by Dan Snow
The real reason for his secretiveness was not genius but paralysis. Wolfe spent the month casting around for ideas. On 11 August he wrote in his journal, with more hope than determination, that he proposed ‘to undertake something of consequence in a few days’.48 It came to nothing. Little is known about his thinking for the next month because he destroyed his own diary from 12 August onwards. We know, however, that he continued to look longingly at the Beauport shore while at the same time not ruling out an attack above the town, if Murray returned with news of weak points in Montcalm’s defences there. He also wrote to Monckton thinking of an all-out assault on the Lower Town. Mackellar wrote in his journal that the General gave orders for augmenting the batteries across the narrows from Quebec ‘to forty pieces of cannon; this was thought favourable to a storming of the town by water’.49 Mackellar had always disapproved of such a desperate gamble. Knox heard that the Chief Engineer, ‘who is well acquainted with all the interior parts of the place’, believed it was ‘an enterprise extremely dangerous, and without any prospect of succeeding, particularly as the fleet cannot assist us, their guns not having sufficient elevation to affect the upper town’. Even if the Lower Town was captured, ‘we could neither carry our point nor continue in possession of it’.50 The army would be trapped on the narrow strip of ground below the cliffs and face annihilation. Wolfe listened to his Chief Engineer. He reported to Pitt that because the few passages from the Lower to the Upper Town were so ‘carefully entrenched’ and covered by the batteries from above, Wolfe could not bring himself to attempt ‘an undertaking of so dangerous a nature, and promising so little success’.51 Knox heard on 21 August that ‘the enterprise of storming Quebec’ had been given up ‘as too desperate’.52
Wolfe even started planning for failure. If he had to embark his army and disappear down the St Lawrence to winter in New England and Halifax he thought about leaving an outpost on the Île aux Coudres to dominate the river during the winter, until a new amphibious force was sent up in the spring. There are various references to this plan in Knox’s journals until this plan too was abandoned. Knox reports that the planned fort, big enough to hold 3,000 men, ‘is laid aside for want of proper materials, and the season being too far advanced for such an undertaking’.53 Knox was well informed. Wolfe wrote to Pitt ten days later saying, ‘I intended to fortify Coudres and leave 3000 men for the defence of it; but was too late in the season, to collect materials sufficient for covering so large a body.’54
As well as high levels of desertion, there are other clues that imply tumbling morale. On 18 August Wolfe was forced to remind his men that if any of them ’pretends to dispute the authority of an officer of any other corps under whose command he is, and if a soldier presumes to use any indecent language to the non-commissioned officers of his own, or of any other corps, such soldiers shall be punished in an exemplary manner’. On 26 August Wolfe ordered that since he supposed ‘that all the officers and men are equally ready to march whenever the service requires it’ if ever volunteers were lacking for an expedition he would send whichever unit was next up for duty. It seems that the men’s enthusiasm for leaving camp and braving the perils of the Canadian woods was flagging.55
The general malaise spread from the bottom of Wolfe’s army to the very top. The lack of a coherent plan articulated to his officers, coming off the back of his failure at Montmorency and his unwillingness to attempt anything in the weeks following led to serious whispering in the British camp. A naval officer wrote to a colleague saying that the attempt at Montmorency had been ‘impracticable; which some General Officers scarcely hesitate to say’. He went on to describe how ‘one of them of knowledge, fortune and interest I have heard has declared the attack then and there, was contrary to the advice and opinion of every officer; and when things are come to this, you’ll judge what the event may be’. In short, he wrote, ‘we find ourselves outnumbered and we fear, out generaled…we imagine here that near 500 are killed, missing and wounded since our first arrival and we have not gained as I can perceive, any considerable advantage’.56
Captain Schomberg of the Diana wrote to a fellow officer saying that ‘General Wolfe appears in his conduct more like [Fabius] Maximus than Achilles, notwithstanding what has been said of his impetuosity by his enemies and rivals.’57 Fabius Maximus had been nicknamed ‘Cunctator’ or ‘the Delayer’ by Romans angry at his apparent refusal to attack Hannibal as the latter rampaged along the length of the Italian peninsula.
