French and English: A Story of the Struggle in America

"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 a soldier fit to take command. But the Marquis-how goes it with him?"

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

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

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

"He knows, then?"

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

"And what said he?"

"That it was well; that he should not live to see the surrender of Quebec; 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 no one now to lead or direct them. You know, my brother, that the brave Senezergues lies mortally wounded. He might have taken the command; but now we have none fit for it. You have seen what is passing without the city; tell me of it! What does the Governor? They say that when the battle was fought he had not yet appeared upon the scene of action."

"No," answered the Abbe bitterly, "he had not. Yet he had had notice four hours before the fighting commenced, and was nearer than the Marquis, 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 claim credit if the day is won, to throw the blame upon others if fortune frowns. He is saying now that it was a deplorable mistake on Montcalm's part to attack before he had joined issues with him; as though 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 the redoubt at the head of the bridge of boats across the St. Charles, and so completely are they cowed and terrified that it was all that a few of the cooler-headed ones of us could do to prevent the men from cutting in pieces the bridge itself, and thus cutting off the retreat 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 of fighting going on. The Canadians, who in the open field show themselves so useless, are redeeming their character now. They have spread themselves over the low-lying lands by the river, hiding in bushes and coverts, and shooting down the English in a fashion which they little relish. Those fierce Highlanders suffer the most from this sort of warfare, for they always throw away their muskets before they charge, and so they have no weapon that is of any service against a hidden marksman in the bushes. But all this, though it may harass the English, does not affect the issue of the day. We have suffered a crushing defeat, although the number of the slain is not excessive. It remains now to be settled whether we accept this defeat as final, or whether we yet try to make a stand for 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 not yet lost. It is not lost; it might well be saved. And yet what think you of this? They say that within the hornwork the Governor and the Intendant were closeted together drafting the terms of capitulation of the whole colony, ready to submit to the English General!"

"So soon?"

"So they say. I know not if it be altogether true, but all is confusion worse confounded yonder. The soldiers are pouring back to their camp at Beauport in a perfect fever of panic. I heard that Bigot would have tried to muster and lead them against the enemy once more, and that the Governor gave his sanction, but that the officers would not second the suggestion. I think all feel that with only Vaudreuil to lead fighting is hopeless. He knows not his own mind two minutes together; he agrees always with the last speaker. He is always terrified in the moment of real crisis and peril. His bluster and gasconade desert him, and leave him in pitiful case."

"What, then, is to be done?"

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

Madame Drucour drew the Abbe softly into the room where the dying man lay. Montcalm's eyes opened as he heard them approach. At the sight 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 and rout, Montcalm listening to every word with the keenest interest and attention.

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

"He was still at the hornwork when I left," answered the Abbe; "but many were clamouring around him, declaring that the place would be carried by assault almost immediately, and all of them cut to pieces without quarter; and that they had better surrender the city and colony at once than lose all their lives in an unavailing struggle."

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 much alarmed and disturbed. He is preparing to return to his own quarters upon the Beauport road, and will there hold a council as to the next step to be taken. It was he who asked me to go back to the city and see you, my General, and ask what advice you have for us. We are in a sore strait, and there seems none to advise us; but any word that comes from you will have its weight with the army."

Montcalm lay silent a long while. Physical weakness made speaking difficult, and his mind no longer worked with the lightning quickness of old days. He seemed to find some slight difficulty in bringing it down to the affairs of earthly battles and struggles.

"Tell the Governor," he said at last, speaking faint and low, "that there is a threefold choice before him; and that though were I at the head of the army, I should say, Fight, I do not offer him counsel to do so; I only tell him the alternatives. The first of these is to fight-to join forces with Ramesay's garrison and the sailors from the batteries here, and to gather in all the outlying Canadians and Indians of the neighbourhood. With such an army as could be quickly gathered, and by acting in concert with Bougainville from Cap Rouge, there is at least a very fair chance of vanquishing the foe in open fight. The next alternative is for him to retire upon Jacques Cartier, leaving Quebec with an efficient garrison, and from there to harass the enemy, cut off supplies, and otherwise prolong the siege till the approach of winter forces them to take to their ships and go. The third is to give up the colony to English rule. Let the Governor and his council take their choice of these three plans, for there is no other."

"I will take the message myself," said the Abbe, pressing the hand of 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 He receive your soul when He shall have called it! I shall pray for the repose of your gallant spirit. Peace be with you. Farewell."

Montcalm was too much exhausted for further speech, but he made a slight gesture with his hand, and the Abbe left him, Madame Drucour stealing 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; "I shall be safe enough, since my errand is to the Governor. Monsieur de Vaudreuil is never known to put himself into danger. Oh that we had a Governor who thought first of the honour of France and second of his own safety!"

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

"We have; but where is the General to lead us? Nevertheless, we may still 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 aunt here as to what the council decides.

"I may find work over yonder with the sick and wounded. I may not return tonight. But Colin shall come back with news, and you will know that all is well with me."

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

The Bishop, who in spite of his feebleness had been abroad in the city, 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 in need of the last rites of the Church.

It was a solemn scene which that dim room witnessed as the night waned and the approach of dawn came on. Without all was confusion, hurry, anxiety, and distress, none seeking sleep in their beds, all eagerly awaiting tidings from the army-the news which should tell them whether they were to be gallantly supported or left to their fate. Within there was the deep hush which the approach of death seems ever to bring. The short, gasping confession had been made; the Bishop stood over the dying man, making the sign and speaking the words of absolution. A young priest from the Seminary and an acolyte had been found to assist at the solemn rite; and Madame Drucour, with Corinne and the faithful old servant, knelt at the farther end of the room, striving to keep back their tears.

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

"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle! Corinne!" cried a familiar voice in a subdued 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 and yours 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 been blown off, and a shell had fallen through, breaking almost every floor. Yet the voice seemed to come from a window within that house, and in the dim and uncertain moonlight she saw a head-two heads-protruding from a first-floor window. Next minute she was further astonished by the rapid descent of three figures, who seemed to clamber like monkeys down the shattered wall; and behold the three merry midshipmen were grouped around her, holding her hands and seeking to cheer her.

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

"No, but so nearly taken that we thought to steal a march. We have been working since evening in dragging up cannon upon the plain yonder, where the army is intrenching itself; and when our task was done, we felt a great wish to see what was passing in the city where we had many friends, and which we knew so well. In the confusion 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 we tried. But we cared little for that. There are plenty of empty houses to hide in, and we had bread in our pockets. We heard of you and Madame Drucour, and have been watching and waiting in hopes of seeing you. But, Corinne, are you weeping because the English are about to take Quebec? We looked upon you as an ally and a compatriot."

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

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

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