p from the rear. The houses were taken and
retaken, and one or more of them was burned.

Wolfe was everywhere. How cool he was, and why his followers loved him,
is shown by an incident that happened in the course of the morning. One
of his captains was shot through the lungs; and on recovering
consciousness he saw the General standing at his side. Wolfe pressed his
hand, told him not to despair, praised his services, promised him early
promotion, and sent an aide-de-camp to Monckton to beg that officer to
keep the promise if he himself should fall.[781]

[Footnote 781: Sir Denis Le Marchant, cited by Wright, 579. Le Marchant
knew the captain in his old age. Monckton kept Wolfe's promise.]

It was towards ten o'clock when, from the high ground on the right of
the line, Wolfe saw that the crisis was near. The French on the ridge
had formed themselves into three bodies, regulars in the centre,
regulars and Canadians on right and left. Two field-pieces, which had
been dragged up the heights at Anse du Foulon, fired on them with
grapeshot, and the troops, rising from the ground, prepared to receive
them. In a few moments more they were in motion. They came on rapidly,
uttering loud shouts, and firing as soon as they were within range.
Their ranks, ill ordered at the best, were further confused by a number
of Canadians who had been mixed among the regulars, and who, after
hastily firing, threw themselves on the ground to reload.[782] The
British advanced a few rods; then halted and stood still. When the
French were within forty paces the word of command rang out, and a crash
of musketry answered all along the line. The volley was delivered with
remarkable precision. In the battalions of the centre, which had
suffered least from the enemy's bullets, the simultaneous explosion was
afterwards said by French officers to have sounded like a cannon-shot.
Another volley followed, and then a furious clattering fire that lasted
but a minute or two. When the smoke rose, a miserable sight was
revealed: the ground cumbered with dead and wounded, the advancing
masses stopped short and turned into a frantic mob, shouting, cursing,
gesticulating. The order was given to charge. Then over the field rose
the British cheer, mixed with the fierce yell of the Highland slogan.
Some of the corps pushed forward with the bayonet; some advanced
firing. The clansmen drew their broadswords and dashed on, keen and
swift as bloodhounds. At the English r