IV.—THE ATTACK ON QUEBEC.
It was the last day of the year 1775.
Yonder, on the awful cliffs of Abraham, in the darkness of the daybreak,
while the leaden sky grooms above, a band of brave men are gathered; yes,
while the British are banquetting in Quebec, here, on this tremendous rock,
in silent array, stand the Heroes of the Wilderness, joined with their
brothers, the Continentals from Montreal.
That little army of one thousand have determined to attack the Gibralter
of America, with its rocks, its fortifications, its two thousand British soldiers.
Here, on the very rock, where, sixteen years ago, Montcalm and Wolfe
poured forth their blood, now are gathered a band of brave men, who are
seen in the darkness of this hour, extending like dim shadow-forms, around
two figures, standing alone in the centre of the host.
It is silent, and sad as death. The roaring of the St. Lawrence alone is
heard. Above the leaden sky, around the rock extending like a plain—
yonder, far through the gloom, a misty light struggles into the sky, that
light gleams from the firesides of Quebec.
Who are these, that stand side by side in the centre of the band?
That muscular form, with a hunting shirt thrown over his breast, that
form standing there, with folded arms and head drooped low, while the eye
glares out from beneath the fanning brow, that is the Patriot Hero of the
Wilderness, Benedict Arnold.
By his side stands a graceful form, with strength and beauty mingled in
its outlines, clad in the uniform of a General, while that chivalrous countenance
with its eye of summer blue, turns anxiously from face to face. In
that form you behold the doomed Montgomery. He has come from Montreal,
he has joined his little band with the Iron Men of Benedict Arnold.
Who are these that gather round, with fur caps upon each brow, moccasins
upon each foot; who are these wild men, that now await the signal-word?—You
may know them by their leader, who, with his iron form,
stands leaning on his rifle—the brave Daniel Morgan.
The daybreak wears on; the sky grows darker; the snow begins to fall.
Arnold turns to his brothers in arms. They clasp each other by the
hand.—Their lips move but you hear no sound.
“Arnold!” whispers Montgomery, “I will lead my division along the St.
Lawrence, under the rocks of Cape Diamond. I will meet you in the centre
of Quebec—or die!”
“Montgomery, I will attack the barrier on the opposite side. There is my
hand! I will meet you yonder—yonder in the centre of Quebec—or perish!”
It is an oath: the word is given.—Look there, and behold the two divisions,
separating over the rocks: this, with Montgomery towards the St.
Lawrence, that with Arnold and Morgan, towards the St. Charles.
All is still. The rocks grow white with snow. All is still and dark, but
grim shadows are moving on every side.
Silence along the lines. Not a word on the peril of your lives! Do
you behold this narrow pass, leading to the first barrier, yonder? That
barrier, grim with cannon, commands every inch of the pass. On one side,
the St. Charles heaps up its rocks of ice; on the other, are piled the rocks
of granite.
Silence along the lines! The night is dark, the way is difficult, but Quebec
is yonder! Soldier, beware of those piles of rock—a single misplaced
footstep may arouse the sleeping soldier on yonder barrier. If he awake,
we are lost! On, brave band, on with stealthy footstep, and rifle to each
shoulder; on, men of the wilderness, in your shirts of blue and fur!
At the head of the column, with his drawn sword gleaming through the
night, Benedict Arnold silently advances.
Then a single cannon, mounted on a sled, and dragged forward, by stout
arms.
Last of all, Daniel Morgan with the riflemen of the Wilderness.
In this order along the narrow pass, with ice on one side and rocks on
the other, the hero-band advance. The pass grows narrower—the battery
nearer. Arnold can now count the cannon—nay, the soldiers who are
watching there. Terrible suspense! Every breath is hushed—stout hearts
now swell within the manly chest.
Lips compressed, eyes glaring, rifles clenched—the Iron Men move
softly on.
Arnold silently turns to his men.
And yonder through the gloom, over the suburb of that city, over the
rocks of that city's first barrier—there frowned the battery grim with
cannon.
There wait the sentinel and his brother soldiers. They hear no sound;
the falling snow echoes no footstep, and yet there are dim shadows moving
along the rocks, moving on without a sound.
Look! Those shadows move up the rocks, to the very muzzles of the
cannon. Now the sentinel starts up from his reclining posture; he hears
that stealthy tread. He springs to his cannon—look! how that flash glares
out upon the night.
