The Canadian Civil War: Volume 5 - Carbines and Calumets

  Chapter 25 –

  On the Plains of Abraham

  Having eaten virtually everything in the kitchen, I slowly took the steps to my room. Eventually I would be less bruised and battered, but I was pretty confident I would never climb stairs again without appreciating the effort.

  My room was a surprise. I had hoped for reasonable cleaning. What I found was new furniture in the sitting room, even a new desk. And on that desk was a new computer. Part of me wanted to sit down at the computer right then and here, but most of me saw the bed in the other room, and the majority won out. I walked to my bed and laid down for a nap. I suppose I could blame my fatigue on being shot, but I think I am just getting old. I took one look at the bed and knew where I would spend the next couple hours.

  By early afternoon I felt like myself again. I took some antibiotics and some aspirin and returned to the world. My computer beckoned. They had done a nice job setting this one up. It had the standard word processing software, a good web browser, and an email system. Essentially, it was ready to go. I logged into my email service and groaned when I saw how many unread emails awaited. No human being has enough hours in his day to read, much less respond to all the email that flows these days. I scanned quickly, saw nothing from family or friends (well, there were two from family, but both were from my brothers. I felt safe ignoring those), and went back several days to the email from Margaret. The diary files were still attached, so I uploaded the second one - Pierre Rousseau's -- and went back to reading.

  After three days of navigating a very challenging river channel, they had arrived at Montreal, to a city that was panicking. The locals were certain the British would be sailing into the harbor any hour, and they were equally certain they were not equipped to respond. Pierre had no military background, but he was pretty sure they were right about their second assumption -- they were not equipped to fight. He could find no real fort, and the island was huge and flat. Troops could be landed anywhere. Royal Mountain stood in the middle of the island, but it had gentle slopes that could be climbed by troops under fire, not that troops would ever climb the hill since there were no fortifications at the summit. New France had been fighting the British for five years, and at no time during those five years had town leaders made much effort to prepare for war.

  Seeing all these ships in the harbor, town leaders begged Jolliet to stay. He had gathered nearly fourteen hundred men and had food for months. He would be their savior. Rousseau was not present for any of the discussion between the locals and Jolliet's officers, but he heard plenty from the leaders of his unit. "Imbecile" was the name attributed to virtually everyone in the town, whether civilian or military. Rousseau found it hard to disagree. As much as he wanted to see this town he had heard so much about, he agreed with the decision to leave almost immediately. The fight would be in Quebec. Montreal would contribute nothing.

  Quebec was another hundred and fifty miles down river. Some, if not all, of that would be patrolled by British men of war. The sailors worked to navigate around island and rocks; the soldiers practiced loading and firing their muskets from the ships. If there was a battle on the water, muskets would be little protection from cannons, but they practiced anyway. It was the only defense they had.

  As they approached Quebec they stopped more and more frequently in river towns, gathering intelligence. In Trois Rivieres they learned the British had already landed troops outside Quebec. Somehow they had gotten ashore and had climbed to the fields west of Quebec - known locally as the Plains of Abraham. A battle would be fought there within hours. Could Jolliet get there in time with his troops? No. They not only had to get to Quebec, still a day or so of sailing away, but they had to arrive intact, so the food would be safe. Local guides suggested they leave the main river at St. Anne and take the St. Anne River northeast as far as they could. The smaller river would be a barrier to British gun boats, and men could march the last twenty to thirty miles to Quebec, arriving from the north, presumably away from British eyes.

  They took that advice and the long string of ships continued down river to St. Anne Village, and then turned north into the smaller river. Every mile they got up the river protected the fleet and the food from the British gun boats, and meant a mile less the soldiers would have to march. Unfortunately, the river was barely navigable even for these smaller lake ships. They were barely three miles up the river when the first boat caught ground. The other boats collected around it. The river ride was over.

  The next day tried everyone's patience. They needed to cut trees both to create docks to unload the ships, and to create fortifications to protect the ships and their cargo. With a thousand men chopping wood, the job should have been easy, but all through the day men came into the camp, some saying they had been in Quebec, some saying they had met men who had been in Quebec, but all telling the same story - Montcalm had been defeated. He lay in Quebec wounded and presumably dying. The British general, Wolfe, had been killed early in the battle, but it was a battle the British had won decisively. French troops had run from the field, leaving hundreds of dead and wounded. With Wolfe dead, the British had not attacked the city proper yet, but it was only a matter of time. Quebec was lost.

  Defeat is a communicable disease. Each man who came down from Quebec brought it with him. Any of Jolliet's troops who had been wavering in their ambition to fight, wavered more with every hour. A few talked openly of returning to Montreal "to help with the defense." Jolliet kept the men working all day - busy men don't have time to desert. And it helped that the fortifications took shape pretty quickly. With cannons brought ashore from the ships at anchor, the fort looked pretty formidable. But everyone knew the fort was just temporary. The army would move east to Quebec, or west to Montreal.

