"That I cannot tell. I have come with a message from the Governor to the Marquis. He sent me to ascertain his condition, and if possible to ask counsel of him. His word would still carry weight.
If he is sufficiently himself to listen for a few minutes to what I have to say, I would then put the case and ask his opinion upon it."
Madame Drucour drew the Abbe softly into the room where the dying man lay. Montcalm"s eyes opened as he heard them approach. At the sight of the Abbe he seemed to try to rouse himself.
"You have brought news! Tell me, how goes it?"
The Abbe repeated in some detail the after events of the battle and rout, Montcalm listening to every word with the keenest interest and attention.
"Where is the Governor?" he asked at the conclusion of the narrative.
"He was still at the hornwork when I left," answered the Abbe; "but many were clamouring around him, declaring that the place would be carried by a.s.sault almost immediately, and all of them cut to pieces without quarter; and that they had better surrender the city and colony at once than lose all their lives in an unavailing struggle."
Montcalm"s face, upon which death had already set its seal, remained immovably calm and tranquil.
"What said the Governor?" he asked.
"He appeared to agree with this view of the case. He is much alarmed and disturbed. He is preparing to return to his own quarters upon the Beauport road, and will there hold a council as to the next step to be taken. It was he who asked me to go back to the city and see you, my General, and ask what advice you have for us. We are in a sore strait, and there seems none to advise us; but any word that comes from you will have its weight with the army."
Montcalm lay silent a long while. Physical weakness made speaking difficult, and his mind no longer worked with the lightning quickness of old days. He seemed to find some slight difficulty in bringing it down to the affairs of earthly battles and struggles.
"Tell the Governor," he said at last, speaking faint and low, "that there is a threefold choice before him; and that though were I at the head of the army, I should say, Fight, I do not offer him counsel to do so; I only tell him the alternatives. The first of these is to fight--to join forces with Ramesay"s garrison and the sailors from the batteries here, and to gather in all the outlying Canadians and Indians of the neighbourhood. With such an army as could be quickly gathered, and by acting in concert with Bougainville from Cap Rouge, there is at least a very fair chance of vanquishing the foe in open fight. The next alternative is for him to retire upon Jacques Cartier, leaving Quebec with an efficient garrison, and from there to hara.s.s the enemy, cut off supplies, and otherwise prolong the siege till the approach of winter forces them to take to their ships and go. The third is to give up the colony to English rule. Let the Governor and his council take their choice of these three plans, for there is no other."
"I will take the message myself," said the Abbe, pressing the hand of his friend, and stooping to imprint a kiss on the pale brow.
"G.o.d be with you, my friend, in the hour of trial; and may He receive your soul when He shall have called it! I shall pray for the repose of your gallant spirit. Peace be with you. Farewell."
Montcalm was too much exhausted for further speech, but he made a slight gesture with his hand, and the Abbe left him, Madame Drucour stealing after him for a last word.
"You will not run into peril yourself, my brother?"
"Nay," he answered, with a touch of bitterness in his tone; "I shall be safe enough, since my errand is to the Governor. Monsieur de Vaudreuil is never known to put himself into danger. Oh that we had a Governor who thought first of the honour of France and second of his own safety!"
"But surely they will fight! they will not give up Quebec without a struggle? Look at the walls and ramparts, untouched and impregnable as ever! Our town is shattered, it is true, but that has long been done. Why should we give up the city because a few hundred soldiers have been slain upon the Plains of Abraham? We have still a great army to fight with."
"We have; but where is the General to lead us? Nevertheless, we may still show ourselves men.
"Colin, my boy, is that thou? What, dost thou want to come with me?
So be it, then. Thou shalt do so, and take back word to thy aunt here as to what the council decides.
"I may find work over yonder with the sick and wounded. I may not return tonight. But Colin shall come back with news, and you will know that all is well with me."
They went together, and Madame Drucour returned to her watch beside the sick and dying man. The surgeon stole in and out as his other duties permitted him, and Corinne shared the watch beside the couch where Montcalm lay.