It was not just the naval officers who were questioning Wolfe’s leadership. Bell’s journal on 31 July contains a remarkable reference to ‘Colonel Carleton’s abominable behaviour to the General’.58 What kind of behaviour, and what sort of abomination, were regrettably not specified. That even this favourite of Wolfe’s was now becoming hostile is a shocking admission of his alienation from even his closest colleagues.
Wolfe’s ‘Family Journal’ launches vitriolic attacks on nearly everyone during August. ‘After the miscarriage of the attack on the lines of Montmorency,’ it relates, the evil spirits began to show themselves more openly than before and form into parties, every person who had undergone censure during the campaign fled to the standard of discontent of Murray and Townshend, however their numbers were very few. They looked on the whole affair as over, and that no future attempt would be made, which is a tacit confession that would have been the case with themselves, had they commanded.
Unstintingly loyal to his idol, the author notes that ‘they were little acquainted with the invincible spirit of Wolfe’. He wrote that ‘Wolfe held their cabal very cheap, and as he acted from noble principles disregarded ill grounded opinions.’59 Sometime during late July Murray had obviously overtaken the Royal Navy and Townshend as the chief object of Wolfe’s disdain. His ‘Family Journal’ calls his junior brigadier ‘deadly nightshade, the poison of a camp’. It continues, ’envy and ambition are the only springs that work him. The more brilliant and excellent any character is the more his envy is excited, and the more he detracts. Neither honour, gratitude—anything else that is binding among mankind, are bars to ambition.’ It claims he was ‘the very bellows of sedition and discord’ and ‘he has great artifice in setting evil spirits afloat in an army, and in persuading people that their merits are not rewarded’. It finishes with a vicious summary of his abilities: ‘He is hot in action, brave from ambition not zeal—a tolerable good commander of a brigade—anything beyond that is too extensive for him.’60 The author of the journal believed that there was a real reason for Murray’s raid upriver: ‘The only step [Wolfe] took was to separate Townshend and Murray by sending Murray to destroy the Magazine of Deschambault, and I afterwards heard him make this observation that Townshend was innocent when separated from Murray.’61 The army may have been few in number, but it was not a happy few, nor a band of brothers.
Townshend’s disgust with the brutality towards civilians further poisoned his respect for his commander in chief. He wrote to his mother and said, ‘As to Mr Wolfe, I am convinced you knew him better than I did, and had I known him as well as you, I would not have been under his command in America.’62 He did not just share his poor opinion of Wolfe with his mother. It was widely known in the army. Wolfe’s friend Lieutenant Colonel Murray of the Louisbourg Grenadiers wrote to a close friend on 8 August saying, ‘Townshend is well but a malcontent. I meddle in no politics or party, am well with all.’ He sounds rather pleased that he is apparently considered ‘a favourite of the whole army; I go by the name of “the old soldier.”’63 Wolfe’s tension with Townshend was nothing new, but the collapse in his relationship with the other brigadiers is fascinating. Monckton needed soothing after flying into a rage at Wolfe detaching various units from his force at Point Lévis, and, in his view, dangerously weakening it. Wolfe wrote an apologetic letter on 15 August. He explained that ‘Barré, who esteems you much’ had told him of Monckton’s unhappiness and he insisted that ‘I have all possible regard and esteem for you.’ He made him ‘hearty
excuses’ and promised that ‘I never mean to disoblige—I am too well convinced of your upright sentiments, and zeal for the public service, not to set the highest value upon your friendship.’ The next day he was forced to prostrate himself again: ‘I do repeat to you, that I would avoid all occasion of offence…and I heartily beg your forgiveness, for this last, or any other former error or mistake of mine.’64
Colonel Williamson, his artillery commander, also found Wolfe’s behaviour perplexing. He wrote to Lord Ligonier saying, ‘I am certain that as we are situated an addition of three or four thousand men to go and land at any convenient spot two or three miles above the town would finish our work in a fortnight’s time.’ Instead, the army did nothing while ‘our shot and shells are destroying their capital’.65
Given the speed of news and rumour passing through and between armies, even the French found out about the schisms in the British high command. An officer in the French army heard from a deserter in late August that ‘some misunderstanding existed between the land and naval commanders. We had already heard this, and it is since confirmed.’66
Just when frustration and indecision were plaguing the British camp a new threat emerged. One with more potential to do damage than the cautious Montcalm; a scourge which no pre-industrial army could hope to avoid for long: disease. In early August Knox observed the first signs of illness. ‘The troops, on this side,’ he wrote, ’begin to grow sickly, particularly the marines, who are therefore ordered to remove to the westward of the church, where they have room enough to render their camp more open and airy; the disorders prevailing among the men are fluxes and fevers, such as troops are usually subject to in the field.’67 On 9 August Major Boisrond, the marines’ commanding officer, sent a return to Monckton of the number of men under his command ashore and their condition. Of 1,001 men 150 were sick.68 The casualty rate of 15 per cent would slowly climb through the rest of the month.
