THE LONE CHÂTEAU
Despite his courage and the new resolution that he had acquired during
his long months on the island, Robert's heart often sank. They seemed to
make no progress with the siege of Quebec. Just so far had they gone and
they could go no farther. The fortress of France in the New World
appeared impregnable. There it was, cut clear against the sky, the light
shining on its stone buildings, proud and defiant, saying with every new
day to those who attacked it that it could not be taken, while Montcalm,
De Levis, Bougainville, St. Luc and the others showed all their old
skill in defense. They heard too that Bourlamaque after his retreat from
Ticonderoga and Crown Point was sitting securely within his lines and
intrenchments at Isle-aux-Noix and that the cautious Amherst would delay
longer and yet longer.
It was now certain that no help could be expected from Amherst and his
strong army that year. The most that he would do would be to keep
Bourlamaque and his men from coming to the relief of Quebec. So far as
the capital of New France was concerned the issue must be fought out by
the forces now gathered there for the defense and the offense, the
French and the Indians against the English and the Americans.
Robert realized more keenly every day that the time was short and
becoming shorter. Hot summer days were passing, nights came on crisp and
cool, the foliage along the king of rivers and its tributaries began to
glow with the intense colors of decay, there was more than a touch of
autumn in the air. They must be up and doing before the fierce winter
came down on Quebec. Military operations would be impossible then.
In this depressing time Robert drew much courage from Charteris, who had
been a prisoner a long time in Quebec, and who understood even more
thoroughly than young Lennox the hollowness of the French power in North
America.
"It is upheld by a few brave and skillful men and a small but heroic
army," he said. "In effect, New France has been deserted by the Bourbon
monarchy. If it were not for the extraordinary situation of Quebec,
adapted so splendidly to purposes of defense, we could crush the Marquis
de Montcalm in a short time. The French regulars are as good as any
troops in the world and they will fight to the last, but the Canadian
militia is not disciplined well, and is likely to break under a fierce
attack. You know, Lennox, what militiamen always are, no matter to what
nation they belong. They may fight and die like heroes at one time, and,
at another time, they may run away at the first fire, struck with panic.
What we want is a fair chance at the French army in the open. General
Wolfe himself, though cursed by much illness, never loses hope. I've had
occasion to talk with him more than once owing to my knowledge of Quebec
and the surrounding country, and there's a spirit for you, Lennox. It's
in an ugly body but no man was ever animated by a finer temper and
courage."
Robert and Charteris formed a great friendship, a true friendship that
lasted all their long lives. But then Robert had a singular faculty for
making friends. Charteris interested him vastly. He had a proud,
reserved and somewhat haughty nature. Many people thought him exclusive,
but Robert soon learned that his fastidiousness was due to a certain shy
quality, and a natural taste for the best in everything. Under his
apparent coldness lay a brave and staunch nature and an absolute
integrity.
Robert's interest in Charteris was heightened by the delicate cloud of
romance that floated about him, a cloud that rose from the hints thrown
forth now and then by Zebedee Crane. The young French lady in Quebec who
loved him was as beautiful as the dawn and she had the spirit of a
queen. Charteris lived in the hope that they might take Quebec and her
with it. But Robert was far too fine of feeling ever to allude to such
an affair of the heart to Charteris, or in truth to any one else.
It was a period of waiting and yet it was a period of activity. The
partisans were incessant in their ways. Robert heard that his old
friend, Langlade, was leading a numerous band against the English, and
the evidences of Tandakora's murderous ferocity multiplied. Nor were the
outlying French themselves safe from him. News arrived that he intended
an attack upon a château called Chatillard farther up the river but
within the English lines. A band of the New England rangers, led by
Willet, was sent to drive him off, and to destroy the Ojibway pest, if
possible. Robert, Tayoga and Zeb Crane went with him.
They arrived at the château just before twilight. It was a solid stone
building overlooking the St. Lawrence, and the lands about it had a
narrow frontage on the river, but it ran back miles after the old French
custom in making such grants, in order that every estate might have a
river landing. Willet's troops numbered about forty men, and, respecting
the aged M. de Chatillard, who was quite ill and in bed, they did not
for the present go into the house, eating their own supper on the long,
narrow lawn, which was thick with dwarfed and clipped pines and other
shrubbery.
