Part 13

"This is the spot," whispered Jamie, and the boat was run upon the bank in the little sandy cove beneath the cliffs, and a hundred men were quickly clustered upon the little beach. Wolfe was amongst the first to land, and as he looked up at the rugged heights he shook his head and coolly remarked--

"You can try it, but I don't think you'll get up."

The next moment Jamie and his companions, closely followed by twenty volunteers, were climbing the precipitous front, dragging themselves up by the roots and branches of the shrubs and trees which overhung the steep ascent. For another moment those below waited with breathless suspense. Then quick, ringing shots were heard, as those few determined men overpowered the small French guard at the top. This was followed by a thin British cheer, and immediately the Highlanders below, with the Light Infantry and the others, clambered up the apparently impossible heights and gained the plains above.

At dawn fifteen hundred men stood upon the Plains of Abraham, and then the ships, which had dropped down the river behind the boats, landed the rest of the army. When the sun rose on the 13th of September, the watch on the citadel beheld with amazement the red coats of the British army forming up into lines--and preparing for battle.

Swift couriers had carried the tidings across the St. Charles to Montcalm, and the roll of drums was heard amid his camp, and soon the French division were pouring across the bridge of boats. At nine o'clock, the armies were facing each other on the Plains above the city. Then the rattle of musketry began as the French sharpshooters lined the bushes and entrenchments previously prepared to the north-west of the city.

On came the columns of Montcalm, firing and shouting in an inspiriting manner, led by their renowned leader in person.

How different those thin red lines of Highlanders, Grenadiers and hardy colonial levies. An ominous silence hung like a cloud over the English ranks. It was the silence that presages the storm--the calm, still waters of a dam about to burst its bounds and spread havoc and death.

As the French fire became more effectual, the gaps in the English ranks became frequent, but they were filled in silence as the rear men stepped to the front. In those ranks scarce a word was spoken, and as yet not a shot had been fired. Officers of Montcalm have since said that this ominous silence cast a chill over the French columns that half decided the issues of the day.

Not till the French were within forty yards was the word given to fire, then simultaneously the long line of muskets were brought to the level, and from end to end of the English ranks a crashing blaze of leaden hail was poured upon the enemy. The columns of Montcalm reeled and staggered before this dreadful impact. A second volley was fired, and then, before the smoke had rolled away, or the enemy had had an opportunity to reform his shattered ranks, a deafening cheer rang from end to end of the Plains. The flood of British fury was at length undammed, and trampling the dead and dying they swept the shattered columns before them in one mad, wild stampede. The Highlanders, wielding their terrible broadswords, chased the fugitives right up to the gates of the city and across the St. Charles River.

The defeat was crushing and absolute, and in that moment of victory the destiny of Canada was settled, but the cheers of the victors were silenced as the sad news passed from rank to rank that Wolfe had fallen. In the heat of the fight, leading on the Grenadiers, his wrist had been shattered by a ball. He quickly bound it in a handkerchief, and continued the fight. A second ball pierced his side, but he stayed not. Then a bullet entered his breast, and he reeled and fell.

Four soldiers raised him up, and carrying him to the rear laid him gently upon the grass. He appeared to be unconscious, but when a soldier near him exclaimed--

"See how they run!"

"Who run?" asked the dying soldier, opening his eyes.

"The enemy, sir! They give way everywhere!" was the reply.

"Then tell Colonel Burton to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River to cut off their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised! I will die in peace," were the last words of General Wolfe. That day England gained an Empire, but lost a hero.

The three scouts had finished their task when they led the forlorn hope up the precipice and on to the Plains, but they were not to be denied a share in the fight, for they had received permission to join the ranks of the centre column, which was under the personal command of Wolfe, and bore the brunt of the fight on that never-to-be-forgotten morning. They were in the forefront of that wild rush to the bridge, where the fight was thickest, and where many hundreds were hurled into the St. Charles River, and where Montcalm's retreat was effectually blocked and victory made secure.

