The sinking Braddock at last died and was buried in the road, that the tramp of the surging ma.s.s of men might obliterate his grave. His remains are said to have been discovered in 1823 by some workmen engaged in constructing the National road, at a spot pointed out by an old man who had been in the ranks in 1755. He claimed to have seen Braddock buried, and to have fired the bullet that killed him. It was impossible to identify the remains almost seventy years after their interment, but with them were found bits of military trappings, so his tale may have been correct. In the year 1841, near to the spot, was discovered a large quant.i.ty of shot and sh.e.l.l left by the retreating army.

Adjoining the grounds of the Chateau de Ramezay was the mansion of General Ralph Burton, who fought close to Wolfe in the siege of Quebec, to whom his dying words were spoken, and who carried out his last command, which decided the day. As Wolfe lay half unconscious, the riot of the battle growing dull on his failing senses, they were roused by the cry, "They run!" He opened his glazed eyes and asked, "Who run?" and the reply was, "The French!" With a supreme effort he turned to Burton, and ordered him, saying, "Command Webb to march down to the St. Charles and cut off the retreat at the bridge"; and then amid the crash and carnage of war, he murmured, "Now I thank G.o.d, and die contented," and instantly expired.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE CHATEAU DE VAUDREUIL.

A short distance to the south-west is the spot on which stood the Chateau and famous gardens of the Marquis de Vaudreuil, the last French Governor of Canada. Imagination can forget the miles of docks and warehouses, the electricity and commerce with which we are entering the twentieth century, and fancy it sees again the old vice-regal palace, a miniature in Canadian forests of the gay court at the Tuilleries, with its bewitchment of lace, silk and velvet, powdered wigs and the exaggerated politeness and exquisite bows of _la grande dame_ and _le chevalier_ of the time.

Let us step back to the winter of 1758 and '59. The mountain is snow-capped and the St. Lawrence is frozen several feet thick, making good roads for the s.h.a.ggy Canadian pony and _cariole_, or heavy _traineau_ with wooden runners. In the early winter's evening, lights gleam through the small windows of the earthen citadel which guards the _Porte St. Martin_, and the clash of arms or halberds, and the pacing of the sentries' footsteps, are heard at every closed gate of the little walled town. Patches of warm light from candle and hearth checker the snow which lies glistening on the sidewalks, for there are no street lamps on the St. Paul, St. Mary or Notre Dame streets of these old days.

Under the night sky, the storehouses look like gloomy prisons, but cheerful groups talk and laugh, as the beaux and belles bend their steps along the narrow streets to the Governor's salon. As the guests of the Marquis de Vaudreuil a.s.semble, the brilliance of their costumes is heightened in effect by the gorgeous livery of the attendants and the blue and white of the soldiers' regimentals. Groups around the spindle-legged card tables exchange _bon-mots_ and play, while others dance and promenade on the polished floors until the morning light breaks over the river.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The gaiety and frivolity, feasting and gossip are in strange contrast to the grey gown of the Jesuit priest hurrying from the monastery opposite, to shrive some sinner, or to administer "Extreme Unction" to some dying saint. Within the convent walls pious sisters, followers of Mademoiselle Mance and Madame d'Youville, tend the sick and unfortunate, whom the tide of life has cast upon this far away sh.o.r.e. From the taverns on the corners and on the river front comes the sound of mirth and merriment, as with the cup of good Gascon wine are pa.s.sed around tales of the high seas or of times gone by in the old-world towns of Brittany.

On the altars of the chapels lights burn dimly in a silence unbroken, save by the murmuring of prayers and telling of beads by suppliants driven hither by sin, sorrow or homesickness.

[Ill.u.s.tration: RUE ST. AMABLE.

COPYRIGHT.]

