The King's Warrant: A Story of Old and New France
Page 23
CHAPTER IX.
The Marquis de Beaujardin and his son had met again, but undercircumstances distressing enough to both of them, and it was withsorrowful hearts that they now proceeded together to Quebec. As theypassed through the village of Beauport on their way, they became awarethat a large portion of the English fleet had approached the shore, andwas to all appearance making preparations for a repetition of theattack made on the neighbouring redoubts some weeks before, whilstother vessels were standing on towards Quebec. Night came on asIsidore and his father reached the town; there all was bustle andexcitement, and every one was anticipating a fresh attack on theMontmorency lines before daybreak.
There was an attack indeed, but not in the quarter where Montcalmexpected it. Before daybreak on the following morning the great massof the enemy's forces, which had been secretly carried past the town toa considerable distance up the river during the night, was stealthilydropping down again, and was then landed on the beach at Le Foullon,now immortalised by the name of "Wolfe's Cove."
History scarcely contains a more exciting chapter than that whichrecords this daring plan, and the equally daring manner in which it wasachieved. Leading his troops up by a single narrow and ruggedpath--the Highlanders actually climbing up the precipitous face of thecliff itself--Wolfe had by daybreak arrayed his little army of betweenfour and five thousand men on the Plains of Abraham, only a mile fromthe ramparts of the fortress. A couple of hours later Montcalm had ledout his forces to try the issue of a pitched battle before Quebec.
At first the French outflanked and forced back the English left, butwith a timely reinforcement Townsend stopped their further progress.There was, at the same time, some desultory fighting on Wolfe's right,which extended to the lofty banks of the St. Lawrence, but the decisiveconflict took place in the centre, in which Montcalm had placed his fewbattalions of French regulars. These advanced with the greatestgallantry, inflicting serious loss on the English by their rapid andwell-sustained fire, which, however, was not returned, for Wolfe wasriding along the line encouraging his men, and forbidding a single shotuntil the word should be given. On came the French with loud shouts,advancing to within forty or fifty paces of the British line; then withone tremendous ringing volley the fate of the day was decided. Thehitherto serried and continuous line of the French veterans was simplybroken up into scattered and shapeless fragments, which neverthelessstill tried to advance. They were, however, met with a charge whichsoon completed their discomfiture, and the battle was won. DeBougainville indeed subsequently came up and threatened an attack inthe rear, but the bold front made by the English compelled him to drawoff again without any serious attempt to molest the victors.
The story of Wolfe's last words, and of his death whilst the shout ofvictory was sounding in his ears, is an oft-told tale, and needs not tobe repeated here. He had received three wounds, of which the last wasfatal. Carleton and Monckton, too, had been severely wounded, andTownsend had to take the command. Nor had the French superior officersbeen more fortunate. De Senezergues and St. Ours were both struckdown, and at last Montcalm himself was mortally wounded; but he refusedto quit the field until he had seen the shattered remnants of his armysafe within the protecting walls of Quebec.
Montcalm has been accused of infatuation in risking a battle on theopen plain; but the charge savours perhaps of being wise after theevent. With his customary candour he certainly declared, after thebattle, that with such troops as the English had proved themselves hewould have defeated thrice the number of such as he had himselfcommanded. But it was only on that day that he had learned how Englishtroops could fight, and he might well be excused if he remembered howhe had repulsed them at Ticonderoga. His force, moreover, thoughchiefly consisting of Canadian militia, on whom he could place no greatreliance, was numerically double that of Wolfe, whilst the new positionof the enemy on the plain before Quebec cut off all his resources, andany hope of succour from France was out of the question. A battle wonmight end the campaign for that year with honour, and his chivalrousspirit would not decline the challenge. He fought, and though he wasdefeated, friend and foe alike admired him and did him justice. Afterpassing the night in religious exercises, he died on the day after thebattle, and was buried in the garden of the Ursuline Convent, in acavity made by the bursting of a shell--a fitting grave for such awarrior.
Almost the last to retreat within the ramparts of the citadel were ascore or so of veterans belonging to Isidore's former regiment. Nothaving yet received any regular appointment, he had fought with his oldcorps as a volunteer all the morning, and most of the officers being bythat time killed or wounded, he had tacitly assumed the command of thislittle band. They had nearly reached the gate of St. Louis when theyonce more heard the terrible war-whoop close in their rear, and as theyfaced about for the last time, a body of Indians came sweeping towardsthem from some broken ground near the river's bank.
"Stand fast, men, and give those fellows a parting salute," criedIsidore. The order was obeyed, and with such effect that the Indiansstopped in their wild onset, and then fell back a little. One aloneheld his ground. He was their chief, and by the tuft of snowy feathersand ribbons that fluttered above his head he was recognised at once byIsidore and by Boulanger, who stood by his side, all begrimed with dustand smoke, and clutching in his hand the barrel of his broken rifle.It was White Eagle.
For a few moments faint and dizzy with loss of blood, for he had beenwounded without knowing it, Isidore felt a strange half-consciousstupor come over him. Was this all a dream about the horrible massacreat Fort William Henry? There before him stood the very savage who hadstruck him down; there were the shouts, the shrieks of wounded men;there, too, was the dark figure darting swiftly past and placing itselfright in front of him.
"Fire, fire! Be quick!" shouted Boulanger, as the Indian raised hisrifle. It sent forth a flash and a puff of smoke, but the report waslost in the discharge of a dozen French muskets, which stretched theIndian dead upon the grass.
It was too late. With a loud cry Amoahmeh dropped down at Isidore'sfeet. Flinging away his sword he knelt beside her, and raised her up alittle. She gave him one grateful parting look, murmuring faintly,"Amoahmeh knows where--it was you who told her." Then she closed hereyes, and Isidore knew that her brave and loving spirit had fled.
"Flinging away his sword, he knelt beside her."]
Meanwhile the Indians, daunted by the stern reception they had metwith, and by the loss of their chief, had fallen back in disorder, andthe little troop that had discomfited them withdrew within the gates.Isidore and Boulanger were the last to enter, the Canadian bearing inhis arms, as tenderly as if it had been one of his own sleepingchildren, the lifeless body of Amoahmeh.
Headpiece to Chapter X]