"You have been very good to us, my father," he said. "I hope the day may come when we may be able to show our gratitude."

"Like enough it will, my son," answered the Abbe gently; "I have little doubt that it will. If not to me, yet to my children and countrymen. For the moment the laurels of victory remain in our hands; but the tide may some day turn. If so, then remember to be merciful and gentle to those who will be in your power. I think that the English have ever shown themselves generous foes; I think they will continue to show themselves such in the hour of victory."

It was with hearts much cheered and strengthened that the comrades went forth from Ticonderoga. Colin and a few French soldiers accompanied them for some distance.

They did not propose to try to seek Rogers or his scattered Rangers; there was no knowing where they would now be found. Fritz had decided to push back to Fort Edward, and so to Albany, the quaint Dutch settlement which had been the basis of recent operations, being the town nearest to the western frontier at this point. There they would be certain to get news of what was going on in the country, and for a short time it would be pleasant to dwell amid the haunts of men, instead of in these remote fastnesses of the forest.

"I hope we shall meet again," said Colin, as he held Fritz's hand in a last clasp. "I am not altogether French. I find that I can love the English well. Quebec will be my home before long. Corinne is there already, and my uncle and I will return there shortly. It is a fine city, such as you have hardly seen in your wanderings so far. I would I could show it you. Some say the English have an eye upon it, as the key to Canada. In sooth I think they would find it a hard nut to crack. We of the city call it impregnable. But come you in peace there, and I will show it you with joy."

They parted with a smile and a warm clasp, little guessing how they would meet next.

The journey to Albany was uneventful. The travellers met with no misadventures, and upon a sunny April evening drew near to the pleasant little town, smiling in the soft sunshine of a remarkably warm evening.

It presented a singularly peaceful appearance. The fort was on the hill behind, and seemed to stand sentinel for the little township it was there to protect. The wide grassy road ran down towards the river, its row of quaint Dutch houses broken by a group of finer and more imposing buildings, including the market, the guard house, the town hall, and two churches.

The houses were not built in rows, but each stood in its own garden, possessing its well, its green paddock, and its own overshadowing tree or trees. They were quaintly built, with timbered fronts, and great projecting porches where the inhabitants gathered at the close of the day, to discuss the news and to gossip over local or provincial affairs.

As the travellers entered the long, wide street, their eyes looked upon a pleasant, homely scene—the cows straying homeward, making music with their bells, stopping each at her own gate to be milked; the children hanging around, porringer in hand, waiting for the evening meal; matrons and the elder men gathered in groups round the doors and in the porches; young men wrestling or arguing in eager groups; and the girls gathered together chatting and laughing, throwing smiling glances towards their brothers and lovers as they strove for victory in some feat of skill or strength.

It was difficult to believe that so peaceful a scene could exist in a country harassed by war, or that these settlers could carry on their lives in so serene and untroubled a fashion with the dread war cloud hovering in the sky above.

There was one house which stood a little apart from the others, and wore a rather more imposing aspect, although, like all the rest, it was of a quaint and home-like appearance. It stood a little back from the main streets and its porch was wider and larger, whilst the garden in front was laid out with a taste and care which bespoke both skill and a love for nature's products.

The travellers were slowly wending their way past this house, debating within themselves where to stop for the night, and just beginning to attract the attention of the inhabitants, when a voice hailed them eagerly from the wide porch.

"Fritz Neville, or I'm a Dutchman myself! And Pringle and Roche as well! Why, man, we thought we had left you dead in the forest. We saw you cut off from us and surrounded. We never had a hope of seeing you alive again. This is a happy meeting, in truth!"

Fritz started at the sound of his name, and the next minute had made a quick forward hound, his face shining all over.

It was Lord Howe who had hailed him—the bold, joyous young Viscount beloved by all who knew him. The comrades shook hands again and again as they eagerly exchanged greetings.

"Oh, we got away to the forest, Rogers and Stark and I, and a score or more. Other stragglers kept dropping in and joining us, and many more, as we found later, had made their way back to Fort Edward. But nowhere could we learn news of you. Come in, come in; you will be welcomed warmly by my kind hostess, Mrs. Schuyler. She has been the friend and mother of all English fugitives in their destitution and need. I have a home with her here for the present, till the army from England and the levies from the provinces arrive. Come in, good comrades, and do not fear; there will be a warm welcome here for you."

They followed Howe to the house, and found that he had not deceived them as to the welcome they would receive. Colonel Schuyler was a great man in Albany, and his wife was deservedly respected and beloved. Just now the Colonel was absent on duties connected with the coming campaign, in which Albany was becoming keenly interested. The neighbouring provinces, particularly that of Massachusetts, had awakened at last from lethargy, and the inhabitants were bestirring themselves with zeal, if not always with discretion. The Colonel, who had warmly embraced the English cause, was doing what he could there to raise arms and men, and his wife at home was playing her part in caring for the fugitives who kept passing through on their way from the forest, both after the massacre at Fort William Henry, and after the rout of the Rangers.

Rogers himself was too restless a being to remain in the haunts of civilization. He and a few picked men were again off to the forest. But Stark, who had been wounded, and Lord Howe, who was awaiting orders from England as to his position in command during the approaching campaign, remained as guests with Mrs. Schuyler; and she at once begged that Fritz and his companions would do the same, since her house was roomy, and she desired to do all in her power for those who were about to risk their lives in the endeavour to suppress the terrible Indian raids, and to crush the aggressions of those who used these raids as a means of obtaining their own aggrandizement.

It was a pleasant house to stay in, and Mrs. Schuyler was like a mother to them all. For Lord Howe she entertained a warm affection, which he requited with a kindred feeling.

All was excitement in Albany now. General Abercromby was on the way to take the command of the forces; but Lord Howe was to have a position of considerable importance, and it was whispered by those who knew what went on behind the scenes that it was to his skill and courage and military prowess that Pitt really looked. He received private dispatches by special messengers, and his bright young face was full of purpose and lofty courage.

The Massachusetts levies began to assemble, and Howe took the raw lads in hand, and began to drill them with a wonderful success. But it was no play work to be under such a commander. They had come for once rather well provided with clothing and baggage; but Howe laughed aloud at the thought of soldiers encumbering themselves with more impedimenta than was actually needful.

The long, heavy-skirted coats which the soldiers wore, both regulars and provincials, excited his ridicule, as did also the long hair plaited into a queue behind and tied with ribbons.

His own hair he had long since cut short to his head—a fashion speedily imitated by officers and men alike, who all adored him. He suggested that skirtless coats would be more easy to march in than the heavy ones in vogue, and forthwith all the skirts were cut off, and the coats became short jackets, scarcely reaching the waist.

The men laughed at their droll appearance, but felt the freedom and increased marching power; and as Lord Howe wore just such a coat himself, who could complain? He wore leggings of leather, such as were absolutely needful to forest journeys, and soon his men did the same. No women were to be allowed to follow his contingent; and as for washing of clothes, why, Lord Howe was seen going down to the river side to wash his own, and the fashion thus set was followed enthusiastically by his men.

If their baggage was cut down to a minimum, they were each ordered to carry thirty pounds of meal in a bag; so that it was soon seen that Lord Rowe's contingent could not only walk further and faster in march than any other, but that it would be independent of the supply trains for pretty nearly a month. They carried their own bread material, and the forest would always supply meat.

Fritz was ever forward to carry out the wishes and act as the right hand of the hardy Brigadier; for that was Lord Howe's military rank. Pringle and Roche served under him, too, and there was a warm bond growing up betwixt officers and men, and a feeling of enthusiasm which seemed to them like an augury of victory to come.

"Our business is to fight the foe—to do our duty whether we live or die," Howe would say to his men. "We have failed before; we may fail again. Never mind; we shall conquer at last. With results the soldier has nothing to do. Remember that. He does his duty. He sticks to his post. He obeys his commands. Do that, men; and whether we conquer or die, we shall have done our duty, and that is all our country asks of us."

And now the long days of June had come, and all were eager for the opening campaign. Ticonderoga was to be attacked. To wrest from the French some of their strong holds on the western English border—to break their power in the sight of the Indians—was a thing that was absolutely necessary to the life of the New England colonies and the other provinces under English rule. Fort Edward still remained to her, though Oswego and William Henry had fallen and were demolished. The capture of Ticonderoga would be a blow to France which would weaken her immensely, and lower her prestige with the Indians, which was now a source of great danger to the English colonists.

