The Conquest of Canada, Vol. 1

The reaction of the New World upon the Old may be distinctly traced through the past and the present, but human wisdom may not estimate its influence on the future. The lessons of freedom learned by the French army while aiding the revolted colonies against England were not forgotten. On their return to their native country, they spread abroad tidings that the new people of America had gained a treasure richer a thousand-fold than those which had gilded the triumphs of Cortes or Pizarro—the inestimable prize of liberty. Then the down-trampled millions of France arose, and with avaricious haste strove for a like treasure. They won a specious imitation, so soiled and stained, however, that many of the wisest among them could not at once detect its nature. They played with the coarse bawble for a time, then lost it in a sea of blood.

Doubtless the tempest that broke upon France had long been gathering. The rays that emanated from such false suns as Voltaire and Rousseau had already drawn up a moral miasma from the swamps of sensual ignorance: under the shade of a worthless government these noxious mists collected into the clouds from whence the desolating storm of the Revolution burst. It was, however, the example of popular success in the New World, and the republican training of a portion of the French army during the American contest, that finally accelerated the course of events. A generation before the "Declaration of Independence" the struggle between the rival systems of Canada and New England had been watched by thinking men in Europe with deep interest, and the importance to mankind of its issue was fully felt. While France mourned the defeat of her armies and the loss of her magnificent colony, the keen-sighted philosopher of Ferney gave a banquet to celebrate the British triumph at Quebec, not as the triumph of England over France, but as that of freedom over despotism.1

The overthrow of French by British power in America was not the effect of mere military superiority. The balance of general success and glory in the field is no more than shared with the conquered people. The morbid national vanity, which finds no delight but in the triumphs of the sword, will shrink from the study of this checkered story. The narrative of disastrous defeat and doubtful advantage must be endured before we arrive at that of the brilliant victory which crowned our arms with final success. We read with painful surprise of the rout and ruin of regular British regiments by a crowd of Indian savages, and of the bloody repulse of the most numerous army that had yet assembled round our standards in America before a few weak French battalions and an unfinished parapet.

For the first few years our prosecution of the Canadian war was marked by a weakness little short of imbecility. The conduct of the troops was indifferent, the tactics of the generals bad, and the schemes of the minister worse. The coarse but powerful wit of Smollett and Fielding, and the keen sarcasms of "Chrysal," convey to us no very exalted idea of the composition of the British army in those days. The service had sunk into contempt. The withering influence of a corrupt patronage had demoralized the officers; successive defeats, incurred through the inefficiency of courtly generals, had depressed the spirit of the soldiery, and, were it not for the proof shown upon the bloody fields of La Feldt and Fontenoy, we might almost suppose that English manhood had become an empty name.

Many of the battalions shipped off to take part in the American contest were hasty levies without organization or discipline: the colonel, a man of influence, with or without other qualifications, as the case might be; the officers, his neighbors and dependents. These armed mobs found themselves suddenly landed in a country, the natural difficulty of which would of itself have proved a formidable obstacle, even though unenhanced by the presence of an active and vigilant enemy. At the same time, there devolved upon them the duties and the responsibilities of regular troops. A due consideration of these circumstances tends to diminish the surprise which a comparison of their achievements with those recorded in our later military annals might create.

Very different were the ranks of the American army from the magnificent regiments whose banners now bear the crowded records of Peninsular and Indian victory; who, within the recollection of living men, have stood as conquerors upon every hostile land, yet never once permitted a stranger to tread on England's sacred soil but as a prisoner, fugitive, or friend. In Cairo and Copenhagen; in Lisbon, Madrid, and Paris; in the ancient metropolis of China; in the capital of the young American republic, the British flag has been hailed as the symbol of a triumphant power or of a generous deliverance. Well may we cherish an honest pride in the prowess and military virtue of our soldiers, loyal alike to the crown and to the people; facing in battle, with unshaken courage, the deadly shot and sweeping charge, and, with a still loftier valor, enduring, in times of domestic troubles, the gibes and injuries of their misguided countrymen.

