Beneath the Plains of Abraham

By Kim Kinrade

After Quebec votes for separation in a rigged election from Canada armed forces from the newly-established, "Republic of Quebec," aided by a right-wing French government, conduct sabotage against Canadian bases.

Canadian Prime Minister Jason Carruthers, a former United Nations Major-General, haunted by the recent death of his wife, dons his old uniform to combat Gilles Beauchamp, the charismatic premier who will stop at nothing to make Quebec independent.

Embroiled in the conflict are Tim Bear, a Canadian First Nations fighter pilot and Suzanne Boucher, a Canadian armoured regiment captain from Quebec who is torn between the two factions.

Carruther's forces battle back, but it might be too late to save the nation from losing Quebec.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Kinrade
• Release date: Aug 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9780978427320

Kim Kinrade

Bestselling author Kim Kinrade was born and raised in Kimberley, British Columbia, on the B.C. side of the Canadian Rockies. He put himself through the University of British Columbia - where he received a degrees in Political Science - by playing guitar and singing in lounges. During this time he recorded his first single and an album.After graduation Kim went into music professionally, touring Canada with a showband band. During the 1980′s Kim became one of the busiest pub performers in western Canada and also did a stint in Australia. Besides getting married and becoming a partner in a British pub he recorded two more singles and produced a video that aired on the Jerry Lewis Telethon.Moving to Halifax, Nova Scotia in the early 1990′s Kim continued to perform professionally at night while looking after a young daughter and infant son during the day. It was during this time that he rekindled a past-time that had been put on hold while studying at U.B.C. – writing short stories. An Honourable Mention award in the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia-sponsored writing contest spurred him on to write another short story focusing on his grandfather's exploits in World War I. This was expanded into his first manuscript, "The Salient."As well as having a long stint at one of Nova Scotia’s premier resorts Kim has played in Europe, Great Britain and the United States making new fans with his unique brand of entertainment.On the writing side Kim has penned 8 novels of which 6 have been published. He is a member of the Writing Council of Nova Scotia and has been a judge in national writing competitions.

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Beneath the Plains of Abraham came about as a result of the 1995 Quebec referendum campaign when Canada came within 2% of losing Quebec as a province of this country. As I researched both sides of the issue I became concerned about the consequences of the separation of Quebec from Canada. So while many of my family members and friends in the western Canadian provinces proudly proclaimed, Let the bastards go! in Nova Scotia many of us shuddered to think that Atlantic Canada, without a national corridor through Quebec, would be like the old East Pakistan – being cut-off from our brethren and nationals. More importantly, it would not have been a surgical removal. In fact it might have gone along similar lines to the American Civil War or the conflict in Bosnia-Herzegovina.

In 1998 I was on radio talk show 700 WLW in Cincinnati. The interviewer, Bill Cunningham, asked me why Americans should be worried if Quebec separated from Canada. My simple reply lit up the phone lines. I simply asked, How would you like to have a foreign country other than Canada on your northern border? In other words, how would like a Cuba or France next to Vermont, New York and Maine?

Cunningham remarked to me during the commercial break, My God, Kim, that sent shivers up my spine!

Canadian unity has come a long way since I wrote this novel. Many, older, hardline proponents of a sovereign Quebec are now out of the picture, either retired or deceased. The Bloc Québécois, the official organ of separation for twenty years, was wiped out as an effective voice on May 2, 2011, when it was reduced to only four seats in the national election. It would appear that a new generation of Québécois is taking a more moderate approach to Quebec’s position within Canada while heralding the distinct qualities and language of the province. In the ROC – rest of Canada - there is also a new appreciation for how close we came to losing this country because of the influence of age-old prejudices that live only in rhetoric and the selective memories of a few bigoted individuals.

The bottom line is Quebec is as much a part of Canadian culture as Nova Scotia or Alberta. In fact many American think-tanks on how to deal with the growing Spanish culture within their country are taking a long, hard look at the success of Canada. In other parts of the world – Spain, The Netherlands, etc. – differing culture and language are still nationally divisive and sometimes boil violently while, during the past 40 years, even the most ardent Quebec separatists have refrained from violence.

And a lot has happened in the Canadian Armed Forces since this book was first published in October 1998. In 2002 a revamped Canadian army joined a multi-country coalition in Afghanistan to put an end to the country’s protection of the perpetrators of the attacks on the United States on September 11, 2001. Although only a meagre force in terms of manpower Canadian snipers and support personnel provided a valuable resource to the coalition in defeating the repressive Taliban regime.

With the American foray into Iraq drawing its attention away from Afghanistan the Canadian army, with new equipment and highly-trained personnel, engaged in a modern-day, Horatio-like struggle against thousands of Taliban insurgents who infiltrated the mountains from Pakistan. Unable to best the Canadians in open warfare they planted Improvised Explosive Devices in order to kill and main members of the Canadian army and, as a result, coerce the Canadian people to recall their military forces. (At this writing 157 members of the Canadian Armed Forces have been killed and over a thousand injured.)

