visited his post at Lachine, of a great river that flowed from their
hunting grounds to the sea. Imagining it would open his way to find the
route to the golden Ind, he sold his grant at Lachine, and in company
with two priests from the Seminary at Montreal, and some Senecas as
guides, started on July 6th, 1669. With visions of finding for France a
clime of warmer suns and more rich in silver and gold than Canada, he
pushed on. The priests on their return brought back nothing of any
value except the first map procured of the upper lake region.
One of the most enthusiastic fellow travelers of La Salle was a
Franciscan, Father Hennepin. They crossed the ocean from France
together, and probably beguiled many an hour of the long voyage in
relating their dreams of finding the treasures hidden in the land to
which the prow of the vessel pointed.
Hennepin also penetrated to the Mississippi, reaching in his wanderings
a beautiful fall foaming between its green bluffs which he named St.
Anthony, on which spot now stands the "Flour City," Minneapolis, in the
county of Hennepin, Minnesota. He probably heard of the other falls,
five miles away, which we know as Minnehaha, and around which the
sweetest of American poets has woven the witchery of Indian legend in
the wooing of "Hiawatha." It seems almost incredible that where are now
the largest flour mills in the world, turning out daily about 40,000
barrels, there was, scarcely fifty years ago, only the cedar strewn
wigwam and smoke of the camp fire, the tread of moccasined feet and the
dip of the paddles by the bark canoe.
Near by _Place d'Armes_ Square may be seen a grey stone house on which
is written "Here lived Sieur DuLuth." He was a leading spirit among the
young men of the town, who gathered around his fireside to listen to his
thrilling tales of adventure, and of his early life when he was a
_gendarme_ in the King's Guard. Coming to Canada in the year 1668, he
explored among the Sioux tribes of the Western plains. He was one of the
first Frenchmen to approach the sources of the Mississippi. The city of
Duluth in Minnesota received its name from him. A tablet on a modern
building in the same locality informs the passer-by that _Cadillac_, who
founded the City of Detroit about the same time as the Chateau de
Ramezay was built, spent the last years of his wandering life on this
spot.
The town of Varennes, down the river, is called from the owner of a
Seigniory in the forest, le Chevalier Gauthier de la Verandrye, a
soldier and a trader, who was the first to explore the great Canadian
North-West, and to discover the "Rockies." He was an undaunted and
fearless traveler, establishing post after post, as far as the wild
banks of the Saskatchewan and even further north, which, in giving to
France, he ultimately gave to Canada.
"Honour to those who fought the trees,
And won the land for us."
The traditions connected with the Chateau de Ramezay are scarcely more
interesting than those surrounding many spots in the vicinity.
Incorporated in this prosaic, business part of the city are many an old
gable or window, which were once part of some mediaeval chapel or home of
these early times. On the other side of Notre Dame street, where now
stands the classic and beautiful pile called the City Hall, were to be
seen in those days the church and "_Habitation_," as it was called, of
the Jesuit Fathers, within whose walls lived many learned sons of
Loyola, Charlevoix among others. They were burnt down in 1803, at the
same time as the Chateau de Vaudreuil was destroyed, by one of the
disastrous fires which have so frequently swept the cities of Montreal
and Quebec, and in which many quaint historical structures disappeared.
About a mile to the west is still standing the family residence of
Daniel Hyacinthe, Marie Lienard de Beaujeu, the hero of the Monongahela,
at which battle George Washington was an officer.
[Illustration: De Beaujeu]
It was a lamentable event, the indiscriminate slaughter of three
thousand men through the stupidity and incredible obstancy of General
Braddock, who, like Dieskau at a subsequent time, despising the counsel
of those familiar with Indian methods of warfare, determinedly followed
his own plans.
Washington in this engagement held the rank of Adjutant-General of
Virginia. "His business was to inform the French that they were building
forts on English soil, and that they would do well to depart peaceably."
Beaujeu was sent at the head of a force composed of French soldiers and
Indian allies to answer the Briton with the powerful argument of force
of arms.
