Claudette stood inside the walls, watching the British army return, shoulders slumped in defeat. She ran her eyes over the battered, shocked men until she found MacKim, and then she nodded to him, only once, and slipped back inside the crowd. MacKim watched her without understanding. His mind was busy with Lucas de Langdon, and his heart was sick with the pain of defeat.
“Seventy-eighth!” Colonel Fraser roared. “You’re soldiers, not sorners! Straighten those shoulders! March in!”
The process of returning pride to the men had begun, although it would be some days before the army recovered sufficiently to be called a fighting force.
“How many did we lose, sir?” MacKim asked as he slumped against the barrack-room wall. The taste of defeat was bitter in his mouth.
“I’m not sure,” Kennedy said. “I heard we lost over three hundred men, killed or captured, and around seven hundred wounded. I don’t know if the figures are accurate.”
MacKim whistled. “That’s about a third of the men engaged. How about the French?”
Kennedy shook his head. “I am even less sure of their figures, MacKim. There is a wild story that they lost about two and a half thousand men, but that’s improbable. We did break their van, so their losses were not negligible.”
MacKim stood up. “And the French captured all our field artillery, too. That was a major victory for the Chevalier de Levis.”
Kennedy nodded in agreement. “It was,” he said. “The Chevalier is proving himself a redoubtable warrior. He knows we have three armies. We have Murray’s in Quebec and have two more under Amherst and Brigadier-General William Haviland readying to advance upon Montreal.” He shrugged. “Perhaps they are already marching now that the frost is lifting. De Levis may outnumber us here in Quebec, but once Amherst arrives, we will far outnumber him.”
MacKim nodded, with the depression of defeat weighing heavily upon him. “Amherst is a long way from Canada; he has to fight his way up the Ohio.”
Kennedy nodded. “Amherst will advance by way of Lake Ontario, Brigadier Haviland by Lake Champlain and the Richelieu River from the south.” He sighed. “However, we can’t think of Amherst now,” he said. “Our fight is with de Levis here, and our hope is that the Navy comes to relieve us before the French assault the town.” His grin lacked its usual sparkle. “It’s all about survival now, Sergeant.”
MacKim nodded. “Maybe it always was.”
Kennedy stuffed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “With our garrison weakened, and half of them mere scarecrows with scurvy and hunger, the French should be able to pour over the walls at the first assault.” He began to puff smoke. “We can thank ourselves that you and I destroyed many of the French munitions, and they lost cannon in the ice. That might slow them down a bit.”
“It all depends on the Navy,” MacKim said.
Kennedy grinned. “The Navy and General Murray. I can’t see him tamely surrendering anyway. He might not be the best general in the world, but he’s too stubborn to give up.”
An hour later, a wounded grenadier limped up to the walls, pleading for help. Unnerved by the recent defeat, the sentries refused to open the gates until Captain Donald MacDonald arrived.
“Let that fellow in!” MacDonald snapped, “or by God, I’ll send you to the halberds!”
With MacDonald standing at their back, sword in hand, the sentries opened the gate, closing it when the wounded man staggered in.
“Savages,” the grenadier said. “Bloody wicked savages.”
Captain MacDonald caught him as he fell. “What’s happened, private?”
“The French have let their savages loose,” the grenadier gasped. “They’re scalping our dead and most of the wounded.” The soldier was about thirty-five, but hardship and hunger had added years to his face. “I saw them slit a wounded corporal’s throat and scalp him as he died.”
The news soon spread to the garrison, adding to their discontent as, within the walls, the British soldiers had lost all discipline. They roamed the streets, searching for alcohol, ignoring the roars of the NCOs, breaking into houses to see what they could steal.
Chisholm stood at the barrack door, smoking his pipe. “This riot,” he said, “is what comes of recruiting an army from the lowest level of society.” He pointed with the stem of his pipe. “You’ll notice there are no Highlanders amongst that rabble. We have pride in ourselves and our regiment.”
“Aye, and if we act like savages,” Ranald MacDonald said, “our families back home would be ashamed.”
MacRae was polishing his rifle. “The time is coming when there will be few Highlanders left," he said. “We will fight and die in foreign lands while an alien race takes possession of the Gaeltacht – Highland Scotland.”
“More fool us,” Chisholm said.
MacKim interrupted before MacRae could turn his fey insight on him. “Well, lads, we’d better get to work. I want the barracks cleaned up, and a guard on the door in case any of that rubbish tries to rob us.” He nodded to the drunkards who had once been British soldiers.
