Wolfe's short life may be divided into four periods, all easy to
remember, because all are connected with the same number-seven. He was
fourteen years a boy at home, with one attempt to be a soldier. This
period lasted from 1727 to 1741. Then he was seven years a young officer
in time of war, from 1741 to 1748. Then he served seven years more in
time of peace, from 1748 to 1755. Lastly, he died in the middle, at the
very climax, of the world-famous Seven Years' War, in 1759.
After the royal review at Blackheath in the spring of 1742 the army
marched down to Deptford and embarked for Flanders. Wolfe was now off to
the very places he had heard his father tell about again and again. The
surly Flemings were still the same as when his father knew them. They
hated their British allies almost as much as they hated their enemies.
The long column of redcoats marched through a scowling mob of citizens,
who meanly grudged a night's lodging to the very men coming there to
fight for them. We may be sure that Wolfe thought little enough of such
mean people as he stepped out with the colours flying above his head.
The army halted at Ghent, an ancient city, famous for its trade and
wealth, and defended by walls which had once resisted Marlborough.
At first there was a good deal to do and see; and George Warde was there
too, as an officer in a cavalry regiment. But Warde had to march away;
and Wolfe was left without any companion of his own age, to pass his
spare time the best way he could. Like another famous soldier, Frederick
the Great, who first won his fame in this very war, he was fond of
music and took lessons on the flute. He also did his best to improve
his French; and when Warde came back the two friends used to go to the
French theatre. Wolfe put his French to other use as well, and read all
the military books he could find time for. He always kept his kit ready
to pack; so that he could have marched anywhere within two hours of
receiving the order. And, though only a mere boy-officer, he began to
learn the duties of an adjutant, so that he might be fit for promotion
whenever the chance should come.
Months wore on and Wolfe was still at Ghent. He had made friends during
his stay, and he tells his mother in September: 'This place is full of
officers, and we never want company. I go to the play once or twice a
week, and talk a little with the ladies, who are very civil and speak
French.' Before Christmas it had been decided at home--where the
war-worn father now was, after a horrible campaign at Cartagena--that
Edward, the younger son, was also to be allowed to join the Army. Wolfe
was delighted. 'My brother is much to be commended for the pains he
takes to improve himself. I hope to see him soon in Flanders, when, in
all probability, before next year is over, we may know something of our
trade.' And so they did!
The two brothers marched for the Rhine early in 1743, both in the
same regiment. James was now sixteen, Edward fifteen. The march was a
terrible one for such delicate boys. The roads were ankle-deep in
mud; the weather was vile; both food and water were very bad. Even the
dauntless Wolfe had to confess to his mother that he was 'very much
fatigued and out of order. I never come into quarters without aching
hips and knees.' Edward, still more delicate, was sent off on a foraging
party to find something for the regiment to eat. He wrote home to his
father from Bonn on April 7: 'We can get nothing upon our march but eggs
and bacon and sour bread. I have no bedding, nor can get it anywhere. We
had a sad march last Monday in the morning. I was obliged to walk up
to my knees in snow, though my brother and I have a horse between us.
I have often lain upon straw, and should oftener, had I not known some
French, which I find very useful; though I was obliged the other day to
speak _Latin_ for a good dinner. We send for everything we want to the
priest.'
That summer, when the king arrived with his son the Duke of Cumberland,
the British and Hanoverian army was reduced to 37,000 half-fed men.
Worse still, the old general, Lord Stair, had led it into a very bad
place. These 37,000 men were cooped up on the narrow side of the valley
of the river Main, while a much larger French army was on the better
side, holding bridges by which to cut them off and attack them while
they were all clumped together. Stair tried to slip away in the night.
But the French, hearing of this attempt, sent 12,000 men across the
river to hold the place the British general was leaving, and 30,000
more, under the Duc de Gramont, to block the road at the place towards
which he was evidently marching. At daylight the British and Hanoverians
found themselves cut off, both front and rear, while a third French
force was waiting to pounce on whichever end showed weakness first.
The King of England, who was also Elector of Hanover, would be a great
prize, and the French were eager to capture him. This was how the armies
faced each other on the morning of June 27, 1743, at Dettingen, the last
battlefield on which any king of England has fought in person, and the
first for Wolfe.