As Braddock reached the ford over the river which was to put him on the
same side as the fort, Colonel Thomas Gage crossed in advance, without
opposition. Beaujeu had intended to contest the passage, but his Indians
being refractory, his march was delayed. Gage with the advance was
pushing on when his engineer saw a man, apparently an officer, wave his
cap to his followers, who were unseen in the woods. From every vantage
ground of knoll and bole, and on three sides of the column, the
concealed muskets were levelled upon the English, who returned the fire.
As Beaujeu fell, Dumas, who succeeded him, thought that the steady front
of the red-skins was going to carry the day, until he saw his Canadians
fly, followed by the Indians, after Gage had wheeled his cannon on the
woods. A little time, however, changed all this. The Indians rallied and
poured their bullets into the massed and very soon confused British
troops. Braddock, when he spurred forward, found everybody demoralized
except the Virginians, who were firing from the tree trunks, as the
enemy did. The British General was shocked at such an unmilitary habit,
and ordered them back into line. No one under such orders could find
cover, and every puff from a concealed Indian was followed by a
soldier's fall. No exertion of Braddock, nor of Washington, nor of
anyone prevailed. The General had four horses shot under him and
Washington had two. Still the hillsides and the depths of the wood were
spotted by puffs of smoke, and the slaughter-pen was in a
turmoil--scarce one Englishman in three escaped bullets. The commander
then gave the sign to retreat, and was endeavouring to restore order
when a ball struck him from his horse. The British Army had become
bewildered fugitives, and a guard could hardly be kept for the wounded
General, as he was borne along on a horse as a litter.
The sinking Braddock at last died and was buried in the road, that the
tramp of the surging mass of men might obliterate his grave. His remains
are said to have been discovered in 1823 by some workmen engaged in
constructing the National road, at a spot pointed out by an old man who
had been in the ranks in 1755. He claimed to have seen Braddock buried,
and to have fired the bullet that killed him. It was impossible to
identify the remains almost seventy years after their interment, but
with them were found bits of military trappings, so his tale may have
been correct. In the year 1841, near to the spot, was discovered a large
quantity of shot and shell left by the retreating army.
Adjoining the grounds of the Chateau de Ramezay was the mansion of
General Ralph Burton, who fought close to Wolfe in the siege of Quebec,
to whom his dying words were spoken, and who carried out his last
command, which decided the day. As Wolfe lay half unconscious, the riot
of the battle growing dull on his failing senses, they were roused by
the cry, "They run!" He opened his glazed eyes and asked, "Who run?" and
the reply was, "The French!" With a supreme effort he turned to Burton,
and ordered him, saying, "Command Webb to march down to the St. Charles
and cut off the retreat at the bridge"; and then amid the crash and
carnage of war, he murmured, "Now I thank God, and die contented," and
instantly expired.
[Illustration]
THE CHATEAU DE VAUDREUIL.
A short distance to the south-west is the spot on which stood the
Chateau and famous gardens of the Marquis de Vaudreuil, the last French
Governor of Canada. Imagination can forget the miles of docks and
warehouses, the electricity and commerce with which we are entering the
twentieth century, and fancy it sees again the old vice-regal palace, a
miniature in Canadian forests of the gay court at the Tuilleries, with
its bewitchment of lace, silk and velvet, powdered wigs and the
exaggerated politeness and exquisite bows of _la grande dame_ and _le
chevalier_ of the time.
Let us step back to the winter of 1758 and '59. The mountain is
snow-capped and the St. Lawrence is frozen several feet thick, making
good roads for the shaggy Canadian pony and _cariole_, or heavy
_traineau_ with wooden runners. In the early winter's evening, lights
gleam through the small windows of the earthen citadel which guards the
_Porte St. Martin_, and the clash of arms or halberds, and the pacing of
the sentries' footsteps, are heard at every closed gate of the little
walled town. Patches of warm light from candle and hearth checker the
snow which lies glistening on the sidewalks, for there are no street
lamps on the St. Paul, St. Mary or Notre Dame streets of these old days.