The story of the massacre after the surrender of Fort William Henry had made a profound impression throughout the English-speaking provinces, and had awakened a longing after vengeance which in itself had seemed almost like an earnest of victory. And now the regular troops began to muster and pour in, and Albany was all excitement and enthusiasm; for the Dutch had by that time come to have a thorough distrust of France, and to desire the victory of the English arms only less ardently than the English themselves.

Mrs. Schuyler, as usual, opened her doors wide to receive as many of the officers as she was able whilst the final preparations were being made. And upon a soft midsummer evening Lord Howe appeared in the supper room, bringing with him two fine-looking officers—one grey headed, the other young and ardent—and introducing them to his hostess and those assembled round the table as Major Duncan Campbell, the Laird of Inverawe, in Scotland; with his son Alexander, a Lieutenant of the Highland force.

Young Alexander was seated next to Fritz at table, and began an eager conversation with him. Talk surged to and fro that night. Excitement prevailed everywhere. But Fritz observed that Major Campbell sat very grave and silent, and that even Lord Howe's efforts to draw him into conversation proved unavailing.

Mrs. Schuyler also tried, but with little success, to make the veteran talk. He answered with grave courtesy all remarks made to him, but immediately lapsed into a sombre abstraction, from which it seemed difficult to rouse him.

At the end of the supper Lord Howe rose to his feet, made a dashing little speech to the company, full of fire and enthusiasm, and proposed the toast:

"Success to the expedition against Ticonderoga!"

Fritz happened to be looking at the grave, still face of Major Campbell, and as these words were spoken he saw a sudden spasm pass across it. The soldier rose suddenly to his feet, took up his glass for a moment, put it down untasted, and with a bow to his hostess pushed aside his chair, and strode from the room in an access of visible emotion.

Lord Howe looked after him a moment, and draining his glass, seemed about to go after the guest; but young Alexander, from the other side of the table, made him a sign, and he sat down again.

The incident, however, seemed to act like the breaking up of the supper party, and the guests rose and left the table, dispersing quickly to look after bag or baggage or some last duty, till only Mrs. Schuyler, Lord Howe, Fritz, and Lieutenant Campbell were left in the supper room.

It was then that young Alexander looked round and said, "It was the name you spoke which affected my father so strangely—the fatal name of Ticonderoga!"

"Fatal! how fatal?" asked Lord Howe quickly.

"You have not heard the strange story, then?"

"No; what story?"

"It concerns my father; it is the cause of his melancholy. When you have heard it you will not perhaps wonder, though to you the incident may seem incredible."

"I have learned that there are many things in this world which are wonderful and mysterious, yet which it is folly to disbelieve," answered Howe. "Let us hear your story, Campbell. I would not have spoken words to hurt your father could I have known."

"I am sure you would not; but hear the tale, and you will know why that name sounds in his ears like a death knell.

"Long years ago it must have been when I was but a little child—my father was sitting alone over the fire in our home at Inverawe; a wild, strange place that I love as I love no other spot on earth. He was in the great hall, and, suddenly there came a knocking at the door, loud and imperative. He opened, and there stood a man without, wild and dishevelled, who told how he had slain a man in a fray, and was flying from his pursuers.

"'Give me help and shelter!' he implored; and my father drew him in and closed the door, and promised to hide him. 'Swear on your dirk not to give me up!' he implored; and my father swore, though with him his word was ever his bond. He hid the fugitive in a secret place, and hardly had he done so before there was another loud knocking at the door.

"This time it was the pursuers, hot on the track of the murderer. 'He has slain your cousin Donald,' they told him. 'He cannot be far away. We are hunting for him. Can you help us?' My father was in a great strait; but he remembered his oath, and though he sent out servants to help in the search, he would not give up to justice the man who had trusted him."

"And he was right," said Lord Howe quickly; "I honour and respect him for that."

"It may be so, yet it is against the traditions of our house and race," answered Alexander gravely; "and that night my father woke suddenly from a troubled dream to see the ghost of his murdered kinsman standing at his bedside. The spectre spoke to him in urgent tones:

"'Inverawe, Inverawe, blood has been shed; shield not the murderer!'

"Unable to sleep, my father rose, and went to the fugitive and told him he could not shelter him longer. 'You swore on your dirk!' replied the miserable man; and my father, admitting the oath not to betray him, led him away in the darkness and hid him in a mountain cave known to hardly any save himself.

"That night once more the spectre came and spoke the same words, 'Inverawe, Inverawe, blood has been shed; shield not the murderer!' The vision troubled my father greatly. At daybreak he went once more to the cave; but the man was gone—whither he never knew. He went home, and again upon the third night the ghostly figure stood beside him; but this time he was less stern of voice and aspect.

"He spoke these words, 'Farewell, Inverawe; farewell, till we meet at Ticonderoga.' Then it vanished, and he has never seen it since."

"Ticonderoga!" repeated Lord Howe, and looked steadily at Alexander, who proceeded:

"That was the word. My father had never heard it before. The sound of it was so strange that he wrote it down; and when I was a youth of perhaps seventeen summers, and had become a companion to him, he told me the whole story, and we pondered together as to what and where Ticonderoga could be. Years had passed since he saw the vision, and he had never heard the name from that day. I had not heard it either—then."

The faces of the listeners were full of grave interest. The strangeness of the coincidence struck them all.

"And then?" queried Howe, after a silence.

"Then came the news of this war, and some Highland regiments were ordered off. My father and I were amongst those to go. We were long in hearing what our destination was to be. We had landed upon these shores before we heard that the expedition to which we were attached was bound for Ticonderoga."

Again there was silence, which Mrs. Schuyler broke by asking gently:

"And your father thinks that there is some doom connected with that name?"

"He is convinced that be will meet his death there," replied Alexander, "and I confess I fear the same myself."

Nobody spoke for a minute, and then Mrs. Schuyler said softly:

"It is a strange, weird story; yet it cannot but be true. No man could guess at such a name. Ticonderoga, Ticonderoga. I wonder what will be the end of that day!"

"And what matters the end if we do our duty to the last?" spoke Lord Howe, lifting his bright young face and throwing back his head with a gesture that his friends knew well. "A man can but die once. For my part, I only ask to die sword in hand and face to the foe, doing my duty to my country, my heart at peace with God. That is the spirit with which we soldiers must go into battle. We are sent there by our country; we fight for her. If need be we die for her. Can we ask a nobler death? For myself I do not. Let it come to me at Ticonderoga, or wherever Providence wills, I will not shrink or fear. Give me only the power to die doing my duty, and I ask no more."

There was a beautiful light in his great hazel eyes, a sweet smile hovered round his lips. Fritz, looking at him, seemed to see something in his face which he had scarcely noted before—a depth, a serenity, a beauty quite apart from the dashing gallantry of look and bearing which was his most salient characteristic.

Into the eyes of Mrs. Schuyler there had sprung sudden tears. She went over to the young man and laid a hand upon his head.

"Thank God that our soldiers still go into battle in that spirit; that they make their peace with Him before they draw sword upon their fellow men. A soldier's life is a strange paradox; yet God, who is the God of battles as well as Prince of Peace, knows and understands. He will bless the righteous cause, though He may call to rest many a gallant soldier, and still in death many an ardent young heart. But however mysteriously He works, we are instruments in His hands. Let us strive to be worthy of that honour, and then we shall know that we are helping to bring nearer His kingdom upon earth, which, when once set up, shall bring in a reign of peace, where war shall be no more."

"Amen, with all my heart!" quoth Lord Howe, and there was a light in his eyes which bespoke that, soldier though he was to his fingertips, he was no stranger to the hope of the eternal peace which the Lord alone can give.

Mrs. Schuyler was not a demonstrative woman in daily life; but when her guest rose to say goodnight upon this last evening, she kissed him as a mother might, and he kissed her back with words of tender gratitude and affection.

And so the night fell upon the town of Albany—the night before the march to Ticonderoga.



Chapter 4: Ticonderoga.

A joyous farewell to friends at Albany, with anticipation of a speedy and victorious return thither; a rapid and well-arranged march to Fort Edward and Lake George, where they were gladdened by the sight of the hardy Rogers and the remnant of his gallant band, embarked in whaleboats, and ready to lead the van or perform any daring service asked of them; a cheerful embarking upon the lake in the great multitude of boats and bateaux; bright sunshine overhead, the sound of military music in their ears, flags waving, men cheering and shouting—what expedition could have started under happier and more joyous auspices?

