CHAPTER XIV

HOW THE GALLANT WOLFE TOOK QUEBEC

If we were to tell the story of Canada faithfully for the next few years, it would be only of further battles, sieges, skirmishes, and massacres between the French and English colonists, aided by savage Indian warriors.

Never before had Canada boasted so many French soldiers as were now arrayed under the command of Montcalm. He fell upon Oswego and destroyed it, taking 1400 prisoners and great booty. Against him was sent the English Earl of Loudoun, no match for the French commander, and afraid to strike an overwhelming blow. Loudoun at last sailed away for Halifax with his army, thinking to make another attack by and by on Louisburg, still in French hands. A terrible mistake this of Loudoun's, and just the opportunity Montcalm looked for. The French had built a strong fortress at Ticonderoga, and now that the danger of Loudoun's army was removed, 6000 of their troops moved swiftly out of the fortress and attacked Fort William Henry.

Undaunted by the great force brought against him, the commander, Colonel Munro, answered Montcalm's summons to surrender by saying that he would {206} defend his post to the death. The French planted their guns and the siege commenced. Day and night the wooden ramparts of Fort William Henry were splintered by Montcalm's cannon balls. Munro, brave Scotsman that he was, hoped vainly that the English garrison at Fort Edward would come to his rescue, but their commander was afraid to send them over. He knew that there were nearly 2000 bloodthirsty redskins roaming at large in the woods. They dreaded the tomahawk and scalping-knife more than the sword and musket. Well did they know what their fate would be if they fell into the hands, wounded or prisoners, of those relentless savages.

So at last one sweltering August day Munro realised that no hope remained. He could hold out no longer. His fort was nearly a mass of ruins, and reluctantly he hoisted the white flag asking Montcalm for terms of capitulation.

The French commander allowed the brave Munro and his soldiers to march out with the honours of war, pledging himself to protect them from his savage followers. Alas! Montcalm had reckoned without his host. He might as well have tried to fetter the summer breeze that blew across Lake George as to balk his redskin allies of their destined prey. They thirsted for the blood of the English. They could not understand the French code of honour. Of terms of capitulation they knew nothing. The soldiers of the garrison, with their wives and children, with a French escort, filed slowly through the woods on their way to a refuge at Fort Edward. Suddenly the Indians, sending up a terrible war-yell, darted {207} upon them. One of the most dreadful massacres in history now took place. The soldiers could do nothing to defend themselves, because they had given up their muskets to the French. They were scalped by dozens and hundreds. Helpless women were brained by hatchets and little children were dashed to death against the trunks of trees.

At the risk of their lives, Montcalm and his officers strove to save the fugitives, but not until nearly 1000 had been slain did they succeed. Montcalm was pale with horror at the awful disgrace which had stained the French name. He had given his word that the garrison should march out unharmed, and now his brave foes were lying in heaps of mangled corpses in the heart of this once peaceful forest.

In fear lest he should punish them in his great anger, the treacherous redskins slunk away with their scalps and plunder. Such was the massacre of Fort William Henry. Afterwards the fort itself was levelled to the ground.

This was not the only disaster the English suffered. Twelve thousand soldiers and eighteen battleships were sent to capture Louisburg, but after cruising about for many weeks and losing several vessels, the weak and cowardly Lord Loudoun did not venture upon an attack, and sailed back to England to meet the contempt of his fellow-countrymen.

You can see what a critical period this was in the history of Canada. To many it seemed a critical period in the life of the English colonists in America. {208} But the French triumph was soon to be cut short. A new and vigorous minister was called by King George to his councils. The energy and fire of the great William Pitt put new life into the hearts of the English people in every part of the Empire. Crushing his right hand down upon the map of the New World, Pitt decreed that French dominion in Canada must be brought to a close. Easy it was to say this. Other English ministers had said it before, but their misfortune was that they did not know how to make the right plans, or to find the right men to carry out their plans. They could not kindle the soldiers into a flame of enthusiasm by their zeal and eloquence. Pitt could do this. He could choose his generals for their worth and fighting qualities, and when he wanted a live ardent soldier, upon whom he could rely, he chose James Wolfe. Who would have dreamt that in the long, gaunt figure, with pale face and straight red hair, that shuffled into the minister's ante-chamber in the spring of 1758, was the future conqueror of Quebec!