But they lighted no fires, and they kept very quiet, since they wished
for Tandakora to walk into an ambush. The information, most of which had
been obtained by Zeb Crane, was to the effect that Tandakora believed a
guard of English soldiers was in the house. After his custom he would
swoop down upon them, slaughter them, and then be up and away. It was a
trick in which the savage heart of the Ojibway delighted, and he had
achieved it more than once.
The August night came down thick and dark. A few lights shone in the
Château de Chatillard, but Willet and his rangers stood in black gloom.
Almost at their feet the great St. Lawrence flowed in its mighty
channel, a dim blue under the dusky sky. Nothing was visible there save
the slow stream, majestic, an incalculable weight of water. Nothing
appeared upon its surface, and the far shore was lost in the night. It
seemed to Robert, despite the stone walls of the château by their side,
that they were back in the wilderness. It was a northern wilderness too.
The light wind off the river made him shiver.
The front door of the house opened and a figure outlined against the
light appeared. It was an old man in a black robe, tall, thin and
ascetic, and Robert seeing him so clearly in the light of a lamp that he
held in his hand recognized him at once. It was Father Philibert
Drouillard, the same whom he had defeated in the test of oratory in the
vale of Onondaga before the wise sachems, when so much depended on
victory.
"Father Drouillard!" he exclaimed impulsively, stepping forward out of
the shadows.
"Who is it who speaks?" asked the priest, holding the lamp a little
higher.
"Father Drouillard, don't you know me?" exclaimed Robert, advancing
within the circle of light.
"Ah, it is young Lennox!" said the priest. "What a meeting! And under
what circumstances!"
"And there are others here whom you know," said Robert. "Look, this is
David Willet who commands us, and here also is Tayoga, whom you remember
in the vale of Onondaga."
Father Drouillard saluted them gravely.
"You are the enemies of my country," he said, "but I will not deny that
I am glad to see you here. I understand that the savage, Tandakora,
means to attack this house to-night, thinking that it holds a British
garrison. Well, it seems that he will not be far wrong in his thought."
A ghost of a smile flickered over the priest's pale face.
"A garrison but not the garrison that he expects to destroy," said
Willet. "Tandakora fights nominally under the flag of France, but as you
know, Father, he fights chiefly to gratify his own cruel desires."
"I know it too well. Come inside. M. de Chatillard wishes to see you."
Willet, Robert, Tayoga and Zeb Crane went in, and were shown into the
bedroom where the Seigneur Louis Henri Anatole de Chatillard, past
ninety years of age, lay upon his last bed. He was a large, handsome old
man, fair like so many of the Northern French, and his dying eyes were
full of fire. Two women of middle years, his granddaughters, knelt
weeping by each side of his bed, and two servants, tears on their faces,
stood at the foot. Willet and his comrades halted respectfully at the
door.
"Step closer," said the old man, "that I may see you well."
The four entered and stood within the light shed by two tall candles.
The old man gazed at them a long time in silence, but finally he said:
"And so the English have come at last."
"We're not English, M. de Chatillard," said Willet, "we're Americans,
Bostonnais, as you call us."
"It is the same. You are but the children of the English and you fight
together against us. You increase too fast in the south. You thrive in
your towns and in the woods, and you send greater and greater numbers
against us. But you cannot take Quebec. The capital of New France is
inviolate."
Willet said nothing. How could he argue with a man past ninety who lay
upon his dying bed?
"You cannot take Quebec," repeated M. de Chatillard, rising, strength
showing in his voice. "The Bostonnais have come before. It was in
Frontenac's time nearly three-quarters of a century ago, when Phipps and
his armada from New England arrived before Quebec. I was but a lad then
newly come from France, but the great governor, Frontenac, made ready
for them. We had batteries in the Sault-au-Matelot on Palace Hill, on
Mount Carmel, before the Jesuits' college, in the Lower Town and
everywhere. Three-quarters of a century ago did I say? No, it was
yesterday! I remember how we fought. Frontenac was a great man as
Montcalm is!"
"Peace, M. de Chatillard," said Father Drouillard soothingly. "You speak
of old, old times and old, old things!"
"They were the days of my youth," said the old man, "and they are not
old to me. It was a great siege, but the valor of France and Canada were
not to be overcome. The armies and ships of the Bostonnais went back
whence they came, and the new invasion of the Bostonnais will have no
better fate."
Willet was still silent. He saw that the old siege of Quebec was much
more in M. de Chatillard's mind than the present one, and if he could
pass away in the odor of triumph the hunter would not willingly change
it.