There were regulars from England—the foremost being the Fifty-fifth, commanded by Lord Howe. There were American and Highland regiments, and the provincials from numbers of the provinces, each in its own uniform and colours. The lake was alive with above one thousand craft for the transport of this great army with its heavy artillery, and Rogers declared that Ticonderoga was as good as their own: for it had only provision to last eight or nine days; and if not at once battered down by the enemy's guns, it could easily be starved out by a judicious disposition of the troops.

One night was spent camped halfway down the lake. Lord Howe, with Stark and Rogers and Fritz for companions, lay upon his bearskin overlooking Fritz's diagrams of the fort, taken in past days, listening to what all the three men had to tell of the fortress, both inside and out, and making many plans for the attack upon the morrow.

General Abercromby was with the army; yet it was well known that Lord Howe was the leading spirit, and to him it was that all the men instinctively looked. It was he who upon the morrow, when they had reached and passed the Narrows and were drawing near to the fort, reconnoitred the landing place in whaleboats, drove off a small party of French soldiers who were watching them, but were unable to oppose them, and superintended the landing of the whole army.

The lake here had narrowed down to the dimensions of a river, and it made a considerable bend something like a horseshoe. If the bridge had not been broken down, they could have marched to a point much nearer to Ticonderoga upon a well-trodden road; but the bridge being gone, it was necessary to march the army along the west bank of this river-like waterway which connected Lake George with Lake Champlain, for there were too many dangerous rapids for navigation to be possible; and upon the tongue of land jutting out into Lake Champlain, and washed by the waters of this river on its other side, stood the fortress of Ticonderoga, their goal.

Rogers was their leader. He knew the forest well; yet even he found it a somewhat difficult matter to pick his way through the dense summer foliage. The columns following found the forest tracks extraordinarily difficult to follow. They were many of them unused to such rough walking, and fell into inevitable confusion.

Rogers, together with Lord Howe and some of his hardier soldiers and the Rangers, pushed boldly on. Whilst they walked they talked of what lay before them. Rogers told how Montcalm himself was within the fort, and that his presence there inspired the soldiers with great courage and confidence; because he was a fine soldier, a very gallant gentleman, and had had considerable success in arms ever since he arrived in Canada.

As the forest tracks grew more densely overgrown, Lord Howe paused in his rapid walk beside Rogers.

"My men are growing puzzled by the forest," he said, "and indeed it is small wonder, seeing that we ourselves scarce know where we are. Go you on with the Rangers, Rogers, and I will return a short distance and get my men into better order. I do not anticipate an ambush; but there may be enemies lurking in the woods. We must not be taken unawares. Push you on, and I will follow with my company at a short distance."

"I will take a handful of men with me," answered Rogers, "and push on to reconnoitre. Let the rest remain with you. They will encourage and hearten up the regulars, who are new to this sort of thing; and when I know more clearly our exact position, I will fall back and report."

Fritz remained with Howe, whose men came marching up in a rather confused and straggling fashion, but were only perplexed, not in any wise disheartened, by the roughness of the road. When the column had regained something like marching order, the word was given to start, and Lord Howe with a bodyguard of Rangers marched at the head.

They had proceeded like this for perhaps a mile or more, when there was a quick stir in the thicket. Next moment the challenge rang out:

"Qui vive?"

"Francais!" shouted back a Ranger, who had learned Rogers' trick of puzzling his opponents by the use of French words.

But this time they were not deceived. A stern word of command was given. A crack of rifles sounded out from the bushes; puffs of smoke and flashes of fire were seen.

"Steady, men; load and fire!"

The command was given by Lord Howe. It was the last he ever spoke. The wood rang with the crossfire of the foes who could not see each other. Fritz had discharged his piece, and was loading again when he saw Lord Howe suddenly throw up his hands and fall helplessly forward.

He sprang to his side with a cry of dismay. He strove to hold him up and support him to some place of safety, but could only lay him down beneath a tree hard by, where a ring of Rangers instantly formed around him, whilst the skirmish in the forest was hotly maintained on both sides.

"He is shot through the heart!" cried Stark, in a lamentable voice, as he hastily examined the wound; and indeed the shadow of death had fallen upon the brave, bright, noble face of the young officer.

Just once the heavy lids lifted themselves. Lord Howe looked into the faces of the two men bending over him, and a faint smile curved his lips.

"Keep them steady," he just managed to whisper, and the next moment his head fell back against Fritz's shoulder. He had passed into the unknown land where the clamour of battle is no more heard.

It was a terrible blow, and consternation spread through the ranks as it became known. Indeed, but for the Rangers, a panic and flight would probably have followed. But Rogers, Stark, and Fritz were of sterner stuff than the levies, and more seasoned than the bulk of regular soldiers.

Rogers had returned instantly upon hearing the firing, and had discharged a brisk volley upon the French as he dashed through their ranks to regain his companions. Caught between two fires, they were in no small peril, and made a dash for the riverbed; the Rangers standing steady and driving them to their destruction, whilst the ranks had time to recover themselves and maintain their ground.

The rout of this body of French soldiers was complete, whilst the English loss was small numerically; but the loss of Howe was irreparable, and all heart and hope seemed taken out of the gallant army which had started forth so full of hope. There was nothing now to be done but to fall back upon the main army, with the sorrowful tidings of their leader's death, and await the order of General Abercromby as to the next move.

This was done, and the men were kept under arms all night, waiting for orders which never came. Indecision and procrastination again prevailed, and were again the undoing of the English enterprise.

Still there was no question but that the fort must be attacked, and as the Rangers came in with the news that the French had broken up and deserted a camp they had hitherto held at some sawmills on the river, a little way from the fort, a detachment of soldiers was sent to take possession of this place. This having been done, and a bridge thrown over the river by an able officer of the name of Bradstreet, the army was moved up, and encamped at this place prior to the assault of the fort. Rogers and his Rangers had reconnoitred the whole place, and were eager to tell their tale.

Fort Ticonderoga occupied a triangular promontory, washed upon two sides by the waters of Lake Champlain and the river-like extremity of Lake George. The landward approach was guarded by a strong rampart of felled trees, which the soldiers had formed into a breastwork and abattis which might almost be called musket-proof. So at least Rogers and his men had judged. They had watched the French at their task, and had good reason to know the solid protection given to the men behind by a rampart of this sort.

He was therefore all eagerness for the cannon to be brought up from the lake.

"The artillery will make short work of it, General," he said, in his bluff, abrupt fashion. "It will come rattling about their heads, and they must take to the walls behind, and these will soon give way before a steady cannonade. Or if we take the cannon up to yonder heights of Rattlesnake Hill, we can fling our round shot within their breastwork from end to end, and drive the men back like rabbits to their burrow; or we can plant a battery at the narrow mouth of Lake Champlain, and cut off their supplies. With the big guns we can beat them in half a dozen ways; but let our first act be to bring them up, for muskets and rifles are of little use against such a rampart as they have made, bristling with spikes and living twigs and branches, which baffle assault as you might scarce believe without a trial."

Rogers spoke with the assurance and freedom of a man used to command and certain of his subject. He and Lord Howe had been on terms of most friendly intimacy, and the young Brigadier had learned much from the veteran Ranger, whose services had been of so much value to the English. He would never have taken umbrage at advice given by a subordinate. But General Abercromby was of a different order, and he little liked Rogers' assured manner and brusque, independent tone. He heard him to the end, but gave an evasive reply, and sent out an engineer on his own account to survey the French position, and bring him word what was his opinion.

This worthy made his survey, and came back full of confidence.

"The rampart is but a hastily-constructed breastwork of felled trees; it should be easily carried by assault," he reported, full of careless confidence. "A good bayonet charge, resolutely conducted, is all that is needed, and we shall be in the fort before night."

The soldiers cheered aloud when they heard the news. They were filled with valour and eagerness, in spite of the death of their beloved leader. It seemed as though his spirit inspired them with ardent desire to show what they could do; although generalship, alas! had perished with the young Brigadier, who had fallen at such an untimely moment.

The Rangers looked at one another with grim faces. They would not speak a word to dishearten the troops; but they knew, far better than the raw levies or the English regulars could do, the nature of the obstruction to be encountered.

"A bayonet charge by soldiers full of valour is no light thing," said Pringle to the Ranger, as they stood in the evening light talking together. "Resolute men have done wonders before now in such a charge, and why not we tomorrow?"

"Have you seen the abattis?" asked Rogers, in his grim and brusque fashion.

"No," answered Pringle; "I have only heard it described by those who have."

