Off to Quebec
"You have to thank a very fine and robust constitution, and the
open-air life which you have lived for your excellent progress,
monsieur," said the French colonel one morning, some six weeks after
Steve had been taken prisoner, as the two sat in front of a cozy log
fire in the speaker's hut, "and I have to thank fortune--bad fortune
for you, perhaps, monsieur--that some weeks of what would have been a
weary time for me have passed so very pleasantly. It is the fortune
of war, good for me, bad for you, and in either case to be taken
philosophically."
"For myself, I admit that I am sorry to have been taken prisoner,"
replied Steve with a smile, "but then I might have been in the hands
of Monsieur Jules, instead of in yours, colonel, and then----"
"Monsieur Steve would not have been here. You have not forgotten the
firing party and the wall. Yes, that wretch would have had you shot,
for he has some spite against you. Tell me, Monsieur Steve, have you
ever done this compatriot of mine an injury, other than defeating him
in the course of this war?"
Steve shook his head emphatically. "None," he said.
"Then there must be some other reason for his enmity. You speak French
like a native, monsieur, while you are an English colonist born and
bred. That is curious."
"My mother was French," explained Steve. "She was a Mademoiselle
Despelle before her marriage. More than that I do not know, for she
died when I was an infant, and my father has always been very reticent
about such matters. It is to him that I owe my knowledge of French,
for he speaks the language like a native."
"And your name is Mainwaring. Monsieur Steve Mainwaring. Yes, there
must be some other reason for this Jules to have such spite against
you, and I shall endeavour to unravel the cause. Meanwhile, monsieur,
allow me to warn you most solemnly. For the moment this man is at
Crown Point, and therefore harmless; nor will he have a post of
authority again while I am able to prevent it. Still, beware of him,
monsieur. He is dangerous. And now to give you some information. In a
month perhaps the ice will have broken. Even now there are signs that
the end of this terrible winter is coming, and as soon as the spring
puts in an appearance you and I will go to Quebec, where I can promise
a welcome. For I do not forget that I owe my life to you. Monsieur
will be a prisoner on parole till the end of the war, while I--well,
I am a lame dog, and of little further use, I fear, and besides, I
have given my word to you--I am on oath not to fight again during the
course of this conflict."
The tall colonel looked down woefully at his thigh, still heavily
bandaged, and then glanced at the crutch which lay beside his chair,
and which up till then he had never dared to use. Then he sighed,
brushed a tear away, and smiled.
"I spoke of accepting fortune good or bad philosophically," he said.
"_Bien!_ I will act up to my words, but my fighting days are done."
It was only too true, and none but those who have seen the keen
soldier struck down in his prime can realise what this gallant colonel
must have felt. For his prospects were brilliant; he was in command of
one of the most important advanced posts, and had everything before
him. Then a chance ball had fractured his thigh, and here he was,
one leg some two inches shorter than the other, lamed for life, and
unfitted for further service. But he did not permit his disappointment
to take the place of his gratitude to the young man who had befriended
him, who had discovered him deserted in the forest and restored him to
his friends, and to this colonel alone Steve owed his comfort during
the last few weeks. For his wound had proved to be a severe one, and
was followed by some amount of fever. However, he was practically
recovered now, and for quite a time had constituted himself nurse to
the colonel. As to his friends, Jim and Pete and the others, he had
been able to send them a few brief lines, telling them of his safety,
and promptly a note had come back, scrawled on a dirty piece of paper,
and conspicuous for its brevity.
"You ain't dead yet, cap'n, and whilst there's life there's hope. Look
out fer a rescue."
That was all. There was a blurred letter at the end which might have
been Jim's signature, or Pete's, or even Mac's. But the words were
clear enough, and somehow they gave Steve much comfort.
"I am sure they will do something for me," he said, when he had
read the note, "but rescue here is hopeless, for there are too many
Indians. Then, when I reach Quebec I shall be still further away,
so that there is little hope of seeing them there. On the way up
though----"
He considered the matter for a few seconds, for he had learned from
the colonel already that when he was removed from Ticonderoga it would
be by water.