A narrow little street, named St. Amable, running west from the Governor's mansion, has been subjected to so little change since those days of long ago that the pa.s.ser-by on its two feet of sidewalk sees it just as it was when its vaulted warehouses held the cargoes of the weather-beaten sailing craft that anch.o.r.ed at the sh.o.r.e below. Where now the French _habitant_ sits chattering with his _confreres_ and smoking his pipe filled with home-grown _tabac_ were once the shady walks and stiff parterres of the ancient garden. Here, under the summer moons, were doubtless stolen meetings as sweet, vows as insincere, and intrigues as foolish as those in the exquisite bowers of _Le Pet.i.t Trianon_ at Versailles. On its paths have fallen the martial tread of "de Levis, de Beaujeu, and many a brave soldier and dainty courtier, official guests at the Governor's Chateau." Among them was one who eclipsed all others in sad interest, the courtly young commander, Louis Joseph Saint Veran de Montcalm. Any spot a.s.sociated with this ill-fated general is of immortal memory. After his skillful manoeuvering at the battle of Carillon, his march to Montreal was a triumph. At the close of this engagement, as, accompanied by de Levis and his staff, he rode along the ranks, thanking his troops, who idolized him, in the name of their king, for their glorious display of French valour in a field where thirty-six hundred men had for six hours withstood fifteen thousand, he was in every particular a worthy and capable general. He spoke of his own share in the glory of the day with simplicity and modesty, writing the next day to Vaudreuil:--

"The only credit I can claim as accruing to me is the glory of commanding troops so valorous."

On one occasion, the capture of Oswego, which is described as the most brilliant military exploit then known in Canadian history, he with his own hand s.n.a.t.c.hed the colours from a British officer and sent the trophy to Quebec, to adorn the walls of the Cathedral of that city; as many a time before had been done for old-world Minsters by knights on the battlefields of Europe, whose empty armour now hangs in the baronial halls of England.

Montcalm had been summoned to Montreal to confer with the Governor on the further conduct of the war, and, as he marched forth to take command of the Citadel of Quebec, all hearts centred on him, saying, "Save for France her fair dominion in the West;" but the gallant soldier, in his endeavour to do so, met his tragic and untimely end.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Louis Joseph Marquis de Montcalm]

Entrenched behind the ramparts of Quebec, he prepared for the great struggle which was to decide the fortunes of the then two foremost powers of Europe. He and de Levis, although a considerable distance from each other, had seventeen thousand men under their command, with a splendid line of fortifications running from Montmorenci to the St.

Charles, supplementing the granite defences of the Citadel. Montcalm being in doubt for some time at what point to look for attack from the enemy, sent orders along the whole line for his troops to be in perfect readiness everywhere. He was several years older than Wolfe, and was an old campaigner, having served his king with honour and distinction in Germany, Italy and Bohemia.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE BATTLE OF THE PLAINS.

It was the evening of the 12th of Sept., 1759. The French troops were on the alert,--the British ready. The evening was calm and fine and the occasion full of solemnity as Wolfe embarked in a boat to visit some of his posts. As the oars dipped softly in the stream, and the quiet dusk of the autumn twilight hid the grim signs of war and brought out the peaceful beauty of the scene, he thought of the morrow--that where

"Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds,"

would be rent by the roar of cannon, the flash of b.l.o.o.d.y steel and the cries of the wounded and dying.

Feeling perhaps a shrinking from the great crisis which the dawn would bring, he repeated to the officers and midshipmen within hearing a number of the verses from the most finished poem in the English language, Grey's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," and which had appeared a short time before. Probably the lines on which he lingered longest were:--

"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

The last line was, alas! prophetic in his own case, and he may have had some premonition of it, for turning to his listeners, who were to share with him victory or defeat, he said with a wistful pathos in his young voice, "I would prefer being the author of that poem to the glory of beating the French to-morrow."

He did not dream that for what that morrow would bring, his name, with that of the poet he loved, would be carven among those of England's great men in Westminster Abbey--

"Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise."

Landing in a ravine (Wolfe's Cove), which he had located by the use of a gla.s.s--with the strategic venture at which all the world has since wondered--in the dark hours of the same night, he, at the head of the famous Fraser Highlanders, placed his force on the Plains of Abraham, each man knowing it was victory or death, as there was no possibility of retreat.

The intelligence of the landing of the British troops was first brought to the Governor-General, the Marquis de Vaudreuil, and he had the task of communicating the unwelcome news to Montcalm, who had hurried from his quarters on the ramparts to ascertain what was the meaning of the firing above the town.

