but the relapse did not come before I had learned much that was gravely
interesting.

It is a story of sufficient sorrow and shame to American ears even
now--this tale of how we failed to carry Quebec. Judge how grievously the
recital fell upon my ears then, in the little barrack-chamber of Holland
House, within hearing of the cannonade by which the farce of a siege was
still maintained from day to day! Teunis told me how, by that first volley
of grape at the guard-house, the brave and noble Montgomery had been
instantly killed; how Arnold, forcing his way from the other direction at
the head of his men, and being early shot in the leg, had fought and
stormed like a wounded lion in the narrow Sault-au-Matelot; how he and the
gallant Morgan had done more than their share in the temerarious
adventure, and had held the town and citadel at their mercy if only the
miserable Campbell had pushed forward after poor Montgomery fell, and gone
on to meet those battling heroes in the Lower Town. But I have not the
patience, even at this late day, to write about this melancholy and
mortifying failure.

Some of our best men--Montgomery, Hendricks, Humphreys, Captain Cheseman,
and other officers, and nearly two hundred men--had been killed out-right,
and the host of wounded made veritable hospitals of both the
headquarters. Nearly half of our total original force had been taken
prisoners. With the shattered remnants of our little army we were still
keeping up the pretence of a siege, but there was no heart in our
operations, since reverse had broken the last hope of raising assistance
among the French population. We were too few in numbers to be able now to
prevent supplies reaching the town, and everybody gloomily foresaw that
when the river became free of ice, and open for the British fleet to throw
in munitions and re-enforcements, the game would be up.