General Wolfe was then thirty-two years old. His appearance little revealed his character. A born soldier, he had already distinguished himself on the battlefields of Europe. In those sleepy days, before Pitt came, his fellow-officers could not understand Wolfe's enthusiasm. One of them told King George that he believed Wolfe was mad. "Then," cried the King, remembering the defeats his army had suffered, "I only hope he will bite some of my generals!"

Court influence succeeded in giving the nominal command to General Amherst, but Wolfe was the {209} real leader. With Amherst and Wolfe sailed a powerful fleet under Admiral Boscawen. By June 1758 the whole of this great force drew up before the fortress of Louisburg, within whose walls was a population of 4000 souls. The garrison consisted of the bravest men the French could furnish, veterans of many battlefields. The Commandant was Drucour. But it was in vain now that the French defended their splendid fortress. After an heroic defence, Drucour was at last obliged to surrender, and all the garrison were sent to England as prisoners of war. Louisburg would give the English trouble and anxiety no more. As if it were but a tiny sandcastle built by children on the seashore, these mighty stone bastions were swept away. After the surrender the English soldiers were ordered to the duty of destroying the stronghold of France in Cape Breton, pulling it to pieces with pickaxe and crowbar, filling the crevices with gunpowder, until at last hardly a vestige remained. If you ask to see Louisburg to-day, you will be shown only a rolling meadow upon which sheep graze peacefully.

Wolfe was now eager to push on to Quebec, but he had to wait nearly a year. In the meantime the French had triumphed on Lake Champlain. General Abercrombie had tried to take Fort Ticonderoga with 15,000 men, but Abercrombie was no such soldier as James Wolfe. He had, however, with him Lord Howe, a brave and able young officer, who was the second in command. Had not a stray bullet struck him down on his way to the battlefield, the story of Ticonderoga might have had a different ending. He {210} was beloved and trusted by his soldiers, and when he died their courage seemed to die away also.

Abercrombie foolishly thought that by his superior numbers he could force Ticonderoga without cannon, but Montcalm knew his strength. He was surprised when he saw the English general hurling his soldiers in four strong columns upon the front of his fort. It was a battle in which superior numbers, bravery, and perseverance were thrown away. Six times did the English doggedly come on, and six times did the cannon of the French sow carnage amongst them. There was a regiment of Highlanders fighting like tigers, some of them hacking the wooden stocks of the outposts with their claymores until a cannon-ball carried away their limbs. When at last, at the close of that long bloody day, Abercrombie drew off his troops, he left 2000 English corpses in the glacis outside the walls of the French fort.

Was it strange that the hearts of the survivors turned against him? that they did not conceal their rejoicing when the King, after this fearful defeat, relieved Abercrombie of his command?

It was not, however, all a tale of repulses and humiliation for the English. Colonel Bradstreet had crossed Lake Ontario and captured Fort Frontenac. General Forbes had made the French abandon Fort Duquesne. On its site a new stronghold arose, to which the name of Fort Pitt was given. Here in our day is the great and flourishing city of Pittsburg. This was not all. In the spring of the fateful year 1759, Fort Niagara fell.

