Famous Firesides of French Canada

The sinking Braddock at last died and was buried in the road, that the tramp of the surging mass 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 quantity of shot and shell left by the retreating army.

Adjoining the grounds of the Château 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 God, and die contented," and instantly expired.

THE CHATEAU DE VAUDREUIL

A short distance to the south-west is the spot on which stood the Château 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 shaggy 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 assemble, 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.

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 shore. 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 passed 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.

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 passer-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 anchored at the shore below. Where now the French habitant sits chattering with his confrères 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 Petit Trianon at Versailles. On its paths have fallen the martial tread of "de Lévis, de Beaujeu, and many a brave soldier and dainty courtier, official guests at the Governor's Château." Among them was one who eclipsed all others in sad interest, the courtly young commander, Louis Joseph Saint Veran de Montcalm. Any spot associated with this ill-fated general is of immortal memory. After his skillful manœuvering at the battle of Carillon, his march to Montreal was a triumph. At the close of this engagement, as, accompanied by de Lévis 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 snatched 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.

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 Lévis, 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.

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 would be rent by the roar of cannon, the flash of bloody steel and the cries of the wounded and dying.

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

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 vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise."

Landing in a ravine (Wolfe's Cove), which he had located by the use of a glass – 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 Lévis, 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.

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 principal 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 circumstances 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 unsurpassed 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 passing 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 title 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 pass the night with God, 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 noble tribute to his late foes, when he said: —

"Since it was my misfortune to be discomfited and mortally wounded, it is a great consolation to me to be vanquished by so brave and generous an enemy. If I could survive this wound, I would engage to beat three times the number of such forces as I commanded this morning with a third of such troops as were opposed to me."

Almost his last conscious act was to write a letter praying the English victors to show clemency to the French prisoners.

It is said that a fissure ploughed by a cannon ball within the walls of the Ursuline Convent furnished him a fitting soldier's grave.

One of the sisterhood, an eye-witness of the event, described the burial in the following touching and graphic words: —

"At length it was September, with its lustrous skies and pleasant harvest scenes. The city was destroyed, but it was not taken. Would not the early autumn, so quickly followed by winter, force the enemy to withdraw their fleet? For several days the troops which had been so long idle were moving in various directions above and below Quebec, but they were watched and every point guarded, but no one dreamed of the daring project the intrepid Wolfe was meditating. The silence of the night told no tale of the stealthy march of five thousand soldiers. The echoes of the high cliff only brought to the listening boatmen the necessary password. No rock of the shelving precipice gave way under the cat-like tread of the Highlanders accustomed to the crags of their native hills, but the morning light glittered on serried rows of British bayonets, and in an hour the battle of the Plains changed the destinies of New France. The remnant of the French army, after turning many times on their pursuers, completely disappeared. Their tents were still standing on the Plains of Beauport, but their batteries were silent and trenches empty – their guns still pointed, but were mute.

"At nine o'clock in the evening a funeral cortège issuing from the castle, wound its way through the dark and obstructed streets to the little church of the Ursulines. The measured foot steps of the military escort kept time with the heavy tread of the bearers, as the officers of the garrison followed the lifeless remains of their illustrious commander-in-chief to their last resting place. No martial pomp was displayed around that humble bier and rough wooden box, which were all the ruined city could afford the body of her defender; but no burial rite could be more solemn than that hurried evening service performed by torchlight under the war-scarred roof of the Convent, as with tears and sighs were chanted the words 'Libera me Domine.'"

Some years ago an Englishman, Lord Aylmer, caused to be placed within the convent enclosure a tablet with the words carved in marble: —

Honneur àMontcalmLe Destin en lui dérobantLa Victoire,L'a récompensé parUne Mort Glorieuse

Or, Honor to Montcalm. Fate denied him victory, but rewarded him with a glorious death. Byron expresses a similar sentiment when he said: —

"They never fail who die in a good cause."

On the spot where Wolfe fell has been raised a simple shaft on which is written: —

"Here Wolfe died victorious,Sept. 13th, 1759,In the thirty-fourth year of his age."

The stone which formed his death couch is preserved in its original position, but sunk beneath the ground to protect it from the ravages of the relic hunter. The column is supported on a pedestal of rocks formed of boulders from the scene of the battle, conspicuous among which may be seen the actual rock upon which Wolfe was supported when he breathed his last. The stones of the monument are strongly cemented together, embedded in the solid foundation of rock, and will be as enduring as the fame of him whose name it bears.

The well near by, from which the water was brought to allay his thirst, was filled up and obliterated some years ago, much to the regret of those who venerated the immortal incident connected with it, and which placed it among the historic shrines of the world.