"Come, then, and look at it before it be dark," was Rogers' reply; and he, together with Stark, led Fritz and Pringle and Roche along a narrow forest pathway which the Rangers were engaged in widening and improving, ready for the morrow's march, until he was able to show them, from a knoll of rising ground, the nature of the fortification they were to attack upon the morrow.

The French had shown no small skill in the building of this breastwork, which ran along a ridge of high ground behind the fort itself, and commanded the approach towards it from the land side. The whole forest in the immediate vicinity had been felled. It bore the appearance of a tract of ground through which a cyclone has whirled its way. Great numbers of the trees had been dragged up to form the rampart, but there were hundreds of others, as well as innumerable roots and stumps, lugs and heads, lying in confusion all around; and Rogers, pointing towards the encumbered tract just beneath and around the rampart, looked at Pringle and said:

"How do you think a bayonet charge is to be rushed over such ground as that? And what good will our musketry fire be against those tough wooden walls, directed upon a foe we cannot see, but who can pick us off in security from behind their breastwork? For let me tell you that there is great skill shown in its construction. On the inside, I doubt not, they can approach close to their loopholes, which you can detect all along, and take easy aim at us; but on this side it is bristling with pointed stakes, twisted boughs, and treetops so arranged as to baffle and hinder any attempt at assault. As I told your General, his cannon could shatter it in a few hours, if he would but bring them to bear. But a rampart like that is practically bayonet and musket proof. It will prove impregnable to assault."

Pringle and Roche exchanged glances. They had seen something of fighting before this, but never warfare so strange.

"Would that Lord Howe were living!" exclaimed the younger officer. "He would have heard reason; he would have been advised. But the General—"

He paused, and a meaning gesture concluded the sentence. It was not for them to speak against their commander; but he inspired no confidence in his men, and it was plainly seen that he was about to take a very ill-judged step.

It is the soldier's fate that he must not rebel or remonstrate or argue; his duty is to obey orders and leave the rest. But that night, as the army slept in the camp round the deserted sawmills, there were many whose eyes never closed in slumber. Fritz saw the veteran Campbell sitting in the moonlight, looking straight before him with wide, unseeing eyes; and when the grey light of day broke over the forest, his face was shadowed, as it seemed, by the approach of death.

"I shall never see another sunrise," he said to Fritz, as the latter walked up to him; "my span of life will be cut through here at Ticonderoga."

Fritz made no reply. It seemed to him that many lives would be cut short upon this fateful day. He wondered whether he should live to see the shades of evening fall. He had no thought of quailing or drawing back. He had cast in his lot with the army, and he meant to fight his very best that day; but he realized the hopelessness of the contest before them, and although, if the General could only be aroused in time to a sense of his own blunder, and would at the eleventh hour order up the cannon, and take those steps which might ensure success, the tide of battle might soon be turned. Yet no man felt any confidence in him as a leader, and it was only the ignorant soldiers, unaware of what lay before them, who rose to greet the coming day with hope and confidence in their hearts.

But it was something that they should start forth with so high a courage. Even if they were going to their death, it was better they should believe that they were marching forth to victory. They cheered lustily as they received the order, which was to carry the breastwork by a bayonet charge; and only the Rangers saw the grim smile which crossed the face of Rogers as he heard that word given.

Yet he and his gallant band of Rangers were in the van. They did not shrink from the task before them, although they knew better than others the perils and difficulties by which it was beset. They had widened the path; they led the way. There was no more confusion in the line of march.

The General remained behind at the sawmills, to direct the operations of the whole army, as there were other slighter enterprises to be undertaken upon the same day, though the assault of the protecting rampart was the chief one. News was to be brought to him at short intervals of the course the fight was taking. It was Rogers' great hope that he would soon be made aware of the impossibility of the task he had set his soldiers, and would send instant and urgent orders for the cannon to be brought up to the aid of his foot soldiers.

Full of hope and confidence the columns pressed forward, till shortly after midday they emerged from the shelter of the forest, and saw before them the broken space of open ground, with its encumbering mass of stumps and fallen timber, and behind that the grim rampart, where all looked still as death. They formed into line quickly and without confusion and then, with an enthusiastic cheer, made a dash for the barrier.

The Rangers and light infantry in front began to fire as they advanced; but the main body of soldiers held their bayonets in position, and strove after an orderly advance. But over such ground order was impossible. They had to clamber, to scramble, to cut their way as best they could. The twigs and branches blinded them; they fell over the knotted roots; they became disordered and scattered, though their confidence remained unshaken.

Then suddenly, when they were half across the open space, came the long crack and blaze from end to end of the rampart; smoke seemed to gush and flash out from one extremity to the other. Sharp cries of agony and dismay, shouts and curses, filled the air. The English fell in dozens amid the fallen trees, and those behind rushed forward over the bodies of their doomed companions.

It was in vain to try to carry the rampart by the bayonet. The soldiers drew up and fired all along their line; but of what avail was it to fire upon an enemy they could not see, whilst they themselves were a target for the grapeshot and musketballs which swept in a deadly cross fire through their ranks? But they would not fall back. Headed by the Rangers, who made rapid way over the rough and encumbered ground, they pressed on, undaunted by the hail of iron about them, and inflamed to fury by the fall of their comrades around them.

It was an awful scene. It was branded upon the memory of the survivors in characters of fire.

Fritz kept in the foremost rank, unable to understand why he was not shot down. He reached the rampart, and was halfway up, when he was clutched by the hands of a man in front, who in his death agony knew not what he did, and the two rolled into the ditch together.

For a moment all was suffocation and horror. Unwounded, but buried and battered, with his musket torn from his grasp, Fritz struggled out through the writhing heap of humanity, and saw that the head of the column had fallen back for a breathing space, though with the evident intention of re-forming and dashing again to the charge.

The firing from the rampart still continued; but Fritz made a successful dash back to the lines, and reached them in safety. He was known by this time as an experienced Ranger, and was taken aside by Bradstreet, the officer in command of the light infantry that with the Rangers headed the charge.

The gallant officer was wounded and breathless, and was seated upon a fallen trunk.

"Neville," he said, "I know that you are fleet of foot and stout of heart. I would have you return to the camp on the instant, with a message for the General. Tell him how things are here, and that this rampart is to the utmost as impregnable as Rogers warned us. Our men are falling thick and fast, and although full of courage, cannot do the impossible. Beg him to order the guns to be brought up, for without them we are helpless against the enemy."

Fritz knew this right well, and took the message.

"We shall make another charge immediately," Bradstreet said in conclusion. "We shall not fail to carry out our orders; but I have little hope of success. We can do almost nothing against the French, whilst they mow us down by hundreds. No men can hold on at such odds for long. Go quickly, and bring us word again, for we are like to be cut to pieces.

"You are not wounded yourself?"

"No; I have escaped as by a miracle. I will run the whole distance and take the message. Would that the General had listened to counsel before!"

Bradstreet made a gesture of assent, but said nothing. Fritz sped through the forest, hot and breathless, yet straining every nerve to reach his goal.

It was a blazing day where the shade of the forest was not found, and this made the fighting all the harder. Fritz's heart was heavy within him for the lives thrown away so needlessly. When he reached the tent of the General, and was ushered into his presence, burning words rushed to his lips, and it was only with an effort that he commanded himself to speak calmly of the fight and deliver the message with which he was charged.

General Abercromby listened and frowned, and looked about him as though to take counsel with his officers. But the best of these were away at the fight, and those with him were few and insignificant and inexperienced.

"Surely a little resolution and vigour would suffice to carry an insignificant breastwork, hastily thrown up only a few days ago," he said, unwilling to confess himself in the wrong. "I will order up the Highland regiments to your aid. With their assistance you can make another charge, and it will be strange if you cannot carry all before you."

Fritz compressed his lips, and his heart sank.

"I will give you a line to Colonel Bradstreet. Tell him that reinforcements are coming, and that another concerted attack must be made. It will be time enough to talk of sending for the artillery when we see the result of that."

A few lines were penned by the General and entrusted to Fritz, who dashed back with burning heart to where the fight still raged so fiercely. He heard the bagpipes of the Highlanders skirling behind as he reached the opening in the forest. He knew that these brave men could fight like tigers; but to what avail, he thought, were so many gallant soldiers to be sent to their death?

The fighting in his absence had been hot and furious, but nothing had been done to change the aspect of affairs. Intrepid men had assaulted the rampart, and even leaped upon and over it, only to meet their death upon the other side.