By 17 August news of the condition of the British troops was brought to the French camp. ‘We learned by three new deserters from the enemy’s army,’ reports one journal, ‘that a severe dysentery was prevailing there, which had already destroyed a great many people.’69 Wolfe and the other commanders did what they could to halt the spread of disease. Orders were issued for the men to clean themselves properly. Latrines, trenches dug in the ground and covered over when full, were situated with great care. After at least a month of the camp being totally static, space was rapidly used up for opening new latrines within the tight confines of the defences. Wolfe took a close interest; near the beginning of the campaign he had ordered that ’in order to preserve the health of the troops, each regiment…[is] to make new houses [outhouses] at least every third day, and throw some earth into them daily. They are to be made by the front line as far advanced as they conveniently can, and those of the 2nd line as far in the rear of the whole encampment.’70 Townshend, in his series of witty but cruel caricatures, portrayed Wolfe as obsessed by the whole unglamorous business.
Human waste was not the only threat. As the camps grew dirtier by the end of July Wolfe ordered that ‘butchers and others who kill meat, [must] always bury the offal’. A point emphasized a few days later when Wolfe announced that ’great care [is] to be taken by the Regiments within their respective encampments, and in their neighbourhood, that all offal and filth of every kind which might taint the air be buried deep under ground and the general recommends in the strongest manner to the commanders of the corps to have their camps kept clean and sweet’.71
Eighteenth-century camp life was a constant battle against the microbes. In the winter of 175 8/9 the Highlanders stationed at one fort had been told in no uncertain terms to use the latrines: ‘if any man is found to shite or otherwise nasty the fort he shall be obliged to clean it with his hands, and no other instrument shall be allowed, as it is a scandal and shame that so much nastiness should be seen in the fort already’. Also, ‘pisspots, which are to stand at the door of the barracks, [are] to be carried out of the fort and cleaned every morning’.72 Dealing with human and other waste is a central theme of any account of a campaign. As Wolfe tried to make his men use the relevant facilities, in Amherst’s army a provincial major was issuing order after order to try to keep his men disease free. ‘It is reported to me,’ ran one such order,
that some of the men are lousy, therefore it is expected that the captains or commanding officers of companies enquire into the affairs and if there is any that is so to order them cleaned otherwise they will louse the whole…and examine the men’s tents and see that they are kept clean and to see the men wash their shirts and stockings as often as needful.
Officers were also to check that ‘all the filth [is] cleaned out and buried and new earth covered over’.73
Dysentery, known at the time as the flux or bloody flux, was spread through unsanitary water. Micro-organisms flourished in it and entered the body where they attacked the lining of the men’s intestines. Sufferers experienced severe diarrhoea with blood in their faeces and possibly vomiting. Some victims could not keep down any liquids at all and died of dehydration. The other killer was typhus which was carried by the lice that feasted off the flesh of humans especially in tightly packed concentrations. The disease that devastated Athens during the Peloponnesian War is thought to have been typhus and during Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow it killed more men than the pursuing Russians. In Britain it broke out in the dreadfully packed prisons and was known as ‘gaol fever’ which was estimated to carry off as much as a quarter of the prison population of London each year. In the twentieth century it would rip through the malnourished and filthy population of Bergen-Belsen killing inmates long after it was liberated. Wolfe’s men would have been struck by a headache, fever, and a rash. Then fall into a listless stupor and experience terrible delirium.