"Who is the youth who stands near you?" said M. de Chatillard, looking
at Robert.
"He is Robert Lennox of the Province of New York," replied Father
Drouillard, speaking for Willet. "One of the Bostonnais, but a good
youth."
"One of the Bostonnais! Then I do not know him! I thought for a moment
that I saw in him the look of some one else, but maybe I was mistaken.
An old man cheats himself with fancies. Lad, come thou farther into the
light and let me see thee more clearly."
The tone of command was strong in his voice, and Robert, obeying it,
stepped close to the bed. The old man raised his head a little, and
looked at him long with hawk's eyes. Robert felt that intent gaze
cutting into him, but he did not move. Then the Seigneur Louis Henri
Anatole de Chatillard laughed scornfully and said to Father Drouillard:
"Why do you deceive me, Father? Why do you tell me that is one, Robert
Lennox, a youth of the Bostonnais, who stands before me, when my own
eyes tell me that it is the Chevalier Raymond Louis de St. Luc, come as
befits a soldier of France to say farewell to an old man before he
dies."
Robert felt an extraordinary thrill of emotion. M. de Chatillard, seeing
with the eyes of the past, had taken him for the Chevalier. But why?
"It is not the Chevalier de St. Luc," said Father Drouillard, gently.
"It is the lad, Robert Lennox, from the Province of New York."
"But it is St. Luc!" insisted the old man. "The face is the same, the
eyes are the same! Should I not know? I have known the Chevalier, and
his father and grandfather before him."
The priest signed to Robert, and he withdrew into the shadow of the
room. Then Father Drouillard whispered into M. de Chatillard's ear, one
of the servants gave him medicine from a glass, and presently he sank
into quiet, seeming to be conscious no longer of the presence of the
strangers. Willet, Robert and the others withdrew softly. Robert was
still influenced by strong emotion. Did he look like St. Luc? And why?
What was the tie between them? The question that had agitated him so
often stirred him anew.
"Very old men, when they come to their last hours, have many illusions,"
said Willet.
"It may be so," said Robert, "but it was strange that he should take me
for St. Luc."
Willet was silent. Robert saw that as usual the hunter did not wish to
make any explanations, but he felt once more that the time for the
solution of his problem was not far away. He could afford to wait.
"The Seigneur cannot live to know whether Quebec will fall," said
Tayoga.
"No," said Willet, "and it's just as well. His time runs out. His mind
at the last will be filled with the old days when Frontenac held the
town against the New Englanders."
The rangers were disposed well about the house, and they also watched
the landing. Tandakora and his men might come in canoes, stealing along
in the shadow of the high cliffs, or they might creep through the fields
and forest. Zeb Crane, who could see in the dark like an owl and who had
already proved his great qualities as a scout and ranger, watched at the
river, and Willet with Robert and Tayoga was on the land side. But they
learned there was another château landing less than a quarter of a mile
lower down, and Tandakora, coming on the river, might use that, and yet
make his immediate approach by land.
Willet stood by a grape arbor with Robert and the Onondaga, and watched
with eye and ear.
"Tandakora is sure to come," said the hunter. "It's just such a night as
he loves. Little would he care whether he found English or French in the
house; if not the English whom he expects, then the French, and dead men
have nothing to say, nor dead women either. It may be, Tayoga, that you
will have your chance to-night to settle your score with him."
"I do not think so, Great Bear," replied the Onondaga. "The night is so
dark that I cannot see Tododaho on his star, but no whisper from him
reaches me. I think that when the time comes for the Ojibway and me to
see which shall continue to live, Tododaho or the spirits in the air
will give warning."
Robert shivered a little. Tayoga's tone was cool and matter of fact, but
his comrades knew that he was in deadly earnest. At the appointed time
he and Tandakora would fight their quarrel out, fight it to the death.
In the last analysis Tayoga was an Indian, strong in Indian customs and
beliefs.
"Tandakora will come about an hour before midnight," said the Onondaga,
"because it will be very dark then and there will yet be plenty of time
for his work. He will expect to find everybody asleep, save perhaps an
English sentinel whom he can easily tomahawk in the darkness. He does
not know that the old Seigneur lies dying, and that they watch by his
bed."
"In that case," said the hunter with his absolute belief in all that
Tayoga said, "we can settle ourselves for quite a wait."