The battle was over now, for though one of the most glorious, it was one of the briefest in history, and though they had lost each other in the pursuit, the three comrades were glad to rejoin the ranks at the roll-call on the Plains and find each other alive and well, except for minor wounds, though the joy of victory was damped and a chill went to every heart when the word was passed down the ranks that their illustrious leader had fallen.

Next morning General Townshend passed to the head of every regiment in succession, and thanked the troops for their brilliant services, and soon afterwards one of his aide-de-camps approached the scouts and requested their immediate presence in the General's tent. They followed him, wondering that he had not forgotten them altogether in the excitement of so great a victory. When they stood in his presence they saluted and waited for him to speak.

"Jamie Stuart and Jack Elliot!" said General Townshend, and instantly several other officers, who had been busily engaged writing dispatches for England, rose and stood at attention. "In the name of His Most Gracious Majesty, King George the Second, I thank you for the eminent services you have rendered to your country. I have appointed you both from this day to be ensigns in the Royal Americans. Here are your commissions. Right nobly have you won them. May you be spared long to serve your country! God save the King!"

The youths were overwhelmed with this generous tribute from so great a soldier. They could find no words to express their gratitude for this signal honour conferred upon them. A commission in His Majesty's victorious army seemed too great a reward for their poor services, so each raised his hand to the salute again and repeated the General's words--

"God save the King!"

The General then turned to the hunter, who had been an interested and sympathetic witness of this stirring scene, but as he spake his voice softened, for he had noticed that down the bronzed cheek of the old man there trickled a tear.

"Frontiersman, what is your name?" he asked.

There was a pause, and for a few seconds the hunter's eyes were turned to Jamie, and a strange far-away look came into his face. Then in a half-broken voice he answered--

"John Stuart of Burnside! An exile!"

"Father!" burst from Jamie's lips, and the next instant the paleface hunter and his son were hugging each other with joy.

The next moment General Townshend advanced to the hunter, and pinning the King's medal upon his breast, he said--

"He is no longer an exile who wears this honoured decoration. John Stuart, I thank you for the work you have already done, but there are still further services that I wish to ask of you. I understand that your knowledge of the river and the forest from this point to Mont Royale is unsurpassed by that of any person in the camp. Your knowledge will shortly be invaluable to us. I appoint you as Frontiersman and Chief Guide to the British Army in the Canadas, and, furthermore, I desire to say that His Majesty shall be reminded after the war of the important services which I trust you will then have rendered to your country."

"General," said the hunter, "I am an exile from my native land, but I have never committed a crime, and my conscience is clear. England has treated me unkindly, but I love my country, and without any thought of reward I freely offer you my services. If necessary, I will gladly die for my country."

"Thank you, Frontiersman!" said the General, touched by these words. "A grateful country will not forget your devotion to her interests in the hour of her need. May every son of Britain likewise forget his private wrongs in England's hour of danger."

Four days later, on that memorable 17th of September, 1759, the white flag was hung out from the citadel at Quebec, and on the next day the Gibraltar of North America passed for ever from its old masters into the hands of Britain.

"Look, Jack! The French ensign is coming down," said Jamie, and they both looked towards the citadel, and a moment afterwards, amid the clash of martial music, the salute of the batteries, and the wild cheering of the soldiers, the English flag waved proudly over the fort and the river.

"There, Jamie, our dream has come true, it's the old flag at last, and, thank God, we have helped to plant it there."

After the fall of Quebec, the paleface hunter and the two youths accompanied the army in its victorious march upon Mont Royale, and when the war was over they returned to England. Jack survived his two brothers, and in time became the Squire of Burnside, and I find that to John Stuart, Esquire, of Burnside, Yorkshire, a grant of Crown land was made for his services to his country, and that the old farmhouse, which still stands, above the wood and the trout-stream, was built by him and his son Jamie in 1775. And there they lived happily for many years, and there Jamie's descendants live to this day, for only two years ago, while visiting his ancestral home and poring over ancient deeds and the old family Bible, with its records and dates, the author discovered this forgotten story of adventure and peril.