The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1911-02-08

mediately came the next question: "A quel regiment?' He lied again this brave Highlander-as he made response: De la Reine." It was known that a convoy of provisions was likely to pass down the river at this time. The sentry was satisfied and did not demand the password. Another sentry challenged little lat CT, but he was assured that the boats were carrying provisions, and he was instructed to remain quiet lest the English might hear the conversation,
 ''The place of landing is reached; the men disembark; the climb is be- gun 24 volunteers leading the way. A branch is broken, and the silence is disturbed; 8 rock is loosened, and goes laundering down the steep. All is again silent. Clutchfng at trees their backs, they continue the climb. Wolfe has scarcely strength sufficient to drag himself up the cliff. The morning is dawning;- in the grey light, the long file of relocated soldiers moves quickly forward. The day breaks in clouds and rain. Wolfe's battalions are on the crest of the heights; the place is known as The Plains of Abraham;' they are named from a pilot who owned this piece of land; his name is thus made i'm mortal.
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 Quebec is about a mile distant. The heroic Montcalm has passed a troubled night; he has for many nights slept in his armor. He learns that the British soldiers have reached the heights. On his great black point, bringing up his troops. To his amazement, he saw stretched before him the close ranks of the English infantry, and the dashing Highland CTS, their tartans waving in the wind and their bagpipes making defiant music. Snail Montca1m give bat tie? Vaudrueil has not come to his aid. Montcalm holds council of war. It is decided to make an inn mediate attack. Montcalm must fight. as Wolfe is in a position to cut off all his supplies. As he rode his ing his sword, speaking in his vehem- ent manner, he was a truly heroic figure. The British and the Colonists await orders. Cool and determined, Wolfe passed from rank to rank The terrible moment has come. It is 10 o'clock, September 13, 1759. Utter ing loud shouts, the French rapidly approach. Their ranks are ill-order- ed, and many of the men are untrain- ed. They are now within 40 paces of the British line; Wolfe utters the word of command. The crash of
 
 ion, that 1t seems to be the roar of cannon rather than the fire of musk cts. The French hesitate. Another volley from the British is heard. The ground is covered with dead and wounded. The French forces have become a frantic. shouting. reeling mob. The order is given the British to charge. Cheers mingled with the fierce yells of the Highland slogan. The clansmen drew their famous broadswords and dashed forward at the head of Louisburg Grenadiers. His wrist is shattered by shot, but wrapping a handkerchief about it he dashes forward. A second time he is struck, but still he advances. Now 8 third shot ends the heroic career of the superb Wolfe. He reels, stag gers, and falls into the arms of three of his men, who carry him to the rear. In response to their question as to securing a surgeon, he says: There is no need, it is all over with mortal Wolfe, as he lies in a pool of his own blood, He hears some one say. They rum Housing himself as from sleep, he asks, Who runS?' Be- ing told that the French give way everywhere, he summons his strength to say, Go -one Sof you to Colonel Burton; tell him to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River. to cut off their retreat from the bridge Then turning on his side, he feebly murmurs: Now God be praised, will die in peace.' A few moments more, and the gallant soul of James Wolfe went up to glory and to God. Neverpiore would