CHAPTER XX

THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM

"Halt! Who goes there?"

It was a burly Highlander, an outpost sentry of the British army, that challenged the three paleface scouts.

"Friends!" cried Jamie.

"Then ye'll just gi'e me the password," replied the soldier, levelling his musket at the youth who had acted as spokesman.

"I do not know the password," said Jamie, boldly confronting the levelled firearm. "We have just come in from the frontier to offer our services to General Wolfe."

"Then ye'll just ground your arms, and bide a wee, till I call the sergeant!"

The sergeant in charge of the party came up in response to the sentry's call, and while he was engaged in conversing with the strangers, an aide-de-camp to General Wolfe, who was a field officer in the Royal Americans, galloped by. Seeing three men in the garb of the forest, and knowing the value of such hardy, trained frontiersmen, having seen a good deal of such service himself, he reined in his charger, received the salute of the sergeant, who, on being requested, reported the business of the strangers.

"Look here! Do you fellows know anything of Quebec, or the river and the forts?" asked the field officer.

"Yes, sir!" replied Jamie. "Two of us lived there for nearly twelve months as nominal prisoners of the French."

"Indeed? When did you leave there?"

"Last spring, sir."

"Do you know the river this side of the city?"

"Every creek and cove, sir, between Cape Rouge and the narrows."

"That will do! Shoulder your rifles and come with me."

Then, putting as much dignity into their carriage as their rough appearance would permit, the three scouts followed the officer. They passed through several lines of sentries, but they were not challenged further, as the aide-de-camp gave the password at each barrier.

They soon entered the inner camp and passed between rows of white tents. Groups of Highlanders, Anstruthers, and Grenadiers in their scarlet uniforms were sitting about the camp-fires, seeing to their equipment, cooking rations, etc. Others were just landing from the transports and batteaux which lay in the river opposite the camp.

Despite their deer-skin shirts, Indian moccasins and beaver caps, there was a deep bronze upon the faces of the strangers, and a keen alertness about their movements, and especially their eyes, that bespoke them real scouts of the backwoods and pioneers of the Empire, with an experience that few could boast, even amongst those five thousand red-coats that were the flower of the British army; and many a soldier lifted his eyes to gaze after them as they passed by.

Having reached the vicinity of the General's tent, the field officer handed them over to an orderly of Monckton's Grenadiers, with orders to find them quarters and rations until the General expressed his pleasure concerning their offer of service.

All that day they remained in the camp, but no message came from the commander. Evidently he was busy with more important duties, and could not be bothered about the services of a few rude frontiersmen; but next morning, towards noon, the field officer returned in person and said--

"General Wolfe desires to speak with you. Come with me!"

Jamie's heart beat wildly at the thought of speaking with this great soldier, the darling and the genius of the whole army. They arrived at the large tent which served as the head-quarters of the staff. A sentry barred the way till the password was repeated, and then, following the officer, they entered, Jamie first, then Jack, and last of all the hunter.

All three quickly brought their hands to the salute as they stood before a large table, at which sat three officers of high rank. They were Generals Murray, Monckton and Townshend, and although unknown to the youths, who wondered which of the three was Wolfe, they have each left an honoured name on the scroll of Empire.

But who was that pale, ascetic-looking invalid, reclining on a couch beside General Murray? Surely he was no soldier! He was weak and sickly, and appeared to be suffering from some painful malady. What was he doing here? wondered Jamie, giving him a passing glance, and then directing his attention to the three officers, who were conversing amongst themselves, and examining charts and maps with such intensity that they scarcely seemed as yet to have noticed the newcomers.

Suddenly the invalid on the couch said something, and instantly the three soldiers ceased their conversation, dropped the charts and maps, and listened to his every word with marked reverence and respect.

"Murray," he said, "which are the two scouts who were prisoners in Quebec till last spring? Let them come to me."

The aide-de-camp indicated Jamie and Jack, and then General Murray approached them and said--

"Step forward! General Wolfe desires to speak with you," at the same time making a respectful gesture in the direction of the couch.

"General Wolfe! Could that feeble person be the great soldier on whom England relied to win the Canadas from the French?" thought Jamie, as he stepped forward and saluted the invalid. He was amazed and dumfounded. It was well for him at that moment that he had learnt something of the Indian virtue of hiding his feelings, or his face might have shown something of his disappointment.

"Why, you are quite a lad! Come, let me look at you! There, that will do! I like your face, and yours, too."

"Thank you, General!"

