CHAPTER XXVI

I CLOSE ONE ACCOUNT AND OPEN ANOTHER

Portentous as were its results, I have never been able to look upon the battle of the 13th of September as adding anything of value to military knowledge. From a technical view it never attained the dignity of battle at any point, and only exceeded a skirmish in the heavy losses and the deaths of the leading generals on each side.

The recognition of their efforts, and of those who so ably replaced them by their respective governments and contemporaries, read as a sorry commentary on the popular distribution of honours.

Wolfe, almost a tyro, at one bound won immortality and immediate applause from his countrymen; Montcalm, almost a veteran, though mourned by those about him, was persistently vilified, even after death, by the very man who should have been his most loyal supporter; I do not hesitate to name M. de Vaudreuil--and I am not aware of even a head-stone having been raised to his memory.

On the other hand, his successor, the Chevalier de Levis, met with fitting reward and honourable advancement in his profession, and the titles of Duke and Marshal of France are now borne with dignity by one whose natural nobility of soul renders him eminently worthy of such honours.

To complete the contrast, the Honourable James Murray, who succeeded Wolfe, held an unprotected city in an enemy's country throughout a distressing winter, handled his slender troops with contagious enthusiasm, fought and lost a desperate battle like a gallant soldier; later on he governed a conquered people with a consummate tact, and still serves his country with distinction--to meet with no other reward, that I ever heard of, than the approbation of his conscience and the admiration of all honest men.

In writing thus openly I must disclaim any intention of carping, for I would scorn to deprive either of the illustrious dead of a single laurel in the crown so nobly won, but the very generosity of contemporary admiration has a tendency to work injustice towards the survivors.

I know personally, for I afterwards had abundant opportunity of judging, with what stoutness of heart did that admirable soldier, General Murray, support his misgivings, when he saw the last English frigate sail from Quebec in the late autumn of '59, bearing his more fortunate comrades to the reward of their gallantry, while he and his little garrison were left in a ruined town to face all the chances of war, to which were added the unknown dangers of a dreaded winter season.

On our side we made our headquarters in Montreal, where the military were busy enough, while the officials and other unemployed classes--priests, women, and school-boys--beguiled their inaction, and cheated themselves into hopefulness by the most chimerical and fantastical projects for the retaking of Quebec that ever deluded the human mind.

The truth is, we were as miserable a lot of devils on both sides as one could well imagine. In Quebec, the English were half-starved, half-frozen, wholly without pay, and without reliable information. In Montreal, we had enough to eat, we were as gay as the clergy, M. de Vaudreuil, and our miserable plight would permit; we were without pay, it is true, but to that we had been long accustomed; but we had the most exact information as to what went on in Quebec, thanks to friends within its walls, while our non-fighting orders, ever at the height of certainty or the depth of despair, had so befooled themselves with their infallible schemes of conquest, that they looked forward to the spring campaign with a confidence almost pitiable in the eyes of thinking men.

Early in April, M. de Levis gathered together his motley army; the remnants of the brigades of Bearn La Reine, La Sarre, Royal Roussillon, Berri, and La Marine, less than four thousand in all, with about three thousand militia and volunteers, and, supported by a few miserable cannon, marched forth to sit down before Quebec.

We were disappointed in our first plan of attack, but on the 28th of April, 1760, we had the good fortune to meet Murray face to face almost on the very ground where Wolfe and Montcalm had fought in the previous September.

Murray's force was somewhat smaller than ours, but more than equalled it in quality, being all regular troops, besides which he had somewhat the advantage of position; but, falling into the same error as Montcalm, he abandoned this to begin the attack, and the same result followed.

The battle of Ste. Foye will always command the respect of men of discretion without regard to the side which may engage their sympathies.

There we met a foe as brave as the heart of soldier could desire who for hours disputed every foot of ground with us, and the one error of the action on our part was rectified with a precision so admirable that it but heightened the honours of the day. Before I record this, I must note a personal incident.

Immediately in front of our left, where the regiments of Bearn and La Sarre were stationed, stood a mill and its dependencies, belonging, I believe, to one called Dumont, and though its possession was not of the slightest strategical importance, by one of those strange chances of battle it became the centre of the most obstinate fighting on both sides. Our grenadiers took possession of it, and held it until driven out at the point of dirk and claymore by the Highlanders, who in turn were dislodged after a desperate hand-to-hand struggle, whereupon the whole contest recommenced. M. de Levis, annoyed by the useless waste of men and the danger of expending such effort and attention on so misleading an object, sent me with orders to have our men withdrawn.

When I arrived the struggle was again at its height, both sides were fighting with the simple ferocity of savages, unmindful of every rule of war. There was neither direction nor command; it was man against man in a mad, unmeaning struggle for the pleasure of mastery.

