16 A Prisoner of the French

I remained for quite awhile in a kind of stupor. I have only a blurred recollection of going somewhere with the Frenchmen, and of the roaring of the cannon and the rifles and the shrieks and groans of the wounded still piercing my ears, though it was but the echo, for the reality had ceased. Then I sat down, and while I sat there I dimly saw white men in French uniforms rushing about and talking very rapidly to each other. Then one of them stopped before me and began to examine me as if for a wound. This brought me to myself, and I sprang to my feet, ashamed of my weakness.

“I am not wounded,” I said in the French tongue. “The shock from the concussion of the guns so near to me overpowered me for the moment.”

“I am glad to hear that you are not injured,” said the French officer courteously. “I can well believe that it was the explosion of the guns. Our fire was very warm indeed.”

He added this rather proudly. I could not deny that he had a clear title to his elation.

“It was hot rather than warm,” I said, “but our men will come into Ticonderoga nevertheless.”

“Only as prisoners,” he returned, though the intent of irony was not discernible in his tones, “for your army is in full retreat, and the fortress, the field, and the fallen are left to us.”

“In full retreat!” I echoed. “Retreating where?”

“I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps they are trying to overtake your general in chief. They say he was not near the battlefield.”

When he spoke of our general his tone indeed was sarcastic, but I forgave him freely for it. If only Abercrombie were lying out there where Major McLean was it would be a great gain for the colonies. My conscience did not smite me for the thought.

“Will you come with me?” he asked, still preserving his courteous demeanor.

I followed him.

I saw now that I was behind the abatis against which our magnificent army had so blindly beaten itself to pieces. I looked curiously at the defenders. Not very many were they, though they had been quite enough for the purpose. They were a gay-looking lot, too. There were the battalions of La Sarre and Languedoc, of Berry and Royal Roussillon, of La Reine, Beam, and Guienne, all in uniforms of white, faced with blue or red or yellow or violet, their hats black and three-cornered. Mingled with them were the short, swarthy, and muscular Canadians in white uniforms with black facings. Some Indians prowled about. They had taken no part in the battle, but had come up after it to find plunder. The savages were almost naked, and evidently were in the highest glee. Never before had they seen such a victory. Often they looked fiercely at me as I passed, but they offered me no harm.

Our way lay across the breastwork. A vast cloud of smoke was hanging over the fortress and drifting about the forests. As we mounted the works I heard cries which made me shudder, despite my efforts to control my nerves.

“They are bringing in the wounded,” said the officer. “We shall attend to them as if they were our own.”

Near a projection stood a group whose dress indicated that they were officers. The one nearest the edge was a middle-aged man, swart and small. His coat was thrown off, and he was gazing with great earnestness at the battlefield. I had never seen him before, but I knew from the respectful manner of the others that I was in the presence of the great commander, the Marquis de Montcalm.

We did not disturb him, but presently he turned his attention to us.

“This is the prisoner, M. le Marquis,” said my escort.

“They tell me,” said the general kindly, “that they found you soothing the dying moments of one of your fellow-officers, and that you refused to retreat and leave him.”

I flushed at his praise, for in reality I had been scarce conscious of what I was doing. He looked at me very keenly, and then added: “You are not English?”

“No,” I said stiffly, “but I am as good or better. I am American.”

“Ah!” he said. “That is a point on which you two will yet go to war with each other. If France loses this war, one of you will avenge her on the other.”

“Meantime,” I said, “we have much occupation in making France lose.”

“The truth! the full truth from an enemy!” he exclaimed. “How many men did you bring to the assault out there?”

He waved his hand toward the battlefield.

“Many more, I fear, than we took away,” I answered.

“It is so, it is so,” he said, his face clouding somewhat. “War is at the best but a succession of horrors. The worst of those horrors is defeat, and the next is victory. My scouts tell me that you had near twenty thousand,” he added in a lighter tone, “and I had but little more than three thousand. What will, your Mr. Pitt, who was to acomplish such great things, say to this when he hears of it?”

His tone was speculative, not taunting. In fact, there was no appearance of egotism about this man, who had just cause for boasting had his mind so inclined him.

“I sent for you,” he said, “that you might help to bury the body of your friend. You alone are able to identify him, and perhaps it might be a consolation for you to assist in this last service to a brave man. Devizac here has charge of a burying party, and you may accompany him if you pledge your honor to make no attempt to escape until you return to the fortress.”

I accepted his offer gladly, and thanked him.

He bowed and returned to his scrutiny of the battlefield and contiguous ground. Then I went out with Devizac and a dozen French soldiers to help bury the dead.

