25 The Battle of Montmorency

Though we skirmished somewhere almost daily, the siege dragged. The French had more men than we, and their positions seemed impregnable. Our only advantage was in our ships, some of which had run past Quebec with but little damage. The days were warm and long, the sunshine dazzling. From time to time came the boom of the great guns, and the clouds of smoke drifted over and around Quebec, but the mighty rock still defied us. Montcalm, patient and alert, lay in his strong positions along the Beauport shore, and would not come out and fight us. Some of the desponding said the winter would come and force us to retreat, nothing done. I feared that our failure to make progress would add to the general’s fever, and it seemed to me to be a hard jest of fate that our first real general should be a dying man.

We destroyed some of their fire ships, and rejoiced a little over the success. But I was prepared to settle back again into dull waiting, when my company was ordered to get itself ready for active service. We were then at Point Levis, and from the manners of the superior officers I judged that the duty was to be both important and dangerous. Culverhouse was there also. He shook hands with me and his face was very grave when he said:

“I don’t know whether you’ll come back, Charteris, and I’ll tell you good-by in case you don’t. You’ll have hot work over there, and my regiment is not to go.”

He pointed in the direction of the camp where Montcalm lay behind his breastworks, so snug and so patient. Culverhouse knew that some sort of a general attack was intended, but that was all he could tell me. Our commanding officer himself even told me as much, but no more. We made ready for embarkation, as our part of the army could reach the enemy by water only. Then we waited.

Another clear and brilliant day had begun. There was the tightening of belts and the shuffling of impatient feet on the sand. I put my hands over my eyes to shade them from the glare of the sun on the water. I eased my collar and made myself as comfortable as I could, for we might have long to wait.

But out in the river there was a beginning already. A big sixty-four-gun ship and two smaller vessels were hovering near the Montmorency redoubt. Presently they anchored, and across the river came a flash and roar as one of the smaller vessels fired a broadside into the French redoubt. The preliminaries were but few. The redoubt replied, and all three ships swinging at their anchors poured in broadside after broadside. Beyond the Montmorency another battery of ours—forty great guns it had, they said—opened upon the flank of the French works.

The crash of so many cannon made the most tremendous noise I had ever heard, and I had been at Ticonderoga. Vast clouds of smoke gathered swiftly. Sometimes the smoke drifted about the ships and hid them. Then, driven by counter currents of wind, it floated and hung over the French redoubt and the English battery on shore. Through these shifting pillars and columns came the blaze of the great guns.

The cannonading was so steady that the roar of it was almost unbroken. Usually an artillery fire rises and falls, dropping to nothing sometimes, and then bursting out with a crash fit to split your ears. But this was a deep, fierce roar that turned your voice to a whisper and set everything in your head to humming. The clouds of smoke by and by drifted down the river and hung over Quebec itself. Others floated away to the southern shore and went out of sight beyond the horizon.

I was standing beside Lieutenant Peyton, of our Royal Americans.

“Is the general trying to batter the French out of their dens?” I asked.

“Partly, maybe,” he said, “but all that firing is for another purpose too. It’s to be the mask for our real attack. You and I will see it, my boy.”

The bombardment went on undiminished. I was watching for the flash of the guns through the smoke when I noticed the sailors bringing the long boats up to the beach at our feet. I guessed that we were going to attack the French redoubt at Montmorency, and so did all the soldiers, but the full plan was still a secret. About an hour before noon we embarked in the boats and pulled out into the river. We thought then that the time for action had come at last, and the men were passing the word to each other, some in solemnity and some in jest, for there are as many ways of looking at death as at life.

The firing kept my attention. Our approach seemed to have no effect upon it. The long, unbroken roar of the guns continued. The edge of the smoke reached out and surrounded us. The water glistened like silver scales as it fell off the oar blades, and the steady murmur of the river as it flowed past our boats made a quiet song that all the crash of the cannon could not drown.

My mind instantly went back to Ticonderoga, which we had approached in a way as deliberate. But our bands were not playing now as then, and we were not in doubt lest the French would fail to meet us and run away. But our fleet of boats, filled with men who knew by deed what war was, made a fine and martial spectacle, and the French from the other shore must have admitted it.

We expected that we would row straight for the Montmorency redoubt, and the men were taking last looks at the arms and ammunition. Instead we rowed toward the Beauport Church, and then began to paddle about in the river like a swarm of uncertain ducks.

We wondered what it meant, and we had ample opportunity for wonderment, as noon came and we were still hovering off the shore. Up at the Montmorency it seemed from the incessant pounding of the artillery that they were fighting the battles of all the world, but we merely stewed in the boats. The sun overhead marked noon, and his vertical rays opened all our pores. A smell of hot leather and sweating flesh arose. The men swore softly in unison, and the officers pretended not to hear. But that was all. Around and around we swung like pawns moved by the master hand, uncertain upon what spot to place us. It grew so monotonous that despite the roar, the smoke, and the anxiety I believe I could have gone to sleep in the boat had I tried.

