“C’est l’armee Americaine, n’est-ce pas?” he asked.
“Oui, certainment. Etes-vous Français?” Ducrocq replied.
“Certainment pas, mon vieux! Je suis Français Canadien. Je suis ici pour parler à votre officier supérieur, le Général Johnston.”
Ducrocq pointed out the officers’ tents in the field above. Louis Joseph Papineau thanked him and went up the bank. The soldier looked after him and thought what a strange accident it was to meet someone speaking French up here in the cold north so far from home. Then he laughed aloud.
Even a simple garçon from the bayous knew that there were few coincidences like this in war. French Canada was just across the river—and two regiments of French-speaking American soldiers were on this shore. And then there were the gun batteries and the heavy-laden wagons. Something very interesting was in the wind.
“Rifles,” General Johnston said, pointing into the open box. “The very newest Spencer-breech loading, repeating rifles. They fire ten shots before they have to be reloaded. They are different, of course, from muzzle-loading rifles. But not difficult to master. Our soldiers have had recent experience with them and will be happy to show your men how to use them with the greatest efficiency.”
“That will take some time, General. Unhappily most of my loyal followers come from small towns and farms and speak only French.”
“I think that you will pleased to discover that will not be a problem. Canada is not the only part of North America where French is spoken.”
“Of course! The Louisiana Purchase. You have troops from that area, around New Orleans.”
“We do.”
QUEBEC IN PERIL
“I should have realized when I was answered in French by one of your soldiers. I thank you for the guns—and for your willing instructors.”
“I have also been ordered to aid you in any way that I can. The battle plan and attack will be yours, of course. But you will be fighting regular troops and I can assure you that you will need cannon to assure victory.”
A steam whistle sounded in the distance, then once again. Johnston pulled his watch from his pocket and looked at it.
“Accurate to the minute. I wish that all operations of war went this well.”
They emerged from the tent as the warship came around the bend, two more steaming in her wake.
“Cargo ships from Lake Ontario. They had the armor plate and guns added in Rochester. Originally built to stop any waterborne British invasion—across the lakes. But I think they will be just as good on the attack as on the defense.”
Papineau was wild with delight and would have embraced and kissed Johnston if the general had not stepped quickly back.
“I am overwhelmed, mon général. Before, when we had our rebellion I had only men, boys really, armed with their fathers’ hunting guns. So we lost. Now I have these so marvelous weapons you bring. Your soldiers, big cannon—and now this. I tell you Montreal will fall at a single blow, for there are only a few hundred English troops in the city. And I have agents there already, talking to the local Canadian militia who have no love for the Anglais. They will rebel, follow us to a man.”
“And they will be reinforced by my troops. Since the British are raiding south from Canada, I have no compunction about invading your country.”
“It is no invasion. You are most welcome. I see this action as brother aiding brother.”
“We will have to cross the river. Where do you suggest that we land?”
He spread out a map and Papineau examined it closely, then pointed to a spot.
“Here. There are flat meadows and an old timber dock, just here, so landing from your ships will be quite easy. Also— this small forest shields the landing from the city which is around this bend in the river. It is not a long journey and my men know all the paths and roads. A march could be done during the night, to be in position to attack at dawn.”
“Agreed. That is just what we will do.”
A steam whistle sounded as the ironclads swung in toward the landing; the troops cheered and went down to greet them. Papineau’s eyes were unfocused, as though he were seeing the incredible events of the future taking place before him.
“First Montreal—and then on to Quebec. We will succeed, we must succeed. Canada will be French once again.”
General Johnston nodded as though he agreed. Though in truth he had little thought of Canada, French or not. He was fighting this war to lick the British. If an uprising in French Canada could help destroy the enemy, why then he was very much in favor of it. In war you use any weapon to hand. In this he was very much in agreement with his new commanding officer, General Sherman. You fight wars to win.
Far to the south, in a far warmer clime, a brief but fierce engagement was coming to an end. The only fortifications in the British West Indies were on the islands of Jamaica, Barbados and St. Lucia. The two smaller islands, important coaling stations, had fallen quickly to the American attackers who then pressed on to Jamaica. The headquarters of the Imperial West India Station had always been considered impregnable to attack by sea. The harbor of Kingston had heavily reinforced gun positions guarding its entrance; any enemy ship attempting to enter would be destroyed by fire.
Any wooden ship that is. General Ulysses S. Grant had experience at reducing gun batteries with ironclad gunboats, at Forts Henry and Donelson. Now he had the Avenger with her twin turrets, each mounting two 400-pound Parrott guns, far heavier than the guns he had used before. From the deck of the steam frigate Roanoke he had watched emplacement after emplacement pounded and destroyed. Some of the gun emplacements were shielded by stone walls that fell slowly when struck by solid cannonballs. For these the Avenger used explosive shells that blasted great openings in the defenses, destroyed the artillery behind them. The defenders kept firing to the last—and every cannonball bounced harmlessly from the ironclad’s armor.