The two young brothers were now about to see a big battle, like those
of which their father used to tell them. Strangely enough, Amherst,
the future commander-in-chief in America, under whom Wolfe served
at Louisbourg, and the two men who succeeded Wolfe in command at
Quebec--Monckton and Townshend--were also there. It is an awful moment
for a young soldier, the one before his first great fight. And here were
nearly a hundred thousand men, all in full view of each other, and all
waiting for the word to begin. It was a beautiful day, and the sun
shone down on a splendidly martial sight. There stood the British and
Hanoverians, with wooded hills on their right, the river and the French
on their left, the French in their rear, and the French very strongly
posted on the rising ground straight in their front. The redcoats were
in dense columns, their bayonets flashing and their colours waving
defiance. Side by side with their own red cavalry were the black German
cuirassiers, the blue German lancers, and the gaily dressed green and
scarlet Hungarian hussars. The long white lines of the three French
armies, varied with royal blue, encircled them on three sides. On the
fourth were the leafy green hills.
Wolfe was acting as adjutant and helping the major. His regiment had
neither colonel nor lieutenant-colonel with it that day; so he had
plenty to do, riding up and down to see that all ranks understood the
order that they were not to fire till they were close to the French
and were given the word for a volley. He cast a glance at his brother,
standing straight and proudly with the regimental colours that he
himself had carried past the king at Blackheath the year before. He was
not anxious about 'Ned'; he knew how all the Wolfes could fight. He was
not anxious about himself; he was only too eager for the fray. A first
battle tries every man, and few have not dry lips, tense nerves, and
beating hearts at its approach. But the great anxiety of an officer
going into action for the first time with untried men is for them and
not for himself. The agony of wondering whether they will do well or not
is worse, a thousand times, than what he fears for his own safety.
Presently the French gunners, in the centre of their position across the
Main, lit their matches and, at a given signal, fired a salvo into the
British rear. Most of the baggage wagons were there; and, as the shot
and shell began to knock them over, the drivers were seized with a
panic. Cutting the traces, these men galloped off up the hills and into
the woods as hard as they could go. Now battery after battery began to
thunder, and the fire grew hot all round. The king had been in the rear,
as he did not wish to change the command on the eve of the battle. But,
seeing the panic, he galloped through the whole of his army to show that
he was going to fight beside his men. As he passed, and the men saw what
he intended to do, they cheered and cheered, and took heart so boldly
that it was hard work to keep them from rushing up the heights of
Dettingen, where Gramont's 30,000 Frenchmen were waiting to shoot them
down.
Across the river Marshal Noailles, the French commander-in-chief, saw
the sudden stir in the British ranks, heard the roaring hurrahs, and
supposed that his enemies were going to be fairly caught against Gramont
in front. In this event he could finish their defeat himself by an
overwhelming attack in flank. Both his own and Gramont's artillery now
redoubled their fire, till the British could hardly stand it. But then,
to the rage and despair of Noailles, Gramont's men, thinking the day was
theirs, suddenly left their strong position and charged down on to the
same level as the British, who were only too pleased to meet them there.
The king, seeing what a happy turn things were taking, galloped along
the front of his army, waving his sword and calling out, 'Now, boys! Now
for the honour of England!' His horse, maddened by the din, plunged and
reared, and would have run away with him, straight in among the French,
if a young officer called Trapaud had not seized the reins. The king
then dismounted and put himself at the head of his troops, where he
remained fighting, sword in hand, till the battle was over.
Wolfe and his major rode along the line of their regiment for the last
time. There was not a minute to lose. Down came the Royal Musketeers
of France, full gallop, smash through the Scots Fusiliers and into the
line in rear, where most of them were unhorsed and killed. Next, both
sides advanced their cavalry, but without advantage to either. Then,
with a clear front once more, the main bodies of the French and British
infantry rushed together for a fight to a finish. Nearly all of Wolfe's
regiment were new to war and too excited to hold their fire. When they
were within range, and had halted for a moment to steady the ranks, they
brought their muskets down to the 'present.' The French fell flat on
their faces and the bullets whistled harmlessly over them. Then they
sprang to their feet and poured in a steady volley while the British
were reloading. But the second British volley went home. When the two
enemies closed on each other with the bayonet, like the meeting of two
stormy seas, the British fought with such fury that the French ranks
were broken. Soon the long white waves rolled back and the long red
waves rolled forward. Dettingen was reached and the desperate fight was
won.
