leans and Quebec, and frequently engaged with
Montcalm's floating batteries; while in the mean time the roar of
artillery from a dozen different quarters filled the simmering July
days, and lit the short summer nights with fiery shapes, and drew in
fitful floods the roving thunder-clouds that at this season of the year
in North America are apt to lurk behind the serenest sky.

Fighting at close quarters there was, too, in plenty, though of an
outpost and backwoods kind. Bois Herbert, with his painted Canadians and
Abernakis Indians, and Stark and young Rogers with their colonial
rangers--Greek against Greek--scalped each other with a hereditary
ferocity that English and French regulars knew nothing of. In bringing a
fleet up to Quebec, British sailors had already performed one feat
pronounced impossible by Canadian tradition. They now still further
upset their enemies' calculations by running the gauntlet of the
batteries of Quebec and placing the Sutherland, with several smaller
ships, at some distance up the river. This cost Montcalm six hundred
men, whom he had to send under Dumas to watch the squadron. But all this
brought the end no nearer. Time was exceeding precious, and July was
almost out. Necessary messages were continually passing under flags of
truce, and superfluous notes of defiance sometimes accompanied them.
"You may destroy the town," said De Ramezay to Wolfe, "but you will
never get inside it." "I will take Quebec," replied the fiery stripling,
"if I stay here till November."

Through the whole weary month of August little occurred that the
exigencies of our space would justify recording. Montcalm considered
himself safe, and he even allowed two thousand Canadians to leave for
the harvest. Wolfe had a thousand men of his small force sick or wounded
in hospital. Amherst, it was reported, had taken Ticonderoga, but there
was little likelihood of his getting through to their assistance.
Prideaux, in the Far West, as it then was, had captured Niagara. It was
a great success, but it in no way helped Wolfe. It must not be supposed,
however, that August had passed away in humdrum fashion. The guns had
roared with tireless throats, and the lower town was a heap of ruins.
Far away down both banks of the St. Lawrence the dogs of war had raged
through seigniories and hamlets. Between the upper and the nether
millstone of Wolfe's proclamations and Montcalm's vengeance, the
wretched peasantry were in a sore plight