However committed, the enemy - violent extremists from various countries – found Canadian soldiers stood their ground and were well-led in combat situations. Also, besides their prowess at fighting many of them went out day after day to provide aid and comfort to the Afghan people.

What was astonishing to the enemy was that every time a Canadian soldier was killed another one took his or her place. So rather than Canada pulling its troops out at the first casualty report the enemy discovered that the Canadian people were behind their soldiers and no number of cowardly acts could dissuade them. Under their watchful eyes schools were rebuilt, wells were dug and dangerous mines cleared from roads. In addition kids – including girls - returned to schools and women went into the workforce. With a renewed American reinforcement in the area the Canadian job there has transformed to training the Afghan police and armed forces.

At the time of this writing Canadian CF-18 Hornets are in action along with British, French and American aircraft over the skies of Libya to protect civilians from being attacked by forces loyal to Muammar Gaddafi, their demented dictator.

In closing I would like to thank Major-General Lewis Mackenzie (retired) for picking Beneath the Plains of Abraham as his choice for CBC’s Canada Reads in 2004. He remains a tireless supported of the Canadian Forces and is one of the first choices as a military analyst for major television networks.

Kim Kinrade

July 23, 2011

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My appreciation goes out to the Halifax Regional Libraries, King's College Library, the fine people at the Canadian Coast Guard (especially the crews of the icebreakers, who have been a great support) the men and women of the Canadian Armed Forces - notably in Maritime Forces Atlantic - The Army Museum at the Citadel, Shearwater Aviation Museum and the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic, all in Halifax Region. Also, a tip of the hat to Naval Lieutenant John Larsen, retired, formerly in Public Affairs, Maritime Forces Atlantic, and Bob Keddy.

On Quebec nationalism I would like to credit works by Pierre Vallières, Laurier LaPierre, Michael Gratton, William Dodge, Henry Milner, Pierre Bourgault, John Saywell, Jacques Parizeau and Pierre Trudeau as well as hundreds of newspaper and magazine articles by many other authors on the subject.

On the military side: Desmond Morton, James Davis, John Hasek, Daniel Dancocks, retired Major-General Lewis Mackenzie, Scott Taylor, Jack Granatstein, Pierre Berton, Tom Clancy, plus hundreds of periodicals and articles off the Internet.

Kim Kinrade

September 1998

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prelude

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

About The Author & Books

*

For Brett and Shane

*

I cannot raise my hand against my birthplace, my home, my children. I should like, above all things, that our difficulties might be peaceably arranged . . .Whatever may be the result of the contest I foresee that the country will have to pass through a terrible ordeal, a necessary expiation for our national sins. May God direct all for our good, and shield and preserve you and yours.

- Robert E. Lee, April 23, 1861

Lee wrote this in a farewell letter to a northern friend at the start of the American Civil War,

after he chose the leadership of the Army of Northern Virginia

over President Lincoln's offer of field command

over the whole Union Army.

PROLOGUE

September 13, 1759

In the St. Lawrence River

Below the cliffs of Quebec City,

New France

The small boat carrying Jeremy Hornsby across the St. Lawrence River pandered to the will of the eddies, weaving in uncertainty as if the vessel was not enthused by the idea of crossing the wide and unpredictable expanse. Even with twelve other souls shivering alongside him in the creaky wooden punt, the eighteen-year-old Hornsby had never felt so cold and alone. The advent of battle left Hornsby with own thoughts as well as longing for a warm fire and a hot mug of tea.

Joining them in the silent darkness another fifteen hundred men huddled in similar crafts and larger troop barges. Up ahead the formidable HMS Lowestoft, a British frigate, led the way, a guardian against the threat of floating batteries, fireships and other nasty surprises that the enemy might have in store for them.

Private Hornsby remembered the terror of the last attack of burning ships, a spectacle that would stay with him for a long time - if he lived past the impending battle. From his bivouac on Point Lévis, just southeast of the Quebec citadel and directly across from large French defenses at Beauport, he stood speechless as a flotilla of French fireships lit up the moonless night. The display of fireworks and the staccato lights from exploding pyrotechnics frolicked on the rolling bellies of the low-lying clouds. Some of the French vessels had loaded cannons which, when overcome by the inferno creeping across the decks, unloaded their charges. Lethal rounds of ball and canister - clusters of iron balls - sprayed through the trees like swarms of angry, steel bees.

As the burning French ships bore down on the British fleet only some improvised seamanship on the part of the crews of the anchored British ships avoided a holocaust. This skillful action was aided by the bravery of a few sailors in longboats who used grappling hooks to both secure and then steer away the fiery ships to be beached on the river shore. General Wolfe’s armada was intact, and tonight a stealthy contingent of British soldiers was being floated over to the base of the cliffs below the invincible fortress of Quebec.