The Bishop, who in spite of his feebleness had been abroad in the city, seeking to console the dying and to cheer up the garrison, depressed by rumours of the flight of the army, came in at dusk, exhausted and depressed himself, to find another dying soldier in need of the last rites of the Church.
It was a solemn scene which that dim room witnessed as the night waned and the approach of dawn came on. Without all was confusion, hurry, anxiety, and distress, none seeking sleep in their beds, all eagerly awaiting tidings from the army--the news which should tell them whether they were to be gallantly supported or left to their fate. Within there was the deep hush which the approach of death seems ever to bring. The short, gasping confession had been made; the Bishop stood over the dying man, making the sign and speaking the words of absolution. A young priest from the Seminary and an acolyte had been found to a.s.sist at the solemn rite; and Madame Drucour, with Corinne and the faithful old servant, knelt at the farther end of the room, striving to keep back their tears.
It was over at last. The words of commendation had been spoken; the last labouring breath had been drawn. Corinne, half choking with her emotion, and feeling as though she would be stifled if she were to remain longer in that chamber of death, silently glided away out of the room into the open air; and once there, she broke into wild weeping, the result of the long tension of her pent-up emotion.
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle! Corinne!" cried a familiar voice in a subdued tone from some place not far distant. "Is it indeed you?
Nay, do not weep; there is not need. We shall not harm you; you and yours shall be safe whatever comes to pa.s.s in Quebec."
Corinne gazed about her in astonishment. Who was speaking to her?
The next house to theirs was deserted, because the roof had been blown off, and a sh.e.l.l had fallen through, breaking almost every floor. Yet the voice seemed to come from a window within that house, and in the dim and uncertain moonlight she saw a head--two heads--protruding from a first-floor window. Next minute she was further astonished by the rapid descent of three figures, who seemed to clamber like monkeys down the shattered wall; and behold the three merry midshipmen were grouped around her, holding her hands and seeking to cheer her.
"Peter--Paul--Arthur! How came you here? Surely Quebec is not taken yet!"
"No, but so nearly taken that we thought to steal a march. We have been working since evening in dragging up cannon upon the plain yonder, where the army is intrenching itself; and when our task was done, we felt a great wish to see what was pa.s.sing in the city where we had many friends, and which we knew so well. In the confusion it was not difficult to get in under cover of the dusk; but we found we could not get out again--at least not when we tried. But we cared little for that. There are plenty of empty houses to hide in, and we had bread in our pockets. We heard of you and Madame Drucour, and have been watching and waiting in hopes of seeing you. But, Corinne, are you weeping because the English are about to take Quebec? We looked upon you as an ally and a compatriot."
"I am weeping because our good General, the Marquis of Montcalm, is just dead," answered Corinne, wiping her eyes. "He lies within those walls, sleeping the last sleep. He will never see his wife and his mother and his mill at Candiac again. And he has talked so much to us of all those things, and of the children he loved so well. Oh, war is a cruel thing! Pray Heaven it may come to a speedy end!"
The sound of flying footsteps up the street caused the midshipmen to look at one another, and meditate a return to their hiding place; but Corinne said:
"That is Colin"s step; he comes back with news."
And, in truth, the next moment Colin stood amongst them, so full of excitement himself that the sudden appearance of the midshipmen, whom he instantly recognized, did not at once strike him with astonishment.
"I will never call myself a Frenchman again!" he panted, his eyes gleaming with wrath. "What think you, Corinne? They are flying from the camp at Beauport as sheep fly before wolves. It is no retreat, it is a rout--a disgraceful, abominable, causeless rout. There is no enemy near. The English are up on the heights, intrenching themselves no doubt, and resting after their gallant enterprise.
Our uncle has exhausted his powers of persuasion. He has shown them again and again how strong is their position still, how little it would even now take of courage and resolution to save Quebec and the colony. They will not listen--they will not hear. They are flying like chaff before the wind. They are leaving everything behind in their mad haste to be gone! And the Indians will swoop down directly the camp is empty, and take everything. Oh, it is a disgrace, a disgrace! Not even to take a night to think it over. If the English did but know, and sent out a few hundred soldiers upon them, they might cut the whole army to pieces in a few hours!"