Under the night sky, the storehouses look like gloomy prisons, but
cheerful groups talk and laugh, as the beaux and belles bend their steps
along the narrow streets to the Governor's salon. As the guests of the
Marquis de Vaudreuil assemble, the brilliance of their costumes is
heightened in effect by the gorgeous livery of the attendants and the
blue and white of the soldiers' regimentals. Groups around the
spindle-legged card tables exchange _bon-mots_ and play, while others
dance and promenade on the polished floors until the morning light
breaks over the river.
[Illustration]
The gaiety and frivolity, feasting and gossip are in strange contrast to
the grey gown of the Jesuit priest hurrying from the monastery opposite,
to shrive some sinner, or to administer "Extreme Unction" to some dying
saint. Within the convent walls pious sisters, followers of Mademoiselle
Mance and Madame d'Youville, tend the sick and unfortunate, whom the
tide of life has cast upon this far away shore. From the taverns on the
corners and on the river front comes the sound of mirth and merriment,
as with the cup of good Gascon wine are passed around tales of the high
seas or of times gone by in the old-world towns of Brittany.
On the altars of the chapels lights burn dimly in a silence unbroken,
save by the murmuring of prayers and telling of beads by suppliants
driven hither by sin, sorrow or homesickness.
[Illustration: RUE ST. AMABLE.
COPYRIGHT.]
A narrow little street, named St. Amable, running west from the
Governor's mansion, has been subjected to so little change since those
days of long ago that the passer-by on its two feet of sidewalk sees it
just as it was when its vaulted warehouses held the cargoes of the
weather-beaten sailing craft that anchored at the shore below. Where now
the French _habitant_ sits chattering with his _confreres_ and smoking
his pipe filled with home-grown _tabac_ were once the shady walks and
stiff parterres of the ancient garden. Here, under the summer moons,
were doubtless stolen meetings as sweet, vows as insincere, and
intrigues as foolish as those in the exquisite bowers of _Le Petit
Trianon_ at Versailles. On its paths have fallen the martial tread of
"de Levis, de Beaujeu, and many a brave soldier and dainty courtier,
official guests at the Governor's Chateau." Among them was one who
eclipsed all others in sad interest, the courtly young commander, Louis
Joseph Saint Veran de Montcalm. Any spot associated with this ill-fated
general is of immortal memory. After his skillful manoeuvering at the
battle of Carillon, his march to Montreal was a triumph. At the close of
this engagement, as, accompanied by de Levis and his staff, he rode
along the ranks, thanking his troops, who idolized him, in the name of
their king, for their glorious display of French valour in a field where
thirty-six hundred men had for six hours withstood fifteen thousand, he
was in every particular a worthy and capable general. He spoke of his
own share in the glory of the day with simplicity and modesty, writing
the next day to Vaudreuil:--
"The only credit I can claim as accruing to me is the glory of
commanding troops so valorous."
On one occasion, the capture of Oswego, which is described as the most
brilliant military exploit then known in Canadian history, he with his
own hand snatched the colours from a British officer and sent the trophy
to Quebec, to adorn the walls of the Cathedral of that city; as many a
time before had been done for old-world Minsters by knights on the
battlefields of Europe, whose empty armour now hangs in the baronial
halls of England.
Montcalm had been summoned to Montreal to confer with the Governor on
the further conduct of the war, and, as he marched forth to take command
of the Citadel of Quebec, all hearts centred on him, saying, "Save for
France her fair dominion in the West;" but the gallant soldier, in his
endeavour to do so, met his tragic and untimely end.
[Illustration: Louis Joseph Marquis de Montcalm]
Entrenched behind the ramparts of Quebec, he prepared for the great
struggle which was to decide the fortunes of the then two foremost
powers of Europe. He and de Levis, although a considerable distance from
each other, had seventeen thousand men under their command, with a
splendid line of fortifications running from Montmorenci to the St.
Charles, supplementing the granite defences of the Citadel. Montcalm
being in doubt for some time at what point to look for attack from the
enemy, sent orders along the whole line for his troops to be in perfect
readiness everywhere. He was several years older than Wolfe, and was an
old campaigner, having served his king with honour and distinction in
Germany, Italy and Bohemia.
[Illustration]
THE BATTLE OF THE PLAINS.