As Hornsby took small breaths to placate his squirming stomach a thought ran through him like quicksilver. A warm, settling feeling temporarily sprinkled with tingles of pride drove away the tinges of fear and made him grip the wooden-clad muzzle of his Brown Bess musket tighter. It was as if his heart and soul had bypassed his brain and had taken over his body in preparation to strike a blow for King and country. For this was the very job for which he had been trained, a task where he may have to lay down his life. God must be a general, Jeremy thought, for He kept bringing him back to the soldier's real purpose in life.

The young Englishman had every right to be proud. He and his stealthy companions were the cream of all land forces in North America, if not the whole world - or so their officers bragged. And this dogged determination did not happen by accident. In training at Salisbury Plain, out by Stonehenge, any soldier who had seemed sickly or frail - or who even coughed too much for the sergeant-major's liking - was ordered off the parade ground and out of the soldiers going to North America. This time there was to be no second-best when fighting the French. In fact, a subaltern was overheard to say that a better army of men had never been so well-commanded since 1704 when Marlborough trounced the French at Blenheim.

However, much more was accomplished on that chalky plain in southwest England than merely putting the young men through their muddy paces. The recruits were highly-motivated by stirring speeches from their officers, praising oratories that would have softened the heart of the most cynical, regimental sergeant-major. In fact many a seasoned, non-commissioned officer was aghast at the civil treatment given these men because, in their experience, mere foot soldiers were to be bullied and beaten.

Yet however strange it seemed to the sergeants and lower class officers the strategy worked. These men picked up the soldiering trade quickly and maintained their high degree of professionalism all the way to the New World. In fact when the foots set sail from Portsmouth Jeremy Hornsby and his mates ranked among the proudest, most disciplined grenadiers in the world. And their mettle would be tested in the foreign, thick forests of a place called Canada.

Their assignment was to attack one of the strongest fortresses on the planet, a battlement held by a force of defenders who were twice the numbers of the British camp and who were just as motivated, if not more so. This was because many of the soldiers who inhabited the dark ramparts above him were fighting for their country, their religion and, most importantly, their homes.

The leader of this bold English enterprise was, physically speaking, precisely the sort of man who had been weeded out on that first day in Salisbury. His name was Major-General James Wolfe and his battle honours were basically non-existent. Actually a colonel of the 67th Regiment, Wolfe was given the local rank of major-general by William Pitt, the First Earl of Chatham and British Secretary of State. Not only did he hire Wolfe and pronounce the rank upon him Pitt, the King's secretary, blatantly fired the Hessian and Hanoverian troops, German mercenaries favoured by King George III, a Hanoverian himself.

Pitt gambled that a well-supplied, highly-motivated British force could take the indomitable walls of Fortress Louisbourg in Cape Breton and then move on to the fortress at Quebec before the French city could be reinforced. Victories in these two places would solidify their hold in the Americas by locking down the St. Lawrence River system and allowing the British navy into the Great Lakes. This would also overshadow the string of humiliating defeats the British forces and colonials had been dealt since the beginning of their newest war with France.

To bolster the English troops the cunning Pitt sought the permission of England's former adversaries, the clan leaders of Scotland, for the permanent formation of Highland regiments for the British army. If the Scottish soldiers scared the French as much as they did the average English grenadier then a momentary lapse in professionalism on the French firing line might win the day for the British.

The murky ramparts of Quebec occupied the highest point of a ridge that lorded over the point where the St. Charles River met the St. Lawrence River. On the western side the promontory dove so steeply toward the St. Lawrence that a dozen men and one cannon loaded with grapeshot could have held off an attacking army. Making matters worse for the assailants the river suddenly narrowed to a bottleneck of barely a thousand meters subjecting any flanking maneuvre by ship or barge to the point-blank gauntlet of the deadly garrison batteries.

However, one managed to get through. Just a month before the HMS Sutherland and a small flotilla of warships withstood a thick bombardment from the city guns to slip upstream and they ended the fireship threat by destroying any visible floating torches at their moorings.

As his eyes raised up to the high cliffs Hornsby’s fear returned and he fought the urge to hum The Girl I Left Behind Me, which was easily the most popular song on the ships, especially with the haunting lilt that the bagpipe-playing 78th Highlanders gave it. The kilted soldiers were fierce and their huge claymores - broadswords - chilled his blood as much as this pre-dawn dew. One blow from one of the heavy blades could cleave a man in two. Trying to quell his nerves he felt around his kit, carefully examining his clothing and equipment to ensure that everything was in order and, where needed, fastened down to prevent noises.

