Chapter 27

The Marquis de Beaujardin and his son had met again, but under circumstances distressing enough to both of them, and it was with sorrowful hearts that they now proceeded together to Quebec. As they passed through the village of Beauport on their way, they became aware that a large portion of the English fleet had approached the shore, and was to all appearance making preparations for a repetition of the attack made on the neighbouring redoubts some weeks before, whilst other vessels were standing on towards Quebec. Night came on as Isidore and his father reached the town; there all was bustle and excitement, and every one was anticipating a fresh attack on the Montmorency lines before daybreak.

There was an attack indeed, but not in the quarter where Montcalm expected it. Before daybreak on the following morning the great mass of the enemy's forces, which had been secretly carried past the town to a considerable distance up the river during the night, was stealthily dropping down again, and was then landed on the beach at Le Foullon, now immortalised by the name of "Wolfe's Cove."

History scarcely contains a more exciting chapter than that which records this daring plan, and the equally daring manner in which it was achieved. Leading his troops up by a single narrow and rugged path--the Highlanders actually climbing up the precipitous face of the cliff itself--Wolfe had by daybreak arrayed his little army of between four and five thousand men on the Plains of Abraham, only a mile from the ramparts of the fortress. A couple of hours later Montcalm had led out his forces to try the issue of a pitched battle before Quebec.

At first the French outflanked and forced back the English left, but with a timely reinforcement Townsend stopped their further progress. There was, at the same time, some desultory fighting on Wolfe's right, which extended to the lofty banks of the St. Lawrence, but the decisive conflict took place in the centre, in which Montcalm had placed his few battalions of French regulars. These advanced with the greatest gallantry, inflicting serious loss on the English by their rapid and well-sustained fire, which, however, was not returned, for Wolfe was riding along the line encouraging his men, and forbidding a single shot until the word should be given. On came the French with loud shouts, advancing to within forty or fifty paces of the British line; then with one tremendous ringing volley the fate of the day was decided. The hitherto serried and continuous line of the French veterans was simply broken up into scattered and shapeless fragments, which nevertheless still tried to advance. They were, however, met with a charge which soon completed their discomfiture, and the battle was won. De Bougainville indeed subsequently came up and threatened an attack in the rear, but the bold front made by the English compelled him to draw off again without any serious attempt to molest the victors.

The story of Wolfe's last words, and of his death whilst the shout of victory was sounding in his ears, is an oft-told tale, and needs not to be repeated here. He had received three wounds, of which the last was fatal. Carleton and Monckton, too, had been severely wounded, and Townsend had to take the command. Nor had the French superior officers been more fortunate. De Senezergues and St. Ours were both struck down, and at last Montcalm himself was mortally wounded; but he refused to quit the field until he had seen the shattered remnants of his army safe within the protecting walls of Quebec.

Montcalm has been accused of infatuation in risking a battle on the open plain; but the charge savours perhaps of being wise after the event. With his customary candour he certainly declared, after the battle, that with such troops as the English had proved themselves he would have defeated thrice the number of such as he had himself commanded. But it was only on that day that he had learned how English troops could fight, and he might well be excused if he remembered how he had repulsed them at Ticonderoga. His force, moreover, though chiefly consisting of Canadian militia, on whom he could place no great reliance, was numerically double that of Wolfe, whilst the new position of the enemy on the plain before Quebec cut off all his resources, and any hope of succour from France was out of the question. A battle won might end the campaign for that year with honour, and his chivalrous spirit would not decline the challenge. He fought, and though he was defeated, friend and foe alike admired him and did him justice. After passing the night in religious exercises, he died on the day after the battle, and was buried in the garden of the Ursuline Convent, in a cavity made by the bursting of a shell--a fitting grave for such a warrior.

Almost the last to retreat within the ramparts of the citadel were a score or so of veterans belonging to Isidore's former regiment. Not having yet received any regular appointment, he had fought with his old corps as a volunteer all the morning, and most of the officers being by that time killed or wounded, he had tacitly assumed the command of this little band. They had nearly reached the gate of St. Louis when they once more heard the terrible war-whoop close in their rear, and as they faced about for the last time, a body of Indians came sweeping towards them from some broken ground near the river's bank.

"Stand fast, men, and give those fellows a parting salute," cried Isidore. The order was obeyed, and with such effect that the Indians stopped in their wild onset, and then fell back a little. One alone held his ground. He was their chief, and by the tuft of snowy feathers and ribbons that fluttered above his head he was recognised at once by Isidore and by Boulanger, who stood by his side, all begrimed with dust and smoke, and clutching in his hand the barrel of his broken rifle. It was White Eagle.

For a few moments faint and dizzy with loss of blood, for he had been wounded without knowing it, Isidore felt a strange half-conscious stupor come over him. Was this all a dream about the horrible massacre at Fort William Henry? There before him stood the very savage who had struck him down; there were the shouts, the shrieks of wounded men; there, too, was the dark figure darting swiftly past and placing itself right in front of him.

"Fire, fire! Be quick!" shouted Boulanger, as the Indian raised his rifle. It sent forth a flash and a puff of smoke, but the report was lost in the discharge of a dozen French muskets, which stretched the Indian dead upon the grass.

It was too late. With a loud cry Amoahmeh dropped down at Isidore's feet. Flinging away his sword he knelt beside her, and raised her up a little. She gave him one grateful parting look, murmuring faintly, "Amoahmeh knows where--it was you who told her." Then she closed her eyes, and Isidore knew that her brave and loving spirit had fled.

Meanwhile the Indians, daunted by the stern reception they had met with, and by the loss of their chief, had fallen back in disorder, and the little troop that had discomfited them withdrew within the gates. Isidore and Boulanger were the last to enter, the Canadian bearing in his arms, as tenderly as if it had been one of his own sleeping children, the lifeless body of Amoahmeh.