Other events were at hand fraught with interest to our Virginians. One evening after Christmas, the two gentlemen, with a few more friends, were met round General Lambert's supper-table; and among the company was Harry's new Colonel of the 67th, Major-General Wolfe. The young General was more than ordinarily grave. The conversation all related to the war. Events of great importance were pending. The great minister now in power was determined to carry on the war on a much more extended scale than had been attempted hitherto: an army was ordered to Germany to help Prince Ferdinand, another great expedition was preparing for America, and here, says Mr. Lambert, “I will give you the health of the Commander—a glorious campaign, and a happy return to him!”
“Why do you not drink the toast, General James!” asked the hostess of her guest.
“He must not drink his own toast,” says General Lambert; “it is we must do that!”
What? was James appointed?—All the ladies must drink such a toast as that, and they mingled their kind voices with the applause of the rest of the company.
Why did he look so melancholy? the ladies asked of one another when they withdrew. In after days they remembered his pale face.
“Perhaps he has been parting from his sweetheart,” suggests tender-hearted Mrs. Lambert. And at this sentimental notion, no doubt all the ladies looked sad.
The gentlemen, meanwhile, continued their talk about the war and its chances. Mr. Wolfe did not contradict the speakers when they said that the expedition was to be directed against Canada.
“Ah, sir,” says Harry, “I wish your regiment was going with you, and that I might pay another visit to my old friends at Quebec.”
What, had Harry been there? Yes. He described his visit to the place five years before, and knew the city, and the neighbourhood, well. He lays a number of bits of biscuit on the table before him, and makes a couple of rivulets of punch on each side. “This fork is the Isle d'Orleans,” says he, “with the north and south branches of St. Lawrence on each side. Here's the Low Town, with a battery—how many guns was mounted there in our time, brother?—but at long shots from the St. Joseph shore you might play the same game. Here's what they call the little river, the St. Charles, and a bridge of boats with a tete du pont over to the place of arms. Here's the citadel, and here's convents—ever so many convents—and the cathedral; and here, outside the lines to the west and south, is what they call the Plains of Abraham—where a certain little affair took place, do you remember, brother? He and a young officer of the Rousillon regiment ca ca'd at each other for twenty minutes, and George pinked him, and then they jure'd each other an amitie eternelle. Well it was for George: for his second saved his life on that awful day of Braddock's defeat. He was a fine little fellow, and I give his toast: Je bois a la sante du Chevalier de Florac!”
“What, can you speak French, too, Harry?” asks Mr. Wolfe. The young man looked at the General with eager eyes.