On the day on which he received James' report, Wolfe issued his orders
for the attack. Colonel Burton, at Point Levi, was to bring up every
man who could be spared, to assist in the enterprise, and that officer
accordingly marched to the spot indicated for embarkation, after
nightfall, with 1200 men.
As night approached, the main fleet, under Admiral Saunders, below
Quebec, ranged itself opposite Beauport, and opened a tremendous
cannonade, while the boats were lowered, and filled with sailors and
marines. Montcalm, believing that the movements of the English above
the town were only a feint, and that their main body was still below
it, massed his troops in front of Beauport, to repel the expected
landing.
To Colonel Howe, of the Light Infantry, was given the honour of leading
the little party, who were to suddenly attack Vergor's camp, at the
head of the path. James Walsham, knowing the way, was to accompany him
as second in command. Twenty-four picked men volunteered to follow
them. Thirty large troop boats, and some boats belonging to the ships,
were in readiness, and 1700 men took their places in them.
The tide was still flowing, and, the better to deceive the French, the
vessels and boats were allowed to drift upwards for a little distance,
as if to attempt to effect a landing above Cap Rouge. Wolfe had, that
day, gained some intelligence which would assist him to deceive the
enemy, for he learned that a number of boats, laden with provisions
from Quebec, were coming down with the tide.
Wolfe was on board the Sutherland. He was somewhat stronger than he had
been for some days, but felt a presentiment that he would die in the
approaching battle. About two o'clock, the tide began to ebb, and two
lanterns--the signal for the troops to put off--were shown in the
rigging of the Sutherland.
Fortune favoured the English. Bougainville had watched the vessels,
until he saw them begin to drift down again with the stream, and,
thinking that they would return again with the flood, as they had done
for the last seven days, allowed his weary troops to retire to their
camp. The battalion of Guienne, instead of encamping near the heights,
had remained on the Saint Charles; and Vergor, an incapable and
cowardly officer, had gone quietly to bed, and had allowed a number of
the Canadians under him to go away to their village, to assist in
getting in the harvest.
For two hours, the English boats drifted down with the stream. As they
neared their destination, they suddenly were challenged by a French
sentry. An officer, who spoke the language replied, "France."
"A quel regiment?"
"De la reine," the officer replied, knowing that a part of that
regiment was with Bougainville. The sentry, believing that they were
the expected provision boats, allowed them to pass on.
A few hundred yards further, another sentry challenged them. The same
officer replied in French, "Provision boats. Don't make a noise; the
English will hear us."
A few minutes later, the boats rowed up to the strand, at the foot of
the heights. Vergor had placed no sentry on the shore, and the troops
landed unchallenged. Guided by James Walsham, Colonel Howe, with his
twenty-four volunteers, led the way. As silently as they could, they
moved up the pathway, until they gained the top, and saw before them
the outline of the tents. They went at them with a rush. Vergor leaped
from his bed, and tried to run off, but was shot in the heel and
captured. His men, taken by surprise, made little resistance. One or
two were caught, but the rest fled.
The main body of the troops were waiting, for the most part, in the
boats by the edge of the bank. Not a word was spoken as the men
listened, almost breathlessly, for a sound which would tell them
whether the enterprise had succeeded. Suddenly the stillness was broken
by the musketry on the top of the heights, followed by a loud British
cheer. Then all leapt from the boats, and each man, with his musket
slung at his back, scaled the rocks as best he might. The narrow path
had been made impassable by trenches and abattis, but the obstructions
were soon cleared away, and the stream of soldiers poured steadily up.
As soon as a sufficient number had gained the plateau, strong parties
were sent off to seize the batteries at Samos and Sillery, which had
just opened fire upon the boats and ships. This was easily done, and
the English footing on the plateau was assured. As fast as the boats
were emptied of the men, they rowed back to the ships to fetch more,
and the whole force was soon on shore. The day began to break a few
minutes after the advanced troops had gained the heights, and, before
it was fairly daylight, all the first party were drawn up in line,
ready to resist attack. But no enemy was in sight. A body of Canadians,
who had sallied from the town on hearing the firing, and moved along
the strand towards the landing place, had been quickly driven back,
and, for the present, no other sign of the enemy was to be seen.