As the day wore on and the officers attempted to restore order in the demoralised British ranks, more walking wounded arrived, and more stories filtered in from the battle. There was Lieutenant McGregor of Fraser’s who fell on the left flank. The French bayonetted him twice, and he lay wounded on the slushy ground until a party of Indians crept on him. One Indian grabbed his hair, preparatory to scalping the lieutenant, who shouted out to a nearby French officer. Fortunately, the Frenchman intervened and saved McGregor’s hair and his life.
“Did you hear about the sergeant from Braggs?” Harriette was happy to spread gossip. “He was an Irishman, and the Frenchies shot him in the chest.”
“French soldiers do that sort of thing,” Chisholm said.
“Be quiet, Chisholm. I am talking,” Harriette said. “So the sergeant lay on the field next to an English Volunteer with a severe leg wound, and half a dozen savage Indians came to torture and scalp the Englishman.” She glanced at Chisholm, expecting him to interrupt, and then continued. “Well, the sergeant wasn’t having any of that, was he? No, so, wounded as he was, he lifted his halberd, killed two of the savages and then a third, and fetched a French patrol to care for the Englishman.”
“Good lad, that sergeant,” Chisholm said.
“Even better,” Harriette said. “The Canadians swore revenge on the Irishman, so de Levis had him handed back to us, and he’s in hospital here.” She gave a small nod to show her approval.
“Aye, there’s some good in the French, still,” Chisholm said.
“Did you hear about the chaplain, though?” Harriette continued. “Our very own man of God and humanity.”
MacKim shook his head. “No, but I am sure you’ll tell us.”
“During the battle, when the French were chasing you lot all over the place, the chaplain proved his bravery by dashing to the front to rescue wounded officers,” Harriette said. “Only officers. He didn’t think ordinary soldiers were worth saving.”
Chisholm puffed smoke into the room. “Aye, even in battle, there’s a divide between the officers and the men, the rich and the poor.”
MacKim raised his eyebrows and said nothing. To comment on such practices may be sedition, but he stored the information at the back of his mind.
As discipline collapsed in Quebec, Murray resorted to savage methods, with the hangman busy. Blaming alcohol for the soldier’s excesses, the general ordered his officers to destroy all private supplies of anything alcoholic. Patrols scoured the streets, dragging drunken redcoats into the cells while drummers prepared their cats-of-nine-tails.
Harriette tossed the musket ball from hand to hand. She examined the back of Chisholm’s head. “Not a dent,” she said. “I always thought you soldier-boys were only vain with your queues and powdered hair, but I see the sense in them now. Your queue stopped the French ball dead.” She winked at MacKim. “Sorry, Hughie; you’ll have to wait a bit longer before you share my bed.”
MacKim shook his head. “I can’t wait forever, you know, Harriette. If the French can’t dispose of Chisholm, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
Harriette slapped Chisholm’s shoulder. “I might keep him a little longer, Hugh.” She wiggled her hips at him. “You’ll have to control your natural lust for me.”
MacRae looked over from the furthest corner of the room. “He still has the woman,” he said. “She’s not left him yet.”
Nobody replied. MacKim looked away, holding his beadwork.
That night, the British garrison heard the click and thud of picks in the night and knew the French had begun to dig trenches opposite the walls of Quebec. The siege proper had begun.
Murray sent a patrol of the Royal Americans out to see what was happening, but de Levis countered with a strong force of Canadians. After a sharp skirmish, the Royal Americans returned with some casualties and the intelligence that the French had started the first parallel.
“The first parallel?” Ramsay asked. “What does that mean?”
“It means de Levis has determined on a regular siege,” Chisholm explained. “He knows that the wall facing the Heights of Abraham is the weakest, as the Heights dominate the defences, so he’ll attack from there.”
“First parallel?” Ramsay repeated.
“There is a science about besieging a town,” Chisholm explained. “I saw a few such sieges during the last war when I took part in the battle of Fontenoy.”
“Sieges?” MacKim kept Chisholm on track.
“Yes.” Chisholm tore himself away from his reminiscing to educate his less experienced colleagues. “The French have to isolate us first to ensure that no relieving force comes to our aid. In European warfare, that is vital, but less so here, with only one possible route for a relieving army.” He pointed to the St Lawrence. “If our relief doesn’t come by water, then it doesn’t come at all.”
“That’s why the French were building the floating batteries we destroyed,” MacKim said. “To keep the Royal Navy at bay.”