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The news of the capture of Louisburg, which caused such rejoicings in America and England, cast a terrible gloom over French Canada. Quebec, that splendid stronghold which had defied the English, was now their last hope. The town and citadel on the summit of Cape Diamond which Champlain had founded and Frontenac guarded so well, seemed to laugh at cannon and bayonet. Stern was the task set before the man who should presume to scale those heights and force the proud city to surrender. Behind its confident aspect Quebec was the scene of despair and corruption. Amongst the officials reckless extravagance reigned. While Canada's fate was trembling in the balance, the Intendant Bigot, who should have been a pattern to the community, spent his nights in riot and gambling. Although the King had forbidden games of hazard, Bigot would often play amongst a party of forty people, losing many thousands of francs in a few hours. The King sent out his gold to help Canada, the people crushed by taxation gave theirs, but all the money found its way into the pocket of Bigot and his accomplices.

Provisions and clothing that should have gone to the hungry, shivering French soldiers were sold at La Friponne to reap a profit. Distant forts held bravely for the French cried aloud for succour, but the scoundrelly Intendant put them off with excuses, and the money intended for them was devoted to gaming and dissipation. In two years alone Bigot's robberies amounted to nearly a million pounds sterling. A time of retribution was at hand. Montcalm wept at the vices and irregularities around him, but, {212} being only military commander, he could do little or nothing. The Governor, De Vaudreuil, answered his warnings haughtily, for he was jealous of Montcalm. So the end approached.

Never had England sent out an army so full of zeal, courage, and discipline as the army which sailed away from her shores under Wolfe to take Quebec. Their commander well knew that he had to attack one of the strongest forts in the world, defended by all the soldiers that Montcalm could muster, fighting in defence of their country, their flag, and their religion. Wolfe had only 9000 men against the 18,000 French Canadians, but he rejoiced in his Englishmen. "If valour could make amends for want of numbers," he wrote to Pitt, "we shall succeed."

On the first day of June 1759, the ships sailed out of the harbour of Halifax for the river St. Lawrence. The harbour rang with the cheers of the soldiers, and the bands struck up the old melody "The Girl I left behind Me." When they reached the mighty river they ran great danger for want of a pilot. A French prisoner on board began wringing his hands, declaring that they would all go to the bottom. An old British captain of a transport laughed in his face: "I will show you," he roared with an oath, "that an Englishman shall go where a Frenchman dare not show his nose." And he steered his ship through in safety. The boast was no empty one. Vaudreuil wrote to France to say "that the enemy have passed sixty ships of war where we dare not risk a vessel of 100 tons by night or day."

In Quebec, Montcalm during the long days of {213} early summer awaited the coming of the English. Not a man was idle. Drilling and building of earthworks filled up nearly every hour of the day. Montcalm's 18,000 men were as strongly entrenched as Nature and the art of war could make them. On the 27th of June the French in Quebec snatched their first glimpse of the masts of the English battleships. A few hours later the English fleet had halted before the Isle of Orleans, and Wolfe and his red-coated infantry landed on its shores. Mounting the point of land to the west, the young general took out a telescope and turned it towards the heights of Quebec, four miles away. As he scanned the mighty rock he felt that it was indeed a hard task which England had sent him to accomplish.

Vaudreuil did not wait for the English commander to make the first move; he attempted to destroy the English fleet with fire-ships. One dark night a number of old vessels, filled with pitch, gunpowder, bombs, and antique cannon, packed to the muzzle, were towed out into the channel and set on fire to float to the English fleet. The whole countryside seemed to burst in lurid flames, and a hail of grapeshot and bullets flew in all directions. But the English soldiers were not frightened; they rowed out in their boats, grappling courageously with the flaming monsters, and towed them to shore. Vaudreuil's explosive experiments proved a total failure. During that very night Wolfe was busy with pen and paper writing his first manifesto to the Canadian people. "We are sent by King George," he said, "to conquer this province, but not to make war upon women and {214} children, the ministers of religion, or industrious people. We lament the sufferings which our invasion may inflict upon you, but if you remain neutral we proffer safety to person and property, with freedom in religion. We are masters of the river; no succour can reach you from France; General Amherst with a large army has sailed to the southern frontier. Your cause is hopeless, your valour useless. Your nation has been guilty of great cruelties to our unprotected settlers, but we seek no revenge, we offer you the sweets of peace with the honours of war. England in her strength will befriend you; France in her weakness leaves you to your fate." But although the English commander spoke so confidently, he had many misgivings in his heart. If Amherst did not get through to Montreal and down the St. Lawrence by the autumn, it meant the winter would be lost, and where was he to find food for his troops? How could he face amidst the snow and ice the 18,000 men of Montcalm, as brave and as hardy as his own?