In the stirring interest excited by the progress and rivalry of our kindred races in America, the sad and solemn subject of the Indian people is almost forgotten. The mysterious decree of Providence which has swept them away may not be judged by human wisdom. Their existence will soon be of the past. They have left no permanent impression on the constitution of the great nation which now spreads over their country. No trace of their blood, language, or manners may be found among their haughty successors. As certainly as their magnificent forests fell before the advancing tide of civilization, they fell also. Neither the kindness nor the cruelty of the white man arrested or hastened their inevitable fate. They withered alike under the Upas-shade of European protection and before the deadly storm of European hostility. As the snow in spring they melted away, stained, tainted, trampled down.

The closing scene of French dominion in Canada was marked by circumstances of deep and peculiar interest. The pages of romance can furnish no more striking episode than the battle of Quebec. The skill and daring of the plan which brought on the combat, and the success and fortune of its execution, are unparalleled. There a broad, open plain, offering no advantages to either party, was the field of fight. The contending armies were nearly equal in military strength, if not in numbers. The chiefs of each were men already of honorable fame. France trusted firmly in the wise and chivalrous Montcalm; England trusted hopefully in the young and heroic Wolfe. The magnificent stronghold which was staked upon the issue of the strife stood close at hand. For miles and miles around, the prospect extended over as fair a land as ever rejoiced the sight of man; mountain and valley, forest and waters, city and solitude, grouped together in forms of almost ideal beauty.

The strife was brief, but deadly. The September sun rose upon two gallant armies arrayed in unbroken pride, and noon of the same day saw the ground where they had stood strewn with the dying and the dead. Hundreds of the veterans of France had fallen in the ranks, from which they disdained to fly; the scene of his ruin faded fast from Montcalm's darkening sight, but the proud consciousness of having done his duty deprived defeat and death of their severest sting. Not more than a musket-shot away lay Wolfe; the heart that but an hour before had throbbed with great and generous impulse, now still forever. On the face of the dead there rested a triumphant smile, which the last agony had not overcast; a light of unfailing hope, that the shadows of the grave could not darken.

The portion of history here recorded is no fragment. Within a period comparatively brief, we see the birth, the growth, and the catastrophe of a nation. The flag of France is erected at Quebec by a handful of hardy adventurers; a century and a half has passed, and that flag is lowered to a foreign foe before the sorrowing eyes of a Canadian people. This example is complete as that presented in the life of an individual: we see the natural sequence of events; the education and the character, the motive and the action, the error and the punishment. Through the following records may be clearly traced combinations of causes, remote, and even apparently opposed, uniting in one result, and also the surprising fertility of one great cause in producing many different results.

Were we to read the records of history by the light of the understanding instead of by the fire of the passions, the study could be productive only of unmixed good; their examples and warnings would afford us constant guidance in the paths of public and private virtue. The narrow and unreasonable notion of exclusive national merit can not survive a fair glance over the vast map of time and space which history lays before us. We may not avert our eyes from those dark spots upon the annals of our beloved land where acts of violence and injustice stand recorded against her, nor may we suffer the blaze of military renown to dazzle our judgment. Victory may bring glory to the arms, while it brings shame to the councils of a people; for the triumphs of war are those of the general and the soldier; increase of honor, wisdom, and prosperity are the triumphs of the nation.

The citizens of Rome placed the images of their ancestors in the vestibule, to recall the virtues of the dead, and to stimulate the emulation of the living. We also should fix our thoughts upon the examples which history presents, not in a vain spirit of selfish nationality, but in earnest reverence for the great and good of all countries, and a contempt for the false, and mean, and cruel even of our own.

CHAPTER I

The philosophers of remote antiquity acquired the important knowledge of the earth's spherical form; to their bold genius we are indebted for the outline of the geographical system now universally adopted. With a vigorous conception, but imperfect execution, they traced out the scheme of denoting localities by longitude and latitude: according to their teaching, the imaginary equatorial line, encompassing the earth, was divided into hours and degrees.

