CHAPTER XXI.
FORT AMITIE LEARNS ITS FATE.
That Spring, three British generals sat at the three gates of Canada,waiting for the signal to enter and end the last agony of New France.But the snows melted, the days lengthened, and still the signal didnot come; for the general by the sea gate was himself besieged.
Through the winter he and his small army sat patiently in the citythey had ruined. Conquerors in lands more southerly may bury theirdead with speed, rebuild captured walls, set up a pillar and statueof Victory, and in a month or two, the green grass helping them,forget all but the glory of the battle. But here in the north thesame hand arrests them and for six months petrifies the memorials oftheir rage. Until the Spring dissolves it, the image of war livesface to face with them, white, with frozen eyes, sparing them onlythe colour of its wounds.
General Murray, like many a soldier in his army, had dreams ofemulating Wolfe's glory. But Wolfe had snatched victory out of theshadow of coming winter; and, almost before Murray's army could cutwood for fuel, the cold was upon them. For two months Quebec hadbeen pounded with shot and shell. Her churches and hospitals stoodroofless; hundreds of houses had been fired, vaults and storehousespillaged, doors and windows riddled everywhere. There was no diggingentrenchments in the frozen earth. Walls six feet thick had beenbreached by artillery; and the loose stones, so cold they were, couldhardly be handled.
Among these ruins, on the frozen cliff over the frozen river, Murrayand his seven thousand men settled down to wear the winter through.They were short of food, short of fuel. Frost-bite maimed them atfirst; then scurvy, dysentery, fever, began to kill. They laid theirdead out on the snow, to be buried when spring should return and thawthe earth; and by the end of April their dead numbered six hundredand fifty. Yet they kept up their spirits. Early in November therehad been rumours that the French under Levis meant to march on thecity and retake it. In December deserters brought word that he wason his way--that he would storm the city on the twenty-second, anddine within the citadel on Christmas Day. In January news arrivedthat he was preparing scaling-ladders and training his men in the useof them. Still the days dragged by. The ice on the river began tobreak up and swirl past the ramparts on the tides. The end of Aprilcame, and with it a furious midnight storm, and out of the storm afeeble cry--the voice of a half-dead Frenchman clinging to a floe ofice far out on the river. He was rescued, placed in a hammock, andcarried up Mountain Street to the General's quarters; and Murray,roused from sleep at three o'clock in the morning, listened to hisstory. He was an artillery-sergeant of Levis's army; and that army,twelve thousand strong, was close to the gates of Quebec.
The storm had fallen to a cold drizzle of rain when at dawn Murray'stroops issued from the St. Louis gate and dragged their guns outthrough the slush of the St. Foy road. On the ground where Wolfe hadgiven battle, or hard by, they unlimbered in face of the enemy andopened fire. Two hours later, outflanked by numbers, having lost athird of their three thousand in the short fight, they fell back onthe battered walls they had mistrusted. For a few hours the fate ofQuebec hung on a hair. But the garrison could build now; and, whileLevis dragged up his guns from the river, the English worked likedemons. They had guns, at any rate, in plenty; and, while the Frenchdug and entrenched themselves on the ground they had won, daily thebreaches closed and the English fire grew hotter.
April gave place to May, and the artillery fire continued on theheights; but, as it grew noisier it grew also less important, for nowthe eyes of both commanders were fastened on the river. Two fleetswere racing for Quebec, and she would belong to the first to dropanchor within her now navigable river.
Then came a day when, as Murray sat brooding by the fire in hisquarters in St. Louis Street, an officer ran in with the news of aship of war in the Basin, beating up towards the city. "Whatever sheis," said the General, "we will hoist our colours." Weather hadfrayed out the halliards on the flagstaff over Cape Diamond, but asailor climbed the pole and lashed the British colours beneath thetruck. By this time men and officers in a mob had gathered on theramparts of the Chateau St. Louis, all straining their eyes at afrigate fetching up close-hauled against the wind.
Her colours ran aloft; but they were bent, sailor-fashion, in a tightbundle, ready to be broken out when they reached the top-gallantmasthead.
An officer, looking through a glass, cried out nervously that thebundle was white. But this they knew without telling. Only--whatwould the flag carry on its white ground? The red cross? or thegolden fleurs-de-lys?
The halliards shook; the folds flew broad to the wind; and, with agasp, men leaped on the ramparts--flung their hats in the air andcheered--dropped, sobbing, on their knees.
