Work Text:
There he was, standing on the Plains of Abraham, Quebec, in front of all of his men. His large regiment of 4,400 redcoats looked to be quite the spectacle. The men were lined up in rows, just as they would on the fields of Europe, where the British Empire dominated. However, this war has proved that these tactics aren’t foolproof, as proved by the absolutely spectacular failures of British endeavors in the Ohio country. General Braddock and over 1,000 of Britain’s finest soldiers, including the fearsome Grenadiers, were brutally slaughtered or wounded on their advance to Fort Duquesne. The combat tactics of the Natives are truly powerful and perfectly refined to fight in the dense wilderness that covers this land. It is refreshing to finally be able to lead an advance in a classical European style, on this gorgeous open field, facing the fort where general Montcalm stood. He saw white-coated men hurriedly running out of the fort and forming lines. Then he saw General Marquis de Montcalm. He was in his extravagant general’s coat, his handsome hair flowing in the wind. He was quickly walking down the field, showing his fiery passion and intent. He then landed at the front of the large army, parallel to Wolfe. They were staring at each other, anticipating the battle to come any second now. The moments before they started to fire felt as though it was an eternity. No other general was as courageous as Montcalm and Wolfe, to both stand at the front lines. The respect they had for each other was great. Wolfe, excited in his triumph of getting up the cliffs and onto the plains of Abraham, couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous. He respected Montcalm’s bravery to stand in the front lines like he was, but it put him in the way of danger. James Wolfe wanted nothing more than to crush the French army, but he wanted Montcalm to live another day. Maybe after the British take the fort, Wolfe could track down Montcalm and arrange a dinner with him. They could discuss past war stories; he had a couple interesting ones from the successful defeat of the Jacobite Rising of ‘45. They would, of course, discuss other things, whatever came to their minds. James Wolfe looked out and finally realized that it was time to start the advance. He drew his sword and pointed at the French army, straight at Montcalm. He yelled, “FIRE!”, and his army drew their muskets and started firing. He heard yelling from the French army and they returned a volley of bullets. Both armies started marching closer to each other. Wolfe heard the loud bagpipes that the fearsome highland regiment he was commanded was playing. They were empowering, and he marched with his men to the beat of the tune. Wolfe kept his eyes on Montcalm, who was treading handsomely. Wolfe wished that they were close enough to be able to look into each other’s eyes. He saw another cloud of smoke from the French, but the redcoats bravely kept marching forward. They stopped and started firing. At this point, they were maintaining a steady rate of fire, and with Wolfe’s highly trained army and larger numbers, he knew that he was going to win. All of a sudden, Marquis de Montcalm, who James Wolfe was making sure to stare at, fell to the ground, and Wolfe’s face got pale. People crowded around Montcalm and lifted him up and carried him through the French group. It may have been the smoke from all of the gunfire, but Wolfe’s eyes started to get watery. He killed the rival general, and his redcoat army was dominating, but yet he felt melancholy for the death of Montcalm. He heard another boom of gunfire from the French heading towards his army, and Wolfe felt one last moment of dread.
And everything went to black.