The Winning of Canada: A Chronicle of Wolf

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This etext was produced by Gardner Buchanan.

CHRONICLES OF CANADA
Edited by George M. Wrong and H. H. Langton
In thirty-two volumes

Volume 11

THE WINNING OF CANADA
A Chronicle of Wolfe

By WILLIAM WOOD
TORONTO, 1915

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Any life of Wolfe can be artificially simplified by
treating his purely military work as something complete
in itself and not as a part of a greater whole. But,
since such treatment gives a totally false idea of his
achievement, this little sketch, drawn straight from
original sources, tries to show him as he really was, a
co-worker with the British fleet in a war based entirely
on naval strategy and inseparably connected with
international affairs of world-wide significance. The
only simplification attempted here is that of arrangement
and expression.

W.W.

Quebec, April 1914.

CONTENTS

I. THE BOY
II. THE YOUNG SOLDIER
III. THE SEVEN YEARS' PEACE
IV. THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR
V. LOUISBOURG
VI. QUEBEC
VII. THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM
VIII. EPILOGUE--THE LAST STAND

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

CHAPTER I

THE BOY
1727-1741

Wolfe was a soldier born. Many of his ancestors had stood
ready to fight for king and country at a moment's notice.
His father fought under the great Duke of Marlborough in
the war against France at the beginning of the eighteenth
century. His grandfather, his great-grandfather, his only
uncle, and his only brother were soldiers too. Nor has
the martial spirit deserted the descendants of the Wolfes
in the generation now alive. They are soldiers still.
The present head of the family, who represented it at
the celebration of the tercentenary of the founding of
Quebec, fought in Egypt for Queen Victoria; and the member
of it who represented Wolfe on that occasion, in the
pageant of the Quebec campaign, is an officer in the
Canadian army under George V.

The Wolfes are of an old and honourable line. Many hundreds
of years ago their forefathers lived in England and later
on in Wales. Later still, in the fifteenth century, before
America was discovered, they were living in Ireland.
Wolfe's father, however, was born in England; and, as
there is no evidence that any of his ancestors in Ireland
had married other than English Protestants, and as Wolfe's
mother was also English, we may say that the victor of
Quebec was a pure-bred Englishman. Among his Anglo-Irish
kinsmen were the Goldsmiths and the Seymours. Oliver
Goldsmith himself was always very proud of being a cousin
of the man who took Quebec.

Wolfe's mother, to whom he owed a great deal of his
genius; was a descendant of two good families in Yorkshire.
She was eighteen years younger than his father, and was
very tall and handsome. Wolfe thought there was no one
like her. When he was a colonel, and had been through
the wars and at court, he still believed she was 'a match
for all the beauties.' He was not lucky enough to take
after her in looks, except in her one weak feature, a
cutaway chin. His body, indeed, seems to have been made
up of the bad points of both parents: he had his rheumatism
from his father. But his spirit was made up of all their
good points; and no braver ever lived in any healthy body
than in his own sickly, lanky six foot three.

Wolfe's parents went to live at Westerham in Kent shortly
after they were married; and there, on January 2, 1727,
in the vicarage--where Mrs Wolfe was staying while her
husband was away on duty with his regiment--the victor
of Quebec was born. Two other houses in the little country
town of Westerham are full of memories of Wolfe. One of
these was his father's, a house more than two hundred
years old when he was born. It was built in the reign of
Henry VII, and the loyal subject who built it had the
king's coat of arms carved over the big stone fireplace.
Here Wolfe and his younger brother Edward used to sit in
the winter evenings with their mother, while their veteran
father told them the story of his long campaigns. So,
curiously enough, it appears that Wolfe, the soldier who
won Canada for England in 1759, sat under the arms of
the king in whose service the sailor Cabot hoisted the
flag of England over Canadian soil in 1497. This house
has been called Quebec House ever since the victory in
1759. The other house is Squerryes Court, belonging then
and now to the Warde family, the Wolfes' closest friends.
Wolfe and George Warde were chums from the first day they
met. Both wished to go into the Army; and both, of course,
'played soldiers,' like other virile boys. Warde lived
to be an old man and actually did become a famous cavalry
leader. Perhaps when he charged a real enemy, sword in hand,
at the head of thundering squadrons, it may have flashed
through his mind how he and Wolfe had waved their whips
and cheered like mad when they galloped their ponies down
the common with nothing but their barking dogs behind them.