The sun was setting already, and the darkening skies were casting somber tints over the battlefield, from which strange and awful cries arose. With the utmost effort I repressed a fit of shuddering which lay hold of me. The deadly odor which I had noticed in the charge again assailed me and sickened me, but I tried to affect an easy air and bearing that my hardihood might not suffer in comparison with that of the Frenchmen who accompanied me.

The ground was sprinkled with red and green clothed bodies as far as I could see. Many lay quite still; others writhed about, and from them came the agonized cries. A half dozen wounded men had been placed against a stump, and a French ranger was giving them water out of a large tin cup. One of the men, who had been shot through the shoulder, was laughing as if he had been wondrously amused. Yet his laugh was very horrible to me, for there was nothing to laugh at. But he did not know what he was doing, for his wound had crazed him.

Another, whose right arm had been shattered, cursed continually and most hideously. I do not think his mouth was closed for a single second against that stream of imprecations which issued from his throat. But his face was entirely void of expression. Others were quite silent, and were as white as if all the blood had been drained from their bodies.

A few Indians skulked about the field. They were decorated with the bright coats of our fallen soldiers, and carried other articles of spoil. They seemed to take no part in the burial of the dead or relief of the wounded.

“They want scalps,” said Devizac, who had the virtue of frankness. “These red fellows are well enough in battle—better could not be found, though they did not help us to-day—but after the firing ceases I could wish them a hundred miles away.”

I led the way toward the spot where Major McLean had given up his last breath. But before we reached it I heard a rifle shot from the edge of the wood.

“Our army has not fled, after all!” I exclaimed joyfully to Devizac. “Don’t you hear the skirmishers?”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “That was not any of your skirmishers; it was merely one of our men shooting a wolf. They are beginning to gather.”

This increased my anxiety to give speedy burial to the body of my friend, and presently we found it.

The major was lying on a little slope with his dead face turned up to the sky. Its expression was entirely peaceful. After all, I do not know that I had any right to lament his fate. He had been the servant of war, and the master had not claimed the forfeit from the servant until he had attained fullness of years. There were many lying there who had heard the sounds of battle for the first and last times alike that day.

We buried him where he had died, and then I continued with the party, helping to bury others and to attend to the wounded. As the night fell the air turned chill. The day had been hot as a July day has the right to be, but with the coming of the night the cold wind from the mountains drove the heat away. Some rain fell, and I shivered. But the dampness and the coolness were good for the wounded.

When it was quite dark the wolves in the adjacent forests began to howl, and their long quavering yelps rose above the shrieks of the wounded. Many of the latter were still on the ground, and when they heard the howling of the wolves they knew well what it meant. They begged in most piteous tones to be removed. I must say for the French that their humanity after the battle was equal to their gallantry while it was in progress. All through the night they worked among the wounded, and parties were sent in the wood to drive away the wolves. Devizac told me the animals were so fierce for the feast that they were shot at the very muzzles of the rifles.

Devizac and I had become so friendly while engaged in this work of humanity that I ventured to ask him what would be my fate.

“You will be sent to Canada, most likely to Quebec,” he said, “and I presume they will keep you there until the war is over.”

“It is not the way that I would choose to go to Quebec,” I said, “but it seems to be the only way in which we are able to get there.”

“War is as fickle as the King’s favor,” he replied. “Fortune has been with us thus far, but it may go over suddenly to you. Your men are brave. Their lavishness of courage was as conspicuous to-day as their lack of knowledge.”

“We have no leaders,” I said. “You give us Montcalm and take Abercrombie, and we will soon take Canada.”

“Why not ask for Canada at once?” he said. “While we keep Montcalm, we keep Canada.”

I had neither the inclination nor the ability to dispute what he said.

The night was now far gone. The cries from the battlefield were sinking, and all but two or three of the relieving parties had returned to the fortress. Devizac, with two of the French soldiers and myself, had gone to one of the distant points of the field. Devizac said he heard a groan, which appeared to issue from some bushes there, and when I listened carefully I thought I could detect the sound. I supposed at once that it came from a wounded man. We hurried forward, and I thought I saw a form skulking among some bushes, the tops of which had been clipped off by cannon balls.

“Whoever this man is his wound must be of a very peculiar nature to endow him with such activity,” I said. “He seems to be dancing a minuet among those bushes.”

“I am not convinced that the man who groans and the man who dances are the same,” said Devizac.

At this moment the dark figure leaped higher than usual, and something bright flashed in its hand. Then it sank down and disappeared in the bushes like a stone dropped in the water.

