With Sister Nathalie observing, and with good intentions, Catherine slowly circled the beast whose udder, clearly filled with milk, had perhaps approached the bursting point.
“I think it wishes to stay,” Sister Nathalie said.
Catherine smiled for the first time in days. “I think you are right.”
“Should we keep her, then?”
Catherine supposed that if one wished to pursue the ethics of the situation, a moral dilemma might well exist. The cow, and indeed its milk, belonged elsewhere. Yet it had chosen to take up temporary, if not permanent, residence in this garden. With no clear identification—for did not all cows look alike?—she could not imagine, even for honesty’s sake, parading into the countryside, given the war, to seek out the owner.
Therefore, in all good conscience, could not the nuns be considered interim guardians? Surely, to abandon the poor creature to the street was to invite outright thievery.
She discussed the matter with Sister Nathalie, who heartily agreed they would borrow the cow for the immediate future.
“It is settled then.” Catherine reached out and tentatively patted their newfound acquisition on the rump. Her gaze fell again to the full udder. Teats sprang from it like stubby fingers, and she wondered how to get them to yield their milk. Did the task require a light or determined touch, a pull or a squeeze, or perhaps some other mysterious hand motion?
“Have you ever milked a cow?” she asked Sister Nathalie.
“No, Madame, I was raised in the city.”
“As was I. I suspect there is only one way to find out. If you will go into the kitchen and bring back a large cooking pot, I’ll endeavor to relieve this beast of her milk.”
A minute later, Sister Nathalie came dashing back with the pot. She handed it to Catherine, who squatted down and bent to the task, if not with relish, at least with determination. Positioning the vessel beneath the cow, she reached underneath and took one of the teats firmly in hand. Her reward came by way of a flick of the animal’s tail against her arm. She jumped up and stepped back, more from surprise than any physical harm.
Cowardice, however, never won the day. This she knew well, and so she took to the quest with new resolve and a far more wary eye. Its udder swayed as the cow moved restlessly, side-stepped across the patch of grass and retreated just beyond Catherine’s grasp.
“Come, you will feel so much better if you will just let
me ...” She grabbed the pot and lunged forward and unerringly her hand found its mark. She squeezed, the cow gave a mournful, throaty “moo” and began the little dance began anew.
“Will you hold the pot?” Catherine asked Sister Nathalie. Then she got down onto her knees and managed to dodge the flicking tail.
With visions of steaming cups of milk wavering before her eyes, she gave a yank. It produced nothing more than another mournful cry from the animal. So she adjusted her motion and worked her fingers as if trying to coax a tune from some thoroughly foreign instrument. After much persistence, a thin white stream shot from the teat, only to find its mark on Catherine’s gown. Far from discouraged, however, she continued in the same vein, adjusting her aim until finally a squirt of milk made it into the pot.
“Aha.” Using two hands, she guided streams of milk into the pot. For the better part of half an hour, she and Sister Nathalie applied themselves to their task. When the milk level rose almost to the brim and the cow appeared empty of nearly every drop, they pulled the vessel to safety and congratulated themselves for their persistence.
They carried their prize into the kitchen and poured the warm milk into two large china pitchers. Then, looking about her, Catherine put her hands on her hips and gave a deep-throated laugh. By God, she would survive this siege one way or another. If she could master the fine art of milking, no war was going to ever defeat her.
Chapter 32
Having successfully infiltrated the camp, Rive continued going about the business of gathering information. By day, he fell in with the men, performed his duties and did nothing to call attention to himself. At night he joined his fellow Grenadiers around the campfires, listening to their grumbles and posturing. Whenever possible, he steered the conversation toward Quebec, the impregnable fortress across the river.
There were rumors of every possible stripe: the invasion was set for mid-October; no, the date had been moved back, more than likely mid-September; the assault would take place where Montcalm had set up his riverside fortifications, a repeat of July thirty-first, only this time it would succeed; with the first serious turn in the weather, the fleet would be recalled to Britain where it would pass the winter in preparation for another incursion into Canadian waters the following spring.
The night of September twelfth brought the usual gusty winds. The men hung together in their bivouac, crowding about the fires for warmth. Cannon and musket shots could be heard coming from east of the city, where Montcalm’s fortifications spread along the shores of the North Channel. Restless and desperate now for some useful information, Rive moved about the encampment. However, nothing untoward seemed to be in the wind. Perhaps the rumor the Beaufort line would be attacked again had proved correct. Each day a flotilla of ships drifted downstream on the ebb tide, only to reverse and float upstream on the flood tide. It seemed the idea was to openly parade before the French but carry out no attacks. Then, after Montcalm and his forces became overly confident, they would launch their assault.
General Wolfe had recently evacuated his camp at Montmorency and taken up position here on Point Levis, only one mile across the river from Quebec. With this in mind, Rive made his way toward the British battery, close to the shoreline.
“You, soldier.” A voice stopped him in his tracks.
As Rive turned, his right hand found the pistol wedged under his belt. Of course, he dared not fire the weapon, but a good clubbing to the head would silence anyone challenging his right to be there.
