23 Under the Right Flag Again

The sun came out and the day grew very warm. Our tramp was long, and I became weary in the flesh, but not in the spirit. I was exultant over my escape, which seemed to me little short of the miraculous, and certainly would have been impossible without the aid of Zeb. The changing fortunes of the war also were sufficient to encourage a man who loved his country.

“Tell me about Wolfe, Zeb,” I asked.

“He isn’t very fine to look at,” said Zeb. “I guess they didn’t have an uglier man in England, but he’s worth all the other generals they’ve sent over put together. But he’s got his work cut out for him; there’s no doubt about that.”

I looked back at the spires rising above the mighty fortress they called Quebec, and I knew that Zeb spoke the truth. I had been there, and I had every right to know.

Zeb told me that my own regiment of the Royal Americans was with Wolfe, and the knowledge that I would soon grip the hands of my old comrades again added to my rejoicings.

The day grew hotter as the sun swung overhead. Far away toward the St. Lawrence the deep, heavy boom of the great guns echoed through the sultry air.

“I guess that comes from Point Levis,” said Zeb. “The general took it an’ planted there the batteries that are shellin’ an’ poundin’ the city.”

I trusted that neither shot nor shell, however well aimed at Quebec, would strike the Chateau de St. Maur. As we tramped on the roar of the guns increased.

“I guess the ships are helpin’ the batteries,” said Zeb. “Let ’em fight; it’s enough for you and me to do just now, leftenant, to keep out of the way of the Indians and the French skirmishers.”

But we were lucky enough to escape all such individuals. We crossed the Montmorency without trouble and entered the camp of Wolfe, where I found my own regiment, and was welcomed as one from the dead. There, too, I found Culverhouse and Graham and nearly all my old friends and acquaintances.

“Where is Spencer?” I asked of Culverhouse, after I had told my story.

“Over at Point Levis with the batteries,” he replied, “and I might as well tell you, Charteris, that if he comes out of the campaign all right he will become your relative.”

I guessed his meaning, but I asked for explanations.

“Spencer came suddenly into his title,” he said, “and he at once pushed his fortunes with the pretty Miss Arthur. He was successful, too, and they are to be married as soon as the campaign closes. It seems to be a fitting match, and the old merchant, her father, is hugely delighted.”

“I shall offer my heartiest congratulations when I see him,” I said.

“But our good Mr. Arthur used to give you some evil looks,” said Culverhouse. “He seemed to think that you wished to be Spencer’s rival.”

I laughed.

“Marion was my playmate and almost my sister,” I said. “Spencer will be my brother-in-law, so to speak. I was never his rival.”

“I thought so,” said Culverhouse. “There’s somebody else in Quebec, eh?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Marion is a very fine girl, but I think I know a finer.”

“Mlle. Louise de St. Maur?” said Culverhouse, bent upon pushing me to a declaration.

“Yes,” I replied; “what have you to say?”

“Nothing,” said he, “but to commend your taste.”

Which made my heart warm toward Culverhouse.

But I had not much time for such talk, as I was soon summoned to the presence of General Wolfe, whom all men now call great, but who some then thought was mad. It was with deep curiosity that I came into his presence. My enthusiasm had caught fire from Zeb’s own, and, despite Zeb’s assertion that he was ugly, I expected to behold one whose manner and presence bespoke the hero. Never was anybody more disappointed at first glance than I. I stood before a man who looked like some bedridden invalid more than a soldier. Thin, awkward, with sparse, red hair, weak mouth, and retreating chin, face seemed to combine with wasted form to point out the last man who should have been chosen commander of the army besieging Quebec. Only the bright, alert eye said No to their lies, and I in talk soon learned what others knew already—that England had sent over a real general at last.

I soon told him all that I knew about Quebec, the nature of my imprisonment there, and the manner of my escape. But of real information, such as would serve a besieging army, I had little to give. He asked me several questions about the Seigneur de St. Maur.

“I have heard of him,” he said; “he has served in the great wars of Europe, and he was one of Montcalm’s lieutenants at Ticonderoga. We will have to reckon with him here.”