Once a white flag had been seen waving over the rampart, and for a moment hope had sprung up that the enemy was about to surrender. The firing for that brief space had been suspended, the English raising their muskets over their heads and crying "Quarter!"—meaning that they would show mercy to the foe; the French thinking that they were coming to give themselves up as prisoners of war. The signal had merely been waved by a young captain in defiance to the foe. He had tied his handkerchief to his musket in his excitement, without any intention to deceive. But the incident aroused a bitter feeling. The English shouted out that the French were seeking to betray them, and the fight was resumed with such fury that for a brief while the rampart was in real danger of being taken, and the French General was in considerable anxiety.

But the odds were too great. The gallant assailants were driven back, and when Fritz arrived with his news there was again a slight cessation in the vehemence of the attack.

Bradstreet eagerly snatched at the letter and opened it. Fritz's face had told him something; the written words made assurance doubly sure.

He tore the paper across, and set his foot upon it.

"We can die but once," he said briefly; "but it goes to my heart to see these brave fellows led like sheep to the slaughter. England will want to know the reason why when this story is told at home."

The Highlanders were soon upon the scene of action filled to the brim with the stubborn fury with which they were wont to fight. At their head marched their Major, the dark-faced Inverawe, his son only a little behind.

The arrival of reinforcements put new heart into the gallant but exhausted regiments which had led the attack; and now the Highlanders were swarming about the foot of the rampart, seeking to scale its bristling sides, often gaining the top, by using the bodies of their slain countrymen as ladders, but only to be cut down upon the other side.

The Major cheered on his men. The shadow was gone from his face now. In the heat of the battle he had no thought left for himself. His kinsmen and clansmen were about him. He was ever in the van. One young chieftain with some twenty followers was on the top of the rampart, hacking and hewing at those behind, as if possessed of superhuman strength. The Highlanders, with their strange cries and yells, pressed ever on and on. But the raking fire from behind the abattis swept their ranks, mowed them down, and strewed the ground with dying and dead.

Like a rock stood Campbell of Inverawe, his eyes everywhere, directing, encouraging, cheering on his men, who needed not his words to inspire them with unquenchable fury.

Suddenly his tall figure swayed forward. Without so much as a cry he fell. There was a rush towards him of his own clansmen. They lifted him, and bore him from the scene of action. It was the end of the assault. The Highlanders who had scaled the rampart had all been bayoneted within. Nearly two thousand men, wounded or dead, lay in that terrible clearing. It was hopeless to fight longer. All that man could do had been done. The recall was sounded, and the brave troops, given over to death and disaster by the incompetence of one man, were led back to the camp exhausted and despairing; the Rangers still doing good service in carrying off the wounded, and keeping up a steady fire whilst this task was being proceeded with.

General Abercromby's terror at the result of the day's work was as pitiful as his mismanagement had been. There was no talk now of retrieving past blunders; there was nothing but a general rout—a retreat upon Fort Edward as fast as boats could take them. One blunder was capped by another. Ticonderoga was left to the French, when it might have been an easy prey to the English. The day of disaster was not yet ended, though away in the east the star of hope was rising.

It was at Fort Edward that the wounded laird of Inverawe breathed his last. His wound had been mortal, and he was barely living when they landed him on the banks of Lake George.

"Donald, you are avenged!" he said once, a few minutes before his death. "We have met at Ticonderoga!"



Book 4: Wolfe.

Chapter 1: A Soldier At Home.

He lay upon a couch beneath the shade of a drooping lime tree, where flickering lights and shadows played upon his tall, slight figure and pale, quaint face. There was nothing martial in the aspect of this young man, invalided home from active service on the Continent, where the war was fiercely raging between the European powers. He had a very white skin, and his hair was fair, with a distinct shade of red in it. It was cut short in front, and lightly powdered when the young man was in full dress, and behind it was tied in the queue so universally worn.

He was quite young still, barely thirty years old; yet he had seen years of active service in the army, and had achieved no small distinction for intrepidity and cool daring. He had won the notice already of the man now at the helm of state, whose eyes were anxiously fixed upon any rising soldier of promise, ready to avail himself of the services of such to sustain England's honour and prestige both on land and sea.

James Wolfe was the son of a soldier, and had been brought up to the profession of arms almost as a matter of course. Yet he seemed a man little cut out for the life of the camp; for he suffered from almost chronic ill-health, and was often in sore pain of body even though the indomitable spirit was never quenched within him. His face bore the look of resolution and self mastery which is often to be seen in those who have been through keen physical suffering. There were lines there which told of weary days and nights of pain; but there was an unquenchable light in the eyes that invariably struck those who came into contact with the young officer. He had already learned the secret of imparting to his men the enthusiasm which was kindled in his own breast; and there was not a man in his company but would gladly have laid down his life in his service, if he had been called upon to do so.

Today, however, there was nothing of the soldier and leader of forlorn hope in his aspect. He lay back upon his couch with a dreamy abstraction in his gaze. The gambols of his canine favourites passed unnoticed by him. He had been reading news that stirred him deeply, and he had fallen into a meditation.

The news sheet contained a brief and hasty account of the loss of Fort William Henry, with a hint respecting the massacre which had followed. No particulars were as yet forthcoming. This was but the voice of rumour. But the paragraph, vague as it was, had been sufficient to arouse strange feelings within the young officer. He had let the paper fall now, and was turning things over in his own mind.

One of the articles had said how needful it was becoming for England to awake from her lethargy, and send substantial aid to her colonies, unless she desired to see them annihilated by the aggressions of France. National feeling against that proud foe was beginning to rise high. The Continental war had quickened it, and Wolfe, who had served against the armies of France in many a closely-contested battle, felt his pulses tingling at the recital of her successes against England's infant colonies.

Men were wanted for the service, the paper had said—men of courage and proved valour. We had had too many bunglers already out there; it was now time that men of a different stamp should be forthcoming.

In his ears there seemed beaten the sound of a question and its reply. Where had he heard those words, and when?

"Who will go up to battle against this proud foe?"

"Here am I; send me."

The light leaped into his eyes; his long, thin hands clasped and unclasped themselves as stirring thoughts swept over him. He knew that there was a great struggle impending between England and her French rival upon the other side of the world. Hitherto his battlefields had been in Europe, but a voice from far away seemed to be calling to him in urgent accents. Away in the West, English subjects were being harried and killed, driven like helpless sheep to slaughter. How long was it to continue? Would the mother country be content that her provinces should be first contracted and then slowly strangled by the chains imposed by the boundless ambition of France? Never, never, never! The young officer spoke the words aloud, half raising himself from his couch as he did so.

There was a rising man now at the helm of the state; he had not the full powers that many desired to see. He had to work hand in hand with a colleague of known incapacity. Yet the voice of the nation was beginning to make itself heard. England was growing enraged against a minister under whose rule so many grievous blunders had been committed. Newcastle still retained his position of foremost of the King's advisers, but Pitt now stood at his side; and it was understood that the younger statesman was to take the real command of the ship of state, whilst his elder associate confined himself to those matters in which he could not well do harm.

"If only it had come three years earlier," breathed Wolfe—"before we had suffered such loss and disgrace!"

The young soldier knew that an expedition had been fitted out a few months ago for Louisbourg in Acadia—that French fortress of Cape Breton which alone had been able to resist the English arms. The capture of Louisbourg had been the one thing determined upon by the tardy government for the relief of their colonies in the Western world. It had been surmised that this action on their part would draw away the French troops from the frontier, and thus relieve the colonists from any pressing anxiety; but although there had been little definite news from the fleet so far, it began to be reared that the Admirals had mismanaged matters, and that no blow would be struck this season.

September had come—a hot, sunny, summer-like month in England. But Wolfe had heard something of the rock-bound coasts of Cape Breton, and he was well aware that if the furious equinoctial gales should once threaten the English fleet, no Admiral would be able to attempt an action by sea, or even the landing of the troops.

Young Wolfe had one friend out With the expedition, and from him he had received a letter only a short time ago, telling him of all the delays and procrastinations which were already beginning to render abortive a well-planned scheme. It made his blood boil in his veins to think how the incapacity of those in command doomed the hopes of so many to such bitter disappointment, and lowered the prestige of England in the eyes of the whole civilized world.

"If Pitt could but have a free hand, things would be different!" exclaimed Wolfe again, speaking aloud, as is the fashion of lonely men. "But the King is beginning to value and appreciate him, and the nation is learning confidence. The time will come—yes, the time will come! Heaven send that I live to see the day, and have a hand in the glorious work!"