It was easy to see that our general was seeking to mislead the French and conceal his point of attack, but that was a hard thing to do, for Montcalm was a wily old fox, and I for one thought we ought to set about doing whatever we intended to do. But the afternoon dragged on, seemingly without end, and we were still there in the boats, with the hot sun blistering above us and the hot river blistering below us.

“Phew!” said Lieutenant Peyton, wiping the reeking sweat off his brow with his forefinger, “if this lasts much longer, I shall be burnt to a coal.”

“The waiting may last, but not the sunshine,” I said, pointing to the southwest, where I saw a little black cloud rising like a signal.

“That will mean rain,” said Peyton, “if it keeps on growing, but I don’t think it will strike us before nightfall, and we can hardly intend to wait until then.”

There was more of the long waiting. The smell of leather and flesh became a little stronger and the cursing grew a little louder. But the end of it came at last. Between five and six of the clock, when the tide was out, we rowed swiftly toward the flats of mud left uncovered before the French redoubt. That was the signal for all the batteries to do their best, and all the swearing was lost in the noise now. The sixty-four-gun ship and its two smaller comrades opened with every gun that would bear. Across the Montmorency the batteries thundered, and from distant Point Levis came the seconding roar. Nor were the French idle; their great guns were as busy as ours.

Amid the tremendous uproar and turmoil not even the steadiest could withstand excitement. My blood danced in my veins and pricked me as if there were salt in it. We leaped out of the boats, some half miring in the mud, and others falling over other soldiers. But all picked themselves up again or pulled their feet from the mud and pushed forward, shouting and cursing. In our eagerness we threw ourselves into disorder, but as we came out of the mud we made some kind of formation again.

We caught glimpses of a heavy red column a mile away advancing across the foot of the Montmorency, and we sent up a mighty cheer at this distant sight of our brethren coming to help us. Some raindrops fell upon my face, and were cool to the touch; the skies were turning dark, but I thought little of those things, though I did not fail to remember them.

The grenadiers were in front of us. Suddenly they raised another tremendous shout, and, not waiting for orders, rushed upon the French redoubt. In an instant we seconded the cry and rushed with them. The French defenders of the works fired a volley at us, which made some holes in our ranks, but put no check upon our speed. Into the redoubt we poured like a flood, and the Frenchmen, still firing scattering shots, abandoned it and scuttled like hares up the steep grassy slopes beyond.

We uttered cheers of triumph as we seized the captured cannon, but our cheers were cut short. From the heights above us, and which in one brief instant we saw were swarming with the French army, a storm of cannon and musket balls were hurled upon us. Far to the right and to the left the crest and upper slopes burst into a continuous and vivid blaze.

The groans and shrieks that arose from our ranks as we were potted like grouse was awful, but it was only for a moment. Then, as if by one impulse, we rushed toward the slopes. The leaden storm did not slacken. The smoke floated sometimes in our faces, but when it was driven away by the flash of the cannon and the rifles we could see the French in their white uniforms loading and firing, and above the roar we could hear them shouting: “Vive le Roi!” “Vive Montcalm!” “Vive notre general!” “Vive la France!”

We reached the slopes and tried to rush up them. Cannon balls, musket balls, and buckshot beat us back again. Dead bodies rolled down and tripped us up. I remembered groaning and crying out, “Ticonderoga over again! Ticonderoga over again!” though I dare say none heard me.

Suddenly there was a great crash overhead, followed by a searing blaze. I looked up and saw that the thunder was real thunder and the blaze real lightning. The skies were darkened by clouds as well as smoke, and while we fought and screamed on the slopes the clouds burst and torrents of rain fell upon us.

I believe that few in that moment knew of the storm. There was no decrease in the screaming, the cursing, and the firing. A terrible steam arose, the mingled reek of blood and muddy water. Streams of both flowed down the slopes and splashed our boots with red or brown. The grass became slippery as ice, and often we shot like cannon balls back down the slope, though untouched by wound or fear. I thought I had reached the climax of horrors at Ticonderoga, but the sight was even more dreadful here. Over our heads the storm raged and the torrents of rain pelted us. From the slopes and the cliff tops the French beat us down with an unceasing shower of lead. Below we struggled in the bloody mire, climbed a little way up the grassy slopes, wet and treacherous, then tumbled back again, a mingled mass of living, hurt, and dead. I think I wept at the fate of men trapped as I had seen them trapped before. At any rate, I found afterward white streaks down my begrimed face.

The storm and the battle seemed to compete, but the storm won at last. The French say it saved us from destruction; we say it saved them by making the grassy slopes as smooth as ice and impossible for us to climb. But the torrents of rain began to soak through the ammunition of both, and the powder would bum and explode no longer. The discharge of artillery and rifles died like a fire that has nothing to feed on. The trumpets sounded the recall, and, groaning and cursing, we dragged ourselves out of the sticky mire of mud and blood and water. The French had won again, and all the brave men who had fallen had fallen for nothing, unless to show that they were brave.

The rain, as if satisfied with its triumph over the powder, ceased to fall. The clouds disappeared. The last big drops of water glistening on the grass like silver dried up.

We drew off, sullen and still full of fight, though knowing how useless it was. The French began to shout again for their King, their general, and France, and the savages in their employ rushed down the slopes after scalps.