I was silent, but I was of his opinion that we would have to reckon with the Seigneur de St. Maur.

“You wish to rejoin your regiment, do you not, and serve in the siege?” asked the general.

I replied that I had not thought of anything else. He seemed pleased at my reply, and sent me back to my regiment.

As I left the tent a portly form approached me, and behold I was staring into the twinkling eyes of the good Mynheer Martin Groot.

“What, mynheer,” I exclaimed, “you here, where many a good blow is likely to be exchanged?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“The blows will not fall on me,” he said. “I have taken care of myself for five-and-fifty years much better than any one else would have taken care of me, and I shall not forget how, even under the walls of Quebec. Lieutenant Charteris, quit this trade of fighting, that brings you blows, and join me in mine, that will bring you gold. Which would you have, the blows or the gold?”

“Thank you. Mynheer Martin, for the compliment and your kindness,” I replied, “but for the present I will take my chance of the blows.”

“The way of a young fool,” he replied. “You have been in a French prison already, and you have probably got out just in time to have your head smashed by a French bullet.”

“Even as it is, mynheer,” I replied, “I would not have missed that French prison.” I was thinking of Louise.

He looked puzzled, as he had a right to look, for how could he have understood my meaning?

“Doubtless it was better than the bullet will be,” he said.

I waved my hand to him and left him.

The next day a detachment of our company was sent over to Point Levis to assist with the batteries. We crossed on one of the sloops, and from the middle of the river I beheld the great and thrilling panorama of the siege and defense of Quebec. It was a day of dazzling sunlight. Over there between Quebec and the Montmorency stretched the long lines of Montcalm, a foe whom no man could afford to despise. With him were the victors of William Henry and Ticonderoga, veterans of France, sturdy Canadian backwoodsmen, and the Indian warriors, more to be dreaded in forest fight than either. Beyond Montcalm was Wolfe, a dying general, who wished to win this great cast before he fell, and with him were the best troops of Britain and our own enduring Americans. Now that we have quarreled mortally and finally, the English when they tell of the taking of Quebec say nothing of us, but we were there, and we did our duty as hardily and as well as they. Canada is English to-day, but it is due as much to the valor of the Thirteen Colonies as to that of England. But enough of that. I have made my little boast, which is true.

The bombardment was proceeding in a fitful way. From Point Levis an occasional shot was sent on its mission. The ships joined now and then in the fire. The great river took up the echo of the guns and sent it far up and down the stream. Quebec, on its mighty fortress of rock, seemed to defy any and all enemies. In the brilliant sunshine, which made them as distinct and as clear as if they were within reach of my hand, I could see the spires of the cathedral and the Ursulines and others I did not know. Between the stone houses showed strips of green that were trees, and beyond rose Cape Diamond tipped with fort and cannon. But everywhere in Quebec and around Quebec were batteries. Whichever way we looked we looked into the mouths of cannon.

Just over there beyond that red roof was the Chateau de St. Maur. I shuddered to think of my dear girl—for such I called her now—exposed to the shot and shell of the fleet and the batteries. Some in the city had been hit, and she was as likely as any other to become a victim.

We landed presently on the island, and I soon met Spencer. I gave him a hearty handshake, but he looked at me a little sheepishly. I knew what was passing in his mind, and I was quick to disabuse him.

“Spencer,” said I, “I have heard already that you are to be my kinsman. I congratulate you most sincerely. There is not a finer girl in all the colonies.”

Observe that I said “colonies.” I made no mention of Canada.

My manner was such that he could have no doubt about me, and he seemed relieved.

“Spencer,” I said, “let’s forget all about that duel and be good friends.”

“I’m willing if you are,” he said.

“Then shake,” said I.

We gave each other a hearty grip again. Moreover, we kept our word and remained the best of friends.

I may add right here that Spencer came out of the campaign without a scratch, and at this very day is a most popular country gentleman in England, the model husband of a handsome wife, my third cousin, Marion Arthur that was.

