by Oliver North
At this, Captain Morgan grabs my reloaded rifle and shoots the officer through the head.
As the British troops dragged their dead officer back through the portal to the other side of the barricade, all hell breaks loose.
Until this point in the battle I saw so many of my friends in front, beside, and behind me killed and wounded, I was quite convinced my prayers for protection3 were being answered. They were. But not the way I expected.
Second Barricade, Rue du Sault-au-Matelot,
Lower Town, Quebec City, Canada
7:30 a.m., Sunday, December 31st, 1775
I didn’t see the man who shot me.
I did see the men who, within a matter of minutes, killed Captain Hendricks, wounded Lieutenant Steele, and killed my friend, 1st Lt. William Humphrey. They were all hit by fire from the second-story shooters we didn’t even know were there until they opened fire.
William and I were positioning a scaling ladder against the barricade so Captain Morgan could lead yet another Forlorn Hope over the barricade when a British ball fired from just a few feet over our heads struck William in the chest and he dropped into the snow.
I grabbed him and dragged him back about fifty feet where I thought he would be safer and propped him in the shelter of a doorway beneath a weathered sign, “Duquesne Fur Company.”
As I bent over him with my back to the barrier, I was hit from behind, knocking me face down atop William. For an instant it felt like I was hit twice—once under my right arm and by another projectile on the right side of my head. I tried to rise off William and realized my right arm would not work and I was becoming very weak.
As I began to lose consciousness, I remember saying out loud, “Dear Lord Jesus, save me.” And then, black.
I later learned the Quebec “Battle in the Blizzard” was over by 9:00 a.m., New Year’s Eve, 1775. By then 454 of us had been killed or captured. I still thank God I was not among them.
Duquesne Fur Company, Rue du Sault-au-Matelot,
Quebec City, Canada
Sunday, December 31st, 1775
My next conscious moment, I felt the door beside me open and two strong hands roll me off William’s body and begin dragging me inside on my back by the collar of my dead brother’s cloak.
It was dark. A single lantern on the far side of what seems to be a large room is the only light—too little for me to see who has come to my aid. But when my rescuer says in English with a slight French accent, “I am sorry for hurting you,” I realize it is a woman. As she closes the door, I can see William’s body, covered with snow and she asks, “Can you walk?”
“I will try. Please help me up.”
She reaches down, sees all the blood on the right side of my clothing, and uses my left hand to pull me up to a sitting position. She then goes behind me, kneels, puts her head beneath my left arm and gently as possible helps me stand.
As we start shuffling toward the lantern she says, “We must hide you. The British are coming down the street searching for American soldiers who have taken refuge in these buildings.”
When we get to the far side of the large room, she opens another door and I can feel warmth.
To my surprise, the interior is a well-lighted, spacious, multi-room apartment with windows, paneled walls, carpets, and paintings on the walls. As we pass through a hallway into what appears to be an office or library, she asks, “If I place you on the chair near the desk, can you hold on for a moment?”
I can only nod my head at this point for fear of passing out. She gently sits me down and pulls the draperies over the windows. She then goes to a bookcase and pushes a book on the middle shelf. I can hear a quiet “click” and the bookcase pivots open to reveal another small room with a bed and a chair in it and says, “My father built this years ago for a time such as this.”
As she helps me up and into bed, she says, “I will be right back after the search party leaves. I know you must be in pain.” When I’m prone, she strikes a match, lights a lantern on the table next to the bed, and hands me a damp towel with the distinct scent of witch hazel. “Your head wound is beginning to bleed again. Hold this against it until I return. There is a cup of boiled water on the table and a chamber pot beneath the bed.”
She goes to the rotating bookcase, points to a button on the wall and says, “I must clean up the drops of your blood leading from the front door to here. If the British take me away for questioning, this is how you open it.” She then locked me inside.
Alone, I try to do an assessment of my injuries but am quickly overwhelmed with pain and fatigue. Just before I doze off, I look at my watch: 11:15. I recall thinking William and I were gunned down before 8:00 a.m.
I’m suddenly grateful not to have bled or frozen to death. And I say to myself, Thank You, Lord, for keeping me alive and for . . . Only then did it occur to me, I don’t even know the name of the beautiful angel with the dark hair.
The heavy banging awakened me, disoriented. The first thing I did was check my watch and suddenly realize my vision is blurred. By closing my right eye, I can see the hands of my watch. It looks like 1:25. Is it afternoon or morning?
Now, there are voices getting closer.
Man’s voice: (A British officer?) “Governor Carleton insists we thoroughly search every building for rebels, alive or dead. Did you provide refuge for the one at the front of the warehouse?”
Female voice: (My dark-haired angel?) “No, sir. He was there, dead when I first opened the door after all the shooting stopped. Will someone be coming to claim his body?”
Man’s voice: “Yes. We’re sending rebel prisoners under guard to fetch their dead comrades as soon as possible. Probably this afternoon. Looks to me like looters have already been through his pockets. We’re arresting looters. Somebody got his shoes, gloves, and hat. Was it you?”
