I urged the rowers to their task, and we flew on. We passed another boat loaded with men, singing boisterously a disorderly sort of song, called “Hot Stuff,” set to the air “Lilies of France.” It was out of touch with the general quiet:
“When the gay Forty-Seventh is dashing ashore,
While bullets are whistling and cannons do roar,
Says Montcalm, ‘Those are Shirleys—I know the lapels.’
‘You lie,’ says Ned Botwood, ‘we swipe for Lascelles!
Though our clothing is changed, and we scout powder-puff,
Here’s at you, ye swabs—here’s give you Hot Stuff!’”
While yet we were about two miles away, I saw a boat put out from the admiral’s ship, then, at the same moment, one from the Lower Town, and they drew towards each other. I urged my men to their task, and as we were passing some of Admiral Saunders’s ships, their sailors cheered us. Then came a silence, and it seemed to me that all our army and fleet, and that at Beauport, and the garrison of Quebec, were watching us; for the ramparts and shore were crowded. We drove on at an angle, to intercept the boat that left the admiral’s ship before it reached the town.
War leaned upon its arms and watched a strange duel. There was no authority in any one’s hands save my own to stop the boat, and the two armies must avoid firing, for the people of both nations were here in this space between—ladies and gentlemen in the French boat going to the town, Englishmen and a poor woman or two coming to our own fleet.
My men strained every muscle, but the pace was impossible—it could not last; and the rowers in the French boat hung over their oars also with enthusiasm. With the glass of the officer near me—Kingdon of Anstruther’s Regiment—I could now see Doltaire standing erect in the boat, urging the boatmen on.
All round that basin, on shore and cliff and mountains, thousands of veteran fighters—Fraser’s, Otway’s, Townsend’s, Murray’s; and on the other side the splendid soldiers of La Sarre, Languedoc, Bearn, and Guienne—watched in silence. Well they might, for in this entr’acte was the little weapon forged which opened the door of New France to England’s glory. So may the little talent or opportunity make possible the genius of the great.
The pain of this suspense grew so, that I longed for some sound to break the stillness; but there was nothing for minute after minute. Then, at last, on the halcyon air of that summer day floated the Angelus from the cathedral tower. Only a moment, in which one could feel, and see also, the French army praying, then came from the ramparts the sharp inspiring roll of a drum, and presently all was still again. Nearer and nearer the boat of prisoners approached the stone steps of the landing, and we were several hundred yards behind.
I motioned to Doltaire to stop, but he made no sign. I saw the cloaked figures of the nuns near him, and I strained my eyes, but I could not note their faces. My men worked on ardently, and presently we gained. But I saw that it was impossible to reach them before they set foot on shore. Now their boat came to the steps, and one by one they hastily got out. Then I called twice to Doltaire to stop. The air was still, and my voice carried distinctly. Suddenly one of the cloaked figures sprang towards the steps with arms outstretched, calling aloud, “Robert! Robert!” After a moment, “Robert, my husband!” rang out again, and then a young officer and the other nun took her by the arm to force her away. At the sharp instigation of Doltaire, instantly some companies of marines filed in upon the place where they had stood, leveled their muskets on us, and hid my beloved wife from my view. I recognized the young officer who had put a hand upon Alixe. It was her brother Juste.
“Alixe! Alixe!” I called, as my boat still came on.
“Save me, Robert!” came the anguished reply, a faint but searching sound, and then no more.