In the Line of Fire

By Mike Wittmayer

Step back in time. From the French and Indian War to World War II, follow the stories of the patriotism, sacrifice, courage and heroism of our grandfathers, fathers and men like them who answered the call to serve their country. Relive the days of Benedict Arnold and his Revolutionary troops’ incredible tale of survival and disastrous march on Quebec. Follow Shadrach Hudson and his harrowing escape at the Battle of a Thousand Slain when half of the American Army is wiped out in 1791. Venture back to the closing stages of the Civil War, and the infamous Battle of the Crater during the siege of Petersburg and much, much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365082511

Book preview

In the Line of Fire

IN THE LINE OF FIRE

MIKE WITTMAYER

Copyright © 2013 by Mike Wittmayer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any electronic form without permission.

The cover photo is from the Photographs in the Carol M. Highsmith Archive, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, D.C., 20540. There are no known restrictions on its publication. The back cover photo from the U.S. Air Force Memorial in Arlington, Virginia, is courtesy of Christopher J. Matthews, USAF, Department of Defense. It is in the public domain. Graphic design work and answers to all print questions large and small are thanks to my daughter Kelly Wittmayer Wigginton.

This is a work of historical fiction. Names, places and incidents, though based on actual events in history and recorded troop unit movement, are so littered with this writer’s imagination and skewed to such an extent by bias and personal opinion that any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales should be regarded as purely coincidental. Grandfather, father and father-in-law actions, comments and inner most thoughts and feelings as portrayed in this book, on the other hand, should be regarded as factual.

Revised July 2018, Fourth Printing

ISBN #: 978-1-365-08251-1

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, Ann; mother-in-law, Dolly Judge; and brother-in-law, Tony Judge, who for months patiently listened to these stories; to my cousin Virginia Kent Stevens, who helped me along the way with whatever family history information I needed; and to my Aunt May Hudson Kent, who whenever I needed an answer, had it or happily made it up.

This book was written in memory of the courage and sacrifice made by my father, father-in-law, uncles and grandfathers before them in the service of their country. From cannons, muskets and tomahawks on the Plains of Abraham in the French and Indian War to land mines, torpedoes and the P-38’s of World War II, they answered the call to duty in times that shaped the course of their country’s destiny. Through journals of battle participants, unit histories, letters home and a little literary license, their stories are told. May they never be forgotten. May we never forget their sacrifices.

Preface

For some, the very mention of family history is enough to trigger what is known in some circles as Dissociative Trance Disorder (DTD), sometimes more commonly diagnosed as Comotosis Familiophia (CF). Breathing appears normal, the individual’s eyes remain open but the poor soul within is no longer present; they’ve moved on to a parallel universe. For others, family bonds deepen, personal meaning and direction is added and lives are enriched. And for them, the next William and Samuel story is out there just waiting to be found, another treasure to be enjoyed, protected and passed along.

Those are the extremes, of course. I don’t know if there is anything in the middle or not. As near as I can tell, neither end of the spectrum is known to be fatal, though I can’t say for sure. I do know that the stories and those sacrifices of the men and women who came before us begin to take on a deeper meaning only when we better understand how we are connected to them. Only then can we find reason to pause to remember and appreciate those to whom so much is owed: real people who lived, loved and fought for freedom and who bring with them just a little greater understanding of who we are.

Unfortunately, too often those connections appear difficult, if not impossible, to follow. The summary information provided below may help with that. If not, and for those whose connection cannot be found below, then your story is still out there waiting to be discovered, waiting to be shared.

William McEwen, who fought on the Plains of Abraham in the French and Indian War, was my fifth great grandfather. William and Sarah’s only son, Henry, who travels through the Maine wilderness with Benedict Arnold and who fights in the Battle for Quebec during the Revolutionary War, was my fourth great grandfather. Henry and Elizabeth’s son, John Stewart McEwen, my third great grandfather, would be spared from having to go to war.

John Stewart McEwen and Isabella’s son, John Stewart McEwen II, my second great grandfather, would serve in the Civil War, first in the band, then later as a 1st lieutenant and assistant in charge of the City Patrol in Union occupied Nashville, Tennessee. John and Emily’s daughter, Gertrude Grace McEwen, would marry Jesse Eugene Norton, my great grandfather.

Jesse and Gertrude Grace’s daughter, Mildred May Norton, would marry Clifford Dayne Hudson, my grandfather. The two would have four children: Mildred May, Eugene Denman (Uncle Gene), Constance Grace (my mother) and Clifford Dayne Jr. (Uncle Cliff). Grace would marry Lester Fred Wittmayer, my father.

My wife Ann’s father, Joseph Patrick Judge, is also featured in this book’s final story along with my father and both uncles, Gene and Cliff. Their days of service in World War II are chronicled.

Samuel Norton, my third great grandfather, his son George Norton, my second great grandfather, and their experience in the Civil War at the Battle of Crater are retold in this book’s sixth story. George and his wife Frances would have five children. Their second oldest, Jesse Eugene Norton, is my great grandfather. As noted above, he would marry Gertrude Grace McEwen. Jesse and Gertrude Grace’s daughter, Mildred May, is my grandmother—my mother’s mother.