Wolfe's parents presently moved to Greenwich, where he
was sent to school at Swinden's. Here he worked quietly
enough till just before he entered on his 'teens. Then
the long-pent rage of England suddenly burst in war with
Spain. The people went wild when the British fleet took
Porto Bello, a Spanish port in Central America. The news
was cried through the streets all night. The noise of
battle seemed to be sounding all round Swinden's school,
where most of the boys belonged to naval and military
families. Ships were fitting out in English harbours.
Soldiers were marching into every English camp. Crowds
were singing and cheering. First one boy's father and
then another's was under orders for the front. Among them
was Wolfe's father, who was made adjutant-general to the
forces assembling in the Isle of Wight. What were history
and geography and mathematics now, when a whole nation
was afoot to fight! And who would not fight the Spaniards
when they cut off British sailors' ears? That was an old
tale by this time; but the flames of anger threw it into
lurid relief once more.

Wolfe was determined to go and fight. Nothing could stop
him. There was no commission for him as an officer. Never
mind! He would go as a volunteer and win his commission
in the field. So, one hot day in July 1740, the lanky,
red-haired boy of thirteen-and-a-half took his seat on
the Portsmouth coach beside his father, the veteran
soldier of fifty-five. His mother was a woman of much
too fine a spirit to grudge anything for the service of
her country; but she could not help being exceptionally
anxious about the dangers of disease for a sickly boy in
a far-off land of pestilence and fever. She had written
to him the very day he left. But he, full of the stir
and excitement of a big camp, had carried the letter in
his pocket for two or three days before answering it.
Then he wrote her the first of many letters from different
seats of war, the last one of all being written just before
he won the victory that made him famous round the world.

Newport, Isle of Wight, August 6th, 1740.

I received my dearest Mamma's letter on Monday last,
but could not answer it then, by reason I was at camp
to see the regiments off to go on board, and was too
late for the post; but am very sorry, dear Mamma, that
you doubt my love, which I'm sure is as sincere as
ever any son's was to his mother.

Papa and I are just going on board, but I believe
shall not sail this fortnight; in which time, if I
can get ashore at Portsmouth or any other town, I will
certainly write to you, and, when we are gone, by
every ship we meet, because I know it is my duty.
Besides, if it is not, I would do it out of love, with
pleasure.

I am sorry to hear that your head is so bad, which I
fear is caused by your being so melancholy; but pray,
dear Mamma, if you love me, don't give yourself up to
fears for us. I hope, if it please God, we shall soon
see one another, which will be the happiest day that
ever I shall see. I will, as sure as I live, if it is
possible for me, let you know everything that has
happened, by every ship; therefore pray, dearest Mamma,
don't doubt about it. I am in a very good state of
health, and am likely to continue so. Pray my love to
my brother. Pray my service to Mr Streton and his
family, to Mr and Mrs Weston, and to George Warde when
you see him; and pray believe me to be, my dearest
Mamma, your most dutiful, loving and affectionate son,

J. Wolfe.

To Mrs. Wolfe, at her house in Greenwich, Kent.

Wolfe's 'very good state of health' was not 'likely to
continue so,' either in camp or on board ship. A long
peace had made the country indifferent to the welfare of
the Army and Navy. Now men were suddenly being massed
together in camps and fleets as if on Purpose to breed
disease. Sanitation on a large scale, never having been
practised in peace, could not be improvised in this
hurried, though disastrously slow, preparation for a war.
The ship in which Wolfe was to sail had been lying idle
for years; and her pestilential bilge-water soon began
to make the sailors and soldiers sicken and die. Most
fortunately, Wolfe was among the first to take ill; and
so he was sent home in time to save him from the fevers
of Spanish America.

Wolfe was happy to see his mother again, to have his pony
to ride and his dogs to play with. But, though he tried
his best to stick to his lessons, his heart was wild for
the war. He and George Warde used to go every day during
the Christmas holidays behind the pigeon-house at Squerryes
Court and practise with their swords and pistols. One
day they stopped when they heard the post-horn blowing
at the gate; and both of them became very much excited
when George's father came out himself with a big official
envelope marked 'On His Majesty's Service' and addressed
to 'James Wolfe, Esquire.' Inside was a commission as
second lieutenant in the Marines, signed by George II
and dated at St James's Palace, November 3, 1741. Eighteen
years later, when the fame of the conquest of Canada was
the talk of the kingdom, the Wardes had a stone monument
built to mark the spot where Wolfe was standing when the
squire handed him his first commission. And there it is
to-day; and on it are the verses ending,

This spot so sacred will forever claim
A proud alliance with its hero's name.