Female voice: “No sir. This is a Christian home.”
Man’s voice: “Oh yeah, we know all about you half-breed Indian Christians. Is your father here?”
Female voice: “No sir, but now the shooting has stopped, I hope he will be here tonight.”
Man’s voice: “Where is he?”
Female voice: “He is on his way back here from Fort Niagara.”
Male voice: “Whose side is he on today?”
Female voice: “You must know, sir, he’s been loyal to the Crown since the Treaty of Paris.”
Male voice: “Oh, sure. (loudly) Sergeant Wilcox! Find anything out there?”
“No sir, nothing out in the warehouse but eleven bales of furs. The bills of lading on all of ’em say ‘Consigned to Hudson Bay Company.’ You want us to check the roof, sir?”
Male voice: “No. We can see the roof from the building across the street.”
Male voice: (quieter) “Now little princess, if you get lonely tonight, just come see me and I’ll keep you warm.”
I heard the door separating the warehouse and the apartment close.
A few minutes later the bookcase clicks and pivots open. She enters carrying a lantern, a large green bottle full of a clear liquid, and a small orange-colored glass bottle with a cork stopper and says cheerfully, “Good to see you are still alive. My name is Marie Sirois. What is your name?”
“Nathanael Newman.”
“Good. Nathanael. That’s a good Christian name. Are you a believer?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Certainly. And we can talk about all that and more after we get you cleaned up so we know how badly you are hurt.” At this, she takes the stopper out of one of the bottle, pours some of it into the cup of boiled water, and says, “Please drink this. It’s laudanum. It will ease your pain so we can try walking again. I will be back in a few minutes after it takes effect so we can try getting you up. I’m going to stoke the stove in the bathing room.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. She
was back in fifteen minutes and by then the laudanum had taken effect and I was relatively pain free. Helping me as she had before, we shuffled to a door at the end of the hall. When she opened it, I was stunned.
There in a very warm, well lighted, beautifully tiled room is what appears to be the bottom half of a beautifully crafted, wooden cask—about the size that would hold at least a tun of good wine or spirits.4 A woodstove near the eastern wall is glowing red and a large iron pot atop one of the burners is steaming.
She helps me sit on a wooden chair beside the large cask which I can now see, is better than half full of warm water and says, “You do not seem to be bleeding right now, but we need to remove your clothing so I can see your wounds. May I cut off your cloak?”
“Marie, is there any way we can do this without destroying this cloak? It belonged to my brother who was killed near Concord, Massachusetts, last April. It has served me well. If there is any way we can save it, I would be grateful.”
She looked straight at me and for the first time, I noticed her green eyes. Then, she said, “Nathanael, I will try to do as you wish. But you will have to tell me when the price you are paying in pain is greater than the value of something you cannot take with you where we all want to go.”
It took ten minutes of excruciating pain for her to remove the cloak in one piece. In the process she dipped several towels into the cask beside us, soaking them with warm water, softening clotted blood. Once the cloak was off, she said, “I must cut off your wool vest and your hunting shirt. There is no way you can raise your right arm to remove them.” She used shears to cut them straight up my back and gently pulled them off my front to make them easier to repair. From my vest she removed my pocket watch and set it on a table beside the towels.
She was silent for a few minutes, examining my wounds while gently wiping away caked blood with warm, wet towels, moistened in what she called “the tub,” beside us.
Finally, she said, “There is an entry wound in your right armpit. It appears the projectile traveled upwards through your shoulder and exited your neck between your collarbone and trapezius muscle then struck your skull immediately in front of your right ear.
“The ball—or whatever it is—seems to be lodged beneath your scalp about two inches above your right ear. There is so much swelling around it I don’t think it would be wise to do anything with it tonight because it may have broken your skull. I cannot tell how much damage has been done inside your shoulder.
“Given what I can observe about the trajectory of the projectile, it seems to have missed your lung and your carotid artery. The good news is, there is no longer much external bleeding. If I’m right and there is no internal bleeding, you should be alive in the morning. Now, Nathanael, how are you feeling?”
I told the truth. “Marie, I’m not in much pain; a bit dizzy; my right eye doesn’t seem to focus well; a little nauseous—that all may be the laudanum. But what I’m really feeling is absolutely amazed. How do you know all this?”
She smiled and said, “My father is or was a very wise and wealthy man. He encouraged my desire to become a physician so he took me with him on many of his business trips from when I was a little girl, wherever I could meet some of the best doctors in Europe.
“I have not yet been admitted to a medical college on this continent, but I have learned enough to know I don’t know everything. Still, I try to use what I have learned to help others as best I can. And one of the things I know for certain right now, Nathanael Newman, is you smell bad and need a bath.”
I have never met anyone like this before. She is brilliant and she is beautiful. I don’t know how to respond and ask, “What is a bath?”
She chuckles and says, “A bath is when you take off your filthy clothing, get into a ‘tub’ like the one next to you, wash your body and your clothing with Castile soap, rinse off, drain the water, dry off, hang up your clothing to dry, go to bed, and get up in the morning feeling and smelling better.”