"No, I will send them no information of the move," he said. "It would
not be fair to do so, and besides, I shall be travelling with a man
who is unfit to fight. No, I fear that they will be able to do nothing
for me, and I shall have to rely on myself alone."
With that Steve had to banish all thought of help from his friends,
and resigned himself to a long imprisonment in Quebec. A few weeks
later the frosts broke up, the sun melted the ice, and ere long the
green of a gorgeous country began to be seen again.
"We will make for the headquarters of our Government," said the
colonel, now promoted to a chair outside the hut, where he could
bask in the spring sunshine and listen to the twitter of the birds.
"Anything will be better than to remain here, unable to stir a foot,
while others are active and busy. For you, Steve, I fear it means
removal from friends. But then it is inevitable."
Ten days later Steve and the colonel were carried by road to Crown
Point, at the foot of Lake Champlain, and from there were conveyed
by canoe to the reaches of the Richelieu river. An escort of Indians
paddled beside them, and swept their own craft along at a pace which
very soon brought them to the mighty St. Lawrence. They turned into
the river, and in due course sighted the promontory on which the city
of Quebec is built, then a small and straggling place made up of
private residences and churches, and of numerous batteries, barracks,
and forts. As Steve's eyes rested on what is now, and was even then,
a queen of cities, bathed in the spring sunshine, he realized what
Wolfe and many another was to realize after him, namely, that this was
no trading place, a mart given over to business men and the trade
of the country. It was a stronghold devoted to the military and to
the church, for the predominant features were barracks and batteries,
spires and belfries, all clinging like flies to the steep cliff.
"A jewel than which there is none more beautiful in the crown of
France," said the colonel, as he pointed out the various places to
Steve. "Quebec is the most regal-looking city I have ever seen, and I
never know whether she looks best as we see her now, with the spring
sunshine smiling on her, or in the winter, when she is clad in her
mantle of white. Monsieur, this struggle between our two nations may
end in victory for England, but whatever happens, this jewel I am
showing you will never fall. Quebec is impregnable. Look east and west
and you will see why I am so confident."
It seemed indeed as if no other opinion could have been given, for
as Steve approached this fair Canadian city he, too, declared to
himself that nothing but starvation could cause it to surrender. For
Quebec stands on a steep promontory, as has been described, and has
to its immediate east the river St. Charles, and beyond that again a
long ridge continuing for some six miles and ending abruptly in the
beautiful falls of Montmorency, at that time of the year in their
full grandeur, for the melted snow and ice had added to the volume of
the river. This ridge, which was the southern extremity of an upland
plateau, fell sheer into the river, and a glance at it was sufficient
to discover the obstacles which would at once confront any foe bold
or rash enough to attempt to clamber to the top. Standing on that
same ridge on many a day after, Steve looked down upon the garden of
Canada, the Isle of Orleans, which the first navigator of the mighty
St. Lawrence had called the Island of Bacchus.
To the west Quebec is even more strongly protected by natural
obstacles, for the ridge on the edge of which the fair city is built
runs westward for many miles, falling almost perpendicularly into the
river, while the St. Lawrence, just opposite the town, is suddenly
constricted by a projecting spit of land, known as Point Lévis, which
narrows the bed till it is barely three-fourths of a mile across, a
distance which the French rightly considered could be commanded by
their batteries.
"This will be your prison, Steve," said the colonel, kindly, as the
canoes made in for the wooden stage, "and I think that you could
come to no more charming spot. I shall take you to see Montcalm, our
military leader, and shall advise you to give him your promise not
to attempt an escape. No. Do not refuse, I beg of you," he went on,
seeing Steve pull a long face. "After all, you can but try it for a
time, and can then formally declare your intention not to remain on
parole any longer. It will make all the difference to you just now,
for if you give your word, you will be allowed much liberty, and
you will be therefore out in the open. On the other hand, you will
be placed in confinement, which will be irksome, to say the least of
it, and not the best thing for your health. Then, too, consider the
circumstances. Miles and miles of forest now lie between you and your
friends, and there is not the smallest chance of your getting down to
them, or they up to you, for the country swarms with our backwoodsmen
and Indians. Such an attempt would be sheer madness. You must wait,
my lad, and, later, if your friends beat us back, perhaps it will be
worth your while to withdraw your parole and make that attempt of
which all prisoners dream. There, I am honest with you, am I not? If
matters were in my hands I should aid you to escape."
