Here was Wolfe's best hope.
This failing, his only chance was in audacity. The game was desperate;
but, intrepid gamester as he was in war, he was a man, in the last
resort, to stake everything on the cast of the dice.
The elements declared for France. On the afternoon of the day when
Wolfe's army landed, a violent squall swept over the St. Lawrence,
dashed the ships together, drove several ashore, and destroyed many of
the flatboats from which the troops had just disembarked. "I never saw
so much distress among shipping in my whole life," writes an officer to
a friend in Boston. Fortunately the storm subsided as quickly as it
rose. Vaudreuil saw that the hoped-for deliverance had failed; and as
the tempest had not destroyed the British fleet, he resolved to try the
virtue of his fireships. "I am afraid," says Montcalm, "that they have
cost us a million, and will be good for nothing after all." This
remained to be seen. Vaudreuil gave the chief command of them to a naval
officer named Delouche; and on the evening of the twenty-eighth, after
long consultation and much debate among their respective captains, they
set sail together at ten o'clock. The night was moonless and dark. In
less than an hour they were at the entrance of the north channel.
Delouche had been all enthusiasm; but as he neared the danger his nerves
failed, and he set fire to his ship half an hour too soon, the rest
following his example.
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