“Do you wish a word with me?” Cautiously, he approached the man. Like some in the company, he had abandoned his regimental uniform for the comfort of a hunting shirt and leggings.
“They need volunteers for the forward barges. The landing is set for tonight.”
“It is about time.” Rive took care to keep his mounting excitement hidden. “Where did you say the landing is to occur?”
“I didn’t say, and neither will anyone else. Only General Wolfe has that information. Not even his generals have been told yet. You never know where you will find a spy these days. If you are in, report to the officer in charge of the Grenadiers. You’ll find him forward of the battery.”
The man moved on and Rive made a quick decision. If not even Wolfe’s own generals were privy to the plan, then his chances of discovering the landing site appeared slim to none. The only way to gain any information was to volunteer for a place in the whaleboats.
Without further hesitation, he proceeded to the forward battery. There he found several men padding the oarlocks. He assumed these were the advance boats. No sentry would be the wiser when the vessels silently approached the landing site. He knew he must find a place in one of those boats.
“I was told to see the officer in charge of volunteers,” he said to the nearest man.
“Over there. He’s wearing the regimental colors of the Highlanders.”
A lantern was hoisted in one of the boats, and a pale yellow sliver of light pierced the dark night.
Rive sought the man out and was quickly taken into the ranks of the volunteers, which numbered about twenty.
“Any word on the landing site?” he inquired casually of the officer.
“You and the others will find out when it is time.” The officer looked toward the troops assembled around Rive. “Okay, men, we are to get into that whaleboat.” He indicated a craft in the process of being launched and where oarsmen were already in place. Rive climbed aboard and settled himself near the front. Even when all twenty-four volunteers were seated, the oarsmen didn’t head out on
to the river. They waited patiently, no one uttering a sound. It was difficult to judge time, but Rive thought it must be well past midnight.
He kept his ears cocked for any tidbit of information. Finally, a Highlander appeared. “Make way for the general.” A stirring went through the ranks. A man sporting the uniform and trappings of a senior officer, a general, made his way to the boat and climbed aboard, followed by another officer of lesser rank. Speculation began amongst the volunteers. Shortly it became clear that their passenger was none other than General Wolfe. After he took up the most forward position, someone gave the order to proceed.
With little light from the moon, the water appeared as black as mourning cloth. When Rive finally turned his gaze from General Wolfe, he saw the ghostly outlines of scores of British ships appear in the gloom. The advance boats were leading a flotilla that stretched for miles. He was able to make out the Highlanders and light infantry, which he knew would be used to secure a beachhead. Somewhere farther behind, the artillery would sail along with the supply ships. Indeed, the black night was made for the devil’s work.
In silence, the flotilla sailed on the ebb tide, skirting the broad plain that spread westward from Quebec City. Slowly the current carried them downstream. The men, crammed together, dared not speak. They knew that only one of two things awaited them: either victory or certain death. Steep cliffs bordered the plain. Rive remembered his prediction when he had studied the map with André. The assault would probably come where the French least expected it. In all likelihood, the landing site was L’Anse-au-Foulon.
The river current carried them on their course, and Rive’s mind moved in concert with them. One thought after another crowded his mind, all of them centered on one necessity: he must somehow warn the French sentries atop the cliffs of the approaching danger. How to go about it? Any untoward action on his part would more likely see him carry the news to the bottom of the river.
“Qui vive?” a French sentry called down from the heights.
At first there was silence in the whaleboat. Then a Highlander returned the challenge in expert French. “François! Et vive le roi!”
And long live the king!
Now. There must be no care on his part for his own safety. He must give an immediate warning. The tide was taking them swiftly downstream. In no time they would be well beyond the sentry’s outpost.
“Non!” he stood and shouted, his voice carrying clearly in the still air. “C’est l’Anglais. L’Anglais!”
The next second, a blunt instrument smashed down on the back of his head. The darkness around him deepened, and he tried to fight through it and hang onto the last vestiges of consciousness. The last thing he heard was the Highlander’s shout assuring the sentry that they were the expected supply ship.
Chapter 33
To the small detachment of French soldiers guarding the cliffs above the plain, there seemed to be nothing unusual about the pre-dawn hours of September thirteenth. Made weary by weeks of inactivity, Louis Villet lounged with a small group, as the black near-moonless night closed about him. Set against this dark background, the white tents of the French force stood out, but there would be little sleep for him and the other men tonight. A week earlier they had shared the same desolate ground with a full battalion. Montcalm, however, anticipating Wolfe, would not abandon the campaign without one final assault, and so had recalled the battalion to strengthen the Beaufort lines. Now he waited, unaware that directly below a flotilla of British landing craft edged closer to the narrow strip of land at the base of the cliff.
