University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The few succeeding days were passed amid all the
privations, the uproar, and the dangers of the siege,
which was vigorously pressed by a power, against
whose approaches Munro possessed no competent
means of resistance. It appeared as if Webb, with
his army, which lay slumbering on the banks of the
Hudson, had utterly forgotten the strait to which his
brethren were reduced. Montcalm had filled the woods
of the portage with his savages, every yell and whoop
from whom rang through the British encampment,
chilling the hearts of men, who were already but too
much disposed to magnify the danger, with additional
terror.

Not so, however, with the besieged. Animated
by the words, and stimulated by the examples of
their leaders, they had found their courage, and
maintained their ancient reputation, with a zeal that
did justice to the stern character of their commander.
As if satisfied with the toil of marching through the
wilderness to encounter his enemy, the French general,

though of approved skill, had neglected
to seize the adjacent mountains; whence the besieged
might have been exterminated with impunity,
and which, in the more modern warfare of
the country, would not have been neglected for a single
hour. This sort of contempt for eminences, or
rather dread of the labour of ascending them, might
have been termed the besetting weakness of the warfare
of the period. It originated in the simplicity of
the Indian contests, in which, from the nature of the
combats, and the density of the forests, fortresses were
rare, and artillery next to useless. The carelessness
engendered by these usages, descended even to the
war of the revolution, and lost the states the important
fortress of Ticonderoga, opening a way for
the army of Burgoyne, into what was then the bosom
of the country. We look back at this ignorance, or
infatuation, which ever it may be called, with astonishment,
knowing that the neglect of an eminence,
whose difficulties, like those of Mount Defiance, had
been so greatly exaggerated, would, at the present
time, prove fatal to the reputation of the engineer
who had planned the works at their base, or to that
of the general, whose lot it was to defend them.

The tourist, the valetudinarian, or the amateur of
the beauties of nature, who, in the train of his four-in-hand,
now rolls through the scenes we have attempted
to describe, in quest of information, health,
or pleasure, or floats steadily towards his object on
those artificial waters, which have sprung up under
the administration of a statesman, who has dared to

stake his political character on the hazardous issue, is
not to suppose that his ancestors traversed those hills,
or struggled with the same currents with equal facility.
The transportation of a single heavy gun, was often
considered equal to a victory gained; if happily the
difficulties of the passage had not so far separated it
from its necessary concomitants, the ammunition, as
to render it no more than an useless tube of unwieldy
iron.

The evils of this state of things pressed heavily on
the fortunes of the resolute Scotsman, who now defended
William Henry. Though his adversary neglected
the hills, he had planted his batteries with judgment
on the plain, and caused them to be served with
vigour and skill. Against this assault, the besieged
could only oppose the imperfect and hasty preparations
of a fortress in the wilderness, to whose mounds
those extended sheets of water, which stretched into
the Canadas, bore no friendly aid, while they opened
the way to their more fortunate enemies.

It was on the afternoon of the fifth day of the siege,
and the fourth of his own service in it, that Major
Heyward profited by a parley that had just been beaten,
by repairing to the ramparts of one of the water
bastions, to breathe the cool air from the lake, and to
take a survey of the progress of the siege. He was
alone, if the solitary sentinel who paced the mound
be excepted; for the artillerists had hastened also to
profit by the temporary suspension of their arduous
duties. The evening was delightfully calm,
and the light air from the limpid water fresh and
soothing. It seemed as if, with the termination to

the roar of artillery, and the plunging of shot, nature
had also seized the moment to assume her mildest and
most captivating form. The sun poured down his
parting glory on the scene, without the oppression of
those fierce rays that belong to the climate and the
season. The mountains looked green, and fresh, and
lovely; tempered with the milder light, or softened in
shadow, as thin vapours floated between them and
the sun. The numerous islands rested on the bosom
of the Horican, some low and sunken, as if imbedded
in the waters, and others appearing to hover above
the element, in little hillocks of green velvet; among
which the fishermen of the beleaguering army peacefully
rowed their skiffs, or floated at rest on the
glassy mirror, in quiet pursuit of their game.

The scene was at once animated and still. All
that pertained to nature was sweet, or simply grand;
while those parts which depended on the temper and
movements of man, were in perfect unison.

Two little spotless flags were abroad, the one on a
salient angle of the fort, and the other on the advanced
battery of the besiegers; emblems of the truce which
existed, not only to the acts, but it would seem, also,
to the enmity of the combatants. Behind these,
again, swung, heavily opening and closing in silken
folds, the rival standards of England and France.

