Il est des occasions dans la guerre où le plus brave doit fuir.
+Cervantes.+
Vae victis! says the wisdom of the nations. Woe to the conquered!--not only because of the ruin which follows defeat, but because the vanquished are always in the wrong. They suffer materially, they suffer in their wounded self-love, they suffer in their reputation as soldiers. Let them have fought one against twenty, let them have performed prodigies of heroism, they are nevertheless and always the vanquished. Even their fellow-countrymen forgive them hardly. History records but their defeat. Here and there they get a word of approval from some writer of their race; but the praise is almost always mixed with reproach. Pen and compass in hand, we fight the battle over again. We teach the generals, whose bodies rest on the well-fought field, how they might have managed affairs much better. Seated in a well-stuffed arm-chair, we proudly demonstrate the skillful man[oe]uvres by which they might have snatched the victory; and bitterly we reproach them with their defeat. They have deserved a more generous treatment. A great general, who has equaled in our own day the exploits of Alexander and of Cæsar, has said: "Who is he that has never made a mistake in battle?" Vae victis!
It was the 13th day of September, 1759, a day accursed in the annals of France. The English army, under General Wolfe, after having eluded the vigilance of the French sentinels and surprised the pickets under cover of the darkness, were discovered at daybreak on the Plains of Abraham, where they were beginning to entrench themselves. Montcalm was either carried away by his chivalrous courage, or he concluded that the work of entrenchment had to be at once interrupted; for he attacked the English with only a portion of his troops, and was defeated, as he might have foreseen, by the overwhelming numbers of the enemy. On this memorable battle field both generals laid down their lives--Wolfe bestowing upon his country a colony half as large as Europe, Montcalm losing to France a vast territory which the King and his improvident ministers knew not how to appreciate.
Woe to the vanquished! Had Montcalm been victorious he would have been lauded to the skies, instead of being heaped with reproaches for not awaiting the re-enforcements which would have come from De Vaudreuil and De Bougainville. We would have praised his tactics in hurling himself upon the enemy before the latter had had time to establish himself. We would have said that a hundred men behind cover were equal to a thousand in the open. We would never have imputed to General Montcalm any jealous and unworthy motives. His shining laurels, gained on so many glorious fields, would have shielded him from any such suspicions.
Vae victis! After the fatal battle of the 13th the city of Quebec was little more than a heap of ruins. Not even the fortifications furnished shelter, for a portion of the ramparts had been shattered to fragments. The magazines were empty of ammunition, and the gunners, rather to conceal their distress than with any hope of injuring the enemy, answered the English batteries only with an occasional cannon-shot. There were no provisions left. Yet they bring the charge of cowardice against the brave garrison which endured so much and defended itself so valiantly. If the governor, a new Nostradamus, had known that the Chevalier de Lévis was bringing succor to the city, and, instead of capitulating, had awaited the arrival of the French troops, it is certain that the garrison would have been lavishly applauded for its courage. To be sure the garrison showed itself most pusillanimous in giving up a city which it was no longer able to defend! To be sure it should rather have put its trust in the humanity of an enemy who had already carried fire and sword through all the peaceful villages, and should have refused to consider the lives of the citizens, the honor of their wives and daughters, exposed to all the horrors of a capture by assault! Assuredly this unhappy garrison was very pusillanimous! Woe to the vanquished!
After the capitulation the English left nothing undone to secure themselves in the possession of a place so important. The walls were rebuilt, new fortifications added, and the batteries immensely strengthened. It was conceivable that the besiegers might become the besieged. This foresight was justified, for in the following spring General Lévis took the offensive with an army of eight thousand men, made up of regulars and militia in about equal numbers.
At eight o'clock in the morning, April 28, 1760, the English army was drawn up in order of battle on the same field where it had moved to victory seven months before. General Murray, with this army of six thousand men and twenty guns, held a very strong position, while the French army, a little more numerous, but supported by only two guns, occupied the heights of St. Foy. The French were wearied with their painful march over the marshes of La Suède, but they burned to wipe out the memory of their defeat. The hate of centuries stirred the bosoms of both armies. The courage of both was beyond question, and fifteen thousand of the best troops in the world only awaited the word of their commanders to spring at each other's throats.