As he spoke these words he observed a certain excitement amongst the dogs playing around him, and guessed that their quick ears had caught sounds of an arrival of some sort. In a few minutes' time his servant approached him, bearing a letter which he handed to his master, who opened it and cast his eyes over its contents.

"Are the two gentlemen here?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; they asked that the letter might be given to you, and that they might wait until you had read it."

"Then show them out to me here, and bring us coffee," said Wolfe, whose face had put on a look of considerable eagerness and animation; and as the servant retired towards the house, the soldier remained looking after him, as though wistful to catch the first glimpse of the expected guests.

In a few minutes they appeared in the wake of the servant. Both were quietly dressed in sober riding suits; but there the resemblance ended. One of the pair was a very tall man, with fair hair cut short all round his head, and a pair of large blue-grey eyes that had a trick of seeming to look through and beyond the objects upon which they were bent, and a thoroughly English type of feature; whilst his companion was more slightly built, albeit a man of fine proportions, too, with a darker face, more chiselled features, and hair dressed according to the prevailing mode, lightly powdered in front, and tied in a queue behind.

Wolfe rose slowly to his feet, his brow slightly contracting with the effort. Upon his face there was a very attractive smile, and he held out his hand in turn to the two newcomers.

"You are very welcome, gentlemen—more welcome than I can say. I am grateful to my friend Sir Charles for giving me this opportunity of making your acquaintance. It has been my great wish to speak face to face with men who have lived in that great land whither all eyes are now turning. Be seated, I pray you, gentlemen, and tell me which of you is Mr. Julia Dautray, and which Mr. Humphrey Angell."

"My name is Dautray," answered the dark-eyed man. "We have travelled to England together, my friend and I, but have also been in France, to visit some of those there still bearing my name, although my immediate forefathers have lived and died in the lands of the far West. We have met with much kindness in this country, and have some time since accomplished the mission on which we were dispatched. Our thoughts are turning once more towards the land of our birth. Had we not been in France at the time, we would gladly have accompanied the expedition which set sail for Louisbourg not long since."

"I cannot regret that you failed to do so," answered Wolfe, in his winning way, "since it has brought me the pleasure of this visit. I trust, gentlemen, that you will honour me by being my guests for a few days at least. There is very much that I desire to learn about the lands from which you come. My friend Sir Charles speaks as though you were wanderers upon the face of the earth. If that be so, I may hope that you will stay your wanderings meantime, and make my home yours for a while."

"You are very kind, Captain Wolfe," said Julian gratefully; "if it be not trespassing too far upon your hospitality, we should be glad and grateful to accept it."

"The honour will be mine," said Wolfe; "I have long desired to know more of that world beyond the seas. Hitherto I have seen nothing save my own country, and a few of those which lie nearest to it. But I have the feeling within me that the time is coming when I shall be sent farther afield. Men will be needed for the strife which must soon be waged on the far side of the Atlantic, and it may be that I shall be chosen as one of those who will go thither."

"That is what Sir Charles said when he gave us this letter for you," said Julian. "He said that Mr. Pitt had named you once or twice as a rising officer, likely to be chosen for service there. That is why Sir Charles thought that a visit from us would be welcome. I do not know whether we can give you any news which you have not heard already; but we can at least answer such questions as to the country and its life as may be interesting to you, though it is now two years since we sailed from its shores."

Into Wolfe's eyes there had leaped a bright light.

"Spoke Sir Charles such words of me?" he said eagerly. "Has Mr. Pitt named me as likely for this service?"

"So it was told us," answered Julian. "We came to England in the early spring of last year, with letters and urgent appeals to friends in England from their kinfolk beyond the sea. We went from place to place, as our directions were, and saw many men and heard much hot discussion; but it seemed hard to get a hearing in high places, and for a while we thought we had had our journey in vain. Nevertheless they would not let us go. One and another would keep us, hoping to gain introduction to some influential man, in whose ears we could tell our tale. And so matters went on, and we were passed from place to place, always well treated and well cared for. In the spring we went to France, though we were warned of danger, because of the war. But we met with no hurt. Humphrey passed as my servant, and I have French blood in my veins, and can speak the language as one born there. Nor did we go to any large centres, but contented ourselves with the remote spots, where I found kinsfolk of mine own name living still. And we reached England again only two months ago."

"And then?"

"There was more excitement then. The fleet had sailed for Louisbourg; men's hearts were stirred within them. Tales of fresh atrocities along the border had reached home. Anger against France was stirred up by the war. It was then we were brought before Sir Charles Graham, and told our tale to him. He is the friend of Mr. Pitt, and he came back to us many times to learn more of what we had to tell of the difficulties of the provinces, and of the apathy that prevailed there, even though terrible things Were passing daily close by.

"It was he who at last bid us go to you. He said you were his friend, and would make us welcome for his sake and ours. And when he gave us this letter, he told us the words of Mr. Pitt respecting you."

"And have you other news besides?" asked Wolfe eagerly. "When left you London? And is it yet known there whether this rumour of fresh disaster is true? See, there is the Western news sheet; it speaks of a disquieting rumour as to the fall of Fort William Henry, our outpost on Lake George. Have fresh tidings been received? for if that place fall, we are in evil case indeed."

Julian gravely shook his head.

"The rumour is all too true. Had you not heard? A fast-sailing vessel has brought it to Southampton—the evil tidings of disaster and death. The fort held out bravely through a terrible cannonade; but no relief was sent, and the walls were battered down. There was nothing for it but surrender. The garrison obtained honourable terms; but the French either could not or would not restrain their Indian allies. Surrender was followed by a brutal massacre of the hapless soldiers and their wives and children. It is horrible to read the story of the atrocities committed. We have seen Indians at their hideous work. We know, as you in this land never can do, what it is like."

Wolfe's eyes flashed fire.

"A surrendered garrison massacred! and the French stood by and suffered it!"

"The account is confused. Some say they did try without avail; some that they were callous and indifferent; some that they did much to avert the horrors, and saved large numbers of victims out of their clutches. But they did not succeed in stopping an awful loss of life. The pages of history will be stained dark when the story of that day is written!"

"Ay, truly!" cried Humphrey, in his deep, resonant voice, speaking for the first time; "the page of history should be written in characters of blood and fire. I have seen the work of those savage fiends. I have seen, and I shall remember to the last day of my life!"

"Tell me," said Wolfe, looking straight at the stalwart youth, whose lips had slightly drawn themselves back, showing the firm line of the white teeth beneath.

Humphrey had told his tale many times during the past months. He told it to Wolfe that day—told it with a curious graphic power, considering that his words were few, and that his manner was perfectly quiet.

A red flush mounted into Wolfe's face, and died away again. He drew his breath through, his teeth with a slightly whistling sound. With him this was a sign of keen emotion.

"You saw all that?"

"With my own eyes. I am telling no tale of hearsay. And men have tales yet more horrid to tell—tales to which a man may scarce listen for the horror and the shame. This is the way the Indians serve the subjects of the English crown at the bidding of the servants of France!"

Wolfe raised his right hand, and let it slowly drop again.

"May Heaven give to me the grace," he said, in a voice that vibrated with tense feeling, "to go forth to the succour of my countrymen there—to fight and to avenge!"

After that there was silence for a while, and the servant came and brought coffee, and took orders for the entertainment and lodging of the guests. When he had gone Wolfe was calm again, and listened with keen interest to the story they had to tell of their arrival in Pennsylvania, and of the extraordinary apathy of the colonists in the eastern towns, and the difficulty of arousing them to any concerted action with their own countrymen in the neighbouring provinces, even for the common defence.

Wolfe knew something of that, and of the causes at work to bring about such a result. He talked with more comprehension and insight as to the state of infant colonies, partially self-governed and self-dependent, struggling out of leading strings, and intent upon growing to man's estate, than anybody had hitherto done.

"We shall never have a second Canada out there such as France has won—a country wholly dependent upon the one at home, looking always to her for government, help, care, money. No, no; the spirit of those who went forth from England was utterly different. They are English subjects still, but they want to rule themselves after their own way. They will never be helpless and dependent; they will be more like to shake our yoke from off their necks when they arrive at man's estate. But what matter if they do? We shall be brothers, even though the sea roll between them. The parent country has sent them forth, and must protect them till they are able to protect themselves, even as the birds and the beasts of the fields defend their young. After that we shall see. But for my part I prefer that struggling spirit of independence and desire after self-government. It can be carried too far; but it shows life, energy, youth, and strength. If Canada were not bound hand and foot to the throne of the French tyrant, she would be a more formidable foe to tackle than she can show herself now."