When the last gun was silenced the wooden-hulled Roanoke had led the troop transports into the harbor. Resistance was slight—as expected. Spies had revealed that the garrison in Newcastle consisted of only four companies of the West India Regiment. The other regiments, infantry, Royal Engineers and Royal Artillery had been sent to the American campaign. The remaining regiment had been dispersed about the island and could not be assembled in time to prevent the Americans from landing. When the port had been taken and Government House seized, Grant had finished his report on the operation and taken it personally to Commodore Goldsborough on Avenger.
“Well done Commodore, well done.”
“Thank you General. I know that you have experience of combined army and navy operations, but this was an education to me. Is that the report for the President?”
“It is.”
“Excellent. I shall have it telegraphed to him as soon as I reach Florida to take on coal. I will get my ammunition and powder that I need in Baltimore, then continue north. At full speed. It is hard to realize in these salubrious islands that winter has arrived.”
“There is much to be done before the snow comes and the lakes and rivers freeze. General Sherman has his troops in position by now and is just awaiting word that you are on your way.”
“I am, sir, I am—with victory in my sights!”
THE BATTLE OF QUEBEC
The air was filled with the clatter of the telegraphs, the scratch of the operators’ pens as they transcribed the mysterious, but to them knowledgeable, clickings. Nicolay seized up one more sheet of paper and hurried to the President’s side.
“Montreal has been seized with unexpected ease. The ironclads bombarded the Royal Battery below the city, and the Citadelle above. The battery was destroyed and the Citadelle so knocked about that Papineau’s men took it on the first attack.”
“What about those Martello towers that General Johnston was so concerned about?”
“Papineau’s agents took care of that. The towers were manned by the local volunteer regiment of gunners—all French Canadian except for their office
rs. When the battle began they threw their officers out of the gun ports and turned their guns on the British. Within an hour of the first shot the defenders had either surrendered or ran. The Canadians are now in command.”
“Wonderful—wonderful! The doorway to Canada opened up—while Grant and Goldsborough have cleansed the West Indies of the enemy presence. I hope that I am not tempting fate when I say that the end may be in sight. Perhaps with a few more military disasters the British will reconsider their delaying tactics in Berlin. They must surely begin to realize that their disastrous adventure here must eventually end.”
“There is certainly no sign of it in their newspapers. You have seen the ones the French ship landed yesterday?”
“I have indeed. I was particularly enamored of that fine likeness of me with horns and pointed tail. My enemies in Congress will certainly have it mounted and framed.”
The President stood and walked to the window, to look out at the bleak winter day. But he did not see it, saw instead the bright islands in the Caribbean no longer British, no longer a base for raids on the American mainland. Now Montreal taken as well. Like iron jaws closing, the military might of a reunited United States was cleansing the continent of the invaders.
“It will be done,” the President said with grim determination. “General Sherman is in position?”
“He marched as soon as he received the word from General Grant that Jamaica had fallen and that Avenger was steaming north.”
“The die is cast, Nicolay, and the end is nigh as the preachers say. We offered peace and they refused it. So now we end the war on our terms.”
“Hopefully . . .”
“None of that. We have the right—and the might. Our future is in General Sherman’s most competent hands. Our joined armies are firm in their resolve to rid this country—if not this continent—of the British. I suppose, in a way, we should be grateful to them. If they had not attacked us we would still be at war with the Southern states. A war of terrible losses now thankfully over. Perhaps all hostilities will soon end and we can begin to think of a land at peace again.”
The kerosene light hung from the ridgepole of the tent, lighting up the maps between the two generals. Sherman leaned back and shook his head.
“General Lee—you should have my job, and not the other way around. Your plan is devastating in its simplicity, will be deadly and decisive when we strike the enemy.”
“We worked this out together you will remember.”
“I have assembled the forces—but the battle tactics are yours.”
“Let us say I have had greater experience in the field—and almost all of the time defending against superior forces. A man grows wise under those circumstances. And you are also forgetting something, Cump. Neither I nor any other general could take your place in command of our joined forces. No other Union general could command Southern troops and Northern troops at the same time. What you did for us in Mississippi will never be forgotten.”
“I did what had to be done.”
“No other man did it,” Lee said firmly. “No other man could have done it. And now that war between the states is over and, with God’s aid, it will soon be nothing but a bitter memory.”
Sherman nodded agreement. “May you be speaking only the truth. But I know the South almost as well as you do. Will there not be bitterness over the act to free the Negroes?”
Lee looked grim as he sat back in his camp chair, rubbed his gray beard in thought. “It will not be easy,” he finally said. “It is easy enough for a soldier to do, to follow commands. So we have the military on the side of justice, on the enforcement of the new laws. And the money will help see that all of the changes go down easily since most of the planters have been bankrupted by the war. The money for their slaves will put them back on their feet.”