Then I noticed that we had not brought off all the wounded; the brave Peyton was hurt, and I saw him propped upon his elbow in the mud. A half dozen savages were rushing toward him. I believe they prefer the scalp of a wounded to that of a dead man. Peyton had a double-barreled gun in his hands, and he fired one barrel and then the other. An Indian dropped at each shot. But the poor fellow had no more shots, and the remaining Indians came on as zealous as ever for scalps.

I ran back toward Peyton, shouting to my comrades to come also, but a Highland sergeant, a big red-haired, bare-legged fellow, was ahead of me. He seized Peyton in his powerful arms and took him in safety to the boats, carrying him and dragging him a full half mile through the mud. Other such incidents I witnessed on that day. Even in battle men do not forget all human feeling.

We retired in better order than we had advanced. Our ranks were closed up, and we kept the muzzles of our guns toward the enemy. But they knew enough to stay in their works and on the hilltops and slopes. Only the skirmishers and the savages prowled about the battlefield.

The Indians kept up a frightful yelling, and the French, too, on the heights shouted with might and main. The column which had come from beyond the Montmorency retired toward its old position. The bare-legged, striped, and kilted Highlanders, with General Wolfe himself among them, placed themselves in the rear of the retiring body, and suddenly we heard a fresh note amid the yelling of the savages; it was the Scotch bagpipe screaming defiance, and I verily believe those savages to whom the sound was new thought it was the war whoop of the Scotchmen, and that at last they had found men who could emit more bloodcurdling and unearthly shrieks than themselves.

The retiring British snatched off their hats, waved them defiantly at the French, and dared them to come down and fight. But the French merely continued to utter their triumphant shouts and stayed where they were. If the French had been as prodigal and foolishly wasteful of their blood as we were of ours, they would have been beaten much earlier in that war.

We by the boats or in them seconded the defiant cheer of our comrades, but we were not quite so hearty in the utterance of it. Their part of the fight had been but little; it was we who had been torn and wounded on the slippery slopes, and, though we kept a line of bayonets and muskets between us and the skirmishers, and preserved all the appearances of activity in the face of the enemy, we crept painfully and down-heartedly into the boats.

It is not cheerful to know that you have left so many dead comrades behind you, and that you have so many others scarce alive groating in pain beside you. We had been cut up most frightfully, and nothing gained. For the moment I feared that General Wolfe was like all the other generals. Truly the English owe very little to their generals and much to their soldiers.

The storm had cooled the air, but for a little while only. The hot twilight was gathering, and our wounded men burned with fever. Many of us took off our hats and, lifting water from the river, poured it over them. We rowed slowly toward the Point of Orleans, leaving the Indians shrieking and yelling on the beach. When we had gone some distance a warrior came down on a mud spit as near as he could to us and began to whoop and dance about as if mad. I noticed something in his hand, and recognized a fresh and bloody scalp, which he began to whirl about as a taunt to us. I turned away my eyes in repulsion and horror. Then I felt something cold and hard laid across my shoulder.

“Sit still, lieutenant!” said a man behind me. “I’m just using your shoulder as a rest, and I won’t hurt you.”

We had taken into our boat a New England ranger, a New Hampshire man named Cook, and it was he who was speaking. The long, slender blue barrel of his rifle rested upon my shoulder and projected half a yard beyond my face. I remained perfectly steady and with every muscle set. The hammer of the gun fell, a jet of fire leaped from the muzzle, and then followed the sharp report of the woodsman’s rifle, which has been compared so aptly to the cracking of a whip.

The warrior fell prone in the mud and moved no more. It was the longest shot I had ever seen. Cook took his rifle from my shoulder with a satisfied grunt, and the men in the boats cheered.

We resumed our rowing, and in the growing twilight unloaded our maimed cargoes at the Point of Orleans. As at Ticonderoga, I had come out of this battle unhurt, and therefore had much reason to be thankful, but I passed a gloomy night nevertheless. It seemed as if after all our efforts and frightful losses the French would continue to beat us and keep us out of Quebec. The next morning I found that this despondency was shared by all with whom I came in contact, and I heard that the general himself was in despair, increased by his failure to hear anything definite from Amherst, who was to come by the way of Ticonderoga and Lake Champlain with an army to our relief.

Then we entered upon a military course which may have been necessary, but which seemed very cruel to me, and which I yet think of with shame. We began to ravage the country with bodies of light infantry, Highlanders, and rangers. Some of them, especially the Highlanders, who, I understand, make a practice of it in their own country even in times of peace, were very expert at it. All the cattle were seized, the country people were driven from their homes, and if they resisted, stables, houses, and villages were burned to the ground. Sometimes a church was not spared. It was our general’s object by destroying the extremities to weaken so far as possible the heart, which was Quebec. It may have been good military policy, but I repeat that it seemed very cruel to me. I witnessed many pitiful scenes while we were waging this war on women and old men and children, but the English and Scotch often made a jest of it. Whatever may be our faults and whatever we may lack, I have always felt that we of America are more humane than the Europeans, and to my mind that is one of the greatest of the virtues.

►   ▲