  Jolliet waited until after dinner and then gathered all his officers around a huge fire. He chose an open spot, guessing that there would be many who would want to listen in. Pierre was one of many who did so. He wasn't taking dictation, so we can't know if these were Jolliet's exact words, but Rousseau sums up his words this way:

  "If Quebec falls, Canada falls, as does Louisiana. There will be no second defense at Montreal. They will surrender to the first red coat they see. Quebec must not fall. Quebec need not fall. We have the food it needs, and more importantly we have the brave men it needs. We can save Quebec. We will save Quebec. Here is how. Tonight I want one hundred men to race to Quebec. They need to know we are coming, and we need to know where to bring the rest of the troops. I know twenty Illinois warriors can guide the men. I want forty men from Canada and forty men from Louisiana. These have to be the best units in our army. Which of you command the best troops?" At that question every officer in the army stood and shouted he had the best men. The power of pride is always amazing.

  Jolliet made them wait. He walked around the clearing looking every officer in the eyes. Some he slapped on the shoulder. Some he nodded to. Each man was acknowledged in some way. Finally he said, "I choose Red Cloud to lead the Illinois, Captain Nicolet to lead the Canadians, and Captain Goulet to lead the Louisianans." As each unit was named, a cheer went up from those sitting out in the woods, listening. "Officers, you know how to prepare your men. You leave in one hour. Tell Quebec we are coming. We have come two thousand miles. We will not be stopped by a few red coats." At that everyone cheered.

  Rousseau was in the unit called to march. He described the excitement, but also the controlled chaos as men tried to find muskets and packs in the dark. Finally ready to go, the lead units passed through the camp to the cheers of the thousand men who would be following. With only torches for light, they went east, hoping they could find the trail that got them to Quebec. In other histories I have read, the claim is made that the men ran all night. Rousseau says that is untrue. They could barely move at a walking pace since they had trouble seeing the trail. Even at the slower speed, men were constantly tripping over tree
roots and rocks. He also says they did not travel all night, but just moved four hours before stopping for a two hour break. Then they walked again until daylight. Once again they rested while the Illinois guides ran ahead to see what was happening.

  The Illinois returned and described the location of the British pickets. They had seen no French troops. The British seemed to be camped in a large open field, and they were bringing up cannons. Nicolet and Goulet got the men moving, not an easy task after the long night and a short sleep on the cold ground. They followed a trail that led to a farm village. The village was nearly empty, but it provided important intelligence, and a morale boost. No, Quebec had not surrendered yet, and how marvelous was it to see fresh French troops. Two of the local farmers immediately joined the unit and directed them along local trails. Now the units could move faster, and they did. Practically at a run, they were within sight of Quebec by noon.

  Circling around to the north, they were able to approach the city without being sighted by British pickets until they had nearly reached the city. Here Nicolet and Goulet did something interesting. Soldiers in that day did not carry their weapons loaded. There was too much risk one would fire if dropped. Now they had their men load their muskets, and then, rather than running the last two hundred yards to the shelter of the fort, they had the men march in formation. They would put on a show, both for the British, and for the townsfolk.

  Once they were visible to the British, the red coats gathered up weapons and charged, but there was no order to their approach; it was just small units attacking as they saw the French. The French stayed in formation. First the Canadians would stop and fire a volley into the British, then the Louisianans would stop and fire. The distances were such it was unclear if more than a few British were hit, but the appearances were good, and none of the French were hit as they marched into the fort -- and then kept marching in formation into the center of the town. It was a great show greeted with huge applause from the townsfolk.

  The real trouble came after they stopped marching. Where was the governor? He had taken all the remaining troops with him and was fleeing to Montreal. Where was Montcalm? He had been buried that morning. Who was in charge? Three merchants were representing the town council, and they had spent the morning writing up the terms of surrender.

  Nicolet and Goulet's response was immediate. There would be no surrender. Jolliet was on his way with over a thousand troops and food for months. Quebec would not fall. France would not lose Canada and Louisiana.

  The power of a simple declarative sentence is often underestimated. You say "Quebec will not fall," and say it in the right way, and it becomes established fact. It also helped that Nicolet and Goulet had a hundred men around them, and they were quite prepared to take charge of the town. It was Goulet who actually gave the first order.

  "Jolliet will not feed idle hands. If you wish to surrender, there are the British. Do it now. If you wish to run, you can join Vaudreuil in Montreal. Go now. If you are staying, get a weapon and meet us at the bastion." He later admitted he had no idea where the bastion was, but assumed he could follow people through the narrow streets to wherever the fortifications began. The townsfolk began moving, some back to their houses, maybe to get a weapon, maybe to pack and leave.

