Wolfe at Quebec
On the 12th of September, 1759, General Wolfe’s plans for the investment and attack of Quebec were complete, and he issued his final orders. One sentence in them curiously anticipates Nelson’s famous signal at Trafalgar. “Officers and men,” wrote Wolfe, “will remember what their country expects of them.” A feint on Beauport, five miles to the east of Quebec, as evening fell, made Montcalm mass his troops there; but it was at a point four miles west of Quebec the real attack was directed.
This point, near the village of Sillery, was a ravine, since called Wolfe’s Cove, running from the shore of the St. Lawrence up to the Plains of Abraham, and guarded on the heights by a company of Bougainville’s men. It was selected under the advice of Major Robert Stobo (the name given by Gilbert Parker, in “The Seats of the Mighty,” is Moray), who, five years before, as Parkman says, in “Montcalm and Wolfe,” had been given as a hostage to the French at the capture of Fort Necessity, arrived about this time in a vessel from Louisbourg. He had long been a prisoner at Quebec, not always in close custody, and had used his opportunities to acquaint himself with the neighborhood. In the spring of this year he and an officer of rangers named Stevens had made their escape with extraordinary skill and daring; and he now returned to give General Wolfe the benefit of his local knowledge.
At two o’clock at night two lanterns appeared for a minute in the main-top shrouds of the “Sunderland.” It was the signal, and from the fleet, from the Isle of Orleans and from Point Levis, the English boats stole silently out, freighted with some three thousand seven hundred troops, and converged towards the point in the wall of cliffs agreed upon. Wolfe himself was in the leading boat of the flotilla. Suddenly, from the great wall of rock and forest to their left, broke the challenge of a French sentinel: “Qui vive?” A Highland officer of Fraser’s regiment, who spoke French fluently, promptly answered the challenge: “France.” “A quel regimént?” “De la Reine,” answered the Highlander.
On the day before, two deserters from the camp of Bougainville had given information that at ebb tide a night convoy of provisions for Montcalm, to meet the necessities of the camp at Beauport, would be sent down the river. As the men stationed at the various outposts were expecting fresh supplies, it was easy to deceive the guard at Sillery, and, after a little further dialogue, in which the cool Highlander completely blinded the French sentries, the British were allowed to slip past in the darkness. The cove was safely reached, the boats stole silently up, twenty-four volunteers from the Light Infantry leaped from their boat and led the way in single file up the path, that ran like a thread along the face of the cliff. Wolfe sat eagerly listening in his boat below. Suddenly from the summit he saw the flash of the muskets and heard the stern shout which told him his men were up. A clear, firm order, and the troops sitting silent in the boats leaped ashore, and the long file of soldiers, like a chain of ants, went up the face of the cliff, Wolfe amongst the foremost, and formed in order on the plateau, the boats meanwhile rowing back at speed to bring up the remainder of the troops. Wolfe was at last within Montcalm’s guard!
When the morning of the 13th dawned, the British army, in line of battle, stood facing the citadel. Montcalm quickly learned the news, and came riding furiously across the St. Charles and past the city to the scene of danger. He rode, as those who saw him tell, with a fixed look, and uttering not a word. The vigilance of months was rendered worthless by that amazing night escalade. When he reached the slopes Montcalm saw before him the silent red wall of British infantry, the Highlanders with waving tartans and wind-blown plumes—all in battle array. It was not a detachment, but an army.
The discord and jealousies of divided authority were at once apparent. Vaudreuil, the governor, failed to send reinforcements to the support of Montcalm, to meet the crisis, and the struggle was soon ended. Fifteen minutes of decisive fighting transformed New France into British territory.