Shadowbrook (88 page)

The plateau was less than a league wide, and the redcoats lay on their bellies across its breadth. They did not move and they made no acknowledgment of the
French troops scurrying into position across from them.
Ils ne devraient pas y être.
They should not be there. But they were.

The Indian and Canadian sharpshooters continued to harass the enemy from the edges of the battlefield, firing from every hill or ravine or clump of trees, but there was simply not enough cover for them to do any real damage. Meanwhile, the French line moved as quickly as it could into position behind their general. Colonial troops and militia to the right and left, the white-coated French regulars in the center. Montcalm decided he would command the regulars himself. They would hold, whatever happened.

A sixth part of a league from the enemy, Wolfe could hear the crunch of his own boots as he walked the line. The only other sounds were the occasional explosions from the snipers’ guns and the thudding of his heart. God be praised, it was exactly as he’d dreamed it. No matter that a musket ball had already shattered his wrist. An aide had stopped the bleeding with a tight bandage; he didn’t feel the throbbing pain. Everything had been done as he ordered. Four and a half thousand troops had wheeled themselves into battle formation on the open plain. He’d arranged them in two shoulder-to-shoulder ranks, one behind the other. The distance between the parallel lines was exactly one long stride. Three lines would have been better, but he didn’t have enough men to do that and cover the full width of the field. Never mind, he’d lived thirty-two years only to prepare for this day. Each soldier had loaded his musket with a double ball and every bayonet was fixed, and they’d had time to do all that before the French even knew they were there. Now they were lying down so the sharpshooters couldn’t pick them off as easily, watching the enemy, and waiting. No one moved. Whatever happened, superbly trained as they were, they would not move until he gave the command. And he would wait to do that until the French charged.

“The silence, sir,” a young infantryman murmured.

Wolfe crouched down to hear better. “Yes, what about it?”

“It’s eerie, sir.”

“You’re right, lad, it is. And they know we’re here now, so there’s no need for us to be so damnably quiet.” Wolfe stood up and summoned a runner and gave an order. Moments later the drums and the fifes began. And soon after, at the particular request of one of the Scots, he permitted the skirl of the pipes. A mournful sound to him, but nothing fired up the Highland regiments more effectively.

“She has taken a musket ball in her upper thigh,
ma Mère!
” The surgeon was a young man from Trois Rivières. He had been visiting an aunt and uncle in Québec when the bombardment began, and remained to offer what help he
could. “It would have gone much deeper except that of the musket ball passed through the water can and some of the velocity was lost.”

“The thigh,” Mère Marie Rose repeated. “Must she then lose her leg?”

Nicole gasped. “No, please!”

Marie Rose bent toward her. “We did not believe you were conscious,
ma petite.
”

Nicole didn’t answer. She was staring over the shoulder of the abbess. Quent stood in the shadows near the door, but she could still see him. He could not be in the Hôpital Général of Québec, so she had died and this was heaven. But surely in heaven she would not have so much pain. Purgatory, perhaps. How good of
le bon Dieu
to permit her the sight of her love in purgatory. “Hello, my darling Red Bear,” she murmured. “It gives me great joy to see you. Promise you will not let them remove my leg. I wish to go to heaven with both of them.” Then she closed her eyes.

Mère Marie Rose put her hand on the forehead of the girl she had tried to make a sacrifice of praise for the glory of the Holy Faith and the winning of the Ohio Country. Soeur Stephane’s skin was burning hot.

“The body struggles to fight the poison of the gunshot, Mother Abbess,” the surgeon murmured. “We must remove that poison before it defeats her. I will have to make the cut very high, near the hip.”

“You cannot simply remove the musket ball?”

“I would not dare. Her thighbone is shattered. Even after the ball is out, the poison will be left to do its damage. The whole leg will turn black and the poison will invade her entire body and she wül die.”

“Very well. Do what you must.”

“No.” Quent stepped toward the table where the surgeon was opening his case. There were three saws of different sizes fixed to the inside lid. “I’m sorry, but you heard her. It’s not what she wants.”

“Monsieur, remember your promise.” Mère St. Claude the nun in charge of the hospital. It was she who’d said he could stay. “You gave me your word that you would not interfere, monsieur. You must understand that this young nun has given herself entirely to God in the person of her abbess. Mère Marie Rose will decide what is to be done.”

Quent took another step, putting himself between the surgeon’s saws and Nicole, and addressed Mère Marie Rose. “There are ways to prevent the poisoning of the blood the surgeon speaks of. I can bring Nicole to the best herbalist alive, tomorrow or the next day, at the latest. You don’t know me and there’s no reason you should be—”

“I do indeed know you, monsieur.” The abbess Rose had to tilt her head to look into his eyes. He was the tallest man she had ever seen. Stephane had called him
her Red Bear. There could not be two. “I believe we have spoken before. At the turn,
non?
” Quent nodded. “You came to warn us we must leave our monastery. And as we both see, you were correct.”

“I did not wish to seem arrogant, madame. Not then and not now, but—”

She raised her hand. “We need not continue to argue, monsieur. It is the time of Soeur Stephane that we are wasting.” She turned to the surgeon. “You will remove the musket ball, nothing more. It will be as Soeur Stephane requested. If she is to go to heaven, she will arrive with both her legs.”

“Not a shot,” Wolfe ordered. “Not until we can count the buttons on their jackets.” The line remained immobile. The pair of cannon that had been brought to the battlefield were fired repeatedly and did some damage. The Canadian sharpshooters and their Indian allies were also still active. In terms of the battle that would come, neither meant anything. Wolfe knew that. So did Montcalm.

