Of Canada’s fair dames,
Ye are as gentle in these bowers
As brave amidst war’s flames.
“Long may ye live to tell the tale
Transmitted to your mind,
And should again your country call
Like valor she will find.”
One hundred years have passed away, and again soldiers and civilians in the costume of 1775 move about in the old fortress, some in the identical uniforms worn by their ancestors at the time of the memorable repulse.
The Commandant, in the uniform of his corps in 1775, and the ladies in the costume of the same period, received their guests as they entered the ball-room—the approaches to which were tastefully decorated. Half-way between the dressing and receiving rooms is a noble double staircase, the sides of which are draped with Royal standards intermingled with the white and golden lilies of France, our Dominion ensign, and the stars and stripes of the neighboring republic. On either hand of the broad steps are stands of arms and warlike implements. Here, too, facing one when ascending the steps, is the trophy designed by Captain Larue of the B battery. The huge banners fell in graceful folds about the stacks of musketry piled on the right and left above the drums and trumpets; from the centre was a red and black pennant (the American colors of 1775), immediately underneath was the escutcheon of the United States, on which, heavily craped, was hung the hero’s sword—the weapon with which, one hundred years before this night, Montgomery had beckoned on his men. Underneath this kindly tribute to the memory of the dead general were the solemn prayerful initials of the Requiescat in Pace. At the foot of the trophy were two sets of old flint muskets, and accoutrements, piled, and in the centre a brass cannon captured from the Americans in 1775, which bears the lone star and figure of an Indian—the arms of the State of Massachusetts. On either side of this historical tableau, recalling as it did so vividly the troublous times of long ago, telling the lesson so speakingly of the patience and pluck, the sturdy manhood and bravery of a century gone by, were stationed as sentries two splendid specimens of the human race, stalwart giants, considerably over six feet in height, who belonged formerly to the famous Cent Garde of Napoleon III., but now in the ranks of B battery.[[15]] The stern impassiveness of their faces and the immobility of their figures were quite in keeping with the solemn trust they had to guard.
Dancing commenced; dance succeeded dance, and the happy hours flew past till the midnight hour, which would add another year to our earthly existence. About that time there were mysterious signs and evidences that something unusual was going to happen. There was a hurrying to and fro of the cognoscenti to their respective places, but so noiselessly and carefully were the preparations made for a coup de théatre that the gay throng who perpetually circulated through the rooms took little heed, when all of a sudden the clear clarion notes of a trumpet sounding thrilled the hearts of all present. A panel in the wainscoting of the lower dancing room opened as if by magic, and out jumped a jaunty little trumpeter with the slashed and decorated jacket and busby of a Hussar. The blast he blew rang in tingling echoes far and wide, and a second later the weird piping and drumming, in a music now strange to us, was heard in a remote part of the barracks. Nearer and nearer every moment came the sharp shrill notes of the fifes and the quick detonation of the drum stick taps. A silence grew over the bright cortege, the notes of the band died away, the company clustered in picturesque groups around the stairs where was placed the thin steel blade whose hilt one century gone by was warmed by the hand of Montgomery. The rattle of the drums came closer and closer, two folding doors opened suddenly, and through them stalked in grim solemnity the “Phantom Guard,” led by the intrepid Sergeant Hugh McQuarters. Neither regarding the festive decorations nor the bright faces around them, the guard passed through the assemblage as if they were not, on through saloon and passage, past ball-room and conversation parlor, they glided with measured step, and halted in front of the Montgomery trophy, and paid military honors to the memento of a hero’s valiant, if unsuccessful, act. Upon their taking close order, the bombardier, Mr. Dunn, who impersonated the dead sergeant, and actually wore the sword and blood-stained belts of a man who was killed in action in 1775, addressed Col. Strange, who stood at the bottom of the staircase already mentioned, as follows: —