"Now tell me what you know of Quebec, and when you landed there, and when you left, and how."

Then Jamie, acting as spokesman for the two, told him briefly but clearly his history, commencing with the sea-fight, his capture, and how he spent his time at Quebec, his adventure with the Iroquois on the St. Lawrence, and his escape by the steep pathway that led up on to the Plains of Abraham, and how that Jack had accompanied him in that and all the other adventures he had met with on the frontiers.

"Good!" exclaimed the General, into whose eyes the fire had leapt as the lad described his adventures, especially the fight with the French frigate.

"Pass me that chart of the river and the Plains, Monckton. There, that will do! Just show me, lad, the spot where you landed that day and climbed to the Plains. Here, take hold of this chart!"

Jamie took the chart, spread it out on the ground, and knelt down by the couch.

"There," he said, pointing to a tiny dent in the northern shore, "is the spot where we made our escape. It is a league or so above the city."

"And if I sent you down there with a boat in the dark, could you find it again?" said the General in a soft voice.

"Yes, sir, I could!"

"And if I ordered you to land a boat-load of soldiers on the top of the cliffs there before dawn to-morrow morning, how would you set about it?"

Jamie flushed with pride at the thought of such a commission, but he answered quietly and firmly--

"General, if you trusted that boat to me I would wait till the second ebb tide to-night, then, under cover of darkness, I would drop down with the current, keeping in mid-stream till nearly opposite the cove, then, edging in to the northern bank, I would run the boat ashore at the inlet, and lead the men up on to the Plains two hours before dawn."

"By George, Townshend, he'll do! Let him have a seat in the first boat, and his companions too. But see that they are kept in charge of the orderly, and not permitted outside the lines till I send for them."

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, Monckton, is there a guard at that point above the cove?"

"Vergois' guard is stationed there, sir. It is part of Bougainville's command."

"My lad," said the General, half rising from the couch and putting his hand on Jamie's shoulder, "it is a very important duty that I am entrusting to you to-night. I am going to put you in the first boat, along with the other guides, as your knowledge of the spot may be useful, and it is of the first importance that we should not pass that cove in the darkness. The safety of the British army, to a great extent, will be entrusted to you, and perhaps--who knows?--the destiny of Canada. You will be kept under the charge of the orderly till nightfall, as there are plenty of spies about the camp. If you do your duty this night, your King and your country will be grateful to you. Good-bye!"

Darkness came at length on that famous 12th of September, 1759, and as soon as the northern bank disappeared in the gloom of evening, the English camp was astir with quiet and concealed movements. Only to a few was the plan of campaign known, for in the rapidity and secrecy of the movement lay the only chance of success--for against the English the odds were desperate. Wolfe, however, was so far recovered from his sickness that he was able to command in person, and the inspiration that this knowledge gave to the men was equivalent to the addition of an army corps.

An officer who took part in the events of that night has left it on record that despite the reverse at the Montmorency six weeks before, "the men were uncommonly eager and difficult to restrain, and yet," he added, speaking to a comrade a few hours before the event, "if we succeed in scaling and capturing that rock-crowned citadel, I shall think little in future of Hannibal leading his army over the Alps."

At nine o'clock thirty boats collected from the warships and transports, rendezvoused in a line in front of Admiral Holmes' flagship. Then the last "general order" issued by Wolfe was read to the troops by the generals in command. It contained these striking words--

"Now is the time to strike a stroke which will determine the fate of Canada."

Then fifteen hundred men, the forlorn hope of the expedition, selected chiefly from the Highlanders, the Anstruthers and the Light Infantry, were crowded into the boats, and now nothing remained but the final issue, as the troops calmly waited for the second ebb tide, which was to carry them down-stream.

At one o'clock the tide ebbed, and the order was given to cast off. Not a soldier or a sailor remained behind who was not cursing his ill-luck that he had not been chosen to go ahead in the boats. The order had been given for silence, and nothing could be heard but the gurgling of the water as it washed the sides of the boats; but the excitement, though suppressed, must have been intense as the men grasped their muskets and lay close together, looking at the stars above or those rugged heights, which ever and anon loomed darkly from the northern shore.

Jamie, with his two companions, was in the first boat eagerly scanning that dark outline and noting every headland, watching for that little indentation just between St. Nichol and Le Foulton, where he and Jack had so often landed their little fishing canoe during their enforced stay in Quebec.