Jules D'Haberville, who had distinguished himself in the first battle on the Plains of Abraham, was with a detachment commanded by Captain d'Aiguebelle. By order of General de Lévis, this detachment had at first abandoned Dumont's mill under the attack of a much superior force. Jules was severely wounded by the explosion of a shell, which had shattered his left arm, but he refused to go to the rear. Presently the general concluded that the mill was a position of supreme importance, and, when he gave the order to recapture it, Jules led his company to the charge, carrying his arm in a sling.
Almost all Murray's artillery was directed to the maintenance of this position. The French grenadiers charged on the run. The bullets and grape decimated their ranks, but they closed up as accurately as if they were on parade. The mill was taken and retaken several times during this memorable struggle. Jules D'Haberville, "the little grenadier," as the soldiers called him, had hurled himself, sword in hand, into the very midst of the enemy, who yielded ground for a moment; but scarcely had the French established themselves, when the English returned to the attack in overwhelming numbers, and took the position after a most bloody struggle.
The French grenadiers, thrown for a moment into disorder, reformed at a little distance under a scathing fire; then, charging for the third time, they carried the position at the point of the bayonet, and held it.
One would have thought, during this last charge, that the love of life was extinct in the soul of Jules, who, his heart torn by what he thought the treason of his friend, and by the total ruin of his family, appeared to seek death as a blessing. As soon as the order for that third charge was given he sprang forward like a tiger with the cry of, "À moi grenadiers!" and hurled himself single handed upon the English. When the French found themselves masters of the position they drew Jules from under a heap of dead and wounded. Seeing that he was yet alive, two grenadiers carried him to a little brook near the mill, where he soon returned to consciousness. It was rather loss of blood than the severity of his hurt that had caused the swoon. A blow from a saber had split his helmet and gashed his head without fracturing the skull. Jules wished to return to the fight, but one of the grenadiers said to him:
"Not for a little while, my officer. You have had enough for the present, and the sun beats like the devil out there, which is very dangerous for a wound on the head. We are going to leave you in the shade of these trees." D'Haberville, too weak to oppose them further, soon found himself lying among a number of the wounded, who had had strength enough to drag themselves into the grove. Every one knows its result, this second battle of the Plains of Abraham. The victory was dear bought by the French and the Canadians, who suffered no less severely than their enemies. It was a useless bloodshed. New France, abandoned by the mother country, was ceded to England by the careless Louis three years after the battle.
Lochiel had cleared himself nobly of the suspicions which his foe, Montgomery, had sought to fix upon him. His wide knowledge, his zeal in the study of his profession, his skill in all military exercises, his sobriety, his vigilance when in guard of a post, all these had put him high in esteem. His dashing courage tempered with prudence in the attack on the French lines at Montmorency and on the field of the first Battle of the Plains had been noticed by General Murray, who commended him publicly.
On the defeat of the English army at this second battle, Lochiel, after tremendous fighting at the head of his Highlanders, was the last to yield a position which he had defended inch by inch. Instead of following the throng of fugitives toward Quebec, he noticed that Dumont's Mill was now evacuated by the French, who were pursuing their enemies with great slaughter. To conceal his route from the enemy, Archie led his men between the mill and the adjoining wood. Just then he heard some one calling his name; and turning, he saw an officer, his arm in a sling, his uniform in tatters, his head wrapped in a bloody cloth, staggering to meet him sword in hand.
"What are you doing, brave Cameron of Lochiel?" cried the unknown. "The mill has been evacuated by our brave soldiers, and is no longer defended by women and children and feeble old men. Return, valorous Cameron, and crown your exploits by burning it down."
It was impossible to mistake the mocking voice of Jules D'Haberville, although his face was unrecognizable for blood and powder.
On hearing these insulting words, Archie felt nothing but tenderest loving pity for the friend of his youth. His heart beat as if to break; a sob labored from his bosom, and again he seemed to hear the witch of the manor crying ominously: "Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de Lochiel. You will have need of it all on that day when you shall carry in your arms the bleeding body of him you now call your brother!"