Even at that distant period hardy adventurers had penetrated far away into the land of the rising sun, and many a wondrous tale was told of that mysterious empire, where one third of our fellow-men still stand apart from the brotherhood of nations. Among the various and astounding exaggerations induced by the vanity of the narrators, and the ignorance of their audience, none was more ready than that of distance. The journey, the labor of a life; each league of travel a new scene; the day crowded with incident, the night a dream of terror or admiration. Then, as the fickle will of the wanderer suggested, as the difficulties or encouragement of nature, and the hostility or aid of man impelled, the devious course bent to the north or south, was hastened, hindered, or retraced.

By such vague and shadowy measurement as the speculations of these wanderers supplied, the sages of the past traced out the ideal limits of the dry land which, at the word of God, appeared from out the gathering together of the waters.2

The most eminent geographer before the time of Ptolemy places the confines of Seres—the China of to-day—at nearly two thirds of the distance round the world, from the first meridian.3 Ptolemy reduces the proportion to one half. Allowing for the supposed vast extent of this unknown country to the eastward, it was evident that its remotest shores approached our Western World. But, beyond the Pillars of Hercules, the dark and stormy waters of the Atlantic4 forbade adventure. The giant minds of those days saw, even through the mists of ignorance and error, that the readiest course to reach this distant land must lie toward the setting sun, across the western ocean.5 From over this vast watery solitude no traveler had ever brought back the story of his wanderings. The dim light of traditionary memory gave no guiding ray, the faint voice of rumor breathed not its mysterious secrets. Then poetic imagination filled the void; vast islands were conjured up out of the deep, covered with unheard-of luxuriance of vegetation, rich in mines of incalculable value, populous with a race of conquering warriors. But this magnificent vision was only created to be destroyed; a violent earthquake rent asunder in a day and a night the foundations of Atlantis, and the waters of the Western Ocean swept over the ruins of this once mighty empire.6 In after ages we are told, that some Phœnician vessels, impelled by a strong east wind, were driven for thirty days across the Atlantic: there they found a part of the sea where the surface was covered with rushes and sea-weed, somewhat resembling a vast inundated meadow.7 The voyagers ascribed these strange appearances to some cause connected with the submerged Atlantis, and even in later years they were held by many as confirmation of Plato's marvelous story.8

In the Carthaginian annals is found the mention of a fertile and beautiful island of the distant Atlantic. Many adventurous men of that maritime people were attracted thither by the delightful climate and the riches of the soil; it was deemed of such value and importance that they proposed to transfer the seat of their republic to its shores in case of any irreparable disaster at home. But at length the Senate, fearing the evils of a divided state, denounced the distant colony, and decreed the punishment of death to those who sought it for a home. If there be any truth in this ancient tale, it is probable that one of the Canary Islands was its subject.9

Although the New World in the West was unknown to the ancients, there is no doubt that they entertained a suspicion of its existence;10 the romance of Plato—the prophecy of Seneca, were but the offsprings of this vague idea. Many writers tell us it was conjectured that, by sailing from the coast of Spain, the eastern shores of India might be reached;11 the length of the voyage, or the wonders that might lie in its course, imagination alone could measure or describe. Whatever might have been the suspicion or belief12 of ancient time, we may feel assured that none then ventured to seek these distant lands, nor have we reason to suppose that any of the civilized European races gave inhabitants to the New World before the close of the fifteenth century.