Wolfe reconnoitred the ground, and found a suitable place for a battle,
at a spot known as the Plains of Abraham, from a pilot of that name who
had owned a piece of land there, in the early days of the colony. It
was a tract of grass, with some cornfields here and there, and studded
by clumps of bushes. On the south, it was bounded by the steep fall
down to the Saint Lawrence; on the north, it sloped gradually down to
the Saint Charles.
Wolfe led his troops to this spot and formed them in line, across the
plateau and facing the city. The right wing rested on the edge of the
height, along the Saint Lawrence, but the left did not extend far
enough to reach the slopes down to the Saint Charles. To prevent being
outflanked on this wing, Brigadier Townshend was stationed here, with
two battalions, drawn up at right angles to the rest, and facing the
Saint Charles. Webb's regiment formed the reserve, the 3d battalion of
Royal Americans were left to guard the landing, and Howe's light
infantry occupied a wood, far in the rear of the force, to check
Bougainville should he approach from that direction. Wolfe, with his
three brigadiers, commanded the main body, which, when all the troops
had arrived, numbered less than three thousand five hundred men.
Quebec was less than a mile distant from the spot where the troops were
posted, in order of battle, but an intervening ridge hid it from the
sight of the troops. At six o'clock, the white uniforms of the
battalion of Guienne, which had marched up in hot haste from their camp
on the Saint Charles, made their appearance on the ridge, and halted
there, awaiting reinforcements. Shortly afterwards, there was an
outbreak of hot firing in the rear, where the light troops, under
Colonel Howe, repulsed a detachment of Bougainville's command, which
came up and attacked them.
Montcalm had been on the alert all night. The guns of Saunders' fleet
thundered unceasingly, opposite Beauport, and its boats hovered near
the shore, threatening a landing. All night, the French troops remained
in their intrenchments. Accompanied by the Chevalier Johnston, he
remained all night in anxious expectation. He felt that the critical
moment had come, but could not tell from which direction the blow was
to arrive. He had sent an officer to Vaudreuil, whose quarters were
near Quebec, begging him to send word instantly, should anything occur
above the town.
Just at daybreak, he heard the sound of cannon from that direction.
This was the battery at Samos, opening fire upon the English ships. But
no word came from Vaudreuil and, about six o'clock, Montcalm mounted
and, accompanied by Johnston, rode towards the town. As he approached
the bridge across the Saint Charles, the country behind the town opened
to his view, and he presently saw the red line of British troops, drawn
up on the heights above the river, two miles away. Instantly, he sent
Johnston off, at full gallop, to bring up the troops from the centre
and left. Vaudreuil had already ordered up those on the right. Montcalm
rode up to Vaudreuil's quarters, and, after a few words with the
governor, galloped over the bridge of the Saint Charles towards the
seat of danger.
It must have been a bitter moment for him. The fruits of his long care
and watching were, in a moment, snatched away, and, just when he hoped
that the enemy, foiled and exhausted, were about to return to England,
he found that they had surmounted the obstacles he had deemed
impregnable, and were calmly awaiting him on a fair field of battle.
One who saw him said that he rode towards the field, with a fixed look,
uttering not a word.
The army followed in hot haste, crossed the Saint Charles, passed
through Quebec, and hurried on to the ridge, where the battalion of
Guienne had taken up its position. Nothing could have been stronger
than the contrast which the two armies afforded. On the one side was
the red English line, quiet and silent, save that the war pipes of the
Highlanders blew loud and shrilly; on the other were the white-coated
battalions of the regular army of France, the blue-clad Canadians, the
bands of Indians in their war paint and feathers, all hurried and
excited by their rapid march, and by the danger which had so
unexpectedly burst upon them.
Now the evils of a divided command were apparent. Vaudreuil
countermanded Montcalm's orders for the advance of the left of the
army, as he feared that the English might make a descent upon Beauport.
Nor was the garrison of Quebec available, for Ramesay, its commander,
was under the orders of Vaudreuil and, when Montcalm sent to him for
twenty-five field guns from one of its batteries, he only sent three,
saying that he wanted the rest for his own defence.