Although British commanders often used loud music and a massed battle array as a strategy to impress and intimidate their enemy there would be none of this in the upcoming battle. Wolfe had learned from his mistakes on the slopes east of Beauport where hundreds of soldiers of the red-and-white had died. This time the order of the day was stealth and surefootedness that would see Hornsby and his comrades-in-arms climb straight up the embankment on a trail that Wolfe, himself, had spied with a telescope.

In recent days Jeremy's thoughts were likely to drift back to July 31st, his first taste of battle. That date was the also the first time he laid eyes on James Wolfe. When the major-general passed Hornsby's regiment, which was under the direct command of Brigadier-General Robert Monckton, the man looked like death-warmed-over. Nevertheless, he personally led three thousands of Monckton's troops to ford the river in the small, swampy space between Montmorency Falls and the St. Lawrence using flimsy, flat-bottomed boats.

The young Londoner had joined his fellow grenadiers in gawking at the spectacle of white, tortured water that plummeted from the gorge at Montmorency. However, nature's beauty suddenly lost its allure because, instead of landing, the British boats were content to just float off Beauport. This heightened the nervousness of the British troops and allowed the French and their allies plenty of time to get into position and aim their cannons.

After approximately an hour of hovering in the channel, in plain view of the enemy, British cannons began thundering off Pont Lévis. Admiral Saunder's warships joined in the attack and the combined firepower made the French ridge erupt in black blossoms. When the French answered the challenge in the direction of the more westerly Lévis, Wolfe took advantage of the distraction. He ordered the boats to land and take the small redoubt at the base of the cliffs.

However, even though the big French cannons were kept busy in another direction Wolfe had not anticipated the arrival of another unit of enemy troops on the bluffs above. At the moment the British soldiers set foot on dry ground French regulars and les Canadiens - armed colonists - poured a thick rain of lead down the steep slope. Bullets buzzed around Hornsby’s head and he felt his tunic tug where one went through his jacket. His comrades fell all around him, some screaming from hideous wounds while others dropped silently into the dry grass.

Fearing his force would be exterminated Wolfe stood high and shouted for his officers to recall their troops. However, his cries were either not heard or ignored in the heat of battle. In a mad challenge the Royal Americans, the 62nd Regiment of Foot from New England, joined the Louisbourg Grenadiers - which included Hornsby's 28th Regiment - and charged up the slippery slope, the mass of running bodies sweeping up the surprised Hornsby in a river of red-wool jackets.

It was later estimated that one hundred cannons and approximately three thousand rifles poured canister and lead down on the massed British infantry. Whole companies were scythed like ripe corn and others were cut down trying to climb over the writhing bodies.

With unbelievable stamina and courage the British soldiers crawled up the steep incline but became immobilized when a downpour of rain made the hill too slippery for them to proceed any further. It was at this point that a man above Hornsby lost his footing and began to slide down the hill. His foot stamped down on Hornsby’s shoulder and both were propelled down the grassy hill their powder flasks, mitre hats and other kit ripped off them during the quick descent. After the painful ordeal of hitting exposed rocks, shrubs and fellow soldiers Hornsby came to a stop at the feet of a fierce 78th Highlander who was dragging a wounded man away.

Suddenly the pace of shooting slowed and a stunned Hornsby looked up the hill. As the echoing sounds of gunfire ebbed he heard a growing sound from the promontory. The French and their Canadian allies were cheering their success and this soon turned to mocking and boastful taunts.

But what haunted him the most was not the dead or the writhing of the seriously wounded and dying. It was the screams coming from up on the hill where a few determined grenadiers had dug in and were now surrounded by Red Indians. The Ottawa nation, allies of the French, had sent men to help out in Quebec. Filled with a blood rage at the redcoats, their sworn enemy, the Ottawa’s swarmed over the hapless British soldiers and began hacking them to pieces.

When the day was over the British had lost 443 men including thirty-three officers. Most were the grenadiers handpicked from the three regiments of Louisbourg.

Qui vive?

A sharp voice in the darkness almost made Hornsby's heart jump through his mouth. The entire force froze as a unit and the only sound noticeable to him was the lapping of the whirling waters against the boats.

France.

Hornsby recognized the deep voice that answered from one of the boats up front. It was Captain Fraser of the Highlanders. For a few tense moments the sound of murmuring wafted through the darkness. Then the sentry called out again.

A quel regiment?

This time Fraser's response was quicker.

De la Reine, answered the Scotsman, a hint of impatience in his voice.

More silence.

Bien . . . Allez!

It took an agonizing minute for the small convoy to drift past the sleepy sentries who luckily could not make out the red-and-white uniforms in the darkness.

Hornsby dozed in and out of consciousness for the next half-hour. He thought he heard a mumbling in the next boat but had gone back to sleep. Later he was told that the speaker was General Wolfe reciting Thomas Grey's poem Elegy in a Country Churchyard to the men in his boat.