He laughed heartily, patted Steve on the back, and then held out
his hand for our hero to help him ashore. For Steve had become
indispensable to the wounded colonel, and was more like his son than
anything else.
"I suppose you are right, colonel," said the lad some little while
later, when they were ascending the steep hill. "I will give my parole
and try the arrangement for a time."
A little later they were ushered into the presence of Montcalm, a
soldier whose memory is still kept green, and who, though an enemy of
ours, was undoubtedly one of the bravest and most honourable of foes
Englishmen have ever met. He shook hands gaily with Steve, asked
after his wound, and gripped his hand again when the colonel had told
him how this prisoner had saved his life.
"Monsieur," said Montcalm, swinging round and regarding Steve with
shining eyes, "such an act of generosity should earn for you your
freedom. But I dare not give it, and I must ask you to reconcile
yourself to captivity here. You will give me your word?"
"I will, general. For the present and until further notice I promise
not to attempt an escape, and to obey any orders as to my behaviour
which you may choose to give."
"Good! Ha, ha, monsieur le colonel. You hear him? You hear this young
officer? _Bien!_ He promises not to escape till he warns us. Truly,
you English are droll! But I understand, monsieur, and I know how
honourably you will keep your promise. Now for quarters. You will be
posted with the colonel, at his express wish, and will be allowed the
same rations as our captains. As for pay, perhaps monsieur le colonel
will permit you to draw on him, and afterwards you can refund. I
hope you will find the time pass pleasantly. There are many here to
entertain you."
That indeed proved to be the case, for Quebec in those days was filled
with young officers, and with a sprinkling of wealthy men. Balls and
routs were of frequent occurrence, and for a time Steve was a lion at
these entertainments, thanks again to the honesty of the colonel, who
had told his tale everywhere.
"We hear, monsieur, that our beloved colonel owes his life to you,"
said one of the numerous ladies then resident in the city. "Tell us
your story of this venture."
Steve bowed in courtly manner, a trick which he had learned since his
arrival, flushed to his hair, and looked embarassed.
"Madame must know, surely," he answered, desperately. "I saw the
colonel speaking with her a little while ago, and she is good enough
now to admit that she has heard this tale."
"True, monsieur. But it is your version that I require," was the
laughing answer. "Come, monsieur, I will not permit you to disappoint
me."
Thus pressed, Steve shuffled uneasily, admitted that there might be
truth in the colonel's tale, and then blurted out his own explanation,
as if he had need to make an excuse for performing what had been a
very generous action.
"You see, madame, I was there," he said. "I chanced upon the colonel,
and could I leave him to die? I brought him in, and since we did not
desire to be troubled with a wounded man, why--well, we took him to
his friends."
There was laughter at that, for some half-dozen other people had
gathered, amongst them the colonel, who leaned on his crutch.
"You hear that, monsieur le colonel?" called madame, with a laugh,
catching sight of the wounded officer. "I thought I should like to
hear what this prisoner of yours had to say as to your rescue. You
should listen to him. Ladies and gentlemen, I declare that these
English are naive. Monsieur tells me that having chanced upon our
wounded friend he brought him back to his friends for one reason only.
Guess at it, if you please. No. You cannot, mon colonel. Very well,
monsieur has the effrontery to say that he feared you would be a great
trouble to them. He would not be bothered with so useless a person as
our colonel."
There was loud laughter at that, laughter which sent Steve flying from
the group, his cheeks aglow, while the gallant and merry colonel who
had so befriended him stood leaning on the back of a chair, shaking
his crutch after him.