"Yet she has done us grievous hurt. We seem able to make no headway against her, in spite of our best efforts."

"Let us see what better efforts we can make then," cried Wolfe, with eager eyes. "Best! why, man, we have done nothing but procrastinate and blunder, till my ears tingle with shame as I read the story! But we are awakening at last, and we have a man to look to who is no blunderer. The tide will turn ere long, you will see; and when it does, may I be there to see and to bear my share!"

Julian looked at the gaunt, prostrate form of the soldier, and said gravely:

"But you are surely in no fit state for military service?"

Wolfe threw back his head with a little gesture of impatience, and then smiled brightly.

"This carcass of mine has been a source of trouble and pain to me from my boyhood, and there come moments when I must needs give it a little rest. But yet I have found that it can carry me through the necessary fatigues with a vigour I had scarcely expected of it. It is being patched up again after a hard campaign; and now that the summer has closed, nothing can be set afoot till the spring comes. By that time I shall be fit for service once more, you will see. I am taking the waters of Bath with sedulous care. They have done much for me as it is. Soon I trust to be hale and sound once more."

"Have you been wounded, sir?"

"Many times, but not seriously; only that everything tells when one is afflicted by such a rickety body as this," and the young officer smiled his peculiarly brilliant smile, which made the chief charm of his pale, unusual face. "I got both a wound and a severe strain in my last campaign, which has bothered me ever since, and still keeps me to my couch the greater part of the day. But rheumatism is my chronic foe; it follows me wherever I go, lying in wait to pounce upon me, and hold me a cripple in its red-hot iron hand. That is the trouble of my life on the march. It is so often all but impossible to get through the day's work, and yet it is wonderful how the foe can be held at bay when some task has to be done whether or not.

"But a truce to such talk! A soldier has other things to think of than aching joints and weary bones. A man can but once die for his country, and that is all I ask to do. That mine will not he a long life I feel a certain assurance. All I ask is the power to serve my country as long as I am able, and to die for her, sword in hand, when the hour has come."

The eyes kindled and the smile flashed forth. Julian and Humphrey looked into the face of the man whom they had heard described as one of the most promising and intrepid young officers of the English army, and felt a thrill of admiration run through them. The frame was so frail and weak and helpless; but the indomitable spirit seemed as though it would be able to bear its master through any and every peril which duty might bid him face.

They had consented to be his guests for a few days; but it had not occurred to them that this visit would be prolonged to any great length, and yet thus it came about.

Colonel Wolfe and his wife, the mother of whom the young soldier often spoke in tender and loving terms, were detained from rejoining their son, as they had purposed doing before the winter came. Colonel Wolfe had a property of his own in Kent, and his presence was wanted there. The son was compelled to remain in the neighbourhood of Bath for the sake of his shattered health. They had intended all spending the winter there together in the pleasant house they had taken; but this soon became impossible, and it was then that Wolfe said to his new friends, with that quaint look of appeal in his eyes which they had come to know by this time:

"Could you two be persuaded to take pity upon a capricious and whimsical sick man, and be his companions through the winter months? Then with the spring, when we know what is to be done for the succour of our comrades in the West, we will make shift to go forth to their assistance. If you will stay with me till then, I will promise you shall not lack fitting equipment to follow the army when it sails hence."

There was nothing the two companions desired more by that time than to remain with Wolfe, the charm of whose personality had by that time quite fascinated them. They felt almost like brothers already. It was upon Humphrey's strong arm that Wolfe would take his daily walk into the town for the needful baths or water drinkings. It was Julian who read to him the news of the day, and they all discussed it eagerly together. Moreover, he saw to the drilling and training of these two fine men with the keenest interest and enthusiasm. They had the making in them of excellent soldiers, and showed an aptitude which delighted him for all sorts of exercises and feats of arms.

The war fever permeated the whole country by that time, and training and drilling were going on all around. It was easy for the travellers to pick up all that was needful to them of comprehension as to military terms and commands. Hours were spent by themselves and Wolfe over books and maps in the library, whilst he fought over again with them campaign after campaign—those where he had served, and those before his time with which he had close acquaintance; and they entered more and more into the spirit of martial exercise, learning to comprehend military tactics and the art of war as they had never done before.

Meantime the news from the Western world was all bad. The attempt upon Louisbourg had been abortive, owing to the tardiness of the English Admiral, of London the Governor out there, and the early storms which had obliged the fleet to retire even when it had mustered for the attack.

"It is shameful!" cried Wolfe with flashing eyes, as the news was made known; "England will become the laughingstock of the whole world! Fort Oswego lost, William Henry lost, and its garrison massacred! Louisbourg left to the French, without a blow being struck! Shame upon us! shame upon us! We should blush for our tardy procrastination. But mark my word, this will be the last such blunder! Pitt will take the reins in his own grasp. We shall see a change now."

"I trust so," said Humphrey grimly; "it is time indeed. I know what these attacks against Louisbourg will mean for those along the frontier—death, disaster, more Indian raids, less power of protection. The Governor will draw off the levies which might come to their assistance for the work at Louisbourg. The French will hound on the Indians to ravage more and more. We shall hear fresh tales of horror there before the end comes."

"Which we will avenge!" spoke Wolfe, between his shut teeth. "It shall not always be said of England that she slept whilst her subjects died!"

With the turn of the year active preparations began to be discussed, and Wolfe to receive letters from headquarters. All was now excitement in that household, for there was no doubt that England's great minister was going to take active measures, and that the day of tardy blundering was to be brought to an end.

Wolfe was found one day in a state of keen excitement.

"I have heard from Mr. Pitt myself!" he cried, waving the paper over his head. "He has taken the great resolve, not only to check the aggressions of France upon the border, but to sweep her out from the Western world, till she can find no place for herself there! That is the spirit I delight in; that is the task I long to aid in; that is the one and only thing to do. Leave her neither root nor branch in the world of the West! If we do, she will be a thorn in our side, a upas tree poisoning the air. Let Canada be ours once for all, and we have no more to fear!"

Humphrey and Julian exchanged glances of amaze. Such a scheme as this seemed to smack of madness.

"You think it cannot be done, my friends? England has done greater feats before."

"But there is Quebec," said Julian gravely; "I have heard that it is a fortress absolutely impregnable. And Quebec is the key of Canada."

"I know it," answered Wolfe, with a light in his eyes, "I know it well. I have seen drawings; I have heard descriptions of it. That it will be a nut hard to crack I do not doubt. But yet—but yet—ah, well, we may not boast of what we will do in the future. Let it suffice us first to take Louisbourg from the foe. But that once done, I shall know no rest, day or night, till I stand as victor at the walls of Quebec!"



Chapter 2: Louisbourg.

"Do not leave Gabarus Bay until I have effected a landing!"

So spoke Admiral Boscawen; and when the word was known, a cheer ran through the squadron from end to end.

Brigadier Wolfe had struggled up upon deck, looking white and ghostlike, for he had suffered much during the voyage; but when that word reached him, the fire leaped into his eyes, and he turned an exultant look upon his friends, and exclaimed:

"That is an excellent good word; that is the spirit which inspires victory!"

Yet it was no light thing which was to be attempted, as no one knew better than Wolfe himself; for he had been out in a boat upon the previous day with Major General Amherst and his comrade Brigadier Lawrence, reconnoitring the shore all along the bay, and they had seen how strongly it was commanded by French batteries, and how difficult it would be to land any body of troops there.

To their right, as they looked shorewards, stood the town and grim fortress of Louisbourg, boldly and commandingly placed upon the rocky promontory which protects one side of the harbour, running out, as it were, to meet another promontory, the extremity of which is called Lighthouse Point. These two promontories almost enclose the harbour of Louisbourg; and midway between them is Goat Island, upon which, in the days of warfare of which we are telling, a strong battery was placed, so that no enemy's ship could enter the harbour without being subjected to a murderous crossfire, enough to disable and sink it.

Within the harbour were a number of French ships, which, in spite of a feeble attempt at blockade earlier in the year by some English and American vessels, had succeeded in making their way thither with an ample supply of provisions for the garrison.

To force an entrance into the harbour was manifestly impossible at the present juncture of affairs. The only hope lay in effecting a landing in the larger bay outside, where lay the English fleet; and the shore had been reconnoitred the previous day with a view of ascertaining the chances of this.