Montcalm held a council of war with all his officers, and determined to
attack at once. For this he has been blamed. That he must have fought
was certain, for the English, in the position which they occupied, cut
him off from the base of his supplies; but he might have waited for a
few hours, and in that time he could have sent messengers, and brought
up the force of Bougainville, which could have marched, by a circuitous
route, and have joined him without coming in contact with the English.
Upon the other hand, Montcalm had every reason to believe that the
thirty-five hundred men he saw before him formed a portion, only, of
the English army, that the rest were still on board the fleet opposite
Beauport, and that a delay would bring larger reinforcements to Wolfe
than he could himself receive. He was, as we know, mistaken, but his
reasoning was sound, and he had, all along, believed the English army
to be far more numerous than it really was. He was doubtless influenced
by the fact that his troops were full of ardour, and that any delay
would greatly dispirit the Canadians and Indians.
He therefore determined to attack at once. The three field pieces, sent
by Ramesay, opened fire upon the English line with canister, while
fifteen hundred Canadians and Indians crept up among the bushes and
knolls, and through the cornfield, and opened a heavy fire. Wolfe threw
out skirmishers in front of the line, to keep these assailants in
check, and ordered the rest of the troops to lie down to avoid the
fire.
On the British left, the attack was most galling. Bands of the
sharpshooters got among the thickets, just below the edge of the
declivity down to the Saint Charles, and from these, and from several
houses scattered there, they killed and wounded a considerable number
of Townshend's men.
Howe was called up, with his light troops, from the rear; and he, and
the two flank battalions of Townshend, dashed at the thickets, and,
after some sharp fighting, partially cleared them, and took and burned
some of the houses.
Towards ten o'clock, the French advanced to the attack. Their centre
was formed of regular troops, only, with regulars and Canadian
battalions on either flank. Two field pieces which, with enormous
labour, the English had dragged up the path from the landing place, at
once opened fire with grape upon the French line.
The advance was badly conducted. The French regulars marched steadily
on, but the Canadians, firing as they advanced, threw themselves on the
ground to reload, and this broke the regularity of the line. The
English advanced some little distance, to meet their foes, and then
halted.
Not a shot was fired until the French were within forty paces, and
then, at the word of command, a volley of musketry crashed out along
the whole length of the line. So regularly was the volley given, that
the French officers afterwards said that it sounded like a single
cannon shot. Another volley followed, and then the continuous roar of
independent firing.
When the smoke cleared off a little, its effects could be seen. The
French had halted where they stood, and, among them, the dead and
wounded were thickly strewn. All order and regularity had been lost
under that terrible fire, and, in three minutes, the line of advancing
soldiers was broken up into a disorderly shouting mob. Then Wolfe gave
the order to charge, and the British cheer, mingled with the wild yell
of the Highlanders, rose loud and fierce. The English regiments
advanced with levelled bayonets. The Highlanders drew their broadswords
and rushed headlong forward.
The charge was decisive. The French were swept helplessly before it,
and the battle was at an end, save that the scattered parties of
Canadians and Indians kept up, for some time, a fire from the bushes
and cornfields.
Their fire was heaviest on the British right, where Wolfe himself led
the charge, at the head of the Louisbourg Grenadiers. A shot shattered
his wrist. He wrapped his handkerchief around it and kept on. Another
shot struck him, but he still advanced. When a third pierced his
breast, he staggered and sat down. Two or three officers and men
carried him to the rear, and then laid him down, and asked if they
should send for a surgeon.
"There is no need," he said. "It is all over with me."
A moment later, one of those standing by him cried out:
"They run, see how they run!"
"Who run?" Wolfe asked.
"The enemy, sir. They give way everywhere."
"Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton," Wolfe said. "Tell him to march
Webb's regiment down to the Charles River, to cut off their retreat
from the bridge;" then, turning on his side, he said:
"Now, God be praised, I will die in peace!" and, a few minutes later,
he expired.
Montcalm, still on horseback, was borne by the tide of fugitives
towards the town. As he neared the gate, a shot passed through his
body.
It needed some hard work before the Canadians, who fought bravely,
could be cleared out from the thickets. The French troops did not rally
from their disorder till they had crossed the Saint Charles. The
Canadians retired in better order.
