One of the great battles of the world lasted for only ten bloody minutes, but it changed he entire history of North America.
At five minutes to ten on September 13th, 1759, some five thousand British Regulars in crimson coats, Highlanders in colorful tartans and Royal Americans and Rangers faces an equal number of French Regulars in spotless white coats and powdered hair, rough-appearing Canadian Militia and Indians daubed with war paint.
The battlefield was a large farm known as the Plains of Abraham just outside the walls of the great French fortress, Quebec.
General Wolfe, gaunt, pale, mortally ill and incredibly brave, led the English into battle. General Moncalm, proud, able and absolutely fearless, rode his black horse ahead of the French lines. These two, equally gallant commanders drew up their well-matched armies in perfect formation for the classic encounter that would decided the fate of the continent.
For a century these "Ancient Enemies" had been struggling over the great prize in a series of four wars that rocked Europe and the American colonies. And now at the climax of the fourth war, the English with their invasion fleet had besieged French Quebec for nearly three months before attempting the incredibly bold nighttime ascent of the almost vertical cliffs above the St. Lawrence.
Montcalm waved his sword, and the French, uttering wild yells, advanced in three dense columns, six ranks in depth, shooting their muskets from the waist in volley fire. Motionless as statues the British infantry stood where they were, though many fell, dead or wounded, at each volley.
When the French were within forty yards, Wolfe shouted "Present!"
Hundreds of gun barrels rippled down to the horizontal.
"Fire!"
The French were mowed down as though by a scythe. One more such British volley and the battle was all but won as the French began their retreat in wild disorder.
Among 1500 French casualties was the gallant Montcalm, three times wounded, yet fighting to the last. Among the 664 British casualties was the brave Wolfe who despite two previous wounds, now shouted "Charge!" and staggered thirty feet forward before the third ball struck him, mortally, in the chest.
The big clock on the basilica of Quebec pointed its upraised hands at five minutes after ten, and France had lost North America (for the century of struggle was now virtually over.)
You will never forget F. Van Wyck Mason's vivid account of the battle that changed the fate of our continent.
—from the dust jacket
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