Its Indian guides had run away in the night,
scared out of their wits by the size of the British army.
It was soon lost and, circling round, came between Howe
and Abercromby. Suddenly the rangers and the French met
in the dense forest. 'Who goes there?' shouted a Frenchman.
'Friends!' answered a British soldier in perfect French.
But the uniforms told another tale and both sides fired.
The French were soon overpowered by numbers, and the
fifty or so survivors were glad to scurry off into the
bush. But they had dealt one mortal blow. Lord Howe had
fallen, and, with him, the head and heart of the whole
British force.
Abercromby, a helpless leader, pottered about all the
next day, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile Montcalm kept
his men hard at work, and by night he was ready and
hopeful. He had just written to his friend Doreil, the
commissary of war at Quebec: 'We have only eight days'
provisions. I have no Canadians and no Indians. The
British have a very strong army. But I do not despair.
My soldiers are good. From the movements of the British
I can see they are in doubt. If they are slow enough to
let me entrench the heights of Ticonderoga, I shall beat
them.' He had ended his dispatch to Vaudreuil with similar
words: 'If they only let me entrench the heights I shall
beat them.
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