said. "How
sad for them--how very sad--that he should return to them no more!
Do you think Miss Lowther will ever love again? Or will she go
mourning all the days of her life for him whom she has lost?"
Julian shook his head doubtfully.
"I cannot tell; yet time is a great healer, and Wolfe himself sent
her a message bidding her not mourn too long and deeply for him.
She is still young, and the time they spent together was not very
long. I trust and hope that comfort will come to her when her grief
has abated and the wound has healed. Life would become too
sorrowful a thing if death were able to make such lasting havoc of
its hopes and happiness."
Corinne drew a long sigh. She had seen much of death and disaster
those last months of her young life. It would indeed be too cruel
if the hand of time held no healing balm in its clasp.
The next days were full of interest for Corinne. Julian took her
and Colin under his special protection and care. Fritz was kept to
the house and its vicinity by his lameness, which the march into
the city had rather increased; and Humphrey was busy in a thousand
ways. But Julian, though he had sundry duties to perform, had
plenty of leisure on his hands, too; and he gave up a great portion
of this leisure to taking Corinne and her brother a regular tour of
the various ships, and of the camps where the English had settled
themselves whilst attacking Quebec--showing them exactly how the
Heights of Abraham had been scaled, how the plain had been reached
and the battle set in array there; and the spot where Wolfe had
fallen, and that where he had died.
The bright-faced girl, with her French name and English sympathies,
was feted and welcomed everywhere. Brigadier Townshend gave a
dinner to some of the residents, and the Abbe and Madame Drucour,
with their nephew and niece, were invited. Corinne's health was
proposed and drunk amid acclamation, greatly to her own
astonishment; and wherever she went she met with nothing but
kindness and respect.
She was given a number of trophies of the recent war--a small
dagger that had belonged to Wolfe being the most prized of them
all. She daily visited the hospital with her aunt, and cheered by
her bright presence both the English and French who lay there.
All was busy in and about the city. The garrison was being shipped
off to France, according to the terms of the capitulation; and a
number of residents whose homes had been destroyed, and who had no
mind to remain in the place now that the English were the masters,
were eager likewise to be gone. The French ships in the upper
reaches of the river were permitted to come down, take up their
crews again, and transport the fugitives to France.
But the Abbe and his sister remained on, uncertain of their future,
Madame Drucour waited for news of her husband, and the Abbe
lingered to know if he could serve his countrymen any longer. They
had friends in France, but were not much disposed to return to that
land. Colin and Corinne were burning with desire to see England at
least, even if they did not remain there; and Madame Drucour was
disposed to wish the same thing for herself.
One day Humphrey brought them news. He had had news of the
ex-governor of Louisbourg. He had fallen into the hands of the
Indians, but had been rescued by the English, and had been sent,
with a number of other prisoners, to England in one of their
returning ships. The news had been brought by a sloop from New
York.
Vessels were beginning to arrive in the harbour now from the
enthusiastic English provinces. Those in Quebec heard how joy bells
were ringing and bonfires blazing throughout New England and the
provinces. Far-seeing men saw in the fall of Quebec an augury of a
new and splendid empire in the west, over which England should
rule. So far, at least, there was no thought of anything else,
although the spirit of independence had taken deep root which
another day would bring forth a different sort of fruit.
"Madame, your husband is safe," said Humphrey when brought to her
to tell his tale; "I have heard it from one who saw him. He has not
suffered any severe hurt at the hands of the Indians. They were of
those who were wavering betwixt loyalty to France and loyalty to
England, and who made captives of white men wherever they could,
hoping to get a ransom for them. He was rescued by the English and
brought to New York, put safely on board a home-sailing vessel, and
doubtless he is safe on shore there by this time. He will be well
treated; have no fears as to that. The brave Governor of Louisbourg
will find many friends in England."
"Where I will join him!" cried Madame Drucour, clasping her hands.
"Yes, that settles my hesitation. If my husband is in England, I
will go thither and join him; and these children shall go with us,
and make acquaintance with their mother's kindred in Scotland.
"Captain Dautray, can you help us in this matter? Can you secure
for us a passage in one of your many noble ships so soon to return?