I had but little to do on the Point, and I spent my time in looking and asking questions and in putting together what I saw and heard. I concluded that I was not willing to exchange my own place of lieutenant for that of General Wolfe. I believed that I could do what I would be told to do, but whether General Wolfe could take Quebec was another matter.

The long warm day dragged on. The smoke from the great guns rose in white clouds and drifted with the idle winds. The ships spread their sails now and then and moved to new points of vantage, but Quebec on her rock looked to me grim, defiant, and unassailable.

The river was a vast sheet of murmuring water, silver and green here in the shade of the rocks, gold and blue out there where the sunshine fell or the clouds were reflected. In the bright light the colors of Quebec’s mighty mass of stone shifted and changed. Now there were creamy seams in the rugged rock, which soon turned to brown or gray, and the walls themselves, catching the light of the sun from new directions, changed their tints. The slender spires seemed to float in the soft sunshine.

The batteries of the French replied now and then to our own. A frigate sailed up toward the city and dropped into it a broadside from her twenty-four-pounders. An answering flash and roar came from the rock, and I saw a spar on the ship fall. A moment later a group of men gathered on her deck, as if somebody had been hit and they were taking him away. The rock seemed to have the better of it, but the ship was true grit. She swung a little closer and sent another broadside into Quebec. A shower of balls was hurled at her, some hitting her, and then she drew off as if she had merely gone out to give a challenge.

“That sort of thing has been going on for days,” said Spencer, “and it looks to me like a waste of good powder and ball. We don’t make any progress, and the general is fretting away what little life disease has left him.”

The next day I returned to the main camp, and was assigned to guard duty on our side of the Montmorency gorge. I soon discovered that this was no mean service, but required all the vigilance and alertness of which a man was capable, mingled with no small modicum of courage and presence of mind.

Between us and the French and their red allies was the vast gorge of the river. We beheld mighty precipices, their summits covered with green and brown streaked forests, the stunted birch and fir clinging for life to their steep sides. Below boiled the Montmorency after its mighty plunge, sending up a column of foam and mist and spray, now white, now pale, its rainbow arching over it.

It was but a fair rifle shot across the gulf, and I paid good heed to Zeb Crane’s caution not to approach too close or to show too much of myself.

“The French an’ Indians are good sharpshooters,” he said. “They had enough practice at Duquesne an’ Ticonderoga to make ’em good.”

We clung to the shelter of the trees. Now and then a bullet would snip up a bit of grass and warn us not to put our trust in the beauty of the weather. The river roared in our ears, but we paid small attention to its roaring. Instead we watched the green and brown woods and thickets on the other shore. Since the memorable experience of Culverhouse, Zeb Crane, and myself with the Hurons—memorable to me, at least—I thought I knew something about wilderness sharpshooting, and I compressed all my knowledge into this: Lie close to the earth and keep a thick tree between you and the enemy.

This maxim I practiced with assiduity and zeal.

I caught a glimpse now and then of a Frenchman in green or a red warrior leaping from one tree to another, but they were always too quick for me, and I could never get a shot. Once Zeb, who had crept up to a tree next to mine, fired, but he shook his head doubtfully, and said he feared that his bullet had gone wrong. Most of our men were New England rangers, accustomed to bush fighting, and they seemed to enjoy this business. One stole through the grass quite close to the brink, but he paid the price of his folly. There was a dab of flame in the opposite woods, the sharp report of a rifle, and presently our ranger crawled painfully back to us, trailing a broken leg behind him.

Above the spiteful little spat of our rifles we heard the deep but distant boom of the big guns, reminding us that we were playing but a minor key in the great war song, though a half-ounce bullet can kill one quite as dead as a twenty-four-pound cannon ball.

The warm afternoon waned. The sunshine with a last burst of splendor to mark the setting of the sun turned to the gray of coming night. The woods on the opposite shore became an indistinct mass, and the sharpshooters on either side were compelled to fire at random if they fired at all. I went off duty then to sleep and resume guard at midnight.

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