It was the evening of the 12th of Sept., 1759. The French troops were on
the alert,--the British ready. The evening was calm and fine and the
occasion full of solemnity as Wolfe embarked in a boat to visit some of
his posts. As the oars dipped softly in the stream, and the quiet dusk
of the autumn twilight hid the grim signs of war and brought out the
peaceful beauty of the scene, he thought of the morrow--that where
"Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,"
would be rent by the roar of cannon, the flash of bloody steel and the
cries of the wounded and dying.
Feeling perhaps a shrinking from the great crisis which the dawn would
bring, he repeated to the officers and midshipmen within hearing a
number of the verses from the most finished poem in the English
language, Grey's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," and which had
appeared a short time before. Probably the lines on which he lingered
longest were:--
"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."
The last line was, alas! prophetic in his own case, and he may have had
some premonition of it, for turning to his listeners, who were to share
with him victory or defeat, he said with a wistful pathos in his young
voice, "I would prefer being the author of that poem to the glory of
beating the French to-morrow."
He did not dream that for what that morrow would bring, his name, with
that of the poet he loved, would be carven among those of England's
great men in Westminster Abbey--
"Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise."
Landing in a ravine (Wolfe's Cove), which he had located by the use of a
glass--with the strategic venture at which all the world has since
wondered--in the dark hours of the same night, he, at the head of the
famous Fraser Highlanders, placed his force on the Plains of Abraham,
each man knowing it was victory or death, as there was no possibility of
retreat.
The intelligence of the landing of the British troops was first brought
to the Governor-General, the Marquis de Vaudreuil, and he had the task
of communicating the unwelcome news to Montcalm, who had hurried from
his quarters on the ramparts to ascertain what was the meaning of the
firing above the town.
On learning the situation, he bitterly exclaimed:--
"They have at least got to the weak side of this miserable garrison,
and, therefore, we must endeavour to crush them by our numbers before 12
o'clock."
Montcalm, with more courage than discretion, without waiting for de
Levis, who was twenty-eight miles away,--the victim of an inexorable
destiny, unsupported led forth his men, and saw, not without surprise,
the whole British Army ranged in battle array. Without giving his men
time to recover breath after the fatigue of their laborious and hurried
march, he went into action, trusting to the well-tested courage of his
troops.
[Illustration: Jam: Wolfe]
Wolfe led the charge at the head of the Louisburg Grenadiers, and when
the Highlanders, throwing away their muskets, rushed on with their broad
swords like a tempest of steel, the hapless blue coats, though lacking
in neither prowess nor patriotism, fled in all directions. The two young
leaders fell almost simultaneously.
When Wolfe received his death wound, he was in a conspicuous spot near
the Redoubt, and was thence borne to the rear. He had calmly prepared
for this contingency. He had made his will, of which he appointed Sir
Guy Carleton the executor, and for whom he had early formed a close
friendship, generally speaking of him as "My friend Carleton," and to
whom he bequeathed his books and papers. His plate he willed to
Saunders, and to another friend he entrusted the miniature of his
betrothed with the charge of returning it to her in the event of his
fall. That was probably the most trying moment of those hours so fraught
with tragedy--a moment like those on the eve of Waterloo, when there
were
"Partings that crush the life from out young hearts."
It was not in his martial cloak nor in his country's flag that he was
carried dead off the field, but in the tartan "plaidie" of an old
Highland man, named McLeod, which was tenderly wrapped around him, wet
with tears from eyes to which tears had long been strangers.
As he fell, his principal care was for the effect it would have upon his
troops, who, down to the humblest in his command, had caught his spirit,
and who felt that "they must fulfil the trust reposed in them, or die in
the ranks."
Leaning against the shoulder of the officer who caught him when falling,
he implored him to support him, saying, "Do not let my brave soldiers
see me drop, the day is ours, keep it!" A death attended with
circumstances more pathetic or incidents more picturesque the annals of
war do not record.
"The capture of Quebec was an achievement of so formidable a character,
so distinguished by chivalrous enterprise, and so fraught with singular
adventure, that the interest attending it still remains undimmed and its
glorious recollections unfaded."