You have been so true a friend to us that we appeal to you with
confidence and courage."
"It rejoices me that you should do so, Madame. I will see to it at
once. If possible, you shall sail in the same ship as I do myself.
I think there will be little difficulty. Each vessel will transport
a certain number of those who desire to return to France or to be
carried to English shores."
Corinne clapped her hands; her whole face lighted up.
"Oh, I shall see England! I shall realize the dream of my life!
"Colin, do you hear--do you understand? We are going to
England--and in Captain Dautray's ship!"
"Hurrah!" cried the boy; "hurrah for old England! And if we go in
Captain Dautray's ship, we shall have our middies for our
companions, for they are to belong to the Royal William, too. Ah,
that will be something to live for indeed! When do we sail? and
where shall we go when we get there?"
"The Admirals want to leave as soon as possible," answered Julian;
"they have already stayed far beyond the time they intended. But
there is much to arrange, and they will not go till they have
sufficiently victualled the town, and settled the new garrison as
comfortably and securely as may be.
"Still it will not be long now, And as for the rest, I can only beg
of you to come first, upon landing, to the house of Mrs. Wolfe,
where I myself am bound. Madame Drucour's name is known to her.
"Her son spoke much of you, Madame, and of your kindness to him at
Louisbourg. And they know too how kindly others were treated--your
humble servant being one. Believe me, it will be the greatest
pleasure to Mrs. Wolfe to welcome anyone who has known and loved
her son, I have to visit her immediately; come at least with me so
far. After that we will learn where Monsieur Drucour is to be
found, and I will seek him out and bring him to you."
So the matter was settled, and the Abbe gave his approval. He
himself would remain in Quebec, the friend and counsellor of the
victorious English, whom he could not but regard with affection and
respect.
Of the Brigadiers in command, Moncton was too much shattered to do
aught but go home to recover of his wounds; Townshend was resolved
to sail back, to receive the compliments and honours of the victory
(since Wolfe had passed beyond these things); and Murray was left
in command of Quebec.
There had been some talk of destroying it rather than facing the
perils of keeping it in its shattered condition, and with a French
army so near. But English pluck had scorned this policy, and
already the men were hard at work repairing its defences, and
storing away a sufficient supply of provisions for the long,
inclement winter that lay before them.
"We may have to fight for it yet," spoke some as they cheerfully
worked at their fascines; "but we have got Quebec, and we mean to
keep it, let the French storm and rage as they will. If we could
take it from them almost without a blow, surely we can keep it now
we have it!"
Chapter 4: The Last.
"Fritz, Fritz! what do you think? Who do you think has come to
Quebec? Why, my brother-in-law, good Benjamin Ashley, together with
his wife and daughter. They have come in charge of a trim little
vessel, laden with provisions, sent as a gift from the citizens of
Philadelphia to the victors of Quebec. He has charge of the cargo,
I mean, not of the sloop; and he says he has come to stop, but I
had no time to hear all his story. Others were flocking about him,
and he had letters for the commanding officer. I hastened away to
find you and tell the news. Let us go back together and learn more
of this thing."
Into Fritz's face there had leaped a look of quick and keen
interest.
"Benjamin Ashley," he repeated, "with his wife and daughter! Is
little Susanna actually here in Quebec?"
"Yes, and my sister," cried Humphrey eagerly, "looking but little
changed from the day I left her in Philadelphia months ago. And
their first inquiry after kissing me was for you, Fritz. Had you
escaped the perils of the war? how were you? and were you here in
the town also?"
"Let us go and see them," cried Fritz, seizing his stick; "I would
be one of the first to welcome them. It is true that you said
Benjamin Ashley spoke of coming to Quebec if it should fall to us,
but I never thought to see him here so soon. He must have a stout
heart, for the perils of the place are not ended yet, I fear."
"He has a stout heart, in truth," answered Humphrey; "and right
glad am I to see him. Quebec will be more of a home to us if
Benjamin Ashley and his wife and daughter are dwelling within its
walls."
"Indeed it will," answered Fritz eagerly; and forthwith the pair
started off together in search of their kinsfolk and friends.