Forgetting the critical position in which he was keeping his men, Archie halted his company and went forward to meet Jules. For one moment all the young Frenchman's love for his adopted brother seemed to revive, but, restraining himself sternly, he cried in a bitter voice:
"Defend yourself, M. de Lochiel; you, who love easy triumphs, defend yourself, traitor!"
At this new insult, Archie folded his arms and answered, in a tone of tender reproach:
"Thou, too, my brother Jules, even thou, too, hast thou condemned me unheard?"
At these words a nervous shock seemed to paralyze the little remaining strength of poor Jules. The sword dropped from his hand and he fell forward on his face. Archie sent one of his men to the brook for water, and, without thinking of the danger to which he exposed himself, took his friend in his arms and carried him to the edge of the woods, where some of the wounded Canadians, touched at the sight of an Englishman bestowing so much care on their young officer, made no move to injure him, although they had reloaded their guns at the approach of his men. Archie examined his friend's wounds, and saw that he had fainted from loss of blood. A little cold water in his face soon brought him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and looked at Archie, but made no attempt to speak. The latter clasped his hand, which seemed to return a gentle pressure.
"Farewell, Jules," said Archie. "Farewell, my brother. Harsh duty forces me to leave you; but we shall meet again, in better days." And he turned back sorrowfully to his troop.
"Now, my boys," said Lochiel, after throwing a rapid glance over the plain and listening to the confused noises of the distant flight, "now, my boys, no false delicacy, for the battle is hopelessly lost. We must now display the agility of our Highland legs, if we want to take a hand in future battles. Forward now, and do not lose sight of me."
Taking advantage of every inequality of the ground, lending heedful ear to the shouts of the French, who were endeavoring to crowd the English into the St. Charles, Lochiel led his men into Quebec without further loss. This valiant company had already suffered enough. Half its men had been left on the field of battle, and of its officers Lochiel was the sole survivor.
All honor to vanquished heroism! Honor to the English dead, whose bodies were buried in confusion with those of their enemies on the twenty-eighth day of April, 1760! Honor to the soldiers of France, over whose bodies grows green, with every succeeding spring, the turf of the Plains of Abraham! When the last trump shall sound, and these foes shall rise from their last sleep side by side, will they have forgotten their ancient hate, or will they spring once more at each other's throats?
Honor to the vanquished brave! Among the soldiers whose names are bright on the pages of history there is but one who, on the morrow of a glorious triumph, uncovered his head before his captives and cried, "All honor to the vanquished brave!" He knew that his words would last forever, graven on the heart of France. Great soldiers there are many; but niggard Nature takes centuries to frame a hero.
The field of battle after the victory presented a ghastly sight. Men and horses, the wounded and the dead, were frozen into the mire of blood and water, and could be extricated only with pain and difficulty. The wounded of both nations were treated by the Chevalier de Lévis with the same tender care. Most of them were carried to the Convent of the Hospital Nuns. The convent and all its outbuildings were crowded. All the linen, all the clothing of the inmates was torn up for bandages, and the good nuns had nothing left for themselves but the clothes they were wearing upon the day of battle.
Taking refuge after his defeat behind the ramparts of Quebec, General Murray made a vigorous resistance. As they had but twenty guns with which to arm their siege-batteries, the French could do little more than blockade the city and wait for the re-enforcements which never came. The English general requested permission to send an officer three times a week to visit his wounded in the hospital. This request was readily granted by the humane De Lévis. Lochiel knew that his friend must be lying in the hospital, but he could get no news of him. Although consumed with anxiety, he dreaded to put himself in a false position by inquiries too minute. It might have been considered natural that he would wish to visit his wounded countrymen, but with true Scotch caution he let none of his anxiety appear. It was not till the tenth day after the battle, when his regular turn came, that he found himself approaching the hospital under the escort of a French officer.
"I wonder," said Lochiel, "if you would consider it an indiscretion on my part were I to ask for a private interview with the lady superior?"
"I see no indiscretion in it," answered the Frenchman," but I fear I would be exceeding my orders were I to permit it. I am ordered to lead you to your countrymen and nothing more."
