When I was almost face to face with the guard I made out it was composed of sailors, and just as I expected to hear the words which meant discovery and disgrace, one said to the other in a tone of authority: “The Seventy-eighth. It's all right!” and without challenging me they presented arms. Had I even known the password I could not have pronounced it, for my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth; but seeing my intent, the man who had spoken stepped before me and opened the wicket. I raised my hand in acknowledgment, and passed through.
I was without the walls.
[Part III]
MAXWELL'S STORY
“Adieu, paniers, vendange sont faite.” — Old Proverb.
[CHAPTER XXVI]
I CLOSE ONE ACCOUNT AND OPEN ANOTHER
Portentous as were its results, I have never been able to look upon the battle of the 13th of September as adding anything of value to military knowledge. From a technical view it never attained the dignity of battle at any point, and only exceeded a skirmish in the heavy losses and the deaths of the leading generals on each side.
The recognition of their efforts, and of those who so ably replaced them by their respective governments and contemporaries, read as a sorry commentary on the popular distribution of honours.
Wolfe, almost a tyro, at one bound won immortality and immediate applause from his countrymen; Montcalm, almost a veteran, though mourned by those about him, was persistently vilified, even after death, by the very man who should have been his most loyal supporter; I do not hesitate to name M. de Vaudreuil—and I am not aware of even a head-stone having been raised to his memory.