A hundred gay and thoughtless young Frenchmen
were drawing a net to the pebbly beach, within dangerous
proximity to the sullen but silent cannon of the
fort, while the eastern mountain was sending back
the loud shouts and gay merriment that attended

their sport. Some were rushing eagerly to enjoy the
aquatic games of the lake, and others were already
toiling their way up the neighbouring hills, with the
restless curiosity of their nation. To all these sports
and pursuits, those of the enemy who watched the besieged,
and the besieged themselves, were, however,
merely the idle, though sympathizing spectators. Here
and there a picquet had, indeed, raised a song, or mingled
in a dance, which had drawn the dusky savages
around them, from their lairs in the forest, in mute
astonishment. In short, every thing wore rather the
appearance of a day of pleasure, than of an hour
stolen from the dangers and toil of a bloody and vindictive
warfare.

Duncan had stood in a musing attitude, contemplating
this scene a few minutes, when his eyes were directed
to the glacis in front of the sally-port, already
mentioned, by the sounds of approaching footsteps.
He walked to an angle of the bastion, and beheld the
scout advancing, under the custody of a French officer,
to the body of the fort. The countenance of
Hawk-eye was haggard and care-worn, and his air
dejected, as though he felt the deepest degradation at
having fallen into the power of his enemies. He was
without his favourite weapon, and his arms were even
bound behind him with thongs, made of the skin of a
deer. The arrival of flags, to cover the messengers of
summons, had occurred so often of late, that when
Heyward first threw his careless glance on this groupe,
he expected to see another of the officer of the enemy,
charged with a similar office; but the instant he

recognised the tall person, and still sturdy, though
downcast, features of his friend, the woodsman, he
started with surprise, and turned to descend from the
bastion into the bosom of the work.

The sounds of other voices, however, caught his
attention, and for a moment caused him to forget
his purpose. At the inner angle of the mound, he
met the sisters, walking along the parapet, in search,
like himself, of air and relief from confinement.
They had not met since that painful moment when
he deserted them, on the plain, only to assure their
safety. He had parted from them, worn with care,
and jaded with fatigue; he now saw them refreshed
and blooming, though still timid and anxious. Under
such an inducement, it will cause no surprise,
that the young man lost sight, for a time, of other objects,
in order to address them. He was, however,
anticipated by the voice of the ardent and youthful
Alice.

“Ah! thou truant! thou recreant knight! he who
abandons his damsels in the very lists, to abide the
fortunes of the fray!” she cried, in affected reproaches,
which her beaming eyes and extended
hands so flatteringly denied. “Here have we been
days, nay, ages, expecting you at our feet, imploring
mercy and forgetfulness of your craven backsliding,
or, I should rather say, back-running—for verily you
fled in a manner that no stricken deer, as our worthy
friend the scout would say, could equal!”

“You know that Alice means our thanks and our
blessings,” added the graver and more thoughtful
Cora. “In truth, we have a little wondered why

you should so rigidly absent yourself from a place,
where the gratitude of the daughters might receive
the support of a parent's thanks.”

“Your father himself could tell you, that though
absent from your presence, I have not been altogether
forgetful of your safety,” returned the young
man; “the mastery of yonder village of huts,” pointing
to the neighbouring entrenched camp, “has been
keenly disputed; and he who holds it, is sure to be possessed
of this fort, and that which it contains. My days
and my nights have all been passed there, since we
separated, because I thought that duty called me thither.
But,” he added, with an air of chagrin, which
he endeavoured, though unsuccessfully, to conceal,
“had I been aware, that what I then believed a soldier's
conduct, could be so construed, shame would
have been added to the list of reasons.”

“Heyward!—Duncan!” exclaimed Alice, bending
forward to read his half-averted countenance, until a
lock of her golden hair rested in rich contrast on her
flushed cheek, and nearly concealed the tear that
had started to her anxious eye; “did I think this
idle tongue of mine had pained you, I would silence
it for ever! Cora can say, if Cora would, how
justly we have prized your services, and how deep—
I had almost said, how fervent—is our gratitude!”

“And will Cora attest the truth of this?” cried
Duncan, suffering the cloud to be chased from his
countenance by a smile of open pleasure. “What
says our graver sister? Will she find an excuse for
the neglect of the knight, in the ardour of a soldier?”

