much. He was himself in one of the
leading boats, and the story of his reciting Gray's _Elegy_, in solemn
tones while he drifted down, as he hoped, to victory and, as he
believed, to death, rests on good authority.[43]

The tide was running fast, so that the rowers could ply their oars with
a minimum of disturbance. From both posts upon the cliff their presence
was noticed, and the challenge of a sentry rang out clear upon the
silent night. On each occasion a Highland officer, who spoke French
perfectly, replied that they were a provision convoy, to the
satisfaction of the challengers. But the risk was undeniable, and
illustrates the hazardous nature of the enterprise. Wolfe's friend,
Captain Howe, brother of the popular young nobleman who fell at
Ticonderoga, with a small body of picked soldiers, was to lead the
ascent, and as the boats touched the narrow beach of the Anse du Foulon
he and his volunteers leaped rapidly on shore. Some of the boats
accidentally overran the spot, but it made little difference, as the
narrow path was, in any case, found to be blocked, and the eager
soldiers were forced to throw themselves upon the rough face of the
cliff, which was here over two hundred feet high, but fortunately
sprinkled thick with stunted bushes. Swiftly and silently Howe and his
men scrambled up its steep face. No less eagerly the men behind, as boat
after boat discharged its load of red-coats under Wolfe's eye on the
narrow shore, followed in their precarious steps.

Day was just beginning to glimmer as the leading files leaped out onto
the summit and rushed upon the handful of astonished Frenchmen before
them, who fired a futile volley and fled. The shots and cries alarmed
other posts at some distance off, yet near enough to fire in the
direction of the landing-boats. It was too late, however; the path had
now been cleared of obstacles, and the British were swarming onto the
plateau. The first sixteen hundred men had been rapidly disembarked, and
the boats were already dashing back for Townshend's brigade, who were
approaching in the ships, and for the Forty-eighth, awaiting them on the
opposite shore.

The scattered French posts along the summit were easily dispersed, while
the main army at Beauport, some miles away, on the far side of the city,
were as yet unconscious of danger. Bougainville and his force back at
Cap Rouge were as far off and as yet no wiser. Quebec had just caught
the alarm, but its weak and he