French and English: A Story of the Struggle in America

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

"I will never call myself a Frenchman again!" he panted, his eyes gleaming with wrath. "What think you, Corinne? They are flying from the camp at Beauport as sheep fly before wolves. It is no retreat, it is a rout-a disgraceful, abominable, causeless rout. There is no enemy near. The English are up on the heights, intrenching themselves no doubt, and resting after their gallant enterprise. Our uncle has exhausted his powers of persuasion. He has shown them again and again how strong is their position still, how little it would even now take of courage and resolution to save Quebec and the colony. They will not listen-they will not hear. They are flying like chaff before the wind. They are leaving everything behind in their mad haste to be gone! And the Indians will swoop down directly the camp is empty, and take everything. Oh, it is a disgrace, a disgrace! Not even to take a night to think it over. If the English did but know, and sent out a few hundred soldiers upon them, 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 is that Wolfe and his soldiers are too much for them. They will not stay to be hacked to pieces."

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

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

It was a strange, sad day. The confusion and despair in the town were pitiful to behold. With the first light of day it was seen that the camp at Beauport was still standing, and hope sprang up in the hearts of the townsfolk. But when, shortly after, it was known that though standing it had been abandoned, and that the night had seen the indiscriminate flight of the whole army, the deepest despondency fell upon the town. This feeling was not lessened when it began to be whispered that the Chevalier Ramesay had received instructions from the Governor not to attempt to hold the town in face of a threatened assault, but to wait till the scanty provisions had been exhausted, and then raise the white flag and obtain the best terms he could.

The Abbe had stayed to bring this last letter from the flying Governor. His own soul was stirred to the depths by indignation and sorrow. It seemed to him the crowning disgrace in a disgraceful flight. Ramesay had sought speech with the Marquis a few hours before his death, but could obtain no advice from him. He had done with worldly things, and could only wish well to those who were left behind. It was a desperate state of affairs, and all the town knew it.

So great was the confusion that no workman could be found to make a coffin for the body of the dead General. The old servant of the Ursulines, faithful to the last, went hither and thither and collected a few planks and nails, and the midshipmen and Colin assisted her to nail together a rude coffin in which the body was presently laid. It must be buried that same evening, for none knew from hour to hour what was in store for the city. But no pomp or circumstance could attend the funeral; and indeed no one could be found to dig a grave.

Yet a fitting grave was found in the chapel of the Ursuline convent, now little more than a ruin. An exploding shell had made a deep cavity in the floor not far from the altar, and this hollow was soon shaped into the similitude of a grave.

No bells tolled or cannon fired as the mournful procession filed through the streets; yet it did not lack a certain sombre dignity. The Bishop and the Abbe headed it, with a few priests from the Cathedral in attendance. Ramesay was there with his officers, and Madame Drucour, with Colin and Corinne, the three midshipmen (who no longer feared to show themselves), and the old servant, brought up the rear. As the cortege passed through the streets, numbers of citizens fell in behind, together with women and children, weeping for one whose name was dear, and who they all averred would have saved their city had he lived.

Torches were lit before the procession filed into the ruined church, and sobs mingled with the chants that were rehearsed over the grave.

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

"It is no wonder they feel so," said the Abbe to his sister that night; "we are abandoned by the army that might have saved us. We have scarce provision to last a week, even on half rations-so I heard today-and all the merchants and townspeople are for immediate capitulation. It is possible that when our army finds itself at Jacques Cartier, thirty miles from the scene of danger, and in an impregnable position, they may rally their courage and reconsider the situation; but unless I am greatly mistaken, that resolution will come too late-Quebec will have already surrendered."

Things had come to a desperate pass. Only one out of all the officers was in favour of resistance; the rest declared it impossible. The English on the heights were intrenched, and were pushing their trenches nearer and nearer. Though Wolfe was dead and Moncton disabled, Townshend, the third in command, was acting with the energy and resolve which had characterized the expedition all along.

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

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

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

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

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

Then Ramesay signed, having secured more favourable terms than he had dared to hope for. The capitulation of Quebec was an accomplished fact!

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

"Courage, good friends, courage! Help is at hand! The army is marching 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 to tell the news and ask what could be done; but the Chevalier's face was stern and hard.

"Nothing can be done," he said. "You have had your own will. You have signed away your city. Honour will not permit me to break my word. Besides, how can we trust an army which has basely deserted us once? If they would not attack the foe before he had had time to intrench and fortify himself, how can we hope that they will have courage to brave the assault of a formidable intrenched camp defended 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 is lost to France for ever, and Canada will follow. He could have saved it four days ago had he had the heart of a soldier or the head of a statesman; now it is lost irrevocably!"

Chapter 3: Friendly Foes

Quebec was taken; it had surrendered without a blow when once the battle upon the heights above had ended in the overthrow of the French army.

Julian and Fritz exchanged glances of wonder when it was known beyond all doubt that the capitulation had been signed. It was marvellous to them, who knew the full peril of their own position, that the French should be so blind. A concerted attack from the two armies of the immediate locality could scarcely have failed to drive them from their vantage ground back to their ships; and once there, the Admirals would have had no choice but to put to sea once more; for already the season was closing, and it would then have been madness to think of any further operations for that season.

And yet sadness rather than joy was the main feeling in the hearts of these comrades as they prepared themselves to be of the number to march into the city.

Fritz was still somewhat lame from the effect of his wound; but his splendid physique had made light of the injury, and in other respects he was sound and strong. Humphrey walked beside him, giving him a little assistance over rough ground, and Julian was on his other side. They were full of curiosity to behold the city which it had cost them so much to take, and Fritz was anxious to find again those friends who had shown him kindness in past days. Julian, too, was very desirous to meet Madame Drucour once more, and renew with her those pleasant relations which had commenced within the fortress of Louisbourg.

