How Canada Was Won: A Tale of Wolfe and Quebec

"He will certainly not thank you for his life, monsieur. The lad is too proud and too brave for that. He would not ask it of me, and much less of you."

The words, spoken in the coldest and most cutting tones, caused Jules to swing round and face the open. He flushed to the roots of his hair, and then turned deathly pale, while, like the coward and bully he was, his lips at once commenced to frame lies and excuses. For his superior was there. Four soldiers stood before him, bearing a bed, on which, warmly covered with skins, lay the long figure of the colonel.

"Have you no heart, man?" demanded the colonel fiercely. "Do you not know that this prisoner was the leader of those men whom we attacked last week? Yes, you know that, I see. Then it is also in your knowledge that it is to that gallant youth that I owe my life. And yet you would shoot him! You are suspended, monsieur. You will retire to your hut till I can send you out of the fort. Sergeant, you will carry monsieur the prisoner to my hut, where he will remain till completely recovered. Tell off one of the men to wait on him."

The colonel fell back on his pillow, waved to his bearers, and was gone without deigning to glance again at Jules Lapon. Then the sergeant's voice was heard.

"Ground arms, my lads. Now pile them against the hut. Good. Enter now and fetch monsieur. You will carry out the colonel's orders."

In a minute Steve was being conveyed across the open, while Jules Lapon looked on as if dazed. Then he turned, rushed across to his own dwelling, and broke the door open with a furious kick. He was beaten. At the very last minute the life at which he had been aiming for so many months now, for some subtle reason of his own, was saved, and the prisoner, in place of standing up before the muskets of a firing party, was being quartered in the colonel's own hut. Jules ground his teeth with fury, and filled the bowl of his pipe with savage energy.

Chapter XV

Off to Quebec

"You have to thank a very fine and robust constitution, and the open-air life which you have lived for your excellent progress, monsieur," said the French colonel one morning, some six weeks after Steve had been taken prisoner, as the two sat in front of a cozy log fire in the speaker's hut, "and I have to thank fortune – bad fortune for you, perhaps, monsieur – that some weeks of what would have been a weary time for me have passed so very pleasantly. It is the fortune of war, good for me, bad for you, and in either case to be taken philosophically."

"For myself, I admit that I am sorry to have been taken prisoner," replied Steve with a smile, "but then I might have been in the hands of Monsieur Jules, instead of in yours, colonel, and then – "

"Monsieur Steve would not have been here. You have not forgotten the firing party and the wall. Yes, that wretch would have had you shot, for he has some spite against you. Tell me, Monsieur Steve, have you ever done this compatriot of mine an injury, other than defeating him in the course of this war?"

Steve shook his head emphatically. "None," he said.

"Then there must be some other reason for his enmity. You speak French like a native, monsieur, while you are an English colonist born and bred. That is curious."

"My mother was French," explained Steve. "She was a Mademoiselle Despelle before her marriage. More than that I do not know, for she died when I was an infant, and my father has always been very reticent about such matters. It is to him that I owe my knowledge of French, for he speaks the language like a native."

"And your name is Mainwaring. Monsieur Steve Mainwaring. Yes, there must be some other reason for this Jules to have such spite against you, and I shall endeavour to unravel the cause. Meanwhile, monsieur, allow me to warn you most solemnly. For the moment this man is at Crown Point, and therefore harmless; nor will he have a post of authority again while I am able to prevent it. Still, beware of him, monsieur. He is dangerous. And now to give you some information. In a month perhaps the ice will have broken. Even now there are signs that the end of this terrible winter is coming, and as soon as the spring puts in an appearance you and I will go to Quebec, where I can promise a welcome. For I do not forget that I owe my life to you. Monsieur will be a prisoner on parole till the end of the war, while I – well, I am a lame dog, and of little further use, I fear, and besides, I have given my word to you – I am on oath not to fight again during the course of this conflict."

