How Canada Was Won: A Tale of Wolfe and Quebec

Chapter XII
Generosity to the Foe

A blinding whirl of snow hid Steve and Mac from friends and foes alike as they slid from the hummock and made for the back. There was not a sound from their snow-shoes as they progressed, and only distant shouts and whoops from the French and their Indians broke the silence of the wintry day, those and the deep boom of the cannon which now plied their iron shot more rapidly. For the gunners had found the range, and though the snow made accurate aim totally out of the question, yet they took pains not to lose the direction, and in the next quarter of an hour half-a-dozen balls thudded into the hollow.

"The sooner we can put a stop to that the better," said Steve as he halted at the bottom of the hillock. "Up to now we have had luck, but a shot might hit a number of the men, and already the odds are great. How far are we from the forest, Mac?"

"Sure, Oi've no idea, Cap'n. 'Tis mesilf as is scared wid the snow. There's no sayin' where we are."

"There are the guns," answered Steve in a whisper, "and so long as they continue to fire we shall have something to give us the direction. I am sure we are making straight for the forest, and if my calculations are right we should be amongst the trees in a very few moments."

They slid along over the snow again, Steve leading the way. Then a dull wall cut across the white ground in front of him, and with a smothered exclamation of satisfaction he realized that they had reached the friendly shelter of the forest. By then both were covered with snow, and were with difficulty distinguishable at ten paces.

"We have everything in our favour," Steve whispered, halting for a while. Now, I propose that we make round towards the guns and watch to see how many are serving them. If few – "

"Sure we'll rush 'em," burst in Mac, his red beard trembling, so greatly was he excited. "Give the word, sor, and bedad, 'tis mesilf as will charge all alone. Them Frenchies'll never stand."

"Perhaps not. But we must make sure. We must drive them off and allow sufficient time in which to spike the guns. Now, look here, Mac. If we charge them, hold your fire whatever you do. Use the butt or your tomahawk. If they bolt, then sit down and watch for their return. I shall use my axe to drive in the spikes."

There was no need for further arrangement, and so they set off again, this time turning sharp to their left in the direction of the guns. For the cannon still bellowed at intervals, and on one occasion, when the wind blew the whirling flakes aside for a moment, Steve saw the flash distinctly. In a little while the two were bent almost double, for they were within earshot, and presently they halted behind an enormous oak, for the guns were in sight, half-a-dozen dim figures working about them, sometimes in view and sometimes blotted out altogether by the snow. But there were others there also. As Steve and Mac stared at the place, endeavouring to make out the precise surroundings, they became aware that other figures were silently gathering, that the space behind the guns was being filled by a company of blanketed men, from whose scalp locks fell a crest of trailing feathers. The red and white and blue painted faces showed up through the storm, and soon there could not be a doubt that the Indian allies of the French were there. Suddenly a tall figure appeared amongst them and a voice was heard.

"Your chief," said the French officer in his own tongue. "Good. You can understand me and tell your friends. The snow falls heavily, chief."

"It falls," was the response, in passable French.

"And hides us from these pale faces. Now is the time for Hurons to strike with their tomahawks. Let them climb to the back of this hummock and fall upon the pale faces from there. We who have just been beaten back will attack from the front."

There was a minute or more of delay while the Huron chief turned to his comrades. Then he swept round and faced the French officer.

"It is well," he said. "In a short while we shall be there. Will you and your men crawl forward now and wait for our shouts. Then charge, and it may happen that you will find us in possession and these men all slain and scalped."

The officer nodded curtly, and then as Steve and Mac looked on, the band of Indians tossed their blankets aside as formerly and went off in single file. Steve was still gaping with astonishment and dismay as the figure of the last disappeared in the forest.

"They are off to surprise the back of the fort," he whispered. "The question now is, whether we ought to return so as to warn our friends, or whether we should stay."

For a little while the two stared into each other's eyes, for the dilemma was a genuine one, and a decision not to be easily arrived at. Then Mac pushed his tangled moustache from his mouth, scattering the tiny icicles which had gathered there.

"Warn 'em I Sure ye couldn't, me bhoy; thim Injuns'll be in position long before we could get up to 'em. A trapper can't cover the ground quicker than they, and ye may be sure that they'll slip along as though the gintleman himsilf was behint 'em. The bhoys must look to thimsilves. Be chanst they'll have set a watch for our return."