Victory was only to be won by quick and vigorous action. Seizing the heights of Point Lévis opposite Quebec, Wolfe set up his batteries so as to bombard the city. He planted a large force on the north bank of the river St. Lawrence, near the Falls of Montmorency, leaving some regiments encamped on the Isle of Orleans. Fleet and army now only waited a given signal to attack the city. On board the fleet were some, as yet unknown, officers, who were destined to rise to great fame in the world. A young midshipman there was, named Jervis, who became the great English Admiral Earl St. Vincent. Palliser {215} too, who figures in history as Admiral Sir Hugh Palliser, was on board the frigate _Mercury_. On another vessel was Robison, destined to be a noted Professor of Science in Edinburgh, and the partner of James Watt, inventor of the steam-engine. The humble sailing master of the _Mercury_ was none other than James Cook, who became the most famous scientific navigator that ever left the shores of England.

Quickly did the fire of the English ships, joined to that of the batteries, work destruction upon the outer walls of the grim fortress. In the lower town the buildings were soon reduced to ruins, and even in the upper town many dangerous fires broke out. Indeed, before the siege was brought to a close, more than 500 buildings fell a prey to the flames, including public and private structures, the Cathedral and other churches. Yet while the summer wore away, in spite of Wolfe's terrible bombardment, Montcalm played a waiting game. Wolfe was in despair. By the end of July half of Quebec was shattered away by his cannon-balls, and still the French commander could not be drawn out to a battle; so the Englishman decided to attack the enemy at close quarters, just on the other side of the river Montmorency. But a fierce repulse awaited him; 12,000 French soldiers poured a storm of bullets against the brave grenadiers, who tried to get a footing on the river slopes. They were beaten back, 500 of Wolfe's best troops having fallen in the fatal charge. Wolfe fretted with impatience; he knew the time was precious. If he could only draw Montcalm out to battle! But Montcalm was wise; he refused to be drawn.

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"You may destroy the town," came the French message under the flag of truce, "but you will never get inside it."

"I will take Quebec," replied Wolfe, "if I stay here until November."

One plan only now remained: it was to creep up in the night and scale the heights. It was a desperate move, but the only one that remained that offered a chance of success. In the midst of his plans the young English commander fell ill. He had always been of a delicate constitution, ever struggling with sickness. Days elapsed, but his heroic spirit conquered, and on the 11th of September the English troops were directed to be ready to land and attack the enemy. While a portion of the troops made a feint to the eastward to disguise Wolfe's intentions from the enemy, Wolfe and his troops drifted up stream with the tide. When the tide began to ebb, boats full of soldiers were cast off, reaching in safety a little cove three miles above Quebec.

In the first boat to land was the young general himself, who, as the oarsmen plied their muffled oars, murmured softly to his officers, the famous lines in Gray's _Elegy_:--

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.

"Gentlemen," said Wolfe, "I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec."

As the boat's prow touched the shore, the sentinel's {217} challenge rang out in the darkness, "Qui vive." To hesitate was to be lost. Instantly a Scotch captain, who spoke French perfectly, answered, "La France!"

"A quel régiment?"

"De la Heine," replied the Highlander boldly.

His quickness averted a calamity. The sentry was satisfied; his comrades had been expecting provision boats from Montreal, and he thought they had arrived. Sentry after sentry was passed by Wolfe and his men with the same result.

