Lectures and Essays

by Goldwin Smith

James Wolfe was a delicate child, and though he grew energetic and fearless, never grew strong, or ceased to merit the interest which attaches to a gallant spirit in a weak frame. He escaped a public school, and without any forfeiture of the manliness which public schools are supposed exclusively to produce, retained his home affections and his tenderness of heart. He received the chief part of his literary education in a school at Greenwich, where his parents resided, and he at all events learned enough Latin to get himself a dinner, in his first campaign on the Continent, by asking for it in that language. He is grateful to his schoolmaster, Mr. Stebbings, and speaks of him with affection in afterlife. But no doubt his military intelligence, as well as his military tastes, was gained by intercourse with his father, a real soldier, who had pushed his way by merit in an age of corrupt patronage, and was Adjutant-General to Lord Cathcart's forces in 1740. Bred in a home of military duty, the young soldier saw before him a worthy example of conscientious attention to all the details of the profession—not only to the fighting of battles, but to the making of the soldiers with whom battles are to be fought.

Walpole's reign of peace was over, the "Patriots" had driven the nation into war, and the trade of Colonel Wolfe and his son was again in request. Before he got his commission, and when he was only thirteen years-and a-half old, the boy's ardent spirit led him to embark with his father as a volunteer in the ill-fated expedition to Carthagena. Happily, though he assured his mother that he was "in a very good state of health," his health was so far from being good that they were obliged to put him on shore at Portsmouth. Thus he escaped that masterpiece of the military and naval administration of the aristocracy, to the horrors of which his frail frame would undoubtedly have succumbed. His father saw the unspeakable things depicted with ghastly accuracy by Smollett, and warned his son never, if he could help it, to go on joint expeditions of the two services—a precept which the soldier of an island power would have found it difficult to observe.

Wolfe's mother had struggled to prevent her boy from going, and appealed to his love of her. It was a strong appeal, for he was the most dutiful of sons. The first in the series of his letters is one written to her on this occasion, assuring her of his affection and promising to write to her by every ship he meets. She kept all his letters from this one to the last written from the banks of the St. Lawrence. They are in the stiff old style, beginning "Dear Madam," and signed "dutiful;" but they are full of warm feeling, scarcely interrupted by a little jealousy of temper which there appears to have been on the mother's side.

Wolfe's first commission was in his father's regiment of marines, but he never served as a marine. He could scarcely have done so, for to the end of his life, he suffered tortures from sea-sickness. He is now an Ensign in Duroure's regiment of foot. We see him a tall slender boy of fifteen, in scarlet coat, folded back from the breast after the old fashion in broad lapels to display its white or yellow lining, breeches and gaiters, with his young face surmounted by a wig and a cocked hat edged with gold lace, setting off, colours in hand, with his regiment for the war in the Low Countries. If he missed seeing aristocratic management at Carthagena, he shall see aristocratic and royal strategy at Dettingen. His brother Ned, a boy still more frail than himself, but emulous of his military ardour, goes in another regiment on the same expedition.

The regiment was accidentally preceded by a large body of troops of the other sex, who landing unexpectedly by themselves at Ostend caused some perplexity to the Quartermaster. The home affections must have been strong which could keep a soldier pure in those days.

The regiment was at first quartered at Ghent, where, amidst the din of garrison riot and murderous brawls, we hear the gentle sound of Wolfe's flute, and where he studies the fortifications, already anxious to prepare himself for the higher walks of his profession. From Ghent the army moved to the actual scene of war in Germany, suffering of course on the march from the badness of the commissariat. Wolfe's body feels the fatigue and hardship. He "never comes into quarters without aching hips and thighs." But he is "in the greatest spirits in the world." "Don't tell me of a constitution" he said afterwards, when a remark was made on the weakness of a brother officer, "he has good spirits, and good spirits will carry a man through everything."

All the world knows into what a position His Martial Majesty King George II., with the help of sundry persons of quality, styling themselves generals, got the British army at Dettingen, and how the British soldier fought his way out of the scrape. Wolfe was in the thick of it, and his horse was shot under him. His first letter is to his mother—"I take the very first opportunity I can to acquaint you that my brother and self escaped in the engagement we had with the French, the 16th June last, and, thank God, are as well as ever we were in our lives, after not only being canonnaded two hours and three quarters, and fighting with small arms two hours and one quarter, but lay the two following nights upon our arms, whilst it rained for about twenty hours in the same time; yet are ready and as capable to do the same again." But this letter is followed by one to his father, which seems to us to rank among the wonders of literature. It is full of fire and yet as calm as a dispatch, giving a complete, detailed, and masterly account of the battle, and showing that the boy kept his head, and played the part of a good officer as well as of a brave soldier in his first field. The cavalry did indifferently, and there is a sharp soldiery criticism on the cause of its failure. But the infantry did better.

"The third and last attack was made by the foot on both sides. We advanced towards one another; our men in high spirits, and very impatient for fighting, being elated with beating the French Horse, part of which advanced towards us, while the rest attacked our Horse, but were soon driven back by the great fire we gave them. The Major and I (for we had neither Colonel nor Lieutenant-Colonel), before they came near, were employed in begging and ordering the men not to fire at too great a distance, but to keep it till the enemy should come near us; but to little purpose. The whole fired when they thought they could reach them, which had like to have ruined us. We did very little execution with it. As soon as the French saw we presented they all fell down, and when we had fired they got up and marched close to us in tolerable good order, and gave us a brisk fire, which put us into some disorder and made us give way a little, particularly ours and two or three more regiments who were in the hottest of it. However, we soon rallied again, and attacked them again with great fury, which gained us a complete victory, and forced the enemy to retire in great haste."

Edward distinguished himself, too. "I sometimes thought I had lost poor Ned, when I saw arms and legs and heads beat off close by him. He is called 'The old Soldier,' and very deservedly." Poor "Old Soldier," his career was as brief as that of a shooting star. Next year he dies, not by sword or bullet, but of consumption hastened by hardships—dies alone in a foreign land, "often calling on those who were dear to him;" his brother, though within reach, being kept away by the calls of duty and by ignorance of the danger. The only comfort was that he had a faithful servant, and that as he shared with his brother the gift of winning hearts, brother officers were likely to be kind. James, writing to their mother, some time after, shed tears over the letter.

Though only sixteen, Wolfe had acted as Adjutant to his regiment at Dettingen. He was regularly appointed Adjutant a few days after. His father, as we have seen, had been an Adjutant-General. Even under the reign of Patronage there was one chance for merit. Patronage could not do without adjutants. From this time, Wolfe, following in his father's footsteps, seems to have given his steady attention to the administrative and, so far as his very scanty opportunities permitted, to the scientific part of his profession.