French and English: A Story of the Struggle in America

by Evelyn Everett-Green

  Chapter 2: Surrender.

  "Is the General yet living?" asked the Abbe an hour or two later,entering the house to which he knew his friend had been carried, alook of concentrated anxiety upon his face.

  Madame Drucour had heard his step even before she heard his voice.She was already beside him, her face pale and her eyes red withweeping.

  "Ah, my brother," she cried, "thou art come to tell us that all islost!"

  "All would not be lost if the army had a head!" answered the Abbe,with subdued energy. "We could outnumber the enemy yet if we had asoldier fit to take command. But the Marquis--how goes it withhim?"

  "He lives yet, but he is sinking fast. He will never see the lightof another day!" and the tears which had gathered in MadameDrucour's eyes fell over her cheeks.

  "My poor friend!" sighed the Abbe; and after a pause of musing headded, "Is he conscious?"

  "Yes; he came to himself a short while ago, and insisted uponknowing how it was with him."

  "He knows, then?"

  "Yes--Victor Arnoux told him the truth: but I think he knew itbefore."

  "And what said he?"

  "That it was well; that he should not live to see the surrender ofQuebec; that his work was done on earth, and he ready to depart."

  "Then he thinks the cause is lost?"

  "Those are the words he used. Perchance he knows that there is noone now to lead or direct them. You know, my brother, that thebrave Senezergues lies mortally wounded. He might have taken thecommand; but now we have none fit for it. You have seen what ispassing without the city; tell me of it! What does the Governor?They say that when the battle was fought he had not yet appearedupon the scene of action."

  "No," answered the Abbe bitterly, "he had not. Yet he had had noticefour hours before the fighting commenced, and was nearer than theMarquis, who brought the army up. He came too late to do anything.He is always late. He comes up at the end of everything--to claimcredit if the day is won, to throw the blame upon others if fortunefrowns. He is saying now that it was a deplorable mistake onMontcalm's part to attack before he had joined issues with him; asthough his raw Canadians had ever done any good in the open field!"

  "You have seen him, then?"

  "Yes; he and a part of the routed army have taken possession of theredoubt at the head of the bridge of boats across the St. Charles,and so completely are they cowed and terrified that it was all thata few of the cooler-headed ones of us could do to prevent the menfrom cutting in pieces the bridge itself, and thus cutting off theretreat of half the army, who are still pouring back over it,pursued by the English."

  "Then the fight is not yet over?"

  "The battle is, but not the rout. And yet there is a sort offighting going on. The Canadians, who in the open field showthemselves so useless, are redeeming their character now. They havespread themselves over the low-lying lands by the river, hiding inbushes and coverts, and shooting down the English in a fashionwhich they little relish. Those fierce Highlanders suffer the mostfrom this sort of warfare, for they always throw away their musketsbefore they charge, and so they have no weapon that is of anyservice against a hidden marksman in the bushes. But all this,though it may harass the English, does not affect the issue of theday. We have suffered a crushing defeat, although the number of theslain is not excessive. It remains now to be settled whether weaccept this defeat as final, or whether we yet try to make a standfor the honour of our country and the salvation of Canada."

  "Ah, my brother, if Quebec goes, Canada goes!"

  "That is so; but there are many of us who say that Quebec is notyet lost. It is not lost; it might well be saved. And yet whatthink you of this? They say that within the hornwork the Governorand the Intendant were closeted together drafting the terms ofcapitulation of the whole colony, ready to submit to the EnglishGeneral!"

  "So soon?"

  "So they say. I know not if it be altogether true, but all isconfusion worse confounded yonder. The soldiers are pouring back totheir camp at Beauport in a perfect fever of panic. I heard thatBigot would have tried to muster and lead them against the enemyonce more, and that the Governor gave his sanction, but that theofficers would not second the suggestion. I think all feel thatwith only Vaudreuil to lead fighting is hopeless. He knows not hisown mind two minutes together; he agrees always with the lastspeaker. He is always terrified in the moment of real crisis andperil. His bluster and gasconade desert him, and leave him inpitiful case."

  "What, then, is to be done?"

  "That I cannot tell. I have come with a message from the Governorto the Marquis. He sent me to ascertain his condition, and ifpossible to ask counsel of him. His word would still carry weight.If he is sufficiently himself to listen for a few minutes to what Ihave to say, I would then put the case and ask his opinion uponit."

  Madame Drucour drew the Abbe softly into the room where the dyingman lay. Montcalm's eyes opened as he heard them approach. At thesight of the Abbe he seemed to try to rouse himself.

  "You have brought news! Tell me, how goes it?"

  The Abbe repeated in some detail the after events of the battle androut, Montcalm listening to every word with the keenest interestand attention.