  At this point, Rousseau becomes a bit of a tourist. There is a pause while all the townsfolk are moving, and he happens to look between some buildings to see the river below. He has never stood at any point as high before in his life. He has also never seen buildings as old as these, some over a century old. Nothing in Louisiana goes back more than two or three decades. He sneaks off for a few minutes to look around, and returns just as his unit is marching west to the wall protecting the city.

  That afternoon the officers collect and question the hundreds of townsfolk who are willing to serve. Rousseau and his peers are allowed to sleep where they are - out in the middle of a field. For reasons he does not understand, the British do not attack. I could have told him why. The British generals were divided, petty, and cowardly. Wolfe had held them together. He was the only real general the British had in the battle, and he was gone. He would never be replaced. But I digress. Rousseau only knows he is able to sleep that afternoon and that night.

  As the force along the wall builds in numbers, it also builds in intelligence. Men from surrounding villages are able to explain where red coats are lodging. They also report the general location of thousands of French militia under a General Levis. Nicolet and Goulet begin to understand how the various forces are arrayed. They draw maps and assign a group of fifteen men to return to Jolliet with the information they have learned. Rousseau happens to be in this group and is rousted before dawn. Before daybreak they are to get to the farming village they had found the day before, then once the sun is up, travel west until they meet up with Jolliet’s forces.

  Rousseau does a nice job describing the fear, the confusion, and the cold of running through the dark to get to a village he has only seen once before. They arrive and hide in a barn until daybreak. At dawn they realize there are also British pickets in the village. Should they fight the British? Run? Hide and hope the British will leave? They load their muskets but agree to wait until the sun is higher and hope the British leave. They get lucky and the British move on. Now the job of the small patrol is to find Jolliet while avoiding other British patrols. Rousseau does a nice job describing their run through the woods alternating with drops to the ground when they hear noises or see anything red. No doubt it felt like an endless journey to the patrol, but in fact it is only a little past noon before they encounter the lead forces of Jolliet’s army. By evening Jolliet’s forces are in the village the patrol had used that morning.

  Here Rousseau describes the evening encampment and the sense of danger being so close to the large British army. Being a private, what he does not say is what was perplexing Jolliet. Positioned as he was, he could attack the British from an unexpected direction and do real damage, but if he attacked alone, he would be repulsed with serious losses and no strategic gain. He needs to coordinate with the forces in the city and with the forces of Levis – wherever he may be. All Rousseau says in his journal is that many patrols were sent out that night.

  At dawn a mounted patrol rides into camp – Levis has been found. He has two thousand militia under his command, but few of them follow him into the village. There is a day-long meeting among the officers. Rousseau is not party to the meeting. All he knows is that Jolliet’s troops are arrayed along a road that runs along the north side of the British. Rousseau, and every other man along the road looks due south, wondering at what point the British will discover them and attack. He (and the rest of the French) has no way of knowing just how indolent the British command is. They are spending their day determining the surrender terms they intend to take to the city leaders.

  The French leaders have a plan in place by mid afternoon and Levis and much of his staff rides east to his encampment. As we now know from the benefit of hindsight, it is a plan that could fail in far too many ways. If any British patrol ventures north and finds Jolliet’s forces, the fight will start too soon and probably mean the end of the French. If Levis cannot move his men into position fast enough, the French also lose. If any French farmer sees the French troops and goes to talk to the British to trade knowledge for gold, the French lose. The risks of failure increase by the hour. All men like Rousseau know is they have been waiting for many hours with little time to eat or drink or rest.

  We all know from history how the battle goes the next morning. Levis moves hundreds of men in front of the Quebec fortifications to challenge the British. The British charge quickly in an attempt to kill the French before they can retreat behind the safety of their wall. Jolliet’s troops, reinforced by over a thousand of Levis’ men wait in silence while a battle happens. Held at bay by their officers, they wait in the woods until the British are fully engage
d at the wall. Then, finally, they are permitted to come to the edge of the woods, kneel, and fire.

  Shooting men in the back is the worst violation of customs of the day. Fortunately, some of the British hear the French coming through the woods and turn, allowing the French some honor in the battle. But the real advantage the French have is that the British are never able to form up in their squares. While they had advanced on the wall in good order, now forced to turn to their left while under fire, most units cannot manage it. Their fire is uneven, and the French, having the advantage of some concealment are able to fire accurately into the British ranks while taking fewer casualties themselves.