It was not until hours later that Louis learned General Wolfe had come ashore and given the order to begin the climb. At first hearing, he found it absurd that such a feat could be accomplished, but the British, nonetheless, had scrambled forward. Not an easy task, he conceded. They had to make the climb with their muskets strapped to their backs, testing their skills against the unrelenting force of nature. Apparently, even as twigs must have snapped and metal clashed against rock, no sound carried to the heights above because no alarm was given. With so complete a surprise, not a single shot was fired until the force reached the summit and overpowered the French, laying bare the Plains of Abraham. Louis sadly conceded that these long, broad plains were the perfect setting for what would later prove to be the final battle for Quebec.
* * * *
A fierce bombardment, the worst yet, sent Catherine and the nuns scurrying into the cellar. Pulling the shawl loaned to her by the Mother Superior around her shoulders, she sat hunched in the tight circle of women. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, she was seized by a shudder as icy as any wind penetrating a chink in the stone walls. Her ears pounded from the cacophony of cannon fire.
For hours they huddled in the dark. By now Catherine was certain that the British assault would bring everything down around them in a shower of destruction. She thought constantly of Rive and railed against the fates, which seemed, indeed, to have turned against them.
During a lull in the bombardment, she gathered her courage and led the way upstairs. Once there, Mother Superior suggested they visit the chapel and pray for the deliverance of the French forces and the city they protected with their lives. She followed the nun’s lead, sinking onto her knees and offering up prayers for Rive’s safety. Sometime later she slipped out of the chapel and stole to a window, where she could peer through a tiny opening in the drape. It was still early morning and she had just taken up her station when she saw a contingent of French troops shuffle down the street.
They were a rag-tag group, hardly more than a few dozen. She scanned each face, hoping Rive would be among them, and had to swallow her disappointment when he was not. Still, it pained her to observe their listless gaits and hunched shoulders. Some trailed their muskets in the dust, and others used them as improvised walking sticks. They had an unmistakable air of defeat. Whatever had occurred, it boded ill for the city.
People left their homes and rushed into the road to cluster around the soldiers. She watched the brief exchanges and, unable to bear the suspense any longer, raced out to join them.
“You, there,” she accosted a young soldier. His uniform was caked in mud, his head wrapped in a blood-stained bandage. “What news do you bring?”
“Nothing good, I fear. The British have gained the heights above the Anse–au-Foulon and are routing the French forces. Everything is collapsing. Many of our men are falling back into the city. There have been hundreds captured, even more killed. The enemy is demanding immediate surrender. We shall try to hold out a day or two longer, but they are inside the gates. Without reinforcements, we have too few men to stave off another attack. I am sorry, Madame. It is indeed a dark day for France.” His eyes filled with tears and he turned away to rejoin his weary comrades.
* * * *
Rive’s first impression was of a pair of badly scuffed black boots. Squinting, he cast his eyes over leggings and a sturdy chest draped in a crimson jacket. Lying on his side on the whaleboat’s hard wooden planking, he judged himself to be a mere two feet from the man who was ostensibly guarding him. No other soldiers remained in the boat, and he could spot none at the base of the cliff. In the near distance, he heard the roar of cannon and musket fire and guessed the battle for Quebec had already begun. If he were to join in, it must be soon.
A rudimentary plan formed in his mind, and he had no time to tinker with its implementation. In one swift movement, he reached out and grabbed the guard by his ankles, throwing all the strength he possessed into thrusting the seated man backward and off his perch. Before the sentry could recover, Rive snatched his musket and drove the stock into the hapless guard’s forehead.
Rive tore off his red jacket and rubbed the back of his head. “You might say I evened the score with that one.” He grabbed the musket and jumped out of the whaleboat beached at the base of the cliff.
The sounds of battle erupted from above. It seemed certain that the French had their backs to the city while they faced the e
nemy across the wide plain. Quebec City lay some distance east. To climb the cliff here would put him in the middle of the British lines. Therefore, he ran along the rocky shore until he judged his own forces occupied the land above. He began to climb and could only hope he would find the French engaged in a victorious rout of the enemy.
When he pulled himself over the crest of the cliff, his hopes died. Glancing eastward, he saw a force of British frigates extending from Quebec to the Beauport fortifications. The sound was intense, as though they were firing every gun.
What he witnessed before him dismayed him further; the French could not hold their ground. White clad soldiers dotted a torn and scarred earth and lay like the last remnants of snow on a barren field. Straight ahead were the brilliant red coats of the British army. Musket fire crackled from the woods, stalling the enemy’s advance. But when the smoke cleared, they were once again on the move, drawing closer to the city. It lay all but defenseless. Dashing into the fray, Rive did his best to rally the men around him, a decent-sized company of militia. He could not see General Montcalm but hoped he was somewhere on the plain with enough troops to turn the tide in France’s favor.
Chapter 34
Clouds as dull as aged pewter scudded across a leaden sky. The battle had been raging all day with little information finding its way to Catherine and the nuns. By evening, news—most if it disastrous—had spread. Everyone who could mobilize some form of transport removed themselves as far from the advancing British army as possible. It was a disorganized exodus punctuated by occasional shouts and the creak of carriages lurching under heavy loads. Catherine was grateful that the St. Clairs had escaped earlier. She doubted André’s heart could have withstood the strain of a French defeat.
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