On the way they encountered John Stark, who was the head of the
band of Rangers to be quartered in Quebec during the winter as part
of the garrison, and he was greatly excited by the news.
"Hurrah for brave Benjamin Ashley! It is like the stout-hearted
fellow he always was to join his countrymen in times of peril
rather than wait till all was smooth sailing. We shall want
stout-hearted citizens of English blood within the city walls, to
people the empty houses, and save us from being too much surrounded
with half-hearted Canadian residents. If we are beleaguered by a
French army, as is likely enough, we shall want citizens as well as
soldiers if we are to hold our prize against them."
This was, indeed, very true, and therefore it was that any settlers
from New England were warmly welcomed by the officers in charge of
the fortress and city. They could depend upon their soldiers in the
garrison well enough; but every commander knows how much harm can
be done to a cause by discontent and half-heartedness in the city.
At Louisbourg it was the voice of the citizens that had turned the
scale and forced the capitulation, and the same thing had, to a
great extent, happened at Quebec, The citizens had been discouraged
and rendered desperate by the way in which the town had suffered,
and this feeling had reacted upon the garrison, and had rendered
them far less willing to try to hold out than they might otherwise
have been.
It was some little time before Humphrey and his comrades could find
Ashley. He had been taken to the commander of the fortress to
deliver up his papers and have a personal interview with him; and
it was said that he was being entertained by him at table, and his
wife and daughter also.
Presently the news came that Mr. Ashley from Philadelphia was
inspecting the premises of the Fleur de Lye, which was the most
commodious and important inn in the lower town. It had been a good
deal shattered by the bombardment, and the proprietor had been
killed by a bursting shell. His family had been amongst the first
of the inhabitants to take ship for France and now the place stood
empty, its sign swinging mournfully from the door, waiting for some
enterprising citizen to come and open business there again.
"Doubtless the Commander has given him the offer of the house and
business," said Fritz when he heard. "Ashley is just the man to
restore prosperity to the old inn. Let us go and seek him there,
Humphrey. A stout-hearted English-speaking host will be right
welcome at the inn, and our fellows will bring him plenty of
custom."
The comrades hurried along the now familiar streets, and reached
their destination in due course. The inn stood at no great distance
from the harbour, and was in its palmy days a great resort both for
the soldiers of the fortress and the sailors who navigated the
great river. It was a solid building, and though its roof had been
much damaged, and there was an ugly crack all down the front, its
foundations were solid, and a little care and skill would soon
repair the damage.
Fritz followed Humphrey into the big public room close to the
entrance, and there he came face to face with Benjamin Ashley, who
was just saying farewell to Brigadier Murray, and whose honest face
lighted with pleasure at the sight of the stalwart soldier.
"It shall be seen to at once, Mr. Ashley," the Commander was
saying. "I will set the men to work tomorrow, and in a few days the
place will be habitable. You shall have immediate possession, and
the sooner you can start business the better for all. We want
Quebec to be a town again, and not a ruin. We want to make friends
of the inhabitants, and show them that the conditions of life are
not altogether altered. We want them to trust us and to think of us
as friends. I am sure you will help us in this. Nothing like good
wine and a jovial host to set men's tongues wagging in a friendly
fashion, and lighten their hearts of any load of fear and
despondency."
Murray strode out, returning the salutes of his subordinates, and
the next minute Fritz and Ashley were exchanging a warm greeting.
"Welcome to Quebec, my friend; it does the heart good to see you
here. Humphrey declared you had promised to come soon; but I had
not dared to think it would be this side of the winter season."
"Why, yes; I have been ready and waiting this long while. To tell
the truth, I have had enough of Philadelphia and its Quaker-ridden
Assembly. Why, when once the war had broken out and was raging in
good earnest, I longed for nothing so much as my own youth back
again, that I might fight with the best of them. And the peace
palaver of the Quakers sickened me. I came near to quarrelling with
some of my old friends, and I grew eager to see fresh places, fresh
faces. I turned it over in my mind, and I thought that if Quebec
fell into our hands, English-speaking citizens would surely be
wanted to leaven the French and Canadians who would remain. And if
so, why should not I be one to take up my abode?"