Wolfe was at last an officer. But the Marines were not
the corps for him. Their service companies were five
thousand miles away, while war with France was breaking
out much nearer home. So what was his delight at receiving
another commission, on March 25, 1742, as an ensign in
the 12th Regiment of Foot! He was now fifteen, an officer,
a soldier born and bred, eager to serve his country, and
just appointed to a regiment ordered to the front! Within
a month an army such as no one had seen since the days
of Marlborough had been assembled at Blackheath. Infantry,
cavalry, artillery, and engineers, they were all there
when King George II, the Prince of Wales, and the Duke
of Cumberland came down to review them. Little did anybody
think that the tall, eager ensign carrying the colours
of the 12th past His Majesty was the man who was to play
the foremost part in winning Canada for the British crown.

CHAPTER II

THE YOUNG SOLDIER
1741-1748

Wolfe's short life may be divided into four periods, all
easy to remember, because all are connected with the same
number-seven. He was fourteen years a boy at home, with
one attempt to be a soldier. This period lasted from 1727
to 1741. Then he was seven years a young officer in time
of war, from 1741 to 1748. Then he served seven years
more in time of peace, from 1748 to 1755. Lastly, he died
in the middle, at the very climax, of the world-famous
Seven Years' War, in 1759.

After the royal review at Blackheath in the spring of
1742 the army marched down to Deptford and embarked for
Flanders. Wolfe was now off to the very places he had
heard his father tell about again and again. The surly
Flemings were still the same as when his father knew
them. They hated their British allies almost as much as
they hated their enemies. The long column of redcoats
marched through a scowling mob of citizens, who meanly
grudged a night's lodging to the very men coming there
to fight for them. We may be sure that Wolfe thought
little enough of such mean people as he stepped out with
the colours flying above his head. The army halted at
Ghent, an ancient city, famous for its trade and wealth,
and defended by walls which had once resisted Marlborough.

At first there was a good deal to do and see; and George
Warde was there too, as an officer in a cavalry regiment.
But Warde had to march away; and Wolfe was left without
any companion of his own age, to pass his spare time the
best way he could. Like another famous soldier, Frederick
the Great, who first won his fame in this very war, he
was fond of music and took lessons on the flute. He also
did his best to improve his French; and when Warde came
back the two friends used to go to the French theatre.
Wolfe put his French to other use as well, and read all
the military books he could find time for. He always kept
his kit ready to pack; so that he could have marched
anywhere within two hours of receiving the order. And,
though only a mere boy-officer, he began to learn the
duties of an adjutant, so that he might be fit for
promotion whenever the chance should come.

Months wore on and Wolfe was still at Ghent. He had made
friends during his stay, and he tells his mother in
September: 'This place is full of officers, and we never
want company. I go to the play once or twice a week, and
talk a little with the ladies, who are very civil and
speak French.' Before Christmas it had been decided at
home--where the war-worn father now was, after a horrible
campaign at Cartagena--that Edward, the younger son, was
also to be allowed to join the Army. Wolfe was delighted.
'My brother is much to be commended for the pains he takes
to improve himself. I hope to see him soon in Flanders,
when, in all probability, before next year is over, we
may know something of our trade.' And so they did!

The two brothers marched for the Rhine early in 1743,
both in the same regiment. James was now sixteen, Edward
fifteen. The march was a terrible one for such delicate
boys. The roads were ankle-deep in mud; the weather was
vile; both food and water were very bad. Even the dauntless
Wolfe had to confess to his mother that he was 'very much
fatigued and out of order. I never come into quarters
without aching hips and knees.' Edward, still more
delicate, was sent off on a foraging party to find
something for the regiment to eat. He wrote home to his
father from Bonn on April 7: 'We can get nothing upon
our march but eggs and bacon and sour bread. I have no
bedding, nor can get it anywhere. We had a sad march last
Monday in the morning. I was obliged to walk up to my
knees in snow, though my brother and I have a horse
between us. I have often lain upon straw, and should
oftener, had I not known some French, which I find very
useful; though I was obliged the other day to speak
_Latin_ for a good dinner. We send for everything we want
to the priest.'