On learning the situation, he bitterly exclaimed:--

"They have at least got to the weak side of this miserable garrison, and, therefore, we must endeavour to crush them by our numbers before 12 o'clock."

Montcalm, with more courage than discretion, without waiting for de Levis, who was twenty-eight miles away,--the victim of an inexorable destiny, unsupported led forth his men, and saw, not without surprise, the whole British Army ranged in battle array. Without giving his men time to recover breath after the fatigue of their laborious and hurried march, he went into action, trusting to the well-tested courage of his troops.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Jam: Wolfe]

Wolfe led the charge at the head of the Louisburg Grenadiers, and when the Highlanders, throwing away their muskets, rushed on with their broad swords like a tempest of steel, the hapless blue coats, though lacking in neither prowess nor patriotism, fled in all directions. The two young leaders fell almost simultaneously.

When Wolfe received his death wound, he was in a conspicuous spot near the Redoubt, and was thence borne to the rear. He had calmly prepared for this contingency. He had made his will, of which he appointed Sir Guy Carleton the executor, and for whom he had early formed a close friendship, generally speaking of him as "My friend Carleton," and to whom he bequeathed his books and papers. His plate he willed to Saunders, and to another friend he entrusted the miniature of his betrothed with the charge of returning it to her in the event of his fall. That was probably the most trying moment of those hours so fraught with tragedy--a moment like those on the eve of Waterloo, when there were

"Partings that crush the life from out young hearts."

It was not in his martial cloak nor in his country's flag that he was carried dead off the field, but in the tartan "plaidie" of an old Highland man, named McLeod, which was tenderly wrapped around him, wet with tears from eyes to which tears had long been strangers.

As he fell, his princ.i.p.al care was for the effect it would have upon his troops, who, down to the humblest in his command, had caught his spirit, and who felt that "they must fulfil the trust reposed in them, or die in the ranks."

Leaning against the shoulder of the officer who caught him when falling, he implored him to support him, saying, "Do not let my brave soldiers see me drop, the day is ours, keep it!" A death attended with circ.u.mstances more pathetic or incidents more picturesque the annals of war do not record.

"The capture of Quebec was an achievement of so formidable a character, so distinguished by chivalrous enterprise, and so fraught with singular adventure, that the interest attending it still remains undimmed and its glorious recollections unfaded."

The virtues and heroism of the youthful leader of the campaign and the bravery of his troops, whose toast was "The British flag on every fort, post and garrison in America," are themes of just pride to the lover of his country. "Young in years but mature in experience, Wolfe possessed all the liberal virtues in addition to an enthusiastic knowledge of the military art with a sublimity of genius, always the distinguishing mark of minds above the ordinary level of mankind. His celebrated letter to Mr. Pitt is still considered unsurpa.s.sed in military composition."

As Montcalm was carried off the field he enquired if his wound was mortal; on being answered in the affirmative, with a mental anguish keener than the intense physical pain he was suffering, he said, "So much the better, I shall not live to see the surrender of Quebec." Few scenes are more full of sadness than his march from his last battle-field, as supported by two grenadiers, and pa.s.sing through the St. Louis Gate on his black charger, he courteously greeted the weeping women who lined his path, telling them not to weep for him; but it could not be but a day of tears for the daughters of Quebec as groans of mortal agony came to their ears through the smoke and dust of retreat.

A few hours afterward, on being visited by M. de Ramezay, who commanded the garrison, with the t.i.tle of Lieutenant _du Roy_, and another officer, Montcalm addressed them saying, "Gentlemen, I commend to your keeping the honour of France,--for myself, I shall pa.s.s the night with G.o.d, and prepare myself for death."

On M. de Ramezay's pressing to receive commands respecting the defence of Quebec, he exclaimed with emotion:--"I will neither give orders nor interfere further. I have business that must be attended to of greater moment than your ruined garrison and this wretched country. My time is very short, so pray leave me; I wish you all comfort, and to be happily extricated from your present difficulties."

Before expiring, he paid a n.o.ble tribute to his late foes, when he said:--