French and English: A Story of the Struggle in America

"It is well to seek to find consolation in time of extremity," said the Abbe, "and I do rejoice very heartily in the knowledge that we have a merciful foe to deal with. If this city is forced to open her gates to the English, I verily believe that no scenes of outrage will disgrace the page of history upon which this day's doings shall be recorded. There is help in that thought at least."

But it was impossible for either Colin or his uncle to remain within doors upon such a day. He insisted that Madame Drucour and Corinne should not adventure themselves beyond the city walls, though he did not condemn them to remain within doors. But he, for his own part, must go forth and see what was befalling without; for the Abbe, in spite of his vows, was half a soldier at heart, and had done some fighting in his young life, and knew the sound of the clash of arms.

He was not going to adventure himself into the battle, or to suffer Colin to do so either; that would be useless. Indeed the boy had no desire to enter the lists against the English, being more than half on their side as it was, although the infection of the feelings of the townspeople rendered it difficult for him exactly to know his own mind.

He and Corinne were alike consumed with an overpowering sense of excitement. It was the thought of the battle about to be waged that filled the minds of both-the imminence of the coming struggle. As for the result, that was less a matter of concern to them. The crisis was the overwhelming consideration in their minds.

The Abbe and Colin had gone. The streets were beginning to fill with excited people. The storm of shot and shell was not falling upon Quebec today. The guns had been directed upon the Beauport camp, to cover the real enterprise being carried on above. Also the river had to be watched and guarded. Everything spoke of a change in tactics. There was a tense feeling in the air as though an electric cloud hung low over the city.

Then came a burst of cheering. Montcalm had been seen spurring on with only a small band of followers over the bridge of the St. Charles towards the scene of danger; and now the army itself was in sight, making its way after him across the bridge and towards the city, through whose streets they must pass to gain unmolested those heights where the English were awaiting them, drawn up in close array.

Montcalm's face was full of anxiety, and yet full of courage, as he returned the plaudits of the citizens. He knew that affairs were serious, but he hoped and believed that he should find but a small detachment of the enemy waiting to receive him. He could not believe that very much had been accomplished in one night. A little resolution and courage and military address, and the foe would be dislodged and driven ignominiously down those precipitous heights which they had scaled with such boldness a few hours before.

It was a fine sight to see the troops pouring in by the Palace Gate, and out again by the gates of St. Louis and St. John-the white uniforms and gleaming bayonets of the battalions of old France, the Canadian militia, and the troops of painted Indians following, cheered by the citizens, reinforced by the garrison, their hearts animated by lust of conquest and an assurance of victory, which assurance was not altogether shared by the citizens themselves, whose scouts had brought in alarming tidings concerning the strength of the English position.

And now the soldiers had all marched through; the last of the bands had disappeared from the streets; the garrison had taken themselves to their own quarters; the men of the town had flocked out of the city in the hope of seeing something of the fight; and the streets were chiefly thronged by anxious women and wondering, wide-eyed children-all crowding together in groups, their faces turned towards those heights above where they knew the struggle was to be fought out.

"Hark to the firing!"

A deep silence fell upon the crowds in the streets-the hush of a breathless expectancy. The rattle of musketry fell upon their ears, and then a sound almost like a cannon shot. It was the volley of the English, delivered with such admirable precision. An involuntary scream arose from many as that sound was heard. Had the English got their artillery up to those inaccessible heights?

But no; there was no further sound of cannonading, only a fierce and continuous fusillade, which told of the battle raging so fiercely up yonder on the heights.

Some women crowded into the churches to offer prayers at the shrines of saint or Virgin; but the majority could not tear themselves away from the streets, nor from the open space near to the gate of St. Louis, by which gate news would most likely enter.

And it did.

How the time went none could say, but it seemed only a short time after the firing had commenced before white-faced scouts from the town, who had gone forth to see the battle, came running back with gestures of terror and despair.

"The English are shooting us down like sheep. The French give way on every side. Their terrible fire mows down our ranks like grass before the scythe! They are charging upon us now! We are scattered and fleeing every way! Alas, alas! the day is lost. Quebec will fall!"

"Lost! it cannot be lost in this time," cried pale-faced women, unable and unwilling to believe. "Where is the Governor? he will come up with the reserves. Where is Bougainville? surely he will fall upon the English rear! Have we not twice the force of the English? We cannot be conquered in this time! it would be a shame to France forever."

So cried the people-one calling one thing, and another another, whilst every fresh scout brought in fresh tidings of disaster. There could be no doubt about it. The French army had been routed at the first onset. Where the fault lay none could tell, but they were flying like chaff before the wind.