Abraham Hudson, his part in the Revolutionary War and with Sullivan’s March, is featured in this book’s third story. Abraham is my fourth great grandfather. Abraham and Abigail’s son Shadrach, my third great grandfather, is the subject of this book’s fourth story, the Northwest Indian War and the Battle of a Thousand Slain. Shadrach and Lydia would have eleven children; their first, John, is my second great grandfather.

John, with sons Shadrach, Clark and Joseph appear in this book’s eighth story which recounts their experiences along the Oregon Trail, in the gold fields of California and in the Rogue River Indian War. Joseph is my great grandfather. Joseph and Margaret Wheeler would have eight children. Their youngest, Clifford Dayne Hudson is my grandfather. His days as a private in World War I were the subject of this book’s ninth story.

Charles Wheeler, my third great grandfather and his experience at the Battle of Lundy’s Lane in the War of 1812, is retold in this book’s fifth story. Charles, with his wife Hester, would have seven children. Their oldest, son William Wheeler, was my second great grandfather. William and Mary’s daughter Margaret would marry Joseph Hudson, as noted above, my great grandfather and father of Clifford Dayne Hudson—my mother’s father.

Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? Test tomorrow, first period.

The William McEwen Story

The French & Indian War & The Battle of the Plains of Abraham

As he lay in his tent in the early evening hours, William found rest impossible. He was dressed and ready to go. He had checked, re-checked, dismantled and cleaned his musket so many times he could do it in his sleep. Maybe he had. Well, at least the waiting was over. They had their orders. The Battle for Quebec was just hours away.

The siege of the fortified, walled city had been going on now since their arrival on June 26, 1759. It was the French and Indian War and the culmination of seventy years of strife between the French and English world powers.

This particular phase of the dispute dated to May 15, 1754, when the French had attempted to make good on their claim to lands between the Allegheny and Ohio rivers. The fighting was destined to continue to September 8, 1760, though the end to the conflict would not become official until the surrender of France to the British in the Treaty of Paris on February 10, 1763.

In the grand scheme of things, the events that were about to unfold would seem to be just another paragraph in a war with many chapters. The war itself, just another struggle destined to be lost over time among too many others. At least, that was the way it must have seemed at the time. Yet, the outcome of the events that were about to take place would forever reshape the world. And the coming hours would mean much more to the loved ones of those who were about to fall here.

Leaning forward slightly, William listened intently. It was deathly quiet. The only sounds were the steady tap, tap, tapping of the rain beating against his tent. They should be assembling soon.

He reached into his pocket and slid out his Magson & Weller and flipped open its case. There was enough light to make out the time. It was just 8:30 p.m. He had another half hour to wait, and the way things had been going, probably longer. He closed his faithful pocketwatch and slid the silver case back in his pocket.

Let’s get this over with, he thought to himself. He closed his eyes. He was as ready as he could be. They had all trained for this moment, hadn’t they? He thought about the hours they had spent practicing landings and tactics through the winter and spring months at Halifax getting ready for just the kind of assault they were about to attempt.

He’d expected a long hard winter on the Nova Scotia coast. They had all been surprised. Temperatures had hovered in the mid-teens at night and the low twenties during the daytime hours. Heck, he thought, it was colder than that back home. Carlisle had been known to hit twenty-eight below this time of the year.

Still, some days Chebucto Harbor was so full of ice that landing drills for the anticipated assault on Quebec had to be cancelled. Well, that was a development that few among them lamented. There had still been plenty of practice time and accompanying lessons that would not soon be forgotten. Lessons like affixing your bayonet immediately after landing and not before. Those who forgot that warning and attempted to position the weapon’s deadly blade in the boat as it fought the crashing surf were guaranteed a swift and painful reminder, he smiled, rubbing his wrist.

And they weren’t green troops anymore, any of them. His own outfit, the 60th Royal American Regiment of Foot, 2nd Battalion, under thirty-three-year-old Brigadier General Robert Monckton, was just a part of a British force fresh from capturing French held Louisbourg, Nova Scotia. That victory had come just over a year ago now. The French had surrendered after a little more than a month of fighting.

That was on July 26, 1758.

Louisbourg had come at a price, too. British casualties had totaled 172 killed and 355 wounded. Seven of the dead, including Lieutenant Robert Hay, had come from William’s battalion. They had also lost fourteen wounded on top of that.

Their 3rd Battalion, under fifty-year-old Colonel Charles Lawrence, had also been with them in that fight and had been hit even harder, with seventeen killed and forty-three wounded. The French had suffered 102 killed and 303 wounded. Another 6,600 had surrendered. Six French ships had been burned and one captured. The assault on the fortified coast had been costly for both sides.

When the fighting was over, William’s battalion, along with eight companies of the 3rd Royal Americans, had made the 197 mile return trip back down the coast to Halifax where they had spent the winter months in garrison duty and training for the upcoming campaign against Quebec. The remainder of the 3rd Battalion, detached for duty in Louisbourg, recruited new troops in the interval to help fil1 their ranks, among them Germans from the captured French units being held there.

That all seemed like a long time ago now.

They had done their jobs well at Halifax. The thirty-two-year-old General James Wolfe, in command of the British assault there and now leading the invasion of Quebec, had conferred on them the motto "Celer et Audax, meaning the Swift and Brave."