Decisive as the victory was, the English, for the moment, were in no
condition to follow it up. While on the French side Montcalm was dying,
and his second in command was mortally wounded; on the English, Wolfe
was dead and Monckton, second in rank, badly wounded, and the command
had fallen upon Townshend, at the moment when the enemy were in full
flight. Knowing that the French could cut the bridge of boats across
the Saint Charles, and so stop his pursuit, and that Bougainville was
close at hand, he halted his troops, and set them to work to intrench
themselves on the field of battle.
Their loss had been six hundred and sixty-four, of all ranks, killed
and wounded; while the French loss was estimated at about double that
number. In point of numbers engaged, and in the total loss on both
sides, the fight on the Plains of Abraham does not deserve to rank as a
great battle, but its results were of the most extreme importance, for
the victory transferred Canada from France to England.
Vaudreuil, after joining his force with that of Bougainville, would
have still vastly outnumbered the English, and could, by taking up a
fresh position in their rear, have rendered himself impregnable, until
the winter forced the English to retire; while the latter had no means
of investing or besieging Quebec. But his weakness was now as great as
his presumption had been before, and, on the evening of the battle, he
abandoned the lines of Beauport, and, leaving all his tents and stores
behind him, retreated hastily, or rather it may be said fled, for as
the Chevalier Johnston said of it:
"It was not a retreat, but an abominable flight, with such disorder and
confusion that, had the English known it, three hundred men sent after
us would have been sufficient to have cut all our army to pieces. The
soldiers were all mixed, scattered, dispersed, and running as hard as
they could, as if the English army were at their heels."
The flight was continued, until they reached the impregnable position
of Jacques Cartier on the brink of the Saint Lawrence, thirty miles
from the scene of action.
Montcalm died in Quebec the next morning. Levis soon arrived at Jacques
Cartier from Montreal, and took the command, and at once attempted to
restore order, and persuaded Vaudreuil to march back to join
Bougainville, who had remained firmly with his command, at Cap Rouge,
while the horde of fugitives swept by him. Vaudreuil, before leaving,
had given orders to Ramesay to surrender, if Quebec was threatened by
assault, and Levis, on his march to its relief, was met by the news
that, on the morning of the 18th, Ramesay had surrendered.
The garrison was utterly dispirited, and unwilling to fight. The
officers were even more anxious to surrender than the men, and, on the
fleet approaching the walls Ramesay obeyed Vaudreuil's orders, and
surrendered. Townshend granted favourable conditions, for he knew that
Levis was approaching, and that his position was dangerous in the
extreme. He therefore agreed that the troops and sailors of the
garrison should march out from the place, with the honours of war, and
were to be carried to France, and that the inhabitants should have
protection in person and property, and free exercise of religion.
The day after the capture of Quebec, James Walsham returned on board
ship. The thought of Richard Horton, awaiting the court martial, which
would assuredly award him the sentence of death for his treachery, was
constantly in his mind. He remembered the conversation between Captain
Peters and the admiral, and General Wolfe's words: "I should say, keep
as careless a watch over him as possible," and he determined, if
possible, to aid him in making his escape, confident that, in the
general exultation at the success of the enterprise, no one would
trouble greatly about the matter, and that the admiral would be only
too pleased that an inquiry should be avoided, which could but end in
the disgrace and execution of a naval officer.
James was relieved when, on his arrival, he found that Richard Horton
was still in confinement, for he feared that he might have carried out
the other alternative spoken of by the admiral, and might have
committed suicide.
"Captain Peters," he said, going up to that officer, "I should be
obliged if you would give me an order to see Lieutenant Horton."
"Can't do it, my lad. The admiral's orders are precise. Nobody is to be
admitted to see him, without an order signed by himself."
James accordingly sought the admiral's cabin.
"What do you want to see him for, eh?" the admiral asked.
James hesitated. He would not tell an untruth in the matter, and yet he
could think of no excuse which could answer, without doing so.
"I want to see him, sir, to have some conversation with him."
"Ah!" the admiral said, looking at him keenly. "Conversation, eh! You
are not going to take him a pistol, or poison, or anything of that
sort, to help him to put an end to his wretched existence?"
"No, indeed, sir," James said warmly.
"Humph! You are not thinking, I hope," he said, with a twinkle of the
eye, "of helping him to escape?"
James was silent.