“That’s right,” Chisholm said. “But notwithstanding that, de Levis will construct lines of trenches and embrasures to keep us in and any relieving force out.”
“Isolating Quebec.” Harriette showed a quick grasp of the situation.
“Exactly so,” Chisholm said. “In Europe, he’d build them all around the town, but here, he’ll concentrate on the wall facing the Heights of Abraham. That’s our weakest section. He’ll have some of his men making fascines, maybe six feet tall.”
“What’s a fascine?” Ramsay asked.
“A fascine is a bundle of sticks that will reinforce the trench wall and are virtually impervious to musketry.”
“That means a musket ball can’t go through them,” Harriette said helpfully.
“I know what it means! I’m not stupid,” Ramsay snapped.
“While some men make fascines, the engineers will survey the land and construct hollow gabions, which are like fascines but about eight foot tall and stronger. Simultaneously, de Levis will have most of his infantry and as many unskilled labourers as he can muster building lines of contravellion, which are positions facing Quebec, beyond the range of our cannon. They’ll be quite simple, merely a ditch and a parapet, with maybe the odd redoubt or redan pointing towards us to catch us in a crossfire if we attempt an assault.”
Ramsay nodded, listening to every word.
“The lines of contravallation will isolate the besieged town – us – from any possible relieving force. Then de Levis might build lines of circumvallation facing outward to repel any help. In our case, he’ll just position his ships in the St Lawrence.”
“Then we’ll be trapped,” Ramsay said. “The nearest British garrison is at Louisbourg, hundreds of miles away.”
“And de Levis is aware of that,” Chisholm said. “With a willing workforce, these lines could take anything between three and nine days to complete. As the engineers and men work, de Levis and his senior commanders will survey our walls looking for weak spots – or maybe not, as he already knows where to attack.”
“That’s a bugger,” Ramsay said.
“Yes,” Chisholm agreed. “I could not have phrased it better.”
“What then?” Harriette was busy darning socks, for the regimental wives had to make themselves useful.
Chisholm thought for a moment. “Then de Levis will create an order of attack, telling each unit its duties. He will organise pickets and guards to prevent us from making any sorties, with a grand guard in the no-man’s-land between our walls and his trenches. To augment that, he’ll have a trench guard, ready behind the lines. If our general sends out a party to destroy the siege trenches, the French trench guard will be on standby to rush out and repel us.” Chisholm smiled. “It’s all like a game of chess, as I have told the sergeant.”
“On numerous occasions,” MacKim agreed solemnly.
Chisholm became serious again. “By that time, the French will have their siege guns in position. They will bombard our walls, as we did to them last year. Their objective is to make a sizeable breach, destroy our defending artillery and cause havoc with any of our defending forces foolish enough to man the walls. Of course, if we don’t man the walls, de Levis might launch a surprise attack.” Chisholm shook his head. “I don’t think that will happen. He seems to be a methodical man who follows the rules of warfare. It will be a routine siege to grind us down.”
Ramsay pulled a face.
“The next stage should be to open the trenches,” Chisholm said, “but de Levis has already started that. Sometimes, the besieger will open a trench parallel to the defences – the first parallel – at around six hundred yards away, the maximum cannon range. At other times, they’ll just dig a zig-zag trench towards the walls, with a fire step for defence, and a guard of grenadiers with fascines to protect them from our fire.”
“We can blast them with cannon,” Ramsay said.
“That’s what Murray will do,” Chisholm agreed. “Once they are within about four hundred yards, the French will open the second parallel, then creep forward slowly and methodically to the third. Once they get there, it’s only a matter of time before they launch an assault. They’ll either dig a mine under our walls, or try a sudden attack with scaling ladders.”
“Which will de Levis use?” Ramsay asked.
“Scaling ladders and an attack on the walls,” Chisholm said. “He knows that our Navy will sail upriver as soon as it’s practicable. Time is his enemy as much as it’s our friend. The longer we delay him, the more chance our Navy has of relieving us. It all depends on time.”
MacKim looked out of the window at the sky. Dawn was approaching, and the French were drawing ever closer. He could hear the steady chink of their pick-axes on the hard ground.
“It’s all a matter of time,” MacKim said, holding his beadwork. He could see Tayanita standing beside the fire, frowning. I’m coming, Tayanita. I’ll kill Lucas de Langdon, and then I’ll join you.
Tayanita’s frown did not ease.
What more do you want from me?