"Ah! Let me catch the rogue," he called out, and then, "Madame. It
is like the lad. Honest as the day. He says what he means whenever
possible, and at other times keeps silent lest he should give offence.
Despite what he says, I know him to be a brave and a generous lad."
Many and many a time in the months which followed did Steve take rod
and line and cross to the river St. Charles. He was even given the
use of a gun and a canoe, and permitted to go on the St. Lawrence, or
even into the forest on the southern bank. But he was always careful
to return before dusk, and made a point of reporting his arrival.
And while he was a prisoner only in name, and the weeks grew into
months, the reader may wonder what had been happening in other and
more familiar quarters, for the war with France was now more than ever
a fact, and the two nations were preparing for the struggle which both
knew well must end in victory for one, and the consequent mastery of
this huge continent.
Steve had gone to Fort William Henry in the winter of 1756, and the
spring of 1757 found him in Quebec. It will be remembered that he had
taken part in more than one of _les petites guerres_ at the foot of
Lake St. George. These conflicts had been of frequent occurrence, and
throughout the winter they continued, Jim and his friends, as well
as those in Fort William Henry, often sending out small parties to
attack the French. The winter months passed, in fact, without other
incident, save for one attempt made by the garrison of Ticonderoga. On
March 18, 1757, they descended over the ice of Lake St. George, hoping
to take the garrison of Fort William Henry by surprise. They were
easily driven back, and retired to their own fort, having accomplished
nothing. Elsewhere nothing of moment occurred, so that this long
winter season may be described as being barren of incident.
Meanwhile the British Government had determined to support the
colonial troops, and regiments had been collecting at Cork, in
Ireland, preparatory to sailing for America. On the eighth of May
some hundred sail set out with these reinforcements, and finally
arrived at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, which the Earl of Loudon, now
in command of our forces in America, had recently reached with his
troops. Of these he had now under his immediate command some eleven
thousand, and with them he hoped to be able to attack and capture the
very formidable fortress of Louisbourg, which, it will be remembered,
had been erected at great cost on Cape Breton Isle, just north of
Nova Scotia. But information now came to hand that there were seven
thousand Frenchmen in Louisbourg, two-thirds being regulars, while
Indians swarmed in the vicinity. This formidable force, added to a
French fleet of no mean proportions, was considered too powerful for
the troops under Loudon's command, and in consequence the idea of an
attack on Louisbourg was given up, and on August 16 Loudon embarked
with the bulk of his troops, leaving the 27th, the 28th, the 43rd, and
the 46th regiments as a garrison for Nova Scotia.
Valuable months had been wasted, and the projected descent on the
formidable French fortress had ended in fiasco. But Loudon cannot be
blamed alone for such a result. If reinforcements had been collected
earlier and despatched without delay, they would have reached Cape
Breton Isle before the French fleet put in an appearance. It was this
delay, together with the prompt crossing of the Atlantic by the French
fleet, which caused the expedition to be countermanded. But we lost
far more than valuable time and money in this useless movement. By
withdrawing his troops from America proper to Halifax, Loudon left
the disputed country south of the great lakes and west of the line
drawn north from the Alleghany mountains almost denuded of men. There
were some three to four thousand to hold this huge country, a force
insufficient even to keep back the French in the neighbourhood of Lake
St. George, if they wished to press south in that direction.
It may readily be seen that Loudon was guilty of a serious error in
thus denuding an important stretch of country, and it may equally
be anticipated that the French were quick to take advantage of the
withdrawal of our soldiers. Montcalm had been busily gathering Indians
from far-off portions of Canada, Indians attracted to the French after
their victory at Oswego. These, with numerous regulars and Canadians,
he poured down the Richelieu river, massing them at Ticonderoga, till
he had nearly 8000 there. Some forty different Indian tribes were
represented, and if the native element had been cruel and bloodthirsty
before, it promised to be even more so now. For these sons of Canada
who crowded the huts at Ticonderoga were pure savages, vastly
impressed by the French, and more than ever eager to join in this
fray now that they had heard the tales of their brethren who had been
already engaged.