"Well, well," the admiral said hastily, "that's not a fair question to
ask. However, I will tell you in confidence that, if he should escape,
which is the most unlikely thing in the world, you know, no one would
be particularly sorry, and there would be no great fuss made about it.
Everyone in the navy here would feel it cast a slur upon the service
if, at a time like this, a naval officer were tried and shot for
treachery. However, if it must be it must.
"Here is an order for you to see him. If it was anyone else, I might
have my doubts about granting it, but as you are the man against whom
he played this scurvy trick, I feel safe in doing so.
"There you are, my lad. Give me your hand. You are a fine fellow, Major
Walsham, a very fine fellow."
Immediately upon entering Quebec, James had purchased a large
turn-screw, some ten yards of fine but strong rope, and three or four
bladders. When he procured the order, he went to his cabin, took off
his coat, wound the rope round his body, and then, putting on his coat,
placed the flattened bladders under it and buttoned it up, slipping the
turn-screw up his sleeve, and then proceeded to the prisoner's cabin.
The sentry at once admitted him, on producing the admiral's order.
Richard Horton was lying down on his berth, and started with surprise
as his visitor entered.
"I am glad you have come to see me, James Walsham, for I have been
wishing to speak to you, and I thought you would come. I have been
thinking much for the last two days. I know that it is all up with me.
The proofs are too strong, and I will not face a court martial, for I
have the means--I know I may tell you safely--of avoiding it. The hour
that brings me news that the court is ordered to assemble, I cease to
live.
"When a man is at that point, he sees things more clearly, perhaps,
than he did before. I know that I have wronged you, and, when the
admiral said that you had done all in your power to shield me, I felt
more humiliated than I did when that fatal letter was produced. I know
what you have come for--to tell me that you bear me no malice. You are
a fine fellow, Walsham, and deserve all your good fortune, just as I
deserve what has befallen me. I think, if it had not been for the
squire taking me up, I should never have come to this, but might have
grown up a decent fellow. But my head was turned. I thought I was going
to be a great man, and this is what has come of it."
"I have come partly, as you suppose, to tell you that I bear you no
malice, Richard Horton. I, too, have thought matters over, and
understand your feeling against me. That first unfortunate quarrel, and
its unfortunate result, set you against me, and, perhaps, I never did
as much as I might to turn your feelings the other way. However, we
will not talk more of that. All that is past and over. I come to you,
now, as the nephew of the man who has done so much for me. I have
brought with me the means of aiding your escape."
"Of aiding my escape, Walsham! You must be mad! I am too securely
fastened here; and, even were it not so, I would not accept a kindness
which would cost you your commission, were it known."
"As to the second reason, you may make your mind easy. From words which
dropped, from the admiral, I am sure that everyone will be so glad, at
your escape, that no very strict inquiry will be made. In the next
place, your fastenings are not so very secure. The porthole is screwed
down as usual."
"Yes," Horton said; "but, in addition, there are a dozen strong screws
placed round it."
"Here is a long turn-screw which will take them out as quickly as the
carpenter put them in," James said, producing the tool; "and here," and
he opened his coat, "is a rope for lowering yourself down into the
water."
"You are very good, James," Horton said quietly; "but it is no use. I
can't swim."
"I know you could not, as a boy," James replied, "and I thought it
likely enough that you have not learned since; but I think, with these,
you may make a shift to get ashore," and he produced four bladders and
some strong lashing. "If you blow these out, fasten the necks tightly,
and then lash them round you, you can't sink. The drift of the tide
will take you not very far from the point below, and, if you do your
best to strike out towards the shore, I have no doubt you will be able
to make it. You must lower yourself into the water very quietly, and
allow yourself to float down, till you are well astern of the vessel."
Richard Horton stood for a minute or two, with his hand over his eyes;
then he said in a broken voice:
"God bless you, Walsham. I will try it. If I am shot, 'tis better than
dying by my own hand. If I escape, I will do my best to retrieve my
life. I shall never return to England again, but, under a new name, may
start afresh in the colonies. God bless you, and make you happy."
The young men wrung each other hands, with a silent clasp, and James
returned to his own cabin.
The next morning, the officer of marines reported to Captain Peters
that the prisoner was missing. The porthole was found open, and a rope
hanging to the water's edge. The captain at once took the report to the
admiral.