They had finally set sail from Louisbourg on June 6, 1759, for what had turned out to be a twenty day journey to Quebec. They were two hundred ships strong then. That included war ships, transports and provision ships. They were one-quarter of the entire Royal Navy strong, carrying everything from livestock to artillery, and ammunition to troops. The convoy even included empty ships intended for replacements in case any of the others were sunk.

With an army of 8,500 men and nearly as many more merchant seamen, Wolfe had set sail with one of the largest armada’s ever assembled. Residents of Louisbourg crowded about the harbor to see the sight. It was a scene none of them would soon forget, including those at the ships’ rails who watched as the long line of vessels slipped out of the harbor and the city slowly disappeared from view.

William turned the blue lapels of his red, thigh length regimental jacket up and tucked his chin inside for warmth against the rapidly cooling evening air. They could be sleeping inside the walls of Quebec tomorrow, he thought. A victory might even mean the end of the war. Then they could all go home. Well, it could happen, he told himself. This just could be it.

He listened intently. The rain had stopped, but there was something else that had taken its place. He was listening to the sounds of the evening. And that was what was wrong. He could hear those sounds. There was no cannon fire to be heard anywhere, that was why. You got so used to hearing the big guns firing that it seemed unnatural when they were silent. Like now.

In the last two weeks they had bombarded the city with cannon fire from their position at Pointe Levy. It was just 1,100 yards across the river to the lower town and about one mile to reach the upper town of Quebec from there. The capital of New France was taking a beating. Fifteen thousand rounds would be fired at the city during the course of the siege.

There was just one problem. If they could hit the French from where they were, the French could hit them. And did. Just one week ago cannon fire from across the river had reached the middle of their camp. That greeting had come in the middle of the night. The explosion had killed one man and wounded six more. And one of those had his arm blown off when he was hit by shell fragments. The French were beginning to find their range.

Then the order had come to move up river. Not all of them, but three of the battalions under Brigadiers Moncton and the thirty-five-year-old George Townshend. That was on Wednesday, September 5, 1759. The thirty-eight-year-old Brigadier General James Murray had marched above the city from Pointe Levy with four battalions a day earlier. Wolfe, with a small scouting party, had already pushed up river.

William was pleased his 2nd Battalion of Royal Americans would be joining them. They had been confined to camp lately. They were restless, tired of the daily routine and just wanted to get this fight over with so they could go home.

And though it would certainly be good to get out of range of those French guns for a while, it would be even better to get away from the wood cutting. He had split enough firewood to last a lifetime. They all had. If you weren’t eating, you could be sure to get that duty. That, or stoking fires. Given a choice right now, thought William, he’d rather fight the French.

In fact, it had been unseasonably wet and cool, so begrudgingly, they were grateful for the wood. Begrudgingly. There was no denying it would be an early winter. You could feel it in the air. This area along the St. Lawrence River was notorious for heavy rain and snowfall. And that snowfall was known to reach twenty feet. Winter temperatures would average around fifteen degrees but could get much colder. Well, hopefully they would be long gone by then.

They had picked their way cautiously up river on the afternoon of September 5, 1759. It had been about a six or seven mile march to their destination, an embarkation point midway between the Etchemin and the Chaudière rivers. From there the plan had called for them to sail up the St. Lawrence. They just didn’t know how far up the St. Lawrence at the time. And where wouldn’t have mattered much if they were unable to get to their meeting place in one piece.

Though the distance to their embarkation point wasn’t far, you never knew what you were going to run into when you ventured out of camp. There was trouble seemingly in every direction lately. Last week one of their scouting parties had run head on into a band of Indians just to the south and very near their Pointe Levy camp. They had managed to drive them off but not without casualties; they had ended up with two dead and several of the men wounded. Fortunately, there weren’t more killed.

Then, there was an incident the very next day in the opposite direction and again not far from camp. One of the men on patrol with the 35th Regiment of Foot reported being surprised by an Indian who had fired at him, but who had missed from nearly point blank range.

Thanking his lucky stars, he had leveled his own musket, took dead aim at the Indian and missed him as well. Surprised that he, too, hadn’t been hit, the Algonquin closed the gap between them, pulled a tomahawk from the belt at his side, took aim and hurled it at the man from the 35th, the deadly weapon flashing through the air.

And missed.

It really was the young British soldier’s lucky day. Or, it was looking that way. Picking up the tomahawk he had closed the distance further still. It was his turn. He let the war axe fly.

And missed.

Two more Algonquins emerged from the woods. Two more tomahawks headed his way. Drawing his knife, he threw it in reply. He ran. They ran. No one hit anyone. All would live to miss each other another day.

They had spent the night of September 5, 1759, on board ship, then sailed up the St. Lawrence on the 6th as far as Cap Rouge, about nine miles upriver from Quebec. Their assault on the city, which had appeared imminent, was canceled because of heavy rains. Thankfully, Wolfe had ordered half of them ashore. Thankfully, thought William, because he was with the half who found themselves back on land.

Marching under Moncton to the village of St. Nicholas, they had temporarily made quarters. There they waited for the weather to clear, refreshed themselves and dried their wet clothing, knapsacks and blankets.

And that’s where William McEwen found himself that evening of September 12, 1759. In camp, glad he was off the water and out of the rain, but waiting once again. Another week had gone by.