Cora made no immediate answer, but turned her

face toward the water, as if looking on the plain
sheet of the Horican. When she did bend her dark
eyes on the young man, they were yet filled with an
expression of anguish that at once drove every
thought but that of kind solicitude from his mind.

“You are not well, dearest Miss Munro!” he exclaimed;
“we have trifled, while you are in suffering!”

“'Tis nothing,” she answered, gently refusing his
offered support, with feminine reserve. “That I
cannot see the sunny side of the picture of life, like
this artless but ardent enthusiast,” she added, laying
her hand lightly, but affectionately, on the arm of her
anxious sister, “is the penalty of experience, and,
perhaps, the misfortune of my nature. See,” she
continued, with an effort, as if determined to shake
off every infirmity, in a sense of duty; “look around
you, Major Heyward, and tell me what a prospect is
this, for the daughter of a soldier, whose greatest happiness
is his honour and his military renown!”

“Neither ought nor shall be tarnished by circumstances,
over which he has had no control,” Duncan
warmly replied. “But your words recall me to
my own duty. I go now to your gallant father, to
hear his determination in matters of the last moment
to our defence. God bless you in every fortune,
noble—Cora—I may, and must call you.” She frankly
gave him her hand, though her lips quivered, and
her cheeks gradually became of an ashy paleness.
“In every fortune, I know you will be an ornament
and honour to your sex. Alice, adieu”—his tones
changed from admiration to tenderness—“adieu,

Alice; we shall soon meet again; as conquerors, I
trust, and amid rejoicings!”

Without waiting for an answer from either of the
maidens, the young man threw himself down the
grassy steps of the bastion, and moving rapidly across
the parade, he was quickly in the presence of their
father. Munro was pacing his narrow apartment
with a disturbed air, and gigantic strides, as Duncan
entered.

“You have anticipated my wishes, Major Heyward,”
he said; “I was about to request this favour.”

“I am sorry to see, sir, that the messenger I so
warmly recommended, has returned in custody of
the French! I hope there is no reason to distrust
his fidelity?”

“The fidelity of the `Long Rifle' is well known to
me,” returned Munro, “and is above suspicion;
though his usual good fortune seems, at last, to have
failed. Montcalm has got him, and with the accursed
politeness of his nation, he has sent him in with
a doleful tale, of `knowing how I valued the fellow, he
could not think of retaining him.' A jesuitical way,
that, Major Duncan Heyward, of telling a man of his
misfortunes!”

“But the general and his succour?—”

“Did ye look to the south as ye entered, and
could ye not see them!” said the old soldier, laughing
bitterly. “Hoot! hoot! you're an impatient boy,
sir, and cannot give the gentlemen leisure for their
march!”

“They are coming then? The scout has said as
much?”

“When? and by what path? for the dunce has
omitted to tell me this! There is a letter, it would
seem, too; and that is the only agreeable part of the
matter. For the customary attentions of your Marquis
of Montcalm—I warrant me, Duncan, that he of
Lothian would buy a dozen such marquessates—but,
if the news of the letter were bad, the gentility of this
French monsieur would certainly compel him to let
us know it!”

“He keeps the letter, then, sir, while he releases
the messenger?”

“Ay, that does he, and all for the sake of what
you call your `bonhommie.' I would venture, if the
truth was known, the fellow's grandfather taught the
noble science of dancing!”

“But what says the scout? he has eyes and ears,
and a tongue! what verbal report does he make?”

“Oh! sir, he is not wanting in natural organs, and
he is free to tell all that he has seen and heard. The
whole amount is this: there is a fort of his majesty's
on the banks of the Hudson, called Edward, in honour
of his gracious highness of York, you'll know,
and it is well filled with armed men, as such a work
should be!”

“But was there no movement, no signs, of any
intention to advance to our relief?”

“There were the morning and evening parades,
and when one of the provincial loons—you'll know,
Duncan, your're half a Scotsman yourself—when
one of them dropped his powder over his porretch, if
it touched the coals, it just burnt!” Then suddenly
changing his bitter, ironical manner, to one more
grave and thoughtful, he continued; “and yet there

might, and must be, something in that letter, which it
would be well to know!”

“Our decision should be speedy,” said Duncan,
gladly availing himself of this change of humour, to
press the more important objects of their interview;
“I cannot conceal from you, sir, that the camp
will not be much longer tenable; and I am sorry to
add, that things appear no better in the fort;—more
than half our guns are bursted.”