The report had not been encouraging. The French batteries were well placed, and were well furnished with cannon. It would be difficult enough to land. It would be yet more difficult to approach the citadel itself; but the experienced eyes of Wolfe and others saw that the only hope lay in an attack from the landward side. The dangerous craggy shore was its best protection. On land there were ridges of high ground from which it might be stormed, if only guns could be carried up. That would be a task of no small danger and difficulty; but courage and resolution might win the day; and Amherst was a commander of a different stamp from the hesitating Abercromby, who was at that very time mustering his troops with a view to the attack upon Ticonderoga.

"It is a fine fortress," said Wolfe to Julian, as they stood surveying the place from the raised deck of the vessel. "You cannot see much from here; the distance is too great. But they have batteries well posted on every height all along the bay; and as for the fortress and citadel, I have seldom seen such workmanship. Its bastions, ramparts, and glacis are a marvel of engineering. It may well be called the Dunkirk of the Western world. It will be a hard nut to crack; but I never believe there is a fortress which English valour cannot suffice to take!"

The resolution to land the troops once made, arrangements were speedily set in order. There were three places along the bay where it might he possible to effect a landing—White Point, Flat Point, and Freshwater Cove—all on the west of the town. To the east there was an inlet where it might be possible to land troops, though perilously near the guns of the citadel. It was resolved to make a feint here, and to send parties to each of the three other points, so as to divide and distract the attention of the enemy. Wolfe was to take command of the landing at Freshwater Cove, which was the spot where Amherst most desired to make his first stand, and here the most determined attempt was to be made. The Commander came and conferred with his Brigadier as to the best method of procedure, and left him full powers of command when the moment should come.

Julian and Humphrey were with Wolfe, and had been his companions and best friends upon the voyage out. They had both obtained commissions, partly through the influence of the Brigadier; and were eager to see warfare. Julian had been Wolfe's nurse and attendant during the voyage, and the bond which now united them was a strong and tender one. Wolfe bad suffered both from seasickness and from a renewal of the former strain, and looked even now but little fit for the enterprise upon which he was bound; but no physical weakness had ever yet hindered him in the moment of peril from doing his duty, and his eyes flashed with the old fire, as he spoke of what was about to take place.

"Let us but once gain possession of that battery," he cried, pointing to the guns frowning grimly over Freshwater Cove, "and turn the guns against their present masters, and we shall have taken the first step. Once let us get foot upon this shore, and it will take more than the cannonade of the Frenchmen to get us off again."

Eagerly did the fleet await the moment of attack; but their patience was rather severely tried. Gale first and then heavy fog, with a tremendous swell at sea, detained them long at their anchorage, and one good ship struck upon a rock, and was in considerable danger for a while.

Wolfe suffered much during those days; but his spirit was as unquenchable as ever, and as soon as the stormy sea had gone down a little, was eager for the enterprise.

"Let us but set foot ashore, and I shall be a new man!" he cried. "I weary of the everlasting heaving of the sea; but upon shore, with my sword in my hand, there I am at home!"

The sea grew calm. There was still a heavy swell, and the waves broke in snowy surf upon the beach; but the attempt had become practicable, and the word was given overnight for a start at daybreak. The men were told off into light boats, such as could be taken close inshore; whilst the frigates were to approach the various points of real or feigned attack, and open a heavy cannonade upon the French batteries.

Julian and Humphrey found themselves in boats alongside each other. Humphrey was an Ensign, whilst Julian had been made a Lieutenant. They belonged to the flotilla commanded by Wolfe, and were directing some of the boats which were upon the right extremity of the little fleet.

The hearts of the men were beating high with excitement and the anticipation of stern work before them. The guns looked grimly forth from the heights above the shore. All was yet silent as death; still it was impossible to think that the French were ignorant of the concerted movement about to be made against them.

A roar from the shore, behind and to their right, told them that already the battle had begun in other quarters. The sailors set their teeth and rowed their hardest. The boats shot through the great green waves.

Suddenly the smoke puffed out from the batteries in front. There was a flash of fire, and in a few seconds a dull roar, with strange, screaming noises interspersed. The water became lashed by a storm of shot, and shrieks of human agony mingled with the noise of the battle. It was a deadly fire which fell hot around the devoted little fleet; but Humphrey and Julian, away to the right, were a little out of range, and slightly protected by a craggy ridge. No man of their company had been killed; but they saw that along the line of boats terrible havoc was being wrought.

They saw Wolfe's tall, thin figure standing up and making signs. He was waving his hand to them now, and Humphrey exclaimed in his keen excitement:

"We are to land behind the crag and rush the guns!"

In a moment the half-dozen or more boats of this little detachment were making for the shore as hard as the rowers' arms could take them. It was hard work to land amongst the breakers, which were dashing into snowy surf along the beach; but perhaps the surf hid them from their enemies a little, for they were not hindered by any storm of shot or shell. They landed on the beach, formed into a compact body, and headed by Major Scott and some bold Highland soldiers, they dashed up the slope towards the battery.

But now they were in the midst of a hail of bullets. It seemed to Humphrey as though hell's mouth had opened. But there was no thought of fear in his heart. The battle fury had come upon him. He sprang within the battery and flung himself upon the gunners. Others followed his example. There was a tremendous hand-to-hand fight—French, Indians, English, Scotch, all in one struggling melee; and then above the tumult Wolfe's clarion voice ringing out, cheering on his men, uttering concise words of command; and then a sense of release from the suffocating pressure, a consciousness that the enemy was giving way, was flying, was abandoning the position; a loud English cheer, and a yell from the Highlanders, the sound of flying footsteps, pursuers and pursued; and Humphrey found himself leaning against a gun, giddy and blind and bewildered, scarcely knowing whether he were alive or dead, till a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a familiar voice said in his ear:

"Well done, Ensign Angell. They tell me that we owe our victorious rush today to your blunder!"

"My blunder?"

"Yes; you mistook my signal. I was ordering a retreat. It would not have been possible to land the men under that deadly fire. I could not see, from my position, the little shelter of the crag. I had signalled to draw out of the range of the guns. But your mistake has won us the day."

Humphrey, half ashamed, half exultant, was too breathless to reply; Julian came hastening up; and Wolfe hurried away to see to the landing of the guns and stores, now that the enemy had made a full retreat upon the fortress.

"You are not wounded, Humphrey?"

"I think not. I have only had all the breath knocked out of me; and the guns seem to stun one. Have they really left us in possession of the battery? And does not Wolfe say that, when once we get a footing on the shore, we will not leave till Louisbourg is ours?"

Triumph filled the hearts alike of soldiers and sailors. All day long they worked waist deep in the surf, getting ashore such things as were most needed, intrenching themselves behind the battery, clearing the ground, making a road up from the beach, and pitching their tents.

At. night a cheer went up from their weary throats, for they saw red tongues of flame shooting up, and soon it was known beyond a doubt that the French had fired one of their batteries, which they had felt obliged to abandon; and this showed that they had no intention of attacking the bold storming party which had established itself at the Cove.

At sea the guns roared and flashed all day and all night. The air was full of sounds of battle. But the wearied soldiers slept in their tents, and by day worked might and main at the task of making good their position. They extended the line of their camp, they built redoubts and blockhouses, they routed skirmishing parties of Indians and Acadians hiding in the woods and spying upon them, and they strengthened their position day by day, till it became too strong a one for the enemy to dare to approach.

Every day the men toiled at their task, cheered by items of news from the shore. The battery on Goat Island was silenced, after many days of hot fire from the English frigates. A French vessel had fired in the harbour, and had been burned to the water's edge. The garrison had sent a frigate with dispatches pressing for aid to their governor in Canada. The frigate and dispatches fell into the hands of the English, and much valuable information was gleaned therefrom.

And day by day the camp stretched out in a semicircle behind the town. It was a difficult task to construct it; for a marsh lay before them, and the road could only be made at the cost of tremendous labour, and often the fire of the enemy disturbed the men at their work.

Wolfe was the life and soul of the camp all through this piece of arduous work. If he could not handle pick and shovel like some, his quick eye always saw the best course to pursue, and his keen insight was invaluable in the direction of operations. Ill or well, he was with and amongst his men every day and all day long, the friend of each and every one, noticing each man's work, giving praise to industry and skill, cheering, encouraging, inspiring. Not a soldier but felt that the young officer was his personal friend; not a man but would most willingly and gladly have borne for him some of that physical suffering which at times was written all too clearly in his wasted face.