A hard set of knuckles firmly tapped his shoulder and Hornsby’s head shot up. His eyes quickly scanned the gunmetal-grey skies then focused on murky figures that began to rise up in the boat as if a wave had buoyed them. When the man beside him got up so did he, carefully keeping the barrel of the Brown Bess up and away from the water as he stepped out of the boat into the cold shallows. He suddenly felt nauseous and the grip on his musket felt clammy.

It was then that a funny thought entered his head. What was his dad doing at this moment? What about Douglas and his three younger sisters? In his heart, he didn't hate his brother for taking over his father's pushcart. After all, even if Douglas was younger the precocious brother had shown more aptitude toward the business than he. Because the pushcart would have to support an entire family it could only go to one of the sons. Any extra money would go to looking after Hornsby’s parents in their old age.

No, thought the young Londoner, the army's been good to me. Then, in a move that surprised himself, Jeremy prayed: Dear God, may Douglas have good fortune in his new business.

***

Under three strong candles Louis Joseph de Montcalm-Grozon de St. Véran penned a letter to his nephew back in France encouraging him to remain in engineering school in Berlin. In addition he advised his young relative to ignore the pushiness and arrogance of his fellow students and, especially, the professors - most of who were Prussian these days.

It was his third letter that evening, the first being to his wife back home in southern France. An attractive and faithful woman Madame Montcalm not only had to suffer through the absence of her husband but also the indignities that went with marrying into a family of less-than-affluent standing. Although proudly titled the Marquis de Montcalm's family had not the means to observe the expensive social activities at Versailles. In essence, she was financially exiled from her friends.

The second letter was to his mother who had encouraged him to cheerfully accept Louis XV's offer of a military command in New France. No one in the Montcalm family, she insisted, had ever mulled over a petition from the King. Before boarding the ship in France he was comforted by the fact that his new rank of major-general would see a boost in his family's fortune when he returned. And if his successes lived up to Louis' expectations there would be additional promotions and rewards. This meant that there would be a new star in the social circles in Paris and at long last his wife’s status could be redeemed.

Montcalm’s eyes rested upon the artful relics of war that hung in his office: a tomahawk, war lance and lacrosse stick, all of which had shed blood for the Ojibway during his campaigns at Fort William Henry and Carillon - or Ticonderoga as the British called it. The Hurons and Ottawa, although a bloodthirsty lot, were also faithful allies. It seemed strange to him that the only orders they ever disobeyed were those concerning the safety of non-combatants and enemy soldiers who had surrendered. Once he had come across a scene where three warriors were feasting on the roasted leg of a British soldier. Pagan! Disgusting! he spat. Why did he need these unreliable hordes when he could defeat the English anywhere, and at any time?

Montcalm reached for his snuff box, a small, ivory case with rose powder. He had forgotten how many days had gone by since he had changed his uniform and slept with his boots off. He smiled, entertaining the funny thought that if the smell of his unwashed body was a bother to himself, then others - like that bombastic Vaudreuil - were giving him peace because of it.

If he had any feelings of uncertainty they were for his adversary. Unlike the previous leaders of British troops Montcalm had never faced a more unconventional foe than James Wolfe.

They say the man is as ugly as a troll, Montcalm mused, yet he is engaged to one of the most desirable young women in England! In battle the man is even more contrary. He positions his boats full of troops to assault at one of my lesser-prepared defence sites then pulls them back to attack my most formidable redoubt . . . with huge losses! Why?

Then, even more surprisingly, he moves his ships around the river like a child would position pieces on a chessboard . . . but with no reasonable explanation. If I were his Admiral Saunders I would be at my wits end!

Montcalm shook an ink drop off the quill and returned the writing instrument to its holder. Sucking on his hot tea he stood up and opened the shutters to his room. He had kept them closed to help him sleep but the darkness had not worked and it was only a couple of hours until morning.

Last night, the British cannons were active for hours. It seemed strange to Montcalm that Wolfe, the same man who was most exemplary in his treatment of non-combatants in the outlying districts, would cruelly pulverize commercial buildings, houses and even churches with barrages of artillery. Even in the dark-grey hues of the fading night he could see and smell the work of the invaders. Lower Quebec was a burnt-out shell, still smoldering from the effects of British cannon-fire.

This Wolfe, he fumed, this colonel parading in a general's costume. He burns whole villages yet he shares his provisions with’ les habitants,’ the very people who mock me for not going out and doing battle with him in the countryside!

In late spring New France's governor, Pierre de Rigaud Marquis de Vaudreuil, had demanded that the successful tactics of la petit guerre be taken to the American colonies once more. If the settlers in the areas of the frontier outposts were continually subjected to brutal attacks by les Canadiens and their savage Indian allies Wolfe’s whole campaign would have to cease and his troops directed southward to assist them. And then, in the dense forests, their columns could be chopped up into mincemeat, as had so many previous groups of redcoats.