On the British side General Webb, who had been left in command in
this area, had some 1600 troops in Fort Edward, while Munroe had
two thousand five hundred in Fort William Henry, or encamped in its
immediate neighbourhood. This latter force was surrounded by the huge
numbers at the disposal of Montcalm, and prepared to defend itself
as well as possible. The French had forty guns, and made no active
attempt upon the place till these were in position. Then, at a range
of two hundred yards, they opened such a fire that the fortifications
were splintered and flying in fragments before many hours had passed.
Munroe and his men made a gallant defence, but their ammunition soon
began to run out, while some of their cannon burst. They attempted two
sorties, which were repulsed, and waited in vain for some action on
the part of Webb and his men at Fort Edward. But no one came to help
them, and finally, when some hundred and fifty of the defenders had
fallen, Munroe agreed to surrender, further resistance being useless.
Terms were arranged, the garrison to march out with the honours of
war, and to proceed under escort to Fort Edward, there to remain till
they should be exchanged.
What followed will for ever be a stain on the annals of New France
and a warning to all who employ the help of such ruffians as the
Indians had already proved themselves to be. The numerous braves
with Montcalm, accustomed to murder all their prisoners, seemed to
think that these men who had surrendered were theirs, with whom they
thought they could do as they wished. They were already nearly out of
hand, and as an earnest of what was coming, the miscreants promptly
slaughtered a dozen or more unfortunate fellows who from illness
or wounds had been left in the hospital. On the following morning
the British troops were to set out under escort, and seventeen more
unfortunate and helpless men were slaughtered by the Indians in the
sight of Canadian officers, who did not even venture to remonstrate.
Indeed, the Canadians engaged in this war looked upon the methods
and desires of the Indians with favour. They considered that the
scalps of the enemy were the natural reward for the services of these
miscreants, and there is not a shadow of doubt that at the surrender
of Fort William Henry they were, with few exceptions, if not actively
sympathetic with the Indians, at least callous onlookers at a tragedy
to which energy on their part could have put a summary end. Be that as
it may, the march had no sooner begun than the Indians got completely
out of hand. Montcalm, in place of drawing a cordon of his regulars
around the prisoners, endeavoured to arrest the excitement by his
own unaided efforts. Almost at once the war-whoop sounded, and in
a few seconds the howling demons were busy amongst the prisoners,
tomahawking them, or dragging them into the forest to slaughter at
their leisure when opportunity offered. It was a horrible exhibition
of cruelty and inhumanity, and it is a wonder that, seeing the
helpless methods adopted, Montcalm and his officers contrived to save
a single one of the unfortunates who had surrendered to them. Perhaps
a hundred were slain, and some six hundred carried off, of whom about
half were returned on heavy payment. The remainder were taken away by
the Indians on the following day, and who knows what happened to them?
Suffice it to say that this disgraceful and cruel affair shocked all
who heard of it, and raised such a storm of feeling in the breasts
of all who boasted British blood, that "Remember Fort William Henry"
became the cry of our soldiers in the future, and when the opportunity
came they remembered. The trigger finger which in days before might
have been steadied and withdrawn pressed sternly and without mercy
in the future. The Canadian who begged for his life, had to beg most
earnestly before he was sure that his captor would be merciful. For
bitterness had entered into this war, and the British were face to
face now with the fact that it was one of life and death, one which
aimed at their very existence in America.
Another summer had gone and still the war was not ended, while the
French may be said to have been victorious all along the line. They
held the Ohio valley securely, their Indians and trappers still
ranged the forests along the Alleghany border, while their troops
occupied Ticonderoga, whither they had retired after the capture
and destruction of Fort William Henry. In other quarters also they
predominated, for Louisbourg constantly threatened Nova Scotia, while
the island of Cape Breton on which it was erected, offered immediately
in the neighbourhood of the huge fort a most excellent harbour to a
French fleet which was ever ready to descend upon our American ports.