"Pardon, monsieur," I said to the Chevalier d'Aiguebelle, who commanded the grenadiers, "but M. de Levis sends positive orders that you must withdraw your men. You are distracting the attention of the whole left."

Then catching sight of the officer in command of Fraser's I rode forward and saluted. As he answered my salute I saw it was my once prisoner, Nairn.

"Call off your men, Captain Nairn!" I shouted. "This is simply murder! I have given orders for ours to withdraw. There is no loss of honour on either side."

Without a moment's hesitation he rushed among them, commanding and striking up swords right and left, while we did the same. When our object was attained, he turned to me and said:

"Hark you, sir! I am ready enough to join in avoiding useless slaughter, but I have an account to square with you, for which there shall be no calling off when we meet. Remember that!"

I laughed and saluted, mightily intrigued at what his meaning might be, and then rode off to attend on the General.

Meantime the fighting along the line had been severe, and the enemy's artillery had told on us with such effect that at last our centre wavered and began to give way. Supported by a wood, our left stood firm within about twenty paces of the foe, when a flurried adjutant ran along the line with orders to make a half-turn to the right and retire to some houses in the rear.

M. Malartic, major of La Sarre, stood aghast; it virtually meant retreat, and retreat in such a position invited certain destruction. He hurried over to M. de Barroute, a captain of Bearn, which stood next to the right, and repeated the order. They agreed at once a mistake had been made, and an ominous murmur arose from the men as the news was whispered from one to another. On this M. Dalquier, their colonel, as fine and experienced an officer as ever drew sword, rode up, and, inquiring of their difficulty, swept it aside by crying, "I will take it upon me to disobey the order. Fix bayonets, mes enfants!" The command was executed in an instant; then, rising in his stirrups, he swung his sword above his head and roared in a voice that could be heard all along the line, "Charge!"

The effect was indescribable; there was one quick, sharp shout of "Vive le Roi!" and the men went on like so many demons.

"Look at La Sarre!" cried Poulariez, with the Royal Roussillon on the right, as we marked the sudden confusion and then the charge. "The English have advanced too far! Ride to the Canadians, Maxwell! Half-wheel to the left, and we fall on their flank!"

It was the deciding-point of the battle. The English line was thrown into complete disorder, and thence forward there was nothing but hand-to-hand fighting of the fiercest description, which lasted until it ended in the utter rout of the enemy.

At one point I saw M. de Boucherville, who carried the flag of the Montreal troops, go down in a melee, but the colours were saved by the determined gallantry of M. de Sarennes, who carried them off amid a storm of cheers.

"Bravo, Sarennes!" I called to him as he rode past a moment later. "Your lady-love should have seen that!"

"Go to the devil!" he roared back at me, with the voice and gesture of the boor he really was at bottom, but my hands were too full either to wonder at his insult or demand an explanation.

I will make no attempt to follow the detail of the action; it is enough to say the honours rested with us. We stood victorious over the same foe that had defeated us on the same ground six months before. We had regained the Heights, regained the General Hospital, and it remained to be seen how soon we might sweep over its ruined ramparts into Quebec and hold it once more for King Louis.

As I entered the Hospital towards evening to report to M. de Levis, one of the sisters addressed me: "Pardon, monsieur, but are you the Chevalier de Maxwell?"

"Yes, ma soeur."

"M. Dalquier wishes to speak with you. He lies here."

I found that fine old soldier lying on a bed faint from a wound he had received at the very moment he made his decisive charge, but which had not prevented him holding his place for some time later. He smiled bravely as he held out his hand to me.

"These confounded surgeons will not allow me to speak in person, but I wish you, Chevalier, to thank the General for me. Did you hear about it? No? Then, listen. Just after our charge was made, and we had formed again, he rode up. 'Here is the devil to pay,' I said to myself, and was framing my defence in short order, when, 'M. Dalquier,' he said, so that all about could hear, 'the King owes you his thanks for not making that half-turn. Hold your position for five minutes, and I will answer for the battle.' Did you ever hear anything like it? Think of a general making such an acknowledgment, and before my men, too! Mort Dieu, Chevalier! Tell him I would rather have this to remember than wear the Cross of St. Louis. Go!" And he turned away his face, to hide the tears that spake of his overwhelming satisfaction.

"I will see him as soon as I can find a moment," said M. de Levis, when I repeated my message, almost as moved as the old soldier. "Now, Chevalier, as soon as it falls dark, do you go over the ground alone, and as close to the town as possible, to see what dispositions we are to make for our trenches. Mark what Murray has attempted in the way of defences or outworks. Let me, or M. de Pontleroy, hear from you to-night, no matter how late the hour. But get some refreshment before you set out," he added, thoughtful as ever of the wants of others.

I sate down for a few moments' rest, and ate something the good nuns provided, and then borrowing a cloak to serve as a protection against the drizzling rain which had again set in, I sallied forth.

