French and English: A Story of the Struggle in America

  Book 7: English Victors.

  Chapter 1: A Panic-Stricken City.

  It had come at last! The long delay and suspense were over. TheEnglish had stormed the Heights of Abraham. Their long red lineshad been seen by terrified citizens, who came rushing into the townat dawn of day. The supposed attack at Beauport had been nothingbut a blind. Whilst Montcalm and Vaudreuil were massing the troopsto repel the enemy here, the real assault had been made behind thecity, and the English foe was almost upon them.

  Colin had dashed out when the first grey of the dawn had stolen inat their windows. There had been no sleep for Quebec that night.The whole city was in a state of tense excitement. Confidently hadthe Generals declared that the enemy were bent upon their owndestruction; that they were about to tempt fate, and would bedriven back with ignominy and loss.

  "Let them come! Let them taste of the welcome we have to offerthem! Let them see what Quebec has to give them when they reach herstrand!"

  These words, and many similar to them, were passed from mouth tomouth by the garrison and townsfolk of Quebec. None would admitthat disaster was possible to "the impregnable city;" and yet itsshattered walls and ruined houses, the crowded hospital and thedeserted buildings, all told a terrible tale. The upper town hadsuffered lately almost as severely as the lower had done at thecommencement of the bombardment. It was a problem now where to findsafe shelter for the citizens. Great numbers of them had fled tothe country beyond, or to other Canadian settlements; for not onlywas this terrible bombardment destroying their homes, andinflicting fearful hurt upon those exposed to it, but provisionswere becoming very scarce; and if the English once got foothold onthe west side of the town, they would be able to cut off Quebecfrom her source of supply.

  Colin dashed out for tidings so soon as the dawn crept into thesky; and Madame Drucour and Corinne sat very close together, soabsorbed in listening that they could scarce find words in which toreassure each other.

  They were no longer in the little narrow house where once they haddwelt. That had been shattered at last by some of the heavier gunswhich the enemy had brought to Point Levi, and they had been forcedto abandon it. They were in a house which so far had not beentouched, sheltered as it was behind some of the fortifications. Itbelonged to Surgeon Arnoux, a clever and competent man, who was atpresent with the army of Bourlemaque; but his younger brother,Victor, also a surgeon, was still in the city, and he hadgenerously opened his house to several of the unfortunate citizenswho had been rendered homeless by the bombardment.

  At present the house contained as its residents Madame Drucour,with her brother the Abbe, and Colin and Corinne. The Bishop,Pontbriand, who was dying himself of a mortal disease, but wasstill able to go about amongst the sick and wounded, was anotherinmate, beloved of all. The party was waited on sedulously by anold servant of the Ursulines, Bonnehomme Michel, as she was called,who was the most faithful, hard-working, and devoted of creatures,and displayed the greatest ingenuity in contriving, out of thescantiest of materials, such dishes as should tempt the appetite ofthe sick Bishop, and make the rest forget that they were in abeleaguered city.

  Corinne had learned by this time what the horrors of war were like.Her fair face was both thinner and graver than it had been in pastdays. She had known the terrible experience that leaves its markupon the witnesses: she had been one of more than one company whena bursting shell in their midst had brought death to some amongstthose with whom she was sitting. She had seen men--yes, and womentoo--struck down in the streets by shot or splinters. She hadworked side by side with Madame Drucour amid the sick and wounded,and had seen sights of horror and suffering which had brandedthemselves deeply into her soul.

  She could never again be the careless, laughing Corinne of old; andyet the soldier spirit in her burned stronger and ever more strong.If war was a fearful and terrible thing, it had its glorious sidetoo. She heard, with a strange thrill of mingled pain and pride, ofthe gallant doings of the English troops. She regarded the cautiouspolicy of the French with something like contempt. She and Colinwould sometimes steal down to the margin of the water, and look atthe English vessels which had braved the guns of the town, and wereriding safely at anchor in the upper basin; and would feel a thrillof admiration at the dauntless bravery of the British sailors andsoldiers. After all, if Quebec were to fall to such gallant foes,would she suffer much after the first shock was over?

  They had lost their three merry midshipmen. When General Wolfe hadsent over several boatloads of prisoners taken in the unguardedvillages of the upper river, it had been agreed that any Englishprisoners in the town should be given in exchange; and the lads,cheering lustily the while, had been rowed away by the returningboats.

  Colin and Corinne had missed their companionship, but had beenassured of a meeting before so very long. They knew what that hadmeant, yet they could not resent the suggestion. Constantcompanionship with the English middies had intensified theirinterest in the English cause. They did not speak of it much exceptto one another, but in secret they had no fear of the unknown foe.They felt a certain exultation and triumph in the stories they werealways hearing of English prowess and valour.