"A bad job," the admiral said, with a twinkle of the eye. "A very bad
job! How could it have happened?"
"The sentries report, sir, that they heard no noise during the night,
and that the only person who visited the cabin, with the exception of
the sergeant with the prisoner's food, was Major Walsham, with your own
order."
"Yes, now I think of it, I did give him an order; but, of course, he
can have had nothing to do with it. Horton must have managed to unscrew
the porthole, somehow, perhaps with a pocketknife, and he might have
had a coil of rope somewhere in his cabin. Great carelessness, you
know. However, at a time like this, we need not bother our heads about
it. He's gone, and there's an end of it."
"He could not swim, sir," the captain said. "I heard him say so, once."
"Then most likely he's drowned," the admiral remarked briskly. "That's
the best thing that could happen. Enter it so in the log book:
'Lieutenant Horton fell out of his cabin window, while under arrest for
misconduct; supposed to have been drowned.' That settles the whole
matter."
Captain Peters smiled to himself, as he made the entry. He was
convinced, by the calm manner in which the admiral took it, that he
more than suspected that the prisoner had escaped, and that James
Walsham had had a hand in getting him off.
Shortly after Quebec surrendered, Townshend returned to England with
the fleet, leaving Murray in command of the army at Quebec. In the
spring, Levis advanced with eight or nine thousand men against Quebec;
and Murray, with three thousand, advanced to meet him, and gave battle
nearly on the same ground on which the previous battle had been fought.
The fight was a desperate one; but the English, being outflanked by the
superior numbers of the French, were driven back into Quebec, with the
loss of a third of their number.
Quebec was now besieged by the French until, in May, an English fleet
arrived, and destroyed the vessels which had brought down the stores
and ammunition of Levis from Montreal. The French at once broke up
their camp, and retreated hastily; but all hope was now gone, the loss
of Quebec had cut them off from France.
Amherst invaded the country from the English colonies, and the French
were driven back to Montreal, before which the united English forces,
17,000 strong, took up their position; and, on the 8th of September,
1760, Vaudreuil signed the capitulation, by which Canada and all its
dependencies passed to the English crown. All the French officers,
civil and military, and the French troops and sailors, were to be sent
back to France, in English ships.
James Walsham was not present at the later operations round Quebec. He
had been struck, in the side, by a shot by a lurking Indian, when a
column had marched out from Quebec, a few days after its capture; and,
for three or four weeks, he lay between life and death, on board ship.
When convalescence set in, he found that he was already on blue water,
all the serious cases being taken back by the fleet when, soon after
the capture of Quebec, it sailed for England.
The voyage was a long one, and, by the time the fleet sailed with their
convoy into Portsmouth harbour, James had recovered much of his
strength. An hour after landing, he was in a post chaise on his way
home. It seemed strange, indeed, to him, as he drove through the little
town, on his way up to the Hall. He had left it, in the beginning of
1755, a raw young fellow of eighteen. He returned, in the last month of
1759, a man of twenty-three, with the rank of major, and no
inconsiderable share of credit and honour.
He stopped the vehicle at the lodge gate, had his baggage taken out
there, and proceeded on foot towards the Hall, for he was afraid that,
if he drove straight up to the door, the sudden delight of seeing him
would be too much for his mother.
John Petersham opened the door, and, recognizing him at once, was about
to exclaim loudly, when James made a motion for him to be silent.
"Show me quietly into the squire's study, John," he said, grasping the
butler's hand with a hearty squeeze, "and don't say anything about my
being here, until he has seen my mother. They are all well, I hope?"
"All well, sir, and right glad they will be to see you; for Mrs.
Walsham, and all of them, have been fretting sorely since the news came
that you were badly wounded."
"I have had a narrow shave of it," James said; "but, thank God, I am as
well now as ever!"
As he spoke, he opened the door of the study, and entered. The squire,
who was reading the paper, looked up, and leapt to his feet with a cry
of satisfaction.
"My dear boy, I am glad--thank God you are back again! What a relief
your coming will be to us all!"
And he shook James warmly by both hands.
"I should hardly have known you, and yet you are not so much changed,
either. Dear, dear, how delighted your mother will be! You have not
seen her yet?"