To Montcalm the fighting methods of the aboriginal groups still offended him. Their unusual cruelty to both the innocent British settlers and the disarmed enemy was demeaning to the French flag. And the colonist rabble that ran with the natives were, in his books, no better. However, if they were trained to fight like the king's troops they would be the vanguard of the army in New France. No men he had ever witnessed could shoot straighter, reload more quickly and move as efficiently through thick bush country as these remarkable fighters. But despite all their skills he seriously doubted their discipline in a big fight – and cohesion would be needed to beat this unusual Briton and his army.

Just as he applied his seal to the last letter his adjutant knocked. Oui, Maurice?

Sir! The lookouts on the ramparts have reported that the British landed at Ans au Foulon and are now climbing up the ridge!

A shaken Montcalm locked his eyes on the young officer, his face an incredulous mask in the candlelight. The adjutant was too nervous to continue.

As the news sunk in Montcalm slowly rose up from the desk. His upper lip was quivering as he tried to make sense of the information. But Vergors was--

Excuse me, sir, the young messenger interrupted, but no one has heard from Captain Vergors since his runner checked in over two hours ago.

Without an apology the Marquis flew by the young man, knocking him aside.

***

Jean Boucher was first awakened by the sound of feet hitting the wood flooring of the cramped barracks. His eyes opened to slits and then the gratifying pull of sleep drew him back into slumber. But his bliss only lasted seconds before loud shouts began echoing through the wooden confines. As the noise increased the entire structure began to shake from the pounding boots of running men.

Quel--

Boucher, grab your kit. The British are on the heights! Whoever yelled was out the door and down the street before the militiaman’s feet touched the rough, wooden floor. Boucher lazily pulled on his mitasses - native rawhide leggings - and then slipped on his moccasins. He had heard the alarms before and knew he would be running miles for nothing. But if he didn’t show he would be punished and so reached for his musket and headed for the door in a slow pace.

In the next instant Boucher’s ears tuned to the far-off booming of cannons. It was clear to him that the British were trying another attack, probably somewhere down river. He picked up his pace, struggling to slip his pack straps over his shoulders.

The encampment of the Compagnies Franche de la Marine, Boucher's regiment, was situated on a seigneury - farm - five miles to the north of the city. The seigneur had given Boucher's company lodging in his outbuildings in return for field and handyman work. At first food had not been part of the deal. This was because of a crop failure the previous season. But with the success of this summer's harvest their meagre army rations had been supplemented with fresh vegetables and the odd item of meat.

As Boucher trotted to catch up with his comrades ran he blessed Governor Vandreuil for allowing les Compagnies to dress more comfortably in the summer. The off-white wool coats, ill-fitting boots and rigid tri-corner hats of the French troops would not have been welcome on such a run into town. That outfit was better suited for winter and when they were on parade with les Français, and that, he thanked the heavens, was rare these days. Because like the majority of the French-born residents of New France Boucher couldn't stand fraternizing with the French regulars because they treated the colonial soldiers with contempt.

Boucher ran across pasture after rolling-green pasture witnessing the dozens of farewells of mothers to their sons and local girls to their husbands or sweethearts. And as he had no one to see him off he steeled himself to the homesick feelings. His home and family were in the sawmill town of Trois Rivières over a hundred miles away. He had a wife and two teenaged sons, the latter of who worked the sawmill in his place while he was fighting the English.

That was the extent of his family. When Boucher was a boy his father was killed in a mill accident and, a couple of years later, his mother died of consumption leaving him and his seven siblings orphaned. The younger Boucher children were parcelled out by the church and scattered throughout homes in Montreal. He never saw them again. Jean, the eldest at twelve, was bonded to a well-to-do family in town but, at sixteen, he ran away to work as a labourer in Trois Rivières. As for Jean, after many years of backbreaking work in the sawmill, when the war effort needed men he was glad to join the colonial army where the money was better. However, the trade-off was leaving his family and saddling his oldest son with the sawmill job.

After a half-hour of continuous running Boucher’s head began to ache, a hangover from too much wine and song last night at the Villier farm. The walls of the Quebec citadel were visible now and he saw much activity before him on the ridge. To his right, a steady stream of white-coated French regulars, colourfully-attired militiamen and half-naked natives from the direction of Beauport were trotting toward the town. Beauport was the place where he had killed his first Englishman, or at least the only one he had seen fall. It was raining so hard that day that it was difficult to see clearly through the torrential downpour and the muzzle smoke from the others firing down on the enemy. He shot at the small red blurs crawling up the steep slope, all the while trying to keep his powder dry. One British soldier looked up to shoot his rifle and Jean aimed at the white neck collar. The lead ball struck true, throwing the hapless soldier up into the air where he fell on his back and glided down the wet, grassy slope like a red toboggan.