  And now it was known to all that the crucial moment had come. TheEnglish had made a great coup. They had landed; they had stormedthe heights; they were said to be intrenching themselves andbringing up their guns; and although this was not true at themoment, the very thought struck terror into the hearts of thecitizens and soldiers.

  Unless they could be dislodged from their present commandingposition, the town was lost. That was the word in the mouths ofall. A mounted messenger, followed by others, had been sent flyingto Montcalm and Vaudreuil. It was certain that the General would bequickly on the spot, and surely he and his army together wouldsuffice to drive back or annihilate this audacious intruder!

  So said the people; yet none dared to make light of the peril.Madame Drucour's face was very grave as she sat looking out intothe street, her arm about Corinne. It was not even safe for them totry to go out to the hospital that morning--the hospital which hadbeen moved out of the town and erected upon the plain of the St.Charles, out of reach of the enemy's guns. Hitherto the Heights ofAbraham had been like a rampart of defence; now they were alivewith the battalions of the foe. The plain might at any time becomethe scene of a battle or a rout.

  "Here is Colin back!" cried Corinne, suddenly starting to her feet."Now he will tell us!"

  "It is all true!" cried the lad, bursting into the room. "It iswonderful to see them; it is marvellous what they have done. Theymust have scaled the cliffs at almost impossible places; and nowthey are forming up in a splendid way! The whole plateau is alivewith them!"

  "The first rays of the sun striking across it were dyed red withthe scarlet uniforms. It was magnificent to see them. I cannot tellwhether they have any guns there. I saw none. But it is not easy toget a good view of the plain; the ridge above the town hides it."

  "But what is our General doing?" asked Madame Drucour, with claspedhands.

  "They say he is coming; they say he is on his way from the Beauportcamp with the whole army at his back. If he has also sent a messagedirecting Bougainville to advance at the same time from Cap Rougeand fall upon the English rear, it might well be that the invaderswould be cut to pieces. But no one here knows what is ordered. Somesay one thing and some another. One thing alone is certain--theMarquis is on his way."

  The Abbe, who had been out to gather news, came back now with muchthe same tale that Colin had to tell. There was no manner of doubtabout it. The English army had, as by magic, appeared upon theHeights of Abraham, and had set themselves in battle array upon thebest piece of ground for their purpose. The sight of the compactred lines filled the French with dismay and fear. If an enemy coulddo this in a single night, what might they not have the power ofachieving?

  "We are in God's hands," said the Abbe to his sister, as theyhastily, and without much appetite, partook of the meal whichBonnehomme Michel spread for them; "bu
t truly I fear me thatdisaster is in store for the arms of France. There seems no reasonwhy we should lack power to drive back the English to their ships;yet I have that within me which speaks of calamity and disaster.Canada has become helpless and corrupt. When that has befallen acountry or a community, it has always fallen. I fear me that thedays of French rule are numbered. I only pray that if the Englishreign here in our stead, they may prove themselves mercifulmasters, and keep their promise not to interfere with the exerciseof the true faith in which the people have been brought up."

  "If the English have pledged their word to that, they will keepit," answered Madame Drucour; "and if Canada must fall, we mayrejoice that it should fall into hands as merciful as those of ourEnglish rivals."

  "That is true," said her brother: "they have set us many a nobleexample of clemency and honour. Yet their hands are not altogetherfree from blood guiltiness. There have been acts of violence andcruelty committed even during these past weeks along the shores ofthe river."

  "Yes," answered Madame Drucour: "houses have been burned andfamilies turned adrift, and much suffering has resulted therefrom.War is ever cruel, and the track of it is marked with fire andblood. Yet we must remember that the persons thus molested had fairwarning given them. They might have remained in safety had theysubmitted to the conditions imposed by General Wolfe. Perhaps theyshowed more spirit by resistance; but they drew down their fateupon themselves. And no woman or child has been hurt; no crueltieshave been inflicted upon prisoners. No Indians have been sufferedto molest them. Would we have been as forbearing--as stern in themaintenance of order and discipline? The only acts of crueltycommitted on the English side have been by Rangers not belonging tothe regular army, and those only upon Indians or those degradedCanadians who go about with them, painted and disguised to resembletheir dusky allies. For my part, I think that men who thus degradethemselves deserve all that they get."

  "It is well to seek to find consolation in time of extremity," saidthe Abbe, "and I do rejoice very heartily in the knowledge that wehave a merciful foe to deal with. If this city is forced to openher gates to the English, I verily believe that no scenes ofoutrage will disgrace the page of history upon which this day'sdoings shall be recorded. There is help in that thought at least."