It was the red cross of England.
They were cheering yet and shouting themselves hoarse when the_Lowestoffe_ frigate dropped anchor and saluted with all hertwenty-four guns. On the heights the French guns answeredspitefully. Levis would not believe. He had brought hisartillery at length into position, and began to knock the defencesvigorously. He lingered until the battleship _Vanguard_ and thefrigate _Diane_ came sailing up into harbour; until the _Vanguard_,pressing on with the _Lowestoffe_, took or burned the vessels whichhad brought his artillery down from Montreal. Then, in the night, hedecamped, leaving his siege-train, baggage, and sick men behind him.News of his retreat reached Murray at nightfall, and soon the Englishguns were bowling round-shot after him in the dusk across the Plainsof Abraham; but by daybreak, when Murray pushed out after him, tofall on his rear, he had hurried his columns out of reach.
Three months had passed since the flying of the signal from the_Lowestoffe_, and now in the early days of August three Britisharmies were moving slowly upon Montreal, where Levis and GovernorVaudreuil had drawn the main French forces together for a lastresistance.
Murray came up the river from Quebec with twenty-four hundred men, inthirty-two vessels and a fleet of boats in company; followed by LordRollo with thirteen hundred men drawn off from dismantledLouisbourg. As the ships tacked up the river, with their floatingbatteries ranged in line to protect the advance, bodies of Frenchtroops followed them along the shore--regiments of white-coatedinfantry and horsemen in blue jackets faced with scarlet.Bourlamaque watched from the southern shore, Dumas from the northern.But neither dared to attack; and day after day through the lovelyweather, past fields and settlements and woodlands, between bankswhich narrowed until from deck one could listen to the song of birdson either hand and catch the wafted scent of wild flowers, theBritish wound their way to Isle Sainte-Therese below Montreal,encamped, and waited for their comrades.
From the south came Haviland. He brought thirty-four hundredregulars, provincials, and Indians from Crown Point on LakeChamplain, and moved down the Richelieu, driving Bougainville beforehim.
Last, descending from the west by the gate of the Great Lakes, camethe Commander in Chief, the cautious Amherst, with eighteen hundredsoldiers and Indians and over eight hundred bateaux and whale-boats.He had gathered them at Oswego in July, and now in the second week ofAugust had crossed the lake to its outlet, threaded the channels ofthe Thousand Islands, and was bearing down on the broad river towardsFort Amitie.
And how did it stand with Fort Amitie?
Well, to begin with, the Commandant was thoroughly perplexed.The British must be near; by latest reports they had reached theThousand Islands; even hours were becoming precious, and yet mostunaccountably the reinforcements had not arrived!
What could M. de Vaudreuil be dreaming of? Already the great Indianleader, Saint-Luc de la Come, had reached Coteau du Lac with a strongforce of militia. Dominique Guyon had been sent down with an urgentmessage of inquiry. But what had been La Corne's answer? "I knownot what M. de Vaudreuil intends. My business is to stay here andwatch the rapids."
"Now what can be the meaning of that?" the Commandant demanded of hisbrother.
M. Etienne shook his head pensively. "_Rusticus expectat_ . . .I should have
supposed the rapids to stand in no danger."
"Had the Governor sent word to abandon the Fort, I might haveunderstood. It would have been the bitterest blow of my life--"
"Yes, yes, brother," M. Etienne murmured in sympathy.
"But to leave us here without a word! No; it is impossible.They _must_ be on their way!"
In the strength of this confidence Dominique and Bateese had beendispatched down the river again to meet the reinforcements and hurrythem forward.
Dominique and Bateese had been absent for a week now on this errand.Still no relief-boats hove in sight, and the British were coming downthrough the Thousand Islands.
Save in one respect the appearance of the Fort had not changed sincethe evening of John a Cleeve's dismissal. The garrison cows stillgraced along the river-bank, and in the clearing under the easternwall the Indian corn was ripe for harvest (M. Etienne suggestedreaping it; the labour, he urged, would soothe everyone's nerves).Only on Sans Quartier's cabbage-patch the lunette now stood complete.All the _habitants_ of Boisveyrac had been brought up to labour inits erection, building it to the height of ten feet, with an abattisof trees in front and a raised platform within for the riflemen.Day after day the garrison manned it and burned powder in defenceagainst imaginary assaults, and by this time the Commandant andSergeant Bedard between them had discussed and provided against everypossible mode of attack.