My immediate response is, “That sounds good, but I can’t do that with you in this room!”
She laughed again and said, “Well, you are in no shape to do it without me in the room, so let’s get on with it.”
With her help, we did exactly that. She removed my leggin’s and socks, helped me remove my britches, aided me up the step into what she called her “tub,” helped me sit on the seat inside, poured a half cup of what she called “scented, hemp oil Castile soap” into the warm water, and used a sponge to gently wash my wounds.
She then handed me the sponge and said, “Use this to wash ‘below’ with your left hand while I wash your clothing.” She moved around to use a “washboard” built into the sidewall of the tub. She then rinsed the clothing in a sink and hung them up on a wooden rack on the wall.
Finally, she said, “Use your foot to feel the drain-plug in the center of the tub and flip it up with your toes.”
I did as instructed and the water started to drain. “Now, hang on to the edge of the tub with your left hand and stand up.” She then took a bucket half full of clean water, added to it hot water from the pot on the stove, stood on the step, and poured it over my head.
After helping me towel dry, she assisted me in putting on a pair of her father’s trousers and placed my watch in the left front pocket. She used a roll of white linen ticking to wrap my head wound and bandaged the exit wound on the top of my shoulder with a wad of the same material. She then pulled one of her father’s soft cotton shirts on my left arm and gently draped the right arm over my right shoulder to hold the bandage in place.
Finally, she helped me up, guided me down the hallway to her father’s bedroom and assisted me into his bed, covered me with a sheet and warm blankets, and said, “I pray you rest well and beg our Lord to heal you, Nathanael.”
I was asleep in minutes.
Duquesne Fur Company, Rue du Sault-au-Matelot,
Quebec City, Canada
Monday, January 1st, 1776
When I awakened on New Year’s Day, she was asleep on a beautiful beaver fur mat on the floor beside my bed. She was covered by a sheet and a very light-colored mink blanket. By the light of the lantern on the table beside the bed I checked my watch: 4:45.
For better than three weeks this is how we have lived. Each morning she goes out to buy bread and vegetables from a bakery and a grocer down the hill. Rationing means there is very little good meat available though there appears to be an abundance of chicken and occasionally some very good fish.
When she returns, she checks my wounds, blots up any seepage, and changes the dressings. Though the swelling in my neck and head make it painful to chew and swallow, Marie is a magnificent cook and makes delicious soups, so my strength is returning and we have enjoyed many hours talking about every possible subject.
This morning, in the midst of a January blizzard that rivals the one on the day I was wounded, she asked me what an “Adjutant” does in our military. After I explained it to her, she got up, went into her father’s office and returned with a beautiful leather-bound journal with more than 100 pages of lined paper, a silver pen with a gold nib and an inkwell and said, “Here is your next ‘Official Journal’ for our new expedition.”
That night, before bed, I began making entries in “Volume 17” of my chronicle.
Duquesne Fur Company, Rue du Sault-au-Matelot,
Quebec City, Canada
Thursday, February 1st, 1776
My brilliant, beautiful “Doctor Marie” told me this morning my temperature is slightly over 100 degrees and it has been slowly going up every day for a week. Her concern is for an infection in my head since “the small amount of seepage coming from your shoulder wounds do not smell.”
“Tomorrow, I want to see what I can do about finding me some help with this.”
“How?” I ask.
“Well, on my very brief visit to the bakery this morning,
the only other person in the shop was an Indian named Natanis. He fits the description of the Natanis you told me was one of your allies and he happens to be an old, dear friend to my father and me. He said Governor Carlton released him a week after the New Year’s Eve battle. Natanis carries with him a carte blanche5 letter signed by the Governor. He showed it to me. It even has on it the Governor’s Royal and personal seals. That means Natanis can go anywhere he wants.”
At this point in our conversation, Marie reached out and put her hand on top of mine and continued, “Nathanael, if you trust him, I would like to see if Natanis can find us a doctor who can help with whatever kind of infection you have. I don’t want to lose my favorite patient.”
I didn’t move my hand away, but I said, “Let’s think and pray about this overnight and decide in the morning.”
Her response was “Good.” Tonight, for the first time since she saved my life, Marie didn’t sleep beside my bed. She slept beside me.
Duquesne Fur Company, Rue du Sault-au-Matelot,
Quebec City, Canada
Friday, March 1st, 1776
Marie’s idea about connecting with Natanis has proven to be brilliant.
First, our Indian friend found in a nearby village, her father’s retired doctor, Armand Foucault, a physician unquestionably loyal to Marie and her dad.
Second, at Natanis’s urging, Dr. Foucault brought with him his surgical kit. In less than an hour, with Marie serving as his assistant, he sliced open my scalp and removed from my skull, a lead .75-caliber ball, undoubtedly from a British Brown Bess musket.
Third, after the surgery on my head he examined my shoulder, confirmed Marie’s diagnosis it is likely not infected. After gently moving my right arm around some, he said (in French so, Marie translated), “You may very well be correct about this miraculously being only soft tissue damage. I do not feel or hear any ‘crepitation’ in the joint.”