"Then we must leave it like that," answered Steve. "There are too many about here just now, but already the French are moving off. Give them a little while and we'll charge."

They crouched behind the friendly shelter of the oak and watched as the minutes fled by. The French officer waited to see the last of the Indians disappear, and then went off through the snow, his feet splaying out in a manner which showed that he was unused to snow-shoes. They heard his whistle and then the murmur of voices growing fainter. Meanwhile the guns continued their thunder, though the men who worked them could only have guessed at the position of the trappers. Still they were cunning fellows, for they had taken care to provide themselves with a signal which pointed always towards the spot where the hollow lay. They had laid one of the long sponging rods between two forked branches, bolstering up the leading end with lumps of snow till the man who stood beside it had it pointing true. It was a wise precaution which they had taken before the snow commenced to fall, and now Steve watched as the direction was taken from it.

Five minutes later a man who was dressed as a trapper slipped up to the men, spoke a few words, and was gone. Once more the guns belched forth their flame and shot, and then to Steve's joy all but four of the gunners threw off their mittens, snatched up the firelocks piled near at hand, and went off after their friends.

"They have word that the attackers are nearly in position, and that they are not to fire again for fear of hitting their friends," whispered Steve. "Now is the time, Mac. Not a shout, not a sound, remember, till we have the guns. Ready? Then come along."

His axe was gripped in his hand now, while his musket was slung over his shoulder. He slipped like a ghost from behind the oak, and slid across the snow towards the guns. He was within four yards of them when one of the four gunners who had remained, and who up till then had been staring out into the snow, swung round, looked at him for a moment, and then gave a cry of amazement. He seized one of the sponging rods and whirled it above his head, while his comrades at once drew their cutlasses.

"On them boys! Cut them down! There are only four!" shouted Steve, in French. "Charge and we have got them!"

Whether or not the Frenchmen believed that there were more of the trappers behind it would be difficult to state; but the man who had first seen Steve and Mac started back at his words, and lowered his rod. Then as Steve rushed in he swung it up again, whirled it round once, and then struck a tremendous blow which lost all its force in the snow. For Steve had had his eyes open, and, moreover, was as agile as a cat, even with snow-shoes on his feet. He leaped to one side, and then ran in, striking the gunner between the eyes with the shaft of his weapon. Almost at the same instant a cutlass blade swished over his head as a second gunner made a wild cut at him, and striking the barrel of the musket swinging on his back, cut a deep grove into it.

"Ye baste!" shouted Mac, as he brought the butt of his musket against the soldier's head. "Stand back will ye. Will ye dare to sthrike the Cap'n. Ha! So ye're still there. Now, bedad, that's koind of ye, so 'tis."

The red-headed Irishman rushed at the third man with a bellow of rage, lifting his musket as he ran. Then quick as a flash he swung the ponderous weapon at the Frenchman, throwing it so truly that it struck him full in the face and across the chest and sent him to the ground with a thud which could be heard a dozen yards away. And there he lay, the Irishman standing over him, his hair the one prominent feature, for his cap had been jerked from his head. As for the other Frenchman, he bolted as Steve ran to attack him, and was soon out of sight. Our hero at once rushed to the nearest gun, slipped one of his improvised spikes into the vent, and then drove it home with his axe head. Meanwhile Mac had raced forward a few yards, and turning in the direction of the hollow placed one of his capacious hands to his mouth:

"Boys! Jim!" he shouted with all the force of his lungs.

"Ahoy!" came back. "Is that the Cap'n?"

"It is. Boys, kape a watch on the back of the fort. The bastes are wantin' to rush ye; and they're comin' up in front, too!"

There was a distant shout of thanks heard clearly through the frosty air, and almost instantly a musket spoke. Then the whoops of the Indians broke forth, while the French, who were attacking the front of the hillock, joined in the chorus.

"Don't spoike the secind gun, sor," called out Mac, all of a sudden. "Sure we'll turn it on the ruffians ef they come to attack us. Here's powder, and, bedad, here's the bags of bullets with which they charge the craturs."