They relapsed into silence and Robert began to look at the light that
shone from the bedroom of M. de Chatillard, the only light in the house
now visible. He was an old, old man between ninety and a hundred, and
Willett was right in saying that he might well pass on before the fate
of Quebec was decided. Robert was sure that it was going to fall, and M.
de Chatillard at the end of a long, long life would be spared a great
blow. But what a life! What events had been crowded into his three
generations of living! He could remember Le Grand Monarque, The Sun King
and the buildings of Versailles. He was approaching middle age when
Blenheim was fought. He could remember mighty battles, great changes,
and the opening of new worlds, and like Virgil's hero, he had been a
great part of them. That was a life to live, and, if Quebec were going
to fall, it was well that M. de Chatillard with his more than ninety
years should cease to live, before the sun of France set in North
America. Yes, Willet was right.
A long time passed and Tayoga, lying down with his ear to the earth, was
listening. It was so dark now that hearing, not sight, must tell when
Tandakora came.
"I go into the forest," whispered the Onondaga, "but I return soon."
"Don't take any needless risks," said Willet.
Tayoga slipped into the dusk, fading from sight like a wraith, but in
five minutes he came back.
"Tandakora is at hand," he whispered. "He lies with his warriors in the
belt of pine woods. They are watching the light in the Seigneur's
window, but presently they will steal upon the house."
"And find us on watch," said Willet, an exultant tone appearing in his
voice. "To the landing, Robert, and tell Zeb they're here on our side."
The lank lad returned with Robert, though he left part of his men at
that point to guard against surprise, and the bulk of the force, under
Willet, crowded behind the grape arbor awaiting the onslaught of
Tandakora who, they knew, would come in caution and silence.
Another period that seemed to Robert interminable, though it was not
more than half an hour, passed, and then he saw dimly a gigantic figure,
made yet greater by the dusk. He knew that it was Tandakora and his hand
slid to the trigger and hammer of his rifle. But he knew also that he
would not fire. It was no part of their plan to give an alarm so early.
The Ojibway vanished and then he thought he caught the gleam of a
uniform. So, a Frenchman, probably an officer, was with the warriors!
"They have scouted about the house somewhat," whispered Tayoga, "and
they think the soldiers are inside."
"In that case," Willet whispered back, "they'll break down the front
door and rush in for slaughter."
"So they will. It is likely that they are looking now for a big log."
Soon a long, dark shape emerged from the dark, a shape that looked like
one of the vast primeval saurians. It was a dozen warriors carrying the
trunk of a small tree, and all molded into one by the dusk. They
gathered headway, as they advanced, and it was a powerful door that
could withstand their blow. One of the ambushed rangers moved a little,
and, in doing so, made a noise. Quick as a flash the warriors dropped
the log, and another farther back fired at the noise.
"Give it to 'em, lads!" cried Willet.
A score of rifles flashed and the warriors replied instantly, but they
were caught at a disadvantage. They had come there for rapine and
murder, expecting an easy victory, and while Tandakora rallied them they
were no match for the rangers, led by such men as Willet and his
lieutenants. The battle, fierce and sanguinary, though it was, lasted a
bare five minutes and then the Ojibway and those of his band who
survived took to flight. Robert caught a glimpse among the fleeing men
of one whom he knew to be the spy, Garay. Stirred by a fierce impulse he
fired at him, but missed in the dusk, and then Garay vanished with the
others. Robert, however, did not believe that he had been recognized by
the spy and he was glad of it. He preferred that Garay should consider
him dead, and then he would be free of danger from that source.
The firing was succeeded by a few minutes of intense silence and then
the great door of the Château de Chatillard opened again. Once more
Father Drouillard stood on the step, holding a lamp in his hand.
"It is over, Father," said Willet. "We've driven off part of 'em and the
others lie here."
"I heard the noise of the battle from within," said Father Drouillard
calmly, "and for the first time in my life I prayed that the Bostonnais
might win."
"If you don't mind, Father, bring the lamp, and let us see the fallen.
There must be at least fifteen here."
Father Drouillard, holding the light high, walked out upon the lawn with
steady step.
"Here is a Montagnais," said Willet, "and this a St. Regis, and this a
St. Francis, and this a Huron, and this an Ojibway from the far west!
Ah, and here is a Frenchman, an officer, too, and he isn't quite dead!
Hold the lamp a little closer, will you, Father?"
The priest threw the rays of the lamp upon the figure.
"Jumonville!" exclaimed Robert.