When I reached the Heights it was puzzlingly dark, though the hour was early, and I had the utmost difficulty in finding my way. Corpses of men and horses hindered me, more than once the wounded appealed to me for help, but I went on unheeding, trying to determine my exact whereabouts, in order to begin my task. I had approached near enough the town to see the lights, and could even catch sounds from the no doubt terrified population, but paid no attention to anything save my object in hand.

Suddenly a voice shouted in the darkness, "Halte la!" to which I promptly replied:

"Etat-major, aide de M. de Levis."

"Damn your Etat-major!" was the astonishing reply. "Why don't you say 'Mistaire Maxwelle'?" in an undescribable attempt at an English pronunciation of my name.

"Come, come, Sarennes," I said, for I recognised the tall Canadian, "have you not got over your ill-humour yet? You nearly insulted me to-day in the field."

"I intended to. Do you wish me to repeat my words, or do you not know when you are insulted, unless you are struck?"

"Are you mad, or only drunk, Sarennes? Get back to camp, man, and sleep off your fit. We cannot afford to quarrel after such a day as this."

"No! you cannot afford to fight at any time. Do you think I am a woman like her whom you deceived, to be tricked by your lying tongue?"

"Stop, sir!" I commanded. "I am on duty, but my duty must wait until I have read you a lesson, which, I regret, you will not live to profit by."

We could hardly see each other, and it was utterly impossible to follow the sword-play save by feel; it was not a duel at all; it was death, sure and swift, for one or perhaps both of us in the dark.

Sure and swift it was. I lost touch of his blade, and as he lunged desperately, I avoided his stroke by dropping on my left hand, and straightening my sword-arm _en seconde_, ran him clean through the body as he came forward, his blade passing harmlessly over me. It was a desperate chance to take, but the stakes were high.

I knelt beside the fallen man and spake to him, but he could not answer, and in common humanity I rose and hurried off to find some help.

I had not gone fifty yards before I almost ran up against a man cautiously making his way over the field. To my astonishment, I saw he was an officer of Fraser's Highlanders, and commanding him to halt, I advanced, pistol in hand, and recognized Nairn.

"You are my prisoner, sir," I declared, covering him as I spake, and then, the drollery of the situation coming over me, I dropped my arm and said, "It seems I am in for settling accounts to-night, Captain Nairn. You were good enough to remind me of some indebtedness on the field to-day, though what it was I am at a loss to determine. Perhaps it was my refusal of your handsome offer to me in Louisbourg that I should turn traitor. No? 'Pon my soul, you are strangely quiet in private for a gentleman who was so insistent in company!

"Come, draw the sword which you flourished to so little purpose to-day, and you will find I can pay in the only coin a soldier should demand or take.

"What! Not ready yet? Would you have me produce my commission as an officer, or establish my right to arms, before you can cross swords with me? By God, sir! I will stand no more of your precious fooling. Do you think you are going to roar out at me in public like some scurvy shopkeeper, and then stand like a stock-fish when I do you the honour to ask your pleasure? Draw, sir, draw, before I am forced to strike you like a coward!"

To my amazement, instead of answering my words as they deserved, he threw up his hands with a weak cry and covered his face.

Supposing him to be wounded, I melted in a moment, and, stepping forward, held out my hand to him.

"Come, sir, come! You are unnerved. Tell me, are you hit?"

As I spake I still advanced to support him, and was surprised beyond measure when the supposed officer retreated before me and cried, in a voice of intense womanish entreaty, "No, no; do not touch me!"

I burst out laughing. "'Pon my soul, madam! you came near being somewhat late, with your embargo, and you have betrayed me into an exhibition of the vilest humour, for which I most humbly apologise."

She seemed somewhat uncertain how to take my drolling, whereupon I changed my tone, and asked, with every appearance of curiosity, "May I inquire how I can be of service to you?"

"Am I within the French lines?"

"No; you are on what may still be considered debatable ground. But I cannot give information to a lady whose masquerade is at least suspicious."

"I only ask, sir, to be taken within your lines. Will you do this for me?"

"I doubt it, madam, unless you can show me you have good right to be there. You are not a Frenchwoman."

"No, I am not, but I carry important information for your General."

"Pardon me, madam, but the General is fully occupied," I said, in my most repelling manner.

"Sir, I have come thus far at great risk to myself, and my news is of the utmost importance. Let me go on alone, if you will not take me in yourself."

"Madam, I have not the honour to be known to you, but, believe me, my advice is of the best when I tell you that your way is open to the town again. Take it, madam, and think nothing more of this escapade, but that you were fortunate to have fallen in with one who could advise so soundly."

"This is no escapade, sir; it has been a matter of life or death to me, and it is almost as much to your General," she said, with such earnestness that I could not doubt her intentions.