What a roar we gave when they withdrew! Boucher smiled. Damn their pillaging hides! The natives, joined by a few Canadiens, actually slid down the hill to collect scalps and prisoners but Boucher's regulars disdained the practice as much as they did those fellow colonials that lived and killed like savages. They were as bad as Wolfe and his house-destroying, British mob.

After almost an hour of continued running Boucher found himself at a bottleneck clogging the approach to the bridge over the St. Charles River. Huge cannons and their limbers added to the confusion as the throng pushed and shoved to get across.

It took almost thirty minutes for Boucher to get over the span. However, as soon as he reached the other side he was swept along in the river of humanity from the northern road, a wave that was boiling up toward the heights. He recognized a few of the faces but never let on and, if they saw him, they never waved or shouted either. There was grim urgency in the eyes of these armed men, a trait that Boucher had seen in the warm rain at Beauport, a cold cocoon of fear encasing them all.

***

Although they had encountered pockets of French on their climb Jeremy Hornsby had yet to fire his gun. But those who had gone up before him had done their work well. Some of the French lay dead at their posts while others sprawled face down on the small field at the top of the ridge having been shot while running away. He made his way past a French officer who was having his wounded foot treated. As he had never seen a Frenchman up close Hornsby slowed to have a better look. However, he was shoved from behind. A hoarse voice yelled, Keep moving! You’ll see plenty of those in a few minutes!

Hornsby’s entire visual world had changed from the dark-green of trees on shrubs on the long climb to that of golden, waving grass and corn stalks, and the hustling of red-coated soldiers. Tortured shouts permeated the morning air as well as the other sounds of battle. Officers yelled over the crackling of musketry as skirmishes went on between small pockets of men out of his sight. Over to his left a sergeant-major was collecting his men as a well-trained sheep dog would keep a flock of sheep in order.

To his far right, Hornsby heard the far-off skirl of bagpipes and pounding of drums signalling the marshalling area of Fraser's Highlanders. Then, straight ahead, he saw Wolfe himself speaking to a group of officers. For an officer of such note the man was diminutive and had to look up to his subordinates.

He hadn't gone five more paces when he saw fellow soldiers Jack Hillary and Elmer Lodestone, and the rest of his company, standing in a line, their gold-lined, mitred caps making them look a foot taller - the very purpose of their design. The order-of-battle for British troops was that their flags, dress, martial music and positioning would provide a kernel of doubt in the opposing forces.

To Hornsby almost all the grenadiers looked alike: five foot-five, and in their late teens, with thin patches of whiskers on their pale, pimply faces. The shaving rule was not as enforced as strictly as it had been when they first landed many months ago. Do I look like that, too?

Grenadiers! yelled Sergeant-Major Innes, his sandy-red hair poking out like pieces of straw from under his miter cap. Innes was a good six inches taller and much broader across the shoulders than the young men he commanded so the miter made him look monstrous. He sported a thick, red moustache that made him look fierce when he opened his mouth wide to command his men. However, despite his brutish yell and strict discipline, most of the regiment liked the non-com. In the past few months he would spend hours with their company regaling them with tales about other campaigns - some against the Dutch, others against the very army they were facing.

Standing at attention in the waist-high grass Hornsby rechecked his kit as Innes made his inspection of the regiment: jacket, pack, bayonet, muskets, headgear, breeches, puttees. When the big sergeant stopped in from of him a smile widened his auburn moustache. Johnny, he uttered softly in his right ear, you did a good job at Beauport. If I get it make sure the lads don't falter. Right?

The young grenadier suddenly felt his throat go dry. It was all he could do to utter the one word: Right.

Suddenly, as if rising from the waving grass, the odd, hunched figure of Major-General James Wolfe appeared in front of them. Innes and the company suddenly snapped to attention, the rattling of kit extending backward to the others in the three regiments.

March in files, Wolfe said to the officers. The officers tipped their hats to their leader and then scattered. Soon Wolfe’s orders echoed down the lines to their sergeants.

Grenadiers . . .march in files on my command! yelled Innes. . . . March!

The Louisbourg Grenadiers, some five hundred, hand-picked soldiers from three fine regiments, moved as one long, red-and-white line, their colorful, pointed headgear bobbing and brass buttons and badges glinting in the morning sun. There rose a hissing sound as the long grass caressed their puttees and trousers.

As they strode up the gentle incline to the plateau on top of the ridge the tiny chimneys of Quebec appeared, followed by the bluish-copper roofs of the buildings and, finally, the formidable walls. It was a view that the British had never seen before because the huge walls all but blocked any features of the town. At the top of the incline they were met with a most astonishing sight - thousands of blue-and-white soldiers, native warriors, and, on the flanks, a mixed bag of armed men in all sorts of clothing. Hornsby shuddered at the sheer numbers of them.