As he lay on his bed, he wondered if the French had heard the cheering that had erupted from the camp yesterday when they had heard the news. He hoped not. The orders read to them were brief and to the point. You will re-board your flatboats about nine tomorrow evening. Take only your arms and ammunition, two days’ supply of food, rum and water. Your blankets and tents will follow next day by ship. Extra rum rations will be issued. They had gotten the abridged edition.

To his officers from the flagship Sutherland, General Wolfe would say, "The enemy’s force is now divided. There is great scarcity of provisions in their camp and universal discontent among the Canadians. Our troops below are in readiness to join us and will land where the French seem least to expect it. The first body that gets on shore is to march directly to the enemy and drive them from any little post they may occupy. The officers must be careful that the succeeding bodies do not by any mistake fire on those who go before them.

The battalions must form on the upper ground with expedition and be ready to charge whatever presents itself. When the artillery and troops are landed, a corps will be left to secure the landing place, while the rest march on and endeavor to bring the Canadians and French to a battle. The officers and men will remember what their country expects from them, and what a determined body of soldiers inured to war is capable of doing against five weak French battalions mingled with a disorderly peasantry.

The watchword for the night’s planned assault, Coventry.

As William rested, the rain resumed its rhythmic beat against the tent. The fact that it was raining again did not surprise him. In fact, it had rained on September 2, 6, 8, 9, 10 and 11. Things had a funny way of balancing out. August had been unbearably hot. Flies in the day and mosquitoes at night had staged their own assault on the British camps throughout the waning days of summer. Now, there was nothing but rain. He hoped it would stop soon. If it didn’t, another change in plans and even more delay looked certain.

Their supplies were already stretched to the breaking point. Much of the beef and other produce that they had confiscated in their raids on Canadian locals had gone to the many sick and wounded lying in hospital tents on nearby Isle de Orleans. Many of the rank and file among them were suffering from malnutrition and scurvy. Most were now subsisting on horsemeat, bread and cheese and wondering what they would be eating next. That, and where the meal would come from.

William ran his hand over what was now a several weeks old beard and considered the task at hand. Taking Quebec would be no small undertaking. A natural fortress of approximately forty acres, and the only walled city in North America, Quebec was surrounded by water on three sides. Steep cliffs that stretched unbroken for miles provided just one more hurdle the invading force would have to find a way to clear. And those cliffs reached an imposing 350 feet above the water where they were closest to the city.

The St. Lawrence River ran along the easternmost approach to the city, continuing on its journey to the Atlantic, some seven hundred miles away. Its smaller tributary, the St. Charles River, provided a natural barrier across the northern tip of the city. Here, the mouth of the St. Charles was also fortified, its approach blocked by a boom of logs bound with chains and anchored in place.

Further north of the city and beyond the natural barrier the St. Charles afforded, what was known as the Beauport Shore stretched along for six miles. Here, the Montmorency River provided yet another barrier to unwanted intrusion as it wound its way from the west through a steep gorge before falling eighty feet; it, too, ending in the St. Lawrence River.

And if that wasn’t deterrent enough for any approaching force, trenches had been dug by the French along the cliffs between the St. Charles and the Montmorency rivers.

South of the city and directly across from their position at St. Nicholas, the Cap Rouge River snaked its course east. Its waters snaked their way between cliffs and high wooded banks until it, too, met the St. Lawrence River.

The lower town of Quebec was situated along either side of a narrow shelf of waterfront land where the St. Lawrence and St. Charles met. An assault along this front, with its homes, warehouses and docks, was one thing. They had shelled it repeatedly. Over five hundred houses along the eastern edge of the town had been laid to waste. All but six or eight had been burned to the ground in the fiery aftermath of the cannon fire. Still, it was well fortified with works and troops.

Getting at the upper town, guarded by water and cliffs on all sides but one, would be quite another thing altogether. That one side was south of the city, between it and Cap Rouge. For it was here that the Plains of Abraham stretched from the southwest walls of Quebec. And it was here that they faced problems of a different sort. First, they would have to approach by boat along the St. Lawrence without alerting the enemy. Then they would have to get past the imposing cliffs above the St. Lawrence.

There was only one well defined path leading from the river bank to the plains above, and it was barricaded and guarded. And then, even if you made it to shore, there were additional troops in a camp along the ridge.

Still, with a little luck, William thought, undaunted, they could well be paying a personal visit to the governor’s palace inside the walls of the citadel by this time tomorrow.

All he really wanted to know was where they would be landing, where they would begin their assault. And that was something none of the men knew, including the officers. It did seem as if at least those in command would know where they were to lead their men, William thought, somewhat uneasily. And rumors were rampant that the generals under Wolfe were none too happy with the secrecy.

Not only did they each have their own ideas as to where best to attack the French defenses, but there just happened to be a great deal of planning and coordination of ship movements that needed to take place to ensure a successful landing. They needed to know what Wolfe had decided, and they needed to know now.

Frustrated with being left out of the loop, Monckton, Townshend and Murray had even written a letter to Wolfe, asking that they be informed as to the landing location immediately. That was yesterday. Still, there had been no reply.

And though it was no secret that Wolfe had been scouting out possible landing sites all the way up river to Pointe aux Trembles, just about twenty-two miles above Quebec, if the General had decided on the spot, he was keeping that to himself. Well, at least for the time being. And time had just about run out.

The French would have given anything to know where the attack was coming from. Well, so would we, William thought to himself.