Devizac ran forward, dragged the figure up again from the bushes, and threw it backward with all his might. Then I saw it was an Indian warrior, naked except his breech clout and a coat of flaming paint. He held his knife in his hand, and Devizac had interrupted his ghastly work just in time.

A New England ranger, too badly wounded to move, was lying among the bushes, and had we been a half minute later the Indian would have scalped him. Even then the warrior, like the wolves which he resembled in ferocity, was not disposed to relinquish his prey. He glowered at us, and held his knife as if he were half tempted to strike. Devizac spoke to him in the Indian tongue. I did not know what he said, but the voice of the honest Frenchman rang with indignation. The Indian replied in a tone of equal anger.

“He says,” said Devizac to me, “that blows have been plentiful and scalps few. He says he has fought on many fields for the French; now he demands the scalp of your unfortunate countryman as a trophy to hang in his lodge.”

“You do not mean to let him have it?” I exclaimed. “Why, the man is not even dead!”

“Living or dead, he shall not have it,” said Devizac. “He shall commit no such act of barbarism.”

The Indian advanced as if to carry out his project. Though I had no weapon, I started forward to prevent it. But Devizac was ready. He drew a loaded pistol from his pocket and threatened the warrior with instant death if he attempted to touch the wounded man. This proved effective, as loaded pistols when properly handled usually do, and the savage withdrew into the darkness, still holding his knife in his hand.

“They are dangerous allies,” said Devizac as we lifted the wounded man. “Well, one who calls fire to his aid must expect to be scorched sometimes.”

When we carried the wounded man to the breastwork my labors of the night were ended. Then I lay down and sought rest. But the battle was fought over again in my distempered brain, and the light of dawn was beginning to appear before I fell asleep.

When I awoke Devizac was near me.

“Go up on the breastwork there,” he said, pointing. “Some one wants to see you.”

I obeyed without question, and, walking the way he indicated, saw a tall, straight figure which I remembered well.

“M. de St. Maur!” I said.

He turned and looked at me in a kindly manner. He was in his brilliant uniform of colonel, the same that I had seen him wear in New York, but it was now spattered and torn.

“Lieutenant Charteris,” he said, offering his hand, “I am sorry to see you here.”

“Better to be here than lying out there,” I said with a sickly laugh, pointing to the field before the abatis.

“We meet again sooner than I had expected,” he said, “but we will make you as comfortable with us as we can. The Marquis de Montcalm likes you, and Frenchmen, thank God! still know how to treat brave men well.”

There was a little reproach in his voice for the treatment he had received within our lines.

I had the honor of taking breakfast with the marquis, the seigneur, de Levis, Bougainville, and other distinguished officers. After the breakfast I asked the seigneur about his daughter. Mlle. Louise.

“She is at Quebec,” he said, “keeping my house there ready for me when I return. It will please her to hear that you were uninjured in the battle.”

The seigneur departed the next day for service on the western frontier of New York, and I saw no more of him for the present.

The French seemed uncertain what to do with me. I remained a prisoner at Ticonderoga for some time, and they treated me well, though once a French soldier came very close to me and sang these words:

Which, translated liberally, means: The English are but a mouthful for the French.

The French like to enjoy a victory.

Later I was transferred from fort to fort and camp to camp until the winter was far advanced. Once or twice I thought I would be exchanged along with others, but the matter always fell through. My treatment continued good. I had naught to complain of on that score, but I longed to be with my own people again in the active pursuit of my military career. Devizac, of whom I saw much, always stood my friend, and when winter had reached its climax he came to me and announced in his gay fashion that we would soon take a temporary rest from trials and travels.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Why, that you are to be sent as a prisoner to Quebec as the most convenient place in which to keep you, and that I, since I am going there on other duties, am detailed to take you with me.”

I was glad and yet sorry to hear it. I was tired of being dragged about from place to place, but in such a formidable fortress I would have small chance of escaping to our own army.

“You are to be kept in very strict confinement in Quebec,” said Devizac in a chaffing tone, “and you can’t guess the name of your future jailer,”

“I give it up,” I said.

“Why, it is none other than the Seigneur Raymond de St. Maur,” he replied. “It has been arranged between him and Montcalm, as both like you, and the seigneur requested it. I bid you beware of the Mlle. Louise. France has other conquests to boast of than those of war.”

He spoke in a tone half jest, half earnest. I had confided to him some time before that I knew the seigneur’s daughter, and told of her visit to New York.

We prepared the next day for the journey to Quebec, traveling in a sledge over the frozen snow.

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