Grenadiers . . . Halt!

The uniformed rows stopped to man. Then it was quiet. The mid-morning breezes furrowed the golden grass and birds rose up and flew toward the river as if they knew what was going to happen. Even the French and their allies were silent.

Before the officers could say another word they heard a whistling overhead followed closely by the boom of a cannon. An explosion sounded in their rear. There was no damage but the blast induced the stragglers just reaching the top of the ridge to move faster. More cannons and more explosions came in quick succession.

Down! cried Wolfe.

Down! echoed Innes and a wave of red lines sunk into the tall grass. He never waited for the officers to affirm the command.

***

The French saw the rows of tall hats of the British a few seconds before the heads that supported them. The Marquis de Montcalm quickly wheeled his black horse toward his artillery commander in order to gain a better view of the wavy, red line that stretched interminably from ridge to ridge.

I see them, he murmured, his voice spiteful, where they ought not to be. This, my friends, is serious business. The audacity of that British commoner. He believes he is a general!

At his annoyance Montcalm inadvertently dug his spurs into the stallion's flanks causing the surprised mount to rear up and flail with his front hoofs. Gaining control of the horse he pushed it at full speed toward a group of mounted officers who seemed to be mesmerized by the steadily increasing, red-coated army in front of them. It was if a monstrous stain of blood was spreading across the field.

Now is not the time to be admiring their uniforms and parade manners! he barked at his commanders. Jean-Pierre, get word to Colonel Bougainville and inform him that the British have scaled the heights but are not yet entrenched on the plateau. An attack to their rear flank by his force now would drive them off, or, at the very least, prevent them from getting their big guns and stores into position. Go now!

As the major's horse sped away Montcalm glassed the British lines again seemingly oblivious of the other two officers in his presence. And you, he remarked to them as his telescope rested on the flank of the hastily assembling French lines, "go into town and enlist every person who can shoot a rifle! Vite!"

As both officers rode off a young artillery officer, resplendent in a clean white coat with gold trim and badges and sporting a powder-blue tri-corn hat, eased in beside him. Sir, we have three field pieces in position and sighted--

Then fire them! What about the locals and Indians?

They are moving forward through the trees, sir. But no one gave them permission.

Montcalm chuckled. François, this is one time I find their effrontery inspiring. It will give that red rabble something with which to occupy themselves before we throw them off the ridge.

***

Jean Boucher winced as the powder ignited in the pan of his musket, the sulphur fumes attacking his eyes and invading his nostrils. A split second later the weapon discharged, bucking his shoulder as it roared. Did I hit him? It was difficult to tell. The initial cloud of smoke from his weapon had obscured his view and, with the collage of red that dotted the thick grass, it was difficult to know which ones were dead and which were trying to hide. Why, he fumed, do they sit in the grass? Why don't they come out and fight like they always do?

A moment later clouds slipped in front of the sun and a light rain began to fall, although not to the degree that it had on that victorious day at Beauport. Quickly reloading he covered the firing pan with his palm to keep the powder dry. Then Boucher reached for his crucifix and thanked the Saints to ensure his safe delivery.

Another musket cracked a dozen yards away. Indians, he noticed with a smile. If there was one thing to strike terror into British city boys it was wild, bronze-skinned savages. Their heads were shaved so that just a long scalp lock remained down the centre and their faces were hideously painted. Mère Mary, he sighed, as he thought about their skill with a tomahawk. With one swipe a warrior could take the scalp of a grown man. And if he threw the weapon he could bury it into a skull fifteen meters away.

Another target presented itself, the tri-corn hat of an officer. Boucher raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. This time the hat, powdered wig and gore flew up into the air.

***

Zit! A musket ball sheared the head off a grass stem beside Hornsby.

Keep down, lads! barked Innes, crouching but not lying on the ground as were his troops. His position was precarious but he had to see what was going on over the waist-high, grass stalks. There were skirmishers in the wooded area on the left flank, a little too far off for Brigadier-General Townsend's battalions to have much effect in silencing them. Innes was informed that Townsend’s forces were to guard against rear attack. A spy had said that there was another force waiting to pounce on them from behind the moment the battle started.

In front of them, almost six hundred yards away, the view was solid with white-and-blue tunics. Officers on horseback rode back and forth addressing the massed troops. Innes peeked over his right shoulder and saw a wheel being dragged up by three men who were trying hard to pull it while keeping as low to the ground as possible. It will be soon, thought the old veteran, but let's just hope the Frenchies don't attack until all the field cannon are up.

An explosion far to his left shot a geyser of dirt and grass into the air. Then two more bullets whizzed by, one buzzing very close to the sergeant-major's ear. God help us on this day!

Behind Innes, hugged the grass, was Jeremy Hornsby wishing that he could burrow into the very roots. It seemed to him that, in all the