England wanted fresh troops, new and more enlightened leaders, and
a far more energetic policy if she was ever to raise her head from
the mire and despondency into which she had fallen. She wanted one
paramount general at home, to rouse the people in England from their
lethargy, to stimulate their zeal in the cause of the American
colonists, and to reinforce our men already in the field not by
driblets, but by a big army capable of coping with the difficulties
which stared us in the face. That able leader appeared early in the
year 1758, when Steve had been almost twelve months a prisoner.
The great Pitt came into power, and the nation at once felt the
change which he exerted. There was enthusiasm now, where there had
been apathy before, and men spoke of the end of this campaign with
confidence, forgetting that but a few months gone by the utter loss
of America had been prophesied. New energies were concentrated in the
conflict, money was voted with a freer hand, and the best that England
and her American colony could give in brains and generalship was
sought for.
Ticonderoga was to be attacked, and Abercromby was to command, for it
was urgently necessary that this route to Canada should be opened and
the defeat at Fort William Henry wiped out. Then Fort Duquesne, for
some time a stinging thorn in our side, was selected for an expedition
which Brigadier Forbes was to lead to glory. Amherst was selected
for the most important of the expeditions, that to Louisbourg, in
which operation the fleet was to help also. With Amherst Lawrence and
Whitmore were to act as Brigadiers, while James Wolfe was selected
in the same capacity. At home preparations were made to capture or
destroy the provision fleets preparing to sail from France to Canada,
and Hawke and Osborn did excellent service in this respect.
In fact, thanks to Pitt's energy, England showed her teeth during
this spring of 1758, and took up the struggle in a manner which
thoroughly alarmed Montcalm and his forces. There was less gaiety now
at Quebec, for matters wore a serious aspect. Preparations were even
made to resist an attack by the British, while all prisoners, of whom
there were many, who had hitherto enjoyed considerable liberty, were
confined to the fort and placed under a guard.
"I offer you many apologies on behalf of the commandant, monsieur,"
said the officer who brought the orders to Steve. "But you will
understand. There are certain necessary preparations. Work is going on
in the batteries which you must not see. You will remain in this fort,
and will leave it at the risk of your life. Also, you will confine
yourself to the front face of the fort, and will not venture to walk
along the other walls. I wish to warn you formally that the sentries
are under orders to fire the instant they detect an attempt at escape.
Pardon, monsieur. It is unpleasant to have to speak so to such a
friend as you are."
Steve bowed, and thanked the officer, saying that he fully understood
the necessity for the order.
Two months later, when the spring weather had fully set in and the
river was entirely free of ice, an Indian entered the courtyard of the
fort in which Steve was located. There were always numbers of braves
hovering about the batteries and barracks, and the presence of this
one was therefore not remarkable. Steve had not even seen him, for he
was leaning on the wall staring out at the green woods on the Isle of
Orleans. Suddenly the tinkle of some metal instrument attracted his
notice, and he swung round to catch sight of the Indian trudging past
him, and of a tomahawk which had fallen on to the stone paving of the
courtyard.
"Stop," he called out in the Mohawk tongue. "Stop, brother, you have
dropped your tomahawk."
Picking it up Steve followed the Indian and handed the weapon to him.
Then only did he look into his face. It was Silver Fox, painted and
daubed as a Huron Indian, cool and absolutely unruffled as of yore.
"Greeting, chief. Silver Fox delights to look into the eyes of the
Hawk. Read this, and be ready to-night. I have spoken."
He took his tomahawk, grunted his thanks, and passed on, leaving a
tiny note in Steve's hand.
"My lad, my dear, dear lad," ran the note, which our hero carefully
opened when out of sight of the sentry, "we have tracked you to the
fort at Quebec, and have completed our arrangements for a rescue. Be
ready to-night. Listen for a voice beneath the front wall where you
are accustomed to walk. Your father."
A rescue! That very night, too! Steve thrust the note into his pocket
and straightway commenced to whistle merrily, for he was tired of this
captivity, and longed to be free again, fighting and hunting with his
friends in the forest.