In truth, not knowing would be for the best. The last thing they needed now was for someone else to desert, to tip off the French as to where the attack would be coming from. Enough of their men had fled to Quebec already, dissatisfied with the day in and day out search and destroy scorched earth missions, the lack of provisions and, more recently, with their camp confinement.

From what he had heard, Quebec was no better off than they were. They were short of food, too. And with much of their town in ruins from the shelling they were getting, they were having their own desertion problems. In fact, by the end of August, an estimated two hundred Canadians had been deserting each night. William smiled to himself at the thought of the men from the two opposing forces passing one another, heading to each other’s camps for relief.

Just last night he had heard that one of their own Royal Americans taken prisoner earlier had made his escape and managed to find his way to the British sloop, the Porcupine, under forty-one-year-old Commodore Esek Hopkins. His news was encouraging. Apparently, there were no more than three hundred Indians inside the walls of Quebec who carried arms.

There were a great number of women and children remaining in the city, and they were very low on provisions. He did warn that the enemy was very numerous in their entrenchments, consisting of at least fourteen thousand men. These included eleven thousand Canadians. The rest were French Regulars and they were heartily tir’d with the siege.

Well, they were not alone, thought William.

The British had already lost more than 854 men killed and wounded since the siege began. That included two colonels, two majors, nineteen captains and thirty-four junior officers to date. And that didn’t count the number who had been put out of action by disease. And that was why William’s own tent, like so many others around him that were ordinarily just big enough for two and not much else, lately, housed just one.

He had been sharing his quarters with a recruit from New Jersey since their arrival across from Quebec. That had ended when the private, who had been sitting on his bedroll inside the tent, was grievously wounded in the thigh. His gun had accidentally discharged as he was pulling it towards himself by its muzzle. He died later that same night.

William turned to his side. The two man tent wasn’t big enough to stand in. He rolled over onto his knees to the entrance of the tent and pushed the flap out just enough to see. It was dark now. Well, mostly. He let the canvas fall back into place. Nothing. There was just rain and more rain.

It was impossible not to think about home. He had enlisted in the spring of 1758 nearly two years after the Royal Americans were formed. And that had been nearly a year and a half ago now. He missed his family. He missed his friends. He missed everything that wasn’t war.

Four battalions of a thousand men each were originally raised for the 60th Royal American Regiment of Foot, under then commander of British forces in North America, the Earl of Loudoun. The army had been given the go ahead under a special act of British Parliament on December 24, 1755. It was to be organized as both a colonial corps and a foreign legion. Its sole purpose was the defense of the thirteen colonies.

The 2nd Battalion that William now found himself a part of was formed before April of 1756 under Lieutenant Colonel John Armstrong. They were drilling nearly in William’s backyard during those first months as the army was being raised.

There was no question that he would be joining them. It was just a matter of when. Army commanders had decided on Pennsylvania for training and Philadelphia for their staff headquarters, since such large numbers were coming from the troubled area. Then the regiment had spent the spring and summer of 1757 engaged in skirmishing along unsettled territory north of Albany.

His enlistment had been pretty straight forward. There were few restrictions. No recruit could be under five feet four inches, a Papist, a French deserter or over thirty-five years of age. You had to be healthy and of a good build to sign up. He wasn’t, he was and he did.

Basically, when it came to filling the need for men willing to fight, it was come one, come almost all. The British were asking only for a three year enlistment commitment and promising no foreign service. Recruits were required to take the oath of allegiance to King and country, and if not already a citizen, become one.

As if their very survival wasn’t inducement enough, a bounty of one pistol and five pounds was also being offered. And that bounty had been increased as of late. It had been sixteen shillings for an enlistment just a year earlier.

The pay wasn’t bad either. They were promised one shilling, six pence a day. For many, the prospect of money to pay off debts was just the added encouragement they needed. There had also been talk of land awards to those who served. Bounties varied from colony to colony, but on the whole they were comparable.

By the time they had sailed for Quebec, the 2nd Battalion was under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Arthur St. Clair and numbered just twenty-seven officers, thirty-four non-commissioned officers and 520 enlisted men.

Their numbers had changed, and there were good reasons why. First, two companies each from the 2nd and 3rd battalions had been left behind to garrison at Halifax and Louisbourg. Second, the grenadier and light infantry companies of the two battalions had been detached to form composite groups. The 3rd Battalion, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel John Young, numbered twenty-nine officers, thirty-four non-commissioned officers and 544 enlisted men. The 1st and 4th battalions were left behind for duty along the eastern frontier and in New York.

William had missed his only child’s last two birthdays. Henry had turned six on June 20, 1759. It was the first time that he and Sarah had been apart for any length of time since they had married.

His family was staying with his brother Henry and his wife in Bedminster, New Jersey. Knowing they were a good 150 miles away from Carlisle was comforting. Their home, located in Cumberland County in south central Pennsylvania, was not the safest of places to be these days. Not that they had ever really felt at ease there.

Carlisle, founded in 1751 as the county seat of newly created Cumberland County, was situated at the intersection of Indian trails along LeTort Creek. It had become the jumping-off point for traders and settlers heading over the Alleghenies. Establishment of both the town and the county were intended by the Colonial General Assembly and the Penn family in Philadelphia to signify the opening of the frontier west of the Susquehanna River.