That summer, when the king arrived with his son the Duke
of Cumberland, the British and Hanoverian army was reduced
to 37,000 half-fed men. Worse still, the old general,
Lord Stair, had led it into a very bad place. These 37,000
men were cooped up on the narrow side of the valley of
the river Main, while a much larger French army was on
the better side, holding bridges by which to cut them
off and attack them while they were all clumped together.
Stair tried to slip away in the night. But the French,
hearing of this attempt, sent 12,000 men across the river
to hold the place the British general was leaving, and
30,000 more, under the Duc de Gramont, to block the road
at the place towards which he was evidently marching. At
daylight the British and Hanoverians found themselves
cut off, both front and rear, while a third French force
was waiting to pounce on whichever end showed weakness
first. The King of England, who was also Elector of
Hanover, would be a great prize, and the French were
eager to capture him. This was how the armies faced each
other on the morning of June 27, 1743, at Dettingen, the
last battlefield on which any king of England has fought
in person, and the first for Wolfe.

The two young brothers were now about to see a big battle,
like those of which their father used to tell them.
Strangely enough, Amherst, the future commander-in-chief
in America, under whom Wolfe served at Louisbourg, and
the two men who succeeded Wolfe in command at Quebec
--Monckton and Townshend--were also there. It is an awful
moment for a young soldier, the one before his first
great fight. And here were nearly a hundred thousand men,
all in full view of each other, and all waiting for the
word to begin. It was a beautiful day, and the sun shone
down on a splendidly martial sight. There stood the
British and Hanoverians, with wooded hills on their right,
the river and the French on their left, the French in
their rear, and the French very strongly posted on the
rising ground straight in their front. The redcoats were
in dense columns, their bayonets flashing and their
colours waving defiance. Side by side with their own red
cavalry were the black German cuirassiers, the blue German
lancers, and the gaily dressed green and scarlet Hungarian
hussars. The long white lines of the three French armies,
varied with royal blue, encircled them on three sides.
On the fourth were the leafy green hills.

Wolfe was acting as adjutant and helping the major. His
regiment had neither colonel nor lieutenant-colonel with
it that day; so he had plenty to do, riding up and down
to see that all ranks understood the order that they were
not to fire till they were close to the French and were
given the word for a volley. He cast a glance at his
brother, standing straight and proudly with the regimental
colours that he himself had carried past the king at
Blackheath the year before. He was not anxious about
'Ned'; he knew how all the Wolfes could fight. He was
not anxious about himself; he was only too eager for the
fray. A first battle tries every man, and few have not
dry lips, tense nerves, and beating hearts at its approach.
But the great anxiety of an officer going into action
for the first time with untried men is for them and not
for himself. The agony of wondering whether they will do
well or not is worse, a thousand times, than what he
fears for his own safety.

Presently the French gunners, in the centre of their
position across the Main, lit their matches and, at a
given signal, fired a salvo into the British rear. Most
of the baggage wagons were there; and, as the shot and
shell began to knock them over, the drivers were seized
with a panic. Cutting the traces, these men galloped off
up the hills and into the woods as hard as they could
go. Now battery after battery began to thunder, and the
fire grew hot all round. The king had been in the rear,
as he did not wish to change the command on the eve of
the battle. But, seeing the panic, he galloped through
the whole of his army to show that he was going to fight
beside his men. As he passed, and the men saw what he
intended to do, they cheered and cheered, and took heart
so boldly that it was hard work to keep them from rushing
up the heights of Dettingen, where Gramont's 30,000
Frenchmen were waiting to shoot them down.

