How Canada Was Won: A Tale of Wolfe and Quebec

by F. S. Brereton

"The men will load with two bullets, and will reserve their fire till the enemy are at close quarters." The order, issued from the cool leader of our men, went down the ranks, and at once there was the ring and tinkle of ramrods as a second ball was pushed into place. Men powdered their pans and looked to their locks carefully, and then all eyes went to the enemy. They were less than half a mile away, and already their cannon, three of which had been hurriedly brought into position, were plying our ranks with their shot, while from the flank came a hail of bullets, sent by unseen marksmen.

Never in all his after-life could Steve forget that morning and the scene upon which he looked, for he lay at the edge of a scrap of cover replying to the fire of the French irregulars. The French line, consisting of regulars and militia, advanced steadily, firing when they came into range. They were mixed together in a heterogeneous mass, and their shouts and the clatter of their pieces filled the air. Steve watched them closely, and noted that already they were thrown into some confusion, though our troops had not yet fired a shot, for their militia backwoodsmen, once they had fired, threw themselves down on the ground to reload, causing gaps in the ranks. But still they were coming, looking formidable, and as if determined to succeed. Then he gazed at the English troops, and a glow of enthusiasm suffused his cheeks. For our men have won the unstinted praise of everyone for their action on that morning. They were formed in a triple line, and lay on the ground, waiting, while the cannon shot and bullets plunged in amongst them, killing and maiming many. Here and there stood an officer, talking quietly to his men, joking, laughing, keeping their temper in hand, as our officers have always known how to do. But the time for action had come. Wolfe, calm and patient, yet itching to commence operations, walked to the front of the Louisbourg Grenadiers and lifted his cane.

They were up. As one man the English regiments scrambled to their feet, lined up, and brought their pieces down to the charge.

"Remember orders. Men, hold your fire till the word is given."

The officers could be heard calling to the men while they dressed the lines for the coming charge. Ah! Wolfe was advancing. Steve saw him wrapping a handkerchief about his wrist, which had been shattered by a ball. The French were close at hand now. Men could catch the gleam of bayonets, and could see into one another's eyes. But there was not a sound from the English. They still advanced, silent and awe-inspiring. They were within forty yards when the signal was given, officers stepped to the flanks of their companies, a loud command was heard, and in an instant a line of flame spouted from the ranks, while the crash of the muskets sounded more like the discharge of cannon than of smaller weapons. Then, indeed, did our men shout. Their voices deafened the air, for they cheered enthusiastically. As for the French, they were thrown into instant confusion. Huge gaps were torn in their ranks, while men fell in all directions. They stood spellbound for the most part, while some of their militia fled, for this was almost the first time in this momentous campaign that they had stood face to face with our men.

"Load again. Ready. Present! Fire!"

The order went rolling down our thin ranks, and again Steve heard the clink and ring of the ramrods. Then came a second rattling volley, the bullets crashing into the French ranks. Hurrah! Our men were advancing again. The bayonets were breast high, while the broadswords of the Highlanders flashed in the sun. Another shout went down the ranks, and then there was heard the clatter of bayonet on bayonet, the hoarse cheers of Highlanders, and the frantic shouts of New England lads, and men from Old England. The French held their ground for a moment, bravely contesting the path. Then they turned, broke into small parties, and for the most part fled, a few veterans here and there standing shoulder to shoulder to the last.

But where was Wolfe? The Indians and Canadians were flying with their comrades now, and Steve was no longer required on the flank. He slung his musket over his shoulder, and went off at a run till a small gathering of officers attracted his attention. Wolfe, the gallant, lion-hearted officer had been hit in the wrist at the commencement of the action, and afterwards in the groin and through the lung. He was mortally wounded, and called to Lieutenant Browne. "Support me," he cried, "lest my gallant fellows should see me fall."

The officer was too late, and arrived at the general's side to find him on the ground. Then a Mr. Henderson and Colonel Williamson arrived, while Steve came on the scene a second or so later. Together they lifted the poor general and carried him to the rear, where they laid him gently down again, for he was in great pain and almost unconscious.

"They run! See how they run!" cried an officer.