Is this magic? There disclosed by that cannon flash, long lines of bold
riflemen start into view, and there—
Standing in front of the cannon, his tall form rising in the red glare, with
a sword in one hand, the Banner of the Stars in the other—there, with that
wild look which he ever wore in battle, gleaming from his eye—there stands
the patriot, Benedict Arnold!
On either side there is a mangled corse—but he stands firm. Before
him yawns the cannon, but he springs upon those cannon—he turns to his
men—he bids them on!
“To-night we will feast in Quebec!”
And the hail of the rifle balls lays the British dead upon their own cannon.—Now
the crisis of the conflict comes.
Now behold this horrid scene of blood and death.
While the snow falls over the faces of the dead, while the blood of the
dying turns that snow to scarlet, gather round your leader, load and fire,
dash these British hirelings upon the barrier's rocks—ye heroes of the
Wilderness!
Now Arnold is in his glory!
Now he knows nothing, sees nothing but that grim barrier frowning
yonder! Those fires flashing from the houses—that rattling hail of bullets
pattering on the snow—he sees, he feels them not!
His eye is fixed upon the second barrier. He glances around that mass
of rifles, now glittering in the red light—he floats the Banner of the Stars on
high—Hark to his shout!
“Never fear, my men of the Wilderness! We have not come three
hundred miles to fail now! Have I not sworn to meet Montgomery there,
to meet him in the centre of the town, or die?”
And then on, across the rocks and cannon of the barrier! Hark—that
crash, that yell! The British soldiers are driven back over the dead bodies
of comrades—the first barrier is won!
Arnold stands victorious upon that barrier—stands there, with blood upon
his face, his uniform—dripping from his sword—stands there with the Banner
of the Stars in his hand!
Oh! sainted mother of Arnold, who on that calm summer night, near
forty years ago, laid your child upon the sacramental altar, now look
from Heaven, and—if saints pray for the children of earth—then pray
that your son may die here upon the bloody barrier of Quebec! For then
his name will be enshrined with Warrens and Washingtons of all time!
Even as Arnold stood there, brandishing that starry banner, a soldier
rushed up to his side, and with horror quivering on his lip, told that the gallant
Montgomery had fallen.
Fallen at the head of his men, covered with wounds; the noble heart,
that beat so high an hour ago, was now cold as the winter snow, on which
his form was laid.
Leaving Arnold for a moment, on the first barrier of Quebec, let us trace
the footsteps of his brother-hero.
Do you behold that massive rock, which arises from the dark river into
the darker sky? Along that rock of Cape diamond, while the St. Lawrence
dashes the ice in huge masses against its base, along that rock, over a path
that leads beneath a shelf of granite, with but room for the foot of a single
man, Richard Montgomery leads his band.
Stealthily, silently, my comrades!—Not a word—let us climb this narrow
path. Take care; a misplaced footstep, and you will be hurled down
upon the ice of the dark river. Up, my men, and on! Yonder it is at
last, the block-house, and beyond it, at the distance of two hundred paces,
the battery, dark with cannon!
With words like these, Montgomery led on his men. The terrible path
was ascended. He stood before the block-house. Now, comrades!
How that rifle-blaze flashed far over the rocks down to the St. Lawrence!
An axe! an axe! by all that is brave! He seizes the axe, the brave
Montgomery; with his own arm he hews the palisades.—The way is clear
for his men. A charge with blazing rifles, a shout, the block-house is won!
Talk of your British bayonets—ha, ha! Where did they ever stand the
blaze of American rifles? Where? Oh, perfumed gentlemen, who in
gaudy uniforms, strut Chesnut street—talk to me of your charge of bayonets,
and your rules of discipline, and your system of tactics, and I will reply by
a single word—one American rifleman, in his rude hunting shirt, was worth
a thousand such as you. Who mocked the charge of bayonets on Bunker
Hill? Who captured Burgoyne? Who—at Brandywine—kept back all
the panoply of British arms from morning till night?—The Riflemen.
One shout the block-house is won.—Now on toward the battery—load
and advance! Montgomery still in the front. With a yell, the British behold
them approach; they flee from their cannon.—Montgomery mounts
the walls of rocks and iron; his sword gleams on high, like a beacon for his
men. At this moment, hush your breath and look!—While Montgomery
clings to the rocks of the battery, a single British soldier turns from his
flight, and fires one of those grim cannon, and then is gone again.