  But it was impossible for either Colin or his uncle to remainwithin doors upon such a day. He insisted that Madame Drucour andCorinne should not adventure themselves beyond the city walls,though he did not condemn them to remain within doors. But he, forhis own part, must go forth and see what was befalling without; forthe Abbe, in spite of his vows, was half a soldier at heart, andhad done some fighting in his young life, and knew the sound of theclash of arms.

  He was not going to adventure himself into the battle, or to sufferColin to do so either; that would be useless. Indeed the boy had nodesire to enter the lists against the English, being more than halfon their side as it was, although the infection of the feelings ofthe townspeople rendered it difficult for him exactly to know hisown mind.

  He and Corinne were alike consumed with an overpowering sense ofexcitement. It was the thought of the battle about to be waged thatfilled the minds of both--the imminence of the coming struggle. Asfor the result, that was less a matter of concern to them. Thecrisis was the overwhelming consideration in their minds.

  The Abbe and Colin had gone. The streets were beginning to fillwith excited people. The storm of shot and shell was not fallingupon Quebec today. The guns had been directed upon the Beauportcamp, to cover the real enterprise being carried on above. Also theriver had to be watched and guarded. Everything spoke of a changein tactics. There was a tense feeling in the air as though anelectric cloud hung low over the city.

  Then came a burst of cheering. Montcalm had been seen spurring onwith only a small band of followers over the bridge of the St.Charles towards the scene of danger; and now the army itself was insight, making its way after him across the bridge and towards thecity, through whose streets they must pass to gain unmolested thoseheights where the English were awaiting them, drawn up in closearray.

  Montcalm's face was full of anxiety, and yet full of courage, as hereturned the plaudits of the citizens. He knew that affairs wereserious, but he hoped and believed that he should find but a smalldetachment of the enemy waiting to receive him. He could notbelieve that very much had been accomplished in one night. A littleresolution and courage and military address, and the foe would bedislodged and driven ignominiously down those precipitous heightswhich they had scaled with such boldness a few hours before.

  It was a fine sight to see the troops pouring in by the PalaceGate, and out again by the gates of St. Louis and St. John--thewhite uniforms and gleaming bayonets of the battalions of oldFrance, the Canadian militia, and the troops of painted Indiansfollowing, cheered by the citizens, reinforced by the garrison,their hearts animated by lust of conquest and an assurance ofvictory, which assurance was not altogether shared by the citizensthemselves, whose scouts had brought in alarming tidings concerningthe strength of the English position.

  And now the soldiers had all marched through; the last of the bandshad disappeared from the streets; the garrison had taken themselvesto their own quarters; the men of the town had flocked out of thecity in the hope of seeing something of the fight; and the streetswere chiefly thronged by anxious women and wondering, wide-eyedchildren--all crowding together in groups, their faces turnedtowards those heights above where they knew the struggle was to befought out.

  "Hark to the firing!"

  A deep silence fell upon the crowds in the streets--the hush of abreathless expectancy. The rattle of musketry fell upon their ears,and then a sound almost like a cannon shot. It was the volley ofthe English, delivered with such admirable precision. Aninvoluntary scream arose from many as that sound was heard. Had theEnglish got their artillery up to those inaccessible heights?

  But no; there was no further sound of cannonading, only a fierceand continuous fusillade, which told of the battle raging sofiercely up yonder on the heights.

  Some women crowded into the churches to offer prayers at theshrines of saint or Virgin; but the majority could not tearthemselves away from the streets, nor from the open space near tothe gate of St. Louis, by which gate news would most likely enter.

  And it did.

  How the time went none could say, but it seemed only a short timeafter the firing had commenced before white-faced scouts from thetown, who had gone forth to see the battle, came running back withgestures of terror and despair.

  "The English are shooting us down like sheep. The French give wayon every side. Their terrible fire mows down our ranks like grassbefore the scythe! They are charging upon us now! We are scatteredand fleeing every way! Alas, alas! the day is lost. Quebec willfall!"

  "Lost! it cannot be lost in this time," cried pale-faced women,unable and unwilling to believe. "Where is the Governor? he willcome up with the reserves. Where is Bougainville? surely he willfall upon the English rear! Have we not twice the force of theEnglish? We cannot be conquered in this time! it would be a shameto France forever."

  So cried the people--one calling one thing, and another another,whilst every fresh scout brought in fresh tidings of disaster.There could be no doubt about it. The French army had been routedat the first onset. Where the fault lay none could tell, but theywere flying like chaff before the wind.