  "Where is the Governor?" he asked at the conclusion of thenarrative.

  "He was still at the hornwork when I left," answered the Abbe; "butmany were clamouring around him, declaring that the place would becarried by assault almost immediately, and all of them cut topieces without quarter; and that they had better surrender the cityand colony at once than lose all their lives in an unavailingstruggle."

  Montcalm's face, upon which death had already set its seal,remained immovably calm and tranquil.

  "What said the Governor?" he asked.

  "He appeared to agree with this view of the case. He is muchalarmed and disturbed. He is preparing to return to his ownquarters upon the Beauport road, and will there hold a council asto the next step to be taken. It was he who asked me to go back tothe city and see you, my General, and ask what advice you have forus. We are in a sore strait, and there seems none to advise us; butany word that comes from you will have its weight with the army."

  Montcalm lay silent a long while. Physical weakness made speakingdifficult, and his mind no longer worked with the lightningquickness of old days. He seemed to find some slight difficulty inbringing it down to the affairs of earthly battles and struggles.

  "Tell the Governor," he said at last, speaking faint and low, "thatthere is a threefold choice before him; and that though were I atthe head of the army, I should say, Fight, I do not offer himcounsel to do so; I only tell him the alternatives. The first ofthese is to fight--to join forces with Ramesay's garrison and thesailors from the batteries here, and to gather in all the outlyingCanadians and Indians of the neighbourhood. With such an army ascould be quickly gathered, and by acting in concert withBougainville from Cap Rouge, there is at least a very fair chanceof vanquishing the foe in open fight. The next alternative is forhim to retire upon Jacques Cartier, leaving Quebec with anefficient garrison, and from there to harass the enemy, cut offsupplies, and otherwise prolong the siege till the approach ofwinter forces them to take to their ships and go. The third is togive up the colony to English rule. Let the Governor and hiscouncil take their choice of these three plans, for there is noother."

  "I will take the message myself," said the Abbe, pressing the handof his friend, and stooping to imprint a kiss on the pale brow."God be with you, my friend, in the hour of trial; and may Hereceive your soul when He shall have called it! I shall pray forthe repose of your gallant spirit. Peace be with you. Farewell."

  Montcalm was too much exhausted for further speech, but he made aslight gesture with his hand, and the Abbe left him, Madame Drucourstealing after him for a last word.

  "You will not run into peril yourself, my brother?"

  "Nay," he answered, with a touch of bitterness in his tone; "Ishall be safe enough, since my errand is to the Governor. Monsieurde Vaudreuil is never known to pu
t himself into danger. Oh that wehad a Governor who thought first of the honour of France and secondof his own safety!"

  "But surely they will fight! they will not give up Quebec without astruggle? Look at the walls and ramparts, untouched and impregnableas ever! Our town is shattered, it is true, but that has long beendone. Why should we give up the city because a few hundred soldiershave been slain upon the Plains of Abraham? We have still a greatarmy to fight with."

  "We have; but where is the General to lead us? Nevertheless, we maystill show ourselves men.

  "Colin, my boy, is that thou? What, dost thou want to come with me?So be it, then. Thou shalt do so, and take back word to thy aunthere as to what the council decides.

  "I may find work over yonder with the sick and wounded. I may notreturn tonight. But Colin shall come back with news, and you willknow that all is well with me."

  They went together, and Madame Drucour returned to her watch besidethe sick and dying man. The surgeon stole in and out as his otherduties permitted him, and Corinne shared the watch beside the couchwhere Montcalm lay.

  The Bishop, who in spite of his feebleness had been abroad in thecity, seeking to console the dying and to cheer up the garrison,depressed by rumours of the flight of the army, came in at dusk,exhausted and depressed himself, to find another dying soldier inneed of the last rites of the Church.

  It was a solemn scene which that dim room witnessed as the nightwaned and the approach of dawn came on. Without all was confusion,hurry, anxiety, and distress, none seeking sleep in their beds, alleagerly awaiting tidings from the army--the news which should tellthem whether they were to be gallantly supported or left to theirfate. Within there was the deep hush which the approach of deathseems ever to bring. The short, gasping confession had been made;the Bishop stood over the dying man, making the sign and speakingthe words of absolution. A young priest from the Seminary and anacolyte had been found to assist at the solemn rite; and MadameDrucour, with Corinne and the faithful old servant, knelt at thefarther end of the room, striving to keep back their tears.

  It was over at last. The words of commendation had been spoken; thelast labouring breath had been drawn. Corinne, half choking withher emotion, and feeling as though she would be stifled if she wereto remain longer in that chamber of death, silently glided away outof the room into the open air; and once there, she broke into wildweeping, the result of the long tension of her pent-up emotion.