Townshend, the Brigadier now in command, had granted easy terms to the place. He knew too well the peril of his position not to be thankful for having Quebec almost at any price. The garrison and the sailors, who formed a considerable portion of the force in the city, were to march out with the honours of war, and were to be shipped to France with what speed they might. The promised protection offered by Wolfe to all peaceable inhabitants was to be assured to all, together with the free exercise of their own religion.

To Townshend had been carried upon the very day of the capitulation a letter written by Montcalm only a few hours before his death, the feeble penmanship of which showed well how difficult it had been to him to indite it. In effect it was the last thing he ever wrote, and the signature was nothing but a faint initial, as though the failing fingers refused the task before them.

"Monsieur," ran the missive, "the well-known humanity of the English sets my mind at peace concerning the fate of the French prisoners and the Canadians. Feel towards them as they have caused me to feel. Do not let them perceive that they have changed masters. Be their protector as I have been their father,"

It was probable that Montcalm believed himself addressing Wolfe when he wrote this last charge. It was not known with any certainty in Quebec that the English General had fallen, Some had heard he was wounded, but no certainty prevailed. Indeed it was with no exultation that Quebec heard of the death of the dreaded Wolfe. If he were redoubtable in the field of battle, he was known to be a merciful and generous foe in the hour of victory. Madame Drucour had shed tears when told for certain of the hero's fall; the Abbe had sorrowfully shaken his bead, and had told the citizens that they had nothing to rejoice over in that.

So the garrison marched out with as much bravery and martial show as they could under the circumstances, and the citizens crowded the streets and ramparts to cheer them as they went, and watch with mingled feelings the entrance of the English troops into the town and the hoisting of the English flag. Sobs broke from many, and a deep groan rose shudderingly upon the air; and yet there were very many in the city who cared little for the change of masters, if only they might be rid of the horrors of war.

Life had long been very difficult under the French rule. So much official corruption existed, especially in the matter of supplies of food and other necessaries, that the unhappy people were forced to pay double and treble value for almost everything, and were being slowly bled to death, that a few functionaries like Bigot and Cadet might fatten and grow enormously rich. They had begun to know that the English colonies were very differently governed; that they grew in strength and independence, and were encouraged, and not thwarted and hindered, in their internal development. Although much smaller in extent than Canada, their population was double that of the French colony. It was indeed the growing strength and prosperity of the English provinces which had excited the jealous animosity of the French, and had quickened their resolve to pen them in between mountain and sea, and hinder their development. And this resolve had been followed by the commencement of that border warfare to which this was the sequel.

England knew better than let herself be penned within narrow limits. She had broken through the bonds which held her back. Now she was mistress of the key and capital of Canada. It could only be a matter of time before the whole colony fell to her.

"It may be better for them in the end," said Madame Drucour, heaving a long sigh as she watched the departure of the garrison, and saw the scarlet uniforms of the English flooding the streets of Quebec, "And yet it is hard to see it. I knew it must come, but my heart is heavy within me. If only we had made a more gallant fight, I should have felt it less."

"There he is! there he is!" shouted Colin suddenly; "there is Fritz Neville!"

"Ah," cried Madame Drucour, with a quick look of pleasure, "and there is Monsieur Julian Dautray too! Get speech with them if you can, Colin, and bring them to supper at our house. There is much I should like to ask them; and if some of the officers are to be billeted amongst us townsfolk, I would gladly have those two to care for."

"I'll go and see about it," cried Colin.

"Take us with you," cried the midshipmen, who had viewed the procession with swelling hearts, uttering now and then a British cheer, which mingled oddly with the sighs of the people. However, since they had cheered the retiring troops as lustily as their own countrymen, no one took this amiss. Indeed the young middies had made themselves popular in the town by this time, and had done something to promote a feeling of confidence in the goodwill and clemency of the victors.

Corinne and her aunt returned homeward. The girl was in a state of great excitement, sorrow for the regret of others mingling with her own secret triumph and joy in the victory of the English.

It was no use trying to disguise from herself that she was glad the English had prevailed. She had come to have a contempt and distrust of the French and their ways and their rule. She admired the English, and believed in them. They had shown courage and resolution and heroism-had accomplished a feat which had hitherto been deemed impossible. She was proud of the British blood running in her veins, and was ready to welcome the victors with all her heart.

So she decked the supper table with green leaves and grasses, and a few flowers culled from the convent garden, where it had not been torn to pieces by shot and shell. The viands were not very plentiful, it is true, since scarcity still prevailed in the city; but that would come to an end now, for the English were already making arrangements for throwing in ample supplies.

Then she ran upstairs to don her best holiday gown, feeling a wonderful rebound of spirit after the depression and anxiety and horror of the past days. She sang a little to herself as she flitted about her room, and was only just ready when she heard Colin's voice from below summoning her to come.

She ran down the staircase and glided into the supper room, to find it (as it seemed) quite full of company. It was too dusk to distinguish faces by that time, but Bonnehomme Michel appeared at the moment, bringing in two lamps, and the faces of the guests were instantly revealed to her.

Her face lighted as she met the friendly glance of Fritz Neville, and she extended her hand with a pretty welcoming grace. The next minute she found herself exchanging greetings with an officer in British uniform, a dark-eyed, dark-haired man, with a very clear-cut, handsome face. Nor did it surprise her to hear that this was Captain Dautray, who had played a romantic part in the siege of Louisbourg.

"My aunt, Madame Drucour, has often spoken of you, sir," she said, "and told us how you disguised yourself and adventured yourself into the heart of the enemy's fortress. In sooth, I wonder you could ever dare such a deed. Suppose you had been found out?"