“France,” answered Colonel Howe.
“Which regiment?”
“La Reine,” answered the same officer, who knew that Bougainville commanded part of that regiment, and so they passed on. Lower down the river they were once more challenged. This time the answer was, “Provision boats. Don’t make a noise, the English will hear us.”
In the darkness, Captain Roger, Colonel Howe, and twenty-four volunteers rowed up to the low sandy beach at the foot of the crags, which seemed to rise perpendicularly from the water’s edge.
The volunteers were picked men. A few of Roger’s best Rangers were amongst them. No sentry was on the shore; no alarm was given.
The order for perfect silence had been issued, and Roger leading the way, as noiselessly as possible the ascent was begun. Like shadows they moved up the pathway, crawling often on their hands and knees, the foremost removing obstacles for those who came after, till at last they gained the top, and saw before them the cluster of white tents. No word of command was given. That silent group of brave men realised to the full at that moment that victory or defeat was in their hands, and with the impulse to conquer or to die in the attempt, they rushed into the sleeping camp before the slightest sound announced their presence. Captain Vergor was in bed; he was shot, but not mortally, and made prisoner. The same fate awaited others, but in the darkness the greater number of the French fled. Then there arose from the heights such a cheer as only true-born Britons can give forth in the hour of triumph, and it was answered from below by men waiting breathlessly in the boats to know whether they too might scale the long dark slope of the woody precipice—the path to victory! General Wolfe was the first to leap ashore, and in his excitement he struck the earth with his sword’s point, as if claiming it for Old England.
And then the ascent began, each man with his musket slung over his shoulder. Trenches were leapt, abattis were broken through; the stream of men came pouring up from the boats, which, as soon as they were emptied, rowed back to the ships and brought more, until all the troops were landed.
The day was hardly dawning when Wolfe stood with the advanced troops on the heights. Anxiously, with penetrating eyes, he gazed in the direction from whence he supposed the French would come. At the expiration of an hour, when almost all the English troops had reached the summit, a cloud of dust, like smoke, with flashes of light, was seen on the horizon.
“The French!” said Wolfe calmly, pointing to the long line growing ever more and more distinct in the increasing morning light. On an open tract of grass, interspersed with cornfields, having on one side the St. Lawrence, and sloping down on the other to the St. Charles, General Wolfe and his officers stationed the English army, numbering in all three thousand five hundred men; and there, on the ever-celebrated Plains of Abraham, they awaited their adversaries.
Montcalm, when first informed of the landing of the English, exclaimed,—