  "Mademoiselle, mademoiselle! Corinne!" cried a familiar voice in asubdued tone from some place not far distant. "Is it indeed you?Nay, do not weep; there is not need. We shall not harm you; you andyours shall be safe whatever comes to pass in Quebec."

  Corinne gazed about her in astonishment. Who was speaking to her?The next house to theirs was deserted, because the roof had beenblown off, and a shell had fallen through, breaking almost everyfloor. Yet the voice seemed to come from a window within thathouse, and in the dim and uncertain moonlight she saw a head--twoheads--protruding from a first-floor window. Next minute she wasfurther astonished by the rapid descent of three figures, whoseemed to clamber like monkeys down the shattered wall; and beholdthe three merry midshipmen were grouped around her, holding herhands and seeking to cheer her.

  "Peter--Paul--Arthur! How came you here? Surely Quebec is not takenyet!"

  "No, but so nearly taken that we thought to steal a march. We havebeen working since evening in dragging up cannon upon the plainyonder, where the army is intrenching itself; and when our task wasdone, we felt a great wish to see what was passing in the citywhere we had many friends, and which we knew so well. In theconfusion it was not difficult to get in under cover of the dusk;but we found we could not get out again--at least not when wetried. But we cared little for that. There are plenty of emptyhouses to hide in, and we had bread in our pockets. We heard of youand Madame Drucour, and have been watching and waiting in hopes ofseeing you. But, Corinne, are you weeping because the English areabout to take Quebec? We looked upon you as an ally and acompatriot."

  "I am weeping because our good General, the Marquis of Montcalm, isjust dead," answered Corinne, wiping her eyes. "He lies withinthose walls, sleeping the last sleep. He will never see his wifeand his mother and his mill at Candiac again. And he has talked somuch to us of all those things, and of the children he loved sowell. Oh, war is a cruel thing! Pray Heaven it may come to a speedyend!"

  The sound of flying footsteps up the street caused the midshipmento look at one another, and meditate a return to their hidingplace; but Corinne said:

  "That is Colin's step; he comes back with news."

  And, in truth, the next moment Colin stood amongst them, so full ofexcitement himself that the sudden appearance of the midshipmen,whom he instantly recognized, did not at once strike him withastonishment.

  "I will never call myself a Frenchman again!" he panted, his eyesgleaming with wrath. "What think you, Corinne? They are flying fromthe camp at Beauport as sheep fly before wolves. It is no retreat,it is a rout--a disgraceful, abominable, causeless rout. There isno enemy near. The English are up on the heights, intrenchingthemselves no doubt, and resting after their gallant enterprise.Our uncle has exhausted his powers of persuasion. He has shown themagain and again how strong is their position still, how little itwould even now take of courage and resolution to save Quebec andthe colony. They will not listen--they will not hear. They areflying like chaff before the wind. They are leaving everythingbehind in their mad haste to be gone! And the Indians will swoopdown directly the camp is empty, and take everything. Oh, it is adisgrace, a disgrace! Not even to take a night to think it over. Ifthe English did but know, and sent out a few hundred soldiers uponthem, they might cut the whole army to pieces in a few hours!"

  Colin, Colin! oh, is it so?"

  "It is indeed; and all that the men say when one speaks to them isthat Wolfe and his soldiers are too much for them. They will notstay to be hacked to pieces."

  "Alas!" said Paul gravely, "the gallant Wolfe is no more. If youhave lost your General, so have we. Wolfe fell early in the battle,and Moncton is dangerously wounded. We are robbed of our two firstofficers; but for all that we will have Quebec and Canada."

  "And you deserve it!" answered Colin, fired with generousenthusiasm. "If our French soldiers and officers fling away theircourage and their honour, let us welcome those who have both, andwho are masters worthy to be served and loved."

  It was a strange, sad day. The confusion and despair in the townwere pitiful to behold. With the first light of day it was seenthat the camp at Beauport was still standing, and hope sprang up inthe hearts of the townsfolk. But when, shortly after, it was knownthat though standing it had been abandoned, and that the night hadseen the indiscriminate flight of the whole army, the deepestdespondency fell upon the town. This feeling was not lessened whenit began to be whispered that the Chevalier Ramesay had receivedinstructions from the Governor not to attempt to hold the town inface of a threatened assault, but to wait till the scantyprovisions had been exhausted, and then raise the white flag andobtain the best terms he could.

  The Abbe had stayed to bring this last letter from the flyingGovernor. His own soul was stirred to the depths by indignation andsorrow. It seemed to him the crowning disgrace in a disgracefulflight. Ramesay had sought speech with the Marquis a few hoursbefore his death, but could obtain no advice from him. He had donewith worldly things, and could only wish well to those who wereleft behind. It was a desperate state of affairs, and all the townknew it.