Up the dread heights the English soldiers clambered. Day was just dawning when they reached the top. They could see a cluster of French tents close at hand, and, dashing forward, they captured their occupants. This was the first outpost. The victors' huzzas rang out, and at this signal all Wolfe's red-coated battalions began climbing the cliffs, and soon joined their companions on the top. Their eyes beheld a great plain stretched out.

In the early days of the colony Master Abraham Martin had owned this tract of ground, which he had planted with corn. The people called it the Plains of Abraham, and Wolfe now chose it for his battlefield. On one side of him was the garrison of Quebec, startled by hearing of his mad adventure; on the opposite side was another French army under Bougainville; behind was the edge of the steep cliff and the river.

Montcalm, deceived by the firing of the English fleet, was far away. But at six o'clock he mounted and galloped thither as fast as his horse would carry {218} him. Two miles away he could discern the red ranks of the British soldiers.

"This is a serious business," he said coolly, riding over the bridge of the St. Charles to gather his troops for the fray. Fervently they rallied at his command, never doubting but that they would sweep Wolfe and his men wholly from the heights. The eyes of the Indians, as did their tomahawks, glittered with expectancy; as did too, the eyes and bayonets of the white-coated battalions of Old France and the native Canadians, whose homes were at stake.

Brandishing his sword and again putting spurs to his noble war-horse, Montcalm led his ranks against the English infantry.

Wolfe waited until the French were only forty paces away, and then from kilted Highlander and English red-coat poured one tremendous sheet of flame. The French staggered, but still came on. Another fatal volley met them, inflicting awful slaughter. As they wavered, Wolfe flourished his sword, and amidst the weird uproar of the bagpipes, the shrieks and groans of the wounded, the war-whoops of the Indians, the mad shouting of the English, and fierce slogan of the Highlanders, Wolfe pushed on over dead and dying, behind a moving wall of bayonets. A bullet shattered his wrist, another pierced his body, but he kept on; a third lodged in his breast, and Wolfe fell upon the ground.

Two or three stalwart grenadiers bore their beloved general quickly to the rear. "There is no need for a surgeon," he said; "it is all over with me!"

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One of the grenadiers looked up and cried out, "They run! See how they run!"

The dying Wolfe opened his eyes and murmured, "Who run?"

"The enemy, sir; they give way everywhere."

The general roused himself by a superhuman effort.

"Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton," he said in quick terms of command. "Tell him to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River to cut off their retreat from the bridge." Then, turning on his side, he whispered faintly, "Now, God be praised, I die in peace."

In a few moments the gallant Wolfe was no more.

How fared it meanwhile with his brave enemy, Montcalm? As he galloped about on horseback the tide of French fugitives pressed him back towards the gates of Quebec. He was nearing the walls when a shot passed through his body. Mortally wounded though he was, he kept himself seated in the saddle, two soldiers supporting him on either side.

As his life-blood streamed from Montcalm's body down his horse's limbs, the frightened crowd of women within the gates exclaimed in grief and terror, "The Marquis is killed! the Marquis is killed!"

"It is nothing, it is nothing," replied the dying Montcalm: "do not be troubled for me, my good friends."

When, some hours later, his spirit had breathed his last, Montcalm was buried under the floor of the Ursuline Convent. No workman could be found during the panic to make a coffin, and so an {220} old servant gathered a few boards and nailed them together into a rough box. No bell tolled, no cannon fired a salute as Montcalm was laid to eternal rest.

Not thus was the funeral of the victorious Wolfe. His body was embalmed and borne across the sea to England, where the greatest and most powerful gathered to do him honour and reverence at his funeral in Westminster Abbey.

Yet history has struck the balance. To-day in Quebec, marking the scene of the death-struggle on that fateful September day, a single shaft of stone rises to heaven to commemorate at the same time a victory and a defeat. On the one side is graven the single word "MONTCALM" and on the other "WOLFE."

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