At the fall of Montreal; or, A soldier boy's final victory

by Edward Stratemeyer

Hearing the distant firing, Montcalm rode forward in hot haste to learn what it meant. He still imagined it might be a ruse, and that the main attack would be at Beauport, but one glance at the long and solid ranks of the English made him realize the bitter truth—that Wolfe had outwitted him, and that the English were now between him and his supplies. He must either fight and win or surrender.

The French commander knew that he must act quickly, for the English might start to intrench themselves, or, worse yet, march on the city, at any moment. Orders were rushed furiously in all directions, and the troops came up pell-mell, some over the plains, some by the St. Charles bridge, and some by way of the city’s gates, the regulars in white, the French Colonials in their nondescript tatters, and the Indians in their savage warpaint. Drums beat, trumpets blared defiance, and proud banners waved through the rainy air. But the English ranks stood silent, the grim look on the men’s faces telling how they were prepared to meet any shock that might come.

The battle was not long in starting. The French took possession of several rises of ground and of some cornfields, and a scattering fire began, gradually growing stronger and stronger.

“Be calm, men!” cried Wolfe, riding up and down, in front and beyond his men. A short while later a bullet struck him in the wrist, but he bound the wound up with a handkerchief, and refused to quit the field.

Henry and Silvers were firing with the rest. Soon the fight caused them to drift apart. Henry was with some grenadiers, tall, strong-looking soldiers, who fought with a rare courage that nothing could daunt. With Henry were fifteen or twenty Royal Americans, who had been at first guarding the boats at the landing, but who had now come up to do their share of the fighting.

There was a constant rattle of musketry, punctuated occasionally by heavy artillery. Montcalm’s army was now at hand, and a fierce onslaught ensued, the French general himself leading his men and urging them to do their best.

“Forward!” was the cry on the English side, and the soldiers advanced a couple of hundred feet. Then the French rushed to the front, while the English reloaded their pieces. A solid volley was delivered which created terrific havoc in the ranks of the wearers of the white uniform, who were seen to pitch in all directions, dead and dying.

“The day is ours!” was the British cry. “At them! At them, Britons! At them!” And another advance was made.

Begrimed with dirt and smoke, and perspiring freely, Henry went on with the rest. He had fired his musket several times, and now came the order to fix bayonets. Bullets were whistling in all directions, and the young soldier saw more than one companion go down, several to their death. He himself was “scotched” in the arm, but did not notice the hurt until long afterward.

Slowly the French gave way, first in one direction and then another. Then came the order to charge, and a mighty yell went up as the grenadiers and others ran over the field on the very heels of the retreating French. To one side was a field in which were stationed a number of French sharpshooters.