A blaze upon the right, a smoke, a chorus of groans!
Montgomery lays mangled upon the rock, while around him are seattered
four other corses. Their blood mingles in one stream.
A rude rifleman advances, bends down, and looks upon that form, quivering
for an instant only, and then cold—upon that face, torn and mangled,
as with the print of a horse's hoof, that face, but a moment before glowing
with a hero's soul. He looks for a moment and then, with panic in his
face, turns to his comrades.
“Montgomery is dead!” he shrieks; and with one accord they retreat
—they fly from that fatal rock.
But one form lingers. It is that boyish form, graceful almost to womanly
beauty, with the brow of a genius, the eye of an eagle. That boy ran away
from college, bore Washington's commands 300 miles, and now—covered
with the blood of the fight—stands beside the mangled body of Montgomery,
his dark eye wet with tears. In that form behold the man who was almost
President of the United States, and Emperor of Mexico—the enigma of
our history, Aaron Burr.
They are gone. Montgomery is left alone, with no friend to compose
limbs or close those glaring eyes. And at this moment, while the snow
falls over his face, while the warm blood of his heart pours out upon the
rock, yonder in his far-off home, his young wife kneels by her bed, and
prays God to hasten his return!
He died in the flush of heroism, in the prime of early manhood, leaving
his country the rich legacy of his fame, leaving his blood upon the rock of
Quebec.
The day is coming when an army of Free Canadians will encamp on
that very rock, their rifles pointed at the British battery, their Republican
flag waving in the forlorn hope against the British banner! Then perhaps,
some true American heart will wash out the blood of Montgomery from the
rock of Quebec.
Arnold stood upon the first barrier, while his heart throbbed at the story
of Montgomery's fate.
Then that expression of desperation, which few men could look upon
without fear, came over Arnold's face. Now look at him, as with his form
swelling with rage he rushes on! He springs from that barrier, he shouts
to the iron men, he rings the name of Morgan on the air.
He points to the narrow street, over which the second barrier is thrown.
“Montgomery is there,” he shouts, in a voice of thunder, “there waiting
for us!”
Hurrah! How the iron men leap at the word! There is the quick
clang of ramrods; each rifle is loaded. They rush on!
At their head, his whole form convulsed, his lips writhing, his chest
heaving unconscious of danger, as though the ghost of Montgomery was
there before him, Benedict Arnold rushes on!
Even as he rushes, he falls. Even as you look upon him, in his battle
rage with his right leg shattered, he falls.
But does he give up the contest?
By the ghost of Montgomery—No!
No! He lifts his face from the snow now crimsoned with his blood, he
follows with his startling eyes, the path of Morgan, he shouts with his
thunder tones, his well-known battle-cry.
He beholds his men rush on amid light and flame, he hears the crack of
the rifle, the roar of cannon, the tread of men, rushing forward to the
conflict.
Then he endeavors to rise. A gallant soldier offers his arm to the
wounded hero.
He rises, stands for a moment, and then falls. But still his soul is firm.
—Still his eye glares upon the distant flight. Not until he makes his bed,
there on the cold snow, in a pool of his own blood, until his eyes fail and
his right leg stiffens, does his soul cease to beat with the pulsations of battle.
Then and then only, the Hero of the Wilderness is carried back to
yonder rock.
Would to God that he had died there!
Would to God that he had died there with all his honorable wounds about
him. O, for a stray bullet, a chance shot, to still his proud heart forever.
O, that he had laid side by side with Montgomery, hallowed forever by his
death of glory. Then the names of Arnold and Montgomery, mingled in
one breath, would have been joined forever, in one song of immortality.
But Montgomery died alone; his blood stains the rock of Quebec. Arnold
lived; his ashes accursed by his countrymen, rest in an unknown
grave.
When the news of the gallant attack on Quebec—gallant though unsuccessful—reached
Philadelphia, the Congress rewarded Benedict Arnold with
the commission of a Brigadier General.
The same mob, who, afterwards—while Arnold was yet true to his country—stoned
him in the streets, and stoned the very arm that had fought for
them, now cracked their throats in shouting his name.
The very city, which afterwards was the scene of his Dishonorable Persecution,
now flashed out from its illuminated casements, glory of the Hero
of Quebec, Benedict Arnold.