It was in truth François de Jumonville, shot through the body and dying,
slain in a raid for the sake of robbery and murder. When he saw the
faces of white men looking down at him, he raised himself feebly on one
elbow and said:
"It is you again, Willet, and you, too, Lennox and Tayoga. Always across
my path, but for the last time, because I'm going on a long journey,
longer than any I ever undertook before."
Father Drouillard fell on his knees and said a prayer for the dying man.
Robert looked down pityingly. He realized then that he hated nobody.
Life was much too busy an affair for the cherishing of hate and the
plotting of revenge. Jumonville had done him as much injury as he could,
but he was sorry for him, and had he been able to stay the ebbing of his
life, he would have done so. As the good priest finished his prayer the
head of François de Jumonville fell back. He was dead.
"We will take his body into the house," said Father Drouillard, "prepare
it for the grave and give him Christian burial. I cannot forget that he
was an officer of France."
"And my men shall help you," said Willet.
They carried the body of Jumonville into the château and put it on a
bench, while the servants, remarkably composed, used as they were to
scenes of violence, began at once to array it for the grave.
"Come into the Seigneur's room," said Father Drouillard, and Robert and
Willet followed him into the old man's chamber. M. de Chatillard lay
silent and rigid. He, too, had gone on the longest of all journeys.
"His soul fled," said Father Drouillard, "when the battle outside was at
its height, but his mind then was not here. It was far back in the past,
three-quarters of a century since when Frontenac and Phipps fought
before Quebec, and he was little more than a lad in the thick of the
combat. I heard him say aloud: 'The Bostonnais are going. Quebec remains
ours!' and in that happy moment his soul fled."
"A good ending," said Willet gravely, "and I, one of the Bostonnais, am
far from grudging him that felicity. Can my men help you with the
burial, Father? We remain here for the rest of the night at least."
"If you will," said Father Drouillard.
Zeb Crane touched Robert on the arm a little later.
"Tayoga has come back," he said.
"I didn't know he'd gone away," said Robert surprised.
"He pursued Tandakora into the dark. Mebbe he thought Tododaho was wrong
and that the time for him to settle score with the Ojibway had re'lly
come. Any way he wuz off after him like an arrer from the bow."
Robert went outside and found Tayoga standing quietly by the front door.
"Did you overtake him?" he asked.
"No," replied the Onondaga. "I knew that I could not, because Tododaho
had not whispered to me that the time was at hand, but, since I had seen
him and he was running away, I felt bound to pursue him. The legs of
Tandakora are long, and he fled with incredible speed. I followed him to
the landing of the next château, where he ran down the slope, leaped
into a canoe, and disappeared into the mists and vapors that hang so
heavily over the river. His time is not yet."
"It seems not, but at any rate we inflicted a very thorough defeat upon
him to-night. His band is annihilated."
The bodies of all the fallen warriors were buried the next day, and
decent burial was also given to Jumonville. But that of the Seigneur de
Chatillard was still lying in state when Willet and the rangers left.
"If you wish," said the hunter to Father Drouillard, "I can procure you
a pass through our lines, and you can return that way to the city. We
don't make war on priests."
"I thank you," said Father Drouillard, "but I do not need it. It is easy
for me to go into Quebec, whenever I choose, but, for a day or two, my
duty will lie here. To-morrow we bury the Seigneur, and after that must
put this household in order. Though one of the Bostonnais, you are a
good man, David Willet. Take care of yourself, and of the lad, Robert
Lennox."
The hunter promised and, saying farewell to the priest, they went back
to Wolfe's camp, east of the Montmorency, across which stream De Levis
lay facing them. During their absence a party of skirmishers had been
cut off by St. Luc, and the whole British army had been disturbed by the
activities of the daring Chevalier. But, on the other hand, Wolfe was
recovering from a serious illness. The sound mind was finding for itself
a sounder body, and he was full of ideas, all of the boldest kind, to
take Quebec. If one plan failed he devised another. He thought of
fording the Montmorency several miles above its mouth, and of attacking
Montcalm in his Beauport camp while another force made a simultaneous
attack upon him in front. He had a second scheme to cross the river,
march along the edge of the St. Lawrence, and then scale the rock of
Quebec, and a third for a general attack upon Montcalm's army in its
Beauport intrenchments. And he had two or three more that were
variations of the first three, but his generals, Murray, Monckton and
Townshend, would not agree to any one of them, and he searched his
fertile mind for still another.