"I am sorry," said the Scotchman indifferently. "It is a little disappointing to me; but let us speak no more of it."
The French officer was silent some minutes; he thought to himself that the Scotchman, speaking French like a Parisian, had probably made the acquaintance of some Canadian families shut up in Quebec; that he was perhaps charged with some message from the relations or friends of the superior, and that it would be cruel to refuse his request. Presently he said:
"As I am persuaded that neither you nor the lady superior can be forming any designs against our batteries, I think that perhaps, after all, I might grant your request without exceeding my duty."
Lochiel, who had been staking all his hopes of a reconciliation with the D'Habervilles upon this interview, could scarcely conceal his joy; but he answered quietly:
"Thank you, monsieur, for your courtesy to myself and the good lady. Your batteries, protected by French valor, might feel reasonably secure even if we were conspiring against them."
The corridors of the hospital which he had to traverse before reaching the parlor of the superior were literally thronged with the wounded; but Archie, seeing none of his own men, hastened on. After ringing the bell, he walked restlessly up and down the room. It was the same room in which he and Jules had had so many a dainty lunch in their happy school days; for the good superior was Jules's aunt.
The superior received him with cold politeness, and said:
"I am very sorry to have kept you waiting, sir; please take a seat."
"I fear," said Archie, "that madam does not recognize me."
"A thousand pardons," replied the superior. "You are Mr. Archibald Cameron of Lochiel."
"Once you called me Archie," said the young man.
"The times are changed, sir," replied the nun, "and many things have happened since those days."
Sighing deeply, Lochiel echoed her words:
"The times are indeed changed, and many things have happened since those days. But at least, madam, tell me how is my brother, Jules D'Haberville?"
"He whom you once called your brother, sir, is now, I hope, out of danger."
"Thank God!" answered Lochiel, "now all hope is not utterly dead in my heart! If I were speaking to an ordinary person there would be nothing more for me to do but thank you for your condescension and retire; but I have the honor to address the sister of a brave soldier, the inheritor of a name made illustrious by many heroic deeds; and if madam will permit, if she will forget for a moment the ties which bind me to her family, if she will judge impartially between me and that family, then I might dare attempt, with some hope of success, to justify myself before her."
"Speak, M. de Lochiel," replied the superior, "and I will listen, not as a D'Haberville but as a stranger. It is my duty as a Christian to hear impartially anything that might palliate your barbarous and heartless conduct toward a family that loved you so well."
The sudden flush which covered the young man's face was followed by a pallor so ghastly that the superior thought he was about to faint. He grasped the grating between them with both hands, and leaned his head against it for some moments; then, mastering his emotion, he told his story as the reader already knows it.
Archie went into the most minute details, down to his misgivings when his regiment was ordered to leave for Canada, down to the hereditary hatred of the Montgomerys for the Camerons; and he accused himself of cowardice in not having sacrificed even his honor to the gratitude he owed the D'Habervilles. From the utterance of Montgomery's barbarous order he omitted not the smallest incident. He described the anguish of his despair, his curses, and his vows of vengeance against Montgomery. In painting the emotions which had tortured his soul, Lochiel had small need to add anything in the way of justification. What argument could be more eloquent than the plain story of his despair! Lochiel's judge was one well fitted to understand him, for she it was who in her youth had one day said to her brother Captain D'Haberville: "My brother, you have not the means to worthily sustain the dignity of our house, except with the help of my share of the patrimony. To-morrow I enter a convent. Here is the deed wherein I renounce all claim in your favor."
The good woman had heard Archie's story with ever-increasing emotion. She stretched out her clasped hands to him as he described his anguished imprecations against Montgomery. The tears flowed down her cheeks as he described his remorse and his resignation while, bound to the tree, he awaited a hideous death.
"My dear Archie," exclaimed the holy woman.
"Oh! thank you, thank you a thousand times for those words," cried Lochiel, clasping his hands.
"My dear Archie," exclaimed the superior, "I absolve you with all my heart. You have but done your painful duty in obeying your orders. By any other course you would have destroyed yourself irretrievably without preventing the ruin of our family. Yes, I forgive you freely, but I hope that you will now pardon your enemy."