The Irishman had seen service before, and doubtless he had had some instruction in the loading of guns. He ran the sponge rod down the muzzle of the one which had not yet been spiked, wiped it out, and introduced a charge, while Steve poured a handful of powder over the vent. In another minute they had depressed the sights, and our hero stood beside the gun, panting after his exertions, and holding the muzzle of a pistol taken from one of the Frenchmen across the vent. Meanwhile the musket shot which had been fired from the neighbourhood of the hummock where Steve's men lay had been followed by many sharp reports, and by the din set up by the combatants. Sometimes the flash of the powder could be seen, for the fall of snow was not so heavy now as it had been. Dim figures could be discerned here and there, and presently some dashed towards the guns; for the man who had run for his life as Steve and Mac charged had returned with some comrades determined on capturing the guns again. They arrived within sight of the place to find all in readiness, and the instant they caught sight of Steve, standing ready to receive them, they bolted back again, and darting to the right till out of range of the weapon, went shouting for their friends.

"Get that sponging rod under the edge of the sledge, Mac," sang out Steve, a smile of confidence on his lips. "Ten chances to one they will rush us from another direction, and we must be ready to slew the gun round and fire. Yes. Here they come, this time from the right."

As quickly as possible the rod was thrust under the runner of the sledge which carried the gun, and with a heave Mac slewed it round till the muzzle pointed towards the spot from which the French were coming. He dug it again into position, and then waited, ready to move the sights still further if necessary.

"Jest a little lower wid the muzzle, sor," he sang out. "That's the way. Give 'em the charge rhight in their faces, and thin, bedad, we'll be for lavin'."

He stood on the tips of his moccasins peering into the distance, and then shuffled a little to one side in his snow shoes, wrenching the rod as he did so, and again slightly altering the aim of the gun. Figures had sprung up again on the sudden, and some twenty Frenchmen could be seen coming towards the gun as fast as the snow and their shoes would allow them. A musket spoke sharply, a flash illuminated the front of the enemy for an instant, and a heavy ball struck the runner of the sledge, glanced from it and very neatly severed the sling which held Steve's musket to his shoulders. Then came another shot, crisp and clear, the missile clipping a bough above the heads of the two gallant backwoodsmen standing beside the gun, and bringing a cloud of frozen snow about their ears. It was time to fire. Steve leaned over the breach, placed the pan of his flint lock close to the vent and pulled the trigger. Then he and Mac turned, and after Steve had driven his second spike home and so rendered the gun useless, darted off into the forest unmindful of the shouts they left behind them, knowing only that their use of the gun had resulted in terrible loss to the enemy.

"They have no thought of pursuing us," gasped Steve, some minutes later as they halted deep in the forest. "I think the discharge must have worked havoc, and thoroughly upset them. Listen to the others. Jim and the boys were just in time to catch the Indians, and I have a shrewd idea that they have beaten off their attack. Can we help in any way?"

"Hilp! Sure 'tis oursilves as will want hilp if them fellers catch a sight af us. Cap'n, we'd best lie hid here till the fightin's over, when we can follow the inimy and see that he returns home."

"And that he does not take his guns with him," exclaimed Steve. "After all, they could very easily bore out the vents again if they took them back to Ticonderoga, and then we might have them firing at us again. Let us return a little way, Mac, till we get a good sight of the weapons. With our muskets we should be able to keep the enemy away from them. Lucky for me that I picked up one of the French muskets when we left. Mine had a deep dent in the barrel, where that man's cutlass struck it, and I doubt whether it was fit to be used."

They looked to the loading and the priming of their firearms, and then turning away from their old tracks, for the enemy might even now be following, they struck off on another trail which brought them in a roundabout way to the guns. By now the snow had ceased to fall, so that before very long they caught sight of the two cannon, standing black against the white background beyond. Close to the runners of the sledges on which they were mounted lay two of the gunners whom Steve or Mac had struck down, while the third was sitting up on his elbow, and engaged in wiping the blood from his eyes.

"Sure, 'tis sorra he'll be that he's aloive, so he will," said Mac, indulging in a dry chuckle. "'Tis the Frinchman himsilf as will have a head that's fit to burst. Sure the man's dizzy."

