Again he nodded, and replied, “Well, well, you got us into trouble; you
must show us the way out,” and he looked at the passage I had traced
upon the chart. “You will remain with me until we meet our enemy on
these heights.” He pointed to the plains of Maitre Abraham. Then he
turned away, and began walking up and down again. “It is the last
chance!” he said to himself in a tone despairing and yet heroic. “Please
God, please God!” he added.
“You will speak nothing of these plans,” he said to me at last, half
mechanically. “We must make feints of landing at Cap Rouge--feints
of landing everywhere save at the one possible place; confuse both
Bougainville and Montcalm; tire out their armies with watchings and want
of sleep; and then, on the auspicious night, make the great trial.”
I had remained respectfully standing at a little distance from him. Now
he suddenly came to me, and, pressing my hand, said quickly, “You have
trouble, Mr. Moray. I am sorry for you. But maybe it is for better
things to come.”
I thanked him stumblingly, and a moment later left him, to serve him
on the morrow, and so on through many days, till, in divers perils, the
camp at Montmorenci was abandoned, the troops were got aboard the ships,
and the general took up his quarters on the Sutherland; from which,
one notable day, I sallied forth with him to a point at the south shore
opposite the Anse du Foulon, where he saw the thin crack in the cliff
side. From that moment instant and final attack was his purpose.
The great night came, starlit and serene. The camp-fires of two armies
spotted the shores of the wide river, and the ships lay like wild fowl
in convoys above the town from where the arrow of fate should be sped.
Darkness upon the river, and fireflies upon the shore. At Beauport, an
untiring general, who for a hundred days had snatched sleep, booted and
spurred, and in the ebb of a losing game, longed for his adored Candiac,
grieved for a beloved daughter’s death, sent cheerful messages to his
aged mother and to his wife, and by the deeper protests of his love
foreshadowed his own doom. At Cap Rouge, a dying commander, unperturbed
and valiant, reached out a finger to trace the last movements in a
desperate campaign of life that opened in Flanders at sixteen; of which
the end began when he took from his bosom the portrait of his affianced
wife, and said to his old schoolfellow, “Give this to her, Jervis, for
we shall meet no more.”
Then, passing to the deck, silent and steady, no signs of pain upon his
face, so had the calm come to him, as to Nature and this beleaguered
city, before the whirlwind, he looked out upon the clustered groups
of boats filled with the flower of his army, settled in a menacing
tranquillity. There lay the Light Infantry, Bragg’s, Kennedy’s,
Lascelles’s, Anstruther’s Regiment, Fraser’s Highlanders, and the
much-loved, much-blamed, and impetuous Louisburg Grenadiers. Steady,
indomitable, silent as cats, precise as mathematicians, he could trust
them, as they loved his awkward pain-twisted body and ugly red hair.
“Damme, Jack, didst thee ever take hell in tow before?” said a sailor
from the Terror of France to his fellow once, as the marines grappled
with a flotilla of French fire-ships, and dragged them, spitting
destruction, clear of the fleet, to the shore. “Nay, but I’ve been in
tow of Jimmy Wolfe’s red head; that’s hell-fire, lad!” was the reply.
From boat to boat the General’s eye passed, then shifted to the
ships--the Squirrel, the Leostaff, the Seahorse, and the rest--and
lastly to where the army of Bougainville lay. Then there came towards
him an officer, who said quietly, “The tide has turned, sir.” For reply
the general made a swift motion towards the maintop shrouds, and almost
instantly lanterns showed in them. In response the crowded boats began
to cast away, and, immediately descending, the General passed into his
own boat, drew to the front, and drifted in the current ahead of his
gallant men, the ships following after.
It was two by the clock when the boats began to move, and slowly we
ranged down the stream, silently steered, carried by the current. No
paddle, no creaking oarlock, broke the stillness. I was in the next boat
to the General’s, for, with Clark and twenty-two other volunteers to the
forlorn hope, I was to show the way up the heights, and we were near
to his person for over two hours that night. No moon was shining, but I
could see the General plainly; and once, when our boats almost touched,
he saw me, and said graciously, “If they get up, Mr. Moray, you are free
to serve yourself.”