To the barbarous hordes of Northeastern Asia America must have long been known as the land where many of their wanderers found a home. It is not surprising that from them no information was obtained; but it is strange that the bold and adventurous Northmen should have visited it nearly five hundred years before the great Genoese, and have suffered their wonderful discovery to remain hidden from the world, and to become almost forgotten among themselves.13

In the year 1001 the Icelanders touched upon the American coast, and for nearly two centuries subsequent visits were repeatedly made by them and the Norwegians, for the purpose of commerce or for the gratification of curiosity. Biorn Heriolson, an Icelander, was the first discoverer: steering for Greenland, he was driven to the south by tempestuous and unfavorable winds, and saw different parts of America, without, however, touching at any of them. Attracted by the report of this voyage, Leif, son of Eric, the discoverer of Greenland, fitted out a vessel to pursue the same adventure. He passed the coast visited by Biorn, and steered southwest till he reached a strait between a large island and the main land. Finding the country fertile and pleasant, he passed the winter near this place, and gave it the name of Vinland,14 from the wild vine which grew there in great abundance.15 The winter days were longer in this new country than in Greenland, and the weather was more temperate.

Leif returned to Greenland in the spring; his brother Thorvald succeeded him, and remained two winters in Vinland exploring much of the coast and country.16 In the course of the third summer the natives, now called Esquimaux, were first seen; on account of their diminutive stature the adventurers gave them the name of Skrælingar.17 These poor savages, irritated by an act of barbarous cruelty, attacked the Northmen with darts and arrows, and Thorvald fell a victim to their vengeance. A wealthy Icelander, named Thorfinn, established a regular colony in Vinland soon after this event; the settlers increased rapidly in numbers, and traded with the natives for furs and skins to great advantage. After three years the adventurers returned to Iceland enriched by the expedition, and reported favorably upon the new country. Little is known of this settlement after Thorfinn's departure till early in the twelfth century, when a bishop of Greenland18 went there to promulgate the Christian faith among the colonists; beyond that time scarcely a notice of its existence occurs, and the name and situation of the ancient Vinland soon passed away from the knowledge of man. Whether the adventurous colonists ever returned, or became blended with the natives,19 or perished by their hands, no record remains to tell.20

Discoveries such as these by the ancient Scandinavians—fruitless to the world and almost buried in oblivion—can not dim the glory of that transcendant genius to whom we owe the knowledge of a New World.

The claim of the Welsh to the first discovery of America seems to rest upon no better original authority than that of Meridith-ap-Rees, a bard who died in the year 1477. His verses only relate that Prince Madoc, wearied with dissensions at home, searched the ocean for a new kingdom. The tale of this adventurer's voyages and colonization was written one hundred years subsequent to the early Spanish discoveries, and seems to be merely a fanciful completion of his history: he probably perished in the unknown seas. It is certain that neither the ancient principality nor the world reaped any benefit from these alleged discoveries.21

In the middle of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth centuries, the Venetian Marco Polo22 and the Englishman Mandeville23 awakened the curiosity of Europe with respect to the remote parts of the earth. Wise and discerning men selected the more valuable portions of their observations; ideas were enlarged, and a desire for more perfect information excited a thirst for discovery. While this spirit was gaining strength in Europe, the wonderful powers of the magnet were revealed to the Western World.24 The invention of the mariner's compass aided and extended navigation more than all the experience and adventure of preceding ages: the light of the stars, the guidance of the sea-coast, were no longer necessary; trusting to the mysterious powers of his new friend, the sailor steered out fearlessly into the ocean, through the bewildering mists or the darkness of night.

The Spaniards were the first to profit by the bolder spirit and improved science of navigation. About the beginning of the fourteenth century, they were led to the accidental discovery of the Canary Islands,25 and made repeated voyages thither, plundering the wretched inhabitants, and carrying them off as slaves.26 Pope Clement VI. conferred these countries as a kingdom upon Louis de la Cerda, of the royal race of Castile; he, however, was powerless to avail himself of the gift, and it passed to the stronger hand of John de Bethancourt, a Norman baron.27 The countrymen of this bold adventurer explored the seas far to the south of the Canary Islands, and acquired some knowledge of the coast of Africa.