"And well he might be," answered Steve. "Poor fellow, your musket gave him a hard blow, and there is no wonder if he does feel dizzy and ill. Don't fire, Mac. The man is harmless, and we are not here to injure such as he. Listen to that. Cheers!"

"Cheers it is, sor. Them's Jim and Pete and the ithers. Sure they've beaten off the blackguards."

Wild shouts of triumph came across the snow-clad clearing and into the forest, and there could not be a doubt but that they were those of their comrades. Musket shots followed, and then cheer upon cheer, while Steve fancied he could even distinguish Jim's voice. But presently something else occupied his attention. Out of the tail of his eye he caught sight of a figure flitting through the trees away on his left.

"Hu-u-ush! Indians!" he whispered, pulling Mac by the sleeve of his hunting shirt. "Down, or they will see us. They are returning from the hillock."

"And would give all they have and a deal more, too, the bastes! if they could take us with thim," answered the Irishman, dropping on to his face behind a friendly tree and peering round at the enemy. "They're makin' for the guns, sor. Will ye allow thim to carry the weapons away?"

Steve gave an emphatic shake of his head.

"Indians or French are the same in this case, Mac. They are enemies. If I can prevent it they shall not take the guns. But perhaps they are only returning for their blankets. Count them. I fancy some have fallen."

They lay full length in the snow and watched as the silent band of discomfited Indians swept by them, gliding over the snow as if their shoes were parts of themselves. But the men who now returned wore a different appearance from those who had such a short while before made through the forest to attack the back of the hillock. This band, gliding so swiftly through the gaps between the trees in single file, was composed of men who had met with deep disappointment, and showed it. Their heads were bent. Some looked ashamed, while there was an air of savage fury on more than one of the clear-cut faces. More than ten of their original number were missing, while amongst the tall, copper-coloured braves who now filed along on their way to the open, were a dozen at least who had been wounded. There could be no doubt that that was the case, for behind them they left the trace of their snow-shoes and dark stains here and there which told their tale only too truly.

"I was right. They are making for the guns so as to get their blankets," whispered Steve. "Lucky for us that they did not come this way, or stumble upon our trail. Even a beaten brave notes every mark in the snow, and if even one suspected that we were here they would turn and pounce upon us. Listen, Mac. If they or the French try to take the guns, fire your piece and shout. Then move away to right or left, loading as you go, and fire again. They will then think that there are many of us."

A glance at the Irishman was sufficient to show that he had grasped his leader's meaning. Steve saw him look to the priming of his musket, and then slowly and cautiously get to his feet.

"They'll do what they can to help their friends," he said. "Look, if ye plaze, sor. There's a French sodjer, and he's givin' thim an order."

A man had suddenly come into sight as Mac spoke, and Steve watched him advance to meet the Indians, who were now engaged in recovering the blankets which they had left beside the guns. He spoke to them, made signs with his hands, and then snatched up one of the ropes which were attached to the sledges. For a minute, perhaps, the Indians stared at him, for this was a task which none of them cared to undertake. It was not real fighting, and, therefore, perhaps derogatory to them. However, a word from their chief set matters right, and in a little while a dozen had harnessed themselves to the tackle.

Crack! Steve's musket sent a leaden messenger at the group, a messenger which was no respecter of persons. It struck the muzzle of the rearmost weapon, with a resounding clang, glanced from it and passed through the calf of one of the Indians.

"Hit! One to you, sor," called out Mac. "Listen to the baste shoutin'. Bedad, Mac here will thry himsilf."

He put his musket to his shoulder, while the group about the guns suddenly divided. The shot had taken them utterly by surprise, for they had no notion that the enemy was behind them. Halting where they were, they looked at their chief, while the wounded man hastily tied a strip of cloth about his leg.

"A shot from behind, my brothers," said their chief. "It is some straggler who has been lying in the forest. We will return and slay him." He dropped the tackle and without another look or word strode off in the direction from which the bullet came. A dozen of his comrades followed his example, and ere Mac had time to sight, the band was clear of the guns, and already entering the forest.