Suddenly a low voice broke upon their ears from the stern sheets of the next boat, which was only a dozen feet away. It was the voice of Wolfe reciting to his officers and to a young midshipman, named Robinson, who has left the incident on record. He was quoting from memory the stanzas from "Gray's Elegy"--

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

 

"Gentlemen," Jamie heard him say, "I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec to-morrow." And every English schoolboy now knows how strangely prophetic and appropriate were those lines.

They were now rapidly approaching the little cove, and Jamie signalled to the steersman of his boat to edge in a little closer to the northern shore, which now towered above them like a great barrier. As he did so the voice of a sentry came through the gloom from the heights above--

"Qui vive?"

"La France!" replied a captain of the Highlanders from Jamie's boat.

"A quel régiment?" came back from the heights.

"De la Reine!" answered the Highlander.

The sentry appeared satisfied, as the Queen's regiment formed part of Bougainville's command, which had been sent further up the bank in order to watch Wolfe's movements.

Shortly afterwards they were challenged again, but a few more adroit answers saved the situation.

"This is the spot," whispered Jamie, and the boat was run upon the bank in the little sandy cove beneath the cliffs, and a hundred men were quickly clustered upon the little beach. Wolfe was amongst the first to land, and as he looked up at the rugged heights he shook his head and coolly remarked--

"You can try it, but I don't think you'll get up."

The next moment Jamie and his companions, closely followed by twenty volunteers, were climbing the precipitous front, dragging themselves up by the roots and branches of the shrubs and trees which overhung the steep ascent. For another moment those below waited with breathless suspense. Then quick, ringing shots were heard, as those few determined men overpowered the small French guard at the top. This was followed by a thin British cheer, and immediately the Highlanders below, with the Light Infantry and the others, clambered up the apparently impossible heights and gained the plains above.

At dawn fifteen hundred men stood upon the Plains of Abraham, and then the ships, which had dropped down the river behind the boats, landed the rest of the army. When the sun rose on the 13th of September, the watch on the citadel beheld with amazement the red coats of the British army forming up into lines--and preparing for battle.

Swift couriers had carried the tidings across the St. Charles to Montcalm, and the roll of drums was heard amid his camp, and soon the French division were pouring across the bridge of boats. At nine o'clock, the armies were facing each other on the Plains above the city. Then the rattle of musketry began as the French sharpshooters lined the bushes and entrenchments previously prepared to the north-west of the city.

On came the columns of Montcalm, firing and shouting in an inspiriting manner, led by their renowned leader in person.

How different those thin red lines of Highlanders, Grenadiers and hardy colonial levies. An ominous silence hung like a cloud over the English ranks. It was the silence that presages the storm--the calm, still waters of a dam about to burst its bounds and spread havoc and death.

As the French fire became more effectual, the gaps in the English ranks became frequent, but they were filled in silence as the rear men stepped to the front. In those ranks scarce a word was spoken, and as yet not a shot had been fired. Officers of Montcalm have since said that this ominous silence cast a chill over the French columns that half decided the issues of the day.

Not till the French were within forty yards was the word given to fire, then simultaneously the long line of muskets were brought to the level, and from end to end of the English ranks a crashing blaze of leaden hail was poured upon the enemy. The columns of Montcalm reeled and staggered before this dreadful impact. A second volley was fired, and then, before the smoke had rolled away, or the enemy had had an opportunity to reform his shattered ranks, a deafening cheer rang from end to end of the Plains. The flood of British fury was at length undammed, and trampling the dead and dying they swept the shattered columns before them in one mad, wild stampede. The Highlanders, wielding their terrible broadswords, chased the fugitives right up to the gates of the city and across the St. Charles River.

The defeat was crushing and absolute, and in that moment of victory the destiny of Canada was settled, but the cheers of the victors were silenced as the sad news passed from rank to rank that Wolfe had fallen. In the heat of the fight, leading on the Grenadiers, his wrist had been shattered by a ball. He quickly bound it in a handkerchief, and continued the fight. A second ball pierced his side, but he stayed not. Then a bullet entered his breast, and he reeled and fell.

Four soldiers raised him up, and carrying him to the rear laid him gently upon the grass. He appeared to be unconscious, but when a soldier near him exclaimed--

"See how they run!"

"Who run?" asked the dying soldier, opening his eyes.

"The enemy, sir! They give way everywhere!" was the reply.

"Then tell Colonel Burton to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River to cut off their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised! I will die in peace," were the last words of General Wolfe. That day England gained an Empire, but lost a hero.