The tall colonel looked down woefully at his thigh, still heavily bandaged, and then glanced at the crutch which lay beside his chair, and which up till then he had never dared to use. Then he sighed, brushed a tear away, and smiled.

"I spoke of accepting fortune good or bad philosophically," he said. "Bien! I will act up to my words, but my fighting days are done."

It was only too true, and none but those who have seen the keen soldier struck down in his prime can realise what this gallant colonel must have felt. For his prospects were brilliant; he was in command of one of the most important advanced posts, and had everything before him. Then a chance ball had fractured his thigh, and here he was, one leg some two inches shorter than the other, lamed for life, and unfitted for further service. But he did not permit his disappointment to take the place of his gratitude to the young man who had befriended him, who had discovered him deserted in the forest and restored him to his friends, and to this colonel alone Steve owed his comfort during the last few weeks. For his wound had proved to be a severe one, and was followed by some amount of fever. However, he was practically recovered now, and for quite a time had constituted himself nurse to the colonel. As to his friends, Jim and Pete and the others, he had been able to send them a few brief lines, telling them of his safety, and promptly a note had come back, scrawled on a dirty piece of paper, and conspicuous for its brevity.

"You ain't dead yet, cap'n, and whilst there's life there's hope. Look out fer a rescue."

That was all. There was a blurred letter at the end which might have been Jim's signature, or Pete's, or even Mac's. But the words were clear enough, and somehow they gave Steve much comfort.

"I am sure they will do something for me," he said, when he had read the note, "but rescue here is hopeless, for there are too many Indians. Then, when I reach Quebec I shall be still further away, so that there is little hope of seeing them there. On the way up though – "

He considered the matter for a few seconds, for he had learned from the colonel already that when he was removed from Ticonderoga it would be by water.

"No, I will send them no information of the move," he said. "It would not be fair to do so, and besides, I shall be travelling with a man who is unfit to fight. No, I fear that they will be able to do nothing for me, and I shall have to rely on myself alone."

With that Steve had to banish all thought of help from his friends, and resigned himself to a long imprisonment in Quebec. A few weeks later the frosts broke up, the sun melted the ice, and ere long the green of a gorgeous country began to be seen again.

"We will make for the headquarters of our Government," said the colonel, now promoted to a chair outside the hut, where he could bask in the spring sunshine and listen to the twitter of the birds. "Anything will be better than to remain here, unable to stir a foot, while others are active and busy. For you, Steve, I fear it means removal from friends. But then it is inevitable."

Ten days later Steve and the colonel were carried by road to Crown Point, at the foot of Lake Champlain, and from there were conveyed by canoe to the reaches of the Richelieu river. An escort of Indians paddled beside them, and swept their own craft along at a pace which very soon brought them to the mighty St. Lawrence. They turned into the river, and in due course sighted the promontory on which the city of Quebec is built, then a small and straggling place made up of private residences and churches, and of numerous batteries, barracks, and forts. As Steve's eyes rested on what is now, and was even then, a queen of cities, bathed in the spring sunshine, he realized what Wolfe and many another was to realize after him, namely, that this was no trading place, a mart given over to business men and the trade of the country. It was a stronghold devoted to the military and to the church, for the predominant features were barracks and batteries, spires and belfries, all clinging like flies to the steep cliff.

"A jewel than which there is none more beautiful in the crown of France," said the colonel, as he pointed out the various places to Steve. "Quebec is the most regal-looking city I have ever seen, and I never know whether she looks best as we see her now, with the spring sunshine smiling on her, or in the winter, when she is clad in her mantle of white. Monsieur, this struggle between our two nations may end in victory for England, but whatever happens, this jewel I am showing you will never fall. Quebec is impregnable. Look east and west and you will see why I am so confident."