Crack! For a second or two the smoke which had belched from the weapon hid the Indians from view, but a gust blew it rapidly aside, and when Steve looked there was the Indian chief lying full length in the snow, while the braves who had turned from the guns to support him stood dumbfounded, staring at his recumbent figure. For this was hardly the kind of warfare which met with their approval. These fierce Hurons, a portion of the so-called Christian Indians whom the French had induced, to the number of many thousands in all, for many tribes had come from Canada, to become their allies, were accustomed to fall upon unsuspecting enemies and butcher them in their sleep if possible, or at least before they had time to more than grasp a weapon. True, these braves could fight and fight courageously, as they had proved many a time; but they were little use when asked to assault a fort or to attack an enemy in the open. Their forte was the tracking of enemies in the forest, the stealthy following up of stragglers, wood-cutters, and the small parties sent to shoot meat. It was in expeditions of such a nature that they shone, for their backwoods knowledge, their natural cunning and stealth, enabled them to creep up without observation and wreak a fierce and terrible vengeance on a foe fewer than themselves in number, and more often than not utterly unsuspicious of danger. And here they were exposed in the open, a thought that was hateful to every one, and being fired at by unseen muskets aimed by men of whose presence they had had no notion.

As the chief fell they gathered about him with grunts of consternation, which were increased to howls of anger as Steve lifted his ponderous weapon again, sighted, and sent a bullet into their midst. With one exception they turned tail and fled.

"Hold!" cried the brave who had kept his ground, a tall and fine-looking Indian. "Are my brothers so easily scared? Will they suffer a chief to be slain and not retaliate? Surely we are children, for we run when but few men are there to fire at us. Follow, Hurons. Let us take these men who have fired, and to-night they shall burn over our fires while we watch them writhing."

It was a cheerful proposition for Steve and Mac to listen to, but one at which every brave who heard picked up heart and courage. Why, after all, should they retire from this field without prisoners, without one or more of these pale faces on whom to wreak their vengeance? Besides, they were not children. The very mention of such a word, the scoffing tones of their comrades, were enough to rouse them to desperation. They turned again, their war-whoops rang shrilly through the forest, and in a moment a stream of the painted braves was charging towards Steve and Mac.

"Take them coolly," said our hero, leaning his musket barrel in the fork of a tree. "Are you ready? Then fire."

Their shots rang out in rapid succession, and two of the charging braves threw up their hands and fell, laughing hideously, for no brave worthy of the name could die with a groan on his lips. He must laugh as if the pangs of death were nothing but an enjoyment.

"Now let us run," whispered Steve swiftly. "Perhaps our shots will bring help from the hillock. If not, we have a start, and may be able to get away. Throw your musket on one side and come along."

Tossing their weapons on to the snow, the two set off as fast as their legs would carry them, their pace being improved by the very fact of their having discarded their muskets, for the muskets then in use weighed perhaps three times as much as the present magazine rifle. Behind them came the Indian braves, in single file now, silent as hounds on the trail, their eyes shining strangely and a look of ferocity and rage on every face. Two hundred yards farther on Steve turned for an instant. He and Mac had not increased their lead, but at the same time they had not lost ground. The issue of this chase was still in doubt, for he and the Irishman might still reach the hillock before the Indians came up with them. On the other hand, a lucky shot from one of the braves might bring the chase to an end very summarily. As if to remind him of that fact, there was a sharp report behind, a report which went reverberating through the forest, and a bullet chipped a foot or more of frozen bark from a tree within a few inches of the fugitives. A second later Steve caught a glimpse of a figure some few yards in front of them. It was Jim, Hunting Jim, the fringe of his shirt and leggings blowing in the wind.

"Jest keep on towards the hillock, Cap'n," he said swiftly as Steve came abreast of him. "Yer know what's wanted. Draw them varmint into this here trap."

There was no time for more. Steve and Mac held on their course, darting over the frozen snow as if the danger were even greater. And after them came the Indian band, their nostrils agape, their fingers gripping the tomahawks which they hoped to use very shortly. But their hopes were doomed to disappointment, for within a minute they had run into the circle of trappers whom Jim had brought with him. There was a shout, a musket spoke out sharply, and then with a cheer the trappers threw themselves upon the braves.