But a brave general, even, might well have despaired. The siege made no
apparent progress. Nothing could diminish the tremendous strength that
nature had given to the position of Quebec, and the skill of Montcalm,
Bougainville, and St. Luc met every emergency. Most ominous of all, the
summer was waning. The colors that betoken autumn were deepening. Wolfe
realized anew that the time for taking Quebec was shortening fast. The
deep red appearing in the leaves spoke a language that could not be
denied.
Robert, about this time, received an important letter from Benjamin
Hardy. It came by way of Boston, Louisbourg and the St. Lawrence. It
told him in the polite phrase of the day how glad he had been to hear
from Master Jacobus Huysman that he was not dead, although Robert read
easily between the lines and saw how genuine and deep was his joy. Mr.
Hardy saw in his escape from so many dangers the hand of providence, a
direct interposition in his behalf. He said, from motives of prudence,
no mention of Robert's return from the grave had been made to his
acquaintances in New York, and Master Jacobus Huysman in Albany had been
cautioned to say as little about it as possible. He deemed this wise,
for the present, because those who had made the attempts upon his life
would know nothing of their failure and so he would have nothing to fear
from them. He was glad too, since he was sure to return to some field of
the war, that he had joined the expedition against Quebec. The risk of
battle there would be great, but it was likely that in so remote a
theater of action he would be safe from his unknown enemies.
Mr. Hardy added that great hopes were centered on Wolfe's daring siege.
All the campaigns elsewhere were going well, at last. The full strength
of the colonies was being exerted and England was making a mighty
effort. Success must come. Everybody had confidence in Mr. Pitt, and in
New York they were hopeful that the shadow, hovering so long in the
north, would soon be dispelled forever.
In closing he said that when the campaign was over Robert must come to
him in New York at once, and that Willet must come with him. His wild
life in the woods must cease. Ample provision for his future would be
made and he must develop the talents with which he was so obviously
endowed.
The water was in Robert's eyes when he finished the letter. Aye, he read
between the lines, and he read well. The old thought that he had
friends, powerful friends, came to him with renewed strength. It was
obvious that the New York merchant had a deep affection for him and was
watching over him. It was true of Willet too, and also of Mr. Huysman.
His mind, as ever, turned to the problem of himself, and once more he
felt that the solution was not far away.
The next day after he had received the letter Zeb Crane returned from
Quebec, into which he had stolen as a spy, and he told Robert and
Charteris that the people there, though suffering from privation, were
now in great spirits. They were confident that Montcalm, the
fortifications and the natural strength of the city would hold off the
invader until winter, soon to come, should drive him away forever.
August was now gone and Wolfe wrote to the great Pitt a letter destined
to be his last official dispatch, a strange mixture of despondency and
resolution. He spoke of the help for Montcalm that had been thrown into
Quebec, of his own illness, of the decline in his army's strength
through the operations already carried out, of the fact that practically
the whole force of Canada was now against him, but, in closing, he
assured the minister that the little time left to the campaign should be
used to the utmost.
While plan after plan presented itself to the mind of Wolfe, to be
discarded as futile, Robert saw incessant activity with the rangers and
fought in many skirmishes with the French, the Canadians and Indians.
Tandakora had gathered a new band and was as great a danger as ever.
They came upon his ruthless trail repeatedly, but they were not able to
bring him to battle again. Once they revisited the Château de
Chatillard, and found the life there going on peacefully within the
English lines. Father Drouillard had returned to Quebec.
Another shade of color was added to the leaves and then Robert saw a
great movement in Wolfe's camp before the Montmorency. The whole army
seemed to be leaving the position and to be going on board the fleet. At
first he thought the siege was to be abandoned utterly and his heart
sank. But Charteris, whom he saw just before he went on his ship with
the Royal Americans, reassured him.
"I think," he said, "that the die is cast at last. The general has some
great plan in his head, I know not what, but I feel in every bone that
we're about to attack Quebec."
Robert now felt that way, too. The army merely concentrated its strength
on the Heights of Levis and Orleans on the other side, then took ship
again, and in the darkness of night, heavily armed and provisioned, ran
by the batteries of the city, dropping anchor at Cap Rouge, above
Quebec.
Throughout these movements on the water Robert was in a long boat with
Willet, Tayoga and a small body of rangers. In the darkness he watched
the great St. Lawrence and the lights of the town far above them. What
they would do next he did not know, and he no longer asked. He believed
that Charteris was right, and that the issue was at hand.