It seemed indeed as if no other opinion could have been given, for as Steve approached this fair Canadian city he, too, declared to himself that nothing but starvation could cause it to surrender. For Quebec stands on a steep promontory, as has been described, and has to its immediate east the river St. Charles, and beyond that again a long ridge continuing for some six miles and ending abruptly in the beautiful falls of Montmorency, at that time of the year in their full grandeur, for the melted snow and ice had added to the volume of the river. This ridge, which was the southern extremity of an upland plateau, fell sheer into the river, and a glance at it was sufficient to discover the obstacles which would at once confront any foe bold or rash enough to attempt to clamber to the top. Standing on that same ridge on many a day after, Steve looked down upon the garden of Canada, the Isle of Orleans, which the first navigator of the mighty St. Lawrence had called the Island of Bacchus.

To the west Quebec is even more strongly protected by natural obstacles, for the ridge on the edge of which the fair city is built runs westward for many miles, falling almost perpendicularly into the river, while the St. Lawrence, just opposite the town, is suddenly constricted by a projecting spit of land, known as Point Lévis, which narrows the bed till it is barely three-fourths of a mile across, a distance which the French rightly considered could be commanded by their batteries.

"This will be your prison, Steve," said the colonel, kindly, as the canoes made in for the wooden stage, "and I think that you could come to no more charming spot. I shall take you to see Montcalm, our military leader, and shall advise you to give him your promise not to attempt an escape. No. Do not refuse, I beg of you," he went on, seeing Steve pull a long face. "After all, you can but try it for a time, and can then formally declare your intention not to remain on parole any longer. It will make all the difference to you just now, for if you give your word, you will be allowed much liberty, and you will be therefore out in the open. On the other hand, you will be placed in confinement, which will be irksome, to say the least of it, and not the best thing for your health. Then, too, consider the circumstances. Miles and miles of forest now lie between you and your friends, and there is not the smallest chance of your getting down to them, or they up to you, for the country swarms with our backwoodsmen and Indians. Such an attempt would be sheer madness. You must wait, my lad, and, later, if your friends beat us back, perhaps it will be worth your while to withdraw your parole and make that attempt of which all prisoners dream. There, I am honest with you, am I not? If matters were in my hands I should aid you to escape."

He laughed heartily, patted Steve on the back, and then held out his hand for our hero to help him ashore. For Steve had become indispensable to the wounded colonel, and was more like his son than anything else.

"I suppose you are right, colonel," said the lad some little while later, when they were ascending the steep hill. "I will give my parole and try the arrangement for a time."

A little later they were ushered into the presence of Montcalm, a soldier whose memory is still kept green, and who, though an enemy of ours, was undoubtedly one of the bravest and most honourable of foes Englishmen have ever met. He shook hands gaily with Steve, asked after his wound, and gripped his hand again when the colonel had told him how this prisoner had saved his life.

"Monsieur," said Montcalm, swinging round and regarding Steve with shining eyes, "such an act of generosity should earn for you your freedom. But I dare not give it, and I must ask you to reconcile yourself to captivity here. You will give me your word?"

"I will, general. For the present and until further notice I promise not to attempt an escape, and to obey any orders as to my behaviour which you may choose to give."

"Good! Ha, ha, monsieur le colonel. You hear him? You hear this young officer? Bien! He promises not to escape till he warns us. Truly, you English are droll! But I understand, monsieur, and I know how honourably you will keep your promise. Now for quarters. You will be posted with the colonel, at his express wish, and will be allowed the same rations as our captains. As for pay, perhaps monsieur le colonel will permit you to draw on him, and afterwards you can refund. I hope you will find the time pass pleasantly. There are many here to entertain you."

That indeed proved to be the case, for Quebec in those days was filled with young officers, and with a sprinkling of wealthy men. Balls and routs were of frequent occurrence, and for a time Steve was a lion at these entertainments, thanks again to the honesty of the colonel, who had told his tale everywhere.

"We hear, monsieur, that our beloved colonel owes his life to you," said one of the numerous ladies then resident in the city. "Tell us your story of this venture."

Steve bowed in courtly manner, a trick which he had learned since his arrival, flushed to his hair, and looked embarassed.