The tents were breeding grounds for lice. In June Wolfe had ordered five men maximum to a tent but ideally no more than four. The men slept head to toe; two men shared their two blankets using one as a ground sheet and the other to keep them warm. Initially fresh straw was laid on the ground of the tents but after a short time, Montresor reported to his father, ‘the straw is grown bad’. As a result ‘Parties are daily detached from this camp for boards for the men’s tents, and also for corn to dry in the sun.’74 At the end of July Wolfe admitted that such static camping was not ideal but ‘as it is impossible at present to move to better ground, great care is to be taken to air the tents and dry the straw and ground’. He went on to say that ‘as fresh straw cannot be conveniently got for the troops, it is recommended to the commanding officers to direct the cutting [of] spruce bows for that purpose’.75 Days of heavy rain turned the camps into bogs, soaking the men’s bedding and contaminating the whole area with overspill from shallow latrines. Knox reports that at one stage ‘our encampment [was] under water’.76 At the end of August he reports that spruce bows on the floor were not enough and the men ‘were ordered to strip houses, boards being wanted to floor our men’s tents for the preservation of their health’.77 The houses of the habitants, already picked bare by looters, were now ripped apart and their planks used to floor the tents in an attempt to combat the filthy muddy conditions, the result of days of heavy rain.
Wolfe ordered the men to keep themselves clean and encouraged swimming in the river. Curiously he forbade them from doing so through the hottest hours of the day. Possibly to prevent sun burn and sun stroke they were only allowed to swim ‘in the morning and evenings’.This order, of 19 July, does not seem to have been obeyed as the next day he ordered the ‘guard near the water side to take up any soldiers that may be swimming between the hours of 9 in the morning and 5 in the evening’.78
Despite new flooring, swimming, and strict sanitation by the end of August the hospital in the church on the tip of the Île d’Orléans was full and the staff were overwhelmed. Wolfe pressed the women of the army into service. On the twentieth he announced that ’if any woman refuses to serve as a nurse in the hospit
al, or after being there leaves it without being regularly dismissed by order of the director, she shall be struck off the provisions roll; and if found afterwards in any of the camps, shall be turned out immediately’.79 The women, many with no previous experience of the horror of a field hospital, must have had a terrible shock. Men with burns, gouges, and slash wounds from battle lay alongside those with chronic diarrhoea and vomiting. With no idea of microbiology the staff fought the diseases with a vague sense of the importance of cleanliness and slightly better rations than those provided to the healthy soldiers. Milk from captured dairy cows was earmarked for the patients. Any men who were lucky enough to survive the regimen of hospital were sent back to their regiments. Once they returned to their units, Wolfe ordered that ‘they are to be kept off duty for a week or ten days, as the surgeons shall think best’.80
Scurvy was less of a threat given the availability of some fresh produce and the realization that spruce beer prevented it. It requires thirty days without any vitamin C in the diet for skin problems to appear followed by minor haemorrhages and lethargy. After eleven weeks the gums become soft and old wounds reopen. During the summer anti-scorbutics seem to have been available although there were still some sufferers. Treatments were more Iron Age than Enlightenment. Knox witnessed a remarkable attempt to cure a sufferer where a man was buried to his neck in sand and ‘remained for some hours: this I am told is to be repeated every day, until his recovery is perfected’. Remarkably, ‘the poor fellow seemed to be in good spirits, laughed and conversed with the spectators who were about him’.81
John Johnson paints a grim picture of the army at the end of August. He described the ‘small number we are now reduced [to] fit for the field’. Many of his comrades had been ‘lost by sickness, and rendered entirely useless through hard duty’. With more than a hint of melodrama Johnson says that this ‘handful of men’ in ‘three very weak Brigades’ had only a ‘very small’ chance of becoming ‘masters of Quebec’.82
