CHAPTER VII.

DEEDS OF VALOUR

THE STORY OF CAPTAIN OCHTERLONEY AND OF

THE

ENSIGN PEYTON.

HE Battle of Montmorency, regarded from the British standpoint, was a signal defeat. The enemy, masters of the art of fortification, had rendered the green bluff overlooking le beau pré a veritable fortress. The constructors of the entrenchments and redoubts had foreseen just such an attempt as made by Wolfe and had prepared for it so thoroughly that even the impetuous and daring rush of the Grenadiers was rendered inoperative, and proved but a futile sacrifice of life.

Although the musket was a cumbrous weapon whose effective range did not exceed 250 yards, yet, in the hands of the French behind their earthworks, it wrought fearful havoc, for it was the small arm fire that completely shattered the British advance. It is an axiom of military science that the frontal attack is always conducted at a terrible cost, and an illustration of this may be shown by the fact that at this affair of July 31st 1759, Wolfe lost in killed and wounded over 400 men, a very large proportion of the attacking force. No one could say that the British had

lacked courage. They had conducted themselves like the steady veterans they were; but even the most daring could not advance against the storm of lead that swept that green and smiling field.

At a time when there was a startling lack of both private and public virtue at the Courts of Europe-when English Government officials unblushingly plundered the Treasury and grew rich by dubious means, when an army commission could be purchased by any one willing to pay for sending his son to the wars; at a time indeed when public morality was at a low ebb, it is strange to observe the class of men which held His Majesty's commission both in the army and navy.

Although entering the profession of arms inadequately qualified for duty, they rapidly became efficient and valuable officers, fought like demons and died like the gentleman they were for the honour of the time worn flag and for the glory of their beloved Britain. Nothwithstanding the tendencies of the age which were not calculated to foster exalted sentiments, the Englishman in private considered honour his most precious possession. Utterly conscienceless concerning the maladministration of public affairs, blasé in the pursuit of vicious pleasures, cynical in his view of the corruption of the court, he nevertheless would rather die than commit a mean act, he told the truth with manly defiance of results and the giving of the lie was a deadly offence only to be wiped out in blood. The duello flourished, and thousands of gallant men fell a victim to this method of effacing insult.

In the army especially was it in vogue and scarcely was

there an officer of spirit who had not attended one of these early morning encounters with pistols at ten or fifteen paces. Wolfe's army was full of such gallant reckless gentlemen, and affairs of this kind frequently took place.

On the day preceeding the battle of Montmorency, Captain David Ochterloney, the brilliant and popular commander of a company in the second Batallion of Royal Americans fought a duel with a German officer, and although he came out victorious, having succeeded in disarming his antagonist, he had himself received a painful wound under the right arm. In the morning, when a portion of his regiment was ordered to the attack, he was urged by his friends to remain in camp and give his wound a chance to heal. This proposition he firmly resisted on the ground that when his country required his services his honour could not suffer the results of a private quarrel to stand in the way. This forcible argument could not be controverted in the light of the spirit of the time, and so Captain Ochterloney marched to the battle utterly oblivious of the pain of his wounds. Accompanying this dauntless captain was his brother officer and friend Ensign Peyton, shortly afterwards promoted to a lieutenancy. Ochterloney, as his name would show, was from Scotland, while Peyton was an Irishman and a worthy representative of that green isle, the cradle of warriors. In the attack on the French position both gentlemen had the misfortune to be wounded, Ochterloney through the lungs, while a bullet had shattered the small bone of Peyton's left leg. They were near together when they fell and although disabled were in a position to converse. Through the awful rain storm which

drenched the combatants these officers and hundreds of the soldiers lay while the noise of the conflict roared in their ears and while the British struggled in vain to oust their opponents from the masterful position they occupied. At last the impossibility of the attack became evident and the British officer gave the order to retreat. So hot was the French fire that there was not even an opportunity to remove the wounded to a place of safety, and almost before the British had begun to march towards their camp the French Indians were among the fallen, killing, stabbing and scalping with the deviltry of which they alone were capable. The Highlanders passed close to where Ochterloney and Peyton lay and immediately began to make preparations to carry the officers off the field. But strange to say the Scottish captain rejected their advances. Again his "honour" interposed and he gravely assured his would be rescuers that his honour would not permit him to leave the field after such a signal repulse. Realizing the impossibility of moving the Captain from his determination the soldiers turned to Peyton. From him they received the answer that Captain Ochterloney was his friend and that while he lived he would remain by his side. Such self sacrificing devotion as that of this young Irish officer accords but ill with the selfish spirit of the times, and in civil life would have been scorned and ridiculed. But in the army there still lingered the best relics of the Crusader's chivalry, and these memories had been preserved by the gallant self forgetfulness of thousands of his lineal successors. No wonder the traditions of the British army are cherished. Its high ideals are fostered

by just such officers and men as Ensign Peyton, and in modern days by the heroes who wear on their breasts the bronze cross "For Valour."

Their offer of aid rejected, the Highlanders marched slowly away towards the fast deepening ford below the Montmorency Falls and in the gathering shadows of evening these two officers found themselves left to the horrors of solitude or the far more fearful vengeance of the Indians. Ochterloney who believed his wound fatal had protested most strongly against Peyton's sacrifice, but in vain. The young Ensign could not be moved, and it can be readily imagined with what pride and pleasure the Scottish Captain learned the strength of the attachment that bound this young officer to him. A man who for the sake of friendship can look death in the face deserves immortal fame, but he who can await not only death but torture at the hands of those fiends in human form, the Indians, shows a divine unselfishness. No monumental brass, no pyramid of granite could adequately preserve his memory. It must forever live in the hearts of his successors as a bright page in the annals of the British army. Having given themselves up to die, Captain Ochterloney and Ensign Peyton awaited the outcome with the calmness of despair.

For a time they were not noticed, but towards seven o'clock two Indians and a French colonial soldier discovered the two gentlemen and advanced to the attack. Captain Ochterloney believing that so long as the savages were accompanied by a French soldier there was no danger of outrage, called out to the soldier, offering to surrender,