The French general rode up and down his lines, making adjustments, then changing things back. “
Mon Général,
how much longer?” one of his officers asked. Indeed, it was the only question. Action must come, however much he had tried to avoid it. The regulars were stoic, and would remain so. But the Canadians, the savages … he did not trust them to wait much longer. Reinforcements must be on the way—Vaudreuil had held back fifteen hundred troops—but how long would it take them to arrive? Two hours, possibly three? He murmured an evasive reply and moved on.

There was a burst of fire from one of the English cannon, followed by another from the second. Four men fell together in a heap. Another was cut in two and his body fell in opposite directions. The corpses were dragged out of the way and the gaps in the lines filled, but Montcalm heard the undercurrent of unease. No that was not entirely correct, he felt it. He wheeled his horse around and faced the center of the line of Québec’s defenders.
“Alors, mes enfants, la gloire et arrivée.”
So much dread in his belly, still he did what he knew he must. He was a man of the military. It was his job. God help him, it was his destiny.

Montcalm tugged lightly on the bridle of his horse and the animal turned once more to face front. He raised his sword, held it upright for as long as it took him to commend his soul and the souls of his men to the Holy Virgin, then pointed across the plain to the English. Instantly the regimental bearers unfurled their flags and the drummers beat the charge.

The soldiers gave a tremendous cheer, releasing the terrible tension of the long wait, and took four rapid steps forward, more or less in unison. Montcalm looked right and left and breathed a sigh of relief. So far at least, the line held. And
mon Dieu,
the sun. At this moment it arrives. It is a sign.

Wolfe, too, felt the sun’s warmth as it broke through the clouds. The plains were bathed in light. He could clearly see the French advance. “Lieutenant, bring the men to their feet!” A long wave of scarlet and tartan rippled into position along the open field.

The French were close enough to see every detail of the enemy formation. The snipers from the hills had joined the charge as best they could. Montcalm still led, but he was conscious of the wavering line behind him. The regulars knew to go forward at parade ground pace; the militia followed their Canadian instincts and ran toward the enemy. In seconds the front lines were too far ahead and the left flank too far back, and some of the men had stumbled and fallen on the rough ground, increasing the havoc.

Eh bien,
nothing can now be changed. I have the army I have in the conditions that exist. Dictated by Wolfe, who has outgeneraled me. But I will not give the command to fire until we—A shot rang out from behind. A Canadian, it has to be. May God rot his soul in hell.

As he feared, the gunshot was taken as a signal. A great volley followed, but they were still too far away to do any real damage. Montcalm saw a few English go down, but others took their places and those either side stood rigid. Sainte Vierge, what must we do to break their ranks? We must charge. It is the only hope. Montcalm turned his head to shout encouragement and saw that following their usual custom, having discharged their guns, the wretched Canadians had thrown themselves on the ground and were rolling to the side to give themselves time to reload. The men coming behind them now had another obstacle to trip over. He wheeled his horse around and plunged into the melee, shouting the orders that would bring his troops back into formation.

Wolfe watched and counted off a full minute in slow, deliberate seconds. Then he gave the command that brought his lines three steps forward and slightly turned so they would present a smaller target. Another count, to twenty this time, but it felt like an eternity. Still the discipline of the redcoats was perfect. “Highlanders!” Wolfe shouted. “One knee!” The order was obeyed and passed down the line; the front rank knelt while the one behind it remained erect. “Prepare to fire!” Every musket was shouldered. The French still came toward them, shooting wildly now, but not a single English gun answered. Until, at last, when they could indeed count the brass buttons on the coats of the enemy, Wolfe shouted the command: “Fire!” In the middle the muskets were discharged simultaneously, their double balls cutting through the French lines in great bursts of skin and bone and sinew and showers of blood. On the right and left flank, where the command must be relayed because of distance, the English soldiers fired platoon by platoon. The result was a volley that seemed to go on and on, the death and chaos it caused neverending.

Vaudreuil was at the north end of the plains, well out of the field of battle, in a calèche, still not convinced he should commit to this battle the fifteen hundred men he commanded. He saw the English line take another step forward. The screams of the dead and dying were too loud for him to hear the command to fire a second volley, but obviously it had come. Once more the redcoats in the front dropped to one knee and discharged their muskets while those behind fired over their heads. Involuntary the old man clasped his hands over his ears. He could not help it. The roar was like a gigantic cannon from hell. It was a madness, all of this. If the Canadians and the Indians had been allowed …
Alors!
Some small comfort. Wolfe was down, his officers clustered around him and dragging him out of the line of fire.

Montcalm’s right flank broke, the Canadians running to take cover in the woods where they knew they would at least live to fight on, while screaming their Scots war cries and swinging their claymores, the Highlanders took off after them. A group of Canadian militia made a stand in the military bakery that stood just outside the city’s gates. Their bravery bought the fleeing French army enough time to reach the walls and take shelter in Québec, though every one of the Canadians paid with his life. And finally, the end. Half an hour after monsieur le marquis had pointed his sword at the enemy, the gates of the fortress city were again closed and locked. What was left of the army meant to defend New France was behind the walls. Montcalm was with them, still on his horse, but he had taken a musket ball to the gut on the field, and during the retreat English grapeshot had ripped open one of his legs.
Alors.
I think my life leaves with all this blood,
mon Dieu.
I shall be sorry never to see Candiac again. Or to taste the sugared almonds of Montargis.