And that was news to area Indians and the French with their own claims to the surrounding territory. Rights to the land were further muddled by early settlers who marked their property by cutting their initials in trees along the boundary of what they considered to be theirs. No reason to pay for the land since, as they reasoned, God owned it. And that reasoning would work about as well today as it did then.

Two years after its founding there were only five houses in Carlisle and an old stockade known as Fort Lowther. The stockade occupied two acres of ground at the edge of the town’s public square. A blockhouse stood in each of the fort’s corners, refuge for local settlers from Indian attacks. And that may explain why there were still only five houses in Carlisle, two years after the town had been established.

Trouble was everywhere about them. To the north, in Snyder County, Indians had completely wiped out the settlement at Penn’s Creek, murdering or carrying off all but one of the twenty-five men, women and children living there. Their cabins were burned, stock, fields and improvements destroyed. Only one badly wounded settler had managed to escape to tell the tale.

Not long after the Penn’s Creek atrocities, a raiding party of Shawnee and French mercenaries massacred a family at their homestead just south of Carlisle. Children had been carried off. That one hit particularly close to home. Like William and his family, Thomas and Jane Jemison had emigated from Ireland and headed for the western frontier of central Pennsylvania, settling near modern day Chambersburg.

And that was land which the Delaware, Susquehannock, Conoy, Tuscarora and Shawnee also called home. It was land also claimed by the Iroquois, a confederation of tribes consisting of the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga and Seneca Indians: themselves pushed out of lands in New Jersey, Maryland, Virginia and North Carolina by rival tribes. And it was land which the French and British were now jockeying to control.

Intending to restore order and send a message that these attacks would not be tolerated, General Edward Braddock, then Commander-in-Chief of the British Army in North America, moved against French held Fort Duquesne. His campaign was a disaster. Braddock’s force of 1,300 men suffered over five hundred men killed and another 450 wounded. The French and their Indian allies would lose just thirty men killed and fifty-seven wounded. Braddock, wounded in the battle, would die during his troops long retreat.

The raids reached Carlisle in January 1756 when nine settlers were killed and scalped about ten miles from the town square. In November, raiders burned twenty-seven homes in the valley and took captive fifty settlers. Captives at the time were typically held for ransom. Three hundred or more women and children had been taken by French and Indian raiding parties since the troubles began.

Few were ever redeemed who hadn’t been tortured. Flaying, burning, forcing captives to eat severed parts of their own body or to run between two rows of warriors armed with clubs were all too common punishments for those unlucky enough to fall into the hands of warring tribes.

And when ransom wasn’t involved, bounties were, on both sides. Massachusetts Governor William Shirley had offered forty pounds for Indian male scalps and twenty pounds for female scalps. Most recently, Pennsylvania Governor Robert Morris had issued his own declaration of war against the Delaware Indians, and others in confederacy with them.

He had posted his own Reward for Indian Scalps, offering one 150 British pounds for every adult male Indian prisoner above twelve years of age; 130 pounds for the scalp of every male Indian enemy, with proof of death; 130 pounds for every female and male prisoner under twelve years of age; and fifty pounds for the scalp of every female Indian enemy. Other colonial governors had followed suit.

It truly was a dangerous time.

Between 1757 and 1758 most of the settlers had abandoned the Cumberland Valley where 174 people had been killed. In the Susquehanna Valley during that same time period, 318 had been killed, including twenty-two soldiers and fourteen volunteers. Not surprisingly, many of the remaining settlers there were also pulling out.

That was why William had taken Sarah and their son to Bedminster in the northwest corner of Somerset County. Not completely immune from the violence exploding around them but still safer. And his brother Henry would at least be there to help if they needed it. He and his wife Elizabeth had three children of their own to look after. The youngest, Francis, born December 14, 1758, was just nine months old.

William and his brother, together with sisters Joan and Margaret, had come to North America from County Monaghan, Ireland, in 1736 as part of a steady stream of Scotch-Irish immigrants. An estimated one hundred thousand would make the trip between 1718 and 1775 alone. All were looking to begin new lives in a place where land was cheap and plentiful and freedom of religion was valued.

William’s father James and his mother Isabella Stuart—Isabella was said to have been a descendant of the royal family of Stuarts of England and Scotland fame—had settled in New Castle, New Jersey, upon their arrival to the colonies. There was the promise of a better life in this untamed land. Well, there would be for those who would be able to survive long enough to enjoy it.

William wondered, would the fall of Quebec settle anything? The two sides had been at odds for so long it was hard to imagine what it would be like to have peace. It hadn’t helped that the French had illegally erected a series of fortifications along the Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia in violation of its treaty with Britain. That treaty was barely a year old when it was broken.

The problem, thought William, and the reason he and so many others were here, was that unless they got involved their families would never be safe. He knew the French would never rest until all disputed lands were firmly theirs to do with as they pleased.

There were three choices as near as he could tell. He and his neighbors in Carlisle and elsewhere could leave their homes to the French and their Indian allies, take their chances with the increasingly frequent raids whereby farms were laid waste and entire families were slaughtered, or fight.

They had decided to fight. Peace, he was certain, would come only after the French were soundly defeated. And that was why he was now lying on the ground in a tent seven hundred miles from home.

Pennsylvania had raised 2,700 men for the war effort. And they weren’t alone. Massachusetts had come up with seven thousand recruits; Connecticut, five thousand; Rhode Island, one thousand; New Hampshire, eight hundred; New York, 2,850; and Delaware three hundred. More were on the way from the other colonies.