“And how should it be otherwise! some were
fished from the bottom of the lake; some have been
rusting in the woods since the discovery of the country;
and some were never guns at all—mere privateersmen's
playthings! Do you think, sir, you can
have Woolich Warren in the midst of a wilderness;
three thousand miles from Great Britain!”

“Our walls are crumbling about our ears, and
provisions begin to fail us,” continued Heyward,
without regarding this new burst of indignation;
“even the men show signs of discontent and alarm.”

“Major Heyward,” said Munro, turning to his
youthful associate with all the dignity of his years
and superior rank; “I should have served his majesty
for half a century, and earned these gray hairs,
in vain, were I ignorant of all you say, and of the
pressing nature of our circumstances; still, there is
every thing due to the honour of the king's arms,
and something to ourselves. While there is hope of
succour, this fortress will I defend, though it be to be
done with pebbles gathered on the lake shore. It is
a sight of the letter, therefore, that we want, that we

may know the intentions of the man, the Earl of Loudon
has left among us as his substitute?”

“And can I be of service in the matter.”

“Sir, you can; the Marquis of Montcalm has, in
addition to his other civilities, invited me to a personal
interview between these works and his own
camp; in order, as he says, to impart some additional
information. Now, I think it would not be
wise to show any undue solicitude to meet him, and
I would employ you, an officer of rank, as my substitute;
for it would but ill comport with the honour of
Scotland, to let it be said, one of her gentlemen was
outdone in civility, by a native of any other country
on earth!”

Without assuming the supererogatory task of entering
into a discussion of the comparative merits of national
courtesy, Duncan cheerfully assented to supply
the place of the veteran, in the approaching interview.
A long and confidential communication now
succeeded, during which the young man received
some additional insight into his duty, from the experience
and native acuteness of his commander, and
then the former took his leave.

As Duncan could only act as the representative of
the commandant of the fort, the ceremonies which
should have accompanied a meeting between the
heads of the adverse forces, were of course dispensed
with. The truce still existed, and with a roll and
beat of the drum, and covered by a little white flag,
Duncan left the sally-port, within ten minutes after
his instructions were ended. He was received by
the French officer in advance, with the usual formalities,

and immediately accompanied to the distant
marquee of the renowned soldier, who lead the forces
of France.

The general of the enemy received the youthful
messenger, surrounded by his principal officers, and
by a swarthy band of the native chiefs, who had followed
him to the field, with the warriors of their several
tribes. Heyward paused short, when, in glancing
his eyes rapidly over the dark groupe of the latter,
he beheld the malignant countenance of Magua,
regarding him with the calm but sullen attention
which marked the expression of that subtle savage.
A slight exclamation of surprise even burst
from the lips of the young man; but, instantly recollecting
his errand, and the presence in which he
stood, he suppressed every appearance of emotion,
and turned to the hostile leader, who had already advanced
a step to receive him.

The Marquis of Montcalm was, at the period of
which we write, in the flower of his age, and it may
be added, in the zenith of his fortunes. But even
in that enviable situation, he was affable, and distinguished
as much for his attention to the forms of courtesy,
as for that chivalrous courage, which, only two
short years afterwards, induced him to throw away
his life, on the plains of Abraham. Duncan, in turning
his eyes from the malign expression of Magua,
suffered them to rest with pleasure on the smiling
and polished features, and the noble, military air of
the French general.

“Monsieur,” said the latter, “J'ai beaucoup de
plaisir à—bah! où est cet interprête?”

“Je crois, monsieur, qu'il ne sera pas nécessaire,”
Heyward modestly replied; “je parle un peu Français.”

“Ah! j'en suis bien aise,” said Montcalm, taking
Duncan familiarly by the arm, and leading him deep
into the marquee, a little out of ear-shot; “je déteste
ces fripons là; on ne sait jamais sur quel piè, on est
avec eux. Eh, bien! monsieur,” he continued, still
speaking in French; “though I should have been
proud of receiving your commandant, I am very happy
that he has seen proper to employ an officer so distinguished,
and who, I am sure, is so amiable, as yourself.”

Duncan bowed low, pleased with the compliment,
in spite of a most heroic determination to suffer no
artifice to lure him into a forgetfulness of the interests
of his prince; and Montcalm, after a pause of a
moment, as if to collect his thoughts, proceeded—

“Your commandant is a brave man, and well
qualified to repel my assaults. Mais, monsieur, is
it not time to begin to take more counsel of humanity,
and less of your own courage? The one as
strongly characterizes the hero, as the other!”