"Madame must know, surely," he answered, desperately. "I saw the colonel speaking with her a little while ago, and she is good enough now to admit that she has heard this tale."

"True, monsieur. But it is your version that I require," was the laughing answer. "Come, monsieur, I will not permit you to disappoint me."

Thus pressed, Steve shuffled uneasily, admitted that there might be truth in the colonel's tale, and then blurted out his own explanation, as if he had need to make an excuse for performing what had been a very generous action.

"You see, madame, I was there," he said. "I chanced upon the colonel, and could I leave him to die? I brought him in, and since we did not desire to be troubled with a wounded man, why – well, we took him to his friends."

There was laughter at that, for some half-dozen other people had gathered, amongst them the colonel, who leaned on his crutch.

"You hear that, monsieur le colonel?" called madame, with a laugh, catching sight of the wounded officer. "I thought I should like to hear what this prisoner of yours had to say as to your rescue. You should listen to him. Ladies and gentlemen, I declare that these English are naive. Monsieur tells me that having chanced upon our wounded friend he brought him back to his friends for one reason only. Guess at it, if you please. No. You cannot, mon colonel. Very well, monsieur has the effrontery to say that he feared you would be a great trouble to them. He would not be bothered with so useless a person as our colonel."

There was loud laughter at that, laughter which sent Steve flying from the group, his cheeks aglow, while the gallant and merry colonel who had so befriended him stood leaning on the back of a chair, shaking his crutch after him.

"Ah! Let me catch the rogue," he called out, and then, "Madame. It is like the lad. Honest as the day. He says what he means whenever possible, and at other times keeps silent lest he should give offence. Despite what he says, I know him to be a brave and a generous lad."

Many and many a time in the months which followed did Steve take rod and line and cross to the river St. Charles. He was even given the use of a gun and a canoe, and permitted to go on the St. Lawrence, or even into the forest on the southern bank. But he was always careful to return before dusk, and made a point of reporting his arrival. And while he was a prisoner only in name, and the weeks grew into months, the reader may wonder what had been happening in other and more familiar quarters, for the war with France was now more than ever a fact, and the two nations were preparing for the struggle which both knew well must end in victory for one, and the consequent mastery of this huge continent.

Steve had gone to Fort William Henry in the winter of 1756, and the spring of 1757 found him in Quebec. It will be remembered that he had taken part in more than one of les petites guerres at the foot of Lake St. George. These conflicts had been of frequent occurrence, and throughout the winter they continued, Jim and his friends, as well as those in Fort William Henry, often sending out small parties to attack the French. The winter months passed, in fact, without other incident, save for one attempt made by the garrison of Ticonderoga. On March 18, 1757, they descended over the ice of Lake St. George, hoping to take the garrison of Fort William Henry by surprise. They were easily driven back, and retired to their own fort, having accomplished nothing. Elsewhere nothing of moment occurred, so that this long winter season may be described as being barren of incident.

Meanwhile the British Government had determined to support the colonial troops, and regiments had been collecting at Cork, in Ireland, preparatory to sailing for America. On the eighth of May some hundred sail set out with these reinforcements, and finally arrived at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, which the Earl of Loudon, now in command of our forces in America, had recently reached with his troops. Of these he had now under his immediate command some eleven thousand, and with them he hoped to be able to attack and capture the very formidable fortress of Louisbourg, which, it will be remembered, had been erected at great cost on Cape Breton Isle, just north of Nova Scotia. But information now came to hand that there were seven thousand Frenchmen in Louisbourg, two-thirds being regulars, while Indians swarmed in the vicinity. This formidable force, added to a French fleet of no mean proportions, was considered too powerful for the troops under Loudon's command, and in consequence the idea of an attack on Louisbourg was given up, and on August 16 Loudon embarked with the bulk of his troops, leaving the 27th, the 28th, the 43rd, and the 46th regiments as a garrison for Nova Scotia.