The virtues and heroism of the youthful leader of the campaign and the
bravery of his troops, whose toast was "The British flag on every fort,
post and garrison in America," are themes of just pride to the lover of
his country. "Young in years but mature in experience, Wolfe possessed
all the liberal virtues in addition to an enthusiastic knowledge of the
military art with a sublimity of genius, always the distinguishing mark
of minds above the ordinary level of mankind. His celebrated letter to
Mr. Pitt is still considered unsurpassed in military composition."
As Montcalm was carried off the field he enquired if his wound was
mortal; on being answered in the affirmative, with a mental anguish
keener than the intense physical pain he was suffering, he said, "So
much the better, I shall not live to see the surrender of Quebec." Few
scenes are more full of sadness than his march from his last
battle-field, as supported by two grenadiers, and passing through the
St. Louis Gate on his black charger, he courteously greeted the weeping
women who lined his path, telling them not to weep for him; but it
could not be but a day of tears for the daughters of Quebec as groans of
mortal agony came to their ears through the smoke and dust of retreat.
A few hours afterward, on being visited by M. de Ramezay, who commanded
the garrison, with the title of Lieutenant _du Roy_, and another
officer, Montcalm addressed them saying, "Gentlemen, I commend to your
keeping the honour of France,--for myself, I shall pass the night with
God, and prepare myself for death."
On M. de Ramezay's pressing to receive commands respecting the defence
of Quebec, he exclaimed with emotion:--"I will neither give orders nor
interfere further. I have business that must be attended to of greater
moment than your ruined garrison and this wretched country. My time is
very short, so pray leave me; I wish you all comfort, and to be happily
extricated from your present difficulties."
Before expiring, he paid a noble tribute to his late foes, when he
said:--
"Since it was my misfortune to be discomfited and mortally wounded, it
is a great consolation to me to be vanquished by so brave and generous
an enemy. If I could survive this wound, I would engage to beat three
times the number of such forces as I commanded this morning with a third
of such troops as were opposed to me."
Almost his last conscious act was to write a letter praying the English
victors to show clemency to the French prisoners.
It is said that a fissure ploughed by a cannon ball within the walls of
the Ursuline Convent furnished him a fitting soldier's grave.
One of the sisterhood, an eye-witness of the event, described the burial
in the following touching and graphic words:--
"At length it was September, with its lustrous skies and pleasant
harvest scenes. The city was destroyed, but it was not taken. Would not
the early autumn, so quickly followed by winter, force the enemy to
withdraw their fleet? For several days the troops which had been so
long idle were moving in various directions above and below Quebec, but
they were watched and every point guarded, but no one dreamed of the
daring project the intrepid Wolfe was meditating. The silence of the
night told no tale of the stealthy march of five thousand soldiers. The
echoes of the high cliff only brought to the listening boatmen the
necessary password. No rock of the shelving precipice gave way under the
cat-like tread of the Highlanders accustomed to the crags of their
native hills, but the morning light glittered on serried rows of British
bayonets, and in an hour the battle of the Plains changed the destinies
of New France. The remnant of the French army, after turning many times
on their pursuers, completely disappeared. Their tents were still
standing on the Plains of Beauport, but their batteries were silent and
trenches empty--their guns still pointed, but were mute.
"At nine o'clock in the evening a funeral _cortege_ issuing from the
castle, wound its way through the dark and obstructed streets to the
little church of the Ursulines. The measured foot steps of the military
escort kept time with the heavy tread of the bearers, as the officers of
the garrison followed the lifeless remains of their illustrious
commander-in-chief to their last resting place. No martial pomp was
displayed around that humble bier and rough wooden box, which were all
the ruined city could afford the body of her defender; but no burial
rite could be more solemn than that hurried evening service performed by
torchlight under the war-scarred roof of the Convent, as with tears and
sighs were chanted the words 'Libera me Domine.'"
Some years ago an Englishman, Lord Aylmer, caused to be placed within
the convent enclosure a tablet with the words carved in marble:--
Honneur
a
Montcalm.
Le Destin en lui derobant
La Victoire,
L'a recompense par
Une Mort Glorieuse.
Or, Honor to Montcalm. Fate denied him victory, but rewarded him with a
glorious death. Byron expresses a similar sentiment when he said:--