Colin, Colin! oh, is it so?"
"It is indeed; and all that the men say when one speaks to them is that Wolfe and his soldiers are too much for them. They will not stay to be hacked to pieces."
"Alas!" said Paul gravely, "the gallant Wolfe is no more. If you have lost your General, so have we. Wolfe fell early in the battle, and Moncton is dangerously wounded. We are robbed of our two first officers; but for all that we will have Quebec and Canada."
"And you deserve it!" answered Colin, fired with generous enthusiasm. "If our French soldiers and officers fling away their courage and their honour, let us welcome those who have both, and who are masters worthy to be served and loved."
It was a strange, sad day. The confusion and despair in the town were pitiful to behold. With the first light of day it was seen that the camp at Beauport was still standing, and hope sprang up in the hearts of the townsfolk. But when, shortly after, it was known that though standing it had been abandoned, and that the night had seen the indiscriminate flight of the whole army, the deepest despondency fell upon the town. This feeling was not lessened when it began to be whispered that the Chevalier Ramesay had received instructions from the Governor not to attempt to hold the town in face of a threatened a.s.sault, but to wait till the scanty provisions had been exhausted, and then raise the white flag and obtain the best terms he could.
The Abbe had stayed to bring this last letter from the flying Governor. His own soul was stirred to the depths by indignation and sorrow. It seemed to him the crowning disgrace in a disgraceful flight. Ramesay had sought speech with the Marquis a few hours before his death, but could obtain no advice from him. He had done with worldly things, and could only wish well to those who were left behind. It was a desperate state of affairs, and all the town knew it.
So great was the confusion that no workman could be found to make a coffin for the body of the dead General. The old servant of the Ursulines, faithful to the last, went hither and thither and collected a few planks and nails, and the midshipmen and Colin a.s.sisted her to nail together a rude coffin in which the body was presently laid. It must be buried that same evening, for none knew from hour to hour what was in store for the city. But no pomp or circ.u.mstance could attend the funeral; and indeed no one could be found to dig a grave.
Yet a fitting grave was found in the chapel of the Ursuline convent, now little more than a ruin. An exploding sh.e.l.l had made a deep cavity in the floor not far from the altar, and this hollow was soon shaped into the similitude of a grave.
No bells tolled or cannon fired as the mournful procession filed through the streets; yet it did not lack a certain sombre dignity.
The Bishop and the Abbe headed it, with a few priests from the Cathedral in attendance. Ramesay was there with his officers, and Madame Drucour, with Colin and Corinne, the three midshipmen (who no longer feared to show themselves), and the old servant, brought up the rear. As the cortege pa.s.sed through the streets, numbers of citizens fell in behind, together with women and children, weeping for one whose name was dear, and who they all averred would have saved their city had he lived.
Torches were lit before the procession filed into the ruined church, and sobs mingled with the chants that were rehea.r.s.ed over the grave.
"Alas, alas!" sobbed the women; "we have buried our hopes in that grave. We have lost our General; we shall lose our city, and all Canada will follow."
"It is no wonder they feel so," said the Abbe to his sister that night; "we are abandoned by the army that might have saved us. We have scarce provision to last a week, even on half rations--so I heard today--and all the merchants and townspeople are for immediate capitulation. It is possible that when our army finds itself at Jacques Cartier, thirty miles from the scene of danger, and in an impregnable position, they may rally their courage and reconsider the situation; but unless I am greatly mistaken, that resolution will come too late--Quebec will have already surrendered."
Things had come to a desperate pa.s.s. Only one out of all the officers was in favour of resistance; the rest declared it impossible. The English on the heights were intrenched, and were pushing their trenches nearer and nearer. Though Wolfe was dead and Moncton disabled, Townshend, the third in command, was acting with the energy and resolve which had characterized the expedition all along.
Three days after Montcalm"s death matters reached a crisis. Troops were seen approaching the Palace Gate from the St. Charles meadows, and the ships of war were slowly nearing the town with evident intention of opening fire.