On they came, four magnificent
processions, full of the pride of arms and the firm hope
of glorious victory. Three of them were uniform masses
of ordinary redcoats. But the fourth, making straight
for Montcalm himself, was half grenadiers, huge men with
high-pointed hats, and half Highlanders, with swinging
kilts and dancing plumes. The march was a short one; but
it seemed long, for at every step the suspense became
greater and greater. At last the leading officers suddenly
waved their swords, the bugles rang out the CHARGE! and
then, as if the four eager columns had been slipped from
one single leash together, they dashed at the trees with
an exultant roar that echoed round the hills like thunder.
Montcalm gripped his sword, and every French finger
tightened on the trigger. His colonels watched him eagerly.
Up went his sword and up went theirs. READY!--PRESENT!
--FIRE!! and a terrific, double-shotted, point-blank
volley crashed out of that zigzag wall and simply swept
away the heads of the charging columns. But the men in
front were no sooner mown down than the next behind them
swarmed forward. Again the French fired, again the leading
British fell, and again more British rushed forward. The
British sharp-shooters now spread out in swarms on the
flanks of the columns and fired back, as did the first
ranks of the columns themselves.
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