Chapter XX
The Plains of Abraham
The sun, rising in all its early autumn splendour on that eventful thirteenth of September, 1759, looked down upon an historic scene which England should never forget. The slanting rays pierced the mists overhanging the side reaches of the St. Lawrence, and slowly disclosed to view the promontory on which the city of Quebec was built, now no longer that fairy place which Steve had known it, but a mangled heap of ruins, with debris of fallen houses, convents, and barracks choking the tortuous streets. The lower portions of the city were gone, while above, where the cannon shot from Point Lévis had failed to reach, the batteries and walls stood out prominently on this fair morning, as defiant as ever, frowning upon the English camp on the Isle of Orleans, and upon the two long plateaux on either hand. There was turmoil in this upper city. Soldiers and civilians were rushing aimlessly about, horsemen galloped from the walls with frantic messages, while Montcalm, that gallant soldier, discussed the situation with the Marquis Vaudreuil, governor of Canada.
The news had just reached the city, and as the French commander looked towards the Plains of Abraham, spying them through his glass, he saw that it was only too true.
"At last," he said, "they have outwitted us, these fine Englishmen and their persevering leader. They are waiting for our soldiers. I must go."
In his own heart Montcalm knew in what a desperate plight he and his force were, for he had already learned that the enemy who had for so long faced the city were trained men, veterans, determined to win.
"We have a breathing space," said General Wolfe, looking haggard on this early morning as he stood surrounded by his officers. "Let the men lie down and eat their rations. And send for Captain Steve Mainwaring and those gallant friends who helped us last night."
He stood, his glass to his eye, watching the distant city and the men bustling about the walls. Then he turned to his own battalions and inspected them critically.