“We consider the qualities as inseparable,” returned
Duncan, smiling; “but, while we find in the
vigour of your excellency, every motive to stimulate
the one, we can, as yet, see no particular call for the
exercise of the other.”

Montcalm, in his turn, slightly bowed, but it was
with the air of a man too practised to remember the
language of flattery. After musing a moment, he
added—

“It is possible my glasses have deceived me, and
that your works resist our cannon better than I had
supposed. You know our force?”

“Our accounts vary,” said Duncan, carelessly;
“the highest, however, has not exceeded twenty thousand
men.”

The Frenchman bit his lip, and fastened his eyes
keenly on the other, as if to read his thoughts; then,
with a readiness peculiar to himself, he continued, as
if assenting to the truth of an enumeration, which he
knew was not credited by his visiter.

“It is a poor compliment to the vigilance of us soldiers,
monsieur, that, do what we will, we never can
conceal our numbers. If it were to be done at all,
one would believe it might succeed in these woods.
Though you think it too soon to listen to the calls of
humanity,” he added, smiling, archly, “I may be
permitted to believe that gallantry is not forgotten by
one so young as yourself. The daughters of the
commandant, I learn, have passed into the fort,
since it was invested?”

“It is true, monsieur; but so far from weakening
our efforts, they set us an example of courage in their
own fortitude. Were nothing but resolution necessary
to repel so accomplished a soldier, as M. de
Montcalm, I would gladly trust the defence of William
Henry to the elder of those ladies.”

“We have a wise ordinance in our Salique laws,
which says, `the crown of France shall never descend
the lance to the distaff,' ” said Montcalm, dryly, and
with a little hauteur; but, instantly adding, with
his former frank and easy air, “as all the nobler

qualities are hereditary, I can easily credit you; though,
as I said before, courage has its limits, and humanity
must not be forgotten. I trust, monsieur, you come
authorized to treat for the surrender of the place?”

“Has your excellency found our defence so feeble,
as to believe the measure necessary!”

“I should be sorry to have the defence protracted
in such a manner, as to irritate my red friends there,”
continued Montcalm, glancing his eyes at the groupe
of grave and attentive Indians, without attending to
the other's question; “I find it difficult, even now,
to limit them to the usages of war.”

Heyward was silent; for a painful recollection of
the dangers he had so recently escaped came over
his mind, and recalled the images of those defenceless
beings, who had shared in all his sufferings.

“Ces messieurs là,” said Montcalm, following up
the advantage which he conceived he had gained,
“are most formidable when baffled; and it is unnecessary
to tell you, with what difficulty they are restrained
in their anger. Eh bien, monsieur! shall
we speak of the terms of the surrender?”

“I fear your excellency has been deceived as to
the strength of William Henry, and the resources of
its garrison!”

“I have not set down before Quebec, but an earthen
work, that is defended by twenty-three hundred
gallant men,” was the laconic, though polite reply.

“Our mounds are earthen, certainly—nor are they
seated on the rocks of Cape Diamond;—but they
stand on that shore which proved so destructive to
Dieskau, and his brave army. There is also a powerful

force within a few hours march of us, which we
account upon as part of our means of defence.”

“Some six or eight thousand men,” returned
Montcalm, with much apparent indifference, “whom
their leader, wisely, judges to be safer in their works,
than in the field.”

It was now Heyward's turn to bite his lip with
vexation, as the other so coolly alluded to a force
which the young man knew to be overrated. Both
mused a little while in silence, when Montcalm renewed
the conversation, in a way that showed he
believed the visit of his guest was, solely, to propose
terms of capitulation. On the other hand, Heyward
began to throw sundry inducements in the way
of the French general, to betray the discoveries he
had made through the intercepted letter. The artifice
of neither, however, succeeded; and, after a protracted
and fruitless interview, Duncan took his
leave, favourably impressed with an opinion of the
courtesy and talents of the enemy's captain, but as
ignorant of what he came to learn, as when he arrived.
Montcalm followed him as far as the entrance of the
marquee, renewing his invitations to the commandant
of the fort, to give him an immediate meeting in the
open ground, between the two armies.

There they separated, and Duncan returned to
the advanced post of the French, accompanied as before;
whence he instantly proceeded to the fort, and
to the quarters of his own commander.