William thought about the coming assault. They had already made one serious attempt to take Quebec. That had come on July 31, 1759. The attack on forty-seven-year-old French Major General Louis Joseph de Montcalm’s riverside fortifications along the Montmorency River north of town was a disaster. Between the 60th Royal Americans and the grenadiers who had led the assault, they had suffered an estimated five hundred casualties. Of those, the Royal American 2nd and 3rd battalions had accounted for 215 men killed and wounded.

William, it’s time. The men had started to gather.

He pushed back the flap on his tent and, by the light from the night sky, took inventory. His knapsack and haversack lay close by. Neither contained much after the past three months; certainly not the sixty to seventy pounds that most of them had started out with. All he had to do was pull on his boots and grab what little gear they had been told to take.

He checked his pockets. His compass, pocketknife, pocketwatch and snuff box were there. His extra leggings were packed away in his knapsack with a single pair of wool socks he had brought for colder weather, moccasins, extra shirt, pants and a hunting bag.

A wooden bowl, spoon and tin cup were bundled together with what was left of his rations. His waist-belt lay next to his haversack. Attached to that hung his hunting knife, tomahawk and cartridge pouch. His pick and whisk hung from the front buckle. Inside the pouch, twenty-four rounds were at the ready. He had his priming-wire and ramrod worm. The worm was necessary for cleaning the musket barrel. His canteen was topped off and ready to go.

Kneeling, he neatly rolled up his two wool blankets as one and secured the bedroll in its carrying strap. They had seen better days. His tent would be left standing. What was left behind would be brought over later.

Next, he picked up his gun, waist-belt and haversack and paused. He hadn’t forgotten anything. He slipped the buff colored leather waist-belt over his shoulder, picked up his knapsack, tricorn black hat and stepped out of the tent and followed the mass of shadowy shapes before him as they began to move along the dark road that would take them down to the edge of the shore.

Anse au Foulon, he could hear the hushed voices of the men. So, at last they knew their landing place.

Wolfe had answered the letter from his brigadier generals, saying, My reason for desiring the honor of your company two days ago to Goreham’s Post was to show you, as well as the distance would permit, the situation of the enemy and the place where I meant they should be attack’d. As you are charged with that duty, I shall be pleased to give you all further light and assistance in my power. The place is called the Foulon.

It was the last place the French would expect an attack to come from. The heights there were thought inaccessible. At least, Montcalm believed they were.

Well, they now had the details they were hoping for. The bad news was that Wolfe’s note had not arrived until about 8:30 p.m. It was now after 9 p.m. All they would have to do was judge the current and distance, coordinate their landing at a spot that Wolfe had selected and that none of them had been to, form up, climb an unknown cliff and rush their enemy’s post in the pitch black of the night.

William could see the silhouette of the ships along the shore of the St. Lawrence in the light of the quarter moon. The shadow of the fifty gun English vessel the H.M.S. Sutherland, anchored just off shore, loomed in the darkness. A single light at her masthead pierced the night. They would be watching for a second light just above the first, the signal to begin their journey downstream.

He knew the forty-eight-year-old Admiral Charles Holmes was aboard the 117 foot Lowestoft. The Admiral had been assigned command of the British fleet’s Quebec operations. William could make out the outline of the assault force at anchor, though in the darkness he could not tell one ship from the other. The Sea Horse, the Squirrel, the Hunter and two transports already loaded with troops were all out there in the silence.

As Holmes would later write, "The care of landing the troops and sustaining them by the ships fell to my share. The most hazardous and difficult task I was ever engaged in—for the distance of the landing place; the impetuosity of the tide; the darkness of the night; and the great chance of exactly hitting the very spot intended, without discovery or alarm, made the whole extremely difficult.

And the failing in any part of my disposition, as it might have overset the General’s plan, would have brought upon me an imputation of being the cause of the miscarriage of the attack, and all the misfortune that might happen to the troops in attempting it, which, you agree with me, would have had a most hazardous aspect.

Along the bank, thirty or more bateaux which were to be led by Captain John Chads rested just far enough out of the water to keep from being pulled away from the shore. They swayed to and fro as the incoming tide collided with the power of the river flowing towards the gulf.

Some of the men sat by the bank, others nervously stood, shifting their weight first to one leg, then the other. Some sipped water, others rum; each were lost in their own thoughts. Gulls and shorebirds, William could not tell what they were, mingled with the men in the dark. As one would later write, the men waiting impatiently for the signal of proceeding. Fine weather, the night calm, and silence over all.

One hour passed. Then another.

The signal they had been waiting for from the Sutherland at long last appeared. To William, it seemed as if the collective force from those on the shore together with the troops in the ships at anchor had willed the second light to finally appear in the darkness, so focused they had been on the spot where they knew it should come into view.

One by one they silently took their places in the flat bottomed boats that awaited them at the water’s edge. It would take until well after midnight to load, but they were ready. Then there was another long pause.

Finally! The first flight of some 1,800 men pushed out from the shore. With those already on board, that would bring their number to right around 3,600. Colonel Ralph Burton of the 48th Foot at Pointe Levy was expected to send as many men as he could spare along with troops from the Isle de Orleans after the initial landing. Their number was about 1,200, so that the entire force destined for the night’s enterprise was at the utmost 4,800.