"That war a find and no mistake," said Jim some ten minutes later as Steve stood gasping beside him. "I reckon Injuns was never so surprised in all their mortal lives, onless it was the fellers way back there at the divide when we were on the trail from the settlement. Waal, we wiped 'em out, and with what we killed before I guess as they won't be so keen on comin' our way again. There's twenty down at least, and half as many French. Boys, our Cap'n's given us a bit o' fightin'."

There was a smothered cheer at that, while the men gathered round their young leader.

"We must move again," said Steve sharply. "I thank you all for having come just in the nick of time. And now let us be moving. I want some of you to go down and see that the guns are not taken. If they are there get to work at the tackles and pull the weapons back to the hillock. We can draw the spikes with a little trouble, and then, boys – "

"He's the lad fer us," sang out Pete. "He ain't thinkin' of givin' up our fort, not even if five thousand of the Frenchies wants to come and attack us. He's goin' to put in guns, so as he can fire back the iron pills they've been sendin' us. Take it as done, Cap'n. Them guns'll be in position afore the night comes."

"Then you will look to it," responded Steve, smiling as the men crowded about him with another cheer. "Now there is other work. Jim, take some of the men and follow the enemy as far as the lake. Mac and I will return for our muskets and then scout round to make sure that not an Indian or Frenchman is left."

The party of trappers separated into three small bands at once, Steve watching Jim and Pete march their men away to carry out his instructions. Then he and Mac returned on their old trails, this time at a more reasonable pace, and having discovered their muskets dived into the forest and scouted there so as to make sure that none of the enemy were left. Now and again a far-off musket shot came to their ears, as the rearguard of the retreating force fired at the trappers, and on three or four occasions they came upon the dead bodies of Frenchmen or Indians who had fallen. But for the shots there was silence everywhere, the silence of the virgin forest, till a faint sound came to Mac's ears.

"Sure, it's a groan, so 'tis," he whispered. "Listen to it, sor. It'll be the ghost of one of them poor craturs."

The superstitious Irishman trembled, while beads of perspiration burst out on his forehead despite the lowness of the temperature. He looked scared, and turned appealingly to Steve.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the latter, emphatically. "Don't talk such rubbish. It must be some injured man. Listen, and then we shall get the direction."

They stood still for some five minutes, and then at last the same moaning sound came to their ears. Steve promptly turned to his right and set off at a a rapid pace, Mac following with the same scared look on his wrinkled features.

"Tracks of Indians," said Steve suddenly, as he came across the marks of snow-shoes. "They were carrying a wounded man. Look at the spots of blood. Keep your musket handy, Mac, and use it if there is need."

Some fifty yards farther on the two suddenly burst into a tiny clearing, and discovered there the figure of a man, lying propped against a tree, where he had undoubtedly dragged himself, as the marks in the snow plainly showed. He turned as Steve came forward, and the latter recognised him. It was the tall Frenchman who had commanded the attacking party. He was pale and wan, and evidently in great pain.

"Monsieur, I am your prisoner," he said bravely. "I was hit in the thigh, and I think my leg is broken. The Indians who were carrying me tossed me aside for fear that I should delay them."

Mac and Steve were on their knees at once, tending to the wounded officer. "We will make a litter and carry him out on to the lake," said Steve. "Find a dozen of the boys, Mac, and hurry. We must get back before the night comes."

Half an hour later the gallant French officer was lying in a litter constructed with the help of an Indian blanket and two stout poles, and was being conveyed by four of Steve's trappers, a relay of men following behind. Their muskets were slung across their shoulders, while one of the hunters strode ahead with a white rag tied to his ramrod. And so they passed through the forest and came to the lake, where, a mile away, the retreating force could be seen.

"Fire a round and wave the flag," shouted Steve. "That will call their attention."

A little later a dozen French soldiers returned, their arms also slung, while a lieutenant was in command of the party.

"You are our prisoner, colonel," said Steve to the wounded officer, "but we know that you are wounded, and will be better cared for by your own friends. We release you on your oath that you will take no further part in the war."

"Monsieur, I gladly give that promise, and call all here to witness it," came the answer, while the poor fellow feebly pressed our hero's hand. "Messieurs, you are brave and generous. I give you a thousand thanks. To you, monsieur, I say that I am for ever indebted. If ever you should be in need of help and I am present, call on Colonel St. Arnould de Prossen. He will help you to the utmost of his ability."