The following day the English vessels and boats drifted up the river with the tide, within sight of the French sentinels, as if they were seeking a landing place; they had done this more or less for the last week, so Bougainville, who was encamped on the St. Charles, watched them without anxiety, satisfied that they would repeat the same manœuvre on the morrow.
As night drew on, Admiral Saunders, stationed opposite Beauport, opened fire upon the French, under cover of which the troops were embarked. Whether due to the excitement or to the remedies administered by his physician, Wolfe certainly for that day seemed to have taken a new lease of life. But in his own mind, we are told, the certainty that his end was near never for one moment forsook him. As he paced up and down the Sutherland, gazing at the deep blue autumnal sky overhead, to those who watched him his pale face seemed almost transfigured by the light and fire in his eyes. A young midshipman, John Robinson, to whom he had shown especial kindness, standing near him, heard him slowly recite those words which may truly be called his death elegy, so inseparably have they become linked with his name:—
And, seeing that the lad was watching him, he laid his hand on his shoulder, adding, “I had rather be the author of that poem than take Quebec.”
At two o’clock on the morning of the 13th, the signal was given for the troops to enter the boats, and seventeen hundred men took their places in them, and slowly drifted down the stream to their destination.
The French sentries placed along the shore, notwithstanding the darkness, became aware of a more than usual traffic on the river, and challenged them.
“Qui vive?”
“France,” answered Colonel Howe.
“Which regiment?”
“La Reine,” answered the same officer, who knew that Bougainville commanded part of that regiment, and so they passed on. Lower down the river they were once more challenged. This time the answer was, “Provision boats. Don’t make a noise, the English will hear us.”
In the darkness, Captain Roger, Colonel Howe, and twenty-four volunteers rowed up to the low sandy beach at the foot of the crags, which seemed to rise perpendicularly from the water’s edge.
The volunteers were picked men. A few of Roger’s best Rangers were amongst them. No sentry was on the shore; no alarm was given.
The order for perfect silence had been issued, and Roger leading the way, as noiselessly as possible the ascent was begun. Like shadows they moved up the pathway, crawling often on their hands and knees, the foremost removing obstacles for those who came after, till at last they gained the top, and saw before them the cluster of white tents. No word of command was given. That silent group of brave men realised to the full at that moment that victory or defeat was in their hands, and with the impulse to conquer or to die in the attempt, they rushed into the sleeping camp before the slightest sound announced their presence. Captain Vergor was in bed; he was shot, but not mortally, and made prisoner. The same fate awaited others, but in the darkness the greater number of the French fled. Then there arose from the heights such a cheer as only true-born Britons can give forth in the hour of triumph, and it was answered from below by men waiting breathlessly in the boats to know whether they too might scale the long dark slope of the woody precipice—the path to victory! General Wolfe was the first to leap ashore, and in his excitement he struck the earth with his sword’s point, as if claiming it for Old England.
And then the ascent began, each man with his musket slung over his shoulder. Trenches were leapt, abattis were broken through; the stream of men came pouring up from the boats, which, as soon as they were emptied, rowed back to the ships and brought more, until all the troops were landed.
The day was hardly dawning when Wolfe stood with the advanced troops on the heights. Anxiously, with penetrating eyes, he gazed in the direction from whence he supposed the French would come. At the expiration of an hour, when almost all the English troops had reached the summit, a cloud of dust, like smoke, with flashes of light, was seen on the horizon.
“The French!” said Wolfe calmly, pointing to the long line growing ever more and more distinct in the increasing morning light. On an open tract of grass, interspersed with cornfields, having on one side the St. Lawrence, and sloping down on the other to the St. Charles, General Wolfe and his officers stationed the English army, numbering in all three thousand five hundred men; and there, on the ever-celebrated Plains of Abraham, they awaited their adversaries.
Montcalm, when first informed of the landing of the English, exclaimed,—
“It can be but a small party come to burn a few houses and retire.”
He sent at once to Vaudreuil, who was quartered near Quebec, but receiving no answer, at six o’clock he mounted, and, accompanied by Langlade and Johnstone, rode towards the town. As he crossed the St. Charles, he saw on the heights above Quebec the long red line of the English army calmly awaiting him. He knew now that it must be fought out. He turned his horse’s head to the Governor’s quarters; a short and sharp altercation ensued, and then Montcalm, joining his army, rode towards the battle-field, where already the battalion of Guienne had taken up its position. The white-and-blue uniforms of the regular French army, flanked by the sombre-clad Canadians, were clearly visible; whilst the Indians in their war-paint, with their waving plumes and steel hatchets, were stationed some twenty paces in advance, with orders to throw themselves into the first breach made in the English ranks by the French balls.
To the sound of the drums the five battalions of Grenadiers, in their long black gaiters, marched to the front. Arrived within forty paces of the English, they halted, and the two armies, face to face with each other, waited in solemn, silent hesitation. Old enemies on a new soil, on how many a European battle-field had their forefathers fought for dominion! And now they waited, awed, on this virgin soil, who should begin this mortal duel.
In a clear voice the word of command flew along the English line. A sound as of thunder broke forth, rolling along, to be repeated in continuous roar; and as the smoke cleared off, in the French ranks there were deep gaps, as if a scythe had passed through cutting them down. The battle was begun.
Another volley, and yet another. The militia, which was interspersed with the regular French troops, unable any longer to stand the fire, hesitated. Montcalm saw it.
“Forward, forward!” he cried, showing with the point of his sword the English ranks still unmoved. At the same moment a ball struck him.
“You are wounded, General,” said an officer beside him.
“It is of no account, sir. Ride forward and rally the Canadians; they are retreating.” Himself he sprang forward into their midst.
“Courage, my children, courage!” he cried; but another ball struck him, and his white uniform was stained with blood.
“Support me; do not let them see me fall,” he murmured, striving with a superhuman will to keep himself erect.
At that moment Wolfe gave the order to charge, and the wild yell of the Highlanders, mingled with the British cheer, rose loud and fierce.
A shot shattered Wolfe’s wrist; he wrapped his handkerchief round it and went on. A second shot struck him; he still advanced. A third pierced his breast; he staggered and fell. Then the officers surrounding him carried him to the rear.
“Send for a surgeon,” said Lord St. Vincent.
“There is no need; it is all over with me,” he answered.
“They run; see how they run!” cried some one.
“Who run?” asked Wolfe, with a sudden return to life.
“The enemy, sir; they give way everywhere.”
“Tell Colonel Burton to cut off their retreat from the bridge,” he said; and turning on his side, he added, “Now, God be praised, I will die in peace.”
A few minutes later, for him the battle of life was over.
But to his country he left a rich heritage, with which his name is ever linked in high honour. Canada became then and is now one of the brightest jewels of the British Empire. She was bought with the price of many a young and noble life, but, ever loyal and true to England and her sovereigns, she has proved herself worthy of the sacrifice.
Canada has, moreover, taught the world the lesson that two peoples, supposed to be antagonistic, can live together in perfect peace and harmony, side by side in the same cities, each speaking their own language and retaining their own customs. The wisdom and conciliatory policy of the British Government effected this union, which has been pacifically maintained ever since. The French population, which far outnumbered the English, finding themselves treated with justice, and, instead of being driven forth, encouraged to remain in the land, assured of religious freedom and the equity of the laws, willingly submitted to the new rule, and have proved as faithful subjects as their English brethren.