My heart was full of love of country then, and I answered, “I hope, sir,
to serve you till your flag is hoisted in the citadel.”
He turned to a young midshipman beside him, and said, “How old are you,
sir?”
“Seventeen, sir,” was the reply.
“It is the most lasting passion,” he said, musing.
It seemed to me then, and I still think it, that the passion he meant
was love of country. A moment afterwards I heard him recite to the
officers about him, in a low clear tone, some verses by Mr. Gray, the
poet, which I had never then read, though I have prized them
since. Under those frowning heights, and the smell from our roaring
thirty-two-pounders in the air, I heard him say:
“The curfew tolls, the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.”
I have heard finer voices than his--it was as tin beside Doltaire’s--but
something in it pierced me that night, and I felt the man, the perfect
hero, when he said:
“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour--
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”
Soon afterwards we neared the end of our quest, the tide carrying us
in to shore; and down from the dark heights there came a challenge,
satisfied by an officer who said in French that we were provision-boats
for Montcalm: these, we knew, had been expected! Then came the batteries
of Samos. Again we passed with the same excuse, and we rounded a
headland, and the great work was begun.
The boats of the Light Infantry swung in to shore. No sentry challenged,
but I knew that at the top Lancy’s tents were set. When the Light
Infantry had landed, we twenty-four volunteers stood still for a moment,
and I pointed out the way. Before we started, we stooped beside a brook
that leaped lightly down the ravine, and drank a little rum and water.
Then I led the way, Clark at one side of me, and a soldier of the Light
Infantry at the other. It was hard climbing, but, following in our
careful steps as silently as they might, the good fellows came eagerly
after. Once a rock broke loose and came tumbling down, but plunged into
a thicket, where it stayed; else it might have done for us entirely. I
breathed freely when it stopped. Once, too, a branch cracked loudly,
and we lay still; but hearing nothing above, we pushed on, and, sweating
greatly, came close to the top.
Here I drew back with Clark, for such honour as there might be in
gaining the heights first I wished to go to these soldiers who had
trusted their lives to my guidance. I let six go by and reach the
heights, and then I drew myself up. We did not stir till all twenty-four
were safe; then we made a dash for the tents of Lancy, which now showed
in the first gray light of morning. We made a dash for them, were
discovered, and shots greeted us; but we were on them instantly, and
in a moment I had the pleasure of putting a bullet in Lancy’s heel,
and brought him down. Our cheers told the general the news, and soon
hundreds of soldiers were climbing the hard way that we had come.
And now while an army climbed to the heights of Maitre Abraham, Admiral
Saunders in the gray dawn was bombarding Montcalm’s encampment, and
boats filled with marines and soldiers drew to the Beauport flats, as
if to land there; while shots, bombs, shells, and carcasses were
hurled from Levis upon the town, deceiving Montcalm. At last, however,
suspecting, he rode towards the town at six o’clock, and saw our scarlet
ranks spread across the plains between him and Bougainville, and on the
crest, nearer to him, eying us in amazement, the white-coated battalion
of Guienne, which should the day before have occupied the very ground
held by Lancy. A slight rain falling added to their gloom, but cheered
us. It gave us a better light to fight by, for in the clear September
air, the bright sun shining in our faces, they would have had us at
advantage.
In another hour the gates of St. John and St. Louis emptied out upon
this battlefield a warring flood of our foes. It was a handsome sight:
the white uniforms of the brave regiments, Roussillon, La Sarre,
Guienne, Languedoc, Bearn, mixed with the dark, excitable militia, the
sturdy burghers of the town, a band of coureurs de bois in their rough
hunter’s costume, and whooping Indians, painted and furious, ready to
eat us. At last here was to be a test of fighting in open field, though
the French had in their whole army twice the number of our men, a walled
and provisioned city behind them, and field-pieces in great number to
bring against us.