  Corinne stood close beside her aunt, silent, with dilated eyes, herheart beating almost to suffocation as she sought to hear what wassaid, and to make out the truth of the thousand wild rumours flyingabout.

  Colin came dashing through the gate. His face was flushed; he hadlost his hat; he was too breathless to speak. But he saw Corinne'ssignal, and came dashing up to them. He flung himself down upon theground, and struggled for breath.

  "O Colin, what have you seen?"

  In a few moments more he was able to speak.

  "I have seen the battle!" he gasped; "I have seen it all. I couldnot have believed it would have be
en fought so soon. I have seensomething that these people would rejoice to know, but I shall nottell them. I have seen the fall of General Wolfe!"

  Madame Drucour uttered a short exclamation of dismay.

  "General Wolfe killed! Colin, art thou sure?"

  "Not sure that he is dead, only that he fell, and was carried awayby his men. He was heading the charge, as a brave General should.Oh, had you seen how that battle was directed, you could not buthave admired him, whether friend or foe! It teaches one what warcan be to see such generalship as that."

  "He is a great man," said Madame Drucour softly; "I have alwaysmaintained that. Pray Heaven his life be spared, for he will be amerciful and gallant victor; and if he fall, we may not meet suchgenerous, chivalrous kindness from others."

  "Here come the soldiers!" cried Corinne, who from a little vantageground could see over the battlements. "Ah, how they run! as thoughthe enemy were at their heels.

  "Are you men? are you soldiers? For shame! for shame! To run likesheep when none pursues! Now indeed will I call myself French nolonger; I will be a British subject like my mother. It is notwillingly that I desert a losing cause; but I cannot bear suchpoltroonery. When have the English ever fled like this before us?Oh, it is a shame! it is a disgrace!"

  "Ah, if you could have seen the English soldiers!" cried Colin,with eager enthusiasm; "I never heard a volley delivered as theirswas! They never wasted a shot. They stood like a rock whilst theFrench charged across to them, firing all the time. And when theydid fire, it was like a cannon shot; and after that, our men seemedto have no spirit left in them. When the smoke of the second volleycleared off, I could scarce believe my eyes. The dead seemed tooutnumber the living; and these were flying helter-skelter this wayand that!"

  "But did not the General strive to rally them?"

  "Doubtless he did. Our Marquis is a brave soldier and an ableGeneral; but what can one man do? Panic had seized the troops; andif you had heard the sound of cheering from the ranks of theEnglish, and that strange yell from those wild Highlanders as theydashed in pursuit, you would have understood better what thesoldiers felt like. They ran like sheep--they are running still. Isaw that if I were to have a chance of bringing you the news, Imust use all my powers, or I should be jammed in the mass of flyinghumanity making for the city; and since the English are not veryfar behind, I had need to make good my retreat."

  It was plain that Colin was only a little in advance of a portionof the defeated army, whose soldiers were now flocking back to thecity, spreading panic everywhere.

  Suddenly there ran through the assembled crowd a murmur whichgathered in volume and intensity, and changed to a strange sound asof wailing. Corinne, who had the best view, leaned eagerly forwardto see, and her face blanched instantly.

  A horseman was coming through the gate, supported on either side bya soldier; his face was deadly white, and blood was streaming froma wound in his breast.

  Madame Drucour looked also and uttered a cry:

  "Monsieur le Marquis est tue!"

  It was indeed Montcalm, shot right through the body, but notabsolutely unconscious, though dazed and helpless.

  Instantly Madame Drucour had forced a passage through the crowd,and was at his side.

  "Bring him this way," she said to those who supported him and ledthe horse; "he will have the best attention here."

  Montcalm seemed to hear the words, and the wail of sorrow whichwent up from the bystanders. He roused himself, and spoke a fewwords, faintly and with difficulty.

  "It is nothing. You must not be troubled for me, my good friends.It is as it should be--as I would have it."

  Then his head drooped forward, and Madame Drucour hurried thesoldiers onward to the house where she now lived; Colin running onin advance to give notice of their approach, and if possible tofind Victor Arnoux, that the wounded man might receive immediateattention.

  The surgeon was luckily on the spot almost at once, and directedthe carrying of the Marquis into one of the lower rooms, where theylaid him on a couch and brought some stimulant for him to swallow.He was now quite unconscious; and the young surgeon, after lookingat the wound, bit his lip and stood in silent thought whilst thenecessary things were brought to him.

  "Is it dangerous?" asked Madame Drucour, in an anxious whisper, asshe looked down at the well-known face.

  "It is mortal!" answered Victor, in the same low tone. "He has nottwelve hours of life left in him."