Both the boy-officers wrote home, Edward to his mother; James to his
father. Here is a part of Edward's letter:
My brother and self escaped in the engagement and,
thank God, are as well as ever we were in our lives,
after not only being cannonaded two hours and
three-quarters, and fighting with small arms [muskets
and bayonets] two hours and one-quarter, but lay the
two following nights upon our arms; whilst it rained
for about twenty hours in the same time, yet are ready
and as capable to do the same again. The Duke of
Cumberland behaved charmingly. Our regiment has got
a great deal of honour, for we were in the middle of
the first line, and in the greatest danger. My brother
has wrote to my father and I believe has given him a
small account of the battle, so I hope you will excuse
it me.
A manly and soldier-like letter for a boy of fifteen! Wolfe's own is
much longer and full of touches that show how cool and observant he was,
even in his first battle and at the age of only sixteen. Here is some of
it:
The Gens d'Armes, or Mousquetaires Gris, attacked the
first line, composed of nine regiments of English
foot, and four or five of Austrians, and some
Hanoverians. But before they got to the second line,
out of two hundred there were not forty living. These
unhappy men were of the first families in France.
Nothing, I believe, could be more rash than their
undertaking. The third and last attack was made by
the foot on both sides. We advanced towards one another;
our men in high spirits, and very impatient for
fighting, being elated with beating the French Horse,
part of which advanced towards us; while the rest
attacked our Horse, but were soon driven back by the
great fire we gave them. The major and I (for we had
neither colonel nor lieutenant-colonel), before they
came near, were employed in begging and ordering the
men not to fire at too great a distance, but to keep
it till the enemy should come near us; but to little
purpose. The whole fired when they thought they could
reach them, which had like to have ruined us. However,
we soon rallied again, and attacked them with great
fury, which gained us a complete victory, and forced
the enemy to retire in great haste. We got the sad
news of the death of as good and brave a man as any
amongst us, General Clayton. His death gave us all
sorrow, so great was the opinion we had of him. He
had, 'tis said, orders for pursuing the enemy, and if
we had followed them, they would not have repassed
the Main with half their number. Their loss is computed
to be between six and seven thousand men, and ours
three thousand. His Majesty was in the midst of the
fight; and the duke behaved as bravely as a man could
do. I had several times the honour of speaking with
him just as the battle began and was often afraid of
his being dashed to pieces by the cannon-balls. He
gave his orders with a great deal of calmness and
seemed quite unconcerned. The soldiers were in high
delight to have him so near them. I sometimes thought
I had lost poor Ned when I saw arms, legs, and heads
beat off close by him. A horse I rid of the colonel's,
at the first attack, was shot in one of his hinder
legs and threw me; so I was obliged to do the duty of
an adjutant all that and the next day on foot, in a
pair of heavy boots. Three days after the battle I
got the horse again, and he is almost well.
Shortly after Dettingen Wolfe was appointed adjutant and promoted to
a lieutenancy. In the next year he was made a captain in the 4th Foot
while his brother became a lieutenant in the 12th. After this they had
very few chances of meeting; and Edward, who had caught a deadly chill,
died alone in Flanders, not yet seventeen years old. Wolfe wrote home to
his mother:
Poor Ned wanted nothing but the satisfaction of seeing
his dearest friends to leave the world with the greatest
tranquillity. It gives me many uneasy hours when I
reflect on the possibility there was of my being with
him before he died. God knows it was not apprehending
the danger the poor fellow was in; and even that would
not have hindered it had I received the physician's
first letter. I know you won't be able to read this
without shedding tears, as I do writing it. Though it
is the custom of the army to sell the deceased's
effects, I could not suffer it. We none of us want,
and I thought the best way would be to bestow them on
the deserving whom he had an esteem for in his lifetime.
To his servant--the most honest and faithful man I
ever knew--I gave all his clothes. I gave his horse
to his friend Parry. I know he loved Parry; and for
that reason the horse will be taken care of. His other
horse I keep myself. I have his watch, sash, gorget,
books, and maps, which I shall preserve to his memory.
He was an honest and good lad, had lived very well,
and always discharged his duty with the cheerfulness
becoming a good officer. He lived and died as a son
of you two should. There was no part of his life that
makes him dearer to me than what you so often
mentioned--_he pined after me_.