  In the original battle on the Plains, we know from historical records the British forces fired three volleys and the French were done. In this attack there were almost no volleys, no mass firings to measure the time or the effort. The French fired from the woods, from in front of the fort, from the walls of the fort. To Rousseau it all seemed to last until eternity. Not an officer, and not destined for political office upon his return to Louisiana, he could give the battle a description rarely found elsewhere. He talks about the men who urinate on themselves, the ones who aim their muskets but cannot bring themselves to actually shoot at another human being, and the men who shake so much their musket balls are more a danger to birds than to the enemy. He is able to bring himself to shoot three times, but each time it is into a mass of men, not at an individual soldier. He also says after the first shot, he finds he has completely forgotten how to reload his weapon. A man standing next to him shouts the steps, and he follows along forgetting to remove the rod after jamming the wadding into the barrel. The man beside him stops him and pulls the ramrod out for him. They fire together into the mass of red coats.

  The worst moment comes when a group of British do form up and advance as a line, marching like a red wall, their muskets all topped with bayonets. Some of the French run. Most fire again and again. Ultimately they are saved by distance. By the time the British form ranks and move on the woods, they have over a hundred yards to cover, enough time for the French to get in three or even four rounds each. It is enough. The British ranks thin and then stop thirty yards from the woods. They fire one round, but rather than follow up with a bayonet charge, they stand and fire until almost the last man is wounded.

  We know from battle records that several senior British officers are killed or wounded, and the British lose over a thousand of their four thousand man force. The losses are too severe. Standing under a sun abnormally warm for September, taking hits from two directions, their forces break and run down the hill, back down the narrow path to the river edge, back to the safety of their ships. They leave behind hundreds of wounded and all their artillery. The second battle on the Plains of Abraham has gone to the French.

  Rousseau is sick to his stomach for much the rest of the day, and he lives in fear of a British counter attack. What he cannot know is the British high command never sees this second battle as a defeat. They move their men back to safer positions and wait. They see the fall of Quebec as inevitable as soon as hunger gets too severe. They have a long history of starving cities into submission. There is no reason for them to lose more men on any battle field.

  What the British never learn until long after the St. Lawrence has frozen over and forced their ships into deeper waters to the east, is that Jolliet’s real brilliance lay not in the battle – a battle that could have gone the other way but for any amount of luck – but in the decision to wait until after the harvest and to bring shiploads of food with him. That food is brought to Quebec and keeps the city and armies alive through the winter and into the spring when political winds back home cause the British to sue for peace. The war ends. Quebec – and Canada and Louisiana – stay French.

  So, what am I to make of this diary? The Huguenots fought during the British invasion. That was well known before, although the diary does provide a useful reminder. There was a Captain Goulet among the troops. Maybe he was some distant relative of the current “Colonel” Goulet. I wasn’t sure that mattered much. Nowhere in the journal was there a long description of relations between the Protestants and Catholics, no debates, no reconciliations, no common understandings. Maybe what was so remarkable about the diary was how unremarkable the interactions of the two religions were – at least in this instance. Faced with a common enemy – us – they came together. If there was something more there for me to see, I wasn’t seeing it.

  I hadn’t posted a blog in days and this was a pretty interesting journal, so I decided to post a short description and then attach the file for those who were interested. I also noted that the journal had been sent to me by Margaret Riemard, thinking it might make the posting more interesting to any readers in Louisiana. I also included the message she had sent to me – “These are our national heroes. They make me proud every time I read their stories.” That seemed like a good way to sum up the post.

  By now it was early evening and I was hungry again. I didn’t much like the idea of taking the stairs again, but I was also tired of my room, even with all the new furniture. It would have been a travesty to install an elevator in such a classic hotel and destroy lord only knew how much woodwork and paneling, but just that evening I thought an elevator might have its uses. But I toughed it out and did the stairs. I wasn’t sure if I was taking them even more slowly than I had a couple days after the last time someone had tried to kill me, but I was certainly not setting any speed records.

  Downstairs they were still serving dinner. You have to love the French. They eat well into the evening. I took a table, ordered whatever the daily special was, and looked at the TV. It was still sitting at the end of the room, still set with the sound off. The show seemed to be the same – newscasters standing in front of cars going by. I was on my second glass of wine when I noticed the road was different. Where before the newscasters were standing in front of cars using the frontage road, now they were standing in front of the main highway. National Highway 3 was open! Arkansas had taken down the border. There were still military vehicles in the area, but they were making no effort to stop traffic. Better yet, traffic was flowing in both directions. If I wanted to, I could get home. All I would have to do is drive over to Arkansas first. I’m not sure how to explain how I felt at that moment. I hadn’t been aware of feeling constrained the last couple days, but suddenly I felt an amazing freedom. I could travel. I could go home. I was certain that is what I would do the next morning.