“And then what?” Sherman persisted. “Who will pick the cotton? Free men—or free slaves?”
“That is something we must ponder upon—certainly the newspapers write of nothing else. But it must be done. Or all the death and destruction will have been in vain.”
“It will be done,” Sherman said with great sincerity. “Look how our men have fought side by side. If men who had recently been trying to kill each other can now fight shoulder-to-shoulder—certainly men who did not see war can do the same.”
“Some did not feel that way when the Congress of the Confederacy met for the last time.”
“Hotheads—how I despise them. And poor Jefferson Davis. Still attended by the doctors, his wound not healing well.”
Lee sat quiet for long minutes, then shook his head. “All that we have talked about, I am sure that it will work out well. Money for the planters. Jobs for the returning soldiers as the South begins to industrialize. I think that all of these tangible things will work, that slavery will be ended once and forever in this country. It is the intangibles that worry me.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I am talking about the assumed authority of the white race. No matter how poor they are, what kind of trash, the Southerner doesn’t think but knows that he is superior to the Negro just by the color of his skin. Once things have settled down and the men are home they are going to look at free blackmen walking the streets—and they will not like it. There will be trouble, certainly trouble.”
Sherman could think of nothing to say. He had lived in the South long enough to know that Lee was speaking only the truth. They sat in silence then, wrapped in their own thoughts. Lee took out his watch and snapped the lid open.
“It will be dawn soon, time for me to join my troops,” Lee said, climbing to his feet. Sherman stood as well—and impulsively put out his hand. Lee seized it and smiled in return.
“To victory in the morning,” he said. “Destruction to the enemy.”
After General Robert E. Lee left, General William Tecumseh Sherman looked once more at the maps, once more went over the details of the attack. His aide, Colonel Roberts, joined him.
From the south bank of the river the city of Quebec loomed up clearly in the light of dawn. Sherman lowered his telescope and looked again at the map.
“It is just a little over a hundred years since Wolfe took the city,” he said. “Appears that little has changed.”
“If anything the defenses are stronger,” Colonel Roberts said, pointing at the upper city on the headland of Cape Diamond. “The walls and gun batteries have been built up since then. I would say that they are impregnable to frontal attack.”
“A frontal attack was never considered.”
“I know—but there was ice on the river last night.”
“Just a thin film. The St. Lawrence rarely freezes before the middle of December, almost two weeks from now. What we must do will be done today.”
“At least we don’t have to land men at Wolfe’s Cove and have them climb the path to the Plains of Abraham—as Wolfe did.”
Sherman did not smile; he found nothing humorous in war. “We shall not vary from our agreed plan of operation unless there is sufficient reason. Are the ironclads in position?”
“They went by during the night. Shore observers report that they are anchored at the assigned sites.”
“General Lee’s divisions?”
“Cleared out some British positions on the Isle of Orléans above the city. His troops are now in position there and on the St. Charles side of the city.”
“Good. There is enough light now. Start the attack on the gun positions at Point Lévis. Report to me when they are taken and our guns are in position.”
Sherman raised his telescope again as the telegraph rattled the command. An instant later the deep boom of cannon could be heard to the south, mixed with the crackle of small arms fire.
The British would be expecting an attack from the north, across the Plains of Abraham, the flattest and easiest approach to Quebec. Their scouts would have reported the advance of General Wallace’s divisions from that direction. So far, everything was going as planned.
The armies north and south of the city, the ironclads in the river, the guns all in position.
There were shouts from the field behind the telegraph tent, a rattling and clatter as the wagons swung off the road. Almost before they had stopped the trained team of soldiers had started to pull out the crumpled yellow form and stretch it along the ground. Soon the sharp stench of sulfuric acid cut through the air as it was poured into the containers of iron filings. The lids slammed down and within minutes the hydrogen gas generated by the chemical reaction was being pumped through the rubberized canvas hose. As the balloon inflated more and more men grabbed onto the lines: it took thirty of them to keep it from breaking free. When the line was attached to the cage the observer and the telegraph operator climbed in. As the observation balloon rose the telegraph wire dangled down to the ground, all eight hundred feet of it.
General Sherman nodded approval. Now he had the eyes of a bird, something generals had been praying for for centuries. The iron frame of the telegraph in the wagon tapped out the first reports from the operator above.
It appeared that everything was going smoothly and to plan.
Within an hour the American cannon, and the captured British cannon, were firing their first shells into the besieged city.
GENERAL SHERMAN’S EYE IN THE SKY
“Can’t anything be done about that bloody contraption?” General Harcourt said, then stepped back as a shell struck the parapet nearby sending stone fragments in all directions. The yellow observation balloon hung in the still air, looking down into the besieged city.
“Sorry sir,” his aide said. “Out of range of our rifles—and no way to hit it with a cannon.”
“But the blighter is looking right down into our positions. They can mark the fall of every shell . . .”
Stars & Stripes Forever Page 31