Corinne stood close beside her aunt, silent, with dilated eyes, her heart beating almost to suffocation as she sought to hear what was said, and to make out the truth of the thousand wild rumours flying about.

Colin came dashing through the gate. His face was flushed; he had lost his hat; he was too breathless to speak. But he saw Corinne's signal, and came dashing up to them. He flung himself down upon the ground, and struggled for breath.

"O Colin, what have you seen?"

In a few moments more he was able to speak.

"I have seen the battle!" he gasped; "I have seen it all. I could not have believed it would have been fought so soon. I have seen something that these people would rejoice to know, but I shall not tell them. I have seen the fall of General Wolfe!"

Madame Drucour uttered a short exclamation of dismay.

"General Wolfe killed! Colin, art thou sure?"

"Not sure that he is dead, only that he fell, and was carried away by his men. He was heading the charge, as a brave General should. Oh, had you seen how that battle was directed, you could not but have admired him, whether friend or foe! It teaches one what war can be to see such generalship as that."

"He is a great man," said Madame Drucour softly; "I have always maintained that. Pray Heaven his life be spared, for he will be a merciful and gallant victor; and if he fall, we may not meet such generous, chivalrous kindness from others."

"Here come the soldiers!" cried Corinne, who from a little vantage ground could see over the battlements. "Ah, how they run! as though the enemy were at their heels.

"Are you men? are you soldiers? For shame! for shame! To run like sheep when none pursues! Now indeed will I call myself French no longer; I will be a British subject like my mother. It is not willingly that I desert a losing cause; but I cannot bear such poltroonery. When have the English ever fled like this before us? Oh, it is a shame! it is a disgrace!"

"Ah, if you could have seen the English soldiers!" cried Colin, with eager enthusiasm; "I never heard a volley delivered as theirs was! They never wasted a shot. They stood like a rock whilst the French charged across to them, firing all the time. And when they did fire, it was like a cannon shot; and after that, our men seemed to have no spirit left in them. When the smoke of the second volley cleared off, I could scarce believe my eyes. The dead seemed to outnumber the living; and these were flying helter-skelter this way and that!"

"But did not the General strive to rally them?"

"Doubtless he did. Our Marquis is a brave soldier and an able General; but what can one man do? Panic had seized the troops; and if you had heard the sound of cheering from the ranks of the English, and that strange yell from those wild Highlanders as they dashed in pursuit, you would have understood better what the soldiers felt like. They ran like sheep-they are running still. I saw that if I were to have a chance of bringing you the news, I must use all my powers, or I should be jammed in the mass of flying humanity making for the city; and since the English are not very far behind, I had need to make good my retreat."

It was plain that Colin was only a little in advance of a portion of the defeated army, whose soldiers were now flocking back to the city, spreading panic everywhere.

Suddenly there ran through the assembled crowd a murmur which gathered in volume and intensity, and changed to a strange sound as of wailing. Corinne, who had the best view, leaned eagerly forward to see, and her face blanched instantly.

A horseman was coming through the gate, supported on either side by a soldier; his face was deadly white, and blood was streaming from a wound in his breast.

Madame Drucour looked also and uttered a cry:

"Monsieur le Marquis est tue!"

It was indeed Montcalm, shot right through the body, but not absolutely unconscious, though dazed and helpless.

Instantly Madame Drucour had forced a passage through the crowd, and was at his side.

"Bring him this way," she said to those who supported him and led the horse; "he will have the best attention here."

Montcalm seemed to hear the words, and the wail of sorrow which went up from the bystanders. He roused himself, and spoke a few words, faintly and with difficulty.

"It is nothing. You must not be troubled for me, my good friends. It is as it should be-as I would have it."

Then his head drooped forward, and Madame Drucour hurried the soldiers onward to the house where she now lived; Colin running on in advance to give notice of their approach, and if possible to find Victor Arnoux, that the wounded man might receive immediate attention.

The surgeon was luckily on the spot almost at once, and directed the carrying of the Marquis into one of the lower rooms, where they laid him on a couch and brought some stimulant for him to swallow. He was now quite unconscious; and the young surgeon, after looking at the wound, bit his lip and stood in silent thought whilst the necessary things were brought to him.

"Is it dangerous?" asked Madame Drucour, in an anxious whisper, as she looked down at the well-known face.

"It is mortal!" answered Victor, in the same low tone. "He has not twelve hours of life left in him."

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, a look 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 with weeping.

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