The glory of leading the career of systematic exploration belongs to the Portuguese:28 their attempts were not only attended with considerable success, but gave encouragement and energy to those efforts that were crowned by the discovery of a world: among them the great Genoese was trained, and their steps in advance matured the idea, and aided the execution of his design. The nations of Europe had now begun to cast aside the errors and prejudices of their ancestors. The works of the ancient Greeks and Romans were eagerly searched for information, and former discoveries brought to light.29 The science of the Arabians was introduced and cultivated by the Moors and Jews, and geometry, astronomy, and geography were studied as essential to the art of navigation.

In the year 1412, the Portuguese doubled Cape Non, the limit of ancient enterprise. For upward of seventy years afterward they pursued their explorations, with more or less of vigor and success, along the African coast, and among the adjacent islands. By intercourse with the people of these countries they gradually acquired some knowledge of lands yet unvisited. Experience proved that the torrid zone was not closed to the enterprise of man.30 They found that the form of the continent contracted as it stretched southward, and that it tended toward the east. Then they brought to mind the accounts of the ancient Phoenician voyagers round Africa,31 long deemed fabulous, and the hope arose that they might pursue the same career, and win for themselves the magnificent prize of Indian commerce. In the year 1486 the adventurous Bartholomew Diaz32 first reached the Cape of Good Hope; soon afterward the information gained by Pedro de Covilham, in his overland journey, confirmed the consequent sanguine expectations of success. The attention of Europe was now fully aroused, and the progress of the Portuguese was watched with admiration and suspense. But during this interval, while all eyes were turned with anxious interest toward the East, a little bark, leaky and tempest-tossed, sought shelter in the Tagus.33 It had come from the Far West—over that stormy sea where, from the creation until then, had brooded an impenetrable mystery. It bore the richest freight34 that ever lay upon the bosom of the deep—the tidings of a New World.35

It would be but tedious to repeat here all the well-known story of Christopher Columbus;36 his early dangers and adventures, his numerous voyages, his industry, acquirements, and speculations, and how at length the great idea arose in his mind, and matured itself into a conviction; then how conviction led to action, checked and interrupted, but not weakened, by the doubts of pedantic ignorance,37 and the treachery,38 coolness, or contempt of courts. On Friday,39 the 3d of August, 1492, a squadron of three small, crazy ships, bearing ninety men, sailed from the port of Palos, in Andalusia. Columbus, the commander and pilot, was deeply impressed with sentiments of religion; and, as the spread of Christianity was one great object of the expedition, he and his followers before their departure had implored the blessing of Heaven40 upon the voyage, from which they might never return.

They steered at first for the Canaries, over a well-known course; but on the 6th of September they sailed from Gomera, the most distant of those islands, and, leaving the usual track of navigation, stretched westward into the unknown sea. And still ever westward for six-and-thirty days they bent their course through the dreary desert of waters; terrified by the changeless wind that wafted them hour after hour further into the awful solitude, and seemed to forbid the prospect of return; bewildered by the altered hours of day and night, and more than all by the mysterious variation of their only guide, for the magnetic needle no longer pointed to the pole.41 Then strange appearances in the sea aroused new fears: vast quantities of weeds covered the surface, retarding the motion of the vessels; the sailors imagined that they had reached the utmost boundary of the navigable ocean, and that they were rushing blindly into the rocks and quicksands of some submerged continent.

The master mind turned all these strange novelties into omens of success. The changeless wind was the favoring breath of the Omnipotent; the day lengthened as they followed the sun's course; an ingenious fiction explained the inconstancy of the needle; the vast fields of sea-weed bespoke a neighboring shore; and the flight of unknown birds42 was hailed with happy promise. But as time passed on, and brought no fulfillment of their hopes, the spirits of the timid began to fail; the flattering appearances of land had repeatedly deceived them; they were now very far beyond the limit of any former voyage. From the timid and ignorant these doubts spread upward, and by degrees the contagion extended from ship to ship: secret murmurs rose to conspiracies, complaints, and mutiny. They affirmed that they had already performed their duty in so long pursuing an unknown and hopeless course, and that they would no more follow a desperate adventurer to destruction. Some even proposed to cast their leader into the sea.