  So great was the confusion that no workman could be found to make acoffin for the body of the dead General. The old servant of theUrsulines, faithful to the last, went hither and thither andcollected a few planks and nails, and the midshipmen and Colinassisted her to nail together a rude coffin in which the body waspresently laid. It must be buried that same evening, for none knewfrom hour to hour what was in store for the city. But no pomp orcircumstance could attend the funeral; and indeed no one could befound to dig a grave.

  Y
et a fitting grave was found in the chapel of the Ursulineconvent, now little more than a ruin. An exploding shell had made adeep cavity in the floor not far from the altar, and this hollowwas soon shaped into the similitude of a grave.

  No bells tolled or cannon fired as the mournful procession filedthrough the streets; yet it did not lack a certain sombre dignity.The Bishop and the Abbe headed it, with a few priests from theCathedral in attendance. Ramesay was there with his officers, andMadame Drucour, with Colin and Corinne, the three midshipmen (whono longer feared to show themselves), and the old servant, broughtup the rear. As the cortege passed through the streets, numbers ofcitizens fell in behind, together with women and children, weepingfor one whose name was dear, and who they all averred would havesaved their city had he lived.

  Torches were lit before the procession filed into the ruinedchurch, and sobs mingled with the chants that were rehearsed overthe grave.

  "Alas, alas!" sobbed the women; "we have buried our hopes in thatgrave. We have lost our General; we shall lose our city, and allCanada will follow."

  "It is no wonder they feel so," said the Abbe to his sister thatnight; "we are abandoned by the army that might have saved us. Wehave scarce provision to last a week, even on half rations--so Iheard today--and all the merchants and townspeople are forimmediate capitulation. It is possible that when our army findsitself at Jacques Cartier, thirty miles from the scene of danger,and in an impregnable position, they may rally their courage andreconsider the situation; but unless I am greatly mistaken, thatresolution will come too late--Quebec will have alreadysurrendered."

  Things had come to a desperate pass. Only one out of all theofficers was in favour of resistance; the rest declared itimpossible. The English on the heights were intrenched, and werepushing their trenches nearer and nearer. Though Wolfe was dead andMoncton disabled, Townshend, the third in command, was acting withthe energy and resolve which had characterized the expedition allalong.

  Three days after Montcalm's death matters reached a crisis. Troopswere seen approaching the Palace Gate from the St. Charles meadows,and the ships of war were slowly nearing the town with evidentintention of opening fire.

  All the city was in a state of uncontrollable fright and agitation.The officers crowded round Ramesay's quarters declaring that theycould do nothing with their men; that the men said they knew thatorders had been given to avoid assault, and that they werethreatening to carry their guns back to the arsenal, and desertbodily to the English. So disgusted and disheartened were they bythe action of the Governor and his army that they had no fight leftin them.

  "Raise the white flag then!" said the Commander, in brief, sterntones.

  Was it a cheer or a groan which arose from the town as the symbolof surrender was seen floating above the battlements? Once it wastorn down by some more ardent spirit; but again it floated high,and the people gazing up at it gesticulated and wept, thoughwhether for sorrow or joy they could scarce have told themselves.

  It was known that a messenger had gone forth to confer with theEnglish commander, and the negotiations were drawn out hour afterhour, in the hope of some succour from without; till a sternmessage came back that if they were not signed within an hour, theassault would be ordered.

  Then Ramesay signed, having secured more favourable terms than hehad dared to hope for. The capitulation of Quebec was anaccomplished fact!

  Yet even whilst the people were still thronging the streets andopen places by the gateway, a band of weary horsemen were seenspurring towards the city. As the foremost entered he cried:

  "Courage, good friends, courage! Help is at hand! The army ismarching to your defence! Quebec shall yet be saved!"

  Alas! Quebec had fallen. Sobs and groans went up from the women,and curses from the men. There was a rush for Ramesay's quarters totell the news and ask what could be done; but the Chevalier's facewas stern and hard.

  "Nothing can be done," he said. "You have had your own will. Youhave signed away your city. Honour will not permit me to break myword. Besides, how can we trust an army which has basely desertedus once? If they would not attack the foe before he had had time tointrench and fortify himself, how can we hope that they will havecourage to brave the assault of a formidable intrenched campdefended by artillery?

  "Go back whence you came, sirs, and tell the Governor, if you will,that his cowardice and desertion have done their work. Quebec islost to France for ever, and Canada will follow. He could havesaved it four days ago had he had the heart of a soldier or thehead of a statesman; now it is lost irrevocably!"