It was this pining to follow Wolfe to the wars that cost poor Ned his
life. But did not Wolfe himself pine to follow his father?
The next year, 1745, the Young Pretender, 'Bonnie Prince Charlie,'
raised the Highland clans on behalf of his father, won several battles,
and invaded England, in the hope of putting the Hanoverian Georges off
the throne of Great Britain and regaining it for the exiled Stuarts. The
Duke of Cumberland was sent to crush him; and with the duke went Wolfe.
Prince Charlie's army retreated and was at last brought to bay on
Culloden Moor, six miles from Inverness. The Highlanders were not in
good spirits after their long retreat before the duke's army, which
enjoyed an immense advantage in having a fleet following it along the
coast with plenty of provisions, while the prince's wretched army was
half starved. We may be sure the lesson was not lost on Wolfe. Nobody
understood better than he that the fleet is the first thing to consider
in every British war. And nobody saw a better example of this than he
did afterwards in Canada.
At daybreak on April 16, 1746, the Highlanders found the duke's army
marching towards Inverness, and drew up in order to prevent it. Both
armies halted, each hoping the other would make the mistake of charging.
At last, about one o'clock, the Highlanders in the centre and right
could be held back no longer. So eager were they to get at the redcoats
that most of them threw down their muskets without even firing them, and
then rushed on furiously, sword in hand. ''Twas for a time,' said Wolfe,
'a dispute between the swords and bayonets, but the latter was found by
far the most destructable [sic] weapon.' No quarter was given or taken
on either side during an hour of desperate fighting hand to hand. By
that time the steady ranks of the redcoats, aided by the cavalry, had
killed five times as many as they had lost by the wild slashing of the
claymores. The Highlanders turned and fled. The Stuart cause was lost
for ever.
Again another year of fighting: this time in Holland, where the British,
Dutch, and Austrians under the Duke of Cumberland met the French at the
village of Laffeldt, on June 21, 1747. Wolfe was now a brigade-major,
which gave him the same sort of position in a brigade of three
battalions as an adjutant has in a single one; that is, he was a smart
junior officer picked out to help the brigadier in command by seeing
that orders were obeyed. The fight was furious. As fast as the British
infantry drove back one French brigade another came forward and drove
the British back. The village was taken and lost, lost and taken, over
and over again. Wolfe, though wounded, kept up the fight. At last a new
French brigade charged in and swept the British out altogether. Then the
duke ordered the Dutch and Austrians to advance: But the Dutch cavalry,
right in the centre, were seized with a sudden panic and galloped back,
knocking over their own men on the way, and making a gap that certainly
looked fatal. But the right man was ready to fill it. This was Sir John
Ligonier, afterwards commander-in-chief of the British Army at the time
of Wolfe's campaigns in Canada. He led the few British and Austrian
cavalry, among them the famous Scots Greys, straight into the gap and
on against the dense masses of the French beyond. These gallant horsemen
were doomed; and of course they knew it when they dashed themselves to
death against such overwhelming odds. But they gained the few precious
moments that were needed. The gap closed up behind them; and the army
was saved, though they were lost.
During the day Wolfe was several times in great danger. He was thanked
by the duke in person for the splendid way in which he had done his
duty. The royal favour, however, did not make him forget the gallant
conduct of his faithful servant, Roland: 'He came to me at the hazard
of his life with offers of his service, took off my cloak and brought a
fresh horse; and would have continued close by me had I not ordered him
to retire. I believe he was slightly wounded just at that time. Many
a time has he pitched my tent and made the bed ready to receive me,
half-dead with fatigue.' Nor did Wolfe forget his dumb friends: 'I have
sold my poor little gray mare. I lamed her by accident, and thought it
better to dismiss her the service immediately. I grieved at parting
with so faithful a servant, and have the comfort to know she is in good
hands, will be very well fed, and taken care of in her latter days.'
After recovering from a slight wound received at Laffeldt Wolfe was
allowed to return to England, where he remained for the winter. On the
morrow of New Year's Day, 1748, he celebrated his coming of age at his
father's town house in Old Burlington Street, London. In the spring,
however, he was ordered to rejoin the army, and was stationed with the
troops who were guarding the Dutch frontier. The war came to an end in
the same year, and Wolfe went home. Though then only twenty-one, he was
already an experienced soldier, a rising officer, and a marked man.