"No, sir," James said. "I dismissed the post chaise at the gate, and
walked up quietly. I was afraid, if I drove suddenly up, the shock
might be too much for her."
"Quite right!" the squire said. "We must break it to her quietly. Wilks
must do it--or no, he shall tell Aggie, and she shall tell your
mother."
He rang the bell, and John, who had been expecting a summons, instantly
appeared.
"Tell Mr. Wilks I want to speak to him, John."
The old soldier speedily appeared, and his delight was as great as if
James had been his son. He went off to break the news, and, in a short
time, Mrs. Walsham was in the arms of her son.
Major Walsham went no more to the wars, nor did he follow his original
intention of entering the medical profession. Indeed, there was no
occasion for him to do either. For Aggie insisted on his leaving the
army; and she had a very strong voice in the matter. James had not long
been home before he and the young lady came to an understanding. Before
speaking to her, James had consulted his old friend.
"You know how I feel," he said; "but I don't know whether it would be
right. You see, although I am major in the service, I have nothing but
my pay. I owe everything to the squire, and he would naturally look
very much higher for a husband for his granddaughter."
"Don't you be a fool, James Walsham," Mr. Wilks said. "I made up my
mind that you should marry Aggie, ever since the day when you got her
out of the sea. The squire has known, for years, what I thought on the
subject. You will meet with no opposition from him, for he is almost as
proud of you as I am. Besides, he thinks only of Aggie's happiness,
and, unless I am greatly mistaken, that young lady has fully made up
her mind on the subject."
This was indeed the case, for Aggie, when James had settled the point
with her, made no hesitation in telling him that she had regarded him
as her special property since she had been a child.
"I considered it all settled, years and years ago," she said demurely,
"and I was quite aggrieved, I can tell you, when, on your arrival, you
just held out your hand to me, instead of--well, instead of doing the
same to me as to your mother."
"You shall have no reason for complaint, that way, in the future,
Aggie, I promise you. But how could I tell? The last time I saw you,
you were flirting, as hard as you could, with someone else."
"Well, sir, whose fault was that? You chose to make yourself
disagreeable, and stay away, and what was I to do? I should do the same
in the future, I can tell you, if you neglected me in the same way."
"I sha'n't give you the chance, Aggie. You can rely upon that."
The squire was fully prepared for the communication which James had to
make to him, and, as there were no reasons for waiting, the ceremony
took place very shortly afterwards.
The squire never asked any questions about his nephew. The official
report had come home that Lieutenant Horton had died of drowning, while
under arrest, but the squire forbore all inquiry, and, to the end of
his life, remained in ignorance of the disgraceful circumstances.
Perhaps, in his heart, the news was a relief to him. He had never been
fond of Richard as a lad, and his confidence, once shaken, had never
been restored. He had intended to carry out his promise to leave him
twenty thousand pounds; but he was well pleased that all that belonged
to him should descend to his granddaughter. Mr. Wilks was the only
resident at the Hall who ever learned, from James, the facts of Richard
Horton's disgrace.
Years afterwards a few lines, without signature or address, came to
James from America. The writer said that he was sure that he would be
glad to hear that, under a changed name, he was doing very well.
"I shall never return to England," he ended, "nor ever forget your
kindness and generosity."
The marriage of the young people made but few changes at the Hall. The
squire proposed to give Aggie, at once, a sum which would have
purchased an estate in the neighbourhood; but he was delighted to find
that she, and James, had made up their minds that the party at the Hall
should not be broken up.
"What do you want to send us away for, grandpapa?" she asked. "You
three will be happier for having us with you, and James and I will be
happier for having you with us. What nonsense to talk about buying
another estate! We might get a little house up in London. It would make
a change, for James and me to spend two or three months every year
there, but of course this will be our home."
And so it was arranged, and so matters continued until, in the lapse of
time, the seniors passed away, and James Walsham and his wife, and it
may be said their children, became the sole occupants of the Hall, the
estate having been largely increased, by the purchase of adjoining
property, by the squire before his death. James Walsham might have
represented his county in Parliament had he chosen, but he was far too
happy in his country life, varied by a few months passed every year in
town, to care about taking part in the turmoil of politics. He did much
for Sidmouth, and especially for its fishermen, and, to the end of his
life, retained a passionate love for the sea.