"He who was my enemy, madam, has gone to solicit pardon from him who will judge us all. He was one of the first to fly from the field of battle which proved so disastrous to our arms. A bullet stretched him upon the ice, wounded to the death. He had not even a stone on which to rest his head. A tomahawk ended his sufferings, and his scalp hangs now at the belt of an Abénaquis warrior. May God pardon him, as I do, with all my heart!"
A divine light beamed softly in the eyes of the nun. Born as revengeful as her brother the seigneur, her religion of love and charity had made her as all charitable as itself. After a moment of rapt meditation, she said:
"With Jules, I doubt not, you will find reconciliation easy. He has been at death's door. During his delirium your name was forever on his lips, sometimes with the fiercest reproaches, but more often with words of love and tenderest endearment. One must know my nephew well, must know the sublime self-abnegation of which his soul is capable, in order to comprehend his love for you. Many a time has he said to me: 'If it were necessary for me to-morrow to sacrifice my life for Archie, I would die with a smile on my lips, for I should be giving him the only worthy proof of my love.' Such love, in a heart so noble as his, is not soon or easily extinguished. He will rejoice to hear your justification from my lips, and you may be sure that I will spare no effort to reunite you. Since recovering from his delirium he has never mentioned your name; and as he is yet too weak to discuss a subject that would excite so much emotion, I must wait till he gets stronger. I shall hope to have good news for you at our next interview. Meanwhile, farewell till I see you again!"
"Pray for me, madam, for I have great need of it," exclaimed Archie.
"That is what I do daily," answered the nun. "They say, perhaps wrongly, that people of the world, and young officers particularly, have more need of prayer than we; but as for you, Archie, you must have greatly changed if you are not one of those who have least need of it," she added, smiling affectionately. "Farewell once more, and God bless you, my son!"
The superior succeeded in satisfying Jules with Archie's explanation. About a fortnight after Archie's first visit, Jules was awaiting him, filled with a nervous anxiety to prove to him that all the old love was yet warm in his heart. It was understood that there should be no allusion to certain events, too painful for either to dwell upon.
Archie was ushered into a little chamber which Jules, as nephew of the lady superior, was occupying in preference to certain officers of higher rank. Jules stretched out his arms and made a vain effort to rise from his armchair. Archie threw himself upon his neck, and for a time neither spoke. D'Haberville, after controlling his emotion with an effort, was the first to break silence:
"The moments are precious, my dear Archie, and we must endeavor, if possible, to lift the veil which hangs over our future. We are no longer children; we are soldiers fighting under glorious banners, brothers in love but enemies upon the field of battle. I have grown ten years older during my sickness. I am no longer the broken-hearted young fool who rushed upon the enemy's battalions seeking death. No, my dear brother, let us live rather to see better days. Those were your last words when you handed over my bleeding body to the care of my grenadiers.
"You know as well as I the precarious condition of this colony; all depends upon a mere throw of the dice. If France leaves us to our own resources, as it seems but too probable she will do, and if your Government, attaching so grand an importance to the conquest of Canada, send you re-enforcments in the spring, we must raise the siege of Quebec and leave the country to you. In the opposite contingency we recapture Quebec and keep the colony. Now, my dear Archie, I want to know what you will do in the one case or the other."
"In either case," said Lochiel, "as long as the war lasts I can not honorably resign my commission. But when peace comes, I propose to sell the poor remnant of my Highland estate and come and establish myself on this side of the water. My deepest affections are here. I love Canada, I love the simple and upright manners of your good habitants; and after a quiet but busy life, I would rest my head beneath the same sod with you, my brother."
"My position is very different from yours," answered Jules. "You are the master of your actions; I am the slave of circumstance. If we lose Canada, it is probable that most of the Canadian nobility will move to France, where they will find protection and friends. If my family is of this number I can not leave the army. In the contrary case I shall return after some years of service, to live and die with my own people; and, like you, to sleep at last in the land I love so well. Everything leads me to hope, my brother, that after a storm-tossed youth we shall come to see happier days."
The two friends parted after a long and loving talk, the last they were to have while the colony remained New France. When the reader meets them again after some years, the country will have changed both name and masters.