They were on their way, their destination nine miles distant. Then the tide, for the briefest of times, carried them further up stream and away from Quebec. Then, just as suddenly, the ghostly forms seemed to hesitate, changed direction and fell off one by one as oars silently urged the boats downstream again, pushed along by the following wind, the tide and the current.

Most likely, this first wave would have the best chance of escaping detection from the shore, William reasoned. He shifted in his seat. It was a tight squeeze in cramped quarters. Then they, too, were off.

This particular boat, he estimated, was somewhere between twenty-five to thirty-six feet long, four to six feet wide and carried between sixty to seventy men. The boats were all built of sturdy pine planks and had simple oak frames. Flat bottomed with flared sides and raked bows and sterns, they were designed for rapidly disembarking their human cargo.

It was now a little after 2 a.m.

Half to three quarters of an hour later, one after another the others silently followed, a long, hushed line of armed sloops and vessels carrying supplies and ammunition. The Sutherland would remain behind. Here, it would monitor the movements of the French along the shore.

The men on either side of William pulled noiselessly at their oars. At either end of the bateaux, men with long poles readied themselves. Unexpected shallows, sandbars and submerged rocks could not be allowed to be their undoing, nor could discovery of their passage from the French controlled shore.

A gentle sweep of the paddle at their stern would keep them on course. Canvas wrapped oarlocks muffled the sounds of their rhythmic rowing. Sheepskin covered the paddle ends of their oars further masking their movement.

The St. Lawrence, or Mother of Canada, as it would later be called, connects the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean. From its headwaters in Lake Ontario, it flows to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, nearly 744 miles. Its current was deceptively swift and invisible, its waters dark and impenetrable to the eye, even in the best of light.

For most of its distance from Montreal to Quebec, the river ranges from one to two and a half miles wide. Downstream from Quebec City, that changes. There the waterway is constricted by the heights of Quebec at Cap Diamant and is only three tenths of a mile wide. Then it expands again rapidly in width.

As it enters the Gulf of St. Lawrence, it is eighty-seven miles from shore to shore. Tidal currents were strongest near Quebec City, reaching seven knots. As the river narrowed upstream of the city, its turbulence increased.

The rain was gone as suddenly as it had appeared and so, too, were the clouds. It was now a star-lit night, the moon shining brightly in a perfect crescent. Unfortunately for those navigating the dark waters, the respite from the recent intemperate weather would only be temporary. Clouds were soon once again forming, threatening to extinguish what little light from the moon they now enjoyed.

And then, as suddenly as the weather had cleared, it was changing again. A mist was beginning to drift over the river. The good news was, for a time at least, the swift current together with the receding tide moved them steadily along with the barest of efforts from those at the oars.

William could just make out the faces of those seated about him. They had come from all walks of life. And though they were fighting for England, most of those who had come to fight the French considered themselves Americans.

They had initially come from Ireland and Scotland. They were Gaelic-speaking Highlanders and former indentured servants. The twenty-seven-year-old John Harrison was a tailor from Hull. Robert Harrison, age thirty and born in Birmingham, had been a shoemaker. Joseph Barker, twenty-six, was a weaver from Astbury, near Congleton. James Caldwell, twenty-nine and from Ayr, North Britain, had been a laborer.

The thirty-three-year-old Lot Connor was a laborer from Cullen, Limerick. John Horn, twenty-four, was a former cobbler from Philadelphia. Frederick Soylor, age forty-five and a wigmaker, had been born in Sweden. Neil McIntosh, age twenty-five and from the Isle of Skye, was an unskilled laborer. Private James Miller, also twenty-five and from the Isle of Skye, had enlisted in 1756, lured by promises of fame and gold. Each also was about to become just some of the wounded who would survive the coming battle. And each would later be examined for pensions at Chelsea’s Royal Hospital on March 18, 1760.

The boats moved with barely a sound along the southeastern side of the river in a six mile long procession. To those who might have been near the shore that night, the river sounded as it always did as it wound its way to the gulf.

The pace of the river, running at a swift four knots, now left those at the oars with their hands full keeping their flatboats under control. The current would only increase and their control grow more difficult as they drew nearer to their targeted landing area where the river narrowed.

Behind them, more men and a second landing wave were maneuvering downstream for the fight. The Lowestoft, Squirrel and Seahorse, among others, followed. After unloading their precious cargo, they would offer cover from the river.

Waiting on the shore opposite the Anse au Foulon were more men still, their third landing wave. These were men from the Isle de Orleans and Pointe Levy who would be ferried over as soon as boats were available.

It was now just after 3 a.m.

William’s hand dropped absentmindedly under the flap and into the ammunition pouch that hung at his right side. He slid his fingers around the familiar cylindrical cartridges that filled his bag, then double-checked the count by feel. Each round of ammunition was made up of a charge of gunpowder and a lead ball wrapped in cartridge paper. One, two, three...he silently continued his count until he was sure he had them all. They were all there. But then, they had been there earlier, he reminded himself.

He held the twenty-fourth cartridge in his hand and rolled it between his fingers. Each man was issued twenty-four rounds. Each cartridge was wrapped in paper with four and a half drams of black powder.

He could see the dark shapes of the rock cliffs and trees that extended up