Across the river Marshal Noailles, the French
commander-in-chief, saw the sudden stir in the British
ranks, heard the roaring hurrahs, and supposed that his
enemies were going to be fairly caught against Gramont
in front. In this event he could finish their defeat
himself by an overwhelming attack in flank. Both his own
and Gramont's artillery now redoubled their fire, till
the British could hardly stand it. But then, to the rage
and despair of Noailles, Gramont's men, thinking the day
was theirs, suddenly left their strong position and
charged down on to the same level as the British, who
were only too pleased to meet them there. The king, seeing
what a happy turn things were taking, galloped along the
front of his army, waving his sword and calling out,
'Now, boys! Now for the honour of England!' His horse,
maddened by the din, plunged and reared, and would have
run away with him, straight in among the French, if a
young officer called Trapaud had not seized the reins.
The king then dismounted and put himself at the head of
his troops, where he remained fighting, sword in hand,
till the battle was over.

Wolfe and his major rode along the line of their regiment
for the last time. There was not a minute to lose. Down
came the Royal Musketeers of France, full gallop, smash.
through the Scots Fusiliers and into the line in rear,
where most of them were unhorsed and killed. Next, both
sides advanced their cavalry, but without advantage to
either. Then, with a clear front once more, the main
bodies of the French and British infantry rushed together
for a fight to a finish. Nearly all of Wolfe's regiment
were new to war and too excited to hold their fire. When
they were within range, and had halted for a moment to
steady the ranks, they brought their muskets down to the
'present.' The French fell flat on their faces and the
bullets whistled harmlessly over them. Then they sprang
to their feet and poured in a steady volley while the
British were reloading. But the second British volley
went home. When the two enemies closed on each other with
the bayonet, like the meeting of two stormy seas, the
British fought with such fury that the French ranks were
broken. Soon the long white waves rolled back and the
long red waves rolled forward. Dettingen was reached and
the desperate fight was won.

Both the boy-officers wrote home, Edward to his mother;
James to his father. Here is a part of Edward's letter:

My brother and self escaped in the engagement and,
thank God, are as well as ever we were in our lives,
after not only being cannonaded two hours and
three-quarters, and fighting with small arms [muskets
and bayonets] two hours and one-quarter, but lay the
two following nights upon our arms; whilst it rained
for about twenty hours in the same time, yet are ready
and as capable to do the same again. The Duke of
Cumberland behaved charmingly. Our regiment has got
a great deal of honour, for we were in the middle of
the first line, and in the greatest danger. My brother
has wrote to my father and I believe has given him a
small account of the battle, so I hope you will excuse
it me.

A manly and soldier-like letter for a boy of fifteen!
Wolfe's own is much longer and full of touches that show
how cool and observant he was, even in his first battle
and at the age of only sixteen. Here is some of it:

The Gens d'Armes, or Mousquetaires Gris, attacked the
first line, composed of nine regiments of English
foot, and four or five of Austrians, and some
Hanoverians. But before they got to the second line,
out of two hundred there were not forty living. These
unhappy men were of the first families in France.
Nothing, I believe, could be more rash than their
undertaking. The third and last attack was made by
the foot on both sides. We advanced towards one another;
our men in high spirits, and very impatient for
fighting, being elated with beating the French Horse,
part of which advanced towards us; while the rest
attacked our Horse, but were soon driven back by the
great fire we gave them. The major and I (for we had
neither colonel nor lieutenant-colonel), before they
came near, were employed in begging and ordering the
men not to fire at too great a distance, but to keep
it till the enemy should come near us; but to little
purpose. The whole fired when they thought they could
reach them, which had like to have ruined us. However,
we soon rallied again, and attacked them with great
fury, which gained us a complete victory, and forced
the enemy to retire in great haste. We got the sad
news of the death of as good and brave a man as any
amongst us, General Clayton. His death gave us all
sorrow, so great was the opinion we had of him. He
had, 'tis said, orders for pursuing the enemy, and if
we had followed them, they would not have repassed
the Main with half their number. Their loss is computed
to be between six and seven thousand men, and ours
three thousand. His Majesty was in the midst of the
fight; and the duke behaved as bravely as a man could
do. I had several times the honour of speaking with
him just as the battle began and was often afraid of
his being dashed to pieces by the cannon-balls. He
gave his orders with a great deal of calmness and
seemed quite unconcerned. The soldiers were in high
delight to have him so near them. I sometimes thought
I had lost poor Ned when I saw arms, legs, and heads
beat off close by him. A horse I rid of the colonel's,
at the first attack, was shot in one of his hinder
legs and threw me; so I was obliged to do the duty of
an adjutant all that and the next day on foot, in a
pair of heavy boots. Three days after the battle I
got the horse again, and he is almost well.

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