"Why not, indeed?" cried Fritz, whose eyes were eagerly straying
round the room in search of somebody he had not seen as yet. "It
was a happy thought, as our Commander has just told you, I doubt
not."
"He has been a capital friend--he has put me in possession of this
place; and I can see that there will be the making of a fine
business here. And I have not come empty-handed. I sold the old
tavern over yonder, and I have a fine store of wine and ale and
salted provisions stored away on board, enough to set me up for the
winter.
"I must have that old sign down," added Ashley, stepping into the
street and looking up at the battered board crazily hanging from
the beam above; "we must have another one up instead. I'll set up a
wolf's head in its place, in memory of the gallant soldier who fell
on the Plains of Abraham. And I will call my inn the Wolfe of
Quebec."
Fritz laughed, still looking round him with quick glances.
"And what said your wife and daughter to such a move?"
"Oh, the wife is a good wife, and follows her husband; though I
won't say she did not feel the wrench of parting a good bit. As for
the maid, she was wild to come! She has done nothing but think of
the war ever since it began. She is half a soldier already, I tell
her, and is making herself only fit to be a soldier's wife. She
might have had the pick of all the young Quakers in Philadelphia;
but you should have seen her turn up her pretty nose at them. "'A
Quaker indeed!' quoth the little puss; 'I'd as lief marry a
broomstick with a turnip for a head! Give me a man who is a man,
not a puling woman in breeches!'
"The sauciness of the little puss!"
But Ashley's jolly laugh showed that he encouraged the maid in her
"sauciness," and Fritz and Humphrey laughed in sympathy.
"Where are Mrs. Ashley and Susanna to be found?" asked Fritz when
the laugh had subsided.
K "Oh, somewhere in the house, poking and prying, and settling the
things in woman's fashion. Anything in the house is to be ours, and
we may buy cheap a quantity of the furniture which is being taken
out of the houses which are too much shattered to be rebuilt. We
have brought things of our own, too. Oh, we shall do well, we shall
do well. It was a capital thought to come here. Canada in English
hands will have a great future before it."
But Fritz was off already, leaving Humphrey to discuss the
situation with his brother-in-law. He was off in search of Susanna,
and presently came upon her sitting upon a wide window ledge which
commanded a view of the quay and harbour, and of the heights of
Point Levi opposite. Hannah was taking housewifely notes on the
upper floor; but the view from this window had fascinated the girl,
and she sat gazing out, lost in thought, a thousand pictures
flitting through her imaginative brain.
"Susanna!" spoke a voice behind her.
She started to her feet, quivering in every limb; and facing round,
found herself confronted by him whose face and form had been the
centre of each of her mental pictures, whose name had been on her
lips and in her heart each time she had bent her knees in prayer
for two long years, and who she knew had come at last to ask the
fulfilment of that promise she had given him when last they had
parted.
Her hands were in his; his face was bent over hers. He disengaged
one hand, and put it round her shoulders, drawing her towards him
gently.
She did not resist; she gave a happy little sigh, and stood with
her fair head close to his shoulder.
"Susanna, I have done what I hoped. I am a captain in the English
King's army. I have won some small reputation as a soldier. I have
a position sufficiently assured. You have come to live at Quebec. I
am quartered there for the winter. Many of our officers and
soldiers have wives who follow them wherever they go. I would not
ask you to come to me to share hardship and privation; but I ask
you to be my wife, here in this city, where your father's house
will give you shelter if I should be forced by the chances of war
to leave you for a while.
"Susanna, will you be brave enough for this? Can you make up your
mind to be a soldier's wife, even before the war has closed? I had
not thought to ask you so soon; but year after year passes by, and
though nearer and ever nearer to the goal of peace, the clouds
still hang in the sky, and there is still stern work for the
soldier to do. But we seem now to see the end of the long, long
war, and that a happy end; and so I ask if you can marry me, even
with the chances of one of those separations which wring the heart
and entail so much anxiety and sorrow upon the wife left at home."
She was clinging to him even before he had done, shedding tears,
and yet half laughing as she looked with dewy eyes into his face.