But there was bungling with them. Vaudreuil hung back or came tardily
from Beauport; Bougainville had not yet arrived; and when they might
have pitted twice our number against us, they had not many more than we.
With Bougainville behind us and Montcalm in front, we might have been
checked, though there was no man in all our army but believed that we
should win the day. I could plainly see Montcalm, mounted on a dark
horse, riding along the lines as they formed against us, waving his
sword, a truly gallant figure. He was answered by a roar of applause and
greeting. On the left their Indians and burghers overlapped our second
line, where Townsend with Amherst’s and the Light Infantry, and Colonel
Burton with the Royal Americans and Light Infantry, guarded our flank,
prepared to meet Bougainville. In vain our foes tried to get between our
right flank and the river; Otway’s Regiment, thrown out, defeated that.
It was my hope that Doltaire was with Montcalm, and that we might meet
and end our quarrel. I came to know afterwards that it was he who had
induced Montcalm to send the battalion of Guienne to the heights above
the Anse du Foulon. The battalion had not been moved till twenty-four
hours after the order was given, or we should never have gained those
heights; stones rolled from the cliff would have destroyed an army.
We waited, Clark and I, with the Louisburg Grenadiers while they formed.
We made no noise, but stood steady and still, the bagpipes of the
Highlanders shrilly challenging. At eight o’clock sharpshooters began
firing on us from the left, and skirmishers were thrown out to hold them
in check, or dislodge them and drive them from the houses where they
sheltered and galled Townsend’s men. Their field-pieces opened on us,
too, and yet we did nothing, but at nine o’clock, being ordered, lay
down and waited still. There was no restlessness, no anxiety, no show of
doubt, for these men of ours were old fighters, and they trusted their
leaders. From bushes, trees, coverts, and fields of grain there came
that constant hail of fire, and there fell upon our ranks a doggedness,
a quiet anger, which grew into a grisly patience. The only pleasure we
had in two long hours was in watching our two brass six-pounders play
upon the irregular ranks of our foes, making confusion, and Townsend
drive back a detachment of cavalry from Cap Rouge, which sought to break
our left flank and reach Montcalm.
We had seen the stars go down, the cold, mottled light of dawn break
over the battered city and the heights of Charlesbourg; we had watched
the sun come up, and then steal away behind slow-travelling clouds and
hanging mist; we had looked across over unreaped cornfields and the
dull, slovenly St. Charles, knowing that endless leagues of country,
north and south, east and west, lay in the balance for the last time. I
believed that this day would see the last of the strife between England
and France for dominion here; of La Pompadour’s spite which I had roused
to action against my country; of the struggle between Doltaire and
myself.
The public stake was worthy of our army--worthy of the dauntless
soldier, who had begged his physicians to patch him up long enough to
fight this fight, whereon he staked reputation, life, all that a man
loves in the world; the private stake was more than worthy of my long
sufferings. I thought that Montcalm would have waited for Vaudreuil, but
no. At ten o’clock his three columns moved down upon us briskly, making
a wild rattle; two columns moving upon our right and one upon our left,
firing obliquely and constantly as they marched. Then came the command
to rise, and we stood up and waited, our muskets loaded with an extra
ball. I could feel the stern malice in our ranks, as we stood there and
took, without returning a shot, that damnable fire. Minute after minute
passed; then came the sharp command to advance. We did so, and again
halted, and yet no shot came from us. We stood there, a long palisade of
red.
At last I saw our general raise his sword, a command rang down the long
line of battle, and, like one terrible cannon-shot, our muskets sang
together with as perfect a precision as on a private field of exercise.
Then, waiting for the smoke to clear a little, another volley came with
almost the same precision; after which the firing came in choppy waves
of sound, and again in a persistent clattering. Then a light breeze
lifted the smoke and mist well away, and a wayward sunlight showed us
our foe, like a long white wave retreating from a rocky shore, bending,
crumpling, breaking, and, in a hundred little billows, fleeing seaward.