Associated with Wolfe, and a sharer in the glory of the capture of Quebec, was Charles Saunders, commander of the squadron. By bombarding the town, he kept the enemy in a state of constant and anxious alarm, at the same time showing wonderful skill in cleverly protecting his fleet from disaster; even when threatened by fire-ships sent to destroy it, which were grappled by the British sailors and run aground.

Among those who rendered signal service to Admiral Saunders when he neared Quebec was the famous navigator, Captain Cook. He was the pilot who conducted the boats to the attack at Montmorency on July 31st, 1759, and managed the disembarkment at the Heights of Abraham.

The great mariner, while engaged in his celebrated voyages of discovery, was murdered by South Sea Islanders at Owhyhee on the 14th of Feby., 1779. He had been sent by the British Government to find if the discovery of the North-West passage, which seemed impossible by the Atlantic, were feasible by the Pacific Ocean; for which purpose he had to round the southern part of the entire American Continent. He was on the point of abandoning the project and returning home when he met his terrible death, "leaving a name unsurpassed for gallantry by any sea-faring man of his time."

In the month of October Saunders' fleet dropped silently down the river. On one of the ships was the embalmed body of James Wolfe, returning to the land he had served so well, but where alas! he would never hear the acclamations with which his fellow countrymen, from the palace to the cabin, would lay the laurel wreath upon his tomb, – the paths of glory had truly led but to the grave!

Saunders on his return was appointed Lieutenant-General of Marine, and on taking his seat as a member of the House of Commons received the thanks of the Speaker. He became Knight Commander of the Bath, and on his death was buried in Westminster Abbey near to the Monument of Wolfe.

Of the regiments to whom England owes the Conquest of Canada, the Scotch claim the greatest share of glory. "Hardy sons of mountain and heather, they were in fact the flower of the army, the boldest in attack, the fiercest at close quarters, the last to retreat at command, and always the bravest of the brave in the forefront of England's battles."

The kilted "laddies" from beyond the Grampians, in their "braw" plumed bonnets, with their war-pipes lilting above the loudest din of war, have met some of the fiercest onslaughts singing and stepping to the blood-stirring strains of "Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled."

An eye-witness of their march out of Brussels on that beautiful June morning in 1815, the dawn of Waterloo, says:

"One could not but admire their fine appearance, their steady military demeanour, with their pipes playing before them, and the beams of the rising sun shining on their glittering arms." Many of the young officers were in the silk stockings and dancing pumps which they wore the night before to the Duchess of Richmond's ball, when they laughed: —

"On with the dance, let joy be unconfined,No sleep till morn when youth and beauty meet,To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."

With swords waving, the pibroch screaming and the "stirring memories of a thousand years," they rushed into the stupendous conflict leading the "Forty-twa" into the field, which the setting of the same sun saw drenched through with blood, but marked by deeds which covered with glory many a thatched ingle-nook on highland hills and in lowland valleys.

After the Conquest of Canada, the Fraser Highlanders with the remains of the 42nd were offered grants of land if they chose to remain as settlers, a privilege which many of them accepted. Sixteen years afterward, when a foreign invasion threatened Canada, they loyally left the plough in the furrow and again sprang to arms, to protect their altars and firesides.

Among the blue Laurentian hills of the lower St. Lawrence, around their simple hearths, their descendants live the placid life of the Canadian habitant. They bear the old historic names of their Gaelic forefathers, – Fraser, Cameron, Blackburn, MacDonald, etc. – but in nothing else could it be thought that in their veins runs the blood of those who fought at Colloden and Bannockburn. They are as purely French in their religion, language and customs, as those whose sires sailed from Breton and Norman ports.

The Commandant of Quebec at the time of its fall was the son of Claude de Ramezay, the builder of the Château of that name. After the disastrous battle, Vaudreuil, Governor of Montreal, sent him urgent charges to do his utmost to hold out until reinforcements, which were on a forced march from Montreal and elsewhere, should arrive to his succour; but, the besieged being in the greatest extreme of fright and starvation, his force refused to fight. His conduct has been much criticized, but one annalist asserts that he was "not the man to shrink from danger or death had there been anything but foolhardiness in the risk, as he belonged to the good old fighting stock of North Britain," – the race which produced a Wallace and a Bruce. He, however, signed the articles of capitulation, as recommended by the Council of War summoned, and the British marched in through the iron-spiked gates, – when, had he held out only twenty-four hours longer, Canada might have been saved for France, as the British could not for any length of time have maintained their position on the Plains of Abraham. Returning to France, where he was related to several families of the Noblesse, who held that "war was the only worthy calling, and prized honour more than life," he received so cool a reception at Court that his proud spirit, being unable to brook the humiliation, he applied for a passport allowing him to return to Canada, but subsequently he abandoned the idea of returning to his native land. Had he carried out his intention, he might have seen French, English and American flags successively wave over the red roof of the Château of his boyhood.