The three scouts had finished their task when they led the forlorn hope up the precipice and on to the Plains, but they were not to be denied a share in the fight, for they had received permission to join the ranks of the centre column, which was under the personal command of Wolfe, and bore the brunt of the fight on that never-to-be-forgotten morning. They were in the forefront of that wild rush to the bridge, where the fight was thickest, and where many hundreds were hurled into the St. Charles River, and where Montcalm's retreat was effectually blocked and victory made secure.

The battle was over now, for though one of the most glorious, it was one of the briefest in history, and though they had lost each other in the pursuit, the three comrades were glad to rejoin the ranks at the roll-call on the Plains and find each other alive and well, except for minor wounds, though the joy of victory was damped and a chill went to every heart when the word was passed down the ranks that their illustrious leader had fallen.

Next morning General Townshend passed to the head of every regiment in succession, and thanked the troops for their brilliant services, and soon afterwards one of his aide-de-camps approached the scouts and requested their immediate presence in the General's tent. They followed him, wondering that he had not forgotten them altogether in the excitement of so great a victory. When they stood in his presence they saluted and waited for him to speak.

"Jamie Stuart and Jack Elliot!" said General Townshend, and instantly several other officers, who had been busily engaged writing dispatches for England, rose and stood at attention. "In the name of His Most Gracious Majesty, King George the Second, I thank you for the eminent services you have rendered to your country. I have appointed you both from this day to be ensigns in the Royal Americans. Here are your commissions. Right nobly have you won them. May you be spared long to serve your country! God save the King!"

The youths were overwhelmed with this generous tribute from so great a soldier. They could find no words to express their gratitude for this signal honour conferred upon them. A commission in His Majesty's victorious army seemed too great a reward for their poor services, so each raised his hand to the salute again and repeated the General's words--

"God save the King!"

The General then turned to the hunter, who had been an interested and sympathetic witness of this stirring scene, but as he spake his voice softened, for he had noticed that down the bronzed cheek of the old man there trickled a tear.

"Frontiersman, what is your name?" he asked.

There was a pause, and for a few seconds the hunter's eyes were turned to Jamie, and a strange far-away look came into his face. Then in a half-broken voice he answered--

"John Stuart of Burnside! An exile!"

"Father!" burst from Jamie's lips, and the next instant the paleface hunter and his son were hugging each other with joy.

The next moment General Townshend advanced to the hunter, and pinning the King's medal upon his breast, he said--

"He is no longer an exile who wears this honoured decoration. John Stuart, I thank you for the work you have already done, but there are still further services that I wish to ask of you. I understand that your knowledge of the river and the forest from this point to Mont Royale is unsurpassed by that of any person in the camp. Your knowledge will shortly be invaluable to us. I appoint you as Frontiersman and Chief Guide to the British Army in the Canadas, and, furthermore, I desire to say that His Majesty shall be reminded after the war of the important services which I trust you will then have rendered to your country."

"General," said the hunter, "I am an exile from my native land, but I have never committed a crime, and my conscience is clear. England has treated me unkindly, but I love my country, and without any thought of reward I freely offer you my services. If necessary, I will gladly die for my country."

"Thank you, Frontiersman!" said the General, touched by these words. "A grateful country will not forget your devotion to her interests in the hour of her need. May every son of Britain likewise forget his private wrongs in England's hour of danger."

Four days later, on that memorable 17th of September, 1759, the white flag was hung out from the citadel at Quebec, and on the next day the Gibraltar of North America passed for ever from its old masters into the hands of Britain.

"Look, Jack! The French ensign is coming down," said Jamie, and they both looked towards the citadel, and a moment afterwards, amid the clash of martial music, the salute of the batteries, and the wild cheering of the soldiers, the English flag waved proudly over the fort and the river.

"There, Jamie, our dream has come true, it's the old flag at last, and, thank God, we have helped to plant it there."

After the fall of Quebec, the paleface hunter and the two youths accompanied the army in its victorious march upon Mont Royale, and when the war was over they returned to England. Jack survived his two brothers, and in time became the Squire of Burnside, and I find that to John Stuart, Esquire, of Burnside, Yorkshire, a grant of Crown land was made for his services to his country, and that the old farmhouse, which still stands, above the wood and the trout-stream, was built by him and his son Jamie in 1775. And there they lived happily for many years, and there Jamie's descendants live to this day, for only two years ago, while visiting his ancestral home and poring over ancient deeds and the old family Bible, with its records and dates, the author discovered this forgotten story of adventure and peril.