Diane stood in the dawn on the _terre-plein_ of the river-wall.The latest news of the British had arrived but a few hours since,with a boatload of fugitives from the upstream mission-house of LaGalette, off which an armed brig lay moored with ten cannon and onehundred men to check the advance of the flotilla. It could do nomore.
The fugitives included Father Launoy, and he had landed and beggedDiane to take his place in the crowded boat. For himself (he said)he would stay and help to serve out ammunition to Fort Amitie--thatwas, if the Commandant meant to resist.
"Do you suppose, then, that I would retire?" the Commandant askedwith indignation.
"It may be possible to do neither," suggested Father Launoy.
But this the Commandant could by no means understand. It seemed tohim that either he must be losing his wits or the whole of NewFrance, from M. de Vaudreuil down, was banded in a league of folly."Resist? Of course I shall resist! My men are few enough, Father;but I beg you to dismiss the notion that Fort Amitie is garrisoned bycowards."
"I will stay with you then," said the Jesuit. "I may be useful, inmany ways. But mademoiselle will take my place in the boat andescape to Montreal."
"I also stay," answered Diane simply.
"Excuse me, but there is like to be serious work. They bring theIroquois with them, besides Indians from the West." Father Launoyspoke as one reasoning with a child.
Diane drew a small pistol from her bodice. "I have thought of that,you see."
"But M. de Noel--" He swung round upon the Commandant,expostulating.
"In a few hours," said the Commandant, meeting his eyes with a smile,"New France will have ceased to be. I have no authority to force mychild to endure what I cannot endure myself. She has claimed apromise of me, and I have given it."
The priest stepped back a pace, wondering. Swiftly before him passeda vision of the Intendant's palace at Quebec, with its women and riotand rottenness. His hand went up to his eyes, and under the shade ofit he looked upon father and daughter--this pair of the old_noblesse_, clean, comely, ready for the sacrifice. What had NewFrance done for these that they were cheerful to die for her?She had doled them out poverty, and now, in the end, betrayal; shehad neglected her children for aliens, she had taken their revenuesto feed extortioners and wantons, and now in the supreme act oftreachery, herself falling with them, she turned too late to read intheir eyes a divine and damning love. There all the while she hadlived--the true New France, loyally trusted, innocently worshipped."Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." . . .Father Launoy lowered his gaze to the floor. He had looked andlearned why some nations fall and others worthily endure.
All that night the garrison had slept by their arms, until with thefirst streak of day the drums called them out to their alarm-post.
Diane stood on the _terre-plein_ watching the sunrise. As yet theriver lay indistinct, a broad wan-coloured band of light stretchingaway across the darkness. The outwork on the slope beneath her was aformless shadow astir with smaller shadows equally formless.She heard the tread of feet on the wooden platform, the clink ofside-arms and accoutrements, the soft thud of ramrods, the voice ofold Bedard, peevish and grumbling as usual.
Her face, turned to the revealing dawn, was like and yet curiouslyunlike the face into which John a Cleeve had looked and taken hisdismissal; a woman's face now, serener than of old and thoughtfuller.These two years had lengthened it to a perfect oval, adding a touchof strength to the brow, a touch of decision to the chin; and, lestthese should overweight it, had removed from the eyes their cloudedtrouble and left them clear to the depths. The elfin Diane, thesmall woodland-haunting Indian, no longer looked forth from thosewindows; no search might find her captive shadow behind them.She had died young, or had faded away perhaps and escaped back to hernative forests.
But she is not all forgotten, this lost playmate. Some trick ofgesture reappears as Diane lifts her face suddenly towards theflagstaff tower. The watchman there has spied something on theriver, and is shouting the news from the summit.
His arm points down the river. What has he seen? "Canoes!"--therelief is at hand then! No: there is only one canoe. It comesswiftly and yet the day overtakes and passes it, spreading a causewayof light along which it shoots to the landing-quay.
Two men paddle it--Dominique and Bateese Guyon. Their faces arehaggard, their eyes glassy with want of sleep, their limbs so stiffthat they have to be helped ashore.
The Commandant steps forward. "What news, my children?" he asks.His voice is studiously cheerful.
Dominique shakes his head.
"There is no relief, Monseigneur."
"You have met none, you mean?"
"None is coming, Monseigneur. We have heard it in Montreal."
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