Thus checked, confounded, the French army trembled and fell back. Then
I heard the order to charge, and from near four thousand throats there
came for the first time our exultant British cheer, and high over all
rang the slogan of Fraser’s Highlanders. To my left I saw the flashing
broadswords of the clansmen, ahead of all the rest. Those sickles of
death clove through and broke the battalions of La Sarre, and Lascelles
scattered the good soldiers of Languedoc into flying columns. We on the
right, led by Wolfe, charged the desperate and valiant men of Roussillon
and Guienne and the impetuous sharpshooters of the militia. As we came
on, I observed the general sway and push forward again, and then I
lost sight of him, for I saw what gave the battle a new interest to
me: Doltaire, cool and deliberate, animating and encouraging the French
troops.
I moved in a shaking hedge of bayonets, keeping my eye on him; and
presently there was a hand-to-hand melee, out of which I fought to reach
him. I was making for him, where he now sought to rally the retreating
columns, when I noticed, not far away, Gabord, mounted, and attacked by
three grenadiers. Looking back now, I see him, with his sabre cutting
right and left, as he drove his horse at one grenadier, who slipped and
fell on the slippery ground, while the horse rode on him, battering him.
Obliquely down swept the sabre, and drove through the cheek and chin of
one foe; another sweep, and the bayonet of the other was struck aside;
and another, which was turned aside as Gabord’s horse came down,
bayoneted by the fallen grenadier. But Gabord was on his feet again,
roaring like a bull, with a wild grin on his face, as he partly struck
aside the bayonet of the last grenadier. It caught him in the flesh of
the left side. He grasped the musket-barrel, and swung his sabre with
fierce precision. The man’s head dropped back like the lid of a pot, and
he tumbled into a heap of the faded golden-rod flower which spattered
the field.
It was at this moment I saw Juste Duvarney making towards me, hatred and
deadly purpose in his eyes. I had will enough to meet him, and to kill
him too, yet I could not help but think of Alixe. Gabord saw him, also,
and, being nearer, made for me as well. For that act I cherish his
memory. The thought was worthy of a gentleman of breeding; he had the
true thing in his heart. He would save us--two brothers--from fighting,
by fighting me himself.
He reached me first, and with an “Au diable!” made a stroke at me. It
was a matter of sword and sabre now. Clark met Juste Duvarney’s rush;
and there we were, at as fine a game of cross-purposes as you can think:
Clark hungering for Gabord’s life (Gabord had once been his jailer,
too), and Juste Duvarney for mine; the battle faring on ahead of us.
Soon the two were clean cut off from the French army, and must fight to
the death or surrender.
Juste Duvarney spoke only once, and then it was but the rancorous word
“Renegade!” nor did I speak at all; but Clark was blasphemous, and
Gabord, bleeding, fought with a sputtering relish.
“Fair fight and fowl for spitting,” he cried. “Go home to heaven,
dickey-bird.”
Between phrases of this kind we cut and thrust for life, an odd sort of
fighting. I fought with a desperate alertness, and presently my sword
passed through his body, drew out, and he shivered--fell--where he
stood, collapsing suddenly like a bag. I knelt beside him, and lifted up
his head. His eyes were glazing fast.
“Gabord! Gabord!” I called, grief-stricken, for that work was the worst
I ever did in this world.
He started, stared, and fumbled at his waistcoat. I quickly put my hand
in, and drew out--one of Mathilde’s wooden crosses.
“To cheat--the devil--yet--aho!” he whispered, kissed the cross, and so
was done with life.
When I turned from him, Clark stood beside me. Dazed as I was, I did not
at first grasp the significance of that fact. I looked towards the
town, and saw the French army hustling into the St. Louis Gate; saw the
Highlanders charging the bushes at the Cote Ste. Genevieve, where the
brave Canadians made their last stand; saw, not fifty feet away, the
noblest soldier of our time, even General Wolfe, dead in the arms of
Mr. Henderson, a volunteer in the Twenty-Second; and then, almost at my
feet, stretched out as I had seen him lie in the Palace courtyard two
years before, Juste Duvarney.
But now he was beyond all friendship or reconciliation--forever.