"O Fritz, Fritz, don't you understand yet what a woman's love is
like? As though I would not rather a hundred thousand times be your
wife, come what may in the future, than live the safest and most
sheltered life without you! As though I should not glory and
delight to share the perils and hardships you are called upon to
endure! As though being together would not make up a hundredfold
for everything else!"
When Benjamin Ashley, together with Humphrey and John Stark, came
in search of the others, they all saw at a glance what had taken
place. Susanna's blushing face and Fritz's expression of proud,
glad happiness told the tale all too plainly. But all had been
prepared for it; and Ashley laughed as he took his daughter's face
between his hands and kissed it, though he heaved a quick sigh,
too.
"Ah me! so all the birds leave the nest at last. And nothing but a
red-coat would serve your turn, my maid! That I have known for long
enough. Well, well, I cannot blame you. We owe a debt of gratitude
to our brave soldiers which we must all be willing to pay.
"Take her, Fritz my boy; take her, and her father's blessing with
her. She will not come to you empty handed; she has a snug little
fortune from her mother ready for her dowry. But you have wooed her
and won her like a man; and her love will be, if I mistake not, the
crown of your manhood and of your life."
"Indeed it will, sir," answered Fritz fervently, and possessed
himself of Susanna's hand once more.
Barely a week later, and the party stood upon the quay to say
farewell to their friends and comrades who were sailing away for
England. October was waning. The departure of the ships could no
longer be delayed. Many had already gone; but today the mortal
remains of the gallant Wolfe had been conveyed on board the Royal
William, and all the town had come forth to pay its last tribute of
respect to one who was mourned by friends and foes alike. Flags
hung half-mast high, the guns had boomed a salute, and the bells of
the city had tolled in solemn cadence as the coffin was borne to
the quay and reverently carried to the place prepared for it upon
the ship.
Now all was bustle and animated farewell as the sailors began to
make preparations for unfurling the sails and hoisting up the
anchor. Julian and Fritz stood together a little apart from the
crowd; their hands were locked in a close clasp. The tie which
bound them together was a very strong and tender one.
"You will come back, Julian? you will not forsake these Western
lands, which must always seem to me more like home than any country
beyond the seas--even England, which we call our home. You will
come back?"
"Yes, I shall come back; the lands of the great West ever seem to
be calling me. I do but go to make good my promise to him that is
gone; then I shall return, and cast in my lot with the English
subjects of Canada."
"They say you are to receive promotion, Julian. You will rise to be
a man of place in this colony. I am certain of it. You have
talents, address, courage; and you are always beloved of French and
English alike. I have heard men talk of you, and point you out as a
rising man. They will want such over here when Canada has passed
into English keeping."
"They will find me ready to do my best if ever they should desire
to use me. I want nothing better than to serve my country, and to
heal the wound between the two nations who have struggled so long
for supremacy in the West."
"You will come back--I am sure of it--a man of place and
importance. But you will be the same Julian still, my brother and
friend. And, Julian (am I wrong in thinking it?), you will not come
back alone?"
A slight flush rose in Julian's face; but he answered quietly:
"I hope not; I believe not."
"Mademoiselle Corinne--" began Fritz, but paused there; for the
girl was close beside them, having come up with her aunt, Madame
Drucour, to say goodbye to the group of friends gathered to see
them off.
Fritz saw the quick glance which flashed between her and Julian as
their eyes met, and he felt that he had got his answer. When Julian
came back to Canada, he would not come alone.
The last farewells were said; the deck was crowded by those who
were to sail away; the musical call of the seamen rose and fell as
the sails unfurled to the breeze, and the gallant vessel began to
slip through the water.
"A safe voyage and a joyous return. God be with you all!" cried
those upon the quay.
The Abbe lifted his hands, and seemed to pronounce a benediction
upon the departing ship, and those who saw the action bared their
heads and bent the knee.
Then the sails swelled out, the pace increased; a salute boomed
forth from the fortress behind, and was answered from the vessel
now gliding so fast away; and the Royal William moved with stately
grace through the wide waters of the St. Lawrence, and slowly
disappeared in the hazy distance.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's French and English, by Evelyn Everett-Green