"Then, madam, if you are determined, I will take you. You cannot possibly go on alone; there are too many Indians engaged in their usual pastime of looking after white scalps. But first I must seek for help for a wounded officer, and then must complete my work. Follow me closely, but give me your word you will not attempt any tricks," I said; for I have never been prepossessed in favour of adventurous damsels, and I misdoubted the value of her alleged information.

"That will not answer. I must go on at once! I cannot wait."

"It seems to me you are hardly in a position to choose, madam," I replied, amused at her decision.

She hesitated a moment, and then said, desperately:

"Do you know who I am, Hugh Maxwell? I am Margaret Nairn!"

Had the solid ground opened beneath my feet I could not have been more confounded.

"Margaret!" I cried, when I could find my voice. "Margaret--here? I cannot understand. Speak to me again!"

"Yes, Hugh, I am Margaret--Margaret Nairn. I am Mme. de St. Just."

"You have been here all along and never let me know? I cannot understand."

"Do not try to understand now. Hugh! I beseech you to take me on trust and help me to go on."

But as she spake I caught sight of a moving light.

"Do not speak another word. Some one is coming. Crouch down here until I see who it is."

Advancing cautiously, I discovered the light came from a lanthorn, by the aid of which a priest was examining the bodies, hoping, no doubt, to discover some unfortunate who needed his ministrations. He would serve me for Sarennes.

"Mon pere," I said, advancing, "may I beg your assistance for a wounded officer?"

"Willingly. Lead me to him. Who is he?

"M. de Sarennes."

"Ah, I know him well."

I directed him to where Sarennes lay, and then returned to Margaret.

"I must wait until I see if anything can be done here before we go. Come with me for a moment."

The priest took no notice of us as we knelt beside the dying man, and Margaret, exclaiming with pity as she saw him, lifted his head and supported it in her lap.

Sarennes opened his eyes and looked up into her face. He tried to speak, but no sound came from his moving lips.

"Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, Et lux perpetua luceat ei,"

prayed the priest, and even as we responded the unhappy spirit took its flight. Margaret bowed her head, and her tears fell on the dead face in her lap.

Most of us have been in circumstances where the killing of a man was a necessity, and have suffered no qualms of conscience thereat. I certainly had no compunctions on the outcome of my meeting with M. de Sarennes, and yet, at the sight of Margaret's tears, the natural feelings triumphed over the intellectual, and I joined fervently in the prayers of the priest.

He now appeared to notice Margaret for the first time, and lifting his lanthorn, he held it so that the light shone full upon her; as she raised her head in surprise, I could see he recognised her.

"Marguerite!" he cried, in a voice of reproach.

"Why do you speak to me thus, mon pere? Why do you speak thus?" she repeated, with alarm in her accents.

"Marguerite, is it possible you do not know me?"

"Know you? Why do you ask? Why do you call me by my name? You are le pere Jean."

"I am le pere Jean--but I was Gaston de Trincardel!"

"What!" she cried, almost with terror, as she sprang to her feet.

"I am Gaston de Trincardel," he repeated, unmoved.

"Oh, why do you tell me this? At such a time..." she moaned, and I stepped to her side, for her cry went to my heart.

"I tell you this because I must try to bring you to your senses. Why are you here in disguise? A shameful disguise," he repeated, scornfully. "Whose hand slew this man before us?"

"Mine!" I interrupted, for I could not stand by and see her meet his attack alone.

"Why are you here beside one who may be little better than a murderer?" he continued to her, without heeding me in the least.

"Sir, you are free to put any construction on my act you choose, as I cannot make you answer for your words," I interrupted again.

"One from whom I have striven with all my power as a priest to keep you?" he went on, still ignoring me. "Since that has failed, I must try and appeal to your gratitude towards her who was your protector when you were but a girl. In some sense I stand as her representative, and I charge you by her memory to renounce this last folly which has led you here."

"Stop, Gaston!" she cried. "Every word you say would be an insult did it come from another. But I have too high a reverence for you as a priest, the remembrance of your unfailing charity is too strong, to answer except by an explanation. Never mind appearances! I am here in this disguise because it afforded the only possible escape from the town, and my object is to carry word to M. de Levis that everything within the walls is in the most complete disorder, the garrison is mad with drink, and he has but to march on the town at once to effect its capture."

"Are you dreaming?--the town helpless?"

"Yes, it is his, if he can but advance without delay."

"Then, forgive me! I was wrong--a hundred times wrong!"

"Just one moment. My meeting with M. de Maxwell is as much by chance as your meeting with me," she added, with a decision which I thought perhaps unnecessary.

"Forgive me, Marguerite," he repeated, in his usual tone; "and you too, Chevalier. I wronged you both. Now to make amends. Will you lead us to the General?" he said, turning to me.

"Come," I said, and we each held out a hand to Margaret.

"Stand!" thundered a voice in English at two paces from us. "You are all covered!"